Man Versus Society in Medieval Islam PDF

Man versus Society in Medieval Islam
Brill Classics in Islam
volume 7
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(Above) Yusuf in prison and (below) Zuleikha as an old woman before Yusuf. Mid-17th century
Safavid period. Ink on paper H: 19.8 W: 10.4 cm. Iran.
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Man versus Society
in Medieval Islam
By
Franz Rosenthal
Edited by
Dimitri Gutas
leiden | boston
Cover illustration: Dioscurides, Materia medica. Codex medicus Graecus 1, f. 167v, dating from 532ad.
Vienna, Österreichische Nationalbibliothek.
Image of κάνναβις ἥμερος (cannabis sativa), transliterated in Arabic in upper right and, in Hebrew, in lower
left corner, and translated into Arabic as qinnab bustānī, garden cannabis, in the left margin, for the benefit
of the illustrator of the Arabic translation. See below, p. 155.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Rosenthal, Franz, 1914-2003, author.

[Works. Selections]
Man versus society in medieval Islam / by Franz Rosenthal ; edited by Dimitri Gutas.
volumes cm.
Includes index.
ISBN 978-90-04-27088-6 (hardback : alk. paper) – ISBN 978-90-04-27089-3 (e-book) 1. Islamic civilization.
2. Islamic Empire–Social life and customs. I. Gutas, Dimitri, editor. II. Title.
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Contents
Foreword ix
Dimitri Gutas
Major Reviews of the Reprinted Works xv
Note on the Layout of the Volume xviii
List of Original Publications and Acknowledgments xix
I. Introduction: The Study of Muslim Intellectual and Social History:

Approaches and Methods 1
II. The Muslim Concept of Freedom Prior to the Nineteenth Century 21
III. The Herb: Hashish versus Medieval Muslim Society 131
IV. Gambling in Islam 335
V. “Sweeter than Hope”: Complaint and Hope in Medieval Islam 517
VI. The Individual and Society

1 “I am you”—Individual Piety and Society in Islam 697
2 Gifts and Bribes: The Muslim View 729
3 Cannabis and Alcohol: The Green and the Red 746
4 The Stranger in Medieval Islam 754
5 On Suicide in Islam 797
VII. Sexuality, Gender, and the Family

6 Fiction and Reality: Sources for the Role of Sex in Medieval Muslim
Society 839
7 Male and Female: Described and Compared 862
8 Reflections on Love in Paradise 892
9 Muslim Social Values and Literary Criticism: Reflections on the
Ḥadīth of Umm Zarʿ 909
10 Child Psychology in Islam 941
viii contents
VIII. Science and Learning in Society

11 Materials for an Appraisal of Knowledge as a Societal Force 967
12 Al-Asṭurlābī and as-Samawʾal on Scientific Progress 1001
13 The Defense of Medicine in the Medieval Muslim World 1011
14 The Physician in Medieval Muslim Society 1026
15 Significant Uses of Arabic Writing 1043
16 “Of Making Many Books There Is No End”: The Classical Muslim
View 1066
Index of Selected Arabic, Persian, and Turkish Words 1089

Index of Some Terms in Other Languages 1106
Indx of Proper Names and Places 1108
Index of Subjects 1133
Index of Qurʾān Citations 1157
Foreword
The remarkable scholarly career of the most brilliant representative of the

heroic and final stage of classical Orientalism, Franz Rosenthal (1914–2003),1
was crowned by a series of studies on the “historical sociology” of pre-modern
Islamic civilization.2 In book after book and article after article for over fifty
years, he studied what he called “the tensions and conflicts that existed be-
tween individuals and society in medieval Islam,” a subject to which he gave
the title Man versus Society in Islam. Rosenthal had initially intended to treat
the subject in a single large work, but the great variety of topics that were
to be treated as well as the vastness and complexity of the available material
made him realize that it would not “be possible for [him] to bring to a satis-
factory conclusion a comprehensive work such as [he] had envisaged,” and he
decided to publish his various studies independently, though he cautioned the
reader that the “outlook and emphasis” of each study “may become clearer if
viewed against the background from which it originated.”3 Though each one
of his studies on these topics is itself a highly original, thorough, and authori-
tative treatment, the full force and significance of the unitary project he orig-
inally conceived, the “background” he speaks about which gives meaning to
the whole—the panorama of pre-modern Muslim social history—cannot be
properly perceived and appreciated unless it is read in juxtaposition with the
others. To that end, but also to provide easy access to these scattered studies
and to stimulate further research, they are here reprinted collectively in a sin-
gle publication, thereby realizing Rosenthal’s original comprehensive work and
fulfilling a desideratum expressed by others.4
The studies that form part of this projected work and are reprinted in this
collection are, first, four monographs, presented in chronological order: The
1 As I called him in my introductory essay to the reprint of his Knowledge Triumphant, Leiden:
Brill, 2007, p. xiii. Franz Rosenthal was Sterling Professor of Arabic and Semitic Studies at
Yale University (1956–1985). For his biographical memoir see my obituary in Proceedings of the
American Philosophical Society 149.3 (2005) 441–446, and, in greater detail, David C. Reisman’s
“In Memoriam: Franz Rosenthal. August 31, 1914–April 8, 2003,” Aleph 3 (2003) 329–342. A
bibliography of his works can be found in Oriens 36 (2001) xiii–xxxiv.
2 “The Study of Muslim Intellectual and Social History” p. 1; below, p. 3.
3 Foreword to The Muslim Concept of Freedom, p. viii; below, p. 24.
4 E.g., by Ernest Gellner in his review of The Muslim Concept of Freedom in Philosophy, 39.147
(1964) 86.
x foreword
Muslim Concept of Freedom Prior to the Nineteenth Century (1960), originally

intended to be the first chapter of the comprehensive work, followed by The
Herb. Hashish versus Medieval Muslim Society (1971), Gambling in Islam (1975),
and “Sweeter than Hope”. Complaint and Hope in Medieval Islam (1983). These
are followed by fifteen articles written at different times, clustered under three
headings of my own, “The Individual and Society,” “Sexuality, Gender, and the
Family,” and “Science and Learning in Society.” Exceptionally included under
this last heading, because of its direct relevance, is the final section in Rosen-
thal’s Knowledge Triumphant (Chapter VIII,4), “Materials for an Appraisal of
Knowledge as a Societal Force,” which discusses, along with the other articles
there, society’s management of the production and dissemination of knowl-
edge by individual scientists, philosophers, and scholars. They are all intro-
duced, as orientation, by the single article Rosenthal wrote on the method of
his project, “The Study of Muslim Intellectual and Social History: Approaches
and Methods.”
Rosenthal’s core conception and starting point for his enterprise was the
age-old notion—truism, really—, perhaps best expressed by Aristotle, that
man is a social animal (ζῷον πολιτικόν), according to which man and society
constitute a whole with two correlative entities, one necessitating the other,
one existing only through, and being incomprehensible without, the other. But
man is also an individual with the self-consciousness of an individual, with all
that that implies, making the symbiotic relationship adversarial, one of strug-
gle: it is “the struggle between the manifestations of the human constant and
the religious norms devised to tame them somehow for the good of society,”5
and hence Rosenthal’s title, “Man versus Society.”
The essence of the adversarial relationship hinges on, or is identical with, the
correlative concept of freedom: man is free from something or free to do some-
thing, this something being at each instant determined through the relation-
ship. Rosenthal accordingly starts on his project with a discussion of freedom,
being well aware of “the relative character of the concept”6 and its centrality
in his research. Indeed the concept of freedom was a pivotal concept in Exis-
tentialist philosophy which dominated mid-twentieth century intellectual life
in Europe and its extension, or transfer, in the United States. The Existentialist
quest for a freedom that would be beyond its correlative definition, an abso-
lute freedom, leads to the concept of the absurd, and is, in the end, “absolutely
5 “The Study of Muslim Intellectual and Social History” p. 6; below, p. 10; emphasis added.
6 The Muslim Concept of Freedom, p. 2; below, p. 26.
foreword xi
incomprehensible,” as Karl Jaspers, whom Rosenthal cites, declared.7 These dis-

cussions percolated into the popular press also in the United States; in a brief
article introducing “French Existentialism” in the weekly magazine The Nation,
Jaspers’ former student and subsequent lifelong friend, Hannah Arendt, stated
succinctly the issue that is at the heart of Rosenthal’s project:
The French Existentialists … are united on two main lines of rebellion:

first, the rigorous repudiation of what they call the esprit sérieux;8 and
second, the angry refusal to accept the world as it is as the natural,
predestined milieu of man.9 L’esprit sérieux, which is the original sin
according to the new philosophy, may be equated with respectability. The
“serious” man is one who thinks of himself as president of his business, as
a member of the Legion of Honor, as a member of the faculty, but also as
father, as husband, or as any other half-natural, half social function. For
by so doing he agrees to the identification of himself with an arbitrary
function which society has bestowed. L’esprit sérieux is the very negation
of freedom, because it leads man to agree to and accept the necessary
deformation which every human being must undergo when he is fitted into
society.10
This concept of freedom, where the individual struggles against being defined
only in terms of the correlative relationship with society, “against the society
which is his creature, his savior, and his oppressor” (as Rosenthal eloquently
put it11), crops up in the writings of many peoples and is certainly not restricted
to the Existentialists,12 but it is they who discussed it most vehemently and
brought out its various shades in mid-twentieth century. Rosenthal’s project
and the problématique in which it is conceived falls within this broader intellec-
tual context (even if it is irrelevant whether he read the French existentialists or
7 Ibid. p. 3; below, p. 27.

8 I.e., spirit of seriousness, a notion elaborated upon mostly by Simone de Beauvoir, though
the views presented here were common to the major French Existentialists.
9 I.e., in the context of our discussion, the fact that man is a social animal and has meaning
only in this correlative relationship.
10 The Nation, February 23, 1946, p. 226. All italics are Arendt’s except for the last sentence
which I emphasize.
11 The Herb, p. 2; below, p. 135.
12 As in Herman Melville’s Bartleby the Scrivener (1853), to take an example from nineteenth
century American literature, who “would prefer not to” be a scrivener. Both Camus and
Sartre admired the American author, on whom they both wrote essays.
xii foreword
not13), and he sought to analyze and understand the manifold manifestations

of this perennial and universal struggle in medieval Islamic societies.14
The “human constant” which is pitted against society Rosenthal took from
natural drives and psychological urges and attitudes. To the former belong cer-
tainly the sexual drive and, if one is to follow the almost universally acknowl-
edged, by now, thesis of Johan Huizinga in Homo ludens (1938), the instinct
for play. “Next to the control of sex as the most pressing issue confronting
human society,” Rosenthal begins The Herb, “the control of the instinct and
need for play among men has been a matter of constant concern and consid-
erable experimentation. Man is homo ludens, the playing animal … . Gambling
is the outstanding example of a playful flight away from harsh reality … . The
consumption of stimulants or depressants in solid, liquid, or gaseous form … is
another.” To each of these two forms of play Rosenthal devoted a monograph,
and to sexuality a number of articles (Part VII).
The psychological urges, desires, and attitudes consist of “those intricate
processes of the human mind by which man has tried to gain an understanding
of and thereby at least some degree of control over his inner environment,”
including, for example, “the specifically human ability to remember and reflect
upon the past and to look ahead toward the future and speculate on it,”15 the
theme of the complaint about the times which he investigated at length in
his monograph on Complaint and Hope; or, “one of mankind’s strongest urges,”
“mobility, the need or desire to move over short or long distances,” which he
studied in the article on “The Stranger” (Part VI, no. 4); or “the individual’s
yearning for other-identification [which] reflects the search for an alternative
to social organization as man’s best hope for increased personal power,” the
theme he presented in the highly original article “I am you” (Part VI, no. 1);
or man’s natural desire to know (to borrow Aristotle’s opening line in the
13 Though he did read Jaspers, as already noted. And one may wonder whether it is com-
pletely accidental that Rosenthal’s very first article in this project, “On Suicide in Islam”
(1946; below, pp. 797–836), and his very last, “The Stranger in Medieval Islam” (1997; below,
pp. 754–796), happen to be, respectively, the subject of Albert Camus’ classic essay, Le
Mythe de Sisyphe (1942), and the title and subject of his equally classic novel, L’Étranger.
14 It is thus quite clear that it is not “en raison de la valeur assumée par la notion de liberté
dans les sociétés modernes qu’ il [Rosenthal] cherche à analyser cette dernière dans le
monde de l’ Islam,” as D. Sourdel suggested in the review of The Muslim Concept of Freedom,
Arabica 9 (1962) 91. Rosenthal was well aware of the perils of importing modern value
systems in the study of historical societies, against which he guarded himself meticulously,
as will be discussed next.
15 “The Study of Muslim Intellectual and Social History” p. 7; below, p. 11.
foreword xiii
Metaphysics), the social context and management of which he investigated in

the studies in Part VIII.
The method Rosenthal followed in the execution of his project was basic as
it was arduous. Given the novelty of the subject in Arabic and Islamic studies
and the almost complete lack of previous scholarship, “the most immediate
and needed task,” he decided, was “to provide information on what medieval
Muslims knew about, and how they looked at” all these themes that were part
of the project.16 This involved combing and examining the entire written record
in pre-modern Arabic sources. As he described his method,
The only possible approach open to us is the collection of whatever infor-

mation the sources can be made to yield, combined with the cautious
evaluation of that information on the basis of quantitative and qualita-
tive indications. The main weight of the investigation has to be carried by
the sheer accumulation of evidence. … It may be contended that the fol-
lowing discussion is too much oriented toward verbal usage, words plain
and simple, and that too little attention is paid to implicit evidence …
where … the thought processes underlying them can be presumed to be
present. … [I]t is hardly true that … it makes no difference which words
are used once the intended meaning is understood. Meanings become
clear to us only after we have painstakingly connected them with certain
words. It is the words, each one of them with multiple shades of meaning,
that, slogan-like, have a life of their own and exercise a powerful influence
upon emotions and attitudes. Therefore, our preference for words serves
the valuable purpose of bringing us as close as possible to developing a
feeling for seeing things as the people of the past themselves did. It helps
us to avoid as much as possible speculation about what existed and was
active only subconsciously and is perceived by us as existing only as the
result of our substituting our own ways of thinking.17
The result is the presentation in this volume of a vast amount of material,

expertly collected and judiciously translated to reflect the meaning it had at
its time, thereby enabling a historically accurate understanding of medieval
Islamic societies and deflecting the importation in our interpretations of
modern views, tendencies, and ideological agenda. As Rosenthal noted, “the
developing of interpretational generalities” was not his aim for “[i]t is not the
16 The Herb, p. 3; below, p. 136.

17 “Sweeter than Hope”, pp. viii–ix; below, pp. 521–522; emphasis added.
xiv foreword
generalities but the details that count … . It is more important to explain and
preserve the information provided by the indigenous sources on their own
terms, in the hope that the mosaic thus put together will form a meaningful
picture.”18 In particular, he warned, “a dogmatic hankering for general conclu-
sions may merely compromise any true gains.”19
This mosaic of a work is to be studied as much for the meaningful picture
of medieval Islamic societies which the arrangement of the pieces in this col-
lection depicts as for the brilliance of each individual piece, and as much for
its contents as for its method. Especially significant are the many discussions
of terminology, the via regia to a historical understanding of events and con-
cepts, but also of feelings and emotions; they make this reprint “a standard
work of reference, to be consulted on technical terms” for the various subjects
treated.20 The indices of terms and of names and selected topics in the origi-
nal monographs have accordingly been unified, and entries from the articles,
not indexed before, have been incorporated. This new whole, which reflects,
I trust, the comprehensive work originally envisaged by Rosenthal and com-
memorates the centennial of his birth, is more than the sum of its parts and
will provide new impetus and an abundant wealth of material to the study of
the social history of the medieval Islamic world.
Dimitri Gutas
Yale University
December 2013
18 The Herb, pp. 3–4; below, p. 136.

19 “The Study of Muslim Intellectual and Social History” p. 11; below, p. 20. This lecture,
which was delivered in 1980, is Rosenthal’s only essay on methodology, brief discussions
in the introductions to some of his monographs apart, and it constitutes, it would seem,
his direct response both to charges that the Orientalist approach “essentializes” or “rei-
fies” Islam (Edward Said’s Orientalism appeared in 1978) and to its misapplication by
Orientalists—Said’s target—who actually did that. He restated this understanding of the
golden mean in method in the concluding paragraph of “Sweeter than Hope”, p. 150; below,
pp. 693–694. But Rosenthal had already delivered, thirty years before Said, a scathing
critique of culturally biased, unreflective, and, in the end, ignorant Orientalists in the
Introduction to his The Technique and Approach of Muslim Scholarship (Rome: Pontifi-
cium Institutum Biblicum, 1947, pp. 2–5), where he decried, among other failures, their
“misconceptions … which viewed the political history of Islam as a monotonous succes-
sion of despots, its cultural history as an even more monotonous repetition of the identical
forms and ideas, and its religious history as a petrified fossil carefully handed down from
generation to generation.”
20 As astutely noted by R.B. Serjeant in his review of Gambling in Islam in Bulletin of the School
of Oriental and African Studies, 40.3 (1977) 617.
Major Reviews of the Reprinted Works
II The Muslim Concept of Freedom Prior to the Nineteenth Century.

Reviewed by:
Elmer H. Douglas, Middle East Journal, 15.4 (1961) 470–472.

Ernest Gellner, Philosophy, 39.147 (1964) 85–86.
Ann K.S. Lambton, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies, 25.1/3 (1962)
170–171.
D. Sourdel, Arabica, 9 (1962) 91–93.
III The Herb. Hashish versus Medieval Muslim Society. Reviewed by:
Lenn Evan Goodman, Middle East Journal, 28.1 (1974) 86–87.

Sami Hamarneh, Pharmacy in History, 15.2 (1973) 98.
Fritz Meier, Oriens, 25/26 (1976) 368–370.
R.B. Serjeant, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies, 35.3 (1972) 633–636.
Jerry Stannard, Isis, 63.4 (1972) 580–581.
IV Gambling in Islam. Reviewed by:
R.B. Serjeant, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies, 40.3 (1977) 617.
Reinhard Wieber, Die Welt des Islams, 18.1/2 (1977) 145–148.
V “Sweeter than Hope”. Complaint and Hope in Medieval Islam.

Reviewed by:
M. Arkoun, Arabica, 34.3 (1987) 387–388.

J. Janssens, Tijdschrift voor Filosofie, 47.4 (1985) 663.
xvi major reviews of the reprinted works
VI.1 “‘I am you’—Individual Piety and Society in Islam,” in:

Individualism and Conformity in Classical Islam, ed. by A. Banani
and S. Vryonis Jr. Reviewed by:
Josef van Ess, Die Welt des Islams, 19.1/4 (1979) 227–228.
J. Wansbrough, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies, 41.3 (1978) 595.
VII.6 “Fiction and Reality: Sources for the Role of Sex in Medieval
Muslim Society,” in: Society and the Sexes in Medieval Islam, ed. by
A. Lutfi al-Sayyid Marsot. Reviewed by:
C.E. Bosworth, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain and Ireland, 1 (1981)
77–78.
Valerie J. Hoffman, Journal of Near Eastern Studies, 41.4 (1982) 315–316.
G.H.A. Juynboll, Journal of Arabic Literature, 12 (1981) 161–163.
Albert Perdue, Journal of Asian History, 14.2 (1980) 149–150.
VII.8 “Male and Female: Described and Compared,” in: Homoeroticism in

Classical Arabic Literature, ed. by J.J. Wright and E.K. Rowson.
Reviewed by:
Amila Buturovic, International Journal of Middle East Studies, 31.2 (1999) 291–293.
Miriam Cooke, Middle East Studies Association Bulletin, 34.1 (2000) 95–96.
Sabine Schmidtke, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies, 62.2 (1999)
260–266.
Seth Ward, South Atlantic Review, 64.1 (1999) 173–176.
VIII.15 “Significant Uses of Arabic Writing,” Ars Orientalis 4 (1961) 15–23,

repr. in his Four Essays on Art and Literature in Islam. Reviewed by:
Yolande Crowe, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain and Ireland, 2 (1973)
164–165.
Richard Ettinghausen, Artibus Asiae, 34.4 (1972) 353–354.
Géza Fehérvári, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies, 35.3 (1972) 687.
M.J. Zwettler, Journal of the American Oriental Society, 95.3 (1975) 488–490.
major reviews of the reprinted works xvii
VIII.16 “‘Of Making Many Books There Is no End:’ The Classical Muslim
View,” in: The Book in the Islamic World. The Written Word and
Communication in the Middle East, ed. by G.N. Atiyeh. Reviewed by:
James M. Dening, Middle East Studies Association Bulletin, 30.1 (1996) 78–79.
Tammy Lynn Johnson, The Library Quarterly, 66.4 (1996) 476–478.
James E. Montgomery, Journal of Arabic Literature, 27.3 (1996) 272–273.
William Smyth, Journal of the American Oriental Society, 117.3 (1997) 588–589.
Paul Starkey, British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies, 25.2 (1998) 329–330.
Roberto Tottoli, Oriente Moderno, 16 (77), No. 1 (1997) 133–134.
Note on the Layout of the Volume
All works reprinted in this volume have been typeset anew from the original
publications whose text they reproduce exactly. Minor misprints have been
tacitly corrected. The occasional references and remarks whose addition in the
notes was indispensable are placed in square brackets and signed as “Ed[itor].”
The numbering of footnotes, wherever it was continuous within a chap-
ter or article in the original publication, was also reproduced exactly. In the
three cases where the numbering of the footnotes in the original publication
resumed anew on each page (in works III, VIII.11 and VIII.15), the numbering
in this reprint was changed to continuous, but the original number of the note
was also included in small superscript numbers just before the note. In the case
of VIII.11, the original numbers given in superscript are those of the first edition
of the work (1970); in the 2007 reprint, however, the numbers were changed to
continuous, but these were necessarily omitted.
Each reprinted monograph bears a Roman numeral, and each reprinted
article a Roman numeral followed by an Arabic numeral, as listed in the Table
of Contents. The page numbers of the original publications are entered in the
margins of this reprint to help identify earlier references.
The original indexes to each separate monograph have been combined in
this reprint, together with new entries from the articles which had not been
indexed. They have been edited for accuracy in this combined format, to help
identify individuals with similar names and locate the significant terms dis-
cussed, but also for concision, to avoid expansion beyond measure in an already
bulky volume: all material in the body of the text has been included in the
appropriate index, but references in the footnotes to reference works (Brock-
elmann, Sezgin, EI, etc.,) have not been included, while mere citations in the
footnotes, without discussion, to secondary literature and to primary source
books (historical and biographical works, poetic collections, etc.) have been
included only selectively. In the Index of Proper Names personalities are listed
according to the most commonly used part of their name and cross references
to the other parts have been kept to a minimum. The transliteration system of
the Encyclopaedia of Islam Three was used in the indexes, given the variation
in the original transliteration of Arabic names, inevitable in works published
over half a century in publications with varying transliteration conventions and
guidelines; it is hoped that this will present no problems to the reader.
DG
List of Original Publications and Acknowledgments
The publishers and I gratefully acknowledge permission to reprint the works

which originally appeared in the following publications:
I [Introduction]. “The Study of Muslim Intellectual and Social History: Ap-

proaches and Methods” (The Third Annual United Arab Emirates Lecture
in Islamic Studies, The University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, October 9,
1980), Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan, 1981. 14pp.
II The Muslim Concept of Freedom Prior to the Nineteenth Century, Leiden:
Brill, 1960. 133pp.
III The Herb. Hashish versus Medieval Muslim Society, Leiden: Brill, 1971.
218pp.
IV Gambling in Islam, Leiden: Brill, 1975. 192pp.
V “Sweeter than Hope”. Complaint and Hope in Medieval Islam, Leiden: Brill,
1983. 160pp.
VI. The Individual and Society
1 “‘I am you’—Individual Piety and Society in Islam,” in: Individualism

and Conformity in Classical Islam, ed. by A. Banani and S. Vryonis Jr.
(Fifth Giorgio Levi della Vida Biennial Conference), Wiesbaden: Otto
Harrassowitz, 1977, 33–60.
2 “Gifts and Bribes: The Muslim View,” Proceedings of the American Philo-
sophical Sociery 108 (1964) 135–144.
3 “Cannabis and Alcohol: The Green and the Red,” in: Marihuana biological
effects, ed. by G.G. Nahas and Sir W.D.M. Patton, Oxford; New York: Perga-
mon Press, 1979, 739–745.
4 “The Stranger in Medieval Islam,” Arabica 44 (1997) 35–75.
5 “On Suicide in Islam,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 66 (1946)
239–259.
VII. Sexuality, Gender, and the Family
6 “Fiction and Reality: Sources for the Role of Sex in Medieval Muslim
Society,” in: Society and the Sexes in Medieval Islam, ed. A. Lutfi al-Sayyid–
xx list of original publications and acknowledgments
Marsot (Sixth Giorgio Levi della Vida Biennial Conference), Malibu, Cal-
ifornia: Undena Publications, 1979, 3–22.
7 “Male and Female: Described and Compared,” in: Homoeroticism in Clas-
sical Arabic Literature, ed. J.W. Wright Jr. and Everett K. Rowson, N.Y.:
Columbia University Press, 1997, 24–54.
8 “Reflections on Love in Paradise,” in: Love and Death in the Ancient Near
East: Essays in Honor of M.H. Pope, ed. by John H. Marks and Robert
M. Good, Guilford, Connecticut, and Los Angeles: Four Quarters Pub. Co.,
1987, 247–254.
9 “Muslim Social Values and Literary Criticism: Reflections on the Ḥadīth
of Umm Zarʿ,” Oriens 34 (1994) 31–56.
10 “Child Psychology in Islam,” Islamic Culture 26 (1952) 1–22.
VIII. Science and Learning in Society
11 “Materials for an Appraisal of Knowledge as a Societal Force,” from Knowl-

edge Triumphant, Leiden: Brill, 1970, Chapter VII.4, pp. 298–333.
12 “Al-Asṭurlābī and as-Samawʾal on Scientific Progress,” Osiris 9 (1950) 555–
564.
13 “The Defense of Medicine in the Medieval Muslim World,” Bulletin of the
History of Medicine 43 (1969) 519–532.
14 “The Physician in Medieval Muslim Society,” Bulletin of the History of
Medicine 52 (1978) 475–491.
15 “Significant Uses of Arabic Writing,” Ars Orientalis 4 (1961) 15–23, repr. in
his Four Essays on Art and Literature in Islam (The L.A. Mayer Memo-
rial Studies in Islamic Art and Archeology, vol. II), Leiden: Brill, 1971, 50–
62.
16 “‘Of Making Many Books There Is no End:’ The Classical Muslim View,”
in: The Book in the Islamic World: the Written Word and Communication in
the Middle East, ed. G.N. Atiyeh (Papers presented at a conference held
Nov. 8–9, 1989, at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.), Albany, N.Y.:
State University of New York Press, 1995, 33–55.
We would also like to acknowledge our gratitude to the Österreichische Nation-

albibliothek in Vienna and to the Freer Gallery of Art in Washington, D.C., for
permission to reproduce the cover image and the frontispiece, respectively.
A personal and warm word of thanks is due to Koninklijke Brill NV for the
realization of this project. I am particularly indebted to Joed Elich and Kathy
van Vliet, who eagerly embraced my idea to bring Rosenthal’s envisaged work
list of original publications and acknowledgments xxi
on Man versus Society to actuality by reprinting all the related works in one
volume and supported it throughout, and to Renee Otto, Ellen Girmscheid and
their team of type-setters and indexer who saw it through the process and
brought it to fruition with expertise and professionalism.
Dimitri Gutas
i
Introduction
© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2015 | doi: 10.1163/9789004270893_003

The Study of Muslim Intellectual and 1
Social History: Approaches and Methods
I want to speak here about a complex of subjects that has reached the status of a
“science” only in this century. It was not defined and studied before as a widely
cultivated coherent body of knowledge set apart from other sciences. Although
it may lay claim roughly to the name of “historical sociology,” it remains rather
amorphous. With respect to the past history of Islam, its principal concern
is with the interaction and effect of intellectual, psychological, and societal
phenomena. My topic here, which I approach with due hesitation, deals with
some of the directions which Islamicists have shown themselves familiar with
in their work but might do well to follow with increased seriousness in years to
come.
The modern history of this research had, of course, no sudden beginning
at any one given moment. Like any other intellectual endeavor, it developed
slowly over several centuries. Even in Islamic studies, a relative newcomer
in Western scholarly activity, occasional research along what can be called
sociological lines was done already in the seventeenth century. It continued
to find attention when Islamic studies started their forward march around the
second half of the nineteenth century. While their development since then has
been tremendous, it has, on the whole, been quite haphazard. This is nothing
to be astonished, chagrined, or indignant about. Islam as an object of research
is after all an enormously vast expanse for scholarship to roam in, one much
larger than most, and certainly not smaller than any other, fields of research.
Thinking of “Islam” as the common denominator for scholarship is in itself a
sort of hubris or, perhaps more accurately, an admission of ignorance. Thus,
whatever research has been done could not help being partial and incomplete.
It need hardly be said that many undiscovered or underutilized areas of study
exist and are still to be staked out.
For a long time now, the key word that governs any worthwhile scholarly
activity has been “progress.” Intellectual work of any description might just as
well be left undone if it cannot be viewed as somehow constituting progress.
The meaning of what we call “progress” was not left entirely undebated in Islam.
Understandably it was submerged there under the more obvious phenomenon
of change. Temporal change was commonly seen as cyclical, but thinkers such
as Ibn Khaldûn—and he was not alone—felt that there was a slow accumula-
tion of material and intellectual growth in the historical process, constituting a
sort of, as we might put it, intermittent progress. The nature of progress has
4 i. [introduction]
recently become again a subject of much forceful discussion. In the natural

sciences, it is basically understood as the process of accumulating more and
more knowledge unavailable before. This appears also to be the easiest way
to define progress in the humanities. Here, however, the newness of any work
done is much harder to assess, since research in the history of the past is in
the first place a process of recovery. It is always a legitimate question whether
the recovered material constitutes progress in that it not merely adds useful
information to existing knowledge but influences, if ever so little, its total com-
plexion. A scientist may very well complain about the “unrelievedly deplorable
story” of earlier medicine1 and contend that there was, practically speaking,
no medical knowledge before the later nineteenth century. If this were so, we
2 humanists might very well ask ourselves what could be the point in | publishing
long forgotten medical works. The simple answer must be that every recov-
ered bit of the past has at least the potential of stimulating an expansion of
knowledge and insight and thereby contributing to progress. In a more pro-
found and, indeed, fundamental sense, it has sometimes been contended in
recent years that the very idea of progress is, at best, an illusion and, at worst,
mankind’s shorcut to extinction and that there are limits and verities discov-
ered long ago but distorted and abandoned that determine how far mankind
can prudently go in its quest for intellectual and material betterment. If there
is anything to these contentions, which I find hard to believe, it might perhaps
be assumed that the truth as always lies somewhere in the middle. Progress is
possible and necessary, but it is not straightforward and often leads into dark
and polluted blind alleys. As far as the mere accumulation of knowledge as a
means of progress is concerned, it can happen that quantity increases at times
too rapidly at the expense of quality and, even worse, may reach a stage where
it becomes overpowering. There is little doubt in my mind that the enormous
growth of knowledge during the early centuries of Islam played an important
role in producing the much discussed relative stagnation of intellectual life in
later centuries, which impresses us as failure, even if it possessed all the out-
ward appearances of increasing subtlety and sophistication. There simply was
so much knowledge to be preserved with very restricted means of preserva-
tion that scholars were kept busy with devising ways of preserving it. They
could justly be proud of and satisfied with the skilful mastery of their great
heritage and be deceived, they themselves as well as their audience, into for-
getting the need for going beyond formality and accumulation—the need for
progress.
1 Cf. Lewis Thomas, in Daedalus, 106, 3 (summer 1977), 163.

the study of muslim intellectual and social history 5
One of the most successful approaches to producing not only an illusion

of progress but, with skill and luck, some reality of it was the classification
of knowledge. Its starting point, the specialization of human activity, is coex-
tensive with human development and observable in the earliest times. As a
conscious means of influencing intellectual development, the classification of
knowledge made its appearance in Greek civilization. Aristotle’s name and
work were the outstanding symbol for its power and steady growth. It was
naturally taken over but then refined to an unprecedented degree by Muslim
scholars, secular and religious thinkers alike. Through it all, the unity of all
knowledge remained a concept that was defended in epistemology as well as
metaphysics. It held a strong attraction in a world view that was fundamentally
unitarian. The philosophical and religious underpinning of the classification
of knowledge in Islam customarily was the unity of all knowledge, and the
interdependence of all sciences was always stressed. Knowledge is one and
desirable, even though its individual manifestations differ in value. The ubiq-
uity and variety of classification schemes indicates that they were the ruling
force in Muslim scholarship. A noticeable tendency to come up with more and
more subdivisons can be discerned in the course of time. More and more sci-
ences in their own right were built into the system until their number reached
into the hundreds. The more important a subject matter was in Muslim eyes,
the greater was the number of disciplines to which it gave rise. For instance,
scholars would outdo themselves in ascribing innumerable subdivisions to the
Qurʾânic sciences. Their effort also shows how deeply ingrained was the dan-
gerous assumption that subdivision and classification constituted an avenue
toward understanding. If, the unspoken argument went, you devote special-
ized attention, a specialized, quasi-independent science, to each letter of the
Holy Book, you stood a better chance to fathom its mysteries and understand
it | better—a fallacy if ever there was one. The independence of most of these 3
disciplines was, of course, not absolute. They continued to be cultivated in
close dependence upon the major fields of knowledge to which they origi-
nally belonged. Yet, an impressive framework for expansion and progress was
created. Not unexpectedly, the fields of knowledge most relevant to Muslim
society continued to receive by far the greatest share of attention, as attested by
the mountains of books devoted to them. The natural sciences were unable to
keep up and compete with them. The humanities and societal sciences, always
strong, were the greatest beneficiaries.
The same process of subdivision with a view toward autonomy for newly
established fields of research has dominated the development of intellectual
activity in Europe. It has now taken on greater dimensions than ever before.
Our modern university organization is the most obvious beneficiary, and
6 i. [introduction]
victim, of the process. The idea of effecting progress through setting up special
kinds of knowledge as disciplines in their own right has taken hold and appears
to be here to stay. The unity of all knowledge is still viewed with awe by some as
the ultimate truth, one, however, that is infinitely remote from the normal life
and work of scholars whose vision of potential progress is necessarily restricted
to their respective disciplines.
Historians of the past must not, even if they could, disregard the concerns of
the present, if their efforts are to achieve their full measure of effectiveness.
This means trying to keep in touch with conceptual progress made. In our
particular case, it means becoming involved with methods and approaches
that become visible in new disciplines, provided they are arguably more than
passing fashions. In this endeavor, in which Islamic historians have become
involved in recent years, an indispensable precondition is concern for the
preservation of the integrity of the past. In studying, for instance, the economic
factors in society, we must not forget that the very fact that they commanded
limited attention in Muslim sources indicates that they were viewed as much
less central than we are inclined to view them and that, therefore, they are
indeed less central for an understanding of Muslim society. The vast majority of
Muslim thinkers stressed the obvious material basis of human life but beyond
that cared little for material factors as building blocks of society and history. For
them, these factors were less significant, and while we may regret the resulting
relative scarcity of available data, it is the decisive point. Still, there are those
areas of research, particularly of a sociological and psychological nature, which
in modern times tend to be considered as independent sciences, something
they were not in the past. Giving them their proper due in our research is a
task that to a large part lies still ahead of us.
The source situation must be our first and foremost consideration. Ulti-
mately, any historical research is determined by the sources that are, or may
become, available. Straying all too far afield is counterproductive. Jurispru-
dence, theology, poetry, philology, philosophy—these, in approximately de-
scending order, are the most productive sources for the Islamicist’s labors. They
present us, moreover, with large, well-established and highly developed sets of
constantly discussed problems. Since the particular information we are look-
ing for here does not belong into this mainstream, it cannot be expected to
be as plentiful and as easily accessible. It is, on the contrary, widely scattered
and requires a painstaking and often frustrating effort of collecting, piecing
together, and fighting, against great odds, for some acceptable synthesis. Given
the inevitable scarcity of information, if measured against the geographical and
4 historical | sweep of the Muslim world, we will always have to be satisfied with
suggestive fragmentary sketches rather than complete and coherent pictures.
The realization that full success will never be within our grasp should be no
deterrent. After all, this is more or less the fate of all historical research. Even if
we shall never be able to ascertain, for instance, the precise amount of money
spent anywhere in the past on drugs such as hashish, this does not mean that
we should not raise the question of the economic importance of hashish con-
sumption for Muslim society or refrain from speculation about the existing pos-
sibilities, no matter how uncertain and in the end presumably inconclusive it
may be. The important thing is to find enough source material to justify raising
the problem, regardless of the likelihood or unlikelihood of finding a solution.
Where, we may ask, do we have the best chance of success when we look for
information on societal problems of obvious concern to us but not important
enough for medieval Muslims most of the time to have received their undivided
attention? Fortunately, their curiosity and powers of observation were varied
enough to have left many traces and clues. The search for universal traits
in the human psyche as well as in human social organization has produced,
among other things, the vast collection of miscellaneous but not unconnected
topics called adab literature. If these adab works are addressed with the right
questions—that, of course, being the questions we wish to find answers for—,
they will inevitably yield some information and, moreover, often indicate the
most promising directions for our search to take.
Adab essays and encyclopaedias nearly always place heavy reliance upon
poetical quotations. While this reflects literary style and tradition, it has its
intrinsic justification. Poetry, more than anything else, served to express basic
human feelings and attitudes, and these were also often feelings and attitudes
officially frowned upon by society and thus given short shrift as if they were
non-existing. It was the poets who were allowed to talk freely about drinking
wine or about sexual behavior in a manner that would have been unaccept-
able in serious discussion and was therefore included in scholarly literature
only under special circumstances and rather rarely. The correlation between
feelings and attitudes poetically expressed and societal reality and practice is
clearly a matter of speculation, but in Muslim creative writing, the world of
imagination has a truth of its own which is more revealing than the knowledge
whether or not a given poet did live up to his bacchantic ecstasies and frivolous
thoughts.
Linguistic conventions in all their variety, the working capital of Arabic
poetry and artistic prose, may also be illuminating. For example, in Islam where
“play” was banned from serious consideration by adults as it largely was, the
poets’ constant striving for recalling and modifying inherited metaphors that
made use of “play,” or even inventing new ones, is remarkable for those in
our time who suspect that a fundamental insight lies in the view of man as
8 i. [introduction]
homo ludens, the playful animal. Valuable indications from linguistic usage
are, of course, not restricted to poetry and artistic prose but may be found
everywhere in a civilization distinguished by its great reverence for language.
Specialized linguistic works are useful by the way they define words and by
the attempts to establish subtle distinctions in their meanings. And, although
it is a risky enterprise and the necessary qualifications for it are nowadays
no longer commonly found among Islamicists, the implications of etymology
derived principally from the comparative study of the Semitic languages are
not without heuristic value.
While adab literature, popular literature, and poetry are the main treasure
5 troves | of information, some, often a good deal, of it may be found nearly
everywhere one looks. Jurisprudence had much contact with the realities of
life, no matter how much weight it put upon traditional formulation. The
comparatively rare collections of actual, not just theoretical, fatwâs remain to
be explored. The law books can also teach us a lot by what they chose to discuss
seldom or disregarded entirely. The abundance of historical and biographical
works still awaits analysis of the data they more conceal than exhibit in the way
of evidence for economics, societal organization, social attitudes, and the like.
Needless to say, there is, in fact, no document of the past that might not yield
valuable bits of information for our quest. Material relics and, in particular,
works of art such as paintings can also be extremely useful for our purposes;
even the lack of them or their failure to provide an answer to a question
addressed to them may be meaningful.
Since the building blocks for our work are not found together but have to
be collected from many potential sources, which are almost overwhelming
in number and size, this is the kind of research for which technical assis-
tance seems highly desirable and may even turn out to be indispensable. A
strong case can be made for computerization. Some obviously useful first steps
have been taken in this direction in other fields of Islamic studies, such as,
for instance, with respect to the indexing of proper names in the large and
important French-sponsored project, Onomasticon Arabicum. Lexicographical
studies are next in line as in the attempt just begun in Germany under the
leadership of G. Endress to work up comparative Graeco-Arabic word lists and
dictionaries. In our particular context, the first task would seem to be the index-
ing of a large number of adab works of all descriptions, in order to get at the
often incidental information they contain. As I once tried to demonstrate for
a couple of pages of one of them,2 nearly every page of this literature pro-
2 Cf. Oriens, 20 (1967), 240.

vides details on all sorts of topics of sometimes major, usually, of course, minor,
importance for social and intellectual historians. Only when all the relevant
details are collected as comprehensively as possible will it be possible to ana-
lyze them and assess their significance. This is a task which unaided human
power can accomplish at best only to a very limited extent. It will be necessary
to enlist the mechanical devices available for it. This will inevitably happen,
but the time to begin with it, perhaps first with one of the adab encyclopae-
dias or, say, one of the essays of al-Jâḥiẓ, appears to have come. Initially, and
most importantly, it will be necessary to define the topics for which evidence
should be identified and registered. The choice will naturally vary according
to the prevailing conditions of intellectual life in a given period. If a scholar
had approached the task a century ago, his choice of topics would no doubt
have been different from what it is likely to be today, and today’s choice will no
doubt be criticized by future generations. But it is imperative to try to gain clar-
ity at least in outline about the areas which can be expected to enrich future
treatment of Islamic intellectual and social history.
Economics would clearly seem to be one of them. Muslim biographical
information is extraordinarily rich, but an understanding of how, for instance,
scholars and civilian officials, to name only the best documented segment of
the population, provided for their livelihood and how much they earned is
still limited to general observations. In Mamlûk times, a young student from a
merchant family (Ibn Ḥajar) would travel with a caravan ostensibly on business
but, in fact, use the opportunity as a sort of travel and study grant. A scholar
with a large family to support (Ibn Quṭlûbughâ) would have to | rely on legal 6
work of some sort and occasional grants to make ends meet. Such stray items we
have, but details and figures are still missing. The biographical literature did pay
some but not much attention to such matters, as they were considered trivial
and, any way, self-evident. It remains for us to dig up all the evidence we can.3
Modern scholarly interest in economic matters has expectedly been great and
much important work has been done, helped by the fortunate circumstance
that at least some documentary material is also available. But much remains
to be learned from the scattered references, for instance, in histories about
administrative and military expenditures or about the effects of inflation and
taxation, and many other related subjects. All of it involves a still greater and
concerted effort.
3 For some studies of the biographical literature for quantitative purposes, cf. F.M. Douglas, in
Studia Islamica 51 (1980), 138, n. 2.
10 i. [introduction]
A part of economics, if you will, but something probably even more impor-
tant for the general historian is quantitative population research. The sporadic
efforts made so far to establish the facts and effects of population density have
laid the groundwork but with uneven results. The relative numerical strength of
the urban and rural population and its changes over shorter and longer periods
of time, the question, for instance, of the ratio of physicians to population,4 the
vexing problem of numerical strength and distribution in the armed forces, the
old irritant of round and exaggerated figures—all these matters require much
further research. What answers will be forthcoming and how satisfactory they
will be, depends on the individual subject and is difficult to foresee, but the
attempt to exhaust the evidence hidden in the sources will have to be made.
Another aspect of population research of a qualitative nature must also be stud-
ied much more intensively. It largely concerns the organization of classes in
society. Continued efforts must be made to clarify our understanding of social
stratification in Muslim society and the conflict of Islamic ideals in this respect
with inherited non-Islamic theories and the given reality. The great variety of
crafts, professions, and groups at the fringes of society can, as has been shown,
be profiled much more sharply from the sources now available.
There is hope that contemporary documents, which are needed to flesh out
whatever can be gathered from literary sources, will become available in larger
numbers when an intensified search is made for them. Every medievalist is
by now aware of the documents from the Jewish Geniza in Egypt masterfully
exploited by S.D. Goitein with great benefit for Islamic studies. We must admit,
though, that documentary evidence gives the students of the European Middle
Ages their one great advantage over their Islamicist colleagues. It is safe to say
that no matter how much more documentary material will be discovered in the
Near East, it will not come close in quantity, and often also in quality, to what
has been preserved from medieval Europe.
By contrast, we are fully competitive, if not actually at an advantage, with
respect to the study of the changing, or unchanging, attitudes that existed
toward society and religion, toward beliefs and institutions. The struggle be-
tween the manifestations of the human constant and the religious norms
devised to tame them somehow for the good of society has left many clear
traces in the sources. One has only to follow them in order to discover situa-
tions not only of significance for the study of Muslim society but also of general
applicability to the human condition. The problems of man and society were
often clearly revealed in official attitudes and not infrequently discussed widely
4 Cf. Bulletin of the History of Medicine, 52 (1978), 479 f. [See article VIII.14, p. 1026 below. Ed.]
and in depth. It remains for us to study the relationship of action and fact
to these attitudes. The difficulties and potential rewards are quite similar to
those well-known | to the students of Muslim jurisprudence. As has already 7
been mentioned, the legal norms are expounded in a massive literature, but
how they were applied, or not applied, in life is a matter of debate. For this,
there exists no extensive source literature, but it has to be ascertained by the
slow and devious collection and study of widely scattered clues. Hardly more
than a beginning has been made with the careful investigation of the many
areas in which the known or presumed official attitudes and rules remained in
painful conflict with reality, or of the rarer areas in which they did not conflict
but on the contrary succeeded in shaping reality in their image, at least to some
degree. As an example each for the two situations, we might refer to the socially
important attitudes toward suicide and the use of certain drugs. In the former
case, it appears that official Muslim attitudes largely asserted themselves. In
the second, they were by and large ineffective.
A subdivision within this large field is the study of themes that we know, or at
least believe we know, determine in a most decisive manner the way in which
society functions in the long run. Their universal human character makes it
unlikely that they would have remained unnoticed in Islam where intellectu-
als have always been highly sensitive and observant in probing psychological
phenomena. Those intricate processes of the human mind by which man has
tried to gain an understanding of and thereby at least some degree of control
over his inner environment have naturally always been operative, even when
limitations of a technical nature curtailed systematic expression. It admits of
little doubt that the general mood created by them has the power, commen-
surate in each case to its intensity, to influence the workings of society and
thus indirectly the course of history. The kind of attitude, for instance, that is
taken toward change and progress, clearly determines action to a large extent.
The political climate created by views on the respective rights of government
and individual is beyond a doubt the most powerful agent of history and with
respect to Islam deserves more study than has been devoted to it so far. A fun-
damental determinant of individual and societal behavior and of the proper
utilization of the opportunities of the present derives from the specifically
human ability to remember and reflect upon the past and to look ahead toward
the future and speculate on it. The manner in which this ability was viewed in
Muslim civilization and analyzed by Muslim thinkers has many aspects also
found elsewhere, but also some of its own. It has seemed to me worthwhile in
recent years to see how much can be found about this subject.
Thus, the theme of the complaint about the times winds its path through
Muslim literature. It includes views on the good old days, on the enjoyment
of the present, on the problems of an independently active or manmade fate.

On the whole, it leaves us with the impression of the predominance of a rather
pessimistic mood. How pervasive this mood really was and in which way and
to what extent it determined action—these are the real questions. They are
more easily raised than answered. Indeed, they call forth generalizations and
apodictic conclusions which are to be approached with the greatest caution.
The view of the future is possibly determinative of human behavior, individ-
ual and collective, to an even greater degree than the view of the past. With
regard to the future, the word “hope”—which happens to have sharply defined
Arabic equivalents—is the operative concept. In Islam, “hope” was rightly seen
as intimately connected with many other concepts such as wishing, desiring,
8 expecting, and so on, and with its opposites | such as fearing and despair-
ing. The aspects of “hope” attested in the sources are manifold. Among other
things they show a clash between the religious and secular points of view and
a marked tension between Islam and the pre-lslamic Arabian heritage. Here,
for once, our sources are comparatively plentiful as well as explicit, and I feel
confident that the available material will eventually enable us to learn about
and clarify attitudes that had a definite measure of historical import.5
Another relevant theme is that of the role of competitiveness in Muslim
society on which I would like to make a few suggestions here. Clearly, the
strength of the competitive drive and the forms it takes in a given society shape
the lives of individuals in relation to their fellow human beings and to their
society.
Little as we know about pre-lslamic Arabian society, it seems rather certain
that it was imbued with a highly competitive spirit. The famous “boasting”
and love of contests, indicated by the term mufâkharah and tafâkhur, was
apparently much more than the literary topic as which it is so prominently
attested. It is the expression of a competitive spirit so deeply rooted in society
that it came to be enshrined in intellectual activity. The very existence of the
qâtala/taqâtala formation may be seen as having significance in this context.
From a social point of view, it seems to be indicative of a strong tendency to
stress the competitive nexus between an individual’s feelings and actions and
his position in society. This impression is in a way strengthened and, perhaps,
confirmed by the unprecedented expansion this verbal formation enjoyed in
Muslim times, which went far beyond the requirements of simple linguistic
communication.
5 More on the subject of complaint and hope will be said in an essay soon to be completed.
[Work V, pp. 517–694 below. Ed.]
The predilection shown for comparisons to establish the most poetic of

poets or the most admirably poetic verse of poetry has the same psychological
background. Such comparisons are very much in the nature of literary life, or, at
least, so it seems to us who are conditioned by long tradition to consider it natu-
ral to ask whether Homer or Hesiod was the greater poet.6 What is remarkable,
is their long preservation and constant repetition all through Muslim literature
as if these comparisons touched upon something more basic than mere poetic
rivalry.
The popularity of afʿal proverbs shows the same desire to establish a com-
petitive rank order. A tenth-century littérateur tells us that some people had
succeeded in being acknowledged as most outstanding in some respect. The
connection in which this statement is made is amusing but perhaps also in a
way significant. It should be considered noteworthy, our author says, that such
afʿal proverbs existed for everything except reason. No aʿqal-min “more intelli-
gent than” proverb was supposedly coined by the Arabs. He confesses to be puz-
zled. Perhaps, he says, they did not consider anyone’s reason and intelligence
to be perfect. A Bedouin who was asked to define “reason” replied: “How could I
define it when I have never seen it perfect in anybody?”7 In fact, though, it may
be argued that these proverbs were neither coined nor used as exemplars for
the discussion of superlative perfection but they embodied a wide awareness of
the competitive component in human activity. By the time of our author reason
was well established in its pivotal position in Muslim intellectual speculation
and was felt to be a gift outside of the competitive struggle of human beings.
The competition of poets in the ashʿar-min spirit continued in Islamic times.
The new class of writers and littérateurs saw it personified in the figure of the
hostile and malicious critic. Fault can be found in every bit of poetry,8 and
critics are mostly untalented competitors whose motives are often in no way
connected with literature but | conditioned by the never-ending competition 9
for a patron’s favor. Al-Jâḥiẓ comes first to mind in this connection as the
author of the most memorable statements expressing such sentiments. Al-Jâḥiẓ
can also be cited as witness to the fact that the idea of competitiveness was
intimately bound up with the concept called ḥasad “envy.” In the Jâḥiẓian
spirit, Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî asked for protection of his work from the eyes
of censorious enviers and competitive spoilers (al-mufsidîn al-munâfisîn),9 and
6 Cf. Gnomologium Vaticanum, ed. L. Sternbach, no. 514 (reprint Berlin 1963).
7 Cf. Abû Hilâl al-ʿAskarî, Dîwân al-maʿânî, I, 142 (Cairo 1352).
8 Cf. Abû l-Faraj al-lṣfahânî, Kitâb al-Aghânî, II, 46, 48 (Bûlâq 1285), Aghânî3, II, 165, 169.
9 Cf. Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, Kitâb al-Imtâʿ wa-l-muʾânasah, ed. Aḥmad Amîn and Aḥmad
az-Zayn, II, 1 (Cairo 1939–1944).
a later saying would speak of a person as “moulded from the clay of envy
(ḥasad) and competition (munâfasah).”10 “Envy” had a long pre-lslamic history
as a quality with a strongly negative connotation. In the Muslim political
struggle, it was seen as the root of evil competition.11 In the ethics of Islam,
later on reinforced by the Hellenistic tradition, it continued its deserved pariah
existence in the realm of ethical values. It was the primeval sin practiced at
least since man was created; in accordance with the Qurʾân, Iblîs is always
referred to as the first individual to be affected by it.12 An exception to the
understanding of “envy” as always bad appears already in the old and often
quoted ḥadîth that exempts taḥâsud from opprobrium if it takes the form
of competition with respect to virtue. The two basic examples are envy with
respect to property that could be spent for good purposes and envy with respect
to the assiduous recitation of the Qurʾân—that is, envy of another’s charity and
piety. The ancient Greeks, it may be noted, had also conceived of praiseworthy
aspects of envy. In fact, most of the Muslim views of envy have their parallels
in Greek literature.13
Taḥâsud was associated with tanâfus already in the ancient ḥadîth.14 Tanâ-
fus appears to be the Arabic term closest to our “competition.” The idea is also
expressed by other terms such as tasâbaqa, tabâhâ, tabârâ, etc.,15 which in a
10 Cf. al-Ḥusrî, Zahr al-âdâb, ed. ʿAlî M. al-Bijâwî, I, 203 (Cairo 1389/1969). Since both com-
petition and envy are not material but psychological qualities, someone like Abû Ḥayyân
at-Tawḥîdî might easily have been dissatisfied with the saying. For him, “man’s laziness
comes from his clay (ṭîn), while his active energy comes from his soul. Now, clay is more
forceful than soul.” Cf. lmtâʿ, II, 194.
11 A particularly good and probably quite old, if fictitious, example is the brief letter of
Muʿâwiyah to ʿAlî, beginning with “Give up envy” and ending with a reference to Qurʾân
113:5, cf. Naṣr b. Muzâḥim al-Minqarî, Waqʿat Ṣiffîn, ed. ʿAbd-as-Salâm M. Hârûn, 123 (Cairo
1365).
12 Envy is rarely found ascribed to Satan in medieval Europe, where it was one of the seven
cardinal sins, cf. Morton W. Bloomfield, The Seven Deadly Sins, 419, n. 239 (reprint Michigan
State University 1967).
13 Cf. the large selection of passages in the chapter on envy (phthonos) in the florilegium of
Stobaeus, ed. C. Wachsmuth and O. Hense, III, 708–721 (reprint Berlin 1958). Hippias (5th
century bc) distinguished between just and unjust envy, the one directed against bad men,
the other against good men.
14 Cf. A.J. Wensinck, et al., Concordance et indices de la tradition musulmane, VI, 506b35
(Leiden 1936–1969).
15 These terms were already mentioned together by al-Muḥâsibî, Riʿâyah, ed. Margaret
Smith, 305 f. (London 1940, E.J.W. Gibb Memorial Series, N. S. 1 5), ed. ʿAbd-al-Qâdir Aḥmad
ʿAṭâ, 570 f. (Cairo 1390/1970).
sense were more specialized originally as they referred to particular areas of

competition but were then employed quite generally. Munâfasah was even-
tually defined as “the greatest possible desire for something by way of com-
petition with others” (ghâyat ar-raghbah fî ash-shayʾ ʿalâ wajh al-mubârâh li-
ghayrika).16 It so happens that tanâfasa occurs in the Holy Qurʾân, and this
occurrence set much of the tone for the future discussion. Sûrah 83:26 says:
wa-fî dhâlika fal-yatanâfas-i-l-mutanâfisûna “To this (just described Paradisia-
cal bliss) let everybody aspire.” English “aspire”, incidentally, fits the possible
if debated etymology of tanâfasa,17 but it leaves unexpressed the connota-
tion of competition inherent in the verbal formation. Here, as in other uses of
the taqâtala conjugation, this connotation might have been weakened. It was,
however, certainly seen as present by the later commentators on the passage.
The intended competition is one for bliss in Paradise, but the commentators,
and well-attested general usage, do not leave us in doubt that competition as
commonly practiced by human beings was to gain material advantages and a
greater share in the world’s alleged goods.18 The divine commandment is meant
to counteract this common human failure and to channel competition, which
is ingrained in human nature, into the proper direction. It is to be a competi-
tion for values approved as true and lasting—the good which, the Qurʾân using
the root s-b-q reminds us, should be the goal of man’s every effort.
16 Cf. aṣ-Ṣafadî, Tamâm al-mutûn fî sharḥ Risâlat Ibn Zaydûn, ed. Muḥammad Abû l-Faḍl
Ibrâhim, 281 (Cairo 1389/1969).
17 Although no proof is possible, it seems that the meanings of valuable and envious in the
root n-f-s may go back to the emotional and physical effort expanded that leads to attach
value to something and to be envious of it. Cf. the relationship of roots denoting “zeal,”
“effort” to “envy,” as in Syriac ṭ-n-n, and below, n. 28.
18 When the Qurʾân was translated in the West, this implication of 83:26 escaped L. Marracci,
who translated: “et ad hoc aspirent aspirantes ad felicitatem” (Marracci’s italics). The
italicized addition was preserved by C. Sale and M. Pickthall (and no doubt others). The
bliss aspired to is expressly stated in fî dhâlika “ad hoc,” and Marracci was probably misled
by commentators who went into some detail as to the meritorious work the tanâfus should
consist of. “Aspiration/competition” was held to be, clearly already in the Qurʾân, normally
the common human concern with worldly matters.
Most of the translations I have checked unidiomatically reproduce the Arabic way of
expressing an indefinite subject, as, for instance, A.J. Arberry’s “let the strivers strive.” An
accurate if inelegant translation is the one by N.J. Dawood (Penguin Classics, London 1956,
p. 49): “For this let all men emulously strive.”
It may be noticed that among the designations for the Last Day we find yawm al-
musâbaqah, yawm al-munâqashah, and yawm al-munâfasah, cf. al-Ghazzâlî, Ihyâʾ, IV, 439,
I. 2 (Cairo 1352/1933).
The identification of ḥasad and munâfasah was discussed in a significant

manner already in the ninth century by al-Muḥâsibî.19 On the basis of the
Qurʾânic passage, he distinguished between the forbidden categories of “envy”
(ḥasad) and the permissible categories of “competition” (munâfasah). In order
to be permissible, competition should take place with respect to “what is
10 good”—that is, ethically good—“in this world and | the other world.”20 It is
permissible to be envious of the niʿam, the benefits bestowed by God upon
one’s fellow men, and to try to become equally worthy of them and use them
properly. There can also be competition for high moral aims as when broth-
ers compete for the love of their parents.21 It is not permissible to compete for
supposed niʿam that are sinful and used for forbidden purposes, and it is abom-
inable ḥasad plain and simple to wish that someone be deprived of the niʿam
he enjoys and suffer misfortune.22 Most important, however, is al-Muḥâsibî’s
firm acknowledgement of the necessity of competition. It always exists and is
strongest where individuals of similar concerns and stations in life are in con-
tact with one another. Thus, scholars are interested in competing with scholars,
merchants with merchants, heroes with heroes23—as Hesiod (Erga 26) had
already observed, “beggars with beggars, bards with bards”—and there can be
no envy of strangers. In general, human beings innately possess “a dislike of
being unable to attain someone else’s station and a liking for equality and keep-
ing up with others.”24 Their competitive aspirations should be tempered by the
absence of wishing ill to those others with whom they compete, but the spirit
and practice of competition are ineradicable.
It seems that for more than two centuries al-Muḥâsibî’s discussion did not
have much of an echo, but it was resumed in its entirety by al-Ghazzâlî in the
Iḥyâʾ.25 Al-Ghazzâlî’s own contribution was merely formal. His presentation is,
19 Riʿâyah, ed. Smith, 305–323, ed. ʿAṭâ, 570–605.

20 Riʿâyah, ed. Smith, 314 f., ed. ʿAṭâ, 590. Cf. the verse of Manṣûr al-Faqîh, in Ibn Abî l-Ḥadîd,
Sharḥ Nahj al-balâghah, I, 256 (Beirut 1963): “The munâfasah of a young man with respect
to what is passing indicates deficiency in his ambition (himmah).”
21 Riʿâyah, ed. Smith, 312 f., ed. ʿAṭâ, 585.
22 Riʿâyah, ed. Smith, 310, ed. ʿAṭâ, 579.
23 Riʿâyah, ed. Smith, 311, 313f., ed. ʿAṭâ, 581 f., 587f. In order to forestall a misunderstanding,
let me make it clear that the reference to Hesiod is an addition of mine. It is not found in
al-Muḥâsibî or the other authors who make the same point that ḥasad is strongest where
there is personal contact, as, for instance, Ibn Qutaybah, ʿUyûn al-akhbâr, III, 10, 11. 16f.
(reprint Cairo 1963–1964).
24 Riʿâyah, ed. Smith, 307, ed. ʿAṭâ, 574: Karâhat at-taqṣîr ʿan manzilat ghayrih wa-maḥabbat
al-musâwâh wa-l-luḥûq bih.
25 Cf. al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ, III, 162 ff.
as usual, better organized and, one might say, more precise in its prolixness. He
would thus refer to the legal categories of necessary, recommendable, and per-
missible in his discussion of permitted competition. It was, however, through
al-Ghazzâlî that these views on competition found no doubt a wide distribu-
tion giving them a sort of official status.
The moralizing approach toward competition also found acceptance in the
popular philosophical segment of Muslim civilization. Thus, a saying ascribed
to Socrates in Graeco-Arabic wisdom literature warns against envy but recom-
mends munâfasah, provided it aims at things lasting and enduring.26 Since
competition was so strongly at work in society, it was felt necessary to put reli-
gious restraints on it. However, awareness and acceptance of the Arabian com-
petitive spirit continued. The literary concern with the ancient mufâkharah
and poetical competition continued unabated, despite religions objections to
it. Verses that praised being the object of envy as a sure measure of success and
a clear indication of excellence remained popular.
I am envied. May God increase the envy of me!

May nobody live one day without being envied!
A man is envied for his virtues:
Knowledge and wit, courage and generosity.27
And, it was said, being pitied is much worse than being envied; indeed, it shows
the extent of a man’s misfortune that those who once envied him now pity
him.28
26 Cf. al-Mubashshir, Mukhtâr al-ḥikam, ed. ʿAbd-ar-Raḥmân Badawî, 116, 11. 9f. (Madrid
1958).
27 Cf. al-Ḥuṣrî, Zahr al-âdâb, I, 203. The poet is said to have been the eighth-century Maʿn b.
Zâʾidah. Later poets provided their own numerous variations on the subject.
There were many “may you not cease (lâ zilta) being envied” verses, cf. ar-Râghib
al-Iṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât al-udabâʾ, I, 162 (Bûlâq 1286–1287), and even al-Ghazzâlî includes
one in his discussion in Iḥyâʾ, III, 171, which states that “only he who is envied is perfect.”
The relevant verses are also cited, for instance, by Ibn ʿAbd-al-Barr, Bahjat al-majâlis, ed.
M. Mursî al-Khûlî and ʿAbd-al-Qâdir Quṭṭ, I, 406 ff., in the chapter on envy (Cairo, n. y.).
One might even speak of “the pleasure of the envied man” (ladhdhat al-maḥsûd), as did
ʿUmârah al-Yamanî, ed. H. Derenbourg, I, 214 (Paris 1897–1904, Publ. de L’École des Langues
Or. Vivantes, IV, 10–11).
28 Cf. Ibn Qutaybah, ʿUyûn, II, 9, III, 60; al-Marzubânî, Muʿjam ash-shuʿarâʾ, ed. ʿAbd-as-
Sattâr Aḥmad Farrâj, 357 (Cairo 1379/1960); al-Qushayrî, Risâlah, 73 (Cairo, n. y.) ed. Cairo
1385/1966, I, 357 (note that this and the other verses loosely attached to al-Qushayrî’s chap-
ter on ḥasad also occur in that of Ibn Qutaybah); ar-Râghib al-lṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât, I, 161;
Today, we are pitied by those who envied us.

Today, we follow those who were our followers.29
And if one wishes for a telling characterization of radically worsened circum-

stances, it would be expressed in Arabic in four words: “We spent the night
being envied and, in the morning, came to be pitied” (bitnâ nuḥsadu wa-
aṣbaḥnâ nurḥamu).30
aṣ-Ṣafadî, Tamâm al-mutûn, 24, 121, 279f. The verse is from one of the elegies of Muḥam-
mad b. ʿUbaydallâh al-ʿUtbî (d. 228/842–843, cf. Fuat Sezgin, GAS, I, 371f.) on his sons. They
are said to have been six so handsome that “they made the eyes of enviers pop out.” Accord-
ing to al-Marzubânî, op. cit., they died during the pest in al-Baṣrah “in 229 or before,” but
al-Marzubânî himself (unless it is a later addition) stated in another of his works that
al-ʿUtbî died in the year 228, cf. Nûr al-Qabas, ed. R. Sellheim, Die Gelehrtenbiographien
des Abû ʿUbaidallâh al-Marzubânî, 195 (Wiesbaden 1964, Bibliotheca Islamica 23a). The
common jeu d’ esprit of turning an idea around was also practiced here. Thus, aṣ-Ṣafadî,
Tamâm, 280, concludes praise of a benefactor with this verse: “Mankind were pitying me
before, but you made them later my enviers.”
The contrasting in the above verse of the roots ḥ-s-d and r-ḥ-m calls to mind the fre-
quent pairing of ḥesed and raḥamîm in the Hebrew Bible. The posibility of an etymolog-
ical connection of Hebrew ḥesed and Arabic ḥasad has been much discussed, cf., most
recently, Katharine D. Sakenfeld, The Meaning of Hesed in the Hebrew Bible, 16–19 (Mis-
soula, Montana, 1978, Harvard Semitic Monographs 17), who comes out in favor of it. It is
very well possible that some emotional process originally indicated by the root ḥ-s-d took
a strongly positive connotation (and occasional negative connotation) in one place and
a strongly and exclusively negative connotation in another. In the same vein, it should be
observed that the comparatively close agreement in meaning between Arabic ḥasad and
our “envy” is not something to be taken for granted but is, on the contrary, rather excep-
tional as internal psychological processes rarely are defined linguistically in identical ways
in different languages. It is not impossible that Greek phthonos influenced pre-lslamic
Oriental thought no less than it influenced Latin invidia and our envy and that this had
something to do with the situation we encounter with respect to Arabic ḥasad. For the
situation in the Near East before it became part of Hellenistic civilization, it is significant
that the Greek word phthonos does not occur in the Greek translation of the preserved
Hebrew Bible (cf. Hatch’s concordance of the LXX). The Hebrew terms, which under cer-
tain circumstances suggest “envy” to us, were rightly considered as not truly corresponding
to phthonos. The usual translation chosen for them was zêlos “zeal.” Even the Theological
Dictionary of the New Testament, edited by G. Kittel (trans. G.W. Bromiley [Grand Rapids,
Michigan, 1964]), disregards phthonos and discusses “envy” in the entry zêlos.
29 Cf. al-Jâḥiẓ, Risâlat faṣl mâ bayn al-ʿadâwah wa-l-ḥasad, ed. P. Kraus and M. Ṭâhâ al-Ḥâjirî,
Majmûʿ Rasâʾil al-Jâḥiẓ, 123 (Cairo 1943).
30 Cf. al-Jâḥiẓ, loc. cit.
With the growth of scholarly and scientific activity, competition found an 11

even wider scope. The production of something that others had not done or
thought of before was its most important aim. It was quite generally contended
that “competition was the custom among men of excellence” (… munâfasah
jarat al-ʿâdah bi-mithlihâ bayn al-fuḍalâʾ),31 and it was taken for granted that
competition in scholarship was a good thing.32
The alleged pagan unrestraint and furor of competition were put on the
defensive by the religion of Islam, but even the new religious norms had to
recognize the fact of competition. Moreover, no matter how ethical and high-
minded these norms were, they contained in their own way a strong incentive
to competition as useful social behavior.
This brief and incomplete digression into a specific topic illustrates some of
the problems of our approach. We must somehow try to transcend the limita-
tions imposed by our sources but never so much as to substitute untrammeled
imagination for missing information. This may mean not infrequently that we
have to admit ignorance—not a bad thing for any historian to do. It may also
mean that we have to take the risk of disappointing certain justified but possi-
bly unfulfillable expectations not only of specialists but even more so of gen-
eralists in intellectual history. It will, however, be a gain for Islamic studies, if
these efforts make it clear to the generalists that topics deemed important by
them were not disregarded in Muslim civilization and that their Islamic aspects
deserve attention, and not the customary neglect.
The problem of historical sequence and development within Islam is anoth-
er difficulty we have to cope with as best as we can. As in the case of competi-
tion, pre-Islamic conditions can rather easily be compared with later Muslim
attitudes to show changes that took place within a large time frame and to
allow us to gauge the influence of Islam, although even here, there are pitfalls to
be avoided. Within Islam, the situation is very clouded. Much of the principal
source material belongs to a stock that was preserved by constant repetition.
It seems that wherever we are able to check its history, we find ourselves back
in rather early periods of Islam. But the very frequency of repetition, especially
31 Cf. aṣ-Ṣafadî, Wâfî, Vol. XII, ed. Ramaḍân ʿAbd-al-Tawwâb, 75 (Wiesbaden 1979, Bibliotheca
Islamica 61), with reference to Abû l-Faraj al-Iṣfahânî and as-Sîrâfî. Ibn Khallikân, Wafayât,
ed. Iḥsân ʿAbbâs, II, 79 (Beirut 1972), also has the reference to “custom.” Others, such as
Yâqût, Irshâd al-arîb, ed. A.F. Rifâʿî, VIII, 148 (Cairo 1357/1938), and as-Suyûṭî, Bughyah,
222 (Cairo 1326), do not. (The cited text of the Bughyah has the homograph tanâqush
for tanâfus). It is possible but uncertain that Ibn Khallikân was the one to formulate the
statement in the form quoted above.
32 Cf. Ibn Bassâm, Dhakhîrah, I, i, 112, I. 4 (Cairo 1358/1939). See also p. 114, II. 11f.
if someday it can be more accurately computed, gives at least a valid indica-

tion of the extent to which the repeated ideas were adopted. Thus, if we cannot
trace a direct and convincing line of development, we can measure to some
degree the width and depth occupied by such ideas in society. With refined
techniques allowing scholars to recover and quantify the available evidence,
the slow emergence of a better sense of historical development of a large vari-
ety of intellectual currents can be expected to result eventually.
The most delicate problem is how to develop generalizations from the in-
sights gained. It will, I am afraid, always be with us and require the most judi-
cious handling. Theories based mainly on defective information, such as the
once famous uncompromising “fatalism” of Islam, have fortunately become
curious relics of a scholarly past that by now is rather remote, but the very
fact that they once were possible and popular should warn us that the most
cautious approach to generalization is necessary. For instance, it will not do
to maintain, on the basis of the information discussed here, that Islam was an
unusually competitive society always and everywhere and that its history could
and should be explained largely from this angle. The possibility seems to be
there, but a dogmatic hankering for general conclusions may merely compro-
mise any true gains.
12 When I spoke in the beginning of future directions for Islamic research, I
did not mean to detract from the importance of a steady continuation and,
indeed, acceleration of work in the traditional fields where so much remains to
be done. Perhaps I also should not have presumed to speak of the future when I
have done hardly anything more here than retraced some of the lines of work I
have attempted to follow for many years. Be this as it may—Abû lʿAtâhiyah was
neither the first nor the only Muslim poet to define man as dhû amal “the owner
of hope,”33 the hopeful animal being distinguished by the capacity to hope
from all other animals, one who could always gain strength from an optimistic
anticipation of the future. There is hope and, more than that, the well-founded
expectation that additional windows will open up into a great past that needs
to be viewed in much greater detail and much more comprehensively than it
has been so far.
33 Cf. Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah, Ashʿâruh wa-akhbâruh, ed. Shukrî Fayṣal, 319 (Damascus 1384/1964),
and my forthcoming essay (above, n. 5).
ii
The Muslim Concept of Freedom
Prior to the Nineteenth Century

Contents
Foreword 24 [vii]
I. The Problem 26 [1]
II. The Linguistic Terminology 31 [7]
III. Definitions of Freedom 37 [14]
IV. Legal and Sociological Aspects of the Concept of Freedom 51 [29]

a. Slavery 51 [29]
b. Deprivations of Freedom 55 [34]
Imprisonment 55 [35]
Forced Labor 90 [77]
V. Philosophical Views on Freedom 94 [81]

a. Freedom as an Ethical Concept 94 [81]
b. Freedom in Political Theory 110 [98]
c. Freedom in Metaphysical Speculation 117 [105]
VI. Concluding Remark 129 [120]

VII Foreword
Most authors who have something of importance to say are involved in the
problem of freedom. Even if they are not expressly concerned with it, their atti-
tude toward freedom can be reconstructed from their works. This applies also
to authors writing within the boundaries of Muslim civilization. In particular,
philosophers, theologians, historians, jurists, poets, and littérateurs have ample
occasion to refer to situations and attitudes concerned with freedom. Works in
these fields constitute the bulk of Muslim literature. The task of disentangling
the thought of major Muslim authors on the subject of freedom from the mass
of their preserved works is an important and formidable one. It has not been
attempted in the following discussion.
The questions of free will and of the attitude toward freedom from or depen-
dence upon tradition (ijtihâd/taqlîd) call for a study of Muslim theology in its
entirety and, with it, of the basis of all Muslim intellectual life. On a smaller
scale, a detailed discussion of free will, for instance, might also necessitate a
complete investigation of the running battle between the defenders and the
opponents of astrology. This little book does not aim at anything remotely as
ambitious.
Instead, the much more modest course of collecting explicit statements on
the concept of freedom, found scattered here and there in Muslim literature,
has been followed. No completeness, of course, has been achieved. Of necessity,
much important material, and very many minor illustrations of individual
topics, must have escaped me. However, I hope that a useful beginning for the
study of the subject has been made.
VIII Some of the material discussed may not seem to belong under | the heading
of explicit statements on freedom. The presence of such material has, in part,
its reason in the fact that the discussion of freedom was originally intended to
be the first chapter of a large work dealing with Man versus Society in Islam,
that is, with the tensions and conflicts that existed between individuals and
society in medieval Islam (as they do, in some form or other, in any society).
The various topics that were to be treated in that work are not difficult to guess.
Some material has been collected by me, and the one or other of the relevant
topics will, perhaps, be treated by me in the course of time. It is certainly hoped
that other scholars will work on them. But I do not think that it will be possible
for me to bring to a satisfactory conclusion a comprehensive work such as I
had envisaged. I have, therefore, decided to publish this introductory chapter,
which I feel can stand on its own feet. Its outlook and emphasis may become
clearer if viewed against the background from which it originated.
foreword 25
The jacket design of this volume1 is taken from a pencil drawing attributed to
Riza Abbasi, first published in F. Sarre and E. Mittwoch, Zeichnungen von Riza
Abbasi (Munich, 1914), pl. 26, and now in the Freer Gallery of Art (Photograph:
Courtesy of the Smithsonian Institution, Freer Gallery of Art, Washington,
D.C.). R. Ettinghausen, who called my attention to the drawing, describes it as
(above) Yûsuf in prison and (below) Zulaykhah as an old woman before Yûsuf.
1 [The drawing on the jacket of the original publication of The Muslim Concept of Freedom
(1960) is now reproduced as the frontispiece in this reprint volume. Ed.]
i
1 The Problem
… auto de touto ho ti esti to eleutheron einai ê ho ti to douleuein, ouk isasin.

dio chrysostomus, Orat., XIV, 1
It is in prehistoric times and in the legal sphere that we must seek the origin
of the concept of freedom. The free man was legally different from the slave
who belonged to him. Wherever the institution of slavery existed, the definition
of freedom presented no difficulties. It was the legal status of free men as
opposed to that of slaves. In fact, this definition of freedom was so clear-cut
and commonly accepted that it required a considerable intellectual effort to get
away from it and to give a new and vastly enlarged meaning to the old concept.
The Greeks, as far as we know, were the first to succeed in doing just that, and
so launched freedom on its way to becoming one of the ideas that determined
the course of world history. Looking back from the particular point in history
at which we are halting at the present moment, we may even go as far as to say
that the concept of freedom has been the most important agent of history the
world has ever known.
Along its course through history, freedom freed itself from the fetters of def-
inition. It developed into one of those powerful abstract terms that have no
concrete, definable existence unless it be given to them by the human mind.
While it could no longer be objectively defined, it became the object of numer-
ous definitions. Needless to say, it also became the subject of a vast and wonder-
ful literature. The efforts to define this freedom of ours have been technically
unsuccessful, and they will always be so. They tell more about the men and
the times that produce them, than they do about freedom itself. Nevertheless,
2 like undefinable | freedom, they have been tremendously significant and their
influence has been, and will remain, immense.
There are a few things about freedom which despite the absence of general
agreement can be confidently assumed to be incontestable. One is the relative
character of the concept, or, as it has been put by a modern philosopher, “it
is only because there is restraint in one respect that there can be freedom in
another.”1 Another positive statement that can be made about freedom con-
cerns the need for a distinction between different kinds of freedom. Freedom
1 P. Weiss, Man’s Freedom (New Haven, 1950), 29.

the problem 27
has different “levels,” as they might be called, which can be kept separate. How-
ever, it must be understood that the distinction is not an absolute one. On the
contrary, wherever the concept was effective as an historical force, there was,
of necessity, an interaction between the various “levels” of freedom.
Basically, two levels can be distinguished.2 One of them is the philosophi-
cal/ontological, to which Islam and other religious societies add the theologi-
cal/metaphysical speculation concerning freedom; the other is the sociological
level. Muslims, in general, were disposed toward maintaining a strict separa-
tion between the two levels. In Islam, the concept of free will and freedom of
choice is expressed by a word different from that used for social freedom, as
will be discussed later on. This difference in linguistic terminology is signifi-
cant.
The two basic levels can be subdivided again and again if it is a question
of determining the relevance of freedom to particular practical situations and
theoretical problems. The German writer, K. Jaspers, thus admits “on the soci-
ological level, a distinction of personal, civil, and political freedom; the per-
sonal freedom of handling one’s own affairs which, given sufficient economic
means, may exist side by side with a lack of civil and political | freedom (as, 3
for instance, in czarist Russia); the civil freedom which can develop in the
guise of security under law side by side with a lack of political freedom (as,
for instance, in imperial Germany); and the political freedom where every cit-
izen has a voice in deciding who is to lead him (as, for instance, in the United
States).”3
Attempts to define freedom in absolute terms have met with the expected
disaster, beginning with the definition ascribed to Archytas who gave to the
eleutheron separate existence as the mean between the relative terms of mas-
ter and slave.4 They may admittedly leave the problem where they find it, and
appropriate the term “freedom” arbitrarily to designate something to which any
other term, even including “slavery,” could be applied as well. Thus, for Jaspers,
the final fulfillment of the concept of freedom, existential freedom, is some-
thing “absolutely incomprehensible (schlechthin unbegreiflich).” “Freedom can-
not be recognized and can in no way be understood by objective thought pro-
cesses. I am certain of it for myself, not in my thinking but in my existence; not
in my speculating about and searching for an understanding of freedom but in
2 Cf. D. Fosdick’s introduction to her edition of J.S. Mill, On Social Freedom (New York, 1941), 23.
3 K. Jaspers, Philosophie, 2nd ed. (Berlin-Göttingen-Heidelberg, 1948), 437.
4 Cf. Simplicius, In Categorias, ed. K. Kalbfleisch (Berlin, 1907. Comm. in Aristotelem Graeca,
VIII), 384, l. 9.
28 ii. the muslim concept of freedom
living (it); all statements about freedom are, in fact, a means of communication
that is always subject to misunderstanding and always provides only indirect
hints.”5
It has also been possible for some thinkers to remove the concept of freedom
from the realm of the individual where it properly belongs, and to proclaim as
freedom the subjection of the individual human being to some higher order
4 that is considered more truly human than the individual. For instance, H. von |
Treitschke, dreaming the fantastic dream of a state conceived as the true repos-
itory of individual liberty, came out for “the freedom of man in a free state.”6
In a brilliant study, a modern anthropologist substituted the somewhat more
concrete notion of “cultural system” to Treitschke’s nebulous state. He said that
“freedom can be defined as the conditions necessary and sufficient for the for-
mation of a purpose, its translation into effective action through organized
cultural instrumentalities, and the full enjoyment of the results of such activ-
ity. The concept of freedom therefore can only be defined with reference to
human beings organized and endowed with cultural motives, implements and
values, which ipso facto implies the existence of law, an economic system and
political organization—in short, a cultural system.”7 And again: “Metaphori-
cally, freedom in its essence is the acceptance of the chains which suit you and
for which you are suited, and of the harness in which you pull towards an end
chosen and valued by yourself, and not imposed.”8 Clearly, this is Treitschke’s
idea transferred to a society whose existence means unfreedom for the individ-
ual.
Then, there is the concept of freedom as the submission of the individual
to a divine law and order. This idea is of immediate concern to us since it
can obviously be applied to the situation prevailing in Islam. In fact, this has
been done. According to L. Gardet, “for all their differences, the Christian and
5 Muslim ideas of freedom have one thing in common: they are | equally opposed
to an unconditional quest for a false and merely nominal freedom. …The
Christian, like the Mohammedan, has no sense of freedom unless he is in
5 Op. cit., 453 f.

6 Treitschke’s Die Freiheit was first published in 1861 and is cited here after an undated edition
of the Insel-Verlag (Leipzig), 57.
7 B. Malinowski, Freedom and Civilization (London, 1947), 25.
8 Op. cit., 242.
In the instructive collection of articles on Freedom, Its Meaning, ed. R.N. Anshen (New
York, 1940), 21, J.T. Shotwell says: “Freedom is clearly not what it seems to be, the attribute
of the individual. It is a social, economic, and political fact and is another name for the
equilibrium we call justice.”
the problem 29
harmony with himself and with a higher order.”9 Agreeing with Gardet, another
author, writing in the same volume, states that in Islam “freedom is linked with
submission,” and he asks himself “whether this strange antithesis (freedom by
way of acquiescence) does not actually describe the paradox of freedom … for
Islam, as for any other spiritual tradition.”10
It may be remarked in passing that the idea of freedom as submission to and
dependence on the divine is not of recent origin. It could not fail to develop
in the monotheistic environment at an early date.10a Thus, the Babylonian
Rabbi, Aḥâ bar Yaʿaqôḇ, who lived around 300ad, suggested that the tables of
the Law were beyond the power of foreign nations and tongues because the
word “graven” (ḥārûṯ), in Ex. 32.16, was to be understood as “freedom” (ḥêrûṯ).11
Consequently, the Law is freedom, and submission to the Law is freedom. The
Jewish miḏrâsh takes the same verse of the Bible to mean that “the only free
man in the world is he who fulfills the words of the tables of the Law.”12 In Islam,
the mystics and the pious often express the same idea in a variety of forms.13
It has found its most striking expression in the story about the Ṣûfî, Luqmân
as-Sarakhsî, who asked for freedom from the service of God, from his status of
slave with respect to God. The freedom granted was insanity.14
These few remarks on the modern discussion of the problem of freedom14a 6
will have served their purpose if they have made it clear beyond a doubt that
the concept of freedom is, in the first place, immeasurably complex and, in the
second place, has become so as an expression of the sum total of the aspirations
of the modern Western world, as a justification for its very existence. A similar
extension of the role of “freedom” cannot a priori be expected to have existed
elsewhere. Conversely, if it had existed in any other civilization, that civilization
would have developed along lines that would have made it indistinguishable
from our own.
9 In Christianity and Freedom, ed. G. Thibon (London, 1955), 60.

10 Op. cit., 35 (N. Bammate).
10a It may, however, be noted that in Greek thinking, we also encounter the idea of a freedom
conceived as the result of man’s agreement with the gods.
11 Talmûd Bâḇlî, ʿÊrûḇîn, 54a.
12 Miḏrâsh Rabbâ to Exodus 32.16, ed. M. Margulies (Jerusalem, 1956), 688.
13 Cf. below, p. 108ff.
14 H. Ritter, Das Meer der Seele (Leiden, 1955), 167.
14a A recent, very voluminous collection of views and opinions on freedom is the work of
M.J. Adler, The Idea of Freedom (New York, 1958). More recent works on freedom, which
could not be consulted, include H.J. Muller, Issues of Freedom, and J.T. Shotwell, The Long
Way to Freedom.
Nevertheless, medieval Muslims were aware, if dimly, of the challenge of

freedom. It makes itself felt here and there in the literature as well as in the
social fabric. The task at hand is to collect and evaluate references to the idea
of freedom. This will eventually give us the means to attempt an assessment of
its impact or lack of impact, without incurring the danger of merely expressing
subjective generalizations.
ii
The Linguistic Terminology 7
Terminology and definition were favored subjects of discussion among Mus-

lim scholars brought up in the strict disciplines of Arabic linguistics and Aris-
totelian philosophy. As applied to freedom, they played a role of paramount
significance for the history of freedom in the West. They were also important
in Islam, if in a different and minor way.
The Arabic word for “free,” ḥurr, has its exact correspondence in Hebrew
*ḥôr14b and Syriac ḥêr. The form of the latter resulted from a slight transfor-
mation under the influence of analogy.15 Jewish Aramaic used the same forma-
tion as is found in Hebrew. Palmyrenian and Nabataean inscriptions frequently
show the composite formation *bar ḥ-rîn, *baṯ ḥ-rîn (always fol|lowed by a 8
depending genitive), meaning “freedman” and “freedwoman,” respectively. The
vocalization of the first syllable of *ḥ-rîn remains doubtful; at least, the use of
long ê is not expressly indicated.
The evidence here cited justifies the assumption that the word existed in
Northwest Semitic.15a Its occurrence in other Semitic languages has not yet
14b Other biblical words for “freedom” (ḥop̄ shîṯ, derôr) and Akkadian durâru, andurâru are
strictly legal terms, cf., for instance, J. Lewy, The biblical institution of derôr in the light of
Akkadian documents, in Eretz-Israel, V (1958), 21*–31*.
15 C. Brockelmann explained ḥêr a resulting from analogy with rêsh, since “the free” (the
nobles) and “the heads” (the chiefs) are often mentioned together, cf. Zeitschrift der
Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft, LXVII (1913), 108. The vocalization of the Pal-
myrenian and Nabataean forms is not directly attested, and we cannot, therefore, be sure
whether the Syriac form already existed in earlier Aramaic. The fact that Jewish Aramaic
uses the form ḥêrûṯ may be an indication of the existence of an older general Aramaic
form with ê. Note, however, that the vocalization of the word on the Jewish coins referred
to below, n. 20, is again uncertain. The existence of a pre-Syriac Aramaic ḥêr would not
invalidate Brockelmann’s explanation. Two other possibilities may be considered. There
may have been a process of dissimilation starting with the abstract formation (*hôrûṯâ >
ḥêrûṯâ), or, less likely, the word may have been influenced by some other root such as, for
instance, the root kh-y-r represented in Arabic and meaning “choice, good.”
In the Elephantine papyri, ḥr is used in the same way as in Hebrew (ḥry Yhwd[ yʾ]).
The Aḥîqar papyrus has br ḥrn, and it is possible that the word also occurs in the Behistun
inscription. Cf. A. Cowley, Aramaic Papyri of the Fifth Century B.C. (Oxford, 1923), index,
s.v. ḥr.
15a However, it may be noted that E. Kautzsch, Die Aramaismen im Alten Testament (Halle,
been confirmed. Ethiopic ḥarrâ, with the adjective ḥarrâwî, is sometimes cited,
but its connection with the word meaning “freedom” is highly uncertain.
As to the word formation apparent in ḥurr, it has been noted that adjectival
formations of the type ḥurr are rare.16 This would favor the assumption that
ḥurr is not derived from a primary root ḥ-r-r. The fact that there exists a com-
mon primary root ḥ-r-r meaning “to be hot” also points in the same direction.
Some medieval scholars,17 and even some of their modern colleagues,18 have
attempted to combine ḥurr “free” with the root meaning “to be hot.” However,
these attempts carry little conviction. The etymology of ḥurr “free” remains in
the dark.19
The abstract ḥurrîyah “freedom” is not a primary noun formation but is
derived from the adjective by means of the abstract ending. The same applies
to the Syriac word for “freedom,” ḥêrûṯâ. This Syriac-Aramaic formation seems
to be quite old. The occurrence of the word on Jewish coins of the second
9 revolt, | furthermore, shows that use of the abstract noun as a political term was
fully accepted.20 In this case, influence from the Graeco-Roman world, where
libertas had its particular history as a coin legend, is not excluded and, in fact,
is quite probable.
In Arabic, the history of the term is not altogether clear. It is very possible,
and indeed likely, that ḥurrîyah, in the abstract meaning of “freedom,” was cur-
rent among pre-Islamic Arabs, but express and genuine proof for this would
be welcome. In a verse by Dhû r-Rummah (around 700), ḥurrîyah was used in
the meaning of “nobles,”21 and the use of ḥurr in the metaphoric meaning of
“noble, good” was common in early Arabic speech.22 Ḥurrîyah “freedom” may
have existed in Arabic at an early date, especially for expressing the opposite
of the legal term “slavery,” but it does not seem improbable that it started to be
1902), 32 ff., argued that Hebrew *ḥôr was an Aramaic loan word. This seems unlikely, but
the word may, in fact, have originated as a localized term. Only future finds of texts in
which the word occurs, or the elucidation of its etymology can decide the problem.
16 Cf. T. Nöldeke, in Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft, LVII (1903), 416,
n. 3.
17 Cf. below, n. 53.
18 Cf. the Hebrew-Aramaic dictionary of Gesenius-Buhl, 16th ed. (Leipzig, 1915), s.v. ḥ-r-r II.
19 No truly satisfactory etymology has as yet been discovered for Greek eleutheros either,
according to M. Pohlenz, Griechische Freiheit (Heidelberg, 1955), 189.
20 Cf. A. Reifenberg, Ancient Jewish Coins, 2nd ed. (Jerusalem, 1947), 58 (dating from the first
revolt), 60 ff.
21 Dîwân, ed. C.H.H. Macartney (Cambridge, 1919), 449. The verse is also cited in Lisân
al-ʿArab (Bûlâq, 1300–1308), V, 255, s.v. ḥ-r-r.
22 Cf. the Arabic dictionaries, among them the Lisân al-ʿArab, loc. cit.
the linguistic terminology 33
used more widely when Islam came into contact with the philosophical think-
ing of the Mediterranean world that had known speculation about freedom for
many centuries. Like other abstract formations ending in -îyah, the word was
decidedly unpoetic and shunned by true poets.22a
The metaphoric usage of ḥurr just referred to raises another problem. The
Hebrew equivalent of the word already had the meaning of “nobles, nobility,”
referring to the leading members of a certain group or society.23 In Arabic
literature, the most | frequent use of ḥurr is as a qualitative term implying 10
outstanding value. Ḥurr al-kalâm, for instance, does not refer to “free speech”
but to speech of a high literary quality,24 and so on. The feminine ḥurrah
may simply mean “lady,” and, occasionally, ḥurr has all the connotations of
“gentleman.” In order to stress the moral meaning of ḥurr, it is frequently paired
with karîm “noble, generous” and similar terms. Al-ḥurr al-karîm is the true
gentleman.
This usage of ḥurr had its origin in the general human inclination to ascribe
all bad qualities to the slave and his miserable lot, and all good qualities to those
who were legally free men. Thus, the phenomenon occurs not only among the
Arabs but also elsewhere. It appears to have developed independently under
the impact of the institution of slavery, and it certainly played an important
role in the general history of freedom. However, as a consequence, we are faced
with the problem of determining in each case where ḥurr or ḥurrîyah is used,
whether the information in question is relevant to the discussion of freedom,
or whether it belongs to a hazy, ill-defined region within the realm of ethics. To
Muslim writers themselves, the distinction was not always fully clear.25
Wherever ḥurr “freeman” appears in opposition to ʿabd “slave,” we can rest
assured of its meaning; in such cases, if any other connotations of ḥurr were
intended, they were additional and remained beneath the surface. In all other
22a ʿUbûdîyah “slavery” was used in a tenth-century verse complaining about the slavery of
love (hawâ), cf. ath-Thaʿâlibî, Yatîmat ad-dahr (Damascus, 1304), I, 396. Ḥurrîyah occurs
in the Dîwân of Tamîm b. al-Muʿizz (Cairo, 1377/1957), 155, l. 3, and in a poem by Sibṭ
Ibn at-Taʿâwîdhî (d. 583/1187, or 584), cited by aṣ-Ṣafadî, Wâfî, ed. S. Dedering (Damascus-
Wiesbaden, 1959. Bibliotheca Islamica, VId), IV, 13.
23 The Greek translation of the Old Testament uses eleutheros to translate *ḥôr in 1Kings 21.8,
11, and in Nehemiah 13.17. In six other passages of the Book of Nehemiah, the Greek word
entimos is used. For the Hebrew usage of the term in the Elephantine papyri (nos. 30.19
and 31.18 of Cowley’s publication), cf. above, n. 15.
24 For instance, Ibn Bassâm, Dhakhîrah (Cairo 1358–/1939–), I, 1, 182, l. 4, and 315, l. 18, or
ath-Thaʿâlibî, Yatîmah, IV, 248 f., as well as the idioms cited by the lexicographers.
25 Cf., for instance, below, n. 361.
cases, a certain element of doubt cannot be completely eliminated. Some

11 stirring statements seemingly in praise of freedom must, therefore, be | treated
with reserve, such as the verse of Muslim b. ʿAqîl b. Abî Ṭâlib who did not want
to surrender without a fight:
I swear, I shall not be killed except as a free man,

Even though I consider dying difficult.
The alternative here is not between liberty and death, but rather between dying
as befits a noble man and an ignoble death.25a
The very fact that ḥurr, in its semantic history, went beyond the sphere of
“freedom” is meaningful. Outside legal usage, “free” became a vague term of
approval, one among many in the language. It may thus be said that Arabic
did not possess a truly workable term to express the full force of the concept
of “freedom” until, in modern times, Western influence gave a new meaning to
old ḥurrîyah.26
There are, of course, many other words in Arabic that can express the idea
of being free, such as being set loose, being unfettered, being cut off, or being
pure in the sense of being free from something.26a The last mentioned idea is
contained in the root kh-l-ṣ that is commonly used to paraphrase the meaning
of ḥurr.27 A technical term of particular significance is ikhtiyâr “choice, free
will.” In the discussion of the problem of free will, irâdah “will” is also frequently
used, but ikhtiyâr, defined as irâdah preceded by reflection and discretion,28 is
12 on a distinctly | higher level.29 Here, the tremendous relevance of language to
the subject of freedom shows itself in full force. In Western languages, and, for
instance, also in Syriac, “free will” is expressed, at least in part, by the same word
25a Aṭ-Ṭabarî, Annales, ed. M.J. de Goeje and others (Leiden, 1879–1901), II, 262, anno 60; Abû
l-Faraj al-Iṣfahânî, Maqâtil aṭ-Ṭâlibîyîn, ed. A. Ṣaqr (Cairo, 1368/1949), 104.
26 It would be interesting to find out whether anywhere in nineteenth-century literature
there exist passages marking a state of transition from the traditional to the modern usage
of ḥurrîyah. Cf. also B. Lewis, in Cahiers d’ Histoire Mondiale, I (1953–1954), 107.
For the relationship between terms and concepts, cf. also below, p. 98.
26a Cf. also below, n. 315a.
27 Cf. below, nn. 51 and 65.
28 Al-Kindi, Fî ḥudûd al-ashyâʾ wa-rusûmihâ, in Rasâʾil al-Kindî al-falsafîyah, ed. M. ʿAbd-
al-Hâdî Abû Rîdah (Cairo, 1369–1372/1950–1953), I, 167, and id., Fî ṣ-ṣinâʿah al-ʿuẓmâ, Ms.
Istanbul, Aya Sofya 4830, fol. 55a. Cf. also below, n. 49.
29 Cf., for instance, al-Ashʿarî, Maqâlât al-Islâmîyîn, ed. H. Ritter (Istanbul-Leipzig, 1929–1933.
Bibliotheca Islamica, I), 419f.; al-Fârâbî (putative author), Masâʾil mutafarriqah (Hyder-
abad, 1344), 18.
the linguistic terminology 35
that denotes freedom in general.30 As a result, the specific theological problem

to which the discussion of free will has been largely confined in monotheistic
speculation could be linked easily with other problems involving the idea of
freedom. In Islam, ikhtiyâr was never seen together with ḥurrîyah, nor was it
felt as one aspect of the complex structure of freedom. It remained a limited
term. In addition, it was deprived of its potential vigor by the direction Muslim
theological speculation eventually took concerning free will. Human freedom
of will was largely restricted to the ability of making a choice with regard to
individual situations.31
This development, it may be added, had its roots in pre-Islamic times and
began before the theological discussions of Muslim scholars attempted to
shape Near Eastern intellectual history. Fatalism, the supreme negation of
human free will, was the most noticeable metaphysical concept embraced by
pre-Islamic Arabs. For this reason, pre-Islamic fatalism has been the subject of
a comparatively large modern scholarly literature. Never once does this litera-
ture refer to the concept of freedom.32
In addition to the Arabic term or terms for “freedom,” there exist different 13
words in Muslim languages other than Arabic. The Persian âzâd, for instance,
has remained in common use in Persian. It can tell us something about the
pre-Islamic Persian concept of freedom. It means that a free man was “born
into” one of the proper social strata. A rigidly fixed stratification of society was
considered by Muslims the hallmark of pre-Islamic Persian social organization
and constrasted by them with the situation prevailing in Islam where every-
body regardless of his birth could attain whatever social position was within
the reach of his ability. However, the usage of âzâd also shows a certain influ-
ence exercised by the connotations of Arabic ḥurr upon the Persian concept.32a
30 Aristotle did not yet use eleutheros for the concept of free will, according to R. Hirzel,
Themis (Leipzig, 1907), 261, n. 4.
31 Cf. Miskawayh’s discussion of ikhtiyâr as quoted below.
32 The most recent works on the subject, which also include the Muslim period, are by
H. Ringgren, Fatalism in Persian Epics (Uppsala Universitets Årsskrift, 1952, XIII), and
Studies in Arabian Fatalism (ibid., 1955, II). Older studies are T. Nöldeke, Vorstellungen
der Araber vom Schicksal, in Zeitschrift für Völkerpsychologie und Sprachwissenschaft, III
(1865), 130–134; W.L. Schrameier, Über den Fatalismus der vorislamischen Araber (Bonn,
1881); O. Rescher, Über fatalistische Tendenzen in den Anschauungen der Araber, in Der
Islam, II (1911), 337–344; W. Caskel, Das Schicksal in der altarabischen Poesie (Leipzig, 1926).
32a If it is correct that ʾzt (âzât) meaning “free” already occurs in an Aramaic papyrus of
the fifth century bc from Egypt with reference to the manumission of a slave woman
(I. Gershevitch, in Journal of the R. Asiatic Society, 1954, 126; É. Benveniste, in Journal Asi-
Moreover, the Arabic terminology not only influenced non-Arabic terms for
“freedom,” but became preponderant everywhere and the Arabic words were
used. We may assume that whatever concepts of freedom may have existed
in non-Arab nations before their conversion to Islam, they were largely sub-
merged, or completely obliterated, by the Muslim attitude toward freedom,
relying for its expression mainly upon Arabic terminology.
atique, CCXLII, 1954, 297 ff.), the semantic development of the Persian term must go back
to very early times. This would disprove the opinion expressed by E. Herzfeld, Altper-
sische Inschriften (Berlin, 1938), 56, who, commenting upon an alleged but non-existent
occurrence of the word in an Old Persian inscription, ascribed that development to the
influence of Arabic ḥurr. It remains, however, true that in the Muslim period, the use of
âzâd agrees with that of ḥurr so closely that the former must be under the influence of the
latter.
Addendum: A Christian translation from the Syriac uses ḥurrîyat al-mashîʾah for “free
will,” cf. G. Levi Della Vida, La dottrina … di Stomathalassa, in Mem. Acc. Naz. Lincei, 1951,
490.
iii
Definitions of Freedom 14
Definitions of freedom appear in a variety of places and reflect different cur-

rents of Muslim thought. They are, perhaps, not as frequent as one might wish,
and one looks for them in vain in certain places where one would expect to find
them. For instance, al-Kindî, in his collection of definitions,33 has nothing on
ḥurrîyah, nor is the word found in other lists of definitions compiled by Muslim
philosophers. Jurists, in their works on the principles of jurisprudence, include
lists of definitions,34 but it is hardly surprising that ḥurrîyah does not occur in
them, as it was not a fundamental technical term.
The oldest definition of “freedom” from the Islamic Near East does not come
from Muslim circles and is not expressed in Arabic. It is to be found in a
Syriac work on definitions, ascribed to a certain Michael or Bâzûḏ, which was
composed around 800ad. Following upon a definition of “will,” it reads:
Freedom is the unconstrained power of the rational natures, both those

concerned with the senses and those concerned with intellectual percep-
tion.35
This definition represents the result, rather poorly expressed, of the discussion
of the problem of free will by theologians of the Eastern church. For many
centuries, Eastern religious thinkers | had wrestled with this problem which 15
they rightly considered as one of central importance for moral man. The great
Aphrem ecstatically described freedom as a gift of God,36 presented to Adam as
33 Op. cit. (above, n. 28).

M. Pohlenz, in comparing a work by al-Kindî with Epictetus, found that the Arabic
philosopher was not interested in the idea of freedom that was central to Epictetus’
thinking, cf. Göttingische Gelehrte Anzeigen, 1938, 415.
34 Cf., for instance, the list of definitions in Ibn Ḥazm, Iḥkâm (Cairo, 1345–1348), I, 35ff.
35 Ḥêrûṯâ îṯêh mshallṭûṯâ lâ qṭîrâytâ ḏaḵyânê mlîlê, hânaw meṯragshânê ḵêṯ wmeṯyaḏʿânê. Cf.
G. Furlani, “Il libro delle definizioni e divisioni” di Michele l’Interprete, in Memorie della
R. Accad. Naz. dei Lincei, Cl. di scienze mor., stor. e filol., VI, 2 (1926), text, 71; trans., 121; notes,
178.
36 J.J. Overbeck, S. Ephraemi Syri … Opera Selecta (Oxford, 1865), 45, l. 5; trans. C.W. Mitchell,
S. Ephraim’s Prose Refutations of Mani, Marcion, and Bardaisan (London-Oxford, 1912–
1921), I, xviii.
his most promising endowment,37 and praised it as the image of God without
which the universe would collapse.38 Its antithesis is “nature,”39 which means
slavery, while freedom finds its expression in man in the form of “habit.”40
Freedom exists in order to be used and to be restrained by man’s will, and it
may be subjected to constraint by God41 and the divine law.42 Satan would like
to keep it impounded but cannot do it.43 Its very name indicates that it is a
16 freeman and not a slave, that it | has power and is not enslaved, that it is loose
and is not bound, that it is will and not nature.44
37 E. Beck, Ephraems Reden über den Glauben (Rome, 1953), 65:
Behold Adam, if he had persevered

In the Law, he would have become king …
For God had made him, when He created him,
A created God
By giving him freedom
To behave according to his own will.
38 Cf. T.J. Lamy, S. Ephraem Syri Hymni et Sermones (Mechlin, 1882–1902), II, 783f.; Beck, op.
cit., 66. Cf. the statement of Gregory of Nyssa that freedom makes man godlike, referred
to by J. Gaïth, La conception de la liberté chez Grégoire de Nysse (Paris, 1953), 70.
39 Overbeck, 46, l. 16; Mitchell, xix.
For the incompatibility of ikhtiyâr and nature, cf. Pseudo-Plato, Kitâb ar-Rawâbîʿ, ed.
ʿA. Badawî, Neoplatonici apud Arabes (Cairo, 1955. Islamica, XIX), 123.
40 Lamy, III, 670f.
41 Beck, op. cit., 64:
There are the reins of the will,

And there are the reins of constraint.
The reins of your will are in your hand,
To restrain the impetuosity of your freedom.
Those of constraint are in the hands of your Lord.
42 Overbeck, 43, l. 21 f.; Mitchell, xvii.

43 Overbeck, 95, l. 10.
44 Overbeck, 44, ll. 17–20; Mitchell, xviii. Cf. also Overbeck, 46, l. 17f.; Mitchell, xix.
From the Syriac Sayings of Theano, ed. E. Sachau, Inedita Syriaca (Vienna, 1870), 72f.,
we may add here the following statement:
It is one of the good things that man has power over his freedom (free will, ḥêrûṯeh),
so that he can live as he wishes. By living intelligently, human beings are all right
and do not need a law, finding their law in their own good habits.
definitions of freedom 39
About two centuries after Aphrem, another Eastern bishop, Aḥûḏemmeh,

discussed the problem of free will, providing the basis for the afore-mentioned
definition of Michael (Bâzûḏ). Freedom is no longer depicted in the glowing
colors used by Aphrem. Freedom is a servant of the will. Control of the soul’s
intellectual faculties by the will and the consequent control of the actions
demanded by human desires and passions are what is meant by freedom.45 In
the centuries between Aphrem and Michael (Bâzûḏ), the term “freedom” had
thus lost a good deal of its forcefulness and general applicability. Theological
discussion had finally led to the restriction of its meaning to some sort of
abstract technicality.
Considering the close relationship between Christian and Muslim theology,
we are not surprised to meet again the same bloodless image in the Muslim
concept of ikhtiyâr, where it became further weakened by linguistic dichotomy.
The Christian discussion had started out by stressing the all-embracing power
and | glory of freedom. The Muslim debate of the problem of free will was never 17
more than a half-hearted attempt to secure a very small niche in the scheme of
things for a freedom that was always felt to constitute an infringement upon the
omnipotence of a God whose own possession of free will could be doubted.46
Even during the heyday of the Muʿtazilah, the ikhtiyâr of the Muslims was more
limited in its application than the ḥêrûṯâ of the Syrians ever was.47
In order to illustrate the similarities and differences that exist between the
Muslim discussion of ikhtiyâr and the Syriac speculations on freedom, one of
the numerous Muslim statements on ikhtiyâr may find a place here. It reflects
the thinking of the famous circle of philosophers and writers which in the late
tenth and early eleventh centuries attempted brilliant and eloquent solutions
for central intellectual problems. The statement is quoted in full in spite of its
45 Cf. F. Nau’s edition of Aḥûḏemmeh’s work on the composition of man, in Patrologia Orien-
talis, III (Paris, 1909), 106 f. A manuscript said to contain a different recension of the work
is preserved in the Near East, cf. J. Vosté, Catalogue de la Bibliothèque Syro-Chaldéenne du
Couvent de Notre-Dame des Semences (Rome-Paris, 1929), 27f., reprinted from Angelicum,
V (1928). It is not known whether our passage is affected by the differences in the recen-
sions.
Michael’s and Theodore bar Kônay’s discussions of freedom were cited by G. Furlani, La
psicologia di Ahudhemmeh, in Atti della R. Accad. delle Scienze di Torino, LXI (1925–1926),
817, 841 f.
46 Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, Muqâbasât (Cairo, 1348/1929), 149ff., no. 10.
47 The process of giving choice (prohairesis) predominance over freedom (eleutheria) was
accomplished in the philosophy of Epictetus who declared that both freedom and slavery
were the works of prohairesis, and nobody possessing freedom of prohairesis was a slave.
Cf. Stobaeus, Florilegium, III, 1, 155 (ed. Wachsmuth-Hense, III, 106).
considerable length and at the risk of interrupting the argument. Even though
it may be called an expression of “liberal” opinion, it will show, I think, that the
discussion of free will in Islam was not conducted in a way that could either
promote or stifle the general growth of the concept of freedom.
Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî (d. after 1009) had directed an inquiry concerning
the meaning of compulsion ( jabr) and choice (free will, ikhtiyâr) to his younger
contemporary, Miskawayh (d. 1030). This is the answer he received:48
18 From man proceed many motions and actions that are not alike. He may
produce actions inasmuch as he is a natural body, in which case he is
related to minerals. Or he may produce actions inasmuch as he is vege-
tative in addition to being a natural body, and through these actions he
is related to plants. Or he may produce actions inasmuch as he possesses
a sentient soul, and through these actions he is related to animals. And
again, he may produce actions inasmuch as he is rational and discern-
ing, and through these actions he is related to the angels. Each one of
these actions and motions that proceed from man may occur in various
forms and have its special motives and causes. They also may be viewed
from different angles. They are affected by many hindrances and various
obstacles, some natural, some accidental, and some coercive. As long as
the person who studies the problem of (compulsion and choice) does not
make a distinction between these types of action and does not look at
them from all the possible angles, he will be confused about the (differ-
ent) aspects (to be considered) and miss the proper method of studying
them. As a result, he will be beset and bewildered by many misconcep-
tions and doubts.
We are now going to explain these motions and establish (the neces-
sary) distinctions between them. Then, we shall discuss the real meaning
of compulsion and choice. For, God willing, the matter will then be very
simple and easy to understand and will no longer be complicated. I say:
Notwithstanding their different types and distinct aspects, actions need
four things in order to materialize: (1) The agent who produces them.
(2) The matter in which they come about. (3) The purpose toward which
they are directed. And (4) the form which is known beforehand to the
48 Miskawayh and Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, al-Hawâmil wa-sh-shawâmil, ed. A. Amîn and A.
Ṣaqr (Cairo, 1370/1951), 220–226.
For another authoritative discussion of ikhtiyâr, which also documents the complete
separation of the term from ḥurrîyah, cf. al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ (Cairo, 1352/1933), IV, 219f. Cf., in
general, W. Montgomery Watt, Free Will and Predestination in Early Islam (London, 1948).
agent who by his action intends to superimpose the form upon the mat-
ter; frequently, the form is identical with the action. These four things are
necessary in order that an action may exist and materialize. Instruments,
time, and a healthy body are also wanted, but they are not necessary for
every action. But since your question is about human actions that are con-
nected with choice, these things, too, had to be mentioned.
Now, each one of the things that are necessary for the existence of
actions falls into two parts. It may be proximate or remote. The proximate
agent is, for instance, the hired hand who carries the instruments needed
for building a mansion. The remote agent in this case is the man who
designs the mansion, orders its construction, and is aware beforehand of
all instruments needed in connection with | it. The proximate matter is 19
the brick for the wall and the timber for the door. The remote matter is
to be sought in the primary elements. The proximate perfection is the
readiness of the mansion for occupancy. The remote perfection is (the
ability of the mansion) to protect furniture and to ward off any damage
that may arise from the heat and the cold, and so on.
The afore-mentioned various types of action differ in accordance with
the various types of active powers in man. Each one of the concupiscent,
irascible, and rational powers has its special action that can proceed only
from it. Causes and motives are partly desire and appetite, and partly
thinking and reflection, or they may be composite. The afore-mentioned
hindrances are partly accidental, partly coercive, and partly natural. An
accidental hindrance, for instance, is found in the case of someone who
leaves to visit a friend and meets an enemy whom he did not mean
to meet, and the enemy prevents him from completing his action. Or,
someone gets up to do something, and stumbles and falls into a well.
Coercive hindrances may be exemplified by the case of someone whose
hands are tied by thieves and who is thus prevented from using them, or
by the case of someone who is put in fetters by the ruler in order to prevent
him from doing something or from escaping. Natural hindrances are, for
instance, paralysis and apoplexy, and so on.
There is one other aspect of action that requires study and must be
mentioned here. We often look at actions, not as they are essentially but
as they are with reference to something else. For instance, we may look at
Zayd’s actions inasmuch as they are acts of obedience or disobedience to
someone else, or inasmuch as ʿAmr likes them and Khâlid dislikes them,
or from the point of view of their being detrimental to Bakr and useful for
ʿAbdallâh. Such way of looking at actions is not concerned with what they
are essentially but with what they are with reference to something else.
Having investigated what actions are, as well as their various types

and the angles from which they must be viewed, and having stated that
they must fulfill certain conditions enumerated by us so that they can
materialize and exist, we are in a position to investigate what choice is.
We say: Ikhtiyâr ‘choice’ is derived etymologically from khayr ‘good, best.’
It is the infinitive of the eighth conjugation of this root. Saying, ‘Someone
chose something,’ is about the same as saying, ‘He did what was good for
him,’ that is, good either in reality or in his opinion even if it was not
20 good for him in reality.49 This is the | point of contact that marks the
connection between human actions and human beings. Actions are what
proceeds from a human being as the result of thinking and the application
of reasoning to something, in the expectation that it may turn out to be
useful for him. Now, it is well known that a human being does not think
or apply his reasoning to something that is necessary or impossible. He
thinks and applies his reasoning only to something that is possible. By
possible we mean something that is not impossible and that does not lead
to an absurdity if its existence is posited.
This angle among all those from which actions must be viewed is
the one connected with choice, which is something that is restricted to
human actions. But in order to bring about complete existence of a given
action, fulfillment of the afore-mentioned conditions is also required.
Consequently, the study of the particular aspect connected with choice
may entail errors and lead to confusion with those other aspects of actions
that are not connected with man and do not have their origin in him. It
49 Cf. the confrontation of irâdah and ikhtiyâr in Abû Hilâl al-ʿAskarî, al-Furûq al-lughawîyah
(Cairo, 1353), 101:
Ikhtiyâr is wanting (irâdah) a thing in place of something else. It cannot happen

when the thing chosen (mukhtâr) as well as something else is in one’s mind; it
means wanting (irâdah) to do something when there is nothing else in the mind.
Ikhtiyâr is derived from khayr ‘good, best.’ The one who makes a choice (mukhtâr)
is the one who wants (murîd) the best (khayr) of two things, that is, the best either
in reality or what in his opinion is the best of two things, without being in any way
forced to make a choice. If someone were forced to want something, he would not
be called one who chooses that particular thing, because making a choice is the
opposite of being forced.
The many references in al-ʿAskarî’s work to irâdah can also serve as an excellent illustra-
tion of the fact that the term had practically no relation to freedom and free will. Cf. also
above, p. 11.
may happen that one studies an action from some aspect and omits to
study it from all the others. Then, one draws conclusions as to human
actions in accordance with (the observations made from) that particular
aspect. This would be the same as studying an action from the point
of view of the particular matter which it must have in order to be able
to materialize, while disregarding all the other aspects that are likewise
necessary for its existence. For instance, the person who studies the action
of a scribe from the point of view of the paper he uses, may notice that he
has difficulties with the paper. This may lead the observer to the highly
conjectural conclusion that from this point of view, the scribe is unable
to write and, on account of it, finds it impossible to act. In fact, however,
this is an aspect that has no connection with the man inasmuch as he
is a scribe and may choose (mukhtâr) to write. The same applies to cases
where he lacks a pen or a healthy limb or any other of the things that may | 21
be a condition for the existence of a given human action. A person who
looks at actions from one particular angle may come to the conclusion
that man is subjected to compulsion and prevented from exercizing free
choice. The same would be the case with someone who studies human
actions inasmuch as man is able to choose. If he studies this particular
aspect and disregards all the other aspects that are also necessary for
actions to materialize, he may come to the conclusion that man is an
agent possessing power (to act), and not subjected to any compulsion.
The same is generally the case with every composite thing. He who studies
something composite from the point of view of one of its components
and neglects the other component parts will be beset by many doubts
originating with the remaining component parts which he neglected to
study. Human actions may be designated by one word, but their existence
is connected with many things without which they cannot materialize.
The student of human actions who considers only one of these things and
neglects to consider the others will be beset by many doubts stemming
from the things he neglected.
The correct method is to study each one of them, to consider action as
being related to all, to see in every aspect part of a given action, and not to
assume that human actions are entirely the result of choice and entirely
the result of delegation.50 It has been said in this sense, ‘The way (dîn)
50 “Delegation” (tafwîḍ) means delegation of the divine will to a person, giving him the right
to choose and thus making him responsible for his actions, cf. as-Sarakhsî, Uṣûl (Cairo,
1372), I, 122. Delegation is more or less a synonym of choice, and not its opposite which
of God lies between too much and too little.’ For he who assumes that for
human actions to come into existence it suffices that the person who does
them takes charge of the power that acts by choice, assumes too much in
that he neglects material things, coercive causes, and the hindrances as
enumerated above. This then causes him to assume delegation. Likewise,
he who assumes that for human actions to come into existence it suffices
that those hindrances are removed and the material things available,
assumes too little in that he neglects the power that acts by choice. This
then causes him to assume compulsion.
If things are as we have briefly explained, the true theory will have
become apparent. This then answers your question about compulsion
and choice.
It is to be understood that a man who finds it impossible to act because
he lacks one of the things that are necessary if his action is to material-
22 ize, or which are accidental, coercive, or incidental to it, | is referred to
(as being unable to act) from this particular point of view. For instance,
if he finds it impossible to act because he lacks the necessary matter or
any other of the four necessary things, he is incapable (to act). If he finds
it impossible to act because of a coercive or accidental hindrance, (his
failure to act) is considered excusable from this point of view and in accor-
dance with it and corresponding to the size (of the obstacle). But let us
assume the case of a person who has at his disposal the power that acts
by choice. No hindrances exist; thus, any disability, which might other-
wise result from the existence of hindrances, is eliminated. Furthermore,
the action in question is considered as one undertaken with respect to
others, as an act of obedience to someone who must be obeyed, as an act
of support for someone who must be supported, or as any other kind of
obligatory action undertaken with respect to someone else. In this case, if
he finds it impossible to act, he is considered blameworthy and (his fail-
ure to act) is not considered excusable, because he is able to act and has
the power to act. Therefore, his own conscience may cause him to regret
(his failure to act), or he may be punished by others, or he may be blamed
and reproached.
This particular aspect—the one aspect connected with thinking and
with the application of reasoning by choice that is restricted to human
beings—is the fruit and product of the intellect. Without it, the existence
one would expect here. A few lines below, the word is used correctly for choice. Possibly,
“choice” is a mistake for “compulsion.” Cf. also Watt, op. cit., in particular, 52, 96, 118, 159.
of the intellect would be useless. In fact, its existence would be a frivolous

joke. Now, we are certain that the intellect is the most majestic of the
existentia and the most noble of God’s gifts to man. We are furthermore
certain that the lowest possible of the existentia is the one the existence
of which is useless and meaningless, comparable to a frivolous joke. It
would follow that the most majestic of the existentia is at the same time
the lowest of them. This is a contradiction that cannot be. Therefore, such
a conclusion is not true. Its opposite must be true (namely, that there is
action by choice, as the noblest action possible and as the reason for the
existence of the intellect).
Thus, at the end of the long discussion, it turns out, somewhat to our surprise,
that ikhtiyâr holds a very high rank indeed in the scale of values of the philoso-
phers. It remains, however, a term that must be treated gingerly as soon as one
approaches reality, and it is far removed from an all-embracing freedom. On the
other hand, no theory of ikhtiyâr which would have denied a certain human
freedom of action except on the metaphysical level ever found wide accep-
tance.
Turning now to definitions by Muslim authors of ḥurr and | ḥurrîyah, we 23
may in the first place refer to the lexicographers. Most of them, it seems,
were satisfied with defining ḥurr as the opposite of ʿabd “slave.”51 An etymo-
logical explanation was offered by al-Wâḥidî—apparently, the grammarian
and Qurʾân scholar, ʿAlî b. Aḥmad al-Wâḥidî, who died in 468/1075–1076.52 Al-
Wâḥidî’s statement was quoted by Ibn al-Mulaqqin (723–804/1323–1401) in his
notes to an-Nawawî’s Minhâj:
The etymologists say that ḥurr is derived from ḥarr which is the opposite
of cold, because the free man possesses a pride and warm zeal that causes
him to seek noble character qualities, in contrast to the slave.53
51 Cf., for instance, Ibn Durayd, Jamharah (Hyderabad, 1344–1352/1925–1933), I. 58, or Lisân
al-ʿArab, V, 253. Cf. also aṣ-Ṣûlî, Adab al-kuttâb (Cairo, 1341), 156f., where ḥurr is explained
as a negative quality (kh-l-ṣ, “free from something”); thus, “to become free” means to
become free from slavery, “a free man” means a man free from blemishes, and “free clay”
means clay free from sand. Cf. below, n. 65.
52 GAL, I, 411 f., GAL2, I, 524, and GAL, Suppl., I, 730f. From a quotation in Yâqût’s Irshâd, ed.
D.S. Margoliouth (Leiden-London, 1907–1927. E.J.W. Gibb Memorial Series, VI), V, 99f.; ed.
A.F. Rifâʿî (Cairo, n.y. [1355–1357]), XII, 263ff., we learn that al-Wâḥidî reported about his
lexicographic and grammatical studies in one of his works.
53 Ibn al-Mulaqqin, al-Ishârât ilâ mâ waqaʿa fî l-Minhâj min al-asmâʾ wa-l-amâkin wa-l-
Thus, freedom was conceived here as an ethical quality, in agreement with

the connotations that had belonged to ḥurr since pre-Islamic days.
Another definition, also by a lexicographer, attempted a clear-cut distinction
24 between the legal and the ethical meanings of ḥur|rîyah. In his Qurʾân dictio-
nary, ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî (ca. 1100) first defined ḥurr as the opposite of ʿabd,
and then he distinguished
two kinds of ḥurrîyah, the one referring to the person who is not subject to
any authority, and the other to the person who is not dominated by such
ugly qualities as greed and the desire for worldly possessions.54
For the first meaning, the author referred to Qurʾân 2.178/173 (al-ḥurr bi-l-ḥurr)
and to the Qurʾânic use of taḥrîr, as, for instance, in 4.92/94. For the second
meaning, he ventured to propose an interpretation of muḥarrar in Qurʾân
3.35/31 (where the mother of Moses is said to have dedicated the child in her
womb to God muḥarraran) as “free from worldly desires.”
A philosophical definition of freedom appears in one of the numerous and
important works of Fakhr-ad-dîn ar-Râzî (d. 606/1209). It is concerned with
“freedom of the soul,” and it is connected with the ethical tradition linking
ḥurrîyah with sôphrosynê and eleutheriotês.55 According to ar-Râzî, freedom of
the soul means that
the soul either does not hanker by nature after bodily matters, or it
does. The condition of the soul that does not hanker after bodily matters
has been called by us ‘freedom’, because, linguistically, ‘freedom’ is used
to indicate something that is opposed to slavery. It is well known that
lughât, Ms. ar. Yale University L-560 (Catalogue Nemoy, no. 1007), fol. 59a–b. Ibn al-Mulaq-
qin drafted this work while he was very young, in 743/1342–1343. It was published a number
of years later, in 758/1357. Cf. GAL, II, 92 f., GAL2, II, 113 (where the date of Ibn al-Mulaqqin’s
birth is wrong), and GAL, Suppl., II, 109 f.
The first to draw attention to this passage was young I. Goldziher in his Beiträge zur
Geschichte der Sprachgelehrsamkeit bei den Arabern, in Sitzungsberichte d. Akad. d. Wiss.
in Wien, phil.-hist. Kl., LXVII (1871), 229. Goldziher used a manuscript that erroneously
ascribed the work to al-Fîrûzâbâdî.
54 Ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, al-Mufradât fî gharîb al-Qurʾân (Cairo, 1324), I, 109f.
For the opposite of ḥurr in the second meaning, ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî refers to the
Prophetic tradition: “Let the slave of the dirham perish. Let the slave of the dînâr perish.”
In this connection, he also quotes the verse mentioned below, n. 265.
55 Cf. below, pp. 88 and 96 f.
desires enslave. The person who hankers after bodily matters, whether
he leaves them alone or not, cannot be free. In fact, the person who
hankers after bodily matters and leaves them alone is worse off than the
one who satisfies his desires of the moment; for hankering coupled with
frustration distracts the soul and prevents it from acquiring the virtues. In
the long run, however, he may be better off, because the fact that he does
not satisfy his desires of the | moment and occupies himself with other 25
things may cause his hankering to disappear. Our remarks indicate that
freedom is a kind of natural modesty (ʿiffah, sôphrosynê) of the soul, not
one that comes through habit and instruction, although the latter kind of
modesty is also a virtue. This is meant by Aristotle’s statement, ‘Freedom
is a habit of the soul that guards the soul essentially, not artificially.’56 In
general, whenever the bodily connection of the soul is the weaker, and
the intellectual one the stronger, the soul possesses more freedom, and
vice versa. Plato hinted at this fact in his statement, ‘The wicked souls are
in the orbit of nature, and the virtuous souls in the orbit and light of the
intellect.’57
Ṣûfî definitions of freedom appear in the section devoted to ḥurrîyah in the

Risâlah of al-Qushayrî (376–465/986–1072). This section is not confined to
mere definitions but aims at giving a coherent exposition of the Ṣûfî attitude
toward the concept of freedom. It will be dealt with in extenso later on.58
At the final stages of medieval Muslim civilization, the Ṣûfî interpretation
of ḥurrîyah became decidedly popular and was widely adopted. It seemed
to thoughtful persons of that age that this interpretation brought out the
most significant meaning of “freedom.” In his Book of Definitions, al-Jurjânî
(d. 816/1413) admittedly restricted himself to the Ṣûfî usage when defining
ḥurrîyah. He did the same in his brief definition of ʿubûdîyah “slavery,” a term
that was most often used to denote the relationship of man to God. The legal
aspect of the problem breaks through in his definition of riqq, the technical
legal term for “slavery.”59 His Ṣûfî definition of ḥurrîyah reads:
56 Cf. below, n. 247. Cf. also below, n. 242.

57 Fakhr-ad-dîn ar-Râzî, al-Mabâḥith al-mashriqîyah (Hyderabad, 1343), II, 413ff.
58 Cf. below, pp. 108–113.
59 Al-Jurjânî, Taʿrîfât, ed. G. Flügel (Leipzig, 1845), 112. Starting from the meaning “weakness”
ascribed to the root r-q-q, al-Jurjânî explained that slavery (riqq) meant
a debility theoretically produced by law (ʿajz ḥukmî), which originally was a penalty
for unbelief. ‘Debility,’ because a slave does not possess the right to give testimony,
26 In the technical terminology of the people of true reality (i.e., the Ṣûfîs),
freedom means leaving the slavery of the essentia and abandoning all ties
and changes. It has several degrees. There is the freedom of the common
mass from the slavery of animal desires; the freedom of the elite from the
slavery of anything willed because of annihilation of the will in the will
of the Truth; and, finally, the freedom of the special elite from the slavery
of marks and traces,60 because they are absorbed in the revelation of the
Light of Lights.61
The very high level of meaning that the term “freedom” has attained in Ṣûfî
usage is indeed remarkable, but it should not be forgotten that ḥurrîyah is only
one of the many terms that Ṣûfism has filled with deep meaning, and not an
especially prominent one at that.
In compiling his vast dictionary of technical terms, the eighteenth-century
Indian scholar, at-Tahânawî, relied on two earlier works for his long definition
of ḥurrîyah. The brief and formal legal definition was borrowed from the Jâmiʿ
ar-rumûz of Shams-ad-dîn al-Kûhistânî,62 and the long Arabic-Persian Ṣûfî def-
27 inition from a work entitled Majmaʿ as-sulûk.63 The | latter provides an inter-
esting contrast to the definition offered by al-Jurjânî. This is what at-Tahânawî,
at the end of many centuries of sporadic study of the problems presented by
the term ḥurrîyah, had to say:64
to be a judge, and so on. ‘Theoretically produced by law,’ because a slave is usually

stronger and better able to do hard work than a free man, according to observation.
Cf. also at-Tahânawî, Kashshâf iṣṭilâḥât al-funûn (Calcutta, 1854–1862. Bibliotheca Indica),
582, s.v. riqq; Zayn-ad-dîn al-Marghînânî (GAL, I, 382), Fatâwî fuṣûl al-iḥkâm fî uṣûl al-
aḥkâm (Calcutta, 1827), 1336. Cf. also below, n. 82, and the discussion of Bryson, below,
n. 285.
60 That is, the religious and social obligations.
61 Al-Jurjânî, op. cit., 90 f.
62 He lived in the first half of the sixteenth century, cf. GAL, Suppl., I, 648. His work is a
frequently printed supercommentary on the Hidâyah of Burhân-ad-dîn al-Marghînânî
(d. 593/1197). The definition of freedom appears in the chapter on manumission (kitâb
al-ʿatâq), ed. Constantinople, 1299–1300, I, 360.
63 This work seems to be identical with the Majmaʿ as-sulûk fî t-taṣawwuf by Saʿd-ad-dîn al-
Khayrâbâdî, who is said to have died in 882/1477, cf. the continuation of Ḥâjjî Khalîfah by
Ismâʿîl Pasha al-Baghdâdî (Istanbul, 1945–1947), II, 434. Whether the Majmaʿ as-sulûkayn
by a certain Khayr-ad-dîn b. Muḥammad az-Zâhid an-Naqshbandî, mentioned in GAL,
Suppl., II, 1004, is the same work, remains to be investigated.
64 At-Tahânawî, op. cit., 291 f.
Ḥarr, linguistically, means ‘being pure, unmixed, unsoiled (khulûṣ).’65

Legally, it means a kind of judicial ‘purity’ that appears in a human being
as the result of the fact that he has been relieved66 of any claims that
others might make on him. Ḥurrîyah is the same. Ḥurr is derived from
ḥarr; its opposite is raqîq ‘slave.’ The opposite of ḥarr and ḥurrîyah is riqq
‘slavery.’ This has been stated in the Jâmiʿ ar-rumûz.
According to the Majmaʿ as-sulûk, ḥurrîyah, in Ṣûfî usage, means com-
plete relief of the mind from attachment to anything but God. Man arrives
at the station of freedom when he no longer has any worldly purpose to
follow and does not care for either this world or the hereafter because as
you are in the captivity (band) of the one, so you are the slave (bandah) of
the other. The perfect man called free is the one who has developed eight
things to perfection: Words, actions, knowledge, good character qualities,
renunciation (tark), isolation (ʿuzlet), contentment (qanâʿet), and leisure
( farâghet). Someone possessing only the first four must be called ‘excel-
lent’ (mature, bâligh), but he cannot be called ‘free.’66a
The free fall into two categories. Some choose obscurity and avoid mix-
ing with the people of this world and accepting their gifts; they know that
keeping company with the people of this world increases separatedness
(from the divine). Others observe acquiescence (in) and | acceptance (of 28
the world); they know that at times things happen to human beings that
turn out to be useful although they (at first) appeared to be harmful. ‘You
may perhaps dislike something which is good for you (Qurʾân 2.216/213).’
In their opinion, mixing and not mixing with the people of this world are
the same thing, as are accepting or rejecting a gift.
Since some heretics say that he who arrives at the station of freedom
ceases to be a slave—and this is heresy because no one ever ceases to be a
slave of the Prophet—, who else (but a heretic) would want to occupy that
65 The common Semitic root kh-l-ṣ has the basic meaning of “to be free from attachments,”
such as some different matter, impurities, clothes, possessions, unsatisfactory circum-
stances. In its transitive form, it can best be rendered “to extricate.” In Arabic, it lacks all
the positive connotations of ḥurrîyah, although in the form ikhlâṣ, it became a widely used
positive religious term (cf. C. van Arendonk, in EI, s.v. ikhlâṣ). Cf. also above, n. 51.
66 Lit, “cut off.”
66a The thirteenth-century Persian mystic an-Nasafî included a chapter on bulûgh u ḥurrîyet
in his Kitâb al-Insân al-kâmil, according to F. Meier, Die Schriften des ʿAzîz-i Nasafî, in
Wiener Zeitschrift für die Kunde des Morgenlandes, LII (1953–1955), 151. Cf. also the verse
quoted there on p. 167, where an-Nasafî speaks of the necessary freedom ( fârigh) from
both worlds.
place? No! When a human being arrives at the station (of freedom), he is
no longer a slave of himself, that is, he does not follow the commands of
his own soul. Rather, he becomes the owner of his soul. The soul becomes
subservient and obedient to him. He no longer feels that divine worship
is a troublesome obligation. He sees in it his joy and relaxation, and he
joyfully performs it.
Freedom is the end of slavery (ʿubûdîyah),67 which68 is the proper
guidance given to man (al-ʿabd) when he is first created. Thus the Majmaʿ
as-sulûk fî bayân aṭ-ṭarîq.
The foregoing citations of Muslim definitions of freedom constitute a good

cross-section of the varied thought on the problem from different fields of cul-
tural endeavor. They include some material which does not properly fall under
the heading of “definition,” and they are comparatively few in number. Much
of what they intimate will be found repeated and expanded in the following
pages which deal with the concept of freedom on the legal/sociological and
philosophical/metaphysical levels.
67 This statement was repeated by at-Tahânawî, op. cit., 948, s.v. ʿubûdîyah.
68 The pronoun refers to slavery, and not to freedom.
iv
Legal and Sociological Aspects 29
of the Concept of Freedom
a Slavery
The outlook of jurists, and of all those who dealt with the legal aspects of slavery,
was determined by the fact that slavery was an accepted institution in Islam.
There was the presumption of a divinely ordained distinction between the
unfree and the free. Freedom was a precious gift, and those to whom it was
given by birth were admonished to guard it jealously.69 However, there were
those whose lot it was to be unfree, and, of course, human beings could never
be sure of the vicissitudes of fate; thus, a simple Bedouin woman may be heard
to reflect in a poem about having “seen today a free man who was not free
yesterday.”70
The furthest jurists could go toward criticizing slavery was for them to look
at the status quo with the uncomfortable feeling that its moral basis was shaky.
In fact, this is what happened occasionally.
The disqualifications of slaves were numerous, in particular, as far as their
eligibility for high office and the exercise of civic duties were concerned.71
69 “God made you a free man; so, do not become someone else’s slave (by accepting benefac-
tions from any source except God).” This statement is included among the exhortations
which ʿAlî is alleged to have addressed to his son, al-Ḥasan, according to al-Mâwardî,
Adab ad-dunyâ wa-d-dîn (Cairo, 1315), 220. Cf. in this connection the statement cited by
al-Mâwardî, op. cit., 118, that generosity may make a slave out of a free man. Cf. also Abû
Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, Fî ṣ-Ṣadâqah wa-ṣ-ṣadîq (Constantinople, 1301), 175, and below n. 301.
70 Al-Mâwardî, op. cit., 197.
71 The status of freeman was, for instance, a condition for becoming caliph in orthodox
Islam; for being appointed to the “delegated wazirate,” though not for the “executive
wazirate”; for holding the office of administrator of the charity tax, etc. Cf. al-Mâwardî,
al-Aḥkâm as-sulṭânîyah (Cairo, 1298), 62, 26, 109. From this, it would follow, for example,
that officials employed by judges and sulṭâns had to be freemen. Cf. al-Qalqashandî,
Ṣubḥ al-aʿshâ (Cairo, 1331–1338/1913–1919), I, 65. Or it could be argued that a slave who
was appointed judge by the ruler became automatically free. Cf. al-Kâfiyajî, ad-Durrah
al-ghâliyah, Ms. Cairo, majâmîʿ 395, fols. 46a ff. Cf. also Abû Yaʿlâ, al-Aḥkâm as-sulṭânîyah
(Cairo, 1356–1357/1938), 4, 44 f., 225.
The grave handicap of slaves of not being admitted as witnesses has already been
30 Their inequality in the eyes of the law | was burdensome. In criminal cases it
occasionally worked to their advantage, and they were exempted from such a
demanding duty as the performance of the pilgrimage. The handicaps encoun-
tered by slaves were somewhat counteracted by the firm belief that all Mus-
lims were brothers and that, according to the Prophetic tradition, all men and
women were slaves of God only. Nobody had the right to address a man or a
woman as his “slave,” but he was to say, “my boy, my maid,” or “my young man,
my young woman.”72 In contrast to medieval Christianity, Islam, surprisingly
enough, was not bothered by the awesome authority of Aristotle and his views
on slavery. Aristotle’s tortuous defense of the proposition that there are peo-
ple who are slaves by nature, had to be refuted constantly by Christians on the
31 basis of | Christian principles.73 It remained unnoticed, and, indeed, unknown
mentioned, above, n. 59. For their different treatment with regard to ḥadd penalties, cf.
also, for instance, Abû Yûsuf, Kitâb al-Kharâj (Cairo, 1352), 159.
During certain periods of Muslim history, slaves could attain the highest positions
in the government. On this basis, it has been contended by Western scholars that slav-
ery “carried with it scarcely any social inferiority” (H.A.R. Gibb and H. Bowen, Islamic
Society and the West [Oxford University Press, 1950], I, 43), or, at least, that it was “nicht
unbedingt und immer ein stand von unterdrückten parias” (H. Ritter, Das Meer der Seele,
362 f.). However, regardless of their actual position and the social advantages derived
from it, the unfree status of individuals as such was always considered a personal dis-
grace. And it should be noted that it is often the point of stories showing slaves in a
good light that good things or noble deeds could be found even in the persons of lowly
slaves.
72 Cf., for instance, Muslim, Ṣaḥîḥ (Calcutta, 1265), II, 397f.; A.J. Wensinck and others, Con-
cordance et Indices de la tradition musulmane (Leiden, 1933–), I, 121b, l. 32f.
73 Aristotle, Politics, I, 3 ff., and, in particular, 1253b 21f. versus 1255a 1f. In the Greek environ-
ment, the principle that “God let everybody be free, nature made nobody a slave,” was
first pronounced, as far as we know, by Alcidamas near the middle of the fourth cen-
tury bc, cf. R. Hirzel, op. cit. (above, n. 30), 261, n. 1; M. Pohlenz, op. cit. (above, n. 19),
51.
For the ancient and medieval Christian attitude, cf., for instance, F. Schaub, Studien
zur Geschichte der Sklaverei im Frühmittelalter (Leipzig, 1913. Abhandlungen zur mittleren
und neueren Geschichte, XLIV); M. Grabmann, Die mittelalterlichen Kommentare zur Politik
des Aristoteles, in Sitzungsberichte d. Bayerischen Akad. d. Wiss., philos.-hist. Abt., 1941,
2, no. X, 22, 35, 38, 70; C. Verlinden, L’ esclavage dans l’Europe médiévale, I: Péninsule
Ibérique-France (Bruges, 1955. Rijksuniversiteit te Gent, Werken uitgegeven door de Fac. van
de Letteren en Wijsbegeerte, CXIX), 34, 793; S.J.T. Miller, The Position of the King in Bracton
and Beaumanoir, in Speculum, XXXI (1956), 288 f.; L. Hanke, Aristotle and the American
Indians (Chicago, 1959).
legal and sociological aspects of the concept of freedom 53
in Islam, at least, in its original form.74 Thus, there was no opposition to the
general principle that it was not the natural destiny of man to be a slave,
even if slavery had come into being as the result of historical developments
and human | sinfulness and then continued to exist.75 For Muslim jurists, “the 32
basic principle for all children of Adam—or, as is occasionally added: as far as
Muslims are concerned—is freedom.”76
74 References to “slaves by nature” and the natural role of the free man as the master occur
in the tenth-century, Kitâb as-Saʿâdah wa-l-isʿâd by Abû l-Ḥasan b. Abî Dharr (Wiesbaden,
1957–1958), 188, 363. The editor of the work, M. Minovi, equates the author with Abû
l-Ḥasan al-ʿÂmirî (below, n. 240). For the work, cf. also A.J. Arberry, in The Islamic Quarterly,
II (1955), 9–22. For further echoes of the theory of the born slave, cf. below, n. 285.
For the Politics of Aristotle among the Muslims, cf. R. Walzer, Arisṭûṭâlîs, in EI2, I, 631a.
Only the very detailed list of Aristotle’s works by Ptolemy mentions the Politics among
the writings of the philosopher, cf. al-Qifṭî, ed. A. Müller-J. Lippert (Leipzig, 1903), 44,
l. 15. The other bibliographies do not refer to it, nor is the Politics included in al-Fârâbî’s
presentation of the canon of Aristotelian writings, from a still unpublished section of the
Taḥṣîl as-saʿâdah. A dubious reference to the Politics may be found in al-Fârâbî’s Iḥṣâʾ
al-ʿulûm, according to the edition by A. Gonzalez Palencia (Madrid, 1932), text 55; trans.
70, and Ibn Sînâ has a vague reference to “the book of Plato and Aristotle on politics” in
his Fî aqsâm al-ʿulûm, in Tisʿ Rasâʾil (Cairo, 1326/1908), 108.
There have always been attempts to find traces of the Politics among the Muslims.
Silvestre de Sacy was a bit rash in attributing to the genuine Politics a reference to “Aristotle
on politics ( fî s-siyâsah)” by ʿAbd-al-Laṭîf, cf. his Relation de l’Egypte (Paris, 1810), 204, 291.
However, as S. Pines has pointed out, al-Kindî mentioned the Politics in his treatise Fî
kammîyat kutub Arisṭûṭâlîs, in Rasâʾil al-Kindî al-falsafîyah (above, n. 28), I, 384, cf. S. Pines,
in Archives d’histoire doctrinale et littéraire du Moyen Âge, 1956, 36, n. 2. Traces of Muslim
knowledge of the Politics may show up in the future, cf. Pines, in ʿIyyûn, VIII (5717/1957), 65.
75 D. Santillana, Istituzioni di diritto musulmano malichita (Rome, n. y. [1938]), I, 13, corre-
sponding to p. 10 of the first edition of vol. I (Rome, 1926). (The second ed. was, in fact,
not published in 1938 but in 1943, cf. G. Levi Della Vida, Aneddoti e svaghi [Milan-Naples,
1959], 227, n. 7).
This corresponds almost exactly to the theory of the thirteenth-century Christian
jurist, Beaumanoir, cf. Miller, loc. cit. Beaumanoir, like most Muslims, considered the
manumission of slaves a highly meritorious act.
76 As-Sarakhsî, Sharḥ as-siyar al-kabîr (Hyderabad, 1336), IV, 71, and idem, Uṣûl (Cairo, 1372–
1373), II, 222; Zayn-ad-dîn al-Marghînânî, Fatâwî (above, n. 59), 1338ff. Cf. R. Brunschvig,
ʿAbd, in EI2, I, 26a.
In interpreting Qurʾân 43.32/31 (below, p. 77), an early authority had to remind himself
that the idea that all men were children of Adam could exist side by side with the
institution of slavery (aṭ-Ṭabarî, Tafsîr [Cairo, 1321], XXV, 37).
An article entitled al-Ḥurrîyah wa-s-salâm wa-l-ḥukm fî l-Islâm was published by M.
al-Qâḍî in Majallat al-Majmaʿ al-ʿIlmî al-ʿIrâqî of 1954, pp. 1–15 (cf. Revue des Études
Islamiques, 1956 [1957], 108). I have not been able to obtain a copy of it.
There was much discussion of the question whether in cases where a man’s
status was not clearly established, preference should be given to the presump-
tion of freedom or to that of an unfree status. Opinion varies but, in agreement
with the maxim cited, there seems to have been a general tendency toward the
presumption of freedom.77 Difficulties could arise in criminal cases where the
victim of a crime whose personal status was not established might claim to be
a free man, while the defendant maintained that this was not so. Since the dis-
position of the case was affected by the conflicting claims, it was not enough,
33 even | for liberal legal opinion, to refer to the basic assumption of freedom for
all children of Adam but proof for the individual’s status as a free man had to
be brought.78
Another related problem is connected with passages in the Qurʾân in which
Muḥammad addressed his contemporaries in general terms such as “man” or
the like. The question was whether or not slaves were to be included here so
that any law derived from these passages would or would not be applicable
to them. Also, was a distinction between freemen and slaves to be made in
these cases or only where this was expressly indicated? Ibn Ḥazm, in keeping
with his general principles, was definitely against making such a distinction
where the Qurʾân used non-specific terms, and he condemned it strongly.79
On the other hand, a tenth-century Mâlikite, Ibn Khuwêzmandâd, contra-
dicted general legal opinion by arguing that slaves were not included in these
cases.80 Again, it may be assumed that most jurists preferred the more lib-
eral attitude, as an expression of their doubts about the institution of slav-
ery.81
However, it must be admitted that the problem of freedom found little posi-
tive attention in legal works. The Muslim juridical literature is immense and as
yet imperfectly known, and further study may reveal the one or other author
who showed a more articulate and sustained interest in that problem and its
many ramifications, but, to all appearances, this is rather unlikely. We can-
not discern any tendency among jurists to go beyond technicalities and to see
77 Santillana, loc. cit., says that when in doubt, one must always presume freedom.
For Shâfiʿite vacillation with regard to the problem, cf. as-Subkî, Ṭabaqât ash-Shâfiʿîyah
(Cairo, 1324), III, 21.
78 As-Sarakhsî, Uṣûl, II, 221 f.
79 Op. cit. (above, n. 34), III, 86–88.
80 Aṣ-Ṣafadî, Wâfî, ed. S. Dedering (Istanbul, 1949. Bibliotheca Islamica, VIb), II, 52.
81 The Muslim aversion for slave merchants is well known, cf., for instance, A. Mez, Die
Renaissance des Islâms (Heidelberg, 1922), 156. However, it can hardly be interpreted as
an expression of sentiment against slavery as such.
freedom and slavery as something more than | legal facts. Muslim jurists may 34
occasionally suggest a wider meaning for freedom and even equate freedom
with life itself. For the Qurʾân characterizes unbelief as death (6.122/122). Unbe-
lief is the cause of the existence of slavery.82 Slavery, therefore, is death and
perdition. It follows that the opposite of slavery, freedom, must be life.83 It is
doubtful, however, whether the consequences were ever drawn and freedom
acknowledged as the most basic human attribute.
b Deprivations of Freedom
The attitude that prevailed toward individual freedom among jurists and all
other classes of the population is not spelled out for us with sufficient clarity
in legal works. Something more may be learned about it from the approach
taken toward the various ways in which individuals could be deprived of their
liberty by legal or political authorities. These included, in the first place, impris-
onment, and, to a lesser degree, forced labor. Both subjects again lead us into a
very intricate and endlessly varied portion of the social fabric. Neither impris-
onment nor forced labor was, in many respects, governed by hard and fast rules,
and even where the law took a hand in the matter, it often was as arbitrary and
depending on men and circumstances as is its nature to be. A reasonably clear
picture of the situation in Islam in all its variable aspects could be obtained only
from a collection of the relevant references from all possible sources. The fol-
lowing remarks are, of necessity, selective. It should also be kept in mind that
whatever seeming generalizations suggest themselves, they always had their
exceptions somewhere in Muslim history. No attempt has been made to pro-
ceed systematically and | to discover historical developments, regional trends, 35
and legal school characteristics. Thus, much remains to be done beyond these
timid steps into territory not yet explored in detail.
Imprisonment
The Qurʾân shows itself familiar with the institution of prisons. This is obvious
from the story of Joseph in the twelfth sûrah. The word for prison used in
that sûrah is sijn. A verbal derivation of it appears again in 26.29/28 where
Pharaoh threatens Moses with imprisonment. Since sijn occurs in the Qurʾân
82 Cf. above, n. 59.

83 As-Sarakhsî, Uṣûl, I, 173 f.
For ethical judgments on slaves and slavery, cf. below, p. 90ff.
only in connection with Egypt, it has been suggested, but without convincing
evidence, that the origin of the word be sought in Egypt.84
The root ḥ-b-s, used to express detention in prison in various Semitic lan-
guages (cf., in particular, Syriac), is used in the Qurʾân only in the sense of
“to detain” without the implication of imprisonment (cf. sûrah 5.106/105). In
later literature, the specific meaning of ḥ-b-s in a certain context occasionally
36 re|quired comment. Thus, it was important for a jurist to argue that ḥabs, in
the usage of the time of the Prophet, did not refer to a real prison but merely
to detention, which justified the use of the word asîr “one bound in fetters” for
prisoner.85 And, to descend from legal speculation to medical facts, a verse on
the death of Ibn Sînâ, saying that he had died bi-l-ḥabs, required the comment
that ḥabs here did not refer to imprisonment but to the “obstruction” caused
by Ibn Sînâ’s fatal colic.86
Detention (m-s-k) in their houses for women convicted of fornication is
prescribed in Qurʾân 4.15f./19f., a punishment which, jurists point out,87 was
later abrogated and replaced by flogging (24.2/2). However, such detention at
home, while it constitutes a deprivation of liberty, can hardly be considered
comparable to imprisonment.
At any rate, prisons were known in the Arabia of the Prophet. They had been
in existence in pre-Islamic times everywhere,88 and we may safely assume that
84 A.A. Bevan, in A Volume of Oriental Studies presented to Edward G. Browne (Cambridge,

1922), 71, referred to the occurrence of sìgnon in a late Byzantine Graeco-Coptic papyrus
(Greek Papyri in the British Museum, ed. H.I. Bell, [London, 1917], V, no. 1708, l. 88) and in
some Coptic ostraca in the alleged meaning of prison. No mention of all this was made by
W.E. Crum in his Coptic Dictionary (Oxford, 1939). The assumption of an Egyptian origin
for the word is also complicated by the fact that it does occur in pre-Islamic poetry (ʿAdî b.
Zayd, cf. Kitâb al-Aghânî [Bûlâq, 1285], II, 25 f.; [Cairo, 1345–], II, 111, 114). It may, however,
be argued that either the verses are not genuine or the use of s-j-n in them is not original.
For the time being, it would seem preferable to combine sijn with the common Semitic
root s-g-r “to lock up”, and possibly with Akkadian shigaru. The final n of sijn, for the r of
s-g-r, may be due to conflation with the root sh-k-n, sakana, Syriac sheḵnâ “residence.”
Later Islam, as we would expect, knew quite a few additional words for prison, cf., for
instance, below, n. 331. The ḥaṣîr of Qurʾân 17.8/8, something prepared for unbelievers in
Hell, is usually interpreted as “prison.”
85 Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzîyah, aṭ-Ṭuruq al-ḥukmîyah fî s-siyâsah ash-sharʿîyah (Cairo, 1372/1953),
102. Cf. also below, n. 89.
86 Ibn Abî Uṣaybiʿah, ʿUyûn al-anbâʾ, ed. A. Müller (Cairo-Königsberg, 1882–1884), II, 9, l. 14.
87 Ash-Shâfiʿî, Risâlah (Cairo, 1312), 37 f.
88 For some examples that were within the ken of the Arabs of the Peninsula, cf. the story,
known to Muslim historians, that the Persians used an army of prisoners, released for that
the larger settlements in Arabia, such as the cities of Mecca and Medina, had
their jails. However, in the Bedouin environment, imprisonment was a highly
impractical and almost impossible procedure. As a punishment at least (in
contrast to its use as a precautionary measure), it was, and still is, an extremely
dubious device that could be more | burdensome to those who applied it than 37
to those subjected to it. It can be considered as certain that among Bedouins,
imprisonment was not widely practiced, and the same can probably be said
about the smaller settlements of central Arabia.
This attitude is reflected in the attitude of Muḥammad and, as a conse-
quence, in the theory of later Muslim law. The ḥadîth mentions that the Prophet
detained someone upon suspicion.89 This tradition became a source of consid-
erable concern for those jurists who had to find equitable laws to regulate the
commitment to prison of debtors and accused or potential criminals, as will be
discussed soon. In order to forestall excesses, which human beings are only too
prone to commit, it was argued that the Prophet did not have a prison in which
he could have held contesting parties, but only when the number of Muslims
increased greatly in the time of ʿUmar, this caliph bought a house in Mecca
and converted it into a prison; this, then, constituted the legal justification for
the maintenance of prisons by the established authorities (called imâm in Ara-
bic).90 A seemingly reliable picture of the situation with regard to prisons in
ʿUmar’s time is painted in a story reported by the historian, al-Balâdhurî. | A 38
certain Kûfan, Maʿn b. Zâʾidah, was accused of forging the caliphal seal and
purpose, to conquer the Yemen, cf. al-Masʿûdî, Murûj (Cairo, 1346), I, 282. Or the famous
story of ʿAdî b. Zayd and an-Nuʿmân of al-Ḥîrah, as reported, for instance, by al-Bayhaqî,
Maḥâsin (below, n. 204), or Nashwân al-Ḥimyarî (below, n. 192).
The “first” to imprison people was believed to have been the legendary aḍ-Ḍaḥḥâk,
who was equated with Nimrod, cf. al-ʿAskarî, Awâʾil, Ms. Paris ar. 5986, fol. 216a; as-Suyûṭî,
Awâʾil (Baghdâd, 1369), 54.
89 Cf. Wensinck and others, Concordance, I, 411b, 412a; al-Ḥâkim an-Nîsâbûrî, Mustadrak
(Hyderabad, 1334–1342/1915–1923), I, 125. Cf. also below, n. 92.
For ḥadîth references, cf. Concordance, II, 431b, and I, 411b–412a. Most of the examples
indicated in the latter place deal with the root ḥ-b-s and have no connection with the
concept of prison. One of them, reading, “Your brother is constrained by his debt,” does
not refer to the debtors’ prison; “constrained” is to be understood in the sense of being
prevented from entering Paradise! Cf. also above, nn. 85 and 86.
90 Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzîyah, Ṭuruq, 102f., and al-Bukhârî, Ṣaḥîḥ, ed. L. Krehl (Leiden, 1862–
1908), II, 92 (khuṣûmât 8). The legal-historical survey given by Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzîyah can
also be found in al-Maqrîzî, Khiṭaṭ (Bûlâq, 1270), II, 187. But cf. as-Suyûṭî, Awâʾil, 55.
For the meaning of imâm, cf. I. Guidi and D. Santillana, Il “Muḫtaṣar” o Sommario del
diritto Malechita di Ḫalîl Ibn Isḥâq (Milan, 1919), II, 742, n. 430.
embezzling tax money. The prison in al-Kûfah, to which he was committed,

was a reed hut (qaṣab), from which he escaped without great difficulty. He gave
himself up to ʿUmar who, upon ʿAlî’s advice, had him flogged and imprisoned
(ḥ-b-s) indefinitely.91
The Arabian heritage of Islam, it seems, is primarily responsible for the
fact that imprisonment continued to be looked upon as a rather doubtful
procedure. In its defense, it had to be recalled that imprisonment constituted
the ḥadd penalty for fornication (zinâʾ) in early Islam, that the Prophet sent
someone to prison on suspicion, that ʿAlî made use of two prisons, and so
on, with the most effective (but certainly, to us, least convincing) argument
of all being an interpretation of the term “banishment” ( yunfaw) in Qurʾân
5.33/37, as imprisonment.92 Altogether, this is slim evidence. In the basic ḥadd
punishments, the main class of criminal punishments fixed by the religious
law, imprisonment is not represented. It is also very little in evidence in the
modifications and extensions that of necessity had to be applied to the basic
ḥadd penalties in the course of time.
The famous Risâlah, a brief handbook of Mâlikî jurisprudence composed
by Ibn Abî Zayd al-Qayrawânî in the tenth century, may serve as an example.
Ibn Abî Zayd admitted the following cases of imprisonment: (1) In the case of
39 murder, without intention of robbery, after forgiveness has been obtained, the |
murderer is given one hundred lashes and sentenced to one year in prison. (2)
In cases of highway robbery, punishment may be left to the discretion of the
established authorities (imâm) who may, if they see fit, impose banishment
to some place where the culprit will be kept in prison until he repents. (3)
The thief, once his hands and feet were amputated after four thefts, will, upon
commission of a fifth theft, be punished by flogging and imprisonment. (4) A
debtor, suspected of having the means to repay his debts or part thereof, may
be imprisoned so that his financial condition can be ascertained. But (5) the
wine-bibber must be flogged, and must not be sent to prison.93
91 Al-Balâdhurî, Futûḥ, ed. M.J. de Goeje (Leiden, 1863–1866), 462f.; trans. F.C. Murgotten
(New York, 1924. Columbia University Studies in History, Economics and Public Law, LXVIII),
257 f. It seems less likely that ʿUmar filled his prison with unauthorized reporters of tradi-
tions, as suggested by Ibn al-ʿArabî al-Ishbîlî, ʿÂriḍat al-aḥwadhî [Comm. on at-Tirmidhî’s
Ṣaḥîḥ] (Cairo, 1353/1934), X, 137.
92 As-Sarakhsî, Mabsûṭ (Cairo, 1324–1331), XX, 89–91, in connection with the imprisonment
of debtors. For the reference to the Qurʾân, cf., further, op. cit., IX, 45, and XX, 88; for the
reference to the Prophet, cf. op. cit., XXIV, 36, also above, n. 89, and below, n. 119.
93 Cf. L. Bercher’s edition and translation of the Risâlah, 3rd ed. (Algiers, 1949), 242f., 252f.,
258 f., 270 f., and 256 f.
More will soon be said about the imprisonment of debtors. The problem
of how wine drinkers are to be punished is an old one; imprisonment seems
to antedate the generally upheld ḥadd punishment of flogging.94 The other
cases mentioned by Ibn Abî Zayd do not deal with imprisonment as a primary
penalty but as a solution for more complicated situations than were envis-
aged originally. Repeated backsliding was doubtlessly common among thieves
despite the painful punishment prescribed for theft. Obviously, the penalty of
amputation had to stop at some point. The Mâlikite solution, indicated by Ibn
Abî Zayd, was shared by the Shâfiʿites.95 A more humane solution ascribed | to 40
ʿAlî has amputation of the hand for the first theft, amputation of the foot for the
first repetition of the crime, and thereafter imprisonment.96 In Twelver-Shîʿah
law, we consequently find that for the first theft, four fingers of the thief’s right
hand are amputated, for the second, his left foot, and for the third, the thief
was given a life term in prison, with the proviso that if he continued to steal
while in prison, he be killed.97 The more lenient attitude was also adopted by
the Ḥanafites,98 while Ḥanbalite theory was wavering between the two possi-
bilities.99
There were, of course, cases in which the punishment of amputation was
not applicable because of recognized exceptions or because of the insignifi-
cant value of the stolen object. There could then develop cases like this one
discussed by ash-Shâfiʿî. Someone was suspected of having stolen an object
not valuable enough to make amputation mandatory. The man was held in
prison to await establishment of his guilt. Meanwhile, the stolen object rose in
value so much so that its new value would have made amputation mandatory.
94 Cf. the story of Abû Miḥjan, as reported, for instance, by al-Masʿûdî, Murûj, I, 432f.,
or the alleged imprisonment of Abû Nuwâs, for which one may compare ash-Sharîshî,
Sharḥ al-Maqâmât al-Ḥarîrîyah (Cairo, 1306), II, 125, or Ibn Khaldûn, Muqaddimah, trans.
F. Rosenthal (New York, 1958), I, 36.
Shîʿah law required flogging of the wine-bibber, and death for the four-time repeater,
cf. al-ʿAllâmah al-Ḥillî, Tabṣirah (Teheran, 1329/1951), II, 588.
A Muslim wine-seller is to be punished by flogging and imprisonment until it becomes
obvious that he has mended his ways, according to the Fatâwî of the Ḥanafite, Qâḍîkhân
(Calcutta, 1835), IV, 120, 487.
95 Ash-Shâfiʿî, Kitâb al-Umm (Cairo, 1321–1325), VI, 117 f., 138.
96 Abû Yûsuf, Kharâj, 174. The same handling of repeaters was imputed to the caliph ʿUmar
by Wakîʿ, Akhbâr al-quḍâh (Cairo, 1366–1369/1947–1950), III, 210f.
97 Al-ʿAllâmah al-Ḥillî, Tabṣirah, II, 592.
98 As-Sarakhsî, Mabsûṭ, IX, 140 f., 166 ff.
99 Ash-Shaʿrânî, Kitâb al-Mîzân (Cairo, 1275), II, 188.
According to ash-Shâfiʿî, the value of the object on the day it was stolen is to
be the decisive factor.100 We also hear of a case where a ruler’s servant was
imprisoned for theft, apparently at the whim and discretion of the ruler.101
All the information we have shows clearly that imprisonment was not a pri-
41 mary punishment according to Islamic legal theory.101a | On the contrary, it was
a decidedly unpopular procedure, and it may be said that Muslim law was basi-
cally disinclined to deprive individuals of their liberty. However, prisons of all
kinds and descriptions were indispensable fixtures of every Muslim commu-
nity large enough to maintain them. The references in literature are numerous.
It would not be difficult to duplicate, from Muslim sources, most of the stories
we know about prisons and their inmates from other parts of the world.
The principal legal basis for sending people to prison is to be found in the
word taʿzîr.102 As a technical term, it came to indicate the power of the judge—
and, occasionally, of closely related offices such as that of the muḥtasib, the
market supervisor103—to mete out punishment in cases where ḥadd penalties
did not apply. The types of punishment which could be administered under the
heading of taʿzîr were classified in various ways. According to Shâfiʿite theory,
the taʿzîr punishment could be verbal, that is, a verbal lashing or exhortation.
Then, it could be imprisonment. The next step was banishment, and, finally,
42 there was flogging.104 The various kinds of taʿzîr were occasionally—as, | for
instance, by the twelfth-century Ḥanafite author, al-Kâshânî—conceived as
100 Ash-Shâfiʿî, Umm, VI, 116.

101 Ibn al-Fuwaṭî, al-Ḥawâdith al-jâmiʿah (Baghdâd, 1351), 26. Ibn al-Fuwaṭî’s authorship of
the work has recently been denied by ʿIrâqî historians, cf. ʿAbbâs al-ʿAzzâwî, At-Taʿrîf
bi-l-muʾarrikhîn, I (Baghdâd, 1376/1957), 161; K. ʿAwwâd, in Sumer, XIII (1957), 53f.
101a Cf. G. Bergsträsser-J. Schacht, Grundzüge des islamischen Rechts (Leipzig-Berlin, 1935),
96: “Imprisonment (ḥabs) is not a punishment but rather a means to bring about active
repentance (tawbah).”
102 The root ʿ-z-r does not seem to be represented in other Semitic languages. It appears to be
a variant form of the common root ʿ-dh-r. Its original meaning may have been something
like “to fend off.” On taʿzîr, cf. also N.J. Coulson, in International and Comparative Law
Quarterly, VI (1957), 53 f.
103 Cf. Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzîyah, Ṭuruq, 240, where the choice of either imprisonment or
flogging is left to the muḥtasib in cases of neglect to pray, and Ṭuruq, 270, where refusal
of business permits for persons who falsify weights is considered a more severe and
appropriate punishment than either flogging or imprisonment. For other cases where the
muḥtasib may send offenders to prison, cf. M. ʿA. Makkî, Aḥkâm as-sûq li-Yaḥyâ b. ʿUmar
al-Andalusî, in Revista del Instituto Egípcio de Estudios Islámicos, IV (1956), 128, 133f., 135,
142.
104 As-Subkî, Ṭabaqât, IV, 300 f. As-Subkî was quoting, indirectly, the Ḥilyah of ash-Shâshî
applicable to the various strata of society, with imprisonment being reserved

for the commercial middle class, and imprisonment combined with flogging
for the lowest class, the general mass of people.105
There can be no doubt that the taʿzîr is a continuation of the pre-Islamic
judicial power of the government vested in the judge. Wherever it existed, this
power came to be restricted by the Muslim religious law but, in view of the
large areas left uncovered by the latter, had to reassert itself in those areas. The
Muslim judge’s power of taʿzîr largely overlapped with punitive measures taken
by the political authorities directly. A judge could wield the power of taʿzîr
arbitrarily. He could, for instance, commit someone to prison for an alleged
affront to his dignity, for contempt of court, we might call it.106 He could also jail
people for no valid reason whatever but his own whim or personal interest.107
On the other hand, he could refuse to send a debtor to jail upon demand by
the creditor, merely on the strength of a hunch, derived from physiognomy,
that something was wrong in the case.108 There was no orderly process of
appeal that might have restrained a judge bent upon abusing his powers.
However, social and moral pressures made such abuses, generally speaking,
most uncommon. Their occurrence was certainly no more frequent in Islam
than in other comparable societies. The model judge would conscientiously
do his duty as he saw it and send a man to prison only when the circumstances
seemed to demand it. But then, he | could not be swayed by anyone or anything 43
from the decision he had made. When Shurayḥ committed a man because of
debts, and this man, having personal connections with Shurayḥ, would hardly
believe it, Shurayḥ said: “It was not I who sent you to prison; the law (the facts
of the situation, ḥaqq) did it.”109
The choice of the particular taʿzîr penalty to be applied in a given case was
largely left to the discretion of the judge, and so was the length of the prison
term if imprisonment was considered suitable. Such imprisonment could be for
(d. 507/1114, cf. GAL, I, 390 f., GAL, Suppl., I, 674). For Mâlikite theory, cf. Guidi and San-
tillana, op. cit., II, 742.
The three choices, in a slightly different order, were, for instance, left to the decision of
the Ḥanafite judge in the case of persons who behaved immorally in their own houses, cf.
Qâḍîkhân, Fatâwî, IV, 380.
105 W. Heffening, Taʿzîr, in EI, IV, 710.
106 Wakîʿ, Akhbâr al-quḍâh, I, 190 f., 210; III, 308.
107 Cf., for instance, Wakîʿ, op. cit., Ill, 36, 38, 187.
108 Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzîyah, Ṭuruq, 27; at-Tanûkhî, The Table-Talk of a Mesopotamian Judge,
trans. D.S. Margoliouth, Part II, no. 3 (Hyderabad, n.y., 182f.).
109 Wakîʿ, op. cit., II, 296. Cf. below, n. 166.
one day, or it could be for an indefinite period.110 The decision was made by the
judge. Presumably, judges were as a rule guided by precedent and local custom.
However, the appropriate length of prison terms was occasionally discussed in
legal literature. We have already seen that the length of the prison term could be
a fixed one in certain ḥadd cases. Life sentences were, for instance, mandatory
in murder cases for the accomplice who had been holding the victim while the
murder was being committed,111 or for a Muslim slave who killed his Christian
master.112 The length of time a bankrupt debtor was supposed to spend in
prison was often discussed.113
Working against fixed prison terms was the custom, based upon passages of
the Qurʾân, of sentencing people to prison to be held there until they would give
proof of repentance, that is, of having reformed their ways.114 But even when
44 someone was | sent to prison not by a judge but by the ruler, he often knew
in advance the length of his prospective stay in prison. Ash-Shâfiʿî discussed
the case of a man who had taken it upon himself to perform the pilgrimage
but was jailed by the government. In this case, the situation differs according
to whether he knows the presumable length of his stay in prison, and thus,
whether he will be able to undertake the pilgrimage in time; or he does not
know the length of his sentence, or he knows that he will have to stay in prison
beyond the season of the pilgrimage.115 In cases with political overtones, the
matter was, of course, very different. A political prisoner was rarely sure how
long he would have to remain in prison. In criminal cases, too, it could happen
that bureaucratic confusion caused a poor fellow to be forgotten and held in
prison well beyond his time. Thus, during the reign of al-Maʾmûn, a man stole a
garment worth two dirhams and was kept in jail for two years until he hit upon
some desperate measure designed to call attention to himself and his plight.116
There was so much paper work in the prison administration of a large city that
it could happen that the documents concerning a man indicted for murder
110 As-Subkî, loc. cit. (above, n. 104), apparently continuing his quotation from ash-Shâshî.
111 Ash-Shâfiʿî, Umm, VII, 300 f.; al-ʿAllâmah al-Ḥillî, Tabṣirah, II, 610. In Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzî-
yah, Ṭuruq, 51, this decision is ascribed to ʿAlî, speaking about a murderer, someone who
held the victim, and an onlooker who did not do anything to prevent the crime.
112 Ibn al-Fuwaṭî, Ḥawâdith, 73, in connection with the case he reported, referred to this as
Ḥanbalite and Shâfiʿite practice.
113 Cf. below, p. 51 f.
114 Cf. above, n. 101a, and below, n. 131, or, for instance, as-Sarakhsî, Mabsûṭ, XXIV, 36.
115 Ash-Shâfiʿî, Umm, II, 138 f.
116 Aḥmad b. Abî Ṭâhir Ṭayfûr, Kitâb Baghdâd, ed. H. Keller (Leipzig, 1908), text 24, trans. 11;
(Cairo, 1368/1949), 20.
were lost in the files and the accused himself was forgotten in prison.117 How
frequent such cases | were, we are not in a position to say, but it would seem 45
that prison affairs were entirely orderly and well regulated even with regard to
the length of the terms which the inmates had to serve.118 The very occurrence
of administrative errors such as those cited here presupposes the existence of
a normally smoothly running administrative setup.
Another generally practiced type of imprisonment was the commitment of
someone suspected of a crime until his innocence or guilt was established.
Commitment to prison for this purpose was the right and duty of the judge and,
wherever their particular fields of jurisdiction were concerned, of the muḥtasib
and the police. The example of Muḥammad, who had held people on suspicion,
was invoked to justify the practice.119 Criminals might also be held in prison as
a precautionary measure in order to keep them from escaping and avoiding the
deserved punishment. These things were recognized to be matters that had to
be handled with much circumspection so as to avoid infringing upon the rights
of the accused.120
117 This is the background of an anecdote placed in the time when Isḥâq b. Ibrâḥîm b. Muṣʿab
(d. 235/850) was governor of Baghdâd. It occurs in the twenty-first chapter, dealing with
prisons, of the fürstenspiegel, ash-Shuhub al-lâmiʿah fî s-siyâsah an-nâfiʿah. The author of
the work, Abû l-Qâsim b. Riḍwân, lived under the Merinids and was a contemporary and
friend of Ibn Khaldûn, cf. the Muqaddimah, trans. F. Rosenthal, I, xl; III, 395. Ibn Riḍwân
was briefly characterized as the author of the Kitâb as-Siyâsah by the nineteenth-century
historian, as-Salâwî, Istiqṣâʾ (Cairo, 1312), II, 123. The introduction of the Shuhub speaks
of al-Khilâfah al-ʿalîyah and al-imâmah al-Ibrâhîmîyah; the latter is certainly meant as
an allusion to the rule of Abû Sâlim Ibrâhîm (760–762/1359–1361). Ibn Riḍwân was out
of office during that time and may have written the Shuhub in order to gain Abû Sâlim’s
favor. Cf. GAL, I, 463, GAL, Suppl., I, 837, where the wrong information of earlier scholars
is reproduced.
I have consulted the manuscripts Bodleian ar. 296 (Laud 306), fols. 77b–79b, and
Cambridge Suppl. 821, fols. 126b–129b.
118 Cf. aṭ-Ṭabarî’s reference to prison registers (below, n. 197), cited by R. Levy, The Social
Structure of Islam (Cambridge, 1957), 354.
119 Cf. above, nn. 89 and 92. Abû Yûsuf, Kharâj, 176, referred in passing to “all those under
suspicion who were held in prison” as something entirely routine. Cf. also, for instance,
al-ʿAllâmah al-Ḥillî, Tabṣirah, II, 505, or the case reported by Ibn al-Fuwaṭî, Ḥawâdith, 488.
A defaulting debtor was held “on suspicion,” as it was put in O. Houdas and F. Martel, Traité
de droit musulman, La Tohfat d’Ebn Acem (Algiers, 1882), 766f. Cf. also the case reported
by Wakîʿ, Akhbâr al-quḍâh, II, 43, and below, n. 120.
120 Cf. the discussion by as-Sarakhsî, Mabsûṭ, IX, 38 f., as to whether detention in a given case
was to be considered iḥtiyâṭ, a precautionary measure, or taʿzîr, a penalty. As-Sarakhsî,
46 Legal theory, as expounded by the Ḥanafite Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzîyah (691–

751/1292–1350), showed itself hesitant to permit the jailing of debtors who were
suspected of trying to procrastinate repayment of their debts although able
to pay. With regard to crimes such as murder, robbery, theft, and so on, sus-
pects are classified in three categories. A suspect may be innocent and a man
of known reputation, which makes him an unlikely suspect. Or he may be a
man with a criminal record, and thus a prime suspect. Or his standing may
not be known to the political (wâlî) and judicial (qâḍî) authorities. A suspect
with a criminal record can be committed without further ado. A suspect whose
reputation is not known may be jailed until his situation is clarified. This is
the opinion of Muslim religious scholars in general. Most legal authorities,
including the Mâlikites, the Ḥanafites, and a number of competent Ḥanbalites,
state expressly that such a person is to be jailed by the political and judicial
authorities. Ibn Ḥanbal referred in this connection to the famous report that
the Prophet detained someone on suspicion, which he understood as implying
that a suspect should be held until his situation becomes clear to the authori-
ties.121
In cases where there was no doubt as to the guilt of the suspected crimi-
nal, if no confession could be obtained nor the evidence legally established,
his stay in prison could be very prolonged.122 Jailing a suspected criminal in
order to force a confession out of him was frowned upon. The practice may
have been resorted to by the political authorities rather than the legal ones.
However, the temptation to use force to make a person suspected of a crime
confess must often have been very great and may not always have been resisted
by Muslim law enforcement agencies on the various levels. A tradition ascribed
47 to | ʿUmar, declaring invalid forced confessions obtained, among other means,
through imprisonment, said that “a man who is exposed to starvation, or fright-
ened, or imprisoned, cannot be trusted not to confess that he is guilty.”123
Other abuses could result from the right of the established authorities to hold
someone on the suspicion of alleged wrongdoing. The case of the wealthy
heir whom the government wanted to deprive of his inheritance apparently
falls under this heading. His fate was poetically described by Ibn al-Muʿtazz.
loc. cit., also states that defaulting debtors cannot be imprisoned on suspicion as a precau-
tionary measure, because imprisonment is the most severe form of punishment to which
they can be sentenced if they are found guilty.
121 Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzîyah, Ṭuruq, 101 ff.
122 Cf. the case of a juvenile murderer, reported by Ibn al-Fuwaṭî, Ḥawâdith, 290.
123 Abû Yûsuf, Kharâj, 175.
He was kept in prison and asked to bring proof that he was the son of the
deceased, and it did not help him to declare that his neighbors and all his
acquaintances knew it. Only through bribery was he finally enabled to get out
of prison.124
Potential criminals could be jailed as a precautionary measure in order to
prevent them from committing crimes or from continuing the wrongdoing they
had engaged in previously. Such action was, it seems, outside the duties of the
judge and was the task of the police or the government.125 Thus, when a blind
man and a lame man took a walk together by night, it could happen that the
strange couple was picked up by the night watchman and put behind bars, in
order to prevent any possible mischief.126 This, of course, is a scurrilous tale
based upon an ageless motif, but like others of the same kind, it reflects reality.
A more serious case from thirteenth-century Baghdâd engaging the attention of
the authorities was that of a Ṣûfî, al-Ḥarîrî by name, who continued to associate
with young men and boys | despite official disapproval; he was imprisoned 48
several times in order to restrain him, but to no avail.127
Criminals might also be committed to prison after sentencing but before
execution of the sentence. Thus, flogging as a punishment for drunkenness was
to be postponed if the culprit happened to be ill, and he was to be held in jail
until he recovered from his illness.128 It could, of course, happen that an old bon
vivant died in debtors’ prison,129 and special problems arose when someone
died in prison as the result of actual or alleged maltreatment.130 Imprisonment
could also be tried for a limited time in order to give a convicted criminal a
chance to reform or to recant, which would change the legal situation upon
which his conviction was based. This applied to apostates from Islam. Ash-
Shâfiʿî discussed a tradition ascribed to ʿUmar who recommended a three-day
stay in jail for the culprit, during which attempts were made to make him
recant.131
124 Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Dîwân (Cairo, 1891), I, 131. Cf. also below, p. 54.
125 Ibn Khaldûn, Muqaddimah, trans. F. Rosenthal, II, 36.
126 Kitâb al-Aghânî (Bûlâq, 1285), II, 149 f.; (Cairo, 1345–), II, 405f.; al-Kutubî, Fawât al-Wafayât
(Cairo, 1951), I, 286. The story is placed in the seventh century. Picking up drunks and jailing
them was the customary duty of the night watch, cf., for instance, Kitâb al-Aghânî, I, 165;
VII, 19; IX, 129; (Cairo, 1345–), I, 414; VII, 267; X, 251.
127 Ibn al-Fuwaṭî, Ḥawâdith, 235. Cf. the biography of al-Ḥarîrî in al-Kutubî, Fawât, II, 88ff.
128 Qâḍîkhân, Fatâwî, IV, 119.
129 Al-Kutubî, Fawât, II, 40.
130 Ash-Shâfiʿî, Umm, VI, 76 f.
131 Ibid., I, 228.
The most widely discussed type of imprisonment is the debtors’ prison. The
hardiness of this institution is already attested in early Islamic times. When
the police prefect of al-Ḥajjâj started to hand out unusually harsh sentences
and did not commit anyone to prison because he considered this too lenient
a punishment, the debtors’ prison was left untouched.132 It was the general
practice for the creditor to apply to the courts to have the debtor sent to
debtors’ prison. The institution is, of course, mentioned not only in legal lit-
erature.133
49 Once the debtor had established his inability to pay his debts to the satisfac-
tion of the creditor and had been declared bankrupt by the judge, he could be
released from prison, or if he was able to establish bankruptcy before he was
imprisoned, he was to be left free or to be released after a short while.134 The
principle of keeping out of jail debtors whose indigence was established beyond
a doubt was sanctioned by a story ascribed to the companion of the Prophet,
Abû Hurayrah. Abû Hurayah refused to yield to a creditor who insisted upon
having his poor debtor jailed. Instead, he permitted the debtor to go free and
he justified his procedure by saying that in this way the debtor might be able to
earn money for the benefit of the creditor, of himself, and of his family.135
The complications, however, were many. They involved the classification
of debts and the resulting differences in the legal situation,136 and included
such matters as determining how bankruptcy was to be proved and what were
the rights of the creditor and the obligations of the debtor in case the debtor
subsequently came into money. It is instructive to observe how Muslim legal
authorities approached a situation that involved depriving of their liberty indi-
viduals who as a rule were not criminally guilty. A few characteristic passages
from the legal literature may, therefore, find a place here.
132 Ibn Qutaybah, ʿUyûn al-akhbâr (Cairo, 1343–1349/1925–1930), I, 16; ed. C. Brockelmann
(Leipzig, 1900–1908. Leipziger Semitistische Studien, XVIII), 33, quoted by R. Levy, op. cit.
(above, n. 118), 333 f. Cf. Kitâb al-Aghânî, XVI, 41.
133 Cf., for instance, the reported imprisonment for debt of the early Muslim scholar, Ibn
Sîrîn, mentioned by his biographers, among them Ibn Saʿd, Ṭabaqât, ed. E. Sachau and
others (Leiden, 1905–1940), VII, 1, 144; adh-Dhahabî, Taʾrîkh al-Islâm (Cairo, 1367–), IV, 195;
ad-Damîrî, Ḥayawân (Bûlâq, 1292), I, 293, quoting Ibn Khallikân.
For references from popular literature, cf., for instance, H. Wangelin, Das arabische
Volksbuch vom König aẓẒâhir Baibars (Stuttgart, 1936. Bonner Orientalistische Studien,
XVII), 119 f.
134 Cf. below, p. 51 [p. 68–69. Ed.], and ash-Shâfîʿî, Umm, III, 189.
135 Wakîʿ, Akhbâr al-quḍâh, I, 112. Cf. below, p. 63.
136 Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzîyah, Ṭuruq, 63 f.
Ash-Shâfiʿî, on the problem of the bankrupt debtor who subsequently comes 50

into money:137
Regarding the case of a man who is imprisoned because of a debt and who
has been declared bankrupt by the judge and who trades in prison138 and
manumits slaves or makes some charity contributions or gifts, Abû Ḥanî-
fah used to say, ‘All this is permitted; none of his property is to be sold to
satisfy the old debt, as the declaration of bankruptcy has wiped the slate
clean.139 One knows that a man may be bankrupt today, and obtain prop-
erty tomorrow.’ However, Ibn Abî Laylâ140 used to say, ‘He is not permit-
ted to trade, to manumit slaves, or to make gifts or charity contributions
after he was declared bankrupt; he has to sell his property and satisfy his
creditors.’ Abû Yûsuf141 held the same opinion as Ibn Abî Laylâ, with the
exception of manumitting slaves under guardianship, this matter having
nothing to do with the fact that he had been declared bankrupt. Except
for manumitting slaves, he cannot ever consider any of those things per-
missible until he has paid off his debt.
Ash-Shâfiʿî said: The man is permitted to dispose of his new property
(as he wishes), whether he owes a debt or not, whether he has paid off
his debt or not, until the matter of the debt is brought up against him.
If this is done, and it has been established, or acknowledged by him
that he owns some property, the judge must place him at once under
guardianship and say, ‘I have placed him under guardianship until I am
able to pay off his debt, since I had declared him bankrupt.’ He then makes
an inventory of his property and orders him to set his own valuation (on
the property) and (also) orders someone else to estimate (the value of
the property). The judge then has it sold for the highest estimate and
pays off the debt. If, now, the man is free from all debts, he has him
brought in and revokes the guardianship. The man is again permitted
to do with his property all he had done (and to dispose freely of it),
until the matter of another debt is brought up against him. If any of his
property is lost while he was under guardianship, either through sale, or
137 Umm, VII, 94; cf. also III, 189.

138 Probably, during the period in which he could still be held after his bankruptcy had been
established.
139 Lit., “and there is nothing after the declaration of bankruptcy.”
140 Muḥammad b. ʿAbd-ar-Raḥmân. Cf., for instance, Wakîʿ, Akhbâr al-quḍâh, III, 129ff.;
J. Schacht, The Origins of Muhammadan Jurisprudence (Oxford, 1950), index (p. 345).
141 The great Ḥanafite jurist (d. 798) and author of the Kitâb al-Kharâj.
51 through | being given away, or through a contribution to charity, or in any

other way, it must be returned.
The twelfth-century Ḥanafite, Qâḍîkhân, on the problem of establishing bank-

ruptcy:142
When the debtor is faced with imprisonment, the judge does not ask
him whether he owns property, nor does the plaintiff ask whether the
debtor owns property, according to express school tradition. But if the
debtor asks the judge to ask the creditor whether he (the debtor, in the
opinion of the creditor) owns property, the judge asks him, according to
general consensus. If the claimant says that he (the debtor) is indigent, he
(the judge) does not commit him to prison, for if he had acknowledged
his indigence after imprisonment, he would have let him go free. (If his
indigence is established) before imprisonment, he does not imprison
him. If, however, the claimant says that he (the debtor) is wealthy and
able to pay but the debtor himself says that he is indigent, one discusses
the situation.
The same Qâḍîkhân, on the procedure to be followed once bankruptcy has

been established:143
In case the debtor establishes proof of bankruptcy before being commit-

ted to prison, there are two school traditions (that are applicable). The
Shaykh and Imâm, Abû Bakr Muḥammad b. al-Faḍl,144 said that the cor-
rect opinion is that the proof of bankruptcy be accepted. Whereas the
author (Qâḍîkhân) said: The decision must be left to the judge. If the judge
knows that the debtor is a person of bad character, he does not accept his
proof but first commits him to prison. If he knows that the debtor is a
well-behaved man, he accepts his proof. Assuming the debtor establishes
proof of his indigence, and the creditor proof of (the debtor’s) affluence,
with the latter being the more acceptable one, if there is testimony to the
142 Fatâwî, III, 150 f.

143 Fatâwî, III, 151 f.
144 He died on Ramaḍân 24, 381/December 4, 991, according to ʿAbd-al-Qâdir al-Qurashî,
al-Jawâhir al-muḍîyah (Hyderabad, 1332), II, 108, where he is described as having had
personal contact with Qâḍîkhân. The editors of the Jawâhir point out the chronological
impossibility.
effect that the debtor is affluent and able to pay off his debt, this, then,
is permissible and sufficient (evidence), and no specification of the prop-
erty (said to be in the possession of the debtor) is required.
If the debtor establishes proof of his indigence after being committed
to prison, the express school tradition favors acceptance of the proof only
after the lapse of a certain period of time. Traditions | differ with regard 52
to the length of this period. Muḥammad145 stated on the authority of Abû
Ḥanîfah that it was estimated to be between two and three months. Al-
Ḥasan146 stated on the authority of Abû Ḥanîfah that it was from four to
six months. It is stated on the authority of Abû Jaʿfar aṭ-Ṭaḥâwî147 that it is
estimated to be one month. Shams-al-aʾimmah al-Ḥalwânî148 considered
this to be the most charitable view. Some authorities said that if the pris-
oner is a well-behaved man with a family and if the family complains to
the judge about (their inability to defray their) living expenses, the judge
must follow the opinion of aṭ-Ṭaḥâwî, but if he is a man of bad character
and the judge feels that he is uncooperative, he keeps him in prison for
six months.149 The conclusion is that the decision is left to the judge.150
If the judge has the impression, after six months, that the prisoner is still
uncooperative, he keeps him in prison longer. And if he has the impres-
sion, before the expiration of (but) one month, that he is unable to pay, he
lets him go free. This applies to cases where the affairs of the debtor are
complicated, but if his poverty is obvious, the judge makes speedy inquiry
about him, accepts the proof of bankruptcy, and sets him free in the pres-
145 That is, ash-Shaybânî, cf. GAL, I, 171 ff., GAL, Suppl., I, 288 ff.
146 That is, al-Ḥasan b. Ziyâd al-Luʾluʾî al-Kûfî, who died in 204/819–820, cf., for instance,
al-Khaṭîb al-Baghdâdî, Taʾrîkh Baghdâd (Cairo, 1349/1931), VII, 314–317.
147 Died 321/933, cf. GAL, I, 173 f., GAL, Suppl., I, 293 f.
148 ʿAbd-al-ʿAzîz b. Aḥmad, who died in 448/1056–1057 or 449/1057–1058, cf. ʿAbd-al-Qâdir
al-Qurashî, Jawâhir, I, 318. GAL, Suppl., I, 638, indicates his nisbah as Ḥalwâʾî, and the
same form appears in the text of Qâḍîkhân, but ʿAbd-al-Qâdir al-Qurashî says that it was
Ḥalwânî. Both forms, meaning “seller of sweetmeats,” are possible.
149 The moral character of defendants was often considered by the judge in determining the
sentence. Cf., for instance, Qâḍîkhân, Fatâwî, IV, 486, where it is said that a person of good
character who makes slanderous accusations against someone else’s social behavior is to
be admonished and not to be imprisoned. A person of a somewhat less good character is
to be flogged ( yuʾaddab), unless he be known as an habitual slanderer, in which case he
must be flogged and imprisoned. Cf. also above, p. 46.
150 Cf. also Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzîyah, Ṭuruq, 63, who concludes that it constitutes the correct
opinion not to speak about any fixed term, but the decision is to be left to the authorities
(ḥâkim).
ence of his opponent (the creditor). He inquires about his situation with
his neighbors, friends, and fellow merchants (ahl sûqihî) who are reliable,
not those of bad character. If they say that they have no information about
any property he may own, it is sufficient. …
53 Again, Qâḍîkhân, on who can be committed to prison for a debt, and who
cannot be committed:151
No difference is made, with regard to imprisonment, between free-

man and slave, adults and children, slaves authorized to do business
(maʾdhûn), or relatives and strangers. An exception is made for parents
and male and female direct ancestors. They are not sent to prison for debts
they owe their descendants, except (when it affects the ability of the latter
to provide for) living expenses. All others can be imprisoned for the debts
they owe each other.
There are many such statements and discussions in legal literature. The institu-
tion of the debtors’ prison implied a contradiction in that imprisonment was,
in fact, a punishment and the jailing of debtors was not meant primarily as a
punishment. It was recognized that the only justification for its existence was
that it secured restitution of the property owed if this was at all possible. It was
felt to be the unsatisfactory institution that it actually was, and throughout the
legal discussion a commonsense approach is clearly visible, as well as a con-
siderable reluctance to deprive individuals, especially those of acknowledged
good character, of their liberty if this could be avoided.
The greatest threat to individual freedom resulted from the fact that the
government—that is, the ruler in actual possession of the power—had the
right to exercise judicial power in most cases concerning public order and
safety. The ruler also had the right to imprison people at will whenever he
decided that it was necessary to do so. That this was his right cannot be
denied. It followed from the fact that in Islam, the ruler had jurisdiction over
the whole vast area not covered by the religious law, at least in so far as this
jurisdiction was not ceded to the judiciary.152 His right to imprison people
was never explicitly contested by the legal authorities. The government would
54 send to prison actual | or alleged heretics,153 religious fanatics who took the
151 Fatâwî, III, 153. Cf. also as-Sarakhsî, Mabsûṭ, XX, 88f.
152 Cf. above, p. 41 f.
153 Cf., for instance, al-Bayhaqî, Maḥâsin (below, p. 69). The cases are numerous.
law into their own hands,154 charlatans,155 and, in general, all those guilty of
violating public order in any one of countless ways. But it could also punish
with imprisonment officials who, without a criminal motive, failed to do its
bidding.155a And it could use imprisonment as a means to force people to pay
taxes or other monies, whether it was entitled to such payments or not; this
was a common procedure.156 Protests would come forth usually in general
complaints about an unjust and tyrannical rule. Specific comments, such as
saying that a scientist who was not successful in raising a sunken ship with its
cargo “did not deserve to be jailed” because of his failure, are rare.157
In the early days, judges who were not willing to serve could be put in
jail.158 The reason obviously was that those who were not willing to serve a
given ruler in high positions were hostile to him. There was—in theory—no
obstacle to throwing into prison political enemies of all sorts and descriptions
and holding | them as long as was deemed expedient. The literature, especially 55
historical works, are so crowded with cases of political imprisonment, which
are taken as a matter of course, that no examples need be cited here. Conversely,
historians and political theorists had no use for the word ḥurrîyah which, it
seems, practically never occurs in their works.
No effective law safeguarded the individual against such attacks upon his
liberty. The ruler possessed the presumed right to deprive of their freedom even
completely innocent persons for no cause whatever. He also could threaten
persons with imprisonment unless they committed crimes he wanted them to
154 Such a case was that of the Ṣûfî, Ibrâhîm b. Shaybân, who went into a wine shop and broke
all the vessels there; the owner thought that he was a government official acting upon
official orders, cf. al-Qushayrî, Risâlah (Cairo, 1367/1948), 72. Cases of this sort repeated
each other at frequent intervals, or they occurred in connection with attacks against
minority groups, cf., for instance, GAL, II, 117.
155 For instance, al-Jawbarî, Kashf al-asrâr (Cairo, 1316), 15.
155a Cf. Abû Dulâmah’s humorous complaint in Kitâb al-Aghânî (Bûlâq 1285), IX, 129; (Cairo
1345–), X, 252:
I have to go to prison without having committed a crime,

As if I were one of the tax officials.
156 Cf. also above, n. 124.

157 Ibn Abî Uṣaybiʿah, I, 53. The scientist and scholar in question was Abû ṣ-Ṣalt Umayyah Ibn
Abî ṣ-Ṣalt (d. 529/1134).
158 In one case, the same man was sent to prison both for shaṭârah (which may be translated
“disorderly conduct”) and for the refusal to accept a proffered judgeship; this was consid-
ered remarkable. Cf. Wakîʿ, Akhbâr al-quḍâh, I, 27 f.; further, ibid., I, 226.
commit. Since such persons, when they were accused of a crime, often pleaded
lack of responsibility for their actions, the subject of crimes committed under
duress was threshed out at some length by the legal authorities.159 If innocent
56 persons were | held in prison, the reason could also be that the ruler himself was
ignorant of their fate. This may be the background for such Ṣûfî stories as the
one reported by al-Qushayrî. It tells how Sahl b. ʿAbdallâh at-Tustarî was asked
to pray for Yaʿqûb aṣ-Ṣaffâr who was suffering from a disease that baffled his
physicians. He replied, “How could I expect my prayers to be answered, seeing
that innocent persons are held in your prison?,” whereupon Yaʿqûb released all
prison inmates.160 However, the theory, and often the practice, favored such
abuses.
It is here that we find the least respect for individual liberty in Islam, coupled
with the absence of any idea of the meaning of civic liberty. The legal authori-
ties, as we have seen, showed the proper circumspection and hesitation when
faced with problems involving the deprivation of individuals of their physical
freedom. But the political authorities were restrained from disregarding indi-
vidual liberty only by common sense, ethical considerations, and the interplay
of social forces. This points up the great practical limitations that curtailed the
potential effectiveness of the idea of freedom in Islam.
159 Qâḍîkhân, Fatâwî, IV, 490: According to Abû Ḥanîfah, force is recognized as a mitigating
circumstance only if exercised by the government (sulṭân), but according to Abû Ḥanîfah’s
two principal pupils, it is so recognized if exercised by anyone having the power to make
good his threats.
Ibid., IV, 492: “Being flogged once, or being imprisoned or chained for one day does not
constitute (a mitigating circumstance resulting from the use of) force.”
Ibid., IV, 500: Being forced to kill someone by the government under the threat of
imprisonment cannot be considered a mitigating circumstance.
Ibid., IV, 501: A woman forced to commit fornication by being threatened with impris-
onment is given the benefit of the doubt and is not punished for fornication.
Ibid., IV, 131: A trustee is held responsible for deposits surrendered by him because he
was threatened by a tyrannical ruler with beatings or a month of imprisonment; he is not
held responsible if he was threatened with mutilation.
If someone was forced to adopt Islam and then became an apostate, he was not to be
killed, but he was to be imprisoned according to Ḥanafite practise stated, for instance, by
al-Bazzâzî (d. 817/1424, cf. GAL, II, 225, GAL, Suppl., II, 316), al-Fatâwî al-Bazzâzîyah, Ms. ar.
Yale University A-166 (Catalogue Nemoy, no. 888), fol. 381a.
160 Al-Qushayrî, Risâlah, 121. Cf. also the two anecdotes reported by Abû l-Qâsim b. Riḍwân,
the one referred to above, n. 117, and another about a man from Hamadhân who was held
in prison though he was completely innocent.
The detailed circumstances of prison life also bear investigation as they may
serve as an indication of how highly freedom was valued. Again, the material
is widely scattered and comes to us in small, incidental bits that could be
fitted into a coherent whole only by supplying missing links through conjecture
and imagination. It is worth noting that authors other than legal scholars
who had occasion to refer to imprisonment were usually extremely vague in
their stories. The majority of their cases concerns imprisonment for political
reasons, and what these reasons were is | as a rule apparent from the historical 57
circumstances. But unless the details of a particular case were themselves the
subject of historical notice, detailed reports were rarely given. For all the author
cared, his characters just happened to be in prison,161 or they were held because
of “a simple crime,”162 or “a crime committed by them.”163
Imprisonment could take the most varied forms, from the most comfortable
and luxurious detention in a palace to cruel confinement in filthy dungeons.
This, however, applied mainly to political prisoners, and rarely if ever to ordi-
nary criminals. A good example for the treatment of political prisoners and the
problems they faced is the eyewitness report of the treatment meted out by
the Ṭûlûnid Jaysh b. Khumârawayh to three of his uncles. Their confinement
started out in a most genteel manner, until one of them was locked up in a sep-
arate room and the other two were forced to let him slowly starve to death.
Then, their confinement turned into a nightmare of fear and despair.164 Sto-
ries about the genteel or rough treatment of prominent political prisoners are
numerous. It seems, however, that common people who were held on sedition
charges, or for causing disturbances of the peace and similar political crimes,
were often not treated differently from ordinary criminals.
Prisons were the concern of the ruler, so much so that a fourteenth-century
fürstenspiegel could include a special chapter | on the duties of the ruler with 58
respect to them.165 They were the property of the government. This is well
161 Cf., for instance, the repeated references to imprisonment in al-Jâḥiẓ’s Kitâb al-Bayân
wa-t-tabyîn. It causes no comment if a pious man such as Dhû n-Nûn al-Miṣrî just happens
to be in prison (al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ, II, 18).
162 Cf. Aḥmad b. Abî Ṭâhir Ṭayfûr, Kitâb Baghdâd, ed. Keller, text 118, trans. 53; ed. Cairo, 67.
163 Id., Balâghât an-nisâʾ (Cairo, 1326/1908), 68.
164 Ibn ad-Dâyah, Kitâb al-Mukâfaʾah (Cairo, 1332/1914), 102f. The faraj-baʿd-ash-shiddah
works are, of course, a copious source for prison stories. Very often, the fear of what may
happen to them worries prisoners most. It must be stated, though, that they are usually
prominent political prisoners.
165 Abû l-Qâsim b. Riḍwân, Shuhub (see above, n. 117). Already the ninth-century Ibn Qutay-
bah included a brief chapter on imprisonment in the book treating of statecraft in his
illustrated by a story, told in slightly different versions, of the model judge,

Shurayḥ. Shurayḥ had committed someone to prison, and the ruler of the time
wanted that man released. Shurayḥ refused to release him in these words: “The
prison is your prison, and the janitor is your janitor. I found the man guilty. That
is why I sent him to prison.”166 If high officials maintained their own prisons,167
this would merely be an extension of the government’s power to set up prisons.
Ordinary houses, especially buildings belonging to a judge’s residence, could
be used as prisons, as was the house of Bilâl in al-Kûfah.168 Prisons were known
under various names.169 If one spoke familiarly about “our prison” (meaning
59 the prison of al-Baṣrah),170 it probably indicated the | main prison in town. For
larger cities, such as al-Baṣrah, the existence of more than one prison can be
assumed. Prison buildings were not an attractive or outstanding part of a city’s
scenery and did not rate prominent mention in topographical works, but the
latter occasionally refer to them.171
ʿUyûn, ed. Brockelmann, 102–105; ed. Cairo, I, 79–82. For a prison budget from ca. 900, cf.
aṣ-Ṣâbiʾ, Wuzarâʾ (Cairo, 1958), 26.
166 Wakîʿ, Akhbâr al-quḍâh, II, 279, 308. The second version reads: “… and the official is your
official. You give orders, and you are obeyed.” Cf. also above, n. 109.
167 This, probably, is the origin of “the prison of the wazîr” in Baghdâd, mentioned by Ibn
al-Fuwaṭî, Ḥawâdith, 126 f.
168 Wakîʿ, Akhbâr al-quḍâh, III, 165. The jurists’ reconstruction of prison history in Islam
(above, n. 90) includes the statement that ʿUmar converted a private house into a jail.
169 As were ʿAlî’s prisons, referred to by as-Sarakhsî, Mabsûṭ, XX, 88ff. Cf. also “the prison of
ʿÂrim,” located, presumably, in aṭ-Ṭâʾif and mentioned in connection with the history of Ibn
az-Zubayr, cf. al-Balâdhurî, Ansâb, ed. M. Schloessinger (Jerusalem, 1938–1940), IVB, 27;
aṭ-Ṭabarî, Annales, II, 226f.; al-Masʿûdî, Murûj (Cairo, 1346), II, 100; ed. Paris, V, 176; Yâqût,
Muʿjam, ed. Wüstenfeld, III, 585 f.; Kitâb al-Aghânî (Bûlâq, 1285), II, 151; VIII, 32f.; (Cairo,
1345–), II, 408; IX, 15 f. Further, al-Maqrîzî (below, n. 171).
170 Wakîʿ, op. cit., I, 27f. The most common way of referring to prisons is to have the word
prison followed by the name of the city or locality where it was situated, such as “the prison
of Damascus,” “the prison of Ḥarrân,” etc. (aṭ-Ṭabarî, Annales, II, 1877; III, 43).
171 Al-Khaṭîb al-Baghdâdî, Taʾrîkh Baghdâd, I, 87, thus refers to “the new prison” in Baghdâd.
His source was Wakîʿ who as a judge was well informed about the prisons of the city. “The
New Prison” was, it seems, a popular designation; there was one also in Damascus, cf. Ibn
Shaddâd, al-Aʿlâq al-khaṭîrah, ed. S. ad-Dahhân (Damascus, 1375/1956), 272.
Al-Maqrîzî, Khiṭaṭ, II, 187ff., has a brief chapter on the prisons of Cairo. Cf. also Khiṭaṭ,
I, 424, 463; II, 213.
Topographical descriptions in geographical works also happen occasionally to refer
to prisons, cf., for instance, al-Yaʿqûbî, Buldân, ed. M.J. de Goeje, 2nd ed. (Leiden, 1892.
Bibliotheca Geographorum Arabicorum, VII), 240, l. 15f., and 260, l. 15f.
There were different kinds of prisons for the various types of criminals.
According to Ibn Ḥazm, as quoted by Abû l-Qâsim b. Riḍwân in the Shuhub
al-lâmiʿah,172
the authorities (imâm) should charge every appointee with maintaining

a maximum security (thaqîf ) prison for incorrigible (dhuʿʿâr) and poten-
tially dangerous criminals, and another one for respectable (mastûr) per-
sons who are being held for debts incurred or for the purpose of corrective
punishment (âdâb), or similar reasons. He should supervise the condi-
tions of all of them in all these matters. He should also maintain a separate
prison for women. It would be good if there could be a special prison for
respectable women who are being held for debts incurred or for the pur-
pose of corrective punishment, which would be separate from the prison
for women held on the suspicion of infamous (qabîḥ) crimes.
The sexes were, of course, always supposed to be kept separate in prison.173 60

That this was allegedly not done by al-Ḥajjâj when he was governor of the ʿIrâq
scandalized authors who wrote many centuries later.174 However, we hear of a
prison in al-Kûfah, not long before the time of al-Ḥajjâj, where both men and
women were held imprisoned together for political reasons.174a
The type of prison meant in a given story was occasionally clarified. For
instance, in a story about the poet, Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah, whose experiences in
prison were discussed frequently, the prison he was sent to is expressly indi-
cated to have been an institution for criminals (sijn al-jarâʾim); it appears to
172 Cf. above, n. 117. Al-Maqrîzî, loc. cit., also speaks about strict and less strict prisons, prisons
for officers and civilian dignitaries and prisons for criminals. One of the prisons listed
by him (cf. also Khiṭaṭ, II, 67, l. 20), that of the Daylam Quarter, was referred to in the
seventeenth century as an institution for criminals (mujrimûn), highway robbers (quṭṭâʿ),
and lawless elements (ʿuṣâh), in al-Mîlawî, Bughyat al-musâmir, Ms. ar. Cambridge 136 (Qq
194), fol. 43a.
Whether there actually existed a special prison building for heretics (zindîqs) at the
time of Abû Nuwâs, as suggested by Kitâb al-Aghânî, XIII, 74, may be doubted.
173 Cf. Ibn ʿAbdûn, trans. É. Lévi-Provençal, Séville musulmane au début du Xlle siècle (Paris
1947), 40. Ibn Shâhîn, Book of Comfort, ed. J. Obermann (New Haven-Paris, 1933. Yale
Oriental Series, Researches, XVII), 3, describes pre-Islamic Jewish conditions.
We hear that Muʿâwiyah kept a woman in the prison of Damascus for two years; in this
connection no mention of separate facilities for women is made, cf. Aḥmad b. Abî Ṭayfûr,
Balâghât an-nisâʾ, 64.
174 Ad-Damîrî, Ḥayawân, I, 192 f.
174a Aṭ-Ṭabarî, Annales, II, 767.
have been unusual for a man who had committed no crime but was detained
at the whim of the ruler to be held in this type of prison.175
A debtors’ prison was much more leniently guarded than other prisons.
If it was feared that one of its inmates might escape, the judge could have
him transferred to the thieves’ prison, provided that there existed no hostility
between him and the thieves so that he might suffer no harm from them.176
The evil custom of keeping people imprisoned in madhouses is attested from
thirteenth-century Baghdâd.176a
61 The supervision of prisons was generally recognized to be one of the duties
of the judge.177 Appointments to the position of prison warden could be made
by the judge or the chief of police.178
If prisoners had money, they could provide all kinds of comfort for them-
selves. Thus, when Judge Shurayḥ jailed his own son who had stood surety for
someone else’s defaulted debt, he ordered his servants to carry blankets and
pillows to the prison for his son’s comfort.179 If prisoners had no money, they
were dependent on the public treasury or on charity.180 Actually, the ruler was
supposed to see to it that the prisoners’ needs of food and clothing were taken
care of, that they were protected against the inclemencies of the weather, and
that the prisons were kept clean.181 Medical services were probably obtained
only with considerable difficulty. In the early tenth century, during a year of
much illness, the wazîr, ʿAlî b. ʿÎsâ, ordered the head of Baghdâd’s hospitals,
Sinân b. Thâbit, to take care of the numerous inmates of prisons who “were pre-
vented from looking after themselves and from visiting and consulting physi-
175 At-Tanûkhî, al-Faraj baʿd ash-shiddah (Cairo, 1357/1938), I, 102, ch. 5. The kind of prison is
not indicated in Ibn Qutaybah, loc. cit. (above, n. 165). Cf. also above, n. 172.
176 Qâḍîkhân, Fatâwî, III, 154.
176a Ibn al-Fuwaṭî, Ḥawâdith, 2, 14, 24.
177 Cf., for instance, D. Santillana, op. cit. (above, n. 75), II, 566; al-ʿAllâmah al-Ḥillî, Tabṣirah,
II, 497.
178 Wakîʿ, Akhbâr al-quḍâh, I, 253 f. The office was not always a safe one, cf., for instance,
the story from early Medina reported by Ibn Ḥabîb, Muḥabbar, ed. I. Lichtenstädter
(Hyderabad, 1361/1942), 227 f.
A Christian prison warden was considered a possibility for early al-Kûfah, cf. Kitâb
al-Aghânî (Bûlâq, 1285), IV, 186; (Cairo, 1345–), V, 143.
179 Wakîʿ, op. cit., II, 308, 317. Cf. also as-Sarakhsî, Mabsûṭ, XX, 88ff.
180 Cf. R. Levy, op. cit. (above, n. 118), 354. For pious men, there was the additional problem
whether food that had come in contact with prison officials was legally permitted for
consumption, cf. the story of Dhû n-Nûn cited above, n. 161.
181 Abû l-Qâsim b. Riḍwân, op. cit.
cians about their ills.”182 It follows from this report that general arrangements
for regular medical care for prison inmates did not exist even in a very large
and prosperous city. Impecunious prisoners did not | have it easier than other 62
poor people to find competent physicians.
Prison inmates occasionally did work from which the government reaped
the profit, such as weaving belts, and the like.183 Of course, they often continued
to follow the same evil ways that had brought them into jail.184 Prison condi-
tions in twelfth-century Sevilla were described by Ibn ʿAbdûn:185 Prisons were
inspected two or three times each month. Attention was paid to not holding
anyone in prison unnecessarily or for too long a time. Inmates were not to have
much money on them. The warden and the guards were not permitted to shake
them down for money.186 There should not be too many guards as they would
want to live on the charity contributions intended for the upkeep of the prison-
ers. Prisoners were to be chained only when this was absolutely necessary. The
prison had a prayer leader—that is, a prison chaplain—who was to be present
at all prayers and was to be paid from waqf foundations.187 Old and worn car-
pets from the mosque were used as floor coverings in prisons.
Ibn ʿAbdûn’s description was meant to correspond to reality, and prisons
may occasionally have been administrated in such a progressive manner. Vari-
ations in prison conditions can be assumed to have been as numerous as there
were prisons, but | general considerations make it appear likely that prison 63
conditions tended to be bad, despite the best intentions. For fifteenth-century
prosperous Egypt, for instance, a gloomy picture was drawn by al-Maqrîzî, who
appears to have been well informed on the subject.187a
182 Ibn Abî Uṣaybiʿah, I, 221.

183 Cf. below, p. 69. Al-Maqrîzî, Khiṭaṭ, II, 187 (cf. also II, 68, l. 20), referred to the fact that
prisoners were mercilessly exploited for hard and menial labor. In the modern Yemen,
they are said to be used for most of the government chores, cf. J. Heyworth Dunne, in
Middle Eastern Affairs, IX (1958), 56.
184 Cf. above, n. 97, about thieves stealing in prison. For problems resulting from manslaugh-
ter in prison, cf. Qâḍîkhân, Fatâwî, IV, 448.
185 Op. cit. (above, n. 173), 39 ff., 48.
186 Abû l-Qâsim b. Riḍwân, op. cit., said that it was the duty of the ruler to protect prisoners
against such extortions, and he hinted darkly that terrible things were done in this respect
at various times. Al-Maqrîzî, Khiṭaṭ, II, 187, considered the embezzlement of money
destined for the upkeep of prisoners a widespread custom.
187 According to Ibn Ḥazm, apud Abû l-Qâsim b. Riḍwân, the prison chaplain was to be paid
by the public treasury (bayt mâl al-Muslimîn).
187a Khiṭaṭ, II, 187.
It was always stressed that prisoners should be allowed to pray in order to

fulfill the requirements of the religious law.188 A joke about prison chaplains
leads us back into the eighth century.189 A moving anecdote is told about
ash-Shâfiʿî’s pupil, al-Buwayṭî (d. 845–846). Every Friday while he was in prison,
al-Buwayṭî washed and perfumed himself and cleaned his clothes. Then, when
he heard the call to prayer, he went to the gate of the prison. There, the guard
told him every time to go back, and he then exclaimed, “O Lord, I responded
to your call, but they prevented me from going.”190 Apparently, there was no
prison chaplain connected with this prison. His inability to worship as the Law
required him to do was considered by al-Buwayṭî as the saddest aspect of his
loss of liberty.
The treatment of imprisoned debtors was lenient, probably much more so
than was that of criminals even under favorable circumstances:
There is a difference of opinion as to whether an imprisoned debtor can

work for a living. Shams-al-aʾimmah as-Sarakhsi191 said, ‘The correct opin-
ion is that he should be prevented from doing so.’ Other authorities said
that he should not be prevented from working, because in this way, he
might be able to provide for his own living expenses and those of his fam-
ily. He should not be permitted to visit the bath but should remove his
body hair in prison. He should not be prevented from having visitors, nor
64 from dressing (as he likes). | Nor should he be prevented from using per-
fume, or from eating and trading. There is nothing wrong with him having
his wife or slave girl visit him when he needs to have intercourse. He must
be together with her in a spot where nobody can watch him. However, it is
the opinion of Abû Yûsuf, on the authority of Abû Ḥanîfah, that he should
be prevented from having sexual intercourse with either free women or
slave girls, because preventing someone from having sexual intercourse
cannot cause his death, but it may give him added annoyance, and this
then might cause him to pay off his debt.192
188 Cf. R. Levy, loc. cit. (above, n. 180).

189 F. Rosenthal, Humor in Early Islam (Leiden, 1956), 50, 63.
190 As-Subkî, Ṭabaqât, I, 276. However, an almost identical story was also told by as-Subkî
about the unorthodox Ibn Karrâm, op. cit., II, 53 f.
191 That is, the author of the Mabsûṭ, who lived in the eleventh century, cf. GAL, I, 373, GAL,
Suppl., I, 638.
192 Qâḍîkhân, Fatâwî, III, 153 f. From pre-Islamic times we hear that the wife of ʿAdî b. Zayd
(above, n. 88) was permitted to visit him in prison, cf. Nashwân al-Ḥimyarî, al-Ḥûr al-ʿîn
(Cairo, 1948), 78 f.
However, no matter how lenient the treatment in prison might have been at
times, the thought of prison was as repulsive to most Muslims as it was and is
to men living in other civilizations. The extreme case of someone committing
suicide on his way to prison was mentioned by Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, who
was deeply interested in the problem of suicide.193 It is especially regrettable in
this instance that the author gives no further details about the circumstances
of the case.
A prolonged stay in prison could produce a strong desire for freedom and
lead people to all sorts of desperate measures.194 Prison breaks appear to have
been common and often dramatic. For example, in 645/1247–1248, three indi-
viduals who were held in the prison (maṭmûrah) of Wâsiṭ, bored a tunnel, lead-
ing to the house of a Jew, and escaped through it. But one of the three went to a
high official and told him that his two fellow prisoners had threatened him with
death and forced him to escape with them. He also told him about the crime for
which he had been jailed. This man was sent back to prison as a formality and
soon | discharged. His two companions were captured and again imprisoned.195 65
Amnesties occurred not infrequently. More often than not, they affected
political prisoners, but criminals whose crimes were light and who did not
face a ḥadd penalty, as well as those languishing in the debtors’ prison, were
not forgotten. Unfortunately, our sources usually do not tell us what kind
of prisoners were released.196 In times of serious disturbances, prisons were
among the targets picked by the mob to express their disgust with prevailing
conditions. They were symbols of political oppression, and when the mob
stormed them and released the prisoners, they probably intended in the first
place to liberate political captives, but it then happened that all the inmates
were set free without discrimination.197
193 Cf. Miskawayh and Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, Hawâmil, 152f. For at-Tawḥîdî’s discussion of
suicide in his Muqâbasât, cf. JAOS, LXVI (1946), 249 f. A similar situation, where it was
feared that a prisoner might commit suicide by jumping from a bridge, is mentioned in
aṭ-Ṭabarî, Annales, II, 1263, anno 94; there, it is a political prisoner who was afraid of what
might happen to him.
194 Cf. above, n. 116, and Ibn al-Fuwaṭî, Ḥawâdith, 269 f.
195 Ibn al-Fuwaṭî, Ḥawâdith, 217f., also 142 f., 372. Cf., further, Ibn Ḥabîb, Muḥabbar, 191.
196 Cf., for instance, aṭ-Ṭabarî, Annales, II, 1337; al-Jahshiyârî, Wuzarâʾ, ed. H. von Mžik
(Leipzig, 1926. Bibliothek arabischer Historiker und Geographen, I), 180; Wakîʿ, Akhbâr al-
quḍâh, III, 300 (al-Wâthiq released some of the persons jailed by Ibn Abî Duʾâd after he
had broken with the latter); Ibn al-Fuwaṭî, Ḥawâdith, 47, 164, 177, 194; al-Kutubî, Fawât, I,
162 (Baybars).
197 Aṭ-Ṭabarî, Annales, III, 1510 f., anno 249–863, cf. above, p. 45, n. 118. Cf. also Miskawayh,
in Amedroz and Margoliouth, Eclipse, I, 74; trans., IV, 81, anno 307/919–920; the same
Of particular interest for the understanding of the Muslim attitude toward

the concept of freedom are reflections on prison life coming from the intellec-
tual elite. For political and financial reasons, and sometimes also because of
youthful mistakes later outgrown, a good number of distinguished men had a
taste of prison life in their lives. Princes and statesmen were able to reminisce
about their experiences in prison,198 or, if they did not speak for themselves,
66 the historians, on innumerable oc|casions, spoke for them. Reports on scholars
who wrote scholarly works, sometimes voluminous and important ones, while
in jail, are frequent.199 Poets started their poetic careers in the enforced leisure
of imprisonment,200 or continued with their chosen profession while deprived
of their liberty.201 If they were in a lighter mood, they were not easily shocked
by minor crimes and could treat imprisonment as a joke. This was done, for
instance, by a certain Ibn Kharûf (d. 1207–1208) in that witty combination of
high and low sentiments which was so highly appreciated by Muslim poets and
their audiences. The occasion for the verses was the action of a judge who had
jailed a young friend of the poet for a minor theft:
Judge of the Muslims, you have pronounced a sentence

That made time frown when it came out:
You have sent to prison a handsome boy for a few dirhams.
Yet, you did not jail him for ravishing human souls.202
incident seems to be meant in al-Khaṭîb al-Baghdâdî, Taʾrîkh Baghdâd, I, 75f.; G. Le

Strange, Baghdad (Oxford, 1900), 44. Cf. also at-Tanûkhî, Faraj, II, 80.
198 Cf., for instance, above, n. 164.
199 For instance, as-Sarakhsî, the author of the Mabsûṭ, cf. ʿAbd-al-Qâdir al-Qurashî, Jawâhir,
II, 28 f.; GAL, Suppl., I, 638; O. Spies, in Oriens, IX (1956), 357.
Ibn Taymîyah, cf. al-Kutubî, Fawât, I, 71. He also instructed his fellow prisoners in
religious matters.
200 This, for instance, seems to have been the case with the ninth-century poet, Ibn aṭ-Ṭabîb
(al-Kutubî, Fawât, I, 17), or the famous Mutanabbīʾ (GAL, I, 86f.).
201 Thus, Abû Firâs wrote poetry while in a Byzantine prison (GAL, I, 89). Poets in jail often
had an opportunity to use their talents in attempts to influence the man who had sent
them there. Members of the nobility wrote poetry in prison, such as the ninth-century
ʿAlid, Muḥammad b. Ṣâliḥ, or the great-grandson of Ibn ʿAbbâs, ʿAbd-al-Malik b. Ṣâliḥ, who
missed his friends in jail but was proud to have learned through his stay in prison that
he was able to get along without them (al-Kutubî, Fawât, II, 439, 30f.). Cf. Abû Ḥayyân
at-Tawḥîdî, Fî ṣ-Ṣadâqah, 142: “Three have no friends, the dead, the poor, and prisoners.”
202 Ibn Saʿîd (putative author), al-Ghuṣûn al-yâniʿah, ed. I. al-Ibyârî (Cairo, n. y. [the date of the
preface, 1945, should presumably read 1954 or 1955]. Dhakhâʾir al-ʿArab, XIV), 141; al-Kutubî,
Fawât, II, 160.
In view of the commonness of the experience, it is not surprising to find

literary works devoting some pages to imprison|ment and to the reaction of 67
those affected. Ibn al-Buḥturî’s twelfth-century collection of entertaining sto-
ries, compiled as it was by a prisoner for future fellow sufferers, quite naturally
featured a chapter on prison life with many poetical quotations on the sub-
ject.203 An older source is the Kitâb al-Maḥâsin wa-l-masâwî by a certain Bay-
haqî, who wrote in the early decades of the tenth century. The work contains a
long section on “the bad experiences of those who aroused the ire (of the men
in power) and were sent to prison.” A much shorter chapter deals with “the
virtues of imprisonment,” but let it be said at once that only a small part of this
short chapter is devoted to extolling any alleged virtues of prison life.204
Al-Bayhaqî’s chapter on the evil aspects of prison life starts with a reference
to Joseph, the Yûsuf of the Qurʾân. Yûsuf complained about his long imprison-
ment and was informed by a divine revelation that he had brought his mis-
ery upon himself when he said: “I prefer prison to what they want from me
(12.33/33).” He should have said, “I prefer safety (ʿâfiyah),” and it would have
been granted to him.205 Yûsuf is also credited here with initiating, or, at least,
representing at an early date in history, the practice of scribbling messages on
prison walls. He wrote, “This is the habitation of sorrow, the grave of the living,
something that makes one’s enemies rejoice, something that tests (the affec-
tion of) one’s friends.”206
203 Uns al-masjûn wa-râḥat al-maḥzûn, Ms. ar. Brit. Mus. 1097 (add. 19,534), fols. 29b–44b. Cf.
GAL, I, 352.
204 Al-Bayhaqî, al-Maḥâsin wa-l-masâwî, ed. F. Schwally (Giessen, 1902), 556–578 and 578–581.
A good deal of the material, in particular, the two long poems cited below, also appears
in the Kitâb al-Maḥâsin wa-l-aḍdâd, wrongly ascribed to al-Jâḥiẓ (Beirut, n. y. [1955], 44ff.).
The chapter on the virtues of imprisonment is described there more fittingly as the chapter
on “the virtues of patience in the face of imprisonment.”
205 Cf. Ibn Qutaybah, loc. cit. (above, n. 165); al-Mâwardî, Adab ad-dunyâ wa-d-dîn, 210.
206 Cf. Ibn Qutaybah, loc. cit. (above, n. 165), and Ibn al-Buḥturî, Uns al-masjûn, fol. 29b. The
fact that Yûsuf had been imprisoned could serve as a consolation for noble prisoners, as
in the verses of the famous poet, al-Buḥturî, addressed to the future caliph, al-Muʿtazz, cf.
al-Kutubî, Fawât, II, 375. Cf., further, Aḥmad b. Aḥmad b. ʿAbd-al-Laṭîf ash-Sharjî, Tuḥfat
al-aṣḥâb, Ms. ar. Yale University L-443 (Catalogue Nemoy, no. 471), fol. 17b. [Ash-Sharjî died
in 893/1488, cf. GAL, Suppl., II, 254. His work is mentioned by as-Sakhâwî, Ḍawʾ (Cairo,
1353–1355), I, 214, under the title of Nuzhat al-aḥbâb, cf. also GAL2, II, 243. The entry GAL,
II, 399, no. 3, Suppl., II, 543, is to be deleted, as is the listing of the work under an-Nahrawâlî,
GAL, Suppl., II, 515.]
Another inscription, cited by Ibn al-Buḥturî, fol. 30a, and said to have been found in
the prison of al-Baṣrah, read:
68 Yûsuf also composed prayers suitable for prison inmates, “which are known
among them to this very day: O Lord, make the hearts of all good men inclined
toward them, and do not conceal from them anything that is going on in the
world.207 For everybody has compassion for them, and they know everything
that goes on in the world.” In this connection, we may mention another prayer
spoken in prison. It was quoted by al-Jâḥiẓ, in his Kitâb al-Bayân wa-t-tabyîn.
It can serve as a good indication of what went through the mind of a prisoner
who was faced with the dangers and discomforts of prison life: “I am asking You
for protection against imprisonment and debts, against abuse and beatings,
against collaring and chaining, and against being tortured and spied upon. I am
asking You for protection against reverses after abundance208 and against the
evil that enemies may cause to my life, my family, and my property. I am asking
69 You for protection against worry and | sleeplessness, against being a fugitive
and being hunted, against having to submit and going into hiding, against
banishment and exile in a foreign country, against (becoming the victim of) lies
and calumny, against being accused and slandered behind my back, and against
the meanness of power and finding myself disgraced in both this world and the
other world. ‘For You have power over everything’ (Qurʾân 3.26/25, etc.).”209
Al-Bayhaqî continued with a story concerning the caliph, al-Mahdî, and an
upstanding heretic who had been imprisoned for his heresy and the political
implications it held. This is followed by the pre-Islamic story of the sad fate
suffered by the poet, ʿAdî b. Zayd, in his relations with the ruler of al-Ḥîrah.210
Then, there are many other stories involving important personalities from the
heyday of the ʿAbbâsid caliphate, all of whom had some trouble that sent them
to prison. However, the fact that they spent time in prison is only incidental to
those stories. Nor can the moral breakdown suffered by many of the individu-
als involved be attributed to their stay in prison as such; rather it resulted from
the strain imposed upon them by the major uncertainties threatening them.
Interspersed among these stories are a few verses and official replies to peti-
Don’t despair of relief!

Those who were here before you left.
Verses by Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah written on the prison wall were quoted by al-Mâwardî, Adab
ad-dunyâ wa-d-dîn, 86.
207 This was quoted by Abû l-Qâsim b. Riḍwân as proof of the ruler’s duty to take care of people
in prison (above, n. 117). Cf. also Ibn Qutaybah, loc. cit. (above, n. 165).
208 This is a quotation from a Prophetic tradition, cf. Lisân al-ʿArab, V, 269.
209 Al-Jâḥiẓ, Bayân (Cairo, 1332), III, 143.
210 Cf. above, nn. 88 and 192.
tions (tawqîʿ), exhorting prisoners to face their predicament with patience. The
great poet and prince, Ibn al-Muʿtazz, is cited as having described his fate in
these words:210a
I learned to weave belts in prison,

I who had been a powerful man before I was imprisoned.
I, who formerly rode noble horses, have been put in chains.
The revolution of the firmament caused my predicament, nothing else.
Surely, you have seen a bird in his element, the air, 70
Almost touch starry heaven.211
When the vicissitudes of time took note of it,
They caused it to fall into the meshes of the hunter’s net.
The bird, from the high mountain, falls prey to hunters,
And from the depth of the ocean, fish are captured.
Freedom, thus, was a gift of fate, like everything else in this world. Man likes it
and wishes to possess it, but it is not different from any other good or bad thing.
Whatever is decreed for one, he must accept patiently.
The poet ʿAlî b. al-Jahm (d. 863) displayed an attitude that was not quite as
simple. He was convinced of the intrinsic superiority of the free and noble man
(ḥurr) who, he said, would find it hard to humiliate himself and beg and make
apologies.212 In the spirit of the little known poet, Shamardal al-Bajalî, who had
once said,
If you find yourself in a prison that permits no escape—

How many free, generous men of parts are in it!213
210a The first two verses (with a different first hemistich of the second verse) were ascribed
to (Ibn?) Bâbak by ath-Thaʿâlibî, Yatîmah, IV, 72 (the same man as the one mentioned
in H. Ritter, Die Geheimnisse der Wortkunst [Asrâr al-balâġa] des ʿAbdalqâhir al-Curcânî
[Wiesbaden, 1959. Bibliotheca Islamica, XIX], 154 f.?).
211 The words translated “starry heaven” are derived from Qurʾân 51.7/7.
212 Dîwân, ed. Khalîl Mardam Bey (Damascus, 1369/1949), 149; al-Masʿûdî, Murûj, II, 388.
213 Al-Âmidî, al-Muʾtalif wa-l-mukhtalif (Cairo, 1350), 139.
The idea that imprisonment is no disgrace for a good man and that it may reveal the
true worth of a person, is the main theme of Ibn al-Jahm’s long poem quoted below and
also occurs repeatedly in Ibn al-Buḥturî’s Uns al-masjûn, cf., for instance,
Imprisonment is the touchstone of the intellect and the test of hope. It tests a free
man’s patience and reveals concealed qualities of intellect and character.
Or, the verses ascribed to ʿUmar b. ash-Shiḥnah al-Mawṣilî:

71 Ibn al-Jahm considered imprisonment as something that could not touch a

man who was sure of his own worth. But he also considered it as one of the
vicissitudes of fate that might become the lot of human beings as a matter
of course. The long poem he composed on his stay in prison is supposed to
have been the first of its kind on the subject.214 It also provided the only
legitimate material for al-Bayhaqî to use in his chapter on the virtues of prison
life. However, it must be said that the purpose of the poem was the same as
that of many other poems composed in prison, namely, to obtain the poet’s
release; therefore, prison may after all not have seemed to Ibn al-Jahm such a
desirable place to be in. A translation of the poem, following the recent edition
of Ibn al-Jahm’s Dîwân215 which differs from al-Bayhaqî’s quotation mainly in
the sequence of the verses, runs as follows:
She said, “You are in prison,” and I replied: Being in prison

Does me no harm. Where is the good sharp sword that is not put (at times
back) into the scabbard?
Surely, you know that the lion likes to stay in his lair
Proudly, while the low beasts go back and forth.215a
If the sun were not concealed
From your eyes, the star al-Farqad would not seem to be bright.
It is no disgrace for free men to be in prison if they are there

Not because of the commission of a crime. In fact, their imprisonment is an honor
for them.
They may be compared to swords and brilliant pearls imprisoned,
In order to guard them, within scabbards and shells.
The same idea was also used by al-Mutanabbīʾ, cf. ath-Thaʿâlibî, Yatîmah, I, 80, and
ash-Sharjî, loc. cit. (n. 206). Cf. also below, n. 215a.
214 According to al-Masʿûdî, Murûj, II, 387. It is well known that such statements are not
always as exact as one might wish.
215 Pp. 41–47, where references to citations in other works are given. Cf. O. Rescher, Abriss der
arabischen Litteraturgeschichte (Istambul-Stuttgart, 1925–1933), II, 35.
215a Cf. the imitation of these verses by Usâmah b. Munqidh (al-ʿImâd al-Iṣfahânî, Kharîdah
[Syrian poets] [Damascus, 1375/1955], 505; Yâqût, Irshâd, ed. Margoliouth, II, 177; ed. Rifâʿî,
V, 198):
They respect and fear you while you are

In their prison. Thus, swords are respected and feared.
For high-minded men prison is not a disrespectable place.
It is what the lair is for the lion.
The moon reaches the last days of the month, then the days
Go by, and she looks again like new.
Rain is held back in the clouds and is not seen,
But then it starts to fall, with the wind blowing and the rumbling of 72
thunder.
Fire is hidden in the stone
And is not kindled unless it216 is stirred by steel.
The sections of Zâʿibî spears217 can be straightened
Only with the help of the proper instrument and a hot fire.
The vicissitudes of time come once, come again.
Property is but a loan. It is obtained and exhausted.
Each situation is followed by another one, and occasionally
You find that something praised highly turns out to be unpleasant.
Never despair of seeing the end of (your) sorrow
Because of some matter an unhappy moment throws at you.
How many sick persons were close to death
But recovered while their physicians and the visitors who came to see
them died.
Patience! For patience brings relief eventually.218
No power can match that of the caliph.
Prison, unless one goes there because of a low,
Despicable deed, is a good residence to settle in,
A house that gives new nobility to the noble person,
Where he may receive visitors but does not have to go out and pay visits,
and where he has service.219
If the only advantage of being in prison were that
The slaves (of the ruler) do not humiliate you by not giving you access (to
him, it would be sufficient).
O Aḥmad b. Abî Duʾâd,220 you
Are called upon in connection with every important matter, O Aḥmad.
216 That is, the fire, and not the stone. The latter would be possible grammatically.
217 Zâʿibî supposedly refers to the name of a man or a locality, or is derived from the root zʿb
“to run smoothly,” according to Lisân al-ʿArab, I, 432.
218 Al-Bayhaqî has: “for today is always followed by a tomorrow.”
219 The reading yaḥmadu would yield the meaning, “to show his gratefulness (for visits paid
him),” instead of “where he has service.” However, the poet used the root ḥ-m-d as a rhyme
word before, and he would hardly use it again.
220 Born in 776, he died in 854, cf. K.V. Zetterstéen and C. Pellat, in EI2, s.v., I, 271. Cf. also above,
n. 196.
Inform the caliph, whom (I cannot reach because) the way to him is
barred
By hostile territory and an inexhaustible number of dangers, as follows:
You, the cousins of the Prophet Muḥammad,
73 Possess the best knowledge of his law and religion.
You represent whatever is good.
You are a goodly race nourished in goodly soil.
Is it fair, O cousin of Muḥammad,
To give access to one party only and keep the other party away?
Those who came to you and accused me falsely
Are opposed to the undeniable favors you showed me.
They were present while we were absent, and they passed judgment
Upon us. There is a great difference between being present and being
absent!
If the two parties could be together in your presence
At some time, you would recognize the right path.
If I could live eternally but could have but
One day to sit in the presence of the ruler, the caliph,
While my opponent argues his case, and I argue mine,
I would succeed with my arguments, and he, with his strange arguments,
would fail.
God does whatever He means to do with His creation.
Tomorrow all our ways will lead to Him.
When I go, he who tried to detain me
Cannot be expected to last, but we shall meet at the same place.
For what sin was our honor221 allowed to become
A prey for the mean and the lowly to expose?
The impression given by ʿAlî b. al-Jahm’s verses that prison life had its favorable
aspects, was challenged by a certain ʿÂṣim b. Muḥammad al-Kâtib,222 who had
221 Honor was the free Muslim’s most cherished possession, cf., for instance, the words
directed by ʿAbd-al-Malik b. Marwân to the tutor of his sons, as quoted by Usâmah b.
Munqidh, Lubâb al-âdâb (Cairo, 1354/1935), 230:
Prevent them from making aspersions upon the honor of others, for free men have
no substitute for their honor.
Cf. also Bichr Farès, L’ Honneur chez les Arabes avant l’Islam (Paris 1932).
222 He is no doubt identical with the poet listed in al-Marzubânî, Muʿjam ash-shuʿarâʾ (Cairo,
been imprisoned by one Aḥmad b. ʿAbd-al-ʿAzîz. His reply is also found in

al-Bayhaqî:
She said, “You are in prison,” and I replied: A nasty business, 74

Visited upon me by fate lying in wait for me.
If I were free, I would be able to do whatever I want.
I would not be held forcibly and put in chains.
Or I would be like the good sharp sword and would not be
Put into the scabbard at a time when painful and disagreeable things
happen.
Or I would be like the savage lion when wolves invade
My pasture, and my fire would burn hot.
Whoever says that a prison is a noble house
Must be a hardy person who smiles when he says it.
Prison is a habitation that is vile through and through
And mean and full of an inexhaustible amount of disagreeable things.
If an enemy visits me in prison, he rejoices at my misfortune,
Making a show of grief at times, and (then again) making fun (of me).
If a friend visits me, he feels true grief,
Shedding tears with recurring sighs.
It should be enough for you to know that a prison is a habitation where
you never see
Anyone ever envied for being in it.
1354), 273. According to al-Marzubânî, he was connected with Ibn Abî l-Baghl. There
were two brothers called Ibn Abî l-Baghl, Abû l-Ḥasan and Abû l-Ḥusayn. They were
politicians who achieved prominence during the caliphate of al-Muqtadir. One of them
was Aḥmad b. Muḥammad b. Yaḥyâ (cf. ʿArîb, Ṭabarî continuatus, ed. M.J. de Goeje, Leiden,
1897, 40). Since the names Aḥmad b. Muḥammad are mentioned near the end of the
poem quoted here, he qualifies as the addressee of the poem. It may, however, be noted
that the names of the two Ibn Abî l-Baghl, (and their relationship) are not quite certain.
Miskawayh (cf. H.F. Amedroz and D.S. Margoliouth, The Eclipse of the ʿAbbasid Caliphate,
Oxford, 1920–1921, I, 21) has Abû l-Ḥasan Aḥmad b. Yaḥyâ and Ibn an-Nadîm, Fihrist (ed.
Flügel, 137; ed. Cairo, 1348, 197), lists Abû l-Ḥusayn Muḥammad b. Yaḥyâ, but at-Tanûkhî,
Table-Talk (above, n. 108), has ʿAlî b. Aḥmad b. Yaḥyâ and Muḥammad b. Aḥmad. [Cf. now
also H. Ritter, Die Geheimnisse der Wortkunst (above, n. 210a), 153f.]
“ʿAbd-al-ʿAzîz” appears to be a mistake, although the occurrence of such a mistake
is hard to explain. Schwally, following Pseudo-Jâḥiẓ (n. 204), suggested that Aḥmad b.
ʿAbd-al-ʿAzîz be identified with Ibn Abî Dulaf (d. 280/893–894); however, there is no basis
for this suggestion.
For a while, we lived well. Then, the vicissitudes of time

And its constant changes made us stumble.
My steps have became short, not because I have grown old,
But because I lie fettered in iron,
In a dungeon in which day is similar
To night, and in which darkness is constant.
Night after night I feel no desire
For sleep, and what is life if one cannot sleep?
My eye asks me how long it will be kept awake.
75 My heart asks me how long it will feel grief.
I have only water to break my fast.
What kind of a life does he lead whose only food is water?
When I rise to pray during the night,223
The chains drag down my knees, making me prostrate myself.
How long will this trouble go on growing?
How long will this misfortune go on renewing itself constantly?
O Lord, have compassion with my homelessness, and restore me!
I am homeless, isolated, confused.
I have no protector except my master who
Always took care of me. A good master is he!
My life was nourished by gifts
Of his giving and by undeniable benefits (received from him).
For twenty years, I lived under his wing
Like a king, and my situation improved steadily.
When I deviated from the right path, he said to me,
“Go slow! This is the right way.”
And he turned me back gently to where
Lay my well-being, and to the proper path.
To my dismay, I was forced to leave him.
God knows and is my witness for what I say!
My enemy has come to occupy my place in his heart
And has filled it with fiery coals that are never extinguished.
Let us assume that I did wrong, but why were you angry at my wrongdo-
ing?
Since I started keeping company with you, I have never once observed you
getting angry.
In fact, you always felt it to be the noble thing to forgive all sins,
223 Leg. tahajjudan.

And you always forgave and disregarded the mistakes of others.

Thus, consider it a good deed to forgive the sin of your slave.
Anger is a quality that has no place with you.
Remember my special dignity224 and positions
In the days when you considered praiseworthy whatever I did!
O Aḥmad b. Muḥammad,225 generous man,
Be to me as you were before, O Aḥmad!
Do not give my enemies reason for rejoicing at my misfortunes, and let
me go free,
For the whiteness of your face, as my face is black.
Al-Bayhaqî, finally, quoted a few lines of poetry, ascribed to either Jaʿfar b. 76

Khâlid al-Barmakî or ʿAbdallâh b. Muʿâwiyah b. ʿAbdallâh b. Jaʿfar b. Abî Ṭâlib.226
Far from praising prison life, these verses are another bitter denunciation of the
frustrations suffered by those who were forcibly deprived of their freedom. A
later jurist in fact quoted them to this effect.227
We prefer to complain to God about the misfortune that has befallen us.
It is in His hand to lift distress and tribulation.
We have left the world but still belong to it.
We are neither alive nor dead in this world.
When the prison guard comes in at times for some business,
We are surprised and say, “This one has come from the world.”
We rejoice at our dreams. Most of our talk
In the morning is about our dreams.
224 The variant reading khidmatî “my services” is equally well possible. Both words are used
together in Miskawayh’s historical work, cf. Amedroz and Margoliouth, Eclipse, I, 91; trans.,
IV, 100; Kitâb al-Aghânî (Bûlâq 1285), XVIII, 94, l. 7.
225 Cf. above, n. 222.
226 He was a Shîʿah nobleman and famous poet who attempted to foment a rebellion in the
East against the last Umayyad caliph and ran afoul of similar plans of Abû Muslim and
the ʿAbbâsids; Abû Muslim imprisoned and killed him, cf. K.V. Zetterstéen, ʿAbd Allâh
b. Muʿâwiya, in EI2, I, 48 f.; Abû l-Faraj al-Iṣfahânî, Maqâtil aṭ-Ṭâlibîyîn, 161–169. Popular
verses were occasionally ascribed to him, cf. F. Rosenthal, The Technique and Approach of
Muslim Scholarship (Rome, 1947. Analecta Orientalia, XIV), 32, n. 6; Kitâb al-Aghânî (Bûlâq,
1285), XI, 66.
227 As-Sarakhsî, Mabsûṭ, IX, 135f., quoting the second and third verses. The first three verses
were cited anonymously by Ibn al-Buḥturî, Uns al-masjûn, fol. 31b. All five appear in Ibn
Qutaybah, loc. cit. (above, n. 165), with some variant readings; al-Qifṭî, Inbâh ar-ruwâh
(Cairo, 1369/1950–), I, 61 f.; Yâqût, Irshâd, ed. Margoliouth, I, 184f.; ed. Rifâʿî, III, 154f.
Good ones are slow in coming.

Bad ones are not looked forward to, but they come quickly.
For sensitive persons, the term “prison,” understandably enough, came to as-
sume, in Islam as elsewhere, the connotation of overpowering unpleasantness.
It could all by itself express the corruption and viciousness of the world.228 The
word “prison” served to suggest the discomfort of an overcrowded room, as in
these verses by Ibn al-Muʿtazz:
Many a house did I visit where I felt

Crowded as if I were in prison.
77 Only a pomegranate knows to jam seeds into its skin
As tightly as we (human beings) do.229
It could be used as a metaphor for the greatest possible state of misery.230 Only
when the alternative was between keeping bad company and being isolated in
prison, a philosopher (but hardly the common man) might come out in favor
of imprisonment.231 Individuals never valued freedom as highly as when they
had lost it.
Forced Labor
Forced labor, sukhrî or taskhîr in Arabic, is another form of curtailment of
human liberty and an ever-present threat to the well-being of human society.
It existed in Islam to some as yet ill-defined extent,231a but was generally
abhorred. There existed no legal basis for, or discussion about it. It is not
entirely superfluous to stress the absence of legal concern with the subject,
for the Qurʾân knows and uses the word that came to denote forced labor. It
228 Cf. below, p. 106 f.

229 Dîwân, II, 117. For the simile employed, cf. also, for instance, al-Juwaynî, Taʾrîkh-i-Jahân-
gushây, trans. J.A. Boyle (Manchester, 1958), 225.
230 Al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ, II, 217; III, 309; IV, 369, 422.
231 Al-Mubashshir b. Fâtik, Mukhtâr al-ḥikam, in the chapter of anonymous sayings no. 39
(according to the edition prepared by the writer); p. 327 of the edition recently published
by ʿA. Badawî (Madrid, 1377/1958).
231a In general, it is extremely difficult to determine the occurrence of forced labor from the
terse indications of the sources. It also remains doubtful to what extent conscription for
military service must, in the medieval environment, be considered an infringement upon
individual freedom. Conditions with regard to the corvée as observed in Muslim countries
in modern times give no reliable indication as to the situation in earlier periods.
usually describes the subjection of the world to man for his use. However, sûrah
43.32/31 refers to the fact that some individuals contribute their labor for the
benefit of others, as part of the divinely ordained social order and as common
practice in Muḥammad’s environment:
We (God) have distributed among them their livelihood in the life of this 78
world, and We have placed some over others in various grades, so that one
may take another as a serf (sukhrîyan).232
This verse could have been used easily to justify the practice of forced labor.
That it was never used in this manner may be taken as an additional indication
of the abhorrence with which forced labor was viewed by all thinking persons.
Forced labor was depicted as one of the perverted practices of pre-Islamic
tyranny. Thus, Pharaoh exacted forced labor from the Israelites. They had to
produce all the materials he needed, and every day, a certain number of them
were hanged, and all of them were constantly beaten, maltreated, and humil-
iated.233 And the Abyssinian, Abraha, humiliated the people of the Yemen by
making them contribute all kinds of forced labor to the construction of a church
in Ṣanʿâʾ. Those who did not come to work before sunrise had their hands cut
off.234
In Islam, the introduction of forced labor as an institution was ascribed to
the caliph Muʿâwiyah who supposedly was the first to build imposing edifices
and to use for it forced labor, something that had never been done before.235
This statement involving Muʿawiyah appears in the work of a Shîʿah author
and | serves there the purpose of emphasizing Muʿâwiyah’s alleged vicious- 79
ness. At the same time, it belongs to a long list of supposed “firsts” attributed
to Muʿâwiyah as the ruler who made an end to the apostolic reign of the first
232 The translation of the last clause follows R. Bell, The Qurʾân (Edinburgh, 1937–1939), II,
493. The technical connotation of forced labor, which the word sukhrî acquired, was not
yet applicable. Ibn Khaldûn (Muqaddimah, trans. F. Rosenthal, II, 329) quoted the verse as
evidence for the need of human society for stratification and cooperation. In this respect,
he followed the usual interpretation of the passage by Qurʾân commentators. Cf. also
above, n. 76.
It may be noted that taskhîr, musakhkhar could be used as one of the opposites
of ikhtiyâr, thus giving a more distinctly Islamic flavor to the subject of free will, cf.
al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ, IV, 214 ff.
233 Ibn Kathîr, Bidâyah (Cairo, 1351–1358/1932–1939), I, 263.
234 Ibn Kathîr, op. cit., II, 170.
235 Al-Yaʿqûbî, Taʾrîkh, ed. M.T. Houtsma (Leiden, 1883), II, 276; ed. Najaf, 1358/1939, II, 207.
four caliphs and introduced Islam to the realities of power politics. It is tanta-
mount to saying that since the days of Muʿâwiyah, forced labor had become an
ineradicable institution, in spite of its generally acknowledged objectionable
character.
From near the end of medieval Muslim civilization comes a rationalis-
tic explanation of the destructive results brought about by the use of forced
labor. Forced labor slows down and eventually ruins the economy and with
it the body politic. This is the argument suggested by Ibn Khaldûn writing in
fourteenth-century Northwest Africa.236 Evidently, this opinion resulted from
his personal observation that the rulers he served were greatly inclined toward
resorting to the employment of forced labor. In Mameluke Egypt where Ibn
Khaldûn went soon after, he had ample opportunity, it seems, to observe the
same situation. The Mamelukes always attempted to find forced labor, and it
was considered noteworthy if a major building, such as a mosque, was con-
structed—supposedly—without resorting to it.237 However, despite such state-
ments of the historians and Ibn Khaldûn’s revealing concern with the problem,
the use of forced labor does not appear to have been an established institution
that functioned all the time or could be activated whenever a ruler felt the need
for it. A public works project under al-Muʾayyad, as Ibn Taghrîbirdî described it
on the basis of reliable information, required more labor than was readily avail-
able, and it was only with great difficulty, and the eventual use of threats, that
80 enough people | could be lined up to undertake a task that had to be done for
their own benefit.238
It is possible that the absence of much information on the use of forced
labor throughout Muslim history means that forced labor was commonly prac-
ticed and did not deserve any particular attention except under extraordinary
circumstances. However, forced labor properly speaking was, it seems, not
only abhorred in Islam but also comparatively rarely resorted to. In a civiliza-
tion built around urban life and commerce, any tampering with the economic
equilibrium would almost immediately bring about disturbing consequences.
When any large-scale projects were undertaken in the cities, the lower strata of
the population constituted a pool of manpower that could be readily utilized
for any type of labor required. They were available cheaply, and there was, as a
236 Muqaddimah, trans. F. Rosenthal, II, 108 f.

237 E. Tyan, Institutions du droit public musulman (Paris, 1956), II, 193f.
238 Ibn Taghrîbirdî, ed. W. Popper, VI, 344 ff.; trans. by the same (Berkeley-Los Angeles, 1056),
III, 30 ff. A similar situation appears to be behind the brief report from ninth/tenth-century
Bukhârâ in an-Narshakhî’s History of Bukhârâ, trans. R.N. Frye (Cambridge, Mass., 1954),
34.
rule, no need to use undue force.239 Muslim rural economy was nearly every-
where geared to small-scale enterprise and required no unusual manpower
resources. Whatever may have been the practice at certain periods and in cer-
tain parts of the Muslim world, the theory recognized and respected as the basic
right of the free Muslim the freedom to work and earn his own living as he
pleased.
239 It was probably a much more frequent occurrence that skilled artisans, as individuals
or in groups, were forced against their will to work in the ruler’s service. But a Karaite
weaver who complained that he had to work for the government for two years and could
not get out (cf. S.D. Goitein, Petitions to Fatimid Caliphs from the Cairo Geniza, in Jewish
Quarterly Review, XLV [1954], 32 f.) presumably considered—and, from his point of view,
correctly—as forced labor what for others was a highly desirable job.
v
81 Philosophical Views on Freedom
Leaving the legal and societal level of the discussion of freedom for that of
philosophical—ethical, political, metaphysical—theory, we find, as we would
expect, an unmistakable predominance of Greek ideas. To a considerable ex-
tent these ideas entered Muslim civilization in the form of brief and pithy say-
ings. They were sayings easy to keep in mind, and they were constantly repeated
and quoted by all educated Muslims. The ideas they proclaimed became inte-
grated in the general pattern of Muslim thought. With regard to their interpre-
tation of freedom, they agreed in certain respects with the old Arab concept of
the free man, the ḥurr. The message they were meant to convey was, therefore,
all the more readily accepted.
a Freedom as an Ethical Concept
Ethics is the subdivision of philosophy to which the discussion of freedom was

most commonly assigned. Freedom is a quality and attitude of the individual.
It is not dependent on social or political conditions. Freedom is indivisible; a
man cannot be half free and half slave in his moral personality.240
Positively defined, ethical freedom means the desire, on the part of man, to
be good:
Freedom means that man serves the good and cultivates it constantly. The
degree of his service determines the extent of his freedom. For he who
does not take hold of the good is not free.241
socrates
82 Pythagoras was asked: ‘Who is a free man?’ He replied, ‘He who serves the
good.’242
240 This was the opinion of the tenth-century philosopher, Abû l-Ḥasan al-ʿÂmirî, cf. F. Rosen-
thal, in The Islamic Quarterly, III (1956), 46. For al-ʿÂmirî and his works, cf. also the impor-
tant notes by M. Minovi, Az khazâʾin-i Turkiye, II, published as an appendix to Majalle-i
Dânish-kade-i Adabîyât, IV, 3 (undated offprint), and above, n. 74.
241 Al-Mubashshir, Socrates no. 245; ed. Badawî, 113.
242 Al-Mubashshir, Pythagoras no. 71; ed. Badawî, 67. Cf. Plotinus, Enneads, VI, viii, 7, which is
philosophical views on freedom 95
It means control of oneself:
He is not counted free who is unable to control himself.243

pythagoras
For self-control is the necessary prerequisite for controlling others.244 Freedom

gives the sage the ability to free himself from the fetters of his natural environ-
ment, from custom and habit. It makes him truly a sage:
The sage who possesses a free soul is the master of the law of nature, while
the sage who does not possess a free soul is a slave to the law of nature.245
plato
Real freedom is possessed only by him who possesses intelligence and truth- 83
fulness:
Let the intellect be on your right, and truth on your left, and you will be
safe always, and you will always be free.246
plato
remotely comparable. Ibn Abî r-Rabîʿ, Sulûk al-mâlik (Cairo, 1329), 111, speaks about those
who do what is good by nature, which is the characteristic quality of the free.
243 Al-Mubashshir, Pythagoras no. 46; ed. Badawî, 66. This saying is constantly quoted in
Greek florilegia: Oudeis eleutheros heautou mê kratôn. Cf., for instance, Stobaeus, Flori-
legium, III, 6, 56 (ed. Wachsmuth-Hense, III, 300 [Pythagoras?]); Antonius Melissa, in
Migne, Patrologia Graeca, CXXXVI, 1200B; Maximus Confessor, ibid., XCI, 744A; C. Wachs-
muth, Studien zu den griechischen Florilegien (Berlin, 1882), 185f.; H. Schenkl, Pythagoras-
Sprüche in einer Wiener Handschrift, in Wiener Studien, VIII (1886), 275, cf. the Syriac
translation: lâ îthaw bar ḥêrê aynâ ḏnelboḵ nap̄ sheh lâ meshkaḥ, in P. de Lagarde, Analecta
Syriaca (Leipzig, 1858), 198, and J. Gildemeister, in Hermes, IV (1870), 93, where further ref-
erences are given.
244 Cf., for instance, al-Mubashshir, Hermes no. 126; Solon no. 10, quoted by Usâmah b.
Munqidh, Lubâb, 237; Aesop (Ainesios?) no. 23 (ed. Badawî, 26, 37, 279); Ibn ad-Dâyah
(supposed author), al-ʿUhûd al-Yûnânîyah, ed. ʿA. Badawî, Fontes Graecae doctrinarum
politicarum Islamicarum (Cairo, 1954. Islamica, XV), 46; Ibn Hindû, al-Kalim ar-rûḥânîyah
(Cairo, 1318/1900), 9, where Plato is the alleged authority, but since the Plato sayings of
some other florilegium were incorporated in the poor edition of Ibn Hindû’s work, the
source is not quite clear. Cf. also Schenkl, op. cit., 277, a passage which was not taken over
by the Syriac translator.
245 Al-Mubashshir, Plato no. 39; ed. Badawî, 134 (incomplete). Cf. also E. Zeller, Die Philosophie
der Griechen, 4th ed. (Leipzig, 1909), III, I, 255 f.
246 Ibid., no. 65; ed. Badawî, 138. Cf. as-Saʿâdah wa-l-isʿâd (above, n. 74), 119; Ibn Hindû, 18.
Complete devotion to the truth is what makes a man free and distinguishes
him from the unfree:
The distinction between the free man and the slave is that the free man
always guards the truth essentially, that is, out of love, while the slave
always guards the truth accidentally, that is, out of fear.247
socrates
In consequence, it was a condition for the true scholar and scientist to have
been born free. Hippocrates, in his Testament transmitted in Arabic, made
it the first condition for the student of medicine that he be free by birth
( fî jinsihî).248 It is interesting to note that this condition was disregarded
by the great Muslim physician, Ibn Riḍwân, when, following Hippocrates, he
enumerated the necessary qualifications of physicians.249
Putting it negatively, freedom is freedom from obligations, from the encum-
brances of daily life:
Possessions are a master, and he who serves anyone or anything but his
own self is not free.250
socrates
Those who love money have no freedom.251

homer
84 Acquire few worldly possessions, and you will live a free man.252
muḥammad
247 Al-Mubashshir, Socrates no. 208; ed. Badawî, 110. Cf. also above, n. 56.
248 Ibn Abî Uṣaybiʿah, I, 26, l. 15.
249 Ibid., II, 102f.; transl. by J. Schacht and M. Meyerhof, The Medico-Philosophical Controversy
between Ibn Butlan of Baghdad and Ibn Ridwan of Cairo (Cairo, 1937. Publications of the
Faculty of Arts of the Egyptian University, XIII), 40.
250 Miskawayh, Jâwîdhân Khiradh, ed. ʿA. Badawî (Cairo, 1952. Islamica, XIII), 212; Ibn Hindû,
81.
251 Abû Sulaymân al-Manṭiqî as-Sijistânî, Ṣiwân al-ḥikmah, according to the later recension
preserved in Ms. Istanbul, Murad Molla 1408, fol. 35b. The sayings of Homer cited here
were recognized by J. Kraemer as belonging to a translation of the Sentences ascribed to
Menander, cf. Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft, CVI (1956), 305.
252 Al-Mâwardî, Adab ad-dunyâ wa-d-dîn, 73. Faithfulness (wafâʾ) should be welcomed as a
lifelong slavery, according to Ḥammâd ʿAjrad in Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, Fî ṣ-Ṣadâqah, 181.
He who is being asked for a favor is free until he makes a promise.253

ʿalî
Such independence from human beings and material needs came to be consid-
ered the good life, as stated, for instance, in a couplet by the poet, Ibn Mawâhib
al-Ḥaẓîrî (d. 1206–1207):
If you want the good life, do not ever be a servant

Of anybody, and do not ever be anybody’s master.
Try to obtain a modest livelihood, and you will escape from the trouble-
some obligations of wealth,
And you will be free from the subservience attendant upon poverty.254
More succinctly, a contemporary of the poet, the scientist Rashîd-ad-dîn Ibn

Khalîfah (1183–1219), said, “Freedom is the good life.”255
Negatively defined, freedom also is freedom from what is evil, from that
which prevents man from achieving the true purpose of his humanity. Avoid-
ance of evil actions, habitually committed by human beings, means freedom:
It is difficult for man to be free while being obedient to evil actions that
come habitually.256
pythagoras
Freedom from stupidity prepares the soul for true freedom: 85
… Thus, the soul gets to be free, freed from the servitude of stupidity and
the slavery of inexperience (ḥadâthah).257
hermes
253 Miskawayh, Jâwîdhân Khiradh, 112. A versification of the idea by Nâṣir-ad-dîn al-Ḥasan b.
Shâwar Ibn an-Naqîb (d. 687/1288), in aṣ-Ṣafadî, al-Ghayth al-musajjam (Cairo, 1305), II,
205.
254 Ibn Saʿîd, op. cit. (above, n. 202), 76.
255 As quoted by his nephew, Ibn Abî Uṣaybiʿah, II, 254, l. 11. For the different legal concept
that freedom is life, cf. above, n. 83.
256 Al-Mubashshir, Pythagoras no. 31; ed. Badawî, 64. The idea was repeated by Abû Ḥâmid
al-Isfizârî, cf. al-Bayhaqî, Tatimmat Ṣiwân al-ḥikmah, ed. M. Shafîʿ (Lahore, 1935), 76. One
may compare Stobaeus, III, 6, 55, and III, 18, 22 (ed. Wachsmuth-Hense, III, 300 and 518);
Wachsmuth, op. cit. (above, n. 243), 185; Antonius Melissa, loc. cit.: Eleutheron adynaton
einai ton pathesi douleuonta kai hypo pathôn kratoumenon. However, Pythagoras there
refers to the animal desires in particular.
257 Al-Mubashshir, Hermes no. 11; ed. Badawî, 12. Conversely, knowledge saves man from being
Freedom means that a person is not ruled by ignorance and that he does
not do what is not required by the intellect.258
socrates
Above all, however, freedom is freedom from desires.259 This may mean that
man should not wish to obtain things that it may be difficult for him to obtain,
since this would force him to search after those things and leave him deprived
of his liberty:
Wealth means being at home, poverty means being in a strange country.

Desire is servitude, despair260 is freedom.261
hermes
86 … He who likes to be free must not wish to have what cannot be | his.
Rather, he should flee from it. Otherwise, he will become its slave.262
hippocrates
unfree. The early twelfth-century physician, philosopher, and poet, al-ʿAnṭarî, said (Ibn
Abî Uṣaybiʿah, I, 290, l. 19 f.):
Son, study and acquire knowledge, even if the only advantage you may obtain from
it is that you do not have to depend on those who rightly or wrongly might want to
use you as a slave.
258 Usâmah b. Munqidh, Lubâb, 434. The ascription to Socrates is not quite clear.
259 A modern philosopher takes the opposite view: “Freedom in general may be defined as
the absence of obstacles to the realization of desires” (B. Russell, in Freedom, Its Meaning
[above, n. 8], 251). However, Russell realizes that under this definition no human being
can be completely free. For freedom from desires being the only freedom, cf. Clement of
Alexandria, Stromata, ed. Stählin, II, 192, ll. 20–22; 216, ll. 25–27.
260 That is, resigning oneself to the impossibility of obtaining what one desires.
261 Al-Mubashshir, Hermes no. 125; ed. Badawî, 25. A wazîr of the caliph al-Mahdî, Abû
ʿUbaydallâh Muʿâwiyah b. ʿUbaydallâh b. Yasâr, used to say (al-Jahshiyârî, Wuzarâʾ, ed. von
Mžik, 162):
Despair ( yaʾs) is a free man, hope a slave.
This remark was quoted anonymously by Ibn al-Buḥturî, Uns al-masjûn, fols. 51a and 58a–b.
According to al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ, IV, 173, yaʾs means independence (ʿizz). Cf. also the volume
of sermons ascribed to Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî and entitled al-Ishârât al-ilâhîyah, ed.
ʿA. Badawî (Cairo, 1950. Islamica, XII), 249, l. 12.
262 Al-Mubashshir, Hippocrates no. 13; ed. Badawî, 50.
He who wants to be free must not desire to obtain what can be obtained
only through someone else’s willingness.262a
pythagoras
Free and rich is he who withdraws from desires, who is satisfied with the
amount of food necessary to keep alive, and who avoids amusements and
pleasures.262b
a greek sage
Or, as al-Kindî is said to have phrased the idea:
Slaves are free as long as they are satisfied, and free men are slaves as long
as they desire things.263
Again, Rashîd-ad-dîn Ibn Khalîfah put it more succinctly:
Contentment is the door leading to freedom.264
While an Arab poet said:
The slavery of those who desire things is eternal slavery.265
262a As-Saʿâdah wa-l-isʿâd (above, n. 74), 171 f.

262b Op. cit., 86.
263 Ṣiwân, fol. 60b. Cf. also Miskawayh, Jâwîdhân Khiradh, 204; Ibn al-Buḥturî, Uns al-masjûn,
fol. 58a; al-Ibshîhî, Mustaṭraf, ch. X, 2 (Bûlâq, 1268), I, 84, l. 26. The same remark was
attributed to an obscure Ṣûfî, Bunân al-Ḥammâl, who died in Egypt in 316/928 (al-Qu-
shayrî, Risâlah, 24), by as-Suhrawardî, ʿAwârif al-maʿârif (Cairo, 1352/1933, in the margin
of al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ), III, 63. Cf. also Iḥyâʾ, III, 210, to the effect that being satisfied means
freedom and independence (ʿizz); the quotation seems to be part of the ḥadîth cited imme-
diately before, which is not to be found in the canonical collections. Cf. also H. Ritter, Das
Meer der Seele, 221.
A saying attributed to Plato (Ibn Hindû, 46), reads:
A free man must guard his virtue (murûwah) against his imagination and greed
(desire, ḥirṣ).
In his Adab aṣ-ṣaghîr, Ibn al-Muqaffaʿ said that “a free man cannot be greedy” (Rasâʾil al-
bulaghâʾ, ed. M. Kurd ʿAlî, 2nd ed. [Cairo. 1331/1913], 47). Cf., further, Miskawayh, Jâwîdhân
Khiradh, 77; al-Qâlî, Amâlî (Cairo, 1373), II, 28.
264 Ibn Abî Uṣaybiʿah, II, 254, l. 11.
265 Ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, op. cit. (above, n. 54), I, 110. Cf. al-ʿÂmilî, Mikhlâh (Cairo, 1317), 208:
87 Even the Torah is said to have defined freedom as consisting in the renunci-
ation of desires.265a The Ṣûfî, Abû Bakr Muḥammad b. ʿUmar al-Warrâq, won-
dered why a slave might contract and work for his manumission while a free
man would not always strive to throw off the yoke of desires.265b And the Per-
sian poet, Saʿdî, at the end of his famous Gulistân, extolled the freedom of the
cypress which does not pass through cycles of bearing fruit and being barren
but is always without fruit and always green, like the free who do not desire the
transitory goods of this world.265c
For the Muslim theologian, “desire” stands for all worldly ambition. “Only the
stupid person loves the world; the free man recoils from it.”266 Human beings,
in general, are prisoners of their worldly ambitions.267 “Prisoners in the jail of
your worldly ambitions, when will you free yourselves?” is the anguished cry of
the moral preacher.268
More than any other desire, it is the desires of the animal nature in man
that make him unfree. His animal desires subject him to a slavery that is more
88 humiliating than physical and legal | slavery.269 The struggle with those desires
and the final victory over them makes man free. Diogenes—or, as is sometimes
said, Socrates—was entitled to show contempt for the world conqueror, the
A sage said: The owner of a thing has control over it. He who loves to be free must
not desire what does not belong to him, or he will become a slave, as indicated by
ʿAlî b. al-Jahm in the verse:
Souls are free but we are slaves.

The slavery of desire is hard slavery.
The verse appears in the edition of the poet’s Dîwân (above, n. 212), 124, but is taken from
al-ʿÂmilî and no other source is indicated.
Cf. also the verse quoted by Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, Ishârât, 30, 42:
I obeyed my desires, and they enslaved me.

Had I been satisfied, I would be free.
Or Ibn an-Naqîb (above, n. 253), in aṣ-Ṣafadî, Ghayth, II, 229.

265a As-Saʿâdah wa-l-isʿâd, 166.
265b Op. cit., 167.
265c The passage is quoted at the end of the first chapter of H.D. Thoreau’s Walden.
266 Ibn al-Jawzî, Mudhish (Baghdâd, 1348), 225.
267 Ibid., 412, cf. also 257, 501.
268 Ibid., 538f.
269 Ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, loc. cit.
great Alexander, who was the slave of his slave, for Diogenes had subdued his
animal desires while Alexander was subservient to them.270 It was the ancient
Near Eastern wisdom of Luqmân,271 or of the old Persian sage Ûshahanj,272
which recognized that among the things that go into the making of the religious
individual is the elimination of animal desires so that he can become free.
Socrates seems to have been considered the author of the saying:
Freedom means that an individual gives up being a slave to his animal

desires which are considered blameworthy by the intellect.273
Freedom, understood as freedom from low desires, is a subdivision of the virtue

of sôphrosynê,274 as stated by Miskawayh:
Modesty (ʿiffah, sôphrosynê) is the virtue of the sense that is connected

with the animal desires (al-ḥiss ash-shahwânî). This virtue appears in
man when he uses his animal desires in accordance with his reason-
ing ability (raʾy). That is, by working in harmony with sound discern-
ment, until he is no longer subservient to the animal desires, thus becom-
ing a free man, a man who is no longer a slave to any of his animal
desires.275
The freedom from desires, finally, is one of the facets of human perfection,
something that raises man to the level of human perfection, something that
raises man to the level of the angels and | that outlasts his physical life.276 The 89
ultimate goal of philosophy, happiness, is achieved when the soul becomes
free in its totality (kamâl).276a For the ordinary man, this aspect, or complex of
270 Al-Mubashshir, in the life of Diogenes; Socrates, nos. 116, 312 (ed. Badawî, 73, 102, 120). The
story was, of course, cited whenever Alexander was discussed in Muslim literature; it could
also be quoted anonymously, cf. al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ, IV, 68.
271 Al-Mubashshir, in the chapter dealing with Luqmân; ed. Badawî, 263.
272 Miskawayh, Jâwîdhân Khiradh, 7.
273 Usâmah, Lubâb, 434.
274 Cf. below, p. 97.
275 Miskawayh, Tahdhîb al-akhlâq (Cairo, 1322), 7.
276 Al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ, III, 245.
276a As-Saʿâdah wa-l-isʿâd, 355, where we also find the chapter heading: “Educated men (adîb)
are free men, and those who are not educated are slaves.” This reminds us of Gorgias 485C
and related passages, among them, in particular, Philo, Quod omnis probus liber sit, 1: pas
ho asteios eleutheros.
aspects, of freedom was well summarized in the verses of Abû l-Fatḥ al-Bustî,
a contemporary of Miskawayh and representative of the same intellectual
climate:
Free in reality is he who liberates himself

From the slavery of his animal desires and from his defects,
Who acquires what cannot be taken away
From him, and eagerly tries to multiply his good (deeds and qualities).277
By an extension of meaning, freedom stands for all the qualities that character-
ize moral man. The free man represents all noble qualities,278 while the slave
90 represents all that is vile and | despicable in human nature.279 This extension
of meaning fits in with the ancient Arabic usage of ḥurr and gives ḥurr the
connotations it usually carries outside the legal sphere. According to the tenth-
century philosopher of Baghdâd, Abû l-Khayr Ḥasan b. Suwâr Khamâr, freedom
understood in this sense, combined with freedom from desires and with gen-
erosity,280 constitutes part of true humanity and is indispensable for those who
claim to be philosophers:
277 Dîwân (Cairo, 1294), 15. For “the prison of desire,” cf. also al-Qushayrî, Risâlah, 23; al-
Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ, III, 57.
278 Such as honor, cf. above, n. 221; contempt of death if one’s honor is involved, cf. al-
Balâdhurî, Ansâb, ed. S.D. Goitein (Jerusalem, 1936), V, 312, 350; modesty (ḥayâʾ, ʿafâf ),
pride (anaf ), cf. Ibn Qutaybah, ʿUyûn, ed. Brockelmann, 347; ed. Cairo, I, 297; Usâmah,
Lubâb, 286; faithfulness to promises made, according to Aristotle-Alexander, in Ms. Istan-
bul, Fatih 5323 (the pagination of the ms. does not show on my microfilm); willingness to
forgive one’s friends, cf. Yâqût, Irshâd, ed. Margoliouth, I, 379; ed. Rifâʿî, II, 231; patience,
cf. al-Qâlî, Amâlî, I, 168, and aṣ-Ṣafadî, Ghayth, II, 172, l. 13; patriotism that shows itself in
one’s often frustrated desire to find recognition in his own country, cf. ash-Sharîshî, Sharḥ
al-Maqâmât, II, 188; and so on. In fact “free men” may stand in poetry for true human
beings in general (cf. above, p. 10), as in this verse (Ibn al-Jawzî, Mudhish, 186):
Death destined drives the free away from

Their homes, and the birds from their nests,
as well as many other verses by a great many poets. In particular, the idea that invidious
fate most persistently dogs the footsteps of the aḥrâr occurs again and again.
279 The Arabic translation of a Greek verse reads (Ibn Hindû 135):
There is nothing worse than a slave, though he be the best of slaves.
280 Ḥurrîyah here has a wider meaning than mere generosity. A similar ambiguity in the
… He must be modest (ʿafîf, sôphrôn) and not love money …, and he

must be generous because meanness is identical with preferring money
to humanity (insânîyah) and freedom (ḥurrîyah). The philosopher must
not prefer anything to humanity and freedom, because those who lack
freedom and are ready for corrupting animal desires cannot possibly be
philosophers.281
According to Plato,
Magnanimous is he who does not enslave his freedom nor humble his
independence (ʿizz).281a
A man’s character marks him as either a free man or a slave; there is no middle
ground.282 A free man is ready to accept | all kinds of onerous tasks and consider 91
it an honor, but when he is asked to relinquish part of his freedom, he would
not hear of it and would not do it.283 When Homer was to be sold into slavery,
he was asked for what he was suited best. He replied, “Freedom.”284 A free man
may have the character of a slave,284a and an actual slave could excel so-called
meaning of ḥurrîyah, as the result of the restriction of the term to generosity (cf. below,
p. 95), shows itself in a remark by Abû l-Ḥasan al-ʿÂmirî, who called “the light of freedom
(ḥurrîyah) a vehicle for those who are generous (dhawû l-jûd),” cf. Miskawayh, Jâwîdhân
Khiradh, 351. Cf., in particular, below, n. 307.
281 Ibn Suwâr, Fî ṣifat ar-rajul al-faylasûf, Ms. Istanbul, Ragib Pasha 1463, fol. 64a.
281a As-Saʿâdah wa-l-isʿâd, 164.
282 Cf. above, n. 240. According to al-Ibshîhî, Mustaṭraf, ch. LVIII, 2 (Bûlâq, 1268, II, 94),
Aktham (b. Ṣayfî?) said:
A free man is a free man, even if he is touched by need.

A slave is a slave, even if he is covered with pearls.
Cf. also the Syriac Apollonius who mentions as one of the most pitiful and unnatural sights
that of “the freeman who serves as a slave,” cf. R. Gottheil, in Zeitschrift der Deutschen
Morgenländischen Gesellschaft, XLVI (1892), 467, 469.
283 Ibn Hindû, 45, in the name of Plato. Further Platonic sayings that use ḥurr in the sense
of “good” appear in Ibn Hindû, 47, 56, 58. Plato’s Exhortation concerning the Education of
Young Men contains the statement that teachers should be “guides for their freedom so
that they become educated through freedom,” cf. Miskawayh, Jâwîdhân Khiradh, 271.
284 Al-Mubashshir, in the life of Homer and in the chapter of sayings of miscellaneous sages
no. 8, in the name of Archigenes (ed. Badawî, 30, 297). Cf. the remark of the Spartan
woman, in Stobaeus, III, 13, 58 (ed. Wachsmuth-Hense, III, 466).
284a Kitâb al-Aghânî (Bûlâq, 1285), XVIII, 11.
free men in noble qualities and then be a slave in name only.285 The black poet,
Suḥaym, a slave of the Banû l-Ḥasḥâs, who died about 660–661, had already
sung:
If I am a slave, my soul is free because it is noble,

And if I am black in color, my character is white.286
92 Slavery meant total moral degeneration, and it was for this reason that slaves
were despised or pitied. Al-Jâḥiẓ, musing on the subject that a man should not
divulge his secrets lest he become unfree, lamented the lot of the voluntary
slave in these words:
Who is in a worse spot, in a more hopeless situation, in a more impotent

condition than he who was free, in full control of himself, and made
himself a slave, the property of someone else, choosing slavery without
having been captured or being subjected by force; slaves do not suffer
slavery except when they are captured.287
Even animals show the effects of slavery. Their physical appearance is more
splendid, and their sense faculties are more highly developed, in the state of
freedom than after they have been subdued by man.288
It is thus only natural that the idea of slavery, in metaphorical usage, stood
for the most loathsome condition of mankind, to be avoided at all costs. On
285 Miskawayh, Tahdhîb al-akhlâq, 64. Cf. also stories such as that about the highly edu-
cated slave whom his master was forced to sell and who so greatly impressed the buyer
with his love for his master that he set him free: “My companion asked me, ‘Would any-
one manumit a slave who is so good?’ I retorted, ‘Could anyone own one like him?’”
(ash-Sharîshî, Sharḥ al-Maqâmât, II, 137f.). Cf. also the Sayings of Theano (above, n. 44),
74.
The distinction of three kinds of slaves, slaves by law (ʿabd ar-riqq), slaves of desires
(ʿabd ash-shahwah), and slaves by nature (ʿabd aṭ-ṭabʿ), was introduced into Muslim ethics
through the Oikonomikos of Bryson, and came to be a commonplace; as there were slaves
by nature, there also existed slaves who were by nature free men, cf. M. Plessner, Der
Oikonomikos des Neupythagoreers ‘Bryson’ (Heidelberg, 1928), 164ff., 228f., and passim
(references to citations of Bryson in other works).
286 Cf. Kitâb al-Aghânî, XX, 3; al-Qâlî, Amâlî, II, 86; al-Bakrî, Simṭ al-laʾâlî (Cairo, 1354/1936),
721; al-Kutubî, Fawât, I, 238.
287 Kitmân as-sirr, ed. P. Kraus and M.Ṭ. al-Ḥâjirî, Majmûʿ Rasâʾil al-Jâḥiẓ (Cairo, 1943), 44.
288 Al-Jâḥiẓ, Fî l-jidd wa-l-hazl, ed. Kraus and al-Ḥâjirî, op. cit., 96; Ibn Khaldûn, Muqaddimah,
trans. F. Rosenthal, I, 178 f., 282 f.
the other hand, it is fine flattery for a man to call himself not only someone
else’s slave—which was commonly done—but to insist that such slavery meant
freedom:
When I am a slave of noble men,

I am free, and fate is my slave.289
But there is a bittersweet undertone to such metaphorical usage | when it is 93

applied to the slavery in which the beloved holds the lover.290
289 Abû l-Fatḥ al-Bustî, Dîwân, 72. Az-zamân “time” could be translated “fate,” as above;
however, the poet may have had in mind the particular time he was living in.
Zayd b. Ḥârithah, we are told, said that he “preferred the humiliation of slavery while
enjoying the company of the Messenger of God to the independence (ʿizz) of freedom
when it meant separation from him” (al-Ibshîhî, Mustaṭraf, ch. LVIII, 1 [Bûlâq, 1268, II,
93]); and a scholar could boast of being “a slave for life of the man with whom he had
studied traditions” (Ibn Jamâʿah, Tadhkirat as-sâmiʿ [Hyderabad, 1353], 90).
290 A few examples must suffice, as, for instance, the verse quoted by Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî,
Baṣâʾir (Cairo, 1373/1953), 153, in the name of a certain Muḥammad b. Yâqût (hardly the
well-known political figure who died in 323/935), and by al-Azdî, ed. A. Mez, Abulḳâsim
ein bagdâder Sittenbild (Heidelberg, 1902), 69, anonymously:
Do not censure me, for I am not the first free man

To become through love a slave of those whom he loves.
Or, the verse of the poet, Abû Ayyûb Sulaymân b. Sulaymân b. Ḥajjâj (d. 338/949–950),
quoted by az-Zubaydî, Ṭabaqât an-naḥwîyîn (Cairo, 1373/1954), 325:
I was free but have become a slave and the property

Of a tyrant from whom I cannot hope to escape.
Or, the verses by Ibn al-Muʿtazz, cited by ash-Shâbushtî, Diyârât, ed. G. ʿAwwâd (Baghdâd,
1951), 51:
Love has captured a prince

Who never was a captive before.
Pity the humiliation of a proud man
Who has become a dependent slave.
Cf. also the verses of the caliph al-Muktafî, cited by al-Kutubî, Fawât, II, 87. As could be
expected, the simile soon became a mere cliché. The lover is thus called “slave of the
beloved, who does not want to be released” (Ṣafî-ad-dîn al-Ḥillî, Dîwân [Damascus, 1297],
298).
Since a wide gulf in moral endowment separates free men from slaves, a
different treatment is indicated for the two groups. Secrets, for instance, should
not be entrusted to anyone, but when entrusted to free men, they are safe,
for
the hearts of free men are strongholds for secrets.291

ptolemy
Free men were more tolerant of those lower on the social scale than of those
who outranked them:
94 It is one of the character qualities found in a free man that he has more
patience for trying to please those below him than those above him, and
that he can tolerate those below him better than those above him.292
plato
And when others dealt with free men, the high moral standards of the latter
required that they be treated in a much more refined manner than the low mob
of slaves:
A free man likes an additional (kind) word when one talks to him, better
than a large increase in his wages.293
plato
Devoted friendship may likewise be called slavery, as in the verse by Ibrâhîm b. al-ʿAbbâs
aṣ-Ṣûlî (d. 243/857), quoted by aṣ-Ṣûlî, Adab al-kuttâb, 237; Yâqût, Irshâd, ed. Margoliouth,
I, 265; ed. Rifâʿî, I, 174:
If you know me as a free man who is obeyed,

You will find me the slave of the friend.
291 Al-Mubashshir, Ptolemy no. 19; ed. Badawî, 253. Here, and in some of the following quota-
tions from al-Mubashshir’s work, the old Spanish translation rendered ḥurr by bueno. In
this particular case, one manuscript of al-Mubashshir actually has akhyâr for aḥrâr. How-
ever, the latter is the correct reading. Al-ḥurrîyah wa-l-khayrîyah could easily be used next
to each other as almost synonymous expressions, as was done by the wazîr, Ibn al-Furât
(Yâqût, Irshâd, ed. Margoliouth, VII, 256; Rifâʿî, XIX, 296). Cf. also above, n. 283.
For the above saying, cf. also al-Qushayrî, Risâlah, 45; al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ, IV, 214.
292 Al-Mubashshir, Plato no. 333; ed. Badawî, 168.
293 Al-Mubashshir, Plato no. 71 (ed. Badawî, 138); Ibn Hindû, 22.
If you treat a free man well, he will feel obliged to do you a good deed in
return, but if you treat a vile man well, he will feel tempted to ask you for
more favors.294
plato
Low people think that previous good deeds done to them are a debt owed
them, while free men think that they are a debt they owe …295
plato
Free men are ashamed to beg and to ask for favors:
The worst thing a person can do is to be stingy toward those who because
of their freedom are unable to ask for favors.296
plato
They are good friends, won and kept by sincerity:
Free men lift up everybody who knows them, while ignoble men lift up
only themselves.297
plato
The allegiance of ignoble men is gained by promises, while the | friendship 95

of free men is gained through strong respect (taʾkîd al-ḥurmah).298
plato
Ignoble men can be gotten rid of by keeping them off, free men by showing
them excessive honor.299
plato
All this is best expressed by the presumably ancient Arabic verse attributed to
various authors, which with many slight variations was quoted over and over
again:
295 Al-Mubashshir, Plato no. 118; ed. Badawî, 145. Cf. also the subsequent Platonic sayings in
al-Mubashshir’s work.
296 Al-Mubashshir, Plato no. 91; ed. Badawî, 140. Cf. also Usâmah b. Munqidh, Lubâb, 307,
citing an unidentified poet.
297 Ibn Hindû, 11.
298 Al-Mubashshir, Plato no. 297; ed. Badawî, 165.
Slaves are beaten with a stick.

A hint suffices for free men.300
While the meaning of ḥurr on the one hand was extended to include all good
qualities a human being could possess, it was on the other hand restricted to the
quality of generosity. For the ancient Arabs, one of the outstanding character-
istics of the noble man was generosity, and it was obvious that a man claiming
96 to be | “free” (ḥurr) also had to be generous with his material possessions.301
300 For instance, al-Jâḥiẓ, Bayân, III, 17, quoted by al-Âmidî, Muʾtalif, 145. The verse was also
ascribed to Abû l-Aswad ad-Duʾalî and occurs in his Dîwân, ed. M.Ḥ. Âl Yâsîn, Nafâʾis
al-makhṭûṭât (Najaf, 1372–/1953–), II, 31; G.E. von Grunebaum, in Wiener Zeitschrift für die
Kunde des Morgenlandes, LI (1952), 273. Many references have been listed by C. Pellat in
his collection of the fragments of the seventh-century poet, Ibn Mufarrigh al-Ḥimyarî, in
Mélanges L. Massignon (Damascus, 1957), III, 200, 227 [see also H. Ritter, Die Geheimnisse
der Wortkunst (above, n. 210a), 4, n. 1]. Some variations may be listed here, as, for instance,
this verse:
Free men can be censured while the stick belongs to the slave,
cf. al-Jâḥiẓ, Bayân, I, 29; III, 17; idem, Kitmân as-sirr, 48. Cf., further, Aḥmad b. aṭ-Ṭayyib
as-Sarakhsî, Marâḥ ar-rûḥ, quoted in Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, Baṣâʾir, Ms. phot. Cairo,
adab 9104, IV, 142 f.; Ibn Durayd, Maqṣûrah (Constantinople, 1300), 117, quoted by al-
Qalqashandî, Ṣubḥ, I, 304. A similar thought in a poem by al-Mutanabbīʾ, cf. ath-Thaʿâlibî,
Yatîmah, I, 156.
According to Ibn ad-Dâyah, al-ʿUhûd al-Yûnânîyah, 61, “the free fear being put to shame
as slaves fear a beating.” A verse of Greek poetry translated into Arabic (Ibn Hindû, 135)
says that “for free men it suffices to hear something evil once.”
For the common expression ʿabd al-ʿaṣâ, cf., for instance, al-Jâḥiẓ, Bayân, III, 19.
301 A nice interplay of freedom and generosity may be found in the verses of an anonymous
author addressed to Khâlid b. Yazîd b. Muʿâwiyah (Yâqût, Irshâd, ed. Margoliouth, IV, 166;
ed. Rifâʿî, XI, 37):
I asked munificence and generosity whether they were free.

They replied, “No, we are slaves like others.”
I said, “Who is your master?,” and they, in a condescending tone,
Said to me, “Khâlid b. Yazîd.”
Cf. also the verse by Muḥammad b. al-ʿAbbâs al-Khuwârizmî (ath-Thaʿâlibî, Yatîmah, IV,
138):
Every free man is a slave of your generosity,

And every slave is a free man in the enjoyment of your justice.
However, the Islamic equation of ḥurrîyah “freedom” with “generosity” also

owes a good deal to the fact that the Greek words for generous and generos-
ity (eleutherios, eleutheriotês) were derived from, and almost identical with
the words for free and freedom (eleutheros, eleutheria, cf. Latin libertas “free-
dom,” liberalitas “generosity”).302 As a matter of fact, already in the early years
of Graeco-Muslim translation activity, eleutheriotês “generosity,” in the Aris-
totelian catalogue of the virtues, was translated ḥurrîyah.303 The Arabic transla-
tion of the Golden Verses ascribed to Pythagoras, exhorting the faithful neither
to | spend too much nor to be stingy (mêd’ aneleutheros isthi), reads: 97
Do not be stingy so that you would divest yourself of freedom.304
The same Miskawayh who had defined the free man as the one who was free
from the domination of powerful animal desires305 knew “freedom” as the
virtue of generosity and a subdivision of sôphrosynê. In this connection, he
defined “freedom” (ḥurrîyah) as
Similarly, Aḥmad b. Muḥammad al-Khâlidî, in ath-Thaʿâlibî, Tatimmat al-Yatîmah, ed.

Abbas Eghbal (Tehran, 1934), II, 87; al-Bâkharzî, Dumyah (Aleppo, 1349/1930), 65; al-
ʿImâd al-Iṣfahânî, Kharîdah (Syrian poets) (Damascus, 1375/1955), 60, 326. Cf. also above,
n. 69.
302 For the opposite of both “free” and “generous,” Greek uses the same word, aneleutheros.
It may be added here that one of the definitions of eleutheria to be found in the Platonic
Definitions (412D) explains eleutheria as generosity.
303 The translation of the Nicomachean Ethics is not yet available. Meanwhile, one may
compare al-Kindî, Fî ṣ-ṣinâʿah al-ʿuẓmâ (above, n. 28), fol. 54b, translating a passage to
be found in Theon of Alexandria, Commentary on the Almagest, ed. A. Rome (Città del
Vaticano, 1936. Studi e Testi, LXXIII), 320, l. 21; or the Kitâb as-Saʿâdah wa-l-isʿâd (above,
n. 74), 87 f., 93, 411, also p. 17, where the extended meaning of the term comes through.
304 Miskawayh, Jâwîdhân Khiradh, 227; al-Mubashshir, Pythagoras no. 18; ed. Badawî, 63. Cf.
also below, n. 315a.
For ḥurr corresponding to Greek eleutherios, cf., further, Ibn Durayd, Mujtanâ, in
Orientalia, N. S., XXVII (1958), 40, n. 1, and 169 f. Often, there can be doubt whether ḥurrîyah
in this type of literature is used in its restricted meaning or has wider implications. Cf., for
instance, this saying ascribed to Plato (Ibn Hindû, 46):
The adornments of man are three: Wisdom (ḥilm), friendship (maḥabbah), and
freedom (ḥurrîyah).
Only the Greek original, if found, could answer the question.

305 Cf. above, n. 275.
a virtue of the soul through which property is acquired and given away
as it should, and which prevents the acquisition of property in a way it
should not be acquired.306
A saying attributed to Aristotle probably reflects a distinction between eleu-

theros and eleutherios made in the Greek original. In Arabic translation, this
distinction has become blurred, and the impression prevails that the author of
the saying speaks about two kinds of generosity:
Every free man (ḥurr) is generous ( jawâd), but not every generous man is
free. A free man is generous by nature. The generous man who is devoid
of freedom is generous only by custom and artifice.307
98 An informant of al-Jâḥiẓ even went so far as to assume that the Rûm did
not have a proper word for generosity ( jûd) in their language. Al-Jâḥiẓ felt
justified to conclude that they were the stingiest people in the world.308 Such an
abuse of misunderstood or incomplete linguistic information for the purpose
of casting aspersions upon the alleged national character of foreign peoples is
not unique and has its numerous parallels elsewhere. In fact, it would be easy
to reverse al-Jâḥiẓ’s accusation and say that the Arabs did not know freedom
because they had no word for it but only one for generosity. This, as we have
seen, would be absurd and a wholly unfair simplification of the actual situation
(but cf. also above, p. 11 [p. 34. Ed.]). However, the fact remains that in Arabic,
the word meaning “freedom” could be restricted in its application to a single
virtue, and a minor one at that. In this way, it became closely identified with
certain less important material aspects of life.
b Freedom in Political Theory
Greek political thought on freedom reached the Muslims in about the same
manner as the ethical ideas just mentioned. Strangely enough, Aristotle’s Poli-
tics failed to find an Arabic translator.309 However, Plato’s Republic was known
306 Miskawayh, Tahdhîb al-akhlâq, 8. Cf. Ibn Abî r-Rabîʿ, op. cit. (above, n. 242), 29, where
ḥurrîyah is defined as “the acquisition (of property) in the way it should be acquired and
the inclination by means of it toward what is good in things.”
307 Al-Mubashshir, Aristotle no. 101; ed. Badawî, 198. Cf. also above, n. 280.
308 Al-Jâḥiẓ, Bukhalâʾ, trans. C. Pellat, Le Livre des avares (Beirut-Paris, 1951), 282.
309 Cf. above, n. 74.
at least in a shortened form, and Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics as well as other

Aristotelian works translated into Arabic contained seminal political ideas.
For Alexander of Aphrodisias, the actions of free men, in politics as well as in
the administration of their own affairs at home, were orderly and purposeful,
whereas slaves acted blindly most of the time. Their only salvation was a small
number of purposeful actions that happened to bind them to their masters. The
latter alone were able to guarantee the well-being and integrity | of their homes 99
and their commonwealth.310 Preserved only in Arabic, Alexander’s statement
found also the approval of Ibn Sînâ.311
In the paraphrase of Plato’s Laws 693A–694A, it is said that “it is most useful
for the lawgiver to adhere to the path of freedom and for a leader be free from
envy, since envy is a character quality of slaves and no slave can achieve a
position of leadership. If the government (al-amr) uses the way of freedom, the
subjects follow and obey eagerly and cheerfully, and it is more likely to be a
stable government.”311a
According to Plato in Ibn Rushd’s Commentary on Plato’s Republic, at the
beginning everybody is convinced that he should be a free man.312 The form
of the state that represents freedom is democracy. There is, however, the pos-
sibility of an excess of freedom which inevitably proves ruinous. A decadent
human being may claim an absolute freedom313 that would entitle him to reject
all moral restraints and to give himself over entirely to indulgence of his desires.
Likewise, the freedom state, through an excess of freedom, can be expected to
lose its identity and change into a different form of government.314 Aristotle’s
enumeration of the various forms of government, to be found in his Rhetoric,
also included democracy as the freedom state, the state whose purpose it is to
provide freedom for all. Improper | use of its freedom transforms the demo- 100
cratic state and causes its citizens to become subservient to a leader, whereby
they exchange their freedom for slavery.315
310 Fî mabâdiʾ al-kull, ed. ʿA. Badawî, Arisṭû ʿinda l-ʿArab (Cairo, 1947. Islamica, IV), 274.
311 Kitâb al-Inṣâf, ed. ʿA. Badawî, op. cit., 33.
311a Al-Fârâbî, Compendium Legum Platonis, ed. F. Gabrieli (London, 1952), text, 20; trans., 16.
312 Cf. the Hebrew translation of Ibn Rushd’s work which was edited and translated by
E.I.J. Rosenthal (Cambridge, 1956), 84, l. 9, and 214, referring to Republic 557B. For the
Arabic paraphrase of this passage of the Republic, cf. as-Saʿâdah wa-l-isʿâd (above, n. 74),
257.
313 Op. cit., 94, l. 10 f., and 231, referring to Republic 558D, where, however, the word “freedom”
does not occur.
314 Op. cit., 95 and 232, referring to Republic 563E–564A.
315 Cf. the Rhetoric from the section on Logic in Ibn Sînâ’s Kitâb ash-Shifâʾ (Cairo, 1373/1954),
63 f., 82f. Cf. Aristotle, Rhetoric, 1360a, 1365b 29 f., 1364a 4ff.; Nicomachean Ethics, 1131a 27ff.
The idea of democracy as the freedom state was adapted by al-Fârâbî (d.
339/950) to his own political thinking in one of his political writings, the Kitâb
as-Siyâsah (siyâsât) al-madanîyah, presumably a genuine work of the famous
philosopher. According to al-Fârâbî, the forms of government found in this
world are imperfect. They are the result of man’s need for social organization in
order to assure his survival. Among them is the community state (al-madînah
al-jamâʿîyah) whose inhabitants enjoy complete freedom (muṭlaq, mukhallâ bi-
nafsihî).315a It is an egalitarian organization where people are free (aḥrâr) to
do whatever they want. They do not recognize the right of anyone to be their
leader. They are willing to recognize the leadership of those who promise to
give them more freedom (ḥurrîyah) and a greater opportunity to follow their
particular inclinations. Their subordination to political leadership is entirely
voluntary, and the government depends on the will of the people, although a
steady and self-denying leadership would seem best suited to keeping matters
under control. Among all the imperfect states, this state seems to everyone to
possess the most admirable and happy constitution. People from outside flock
to it. This leads to a most desirable kind of racial mixture and cultural diversity,
with a definite promise of the speedy appearance in the state of outstanding
personalities (afâḍil), such as philosophers (ḥukamâʾ), rhetors (khuṭabâʾ), and
poets (shuʿarâʾ). This state is in some respects close to the perfect state and
101 may serve as a preparation | for it. Of all the existing forms of government it
contains the greatest possibilities for good, but also the greatest possibilities
for evil. Thus al-Fârâbî.315b The modern reader can hardly fail to notice that the
Muslim philosopher succeeded in giving a true description of the essentials of
democracy. He also captured the full meaning and significance of the concept
of political freedom for the happiness and development of the individual.
However, interesting as these ideas of changing forms of government and of
freedom’s greatness and vulnerability were to Muslim thinkers, they remained
theoretical speculations and were hardly ever tested on the realities of Muslim
political life. Certain philosophers, such as Ibn Rushd, may have dreamed of,
or even worked at, convincing their rulers of the desirability of a practical test,
but they never got very far.
On a less technical level, Greek political wisdom, as known to Muslims, also
extolled the greatness of freedom. It was clearly stated that it behooved leading
315a In the Golden Verses of Pythagoras, mukhallâ renders eleutheros. Cf. Orientalia, N.S. X
(1941), 115.
315b Ed. Hyderabad, 1346, 58, 69; trans. F. Dieterici and P. Brönnle, Die Staatsleitung von Alfârâbî
(Leiden, 1904), 71, 83. In the same work (ed. Hyd., 62; trans. 76), ḥurrîyah appears in the
meaning of ‘nobility, generosity.’
thinkers and scientists to set a glorious example for others by their love of free-
dom and their willingness to fight tyrannical rulers. Outstanding in this respect
were Zeno of Elea and Hippocrates, who suffered, or were prepared to suffer,
the greatest personal harm in order to regain or to preserve their own political
freedom and that of their countrymen.316 Alexander was counseled by Aristotle
that he would find it difficult to conquer a people like the Khurâsânians, who
among other sturdy qualities could boast of a great love of freedom.317
Even where the form of government is a monarchy, the civil liberties of the 102
subjects must be respected, for the good of the ruler as well as the people, since
it is better for the ruler to rule over free men than to dominate a low mob of
slaves. A saying ascribed to Plato runs:
He is no ruler who rules slaves and the common people, but a ruler is he
who rules free men.318
Aristotle had this valuable bit of advice for Alexander:
People, under a tyrannical form of government (sulṭân al-ghaṣb), are like

slaves, and not like free men. Governing free men is nobler than governing
slaves. A ruler who prefers governing slaves to governing free men is like
a man who prefers guarding animals to ruling human beings.319
Alexander heeded his teacher’s advice when he refused to enslave captive

enemies:
316 Cf. the life of Zeno in al-Mubashshir, published in Orientalia, N. S., VI (1937), 31f. and 34,
and the Commentary on the Hippocratic Oath ascribed to Galen, published in Bulletin of
the History of Medicine, XXX (1956), 77 ff.
317 Op. cit. (above, n. 278).
318 Ibn Hindû, 22; Usâmah b. Munqidh, Lubâb, 456, who adds “free and virtuous men.”
The great wazîr, ʿAlî b. ʿÎsâ, modified the same idea as follows (Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî,
Muqâbasât, 265, no. 66):
The ruler in truth is he who rules over free men with love.
319 Op. cit. (above, n. 278), apparently from as-Siyâsah al-ʿâmmîyah, ascribed to Aristotle;
Ḥunayn (supposed author), Nawâdir al-falâsifah, Ms. ar. Munich, Aumer 651, fol. 69b;
al-Mubashshir, Aristotle no. 153 (ed. Badawî, 205); Usâmah b. Munqidh, Lubâb 49.
“Guarding (r-ʿ-y) … ruling (m-l-k)” is the reading of Ms. Fatih 5323. Ḥunayn, Usâmah,
and one manuscript as well as the Spanish translation of al-Mubashshir have “guarding”
(r-ʿ-y) in both places. The other manuscripts of al-Mubashshir’s work have twice “the
opinion of” (r-ʿ-y).
Asked why he did not enslave them, he replied, ‘I don’t like to become a
ruler of slaves, being a ruler of free men.’320
103 It is said that one of the things a ruler must always keep in mind | is the fact that
those over whom he is enabled by his position to exercise power are not slaves
but free men.320a
An important element of political liberty and, in fact, of any viable form of
human social organization is freedom of thought. It is the task of the ruler to
see to it that this freedom be not infringed upon:
Thales from Miletus was asked why those who punish human beings pun-
ish them, not for their evil thoughts but only for their actions. He replied,
‘Because the intention is to prevent men from doing the evil that may be
in their thoughts. The intention is not to prevent them from thinking.’321
I am critical of people who say that human beings should all have the
same ideas. It could not and should not be this way. It raises the obvious
question: If all people had the same ideas and there were no one left who
would not want to be a ruler who gives orders and is obeyed, who, then,
would be there to take orders and to obey the ruler, now that all have
become rulers? And if there were no one left who would be satisfied with
anything but being a ruler, who, then, would take care of the ruler’s orders
and execute them? He who has the philosophical view knows that the
preferable arrangement is for the leader to give orders and for the subjects
to obey, as it is the preferable arrangement for the student to study and
for the teacher to teach. Nature (as-sûs) attests to the truth of this.322
While the ruler is supposed to respect the liberty of his subjects, the lat-
ter, in turn, must be constantly concerned with guarding it jealously against
encroachments by the authorities. This is a task requiring a firm character and
320 Ḥunayn, op. cit., fol. 76b; al-Mubashshir, Alexander no. 19 (ed. Badawî, 245).
The existence of free men in it makes a city worthy of being called a city. “Like a
shell without a pearl, or like a large city without a freeman,” is the description used for
someone failing in his destination by Badîʿ-az-zamân al-Hamadhânî (Maqâmât [Beirut,
n. y.], 244 f.).
320a Ṣiwân, fol. 38a, in the name of Ṭîmânâwus (Timaeus, Timotheos?); Ms. Istanbul, Fatih 5323,
near the end, among the sayings of Aristotle.
321 Al-Mubashshir, in the chapter of sayings of miscellaneous sages no. 46; ed. Badawî, 302.
322 Al-Mubashshir, in the same chapter no. 99, in the name of a person who might be Pyrrho;
ed. Badawî, 311 (incomplete).
eternal vigilance. Here again, the example must be set by the intellectual lead-
ers. Aristotle, therefore, resisted Alexander’s offer when he wanted him to par-
ticipate in his grandiose schemes for world conquest. He reasoned that such
an involvement in Alexander’s schemes would entail the loss of his personal
liberty:
Alexander asked Aristotle to accompany him to Asia, but Aristotle replied, 104
‘Being free, I do not like to subject myself to slavery.’323
Diogenes, as we would expect, preferred poverty to royal servitude:
One of Alexander’s physicians saw Diogenes wash some vegetables he

intended to eat. He said to him, ‘If you went to the king, you would not
be so poor as to be forced to eat those vegetables.’ Diogenes replied, ‘But
you, if you restricted yourself to eating them, you would still be a free man
and you would not have become the king’s slave.’324
Pythagoras is supposed to have suggested that
Human beings must obey their ruler and his army. However, there should
not be absolute obedience. Obedience should go only so far as counte-
nanced by the conditions governing freedom.325
He also remarked that
He who is able to protect his own freedom and the freedom of others so
that he is not subservient to anyone and makes nobody subservient to
himself is the noble man (karîm), the true guardian of freedom.326
Among the Muslims, who had always placed a high value upon indepen-
dence,327 the political thought expressed in the remarks | just cited found its 105
323 Ṣiwân, fol. 21a.

324 Ibn Hindû, 109 f. Cf. also al-Qushayrî, Risâlah, 75.
325 Al-Mubashshir, Pythagoras no. 51; ed. Badawî, 66.
326 Ibn Hindû, 98.
327 The famous love of independence of the Bedouin, being entirely unreflective, contributes
little to the understanding of the problem under review here and, therefore, has not been
dealt with.
For related attitudes, cf. the verses by the pre-Islamic poet, al-Muthaqqib al-ʿAbdî,
echo in the following story involving a high-ranking statesman of Islam’s most

glorious period:
Al-Maʾmûn asked ʿAbdallâh b. Ṭâhir to tell him whose residence was

better, his own or that of ʿAbdallâh. The latter replied that he would not
consider himself the equal of the caliph in any respect. Al-Maʾmûn said
that he had not meant it that way. He had meant to find out how his own
palace and that of ʿAbdallâh compared with each other as far as living
and enjoying life in them were concerned. Whereupon ʿAbdallâh said,
‘My own house, O Commander of the Faithful.’ Asked by al-Maʾmûn to
explain, he said, ‘Because in my own house I am the master, while I am a
slave here (in your palace).’328
A potent warning against the danger of political power encroaching upon indi-
vidual liberty was sounded by al-Ghazzâlî, who followed the classical tradition
in expressing his ideas about the relationship of political power and freedom
in an ethical context. In al-Ghazzâlî’s opinion, political power constituted a
much greater potential threat to freedom than actual slavery. Slavery means
mere physical possession of the slave by those who are stronger economically.
Political power, called “rank” ( jâh) by al-Ghazzâlî, seeks the voluntary submis-
sion of free men to those who possess power. It means enslavement not only of
their bodies but of their hearts and minds.329 Al-Ghazzâlî did not go into the
which have been transmitted with a number of minor variants and may be found in M.Ḥ.
Âl Yâsîn, op. cit. (above, n. 300), VI, 55:
Death is preferable to life for the young man

Who needs someone to guide him in everything he does.
Attempt important undertakings! Do not be
A fainthearted man who only cares to stay at home!
Or, the famous verse by the early ʿAbbâsid poet, Salm al-Khâsir, which was constantly
quoted by Muslim authors, as, for instance, al-Khaṭîb al-Baghdâdî, Taʾrîkh Baghdâd, IX,
139 f., or Abû Ṭâlib al-Makkî, Qût al-qulûb (Cairo, 1351/1932), IV, 143:
He who watches others dies of grief.

The daring man gets away with all the pleasures.
328 Al-Khaṭîb al-Baghdâdî, op. cit., IX, 483. The principle of the inviolability of a man’s home
finds expression in a verse of Saʿdî’s Gulistân (beg. of ch. II on akhlâq-i-darvîshân) stating
that a muḥtasib has no business inside the house.
329 Iḥyâʾ, III, 241.
political implications of his ideas, but there can be no doubt that he felt strongly
about the need of the individual to maintain and protect his political freedom.
c Freedom in Metaphysical Speculation
In its metaphysical and ontological aspects, freedom in Islam is concerned with

terms such as ikhtiyâr “choice, free will,” qudrah “power, the ability to act on
one’s own,” and their opposites. It has already been stated that the large amount
of specu|lation done on the subject of free will by Muslim theologians failed to 106
lift that speculation out of the realm of narrow theological theory. Thus, little
can be learned from it about the larger problem of freedom.330
It is an age-old idea, particularly cherished by Gnosticism in all its various
forms, that the human body is a prison for the soul, and the world a prison
for man, that death means liberation from that prison and a consummation
devoutly to be desired by true believers. This idea greatly appealed to religious
Muslims, and it was expressed by them in many places and in a variety of
ways. Its connection with Greek philosophy is evident in the remark ascribed
to Pythagoras when he saw a fat man, “Why are you so greatly concerned with
raising the walls of your prison?”331 “A sage,” runs a quotation in Miskawayh’s
Jâwîdhân Khiradh, “is not a sage unless he knows that life enslaves him and
death liberates him.”332 When the Ikhwân aṣ-ṣafâʾ speak about the human body
as a prison, it is mostly as one for evil souls;333 in general, they avoid the prison
metaphor as unsuited to their system of thought. An Ismâʿîlî author, who died
in 1317, Shams-ad-dîn aṭ-Ṭayyibî (or rather, aṭ-Ṭîbî), said:
In the hand of nature, man (al-fatâ) is a slave.

When his bond is removed, he is free.333a
330 Cf. above, p. 17ff. It may be added here that the view of metaphysics/theology as “the
science (that) is free as it does not serve any other (science) in any way, and everything else
serves it,” is found in the Islamic world in Ṭâshköprüzâdeh, Miftâḥ as-saʿâdah (Hyderabad,
1328–1356), I, 28.
331 Ibn Hindû, 97.
332 Jâwîdhân Khiradh, 192. Cf. Ṭâshköprüzâdeh, op. cit., I, 17.
333 Rasâʾil Ikhwân aṣ-ṣafâʾ (Cairo, 1347/1928), III, 95, 216; IV, 91, 295. Cf. ar-Risâlah al-jâmiʿah, ed.
J. Ṣalîbâ (Damascus, 1368–1371/1948–1951), I, 85 f., 317, 544. Four different words for prison
(ḥabs, sijn, maṭmûrah, muṭbaq) are used in ar-Risâlah al-jâmiʿah, I, 197, in order to describe
the significance of the cities and dwellings on earth for particular souls.
333a Cf. Arbaʿ Rasâʾil Ismâʿîlîyah, ed. ʿÂrif Tâmir (Beirut, 1372/1953), 24.
107 The sôma-sêma idea of the body being a prison if not a grave came to be
incorporated in the collections of traditions ascribed to the Prophet. He is
believed to have said:
This world is a prison for the believer, but Paradise for the unbeliever.334
Ṣûfîs, of course, embraced it eagerly. On the day Dâwûd aṭ-Ṭâʾî died, a man
dreamed of hearing him say, “Now I am released from prison.”335 Moral preach-
ers harp on the idea in moving tones. The world is a prison in which the lovers
of God are kept so that they cannot be united with Him, and their plaint is
like that of prisoners in the morning.336 Life is made up of a whole series of
prisons: “The first prison is the father’s spine, the second, the mother’s womb,
the third, the infant’s swaddling clothes, the fourth, school, the fifth, the trou-
blesome care for one’s family, the sixth, death, and the seventh, the grave.”337
Poets, too, may sing about the prison of the world, as, for instance, Ibn al-Muʿ-
tazz:
Censuring you, O life of mine in this world, is praising myself.

You have given me few provisions and have kept me long imprisoned.338
It must be said, however, that though life was considered a prison, and death,
108 liberation, such liberation did not lead to somet|hing that could ordinarily be
associated with the term ḥurrîyah and all its worldly connotations.
The metaphysical meaning of freedom was bound to become a matter of
concern to mystical theory. In fact, al-Qushayrî (986–1072) devoted a special
chapter of his Risâlah to ḥurrîyah. This chapter deserves to be quoted in full:339
334 Cf. Wensinck and others, Concordance, II, 431b; R. Mach, Der Zaddik in Talmud und
Midrasch (Leiden, 1957), 150, n. 8.
335 Al-Qushayrî, Risâlah, 13. Further examples may be found, for instance, in al-Muḥâsibî,
Riʿâyah, ed. M. Smith (London, 1940. E.J.W. Gibb Memorial Series, N. S., XV), 250f.; al-
Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ, III, 175; IV, 113, 145, 271.
336 Ibn al-Jawzî, Mudhish, 378.
337 Op. cit., 501.
338 Dîwân, II, 138. The verse may contain an allusion to the poet’s term in prison in the form
of the general concept of the world as a prison.
According to the thirteenth-century poet, ʿAbd-al-Wahhâb Khaṭîb an-Nayrab, a long
life was merely a prolonged imprisonment of the spirit in the prison of the body (al-Kutubî,
Fawât, II, 43).
339 Risâlah, 100 f. A collation of the printed text with four manuscripts in the British Museum
God says: ‘And they (the Medinese) prefer (the Meccan emigrants) to
themselves, even though they are indigent (Qurân 59.9/9),’ meaning that
they preferred (them) to themselves because they had divested them-
selves of (the worldly affairs) they had left behind and, by this action, had
preferred others.340
We were informed by ʿAlî b. Aḥmad al-Ahwâzî341 < Aḥmad b. | ʿUbayd 109
al-Baṣrî342 < Ibn Abî Qumâsh343 < Muḥammad b. an-Naṭṭâḥ344 < Nuʿaym
(Or. 8703, dated 504/1110; Or. 8258, dated 582/1186; Or. 3502, dated 718/1318; and Or. 5673,
dated 788/1386) yielded hardly any substantial variant readings. Where the printed text
reads: “The Professor said,” the mss. either add to the phrase or omit it altogether. In Brit.
Mus. Or. 8703, the folio containing the beginning of the chapter on ḥurrîyah is misplaced
so as to appear between the chapters on ʿubûdîyah and irâdah. This would seem a most
suitable place for a chapter on ḥurrîyah. However, the misplacement of the leaf is entirely
accidental.
340 Cf. the excerpts from the commentary on the Risâlah ascribed to Zakarîyâʾ al-Anṣârî
(around 1500) which are printed in the margin of the edition cited. These excerpts also
include some Ṣûfî definitions of ḥurrîyah, among them:
As will be mentioned later (in the Risâlah), freedom means for a human being not
to be under the yoke of created things. It has also been defined as turning one’s back
to everything and going to Him to Whom everything belongs. It has also been said
that it implies that nobody enter your heart except God.
Cf., further, Natâʾij al-afkâr al-qudsîyah fî bayân maʿânî sharḥ ar-Risâlah al-Qushayrîyah
(Bûlâq, 1290), III, 150–154:
It should be known that the greatest cause of freedom is impatience to reach God
and disinterest in all created beings. The belief that the voluntary agent is none but
God besides Whom there is no agent, establishes a human being’s freedom from all
except God, and at the same time he becomes the true slave of God.
341 He came to Baghdâd in 396/1005–1006, and died in Nîsâbûr in 415/1024. Cf. al-Khaṭîb
al-Baghdâdî, Taʾrîkh Baghdâd, XI, 329, and A.J. Arberry, Al-Qushayrî as Traditionalist, in
Studia Orientalia Ioanni Pedersen (Copenhagen, 1953), 13.
342 Known as aṣ-Ṣaffâr, cf. al-Khaṭîb al-Baghdâdî, op. cit., IV, 261; XI, 329; Arberry, loc. cit. He
died in 352/963.
343 In the Kitâb al-Aghânî, XVIII, 168 (cf. the index by I. Guidi and others), the same name
occurs as that of a man who had contact with the poet al-Buḥturî. He could be identical
with the one above.
344 He may be the historian, Muḥammad b. Ṣâliḥ b. Mihrân b. an-Naṭṭâḥ (d. 252/866–867), cf.
GAL, Suppl., I, 216, and F. Rosenthal, A History of Muslim Historiography (Leiden, 1952), 79,
b. Muwarriʿ b. Tawbah344a < Ismâʿîl al-Makkî345 < ʿAmr b. Dînâr346 <

Ṭâwûs347 < (the Prophet’s cousin) Ibn ʿAbbâs, as follows: The Messenger of
God said, ‘Anyone of you can be satisfied with what his own soul considers
as enough. He is going to the four cubits and one span (that is, his grave),
and it all reverts to the question what his (position in the) other world
will be.’348
The Professor (al-Qushayrî) said: Freedom means for a human being
(ʿabd) not to be under the yoke (riqq) of created things and not to be
ruled by things that have come into being. His soundness349 is indicated
by the fact that his heart no longer makes distinctions between things,
with the result that he considers all accidental things and happenings as
110 having the same value. Ḥârithah350 thus said to the | Messenger of God,
‘My soul has turned away from this world, with the result that I consider
the stones of this world and the gold of this world as having the same
value.’
I heard Professor Abû ʿAlî ad-Daqqâq351 say: ‘He who enters this world,
and is free from it, will travel to the next world, and be free from it.’
337. Another Muḥammad b. an-Naṭṭâḥ, a brother of the famous poet Bakr b. an-Naṭṭâḥ, is
hardly meant here; he is mentioned in Kitâb al-Aghânî, XIII, 85f.
344a He lived around the second half of the eighth century, cf. Ibn Abî Ḥâtim, Jarḥ (Hyderabad,
1371–1373/1951–1953), IV, 1, 464; Ibn Ḥajar, Lisân (Hyderabad, 1329–1331), VI, 170f.
345 Apparently, Ismâʿîl b. ʿAbd-al-Malik, who lived in the first half of the eighth century,
cf. al-Bukhârî, Taʾrîkh (Hyderabad, 1360–1378), I, 1, 367; Ibn Ḥajar, Tahdhîb (Hyderabad,
1325–1327), I, 316 f.
346 Al-Makkî, who died ca. 125/742–743, or 126/743–744, cf. Ibn Ḥajar, Tahdhîb, VIII, 28ff.
347 Died in or after 106/724–725, cf. Ibn Ḥajar, Tahdhîb, V, 8ff.
348 This tradition apparently does not occur in the canonical collections.
349 That is, the fact that a person possesses freedom to the degree that is good for him.
However, if ṣiḥḥatihî of the mss. and the edition could be corrected to ṣiḥḥatihâ, it would
mean: “its (freedom’s) soundness,” that is, “The right kind of freedom shows itself in the
fact …”
350 Of the many Ḥârithahs who are listed as companions of the Prophet, the one cited here,
and frequently elsewhere in Ṣûfî literature, is no doubt Ḥârithah b. an-Nuʿmân. He is
mentioned as one of the pious Ahl aṣ-ṣuffah by Abû Nuʿaym al-Iṣfahânî, Ḥilyat al-awliyâʾ
(Cairo, 1351–1357/1932–1938), I, 356.
The first clause only of Ḥârithah’s remark was quoted by al-Khaṭîb al-Baghdâdî, Taʾrîkh
Baghdâd, VII, 246; as-Sulamî, Ṭabaqât aṣ-Ṣûfîyah (Cairo, 1953), 158.
351 Al-Ḥasan b. ʿAlî, who died in 406/1016, cf. Ibn al-ʿImâd, Shadharât (Cairo, 1350–1351), III,
180 f.; al-Khaṭîb al-Baghdâdî, op. cit., VII, 245, l. 5 f.
I heard Muḥammad b. al-Ḥusayn352 < Abû Muḥammad al-Maghârî353 <

ad-Duqqî354 < az-Zaqqâq355 say that he (az-Zaqqâq) used to say: ‘He who
is in this world and free from it, will be in the other world and be free from
it.’
The Professor (al-Qushayrî) said: Let it be known to you that the real
meaning of freedom lies in the perfection of slavery (ʿubûdîyah). If the
slavery of a human being in relation to God is a true one, his freedom
is relieved from the yoke of changes. Anyone who imagines that it may
be granted to a human being to give up his slavery for a moment and
disregard the commands and prohibitions of the religious law while pos-
sessing discretion and responsibility, has divested himself of Islam. God
said to His Prophet: ‘Worship356 until certainty comes to you (Qurʾân
15.99/99).’ As agreed upon by the commentators, ‘certainty’ here means
the end (of life). What the Ṣûfîs want to express by ‘freedom’ is that a
human being should not place his heart under the yoke of any of the cre-
ated things, either | the accidents of this world or those357 of the other 111
world. He should be completely by himself and should not be enslaved
by any urgent mundane matter, accidental desire, and future wishes, or
by any demand, aspiration, want, and fortune. Ash-Shiblî358 was asked,
‘Do you not know that He is compassionate?,’ and he replied, ‘Yes, but
ever since I have known about His compassion, I have never asked Him
352 This is the famous Ṣûfî author, Abû ʿAbd-ar-Raḥmân as-Sulamî (330–412/941–1021), cf. GAL,
I, 200 f., GAL, Suppl., I, 361 f.
353 Unidentified.
354 Abû Bakr Muḥammad b. Dâwûd ad-Dînawarî, known as ad-Duqqî, who died, according
to the Risâlah, 28, after 350/961, and, according to al-Khaṭîb al-Baghdâdî, op. cit., V, 266f.,
in either 359/969–970 or 360/971. For the vocalization ad-Duqqî, cf. as-Samʿânî, Ansâb
(Leiden-London, 1912. E.J.W. Gibb Memorial Series, XX), fol. 227b.
355 Muḥammad b. ʿAbdallâh, Abû Bakr az-Zaqqâq, cf. al-Khaṭîb al-Baghdâdî, op. cit., V, 442f.
He died in 290/902–903, cf. Ibn al-Jawzî, Muntaẓam (Hyderabad, 1357–), VI, 42; L. Mas-
signon, Recueil de textes inédits concernant l’ histoire de la mystique en pays d’Islam (Paris,
1929), 44 f. The form of his name was at times distorted to ad-Daqqâq, as the preceding
Duqqî was misread ar-Raqqî. The mss. have the correct forms of the names.
356 Waʿbud at the same time means, “serve as a slave.”
357 It seems that the edition, Bûlâq, 1284, of the Risâlah as well as two of the manuscripts
consulted by me, read aʿwâḍ, instead of repeating aʿrâḍ. Aʿwâḍ “compensations” may be
the preferable reading.
358 The famous Ṣûfî, Abû Bakr ash-Shiblî, who died in 334/945–946, or 335/946–947, cf. GAL,
I, 199 f., GAL, Suppl., I, 357.
to show me compassion.’ The station of freedom is one hard to achieve

and rarely achieved (ʿazîz).359
I heard Shaykh Abû ʿAlî (ad-Daqqâq) say that Abû l-ʿAbbâs as-Say-
yârî360 used to say: ‘If a prayer could be performed at all properly without
recitation of the Qurʾân, it would be with the recitation of this verse:
I wish something to happen that is completely impossible for (this)
time,
Namely, for my eyes to behold the face of a free man.’361
Statements of Ṣûfî Shaykhs on freedom:
Al-Ḥusayn b. Manṣûr362 said, ‘He who wants freedom should accept
slavery (ʿubûdîyah).’
When al-Junayd363 was asked about (the status of a person) who has no
worldly goods left to him except as little as a date pit to suck, he replied,
‘The slave who is under contract to purchase his manumission remains a
slave as long as he keeps owing a single dirham.’
I heard Shaykh Abû ʿAbd-ar-Raḥmân as-Sulamî < Abû Bakr ar-Râzî364
112 < Abû ʿUmar al-Anmâṭî365 < al-Junayd say: ‘As long as | you have not
achieved completely true slavery (ʿubûdîyah), you will not be able to reach
pure freedom.’
Bishr al-Ḥâfî366 said: ‘He who wants to enjoy the taste of freedom and
rest from slavery (ʿubûdîyah) should cleanse his conscience as between
God and himself.’
Al-Ḥusayn b. Manṣûr said: ‘When a human being has achieved all the
stations of slavery (ʿubûdîyah), he will be free from the drudgery of slavery
and therefore accept slavery without pain or trouble. This is the station of
prophets and righteous men.’ He means that he will be carried along and
359 Cf. Natâʾij, 152: “(ʿAzîz here means) rare because it is a difficult station to achieve since it
is contrary to the natural disposition of the human soul.”
360 Al-Qâsim b. al-Qâsim, who died in 342/953–954, cf. Risâlah, 28; as-Sulamî, Ṭabaqât, 440ff.,
where the above story and verse are quoted (p. 446).
361 Here, as well as in the verse quoted later on, ḥurr obviously has the general meaning of
noble man.
362 The famous al-Ḥallâj, who died in 309/922, cf. GAL, I, 199, GAL, Suppl., I, 355.
363 Another celebrated mystic, who died in 298/910, cf. GAL, I, 199, GAL, Suppl., I, 354f.
364 He was Muḥammad b. ʿAbdallâh b. ʿAbd-al-ʿAzîz b. Shâdhân al-Muqriʾ, a frequent authority
of as-Sulamî. He died in 376/986. Cf. as-Sulamî, Ṭabaqât, 18f. and index.
365 ʿAlî b. Muḥammad, cf. al-Khaṭîb al-Baghdâdî, Taʾrîkh Baghdâd, XII, 73; as-Sulamî, Ṭabaqât,
50 and index.
366 Died in 227/841, cf. GAL, Suppl., I, 351.
feel no distress in his heart, even if he wears (and displays such distress
outwardly) as an ornament in (fulfilling the obligations of) the religious
law.367
The following verses were recited to us by Shaykh Abû ʿAbd-ar-Raḥmân
(as-Sulamî), who said that he heard them from Abû Bakr ar-Râzî, who
said that Manṣûr al-Faqîh368 had recited them to him as verses of his own
composition:
No free man remains among human beings.

No free man remains among the jinn either.
The free of both groups are gone.
The sweetness of life has turned into bitterness.
It should be known that the most important aspect of freedom is render-

ing service to the poor (the ascetics and Ṣûfîs, as attested by the following
three quotations).
I heard Shaykh Abû ʿAlî ad-Daqqâq say: ‘God revealed to David this
statement: If you see someone who is seeking Me, be his servant!’
The Prophet said: ‘The lord of the people is their servant.’369
I heard Muḥammad b. al-Ḥusayn (as-Sulamî) < Muḥammad b. | Ibrâ- 113
hîm b. al-Faḍl370 < Muḥammad b. ar-Rûmî371 < Yaḥyâ b. Muʿâdh372 say:
‘The children of this world are served by male and female slaves. The chil-
dren of the other world are served by the free and the blessed.’
367 The last clause is difficult. Mutaḥalliyan is the correct reading. The suffix in bi-hâ can
refer only to mashaqqah. Natâʾij, 153, paraphrases the clause as follows: “The appearance
of actions through his limbs and their being ascribed to him by virtue of (bi-ḥukm) the
religious law does not contradict his being carried along and helped by virtue of the inner
verity.”
368 Manṣûr b. Ibrâhîm al-Miṣrî (d. 306/918), a famous poet of moralizing tendency. Cf., for
instance, as-Subkî, Ṭabaqât, II, 317–319.
369 This tradition is apparently not to be found in the canonical collections. It is, however,
commonly quoted. Cf., for instance, Ibn Durayd, Mujtanâ (Hyderabad, 1362), 26f.; as-
Sarakhsî, Sharḥ as-siyar al-kabîr, I, 25.
370 Unidentified. He may have been a son of the judge of Sâmarrâ, who died in 321/933
(al-Khaṭîb al-Baghdâdî, Taʾrîkh Baghdâd, VI, 40), but there is no proof for this assumption.
371 Unidentified. If he was the (twin?) brother of the famous poet (221–283/836–896, or
284/897), who survived him, the following member in the chain of transmitters (n. 370)
must have reached a very advanced age. Cf. R. Guest, Life and Works of Ibn er Rûmî
(London, 1944), 46.
372 He died in 258/872, cf. al-Qushayrî, Risâlah, 16; as-Sulamî, Ṭabaqât, 107ff.
I also heard him say: I heard ʿAbdallâh b. ʿUthmân b. Yaḥyâ373 < ʿAlî b.
Muḥammad al-Miṣrî374 < Yûsuf b. Mûsâ375 < Ibn Khubayq376 < Muḥam-
mad b. ʿAbdallâh377 < Ibrâhîm b. Adham378 say: ‘The free and noble person
leaves this world before he leaves it.’
Ibrâhîm b. Adham also said: ‘Keep company only with a free and noble
man who listens and does not talk.’
114 Al-Qushayrî’s influence was far-reaching.379 It seems likely that the introduc-
tion of a special chapter on ḥurrîyah was his own idea.379a Al-Kalâbâdhî, who
died around the time al-Qushayrî was born, wrote a manual of Ṣûfism very sim-
373 Unidentified. Ms. Brit. Mus. Or. 3502 has: “Muḥammad b. ʿAbdallâh …,” which appears to
be a mistake.
374 He appears to be identical with the person mentioned by al-Khaṭîb al-Baghdâdî, Taʾrîkh
Baghdâd, XII, 75 f., who lived from 251/865–866 to 338/950.
375 He is mentioned repeatedly in as-Sulamî, Ṭabaqât, as a transmitter on Ibn Khubayq’s
authority. The editor of the Ṭabaqât (p. 36) equated him with the person mentioned by
al-Khaṭîb al-Baghdâdî, op. cit., XIV, 308 f., who died in 296/909.
376 He was Abû Muḥammad ʿAbdallâh b. Khubayq, cf. Risâlah, 17f.; as-Sulamî, Ṭabaqât, 141ff.
377 Unidentified.
378 The famous eighth-century ascetic who supposedly was of princely origin. Because of this,
he was especially qualified to speak on the meaning of ḥurr. Cf. also the remark ascribed
to him in al-Kutubî, Fawât, I, 4:
In my sleep, I saw someone who was saying: Is it fitting for a free man (ḥurr) who is
a mystic disciple, to humble himself before slaves, while he can find in God all he
wants?
A variant of the statement in the Risâlah was attributed to Yaḥyâ b. Muʿâdh by Ibn al-Jawzî,
Ṣifat aṣ-ṣafwah (Hyderabad, 1355–1356), IV, 77:
The intelligent, infallible person is he who does three things: He leaves the world
before he leaves it …
379 For instance, a short article entitled aṣ-Ṣafwah fî ʿilm at-taṣawwuf which appears in a
collection of treatises mostly by ʿIzz-ad-dîn Muḥammad b. Jamâʿah (d. 819/1416, cf. GAL,
II, 94, GAL, Suppl., II, 111 f.) and was probably written by him, is based upon al-Qushayrî
in the section on ḥurrîyah (Ms. Brit. Mus. Or. 12106, fol. 76b). In general, no later writer on
Ṣûfism was unaware of al-Qushayrî and the ideas he represented.
379a Such a statement is, however, always liable to revision pending the discovery of new mate-
rial. For instance, the works of al-Ḥakîm at-Tirmidhî must be studied in this connection,
cf. below, n. 398a.
ilar in structure and contents to the Risâlah, but he did not give any space to
ḥurrîyah. Thus, we cannot expect to find much information about the term
in authors who preceded al-Qushayrî, but it is worth noting that many of the
later Ṣûfî writers also did by no means pay as much attention to ḥurrîyah as he
did.
The closest al-Muḥâsibî (d. 857), in his Riʿâyah, got to paying any attention
to “freedom” was in the story of the proud rich heir who believed that he was
freeborn. He was disillusioned by a man who came and proved that the proud
heir’s late parents had been his slaves. Thus, the heir’s property in fact belonged
to him. Al-Muḥâsibî used this story as a parable warning against the sin of pride,
pride being branded as an absurdity since no man is free in relation to God.380
In his Iḥyâʾ, al-Ghazzâlî (d. 1111) was obviously reluctant to make much of
ḥurrîyah and ḥurr.381 He did refer to the term in its ethical382 and political383
senses. It is evident that in these connections he valued it highly.
The monistic outlook of Ibn ʿArabî (d. 1240) caused the distinction between 115
master and slave to disappear completely.384 With regard to the idea of free-
dom, this presented considerable difficulties. In a work as large as the Futûḥât
al-Makkîyah, Ibn ʿArabî could not entirely overlook the difficult problem. He
therefore devoted a few pages to it, a very small portion of the immense work.
The principal discussion of ḥurrîyah, in chapters 140 and 141 of the Futûḥât,
comes between the chapters on ḥayâʾ and on dhikr, as it does in al-Qushayrî’s
Risâlah. Ibn ʿArabî was evidently influenced by al-Qushayrî’s work. Neverthe-
less, he was fully justified in claiming—at the end of ch. 140—originality for his
searching penetration into the vexing problem. Ch. 70 of the Futûḥât includes
an evaluation of ḥurrîyah as compared to ʿubûdîyah, leading to a detailed inves-
tigation of two more terms, which, in Ibn ʿArabî’s eyes, are closely related
to the problem of freedom, that is, ghinâ “self-sufficiency” (lit. “wealth”) and
fuqr “need” (lit. “poverty”). Chapters 140 and 141 are devoted to the “stations”
(maqâm) of freedom and of the renunciation of it (tark al-ḥurrîyah), while
ch. 214 deals with the significance of the “state” (ḥâl) of freedom.385
380 Riʿâyah, 252.

381 He occasionally referred to the word in its legal meaning, cf. Iḥyâʾ, I, 198, 220; II, 196, etc. He
also happened to use it in verses, proverbs, and stereotyped expressions, cf. Iḥyâʾ, I, 198; II,
208; III, 227, 229; IV, 214, 288.
382 Cf. above, nn. 263 and 276.
383 Cf. above, n. 329.
384 Cf., for instance, his Fuṣûṣ al-ḥikam, ed. Abû l-ʿAlâʾ ʿAfîfî (Cairo, 1365/1946), passim.
385 Futûḥât (Bûlâq, 1293), I, 724; II, 299 f., 300–302, 660–662.
“Free,” according to Ibn ʿArabî, “is he who controls all created things, and is
controlled by neither property nor rank.”386 There is no absolute freedom for
human beings. As the term is commonly understood by Ṣûfîs and other peo-
ple, “freedom means that man is a slave only of God, so that he is free from
everything except God, and freedom is true slavery (ʿubûdîyah) with God as
the master.”387 “Freedom from God” is not only impossible but it also “is not
116 sound.”388 Yet, | absolute freedom is also impossible for God qua God. The terms
“mastership and divinity imply a relationship” with those to whom one is mas-
ter and God, and “there is no freedom where there is relationship.”389 However,
lack of freedom, which would be identical with dependence, is unthinkable
in connection with God, as is stated in Qurʾân 3.97/92 and 29.6/5: “He is inde-
pendent (ghanî) of the worlds.” This means that God cannot be reached by
arguments and reasoning, as this would mean usurpation and deprive Him of
freedom and independence.390 “In reality, freedom has no characteristic exis-
tence of its own (wujûd ʿayn)391 … Freedom, in reality, is essential independence
(ghinâ adh-dhât, on the part of God) of the worlds, while at the same time the
world derives from Him on account of His essence alone. Thus, He is indepen-
dent of the worlds. He is free. The world needs Him. The (people of the) world
are slaves. They are never free.”392
There is, however, a certain type of freedom even for them. They cannot
possess the station of freedom as a characteristic of theirs, but they can possess
it as an intellectual achievement (maqâm taḥaqquq lâ maqâm takhalluq). They
must realize that existence is impossible for human beings. They must get rid
of the wish to supply the needs (iftiqâr) inseparable from human potentiality
and recognize that non-existence is their inherent attribute. If they do so, their
dependence (iftiqâr) ceases to be, and they remain free while (their) essence
is unfree in its existence. Their potentiality prepares them to give names to
the phenomena of existence and to attempt to understand them, but “if the
potential stops at its particular being—if a man’s state is his particular being
117 (ʿayn)393—, it is free and admits of no | slavery, whereas if it stops at the
numerous things it is prepared to be, it is a dependent slave.” But again, it must
386 Op. cit., II, 299, l. 18. Cf. also II, 661, l. 26.
387 Op. cit., II, 300, l. 18 f.
388 Op. cit., I, 724, l. 24.
389 Op. cit., II, 299, l. 24. Cf. II, 661, ll. 27–30.
390 Op. cit., II, 300, ll. 13–15.
391 ʿAyn is particularly difficult to translate, cf. S. van den Bergh, ʿAyn, in EI2, I, 784f.
392 Futûḥât, II, 661, ll. 30–33.
393 Op. cit., II, 660, l. 28.
be stressed that there is no absolute freedom for us.394 “How could he who
cannot ever escape from his needs free himself, while his needs pursue him?”395
The obligations resting upon him are numerous, and they are inescapable both
in this world and the next. This makes him realize that freedom is a transitory
accident, and the renunciation of freedom a divine qualification. The degrees
of freedom that may be reached by the various classes of Ṣûfîs are numerous but
all of them together, and even more, belong to those who renounce freedom,396
and choose slavery (ʿubûdîyah) which is preferable to freedom.397
After it had been introduced—it seems, by al-Qushayrî—into mystic litera-
ture, ḥurrîyah, we have seen, could no longer be disregarded, and it continued
to be discussed. However, the connotation of worldly nobility originally inher-
ent in the term did little to recommend its use to Ṣûfîs. Al-Qushayrî already
quoted quite a few examples of the use of ʿubûdîyah as the opposite of ḥur-
rîyah,397a and it is true that in the discussion of the true meaning of ʿubûdîyah
the highest rank is accorded to “voluntary slavery” (ʿubûdîyah ikhtiyârîyah).397b
However, ʿubûdîyah | “slavery” is usually not paired with ḥurrîyah but with 118
rubûbîyah, the status of master. The many Ṣûfî terms that imply abstention,
keeping away from worldly affairs, shunning the company of human beings,
preferring isolation and self-sufficiency, also do not aim at extolling individ-
ual freedom. The freedom from things mundane, according to mysticism, is
the freedom to be ready for complete acceptance of servitude to God. Meta-
physical contact is not meant to bring full liberation to the individual. The
Greek Hermetic philosopher said that everything on earth is unfree, everything
394 Op. cit., II, 300, l. 10 f.

395 Op. cit., II, 300, l. 29.
396 Op. cit., ch. 141, and, in particular, II, 301, l. 31 f., and 302, l. 4ff.
397 Op. cit., I, 724, l. 23f.
397a It could also be contrasted with ikhtiyâr “choice, free will,” cf. al-Qushayrî, Risâlah, 91:
Slavery is giving up freedom of choice with regard to any manifestation of predes-

tination.
397b Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzîyah, Miftâḥ dâr as-saʿâdah (Cairo, n.y.), I, 5. Cf. also the distinction,
supposedly made by ʿAlî, between three kinds of worship (ʿibâdah) of God, with the
highest being “worship by the free,” in Nahj al-balâghah (Cairo, n.y. [1934?]), II, 189. An
older contemporary of Ibn ʿArabî from the East, Najm-ad-dîn al-Kubrâ, played around
with classifications in an ascending order of merit such as ʿibâdah, ʿubûdîyah, ʿubûdah,
or taʿabbud, ʿubûdîyah, ḥurrîyah, cf. F. Meier, Die Fawâʾiḥ al-ǧamâl (Wiesbaden, 1957), text,
86.
in heaven free.398 The same thesis was, it seems, defended by the important
ninth-century mystic, al-Ḥakîm at-Tirmidhî; this world, as he put is, is based
upon slavery for its people, and the other world upon freedom.398a However,
this was an idea that was not accepted by the majority of Ṣûfîs. As they saw
it, there can be no freedom from the divine presence, either in this life or in
the hereafter, unless that presence is rejected. Such rejection, however, would
mean the most terrible slavery and lead to the most painful prison of all, Hell
and damnation. Certain Ṣûfîs conceived of the possibility that man, in his pas-
sionate quest for the right path, might think of freedom as freeing himself from
the religious obligations, even of freeing himself from the divine, and might
wish to destroy the ladder with its rungs of duties and obligations, of states and
stations, which served for an upward climb that seemed all too slow. They were
at times inclined to concede that there existed a special freedom for the elect
that entitled them to reject the outward forms of religion and “to drink the wine
119 of the free.”399 As a | rule, the more moderate attitude prevailed. It was assumed
that the search for absolute freedom would lead to absolute disaster, to insanity
for man as an individual, and to heresy and damnation for him as a member of
society.400
398 Cf. Stobaeus, ed. Wachsmuth-Hense, I, 276; Corpus Hermeticum, ed. A.-J. Festugière (Paris,
1945–1954), III, 55.
398a Cf. H. Ritter, in Oriens, III (1950), 32; O. Yahya, in Mélanges Louis Massignon (Damascus,
1957), III, 447.
399 Jalâl-ad-dîn Rûmî, Mathnavî, ed. and trans. R.A. Nicholson (London, 1925–1940. E.J.W. Gibb
Memorial Series, N. S., IV), V, 498; VI, 474 (book VI, verse 3922).
400 Cf. above, pp. 5 and 28.
vi
Concluding Remark 120
The preceding discussion has been rather lengthy, and the quotations have
been numerous and detailed. Thus, the impression might be gained that a good
deal of thought was given by medieval Muslims to the problem of freedom in
their civilization. A word of caution would seem in order. Measured against
the vast expanse of Muslim literature, the amount of material here collected
is infinitesimal. The occasions are numerous where freedom might have been
discussed but was not. Moreover, the quality and significance of the references
to freedom must be considered decidedly uneven.
It is clear that Muslims always felt great horror at being deprived of their
individual liberty. There existed a proud insistence upon one’s individual inde-
pendence. Ibn Ḥazm once wondered why there were people proud and con-
ceited who did not have the slightest claim to distinction. He tactfully asked
one of those people to tell him the reason for his conceitedness, but all he was
able to get out of him by way of a reply was the simple statement, “I am a free
man, I am nobody’s slave.” Ibn Ḥazm pointed out to him that most of the people
around him were free men and there were only a few slaves there, who, in fact,
were more powerful than the free men and exercised control over them.400a In
his context, Ibn Ḥazm was right to consider the man’s attitude extremely fool-
ish. However, the statement as such shows the tremendous emotional impact
exercised by the concept of freedom, by the feeling of independence, upon the
average Muslim.
Freedom also happened to be equated with all that was noble | and good in 121
the human character. This contributed greatly to the preservation of the dignity
of the term. The result was that the idea of freedom loomed as an important one
in the Muslim mind, be it consciously or unconsciously. The desire for freedom,
consequently, was respected, within certain limits, by those who exercised
political power and controlled the development of legal thought and practice.
However, despite some warning notes sounded in Graeco-Arabic translation
literature, medieval Muslims failed to understand what a tender growth free-
dom is and how zealously it must be protected against any encroachment lest
it cease to function effectively. And there was the failure to connect the meta-
400a Ibn Ḥazm, Risâlah fî mudâwât an-nufûs, in Rasâʾil Ibn Ḥazm al-Andalusî, ed. Iḥsân R.
ʿAbbâs (Cairo, n. y. [ca. 1954]), 159.
physical level with the societal level of freedom. It remained at best highly
uncertain whether transitory social freedom was of any real value for the indi-
vidual if the individual was properly adjusted to the permanent metaphysical
establishment. This uncertainty always opened up a convenient loophole for
the conscience of anyone who had to compromise on his freedom in this world.
In a recent discussion of legal liberty and the safeguards that existed for it
in the political and social organization of Muslim civilization, L. Gardet took
the metaphysical point of view. He came to the conclusion that freedom, in the
ideal Muslim state, was, perhaps, not the freedom for which one dies, which
gives life its true value, and which involves the dignity of man as a being created
in the image of God. Its true meaning for Islam had to be found in the relation
of man to the divine.401 More concisely, J.H. Kramers expressed a similar idea.
The position of the individual in Muslim social organization could not be called
“‘civic liberty,’ but it could be called ‘human liberty.’ Man faces man, but nothing
122 is more natural than the most powerful at a given | moment being in command
and even disposing of life and death.”402
As we have seen, there is much more to it. To medieval Muslims, the problem
of freedom did appear in the many-colored light which is natural to it. However,
the stifling acceptance of the division of society into free men and unfree men
made itself always felt. Consciousness of the basic human need for freedom
was not general and not strongly developed. It was not sufficiently strong, for
instance, to produce rebels against societal restraint who might have fought
such restraint openly in the name of individual liberty. Muslim society, as
a completely integrated structure, could have hardly tolerated attempts to
change it in the name of so powerful an idea as that of freedom, which once
unleashed might have endangered the whole structure. Freedom, as an ideal,
was not unknown. As a political force it lacked the support which only a central
position within the political organism and system of thought could give it.
401 L. Gardet, La cité musulmane (Paris, 1954), 69 ff. Cf. also above, p. 4f.
402 J.H. Kramers, Analecta Orientalia (Leiden, 1954–1956), II, 209.
iii
The Herb:
Hashish versus Medieval Muslim Society

Contents
I Introduction 134 [1]
II Monographs on Hashish and Some of the More Important

Sources 138 [5]
III The Use of Hashish 152 [19]

1 The Names of the Drug 152 [19]
2 The History of the Use of Hashish 174 [41]
3 The Preparation of Hashish and the Manner of its Use 189 [56]
4 The Reported Effects of Hashish 205 [71]
5 Habituation to Hashish and its Cure 231 [96]
IV The Legal Discussion 236 [101]

1 The General Attitude 236 [101]
2 Hashish Considered as “Intoxicating” and as “Corruptive” 241
[105]
3 The Ritual Cleanliness or Uncleanliness of Hashish 251 [117]
4 Prayer and Divorce 254 [120]
5 The Feeding of Hashish to Animals 257 [123]
6 The Punishment for Drug Use 258 [123]
V Hashish and its Users in Society 265 [131]

1 Economic Aspects 265 [131]
2 The Asocial Character of Drug Use 270 [137]
3 The Addict’s Social Standing 274 [140]
4 Hashish, the Individual, and Society 295 [159]
Appendix A: Some Hashish Poems Translated 298 [163]

1 Al-Isʿirdī’s Rangstreit of Hashish and Wine 298 [163]
2 Poems against Hashish by Ibn Ghānim and an Anonymous
Poet 303 [167]
3 Poems on Hashish from the Dīwān of Ṣafī-ad-dīn al-Ḥillī 307 [171]
Appendix B: The Arabic Text of az-Zarkashī’s Zahr al-ʿarīsh 311 [175]

chapter one
1 Introduction
Next to the control of sex as the most pressing issue confronting human soci-
ety, the control of the instinct and need for play among men has been a matter
of constant concern and considerable experimentation. Man is homo ludens,
the playing animal, and the means by which he has sought to fulfill this side
of his nature have not always been consistent with the best interests of the
group organization necessary for human existence. Gambling is the outstand-
ing example of a playful flight away from harsh reality which at times may lead
rather too far away from it. The consumption of stimulants or depressants in
solid, liquid, or gaseous form, beyond the requirements of nourishment and
without any thought of normal physical need, is another. As it may affect not
only man’s mental state but at times also his physical functioning on a tempo-
rary or permanent basis, it is the kind of play that bears careful watching by
society.
Islam is well known for the strictness of its attitude with respect to what
it considers permissible means of amusement and relaxation for the individ-
ual. The Prophet’s personal experience of the environment he lived in and the
views he formed as a result set the course. Wine and gambling are expressly
interdicted in the Qurʾān. It was easy for the guardians of the Muslim commu-
nity to make the most of these prohibitions and, by and large, to enforce them.
Expectedly, individual rebellions have been numerous in the course of history.
It depended on circumstances of time and locale how strong such rebellions
would become and what forms they would take. The problems of the consump-
tion of alcoholic beverages, in particular, and their use and abuse have been in
the center not only of social life but also of literature. As a result, an almost
uncontrollably large mass of material attesting to the struggle of the individual
against societal restrictions imposed upon him in this connection is available
to us. A detailed and exhaustive treatment of this material would be a tremen-
dously vast undertaking that could not be held within moderate limits. Much
less formidable is the amount of information on gambling and its function in
2 Muslim society, although it, too, is | plentiful and full of unsolved and, perhaps,
unsolvable questions for the historian.
The escape from the drudgery of life by means of various drugs other than
alcohol expected to produce temporary physical euphoria or fleeting sensa-
tions of mental change was not barred by the authority of express statements
creditable to the very highest religious sources. For this reason, attempts to
introduction 135
counteract their consumption, even where it was suspected to be a danger to

the fabric of society, were intermittent and, in the end, halfhearted. Because of
its peculiar nature, the escapist use of drugs was as a rule looked upon with a
certain disdain and a good deal of reticence, even where it surfaced and became
so prominent as to call out for scrutiny. As will become clear in the course of this
investigation, we have no way of knowing accurately how general a problem the
use of drugs may have been in the past, and even for more recent times, we have,
to my limited knowledge, no real hard facts to go by. It would seem very risky to
generalize from the number and pitch of literary utterances or from the impres-
sions gained by outsiders whose preparedness to receive and evaluate them it
is impossible to assess. However, it is clear that Muslim authorities often con-
sidered it necessary to try to curb the use of drugs. As clearly, these attempts did
not pass without arousing individual resistance. They thus produced another
phase of the unceasing struggle of the individual against the society which is
his creature, his savior, and his oppressor. The material presented on the fol-
lowing pages is meant to throw some limited light on this particular phase. If
hashish has been chosen as the basis for discussion, it is because it is the most
representative and, probably, the most widely used of the hallucinatory drugs
employed by medieval Muslims.
Recent years have witnessed a vast outpouring of books and studies on
cannabis intoxication. I have looked at some of them but have come to the
conclusion that it would not be a good investment of my time to read too
intensively in this literature. The knowledge of the history of hashish, especially
in the Islamic period, displayed in it is pitiful and, on occasion, comical. This
does not really come as a surprise, but it raises the somewhat disquieting
spectre of a lack of historical understanding in the formation of views on
a problem intimately concerned with man’s past and future. Since so much
has been written on the subject, it is possible that someone somewhere has
gathered up something more than the few stock | items repeated over and over 3
again. I do not consider this likely, nor do I believe that historians and Near
East experts have written on hashish and used fuller information than usual. If
anything of the sort has escaped me, I have to apologize to the authors of such
works and to the readers of these lines.
The modern literature on the subject stresses the need for a good deal of
refinement in terminology. Thus, it is considered necessary (as was done on
occasion also in the past) to make terminological distinctions between various
hemp products, restricting such terms as hashish and marijuana to particular
preparations made from the plant. Or terms such as addiction and habituation
are broken down according to more closely defined aspects. All this, I feel, is
useful to a certain degree, but it has comparatively little applicability to the
136 iii. the herb: hashish versus medieval muslim society
medieval period and has been disregarded here. “Hashish” serves as the general
term for which nowadays “cannabis” appears to enjoy preference. Terms are
thus used here in the rather vague manner of common speech. To my mind,
this can neither blur the picture nor make things appear more clear-cut than
they are.
It has seemed to me to be the most immediate and needed task to provide
information on what medieval Muslims knew about, and how they looked at,
the use of drugs. To my knowledge, such information is not easily, or not at all,
available elsewhere in the scholarly literature and accessible to those who are
not familiar with Near Eastern languages. This has made my treatment as long
as it has turned out to be, instead of the few pages I had originally meant to
devote to it. While information is primary, interpretation continues to retain
its proper place. In fact, interpretation of some sort or other can never be com-
pletely avoided, as it is inherent in everything we say or write. However, apart
from the general theme explained above that motivates my writing on the sub-
ject and dominates it, the developing of interpretational generalities has not
been my aim. In studying basic drives of human nature, presumed differences
between large civilizational complexes become increasingly more elusive upon
closer acquaintance with the historical situation and upon wider and deeper
probing of the preserved evidence. In the case of hashish, it might be said that
persistent reading of the daily newspapers and some rather superficial knowl-
edge of Islam would suffice for anyone who might wish to do so, to guess at
and describe quite accurately the general situation, the general attitudes, and
4 the general procedures that could be assumed to have prevailed | in medieval
Islam with respect to the drug. This would hardly be a useful exercise. It is not
the generalities but the details that count, and they have been presented here
as clearly and as fully as possible. Observations encountered in the modern lit-
erature, unless they are derived from such properly scientific work as chemical
analysis or controlled experimentation, can often be duplicated from Muslim
sources. It might have been useful to footnote the medieval cases with paral-
lel passages from modern writings. However, anyone interested in this aspect
can do this very easily on his own. It is more important to explain and preserve
the information provided by the indigenous sources on their own terms, in the
hope that the mosaic thus put together will form a meaningful picture.
Much of this study had perforce to be based upon manuscript material. It
should, however, be understood that numerous other works still unpublished
might profitably have been consulted for basic or, mainly, illustrative material.
And much further combing needs to be done of the vast literature available
in print. The manuscripts used are not of the highest quality. This is to some
degree due to the special character of the subject matter, but it is also possible,
introduction 137
and very much to be hoped, that better manuscripts are hidden somewhere
in Eastern and Western libraries. The manuscripts consulted here, directly
or, mostly, in microfilm, are preserved in the great collections of libraries in
Ankara, Berlin, Cambridge, Gotha, Istanbul, Leiden, New Haven (Connecticut),
Paris, Princeton (New Jersey), and Rabat. For the courtesy and generosity with
which they were made available to me, I am deeply grateful.
chapter two
5 Monographs on Hashish and

Some of the More Important Sources
The extent and character of the Muslim occupation with hashish problems
and hashish lore are indicated by the source material at our disposal which
largely determines what the present study can, and cannot, accomplish. It
may thus be advisable to present here, at the outset of our discussion, instead
of waiting for its end, an outline of the literature, in chronological order as
far as possible. Some of the monographs listed are not preserved and known
only through quotations and bibliographical reference. Much may have been
written which never became known beyond the circle of the author and his
friends.
We may well suspect that nearly every poet and productive amateur writer of
verse, from the thirteenth to the sixteenth centuries, wrote at least some playful
poems on hashish, although these poems might at times have been excluded
from published collections of his work.1 With the exception of al-Isʿirdī’s rep-
resentative and early specimen of the genre, no separate listing of this mate-
rial has been made here. All major, and many minor, legal works can also be
assumed to have rarely been entirely without some references to hashish, but
even though much of a larger size and importance has surely eluded me, most
of such occasional material would not justify special listing in the following
list. The same applies to other lesser and incidental references. They will be
restricted to mention later on in the footnotes.
The information provided by outsiders, that is, European travelers and resi-
dents in Islamic countries, is in part as old as, and on occasion older than, some
of the Oriental sources used here, but it has been left aside. Whatever use of it
has been made later on is so discrete as in no way being able to becloud the
Muslim outlook.
1. Ibn al-Bayṭār, ʿAbdallāh b. Aḥmad al-Mālaqī (d. 646/1248),2 al-Jāmiʿ li-mufra-

dāt al-adwiyah, IV, 39 (Būlāq 1291); French trans. L. Leclerc, in Notices et extraits
6 des manuscrits de la Bibliothèque | Nationale, XXVI (1883), 118–120; German
1 1 On hashish poetry, see below, pp. 72, 141 f., and 163ff.
2 2 Cf. J. Vernet, in EI2, s.v. Ibn al-Bayṭār.
monographs on hashish and some of the more important sources 139
trans. J. von Sontheimer, II, 327–329 (Stuttgart 1840–1842). Much quoted in later
times, for instance, by az-Zarkashī and al-Maqrīzī.
2. Al-Isʿirdī, Nūr-ad-dīn Muḥammad b. Muḥammad Ibn Rustum (619–656/

1222–1258),3 wrote a Rangstreit poem of hashish and wine, preserved by al-
Kutubī (d. 764/1363) and translated below, pp. 163–166. It was possibly taken
over by al-Kutubī from al-Isʿirdī’s Sulāfat az-zarajūn fī l-khalāʿah wa-l-mujūn.
3. Muḥammad b. Sulaymān (b. Muḥammad b. Sulaymān) b. ʿAbd-al-Malik ash-

Shāṭibī (585–672/1189–1274),4 Zahr al-ʿarīsh fī taḥrīm al-ḥashīsh, is the oldest
monograph on the subject of hashish of which we have knowledge, although it
appears not to have been preserved. The title is mentioned by as-Sakhāwī (831–
902/1427–1497) in his biography of Ibn Ḥajar.5 Another reference is contained
in a biography from a book allegedly entitled az-Zahr al-muḍī (?) fī manā-qib
ash-Shāṭibī, cited by ʿAbd-al-Wahhāb ʿAzzām,6 about which nothing further is
known to me. It was presumably also the source of the third reference, by Baǧ-
datlı Ịsmail Pasha (d. 1339/1920).7 In these two cases, the author is described as
Ibn Abī r-Rabīʿ al-Maʿāfirī. However, aṣ-Ṣafadī distinguishes, and, it seems, cor-
rectly, between Ibn Abī r-Rabīʿ al-Hawwārī8 and our Shāṭibī (al-Maʿāfirī) (both
of whom, he says, died in 673). Since az-Zarkashī (No. 9) uses an almost identi-
cal title (although he may have had originally aḥkām for taḥrīm), it would seem
a fair assumption that he had no knowledge of ash-Shāṭibī’s earlier work, which
he does not mention.
4. Ibn Ghānim, ʿIzz-ad-dīn ʿAbd-as-Salām b. Aḥmad al-Maqdisī | (d. 678/1279– 7

1280),9 Majlis fī dhamm al-ḥashīshah, preserved in Ms. Princeton 2136 (= 1056
3 1 Cf. as-Ṣafadī, Wāfī, ed. H. Ritter, I, 188–192 (Wiesbaden, reprint, 1962, Bibliotheca Islamica 6a);
al-Kutubī, Fawāt, II, 329–334 (Cairo 1951–1953); GAL, I, 257.
4 2 Cf. al-Yūnīnī, Dhayl Mirʾāt az-zamān, III, 72 (Hyderabad 1374–1380/1954–1961); adh-Dhahabī,
‘Ibar, V, 300 (Kuwait 1960–1966); aṣ-Ṣafadī, Wāfī, ed. S. Dedering, III, 127f. (Damascus 1953,
Bibliotheca Islamica 6c); Ibn al-Jazarī, Ghāyat an-nihāyah, II, 149 (Istanbul 1932–1935, reprint).
5 3 Cf. F. Rosenthal, A History of Muslim Historiography, 2nd ed., 609 (Leiden 1968).
6 4 Fī mazārāt al-Iskandarīyah, in ar-Risālah, VII (1358/1939), No. 338, p. 2332, cited in Saʿīd
al-Afghānī’s edition of az-Zarkashī, Ijābah, 2nd ed., 12, n. 1 (Beirut 1390/1970).
7 5 Cf. Dhayl Kashf aẓ-ẓunūn, I, 618 (Istanbul 1945–1947).
8 6 Ibn Abī r-Rabīʿ al-Hawwārī’s notice from aṣ-Ṣafadī appears in substantially the same form in
al-Kutubī, Fawāt, II, 421 f., indicating al-Yūnīnī as his source, cf. al-Yūnīnī, Dhayl, III, 71f., anno
672.
9 1 This is the date indicated in GAL, Suppl, I, 808, cf. also H. Ritter, in Oriens, III (1950), 58ff.; Ibn
Kathīr, XIII, 289.
H). The ms. was written by a certain Ṭalḥah b. Muḥammad b. Ibrāhīm b. Abī
l-Aʿlā al-Ḥanbalī, who is presumably not the person mentioned by as-Sakhāwī,
Ḍawʾ, IV, 9 (Cairo 1353–1355). It is dated on Tuesday, 10 Rabīʿ II 802/Wednes-
day, 10 December 1399.10 The Majlis takes up only the last three pages (not
folios) of the Princeton Ms. The name of the author appears in it as ʿIzz-ad-dīn
ʿAbd-al-ʿAzīz b. ʿAbd-as-Salām b. Ghānim. The last name is written somewhat
indistinctly, but the reading Ghānim corresponds better to the reading of the
ms. than the ʿĀmir of the Princeton Catalogue. GAL, Suppl., I, 768, lists the
work under ʿAbd-al-ʿAzīz b. ʿAbd-as-Salām (ca. 577–660/1181–1262). However,
the name of the grandfather is almost certain evidence for the correct attri-
bution. The confusion is easily understandable.
Another, anonymous ms. of the work is preserved in the Berlin Ms. Wet-
zstein II, 1774 (= Ahlwardt, No. 5488), fols. 102a–103b, with the title Faṣl fī l-
ḥashīshah wa-taḥrīmihā. The Berlin Ms. presents a dating problem. The text
immediately preceding the Faṣl in the ms. is stated to have been copied in
783/1381. Ahlwardt, who lists that text under No. 1675 of his Catalogue, takes this
to be the actual date when the ms. was written. However, strangely enough, he
also assumes that the scribe may have misspelled his own name, the name by
which, he says, he was known and which in the ms. looks somewhat like Khaṭīb
‫󰈌ﻟڡﻠﺺ‬. Unless this should turn out to be the correct form of his name, it may very
well be that the date of 783 belongs to the ms. from which the Berlin Ms. was
copied.11
The Princeton Ms. does not contain the verses from the Berlin Ms., referred
to below, p. 156, n. 2, or the story following upon them that identifies hashish
with the zaqqūm tree (below, p. 46).
8 For the poem at the end of Ibn Ghānim’s treatise, see below, pp. 167ff. For
other verses possibly attributable to Ibn Ghānim, see below, p. 150.
5. Al-ʿUkbarī, ʿImād-ad-dīn Abū l-Faḍl al-Ḥasan b. Muḥammad b. ʿAbd-ar-Raḥ-

mān Ibn Abī l-Baqāʾ (seventh/thirteenth cent.), Kitāb as-Sawāniḥ al-adabīyah
10 2 The tenth of Rabīʿ II was a Tuesday in 805, but I do not think that the reading “five” is
possible.
11 3 Ahlwardt lists another work from the same ms., written by the same hand, under No. 635
of his Catalogue. He dates its author, a certain ʿAbd-al-ʿAzīz b. Munajjā b. Aḥmad al-Ḥalabī,
in the seventh or eighth century of the hijrah, apparently on the strength of the 783
date just mentioned. It would be helpful if it were possible to identify this author, but I
have not yet succeeded in doing so. The other available references to him are all based
upon Ahlwardt, cf. GAL, Suppl., II, 133; K. Vollers, Katalog … Leipzig, 276f., No. 847, II
(Leipzig 1906); ʿIzzat Ḥasan, Fihris makhṭūṭāt Dār al-Kutub aẓ-Ẓāhirīyah, ʿulūm al-Qurʾān,
20 (Damascus 1381/1962).
fī l-madāʾiḥ12 al-qinnabīyah. The work is first mentioned by Ibn al-Fuwaṭī (642–

723/1244–1323),13 who merely says that it deals with the eating of hashish. Since
it is so far known only from quotations in al-Maqrīzī and al-Badrī,14 it is hard to
say whether it was in fact so uncompromisingly pro-hashish as its title and the
reaction of al-Qasṭallānī (No. 6) would seem to suggest.
Al-ʿUkbarī’s death is placed in the year 690/1291 in the summary entry
No. 5489 of the Berlin Catalogue where Ahlwardt has brought together the titles
of works on hashish known to him. No source is indicated, but the date is plau-
sible and is not contradicted by the statement in al-Maqrīzī allegedly showing
that al-ʿUkbarī was alive in and after 658/1260; al-Maqrīzī’s statement does, in
fact, not refer to al-ʿUkbarī himself as being involved in the interview said to
have taken place in that year (below, p. 51).
Another work by al-ʿUkbarī, entitled Ṭārid al-humūm, is quoted by al-Badrī,
fol. 14a (below, p. 146).
6. Al-Qasṭallānī, Quṭb-ad-dīn Abū Bakr Muḥammad b. Aḥmad b. ʿAlī b. Muḥam-

mad (Shāfiʿite, 614–686/1218–1287),15 Takrīm al-maʿīshah fī (bi-)taḥrīm al-ḥa-
shīshah. This title is cited by al-Aqfahsī (No. 10) and al-Qalqashandī (756–821/
1355–1418),16 who has fī dhamm. Ḥājjī Khalīfah (1017–1067/1609–1657), 1009,17
states that al-ʿUkbarī’s work gives the impression of having been provoked by
that of al-Qasṭallānī. Al-Qasṭallānī, in turn, upon the appearance of al-ʿUkbarī’s
work, wrote a point by point rejoinder which he entitled Tatmīm at-Takrīm li-
mā fī l-ḥashīsh min at-taḥrīm. For a commentary on al-Qasṭallānī, see below,
No. 14. Not unexpectedly, the biographical sources omit these titles on hashish
in their entries on al-Qasṭallānī.
7. Ibn Taymīyah, Aḥmad b. ʿAbd-al-Ḥalīm (Ḥanbalite, 661–728/1263–1328),18 9

may have written a monograph on the subject. At least, the Istanbul Ms. Reis
el-küttap 1154, containing a collection of treatises by Ibn Taymīyah, lists one
on hashish in its table of contents. It was to be found on fols. 218–221 of
12 1 Al-Maqrīzī and, in two instances, al-Badrī (fols. 3a and 50a) omit the definite article.
13 2 Talkhīṣ Majmaʿ al-ādāb, IV, ii, 708 (Damascus 1963).
14 3 Cf. below, pp. 50 ff. The quotations in al-Badrī are to be found on fols. 3a (below, pp. 50ff.),
24b (below, p. 78), 30a (below, p. 83, n. 3), and 50b (below, p. 101).
15 4 Cf. GAL, Suppl., I, 809 f.
16 5 Ṣubḥ, II, 146 (Cairo 1331/1913).
17 6 Ḥājjī Khalīfah’s Kashf aẓ-ẓunūn is cited here according to the edition by Ş. Yaltkaya
(Istanbul 1941–1943), unless indicated otherwise.
18 1 Cf. GAL, II, 100 ff., Suppl., II, 119 ff.
the ms., but, unfortunately, there is a gap extending from fol. 210 to fol. 222.
In the list of his works in al-Kutubī, Fawāt, I, 81, we find a legal treatise on
declaring hashish forbidden and unclean and necessitating the ḥadd penalty
(Taḥrīm al-ḥashīshah al-mughayyibah wa-l-ḥadd ʿalayhā wa-tanjīsuhā). Further
evidence for a separate legal decision on hashish appears in al-Badrī, fol. 53a,
where Ibn Taymīyah in his “Treatise known as declaration of the illegality of
hashish” (ar-Risālah al-maʿrūfah bi-taḥrīmihā) is quoted. It is possible, how-
ever, that these texts were nothing else but one or more of the fatwās on
hashish that appear in the collected Fatāwī al-kubrā of Ibn Taymīyah, used
here in the recent (1966?) Cairo edition, IV, 301–303, 310 f., 312 f., 322–324, and
324–326. The last two fatwās may also be read in the same collection, I, 128–
130, and II, 252–254. The parallel texts show some slight variants. The last
one, dealing with ghubayrāʾ, is somewhat expanded at the end of the text in
Vol. IV.
Another work by Ibn Taymīyah dealing with hashish is as-Siyāsah ash-
sharʿīyah, ed. M. al-Mubārak, 94–96 (Beirut, n. y. [1966?]); French trans.
H. Laoust, IIIf. (Beirut 1948).
8. Adh-Dhahabī, Muḥammad b. Aḥmad (Shāfiʿite, 673–748/1274–1348),19 has

a section on hashish in the Kitāb al-Kabāʾir, 84f. (Cairo 1385/1965, the fourth
printing of an edition apparently first published in 1355). It turns out to be
an almost literal reproduction of the passage in Ibn Taymīyah’s Siyāsah. There
are some additional verses at the end (below, p. 156). Ibn Taymīyah is not
mentioned as the source. The textual history of the Kitāb al-Kabāʾir in general
would seem to bear investigation. In the introduction of az-Zawājir ʿan iqtirāf
al-kabāʾir, Ibn Ḥajar al-Haytamī (909–974/1504–1567) calls adh-Dhahabī’s work
“attributed” (mansūb) to him. Ibn Ḥajar al-Haytamī resumes the passage on
hashish in Vol. II, 150f. of the edition, Cairo 1370/1951, Nos. 371–382, with a few
inconsequential comments of his own.
10 9. Az-Zarkashī, Muḥammad (b. ʿAbdallāh) b. Bahādur (Shāfiʿite, | 745–794/1344–

1392),20 Zahr al-ʿarīsh fī aḥkām (or taḥrīm) al-ḥashīsh There are several mss.,
also listed by M. Abū l-Faḍl Ibrāhīm in the introduction of his edition of az-
Zarkashī’s Burhān fī ʿulūm al-Qurʾān, 9 (Cairo 1376–1377/1957–1958). None of
the mss. used here for the edition of the text (below, pp. 175ff.) is particularly
good, but since the work was well known and much considered, it would seem
19 2 Cf. GAL, 2nd ed., II, 57 ff., Suppl., II, 45 ff.

20 1 Cf. GAL, 2nd ed., II, 112, Suppl., II, 108.
likely that older and better ms. material is still in existence somewhere. The
mss. available and the sigla adopted for the apparatus criticus are these:
A Berlin Ms. Wetzstein II, 1809 (= Ahlwardt, No. 5487), fols. 108a–115a, with the
title Ẓill … aḥkām … The text preceding az-Zarkashī in the ms. is dated in
Rabīʿ I 1122/May 1710.
B Berlin Ms. Wetzstein II, 1801 (= Ahlwardt, No. 5486), fols. 37a–46b, with the
title Zahr … taḥrīm …
C Gotha 1451 (= Pertsch, No. 2096), fols. 1a–6a. Fol. 6a is written in a hand dif-
ferent from the preceding pages, and the title is mentioned only at the end,
written by still another hand (Zahr … aḥkām …). The text of this ms. omits all
verses together with the context in which they are embedded. This, it would
seem, was not merely the result of the linguistic incompetence of some ear-
lier copyist but was done intentionally by someone who considered all such
material irrelevant. The omission of the passages referring to ʿAlī al-Ḥarīrī
(below, pp. 99f. and 124) would also seem to have been done on purpose.
The contrary assumption, namely, that these reputed omissions were, in fact,
additions to az-Zarkashī’s original text can be safely ruled out. Among the
omitted verses are those contained in the quotation from al-Qarāfī (below,
pp. 108ff.) which are to be found in al-Qarāfī’s text. Nobody would have gone
back to al-Qarāfī’s text in order to supply them, if az-Zarkashī had not had
them in the first place.
D Berlin Ms. Petermann II, 407 (= Ahlwardt, No. 5487), fols. 216a–221b, with the
title Zahr … aḥkām …, corresponds to Ms. Gotha but has an extremely poor
text.
The section on hashish in the Taʾrīkh al-Khamīs by ad-Diyārbakrī, which was

apparently composed in the first half of the tenth/sixteenth century,21 is based
entirely upon az-Zarkashī, cf. also al-Fanārī (No. 20). Both Qamʿ (No. 16) and
Ibn al-Ḥanbalī (No. 18) refer to az-Zarkashī, who was, of course, also used
by al-Badrī | (No. 13), in particular for the comparatively brief discussion of 11
the legal situation where other authorities are also cited indirectly through
az-Zarkashī.
The catalogue of the Ẓāhirīyah in Damascus lists az-Zarkashī’s work as con-
tained in Ms. No. 5896.22 The Catalogue’s very brief description of the contents
21 2 Taʾrīkh al-Khamīs, II, 30 f. (Cairo 1302). For ad-Diyārbakrī, cf. EI2, s.v.
22 1 Cf. ʿAbd-al-Ghanī ad-Daqar, Fihris makhṭūṭāt Dār al-Kutub aẓ-Ẓāhirīyah, al-fiqh ash-Shāfiʿī,
126 (Damascus 1383/1963).
indicates substantial agreement with az-Zarkashī. However, the Ẓāhirīyah text

is stated to be an urjūzah poem, and not a prose text. It may have been a versi-
fication of az-Zarkashī’s work (by himself?), but this assumption remains to be
verified.
10. Al-Aqfahsī, Shihāb-ad-dīn Aḥmad Ibn al-ʿImād (Shāfiʿite, d. 808/1405–

1406),23 Ikrām man yaʿīsh bi-taḥrīm al-khamr wa-l-ḥashīsh. The Princeton Ms.
of the work has bi-jtinābih (clearly written, however, bi-jtinābat), for bi-taḥrīm.
According to the old Cairo Catalogue, VII, 157, the Cairo Ms. of the work
(majāmīʿ 114,2, fols. 71–102) is dated on Friday, 10 Rajab 792/24 June 1390, and
thus was written during the lifetime of the author. As this ms. was not avail-
able, I was able only to make use of the Princeton Ms. 1822 (= 890 H), fols. 1–22b.
The integrity and completeness of its text are dubious and can be ascertained
only with the help of the Cairo Ms. The portion dealing specifically with hashish
extends from fol. 19b to the end, fol. 22b. It is possible that it in particular was
considerably abridged.
Al-Aqfahsī’s work contains only very little beyond the information found in
az-Zarkashī. Az-Zarkashī, however, is not mentioned by name. Ibn Taymīyah’s
Siyāsah is quoted, and so is the Takrīm al-maʿīshah of al-Qasṭallānī. Al-Qasṭal-
lānī may have been a common source for az-Zarkashī and al-Aqfahsī in some
instances, but it would seem rather more likely that az-Zarkashī was widely
used by al-Aqfahsī without acknowledgement. Al-Aqfahsī may have looked
upon the sources quoted by az-Zarkashī so to speak as common property and
therefore have neglected to mention az-Zarkashī’s name, but even this seems
hard to prove.
Ibn Ḥajar al-Haytamī (above, p. 9), Taḥdhīr ath-thiqāt min akl al-kaftah wa-
l-qāt, which he finished on 17 Ṣafar 960/2 February 1553, states that “all the
blameworthy qualities mentioned in connection with hashish are also to be
12 found in qāt,24 with additional | harm” (Yale Ms. L-753 [= Catalogue Nemoy,
No. 1579], fol. 5a). Thus, it is hardly surprising that from fol. 9b of the Yale Ms.
to the end of the treatise, the author reproduces much of the treatise of Ibn al-
ʿImād (al-Aqfahsī). He also makes twice reference to az-Zarkashī and appears
to have used his work directly.
Al-Aqfahsī, fol. 21a, quotes six verses “in refutation of the wicked men who
have declared it permissible to eat hashish.” The first and last of these verses
read:
23 2 Cf. GAL, Suppl., II, 110 f.

24 3 Cf., for instance, C. Brooke, Khat (Catha Edulis): Its Production and Trade in the Middle East,
in Geographical Journal, CXXVI (1960), 52–59.
Do not listen to one who praises drinking hashish,

For he is not right in what he says.
…
Doing something right and good could hardly be expected
From someone who slips from the glorious right path.
(lā tuṣghiyanna li-mādiḥin shurba l-ḥashī-

shi fa-innahū fī l-qawli ghayru musaddadi
…
hayhāta an yaʾtī (sic) bi-fiʿlin ṣāliḥin
man zalla ʿan sanani r-rashādī l-amjadi).
Ibn Ḥajar al-Haytamī starts out with five other verses, beginning:
O you whose mark has become the eating of hashish

And whose viciousness and hangover have thus become fully obvious.
( yā man ghadā akla l-ḥashīshi shiʿāruhū

wa-ʿadā [ghadā?] fa-lāḥa ʿuwāruhū wa-khumāruhū).
Then, the six verses of al-Aqfahsī are quoted. They are, however, followed by six
more verses, of which the first and the last read:
Those who have expressed a legal opinion stating it is permissible to drink

it have erred.
It is considered disgraceful (?) by ash-Shāfiʿī and Aḥmad
…
From a ruler or a scholar or an inspector
Or a good counselor, restrained in what he does.
(qad ḍalla man aftā bi-ḥilli sharābihā

fīhā ʿ-z-y (leg. khazan?) li-sh-Shāfiʿīyi wa-Aḥmadi
…
min ḥākimin aw ʿālimin aw nāẓirin
aw nāṣiḥin fī fiʿlihī mutazahhidi).
It is possible that all this additional material belonged to al-Aqfahsī’s original

text, as someone familiar with the Cairo Ms. of it may be able to verify or
disprove.
11. Al-Maqrīzī, Aḥmad b. ʿAlī (principally a Shāfiʿite, 766–845/ 1364–1442),25

13 Khiṭaṭ, II, 126–129 (Būlāq 1270), has a highly informa|tive section on “the hashish
of the poor (the Ṣūfīs).” It has long been the main text on hashish known in the
West because it was edited and translated with copious notes by A.I. Silvestre de
Sacy in his Chrestomathie arabe, I, 112–132 (text), II, 115–155 (trans.) (Paris 1806);
2nd ed., I, 74–88 (text), 210–283 (trans.) (Paris 1826). Cf. also Jawad al-Muscati,
Hasan bin Sabbah, for an English translation by Abbas H. Hamdani, 113ff.
(Karachi 1958).
When al-Maqrīzī is cited here without any further indication, the reference
is to this passage. In other cases, as, for instance, the poems on hashish in Khiṭaṭ,
II, 25f., volume and page are indicated.
12. Shams-ad-dīn Muḥammad b. an-Najjār (Shāfiʿite), Kitāb Zawājir ar-Raḥmān

fī taḥrīm ḥashīshat ash-Shayṭān, is repeatedly quoted by al-Badrī.26 Ibn an-
Najjār’s lifetime falls into the fifteenth century, as indicated by al-Badrī’s ref-
erences to him as his shaykh and his late shaykh. If al-Badrī, fol. 54b, refers
to the same man as seems likely, his father’s name was ʿAbd-al-Wahhāb. This
would exclude any possibility of identifying him with the muqriʾ, Muḥammad
b. Aḥmad b. Dāwūd (788/1386 to ca. 870/1465–1466).27 The work is mentioned
by Ḥājjī Khalīfah, 1120, as one of the sources of Ibn al-Ḥanbalī (No. 18), without
an indication of the name of its author.
13. Al-Badrī, Abū t-Tuqā Taqī-ad-dīn Abū Bakr b. ʿAbdallāh b. Muḥammad (847–
894/1443–1489),28 Rāḥat al-arwāḥ fī l-ḥashīsh wa-r-rāḥ, preserved in Paris Ms.
ar. 3544. The part devoted to hashish extends from the beginning to fol. 57b;
fols. 58a–142b deal with wine. A brief excerpt exists in the Berlin Ms. Wet-
zstein II, 422,2 (= Ahlwardt 5488), fols. 70b–71a. Reference to the work is made
by Ḥājjī Khalīfah, 829. The apparently very close relationship of al-Bakrī (below,
p. 34, n. 5) to al-Badrī’s work remains to be investigated.
On fol. 57a, al-Badrī states that he was asked to compose his work in 867/
1462–1463 (when he was just twenty years old). According to the Paris Ms.
25 1 Cf. GAL, 2nd ed., II, 47 ff., Suppl., II, 36 ff.

26 1 Cf. fols. 8b (below, p. 58), 17a–b (below, p. 97, n. 7), and 48a (below, p. 46, n. 2).
27 2 Cf. as-Sakhāwī, Ḍawʾ, VI, 308.
28 3 Cf. GAL, II, 132, 2nd ed., II, 164, and Suppl., II, 163. For the correct form Abū t-Tuqā, cf.
as-Sakhāwī, Ḍawʾ, XI, 41 f., and the cross reference in Ḍawʾ, XI, 101. The correct form is also
indicated in the Paris Ms., for instance, fol. 17b. According to as-Sakhāwī, the author was
known as Ibn al-Badrī, but in his work he refers to himself as al-Badrī, and this style of
reference has been adopted here.
(dated itself on Saturday, 22 Jumādā I 1207/5 January 1793), the original ms.
(nuskhat al-aṣl) from which it was copied was | written in 869/1464. This is 14
stated in the colophon. However, a story taking place in the years 869–870 is
told on fols. 29a–30a (below, pp. 133f.). On fol. 22a, Nūr-ad-dīn ʿAlī b. Sūdūn
al-Bashbughawī, who died in 875/1470, is called “the late.” On fol. 83b, we
find a communication made to the author by Aḥmad b. Khalīl as-Sakhāwī (b.
839/1436)29 “after my composition of this book.” Thus, 869/1464 could presum-
ably be the date of the first completion and publication of the work, but if the
Paris Ms. was indeed copied from a manuscript written in that year, that ms.
must have contained later additions and notes by the author which were taken
over into the text. Their incorporation into the text was more likely done by an
intermediate copyist, and not by the one of the Paris Ms. himself. On fol. 47a,
we find a note on the root s-ṭ-l (below, p. 75) introduced by the words, “in his
handwriting, a marginal note.” It is, however, not clear whether this refers to
al-Badrī since we cannot be sure that he himself was the author of the verses
quoted in this connection.30
The work of al-Badrī, by far the most comprehensive exposition of hashish
lore known at present, is surprisingly well arranged. Particular topics are
treated together, although it is only natural, since there is much overlapping,
that information on some topic may also be found in the treatment of another.
The method is loosely associative. Talking about a given topic often leads to
what we would call footnote material. The section on wine contains similar
excursuses on subjects such as fruits, flowers, rivers, the influence of music
on animals and human beings, musical instruments, etc. Speaking about the
predilection of hashish users for sweets, al-Badrī digresses with a large
29 1 Cf. as-Sakhāwī, Ḍawʾ, I, 294 f.

30 2 According to C. Rieu’s catalogue, Ms. Brit. Mus. 1422 of al-Badrī’s Ghurrat aṣ-ṣabāḥ was
written in 875/1471 and contains a number of favorable notices for the work dating from
871/1466–1467. According to as-Sakhāwī, Ḍawʾ, XI, 41, al-Badrī claimed later in his life
that the work was already written in 865/ 1460–1461, which would make it the work of a
boy of eighteen. The Bodleian Ms. 522,8 of al-Badrī’s Maṭāliʿ al-Badrīyah is supposedly an
autograph copy written in 880/1475 (cf. A. Nicoll’s Catalogue, 298–300, Oxford 1835, where
al-Badrī is correctly called Abū t-Tuqā). The Paris ms. of the Rāḥah has quotations from
both the Ghurrah (fol. 52b) and the Maṭāliʿ (fols. 70a and 88a). Altogether al-Badrī cites in
it no less than nine of his own works (fols. 55b, 86b, 110b, 115b, 122a, and 133a, in addition to
the references just given). This seems too much for a man just twenty years old, and the
general tone of the Rāḥah is that of a mature and accomplished littérateur. Since there is
no reason to doubt the correctness of his birth date, we must be dealing here with a later
recension.
15 collection of material on the subject of sweets (fols. 25a–28a) | whose only

tenuous relation to hashish are very occasional and incidental references to
hashish users and hashish intoxication. The discussion of the relationship of
hashish use and homosexuality (fols. 30a ff.) is greatly expanded by material,
often obscene, which has no immediate bearing upon hashish. On fols. 51b–52b,
we find a discussion of the illegality of homosexuality (below, p. 85). This
is al-Badrī’s way of atoning for the lack of moral scruples exhibited in his
long digression into the subject. The same purpose is to be served by the
strenuous denunciation of hashish at the end of the discussion, which was
mostly favorable to hashish use. It would appear that thereby, the young author
not only saved his soul but also forestalled any attempt by the authorities of
taking a close look into his own affairs. His personal attitude remains entirely
unclear as we would expect (cf. below, p. 151, n. 1).
14. ʿAbd-al-Bāsiṭ b. Khalīl al-Ḥanafī (Ḥanafite, d. 920/1514),31 ad-Durr al-wasīm

fī tawshīḥ Tatmīm at-Takrīm fī taḥrīm al-ḥashīsh wa-waṣfih adh-dhamīm, said
to be a commentary on al-Qasṭallānī (No. 6). Ḥājjī Khalīfah, 470, specifies that
it is a commentary on al-Qasṭallānī’s Takrīm, but the title indicated by Ḥājjī
Khalīfah, 737, suggests rather a commentary on the Tatmīm at-Takrīm.
15. Fuzūlī (Fuḍūlī) (d. 963/1556),32 Benk u bāde, used in the German translation
by Necati H. Lugal and O. Reşer, Des türkischen Dichters Fuzūlī Poem “Laylā-
Meǧnūn” und die gereimte Erzählung “Benk u Bāde” (Haşiş und Wein) nach dem
Druck Istbl. 1326 übersetzt (Istanbul 1943).
16. The strange treatise entitled, Qamʿ al-wāshīn fī dhamm al-barrāshīn, is pre-
served only in the Leiden Ms. or. 814,12. The Leiden Ms. gives the name of its
author as Nūr-ad-dīn ʿAlī b. al-Jazzār. The ms. has no dots for Jazzār, thus mak-
ing the reading somewhat uncertain. In fact, as-Sakhāwī, Ḍawʾ, V, 171, lists a
Meccan with almost the same chain of names but not identical with the author
of Qamʿ, who is expressly stated to have been al-Kharrāz. The author of Qamʿ
is described as a Shāfiʿite and the chief shaykh in Egypt, Cairo, and the two
16 Qarāfahs. His kunyah is said to be Abū l-Ḥasan.33 | Qamʿ is quoted by al-Fanārī
31 1 Cf. GAL, 2nd ed., II, 66, Suppl., II, 52 f. For an owner’s note in the handwriting of ʿAbd-al-
Bāsiṭ in the Istanbul Ms. Köprülü I, 366, cf. M. Weisweiler, Der islamische Bucheinband des
Mittelalters, 151 (Wiesbaden 1962).
32 2 Cf. A. Karahan, in EI2, s.v. Fuḍūlī.
33 3 Cf. GAL, Suppl., II, 429, 5b; Ḥājjī Khalīfah, IV, 570f., in the edition of G. Flügel (Leipzig and
London 1835–1858), a passage that is not included in Yaltkaya’s edition.
(No. 20) as the work of Ibn al-Ḥasan al-Bakrī. Ibn al-Ḥasan should possibly
be corrected to Abū l-Ḥasan. It is, of course, quite possible that the author’s
father was also called al-Ḥasan, but Ḥājjī Khalīfah, 360, seems to indicate that
his father’s name was Muḥammad. According to Ḥājjī Khalīfah, 360, another
work by the same author, entitled Taḥṣīn al-manāzil min hawl az-zalāzil, was
written in 984/1576–1577. In any event, the date of the Fanārī ms. places the
composition of Qamʿ before 991/1583.
In the spirit of the times, the author of Qamʿ concludes his work with a
couple of pages devoted to his views on coffee. He praises it and considers its
use legally permissible wherever it agrees with an individual. Rather cryptically,
however, he mentions additives which make the use of coffee fall into the
forbidden category, citing the verse:
I was asked about coffee whether

It is permitted and safe.
I replied: Yes, it is safe.
The only difficulty are those additions to it.34
The allusion is no doubt to drugs put into coffee. Ḥājjī Khalīfah mentions
the fondness of drug addicts for coffee.35 In the following eighteenth century,
al-Idkāwī speaks of spiking coffee with opium and other drugs.36
17. Ibrāhīm b. Bakhshī, known as Dede Khalīfah (d. 973/1565–1566), is credited

with a Risālah on hashish, cf. No. 18.
18. Ibn al-Ḥanbalī, Raḍī-ad-dīn Muḥammad b. Ibrāhīm al-Ḥalabī (Ḥanafite,

877–971/1472–1563),37 Ẓill al-ʿarīsh fī manʿ ḥill al-banj wa-l-ḥashīsh. Ḥājjī Khali-
fah, 1120, is our only reference so far. He describes the work as a commentary or
abridgment of the Risālah of Dede Khalīfah (No. 17). He also informs us that Ibn
al-Ḥanbalī used among his sources the Zahr al-ʿarīsh, presumably the | work of 17
34 1 la-qad qīla lī qahwatu l-bunni hal

taḥillu wa-tuʾmanu āfātuhā
fa-qultu naʿam hiya maʾmūnatun
wa-mā ṣ-ṣaʿbu illā muḍāfātuhā.
35 2 Cf. Ḥājjī Khalīfah (Kātib Chelebi), The Balance of Truth, trans. G.L. Lewis, 60 (London 1957).
36 3 Cf. his Ḥusn ad-daʿwah, in Yale Ms. L-55 (= Catalogue Nemoy, No. 1575), fol. 2a, as men-
tioned by L. Nemoy, in Papers in Honor of Andrew Keogh, 46f. (New Haven 1938).
37 4 Cf. GAL, 2nd ed., II, 483 f., Suppl., II, 495 f.
az-Zarkashī (No. 9), and the Zawājir ar-Raḥmān fī taḥrīm ḥashīsh ash-Shayṭān
(No. 12).
19. The Berlin Ms. or. 40, 49 (= Ahlwardt, No. 5488), fols. 8a–9a, has a subscrip-
tion naming a certain Maḥmūd al-Muḥammadī al-Ḥanafī as the man who has
collected there the legal arguments for the forbidden character of the use of
hashish. This subscription refers no doubt to the author of what is written
on fol. 8a. This ends with the words, “thus, I say with the help of God,” and
the text on fols. 8b–9a appears to constitute the main body of Maḥmūd’s trea-
tise but is written in a clearly different hand. According to the text on fol. 8a,
the author, being in Egypt and not liking it there, attended the classes of al-
Barhamatūshī38 and heard it said that his late teacher, Shihāb-ad-dīn (sic)39
Aḥmad b. Kamālbāshāh considered ghubayrāʾ (below, pp. 24 f.) legal and per-
mitted it for consumption. The author contends that he himself had never
heard Ibn Kamāl Pāshā (see No. 21) say such a thing and that it was falsely and
maliciously ascribed to him. From these statements it results that this Maḥmūd
lived in the sixteenth century and, apparently, well into the second half of it.
20. Al-Fanārī, Maḥmūd b. Pīr Muḥammad, Risālah fī bayān ḥurmat al-ḥashīsh

wa-l-afyūn, is preserved in the Istanbul Ms. Laleli 3675, fols. 38b–39a. The ms. is
dated in Shaʿbān 991/August–September 1583. The name of the author appears
on top of the page, clearly written in the same hand as the rest. It would be
possible for this Maḥmūd to have been a son of Pīr Muḥammad al-Fanārī
who died in 954/1547 or the following year.40 This, however, is an entirely
unsubstantiated guess.
The short treatise is a pastiche of numerous quotations, many of them
written in the margins. In the text, we find two excerpts from Qamʿ (No. 16), of
which only one is marked as such. Some passages agree with az-Zarkashī whose
name is not mentioned, and al-Fanārī does indeed not quote him directly. In
one case, what seems to be a literal quotation from az-Zarkashī is introduced
by a reference to al-Mawāhib al-ladunīyah and al-Khamīs, biographies of the
18 Prophet | by, respectively, al-Qasṭallānī (d. 923/1517) and ad-Diyārbakrī (above,
No. 9).
38 1 Shams-ad-dīn al-Barhamatūshī is mentioned three times in al-Ghazzī, al-Kawākib as-

sāʾirah, but I know of no obituary notice devoted to him. Barhamatūsh is the vocalization
indicated by A.S. Atiya in his edition of Ibn Mammātī, Qawānīn, 110 (Cairo 1943).
39 2 Ibn Kamāl Pāshā (Kemālpashazādeh) was Shams-ad-dīn.
40 3 Cf. Ṭāshköprüzādeh, ash-Shaqāʾiq an-nuʿmānīyah, II, 15 (Cairo 1310, in the margin of Ibn
Khallikān, Wafayāt).
The marginal notes appear to be in the same hand. Since it is hardly likely
that we have here the original ms. of al-Fanārī—his notes, so to speak, jotted
down for later elaboration—, the material in the margins may have been
taken over from the original work. There is, however, a reference, to a work
entitled Tanwīr al-abṣār. If this means the work by at-Timirtāshī,41 we would
have a serious problem, not because at-Timirtāshī died in 1004/1595, only a
short while after the date of the ms., but because Ḥājjī Khalīfah, 501, states that
at-Timirtāshī’s Tanwīr al-abṣār was composed in al-Muḥarram 995/December
1586, that is, after the date of the Fanārī ms. Thus, either the marginal notes are
later additions, or, possibly, the Tanwīr cited is another work, and not that of
at-Timirtāshī.
21. An anonymous brief treatise entitled Risālah fī ḥurmat al-banj is preserved

in Ankara, General Library, Eski Eserler 678, fol. 147a. In the ms., the treatise
follows upon another anonymous treatise Fī bayān ṭabīʿat al-afyūn, which is no
doubt the widely distributed work by Ibn Kamāl Pāshā (873–940/1468–1534).42
I did, however, not make sure of this while I was Ankara, and, much to my regret,
I have been unable later on to consult Ibn Kamāl Pāshā’s essay. It may contain
points of interest in connection with hashish.
22. The Gotha Ms. of az-Zarkashī (No. 9) further contains, on fol. 6a–b, a survey
of the history of hashish in Islam and some poems on the drug. Since a com-
mentary by at-Timirtāshī appears to be indicated as the direct source of the
former, we would have to date these notes in the tenth/sixteenth century, but
the material quoted can safely be assumed to go back to the much earlier indi-
rect authorities mentioned.43
41 1 Cf. GAL, Suppl., II, 427.

42 2 Cf. GAL, Suppl., II, 668 ff., and Şarkiyat Mecmuası, VI (1966), 71–112, where mss. of the brief
treatise on opium are listed on p. 108.
43 3 Cf. below, pp. 48 f., p. 78, n. 1, and p. 150, n. 4.
chapter three
19 The Use of Hashish
1 The Names of the Drug
Hashish has been singled out for discussion because of its prominence among
the drugs used in medieval Islam. However, it must be realized that as a rule
no distinction was made between the numerous different narcotics known,
and it is often not easy for us to be sure whether cannabis or some other drug
is intended in a given report. Some jurists seem to have been dimly aware of
the problems concealed in the differences of properties and effects of different
drugs, but many of those who tell stories about the use of drugs were unable
to distinguish between them, nor were they particularly interested in doing so.
Moreover, whenever we hear about hashish, some caution is indicated in view
of the ever present possibility that the preparations used were mixtures of a
number of different substances of which hashish may have been merely one
and, perhaps, not the most potent one in its effect.
Ḥashīsh, banj, and afyūn (opium)1 are the terms most frequently used, and
they are also most commonly lumped together without, it seems, any clear idea
of the distinctions that might exist, or should be made, between them. Banj in
particular is a term with a long history, which, in the Muslim world, tended to be
dishonorable. Al-mubannijah “substances having the effect of banj” was used as
a comprehensive term for narcotic drugs.2 The mubannij, who practices tabnīj,
was a sinister figure who made use of his dark art to seduce innocent people or,
even more nefariously, to have it serve as a prelude to murder and robbery.3 As is
20 well known, banj, in its pre-|Islamic history, represented, in fact, “hemp.” But in
the usage of Muslim times, it was commonly the scientific word for “henbane,”4
1 1 In his edition and translation of Maimonides, Sharḥ asmāʾ al-ʿuqqār, 19f. (Cairo 1940, Mém.
de l’ Institut d’Égypte 41), M. Meyerhof states that Maimonides vocalizes ufiyūn and that the
usual vocalization is afiyūn. The reprint of the work, dating from ca. 1966, omits Meyerhof’s
translation and notes, the most valuable part of the publication.
2 2 Cf., for instance, Jābir b. Ḥayyān, Kitāb as-Sumūm, in the edition and translation of A. Siggel,
Das Buch der Gifte des Ğābir Ibn Ḥayyān, fol. 131b, p. 139 (Wiesbaden 1958), cf. also p. 154, n. 2.
Siggel wrongly read “die Erlaubten.”
3 3 Cf., for example, the dramatic story told in Ibn ad-Dāyah, Mukāfaʾah, 158–160 (Cairo 1941), 88f.
(Cairo 1332/1914).
4 1 Cf. M. Meyerhof, in EI2, s.v. bandj.
the use of hashish 153
although we are admittedly at a great disadvantage in any attempts we might

make to clarify the exact meaning of the scholarly references. Physicians and
scientists appear to have been by and large consistent in their use of banj for
henbane. ʿAlī b. Rabban aṭ-Ṭabarī, in the middle of the ninth century, speaks
of three kinds of banj, of which the white one was in use, apparently referring
to henbane.5 The three kinds seem to be characteristic of banj in the meaning
of henbane. It should be noted, however, that one also distinguished, as did,
for instance, Ibn al-Bayṭār, three kinds of hemp; on the other hand, Ibn Jazlah
and Maimonides (1135–1204) list only two kinds of banj.6 When the great Rāzī
(251–313/865–925) discusses deadly poisons in his Ḥāwī, he properly includes
banj “henbane” but makes no mention of hemp.7 Ar-Rāzī’s authorities for the
effects of and remedies for banj are Greek works such as Rufus’ Ilā l-ʿAwwām,8
and comparison of ar-Rāzī with Paul of Aegina whom he quotes shows that banj
is indeed to be understood as henbane (hyoskyamos).9 But it is characteristic
of the general confusion that the author of the Book of Poisons ascribed to Jābir
b. Ḥayyān can speak of opium as the juice of black banj before he mentions
the connection of opium with poppy, and it always remains quite unclear what
substance he has in mind when speaking about banj.10 In sum, as the author
of the Risālah fī ḥurmat al-banj11 put it, “banj is a general term, and ḥashīsh
a specific term.” Any mention of banj in the general literature may actually
refer to hashish. On the other hand, there is no guarantee that a mention of
hashish does not involve something else besides hemp and hemp preparations.
Considering the original meaning of ḥashīsh to be mentioned immediately, it
would certainly not be improper to employ it for any drug derived from plants,
as all these narcotics were.
When the use of hashish became established, and the drug took | on, and 21
in a way retained, the role of plaything for a “select” and quasi-secret frater-
nity, it acquired very many names and nicknames. Hashish could very well have
told the camel and the lion (or whatever else enjoyed the reputation of being
distinguished by an enormous Arabic nomenclature) to hang their heads in
shame, so rich was the choice of words to designate it. The hashish nomencla-
5 2 Cf. aṭ-Ṭabarī, Firdaws al-ḥikmah, ed. M.Z. Siddiqi, 402 (Berlin 1928).
6 3 Cf. al-Maqrīzī and Meyerhof’s ed. and trans., 10 (text), 32f. (trans.).
7 4 Cf. ar-Rāzī, Ḥāwī, XIX, 355 f. (Hyderabad 1374–/1955–).
8 5 Cf. Ḥāwī, XIX, 376.
9 6 Cf. Ḥāwī, XIX, 361, 366, and Paul of Aegina, ed. I.L. Heiberg, II, 31 (Leipzig and Berlin
1921–1924).
10 7 Op. cit. (p. 19, n. 2), fol. 47a, p. 57.
11 8 See above, p. 18.
ture was also of a similar character, consisting largely of descriptive adjectives,

metaphoric usages, kennings, and the like. It did not, of course, find the lov-
ing attention of philologians, and it possessed extremely little staying power,
changing rapidly over the years and differing from locality to locality. It also
included the trade names for certain confections, and it rarely allows for clear
distinctions to be drawn. But its size itself is significant, and it is impressive for
the psychological dimensions it conceals rather than reveals.
In the first place, we must realize that ḥashīsh or ḥashīshah12 is itself a
nickname. The word as such has no specific connection whatever with the
hemp plant. It may mean grass used as fodder,13 herbs used for medicinal or
other purposes, weeds that infest, for instance, a flower garden and must be
weeded out with dispatch by the careful gardener,14 and the like. We cannot be
absolutely sure which of the meanings of ḥashīsh led to its use for the cannabis
drug. It would be possible to see in it a sort of abbreviation of the expression
al-ḥashīsh al-muskir “the intoxicating ḥashīsh.” Most likely, it may be simply
“the herb” as distinguished from all other (medicinal) herbs.15 Again, we cannot
be sure but it seems most likely that the nickname was intended to be of the
22 endearing, rather than the vituperative, | kind.16 At any rate, its use clearly
implies that the drug had become popular and was widely used by the time of
the adoption of this nickname. Conversely, if we were able to determine when
it came into use, we would learn something about the obscure early history
of hashish in the Muslim world.17 Furthermore, since hashish was a nickname
12 1 Ḥashīshah is the nomen unitatis of the collective noun ḥashīsh, but no distinction in
the use of the two forms can be discerned. Grammatically the word may be used as a
masculine if the masculine form of the noun is used, but preferably the feminine is used,
regardless of the grammatical form of the word employed.
13 2 All these meanings are extremely common, and no occurrences need be cited, but for the
meaning of fodder, one may, for instance, refer to Ibn al-Mufarrigh al-Ḥimyarī, a poet of
the seventh century, in the edition of his collected poems by Dāwūd Sallūm, 159 (Baghdād
1968).
Ḥashīsh may be legally classified together with firewood as “indifferent things” in
enemy territory, as in the work by Ibn Jamāʿah (639–733/1241–1333) translated into German
by H. Kofler, Handbuch des islamischen Staats- und Verwaltungsrechtes, 95 (Abh. f. d. Kunde
d. Morgenlandes, XXIII, 6, 1938). Kofler, strangely enough, translates “Haschisch.”
14 3 Cf., for instance, the story in al-Ghazzālī, at-Tibr al-masbūk, 75f. (Cairo 1378/1968).
15 4 Cf. already P. Alpin, Medicina Aegyptiorum, 258 (Leiden 1745): “… quasi cannabem hinc
herbam per excellentiam vocant.”
16 1 In American usage, “weed” may be a vituperative term for tobacco. “Grass” is presently a
term of endearment for marijuana. “Weed” as used for marijuana may be, I suppose, either.
17 2 Cf. below, pp. 41 ff.
popularized no doubt at a particular time under particular circumstances, it is

obvious that we cannot expect it to have been employed before that time, and
if cannabis was known and used for hallucinogenic purposes, it must have been
designated differently.
The scientific names for the plant and its products were qinnab (qunnab)
“cannabis” and (waraq, sg. waraqat) ash-shahdānaj “(leaves of) hemp (seed).”
They occur frequently in connection with qualifying adjectives such as hindī
“Indian” and bustānī “garden …,” or “cultivated,” as against barrī “wild.”
A form with retention of the final s of the original Greek, qunbus (this
being the most likely vocalization), is disregarded by the dictionaries but amply
attested.18 Thus, the poem of Ibn ar-Rassām uses ḥashīsha l-qunbusi.19 The same
combination occurs in the first line of a long poem attached to Ibn Ghānim’s
treatise on hashish,20 while Ibn al-Wardī (d. 749/1349) uses al-qunbus by itself.21
In the West, hashish was supposedly nicknamed “daughter of al-qunbus.”22
Dāwūd al-Anṭākī (d. 1008/1599) defines qunbus as the shrub and the seeds of
qinnab, whereas ḥashīshah designated the leaves.23 The Arabic translation of
Dioscurides transliterates qnʾbs.24
The foreign word shahdānaj had a number of slightly different forms. It pre-
sumably meant in Persian something like “royal grain,” but detractors would say
that it meant “queen of insanity” (sulṭānat | al-junūn),25 apparently connecting 23
dānaj with dēwaneh “crazy.” The divergent forms do not merely reflect clerical
uncertainty but they attest to the fact that the word was quite generally known
and used. We find shāhdānaj with a long vowel in the first syllable.26 Final q for
j is not uncommon. The form shādānaq is fancifully credited to an alleged Kitāb
Sūq al-ʿarḍ fī nabāt al-arḍ of the philosopher Muḥammad b. Zakarīyāʾ ar-Rāzī,27
18 3 For Syriac forms, cf. R. Payne Smith, Thesaurus Syriacus, 3459, 3671 (Oxford 1879–1901).
Jewish Hebrew or Aramaic forms also retain the final s. I. Löw, Die Flora der Juden, I,
256 (Vienna and Leipzig 1924–1934, reprint Hildesheim 1967), cites ḳinnab, ḳumbus as the
modern Syrian-Palestinian forms, also (I, 262) ḳunbuz.
19 4 Cf. below, p. 157.
20 5 Cf. below, p. 168. The Princeton Ms. vocalizes al-qanbas.
21 6 Cf. below, p. 75.
22 7 Cf. below, p. 36, and also p. 166, n. 4.
23 8 Cf. Dāwūd al-Anṭākī, Tadhkirah, I, 200 (Cairo 1324).
24 9 Cf. the edition of C.E. Dubler and E. Terés, II, 304 (Barcelona and Tetuán 1952–1959).
25 1 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. 57a.
26 2 Cf. E.W. Lane, An Arabic-English Dictionary, I, iv, 1611c–1612a, who also lists slightly differ-
ent vocalizations.
27 3 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. 5b. Cf. also shādānak in F. Steingass, Persian-English Dictionary, 721b.
no doubt one of the apocryphal works ascribed to the famous Rāzī. Dāwūd al-
Anṭākī says that the Egyptians call it sharānaq,28 a corruption adopted into the
spoken language rather than a clerical mistake.29
The scientific names have had an uninterrupted history from the earliest
times of Muslim scholarship and literature on to the present. The time of origin
of a nickname cannot be accurately determined, and literary preservation
effectively masks the true time of its falling out of use. In some cases, we may
guess at the particular region where a given nickname was in use, but we cannot
be certain whether it did not in fact spread from there to other places. The
two substantial lists of nicknames which have come down to us (see below,
pp. 34ff.) contain interesting specifications in these respects but again how true
they are to reality is anybody’s guess. The urge to invent picturesque terms can
be assumed to have been well nigh irrestible to addicts and littérateurs alike.
It added some minor intellectual fillip to a game fondly believed to engage the
mind.
One of the most common designations of hashish was al-khaḍrāʾ (or, much
less frequently, the masculine al-akhḍar) “the green one,” alluding to its deriva-
24 tion from a highly ornamental green plant. | It has nothing to do with a possible
green sheen of the finished product which may be no more than a figment of
the imagination but which is not infrequently alluded to, as in a poem (by ʿAlī b.
Sūdūn al-Bashbughawī?) referring to “a pill greenish in color.”30 Poets were par-
ticularly taken by the expression “green one,” which they might naturally also
use for other narcotic plants such as the poppy.31 The color imagery to which it
lent itself was endlessly exploited by them with long practiced skill. It may often
have been considered just a poetic metaphor, but it quite clearly was current
as a proper nickname.32
28 4 Loc. cit. (above, p. 22, n. 8).

29 5 Speaking of conditions in Persia, E. Kaempfer, Amoenitatum exoticarum politico-physico-
medicarum fasciculi V, 645–647 (Lemgo 1712), refers to “semen quod Sjadonéh, Pollen
flosculorum quod TSjers, & Folia quae Baeng vocant,” a passage already cited by Silvestre
de Sacy, Mémoire sur la dynastie des Assassins, in Mémoires de l’Institut Royal de France,
Classe d’histoire et de littérature ancienne, IV (1818), 49. TSjers corresponds to Persian chars,
listed by Steingass, Persian-English Dictionary, 391a, as meaning “condensed Indian hemp-
juice.” Charas as well as bangh are well-known terms in India for hemp products. A picture
of “charas, also known as hashish” and the chief profiteer from the drug trade, dubbed,
inevitably, “the Charas King,” appeared under the by-line of S.H. Schanberg in the New
York Times of 6 October 1969, p. 14.
30 1 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. 22b: bunduqah fī lawnihā khuḍrah. Cf. also pp. 77, 83, and 137.
31 2 Cf. an-Nuwayrī, Nihāyah, XI, 25 (Cairo 1342—, reprint ca. 1965).
32 3 Cf. also below, pp. 35 and 40.
Another term connected with the vegetable origin of hashish, and, possibly,
also felt to imply a color scheme, was ghubayrāʾ, in its etymological meaning,
probably, “the little dust-colored one.” It is claimed as the slang term for hashish
used in Diyār Bakr.33 Az-Zarkashī mentions it expressly as a nickname for
hashish,34 although he also cites ʿAlāʾ-ad-dīn Ibn al-ʿAṭṭār (d. 724/1324)35 as
speaking of “the ḥashīshah called ghubayrāʾ,” which may, or may not, suggest
that he thought of ghubayrāʾ as something different from cannabis. When a
compound whose admixture to food would infallibly put to sleep anyone eating
it is described as consisting in equal parts of blue banj, opium, ghubayrāʾ, and
castoreum, the meaning of ghubayrāʾ, as well as banj, here is uncertain, but
the entire concoction is anyhow fictitious.36 Ghubayrāʾ occurs in Prophetical
traditions37 and supposedly refers to an alcoholic beverage, but nobody seems
to have known anything concrete about it. Botanists claim it for the service tree
or sorb.38 Ibn Taymīyah refers to it as a ḥashīshah,39 but for him, | as well as for 25
his older contemporary Ibn al-ʿAṭṭār, it might have been something different
from plain hashish. Perhaps, it was a confection made with hashish as its main
ingredient. Or rather, it was transferred from some proper use to serve at times
as a nickname for hashish.
Its vegetable origin was indicated by ibnat al-qunbus (al-qinnab) “daugh-
ter of cannabis,”40 which also rarely appears in the masculine form of ibn al-
qinnab “son of cannabis.”41 The way in which hashish was prepared gave it the
nickname of muḥammaṣ(ah) “the toasted one,” of not infrequent occurrence.
33 4 Cf. below, p. 35.

34 5 Cf. below, p. 176.
35 6 Cf. below, p. 119, n. 3, and p. 187.
36 7 Cf. al-Jawbarī, Kashf al-asrār, 60 (Cairo 1316).
37 8 Cf. A.J. Wensinck and others, Concordance et indices de la tradition musulmane, IV, 458
(Leiden 1936–1969).
38 9 Cf. M. Meyerhof’s ed. and trans, of Maimonides, No. 405, and, for a reference from al-Kindī,
M. Levey, The Medical Formulary, 86, 310 (Madison, Wisc., and London 1966). Al-Aqfahsī,
Ihrām man yaʿīsh, Princeton Ms. 1822 (= 890 H), fols. 2b–3a, quotes authorities such as Abū
ʿUbayd al-Qāsim b. Sallām and Mālik for the identification of ghubayrāʾ with sukurkah (see
below, p. 109, n. 1) and for claiming Abyssinian origin for it. Ash-Shāfiʿī Umm, VI, 175 (also
228 margin) (Cairo 1321–1325), cited the identification from Mālik on the authority of Zayd
b. Aslam (d. 136/754).
39 10 Fatāwī, II, 252 f., IV, 324 f.
40 1 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. 45a, and below, pp. 26 and 36. Wine is “the daughter of the vines” (bint
al-kurūm), cf. al-Badrī, fol. 64b, and the verses cited later on.
41 2 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. 6a, below, p. 59.
Muʿanbar(ah) “amber-scented” was, on the other hand, descriptive rather than

a full-fledged nickname and as such probably quite restricted.42 Kāfūrī, how-
ever, does not refer to an admixture of camphor,43 but we may trust the author-
ities who bring it into connection with the Park of Kāfūr in Cairo.44 Various
words for pill or pellet, such as bunduqah, were also familiarly used for hashish,
as it was taken in pill form.45 Its often lauded easy storage and transportabil-
ity gave rise to the nickname bint al-jirāb “daughter of the bag,” believed to
have been at home in Baghdād.46 The alleged historical origins of hashish use
were honored by the terms Ḥaydarīyah and Qalandarīyah.47 Al-mufarriḥ (“that
which gladdens”) al-Ḥaydarī was a suitable description of hashish.48
The supposed effects of hashish furnished kennings such as hāḍim al-aqwāt
“digester of food” and bāʿithat al-fikr “rouser of thought,”49 the latter being
echoed also in a nickname such as luqaymat al-fikr “morsel of thought.”50 As
much was made by addicts of the ability of hashish to show them “secret mean-
ings,” or, as we might say, to open up for them new levels of mental perception,
26 it is not surprising | to find “secrets” (esrār) as a commonly employed nickname
for hashish among the Turks.51 Medical euphemisms such as maʿjūn “paste,
electuary” or tiryāq “theriac”52 were suitable cover names for all kinds of hallu-
cinogenic drugs, including hashish. Although maʿjūn at least was widely used
this way at a comparatively early date,53 the use of both terms appears to have
been expanded in Ottoman times.
42 3 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. 56a (below, p. 137), and below, p. 154.

43 4 As suggested in Wörterbuch der klassischen arabischen Sprache (letter K), 527b (Wies-
baden 1970), with reference to an-Nuwayrī (see below, p. 106, n. 3).
44 5 See below, pp. 63 and 135.
45 6 Cf. below, pp. 61 f.
46 7 Cf. below, pp. 26 and 35. The prototype is “daughter of the cask” (bint ad-dann or ad-dinān)
for wine, cf. al-Badrī, fols. 65a, 66a.
47 8 Cf. az-Zarkashī, below, pp. 50 and 176. Forms such as Qalandarāwī (below, p. 40) or
Qarandalīyah (cf. al-Bakrī [below, p. 34, n. 5]) also occur.
48 9 As in the superscription of verses on hashish in the Dīwān of Ṣafī-ad-dīn al-Ḥillī, see below,
p. 171, n. 6.
49 10 Cf. Ṣafī-ad-dīn al-Ḥillī, see below, p. 172.
50 11 Cf. below, pp. 37 and 92.
51 1 So already in the list, below, p. 35. Modern Turkish dictionaries separate the drug esrar
from esrār “secrets.”
52 2 Also diryāq, see below, p. 38. The tiryaki of the Karagöz theatre may be an opium smoker.
For the common equation diryāq = wine, see, for instance, al-Badrī, fol. 61a.
53 3 When Ibn Taymīyah, Fatāwī, IV, 315, reports on a maʿjūn taken customarily by some people
every afternoon before the afternoon prayer, he adds that its effect is to change the mind
Particular popularity was enjoyed by kaff, maʿlūm, zīh, and ṣaḥīḥ. Kaff had
the advantage of permitting easy and varied punning. The word ordinarily
meant “palm (of the hand),” and its verbal homophone meant “to stay.” Thus
a poet, Taqī-ad-dīn al-Mawṣilī, would rhyme:
Stay the hand (kuffa kaffa) of worries with kaff, for kaff
Is a cure for the worried lover—
With the noble daughter of hemp, not with the daughter
Of a vine. Away with the daughter of the vines!54
Kaff could also refer to the constellation of Cassiopeia, inspiring these verses:
When the satan of worries flies away with my thoughts,

Intent upon stealing gaiety away from me, being himself full of emotion,
I promptly proceed to the daughter of the bag,
As from the stars of al-kaff a star has come to it.55
The verbal root kafā in the meaning of being satisfied or enough could be
pressed into service:
Give up wine, and you will be safe 27

From legal punishment and crime.
Be satisfied with kaff instead of wine.
Indeed, kaff is enough.56
(remove the intellect). It could very well have involved hashish. Al-Badrī has repeated
references to maʿjūn.
54 4 Cf. al-Maqrīzī, who also cites other verses containing the same play on words, cf. below,
p. 155. I have no further information on Taqī-ad-dīn al-Mawṣilī.
55 5 Cf. al-Badrī, fols. 10a–b and 12a:
idhā ṭāra shayṭānu l-humūmī bi-fikratī

yarūmu stirāqa l-lahwi minnī wa-yaṭrabu
ʿadaltu ilā binti l-jirābi mubādiran
fa-qad jāʾahū min anjumi l-kaffi kawkabu.
The concluding “it” refers to the bag (for “daughter of the bag,” see above, p. 25); since
jāʾahū is attested twice, a correction to jāʾanī “come to me” would be hard to defend. For
the context of these verses, cf. below, p. 146.
56 1 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. 46b:
When Silvestre de Sacy first encountered the term kaff in the verses cited
by al-Maqrīzī, he suggested that kaff was another form of kayf (kēf ), well
known in Persian and Arabic as a word for narcotic. This is unlikely, although
the existence of the term kayf might possibly have helped kaff on its way to
becoming rather widely used as a nickname for hashish. In the realm of botany,
kaff is usually defined as purslane, and, qualified by a depending genitive, it
was used to designate quite a variety of plants, all on the basis of a presumed
similarity with the human or animal palm or hand. The hemp plant is described
by az-Zarkashī57 as having the size of the fingers of the hand, and Dāwūd
al-Anṭākī58 expressly employs the word kaff and fingers of the hand to describe
the size as well as the shape of hemp leaves. A poet could very well speak of the
palms (akuff ) of hashish.59 There can be little doubt that kaff as a nickname
for hashish represents “palm (of the hand),” as suggested by the leaves of the
hemp plant.
Maʿlūm appears to have been rather widely used.60 Its original meaning is
not quite clear. It appears qualified by “the poor (the Ṣūfīs),” yet it is possible
that it is just an euphemism hinting at hashish as “the known (thing).” Perhaps,
however, it should be understood as “payment, salary,” hashish constituting the
“pay-off” for the rigors of Ṣūfī life and the only real compensation for all of life’s
miseries.
Zīh is no doubt correctly identified as a nickname at home in Egypt,61 and it is
of frequent occurrence as such in the work of al-Badrī.62 Its correct vocalization
28 is indicated by the fact that it | rhymes with tanzīh (al-Badrī, fol. 10a). It may be
more than a phonetic coincidence that the Coptic dictionary lists sihe (nhīt)
utruk-i-l-khamrata taslam
min ḥudūdin wa-l-jināyah
wa-ktafī bi-l-kaffi ʿanhā
inna fī l-kaffi kifāyah.
The meter (ramal) requires a long ī in wa-ktafī, for wa-ktafi.

57 2 Cf. below, p. 176. “Shape” may be meant as well as “size.”
58 3 Tadhkirah, I, 200.
59 4 Cf. below, p. 60.
60 5 Cf. al-Badrī, fols. 45a–b (below, p. 166, n. 4), 47a–b, 56a–b (below, p. 99), and below, p. 36.
61 6 Cf. below, p. 36.
62 7 It was known already to Silvestre de Sacy from al-Bakrī’s Kawākib. Cf. Biberstein Kaz-
imirski, Dictionnaire arabe-français, II, 470 (Cairo 1875): “Espèce de plante connue en
Égypte, dont on préparait une boisson enivrante.” In a story told by al-Badrī, fol. 17b (cf.
below, p. 98), zīh seems to alternate with ṭībaḥ which would thus qualify as a further nick-
name (?).
with the meaning of “derangement (of mind).”63 We may have here a plausible
etymology of zīh. In analogy to ḥashshāsh, its user could be called zayyāh; this
form appears once in a verse of a long poem by the littérateur, Abū l-Khayr
al-ʿAqqād:
You can observe the zayyāh using everything sweet,

While the slave of beer is humble and despised.64
In his Tadhkirah, Dāwūd al-Anṭākī mentions an Anatolian (rūmī) kind of hemp,

called az-zkzh, which recalls zīh but is hardly to be connected with it.
Ṣaḥīḥ is claimed as the Syrian nickname for hashish.65 It probably goes back
to the meaning of “sound” or “healthy.” Like kaff, it was eminently suitable for
punning by the initiated. The use of the word in the science of ḥadīth and as the
title of al-Bukhārī’s famous collection brought out the punster in ḥadīth and
legal scholars, as illustrated by the story of Jamāl-ad-dīn al-Malaṭī mentioned
below,66 or by these verses:
The jurist says to me, when he was noting in my eyes

Allusions more obvious than the clearest evidence:
To what special cases do you apply the most remarkable of
The principles of relaxation? I replied: To the ṣaḥīḥ.67
63 1 Cf. W.E. Crum, A Coptic Dictionary, 379b (Oxford 1939).

64 2 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. 17a:
tarā z-zayyāha yahwā kulla ḥulwin

wa-ʿabdu l-mizri fī dhullin wa-shayni.
I have no further information on the poet.

65 3 Cf. below, p. 36.
66 4 Below, p. 104. Al-Badrī, fol. 4b, mystifyingly mentions “al-Bunduqī in his Ṣaḥīḥ, entitled
Ṣaḥīḥ al-ḥuffāẓ,” which may possibly be intended as a purely fictitious work. On fol. 13b,
we hear about a lecturer under the influence of hashish who is said “to have given us a
lecture on hashish from the evidence in his Ṣaḥīḥ.”
yaqūlu liya l-faqīhu wa-fī ʿuyūnī

kināyātun adallu min-a-ṣ-ṣarīḥi
uṣūlu l-basṭi awjahahā ʿalā mā
tufarriʿuhū fa-qultu ʿalā ṣ-ṣaḥīḥi.
For the “allusions in the eyes,” see below, p. 77.

29 “Relaxation” (basṭ) in these verses may also serve the purpose of a | cover
name for hashish. We thus hear about someone receiving a gift to be used for
“all his basṭ,”68 and a destitute addict, scrounging for some little money, “revived
his basṭ (aḥyā basṭah).”69 Whether or not basṭ in these cases directly signifies
hashish, it was so used, according to E.W. Lane,70 in nineteenth-century Egypt.
Ṣaḥīḥ made for easy punning also as a medical term:
I said to one dying of hashish

And going from it to the grave:
Did you really die of hectic fever?
He replied: I died of ṣaḥīḥ (= being healthy).71
And again:
They said: We observe the green one, weak as it is,

Try to overcome us temperamentally, but natural temper is the stronger.72
In breaking it, there is relaxation for the intelligent.
I said to them: This is ṣaḥīḥ well tested.73
68 1 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. 13b (see below, p. 80, for the context).
69 2 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. 22b (see below, p. 159, for the context).
70 3 An Account of the Manners and Customs of the Modern Egyptians, 3rd ed., II, 40 (London
1842), mentions sheera (sheereh) and basṭ as used for different hemp preparations. On
shīreh (of Persian origin) and basṭ, cf. K. Vollers, in ZDMG, L (1896), 623, 644, and E. Graefe,
Einiges über das Ḥašīš-Rauchen, in Der Islam, V (1914), 234f.
qultu li-man māta min ḥashīshin

wa-rāḥa minhu ilā ḍ-ḍarīḥi
bi-ʿillati d-diqqi mitta ḥaqqan
fa-qāla lī mittu min ṣaḥīḥi.
72 5 This is an imitation of the beginning of a poem by al-Mutanabbī (Diwān, ed. ʿAbd-al-

Wahhāb ʿAzzām, 464, Cairo 1363/1944): “I try to overcome desire with respect to you, but
desire is the stronger.”
wa-qālū narā l-khaḍrāʾa maʿ ḍaʿfi shaʾnihā

tughālibunā bi-ṭ-ṭabʿi wa-ṭ-ṭabʿu aghlabu
wa-fī kasrihā basṭun yaladhdhu li-dhī n-nuhā
fa-qultu lahum hādhā ṣaḥīḥun mujarrabu.
All the preceding terms may be assumed to have served principally as nick-
names for hashish pure and simple. There are other terms where this is by no
means that clear, as well as some which were certainly compound confections.
The role of hashish in them, in preference to other narcotics, is difficult to deter-
mine, and, in general, we have presently not enough material for proper identi-
fication. We thus find kabsh (kabshah, kibāsh),74 which is no doubt | related to 30
shaqfah kabshīyah in a poem by Ṣafī-ad-dīn al-Ḥillī75 and in the verse referring
to “the daughter of al-kabsh having made wine superfluous.”76 It would be futile
to speculate whether this term had anything to do with the common mean-
ing of the word (“ram”), some botanical application,77 a locality in Cairo,77a or
whatnot.
Even more doubt and uncertainty attach to kirshah, kurūsh. It may rather
refer to some kind of cheap food, such as tripe, in which case al-Badrī’s quota-
tions of verses were merely an aside:
I saw a person eat kirshah,

A man of taste and intelligence.
He said: I always love it.
I said: Love of one’s country is part of the faith.78
These verses are attributed to an-Naṣīr al-Ḥammāmī, while Shihāb-ad-dīn

Aḥmad b. Ghānim rhymed:
You who censure me for eating kurūsh

Prepared with the greatest of care,
Do not censure me because of the kurūsh, for my loving
My country belongs to the signs of faith.
74 7 All these forms occur in al-Badrī, fol. 23a, although l is written instead of k in kibāsh.
75 1 Cf. below, p. 151, n. 1.
76 2 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. 46b: wa-bintu l-kabshi aghnat ʿan khumūri. The ms. has s, and not sh, in
kabshi.
77 3 Cf., for instance, Wörterbuch der klassischen arabischen Sprache (letter K), 541a
77a 3a Or in Baghdād.
78 4 For these and the following verses, cf. al-Kutubī, Fawāt, I, 117, and al-Badrī, fol. 24a.
Regrettably, neither furnishes any clear information on kirshah, kurūsh. For Ibn Ghānim,
cf. Ibn Ḥajar, Durar, I, 265–267. He was born in 651 or, more likely, 650/1252, and he died in
737/1336–1337. Al-Ḥammāmī died in 712/1312–1313, cf. al-Kutubī, Fawāt, II, 604–607. Ibn
Ḥajar, Durar, IV, 393–395, gives 669/1270–1271 as his date of birth but seems to have a
somewhat earlier year for his death.
The intended relationship of the famous ḥadīth on patriotism might help

to clarify the meaning of the word, but it is not clear to me.79 Al-Badrī cites
these verses à propos a story about a certain ʿAlī al-Qayrawānī who used hashish
constantly and was satisfied with making a meager living as a watchman of
31 sugar cane (fields or | factories) (ḥarāsat al-qaṣab). From his earnings he bought
his daily ration of hashish and the rest he spent on kirshah together with bread.
This would indeed seem to indicate that kirshah is some kind of food unrelated
to hashish, but this is not absolutely necessary, and the problem, if it is one,
must remain unsolved for the time being.
Another word of uncertain significance is lubābah (li/abābah?). A lubābah
was given to the unsuspecting bridegroom and caused him to fall asleep.80
Hashish users are so stingy that they would not even give a lubābah to their
friends.81 Here, it could be some kind of food, but in the first case, it must be a
narcotic (which, it is added, the person in question then continued to use but in
the proper doses). A correction to kabābah “cubeb” seems out of the question.
We might think of connecting lubābah with the kind of honey cake, described
by E.W. Lane82 as follows: “libábeh is composed of broken or crumbled bread,
honey, clarified butter, and a little rosewater: the butter is first put into a
saucepan over the fire, then, the broken bread; and next, the honey.” Perhaps,
lubābah was a sweetmeat to which some narcotic, perhaps hashish, was added.
Again, we hear about a narcotic called k-n/tbābatī, once spelled k-bābatī.
Metrical use shows that there was a long syllable in the beginning, and it sup-
ports the reading -bābatī, although the letters are vouched for only by the
authority of the ms. One of the stories connected with the word speaks of the
experience of ʿAlī b. Sūdūn al-Bashbughawī, who met an amīr just returned
from the Ḥijāz with a number of glass jars (marṭabān, pl. marāṭabīn) dis-
played in front of him. The amīr asked al-Bashbughawī to taste their contents,
79 5 Whether it might be love of one’s stomach? But kirsh may also mean associates, family,
and so on, which could be the meaning applicable in this connection. It is interesting
to note that the Lisān al-ʿArab, VIII, 232, l. 3, refers to alternate forms (thawb) akrāsh or
akbāsh meaning the same thing (a kind of Yemeni garment). In a poem by Ṣarīʿ ad-dilāʾ
(d. 412/1021–1022), a verse clearly referring to “ram” (kabsh) is followed by one saying
that “one who eats al-kirsh unwashed will have that medicine (? ad-dawā) drip on his
moustache” (al-Kutubī, Fawāt, II, 469). In this scurrilous poem, which also speaks of eating
coal, possibly kirs “dung” is meant (?). For the medical view on the value of kirsh as food,
cf. ar-Rāzī, Ḥāwī, XXI, i, 363.
80 1 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. 16a, and, for the story, again, below, p. 82.
82 3 Op. cit. (p. 29, n. 3), II, 307, quoted by Dozy, Supplément aux dictionnaires arabes, s. v.
and he unthinkingly did so. The result was that he got high, his eyes red-
dened, and he became very hungry.83 Again, a combination of k-n/tbābatī with
kabābah “cubeb” would be completely gratuitous, and its supposed composi-
tion remains uncertain.
There can be no doubt that barsh was a compound drug. It is stated, in the
monograph devoted to it,84 to be “an evil paste” (al-maʿjūn al-khabīth). Its user
was called barrāsh. Its locale is indicated to be Egypt, and it could be assumed to
be a comparatively recent invention since it is not mentioned at all by al-Badrī,
were it not for | the fact that its connection with hashish is somewhat doubtful 32
and hashish might have been only an occasional ingredient. Bers is the form
under which it is mentioned in Western literature by P. Alpin, who wrote at
about the same time as the author of Qamʿ.85 The etymology of the term is by
no means clear.86 The indications of modern dictionaries vary considerably
and may not possess much authority as far as the actual meaning of barsh
and its relation, or lack of relation, to hashish is concerned.87 A passage of the
83 4 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. 22a, and, for the verses, fol. 47a.
84 5 Cf. Qamʿ, fol. 274a.
85 1 Cf. his Medicina Aegyptiorum (above, p. 21, n. 4), 258, quoted by Silvestre de Sacy, Mémoire
sur la dynastie des Assassins, 47, 61. Alpin contrasts bers and other confections with
simple assis, but this would not automatically exclude the possibility that hashish was
an ingredient in those confections.
86 2 It is rather tempting to think of a native Egyptian word. Coptic presents quite a few
possibilities, whether one thinks of the first consonant as part of the word or as the Coptic
definite article. Particularly intriguing is the entry erbisi “hemp” from W.E. Crum’s Coptic
Dictionary, 58a (Oxford 1939), with Crum’s accompanying suggestion that the Coptic form
may be the result of metathesis in view of ebra (53a–b) “seed (of cereals and other plants).”
The Arabic term b-r-sh in the meaning of ḥ-r-th “to plow” attested by al-Maqrīzī (Khiṭaṭ,
I, 101 f., cf. the ed. of G. Wiet, in Mém. de l’ Institut Français d’Archéol. Or. du Caire, XXXIII,
1913, 76) could hardly be brought into connection with barsh. If the drug originated in
other parts of the Muslim world, for instance, in Persia, one could think of connecting
it with parsh “agitation.” The form berǵ listed in J.T. Zenker, Türkisch-arabisch-persisches
Handwörterbuch, 189b (Leipzig 1867–1876), would, as a secondary form of barsh, suggest
Persian origin, but this is probably not so; berǵ may not be barch but merely a conflation
of barsh and banj.
87 3 Zenker, loc. cit., speaks of “Präparat aus Hanfblättern, deren Genuss Heiterkeit erweckt.” A
modern Turkish-English Dictionary (by A. Vahid Moran, Istanbul 1945), s.v. berş, has “elec-
tuary (of hemp leaves, laudanum or opium with syrup).” Hava’s Arabic-English Dictionary
indicates “opium-paste for smoking.” Hava also gives the meaning of Datura stramonium,
thorn-apple or jimsonweed, for barsh, and it should be remembered that daturas include
datura Metel L., the much used narcotic jawz māthil (see below, p. 114). Abrash “speckled”
Arabian Nights speaking of a ḥashshāsh refers to his addiction “to opium and
barsh and his use of the green hashish;”88 the phrasing could be understood to
indicate that barsh had nothing to do with hashish, but this would by no means
be a necessary conclusion. Qamʿ refers, strangely enough, to “a leaf of barsh,”
adding “or ḥashīsh,” and a few lines earlier speaks of the forbidden character of
33 ḥashīsh and that of | barsh, as if he meant to distinguish two different drugs.89
However, he also alludes to the famous story of the introduction of hashish in
the Arab world,90 which would suggest that cannabis played a role in barsh.
Much depends on the interpretation of banj in the Qamʿ ’s description of the
composition of barsh, according to which it consists of pepper ( fulful), opium
(afyūn), saffron (zaʿfarān), pellitory (ʿāqirqarḥā), banj, euphorbia (afarbiyūn),91
and spikenard (sunbul). The initials of the components arranged in order yield
the phrase fāz ʿAbbās, meaning something like “ʿAbbās has achieved bliss,” and
this phrase, we may safely assume, was also a current nickname for the drug.92
In describing the potencies of the ingredients, the author of Qamʿ compares
banj with opium in its effect and indicates that there are two kinds, a poisonous
black species and a desiccative, burning, and destructive species. Banj might
very well be henbane here, and the barsh of fāz ʿAbbās would thus contain no
hemp preparation. However, Qamʿ further speaks of “the accursed ḥāshīshah
and its derivations (tawābiʿ),”93 evidently having in mind preparations of a
similar type; thus, there might have been other recipes for the preparation of
barsh which made use of hashish.
A trade name for a hashish confection widely used for a number of years
in Cairo was ʿuqdah, as al-Maqrīzī informs us. The word has many meanings.
may refer to plants of various colors, but it could be suspected that Hava’s plant name is
secondary to barsh as the designation of a drug. Cf. also the following note.
88 4 Cf. Arabian Nights, ed. W.H. Macnaghten, II, 66 (Calcutta and London 1839–1842), German
trans. E. Littmann, II, 571, cited by Dozy, Supplément I, 71b. Dozy here also defines barsh as
“gomme odorante” of Indian origin also derived from the drug?
89 1 Cf. Qamʿ, fol. 276a.
90 2 Cf. Qamʿ, fol. 274b, and below, p. 53.
91 3 Meyerhof, in his ed. and trans, of Maimonides, 15, vocalizes afarbiyūn and furbiyūn (as in
Steingass’Persian-English Dictionary). I do not know why it might not have been afurbiyūn.
92 4 The author of Qamʿ, fol. 280a–b, jokes that a better combination of the letters would have
been fasā ʿāzib “a celibate (or widowed) person has farted” or ʿzʾ nfsʾ, which I do not quite
understand.
Lane, op. cit. (above, p. 29, n. 3), II, 41 f., speaks of “hellebore, hemp, and opium and
several aromatic drugs,” but it is not quite clear whether barsh is supposed to contain all
or some of these.
93 5 Cf. Qamʿ, fol. 274b.
It would seem to mean here “node, knob, lump,” thus being another of the
numerous words referring to the form in which the drug was consumed. A verse
of Abū l-Khayr al-ʿAqqād runs:
Present the one you love with a pill of zīh

And with two ʿuqdahs from the lawful plant.94
We also have a reference to a man who sitting in a corner over the gate of 34
the Manṣūrī Hospital in Cairo, would use a pint of sweets min al-ʿuqdah al-
marshūshah al-mubakhkharah al-mumassakah min ʿind Ibn Qayṣar bi-sittah
wa-thalāthin nuqrah lā yuṭʿim minhā li-aḥad ʿuqdah wa-law jāʾah ṣāḥib al-ḥall
wa-l-ʿaqd, which, I think, means: “an ʿuqdah wetted95 and perfumed with in-
cense and musk from the shop of Ibn Qayṣar for thirty-six nuqrah (dirham);
and he would not give anyone an ʿuqdah of it to eat, even if the ruler him-
self were to come to him.”96 The ʿuqdah mentioned by al-Maqrīzī was intro-
duced by a Persian Ismāʿīlī (min malāḥidat al-ʿajam). It consisted of hashish
mixed with honey and a number of desiccating ingredients such as mandrake
root (ʿirq al-luffāḥ)97 and the like. It had to be sold, so we are told, clandes-
tinely. A story strangely similar but not using the term ʿuqdah occurs in al-
Badrī.98
Of the two lists of nicknames for hashish known so far, the longer one
is presented to us as the devil’s own. Al-Badrī, who is our authority for it,
says that it contains about eighty terms, but they are not quite as many. The
seventeenth-century Bakrī also gives the number of eighty or more, no doubt
relying on al-Badrī.99 If he actually quoted them, his text will probably prove
wa-hādī man tuḥibbu bi-qurṣi zīhin

wa-min ḥilli n-nabāti bi-ʿuqdatayni.
The meter (wāfir) requires a long ī in ma-hādī, for wa-hādi. It could hardly be something
like haddiʾ “quiet.”
95 1 Cf. below, p. 59.
96 2 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. 28b.
97 3 Luffāḥ is also mentioned by al-Badrī, fol. 48b, among the pernicious offspring of the
zaqqūm tree.
98 4 Cf. below, pp. 133f.
99 5 The list appears in al-Badrī, fol. 9a–b, and may possibly have been derived by al-Badrī
from Ibn an-Najjār’s Zawājir. My knowledge of the Kawākib as-sāʾirah fī akhbār Miṣr
extremely helpful for the reconstruction of many of the names. As it is, the ms.
of al-Badrī poses quite a few problems of reading and interpretation. The list
breaks down into two parts of unequal length. The first one gives the nicknames
as used in various countries and cities and nations, the second longer one those
used by the various professions, mainly, as we would expect, of the lower and
35 lowest strata of society. The | schematic arrangement does not inspire great
confidence in the list’s truthfulness. The first four items, in particular, strike
us as pure fancy. However, asrār, for instance, is no doubt correctly associated
with the Turks, and there may, in fact, be a goodly number of such correct
associations. We are in no position to pass judgment on this. It would also be a
waste of effort to indulge in too much speculation on the possible vocalization
and interpretation of some of the words. The data are, in fact, “devilishly”
difficult at times, and only further comparative manuscript material and a
wider knowledge of the social conditions reflected in the list can be expected
to be of help.
1. The people of India: as-s-k-y-n-h

2. The people of Sind: as-s-y-w-s-h
3. The people of China: as-s-n-d-s-h
4. The people of Ethiopia: ad-d-r-h (?)100
5. The people of Persia: al-bankā “banj”
6. The people of the Yemen: al-khaḍrāʾ “the green one”
7. The people of Baghdād: bint al-jirāb “daughter of the bag”
8. The Turk people: asrār “esrār”
9.–10. The people of the ʿIrāq: al-kaff and jamāl az-zayn101
wa-l-Qāhirah of Ibn Abī s-Surūr al-Bakrī goes back to Silvestre de Sacy’s Chrestomathie
arabe, 2nd ed., I, 281 f. For al-Bakrī, cf. GAL, 2nd ed., II, 383f., Suppl., II, 408f.; the intro-
duction of the ed. of his, or his father’s, al-Qawl al-muqtaḍab, ed. I. al-Ibyārī and as-Sayyid
I. Sālim (Cairo, n. y. [1962]); M.A. Enan, Muʾarrikhū Miṣr, 169–176 (Cairo 1388/1969).
No attention has been paid here to modern nicknames not attested in the older
literature. I do not know whether any substantial lists of them have been compiled. An
article by F. Kerim, in L’ Hygiène Mentale, XXV (1930), 95, lists a very few Turkish nicknames
such as nefes “whiff, breath,” minare gölgesi “shade, shadow of the minaret,” and davul tozu
“drum dust.” Note, however, that modern Arabic nafas also means (a draw on the) water
pipe.
100 1 This might be “durrah,” but the ms. itself indicates an uncertain reading by the addition of
a dot underneath the first letter.
101 2 Hardly to be corrected to Jamāl-ad-dīn “Beauty of the Religion.” Az-zayn may, however,
refer to an individual known as Zayn-ad-dīn.
11. The people of Mosul: ibnat al-ʿ-k-r-m-y102

12. The people of Diyār Bakr: al-ghubayrāʾ
13.–14. The people of Anatolia: al-ʿ-z-k-y (?)103 and aẓ-ẓ-f-r104
15. The Kurds: kh-w-y-n-h105
16. The people of Aleppo: al-k-r-m-w-m106
17. The people of Antioch: ra’s al-qiṭṭ “cat’s head”
18. The people of Hama: al-muḥammaṣah “the toasted one”107
19. The people of Syria: aṣ-ṣaḥīḥ108 36
20. The people of Egypt: az-zīh
21. The people of the West (al-gharb): ibnat al-qunbus “daughter of canna-
bis”
22. The people of Homs: al-mubahhijah “the one that cheers”109
23. The people of the Coastal Plains (as-Sawāḥil): maʿdin az-zumurrud
“emerald mine”110
24. shadow players:111 al-b-t-n
25. hermits:112 al-maʿlūm
26. mendicants:113 al-luqaymah “little morsel”
102 3 The reading is uncertain. Whether we might read al-ʿaskarī “daughter of the soldier”??
103 4 Perhaps, what is meant, is al-frky, to be connected somehow with the rubbing or husking
( f-r-k) done in preparing hashish (see below, p. 60).
104 5 Aẓ-ẓufr “fingernail” (cf. below, p. 173), rather than aẓ-ẓafar “victory,” but cf. also the spelling
aṭ-ṭ-f-r-y in al-Badrī, fol. 8b (below, p. 58).
105 6 I. e., khuwaynah or ḥuwaynah “little tavern”??
106 7 The first m might possibly be a hook, but the meaning indicated for kurtūm (“small stones,
stony tract”) in the Wörterbuch der klassischen arabischen Sprache (letter K), 118b, is hardly
applicable. Whether it could be kurkum “saffron, turmeric”?
107 8 The ms. indicates ḍ for ṣ. The indicated reading seems preferable.
108 1 Again, the ms. indicates ḍ for ṣ, but see above, pp. 28 f.
109 2 The reading is not fully clear. Perhaps, rather, al-muhayyijah.
110 3 Al-Badrī, fol. 11b, speaks of maʿādin az-zumurrud wa-l-yāqūt, apparently with reference to
hashish and pomegranates. The use of emerald, for simple green, is common in the poetry
on hashish. Cf. also below, p. 77.
111 4 For mukhāyilīyah, cf. Dozy, Supplément, I, 418b. In fact, a low-class and fraudulent mendi-
cant fraternity may be meant, like those following here. Perhaps, we should read at-tibn
“straw.” Turkish tütün “smoke” seems excluded, in view of the lack of evidence for the smok-
ing of hemp (cf. below, p. 65).
112 5 This is the likely meaning of mutajarrid in this context. For the meaning of maʿlūm, see
above, p. 27.
113 6 For al-jawlaqīyah, cf. Steingass, Persian-English Dictionary, 379a: jōlakhī. For the “little
morsel,” cf. no. 46 and below, p. 92. Ibn Taghrībirdī (below, p. 142, n. 3) speaks of “the little
morsel of the poor, the green one.”
27. ḥullah wearers (?):114 shajarat aṭ-ṭarab “shrub of emotion”

28. caftan wearers (?):115 shajarat al-fahm “shrub of understanding”
29. bums ( juʿaydīyah):116 maʿlūm al-fuqarāʾ “maʿlūm of the poor (the Ṣū-
fīs)”
37 30.–31. merchants (tujjār): al-wuṣūl “arrival” or “receipt” (?) and rāḥat al-bāl
“peace of mind”
32. lantern bearers:117 ʿashīrah “family” or “girl friend”
33. spongers (ṭufaylīyah): al-muhaḍḍimah “the one that facilitates diges-
tion”
34. crossbowmen (bunduqānīyūn): t-r-z-y-d as-s-f-ʾ-q-y
35. Gypsies (zuṭṭ): r-ḍ-w-y “the pleasing one” (?)
36. (Ṣūfī) shaykhs (mashāʾikh): ziyārat al-Khiḍr al-akhḍar “visit of the
green Khiḍr”
37. Ṣūfīs: mūṣilat al-qalb “the one that connects the heart”
38. veterinarians (bayāṭirah): ḥ-n-h118
39. travelers:119 zuwwādah “provisions”
40. barber-surgeons ( jarāʾiḥīyah): lazqah “adhesive bandage”
41. dancers (? rāqiṣah):120 al-ʿuknah “belly wrinkle” (?)
114 7 The interpretation of al-ḥlʾtyyh is a mere guess, suggested by the possible meanings of the
next two professions. It might be “sweetmeat makers,” ordinarily ḥalāwātīyah, or again a
type of beggars.
115 8 Al-muṭaylasah, rather than al-muṭaylisah “caftan makers.” The assumption is that a group
of beggars and frauds distinguished by the type of garment they wore is meant, but this
remains uncertain.
116 9 Cf. Dozy, Supplément, I, 197b; W.M. Brinner, in EI2, s.v. ḥarfūsh. For juʿaydīs as hashish
eaters, cf. the two anecdotes in al-Badrī, fol. 11a–b: (1) A juʿaydī, noticing a lighted candle
in a house, calls “fire,” people come and pour water over the wall of the house until he
finds himself swimming in a puddle of water, shouting, “help, I am drowning.” (2) One of
two juʿaydīs who had eaten hashish and become thirsty leaves the house to fetch water.
Meanwhile, a seller of pizzas (manqūshah) passes by and sells the other juʿaydī a pizza,
which sticks to his face. His companion upon returning thinks that he has turned into
an ʿifrīṭ. “Bum” would seem hardly a very satisfactory translation of juʿaydī in view of the
situations presupposed in these stories, but nothing very specific was presumably meant
by it.
117 1 Or “lantern makers” (al-mashāʿilīyah).
118 2 Ḥannah “wife” (??), or, perhaps, to be corrected to “henna” with which hashish was
compared (below, p. 63)? Presumably, however, a technical term of veterinary medicine
is to be looked for here.
119 3 As-sfʾrh, to be equated with safarah or suffār.
120 4 If “belly wrinkle” is the right interpretation, “dancers” seem to be meant. Rāqiṣ and rāqiṣah
42. leather workers:121 tashmīʿ al-khayṭ “the waxing of the thread”

43. water carriers:122 mishʿal “lantern”
44. cooks (ṭabbākhūn): ḥimmaṣah “chick-pea”
45. songstresses (maghānī): aghṣān as-saʿādah “branches of bliss”
46. philosophers (?):123 luqaymat al-fikr “thought morsel”
47. astrologers (munajjimūn): saʿd b-l-ʿ124
48. rope-makers and porters ( fattālūn and ḥammālūn): al-mukhaffifah
“the one that lightens (the load)”
49. builders (bannāʾūn): dawāʾ “medicine” (?)
50. architects (miʿmārīyah): q-r-b-t-h125
51. misers (bukhalāʾ): al-m-y-l-y-s-h126 38
52. washers of corpses:127 al-quds “Holy Jerusalem”
53. grave diggers (ḥaffārūn): as-sukkarī “sugary” (?)
54. beggars (ḥarāfishah): bunduqah “pill”128
55. brokers (dallālūn): al-malīḥah “the pretty one”
56. druggists (ʿaṭṭārūn): safūf “medicinal powder”129
57. makers of electuaries (maʿājīnīyah): diryāq “theriac”
58. al-kh-m-y-ʾ-t-y-h:130 khuḍārī “wild duck” (with a play on “green”)
are used by al-Badrī (fol. 86a) for male and female dancers, but rāqiṣah is a strange form
for the plural required here. Even “Qarmatians” (no. 60) does not quite permit us to
assume that “extremist sectarians” (rāfiḍah) could be meant. “Mason” (raqqāṣ) is also
unlikely.
121 5 Al-ʾdmy(ūn), from adam “leather” as usual, rather than from udm, idām “condiment,
dessert.” The nickname for hashish would seem to be a technical term used by leather
workers, tanners, or leather merchants.
122 6 This is the likely precise meaning here of suʿāh “runners.”
123 7 The ms. has al-mtgh/flsh, hardly to be connected with the root f-l-s “bankrupt.” The
following “astrologers” invites the correction suggested here to al-mutafalsifah. Cf. no. 26.
124 8 Possibly, saʿd balagh “fortune has arrived,” but there may very well be some other astrolog-
ical allusion concealed here.
125 9 Qarībah “near one” could have been an architectural term. Or is qarīnah “wife” or the like
meant?
126 1 Hardly, al-mulaysāʾ “the little one easy to swallow.”
127 2 Mughassilū (ms. mf/ghlsyn) al-amwāt. My inference that the nickname refers to Jerusalem
is somewhat gratuitous. Again, it is possible that some technical use of quds in the
profession is meant.
128 3 Cf. below, pp. 61 f.
129 4 The root s-f-f “to eat dry,” is commonly used in connection with hashish, see below, p. 57,
etc.
130 5 Hardly, al-ḥummayātīyah “specialists in the treatment of fevers.” This, and the following
59. at-t-q/f-ṭ-y-s-h: dhanab aṭ-ṭāʾūs “peacock’s tail”

60. Qarmatians:131 qurrat al-ʿayn “consolation”
61. homosexuals (m-ḥ-ʾ-n-t-h, read makhānithah, makhānīth): ash-shu-
mayʿah “little wax candle”
62. al-ḥ-d-ʾ-y-th-y-h: al-muhanniʾah “the one that causes good appetite”
63. procurers (qawwādūn): mulayyinat aṭ-ṭibāʿ “the one that softens the
temperaments”
64. al-m-ʿ-r-ṣ(ūn):132 jāmiʿat ash-shaml “the one that brings the party to-
gether”
65. narcotizers (?):133 malūf “moist”
66. falconers (bazādirah): layānah (?)134
67. importers ( jallābah): al-ʿuwaymilah “the little agent”
68. manufacturers (ṣunnaʿ) of hashish: al-bishbīshah (?)
69. sellers (bāʾiʿūn) of hashish: kuḥl “antimony”
70. Satan and his cohorts: al-mutaṣayyidah “the huntress”
39 The other list appears in connection with an amusing anecdote on the fly-leaf
of an Istanbul ms. of an undetermined date.135 One of the local hashish users
(ḥashshāshīyah, later on also referred to as an ḥashāʾishī) imported and sold
hashish, thus spreading ruin in the city and corrupting the young Muslims
living there. He was often caught and punished, but no punishment had any
deterrent effect on him. He always returned to his evil ways of pushing dope.
Eventually, however, he was brought before the judge and forced to accept an
agreement under oath (qasāmah) that he would no longer import either wine
or hashish or, if he did, he would be liable to a fine of 500 dīnārs. Now, in
profession (where the reading is even more uncertain), may have something to do with
the snaring of fowl.
131 6 Al-qarāmiṭah may be here a nickname for some low-class group held in contempt. See
above, no. 41.
132 7 Steingass, Persian-English Dictionary, 1271a, lists muʿarriḍ as “circumciser of boys,” which
would make good sense here. A correction to muʿris “one who gives wedding parties”
cannot be rejected out of hand.
133 8 Al-marāqid may be the plural of murqid. For “moist,” see below, p. 59.
134 9 The ms. is smudged and the reading is completely uncertain. One should not think of
lubābah (above, p. 31). “The soft one” is not impossible.
135 1 The main texts contained in the Istanbul Ms. Feyzullah 1587 are dated, respectively, in
Rabīʿ I 556/March 1161 (scribe: Muẓaffar b. Asʿad al-ʿImādī) and in 582/1186–1187. The note
is found on fol. 191a. The adab work from which it was no doubt derived remains to be
traced.
administering this oath, the judge tried to be very specific and to avoid leaving
any conceivable loopholes. He therefore enumerated by name some twenty
different kinds of hashish. The pusher, quickwitted as he was, immediately
pointed out that he had not the least bit (qirāṭ) of knowledge about any of these
kinds, and he suggested that the judge would do better to administer the oath
to himself—implying, of course, that if the judge knew that much about the
different kinds of hashish and the popular names for them, he must have plenty
of experience and probably be a user himself. The clever comeback pleased all
those present very much. The pusher was given the opportunity to repent of his
evil ways, which he did,136 and he led afterwards a blameless life. The motif of
the defendant turning tables in this manner on the judge is not uncommon.137
In fact, in an almost identical story, the judge shows himself conversant with
all the low-class places in and around Cairo where wine was consumed.138 But
the list of supposed nicknames for hashish is interesting, even if both reading
and interpretation in most cases remain highly doubtful:
1. s-b-y (?)
2. ṣafadī “from Ṣafad”
3. iṣbahānī “from Iṣfahān”
4. ṣihyawnī “from Zion” (Ṣahyūn in Northern Syria) 40
5. qurn “pill” (?)139
6. muʿanbar “amber-scented”140
7. bizr “seed”
8. akhḍar “green”
9. b-s-m-w-q-y (?)141
10. b-s-m-w-t-y (?)
11. kibāsh (of doubtful meaning, see above, pp. 29 f.)
12. q-l-y-ʿ/f-t-y
13. jabalī (probably referring to some mountain or locality)
14. m-h- … (perhaps, miṣrī “Egyptian”?)
136 2 For “repenting” in connection with the use of drugs, cf. below, p. 97.
137 3 Cf. F. Rosenthal, A History of Muslim Historiography, 2nd ed., 367 (Leiden 1968), in the
translation of as-Sakhāwī, Iʿlān. The story involves the Ṭabbālah estate, known as a drug
center in Mamlūk Cairo (cf. below, p. 137).
139 1 Cf. below, p. 62. Perhaps, quran, pl. of qurnah, is meant (?).
140 2 Cf. above, p. 25.
141 3 Nos. 9, 10, and 12 look like names derived from localities, in the first two cases, Syrian
localities beginning with b- (the shortened form of Aramaic house).
15. gh-y-r ṣ-ʾ(?) ʾ-l-w-n(?)-y142

16. dubb al-hīsh143
17. tuffāḥī “apple-colored (scented, flavored)”
18. ḥamātī-bayrūtī “from Hama and Beirut”144
19. s-r-ṭ-b-ʾ-w-y (?)
20. qalandarāwī (see above, p. 25, n. 8)
21. ḥ-w-ʾ-l-f/q-y (?)
The preponderance to place names mentioned would suggest a Syrian locale

for the list, uncertain though this must be. The genuineness of the nicknames
should be rated much lower than that of the other list, though, again, this is
merely an impression that cannot be substantiated. It is remarkable that both
lists are totally different, another testimony to the great variety of nicknames
and the constantly changing pattern of their use, or to the inventiveness that
went into thinking them up.
41 All these nicknames served as shibboleths by which the members of an
exclusive club recognized each other. But it should not be forgotten that the
employment of more or less private words is also the common custom of
social outcasts who thereby express their solidarity among themselves and
their feeling of rebellion against restrictions imposed upon them by society.
The nicknames are thus not only of lexical interest. The more we can learn
about them, the better will be our understanding of the attitude of Muslims
toward the use of drugs.
2 The History of the Use of Hashish
Whatever the name under which it was known, certain presumed pharmaco-
logical properties of hemp were known to physicians in the Muslim orbit as
142 4 A combination with ghubayrāʾ seems hardly possible. A checking of the ms. may yield
some better reading.
143 5 The vocalization of hīsh is confirmed by the occurrence of this combination in a zajal,
where it rhymes with ḥashīsh. The author of the poem quoted by al-Badrī, fol. 56b, was
Burhān-ad-dīn al-Miʿmār (cf. below, p. 66, n. 2). It begins: “I repent my use of hashish
as long as I live” (tāyib anā ʿan al-ḥashīsh—ṭūl mā aʿīsh), but much in the poem remains
doubtful, including, in particular, the line referring to dubb hīsh.
144 6 The ms. seems to have an n, for t, in Ḥamātī, but Hama is clearly meant. Possibly, wa-lā
should be supplied between the two words so that we would have here two brands of
hashish.
early as there was a scientific medicine in Islam. However, then and later, lit-
tle was made of this knowledge by medical writers.145 The quotations brought,
for instance, by Ibn al-Bayṭār and al-Maqrīzī can be considered as quite repre-
sentative. Hashish might also have been used here and there for “pleasure and
enjoyment,” but we have no evidence to this effect from the first four or five
centuries of Islam. Any speculation that the use of the drug for this purpose
might have occurred only in the eastern portions of the Muslim world close to
India could also not be verified at present.
Later jurists never failed to remark on the fact that hashish is not mentioned
in the Qurʾān or the old Prophetic traditions, nor were they able to find any
express reference to it in the name of the founders of the four legal schools.
When such ancient authorities as the Shāfiʿite al-Muzanī (d. 264/878) or the
Ḥanafite aṭ-Ṭaḥāwī (d. 321/933) are cited as having pronounced themselves
against the use of narcotics,146 we can be quite certain that the term ḥashīsh was
not used by them; it is also most probable that they did not employ any other
term specifically denoting hemp preparations, unless it was banj understood
to mean hemp. In connection with a late commentary on the famous legal
compendium of the Ḥanafite al-Qudūrī (d. 428/1037), we hear about ḥashīsh,
but the basic text does | not contain the word.147 In his Mabsūṭ, Khwāharzādeh 42
(d. 483/1090) evidently employed only the ambiguous banj.148 It is tempting
to assume that az-Zarkashī, in his brief reference to a work by Abū Isḥāq
ash-Shīrāzī (d. 476/1083) entitled at-Tadhkirah fī l-khilāf, meant to imply that it
contained an express mention of the word ḥashīsh.149 In this case, ash-Shīrāzī,
who spent his life in Shīrāz and Baghdād, would be our oldest source for the
actual use of the term. Since law books are not known for ready acceptance of
newly coined slang, it could be assumed to have been around for some time and
145 1 Cf. Meyerhof, in his ed. and trans, of Maimonides, 174; M. Levey, in EI2, s.v. ḥāshīsh.
146 2 Cf. Risālah fī ḥurmat al-banj (above, p. 18). In the statement reported to go back to
an-Nasafī (below, p. 48), these references were taken seriously as evidence for the history
of the use of hashish.
147 1 Cf. al-Fanārī and al-Qudūrī, Mukhtaṣar, 73f. (Delhi 1267). The commentator is al-Ḥad-
dād(ī) (d. 800/1397), apparently in his Sirāj al-wahhāj (GAL, Suppl., I, 296).
148 2 Cf. al-Fanārī. See also Ḥājjī Khalīfah, 1580.
149 3 Cf. az-Zarkashī, below, p. 181. Az-Zarkashī (below, p. 187) has a reference to the Baḥr
al-madhhab, apparently the work of ar-Rūyānī (d. 502/1108, cf. GAL, Suppl., I, 673), possibly
through ar-Rāfiʿī. The term employed in this connection is not indicated. Ar-Rūyānī’s work
is preserved in Cairo, but without consulting it, we can merely guess that the plant may
have been named qinnab or shahdānaj. In a later quotation from ar-Rūyānī (below, p. 196),
banj occurs.
hashish was already even at that time considered a social and legal problem.
Unfortunately, it is unlikely that ash-Shīrāzī employed this or any other specific
term denoting hemp. We still lack the unambiguous reference—just one would
suffice—that could be decisive.
From around 1123 comes the first attestation of the designation Ḥashīshīyah
in connection with the Neo-Ismāʿīlīyah. In the Īqāʿ ṣawāʾiq al-irghām, which
is a reply to Nizārī critics of the Mustaʿlian al-Hidāyah al-Āmirīyah, we find
this term used twice with reference to the Nizārīs.150 Hashish has been much
discussed in Western literature in connection with the Assassins, beginning
with the great discovery by Silvestre de Sacy of the true derivation of their
name. However, very little that might be helpful for the history of the use
of hashish has come of it. It has been pointed out that hashish does not
have the properties that would ordinarily make it a serviceable stimulant for
43 anyone being sent on a dangerous mission of assassi|nation.151 The famous and
widespread story of the paradisiacal garden at Alamut can be brought into
connection with hashish only most vaguely and indirectly;152 nothing in the
story points to hashish in preference to other drugs. The few instances where
use of narcotic drugs is implied for the sectarians may have been the result of
hostile speculation spun out of their name rather than factual occurrences. It
is worthy of note that attacks on the Neo-Ismāʿīlīyah accusing them of being
hashish eaters were apparently not made very often, although this would have
been an effective verbal slur.153
As has been suggested recently, the reason for the choice of the term Ḥashī-
shīyah might have been in the first place the low and disreputable character
attributed to hashish eaters, rather than the sectarians’ devotion to the drug.154
150 4 Cf. the edition by A.A.A. Fyzee, al-Hidayatuʾl-Amiriya, 27, 32 (Oxford University Press 1938,
Islamic Research Association 7), and, for the date, S.M. Stern, in JRAS, 1950, 20–31.
Ash-Shahrastānī, Milal, ed. W. Cureton, 202 (London 1842–1846), trans. T. Haarbrücker,
II, 3 (Halle 1850–1851), mentions ḥashīshīyah as misguided ancient religious thinkers,
among eternalists (materialists), physicists, and metaphysicians. Since ash-Shahrastānī
died in 548/1153, this could be another quite early attestation of the use of the word to
designate hashish eaters, meaning, possibly, confused thinkers. However, the reading may
be incorrect, and ḥiss “sense perception” may be involved.
151 1 Cf. M.G.S. Hodgson, The Order of Assassins, 134 (The Hague 1955).
152 2 See below, p. 93.
153 3 No importance in this respect, I believe, should be attached to the fact that later fifteenth-
century hashish confections were said to have been introduced by Ismāʿīlīs, cf. above, p. 34,
and below, pp. 133 f.
154 4 Cf. B. Lewis, in EI2, s.v. ḥashīshiyya, and idem, The Assassins, 11f. (New York 1968).
Now, if the term was in common use around 1123 so that it could appear in a
kind of official document and required no explanation whatever, this would
indicate that it was by then familiar and had been known for some time. And
if it indeed refers to the use of hashish, it can serve as concrete evidence for
the existence of the drug’s nickname in the early twelfth century. If, moreover,
it was already used at that time metaphorically for low-class rabble, it must
have been well established in general use for some time at least; no modern
means of rapid communication are necessary to give quick currency to a slang
expression, but it may be assumed that in medieval times it took a little while
for such an expression to be widely accepted. There are many ifs here, of which
the most crucial is the one implying doubt as to whether the name of the
Assassins is really to be connected with the meaning “hashish” among the many
possible connotations of the Arabic word. It remains plausible, however, that
this was indeed the case. Thus, the nickname, and with it, the drug’s extended
use, appear to have surfaced during the late eleventh century, and both may
have been promoted by the real or alleged use of cannabis by sectarians who
were engaged in spreading a vast network of open and secret influence over the
Muslim world, extending to the area from Egypt to Iran, and beyond. Assuming
that this is so, the question of the | place of origin, whether it was Syria or Egypt 44
or some more eastern region, is still left unanswered.
Once hashish consumption had become a widespread and debated custom,
there was much discussion among Muslim scholars and other interested par-
ties about its history. This discussion contains nothing to contradict the state-
ments just made. The theories put forward range from the fanciful to the strong
semblance of historical fact. They all add up to the impression that here was
an urgent situation that needed understanding and historical perspective so
that it could be handled intelligently. The samples preserved in literature make
us suspect that there once was much more which went unrecorded and that
the legal and political struggle over the drug was accompanied by arguments
derived from history favoring one side or the other.
It was quite sensibly argued that the properties of hemp had been known
continuously since the most ancient times, indeed, it is said, “since God brought
the world into being. It existed in the time of the Greeks. Proof of that is what
the physicians in their books have to say about the temper of the drug and
its useful as well as harmful properties on the authority of Hippocrates and
Galen.” This statement of al-Maqrīzī begs, however, the question of the use of
hashish for play and pleasure, nor does it say anything about the time it started
to become a social problem in Islam.
The Indian connection of the plant, attested by the descriptive adjective
attached to its name, was utilized in a legend about an Indian shaykh who “lived
in the time of the Sassanian kings and saw the coming of Islam.”155 His name
appears in al-Maqrīzī as something like Bīr Raṭan, but in al-Badrī, the second r
is replaced by the connected hook (b\t\th\n\y).156 I have no explanation for the
name, unless perhaps, Bīr-, if this is the reading intended, is meant to be Persian
pīr = shaykh. Al-Maqrīzī indicates as his informant a certain Qalandarī shaykh,
Muḥammad ash-Shīrāzī. Al-Badrī is more detailed in his report. It would seem
that the source he claims to follow was a Kitāb Riyāḍ al-ʿārif by a certain
45 Naṣrallāh aṭ-Ṭūsī, whose | identity remains to be established. Al-Badrī, fol. 5a,
also refers in this connection to a Shaykh an-Naṣr (= Naṣr-ad-dīn), who may be
the same person. Moreover, he also cites a History by a certain Manbijī, as well
as “the author of the Kharīdah,” as further authorities,157 and he interrupts his
report by giving details of the phenomenal success of hashish in Egypt.
The avowed purpose of this story is to contradict another story, soon to
be discussed, that attributes the introduction of hashish to a certain Shaykh
Qalandar or to the founder of the Ḥaydarī fraternity, Shaykh Ḥaydar, for it is
prefaced by remarks praising the piety of both these figures who, it is claimed,
never ate hashish in their lives. The use of the drug became common among
Ḥaydar’s followers only years after his death. Therefore, the Khurāsānians
ascribed the introduction of the drug to him who was completely innocent of
it.
According to al-Badrī, the Indian shaykh was from Bengal, and with the
dropping of the final -lah of Bangālah, the drug was called bang.158 Before
his time, the Indians were not acquainted with hashish. Once when he was
worshiping his idol, Satan spoke to him from the interior of the idol and
introduced him to hashish and taught him how to prepare it.159 The use of
hashish spread through India, China, and Ethiopia, and then to the West. In
155 1 The text in al-Maqrīzī adds rather incongruously, “and became a Muslim.” It may not be
a mere coincidence that the (fictitious?) Indian about whom we hear in the thirteenth
century, who claimed to have met the Prophet, was called Shaykh Ratan (with t, not ṭ), cf.
adh-Dhahabī, Mīzān, II, 45 (Cairo 1382/1963); al-Kutubī, Fawāt, I, 324–327; Ibn Ḥajar, Lisān,
II, 450–455 (Hyderabad 1329–1331).
156 2 In addition to the occurrences on fols. 4a and 5a, al-Badrī refers back to the story on fols. 8b
and 48b.
157 1 Al-Manbijī is quite clearly written, but I do not know who this Manbijī might be. One
might think that the Kharīdah could be the Kharīdat al-ʿajāʾib of Ibn al-Wardī from the
first half of the fifteenth century (GAL, Suppl., II, 162f.), but the text as printed does not
contain any reference to the history of hashish.
158 2 Bangālah and Bang were names of Bengal, cf. A.H. Dani, in EI2, s.v. Bangāla.
159 3 Cf. below, p. 59.
what seems to be another version, conflated by al-Badrī with that of Naṣrallāh

aṭ-Ṭūsī, it is more sensibly claimed that it spread from Iran to the land of the
Turks and the land of the Khiṭā (China). In Iraq, it became known only in
628/1230–1231, and from there spread westward, as is also stated in the report
of al-Maqrīzī.160 Somewhat naively, it is suggested that verses playing with the
term “Indian (maiden)” (hindīyah) for hashish161 could serve as a confirmation
for the historicity of the story, while, in fact, the poets merely drew upon the
known botanical fact of the Indian provenience of the plant.
Turning now to the Muslim views of the history of the drug within | Islam 46
proper, we would consider it almost inconceivable that at some point of the
discussion, Muslim scholars would have foregone the temptation to ascribe
traditions condemning hashish to the Prophet himself. There were quite a few,
and expectedly, they were modeled after certain stereotypes common in ḥadīth
literature:
“The greatest destruction at the end of time will result from eating the green
hashish.”
As-Samarqandī on the authority of Maʿmar: “The Prophet said, May God
curse one who seeks intoxication by means of a liquid or a dry (substance).”
ʿAlī: “The Prophet said, Beware of the wine of the non-Arabs (= the Persians),
for it will make you forget the confession of faith. (The Prophet’s statement
attributed it to the Persians, because coming from their country, it then spread
further. It is nothing else but hashish. He called it wine because ‘all wine is
intoxicating, and everything intoxicating is forbidden.’ This tradition makes it
obvious that hashish is intoxicating and forbidden.)”
Abū Hurayrah: “The Prophet said, Beware of the green one, for it is the
greatest wine.”
Ḥudhayfah b. al-Yamān: “I went together with the Prophet into the coun-
tryside. He saw a tree and shook his head. I asked him why he was shaking his
head, and he replied: A time will come upon my nation when they will eat from
the leaves of this tree and get intoxicated, and they will pray while intoxicated.
They are the worst of the worst. They are the birāʾ of my nation, as God has
nothing to do with them (minhum bariʾ).”162
We also find references to the zaqqūm tree from the Qurʾān (37: 62/60, 44:
43/43, 56: 52/52) and the ghubayrāʾ in contexts suggesting that they are a kind
160 4 Cf. below, pp. 52 f.

161 5 Cf. below, p. 153. Al-Badrī adds another poem (see below, p. 57, n. 2) in which hindīyah is
used for hashish, but without any allusion to Indian girls.
162 1 All the foregoing quotations from al-Badrī, fols. 55b and 54b. Which Maʿmar may be meant
is not certain, nor is the identity of the Samarqandī mentioned.
of cover names for hashish. The Berlin Ms. of Ibn Ghānim, in a passage missing
in the Princeton Ms., treats the reader to a ḥadith reported by Surāqah about a
Bedouin who appeared before the Prophet in rather poor physical condition.
He explained that he had been searching for some camels for five days and
was greatly suffering from hunger when he came across “a ḥashīshah consisting
47 of five and six fingers,163 notched (?) at the top, | smelling clean and having
red-colored wood. I ate some of it, and I swooned, as you can see, staggering
(but) not as the result of some inner commotion (?).”164 The Prophet had the
explanation. It was the zaqqūm tree which does not sate those eating from it,
who can expect to be condemned on the Day of Judgment.165 The ghubayrāʾ
ḥadīth, cited by Maḥmūd al-Muḥammadī,166 has the Prophet state solemnly in
phrases occurring in numerous traditions that “there is a tree called ghubayrāʾ,
an accursed tree. It will appear at the end of time. Those who eat from it do
not belong to us.” The author continues that this tradition can be used as an
argument for the prohibition (of hashish) in three ways, namely, on the strength
of the phrases “accursed tree,” “appearing at the end of time,” and “not being one
of us if one eats from it,” as he is aware of the forbidden character of ghubayrāʾ,
this being documented in a Qurʾān commentary entitled ʿAyn al-maʿānī.167
Scrawled between lines of this passage in the Berlin Ms., we meet with an
expression of strong disapproval: “This is a ḥadīth which is not recognized and
absolutely does not exist in the books. This man made a useless effort trying
to use it as an argument.” Whether the person who wrote these words had a
personal stake in the matter when he got so incensed about the citation of a
dubious anti-hashish tradition?
Serious scholars would, of course, not be taken in by fabrications of this sort.
Even less so would they have been ready to give credence to frauds committed
for the benefit of hashish. In fact, it was hardly more than a mere joke to
163 2 Al-Badrī, fol. 48a–b, who has the same story, has “seven.” Al-Badrī, following the Zawājir of
Ibn an-Najjār, describes the zaqqūm in some fanciful detail and quotes from “al-Ghazzālī
and others” the statement that it is the origin of forty-nine different plants such as
shahdānaj barrī, dāthūrah, and many others, all narcotics and intoxicants.
164 1 The text is somewhat corrupt: fa-laqītu ḥashīshatan wa-hiya bikhamsati aṣābiʿa wa-sittati
aṣābiʿa maḥrūrata (leg. maḥzūzata?) r-raʾsi dhakīyata r-rāʾiḥati ḥamrāʾa l-ʿūdi fa-akaltu
minhā fa-ʿm (leg. fa-ghumiya) ʿalayya kamā tarā amīlu min ghayri hawan. “Swaying without
wind” would be entirely out of place here, unless an allusion to the plant is intended.
165 2 For hashish being described as overpowering the zaqqūm, cf. the poem from the Gotha
Ms., below, p. 171, but see also note 5 to that page.
166 3 See above, p. 17.
167 4 Possibly, the work of as-Sajāwandī (GAL, Suppl., I, 724)?
pretend that the Qurʾān itself indicated that hashish was constantly consumed
by the blessed in Paradise, for what else could the reference to “green” in
Qurʾān 18: 31/30 (“green garments of sundus”) signify? Needless to say, making
such a remark foreshadowed a bad end for the addict who soon found his
brain dried up and who was reduced to beggary (taḥarfasha wa-tasarṭana
wa-tafarwasha).168 It could even happen that a student, | deranged from too 48
much hashish and having exchanged the garment of Ṣūfīs with that of beggars
(ḥarāfishah), would be inspired by Satan to transmit the following statement
as a tradition ascribed to the Almighty Himself: “When God created this plant
and called for it to appear before Him, it went to Him, and He said to it: By my
might, majesty, splendor, and perfection! I have not created a plant nobler and
finer than you are. Nowhere else have I let you dwell but in clean minds and
the clean stomachs of my servants.”
It was also highly unsatisfactory for any Muslim to have to admit that the
primary legal authorities did not furnish sufficient evidence to determine the
proper attitude toward the use of hashish. We have already seen that it was
believed that some general remarks concerning the prohibition of unspeci-
fied narcotics could be credited to al-Muzanī and aṭ-Ṭaḥāwī.169 The Shāfiʿite,
al-Muzanī, was much the older of the two, and this was certainly not very agree-
able to those Ḥanafites who were fighting the use of hashish in their time. It is
in this light that we have to view the sketch of the history of hashish, in the
framework of the legal effort to suppress its use, which appears in the Gotha
Ms.170 A Commentary of at-Timirtāshī is said to be its source. The authority
quoted by that author is Ḥāfiẓ-ad-dīn an-Nasafī (d. 710/1310).171 An-Nasafī, in
turn, reports a reply to a query addressed to Shams-ad-dīn al-Kurdī.172 Now,
this query is unequivocally stated to have concerned “the ḥashīsh, that is, the
leaves of hemp.” The text may be corrupt in the Gotha Ms., but after making
due allowance for textual corruption, it remains principally noteworthy for the
168 5 The quotations in this paragraph are from al-Badrī, fols. 50a and 49a.
The addict in the first case is said to have been al-Khaffāf, apparently identical with
Shihāb-ad-dīn Ahmad al-Khaffāf ad-Dimashqī mentioned by al-Badrī, fol. 12b, below, p. 80.
Cf. also below, p. 59. The reading of the words tasarṭana and tafarwasha is clear. The mean-
ings applicable here escape me. Tasarṭana could hardly be intended as “being affected by
cancer.” Dozy, Supplément, I, 648b, indicates meanings such as “being stupefied.”
169 1 Cf. above, p. 41.
170 2 Cf. above, p. 18.
171 3 Cf. GAL, Suppl., II, 263.
172 4 I have no identification for him unless he is not al-Kurdī but al-Kardarī (d. 624/1244) (GAL,
Suppl., I, 653 f.).
unbelievable confusion it exhibits: “No text on hashish being either permit-

ted or forbidden has been reported on the authority of Abū Ḥanīfah and his
colleagues, since it was not yet used in their time. It remained under cover
(mastūr). Thus, it retained its state of being basically permitted like all other
49 plants.173 | Also, no statement of its being either permitted or forbidden has
been transmitted from any of the ancients after their time, till the time of the
Imām al-Muzanī, the disciple of ash-Shāfiʿī. The harmfulness (of the use of
hashish) became first apparent in the Arab and the non-Arab Iraq. The Imām
al-Muzanī was living in Baghdād.174 When the fatwā of the Imām175 declaring
hashish forbidden reached Asad b. ʿAmr, the disciple of Abū Ḥanīfah, who was
living in the non-Arab Iraq, he said that it was permitted. But when the use of
hashish became general and widespread everywhere with all its terrible harm-
ful consequences …176 the Imāms of Transoxania all agreed upon the legal view
expressed by al-Muzanī that eating hashish was illegal and the consumption of
hashish to be declared forbidden. They issued a fatwā calling for the burning of
hashish despite its great value (?) (maʿ khaṭar qīmatih).177 They demanded that
the sellers of hashish be chastised (taʾdīb) and the eaters be severely punished
(taʿzīr) …” The historical view expressed here is that hashish was commonly
used in the Muslim east since the ninth century and already about this time was
dealt with as a great danger to society by both Shāfiʿites and Ḥanafites. Obvi-
ously, all this is pure fancy and dictated by professional self-interest, although
for all we really know it just might have been true in substance.
We come much closer to historical fact with the famous story of the dis-
covery and propagation of the use of hashish by Persian Ṣūfīs. According to
az-Zarkashī, it was widely believed that Ḥaydar, elsewhere with the nisbah az-
Zāwajī, from Zāwah in the province of Nīsābūr, the founder of the Ṣūfī frater-
nity named after him, discovered hashish around the year 550/1155.178 Others,
173 5 Cf. below, p. 112.

174 1 This is quite untrue.
175 2 The context requires that this should be al-Muzanī, but Asad b. ʿAmr lived long before his
time. He died in 188/804, or in 190.
176 3 There is an omission in the ms.
177 4 Or could this mean, “with the loss of its price,” that is, “without re-compensation”? Cf.
below, p. 135.
178 5 Cf. below, p. 176. One ms. has the date 505, but even in 550, Ḥaydar must have still been
very young if he was indeed already born by then. According to al-ʿUkbarī (al-Maqrīzī),
the discovery of hashish took place in 608, ten years prior to Ḥaydar’s death (below, p. 52).
Al-Badrī, fol. 2a, quotes a profusion of further dates from various authorities, but unless
they can be traced back to the original sources, they are quite suspect. He states that
however, az-|Zarkashī adds, connected the introduction of hashish with a cer- 50

tain Aḥmad as-Sāwajī,179 a Qalandarī Ṣūfī apparently originating from a town
called Sāwah.180 We hear about a rather prominent Qalandarī, Jamāl-ad-dīn
as-Sāwajī, who is said to have been in Damascus around 1210 to 1225 and who
thereafter settled in Damiette.181 It is possible that he was supposed to be iden-
tical with the Qalandarī who is credited with the introduction of hashish. With
respect to his relationship to Ḥaydar, the Qalandarī may represent a second
stage of the story, or he may have been put up as a rival to Ḥaydar to satisfy
some particular faction interested in hashish aetiology.
Az-Zarkashī’s version of the Ḥaydar story is brief and thereby invests it with
some kind of quite beautiful and poetic sensitivity: “Ḥaydar went out in a state
of depression because he felt like withdrawing from his companions. He came
across this ḥashīshah and noticed that its branches were swaying although
there was no breeze. He reflected that this must be so because of a secret
contained in it. He picked some of it and ate it. When he returned to his
companions, he told them that (the plant) contained a secret, and he ordered
them to eat it.”182
Az-Zarkashī was not the first to report this story. It was already told at length
by al-ʿUkbarī about a century earlier. Az-Zarkashī may, in fact, have derived
hashish made its appearance around 600 or, according to another source, in 505. He cites
an unnamed author of an Awāʾil work as giving the date as the turn of the sixth century to
the seventh century, “when the Tatar rule made its appearance.” The dates 620, 650, before
700 (read “before the seventh century”?), and the beginning of the 700s (ʿalā ra’s as-sabʿ
miʾah) (!) are attributed to, respectively, the Ḥāfiẓ al-Yaghmūrī, Ibn ʿAsākir, Ibn Kathīr, and
Ibn al-Athīr. On fol. 56a, al-Badrī attributes to Ibn Kathīr the statement that he had said
before derived from an Awāʾil work. Strange as it is, Ibn ʿAsākir could hardly be anyone but
the historian of Damascus who lived before the date indicated, and although there were
other Ibn al-Athīrs and the seven hundreds must be corrected to the six hundreds, the
famous historian appears to be meant and he lived too close to that date to be seriously
considered. The information of al-Bakrī, Kawākib, certainly goes back to al-Badrī. It has
the addition that a Shaykh Qarandal at the beginning of the 600s introduced the drug.
[The “700s” (“500s,” below, p. 53) can hardly mean “seventh (fifth) century.”]
179 1 Note, however, that all the Zarkashī mss. (except B), as well as the quotation from az-
Zarkashī in al-Badrī, fol. 3a, have r for w (al-Badrī: al-Masārijī).
180 2 Yāqūt places the town midway between ar-Rayy and Hamadhān, whereas the first edition
of EI, s.v., locates it at a distance of twenty-two farsakhs from Qazwīn and nine farsakhs
from Qumm.
181 3 Cf. the first edition of EI, s.v. Kalenderiyya, and Ibn Baṭṭūṭah, I, 61ff. The date is given in
H.A.R. Gibb’s translation, I, 37, n. 108, without an indication of its source.
182 4 Cf. below, pp. 176f.
his information from al-ʿUkbarī, although in his time the story was no doubt
51 circulating in many versions. | Al-ʿUkbarī is cited by al-Maqrīzī and al-Badrī.183
The latter knew al-Maqrīzī’s Khiṭaṭ and quoted them elsewhere in his work
(fol. 4b), but he does not depend on al-Maqrīzī since he inserts, quite plausibly,
a certain Abū Khālid, described as a steward (naqīb) of Shaykh Ḥaydar, between
the latter and the informant of al-ʿUkbarī; no mention is made of this Abū
Khālid by al-Maqrīzī, at least not in the text available in print, which reads in
translation:
“In as-Sawāniḥ al-adabīyah fī (l-)madāʾiḥ al-qinnabīyah, al-Ḥasan b. Muḥam-
mad (al-ʿUkbarī) said: I asked Shaykh Jaʿfar b. Muḥammad ash-Shīrāzī in the
city (baldah) of Tustar184 in the year 658/1260 why this drug was discovered and
why it reached the poor (the Ṣūfīs) in particular and then spread to the com-
mon people in general. He (in fact, not Shaykh Jaʿfar but the just mentioned
Abū Khālid) told me that his shaykh, the Master Ḥaydar, practiced much mysti-
cal exercise and exertion and used little food, excelling in asceticism and pious
worship. He was born in Nishāwur in Khurāsān, and he lived on a mountain
between Nishāwur and Zāwāh where he had acquired a small monastery.185 A
number of Ṣūfīs were in his company. He withdrew to a certain spot within
(the monastery) and remained there for over ten years, never leaving it nor
having anyone come in except me to serve him. He continued: The Shaykh
then one day went up into the countryside alone by himself. During midday,
the heat became oppressive, but when he returned, his face radiated energy
and joy, quite a contrast to his usual appearance as we knew it from before.
He let his companions come in and talked to them. When we saw the Shaykh
so sociable after having been withdrawn and alone for such a long time, we
asked him about it, and he said: In my isolation, I suddenly got an urge to go
52 out into the countryside all by myself. When I came out, I noticed that every |
183 1 Although al-Badrī elsewhere in his work correctly identifies the author of the Sawāniḥ
as al-ʿUkbarī, here, apparently through homoioteleuton omission, he makes al-Ḥasan b.
Muḥammad ash-Shīrāzī the author of the work. This, however, does not invalidate the
genuineness of the insertion of Abū Khālid.
184 2 Al-Badrī seems to have a similar but different name.
185 3 Silvestre de Sacy identified the place with Nīsābūr, but the use of the unusual form of the
name here is puzzling. Cf., however, Yāqūt, Muʿjam, s.v. Naysābūr, who gives Na/ishāwūr
as the vulgar form, and the fourteenth-century Meccan scholar, ʿAfīf-ad-dīn an-Nishāwurī
(d. 790/1388, cf. Ibn Ḥajar, Durar, II, 300–302), whose original connection with Nīsābūr is
remembered in Ibn al-ʿImād, Shadharāt, VI, 313 (Cairo 1350–1351).
The edition of al-Maqrīzī has Mārmāh, and Silvestre de Sacy, Rāmāh, but al-Badrī’s
Zāwāh (no diacritical dots) = Zāwah would seem to be correct.
plant was completely quiet and showed not the slightest motion because there
was no wind and the summer (heat) was oppressive. But then, I passed by a
plant with leaves and noticed that in this weather it was gently swaying and
moving without any force (being exercised upon it from outside), like some-
one who is inebriated. I started to pick a few of the leaves and eat them. Thus
it happened that I was filled with this restful joy you have observed in me.
Now, let us go, and I shall show you the plant, so that you can recognize its
shape. He continued: We went out into the countryside, and he showed us the
plant. When we saw it, we said that it was the plant known as hemp (qinnab).
He told us to take a leaf and eat it, which we did. Then, we returned to the
monastery, finding in our hearts an irrepressible joy and gladness. When the
Shaykh saw us in this condition, he told us to guard this drug, and he made
us take an oath not to tell anyone of the common people about it. On the
other hand, he exhorted us not to conceal it from the Ṣūfīs. His words were:
‘God has granted you the privilege of knowing the secret of these leaves. Thus,
when you eat it, your dense worries may disappear and your exalted minds may
become polished. Therefore, keep their trust and guard their secret!’ Shaykh
Jaʿfar (read: Abū Khālid) continued: After we had become acquainted with this
secret, I grew hemp in the monastery of Shaykh Ḥaydar while he was alive,
and he told us to plant it around his tomb after his death. Shaykh Ḥaydar lived
for ten years after that. I was in his service all the time, and I never saw him
stop eating it day in and day out. He told us to take little food and (instead)
eat this ḥashīshah. He died in (6)18/1221 in the monastery on the mountain. A
big cupola was built over his tomb. Many votive gifts were offered to it by the
Khurāsānians. They venerated his power, visited his grave, and showed great
respect to his companions. At the time of his death, he exhorted them to show
this drug and its secret to the refined and the great among the Khurāsānians,
and they used it.—He continued: Hashish continued to spread in Khurāsān
and Fārs. The people of Iraq were not acquainted with its use until there came
to them the ruler of Hurmuz and Muḥammad b. Muḥammad, the ruler of al-
Baḥrayn,186 | kings of the shore adjacent to Fārs during the reign of al-Mustanṣir, 53
in 628/1230–1231. Their entourage carried hashish along with them and showed
the people how to eat it. The result was that hashish became known in Iraq.
186 1 According to the Paris Ms. of al-Badrī, Muḥammad was the name of the ruler of Hurmuz.
In fact, the ruler of Hurmuz at the time was Sayf-ad-dīn Abū Naḍar, but no precise
information is readily known to me about these minor rulers in connection with the
incident mentioned here. For the political situation in general, cf. J. Aubin, Les Princes
d’ Ormuz, in J A, CCXLI (1953), 80 ff.
Knowledge of it reached the Syrians, Egyptians, and Anatolians, and they used
it.”187
Verses quoted by al-Maqrīzī and other authors that refer to hashish as “the
wine of Ḥaydar” and bring it otherwise into connection with him do of course
not confirm the story of Ḥaydar’s discovery of hashish, as medieval authors
were inclined to believe, but they show that it had rapidly become accepted
and was considered to be true. The fine aetiological tale telling how the plant
itself reveals its incredible and beautiful power to the inspired seeker after
spiritual release reflects a highly favorable attitude toward hashish, and it is
therefore somewhat strange to find it repeated with seeming approval by later
scholars such as az-Zarkashī and al-Maqrīzī who had been taught to hold quite
different views concerning the effects of hashish. The character of the Ḥaydar
story as a literary motif underlines its legendary character. However, the use
of hashish by Ṣūfī fraternities and their presumably large role in the spread of
hashish use can be accepted as a fact in view of all the later evidence pointing in
this direction. Ibn Taymīyah’s great concern with the problems of hashish was
certainly connected with its use by Ṣūfīs and largely fostered by his animosity
against them. The author of Qamʿ also probably had in mind the story of the
mystical discovery of hashish and thought of the Ṣūfīs when he remarked
that the accursed ḥashīshah “was originated by some group around the five
hundreds” (aḥdathahā baʿḍ fiʾah fī naḥw qarn al-khams miʾah).188 The word fiʾah
54 “group” is used here for the sake of the rhyme and | thus may very well mean
Ṣūfīs, rather than sectarians or soldiers. However, it is not the inclination of
Ṣūfī organizations toward the use of hashish that is at issue but the precise
data suggested by the Ḥaydarī-Qalandarī report. They can be neither proved
nor disproved. The “discovery” of hashish was certainly not due to these people,
187 1 The quotation, it seems, from al-ʿUkbarī continues: “This was the year in which the (silver)
dirhams appeared in Baghdād (to replace) the qurāḍah (snippets of gold pieces) people
used to spend.” The year meant would seem to be 628, but in fact, as Silvestre de Sacy has
shown, it was 632, cf. also the Ḥawādith al-jāmiʿah (wrongly attributed to Ibn al-Fuwaṭī),
70 f. (Baghdād 1351). There is no apparent connection of this remark with the hashish story.
It seems to have been added as an aside, but why this was done is not stated.
Whether some or much of the following material in al-Maqrīzī was also derived from
al-ʿUkbarī is hard to say. It may be noted that the verses quoted are favorable to hashish
and therefore could easily have been used by al-ʿUkbarī. Furthermore, they also occur in
al-Badrī, whose source quite definitely was not al-Maqrīzī. If Ibn al-Aʿmā (d. 692/1292) was
in fact the poet of some of them (cf. below, p. 154), we would have to assume that al-ʿUkbarī
used material of a contemporary, which, however, is not excluded.
188 2 Cf. Qamʿ, fol. 274b. [For “five hundreds,” see p. 49, n. 5.]
but in addition to propagating its use, they might have also found some special
way of preparing it for use that was little known before. By and large, the story
leaves us with the impression that at any rate the general circumstances and
the approximate time are correctly reflected in it.
The Ṣūfīs were not the only group blamed for the destruction caused by
hashish. The fabled Ḥaydar was an older contemporary of Chingiz Khān, and
about the time of Ḥaydar’s death, the Mongols were poised to invade the lands
of Islam. Blaming moral and material ills of any kind upon the machinations
of foreigners and enemies is a common human trait. Thus, the Mongols were
a natural target for those searching for an explanation of what brought about
a social evil assumed to have reached dangerous proportions in their time. It
may be tempting to assume that it was Ibn Taymīyah himself who invented the
Mongols’ guilt concerning the spread of hashish, but it is much more likely that
he merely reiterated something that was a current rumor during the thirteenth
century before his own time. Ibn Taymīyah is rather vague on occasion, saying
that “the eating of hashish originated in the last years of the twelfth century
or about that time,” without any reference to the Mongols.189 Or he would
state that it “made its appearance among the people no earlier than roughly
about the time of (qarīban min naḥw) the appearance of the Tatars (Mongols);
hashish went forth, and with it, there went forth the sword of the Tatars.”190
But he also states flatly that “it was with the Tatars that it originated among the
people,”191 and it is obvious that he meant to make a causal connection between
the appearance of hashish and the Mongol invasion, somehow implying that
hashish was used by the enemy as an additional weapon to bring the Muslims
to their knees. Later authors, such as adh-Dhahabī (?) and az-Zarkashī,192
leave the same impression in a more distinct manner. | Az-Zarkashī cites Ibn 55
Taymīyah as having stated with great precision that hashish “appeared at the
end of the twelfth century and the beginning of the thirteenth century when
the Tatars came into power,” and he cites another, unidentified source as having
said that “it was an evil restricted to193 Persia, until the Tatars gained control
over its inhabitants. Then, it moved on to Baghdād when the evil effect it had
upon its people was already known.”194
189 1 Cf. Ibn Taymīyah, Siyāsah. Adh-Dhahabī (if he really is the author of the Kabāʾir, see above,
p. 9) omits the date and the reference to the Tatars.
190 2 Cf. Ibn Taymīyah, Fatāwī, IV, 312.
192 4 Cf. below, p. 177.
193 1 This seems to be the intended meaning.
194 2 Below, p. 177: wa-qad ʿulima mā jarā ʿalā ahlihā min qabīḥi l-athar (var. fatḥ at-Tatar “what
The apparent sudden increase in the use of hashish at the period indicated
might have been quite unconnected with the coming of the Mongols. In reality
it would seem to antedate that event. However, it could also be that the Mongol
invaders were driving in front of them refugees who took the drug habit along
and spread it westward. Nor can we discount the possibility that in the wake of
the disastrous happenings at the time, the resulting climate of fear and unrest
caused an upsurge in the use of narcotics. All these factors might have existed
and combined to produce the result whose precise cause or causes even an
impartial sociologist living then might have found difficult to trace. The paucity
of our information makes it still more so for us.
An attempt to pinpoint the further westward movement of hashish has been
made by M. al-ʿAbbādī with reference to a statement of Ibn Saʿīd, the well-
known Spanish historian of the thirteenth century.195 Ibn Saʿīd criticized the
prevalence of the use of hashish in Egypt, which aroused his curiosity since, he
says, hashish was not known at the time in his own country. Al-ʿAbbādī com-
bines this statement with the seemingly first occurrence of verses on hashish in
Spain early in the fourteenth century. In particular, he also adduces a passage
from Lisān-ad-dīn Ibn al-Khaṭīb dating to about the year 1360 which described
the widespread use of hashish by the low classes as well as the leading fam-
ilies in Granada in many special hideouts all over the city at the time of the
usurper Abū Saʿīd Bermejo. According to al-ʿAbbādī, all this leads to the neces-
56 sary | conclusion that hashish established itself in the Muslim West only during
the (later) thirteenth century. This may very well have been the case. As an
additional argument in favor of this theory, it may be recalled that about a gen-
eration before Ibn Saʿīd, Ibn al-Bayṭār had this to say: “There is a third kind of
qinnab, called Indian hemp, which I have seen only in Egypt where it grows in
gardens and is also known to Egyptians as ḥashīshah. It is very intoxicating if
someone takes as little of it as a dirham196 or two. Taken in too large doses,
it may lead to lightmindedness (ruʿūnah). Some users were affected by men-
tal disorder and driven into insanity; it may also kill …” Ibn al-Bayṭār again
happened to its people as the result of the Tatar conquest”). I do not think that this
means that it is known what an evil fate befell the people of Baghdad. Rather, by the time
hashish reached Baghdād, it was known how greatly the Persians had suffered from it. In
this passage, “its people” hardly refers to “users of hashish,” although this would not be
impossible.
195 3 Cf. al-ʿAbbādī, in his edition of Lisān-ad-dīn Ibn al-Khaṭīb, Nufāḍat al-jirāb, intro., 20f.,
text, 183 (Cairo, n. y. [1968?]), Spanish trans, by al-ʿAbbādī, in Revista del Instituto de
Estudios Islámicos en Madrid, XIII (1965–1966 [rather, 1968]), 79.
196 1 For the weight of this unit, cf. below, p. 73, n. 2.
stresses that he himself was personally able to observe the effect of this kind
of hashish and that it was unknown to him from his own country, Spain. It is
true that Ibn al-Bayṭār was probably not older than about twenty years when
he left Spain, and therefore may not have had sufficient information about the
situation there, but it is a likely assumption that when he made a statement
like that he had never seen the particular kind of hemp cultivated in Egypt any-
where else and had not been aware of the use of hemp as a hallucinogenic drug,
he relied upon research as solid as he was able to make it. On the other hand,
the reported occurrence from mid-fourteenth-century Granada is more dubi-
ous evidence. It implies that Bermejo’s chief of police had no knowledge of the
extensive use of hashish in the area under his jurisdiction and had to be made
aware of it by his ruler who thus taught him what as a policeman he should
have known by himself but did not. It might be argued that if the use of hashish
went on without the police knowing of it, scholars such as Ibn Saʿīd and even
Ibn al-Bayṭār might very well have had no information as to the situation in
their native country, but being abroad, they learned about things about which
they had no experience at home. The use of hashish was clearly very open in
Egypt at that time, no doubt much more so than farther west. But it remains
indeed possible that it took some time for it to reach Spain on its westward
march.
3 The Preparation of Hashish and the Manner of its Use
It is quite likely that there once existed short treatises describing in accurate
detail how hashish was prepared and consumed, but such | treatises would 57
have had only a very small chance to survive and to become available to us.
Thus we must be satisfied with the comparatively little and often rather blurred
descriptions that turn up in various sources and contexts.
Ibn al-Bayṭār has some valuable and quite precise information based upon
his own observations in Egypt. He tells us that he “saw himself Ṣūfīs ( fuqarāʾ)
use hemp in various ways. Some thoroughly baked (ṭ-b-kh) the leaves, then
rubbed (d-ʿ-k) them carefully by hand until they formed a paste (ʿ-j-n V), and
rolled them into pills (aqrāṣ). Others dried the leaves slightly, toasted (ḥ-m-ṣ
II) them, husked ( f-r-k)197 them by hand, and mixed them with a little husked
(maqshūr) sesame and sugar, put that dry into the mouth (s-f-f VIII) and
chewed (m-ḍ-gh) it for a long time.”
197 1 Cf. below, p. 60, for the applicable meaning of f-r-k.

Less clear, in particular with respect to the use intended, is al-Maqrīzī’s

quotation of some physician(s) prescribing that “the eater of hemp (seed) or
hemp leaves must eat it together with almonds or pistachios or sugar or honey
or poppy (seeds) and drink afterwards oxymel to ward off the harm that may
be caused by it. Roasted (q-l-w) it is less harmful. Therefore it is customary
to roast it before eating it. When it is eaten unroasted, it is very harmful.
Human tempers differ with regard to (the preferable manner of) eating it.
Some cannot eat it mixed with something else. Others add to it sugar, honey,
and other sweets.” Mixing hashish with honey, in particular, was considered, it
seems, as ordinary as mixing wine with water.198 Already the great Ḥunayn is
credited—unhistorically, no doubt—with the remark that it was best to have
hemp leaves ground with sugar and almonds and to swallow the mixture dry
(s-f-f ).199
Al-Badrī (fols. 8a–9a) gives a good number of additional details, but he
somewhat impairs his credibility by including a scatological recipe, which
was presumably a malicious invention. However, the methods described as
employed in Egypt and Syria may very well be authentic. The method he
considers as close to the one in use in Egypt consists of taking seven parts
of mature leaves of cultivated hemp (waraq ash-shahdānaj al-bustānī) to one
part of leaves of uncultivated (barrī) hemp, (the latter) to serve as a kind of
58 ferment; roasting | (ṣ-l-q) them in water until they boil over the fire; placing
them in large closed clay jars and depositing these in a humid place for about
six weeks until the leaves start to decompose (taʿfīn); leaving them in place for
another week soaked (in water?) (maghmūr); pulverizing them and blending
them thoroughly; then forming the mixture into some kind of pills (k-b-b II)
and leaving them in the shade for the air to dry them and for them to gain
potency.
The best method, according to al-Badrī, is that of the Syrians. They let the
hemp leaves dry and toast (ḥ-m-ṣ II) them over the fire in a copper kettle for
about three hours. Then, when they want to form pills, they mix the mass with
honey (or date syrup, dibs).
Some Indians substitute for the uncultivated hemp some other very potent
substance.200 Or they (apparently, still the Indians) use the same combination
198 2 As in a very corrupt verse from a poem cited in al-Badrī, fol. 5a, which, he says, was recited
by “the preacher of Baghdād” to his son, Jamāl-ad-dīn al-Ahwāzī, and he appears to have
derived it from the Kharīdah (above, p. 45, n. 1).
200 1 Waraq al-bizr al-hindī adh-dhakar, lit. “the leaves of the male Indian seed (?).”
of leaves of cultivated and uncultivated hemp (as the Egyptians); place them
in stone mortars; pulverize them finely; soak (gh-m-r) them in salted water for
seven days of fermentation; leave the mortars exposed to the sun so that the sun
will cause the humidity to evaporate (ṭ-y-r II) and the mass becomes pungent
and salty; and, when the mass is close to being dry, form pills and pellets from
it ( yukabbibūnahā ṭābāt).
Al-Badrī may have derived the preceding information from Ibn an-Najjar’s
Zawājir. This is not certain but he states so expressly with respect to a method
described as producing the hashish of the Anatolians (Rūm) called ṭ-f-r-y (?):201
“When at the end of autumn and in the winter, one can find only dry leaves
of uncultivated hemp whose properties have weakened because of the evap-
oration of humidity, they add to each nine parts of leaves of cultivated hemp,
which has been kept fermenting (?) (mukhammar) for a while, one part or more
of cow dung to serve as ferment in place of the leaves of uncultivated hemp.
They say: ‘If we put the cow dung in the mass for fermentation, it comes out
light, hot, and very potent (shadīdat as-saṭlah). If it does not contain any dung,
it comes out heavy, crude, and uneven.’ They then ferment it with urine and
soak it in it until it starts to decompose and worms are generated in it. If the
worms are slow in coming, they squeeze out rags202 with menstrual blood, and
if they do not find any, they take spilled blood (dam ṣabīb) and | leave it there 59
for a week until it swarms203 with worms. They then pulverize it for a com-
plete blending of the parts. Then they sift the mass. Others do not sift it but
form it into pills and leave it in the shade until it dries.” Al-Badrī is happy to
report that this was also the method recommended by Satan to the Indian Bīr
Raṭan.204 As an additional Satanic trick, he ordered his son and his cohorts to
put their urine on all intoxicating plants without people seeing them do it so
that hashish was defiled by Satanic human urine openly and by Satanic jinn
urine secretly.
In addition to terms such as ḥammaṣa and ṣalaqa already mentioned, quite
a few others had their place in the production of hashish and its immediate
preparation for use. Ṣ-ḥ-n “to grind” is one of them.205 There is the amusing
story of two hashish eaters, one of them thin and the other thick, and both hav-
ing protuberances in front and in back. Fortified with zīh and pomegranates,
201 2 Cf. above, p. 35, n. 5.

202 3 Apparently, khiraq. The following khrwq may be a mistake for khiraq.
203 1 The reading of the ms. seems to be yabqul.
204 2 See above, p. 44.
205 3 Cf. al-Badrī, fols. 11b and 57a. See also below, p. 100.
the thin one leaves for the bath. There a jinnī in the form of an elephant appears,
removes both of his protuberances, and affixes them to the wall. The other
ḥashshāsh wants to rid himself of his protuberances in the same manner, but
upon leaving the bath, he ends up with four instead of his former two. At the
time the first ḥashshāsh entered the bath, we are told, he retired to some lonely
spot and began grinding (ṣ-ḥ-n) it (apparently, the hashish) upon the marble
(floor). He left aside the stubble (qashsh) and tended (the hashish) with wetting
(taʿāhadahā bi-r-rashsh).206
Commonly we hear about the “killing” (q-t-l) of hashish, an expression mar-
velously suited for the exercise of poetic ingenuity. Thus, a poet of mawālīyā
(mawwāl), Aḥmad al-Khaffāf, sang:
They said: The medicine?207 I replied: The transplanted son of cannabis.

My rope he has untwisted. As long as I turn away from him, I am twisted.
How many a person killed by him has returned home dragged by force.
It is remarkable how he kills us, being himself “killed.”208
60 The “killing” of hashish is interpreted as a cruel action resented by the mal-

treated hashish, as in these rhymes by ʿAlāʾ-ad-dīn ʿAlī b. Aybak ad-Dimashqī
(728–801/1327(8)–1398):
They have toasted it in the fire till they burned it.

They have “killed” it by chewing till they made it good.
206 4 For the “wetting,” cf. also above, p. 34.

207 5 The dawāʾ “medicine” is suggested but then rejected as the cause of the poor condition of
the person addressed. It is not the disease (dawā) that is inquired about.
qālū d-dawā qult ibn al-qinnab al-mashtūl

ḥablī naqaḍ nā ʿannū mā (ʾa)nthanī maftūl
kam lū qatīl ilā baytū rajaʿ maʿtūl
wa-dā ʿajab kayf yaqtulnā wa-hū maqtūl.
Perhaps, in the first line, mastūl = masṭūl “hashish intoxicated” is meant instead of mashtūl
“transplanted” whose precise significance is not quite clear to me. In the second line, the
ms. has nʾ wʿnw. Possible, nā = anā is to be deleted.
The meaning of “untwisted” and “twisted” here is “weak” and “strong.” I have no
information on the poet, unless he is identical with the aforementioned Khaffāf (above,
p. 47, n. 5), which is doubtful.
They have broken it into pieces, enabling it to cause drunkenness to settle

in them.
It strangled them for their having strangled it.209
Thus, hashish takes its revenge. It kills the user as the user before killed it,
according to verses by ʿAlī b. Sūdūn al-Bashbughawī and others.210 And it
was certainly considered very witty to have hashish complaining about being
“killed” with reference to Qurʾān 81: 9/9:
Hashish implored—Its Lord and asked humbly,

Stretching out its palms—“For which sin it was killed.”211
The “breaking” (k-s-r) of hashish appears to be another of the customary pro-

cedures, and the just mentioned removal of the stubble seems also to be meant
by f-r-k “to husk,” mentioned by Ibn al-Bayṭār212 and in this mawālīyā poem by
a certain ʿAlī al-Qayrawānī:
They said: Hashish tires your liver. Give it up!

Why do you always toast and “husk” it?
I replied: It contains meanings which your minds (ordinarily) 61
Cannot perceive, (but) were imagination to push them, it would move
them.213
ḥammaṣūhā bi-n-nāri ḥattā (ʾa)ḥraqūhā

qatalūhā bi-ḍ-ḍarsi ḥattā (ʾa)nʿamūhā
shaqqafūhā (?) tumakkinu s-sukra fīhim
khanaqathum bidāla mā khanaqūhā.
For shaqqafūhā, the ms. seems to suggest shaffafūhā, and it is possible that “to thin out”
is the intended meaning. A combination with s-f-f is out of the question. Cf. shaqfah
kabshīyah, above, p. 30.
For Ibn Aybak, whose date of death is also given as 803, cf. as-Sakhāwī, Ḍawʾ, V, 194f.
210 2 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. 18a, and below, p. 91.
inna l-ḥashīsha ḍḍaraʿat—li-Rabbihā wa-btahalat

bāsiṭatan akuffahā—“bi-ayyi dhanbin qutilat.”
212 4 Cf. above, p. 57.

213 1 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. 24b (in connection with his discussion of kirshah):
Popular forms of poetry use a verb lāṭa in connection with hashish, which
may merely refer to the eating of it. However, since “to plaster” is one of the
many meanings associated with this root, it may not be entirely excluded
that it means the preparation of hashish for use by an admixture of some
sort of clay as attested elsewhere (below, p. 83). One of the two available
occurrences is cited below, p. 69, n. 1. The other is to be found in the following
mawālīyā:
Always enjoy yourself and eat hashish.

“Plaster” (?) it and drink of banj the full bowl.
If someone importunes you for eating your kaff dry, say:
Sir, why do you annoy me so much when I am high?214
The form in which hashish was usually consumed is designated by a variety

of terms, all meaning pill or pellet, such as qurṣ, ṭābah, and, in particular, bun-
62 duqah (originally, “hazelnut”).215 There are such | phrases as bandaqa bunduqah
qālū l-ḥashīshah tutʿib kabdak utrukhā

fa-mā ant dāim tḥammiṣhā wa-tafrukhā
fa-qult fīhā muʿaynī (?) laysa tudrikhā
ʿuqūlkum law lakazhā l-wahmu ḥarrakhā.
The reading of muʿaynī as a diminutive of maʿnā is uncertain. Since the word seems to be
used in the context as a feminine noun, a correction to maʿānī may be considered, but
there may be other explanations. The antedecent of “them” could be the minds but quite
possibly, and perhaps preferably, the meaning(s).
I have no information on ʿAlī al-Qayrawānī.
dāwim masarrtak dayman wa-l-ḥashīshah kūl

luṭhā wa-shrab min al-bankā malā l-kajkūl
wa-in laḥḥ lāḥḥīk fī saffak li-kaffak qūl
ay sīdī kam tufajjiʿnī wa-(ʾa)nā masṭūl.
Kajkūl, also kashkūl, from Persian kachkūl, is the beggar’s bowl.

215 3 Cf. above, p. 38. Bunduqah is of very frequent occurrence in al-Badrī. Among the verses on
it he quotes on fol. 16a, we have, for instance, those by Badr-ad-dīn Fulayfil (b. ʿAbdallāh
al-Muhtadī) about whom I have no further information, if, indeed, the form of his name
is correctly given here:
Hashish, good youth,

Rises on my eye’s horizon.
“to make a pill”216 or kabbaba ṭābāt.217 The noun kubbah “lump” appears as a
pun in verses by Burhān-ad-dīn al-Miʿmār, addressed to a neighbor who was an
addict and ate hashish even while the plague (kubbah) was raging:
I said to the man occupied with hashish:

Woe unto you! Do you not fear this grain?
People are dying of a plague that has appeared.
He replied: Let me live eating the lump.218
Fūlah “bean” is also clearly used for hashish pills slipped to an unsuspecting
young boy by someone wishing to seduce him,219 and it seems to be used
this way, perhaps as a double entendre, in connection with the stinginess
ascribed to addicts.220 Qurūn (read quran ?) az-zīh, with the singular qurnah
(vocalization?), may also refer to the pill form of hashish, rather than a kind of
Thus leave wine alone as an ill omen

And cast off worries with a bunduqah.
inna l-ḥashīshata yā fatā

fī ufqi ʿaynī mushriqah
fa-daʿi ṭ-ṭilā mutaṭayyiran
wa-rmi l-humūma bi-bunduqah.
The third line may have to be corrected to fa-daʿi ṭ-ṭilāʾa taṭayyuran. I doubt whether
any allusion to “shooting with a crossbow” (qaws bunduq) was intended as an additional
poetical finesse.
216 1 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. IIb, in the story just cited (above, p. 59).
217 2 Above, p. 56.
qultu li-man bi-l-ḥashīshi mushtaghilun

wayka a-lam takhsha hādhihī l-ḥabbah
fa-n-nāsu mātū bi-kubbatin ẓaharat
fa-qāla daʿnī aʿīshu bi-l-kubbah.
The rhyme would seem to indicate the vocalization kabbah, for the kubbah of our dic-
tionaries. A play on the word ḥabbah seems to be intended in verses by al-Miʿmār when
his children want “grains” (= food) from him, and he replies, referring to his destitution,
that he does not own a grain (qālū nurīdu ḥubūban—wa-lastu amliku ḥabbah) (al-Badrī,
fol. 23b).
220 5 Cf. below, p. 79, n. 9.
container for it.221 The same word possibly occurs in the first verse of the long
poem of Abū l-Khayr al-ʿAqqād:
Substitute two pills (?) for wine

And bring down the rain cloud with less than the two bottles.222
63 However, the reading of the Paris Ms. of al-Badrī: qirbatayn “two skins” also
makes sense, indicating that the proper beverage should no longer be wine
but water (from water skins) drunk after the consumption of hashish; the
parallelism with “two bottles” would favor this reading but would not make it
absolutely necessary.
The finished product looked deceptively like henna to the inexperienced
eye, as Ibn Baṭṭūṭah tells us.223 And this is also exactly how al-Bakrī, in the
Kawākib, described it: “They beat the leaves until they are like a salve, then
they soak them in water until they are like henna.” Hashish possessed a dis-
tinctive smell which was poetically described as “exciting and stimulating”224
or as superior to musk and any other perfume, as in these verses of divers attri-
bution:
My friend asked me when there emanated from it

A smell that put to shame the smell of perfume:
Is it musk? I replied: It does not come from
Musk but from Kāfūrī hashish.225
221 6 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. 28a–b, in the story of Muslim al-Ḥanafī, below, p. 144. Cf. also above, p. 40.
222 7 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. 16b, above, p. 33, n. 6:
taʿawwaḍ ʿan mudāmika qurnatayni

fa-danni l-muzna dūna l-qullatayni.
“The two bottles” constitute the legal separation between purity and impurity in liquids.
If the translation of the second line is right, it would seem to mean that a much smaller
quantity of hashish is needed than that required of beneficial rain producing grapes and
wine (?).
223 1 Cf. Ibn Baṭṭūṭah, II, 351 f., trans. Gibb, II, 467. For the way henna was prepared as a cosmetic,
cf. G.S. Colin, in EI2, s.v. ḥinnāʾ.
224 2 Cf. al-Maqrīzī, II, 25, in a verse by a certain Zayn-ad-dīn Abū ʿAbdallāh Muḥammad b. Abī
Bakr b. ʿAbd-al-Qādir al-Ḥanafī, quoted by al-Maqrīzī from the Ḥāfiẓ al-Yaghmūrī. As in
the following example, the hashish here is Kāfūrī hashish.
225 3 Cf. al-Maqrīzī, II, 25, and al-Badrī, fol. 5a, as well as already an-Nuwayrī, Nihāyah, XI, 30,
For the containers in which hashish was carried by the user a variety of words
were used, such as ḥuqqah “small box.” There was the purse (kīs) for carrying it
around, and this was most important for poets because it enabled them to play
constant minor variations | on the theme that wine required a cup (kaʾs, kās) 64
whereas the kīs made it so much easier to transport hashish. It could be kept
in the pockets ( jayb(ah), pl. jiyab) of one’s dress, in the wide sleeve, or, quite
generally, in garments (thiyāb).226 There always was the handkerchief (mandīl)
to keep it in,227 and it might also be wrapped in paper.228
From all that has been said here, it is apparent that hashish was consumed in
a solid state form. It is almost always described as being “eaten.” In comparison
to wine, it was, for Ibn Taymīyah, like faeces as compared to urine.229 Where the
use of hashish was favored over wine, a poet could wittily remark that the ritual
ablution with sand (tayammum) was obligatory for a person who was unable
to find the necessary water for it.230 When hashish was poetically described as
if it were wine and called, for instance, the wine of Ḥaydar or the wine of the
bankrupt (the Ṣūfis), it does not mean that it was a liquid like wine, but the
tertium comparationis was its quality as an intoxicant. However, Ibn Taymīyah
who, like al-Maqrīzī, has two additional verses. An-Nuwayrī’s quotation is anonymous. Al-
Maqrīzī attributes the verses to Nūr-ad-dīn Abū l-Ḥasan ʿAlī b. ʿAbdallāh b. ʿAlī al-Yanbuʿī,
who appears to have lived in the first half of the thirteenth century, since al-Maqrīzī refers
in this context to the historian, Ibn ʿAbd-aẓ-Ẓāhir (d. 692/1293). Although al-Badrī had just
referred to al-Maqrīzī and might be therefore assumed to have derived these verses from
him, he nevertheless attributes them to a certain Shihāb-ad-dīn Aḥmad b. al-Ḥusayn al-
Miṣrī as-Ṣūfī.
At the beginning of the second half-verse, al-Badrī has a different wording (arajun
yazdarī), a further indication that he probably did not quote the verses from al-Maqrīzī. At
the end of the first half-verse, he has “me” for “it.” But this apparently merely suggests that
the smell of hashish emanated from the poet who carried it; it does not indicate mouth
odor after the consumption of hashish or the like.
Al-Bustān al-Kāfūrī was a park in Cairo named after Kāfūr al-Ikhshīdī and famous or
infamous for the hashish grown there, cf. further below, p. 135.
226 1 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. 49a, in verses by the chief naqīb of the Iraq, Ḥusayn Ibn al-Aqsāsī (d. 645/
1247) (cf. L. Massignon, Cadis et Naqibs Baghdadiens, in WZKM, LI, 1948–1952, 106–115 =
Opera Minora, I, 264 [Beirut 1963]), cf. also below, p. 92, n. 5.
Thiyāb could, however, mean “pieces of cloth,” corresponding to mandīl.
227 2 Cf. al-Isʿirdī, verse 13, below, p. 164, cited by F. Rosenthal, Four Essays on Art and Literature
in Islam, 87 (Leiden 1971, The L.A. Mayer Memorial 2).
228 3 Cf. Ṣafī-ad-dīn al-Ḥillī, below, p. 173.
229 4 Cf. Ibn Taymīyah, Fatāwi, IV, 303.
also states expressly that hashish may be dissolved in water and drunk.231
Legally, he considers it important to note that hashish could be consumed in
a solid state as food ( jāmid, maṭʿūm). Yet, he acknowledges that people also
make a distinction between its solid or dry ( jāmid, yābis) form and its liquid
(māʾiʿ) form.232 The process that gives hashish its potency, called “toasting”
65 (taḥmīṣ) and “roasting” (ṣalq), may be compared | to the fermentation of wine
(ghalayān),233 still, it refers to stages in the preparation of hashish for use as a
solid paste.
In our souces, hashish is never described as having been smoked. The proce-
dure of smoking is nowhere explicitly mentioned. The verb “to drink,” which in
more modern times often doubles for “to smoke,” is never applied to hashish in
a way that would suggest smoking.234 The smell of hashish can, of course, not
be understood to be the smell of its smoke. It has been stated that the smoking
of hashish “was practiced in the east before the use of tobacco.”235 If so, any con-
crete evidence for it seems to be still lacking, and it would seem to remain true
that the smoking of hashish was a custom that developed after the introduc-
tion of tobacco and continued side by side with the consumption of hashish
in various solid preparations. In the story from the seventeenth century related
by al-Mīlawī,236 the eating of hashish and the “drinking” of tobacco were done
simultaneously by two men. The point of the story requires smoking, but the
231 6 Cf. Ibn Taymīyah, Siyāsah, and adh-Dhahabī, Kabāʾir.

232 7 Cf. Ibn Taymīyah, Siyāsah, and adh-Dhahabī, Kabāʾir. In Fatāwī, II, 304, while Ibn Taymīyah
speaks expressly of the dry and liquid forms of hashish, it is not quite clear whether he
might not have thought rather of intoxicants in general.
I do not know precisely what kind of drink was sold by the şerbetciyan-i beng-i bāde,
mentioned by Ewliyā Čelebī in the seventeenth century. “Sellers of henbane drink,” as
translated by G. Baer, may be somewhat too narrow, but anyway it appears to have been a
liquid containing the one or other narcotic, cf. Baer, Egyptian Guilds in Modern Times, 36,
174 (Jerusalem 1964, Oriental Notes and Studies 8).
233 1 Cf. az-Zarkashī, below, p. 191.
234 2 This no doubt also applies to the verses in al-Aqfahsī which refer to the “drinking” of
hashish without any allusion to wine, cf. above, p. 12.
235 3 Cf. M. Meyerhof, in EI, Supplement, 85a, s.v. ḥashīsh. I wonder whether the negation “not”
might not have been omitted by accident from Meyerhof’s article. B. Laufer, Tobacco and
its Use in Asia, 27 (Chicago 1924, Field Museum of Natural History, Anthropology Leaflet
18), knew of no evidence for the theory that the intricate water pipe pre-existed in Persia
(for smoking hashish) because it made its appearance so soon after the introduction of
tobacco. Cf. also B. Laufer, W.D. Hambly, and R. Linton, Tobacco and its Use in Africa, 13
(Chicago 1930, … Leaflet 29), for the eating of hemp by sixteenth-century Kafirs.
236 4 Cf. below, p. 129.
hashish is eaten, and its consumption is distinguished from the smoking that
was going on at the same time.
The eating of hashish could be accompanied by eating particular foods.
Sweets and fruits were especially favored.237 Pomegranates seem to have had
some specific function in the ritual of hashish consumption.238 The combina-
tion of wine and hashish was quite often attempted, although it must have been
a luxury not accessible to the ordinary addict of the lower classes who chose
hashish because it was cheap.239 A respectable scholar found nothing wrong in
using both wine and hashish on the same occasion.240 The combination was | 66
praised as engendering at the same time “the laziness of hashish and the energy
of wine.”241 Similarly, Ibrāhīm al-Miʿmār (d. 749/1348),242 called in this connec-
tion “master of the craft” (shaykh aṣ-ṣināʿah) (not of architecture, with which he
does not seem to have had anything to do, but of poetry), might wonder about
the extraordinary effect of wine plus hashish:
He mixed hashish with wine

And died of intoxication and became confused.
He became quarrelsome on the spot,
And I asked: What is this unexpected occurrence?
When he was sober (again), he answered me, saying:
Be kind to your brother when he mixes.243
237 5 Cf. below, pp. 78f.

238 6 Cf. al-Badrī, fols, 11b–12a and 15b–16a, cf. above, p. 59, and below, pp. 77 and 95.
239 7 Cf. below, p. 131.
240 8 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. 14a–b, below, p. 146.
241 1 Cf. Safī-ad-dīn al-Hillī, below, p. 174.
242 2 Cf. GAL, Suppl., II, 3. Al-Badrī very frequently quotes al-Miʿmār or Burhān-ad-dīn al-
Miʿmār. Whether or not he is identical with Ibrāhīm al-Miʿmār could be decided, perhaps,
on the basis of Ibrāhīm’s preserved Dīwān. O. Rescher, in describing the Istanbul Ms. Fatih
3793, calls him Jamāl-ad-dīn. The epithet “master of the craft” is also applied to Abū Nuwās
(cf. al-Badrī, fol. 119a).
khalaṭa l-ḥashīshata bi-n-nabī-

dhi fa-māta sukran fa-khtalaṭ
wa-ghadā yuʿarbidu fī l-makā-
ni fa-qultu mā hādhā l-falaṭ
fa-ajābanī idhā ṣaḥā
sāmiḥ akhāka idhā khalaṭ.
However, the combination was considered as particularly sinful and there-

fore is often described as being characteristic of the revels of homosexuals.244
It may be a contest between the boy who prefers wine, and his lover who
prefers hashish and finally succeeds in persuading the boy to try hashish. Usu-
ally, though, bad boys try to attract men by tempting them with the combined
use of wine and hashish as the resulting stronger intoxication would help to
overcome any moral scruples.
The locale of hashish use was no doubt often dingy, and the act furtive,
whether it was done in company or by oneself.245 Pro-hashish sentiment loves
to conjure up an idyllic setting at murmuring brooks or “in gardens where grey-
ish pigeons coo.”246 But after all, one of the supposed advantages of hashish was
that it could be taken anywhere, in the open streets247 and even in mosques.
Scurrilous stories happening when one of the worshipers in the mosque was
67 under the | influence of hashish can be suspected to reflect the not uncommon
reality of the presence in the mosque of men in a state of hashish intoxication,
which as a rule might not have been noticeable to the inexperienced, and there-
fore it did not cause any real offence when a hashish eater mingled among the
crowd assembled in prayer.248
The public bath appears to have been a particularly convenient place for
taking hashish.249 In fact, the public bath, one of the most enduring material
legacies of Graeco-Roman Antiquity, offered both privacy and companionship
within its ample facilities. It was nothing unusual for those who had the time
to spend the better part of the day in it. Going there in the morning, a person
might still be found there in the evening.250 It was a place of relaxation where
members of many different social strata could meet and enjoy a certain free-
dom from their daily chores and worries—something to which hashish was
believed by many to be able to make a further contribution. The description
of things that allegedly happened to hashish eaters in public baths furnishes
lively vignettes of this aspect of life in medieval Islam. At times, it reads like the
scenario for a burlesque play, and it may, in fact, have served this very purpose.
Thus we hear of an addict who in the company of his friends entered a bath
244 4 Cf. al-Badrī, fols. 45a–46a, and below, p. 158 (n. 5).
245 5 Cf. below, pp. 137ff.
246 6 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. 5b: bayna r-riyāḍi wa-naghmati l-warqāʾi.
247 7 Cf. Ṣafī-ad-dīn al-Ḥillī, below, p. 173.
248 1 Cf. al-Badrī, fols. 11b, 14b–15a, and 49b, cf. below, pp. 80 and 143.
249 2 Cf. al-Badrī, fols. 11a–12a, 15a–16a, 29a–30a, 32a, and 33b, above, p. 59, and below, p. 134.
250 3 Cf. al-Badrī, fols. 15b–16a, in the story of Aḥmad b. Barakah, below, p. 95.
and “killed” and used hashish in front of them. His friends apparently were
non-users. Upon leaving they met a handsome boy about to go into the bath.
The hashish eater turned around and, claiming that he was following the
dictates of hashish which he was unable to control,251 re-entered the bath
and seated himself opposite the boy. His sexual excitement made itself felt
and started a chain reaction of mischief. One after the other in succession,
the head bath attendant (ballān), a customer, the watchman (ḥāris),252 and,
finally, the bath owner (ḥammāmī) with his cash box (ṣundūq), all came to grief.
The wild disturbance that ensued caused considerable amusement among
those observing what was going on.253 The role of hashish in this farce is
rather limited and could very well have been dispensed | with entirely, but it 68
occupies the center of the stage in another most vivid and entertaining story.
A certain al-Jayshī al-Ḥakwī (?) took hashish and went to the al-Fāḍil Bath at
Bāb Zuwaylah. Sitting in the bath under the influence of the drug, he was told
by someone that he should come out and listen to al-Māzūnī at the wedding
of ash-Sharābī (?).254 Wearing only a bath towel ( fūṭah),255 he left and walked
along. When he reached al-Khurunfish,256 he overheard someone telling his
friend that he should accompany him to the al-Baysarī Bath.257 He followed
251 4 Cf. also below, p. 75, n. 3.

252 5 Some minor functionary, possibly in charge of guarding the bathers’ belongings and
similar tasks, cf. the following story and A. Louis, in EI2, III, 145a, s.v. ḥammām. For the
cash box, cf. Arabian Nights, IV, 482, trans. Littmann, VI, 168. [For the medieval bath, cf.
now H. Grotzfeld (Wiesbaden 1970).]
253 6 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. 32a–b.
254 1 I would guess that al-Māzūnī was a singer performing here at a (wedding) procession
(zaffat ash-Sharābī).
255 2 According to EI2, loc. cit., fūṭah, in modern Tunis, is the loin-cloth, which, as shown here,
accurately describes its use. It was furnished by the bath.
A story of the Hoja Nasreddin leaving the bath naked under the influence of hashish is
one of the few Near Eastern items included in G. Andrews and S. Vinkenoog, The Book of
Grass (New York 1967).
256 3 This is no doubt the nearby street and quarter mentioned by W. Popper, Egypt and Syria
under the Circassian Sultans, 31 and map 9 (Berkeley and Los Angeles 1955, University
of California Publications in Semitic Philology 15). Al-Maqrīzī refers to the al-Khurunfish
Arcade (qabw al-Kh.) in Khiṭaṭ, I, 458, stating that it was formerly known as Bāb at-Tabābīn.
Elsewhere, the printed text of al-Maqrīzī (II, 27 f., 49, 54, 69, 96, 109, 197) has the form
al-Khrshtf, once also al-Khrnshf. It may be “The Arcade” mentioned by as-Sakhāwī, Ḍawʾ,
I, 163, as the haunt of juʿaydīs.
257 4 Cf. al-Maqrīzī, Khiṭaṭ, II, 69. Baysarī, without the definite article, is the usual form of
the name of the amīr, but al-Baysarī is found, for instance, in adh-Dhahabī, ʿIbar, V, 387
those people in, continued his bathing as if he had never interrupted it, had his
head shaved, and then went to the locker room (maslakh) to look for his clothes.
When he could not find them there (as they were still in the other bath), he
looked for them all over the place. He asked the watchman what might have
happened to them, but then, the bath attendant (ballān) noticed the markings
(aʿlām) of the al-Fāḍil Bath on the towel and wondered about it. People started
shouting, “Bravo, hashish!,” and they all moved in procession to the al-Fāḍil
Bath with al-Jayshī naked, dancing with lascivious gestures (tamakhlaʿa), and
singing:
By God, bravo hashish! It258 stirs deep meanings.

Don't pay attention to those who blame it.
Refrain from the daughter of the vines
And do not be stingy with it.
Eat it dry always and live! By God, bravo, hashish!
69 It is above pure wine.
When noble men use it,259
Eat it and agree, young man.
Eating it revives the dead. By God, bravo, hashish!
It gives the stupid, inexperienced, dull person
The cleverness of the straightforward sage.
I don't think I can escape from it.
…260 By God, bravo, hashish!261
(Kuwait 1960–1966), anno 698/1299, the year of Baysarī’s death. Neither bath is mentioned
in al-Maqrīzī’s discussion of public baths in Cairo. Al-Fāḍil may be the Qāḍī al-Fāḍil
al-Baysānī who left a considerable mark on Cairine topography.
258 5 It could hardly be the second person, addressing hashish, as hashish is used here as a
grammatical feminine.
259 1 On lāṭa, see above, p. 61.
260 2 “My load is … a feather” (?), but rīsh has many possible meanings. If the reading is
al-ghazzāl “spinner of cloth,” it may refer to the fact that he is naked, his load of clothing
being light as a feather (?).
261 3 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. 15a–b:
wallāhi ṭayyib yā ḥashīsh—ghawāmiḍa-l-maʿnā tujīsh

daʿ qawla man fihā yalūm
wa-usmu (?) ʿan bint al-kurūm
wa-lā takun ʿanhā laʾūm
wa-staffihā dāʾim wa-ʿish—wallāhi ṭayyib yā ḥashīsh
tasmū ʿalā ṣafw al-mudām
The places where hashish could be eaten were many, and so were no doubt
the ways in which users tried to obtain the desired results. For some, it was a
sort of religious ritual, making the place where it was consumed equivalent to
a mosque. The Ṣūfī poet al-Yanbuʿī said of his enjoyment, in pleasant company,
of hashish that “my salon is a mosque, and my drink is the green one,” meaning
apparently not that he was eating his hashish in a mosque but that he felt
that the sacred act of eating hashish turned his living room into a place of
worship.262
A highly idealized description of an elaborate hashish eating ritual is pre-
sented to us in al-Badrī (fol. 2a–b) as a fictitious exhortation of an equally fic-
titious “Shaykh Qalandar”: “You must know that it behooves the intelligent,
educated, virtuous, and sophisticated | individual, who wishes to use this drug 70
which has the advantage over wine of being lawful, to cleanse his body of impu-
rity and his garments of stains and to adorn himself with the acquisition of the
virtues and to discard the commission of the vices. He must ask for it someone
who knows its secret and disapproves of keeping it concealed (?),263 and eat it
in his place and not partake of it in the company of non-users. He must hold it
in his right, not in his left, and say:
‘In the name of God, the Lord of the last world and the first, who brought
forth the pasturage (Qurʾān 87: 4/4), created and then formed (87: 2/2), pro-
vided and gave, destined and guided (87: 3/3), and taught the secret and dis-
closed (it). May God pray for Muḥammad, the prophet of right guidance, and
his companions, the leaders in piety! (I know) that You have deposited wis-
dom in Your creatures and created usefulness in the things You have made. You
waqtan yalūṭūhā l-kirām

kulhā wa-wāfiq yā ghulām
fa-l-mayt idhā (ʾa)kalhā yaʿīsh—wallāhi ṭayyib yā ḥashīsh
tuʿṭī l-ghabī l-ghirra l-balīd
nabāhata-l-ḥabri s-sadīd
mā (ʾa)ẓunnu lī ʿanhā maḥīd
ḥ-m-l-y m-n ʾ-l-gh-z-ʾ-l rīsh—wallāhi ṭayyib yā ḥashīsh.
Wa-usmu (ms. w-ʾ-s-m) seems doubtful. An eighth conjugation of s-m-m or sh-m-m yields
no suitable sense here. A correction to wa-shtamir appears excluded by the meter. For
wa-staffihā, the ms. shows different diacritical dots. Ghulām lacks the dot over the gh, but
ʿallām “expert” is unlikely and does not fit the meter. For al-ghzʾl, the dots in the ms. admit
also the reading al-qrʾl.
262 4 Cf. al-Maqrīzī, above, p. 63, n. 3, and also below, p. 148.
263 1 The text is doubtful, possibly wa-yunkir (ms. wa-yskr?) sutratah??
have shown their specific properties to those with whom You are pleased, and
revealed their secrets to those whom You have chosen. You have managed
this plant with Your wisdom, brought it forth with Your power, and made it a
nourishment for many of Your creatures by Your decision, volition, power, and
will. Thus I am asking You by Your generosity that encompasses264 the elite and
the common people, to let me succeed in using it in obedience to You and with
avoidance of any disobedience to You, that You remove from me the desires
with their hindrances, the doubts with their consequences, and the troubles
with their disturbances, that You let me see the existent things as they really
are, and that You provide me with its benefits and ward off from me its harmful
results, You who has the power over everything and sees every situation!’
He then puts it into his mouth, grinds (s-ḥ-q) it very strongly (with his teeth),
drinks (something to go) with it,265 moves his jaws, and sends it down into
his guts. Then he praises God for His kindness. He cleanses his mouth of its
remnants, washes his face, and raises his voice in song (nagham) for the Creator
of beauty, for (beauty) provokes hashish intoxication (saṭlah) and rest. He rubs
71 antimony on his teeth so that coarser souls (al-akhshān) will not | notice what
the matter is with him, and he braids the hair of his beard. Cheerfulness(?)
does not leave his mind, and he is restful (?)266 in the way he walks and in his
commands and prohibitions. He uses the most delicate food and the noblest
of sweet speech. He gazes at beautiful faces and sits in the most pleasant267
of places. He stays near where water is murmuring, and keeps company with
experienced friends. He turns to reflecting about cause and the thing caused,
about doer and the thing done, about event and result, about speaker and the
thing spoken, and about agent in sweetness (?) and the thing caused by action.
In this condition, (enough) of the eternal knowledge of God and His universal
grace emanates upon him to let him perceive the views and their meanings
and to show him the things with their contents. He notices the hearts with
264 2 The ms. seems to have al-ʿāmm li-l-khāṣṣ wa-l-ʿāmm, but possibly at-tāmm “Your perfect
generosity for …” is meant.
265 3 This would seem to be the intended meaning, provided the reading of the ms. (wa-yashrab
ʿalayh) is correct.
266 1 The word, seemingly ending in -ḥf may possibly be qaṣf (wa-lā yazūl [ yuzawwil?] al-qaṣf
min [read ʿan?] dhihnih). This is followed by wa-yatarannaḥ “and he is unsteady,” which
to my mind would make sense only if the earlier negation were also to apply to it. Perhaps
we should read yatarayyaḥ and translate as suggested above.
267 2 Anzah is to be understood in this sense, and does not mean “most isolated (or the like),”
connecting it with munazzah. Cf. also the passage from al-ʿUkbarī’s Sawāniḥ, below, p. 78,
n. 3.
the eyes and controls the eyes with the hearts. He separates from his idea of
humanity and joins his idea of divinity. The name by which the poor are known
(nisbat al-fuqarāʾ) becomes lawful for him in reality, and he reaches the degree
of divine success (tawfīq).”
“The Shaykh Qalandar” concludes with a warning against the improper use
of hashish and against divulging its benefits to the common people, instead
of sharing it with fellow Ṣūfīs. Remote from reality as it is, the ritual is a good
reflection of the dream world constructed by faithful cultists. Even in this
dream world, dissimulation was considered necessary in order to throw the
uninitiated off the user’s scent, and even in the company recommended as
proper, the user is depicted as withdrawing into himself and into his supposed
lonely communion with the divine.268
4 The Reported Effects of Hashish
It is to be expected that Muslim authors cannot shed very much light on the
“origin” of hashish use. Perhaps, we should also not be greatly disappointed if
we have little concrete data about the technical side of hashish preparation.
We might think, however, that our | sources would be able to give us a good 72
deal of solid information on the effects of the drug. We do indeed hear rather
much about the manifold ways in which hashish affects the user, but truth
and fiction are hard to disentangle. We have no first-hand report of bonafide
hashish eaters setting down their experiences in writing with clinical detach-
ment. Many reports give the impression that their narrators might possibly
have been addicts themselves. It is even possible that some of the authorities
who denounce the use of drugs in the strongest terms were secret addicts or at
least had some actual drug experience that informed their judgment. It is, how-
ever, much more likely that they relied upon second-hand knowledge. They
may have derived their information from the actual observation of users and
from what those men told them. Often, they seem to have based themselves
upon a kind of generalities compounded by fact, rumor, and fantasy in about
equal proportions. The jurists were principally concerned with two aspects, the
temporary effect of intoxication and the alleged mind-changing aspects of drug
use, considered as more or less permanent. Any other detail found attention by
them only if it was giving support to their general outlook on the use of drugs;
fact and experience were of minor interest to them. The poets, whether they
268 3 Cf. also below, pp. 139f.

were praising or attacking the use of hashish, were not necessarily informed
by experience, as their first loyalty clearly was to literary convention.269 Story-
tellers naturally chose and exaggerated the elements they thought of as most
interesting to their audience. Moreover, they also depended a good deal on con-
ventional motifs which they transformed to apply to hashish. It often makes
no real difference whether the effects sustaining a given anecdote were those
of hashish, or wine, or personal eccentricity, or any similar agent. We merely
learn what was believed to be likely effects of hashish.
Brief but highly interesting remarks on the difficulty encountered in the past
in any attempt to obtain real knowledge about a drug’s effects can be found
at the beginning of Ibn Ḥajar al-Haytamī’s treatise against the use of qāt:270
Information from experience requires a long time to accumulate. Information
gathered from users is unreliable and indecisive. There are, for instance, contra-
73 dicting statements from users with regard to the simple question of whether |
the use of qāt is harmful or not. Traditional information seems to be the best
guide as to how to handle the problem. From our point of view, we would
heartily disagree—at least, in principle—with Ibn Ḥajar al-Haytami’s attitude.
However, for a Muslim scholar, especially one writing in the waning centuries
of medieval Islam, it was only natural to distrust empiricism and to rely upon
authority and tradition.
There was no real possibility of any sort of controlled experimentation,
even if the idea of using this thoroughly modern technique had ever occurred
to medieval scholars.271 In times past, it would have been completely out of
the question to attempt to measure the relationship between amount and
effectiveness of drugs such as hashish. It was realized that hallucinogenic drugs
could be used in larger or smaller doses and thereby exercised more or less
intensive effects. Some extraordinary feat of consumption might occasionally
be mentioned. Thus it could be stated that someone was able to consume
thirty dirhams weight of nutmeg ( jawzat aṭ-ṭīb), or someone else was described
269 1 Cf. below, p. 151, n. 1. Hashish poetry imitated all the topics of wine poetry, including such
things as poems in which the poet asks for hashish, cf. al-Badrī, fols. 18b–19a, who also
includes a prose letter on the subject.
270 2 See above, p. 11.
271 1 As an example of what was possible in medieval times in this respect, we may refer to
the unhappy story of the scholars at the Niẓāmīyah who wanted to improve their mental
faculties by the use of balād(h)ur (anacardia) and asked a physician how to take it and how
large a dose a human being could stand, cf. Ibn Khallikān, Wafayāt, VI, 91 (Cairo 1948), in
the biography of Ibn Shaddād. Among physicians and in medical literature, the general
problem of proper dosage was, of course, realized and much discussed.
as using a daily dose of one ounce (Egyptian) of k-n/tbābatī.272 But hashish

in its various forms and, in particular, when it was taken mixed with other
ingredients, could have had any degree of potency. It would have served no
valid purpose for a medieval author to indicate quantities normally consumed
by addicts.
The effects of cannabis were also described in medical terms273 according
to the rules of humoral pathology. They were assumed to be due to the actions
of natural heat and the reduction of bodily humidity, leading to “hot” diseases
and fevers. But obviously, there was no agreement whether hemp was hot and
dry, or cold and dry, | and to what degree.274 If we can trust az-Zarkashī, the 74
great Rāzī gave this description of the effects of eating cultivated hemp leaves,
in an unnamed work of his: “It causes headache,275 cuts off and dries up the
semen, and generates pensiveness ( fikrah).276 The reason is that the humidity
of bodies being in equilibrium goes hand in hand with the preservation of
272 2 Cf. al-Badrī, fols. 39a and 47a, see also above, p. 31. The dose indicated corresponds to
twelve dirhams or 37.5 grams, somewhat more than an ounce, according to W. Hinz,
Islamische Masse und Gewichte, 35 (Leiden 1955, Handbuch der Orientalistik, ed. B. Spuler,
Ergänzungsband 1). The standard weight of the dirham was 3.125 grams.
273 3 Cf. above, p. 41, and below, pp. 114 f. Cf. also the Report of the Indian Hemp Drugs Commis-
sion 1893–1894, 174 f., 197 f. (reprinted Silver Spring, Maryland, 1969).
274 1 Cf. Ibn Jazlah, as quoted by al-Maqrīzī. Since the Yale Ms. L-740 (Catalogue Nemoy,
No. 1509), stated to contain Ibn Jazlah’s Minhāj, contains nothing on hemp proper, I have
so far been unable to check Silvestre de Sacy’s references to the work and al-Maqrīzī’s
quotations from it.
275 2 Cf. Galen, De alimentorum facultatibus, I, 34 (= VI, 550 Kühn): kephalalgēs. According to
Ibn al-Bayṭār, this was mentioned by Isḥāq b. ʿImrān and by ar-Rāzī, in his Dafʿ maḍārr
al-aghdhiyah. In the Dafʿ, ar-Rāzī further refers to “dimming of the eye,” cf. the Yale Ms.
L-473 (Catalogue Nemoy, No. 1519), fol. 31b.
The medical authorities quoted by Ibn al-Bayṭār hold views quite similar to those cited
here in the name of ar-Rāzī. As they can be easily consulted in the translations of Ibn
al-Bayṭār, no further attention has been paid to them here (but see below, p. 114, n. 7).
Al-Badrī, fols. 5b ff., quotes many ancient and Islamic medical authorities, beyond the
references in al-Maqrīzī, but when they resist identification in the sources or cannot be
traced to the earlier literature, the attributions must be treated with some suspicion.
Ar-Rāzī himself, in the section on simples in the Ḥāwī, XXI, i, 124, refers to shahdānaj
as a medicament for the ear. When consumed in too large quantities, it causes headache
and impotence (q-ṭ-ʿ al-bāh). Its leaves are good against dandruff (ḥazāz) of the head and
the beard. It is not certain whether all this is meant to go back to Ibn Māsawayh, who is
cited for classifying hemp as hot in the second degree (whereas al-Badrī, fol. 6a, says that
Ibn Māsawayh classifies it as hot in the first degree).
276 3 The term here is no doubt meant to have a negative connotation in the direction of
living beings. Thus, whatever dries up the body’s humidity is harmful and helps
to ruin it. It (apparently, the hemp leaves) generates sudden death, mental
confusion, hectic fever, consumption, dropsy, and effeminacy.”277 The mixture
of medicine and popular beliefs is quite characteristic of the views ascribed
to physicians. Experience and experiment would seem to have played a small
role in it, even in respect to the information inherited from Graeco-Roman
Antiquity. A dubious anecdote knows of evidence for the curative power of
hemp leaves in cases of epilepsy (ṣarʿ).278
75 The principal purpose in using hemp for pleasure was what in present-day
language is described as “getting high.” Arabic has a special term for hashish
intoxication in the root s-ṭ-l (also ṣ-ṭ-l), listed in the dictionaries, often with
the express addition that the meaning “intoxicate” refers to hashish intoxica-
tion.279 Masṭūl, masāṭīl “high on hashish” and the verbal nouns insiṭāl (and
istiṭāl) are common in al-Badrī, in al-Bakrī (according to Silvestre de Sacy), and
elsewhere. Musaṭṭil(ah) is the intoxicating action of hashish as mentioned in
al-Badrī and Qamʿ. A note in al-Badrī, fol. 47a, explains that the root means “feel-
ing the effects of hashish,” and this in connection with a verse in which the
portmanteau saṭlānaj is coined to provide a rhyme word for shahdānaj. The
noun saṭlah (the vowel of the first syllable is, it seems, not assured by express
attestation) is common; in a verse by Ibn Sayyid-an-nās (671–734/1273–1334),
it appears next to sukr among the six alleged bad qualities of Ṣūfīs, obviously
making a distinction between intoxication from wine (sukr) and intoxication
from hashish (saṭlah).280 With no further qualification, masṭūl signifies “being
high on hashish,” for instance, in a verse by Ibn al-Wardī, which is followed by
another verse saying that “qunbus does with me whatever it wants.”281 Maṣṭūl
worrisome thought. Elsewhere in connection with the effects of hashish, it is something

positive.
278 5 Al-Badrī, fol. 7b, claims that this effect of the drug is mentioned by ar-Rāzī in the Manṣūrī,
in the chapter on ṣarʾ. This remains to be checked. The anecdote (see also below, p. 152,
n. 2) is subsequently reported in the first person, giving the impression that it is also
derived from the Manṣūrī. However, it deals with a situation from the first half of the
thirteenth century.
279 1 The peculiarity of the meaning once again justifies our asking ourselves what its origin
might have been. No answer is as yet readily available. It would be intriguing to note that
tenth-century Syriac lexicography knows of sʾṭl as an “Indian drug,” were it not for the fact
that Arabic medical literature speaks of shʾṭl, cf. ar-Rāzī, Ḥāwī, XXI, i, 126.
280 2 Quoted by al-Kutubī, Fawāt, II, 348; al-Maqrīzī, II, 414.
281 3 Cf. Ibn al-Wardī, Dīwān, 283 (Constantinople 1300), quoted anonymously by al-Badrī,
fol. 32a–b. For Ibn al-Wardī’s occupation with hashish, cf., further, below, p. 151, n. 1.
is listed separately from s-ṭ-l with the meaning of “fool” in H. Wehr’s Arabi-
sches Wörterbuch. A modern Turkish-English dictionary has the entry mastor
(mastur) “a drunkard (with hashish), drowsy-headed man.” Disciples of a Ṣūfī,
ʿImād-ad-dīn Aḥmad b. Ibrāhīm al-Maqdisī aṣ-Ṣāliḥī, are described as akalah
saṭalah baṭalah, which supposedly means “eaters, hashish eaters (?), and good-
for-nothings.” However, the form saṭalah in this meaning seems to be most
dubious and unusual, and may not be correct.282 While the proper word for | 76
hashish intoxication existed and was widely known and used, a more precise
and detailed definition of what the hashish “high” was and how it manifested
itself was, regrettably, not given in connection with the root and must be gath-
ered from dispersed indications in the literature.
The effects of hashish are classified as physical, mental, and religious, with
the former two as a rule not sharply distinguished from each other. The anti-
hashish forces were understandably very expansive in cataloguing the mani-
fold ways in which the drug was believed to cause havoc among users. Occa-
sionally they came up with summary condemnations in the form of aphorisms
such as: “There are as many harmful qualities in hashish as there are beneficial
qualities in the toothbrush (siwāk).”283 Or, “The only use of hashish is for dry-
ing out sores of horses (n-sh-f ʿaqr ad-dābbah).”284 But as a rule, they indicate a
variety of details, even if their lists are built around a number of basic data.
The addicts themselves, or rather, those who speak for them and in favor
of their habit, are long on emotional lyricism but quite short on concrete
facts. For them, hashish is a thing of true beauty. It gives them irrepressible
282 4 Cf. adh-Dhahabī, ʿIbar, V, 357. Ibn al-ʿImād, Shadharāt, V, 403, in quoting adh-Dhahabī,
omits the crucial word, probably because he did not understand it or considered it
a mere repetition by the scribe of baṭalah. Cf., however, A. von Kremer, Beiträge, in
Sitzungsberichte, Akad. d. Wiss, Wien, phil.-hist. Cl., CIII (1883), 253, where s-ṭ-l is listed in
the meaning of “beggar pretending to be blind.”
283 1 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. 55b, quoting az-Zarkashī (not, apparently, the Zahr); Qamʿ, fol. 276b. On
the authority of al-Aḥnaf b. Qays, it was known even popularly that the siwāk possessed
seventy-two good qualities, cf. Arabian Nights, I, 433 (= trans. Littmann, I, 607).
284 2 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. 55b. Until the source of the statement is discovered somewhere in the
hippiatric literature, it can hardly be determined precisely which disease may be meant
by ʿ-q-r. It could be saddle sores or sores in various parts of the horse, but we also find,
for instance, a chapter heading fī l-ʿaqr al-ʿāriḍ fī l-ʿaynayn in the collection translated
into Arabic under the name of Theomnestus and preserved in the Istanbul Ms. Köprülü I,
959, fol. 26a. This corresponds to Greek peri diakopēs ophthalmōn, presumably, “rupture
(of blood vessels?) in the eyes,” cf. Corpus Hippiatricorum Graecorum, ed. E. Oder and
C. Hoppe, I, 74 (Leipzig 1924–1927). Incidentally, in the same context we hear about the
juice of banj (fol. 26b), translating hyoskyamou chylos (CHG, I, 75, 1. 27).
joy and repose and provides them with relief from worries and anxiety. It
reveals to them “secrets” and opens up to them new “meanings.” It increases
their understanding and enlarges their imaginative perceptions. It makes them
witty and entertaining company: “By its sublety, it clothes the dull person with
frivolous wit so that he becomes smart and a good companion, in contrast
to wine which is nasty in its effects and causes fear of being unexpectedly
77 caught by the authorities.”285 It is indeed con|stantly stressed that wine causes
quarrelsomeness, and hashish a kind of languid placidity. It is noteworthy
(although the sources themselves rarely comment upon the fact)286 that no
truly violent actions directed against other persons under the influence of
hashish are mentioned in any of our stories. The pro-hashish faction has much
to say along the general lines indicated here, but it never really comes to grips
with the points raised by the attackers. There was no real dialogue, and none
was possible, since either side was as a rule committed to its own position and
the arguments for it.
An outward effect of hashish on the user was changes in his coloring and
complexion. His skin took on a greyish-green complexion, and he looked
pale.287 The most immediate telltale sign of hashish use is the reddening of
the eyes.288 It is an indication that hashish has started to exercise its effect. The
phrase qadaḥat fī ʿayn- “it has hit the eye …” is commonly used in al-Badrī, who
also once (fol. 31a) uses the verb ṭalaʿat “went up to the eye …” The redden-
ing of the eyes was another boon for poets, as it enabled them to play around
with the concept of emerald (green) hashish turning into a red carnelian (ʿaqīq)
285 3 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. 5b (see above, p. 45, n. 5):
taksū l-balīda khalāʿatan min luṭfihā

fa-yaṣīru(a) dhā kaysin wa-ḥusni ikhāʾi
ḍidda sh-sharābi fa-innahū dhū shunʿatin
wa-yukhāfu fīhī (!) kabsatu n-nuqabāʾi.
For the topic of danger from the authorities, cf., for instance, below, p. 164, and for the
quarrelsomeness caused by wine, cf. below, p. 110, etc.
286 1 Cf. al-Qarāfī, below, p. 110.
287 2 Cf. al-Isʿirdī, verse 30, below, p. 165.
288 3 Cf. also, in particular, below, p. 128. In addition to the numerous references from al-Badrī,
cf. also Ibn ʿAbd-aẓ-Ẓāhir, as cited by al-Ghuzūlī, Maṭāliʿ, II, 129, and Ibn Ḥijjah, Thamarāt,
I, 363 (Būlāq 1286–1287, in the margin of ar-Rāghib al-Iṣfahānī, Muḥāḍarāt). Wine is
constantly described as making the cheeks red, but Abū Nuwās once also adds the eye,
cf. his Dīwān, 180 (Beirut 1382/1962): ajdathu ḥumratahā fī l-ʿayni wa-l-khaddi.
in the eyes.289 The same precious stones, incidentally, also served to picture
the contrast between green hashish and red wine. With a little greater effort at
originality, it was possible for a man like Ibn al-Kharrāṭ (ca. 777–840/1375(6)-
1436)290 to rhyme:
We have a companion carrying in his hand half a pill

Resembling a pomegranate tree shining green.
We bore with him for a while after he swallowed it.
Then we noticed in his eye its blossom.291
The color changes provoked by the use of hashish also gave rise to a hostile ditty 78
by the “elegant youth,” Ibn al-ʿAfīf at-Tilimsānī (660–688/1262–1289), quoted
occasionally in slightly different forms:
Hashish holds no advantage for its eater.

But he is not turned in the right direction.
Yellow in his face, green in his mouth,
Red in his eye, black in his liver.292
It was noted that hashish stimulated the appetite. An idealized picture of the
situation in this respect was painted by al-ʿUkbarī in the Sawāniḥ, as quoted,
with disapproval, by al-Badrī (fol. 24b): “Only intelligent and well-to-do293 peo-
289 4 Cf., for instance, al-Badrī, fols. 17a, 18b, 19a.

290 5 For Zayn-ad-dīn ʿAbd-ar-Raḥmān b. Muḥammad b. Salmān b. al-Kharrāṭ, the head kātib
al-inshāʾ in Egypt, cf. as-Sakhāwī, Ḍawʾ, IV, 130 f.
lanā ṣāḥibun fī kaffihī niṣfu ṭābatin

ḥakat shajara r-rummāni lāḥa khḍirāruhā
ṣabarnā ʿalayhi sāʿatan baʿda balʿihā
fa-bāna lanā fī ʿaynihī jullanāruhā.
An-Nuwayrī, Nihāyah, XI, 101, describes pomegranate blossoms as white, red, or rose-
colored. They are usually orange red.
292 1 Cf. Ibn al-ʿAfīf, Dīwān, 29 (Beirut 1885); Ibn Kathīr, XIII, 315; Ibn Taghrībirdī, Nujūm, VII,
381; al-Badrī, fol. 7b. In the margin of the Princeton Ms. of al-Aqfahsī, fol. 21a, the verse
reads: “green in his hand, yellow (pale) in his stomach ( jawfih).” The Gotha Ms. (above,
p. 18) makes the yellow face and the red eye exchange places, not unreasonably since the
reddening of the eye is an early sign.
293 2 Min al-akyās wa-dhawī al-akyās, playing on the double meaning of the root.
ple use hashish. When taking it, a person should consume only the lightest
of foods and the noblest of sweets. He should sit in the most pleasant of
places294 and bring around the most distinguished (?) of friends.295 In the end,
he will talk about something that was and something that was not.296 Then
he will go on (?) and be concerned with thinking about297 sweets and food
and assume that all this is reality whereas in fact, he is asleep.” The reality, al-
Badrī notes, was not always as pleasant, and the stories he tells prove it. We
hear about individuals always eating hashish alternately with chicken298 or
lamb(?).299 A user, picked up by Zayn-ad-dīn Ibn al-Kharrāṭ and his friends
79 in Damascus, eats large | quantities of apricots and then a very substantial
meal.300 When ʿAlī b. Sūdūn al-Bashbughawī ate inadvertently a quantity of
k-n/tbābatī, he got very hungry, described a full-course meal in verse, and was
served it.301
In particular, it is sweets and fruits and the like that addicts crave.302 Those
high on hashish (al-masāṭīl) pounce upon sweets as greedily as does a lover
upon the mouth of the beloved he wishes to kiss, according to a verse by
Ibn al-ʿAfīf at-Tilimsānī.303 The messengers of the ḥisbah office in Cairo (rusul
bayt al-ḥisbah) who went to the bank of the Nile, sat there eating hashish
and dates, and finally entered into a lying contest for the last remaining date
(thus bringing down upon them the double condemnation of Qurʾān 5: 42/46:
“hearing lies, eating what is prohibited [suḥt]”), satisfied their hashish-induced
craving for sweet fruit.304 A scurrilous tale of two users who went down to a
sugar cane press (maʿṣirat al-qaṣab) in Damiette and sat opposite each other,
chewing sugar cane and spitting it out with such abandon that finally they
294 3 Cf. above, p. 71, n. 2.

295 4 Wa-yastajlib ʿalī (?) al-ikhwān (?).
296 5 Yataḥaddath bi-shayʾ kān wa-bi-shayʾ lā (!) kān, a phrase repeated by al-Badrī, fol. 57a, and
apparently referring to the hashish eater’s spinning of tales while being high.
297 6 Thumma yasrud wa-yahdus fī dhikr. However, the root s-r-d seems to have some particular
meaning in the hashish ritual.
299 8 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. 21b (kharūf ).
300 1 Cf. al-Badrī, fols. 21b–22a.
301 2 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. 22a–b, see above, p. 31.
302 3 This gave al-Badrī an excuse for a long excursus (see above, p. 14). Cf. also, for instance,
above, p. 65.
303 4 Dīwān, 72 (Beirut 1885); aṣ-Ṣafadī, Wāfī, ed. S. Dedering, III, 132 (Damascus 1953, Bibliotheca
Islamica 6c).
could no longer see each other because of the mountain of sugar cane refuse
between them also illustrates the sweet tooth stimulated by hashish.305 The
gluttony and uncontrollable desire for sweets and fruits could be expensive and
contribute to reducing a user to penuriousness.306 The stinginess attributed
to addicts307 was also thought to have its roots in their craving for expensive
food. Both hunger and stinginess are combined in verses composed by al-Badrī
himself:
Once I visited my friends under the influence of zīh

In the morning, and hunger made itself felt in the evening.
One gave me a bean, generously.
And another some dessert, meanly.308
An anecdote told about an originally well-to-do Egyptian addict, no doubt a fig- 80

ment of the imagination of the narrator, combines the supposed characteristics
of stinginess, fondness for sweets, and self-illusion: In a hashish dream, he saw
and heard a voice telling him that his end was near and that he should give some
of his money to his friends among the hashish eaters. He swooned, was carried
home, and when he woke up, ordered the sweetmeats bakers to prepare a lot of
sweets. He had them carried to al-Junaynah309 and had them distributed there
among his friends, reality becoming like a dream. Then he took hashish again.
Now he saw a castle built entirely of various kinds of sweets and other delica-
cies. He was told by the same voice that such a castle was the reward for one
who regaled his friends as he had done. But then he woke up and found that

306 7 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. 22b, and below, p. 158.
ṣabbaḥtu fī z-zīhi yawman

khullānī wa-l-jūʿu massā
bi-fūlatin jāda lī dhā
wa-dhā bi-nuqlin wa-khassa.
The ms. has khlʾn, perhaps to be corrected to khullānan, but “my friends” seems preferable.
Since fūlah “bean” may mean a hashish pellet (cf. above, p. 62), the intended meaning
could be that the stingy friends provided the author just with some more hashish and
fruit, the latter in small quantity. It would seem, however, that beans are literally meant as
a cheap and unattractive kind of food.
309 1 See below, p. 95.
there was nothing there and that his money was all gone. Originally he was a
stingy man. However, his hashish habit impoverished him and finally caused
him to lose his mind together with his money.310
An affinity of the hashish eater to music was occasionally detected. It was
not considered to be as normal and expected as the relationship between wine
and song of which it could be said, for instance: “Between wine and song
there is a relationship under most conditions and a similarity with respect to
praiseworthy qualities common to both.”311 But hashish was beautiful music
to the sense of hearing,312 and listening to music increased the pleasure of it.
Thus al-Khaffāf was under the influence of hashish when he joined a musical
soirée where women on a balcony (manẓarah) were looking down, and hashish
and music combined to loosen his inhibitions.313 A user under the influence of
the drug is deeply moved by a flutist playing at an amīr’s party. He leaves, and
not knowing what he is doing, he enters a mosque, mixes with the assembled
worshipers without first performing the required ablutions, remains prostrated
81 in prayer when the others have finished and are leaving, is awakened | and does
not know where he is but thinks that he is still listening to the flutist.314 We have,
however, only a single statement to the effect that the use of hashish improved
and was indeed necessary for a musician’s performance. The singer in question
was a certain Thaqīlīyah (?).315
Hashish is stated consistently by its adversaries to be something that saps the
user’s energy and ability and willingness to work. Implicitly, this was considered
its greatest danger to the social fabric. With the help of a general Prophetical
tradition, this aspect is usually verbalized by the root f-t-r ( futūr and mufat-

311 3 Cf. al-Ghuzūlī, Maṭāliʿ, I, 230.
312 4 Cf. below, p. 152, n. 5.
313 5 Cf. al-Badrī, fols. 12b–13b, and, for the story, also above, p. 29, n. 1, and below, p. 146, n. 5.
315 2 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. 21a–b. The information is said to be derived from al-Ghuzūlī’s Maṭāliʿ,
which, however, does not seem to contain it. A subsequent quotation from al-Ghuzūlī
by al-Badrī, fol. 25b, can be traced to Maṭāliʿ, II, 82. The continuation of the story appears
also in Ibn Ḥijjah, Thamarāt, I, 40, in a shortened version which makes no reference to
hashish and, as printed, calls the man Ibn Naqīlah (Nuqaylah). During a serious illness
brought on by excessive eating, he was asked by Badr-ad-dīn (Aḥmad b.) Muḥammad b.
aṣ-Ṣāḥib (d. 788/1386): “How are you, Thaqīlīyah (Ibn Ḥijjah: How is the Naqīlīyah)?” He
replied: “I am very much afraid that it will get buried with a tooth in it (mā akhwafanī an
takūn madfūnah wa-fīhā nāb).” If the reading and translation are correct, the name may
refer to some dish.
tir)316 as well as the common words for laziness and sluggishness such as kasal
and fashal. Hashish has a numbing effect which causes the excessive sleep-
ing done by addicts and the heaviness in their heads when the drug takes
possession of their brains.317 Addicts stagger about and nod and are drowsy.
The word futūr is in fact also paraphrased as something that causes “numb-
ness (khadar)318 in the extremities,” and the root expressing “numbness” is
employed generally to refer to narcotics (mukhaddir).319 Futūr is not among
the harmful effects of wine; it is an additional evil trait of hashish.320
It is largely in this sense that we must understand the described sexual
effects of hashish. We encounter the statement that use of the drug entails
“the opening of the gate of desire.”321 This, however, | is not meant to refer 82
to increased sexual urges but rather to the presumed addictive character of
the drug.322 On the contrary, it is stated by physicians that “it cuts off the
desire for sexual intercourse,” and was therefore esteemed by ascetic Ṣūfīs.323
“Addicts,” we are told, “may think that it strengthens (the ability for) sexual
intercourse. This may perhaps be so in the beginning, but then it loosens the
sinews because of its cold temper.”324 A theoretical foundation was believed to
exist for the assumption that hashish had a debilitating effect with respect to
sex, for already Galen, as the Muslims knew, attributed to hemp the medicinal
quality of cutting off or drying up the semen.325 On the other hand, according
to al-ʿUkbarī’s Sawāniḥ, hashish enables the user to have splendid sexual expe-
riences (mubāsharat al-manākiḥ al-bahīyah),326 and among the inhibitions it
removes we also find that of sex, as in the story of Abū Jurthūm.327 Constant
316 3 The second conjugation is, I believe, more likely than the fourth, used in Concordance, s.v.
317 4 Cf. al-Fanārī (above, p. 17).
318 5 On the medical use of the term khadar, one may compare the monograph by Qusṭā b.
Lūqā, as quoted by ar-Rāzī, Ḥāwī, I, 42, 51 (Hyderabad 1374ff./ 1955ff.).
319 6 According to as-Sakhāwī, Ḍawʿ, II, in, Aḥmad b. Muḥammad b. Sulaymān az-Zāhid
(d. 819/1416, cf. GAL, Suppl., II, 112) wrote on “Intoxicants, both numbing and intoxicating”
(al-Kalām ʿalā l-muskirāt mukhaddirihā wa-muskirihā). He probably included also hashish
in the former category.
320 7 Cf. Ibn Taymīyah, Fatāwī, IV, 310, and az-Zarkashī, below, p. 186.
321 8 Cf. Ibn Taymīyah, Fatāwī, IV, 310, also IV, 326 (infitāḥ shahwatih, speaking of ghubayrāʾ).
322 1 Cf. below, pp. 96 f.
323 2 Cf. al-Maqrīzī who seems to continue here his quotation from Ibn Jazlah.
324 3 Cf. Dāwūd al-Anṭākī, Tadhkirah, I, 200, also quoted in Leclerc’s translation of Ibn al-Bayṭār.
325 4 Cf. Galen, De simpl. med. VII (= XII, 8 Kühn); Dioscurides, loc. cit. (above, p. 22, n. 9); Paul
of Aegina, ed. Heiberg, II, 220. Galen is cited by al-Maqrīzī.
327 6 Cf. al-Badrī, fols. 10a–b and 12a–b, in the story of Abū Jurthūm, cf. below, p. 146.
drug use is said to have been accompanied by extraordinary sexual activity in

Ibn al-Barīdī,328 but in another story, we hear about a certain Abū l-Khayr al-
ʿAqqād who, on his wedding night, was given a lubābah by a friend to help him
“to relax with his bride,” but the drug merely put him to sleep.329
What was believed to be the most pernicious effect of hashish as far as
the individual was concerned was that it led to effeminacy (takhannuth) or
passive homosexuality (ubnah, maʾbūn).330 As we read in az-Zarkashī,331 it
makes the best of fine young men effeminate. Inevitably, hashish is mentioned
in connection with homosexuality. It is described as breaking down resistance
to sexual advances by its power to intoxicate and to weaken the will.332 Much
83 was made by | al-Badrī (fols. 30a ff.) of the combination of the use of hashish
and homosexuality.333 Under the drug’s influence, addicts go out “hunting”
for young boys. There were special localities, such as Bāb Zuwaylah in Cairo
or suburban Būlāq, where they hung out to make contacts. However, when
drugging is needed for the scabrous custom, called dabīb, of attacking youths
while they are asleep in public places such as caravanserais, the verb used is
bannaja “to drug with banj.”334
Verses on homosexuality and hashish are plentiful,335 from lines of al-
Miʿmār such as
328 7 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. 47a, in connection with k-n/tbābatī.

329 8 Cf. al-Badrī, fols. 16b–17a, see also above, p. 31.
330 9 Cf. Ibn Taymīyah, Siyāsah; adh-Dhahabī, Kabāʾir; al-Fanārī, from al-Ḥaddād(ī). Also Ibn
Taymīyah, Fatāwī, IV, 326 (= II, 254, speaking of ghubayrāʾ), and the passage ascribed to
ar-Rāzī, quoted above, p. 74 (n. 4), and below, p. 86, n. 5.
331 10 Cf. below, p. 187.
332 11 Cf., for instance, below, pp. 156f., and Fuzūlī, 157.
333 1 Cf. also above, p. 66, etc. In al-Maqrīzī, I, 368, as well as in the verse cited II, 414 (above,
p. 75, n. 2), drug intoxication is a vice immediately followed by keeping company with
beardless boys.
334 2 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. 43a, quoting Ibn Makānis (745–794/1345–1392) (cf. GAL, Suppl., II, 7). For
tabnij, see above, p. 19.
335 3 The subject of homosexuality is introduced by al-Badrī with a quotation from al-ʿUkbarī’s
Sawāniḥ, but how much, if any, of the following material is borrowed from the Sawāniḥ is
hard to say.
Strangely enough, al-Badrī, fol. 42a–b, quotes verses containing a reference to hashish
which seem to be ascribed to Abū Nuwās. If God were to grant him his true wish, he would
ask to have each day
A hand full of hashish, a pound of meat,

A kilo of bread, and the company of a willing boy.
Mix your hashish with the appropriate amount of clay.

Chew (it) upon the bed and “kill” it leisurely.
Eat heavily, for eating is an ornament for you,
And if you get excited sexually, do not have any but anal intercourse,336
and other frankly obscene material to the more sensitive if hardly any more
appealing verses comparing hashish, with its darkish green color, to the first
down (ʿidhār) on a youth’s face. Ibn al-ʿAfīf at-Tilimsānī, comparing the locks
(ṣudgh) with hashish and the mouth (mabsim) with wine, furnished the model
for a comparison by Muḥibbad-dīn Ibn al-Athīr al-Ḥalabī of green hashish with
the down and red wine with the mouth.337 There are verses such as those of Ibn
al-Wardī:
There is a pretty one who says openly: 84

Souls of the people, live338
On my down and my spittle—
My wine and my hashish.339
kaffa ḥashīshin wa-riṭla laḥmin

wa-manna khubzin wa-waṣla ʿilqin.
This could have been invented in imitation of some topic introduced by Abū Nuwās, but
as it stands, it is apocryphal.
karbil ḥashīshak wāfiqhā min aṭ-ṭīnah

wa-mḍugh ʿalā l-farsh wa-qtulhā ʿalā ḥīnah
wa-blaʿ thaqīl fa-inna-l-balʿa lak zīnah
wa-(ʾi)n qām ‘alayk fa-lā tankiḥ siwā t-tīnah.
For sh, the ms. has s in al-farsh. The third line refers to the gluttony associated with hashish.
337 5 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. 46a. Information on Ibn al-Athīr al-Ḥalabī is not available. Cf. Ibn al-ʿAfīf,
Dīwān, 38 (Beirut 1885).
338 1 “Live” in the sense of “obtain sustenance.”
wa-malīḥin qāla jahran

yā nufūsa n-nāsi ʿīshī
min ʿidhāri wa-ruḍābī
bayna khamrī wa-ḥashīshī.
Or those by Nūr-ad-dīn ʿAlī b. Bardbak al-Fakhrī (838–872/1434–1468):340
The essential composition of the one I love contains the pleasures of love.
Thus, lovers, take your pleasures and live!
A paste of musk is his mole, his spittle provides
Wine, and his cheeks are hashish.341
Of a different character, and just possibly of some historicity, is a long story con-
cerning ʿAlam-ad-dīn, the son, al-Badrī says (fol. 51a–b), of Ṣafī-ad-dīn ʿAbdal-
lāh b. Shukr, a well-known personality generally referred to as aṣ-Ṣāḥib (548–
622/1153–1225). There can, however, be little doubt that ʿAlam-ad-dīn was in fact
Ibn Shukr’s grandson, Aḥmad b. Yūsuf b. aṣ-Ṣafī (d. 688/1289).342 Anyway, the
story goes that ʿAlam-ad-dīn was appointed by his father as a lecturer (mudar-
ris) in the Mālikite College founded by him.343 His lectures were very well
attended by legal scholars and much appreciated for their high quality. Yet,
ʿAlam-ad-dīn affected a “hippie”-type style of dress and grooming,344 and he
constantly used hashish, in utter disregard of all the conventional and official
85 disap|proval that provoked. When Ṣafī-ad-dīn died, the incumbent chief judge
got the idea of depriving ʿAlam-ad-dīn of the administration and control of the
waqf endowment of the College. To this end, he had an assembly arranged at
which he was ostentatiously to ask ʿAlam-ad-dīn for his legal opinion on the use
340 3 For Ibn Bardbak, cf. as-Sakhāwī, Ḍawʾ, V, 196 f.

fī dhāti man ahwāhu ladhdhātu l-hawā

fa-taladhdhadhū yā ʿāshiqūna wa-ʿīshū
maʿjūnu miskin khāluhū wa-ruḍābuhū
minhu s-sulāfu wa-ʿāriḍāhu ḥashīshu
Cf., further, below, p. 154.

342 5 Cf., in particular, Ibn Taghrībirdī, Nujūm, VII, 378–380. The mix-up between son and
grandson would seem to exclude al-ʿUkbarī as al-Badrī’s source, although he is quoted
immediately before for declaring hashish to be legal. As a contemporary, al-ʿUkbarī is not
likely to have made this mistake.
343 6 For the Madrasah aṣ-Ṣāḥibīyah, cf. al-Maqrīzī, II, 371.
344 7 Resentment of such external features is indicated by Ibn Taymīyah’s action, with respect
to a shaykh who appeared before him accused of hashish use and impiety, of ordering his
Ṣūfī garment (dalaq) cut up, the thick growth of the hair on his head shaved, and his nails
and moustache clipped, cf. Ibn Kathīr, XIV, 33, anno 704/1305, referred to by H. Laoust, in
EI2, III, 951b, s.v. Ibn Taymiyya.
of hashish, thereby trapping him into an open admission of his addiction and
of his sentiments in favor of hashish. Now, the judge on his part was suspected
of homosexuality, and it was observed that he was constantly surrounded by
a large retinue of beardless slaves. So it came about that when he addressed
ʿAlam-ad-dīn in the assembly, asking him for his opinion on “eating hashish
which is waraq ash-shahdānaj,” ʿAlam-ad-dīn stared in dramatic silence at the
slaves standing behind the judge long enough for everybody in the audience
to become aware of what he had in mind. Finally he broke his silence and said
that there was no text forbidding the eating of hashish, whereas homosexual-
ity was forbidden by general consensus, and if the judge was out to pick a fight
with him, he in turn was willing to pick a fight with the judge. Thus, the discus-
sion turned to the judge and his slaves, and the judge did not accomplish his
iniquitous purpose, quite to the contrary.
Al-Badrī has this story followed by his catharsis for the large amount of space
given over by him to lewd verses and anecdotes.345 He discusses the forbid-
den character of homosexuality, citing, among other authorities, Ibn Qayyim
al-Jawzīyah (d. 751/1350) and the Taḥrīm al-liwāṭ by al-Ājurrī (d. 360/970).346 A
good deal of the obscene material had been added by al-Badrī for its own sake.
It is without any direct relation to the use of hashish.
The assumption that hashish may cause effeminacy is coupled with remarks
that it may lead to something called diyāthah. Strangely enough, the scribe
of the Fanārī Ms.347 glossed the term in the margin as indicating, generally,
“humbleness, lowliness,” with reference to the lexicographer, al-Jawharī. In
one way or other, humbleness and lowliness are often stated to be one of the
social consequences of the use of hashish, and they are also associated with
the lack of energy considered characteristic of the drug user.348 It is, however,
obvious | that in the hashish context, diyāthah has its ordinary meaning of 86
being a dayyūth “cuckold.”349 We also hear it said that hashish may generate
a loss of jealousy (ghayrah) such as would be intolerable in a real man. It might
easily be suspected that what is really meant here is the fact that an addict
345 1 Cf. above, p. 15.

346 2 For al-Ājurrī, cf. F. Sezgin, GAS, I, 194f. This identification, I believe, is correct, but I have
no reference to a work by him on this subject.
347 3 Above, pp. 17f. However, al-Jawharī, Ṣiḥāḥ, I, 133 (Būlāq 1292), adds the explanation of
dayyūth as lacking jealousy.
349 1 Cf. Ibn Taymīyah, Siyāsah; Fatāwī, IV, 326 (= II, 254, speaking of ghubayrāʾ); adh-Dhahabī,
Kabāʾir; al-Fanārī.
might not care whether his wife has other men to support her and thus make
it possible for himself to devote all his time to his habit.350 However, those who
spoke of diyāthah might have thought primarily of the drug’s debilitating effect
on will power and sexual desire. It would also seem that “cuckoldry” here was
understood by and large not so much as a sexual phenomenon but as a general
lack of energy and a man’s normal physical desires.
A complete summary of the ravages ascribed to hashish may be found in
az-Zarkashī who followed some unnamed authority.351 In the part of it that
deals specifically with physical harm, which incorporates certain traditional
medical views on cannabis but naturally goes far beyond that, certain person-
ality changes ascribed to the drug are not forgotten. Az-Zarkashī, or his source,
spares no pain to bring together in this one place everything he can think of as
detrimental to human beings: “It destroys the mind (ʿaql), cuts short the repro-
ductive capacity, produces elephantiasis ( judhām), passes on leprosy (baraṣ),
attracts diseases, produces tremulousness (riʿshah),352 makes the mouth smell
foul, dries up the semen, causes the hair of the eyebrows to fall out, burns the
blood, causes cavities in the teeth, brings forth the hidden disease,353 harms the
intestines, makes the limbs inactive, causes a shortage of breath,354 generates
87 strong illusions (hawas), diminishes the powers (of the soul), reduces | mod-
esty (ḥayāʾ),355 makes the complexion (al-alwān) yellow, blackens the teeth,
350 2 According to the lexical sources used by Lane, diyāthah may in fact signify pimping for
one’s wife. Ibn Ḥajar al-Haytamī, Zawājir, II, 150, speaks of the hashish eater’s diyāthah
“against (ʿalā) one’s wife and womenfolk, let alone strange women.” This may have to be
understood to refer to pandering. Cf., further, K. Vollers, in ZDMG, L (1896), 625, and Ibn
Ḥazm, The Dove’s Neck-Ring, trans. A.R. Nykl, 188 (Paris 1931).
351 3 Cf. the Arabic text, below, pp. 178f.
352 4 For the medical understanding of riʿshah, cf. the first volume of the edition of ar-Rāzī’s
Ḥāwī. There ar-Rāzī also quotes aṭ-Ṭabarī, Firdaws, 194f.
353 5 In a brief treatise wrongly ascribed to ar-Rāzī on “The Hidden Disease,” which is preserved
in the General Library in Rabat, the expression is used as a euphemism for ubnah (above,
p. 82, n. 9). For kryphia diseases, cf. K. Deichgräber, Medicus gratiosus, 101f. (Mainz 1970).
354 6 Tuḍayyiq an-nafs could mean “causes anxiety,” but nafas is required by the rhyme word
hawas. Cf., for instance, as-Sakhāwī, Ḍawʾ, I, 77, 1. 9: la-ḍāqat al-anfās “(I) would run out of
breath.”
355 1 A marginal note in the Gotha Ms. of az-Zarkashī calls attention to the fact that the effect
of hashish upon ḥayāʾ was mentioned before as one of the effects that hashish shares with
wine. The scribe tentatively suggests a correction to al-ḥīlah “resourcefulness,” or the like.
This emendation shares with many others in history the fate of being ingenious but hardly
correct.
riddles the liver with holes,356 inflames the stomach,357 and leaves in its wake
a bad odor in the mouth as well as a film and diminished vision in the eye and
increased pensiveness in the imagination.358 It359 belongs to the blameworthy
characteristics of hashish that it generates in those who eat it laziness and slug-
gishness. It turns a lion into a beetle360 and makes a proud man humble and a
healthy man sick. If he eats, he cannot get enough. If he is spoken to, he does not
listen.361 It makes the well-spoken person dumb, and the sound person stupid.
It takes away every manly virtue and puts an end to youthful prowess. Further-
more, it destroys the mind ( fikrah), stunts all natural talent, and blunts the
sharpness of the mental endowment. It produces gluttony, making eating (the
addict’s) preoccupation ( fannah) and sleep for him a characteristic situation
(maẓannah). But he is remote from slumber,362 driven out | from Paradise, and 88
threatened with God’s curse unless he gnashes his teeth in repentance and puts
his confidence in God. It has well been said:
The smallest physical harm it causes, and there is plenty of it,

Is immorality, insanity, and mental exhaustion.”363
356 2 N-q-b seems to refer to ulceration (cirrhosis?) of the liver. Ms. A of az-Zarkashī and the
Princeton Ms. of al-Aqfahsī suggest the synonymous th-q-b. Ibn Taymīyah, Fatāwī, IV, 326
(= II, 254), speaking of the effects of ghubayrāʾ, says that “it makes the liver like a sponge
(sifanj).” According to al-Badrī, fol. 55a, an experiment by one of the sages tested the
pernicious action of hashish by putting some of it on an animal liver and letting it lie there
for a while. It made the liver full of holes (mankhūrah [?] mubakhkhashah) like a sponge.
357 3 “Drying out the moisture of the stomach,” says Ibn al-Bayṭār, citing Galen, De alimentorum
facultatibus, I, 34 (= VI, 550 Kühn). The original Greek is kakostomachos.
358 4 Cf. above, p. 74, n. 3. In his Takrīm al-maʿīshah, al-Qasṭallānī mentioned as the ill effects
of the use of hashish that it causes headache, darkens the sight, causes constipation, and
dries up the semen; it is useful against flatulence and dandruff, cf. al-Aqfahsī, fol. 20a.
359 5 The text, from here to the end of the quotation but with the exclusion of the verses, appears
in Ibn Ghānim (above, pp. 6 f.). Ibn Ghānim and az-Zarkashī presumably used the same
source. On the other hand, al-Aqfahsī, fols. 21b–22a, would seem to have used az-Zarkashī.
360 6 The scribe of the Gotha Ms. has a marginal note referring to the Prophetical tradition
branding juʿal as the creature most contemptible in the eyes of God.
361 7 The last three sentences appear in Qamʿ in a different sequence. Qamʿ, fols. 275b–276a,
adds rather dramatically: “If you say in front of him: ṭāq, he is frightened right away. It is as
if he has been burdened with something that is too much for him to carry (idhā qult bayn
yadayh ṭāq inzaʿaj li-waqtih wa-kaʾannah taḥammal mā lā yuṭāq).”
362 8 The rhyming words apparently are sinah, jannah, and laʿnah. However, the Princeton Ms.
of al-Aqfahsī seems to vocalize sunnah.
363 1 For nishāf, no doubt the correct reading, cf. also below, p. 90. “Dryness” leads, as also
This long and somewhat disorganized catalogue mainly of the physical evils
of hashish use is preceded by a briefer but no less awesome enumeration of
the effects it has on the user’s religion, that is, his morality and his attitude
toward the religious duties of Islam. These hashish shares with wine, whereas
the physical effects are all its own. Nevertheless, they were particularly objec-
tionable according to the standards of Muslim society. Not infrequently we hear
about the hashish user becoming lax in the fulfillment of his religious duties
such as prayer and fasting and also forgetting the confession of faith in extremis
when it becomes necessary for him to pronounce it.364 The often repeated stan-
dard formula of the legal adversaries of hashish says that habituation to the
drug “bars a person from the remembrance of God and from prayer” (yaṣudd
ʿan dhikr Allāh wa-ʿan aṣ-ṣalāh). Qamʿ alludes to the dire fate that awaits the
drug user in the other world, for he will be unable to remember, when he is on
the point of death, the two sentences of the confession of faith and forget the
89 common formula about taking refuge in God.365 | Az-Zarkashī speaks of “intox-
ication, destruction of the mind ( fikr), forgetfulness (nisyān adh-dhikr) (in this
case, apparently not meaning forgetting to think of God, but forgetfulness in
general), the vulgarization of secrets, the commission of evil actions, the loss
indicated in Steingass’ Persian-English Dictionary, to the further meanings of “dryness in

the mouth from extreme hunger; folly, thoughtlessness,” resulting from the drying out of
the brain.
In al-Badrī, fols. 55b–56a, the verse is ascribed to a certain Shihāb-ad-dīn Aḥmad
ath-Thaqafī (?). It is preceded by two additional verses:
May God curse hashish and those who eat it.

It is as bad as wine is good.
As it (wine) gladdens, it (hashish) saddens, and it (hashish) pains
As it (wine) sustains. Its end is foolishness (?).
laḥā llāhu l-ḥashīsha wa-ākilīhā

la-qad khabuthat kamā ṭāba s-sulāfu
kamā tuṣbī ka-dhā tuḍnī ma-tushqī
kamā tashfi wa-ghāyatuhā l-khirāfu.
The last line, as in az-Zarkashī, was certainly borrowed by the author from a common
source, even if he lived before the time of az-Zarkashī. The same would seem to apply also
in case the ascription of the three verses in al-Kutubī, Fawāt, I, 9, to Jamāl-ad-dīn Ibrāhīm
b. Sulaymān Ibn an-Najjār (590–651/1194–1253) should happen to be correct.
364 2 Cf. al-Badrī, fols. 55b and 57a. For disrespect toward the month of Ramaḍān, cf. below, p. 128.
365 3 Cf. Qamʿ, fol. 276b.
of modesty (ḥayāʾ), great stubbornness, the lack of manly virtue, the suppres-
sion of jealousy, wastefulness, keeping company with the devil, the omission
of prayer, and the falling into unlawful activities.” Nor is this all. Someone else
is quoted as having totaled up the religious and worldly harm done by hashish
and to have come up with no less than 120 items.366 Fortunately, they are not
enumerated.
Other, concise descriptions of the frightful consequences of the use of hash-
ish tend to be eclectic, mentioning the one or other presumed effect of hashish
on the addict’s body, mind, character, and social status. In his large handbook
for government officials, al-Qalqashandī (d. 821/1418) thus informs the reader
that hashish “ruins the temper by producing the effect of desiccation in it and
generating a preponderance of black bile. It ruins the mind (dhihn), forms bad
character qualities, and lowers the user’s standing in the eyes of the people, in
addition to many other blameworthy qualities.”367 Still later, Dāwūd al-Anṭākī,
in his Tadhkirah,368 cuts down the list to reporting that after initially causing
joy, hashish produces narcosis, laziness, stupor, the weakening of sense percep-
tion, foul breath, the debilitation of liver and stomach, dropsy, and the ruina-
tion of color and complexion.
After all these sorry tales of dire calamities connected with the use of hash-
ish, it comes as somewhat of a letdown to find that the comparatively early
poem of al-Isʿirdī points merely to the greenish-gray complexion of the face
as a physical sign of hashish addiction.369 The long poem by the author of
Qamʿ is somewhat more specific but also rather restrained. The physical effects
produced by barsh are the desiccation of the flesh of the face370 and the with-
drawal (?) of the locks (kh-s-f al-aṣdāgh), to which the author adds dryness of
the mouth:
Their heads have dried up. Thus, there is no good in them. 90

The dry elements follow each other all the time in their bodies.
There is no spittle in their mouths and no freshness (?) in it.
Their condition has become a fright.
366 1 Cf. the statement on the siwāk, above, p. 76, n. 1.

367 2 Cf. al-Qalqashandī, Ṣubḥ, II, 146 (Cairo 1331/1913).
368 3 Tadhkirah, I, 200.
369 4 Cf. above, p. 77.
370 5 But note what Dozy, Supplément, II, 673a, has to say about the metaphorical usage of nāshif
(ar-raʾs). Still, I do not believe that in this particular instance, something mental rather
than physical is meant.
Their locks are withdrawn (?), turned down,

Laid bare, eclipsed, sliding (?).371
But he also states that hashish has an emaciating effect, and he remarks upon
the user’s constant drowsiness and apathy:
They stagger but without the emotion derived from drunkenness.

They shrink in size and do not appear tall.
Great God! It is a disease that whenever
It enters the body, you see (it turning into) a dreadful place.
They doze. Thus, step upon their necks
And make their breasts sandals for you.372
They chew on the smelling breath in their mouths.
Thus, get on top of them, if you wish to be well-off.373
371 1 Cf. Qamʿ, fol. 282b:
nashifat ruʾūsuhumū fa-lā khayran bihā

wa-n-nāshifātu bi-jismihim tatawālā
lā rīqa fī fīhim wa-lā rīyan (?) bihī
aḥwāluhum qad aṣbaḥat ahwālā
aṣdāghuhum makhsūfatun mankūsatun
makshūfatun maksūfatun tatazāllā (?).
For rīyan, the ms. has something like ʾdbʾ, but adaban “proper behavior” seems unlikely
in the context. For makhsūfatun, the ms. has maḥsūfatun, and the reading of tatazāllā is
uncertain. I do not know what the idiom about the locks means, hardly the thinning of
hair, as this would not go well with the rest of the descriptive terms used. Possibly, it refers
to holding the head low in shame (?).
372 2 Cf. the verse quoted in Ibn Ḥajar al-Haytamī (above, p. 11):
It (the drug) involves contempt by means of sandals and stick

For the stupid and stubborn immoral person.
fīhā l-ihānatu bi-n-niʿāli wa-bi-l-ʿasā

li-d-dāʿiri l-mahbūli wa-l-mutaʿabbidi.
For mutaʿabbid “stubborn,” cf. Steingass’ Persian-English Dictionary.

373 3 Yatamāyalūna bi-ghayri sukrin muṭribin
yataqāṣarūna wa-lā yurawna ṭiwālā
Allāhu akbaru innahū dāʾun matā
mā ḥalla fī jismin tarāhu mahālā
If the last lines are understood here correctly, the attitude recommended
toward addicts would not just be to show contempt for them but to exploit
their self-induced incapacity for one’s own advantage. After all, users under
the influence of hashish are believed to be amenable to the most bizarre
suggestions since the drug has the | power to break the will. Thus, as Ibn 91
an-Najjār states in his Zawājir,374 if one were to say to one of them, “Piss!,” he
would do so at once.
We have already seen that the great potency of hashish stands compari-
son with killing in its effects, in puns on the term “to kill” used in connection
with the preparation and use of hashish.375 “The murderous hashish eater” (al-
ḥashīshīyu lladhī yaqtulu) was considered a suitable metaphor for the danger-
ous attraction exercised by the beloved’s locks.376 This would not seem to refer
directly to the murderous propensities of the sectarian assassins but rather to
the powerful effects of hashish. It may also embody a play upon the “killing”
of hashish, as is apparently the case in a verse stating that “the green one” is
“a ḥashīshah that makes every man a ḥashīshī (assassin) unbeknown to him-
self.”377 However this may be, there are other verses by Ibn al-ʿAfīf at-Tilimsānī,
describing the state of the poor Ṣūfī under the influence of hashish as remote
from the land of the living:
This poor one whom you see

Like as a chick thrown to the ground featherless
Has been killed by hashish intoxication,
Killing being the custom of hashish.378
yatanāwamūna fa-dus ʿalā aʿnāqihim

wa-jʿal ṣudūrahumū ladayka niʿālā
yatamāḍaghūna r-rīḥa fī afwāhihim
fa-qṣid ʿulāhum in aradta nawālā.
For wa-lā yurawna, the ms. has wlyrwn.

374 1 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. 17b, and al-Bakrī, Kawākib. Uninhibited urination under the influence of
hashish is mentioned in the story of Abū Jurthūm, cf. al-Badrī, fol. 10b, and below, p. 146.
On the other hand, al-Badrī, fol. 49b, quotes a poem by Ibrāhīm b. Asʿad al-Irbilī al-Laqānī
which speaks of hashish as eliminating the constant need for urination that comes from
drinking wine.
375 2 Cf. above, pp. 59 f.
376 3 Cf. Ibn al-ʿAfīfat-Tilimsānī, as quoted by aṣ-Ṣafadī, Wāfī, ed. S. Dedering, III, 133.
377 4 Cf. an-Nuwayrī, Nihāyah, XI, 29.
378 5 Cf. aṣ-Ṣafadī, Wāfī, III, 133. In al-Badrī, the verses seem to be ascribed to the amīr Sayf-
ad-dīn ʿAlī b. ʿUmar al-Mushidd (602–655/1205(6)-1257, cf. al-Ghuzūlī, Maṭāliʿ, I, 50; Ibn
The influence of hashish on the mind, its “mind-changing” and personality-

changing quality, is never quite overlooked even in the discussion of its physical
and religious effects. It was the most famous and most frightening and tanta-
lizing aspect of hashish use. The drug was often believed to cause insanity in
92 the habitual user. Such in|sanity might be assumed to be temporary but by and
large was considered to be a permanent personality change. In the most com-
monly used Arabic words, hashish “changes the mind” (tughayyir al-ʿaql), or it
“makes it absent” or “remote” (tughayyib), removing it from reality. Since the
ʿaql is what distinguishes man from irrational animals, the effect of hashish
could in this sense be conceived as turning its users into dumb animals. There
can be no doubt, we are told, that taking hashish has the effect of producing
transgression (taʿaddī) with respect to normal mental processes (intiẓām) of
word and deed that draw their perfection from the legal and customary activ-
ity of the light of the intellect.379 By dissolving the moist elements in the body
and thereby causing vapors to ascend to the brain, the ghubayrāʾ produces per-
nicious fancies (khayālāt), and by weakening the mind, it opens up the gate of
fantasy (khayāl).380 This was the way in which physicians and those hostile to
hashish put it. The self-styled “elite” (al-khāṣṣah) who defended the use of it,
called it “the morsel of thought and remembrance.”381 They extolled the plea-
sure hashish exerted upon the imagination (al-ladhdhah al-wahmīyah) as one
Kathīr, XIII, 197; al-Badrī, above, p. 14, n. 2, wrote a “Mukhtaṣar entitled Naẓārat Dīwān
al-Mushidd”) in this form:
I am the killed one whom you see

Like as a chick thrown to the ground featherless.
They killed the hashish unjustly,
Killing being the custom of hashish.
Here it may be better to translate “being killed,” instead of “killing.” This, however, is hardly
intended in the version of Ibn al-ʿAfīf.
379 1 The text of az-Zarkashī, below, p. 185, shows some variant readings.
380 2 Cf. Ibn Taymīyah, Fatāwī, IV, 325 (= II, 253). Az-Zarkashī’s tabkhīr-hā (tabakhkhur-hā) ( fī)
ad-dimāgh has become taḥayyuz-hā fī d-dimāgh in the indirect quotation in al-Fanārī.
Galen, De alimentorum facultatibus, I, 34 (VI, 550 Kühn), mentions the warm and at the
same time pharmakōdēs vapor hemp sends up to the head. Before, he speaks of crushed
hemp seeds eaten together with other confections. Thus, the “vapor” may possibly allude
to narcotic effects.
381 3 Cf. Ibn Taymīyah, Fatāwī, IV, 312 and 310. In the latter passage, it is “little morsel,” presum-
ably the more correct reading. Cf. above, pp. 36 f.
of its chief attractions,382 and the fancies (khayāl) it engendered were poeti-
cally described as most soothing and idyllic: “At times, I see the world as castles.
At other times, I see it as lands and gardens around me.”383 The mind-distorting
effect of hashish was elegantly hinted at in the phrase: “It moves unmoving
resolution to the noblest of places,”384 which a poet addicted to k-n/tbābatī
paraphrased in these verses:
In India my heart has developed 93

A longing for those places.
K-n/tbābatī, light of my eye,
You have stirred unmoving (feelings) in me.385
As suggested by Ibn Taymīyah, the phrase was meant to call attention to the
help hashish offered to the pious in their religious devotions, but it no doubt
aimed at the drug’s supposed ability to allow the human mind to go beyond
the limitations of reality. The distortion of the mind was, it seems, a kind of
religious experience for the addicts. At least, they claimed it to be such as in the
verses of al-Isʿirdī speaking of the “secret” of the drug that permits “the spirit to
ascend to the highest points in a heavenly ascension (miʿrāj) of disembodied
understanding.”386 The constant harping upon the increase in understanding
associated with hashish at times naturally provoked a strong reaction, as in
these bitingly humorous verses by Ibn al-ʿAfīf at-Tilimsānī when his friends
wanted him to participate in their hashish party:
382 4 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. 30a, from al-ʿUkbarī’s Sawāniḥ.

383 5 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. 49b, in verses by Ibn al-Aqsāsī (above, p. 64, n. 1). These verses are supposed
to be critical of hashish but, except for the concluding line, go all out to list its supposed
good qualities.
384 6 Cf. Ibn Taymīyah, Fatāwī, IV, 312 and 310. In IV, 310, he adds that hashish is considered
“useful for the road.” This could mean that it serves to mitigate the hardships Ṣūfīs have to
suffer in their peregrinations, but it may rather refer to the fact mentioned also elsewhere
that hashish can be consumed in the streets without any further ado, in contrast to wine.
fī l-Hindi adhā fuʾādī

yaṣbū li-tilka l-amākin
k-n/tbābatī nūra ʿaynī
ḥarrakti ʿindī sawākin.
The poet may be Fulayfil.

386 2 Cf. below, p. 163, verse 8.
If hashish were able to give an increase in understanding,

Donkeys would achieve high rank in their understanding.387
The mental changes observable in the addict made him a fool in the eyes of
the common people, someone not to be trusted to react rationally in any way.
The vast majority of the stories told about hashish harp upon this aspect and
the variety of consequences connected with it. The famous report of the Assas-
sins’ conditioning to fanatic devotion through the agency of drugs providing a
foretaste of Paradise probably found so much attention because being the first
circumstantial description of hashish(?)-induced hallucinations, it exalted the
alleged mind-changing powers of the drug.388 The popular appeal of the con-
ceit of almost miraculous mental change is proved, if proof is needed, by the
94 Arabian Nights and the | way the very late stages of the work view hashish. The
question, “Are you a hashish eater” (ant taʾkul al-ḥashīsh), is addressed to some-
one who makes a seemingly incredible statement, suggesting that he is a mere
fool.389 And when the fisherman, Khalīfah, hedges a foolish plan in the mid-
dle of the night, it is said that it must be the hashish he has consumed that is
speaking to him, even though there is otherwise no indication whatever in the
story that he had used the drug.390 The Arabian Nights also speak about the
old roué who had spent all his possessions on beautiful boys and girls. Hashish
was the only real consolation left to him. So one day he went to the public
bath, withdrew to a lonely spot where he could be alone with himself and swal-
lowed a piece of hashish. This provoked in him exciting dreams of glory and sex,
depicted in detail in the continuation of the story and illustrating loss of con-
tact with reality.391 Another very elaborate description of the dreams of hashish
(banj) eaters no longer entered the mainstream tradition of the Arabian Nights,
but is found only among some late manuscript material. This is the story of a
fisherman who is under the influence of the drug and thinks that a street in
387 3 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. 56a, and below, p. 137.
wa-law anna l-ḥashīsha tazīdu fahman

la-nāla bi-fahmihī r-rutaba l-ḥimāru.
388 4 Cf. above, p. 43.

389 1 Cf. Arabian Nights, I, 173, trans. Littmann, I, 257.
390 2 Cf. Arabian Nights, IV, 161, trans. Littmann, V, 516. However, O. Rescher, in his discussion
of hashish in the Arabian Nights, in Der Islam, IX (1919), 85f. points out that the reference
to hashish is not to be found in M. Habicht’s edition, IV, 330.
391 3 Cf. Arabian Nights, I, 692–694, trans. Littmann, II, 193–195.
the moonlight is in reality a river, and a dog on the street a big fish, which he
then attempts to catch. His further adventures involve the town’s judge as a sus-
pected participant in drug revelries, once again an illustration of the popular
tendency to ascribe to the most visible representatives of the law the vices that
they more than anybody else were charged with avoiding and suppressing.392
ʿAlī b. Sūdūn al-Bashbughawī tells about hashish eaters who imagine the ocean
to be sweet syrup, the fish in it peeled bananas, and the nets to catch them in
to be made of pancakes.393 Az-Zarkashī had also already reported that he had
been told that a person befuddled by | hashish thought that the moon was a 95
deep pool of water, and he did not dare to go toward it.394
The loss of contact with reality, the ordinary world of the senses, “existence”
(wujūd), as a result of the action of hashish expressed by the root gh-y-b, may
be partial, with the addict under the influence of the drug merely forgetting
to do what he was supposed to do or doing it wrongly. Thus, we hear about a
singer, Abū ṭ-Ṭayyib Karawīyah (?),395 sent by the littérateur Aḥmad b. Barakah
to buy pomegranates and bring them to the bath. He forgets about his task,
wanders aimlessly from place to place, and returns to the bath only late in the
evening. Or someone, the story goes, went out to buy barley for his mount and
grapes for his wife, then gives the grapes to the animal and the barley to his
wife.396 Complete temporary loss of contact with reality is described in a story
about people noticing a man on a horse who was riding in the countryside not
knowing what he was doing, opening his knapsack, eating, being thrown by
the horse, continuing in his sleep, then waking up, bleeding profusely and not
knowing where he was.397
The user might at times have aspired to this state of unawareness of every-
thing around him and considered it among the most desirable effects of hash-
ish. However, when it became something permanent, it produced an individual
392 4 From Ms. Wortley Montague, according to R. Burton’s translation. It was used by M. Hen-
ning, in his German translation, XXIII, 135–160, and was referred to by O. Rescher, loc.
cit.
Under the influence of wine, a drinker may think that a moonlit area is a river, cf. Ibn
ar-Raqīq al-Qayrawānī, Quṭb as-surūr, ed. A. al-Jundī, 391 (Damascus 1389/1969).
393 5 From F. Kern, Neuere ägyptische Humoristen und Satiriker, in Mitt. des Seminars für Or.
Sprachen, Westas. Studien, IX (1906), 34, cited by O. Rescher, loc. cit.
394 1 Cf. below, p. 181, and also, p. 145.
395 2 Cf. al-Badrī, fols. 15b–16a, mentioned above, p. 67, n. 3, and elsewhere. For Ibn Barakah, cf.
as-Sakhāwī, Ḍawʾ, I, 248; al-Badrī, fols. 25a and 121b.
useless to society and to himself, graphically described in verses by al-Hāʾim

(d. 887/1482):
How many a person killed by hashish is to be found in al-Junaynah

Who would not wake up, not even at the blast of the trumpet.398
Among its effects the green one has given him
The ears of a deaf man and the eye of a blind man.399
96 At al-Junaynah (“The Little Garden”), near Bāb ash-Shaʿrīyah,400 | one could

see derelicts lying around “like hospital patients” (ka-ḍuʿafāʾ al-bīmāristān),401
crazed like the inmates of an asylum and quite oblivious to the world around
them.
Devoted to wine as he was, Abū Nuwās was able to sing:
Give me to drink till you see me

Think that a rooster is a donkey.402
A hashish eater might expect to “see a camel as similar to a gnat.”403 The same
idea was phrased much better and more succinctly by the author of Qamʿ:
Those under the influence of harsh have the illusion that “a gnat is a cow”
(an-nāmūsah gāmūsah).404
398 5 That is, the trumpet of the Day of Judgment.

kam bi-l-Junaynati min qatīli ḥashīshatin

lā yastafīqu wa-lā bi-nafkhi ṣ-ṣūri
wahabat lahū l-khaḍrāʾu min afʿālihā
ādhāna uṭrūshin wa-ʿayna ḍarīri.
On al-Hāʾim, who is often cited by al-Badrī, cf. GAL, 2nd ed., II, 22, Suppl., II, 12. Cf. also the
verses quoted below, p. 98.
400 7 Cf. al-Maqrīzī, I, 383. Al-Junaynah is also described by al-Maqrīzī as being located in the
Ṭabbālah estate (below, p. 137). For the Shaʿrīyah Gate, cf. W. Popper, Egypt and Syria under
the Circassian Sultans, 24, 32 ff. Cf. also above, p. 80.
402 2 Cf. Abū Nuwās, Dīwān, 269.
404 4 Cf. Qamʿ, fol. 275b.
5 Habituation to Hashish and its Cure
It was apparently believed quite generally that the user of hashish acquired a
constant craving for it and was rarely able to break the habit. Addiction was
assumed to grow always more compulsive and eventually lead to complete
physical and mental ruin. In addition to “eating” and the like, a number of words
were employed for the taking of the drug, among them akhadha, tanāwala, or,
most consistently, istaʿmala. Very commonly, however, we also find the term
taʿāṭā associated with it. In a way, it is merely a synonym of the other verbs in the
sense of “to take,” but it also has the approximate meaning of “being concerned
with (something constantly, also, in a professional manner).” In philosophical
usage, it may correspond, for instance, to Greek melein as in taʿāṭī (also muʿānāt
which likewise occurs in connection with hashish) al-mawt for meletē thanatou
“the concern or preoccupation with death.” Taʿāṭā appears to be something like
a technical term suggesting constant concern with some habit. It is used in this
sense also in connection with wine and many other matters as it is with hashish.
A more concrete hint at the tendency toward addictiveness among hashish
users can be seen in the concept of “desire” (shahwah, ishtahā). These unfor-
tunate people “get drunk on (hashish) and desire it as wine drinkers desire
wine.”405 A little wine or a small | quantity of hashish (but not of banj) calls 97
for more,406 thus requiring constantly increased and more frequent doses and,
in any case, a continuation of the habit. The desire for hashish is greater than
that for wine so that hashish eaters become unable to do without it.407 A legal
distinction is made between things forbidden by the religious law but “desired
by the souls,” and things which “the souls do not desire.” Among the latter,
there are, for instance, blood and the meat of animals not ritually slaughtered.
Among the former, we must count drugs that cause pleasure such as hashish,
as do wine and fornication, but, again, not banj the effect of which is of a differ-
ent sort.408 The soul’s “desire” was usually something that man had a hard time
to fight and get rid of, and success, even if he made an honest effort, was rare.
With respect to hashish, the soul’s desire was easily equivalent to addiction, to
a habit hard or impossible to kick.
405 5 Cf. Ibn Taymīyah, Siyāsah; adh-Dhahabī, Kabāʾir.

406 1 Cf. ar-Rāfiʾī, apud az-Zarkashī, below, p. 189. In connection with wine, cf., e. g., as-Sarakhsī,
Mabsūṭ, XXIV, 3, 9 (Cairo 1324–1331).
407 2 Cf. adh-Dhahabī, Kabāʾir: ḥattā lā yaṣbirū ʿanhā. This phrase does not appear in the text
of Ibn Taymīyah, Siyāsah.
408 3 Cf. Ibn Taymīyah, Fatāwī, IV, 304, 312.
When the early literature on hashish tells us that Shaykh Ḥaydar ate hashish
daily409 or that, according to al-Jawbarī in the early thirteenth century, there
were those who could not stay away from it,410 this no doubt referred to some
kind of addiction. But we also find it stated expressly that the physical and
mental changes caused by the drug were believed to provoke a habitual need
for it: “Among the greatest physical harm (dāʾ) caused by it is the fact that
habitual users (mutaʿāṭī) of it are hardly ever able to repent of it because of
the effect it has upon their temper.”411 The user “cannot separate from it and
leave it alone (lā yufāriq-hā).” “One of the properties of hashish is that its user
cannot give it up.”412 The technical secular term used in this connection is
qaṭaʿa “to cut.” In the religious language of Muslim scholars, it is “to repent”
(tāba) as indicative of every act involving the renunciation of sin. And istatāba
is used in connection with “asking someone to give up” the habit of “eating
mind-changing hashish.”413
98 A very vivid description of the situation is given in Qamʿ: “The user (musta-
ʿmil, of barsh) finds no escape from it and no way whatever to repent and give
it up (at-tawbah minhu), nor is he able to obtain any freedom (infikāk). For
were his spirit to get to the maw and his soul to the throat, he would think that
repentance is what is difficult for him. So he would wish to repair his soul and
his breath by saying to those around him: ‘Bring me the leaf,’ or, ‘Bring me the
box(es) (al-ḥuqq).’”414 This, if I understand the text correctly, means that when
the addict feels miserable because of his craving for the drug, he has no thought
of trying to resist the craving and get off the drug. His only thought is of having
some of it given to him to pacify his compulsive urge.
There were those who used hashish around the clock, “at all the prayer
times,”415 with the result that they were completely lost to reality:
A visitor of zīh for whom its people have unceasingly

Shown humility, prayerful worship, and activity.
409 4 Cf. above, pp. 45 and 52.

410 5 Cf. below, p. 158, further p. 152, n. 2.
411 6 Cf. az-Zarkashī, below, p. 179. The statement follows upon the one quoted above, pp. 86f.
Two mss. have muʿāniyahā, for mutaʿāṭiyahā.
412 7 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. 17b, perhaps continuing the quotation from Ibn an-Najjar’s Zawājir. Cf.
also al-Bakrī, Kawākib.
413 8 Cf., for instance, Ibn Kathīr, XIV, 33 (above, p. 84, n. 7).
414 1 Cf. Qamʿ, fol. 276b.
415 2 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. 18a, elaborating on this subject.
There is nobody among them but forgetful of existence,

Submerged in the world beyond reality, unceasingly.416
An anecdote tells about an addict who under the influence of hashish boarded
a boat on the shore of the Nile in Cairo and fell asleep. The sailors, ready to
leave, were unable to rouse him. When he eventually woke up, the boat was
well on its way to Upper Egypt. The addict began to miss his zīh and asked the
sailors to set him ashore. He threatened to commit suicide by throwing himself
into the river if they would not do it. Thus, they put him ashore, and once there
he walked back to Cairo in one day and one night.417
For occasional and, presumably, accidental overdoses of cannabis, the med-
ical authorities recommended certain procedures. One of al-Maqrīzī’s sources
(Ibn Jazlah?)418 mentioned his observation that “a person who has eaten hash-
ish and notices that its effect is taking | place and he wants to get rid of it pours 99
into his nostrils some drops of olive oil and eats some sour milk.” He adds that
“swimming in running water breaks and weakens the strength of the drug’s
effect, and sleep stops it.” It is doubtful whether this reported observation was
more accurate and true than another observation immediately preceding it and
ascribed to the same person that “many poisonous animals such as snakes flee
when they smell the smell of hemp.” Ibn al-Bayṭār recommended pumping the
stomach through vomiting induced by butter and hot water as well as sorrel
juice,419 and Dāwūd al-Anṭākī, in his Tadhkirah, also recommended vomiting
and purgation by means of laxatives and fruit juices.
However, the cure of addiction was not to be achieved by such simple means
which, moreover, presupposed willingness on the part of the user. It could
happen at times that lack of means forced the addict to “repent” and give up
his habit, but such “repentance of bankruptcy” (tawbat al-iflās) was no real
wa-wāridi zīhin lam yazal fīhi ahluhū

khushūʿan rukūʿan sujjadan dāʾimī l-ʿamal
wa-mā minhumū illā ʿan-i-l-kawni dhāhilun
wa-mustaghriqun fī ʿālami l-ghaybi lam yazal.
Cf. also above, pp. 95 f.

418 5 It is pure fancy to speak of the great Rāzī, as is done by al-Badrī, fol. 7b, who would thereby
be credited with the use of the word ḥashīshah.
419 1 On sorrel (ḥummāḍ) as a tonic, cf. Meyerhof, in his ed. and trans, of Maimonides, 74.
cure and as a rule did not last long. There was many a poor Ṣūfī, we are told,
who repented of his hashish habit (taʿāṭī maʿlūmih) but said that if he only
had money, he would not let his friends (and, apparently, himself) go without
food and the opportunity to get high (insiṭāl). The true addict, however, would
not show himself perturbed by the vagaries of fate and would not consider it
enough of an excuse to pretend giving up the habit:
I am satisfied with a morsel of porridge

And a round pill of hashish.
Why should I reproach time from which individual
Destiny proceeds, by complaining about (lack of) means?420
Since hashish was financially within the reach of most, breaking the habit
required some miracle or the intervention of some especially holy man. Az-
100 Zarkashī421 tells us about Shaykh ʿAlī al-Ḥarirī in | Damascus who considered
the habitual use (taʿāṭī) of hashish a greater crime than drinking wine, and he
held the eater of hashish deserving of the ḥadd penalty more than alcoholics.
This Shaykh al-Ḥarīrī was the founder of the fraternity named after him, who
died on 26 Ramaḍān 645/22 January 1248. Religious scholars took the dimmest
view of his orthodoxy in matters of belief and practice. His son, Muḥammad
(d. 651/1253), was praised for repudiating the practices of his father’s follow-
ers.422 All the more so does az-Zarkashī’s testimony to al-Ḥarīrī’s aversion for a
drug much used by Ṣūfīs in his time and environment ring true. “This Ḥarīrī,” az-
Zarkashī further tells us, “was very hard on habitual users of hashish. One of his
followers sent a messenger to him to upbraid him for (his attitude). The Shaykh
said to the messenger: If the man mentioned is one of my followers so that I
ana rāḍin bi-luqmatin min dashīshah

wa-bi-qurṣin mudawwarin min ḥashīshah
wa-li-mā-dhā uʿātibu d-dahra wa-l-aq-
dāru tajrī minhū bi-dhammi l-maʿishah.
The meter (khafīf ) requires a short second syllable for anā. The poet of the verses is said
to have been a certain al-Jaʿbarī, reacting to those Ṣūfī complaints.
421 3 Cf. below, p. 180. The Ḥarīrī passage was omitted from two of the mss. available, see above,
p. 10.
422 1 Cf. aṣ-Ṣafadī, Wāfī, ed. S. Dedering, IV, 183f. (Wiesbaden 1959, Bibliotheca Islamica 6d). Ibn
Kathīr has much information on al-Ḥarīrī and his family.
have to oblige him, let him give up hashish for forty days until his body is free
from it, and forty more days, until he is rested from it after having become free.
Then, let him come to me so that I shall inform him about it.”423 The Shaykh
who exercised a powerful influence over his followers probably thought that his
command would provide the user with the necessary will power to stay away
from the drug for a prolonged period. Thereafter, he would be willing to listen
to the Shaykh enlightening him about the dangers of hashish, and the Shaykh’s
personal influence would succeed in keeping him off the drug for good. Unfor-
tunately, we are not told how effective this procedure proved in this or other
cases.
A plain miracle was ascribed to the “ecstatic saint,” ʿAbdallāh al-Miṣrī al-
majdhūb, who died in 937/1530–1531. “He used to grind (ṣ-ḥ-n) hashish amidst
the ruins of the Ezbekīyah district of Cairo. It was a miracle bestowed upon him
by divine grace (karāmah) that whoever took some of the hashish prepared by
him and ate it repented immediately and never went back to it.”424
423 2 For ukhbirahū, read, perhaps, ujīrahū “deliver him from it.”
424 3 Cf. Ibn al-ʿImād, Shadharāt, VIII, 221, anno 937, quoting ash-Shaʿrānī.
chapter four
101 The Legal Discussion
1 The General Attitude
There existed no authoritative “text” on the use of hashish.1 How the pro-
hashish faction exploited this acknowledged fact to its advantage was stated
by al-ʿUkbarī in these words: “Know that the pure sharīʿah has not indicated
that the use of drugs that cause joy (al-ʿaqāqīr al-mufarriḥah) such as saffron,
bugloss, and others whose action is similar to that of this drug (hashish) is for-
bidden. No indication has come down from the Prophet to the effect that it is
forbidden as such (taḥrīm ʿaynih) and that a ḥadd punishment has been estab-
lished for eating it. Because there has been no tradition (inqiṭāʿ al-khabar) on
this matter, people have permitted it and have used it.”2 The argument was con-
stantly repeated. Particular favor seems to have been enjoyed by a verse which
even found the attention of stern Ibn Taymīyah, who accepted the claim that it
went back to some unnamed jurist.3 It appears under the name of ʿAlam-ad-dīn
Ibn Shukr, but he may not have been its originator:
Hashish intoxication contains the meaning of my desire,

You dear people of intelligence and understanding.
They have declared it forbidden without any justification on the basis of
reason and tradition.
Declaring forbidden what is not forbidden is forbidden.4
1 1 Cf., for instance, above, pp. 46 ff.

4 4 Cf. Ibn Kathīr, XIII, 314; Ibn Taghrībirdī, Nujūm, VII, 380; Ibn al-ʿlmād, Shadharāt, V, 404, all
anno 688.
According to al-Badrī, fol. 50a, ʿlmād-ad-dīn Ibn ash-Shammāʿ composed four verses, of
which the first two run:
Hashish intoxication contains a hidden secret

Too subtle for minds to explain.
They have declared it forbidden without any justification on the basis of reason and
tradition.
Declaring forbidden what is not forbidden is forbidden.
the legal discussion 237
ʿAlam-ad-dīn was, in fact, a legal scholar, but his way of life led to his being 102
rejected by the established authorities.5 The argument, however, had consider-
able force in Muslim society.
This situation naturally was a grave embarrassment for professional jurists.
They had no occasion to talk about hashish unless and until it became a social
problem that required legal attention regardless of the lacking sanction of the
religious law as transmitted. In the brief introductory words of his treatise,
az-Zarkashī hit the nail squarely on the head: “These are points dealing with
hashish that require comment at this time because so many low-class people
are affected by it and because many people hesitate to pronounce themselves
on the legal situation concerning it, having been unable to find a discussion of
it by the ancients.”
fī khumāri l-ḥashīshi sirrun khafīyun

daqqa taʿbīruhū ʿan-i-l-afhāmi.
Obviously, the second verse is here a quotation, as it also probably is in the verses of ʿAlam-ad-
dīn. For Muḥammad b. ʿAbd-al-Karīm b. ash-Shammāʿ (629–676/1231(2)-1277), no doubt the
person meant here, cf. al-Yūnīnī, Dhayl, III, 282 (Hyderabad 1374–1380/1954–1961); aṣ-Ṣafadī,
Wāfī, ed. S. Dedering, III, 281 (Damascus 1953); ʿAbd-al-Qādir, al-Jawāhir al-mudīyah, II, 85
(Hyderabad 1332); G. Wiet, Les Biographies du Manhal Safi, 328 (Cairo 1932, Mém. de l’Institut
d’ Égypte 19). Al-Badrī maliciously remarks that he should not be named ʿImād-ad-dīn but
with inversion of the letters, rather ʿadīm-ad-dīn “lacking religion.” And he approves of the
rejoinder by Ismāʾīl b. al-Maʿarrī, described as the muftī of the Yemen:
Those lie who say it is permitted

Wherever the action is like that of wine.
It has been declared forbidden on the basis of reason, tradition, and religious law.
Declaring permitted what is forbidden is forbidden.
kadhaba l-qāʾilūna inna ḥalālan

kullamā fiʿluhū ka-fiʿli l-mudāmi
ḥarramūhū (!) ʿaqlan wa-naqlan wa-sharʿan
wa-ḥarāmun taḥlīlu shayʾin ḥarāmi.
Both verses appear in the form ascribed by al-Badrī to Ibn ash-Shammāʿ on the title-page of
the Istanbul Ms. Murad Molla 1408 of the Ṣiwān by Abū Sulaymān as-Sijistānī. Their author is
indicated as ʿAlam-ad-dīn, with the remainder not clearly legible on my photostat (“b. Būrī”?)
but Ibn Shukr is probably meant. The scribe of the ms. adds another rejoinder, for which see
below, p. 150, n. 4.
5 1 Cf. above, pp. 84f.
We can consequently assume that the argumentation of the jurists was

greatly influenced by their own personal feelings about the social and moral
problems involved. Circumstances must often have determined their attitudes.
Political pressures and self-seeking considerations cannot be ruled out as
sometimes having had their share in shaping the legal reasoning.
It comes hardly as a surprise to find that modern scholars have reached the
conclusion that “the attitude of the ʿUlemā towards the use of narcotics was
103 less definite (than that on wine); they disagreed | upon its legality, though most
condemned it.”6 This statement was made for the seventeenth century, and it
is possible that by then there were scholars who did come out for the legality
of hashish in their own legal writings. However, for earlier centuries, it would
be quite difficult to prove that when it came to putting his scholarly reputation
on the line and expressing himself in writing, any jurist would have dared to be
unequivocally in favor of hashish. If this was done, we have no hard evidence
for it in the material at our disposal. It is true that the general climate would not
have been favorable to the preservation of such documents, but it is more likely
that they were never produced, at least not in written form to be preserved
for posterity. Stories told by littérateurs must remain suspect in every single
instance. At most, they prove that unofficially, and as men of general culture,
legal scholars, too, ventured to view a topic of general interest from several
sides. Nevertheless, we may safely assume that some, if not many, seriously
considered the idea that there was no firm legal basis for forbidding the use
of hashish.
Among the known titles of monographs on hashish, only al-ʿUkbarī’s com-
paratively early “Literary Thoughts in Praise of the Qualities of Cannabis” can
be assumed to have been written for the purpose of stressing the advantages of
hashish use, but the Sawāniḥ no doubt was a belletristic work and not a legal
essay. It is also by no means certain whether it was all that one-sided or also
contained much that was unfavorable to hashish, nor do we have any informa-
tion on Al-ʿUkbarī to show that he possessed any standing in the legal circles
of his time. The reply he is said to have provoked from his contemporary al-
Qasṭallānī7 was that of a jurist and presumably informed by religious and social
fervor, but since it is also not preserved, we are still at a loss to gauge the possi-
ble extent and quality of the legal arguments presented by Al-ʿUkbarī; as in the
case of al-Badrī, little space might have been devoted to them.
6 1 Cf. H.A.R. Gibb and H. Bowen, Islamic Society and the West, I, ii, 204 (Oxford University Press
1957).
7 2 Cf. above, p. 8.
The writing of treatises against the use of hashish, such as those preserved for
us, is at times described as something made necessary by the claims advanced
by those who declared the drug permissible, among them, quite frequently,
certain Ṣūfīs. “Declaring (hashish) permissible or lawful” is not quite the same
as using it. As we shall | see,8 it was also considered as a grave sin. The decision 104
as to what should be declared lawful and what not was the prerogative of
the legal authorities who alone had the knowledge to make it. Those Ṣūfīs
might at times have had legal training, but it would seem that when they
were involved in the hashish controversy, they did not act as representatives
of the legal establishment but as users and sympathizers who, whatever their
position in society, were presumably hard pressed to attempt justifying the
use of hashish in legal terms as they were the only ones likely to be heard
and to be effective. No strictly legal writing was in all likelihood done by
them.
At one time we hear that a certain highly respected Ḥanafite judge, Jamāl-
ad-dīn Yūsuf b. Mūsā al-Malaṭī, who died, about eighty years old, in 803/1400,
issued a fatwā permitting the use of hashish. He was teased about it by Muḥibb-
ad-dīn b. ash-Shiḥnah (d. 815/1412). Ibn ash-Shiḥnah told al-Malaṭī that he had
composed a couple of verses on some unnamed jurist:
I am surprised to find a shaykh who commands people to be pious

But himself never heeds the Merciful One or shows piety toward Him.
He considers it permissible to eat hashish as well as usury
And (says that) he who studies truly the Ṣaḥīḥ is a heretic.
We are asked to believe that al-Malaṭī did not recognize that he was being
teased, although it was he himself who had adopted what must have been a
rather peculiar attitude toward hashish, usury, and, supposedly, al-Bukhārī’s
Ṣaḥīḥ and thus could hardly have failed to get the point of the poem.9 It is not
explained to us why al-Malaṭī should have declared persistent students of the
Ṣaḥīḥ to be heretics. In fact, we may have here a joke based on ṣaḥīḥ being a
nickname for hashish.10 The verse apparently expresses al-Malaṭī’s disapproval
8 1 See below, p. 126.

9 2 Cf. as-Sakhāwī, Ḍawʾ, X, 4 f., 336; idem, Dhayl ʿalā Rafʿ al-iṣr, ed. G. Hilāl and M.M. Ṣubḥ, 409
(Cairo 1966); briefly also in Ibn al-ʿImād, Shadharāt, VII, 40. The last half-verse is corrupt.
The transmitted readings samiʿa or yasmaʿ-i (l-wuḥīya) have been corrected by the editors
of as-Sakhāwī’s Dhayl to read yastamiʿ li-l-waḥyi. A more likely reading would be: wa-man
yasmaʿ-i-ṣ-Ṣaḥīḥa ḥaqqan tazandaqa.
10 3 Cf. above, p. 28.
of over-indulgence (“true study”) in hashish whereas he permitted it in small

quantities. Correspondingly, in a way, we are expressly given to understand
that he did not, of course, permit usury, which would be unthinkable, but only
certain kinds of transactions generally assumed to fall under the heading of
105 usury. | However this might have been, we have no information as to whether
the objectionable legal decision of al-Malaṭī was ever put into writing and
achieved publication in one form or other. This was probably not the case in
this, and all or most instances when hashish was declared permissible with
legal arguments.
At about al-Malaṭī’s time, al-Aqfahsī seems to have harbored some inciden-
tal doubt about the legal situation regarding hashish, to which he is otherwise
strongly opposed. He refers to a comment by Sulaym ar-Rāzī (d. 447/1055),11
from his Taqrīb al-Gharībayn, on the tradition transmitted by Abū Dāwūd that
the Prophet “forbade everything muskir and mufattir,”12 to the effect that this
means that what is muskir is forbidden, and what is mufattir is (merely) disap-
proved of (makrūh). In the view of al-Aqfahsī, this could mean that the analogy
to wine is not applicable and that there should be no punishment (taʿzīr) for
hashish and banj under these circumstances. The difference between wine and
hashish would be that “contrary to wine, (hashish) is used as medicine, it is def-
initely clean, the person eating it is not subject to a ḥadd punishment, it is not
necessary to throw it away, its purchase is not forbidden, and eating a small
quantity of it is not forbidden.”13
In general, however, we can say that the scholarly legal view laid down in
published and preserved writings was against the use of hashish, if in somewhat
different degrees. Between the different legal schools, the condemnation of
it was, it seems, also unanimous, if, again, as is to be expected, with varying
emphasis.
11 1 Cf. GAL, Suppl., I, 730, where the name is vocalized Salīm. The reading Sulaym is indi-
cated by Ibn al-ʿImād, Shadharāt, III, 275. Cf. also McG. de Slane’s translation of Ibn Khal-
likān, I, 584 (Paris 1843–1871), and Fuʾād Sayyid’s edition of adh-Dhahabī, ‘Ibar, III, 213. Ibn
Khallikān mentions the author’s Taqrīb, without the qualifying genitive. Regrettably, adh-
Dhahabī’s Taʾrīkh al-Islām which may contain decisive information could not be consulted
as the Yale Ms. L-612 (Catalogue Nemoy, No. 1176) omits a few years, including the year 447.
12 2 Cf. above, p. 81.
13 3 Cf. al-Aqfahsī, fol. 21a–b. For ḥadd and taʿzīr, see below, pp. 123ff.
2 Hashish Considered as “Intoxicating” and as “Corruptive”
One argument appealed most to jurists in their fight against hashish and was
universally cited. That was the argument based upon analogy to khamr “wine,”
whose unlawful character was divinely established. Those licentious persons
who at the time of the | early spread of hashish through the Muslim world did 106
not hesitate to recommend its use occasionally used it together with wine.14
They also praised hashish as a substitute for wine. Thus, ʿAlam-ad-dīn Ibn Shukr
exhorted himself:
O soul, turn to amusement,

For by play does a young man live.
Do not get fed up with daily drunkenness.
If it cannot be wine, let it be hashish.15
“A dirham of hashish is more effective than pints of wine,” ran the praise of
hashish by another littérateur, a certain Jalāl-ad-dīn Abū l-Muʿizz b. Abī l-Ḥasan
b. Aḥmad b. aṣ-Ṣāʾigh al-Maghribī who lived in the first half of the fourteenth
century,16 and indeed, the numerous confrontations of hashish and wine17 are
rather unabashedly based upon a convenient disregard for the unlawfulness of
wine. But the jurists were fully convinced that if hashish could be equated with
wine, its unlawfulness was clearly proved.
It was recognized of course that hashish differed from wine in the raw
material from which it was prepared, in the form or forms of its preparation,
and, above all, by virtue of the fact that wine was exclusively a liquid while
hashish was predominantly used as a solid. These differences played a certain
role in the discussion. It was, however, a very minor role, and it was all but
eliminated by the overriding assumption that hashish and wine were equal in
the effect of either as being “intoxicating” (muskir). In this respect, scholars
had at their disposal the generally attested Prophetical tradition that “every
14 1 Cf. above, pp. 65 f.

15 2 Cf. Ibn Kathīr, XIII, 314; Ibn Taghrībirdī, Nujūm, VII, 380.
16 3 Cf. al-Maqrīzī, II, 26, as well as II, 25 (citing the same poet). Al-Maqrīzī’s immediate
source seems to have been the Ḥāfiẓ al-Yaghmūrī. This Ibn aṣ-Ṣāʾigh is not identical with
Shams-ad-dīn Ibn aṣ-Ṣāʾigh who is repeatedly cited by al-Badrī and who appears to be
the author mentioned in GAL, Suppl., II, 2. Before al-Maqrīzī, an-Nuwayrī, Nihāyah, XI, 29,
quoted these verses anonymously.
17 4 Cf., for instance, below, pp. 163ff.
intoxicant is wine, and every intoxicant is forbidden.”18 Clear-cut as this would

seem to make the matter, there remained certain problems. In the first place,
there is the problem of how “intoxicant” is to be defined and whether the
effects of hashish could be described as intoxicating in the same way as those
107 of wine. Then it must be asked whether intoxicating is to be understood as |
potentially intoxicating or refers only to the actual condition of intoxication;
in other words, it is a problem whether or not a small quantity of a potentially
intoxicating substance not leading to actual intoxication would be permissible,
together with the problem of the possible immunity of certain individuals
to intoxicating effects, which is of less significance in practice. And there is
a further, related problem, which is also discussed in connection with wine,
namely, whether or not under certain special circumstances, such as medical
necessity, moderate use should be adjudged permissible.
Jurists as a rule do not waste time and paper upon discussing why and how
hashish is to be branded as intoxicating. It is merely asserted that it is and
that many legal authorities assume it to be. As is often remarked, this is in
contrast to banj which is definitely not intoxicating,19 although it possesses the
qualities affecting the mind that make its use unlawful. Some attempts were,
however, made to define and clarify what intoxication meant. Thus we read in
az-Zarkashī20 that the effects of hashish agree with the commonly accepted
definition of “intoxicated” as referring to “someone whose orderly speech is
confused and who spills his hidden secret, or someone who does not know
heaven from earth or length from width.” The first alternative, which is in
rhymed form, is claimed already for ash-Shāfiʿī, as an-Nawawī tells us.21 The
18 5 Cf. Concordance, II, 491b43–49, and, for instance, Wakīʿ, Akhbār al-quḍāh, III, 42–45 (Cairo
1366–1369/1947–1950).
19 1 It may, however, be noted that the supposed Semitic term for henbane was etymologized
by I. Löw, Die Flora der Juden, III, 359 ff. (reprint Hildesheim 1967), as belonging to the
general root signifying intoxication. For Paul of Aegina, ed. Heiberg, II, 31, the mental effect
(parakopē) of henbane eaten or drunk was similar to that known of the inebriated.
20 2 Cf. below, p. 181.
21 3 Cf. an-Nawawī’s commentary on the Muhadhdhab of Abū Isḥāq ash-Shīrāzī (al-Majmūʿ,
Sharḥ al-Muhadhdhab), III, 8 (Cairo, n. y. [1966?]). For the confusion of speech, cf. as-
Sarakhsī, Mabsūṭ, XXIV, 30. These definitions of intoxication are also quoted by al-Aqfahsī,
fol. 13b. The second part appears in al-Ghuzūlī, Maṭāliʿ, II, 63. A definition focusing on the
“disappearance of worries and spilling of hidden secrets” was current in literary circles
according to Ibn ar-Raqīq al-Qayrawānī, Quṭb as-surūr, 388 (ar-Riyāshī), 396 (ar-Raqāshī).
In al-Badrī, fol. 70a, Hārūn ar-Rashīd is credited with it. The famous Muḥammad b. Dāwūd
aẓ-Ẓāhirī (d. 297/310) is described as the inventor of a quite similar formulation, cf. al-
Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī, Taʾrīkh Baghdād, V, 256 (Cairo 1349/1931). Cf. also Wakīʿ, III, 125.
Qurʾān based description of intoxication as a “covering of the mind” (taghṭiyat

al-ʿaql)22 is not an exclusive definition of intoxication since it is also applicable
to comparable states resulting from other causes.
All the statements of jurists with respect to intoxication share the | descrip- 108
tion of it as something leading to n-sh-w. This commonly used root is hardly
anything but a synonym of the other term for intoxication, s-k-r. It is indeed
difficult to see how n-sh-w could be translated differently. But n-sh-w was also
distinguished as indicating “the beginning and preliminaries” of intoxication
(sukr).23 In this way, it was probably understood to denote in particular the
exhilaration that was the initial emotional effect of wine. The root n-sh-w is
commonly associated with the description of wine as something “desired” (sh-
h-w), meaning the addictive compulsion of wanting more once one has tasted
it.24 Both n-sh-w and sh-h-w are also attributed to hashish and claimed to be
characteristic of it, thus marking it as something intoxicating and therefore for-
bidden.
However, there were some scholars who denied that hashish could be classi-
fied as intoxicating. They probably were few in number, but it was certainly not
only the Mālikite al-Qarāfī (d. 684/1285) who was the sole exception to the rule,
as az-Zarkashī maintains. Even if he knew of al-Qarāfī’s views, Ibn Taymīyah
had no doubt also others in mind when he argued against the idea of deny-
ing to hashish the effect of intoxication.25 Al-Qarāfī’s argument is found in his
Qawāʿid, as az-Zarkashī calls the work which has been published under the title
of Furūq (Anwār al-burūq).26 While the botanists have stated in their books that
hashish is intoxicating,27 al-Qarāfī on his part had doubts and preferred to think
of it rather as mufsid “corruptive.” He defines still another term, murqid, “nar-
cotic,” as something that stops the functioning of the five senses. If there is no
arrest of sense perception, and the effect is primarily nashwah, joy, and a cer-
tain feeling of strength and confidence in oneself (qūwat an-nafs), then we can
speak of muskir “intoxicating.” If the effect is not of this type, then we are deal-
ing with something that must be described as mufsid “corruptive.” Thus the
22 4 Cf. az-Zarkashī, below, pp. 115 and 184.

23 1 Cf. Lisān al-ʿArab, XX, 198 (Būlāq 1300–1308).
26 4 I, 261 f., in the edition Tunis 1302, with the chapter heading: al-farq al-arbaʿūn bayn qāʿidat
al-muskirāt wa-qāʿidat al-murqidāt wa-qāʿidat al-mufsidāt. For al-Qarāfī, cf. GAL, Suppl., I,
665 f., and for the text of az-Zarkashī’s quotation, cf. below, pp. 182f.
27 5 This dubious statement appears in az-Zarkashī’s quotation but is not found in al-Qarāfī’s
text.
classification of “intoxicating” applies to substances that, like wine and other

109 alcoholic beverages made from various substances and commonly | discussed
by the jurists,28 “remove the mind” while at the same time generating nashwah
and joy. “Corruptive” is what befuddles the intellect, without primarily gener-
ating joy, which is the effect of substances such as banj and saykarān.29 The
effect of wine is properly described in the following verse of Ḥassan b. Thābit,
the famous poet of the Prophet’s time:
When we drink it, it leaves us kings

And lions. Battle action does not repel us.30
Intoxicants generate increased bravery and cheerfulness, confidence in oneself,

an inclination toward violent action and taking revenge on one’s enemies, and a
heightened effort to outdo others in generosity and nobility of character. This is
the implication of the verse just cited that describes wine and the winedrinker.
Because this is the well-known effect (maʿnā) of intoxicants, the Mālikite judge,
ʿAbd-al-Wahhāb b. ʿAlī b. Naṣr (362–422/973–1031), said:
Winedrinkers think that wine

Banishes worry and turns away sorrow.
They are right: It has fun with their minds, and they imagine
That it makes their joy complete.
It deprives them of their religion and their minds.
Do you (not rather) think that anyone lacking these two would be sad?
This was Judge ʿAbd-al-Wahhāb’s reply to those who defended the general
assumption that wine generates joy and happiness.
Now, using this distinction between narcotic, intoxicating, and corruptive,
al-Qarāfī suggests that hashish is to be classified as corruptive, and not as
intoxicating, for two reasons. First, hashish is found to stir the juice hidden
in the body, whichever it is. Thereby it creates, for each temper according to
the individual’s particular condition, acuteness in people dominated by the
28 1 Such as mizr made from wheat, bitʿ (or bitaʿ) made from honey, and sukurkah made from
millet. Az-Zarkashī omits mentioning them.
29 2 Al-Qarāfī later adds opium. Az-Zarkashī mentions only banj. Saykarān, also in slightly
different forms, is henbane. Possibly, banj here is meant to refer to hemp (?).
30 3 Cf. Ḥassān’s Dīwān, ed. H. Hirschfeld, 1, No. 1, line 10 (Leiden and London 1910, E.J.W. Gibb
Memorial Series 13), trans. (O. Rescher), Beitraege zur Arabischen Poësie, V, 2 (Stuttgart
1953–1954). Cf. also al-Aqfahsī, fol. 5a.
yellow bile, somnolence and silence for the phlegmatic, weeping and restless-
ness for the melancholy, and cheerfulness for the sanguine. Some are therefore
found to weep very much, and others to be silent. In contrast, almost | every- 110
body devoted to wine and other intoxicating drinks is found to be exhilarated
(nashwān) and joyous and remote from the painful sensations31 of weeping and
silence. In the second place, wine is known to cause a strong tendency toward
quarreling among drinkers.32 They go at each other with weapons and are ready
to do frightful things they would not do when they are sober. This is meant by
Ḥassān b. Thābit’s reference to lions and readiness to do battle. Nothing of the
sort occurs when hashish eaters are together. In no way do they behave like
winedrinkers. On the contrary, they are quiet and somnolent as in a trance. If
one were to take away their things, he would not encounter in them the strong
violent reaction to be expected from winedrinkers in such a case. (Hashish
eaters) are the closest thing to dumb beasts. Therefore, corpses of people who
have died a violent death are frequently discovered among winedrinkers but
not among hashish eaters. For these two reasons, al-Qarāfī concludes, “I believe
that hashish is ‘corruptive,’ and not ‘intoxicating.’ I do not consider the ḥadd
punishment necessary in connection with it, nor do I consider prayer invalid
(for someone who has hashish in his possession); it requires taʿzīr as a deter-
rent so that people do not get mixed up with it.” In brief, al-Qarāfī’s argument
is that the different—and, it would seem to us, by and large more positive—
effects of wine vitiate the classification of hashish as an intoxicant, without,
however, making it any the less forbidden in principle, although the legal con-
sequences are somewhat less severe. This, however, was not the preponderant
attitude which, as has been stated, tended toward the view of ascribing intoxi-
cating properties to hashish.
A question more open to debate was that of the use of small versus large
quantities. This point also had considerable impact on the discussion of wine
for its potential of driving a wedge into the strict attitude toward alcoholic bev-
erages. For someone as strict as the Ḥanbalite Ibn Taymīyah, the quantity made
no difference. The prohibition holds, although, he says, large quantities caus-
ing intoxication are forbidden by general agreement (ittifāq) among | Muslims 111
and must for this reason be viewed more seriously.33 Not only “the last cup”
31 1 The colorless ṣudūr “occurrence” of al-Qarāfī’s text may be a mistake for taḍawwur, as in
az-Zarkashī’s quotation, which could hardly be (with most mss.) taṣawwur “perception.”
32 2 The ʿarbadah of drinkers is illustrated by stories in a special chapter of Ibn ar-Raqīq
al-Qayrawānī’s Quṭb as-surūr, 431–443. The pro-hashish forces often denounce it as one
of the disadvantages of alcohol, cf., for instance, below, p. 164, verse 14.
33 1 Cf. Ibn Taymīyah, Fatāwī, IV, 311 f.
of intoxicating beverages such as nabīdh, beer, or kumiss, is forbidden but any

quantity of them,34 and this no doubt also applies to hashish. Ibn Taymīyah
inveighs against the claim made for the Ḥanafites that they considered a non-
intoxicating amount of wine or hashish permissible. With respect to wine and
other intoxicating beverages, save some possible doubts with regard to beer, it
is simply a lie, Ibn Taymīyah contends, to accuse Abū Ḥanīfah of having made
any exceptions (nor would he have made any, had he had occasion to deal with
hashish). There is the much cited tradition—which, however, is not to be found
in al-Bukhārī and Muslim35—that the decisive factor is the potential intoxi-
cating quality: “Where a large quantity causes intoxication, a small quantity is
forbidden.” This, Ibn Taymīyah concludes, decides the question for intoxicating
hashish as it does for intoxicating wine.36
The Shāfiʿite adh-Dhahabī, if it was indeed he, followed Ibn Taymīyah in pro-
hibiting anything potentially intoxicating on the strength of the tradition just
cited.37 However, the famous Nawawī, commenting on Abū Isḥāq ash-Shīrāzī’s
Muhadhdhab,38 relied on the assumption that in contrast to wine, hashish,
being a plant, was not ritually unclean,39 and in this case, a little of it not causing
intoxication could be lawfully consumed. In reporting this view of an-Nawawī,
az-Zarkashī objects to it as being inconsistent with his view that hashish is to
be classified as intoxicating, as this rules out any use of it whatever. However,
az-Zarkashī also quotes the Tanbīh of Abū Isḥāq ash-Shīrāzī to the effect that
“everything clean the consumption of which does not cause any harm may be
eaten,”40 and concludes from it that “a small quantity of (hashish) is clean, and
there is no harm in eating it.” He further discusses the special case of the hypo-
112 thetical individual immune to hashish intoxication; | here the ritual cleanliness
of hashish would make its use permissible, in contrast to wine whose ritual
uncleanliness makes it forbidden even for the individual immune to its intox-
icating effect. In his discussion of the cleanliness or uncleanliness of hashish,
az-Zarkashī also shows himself inclined to assume lawfulness for the consump-
tion of small quantities, and in discussing whether vomiting after swallowing
34 2 Cf. Ibn Taymīyah, Fatāwī, IV, 326 ff.

35 3 Cf. Concordance, II, 491a29–31, and Ibn Taymīyah, Siyāsah, in making the case for the
soundness of the tradition.
36 4 Cf. Ibn Taymīyah, Fatāwī, IV, 301–303.
37 5 For ash-Shāfiʿī’s own view in connection with wine, cf. Umm, VI, 130f., 175ff.
38 6 The first three volumes of the edition available to me do not yet extend to this passage.
40 8 Cf. the edition of the Tanbīh by A.W.T. Juynboll, 90 (Leiden 1879). For az-Zarkashī’s text,
see below, p. 192, and cf. also al-Aqfahsī, fol. 20a.
hashish is obligatory as in the case of wine, he adopts a distinction between

intoxicating quantities, which require vomiting, and non-intoxicating quanti-
ties which do not.41
The Mālikite al-Qarāfī considered a small quantity of hashish permissible,
this, as az-Zarkashī explains, on the basis of his belief that it cannot be classified
as intoxicating but must be considered corruptive. Al-Qarāfī specified that
opium, banj, and saykarān are permissible as long as the amount used is not
of such a quantity as to exercise an influence upon the mind and the senses.
Less than that is indeed permissible.
The Ḥanafite approach was mostly in the direction toward greater tolerance,
providing the excuses that addicts were able to use in their own defense.42 This
at least was the way it turned out in practice while the theory was ambivalent.
A brief and somewhat one-sided summary of the attitudes of the four legal
schools toward the consumption of hashish, in analogy to their attitudes to-
ward wine, appears in the Risālah fī ḥurmat al-banj43 in the following form:
According to Abū Ḥanīfah and Abū Yūsuf, the drinking of wine, if it does
not cause intoxication, is permissible because these two Ḥanafite authorities
formulated their legal view with regard to the potential final result, which is
drunkenness. On the other hand, the third great Ḥanafite authority, Muḥam-
mad ash-Shaybānī, as well as Mālik, ash-Shāfiʿī, and Ibn Ḥanbal, held the view
that the forbidden character applied not only to the final result but was gener-
ally applicable to the entire process. For the author of the Risālah, the situation
with respect to hashish is fully analogous. Not having been mentioned by the
ancient authorities, banj and hashish have remained basically lawful (al-ibāḥah
al-aṣlīyah) as all other plants.44 This, for the author, is the crucial flaw in the
legal reasoning about hashish, which needs to be corrected. He | stresses the 113
fact that the view of the Shāfiʿite al-Muzanī and the Ḥanafite aṭ-Ṭaḥāwī45 out-
lawing banj must be considered legally binding as if it had been expressed by
the founders of the legal schools themselves. Consequently, the eating of banj
and hashish, whether in small or large quantities, is forbidden. “Nobody after
their time has ever said that the eating of banj and hashish is permissible, espe-
cially if they are taken pure for the purpose of becoming intoxicated, amused,
or emotionally excited, or because of having eaten too much food (aw li-kathrat
akl aṭ-ṭaʿām). Woe unto him who eats them, whether it be little or much. Again,
41 1 For the question of inducing vomiting, cf. also al-Aqfahsī, fol. 19a–b.
42 2 Cf. also the story of al-Malaṭī, above, p. 104.
43 3 Cf. above, p. 18.
44 4 Cf. above, p. 48.
45 1 Cf. above, p. 48.
woe unto him who eats them for amusement or emotional excitement or any-
thing of the sort.” Notwithstanding the strong stand taken by the author of the
Risālah, it seems obvious that the problem of quantity could be argued either
way and was so argued by adherents of all the schools without much distinc-
tion.
The question of the possible medical use of hashish was answered in a sim-
ilar manner since it involved quantities smaller than those that might ordinar-
ily cause intoxication or some other harm. In the view of jurists, the medical
authorities apparently did not have too much use for hemp products in the cure
of illnesses (see below). Anyhow, the legal authorities spoke mainly of banj in
this connection, but the assumption is that whatever they said of banj applied
equally to hashish. Thus al-Fanārī collected some opinions of his older Ḥanafite
colleagues such as Khwāharzādeh who, according to the Sharḥ al-Mabsūṭ (?),
considered the medical use of banj lawful unless it led to mental disturbance,46
in which case it was forbidden. The same opinion was expressed in the Mab-
sūṭ (that of Khwāharzādeh or, rather, that of as-Sarakhsī?).47 According to the
Ḥanafite Fatāwī al-Khulāṣah, there was nothing wrong with using banj for med-
ication, even if it brought about some mental disorder, but some authorities
limited this to exclude possible intoxication in the process.48 In his collec-
114 tion of Fatāwī, the Ḥanafite al-Bazzāzī | (d. 827/1424) adjudged the situation
similarly.49 Again, his contemporary, al-Qalqashandī, a Shāfiʿite, citing Judge
Ḥusayn al-Marwarrūdhī (d. 462/1069), expressed the same view with respect
to banj, jawz māthil (datura Metel L),50 and opium, if the drug was taken by
mistake or for medical purposes.51 The Shāfiʿite author of Qamʿ argued against
those who claimed for barsh the status of a highly effective medicament (burʾ
sāʿah) and, it seems, demanded on this basis that it be cleared for general use.
46 2 Dhahab, or zāl, al-ʿaql. In the context, some temporary state such as unconsciousness may
be meant, and no lasting deep-seated mental disturbance. However, such a distinction is
not inherent in the phraseology used. A person whose “mind is gone” is insane.
47 3 At least, the statement appears in the Kitāb al-ashribah of as-Sarakhsī’s Mabsūṭ, XXIV, 9.
For ash-Shāfiʿī himself, cf. Umm, V, 235, in connection with the divorce of the drunkard.
48 4 Cf. az-Zarkashī, below, p. 190. I have so far been unable to identify the work (identical with
the famous Khulāṣat al-fatāwī?).
49 1 In al-Bazzāzī’s chapter on ashribah, cf. Ms. Yale A-166 (Catalogue Nemoy, No. 888),
fol. 380b. Cf. also below, p. 122.
50 2 Cf. Meyerhof’s edition and translation of Maimonides, 43f. For the use in Arabic of
dāt(h)ūrah, cf. above, p. 46, n. 2, and below, p. 134.
51 3 Cf. al-Qalqashandī, Ṣubḥ, II, 146. For Judge Husayn, as the author of the Taʿlīq(ah) (cf.
below, p. 121) a much cited authority, cf. GAL, Suppl., I, 669.
This was, however, he said, a special case, permissible only upon medical pre-
scription for certain diseases under quite restricted conditions. After vigorously
stating that the use of barsh was ruled out by the religious law and by reason,
he had some further thoughts about its medical properties. He contended that
southern people such as the Egyptians must never use it, but it might be good
for the constitution of people living in the northern, snow-bound regions of the
world, not for all of them but probably for some.52 For the author of the Risālah
fī ḥurmat al-banj, it was, or should have been, the general consensus that the
drug must not be used even as a medicine. He realized, however, that others
considered this permissible, and it is not quite clear whether he himself would
not have been willing to make an exception, notwithstanding his strong con-
victions. When he warned against using banj or hashish in the case of “having
eaten too much,”53 this would seem, however, to aim at the lawfulness of their
use as medicines.
The fullest information on this subject is again to be found in az-Zarkashī.
In his chapter on particular legal problems connected with hashish, he speaks
of “the permissibility of its use for medical purposes if it is established that it is
beneficial (as an ingredient) in some medicines. Thus, it has been stated that it
dissolves flatulence and cleans up54 dandruff (ibriyah).55 … The reason for its
effective|ness in this respect is the heat and dryness it contains. It is necessary 115
to decide upon permissibility.56 For saffron, scammony, and other drugs which
in large quantities are deadly can by general agreement be taken, if needed,
in small quantities. I have seen (the Shāfiʿite) ar-Rūyānī (d. 502/1108), in the
Baḥr, state this openly.57 He said: It is permissible to use it for medical purposes,
52 4 Cf. Qamʿ, fols. 276b–277a and 279b–280a.

53 5 Cf. above, p. 113.
54 6 Rather than tanfī “removes.”
55 7 “Flatulence” goes back to Galen, De simpl. med. VII (XII, 8 Kühn): aphysos. “Dandruff” was
mentioned by Isḥāq al-Isrāʾīlī. Both he and Galen were quoted by Ibn al-Bayṭār. Other
beneficial medical uses mentioned by Ibn al-Bayṭār and al-Maqrīzī on the authority of
Galen and others are those of a diuretic, of cleaning the brain, of soothing pain of the ears,
and of being good for digestion (although it also said to be difficult to digest and bad for
the stomach, cf. below, p. 164, n. 5). See above, pp. 73 f.
56 1 Ms. A, in contrast to the other mss., adds a reference to the use of small quantities, which
according to an-Nawawī are forbidden, “if there is an absence of need.” From this, it follows
that in the case of need, the use of small quantities is permissible. The situation is different
with regard to wine. See above, pp. 110 f.
57 2 For the Baḥr, cf. GAL, Suppl., I, 673. Again Ms. A has a fuller text, referring to ar-Rūyānī’s
view that the use of small non-intoxicating quantities of wine is permissible for medical
purposes and that the use of plants for medication is absolutely permitted.
even if it leads to intoxication, whenever it cannot be avoided. He continued:

Something which is not intoxicating by itself but is so in combination with
something else, if it is of no use in another medicine, must not be eaten. If it is
of use, its use as medicine is permissible. Ash-Shāfiʿī has expressly stated that
the theriac made of various snake meats may be eaten only in the case of a
necessity of a kind that would make the consumption of carrion permissible.”
Az-Zarkashī also pays attention to the question of whether hashish may be
eaten in order to still one’s hunger. He decides that this may be done, for in
contrast to wine which does not quench a person’s thirst but rather increases it,
the consumption of hashish does not cause more hunger. This, it may be noted,
contradicts the frequently observed fact that the use of hashish stimulates the
appetite.58 However, az-Zarkashī may be right inasmuch as he starts out with a
situation in which hunger is present, in which case the effect of hashish would
be to alleviate the pangs of hunger. As he puts it, the most hashish does is “to
cover the mind.” In the context, the phrase must clearly be understood in the
sense of hashish being credited with a narcotic effect producing a kind of anaes-
thesia. Anaesthesia produced by drugs is permissible for medical purposes such
116 as the amputation of a gangrenous hand, az-Zarkashī remarks. Consequent|ly
it is lawful to eat hashish in the case of hunger or of medical necessity for the
purpose of preserving life.
Az-Zarkashī sums up his findings with respect to the circumstances under
which the use of hashish could be considered lawful and permissible, stating
that they are five: (1) If it is the question of a small quantity, but this is so only
according to an-Nawawī; (2) if the user is immune to the intoxicating effect
of hashish; (3) if it is consumed for medical purposes; (4) if it is consumed
to produce anaesthesia in connection with an amputation; and (5) if it is
consumed to still great hunger.59 The overriding concern of all legal scholars
was the abuse of hashish for “enjoyment and pleasure.” To this they were
unanimously and irrevocably opposed, as far as our knowledge goes.
It is not only the intoxicating effect of hashish but also, as we have already
seen, its effect upon mental and physical health and upon religious and moral
attitudes that provides the jurists with a strong argument. The law does not
permit self-destruction or causing harm to one’s body in any way,60 and that is
just what hashish is supposed to do. The physical and mental incapacitation,
58 3 Cf. above, p. 78. The view on wine is that of ash-Shāfiʿī, cf. as-Sarakhsī, Mabsūṭ, XXIV, 28.
59 1 Cf. the text, below, p. 195. The concluding words: wa-tajibu in lam nujawwiz al-istislām,
mean: “and they are necessary (and not merely permissible) if we do not consider sub-
mission (to self-destruction) permissible.”
60 2 Cf. M. Rodinson, in EI2, II, 1068b, s.v. ghidhāʾ, with reference to drugs.
rather than the transgression of the law, of the addict is mainly held responsible
for the harm that may come to his religion, adding another, even more fright-
ening aspect to the devastation the addict brings upon himself.61 As stated by
az-Zarkashī,62 there is general agreement among all the religious groups in the
world that the preservation of mental health is imperative, and, as stated by
Ibn Taymīyah63 and others, it is recognized by all Muslim scholars that anything
leading to the destruction of the mind is forbidden. The assumption adopted by
all those who were against the use of drugs was that they corrupt the mind and
the physical constitution, thereby placing them beyond the pale of accepted
custom. If this served only as a second-line argument against hashish, to be
used principally by those who were not clear in their minds about its intoxicat-
ing effect, the reason was that Muslim religious tradition furnished the more
clear-cut legal situation with respect to intoxication, but | the argument from 117
self-destruction existed and was compelling.
The jurists who attempted to stem the use of hashish had powerful weapons
in these two arguments. However, it ought to be realized that theirs was not a
completely impregnable position. It depended neither upon firm authority and
upon precedent of the kind generally admitted nor upon the intrinsic character
of hashish which was a plant and therefore basically permitted for use, but it
had to rely exclusively upon the drug’s presumed effects, and they were hard to
prove objectively.
3 The Ritual Cleanliness or Uncleanliness of Hashish
Muslim law makes much of the distinction between ritual cleanliness and
uncleanliness (ṭāhir-najis), and there is more practical significance to this than
would seem to be the case at first glance. Contact with an object classified
as unclean necessitates ritual washing and failing that would, for instance,
invalidate prayer. Internal use, such as the consumption of hashish, compli-
cated matters. As Ibn Taymīyah saw it, the proper ritual ablution would not
be enough since hashish is like wine which invalidates prayer for a certain
period.64

62 4 Cf. below, p. 185.
63 5 Fatāwī, IV, 310.
64 1 Cf. Ibn Taymīyah, Fatāwī, IV, 323. In the parallel passage, I, 129, Ibn Taymīyah speaks of
cleansing the mouth.
Quite divergent views were expressed on the status of hashish in this respect.
As a plant, we have seen, hashish clearly falls outside the established categories
of unclean objects. According to Ibn Taymīyah, its uncleanliness in its quality as
an intoxicant most definitely derives from the fact that it acquires its intoxicat-
ing effect already during the process of turning from its non-intoxicating state
into its intoxicating state (bi-l-istiḥālah), as does “raw wine,” i.e., must. Banj,
on the other hand, is, as repeatedly stated, not intoxicating in the proper sense,
and other drugs such as nutmeg become intoxicating only after the completion
of the process.65 In this way, hashish is distinguished from other plant-derived
narcotics and closer to wine with its firmly established unclean character. How-
118 ever, | even Ibn Taymīyah, convinced as he was of the need for considering
hashish as unclean and of the correctness of doing so, had to admit that even
among the Ḥanbalites themselves as well as among the representatives of the
other legal schools there was no unanimity in this respect. There were those
who thought that it could not be regarded as unclean. Others thought of it as
clean in its solid state but as unclean if it was in a liquid state. Others fortu-
nately professed what Ibn Taymīyah considered the right opinion, namely, that
hashish is unclean just as wine is.66
The Shāfiʿite az-Zarkashī graphically shows the vacillation that prevailed on
this point. In the brief fifth chapter of his treatise, he begins by stressing the
uncleanliness of hashish, only to end up, after citing his authorities, by being
not at all sure about the situation. His chapter offers a good illustration of
the difficulties facing the legal authorities in their battle against the drug and
therefore deserves translation here in full:
“The problem of the cleanliness or uncleanliness of hashish must be dis-
cussed on the basis of the earlier discussion of its intoxicating character. Ana-
logical reasoning requires that those who pronounce it intoxicating must also
pronounce it unclean. Aṭ-Ṭūsī67 has expressed himself in this sense in his
65 2 Cf. Ibn Taymīyah, Fatāwī, IV, 304. In connection with nutmeg, Meyerhof states in his edi-
tion and translation of Maimonides, 38f., that it was used as a stimulant in modern Egypt
after the suppression of the traffic in hashish and other narcotics. Ibn Ḥajar al-Haytamī,
Taḥdhīr ath-thiqāt, fols. 8b–10a, goes into some detail concerning the legal situation with
respect to it, quoting Ibn Daqīq-al-ʿīd.
66 1 Cf. Ibn Taymīyah, Fatāwī, IV, 311, also IV, 304, and Siyāsah; adh-Dhahabī, Kabāʾir. It may be
noted that in the systematic discussion of uncleanliness in the first volume of his Fatāwī,
Ibn Taymīyah makes no mention of hashish. This is probably due to the fact that in the
traditional treatment of the topic, hashish naturally did not have a place. Addicts are also
unlikely to have consulted a muftī on this problem.
67 2 ʿAbd-al-ʿAzīz b. Muḥammad aṭ-Ṭūsī, whose Miṣbāḥ is a commentary on the Ḥāwī of
Miṣbāḥ when he says: Hashish is unclean if it is established that it is intoxicat-

ing. However, Shaykh Muḥyī-ad-dīn (an-Nawawī) said that it was intoxicating
but not unclean, and he did not refer to a contradicting view in this respect. He
is supported by the definite statement that it is clean, made by Taqī-ad-dīn Ibn
Daqīq-al-ʿīd in what he has written on the Furūʿ of Ibn al-Ḥājib.68 He referred
to the general consensus in this respect, saying: Opium, the milk of poppy, is
stronger in its effect than | hashish because a small quantity of it produces 119
strong intoxication, and the same applies to henbane (saykarān) and nutmeg.
Nevertheless, the general consensus considers them as clean. With respect to
the general consensus in this connection to which he lays claim, there is some
discussion, as will be reported on the authority of al-Qarāfī in connection with
the question of prayer.69
In an old commentary on the Wajīz, we find that its author70 said that he had
heard two views reported orally on the uncleanliness of hashish.
Ibn al-ʿAṭṭār71 says: Hesitation has been shown with respect to declaring it
unclean if it is (in its solid state).72 If it is mixed with water and drunk, it is more
properly called unclean in the view of those who pronounce wine unclean.
al-Qazwīnī, died in 706/1306, or 707 as indicated in GAL, Suppl., I, 679. Since I was unable to
consult the work, I am not sure as to how far the quotation extends. It possibly included
the quotation from an-Nawawī but hardly that from his contemporary Ibn Daqīq-al-ʿīd,
although this is not entirely excluded.
68 3 For the legal work of the famous grammarian Ibn al-Ḥājib (d. 646/1249), cf. GAL, Suppl., I,
538. Ibn Daqīq-al-ʿīd (d. 702/1303) is listed in Suppl., II, 66.
69 1 See below, pp. 120 f.
70 2 Al-Badrī, fol. 53a, has the following statement: “If not literally in these words, then at any
rate according to the sense, it was said by al-Adhraʿī (708–783/1308–1381, cf. GAL, Suppl.,
II, 108) in his book, at-Tawassuṭ wa-l-fatḥ bayn ar-Rawḍah wa-sh-Sharḥ: I have seen in
a fragment of Sharḥ al-Wajīz qadīm that hashish is intoxicating, unclean, and its eater
subject to ḥadd.” It would seem that the Wajīz was the famous work by al-Ghazzālī. “Its
author” is obviously the author of the commentary, and not al-Ghazzālī. Al-Ghazzālī
himself states in chapter 1, section 1, of the book on al-ḥalāl wa-l-ḥarām of the Iḥyāʾ, II, 83f.
(Cairo 1352/1933) that plants that cause mental disorder (muzīl al-ʿaql, above, p. 113, n. 2)
such as banj are for this reason unlawful, but only “intoxicating” plants are also unclean.
This excludes, for instance, banj which causes mental disorder but is not intoxicating. The
inherent uncleanliness of intoxicants is an additional deterrent against using them.
71 3 ʿAlī b. Ibrāhīm (d. 724/1324), cf. GAL, II, 85, Suppl., II, 100. According to GAL, Suppl., I, 686,
he was the editor of an-Nawawī’s fatwās. The paragraph referring to Ibn al-ʿAṭṭār is to be
found only in Ms. B of az-Zarkashī.
72 4 This renders the drift of the discussion, but the text is not quite clear.
In his Fawāʾid ar-riḥlah, Ibn aṣ-Ṣalāḥ mentions as transmitted by the author

of the Taqrīb73 an opinion to the effect that a plant is unclean if it is a deadly
poison and that this was objected to on the basis of the text of ash-Shāfiʿī.74 But
analogical reasoning requires cleanliness for hashish. We have no plant what-
ever that is unclean per se, except plants that are watered with uncleanliness.
120 They are unclean per se according to aṣ-Ṣaydalānī.75 They went so far as to say |
about poison that is a plant, that it is clean although it is more harmful than
hashish. The statement that hashish is to be declared unclean is not to be con-
sidered acceptable, even if (hashish) were intoxicating, for proof comes only in
connection with wine, and something other than wine does not correspond to
it in all aspects. It is agreed that it is permissible to consume a small quantity
of hashish. If it were unclean, this would not be permissible.”
Thus, doubts existed, and while those who felt that hashish ought to be
outlawed thought it useful to brand it as unclean with all that this involved, it
seems that the legal situation was not easily reconcilable to such an approach.
The obvious result was another small loophole for the drug.76
4 Prayer and Divorce
At the beginning of az-Zarkashī’s seventh and last chapter, the question is

raised whether carrying hashish on one’s person and having it in possession
during prayer renders his prayer invalid. This is felt to depend on whether
hashish is clean or unclean. Al-Qarāfī reports the answer of an unnamed Egyp-
tian jurist77 that before the hemp is toasted and roasted, it has no effect upon
73 5 The famous ḥadīth scholar Ibn aṣ-Ṣalāḥ died in 643/1245, cf. GAL, Suppl., I, 610ff., and
J. Robson, in EI2, s.v. Ibn al-Ṣalāḥ. His “Travel Notes” are listed in Ḥājjī Khalīfah, 1297. The
Taqrīb appears to be the work of the Shāfiʿite Abū Shujāʿ al-Iṣfahānī (d. 593/1196), cf. GAL,
Suppl., I, 676 f.
74 6 Cf. above, p. 115.
75 7 As-Subkī, Ṭabaqāt ash-Shāfiʿīyah, IV, 31 (Cairo 1324), mentions Abū Bakr aṣ-Ṣaydalānī,
apparently the person meant here, a pupil of al-Qaffāl, who thus lived around 1100. He
wrote a commentary on the Mukhtaṣar of al-Muzanī (see Ḥājjī Khalīfah, 1636), cited by
al-Aqfahsī, fol. 14a.
76 1 For the comparison of “dirty” wine with “clean” hashish, cf. below, p. 155. This has nothing
to do with the question of ritual cleanliness and uncleanliness, although it was at times
combined with it.
77 2 Al-Badrī, fols. 53b–54a, says that it is an-Nawawī, and the inquirer is “ash-shaykh,” probably
still an-Nawawī. However, al-Badrī may merely be quoting from az-Zarkashī, in spite of
small textual variants, and his additional data need therefore not be considered.
the validity of prayer because in that state it is nothing but green leaves. Only
after it has gone through that process does it acquire its mind-destroying qual-
ities, and its possession then invalidates prayer. Al-Qarāfī—who still seems to
be meant rather than az-Zarkashī himself—inquired with a group of people
involved with hashish (mim-man yuʿānīhā)78 whether this distinction made
sense to them. He found them divided in their opinion. Some accepted it
as justified. Others, however, claimed that the efficacy of hashish was abso-
lute and that the toasting process merely served the purpose of improving its
taste and producing a better balanced quality. Al-Qarāfī himself, | it will be 121
recalled, considered hashish as “corruptive” and therefore as clean and hav-
ing no effect upon the validity of prayer, as opposed to “intoxicating” sub-
stances.
Another question that was raised concerned the functioning of addicts
as prayer leaders. Ibn Taymīyah was convinced that an addict must not be
appointed to the leadership of public prayer if a better person is available.
A prayer performed behind a prayer leader who is “wicked” ( fāsiq) is legally
classified as disliked (makrūh). There is general agreement on this point. On
the other hand, it is more debatable whether a prayer performed under such
circumstances is valid or not, with Abū Ḥanīfah and ash-Shāfiʿī lining up in
favor of validity, and Mālik and Ibn Ḥanbal being according to one tradition
for it, and according to another against it. Appointment of a known addict to
lead the prayer is, at any rate, quite out of the question.79 We do not know how
great the practical need was for dealing with this problem, but it certainly was
something to worry about, even if tales such as the one about a hashish eater
dressed like a legal scholar who was pressed into service as prayer leader and
spoiled the prayer by his irrational behavior throw no real light upon the actual
situation.80
According to the chapter on the prayer of travelers from the Taʿlīq(ah) of
Judge Ḥusayn al-Marwarrūdhī, a person who missed prayer or fasting while his
mind was affected by banj or other drugs is required to make up for what he
missed after recovery, as is also required of drunkards.81
78 3 Cf. above, p. 96, but here the word may also be meant to include “experts” on the subject
in addition to addicts.
79 1 Cf. Ibn Taymīyah, Fatāwī, IV, 322–324 (= I, 128–130).
80 2 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. 11b, and above, pp. 66 f.
81 3 Cf. az-Zarkashī, below, p. 197. For the general problems of missed prayers for reasons
of temporary insanity and intoxication, cf., for instance, an-Nawawī, Majmūʿ (Sharḥ al-
Muhadhdhab), III, 7 f.
Next to the problems of prayer, those of divorce were closest to the hearts
of medieval Muslim jurists and found the most attention in the law books. As
in the case of wine,82 it was a matter of debate whether a divorce pronounced
under the influence of hashish was binding or not. A basic question here is
whether or not a sin (maʿṣiyah) is involved. According to the Ḥāwī, possibly
that of the Shāfiʿite al-Māwardī (d. 450/1058),83 the law is the same for the
122 drug | user as it is for the winedrinker, according to one view, but according to
another view followed by Abū Ḥanīfah, the divorce is not binding, even though
(the addict) is a sinner. According to the Shāfī of al-Jurjānī,84 drinking wine
voluntarily or drinking banj intentionally for emotional excitement,85 so as to
cause mental disorder, is a sin; consequently, the divorce is binding. According
to the Ḥanafite Fatāwī of al-Marghīnānī (d. 593/1197),86 the actions of a person
intoxicated by banj would not be binding (and this then would include the
declaration of divorce).
Among Ḥanafites expressing their opinion on the problem was az-Zaylaʿī
(d. 743/1342).87 Citing ash-Shaybānī as his authority, he maintains that the
divorce pronounced by a person under the influence of banj is ⟨not?⟩ binding
like that of the winedrinker. Al-Bazzāzī (d. 827/1424)88 quotes ʿAbd-al-ʿAzīz
b. Khālid at-Tirmidhī on the authority of Abū Ḥanīfah and ath-Thawrī to the
82 4 Cf., for instance, D. Santillana, Istituzioni di diritto musulmano malichita, I, 258 (Rome, n.
y.). For ash-Shāfiʿī, see Umm, V, 235.
83 5 Al-Māwardī’s name is not mentioned, but since the quotation is preceded by another
from the Baḥr of ar-Rūyānī (d. 502/1108), which is a commentary on al-Māwardī’s Ḥāwī,
it seems likely that his Ḥāwī, rather than that of al-Qazwīnī (d. 665/1266), is meant here. A
perusal of these widely preserved works will bring the decision. For al-Māwardī, ar-Rūyānī,
and al-Qazwīnī, see GAL, Suppl., I, 668, 673, and 679, respectively. The Yale volumes of
al-Māwardī’s Ḥāwī (see below, p. 124, n. 6) do not include this section.
84 1 Ḥājjī Khalīfah, 1023, lists “ash-Shāfī fī furūʿ ash-Shāfiʿīyah by Abū l-ʿAbbās Aḥmad b.
Muḥammad al-Jurjānī who died in 482/1089–1090.” A brief obituary notice of this man
which, however, makes no reference to any scholarly activity of his appears in Ibn al-Jawzī,
Muntaẓam, IX, 50 (Hyderabad 1357–1359).
85 2 The reading of the text (below, p. 196) is correct and to be translated as above. Two mss.
have something like thzy’ wa-ṭaraban, seemingly two parallel adverbial accusatives.
86 3 These Fatāwī appear to be the work listed in GAL, Suppl., I; 649, No. III: at-Tajnīs wa-l-mazīd
fī l-fatāwī.
87 4 For ʿUthmān b. ʿAlī az-Zaylaʿī, cf. GAL, Suppl., II, 265. His statement is cited in the margin of
al-Fanārī. The negation seems to have been omitted by mistake, for in his Tabyīn al-ḥaqāʾiq,
VI, 47 (Būlāq 1313–1315), az-Zaylaʿī refers to the ineffectiveness of a divorce declared by a
person asleep and by a person whose mind is affected by banj and kumiss.
88 5 Cf. Ms. Yale A-166 (Catalogue Nemoy, No. 888), fol. 62a.
effect that a divorce pronounced under the influence of banj is binding if the
user when he drank it knew what it was he was taking, but it is not binding
if he did not know. However, al-Bazzāzī himself and Qāḍīkhān (d. 592/1196),
whom he quotes, think that it is not binding under any circumstances.89 Ibn
al-Humām (d. 861/1457),90 however, finds that no sin exists in the case of banj
or opium, as they are | principally used for medical purposes; consequently, 123
the divorce is not binding. But the use of narcotics for pleasure and with the
intent to cause harm changes the situation. In such a case, the divorce is
binding (apparently, because this involves a sin). The author of the Risālah fī
ḥurmat al-banj decides that a divorce declared under the influence of drugs is
binding, as it is in connection with wine, as a deterrent against their use, and
the same view is credited to “our (Ḥanafite) scholars” in a discussion apparently
by at-Timirtāshī.91
The question was presumably one of considerable practical importance. It
may not have been the result intended, but the preference expressed in favor of
the assumption that a divorce declared under the influence of drugs is binding,
while it might have worked hardship on the wife in certain cases, could also
have been for her a means to obtain a divorce from a husband who was an
addict. This would otherwise have been quite difficult for her. Our hashish
stories happen not to talk about divorce, and no reports on actual cases are,
as we must expect, available. Thus, once again, the jurists’ concern serves us as
a reflection of reality. Even if it cannot be corroborated, it appears to be a true
reflection.
5 The Feeding of Hashish to Animals
Animals must not be made drunk. Likewise they must not be fed hashish.
Az-Zarkashī adds, without indicating his authority, that animals would not
eat hashish.92 Al-Aqfahsī (fol. 20a) adds that if the purpose in feeding hashish
to animals is to increase their appetite and fatten them, it can be considered
permissible.
89 6 Qāḍīkhān, Fatāwī, II, 33 (Calcutta 1835), makes the same statement as az-Zaylaʿī, cited in
n. 4.
90 7 For Ibn al-Humām, cf. GAL, Suppl., II, 91. His statement is quoted by al-Fanārī.
91 1 According to the Gotha Ms., quoted in part above, p. 48.
92 2 Cf. below, p. 195.
6 The Punishment for Drug Use
Since the use of hashish was generally adjudged a crime, the proper form
and extent of punishment had to be discussed, even if this discussion had
to be held in the rather vague terms customary in Muslim jurisprudence. As
usual, it revolves around ḥadd, the punishment fixed by the Religious Law,
and taʿzīr, the punishment left to the discretion of the judicial authorities.
Clearly, if it was possible to equate hashish with wine, the ḥadd penalty for
124 wine would apply. Otherwise it would have to be taʿzīr. However, there | were
slight variations. Again it would seem that general considerations concerning
the danger inherent in the use of drugs, to a greater degree than strict reasoning
according to school tradition, determined the individual scholar’s attitude.
The strong feelings of the Ṣūfī Shaykh al-Ḥarīrī against hashish naturally led
to the conviction that the ḥadd punishment was applicable to hashish with
even greater force than to wine.93 Expectedly, Ibn Taymīyah showed himself
adamant in his insistence upon the ḥadd of either eighty or forty stripes for
those who believe that hashish is unlawful, yet take it.94 However, he was faced
with the fact that other jurists did not think the way he did and included
hashish in the category of drugs that were non-intoxicating such as banj, in
which case taʿzīr was indicated.95 We have already seen96 that the Mālikite
al-Qarāfī ranged himself among those. He considers hashish as corruptive
but non-intoxicating and draws the conclusion that in such a case, taʿzīr is
indicated, and only in the case of intoxication (not applicable to hashish) the
ḥadd punishment. In the course of time, a strong tendency seems to have come
to the fore in the direction of moving away from the theory that the ḥadd
punishment should go with hashish.
In the view of the Shāfiʿite colleagues of an-Nawawī, the use of non-liquid
substances and medicines “such as banj and this known ḥashīshah” were for-
bidden like wine but entailed taʿzīr, and not ḥadd, for punishment.97 The
Shāfiʿite az-Zarkashī considered the application of ḥadd obligatory on the basis
of his assumption of an intoxicating character for hashish. What is really deci-
sive for him is the property of giving pleasure and an emotional uplift. Thus
there is no contradiction in the statement of al-Māwardī who required ḥadd for
93 1 Cf. also Ibn Taymīyah, below, pp. 161 f.

95 3 Cf. Ibn Taymīyah, Siyāsah, and Fatāwī, IV, 310, 312.
96 4 Cf. above, p. 110.
97 5 Cf. an-Nawawī, Majmūʿ (Sharḥ al-Muhadhdhab), III, 9.
the use of plants causing strong emotion,98 and that of ar-|Rāfiʿī who rejected 125
ḥadd in connection with non-intoxicating plants, because the crucial consid-
eration is the effect of emotion. Thus, according to ar-Rāfiʿī, banj does not
require ḥadd because it does not cause pleasure and emotion and, in addi-
tion, is not strictly addictive.99 In az-Zarkashī’s view, since this is different with
hashish, the ḥadd penalty for hashish is also implied in the position taken by
ar-Rāfiʿī.100 Another Shāfiʿite, ʿIzz-ad-dīn, rejected in his Qawāʿid the applica-
bility of ḥadd to the use of non-intoxicating drugs such as banj whose destruc-
tive effect he considered to be of an extremely rare occurrence. He declared it
appropriate in connection with alcoholic beverages such as wine and nabīdh,
for they, he argued, were so very harmful just because of their ability to generate
joy and emotion. Az-Zarkashī made no comment as to whether this included
hashish.101 He might have wanted to leave it to the reader’s judgment as to
how the emotional aspect of the inebriating qualities of alcoholic beverages
could be reconciled with the effects of hashish. The Shāfiʿite judge Ḥusayn al-
Marwarrūdhī would certainly not have used the word hashish in the eleventh
century, but according to al-Qalqashandī’s discussion of hashish,102 he held the
view that intentional drug use was a major sin marking the user as “wicked”
( fāsiq) (as are winedrinkers). Unintentional or medical use did not have this
consequence. This then suggested the conclusion that hashish users are to be
classified as “wicked”; yet, they are not subject to the ḥadd penalty. To conclude
our survey of the Shāfiʿite position, we may quote, again from az-Zarkashī, the
colleagues, presumably Shāfiʿites, of a certain Ẓahīr-ad-dīn at-Tizmantī103 who
98 6 The passage from al-Māwardī’s Ḥāwī appears on fol. 182a of Vol. 23 of the Yale Ms. L-267
(Catalogue Nemoy, No. 1030). Al-Māwardī discusses two other possibilities: Plants like banj
that cause intoxication but do not cause strong emotion, which are forbidden to eat but
do not require the ḥadd penalty and, if necessary, may be used for medical purposes, and
plants like dād(h)ī “Judas tree” which do not cause intoxication by themselves but only in
connection with something else. For dād(h)ī, cf., for instance, M. Meyerhof and G.P. Sobhy,
The Abridged Version of “The Book of Simple Drugs” of … al-Ghāfiqī by Gregorius Abuʾl-Faraǧ
(Barhebraeus), I, 488–490 (Cairo 1938), and for the possibility of intoxication caused only
in connection with other substances, cf. above, p. 115.
99 1 Cf. above, p. 97, n. 1.
100 2 Cf. az-Zarkashī, below, p. 189. Ar-Rāfiʿī is better known as the historian of Qazwīn, who
died in 623/1226, cf. GAL, Suppl., I, 678.
101 3 Cf. pp. 190f.; Ibn ʿAbd-as-Salām, Qawāʿid, I, 164 (Cairo, n.y.).
102 4 Cf. al-Qalqashandī, Ṣubḥ, II, 146, and above, p. 114, n. 3.
103 5 This seems to be the correct reading, after Tizmant, a town in Egypt. Ibn Ḥajar, Durar,
II, 61 (Hyderabad 1348–1350), mentions a certain Jaʿfar at-Tizmantī as a law teacher of
al-Ḥusayn b. ʿAlī b. Sayyid-al-kull (646–739/1248(9)-1338). I do not know whether he was
acknowledged that they were confronted with three different views. Hashish,
as a plant, may be equated with wine and nabīdh because it involves intoxi-
cation, as this is the crucial point. It may be equated with wine only if it is in
126 liquid form, so as to have complete | correspondence. And it may be equated
with wine only if it can be shown that it produces the same effects as wine, such
as generating energy, bravery, daring, and exhilaration104 in the head. We may
well assume that only in the first case could there be ḥadd punishment, since
hashish was rarely used in liquid form and was not really believed to have the
qualities associated with wine.105
For the Ḥanafites whom az-Zarkashī quotes from the Fatāwī al-Khulāṣah,
medical use, even if it leads to mental derangement, remains exempt from the
ḥadd punishment. However, if the use of a drug (banj was presumably the word
originally used) is intended to produce intoxication, ash-Shaybānī favors ḥadd,
while Abū Ḥanīfah himself and Abū Yūsuf opt for taʿzīr.106 With express ref-
erence to banj, this view is also reported in the marginal notes of al-Fanārī as
having been stated by al-ʿAynī (?).107 Ḥadd punishment is also demanded, for
the use of banj leading to intoxication, by the Tanwīr al-abṣār, az-Zaylaʿī and
the Tātarkhānīyah.108 The authoritative Ḥanafite view with regard to the use
of hashish was evidently the one quoted by al-Fanārī from al-Ḥaddād(ī)’s com-
mentary on al-Qudūrī: “(Hashish) is less strictly forbidden than wine. Eating
a small amount of it does not require the ḥadd penalty, even if intoxication
results. It is like drinking urine and eating faeces. It is forbidden but does not
require the ḥadd penalty but a taʿzīr less severe than ḥadd.”
The user was thus criminally culpable, but he was not condemned as harshly
as was the person who “declared the use of hashish lawful and permissible”
(who, of course, mostly was, but need not always have been, a user himself). At
this Ẓahīr-ad-dīn. The entire passage concerning him occurs only in one-half of the
Zarkashī manuscript tradition.
104 1 This appears to be the meaning of nashāh, apparently from the root n-sh-w. No doubt the
same word occurs in Ibn Taymīyah, Fatāwī, IV, 324 (= II, 252) (below, p. 148, n. 4), where
the printed text offers nashʾatuhā or shiyātuhā, neither easily explainable in the context
by its ordinary meaning. Nashāh also appears repeatedly in Ibn Ḥajar al-Haytamī, Taḥdhīr
ath-thiqāt.
105 2 Nashāṭ “energy” is mentioned as an effect of hashish in the Ḥaydar story (above, p. 51), but
cf., in particular, al-Qarāfī, above, pp. 109 f.
107 4 I am not sure whether this is the correct reading and, if so, whether he is the well-known
historian who died in 855/1451.
108 5 For the Fatāwī at-Tātarkhānīyah of Ibn ʿAlāʾ (d. ca. 750/1349), cf. GAL, Suppl., II, 643.
least for Ibn Taymīyah, an individual who thus distorted the intent of the divine
law was an apostate (murtadd) and was to be treated as such. He must be asked
to repent, and failing to do so, he must be killed. His corpse must not be washed,
the funeral prayers must not be performed for him, and he must not | be buried 127
among Muslims.109 We do not have further evidence on this point, but a late
jurist, probably at-Timirtāshī (quoting an-Nasafī?),110 ascribes to “our scholars,”
meaning the Ḥanafites, the view that those who say that eating hashish is lawful
(man qāl bi-ḥill aklih) are not only innovators and “wicked” but also heretics
(zindīq). This may mean that they considered the severe fate awaiting heretics
as reserved also for those people. In the same discussion, users are thought
deserving of severe taʿzīr.
In this connection, we also find an express statement as to what is to be done
legally with those who traffic in hashish. Their punishment is taʾdīb “chastise-
ment,” which is one, or rather some, of the forms the taʿzir punishment could
take.111 Both the growers of hashish and hashish sellers suffered destruction of
their product. This obviously entailed considerable financial loss for them,112
but it was a practical matter which appears to have found little repercussion in
legal theorizing.
What the actual legal practice was as distinct from the theory would be of
particular importance for us to know in our quest to understand hashish as a
social problem, but if we wish to be honest with ourselves, we must admit that
our knowledge in this respect is almost non-existent. Documented information
can be expected to come forth from Ottoman archives and literary sources.
For earlier times, there is little hope that even the most careful sifting of the
preserved material will present us with something like a documented and
coherent picture.
The ḥadd punishment put a severe stigma upon those convicted to it, and
it was generally considered as more stringent than taʿzir. It was in fact held
by the majority of schools that the taʿzīr should not go beyond the extent of
the prescribed ḥadd, but this could be measured unambiguously in the case
of hashish only when the applicable ḥadd consisted of stripes like that for
drinking wine (according to the prevailing theory, even though the practice
109 1 Cf. Ibn Taymīyah, Fatāwī, IV, 302, 310, 312.

110 2 Cf. above, p. 48.
111 3 Cf. above, p. 49, and the anecdote, above, p. 39. Ibn ʿAbd-aẓ-Ẓāhir singled out the grower
of hashish as deserving of chastisement whereas the user should be denounced publicly
(sh-h-r VIII) (which would also qualify as “chastisement”), cf. al-Ghuzūlī, Maṭāliʿ, II, 129;
Ibn Ḥijjah, Thamarāt, I, 364.
often substituted jail for it). Taʿzīr could therefore result in practice in penalties
that hit the culprit harder than ḥadd.
128 Before either ḥadd or taʿzīr could be administered, the difficult hurdle of
providing evidence had to be cleared. Under many, if not most, circumstances
this might not have been possible. The establishment of guilt when a suspected
user was brought before the authorities probably depended as a rule upon
witnesses or the finding of hashish in the suspect’s possession. Some glimpse
at the procedures that might at times have been followed is granted us by
a passage in al-Badrī (fol. 55a). Signs of hashish intoxication are redness and
dullness ( futūr) of the eyes, a sallow pale (“dirty yellow”) complexion of the
face, and difficulties in moving about combined with physical and mental
apathy (kasal, khabāl). These signs are used by the authorities (ḥākim) to prove
the case against a defendant. If the accused denies his guilt, he may be given
sour milk to drink and be ordered to throw up, as the greenness of hashish
would go down (rather, come up?)113 with it. If the accused refuses, he should
be beaten until he complies.
For a judge, regardless of school affiliation, a decision was certainly never
easily arrived at. Defenders of the use of hashish could not only claim that there
was no law against it. Under ordinary circumstances, they could be also fairly
certain that the law would not attempt to reach out for them.114
A special situation existed in the case described by al-Badrī (fol. 57a). On
25 Ramaḍān 867/13 June 1463, shortly before the maghrib prayer, an individual
was apprehended in Damascus with hashish in his hand and ready to eat it.
He confessed that he had obtained it from someone who had ground (ṣ-ḥ-n)
it and that he had meant to eat it at the time of the call to prayer. Both he and
his source were beaten and publicly denounced and then banished. In this case,
the crime of using hashish was combined with an intended desecration, at least
on the part of one of the culprits, of the fast of Ramaḍān. How the punishment
would have turned out under less incriminating circumstances is hard to say.
When the government decided to proceed energetically against the use of
drugs, severe penalties were demanded and apparently also imposed. This
included the death penalty. In the thirteenth century, Baybars prohibited the
consumption of wine and hashish and invoked the sword as the punishment
129 (expressed by the word ḥadd) for it.115 | In the latter part of the fourteenth
century, Sūdūn ash-Shaykhūnī punished people accused of making hashish
113 1 Tanzil, cf. nizāl, below, p. 164, n. 1?

114 2 Cf., for instance, above, p. 76, or below, p. 164, verse 16.
115 3 Cf. below, pp. 135f.
with the extraction of their molars, and many suffered this fate, as al-Maqrīzī
tells us. The seventeenth-century anecdote reported by Ibn al-Wakīl al-Mīlawī
has two old men go to a park in Qaṣr al-ʿAynī, then outside Cairo, in order to
eat hashish and smoke tobacco undisturbed. They were afraid of being found
out by the governor, Ḥusayn Pasha,116 and decided that one of them should
always watch the road. They alternately ate hashish and smoked tobacco, but
the effect of hashish caused the watcher to fall asleep. He woke up only upon
hearing the clatter of the horses of the men of Ḥusayn Pasha. Quickly he
hid the smoking apparatus (dawāh) under the garment on the back of the
other man. When Ḥusayn Pasha came and asked them what they were doing
there, he told him that he was a barber getting ready to shave his companion’s
head. The companion felt the heat of the smoking utensil and squirmed, and
when Ḥusayn Pasha who was aware all the time that they had been smoking,
asked him why the man was squirming, the “barber” blamed the heat of the
razor. Ḥusayn Pasha called his attention to the fact that he had no razor. So
he said that he was squirming because he was afraid of his clumsiness and
inexperience in barbering. Ḥusayn Pasha broke out laughing. All the while,
however, the man suffering from the burning heat accused his companion
in Arabic of having burned his back, only to be told to be quiet and patient
since “the burning of fire was milder than decapitation.” Both naturally thought
that Ḥusayn Pasha did not know Arabic and did not understand them, but he
did. Yet he did not have the men arrested but gave them some gold and silver
coins as a payment, he said, for the barbering, and then left them alone.117 The
prime offence here was not hashish but smoking, which was hotly debated at
the time.118 The death penalty was at stake, but enforcement was evidently
lax.
It would seem that the occasions when the government was determined to 130
take drastic steps against hashish (for reasons never stated in satisfactory detail
but at best in generalities such as counteracting moral laxity) were infrequent,
and the action not very successful. One might also suspect that at other times,
116 1 He was Deli Ḥusayn Pasha, who died in 1069/1659 and was governor of Egypt from
1045/1635 to 1047/1637, cf. I. Parmaksizoǧlu, in EI2, s.v. Ḥusayn Pasha. The date of his
governorship in Egypt provides the exact chronological setting for the story.
117 2 Cf. Ibn al-Wakīl al-Mīlawī, Bughyat al-musāmir, in the Cambridge Ms. ar. 136 (Qq 194),
fols. 113b–114a. For the author and the work, cf. F. Rosenthal, in J AOS, LXXXIII (1963), 454.
118 3 The unsuccessful repressive actions against the use of tobacco in the Ottoman Empire are
described, for instance, in Ḥājjī Khalīfah, The Balance of Truth, trans. G.L. Lewis, 50ff. The
little treatise (cf. also above, p. 16, n. 2) presents a good picture of the theoretical and legal
arguments then in vogue.
the number of individual cases that reached the courts was limited and stood
certainly in no proportion to the number of addicts. The legal theory left some
loopholes, although by and large it was agreed upon the criminal character
of drug use. But it was fighting a losing battle with the reality of the societal
environment and seems to have given up and failed when a strong stand was
sorely needed. At the end, the prevailing attitude in society appears to have
been one of complete resignation.119
119 1 This, at least, is the impression one gains from the just cited work by Ḥājjī Khalīfah for the
first half of the seventeenth century.
chapter five
Hashish and Its Users in Society 131
1 Economic Aspects
With its continued growth, the hashish habit quite naturally came to play a
certain role in economic and commercial life. The extent and character of this
role can be assumed to have varied a good deal from country to country and
from locality to locality, but we do not have the details that would be necessary
to make any precise statements about this situation.
One of the outstanding features about hashish was its comparative inexpen-
siveness. It might have been only under rare conditions that it was beyond the
reach of anybody.1 Hashish was so cheap that it could be said by the historian
Ibn ʿAbd-aẓ-Ẓāhir in the thirteenth century that one dirham of hashish readily
bought as much intoxication as did one dīnār of wine.2 This, of course, is not to
be taken literally, but it gives a good idea of the economics involved. Wine, in
contrast to hashish, was a luxury item that the poorer sections of the popula-
tion were unable to afford, a fact repeatedly commented upon. The production
of hashish also was much less refined and complicated than the cultivation
and the processing of grapes, nor should it be forgotten that hashish was a
much less bulky and more easily handled merchandise than wine. Moreover,
the trade in it did not require the capital and organization that can be assumed
to have been required in the merchandising of wine. Thus, even if hashish had
not been a subject to be treated gingerly and to be bypassed wherever possible,
we could not expect to find for it even a small part of the information that exists
on viticulture and the wine trade. Understandably, the jurists, too, paid much
less attention to it.
Hemp was grown for purposes that were entirely legitimate such | as the 132
production of rope.3 For use as a drug, the wild variety could be used and
was, in fact, recommended for use.4 But primarily, it was cultivated in “gar-
1 1 Cf. above, p. 99.

2 2 Gf. al-Ghuzūlī, Maṭāliʿ, II, 129; Ibn Ḥijjah, Thamarāt, I, 364. For a similar comparison with
respect to weight, cf. above, p. 106.
European observers in the past always stressed the cheapness of hashish as compared to
other narcotics, cf. Silvestre de Sacy, Mémoire sur la dynastie des Assassins, 48, 50.
3 1 Cf. S.D. Goitein, A Mediterranean Society, I, 86, 105 f. (Berkeley and Los Angeles 1967).
4 2 Cf. above, pp. 57f.
dens,” as already Ibn al-Bayṭār tells us. Quite apart from the possibility that it
often was home-grown in small patches of land, the acreage used for planting
it even commercially was no doubt as a rule small. However, we also hear that
in certain parts of the Delta of the Nile, the major crop sown was hashish, and
the daily consumption of hashish in Cairo amounted to ten thousand nuqrahs
(= dirhams), presumably referring to the monetary value of the hashish con-
sumed.5 There may be considerable exaggeration here, especially with respect
to the statement of hemp being the principal crop in some of Egypt’s most
fertile land, but there is little reason to doubt that hemp as the source of hallu-
cinatory cannabis was not negligible as a factor in agriculture. The cultivation
of hashish was largely forbidden no less than its use. An additional verse to be
found in adh-Dhahabī’s Kabāʾir stresses this point (although it should be noted
that the second line also occurs in connection with wine):6
To eat it and to grow it as something lawful—

These are two calamities for the unfortunate individual.
According to az-Zarkashī,7 growing hashish for use as an intoxicant is forbid-

den, while growing it for medical purposes is permitted. Ibn Taymīyah might
not have made an express pronouncement on the subject since all az-Zarkashī
quotes in this connection as Ibn Taymīyah’s view is a fatwā of his that forbade
the cultivation of a kind of grapes to be found in certain places in Syria which
could not be used as raisins but were good only for wine.
Between the grower and the seller, we find the “maker” or “producer”
( f-ʿ-l, ṣ-n-ʿ) of hashish, evidently the entrepreneur who turned the plant into
133 the product ready for sale and use. At times, | he might of course have been
identical with either the grower or, more likely, the seller, if not both. This
probably depended upon the volume of local demand and the resulting prof-
itableness of any of these activities. When severe punishment was meted out in
connection with the making of hashish,8 it probably affected those involved in
all the stages, from growing to preparation to consumption. And the curse pro-
5 3 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. 4b, where, in spite of the use of “I say,” the statement seems to go back
to the alleged source, al-Bunduqī’s Ṣaḥīḥ (see above, p. 28, n. 4). The Damiette region in
particular seems to be meant for hashish being the major crop there. Although the phrasing is
somewhat strange ( yustaʿmal fīhā kull yawm bi-ʿasharat ālāf nuqrah ḥashīsh), the preposition
bi- suggests that nuqrah cannot be understood as referring to “lumps” of hashish.
6 4 Cf. the Berlin Ms. (but not the Princeton Ms.) of Ibn Ghānim.
7 5 Below, p. 196.
hashish and its users in society 267
nounced in Qamʿ upon “the maker and consumer of hashish”9 was no doubt
also intended to be all-inclusive. However, the producer of hashish from the
harvested hemp crop was a further link in the economic chain of drug use.
That tax farming (ḍamān) was undertaken in connection with hashish (see
below), in whatever form it might have been, clearly shows that it was a
commercial item of some importance. We do not know anything about the
profits of the sellers marked for chastisement in Transoxania,10 but a local
addict who maintained himself by importing and selling hashish was certainly
not just compelled by his habit to continue in business, but he also found it
lucrative and was not greatly bothered by occasional monetary fines imposed
upon him.11 The hashish seller (bayyāʿ al-ḥashīsh) of the Arabian Nights is
described as selling also preparations with, it seems, no hashish in it.12 However,
his appears to have been an established business, and presumably a profitable
one. The confection called ʿuqdah13 provided its inventor with a flourishing
business, even if it had to be a clandestine operation. A success story paralleling
that of ʿuqdah is reported by al-Badrī (fols. 29a–30a) as having taken place in
his own lifetime, in the years 869–870/1464–1466. A Persian called ash-Sharīf
(but not a descendant of the Prophet, min ghayr shaṭfah khaḍrāʾ) came to
Damascus and set up two tents in which he sold herbs and confections. He had
a good business and soon received a missive from Egypt expressing the desire
of Egyptians for his product and beginning with the verse: “Anyone going to
Damascus underneath its fortress—Please greet the seller of the paste (maʿjūn)
in the tent(s).” He accepted the invitation and set up a candy shop in Cairo
where his employees produced pears, apples, red and green dates, and other
(candied fruits). He was so successful that it was rare to find a | Cairine, man, 134
woman, or child, without candies from ash-Sharīf in the pocket. But then it
happened that the wife of an amīr al-ʿasharāt went to the public bath and
her companion (khushdāshah) gave her one of the dates (bal[a]ḥah) from the
Sharīf establishment to eat. It was her first experience with them, and she
had hardly entered the bath when she lost contact with reality (ghābat ʿan
wujūdihā). Applying a shampoo (nūrah)14 to her head, she felt its pleasant
9 2 Cf. Qamʿ, fol. 275b: … al-ḥāshīshah qātal Allāh fāʿilahā wa-mubtaliʿahā.

10 3 Cf. above, p. 49.
11 4 Cf. above, p. 39.
12 5 Cf. the story referred to above, p. 32, n. 4.
13 6 Cf. above, p. 33.
14 1 Lit., “depilatory,” cf. A. Louis, in EI2, III, 145a, s.v. ḥammām, on modern Tunisian ṭfal “fuller’s
clay, dry mud.”
itch and started to scratch but then was unable to stop until her tresses fell
out. Her husband was shocked when he saw her. He got together with the
muḥtasib, and they accused ash-Sharīf of putting hashish in his confections.
Ash-Sharīf denied it and gave them his recipe. They had it checked out with
a druggist, and it was found that the candies did not contain hashish. There
was disagreement among people as to what could have been the intoxicating
ingredient. Some suggested that it might have been ḥāfir al-ḥimār,15 others
thought of dāt(h)ūrah, and others still of other plants.16 Anyway, when the
amīr al-mushidd17 heard about the matter, he gave ash-Sharīf a large salary
which enabled him to set up a chain of candy stores all over Cairo. If hashish
had been involved or, if it was, could have been proven to be involved, he
probably would have been put out of business, but the story suggests that a
skilful retailer could have done very well with hashish confections, at least for
some time.
The need to keep the hashish trade under cover was no doubt the result of
the legal attitude toward activities of this sort. Az-Zarkashī declared it permis-
sible for the drug to be sold if it was intended to serve useful pharmacological
purposes the same way as was done by scammony and opium, but even in
135 this case only on condition that | it be traded in small quantities only. Sell-
ing hashish to those who were definitely known as addicts was forbidden.18 On
15 2 There is a plant called ḥāfir al-muhr “colchicum” (cf. M. Meyerhof, ed. and trans. of
Maimonides, 134 f.), but there also is a ẓilf al-ḥimār (ẓilf being a synonym of ḥāfir), cf.
H.P. Renaud and G.S. Colin, Tuḥfat al-aḥbāb, 184 (Paris 1934, Publ. de l’Institut des Hautes
Études Marocaines 24). Dioscurides’ reference to ḥawāfīr al-ḥamīr and aẓlāf al-maʿz (II, 42,
44; ed. Wellmann, I, 134; Dubler and Terés, II, 141) is, however, of no help as no plant names
are involved.
16 3 With reference to the zaqqūm legend, above, p. 46, n. 2.
17 4 As in the case of the poet so named (above, p. 91, n. 5), who was a superintendent of
government bureaus, this refers to some high rank in the Mamlūk administration. For the
various possibilities, cf. W. Popper, Egypt and Syria under the Circassian Sultans, 94f. For
the “amīr of ten(s),” cf., for instance, D. Ayalon, Studies on the Structure of the Mamluk Army,
in BSOAS, XVI (1954), 470.
18 1 Az-Zarkashī (below, p. 195) continues: “as it is forbidden to sell grapes to winemakers. The
statement that hashish is intoxicating leads through analogical reasoning to the conclu-
sion that the sale (of it) is invalid, even if it is clean, like musical instruments.” Al-Aqfahsī,
fol. 22b, adds to this the view expressed by Shaykh Abū Ḥāmid that selling grapes to wine-
makers is not forbidden since they might repent. He concludes that this could also be
considered applicable to hashish. Abū Ḥāmid would be the famous Shāfiʿite, Aḥmad b.
Muḥammad al-Isfarāʾinī (344–406/955(6)-1016), cf. al-Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī, Taʾrīkh Bagh-
dād, IV, 368–370 (Cairo 1349/1931); as-Subkī, Ṭabaqāt ash-Shāfiʿīyah, III, 24ff.
the other hand, if we can take al-Aqfahsī literally, the purchase of hashish was
not unlawful, in contrast to that of wine.19
In order to curb the use of hashish, it was necessary to hit it at the source, that
is, primarily, either the growers or the sellers. Sometimes, urban development
eliminated a popular source of hashish. This happened when the Kāfūr Park in
Cairo was built up in 651/1253. It put an end to the use of the park for cultivating
hashish there.20 The word employed in connection with the destruction of
hashish is “burning.” What was burned is somewhat ambiguous, but we may
assume, with good reason, that it predominantly referred to burning down
the hemp fields (or rather, the cut plants), and only rarely if at all to the
burning of the finished product, the stock of hashish in the hands of dealers.
We have already heard that the Ḥanafites and Shāfiʿites of Transoxania agreed,
presumably at a comparatively early date in the history of hashish, that it was
to be burned with considerable loss to the owners.21 If this loss was due to its
great value, it would seem to mean the destruction of the finished product
held by merchants, but if it resulted from lack of recompensation, it would
also be possible to think of the burning down of the plants in the fields.
When the governor of Cairo, Mūsā b. Yaghmūr (599–663/1202(3)–1265), was
ordered by al-Malik aṣ-Ṣāliḥ Najm-ad-dīn Ayyūb in 643/1245 to prevent the
growing of hashish in the Kāfūr Park, he had a large amount of it collected
and burned, quite obviously, the harvested plants,22 but a slight ambiguity in
this respect attaches to the famous report of the attempt, undertaken in Egypt
under al-Malik aẓ-Ẓāhir Baybars in 665/1266–1267, to proceed against moral
laxity in the population. It involved revocation of the | ḍamān for hashish and 136
the destruction of it by fire as well as the destruction by fire of houses where
intoxicating beverages were available, breaking the wine vessels found there
and pouring out the wine.23 Since the wine was the finished product stored in
taverns ready for consumption, we might think that also the hashish was the
finished drug available from dealers; this, however, is quite obviously uncertain,
19 2 Cf. above, p. 105.

20 3 Cf. al-Maqrīzī, II, 25, and I, 457.
21 4 Cf. above, p. 49.
22 5 Cf. al-Maqrīzī, II, 26.
23 1 Cf. al-Kutubī, Fawāt, I, 170 (in the life of Baybars), and II, 387 (in the life of Muḥammad
b. Dāniyāl); Ibn Dāniyāl, Ṭayf al-khayāl, cf. G. Jacob, Das Schattentheater, 7 (Berlin 1901);
al-Maqrīzī, I, 106, ed. G. Wiet, in Mém. de l’ Institut Français d’Archéol. Or. du Caire, XXXIII
(1913), 90, and II, 302; Ibn Iyās, Badāʾiʿ, I, 104–107 (Būlāq 1312), anno 665 (not available);
ʿAlī Ṣ. Ḥusayn, Ibn Daqīq-al-ʿid, 40 f. (Cairo i960); S.Y. Labib, Handelsgeschichte Ägyptens
im Spätmittelalter, 249 (Wiesbaden 1965).
and the burning of hemp plants might rather be meant. Accordingly, the ḍamān
would refer to tax revenues obtained from the growers, rather than from sales of
the finished product purchased by users. When Qudādār (d. 730/1329) became
governor of Cairo in 724/1324, he confiscated much hashish in Bāb al-Lūq and
had it burned at Bāb Zuwaylah where at the same time also large quantities
of confiscated wine were destroyed. Hardly a day went by for an entire month
when this was not done.24 It is difficult to say whether it was processed hashish
or the hemp plants that were uprooted and burned. Certainly, when Sūdūn
ash-Shaykhūnī (d. 798/1396) went after various places in and around Cairo,
such as al-Junaynah,25 Ḥakr Wāṣil in Būlāq, and Bāb al-Lūq, in order to have
those “accursed shrubs” destroyed, there can be little doubt that the growing
plants were meant which were burned in the places where they were growing.26
Whatever it was that was destroyed when action was taken against hashish, it
is clear that people were hurt economically to some degree.
Altogether, hashish provided for or contributed to the livelihood of quite a
number of individuals and had some importance in the economy, at least in
Egypt, practically the only country for which we have some information. This
might have contributed to make the fight against hashish use more difficult, but
to all appearances, it cannot have been a very weighty factor. We may suspect
that the hashish trade made its contribution to the ever present danger of
137 bribery in the judiciary. Our sources, however, contain no examples | for the
use of money derived from the trade to protect its merchants and customers
against legal action.
2 The Asocial Character of Drug Use
As described by al-Maqrīzī, addicts tended to gather in certain sections of town.

In Cairo, Arḍ aṭ-Ṭabbālah and Bāb al-Lūq were known as notorious centers of
vice, certainly also because they were gathering places for hashish eaters. From
a later time, we hear about a bridge then known as Qanṭarat al-Ḥashshāshīn
which had acquired this nickname because it was one of the places where
addicts met.27 There were special hideouts and taverns frequented by them.28
24 2 Cf. al-Maqrīzī, II, 149; Ibn Kathīr, XIV, 113, where Qudādār’s closeness to Ibn Taymīyah is
stressed.
25 3 Cf. above, p. 95, n. 7.
27 1 Cf. al-Bakrī, Kawākib.
28 2 As in Granada, cf. above, p. 55.
We hear about a scholar in Baghdād leaving a “hashish house.”29 But, it seems,

there was nothing really comparable to the winehouses mentioned for the
Cairo of Baybars, let alone anything like the famous monasteries and taverns
we hear about mainly from ʿAbbāsid times.
Hashish parties of a private character were not unusual.30 Thus, at a party
gathered in some pleasant spot (muntazah), people passed hashish around
(adārū), but one of those present, the young poet Ibn al-ʿAfīf at-Tilimsānī,
refused to take any. He was goaded by verses of another participant, called
Jūbān al-Qawwās:
When opportunities show themselves for you, seize them,

For the times for enjoying them are brief.
Get them from something amber-scented, the color
Of myrtle, with a touch of green.
It circulates in the palms, no cup is needed
For it, and its jars are small pockets.
Leave aside anything else if you are afraid of being shamed
As sipping anything else means humiliation and shame.31
Ibn al-ʿAfīf, however, remained steadfast in his refusal. In this case, the hashish 138
eaters were in the company of one, or, presumably, more than one, person who
did not mind their activities but also felt free not to participate in them. We also
hear about individual hashish eaters in a group of people not using the drug.32
Sharing the hashish habit seems to be understood as a bond of friendship in
29 3 See below, p. 145.

30 4 Cf. also below, p. 172, n. 4.
idhā furaṣun badat laka fa-ntahizhā

fa-aʿmāru s-surūri bihā qiṣāru
wa-khudhhā min muʿanbaratin bi-lawnin
ka-lawni l-āsi yalḥaquhā khḍirāru
taṭūfu ʿalā l-akuffi bi-ghayri kaʾsin
lahā wa-ḥibābuhā l-jiyabu ṣ-ṣighāru
wa-daʿ ʿan ghayrihā in khifta ʿāran
fa-ḥaswatu ghayrihā dhullun wa-ʿāru.
For Ibn al-ʿAfīf’s reply, see above, p. 93. On Jūbān, see al-Kutubī, Fawāt, I, 213–219.
32 1 Cf. above, p. 67.
verses by a certain Muḥammad b. Makkī b. ʿAlī b. al-Ḥusayn al-Mashhadī. They

were the favorite poem of an impoverished addict:
The use of hashish is censured by all silly persons

Weak of mind, insensitive.
Really, do not listen, friend,
To the censure coming from stupid and envious individuals.
Share hashish with a goodly young man firm
In the preservation of friendship and appointments.
Is it not a relaxation for the mind? Thus enjoy
It, all you sensible men!
It is the subtle meaning. Which words could accomplish
A description of the centerpiece of the necklace of pearls?
Use it—it is no sin—
To obtain joy and happiness.
Its excellence has emotion and pleasure as witnesses.
Such witnesses are among the best of witnesses.
That this is the right view of it is indicated
By the soul’s joy freed from worry.33
Reveal what it harbors: a secret concealed,
And bring about removal from existence in existence!34
33 2 Ṭarīd could be feminine and refer to an-nafs, but in this case it should have the definite
article.
34 3 Cf. al-Badrī, fols. 22b–23a (in connection with the story of ʿAṭīyah al-Ḥaṣkafī, below, p. 159):
yalūmu ʿalā l-ḥashishati kullu fadmin

sakhīfi r-raʾyi dhī ḥissin balīdi
fa-lā tasmaʿ bi-ḥaqqika yā ḥabībī
malāma min ghabīyin aw ḥasūdi
wa-wāfiq fī l-ḥashishi fatān muqīman
ʿalā ḥifẓi l-mawaddati wa-l-ʿuhūdi
a-mā hiya rāḥatu l-arwāḥi fa-nʿam
bihā yā ṣāḥiba l-ʿaqli r-rashīdi
hiya l-maʿnā l-laṭīfu wa-ayyu lafẓin
yaqūmu bi-waṣfi wāsiṭati l-ʿuqūdi
ʿalayka bihā fa-mā fīhā junāḥun
li-taẓfara bi-s-surūri wa-bi-s-suʿūdi
shawāhidu faḍlihā ṭarabun wa-lahwun
wa-shāhidu dhāka min khayri sh-shuhūdi
yukhabbiru ʿan ṣawābi r-raʾyi fīhā
While common need and wishful dreaming thus tended to draw users to- 139
gether, the enjoyment of hashish was by and large considered a lonely, asocial
activity. Because of legal and social objections, it was the better part of wisdom
to keep one’s habit concealed as much as possible. The defiant declaration that
“hashish must be eaten openly, no matter how much one’s friends are against
it,”35 was more easily made in an anonymous poem than in reality. Likewise,
the supreme contempt for the opinions of others expressed in the verses:
Many a hashish user

Gets to be hated by mankind.
When they give him an earful of vilification,
He swallows it and keeps silent,36
constituted an expression of hope as to how things should be, rather than the
ordinary reaction to the demands of the societal environment. The eater was
afraid of being found out, and he would not even mind to seclude himself in a
toilet so as to be able to indulge in his habit unobserved.37
surūru n-nafsi ʿan hammin ṭarīdi

wa-aẓhir mā lahā sirrun khafīyun
fa-ghayyib fī l-wujūdi min-a-l-wujūdi.
Min in the last line should probably be corrected to ʿan.

The poet, al-Mashhadī, is repeatedly quoted by al-Badrī, but I have no further infor-
mation on him. I doubt that he is identical with the man, whose grandfather was named
ʿUthmān, mentioned by Ibn Ḥajar, Durar, IV, 264; J. Sublet, in Bulletin d’Études Or. de l’Inst.
Français de Damas, XX (1967 [1969]), 51, no. 121.
fa-lā budda min akli l-ḥashīshati jahratan

wa-in asrafū l-ikhwānu minhā wa-aktharū.
Minhā probably should be corrected to fīhā. The crucial understanding of the second line
is, however, doubtful.
36 2 Cf. al-Badrī, fols. 10b and 17b, where the verses are ascribed to al-Hāʾim:
wa-rubba ḥashshāshin ghadat—lahū l-barāyā tamqutu

in asmaʿūhu shatmahū—yablaʿuhā wa-yaskutu.
Shatmatan, not shatmahū, is the reading indicated in the ms. However this may be, the
suffix -hā in the following line refers to hashish (and not to a possible shatmah).
37 3 Cf. the poem by Ibn Ghānim, verse 6, below, p. 169.
Primarily, however, it was the very character of hashish intoxication itself

that made the addict seek privacy even in public places and in the company
of others. He tries to withdraw from the world around him and to be left alone
with his dreams. He does not react to what is going on around him. “If he is
spoken to, he does not listen.”38 Under the influence of the drug, he is as quiet
and somnolent as in a trance.39 He would not want to have anything to do with
140 that | quarrelsome lot of winebibbers whose companionableness often ends
in violent altercations when they are drunk. This is considered an advantage
of sorts for the hashish user,40 but it points up the lonesome character of his
vice. Fuzūlī depicts hashish personified as someone who is convinced of his
uniqueness and who claims that he is everything in the world and nothing else
counts. His attitude, Fuzūli states, represents the most pronounced egoism.41
The clear implication is that hashish, and its user, wants to live in a world of his
own, apart from reality and unconcerned with society.
There is no contradiction between the addict’s need for privacy and his need
for congregating with his fellows. Urban society in Islam tended to segregate
those who by their personal habits did not live up to the expected norm, at
least outwardly. This included the majority of the economically less favorably
placed hashish users. They had to band together in poor and undesirable
neighborhoods in order to pursue their essentially lonely activity.
3 The Addict’s Social Standing
One thing stands out clearly in the entire discussion of hashish. While its use
cut through all layers of the population and, as al-Badrī (fol. 1b) put it, was, like
wine, common to Zayd and ʿAmr, meaning everybody, a certain class distinction
was made between confirmed addicts and the rest of the people. This distinc-
tion was no doubt largely fictitious, yet, it enjoyed the reputation of being true
and definite. Hashish eaters were believed to be low-class people either by
nature or by being reduced to that state through their habit which impaired all
38 4 Cf. above, p. 87.

39 5 Cf. above, p. 110.
40 1 Cf. above, p. 110, n. 2, or the poem of al-Isʿirdī, verse 14, below, p. 164. The hashish eater can
dispense with the company of the drunk (ṣuḥbat al-makhmūr), according to a poem by
a certain Sharaf-ad-dīn Abū l-ʿAbbās Aḥmad b. Yūsuf from the first half of the thirteenth
century, cf. al-Maqrīzī, II, 26.
41 2 According to Rescher and Lugal in their translation of Fuzūlī, 154.
their faculties but in particular those moral and character qualities that deter-
mine the individual’s standing in society. It also threatened impoverishment
and reduction to beggary (ḥarfashah). Briefly put, hashish “generates low social
status (safālah) and a bad moral character (radhālah)” and brings the addict
down to a level where almost nothing human remains in him.42 | As one of the 141
poems against hashish implies, he combines all the qualities that negate the
existence of a well-ordered society and is, in short, a criminal.43
A reaction against the accusation of social inferiority is to be found in the
stress addicts constantly placed on their “elitist” standing. They were distin-
guished from and elevated above the common herd of people by being privy
to the “secrets” resting in the drug. This theme, already developed in the Ḥay-
dar story, always served them, we may assume, to bolster their morale. They
claimed that on the contrary the use of hashish lifted a person above the lowly
state in which life had placed him:
Let me have some green Kāfūrī

Which takes the place of the best of yellow wine.
The poor person who partakes of a dirham’s weight
Of it feels superior to amīrs.
You would think him to be the strongest of men, but when he has none,
We count him among the weak.44
This naturally describes merely a subjective state as seen by users and, perhaps,
by sympathetic observers. In reality, hashish did not improve anyone’s social
status, even in the eyes of those friendly disposed toward hashish use.
The contrast between hashish and wine in this respect is noteworthy. Wine
had had a long and mostly honorable history everywhere in the pre-Islamic
world, including the Arabian peninsula. It seems to have been forbidden by
the Prophet mainly because wine consumption was a luxury which the early
42 3 The concluding portion of this sentence is al-Maqrīzī’s comment on the words in quota-
tion marks, reported by him as a statement made by the brother of his maternal grand-
mother, Tāj-ad-dīn Ismāʿīl b. Aḥmad b. ʿAbd-al-Wahhāb, who died, about eighty years old,
in 803/1400 (cf. as-Sakhāwī, Ḍawʾ, II, 290), on the authority of ʿAlāʾ-ad-dīn Ibn Nafīs. Unless
there is an omission in the text and Ibn Nafīs was not the direct authority of Tāj-ad-
dīn, he could hardly be the famous physician who died in 687/1288. It is not excluded
that some other Ibn Nafīs (whose honorific may or may not have been ʿAlāʾ-ad-dīn) is
meant.
43 1 Cf. below, p. 171.
adherents of the new religion could not afford and therefore should do without.
It remained in a sense a luxury and as such was cherished by the highest strata
of society and their entourage and followers. Most importantly, this involved
the world of belles lettres with its prime representatives, the innumerable
poets whose wine poetry expressed the longings for an unrestrained life for
themselves and for those who felt that their social position placed them above
142 the great mass and | entitled them to disregard for the societal restraints
supposed to apply to all alike. According to all we know, there seems to be
a good measure of truth to the claim advanced by the proponents of wine in
al-Isʿirdī’s poem that no caliph or sultan ever used hashish while many rulers,
probably the vast majority of them, were devoted to wine.45 When al-Maqrīzī
speaks of the rulers of Hurmuz and al-Baḥrayn in connection with the spread
of hashish, it is well to note that he does not say that they themselves were
users but it was their entourage (aṣḥāb) that was reponsible for propagating
the evil habit,46 a point which, however, was not stressed in al-Badrī’s version.
Whatever the actual situation, hashish was believed to be incompatible with
the responsibility for ruling others, at least on the highest levels of power.47
Poets and singers also did not proclaim the glories of hashish as they did
those of wine. Though the frequent quotations of poems here would seem to
suggest that hashish poetry was well cultivated, it is little as compared with
the overabundance of verses on wine that continued to be composed all the
time. Repetitiveness is rampant, and much of the poetry, in addition to being
perfunctory, also was apologetic one way or other.48 There was none of the joy
and exuberance in it that continued to suffuse wine poetry even through its
centuries of decay.
Hashish was believed to be anathema to all members of society of the highest
social standing. We do not hear anything about the attitudes and practices
of the extremely important military component of society. Nor do we have
any information about drug use among the rural population. This, however,
does not mean much since little attention is paid in the literature to peasants,
notwithstanding their large numbers and their importance. Urban craftsmen
and merchants of good standing are not too often described as users but our
stories contain at least some precise statements as well as quite numerous
45 1 See below, p. 166, verse 37.

47 3 For a highly placed emir, Jānibak at-Tājī (d. 868/1464), being suspected of the use of
hashish, cf. Ibn Taghrībirdī, trans. W. Popper, VII, 103 (Berkeley and Los Angeles 1960,
University of California Publications in Semitic Philology 23).
48 4 Cf. also above, pp. 5 and 72.
indications by implication that they were indeed open to the blandishments of

drug use and willingly exposed themselves to its dangers.49 However, hashish
was clearly assumed to have its true home among Ṣūfīs and scholars. Together
they represented | a kind of third estate, having connection with the rulers and 143
the military establishment above and the mass of subjects below. During the
time under consideration here, Ṣūfism and religious scholarship in its various
manifestations were so closely intertwined in the same persons that a clear
distinction can rarely be made. And even where there was open hostility, there
was constant interaction.
Scholars were often quite poor, and Ṣūfīs even more so as a result of their
pretense to economic self-sufficiency. Hashish was cheap and easily accessible.
Its acquisition could be done clandestinely. Its use was more easily concealed
than that of wine and less affected by the inescapable religious odium attaching
to wine, quite apart from the fact that even very small quantities of hashish
were more powerful than wine.50 There was nothing to give away its being used:
“The palm of my hand serves as cup for it, and my pocket is its cask; I never gave
away its secret by a jug.”51 Hashish can claim to be the friend of dervishes and
to be available in the corner of every mosque and among all kinds of scholars.52
If anyone were to enter the largest class in al-Azhar and produce some hashish
or opium or barsh, so the author of Qamʿ informs us,53 nobody would want
to let him do it because righteous scholars are convinced that it would be
unlawful. This may be so but the very idea that somebody could be imagined
to be doing such a thing raises the suspicion that it was not inconceivable in
reality. Indeed, in an earlier age, hashish could be praised for being suitable
for use in every monastery (ribāṭ) and mosque, in contrast to wine, as al-Isʿirdī
maintains.54 And when Ibn ʿAbd-aẓ-Ẓāhir inveighed against hashish, he singled
out masājid and jawāmiʿ as the places that should be cleansed of it.55 More than
49 5 Cf. also below, p. 160.

50 1 Cf. above, p. 106.
51 2 Cf. also, for instance, above, pp. 63f., and below, pp. 172f. The verses referred to above are
from a poem, already mentioned above, p. 45, n. 5, and p. 57, n. 2, in al-Badrī, fol. 5b:
kaffī lahā qadaḥun wa-jaybī dannuhā

lam ulqi ʿanhā sirrahā bi-ināʾi.
52 3 Cf. Fuzūlī, 167.

53 4 Cf. Qamʿ, fol. 276a. The passage was quoted by al-Fanārī.
54 5 Verse 3, below, p. 163.
55 6 Cf. al-Ghuzūlī, Maṭāliʿ, II, 129; Ibn Ḥijjah, Thamarāt, I, 364. Cf. above, pp. 66f. and 80.
ordinary people, Ṣūfīs and scholars might have been concerned as they had
particularly close ties with life in religious establishments.
144 Hashish can claim to be the shaykh of scholars, just as wine boasts | of
being the boon companion of rulers.56 Sometimes we are told that the action
of hashish had no influence upon a scholar’s ability to discharge his teaching
duties in an acceptable manner. Thus a shaykh credited with much wit, a cer-
tain Muslim al-Ḥanafī, who was a lecturer in the Barqūqīyah, was able to give
lectures on traditional and intellectual subjects in a state of hashish intoxica-
tion. One day, however, a mishap occurred. His turban fell off, and out came a
few pills (?) of zīh.57 On the lower rungs of scholarship, we hear about a copyist
of Burhān-ad-dīn al-Miʿmār whose poetry he copied and who introduced him
to hashish (muḥammaṣ and kibāsh). He spent all his money on the drug and on
the food, much of it sweets, that he consumed alternately with hashish while
doing his chores as a copyist. Yet, in spite of his drug consumption, he was able
to write a complete quire of paper of a certain size (qaṭʿ kāmil al-baladī) with
thirty-one lines per page without making a mistake.58
56 1 Cf. Fuzūlī, 171.

57 2 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. 28a–b, and above, p. 62, n. 6. The story is quite similar to that of a preacher
who had the same happening to him with banj. It was included in the eighteenth-century
work of J.F. de la Croix, Anecdotes arabes et musulmanes (Paris 1772), under the year 950,
and was quoted by Robert P. Walter, Marihuana, 11 (Philadelphia 1938). The source of
de la Croix was, expectedly, B. d’ Herbelot, Bibliothèque Orientale, 200b, s.v. Benk (Paris
1697). The anticlerical sally at the end and, since it is not in d’Herbelot, the date are
additions by de la Croix. D’ Herbelot states that his source was the Turkish Laṭāʾif of Lāmiʿī
(d. 939/1532–1533, or in the preceding or the following year, cf. Ibn al-ʿImād, Shadharāt,
VIII, 235; T. Menzel, in EI, s.v. Lāmiʿī).
The same Muslim al-Ḥanafī, al-Badrī tells us, once bought a chicken at the Zuwaylah
Gate and ordered it sent home to his house (bayt Muslim) at the Barqūqīyah. The vendor
wondered whether not everybody in the Barqūqīyah was a Muslim, which gave our witty
and somewhat malicious scholar the opening for the reply that he was the only “Muslim”
there.
58 3 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. 23a, and above, p. 29, n. 7, and pp. 78f. Al-Badrī adds the following verses
by al-Miʿmār on this copyist of his:
A copyist whose heart is attached to

The green one with seeds and leaves,
I noticed patches on his garment.
I knew he was really torn up.
wa-nāsikhin qalbuhū muʿallaq

bi-l-akhḍari l-mubazzari l-muwarraq
Mostly, however, scholars are depicted as having suffered the same fate 145
as others who fell under the spell of hashish, that is, they lost a good deal
of the dignity that was expected of them. The story of Ibrāhīm Ibn al-Aʿmā
al-Baghdādī (who may have been more of a littérateur than a scholar) contains
many of the popular elements. He spent the evening in the “hashish house,”
reciting bawdy poetry such as the following verses:
This hashish has made my time pleasant.—Its softness (?) is my share of

this world.59
Would you could see me running around inebriated
In the street, swaying like a drunk,
Being myself in his condition, man!
Up seems down to me.—This hashish has made my time pleasant.—Its

softness is my share of this world.
I am, as you know, a beggar and vagabond.
I do not stop being fed hashish,60
Some small tablet without capital provided (??).
On beggary an expert, a muftī.—This hashish has made my time pleas-

ant.—Its softness is my share of the world.61
raʾaytu fī thawbihī riqāʿan

ʿalimtu tamzīqahū muḥaqqaq.
Mubazzar is a likely correction of al-m-b-dh-r “scattered (?)” found in the ms. The allusions
of the second verse escape me. It seems to refer to the copyist’s neglect of his appearance
and poverty caused by his habit, but this is quite uncertain.
For another copyist who praised hashish, cf. below, p. 154.
59 1 Lynwʾ (requiring two long syllables) may be līnū, for līnuhū, to be translated as indicated.
The meaning would seem to be that the user finds the world as soft and easygoing as
hashish. Like that of other passages of this poem, the translation is, however, by no means
certain.
60 2 Kaff may have here the double meaning of “hand” and “hashish,” with a probable double
meaning also in maḥshūsh.
hādhā l-ḥashīsh ṭayyab waqtī—līnū mina-d-dunyā bakhtī

law raytanī asʿā nashwān
fī s-sūqi māʾil ka-s-sakrān
wa-(ʾa)nā bi-ḥālih yā insān
This no doubt was shockingly unbecoming, but at least it was not out in the
open. But then, Ibn al-Aʿmā remembered his college, the Mustanṣirīyah, and
he left the hashish house to return to it. On the road, he thought that the light
of the moon was water from the Tigris which he believed had overflowed its
146 banks. He took his sandals in | his hand, girded up his clothes, and grabbed his
jarīd62 with his hand. The people he encountered shouted at him and made
him feel ashamed.
A similar story, from the Ṭārid al-humūm of al-ʿUkbarī, tells of the author
walking one night in Mosul (balad al-Mawṣil) when he met with a well-dressed
individual reciting these verses:
I have combined hashish with wine

And become so drunk that I cannot find my way.
You there whoever you are who will show me the way to my College
Will indeed be rewarded for it most generously.
The narrator, ready to help, inquired which College it was he wanted to go to,
and told that it was the Badrīyah, he took him there. It turned out that he was
the imām of the College and a very learned man.63 Strangely enough, the verses
quoted are also ascribed to ʿAlam-ad-dīn Ibn Shukr, who was a contemporary
of al-ʿUkbarī but lived in Egypt.64 If the story does in fact go back to al-ʿUkbarī,
one would have to assume, I believe, that the ascription to ʿAlam-ad-dīn is
not correct and that, perhaps, ʿAlam-ad-dīn recited the verses when he found
himself, in reality or in fiction, in a similar situation. He was, as we have seen,65
also a successful teacher for some time, in spite of his indulgence in hashish.
fawqī takhayyal lī taḥtī—hādhā l-ḥashīsh ṭayyab waqtī—līnū min-a-d-dunyā bakhtī

wa-(ʾa)nā kamā tadrī ḥarfūsh
bi-l-kaffi mā nabraḥ maḥshūsh
luwayḥ bi-lā raʾsin manbūsh (?)
fī l-ḥarfashah ʿālim muftī—hādhā l-ḥashīsh ṭayyab waqtī—līnū min-a-d-dunyā
bakhtī
The doubtful reading luwayḥ (“tablet” in the sense of “pill”) is a correction of lwʿ in the ms.
Reading raʾs as two syllables is another dubious feature, perhaps leg. raʾs māl.
62 1 Even if jarīd were to mean “staff,” this would hardly yield a suitable meaning in the context,
since a staff is naturally carried in the hand. Perhaps, jarīd is some part of the dress or, as
seems most likely, it is a slang variant of jurdān “penis.”
63 2 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. 14a–b.
64 3 Cf. Ibn Kathīr, XIII, 315, with very slight variations.
65 4 Cf. above, p. 84.
We also hear about a certain Abū Jurthūm al-Ḥimṣī who taught grammar
to a certain al-Muʿizz Amīn-ad-dīn al-Ḥimṣī, a high official (kātib al-inshāʾ ash-
sharīf ). One day, his student found Abū Jurthūm in a state of great emotional
upset under the influence of hashish, dancing around completely uninhibited,
urinating, holding his penis, shouting aloud, and reciting verses on flowers.66
Naturally, it was also assumed that scholars, like anybody else, could be 147
ruined by their uncontrollable addiction mentally, physically, and socially.67
No matter how much fiction all these stories contain, and they probably are
entirely fictitious or, at best, grossly exaggerated, they also would seem to be a
reflection of an actual situation and an illustration of what was possible and did
occur on occasion. There is one strange and noteworthy fact, though. Promi-
nent scholars, and, for that matter, other successful members of society, are
only rarely accused of hashish use, although this would have been an easy and
effective kind of slander. Ibn Khallikān, the famous biographer, sounded out
a friend about his reputation among Damascenes, and he was told that his
competence as a scholar was generally accepted, but his claim to descent from
the Barmecides was doubted, and it was whispered that he loved boys and ate
hashish. Ibn Khallikān’s reply with respect to the last item is supposed to have
been that if it was inevitable for him to do something forbidden by the law,
he would rather drink wine than eat hashish because it was much more plea-
surable.68 Ibn Khallikān was also a prominent judge and as such traditionally
subject to slanderous rumors. Why, as far as is known, there is no more of the
sort reported in our sources is puzzling. Perhaps the lack of a long established
tradition for hashish as a moral and religious sin is responsible for it.69
66 5 Cf. al-Badrī, fols. 10a–b, 12a–b, and above, pp. 26, n. 5, 82, n. 5, and 91, n. 1. That the
personalities and the historical setting are not quite traceable is due to lack of information,
but it may also be noted that in one version, al-Badrī’s often quoted colleague al-Hāʾim
(d. 887/1482) plays a role in the anecdote, and in the other Ibn Ḥijjah al-Ḥamawī, the
author of the Thamarāt (d. 837/1434). (It may, however, be noted that GAL, Suppl. II, 12,
refers to Ibn al-Hāʾim as Aḥmad b. Muḥammad [b. ʿAlī], whereas al-Badrī calls him Aḥmad
b. ʿAlī, but I believe that the identification is correct. Amīn-ad-dīn al-Ḥimṣī can, however,
not be identified with Muḥammad b. Muḥammad b. ʿAlī who died in 800/1397, cf. Ibn
al-ʿImād, Shadharāt, VI, 367.) Some of the flower verses are by Ṣafī-ad-dīn al-Ḥillī, cf. his
Dīwān, 381, 11. 8–10, 12–13, quoted again by al-Badrī, fol. 79a. There may be certain allusions
here. The story of Aḥmad al-Khaffāf (al-Badrī, fols. 12b–13b, above, p. 29, n. 1, and p. 80, n. 5)
centers around flower symbolism, the rose representing wine, and basil (rayḥān) hashish.
67 1 Cf., for instance, above, pp. 47 f.
68 2 Cf. al-Kutubī, Fawāt, I, 102; Ibn Ḥijjah, Thamarāt, I, 29.
69 3 Just in passing, and in the only express reference to hashish in his section on wine,
al-Badrī, fol. 138b, says of ʿImād-ad-dīn al-Wāsiṭī al-wāʿiẓ, who was the second person
148 What mainly distinguished the Ṣūfīs from the scholars in their attitude
toward hashish was their quasi-religious devotion to it, the cult and ritual they
made of its use.70 It was this that made some among them fervent missionaries
of the drug while others like ʿAlī al-Ḥarīrī at times bitterly opposed it. But
there can be little doubt that hashish was rather widely employed by them
as a supposed aid for achieving enlargement of the individual’s powers of
sense and, especially, spiritual perceptions. By tasting the “secret” and the
“meanings” of hashish, Ṣūfīs more than others hoped to gain additional mystic
experience. Those who were sympathizers with Ṣūfism rather than avowed
mystics generally saw in hashish a way toward religious uplift. They made, as
attested also by their adversary Ibn Taymīyah,71 the use of the drug “an act
of worship” (ʿibādah), corresponding to the drinking of wine and the gazing
at handsome boys, and they deserved for it the condemnation reserved for
those other practices that were so greatly abhorred by the orthodoxy. Ibn
Taymīyah went into some valuable detail in formulating the query concerning
ghubayrāʾ, which precedes his fatwā concerning it:72 “A query as to young and
old men who are pilgrims, who painstakingly observe the religious obligations
to hold the appointment as preacher at the Tawbah Mosque in Damascus in the early
years after its founding in 632/1234–1235 (cf. Ibn Kathīr, XIII, 143), that he was “fond of
the use of wine and hashish.” Al-Wāsiṭī’s name was Ahmad, according to an-Nuʿaymī,
Dāris, II, 426 f. (Damascus 1367–1370/1948–1951), who, incidentally, refers to the same
story and the same verses as al-Badrī. I do not know whether he is to be identified with
the Wāsiṭī who is cited by al-Badrī, fol. 18b, as the author of verses asking for a gift of
hashish:
Show your noble generosity to me by giving me a green morsel,

Most generous one of those who walk the earth …
jud lī karaman bi-farmatin (?) khadrāʾi

yā akrama man mashā ʿalā l-ghabrāʾi …
For farmah in the meaning of “small piece,” cf. Dozy and Hava. However, the Paris Ms.
indicates two dots for the first letter, which, though written together, could also indi-
cate one dot each for the first and second letters, but no suitable meaning suggests
itself for q-r-m-h. A correction to q-r-n-h (above, p. 62) would not seem entirely impos-
sible.
70 1 Cf. also above, pp. 69 ff.
71 2 Cf. Fatāwī, I, 59, II, 268. For Ibn Taymīyah’s understanding of “religious worship” (ʿibādah),
cf. Fatāwī, II, 361 ff.
72 3 Cf. Fatāwī, II, 252, IV, 324, with variants translated in brackets.
incumbent upon them concerning fasting, prayer, and worship, some of whom
are highly regarded and known for their trustworthiness and integrity (in word
and action), who show no outward signs of evil and wickedness. Their minds
(ʿuqūl, adhhān) and view are now determined to insist upon eating ghubayrāʾ.
Their stated belief with respect to ghubayrāʾ now is that it is (a sin and) evil.
Yet, they adduce with regard to their belief the evidence of the Qurʾān where
it is said that ‘good (deeds) make evil ones disappear’ (11: 114/116). They say
that it is forbidden, but (they think that) they perform special prayers (wird)
at night and acts of worship. They think that when the exhilarating effect73 of
ghubayrāʾ goes to their heads, it commands them to do such acts of worship,
and does not command them to do anything evil or | sinful. They assert74 (that 149
it causes no harm to any human being in contrast to fornication, winedrinking,
and theft, and) that it(s eater) does not require any punishment (ḥadd). It is,
however, connected with opposition to a divine command, yet, God shows
forgiveness for whatever takes place between the servant (and His Master).
A truthful person, having been in touch with them, now reports this view of
theirs. He is now in agreement with them regarding the eating of ghubayrāʾ
through their positive assessment of it and the expression of their views and
has adopted all that for himself.”
Needless to say, everything here is terribly erroneous in the view of Ibn
Taymīyah. He considers it worse than certain Christian practices which Chris-
tians believe to be acts of divine worship but which no Muslim in his right mind
would acknowledge as such. What incenses him most is that those men were
ordinary, decent citizens who thought of themselves as good Muslims and out-
wardly were. They were no extremists in their mystic attitudes and beliefs, even
if they were allied to Ṣūfism and were infected by Ṣūfī ideas.
Others, it seems, went considerably farther in their quasi-religious devotion
to hashish. The claims they made for it are described for us by the sixteenth-
century Fuzūlī. His statements are filtered through his poetical imagination,
but this was no doubt also the way in which the intellectual elite among Ṣūfīs
looked at things in actuality. They claimed for hashish to be the master of Ṣūfī
teaching, whereas wine can claim to be only an eager disciple setting the world
afire. The shaykh of love is the very refuge of hashish, whereas wine merely
shows the way to it. Both wine and hashish are considered almost equals as
far as love is concerned, but it is not worldly love, at least not primarily, that is
meant here but the mystic love that is the highest goal of the religious world
73 4 See above, p. 126, n. 1.

74 1 For wa-nasabū or wa-yuthbitūhā (!), read, possibly, wa-athbatū.
with which hashish is thus connected.75 A mystic disciple in al-Baṣrah became

addicted to hashish (esrār). His understanding shaykh recognized that this
meant that he had reached the ultimate degree of perfection. It was because
of this insight that he ceased giving him further instruction. This proves that
hashish is the perfect being, sought after by mankind with great eagerness. It
may not be the perfect being for everybody, but it most certainly is for the seeker
of mystic experience.76
150 No matter how eloquently vocal exponents of scholarship and | mysticism
defended the possibilities for individual improvement inherent in cannabis,
they were not able to make a convincing case for this being of benefit to
society. The adversaries of the drug also concentrated on the degradation
of the individual but it was very clearly implied and understood by them
that individual degradation was upsetting to the established social structure.
Hashish was generally branded as something inherently dirty and bestial. The
mental deterioration it is assumed to cause turns men into dumb, irrational
beasts.77 The fact that it comes from a plant is constantly stressed to make
it clear that only animals, and people as irrational and inferior as animals,
would care to consume it. Even worse, it was food for the devil, as wine was
the devil’s drink. When Baybars decided to curb the use of wine and hashish,
Judge Nāṣir-ad-dīn Ibn al-Munayyir (620–683/1223–1284)78 rhymed:
Iblīs has no desire to stay with us.

He prefers to make his home elsewhere, and not in the Amīr’s country.
You have prevented him from obtaining both wine and hashish.
You have thus deprived him of his water and his fodder.
Someone else phrased the same idea in similar words:
Aẓ-Ẓāhir has outlawed hashish as well as wine.

In consequence, Iblīs turned his back and left Egypt in a hurry.
He says: Why should I stay in a country
Where I do not have the enjoyment of water and fodder?79
75 2 Cf. Fuzūlī, 171.

76 3 Cf. Fuzūlī, 168 f.
77 1 Cf., for instance, above, pp. 110, 140, and below, p. 168, etc.
78 2 Mālikite of Alexandria, Aḥmad b. Muḥammad b. Manṣūr, cf. al-Yūnīnī, Dhayl Mirʾat az-
zamān, IV, 206–210 (Hyderabad 1374–1380/1954–1961); adh-Dhahabī, ʿIbar, V, 342; Ibn Far-
ḥūn, Dībāj, 71–74 (Cairo 1351/1932).
79 3 Cf. al-Kutubī, Fawāt, I, 170, and above, pp. 135 f.
It seems that ʿIzz-ad-dīn ʿAbd-as-Salām (Ibn Ghānim) also branded hashish

as fit only for animals when he replied to those who claimed that it was wrongly
declared unlawful:
It destroys mind and temper alike

With various kinds of craziness and disease.
Those who say that it is permitted speak the truth.
It is indeed permitted but for cattle.80
Since there were animals such as the gazelle that were standard poetical meta- 151
phors for female grace and beauty, the idea could also be turned around, as was
done by Ibn al-Wardī, who meant to be facetious and did not seriously intend
to come out in favor of hashish:
80 4 The text as it appears on the title-page of the Istanbul Ms. Murad Molla 1408 of Abū
Sulaymān as-Sijistānī (cf. above, p. 101, n. 4) reads:
tudhhibu (?) l-ʿaqla wa-l-mizāja jamīʿan

bi-funūni l-junūni wa-l-asqāmi
ṣadaqa l-qāʾilūna bi-l-ḥilli fīhā
hī ḥalālun lākin ʿalā l-anʿāmi.
The crucial last word is unclear and seems rather to be al-anām, but it can hardly be
doubted that the correct reading is as indicated. For the stated author of the verse, see
above, pp. 6 f., and for the verses that provoked this rejoinder, above, p. 101. The first
verse appears also in the Gotha Ms. (above, p. 18) with the variant reading tufsidu, which,
however, could hardly be the word intended in the Ms. Murad Molla. The Gotha Ms.
indicates as the name of the author a certain imām Maḥmūd b. Abī l-Qāsim b. Nadmān
al-Ḥanbalī, whose name remains uncertain pending identification. The Gotha Ms. has
altogether three verses:
The worst intoxication is hashish intoxication, and

Intoxication is forbidden by express statement of the best of men.
It corrupts mind …
Which (read ayyu for fī) view would permit what affects the
Mind and by (the power of) its intoxicating effect shows contempt for wine?
The fact that the first verse here ends in al-anām could be a further argument for elimi-
nating the possibility of reading this word in the Murad Molla Ms.
For hashish “grass” being the proper feed only for cattle, cf. also Ibn Ghānim, below,
p. 168. Al-Badrī, fol. 55b, has another couplet to the same effect, blaming the Ṣūfīs for eating
hashish, by Ibn al-Mushidd (apparently, Sayf-ad-dīn al-Mushidd, above, p. 91, n. 5).
A pretty girl high on hashish,

When I blame her for what is going on,
Says: Every gazelle
Feeds on green grass.81
There were many other different interpretations of the green color of hashish.
It might suggest the unnatural paleness of the addict’s complexion as against
the rosy hue that appears on the cheeks of winedrinkers.82 It also lent itself
152 to positive evaluation inasmuch as | its green color enabled hashish to claim
the famous al-Khiḍr “the green one” as its patron saint.83 Its “green dress” and
general decorativeness as a plant bespeak the wholesomeness of hashish, as
indicated in the verses of, as usual, disputed ascription but probably, as stated
by al-Maqrīzī, by ʿAlī b. Makkī, a gifted lute and tambourine player in early
thirteenth-century Baghdād:84
81 1 Cf. Ibn al-Wardī, al-Kawākib as-sāriyah ʿalā miʾat jāriyah, in the Istanbul Ms. Topkapusaray,
Ahmet III 2373, fol. 181a:
malīḥatun masṭūlatun—in lumtuhā fī-mā jarā

taqūlu kullu ẓabyatin—tarʿā l-ḥashīsha l-akhḍara.
Ibn al-Wardī’s verses are quoted in al-Badrī, fol. 33a. Ibn al-Wardī, furnishing a good
example for the impossibility to rely upon a poet’s statements as indicative of his personal
views, also expresses himself seemingly against the use of hashish. His many terrible sins,
he says, at least do not include homosexuality, nabīdh, and hashish (Dīwān, 256). Again,
he lists hashish among the five sins with which Iblīs tries in vain to tempt him during his
sleep in the night. However, here the devil has the last word: “Go on sleeping, you are just a
wooden oaf (ḥaṭabah)” (Dīwān, 232). The theme of the nocturnal Satanic temptation goes
back to Abū Nuwās, Dīwān, 554 f. There are other imitations, such as the one by Ṣafī-ad-dīn
al-Ḥillī, Dīwān, 450, where Satan starts out by suggesting a shaqfah kabshīyah (above, p. 30)
to drive off sleeplessness, or the one by al-Badrī, fols. 33b–34a. For pederastic verses using
the image of the grazing gazelle, cf. al-Badrī, fol. 30b.
82 2 Cf. al-Isʿirdī, verse 34, below, p. 166.
83 1 Cf. Fuzūlī, 153, 167.
84 2 The identity of ʿAlī b. Makkī appears to be clarified by an anecdote told by al-Badrī,
fols. 7b–8a, which, in spite of the confused source situation (see above, p. 74, n. 5), may
be credited with historicity as far as the persons mentioned in it are concerned. Makkī
was a poet in the days of an-Nāṣir (1180–1225). His son, ʿAlī b. Makkī, visited the epileptic
Ẓahīr-ad-dīn Muḥammad b. Ismāʿīl b. al-Wakīl whose father had been ḥājib dīwān al-majlis
“Chamberlain of the Caliphal Council” in Baghdād, and on this occasion introduced the
reluctant Ẓahīr-ad-dīn to hashish for medication. It cured him completely, but he became
an addict who could not for a moment be without the drug. As appears from G. Gabrieli’s
Now drive sadness away from me as well as harm

With the help of a virgin(al being), wedded in its green dress.
It reveals itself to us adorned with brocade.85
No metaphor in verse or prose is strong enough for it.
It appears, filling the eyes with light through its beauty,
A beauty that puts to shame the light86 of meadow and flowers with a
bright sheen(?).
It is a bride whose hidden secret gladdens the soul.
Coming in the evening, it is found in all the senses in the morning.
In its clarity it gives to taste the taste of honey.
Through its odor it gives to smell the choicest scent of musk.
It makes touch dispense with bashful maidens.
Mention of it makes music superfluous for the ear.87
Its color presents sight with the most beautiful diversion.
Sight turns to looking at this color rather than that of any other flower.
It is composed of bright red color88 and white, and it bends
Proudly over the flowers, high of stature. 153
The light of the sun is eclipsed by its red color.
The face of the moon is put to shame by its whiteness.
It ranks high in beauty. It is as if it were
The emerald of a meadow drenched by copious rain.
It appears—and makes hidden feelings appear.
It comes—and turns away the army of my worry and pensiveness.
index of the biographies in aṣ-Ṣafadī’s Wāfī, a certain Abū l-Muẓaffar ʿAlī b. Makkī b.
Muḥammad b. Hubayrah ad-Dūrī has an entry in the Wāfī, but I am unable to check
whether he might be identical with our ʿAlī b. Makkī.
Al-Badrī, fol. 5a, mentions a certain Nūr-ad-dīn al-Iṣfahānī as the author of the verses,
and he seems to suggest that his source was the History of al-Manbijī (see above, p. 45).
85 3 This refers to the silvery and golden glow on the plant when it is covered with dew in the
morning sunlight.
86 4 “Light” seems more likely to be meant than “blossoms.”
87 5 The verse is missing from al-Maqrīzī and found in al-Badrī:
wa-fīhā ghinan bi-l-massi ʿan khurradi sitrin

wa-fī dhikrihā li-s-samʿi mughnin ʿan-i-z-zamri.
It clearly belongs to the original poem.

88 6 For the old Arabian color spectrum, cf. W. Fischer, Farb- und Formbezeichnungen in der
Sprache der altarabischen Dichtung, 237 and passim (Wiesbaden 1965). For the red-colored
wood of the plant, cf. above, p. 47.
Beautiful of shape, mighty in rank,

It grows high, and high does my verse grow in praise of it.
Thus, rise and banish the army of worry89 and stay the hand of distress
With an Indian (maiden) more effective than white (swords) and brown
(spears),
With an Indian as to origin, showing people
How to eat it, not an Indian in color like the brown ones.90
Eating it removes the burning worry from us
And gives us enjoyment secretly and openly.
The green color, and possibly also the fact that hashish was cultivated in “gar-
dens” (basātīn), permitted its association with gardens, and the word “garden”
naturally evoked the idea of the garden, Paradise. Although hashish appears
fiery and hot like the fire of Hell, it still is Paradise, as expressed in verses by
al-Isʿirdī,91 or in the following lines of the Syro-Egyptian Muḥammad b. Sharīf
Ibn al-Waḥīd (647–711/1249(50)–1312):
Something green whose action red wine is unable to duplicate,

It rocks the guts and stays put.
It kindles a fire in the guts, although it is a garden.
It brings forth the bitter taste (of wine), although it is a plant.92
89 1 Al-Badrī: “and protect the army of fun.” The “army” of worry is a very common metaphor
in hashish poetry.
90 2 Al-Badrī: “and greenness (?)” (wa-l-khuḍri).
91 3 Verse 6, cf. below, p. 163.
92 4 Cf. aṣ-Ṣafadī, Wāfī, III, 151; al-Kutubī, Fawāt, II, 438; Ibn al-Qāḍī, Durrat al-ḥijāl, as quoted
by al-ʿAbbādī (above, p. 55, n. 3); Ibn Taghrībirdī, Nujūm, VII, 360, anno 688, who does
not know the name of the poet; al-Badrī, fol. 10a, who also omits the poet’s name. For the
aspersions on Ibn al-Waḥīd’s orthodoxy, cf., in addition to the Wāfī, Ibn Ḥajar, Durar, III,
452–456. The translation “bitter taste” follows the reading of aṣ-Ṣafadī, al-Kutubī, and Ibn
Taghrībirdī, as against “pleasant life” in Ibn al-Qāḍī. The second verse reads in al-Badrī: “It
kindles a fire, although in the heart it is a garden. It shows you the taste of wine …” (taʾajjaju
[read tuʾajjiju] nāran wa-hya fī l-qalbi jannatun—wa-tūrīka ṭaʿma l-khamri …). Usually, it is
wine that is said to kindle a fire in the drinker, and the opposition of “fire” and “gardens” is a
topic of wine poetry, cf. al-Ghuzūlī, Maṭāliʿ, I, 166, 168. “Fire” even functions as a nickname
for wine, cf. al-Badrī, fol. 64a, quoting a verse by Ibn Ḥabīb al-Ḥalabī (710–779/1310–1377)
beginning: “Kindle for us the fire which is a garden” (awqid lanā n-nāra llatī hiya jannatun).
The play is, of course, on the double meaning of fire = Hell and garden = Paradise.
According to verses cited by al-Maqrīzī (cf. above, p. 140, n. 1), hashish was like a bride
dressed in green silk:
No wonder that in spite of Ibn al-Waḥīd’s talent as a scholar and calligrapher, 154
there were rumors casting doubt on his religious sentiments and suspecting
him of grave sins, such as putting wine or nabīdh in the ink which he used for
copying the Qurʾān.
The defenders of hashish also found it easy to score a point in favor of
hashish as against wine with respect to natural dirtiness. The preparation of
hashish was a cleaner process than that of wine. Also, as we have seen, wine was
proved legally unclean much more easily than hashish, and hashish was never
used for cultic purposes among non-Muslims as was wine. All these aspects
are brought together in verses variously ascribed to the Spaniard Ibn Khamīs
(650–708/1252–1308)93 and the Syro-Egyptian Ibn al-Aʿmā (d. 692/1292):94
Give up wine and drink from the wine of Ḥaydar,

Amber-scented,95 green the color of emerald.
It is presented to you by a Turkish gazelle, slender,
Swaying like a willow bough, delicate.
In his hand, you would think, as he turns it,
It is like the traces of down on a rosy cheek.
The slightest breeze makes it reel,
And it flutters toward the coolness of the continuing breeze.96
The greyish pigeons coo upon its branches in the morning,
And the cadences of the warbling of doves cause it emotion.
It has many meanings the like of which are unknown to wine.
Therefore do not listen with respect to it to the words of the old censor.97
They brought into our (read lanā) bridal chamber a fire, and we thought
A garden had come to us coupled with light.
93 1 Cf. M. Hadj-Sadok, in EI2, s.v. Ibn Khamīs.

94 2 His name is usually given as ʿAlī b. Muḥammad, and not as Muḥammad b. ʿAlī as we find
in al-Maqrīzī and GAL, Suppl., I, 444 f. The Berlin fragment of al-Badrī has Muḥammad b.
al-Mubārak but indicates in the margin that “ʿAlī b.” is to be inserted before Muḥammad.
ʿAlī b. Muḥammad appears in al-Badrī, fol. 3b. Cf. above, p. 53, n. 1.
The text translated here is that of al-Maqrīzī. Ibn Khamīs, as quoted by al-ʿAbbādī from
Ibn al-Qāḍī, adds the last verse and omits the verse before last as well as verses two to five.
The order of the rest is different, to wit: 1, 2, 5, 4, 6–11. The Berlin fragment of al-Badrī breaks
off after verse 5.
95 3 Ibn Khamīs: “A fine draft.”
96 4 Silvestre de Sacy translates: comme chancelle un homme étourdi par la vapeur du vin.
97 5 The statement recurs in al-Isʿirdī, verses 24 and 45 (below, pp. 165f.), and the editor of
155 It is virginal, not deflowered by rain,

Nor has it ever been squeezed by feet or hands.
No Christian priest has ever played around with the cup containing
it,
Nor have they ever given communion from its cask to any heretic’s
soul.98
Nothing has been said expressly by Mālik to declare it unlawful,
Nor is the ḥadd penalty for its use found prescribed in ash-Shāfiʿī and
Aḥmad (Ibn Ḥanbal).
An-Nuʿmān (Abū Ḥanīfah) has not established that it must be considered
unclean per se.
Thus take it with the sharp edge of steel.99
Stay the hands of worry with kaff and achieve joyful repose.100
Do not lightly postpone the day of joy till tomorrow.
“The days will show you what you were ignorant of,
And someone for whom you did not provide (to serve as your messenger)
will bring you the news.”101
al-Kutubī notes that mufannid means “declaring a liar.” The root is common in poetry, and
the meaning “to blame” is more likely applicable here. Mufannid is meant to refer to those
who censure the use of hashish without having any traditional (or rational) arguments to
fall back on. In this poem, as in al-Isʿirdī and generally according to the rules of prosody, the
short vowel preceding the rhyme letter can be a, i, or u. Al-Isʿirdī uses mufannid to rhyme
with muqallid in the first verse. Thus, a reading mufannad “a mentally and/or physically
weak old man” is unlikely and, anyhow, excluded by the meaning required. But it suggested
to me the addition of the adjective “old.”
98 1 The classical love poetry, for instance, Abū Nuwās, Dīwān, 64, made qarrab qurbān familiar
to every Muslim poet as a Christian cultic term. However, it is not entirely excluded that
the intended sense here was rather: “have brought near to its cask.” Anyway, the “heretic’s
soul” would still seem to be that of a non-Muslim who indulged in wine for cultic purposes.
If, however, Muslims whose winebibbing made them heretics are meant, the line could
be a slur directed against Ismāʿīlīs, accusing them of drinking wine. I have no explanation
for al-Maqrīzī’s reading muqʿad “cripple,” for “heretic.” Al-Badrī has “cask” for “cup,” and
“tavern” for “cask.”
99 2 If this is the correct translation, it seems to refer to the harvesting of hemp with a sharp
knife, a process more easily accomplished than winemaking.
100 3 Cf. above, p. 26. For “achieve joyful repose,” al-Badrī has wa-ṣṭabiḥ “have a morning drink,”
and goes on with wa-lā tadʿu (?) ayyāma, which seems quite doubtful.
101 4 Al-Maqrīzī does not have this famous quotation from Ṭarafah’s Muʿallaqah. In the context,
its meaning appears to be that hashish should be tried and the experience will be found
rewarding and pleasurable.
The poet of these lines, whoever he was, was influenced by al-Isʿirdī, unless
more likely both used common material. Wine is dirty, banj and hashish are
clean, and not only in the ritual sense.102
Hashish may have been not as dirty as wine by nature, but the general opin-
ion was that it made the addict physically dirty, and he was not only socially
déclassé but also contemptible in character and mores. He is a “vile” (khasīs)
individual. The word ḥashīshah easily combines with the adjective khasīsah
“vile”103 and should rather be written khasīsah. Adh-Dhahabī (?) repeats this
graphic pun in an | addition in his text to what is found in Ibn Taymīyah’s 156
Siyāsah: “By God, Iblīs has never had any joy like the one he has from hashish,
because he made it appear nice to vile souls so that they considered it lawful
and permissible.”104 He further adds the verses:
Say to those who eat hashish in ignorance:

You live the worst life imaginable when you eat it.
The worth of a man is a jewel. Why then,
You fools, do you sell it for a bit of grass (ḥashīshah)?105
The idea that hashish or ghubayrāʾ is a bad bargain and offers little that is
valuable in exchange for the devastating harm it does to the user’s physical
condition and social position was also expressed by Ibn Taymīyah, if in a slightly
different form.106 An anonymous rhymester cited by az-Zarkashī and al-Aqfahsī
repeats the verses just quoted with some minor variations (although Ms. A of
az-Zarkashī has the same text as adh-Dhahabī for the first half-verse of the
second verse):
Say to those who eat hashish in ignorance:

You vile fellows, you live the most contemptible life imaginable.
102 5 Cf. Fuzūlī, 171.

103 6 Cf. below, p. 170, and Ibn Kathīr, XIII, 314.
104 1 The same phrase occurs also in Ibn Ghānim. His text continues: “They (Ms. Princeton: he?)
took it as a qurbah, something to bring them near to God.”
105 2 The quotation in Ibn Ḥajar al-Haytamī, Zawājir, does not include these verses. The Berlin
Ms. (but not the Princeton Ms.) of Ibn Ghānim adds the verses at the very end, written
in a different hand. The second verse begins: “The ornament of man is his mind (ʿaql) …”.
Al-Badrī, fol. 55a, has the verses with the variant reading in the first verse: “… intentionally:
You live, miserable friend, the worst life imaginable (ʿamdan—ʿishta yā ṣāḥi wayka aqbaḥa
ʿīshah).” In the second verse, it is “pearl,” for “jewel.”
106 3 Cf. Ibn Taymīyah, Fatāwī, IV, 325 (= II, 253).
The blood money for the mind is a purse full of money. Why then,
You ignoramuses, do you sell it for a bit of grass?
When hashish is mentioned as something helpful in love affairs, it means

hitting at the low social standing of addicts due to their moral corruption. The
evil nature of the drug makes it a willing accessory to licentiousness.107 It has
the effect of facilitating seduction. In this respect, as al-Isʿirdī implies, wine and
hashish are equals. Both break down the resistance of the beloved and increase
the chances for success in amorous affairs. Already in the early thirteenth
century, al-Jawbarī cited some verses to this effect which are also to be found
in the much later al-Maqrīzī and al-Badrī. They ascribe them to a littérateur
157 named Aḥmad b. Muḥammad al-Ḥalabī and | known as Ibn ar-Rassām, who
according to al-Badrī had the honorific Shihāb-ad-dīn. His identity has not yet
been established, nor is the form of his name quite certain. Al-Jawbarī,108 on
the other hand, claims rather dramatically that the poet was a member of a
caste of advanced standing within the hierarchy of professional swindlers and
crooks. This group pretended to be composed of learned shaykhs. In fact, it
agreed upon the legality of eating hashish and considered as permissible the
commission of acts of immorality involving married women and boys from
good families:
Many a slender one, seemingly standoffish, have I observed

Whom I was never able to meet109 except him frowning.
One night I encountered him laughing,
Good tempered, docile, at a party,
His eyes seeking out a chaste lover.
Drunkenness is kind to lovers, not unkind.
I accomplished what I wanted from him and thanked110 him
As he had become, after mutual avoidance, my good friend.
He gave me this reply: Do not thank my natural disposition.
Rather, thank your intercessor, the wine of the bankrupt.
For the herb of good cheer111 intercedes with us
In behalf of lovers by gladdening the soul.
107 4 Cf., for instance, al-Badrī (above, p. 66), or an-Nuwayrī, Nihāyah, XI, 29.
108 1 Kashf al-asrār, 14 (Cairo 1316). Al-Maqrīzī and al-Badrī lack verse 3 and add the two
concluding verses.
109 2 The meter requires a long last syllable in altaqīhī.
110 3 Al-Jawbarī: “left.”
111 4 Al-Jawbarī: “the spirits” (al-arwāḥ, for al-afrāḥ).
When the capture of a standoffish gazelle is on your mind,

See to it that he grazes on cannabis hashish,
And thank Ḥaydar’s band for having shown
To those of lewd inclinations the method of the fivefold one.112
Leave the killjoys and let me be
Among those who hide from the good opinion of the people.113
Al-Jawbarī also lengthily describes criminals who induce children of | wealthy 158
parents to leave their homes,114 but in this connection, the role of hashish,
if it was indeed hashish which seems unlikely, was probably merely that of
a narcotic to make the victims unconscious for the purpose of abduction.
However, he also purports to know of swindlers who shave their beards, wear
irons, and, in some cases, pierce the penis and put a ring through it in order
to gain the confidence of their intended victims. These people, he says, “are
unable to remain for one day without eating hashish. When they eat it, their
minds become confused, and they do everything evil. For hashish is one of the
strongest intoxicants. Everything intoxicating is forbidden, and those who eat
what is forbidden do everything evil. Iblīs gains control over their brains.”115
The condemnation of hashish eaters as low-class rabble might conceivably
have already led to giving the sect of the Assassins their name.116 It was not only
moral degradation which contributed to the social downfall of addicts. Hashish
112 5 This could be the meaning of al-mutakhammis, as in the edition of al-Maqrīzī and, it
seems, in the ms. of al-Badrī, and refer to the shape of hemp leaves (cf. above, p. 27).
Al-mutaḥammis seems less likely. It could mean “strictly pious” (cf. Lane) and indicate the
wish of the user to appear to the world as one of those pious Ṣūfīs who introduced hashish.
113 6 According to Silvestre de Sacy, we should understand this verse to mean that the poet
desires to have a hiding place (mutanammas, not mutanammis) and be protected by the
good opinion in which the Ṣūfīs who introduced hashish were generally held, see also the
preceding note. The last two verses would thus express the longing of hashish eaters for
respectability in the eyes of the world. This, however, hardly fits in with the contents of
the earlier verses. Therefore, the last two verses (provided they belong together with what
precedes) are better explained as showing callous indifference to the world and public
opinion.
114 1 Cf. al-Jawbarī, 15 f.
115 2 Cf. al-Jawbarī, 14 f. Aziz Ahmad, An Intellectual History of Islam in India, 45 (Edinburgh
1969), states: “Another malāmī order was that of the Ḥaydarīs, whose bizarre practices
included adorning themselves with iron necklaces and bracelets and wearing a ring
attached to a lead bar piercing their sexual organs in order to eliminate any chance of
sexual intercourse.”
116 3 See above, pp. 42 f.
prevented them from earning a decent living, and the expenses connected with
the habit directly or indirectly brought about serious financial difficulties. An
addict would try to raise money by borrowing to sustain his habit, but failing to
do that, he had to sell all he owned.117 During a long drawn-out bout of debauch-
ery with wine and hashish lasting for ten days, the money might naturally run
out. The only thing left to sell was a carpet. A prospective buyer claimed that
it had been stolen from a murdered cousin, and this had dire results for the
unfortunate reveler.118 Despite of its cheapness, hashish was at times too much
of an expense for those poor people who craved it.119 Those who were in the
beginning quite well-off financially might find their undoing in a craving for
food and expensive luxuries such as large amounts of sweetmeats and fruits,
coming on top of the expenses caused by general dissipation. This could cause
a large inheritance to dwindle and disappear, reducing the addict to beggary
and vagabondage (ḥarfūsh, ḥarfashah). The story goes that this happened to a
159 certain | Aḥmad, the son of Burhān-ad-dīn Ibrāhīm aṣ-Ṣūfī ad-Dimashqī,120 and
also to a certain ʿAṭīyah al-Ḥaṣkafī. The depth of degradation into which the lat-
ter fell is illustrated by the story that he lost everything and had to leave town.
He was encountered by someone who knew him. He was naked, and when he
was asked about it, he lied that he was having his garment (qumāsh) washed
and had nothing else to wear. The acquaintance took off his woolen coat (?)121
and made him wear it. When the craving for hashish (muʿāṭāt [?] al-khaḍrāʾ)
came again over him and he did not find anything else to spend or sell, he
tore off the sleeve of the garment and sold it to buy hashish for himself from
the proceeds.122 Because of the abject poverty that was their lot, some addicts
depended on charity, and in fifteenth-century Egypt, it was one of the good
deeds of a pious Ṣūfī to distribute food he himself had received as a gift from
the nobility, to hashish eaters who were passing by his door.123
117 4 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. 22b. Cf. also above, p. 62, n. 3.

119 6 Cf. above, p. 99.
121 2 The word is twice clearly written in the ms. as jndh, whose precise meaning and derivation
are not known to me. For another occurrence, cf. as-Sakhāwī, Ḍawʾ, IV, 254, 1. 12. ʿAlī b.
Dāwūd al-Jawharī, Inbāʾ, ed. Ḥ. Ḥabashī, 264 (Cairo 1970), shows kh.
122 3 Cf. al-Badrī, fol. 22a–b, and, for other details of the story, above, p. 29, n. 2, and p. 138.
123 4 Cf. ash-Shaʿrānī, aṭ-Ṭabaqāt al-kubrā, II, 76f. (Cairo, n. y.), in the biography of ʿUmar
al-Kurdī, cited by A. Schimmel, in Festschrift Werner Caskel, 281 (Leiden 1968).
Among further examples for impoverishment as the result of addiction are, for in-
stance, the stories mentioned above, pp. 80 and 94.
Men of the Middle Ages did not clearly pose for themselves the problem
whether man’s innate baseness led him at times to excessive use of drugs with
the consequence that his status in society slipped, or whether poverty and a
depressed social status created a fertile soil for turning to drugs in the first
place. The first alternative obviously held greater appeal for them in keeping
with their religious and political preconceptions. In any event, the association
of drug use with the status of social outcast appears to have had a firm grip on
majority opinion.
4 Hashish, the Individual, and Society
In conclusion we must state again that our knowledge is very limited. The
gaps are tremendous. The nature of the information we do have is not easily
assessed. Its applicability to the realities | prevailing over the immense exten- 160
sion in time and space of medieval Islam is often suspect. Partisanship pro or
con, coupled with a seemingly widespread ignorance of hard facts, obscures
everything. Statistics naturally are non-existent.
Our sources give the impression of a westward march of hashish that had
its serious beginnings in the twelfth century and gathered speed during the
thirteenth century. A certain confirmation of these dates may be found in the
further impression that voices seemingly in favor of hashish would appear to
belong largely to the earlier stages of literary attestation. This would indicate
that at first a restricted use of the drug presumably by Ṣūfīs made it possible
to view it as something affecting individuals rather than society and there-
fore limited in the harm that it was considered to be able to cause. Soon,
however, the alert went out. Hashish was branded as a danger to society. The
voices raised against it were at first strong and insistent. When Ibn ʿAbd-
aẓ-Ẓāhir wrote a sort of official paper against it, he implied that first it was
wine that had to be fought against, but now, he stated, hashish had become
a fashion and thereby a social danger.124 Human resistance began to assert
itself, and the broad assumptions that governed the edifice of Islam as a reli-
gious and legal structure were put to the test. It cannot be said that they
were found wanting, but they did not provide the aggressive and irresistible
strength that would have been necessary. Jurists clung to the lifeline thrown
to them by the prohibition of wine. In theory it seemed very strong but had
itself worn thin in stretches by custom and abuse. Thus they were unable to
124 1 Cf. al-Ghuzūlī, Maṭāliʿ, II, 129; Ibn Ḥijjah, Thamarāt, I, 364.
provide much support for the strict prohibition of hashish which most of them
seem to have thought necessary.
The addicts, on their part, felt that they could be at peace with their Muslim
conscience. Where pure hedonism was not a sufficient excuse for indulgence,
the drug could also be claimed to open up new spiritual and intellectual vistas
and thus to contribute to an otherwise unobtainable sharpening of the religious
experience, thereby bringing mankind closer to what was imagined to be its
essential goal. The spread of hashish was facilitated by its easy accessibility.
This recommended it to the urban masses. The by and large asocial character
of hashish use was a welcome help in fighting the frustrations of daily life,
161 again something particularly desirable in an urban | environment. The social
stigma and loss of respectability associated with hashish were, it seems, no real
deterrents, all the less so since the use of it was easily concealed.
Society did not have to fear the potential harm that hashish was able by
prolonged use to inflict upon individual users. Its most important problem,
which called for action, was the cumulative effect produced by large numbers
of addicts. The periods when secular authorities tried openly and energetically
to fight drug use were sporadic. They were certainly not the result of a revival of
religious fervor where doctrinal considerations as such determined the govern-
ment’s attitude. They reflected an acute fear that a potential social evil threat-
ening the welfare of the state might eventually get out of hand. In general, the
use of hashish and other cannabis confections remained an underground affair,
and this was so most of the time and not only in periods of governmental cam-
paigns of repression. There was, however, an attempt made to set restrictions
aside and to find out what the result would be. At least this, al-Maqrīzī tells us,
was what happened in the year 815/1412–1413. Hashish was at that time used in
public without any inhibition, and it was discussed openly without embarrass-
ment. Al-Maqrīzī for one took a dim view of the resulting effect upon society:
“Character and morals became overwhelmingly vile, the veil of bashfulness and
shame was lifted, people used foul language, boasted of faults, lost all nobility
and virtue, and adopted every possible ugly character quality and vice. Were it
not for their (human) shape, nobody would think them human. Were it not for
their sense perception, nobody would adjudge them living beings.” Such trans-
formation (maskh) of the human quality of life is “a warning sign,” foreboding
great danger for individuals and society. It is, as the author of Qamʿ stresses
in the beginning of his work, a great potential danger to Islam. Islam here is a
synonym of our term “society.”
Whatever one may think of the uncompromising and harsh attitude of Ibn
Taymīyah, he must be given credit for having recognized the societal aspect of
hashish addiction and to have stated it clearly and succinctly in so many words,
and not only by indirection. Given their outlook as determined by Islam and
their limited factual knowledge, thoughtful Muslims will have understood and
shared his view. “Hashish,” Ibn Taymīyah says,125 “requires the ḥadd penalty | 162
more than wine. The harm a hashish eater causes to his own person is greater
than that caused by wine. On the other hand, the harm a winedrinker causes to
the people is greater (in view of the quarrels and the like provoked by alcohol).
However, in these times, because the consumption of hashish is spreading, the
harm coming from it to the people is greater than that of wine.” “The people”
here is another word for our “society.” Hashish had become a threat to it, and
the fight was on. Effective countermeasures were not readily available, once
mere repression proved futile, until, perhaps, as among the later Wahhābites,
it was accompanied by an entirely changed orientation. The conflict between
what was felt to be right and morally and socially good and what human nature
craved in its search for play and diversion went on.
125 1 Fatāwī, IV, 226, omitted in the parallel passage, II, 254.
appendix a
163 Some Hashish Poems Translated
1 Al-Isʿirdī’s Rangstreit of Hashish and Wine
“Verses by al-Isʿirdī1 expressing preference for the wine of the poor:
1) May all be well with you! Do not listen to the word of the old censor2
And do not let not following tradition shape your legal decisions.3
2) You have asked about the relationship between the green one and wine.
Thus listen to
What a person of correct and straightforward views4 has to say.
3) Surely wine does not possess some of the qualities of (hashish).
Can it be drunk openly in a (Ṣūfī) monastery or a mosque?
4) You ought to obtain it, a green one, not to be acquired at an excessive price
For the white of silver or the red of gold.
5) Rather, in contrast to wine, it comes as a gift
Removed from purchase without (the need for) abstemiousness.
6) It is something belonging to meadows5 whose greenness resembles the
gardens (of Paradise),
Whereas their wine is like a burning firebrand.
7) Their wine makes (you) forget all the meanings there are, while this one
Recalls the secrets of Beauty declared unique.
8) It is the secret. In it, the spirit ascends to the highest
Spots on a heavenly ascent (miʿrāj) of disembodied understanding.
9) Rather it is, indeed, the spirit (itself). On its plain, worries do not
164 Alight, nor is anyone not enjoying right guidance able to take hold of it.
10) The squeezers of grapes have not trampled on it on purpose, nor have they
dirtied
The casks with a seal of black pitch.
1 1 From al-Kutubī, Fawāt, II, 331–334, see above, p. 6.

2 2 See above, p. 154, n. 5.
3 3 If I understand the verse correctly, it refers to the view that there is no traditional basis for
the prohibition of hashish. As indicated in verse 25, the situation is different with respect to
wine, and it is stated that the traditional view prohibiting wine should not be accepted.
4 4 Hardly, “an informed, correct, straightforward person.”
5 5 Riyāḍīyah here is an adjective formed from the plural of rawḍah.
appendix a. some hashish poems translated 299
11) The bodies are not tired when it is evacuated6

And by vomiting as they have the appearance of an inflated wine-skin.
12) People do not disparage your intellect among themselves,
I swear, and you are not called by them a corrupter.
13) In the handkerchief’s edge may be the place to keep it,
Instead of having to carry a glass in the hand.
14) You escape from sin and punishment. You are not considered
Lowly, and you get away from quarrelsome boon companions.
15) You may drink it constantly, in good and bad circumstances.
The nights of pious devotions are not to be feared in connection with
it.7
16) You are safe from sudden and deceitful assaults by the militia,
And you escape from the injustice of the government, and you have to pay
no penalty.
17) You find yourself8 clean, virtuous, bright,
Witty, and unencumbered by excessive dullness.
18) You discover yourself not hated by the people,
And you are favored with (?)9 the best friendship all around.
19) When the beloved tastes it, he will sneak away from
The invidious backbiter and come to you without an appointment.
20) Among its excellent medical qualities is that it is good for digestion.10
How impossible it is to enumerate all its manifold virtues! 165
21) Especially, if my boon companion in (eating hashish) is
A gazelle, like the bent branch of a willow,
22) Who keeps (me) company with a pretty poem, and at times
Sings, thereby putting to shame the cooing pigeon.
6 1 Presumably, through vomiting, as this seems to be the meaning of nizāl. The usual sexual
meaning of the word is not applicable here. The variant reading zawālihā, rejected by the
editor of al-Kutubī, could hardly mean: “when it stops exercising its effect.” Cf. above, p. 128,
n. 1.
7 2 Hashish, in contrast to wine, permits Ṣūfīs and other devout people to spend the night in
prayer. Cf. also above, p. 148.
8 3 The literal meaning, “to be, become in the morning,” suggests the idea that in contrast
to wine which leaves the drinker with a hangover after a night of quarrels, the effects of
hashish taken in the evening are gone by next morning.
9 4 Tumnaḥu could hardly be followed by the preposition bi-. Read tumdaḥu?
10 5 According to the medical authorities cited by al-Maqrīzī, hashish is good for digestion
( jayyidah li-l-haḍm) but also difficult to digest (ʿasir al-inhiḍām), cf. above, p. 114, n. 7.
Al-Isʿirdī’s jūdatu haḍmihā is, however, hardly intended to mean “easy digestibility.”
23) He flirts with me in secret with the eyes of a female gazelle,

And when he smiles, he shows teeth arranged like pearls.
24) Do not listen to what critics may say with respect to it.
They want to keep you away from it. Disobey any old censor!
Other verses by al-Isʿirdī, expressing preference for wine over hashish:
25) I am devoted to you. The light of truth has shone forth. Thus be guided
aright,
My boon companion! And be you not one to follow tradition with respect
to amusement!
26) Do you like to be similar to a dumb beast
By eating dry grass, not juicy?
27) Do not pay any attention to the opinion of people who are like animals.
Do not pass around anything
Except a pearl comparable to a blazing star,
28) Wine! Whenever its light shines for a caravan that
Went astray some night, it is guided back to the right path by the light.
29) Their hashish covers the respectable person with ignominy
So that you meet him like a killer acting with premeditation.11
30) It produces12 upon his cheeks something like its own greenish color
So that he appears with a face darkish, dust-colored.
31) It ruins his appearance as the boon companion’s mind imagines it
So that the white of the morning appears like black (darkness).13
32) Our own wine covers the lowly person with respectability
And dignity so that you find every master beneath him.14
33) It shows up—and clears up every boon companion’s worries.
When he drinks it, his thirsty heart is sated.
166 34) It appears—and his secret appears and gladdens him.
He resembles its color with a rosy cheek.
35) Contrary to hashish, it contains beneficial qualities.
Thus speak about all the meanings it has and describe and enumerate
them!
11 1 The hashish eater is furtive and afraid to be seen like a murderer?

12 2 Read wa-tubdī, or wa-yabdū “there appears.”
13 3 His nightly apparition (khayāl) is so disturbing to his friend that the coming of morning
brings no relief.
14 4 Hardly, “it subjects every master to him.”
36) The other substance contains all sorts of harm for mankind.
Thus tell all the evil about its bad qualities!
37) Surely, no caliph ever tasted hashish,
Neither did a king who possessed mastery over people.
38) Nor did a poet ever make a serious effort to praise it
With artistic words like the tunes of Maʿbad.15
39) Nor have the strings been plucked in a gathering in its behalf.
This happens only with the roseate drink.
40) Is a palm ever tinged by anything other than wine?
When it appears in the cup, it shows up on the hand.
41) Under its influence, the beloved bends down, drunk, swaying
In a shape like a bent willow branch,
42) Giving you wine like it in his saliva
And his mouth like well-arranged bubbles (?).16
43) One reluctant to join his lover grants him the favor.
Then he forgets all that took place on the following day.
44) Friend, would any intelligent person refrain from something of this na-
ture?
I was not well advised when I left it alone.
45) Were it not for those meddlers, I would not spend the night sober,
Nor would I listen concerning (wine) to what the old censor says.
46) Thus take it and do not listen to what censorious people say,
Even if it is some time forbidden according to the religion of Aḥmad.17
Consider (al-Kutubī comments) these two poems and the contrast and inter-
connection established by the poet between them. It shows his great skill. He
praises a thing and blames its opposite, then reverses the order, thereby caus-
ing sympathy for what he has praised, and aversion for what he has blamed,
without changing the reality of the one or the other.”18
15 1 The famous Medinese singer who died in 743.

16 2 “Well-arranged teeth” would hardly fit in. Moreover, ḥabāb does not seem to have the
meaning of ḥabab.
17 3 ʿAlā dīni Aḥmadi, referring to the Prophet Muḥammad.
18 4 One more poem making similar points may be cited. It is quoted in al-Badrī, fol. 45a–b, and
ascribed to a certain Ibn Abī Saʿd al-Warrāq al-Bannāʾ:
People said about maʿlūm

As it was being compared to wine:
The daughter of cannabis cannot
Be compared to the daughter of the vine.

No comparison between them
Is possible for an intelligent man.
How could it be! Wine is pressed in
Shops with the foot.
It has a cask and a jug
And a strainer and a bowl.
The cask of the daughter of cannabis is
A purse, and the hand is the cup.
It has no hangover
Causing harm to the head.
Those (things) become dispensable for
One whose garment is poverty.a
Thus eat maʿlūm openly—
There is nothing wrong with maʿlūm—
In blooming gardens
Adorned by roses and myrtle,
From the hands of a Turkish
Gazelle that shows no refractoriness.
His glances wide awake but
His eyes full of sleep.
qāla fī l-maʿlūmi nāsu

idh bihī li-l-khamri qāsū
ibnatu l-qunbusi laysat
bi-bnati l-karmi tuqāsu
laysa fī-mā bayna hātay-
ni li-dhī lubbin qiyāsu
kayfa wa-l-khamratu fī l-ḥā-
nāti bi-r-rijli tudāsu
wa-lahā dannun wa-ibrī-
qun wa-rāwūqun wa-ṭāsu
wa-bnatu l-qunbusi kīsun
dannuhā wa-l-kaffu kāsu
wa-hya mā fīhā khumārun
yataʾadhdhā minhu rāsu
wa-bihā ʿan tilka yaghnā
man lahū l-faqru libāsua
a This verse, it seems, has its proper position before the preceding two verses. fa-kul-i-l-
maʿlūma jahran
2 Poems against Hashish by Ibn Ghānim and an Anonymous Poet 167
Ibn Ghānim’s authorship is assured not only by the fact that the verses appear in
his work19 but also by the reference, at the end, to | “Maqdisī wine,” an apparent 168
allusion to Ibn Ghānim’s gentilic. The second half of the poem beginning with
verse 7 can be understood only as an invitation to accept the mystical teachings
of the author, to drink the lawful wine he, and he alone, has to offer, instead of
continuing the hashish habit.20
laysa bi-l-maʿlūmi bāsu

fī riyāḍin yāniʿātin
zānahā wardun wa-āsu
min yaday ẓabyin min-a-l-at-
rāki mā fīhi shimāsu
yaqiẓa (ʾa)lḥāzuhu lākin
milʾa ʿaynayhi nuʿāsu.b
b The meaning of the last verse is clear, but the text as read shows too many metrical
and grammatical irregularities (in an otherwise very regular poem) and probably requires
correction.
20 1 Al-Badrī, fol. 55b, quotes the first six verses with the omission of verse 4. The text of Ibn
Ghānim’s poem is as follows (the variant readings of the Princeton and Berlin Mss. are
listed in the footnotes to the translation):
yā man tashabbaha bi-l-bahīmi wa-qad ghadā

ka-th-thawri yarʿā fī ḥashīshi l-qunbusi
wa-la-anta ashbahu bi-l-bahīmati innamā
khālaftahā fa-labista mā lam talbasi
abadat bika l-bankā fa-ruḥta bi-sukrihā
tamshī ka-mashyi l-akmahi l-mutaḥassisi
wa-l-wajhu yaḥkī fī ṣafāqati nasjihī
athwāba khazzin maʿdinīyin aṭlasi
a-raḍīta wayḥaka an turā bayna l-warā
aʿmā aṣamma tushīru mithlu l-akhrasi
wa-la-ṭāla-mā ukilat bi-bayti siqāyatin
khawfa r-raqībi wa-khissatan fī l-anfusi
fa-idhā aradta ḥalāla khamrin muskirin
fa-dkhul ilā ḥānī wa-dūnaka majlisī
tajid-i-z-zajājata bi-l-mudāmati ashraqat
wa-ṣafat li-shāribihā bi-ṣafwi l-akʾusi
1) O you who are similar to dumb beasts, having become21

Like an ox grazing on cannabis hashish!
2) Indeed, you are more similar to a dumb beast. Only22
169 You have distanced yourself from it by wearing cloth it does not wear.
3) The drug has settled down in you,23 and through its intoxication you have
turned to
Walking as does someone born blind, feeling his way.24
4) The face25 resembles in its compact weave
Garments of smooth, maʿdinī silk.26
5) Does it please you, hapless man, to be seen among mankind
Blind and deaf, using sign language like a deaf person?
6) Quite often has it been eaten in a privy
Out of fear of an observer and vileness in the souls.27
wa-tarannamat alḥānuhā fī ḥānihā

bi-laṭāʾifi l-maʿnā l-ʿaliyi l-anfasi
khudhhā bi-lā thamanin fa-inna sharābahā
lā yustabāḥu li-ghayri ʿabdin muflisi
fa-shrab wa-ṭib wa-ṭrab bi-ghayri taḥashshumin
wa-shṭaḥ wa-qul hādhā sh(?)-sharābu l-Maqdisī.
21 2 Ms. Princeton omits wa-qad ghadā and vocalizes qanbas (above, p. 22, n. 5).
22 3 The seemingly correct innamā has been corrected by the scribe of the Berlin Ms. at the
bottom of the page to read maʾkalan “with respect to food.”
23 1 This is the reading suggested by al-Badrī, who, however, continues with a metrically
impossible wjb. Ankā bika l-balwā “the calamity has befallen you(?)” seems to be the
reading in the Berlin and Princeton Mss., balwā constituting a correction in the Berlin
Ms. whereas the Princeton Ms. has a clearly written ‫اﻟﺴﲆ‬. Perhaps, some other nickname
for hashish is concealed here.
24 2 Al-Badrī clearly shows mutajassis with j. Ms. Princeton has something like bi-t-tajassusi
which does not fit the meter, but Ms. Berlin takes pains to indicate ḥ. Ms. Berlin has aʿmā
aṣamma (cf. verse 5) here at the beginning of this line. Since this makes the verse too long,
the scribe reconstructed it to read: Aʿmā aṣamma ka-akmahin mutaḥassisi.
25 3 Ms. Princeton: fa-l-wajhu.
26 4 The face is so bland and devoid of expression. Both maʿdinī and aṭlas must be understood
as adjectives belonging to “silk”; they cannot be interpreted as “maʿdinī satin.” For maʿdinī,
cf. Dozy, Supplément, II, 104b, to which R.B. Serjeant, in Ars Islamica, IX (1952), 71, has little
to add.
27 5 Ms. Berlin corrects the last two words to wa-khashyata l-mutajassisi “out of fear of a spy.”
This is suspect if only because of its simplicity.
7) If you wish something lawful in the way of intoxicating wine,28

Enter my tavern and help yourself to my salon,29
8) And you will find the glass sparkling with wine30
And pure for the drinker in the purity of cups,
9) Its tunes resounding in its tavern
With the finesses of noble, most precious meaning.31
10) Take it gratis, for this wine
Is permitted only for a bankrupt32 human being.
11) Drink and be of good cheer and be uplifted emotionally, without inhibi-
tion!
Get ecstatic and say: This is the Maqdisī wine.33 170
The author of the other poem, from the Gotha Ms.,34 is unknown. There is noth-
ing to indicate that he might have been the same man who is mentioned in
connection with verses immediately preceding in the ms. (see above, p. 150,
n. 4). The poem paints quite a complete picture of the alleged general corrup-
tion of addicts, their unpleasantness as members of society, and their criminal
character. It plays with the idea that ḥashīsh is a misspelling for khasīs “vile”35
because its outstanding trait is vileness, the vile moral character it generates in
its users.36
28 6 Ms. Princeton has khamra ḥalālin ladhdhatan. The first two words are metrically not
possible in this order, but ladhdhatan “for pleasure” may be correct.
29 7 Ms. Princeton: majlisi.
30 8 Ms. Princeton: al-mudāmata bi-z-zajājati “the wine sparkling in the glass.”
31 9 Ms. Berlin has al-mʿly for al-maʿnā. Al-anfusi “high of souls, high-minded” seems less
likely.
32 10 In the sense of poor, Ṣūfī.
33 1 The article may have to be omitted. Ms. Princeton has s(h)rb al-mqds.
34 2 See above, p. 18.
35 3 Cf. also above, p. 155.
36 4 The text reads:
yaqūlūna sirru l-faqri aklu ḥashīshatin

atānā bi-hādhā s-sirri baʿḍu l-aʿājimi
tabāʿada ʿannā l-ghammu wa-l-hammu wa-l-ḥayā(ʾ)
wa-hādhā ʿalā t-taḥqīqi ʿayshu l-bahāʾimi
fa-qultu lahum ṣaḥḥaftumū sirra faqrikum
wa-li-sh-shayni ʿāmaltum bi-khaṭfi l-ʿamāʾimi
wa-law ṣaḥḥafa l-qawmu l-ḥashīshata wuffiqū
li-taḥqīqi waṣfin li-l-ḥashīshati lāzimi
1) They say: The secret of poverty (Ṣūfism) is eating a herb.

This secret has been brought to us by some Persian(s).
2) Grief and worry and modesty are gone from us.
This is indeed the life of dumb beasts.37
3) I said to them: You have misspelled the secret of your poverty.
Your operation has resulted in disgrace by having your turbans seized
(?).38
171 4) If people were to misspell hashish, they would succeed
In realizing a correct and necessary description for it.
5) Consider—may God watch you—the conditions of its people.
At once, they will provide a lesson for the Muslims.
6) Ugliness of face, discarding manly virtue,
Indifference to affronts to the womenfolk (?).39
7) A claim where the claimant has no proof.
An ecstasy free from the requirements of noble qualities.40
taʾammal raʿāka llāhu aḥwāla ahlihā

fa-fī l-ḥāli minhum ʿibratun li-l-masālimi
waqāḥatu wajhin wa-ṭṭirāḥu murūwatin
wa-tarku ktirāthin bi-qtiḥāmi l-maḥārimi
wa-daʿwā wa-lā burhāna fīhi li-muddaʿin
wa-shaṭḥun ʿarīyun ʿan shurūṭi l-makārimi
riyāḍatuhum shatmu l-anāmi wa-luṭfuhum
zukāmun (?) wa-mā fī l-qawmi ghayru mulāʾimi
wa-ʿīshatuhum(?) fī-mā jarā yajʿalūnahā
wasīlata ḥaẓẓin li-jtilābi l-maṭāʿimi
fa-mā sakhkhara z-zaqqūma illā ḥashīshatun
yakhuṣṣu bihā fī n-nāsi ahlu l-maʾāthimi.
37 5 In the first line, the reading could possibly be tubāʿidu … l-ghamma, etc., “it removes … grief
…”. The second line is the gnomic comment of the poet. It is interesting that he considers
a life free from worries as something less than human.
38 6 Shayn, the opposite of zayn “ornament,” is the vocalization indicated in the ms., but there
may be here an allusion to the letter shīn which distinguishes ḥashīsh from khasīs. The
removal of turbans may be a punishment for hashish use. Or “seizing turbans” may imply
false claims to scholarship.
39 1 The translation reflects the idea that addicts lose their sense of honor with respect to their
women (cf. above, p. 85 f.). However, iqtiḥām al-maḥārim more immediately suggests the
translation: “to rush into doing forbidden things.”
40 2 Shaṭḥ, and not as one might think sharṭ “requirement, condition,” is the correct reading.
For ʿarīyun, instead of ʿārin, cf., for instance, as-Sakhāwī, Ḍawʾ, VI, 58, 1. 16.
8) Their (mystic) exercise is vilifying people. Their grace is

A catarrh (?) and whatever is inappropriate among people.41
9) Whatever happens, they make their way of living42
A lucky means for obtaining food.
10) Nothing has ever subdued the zaqqūm tree43 except an herb
Which among mankind is the special property of criminals.
3 Poems on Hashish from the Dīwān of Ṣafī-ad-dīn al-Ḥillī44
(a)
1) Present it to me45 mixed with a plant

From the purse’s opening, not from cups,
2) A wine whose casks are ivory boxes
And whose cups are the palms of my hands.
3) It has not been dirtied by the admixture of water, but
Often it has been followed by sweet water.46 172
4) It has no hangover, except subtle thinking
That cheers the soul to the last breath.
5) An intoxication such as that of wine is unable to
Offer. How could an old woman have the grace of a young girl?47
6) The law stipulates no penalty for it, nor
Has the ḥadīth of reliable transmitters said anything about its being for-
bidden.
41 3 Some metaphoric meaning unknown to me may go with zukām “catarrh.” If not, a correc-
tion would seem necessary, perhaps, ziḥām “crowding others.” The ms. has mulākim for
mulāʾim.
42 4 The ms. has something like wa-ʿayshuhumū. The verse appears to refer to the alleged
inordinate desire of hashish users for food.
43 5 See above, pp. 46 f. I doubt whether zaqqūm is meant to be the subject, and hashish
the object, in which case hashish would be subservient to zaqqūm which pressed it into
service as its most valuable servant.
44 6 Cf. his Dīwān, 450–452 (Damascus 1297–1300), reprinted Beirut 1382/ 1962, 628–631. The
superscription reads: “On al-mufarriḥ al-Ḥaydarī” (see above, p. 25).
45 7 Read ʿāṭinīhā as required by the meter (khafīf ).
46 1 Meaning that some water is drunk after eating hashish?
47 2 Wine is “aged,” hashish is “new.”
7) Ascetics have become acquainted with it. Then they used it

In pastes and electuaries.
8) They nicknamed it at times “rouser of thought,”
And at times “digester of food.”
9) I said when the scent of musk spread from it
And the bashful maidens revealed themselves in their garments:
10) It is the right of him who has spent the night wooing you
To give the daughter of the vines a document of privilege.48
(b)
1) In the purse, not in the cup, I have a wine

Whose taste or smell makes me drunk.
2) The text of the Holy Writ has not forbidden it, neither
Has there been consensus in the law on its censure.49
3) Obviously useful, it possesses a (power of) intoxication
That saves the souls from their worries.
4) The gratitude owed to it is greater than the drunkenness caused by it,
And its usefulness is greater than the sin of using it.
(c)50
1) For me the purse has a substitute for what the cup contains,
173 And pieces of paper for what the bowl holds.
2) My desire goes for the new one, not for something aged
That the devil inspires people to use,
48 3 Read:
ḥaqqu man bāta khāṭiban laki an yuʿ-

ṭiya binta l-kurūmi khaṭṭa barāti.
The “document of privilege” would seem to be a divorce or a passport to leave.

49 4 Cf. also the invitation to a hashish party in Dīwān, 375:
In our house there is a wine which neither the text

Has forbidden nor general consensus.
If wine is forbidden to us,
In our house we have hashish and beer ( fuqāʿ).
3) A wine which has neither devilish whisperings in the head

That cover51 the souls, nor Satanic inspiration in the breast.
4) It does not charge a soul with anything beyond its capabilities,
Neither is there fear of harm and bankruptcy from it.
5) How great is the difference between a wine whose drinker has to fear
punishment,
And a wine where there is nothing wrong with drinking it
6) And where when we want to drink it, we do not have to spend the night
With guardians and watchers waiting at the door!
7) The inkwell serves as its shop.52 Its bag (takes the place of)
A cask. Its cups are fingernail and paper.
(d)
1) Hashish makes you dispense53 with wine,

The new leaves with the old one,
2) And the green one with pure red wine.
How great is the difference between emerald and carnelian!
3) A wine that is honorably (?) preserved in pockets
And drunk in the open streets.
4) In crushed form held in the hand, it scoffs at
The good scent of crushed musk.
5) Thus drink it and divorce anything beside it,
And you will live among people with a cheerful face.
(e)
1) Take its story from those who know it,

And preserve54 those who revel in it from shame with respect to it!
2) A wine whose drinker does not have to fear punishment,
And it does not make the intelligent person stupid.
3) We have found in it lasting bliss.
It has become a paradise for those who choose it. 174
51 1 The “covering” belongs to the intoxicating effect, cf. above, p. 107.

52 2 Read ḥānun. The editions have jʾn and jānin, respectively.
53 3 Taghānā = tataghānā, hardly taghānī, for taghānīya (infinitive with suffix) “makes me
dispense.” The taghāna of the Beirut edition does not fit the meter (wāfir).
54 4 Read, apparently, wa-(ʾa)ʿfi.
4) Eating it is permanent55 and a shady shelter.

You can see those deserving of it56 taking up residence in it.
(f) On Combining Hashish and Wine
1) Intoxication with both the red one and the green one
Provides safety from the black and the yellow (biles).
2) The one boils without fire, and the other has had
Its curving parts swagger without (motion of the) air.
3) Break with the help of the lassitude of the one the vehemence57 of the
other
And wonder at the harmony of the parts.
4) For the intoxication between them combines
The laziness of hashish and the energy of wine.
55 1 As is Paradise?
56 2 Or, simply, “its people.”
57 3 The translation is not meant to suggest a correction of shirrah to shiddah.
appendix b
The Arabic Text of az-Zarkashī’s Zahr al-ʿarīsh 175
For a brief description of the mss., see above, p. 10:
A Berlin Ms. Wetzstein II, 1809

B Berlin Ms. Wetzstein II, 1801
C Gotha Ms. 2096
D Berlin Ms. Petermann II, 407
Mss. A and B are related as are C and D. Mss. B and D are much more carelessly
written than A and C. Beyond this, it is hardly possible to make any precise
statements regarding the affiliation of the mss. The text given here is therefore
highly eclectic. Additional material found in AB and not found in CD belongs
to the author’s text, but additional material found only in either A or B is of
rather uncertain origin, as far as our present knowledge goes.
All variant readings have been listed, including even almost all of the numer-
ous foolish oversights of the scribes of B and D. Differences in the use of diacrit-
ical dots have only rarely been noted. The indirect tradition has been checked,
but its variant readings have as a rule not been listed in the apparatus. Certain
modern spelling conventions have been adopted in the text with no further ref-
erence to what is actually found in the mss. However, seeming solecisms have
not been corrected; in fact, they have been preferred occasionally in cases of
differences between the mss. Some further corrections have been discussed in
the footnotes to passages translated above.
(It may be added here that Ibn al-Marāghī studied the Zahr with its author,
apparently in 788/1386, cf. as-Sakhāwī, Ḍawʾ, VII, 161.)
‫‪312‬‬ ‫‪iii. the herb: hashish versus medieval muslim society‬‬
‫‪176‬‬
‫‪١‬اﶵﺪ 󰏯 ﻋﲆ ﻧﻌﲈﺋﻪ واﻟﺼﻼة واﻟﺴﻼم ﻋﲆ ﺳـّﯿﺪ󰈋 ﶊﺪ ﺻﻔﻮة ٔاﺻﻔﯿﺎﺋﻪ وﻋﲆ‬

‫ا ٓ󰏳 وﲱﺒﻪ ﺧﲑ ٔاوﻟﯿﺎﺋﻪ‪ٔ ١‬اّﻣﺎ ﺑﻌﺪ ﻓﮭﺬﻩ ﻓﺼﻮل ﰱ اﻟ󰏢م ﻋﲆ اﳊﺸﯿﺸﺔ اﻗﺘﴣ‬
‫اﳊﺎل ﴍﺣﮭﺎ ‪٢‬ﻟﻌﻤﻮم ‪٣‬ﺑﻠﻮی ﻛﺜﲑ‪ ٣‬ﻣﻦ اﻟﺴﻔ󰏨 ﺑﮭﺎ وﺗﻮﻗّﻒ ﻛﺜﲑ ﻣﻦ اﻟﻨﺎس ﰱ‬
‫ﺣﳬﮭﺎ ﳌ ّﺎ ﱂ ﳚﺪوا ‪٤‬ﻟﻠﺴﻠﻒ ﻓﯿﮭﺎ‪󰏡 ٤‬ﻣﺎ‪٢‬‬
‫اﻟﻔﺼﻞ أﻻول‬
‫ﰱ‪ ٥‬ﺗﺴﻤﯿﺘﮭﺎ‪ ٦‬ووﻗﺖ ﻇﮭﻮرﮬﺎ وأﻻﻃّﺒﺎء‪ ٧‬ﯾﺴّﻤﻮﻧﮭﺎ اﻟﻘﻨّﺐ اﻟﮭﻨﺪی وﻣﻨﮭﻢ ﻣﻦ‬
‫ﯾﺴّﻤﯿﮭﺎ ورق اﻟﺸﮭﺪاﱋ‪ ٨‬وﺗﺴّﻤﯽ 󰈈ﻟﻐﺒﲑاء و󰈈ﳊﯿﺪرﯾ ّﺔ‪ ٩‬واﻟﻘﻠﻨﺪرﯾ ّﺔ‪ ١٠‬وﯾﻘﺎل ّ‬
‫ﰻ‬
‫ورﻗﺔ ﻣﻨﮭﺎ‪ ١١‬ﺑﻘﺪر‪ٔ ١٢‬اﺻﺎﺑﻊ اﻟﯿﺪ‬
‫‪١٥‬‬ ‫ّﰒ ﻗﯿﻞ ‪١٣‬ﰷن ﻇﮭﻮرﮬﺎ‪ ١٣‬ﻋﲆ ﯾﺪ ﺣﯿﺪر‪ ١٤‬ﰱ ﺳـﻨﺔ‪ ١٥‬ﲬﺴﲔ‪ ١٦‬وﲬﺴﲈﺋﺔ‬
‫ﺗﻘﺮﯾﺒﺎ وﻟﮭﺬا ّﲰﯿﺖ ﺣﯿﺪرﯾ ّﺔ وذ󰏭 ٔاﻧ ّﻪ ﺧﺮج ﮬﺎﲚﺎ ﻟﺘﻨﻔّﺮﻩ‪ ١٧‬ﻣﻦ ٔاﲱﺎﺑﻪ ﳁّﺮ‬
‫‪ ١–١‬ﻗﺎل اﻟﺸـﯿﺦ 󰈇ﺳـﺘﺎذ ﺑﺪر ا󰏩ﯾﻦ اﻟﺰرﻛﺸﯽ رﲪﻪ ﷲ ﺗﻌﺎﱃ ‪ ; C‬ﻗﺎل اﻟﺸـﯿﺦ 󰈇ﻣﺎم اﺑﻮ ﻋﺒﺪ‬
‫‪D ٢–٢‬‬ ‫ﷲ ﺑﺪر ا󰏩ﯾﻦ ﶊﺪ ﺑﻦ ﻋﺒﺪ ﷲ اﻟﺰرﻛﺸﯽ اﻟﺸﺎﻓﻌﯽ اﳌﴫی رﲪﻪ ﷲ واﻟﻐﻔﺮان ‪D‬‬
‫‪ ٦‬اﲰﮭﺎ ‪AD‬‬ ‫‪ ٥‬ﻋﻦ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ٤–٤‬ﻓﯿﮭﺎ ﻟﻠﺴﻠﻒ ‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ٣–٣‬اﻟﺒﻠﻮی ﻛﺜﲑا ‪B‬‬ ‫‪deest ; C in marg.‬‬
‫‪A deest ١١‬‬ ‫‪ ١٠‬و󰈈ﻟﻘﻠﻨﺪرﯾﺔ ‪AC‬‬ ‫‪ٔ ٩‬او 󰈈ﳊﯿﺪرﯾﺔ ‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ٨‬اﻟﺸﮭﺮاﱋ ‪D‬‬ ‫ﻻﻃﺒﺎء ‪A‬‬ ‫‪ ٧‬ﻓﺎ ٔ‬
‫‪ ١٥–١٥‬ﲬﺴﲈﺋﺔ وﲬﺴﲔ ‪A‬‬ ‫‪ ١٤‬ﺣﯿﺪری ‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ١٣–١٣‬ﻇﮭﻮرﮬﺎ ﰷن ‪CD‬‬ ‫‪ ١٢‬ﲟﻘﺪار ارﺑﻊ ‪A‬‬
‫‪ ١٧‬ﻟﯿﻔﺮ ‪CD‬‬ ‫‪ ١٦‬ﲬﺲ ‪B‬‬

‫‪appendix b. the arabic text of az-zarkashi’s zahr al-ʿarīsh‬‬ ‫‪313‬‬
‫ﻋﲆ ﮬﺬﻩ اﳊﺸﯿﺸﺔ ﻓﺮٔای اﻏﺼﺎﻧﮭﺎ ﺗﺘﺤّﺮك ﻣﻦ ﻏﲑ ﮬﻮاء ﻓﻘﺎل ﰱ ﻧﻔﺴﻪ ﮬﺬا‬ ‫‪177‬‬
‫ﴎا‬‫ﴪ ﻓﯿﮭﺎ ﻓﺎﻗﺘﻄﻒ ‪ّ١‬ﰒ ٔاﰻ ﻣﻨﮭﺎ‪ ١‬ﻓﻠّﻤﺎ رﺟﻊ ٕاﻟﯿﮭﻢ ٔاﻋﻠﻤﮭﻢ ‪ٔ٢‬اﻧ ّﻪ رٔای‪ ٢‬ﻓﯿﮭﺎ ّ‬ ‫ﻟ ّ‬
‫ؤاﻣﺮﮬﻢ ﺑﺎٔﳇﮭﺎ وﻗﯿﻞ‪ ٣‬ﻇﮭﺮت ﻋﲆ ﯾﺪ ٔاﲪﺪ اﻟﺴﺎو󰏆‪ ٤‬اﻟﻘﻠﻨﺪری‪ ٥‬و󰏫󰏭‪ّ ٦‬ﲰﯿﺖ‬
‫ﻗﻠﻨﺪرﯾ ّﺔ وﻗﺎل ٔاﺑﻮ اﻟﻌّﺒﺎس‪ ٧‬ﺑﻦ ﺗﳰّﯿﺔ ٕاﻧ ّﲈ ﱂ ﯾﺘﳫّﻢ ﻓﯿﮭﺎ أﻻﲚ ّﺔ أﻻرﺑﻌﺔ وﻏﲑﮬﻢ‪ ٨‬ﻣﻦ‬
‫ﻋﻠﲈء اﻟﺴﻠﻒ‪ٔ ٩‬ﻻﻧ ّﮭﺎ ﱂ ﺗﻜﻦ ﰱ زﻣﻨﮭﻢ وٕاﻧ ّﲈ‪ ١٠‬ﻇﮭﺮت ﰱ ٔاواﺧﺮ‪ ١١‬اﳌﺎﺋﺔ‪ ١٢‬اﻟﺴﺎدﺳﺔ‬
‫ؤاول اﳌﺎﺋﺔ اﻟﺴﺎﺑﻌﺔ ﺣﲔ ﻇﮭﺮت دو󰏧 اﻟﺘﱰ‪ ١٣‬وﻛﺬا‪ ١٤‬ﻗﺎل ﻏﲑﻩ ٕاﻧ ّﮭﺎ ﰷﻧﺖ ‪١٥‬‬
‫ّ‬
‫ﴍا داﺧﻼ‪ ١٥‬ﻋﲆ‪ ١٦‬ﺑﻼد‪ ١٧‬اﻟﻌﺠﻢ ﺣّﱴ‪ ١٨‬اﺳـﺘﻮﱃ ﻋﲆ ‪١٩‬ﻣﻦ ﻓﯿﮭﺎ‪ ١٩‬اﻟﺘﱰ‪ّ ٢٠‬ﰒ‬ ‫ّ‬
‫ﻻﺛﺮ‪٢١‬‬ ‫اﻧﺘﻘﻠﺖ ٕاﱃ ﺑﻐﺪاد وﻗﺪ ﻋﲅ ﻣﺎ ﺟﺮی ﻋﲆ ٔاﮬﻠﮭﺎ ﻣﻦ ‪٢١‬ﻗﺒﯿﺢ ا ٔ‬
‫اﻟﻔﺼﻞ اﻟﺜﺎﱏ‬
‫ﰱ ﻣﻀﺎّرﮬﺎ ﰱ ‪٢٢‬اﻟﻌﻘﻞ واﻟﺒﺪن‪ ٢٢‬وذﻛﺮ‪ ٢٣‬ﺑﻌﻀﮭﻢ ٔاﻧ ّﻪ ﲨﻊ ﻓﯿﮭﺎ ﻣﺎﺋﺔ‬
‫وﻋﴩون‪ ٢٤‬ﻣّﴬة ‪ ٢٥‬دﯾﻨﯿّﺔ ودﻧﯿﻮﯾ ّﺔ‪ ٢٥‬وﻗﺪ‪ٔ ٢٦‬اﲨﻊ ا ٔ ّ‬
‫ﻻﻃﺒﺎء ﻋﲆ ‪ٔ ٢٧‬اﻧ ّﮭﺎ‪٢٨‬‬
‫ﺗﻮرث اﻟﻔﻜﺮة‪ ٢٩‬واﻟﻔﻜﺮة‪ ٣٠‬ﺗﺜﲑ‪ ٣١‬اﳊﺮارة اﻟﻐﺮﯾﺰﯾ ّﺔ‪ ٣٢‬ورﺑ ّﲈ ﻗﻮﯾﺖ ﻋﲆ اﳊﺮارة‬
‫اﻟﻐﺮﯾﺰﯾ ّﺔ‪ ٢٦‬ﻓﻌﺰﻟﺘﮭﺎ‪ ٣٣‬ﻋﻦ اﳉﺴﺪ واﺳـﺘﻮﻟﺖ ﻋﲆ اﻟﺒﺪن ﲾﻔّﻔﺖ اﻟﺮﻃﻮ󰈈ت‬
‫‪;C‬‬ ‫‪ ١–١‬ﻣﻨﮭﺎ ؤاﰻ ‪ ; B‬ؤاﰻ ﻣﻨﮭﺎ ‪ ٢–٢ CD‬ان ‪ ٣ B‬وﻗﺪ ‪ ٤ D‬اﻟﺴﺎر󰏆 ‪ ; A‬اﳌﺴﺎر󰏆‬
‫‪ ٩‬واﳋﻠﻒ ‪B+‬‬ ‫‪ ٨‬وﻏﲑﻩ ‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ٧‬اﻟﻘﺎﰟ ‪C‬‬ ‫‪ ٦‬وﻟﮭﺬا ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ٥‬اﻟﻘﻠﻨﺪرﯾﺔ ‪C‬‬ ‫اﳌﺴﺎر󰏇 ‪D‬‬
‫‪ ١٤‬وﻛﺬ󰏭 )? ‪B (D‬‬ ‫‪ ١٣‬اﻟﺘﺘﺎر ‪BCD‬‬ ‫ﻻﲚﺔ ‪D‬‬‫‪ ١٠‬واﻧﮭﺎ ‪ ١٢ CD deest ١١ C‬ا ٔ‬

‫‪ ١٥–١٥‬ﴍ داﺧﻞ ‪ ; BC‬داﺧﻞ ‪ ١٧ D deest ١٦ D‬ﻣﻦ ‪ ١٨ B+‬ﺣﲔ ‪ ١٩–١٩ D‬ﻓﯿﮭﺎ‬
‫‪ ٢٣‬ذﻛﺮ ‪A‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٢–٢٢‬اﻟﺒﺪن واﻟﻌﻘﻞ ‪CD‬‬ ‫‪ ٢١–٢١‬ﻓﺘﺢ اﻟﻨﱰ ‪A‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٠‬اﻟﺘﺘﺎر ‪B‬‬ ‫ﻣﻦ ‪B‬‬
‫‪ ٢٦–٢٦‬وﻗﺪ ‪ . . .‬ﻋﲆ اﳊﺮارة اﻟﻐﺮﯾﺰﯾﺔ ‪C in marg.‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٥–٢٥‬دﻧﯿﻮﯾﺔ ودﯾﻨﯿﺔ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٤‬وﻋﴩﯾﻦ ‪AC‬‬
‫‪D deest ٣٢‬‬ ‫‪ ٣١‬ﺗﻮرث ‪ ; B‬ﺗﺸﲑ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪D deest ٣٠‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٩‬اﻟﻔﻜﺮ ‪C‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٨‬اﻧﻪ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪CD deest ٢٧‬‬
‫‪ ٣٣‬ﻓﻐﺮﺑﺘﮭﺎ ‪B‬‬
‫‪178‬‬ ‫واﺳـﺘﻌّﺪ‪ ١‬ﻟٔﻼﻣﺮاض اﳊﺎّرة واﻟﯿﺎﺑﺴﺔ‪ ٢‬واّﶵﯿﺎت‪ ٣‬ﻗﺎل ﶊ ّﺪ ﺑﻦ زﻛﺮّ󰈍ء اﻟﺮازی‬

‫ٔاﰻ ورق اﻟﺸﮭﺪاﻧﻖ‪ ٤‬اﻟﺒﺴـﺘﺎﱏ ﯾﺼﺪع‪ ٥‬اﻟﺮٔاس وﯾﻘﻄﻊ اﳌﲎ وﳚﻔّﻔﻪ وﯾﻮرث‪٦‬‬
‫ّ‬
‫اﻟﻔﻜﺮة‪ ٧‬واﻟﻌّ󰏨 ﰱ ذ󰏭 ٔاّن رﻃﻮ󰈈ت‪ ٨‬أﻻﺑﺪان‪ ٩‬اﻟﲀﺋﻨﺔ‪ ١٠‬ﻋﲆ‪ ١١‬ﺣّﺪ 󰈇ﻋﺘﺪال‬
‫ﴬ ﻣﻌﲔ ﻋﲆ‬ ‫ﮬﯽ ﺗﻘﻊ ﺗﺒﻌﺎ ﻟﺒﻘﺎء‪ ١٢‬اﳊﯿﻮان ﳁﺎ ‪ ١٣‬ﳚﻔّﻒ اﻟﺮﻃﻮﺑﺔ ﻣﻨﮭﺎ‪ ١٤‬ﻓٕﺎﻧ ّﻪ‪ ١٥‬ﻣ ّ‬
‫ٕاﺗﻼﻓﻪ‪ ١٦‬وﮬﯽ ﺗﻮرث ﻣﻮت اﻟﻔﺠﺎٔة واﺧﺘﻼل اﻟﻌﻘﻞ وا󰏩ّق واﻟﺴّﻞ و󰈇ﺳﺘﺴﻘﺎء‬
‫ﰻ ﻣﺎ ﰲ اﶆﺮ ﻣﻦ اﳌﺬﻣﻮﻣﺎت ﻣﻮﺟﻮد ﰱ‬ ‫وأﻻﺑﻨﺔ‪ ١٧‬وﻗﺎل ﺑﻌﺾ أﻻﲚ ّﺔ ّ‬
‫اﳊﺸﯿﺸﺔ وز󰈍دة ‪١٨‬ﻓٕﺎّن ٔاﻛﱶ‪ ١٩‬ﴐر‪ ١٨‬اﶆﺮ ﰱ ا󰏩ﯾﻦ ﻻ ﰱ اﻟﺒﺪن وﴐرﮬﺎ‬
‫ﻓﯿﮭﲈ وﮬﯽ ﺗﺸﺎرك اﶆﺮ ﰱ اﻟﺴﻜﺮ وﻓﺴﺎد اﻟﻔﻜﺮ‪ ٢٠‬وﻧﺴـﯿﺎن ا󰏫ﻛﺮ وٕاﻓﺸﺎء‬
‫اﻟﴪو ٕاﻧﺸﺎء اﻟﴩ وذﮬﺎب اﳊﯿﺎء وﻛﱶة اﳌﺮاء وﻋﺪم اﳌﺮوة ‪٢١‬وﻛﺸﻒ اﻟﻌﻮرة‪٢١‬‬
‫ّ‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫ّ‬
‫وﳃﻊ‪ ٢٢‬اﻟﻐﲑة وٕاﺗﻼف اﻟﻜﯿﺲ ‪ ٢٣‬وﳎﺎﻟﺴﺔ ٕاﺑﻠﯿﺲ وﺗﺮك اﻟﺼﻼة‪ ٢٤‬واﻟﻮﻗﻮع ﰱ‬
‫اﶈّﺮﻣﺎت ﮬﺬا ﺑﻌﺾ ﴐرﮬﺎ ﰱ ا󰏩ﯾﻦ ٔاّﻣﺎ‪ ٢٥‬اﻟﺒﺪن ﻓﺘﻔﺴﺪ اﻟﻌﻘﻞ وﺗﻘﻄﻊ‬
‫اﻟﻨﺴﻞ وﺗﻮ󰏩‪ ٢٦‬اﳉﺬام ‪٢٧‬وﺗﻮرث اﻟﱪص‪ ٢٧‬وﲡﻠﺐ أﻻﺳﻘﺎم وﺗﻜﺴﺐ‪ ٢٨‬اﻟﺮﻋﺸﺔ‬
‫وﺗﻨﱳ‪ ٢٩‬اﻟﻔﻢ وﲡﻔّﻒ اﳌّﲎ وﺗﺴﻘﻂ ﺷﻌﺮ‪ ٣٠‬أﻻﺟﻔﺎن وﲢﺮق ا󰏩م ‪٣١‬وﲢﻔﺮ‬
‫ﴬ أﻻﺣﺸﺎء وﺗَﺒﻄﻞ أﻻﻋﻀﺎء وﺗﻀﯿﻖ اﻟﻨﻔﺲ‬ ‫أﻻﺳـﻨﺎن‪ ٣١‬وﺗﻈﮭﺮ ا󰏩اء اﳋﻔّﯽ وﺗ ّ‬
‫‪D deest ; BC‬‬ ‫‪ ٣‬واﶵﺎ󰈍ت‬ ‫‪ ٢‬واﻟﺴﯿﺴﻪ ‪ ; B‬واﻟﺒﺴﺴـﯿﻪ ‪D deest ; C‬‬ ‫‪ ١‬واﺳﺘﺒﻌﺪ ‪B‬‬
‫‪ ٩‬اﻟﺒﺪن ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ٨‬رﻃﻮﺑﺔ ‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ٧‬اﻟﻜﻔﺮة ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ٦‬وﺗﻮ󰏩 ‪CD‬‬ ‫‪ ٥‬ﯾﺼﻌﺪ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ٤‬اﻟﺸﮭﺪاﱋ ‪AD‬‬
‫‪D ١٥‬‬ ‫‪ ١٤‬ﻓﯿﮭﺎ ‪ ; A‬ﻣﻨﻪ ‪CD‬‬ ‫‪ ١٣‬ﻓ󰍥 ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ١٢‬ﻟﺒﺎﰵ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ١١‬ﻋﻦ ‪A‬‬ ‫‪ ١٠‬ﻣﻨﻪ ‪D‬‬
‫‪ ٢٠‬اﻟﻌﻘﻞ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪C deest ١٩‬‬ ‫‪ ١٨–١٨‬ﳁﴬة ‪D‬‬ ‫‪󰈇 ١٧‬ﺑﻨﺔ؟ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ٔ ١٦‬اﳇﮭﺎ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪deest‬‬
‫‪ ٢٥‬ﰱ ‪+‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٤‬اﻟﺼﻠﻮات ‪C‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٣‬اﻟﻜﺌﯿﺲ ؟ )? ‪A (B‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٢‬وذﮬﺎب ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ٢١–٢١‬واﻟﻌﻮرة ‪D‬‬
‫‪D deest ٣٠‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٩‬وﻧﱳ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٨‬وﺗﻨﺴﺐ ‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٧–٢٧‬واﻟﱪص ‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٦‬وﺗﻮرث ‪AB‬‬ ‫‪BD‬‬
‫‪ ٣١–٣١‬وﺗﴬ 󰈇ﻧﺴﺎن ‪D‬‬

‫وﺗﻘّﻮی اﻟﮭﻮس وﺗﻨﻘﺺ اﻟﻘﻮی وﺗﻘﻠ ّﻞ‪ ١‬اﳊﯿﺎء‪ ٢‬وﺗﺼﻔّﺮ أﻻﻟﻮان وﺗﺴّﻮد أﻻﺳـﻨﺎن‬ ‫‪179‬‬
‫وﺗﻨﻘﺐ‪ ٣‬اﻟﻜﺒﺪ وﺗﻮﮬﺞ اﳌﻌﺪة وﺗﻮ󰏩‪ ٤‬ﰱ اﻟﻔﻢ اﻟﺒﺨﺮ وﰱ اﻟﻌﲔ اﻟﻐﺸﺎوة‬
‫وﻗّ󰏨 اﻟﻨﻈﺮ وﰱ ا󰏲ّﯿ󰏨‪ ٥‬ﻛﱶة اﻟﻔﻜﺮ‪ ٦‬وﻣﻦ ٔاوﺻﺎﻓﮭﺎ اﳌﺬﻣﻮﻣﺔ ٔاﻧ ّﮭﺎ ﺗﻜﺴﺐ‬
‫ٔاﮬﻠﮭﺎ‪ ٧‬اﻟﻜﺴﻞ وﺗﻮرﺛﻪ‪ ٨‬اﻟﻔﺸﻞ وﲡﻌﻞ أﻻﺳﺪ ﰷﳉﻌﻞ‪ ٩‬ﺗﻌﯿﺪ‪ ١٠‬اﻟﻌﺰﯾﺰ ذﻟﯿﻼ‬
‫واﻟﺼﺤﯿﺢ ‪١١‬ﻋﻠﯿﻼ ٕان‪ٔ ١١‬اﰻ ﻻ ﯾﺸـﺒﻊ وٕان ٔاﻋﻄﯽ‪ ١٢‬ﻻ ﯾﻘﻨﻊ وٕان ﳇّﻢ ﻻ ﯾﺴﻤﻊ‬
‫ﲡﻌﻞ اﻟﻔﺼﯿﺢ ٔاﺑﻜﲈ واﻟﺼﺤﯿﺢ ٔاﺑﻠﲈ ﺗﺴﻘﻂ‪ ١٣‬اﳌﺮّوة وﺗﺰﯾﻞ اﻟﻔﺘّﻮة ‪ّ ١٤‬‬
‫ﰒ ٕاﻧ ّﮭﺎ‪١٤‬‬
‫ﺗﻔﺴﺪ اﻟﻔﻜﺮة وﺗﺒّ󰏪 اﻟﻔﻄﺮة‪ ١٥‬وﲡّﻤﺪ‪ ١٦‬اﻟﻔﻄﻨﺔ وﺗﻮ󰏩‪ ١٧‬اﻟﺒﻄﻨﺔ ﺟﻌﻞ‪ ١٨‬اﻻٔﰻ‬
‫ﻓﻨّﻪ واﻟﻨﻮم 󰏳 ﻣﻈﻨّﻪ ﻓﮭﻮ‪ ١٩‬ﺑﻌﯿﺪ ﻋﻦ اﻟﺴـﻨﺔ ﻃﺮﯾﺪ ﻋﻦ اﳉﻨّﺔ ﻣﻮﻋﻮد ﻣﻦ‬
‫ﷲ 󰈈ﻟﻠﻌﻨﺔ اّﻻ‪ٔ ٢٠‬ان ﯾﻘﺮع ﻣﻦ اﻟﻨﺪم ﺳـﻨﻪ وﳛﺴﻦ 󰈈󰏯 ﻇﻨﻪ ‪٢١‬و󰏯 در‪٢٢‬‬
‫ّ‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫ّ‬
‫اﻟﻘﺎﺋﻞ ﻗﻞ ﳌﻦ ﯾﺎٔﰻ اﳊﺸﯿﺸﺔ 󰆛ﻼ 󰈍 ﺧﺴﯿﺴﺎ ﻗﺪ‪ ٢٣‬ﻋﺸﺖ ازری‪ ٢٤‬ﻣﻌﯿﺸﻪ‬
‫ﻗﳰﺔ‪ ٢٥‬اﻟﻌﻘﻞ ﺟﻮﮬﺮ‪ ٢٦‬ﻓﻠﲈ ذا 󰈍 ﺳﻔﯿﮭﺎ ‪٢٧‬ﻗﺪ ﺑﻌﺘﻪ‪ ٢٧‬ﲝﺸﯿﺸﻪ‪٢٨ ٢١‬ﻗﻠﺖ‪ ٢٩‬وﻣﻦ‬
‫ٔاﻋﻈﻢ داﺋﮭﺎ ٔاّن ﻣﺘﻌﺎﻃﯿﮭﺎ‪ ٣٠‬ﻻ ﯾﲀد ﯾﺘﻮب ﻟﺘﺎٔﺛﲑﮬﺎ‪ ٣١‬ﰱ ﻣﺰاﺟﻪ ؤاﻧﺖ ﺗﺮی ٔاﮬﻠﮭﺎ‬
‫ٔاﺑﻌﺪ اﳋﻠﻖ ﺿﻼﻻ‪ ٣٢‬وﲡﺎﻓﯿﺎ‪ ٣٣‬ﻋﻦ 󰈇ﺳـﺘﻘﺎﻣﺔ ؤاﻗﺮب ‪ٕ٣٤‬اﱃ ا󰏫ﻧﯿﺌﺔ ؤاﺳﻔﻪ‪٣٤‬‬
‫‪C + marg. note‬‬ ‫‪ ١‬وﺛﻘﻞ ‪ ٢ D‬ﻗﻮ󰏳 اﳊﯿﺎء ﮬﺬا اﻟﻠﻔﻆ ﺗﻘﺪم وﯾﻨﺒﻐﯽ ﻣﲀن اﳊﯿﺎء اﳊﯿ󰏨 ﺗﺎٔﻣﻞ‬
‫‪ٔ ٧‬اﳇﮭﺎ ‪ ; B‬ﳇﮭﺎ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ٦‬اﻟﻔﻜﺮة ‪A‬‬ ‫‪ ٥‬اﳊﯿ󰏨 ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ٤‬وﺗﻮرث ‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ٣‬وﺗﺜﻘﺐ ‪ ; A‬وﺗﻔﺘﺖ ‪D‬‬
‫‪ ١٢‬ﯾﻌﻄﯽ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ١١–١١‬ﻋﯿﻼن ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ١٠‬ﺗﺼﲑ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪C + marg. note ٩‬‬ ‫‪ ٨‬وﺗﻮرث ‪AD‬‬
‫‪D ? ١٧‬‬ ‫‪ ١٦‬وﲣﻤﺪ ‪D deest ; C‬‬ ‫‪D deest ١٥‬‬ ‫‪D deest ١٤–١٤‬‬ ‫‪ ١٣‬وﺗﺴﻘﻂ ‪AC‬‬
‫‪B after the following ; CD deest ٢١–٢١‬‬ ‫‪ٕ ٢٠‬اﱃ ‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ١٩‬وﮬﻮ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ١٨‬ﳚﻌﻞ )ﲡﻌﻞ ؟( ‪AD‬‬
‫‪ ٢٧–٢٧‬ﺗﺒﯿﻌﻪ ‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٦‬ﺑﺪرة ‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٥‬دﯾﺔ ‪B‬‬ ‫‪A ? ٢٤‬‬ ‫‪B deest ٢٣‬‬ ‫‪B deest ٢٢‬‬ ‫‪verse‬‬
‫‪ ٢٩‬ﻗﯿﻞ ‪ ; B deest ; A‬ای اﻟﺰرﮐﺸﯽ ‪C + in marg.‬‬ ‫‪A after the following verse (next page) ٢٨–٢٨‬‬
‫‪ ٣٠‬ﻣﻌﺎﻧﯿﮭﺎ ‪ ٣١ CD‬ﻟﺘﺎﺛﺮﮬﺎ ‪ ٣٢ C‬؟ ; ﻇﻼﻻ ‪ ; AB‬ﺻﻼﺣﺎ ‪ ٣٣ D‬وﳒﺎة ‪ ٣٤–٣٤ D‬ﲪﻘﺎ‬

‫واﻓﺴﺪ ‪D‬‬
‫‪180‬‬ ‫‪٣‬‬ ‫‪ ٣ ٢‬وﻗﺪ ﻗﺎل ا ٓﺧﺮ‬

‫‪,‬‬ ‫‪٢٨ ،١‬‬
‫ٔاﺣﻼﻣﺎ ‪١‬ؤاﻓﺴﺪ ﺗ ّ‬
‫ﴫﻓﺎ‬
‫ﺑﻐﺎء ٔاو ﺟﻨﻮن ٔاو ﻧﺸﺎف‬ ‫ؤاﺻﻐﺮ داﺋﮭﺎ وا󰏩اء ّﰖ‬
‫وﰷن اﻟﺸـﯿﺦ ﻋّﲆ اﳊﺮﯾﺮی ﺑﺪﻣﺸﻖ ﯾﻐﻠ ّﻆ ﻋﲆ ﻣﻦ ﯾﺘﻌﺎﻃﺎﮬﺎ ؤارﺳﻞ ٕاﻟﯿﻪ‬
‫رﺟﻞ ﻣﻦ ٔاﲱﺎﺑﻪ ﯾﻌﺎﺗﺒﻪ ﰱ ذ󰏭 ﻓﻘﺎل‪ ٤‬اﻟﺸـﯿﺦ ﻟﻠﺮﺳﻮل ﮬﺬا اﳌﺬﻛﻮر ٕان ﰷن‬
‫ﻣﻦ ٔاﲱﺎﰉ وﱃ ﻋﻠﯿﻪ ﲰﻊ وﻃﺎﻋﺔ ﻓﻠﯿﱰك اﳊﺸﯿﺶ ٔارﺑﻌﲔ ﯾﻮﻣﺎ ﺣّﱴ ﯾﻔﺮغ ‪٤+‬‬
‫ﻣﻨﮭﺎ‪ ٥‬ﺟﺴﺪﻩ ؤارﺑﻌﲔ ﯾﻮﻣﺎ ﺣّﱴ ﯾﺴﱰﱖ ﻣﻨﮭﺎ ﺑﻌﺪ اﻟﻔﺮاغ ّﰒ ﳚﻰء ٕاﱃ‪ ٦‬ﻋﻨﺪی‬
‫ﺣّﱴ ٔاﺧﱪﻩ ﻋﻨﮭﺎ‪٢‬‬
‫اﻟﻔﺼﻞ اﻟﺜﺎﻟﺚ‬
‫‪٨‬‬‫ﰱ ٔاﻧ ّﮭﺎ ﻣﺴﻜﺮة وﻣﻔﺴﺪة‪ ٧‬ﻟﻠﻌﻘﻞ وا󰏫ی ٔاﲨﻊ ﻋﻠﯿﻪ أﻻﻃّﺒﺎء واﻟﻌﻠﲈء ﺑﺎٔﺣﻮال‬
‫اﻟﻨﺒﺎت ٔاﻧ ّﮭﺎ ﻣﺴﻜﺮة ﻣﻨﮭﻢ ‪ٔ ٨+‬اﺑﻮ ﶊ ّﺪ ﻋﺒﺪ ﷲ ‪٩‬ﺑﻦ ٔاﲪﺪ‪ ٩‬اﳌﺎﻟﻘﯽ اﻟﻌّﺸﺎب‬
‫اﺑﻦ‪ ١٠‬اﻟﺒﯿﻄﺎر ﰱ ﻛﺘﺎﺑﻪ اﳉﺎﻣﻊ ﻟﻘﻮی‪١٢ ١١‬أﻻدوﯾﺔ وأﻻﻏﺬﯾﺔ‪ ١٢‬ﻗﺎل وﻣﻦ اﻟﻘﻨّﺐ‬
‫اﻟﮭﻨﺪی ﻧﻮع 󰈊ﻟﺚ ﯾﻘﺎل 󰏳 اﻟﻘﻨّﺐ وﱂ‪ٔ ١٣‬ارﻩ ﺑﻐﲑ ﻣﴫ وﯾﺰرع ﰱ اﻟﺒﺴﺎﺗﲔ‬
‫ﻻﻧﺴﺎن ﯾﺴﲑا‪١٥‬‬ ‫وﯾﺴّﻤﯽ اﳊﺸﯿﺸﺔ ٔاﯾﻀﺎ وﮬﻮ ﯾﺴﻜﺮ‪ ١٤‬ﺟّﺪا ٕاذا ﺗﻨﺎول ﻣﻨﻪ ا ٕ‬
‫ﻗﺪر درﮬﻢ ٔاو درﮬﻤﲔ ﺣّﱴ ٔاّن ﻣﻦ‪ٔ ١٦‬اﻛﱶ ﻣﻨﻪ ٔاﺧﺮﺟﻪ ٕاﱃ ﺣّﺪ اﻟﺮﻋﻮﻧﺔ وﻗﺪ‬
‫اﺳـﺘﻌﻤ󰏴‪ ١٧‬ﻗﻮم ﻓﺎﺧﺘﻠ ّﺖ‪ ١٨‬ﻋﻘﻮﻟﮭﻢ ورﺑ ّﲈ ﻗﺘﻠﺖ‪ ١٩‬وﻗﺎل ﰱ ﻋﻼ󰆛ﺎ اﻟﻘﯽء ﺑﺴﻤﻦ‬
‫‪A‬‬ ‫‪ ٤‬ﯾﻨﻔﺮغ‬ ‫‪+A‬‬ ‫‪ ٤‬وﻗﺎل‬ ‫‪B‬‬‫‪ ٣–٣ CD deest ٢–٢ C + 󰏯 ; BD deest ١–١‬و󰏯 اﻟﻘﺎﺋﻞ‬
‫‪ ١٠‬واﺑﻦ ‪A‬‬ ‫‪D deest ٩–٩‬‬ ‫‪󰈈 ٨‬ﻗﻮال ‪ ٨+ B‬ﳁﻨﮭﻢ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ٧‬او ﻣﻔﱰة ‪A‬‬ ‫‪A deest ٦‬‬ ‫‪ ٥‬ﻣﻨﻪ ‪A‬‬
‫‪ ١٥‬ﯾﺴﲑ ‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ١٤‬ﻣﺴﮑﺮ ‪A‬‬ ‫‪ ١٣‬وﻗﺎل ﱂ ‪A‬‬ ‫‪󰈇 ١٢–١٢‬ﻏﺬﯾﺔ و󰈇دوﯾﺔ ‪A‬‬ ‫‪ ١١‬اﻟﻘﻮی ﰱ ‪D‬‬
‫‪ ١٩‬ﻗﻠﺖ ‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ١٨‬ﻓﺎﺧﻠﺖ ‪ ; A‬ﺧﺘﻠﺖ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ١٧‬اﺳـﺘﻌﻤﻞ ‪B‬‬ ‫‪B deest ١٦‬‬
‫وﻣﺎء ﲯﻦ ﺣّﱴ ﺗﻨﻘﯽ اﳌﻌﺪة ‪١‬وﴍاب اﶵﺎض‪ ١‬ﻟﮭﻢ ﰱ ﻏﺎﯾﺔ اﻟﻨﻔﻊ‬ ‫‪181‬‬
‫ﴏﺣﻮا ﺑﺎٔﻧ ّﮭﺎ ﻣﺴﻜﺮة ﳁﻨﮭﻢ‪ ٢‬اﻟﺸـﯿﺦ ٔاﺑﻮ ٕاﲮﻖ اﻟﺸﲑازی ﰱ‬ ‫ؤاّﻣﺎ اﻟﻔﻘﮭﺎء ﻓﻘﺪ ّ‬
‫ﻛﺘﺎب اﻟﺘﺬﻛﺮة ﰱ اﳋﻼف واﻟﻨﻮوی ﰱ ﴍح اﳌﮭّﺬب وﻻ ﯾﻌﺮف ﻓﯿﻪ ﺧﻼف‪٣‬‬
‫ﻋﻨﺪ󰈋 وﻗﺪ‪ ٤‬ﯾﺪﺧﻞ ﰱ ﺣّﺪﮬﻢ اﻟﺴﻜﺮان ﺑﺎٔﻧ ّﻪ‪ ٥‬ا󰏫ی اﺧﺘﻠﻂ 󰏡ﻣﻪ‪ ٦‬اﳌﻨﻈﻮم و󰈈ح‬
‫ﴪﻩ اﳌﻜﺘﻮم ٔاو ا󰏫ی ﻻ ﯾﻌﺮف اﻟﺴﲈء ﻣﻦ أﻻرض وﻻ اﻟﻄﻮل ﻣﻦ اﻟﻌﺮض‬ ‫ﺑ ّ‬
‫وﳛﻜﯽ ﻋﻦ ﺑﻌﺾ ﻣﻦ ﯾﺘﻨﺎوﻟﮭﺎ ‪ٔ ٦+‬اﻧ ّﻪ‪ٕ ٧‬اذا‪ ٨‬رٔای اﻟﻘﻤﺮ ‪٩‬ﯾﻈﻨّﻪ ﳉ ّﺔ ﻣﺎء ﻓﻼ‪ ٩‬ﯾﻘﺪم‬
‫ﻋﻠﯿﻪ‬
‫وﺑﻠﻐﲎ ﻋﻦ ٔاﰉ اﻟﻌّﺒﺎس اﺑﻦ ﺗﳰّﯿﺔ ٔاﻧ ّﻪ ﻗﺎل اﻟﺼﺤﯿﺢ ٔاﻧ ّﮭﺎ ﻣﺴﻜﺮة ﰷﻟﴩاب‬
‫ﻓٕﺎّن ا ٓﳇﯿﮭﺎ ﯾﻨﺸﻮن ﻋﻨﮭﺎ‪١١ ١٠‬و󰏫󰏭 ﯾﺘﻨﺎوﻟﻮﻧﮭﺎ‪ ١١‬ﲞﻼف‪ ١٢‬اﻟﺒﻨﺞ وﻏﲑﻩ ﻓٕﺎﻧ ّﻪ ﻻ‬
‫ﯾﻨﺸﯽ‪ ١٣‬وﻻ ﯾﺸـﺘﮭـﯽ‪ ١٤‬وﱂ ٔار ﻣﻦ ﺧﺎﻟﻒ‪ ١٥‬ﰱ‪ ١٦‬ذ󰏭 ٕاّﻻ ٔا󰈈‪ ١٧‬اﻟﻌّﺒﺎس اﻟﻘﺮاﰱ‬
‫ﰱ ﻗﻮاﻋﺪﻩ ﻓﻘﺎل ﻧّﺺ اﻟﻌﻠﲈء‪󰈈 ١٨‬ﻟﻨﺒﺎت ﰱ ﻛﺘﺒﮭﻢ ﻋﲆ‪ٔ ١٩‬اﻧ ّﮭﺎ ﻣﺴﻜﺮة وا󰏫ی‬
‫ﯾﻈﮭﺮ ﱃ ٔاﻧ ّﮭﺎ ﻣﻔﺴﺪة‪ ٢٠‬ﻗﺎل وﲢﺮﯾﺮ اﻟﻔﺮق ﺑﲔ اﳌﻔﺴﺪ ‪٢١‬واﳌﺮﻗﺪ واﳌﺴﻜﺮ‪٢١‬‬
‫ٔان‪ ٢٢‬اﳌﺘﻨﺎول ﻣﻦ ﮬﺬﻩ ٕاّﻣﺎ ٔان ﺗﻐﯿﺐ ﻣﻌﻪ اﳊﻮاس ٔاو ﻻ ﻓٕﺎن ﻏﺎﺑﺖ ﻣﻌﻪ‪٢٣‬‬
‫ّ‬ ‫ّ‬
‫اﳊﻮاس ﰷﻟﺴﻤﻊ واﻟﺒﴫ واﻟﻠﻤﺲ واﻟﺸﻢ وا󰏫وق ﻓﮭﻮ اﳌﺮﻗﺪ وان‪ ٢٤‬ﱂ ﺗﻐﺐ ﻣﻌﻪ‪٢٥‬‬
‫ٕ‬ ‫ّ‬ ‫ّ‬
‫اﳊﻮاّس ﻓٕﺎّﻣﺎ ٔان ﳛﺪث ﻣﻌﻪ‪ ٢٦‬ﻧﺸﻮة وﴎور وﻗّﻮة ﻧﻔﺲ ﻋﻨﺪ اﻟﺘﻨﺎول ﻏﺎﻟﺒﺎ ٔام‬
‫‪D deest ٥‬‬ ‫‪AB‬‬‫‪ ١–١‬وﴍب اﳊﺎﻣﺾ ‪ ٢ A‬ﻣﻨﮭﻢ ‪) ٣ AD‬ﻧﻌﺮف ‪ (. . .‬ﺧﻼﻓﺎ ‪ ٤ C‬وﮬﻮ‬
‫‪ ١٠‬ﻣﻨﮭﺎ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ٩–٩‬ﻓﻈﻨﮧ ﲝﺮا ﻓﲅ ‪A‬‬ ‫‪A deest ٨‬‬ ‫‪ ٧‬واﻧﻪ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪󰏡 ٦‬م ‪ ٦+ D‬ﺗﻨﺎوﻟﮭﺎ ‪CD‬‬
‫‪ ١٥‬ﳜﺎﻟﻒ ‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ١٤‬ﯾﺴﮭـﯽ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ١٣‬ﯾﻨﴩ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ١٢‬ﺧﻼف ‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ١١–١١‬وﮐﺬﻟﮏ ﯾﺘﻨﺎوﻟﮭﺎ ‪D‬‬
‫‪ ٢٠‬ﻣﻔﱰة ‪ ; A‬ﻣﺴﮑﺮة ‪C‬‬ ‫‪A deest ١٩‬‬ ‫‪ ١٨‬اﻟﻌﲈ ‪B‬‬ ‫‪D deest ١٧‬‬ ‫‪ ١٦‬ﳑﻦ ﰱ ‪CD deest ; B‬‬
‫‪ ٢١–٢١‬واﳌﺴﮑﺮ واﳌﺮﻗﺪ ‪CD‬‬ ‫)ﻟﻌﻞ ﮬﺬە اﻟﻠﻔﻈﺔ ﻣﻔﺴﺪة ﺑﺪﻟﯿﻞ 󰈇ﻗﺴﺎم اﻻ ٓﺗﯿﺔ ‪(C in marg.‬‬
‫‪ ٢٦‬ﻋﻨﻪ ‪A‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٥‬ﻋﻨﻪ ‪AB‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٤‬ﻓﺎن ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٣‬ﻋﻨﻪ ‪AB‬‬ ‫‪D deest ٢٢‬‬
‫‪182‬‬ ‫ﻻ ﻓٕﺎن ﺣﺪث ﻓﮭﻮ اﳌﺴﻜﺮ وٕاّﻻ ﻓﮭﻮ اﳌﻔﺴﺪ ﻓﺎﳌﺴﻜﺮ ﮬﻮ اﳌﻐّﯿﺐ ﻟﻠﻌﻘﻞ ﻣﻊ‬
‫ﻧﺸﻮة‪ ١‬وﴎور ﰷﶆﺮ واﳌﻔﺴﺪ ﮬﻮ اﳌﺸّﻮش ﻟﻠﻌﻘﻞ‪ ٢‬ﻣﻊ ‪ ٣‬ﻋﺪم اﻟﴪور‪ ٣‬اﻟﻐﺎﻟﺐ‬
‫ﰷﻟﺒﻨﺞ ‪٤‬وﯾﺪّ󰏭 ﻋﲆ ﺿﺎﺑﻂ اﳌﺴﻜﺮ‪ ٥‬ﻗﻮل اﻟﺸﺎﻋﺮ‬
‫‪٤‬‬ ‫ؤاﺳﺪا ﻣﺎ ﯾﻨﮭﻨﮭﻨﺎ‪ ٦‬اﻟﻠﻘﺎء‬ ‫وﻧﴩﺑﮭﺎ ﻓﺘﱰﻛﻨﺎ ﻣﻠﻮﰷ‬
‫ﻓﺎﳌﺴﻜﺮ‪ ٧‬ﯾﺰﯾﺪ ﰱ اﻟﺸﺠﺎﻋﺔ واﳌ ّ‬
‫ﴪة‪ ٨‬وﻗّﻮة اﻟﻨﻔﺲ واﳌﯿﻞ ٕاﱃ اﻟﺒﻄﺶ ‪٩‬ﰱ‬
‫أﻻﻋﺪاء‪ ٩‬واﳌﻨﺎﻓﺴﺔ ﰱ اﻟﻌﻄﺎء ‪ ١٠‬وﻣﻨﻪ ﻗﻮل اﻟﻘﺎﴇ ﻋﺒﺪ اﻟﻮّﮬﺎب‬
‫زﻋـﻢ اﳌـﺪاﻣـﺔ ﺷـﺎرﺑــﻮﮬـﺎ ٔاﻧـّـﮭــــــﺎ ﺗﻨﻔﯽ اﻟﮭﻤﻮم وﺗﴫف‪ ١١‬اﻟﻐّﻤﺎ‬
‫ﺻﺪﻗﻮا ﴎت ﺑﻌﻘﻮﻟﮭﻢ‪ ١٢‬ﻓﺘﻮّﮬــــــﻤﻮا ٔاّن اﻟﴪور ﻟـــﮭﻢ‪ ١٣‬ﺑــﮭـﺎ ﲤ ّﺎ‬
‫ٔارٔاﯾﺖ ﻋﺎدم ذﯾﻦ‪ ١٤‬ﻣﻐﳣ ّـــــــﺎ‪١٠‬‬ ‫ﺳـﻠـﺒـﺘﮭﻢ ٔادﯾـﺎﻧﮭـﻢ وﻋـﻘـﻮﻟـﮭـــــــــــﻢ‬
‫ﻗﺎل وﻇﮭﺮ‪ ١٠‬ﺑﮭﺬا ٔاّن اﳊﺸﯿﺸﺔ ﻣﻔﺴﺪة وﻟﯿﺴﺖ ﻣﺴﻜﺮة‪ ١٦‬ﻟﻮ󰆛ﲔ‬
‫ٔاﺣﺪﮬﲈ‪ٔ ١٧‬اﻧ ّﮭﺎ ﺗﺜﲑ‪ ١٨‬اﳋﻠﻂ اﻟﲀﺋﻦ ﰱ اﳉﺴﺪ ﻛﯿﻒ ﻣﺎ ﰷن ﻓﺼﺎﺣﺐ‬
‫اﻟﺼﻔﺮاء ﲢﺪث‪ 󰏳 ١٩‬ﺣّﺪة‪٢١ ٢٠‬وﺻﺎﺣﺐ اﻟﺒﻠﻐﻢ ﲢﺪث 󰏳 ﺳـﺒﺎ󰈉‪٢١‬‬
‫وﲳﺘﺎ وﺻﺎﺣﺐ اﻟﺴﻮداء‪ ٢٢‬ﲢﺪث 󰏳 ‪ ٢٣‬ﺑﲀء وﺟﺰﻋﺎ‪ ٢٤‬وﺻﺎﺣﺐ ا󰏩م‬

‫ﲢﺪث 󰏳‪ ٢٣‬ﴎورا ﺑﻘﺪر ﺣﺎﻟﮭﻢ‪ ٢٥‬ﻓﺘﺠﺬ ﻓﯿﮭﻢ‪ ٢٦‬ﻣﻦ ﯾﺸـﺘّﺪ ﺑﲀؤﻩ وﻣﻨﮭﻢ‬
‫ﻣﻦ ﯾﺸـﺘّﺪ ﲳﺘﻪ ؤاّﻣﺎ اﶆﺮ واﳌﺴﻜﺮات ﻓﻼ ﺗﲀد‪ ٢٧‬ﲡﺪ ٔاﺣﺪا ّﳑﻦ‬
‫‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ١‬ﻧﺸﺎة ‪ ٣–٣ D deest ٢ C‬ﻋﻦ ﴎور ‪ ٥ CD deest ٤–٤ D‬اﻟﺴﮑﺮ ‪ ٦ B‬ﯾﺴﮭﻨﮭﻨﺎ‬
‫‪ ٩–٩‬و󰈇ﻋﺪاء ‪ ; D‬و󰈇ﻧﺘﻘﺎم ﻣﻦ 󰈇ﻋﺪاء ‪al-Qarāfī‬‬ ‫‪ ٨‬واﳌﺮوة ‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ٧‬واﻟﺴﮑﺮ ‪ ; A‬ﻓﺎﻟﺴﮑﺮ ‪BD‬‬
‫‪ ١٥‬وﯾﻈﮭﺮ ‪C‬‬ ‫‪ ١٤‬دﯾﻨﻪ ‪B‬‬ ‫‪B deest ١٣‬‬ ‫‪ ١٢‬ﺑﮭﻤﻮﻣﮭﻢ ‪A‬‬ ‫‪ ١١‬وﺗﺼﺪی ‪B‬‬ ‫‪CD deest ١٠–١٠‬‬
‫‪ ٢١–٢١‬ﺳـﺒﺎ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٠‬ﻣﺮة ‪A‬‬ ‫‪ ١٩‬اﳊﺪﯾﺚ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ١٨‬ﺗﺒﲔ ‪CD‬‬ ‫‪ ١٧‬اﺣﺪاﮬﲈ ‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ١٦‬ﲟﺴﮑﺮة ‪A‬‬
‫‪ ٢٦‬ﻣﻨﮭﻢ ‪A‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٥‬ﺣﺎ󰏳 ‪AB‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٤‬وﺧﺸﻮع ‪ ; B‬وﺟﻮﻋﺎ ‪C‬‬ ‫‪D deest ٢٣–٢٣‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٢‬اﻟﺴﻮاد ‪D‬‬
‫‪A deest ٢٧‬‬

‫ﯾﴩﺑﮭﺎ ٕاّﻻ وﮬﻮ ﻧﺸﻮان ﻣﴪور ﺑﻌﯿﺪ ﻋﻦ ﺗﻀّﻮر اﻟﺒﲀء واﻟﺼﻤﺖ و󰈊ﻧﯿﮭﲈ ٔا ّ󰈋‬
‫‪٢ ١‬‬ ‫‪183‬‬
‫ﴍاب اﶆﺮ ﺗﻜﱶ ﻋﺮاﺑﯿﺪﮬﻢ ووﺛﻮب ﺑﻌﻀﻬﻢ ﻋﲆ‪ ٣‬ﺑﻌﺾ 󰈈ﻟﺴﻼح ‪٤‬وﮬﻮ‬ ‫ﳒﺪ ّ‬
‫ﻣﻌﲎ اﻟﺒﯿﺖ اﳌﺘﻘّﺪم ﰱ ﻗﻮ󰏳 ))ؤاﺳﺪا ﻣﺎ ﯾﻨﮭﻨﮭﻨﺎ‪ ٥‬اﻟﻠﻘﺎء((‪ ٤‬ؤاﳇﺔ ‪ ٥+‬اﳊﺸﯿﺶ‬
‫ﲞﻼف ذ󰏭 ‪٦‬ﺑﻞ ﮬﻢ ﮬﻤﺪة‪ ٧‬ﺳﻜﻮت‪ ٨‬وﮬﻢ‪ٔ ٦‬اﺷـﺒﻪ ﳽء 󰈈ﻟﺒﮭﺎﰂ وذ󰏭‪٩‬‬
‫ٔان اﻟﻘﺘﲆ‪ ١٠‬ﺗﻮﺟﺪ ﻛﺜﲑا‪ ١١‬ﻣﻊ ﴍاب‪ ١٢‬اﶆﺮ دون ٔاﳇﺔ اﳊﺸﯿﺶ وﮬﺬا‪١٣‬‬
‫ّ‬ ‫ّ‬
‫ا󰏫ی ﻗﺎ󰏳‪ ١٤‬اﻟﻘﺮاﰱ ﳑﻨﻮع وﻻ ﯾﺴﺎﻋﺪﻩ ﻋﻠﯿﻪ دﻟﯿﻞ وﻗﻮ󰏳 ٕاّن اﳌﻐّﯿﺐ‬
‫ﻻﻏﲈء واﻟﻨﻮم‪ ١٦‬ﻓٕﺎﻧﮭﲈ‪١٨ ١٧‬ﯾﻐﯿﺒﺎن اﳊﻮاس‪١٨‬‬‫ﻟﻠﺤﻮاّس ﮬﻮ اﳌﺮﻗﺪ ﯾﺮّد‪ ١٥‬ﻋﻠﯿﻪ ‪١٦‬ا ٕ‬
‫ّ‬ ‫ّ‬
‫وﻟﯿﺴﺎ‪ ١٩‬ﲟﺮﻗﺪ‪٢١ ٢٠‬واﻟﺒﯿﺖ ا󰏫ی ٔاﻧﺸﺪﻩ ﻟﯿﺲ‪ ٢٢‬دﻟﯿﻼ ﻋﲆ ﺿﺎﺑﻂ اﳌﺴﻜﺮ‬
‫ﻟﻜﻦ ﻋﲆ ﺗﺎٔﺛﲑ اﶆﺮ ﰱ ﮬﺬا اﻟﻘﺎﺋﻞ ؤاﴐاﺑﻪ وﻻ ﺗﺴﺎوی اﶆﺮ وﻏﲑﮬﺎ‬
‫ﰱ ﮬﺬﻩ اﳋﺼﺎل وٕان ﲢﻘّﻘﻨﺎ ﻓﯿﻪ إﻻﺳﲀر ﰷﳌﺰر‪ ٢١ ، ٢٣‬وﻣﺎ ذﻛﺮﻩ ﰱ‬
‫اﻟﻮﺟﻪ أﻻّول ﻣﻦ اﻟﻔﺮق ﻟﯿﺲ 󰈈ﺳـﺘﻘﺮاء ﲱﯿﺢ ﻓﻘﺪ‪ ٢٤‬ﺑﻠﻐﲎ ﻋﻦ ﺑﻌﺾ‬
‫اﻟﻨﺎس‪ٔ ٢٥‬اﻧ ّﻪ ﰷن ٕاذا ﺳﻜﺮ‪ ٢٦‬ﺑﻜﯽ ‪ ٢٧‬ﺑﲀء ﺷﺪﯾﺪا ؤاّﻣﺎ ٔاﮬﻞ اﳊﺸﯿﺶ ‪٢٨‬‬
‫ﰒ ﯾﻌﱰﯾﮭﻢ اﶆﻮد‪٣٣‬‬ ‫ﻓﻘﺪ رٔاﯾﻨﺎﮬﻢ ﰱ ٔاّول‪ ٢٩‬اﻟﺘﻨﺎول‪ ٣٠‬ذوی ﻧﺸﺎة‪ ٣١‬وﻃﺮب‪ّ ٣٢‬‬
‫واﻟﻐﯿﺒﺔ وﻛﺬ󰏭 ﰱ ٔاﮬﻞ اﶆﺮ ﻣﻦ‪ ٣٤‬ﯾﻔﴣ ﺑﻪ اﳊﺎل ٕاﱃ ﺷـﺒﻪ اﳌﯿﺖ ٕاّﻣﺎ‬
‫ﲝﺴﺐ أﻻﻣﺰﺟﺔ وٕاّﻣﺎ ﲝﺴﺐ ﻗّ󰏨 اﻟﺘﻨﺎول ‪ٔ٣٥‬او ﻛﱶﺗﻪ‪ ٣٥‬ﻓﯿﮭﲈ وﻣﺎ ذﻛﺮﻩ ﰱ‬
‫‪AB‬‬ ‫‪ ١‬و󰈊ﻧﯿﮭﺎ ‪ ٢ ABD‬ان )ﲡﺪ( ‪ ٣ A‬ﻋﻦ ‪ ٥ CD deest ٤–٤ D‬ﯾﺴﮭﻨﮭﺎ ‪ ٥+ B‬وا ٓﰻ‬
‫‪ ٩‬و󰏫ﻟﮏ ‪CD‬‬ ‫‪ ٨‬وﺳﮑﻮت ‪A‬‬ ‫‪ ٧‬ﯾﻌﺪە ؟ ‪C‬‬ ‫‪ ٦–٦‬ﲝﺪﮬﻢ ﺑﻌﺪ ﮬﺬﮬﻢ ﺳﮑﻮن ﮬﻢ ‪D‬‬
‫‪ ١٤‬ﻗﺎل ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ١٣‬وﮬﻮ ‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ١٢‬ﴍاﺑﺔ ‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ; A deest ١١‬ﮐﺜﲑ ‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ١٠‬ﮐﺜﲑا ‪ ; A +‬اﻟﻘﺘﻞ ‪D‬‬
‫‪ ١٨–١٨‬ﻣﻐﯿﺒﺎں ﻟﻠﺤﻮاس ‪A‬‬ ‫‪ ١٧‬ﰷﻧﮭﲈ ‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ١٦–١٦‬اﻟﻨﻮم و󰈇ﻏﲈء ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ١٥‬وﯾﺮد ‪B‬‬
‫‪ ٢٣‬ﰷﳌﺰروط ‪A‬‬ ‫‪B deest ٢٢‬‬ ‫‪CD deest ٢١–٢١‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٠‬ﲟﺮﻗﺪﯾﻦ ‪C‬‬ ‫‪ ١٩‬وﻟﯿﺲ ‪D‬‬
‫‪ ٢٩‬اواﺋﻞ ‪BC‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٨‬اﳊﺸﯿﺸﺔ ‪BD‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٧‬ﯾﺒﮑﯽ ‪A‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٦‬ﻣﺴﮑﺮ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٥‬اﻟﺴﻔ󰏨 ‪A‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٤‬وﻗﺪ ‪D‬‬
‫‪ ٣٥–٣٥‬وﮐﱶﺗﻪ ‪AB‬‬ ‫‪D deest ٣٤‬‬ ‫‪ ٣٣‬اﶆﺮ ‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ٣٢‬وﴐب ‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ٣١‬ﻧﺸﻮة ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ٣٠‬اﻟﺘﻨﺎ ‪B‬‬
‫‪184‬‬ ‫اﻟﻮﺟﻪ اﻟﺜﺎﱏ 󰈈ﻃﻞ ‪ٔ ١‬اﯾﻀﺎ ﻓٕﺎّن اﶆﺮ ﻛﲈ ﻗﻠﻨﺎ ﮬﯽ ﻣﺮاد اﻟﺸﺎﻋﺮ وﮬﻮ ﺻﺎﺣﺐ‬
‫ﮬﺬﻩ اﳋﺎّﺻّﯿﺔ‪ ٢‬وﻗﺪ ﺛﺒﺖ إﻻﺳﲀر ﻟﻐﲑﻩ‪ ٣‬ﻣﻦ ٔاﻧﻮاع أﻻﴍﺑﺔ وﮬﻮ دوﻧﻪ‪ ٤‬ﰱ ذ󰏭‬
‫وﻋﲆ اﻟﺘّﲋل ﻓٕﺎﻧ ّﻪ ﻣﻦ ﺛﻮران أﻻﺧﻼط اﻟﺮدﯾﺌﺔ ﻛﲈ ﺳﻠﻒ ﰱ اﳊﺸﯿﺶ ﻓٕﺎّن‬
‫ا󰏱ﺮم ا󰏫اﻋﺮ‪ ٥‬ﳛﺪث ﻋﻨﺪﻩ ز󰈍دة ﻋﺮﺑﺪة ﻛﲈ ﰱ اﻟﺸﺎرب‪ ١‬وﻇﮭﺮ‪ ٦‬ﺑﮭﺬا ٔاّن ﰱ‬
‫اﳊﺸﯿﺶ إﻻﺳﲀر وإﻻﻓﺴﺎد ﻓﺘﺴﺎوی ‪ ٧‬اﶆﺮ‪ ٨‬ﰱ ٔاﺣﲀﻣﻪ‪ ٩‬وﺗﺰﯾﺪ ﲟﺰﯾﺪ إﻻﻓﺴﺎد‬
‫واﻟﺼﻮاب ‪ٔ ١٠‬اﻧ ّﮭﺎ ﻣﺴﻜﺮة ﻛﲈ ٔاﲨﻊ ﻋﻠﯿﻪ اﻟﻌﺎرﻓﻮن 󰈈ﻟﻨﺒﺎت وﳚﺐ اﻟﺮﺟﻮع ٕاﻟﯿﮭﻢ‬
‫ﻛﲈ رﺟﻊ ‪ٕ ١١‬اﻟﯿﮭﻢ ﰱ ﻏﲑﮬﺎ ﻣﻦ اﳋﻮاّص ‪ ١٢‬وﻗﺪ ﻛﺮﻩ‪ ١٣‬إﻻﻣﺎم‪ ١٤‬اﻟﺸﺎﻓﻌﯽ اﳌﺎء‬
‫اﳌﺸّﻤﺲ ﻣﻦ 󰆛ﺔ اﻟّﻄﺐ‬
‫وﯾﺪّل ﻋﲆ ٔاّن اﳊﺸﯿﺶ‪ ١٥‬ﻣﺴﻜﺮة ٔاّن‪ ١٦‬ﻣﻌﲎ إﻻﺳﲀر ﺗﻐﻄﯿﺔ اﻟﻌﻘﻞ‪ ١٧‬ﻗﺎل‬
‫ﷲ ‪ ١٨‬ﺗﻌﺎﱃ ))ٕاﻧ ّﲈ ﺳﻜّﺮت ٔاﺑﺼﺎر󰈋((‪ٔ ١٩‬ای ﻏّﻄﯿﺖ ‪ ٢٠‬وﻗﺪ دّل اﻟﻌﻘﻞ ﻋﲆ ٔاﻧ ّﻪ‪٢١‬‬
‫ﳛﺪث ﻋﻨﺪ ﺗﻨﺎوﻟﮭﺎ‪ ٢٢‬ﺣﺎ󰏧‪ ٢٣‬ﱂ ﺗﻜﻦ ﻗﺒﻞ ﺗﻨﺎوﻟﮭﺎ ﻓﺘ󰏮‪ ٢٤‬اﳊﺎ󰏧 ﮬﻲ‪ ٢٥‬ﻣﺒﺎدىء ‪٢٦‬‬
‫ﺗﻐﯿﲑ‪ ٢٧‬اﻟﻌﻘﻞ ﻓٕﺎن ﰷن اﳌﻌّﲎ 󰈈ٕﻻﺳﲀر ﮬﺬا‪ ٢٨‬ﻓﺬاك وٕان ﰷن اﳌﺮاد ﻣﻦ‬
‫ﴬ‪ٔ󰈈 ٣٢‬ﻻﻓﻌﺎل 󰈇ﺧﺘﯿﺎرﯾ ّﺔ‪ ٣٣‬ا󰏲ﺮج‬ ‫إﻻﺳﲀر ‪٢٩‬اﻟﺘﻐّﲑ اﳊﺎدث‪ ٢٩‬ﰱ ‪ ٣٠‬اﳌﺰاج‪ ٣١‬اﳌ ّ‬
‫ﻻﻓﺮاط واﻟﺘﻔﺮﯾﻂ ﻓﮭﻮ ﻣﻮﺟﻮد ﻓﯿﻪ ‪ ٣٤‬وﻗﻮل ﻣﻦ ﻗﺎل ٕاﻧ ّﮭﺎ‪٣٤‬‬
‫ﻋﻦ ﺣّﺪ 󰈇ﻋﺘﺪال ٕاﱃ ا ٕ‬
‫‪A‬‬ ‫‪ ٦‬ﻓﻈﮭﺮ‬ ‫‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ٥‬ا󰏫اﻋﻦ‬ ‫‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ٢ CD deest ١–١‬اﳋﺎﺧﺔ ‪ ٣ B‬ﮐﻐﲑە ‪ ٤ B‬دﻧﻪ‬

‫‪ ١٢‬اﳊﻮاس ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ١١‬ﯾﺮﺟﻊ ‪A‬‬ ‫‪ ١٠‬ﻓﺎﻟﺼﻮاب ‪CD‬‬ ‫‪ ٧‬ﻓﺴﺎوی ‪ ٩ D deest ٨ AB‬اﺣﺘﲀﻣﻪ ‪B‬‬
‫‪D deest ١٧‬‬ ‫‪ ١٦‬ﰱ ‪D deest ; A +‬‬ ‫‪ ١٥‬اﳊﺸﯿﺸﺔ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪BC deest ١٤‬‬ ‫‪ ١٣‬ذﮐﺮ ‪ ; B‬ذﮐﺮە ‪D‬‬
‫‪ ٢٣‬ﺣﺎ ‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٢‬ﻓﺎﻧﻪ ‪ ; C +‬ﻓﺎن ‪D +‬‬ ‫‪ ٢١‬ان ‪BD‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٠‬ﻏﻄﺘﻪ ‪B‬‬ ‫‪Qurʾān 15:15 ١٩‬‬ ‫‪B deest ١٨‬‬
‫‪ ٢٧‬ﺗﻐﲑ ‪A‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٦‬ﺗﻮدی ‪ ; C‬ﺗﻨﺎدی ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٥‬ﻓﮭـﯽ ‪C‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٤‬ﻟﺘﻠﮏ ‪ ; A‬ﺑﺘﻠﮏ ‪CD‬‬ ‫; ‪CD deest‬‬
‫‪ ٣١‬اﳌﻌﲔ ‪B +‬‬ ‫‪ ٣٠‬ﻣﻦ ‪C‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٩–٢٩‬اﻟﺘﻐﯿﲑ اﳊﺎل ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٨‬ذﻟﮏ ‪A‬‬ ‫; ﺑﺘﻐﯿﲑ ‪ ; C‬ﺑﻐﲑ ‪D‬‬
‫‪ ٣٤–٣٤‬وﻗﻮ󰏳 ٔاﻧﮭﺎ ‪ ; C‬وﻗﻮﻻﻧﮭﺎ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪D deest ٢٣‬‬ ‫‪ ٣٢‬واﳌﴬ ‪A‬‬

‫ﻣﻔﺴﺪة ﻟﻠﻌﻘﻞ‪󰈈 ١‬ﻃﻞ ٔﻻﻧ ّﻪ ‪ ١+‬ﻟﻮ ﻓﺴﺪ اﻟﻌﻘﻞ ﳉّﻦ ﺻﺎﺣﺒﻪ ٕاذ ﻓﺴﺎد اﻟﻌﻘﻞ ذﮬﺎﺑﻪ‬ ‫‪185‬‬
‫اﻟﻔﺼﻞ اﻟﺮاﰆ‬
‫ﰱ ٔاﻧ ّﮭﺎ ﺣﺮام وﻗﺪ ﺗﻈﺎﮬﺮت أﻻدّ󰏧‪ ٢‬اﻟﴩﻋّﯿﺔ واﻟﻌﻘﻠ ّﯿﺔ ﻋﲆ ذ󰏭 ٔاّﻣﺎ اﻟﻜﺘﺎب‬
‫واﻟﺴـﻨّﺔ‪ ٣‬ﻓﺎﻟﻨﺼﻮص ا󰏩اّ󰏧 ﻋﲆ ﲢﺮﱘ اﳌﺴﻜﺮ‪ ٤‬ﺑﺘﻨﺎوﻟﮭﺎ وﰱ ﲱﯿﺢ ﻣﺴﲅ )) ّ‬
‫ﰻ‬
‫ﰻ ﻣﺴﻜﺮ‪ ٥‬ﺣﺮام(( ؤاﯾﻀﺎ ‪٦‬ﻓٕﺎﻧ ّﮭﺎ ﺗﺼّﺪ‪ ٦‬ﻋﻦ ذﻛﺮ ﷲ وﻋﻦ اﻟﺼﻼة‬‫ﻣﺴﻜﺮ ‪٥‬ﲬﺮ و ّ‬
‫وﻣﺎ ﰷن ﮬﺬا وﺻﻔﻪ ﰷن ﺣﺮاﻣﺎ ﰷﶆﺮ وﻗﺪ ﻗﺎل ﷲ ﺗﻌﺎﱃ‪)) ٧‬وﳛّﺮم‪ ٨‬ﻋﻠﯿﮭﻢ‬
‫اﳋﺒﺎﺋﺚ((‪ ٩‬ؤاّی ﺧﺒﯿﺚ ٔاﻋﻈﻢ ّﳑﺎ ﯾﻔﺴﺪ ‪١٠‬اﻟﻌﻘﻮل اﻟﱴ‪ ١٠‬اﺗ ّﻔﻘﺖ اﳌﻠﻞ واﻟﴩاﺋﻊ‬
‫ﻋﲆ ٕاﳚﺎب‪ ١١‬ﺣﻔﻈﮭﺎ وﻗﺪ ﺣّﺮم ﷲ‪ٕ ١٢‬اذﮬﺎب اﻟﻌﻘﻮل‪󰈈 ١٣‬ﺳـﺘﻌﲈل ﻣﺎ ﯾﺰﯾﻠﮭﺎ ٔاو‬
‫ﯾﻔﺴﺪﮬﺎ وﳜﺮ󰆛ﺎ‪ ١٤‬ﻋﻦ ﳐﺮ󰆛ﺎ اﳌﻌﺘﺎد وﻻ ﺷ ّ ّ‬
‫ﻚ ٔان ﺗﻨﺎول اﳊﺸﯿﺸﺔ ﯾﻈﮭﺮ ﺑﻪ‪١٥‬‬
‫ٔاﺛﺮ اﻟﺘﻌّﺪی‪ ١٦‬ﰱ اﻧﺘﻈﺎم اﻟﻔﻌﻞ‪ ١٧‬واﻟﻘﻮل‪ ١٨‬اﳌﺴـﳣّﺪ‪ ١٩‬ﻛﲈ󰏳 ﻣﻦ ‪ ٢٠‬ﻧﻮر اﻟﻌﻘﻞ‪٢٠‬‬
‫ﴍﻋﺎ وﻋﺮﻓﺎ‬
‫وﻗﺪ روی ٔاﺑﻮ داود ﰱ ﺳﻨﻨﻪ ٕ󰈈ﺳـﻨﺎد ﺣﺴﻦ ‪ ٢١‬ﻋﻦ دﯾﲅ اﶵﲑی‪ ٢١‬ﻗﺎل‬
‫ﺳﺎٔﻟﺖ ‪٢٢‬رﺳﻮل ﷲ‪ ٢٢‬ﺻّﲆ ﷲ ﻋﻠﯿﻪ وﺳّﲅ ﻓﻘﻠﺖ 󰈍 رﺳﻮل ﷲ ٕا ّ󰈋 󰈈رض‬
‫ﺑﺎٔردة ‪٢٣‬ﻧﻌﺎﰿ ﻓﯿﮭﺎ‪ ٢٤‬ﲻﻼ‪ ٢٣‬ﺷﺪﯾﺪا وٕا ّ󰈋 ﻧﺘّﺨﺬ ﴍا󰈈 ﻣﻦ ﮬﺬا اﻟﻘﻤﺢ ﻧﺘﻘّﻮی‪ ٢٥‬ﺑﻪ‬
‫‪D deest ٥–٥‬‬ ‫‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ٤‬اﻟﺴﮑﺮ‬ ‫‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ٣‬او اﻟﺴـﻨﺔ‬ ‫‪ ١‬اﻟﻌﻘﻞ ‪ ١ + D deest ; B‬ﻻﻧﮭﺎ ‪󰈇 ٢ C‬و󰏧‬
‫‪D‬‬
‫‪ ١٠–١٠‬اﻟﻌﻘﻞ ا󰏫ی ‪; AD‬‬ ‫‪Qurʾān 7:157 ٩‬‬ ‫‪ ٨‬وﺣﺮم ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ٧‬ﺳـﺒﺤﺎﻧﻪ وﺗﻌﺎﱃ ‪B‬‬ ‫‪D ? ٦–٦‬‬
‫‪ ١٤‬او ﳜﺮ󰆛ﺎ ‪AB‬‬ ‫‪ ١٣‬اﻟﻌﻘﻞ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ١٢‬ﺗﻌﺎﱃ ‪CD +‬‬ ‫‪ ١١‬اﻗﺎﻣﺔ ‪ ; C‬ا󰈍ت ‪D‬‬ ‫اﻟﻌﻘﻮل ا󰏫ی ‪B‬‬
‫‪ ١٩‬اﳌﺴﻤﺔ ‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ١٨‬اﻟﻘﻮل ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ١٧‬اﻟﻌﻘﻞ ‪D deest ; B‬‬ ‫‪ ١٦‬اﻟﺘﻐﯿﲑ ‪AB‬‬ ‫‪B deest ١٥‬‬
‫‪ ٢٢–٢٢‬اﻟﻨﱮ ‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ٢١–٢١‬ﻣﻦ وﯾﲅ اﶵﯿﺪی ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٠–٢٠‬ﺗﴫف اﻟﻌﻘﻞ ‪ ; C‬اﻟﺘﴫف اﻟﻌﻘﲆ ‪D‬‬
‫‪ ٢٥‬ﻓﻨﻘﻮی ‪ ; C‬ﻓﻨﺘﻘﻮی ‪D‬‬ ‫‪C deest ٢٤‬‬ ‫‪D ? ٢٣–٢٣‬‬

‫‪186‬‬ ‫ﻋﲆ ٔاﻋﲈﻟﻨﺎ ‪١‬وﻋﲆ ﺑﺮد ﺑﻼد󰈋‪ ١‬ﻗﺎل ﮬﻞ ﯾﺴﻜﺮ ﻗﻠﺖ ﻧﻌﻢ ﻗﺎل ﻓﺎﺟﺘﻨﺒﻮﻩ ﻗﺎل‬
‫ﻗﻠﺖ‪ٕ ٢‬ان ّ‪ ٣‬اﻟﻨﺎس ﻏﲑ 󰈉رﻛﯿﻪ ﻗﺎل ﻓٕﺎن ﱂ ﯾﱰﻛﻮﻩ ﻓﺎﻗﺘﻠﻮﱒ وﮬﺬا ﻣﻨﻪ ﺻّﲆ ﷲ‬
‫ﰻ اﻟﴙء ﲻﻞ‬ ‫ﻋﻠﯿﻪ وﺳّﲅ ﺗﻨﺒﯿﻪ ﻋﲆ اﻟﻌّ󰏨 اﻟﱴ‪ٔ ٤‬ﻻﺟﻠﮭﺎ ﺣّﺮم اﳌﺰر ﻓﻮﺟﺐ ٔاّن ّ‬
‫ﲻ󰏴‪ ٥‬ﳚﺐ ‪ ٥+‬ﲢﺮﳝﻪ وﻻ ٕاﺷﲀل ٔاّن اﳊﺸﯿﺶ ﯾﻌﻤﻞ ذ󰏭 وﻓﻮﻗﻪ‬
‫‪٧‬‬‫وروی ٔاﲪﺪ‪ ٦‬ﰱ ﻣﺴـﻨﺪﻩ ؤاﺑﻮ داود ﰱ ﺳﻨﻨﻪ ﻋﻦ ٔاّم ﺳﻠﻤﺔ ‪٧‬رﴇ ﷲ ﻋﻨﮭﺎ‬
‫ﻗﺎﻟﺖ ﻧﮭـﯽ رﺳﻮل ﷲ ﺻّﲆ ﷲ ﻋﻠﯿﻪ وﺳّﲅ ﻋﻦ ّ‬
‫ﰻ‪ ٨‬ﻣﺴﻜﺮ وﻣﻔّﱰ ﻗﺎل‪ ٩‬اﻟﻌﻠﲈء‬
‫ﰻ ﻣﺎ ﯾﻮرث اﻟﻔﺘﻮر واﳋﺪر‪ ١١‬ﰱ أﻻﻃﺮاف وﮬﺬا اﳊﺪﯾﺚ ٔادّل‪ ١٢‬دﻟﯿﻞ‬ ‫اﳌﻔّﱰ‪ّ ١٠‬‬
‫ﻋﲆ ﲢﺮﱘ اﳊﺸﯿﺸﺔ‪ ١٣‬ﲞﺼﻮﺻﮭﺎ‪ ١٤‬ﻓٕﺎﻧ ّﮭﺎ ٕان ﱂ ﺗﻜﻦ ﻣﺴﻜﺮة ﰷﻧﺖ ﻣﻔّﱰة ﳐﺪرة‬
‫و󰏫󰏭 ﯾﻜﱶ اﻟﻨﻮم ‪١٥‬ﻣﻦ ﺗﻌﺎﻃﯿﮭﺎ‪ ١٥‬وﯾﺜﻘﻞ اﻟﺮٔاس‪ ١٦‬ﺑﻮاﺳﻄﺔ ﺗﺒﺨﲑﮬﺎ ‪ ١٧‬ا󰏩ﻣﺎغ‬
‫‪١٨‬ؤاّﻣﺎ إﻻﺟﲈع‪ ١٨‬ﻋﲆ ﲢﺮﳝﮭﺎ ﻓﻘﺪ ‪١٩‬ﻧﻘ󰏴 ﻏﲑ واﺣﺪ ﻣﻨﮭﻢ ‪ ١٩‬اﻟﻘﺮاﰱ ﰱ ﻗﻮاﻋﺪﻩ‬
‫وﻛﺬ󰏭 اﺑﻦ ﺗﳰّﯿﺔ‪ ٢٠‬وﮬﻮ ﺣﺎﻓﻆ‪ ٢١‬ﻗﺎل ﻓٕﺎن‪ ٢٢‬اﺳـﺘﺤﻠ ّﮭﺎ ﻓﻘﺪ ﻛﻔﺮ وﰱ ﮬﺬا‬
‫ﻧﻈﺮ ٔﻻّن ﲢﺮﳝﮭﺎ ﻟﯿﺲ ﻣﻌﻠﻮﻣﺎ ﻣﻦ ا󰏩ﯾﻦ 󰈈ﻟﴬورة ﺳﻠ ّﻤﻨﺎ‪ ٢٣‬ذ󰏭 ﻟﻜﻦ‬
‫ﻻﺟﲈع ﻗﻄﻌﯿﺎ‪ ٢٤‬ﻋﲆ ٔاﺣﺪ اﻟﻮ󰆛ﲔ وﻗﺪ ذﻛﺮ‪٢٥‬‬ ‫ﻻ ﺑّﺪ ٔان ﯾﻜﻮن دﻟﯿﻞ ا ٕ‬
‫ّ‬
‫‪A‬‬ ‫‪ ٥‬ﲝﺴﺐ‬ ‫‪+ D deest ٥‬‬ ‫‪D deest ٤‬‬ ‫‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ٣‬وان ‪ ; A‬ان‬ ‫‪ ٢ D twice ١–١‬ﻓﻘﻠﺖ‬
‫‪B‬‬
‫‪D deest ١٠‬‬ ‫‪ ٩‬ﻗﺎﻟﺖ ‪A‬‬ ‫‪D deest ٨‬‬ ‫‪AD deest ٧–٧‬‬ ‫‪ ٦‬ﺑﻦ ﺣﻨﺒﻞ ‪ ; B +‬ا ٕ‬
‫ﻻﻣﺎم اﲪﺪ ‪C‬‬
‫‪ ١٤‬وﻏﲑﮬﺎ ﻣﻦ ا󰏲ﺪرات ‪A‬‬ ‫‪ ١٣‬اﳊﺸﯿﺶ ‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ١٢‬اﯾﻀﺎ ‪ ; B‬اول ‪C‬‬ ‫‪ ١١‬واﻟﺘﺨﺪر ‪ ; C‬اﻟﺘﺨﺪ ‪D‬‬
‫‪ ١٧‬ﰱ ‪; A +‬‬ ‫‪ ١٦‬رووﺳﮭﻢ ‪AB‬‬ ‫‪ ١٥–١٥‬ﳑﻦ ﯾﺘﻌﺎﻃﺎﮬﺎ ‪ ; A‬ﻣﻦ ﻣﺘﻌﺎﻃﯿﮭﺎ ‪B‬‬ ‫; ﳛﴫ وﺻﻔﮭﺎ ‪B‬‬
‫ﺗﺒﺨﺮﮬﺎ ‪ ١٨–١٨ D‬و󰈈ﻻﺟﲈع ‪ ١٩–١٩ B‬ﻧﻘﻞ ‪ ٢٠ B‬ﺷـﯿﺦ 󰈇ﺳﻼم ‪󰈇 ٢١ B +‬ﺳﻼم‬

‫‪ ٢٣‬وﺳﻠﻤﻨﺎ ‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٢‬وان ‪A‬‬ ‫وﻣﴫ واﻟﺸﺎم ﻧﻔﻌﻨﺎ ﷲ ﺑﱪﰷﺗﻪ وﺑﺮﰷت ﻋﻠﻮﻣﻪ ﻋﲆ ا󰏩وام ‪B +‬‬
‫‪BD deest ٢٥‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٤‬ﻗﻄﻌﺎ ‪D‬‬

‫‪ٔ١‬اﲱﺎﺑﻨﺎ اﳌﺴﻜﺮ ﻣﻦ ﻏﲑ ﻋﺼﲑ اﻟﻌﻨﺐ‪ ٢‬ﻛﻌﺼﲑ اﻟﻌﻨﺐ ﰱ وﺟﻮب اﳊّﺪ ﻟﻜﻦ ﻻ‬ ‫‪187‬‬
‫ﯾﻜﻔّﺮ ﻣﺴـﺘﺤّ󰏴 ﻻﺧﺘﻼف اﻟﻌﻠﲈء ﻓﯿﻪ وﻗﺪ‪ٔ ١‬اﲨﻊ اﻟﻔﻘﮭﺎء ﻣﻦ ٔاﲱﺎﺑﻨﺎ وﻏﲑﮬﻢ ﻋﲆ‬
‫ٔاﻧ ّﻪ ﳛﺮم ﺗﻨﺎول اﳌﺴﻜﺮ وّﲻﻤﻮا اﻟﻨﺒﺎت‪ ٣‬وﻏﲑﻩ وﻗﺎل اﻟﺮاﻓﻌﯽ ‪ ٤‬ﰱ 󰈈ب‪٦ ٥‬أﻻﻃﻌﻤﺔ‬
‫ﰱ ‪ ٧‬ﲝﺮ‪ ٦‬اﳌﺬﮬﺐ ٕاّن اﻟﻨﺒﺎت ‪ ٨‬ا󰏫ی‪ ٩‬ﯾﺴﻜﺮ وﻟﯿﺴﺖ‪ ٨‬ﻓﯿﻪ ﺷّﺪة ﻣﻄﺮﺑﺔ ﳛﺮم‬
‫ٔاﳇﻪ ‪١٠‬وﻗﺎل إﻻﻣﺎم ﻋﻼء ا󰏩ﯾﻦ اﺑﻦ اﻟﻌّﻄﺎر ﺻﺎﺣﺐ اﻟﻨﻮوی وﺗﻠﻤﯿﺬﻩ وﮬﻮ ا󰏫ی‬
‫ﲨﻊ ﻓﺘﺎوﯾﻪ وﰷن ﻓﻘﯿﮭﺎ‪ ١١‬ؤاّى ﻓﻘﯿﻪ ٔاّﻣﺎ اﳊﺸﯿﺸﺔ اﳌﺴّﻤﺎة 󰈈ﻟﻐﺒﲑاء اﳌﻔﺴﺪة‬
‫ﻟﻠﻌﻘﻮل وأﻻﺑﺪان اﳌﺬﮬﺒﺔ ﻟٔﻼﻣﻮال وأﻻد󰈍ن ا󰏲ّﺒﺒﺔ ﻟﻨﻮع إﻻﻧﺴﺎن ا󰏲ﻨّﺜﺔ ﻟﻔﺤﻮل‬
‫ا󰏫ﻛﺮان ﻓﮭـﯽ ٔاﺷّﺪ ٕاﲦﺎ وﲢﺮﳝﮭﺎ ﻣﻦ اﶆﺮ وﱂ ٔاﻋﲅ ﻟﺘﺤﺮﳝﮭﺎ اﺧﺘﻼﻓﺎ‪ ١٢‬ﺑﲔ ﻋﻠﲈء‬
‫ﴫﺣﻮا ﺑﻮﺟﻮب اﳊّﺪ ﻓﯿﮭﺎ ﻣﻊ اﺗ ّﻔﺎﻗﮭﻢ ﻋﲆ‬ ‫إﻻﺳﻼم ا󰏫ﯾﻦ ٔادرﻛﺘﮭﻢ ﻟﻜﻨّﮭﻢ ﱂ ﯾ ّ‬
‫وﺟﻮب اﻟﺘﻌﺰﯾﺮ ﻓﯿﮭﺎ 󰈈ﻟﴬب وﻏﲑﻩ اﻧﺘﮭـﯽ‪ ١٠‬وﰱ ﻓﺘﺎوی اﳌﺮﻏﯿﻨﺎﱏ‪ ١٣‬ﻟﻠﺤﻨﻔﯿﺔ‪١٤‬‬
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‫اﳌﺴﻜﺮ ﻣﻦ اﻟﺒﻨﺞ ‪١٥‬وﻟﱭ اﻟﺮﻣﺎك‪ ١٥‬ﺣﺮام وﻻ ﳛّﺪ‪ ١٦‬ﻗﺎ󰏳 اﻟﻔﻘﯿﻪ‪ٔ ١٧‬اﺑﻮ ﺟﻌﻔﺮ وﻧّﺺ‬
‫ﻋﻠﯿﻪ ﴰﺲ أﻻﲚ ّﺔ اﻟﴪﺧﴗ اﻧﺘﮭـﯽ ‪١٨‬وﻓﯿﻪ ﻓﺎﺋﺪة اّن ﮬﺬا ا󰏫ی ﯾﺴـﺘﻌﻤﻠﻮﻧﻪ اﻟﱰك‬
‫وﯾﺴﻤﻮﻧﻪ اﻟﻘﻤﺰ ﺣﺮام‪١٨‬‬
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‫اﻟﻔﺼﻞ اﳋﺎﻣﺲ‬
‫ﰱ ٔاﻧ ّﮭﺎ ﻃﺎﻫﺮة ٔاو ﳒﺴﺔ وﮬﺬا ﯾﻨﺒﲎ‪ ١٩‬ﻋﲆ ﻣﺎ ﺳـﺒﻖ ﻣﻦ‪ٔ ٢٠‬اﻧ ّﮭﺎ ﻣﺴﻜﺮة‬
‫‪ ٢ BD deest ١–١‬اﻟﻘﻨﺐ ‪ ٣ A‬اﻟﺒﺎب ‪ ٤ D‬اﻟﺮاﺑﻌﯽ ‪ ٦–٦ CD deest ٥ D‬اﻃﻌﻤﺔ وﰱ‬

‫‪ ١١‬ﻓﻘﯿﻪ ‪B‬‬ ‫‪ACD deest ١٠–١٠‬‬ ‫‪٩‬ﻻ‪D+‬‬ ‫‪ ٨–٨‬اﳌﺴﮑﺮ وﻟﯿﺲ ‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ٧‬وﰱ ‪C‬‬ ‫ﳓﻮ ‪D‬‬
‫‪CD ١٥–١٥‬‬ ‫‪ ١٤‬ﻟﻠﺴﺎدة اﳊﻨﻔﯿﺔ ان ‪ ; A‬ﻣﻦ اﳊﻨﻔﯿﺔ ‪CD‬‬ ‫‪ B ١٣‬اﳌﺮﻏﯿﺎﱏ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ١٢‬اﺧﺘﻼف ‪B‬‬
‫‪CD ١٨–١٨‬‬ ‫‪ ١٧‬ﻓﻘﯿﻪ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ١٦‬ﺷﺎرﺑﻪ ‪) ; A +‬وﻻ ﺣﺪ ‪ (corr. in marg.‬اﳊﺪ ‪ ; B‬ﯾﺘﺤﺪ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪deest‬‬
‫‪ ; AD deest ٢٠‬ﰱ ‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ١٩‬ﯾﺒﲎ ‪ ; B‬ﻣﺒﲎ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪deest‬‬

‫‪188‬‬ ‫ﻓٕﺎّن ﻗﯿﺎس‪ ١‬ﻣﻦ ﯾﻘﻮل ‪󰈈ٕ٢‬ﺳﲀرﮬﺎ ٔان‪ ٢‬ﯾﻘﻮل ﺑﻨﺠﺎﺳـﺘﮭﺎ ووﰱ ﺑﺬ󰏭 اﻟﻄﻮﳻ ﰱ‬
‫اﳌﺼﺒﺎح ﻓﻘﺎل اﳊﺸﯿﺸﺔ ﳒﺴﺔ‪ٕ ٣‬ان ﺛﺒﺖ ٔاﻧ ّﮭﺎ ﻣﺴﻜﺮة‪ ٤‬ﻟﻜّﻦ اﻟﺸـﯿﺦ ‪٥‬ﳏﻲ ا󰏩ﯾﻦ‬
‫ﻗﺎل ٕاﻧ ّﮭﺎ ﻣﺴﻜﺮة وﻟﯿﺴﺖ ﳒﺴﺔ‪ ٦‬وﱂ ﳛﻚ‪ ٧‬ﻓﯿﻪ ﺧﻼﻓﺎ وﯾﺆﯾﺪﻩ ٔان اﻟﺸـﯿﺦ ﺗﻘﯽ‪٥‬‬
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‫ا󰏩ﯾﻦ اﺑﻦ دﻗﯿﻖ اﻟﻌﯿﺪ ﻓ󰍥 ﻛﺘﺒﻪ ﻋﲆ ﻓﺮوع اﺑﻦ اﳊﺎﺟﺐ ﻗﻄﻊ ﺑﺎٔﻧ ّﮭﺎ ﻃﺎﮬﺮة وﺣﻜﯽ‬
‫ﻻﻓﯿﻮن وﮬﻮ ﻟﱭ اﳋﺸﺨﺎش ٔاﻗﻮی ﻓﻌﻼ ﻣﻦ اﳊﺸﯿﺶ‪٩‬‬ ‫إﻻﺟﲈع ﻋﻠﯿﻪ‪ ٨‬ﻗﺎل وا ٔ‬
‫ﻻن‪ ١٠‬اﻟﻘﻠﯿﻞ ﻣﻨﻪ ﯾﺴﻜﺮ ﺟّﺪا وﻛﺬ󰏭‪ ١١‬اﻟﺴـﯿﻜﺮان‪ ١٢‬وﺟﻮز‪ ١٣‬اﻟﻄﯿﺐ ﻣﻊ ٔاﻧ ّﮭﺎ‪١٤‬‬
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‫ﻃﺎﮬﺮة‪ٕ󰈈 ١٥‬ﻻﺟﲈع وﮬﺬا ا󰏫ی اّدﻋﺎﻩ ﻣﻦ إﻻﺟﲈع ﻓﯿﻪ ﻧﻈﺮ ﳌﺎ‪ ١٦‬ﺳـﯿﺎٔﰏ ﻋﻦ‬
‫اﻟﻘﺮاﰱ ﰱ ﻣﺴـﺌ󰏨 اﻟﺼﻼة وﰱ‪ ١٧‬ﴍح ﻗﺪﱘ‪ ١٨‬ﻟﻠﻮﺟﲒ‪ ١٩‬ﻗﺎل ﻣﺆﻟ ّﻔﻪ ٕاﻧ ّﻪ ﲰﻊ ﻣﻦ‬
‫أﻻﻓﻮاﻩ‪ ٢٠‬ﰱ ﳒﺎﺳﺔ اﳊﺸﯿﺶ ﻗﻮﻟﲔ ‪٢١‬وﻗﺎل اﺑﻦ اﻟﻌّﻄﺎر ﺗﻮﻗّﻔﻮا ﰱ ﺗﻨﺠﯿﺴﮭﺎ ٕاذا‬
‫ﻋﻠﻤﺖ )؟( ﻓﯿﻪ وﮬﯽ ٕاذا ﺧﻠﻄﺖ 󰈈ﳌﺎء وﴍﺑﺖ ٔاوﱃ 󰈈ﻟﺘﻨﺠﯿﺲ ﻋﻨﺪ ﻣﻦ ﯾﻘﻮل‬
‫ﺑﻨﺠﺎﺳﺔ اﶆﺮ‪ ٢١‬وذﻛﺮ اﺑﻦ اﻟﺼﻼح ﰱ ‪٢٢‬ﻓﻮاﺋﺪ رﺣﻠﺘﻪ‪٢٣ ٢٢‬ﻋﻦ رواﯾﺔ‪ ٢٣‬ﺻﺎﺣﺐ‬
‫اﻟﺘﻘﺮﯾﺐ و󰆛ﺎ ٔاّن اﻟﻨﺒﺎت ٕاذا ﰷن ‪ّ٢٤‬ﲰﺎ ﻗﺎﺗﻼ‪ ٢٤‬ﯾﻜﻮن‪ ٢٥‬ﳒﺴﺎ ؤاﻧ ّﻪ رّد ﻋﻠﯿﻪ‬
‫ﻻﻣﺎم‪ ٢٦‬اﻟﺸﺎﻓﻌﯽ ﻟﻜﻦ اﻟﻘﯿﺎس ﰱ اﳊﺸﯿﺶ اﻟﻄﮭﺎرة وﻟﯿﺲ ﻟﻨﺎ ﻧﺒﺎت‪٢٧‬‬ ‫ﺑﻨّﺺ ا ٕ‬
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‫ﻂ ٕاّﻻ اﻟﻨﺒﺎت ا󰏫ی ﯾﺴﻘﯽ‪󰈈 ٢٩‬ﻟﻨﺠﺎﺳﺔ ﻓٕﺎﻧ ّﻪ ﳒﺲ اﻟﻌﲔ ﻋﻨﺪ‬ ‫ﳒﺲ اﻟﻌﲔ‪ ٢٨‬ﻗ ّ‬
‫‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ١‬ﻗﺎس ‪ ٢–٢ D‬اﻧﮭﺎ ﻣﺴﮑﺮة ‪ ٤ CD deest ٣ A‬ﻓﮭـﯽ ﳒﺴﺔ ‪ ٥–٥ C +‬ﺗﻘﯽ ‪ ; C‬ﻣﻌﲔ‬
‫‪ ١١‬وﮐﺬاک ‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ١٠‬وان ‪C‬‬ ‫‪ ٦‬ﺑﻨﺠﺴﺔ ‪ ٧ A‬وﳛﻞ ‪ ٩ B deest ٨ B‬اﳊﺸﯿﺸﺔ ‪A (e corr.) B‬‬
‫‪ ١٥‬ﻃﺎﮬﺮ ‪CD‬‬ ‫‪ ١٤‬اﻧﻪ ‪CD‬‬ ‫‪ ١٣‬وﮐﺬا ﺟﻮزة ‪ ; C‬ﺟﻮزة ‪B‬‬ ‫‪D deest ١٢‬‬ ‫; وﮐﺬا ‪D‬‬
‫‪ACD ٢١–٢١‬‬ ‫‪󰈇 ٢٠‬ﻓﺮاد ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ١٩‬اﻟﻮﺟﲒ ‪A‬‬ ‫‪ ١٨‬اﻟﻘﺪﱘ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ١٧‬ﻋﻦ ‪A‬‬ ‫‪ ١٦‬ﲟﺎ ‪D‬‬
‫‪ ٢٤–٢٤‬ﺳﺎﻗﺎﻓﻼ ‪CD‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٣–٢٣‬رواﯾﺔ ﻋﻦ ‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٢–٢٢‬ﻓﻮاﺋﺪە وﻋﻠﻘﻪ ‪ ; A‬ﻓﻮاﺋﺪ وﺟﻠﺒﻪ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪deest‬‬
‫‪ ٢٩‬ﯾﻨﻘﯽ ؟ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪D deest ٢٨‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٧‬ﻓﯩﺎت ‪D‬‬ ‫‪AB deest ٢٦‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٥‬ﰷن ‪A‬‬ ‫; 󰏳 ﺳﺎﻗﺎ ‪al-Badrī‬‬
‫اﻟﺼﯿﺪﻻﱏ ﺣّﱴ‪ ١‬ﻗﺎﻟﻮا ‪ ١+‬ﰱ ‪٢‬اﻟﺴّﻢ ا󰏫ی‪ ٢‬ﮬﻮ ﻧﺒﺎت ٕاﻧ ّﻪ ﻃﺎﮬﺮ ﻣﻊ ٔاﻧ ّﻪ ٔاﺷّﺪ ﴐرا‬ ‫‪189‬‬
‫ﻣﻦ اﳊﺸﯿﺶ ‪٣‬وﻻ ﯾﺘّﺠﻪ اﻟﻘﻮل 󰈈ﻟﺘﻨﺠﯿﺲ‪ ٤‬وﻟﻮ ﰷﻧﺖ ﻣﺴﻜﺮة‪ٔ ٣‬ﻻّن ا󰏩ﻟﯿﻞ ٕاﻧ ّﲈ‬
‫ﰻ اﻟﻮﺟﻮﻩ وإﻻﺗ ّﻔﺎق ﻋﲆ ﺟﻮاز‬ ‫اﻧﺘﮭﺾ‪ ٥‬ﰱ اﶆﺮ وﻏﲑﮬﺎ‪ ٦‬ﻟﯿﺲ ﰱ ﻣﻌﻨﺎﮬﺎ‪ ٧‬ﻣﻦ ّ‬
‫ﺗﻨﺎول اﻟﯿﺴﲑ ﻣﻨﮭﺎ‪ ٨‬وﻟﻮ ﰷﻧﺖ ﳒﺴﺔ ﳌﺎ ﺟﺎز ذ󰏭‬
‫اﻟﻔﺼﻞ اﻟﺴﺎدس‬
‫ﰱ ٔاﻧ ّﻪ‪ ٩‬ﮬﻞ ﳚﺐ ﻓﯿﮭﺎ‪ ١٠‬اﳊّﺪ ‪١١‬واﻟﺼﻮاب‪ ١٢‬اﻟﻮﺟﻮب ﻟٕﻼﺳﲀر ‪١٣‬ﻓﺘﻨﺎوﻟﺘﮭﺎ‬
‫ﻻن‪ ١٥‬ﺻﺎﺣﺒﮭﺎ ﯾﮭﺬی واذا ﮬﺬی‪ ١٦‬اﻓﱰی ﻓﯿﺠ󰏪‪١٧‬‬
‫ٕ‬ ‫ٔادّ󰏧‪ ١٣‬اﳊّﺪ‪ ١١‬ﰱ اﳌﺴﻜﺮ‪ ١٤‬و ٔ ّ‬
‫ﴏح اﳌﺎوردی ﺑﺎّٔن اﻟﻨﺒﺎت ا󰏫ی ﻓﯿﻪ ﺷّﺪة‪ ١٩‬ﻣﻄﺮﺑﺔ ‪٢٠‬ﳚﺐ‬ ‫ﺟ󰏪 اﻟﻔﺮﯾﺔ‪ ١٨‬وﻗﺪ ّ‬
‫ﻓﯿﻪ‪ ٢٠‬اﳊّﺪ وﻻ ﯾﻨﺎﰱ ﮬﺬا‪ ٢١‬ﻣﺎ ﺣﲀﻩ إﻻﻣﺎم‪ ٢٢‬اﻟﺮاﻓﻌﯽ ﻋﻦ اﻟﺒﺤﺮ ٔاّن اﻟﻨﺒﺎت‬
‫ﴏح‬‫اﳌﺴﻜﺮ ﻻ ﺣّﺪ ﻋﲆ ا ٓﳇﻪ ٔﻻّن ﻣﺮادﻩ ﻣﺎ ﻟﯿﺲ ﻓﯿﻪ‪ ٢٣‬ﺷّﺪة ﻣﻄﺮﺑﺔ ﻛﲈ ّ‬
‫ﺑﻪ وﻗﺎل اﻟﺮاﻓﻌﯽ ﰱ 󰈈ب‪ ٢٤‬اﻟﴩب ﻣﺎ‪ ٢٥‬ﯾﺰﯾﻞ اﻟﻌﻘﻞ ﻣﻦ ﻏﲑ‪ ٢٦‬أﻻﴍﺑﺔ‬
‫ﰷﻟﺒﻨﺞ ﻻ ﺣّﺪ ﰱ ﺗﻨﺎو󰏳 ٔﻻﻧ ّﻪ ﻻ‪ ٢٧‬ﯾّ󰏬 وﻻ ﯾﻄﺮب وﻻ ﯾﺪﻋﻮ ﻗﻠﯿ󰏴 ٕاﱃ ﻛﺜﲑﻩ‬
‫اﻧﺘﮭـﯽ وﮬﻮ ﯾﻔﮭﻢ ٕاﳚﺎب اﳊّﺪ ﰱ اﳊﺸﯿﺸﺔ ٔﻻﻧ ّﮭﺎ‪ ٢٨‬ﻋﲆ اﻟﻌﻜﺲ ﻣﻦ اﻟﺒﻨﺞ‬
‫‪A‬‬ ‫‪ ١‬ﺣﲔ ‪ ١+ A‬ﻗﺎل ‪ ٢–٢ B‬اﳌﺴﲅ 󰏫ی ‪󰈈 ٤ D deest ٣–٣ D‬ﻟﻨﺠﺎﺳﺔ ‪ ٥ (A ?) B‬ﻧﮭﺾ‬

‫‪ ١٠‬ﻣﻨﮭﺎ ‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ٩‬اﻧﮭﺎ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪B deest ٨‬‬ ‫‪ ٧‬ﻣﻌﻨﺎە ‪CD‬‬ ‫‪ ; A in marg. ٦‬وﻏﲑە ‪CD‬‬ ‫; ﯾﻨﮭﺾ‪D‬‬
‫‪ ١١–١١‬وﮬﻮ ﯾﻨﺒﲎ اﯾﻀﺎ ﻋﲆ ﻣﺎ ﺳـﺒﻖ ﻓﺎن ﻗﻠﻨﺎ اﻧﮭﺎ ﻣﺴﮑﺮة وﺟﺐ اﳊﺪ ﻟﺘﻨﺎوﻟﮭﺎ اد󰏧 اﳊﺪﯾﺚ ‪A‬‬
‫‪ ١٦‬اﮬﺪی ‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ١٥‬وان ‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ١٤‬اﻟﺴﮑﺮ ‪CD‬‬ ‫‪ ١٣–١٣‬ﻓﺘﻨﺎوﻟﮭﺎ ﻟﻼد󰏧 ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٢‬اﻟﺼﻮاب ‪B‬‬
‫‪AB deest ٢٢‬‬ ‫‪B deest ٢١‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٠–٢٠‬ﺗﻮﺟﺐ ‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ١٩‬ﻣﺜﻼ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ١٨‬اﻟﴬب ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ١٧‬ﻓﯿﺤﻞ ‪D‬‬
‫‪ ٢٨‬ﻓﺎﻧﮭﺎ ‪A‬‬ ‫‪B deest ٢٧‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٦‬ﻋﲔ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٥‬ﱂ ‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٤‬ﺣﺪ ‪A +‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٣‬ﺑﻪ ‪A‬‬
‫‪190‬‬ ‫ﻂ ﺑﻌﺾ اﻟﻔﻀﻼء ﻣﻦ ٔاﲱﺎب اﻟﻈﮭﲑ اﻟﱱﻣﻨﱴ‪ٔ ٢‬اّن ﮬﺬﻩ اﳌﺴـﺌ󰏨‬ ‫‪ ١‬ووﺟﺪت ﲞ ّ‬
‫وﻗﻌﺖ ﰱ ﻋﴫﻩ واﺧﺘﻠﻒ‪ ٣‬اﻟﻔﻘﮭﺎء ﰱ ﺟﻮاﺑﮭﺎ ﻓﻘﺎل ﺑﻌﻀﮭﻢ ٕاﻧ ّﮭﺎ‪ ٤‬ﺗﻠﺤﻖ 󰈈ﶆﺮ‬
‫واﻟﻨﺒﯿﺬ ٕاذ اﻟﻌّ󰏨 ٕاﻧ ّﲈ ﮬﯽ إﻻﺳﲀر وﮬﯽ ﺷﺎﻣ󰏨 ﻟﻠﻨﺒﺎت‪ ٥‬واﶆﺮ وﻓّﺼﻞ ﺑﻌﻀﮭﻢ ﻓﻘﺎل‬
‫اﻟﻨﺒﺎت اﳌﺴﻜﺮ ٕاذا ٔاذﯾﺐ وﺻﺎر ﻣﺎﺋﻌﺎ ﻓﮭﻮ‪ ٦‬ﻣﻠﺤﻖ 󰈈ﶆﺮ ﻟﺘﻘﻊ اﳌﺸﺎﺑﮭﺔ اﻟﲀﻣ󰏨‬
‫ﺑﲔ‪ ٧‬اﳌﴩوب اﳌﺴﻜﺮ واﻟﻨﺒﺎت وﻓّﺼﻞ ﺑﻌﻀﮭﻢ ﺗﻔﺼﯿﻼ ا ٓﺧﺮ ﻓﻘﺎل ٕان ﰷن ﯾﻔﯿﺪ‬
‫ﻧﺸﺎﻃﺎ وﴭﺎﻋﺔ وﲡﺎﴎا وﻧﺸﺎة‪ ٨‬ﰱ اﻟﺮٔاس اﻟﺘﺤﻖ 󰈈ﶆﺮ ﰱ ﺳﺎﺋﺮ أﻻﺣﲀم ٔﻻّن‬
‫اﶆﺮ ﯾﻔﯿﺪ ﮬﺬﻩ اﻟﺼﻔﺎت اﻧﺘﮭـﯽ وﰷن اﻟﺸـﯿﺦ ﻋّﲆ اﳊﺮﯾﺮی‪ ٩‬ﺑﺪﻣﺸﻖ ﯾﻘﻮل‬
‫ﺗﻌﺎﻃﯽ اﳊﺸﯿﺶ ﻋﻨﺪی ٔاﻋﻈﻢ ﺧﻄﺮا‪ ١٠‬ﻣﻦ ﺗﻌﺎﻃﯽ اﶆﺮ وﳛﺴﻦ ﻋﻨﺪی‪ٔ ١١‬ان‬
‫ﳛّﺪ ا ٓﳇﮭﺎ ٔاﻛﱶ ّﻣﲈ ﳛّﺪ ﺷﺎرب اﶆﺮ‪١‬‬
‫وﻗﺎل اﻟﻘﺮاﰱ اﺗ ّﻔﻖ ﻓﻘﮭﺎء‪ ١٢‬اﻟﻌﴫ ﻋﲆ اﳌﻨﻊ ﻣﻨﮭﺎ واﺧﺘﻠﻔﻮا ﮬﻞ‪ ١٣‬اﻟﻮاﺟﺐ ﻓﯿﮭﺎ‬
‫اﳊّﺪ ‪ٔ١٤‬او اﻟﺘﻌﺰﯾﺮ ﺑﻨﺎء ﻋﲆ ٔاﻧ ّﮭﺎ ﻣﺴﻜﺮة ٔاو ﻣﻔﺴﺪة ﻟﻠﻌﻘﻞ وﻋﻦ ﻛﺘﺎب ا󰏫ﺧﲑة‬
‫󰏳 ‪ٔ ١٥‬اﻧ ّﻪ ﳚﺐ ﻓﯿﮭﺎ اﳊّﺪ‪ ١٤‬واﻟﺘﻌﺰﯾﺮ‪ ١٦‬وﰱ ﻓﺘﺎوی اﳋﻼﺻﺔ ﻟﻠﺤﻨﻔﯿّﺔ‪ ١٧‬وﴍب‬
‫اﻟﺒﻨﺞ ﻟﻠﺘﺪاوی ﻻ ﺑﺎٔس ﺑﻪ ﻓٕﺎن ذﮬﺐ ﺑﻪ‪ ١٨‬ﻋﻘ󰏴 ﻻ ﳛّﺪ ﯾﻌﲎ ‪ٕ 󰈈١٩‬‬
‫ﻻﺗ ّﻔﺎق ﻓٕﺎن‪١٩‬‬
‫ﺳﻜﺮ ﳛّﺪ ﻋﻨﺪ ﶊ ّﺪ وﻋﻨﺪ ٔاﰉ ﺣﻨﯿﻔﺔ ؤاﰉ ﯾﻮﺳﻒ ﯾﻌّﺰر وﻻ ﳛّﺪ‬
‫وﻗﺎل‪ ٢٠‬اﻟﺸـﯿﺦ ﻋّﺰ ا󰏩ﯾﻦ ﰱ اﻟﻘﻮاﻋﺪ ﻓٕﺎن ﻗﯿﻞ ﮬّﻼ‪ ٢١‬وﺟﺐ‪ ٢٢‬اﳊّﺪ‬
‫‪B deest ٦‬‬ ‫‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ٥‬اﻟﻨﺒﺎت‬ ‫‪B deest ٤‬‬ ‫‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ٢ CD deest ١–١‬اﻟﱱﻣ ّﲎ ‪ ٣ B‬واﺧﺘﻼف‬
‫‪ ١٣‬ﻻ‬ ‫‪ ١٢‬ﻓﯿﮭﺎ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪B deest ١١‬‬ ‫‪ ١٠‬ﺟﺮﻣﺎ ‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ٩‬اﳊﺮﯾﺮ ‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ٨‬ﻟﻮ ﻧﺸﺎة ‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ٧‬وﻣﻦ ‪A‬‬
‫‪B ١٨‬‬ ‫‪ ١٧‬ﻟﻠﺴﺎدة اﳊﻨﻔﯿﺔ ‪A‬‬ ‫‪ ١٦‬او اﻟﺘﻌﺰﯾﺮ ‪A‬‬ ‫‪C deest ١٥‬‬ ‫‪D deest ١٤–١٤‬‬ ‫ﮬﻞ ‪D‬‬
‫‪ ٢٢‬اوﺟﺐ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ٢١‬ﮬﻞ ‪BD‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٠‬ﻗﺎل ‪CD‬‬ ‫‪󰈈 ١٩–١٩‬ﻻرﺗﻔﺎق ﻓﺎﻧﻪ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪deest‬‬
‫‪ٕ١‬اذا زال اﻟﻌﻘﻞ‪ ١‬ﺑﻐﲑ ﻣﺴﻜﺮ ﰷﻟﺒﻨﺞ وﻏﲑﻩ ﻓﺎﳉﻮاب ٔاّن ٕاﻓﺴﺎد اﻟﻌﻘﻞ ﺑﺬ󰏭 ﰱ‬ ‫‪191‬‬
‫ﻏﺎﯾﺔ اﻟﻨﺪور ٕاذ‪ ٢‬ﻟﯿﺲ ﻓﯿﻪ ﺗﻔﺮﱖ وﻻ‪ٕ ٣‬اﻃﺮاب‪ ٤‬ﳛﺜ ّﺎن‪ ٥‬ﻋﲆ ﺗﻌﺎﻃﯿﻪ ﲞﻼف اﶆﺮ‬
‫واﻟﻨﺒﯿﺬ ﻓٕﺎّن ﻓﯿﮭﲈ‪ ٦‬ﻣﻦ اﻟﺘﻔﺮﱖ‪ ٦‬وإﻻﻃﺮاب ﺣﺎّث‪ ٧‬ﻋﲆ ﴍﺑﮭﲈ‪ ٨‬ﻓﻐﻠﺒﺖ‪󰏭󰏫 ٩‬‬
‫ﻣﻔﺴﺪﺗﮭﲈ ﻓﻮﺟﺐ اﳊّﺪ ﻟﻐﻠﺒﺔ‪ ١٠‬اﳌﻔﺴﺪة‪ ١١‬وﱂ ﳚﺐ ﰱ اﻟﺒﻨﺞ وﳓﻮﻩ ﻟﻨﺪرة‪١٢‬‬
‫ﻻﻓﺴﺎد ﺑﻪ‪١٣‬‬ ‫إ‬
‫اﻟﻔﺼﻞ اﻟﺴﺎﺑﻊ‬
‫‪١٧‬‬ ‫ﰱ ﻓﺮوع‪ ١٤‬ﻣﺘﻔّﺮﻗﺔ‪ ١٥‬وﻣﻮّ󰏩ات ﻣﻨﮭﺎ ﮬﻞ ﺗﺒﻄﻞ اﻟﺼﻼة ﲝﻤﻠﮭﺎ‪ ١٦‬وذ󰏭 ﯾﻨﺒﲎ‬
‫ﻋﲆ ‪١٨‬ﳒﺎﺳـﺘﮭﺎ وﻃﮭﺎرﺗﮭﺎ‪ ١٨‬وﻗﺪ ﺳـﺒﻖ وﻗﺎل اﻟﻘﺮاﰱ ﺳـﺌﻞ ﺑﻌﺾ ﻓﻘﮭﺎء اﻟﻌﴫ‬
‫ّﲻﻦ ﺻّﲆ واﳊﺸﯿﺸﺔ ﻣﻌﻪ ﮬﻞ ﺗﺒﻄﻞ ﺻﻼﺗﻪ ﻓﺎٔﺟﺎب‪ٕ ١٩‬ان ﺻّﲆ ﺑﮭﺎ‪٢٠ ١٩+‬ﻗﺒﻞ‬
‫ﲱﺖ ﺻﻼﺗﺔ ٔاو ‪٢٢‬ﺑﻌﺪ ذ󰏭‪ ٢٢‬ﺑﻄﻠﺖ ٔﻻﻧ ّﮭﺎ ٕاﻧ ّﲈ‬
‫ٔان‪٢١ ٢٠‬ﲢّﻤﺺ ٔاو ﺗﺼﻠﻖ‪ّ ٢١‬‬
‫ﺗﻐّﯿﺐ‪ ٢٣‬اﻟﻌﻘﻞ ‪٢٤‬ﺑﻌﺪ اﻟﺘﺤﻤﯿﺺ‪ٔ٢٥ ٢٤+‬او اﻟﺼﻠﻖ‪ٔ ٢٥‬اّﻣﺎ ﻗﺒ󰏴 وﮬﯽ‪ ٢٦‬ورق ٔاﺧﴬ‬
‫ﻓﻼ ﺑﻞ ﮬﯽ ‪٢٧‬ﰷﻟﻌﺼﲑ ﻟﻠﻌﻨﺐ‪ ٢٤‬وﲢﻤﯿﺼﮭﺎ ﻛﻐﻠﯿﺎﻧﻪ ﻗﺎل‪ ٢٨‬وﺳﺎﻟﺖ‪ ٢٩‬ﻋﻦ ﮬﺬا‬
‫اﻟﻔﺮق ﺟﲈﻋﺔ ّﳑﻦ ﯾﻌﺎﻧﯿﮭﺎ ﻓﺎﺧﺘﻠﻔﻮا ﻋﲆ ﻗﻮﻟﲔ ﻣﻨﮭﻢ ﻣﻦ ﺳﻠ ّﻤﻪ‪ ٣٠‬وﻣﻨﮭﻢ ﻣﻦ ﻗﺎل‬
‫‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ١–١‬ان ازال ﻋﻘ󰏴 ‪ ٢ D‬اﻧﻪ ‪ ٤ D deest ٣ D‬ﻃﺮب ‪ ٥ C‬ﳚﺘﺎز ‪ ٦–٦ AD‬اﻟﻔﺮﱖ‬
‫‪ ٩‬ﻓﻐﻠﺐ ; ﻓﻘﻠﺒﺖ ‪ ; C‬ﻓﻘﻠﺖ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ٨‬ﴍﺑﮭﺎ ‪C‬‬ ‫‪ ; C e corr. ٧‬ﺣﺎدث ‪D‬‬ ‫; ﻣﻦ اﻟﺘﻔﺮح ‪D‬‬
‫‪ ١٤‬ﻣﻔﺮوع ‪B‬‬ ‫‪D deest ١٣‬‬ ‫‪ ١٢‬ﻟﻨﺪورة ‪ ; B‬ﻟﻨﺪور ‪C‬‬ ‫‪ ١١‬ﻟﻠﻤﻔﺴﺪة ‪C‬‬ ‫‪ ١٠‬ﺑﻘﻠﺒﻪ ‪ ; C‬ﺑﻌ󰏨 ‪D‬‬
‫‪ ١٩‬اﺟﺎب ‪; C‬‬ ‫‪ ١٨–١٨‬ﻃﮭﺎرﺗﮭﺎ وﳒﺎﺳـﺘﮭﺎ ‪C‬‬ ‫‪ ١٧‬ﯾﻨﺸﯽ ؟ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ١٦‬ﳏﻠﮭﺎ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ١٥‬ﻣﻔﺮﻗﺔ ‪A‬‬
‫‪ ٢٢–٢٢‬ﺑﻌﺪە ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ٢١–٢١‬ﲢﻤﺺ ‪ ; C‬اﻟﺘﺤﻤﯿﺺ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٠–٢٠‬ﻗﯿ󰏴 ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ١٩‬ﻓﯿﮭﺎ ‪CD‬‬ ‫ﳁﻨﮭﺎ ‪+ D‬‬
‫‪ ٢٦‬ﻓﮭﻮ ‪A‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٥–٢٥‬واﻟﺼﻠﻖ ‪B‬‬ ‫ﻟ‬

‫‪ ٢٤‬ا ﳣﺤﯿﺾ ‪A‬‬ ‫‪+ D deest ٢٤–٢٤‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٣‬ﺗﺼﯿﺐ ‪D‬‬
‫‪ ٢٧‬ﮬﻮ ‪ ٢٩ C deest ٢٨ A‬وﺳـﺌﻠﺖ ‪ ; C‬وﺳﻠﺖ ‪ ٣٠ D‬ﺳﲅ ﮬﺬا اﻟﻔﺮق وﻗﺎل ﻻ ﺗﺆﺛﺮ 󰈇‬

‫ﺑﻌﺪ ﻣﺒﺎﴍة اﻟﻨﺎر ‪al-Badrī, 54a‬‬
‫‪192‬‬ ‫ﺗﺆﺛّﺮ‪ ١‬ﻣﻄﻠﻘﺎ وٕاﻧ ّﲈ ﲢّﻤﺺ‪ٕ ٢‬ﻻﺻﻼح‪ ٣‬ﻃﻌﻤﮭﺎ وﺗﻌﺪﯾﻞ‪ ٤‬ﻛﯿﻔﯿّﺘﮭﺎ‪ ٥‬ﺧﺎّﺻﺔ ‪٦‬ﻓﻌﲆ‬
‫اﻟﻘﻮل‪ ٦‬ﺑﻌﺪم اﻟﻔﺮق ﺗﺒﻄﻞ اﻟﺼﻼة وﻋﲆ اﻟﻘﻮل ﺑﻪ ﯾﻜﻮن اﳊّﻖ ﻣﺎ ﻗﺎ󰏳 اﳌﻔﱴ‬
‫ﲱﺖ ﺑﮭﺎ‪ ٧‬اﻟﺼﻼة ﻣﻄﻠﻘﺎ ‪٨‬ﻗﺎل وا󰏫ی‪ ٩‬اﻋﺘﻘﺪﻩ ٔاﻧ ّﮭﺎ ﻻ‬ ‫ﰠ ٔاﻧ ّﮭﺎ ﻣﺴﻜﺮة وٕاﻻ ّ‬
‫ٕان ّ‬
‫ﺗﺒﻄﻞ اﻟﺼﻼة ﻣﻄﻠﻘﺎ‪ ١٠،٨‬ﰷﻟﺒﻨﺞ وﮬﺬا‪ ١١‬ﻗﺎ󰏳 ﺑﻨﺎء‪ ١٢‬ﻋﲆ اﻋﺘﻘﺎدﻩ‪ٕ ١٣‬اﻧ ّﮭﺎ ﻣﻔﺴﺪة‬
‫وﻟﯿﺴﺖ ﲟﺴﻜﺮة‪١٤‬‬
‫ﴏح‪ ١٦‬اﻟﻨﻮوی ﰱ ﴍح اﳌﮭّﺬب‬ ‫وﻣﻨﮭﺎ‪ ١٥‬ﮬﻞ ﳛﺮم ﯾﺴﲑﮬﺎ ا󰏫ی ﻻ ﯾﺴﻜﺮ ّ‬

‫ٔاﻧ ّﻪ‪ ١٧‬ﻻ ﳛﺮم ٔاﰻ اﻟﻘﻠﯿﻞ ‪ ١٧+‬ا󰏫ی ﻻ ﯾﺴﻜﺮ ﻣﻦ اﳊﺸﯿﺶ ﲞﻼف اﶆﺮ ﺣﯿﺚ‬
‫ﺣﺮم ﻗﻠﯿﻠﮭﺎ ا󰏫ی ﻻ ﯾﺴﻜﺮ واﻟﻔﺮق ٔاّن اﳊﺸﯿﺶ ﻃﺎﮬﺮ واﶆﺮ ﳒﺲ ﻓﻼ‪ ١٨‬ﳚﻮز‬
‫ﴍب‪ ١٩‬ﻗﻠﯿ󰏴 ﻟﻠﻨﺠﺎﺳﺔ‪ ٢٠‬و󰏡م اﻟﺘﻨﺒﯿﻪ ﯾﻔﮭﻢ ﺟﻮاز ‪ٔ ٢١‬اﰻ ﻗﻠﯿﻞ‪ ٢١‬اﳊﺸﯿﺶ ﻓٕﺎﻧ ّﻪ‬
‫ﻞ ٔاﳇﻪ وﻗﻠﯿﻠﮭﺎ ﻃﺎﮬﺮ ﻻ ﴐر ﰱ ٔاﳇﻪ‪٢٢‬‬ ‫ﰻ ﻃﺎﮬﺮ ﻻ ﴐر ﰱ ٔاﳇﻪ ﳛ ّ‬ ‫ﻗﺎل و ّ‬
‫ﴏح ﺑﻪ‪ ٢٣‬اﻟﻘﺮاﰱ ﻓﻘﺎل ٕاﻧ ّﻪ ﳚﻮز ﺗﻨﺎول اﻟﯿﺴﲑ ﻣﻨﮭﺎ ﻟﻜّﻦ ذ󰏭 ﺑﻨﺎء‬ ‫وﻛﺬ󰏭 ّ‬
‫ﻣﻨﻪ‪ ٢٤‬ﻋﲆ‪ ٢٥‬اﻋﺘﻘﺎدﻩ ٔاﻧ ّﮭﺎ‪ ٢٦‬ﻟﯿﺴﺖ ﻣﺴﻜﺮة‪ٔ ٢٧‬اّﻣﺎ‪ ٢٨‬اﻟﺸـﯿﺦ ﳏﻲ ا󰏩ﯾﻦ‪ ٢٩‬وﻏﲑﻩ‬
‫ﰠﰱ‬ ‫ّﳑﻦ ﯾﻌﺘﻘﺪ ٔاﻧ ّﮭﺎ ﻣﺴﻜﺮة ﻓﻼ ﳛﺴﻦ ﻣﻨﻪ‪ٕ ٣٠‬اﻃﻼق ﲡﻮﯾﺰ اﻟﻘﻠﯿﻞ وﻗﺪ ّ‬
‫اﳊﺪﯾﺚ ))ﻣﺎ ٔاﺳﻜﺮ ﻛﺜﲑﻩ ﻓﻘﻠﯿ󰏴 ﺣﺮام(( واﳌﺘّﺠﻪ ٔاﻧ ّﻪ ﻻ ﳚﻮز ﺗﻨﺎول ﳽء ﻣﻦ‬
‫‪CD‬‬ ‫‪ ٥‬ﺻﻔﺘﮭﺎ‬ ‫‪A‬‬ ‫‪ ١‬ﻣﻮﺛﺮ ‪ ٢ D‬اﶵﺾ ‪ ; A‬ﳜﺺ ‪󰈇 ٣ D‬ﺻﻼح ‪ ٤ D‬او ﺗﻌﺪﯾﻞ‬

‫‪ ١١‬ﻣﺎ ‪+‬‬ ‫‪CD deest ١٠‬‬ ‫‪ ٩‬واﻟﱰﻣﺬی ‪D‬‬ ‫‪B deest ٨–٨‬‬ ‫‪ ٧‬ﻣﻌﮭﺎ ‪A‬‬ ‫‪ ٦–٦‬ﻣﺼﲆ ﻗﻮﻟﲔ ‪D‬‬
‫‪󰈈 ١٧‬ﻧﻪ ‪; C‬‬ ‫‪ ١٦‬ذﮐﺮ ‪A‬‬ ‫‪ ١٥‬اﻧﻪ ‪CD +‬‬ ‫‪ ١٤‬ﻣﺴﮑﺮة ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ١٣‬اﻋﺘﻘﺎد ‪AB‬‬ ‫‪A deest ١٢‬‬ ‫‪D‬‬
‫‪ ٢١–٢١‬ﻗﻠﯿﻞ اﰻ ‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٠‬اﻟﻨﺠﺎﺳﺔ ‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ١٩‬ﴍﺑﻪ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ١٨‬وﻻ ‪CD‬‬ ‫‪ ١٧‬ﻣﻦ ‪CD +‬‬ ‫󰈈ن ‪+ D‬‬
‫‪ ٢٧‬ﲟﺴﮑﺮة ‪CD‬‬ ‫‪B deest ٢٦‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٥‬ان ‪B +‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٤‬ﺑﻪ ؟ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪CD deest ٢٣‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٢‬اﳇﮭﺎ ‪CD‬‬
‫‪D deest ٣٠‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٩‬اﻟﻨﻮوی ‪ ; C +‬اﻟﻨﻮاوی ‪D +‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٨‬واﻣﺎ ‪D‬‬

‫اﳊﺸﯿﺶ ﻻ ﻗﻠﯿﻞ وﻻ ﻛﺜﲑ وﮬﯽ ٔاﺷّﺪ ﴐارة‪ ١‬ﻣﻦ اﶆﺮ‬ ‫‪193‬‬
‫وﻣﻨﮭﺎ ﮬﻞ‪ ٢‬ﳚﺐ ﻋﲆ ا ٓﳇﮭﺎ اﻟﺘﻘﯿّﺆ‪٤ ٣‬ﻣﻨﮭﺎ ‪ٕ٥‬ان ﻗﻠﻨﺎ‪ٕ ٥‬اﻧ ّﮭﺎ ﻣﺴﻜﺮة وﻟﻨﺎ ﺧﻼف ﰱ‬
‫وﺟﻮب اﻟﺘﻘﯿّﺆ‪ ٤،٦‬ﻣﻦ اﶆﺮ وﳏّ󰏴 ٕاذا ﴍب ﻗﺪرا ﻻ‪ ٧‬ﯾﺴﻜﺮ ‪ٔ٨‬او ٔاﰻ ﳒﺎﺳﺔ‬
‫ﻓٕﺎن‪ ٩‬ﴍب ﻣﻨﮭﺎ ﻗﺪرا ﯾﺴﻜﺮﻩ ‪ ٨،١٠‬ﻟﻮ‪ ١١‬ﺗﺮﻛﻪ ﰱ 󰈈ﻃﻨﻪ‪ ١٢‬وﺟﺐ ﺗﻘﯿّﺆﻩ‪ ١٣‬ﺑﻼ‬
‫ﺧﻼف ٔﻻّن ٕازا󰏧 اﻟﻌﻘﻞ ﳏّﺮﻣﺔ‪ ١٤‬ﻗﻄﻌﺎ وﺣﯿﻨﺌﺬ‪ ١٥‬ﻓﻨﻘﻮل ٕاّن ﻣﻦ‪ٔ ١٦‬اﰻ ﻣﻦ‬
‫ﻻ ﱂ‪ ١٨‬ﳚﺐ ﻟﻠﻄﮭﺎرة‪١٩‬‬‫اﳊﺸﯿﺶ ﻗﺪرا ﯾﺴﻜﺮﻩ‪ ١٧‬وﺟﺐ ﰷﶆﺮ ﻗﻄﻌﺎ وٕا ّ‬
‫وﻣﻨﮭﺎ ﳚﻮز ٔاﳇﮭﺎ ﻟﻠﻤﻀﻄّﺮ ٕاذا ﺟﺎع وﻻ‪ ٢٠‬ﯾﺘﺤّﺮج ﻋﲆ اﳋﻼف ﰱ اﶆﺮ ﻟﻠﻌﻄﺶ‬
‫ٔﻻّن اﶆﺮ ٕاﻧ ّﲈ‪ ٢١‬اﻣﺘﻨﻌﺖ ﻟﻜﻮن ﴍﺑﮭﺎ ﯾﺰﯾﺪ ﰱ اﻟﻌﻄﺶ ؤاﰻ اﳊﺸﯿﺶ ﻻ ﯾﺰﯾﺪ‬
‫ﰱ اﳉﻮع وﻏﺎﯾﺔ ﻣﺎ ﻓﯿﮭﺎ ٔاﻧ ّﮭﺎ‪ ٢٢‬ﺗﻐّﻄﯽ اﻟﻌﻘﻞ وﺗﻐﻄﯿﺔ اﻟﻌﻘﻞ ﻟ󰏪واء وﳓﻮﻩ ﺟﺎﺋﺰ‪٢٣‬‬
‫ﻋﻨﺪ ﻗﻄﻊ‪ ٢٤‬اﻟﯿﺪ‪ ٢٥‬اﳌﺘﺎ ٔﳇﺔ‪ ٢٦‬ﻓﯿﺠﺐ ٔاﳇﮭﺎ‪ ٢٧‬ﺣﻔﻈﺎ ﻟﻠﺮوح‪٢٧‬‬
‫وﻣﻨﮭﺎ ﻟﻮ ﺗﺼّﻮر‪ ٢٨‬ﴯﺺ‪ ٢٩‬ﯾﺎٔﰻ اﳊﺸﯿﺶ وﻻ‪ ٣٠‬ﯾﺴﻜﺮ ﺑﮭﺎ‪ ٣١‬ﻓﺎﻟﻈﺎﮬﺮ ٔاﻧ ّﮭﺎ‬
‫ﻻﻣﺎم ﺑﺬ󰏭 ﰱ‪٣٥‬‬
‫ﻻ ﲢﺮم ﻋﻠﯿﻪ‪ ٣٢‬ﻟﻠﻄﮭﺎرة‪ ٣٣‬وﻋﺪم اﻟﴬر‪ ٣٤‬وﻗﺪ ّ‬
‫ﴏح ا ٕ‬
‫‪D deest ٤–٤‬‬ ‫‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ١‬ﴐرا ‪ ; A‬ﴐاوة )?‪ ; B (C‬ﴐورة ‪ ٢ D‬اﻧﻪ ‪ ٣ A‬اﻟﺘﻘﯽ ‪ ; ABC‬اﻟﯿﻘﯿﻖ‬
‫‪ ١٠‬ﯾﺴﲑا ‪C‬‬ ‫‪ ٩‬وان ‪A‬‬ ‫‪D deest ٨–٨‬‬ ‫‪D deest ٧‬‬ ‫‪ ٦‬اﻟﺘﻘﯽ ‪ABC‬‬ ‫‪ ٥–٥‬اذا ﻗﻠﺖ ‪A‬‬
‫‪ ١٤‬ﲢﺮم ‪CD‬‬ ‫‪ ١٣‬ﺗﻘﯿﯿﻪ ‪ ; AC‬ﺗﻘﯿﯿﺪ ‪ ; B‬ﻧﻘﯿﻪ ‪D‬‬ ‫ﻻﺳﮑﺮە ‪D +‬‬ ‫‪ ١١‬وﻟﻮ ‪ ١٢ B‬ﻻ ﯾﺴﮑﺮە ‪ٔ ; B +‬‬
‫‪ ١٩‬اﻟﻄﮭﺎرة ‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ١٨‬ﻣﺎ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ١٧‬ﯾﺴﮑﺮ ‪ ; B‬ﯾﺴﲑا ‪CD‬‬ ‫‪A deest ١٦‬‬ ‫‪ ١٥‬وح ‪AC abb.‬‬
‫‪D ٢٦‬‬ ‫‪B deest ٢٥‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٤‬اﻟﻘﻄﻊ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٣‬ﺟﺎﺋﺰة ‪B‬‬ ‫‪D deest ٢٢‬‬ ‫‪ ٢١‬اذا ‪A‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٠‬و󰈇 ‪A‬‬
‫‪ ٣٠‬وﱂ ‪B‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٩‬ﴯﺼﺎ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٨‬ﺗﴬر )‪󰈈 . .‬ﰻ( ‪CD‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٧–٢٧‬ﻋﻨﺪ ﺣﻔﻈﮭﺎ اﻟﺮوح ‪D‬‬ ‫‪deest‬‬
‫‪B deest ٣٥‬‬ ‫‪ ٣٤‬اﻟﴬورة ‪BCD‬‬ ‫‪ ٣٣‬ﻟﻠﻄﺎرة ‪ ; B‬ﻟﻄﮭﺎرة ‪D‬‬ ‫‪D deest ٣٢‬‬ ‫‪ ٣١‬ﻣﻨﮭﺎ ‪C‬‬
‫‪194‬‬ ‫ﴬﻩ ٔاﰻ اﻟﺴﻤﻮم اﻟﻄﺎﮬﺮة‪ ١‬ﻓﻘﺎل ﻻ ﳛﺮم ﻋﻠﯿﻪ ﺗﻌﺎﻃﯿﮭﺎ وﮬﺬا‬
‫‪١‬اﻟﺸﺨﺺ ا󰏫ی ﻻ ﯾ ّ‬
‫ﴬر‪ ٢‬ﻟﻠﻨﺠﺎﺳﺔ‬‫ﲞﻼف اﶆﺮ ﳛﺮم ﴍﺑﮭﺎ ﻋﲆ ﻣﻦ ﻻ ﯾﺴﻜﺮ ﺑﮭﺎ‪٢ ١+‬وان ﱂ ﯾﺘ ّ‬
‫وﻣﻨﮭﺎ ﺟﻮاز اﻟﺘﺪاوی ﺑﮭﺎ ٕان ﺛﺒﺖ ٔاﻧ ّﮭﺎ ﺗﻨﻔﻊ ‪ ٣‬ﰱ‪ ٤‬ﺑﻌﺾ أﻻدواء‪ ٥‬وﻗﺪ ﻗﯿﻞ ٕاﻧ ّﮭﺎ ﲢﻠ ّﻞ‬
‫اﻟﻨﻔﺦ وﺗﻨﻘﯽ إﻻﺑﺮﯾﺔ‪ ٦‬ﻣﻦ اﻟﺮٔاس ﻋﻨﺪ ﻏﺴ󰏴 ﺑﮭﺎ وإﻻﺑﺮﯾﺔ‪ ٧‬ﻣﺮض ﳛﺪث ﺑﺴﻄﺢ‬
‫اﻟﺮٔاس ‪٨‬وﮬﯽ ﺑﺜﻮر ﺑﯿﺾ‪ ٨،٩‬واﻟﻌّ󰏨 ﰱ ﻓﻌﻠﮭﺎ 󰏫󰏭‪ ١٠‬ﻣﺎ‪ ١١‬اﺷـﳣﻠﺖ ﻋﻠﯿﻪ ﻣﻦ‬
‫اﳊﺮارة واﻟﯿﺒﺲ ‪١٢‬وﯾﻨﺒﻐﯽ اﳉﺰم 󰈈ﳉﻮاز‪١٣ ١٢‬اذا ﰷن ﯾﺴﲑا ﻓﯿﻨﺒﻐﯽ ٔان ﺗﻜﻮن ﻋﲆ‬
‫اﳋﻼف ﰱ اﻟﺘﺪاوی 󰈈ﶆﺮ ؤاوﱃ 󰈈ﳉﻮاز ﻟﻠﺨﻼف‪ ١٤‬ﻋﲆ ﻃﮭﺎرﺗﮭﺎ وٕاﺳﲀرﮬﺎ‬
‫ﲞﻼف اﶆﺮ ﺑﻞ ﻗﺪ ﺳـﺒﻖ ﻣﻦ اﻟﻨﻮوی ﻋﺪم ﲢﺮﱘ اﻟﯿﺴﲑ ﻣﻨﮭﺎ ﻋﻨﺪ ﻋﺪم اﳊﺎﺟﺔ‬
‫ﻓﻌﻨﺪ اﳊﺎﺟﺔ ٔاوﱃ‪ ١٣‬ﻓٕﺎّن‪ ١٥‬اﻟﺰﻋﻔﺮان واﶈﻤﻮدة وﻏﲑﮬﲈ‪ّ ١٦‬ﻣﲈ ﯾﻘﺘﻞ ﻛﺜﲑﻩ ﻗﺪ ٔاﲨﻊ‬
‫ﲱﺢ‬ ‫اﻟﻨﺎس‪ ١٧‬ﻋﲆ ﺗﻨﺎول اﻟﻘﻠﯿﻞ ﻣﻨﻪ ﻟﻠﺤﺎﺟﺔ ‪ٔ١٨‬اّﻣﺎ ٕاذا ﰷن ﻛﺜﲑا ﻓﺎﻟﺮو󰈍ﱏ ّ‬
‫ﺟﻮاز اﻟﺘﺪاوی 󰈈ﶆﺮ واﺗ ّﻔﻖ أﻻﲱﺎب ﰱ ﻣﺜ󰏴 ﰱ اﶆﺮ ﻋﲆ ﻣﻨﻊ اﻟﺘﺪاوی‬
‫ﺑﻪ وﺧّﺼﻮا اﳋﻼف 󰈈ﻟﯿﺴﲑ ﻣﻨﮭﺎ ٔان ﯾﻜﻮن ﮬﺎﮬﻨﺎ ﻛﺬ󰏭 وﳛﳣﻞ 󰏡ﻣﻪ ﳌﺎ‬
‫ﲱﺢ ﺟﻮاز اﻟﺘﺪاوی 󰈈ﻟﯿﺴﲑ ﻣﻦ‬ ‫ﺳـﺒﻖ ٔاﻧ ّﮭﺎ ٔاوﺳﻊ ﻣﻦ اﶆﺮ وﻟﮭﺬا ٔاّن اﻟﺮو󰈍ﱏ ّ‬
‫اﶆﺮ ا󰏫ی ﻻ ﯾﺴﻜﺮ وﺟّﻮزﻩ 󰈈ﻟﻨﺒﺎت ﻣﻄﻠﻘﺎ ﻓﻘﺎل ﰱ اﻟﺒﺤﺮ‪ ١٨‬وﳚﻮز‪ ١٩‬اﻟﺘﺪاوی‬
‫‪CD‬‬ ‫‪ ٢–٢ B deest ١ + B deest ١–١‬ان ﺗﺼﻮر ‪ ; AB‬ان ﯾﴬر ‪ ٤ D deest ٣ D‬ﻣﻦ‬
‫‪ ٨–٨‬وﮬﻮ ﻗﺸﻮر اﻟﺒﯿﺾ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ٧‬و󰈇ﺑﺬﯾﻪ ﻣﻦ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪󰈇 ٦‬ﺑﺬﯾﺔ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪󰈇 ٥‬دوﯾﺔ ‪󰈇 ; AB‬دوار ‪D‬‬
‫‪ ٩‬وﰱ ﺑﻌﺾ ﮐﺘﺐ اﻟﻄﺐ اﻟﮭﺮﯾﺔ )اﻟﮭﱪﯾﺔ ‪ (leg.‬ﰱ اﻟﺮاس ﳽء ﰷﻟﻨﺨﺎ󰏧 ﻓﯿﻪ و󰈇ﺑﺮﯾﺔ اﳊﺰاز ‪A +‬‬
‫‪ ١٤‬اﳋﻼف ‪A‬‬ ‫‪BCD deest ١٣–١٣‬‬ ‫‪A deest ١٢–١٢‬‬ ‫‪ ١١‬ﳌﺎ ‪A‬‬ ‫‪ ١٠‬ذ󰏭 ‪ ; A‬ﮐﺬ󰏭 ‪D‬‬
‫‪ ١٥‬ﻻن ‪ ١٦ A‬وﻏﲑﮬﺎ ‪ ١٨–١٨ A deest ١٧ A‬ﰒ راﯾﺖ اﻟﺮو󰈍ﱏ )اﻟﺮد󰈍ﱏ ‪ (C‬ﰱ اﻟﺒﺤﺮ‬
‫‪ ١٩‬ﳚﻮز ‪ ; A‬وﳚﻮ ‪B‬‬ ‫ﴏح ﺑﺬ󰏭 ﻓﻘﺎل ‪BCD‬‬
‫ﺑﻪ وٕان ٔاﻓﴣ ٕاﱃ اﻟﺴﻜﺮ ٕاذا ﱂ ﯾﻜﻦ ﻣﻨﻪ ﺑّﺪ‪ ١‬ﻗﺎل وﻣﺎ ﯾﺴﻜﺮ ﻣﻊ ﻏﲑﻩ ‪٢‬وﻻ‬ ‫‪195‬‬
‫ﯾﺴﻜﺮ‪ ٢‬ﺑﻨﻔﺴﻪ ٕان‪ ٣‬ﱂ‪٥ ٤‬ﯾﻨﺘﻔﻊ ﺑﻪ‪ ٥‬ﰱ دواء‪ ٦‬ﻏﲑﻩ‪ ٧‬ﻓﯿﺤﺮم ٔاﳇﻪ وٕان ﰷن ﯾﻨﺘﻔﻊ‪ ٨‬ﺑﻪ‬
‫ﺣّﻞ اﻟﺘﺪاوی ﺑﻪ‪ ٩‬وﻧّﺺ إﻻﻣﺎم‪ ١٠‬اﻟﺸﺎﻓﻌﯽ‪ ١١‬ﻋﲆ ٔاﻧ ّﻪ‪ ١٢‬ﻻ ﳚﻮز ٔاﰻ‪ ١٢‬اﻟﱰ󰈍ق‬
‫اﳌﻌﻤﻮل ﻣﻦ ﳊﻮم اﳊّﯿﺎت ٕاّﻻ ﰱ ﺣﺎ󰏧‪ ١٣‬اﻟﴬورة ﲝﯿﺚ ﳚﻮز 󰏳 ٔاﰻ اﳌﯿﺘﺔ‬
‫‪١٤‬ﻓﺎﺋﺪة ﲢّﺼﻞ‪ّ ١٥‬ﻣﲈ ﺳـﺒﻖ ٔاﻧ ّﻪ ﳚﻮز ﺗﻨﺎوﻟﮭﺎ ﰱ ﲬﺴﺔ ﻣﻮاﺿﻊ‪ٔ ١٦‬اﰻ ﯾﺴﲑﮬﺎ‬
‫ﻋﲆ ﻣﺎ ﻗﺎ󰏳 اﻟﻨﻮوی ؤاﳇﮭﺎ ﳌﻦ ﻻ ﯾﺴﻜﺮ ﺑﮭﺎ ؤاﳇﮭﺎ ﳌﻦ ﯾﺘﺪاوی ﺑﮭﺎ ؤاﳇﮭﺎ ﻋﻨﺪ‬
‫ﻗﻄﻊ اﻟﯿﺪ اﳌﺘﺎ ٔﳇﺔ ؤاﳇﮭﺎ ﻋﻨﺪ ا󰏲ﻤﺼﺔ وﲡﺐ ٕان ﱂ ﳒﻮز‪󰈇 ١٧‬ﺳﺘﺴﻼم‪١٤ ، ١٨‬‬
‫ّ‬
‫وﻣﻨﮭﺎ ٔاﻧ ّﻪ ﳛﺮم ٕاﻃﻌﺎﻣﮭﺎ اﳊﯿﻮان ﻛﲈ‪ ١٩‬ﳛﺮم ٕاﺳﲀرﻩ وﻗﺪ ﻗﯿﻞ ٕاﻧ ّﮭﺎ ﻻ ﯾﺎٔﳇﮭﺎ‬
‫وﻣﻨﮭﺎ‪ٔ ٢٠‬اﻧ ّﻪ ﳚﻮز ﺑﯿﻌﮭﺎ‪ٔ ٢١‬ﻻﻧ ّﻪ‪ ٢٢‬ﯾﻨﺘﻔﻊ‪ ٢٣‬ﺑﮭﺎ‪ ٢٤‬ﰱ أﻻدوﯾﺔ ﰷﻟﺴﻘﻤﻮﻧﯿﺎ وأﻻﻓﯿﻮن‬
‫ﺑﴩط ٔان ﯾﻜﻮن ﯾﺴﲑا ﻧﻌﻢ ﺑﯿﻌﮭﺎ ﳌﻦ ﯾﺘﺤﻘّﻖ ﻣﻨﻪ‪ ٢٥‬ﺗﻌﺎﻃﯿﮭﺎ ﺣﺮام ﻛﲈ ﰱ ﺑﯿﻊ‬
‫اﻟﻌﻨﺐ ﻟﻌﺎﴏ اﶆﺮ وﻗﯿﺎس ﻗﻮﻟﮭﻢ‪ٔ ٢٦‬اﻧ ّﮭﺎ ﻣﺴﻜﺮة ﺑﻄﻼن‪ ٢٧‬اﻟﺒﯿﻊ وٕان ﰷﻧﺖ‬
‫ﻃﺎﮬﺮة‪ٓ󰏟 ٢٨‬ﻻت اﳌﻼﮬﯽ‬
‫‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ٥–٥‬ﯾﻨﺘﻀﻊ؟ ‪ ٦ D‬دوار‬ ‫‪A‬‬ ‫‪ ٤‬ﰷن ﻻ‬ ‫‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ٣‬اذا‬ ‫‪D deest ٢–٢‬‬ ‫‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ١‬ﯨﺴـﺒﺪ‬
‫‪ ١١‬رﺿﻮان ﷲ ﺗﻊ ﻋﻠﯿﻪ ‪C +‬‬ ‫‪AB deest ١٠‬‬ ‫‪AB deest ٩‬‬ ‫‪ ٨‬ﯾﻨﺘﻀﻊ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ٧‬وﻏﲑە ‪C‬‬
‫‪󰈇 ١٦‬ول ‪C +‬‬ ‫‪ ١٥‬ﳛﺘﻞ ‪B‬‬ ‫‪D deest ١٤–١٤‬‬ ‫‪ ١٣‬ﺣﺎل ‪D deest ; C‬‬ ‫‪ ١٢–١٢‬ﳛﺮم ‪D‬‬
‫‪C from here to end written in another hand ٢٠‬‬ ‫‪ ١٩‬ﳑﺎ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪󰈇 ١٨‬ﺳـﺘﺪام ‪C‬‬ ‫‪ ١٧‬ﳚﺰ ‪B‬‬
‫‪AB deest ٢٦‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٥‬ﻣﻨﮭﺎ ‪A‬‬ ‫‪CD deest ٢٤‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٣‬ﺗﻨﻔﻊ ‪CD‬‬ ‫‪ ٢١‬ﺳﮭﺎ ‪ٔ ٢٢ D‬‬
‫ﻻﻧﮭﺎ ‪BCD‬‬
‫‪B deest ٢٨‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٧‬ﺑﻄﻼق ‪B‬‬

‫‪196‬‬ ‫وﻣﻨﮭﺎ ٔاّن زراﻋﺘﮭﺎ ﻟﻐﺮض 󰈇ﺳـﺘﻌﲈل وإﻻﺳﲀر ﺣﺮام وﳚﻮز ﻟﻐﺮض اﻟﺘﺪاوی ‪ٕ١‬ان‬
‫ﺟّﻮز󰈋ﻩ‪ ١‬وﻗﺪ ٔاﻓﱴ ‪٢‬ﺑﻌﺾ ٔاﲚ ّﺔ اﻟﺸﺎم‪ ٢‬ﺑﺘﺤﺮﱘ‪ ٣‬زراﻋﺔ اﻟﻌﻨﺐ ا󰏫ی ﻻ ﯾﱱﺑ ّﺐ وﻻ‬
‫ﳝﻜﻦ ٔان ﳚﯽء ‪ٕ٤‬اّﻻ ﲬﺮا‪ ٤‬ﺑﺒﻌﺾ‪ ٥‬ﻧﻮاﺣﯿﮭﺎ‪٦‬‬
‫وﻣﻨﮭﺎ ٔاﻧ ّﻪ‪ ٧‬ﮬﻞ ﯾﻘﻊ‪ ٨‬ﻃﻼق ا ٓﳇﮭﺎ وﻻ ﳜﻔﯽ ﺣﳬﻪ ّﳑﺎ ﺗﻘّﺪم وﻗﺎل اﻟﺮو󰈍ﱏ ﰱ‬
‫اﻟﺒﺤﺮ ﻟﻮ ﴍب دواء ٔاو ﺑﻨﺠﺎ ﻻ ﻟﻠﺘﺪاوی ﺑﻞ ‪٩‬ﻟﻠﮭﻮ وا󰏱ﻮن‪ ٩‬ﻓﻼ ﻧّﺺ ‪١٠‬ﻟﻼﻣﺎم‬
‫اﻟﺸﺎﻓﻌﯽ‪ ١٠‬ﻓﯿﻪ وﻟﻜّﻦ ﻗﯿﺎس ﻗﻮ󰏳‪ٔ ١١‬اﻧ ّﻪ ﯾﻘﴣ اﻟﺼﻼة ٔاﻧ ّﻪ‪ ١٢‬ﰷﻟﺴﻜﺮان‬
‫‪١٣‬وﻗﺎل ﰱ اﳊﺎوی ﻓﯿﻪ و󰆛ﺎن ٔاﺣﺪﮬﲈ‪ٔ ١٤‬اﻧ ّﻪ ﰷﻟﺴﻜﺮان واﻟﺜﺎﱏ ‪ ١٣‬وﺑﻪ ﻗﺎل‪ٔ ١٥‬اﺑﻮ‬
‫ﺣﻨﯿﻔﺔ‪ ١٦‬ﻻ ﯾﻘﻊ ﻃﻼﻗﻪ وٕان ﰷن ﻋﺎﺻﯿﺎ وﻗﺎل اﳉﺮﺟﺎﱏ ﰱ اﻟﺸﺎﰱ‪ ١٧‬ﻟﻮ ﴍب‬
‫ﳐﺘﺎرا‪ٔ١٩ ١٨‬او ﴍب‪ ١٩‬اﻟﺒﻨﺞ ‪٢٠‬وﮬﻮ 󰈋و ﺑﻪ ﻃﺮ󰈈 )؟(‪ ٢٠‬ﻓﺰال ﻋﻘ󰏴 وﻗﻊ ﻃﻼﻗﻪ‬
‫ٔﻻّن ﻓﻌ󰏴 ﻣﻌﺼﯿﺔ ﻓﻠﺰﻣﻪ‪ ٢١‬ﻣﺎ ﺗﻮّ󰏩 ﻣﻨﻪ ﻛﴪاﯾﺔ‪ ٢٢‬اﻟﻘﻄﻊ ﰱ اﻟﻘﺼﺎص واﻟﴪﻗﺔ‬
‫وﰱ ﻓﺘﺎوی اﳌﺮﻏﯿﻨﺎﱏ‪ ٢٣‬ﻟﻠﺤﻨﻔﯿّﺔ ﻟﻮ ﺳﻜﺮ ﻣﻦ اﻟﺒﻨﺞ ﻻ ﺗﻨﻔﺬ ﺗ ّ‬
‫ﴫﻓﺎﺗﻪ‬
‫ﻻن‪ ٢٤‬ﻧﻔﺎذ اﻟﺘﴫف ﴍع زﺟﺮا‪ ٢٥‬وﻻ‪ ٢٦‬ﺣﺎﺟﺔ ٕاﻟﯿﻪ ﻓﺼﺎر‪ ٢٧‬ﳈﻦ ﴐب‪٢٨‬‬
‫ّ‬ ‫ّٔ‬
‫‪A‬‬ ‫‪ ٢–٢ BCD deest ١–١‬ﺗﻘﯽ ا󰏩ﯾﻦ اﺑﻦ ﺗﳰﯿﺔ ‪ ٣ CD‬ﲢﺮم ‪ ٤–٤ D‬اﲪﺮ ‪ ٥ B‬ﮐﺒﻌﺾ‬
‫‪ ٩–٩‬ﻟﻠﮭﯿﻖ اﳉﻨﻮن ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ٨‬ﻋﻠﯿﻪ ‪A +‬‬ ‫‪B deest ٧‬‬ ‫‪ ٦‬ﻧﻮا󰏇 اﻟﺸﺎم ‪ ; C‬ﻧﻮا󰏇 ‪D‬‬
‫‪ ١٢‬ان اﲽﯽ ‪D‬‬ ‫‪ ١١‬ﻗﻮﻟﮭﻢ )؟( ﰱ ‪ ; B‬ﰱ ‪C +‬‬ ‫‪ ١٠–١٠‬ﻟﻠﺸﺎﻓﻌﯽ ‪ ; AB‬رﴇ ﷲ ﻋﻨﻪ ‪C +‬‬
‫‪ ١٦‬رﴇ ﷲ ﻋﻨﻪ ‪A +‬‬ ‫ﻻﻋﻈﻢ ‪A +‬‬ ‫‪ ١٣–١٣‬اﻟﺜﺎﱏ ‪ ١٥ A deest ١٤ D‬ﻻﻣﺎم ا ٔ‬

‫‪ ١٧‬اﻟﺸﺎﻓﻌﯽ ‪ ٢٠–٢٠ AD deest ١٩–١٩ D deest ١٨ B‬ﺗﮭﺰ󰈍 وﻃﺮ󰈈 ‪ ; AB‬وﮬﻮ 󰈋وی‬
‫‪ ٢٥‬؟ ; زاﺟﺮا ‪; BC‬‬ ‫ﻃﻮ󰈈 ‪ ٢١ D‬ﻓﻠﺰم ‪ ٢٢ AB‬ﮐﱶ 󰈌ﯨﻪ ‪ ٢٣ D‬اﳌﺮﻏﯿﻨﺎ ‪ٔ ٢٤ D‬‬
‫ﻻﻧ ّﻪ ‪D‬‬
‫‪ ٢٨‬ﺑﮭﺎ ‪D +‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٧‬وﺻﺎر ‪CD‬‬ ‫‪ ٢٦‬اذ ﻻ ‪C‬‬ ‫ا ٓﺧﺮ ‪D‬‬

‫رٔاس ﻧﻔﺴﻪ ‪١‬ﺣّﱴ ذﮬﺐ‪ ١‬ﻋﻘ󰏴‬ ‫‪197‬‬
‫وﻣﻨﮭﺎ ﻗﺎل‪ ٢‬اﻟﻘﺎﴇ ﺣﺴﲔ‪ ٣‬ﰱ 󰈈ب ﺻﻼة اﳌﺴﺎﻓﺮ ﻣﻦ ﺗﻌﻠﯿﻘﻪ ٕاذا ﴍب‬
‫اﻟﺒﻨﺞ ‪٤‬وﻏﲑﻩ ّﳑﺎ‪ ٤‬ﯾﺰﯾﻞ اﻟﻌﻘﻞ ﻓﻌﻠﯿﻪ ﻗﻀﺎء اﻟﺼﻼة واﻟﺼﯿﺎم ‪٥‬ﺑﻌﺪ ا ٕ‬
‫ﻻﻓﺎﻗﺔ‪٥‬‬
‫ﰷﻟﺴﻜﺮان ٔ‬
‫ﻻﻧ ّﻪ ‪٧‬ﺟﻠﺐ ٕازا󰏧‪ ٧‬اﻟﻌﻘﻞ ﺑﻨﻔﺴﻪ ﻓﯿﺆاﺧﺬ ﺑﻪ ‪٨‬وﷲ ٔاﻋﲅ‪٨‬‬
‫)‪(del.‬‬ ‫‪ ١–١‬ﻓﺬﮬﺐ ‪ ٣ D deest ٢ A‬اﳊﺴﲔ ‪ ; B‬ﺣﺴﻦ؟ ‪ ٤–٤ D‬اوﻏﲑە وﳑﺎ ‪ ٥–٥ D‬اﻻٓ‬
‫ﺑﻌﺪ ﻓﺎﻗﺔ ‪ٔ ٦ C‬ﻻن ‪ ٧–٧ B‬ﺟﲑازال ‪ ٨–٨ D‬وﺻﲆ ﷲ ﻋﲆ ﺳـﯿﺪ󰈋 ﶊﺪ وا ٓﻟﮧ وﲱﺒﻪ‬
‫وﺳﲅ ‪ ; A +‬ﰎ ﮐﺘﺎب زﮬﺮ اﻟﻌﺮﯾﺶ ﰱ ﲢﺮﱘ اﳊﺸﯿﺶ واﶵﺪ 󰏯 رب اﻟﻌﺎﳌﲔ وﺻﲆ ﷲ ﻋﲆ‬
‫ﺳـﯿﺪ󰈋 ﶊﺪ وا ٓ󰏳 وﲱﺒﻪ اﲨﻌﲔ ‪󰈈 ; B‬ﻟﺼﻮاب ا ٓﺧﺮ ﻣﺎ ﻋﻠﻘﻪ ﻣﺆﻟﻔﻪ ﻣﻨﻪ واﶵﺪ 󰏯 اوﻻ وا ٓﺧﺮا‬
‫󰈈ﻃﻨﺎ وﻇﺎﮬﺮا ﴎا وﻋﻼﻧﯿﺔ وﺣﺴﺒﻨﺎ ﷲ وﻧﻌﻢ اﻟﻮﮐﯿﻞ وﺻﲆ ﷲ ﻋﲆ ﺳـﯿﺪ󰈋 ﶊﺪ وا ٓ󰏳 وﲱﺒﻪ‬
‫وﺳﲅ )ﰎ ﮐﺘﺎب زﮬﺮ اﻟﻌﺮﯾﺶ ﰱ اﺣﲀم اﳊﺸﯿﺶ ﻟﻠﻌﻼﻣﺔ اﻟﺰرﮐﺸﯽ رﲪﻪ ﷲ ا ٓﻣﲔ( ‪ ; C +‬وﷲ‬
‫ﺗﻌﺎﱃ اﻋﲅ 󰈈ﻟﺼﻮاب ‪D‬‬
198 Additions
W. Leslau has called my attention to a book by R. Gelpke, Vom Rausch im Orient

und Okzident (Stuttgart 1966). Although it appears to have little in common
with the present work, it does contain some additional references. Informative
notes on “Le kif et le hachich” in the modern Maghrib are to be found in
R. Brunel, Le monachisme errant dans l’Islam, 281–323 (Paris 1955, Publications
de l’Institut des Hautes Études Marocaines 48).
Saʿd bulaʿ (p. 37, n. 8) refers no doubt to the star of this name, cf. P. Kunitzsch,
Arabische Sternnamen in Europa, 56, 106f. (Wiesbaden 1959). It was, perhaps,
understood to mean “bliss to eat”.
Jamāl-ad-dīn as-Sāwajī (p. 50, n. 3) was named Muḥammad, cf. aṣ-Ṣafadi,
Wāfī, V, 292f. The recently published volumes of the Wāfī also contain the Ibn
Khallikān story (p. 147, cf. Wāfī, VII, 313) and offer the reading al-qinnabīyah,
for al-mughayyibah, in the title of Ibn Taymīyah’s monograph (p. 9, cf. Wāfī,
VII, 28).
For Kitāb al-Khadar (p. 81, n. 5), see Ms. Aya Sofya 3724, fols. 222b–236b.
The verses ascribed to Abū Nuwās (p. 83, n. 3) may not have spoken of ḥashīsh
but of something else, perhaps, jashīsh “gruel” (?).
“The often repeated standard formula” (p. 88): Qurʾān 5:91/93.
Another ʿAlī b. Makkī, mentioned by P.A. MacKay, Certificates of Transmis-
sion (of al-Ḥarīrī), index, no. 79 (Philadelphia 1971, Transactions of the American
Philosophical Society 61, 4), comes, it seems, from a different social stratum and,
at any rate, is too early to be identical with the one referred to on p. 152.
iv
Gambling in Islam

Contents VI
I. Introduction 338 [1]
II. Play and Games and Gambling 345 [9]
III. Pre-Islamic Gambling, Maysir, and the Law 402 [67]
IV. Gambling in Belles Lettres 447 [113]
V. The Social Consequences of Gambling 475 [138]
VI. The Metaphysics of Gambling 495 [158]
VII. A Note on Hazard 510 [172]

chapter one
1 Introduction
The subject of gambling is all encompassing. It combines man’s natural play

instinct with his desire to know about his fate and his future. It has its share in
all dealings of human beings with each other and in their attitude toward their
dealings with those forces which are incomprehensible to them and which
have been called religious, superstitious, and supernatural. It extends to all
the uncertainties of life, and, whether life is defined, with Greek and Muslim
philosophers, as motion or, with the theologians, as a passing stage on the way
to salvation, uncertainty is what it is all about. Fundamentally, it is nothing
but an extension of the love of play which is so strong a force in man and
which has never been fully tamed by sublimation through reason—reason,
in turn, being merely a transformation of the play instinct from something
dealing with concrete objects to an abstract endeavor. The universality of man’s
playful approach to his entire environment did not remain unnoticed among
medieval Muslims. Already the Prophet’s cousin, Ibn ʿAbbās, is supposed to
have remarked that “everything may serve for gambling, down to the kujjah
game of children.”1 And an unnamed poet, complaining about having to show
patience in the face of his being unable to win the favor of his beloved, uses
these words:
When men play with everything, I behold love playing with me.2
“Gambling” is a term which appears to be of rather recent coinage in the English

language. It seems to be a derivation from “game.”3 Its range of meaning is
wide, and its use is by no means unambiguous. It can be stretched to include
many other concepts such as betting and wagering, following hunches and
daring others to do so. By preference, “gambling” is assumed to be restricted
2 to contracts among two or more human beings which involve the exchange | of
money or other valuables depending upon the uncertain outcome of a staged
event. “Staged” is the crucial word in this definition. It limits it to games of
all kinds and sporting competitions of men and animals as well as all types
1 Cf. (Ibn Manẓūr,) Lisān (al-ʿArab), III, 175 (Būlāq 1300–1308), to be quoted here as Lisān; (Ibn
Farḥ) al-Qurṭubī, Jāmiʿ (aḥkām al-Qurʾān), VIII, 340 (Cairo 1387/1967). See below, p. 65.
2 Cf. Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzīyah, ʿUddat aṣ-ṣābirīn, 34 (Cairo, n. y.).
3 Cf. Oxford English Dictionary, IV, 35a. See also Ch. VII, n. 5.
introduction 339
of lotteries. It seemingly excludes bets on such natural events, for instance, as

whether it will, or will not, rain tomorrow or whether an individual will, or will
not, do a certain thing. Here, we shall make an exception and consider gambling
everything of the sort potentially involving the exchange of property. It can,
however, be stated that the Muslim world appears to have known very little
betting on events and happenings.4
What was the Muslim understanding of “gambling”? The technical term used
for it, chosen from among many that designate specific aspects of gambling,
was formed from the root q-m-r and the verbal noun of the third conjuga-
tion, qimār. Its origin is completely unclear. The root consonants include such
meanings as qamar “moon” whose color and light effects were of tremendous
importance in Bedouin life, and qumrῑ, a species of dove, as well as various geo-
graphical designations.5 Arabic lexicographers tried to establish a connection
between gambling and what they thought of as a special aspect of the “moon”
complex of meanings. Thus, taqammara is attested in the meaning of hunt-
ing and deceiving. More particularly, it refers to a way of hunting in which the
hunted animal, being confused by the moonlight, falls prey to the hunter. A
verse speaking of the lion as “following in their tracks, attempting to deceive
them ( yataqammaru)” is adduced as evidence for this meaning.6 From the
meaning of “snaring by means of deception,” the transition to gambling is eas-
ily made, especially where there is a firmly established aversion to it. Perhaps,
this etymology is correct, but we can neither prove nor disprove it. Wherever
we find an Arabic root that combines such widely divergent concepts as does
q-m-r, the existence of different linguistic backgrounds may be suspected, such
as influences upon an Arabic root from other Semitic lan|guages or from non- 3
Semitic languages. Our knowledge of the other Semitic languages is of no help
in this case, since they have no obvious cognate of q-m-r in any meaning.7
And no even remotely likely comparison with a non-Semitic language suggests
itself.
The definition of qimār in al-Jurjānī (740–816/1340–1413) states that qimār
means “taking one thing after the other from one’s partner in a game” or “a game
4 See below, pp. 26 ff.

5 Cf., for instance, M. Meyerhof, Das Vorwort zur Drogenkunde des Bērūnī, 33 (Berlin 1932,
Quellen und Studien zur Geschichte der Naturwissenschaften und der Medizin, III, 3).
6 Cf. al-Azharī, Tahdhῑb (al-lughah), ed. ʿAbd-as-Salām M. Hārūn, M. ʿA. an-Najjār, and I. al-
Ibyārī, IX, 148 (Cairo 1964–1967). Al-Azharī indicates al-Aṣmaʿī as his authority. The Tahdhῑb
is quoted in Lisān, VI, 426 f.
7 Qmr “moon” is listed as attested as an (Aramaic) ideogram in Pahlavi by (C.-F. Jean and)
J. Hoftijzer, Dictionnaire des inscriptions sémitiques de l’ Ouest, 259 (Leiden 1965).
340 iv. gambling in islam
with the condition that the winner (ghālib) of two contestants get some thing
from the loser (maghlūb).”8 More challenging is a definition occurring in the
commentary on the ḥadīth collection of at-Tirmidhī by the Spanish scholar Ibn
al-ʿArabī (468–543/1076–1148): “Each one of two (contestants) seeks to defeat
his partner in an action or statement in order to take over property set aside
for the winner.”9 Usually, qimār is just considered a play or game, something
with no serious purpose (as, for instance, would attach to commerce), where
things of value change hands. In general, the Muslim view of gambling fully
agrees with our own definition, and it may be noted that Muslims also viewed
gambling as a contract.10 Islam, with its strong feelings and laws about how
property should be acquired and distributed, was naturally inclined toward
greater strictness in classifying as gambling everything where the acquisition
and distribution of property took place outside the generally accepted cate-
gories, but the specific character of gambling was well understood.
Gambling comes as close to being a universal trait as are man’s physical
functions. If it has been pointed out that among a certain number of human
societies, often small ones, gambling is not practiced,11 this may be the result
of particular material and social circumstances rather than an indication of the
4 absence of the | gambling instinct as such. In all major civilizations, it was and is
present in some form or other. The means by which gambling is accomplished
had, and have, a way of traveling across borders and becoming thoroughly
assimilated to new environments, as is well documented by the manifold influ-
ences of Near Eastern gambling upon Western European civilization.12
There can be no doubt that although they were forbidden by law, gam-
bling activities of various kinds had their devotees everywhere in the vast areas
inhabited and controlled politically by Muslims. Our concern here is with Islam
before modern times, arbitrarily assumed to begin with the sixteenth century.
8 Cf. al-Jurjānī, Definitiones, ed. G. Flügel, 187 (Leipzig 1845). “Gambling” (taqāmur) appears
to be more or less equated with “exchange” (tabādul), in the remark ascribed by a fifteenth-
century author to ash-Shaʿbī that neither must accompany chess, if it is to be unobjection-
able, cf. al-Ibshīhī, Mustaṭraf, II, 295 (Būlāq 1268).
9 Cf. Ibn al-ʿArabī, ʿĀriḍat al-aḥwadhī, VII, 18 (Cairo 1353/1934). On “action or statement,” see
below, p. 27.
10 See below, pp. 100 f.
11 Cf. A. Kroeber, Anthropology, 552 f. (New York 1948), cited by D.D. Allen, The Nature of
Gambling, 34 (New York 1952). Kroeber thinks that gambling is an acquired cultural trait, to
be found especially where the major religions hold sway, although no consistent relations
of gambling activities with economic conditions and religious systems are apparent.
12 See below, pp. 172ff.
introduction 341
There is a good deal of documentation from the preceding nine centuries of

Muslim existence. However, it is vastly scattered, often uninformative and lack-
ing of concern with salient points of interest. If we take a close look and do
not permit ourselves to be blinded by the fact that the material available has
been large enough to fill a small book like the one presented here, it is not as
large as might conceivably be expected, but is in reality quite exiguous. Already
in the ninth century, when dealing with the maysir game, which we would
feel is exceptionally well documented, Ibn Qutaybah noticed that he had no
prose sources at his disposal and had to rely on evidence from poetry. More-
over, he said: “I have not found any subject as important and useful to Arab
poets less well represented in their poetry; even the most productive poets
have maybe only two or three verses on it, and most of them do not men-
tion it at all, in contrast to their method (of constantly) describing camels,
horses, donkeys, ostriches, gazelles, grouse, deserts, and reptiles.”13 Ibn Qutay-
bah seems to have held the religious injunction against maysir responsible for
the seeming disinterest shown by poets (of the Islamic age). This, however, can-
not be the whole story, since we know very well that other forbidden activities
such as wine drinking were very much in the center of attention by littéra-
teurs.
In the West, we find that from the seventeenth century on, gambling has
been a favorite subject of the writers of fiction who catered to the individual’s
latent dreams of success and excitement, of release from the humdrum of daily
life and the need of finding support for cherished notions of duty and morality.
Gambling had | become a favorite pastime and vice of the rich and the power- 5
ful, of the men and women possessing the aura of success in politics, at court,
and within the military establishment. In Islam, gambling never achieved this
false glory. It was never thought of as something that mirrored the glamor of
high society. It never provided a powerful stimulus to the creative imagination.
The reason was not simply the fact that it was an illegal and irreligious activity.
The decisive factor appears to have been its original and never forgotten role as
an amusement that originated in childishness and continued being cultivated
only by the immoral elements at the bottom of the social order. Certain games
such as pre-Islamic maysir and, in Muslim times, chess and backgammon and
many sports had a large role in society and were practiced intensively on its
upper layers. Among the guardians of the imagination, the poets and littéra-
teurs, a certain amount of attention was thereby guaranteed to them. However,
13 Cf. Ibn Qutaybah, al-Maysir (wa-l-qidāḥ), ed. Muḥibb-ad-dīn al-Khaṭīb, 31 (Cairo 1342 [this
is the year as it appears on the title-page, not 1343]).
the gambling aspects connected with them were played down. Gambling was
too unpleasant a subject, intellectually and materially, to be used for conjuring
up visions of the extraordinary good or bad life among the literate public.
The view that gambling per se is a vice of rather minor personal significance
or social consequence14 may be hard to defend as a general proposition, but
in a way it seems applicable to Muslim civilization. References to tragedies
caused in the lives of individuals suffering from a gambling compulsion are very
rare. This cannot be due exclusively to the tendency of scholars and writers
to avoid dwelling upon repulsive human conditions. Very likely, it reflects
the assumption that on the scale on which human actions causing personal
unhappiness and disaster were to be weighed, gambling registered quite low.
The many lists of minor and major sins that were written in medieval times
devote very little space to gambling, if they do not disregard it completely. The
frequent invectives which consist of enumerating all sorts of vices as allegedly
possessed by an individual rarely include gambling.15 The same applies to
deathbed exhortations. They may stress the need to protect one’s property,
but they do not warn against gambling as a danger for a young man suddenly
6 coming into wealth.16 We must conclude from | these and similar negative
indications that as a personal vice, gambling ranked low not only in theory but,
perhaps, also in actuality.
As a consequence, society was not greatly affected by gambling activities.
This had the further consequence that those activities had no discernible
history. There were no sudden spurts of increased gambling that might have
been reflected in the reports of historians or the accounts of littérateurs. The
impression prevails that there was no real development in the attitude toward
gambling held by Muslims in general and as expressed in the legal literature
from about the ninth century on. It is now clear that our efforts to penetrate
the preceding initial two centuries of Muslim history will always produce
conjectures rather than true pictures of existing conditions. Yet, it may not
be all wrong to suggest that a jurist of the first century of the hijrah viewed
gambling not much differently from his colleague in the tenth century of
the hijrah and found the same social problems connected with it. Economic
conditions and the economic ethos preached by Islam were highly unfavorable
14 Cf. Rufus King, Gambling and Organized Crime, 21 (Washington 1969).

15 Cf. Ibn Ḥayyān, in Ibn Bassām, Dhakhīrah, I, ii, 98ff. (Cairo 1358–/1939–). Contrast, for
instance, below, Ch. III, n. 171, Ch. IV, n. 60.
16 Cf., for instance, Arabian Nights, ed. (W.H.) Macnaghten, I, 159f. (Calcutta 1839–1842),
trans. (E.) Littmann, I, 238 f. (Wiesbaden 1953) (21st night). Similarly below, Ch. II, n. 91.
introduction 343
to the development of gambling on a large scale. The available money supply

was apparently always severely restricted, and the needs of subsistence had
first call on the scarce holdings of money in the hands of the overwhelming
majority of individuals. This handicap, to be sure, could have been overcome
in a society truly devoted to gambling, such as did not exist in the lands of Islam.
Theological views may ultimately have been the most decisive factor in limiting
the extent of gambling in Muslim society. However, they were more felt and
obeyed subconsciously than expressed in reasoned discourse.
Thus, for many important aspects of gambling, the evidence we have is
scarce or lacking altogether. This has had the inevitable consequence that con-
clusions had to be drawn here on the basis of the absence rather than the pres-
ence of information. It would serve no useful purpose for modern scholarship
to be presented with mere generalities about Muslim gambling activities and
their societal consequences. What is required is detailed documentation on the
specific situation in the medieval Muslim world. It is only such documentation
that may, or may not, reveal the existence of traits different from what is known
elsewhere in connection with gambling and can easily be observed today. Now,
if we have evidence, | which may often be just one imperfect piece of evidence, 7
from one region at one particular time, it is disputable whether or not it applies
to other regions and times as well; in many cases, it seems justified, if risky, to
generalize from such limited evidence as there is available. If, however, there is
no concrete evidence for a particular aspect of gambling activities, or if the evi-
dence is so unexpectedly sparse as to amount to practically no evidence at all,
the conclusions presented or implied here remain uncertain, and this applies
to some rather important points.
In the case of gambling, we have the good fortune, rare in Islamic studies, to
be able to refer to a predecessor of as long as three hundred years ago. Moreover,
it is a predecessor who not only did a superb job for his times but also, by his
use of manuscript material and his approach to the subject, remains a valuable
model and source of information today. Thomas Hyde (1636–1703) published
his De ludis orientalibus in Oxford between 1689 and 1694. The first volume
deals with the Historia Shahiludii, and the second with the Historia Nerdiludii
and other games. He describes the “scope” of his second volume in his Praefa-
tio ad Lectorem: “Meus autem de Ludis scribendi Scopus, (quem me attigisse
spero,) est quos tractavi Ludorum & omnium rerum ad eos spectantium Nom-
ina docere, artem circa ilia criticam exercere, veterum de eis loca explicare,
eáque propriis suis Ludis applicare, & singulorum Ludorum Originem & Inven-
torem & Antiquitatem perscrutari.” Hyde’s work is the earliest detailed study
of what might be called a sociological subject dealing with the Muslim world.
The sociological approach to the study of Islam was, of course, a rarity in his
day, and even in this age of ours, it is not all too common. It is worth noting
that Hyde chose the subject of games, in the first place chess but including also
games of chance. He was probably motivated by the intense interest in gam-
bling as a social activity which began to spring up and grow among European
intellectuals in his time.
Another stupor mundi (as Hyde was once called17) was Adam Mez (1869–
1917). The very few pages on games and gambling which he included in the
chapter on “lifestyle” in his posthumously published Die Renaissance des Islāms
(Heidelberg 1922), contain material that is unusually instructive and illuminat-
ing. It is doubtful whether any better passages than those cited by Mez can be
8 found anywhere | in Muslim literature. Virtually all that can be said on the gam-
bling phenomenon in Islam and is truly essential can be found in his concise
presentation. Much valuable work has been done by scholars East and West on
individual games and sports since Mez’s time (and before in the early years of
the twentieth century). As this is a subject of cultural importance, brief refer-
ences to it also appear in nearly all of the numerous works on various periods of
Muslim history. They are, however, of rather limited interest as far as the “gam-
bling” concept investigated in the following pages is concerned.
17 Cf. Dictionary of National Biography, X, 402a, s.v. Hyde, Thomas.

chapter two
Play and Games and Gambling 9
The common Arabic root signifying “play,” l-ʿ-b, with the noun liʿb, laʿb, laʿib,1
occurs in Hebrew in the sense of “making fun of” (2 Chron. 36:16) and in
Syriac in the sense of “being greedy.” Already at the dawn of modern Semitic
scholarship, it was suggested that the root’s prehistoric biliteral connection was
with l-ʿ “to lick, to swallow.”2 If we accept this uncertain but not improbable
theory, it follows that it was a physical activity providing a special kind of
sensuous enjoyment that served as the basis for the linguistic fixation of the
play concept among the Arabs. Play was thus clearly felt to be something
instinctive in living beings.
“Seriousness and play” ( jidd—liʿb) is a pair of opposites in frequent use in
Arabic literature. Another commonly used pair is “seriousness and fun” ( jidd—
hazl). Neither pair was different from the other in that both were meant to
indicate a basic choice with respect to a fundamental concern of human life.
Human beings are inclined to play, in the literal sense, and to a playful approach
toward the exi|gencies and vicissitudes of existence; on the other hand, they 10
are, or should be, aware of the utter seriousness of their personal and soci-
1 The form liʿb will be used here for the sake of convenience, except in verses where the meter
indicates a two-syllable form.
2 Cf. W. Gesenius, Lehrgebäude der hebräischen Sprache, 183f. (Leipzig 1817). The fact that the
direct cognate of l-ʿ in Arabic is w-l-gh with gh is no absolutely decisive argument against l-ʿ as
the pre-historic base of l-ʿ-b, cf., for instance, such roots as Arabic l-ʿ-q, Northwest Semitic l-ḥ-k,
and certain other roots where, in contrast to l-ʿ-q/l-ḥ-k, there is no possibility of dissimilation
between an original gh and a velar in the root.
Akkadian has nothing that could safely be considered a cognate of l-ʿ-b. For South Arabian,
cf. L. Köhler and W. Baumgartner, Lexicon in Veteris Testamenti Libros, 483b (Leiden 1951), who
speak of old Sabaean l-ʿ-b “to play,” and K.(C.) Conti Rossini, Chrestomathia arabica meridio-
nalis, 173b (Rome 1931), who lists mlʿb “solum ab aqua irrigatum.” However, the root appears
to be represented in South Arabian principally by proper names of uncertain meaning, cf.
G. Lankaster Harding, An Index and Concordance of Pre-Islamic Arabian Names and Inscrip-
tions, 135, 516, 682 (Toronto 1971). Arabic proper names such as Laʿūb and Mulāʿib also appear
to be of doubtful interpretation, but they are probably to be related to “playing.” The nick-
name Mulāʿib al-asinnah of a poet in the time of the Prophet referred to his dexterity in the
use of spears in battle.
Luʿāb “spittle” (Syriac Iʿūbā), though seemingly a very different concept, is easily con-
nected with the root in view of its assumed original connection with “licking, etc.”
etal obligations and of the need to meet them with earnest determination. For
Islam, the decision was not difficult to make. Play was to be condemned as
unbefitting a mature Muslim who was conscious of the seriousness of life in
this world as a preparation for the other world. As ash-Shāfiʿī (150–204/767–
820) put it: “Play is not what Muslims do, and it does not go with true man-
liness.”3 Where the power of reason was undeveloped and an awareness of
human destiny was lacking, as was the case with women and children and the
mentally deficient, playing would be something natural and had to be tolerated
with much condescension. The view expressed by the fourteenth-century Ibn
Qayyim al-Jawzīyah is, in import and manner of argumentation, typical of the
official attitude of Islam, even if, as a Ḥanbalite and disciple of Ibn Taymīyah,
Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzīyah was inclined to sternness:
Weak souls such as those of women and children cannot be led toward
what causes the ultimate pleasure except by permitting them some of the
pleasure of amusement and play. Were they entirely weaned of that, they
would go after things that are worse for them. Therefore, (the Prophet)
permitted them amusement and play of a sort he did not permit others.
ʿUmar b. al-Khaṭṭāb once came to the Prophet who was having slave
girls playing the tambourine. The Prophet bade them to be quiet with
these words; ‘ʿUmar is a man who does not like worthless frivolity (bāṭil).’
Thus, he indicated that playing the tambourine was worthless frivolity.
Yet, he did not prevent them from playing, because it constituted for
them a preponderant benefit (maṣlaḥah) and caused them to give up
something harmful, the resulting harm of which would outweigh the
harm resulting from playing. Furthermore, if women and children were
to give up playing, the grief this would cause them would be of greater
harm than the harm resulting from it. Thus, enabling them to play falls
into the category of mercy, compassion, and kindness.
3 Lays min ṣanʿat ahl ad-dῑn wa-lā al-murūwah, cf. ash-Shāfiʿī, Kitāb al-Umm, VI, 213 (Būlāq
1324), see below, pp. 93f. We shall encounter repeated references to the murūwah needed by
an individual in order to qualify as a witness (shāhid). The legal understanding of murūwah
has been described by jurists in some detail. For instance, the Shāfiʿite an-Nawawī, Minhāj,
ed. trans. L.W.C. van den Berg, III, 402f. (Batavia 1882–1884), and, following him, ar-Rāfiʿī,
Muḥarrar, Ms. Istanbul Fatih 2103, fol. 285a, mention as voiding an individual’s murūwah such
matters as eating in the bazaar, walking in public with the head uncovered, kissing one’s wife
or slave girl in front of others, always telling facetious stories, constantly playing chess and
making music, and working in low-class occupations.
play and games and gambling 347
In the same way, the Prophet enabled Abū ʿUmayr to play with a
sparrow (ʿuṣfūr) in his presence,4 and the two slave girls to sing in his | 11
presence,5 and ʿĀʾishah to watch Ethiopians play in the mosque,6 and that
woman to play the tambourine standing behind him,7 and the like. This is
all very different from the attitude of the mentioned exemplary shaykhs.
In the greatest detail, they consider it the proper religious view that this
is doubtlessly forbidden.
In a way comparable is the fact that the Prophet gave the Sympathizers
(al-muʾallafah qulūbuhum) some of the zakāh and the booty (cf. Qurʾān
9:60/60). Their hearts were less stout than those of the men around him
who were firm in their faith. Therefore, he gave something to the former,
and not to the latter, saying to them: ‘I refer you to the sufficiency and the
good put by God into your heart.’8 Again something comparable is the
joking the Prophet did with the Bedouins and the women and children
who were joking with him. He did it in order to make them feel good, to
attract them to the faith, and to give them joy. One of the traditions of the
second-generation ash-Shaʿbī, reported on the authority of the Prophet
without the intermediary of one of the men around him, states that the
Prophet passed by people playing dirkilah—according to Abu ʿUbayd
4 Abū ʿUmayr was a half-brother of Anas b. Mālik. The bird was called nughar, with the diminu-
tive nughayr to rhyme with ʿUmayr. It was also called ṣafw. Cf., for instance, (A.J. Wensinck
and others,) Concordance (et indices de la tradition musulmane), VI, 497a7–1o (Leiden 1936–
1969); (E.W.) Lane, (An Arabic-English Dictionary), 2817c (London 1863–1893, reprint Beirut
1968); Ibn ʿAbd-al-Barr, al-Istīʿāb ( fi maʿrifat al-aṣḥāb), ed. ʿA.M. al-Bijāwī, 1722f. (Cairo, n.
y. [1380/1960]); Ibn Ḥajar, Fatḥ (al-bārī bi-sharḥ al-Bukhäri), XIII, 142, 204–208 (Cairo 1378–
1383/1959–1963), on al-Bukhārī’s book an adab. The length of Ibn Ḥajar’s commentary shows
that this was considered an interesting ḥadīth for a variety of reasons. It is also the prime
authority for the practice of giving kunyahs to immature children and childless individuals.
Ibn Ḥajar based his remarks on Ibn al-Qāṣṣ (d. 335/946–947) and other sources.
On birds in the hands of playful children, cf. F. Rosenthal, Child Psychology in Islam, in
Islamic Culture, XXVI (1952), 4. [See below, article VII, 10. Ed.]
5 Cf. Concordance, I, 340b24–26; Ibn Ḥajar, Fatḥ, III, 92–97.
6 Cf. the preceding note and Concordance, I, 444a31–33, VI, 121a5–10. On ʿĀʾishah’s playing with
dolls (luʿab, banāt), cf. Ibn Ḥajar, Fatḥ, XIII, 143, and the vast literature dealing with the
problem of the permissibility of dolls. Playing with dolls is usually considered permitted for
girls as constituting useful training for being a housewife and mother.
7 The reference appears to be to the slave girls mentioned in the beginning of the quota-
tion.
8 Cf. Concordance, VII, 304a17–18, and, e.g., Ibn Ḥajar, Fatḥ, III, 54, VII, 61.
a game of the non-Arabs (ʿajam)9—and said on that occasion: ‘Go on

(khudhū), O Banū Arfidah (= Ethiopians),10 till the Jews and Christians
realize that our religion has much room.’11
12 Thus, the Prophet expends property and benefits for people in order
to make them sympathetic to the ordained truth. What is expended is
something that causes pleasure to the recipient and is liked by him,
because this then will lead to other things. He does not do that with
those who do not need it, like the emigrants and the Anṣār. Upon them,
he bestows other kindnesses and religious and worldly benefits. Since
ʿUmar b. al-Khaṭṭāb did not like worthless frivolity and did not want
to listen to it, and since there was no need to arouse his sympathy as
in the case of the others and he was also not commanded, as was the
Prophet, to arouse sympathy by any means available for faith in the
Prophet and for obedience to him, his aversion to such worthless frivolity
constituted perfection with respect to him, but the Prophet’s situation
is more perfect (and therefore, his actions are more correct and exem-
plary).12
The responsible Muslim must be serious but also cheerful and friendly. While
“the unbeliever is full of guile, the believer is jolly and playful.”13 A benign smile
is recommended, coarse laughter is banned. The Prophet’s example sanctions
occasional jokes, even practical jokes. Play and relaxation after hard work are
needed and therefore allowed; even men of religion and learning should set
some time aside for them.14 But in general, play is at best a temporary diversion
9 Cf. (Majd-ad-dīn) Ibn al-Athīr, an-Nihāyah ( fī gharīb al-ḥadīth), II, 31 (Cairo 1322); Lisān,
XIII, 259: dirkilah, dirkalah, diraklah, diraqlah, also considered of Ethiopian origin, mean-
ing a dance, but also explained merely as a children’s game. Abū ʿUbayd died in 224/838.
10 Cf. Ibn al-Athīr, Nihāyah, II, 97; Lisān, IV, 164; Lane, 1119c. The ḥadith runs parallel to, or
is identical with, the one of ʿĀʾishah watching the Ethiopians play with javelins in the
mosque, see above, n. 6, and Ibn Ḥajar, Fatḥ, III, 96f. Instead of khudhū, the ḥadith has
dūnakum.
11 I.e., is broadminded.
12 Cf. Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzīyah, Rawḍat al-muḥibbīn, 163f. (Cairo 1375/1956).
13 Cf. at-Tawḥīdī, al-Imtāʿ (wa-l-muʾānasah), ed. A. Amīn and A. az-Zayn, II, 99 (Cairo 1939–
1944). The two words are brought into connection with dad, explained also as liʿb and lahw,
which occurs in the tradition ascribed to the Prophet that he has nothing to do with dad,
and vice versa, cf., for instance, Lisān, XVIII, 277 f.
14 For all these points, cf. F. Rosenthal, Humor (in Early Islam), 5f. (Leiden 1956), which
requires much expansion.
and a preliminary stage on the way to something better. This seems to be

the meaning of the remark which the pious ʿUmar b. ʿAbd-al-ʿAzīz is said to
have made to his sons: “Play, for manliness comes about only after play!”15
And even a ten-year old boy, who has every right to play, would profess higher
ambitions behind the childish preoccupation with play, at least if he was of
noble birth and with a great future ahead of him, as was the Sharīf ar-Raḍī
(359–406/970–1015) who at that age composed a poem beginning:
Glory knows that glory is my ambition,

Even if I am spending much time on play and the wrong things.16
“Play” stands for any aimless action with no useful result.17 It was eventually 13
defined as “an activity without a sound purpose,”18 as “something entirely use-
less,”19 as “the activity of children resulting in tiredness without any profit,”20 or,
philosophically, as “an activity for the sake of pleasure in which the motive of
wisdom is disregarded, such as the activity of children, since they know neither
sage nor wisdom but act only for the sake of pleasure,”21 and, more devastat-
ing, as “the heart’s occupation with something that has no reality.”22 Playing
had its champions in some poets and in littérateurs considered somehow to
be of loose morals, and in who knows how many of those who rarely had an
opportunity to be heard, but officially, it deserved, and was accorded, disap-
proval, or even contempt. Sports, too, whether they were used for gambling or
not, had to be defended by arguing their usefulness and seriousness of pur-
15 Cf. at-Tawḥīdī, al-Baṣāʾir (wa-dh-dhakhāʾir), ed. I. al-Kaylānī, II, i, 61 (Damascus, n. y.

[1966?]). For the same remark attributed to ʿUrwah b. az-Zubayr, cf. az-Zamakhsharī, Rabῑʿ
(al-abrār), Ms. Istanbul Fatih 3894, fol. 87b.
16 Cf. ash-Sharīf ar-Raḍī, Dīwān, 51 (Cairo 1306).
17 Cf. Ibn al-Athīr, Nihāyah, and Lisān, in connection with the jassāsah story, referred to
below, n. 36.
18 Cf. ar-Rāghib al-Iṣfahānī, Mufradāt fī gharīb al-Qurʾān, in the margin of Ibn al-Athīr,
Nihāyah, IV, 80.
19 From al-Kashf, presumably the Kashf al-asrār of ʿAbd-al-ʿAzīz b. Aḥmad al-Bukhārī
(d. 730/1329). Together with the preceding definition of ar-Rāghib, the Kashf was quoted
by the sixteenth-century al-Kūhistānī, Jāmiʿ ar-rumūz, II, 242 (Constantinople 1300). Al-
Kūhistānῑ mentions the two definitions in discussing pigeon fancying and the qualifi-
cations for being a witness. He was in turn quoted by at-Tahānawī, Kashshāf (iṣṭilāḥāt
al-funūn), 1288 (Calcutta 1862, Bibliotheca Indica).
20 Cf. al-Jurjānī, Definitiones, 202.
21 Cf. (Abū Hilāl) al-ʿAskarī, al-Furūq (al-lughawīyah), 210 (Cairo 1353).
22 Cf. al-ʿĀmilī, Mikhlāh, 119 (Cairo 1317).
pose. A man who supposedly “played with dogs and falcons” had to defend
his right to be a qualified witness,23 and many other sportsmen were in a
similar situation. Moralists warned against the first beginning of a liking for
things such as pigeon fancying and playing chess and nard; once a person gets
accustomed to them, he finds it hard to stop and avoid their destructive conse-
quences.24
Yet, the pervasiveness of the play concept shows itself in the remarkably
wide usage of the root l-ʿ-b for metaphoric expression throughout Muslim lit-
14 erature. Of the twenty occurrences of l-ʿ-b in | the Qurʾān, only one (Qurʾān
12:12/12) expressly refers to child’s play. Combined occasionally with lahw
“amusement,” the root is commonly used in the meaning of not taking someone
or something seriously and of making fun of him or it (5:57–58/62–63, 6:70/69,
91/91, 7:51/49, 43:83/83, 52:12/12, 70:42/42). Similarly, it indicates frivolous, unse-
rious activity (7:98/96, 9:65/66, 21:2/2, 55/56, 44:9/8). Even God’s creation of
the world and of man has to be defended against being merely a meaningless
playful act (21:16/16, 44:38/38), for which also the roots ʿ-b-th (23:115/117)25 and
b-ṭ-l (38:27/26) are employed. And the insignificance and instability of life in
this world are branded as “play and amusement” (6:32/32, 29:64/64, 47:36/38,
57:20/19). All these passages opened the door wide for the negative attitude
toward play which came to dominate Muslim thinking.
However, while it is true that instability and meaninglessness are the con-
cepts commonly associated with l-ʿ-b among intellectuals, “play” retained its
innate psychological attractiveness. It is not by chance that in popular usage
as attested in the Arabian Nights, “playing” (and equivalent vague terms) fol-
lowed almost obligatorily upon “eating and drinking” as the suitable form of
relaxation whose particular character in each given situation was left to the lis-
tener or reader to imagine.26 The frequency of the root’s use, in the I, III, V, and
23 Cf. D. Möller, Studien zur mittelalterlichen Falknereiliteratur, 136 (Berlin 1965).

24 Cf. al-Ghazzālī, Iḥyāʾ (ʿulūm ad-dīn), III, 86 (Cairo 1352/1933). Al-Ghazzālī’s eighteenth-
century commentator, Murtaḍā az-Zabīdī, Itḥāf as-sādah, VII, 431 (Cairo 1311, reprint
Beirut), spells out the destructive consequences. They are numerous in matters religious.
In worldly matters, they are neglect of one’s business and family and the loss of one’s prop-
erty.
25 As against liʿb and lahw, ʿābath is defined as an activity for its own sake. Liʿb and lahw
in addition seek out something else to make them liʿb and lahw or, possibly, prevent them
from being that, cf. al-ʿAskarī, Furūq, 210. Consequently, ʿabath is more frivolous than mere
play and amusement.
26 Gambling was done before and after meals, cf. (Abū l-Faraj al-Iṣfahānī,) Aghānī, XVIII,
125 (Būlāq 1285), with reference to Ruʾbah (first half of the eighth century), and aṣ-Ṣafadī,
VI conjugations, indicates its emotional viability. L-ʿ-b is naturally used for play-
ing games of all kinds and descriptions by children and adults, even animals,
such as a rat playing with a gold coin brought by it out of its hole.27 It may be
used for the aimless and careless handling of any small object such as an apple
(for clandestine carving)28 or excrements by drunks.29 Children may play in | 15
and with sand,30 an appropriate simile for acting childishly and without regard
for earnest and pious endeavor.31 “Playing” commonly goes with musical instru-
ments and the making of music. The effect of music on the emotion and the
yearning it stirred up could be compared to
A nursing woman playing with her infant

Who starts to laugh when she tickles him.32
There was playing with prestidigitation (shaʿbadhah)33 and with the figures of
the shadow theater.34 The root is often used for sexual activity, and technically
also for foreplay.
There are various more specific uses to which the play concept was applied.
We hear of fate playing with human beings.35 The waves of the ocean play
al-Wāfī (bi-l-wafayāt), ed. H. Ritter, S. Dedering, Iḥsān ʿAbbās, M.Y. Najm, VI, 287 (Istanbul-
Leipzig-Wiesbaden 1935—, Bibliotheca Islamica 6), with reference to Jaḥẓah (d., in his
nineties, in 324/936).
27 Cf. al-Ghuzūlī, Maṭāliʿ (al-budūr), II, 306 (Cairo 1299–1300), quoting az-Zamakhsharī,
Rabīʿ.
28 Cf. al-Badrī (847–894/1443–1489), Ghurrat (aṣ-ṣabāḥ), Ms. Brit. Mus. add. 23, 445, fol. 123b,
and the biography of Ibn al-ʿAmīd in Ms. Istanbul Murad Molla 1408, fol. 73b, containing
the Ṣiwān al-ḥikmah of as-Sijistānī (where ʿabitha is used).
29 Cf. al-Qurṭubī, Jāmiʿ, II, 57.
30 Cf. at-Tawḥīdī, Baṣāʾir, II, i, 113.
31 Cf. at-Tawḥīdī, aṣ-Ṣadāqah (wa-ṣ-ṣadīq), ed. I. al-Kaylānī, 65 (Damascus 1964).
32 Cf. Sayf-ad-dīn al-Mushidd (602–655/1205 or 1206–1257), Dīwān, Ms. Escorial 343, fol. 129a:
wa-ʿawwādatin naqarat ʿūdahā

fa-ḥanna l-fuʾādu ilā dhālikā
ka-murḍiʿatin lāʿabat ṭiflahā
idhā daghdaghathu btadā dāḥikā.
33 Cf. al-Jawbarī, (al-Mukhtār fī) Kashf (al-asrār), 61 (Cairo 1316); ash-Shiblī, Maḥāsin al-
wasāʾil ilā maʿrifat al-awāʾil, Ms. Dublin Chester Beatty 4649, fol. 90a. For laʿʿāb meaning
“juggler,” see below, Ch. V, n. 22.
34 Cf. al-Ghuzūlī, Maṭāliʿ, I, 261.
35 Cf. below, pp. 159 ff.
with, that is, toss about, a ship for a month, as mentioned in the eschatological
ḥadīth of Tamīm ad-Dārī and Satan’s talking animal (al-jassāsah); this passage
was apparently deemed remarkable enough to be taken note of by the lexicog-
raphers,36 though in some versions of the story, the phrase does not occur.37
Poetry and artistic prose speak of such matters as a gazelle playing in the moon-
light.38 A person’s generosity may be so great that it appears unbelievable: “I
thought you were playing (i.e., joking).”39 Those who entered the service of the
16 Ṣāḥib Ibn ʿAbbād | were described as wretches who “were played with (i.e., not
taken seriously).”40 There were those who “played with their religion”41 or “with
the Book of God”42 or “with God’s proofs.”43 The execution for heresy of an
individual called Baʿādah (??) gave rise to these verses in the fourteenth cen-
tury:
Baʿādah’s wrongful playing with the religion

In this world grew, and the sword searched (for him) seriously.
Eventually, he suffered the ḥadd punishment by means of a ready sword
Whose edge marked the boundary between seriousness and play.44
36 Cf. Ibn al-Athīr, Nihāyah, IV, 62; Lisān, II, 235; Muslim, Ṣaḥīḥ, II, 706f. (Calcutta 1265/1849),
book on fitan. For “the waves playing” with someone tossed about in the water, cf. Arabian
Nights, ed. Macnaghten, III, 352, 574, trans. Littmann, IV, 596, V, 133 (672nd and 751st
nights).
37 Cf. at-Tirmidhī, in Ibn al-ʿArabī, ʿĀriḍat al-aḥwadhī, VI, 528–530; Concordance, I, 347a27–30.
38 Cf. Ḥamzah al-Iṣfahānī, ad-Durrah (al-fākhirah fī l-amthāl as-sāʾirah), ed. ʿAbd-al-Majīd
Qaṭāmish, 398 (Cairo 1971–1972).
39 Ḥasibtuka talʿabu, cf. at-Tawḥīdī, Baṣāʾir, II, i, 223 (a Bedouin addressing Khālid b. ʿAbdal-
lah, apparently the famous governor of the ʿIrāq, al-Qasrī). “Playing” here does not mean
throwing money around like a gambler.
40 Malʿūb bih, cf. at-Tawḥīdī, Akhlāq al-wazīrayn, ed. Ibn Tāwīt aṭ-Ṭanjī, 192 (Damascus
1385/1965).
41 Cf. at-Tawḥīdī, Akhlāq al-wazīrayn, 214; Ṭāshköprüzādeh, Miftāḥ as-saʿādah, I, 50 (Hyder-
abad 1329–1356), cf. Qurʾān 6:70/69, 7:51/49. Cf. also below, Ch. VI, n. 18.
42 Cf. at-Tawḥīdī, Akhlāq al-wazīrayn, 252.
43 Cf. at-Tawḥīdī, Baṣāʾir, I, 304.
44 Cf. al-Qīrāṭī, Maṭlaʿ an-nayyirayn, Mss. Istanbul Fatih 3861, fol. 93b, and Topkapıṣarayı
Ahmet III 2627, fol. 116a:
Baʿādatun (?) zāda fī d-dunyā talaʿʿubuhū

bi-d-dīni baghyan wa-jadda s-sayfu fī ṭ-ṭalabi
When he attacks, the hearts of the enemies get
fī ḥaddihī l-ḥaddu bayna l-jiddi wa-l-laʿibi.
When a time without law and order was “playing with men,” it was treating
them unfairly.45
Fighting was commonly styled “playing” with some kind of weapon. There
was also make-believe fighting with swords, javelins, and the like. The expres-
sion mikhrāq lāʿib was interpreted to mean either play swords or playing with
kerchiefs twisted for administering beatings.46 The fine performance of an
acrobatic swordplayer (muthāqif ) inspired the Ṣāḥib Ibn ʿAbbād to rhyme:
I compared him with the sword in his palm

To a full moon playing with lightning.47
More positively, it could be said of an accomplished poet that he was able to 17

play with a poetical conceit,48 or that he “played with poetry and verse as the
wind plays with the sides of branches,”49 while littérateurs were said to “play
with the extremities of articulate speech as the darkness of night plays with
the sleeper’s eyelids.”50 And a tailor might “play with the thread, twisting it,” as
if it were his lover’s body.51 There was much play in nature. “Grey hair plays with
the beard on the cheek.”52 Hair plays with various parts of the body,53 and, as
45 Az-zamān al-wāhī an-niẓām al-lāʿib bi-l-anām, cf. Ibn Bassām, Dhakhīrah, I, ii, 268, l. 17.
46 Cf. ath-Thaʿālibī, Thimār al-qulūb, 500 (Cairo 1326/1908); Lane, 729c. Usāmah b. Munqidh
said of Ṣalāḥ-ad-dīn:
When he attacks, the hearts of the enemies get

Twisted like a mikhrāq in the palms of a player.
Cf. al-ʿImād al-Iṣfahānī, Kharīdah (Syrian poets), ed. Shukrī Fayṣal, I, 527 (Damascus
1375–1383/1955–1964).
47 Cf. Ibn ʿAbbād, Dīwān, 254 (Baghdād 1384/1965), taken by the Dīwān’s editor, M.Ḥ. Āl Yāsīn,
from ath-Thaʿālibī, Yatīmat (ad-dahr), III, 182 (Damascus 1304); ath-Thaʿālibī, Aḥsan mā
samiʿtu, 104 (Cairo, n. y.). For muthāqafah as useful training and therefore permissible, cf.
Ibn Ḥajar, Fatḥ, III, 97.
48 Talāʿab bi-hādhā l-maʿnā, cf. al-Badrī, al-Maṭāliʿ (al-badrīyah), Ms. Bodleian Hunt. 493,
fol. 181a.
49 Cf. Ibn Bassām, Dhakhīrah, IV, i, 133, II. 4 f., cf. also I, ii, 340, l. 8.
50 Cf. Ibn Bassām, Dhakhīrah, I, i, 1, ll. 8 f.
51 Cf. Ibn Bassām, Dhakhīrah, IV, i, 220, l. 16.
52 Cf. ath-Thaʿālibī, Tatimmat al-Yatīmah, ed. Abbas Eghbal, II, 48 (Teheran 1934), quoting
Manṣūr al-Harawī (d. 440/1048, Brockelmann, GAL, Suppl., I, 154 f.).
53 Cf. Shihāb-ad-dīn al-Ḥijāzī, Rawḍ al-ādāb, Ms. Brit. Mus. or. 3843, fol. 120a, quoting Sayf-
ad-dīn al-Mushidd:
al-Ghuzūlī has it in an ode of his, composed in 803/1400–1401 and dealing with

the plight of Damascus under the onslaught of the Tatars:
The lashes on the eyelids played with my tears

As heroes in battle play with the heads of knights.54
The tongue plays with speech, this being the apparent meaning of verses by the
eighth/ninth-century poet Diʿbil, describing someone facing death:
He draws from his jaws, like a sword,

A blade that plays with speech.55
18 “The pregnant wombs played for our sake with our hopes and | desires for
this world” and in this manner implanted them in us before we were born.56
Sickness plays with the body.57
Bedouin experience would compare the wind’s action to playing; its play-
grounds were where it was blowing, and when it played with an encampment,
it had the effect of erasing its traces.58 In a different environment, different
metaphors were created for the wind. With its unsteady effect on the flicker-
ing flame, it might be said to play with the wax candle’s flame59 or with the
talāʿubu sh-shaʿri ʿalā qaddihī

awqaʿa qalbī fī ṭ-ṭawīli l-ʿarīḍi.
This is followed by a quotation from Ibn Sanāʾ-al-mulk (d. 608/1211):
talaʿʿubu sh-shaʿri ʿalā ridfihī

awqaʿa qalbī fī l-ʿarīḍi ṭ- ṭawīli.
Sayf-ad-dīn al-Mushidd’s Dīwān (Ms. Escorial 343, fol. 148b) has ridfihī, for qaddihī. Ibn
Sanāʾ-al-mulk’s Dīwān, edited by M. ʿAbd-al-Ḥaqq (Hyderabad 1377/1958) and by M.I. Naṣr
and Ḥ.M. Naṣṣār (Cairo 1388/1969), does not contain the verse. It does occur, however, in
the Dīwān of Ibn al-ʿAfīf at-Tilimsānī, 55 (Beirut 1885). There, we find talāʿubu, for talaʿʿubu.
54 Cf. al-Ghuzūlī, Maṭāliʿ, II, 300.
55 Cf. Diʿbil, Dīwān, 194 (an-Najaf 1382/1962), taken by the Dīwān’s editor, ʿAbd-aṣ-Ṣāhib
ad-Dujaylī, from at-Tawḥīdī, Baṣāʾir, I, 264.
56 Cf. ash-Sharīf al-Murtaḍā, Dīwān, ed. R. aṣ-Ṣaffār, III, 39 (Cairo 1958–1959).
57 Cf. Ibn al-Habbārīyah, in al-ʿImād al-Iṣfahānī, Kharīdah (ʿlrāqī poets), ed. M.B. al-Atharī
and Jamīl Saʿīd, II, 132 (Baghdād 1375–1384/1953–1964).
58 Cf. Lisān, II, 237.
59 Cf. al-Ghuzūlī, Maṭāliʿ, I, 81 f.
lamp.60 “As the wind plays with the candle and gives it(s flame) different
shapes, thus longing plays with the heart and transfers it from one condition to
another.”61 And “the hand of the wind plays with the flowers of (the brazier’s)
flames,” as Ibn Nubātah (d. 374/984–985) put it.62 With their spittle (luʿāb),
vipers play (laʿibat) with lives.63 And wine plays with reason, as already Abū
Tammām (first half of ninth century) had said,64 as well as his contemporary
Muḥammad b. ʿAbd-al-Malik al-Hāshimī,65 and probably others before them.
In this connection, Abū Tammām also speaks of verbs playing with nouns,
requiring them to take on the endings of nominative or accusative, in the same
way in which wine alters the drinker’s mental condition:
Bubbly wine plays with the minds,

Just as verbs play with nouns.66
If it was not wine that played with reason, it could be love66a or money.67 But
also a graceful dancer “plays, moving forward and backward, with the mind,
just as fate plays with its people in | whichever way it wants.”68 “Playing with a 19
person’s mind” then came to mean simply “to deceive, to inveigle.”69
Desires and erotic daydreams could be playfully manipulated. Thus, the girl
operating the figures of the shadow play, “plays with individuals behind her cur-
tain, just as her actions play with wishes.”70 The daydreams and wishes, but in
this case those of the impecunious, were described by Ibn Ẓāfir (567–613/1171 or
1172–1216) in terms of the quick movement of waterwheels in a garden close to
the Nile and the optical illusion caused by it: “We saw a well at which there were

64 Cf. Abū Tammām as quoted by al-Ghuzūlī, Maṭāliʿ, I, 159. See also I, 137. For an example
from later stylists, cf., for instance, Ibn Sanāʾ-al-mulk, Fuṣūṣ al-fuṣūl, Ms. Escorial 529,
fol. 5a: ash-sharāb alladhī yalʿab bi-l-albāb. Cf. also Arabian Nights, ed. Macnaghten, III,
651, trans. Littmann, V, 300 (775th night).
65 Cf. ash-Shābushtī, Diyārāt, ed. Kūrkīs ʿAwwād, 10 (Baghdād 1951).
66 Cf. Abū Tammām, Dīwān, ed. M. ʿAbduh ʿAzzām, I, 29 (Cairo 1964).
66a Cf. E. Garcia Gómez, Todo Ben Quzman, I, 366 (Madrid 1972) (“the beloved laʿab bi-ʿaqlī”).
67 Cf. al-Jawbarī, Kashf, 38.
68 Cf. al-Ghuzūlī, Maṭāliʿ, I, 249, quoting Ibn Kharūf al-Andalusī (d. 609/1212–1213).
69 Cf. Arabian Nights, ed. Macnaghten, III, 140, trans. Littmann, IV, 284 (585th night).
70 Cf. al-Ghuzūlī, Maṭāliʿ, I, 261, citing al-Wajīh al-Munāwī.
two waterwheels running parallel to one another whose axles (aflāk “spheres”)
moved around the stars of their troughs and played with the hearts of the
waterwheels’ beholders, as do wishes with the bankrupt.”71
Evidence for such metaphoric usages of “play” is inexhaustible, and further
passages could be cited ad infinitum.72 All that has been attempted here has
been to show how deeply engrained the play concept was in Muslim hearts
and minds as confirmed by the powerful witness of linguistic usage, regardless
of what was considered to be the proper attitude of religious ethics. While
“playing” remained throughout a metaphor for unstable and frivolous behavior,
its continuous presence on the level of artistic literary expression assured it
of an important place in Muslim civilization, even if it was always officially
excluded from the hierarchy of cultural values. The clue provided by linguistic
usage reveals the persistence of a strong inclination and attraction to playful
activity, though not necessarily to the gambling aspect that might be part of
it.
Paired with lahw “amusement” (as repeatedly already in the Qurʾān), “play-
ing” became a kind of standard terminology hinting at an improper lifestyle.
In its definition, “amusement” was contrasted with play in a way that stressed
its more objectionable character. “There is no lahw without liʿb, while there
20 may be liʿb | without lahw, since liʿb may serve educational purposes, such as
is done by playing chess and the like. This would not be called lahw. Lahw
is liʿb that never results in anything useful. Literally, l-h-w implies distraction
from things that matter.”73 Its main purpose, in contrast to play whose princi-
pal purpose is purposelessness, is the harmful release of pent-up emotions. It
provides “the kinds of emotional excitement (ṭarab) which distract an individ-
ual from the good.”74 It means “seeking enjoyment through something that has
no reality.”75 For jurists, it came to be the rule to observe that “every amuse-
ment is worthless frivolity (bāṭil), if it distracts from obedience to God.” In
connection with this statement, they were able to refer to a famous ḥadīth of the
Prophet in which he describes “everything by which a Muslim amuses himself
71 Cf. Ibn Ẓāfir, Badāʾiʿ al-badāʾih, I, 232 (Cairo 1316, in the margin of al-ʿAbbāsī, Sharḥ
shawāhid at-Talkhīṣ). “Running parallel” renders the reading found in the quotation of the
passage in al-Ghuzūlī, Maṭāliʿ, I, 40.
72 The Wörterbuch der klassischen arabischen Sprache can be expected soon to present much
more material of this kind under l-ʿ-b.
73 Cf. al-ʿAskarī, Furūq, 210.
74 Cf. ash-Sharīshī, Sharḥ al-Maqāmāt (al-Ḥarīrīyah), I, 20 (Cairo 1306).
75 Cf. al-ʿĀmilī, Mikhlāh, 119.
as worthless frivolity, except the shooting of arrows, the training of horses, and
sex play with his women folk.”76
If the combination of liʿb and lahw was extended to include other and fre-
quently more explicitly negative terms such as mujūn “indecency, obscenity,”
its meaning was made fully obvious, as when, for instance, it was suggested dur-
ing a discussion about Ṣūfīs that they were people of such a description.77 But
also by themselves, play and amusement sufficed to serve as a label, a short-
hand notation for censuring and condemning men in active life described as
devoted to them, let alone scholars of whom a different conduct was natu-
rally expected. Here, we are moving a little closer to the subject of gambling
proper, even though a jurist, probably thinking of “amusement” in terms of the
categories approved by the ḥadīth just mentioned, might expressly contrast
harmless lahw with forbidden qimār “gambling.”78
It would seem a rather obvious assumption that in many cases, such play and
amusement automatically included gambling, possibly intensive gambling.
However, this is by no means certain. Often, we find play and amusement
amplified by further remarks of | what they consisted of, and gambling is not 21
among it. Thus, additional express evidence is desirable. For example, the
Ayyūbid of Ḥamāh al-Malik al-Muẓaffar (d. 683/1284) is described as a noble
and pleasant man, “but he used to play and to be devoted to amusement
and other things,”79 habits possibly strengthened by his becoming ruler at
a very young age. What does this mean in concrete terms? If the historians
do not furnish further indications, we can only guess. We also could not be
sure as to what was meant specifically when an historian described the Būyid
ʿIzz-ad-dawlah and his adviser, Abū l-Fatḥ Ibn al-ʿAmīd, as having hastened
their fate by indulging in play and amusement,80 if we did not have some verses
by the poet Ibn Ghassān referring to ʿIzz-ad-dawlah’s passion for nard to the
detriment of good government:
76 Cf. Ibn Ḥajar, Fatḥ, XIII, 334–336; Concordance, VI, 150b31–33.

77 Cf. at-Tawḥīdī, Imtāʿ, III, 97.
78 Cf. al-Qurṭubī, Jāmiʿ, II, 52 f., referring to Mālik. Proof that “gambling belongs to lahw” is
seen by al-Qasṭallānī in the way in which the gambling ḥadīth (below, p. 67) is mentioned
in the book on istiʾdhān in al-Bukhārī, cf. Irshād as-sārī (li-sharḥ Ṣaḥīḥ al-Bukhārī), IX, 172
(Būlāq 1305, reprint Baghdād [1971]).
79 Cf. aṣ-Ṣafadī, Wāfī, V, 12. Adh-Dhahabī, ʿIbar, ed. Ṣ. al-Munajjid, V, 346 (Kuwait 1960–1966),
calls him laʿʿāb. However, his passion for play and amusement is not mentioned in al-
Yūnīnī, Dhayl (Mirʾāt az-zamān), IV, 202, 236 (Hyderabad 1374–1380/1954–1961); Ibn Kathīr,
Bidāyah; Ibn Taghrībirdī, Nujūm.
80 Cf. Miskawayh, Tajārib al-umam, anno 364, ed. D.S. Margoliouth and H.F. Amedroz, The
Eclipse of the ʿAbbasid Caliphate, II, 352, trans., V, 384 (Oxford 1920–1921).
A realm is governed by the ruler’s insight

And preserved by the experienced master.
O ʿAḍud-ad-dawlah, rise to its rescue!
For it is being lost between six-and-one (shash wa-yak).81
Thus, it is certain that ʿIzz-ad-dawlah’s “play and amusement” did include

gambling. Still, we do not know how important a role such gambling played
in his life and conduct.
Going back further in time, we may refer to the case of the unfortunate
caliph al-Amīn. The circumstances of his life and reign were such as to make
him unavoidably the target of negative comment by subsequent historians.
Once, we are told, he played nard with the wazīr al-Faḍl b. ar-Rabīʿ. The two
of them “gave their seal rings as pledges (rahanā) for something they agreed
upon the loser should produce.” When al-Amīn won, he took al-Faḍl’s ring and
went out with the ring still in his hand, ostensibly in order to go to the toilet.
Instead, he secretly called an engraver and had him change the inscription on
the ring to an obscenity. When al-Faḍl redeemed ( f-k-k) his ring, the caliph
22 gave it back to him, and al-|Faḍl, not knowing what had happened, used it for
ten days in all his public business. Then, the caliph invited him for another
game and called his attention to the altered inscription. Outraged, al-Faḍl
castigated the caliph for his foolish practical joke, implying that it proved
him unfit for his high office.82 There is also a chess gambling story involving
al-Amīn and Isḥāq al-Mawṣilī. The latter described himself as a middling to
excellent chessplayer ( fawq al-munṣifīn wa-dūn al-bālighīn) who could win
against almost anybody. The caliph “asked me to play with him. So I played
with him for a garment (khilʿah). He defeated me. I got up and took off my
clothes (thawb). He asked me what I was doing. I replied that I was taking off
my clothes, so that he could put them on. The caliph exclaimed: ‘Would I put
on a garment full of lice!’ Whereupon I said: ‘Nothing doing! Either you put it on
or you ransom yourself.’ When he asked with what he should ransom himself, I
replied, ‘with your clothes.’ Exclaiming ‘I have never seen a winner who was at
the same time a loser (qāmir maqmūr),’ he took off his clothes and gave them
to me.”83
81 Cf. al-Qifṭī, Taʾrīkh al-ḥukamāʾ, ed. J. Lippert, 402 (Leipzig 1903), cited by J.C. Bürgel, Die
Hofkorrespondenz ʿAdud ad-Daulas, 27, n. 1 (Wiesbaden 1965). For ʿIzz-ad-dawlah’s horse
racing activities, see below, p. 50.
82 Cf. al-Jahshiyārī, Wuzarāʾ, ed. H. von Mžik, fol. 189b (Leipzig 1926, Bibliothek ar. Historiker
und Geographen 1); ed. M. as-Saqqāʾ, I. al-Ibyārī, and ʿA. Shalabī, 298f. (Cairo 1357/1938).
83 Cf. ar-Rāghib al-Iṣfahānī, Muḥāḍarāt (al-udabāʾ), II, 449 (Būlāq 1286–1287). The passage
Other particulars are given elsewhere concerning al-Amīn’s childishness and

devotion to play and amusement. Their plausibility and historicity are not
at issue here. In the anecdotes just quoted, it is not gambling as such that
diminishes the caliph’s stature, but the surrounding frivolity. There was a saying
reported by ath-Thaʿālibī that “if four things are found together in a man, they
ruin him. They are the love of women, hunting, wine drinking, and gambling
(qimār).”84 Certainly, each of those habits, if indulged in excessively, could by
itself lead to a person’s downfall. On the higher rungs of society, they were
no doubt often found together in the same individual. However, the source
situation with which we are confronted does not allow us to allot its proper
share in the scheme to gambling which may often have been insignificant or
entirely absent.
The same point can be made for all levels of society. It contributes to our 23
uncertainty when we find intellectuals such as the authors of the Rasāʾil Ikhwān
aṣ-safāʾ listing, after the pleasures of eating and drinking and sex, “amusement
and play and song and playing nard and gambling.”85 The sequence here would
appear to exclude gambling from what is called amusement and play. Such an
interpretation may, however, be a bit too literal, even if the Sincere Friends can
be trusted to have always weighed their language carefully. A very instructive
example of the uncertainty with which we have to contend is furnished by the
tenth-century ash-Shābushtī in his work on monasteries. During the heyday
of the ʿAbbāsid dynasty, Christian monasteries often were the playgrounds of
the populace, Muslims and Christians alike. Ash-Shābushtī takes great pains to
make this fact clear by introducing the description of each monastery with a
considerable variety of phrases to this effect. Notwithstanding his best efforts,
the result is pretty monotonous and on the whole uninformative. The con-
stantly re-occurring liʿb and lahw are complemented on occasion by such words
as shurb “wine drinking,” ṭarab/taṭarrub “entertainment (music),” tannazzuh
“amusement (principally involving excursions into the countryside),” khalāʿah
“profligacy,” and, in particular, qaṣf, a very widely used term which is explained
by the lexicographers as being a combination of lahw and liʿb.86 But no mat-
ter what words are used, or how many of them are used in tandem, they all
mean the same thing. No specifics are indicated by them, and the author prob-
is cited by H.J.R. Murray, A History of Chess, 196 (Oxford 1913), and R. Wieber, (Das)
Schachspiel (in der arabischen Literatur), 224 (Walldorf-Hessen 1972, Beiträge zur Sprach-
und Kulturgeschichte des Orients 22).
84 Cf. ath-Thaʿālibī, Bard al-akbād, 153 (Constantinople 1301).
85 Cf. Rasāʾil Ikhwān aṣ-ṣafāʾ, IV, 66 (Cairo 1347/1928).
86 Cf. al-Azharī, Tahdhīb, VIII, 376; Lisān, XI, 191.
ably did not intend them to do so. There is nothing here to tell us whether
the many amusements available in the monasteries included gambling, as was
assuredly the case in the mākhūrs “cabarets” of the cities.87 The term khalāʿah
is not meant to be a reference to gambling, although derivations from the root
kh-l-ʿ, such as khalīʿ, khawlaʿ, and mukhāliʿ denoted the gambling addict in the
old maysir language.88 From the root q-ṣ-f, the word maqṣaf was formed which,
certainly in later times, had “gambling casino” as one of its many meanings.
24 In early sixteenth-|century Aleppo, there was a place called Junaynat ʿUbayd
where one could eat ḥashῑsh and amuse oneself and which was described as
the maqṣaf of Aleppo.89 Presumably, also some forms of gambling were prac-
ticed there. Ash-Shābushtī quotes verses by ʿAbdallah b. al-ʿAbbās, a grandson
of the wazīr al-Faḍl b. ar-Rabīʿ, praising Dayr Qūṭā where he enjoyed many a
night
Among noble youths who spent in revelry (qaṣf ) all they possessed
And expended on love and play (taṣābī) money and property.
And the blissful life at ʿUmr Kaskar was similarly sung by his older contem-
porary, Muḥammad b. Ḥāzim al-Bāhilī. In ʿUmr Kaskar, good company and
pleasant play and amusement could be found at all times, as well as noble
young men who gave wine its due
And expended by way of qaṣf whatever they got

And let themselves be robbed there of whatever they earned and pos-
sessed.90
87 See below, Ch. V, n. 34.

88 Lisān, IX, 430, combines these words with khulʿah, in the meaning of “the best possessions
gambled away” (cf. the verse quoted below, ch. IV, n. 56). An old hypocritical “profligate
who played and amused himself” (khalīʿ yalʿab wa-yaṭrab) presumably also gambled, cf.
al-ʿImād al-Iṣfahānī, Kharīdah (ʿlrāqī poets), II, 342.
89 Cf. Ibn al-Ḥanbalī, Durr al-ḥabab, ed. M. al-Fākhūrī and Y. ʿAbbārah, I, i, 147 (Damascus
1972–). Junaynah “little garden” is something like “amusement park.”
In his Maqāmah al-jisrīyah, ʿAlī b. Sūdūn al-Bashbughawī tells us that on Friday, 22
Jumādā II 852/23 August 1448, he learned that all the maqāṣif and masarrāt at al-Junaynah
in Cairo were closed down and removed (but they were eventually restored and reopened),
cf. his Nuzhat an-nufūs, Ms. Istanbul Reisülküttap 931, fols. 99b–102b. For al-Bashbughawī,
those were mainly places for taking ḥashīsh. He says nothing at all about gambling.
90 Cf. ash-Shābushtī, Diyārāt, 41 and 177, cited by Yāqūt, Muʿjam (al-buldān), ed. F. Wüsten-
feld, II, 689, and III, 725 (Göttingen 1866–1873).
Gambling may have helped the young men to get rid of their money, but
girls and wine were expensive enough to have the same result. It should be
noted in this connection that while the motif of the young heir going through
his inheritance is most common in Arabic stories, the possible role played by
gambling in this process is hardly ever mentioned.91 It should probably not be
considered as self-evident, even if it was likely.
There is another very uncertain link in any attempted connection between
play and gambling. All games could be used for gambling by the simple expedi-
ent of attaching stakes to them. However, by the same token, nearly all games
could be enjoyed for their own sake without any accompanying gambling activ-
ity. This was a matter of individual preference, even if societal conventions no
doubt exercised a certain pressure in this respect. The result is that | what- 25
ever references are made to games in the literature, we cannot assume that
gambling was present, unless it is expressly mentioned. The Muslims were
themselves fully aware of this situation, since it involved the legality or ille-
gality of any game.92 In order to make the point that games were enjoyable—
and permissible—without gambling, stories were circulated set in the earliest
times of Islam in which husband and wife indulged in a little game. It can be
assumed that in such cases, no gambling resulting in property changing hands
was involved. For good measure, such absence of gambling proper is expressly
stated in the report on Ibn Mughaffal playing dice (nard, kiʿāb) with his wife.93
ʿAbdallāh b. Abī Awfā, who lived until about 705, was observed by a visitor as he
played with his wife with a couple of dice (bi-l-faṣṣayn). This is reported under
the rubric of gambling, yet, the point would seem to be that one could play
dice without the presence of the objectionable aspects of gambling. Neverthe-
less, official disapproval was also expressed under these circumstances. A man
playing the game of fourteen with his wife did what Muslims ought not to do.94
Whether used for gambling or not, the numerous games that were in fre-
quent use could be viewed as being of three different types. In the words of
Jean Barbeyrac, one of the Western writers on gambling in the seventeenth and
eighteenth centuries, a distinction should be made between “les Jeux de pure
adresse, ceux de pur hazard, & ceux qu’on peut nommer mixtes, qui tiennent
91 For a possibly historical example, see below, Ch. V, n. 43.

92 See, for instance, below, pp. 106 ff.
93 Cf. Lisān, II, 214. For Ibn Mughaffal, cf., e.g., Ibn ʿAbd-al-Barr, Istīʿāb, 996f.
94 Cf. ar-Rāghib al-Iṣfahānī, Muḥāḍarāt, I, 449. The visitor, named Yazīd b. Abī Khālid in the
Muḥāḍarāt, was presumably Ismāʿīl b. Abī Khālid, one of Ibn Abī Awfā’s transmitters. Cf.
Ibn ʿAbd-al-Barr, Isṭīʿāb, 870 f.; Ibn Ḥajar, Tahdhīb, V, 151f. (Hyderabad 1325–1327), etc.
des deux prémiers.”95 This distinction was alive, and its reality recognized by
Muslims when they considered various sports and compared nard with chess.96
Another distinction that might be drawn would be one separating gambling
done by the participants in an event (the players of games, the owners of race
horses) from gambling by spectators. In pre-modern times, the former kind
would seem to have been prevalent almost exclusively, while at present, the lat-
26 ter has greatly gained on it with respect to importance in the total | gambling
picture. Or one might distinguish between gambling activities according to the
principal vehicle employed for them, such as board games, human skill sports,
animal skill sports, etc. For the following survey of games used for gambling, it
has proved impossible to find a fully satisfactory scheme of arrangement. The
one adopted here can claim no absolute logical validity. Games and other activ-
ities of pure hazard are mentioned first, to be followed by chess as the prime
example of a game of “pure adresse,” by board games principally involving dic-
ing, and then by the large number of activities where some skill, human or ani-
mal, plays a role. In addition to games which are mentioned somewhere in the
sources as potential or actual gambling games, some other games of possible
interest have been included; no completeness of any sort has been attempted in
connection with them. In particular, all that is known about games from more
recent times and from the travel literature and the numerous studies of present-
day’s children’s games has been disregarded.
The exact rules according to which the games were played, and frequently
even the types to which they belonged, are usually not known to us with
any exactness. This “breaking of the thread of understanding with respect to
once well-known games”97 has been remarked upon by Western historians
of the subject of Western games. Considering the few basic types and the
innumerable variations of them that are possible, it would seem natural that
without the most detailed description, sporadic references to the names and
general characteristics of games are of little use for their precise reconstruction.
No great effort has been made here to discuss and establish what we know
about the games as such. Special attention has been paid only to what we
are able to learn about potential or actual gambling activities connected with
them.
95 Cf. J. Barbeyrac, Traité du jeu, 2nd ed., I, 119 (Amsterdam 1737).

96 See below, p. 169.
97 Cf. A. Steiger, in his edition of Alfonso el Sabio, Libros de acedrex, dados e tablas, XXVI
(Geneva and Zürich 1941, Romanica Helvetica 10). Cf. also, for instance, O. Ore, Cardano,
the Gambling Scholar, 108 (Princeton 1953).
1 Betting
Probably the purest form of gambling, wagering on the outcome of singular

events in no material way capable of being influenced by the bettors need
not be accompanied by the exchange of property in order to appeal to the
imagination (witness, for instance, the com|mon English use of the words “I 27
bet”), but it ordinarily is. It is rarely mentioned in Arabic literature. A theoret-
ical reference to it is perhaps implied in Ibn al-ʿArabī’s definition of gambling
as having something to do with either “action” or “statement (qawl).” “State-
ment” could refer to a situation in which an individual says that an arbitrary
event will have such-and-such an outcome, and bets on it. However, while
Ibn al-ʿArabī may also have had in mind this sort of wagering, his distinction
between action and statement was more probably meant to envisage gam-
bling done by participants and gambling by non-participants. Still, Ibn al-ʿArabī
elsewhere explained murāhanah further as “an expression for agreement con-
cerning the obligation (to pay) something upon the appearance of one of two
conflicting claims as to statement or as to existence ( fī l-qawl aw fī l-wujūd)
…”98 Here, just the sort of betting we are speaking of could easily be meant and
give weight to the interpretation of “statement” as betting also in the first pas-
sage.
A famous example of betting “before betting (rihān, qimār) was forbidden”99
has its place in all commentaries on the Qurʾān in connection with sūrah
30:1–4/1–3: “The Byzantines have been defeated in the nearest land, but after
their defeat, they will be victorious in a few years.” The polytheists in the
Prophet’s own environment were, we are told in the fully developed versions
of the story, partisans of the Persians who, having no revealed scripture, were
98 Cf. Ibn al-ʿArabī, ʿĀriḍat al-aḥwadhī, XII, 67, and above, Ch. I, n. 9.
99 Rihān in Ibn al-Jawzī, Zād (al-musāfir), VI, 287 (Damascus 1384–1388/1964–1968), qimār
in aṭ-Ṭabarī, Tafsīr, XXI, 11, 13 (Cairo 1321). The commentator on aṭ-Ṭaḥāwī in Ms. Istanbul
Jarullah (below, n. 213) refers to Abū Bakr’s wager as a practice permitted in the beginning
(of Islam) that was abrogated later on. Cf. also al-Qurṭubī, Jāmiʿ, XIV, 2f., and, especially,
Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzīyah, Furūsīyah, ed. ʿIzzat al-ʿAṭṭār al-Ḥusaynī, 5 (Beirut, n. y. [1974]).
The Furūsīyah deals exhaustively with the sports that were within the purview of the
jurists, and presents the material with outstanding clarity. It often refers to Abū Bakr’s
wager (pp. 4 f., 35 f., 65 f., 80) and analyzes its legal significance. In connection with it, Ibn
Qayyim al-Jawzīyah reports the Ḥanafite opinion that betting (rihān) is forbidden only
when it is done in a context lacking religious merit, but where it serves the purpose of
presenting evidence for the truth of Islam, it is justified and clearly permitted, even more
so than are archery contests (p. 6).
not as close to the Muslims as were the Christian Byzantines. They made a
28 bet (nāḥaba, rāhana, also bāyaʿa, qāmara, khāṭara)100 | with Abū Bakr that the
Prophet’s prediction of a Byzantine victory and Persian defeat would not come
true. However, it did, and Abū Bakr won the bet. The different versions of the
story differ as to the time limit (ajal) placed on the bet. The Prophet, asked for
advice by Abū Bakr, indicated the right time to him. Abū Bakr had thought of
three years but was advised by the Prophet to increase the term, because “a
few years” meant between three and nine. The bet was concluded for four, or
five, or seven years. When Abū Bakr chose too short a term, the Prophet told
him to double the bet (khaṭar) and extend the term, either beforehand or at
the expiration of the term. The polytheists agreed to that, and lost. There is
even a report that Abū Bakr set six years (?, lit. “year six”) as the term, because
the mean between three and nine is six, and lost.101 The amount of the bet is
indicated as ten young she-camels (qalūṣ) on either side, raised to a hundred;
or four or five raised to an unspecified number; or is just said to have been
so-and-so much without any figure.102
Nothing very precise can be done with this tradition. The spokesman for
the polytheists is most frequently stated to have been Ubayy b. Khalaf, who
died in 624 (the same year in which, according to the guess of some Muslim
scholars, the Byzantines won out over the Persians,103 which prompted the
remark that Abū Bakr collected the bet from the family of Ubayy).104 Much less
well attested is the role of Abū Sufyān b. Ḥarb as the instigator of the bet among
the polytheists.105 It smacks of anti-Umayyad invention.
The brief commentary ascribed to Ibn ʿAbbās merely states that Abū Bakr aṣ-
Ṣiddīq made a bet (bāyaʿa) with Ubayy b. Khalaf for ten camels. This would be
an almost contemporary testimony, if the commentary were genuine. However,
it is a rather late concoction and cannot be used for historical conclusions.106
100 The different versions are of interest because of the betting terms used in them. In addi-
tion to those mentioned above, we find, for instance, mujāʿalah = murāhanah, tawāḍaʿū
ar-rihān, iqtamarū in the eighth conjugation, etc. (aṭ-Ṭabarī, Tafsīr, XXI, 13; cf. also below,
n. 236).
101 Cf. Ibn al-ʿArabī, ʿĀriḍat al-aḥwadhī, XII, 71; Ibn al-Jawzī, Zād; al-Qurṭubī, Jāmiʿ, XIV, 2.
102 Cf., for instance, aṭ-Ṭabarī, Tafsīr, XXI, 10 ff., and Annales, ed. M.J. de Goeje and others, I,
1006 (Leiden 1879–1901); az-Zamakhsharī, Kashshāf, II, 402 (Būlāq 1318–1319); Ibn al-Jawzī,
Zād, VI, 287 f.; adh-Dhahabī, Taʾrīkh al-Islām, I, 135 f. (Cairo 1367–).
103 Cf. at-Tirmidhī, in Ibn al-ʿArabī, ʿĀriḍat al-aḥwadhī, XII, 69.
104 Cf. az-Zamakhsharī, Kashshāf ; al-Qurṭubī, Jāmiʿ, XIV, 3, quoting an-Naqqāsh (d. 351/962).
105 Cf. Ibn al-Jawzī, Zād.
106 For the Tafsīr of Ibn ʿAbbās, I checked Mss. Istanbul Feyzullah 43, fols. 240b–241a, and
Much more important | in this respect is the Tafsīr of Muqātil b. Sulaymān, who 29
died in 150/767. It contains a brief statement to the effect that Abū Bakr bet
(khāṭara) the unbelievers, and on the day of Badr, the Muslims defeated the
unbelievers and at the same time received the news that the Byzantines had
defeated the Persians. It further contains the longer version, with Abū Bakr’s
original bet of ten qalūṣ for three years and the Prophet’s advice to him to
extend the term and raise the bet, which he does to seven years and a hundred
qalūṣ. This is further connected with a long story about the dynastic succes-
sion in Persia during that period.107 This would seem to take us back into the
first half of the eighth century. However, the preserved text of Muqātil’s com-
ments on the Qurʾān is the work of a certain ʿAbdallāh b. Thābit at-Tawwazī
(223–308/838–921). ʿAbdallāh studied the work with his father, Thābit b. Yaʿqūb,
who at the time of his death was eighty-five years old, in the year 240/854–855,
and Thābit, in turn, received the text from the little known al-Hudhayl b. Ḥabīb,
a transmitter of Muqātil, in the year 190/805–806.108 Now, the brief version may
indeed go back to Muqātil, even if we have no real assurance that this is so. The
long version is stated expressly to be one of the many additions of al-Hudhayl,
not on the authority of Muqātil but on the authority of Abū Bakr al-Hudhalī
(d. 166–167/782–783)109 who transmitted it on the authority of ʿIkrimah, who
supposedly had died between over sixty to eighty years earlier. All these details
leave no doubt as to the highly suspect character of the text of Muqātil’s Tafsīr.
It cannot be dated safely before the lifetime of ʿAbdallah b. Thābit, that is, the
ninth century.
Outstanding among the various supposed first reporters to whom the story
is ascribed in the traditions of aṭ-Ṭabarī’s Tafsīr is the rather legendary ʿIkrimah.
The chains of transmitters in at-Tirmidhī and aṭ-Ṭabarī suggest that the story’s
written transmission began | with Abū Isḥāq al-Fazārī (d. 186/802)110 on the 30
authority of Sufyān ath-Thawrī (d. about 161/778).111 The alleged role of Ibn Shi-
Veliuddin 94, fol. 156a; al-Fīrūzābādī, Tanwïr al-miqbās, 41 (Cairo 1356, in the margin of
the Qurʾān). Cf. (F.) Sezgin, (Geschichte des arabischen Schrifttums,) I, 27 (Leiden 1967–).
107 For Muqātil’s Tafsīr, I checked Ms. Istanbul Feyzullah 79, fols. 49b–50a. If my notes are
exact, Ms. Istanbul H. Hüsnü Pasha 17, fols. 230b–231a, does not contain the longer version.
Cf. Sezgin, I, 36 f. For the long story, cf. aṭ-Ṭabarī, Annales, I, 1006 f.
108 For the history of the transmission of the text, cf. al-Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī, Taʾrīkh Baghdād,
IX, 426 f., VII, 143, and XIV, 78f. (Cairo 1349/1931). The information of the Khaṭīb al-
Baghdādi no doubt goes back to some copy of ʿAbdallāh b. Thābit’s text.
109 Cf. adh-Dhahabī, Taʾrīkh al-Islām, VI, 320; Ibn Ḥajar, Tahdhīb, XII, 45f.
110 Cf. Sezgin, I, 292.
111 Cf. Sezgin, I, 518.
hāb az-Zuhrī (d. about 123–125/740–743)112 in this connection appears highly

dubious, because information on his supposed transmitter (ʿAbdallāh b. ʿAbd-
ar-Raḥmān al-Jumaḥī) is lacking. Altogether then, it would seem the most plau-
sible assumption that the story of Abū Bakr’s wager was circulated orally in
some vague form and entered the literature in one version or another already
early in the eighth century. This, however, does not guarantee that the details
on betting to be gathered from it actually reflect the situation prevailing at that
time, although no great changes are likely to have taken place between the first
appearance of the story and its appearance in the written forms known to us.
Another early story of a bet comes to us from the eighth century. Two Arabs
contracted a wager (bāyaʿa) that it would not be possible to make the slave
of one of them tell a lie. At stake were their families and property. The slave,
asked to stay for one night with the challenger, gave his master upon his return
an accurate and truthful description of what had happened to him, but only as
far as this was possible for him.113
Aṣ-Ṣafadī, who quoted this old story, also reports elsewhere a seemingly
historical anecdote concerning Judge Ibn Ṣaṣrā (655–723/1257–1323). The sec-
retaries in charge of taking down decisions (tawqīʿ) bet among each other
(tarāhana) that one of them would be able to beat Ibn Ṣaṣrā to the greeting, but
none was able to do it.114 Nothing is said about what the bet consisted of and,
in fact, whether any money or thing of value was involved. In another fictional
31 bet | (tarāhana), however, a “condition” with no further detail is mentioned.
That bet was made with a preacher (wāʿiẓ) who said he could eat, drink, and
play the ṭunbūr while holding a service.115 When two demons in the Arabian
Nights wagered on whether Budūr or Qamar-az-zamān was more beautiful, the
112 Cf. Sezgin, I, 280.

113 Cf. al-Mufaḍḍal aḍ-Ḍabbī, Amthāl (al-ʿArab), 76 (Constantinople 1300); aṣ-Ṣafadī,
al-Ghayīh (al-musajjam fī sharḥ Lāmīyat al-ʿAjam), II, 210 (Cairo 1305). For al-Mufaḍḍal, cf.
R. Sellheim, Die klassisch-arabischen Sprichwörter-sammlungen, 45–48 (The Hague 1954).
The proverb, for which this story is intended to provide an explanation (ʿind an-nawā
yahdhibuka aṣ-ṣādiq), became known in the West already through J. Scaliger and T. Erpe-
nius, Proverbiorum arabicorum centuriae duae, 2nd ed., 92 (Leiden 1623). Cf. az-Zamakh-
sharī, al-Mustaqṣā ( fī amthāl al-ʿArab), II, 169 (Hyderabad 1381/1962); al-Maydānī, Arabum
Proverbia, ed. G.W. Freytag, II, 106 f. (Bonn 1838–1843); (Anonymous,) Kitab al-Amthāl, 74
(Hyderabad 1351).
114 Cf. aṣ-Ṣafadī, Wāfī, VIII, 17. What is meant here is probably not Ibn Ṣaṣrā’s quick and
courteous way of greeting but the speed with which he reached the greeting at the end
of tawqīʿs he wrote(?).
wording of the text suggests that they did so for something; demons could nat-
urally be assumed to have recourse to all sorts of illegal actions.116
The paucity of references to betting has apparently to be taken as an indi-
cation that betting in this manner was not considered particularly interesting
and, possibly, was not widely and spectacularly practiced. In fact, the four pas-
sages cited, apart from the story connected with the Qurʾān, do not constitute
wagering on future events but wagering as a means to stress the correctness
of one’s opinion concerning attitudes and qualities already in existence and
observable. This was hardly a gamble and involved no conflict with the idea of
the predetermination of things that are going to happen.
2 Guessing Games
The Shāfiʿite ar-Rāfiʿī, among many others, mentions, as a potential gambling

activity, “knowledge of what is in the other’s hand” (maʿrifat mā fī yad al-
ākhar).117 Elsewhere, we find the clarifying addition, “of odd or even.”118 Oth-
erwise, one might think that the guessing involved the hand in which an object
was concealed, or rather, what the concealed object was. This last possibil-
ity is in fact indicated in one of the lexicographical definitions of the game
called kharīj. Usually, however, kharῑj, along with kharāji,119 mukhārajah, or
munāhadah, is described as a game that required guessing at the number of
fingers held up briefly by one of the players.120 In a commentary on a verse by
al-Muraqqish the Elder, it | was also suggested that mukhārajah (musāhamah) 32
served as a sort of charity lottery.121 Presumably, a number of different games
are included under those terms, some of which may not have been guessing
games.
116 Cf. Arabian Nights, ed. Macnaghten, I, 826f., trans. Littmann, II, 378 (180th night). Cf.,
further, the verse of aṣ-Ṣanawbarī, below, Ch. IV, n. 66.
117 Cf. ar-Rāfiʿī, Muḥarrar, Ms. Istanbul Fatih 2103, fol. 267b, and Ms. Brit. Mus. or. 4285, fol.
IIIa. See below, Ch. III, n. 160.
118 Cf. the glossator of Ms. Istanbul Fatih 2103 of ar-Rāfiʿī, Muḥarrar, fol. 267b; az-Zarkashī (?),
Commentary on an-Nawawī’s Minhāj, Ms. Yale L-54a (Cat. Nemoy 1054), fol. 161b. There
seems to be no relationship to the game named khasā-wa-zakā “odd and even,” see below,
n. 278.
119 See below, n. 277.
120 Cf. Lane, 718b, 710c–720a; J. Hell, Der Diwan des Abu Ḏuʾaib, 29, n. 1 (Hannover 1926) (?).
Differently Hyde, II, 225 f.
121 Cf. al-Mufaḍḍalīyāt, ed. C.J. Lyall, I, 477, II, 178 (Oxford 1918–1921).
A Bedouin guessing game, called “lizard game,” consisted of drawing a lizard

in the sand and placing the hand upon one part of its body. The other party had
to guess without looking which part it was that was covered by the hand.122
Verses by Ṭarafah and Labīd compare a ship cutting through the waves
and the forelegs of a wild bull in flight parting the desert sand, respectively,
to “a mufāyil dividing the sand with his hand” and to “a gambler (muqāmir)
playing fiyāl.” Fiyāl is explained as a game in which an object is buried in
one of two small plots of sand, with the winner being the one who guesses in
which one of the two it is.123 This is sometimes called a children’s game, but
it may not have been played exclusively by children. The suggestion of some
lexicographer that it is to be identified with suddar/ṭuban124 is hardly possible,
if the very imperfect description given of the latter is even approximately
correct. A description very similar to that of fiyāl is given to a game called
unbūthah.125
3 Lotteries and the Casting of Lots (Qurʿah)
True lotteries depend on two things, the haphazard drawing, from a number
of alike and marked tokens, the one that designates the winner and the contri-
bution by the participants of a share of the prizes. The famous maysir game of
pre-Islamic times fulfilled both conditions and thus was a true lottery. It will be
discussed in some detail in the following chapter. No other true lottery seems
to have been reported in Muslim sources.
33 The casting of lots is done to determine doubtful issues or to distribute prop-
erty. It does not normally involve a contribution on the part of its beneficiaries
or victims, and cannot be characterized as gambling. In Islam, it occasionally
122 Cf. al-Jāḥiẓ, Hayawān, VI, 43 f. (Cairo 1323–1325), ed. ʿAbd-as-Salām M. Hārūn, VI, 146
(reprint Cairo 1384–1389/1965–1969).
123 Cf. Ṭarafah, Dīwān, ed. M. Seligsohn, text 7, trans. 31 (Paris 1901), and Labīd, in Sharḥ Dīwān
Labīd, ed. Iḥsān ʿAbbās, 80 (Kuwait 1962). The verse does not appear in the edition and
translation of Labīd’s poems by A. Huber and C. Brockelmann (Leiden 1891). Ṭarafah’s
verse is quoted in Lisān, XIV, 51. For a description of the game, cf. also Lane, 2325c–2326a,
2474c–2475a.
125 Cf. (Abū Hilāl) al-ʿAskarī, at-Talkhīṣ ( fī maʿrifat asmāʾ al-ashyāʾ), ed. ʿIzzat Ḥasan, 722
(Damascus 1389–1390/1969–1970); Lisān, III, 15. Mufāyalah is mentioned by al-ʿAskarī,
Talkhīs, 719. Cf. already Hyde, II, 261 f., who refers to Golius, Lexicon Arabico-Latinum, 2289
(Amsterdam 1653).
was considered as gambling and therefore classified as illegal. When lots were
drawn to decide who was to undertake a dangerous or unpleasant task, this con-
stituted a sort of risk taking that could easily appear objectionable on that basis
to certain Muslim jurists. This applies to the story of Jonah and, for instance,
to a situation such as the one in which two men cast lots as to who should
descend into a well to fetch honey from a beehive in it.126 The Qurʿān refers
to the casting of lots in connection with Maryam (Mary), supposedly partic-
ipated in by Zakarīyāʾ (3:44/39). More explicit is the use of lots (sāhama)127
in the case of Yūnus (Jonah) who lost (d-ḥ-ḍ)128 and was thrown into the sea
(37:141/141). There were also some Prophetic traditions describing decisions
made on the basis of casting lots. Consequently, decision by lot came to be
permitted for a variety of legal cases concerning manumission, divorce, inheri-
tance, and other situations in which claims of equal validity were to be resolved.
While in ancient pre-Islamic times arrows were supposed to have been used as
lots, as indicated also by the use of the verb sāhama, the later common prac-
tice was the use of pieces of paper (ruqʿah, pl. riqāʿ) or of seal rings put into and
then drawn from the wide sleeves of scholarly garments. A detailed description
of the legal role of lots was, for instance, given by the Ḥanbalite Ibn Qayyim al-
Jawzīyah.129 Repeatedly he mentions that Ibn Ḥanbal expressed himself | to 34
the effect that people who considered the use of lots as gambling were either
evil or ignorant. Indeed, one of them, we are told elsewhere, was the ill-famed
126 Cf. Ḥamzah al-Iṣfahānī, Durrah, 280.

127 While the expression used in the Qurʾān is commonly equated with the casting of lots,
a fantastic elaboration of the story occurs in al-Kisāʾī, Qiṣaṣ al-anbiyāʾ, ed. I. Eisenberg,
299 (Leiden 1922–1923). It describes a preliminary casting of lots, followed by a procedure
designated by the verb tasāhama where everybody wrote his name on a small ball of lead.
All those balls were thrown into the sea, and the one with the name of Yūnus on it surfaced.
The story presupposes a general interest of the reader in procedures of casting lots.
128 It may be noted that this verb is explained by maqrūʿ or maghlūb. However, maqmūr which
would indicate an association with gambling appears in ar-Rāghib al-Iṣfahānī, Muḥāḍarāt,
I, 447.
129 Cf. Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzīyah, aṭ-Ṭuruq al-ḥukmīyah, 287–328 (Cairo 1372/1953). For the use
of the qurʿah to decide equal claims, cf. also the Shāfiʿite ʿAbd-al-ʿAzīz b. ʿAbd-as-Salām,
Qawāʿid, I, 74, 90 f. (Cairo 1388/1968). Ibn ʿAbd-as-Salām, I, 96, makes it clear that lots
are not admissible for deciding who is to be thrown overboard if a ship is in danger of
sinking, in contrast to what was possible in pre-Islamic times, as evidenced by the story of
Yūnus. For the ḥadīths on casting lots, see Concordance, V, 367b–368a. Cf. also, for instance,
az-Zubayr b. Bakkār, Muwafƒaqīyāt, ed. S.M. al-ʿĀnī, 363 (Baghdād 1972); al-Kindī, Wulāh
(below, n. 205), 138.
(Ḥanafite) Bishr al-Marīsī.130 It seems understandable that in spite of all the

impeccable precedents in favor of casting lots, the “making of a distinction in
cases of ambiguity”131 by lot could be considered an inadmissible avoidance of
legal reasoning in favor of recourse to chance and therefore be rejected. Still,
“gambling” is hardly the proper description of it.
In the story of the fisherman Khalīfah in the Arabian Nights, the caliph
appearing in it takes a piece of paper, cuts it into small pieces, and tells his wazīr
Jaʿfar to write on each piece a different prize, such as money in the amounts of
one dīnār to one thousand dīnārs, offices, punishments, etc. Then he orders
Khalīfah to draw one of those pieces of paper. The first time, Khalīfah draws a
hundred lashes, then a blank, and finally one dīnār.132 This episode is similar
to modern give-away shows on television and has the same purpose, that is,
to translate wishful thinking into imagined reality. On a smaller scale, such
competitions for prizes may occasionally have been organized, even if we have
no concrete evidence for them. They do not qualify as lotteries, but in the
overall Muslim view of gambling, they could indeed be considered as gambling
activities. The same can be said about the occasions, no doubt quite common,
when military booty and the like was distributed by means of lots.
For an example of a divinatory practice called qurʿah, see below, p. 51.
4 Dicing
Although it may be right to say that dice games can be made dependent on
35 skill and judgment,133 the throwing of dice as such can | be considered a game
of pure chance. All through Islamic times, the dice ( faṣṣ, kaʿb, kaʿbah) used in
games were usually two in number. Each was marked with pips (nuqaṭ) result-
ing in the numerical value of seven for each two parallel sides of the six sides
of the cube.134 The word qimār “gambling” is specifically applied to their use.
130 Cf. Ibn Abī Ḥātim ar-Rāzī, Ādāb ash-Shāfiʿī, ed. M.Z. al-Kawtharī, 175 (Cairo 1372/1953).
131 At-tamyīz ʿind al-ishtibāh, cf. Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzīyah, aṭ-Ṭuruq al-ḥukmīyah, 308.
132 Cf. Arabian Nights, ed. Macnaghten, IV, 178–180, trans. Littmann, V, 539–543 (841st to 842nd
nights). The word qurʿah is expectedly not employed in the story.
133 Cf. O. Jacoby, in M. Ploscowe and E.J. Lukas (eds.), Gambling, in Annals of the American
Academy of Political and Social Science, CCLXIX (1950), 41. See also below, n. 157.
134 Cf. the description of dice in aṣ-Ṣafadī, Ghayth, II, 52; al-Qalqashandī, Ṣubḥ (al-aʿshā), II,
141 (Cairo 1331/1913). For faṣṣ, cf. Syriac pessā, pessṯā, and peṣṣṯā, pl. peṣṣē. C. Brockelmann,
Lexicon Syriacum, 580a, 438a (Halle 1928), seems to suggest a derivation from the roots
n-p-s and n-p-ṣ. However, a derivation from Greek pessos (hardly psēphos), with, perhaps,
The question is to what an extent dice served for gambling by themselves or

were props for gambling games dependent on them. They normally appear in
connection with nard. Most likely, the majority of references to dice, whether
nard is mentioned at the same time or not, has to be considered as referring to
nard. Nard, in fact, was also simply called kiʿāb, referring not to the men (kilāb,
lit. “dogs”) used in the game but to the dice. The designation of the numerical
values of the pips with Persian numerals also points to a connection with a
game of Persian origin such as nard.
In Graeco-Arabic translation literature, the addition of nard where the Greek
text has kybeuein thus came naturally. For the translation of the dream book of
Artemidorus, the usage can easily be checked with the help of the lexicograph-
ical study by E. Schmitt.135 Kybeuein (205 Pack/369–370 Ar.) is rendered fī l-liʿb
bi-n-nard. On the other hand, psēphopaiktein (228 Pack/419 Ar.) appears as liʿb
bi-l-fuṣūṣ, which would refer to dice rather than the pieces used in the game.
And paizein psēphois (13 Pack/27 Ar.) curiously enough is rendered “playing
chess.”
One of the sayings going back to the Monosticha of Pseudo-Menander reads:
“Either you do not play nard, or you tolerate whatever fate may bring.”136 The
Greek original has not yet been | traced. It is quite likely to have been something 36
like this: Ē mē kybeuēis ē hypomeneis (?) tēn tychēn.
On a more scholarly level, it is true, kybeutēs would be translated by muqā-
mir. This is what we find in the translation of the Nicomachean Ethics 1122a7–
8.137
some influence from a Semitic root, appears preferable, cf. S. Fraenkel, Die aramäischen
Fremdwörter im Arabischen, 59 ff. (Leiden 1886). Kaʿb, pl. kiʿāb, meant originally no doubt
astragals, and not six-sided dice with pips. This causes a certain problem with regard to
the oldest Arabic references and with regard to children’s games. In both cases, astragals
would often appear to be meant.
135 Cf. E. Schmitt, Lexikalische Untersuchungen zur arabischen Übersetzung von Artemidors
Traumbuch (Wiesbaden 1970). “Pack” refers to the edition of the Greek text by R.A. Pack
(Leipzig 1963), while “Ar.” refers to the edition of the Arabic text by T. Fahd (Damascus
1964).
136 Cf. M. Ullmann, Die arabische Überlieferung der sogenannten Menandersentenzen, 35,
no. 150 (Wiesbaden 1961, Abh. für die Kunde des Morgenlandes 34, 1). For the idea expressed
here, cf. below, Ch. IV, n. 64.
137 Cf. Ibn Abī Dharr (al-ʿĀmirī?), as-Saʿādah (wa-l-isʿād), ed. M. Minovi, 75, 232 (Wiesbaden
1957–1958). The original translation of the Nicomachean Ethics remains to be checked.
In the edition of the Arabic translation of Polemo’s physiognomics (Scriptores phys-
iognomonici, ed. R. Förster, I, 123, l. 5, Leipzig 1893), the editor, G. Hoffmann, read “play”
In astrological works, gaming and amusement of all sorts is associated with

the planet Venus. In the Arabic translation of Dorotheus, Mercury in the field
of Venus indicates people who are interested in playing nard.138 In this connec-
tion, Mercury apparently signifies the commercial gambling aspects of gam-
ing. The Greek original is not preserved. It probably contained something like
kybeuein. However, when Abū Maʿshar refers to Venus and its influence on the
right time for playing chess and nard, we cannot be sure of the existence of a
Greek prototype for his statement.139 We also must admit that the pre-Islamic
original of the story about the sage Luqmān and his master’s gambling escapes
us. When it is described as involving nard,140 this may reflect the common later
identification of dicing with nard.
“Gambling” (qimār), however, is occasionally coordinated with nard (and
other games) in a way which might be taken to indicate that a distinction was
made between dicing and nard. In the case of children’s games, kaʿb (pl. kiʿāb)
is distinguished from nard and all kinds of qimār, but kaʿb here probably does
not refer to ordinary dice.141 It is different in the case of a passage from the Ḥiyal
37 al-luṣūṣ of al-Jāḥiẓ where thieves are praised “for playing nard and | chess and
encouraging qimār.”142 Here, qimār apparently referred to all kinds of gambling,
among which nard and chess were only the most prominent examples. A sec-
retary of the caliph al-Mahdī wrote to the governor of Mecca, reproaching the
Meccans with evil conduct such as wasting their time with “nard, qimār, maysir,
chess, and all other diverting and distracting worthless pursuits (abāṭīl).”143
Much later, the gambling poet, Ibn Qutulmish, was described as being devoted
(l-ʿ-b) and suggested it was a translation of philokybos. This is pure fancy, depending on a
substitution for the transmitted “talking” (ḥadīth).
138 Cf. F. Rosenthal, Das Fortleben der Antike im Islam, 326 (Zürich and Stuttgart 1965), Engl.
trans., 241 (London 1975).
139 Cf. Abū Maʿshar, al-Madkhal ( fī ʿilm aḥkām an-nujūm), Ms. Istanbul Jarullah 1508, fol. 208b,
and Ms. Brit. Mus. add. 7490, fols. 246b–247a (where polo is also mentioned). Cf. also
al-Bīrūnī, at-Tafhīm (li-awāʾil ṣināʿat at-tanjīm), ed. R.R. Wright, 251, 254 (paras. 430, 435)
(London 1934).
140 Cf. al-Mubashshir, Mukhtār al-ḥikam, ed. ʿA. Badawī, 260f. (Madrid 1958), see below, Ch. III,
n. 6.
141 Cf. Ibn al-Ukhūwah, (Maʿālim al-qurbah fī aḥkām al-ḥisbah,) ed. trans. R. Levy, text 214,
trans. 86 (London 1938, E.J.W. Gibb Memorial Series, N. S. 12).
142 Al-Jāḥiẓ was quoted by al-Isfarāʾinī, at-Tabṣīr ( fī d-dīn), ed. M.Z. al-Kawtharī, 50f. (Cairo
1359/1940). “Encouraging” is based upon the necessary reading wa-bi-ḥaththihim.
143 Cf. the addition of al-Khuzāʿī to al-Azraqī’s History of Mecca, in F. Wüstenfeld, Die
Chroniken der Stadt Mekka, IV, 163, 168 (Leipzig 1857–1861). See below, Ch. V, n. 89.
to qimār and nard.144 Unless qimār here is again used losely for all kinds of gam-
bling, it would seem possible that a distinction was intended between the use
of dice by themselves and their use in connection with nard. But what would be
the distinction between qimār and dicing when at-Tawḥīdī speaks of “gamblers
(muqāmirūn) and persistent dice players (al-liʿb bi-l-kaʿbatayn)”?145
Only as late as the sixteenth century, in the work on major sins by Ibn Ḥajar
al-Haytamī (909–974/1504–1567), do we hear about “gambling whether done
independently or in connection with a disapproved game such as chess or a
forbidden one such as nard.”146 The author has no further explanation as to
what he meant by “independent gambling.” While other interpretations are
possible and independent gambling might refer to such things as betting on
unstaged events, it may be preferable to find in it a reference to dicing. The
assumption that simple dicing was a gambling pastime in Islam as elsewhere
is a natural one. However, whether it was widespread and how it was done in
detail are matters that await documentation not available at present.
5 Chess
Turning from games of pure chance to games of true skill, the | only gambling 38
game that would truly qualify for this designation practiced in the Muslim
world was chess. It was the most famous game in Medieval Islam, as it can
justly be proclaimed the world’s most famous game. Every educated person as
well as every person aspiring to belong to the educated elite can be assumed
to have been in some way familiar with it or at least to have known about
it. Books were written on it (and have been preserved), and the discussions
of it in Muslim literature are innumerable. The modern scholarly literature
dealing with the history of chess in Islam and in the world is large and infor-
mative.147 As did nard, chess also provided the subject for manuscript illustra-
tions.
144 Cf. Yāqūt, Irshād (al-arīb), ed. D.S. Margoliouth, VII, 14 (Leiden and London 1907–1927,
E.J.W. Gibb Memorial Series 6), ed. A.F. Rifāʿī, 2nd ed., XVIII, 206 (Cairo, n. y. [1357/1938]);
al-Kutubī, Fawāt (al-Wafayāt), ed. M. Muḥyī-ad-dīn ʿAbd-al-Ḥamīd, II, 420 (Cairo 1951); aṣ-
Ṣafadī, Wāfī, III, 127. See below, Ch. V, n. 43. The vocalization Qutulmish (also Qaṭarmish)
is uncertain.
145 Cf. at-Tawḥīdī, Akhlāq al-wazīrayn, 185. See below, Ch. IV, n. 1, Ch. V, n. 73.
146 Cf. Ibn Ḥajar al-Haytamī, az-Zawājir (ʿan iqtirāf al-kabāʾir), II, 187ff. (Cairo 1370/1951).
147 A reference to the recent and most detailed publication by Wieber, Schachspiel (above,
n. 83), and its bibliography, pp. 489–505, will suffice.
When chess is brought into connection with gambling (qimār), it does not
refer to certain varieties of the game for which dice were used, but rather
to playing it for stakes. As a rule, the players themselves put up the stakes
they played for. This would fall into the category of illegal gambling. It was
different when the prize was established by a non-participant, which happened
comparatively rarely. According to legend, Indian rulers in old times might
organize a game of chess as a means for the peaceful solution of territorial
claims,148 but the gambling aspect of chess was never considered by Muslims
as something beneficial. Even without gambling, however, chess was serious
business. It could well serve as a model for a youth beginning his career as a
merchant: “Take away all your opponent has, and hold on to all you have,”149
just as chess players do.
Chess was played by two persons, or in the form of tournaments where one
player would challenge many others, in order to prove his superior skill. There
was blindfold playing, and there were many blind players. On occasion, mul-
tiple games were going on simultaneously. As an illustration for this last situ-
ation, we may mention an anecdote about the famous ninth-century jokester,
39 Abū l-ʿAynāʾ, as reported by ash-Shābushtī. On a hot summer day, Abū l-ʿAynāʾ |
went to the house of the Ṭāhirid ʿUbaydallāh b. ʿAbdallāh. There he found peo-
ple playing chess. ʿUbaydallāh explained that they were playing for a stake
(nadab), till there would be time for dinner. He asked Abū l-ʿAynāʾ to choose
sides, and Abū l-ʿAynāʾ naturally took the side of the amīr. They lost, where-
upon Abū l-ʿAynāʾ was told that his share in the loss was twenty pounds of ice
(thalj), a valuable commodity used for purposes of refrigeration. Abū l-ʿAynāʾ
went out and soon came back with Ibn Thawābah, whom he declared to be a
mountain of ice, suggesting to ʿUbaydallāh that he pay their loss with him and
use what was left over for continued playing with his friends.150 Apparently, the
point of the anecdote was to ridicule the unsuspecting Ibn Thawābah for his
enormous “frigidity,” that is, his uncouth personality and boring and boorish
behavior or the unattractiveness of his literary efforts. We would have prof-
ited more from greater precision concerning the actual situation as envisaged
by the reporter of the anecdote, such as who was playing whom and for what
148 Cf. Murray, A History of Chess, 212; Wieber, Schachspiel, 92; al-Ghuzūlī, Maṭāliʿ, I, 76f. For a
dice game with political consequences, cf. also al-Bīrūnī, India, 338 (Hyderabad 1377/1958),
trans. E. Sachau, I, 403 (London 1888, reprint 1964).
149 Cf. Badīʿ-az-zamān al-Hamadhānī, Maqāmāt, 214 f. (Beirut, n. y.), trans. W.J. Prendergast,
155 (London and Madras 1915, reprint London and Dublin 1973).
150 Cf. ash-Shābushtī, Diyārāt, 57f., quoted by Yāqūt, Irshād, ed. Margoliouth, VII, 64, ed. Rifāʿī,
XVIII, 291, and aṣ-Ṣafadī, Nakt al-himyān, 267 (Cairo 1339/1911).
stakes. It would seem, however, that the anecdote furnishes us with an exam-
ple of betting by non-participants on games played by others; this probably
mostly happened when champion players played others for a championship,
especially if the contest took place under the sponsorship of men important in
public life.
Chess playing had its fanatical devotees who became totally absorbed in the
games they happened to be engaged in. This then affected their performance of
the prescribed religious duties. As a humorous anecdote claims, it might even
go so far that a person on his deathbed, when asked to pronounce the con-
fession of faith, would gasp out only the one word, “check (mate)” (shāhak).151
The neglect of duty attributed to playing chess greatly agitated the religious | 40
authorities, but it also had consequences in a more mundane ambit of social
relations. For instance, when the subordinates of the notorious wazīr of Zuhayr
of Almeria, Aḥmad b. ʿAbbād (d. 429/1038), came to him on business, he played
chess with them all day and well into the night, forgetting all the business at
hand and, even more distressing to his visitors, forgetting to offer them some-
thing to eat.152 This certainly contributed to his unpopularity, but it would seem
that nobody suffered any substantial gambling losses. On the contrary, the story
suggests once more that there were many occasions where the game was its
own reward so much so that no stakes were needed.
According to H.J.R. Murray, “chess (in Europe) was usually played for a
stake. Probably there was no game in the Middle Ages in which it was not
the ordinary rule to increase the interest by the simple device of attaching a
prize to the victory and a penalty to the defeat. If the stake is a less prominent
feature of board-games in modern Europe, it is solely due to the fact that
in other games we enjoy more opportunities of wagering money than were
open to our ancestors.”153 In medieval Islam, we may assume that economic
151 Cf. adh-Dhahabī, Kabāʾir, 89 (Cairo 1385/1965); Ibn Ḥajar al-Haytamī, Zawājir, II, 190.
Cf. also az-Zamakhsharī, Rabīʿ, fol. 86b, who has shāh māt. Tempting as it may be for
semantic reasons to assume that the European scacci “chess men, chess” goes back to
the exclamation shāhak, and not to the unaugmented exclamation (ash-)shāh, it is not
really required by the phonetic situation. For ash-shāh used to designate the game itself,
cf. the stories reported by adh-Dhahabī and Ibn Ḥajar al-Haytamī. The usage can be traced
already in Ibn Abī d-dunyā, Dhamm (al-malāhi), ed. trans. J. Robson, Tracts on Listening
to Music, 34, 57 (London 1938), and, if adh-Dhahabī’s quotation is accurate, in the Jāmiʿ (=
Sunan?) of the early Ḥanbalite Abū Bakr al-Athram (d. 261/875 or later, cf. Sezgin, I, 509).
152 Cf. Ibn Bassām, Dhakhīrah, I, ii, 177. A person may be so engrossed in a game of chess that
he forgets to eat, cf. al-Ghazzālī, Iḥyāʾ, IV, 265.
153 Cf. Murray, A History of Chess, 474 f.
and religious considerations cut deeper into the practice of playing chess for
stakes than was the case in the West. The game was probably very widely
played without any gambling being involved. Ibn Taymīyah can be believed
when he maintained that most nard players played for a compensation (ʿiwaḍ,
the much used legal term for stakes), whereas most chess player did not.154
However, the comparative frequency with which jurists make reference to
chess accompanied by qimār as contrasted with chess without it suggests that
the custom was certainly not an unusual one. The number of anecdotes of chess
played for stakes is quite large. It should, however, be kept in mind that chess
was the most prominent and most commonly mentioned of all games. Thus,
the number of anecdotes preserved in connection with it would naturally be
larger than in other gambling games.
6 Nard (Backgammon, Trictrac)
41 Nard was the gambling game par excellence in Islam. It meant | the movement
of round pieces155 according to the outcome of the throws of a pair of dice.156
However, it was occasionally acknowledged to leave some room for skill, as,
indeed, it does.157
The game was known under a variety of designations, such as nardashīr,
the nēw(vīn)(?) Ardashīr of the Pahlavi texts,158 kiʿāb “dice,” and ʾrn (ʾrz, ʾrq), a
word, it seems, not yet explained.159 Kūbah, whose alleged meanings include
154 Cf. Ibn Taymīyah, Fatāwī, IV, 308 (Cairo, n. y. [1384–1386/1965–1966]). Elsewhere in the
Fatāwī, II, 14, speaking generally of games (malāʿib), Ibn Taymīyah says that they are
customarily played for stakes (ʿiwad).
155 Kilāb mudawwarat al-kharṭ, cf. al-Bīrūnī, al-Jamāhir ( fī maʿrifat al-jawāhir), 186 (Hyder-
abad 1355). Mahārik, from Persian muhraq, muhrah, was also used for the nard pieces, cf.
aṣ-Ṣafadī, Ghayth, II, 52; al-Qalqashandī, Ṣubḥ, II, 141; Hyde, II, 21.
156 For a description of the way nard was played in modern Persia, cf. H.J.R. Murray, (A History
of ) Board-Games (other than Chess), 113 f. (Oxford 1952).
157 See below, p. 169. The famous E. Hoyle who wrote on backgammon in the eighteenth
century (A Short Treatise on the Game of Back-gammon, London 1743) gives charts of odds
for the dice and devotes much of his little manual to rules showing what to do and what
not to do in order to have a better chance of winning. For the present-day game, cf. the
pleasantly illustrated book by O. Jacoby and J.R. Crawford (New York 1970), one of the many
books on backgammon being published at the present time.
158 Cf. Wieber, Schachspiel, 98 f.
159 Cf. al-Qurṭubī, Jāmiʿ, VIII, 338, on sūrah 10:32/33; az-Zarqūnī, Commentary on Mālik’s
Muwaṭṭaʾ, IV, 356 (Cairo 1355/1936).
that of ṭabl “drum,” is also said to mean nard.160 In his work on the Qurʾān,
al-Qurṭubī, remarkably enough, seems to have applied to nard the name of
aṭ-ṭabl (corresponding to tabula, tables).161 That its low-class devotees also gave
it a kunyah from time to time, something like Abū l-j-l-b,162 need not greatly
surprise us. Simple references to qimār in general and to dice may also aim at
nard.163
Nard could be played with chips, called “nuts” ( jawzāt), which no doubt 42
represented some monetary value. This we learn from the story of a thieves’
trick which obviously refers to nard.164 It seems that at some point of the game,
presumably at the end, the (winning) player would exclaim, “I am finished”
(tamāmī), according to a couplet of Sayf-ad-dīn al-Mushidd:
I played with a slender, willowy

Youth with a supple figure.
He said, “I am finished.” I said: “Sure!
How beautiful is the moon when it is finished/full!”165
160 Cf. al-Bukhārī, al-Adab al-mufrad, ed. M.F. ʿAbd-al-Bāqī, 326 (Cairo 1375), where kūbah =
nard is described as forbidden like eating pork or using the blood of pigs for ablutions
(see below, Ch. III, n. 89). See further Lisān, II, 225 (in Yemenite usage); Wörterbuch
der klassischen arabischen Sprache, letter K, 420 f. (Wiesbaden 1970); Concordance, VI,
71b50–55, VII, 369b40–43; Ibn Abī d-dunyā, Dhamm, 31, 53f.; Ibn al-Athīr, Nihāyah, IV, 39;
Hyde, II, 12. Ibn Abī d-dunyā mentions that qinnīn, used in the same tradition as kūbah,
was, according to some authorities, also a gambling game.
161 The text of al-Qurṭubī, Jāmiʿ, VIII, 338, has al-bāṭil (“worthless frivolity,” used descriptively
for nard on the basis of Qurʾān and ḥadīth), but the reading of the manuscripts as indicated
in the notes is aṭ-ṭabl.
162 Cf. al-Azdī, Ḥikāyat Abī l-Qāsim, ed. A. Mez, 93 and LXI (Heidelberg 1902).
163 See above, p. 35. According to E.W. Lane, An Account of the Manners and Customs of the
Modern Egyptians, 3rd ed., 55 (London 1842), the game distinctively called leab el-ḳumár
in nineteenth-century Egypt was cards.
164 See below, pp. 153 f.
165 Cf. Sayf-ad-dīn al-Mushidd, Dīwān, fol. 125a:
laʿibtu bi-n-nardi maʿ rashīqin

muhafhafin layyini l-qawāmi
qāla tamāmī fa-qultu ṣabran
mā aḥsana l-badra fī t-tamāmi.
A more specific use of tamāmī in nard is mentioned by Hyde, II, 42; it probably is not
applicable here.
The origin of nard as it was played in the Muslim world was Persian. This
is shown by the Persian terms used in connection with it166 and by the fact
that it is always closely associated with (the Persian game of) chess, with
which it has no typological similarity whatever. In the literature, it appears as
a sort of appendix to chess and is practically always mentioned where chess is
mentioned. Since there is so much less to be said about it than there is about
chess, it gets short shrift, even where one might think that it would receive
some greater consideration. In the titles of books, nard is rarely mentioned
alone. The old theoretician of chess, al-ʿAdlī, is credited also with a special
title on nard.167 The great ar-Rāzī wrote “On the Wisdom of Nard.”168 “The
poem rhyming in sīn describing nard” by a certain Abū ʿAbdallāh Muḥammad
b. Aḥmad al-Khayyāṭ, who lived in the first half of the fourteenth century,
may, or may not, have been a work on the theory of the game.169 Later in the
fourteenth century, Ibn Zuqqāʿah (745–816/1344–1408) wrote “The Rosebush
43 on the Knowledge of Nard” (Dawḥat al-ward fī maʿrifat | an-nard).170 None of
these works appears to have been preserved. In the case of Ibn Zuqqāʿah, it
might be suspected that perhaps chess was in fact mentioned in the title before
nard.
The game could, of course, also be enjoyed without accompanying gambling.
The jurists at least would consider this possibility, although the game still
remained illegal in their view.171 But clearly, in the numerous references to
people playing, or being devoted to, nard, it is understood that some kind of
gambling was involved, whether or not it is expressly mentioned. We have no
way of knowing whether there existed many, or how large a percentage of, nard
players who played without any stakes whatever.
7 Fourteen
No later than the early ninth century, we find this board-game mentioned as
shahārdah or arbaʿata ʿashara, both meaning “fourteen” respectively in Per-
166 See above, n. 81, and below, Ch. V, nn. 27, 49, as well as the anecdote reported in Aghānī,
XVII, 103, from Ibn Abī Ṭāhir Ṭayfūr and translated in F. Rosenthal, Humor, 98f. See further
below, p. 88.
167 Cf. Ibn an-Nadīm, Fihrist, ed. G. Flügel, 155 (Leipzig 1871–1872).
168 Cf. al-Bīrunī, Risālah, ed. P. Kraus, 21 (Paris 1936). See below, Ch. VI, n. 23.
169 Cf. aṣ-Ṣafadī, Ghayth, II, 52, mentioned by Hyde.
170 Cf. as-Sakhāwī, aḍ-Ḍawʾ (al-lāmiʿ li-ahl al-qarn at-tāsiʿ), I, 131, l. 2 (Cairo 1353–1355).
171 See below, Ch. III, n. 84.
sian and in Arabic.172 Ibn Saʿd already tells us that the pious Ibn ʿUmar, the
son of the caliph ʿUmar b. al-Khaṭṭāb, used to smash fourteen boards, as he
did nard boards, or hit the players over the head with them.173 Among the
seven anti-fourteen statements in Ibn Abī Shaybah’s Muṣannaf, one speaks
of children who were fasting and diverting themselves with a game of four-
teen, when ʿAlī came and bought them walnuts for a dirham, so that they
could amuse themselves with the walnuts and stop playing fourteen.174 Appar-
ently, the walnut game was considered less harmful than fourteen, proba-
bly, because in the former, no other stake than the walnuts themselves was
involved.
Fourteen was identified with manqalah “mancala,” which is first attested
in the Kitāb al-Aghānī. The source of Aghānī was a work | by az-Zubayr b. 44
Bakkār (d. 256/870), reporting an event that had taken place in Umayyad times
in a circle of poets. The report contained the statement that “the qwq are
even,” and this statement is glossed as referring to a game like manqalah.175
The unexplained qwq (which must be a feminine or plural, thus ruling out a
correction to qirq) may perhaps be read fuwaq “notched arrows,” which could
indeed correspond in their function to the boards with holes employed in the
game of fourteen.175a It is not clear whether the gloss referring to manqalah goes
back to the original report of az-Zubayr b. Bakkār or was an addition, perhaps,
by the author of Aghānī.
Fourteen was further identified with ḥizzah, mentioned in ash-Shāfiʿī’s Kitāb
al-Umm, in the passage fundamental for the Shāfiʿite attitude toward gambling.
Ḥizzah is explained there as “a piece of wood in which there are holes for
playing.”176
172 Cf. Ibn Abī Shaybah, Muṣannaf, Ms. Istanbul Nuru Osmaniye 1219, fol. 72a; F. Rosenthal,
Knowledge Triumphant, 75 (Leiden 1970). Al-Qurṭubī, Jāmiʿ, VIII, 338, quotes Abū Ḥanīfah
as referring to the game, but this must be understood as usual to mean the Ḥanafite
school.
173 Cf. Ibn Saʿd, Ṭabaqāt, ed. E. Sachau and others, IV, i, 114, l. 16, and 120, l. 27 (Leiden
1905–1940). Al-Ḥalīmī, Minhāj, Mss. Istanbul Topkapısarayı Ahmet III 930, fol. 151a, and
Ahmet III 500, Vol. III, fol. 39a, uses the spelling jahārdah in this context. For Ibn ʿUmar
beating nard players and breaking the board, cf. also Mālik, Muwaṭṭaʾ, IV, 356 (Cairo
1355/1936); al-Bukhārī, al-Adab al-mufrad, 327. For Abū Hurayrah allegedly playing four-
teen, cf. az-Zamakhsharī, Rabīʿ, fol. 87b.
174 Cf. Ibn Abī Shaybah, Muṣannaf, fol. 72a.
175 Cf. Aghānī, XI, 19 (Aghānī3, XII, 116); Murray, Board-Games, 165ff. Manqalah occurs in the
Arabian Nights, ed. Macnaghten, I, 109, trans. Littmann, I, 171 (15th night).
175a Or is quwaq to be connected with uwaq (below, n. 251)?
176 Cf. ash-Shāfiʿī, Kitāb al-Umm, VI, 213, see above, n. 3, and below, Ch. III, n. 99.
Ibn Ḥajar al-Haytamī, referring to the Shāfiʿī passage, has this to say: “Ḥizzah
is a piece of wood in which there are three rows of holes into which small
pebbles are put for playing.177 It may also be called fourteen. In Egypt, it is
called manqalah. In the Taqrīb of Sulaym, it is explained as a board in which
there are twenty-eight holes, fourteen on one side, and fourteen on the other,
for playing.”178 In fact, all such descriptions are likely to refer to games similar
in principle and played according to different rules.
The connection of fourteen with gambling is attested only perfunctorily in
the references of legal and religious scholars to it.
8 Aṭ-Ṭāb wa-d-Dukk
Ibn Ḥajar al-Haytamī refers to aṭ-ṭāb wa-d-dukk in these words: “Forbidden is

the game called by the common people aṭ-ṭāb wa-d-dukk, for it depends on
45 what is brought out by the four rods | (qaṣabāt).179 There is some possible reser-
vation (as to its being forbidden), if it is free from gambling and foolishness, but
it leads to them. Something like it has been mentioned in the Khādim. He said.
And comparable to it is the kanjifah.”180
Apparently the oldest preserved reference to it is to be found in a long poem
by Ibn Dāniyāl (d. 710/1310):
And I fell in love with the boys, then reverted

To being young, till I went back to grade school.
177 Murray, Board-Games, 205, quotes this explanation from the work on chess and nard
by al-Qābūnī (784–869/1382–1465, cf. [C.] Brockelmann, GAL [Geschichte der arabischen
Litteratur] II, 97, Suppl., II, 115, Weimar-Berlin and Leiden 1898–1949).
178 Cf. Ibn Ḥajar al-Haytamī, Zawājir, II, 191. The author of the Taqrīb, the Shāfiʿite Sulaym b.
Ayyūb ar-Rāzī, died in 447/1055, cf. Ibn Khallikān, (Wafayāt al-aʿyān,) ed. Iḥsān ʿAbbās, II,
397–399 (Beirut, n. y. [1972]).
179 For a description of the game and the role of the “rods” in it, cf. Murray, Board-Games, 95f.,
who based himself upon Hyde, II, 217–223, and Lane. Cf. also the references in R. Dozy,
Supplément (aux dictionnaires arabes), II, 65a (Leiden 1881, reprint Paris and Leiden 1927).
Dozy cites a passage referring to aṭ-ṭāb from the Arabian Nights, XI, 390, of the Breslau
edition of M. Habicht (Breslau 1825–1843), which is not contained in Macnaghten’s edition,
trans. Littmann, IV, 822. Littmann inexactly has trictrac. What, if any, connection the
references to d-k-k in Dozy, Supplément, I, 453b, may have with the game is not clear to me.
180 Cf. Ibn Ḥajar al-Haytamī, Zawājir, II, 191. The Khādim appears to be a work by az-Zarkashī,
entitled Khādim ar-Rāfiʿī wa-r-Rawḍah (Brockelmann, GAL, Suppl., I, 753). The comparison
with kanjifah (see below, p. 63) was, it seems, added by Ibn Ḥajar al-Haytamī and refers to
the legal situation, and not to the four suits of playing cards.
Every fawn intoxicates and thus kills his lover,

When he gives him the wine of spittle to drink.
I studied cheating, till I
Became the imām of dice (kiʿāb) playing.181
Then I gambled among them with date pits182
And with ad-dukk at times and aṭ-ṭāb.
I played pigeons among them. How (often)
Did I thereby hunt every swift183 bird!184
9 Qirq (Merels, Spanish Alquerque, French Marelles, German Mühle) 46
Qirq is mentioned in the cited passage from the Kitāb al-Umm. Ibn Ḥajar
al-Haytamī explains that the word is to be vocalized qirq and then cites ar-Rāfiʿī
from an autograph copy of Judge ar-Rūyānī (d. 502/1108) for this vocalization
and for its being called “chess of the Maghribites”: “A square is drawn on the
ground with two lines in the form of a cross in the midst of it. On top of the
lines, small pebbles are placed to play with.”185
181 The meter is not in order (a long first syllable in imām is required), but the meaning is
clear. For “cheating” (ḥirāf ), see Dozy, Supplément, I, 272a.
182 Al-Badrī, Ghurrah, between fols. 128b–129b, quotes verses on playing with nawā (not
available to me), which may refer to the same game. It is also mentioned in the verses
below, Ch. IV, n. 59.
183 For qallāb, the precise meaning of which remains to be established, cf. Dozy, Supplément,
II, 390 f. Note also the unusual accusative after laʿiba. The successful hunting refers to the
lovers he captured.
184 Cf. Ibn Dāniyāl, Dīwān, Ms. Istanbul Aya Sofya 4880, fol. 159a (meter khafīf ):
wa-ashiqtu ṣ-ṣibyāna thumma taṣāghar-

tu ilā an rajaʿtu li-l-kuttābi
kullu ẓabyin yumītu ʿāshiqahū suk-
ran idhā mā saqāhu khamra r-ruḍābi
wa-tafaqqahtu fī l-ḥirāfi ilā an
ṣirtu imāma ⟨l-⟩ liʿbi bi-l-kiʿābi (?)
thumma qāmartu baynahum bi-nawā t-tam-
ri wa-bi-d-dukki tāratan wa-bi-ṭ-ṭābi
wa-laʿibtu l-ḥamāma fīhim fa-kam ṣid-
tu bihī kulla ṭāʾirin qallābi.
185 Cf. Ibn Ḥajar al-Haytamī, Zawājir, II, 191. For an Aghānī passage on qirq, see below, Ch. V,
n. 35. For a discussion of the game, cf. Murray, Board-Games, 37 ff.
The occasional identification by lexicographers of qirq with ṭuban is proba-

bly not justified. However, it gave rise to a fuller description of one of the types
of board used for the game, accompanied by a drawing.186 Incidentally, the
name “mill” (if this is the applicable meaning of raḥā) is applied to ṭuban in
Lisān, XVII, 133.
While qirq is probably more often mentioned in the sources than fourteen
(and has remained a favorite game to the present time), our knowledge of any
gambling activities connected with it is not better in the one case than in the
other.
10 Horse Racing
Camels were often raced, and it seems occasionally also other large animals,
since the legal authorities consider the attitude to be taken toward the racing
of elephants, mules, and donkeys.187 However, horse racing was by far the most
important and best organized activity of this kind. Contrary to the ḥadīth of the
Prophet which permitted competitions with camels, horses, and arrows (khuff,
47 ḥāfir, naṣl), some people even contended that racing for stakes was | permissi-
ble only for horses, as this was what the Arabs of old were accustomed to;188 this
no doubt was a most exceptional view, which was never followed in practice.
Rihān was the most common term for stake racing, and it preferably referred
to horse racing.189 While horses were often raced across country, special hip-
podromes were commonly found in the urban environment. The number of
horses competing in a race could vary from two to ten, and, probably rarely,
more than ten. The importance of the horse, in particular for military purposes
186 Cf. al-Fīrūzābādī, Qāmūs, III, 271 (Būlāq 1303); Murtaḍā az-Zabīdī, Tāj (al-ʿarūs), VII, 57
(Būlāq 1307); trans. Lane, 1829b. Murray, Board-Games, 47, following Hyde, II, 206ff., refers
to the identification of qirq with suddar/ṭuban and mentions various local designations
such as drīs (from Idrīs), Turkish dokuztaș.
187 Cf., for instance, al-ʿImrānī (d. 558/1163, cf. Brockelmann, GAL, Suppl., I, 675), al-Bayān ( fī
l-furūʿ), Ms. Brit. Mus. or. 3739, fol. 78a, chapter on as-sabq wa-r-ramy; ar-Rāfiʿī, Muḥarrar,
Ms. Brit. Mus. or. 4285, fol. IIIa. The tenth-century Abū l-Layth as-Samarqandī, Qurrat al-
ʿuyūn, 41 (Cairo 1358/1939, in the margin of ash-Shaʿrānī, Mukhtaṣar Tadhkirat al-Qurṭubī),
chapter on liwāṭ, includes donkey racing among activities to be disapproved strongly. Cf.,
further, Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzīyah, Furūsīyah, 8 f., 65, 67, who also mentions bovines (baqar);
see also below, Ch. IV, n. 43.
188 Cf. ad-Dimyāṭī, Faḍl al-khayl, Ms. Bodleian Marsh 389, fol. 77b.
189 For another word, ghālaqa, see Concordance, V, 100b29–31, and the dictionaries.
and for hunting, required the most intensive occupation with all aspects of
horse breeding and training, of which the conditioning of horses for speed in
racing was not the least. The literature produced on the subject of horses was
correspondingly large. It was written by experts on the training and handling of
horses, by physicians specializing in veterinary medicine, but also by philolo-
gians and jurists.190
Modern writers on the history of horse racing in the West have come up
with statements such as: “This … is the only undoubted reference to betting
on horses (under Henry VIII of England), although the king paid streams
of gambling-debts on cards, tennis, dominoes, dice, ‘shovilleborde’, ‘bowles’,
‘prymero’, ‘pope Julius game’, and ‘Imperiall’.”191 And, “it was in the seventeenth
century that the stakes race, a race in which the owners of the horses put
up monetary stakes, all of which go to the winner, was devised.”192 No matter
how valid these statements may be, stake racing was practiced constantly and
much earlier in the Muslim world. The stakes were put up by one or more of
the participants, or were in the form of prizes donated by non-participants.193
Considering the large cost and labor that went into the training of race horses,
the likely assumption is that practically all racing involved stakes of some
sort. This required legal scrutiny as to possible violations of the prohibition
of gambling. However, we must not lose sight of the fact that racing was only
one aspect of horsemanship. In the books on horses by philologians published
G. Levi Della Vida, the concern | with racing is relatively minor; possibly a little 48
more is said explicitly on racing in the work of Ibn al-Aʿrābī than in that of Ibn
al-Kalbī.194 A work such as La Chasse et les Sports chez les Arabes by L. Mercier195
has hardly anything to say on stake racing, and only a very few perfunctory
remarks are contained in F. Viré’s article on “faras” in the second edition of the
Encyclopaedia of Islam; however, the article on “furūsiyya” by G. Douillet and
D. Ayalon has some information on racing, prizes, and betting. The manuals on
the breeding and training of horses often pay no attention to betting problems.
Horse racing was a favorite pastime in pre-Islamic Arabia. The Egyptian
religious scholar ʿĪsā b. Lahīʿah (d. 145/December 762–January 763) is already
190 Cf. F. Viré, in E(ncyclopaedia of ) I(slam)2, s.v. faras.

191 Cf. R. Longrigg, The History of Horse Racing, 29 (New York 1972). On p. 271, Longrigg states
that the Arabs did little racing!
192 Cf. J.I. Day, in Ploscowe and Lukas (eds.), Gambling, 55.
194 Cf. G. Levi Delia Vida, Les “Livres des chevaux” de Hišām ibn al-Kalbī et Muḥammad ibn
al-Aʿrābī (Leiden 1928, Publications de la Fondation de Goeje 8).
195 Published in Paris 1927, cf. pp. 198–200.
credited with a book entitled al-Jalāʾib wa-l-ḥalāʾib in which he mentioned

every race (course, ḥalbah) where horses were run in pre-Islamic and Islamic
times.196 For obvious reasons, the supposed precedents set by the Prophet and
the early Muslims were greatly cherished by all those concerned with horse rac-
ing. The distances over which the Prophet had the horses run were mentioned
in detail. His horses were either conditioned for racing, or they were not. The
term for such conditioning was iḍmara or ḍammara, and the procedure was
carefully described.197 For the manner in which the Prophet was believed to
have handled the prizes, we may quote what ad-Dimyāṭi (613–705/1217–1306)
has to say in the fifth chapter of his Faḍl al-khayl:
Ibn Banīn198 has mentioned in his book that the Messenger of God raced
49 horses with garments that had come to him from the Yemen as | stakes.
He gave the winner (sābiq)199 three, the second horse (muṣallī) two, the
third horse one, the fourth horse one dīnār, the fifth horse one dirham,
and the sixth horse a rod (qaṣabah).200 He said: May God bless you and
all of you, the winner (sābiq) and the loser ( fiskil).
196 Cf. al-Masʿūdī, Murūj (adh-dhahab), ed. Barbier de Meynard and Pavet de Courteille, IV,
24 f. (Paris 1861–1877).
197 In addition to the manuals on horses, cf. also, for instance, Ibn Ḥajar, Fatḥ, VI, 412.
If two men entered into an agreement that they would condition two horses for a
month or a longer or shorter period and then race them ( yatarāhan rajulān ʿalā farasayn
ʿalā an yuḍ(am)mirāhumā shahran aw akthar aw aqall), the problem came up what was
to be done, if at the end of the time stipulated one of them claimed that his horse was
not yet ready, cf. ʿAbdallāh b. Maymūn, al-Ifādah (wa-t-tabṣīr), Ms. Istanbul Köprülü I, 1211,
fol. 163a (which here has a better text than Ms. Köprülü I, 1213, fol. 171b).
198 Presumably, ʿAbd-al-Ghanī b. Sulaymān b. Banīn (575–661/1181 or 1182–1263), cf. adh-
Dhahabī, ʿIbar, V, 265 f.; G. Vajda, Le Dictionnaire des autorités (de ʿAbd al-Muʾmin ad-
Dimyāṭī), 44 (Paris 1962).
199 Sābiq for the winner and fiskil or sukkayt for the last horse in a race were words in wide
use, but there were altogether ten names for horses in the order in which they came in
in a race. They were often discussed in the literature, as, for instance, by ad-Dimyāṭī, Faḍl
al-khayl; al-ʿAskarī, Talkhīṣ, 564; Lisān, XI, 158; ad-Damīrī, Ḥayawān, I, 352 (Būlāq 1292);
EI2, II, 953a, s.v. furūsiyya, etc.
200 Here, probably, the sign of the loser, as in the story of ash-Shaʿbī who was found playing
chess and had a qaṣabah (qaṣab) or rīshah “feather” stuck in his beard, in order to indicate
that he had lost, cf. as-Sakhāwī, Shiṭranj, Ms. Brit. Mus. or. 9227, fol. 17b. Wakīʿ, Akhbār
al-quḍāh, ed. ʿA.M. al-Marāghī, II, 414 (Cairo 1366/1947), has only the version speaking of
“feather.” Cf. also Wieber, Schachspiel, 208–210. For qaṣabah as the goal post and the rod
of victory, see below, pp. 115 f.
Abū l-Ḥasan Ahmad b. Yaḥyā b. Jābir al-Balādhurī < Ibn Saʿd < al-
Wāqidī < ʿAbd-al-Muhaymin b. ʿAbbās b. Sahl b. Saʿd < his father (ʿAbbās)
< his grandfather (Sahl), who said: (Once) when the Messenger of God
raced horses, I was riding on his horse aẓ-Ẓarib.201 He gave me a Yemenite
cloak. He (ʿAbd-al-Muhaymin?) said: I have found a piece of it in our
house.
He (al-Balādhurī) said: I have been told by Muḥammad b. Saʿd < al-
Wāqidī < Sulaymān b. al-Ḥārith < az-Zubayr b. al-Mundhir b. Abī Usayd,
who said: Abū Usayd as-Sāʿidī raced on the Prophet’s horse Lizāz, and he
gave him a Yemenite garment …
Al-Khuttalī202 reports in his book a tradition of Ibn Lahīʿah < Bakr b.
ʿAmr < Ibrāhīm b. Muslim < Abū ʿAlqamah, the client of the Banū Hāshim,
(stating) that the Messenger of God had ordered the horses to be raced,
and he put up as prizes for them (sabbaqahā) three bunches of dates from
three palm trees. He gave one bunch to the winner, one to the second
horse, and one to the third horse. They were fresh dates.203
In these cases, the Prophet was apparently thought of as the only person to put
up prizes for jockeys riding his own horses. This avoided the legal difficulties
that surrounded contributory stake racing. Prizes could be imagined, or were in
reality, very high. Thus, two tribal groups raced their horses for a stake of thirty
camels and a slave girl.204 Often it may have been the loser’s very valuable horse
that was at stake, as in a race between the Murād and the | Yaḥṣub in the first 50
decade of the ninth century.205 The ideal horse was of course one whose owner,
when he entered it in a race, could be sure that it would win the stake for him;
no doubt, it existed only in a poet’s imagination.206
Stake racing could be arranged at the spur of the moment, as is shown by a
story reported in the great history of Rashīd-ad-dīn: “One day they were riding
on easy-paced horses and Chaghatai, being drunk, said to Ögetei: ‘Let us race
201 On the horses of the Prophet, cf., for instance, Ibn al-Aʿrābī, ed. Levi Delia Vida, op. cit.
(above, n. 194), 51.
202 I. e., Ibn Akhī Ḥizām, the author of a famous work on horsemanship, cf. Brockelmann,
GAL, Suppl., I, 432 f. On his name whose form is doubtful, cf. F. Viré, in EI2, IV, 215a, s.v.
iṣṭabl.
203 Cf. ad-Dimyāṭī, Faḍl al-khayl, fols. 84b–85b.
204 Cf. Ibn al-Aʿrābī, ed. Levi Delia Vida, op. cit. (above, n. 194), 78f.
205 Cf. al-Kindī, Wulāh, ed. R. Guest, 402 (Leiden and London 1912, E.J.W. Gibb Memorial Series
19).
206 Cf. al-ʿImād al-Iṣfahānī, Kharīdah (Egyptian poets), ed. A. Amīn, Sh. Ḍayf, and I. ʿAbbās, II,
51 (Cairo, n. y. [1951]) (Dāwūd b. Miqdām al-Maḥallī asking for the gift of a horse).
our horses for a bet.’ And having made a bet, they ran a race, and Chaghatai’s
horse, being a little faster, won by a head.207 At night in his tent, Chaghatai was
reminded of this incident and he reflected: ‘How was it possible for me to make
a bet with Qaʾan and let my horse beat his?’ Such conduct was a grave breach of
etiquette …,”208 (and if the participants had been Muslims, such a race would
have been very much against the law). But horse racing was no doubt more
often an organized activity, and in certain places horse races were held on a
regular schedule. It could be stopped by government decree, as happened in
Egypt under the governor Yazīd b. ʿAbdallāh. There was no horse racing there
for about two years from 245/859 to 247/861.209 But everybody connected with
military and aristocratic life was unable and unwilling to do without it. There
were rulers who spent “one half of the day in the hippodrome (stadium, may-
dān), and the other half in the office (dīwān).”210 Many other sporting activities
took place in the maydān, but horse racing was no doubt a regular part of them.
Of spectators there was no shortage. Abū l-Faraj al-Iṣfahānī tells of the youth
who went to the race track every Tuesday and Friday and who was once late
coming to see him because of a race (rihān) between two horses belonging to
51 the Būyid ʿIzz-ad-dawlah.211 We do not know whether the youth did not at |
other times do some riding of his own in order to improve his horsemanship,
but on that occasion, he was evidently there as a spectator. The story also seems
to afford at least a hint at the existence of non-participatory betting on horse
races. Most probably, visits to the race track were enlivened by betting on the
outcome of a race among the spectators. At present, betting on horse races by
non-participants has greatly outstripped the importance of the stakes aspect of
them. In pre-modern times, the situation was the reverse, but betting by non-
participants was certainly not absent in horse racing as well as other sports.
A rather curious testimony to the role played by betting on horses in Muslim
society comes to us from a divinatory practice called qurʿah “lot.” As an example
of the qurʿah literature, we may quote the Istanbul Ms. Aya Sofya 1999. It
contains two closely related works. One is entitled al-Qurʿah ad-duwāzdahmarj
“The Twelve-Field Lot.” The title is explained by the fact that each chapter has
charts with twelve entries, each of which is broken down into another twelve.
207 For the rules determining the winner in a race, see below, p. 102.
208 The translation is that of J.A. Boyle, The Successors of Genghis Khan, 147f. (New York and
London 1971). For the danger inherent in defeating one’s superior, cf. also below, p. 53.
209 Cf. al-Kindī, Wulāh, 203.
210 Cf. Ibn Bassām, Dhakhīrah, I, i, 190, l. 16.
211 Cf. Abū el-Faraj al-Iṣfahānī, Adab al-ghurabāʾ, ed. Ṣ. al-Munajjid, 83 (Beirut 1972); Yāqūt,
Irshād, ed. Margoliouth, V, 160 f., ed. Rifāʿī, XIII, 117 f.
The other, similarly arranged work is called al-Qurʿah al-mubārakah al-Maʾmū-

nīyah and ascribed to Jamāl-ad dīn (!) Abū Yūsuf Yaʿqūb b. Isḥāq al-Kindī.
Consultation of the charts furnished advice with respect to matters such as
commerce, travel, wealth, runaway slaves, rain, illness, death, etc. There are
no entries on gambling in general, although an interested gambler might have
drawn the appropriate conclusions from predictions concerning the easy ac-
quisition of wealth and the like. However, one complete cycle of twelve entries
is devoted to indicating which horse, usually described only by color, would
win—“with God’s permission,” as the author of the work often adds in order
to be on the safe side. The Kindī Qurʿah is slightly more detailed, making such
statements as “the horse on which you have bet (turāhin ʿanhu, murāhinuka
“your entry in the race”) will win, especially if it is of (such-and-such a color),”
or “your horse will come in before the horse of your companion, and you will
take his stake and put it at the disposal (bi-ḥukm) of the (spectators) present.”212
All the betting envisaged in these qurʿahs was to be done by those who them-
selves had horses running | in the race. However, the tips given were useful for 52
the spectators, too, if they felt like doing some betting of their own.
11 Foot Racing
Al-musābaqah ʿalā l-aqdām, explained by one of the commentators on the

Ḥanafite aṭ-Ṭaḥāwī (239–321/853 or 854–933) somewhat unnecessarily as al-
ʿadw bi-l-arjul,213 was considered by jurists as a potential opportunity for gam-
bling.214
212 Cf. Ms. Istanbul Aya Sofya 1999, fols. 52a–55a and 125b–131a. A qurʿah entitled al-Qurʿah
al-mubārakah al-maymūnah is attributed to Ibn ʿArabī, cf. Brockelmann, GAL, Suppl., I, 801;
O. Yahia, Histoire et classification de l’ œuvre d’Ibn ʿArabi, 424 (Damascus 1964). Whether
or not it is identical with the similarly titled qurʿah in Ms. Aya Sofya 1999 could not be
ascertained in the absence of the text.
213 Cf. Ms. Istanbul Jarullah 718, fol. 35a–b. To judge from the passage on racing and shoot-
ing competitions, this manuscript does not represent the commentary on aṭ-Ṭaḥāwī’s
Mukhtaṣar by Abū Bakr al-Jaṣṣās ar-Rāzī (305–370/917 or 918–980 or 981) to whom it is
assigned in Sezgin, I, 441. Of the commentaries on aṭ-Ṭaḥāwī consulted by me, that of al-
Jaṣṣāṣ ar-Rāzī is contained in Ms. Istanbul Topkapɪsarayɪ Ahmet III 1076, fols. 203b–204a,
and that of the hard-to-identify al-Isbījābī in Mss. Istanbul Damat Ibrahim 562, fol. 180b,
Shehid Ali 816, fol. 146b, and Jarullah 683, fol. 272a–b. The edition Cairo 1370 of the original
Mukhtaṣar was not available; manuscripts consulted were Jarullah 876 and Feyzullah 949.
Al-Isbījābī speaks of al-mashy bi-l-aqdām.
It is not impossible that jary as-suʿāh “the running of couriers”, mentioned by

al-Maqrīzī and Ibn Taghrībirdī among other sporting and gambling activities,
involved, in fact, a foot race.215
The term musājalah, which survived into Islamic times merely as a dim
reminiscence of the past, referred to competitions between water drawers. It
could conceivably also have depended on running speed.216
12 Pigeon Racing
The general term “bird” (ṭayr) is frequently used for ḥamām “pigeon,” and the
racing activity was technically called taṭyīr.217 Reference to it is standard in law
books. It is mentioned often enough at all times to document the well-known
fact that pigeon fancying was very widely practiced and had its fanatical devo-
tees. Playing with birds was quite naturally associated with chess and nard as
unbecoming pastimes,218 on the assumption that it was a mere hobby, as no
53 doubt it frequently was. Its practical justification | was the breeding and train-
ing of carrier pigeons, a most important means of quick communication in
peace and in war.219
Al-Bukhārī reports a story going back to Abū Hurayrah. Someone consulted
him about racing pigeons, saying: “We want to wager on two pigeons (natarā-
han bi-l-ḥamāmayn), but we do not want to use a muḥallil for fear that he might
take away (the prize).” Abū Hurayrah said that this was what children did, and
they should be prepared not to do it. It is interesting to see the device of the
muḥallil, which played such an important role in horse racing, appear in con-
nection with the racing of pigeons.220
Ibn Qillis, the wazīr of the Fāṭimid caliph al-ʿAzīz, happened to enter one of
his pigeons in a race in competition with the birds of the caliph, and he won.
This displeased the caliph greatly, and the enemies of Ibn Qillis used the event,
in order to insinuate to the caliph that it was not an isolated occurrence but
215 Cf. al-Maqrīzi, as-Sulūk (li-maʿrifat duwal al-mulūk), II, iii, 695, 697, anno 746/1346 (Cairo
1958); Ibn Taghrībirdī, an-Nujūm (az-zāhirah fī mulūk Misṛ wa-l-Qāhirah), X, 168 (reprint
Cairo, n. y. [ca. 1967]).
216 Cf. Lane, 1311a; ash-Sharīshī, Sharḥ al-Maqāmāt, I, 312.
217 On the subject in general, cf. F. Viré, in EI2, s.v. ḥamām.
218 Cf., for instance, al-Ghazzālī, Iḥyāʾ, III, 86, 147.
219 See below, p. 107. The article on carrier pigeons by O. Spies, in the Festschrift for W. Eilers,
391–399 (Wiesbaden 1967), has nothing on racing.
220 Cf. al-Bukhārī, al-Adab al-mufrad, 325. For the muḥallil, see below, pp. 102ff.
that Ibn Qillis was always reserving what was best for himself and letting the
caliph have what was inferior. Ibn Qillis assuaged the caliph’s wrath by verses
to the effect that the caliph’s bird was really and naturally the winner; it was
just preceded by a chamberlain (Ibn Qillis’s pigeon) in his service.221 There is
another, anonymous version of the story. It speaks of a “governor” (wālī) of
Egypt, competing with a “servant” who wins. The governor inquires with the
“wazīr” about the result of the race. The wazīr does not want to be the bearer
of bad news. He does not know how to present the matter to the governor.
Eventually, a “secretary” suggests the clever verses.222 No doubt, an existing
story was looking for an attribution which at one time happened to fall on Ibn
Qillis and the Fāṭimid caliph.223 Thus, no historicity of any sort attaches to it.
As usual, the story does not mention any gambling. It may have been unwise
for anyone in a dependent position to expect that he would be able to | take 54
away a prize from a man of great power, but it is hard to believe that such a race
did not have prizes attached to it.
Three centuries after al-ʿAzīz, a son of al-Malik an-Nāṣir Muḥammad b.
Qalāʾūn, named al-Malik al-Muẓaffar Ḥājjī, reigned briefly over Egypt.224 He
was fond of “amusement” (lahw), which in his case clearly meant all kinds of
sports. He played ball (presumably, polo) in one maydān on Sundays and Tues-
days, and went to another maydān on Saturdays. He played the stick game225
and went wrestling wearing only the leather trunks (tubbān) of wrestlers. He
encouraged gambling (qimār) and all kinds of gambling sports. He associ-
ated with pigeon racers (muṭayyirū al-ḥamām), betting ( yurāhin) now on this
(male) bird, now on that (female) bird. He also distributed large sums in gold
and pearls among the pigeon players (luʿʿāb al-ḥamām). This, in particular,
angered his amīrs. When they informed him about the danger to his regime
221 Cf. al-Ghuzūlī, Maṭāliʿ, II, 260, who quotes a Rawḍ al-adhhān, possibly the work of the
grammarian Ibn Mālik al-Jayyānī (d. 686/1287, cf. Brockelmann, GAL, I, 300, Suppl., I, 527),
of which a manuscript is preserved in Leiden. Incidentally, Ibn Mālik was known for his
devotion to “play” and for keeping (improper) company.
222 Cf. Ibn al-Jawzī, Akhbār aẓ-ẓurrāf, 38 f. (Damascus 1347).
223 It is conceivable but not very likely that Ibn al-Jawzī was aware of the attribution of the
story to the Fāṭimid caliph and suppressed it because of political considerations.
224 Al-Mālik an-Nāṣir Muḥammad b. Qalāʾūn gave very large sums of prize money for horse
races. This is reported in a manuscript now in Princeton and once owned by al-Mālik an-
Nāṣir Ḥasan (d. 755/1354), a brother of al-Mālik al-Muẓaffar, cf. al-Ḥusayn b. Muḥammad
al-Ḥusaynī (wrote in 729/1329, cf. Brockelmann, GAL2, II, 168), Idrāk as-sūl fī musābaqat
al-khuyūl, Ms. Princeton 12G (Cat. 1o66), fol. 5b.
resulting from it, he flew into a rage and had all his pigeons slaughtered one
by one, as a warning example of what might happen to the amīrs. Al-Malik
al-Muẓaffar was killed after only a little over thirteen months in power (747–
748/September 1346–December 1347). His contemporary, aṣ-Ṣafadī, was moved
to compose these verses:
You intelligent people, think about the strong al-Malik al-Muẓaffar!

How much wrong and injustice did he commit, till the pigeon (ḥamām)
play became the seriousness of death (ḥimām)!226
Again, we are not in a position to say how great a part the gambling aspect
played in pigeon racing. The sport was not quite as expensive as horse racing,
but it could also require a considerable investment, depending on the quality
of the pigeons bred. It was said that those who played with pigeons would die
55 poor,227 pre|sumably, because they would spend all they possessed on their
hobby and neglect their work. Thus, pigeon racing obviously had largely to
rely upon the availability of prize money. Al-Malik al-Muẓaffar does not seem
to have gambled only on his own pigeons. Thus, his brief history provides us
with some possible evidence of gambling by spectators. This may have been
considerable, even though it can be assumed that most of the gambling was
again done by people engaged in the sport with their own birds.
13 Boat Racing
Boat racing was viewed by jurists as a potential gambling activity.228 It has been
reported that in the year 668/1270, al-Malik as-Saʿīd watched from his boat “the
shawānī playing in the Nile of Egypt.”229 Those ships apparently participated in
naval maneuvers, which may have included some speed contest. However this
226 Cf. Ibn Taghrībirdī, Nujūm, X, 164, 168 ff., 173. On al-Mālik al-Muẓaffar’s wrestling and
the killing of the pigeons, cf. also al-Maqrīzī, Sulūk, II, iii, 729, 740; differently Ibn Ḥajar,
ad-Durar (al-kāminah fī aʿyān al-miʾah ath-thāminah), II, 4 (Hyderabad 1348–1350).
For the legend of a slaughtered pigeon as the reason for the alleged betrayal of al-
Mustaʿṣim by the wazīr Ibn al-ʿAlqamī, cf. Sīrat Baybars, I, 4f. (Cairo 1326–1327/1908–
1909).
227 Cf. Ibn Abī d-dunyā, Dhamm, 37, 59; ad-Damīrī, Ḥayawān, I, 293.
229 Cf. al-Yūnīnī, Dhayl, II, 432.
may have been, it would seem that a good deal of racing with boats took place
on large rivers. It must have exercised a great attraction on participants and
spectators alike. It may be recalled that in poetry, ships on the high sea were
compared to horses engaged in a race, as, for instance, in these verses by Ibn
Sanāʾ-al-mulk:
As if the sea were a hippodrome and the ships

Riding on it representing horses,
Pressing closely upon each other but never
Tiring or bathed in sweat.230
14 Polo
Polo (ṣawlajān) was another opportunity for gambling according to the jurists.
However, polo was considered primarily as a healthful physical exercise. It
was described as such by Miskawayh and at-Tawḥīdī in their discussion of
independent legal judgment as applicable to all conventional law dealing with
matters that may change in accordance with time, custom, and public interest.
In all these cases, it is not surprising that the legal classifications differ among
the various authorities. “The exercise in polo and in hitting the ball has health
as its sole purpose. After the training is accomplished and health obtained
through it, it does no harm nor does | it matter whether we hit or miss the ball,” 56
something that, according to the authors, was a matter of legal concern.231 If
their attitude had carried the day, much of the legal discussion of games, which
will be the subject of the following chapter, would have been superfluous,
even though the jurists would not have excused any possible gambling aspects
connected with them, at least not officially.
Al-Jāḥiẓ’s Book on Polo Players (Kitāb aṣ-Ṣawālijah) is said to be preserved
in a Moroccan library.232 It might possibly tell us something about gambling
activities connected with polo.
230 Cf. Ibn Sanāʾ-al-mulk, Dīwān, ed. Naṣr and Naṣṣār, II, 572, from an-Nawājī.
231 Cf. Miskawayh and at-Tawḥīdī, al-Hawāmil (wa-sh-shawāmil), ed. A. Amīn and as-Sayyid
A. Ṣaqr, 330–332 (Cairo 1370/1951).
232 Cf. M. Mursī al-Khūlī’s introduction to his edition of al-Jāḥiẓ, al-Burṣān (wa-l-ʿurjān), p. d
(Cairo and Beirut 1392/1972) Cf. below, p. 160.
15 Wrestling and Weight Lifting
Wrestling (muṣāraʿah) was no doubt greatly dependent on prize money and is

also quite likely to have given rise to much betting by spectators, although any
concrete evidence to this effect appears to be lacking.233
Weight lifting (shayl/rafʿal-athqāl/al-aḥjār) was occasionally mentioned by
the jurists.233a
A sport called ʿilāj was considered analogous to wrestling and mentioned
next to it. It is listed with the meaning of “fencing” in Dozy’s Supplément. I do
not know whether Dozy’s doubts as to the correctness of this meaning have
since been dispelled.233b
16 Swimming
Swimming (sibāḥah) competitions were listed as opportunities for gambling. It

is well known that Islamic culture took a favorable attitude toward swimming,
57 so much so that the famous tradition | about the three permissible kinds of play
(above, n. 76) was sometimes expanded to include swimming.234
17 Standing on One Foot
Al-wuqūf ʿalā rijl wāḥidah is mentioned by the jurists but not explained any
further.
233 Various wrestling terms, such as wahm, musābaqah, munāzalah, akhdh ar-rijlayn, ʿaḍḍ
al-fakhdh, ʿirāk, shibāk, are mentioned in the Arabian Nights, ed. Macnaghten, I, 365,
trans. Littmann, I, 519 (47th night). For shibāk ‘entangling, netting (?),’ see below, n. 244.
Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzīyah, Furūsīyah, 67, mentions shibāk next to wrestling, but elsewhere
(pp. 8, 65), he also discusses al-mushābakah bi-l-aydī, probably the familiar arm wrestling.
For another wrestling term, shaghzabīyah, see Lane, 1566b–c, 2113b.
An article by M. Canard, La Lutte chez les Arabes, published in Cinquantenaire de la
Faculté des Lettres d’ Alger, was not available.
233a Cf. Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzīyah, Furūsīyah, 8, 61, 65, and below, p. 107.
233b Cf. Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzīyah, Furūsīyah, 8, 65 f.; Dozy, Supplément, II, 159b.
234 Cf. al-Qarrāb, Faḍāʾil ar-ramy fī sabīl Allāh, ed. trans. Fazlu Rahman Baqi, in Islamic Culture,
XXXIV (1960), 201 (210), 203 (212); Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzīyah, Furūsīyah, 93.
18 Animal Fighting Games
Cock fighting (munāqarat ad-duyūk, al-munāqarah bayn ad-duyūk)235 was

probably much more prevalent than the small number of references to it in
the sources would indicate. We are told that when the caliph ʿUmar learned
about two men gambling at a cock fight (“two cocks,” iqtamarā ʿalā dīkayn), he
ordered the cocks (pl. dīkah) to be killed but was dissuaded from doing so by
one of the Anṣār who asked him whether he would kill a slave girl praising the
Lord, apparently referring to the well-known praise and approval of the cock’s
crowing.236 Cock fighting appears to have been passed over in the technical
legal literature. However, this does not mean that it was insignificant and that
gambling in connection with it was unusual. We may mention that cock fight-
ing became extremely popular in Muslim Indonesia as an art (if this word can
be applied to such a fiendish perversion of the human mind) and as an outlet
for heavy gambling.237
In the intentionally negative or ironical picture of the activities of aristo-
cratic young men ( fityān) drawn by al-Jāḥiẓ in his Kitāb al-Bayān, we hear
about “two cocks in competition” (dīkān fī | khiṭār).238 Khiṭār clearly empha- 58
sizes the gambling aspect.
Ram fighting (munāṭaḥah bayn al-kibāsh, niṭāḥ al-kibāsh),239 while probably
less common than cock fighting, appears to have been next in importance
to it. It is occasionally mentioned in connection with it, as in Abū l-Layth
as-Samarqandī and Ibn Taghrībirdī. A long poem on the subject of the various
sciences and crafts includes a couple of verses on al-liʿb bi-l-kabsh wa-d-dīk.240
235 Cf. Abū l-Layth as-Samarqandī, loc. cit. (above, n. 187), in a tradition ascribed to the
Prophet, and Ibn Abī Ṭāhir Ṭayfūr, Kitāb Baghdād, ed. trans. H. Keller, text 44, trans. 43
(Leipzig 1908), ed. M.Z. al-Kawtharī and ʿİzzat al-ʿAṭṭār al-Ḥusaynī, 55 (Cairo 1368/1949),
see below, Ch. V, n. 60. Both passages were utilized by Mez, Renaissance, 383. The Prophet
warned elsewhere against taḥrīsh of animals, cf. Concordance, I, 446b64–66; at-Tirmidhī,
in Ibn al-ʿArabī, ʿĀriḍat al-aḥwadhī, VII, 202 f. (with no comment by Ibn al-ʿArabī); Ibn
al-Athīr, Nihāyah, I, 250; Lisān, VIII, 167 (where camels are also mentioned in this con-
nection), etc. Cf. also G. Wiet, Fêtes et jeux au Caire, in Annales Islamologiques, VIII (1969),
99–128. Wiet refers to the passage from Ibn Taghrībirdī (above, n. 226).
236 Cf. al-Bukhārī, al-Adab al-mufrad, 325. See also L. Kopf, in EI2, s.v. dīk.
237 Cf. C. Geertz, Deep Play: Notes on the Balinese Cockfight, in Daedalus, CI (1972), 1–37.
238 Cf. al-Jāḥiẓ, Bayān, ed. ʿAbd-as-Salām M. Hārūn, III, 220 (Cairo 1367–1369/1948–1950). See
also below, Ch. V, n. 82.
239 See also below, Ch. III, n. 160.
240 Cf. Ms. Brit. Mus. 1080 (add. 19, 535), fol. 38b:
Bull fighting is mentioned together with ram fighting for the year 917/1511 in
Egypt.241
Dog fighting (muḥārashah bayn al-kilāb) is also referred to by Abū l-Layth
as-Samarqandī. Dogs are mentioned together with cocks and rams as the ani-
mals to which the Prophet’s prohibition of taḥrīsh applied.242 A son of Judge
Shurayḥ in the late seventh century missed school, and even omitted to pray,
for dog fights.242a
19 Human Fighting Games
Children’s games of fighting with imitation weapons were common, as they

had been since times immemorial. Playful competitions with real weapons also
occurred and were not left unmentioned by the jurists. Sword play (muthāqa-
fah) has already been mentioned.243
59 Another form of the same root, thiqāf, appears among the sporting and
gambling activities listed by Ibn Taghrībirdī in between wrestling and shibāk
(presumably some form of wrestling?).244 It may thus not be sword play, espe-
cially, if shibāk had nothing to do with “entangling.” A gloss in Ms. Dublin
Chester Beatty 4759, fol. 24a, seems to explain thiqāf, mentioned there in con-
wa-bi-l-kabshi wa-bi-l-adyā-
ki nāṭaḥtu wa-nāqartu
wa-kam qad juztu baynahumā (read baynahā)
wa-li-l-ghālibi ʿaṭṭaltu.
The proverb, “In a fight (niṭāḥ), the hornless ram is defeated,” is unlikely to envisage a
staged fight, cf. Kitāb al-Amthāl, 74 (Hyderabad 1351).
241 Cf. Ibn Iyās, Badāʾiʿ az-zuhūr, ed. P. Kahle and M. Mustafa, IV, 22 (Leipzig and Istanbul
1931, Bibliotheca Islamica 5d). G. Wiet (above, n. 235) has called attention to this pas-
sage.
242 Cf. Ms. Dublin Chester Beatty 4759, fol. 23b; al-Ḥalīmī, Minhāj (below. Ch. III, n. 70).
A. Wykes, Gambling, 87, 90 (London 1964), refers, from modern times, to such matters
as scorpion fights in the desert and reproduces a picture on “camel fighting in Turkey.”
Among the general popular and undocumented books on gambling I have seen, that of
Wykes pays the most attention to the Near East.
242a Cf. Abū Nuʿaym al-Iṣfahānī, Ḥilyah, IV, 137 (reprint Beirut 1387/1967). For a reference to ‘a
stadium for fights (hirāsh) of wild animals’ from Hamzah al-Iṣfahānī, cf. W.B. Henning, in
Handbuch der Orientalistik, I, iv: Iranistik, I, 88, n. 1 (Leiden and Köln 1958).
243 See above, n. 47.
nection with javelin play (al-liʿb bi-l-ḥirāb)245 as something called diqāf (difāf
or diqāq?), which is explained as a game with two sticks (ʿaṣā) in which one
contestant has a stick with which he beats the stick of the other (a common
game in the Near East and elsewhere for both children and adults). Qatādah
b. Diʿāmah (d. 117/735) was credited with an aversion to games that extended
as far as playing with sticks.246 Al-Malik al-Muẓaffar is also said to have played
with sticks with the common people or to have “played with sticks the liʿb ṣ-bāḥ”
(the last word requiring explanation).247
20 Shooting Competitions
Flight and target shooting of arrows248 was equal to horse racing in popularity
and as a gambling possibility. Both had equal importance as fundamental
military pursuits. Both are most frequently mentioned together in the same
breath. Thus, someone who wished to explain the meaning of the word khaṣl
would simply say that it was the prize (ghalab) in gambling, horse racing, and
arrow shooting.249 In the legal discussion, it was naturally associated with horse
racing and considered to share its legal problems and legal standing.250 Major
archery competitions without prizes must be assumed to have been rare, if not
all but non-existent. Again, we have no good explicit evidence on gambling
done by non-participants.
Slingshot shooting was listed by jurists among the possibilities for gambling
activities.
21 The Walnut Game and Marbles 60
The walnut ( jawz) game of children received constant notice in the Qurʾān
commentaries and the legal literature as an example of the absolute charac-
245 For the famous tradition of ʿĀʾishah watching Ethiopians engaged in playing with javelins,
see above, n. 6.
246 Cf. Ibn Abī Shaybah, Muṣannaf, fol. 71b.
247 Cf. Ibn Taghrībirdī, Nujūm, X, 169; al-Maqrīzī, Sulūk, II, iii, 729.
248 Cf. J.D. Latham and F.W. Paterson, Saracen Archery, chapter 19 (London 1970), and Latham,
The Meaning of “Maydān as-Sibāq,” in Journal of Semitic Studies, XIII (1968), 241–268. Cf.
also the references to pumpkin (qarʿah, qabaq) shooting in Latham and Paterson.
249 Cf. ash-Sharīshī, Sharḥ al-Maqāmāt, II, 324, l. 2.
250 See, for instance, above, p. 46, and below, p. 105.
ter of the prohibition of gambling (maysir). According to many authorities, the

prohibition extends “even to the jawz game of children.” We hear about some of
the terminology used in connection with the game.251 Thus, khaṭar (pl. akhṭār)
is said to refer to the ḥaraz (pl. aḥrāz) of the nut game. Khaṭar and ḥaraz
designate the nut that is maḥkūk,252 apparently meaning nuts that are made
smooth (and round?) for playing. We are not told how the game was played.
The smoothing of the nuts may indicate that they were rolled, perhaps like our
marbles which, incidentally, ranks as a heavy gambling game. The winner no
doubt got the loser’s nuts, and he (and others) could eat them, if he felt like it. A
legal decision of the twelfth-century Ḥanafite Qāḍīkhān thus settled the hardly
earth-shaking problem of “whether the nuts with which children play on the
holiday ( yawm al-ʿīd) can be eaten” in this manner: “It has been transmitted on
the authority of Ibn ʿUmar that he used to buy nuts for his children on the ʿīd
to play with, and he used to eat some of them. This is so, when there is no gam-
bling involved (ʿalā wajh al-muqāmarah). If gambling is involved, this is forbid-
den.”253 According to the Ḥanbalites, purchasing the nuts or eggs used by chil-
dren for gambling is not permitted.254 The boy who played with nuts all by him-
self, because only then did he feel that he was in complete control of affairs,255
was certainly no exception to the principal purpose of the game, which was to
present an opportunity for children to act out their gambling instinct.
Apparently something similar to the walnut game was a game played with
61 objects called madāḥī or masādī. It was probably | identical with the daḥw bi-
l-ḥijārah “pushing rocks” which, according to Ibn Abī Shaybah, was considered
unobjectionable (lā baʾs bih) by Saʿīd b. al-Musayyab, who figures frequently
in the context of games and sports.256 Al-ʿAskarī mentions midḥāh and sadw in
his list of children’s games and describes sadw as digging a hole into which chil-
dren pitch walnuts.257 The lexicographers, who also suggest a certain similarity
251 The philologians expectedly came up with reports on strange words used in connection
with the game. Thus, Dhū r-Rummah supposedly used fijrim for the nuts and ūqah,
pl. uwaq, for the holes into which the nuts were to go, cf. al-Qālī, Amālī, II, 4f. (Cairo
1373/1953). For “nut” as a word for chips or play money, see above, n. 164, and below,
p. 154. For a Jewish reference to a nut (ʾeḡōz) game, cf. L. Landman, Jewish Attitudes toward
Gambling, in Jewish Quarterly Review, LVII (1966), 301.
252 Cf. al-Azharī, Tahdhīb, IV, 360, VII, 225; Lisān, VII, 199, V, 336.
253 Cf. Qāḍīkhān, Fatāwī, IV, 412 (Calcutta 1835). Ibn Sīrīn is said to have disapproved of the
gambling by children with nuts on the ʿīd, cf. Ibn Abī Shaybah, Muṣannaf, fol. 72b.
254 Cf. Ms. Dublin Chester Beatty 4759, fol. 23a.
255 Cf. H. Ritter, Das Meer der Seele, 114 (Leiden 1955), from Farīd-ad-dīn ʿAṭṭār.
256 Cf. Ibn Abī Shaybah, Muṣannaf, fol. 102a.
to the nut game, allude to a story about Abū Rāfiʿ who played madāḥī with the
Prophet’s grandsons. Az-Zamakhsharī reports the story in some detail. It is an
interesting example of the gambling ways of children:
Abū Rāfiʿ, the client of the Messenger of God, said: I used to play madāḥī
with young al-Ḥusayn. When my midḥāh hit his, I told him to carry me on
his back, but he said: ‘How could you ride on a back which the Messenger
of God forbade to ride on!’ So I let him go. Now, when his midḥāh hit
mine, I told him that I refused to carry him, just as he had done, but he
said: ‘Would you not be happy to carry on your back someone whom the
Messenger of God had carried on his?’ So I carried him on my back.
Madāḥī, masādī, and marāṣīʿ are rocks like qiraṣah (pl. of qurṣah
“round pill, disk,” and the like) which are rolled (d-ḥ-r-j) into a hole. When
they fall into it, (the one who rolled them) is the winner.258
The description of the game corresponds to those given by the lexicographers,

although they use “pushing” and “throwing” rather than “rolling.” The signifi-
cance of “hitting” in the story is not spelled out and thus not really clear. The
precise rules of the game were obviously no longer known to the authors who
mention it. It would seem clear, however, that the stake in the game was usually
not the madāḥī themselves but some other small thing or activity enjoyed by
children.
22 The Egg Game
The egg (bayḍ) game is perhaps cited not quite as often as the walnut game
as an example of a children’s game that is maysir, but it is also occasionally
referred to in this sense. It was played with (hard boiled) eggs. One player tried
to hit with his egg that of the other player and break it (diqāq al-bayḍ as it
is called).259 The | gambling done in this game presumably again consisted 62
258 Cf. az-Zamakhsharī, Rabīʿ, fol. 86b, and, for the lexicographers, Ibn al-Athīr, Nihāyah, II, 16;
Lisān, XVIII, 276; Lane, 857c.
259 Cf. Ibn Abī d-dunyā, Dhamm, 36 f., 58 f.; Ms. Dublin Chester Beatty 4759, fol. 22b. In
describing the game in connection with a verse of Mahsatī, F. Meier, Die schöne Mahsatī,
166 f. (Wiesbaden 1963, Veröffentlichungen der Or. Kommission der Akad. der Wiss. u. der
Literatur 15), says that the eggs were (usually?) colored. I do not know whether this
statement is based on some old source or on modern custom, where, as in Turkey, they
are colored red.
of the winner taking possession of the egg of the loser and eating or selling
it. Al-Ḥasan al-Baṣrī is said to have permitted the game, because children do
not have the status of responsible Muslims and, therefore, their actions have
nothing to do with the legal situation holding it to be forbidden, in contrast to
adults with whom gambling is a sin and whose gambling gains are something
forbidden.260 On the other hand, the Ḥanbalite Ibn Taymīyah is firm in his view
as to its illegality: “The legal situation with respect to gambling with eggs on
(Maundy) Thursday and selling them to those who will gamble with them, and
buying them from gamblers is obvious.”261
23 The Ring Game
Liʿb al-khātam is mentioned by jurists as an opportunity for gambling. No

description of it seems to be available. It appears in connection with polo and
weight lifting in al-ʿImrānī.262 Al-Jawbarī speaks of the marvelous secrets of
prestidigitators with respect to the liʿb al-khātam.263
24 Playing Cards
Due to the discoveries by L.A. Mayer and R. Ettinghausen of playing cards from
Mamlūk Egypt, it is now virtually certain that we have here the ancestors of the
type of Western European playing cards most familiar to us. While for most of
the cards a fifteenth-century date is assumed, R. Ettinghausen has tentatively
suggested that a card discovered by him is much earlier, possibly going back
to late Fāṭimid times. We have no information how exactly those cards were
used, but, as Ettinghausen has shown on the basis of information furnished
63 by Laila Serageddin, we know that they were | called kanjifah and that already
in the early fifteenth century, they were used for heavy gambling involving
considerable sums of money.264
260 Cf. Ibn Abī d-dunyā, Dhamm, and Ms. Dublin Chester Beatty 4759, loc. cit. (n. 259).
261 Cf. Ibn Taymīyah, Fatāwī, II, 96. Maundy Thursday (al-khamīs) was sometimes also called
khamīs al-bayḍ. The Christian association of the game did not determine the attitude of
Muslim jurists toward it, but it probably was an additional point against it.
264 Cf. L.A. Mayer, Mamluk Playing Cards, ed. R. Ettinghausen and O. Kurz (Leiden 1971, The
L.A. Mayer Memorial Studies 1), and R. Ettinghausen, in Gatherings in Honor of D.E. Miner,
The sixteenth-century Ibn Ḥajar al-Haytamī mentions kanjifah in connec-

tion with aṭ-ṭāb wa-d-dukk.265 The Arabian Nights refer to it in the story of
the learned slave girl Tawaddud between chess and nard, but while Tawaddud
then goes on to elaborate on the latter two games, nothing more is said about
kanjifah.266 The Persian dictionary lists ganjifah, ganjīfah “pack of cards, game
of cards,” ganji/īfah-bāz “card player, trickster,” ganjifah-bāzī “card trick, sleight
of hand,” and ganjīfah-sāz “manufacturer of cards.”267 Long ago the suggestion
was made by K. Himly that the Persian word was of Chinese origin.268
A note signed by a certain Muḥammad Saʿīd which appears in the chess
manuscript published by F.M. Pareja Casañas speaks of “the well-known paper
game” (liʿb al-kāghid) as an example of a game of pure luck.269 This may refer
to playing cards. However, the writer of the note might possibly have lived as
late as the eighteenth century, and his testimony is thus of very little use to
us.
25 Suddar and Ṭuban
Slightly different vocalizations are reported for both words. It would seem
that the game is attested by poetry as already pre-Islamic. It is supposedly
mentioned in traditions, but not among | those accepted into the canonical 64
collections. It is alleged to have been played by men such as Abū Hurayrah.270
It is said to be a children’s game. No more detailed description than “being
51–78 (Baltimore 1974). The word kanjifah appears on fig. 23 of Mayer’s publication. The
gambling story is reported in Ibn Taghrībirdī, Nujūm, anno 820/1417–1418, cf. also W. Pop-
per, (Ibn Taghrī Birdī’s) History of Egypt, Part III, 50 (Berkeley and Los Angeles 1957, Uni-
versity of California Publications in Semitic Philology 17).
265 See above, pp. 44 f. For a reference to card playing in 1527 from Bābur’s Memoirs, cf.
R. Caillois (ed.), Jeux et sports, 951 (Paris 1967).
266 Cf. Arabian Nights, ed. Macnaghten, II, 354 f., trans. Littmann, III, 693f. (460th to 461st
nights).
267 Cf. F. Steingass, (Persian-English Dictionary,) 1098 f. (originally published in 1892). It would
be very important to know the date of the earliest occurrence of ganjifah in Persian
literature and to have references to passages clarifying its use. In the article cited (n. 264),
R. Ettinghausen refers to a Persian occurrence from the fifteenth century.
268 Cf. K. Himly, in Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft, XLIII (1889), 421ff.
269 Cf. F.M. Pareja Casañas, Libro del Ajedrez (de autor árabe desconocido), I, 11, trans. 11
(Madrid and Granada 1935).
270 Cf. Ibn al-Athīr, Nihāyah, II, 166.
a round line (on the ground)” is given.271 It supposedly was a game used
for gambling ( yuqāmar bihā).272 In a twelfth-century rhymed riddle by Abū
l-Ḥasan Ibn Riḍwān, the moon (qamar) is described as “a gambler (muqāmir)
that never suffers defeat (lam yuqmar), as if it were playing suddar.” The poet
certainly had no idea what kind of a game suddar really was. Perhaps, he
thought of a game like fourteen, with twenty-eight holes representing the
period during which the moon always recovers.273 The identity of suddar with
ṭuban was generally assumed. For suddar, Persian etyma were given, such as
si-darah.274 The identifications with fiyāl and qirq mentioned before merely
show that nobody knew any longer what suddar-and-ṭuban actually was.
26
In his Zawājir, II, 191, Ibn Ḥajar al-Haytamī enumerates a few more games
whose legal status he considered the same as that of nard or fourteen. This
might suggest that they were dicing games, but this is by no means certain. The
games were called, if the available text of the Zawājir can be trusted, ṣ-d-r (read
suddar?, see n. 273), s-l-f-h, thawāqīl, kiʿāb, rabārīb (zabāzīb?), and dh-rāfāt. The
forms of the words and the kinds of games involved must be left for others to
determine.
27 Further Children’s Games
Children’s games have been a field of considerable interest and study for medi-
eval as well as modern scholars. Often, their popularity, terminology, rules, etc.,
may have had a rather limited lifespan. Some persisted through the ages under
different names. Most of those games would be played for rewards and penal-
ties, so that they would fall under the definition of gambling.
65 The words used in connection with these games were usually | rather pecu-
liar. This, and the fact that they occurred occasionally, or were assumed to
occur, in ancient poetry, made Arabic philologians eager at least to list them,
if they were usually not able to explain them. A few of the names of the games
271 Cf. Lisān, VI, 20.

272 Ibn al-Athīr, Nihāyah, and Lisān, loc. cit.
273 Cf. al-ʿImād al-Iṣfahānī, Kharīdah (ʿlrāqī poets), I, 136f. Suddar is an apparently correct
emendation of the editors, for ṣ-ḍ-r, but see Ibn Ḥajar al-Haytamī (below).
274 Al-ʿAskarī, Talkhīṣ, 718, has s-d-r-k (?). Steingass, 715b, lists sīdare. Cf. already Hyde, II, 12.
may be mentioned here. Among children’s games, we thus hear about qulah,
played with the miqlāʾ; it occurs in the poem of Labīd cited above in connection
with fiyāl (n. 123). In the Talkhīṣ, 718–724, al-ʿAskarī mentions qulah and miqlāʾ
as well as such games as zuḥlūqah, urjūḥah “seesaw,”275 ṭuban, fiyāl, miḥtam,
khudhrūf and duwwāmah, both meaning “spinning top,”276 ṣawlajān, qalāʿah
“slingshot,” kharāji,277 khasā-wa-zakā,278 unbūthah,279 midḥāh, sadw,280 mikh-
rāq,281 bawṣāʾ, ḥājūrah (a round circle in which one child stands, while the
others surround the circle and try to catch him), tajāmuḥ (throwing an astra-
gal and trying to dislodge another one with it), ḥujayyā, and māqiṭ (throwing a
ball against a wall). In his Durrah, 172, 430, Ḥamzah al-Iṣfahānī speaks of jum-
māḥ (arrows with a bunduqah “hazelnut, pellet” or a softened date covering the
point), throwing an astragal and trying to dislodge another one with it (the tajā-
muḥ of al-ʿAskarī), and something called diḥindiḥ, which others, it seems, did
not consider a game but a little animal or “nothing.”282
A game with a clay ball called kujjah (ājurrah, buksah, tūnah)283 is always
described as being used for gambling. We do not know what it was, not did
those medieval scholars who referred to it. The eighth-century Ibn Wahb is
said to have reported that Ibn ʿUmar passed by children who played with the
kujjah, that is, “holes in | which there are pebbles to play with.”284 This looks like 66
a description of fourteen, or perhaps, rather, of midḥāh and sadw. It illustrates
the prevailing confusion between games and the names for games, a confusion
which at this late time can no longer be cleared up.
275 Cf. Ibn Abī d-dunyā, Dhamm, 35 f., 58.

276 In Khuwārizm, the money changers sold dice (kiʿāb) and duwwāmāt, according to the
report of Ibn Faḍlān, cf. Z.V. Togan, Ibn Faḍlān’s Reisebericht, text 7, trans. 12 (Leipzig 1939,
Abh. für die Kunde des Morgenlandes 24, 3). In all likelihood, they were used for gambling
games.
277 See above, n. 120. Among the Bedouin games mentioned by al-Jāḥiẓ, Ḥayawān, loc. cit.
(above, n. 122), it is equated with a game called dārah. I do not know whether the same
word is involved when A. Wykes, Gambling, 12, captions a picture as “showing desert
Arabs using stones as pieces and depressions in the sand as a board, in a form of dara—a
gambling game.”
278 “Odd and even,” cf. Hyde, II, 261; Lane, 739c. See above, n. 118.
280 See above, pp. 60 f.
282 Cf. al-Maydānī, Arabum Proverbia, II, 891; Lisān, III, 259.
283 Cf. Lisān, III, 175, VII, 327, XVI, 224; Wörterbuch der klassischen arabischen Sprache, letter
K, 70 f. The word kujjah was already known to Hyde, II, 250. See also above, Ch. I, n. 1.
284 Cf. al-Qurṭubī, Jāmiʿ, VIII, 340.
chapter three
67 Pre-Islamic Gambling, Maysir,

and the Law
They will ask you about wine and maysir. Say: In both is a great sin as well
as some uses for people. Their sin is greater than their usefulness.
2:219/216
O believers! Wine, maysir, sacrificial stones, and divining arrows are an

abomination wrought by Satan. Thus avoid it! Perhaps you may prosper.
Satan just wants to cause hostility and hatred to occur among you in wine
and maysir and to bar you from the remembrance of God and from prayer.
Thus, would you not want to stop it!
5:90–91/92–93
O believers! Do not consume your possessions among yourselves with

worthless frivolity! It is different when they are (used for) business mutu-
ally agreed upon by you.
4:29/33
The Messenger of God has said: He who swears and in doing so says, By
Allāt and al-ʿUzzā!, should say, There is no god but God. And he who says
to his companion, Let me gamble with you!, should make a contribution
to charity.
al-bukhārī, to sūrah 53; Concordance, V, 466a8–12
Gambling in pre-Islamic times that took place outside of Arabia did not leave
much of a reflection in Muslim literature. It is probable that little of the Indian
propensity for gambling was widely known before al-Bīrūnī wrote his work
on India, although some inkling of it may have penetrated Muslim conscious-
ness much earlier with the introduction of the legendary history of chess.1
References to gambling in Greek literature were not very frequent in the first
place, and only occasional remarks on the subject can be found in the transla-
tion literature. However, they involved such matters as dream interpretation—
1 See above, Ch. II, n. 148, and below, p. 164.

pre-islamic gambling, maysir, and the law 403
dreaming of dice games means quarreling about money (cf. Qurʾān 5:91/93)2—
and astrology,3 both of which were highly influential in later Muslim society.
From an Arabian setting, we hear about the pre-Islamic Luqmān that he was
famous for his maysir playing with his companions.4 It | is not clear whether or 68
not he was identical with the Qurʾānic sage of the same name.5 The story of the
inveterate gambler that was (another?) Luqmān’s master, with its two motifs of
the clever slave and the impossible task evaded by a ruse, certainly originated in
the region north of Arabia. As told by al-Mubashshir, Luqmān’s Israelite master,
who had bought him for thirty mithqāls of gold, used “to play nard and gamble
(khāṭara) on it.” One day, the bet was that the loser should drink all the water
in the river flowing by his house or redeem himself with something that the
winner would demand. Luqmān’s master lost, and the winner (qāmir) insisted
that he drink the water or lose his eyes. Luqmān advised him to ask the winner
whether he meant that he should drink the water between the banks of the
river or the swell of water flowing through. When, as Luqmān knew, he would
choose the former alternative, he should tell him to hold up the current. This,
of course, he would have to admit he was unable to do. Thus, Luqmān’s master
avoided the obligation (ḍ-m-n) resulting from his gambling loss.6
For later Muslims, gambling was one of the many vices of pre-Islamic Arabs.
They were accustomed to gamble recklessly for their property and their family
(women folk, ahl). In the Jāhilīyah, we are told on the fictitious authority of Ibn
ʿAbbās, a man would gamble (khāṭara) with another for his women folk and his
property, and whoever defeated his partner would leave with the other’s prop-
erty and women folk.7 There was, in fact, nothing those benighted people would
not gamble on.8 It was a compulsion that had a firm hold on those affected by
it.9 Gambling for an award (al-mukhāṭarah ʿalā juʿl) and betting for a stake (al–
2 Cf. Artemidorus, 205 Pack/369 Ar. (above, n. 135); Murray, A History of Chess, 165.
3 See above, Ch. II, n. 139.
4 Cf. the constantly quoted verse by Ṭarafah, Dīwān, ed. Seligsohn, 67, trans. 44, no. 2, verse 70.
5 Cf. J. Horovitz, Koranische Untersuchungen, 132 ff. (Berlin and Leipzig 1926).
6 Cf. al-Mubashshir, Mukhtār al-ḥikam, 260 f. (above, Ch. II, n. 140). Another version, probably
less original, appears in ath-Thaʿlabī’s Qiṣaṣ al-anbiyāʾ, chapter on Luqmān.
8 Cf. Ibn al-ʿArabī, ʿĀriḍat al-aḥwadhī, VII, 189.
9 For a testimony from early Islamic times, cf. the verse ascribed to the seventh-century Jamīl
al-ʿUdhrī in which he speaks of the beloved having “taken a firm grip (ẓ-f-r bi-) on my mind,
just as the gambler takes a firm grip on the arrows,” see al-Qālī, Amālī, I, 214. The idea here
does not seem to be that of arbitrarily playing with the mind as with arrows but that of holding
on to them so as to be always ready for gambling (cf. the story of Aʿshā Nahshal, below, p. 70).
munāḥabah ʿalā rahn) were practiced at the time of the coming of Islam, as was
69 the case with all other matters that were later on liable to legal classifi|cation
as permitted or forbidden and clearly designated as such by the divine revela-
tion.10 What kind of gambling and, in particular, how much gambling was done
in pre-Islamic Arabia are questions which are unfortunately not answered by
such offhand remarks. If their authors had been more explicit in their state-
ments, those statements would, presumably, not have provided historical facts;
still, being anachronistic, they would at least have contributed to our knowl-
edge of their authors’ understanding of and information about later gambling
activities. Be this as it may, there can be no doubt that gambling games and
sports were favorite pastimes in ancient Arabia. Perhaps, the statement that
“dicing and horse racing are the two amusements to which the Vedic Indians
were passionately devoted”11 is also applicable to pre-Islamic Arabia, although
economic, if not social, conditions can be assumed to have necessitated restric-
tions which did not exist in ancient India.
The literature concerned with the “firsts” (awāʾil) mentions as the world’s
first gambler a king from among Cain’s descendants who lived in the time
of Noah.12 This fantastic bit of information may owe its existence to some-
one greatly concerned about the prevalence of gambling in his own time.
However, no conceivable importance attaches to it. Of much greater poten-
tial interest is the statement reported in all the large awāʾil works that the
first person ever to forbid gambling (qimār) was al-Aqraʿ b. Ḥābis. It is attested
directly as early as the ninth century by Ibn Qutaybah’s Kitāb al-Maʿānī. Accord-
ing to Ibn Qutaybah and to the Awāʾil of al-ʿAskarī,13 al-Aqraʿ was the arbiter
(ḥakam) of the Arabs at every fair held at ʿUkāẓ at the time when Muḥam-
mad received the divine call, and he was one of the Prophet’s “sympathizers”
10 Cf. Ibn al-ʿArabī, ʿĀriḍat al-aḥwadhī, XII, 68.

11 Cf. H. Lüders, Das Würfelspiel im alten Indien, 3 (Berlin 1907, Abh. der kgl. Gesellschaft
der Wiss., Göttingen, phil.-hist. Kl., N.F. 9, 2), cf. also P. Thieme, Chess and Backgammon
(Tric-trac) in Sanskrit Literature, in his Kleine Schriften, 413–425 (Wiesbaden 1971), and
W.N. Brown, in Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society, CXVI (1972), 256, on how
to escape a gambling compulsion. For the possibility of a very ancient interchange of dice
between India and the Near East, cf. G. Dales, Of Dice and Men, in Journal of the American
Oriental Society, LXXXVIII (1968), 14–22.
12 Cf. al-Kāfiyajī, in F. Rosenthal, A History of Muslim Historiography, 2nd ed., 570 (Leiden
1968). The independent awāʾil works do not have this information.
13 Cf. Ibn Qutaybah, (Kitāb) al-Maʿānī, 476 (Hyderabad 1368–1369/1949), and (Abū Hilāl)
al-ʿAskarī, al-Awāʾil, ed. A. Ṭarābzūnī al-Ḥusaynī and M. as-Sayyid al-Wakīl, 69 (Medina
and Tangiers, n. y. [1385/1966, or 1970?]).
(al-muʾallafah qulūbu|hum) won by diplomacy and gifts. As one of the sympa- 70

thizers, as well as in other capacities, he is often mentioned in the historical
literature. We also hear it said that he was a Zoroastrian (majūsī).14 If al-ʿAskarī’s
source was indeed al-Madāʾinī as he says it was (regrettably adding, “and oth-
ers,” thus leaving the matter a little vague), it is most plausible to assume that
he used a written work of al-Madāʾinī and that the existence in literature of
the statement concerning al-Aqraʿ is assured for at least the second half of
the eighth century. What makes the statement so remarkable is the fact that,
if it is entirely unhistorical, it makes one wonder why it should have been
invented in early Islamic times. If, on the other hand, there is some histori-
cal truth to it, it would indicate that gambling was considered objectionable
by others in the environment of the Prophet, before the Qurʾān pronounced
an opinion on it; it would make no sense to assume that al-Aqraʿ’s prohibi-
tion of gambling was merely the first enforcement of the Qurʾānic prohibi-
tion.
A pre-Islamic gambling story is one reported in Aghānī as derived from a
written work of Ibn Ḥabīb (d. 245/860), who received it through the interme-
diary of Ibn al-Aʿrābī from al-Mufaḍḍal aḍ-Ḍabbī. When the poet al-Aswad b.
Yaʿfur, also known as Aʿshā Nahshal,15 was living among the Murrah b. ʿAbbād
in al-Qāʿah, he used to gamble with them. They always won, till he owed them
nineteen camels. His mother, Ruhm, blamed his gambling companions for
depriving al-Aswad of his property. When they asked what they could do to stop
al-Aswad’s gambling, Ruhm told them to sequester his arrows. When he came
again to gamble, although he had been requested to stay away, they rejected his
arrows. Al-Aswad defiantly declared that he would not live among people who
did not allow him to “throw arrows” (ḍaraba bi-l-qidḥ).16
Again, it is Ibn Ḥabīb who tells us about pre-Islamic gambling in one of his
own works. The chieftain of the ʿAbd-Manāt of the Kinānah, Balʿāʾ b. Qays, gam-
bled with arrows with Qudāmah b. Qays and won all his property. Qudāmah
suggested to Balʿāʾ that they gamble for his hand and fifty camels (appar-
ently, Qudāmah’s hand against Balʿāʾ’s camels). Balʿāʾ agreed and won again.
When he wanted to cut off his hand, Qudāmah asked him not to do it and | 71
offered him instead his loyal protection. His hand was to remain as a loan
which could be called by Balʿāʾ whenever he so desired. On the battle day of
14 Cf. Ibn Qutaybah, (Kitāb) al-Maʿārif, ed. Tharwat ʿUkāshah, 62 (Cairo 1960). On al-Aqraʿ,
see M.J. Kister, in EI2, I, 343.
15 Cf. R. Blachère, Histoire de la littérature arabe, 297 f. (Paris 1952–1966).
16 Cf. Aghānī, XI, 136 (Aghānī3, XIII, 19 f.).
al-Mushallal, Balʿāʾ offered Qudāmah the choice between having the loan of his
hand called or redeeming it by fighting. Qudāmah chose the latter and fought
most valiantly.17
This story reads like the doublet of one much more famous in Muslim
literature, that of Abū Lahab, the Prophet’s hated uncle, and al-ʿĀṣ b. Hishām
b. al-Mughīrah al-Makhzūmī. Probably each one of them is the independent
elaboration of the same motif. In the case of the Abū Lahab story, the ways of
elaboration and amplification are quite visible before our eyes.
Abū Lahab refused to serve in the Meccan army at Badr and sent al-ʿĀṣ as
his substitute. Al-ʿĀṣ was killed in the battle by ʿUmar (or by ʿAlī—the sources
are not unanimous on this point; according to ʿAlī himself, the confusion arose
from his having killed another al-ʿĀṣ, namely, al-ʿĀṣ b. Saʿīd). The oldest report
available to us so far would seem to be the one of Ibn Isḥāq, as reported in
Ibn Hishām and echoed in aṭ-Ṭabarī. It says that al-ʿĀṣ owed Abū Lahab 4,000
dirhams, which he was unable to pay.18 Thus, Abū Lahab hired him for that
amount to take his place in the military expedition, and he went, while Abū
Lahab stayed behind.19 Nothing is said here about gambling. Al-Wāqidī just
mentions debt in general and no gambling,20 while Ibn Saʿd has nothing on
either debts or gambling but merely says that it was not only Abū Lahab who
chose a substitute on that occasion but others did so, too.21
However, gambling entered the story at some time, apparently at the bidding
of littérateurs rather than historians. Three verses by the early Islamic poet
Ḥassān b. Thābit in which he reviled some people because their father had been
a blacksmith, were placed in this context. Al-ʿĀṣ “was called one of the fools
(aḥmaq) of the Quraysh. He had gambled with Abū Lahab b. ʿAbd-al-Muṭṭalib
72 who defeated him and eventually won his person and made him a black|smith
(qayn)” and then sent him as his substitute to participate in the battle of Badr.22
We apparently have no way of knowing whether it was true that the verses
ascribed to Ḥassān concern al-ʿĀṣ and his prominent progeny. We hear that
there were two smiths (ḥaddād) among the noble Meccans who plied a variety
17 Cf. Ibn Ḥabīb, Munammaq, ed. Kh.A. Fāriq, 132 f. (Hyderabad 1384/1964).
18 The general sense is clear, but the exact literal meaning is slightly doubtful, primarily
because of the use of the unusual lʾṭ, laṭṭa.
19 Cf. Ibn Hishām, Sīrah, ed. F. Wüstenfeld, I, 430 (Göttingen 1858–1860), trans. A. Guillaume,
291 (Oxford 1955, reprint Karachi 1967); aṭ-Ṭabarī, Annales, I, 1295.
20 Cf. al-Wāqidī, Maghāzī, ed. Marsden Jones, I, 53 (London 1966).
21 Cf. Ibn Saʿd, Ṭabaqāt, IV, i, 51.
22 Cf. Ḥassān b. Thābit, Dīwān, ed. W.N. ʿArafat, I, 361f., no. 191 (London 1971, E.J.W. Gibb
Memorial Series, N. S. 25).
of crafts, namely, al-ʿĀṣ and (his uncle) al-Walīd b. al-Mughīrah.23 They were
thus suitable candidates for identification with the individuals addressed in the
verses; still this need not be correct. The assembly of Ḥassān’s poems passed
through the hands of Ibn Ḥabīb, and he also reports the story in practically
the same words in his Munammaq.24 But regardless of whether or not the
connection of Ḥassān’s verses with al-ʿĀṣ and his family is true, the verses
themselves contain no reflection whatever of the gambling story, so that its
existence need not be dated to the very early times of Ḥassān. Its use for
the explanatory comments need not, though, of course, it may, antedate Ibn
Ḥabīb.
About a generation after Ibn Ḥabīb, we find a few more details. The historian
al-Balādhurī speaks of Abū Lahab’s being ill and sending al-ʿĀṣ in his place with
the understanding that he would forgive a debt he owed him. Al-Balādhurī also
reports another version stating that Abū Lahab “played with him for a stake to
be determined (ʿalā amrah muṭāʿah). He defeated him and had him become a
blacksmith in Mecca. Then he played with him again. Again, he defeated him.
Then, he sent him to Badr in his place.”25
The littérateur Ibn Qutaybah, in speaking about the fools of the Quraysh, 73
dramatizes the event still a little more: “Abū Lahab gambled with him and
defeated him, winning his property, then his house, then whatever he possessed
as well as his family and his own person. When the day of Badr came, he
sent him on the military expedition instead of going himself.”26 Finally, in the
23 Cf. Ibn Qutaybah, Maʿārif, 575.

24 Cf. Ibn Ḥabīb, Munammaq, 457, 490. In his Muḥabbar, ed. I. Lichtenstaedter, 175, 379
(Hyderabad 1361/1942), Ibn Ḥabīb speaks of the “two fools of the Quraysh,” but does not
mention the story.
25 Cf. al-Balādhurī, Ansāb, ed. M. Hamidullah, I, 292 (Cairo 1959).
For amrah muṭāʿah, lit. “an order to be obeyed,” cf. Ibn ʿAbd-Rabbih, ʿIqd, ed. A. Amīn,
I. al-Ibyārī, and ʿAbd-as-Salām M. Hārūn, VI, 405, and ʿAlī b. Naṣr al-Kātib, Jawāmiʿ al-
ladhdhah, Ms. Istanbul Fatih 3729, fol. 214a (Hārūn ar-Rashīd, or an unidentified caliph,
playing nard with a slave girl; when he loses constantly and is no longer able to comply
with her demands, he agrees to write a promissory note); az-Zamakhsharī, Rabīʿ, fol. 86b
(Sābūr gambling at chess); Lane, 97a; T. Nöldeke, Belegwörterbuch zur klassischen ara-
bischen Sprache, ed. J. Kraemer, 39b (Berlin 1952–1954). For gambling with the winner
promised the fulfillment of a wish to be expressed after winning, cf. also the story of
Luqmān (above, p. 68) and possibly other of the gambling stories mentioned here. It can be
assumed to have especially appealed to friends and lovers and may not have been uncom-
mon in actual practice, and not only in anecdotes. Had Muslim jurists paid attention to it,
they would have taken a particularly dim view of it.
26 Cf. Ibn Qutaybah, ʿUyūn al-akhbār, II, 41 (Cairo 1343–1349, reprint Cairo 1963–1964).
following tenth century, we meet with the full-blown literary treatment of the
story in Aghānī, in the chapter devoted to al-ʿĀṣ’s famous grandson, the poet
al-Ḥārith b. Khālid al-Makhzūmī:27
As has been reported by Muṣʿab b. ʿAbdallāh, Abū Lahab gambled with

al-ʿĀṣ b. Hishām for ten camels and defeated him, then again for ten
camels, defeating him again, then again for ten camels, defeating him,
then again for ten camels, defeating him, then again for ten camels,
defeating him. Eventually, he stripped (khalaʿa) him of his property, and
he had nothing left. Al-ʿĀṣ said to Abū Lahab: ‘I notice that the arrows
are your allies. But now, let me gamble with you, and the loser shall be
the other’s slave.’ Abū Lahab said, ‘Do,’ and he did. Abū Lahab defeated
him but disliked the idea of enslaving him and thereby arousing the
wrath of the Makhzūm. He went to them and asked them to redeem
al-ʿĀṣ for ten camels. They refused, saying that they would not even give
a pelt for him. Thus, he enslaved him, and he used to herd his camels, till
the (Meccan) polytheists went out to Badr. A source other than Muṣʿab
said: He enslaved him and established him as a blacksmith working iron.
When the polytheists went out to Badr, those who did not go along sent
substitutes. Abū Lahab was sick. He sent al-ʿĀṣ out and stayed at home,
with the understanding that when he returned to him, he would manumit
him. ʿAlī b. Abī Ṭālib killed al-ʿĀṣ on that occasion.28
The Aghānī owed the story for the most part to Muṣʿab az-Zubayrī. His Jamha-
rat nasab Quraysh apparently does not contain it, although it devotes some
space to al-Ḥārith b. Khālid. Yet, even if the chain of transmitters suggests oral
transmission, we have no good reason to doubt that it was actually derived from
a written work of Muṣʿab. Muṣʿab lived ca. 156/773 to 233/848.29 Thus, we are
roughly back again in the time of Ibn Ḥabīb. The gambling aspect of the story
cannot be traced back much beyond that time. To summarize, we might say, as
far as the available source material permits a conclusion, that there was some
74 dim recollection, possibly | historical, of al-ʿĀṣ serving as a substitute whom
Abū Lahab was able to send on the military expedition to Badr by promising
him to cancel an unwisely incurred debt. Gambling as the cause of the debt
27 Cf. Brockelmann, GAL, Suppl., I, 190; Blachère, Histoire de la littérature arabe, 624f. The
poems of al-Ḥārith b. Khālid have been collected by Y. al-Jabbūrī (Baghdād 1972). See also
below, Ch. IV, n. 56.
28 Cf. Aghānī, III, 100 f. (Aghānī3, III, 311).
29 Cf. Brockelmann, GAL, Suppl., I, 212; Sezgin, I, 271 f.
could, no doubt, reflect a historical fact. However, it is much more likely to have
been an added motif meant to contribute to Abū Lahab’s disgrace, which was
slowly embellished, apparently during the eighth century.
Of one thing, though, we can be rather sure. If the descriptions we have of the
maysir game are approximately right, those gambling stories, with the possible
exception of the one about al-Aswad b. Yaʿfur, are unlikely to have been “maysir.”
The individual maysir stake could supposedly be an entire camel instead of
the usual parts of one animal, thus requiring the large total expenditure of
ten camels for one game, but irresponsible gambling of the type mentioned
in the stories apparently did not go with the game which is supposed to have
been a formal occasion. And above all, “maysir” was a game normally played
by more than two participants. Obviously, there must have been many ways in
which arrows could be used for gambling. Their presence is indicated in some
versions. However, we have no indication, nor did the reporters of the stories
have any, as to how Balʿāʾ and Qudāmah and Abū Lahab and al-ʿĀṣ did their
gambling.30
The maysir game was no longer known and, of course, no longer practiced
in the time of al-Aṣmaʿī, according to a remark ascribed to him.31 On the basis
of verses referring to it, it was painstakingly and most brilliantly reconstructed
by Ibn Qutaybah in his monograph on the game.32 This is the gist of his view of
how maysir was once played:
There are seven players, each one with an arrow marked as belonging to him.
There may be less than seven, in that one individual may enter more than one
arrow. There are altogether ten arrows, three of them blanks (ghufl) added for
control purposes. The wealthier players, it seems, selected for themselves the
arrows with the larger | number of shares. (The baram, the wealthy individual 75
who refuses to participate in the game, the stingy spoilsport and philistine, is
much discussed. Maysir constituted a sort of social challenge to tribal mem-
bers, and possibly strong pressure was exerted upon them to contribute, on the
order of present-day charity drives.)
The prize is a camel, divided into ten parts (or, perhaps, ten camels, etc.).
It is not paid for before the game. The losers will pay for it. All players have
30 The divination arrows (azlām) were described as three (positive, negative, blank), cf., for
instance, al-ʿAynī, ʿUmdat (al-qāriʾ), VIII, 587 (Constantinople 1308–1311); T. Fahd, in EI2, s.v.
istiḳsām. The azlām were also identified as different objects such as pebbles or, fancifully,
dice (kiʿāb), cf. Ibn al-Jawzī, Zād, II, 284.
31 Cf. ash-Sharīshī, Sharḥ al-Maqāmāt, II, 255.
32 See above, Ch. I, n. 13. Maysir verses were discussed by Ibn Qutaybah also in Maʿānī,
1147–1174.
to deposit in advance the price of the shares of their respective arrows. The
animal is slaughtered, before the game begins, in order to allow its division into
ten parts.33 Al-Aṣmaʿī assumed that the prize was divided into twenty-eight
parts (the sum of the numbers from one to seven), but this assumption is to
be rejected as inconsistent with the gambling purpose of the game (at least,
according to the rules established by Ibn Qutaybah).
The arrows are placed into a ribābah (our “drum”), a container wide enough
to permit shaking ( j-w-l IV) the arrows in it. The ribābah has a small opening
the width of only one or two arrows. It is attached to the hands of a man
entrusted with the drawing. He is called ḥurḍah. His honesty is checked by
an observer (raqīb) who has to be present at the game. The ḥurḍah wears a
cloth over his hand, so that he cannot feel the arrows and possibly cheat in
favor of one of the players (this makes sense only if the arrows are drawn, and
not shaken out of the drum). He shakes the ribābah thoroughly and shakes
out one arrow. If it is a blank, it is returned into the ribābah. If it is a winning
arrow, its owner gets the share to which the arrow entitles him, and withdraws
from the game. He may, however, put it back again, which would be proof of
his generosity. The ḥurḍah then draws the second arrow, following the same
procedure, and the game goes on this way, until the total indicated by the
arrows, after a certain number of draws has been made, reaches ten or more.
Then the drawing stops. Those players whose arrows did not come out split the
price of the camel among themselves and pay for it. If the number of shares on
the arrows drawn to this point amounts to exactly ten, all the losers have to pay
is the price of the camel. But if it amounts to more than ten—for instance, if a
seven and a six are drawn—, the first arrow drawn receives its full number of
76 shares, and the second only as many as to make up | ten (three in this case), but
the losers have to compensate him for the (three more) shares he should have
gotten.
After one or two arrows have been drawn, another person, in addition to
the seven original players, may enter his arrow in the game as an indication
of his generosity (presumably, because his chances at winning are then much
smaller).
The winners are expected to give their shares to the poor of the tribe.
This is a rather clear picture of the game. It may, or may not, be a true
picture. It depends on the interpretation of difficult verses, possibly augmented
33 A proverb speaks of the person “who shakes the arrows, while the animal is still grazing,”
cf. al-Maydānī, Arabum Proverbia, II, 696; R. Blachère, in Arabica, I (1954), 73. See below,
Ch. IV, n. 42.
by some otherwise unknown traditions and observations. There are variations.

For instance, the number of blanks in the game is also given as four, instead of
three.34 The greatest uncertainty reigns with respect to the rules regarding the
distribution of winnings and losses. Naturally, the game may not always have
been played according to the same rules. The Arabic philologians concentrated
much of their interest on the names given to the arrows and on all the other
terminology connected with the game. Such knowledge, they felt, was needed
for the interpretation of the ancient verses. It stimulated the occasional use of
maysir terminology among later littérateurs.35
No matter how deeply philologians were interested in maysir as a source for 77
rare lexemes and antiquarian curiosities, it was the mention of maysir in the
Qurʾān which gave the principal impetus to all the references to and discussions
of maysir. Turning to the Qurʾānic passages quoted at the beginning of this
chapter, we must discuss here at least some of the many observations that were
made by the commentators in connection with them.
34 Cf. Ibn Ḥabīb, Muḥabbar, 333; al-Qurṭubī, Jāmiʿ, II, 58.

35 A thorough and informative doctoral dissertation on maysir was published long ago by
A. Huber, Über das “Meisir” genannte Spiel der heidnischen Araber (Leipzig 1883). The
available source material has grown immeasurably since Huber’s time, but most of the
new material does not contribute very much new knowledge. Among the older descrip-
tions of the game, we may mention Ibn Ḥabīb, Muḥabbar, 333–335; al-Yaʿqūbī, Taʾrīkh, ed.
M.T. Houtsma, I, 300 ff. (Leiden 1883) (cf. Huber, 51 f.); al-ʿAskarī, Talkhīṣ, 731–737. The suc-
cinct and mediocre description of az-Zamakhsharī, Kashshāf, I, 262, agrees quite widely
with that of al-ʿAskarī. It was much admired and used by later scholars such as Fakhr-ad-
dīn ar-Rāzī, Mafātīḥ (al-ghayb), VI, 48 (Cairo 1353–1381/1934–1962); ad-Diyārbakrī, Taʾrīkh
al-khamīs, II, 31 f. (Cairo 1302); Ibn Kamālpāshā, Rasāʾil, 364f. (Constantinople 1316). The
work by ʿAbd-as-Salām M. Hārūn, al-Maysir wa-l-azlām (Cairo 1953), is not meant to be a
strictly historical study.
For the names of the arrows, cf. also az-Zajjājī, Majālis al-ʿulamāʾ, ed. ʿAbd-as-Salām
M. Hārūn, 285–287 (Kuwait 1962); S. Wild, apud A. Spitaler, aṣ-Ṣabru ka-smihī, in Der
Orient in der Forschung (Festschrift O. Spies), 656 (Wiesbaden 1967). The best discussion
of the names known to aṣ-Ṣafadī was, he says, one in the Sifr as-saʿādah, cf. aṣ-Ṣafadī,
Ghayth, I, 267. He possibly meant the commentary on az-Zamakhsharī’s Mufaṣṣal by
ʿAlam-ad-dīn as-Sakhāwī (d. 643/1245, cf. Brockelmann, GAL, Suppl., I, 510, 727f.), which
requires checking. The Ms. Istanbul Topkapısarayı Koǧușlar 1096 (Cat. Karatay 7667, based
on the misleading title-page), as described by F. Sezgin, in Islām Tetkikleri Enstitüsü
Dergisi, II (196), 252–255, supposedly contains another copy of the work but nothing, I
believe, on the names of the arrows.
The original meaning of the word maysir was the subject of much speculation among
lexicographers, which did not lead to any convincing results. It may, in fact, be lost in
remote antiquity.
The word maysir was taken to include all kinds of gambling. “Maysir is qimār”
was a statement ascribed to Ibn ʿUmar.36 It became conventional wisdom to
the degree that even the slave girl Tawaddud in the Arabian Nights parroted
it and had nothing to add to it when the Qurʾānic verse was quoted.37 In fact,
however, the Qurʾānic references as such do not necessarily imply that maysir
is anything more than the name of one particular game. The possibility that
this was indeed so was occasionally raised, but when it was, the suggestion was
dropped immediately. Thus, Fakhr-ad-dīn ar-Rāzī (d. 606/1209) had this to say
in his Qurʾān commentary:
Fourth problem: There is a difference of opinion as to whether maysir is

a designation for that specific kind of gambling (qimār, that is, the maysir
game) or whether it is a designation for all kinds of gambling.
It has been transmitted on the authority of the Prophet: ‘Beware of
those two dice, for they are the maysir of the non-Arabs (Persians).’
It has been transmitted on the authority of Ibn Sīrīn, Mujāhid, and ʿAṭāʾ:
‘Everything involving a stake (khaṭar) belongs to maysir, even the walnut
game of children.’
Concerning chess, it has been transmitted on the authority of ʿAlī: ‘Nard
and chess belong to maysir.’ Ash-Shāfiʿī says: ‘Whenever chess is free from
a stake (rihān), the tongue from iniquity, and prayer from forgetfulness,
none is forbidden.’ Now, (chess) has nothing to with maysir, since maysir
is something that necessitates paying out or obtaining property. This
(chess) is nothing of the sort. Thus, it is neither maysir nor qimār. And
God knows better.
Horse and camel racing is generally agreed upon not to belong to
maysir, as is explained in the law books in the chapters dealing with racing
and shooting.38
78 The problem whether maysir (in the Qurʾān) is just maysir or | gambling in
general is solved here as elsewhere through reference to certain authoritative
statements attributed to the Prophet and others linking various potential gam-
bling activities with maysir and, vice versa, presupposing that maysir in the
Qurʾān is meant to include them. While this is no necessary logical conclusion,
it may have been closer to the mark than the commentators knew. It would
36 Cf. al-Bukhārī, al-Adab al-mufrad, 325.

37 Cf. Arabian Nights, ed. Macnaghten, II, 517 f., trans. Littmann, III, 669f. (452nd night).
38 Cf. Fakhr-ad-dīn ar-Rāzī, Mafātīḥ, VI, 48 f.
seem quite possible that the maysir game as described above was no longer
practiced in the Prophet’s environment and was not known to the Prophet
who understood the word to refer to any gambling activities depending on the
throw of arrows or other gambling devices. In view of the religious standing
given to maysir by the Qurʾān, it seems peculiar that the game should have
been so completely forgotten by the late eighth century, if it was well known
in the Mecca and Medina of the Prophet. It is true that a number of the eviden-
tial verses for the maysir game goes back to poets of the Umayyad age, but if
those poets really knew what it was, the religious scholars would certainly have
drawn upon their knowledge and tried to utilize their sources of information.
For those poets, maysir images may merely have been part of their traditional
repertoire, reflecting a vague recollection of past practices. Thus, it is in truth
quite uncertain how, when, and where “maysir” was played. For the Prophet, it
may indeed have been a generic term for gambling.
It was observed by the commentators that with respect to both wine and
maysir, the Qurʾānic references appear to indicate a gradual progression from
branding them as a sin toward final prohibition. As to wine, the assumption was
that there was an intermediate stage making for a three-stage development: the
occasional use of it because of its usefulness (2:219/216), the prohibition of wine
drinking during prayer times (4:43/46), and its association with the abominable
practices of maysir and the command to desist (5:90–91/92–93). Maysir had
only the two stages indicated.39 It was considered debatable whether “sin” in
2:219/216 by itself indicated prohibition. On the basis of 7:33/31 where ḥ-r-m
and ithm are juxtaposed, it was argued that this was indeed so. But this view
was rejected as no true analogy, and it was pointed out that the Qurʾān does
not say that maysir and wine are sin but merely that they contain (“in both is”)
sin.40 On the other hand, it could also be said that | the choice of the word “sin” 79
is evidence for their being prohibited, and that the “uses” mentioned refer to
what could have been considered usefulness, before they were prohibited. This
argument was rejected by aṭ-Ṭabarī as inconsistent with Qurʾānic chronology.41
The adjective “great” (kabīr) in 2:219/216 easily admits of the reading “much,
many” (kathīr). The latter was the reading of Ibn Masʿūd, Ḥamzah, and al-
Kisāʾī. Ibn Masʿūd furthermore read aktharu “more” for akbaru “greater,” while
Ubayy had akbaru replaced by aqrabu “closer.”42 The reading “much, many” was
39 Cf. aṭ-Ṭabarī, Tafsīr (new edition), IV, 330 ff. (Cairo, n. y. [1961?]).
40 Cf. al-Qurṭubī, Jāmiʿ, II, 60 f.
41 Cf. aṭ-Ṭabarī, Tafsīr (new edition), IV, 330.
42 Cf. A. Jeffery, Materials for the History of the Text of the Qurʾān, 30, 121 (Leiden 1937).
defended, with respect to wine, as referring to the ten different activities con-
nected with its production, merchandising, and consumption; not unexpect-
edly, nothing comparable was mentioned with respect to maysir.43 Another
suggested explanation was that both wine drinkers and gamblers commit sins
in various respects,44 which seems by far the more plausible interpretation of
the variant reading “much, many.” The reading aktharu (aqrabu) was almost
generally rejected, and this would naturally also favor kabīr over kathīr.45 For
the jurists, kabīr held the obvious implication that maysir as well as wine drink-
ing was to be classified as a kabīrah, a major sin.
Another vexing problem for the commentators was the reference to the
“uses” of wine and gambling. It had to be clarified. This was no difficult task with
respect to wine, and much more space was generally devoted to enumerating
the uses of wine than those of maysir. A procedure somewhat unusual for
Qurʾān commentators was that of az-Zamakhsharī who treated the uses of both
together in one sentence. For him, these uses consisted in “the pleasure gained
from drinking wine and gambling, the emotional element (ṭarab) in them, the
opportunity they provide for people to become friends and companions of
noble youth ( fityān) and to share in their allowances of food and drink, and
the expropriation (salb) of property by means of gambling and the feeling of
pride (when the gambler compares himself) with those philistines too stingy
to engage in gambling (abrām).”46
80 As a rule, two things are stressed as the uses of gambling. In the first place,
gambling provides an opportunity to get something without work and effort.
This was often stated with respect to the pre-Islamic maysir game,47 and in
this case, it was not really objectionable. As a general statement, it certainly
should have given pause to the religious scholars mentioning it. If it did not,
the reason probably was that they would have thought that any possible use
of gambling applied only to the time before it was forbidden by Islam. Still,
a thirteenth-century jurist, who wrote a long work on the comparative uses

44 Cf. az-Zamakhsharī, Kashshāf, I, 262.
46 Cf. az-Zamakhsharī, Kashshāf, I, 262. These uses are similar to those mentioned by Car-
dano, cf. O. Ore, Cardano, 122f., 186. Among other things, gambling is a remedy for melan-
choly and helps to gain friends and promotions; on the other hand, it also leads to
bankruptcy and quarrels. For gambling as an opportunity to be near one’s beloved, see
below, p. 128.
47 Cf. al-Qurṭubī, Jāmiʿ, II, 57. For Ibn Sīnā denying that there is any use to gambling, see
below, Ch. V, n. 76a.
(manfaʿah) and kinds of harm (mafsadah) caused by human actions, could

seriously contend that the use of gambling resulted from “what the loser gets
from the winner.”48 However, he gives the impression of not putting much store
in that sort of usefulness.
The jurists’ interest in the “easy money” aspect of gambling as a possible
explanation of its “usefulness” was better expressed by Ibn Taymīyah. He has a
long and remarkable discussion of the problem of the usefulness of both wine
and maysir in its relationship to the general legal problem of benefit and harm.
The uses of maysir may originally have been the gain of property and the plea-
sure of play, but it was realized that the losses resulting from gambling and the
pain and harm caused by playing were greater. The primary purpose of maysir
may have been the uplift (inshirāḥ) that playing and successful competition
(mughālabah) give to human beings. The main reason for its prohibition is not
merely the frivolous exchange of property attendant upon gambling. It is the
effect it exercises upon the mind and heart. Property sustains the body, and
the body sustains the heart. Whatever affects the body has priority over what
affects property. There is a distinct rank order among benefits and harms. Those
affecting the heart and mind and thereby man’s religion and morals are clearly
the more important ones. A comparison with usury bears out the difference.
Usury means injuring the poor and needy. In maysir, the injured party may be
either rich or poor, or maysir may be something that takes place between the
rich. | Now, injuring the needy is worse than injuring the rich. Consequently, 81
maysir as well as gambling as such is in a way considerably less harmful than
usury. Furthermore, while maysir inevitably affects the heart and mind, there
is no difference between types of commerce involving risk (which are allowed,
because there is a need for them) and ordinary business transactions with
respect to keeping, or not keeping, a person from his religious duties, as is the
case in maysir.49 What is remarkable in this discussion is the reference to the
effect of gambling and alcohol upon the body. For Ibn Taimīyah, it is true, this
potential physical effect is merely preliminary to the spiritual harm done by
them, but it would seem that he had a least some inkling of the possibility that
gambling could affect the physical constitution of the compulsive gambler. He
also gives some passing thought to gambling as a crime that has no victims,
since it is entered into voluntarily and the harm it does may occur where it
does not matter. All of this is, of course, incidental to his fundamental concern
with the usefulness or harm of gambling as a financial transaction.
48 Cf. Ibn ʿAbd-as-Salām, Qawāʿid, I, 98.

49 Cf. Ibn Taymīyah, Fatāwī, II, 16–21.
In the second place, the maysir game was considered to have had a char-
itable purpose. It could not be denied that people in pre-Islamic times often
gambled on their own account,50 and the stories reported here earlier cer-
tainly had no charity as their objective. When the mukhaḍram poet ʿAbdallāh
b. ʿAnamah aḍ-Ḍabbī gambled with the Banū Hind of the Shaybān, he was not
in the least concerned with charity. He frankly states that “I came to the Banū
Hind for some profitable gambling.”51 However, it was usually pointed out that
maysir games were organized only in order to provide relief for the poor who
needed food. In the words of Fakhr-ad-dīn ar-Rāzī:
The usefulness of maysir includes relief for the needy, because the win-
ner himself does not benefit from the shares of the camel won by him
but distributes them among the needy. Al-Wāqidī has mentioned that a
player might win a hundred camels in one session, thus obtaining wealth
without work and effort. Then he would spend it all on the needy, thereby
gaining praise and glory.
On the other hand, naturally,
in maysir, relief for the needy is counterbalanced by ruin of the wealthy,

82 because the one-time loser in gambling is motivated to | persist by the
hope that he may win, but it may happen that this will not be the case
and he will end up having no property left and gambling for his beard,
his wives, and his children. Thereafter, he will no doubt remain poor and
indigent and become the most bitter enemy of those who defeated him.52
Often, it is also stated that maysir games were held only in winter and in times
of scarcity when the poor would have the greatest need.
The maysir verses of the poets would seem to support the charity theory.
They often mention winter as the season for playing. Al-Aʿshā is credited with a
verse describing some people as “those who give a guest to eat in the winter and
make it obligatory for a maysir player ( yāsir) to provide food for the poor.”53
This at least is the interpretation of the verse indicated by Ibn Qutaybah. Of

51 Li-tarbaḥa qamratī, cf. al-Jāḥiẓ, Burṣān, 265.
52 Cf. Fakhr-ad-dīn ar-Rāzī, Mafātīḥ, VI, 50, XII, 80.
53 Cf. Ibn Qutaybah, Maysir, 44, cf. R. Geyer’s edition of al-Aʿshā’s Dīwān, 107 (London 1928,
E.J.W. Gibb Memorial Series, N.S. 6). See also above, Ch. II, n. 121.
doubtful value as evidence for maysir as a charity appear to be verses such

as the one from the satirical poem in which Ghassān b. Dhuhayl attacks Jarīr
by blaming the Kulayb for being so stingy that “they slaughter a sheep only at
(bi)-maysir.”54
While it would be natural to suspect that the charity aspect of maysir was
invented in order to explain the Qurʾānic reference to the “uses” of the game,
such suspicion is probably groundless. However, there can be no doubt that
the need for an explanation of the Qurʾānic passage was the reason why the
sources tend to give the impression that charity was almost the sole purpose of
maysir games. Be this as it may, we have here a forerunner of the widespread
modern phenomenon of giving gambling the veneer of respectability by link-
ing it to charitable undertakings. If we can believe modern authors, the first
money lottery was held in Florence in 1530,55 and only “as early as 1660 a Cap-
tain Thomas Gardiner recognized that he could smooth his path to fortune by
dressing his gambling business in charitable garb,” namely, the use of its pro-
ceeds for ransoming English slaves in Northwest Africa.56 But it is also said that
the earliest recorded lottery was held in Bruges in 1466, | for the purpose of rais- 83
ing money for the poor.57 At any event, the Muslim references go back to much
older times.
Regardless of how serious and important a matter it was that the Qurʾān
spoke of the sin of wine and maysir as being greater than their usefulness, the
statement did not escape the disrespectful wit so often encountered among
those who chafed under the unrelenting exposure to the words of holy scrip-
ture to which they had to submit. The great humorist Abū l-ʿAynāʾ, whom we
have already met as a bettor on chess games,58 is said to have compared two
prominent contemporaries to wine and maysir, since, he said, their sin was
greater than their usefulness.59 On the minds of serious scholars, however,
there was another problem that required consideration. They felt obliged to
ponder the historical circumstances that might have brought about the pro-
54 Cf. Jarīr, Dīwān, I, 135 (Cairo 1313); at-Tawḥīdī, Imtāʿ, III, 9.

55 Cf. E.E. Blanche, in Ploscowe and Lukas (eds.), Gambling, 71.
56 Cf. A. Rubner, The Economics of Gambling, 30 (New York 1966). Not surprisingly, the mod-
ern Muslim view on the legality of the use of lotteries to raise money for charitable
projects is negative, cf. Majallat al-Azhar, 1382/1962, 522 (I owe this reference to H. Lazarus-
Yafeh).
57 Cf. A. Wykes, Gambling, 230.
59 Cf. Yāqūt, Irshād, ed. Margoliouth, VII, 65, ed. Rifāʿī, XVIII, 292, quoted by aṣ-Ṣafadī, Nakt
al-himyān, 267.
hibition of wine and maysir as expressed in 5:90–91/92–93. The reference to

“hostility and hatred” appeared to them to provide a clue. Again, much more
was said about the quarrels that allegedly led to the prohibition of wine. As
for maysir, aṭ-Ṭabarī offers only a vague statement about “men in the jāhilīyah
who used to gamble for their women folk and property, and then sit there pen-
niless and deprived, seeing their property in somebody else’s hand, something
that used to engender hostility and hatred among them.”60 Not even a legend,
naming names and giving details, was available to him for explaining the pro-
hibition of maysir. But eventually he realized that he also had no more reliable
evidence in the case of wine. Thus, he very wisely concluded:
The Qurʾān interpreters hold different opinions as to why this verse was
revealed. It is possible that it was revealed because of ʿUmar’s prayer (for
a clear divine decision) with respect to wine.61 It is also possible that it
was revealed because of what happened to Saʿd (b. Abī Waqqāṣ) at the
hands of that Anṣārī, when both were intoxicated with wine.62 Again,
it is possible that it may have been because of the hostility and hatred
that someone felt toward the person who played maysir with him and
defeated him at gambling, so that he lost his property. We have no decisive
information as to what it was. However, whatever it was, the legal import
of the verse affects all responsible Muslims. If they do not know why
84 this verse was revealed, it does not | do them any harm. Wine, maysir,
sacrificial stones, and divining arrows are an abomination wrought by
Satan. It is the duty of every responsible Muslim familiar with the verse to
refrain from all those things, as God has said: ‘Thus avoid it! Perhaps you
may prosper.’63
The legal situation created by the Qurʾān with respect to maysir was indeed
unassailable. It showed the way which all subsequent discussion of gambling
had to take. Maysir is strictly forbidden, and all gambling is identical with
maysir. It is true that the legal-religious term for “forbidden” (ḥarām) is not
employed in the Qurʾānic text. However, the reality and severity of the prohibi-
tion are indicated by context and phrasing, in the manner carefully spelled out
by az-Zamakhsharī:
60 Cf. aṭ-Ṭabarī, Tafsīr (new edition), X, 573.

62 Cf. aṭ-Ṭabarī, Tafsīr (new edition), X, 569 f.
The prohibition of wine and maysir is expressed in various ways. Thus, the
verse (5:90/92) is introduced by innamā (is ‘indeed’ an abomination).64
Wine and maysir are tied to idol worship. … They are indicated to be an
‘abomination,’ a word which in the Qurʾān 22:30/31 is used in relation to
idols. They are indicated to be the work of Satan from whom there comes
nothing but pure evil. There is the command to ‘avoid.’ Also, avoidance is
indicated to belong to prosperity, and if avoidance means prosperity, then
commission means failure and absence of prosperity. The destructive
result of wine and gambling is mentioned, namely, the occurrence of
mutual hostility and hatred among wine drinkers and gamblers, as is
the fact that they lead to barring from the remembrance of God and the
observance of the prayer times. And ‘thus, would you not want to stop it’
is the most effective way to express desisting. It is as if it were said: Now
that all the different kinds of impediments and restrictions affecting wine
and maysir have been recited to you, would you not, in view of them, stop
it or would you stick to your old ways as if you were not exhorted and
warned?65
The word ḥarām does also not occur in the ḥadīth quoted at the beginning of
this chapter, which expressly used the word “gambling” (qāmara). The ḥadīth as
such raised important problems of a general nature. Did it imply that a resolu-
tion (ʿazm) firmly rooted in the heart—as against a fleeting idea—to commit a
sin is itself a sin, or did it indicate that encouraging (duʿāʾ) someone to do some-
thing prohibited (ḥarām) such as gambling, which could also be construed
as agreement (wāfaqa) to his gambling, constituted itself something ḥarām?
The stipulated contribution to charity required | explanation. Could it perhaps 85
consist of the property which one intended to risk in gambling, so that the
intended frivolous expenditure of property in gambling would turn out to be
a real and serious expenditure for charity? Or rather, could it be understood as
an atonement for a statement made (or for a false oath)?66 Whatever problems
of interpretation the ḥadīth raised, it did not leave any doubt that gambling was
a sin whose gravity was underlined again by mentioning gambling in the same
breath with idolatrous talk, which constituted a grave sin, even if it was done
only by inadvertently falling into ingrained speech patterns.
64 For innamā “only” used for emphasis (“indeed”), cf. H. Reckendorf, Arabische Syntax, 129f.
(Heidelberg 1921); Lane, 110b–c. In the translation given at the beginning of the chapter,
“indeed” has been omitted as unnecessary.
65 Cf. az-Zamakhsharī, Kashshāf, I, 433.
66 Cf. Ibn Ḥajar, Fatḥ, X, 256, XIII, 131, 355, XIV, 343.
Both Qurʾān and ḥadīth were explicit enough to make the task of jurists who
had to deal with potential gambling activities a comparatively simple one. A
certain practical difficulty resulted from the fact that most gambling activities
could as well be undertaken without accompanying gambling. But basically, if
a given activity could be declared to be, or in some way be defined as, qimār,
it was clearly illegal. A further consideration was the potential interference of
games, with or without gambling, with the proper behavior of responsible Mus-
lims and their proper performance of the religious duties. While this might not
make a game as such subject to legal sanction, it affected the murūwah, char-
acter, and probity (ʿadālah) of the player. If he was not found to be an ʿadl, he
was not acceptable as a witness; in the recurring phrase, “his testimony (shahā-
dah) was not accepted (acceptable),” or “was rejected.” Similarly, Judaism had
decided much earlier that dice players as well as pigeon fanciers were not qual-
ified to be witnesses or judges.67 Closely connected with the danger inherent
in all games that they may lead to neglect of the religious duties is the danger
they present of leading to the occupation with something to be characterized
as “worthless frivolity” (bāṭil). Especially if such worthless frivolity involves
property transactions of any sort, it clearly falls under the Qurʾānic prohibi-
tion stated in 4:29/33. In connection with this passage, the commentators quite
often mention gambling as an example, among others, of bāṭil, but whether
they do or do not, gambling being bāṭil hurts an individual’s standing in the
86 eyes of the | law.68 It is under these basic aspects that the problem of qimār is
usually viewed by jurists. They shall find some further illustration in the follow-
ing pages.
Exceptionally, we encounter other lines of reasoning in connection with
gambling activities. Thus, the argument against animal fights organized by
human beings rests upon the highly humane attitude of Islam toward cruelty
to animals. The Prophetic tradition against taḥrīsh led the way.69 And it was
argued that since the animals would cause pain to and hurt each other, in a way
a man would not be allowed to hurt and cause pain to them with his hands, all
kinds of animal fights are forbidden.70
67 Cf. Mishnā Sanhedrin, III, 3; Landman, in Jewish Quarterly Review, LVII (1966), 299f.;
al-Qirqisānī, Anwār, ed. L. Nemoy, 26 (New York 1939–1943).
68 The attitudes prevalent in his Muslim environment are reflected in Maimonides’s objec-
tion to gambling as something of no worldly use and detrimental to the study of the Torah,
cf. Landman, in Jewish Quarterly Review, LVII (1966), 304f.
70 Cf. the Shāfiʿite al-Ḥalīmī (338–403/949 or 950–1012), Minhāj, Mss. Istanbul Topkapısarayı
Another argument surfaced in the discussion of pigeon racing. Since the

training of pigeons took place on the roofs of houses, it might afford the pigeon
fancier a free view over other houses and the women living there and was
therefore objectionable.71 An uncharacteristically generous position was taken
by al-Ḥalīmī:
Playing with pigeons is different, because the pigeons play by themselves;

it is not that their owner plays with them. It may be disapproved only
inasmuch as, since it takes place on the roofs of houses, the owner of the
pigeons cannot be trusted not to overlook the houses and women of his
neighbors. Therefore, it may be prohibited. But if that immorality ( fasād)
is not involved and the owner of the pigeons does not constantly engage
in (the sport) and is not distracted by it from the remembrance of God and
prayer and if thus the only thing that happens is that he lets the pigeons
fly and, when they do so and play in the air, watches them flying and likes
to observe them doing so, then there is nothing forbidden here. And God
knows better.72
There are also occasional references to special applications of the gambling

laws. They had their measure of importance, although they are of no great inter-
est in our context. Thus, it might have been interesting to Taqī-ad-dīn as-Subkī
to thrash out the question | as to whether it was lawful for a Shāfiʿite, who 87
considered chess permissible, to play with a Ḥanafite, who considered it for-
bidden.73 It is understandable for Qāḍīkhān to express the view that “there is
nothing wrong with a Muslim who gambles with polytheists in non-Muslim
territory (dār al-ḥarb) and takes property away from them”; it may, however,
seem to us a bit strange that he gave no passing thought to the unpleasant pos-
sibility that the Muslim might lose to the polytheist. Of much greater practical
importance was Qāḍīkhān’s view that the sale of implements needed in nard
and chess and other games belonged in the category of invalid types of sales.
Destroying such implements, if it was done on a judge’s orders, did not make
Ahmet III 930, fol. 152a, Ahmet III 500, Vol. III, fol. 40a, Beyazit Umūmī 1628, fol. 247a;
ad-Damīrī, Ḥayawān, II, 296; Ms. Dublin Chester Beatty 4759, fol. 23b.
71 Cf., for instance, the Ḥanafìtes as-Sarakhsī, Mabsūṭ, XVI, 131f. (Cairo 1324–1331), and al-
Marghīnānī, Hidāyah, ed. Abdool Mujeed, III, 376f. (Calcutta 1831–1834), trans. C. Hamil-
ton, 2nd ed., 361 f. (London 1870).
72 Cf. al-Ḥalīmī, Minhāj, Mss. Istanbul Topkapısarayı Ahmet III 930, fol. 152b, and Ahmet III
500, Vol. III, fol. 39a.
73 Cf. as-Subkī, Fatāwī, II, 635 f. (Cairo 1355–1356).
the individual who did it liable to pay compensation. If it had not been ordered
by a judge, he was to be held liable.74 This provided a certain amount of pro-
tection against the excesses of fanatics, unless, of course, it happened that the
judge himself was a fanatic. Such excesses were not uncommon in connection
with wine, and occasionally, they may have extended to gambling.
Chess and nard enjoyed a special position in the jurists’ discussion of gambling.
Not only were they the games that would continue to be played throughout
Muslim history and on all levels of society. They had also been played already
in the earliest times of Islam. Thus, the early generations of Muslims, who were
always invoked as authorities for setting legal precedents, had had the oppor-
tunity to observe them. With all due skepticism as regards the genuineness of
those traditions and stories and in full awareness of the possibility that they
might have been invented in order to provide support for later attitudes toward
the games,75 they cannot be completely dismissed as historical evidence. All
forms of amusement tend to have a rapid spread, once the road to migration
becomes open to them. Chess and nard might easily have fascinated some dis-
tinguished early Muslims as soon as they learned about them. They might even
have been the fashionable thing among the aristocracy, before they reached
wider circles and thereby became a debatable pastime. In its formative stages,
Arabic literature would not have taken notice of their existence, as games and
88 similar everyday | matters were never readily noticed except incidentally and
in circumscribed situations. In sum, while prudence dictates that here as else-
where we eschew facile credulity, it cannot be determined exactly how far our
skepticism should go. Nearly everything in Muslim history before the ninth cen-
tury is surrounded by much uncertainty. Not surprisingly, the history of games
is no exception. All we can say is that it is not excluded that the traditions prove
the existence of chess and nard in seventh-century Arabia and other parts of
the newly conquered Muslim world. Whatever we may think of their genuine-
ness, they definitely point to a time no later than the early eighth century. It is
significant that the word shiṭranj “chess” does not occur in the authoritative col-
lections of traditions, while nard/nardashīr does so repeatedly. This may reflect
the fact that it was known that chess was not played in the environment of the
Prophet to any noteworthy extent, if at all, while a game that either was the
Persian nard or could be considered without any great difficulty as equivalent
to it enjoyed a certain vogue already in the Prophet’s Arabia.
74 Cf. Qāḍīkhān, Fatāwī, IV, 587, and II, 329.

75 Cf. Wieber, Schachspiel, 48 ff.
The history of the struggle for and against chess is richly documented in
the sources and much discussed in the scholarly literature. It requires no
further detailed exposition here. Traditions were invented with a liberal use
of the imagination. Nard traditions were extended to include chess. Thus, both
games were branded by ʿAlī as the maysir of the non-Arabs, alluding to their
Persian connection. Another constantly reiterated saying attributed to Ibn
ʿUmar declared chess to be worse than nard.76 Others took the opposite view. A
more subtle touch was to make ʿAlī inquire what those “figures” (tamāthīl) were
which he saw chess players use, thus connecting chess with the prohibition
against pictorial representation.77 And again it was ʿAlī who was credited with
what must have started out as a joke but then was taken seriously as an
indication of the moral turpitude of chess players, namely, that they were the
greatest liars on earth, because they spoke of “killing” and “dying” (māt) when
nothing of the sort was going on.78 While such attributions to men like ʿAlī
and Ibn ʿUmar deserve no credence, the anec|dotes depicting ash-Shaʿbī (d. 89
ca. 103–106/721–725) and Saʿīd b. Jubayr (d. 95/714) as dedicated chess players
can possibly claim some historicity as dimly recollected facts.
Both the legal and the general attitudes either pro or con sought justification
for themselves, on the one hand, in the game’s usefulness for improving the
mind and teaching military strategy and, on the other, in its being too engross-
ing and causing neglect of the remembrance of God and prayer and other
religious duties (as stated in the Qurʾān in connection with maysir). It was nat-
urally easy for diehard chess haters to play down the mind improving qualities
of chess and to invent statements against its alleged military usefulness. The
Shāfiʿite Isḥāq b. Rāhawayh (d. 237–238/851–853), when told that the defenders
of the Muslim frontier regions were playing chess because of (its usefulness for
learning about strategy in) war, replied that whatever it was, the game was any-
how immoral and all bad.79 About a century and a half later, another Shāfiʿite,
al-Ḥalīmī, argued against chess in what seems to have been a rather unusual
manner. ʿUmar’s alleged approval of chess as a war game, he says, means only
that ʿUmar approved of war instruments in general, and if, as he was told, chess
was indeed an instrument of war, he would approve of it, but, in fact, it is just
an amusement. Furthermore, chess cannot be properly compared with horse
racing and archery as suitable means of training for war. If it were comparable
76 See below, pp. 167f.

77 Cf., for instance, Pareja Casañas, Libro del Ajedrez, text 9, trans. 4f.; adh-Dhahabī, Kabāʾir,
88; Ibn Taymīyah, Fatāwī, II, 8, 15, IV, 308 f.; Ibn Ḥajar al-Haytamī, Zawājir, II, 190.
78 Cf. adh-Dhahabī and Ibn Ḥajar al-Haytamī, loc. cit. (n. 77).
79 Cf. adh-Dhahabī and Ibn Ḥajar al-Haytamī, loc. cit. (n. 77).
to them, it would be permissible to play it for stakes, which, by general agree-

ment, it is not.80 The fifteenth-century as-Sakhāwī praised chess in one place,
but, in another, he decried its usefulness for war, because that was not its pur-
pose, which was playing and gambling for luck (ʿalā sabīl at-tabarruk).81 And
those who felt like making fun of the supposed usefulness of chess as a royal
game would say that its aim was not to increase military knowledge, so as to be
better able to serve the king in war, but to get the king out of the way, a state-
ment that did not fail to have the desired effect of making the audience laugh.82
Even for Mālikites inclined to consider every game as worthless frivolity, a
90 mitigating circumstance was adduced in the case of | chess. It was not so bad,
if it was played in private and attracted no public notice. The attitudes of the
various legal schools were described by al-Qurṭubī in these words:
If chess is not used for gambling, the Mālikites and most jurists have come
to hold the view that in such a case, if a man plays chess in the privacy
of his home with his family once a month or once a year and does it
unobserved and is not known (as a chess player), he may do it. He is not
forbidden to play, and it is not considered as disapproved for him. But if he
devotes himself (takhallaʿa) to it and becomes a chess player, he loses his
true manliness (murūwah) and probity (ʿadālah), and his testimony is not
acceptable. Shāfiʿites hold that the testimony of a nard and chess player is
not void, if, in general, he is an ʿadl and it is not apparent that he is stupid,
or suspect, or commits major sins, unless he uses the game for gambling.
If he does so and becomes known for it, he loses his probity and it is
apparent that he is stupid, because he consumes property with worthless
frivolity. Abū Ḥanīfah says that playing chess, nard, and fourteen as well
as every kind of amusement is disapproved. If it is not apparent that
the player commits major sins and his good (qualities) outweigh his bad
(qualities), (Ḥanafites) consider his testimony acceptable.83
In contrast to chess, it was moot whether nard could ever be considered legal,
even if no gambling was connected with it.84 It found no stout defenders within
80 Cf. al-Ḥalīmī, Minhāj, Mss. Istanbul Topkapısarayı Ahmet III 930, fols. 150b–151a, and
Ahmet III 500, Vol. III, fols. 38b–39a.
81 Cf. as-Sakhāwī, Shiṭranj, fols. 37b, 30b.
82 Cf. al-Qurṭubī, Jāmiʿ, VIII, 339.
83 Cf. al-Qurṭubī, Jāmiʿ, VIII, 337 f.
84 Abū Hurayrah equated gambling at nard with eating pork, playing nard without accom-
panying gambling with putting one’s hand into the blood of pigs, and looking at it (“kibitz-
the ranks of jurists and religious scholars. A collection of about sixteen of the
common anti-nard statements attributed to ancient Muslims can be found
already in the Muṣannaf of Ibn Abī Shaybah (who is much briefer with respect
to chess).85 The succinct exposé contained in Ms. Dublin Chester Beatty 4759,
fols. 20b–21b, tells nearly the entire story. Its author, unidentified so far,86 relied
for his ḥadīth material on Ibn | Abī d-dunyā more than his passing reference to 91
this famous ninth-century moralist would seem to indicate:
Sulaymān b. Buraydah (d. 105/723–724) < his father < the Prophet: ‘If one
plays nardashīr, it is as if he had dipped his hand into the flesh and blood
of a pig.’ A tradition transmitted only by Sulaymān.87
Abū Mūsā al-Ashʿarī (d. 42–52/662–672): “He who plays nard is disobe-
dient to God and His Messenger.”88 Transmitted by ḥd (Aḥmad b. Ḥanbal),
d (Abū Dāwūd), q (Ibn Mājah al-Qazwīnī), and Mālik in the Muwaṭṭaʾ.
Abū Mūsā heard the Messenger of God say: ‘Nobody rolls (the game’s)
dice, waiting to see what they will bring, without (thereby) being disobe-
dient to God and His Messenger.’ An unusual (gharīb) tradition, transmit-
ted by Ibn Abī d-dunyā, with a chain of transmitters whose soundness is
known only to God. It means that a person who plays nard with dice and
ing”) with looking at pork, cf. al-Bukhārī, al-Adab al-mufrad, 328, where another authority
is said to have made the first two points with respect to playing “with the two dice.” Saʿīd
b. al-Musayyab is supposed to have declared nard without gambling “unobjectionable” (lā
baʾs bih), cf. az-Zamakhsharī, Rabīʿ, fol. 87b. See also below, n. 93, for Ibn ʿUmar’s statement
speaking of possibly playing nard without accompanying gambling, etc. The Ḥanafite al-
Marghīnānī, the author of the Hidāyah, was quoted by Ibn Kamālpāshā, Rasāʾil, 86, as
considering the possibility of chess, nard, and fourteen being played without gambling,
but as far as I can see, al-Marghīnānī, loc. cit. (n. 71), speaks only of chess and nard and
condemns nard with and without gambling.
85 Cf. Ibn Abī Shaybah, Muṣannaf, fols. 71b–72a.
86 The title-page of the manuscript calls the work an excerpt from the Kitāb ath-Thamar (Ms.
at-tamr) ar-rāʾiq al-mujtanā min al-Ḥadāʾiq, comprising the chapters on sins, ḥudūd, and
ʿuqūbāt. I do not know which Ḥadāʾiq are meant. For Ibn Abī d-dunyā, cf. his Dhamm, 32f.,
54 ff.
87 Cf. Concordance, VI, 405a13–14; al-Bukhārī, al-Adab al-mufrad, 327. For a remark on this
endlessly quoted tradition, cf. Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzīyah, Badāʾiʿ al-fawāʾid, III, 198f. (Cairo,
n. y. [ca. 1925]).
88 Cf. Concordance, VI, 405a13–14; al-Bukhārī, al-Adab al-mufrad, 327 (twice). For the vari-
ant kiʿāb to designate nard, cf. Ibn Ḥanbal, Musnad, IV, 392 (Cairo 1313); Concordance, VI,
24b62–63. The variant suggests the possibility that nard in all these traditions was substi-
tuted for an original, genuinely Arabic kiʿāb or the like.
throws the dice, waiting to see what victory and success will come for him
from them, is a gambler, and a gambler is wicked ( fāsiq).
Ibn Masʿūd (d. 32–33/652–654) said that he heard the Messenger of
God say: ‘He who plays nard and then gets ready to pray is like one who
uses pus and the blood of pigs for his ablution and then gets ready to pray.
God does not accept his prayer.’89
(Ibn Masʿūd?) said that the Messenger of God said: ‘Fear those two
tattooed90 dice (marginal note: meaning, chess and nard) that serve for
augury, for they are the maysir of the non-Arabs (Persians).’91 The dice are
called ‘tattooed’ because of their black pips, looking like a tattoo. ‘Serve for
augury’ means that they bring out a share without rhyme or reason.92 It
happens by chance, as is the case with the augurer who takes bird sounds
as an omen and is right or wrong without rhyme or reason.
These traditions, even though their chains of transmitters show some
weakness, mutually strengthen and confirm each other.
Ibn ʿUmar: ‘A person who plays nard with accompanying gambling
92 is | like one who eats pork, and a person who plays it without accom-
panying gambling is like one who uses the grease of pigs to anoint him-
self.’93
Ibn az-Zubayr (d. 73/692) said: ‘I swear by God that nobody who played
it was ever brought before me but I punished him at his hair or skin
and gave his spoils to the one who brought him before me.’94 The ‘hair’
business means things such as shaving off the hair (as a humiliating pun-
ishment) and the like. The ‘skin’ business means things such as beating
and the like.
89 Cf. Ibn Ḥanbal, Musnad, V, 370; Concordance, VI, 405a15.

90 Ibn Abī d-dunyā’s mashʾūm “inauspicious” (if this is indeed what is found in the manu-
script of Dhamm) is wrong, as is marsūm “marked” found in the printed text of Ibn Ḥajar al-
Haytamī, Zawājir, II, 188, even though it yields the required meaning. Mawsūm “branded”
appears in the printed text of al-Bukhārī, al-Adab al-mufrad, 327.
91 Cf. Ibn Ḥanbal, Musnad, I, 446; Concordance, VII, 369b37. The following explanation
appears in the manuscript after the next paragraph.
92 Lit., without right and on the basis of no principle.
93 The second part of the statement occurs in Ibn Abī d-dunyā, who adds another statement
on the authority of Yaḥyā b. (Abī) Kathīr to the effect that he (Ibn ʿUmar?) passed by nard
players and exclaimed: “Neglectful hearts, busy hands, and babbling tongues.” Ibn Ḥajar
al-Haytamī, Zawājir, II, 188, attributes this remark to the Prophet. On Ibn ʿUmar’s aversion
to nard, see also above, Ch. II, n. 173.
94 Cf. al-Bukhārī, al-Adab al-mufrad, 328, in a speech by Ibn az-Zubayr to the Meccans.
When ʿĀʾishah learned that people were playing nard in her domi-
cile, she sent them the following message: ‘They should either throw
it out, or the people in the house who had it should leave.’95 ‘In her
domicile’ means, in the section of town (maḥallah) where her house was
located.
When Masrūq (d. 62–63/681–683) was told that we often had free time
and then played it—namely, nard—, he said: ‘This is not what a person
with free time has been commanded to do.’ Meaning, a person with free
time who is not occupied with the business of this world must use his free
time to proceed to worshiping God, and not to playing.
Playing nard is forbidden (ḥarām) according to Abū Ḥanīfah, Mālik,
Aḥmad, and most Shāfiʿites.
When Saʿīd b. Jubayr (d. 95/714, known, as we have seen, as a chess
player) passed by some nard players, he did not greet them.96
He who plays it repeatedly is not an acceptable witness, whether or 93
not he plays for gambling purposes. This is what Abū Ḥanīfah,97 Mālik,
95 Other versions of the story phrase the message more clearly. They are found, for instance,
in Mālik, Muwaṭṭaʾ, IV, 356: “If you do not throw it out, I shall throw you out.” Cf. also al-
Bukhārī, al-Adab al-mufrad, 327; al-Balādhurī, Ansāb, ed. Hamidullah, I, 418; Ibn Taymīyah,
Fatāwī, II, 11.
96 The severe sanction of refusing the salām to those “playing with divination arrows, mean-
ing chess and nard,” is said to have been ordered by the Prophet, cf. adh-Dhahabī, Kabāʾir,
89; Ibn Ḥajar al-Haytamī, Zawājir, II, 189; Wieber, Schachspiel, 153, 170. According to al-
Bukhārī, al-Adab al-mufrad, 326, ʿAlī confined those playing nard for money ( yuʿāmilūn
bi-l-warq) for a full day and those who played for fun for half a day. He also forbade to
extend the salām to them. The two stories against extending the salām reported in Ibn
Abī Shaybah, Muṣannaf, fol. 72b, do not go back to the Prophet either, as is only to be
expected.
Mālikism did not object to extending the salām to chess and nard players, while
disapproving of kibitzing as makrūh, cf. Ibn Abī Zayd, Risālah, ed. trans. L. Bercher, 3rd
ed., 324 f. (Algiers 1949).
Ibn Taymīyah, Fatāwī, II, 9, mentions as those disapproving of giving the salām Abū
Ḥanīfah, Ibn Ḥanbal, and Muʿāfā b. ʿImrān, while those who had no objections were Mālik
and the Ḥanafites Abū Yūsuf and Muḥammad ash-Shaybānī. Ibn Taymīyah (Fatāwi, II,
22) also considers kibitzing as an illegal activity, as is, in his view, being present when
others are drinking wine; the same applies to buying or renting gambling paraphernalia
and acting as a mudhabdhib who helps one of the two parties in a game. The mudhabdhib
appears to be someone who tries to distract the opposing party on behalf of the side he
favors, rather than someone who advises a player what moves he should make.
97 According to the Ḥanafite Qāḍīkhān, Fatāwī, III, 321, a chess player who plays constantly so
as to become diverted from performing his prayers or who perjures himself with respect to
and Aḥmad have stated. It is also the obvious implication of Shāfiʿite

teaching (ẓāhir madhhab ash-Shāfiʿī).
The legal attitude as established in connection with chess and nard was ex-
tended to other board games such as fourteen or merels. For chess, and the
one or other of the board games, the classification as makrūh “disapproved”
was occasionally upheld, as in Mālik’s Muwaṭṭaʾ and ash-Shāfiʿī’s Umm. Mālik’s
attitude is clarified in Saḥnūn’s Mudawwanah to the effect that Mālik consid-
ered chess as worse than nard and any chess playing, whether little or much, as
makrūh. But he who plays it constantly is not an acceptable witness, whereas
the person who plays it once in a while, if he is otherwise an ʿadl, may be accept-
able as a witness.98 Ash-Shāfiʿī’s attitude toward games in general is more inter-
esting, since it was interpreted as allowing of a slightly greater flexibility. As far
as the testimony of players and their functioning as witnesses are concerned,
he declares nard more makrūh than any other form of amusement (malāhī),
while chess is not liked (ḥ-b-b) but less grave than nard (thereby taking a stand
against the tradition referring to chess as more detrimental than nard). Ḥiz-
zah and all other games are makrūh, since play is not what Muslims do, and
it is not true manliness.99 When a person considers a game allowed and not
forbidden and does a certain (small) amount of playing, his testimony is not
automatically rejected. From the legal point of view, the crucial element is the
punctual observance of the prayer times. If a person allows the time for prayer
to pass without praying, because he is engrossed in the game, and does this
twice, it indicates disrespect (istikhfāf ) for his duties with regard to prayer. He
94 is then to be rejected as a | witness, as would be anyone who does not pray
without being able to offer the excuse of forgetfulness or temporary mental
malfunction. The objection might be raised that a player could use this excuse
in his defense. It could be said that he does not miss the prayer on account
of the game but on account of forgetfulness. Ash-Shāfiʿī disposes of this argu-
ment by pointing out that forgetfulness is a psychological phenomenon that
rests entirely in the individual himself and cannot be prevented or forbidden
it is not an acceptable witness. And for the Ḥanafite al-Kūhistānī, Jāmiʿ ar-rumūz, II, 242, a
chess player may be an acceptable witness, if he fulfills three conditions: (1) No gambling
must be involved. (2) Prayers must not be missed. And (3) there must not be perjury in
connection with it (see below, Ch. V, n. 84). Professional chess playing definitely has an
adverse effect upon a person’s standing as an ʿadl.
98 Cf. Saḥnūn, Mudawwanah, XIII, 3 (Cairo 1323). Cf. also Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzīyah, Furūsīyah,
23.
99 See above, Ch. II, n. 3, and, for ḥizzah, Ch. II, n. 176.
by outsiders; thus, even if it has something bad as its consequence, it is not a

sin. The player, on the other hand, learns from experience that it is the game
that may cause his forgetfulness. Having acquired this experience the first time
around, it is entirely within his power not to play again, and he must not do it.
Ash-Shāfiʿī adds a brief remark on the other three kinds of play, as defined in
the well-known ḥadīth.100 For him, they are no real “play,” and thus furnish no
analogy applicable to games. The observance of ritual prayer as a prescribed
duty, he concludes, has precedence over supererogatory prayer, the recital of
the Qurʾān, and study; none of that should distract an individual to such an
extent that he lets the time of prayer pass.101
This basic text of Shāfiʿism was in the mind of Ibn Ḥajar al-Haytamī when
he referred to the Kitāb al-Umm as proof that playing nard is ḥarām, the
player a fāsiq, and his testimony to be rejected. Ibn Ḥajar al-Haytamī quotes
many authorities and their works as having been of this opinion. According
to him, the majority opinion considers playing nard a major sin (kabīrah).
However, the discussion by such men as ar-Rāfiʿī permits the contention that
it should be classified as a minor sin (ṣaghīrah), if only repeated playing makes
a person unfit to be a witness. As summed up by az-Zarkashī, there were four
possible ways of looking at the matter: (1) Nard is disapproved and therefore
to be avoided (makrūh karāhat at-tanzīh) but not forbidden (ḥarām). Many
have held this opinion. While, at least for us, it seems indeed to conform to
ash-Shāfiʿī’s own statement, there are precedents for taking makrūh to mean
ḥarām.102 (2) It is a minor sin. (3) It is ḥarām and a major sin. And (4) regional
differences have to be acknowledged. Where it is considered a | grave matter, a 95
person becomes unacceptable as a witness for playing just once. Where this is
not so, this is not the case.103
The acknowledgment of the existence of regional differences in the attitude
toward nard is the most interesting aspect of the discussion, and we would have
liked to hear more about it. But the discussion as a whole makes it fully obvious
that behind the brave assertion that the game was ḥarām, and the apparent
conviction that it ought to be outlawed, there was the reality of its wide spread
and popularity that had to be reckoned with by the jurists.
Gambling, that is, playing for money, remained forbidden and was not sub-
ject to discussion, but clearly, there was no practical way to prevent it except by
100 See above, Ch. II, nn. 76, 234.

101 Cf. ash-Shāfiʿī, Umm, VI, 213.
102 Al-Qalqashandī, Ṣubḥ, II, 141, prefers taḥrīm but admits that there are Shāfiʿites who
consider nard makrūh.
103 Cf. Ibn Ḥajar al-Haytamī, Zawājir, II, 188 f.
eliminating playing as such. Shāfiʿism was opposed to gambling. Yet, it could

not escape the libertine poet’s gibe that “one of the imāms, ash-Shāfiʿī, says,
‘Playing chess is not ḥarām.’” Considering that the other three imāms showed
similar chinks in their legal armor, the poet therefore pretended to have the
right to exhort everybody to
Drink, commit pederasty, whore, gamble, and use as

Argument in each case the statement of an imām.104
The verses inspired the littérateur as-Sāmarrī, who died, in his eighties, in
696/1296–1297, to a satirical poem directed against Jamāl-ad-dīn Ibn al-Yazdī.
The pretext for the poem was that Judge Ṣadr-ad-dīn Ibn Sanī-ad-dawlah105 had
declared Ibn al-Yazdī an ʿadl, bestowed a judicial robe (ṭaylasān) upon him, and
admitted him to serve as an official witness (attorney):
It is all right to drink wine in Ramaḍān

And to play the lute at the time of the adhān
And to whore with women and boys in God’s sanctuary
And to omit prayer accompanied by reading the Qurʾān,
Now that al-Yazdī, in the streets of Damascus,
Makes the rounds of the bars (ḥānāt) in his ṭaylasān.
Now I am entitled to be a prophet
And to have as a friend of mine at-Tilimsānī.106
96 O you ʿadls of Damascus! The judge has generously
Bestowed safety from prosecution upon his friends.
Gamble, drink, pander, and commit
Pederasty, wickedness, and heresy in safety!
Do no longer try to keep wickedness under cover,
For there is no need any longer for secrecy.
104 Cf. Nashwān al-Ḥimyarī, al-Ḥūr al-ʿīn, 261 f. (Cairo 1948); Ṭāshköprüzādeh, Miftāḥ as-
saʿādah, I, 49 f. Ṭāshköprüzādeh refers to related verses on wine attributed to Abū Nuwās.
105 Aḥmad b. Yaḥyā b. Sanī-ad-dawlah (not Sanāʾ) (590–658/1194–1260) was chief judge of
Damascus. The exact lifetime of Ibn al-Yazdī is not known to me.
106 The reference may be to the Mahdī expected to appear in Northwestern Africa, possi-
bly to some contemporary pseudo-Mahdī from Tlemcen. A reference to the poet Ibn
al-ʿAfīf at-Tilimsānī (661–688/1263–1289) would presuppose that the judge was not Ṣadr-
ad-dīn but his son Najm-ad-dīn Muḥammad (616–680/1219 or 1220–1281) and that there
was a story making the rounds of young Ibn al-ʿAfīf having mystical and messianic aspira-
tions.
The verses, it should be reported, had the desired effect of making the
judge forbid Ibn al-Yazdī to function as a witness, but Ibn al-Yazdī succeeded
in getting back into the good graces of as-Sāmarrī, who then wrote a poem
somewhat ironically retracting his accusations.107 The reference to gambling
here is casual, but it deserves notice, since gambling was often omitted from
such catalogues of immoral activities.
Even on a supposedly more scholarly level, Mālikite school bias could sug-
gest that some Shāfiʿites declared board games (chess?) permitted, and this led
to playing the game in madrasahs, and if a student was not able to recite the
Qurʾān, he even played in the mosque; they also falsely stated, the Mālikites
said, that the men around Muḥammad and the men of the second generation
were players.108
The situation with respect to sporting games was very different from that of
board and related games, in that they were expressly allowed and encouraged
by ḥadīth and sunnah, at least as far as horse racing, camel racing, and shoot-
ing were concerned.109 For the ancient Romans, sports were a virtus which
excepted them from any prohibition of gambling.110 They remained part of a
Muslim’s murūwah. Their military usefulness was so obvious that “shooting and
racing” (an-niḍāl wa-s-sibāq) could stand for “battle.”111 Since war was under-
stood to be an activity directed against | unbelievers, they served the cause of 97
Islam. In order to illustrate the proposition that whenever God forbade some-
thing, He replaced it with something better, Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzīyah states that
“He forbade them to gamble and substituted for it the consumption of property
through competitions with horses, camels, and arrows useful for Islam.”112 The
italicized words refer to Qurʾān 4:29/33 and make it clear that any money spent
on such activities does not fall under the prohibition of worthless frivolity.
Some jurists supposedly argued that racing was not permitted, on the
grounds that the Prophet had permitted it before gambling (qimār, mukhāṭa-
rah) was done in connection with it. However, later it was forbidden. Their
107 Cf. al-Kutubī, Fawāt, I, 123.

108 Cf. al-Qurṭubī, Jāmiʿ, VIII, 339, quoting Ibn al-ʿArabī’s Qabas (on the Muwaṭṭaʾ of Mālik).
A manuscript of the Qabas is preserved in Fez, cf. J. Schacht, in Études d’Orientalisme …
Lévi-Provençal, 282 (Paris 1962).
109 See above, p. 46; Concordance, I, 480a16–18. For the traditional material, cf. Ibn Abī
Shaybah, Muṣannaf, fols. 98a–101b.
110 Cf. Der kleine Pauly, s.v. alea (Stuttgart 1964–).
111 Cf. Arabian Nights, ed Macnaghten, IV, 140, trans. Littmann, V, 490 (28th night).
112 Cf. Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzīyah, Rawḍat al-muḥibbīn, 9.
argument was refuted by reference to the fact that some traditions show that it
was still considered permissible after the prohibition of gambling had been pro-
claimed.113 This probably was a fictitious problem. The only gambling problem
of major concern to jurists in connection with these sports was the provenience
of the prize money. When does the existence of prizes indicate forbidden gam-
bling, and when, if at all, are stakes proper and permissible? Three possibil-
ities were regularly considered: (1) The prize is put up by a non-participant.
(2) It comes from one participant. Or (3) it comes from both participants.
There were many different words for the prize in old times, such as sabaq,
khaṭar, nadab, qaraʿ, and wajab.114 Sometimes, khaṣl and nadab appear to be
thought of as restricted to shooting competitions. Rahn is another term which
was of old used for racing stakes. ʿIwaḍ “compensation” became the preferred
term in the legal discussion, possibly in order to indicate that the prize money
was meant to compensate the participants in a competition for the expenses
necessary for qualifying, or, more likely, as an ordinary term of commercial
law. As a lucid exposition of the stake problem, we may quote once more the
Shāfiʿite al-ʿImrānī (who, it should be noted, polemicizes against views held by
Mālikites):
… It is permissible for the compensation to be paid by the sulṭān from

public funds (bayt al-māl) or his own private funds. For Ibn ʿUmar has
98 reported that the Prophet raced horses and put up a | prize for them. Also,
such competitions encourage the study of horsemanship and archery,
resulting in greater power for waging the jihād and well-being (ṣalāḥ) for
the Muslims. Mālik says that it is not permitted without being sanctioned
by the imām (the authorities in power) (li-ghayr imām). The proof for
our view is that it is spending property in the public interest (maṣlaḥah),
and thus is all right without being sanctioned by the imām, as is the
endowment of horses for the holy war ( fī sabīl Allāh).
It is permissible for the prize to be put up by one of the two (partici-
pants). He would say: ‘I put up a prize of ten115 for racing you (sabbaqtuka);
113 Cf. Faḍāʾil ar-ramy, Ms. Istanbul Veliuddin 3175, fol. 106a–b.
114 Cf. Lisān, II, 251, XI, 138, indicating Ibn al-Aʿrābī as his authority. The information does not
appear in Ibn al-Aʿrābī’s treatise on the names of famous horses published by G. Levi Della
Vida. However, it could hardly be expected to be included in that treatise.
115 The use of “ten” appears to be somehow connected with the ten camels of the old maysir
stories (above, p. 73), but here, “ten” no doubt refers to money, and not to camels. In the
heroic chess game of Masrūr and Zayn al-Mawāṣif in the Arabian Nights (see below, Ch. V,
n. 30), the initial wager was ten dīnārs.
if you defeat me, they are yours, and if I defeat you, I do not owe you
anything, and you do not owe me anything.’ Mālik says that this is not
allowed. The proof for our view is the report that the Prophet passed by
two groups of Anṣār engaged in a shooting competition where one group
had put up a prize for the other. The Prophet told them: ‘Shoot! I am with
Ibn al-Adraʿ.’116 Whereupon the people there held back their hands and
bows and said: ‘O Messenger of God, the group on whose side you are
will (always) win.’ But he said: ‘Go on shooting! I am on the side of all of
you.’
It is permissible for the prize to be put up by both (participants), on
condition that they enter in addition a muḥallil upon a horse comparable
to their horses. If (the muḥallil) defeats them, he gets the prize, and if
he is defeated, he gets nothing. If each of the two (participants) puts
up property (for a prize) and they do not enter a muḥallil, it is not all
right. Mālik says: ‘It is not all right, if the property is put up by the two,
regardless whether or not there is a muḥallil with them.’ Aṭ-Ṭabarī and
Ibn aṣ-Ṣabbāgh117 say that this view was held by Ibn Khayrān. The proof
for our view is the statement of the Prophet: ‘When someone enters a
horse in addition to the two horses and is sure that it | will be defeated, 99
that is gambling, but if he is not sure that it will be defeated, that is not
gambling.’118 ‘Being sure that it will be defeated’ means that the horse
of the muḥallil is slow and cannot hope to win. This is not permitted,
because then there is no difference between its being there and not being
there.119 ‘Being not sure that it will be defeated’ means that it is equivalent
to the other two, as one may hope that an equivalent horse may win.120
116 Cf. the version of the story as it appears in the ḥadīth collections (Concordance, II, 310a24–
25) and Ibn Ḥajar, Fatḥ, VI, 431 f.; Ibn ʿAbd-Rabbih, ʿIqd, I, 190. Cf. also Ibn Qayyim al-
Jawzīyah, Furūsīyah, 4, 9, 39, 58 f.
117 Abū ʿAlī al-Ḥasan (al-Ḥusayn) b. al-Qāsim aṭ-Ṭabarī, the author of the ʿUddah, died in
350/961, cf. Ibn an-Nadīm, Fihrist, 214; al-Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī, Taʾrikh Baghdād, VIII, 87;
Ibn Khallikān, II, 76; adh-Dhahabī, ʿIbar, II, 286. Ibn aṣ-Ṣabbāgh died in 477/1083, cf.
Brockelmann, GAL, Suppl., I, 671. Ibn Khayrān died in 310/923, or rather in 320/932, if
the day of the month and the week is correctly given in al-Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī, Taʾrīkh
Baghdād, VIII, 53 f.
118 Cf. Concordance, II, 402a15–17, V, 103b55–56, II, 313a26–27.
119 According to ad-Dimyāṭī, Faḍl al-khayl, fols. 88a, 90a, it would be “meaningless” (laghw lā
maʿnā lahū).
120 Cf. al-ʿImrānī, Bayān, fol. 78b. Ḥanafism as represented by ash-Shaybānī holds substan-
tially the same view, cf. aṭ-Ṭaḥāwī (above, Ch. II, n. 213).
Mālikites viewed the situation as follows: (1) It is generally permissible for

the prize to be put up by one of the participants. If he wins, the prize is to be
consumed (ṭuʿmah) by those present. If there are more than two participants,
the prize goes to the runner-up, if the participant who put up the prize wins.
The prize may also be established by non-participants, such as the authorities
in power (al-imām). (2) It is generally not permissible for both or all partici-
pants to put up prizes all of which would go to the winner. This is gharar, qimār,
maysir, khiṭār, forbidden in the Qurʾān. (3) Opinions differ as to the permis-
sibility for two or more participants to put up a prize to go to the winner. If
the person who put up the prize wins, he gets it. Mālik disagreed. Saʿīd b. al-
Musayyab considered it permissible. (ʿAbdallāh b. Najm) Ibn Shās (d. 616/1219)
considered it not permitted, if he wins, and if he loses, it becomes ṭuʿmah and
does not belong to the winner. The muḥallil is definitely not permitted accord-
ing to Mālik. Mālik’s reason, according to Ibn al-Mawwāz (180–269/796–883, or
281/895) as quoted by Ibn Yūnus (aṣ-Ṣiqillī, d. 451/1059), was that “a prize had
to be paid out in every case” (regardless as to who was the winner?, yajib ikhrāj
as-sabaq bi-kull ḥāl). The Mālikite jurist Ibn Rushd considered the situation the
same whether there was one, or more than one, muḥallil entered in a race or
archery contest. However, if there are many muḥallils and few contestants, the
risk (gharar) is smaller, and the competition becomes more permissible in such
cases.121
Questions of detail that had to be considered were numerous. If two par-
ticipants put up prizes for a larger field, it would seem to create a situation
analogous to the presence of a muḥallil, but this probably rarely if ever hap-
pened in practice, and it does not seem to have been discussed. If there are
three or more horses in a race, the prize for second place must not be the
same as that for the winner. If it is less, the preferred view is that it is permit-
ted.122
The establishment of the prize by the ruling authorities (imām, sulṭān, wālī)
100 was a simple matter, if the ruler himself had no horse | of his own in the race.
It is much more debatable what the situation is, if he does have a horse of
his own running and that horse happens to be the winner. This may not have
been an uncommon occurrence. According to ad-Dimyāṭī, most ʿulamāʾ permit
participation of the donor in the race, on condition that he will donate the prize
to charity, if he wins (in sabaqa ḥabasa sabaqahū).123 A private individual (rajul
121 Cf. ʿAbdallāh b. Maymūn, Ifādah, Ms. Istanbul Köprülü I, 1213, fols. 172a–174a.
122 Cf. ar-Rāfiʿī, Muḥarrar, fol. 111b.
123 Cf. ad-Dimyāṭī, Faḍl al-khayl, fol. 89a.
min an-nās) who has no horse of his own in a race also qualifies as the donor of
a prize, if he does so voluntarily.124
If the prize is put up by one of two contestants, it remained for the jurists to
decide to whom the prize would go, if the donor was the winner. In this even-
tuality, if there are two participants, those present at the race (as spectators)
would get the prize. If there are more than two, the prize would go the horse
coming in in second place.125
The establishment of a prize by whoever did it was a contract (ʿaqd). As such
it had to be considered under contract law. It was debated whether the contract
was binding (lāzim) or not binding ( jāʾiz). This affected its possible dissolution
after being in force, additions to it, the refusal to go through with it completely,
its dissolution upon the death of one of the contractors, and the obtaining of
security for it.126 According to Shāfiʿism, which considered it a binding contract,
it was enforceable, and if the loser refused to pay up, he could be forced to
do so. Others thought that the contract was not binding but something like
an award ( juʿālah). This was merely a theoretical distinction. For example,
someone who promises another person a reward, if he brings back a runaway
slave, continues having a choice; but when the other does return the slave, then
it becomes an enforceable debt. Analogously, once the race is in fact lost, the
loser faces an enforceable debt.127 A Ḥanafite argued that the loser might not
have to pay the stake he loses in a race run with a muḥallil, although use of
such a stake is perfectly legal, in contrast to gambling winnings which nobody
is allowed to use; if he refuses to make payment, nothing can be done about it
legally.128
Al-ʿImrānī appears to have thought of a binding contract but one restricted 101
to dealing with a known compensation, either (available at the time the compe-
tition takes place) in its specific form or at some later date (immā muʿayyanan
aw fī dhimmah wa-idhā kān fī dhimmah jāz an yakūn ḥāllan wa-muʾajjalan). He
also envisions the case of one of the contestants saying to the other: “I have put
124 Cf. ad-Dimyāṭī, Faḍl al-khayl, fol. 88b. Other expressions for “private individual” are wāḥid
min ʿurḍ an-nās (ar-Rāfiʿī, Muḥarrar, fol. 111a) or āḥād ar-raʿīyah (Ms. Yale L-774, see below,
n. 144; Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzīyah, Furūsīyah, 68).
125 Cf. Ibn al-ʿArabī, ʿĀriḍat al-aḥwadhī, VII, 192. Cf. above, p. 99.
126 Cf. ad-Dimyāṭī, Faḍl al-khayl, fols. 77b–78a.
127 Cf. Faḍāʾil ar-ramy, Ms. Istanbul Veliuddin 3175, fol. 116a–b.
128 Cf. the commentator on aṭ-Ṭahāwī in Ms. Istanbul Jarullah 718 (above, Ch. II, n. 213): wa-in
imtanaʿ ʿan taslīm al-māl ilayh fa-lā jabr (Ms. tajabbur?) ʿalayh fī l-ḥukm wa-in sallamahū
ilayh ṭāb lahū wa-lā yadkhul taḥt qawlih taʿālā (Qurʾān 4:29/33). For a discussion of the
problem from the Ḥanbalite point of view, cf. Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzīyah, Furūsīyah, 69f.
up a prize of ten for competing with you, and if you defeat me, they are yours,
though I shall never race or shoot.” He dismisses it as invalid, since it contains
the stipulation not to do what is agreed upon (mandūb ilayh). This appears to be
a purely theoretical case. Another case to which he refers may have had some
practical application. Assuming that someone puts up a prize of ten for the
winner, if he himself is the loser, while, if he is the winner, the other man would
give him a qafīz of wheat, this, according to ash-Shāfiʿī, would not be a valid
contract, since “a contract (in order to be valid) requires that the winner owes
nothing; only the loser owes something.” For if it were otherwise, the contract
would sanction what is qualified as gambling and thus be naturally illegal and
invalid.
Mālikites, however, who considered the establishment of prizes a binding
contract like contracts drawn up in connection with things or services for hire
(ijārah), permitted unequal stakes, such as one dīnār against two dīnārs, or
a sheep against a cow, this, of course, on the assumption that the race was
legalized by the participation of a muḥallil, something usually disapproved by
Mālikites, at least by Mālik himself.129 A form for a written agreement to be used
in archery contests, specifying the sums involved, is mentioned in the Kitāb
al-Hidāyah fī ʿilm as-sabq wa-r-rimāyah.130
Ḥanbalites, as represented by Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzīyah, considered what
kind of contract was involved and whether it could be compared to contracts
dealing with hire (ijārah), awards ( juʿālah), partnership (mushārakah), vows
and obligations (nudhūr, iltizāmāt), or promises and gifts (ʿidāt, tabarruʿāt). Ibn
Qayyim al-Jawzīyah reached the conclusion that is was none of these but rather
a special type of contract in its own right.130a
102 There were many details to be discussed in law books dealing with furūʿ. It
was, for instance, necessary to discuss shooting rules with respect to distance
and targets. It had to be decided who was to be declared the winner in a
close race. Ar-Rāfiʿī, following an-Nawawī, for instance, mentions the shoulder
in camel races, the neck or forelegs in horse races. Ad-Dimyāṭī considers the
horse’s ears or its withers as decisive for determining the winner.131 Races
129 Cf. ʿAbdallāh b.Maymūn, Ifādah, Ms. Istanbul KöprülüI, 1213, fol. 164a–b.
130 Ms. Istanbul Veliuddin 3177, fol. 57b. See also Ms. Istanbul Veliuddin 3175. fol. 114b.
130a Cf. Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzīyah, Furūsīyah, 75–78, followed by a discussion. of whether the
contract is lāzim or jāʾiz (78 f., 98) and what stipulations might invalidate it (87f.).
131 Cf. ar-Rāfiʿī, Muḥarrar, fol. 268a, and ad-Dimyāṭī, Faḍl al-khayl, fol. 90b. Mālikism consid-
ered the neck (al-hādi aw baʿḍuh) or the buttocks (al-kafal aw baʿḍuh), cf. ʿAbdallāh b.
Maymūn, Ifādah, Ms. Istanbul Köprülü I, 1213, fol. 172a. Cf. also Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzīyah,
Furūsīyah, 102.
between different species of animals and between different kinds of horses

were frequently not considered permissible.132 Accidents in horse races and
shooting competitions require repetition of the contest, according to a Mālikite
view. This applies to such matters as a bow breaking or a jockey being thrown
from his horse. If the horse suffers a broken (leg) or the archer breaks his hand,
the contest may be declared void, but another opinion has it that nothing of the
sort would stop a competition, at least a horse race. Ibn al-Mawwāz contended
that if the rider falls from the horse and the horse runs without a rider (ʿuryan)
and someone else jumps on it and brings it in, it is considered the winner, but
there were divergent views.133
As far as gambling is concerned, the most important element was the muḥal-
lil, the technical term for a person whose presence legalizes an activity that oth-
erwise would be illegal. His presence distinguishes the “shape” (ṣūrah) of horse
racing and arrow shooting from the “shape” of gambling, as the requirement of
the walī’s presence in arranging a marriage distinguishes the “shape” of mar-
riage from that of unlawful intercourse.134 In horse racing, we also encounter
the less technical dakhīl, an entry by an outsider.135 The muḥallil would get
both prizes in case he wins. Or, if there is a dead heat between the muḥallil
and one of the other two entries, they would | share the prize.136 If the muḥallil 103
comes in second between the other two, the more convincing view (aẓhar
al-wajhayn) is that the winner gets the loser’s prize (and the muḥallil gets noth-
ing).137
The presence of the muḥallil, we may assume, eliminates gambling, because
he does not lose anything and might gain only without having risked anything,
so that there are not only winners and losers in a race.138 Or, as is stated by
132 Some jurists considered races between horses and camels unobjectionable, cf. ʿAbdallāh
b. Maymūn, Ifādah, Ms. Istanbul Köprülü I, 1213, fols. 167b–168a.
133 Op. cit. (n. 132), fols. 174b–175a. For broken bows and arrows and the like, cf. Ibn Qayyim
al-Jawzīyah, Furūsiyah, 96 f.
134 Cf. Ibn ʿAbd-as-Salām, Qawāʿid, II, 184.
135 Cf. Lane, 622c. Cf. also the brief discussion of horse racing in Ibn ʿAbd Rabbih, ʿIqd, I, 177f.
136 Cf. ad-Dimyāṭī, Faḍl al-khayl, fol. 89a. We can only surmise that in case all three came in
at the same time, each would get one-third of the prizes.
137 Cf. ar-Rāfiʿī, Muḥarrar, fol. 111b, following an-Nawawī’s Minhāj. Cf. also Ms. Yale L-774,
fol. 49a, from al-Bayhaqī (d. 458/1066) (?).
138 As it was put by al-Jaṣṣāṣ ar-Rāzī, in commenting on aṭ-Ṭaḥāwī’s Mukhtaṣar (above, Ch. II,
n. 213): “If the winner takes and the loser gives, with no (participant) but the two, it is
qimār.” Ms. Yale L-774, fol. 49a, stresses that “gambling really means that everybody either
wins or loses something” (ḥaqīqat al-qimār huwa an yakūn kull wāḥid immā ghānim aw
ghārim); this is not the case when a muḥallil is present. Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzīyah, Furūsīyah,
ad-Dimyāṭī, the entrance of the muḥallil in the race indicates that the purpose
is the race as such, whereas, if only the contestants who contribute the prize
money participate in it, the risking of property (mukhāṭarah) would be the
purpose of the race.139 Mālikism usually did not accept the muḥallil as a viable
solution of the gambling problem.140 More surprisingly, the strict Ḥanbalite Ibn
Taymīyah also did not approve of the muḥallil and defended his theory very vig-
orously.141 The Shāfiʿite as-Subkī pointed out in rejecting Ibn Taymīyah’s view
that Ibn Taymīyah considered first as sound, but then as weak, the muḥallil
ḥadīth as transmitted by Sufyān b. Ḥusayn < (Ibn Shihāb) az-Zuhrī < Saʿīd b. al-
Musayyab < Abū Hurayrah (there is another, more defective chain of transmit-
ters, which, however, also includes the well-known az-Zuhrī). As-Subkī argued
on the basis of the gambling involved which would make racing for stakes put
up by the two contestants illegal, if there is no muḥallil. Or, if the argument
104 from gambling were not admitted, such racing would | fall under the general
prohibition (expressed by the Prophet) concerning property (and blood and
honor), which puts the burden of proof of permissibility on those who want to
spend any property for any purpose.142 Ibn Taymīyah’s known disapproval of
the device of the muḥallil caused some trouble to the Ḥanbalite Ibn Qayyim
al-Jawzīyah in the year 746/1345. He had written a treatise on the subject and
apparently found much sympathy for this view, especially among the powerful
Turks (because, we can be sure, it enabled them to race without those trou-
blesome outsiders, while at the same time not worrying about the gambling
problem). He was forced by the Shāfiʿite authorities to accede to the majority
opinion.143 A very lengthy discussion (Furūsīyah, 20–61, 74) does indeed make
it quite clear that he shared Ibn Taymīyah’s view on the subject. Only about five
pages of it are devoted to what could perhaps create the impression of favoring
the muḥallil, and these few pages are placed right in the middle of many pages
39 (cf. also 59), quotes the same argument, adding that the presence of the muḥallil makes
the prize an award ( juʿl) for him, so that the contract law applying to juʿālah would govern
the situation.
139 Cf. ad-Dimyāṭī, Faḍl al-khayl, fol. 89a.
140 Cf. also the brief discussion of all sorts of racing and shooting competitions in the Mukhta-
ṣar of the fourteenth-century Khalīl, trans. G.-H. Bousquet, I, 219f. (Algiers 1956).
141 Cf. Ibn ʿAbd-al-Hādī, al-ʿUqūd ad-durrīyah, 45, 323 (Cairo 1356/1938, reprint Beirut, n. y.
[1974?]). Ibn Taymīyah himself incidentally discussed the muḥallil ḥadīth in his Fatāwī,
III, 121 f. It should be kept in mind that Ibn Taymīyah was hostile to the use of legal ruses.
142 Cf. as-Subkī, Fatāwī, II, 421 f.
143 Cf. Ibn Kathīr, Bidāyah, XIV, 216 (Cairo 1351–1358), cited by H. Laoust, in EI2, s.v. Ibn Ḳayyim
al-Djawziyya.
of obviously negative comment. It would be impossible for anyone to misun-

derstand Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzīyah’s intention, which was to make a convincing
case against the muḥallil in behalf of Ibn Taymīyah and his followers.
Five folios in Ms. Yale L-774144 provide additional information in this con-
nection. The title-page (fol. 45a) has the title Juzʾ fī muḥallil al-mus(ābaqah).
The treatise is incomplete at the end. The slightly damaged first lines at the
beginning inform us that the treatise was a response from Damascus to one
on the subject from Egypt. It contains a detailed discussion of the individu-
als concerned with the transmission of the muḥallil ḥadīth and stresses their
weakness. The main argument is that if the hope for gain and the fear of loss
characterize gambling, the presence of the muḥallil adds to both. Thus, instead
of eliminating the danger of gambling, it in fact makes it greater. The incidence
of loss is greater, because each one of the two contestants loses, if the muḥallil is
the winner, and for each of them the chance of being defeated is greater when
running against two, the other contestant and the muḥallil, than when running
against one. The chance of gain is smaller, since a contestant | would have to 105
defeat only one opponent in order to win, if there is no muḥallil, while he has
to defeat two opponents, if there is a muḥallil. This, together with the weakness
of the ḥadīth and the strange arrangement that there is someone who like the
muḥallil stands only to gain at the expense of others and has nothing to lose,
appears, in the view of the author, to do away with the muḥallil as a helpful
device for eliminating the gambling quandary.
Who was the author? He mentions the Sharḥ at-Tanbīh of Ibn ar-Rafʿah, who
died in 710/1310. More important, he quotes the Egyptian author, to whom he
responded, as directly reporting information (akhbaranā … min kitābih) from
Ibrāhīm b. Muḥammad al-Makkī Raḍī-ad-dīn aṭ-Ṭabarī, who died as an old
man in 722/1322.145 While he is unlikely to have been Ibn Taymīyah himself,
he belonged clearly to his school and might very well have been none other but
Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzīyah. In this case, unless it was the Furūsīyah, it might have
been this treatise that triggered the trouble Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzīyah faced in
746/1345.
The laws governing horse and camel racing were easily applicable to archery
competitions. Manuals on horses and on archery were often quite technical,
and their authors saw no point in dwelling upon legal problems. When those
144 Cat. Nemoy, no. 1616, fols. 45a–50a. Folios 50b–56 do not belong to the muḥallil treatise.
145 Cf. Ibn Kathīr, Bidāyah, XIV, 103; Ibn Ḥajar, Durar, I, 54 f., with some confusion in the dates;
Ibn al-ʿImād, Shadharāt (adh-dhahab fī akhbār man dhahab), VI, 56 (Cairo 1350–1351).
writing on archery did, they had hardly any modifications to propose to the
general tenor of the discussion on racing.146 Mālik, we are told on the author-
106 ity of Ibn | ʿAbd-al-Barr, preferred horse racing to shooting contests, because
shooting could be done everywhere and at all times, whereas racing was con-
fined to certain localities and was less frequent (and, consequently, constituted
much less of a distraction).147 The presence of the muḥallil is mentioned as a
necessity in archery contests for stakes, if they were put up by both contes-
tants.148 However, the impression prevails that it was not an issue of the same
dimensions that it was made out to be in horse racing. Presumably, it was much
more common in archery than in racing for any worthwhile stakes to be put up
by non-participants, such as rulers eager to increase the effectiveness of their
bowmen.
Horse racing laws also provided the basis for the legal discussion of many
other kinds of sports contests. Ad-Dimyāṭī quotes the opinion of ʿAṭāʾ (d. 114–
115/732–733) that “racing with everything is permitted,”149 but naturally adds
that this is an appropriate statement only if it is understood that such racing
would not be for stakes. The gambling proviso is also implied in the view that
holds that all such activities are basically permissible by law:
146 Modern discussions of archery based upon the sources say nothing on gambling, cf., for
instance, J. Hein, Bogenhandwerk und Bogensport bei den Osmanen, in Der Islam, XIV
(1925), 289–360; N. Faris and R.P. Elmer, Arab Archery (Princeton 1945); or Latham and
Paterson (above, Ch. II, n. 248).
Rather detailed in his legal discussion is ʿAbdallāh b. Maymūn, Ifādah, written approx-
imately between 1250 and 1350. Of the three manuscripts preserved in Istanbul in the
Köprülü Library, I, 1211–1213, the last one has usually been quoted here, because it often,
though not always, appears to have the better text.
Ms. Istanbul Veliuddin 3175 contains the Wāḍiḥ of aṭ-Ṭabarī on fols. 1b–100b (cf. Brock-
elmann, GAL, Suppl., I, 906, and, for a brief description of the contents, Hein, 305). It is
followed on fols. 101a–190b by a Kitāb Faḍāʾil ar-ramy wa-ʿilm ar-rimāyah, which pays much
attention to the legal situation. The most prominent isnād occurring in it all the time is
Judge Ibn al-Ashyab on the authority of Ibn Abī d-dunyā. The same isnād (Abū Muḥam-
mad ʿAbdallah b. al-Ḥusayn ar-Raqqī [?] ⟨ Ibn al-Ashyab ⟨ Ibn Abī d-dunyā) also appears in
the Kitāb al-Hidāyah fī ʿilm as-sabq wa-r-rimāyah, Ms. Istanbul Veliuddin 3177. As J.A. Bel-
lamy kindly informs me, Ibn al-Ashyab is to be identified with Mūsā b. al-Qāsim b. Mūsā b.
al-Ḥasan b. Mūsā, who died in 377/948–949, or 379/950, cf. al-Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī, Taʾrīkh
Baghdād, XIII, 61. “Judge” is probably a title inherited from his great-grandfather.
147 Cf. ʿAbdallāh b. Maymūn, Ifādah, Ms. Istanbul Köprülü I, 1213, fol. 165a. Cf. Ibn Qayyim
al-Jawzīyah, Furūsīyah, 11 ff.
148 Cf. Faḍāʾil ar-ramy, Ms. Istanbul Veliuddin 3175, fol. 107b.
149 Cf. ad-Dimyāṭī, Faḍl al-khayl, fol. 78b. Cf. also Ibn Ḥajar, Fatḥ, VI, 413.
Legal (mashrūʿ) racing of horses and other animals as well as footracing

is permitted. There is nothing degrading (danāʾah) in it, nor does it make
a person’s testimony unacceptable. The same applies to corresponding
activities such as javelin and sword play (ḥirāb, thiqāf ) and other games,
if they do not involve causing harm or distracting from a religious duty.
The basic assumption (aṣl) is permissibility (ibāḥah). And God knows
better.150
Many jurists go into the question of sports competitions in some detail. As

a sufficiently clear and comprehensive exposition we may quote the one by
al-ʿImrānī. After discussing the two different views as to the legality of elephant
racing and dismissing mule and donkey racing as not permitted, because it has
no military value (karr wa-farr), he continues:
Foot racing without compensation (ʿiwaḍ) is permitted, because it has

been reported that ʿĀʾishah said: ‘I raced the Prophet twice. The | first 107
time I defeated him, but when I grew stout, he defeated me.’ … There
are two views as to whether foot racing for a compensation is permitted.
According to one of them, held by the ʿIrāqians, it is permitted, because
the foot soldier needs it in battle, just as he needs it on the way to the
battle (?).151 According to the other, it is not permitted. This is based
on textual evidence, and it is the view held by Ibn Ḥanbal, because the
Prophet has said: ‘There is no prize (sabaq) except for arrows (naṣl), or
camels (khuff ), or horses (ḥāfir).’152
Pigeon (ṭayr) racing without compensation is permitted. There are
two views as to whether pigeon racing for a compensation is permitted.
150 Cf. Ms. Dublin Chester Beatty 4759, fol. 24a.

151 The text (kamā yaḥtāj ilayh fī l-faras li-l-qitāl) is not correct. The above translation substi-
tutes another word for faras. Perhaps, it should be emended to read, “as horses are needed
in battle.”
152 Ibn Abī Shaybah, Muṣannaf, fols. 101b–102a, has two reports on ʿĀʾishah’s foot race with
the Prophet, one report on a foot race between one ʿAbd-ar-Raḥmān (b. ʿAwf?) and his
father, and one statement attributed to az-Zuhrī that “they used to race on foot.” According
to aṭ-Ṭahāwī (above, Ch. II, n. 213), Muḥammad ash-Shaybānī declared foot racing (for
a stake) permissible; the commentary of al-Jaṣṣāṣ ar-Rāzī refers to ʿĀʾishah and a race
between Salamah b. al-Akwaʿ and an unidentified man in the presence of the Prophet.
According to ad-Dimyāṭī, Faḍl al-khayl, fol. 78a, Mālik permitted foot racing and similar
activities, if undertaken without stakes. Ibn Taymīyah, Fatāwī, II, 12, 14, declared foot racing
and wrestling permissible as body building. Cf. also Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzīyah, Furūsīyah, 2f.,
6.
According to one of them, (it is permitted,) because pigeons are used as an

auxiliary in war for carrying messages (al-kutub bi-l-akhbār). According to
the other, it is not permitted (in view of the ḥadīth just cited).153
Boat (sufun) racing without compensation is permitted. There are two
views as to whether boat racing for a compensation is permitted. Accord-
ing to one of them, it is permitted, because boats are used for fighting
on the sea, just as horses are used for fighting on land. According to the
other, it is not permitted, because of the textual evidence mentioned and
because they are not an instrument for war, but war takes place within
them.
Wrestling (muṣāraʿah) without compensation is permitted. There are
two views as to whether it is permitted for a compensation. According to
one of them, held by the ʿIrāqians, it is permitted, because it is reported
that the Prophet wrestled with Yazīd b. Rukānah for a sheep. The Prophet
defeated him, although he was not used to wrestling. Then Yazīd b. Rukā-
nah wrestled the Prophet again, and the Prophet defeated him again. He
did it a third time, and again the Prophet won. Thereupon, he became
a Muslim, and the Prophet returned the sheep to him.154 According to
108 the other view, it is not per|mitted, because of the textual evidence men-
tioned and because wrestling is not an instrument of war. The Prophet
wrestled with Yazīd b. Rukānah, because he wanted him to become a Mus-
lim. Therefore, when he became a Muslim, he returned his sheep to him.
Competition with Arab bows and non-Arab bows is permitted with and
without compensation, because of the Prophet’s statement.
Competition with mazārīq is permitted, because they have arrow
heads (naṣl) and are used for fighting. They are comparable to arrows
(sihām).
There are two views as to whether competitions with spears (rumḥ),
swords (sayf ), and clubs (ʿamūd) are all right (ṣaḥḥa). According to one
of them, held by Ibn Ḥanbal, it is not permitted, because of the Prophet’s
statement. According to the other, it is permitted, for ash-Shāfiʿī has said
153 In order to please Hārūn ar-Rashīd, Judge Abū l-Bakhtarī (d. 199–200/814–816) inserted
“pigeons” into the ḥadīth. He thereby did no favor at all to ar-Rashīd’s pigeon, for the caliph
had it slaughtered, because it caused someone to lie about the Prophet, cf. ad-Damīrī,
Ḥayawān, I, 293; I. Goldziher, in Zeitschrift für vergleichende Rechtswissenschaft, VIII (1889),
422, reprinted in his Gesammelle Schriften, ed. J. Desomogyi (Somogyi), II, 369 (Hildesheim
1968).
154 Ad-Dimyāṭī, Faḍl al-khayl, fol. 78a, reports the story from Abū Aḥmad al-ʿAskarī. Cf. also
Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzīyah, Furūsīyah, 3, 33–35.
in the Kitāb al-Umm that (competition is permitted) with everything by

which the enemy may be hurt, such as swords, spears, and mazārīq, and
because they are weapons used in fighting. They are comparable to arrows
(nushshābah).
There are two views, reported by aṭ-Ṭabarī in the ʿUddah, as to whether
throwing stones from a slingshot (miqlāʿ) for a compensation is per-
mitted. According to one of them—the only one reported by Ibn aṣ-
Ṣabbāgh—, it is not in the public interest (ṣ-l-ḥ), since it is not an instru-
ment of war. According to the other—the only one reported in the Mu-
hadhdhab155—, it is in the public interest, because it is an instrument of
war. It is comparable to arrows (nushshāb).
The competition with anything that is not an instrument of war, such
as hitting polo balls, lifting (rafʿ) stones, and playing the ring game, and
the like, is not permitted for a compensation, because there is no use in it
for war.156
Other Shāfiʿites such as an-Nawawī and ar-Rāfiʿī also classified the games ac-
cording to their usefulness, or the lack of it, for military preparedness. Horse
racing and shooting are classified as preferred (mustaḥabb), or even lāzim
“necessary.” (Others consider the classification of necessary as a community
duty.157) The better view on racing elephants, mules, and donkeys for money is
that it is permitted, whereas pigeon flying and wrestling are not. Money may
be spent on competitions with mazārīq, spears, stone throwing,158 mangonel
shooting, and other things, as being “useful in war.” It may not be spent on polo,
(clay) pellets (banādiq),159 swimming, chess, the ring game, standing upon one
foot, and the knowledge of what is in the other’s hand.160 Representatives of
Mālikism approved | of foot races, boat races, pigeon flying, stone throwing, 109
spear and sword play, and wrestling as activities promoting military prowess
(in the case of courier pigeons, improved communications). All of it meant dis-
comfort for the enemy and therefore was useful for the Muslims. However, if it
155 By the Shāfiʿite Abū Isḥāq ash-Shīrāzī (d. 476/1083). For the other two authorities, see
above, n. 117.
156 Cf. al-ʿImrānī, Bayān, fols. 77b–78b.
157 Cf. az-Zarkashī (?) (above, Ch. II, n. 118), fol. 161a.
158 Cf. op. cit. (n. 157), fol. 161b, where throwing both by hand and by means of a slingshot are
mentioned.
159 Cf. Lane, 259c.
160 Cf. an-Nawawī, Minhāj, III, 319f., and ar-Rāfiʿī, Muḥarrar, fol. 267a–b, Ms. Brit. Mus. or. 4285,
fol. 110b.
was merely a competition for winning and glory, with no serious training pur-
pose behind it, it was, with or without stakes ( juʿl), immoral gambling.161
The criterion of usefulness in war was an ingenious invention. It eliminated
once and for all the bane of bāṭil. It could be extended to encompass practi-
cally every kind of sport, if this seemed to be desirable. Even beyond the effec-
tive sway of Shāfiʿism, there was no real obstacle to holding competitions and
playing games for prizes, with some minor precautions in order to avoid the
appearance of gambling. Gambling by non-participants was, of course, com-
pletely illegal under any circumstances. It was a major sin, as was participatory
gambling.
We may ask what worldly punishment awaited the gambler who was caught
at it. According to the law, gambling made him unfit to function as a witness;
we might say, in a way, he lost his civil rights. The alleged precedent of Ibn
az-Zubayr162 suggests that he might receive a beating or be reproved and
humiliated by public exposure. These were normal kinds of taʿzīr punishment,
left to the discretion of the judge. The secular authorities might administer a
severe beating to individuals involved in the gambling business, even if they did
not gamble themselves, as shown by the story of the muṭammiʿ.163 Banishment
might be considered as an effective punishment and was attempted in the case
of the poet at-Tallaʿfarī. Rather interestingly, those who would gamble with him
were threatened with the loss of a hand.164 The legal reasoning behind it, if
110 there was any, probably equated gambling here with theft, since | at-Tallaʿfarī
was such an easy mark with his reckless losing that gambling with him was like
stealing.
For Shīʿah jurisdiction, exercised by the leader of the community (naqīb)
over other ʿAlids, we are fortunate in having a little gem of an anecdote involv-
ing gambling. It is reported about the Sharīf ar-Raḍī, himself a famous poet as
we have seen. ʿAlids who committed crimes and were brought before him could
count on severe treatment. The poor lady in our story should have been aware
of that:
161 A gloss in Ms. Fatih 2103 of ar-Rāfiʿī quotes the ʿUjāb (apparently, ʿAbd-al-Ghaffār al-
Qazwīnī’s own commentary on his al-Lubāb fī uṣūl al-fiqh, cf. Brockelmann, GAL, I, 394)
for permitting pigeon flying, wrestling, and foot racing without compensation, while for-
bidding sheep and cock fighting (munāṭaḥat ash-shāh wa-muhārashat ad-dīk) with and
without compensation, as well as the other games mentioned above.
Cf. ʿAbdallāh b. Maymūn, Ifādah, Ms. Istanbul Köprülü I, 1213, fol. 165a.
162 See above, p. 92.
An ʿAlid woman complained to him that she had small children in the
house, and her husband gambled away whatever income he received from
whatever kind of work he was doing and thus was in constant financial
difficulties. Witnesses present confirmed the truth of her complaint. The
Sharīf ar-Raḍī summoned the husband. He was placed on his belly and
given a beating. His wife expected that the Sharīf ar-Raḍī would call a halt
to the beating, but he let it go on, until the man had received more than a
hundred lashes with a stick. The woman now started to wail, ‘Woe upon
my poor orphaned children! What shape will we be in, if that man dies.’
The Sharīf ar-Raḍī turned to her and addressed her sternly in these words,
‘Did you think you were lodging a complaint (about a child) with a school
teacher?’165
The punishable offense in this case was, in fact, not so much the man’s gambling
as the neglect of his duty to provide and care for his family. The truth is
that we do not hear much about gamblers being punished by either the legal
authorities or the political authorities. Social conditions affecting gambling
appear to have prevented most gambling offenses from reaching the courts.
Much of the difficult task of watching out for gambling activities and trying
to suppress them by appropriate measures was apparently left to the office of
the muḥtasib, the market supervisor, which filled the void between the free-
wheeling government jurisdiction of maẓālim and the sharply circumscribed
sharīʿah courts of the qāḍīs. Yet, the ḥisbah handbooks are quite uninforma-
tive with respect to gambling. It should not be forgotten that the muḥtasib’s
hands were severely tied when it came to transgressions committed in the pri-
vacy of one’s home. “Spying” was permitted to his office only under special
circumstances.166 Now, gambling was often done in private. It was an indoors
activity, as stated by a scholar who attempted to explain why the ḥadīth speaks
of gambling in connec|tion with the subject of requests for permission to enter 111
(istiʾdhān); the word manzil is used in this case, without any further elaboration
as to whether it was meant to signify private homes or public places or, most
probably, both.167 At any rate, the muḥtasib was no doubt greatly handicapped
in any attempts he might have made to supervise gambling.
165 Cf. Ibn ʿInabah, ʿUmdat aṭ-ṭālib, 210 (an-Najaf 1381/1961). This seems to be the story to
which Mez, Renaissance, 384, n. 5, refers as to be found in “Dīwān des Ridā, S. 3.”
166 Cf. al-Māwardī, al-Aḥkām as-sulṭānīyah, 238 f. (Cairo 1298).
167 Cf. al-ʿAynī, ʿUmdah, X, 516. Cf. also Ibn Ḥajar, Fatḥ, XIII, 335; al-Qasṭallānī, Irshād as-sārī,
IX, 172.
Authors of ḥisbah works from the West of the Muslim world such as Ibn
ʿAbdūn would include a paragraph to the effect that playing chess, nard, and
qirq as well as using divination arrows by way of gambling constituted forbid-
den activities, since all that distracted an individual from fulfilling his religious
duties.168 Another author, a certain ʿUmar b. ʿUthmān al-Jarsīfī, counts among
the tasks of the muḥtasib the prevention of gamblers (qammārūn), wine mer-
chants, and drunkards from becoming a public nuisance. It was the muḥtasib’s
job to punish them (taʾdīb), while avoiding any interference with the qāḍī’s
jurisdiction over cases where legal punishments (ḥudūd) were involved. He
also had to stop rough play with sticks occasionally practiced by children in
the streets.169
In the large ḥisbah work of Ibn al-Ukhūwah, it is in a highly theoretical
manner that nard, chess, and pigeon fancying are discussed in connection with
the qāḍī’s concern for the obligatory qualifications of official witnesses. This,
perhaps, was meant to serve as a hint that, although the muḥtasib should be
aware of the gambling problem, it was not really a concern of his.170 Strangely
enough, gambling was referred to by ash-Shayzarī and Ibn al-Ukhūwah among
the duties of teachers. They are advised to beat children for bad behavior, the
use of foul language, and other actions deviating from the sharīʿah norm, such
as playing with dice (astragals?, kaʿb, kiʿāb), eggs, nard, and all kinds of gambling
(qimār).171
112 No concrete cases illustrating how the muḥtasib dealt with actual instances
of gambling were envisaged in this literature. As always, it is difficult to pene-
trate to the realities of daily life through Muslim legal scholarship. Since gam-
bling did not belong to the subjects considered central by the legal tradition,
the difficulty is greater than usual.
168 Cf. Ibn ʿAbdūn, ed. É. Lévi-Provençal, Documents arabes inédits, 53 (Cairo 1955), trans, in
his Séville musulmane, 118 (Paris 1947) (where qirq is translated “dames”).
169 Cf. É. Lévi-Provençal, Documents arabes inédits, 123f. Ibn ʿAbdūn (Documents, 52, Séville,
117) also mentions the stick game, for which see above, p. 59.
170 Cf. Ibn al-Ukhūwah, text 213f., trans. 85 f.
171 Cf. al-Shayzarī, Nihāyat ar-rutbah, ed. as-Sayyid al-Bāz al-ʿArīnī, 103f. (Cairo 1365/1946),
and Ibn al-Ukhūwah, text 171, trans. 60. The reference to al-Māwardī in Mez, Renaissance,
384, n. 6, could not be traced to the passage indicated. It mentions supervision of gambling
dens by the muḥtasib.
chapter four
Gambling in Belles Lettres 113
The law reveals the degree to which human activities have become institution-
alized in a given society. Their reflection in its non-utilitarian literature and
their imprint upon language beyond the ordinary requirements of basic com-
munication show that they have acquired another dimension and have under-
gone transformation from purely factual reality to intellectual and emotional
existence. They are then present in individual and collective consciousness or
subconsciousness not only when they happen to take place but as more or
less permanent and often essential factors determining the society’s lifestyle.
Therein lies the importance of the information conveyed to us by belles lettres,
in addition to what we may learn from them in factual terms. The unreality of
the human imagination confirms, and as much as possible perpetualizes, the
meaning of reality.
For any proper evaluation of the linguistic and literary evidence, the quan-
titative element plays a certain role. Where the totality of documents available
to us is small and the linguistic situation imperfectly known, a single reference
carries great weight. Where all that is as enormously plentiful and varied as it
is among Muslim peoples, a single reference, or even a few, could owe their
existence to uncharacteristic special circumstances and require being viewed
in that light. Quantity is never easy to judge. It is determined not only by the
uncertainties of preservation but also by the limits placed upon the exhaus-
tiveness of research. No doubt, the material presented in this chapter should
be multiplied many hundred times by anyone attempting to weigh its signif-
icance as indicated by its quantity. As has been stated before (above, pp. 6 f.
[pp. 342f. Ed]), the problem of quantitation in a way affects everything that
can be said about gambling in Islam. However, it becomes most crucial where
language and poetry, the greatest constants of Muslim civilization, are under
scrutiny.
Wherever there is gambling, a gambling slang is created, in order to forge a
linguistic bond among the true initiates. Like every slang, it constantly renews
itself, but also leaves some permanent traces in speech. Gamblers in Islam
can thus be assumed to have had such a | language of their own. Thanks 114
to a passage in one of the works of at-Tawḥīdī, this assumption becomes an
attested fact. In his heroic effort to demolish the reputation of the Ṣāḥib Ibn
ʿAbbād, at-Tawḥīdī does not omit to blame him for the use of coarse and vul-
gar language. He tells us that Ibn ʿAbbād learned from al-Aqṭaʿ, who is char-
acterized as a “robber and gambler” (liṣṣ muqāmir) of bad reputation, “the

speech (kalām) of a certain type of beggars (mukaddūn), the low-key conver-
sation (munāghāh) of another type (shaḥḥādhūn), and the ways of expression
(ʿibārah) used by gamblers and persistent dice players.”1 At-Tawḥīdī does not
spell out what he meant by the different terms he employed for those argots.
The ʿibārah of the gamblers might possibly be a term indicating not a fully
developed slang but rather hinting at the occasional use of a special termi-
nology, such as “sixes and fives,”2 words for cheating, and so on. No extensive
specimen of their way of talking seems to have been preserved in the litera-
ture (none, at any rate, has been identified as such so far), so that we have
to rely for our knowledge on whatever stray indications we may happen to
find. Owing to the highly conservative character of literary Arabic, later slang
coinages were hardly able to make inroads into it to the extent gambling terms
had succeeded in doing during earlier stages of the development of Arabic,
witness the numerous words for gambling competitions and prizes, and the
like.
Both poetry and artistic prose adopted some gambling imagery in their vast
vocabulary. Very little of it filtered down into more ordinary prose. Horse racing
had the most prominent share of all games and sports in enriching the lan-
guage. The competing animals could originally have been camels, but it would
seem much more likely that they were horses from the start. The root s-b-q3
sometimes clearly states, and more often implies, the idea of being out in front
115 as the winning participant in competitive intellectual activities. | Ḥalbah, may-
dān, miḍmār, all designating places where race horses were trained and com-
peted with each other, were commonly used terms in this connection. Rather
bluntly and prosaically, it could be maintained that “poetry is a hippodrome,
and the poets are horses.”4 A successful poet could be praised as “the winner on
the race track of poets” (sabbāq ḥalbat ash-shuʿarāʾ).5 Than al-Jāḥiẓ there was
1 Cf. at-Tawḥīdī, Akhlāq al-wazīrayn, 185. See above, Ch. II, n. 145, and below, Ch. V, n. 73.
2 See below, Ch. V, n. 49. Puzzling expressions can always be expected to show up. Thus, we
hear māyah described as “something of the tools of gamblers,” cf. as-Sakhāwī, Ḍawʾ, IX, 271.
Māyah is the rhyme word in a mawālīyā, thus its pronunciation is assured. It may be a Persian
word.
3 S-b-q is etymologically related to Aramaic š-b-q “to leave, to leave behind.” At an older stage
of Semitic, the root developed from a causative of *b-q, which further yielded Arabic b-q-y.
Cf. C. Brockelmann, Grundriss der vergleichenden Grammatik der semitischen Sprachen, I, 522
(Berlin 1908–1913).
5 Cf. Ibn Bassām, Dhakhīrah, I, i, 44.
gambling in belles lettres 449
“no greater winner in the hippodrome of artistic style” (mā raʾaytu asbaq minhu
fī maydān al-bayān). Immediately thereafter, in the same passage, it is said that
with respect to artistic style, God “placed into his hand the rod (qaṣab) of vic-
tory,” namely, the measuring rod that served as the goal post. It is described as
having been placed in the center of the finish line; it was seized (ḥāza, aḥraza)
by the winner who was thereby entitled to claim the offered prize (khaṭar).
Simpler terms were further employed for additional praise of the great littéra-
teur. He is extolled as not being surpassed ( yusbaq) or even reached ( yulḥaq),
whether he writes in a serious or humorous vein.6 The shabby triteness finally
achieved by the metaphor comes through clearly in these fourteenth-century
verses:
When he gets into the hippodrome of each virtue,

He grasps the rods of first place on a racing day,
Having run to seize the virtues and high accomplishments,
Not having been reined in and restrained from going to the limits of
them.7
An author may describe his father as “reaching the goal before (asbaq ilā
l-ghāyah) someone else with respect to using Qurʾānic verses in his poetry
(iqtibās), and thus afterwards having mourned a servant in verses guaranteeing
him that he would obtain the prize in the race (ḥiyāzat khaṣl as-sibāq).”8 A great
scholar “constantly | seizes the rod of victory on the race tracks of science,”9 and 116
a littérateur could do the same on those of adab.10 A religious zealot who led
6 Cf. at-Tawḥīdī, Baṣāʾir, I, 231f. For qaṣab, cf. the dictionaries, for instance, al-Azharī, Tahd-
hīb, VIII, 382; Ibn al-Athīr, Nihāyah, III, 287; Lisān, II, 171; Lane, 2529b. Cf. also at-Tawḥīdī,
Baṣāʾir, I, 367, l. 2.
7 Cf. al-Qīrāṭī, Maṭlaʿ an-nayyirayn, Mss. Istanbul Fatih 3861, fol. 46a, and Topkapısarayı
Ahmet III 2627, fol. 52b:
idhā ṣāra fī miḍmāri kulli faḍīlatin

ḥawā qaṣabāti s-sabqi yawma rihāni
jarā naḥwa iḥrāzi l-faḍāʾili wa-l-ʿulā
fa-mā kaffa ʿan ghāyātihā bi-ʿināni.
8 Cf. al-Bākharzī, Dumyat (al-qaṣr), ed. ʿAbd-al-Fattāḥ M. al-Ḥilū, I, 377f. (Damascus 1388–
/1968–).
9 Cf. Ibn Bassām, Dhakhīrah, IV, i, 141, ll. 10 f., cf. also I, ii, 258, l. 11, etc.
10 Cf. ash-Sharīshī, Sharḥ al-Maqāmāt, I, 312. Cf. also, for instance, the common “gather-
a compaign against wine shops may ironically be addressed as someone who,

“in order to set the broken bones of Islam, broke those wine vessels” and did it
so energetically that “he seized the prize in the race of breaking and setting.”11
Ability may be concealed in the beginning, and its presence be unknown, just
as the front runner in a race is not always the winner at the end. The winner is
known only when the race is over:
Not being out in front does me no harm.

Who the winner is (as-sabq) is known at the end of the course (miḍmār).
This verse, the first of two, was composed by Lisān-ad-dīn Ibn al-Khaṭīb. The
couplet seems to have greatly pleased Ibn Khaldūn. He had not learned it from
its author but had his permission to quote it. He quoted it to his student Ibn
ad-Damāmīnī.12
Graeco-Arabic translation literature brought the simile of horse racing into
the context of ethical ideas ascribed to Socrates. Socrates “said to his disciples:
He who does not train ( yuḍ[am]mir) his soul in the miḍmār where (horses)
are exercised, is not the first to reach the goal of good (qualities and actions),
because he does not get to the limit of wisdom.”13 Just as being the winner
is good, being the loser is bad, and fiskil “the horse coming in last” takes
on the meaning of “mean, base.”14 “Running on (someone else’s) race track”
was in ordinary use as a deprecating metaphor for doing what others do, for
117 descending to the level of another person,15 or, with the negation, | for not
accomplishing as much as someone else, as we would say, deriving a metaphor
from another sport, “not playing in his league.”
ing the rods of victory,” see Ibn al-Labbānah, in al-ʿImād al-Iṣfahānī, Kharīdah (West-
ern poets), ed. M. al-Marzūqī, M. al-ʿArūsī al-Maṭwī (?), al-Jīlānī Ibn al-Ḥājj Yaḥyā, and
Ādhartāsh Ādharnūsh, II, 122 (Tunis 1966, 1971) (not in the edition of ʿU. ad-Dasūqī and ʿA.
ʿAbd-al-ʿAẓīm, Cairo, n. y. [1964]).
11 Cf. Ibn Bassām, Dhakhīrah, I, i, 364.
12 Cf. Ibn ad-Damāmīnī, Nuzūl al-Ghayth alladhī insajam fī sharḥ Lāmīyat al-ʿAjam, Mss.
Escorial 560, fol. 6b, and 325, fol. 4b (Escorial 560 is the older and better manuscript). For
Ibn ad-Damāmīnī’s contact with Ibn Khaldūn, cf. as-Sakhāwī, Ḍawʾ, VII, 186. The verses
are quoted in Ibn Ḥajar, Durar, III, 473.
13 Cf. al-Mubashshir, Mukhtār al-ḥikam, 121.
14 Cf. al-Bākharzī, Dumyah, I, 6; Lane, 2398c. For fiskil, see above, p. 49, and, for the possible
origin of the word, S. Fraenkel, Die aramäischen Fremdwörter im Arabischen, 106.
15 As in a saying attributed to Aristotle, cf. The Sayings of the Four Philosophers, which form
the subject of a Yale doctoral dissertation by D. Gutas (1974). [Published in D. Gutas, Greek
Wisdom Literature in Arabic Translation, New Haven 1975, p. 201, saying 75. Ed.]
“Two horses engaged in a race” ( farasā rihān)16 was a figure of speech for
individuals engaged in a contest. The Prophet is said to have compared his
relationship in time to the Last Hour with two horses engaged in a race.17
A husband and wife involved in a complicated divorce situation may be so
described.18 In both cases, it is a very close contest, whether with respect to
reaching the goal or, as explained in the sources, with respect to the start of
the race.19 In any case, farasā rihān came to signify being the same20 or being
co-equal.21 If the plural was used instead of the dual, it was possible in a rather
tortuous manner to speak of the three race horses of poetry, prose, and logic
which, when one of them was attacked, were all affected.22
The gambling aspect of racing is naturally much less in the foreground
of all these usages than is the sporting aspect of it. The latter would seem
to be completely dominant where the shooting of arrows, the arrow hitting
the target, was employed as a metaphor for correctness and success, which
was commonplace. Still, the widespread use of “the arrow coming out, being
drawn” ( fawz al-qidḥ) to indicate high accomplishment and success represents
a gambling metaphor which could well be called the only lasting legacy of the
old maysir game. It was rarely used with a negation, “to draw an arrow that is
not winning,” for the opposite meaning.23 While the arrow is often specified
for good measure as being al-muʿallā, the one to which the largest number
of shares was assigned in maysir, such an addition was not necessary and
probably was often felt to | be too much of a cliché and therefore something 118
better be done without. Of an individual highly accomplished in both poetry
and prose, it might be said that “he drew the two muʿallā arrows in both
places,” but the simple “my arrow came out” was good enough to convey the
intended meaning.24 Numerous minor variations were invented. Thus it could
16 Cf. ath-Thaʿālibī, Thimār al-qulūb, 287; al-Maydānī, Arabum Proverbia, II, 362. See also
ash-Sharīshī, Sharḥ al-Maqāmāt, II, 325.
17 Cf. Concordance, II, 313a25; Ibn Ḥanbal, Musnad, V, 331.
18 This passage occurs in what is called a tradition of aḍ-Ḍaḥḥāk (b. Muzāḥim?), cf. al-Azharī,
Tahdhīb, XII, 406b; Ibn al-Athīr, Nihāyah, III, 208; Lisān, VIII, 40; Lane, 2367c.
19 Cf. ad-Damīrī, Ḥayawān, II, 239.
21 Referring to body and spirit, cf. Arabian Nights, ed. Macnaghten, IV, 397, trans. Littmann,
VI, 52 (910th night).
22 Cf. al-Bīrūnī, Taḥdīd nihāyāt al-amākin, ed. P.G. Bulgakov, in Revue de l’Institut des Manu-
scrits Arabes, VIII (1962 [1964]), 28, trans. Jamil Ali, 6 (Beirut 1967).
23 Cf. Ibn Bassām, Dhakhīrah, I, ii, 36, l. 19.
24 Cf. at-Tawḥīdī, Imtāʿ, II, 137, 165. Cf. also al-Bākharzī, Dumyah, I, 273, 503.
be said that “he hit the highest arrow (sahm) and most successful (afwaz)
arrow (qidḥ) in commerce,”25 and matters of this sort. Friends could be told
that
The hands of separation played with us till it was

As if we were arrows, and they were maysir players.25a
Sometimes, if not very frequently, the gambling connection was recalled by the
addition of a word formed from the root q-m-r. At the end of a difficult peregri-
nation, Ibn Bassām eventually “came out like a (winning) arrow, when it is used
in gambling.”26 Even in an elegy for al-Ḥusayn, the Sharīf ar-Raḍī could mention
that “my arrow is not defeated” (qidḥī ghayr maqmūr).27 “The high arrow in the
gambler’s hand” (sahm al-ʿulā fī yad al-qāmir) suggests uncertainty,28 or unex-
pectedness. The search for a friend may turn out to be elusive, even when it
would seem that unexpectedly and by chance, one has found one:
… Till when I say that my hand has come up

With one like him in the way of a gambler’s hand,
I find what is in my palm of him to be as if
The hand of a piper were filled with it.29
“The loser” (maqmūr) served occasionally to refer to a person utterly lost and
119 distressed.30 In a verse presumably by al-Aḥwaṣ, | the variant reading maghmūr
“obscure, abject” occurs, and it is difficult to decide which reading deserves
25 Cf. Ibn Bassām, Dhakhīrah, I, ii, 102. Afwaz as-sihām appears, for instance, in at-Tawḥīdī,
Muqābasāt, ed. M.T. Ḥusayn, 241, no. 61 (Baghdād 1970).
25a Cf. Fityān ash-Shāghūrī, Dīwān, 192 (Damascus 1387/1967).
27 Cf. ash-Sharīf ar-Raḍī, Dīwān, 206.
28 Cf. ash-Sharīf ar-Raḍī, Dīwān, 178. The poet, Dīwān, 225, also speaks of “the feeling of
the arrow by a big gambler” (kamā ghamaza l-qidḥa l-khalīʿu l-muqāmiru). This is clearly
a literary recollection of maysir practice, but if ghamaza is meant here to refer to the
handling of the arrow, this would be something for which, in the official game, the player
himself would have no opportunity, and it is, as we have seen, something to be strictly
avoided by the individual in charge of the drawing.
29 Cf. at-Tawḥīdī, Ṣadāqah, 194. A piper’s hand is filled with nothing but intangible and
disappearing air coming out of the flute. The phrase here is hardly to be connected with
“az-Zāmir b. Murrah,” mentioned in al-Azdī, Ḥikāyat Abī l-Qāsim, 95, see Mez’s remarks on
p. LI.
30 As in the proverb mentioned below, p. 120.
preference.31 However, a similar variant reading is also attested elsewhere, and

there the context definitely favors q-m-r: “Far advanced in adab, never defeated
( yuqmar) with respect to this prize (nadab).”32
There are some individual terms and roots of wide general use to which a
gambling connotation may have been attached at some early, even very early
and remote, date and in the course of time become their dominant seman-
tic trait. All that can be said in this connection is highly conjectural, since
original meanings are usually quite beyond our grasp. For instance, it is not
entirely inconceivable that the general meaning of the root q-s-m “to divide”
was derived from divination practices based on casting lots. This is suggested
by the situation in Hebrew (q-s-m) and Syriac (q-ṣ-m) as well as Arabic uses
of the root meaning “to swear, to divine.” It is a possibility that was much dis-
cussed by the philologians of the nineteenth century without, however, reach-
ing anything approaching a consensus.33 One might also suggest that ḥaẓẓ
“portion, luck” is in fact to be related to the old Semitic word for “arrow” and
originally signified luck in gambling, even if the Semitic word survived in Ara-
bic in a somewhat different form (ḥaẓwah “little arrow”). We are, it seems,
on less uncertain ground with other roots. Barraza in the meaning of “being
outstanding” was apparently a racing concept. The gambling connotation of
khaṭara may have been original or, at least, have been present already dur-
ing the prehistory of Arabic, comparable to s-b-q. In the case of gharar “risk,”
the original meaning presumably was “deception,” but it could have been col-
ored by its application to gambling. It would seem clear, though, that fāza is
very likely to have started out from the “coming out” of the arrows in gam-
bling games and then acquired the general meaning of being successful, down
to the metaphysical meaning of fawz as ultimate bliss. All these linguistic
features are ancient in the language and had largely become detached from
gambling in the speaker’s consciousness. For the evaluation of the role of gam-
bling in Islamic | times, they must be written off as being of minor signifi- 120
cance.
Material directly attested in Islamic literature must be viewed differently.
In Muslim belles lettres, prose composition takes second place to poetry; it
has also been much less studied by modern scholars. While prose literature
31 Cf. al-Jāḥiẓ, Bayān, II, 183f., III, 336; at-Tawḥīdī, Ṣadāqah, 388. The collection of the poems
of al-Aḥwaṣ prepared by ʿĀdil S. Jamāl and Sh. Ḍayf, 107 (Cairo 1390/1970), quotes the Bayān
as its only source for the verses.
32 Cf. al-Bākharzī, Dumyah, I, 490.
33 Cf. E. Doutté, Magie et religion dans l’ Afrique du nord, 128 (Algiers 1909), who mentions
H.L. Fleischer as having assumed magic origin for the root meaning.
yields some references to gambling, they are fewer than those to be found
in poetry. An important prose form in the Near East was the proverb, by
right transmitted orally but also avidly pursued by medieval authors for use
in literary creations. Among Arabic proverbs, we find “greedier than a losing
gambler” (aṭmaʿ min al-maqmūr). He is so greedy, because, as a somewhat
superfluous explanation spells it out for us, “he always wants to get back
what he lost.”34 This was the ultimate degree of self-defeating greed. It was
to be considered as something truly mean and dirty. Consequently, the phrase
“greed of the losing gambler” could be used as one of those fanciful epithets of
abuse which Arabic littérateurs were fond of making up.35 “Putting one’s hand
between one of two lost causes (maqmūratān)” meant chosing between two
evils.36 One of the proverbs known already to T. Erpenius in the seventeenth
century spoke of “most people liking to be on the side of the winner” (an-nās
aktharuhum sharīk al-qāmir).37
We are unable to assess the extent of the spread and popularity of proverbs
such as “greedier than the losing gambler” or the related “more ashamed than
a losing gambler.”38 Individual proverbs are well known for having had a rather
short life and an uncertain geographical distribution in the Muslim world.
Proverbs such as these might possibly have enjoyed a comparatively wide
and lasting use. On the other hand, certain proverbs that entered the proverb
121 literature and continued being quoted in it were, in Islamic times, no | more
than literary reminiscences. All of them owed their existence to the pre-Islamic
fondness for maysir and horse racing. “More of a maysir player than Luqmān”
(aysar min Luqmān)39 and “Meaner than a baram” (alʾam min al-baram)40
34 Cf. Ḥamzah al-Iṣfahānī, Durrah, 292; (Abū Hilāl) al-ʿAskarī, Jamharat (al-amthāl), ed.
M. Abū l-Faḍl Ibrāhīm and ʿAbd-al-Majīd Qaṭāmish, II, 14 (Cairo 1384/1964); al-Maydānī,
Arabum Proverbia, II, 51; az-Zamakhsharī, Mustaqṣā, I, 226; Lisān, XI, 158, s. rad. ʿ-ṭ-f. Cf.
also the story of the muṭammiʿ, below, p. 144.
35 Cf. al-Badīʿ al-Hamadhānī, Maqāmāt, 380 (Cairo 1381/1962), trans. Prendergast, 165.
36 Cf. al-Azharī, Tahdhīb, IX, 149. Perhaps, maqmūrah here is the chess term meaning a game
that might be won or lost.
37 Cf. T. Erpenius, Grammatica Arabica, in the edition of J. Golius, II, 118 (Leiden 1656).
Al-Maydānī, Arabum Proverbia, II, 798, has a slightly different version (an-nās atbāʿ man
ghalab). The Arabic original of Erpenius’s collection has not yet been identified.
38 Cf. al-ʿAskarī, Jamharah, I, 432, who says that it is a well-known proverb; al-Maydānī,
Arabum Proverbia, I, 467.
39 Cf. al-Mufaḍḍal aḍ-Ḍabbī, Amthāl, 76; Ḥamzah al-Iṣfahānī, Durrah, 437; al-ʿAskarī, Jamha-
rah, II, 436; az-Zamakhsharī, Mustaqṣā, I, 449; al-Maydānī, Arabum Proverbia, II, 938.
40 Cf. Ḥamzah al-Iṣfahānī, Durrah, 374; al-ʿAskarī, Jamharah, II, 220; al-Maydānī, Arabum
Proverbia, II, 561. On baram, see above, p. 75.
probably had been popular in times long past. Quoting the second proverb,
Ḥamzah al-Iṣfahānī rightly remarked that the institution of maysir no longer
existed and that, therefore, the proverb was no longer in use. “So-and-so is a
baram who possesses no generosity” (mā fīh karam) was mentioned as late as
the time of Ibn Kamālpāshā.41 “Shaking and drawing (mujīl) the arrow, while
the camel offered as the prize is still grazing”42 is picturesque enough, but
it was apparently not much quoted, not even in the proverb literature. Stake
racing as the foil for proverbs is attested by quite a few entries in al-Maydānī’s
collection. Some were also known already to Erpenius. Only experience can
show an individual’s true qualities: “At the race do the winners become known”
(ʿind ar-rihān tuʿraf as-sawābiq). Wanting something unattainable is supposed
to be the meaning of “Kilāb’s ox is the slowest in the race” (thawr Kilāb fī r-rihān
aqʿad).43
In the vast literature that has preserved for us the artistic prose of “epistles”
or “documents” (rasāʾil, inshāʾ) in all its amazing virtuosity, gambling forms the
subject of a “note” (ruqʿah) by the famous author of the Yamīnī, the history of
Maḥmūd of Ghaznah, al-ʿUtbī (d. 413/1022). It was quoted in the Yatīmah of
al-ʿUtbī’s contemporary, the prolific ath-Thaʿālibī.44 It is a most interesting little
document that deserves to be translated here in full:
A note to a friend
who gambled for, and lost, valuable books
Tribulations, dear Sir, are suspended between two wings, the wing | of 122
determinism (taqdīr) and the wing of bad management. A man need not
make apologies for whatever tribulations come from predetermination
(miqdār). But there is no one to help him deal with those which his own
hand has handed out and his own mouth has breathed forth. The (rolling)
axes ( fuṣūṣ) of the revolving spheres contain what makes superfluous the
41 Cf. Ibn Kamālpāshā, Rasāʾil, 365. Ibn Kamālpāshā’s source apparently was al-Muṭarrizī’s
commentary on al-Ḥarīrī’s Maqāmāt.
42 See above, Ch. III, n. 33.
43 Cf. T. Erpenius, Grammatica Arabica, II, 115, 112 f.; al-Maydānī, Arabum Proverbia, II, 131, I,
168.
44 Cf. ath-Thaʿālibī, Yatīmah, IV, 284, and Mss. Istanbul Veliuddin 2708, fols. 704a–705a (appar-
ently, the best among a number of excellent manuscripts), Laleli 1959, fols. 597b–598a,
and Topkapısarayı Revan Köşk 716, fol. 546b. (For Istanbul mss. of the Yatīmah, cf. C.E.
Bosworth, in Journal of Semitic Studies, XVI, 1971, 41–49, and T.R. Topuzoğlu, in The Islamic
Quarterly, XV, 1971, 62–65.)
(rolling) pieces ( fuṣūṣ “dice”) of decaying bone, unless, indeed, the search-
ing eye is blinded and the reflective and impressionable ear deafened. (So
it is,) by God who is in charge of guidance to the right and straightforward
road!
I have heard about your risking what you had accounted45 to be the
choicest and most sparkling spoils of literature46 and the cream of the
ages, so that they were won by snatching hands and snatched up by
grasping greed, with the result that you were robbed with no robber
doing the robbing, and fatally stricken without the intervention of sudden
death. Oh, how great a swindle it is that makes it necessary to pay,47 sets
the teeth on edge, cuts the finger, and confuses eye and tongue!
Yes, Sir, the poor choice you made48 and the ugly effects you have
suffered touch and disturb me as much as they can be expected to touch
and disturb one who considers you part of his own flesh and blood and
who makes no distinction between you and himself, when he is away
(from you) and when he is together (with you).49 However, it is the nature
of rational souls to shun one who does not handle himself right, and to
leave him who fails50 to think about what is beneficial for himself in all
his affairs. He who neglects to do what is beneficial for himself will be
even more neglectful of doing what is beneficial for others, and he who
is incapable of managing his own special concerns will be even more
incapable of managing (the affairs of) others.
May God inspire you with the patience to bear what you have done and
arm you with consolation about the morass into which you have sunk by
your own fault. And may He make this one (tribulation?) something to
arouse you from the sleep of error and to keep you from the ways of fools.
It is not yet too late in life for you to wake up, and you still have enough
money to be concerned. Beware of letting yourself be seduced to repeat
that unbecoming business. It will take from you more than it might give
you, and annoy you more than it might please you. If God wants you to
have what is good for you, He will guide you and help you, now and always.
45 The mss., too, have iʿtadadtahū. It appears to have the above meaning, although it is not
attested for this root in the eighth conjugation.
46 Ms. Veliuddin seems to have al-arab “skill” or the like, possibly the more original reading.
47 Following the vocalization of Ms. Veliuddin ( yulzim al-maghram).
48 Ikhtiyār seems to be the reading attested, although ikhtibār “the bad experience you have
had” would make good sense.
49 Lit., in his loneliness and in his intimacy.
50 Read yughfil, for yaʿmal. Ms. Veliuddin has tanfir ʿam-man yughfil.
It is instructive to compare this half playful, half serious epistle with the
Greek letter of Singlefield (Monochôros) to his friend Dicelover (Philokybos)
from the late Hellenistic collection of letters of a | certain Aristaenetus, which 123
was composed no earlier than the fifth centuryad.51 The Aristaenetus letter is,
of course, entirely fictional, as shown already by the names of the correspon-
dents. However, al-ʿUtbī, too, is quite likely to have made up his text with no
concrete addressee in mind. Singlefield complains to Dicelover about the terri-
ble twin calamities that have befallen him, one of them bad, and the other not
better. Both his girl and the rolling dice (pessoi) have turned out bad for him
and much more favorable to his rivals and opponents than to himself. When
he is gambling with them, he goes out of his mind thinking of his love, and
then he plays carelessly and makes mistakes.52 And with the money he loses
to them, his rivals can afford to be more generous to his paramour and in this
way administer another painful defeat to him. Thus, both misfortunes reinforce
each other.
The differences between the two texts are noteworthy. Aristaenetus’s letter,
of about the same length as that of al-ʿUtbī, is consistently frivolous but retains
throughout an ingratiating charm. Amorous pursuits and gambling may both
be folly. However, neither provokes disapproval or censure. They are human
follies and as such understandable and forgivable. They are individual follies.
They call for no reflection whatever as to the possible consequences they
might have for the general welfare of society; in fact, nobody apart from those
immediately concerned cares about what is going on. To al-ʿUtbī, his friend’s
gambling appears in a totally different light. In spite of the rather lighthearted
tone struck by him, he is fully aware that he is dealing with a deadly serious
matter, touching the most essential problems of human life. Human life is
afflicted by the misfortunes brought about by fate as well as by those resulting
from the free decision of man. Gambling is something that human beings
do by choice. Thus, they have only themselves to blame for any losses they
may suffer. Their activity becomes even more objectionable, when the risk
taken involves | valuable objects, in particular objects of value for the life 124
51 Cf. Aristaenetus, Letters, I, 23, ed. R. Hercher, Epistolographi Graeci, 153 (Paris 1873). For
the interpretation of the name Monochōros, cf. the translation of A. Lesky, Aristainetos:
Erotische Briefe, 92 f., 161 (Zürich 1951).
52 This is a topic encountered in Arabic chess literature, cf. Wieber, Schachspiel, 126. It
happens, for instance, to the lover in the Arabian Nights, while playing with his lady, cf.
ed. Macnaghten, I, 375, IV, 194ff., trans. Littmann, I, 531f., V, 561ff. (49th and 846th to 847th
nights). For the latter passage, see below, Ch. V, n. 30.
of the mind and the spirit. Furthermore, gambling is an affront to reason. There-
fore, in addition to the individual misfortune he invites, the gambler also places
himself outside the company of human beings whose main claim to distinc-
tion in this world is their ability to reason. It is prudent for his friends, and
for society as a whole, to shun him. He is thus cut off from participation in
the normal functioning of the community. His only hope lies in mending his
ways and trusting in God’s support which will be forthcoming when his behav-
ior has improved, and save him as an individual and as a member of soci-
ety.
Where the littérateur in the Hellenistic tradition saw only an amusing foible,
his Muslim colleague, though he tries hard to see the humor in human fail-
ings, cannot help at the same time viewing them as a theologian and moralizer.
His friendly banter becomes a stern sermon. Looked at realistically, gambling
deserves to be condemned for the harm it does not only to the individual but
also to society. It is a matter of concern to man and to his God. It is not impossi-
ble that similar works were composed by Muslim writers of artistic prose who
took a more lenient and less serious attitude. And perhaps, the comparison of
al-ʿUtbī with Aristaenetus is not really a fair one, and Aristaenetus’s imagina-
tive little opus should rather be compared with those occasional verses of poets
who like him combined the subject of gambling with that of love and refrained
from moralizing.
Gambling verses are attested early in Muslim literature. However, the old
maysir verses so laboriously collected by the philologians may be said to be
restricted as a rule to using maysir imagery in order to characterize the ordinary
situations and concerns of the poet. They are not meant to bring out the
gambling aspect of the game as something of independent interest. They are
at best an indication of a continued literary tradition. Tradition, rather than
concern with gambling, may also have played a certain role in the references
of later poets to gambling. However, many of them wrote couplets or other
comparatively short compositions that relied on gambling as such for creating
a poetic entity.
Among old verses, not only those connected with maysir but also those
referring to dice, or rather astragals (kaʿbatān, kiʿāb), were not keyed to making
statements about gambling as such. They did not go beyond incidental aspects
125 such as the clatter made by dice | and the fact of their constantly being moved
around.53 But already in the first century of Islam, we find verses ascribed
53 Cf. Wörterbuch der klassischen arabischen Sprache, Letter K, 230a.

to Muslims reflecting in a way on the pernicious effects of gambling. Thus

the great-grandson of the caliph Abū Bakr, Ibn Abī ʿAtīq, was brought into
connection with these verses:
God has taken your livelihood away from you.

You have gambled away your substance,54 and how!
You have spent your property carelessly
On every whore you could find and on wine.55
Supposedly, these verses were spoken by a wife of Ibn Abī ʿAtīq with reference
to him. He wrote them down on a piece of papyrus and read them to ʿAbdallāh,
the son of the caliph ʿUmar. Now, Ibn Abī ʿAtīq was one of the old Muslims who
had a reputation for jocularity and a loose and somewhat lascivious wit. This
story is cited as an example of these qualities, considered unworthy of a man
of his standing in society. Its genuineness, and thus its early date, are suspect.
Moreover, the verses as quoted by an-Nuwayrī contain no reference to gambling
and presuppose the existence of another version which may have been more
original than the one involving gambling.
In verses describing a woman he loved who had married another man, Ibn
Qays-ar-Ruqayyāt exclaimed:
I stood there like one who had lost the best of his possessions in gambling.
This is madness. It is not love.56
Early in the eighth century, Nuṣayb b. Rabāḥ described the desire for the
company of pretty young girls in terms of gambling:
Would that gambling were legal,

So that I might have gambled for them!
54 Lubbaka “heart, sense,” as found in the ʿIqd, is by far the best reading. Al-Jāḥiẓ has laylaka
“you gambled all night long,” and ash-Sharīshī mālaka “your property.”
55 Cf. al-Jāḥiẓ, Tāj, ed. A. Zakī Pasha, 130f. (Cairo 1322/1914), trans. C. Pellat, 151 (Paris 1954); Ibn
ʿAbd-Rabbih, ʿIqd, II, 470f.; ash-Sharīshī, Sharḥ al-Maqāmāt, II, 292f. See also an-Nuwayrī,
Nihāyat al-arab, IV, 5 (Cairo 1342–, reprint ca. 1965). On Ibn Abī ʿAtīq, cf. F. Rosenthal,
Humor, 12, n. 1; C. Pellat, in IE2, s.v.
56 Cf. Ibn Qays-ar-Ruqayyāt, Dīwān, ed. N. Rhodokanakis, 103 (Vienna 1902, Sitzungsberichte
der k. Akad. d. Wiss., philos.-hist. Kl. 144); al-Madāʾinī, Murdifāt, ed. ʿAbd-as-Salām
M. Hārūn, Nawādir al-makhṭūṭāt, I, 65 (Cairo 1370/1951); Aghānī, III, 103f. (Aghānī3, III,
319 f.), where al-Ḥārith b. Khālid (above, Ch. III, n. 27) is the poet.
126 Then they would have become mine, even at the risk of my losing all
my property in gambling for them.
That would, indeed, be profit, if only it were known what (profitable)
trading is (really) all about.57
It is, above all, in love poetry that the gambling imagery found its home. Occa-
sionally, other aspects were touched upon. Thus, the prominent ninth-century
littérateur and boon-companion Ibn Ḥamdūn would break into verse to com-
plain about his gambling losses which threatened to impoverish him and his
family.58 Or a contemporary of Abū Nuwās, the poet ʿAmr b. ʿAbd-al-Malik al-
Warrāq, would describe people as mere asses, if they did not indulge in all
forbidden vices, among them:
If you do not gamble at chess

And do not pay off the stake at nard.
If you do not indulge in the game of date pits,
So that your money is taken away from you, or it is a draw (bawāʾ).59
Abū Nuwās himself has a long poem in dialogue form, recommending the
transgression of all religious duties and indulgence in the pleasures of this
world. The poem concludes with the exhortation “to adorn all these qualities
of yours with gambling (qimār).”60 Similar in character are Abū Nuwās’s poem
on Satan’s nocturnal temptations61 and, to some degree, the cynical verses
ascribed to Abū l-ʿAlāʾ al-Maʿarrī that claim that there is legal support for all
vices.62 No doubt, much of this sort was afloat since early ʿAbbāsid times and
throughout the ninth century.
57 Cf. the edition of Nuṣayb’s poems by D. Salloum, 88 (Baghdād 1968).

58 Cf. ash-Shābushtī, Diyārāt, 7 f. For Aḥmad b. Ibrāhīm b. Ḥamdūn, see J.-C. Vadet, in EI2, III,
783 f.
59 Cf. ash-Shābushtī, Diyārāt, 111. For the date pit game, see above, Ch. II, n. 182.
60 Cf. Abū Nuwās, Dīwān, 268 (Beirut 1382/1962). No doubt in conscious imitation of Abū
Nuwās, Fakhr-ad-dīn Ibn Makānis playfully addressed a contemporary devoted to gam-
bling:
And if you desire perfection, add your gambling to this description (wa-idhā rumta
kamālan—zid li-dhā l-waṣfi qimārak).
Cf. Ibn Makānis, Dīwān, Ms. Istanbul Aya Sofya 3954, fol. 13b.
61 Cf. Abū Nuwās, Dīwān, 554 f. See F. Rosenthal, The Herb, 151, n. 1 (Leiden 1971). [Above,
p. 286, n. 81. Ed.]
The tenth century saw a good deal of gambling imagery used in poetry. We
have an example of what was possible at that time in the Dīwān of aṣ-Ṣanawbarī
(d. 334/945), whose life spanned the first half of that century:
Fate, you have deprived me by gambling of my life whose 127

Lost stake is the best of stakes.63
If the chess board is brought in,
Woe unto everyone present!
Those who play cannot avoid
Either winning or losing.64
We asked for the hand of the wine skin
With the dowry coming from gambling winnings.65
He who wagered (bāyaʿa) that I would not get anything
That I was promised, has won the gamble.66
Now you know, gambler, who of the two opponents is the greater gam-
bler.
………
And you played suddar upon
The pulpit crowded with the appurtenances of the mass.67
For the combination of gambling and wine drinking, there is also a verse by a
twelfth-century poet, Ibn Rūbīl al-Abbār (d. 532/1137–1138):
My wife was led astray to drinking wine.

She made me dwell next to the gambling house.68
For elements from nature poetry combined with gambling, we have an example
in a poem on nard. Like chess, nard was very often the subject of poetry,
but most of the chess and nard verses have only a marginal connection with
gambling as such, and they will as a rule not be considered here, unless they
63 Cf. aṣ-Ṣanawbarī, Dīwān, ed. Iḥsān ʿAbbās, 105 (Beirut 1970).

Here, maqmūr “loser” may be “lost stake.” The person mourned in the poem was the
stake that made the poet’s life a winning proposition. Now, fate has won because of the
death of the person who was the poet’s life (?).
64 Cf. aṣ-Ṣanawbarī, Dīwān, 125.
67 Cf. aṣ-Ṣanawbarī, Dīwān, 120 f.
68 Cf. al-ʿImād al-Iṣfahānī, Kharīdah (Syrian poets), I, 262.
expressly mention gambling. Manṣūr al-Harawī tried to get a friend away from
his constant nard playing at the time the roses were in bloom. To this end, he
concluded his description of the pleasures of an outing to enjoy flowers, wine,
and song, with the verses:
Thus, choose the rose (ward) over

Nard, and come, let us go on a walk!69
An especially important kind of gambling poetry is that dealing with the com-
128 parison of gambling with blind fate. It will be discussed | in Chapter VI. Here
only an example transmitted by aṣ-Ṣafadī as the work of Ibn Dāniyāl:
With the dice (pieces, gems, fuṣūṣ), our game

Is sent hither and yon, like upright (astragals?).70
They flash in our palms
Like jewels in a necklace.
They deal with our common possessions
As destiny does with dynasties.71
Although gambling images may be used in various connections, as we have just

seen, still, their proper place is love poetry. Gambling for erotic stakes appealed
to poets. Thus Ibn Dāniyāl played chess “for the stake of a kiss as a cure for (his)
heart from the burning passion,” and he went on to describe his lovemaking in
terms of a game of chess.72 There was the pretty player with whom the poet fell
in love. If he were not so fond of gambling, the poet would have no opportunity
to be together with him:
I played dice with one

Whose beauty is shared by no one.
69 Cf. ath-Thaʿālibī, Tatimmat al-Yatīmah, II, 52. On Manṣūr al-Harawī, see above, Ch. II, n. 52.
70 Ka-l-muththali. Probably, the “standing” kiʿāb, which, during the game, fall all over the
place. They appear already in Shanfarā’s celebrated Lāmīyat al-ʿArab, 54 (Constantinople
1300), cf. also E. Littmann, Abessinische Parallelen zu einigen altarabischen Gebräuchen
und Vorstellungen, in Beiträge zur Kenntnis des Orients, VI (1908), 52–54.
71 Cf. aṣ-Ṣafadī, Ghayth, II, 52.
72 Cf. Ibn Dāniyāl, Dīwān, fol. 147a:
rāhantuhū min (?) qublatin yashtafī

bihā fuʾādī min jawā l-waqdi.
But for (the dice), I would not be near him.

Not all dice are (thus) blessed.73
The same idea appears in a slightly different form in the verses of another poet
of the same time, Ibn Ḥabīb al-Ḥalabī (710–779/1310–1377):
In my lover’s hands to overcome me

Are dice for a game not shared (by anybody else).
It gives me alone the privilege of being near him.
These are indeed blessed dice.74
“Love is a gamble” was the blunt statement of the author of a zajal.75 Boast- 129
ing of the many flocks of frisky girls often encountered by him in the city
of ar-Raqqah, aṣ-Ṣanawbarī described the ensuing amorous banter as a gam-
ble:
They gambled with me for my heart (lubbī) with all kinds of games.
They defeated me and took it away.76
The outcome of the gambling match between lover and beloved is never in
doubt. The twelfth-century Wuḥaysh al-Asadī expressed this thought in these
verses, which constitute the beginning of a long qaṣīdah addressed to Nūr-ad-
dīn:
73 Cf. aṣ-Ṣafadī, as quoted by al-Badrī, Ghurrah, fol. 128a:
laʿibtu bi-l-kaʿbi maʿ man

fī ḥusnihī lā yushārak
lawlāhu lam adnu minhu
mā kullu kaʿbin mubārak.
74 Cf. al-Badrī, Ghurrah, fol. 128a:
fī yaday ḥibbī li-ghulbī

kaʿbu liʿbin lā yushārak
khaṣṣanī bi-l-qurbi minhu
inna dhā kaʿbun mubārak.

Look! The gazelle here with the luminous eyes (aḥwar),

Which is feared by the strong lion,
Gambles with the heart aided by its eyelids.
It is no secret who of us will win.77
Love as well as gambling involves money. With his playfulness, a pretty boy
may enslave his lover, and gambling with him will take away all the money he
owns:
A dice player who has enslaved me with his playing—

He took away all the gold I had earned with his dice.78
Apparently, the same theme is the subject of the following verses by a certain
Muḥammad al-Azhar:
A nard player whom I had tried everything to join,

But who was not satisfied with getting what he got—
When he saw that I had money with me,
I noticed he was generous and pleased to play with me.79
If translated correctly, these verses may mean that the poet had tried to win his
130 beloved with money and gifts. He had rejected his | advances, but he was so
77 Cf. al-ʿImād al-Iṣfahānī, Kharīdah (Syrian poets), I, 244.

78 Cf. al-Badrī, Ghurrah, fol. 128a. The poet is a certain Ibn Labbaykum about whose life and
name I have no information, although he is often quoted:
wa-lāʿibin bi-l-kaʿbi qad

tayyamanī bi-liʿbihī
adhhaba mā ḥaṣṣaltuhū
min dhahabin bi-kaʿbihī.
wa-lāʿibin bi-n-nardi qad sumtuhū

waṣlan fa-lam yarḍa bi-nayli thawāb
wa-mudh raʾā anna maʿī dirhaman
abṣartuhū jāda bi-nardin wa-ṭāb.
Perhaps, the second line of the first verse is intended to mean, “was not gracious enough
(letting me) obtain a reward.”
much devoted to nard that he was willing to play with the poet for money and
thus give him the opportunity to enjoy his company.
The most frequent use made of the gambling imagery resulted from the for-
tunate circumstance that one of the words for “moon,” qamar, had the same
root consonants as gambling. And “moon” was the ordinary metaphor for a
beautiful face and its owner. Where there is no explicit and unambiguous ref-
erence to gambling in verses of this kind and only the simple qamara, followed
by the object in the accusative, is used, the gambling idea may often have been
secondary in the poet’s mind to the idea of capturing by deception, which
was considered the root meaning from which that of gambling developed.80
However, the direct connection with gambling is present so often that we can
assume it to have never been absent, even in the less obvious cases.
We would be hard pressed for an answer to the question when this seemingly
rather natural play on words made its first appearance in Arabic poetry. It is first
attested in the tenth century. Kushājim, in the first half of that century, speaks
of “gambling merrily (qāmara bi-l-lahwi, var. ‘with life’ bi-n-nafsi) for the love of
a moon (qamar) and achieving intimacy with full moons by means of sums of
money (al-budūri bi-l-bidari).”80a The Ṣāḥib Ibn ʿAbbād is credited with three
verses which playfully use a well-known ḥadīth stating that a thief who steals
the pith or fruit of date palms should not have his hand cut off:
A slender one who makes the moon superfluous81

Has won my heart (gambling) with his languid looks.
I tried to snatch his rosy cheek,82
With no mercy and without warning.83
Some people frightened me, but I said to them,
“There is no amputation in connection with fruit or pith.”84
The same verses were also ascribed to Ṣāʿid b. al-Ḥasan ar-Rabaʿī | (d. 417/1026, 131
or 419), who lived a generation after the Ṣāḥib Ibn ʿAbbād. This attribution is
80 See above, p. 2, and below, p. 134.

80a Cf. Kushājim, Dīwān, ed. Kh.M. Maḥfūẓ, 237 (Baghdād 1390/1970).
81 As-Silafī has, “is more brilliant than the moon.”
82 Lit., the apple of his cheek. The poet stole kisses from his beloved and left none to others.
He thereby exposed himself to the punishment prescribed for thieves.
83 As-Silafī has here a gambling term, “and succeeded in taking it from him at great risk (ʿalā
gharar).”
84 Cf. ath-Thaʿālibī, Yatīmah, III, 89. The Yatīmah is the only source for the verses in M.Ḥ. Āl
Yāsīn’s edition of Ibn ʿAbbād’s Dīwān, 231.
found in the Muʿjam of as-Silafī.85 We may, perhaps, assume that Ṣāʿid ar-Rabaʿī
merely quoted Ibn ʿAbbād, and the reporter of the story told by as-Silafī mistook
him for the author of the verses. However this may be, the use of the gambling-
moon combination is definitely established for at least the tenth century.
In the generation succeeding that of Ṣāʿid ar-Rabaʿī, truly exuberant verses
in this vein were composed by Manṣūr al-Harawī. They turn around the idea
that a lover would try, as a matter of course, to let his beloved win, so that he
would be all the more handsome when he was flushed with victory:
A gazelle whose languid eyelids bring languidness to mankind—

The rose of beauty on his cheek spreads among the rose of bashfulness.86
I played dice with him, gently, till he won.
His face became more beautiful, when he (it?) saw the face87 of victory.
Thereupon, I raised a lover’s cry,
“The moon has won, the moon has won” (qamara l-qamar qamara l-
qamar).88
Apparently, from about the same time come the verses of al-Ghawwāṣ an-
Nīsābūrī:
Would that I knew someone willing to take my side and defend me against
the harsh critic of my love for a moon,89
The desire for whom gambled with my heart and won the game,
A moon whom I love so very much that I am left
With hardly more than “moon” (qamar) read backwards (ramaq, a last
breath of life).90
85 Cf. as-Silafī, Ms. Dublin Chester Beatty 3880, fol. 234b. On Ṣāʿid ar-Rabaʿī, cf. Brockelmann,
GAL, Suppl., I, 254.
86 In the place of the first two lines, al-Ḥaẓīrī has:
One with curly locks on whose cheeks a rose is spread

(wa-muʿaqrabi l-aṣdāghi fī khaddayhi wardun muntashar).
87 Al-Ḥaẓīrī offers the inferior reading “the beauty.”

88 Cf. ath-Thaʿālibī, Tatimmat al-Yatīmah, II, 50; al-Ḥaẓīrī, Lumaḥ al-mulaḥ, Ms. Bodleian
Hunt. 274, fol. 86a. A reading qamira “shines” must be ruled out.
89 Al-Ibshīhī has “for a gazelle.”
90 Cf. ath-Thaʿālibī, Yatīmah, IV, 319; al-Ḥaẓīrī, Lumaḥ al-mulaḥ, fol. 70a (Ms. Istanbul Top-
kapısarayı Ahmet III 2344, fol. 63a–b); al-Ibshīhī, Mustaṭraf, II, 221.
For qamar-ramaq, cf. also a verse by a certain Abū ʿAlī al-Ḥasan b. Farrāḥ al-Muʾaddib,
Al-Ghawwāṣ tells us in these verses that the traditional obstacle on the way 132
to the fulfillment of true love is the cold and unfeeling outside world with its
inclination to gossiping about lovers and finding fault with their infatuation.
The beauty of the beloved deserves comparison with the moon. The word for
moon read backwards yields the Arabic word for last breath of life.
An anonymous poet quoted by al-Ḥaẓīrī may also have lived in the eleventh
century:
O moon that has (gambled with and) defeated mankind!

O party in which you have become the talk!91
And so did Aḥmad b. Muḥammad al-Mūrī al-Adībī:
cited by as-Silafī, Ms. Dublin Chester Beatty 3880, fol. 91b, and, in particular, the many
examples in al-Badrī, Maṭāliʿ, fols. 24b–29a. Al-Badrī also quotes examples for the visual
play on words between qamar and fa-mur.
91 Cf. al-Ḥaẓīrī, Lumaḥ al-mulaḥ, fol. 86a:
a-yā qamaran li-l-warā qad qamar

wa-yā samaran ṣirta fīhi samar.
Li-l-warā is the accusative object, see also below, nn. 98, 101, 111. The preposition is likely
to have been used here, because the object precedes the verb. However, li-for introducing
the direct object became quite common in Arabic in the course of time, cf., for instance,
J. Blau, A Grammar of Christian Arabic, 414 f. (Louvain 1966–1967). Blau refers to A. Fischer,
in Sitzungsberichte der k. Sächsischen Ges. d. Wiss., phil.-hist. Kl. LXII (1910), 161–188, and
H. Reckendorf, Arabische Syntax, 247 f. On the range of meaning of qamar-samar, see Lane,
1425b.
I do not think that the poet here intended qamir (= aqmara), “O moon that has risen
to shine for mankind.” This possibility, however, exists in a dū bayt of Ibn ʿArabī quoted
in an-Nawājī, Khalʿ al-ʿidhār, Ms. Escorial 340, fol. 17a; “I give my life for a moon that
has risen to shine for his lovers …” (afdī qamaran li-ʿāshiqīhi qamirā), although qamirā
rhymes with hajarā. Both meanings, that of “dazzling with light” and that of “defeating
in gambling” were probably fused in the poet’s mind, as in the verse of ʿAyn Baṣal, below,
p. 133.
Cf. also Ṣafī-ad-dīn al-Ḥillī (d. 749/1349), ʿĀṭil, ed. W. Hoenerbach, Die vulgärarabi-
sche Poetik, 21, text, 100. Hoenerbach translates: “I love a moon … my mind is restless
(in the moonlight, ʿaqlī qamar).” He refers to further occurrences in the poetry of al-
Amshāṭī. Apparently, he thinks of the meaning indicated for qamira in Lane, 2562b, “to
be(come) sleepless in the night.” Where there is no gambling context and the verb can
be understood as intransitive, this could conceivably have been the idea in the poet’s
mind.
His face caused the moon to rise for men.

With his glance he (gambled for and) won the pious man’s heart.92
A minor poet of the twelfth century nicknamed Shalaʿlaʿ spoke of
A moon, in passionate love for whom my heart gambled

For serenity but received instead the fire of deep fatigue.93
There was, however, no love involved when a littérateur of those days, who
133 was also an outstanding chess and nard player, was | praised as “a moon who
was always winning the hearts by his wit,” for his name was Qamar-ad-dawlah
“Moon of the Dynasty.”94 Among his many labored attempts at originality,
the littérateur al-Ḥaṣkafī (d. 551/1156) produced four verses in praise of wine,
whose rhyme words were, respectively, al-qamārī “doves” (a favorite with poets,
especially as a play on words with qamar), al-q-mārī, presumably an adjec-
tive derived from a place name, “the one that was forbidden to you together
with maysir, allow it to be drunk by gamblers (ahl al-qimāri)!,” and al-aqmāri
“moons.”95 From the late twelfth century, we have the verse of Ibn Sanāʾ-al-mulk
from one of his long poems:
He has (gambled and) won the heart in serious play.

How true speaks he who says, “The pretty one is a moon.”96
A century later, Ibn al-ʿAfīf at-Tilimsānī asked in his third maqāmah: “Who is
this moon that has turned out to have won my heart?”97 And possibly about
the same time, the unidentified author of a dū bayt wrote of the beloved whose
languid glances were distracting the pilgrims from the proper performance of
the pilgrimage:
O heart! You have fallen in love on earth with a moon

Who, were it to gamble in heaven, would defeat the full moon.98
92 Cf. al-Bākharzī, Dumyah, I, 249.

93 Cf. al-ʿImād al-Iṣfahānī, Kharīdah (Egyptian poets), II, 126.
94 Cf. al-ʿImād al-Iṣfahānī, Kharīdah (Egyptian poets), II, 218.
95 Cf. al-ʿImād al-Iṣfahānī, Kharīdah (Syrian poets), II, 498.
96 Cf. Ibn Sanāʾ-al-mulk, Dīwān, ed. Naṣr and Naṣṣār, II, 386.
97 Cf. Ibn al-ʿAfīf at-Tilimsānī (see above, Ch. III, n. 106), Ms. Istanbul Aya Sofya 3843, fol. 175b:
man hādhā l-qamaru lladhī ghadā li-qalbī qāmiran.
98 Cf. the collection of dū bayt contained in Ms. Istanbul Topkapısarayı Ahmet III 2497 (Cat.
Karatay 8185), fol. 105b:
Still belonging to the late thirteenth century, ʿAyn Baṣal al-Ḥāʾik (d. 709/De-
cember 1309) made this apparent contribution to the subject:
A moon (beautiful face) rising upon a willow branch (a slender figure)—

There is my mind lost (through gambling) (dazzled) by its light.99
It would seem that al-Ḥāʾik used maqmūr here in a double sense as indicated
in the translation. Maqmūr, in fact, means “defeated in | gambling,” whereas 134
“dazzled,” from qamira, could not appear in the form maqmūr, but such a
meaning was apparently in the poet’s mind. Losing his mind and reason is
a common consequence of the lover’s gamble, just as the moon by its light
dazzles the beholder.
In the fourteenth century, attempts to weave “moon” and “gambling” into
often complicated figures of speech enjoyed a considerable vogue. A couplet by
Zayn-ad-dīn Ibn al-Wardī (d. 749/1349) uses the play on words with qumrī(yah)
“dove” and “moon,” but that makes sense here only if the root meaning of “to
win in gambling” is understood to be further intended by both words:
Two slender ones, a girl and a boy.

Were playing nard.
She said, “I am a dove (qumrīyatun).”
I said, “Keep quiet! He is a moon (qamar).”100
It is tempting to read qamartuhū for qumrīyatun, to yield the sense, “It is I who
have defeated him,” and the poet answers, “He is a moon,” meaning, “It is he who
has won.” However, the word used by Ibn al-Wardī no doubt was qumrīyah. Yet,
nobody could miss the implication that she claimed to have won, and the poet
claimed victory for the boy.
yā qalb la-qad hawīt fī l-arḍi qamar

law qāmar fī s-samāʾ li-l-badri qamar
min ayn lahū futūr alḥāẓi ʿamar
kam min ḥijaj qad afsadathā (read qad-afsadat) wa-ʿumar.
The Ms. appears to have been written in the thirteenth century. The only poets mentioned
in it by name are Fityān (ash-Shāghūrī, d. 615/1218) and ʿAbd-ar-Razzāq an-Naqqāsh.
99 Cf. aṣ-Ṣafadī, Wāfī, VI, 72.
100 Cf. Ibn al-Wardī, al-Kalām ʿalā miʾat ghulām, Ms. Istanbul Topkapısarayı Ahmet III 2373,
fol. 170a. The verses were quoted by al-Ghuzūlī, Maṭāliʿ, I, 80f.; al-Badrī, Ghurrah, fol. 128b,
and Maṭāliʿ, fol. 24a.
A muwashshaḥ poem of the immensely productive aṣ-Ṣafadī (d. 764/1363)

contained the lines:
I am deeply concerned with a full moon who has (defeated and) won the
mind
And surpassed the sun by day and the moon
And whose glance has bewitched mankind.101
And in his Wāfī, aṣ-Ṣafadī quotes a certain Aḥmad b. al-Ḥusayn al-Masīlī, who
appears to have been a contemporary of his, for the verse: “Beautiful moons
have defeated and taken away (qamarat) my patience in passion.”102
Ibn aṣ-Ṣāʾigh (710–776/1310 or 1311–1375) is represented by a couplet of which
135 the punch line mā aqmarak can be understood to mean either | “what a lucky
gambler you are!” or “how shining like the moon you are!”:
When the dark night’s full moon turned to playing

Nard, throwing the dice like a net,103
And was outstanding in both his beauty and his game,
I exclaimed: By God, what a handsome gambler you are!104
There is nothing strange in the same poet using the motif more than once in
his work. In fact, this can be assumed to have been the ordinary state of affairs,
if it was a prolific poet. We have an example in Ibn Ḥabīb al-Ḥalabī:
My companions asked, when my master played

Nard with some young men, entertaining the party:105
101 Cf. Shihāb-ad-dīn al-Ḥijāzī, Rawḍ al-ādāb, fol. 101a:
bī badru timmin li-l-ʿaqli qad qamarā

wa-fāqa sh-shamsa n-nahāra wa-l-qamarā
wa-ṭarfuhū li-l-anāmi qad saḥarā.
According to my copy, the first line reads al-ʿaqla, which is against the meter (munsariḥ).
It is hardly wa-l-ʿaqla.
102 Cf. aṣ-Ṣafadī, Wāfī, VI, 335. Cf. also Ṣafī-ad-dīn al-Ḥillī (above, n. 91).
103 So as to catch the lover.
104 Cf. al-Ghuzūlī, Maṭāliʿ, I, 80 f.; al-Badrī, Ghurrah, fol. 127b.
105 This translation, considering samar as the object, is a mere guess. Samar may be the
subject, and the meaning could be, “as the party reached its climax,” or, according to Dozy,
Supplément, I, 571 f., “as the party calmed down.” The “master” is the beloved.
“Who has defeated whom?” I replied: “Wake up!

Do you not know that my beloved is a moon?!”106
And:
When I played the nard of beauty with one

For whom my love has left an imprint on the heart,
He took away my mind. Thus, wonder ye
At a moon who has won my heart and my eye!107
Al-Qīrāṭī (726–781/1326–1379) speaks of the lover with whom he cannot get

together and for whom he is willing to cast away his life:
My heart migrates toward you

Always, while you are moving away.
O moon for whom
I gamble with (my) life!108
106 Cf. al-Badrī, Ghurrah, fol. 127b, and Maṭāliʿ, fol. 24a:
yaqūlu ṣaḥbī ʿinda liʿbi mālikī

maʿ fityatin bi-n-nardi idh rāqa s-samar
man qamara l-ākhara qultu ntabihū
a-mā ʿalimtum anna maḥbūbī qamar.
107 Cf. al-Badrī, Ghurrah, fol. 127b:
lammā bi-nardi l-ḥusni lāʿabtu man

fī ḥubbihī li-l-qalbi minnī athar (?)
adhhaba ʿannī dhahanī fa-ʿjabū
min qamarin qalbi wa-ʿayni qamar.
“Nard of beauty” appears to be correct, and ought not to be read “nard of love (al-ḥubbi).”
In the second line, the ms. appears to have asar, and not athar. This seems possible only
if asar is to be understood as asr, “has put the heart in fetters.” Instead of the final y in
dhahanī, the ms. seems to have w (and no diacritical dots).
108 Cf. al-Qīrāṭī, Maṭlaʿ an-nayyirayn, Ms. Istanbul Topkapısarayı Ahmet III 2627, fol. 224a, and
Ms. Brit. Mus. or. 2913, fol. 126a:
qalbī ilayka muhājirun

abadan wa-anta muhājiru
136 Following upon verses on thieves, Shihāb-ad-dīn al-Ḥijāzī (790–875/1388–

1471) entered a couplet on a pretty gambler in the selection of his poetry pub-
lished by him:
A gambler I have fallen in love with

Whose beauty captivates mankind.
Yes, and I have never gambled with him
But that I saw him win (a moon).109
Finally, there are moon-gambling verses which cannot be dated precisely but
which probably are also products of the fourteenth century. Thus, the zajal of a
certain al-Ghubārī (?), which is dominated by the imagery of love poetry, sums
matters up by this line:
They have defeated me in the love of this moon—

Love is a gamble.110
And an anonymous verse says:
I love him, a gambler who, when he walks about, gives the impression
Of being a bough on a hillock, with his face having (gambled for and) won
the mind.111
yā ayyuhā l-qamaru lladhī

bi-r-rūḥi fīhi uqāmiru.
109 Cf. Shihāb-ad-dīn al-Ḥijāzī, Dīwān, Ms. Escorial 475, fol. 172a:
muqāmirun hawītuhū—wa-ḥusnuhū yasbī l-bashar

naʿam wa-mā qāmartuhū—illā raʾaytuhū qamar.
110 Cf. al-Ibshīhī, Mustaṭraf, II, 265, trans. G. Rat, II, 564 (Paris and Toulon 1899–1902.)
hawītuhū muqāmiran
takhāluhū idhā khaṭar
ka-annahū ghuṣnu naqā
wa-l-wajhu li-l-ʿaqli qamar.
The last line is a double entendre, suggesting that the face gives the impression of being a
moon and by its moon-like beauty has captivated the poet.
The moon-gambling homonymy thus inspired quite a few verses. However,

it did not enter the mainstream of the repertory of poetical figures. For many
centuries, it appears to have never been entirely absent, but quantitatively,
it was not strongly represented, especially if one thinks of the myriad verses
describing the beloved as a moon. It remained on the sideline of occasional
poetry, a witticism produced seemingly on the spur of the moment. Tradition
and, possibly, aesthetic considerations that felt the image to be essentially
barren of poetic appeal may have caused this state of affairs, but it could also
be indicative of the fact that gambling, in contrast to certain other vices, was
socially not acceptable enough to be included on its own terms in the ranks
of high literature. Conse|quently, verses that have gambling pure and simple 137
as their main subject are even rarer than incidental references to it. The only
examples that might qualify as gambling poetry come from the gambling poet
at-Tallaʿfarī. Even he has only a very few gambling verses, and he combines
low-class gambling with the high-class activity of wine drinking.112
The social consequences of gambling were at times more on a poet’s mind
than his professed erotic theme. This is the case in anonymous verses which
censure the reckless abandon of the compulsive dice player, although they are
addressed to the beloved and contend that his gambling could make it easy to
conquer him:
All lovers declare113 it lawful to conquer the sanctuary of a gazelle

Who has become a most tricky gambler.
If he held in his palm the garden of Eden,
And went broke, he would sell it for two throws.
And if he held in his palm the visitors for a day
He …, he would go after the dice among them (?).114

113 Or, “May all lovers declare …”
abāḥa l-ʿāshiqūna ḥimā ghazālin

takhallaqa fī l-qimāri bi-kulli mayni
law-anna bi-kaffihī jannātu ʿadnin
wa-aflasa bāʿahā fī ḍarbatayni
wa-law fī kaffihī z-zuwwāru yawman
aqāma la-rāma fīhā l-kaʿbatayni.
The translation of the last verse is doubtful, in particular since the reading and the
meaning of az-zwʾr remain uncertain. In view of the second verse, one might think of
Still, gambling was so prevalent in society that it was considered opportune

to suggest verses for a player who felt that he was wrongly defeated and wished
to express his feelings in an elegant manner:
You have won, but you did not defeat us fairly.

If it were fair, I do not think it would have been so easy.
You won while we were not (really) defeated,115 rather you wronged us.
He who uses to do wrong turns out to be victorious.116
the pilgrims (“visitors”) who come to Mecca to visit the Kaʿbah, and the gambler would
try to fleece them with his dice (kaʿbatayn). Aqāma, in this case, may refer to something
connected with prayer (??). However, it is possible that a sexual meaning is intended. The
gambler loses interest in the “visitors” and would rather have his dice in his hand ( fīhā).
115 Hardly the active, “and we did not win.”
116 Cf. Ibn Sukaykir, (Nafaḥāt kamāʾim al-ward fī tafḍīl liʿb ash-shiṭranj ʿalā n-nard,) Ms. Bod-
leian Pocock 16, fol. 34b:
ẓafirta wa-lākin lā bi-ḥaqqin ghalabtanā

wa-law kāna ḥaqqan mā arāhu tayassarā
qamarta wa-lam nuqmar wa-lākin ẓalamtanā
wa-man kāna yaʾtī aẓ-ẓulma amsā muẓaffarā.
chapter five
The Social Consequences of Gambling 138
The attitude toward taking risks most commonly expressed in Muslim litera-
ture was one of strong disapproval. In particular risking one’s life (mukhāṭarah
bi-nafs-, bi-rūḥ-) was frowned upon, unless it served for “the glorification of
Islam” in the jihād. Then it became a duty that Muslims were commanded
to fulfill.1 “Don’t ever risk your life,” is an early warning in the Arabian Nights,
and they state categorically that “a person who takes risks deserves no praise,
even if he escapes unharmed.”2 Already Graeco-Arabic wisdom literature, in
the name of young Aristotle, had come out against taking undue risks. “A per-
son who exposes himself to tribulation risks his life” and “he who takes risks
will be unsuccessful.”3 The futility of taking foolish risks appears to be the
intended meaning of a verse of ash-Sharīf ar-Raḍī to the effect that “he who
always loses his possessions through gambling should be serious enough to
reject gambling.”4
A physician should be most careful not to take any chances with the life
of his patient, since there is no substitute for human life.5 However, the high-
risk career of politics retained its attraction throughout medieval Islam, even
if the numerous tragedies caused in the pursuit of it were readily observable
and might elicit the comment, appropriately ascribed to Abū Muslim or to the
“wazīr of the family of Muḥammad,” Abū Salamah, that “it is risky to sail on | the 139
1 Cf. Ibn ʿAbd-as-Salām, Qawāʿid, I, 14, 111, II, 99 f.; Concordance, II, 48a30; Ibn Ḥajar, Fatḥ, III,
112 f. The Qurʾān does not use the root kh-ṭ-r in connection with this subject.
2 Cf. Arabian Nights, ed. Macnaghten, I, 7, trans. Littmann, I, 27, also ed. Macnaghten, I, 103,
trans. Littmann, I, 162 (14th night). Cf., further, ed. Macnaghten, III, 175, IV, 87, trans. Littmann,
IV, 343, V, 424.
3 Cf. al-Mubashshir, Mukhtār al-ḥikam, 200, ll. 11 f.
4 Cf. ash-Sharīf ar-Raḍī, Dīwān, 182:
wa-man qumira d-dahra amwālahū

qaḍā jidduhū an yarudda l-qimāra.
I am not sure whether I have understood the verse correctly. Its translation depends largely
on the vocalization.
5 Cf. Ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿah, ʿUyūn al-anbāʾ, ed. A. Müller, I, 209, ll. 2f. (Cairo and Königsberg
1882–1884), quoting al-Kindī.
high seas, but riskier still to be in contact with kings.”6 Above all, the lifeblood
of the Islamic economy, trade and, especially, long-distance commerce by land
and sea, was full of the gravest risks. Merchants may often have adopted the
conventional wisdom that “preserving some is better than losing all,”7 and
moralists felt always free to excoriate the greed of those who suffered untold
hardships and even risked their very lives for the sake of transitory material
gain. However, business of all kinds was attended by risks that were unavoid-
able. In addition, Islam also accepted, if reluctantly, the legality of commercial
transactions which were speculative by their very nature in that the size of the
expected profit depended upon the uncertainties necessarily accompanying
them, such as sales for future delivery (salam) and investments in partner-
ship arrangements.8 The old and famous ruse for circumventing the prohi-
bition against usury was, in fact, simply designated as “risk” (mukhāṭarah).9
A transaction involving the barter of live animals for meat was called “pre-
Islamic maysir” and equated with similar transactions where the value of the
object bought or sold was uncertain (muzābanah or, again, “risk,”gharar).10 The
ḥadīth used mukhāṭarah in this sense to suggest possible pitfalls in renting land
for monetary payment.11 Necessity, and the highly favorable attitude toward
commerce expressed in the Qurʾān, helped the jurists to take the stigma of
gambling out of such transactions. This required considerable effort and inge-
nuity.
Under the category of bāṭil which made business ventures so described
hopelessly illegal on the basis of Qurʾān 4:29/33, the authorities cited by aṭ-
Ṭabarī lumped gambling together with usury and such general matters as faulty
pricing (bakhs) and wrongdoing (ẓulm, probably equivalent to ghaṣb “acqui-
sition by force”) as well as deals seemingly as specific as buying something
on approval and returning it, if displeased, with a monetary consideration
140 (equivalent to the later mukhāṭarah?).12 Or bāṭil was similarly charac|terized as
gambling, usury, the wrongful appropriation of the property of others (ghaṣb),
cheating (khidāʿ), the denial of just claims ( jaḥd al-ḥuqūq), and profits result-
ing from illegal activities.13 As examples of improper business transactions
6 Cf. Ibn Shams-al-khilāfah, Kitāb al-Ādāb, 28 (Cairo 1349/1931); al-Ghuzūlī, Maṭāliʿ, II, 112.
7 Cf. Ibn ʿAbd-as-Salām, Qawāʿid, I, 86.
8 Cf. A. Udovitch, Partnership and Profit in Medieval Islam (Princeton 1970).
9 Cf. J. Schacht, in EI2, s.v. ḥiyal.
10 Cf. al-Qurṭubī, Jāmiʿ, II, 54; Mālik, Muwaṭṭaʾ, see Concordance, VII, 369b38–39.
11 Cf. Concordance, II, 48a31; Ibn Ḥajar, Fatḥ, V, 423.
12 Cf. aṭ-Ṭabarī, Tafsīr (new edition), VIII, 216 f.
the social consequences of gambling 477
involving a risk and therefore to be classified as gambling, Ibn Taymīyah men-

tioned the purchase of a runaway slave, a strayed animal, a foetus, and the like.14
Yet, while certain unlawful business activities could be classified as gambling,
commerce as such, no matter how risky and speculative, was not thought of
as something comparable to gambling, certainly not by those engaged in it. To
be sure, pious theoreticians will not always have escaped from this unpleasant
thought. Not many, however, may have been so determined and pessimistic as
was al-Qushayrī in his mystic explanation of Qurʾān 5:3/4. He took “divining by
means of arrows” to refer to gambling and to include all transactions and associ-
ations meant to yield material gain. In his time, he said, activities to which this
description did not apply were indeed rare.15 For al-Qushayrī, every expendi-
ture not made for the sake of God was bāṭil.16 Thus, we might say that in his
view, all the world was a gamble, and all worldly business illegal and forbid-
den, except the preparation for and the concern with the world to come. In
some way or other, mystic thinking often moved along the same and similar
lines, although it may rarely have made the connection with gambling as an
inevitable aspect of all commerce.
By way of argument, gaming was compared to commerce and sleep, in that
commerce and sleep, too, might divert a person from performing his prayers,
and still, they were not forbidden, as games were for that reason. The argument
was immediately rejected as based upon incomplete analogy. Commerce and
sleep were no amusements. In particular, they did not cause hostility and
hatred, the crucial reason for the prohibition of games.17 Thus, viewed in this
manner, too, commerce could not be called gambling.
Even the most moderate attitude toward legal and illegal ways of making
a living, of which the religious authorities could in good | conscience have 141
been capable, left little room for the professional gambler. In fact, we have not
much evidence to show that there were people whose sole trade and means of
subsistence were honest or dishonest gambling activities. If the ḥisbah works
were not concerned with them, the reason probably is that they paid atten-
tion mainly to irregularities and fraud in the legal trades and professions and
gave only passing consideration to the illegal ones.18 It is true that we find
14 Cf. Ibn Taymīyah, Fatāwī, I, 490, II, 10. See also above, Ch. III, n. 49.
15 Cf. al-Qushayrī, Laṭāʾif al-ishārāt, ed. I. Basyūnī, II, 95 (Cairo 1388–/1968–).
16 Cf. Laṭāʾif al-ishārāt, II, 22, to Qurʾān 4:29/33.
17 Cf. al-Ḥalīmī, Minhāj, Mss. Istanbul Topkapısarayı Ahmet III 930, fol. 149b, and Ahmet III
500, Vol. III, fol. 38a.
18 See above, pp. 110 f. Al-Māwardī, al-Aḥkām as-sulṭānīyah, 245, mentions “soothsaying and
gambling occasionally enumerated among low-class occupations, but this is

not to be understood in a strictly professional sense. The intriguing name of
Ibn al-Muqāmir born by a thirteenth-century poet, ʿAbdallāh b. Muḥammad
b. Thābit, is certainly no clear indication that there had been a professional
gambler in his family.19
Some of the champion chess players may have been able to live on the prize
money they earned. For explaining only one chess problem, they were at times
paid substantial sums.20 The one or other “sponger” (ṭufaylī) may have had
his most lucrative moments when he tried his luck in gambling. As is only
natural, there were experts in the various gambling sports who can be assumed
to have devoted themselves to them full-time.21 They probably also had a hand
in any gambling that went on around them, but gambling as such was not
what constituted their livelihood. It may be noted here that “player” (laʿʿāb)
by itself meant “juggler,”22 an occupation held in low esteem socially and
listed on occasion together with those of mukhannath and singer.23 While the
silence of the ḥisbah works may not be strong evidence for the non-existence
of the professional gambler, the absence of crooked gamblers from among the
many types of rogues and swindlers mentioned by al-Jawbarī suggests that
gamblers did indeed not have their separate niche as professionals in the
underworld. When littérateurs such as the fourteenth-century Ibn al-Wardī,
in his al-Kalām ʿalā miʾat ghulām and al-Kawākib as-sāriyah ʿalā miʾat jāriyah,
142 and the fifteenth-|century al-Badrī, in his Ghurrah, quoted verses on people
exercising many different crafts and activities, even if there were occasional
verses on individuals that gambled, these gamblers were in no way thought of
as professionals.
On the other, losing end of the gambling spectrum, there were those compul-
sive gamblers who gambled away everything they owned and caused misery to
their families. What is supposed to have happened, and probably did happen,
in pre-Islamic Arabia,24 was no doubt repeated uncounted times in the Islamic
period. We hear about it in general terms, as when al-Ghazzālī, following al-
Kindī, speaks about “the broke gambler who gets much joy and pleasure out of
amusement” (kahānah, lahw) as forbidden ways of making a living. In the author’s mind,
this might possibly have included gambling.
19 Cf. G. Vajda, Dictionnaire des Autorités, 38. See below, pp. 152f.
20 Cf. the example quoted by Wieber, Schachspiel, 83.
22 Cf. al-Bīrūnī, India, 77, trans. Sachau, I, 101.
23 Cf. Miskawayh and at-Tawḥīdī, Hawāmil, 193.
his gambling, … although gambling may deprive him of his property, destroy
his house, and leave him bankrupt,”25 or when Ṣūfīs praise the gambler who
is cleaned out and left penniless.26 A rich man could easily get poor when he
played nard with someone skilled in the game and favored by luck:
When his palm gets hold of the dice,

The rich man is (no better than) a pauper in his company.
The sixes are at his service and the fives.
The ones never show up with him.27
While this is poetic exaggeration, it shows what did in fact happen at times. A
concrete case we hear about in the form of an anecdote was that of the ʿAlid
gambler whose wife and children were destitute, because he gambled away
everything he was able to earn.28 Naturally, the gambling compulsion which
reduced an individual to penury could have been merely a passing phase in
his life, as is believed to have been (but probably was not) the case of the poet
at-Tallaʿfarī.
The heavy gambler faced the additional danger of not only losing what he
had but also incurring debts in order to go on with his gambling. Gambling
establishments were accommodating | enough to help a gambler out with a 143
loan, when he was least able to resist the temptation.29 The confused lover
in the Arabian Nights gambled at chess with the woman he loved. It was a
marathon session extending over several days. He was encouraged by her to
gamble for higher and higher stakes, until he had lost everything he owned.
Then he pretended confidently that he was going to borrow more, although he
had nobody from whom he could borrow something.30 The fourteenth-century
Ibrāhīm b. ʿAlī al-Miʿmār, who sang of chess and nard and, above all, ḥashīsh,
tells about
25 Cf. al-Ghazzālī, Iḥyāʾ, III, 51, and al-Kindī, Fī l-ḥīlah li-dafʿ al-aḥzān, ed. trans. H. Ritter and
R. Walzer, Uno scritto morale inedito di al-Kindī, 33. para. 3 (Rome 1938, Memorie, Accad.
Naz. dei Lincei, VI, viii, 1). Al-Kindī speaks of loss of property and waste of time.
27 Cf. al-ʿImād al-Iṣfahānī, Kharīdah (Western poets), I, 294. ed. ad-Dasūqī and ʿAbd-al-ʿAẓīm,
I, 374. The poet is Abū l-Ḥakam ʿUbaydallāh b. al-Muẓaffar al-Marīnī al-Maghribī (486–
549/1093–1154), cf. Brockelmann, GAL, 2nd ed., I, 321, Suppl., I, 481.
28 See above. Ch. III, n. 165. Cf. also Ch. IV, n. 58.
30 See above, Ch. IV, n. 52.
A gambler, going to a friend

Who was closer to him than any other human being,
Asked him for the money to pay off an unfair
Gambling loss, and he just gave him the dice.31
Unless the second verse is to be understood to mean that his friend was his
gambling partner who now attempted to welsh on his gambling debt, we have
here a case of borrowing money to pay off losses, and the person approached
for a loan, wary of loaning money to a gambler, even if he was his best friend,
just gave him a couple of worthless dice, so that he could try his luck again.
A person whose credit is good might postpone paying his gambling debts by
means of a promissory note, as we learn from a fictitious and lewd anecdote.32
If pre-Islamic gamblers, as we have heard, were able to go into debt for gambling
losses, in Islamic times, borrowing money may have been particularly difficult
for a known gambler in view of the prevailing conditions governing financial
activities. We have no evidence for relatives silently taking care of the gambling
debts incurred by a black sheep in the family. It probably happened quite
often.
Wherever the compulsive gambler’s activities sought their outlet in public
places, there must have been people who profited from it. They could be
classified as gambling professionals, although they themselves may have never
done any gambling of their own. The dicing den was a familiar establishment,
144 at least in towns of some | size. It need not always have been designated by its
proper name, such as dār al-qimār or, in Persian, qimārkhāne. Taverns (ḥānah,
Persian also qalandarkhāne)33 often had games going on in them. A description
of the gambling casino as good as we can hope to find is preserved in the Kitāb
al-Mughrib of Ibn Saʿīd (d. 675/1276). It transports us back into the prosperous
Egypt of the first half of the tenth century, but it would appear to have rather
timeless validity for medieval Islam:
31 Cf. al-Miʿmār, Dīwān, Ms. Istanbul Fatih 3793, fol. 47a–b:
muqāmirun jāʾa ilā ṣāḥibin

kāna bihī dūna l-warā dhā khuṣūṣ
gharramahū l-māla ʿalā qamrihī
ẓulman wa-mā ( fa-mā?) aʿṭāhu illā l-fuṣūṣ.

33 Cf. H. Ritter, Das Meer der Seele, 381, where the scenario of the story is based upon the
fiction that such dens of iniquity were not known in Arabia. See also above, pp. 23f. (qaṣf ).
At one time, the Ikhshīd (Muḥammad b. Ṭughsh) ordered the destruc-

tion of cabarets (mawākhīr) and dicing dens (dūr al-muqāmirīn) and the
arrest of the gamblers. They were seized, and many of the gamblers were
brought before him for inspection. Among them was a dignified shaykh.
When he asked whether that shaykh was really a gambler, he was told
that he was called the muṭammiʿ (“making greedy”) of the establishment.
It was explained to him that he was the reason why that dicing den was so
very flourishing. He was the man who encouraged someone who had lost
all he carried on him to play for his coat; maybe, he told him, he would
win. When the coat was gone, he told him to play for his shirt, so that
he would win back everything, and so on down to his shoes. The gam-
bler might even go into debt with him. For his work, the man received a
daily salary from the concessionaire (mutaqabbil) of the dicing den. The
Ikhshīd found this amusing. He told the man to foreswear those activities.
He did, and the Ikhshīd ordered a garment, coat, and a thousand dirhams
to be given to him, as well as a monthly salary of ten dīnārs. The man left
gratefully. But then the Ikhshīd had him brought back. All he had given
him was taken away from him. He was spread out on his belly and given a
hundred lashes with a stick. This done, the Ikhshīd said: ‘Let him go now!
How was this for ‘making greedy’ as compared to the way you used to do
it!’34
A place for gambling that for all we know was much more civilized than
the public establishments was the recreation or play rooms to be found in
palaces and large mansions. A well-known example is that of the “club” from
Umayyad times which was frequented by the poet al-Aḥwaṣ. It was equipped
with coathangers, books, and boards for playing chess, nard, and merels (shi-
ṭranjāt, nardāt, qirqāt). Members dropped in, hung up their coats, and either
read or played, whatever they felt like doing.35 We can be certain | that a good 145
deal of gambling accompanied the games. As it seemingly took place in the
privacy of a home, the club was a rather safe place for gambling activities.
At the court of al-Maʾmūn, the servants had rooms in the palace where
they devoted themselves to heavy gambling, whenever they had time off from
their duties or at least thought that they were not needed. They not only
34 Cf. Ibn Saʿīd, Mughrib, ed. trans. K.L. Tallqvist, text 30, trans. 63 (Leiden 1899), trans. A. Mez,
Renaissance, 324.
35 Cf. Aghānī, IV, 52 (Aghānī3, IV, 253 f.). The passage is often cited in the scholarly literature,
cf. Murray, A History of Chess, 194; Wieber, Schachspiel, 231. “Club” is the word used in
I. Guidi and others, Tables alphabétiques du Kitāb al-Aġānī, 448b (Leiden 1900).
played chess and dice but also organized cockfights.36 The noble young pages
at the court of al-Muʿtaḍid also had their recreation rooms to which they
repaired when they were off duty. They took off their boots and hats and relaxed
playing chess and nard. When al-Muʿtaḍid learned about it from his “spies,” he
expressed disapproval. The chamberlain in charge had all the boys who were
on duty on that day be given several lashes. Thereafter, nobody dared to devote
himself to such dissipation, and everybody concentrated on his duties.37 It is
left to our imagination to estimate how much gambling was involved in the
games the boys played, but their age was certainly no obstacle to playing for
stakes.
Gambling went on in the upper classes of society and in those at the bottom,
and among all the layers of society in between. An excessive devotion to games
such as nard was considered detrimental to rulers to an even greater degree
than to ordinary men, as the fürstenspiegel literature likes to point out.38 How-
ever, many of them did play, and no doubt for stakes. We even have reports such
as the one concerning al-Malik al-Amjad Bahrāmshāh of Baʿlabakk who was so
deeply immersed in a game of nard that he failed to notice the approach of the
escaped mamlūk who had come to kill him.39 The military responsibilities of
the ruling establishment, with its powerful military sector that in time gained
quasi-independence, made sports a necessary and highly esteemed activity.
Regardless of the gambling accompanying them, they were viewed as poten-
146 tially | objectionable only by representatives of the religious-legal civilian sec-
tor. The large and important class of religious scholars in general does not, as
far as I know, furnish any examples for gambling taking place in their ranks. It
deserves notice that there does not seem to exist a single instance of a member
of the class of religious scholars being seriously accused of gambling, although
they were occasionally accused of crimes such as sexual deviation, alcoholism,
drug addiction, and suicide. In Jewish circles from the medieval Muslim envi-
ronment, a man probably “of some scholarly standing” might be found who
ran into trouble because of his propensity for gambling, one of the “extremely

37 Cf. Hilāl b. al-Muḥassin aṣ-Ṣābiʾ, Rusūm dār al-khilāfah, ed. M. ʿAwwād, 71f. (Baghdād
1964).
38 Cf. also the saying from ath-Thaʿālibī, above, Ch. II, n. 84. See below, p. 150. For incompetent
and self-seeking physicians, the ability to play chess and nard served as an introduction to
persons of high rank, who should know better than letting themselves be deceived by such
vulgar trickery, cf. the ninth-century ar-Ruhāwī, Adab aṭ-ṭabīb, ch. 19 (I owe my knowledge
of the passage to the kindness of C. Bürgel).
39 Cf. al-Kutubī, Fawāt, I, 150.
rare references to gambling” from the Geniza documents.40 However, the man
was certainly no ranking functionary within the Jewish religio-legal establish-
ment.
The large merchant class is also nowhere singled out for gambling activities.
It is true that we are quite uninformed about the private lives of people in
business and commerce. Gambling was certainly a vice that could not be
tolerated among members of the medieval business community, especially the
more successful and influential ones. Yet, it might have been rather prevalent
among them. It would seem characteristic that the Arabian Nights assume a
merchant background for the reckless gambling lover.41
Romances of love unfolding in a true milieu of knights and chivalry, such
as Gurgānī’s Vis and Ramin, or the romances in the Arabian Nights trying to
reflect such a milieu, ignored gambling, as it implied substandard behavior of a
kind intolerable in the refined atmosphere imagined for them. However, among
poets and littérateurs, fashion and tradition required more open attitudes
toward activities disapproved by law and society. If these attitudes then found
expression in their lifestyles, this was often winked at as a natural consequence.
Among the legendary pre-Islamic gamblers mentioned earlier, there were poets
of high repute such as Balʿāʾ b. Qays and ʿAbdallāh b. ʿAnamah. The famous
singer of the time of Hārūn ar-Rashīd, Ismāʿīl b. Jāmiʿ, is credited with the
remark that “if it were not that gambling and dog fancying take much of my
time, I would have left no bread for the other singers to eat,”42 | because by 147
his exclusive devotion to his art, he would have smothered the competition.
Centuries later, the poet and caliphal chamberlain, Muḥammad b. Sulaymān
b. Qutulmish (543–620/1148–1223), wasted his large inheritance through dicing
(qimār) and nard and was reduced to wirāqah, presumably, to working as a
copyist for booksellers. The only time he did not gamble was when he found
nobody to play with.43 In the year in which Ibn Qutulmish was fifty years
old, the poet at-Tallaʿfarī (593–675/1197–1277)44 was born. His early compulsive
40 Cf. S.D. Goitein, A Mediterranean Society, II, 47, 531, n. 29, 532, n. 45 (Berkeley and Los
Angeles 1971).
42 Cf. Aghānī, VI, 70 (Aghānī3, VI, 294); Mez, Renaissance, 384; H.G. Farmer, A History of
Arabian Music, 115 f. (London 1929).
44 The year of his death is 1277, if he died in Shawwāl, as indicated by adh-Dhahabī, Taʾrīkh
al-Islām, Ms. Istanbul Aya Sofya 3014, fol. 31a, and ʿIbar, V, 306, used in Ibn al-ʿImād,
Shadharāt, V, 349; Ibn Taghrībirdī, Nujūm, VII, 255–257. The Christian year would be 1276,
if he died in Jumādā II, as in al-Yūnīnī, Dhayl, III, 218–228; however, the dates in al-Yūnīnī
gambling is reported in more than usual detail, leaving, however, very many
gaps in our knowledge. At-Tallaʿfarī gambled away all the gifts he received
from his master, the Ayyūbid ruler of Damascus al-Malik al-Ashraf b. al-Malik
al-ʿĀdil. Al-Malik al-Ashraf expelled (ṭ-r-d) him, and he went to Aleppo where
the Ayyūbid al-Malik al-ʿAzīz put him on a salary. But he was unable to stop
his gambling, so that it became necessary to make a public announcement
in Aleppo that anybody caught gambling with him would have his hand cut
off. This made life so uncomfortable for him in Aleppo that he went back to
Damascus. There he started again gambling away all the gifts he was able to
solicit. Eventually, he became so poor that he had to stay in the furnace of a
public bath (atūn ḥammām); possibly, what is meant here is not that he had to
work as a stoker, but that he had to sleep in the boiler room of the bath, because
he could not afford to pay for lodgings in a decent place.45 His story, however,
had a happy ending, inasmuch as he finally found the respectable position in
148 Ḥamāh to which he | was entitled by his talent and family background.
Presumably, he also gave up gambling in public, but we cannot be sure.
Verses by Shihāb-ad-dīn al-ʿAzāzī accuse him of meanness and a bad charac-
ter as well as pimping and gambling.46 Since al-ʿAzāzī appears to have been
seem confused. No month is given by aṣ-Ṣafadī, Wāfī, V, 255–263, and al-Kutubī, Fawāt,
II, 546–555. Cf., further, Brockelmann, GAL, 2nd ed., I, 300, Suppl., I, 458; Z. al-Maḥāsinī,
ash-Shābb aẓ-ẓarīf, 41–47 (Beirut 1972). Badly needed new editions of at-Tallaʿfarī’s Dīwān
have been announced by ʿAbd-al-Wahhāb M. ʿA. al-ʿAdwānī with M.Q. Muṣṭafā and by
H.Z. Sābā, according to the monthly newsletter (Akhbār at-Turāth al-ʿArabī) of the Maʿhad
al-makhṭūṭāt of the Arab League in Cairo, August 1972 and November 1973. [On at-Tallaʿfarī
and Sulaymān b. Bulaymān, cf. now also Ibn aṣ-Ṣuqāʿī, Tālī Kitāb Wafayāt al-aʿyān, ed.
J. Sublet, nos. 121 and 226 (Damascus 1974).]
45 The addition of ḥammām is found in al-Kutubī. For atūn as a place of ill repute, cf. also the
verses cited in al-ʿImād al-Iṣfahānī, Kharīdah (Syrian poets), II, 300.
46 Cf. aṣ-Ṣafadī, Wāfī, V, 260. Al-ʿAzāzī’s Dīwān attests to his close contact with at-Tallaʿfarī, cf.
Ms. Istanbul Fatih 3838, fols. 115a, 118b (anno 662), 128a, 132b, 148a, 159b. Al-ʿAzāzī also refers
to Ibn Bulaymān, cf. his Dīwān, fol. 135a–b. The Fatih manuscript breaks off in the fourth
chapter and does not contain the fifth chapter dealing with muwashshaḥāt. The flyleaf has
an owner’s note of ʿAbd-al-Qādir b. Abī Bakr ad-Damāṣī, dated in 889/1484. The last folio,
which does not form a quire with the preceding leaves, provides the information that it
constitutes the end of the second and last part of an unnamed work written by its author
(nāẓim) ad-Damāṣī himself. This last folio has, of course, no connection with al-ʿAzāzī’s
Dīwān, but it also seems unrelated to the preceding leaves containing poetry from the
early sixth century. The handwriting of ad-Damāṣī in Ms. Fatih 3838 should be checked
with the autograph manuscript of selections from his poetry in Ms. Escorial 473, dated in
886/1482.
born forty years after at-Tallaʿfarī, this accusation of gambling would have come
in the latter’s old age, and it does not seem to hark back to a situation which
by then was ancient history. Furthermore, if the anecdote related about at-
Tallaʿfarī and the poet and goldsmith Sulaymān b. Bulaymān, who died, about
seventy years old, in 686/1287,47 did in fact involve al-Malik an-Nāṣir Yūsuf
b. Muḥammad, who was born in 627/1230, at-Tallaʿfarī would have been in
his fifties when the event described took place. In a number of verses, Ibn
Bulaymān expressed astonishment at hearing about a shaykh, meaning at-
Tallaʿfarī, who would gamble for (his) boots (khifāf ). At-Tallaʿfarī responded
that he was not a soldier, so that he would own boots, nor could he gamble
for the boots of his wife, since he did not have a wife.48 Regardless of how accu-
rately these wrangles among poets described at-Tallaʿfarī’s doings, his devotion
to gambling is confirmed by his own poetry. | He complained about his own 149
bad luck and the luckiness of his gambling partners:
Those who gamble with me feel happy,

While the earth closes up tight around me.
How greatly have its sixes confused my mind, and how
Much anxiety have its fives forced down my throat.49
47 Cf. al-Yūnīnī, Dhayl, IV, 323f.; al-Kutubī, Fawāt, I, 350 f.; Ibn Taghrībirdī, Nujūm, VII, 372f.;
Ibn al-ʿImād, Shadharāt, V, 395 (the edition of adh-Dhahabī, ʿIbar, the likely source of
Ibn al-ʿImād, has no year 686). According to al-Yūnīnī, Ibn Bulaymān was also listed in
al-Mustawfī’s History of Irbil. The reading Bulaymān seems to depend on adh-Dhahabī,
Taʾrīkh al-Islām; except for the missing dots under the yāʾ, it is clearly indicated in Ms.
Istanbul Aya Sofya 3014, fol. 150a–b (where it is also stated that Ibn Bulaymān lived to be
over ninety years old). The doubts of the editor of al-Yūnīnī, who refers to forms with n
instead of l (Dhayl, III, 224, even has Yalammān), seem unjustified.
48 Al-Kutubī and Ibn Taghrībirdī conclude the story with the statement that at-Tallaʿfarī said
that he would have to gamble with either silver or gold (min bayn al-ḥajarayn) for either
the boots or the shoes (niʿāl).
49 Cf. al-Yūnīnī, Dhayl, III, 224, and Ibn Taghrībirdī, Nujūm, VII, 257. The verses do not appear
in the old edition of at-Tallaʿfarī’s Dīwān (Beirut 1326).
For “sixes and fives,” see Steingass, 745a: “shash u panj Confusion, perplexity; dice;
shash-u-panj-zanān Dice-players; perfect, pure; one who loses his all at play.” It may be
noted that panj u shash means the five senses and the six directions (Steingass, 257a).
Thus, Jalāl-ad-dīn Rūmī, Mystical Poems, trans. A.J. Arberry, no. 129, verse 10 (Chicago 1968),
speaks of “some folk dissolute and drunk and gay, some folk slaves to the five and the
six.” Since the two groups are contrasted with each other, gambling could not be meant
here. For an Arabic-Persian play on words using the Persian numbering of the dice, cf. also
Sayf-ad-dīn al-Mushidd, Dīwān, fols. 132b–133a.
But no matter how miserable gambling made him, he was unable to give up
wine drinking and gambling:
I have denounced everything but wine.

I have foresworn everything but gambling.
Cup and dice are never
Out of my right hand and my left.50
This is about all the information we have at present concerning at-Tallaʿfarī’s

gambling obsession. If it has been found worthy to be reported here in toto,
it is because, among the thousands of medieval Arabic poets, we can find
nobody else whom the sources at our disposal have described so explicitly as a
gambler.
The view on gambling that is most generally conveyed to us in the literature
regards it as a contemptible low-class pastime to which only the economic and
spiritual dregs of society would devote themselves. Chess apologists therefore
always contended that their game, in contrast to gambling, was played by
persons of high standing in society. An intellectual of the caliber of an-Naẓẓām
could, perhaps, look down even on chess as an amusement for uneducated
parvenus. “Two rich men incapable of adab” was his characterization of chess
players.51 But in general, chess was extolled as a game for kings and wealthy
150 men, not one for the poor and stupid,52 and | it was always stressed that it was
reportedly played by noble persons and distinguished Muslims of the second
generation.53 Nard, on the other hand, was allegedly played, in the time of the
great ninth-century Egyptian scholar Muḥammad b. ʿAbd-al-Ḥakam, only by
“foolish people lacking true manliness” (ahl as-safah wa-tārikū al-murūwah).54
And it was quite natural to exclaim how unbecoming it was for an intelligent
being to be in bondage to a couple of dice and do their bidding.55
The philosophical view of all play was that man, endowed as he was with
reason, had no right to indulge in such a waste of time. “Doing nothing (ʿuṭlah)
is bad, and reason shuns it. Therefore, people who have free time (al-furrāgh)
occupy themselves with playing chess and nard, notwithstanding the stupidity
50 Cf. at-Tallaʿfarī, Dīwān, 18; al-Kutubī, Fawāt, II, 547. See, especially, below, Ch. VII, n. 15.
51 Cf. al-Ghuzūlī, Maṭāliʿ, I, 77, quoting al-Jāḥiẓ.
52 Cf. Wieber, Schachspiel, 253 f.
53 Cf. Ibn Sukaykir, in the beginning.
54 Cf. as-Sakhāwī, Shiṭranj, fol. 42a.
55 Cf. Pareja Casañas, Libro del Ajedrez, I, text 15, trans. 16.
of those games and the useless waste of one’s life and time that goes with
them. Voluntarily sitting around unoccupied and motionless is detested by all
people,”56 for life, by definition, is motion, and where there is no motion, there
is no life. Thus, gaming might seem to fulfill in a way a useful role in killing
time. However, the philosopher no doubt was of the opinion that, even if no
practical work is waiting to be done, time can always be employed usefully
with thinking. In the language of the men of religion, gaming annuls a man’s
murūwah.57 For young men living by the code of chivalry, it indicated imperfect
futūwah, if one of them was given to “playing frivolously with pigeons and, for
gambling purposes, with falcons (?), or with nardashīr.”58 Whether a mighty
ruler played gambling games himself or followed the fürstenspiegel advice that
such indulgence was unbecoming for him, he would likely express the view
that they did not befit his exalted station. We have a story to this effect told
of al-Maʾmūn. He once called his servants, but nobody responded. A courtier
went after them and found them playing dice and chess and watching cocks
fighting. In a furor, he told them that the caliph wanted them. | Still they stalled 151
and asked to be allowed to throw59 the dice once more and to make another
move. The caliph heard the courtier curse. He, however, laughed and told him
to be lenient with the men, as they were human beings with human frailties like
him. But when he was asked whether he would take the same attitude toward
everybody, he replied that if his sons behaved in that manner, he would kill
them. Such behavior belonged to the qualities of common people, whereas “our
qualities are those of kings.”60 Gaming and the resulting inattention to duty
were improper as well as dangerous to the ruling elite, no matter how natural
they were for ordinary men.
A high ninth-century official, Aḥmad b. al-Mudabbir, had boon-companions
who, as was expected of them in their profession, were accomplished, among
other things, in chess and nard and various kinds of play. A sponger (ṭufaylī)
was able to best them in all those things, much to the amusement of Ibn
al-Mudabbir who himself would disdain to participate in such a display of
56 Cf. Miskawayh and at-Tawḥīdī, Hawāmil, 276.

57 See above, Ch. II, n. 3. For sāqiṭ al-murūwah, cf. also al-ʿĀmilī, Mikhlāh, 62.
58 Cf. Ibn al-Miʿmār, Kitāb al-Futūwah, ed. Muṣṭafā Jawād and others, 177 (Baghdād 1958–
1960). The reference to “falcon” (shāhīn) in the context seems a little strange, since birds
of prey used in hunting sports are not mentioned normally in connection with gambling.
It is hardly possible to read shāhayn “two kings,” as a most unusual term for chess.
59 The root q-y-s appears not to be attested elsewhere in this meaning. Possibly, it is a more
technical term such as “to match” the partner’s throw.
60 Cf. Ibn Abī Ṭāhir Ṭayfūr (above, Ch. II, n. 235).
vulgarity.61 However, his brother Ibrāhīm regularly played nard for money with
Ibn Ḥamdūn and once lost the considerable sum of twenty dīnārs.62 Doing
things that are enjoyable, while at the same time expressing a low opinion
of them, is not uncommon among human beings, especially with regard to
amusements of all sorts.
The general attitude toward gambling as a low-class activity also seems to
be reflected in the story of ʿĀʾishah who did not want nard players to stay in
a house belonging to her.63 It could have been the illegal status of gambling
that made her decide to threaten those people with eviction. However, the
report, which is not likely to be historical, seems aimed at the social inferiority
associated with it. Its message is that persons of high standing in society should
consider gambling something that they would not care to have anything to do
with.
Gambling figures in some lists of despicable activities and occupations.
Astonishment was expressed that human beings could actually derive pleasure
152 from something that brought only | disaster to themselves and their families,
a remarkable phenomenon to be observed not only in connection with gam-
bling but also other vulgar and harmful activities.64 The hero of a burlesque of
low life in a large city around the turn of the first millennium associated with
gamblers, nabīdh sellers, effeminate persons, monkey men, and he mentioned
his gambling activities in connection with his homosexual inclinations.65 Nard
playing, together with many other gambling activities, is listed in a fictitious
ḥadīth of the Prophet as the work of the people of Lot.66 If a boy’s mother
was a whore, he quite naturally started out as a gambler at a tender age. At-
Tīfāshī (d. 651/1253) learned that, when he was writing his Nuzhat al-albāb
in Damascus. As the tells the story, he saw a little boy sitting near the water
naked and weeping, while other, older boys were swimming; his clothes had
been stolen, he said, and his mother would kill him, if he came home naked.
Passers-by were touched by his plight and gave him money, so that he would
be able to buy himself clothes. At-Tīfāshī was about to take out his handker-
chief from his sleeve (al-mandīl min kummī) and give him something, when
61 Cf. al-Masʿūdī, Murūj, VIII, 15 f.; ash-Sharīshī, Sharḥ al-Maqāmāt, I, 211; Wieber, Schachspiel,
235.
64 Cf. al-Kindī and al-Ghazzālī (above, n. 25); Miskawayh, Tahdhīb al-akhlāq, ed. C.K. Zurayq,
217 (Beirut 1967).
65 Cf. al-Azdī, Ḥikāyat Abī l-Qāsim, 3 f.
66 Cf. Abū l-Layth as-Samarqandī (above, Ch. II, n. 187).
a young man warned him not to do it, since there was nothing to the boy’s
story. It was the custom of that “gambling bastard, the son of a whore and pro-
curess” (ʿilq muqāmir ibn qaḥbah qawwādah), to play that trick on strangers all
the time. He would use the money he collected for gambling with the other
boys.67
Among the numerous faults of servants (eunuchs) enumerated in a list going
back to al-Jāḥiẓ appears their infatuation with gambling.68 A work on how to
manage one’s affairs (siyāsah), falsely ascribed to al-Fārābī, includes gambling
among occupations held in low regard, such as dyeing, sweeping, and sordid
trades.69 It also appears together with buffoonery and musical entertainment
as an | occupation of fools.70 Scavengers (mashāʿilīyah) were allegedly once told 153
by an angry judge that their twelve profitable activities included walaʿ, which
was explained as gambling.71 Prisoners in an Egyptian jail who played chess
and nard and tried to forget their plight by amusing themselves with these and
similar pastimes probably also gambled for whatever possessions they could
lay their hands on. In any case, when Ibn Taymīyah was jailed in 707/1308
and observed their evil habits which caused them to miss prayer, he started at
once to reform them and got them to pray regularly; the prison thus became
a better place for knowledge and religion than many a pious and scholarly
institution.71a
One demeaning association recurs all the time, the pairing of gamblers
with robbers and thieves. It goes back to Aristotle who mentions gamblers
and thieves together in his Nicomachean Ethics.72 Liṣṣ muqāmir “robber and
gambler” was a term of opprobrium expressive enough to be used by both
67 Cf. at-Tīfāshī, Nuzhat al-albāb, Ms. Istanbul Topkapısarayı Hazine 1317 (Cat. Karatay 8293),
fols. 45b–46a. I am grateful to J. Sadan, of the Hebrew University, for having called my
attention to this passage and having suggested other valuable references.
68 Cf. al-Ghuzūlī, Maṭāliʿ, I, 33, l. 3.
69 Cf. the edition of the treatise by L. Cheikho, in al-Machriq, IV (1901), 695. In the edition of
L. Malouf, C. Eddé, and L. Cheikho, Traités inédits, 2nd ed., 30 (Beirut 1911), the passage is
bracketed as being found in only one manuscript. According to M. Plessner, in I. Goldziher
Memorial Volume, II, 81 (Jerusalem 1958), the treatise ascribed to al-Fārābī is largely
identical with Ibn Abī r-Rabīʿ, Sulūk al-mālik. However, the passage in question is not
contained in it (at least, not in the text available to me).
70 Cf. Naṣīr-ad-dīn Ṭūsī, Nasirean Ethics, trans. G.M. Wickens, 158 (London 1964); M. Plessner,
Der Oikonomikos des Neupythagoreers ‘Bryson’, 65 (Heidelberg 1928). On p. 264, Plessner
quotes the same statement from ash-Shahrazūrī, ash-Shajarah al-ilāhīyah.
71 Cf. al-Ibshīhī, Mustaṭraf, II, 300, trans. Rat, II, 651.
71a Cf. Ibn ʿAbd-al-Hādī, al-ʿUqūd ad-durrīyah, 269.
72 Cf. Ibn Abī Dharr, Saʿādah (above, Ch. II, n. 137).
the master of literary Arabic, at-Tawḥīdī, with reference to the al-Aqṭaʿ who
instructed the Ṣāḥib Ibn ʿAbbād in underworld slang,73 and the users of a more
relaxed form of speech in the Arabian Nights.74 With tongue in cheek, al-Jāḥiẓ
would praise robbers for their addiction to gambling.75 In early tenth-century
Baghdād, criminals would spend the time they were not out committing crimes
at home eating and drinking and playing chess and nard together with a servant
boy who played with them.76 In the Aristotelian tradition, Ibn Sīnā speaks of
154 useless crafts involving the transfer of property | which are therefore forbidden,
such as those of thieves, robbers, procurers, and others. He singles out gambling
as an example of taking without providing any benefit in return and thus being
a worthless pursuit.76a
Not only did robbers and thieves gamble heavily themselves, but they also
made use of the prohibition of gambling for protecting themselves against
being apprehended when they burglarized a house. A special term was coined
for the trick they used, bāhata bi-n-nard, which may be translated “to dupe with
the help of nard.” It is briefly alluded to in the Maqāmāt of Badīʿ-az-zamān
al-Hamadhānī.77 In vivid detail, we find the procedure reported by Ibn al-Jawzī:
The thief enters the house, digs a small hole like a nard well (biʾr an-nard,
apparently, a contrivance designed to hold the counters and the chips), puts
into it nuts ( jawzāt) such as people use for playing, and places next to it
a handkerchief (mandīl) with about two hundred nuts. Then he scoops up
everything in sight and gets ready to leave with his loot. If the owner of the
house surprises him, he just leaves the cloth bag (qumāsh, with the nuts) and
makes his getaway. However, if the owner happens to be a strong man and
tackles him, all the while shouting loudly, “thieves!,” and the neighbors gather
at the scene, the thief starts a glib speech. He says: “What a nuisance you are
(mā abradaka)! For months I have been gambling with you for nuts. You have
impoverished me and taken all I possess. I shall put you to shame in front of

74 Cf. Arabian Nights, ed. Macnaghten, I, 308, trans. Littmann, I, 445 (37th night).
The Sīrat Baybars speaks of liṣṣ mulāʿib and of counterfeiters, gamesters, usurers, and
fences, according to the German summary of the work by H. Wangelin, Das arabische
Volksbuch vom König Aẓẓāhir Baibars, 209, 35 (Stuttgart 1936, Bonner Orientalistische Stu-
dien 17).
75 Cf. al-Isfarāʾinī, Tabṣīr (above, Ch. II, n. 142).
76 Cf. aṣ-Ṣafadī, Wāfī, VIII, 136.
76a Cf. Ibn Sīnā, Shifāʾ, Ilāhīyāt, (II), 448 (Cairo 1380/1960).
77 Cf. Badīʿ-az-zamān al-Hamadhānī, Maqāmāt, 167 (Beirut, n. y.), 217 (Cairo 1381/1962), trans.
Prendergast, 123.
your neighbors (by telling them about your nefarious gambling). Now that I
have happened to win, you shout and call me names. Between us we have run a
gambling den. Now, say that I am in the clear (ṣafawta), and I shall leave without
making any more fuss.” This causes the neighbors to think that all the owner of
the house wants is not to be exposed as a gambler and he therefore pretends
that the other man is a burglar. Thus, they separate the two and make it possible
for the burglar to escape.78
The story also provides a hint of how much cheating and welshing on bets
was part of the gambling scene. The attention paid by Ibn Qutaybah to sup-
posed precautions that were habitually taken in maysir games shows that the
thought of cheating was never absent | from gambling activities. Whether the 155
potential loophole that might have permitted the loser in a race to avoid pay-
ment of his obligation79 was ever used in practice, we do not know. But fouls
were apparently committed in horse racing. We hear about the possibility of
one of the jockeys slapping the face of (the other’s?) horse or snatching the
whip of the other. These were probably not accidental occurrences, although
our source seems to list them as such.80 Even chess was not safe from cheating,
and a boon-companion was advised not to try.81 Again speaking with tongue
in cheek, al-Jāḥiẓ complained of the disappearance of those knightly young
men ( fityān) among whom it was customary, when a friend gambled with
a friend, to cheat (in qamara ḍaghā).82 Incidentally, it had been a different
story with pre-Islamic Ḥātim aṭ-Ṭāʾī, famed for his generosity, who was also
lucky, and “whenever he gambled, he won” (idhā qāmara sabaqa).83 The fre-
quent commission of perjury mentioned among the vices of gamblers may also
refer to their propensity for cheating and trying to get out of their contrac-
78 Cf. Ibn al-Jawzī, Akhbār aẓ-ẓurrāf, 45 f. Ibn al-Jawzī has ʿUbayd-allāh b. Muḥammad al-
Khaffāf as the name of the narrator of the story.
80 Cf. ʿAbdallāh b. Maymūn, Ifādah, Ms. Istanbul Köprülü I, 1213, fols. 174b–175b: laṭm aḥad
ar-rākibayn wajh faras and ikhtiṭāf aḥadihimā sawṭ al-ākhar.
81 Cf. Wieber, Schachspiel, 255.
82 Cf. al-Jāḥiẓ, Bayān, III, 220 (above, Ch. II, n. 238). Ḍaghā is listed as “to cheat” in Lisān, XIX,
221.
83 Cf. ash-Sharīshī, Sharḥ al-Maqāmāt, II, 286. Hardly “putting up the prize” (sabbaqa),
particularly in view of the version in al-Qālī, Amālī, III, 153, which speaks of throwing
arrows. In contrast, Ḥassān b. Thābit slandered the Banū l-Ḥimās as being inferior in every
respect by depicting them as constant losers, even “were they to gamble with the Zanj for
nobility of pedigree, they would be defeated,” cf. his Dīwān, I, 357; az-Zubayr b. Bakkār,
Muwaffaqīyāt, 248.
tual obligation to pay gambling debts, but this is uncertain.84 Ibn Taymīyah
mentioned, next to lying and committing perjury, the cheating (khiyānah) prac-
ticed by gamblers and called by them mughāḍāh, a word which in this form
156 does not seem to exist in the | dictionaries.85 No spectacular cheating scandals
are mentioned in the sources consulted. If there were any, and they involved
rich and high-ranking individuals, they were no doubt always carefully hushed
up.
Another fault ascribed to gamblers which branded them as low-class riffraff
was their uncouth, loud, and quarrelsome behavior. That such behavior was
typical of gamblers was easily deduced from the Qurʾānic passage prohibiting
maysir. Ibn Sīrīn allegedly went so far as to state that “everything that involves
gambling, shouting (ṣiyāḥ), or anything bad is maysir.”86 The literary and lin-
guistic sensibilities of the Ṣāḥib Ibn ʿAbbād were supposedly described by his
rival, Ibn al-ʿAmīd, in these unflattering terms: “His use of rhymed prose sug-
gests wanton frivolity. His handwriting suggests that he is a chronically sick
man with a withered hand. And his shouting suggests that he had lost at gam-
bling in the tavern.”87 The use of foul language came naturally to gamblers, and
apparently not only when they belonged to the uneducated strata of society. It
made their gambling still more offensive.88
In Muslim society, gambling was by and large more of a private vice than
a public nuisance or danger. Therefore, summary government action against
it rarely took place. At least, it was not frequently reported in the sources.
Whether historical or not, the report by al-Khuzāʿī concerning the official
complaint sent to the governor of Mecca during the caliphate of al-Mahdī
about gambling and other objectionable activities going on in the territory
84 See above, Ch. III, nn. 66, 97. Cf. Wieber, Schachspiel, 197, mentioning a remark that is
ascribed by al-Ghuzūlī, Maṭāliʿ, I, 77, to aṣ-Ṣūlī, Kitāb Shuʿarāʾ Miṣr; Ibn Taymīyah, Fatāwī,
IV, 308 (next to lying). Among medieval Jews, the perjury committed was the breaking of a
previous solemn oath to give up gambling, cf. L. Landman, in Jewish Quarterly Review,
LVII (1966), 302f. Such recidivism after repentance was certainly common also among
Muslims, cf. H. Ritter, Das Meer der Seele, 182.
For “lying and bragging at fourteen,” cf. Ibn Abī Shaybah, Muṣannaf, fol. 72a. Nard as
an opportunity for bragging (al-muʿjib al-mufākhir bi-n-nard) is the subject of verses by
Kushājim, Dīwān, 42 f.; al-Masʿūdī, Murūj, VIII, 318f.
85 Cf. Ibn Taymīyah, Fatāwī, II, 8. Mughāḍāh may require correction (muḍāghāh, from
ḍaghā?).
86 Cf. Ibn Abī d-dunyā, Dhamm, 36, 58.
87 Cf. at-Tawḥīdī, Akhlāq al-wazīrayn, 126.
88 Cf. al-ʿĀmilī, Mikhlāh, 62.
under his jurisdiction is a good example of the form government interven-

tion could take in such cases; we are, however, not told what results the com-
plaint produced.89 The raiding of gambling establishments under the Ikhshīd
of Egypt is, perhaps, an even better example, but again, we have no concrete
information on the scale and consequences of the police action.90 It proba-
bly blew over quickly,91 and was repeated periodically. A governor of Egypt,
Yazīd b. ʿAbdallāh at-Turkī, had the thoroughbreds belonging to the govern-
ment sold | and, for a couple of years around 860, did not permit any rac- 157
ing (rihān).92 The gambling that accompanied horse races may, however, not
have been the determining element in the governor’s action. Under the Mam-
lūks, overindulgence in gambling sports occasionally provoked public reaction
against them.93
Whether or not gambling activities had a noticeable influence on the general
economy is something we can only speculate about. The gambling equipment
needed for board games gave no doubt employment to a modest number
of small manufacturers. Chess boards and men could be made of precious
materials and require fine workmanship. A traditional and much cultivated
poetical exercise, the request in verse for a gift of some sort or other, included
the request for chess sets in its regular repertoire.94 When we hear about chess
and nard sets found in the estate of a deceased individual, this may not only
indicate his devotion to the game but also mean that those sets possessed a
certain value. However, ordinarily, most such gambling equipment should have
been rather inexpensive. If it was confiscated or destroyed, the financial loss
cannot have been great. On the other hand, many of the sports were extremely
costly and a great luxury. The drain on the public treasury was defensible as
part of the military budget. It seems to have been a considerable part of it. For
private individuals, the expense, even on a comparatively small scale, might
easily have led to financial ruin.
All this, however, is not directly related to gambling as such. If gambling at
times wrought havoc with an individual’s financial circumstances, such spo-
radic economic consequences of gambling probably never translated into soci-
etal terms. The sums lost and won in gambling in the aggregate are not likely to

91 As happened, for instance, to the maqāṣif in Cairo, see above, Ch. II, n. 89.
92 Cf. al-Kindī, Wulāh, 203; Mez, Renaissance, 383. See above, p. 50.
94 Cf., for example, ath-Thaʿālibī, Tatimmat al-Yatīmah, I, 58.
have had any economic or social significance in medieval Muslim society. Any
social and economic consequences may be said to have been dwarfed by the
problem that gambling posed as the expression of a fundamental spiritual and
metaphysical attitude.
chapter six
The Metaphysics of Gambling 158
Since gambling is man’s tinkering with chance and his pretense, bold and
timid at the same time, to having a voice in shaping the as yet unformed and
unknown future, it is in obvious conflict with the claim of monotheism that
the world is governed by a divine plan which leaves nothing to chance and that
the future is known only to God and is to be left trustingly to the direction He,
and He alone, decides to give to it. Thus, Christianity would condemn gambling
as irreverence. This attitude was described by Jean Barbeyrac, who did not
subscribe to it, in these words: “On dit donc, que Dieu préside sur le Sort, & qu’ il
le dirige d’une façon particulière: qu’ainsi, puis que le Sort entre dans tous les
Jeux de Hazard, c’est une profanation manifeste que d’ obliger la Providence
Divine à intervenir dans une chose si peu sérieuse, & sujette d’ ordinaire à tant
d’ inconvéniens.”1 The same thought was still echoed in modern times in the
sturdy Protestantism of the American Bible Belt. It was felt that gambling which
is “fiddling around with the gods of chance implies lack of reverence for the
stern dictates of Providence.” Another objection to gambling was expressed in
those circles. Gambling was “lusting for bread without the attending sweat.”2
This was, as we have seen, called by Muslims one of the uses of gambling,
although they also understood it to be something objectionable, because it was
a frivolous activity.
Muslim scholars occasionally included gambling among the activities that
constituted in their view insolent and illicit human attempts to arrogate to
man a knowledge beyond his reach. As explained by the Mālikite al-Qurṭubī,
the Qurʾānic reference to divination arrows extends to all sorts of gambling,
whether its vehicle is pigeon flying, nard, chess, or similar games. Thus, they
are a kind of soothsaying (takahhun) and “an attempt to claim knowledge
of the supernatural” (at-taʿarruḍ li-daʿwā ʿilm al-ghayb).3 However, it is more
important for us to realize that Islam had a | much fresher memory than either 159
Judaism or Christianity of the basic tenet of monotheism that blind fate was not
the governing force of everything under the sun. The assertion of purposeful
divine control as against the belief of pre-Islamic Arabs in a capricious fate
was the main theme of the divine revelation received by the Prophet and the
1 Cf. J. Barbeyrac, Traité du jeu, I, 26.

2 Cf. Rufus King, Gambling and Organized Crime, 17 f.
3 Cf. al-Qurṭubī, Jāmiʿ, VI, 59, to Qurʾān 5:3/4.
prime cause of Islam’s initial spiritual success. The Prophet’s inspired vision
proclaimed a world which had a definite purpose from beginning to end com-
pletely determined by God. That purpose did not permit anything to be left to
pure chance. Any gambler, prying into the inscrutable ways of the deity, thereby
showed disrespect and incomprehension. Gambling was in a sense a mock-
ery of the divine purpose, in that it took advantage of the human inability to
understand it fully. Even more than to the contemporaries of a Barbeyrac, it
was shocking to Muslims to see this done in ways that were so little serious.
Awareness of the ancient concept of a blind fate was deeply embedded in
the minds of pre-Islamic poets and permeated their poetry. It persisted into
Islamic times and found frequent expression in verse. At times, it may have
been more a figure of speech than true metaphysical conviction. But many,
or most, of those who spoke of the world’s dependence on fate and of those
who listened to them are likely to have been convinced that they were dealing
with a profound and valid metaphysical statement. Since playing and gambling
celebrated the power of chance and luck, they were naturally linked to the old
inherited view of an all-powerful fate:
I have seen fate play with the noble youth.

Two different states turn him round and round:
What is passing is a sleeper’s dreams.
What is remaining is wishes.4
This is the way in which the poet expresses the old wisdom of the need of
enjoying the present moment, because the past is gone forever and the future
is uncertain.
160 A human being may be serious, while fate is playing.5 The play | of fate causes
much of man’s life to depend on unpredictable luck and mocks his most serious
and determined efforts:
If luck ( jadd) does not help, the noble youth’s seriousness ( jidd) is (but)
play.
4 Cf. az-Zamakhsharī, Rabīʿ, Ms. Brit. Mus. or. 6511, fol. 11b. The poet is Dīk al-Jinn. In the
collection of his poems compiled by ʿAbd-al-Muʿīn al-Mallūḥī and Muḥyī-ad-dīn ad-Darwīsh,
105 (Ḥimṣ 1960), the verses are quoted from an-Nuwayrī, Nihāyat al-arab, where “play” in the
first line is replaced by “hurry.” The translation of the second line follows the reading of the
manuscript of the Rabīʿ, tuqallibuhū ḥālāni.
5 Cf. Ibn al-Fakhkhār al-Mālaqī (d. 539/1144–1145), quoted in al-ʿImād al-Iṣfahānī, Kharīdah
(Western poets), II, 336.
the metaphysics of gambling 497
The most futile efforts are made by those who exert themselves ( jadda)
in search of them.6
While knowledge and wisdom are under the complete control of the individual
who possesses them, wealth comes to its owner, and leaves him again, as a
matter of mere chance. Graeco-Arabic wisdom literature thus lets Solon say
to a man of great wealth:
My property (which is wisdom and knowledge) can never pass to anyone

against my will, and if I give it away, it remains with me undiminished.
Your wealth, on the other hand, may pass to someone else, and if you give
some of it away, it will be less. It is not different from the dice used for
playing. Their sides turn to each one of the players according to chance
(ittifāq).7
The intelligent man knows that the shares are not proportionate to the stakes
risked. Thus, he does not worry when the men in power prefer a fool to him.8
Gambling pure and simple was not as commonly associated with fate as were
the games and sports most widely practiced. The tenth-century poet ar-Rashīdī
al-Lawkarī, for instance, sang:
Fate plays with the noble youth,

Just as polo sticks (ṣawālij) play with the ball,
Or as a raging gale plays
With a handful of millet.
Without a nose ring, it leads
Him to happiness and unhappiness.
Fate is a hunter, and man
Is nothing but a lark (qunburah).9
6 Cf. al-Ḥaẓīrī, Lumaḥ al-mulaḥ, fol. 23a (Ms. Istanbul Topkapısarayı Ahmet III 2344, fol. 18b):
idhā l-jaddu lam tusʿid fa-jaddu l-fatā laʿib

wa-abṭalu saʿyin saʿyu man jadda fī ṭ-ṭalab.
The poet is ʾbzwn al-ʿUmānī (?), on whom I have no further information.

7 Cf. al-Mubashshir, Mukhtār al-ḥikam, 38.
8 Cf. Miskawayh, Jāwīdhān khiradh, ed. ʿA. Badawī, 270 (Cairo 1952).
9 Cf. ath-Thaʿālibī, Tatimmat al-Yatīmah, II, 77.
Also in connection with polo, Abū Nuwās said:
Till the winner gets the prize.

The one is grieved, the other glad—
The same with fate and destiny’s disposing.9a
161 Fate and death are inextricably linked, since death is the ultimate | outcome of
fate’s play with mankind. The same word ajal may have either meaning and be
understood to refer to both at the same time. Horse racing and arrow shooting
with their uncertain results were appropriate similes for the gamble man has
to take with fate and death in this world, as the Spaniard Ibn Shuhayd knew
well:
Fate (dahr) has tripped the racers.10

The race horse’s swift gallop has never stopped death.
……
The arrows of destiny (manāyā) will surely hit the noble youth.11
Nard and chess were particularly favored means of describing poetically the
world and death and fate:
Look, and you will see chess revolving like fate

Day and night, misfortune and blessings.
Its Mover remains, all the rest of it passes,
And after annihilation, it is revived and its bones resurrected.12
A Persian verse cited by Thomas Hyde made mankind the players and their
inescapable fate, meaning death, the croupier:
9a Cf. Abū Nuwās, Dīwān, ed. E. Wagner, II, 257 (Wiesbaden 1392/1972, Bibliotheca Islamica
20b).
10 Cf. al-Maydānī, Arabum Proverbia, II, 184: “He who races fate is tripped.” Dahr in the verse
is replaced in some manuscripts by mawt.
11 Cf. Ibn Shuhayd, at-Tawābiʿ wa-z-zawābiʿ, in Ibn Bassām, Dhakhīrah, I, i, 218, trans. J.T. Mon-
roe, 60 (Berkeley and Los Angeles 1971, University of California Publications, Near Eastern
Studies 15).
12 Cf. al-Ghuzūlī, Maṭāliʿ, I, 78, quoting Badr-ad-dīn Ibn aṣ-Ṣāḥib (ar-Raʾīs b. aṣ-Ṣāḥib al-wazīr
Tāj-ad-dīn), a contemporary of Fakhr-ad-dīn Ibn Makānis. For similar verses by Ibn al-
Labbānah, cf. Murray, A History of Chess, 203; Wieber, Schachspiel, 132; al-ʿImād al-Iṣfahānī,
Kharīdah (Western poets), II, 114.
This world is the dicing den of the devil. In it,

We are the players. Fate supervises the numbers thrown.13
Little value, said a poet, is to be attached to a world which is nothing but a game
of nard, depending as it does on the way the dice roll:
Fate is the player. We the counters are.

Heaven the dice, our earth the gaming board.14
The supposed author of the verse is none other than the towering genius of
medieval Islam, Ibn Sīnā. Whether or not he was indeed | the author, can 162
hardly be decided with any certainty. But he might very well have expressed
sentiments of this sort when relaxing from serious philosophical work. Such
sentiments can certainly be expected to have been expressed by the ʿUmar
Khayyām of the Quatrains. In fact, one of them runs, in E. Fitzgerald’s first
translation:
‘Tis all a Chequer-board of Nights and Days

Where Destiny with Men for Pieces plays:
Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays,
And one by one back in the Closet lays.
Or, according to a later version of Fitzgerald’s:
But helpless Pieces of the Game He plays

Upon this Chequer-board of Nights and Days:
13 Cf. Hyde, II, 116, who calls them verses “Saúzeni Poëtae”:
dunyā qimārkhāne-ye dēw ast wa-andar ū

mā mangiyāgarān wa-ajal naqshbīn-e mang.
14 Cf. H. Ethé, Avicenna als persischer Lyriker, in Nachrichten von der K. Gesellschaft der Wiss.
und der Georg-Augusts-Universität, 566 f. (Göttingen 1875):
ajal nardbāz ast wa-mā muhre īm

falak kaʿbatayn wa-jihān takht-e nard.
Cf. also G. Misch, Geschichte der Autobiographie, III, ii, siebter Abschnitt, 1005 (Frankfurt
a. M. 1962).
Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays,

And one by one back in the Closet lays.15
The supposedly more literal translation by A.J. Arberry reads:
A stark and solemn truth I say,

Not as in parables to preach:
We are but counters, all and each,
That Heaven moveth at its play.
We stir awhile, as if at will,
About the chessboard of the days,
Till in the box of death Time lays
Our pawns, to be for ever still.16
In fact, more accurate is the translation of L.P. Elwell-Sutton:
We are the pawns, and Heaven is the player;

This is plain truth, and not a mode of speech.
We move about the chessboard of the world,
Then drop into the casket of the void.17
The quatrain speaks vaguely of “playing,” but the assumption that chess was
uppermost in the poet’s mind is highly likely. He speaks, not of nights and
days as Fitzgerald has it, but, much more philosophically meaningful, of the
163 gaming board of existence and the box | (in which the counters are kept) of
non-existence. Heaven is the player. Humans, the counters, have their little
game, till they revert to non-existence. All this is not metaphor; it is reality, as
15 Nos. 49 of Fitzgerald’s first version, 74 of the second, and 69 of the third through fifth
versions. The Persian text reads in the edition of E. Heron-Allen (London 1899):
Az rūy-e ḥaqīqatī na az rūy-e majāz

mā luʿbatgānīm wa-falak luʿbatbāz
bāzīche hamī kunīm bar naṭʿ-e wujūd
raftīm bi-ṣundūq-e ʿadam yak yak bāz.
The text of R.M. Aliev and M.-N.O. Osmanov, no. 173 (Moscow 1959), shows the second line
preceding the first. It reads ḥaqīqat na ki and, for raftīm, uftīm.
16 Cf. A.J. Arberry, Omar Khayyám, a new version, 106, no. 173 (New Haven 1952).
17 Cf. L.P. Elwell-Sutton’s translation of Ali Dashti, In Search of Omar Khayyam, 191 (London
1971).
things really are. There is no reference to gambling here, or to the caprice of

the dice. It is a game played, for all we know, according to certain fixed rules
of higher reason in which we of necessity are the constant losers. Nevertheless,
even here where gambling and chance are kept at a distance, they stay near
enough to make their presence, and the incompatibility of the verses with
genuine Islamic belief, clearly felt.
The strange mysticism of al-Jilyānī (531–602/1136–1205), whose lifetime coin-
cided almost exactly with that of another Spaniard of a totally different ap-
proach to the world, the great Maimonides, compared the attitude of the com-
mon people who were unaware of inner meanings to the game played on the
checkered board:
They brought me a prayer carpet. On account of its inlay

I imagined it to be a board for gambling.
I said: Now, what would one assume to be its army?
They replied: Minds whose passion is (but) a hangover.
They play with Islam as with rooks,
And they throw the religious laws around like pebbles at Minā.
Surely, the earth is a prayer carpet and pebbles
And a stone pavement and reed mats.
But they play with the shells,
Because they are far removed from the flesh of the fruit.
They carry something external (ẓāhir) imposed by blind belief in tra-
dition,
Just as donkeys carry books (Qurʾān 62:5/5) on their backs (ẓahr).18
18 Cf. al-Jilyānī, Dīwān al-ḥikam, Ms. Brit. Mus add. 7560 Rich., fol. 101b. The verses are dated
in 599/1202–1203:
atawnī bi-sajjādatin khiltuhā

bi-tarṣīʿihā ruqʿatan li-l-qimāri
fa-qultu fa-mā dhā turā jayshahā
fa-qālū ʿuqūlun hawāhā khumāru
talāʿabu bi-d-dīni liʿba r-rikhākhi
wa-tarmī sh-sharāʾiʿa ramya l-jimāri
a-mā l-arḍu sajjādatun wa-l-ḥaṣā
wa-safḥu l-balāṭi wa-ḥuṣru s-samāri
wa-lākinnahum laʿibū bi-l-qushūri
li-ghaybatihim ʿan lubābi th-thimāri
wa-qad ḥamalū ẓāhiran qullidū
ka-mā ḥamala l-kutba ẓahru l-ḥimāri.
The army of men on the chess board of the world consists of minds made sick
from having had too much heady wine of mundane diversions. They play with
164 Islam as if it were game. They make no | progress, because traditional beliefs
blind them to the reality and true meaning of religion. Their foolish play is
gambling, wrong and useless.
The old comparison of nard with the firmament and the course of the world
depending on its revolution naturally led to the frequent linking of the game to
astrological determinism, as, for instance, in this rhymed riddle:
What would a “land” be that is like a firmament

Moved by finger tips and palms,
Having stars in the number of the month(s of the year)
Propitious and unpropitious in turns,
As if hours were revolving
Its pole at the passing of time.19
Everybody is subject to the motions of the stars, whether they bring luck or
misfortune. In the same way, the gambler depends on the fall of the dice. His
microcosm imitates and confirms the ways in which the world at large and the
metaphysical establishment are supposed to operate.
At one moment in the early history of Islam, presumably in the beginning
ninth century, if not already in the preceding eighth century, Muslim theolog-
ical thinking hit upon gambling as a suitable metaphor to illustrate its funda-
mental concern with free will against predetermination and chance. The seri-
ous discussion of the disturbing problem of free will in subsequent times seems
to have kept away from the comparison with gambling. However, the authors
who spoke of chess and nard always came back to it. Nard, the true game of
chance, shows the player’s complete trust in God. Chess which depends on the
player’s ingenuity and decision thereby proclaims man’s freedom from divine
predestination. Originally, two variations seem to have been in separate cir-
culation. One of them focused on the element of luck and astrological deter-
19 Cf. al-ʿAzāzī, Dīwān, fol. 116b:
mā hiya arḍun ka-annahā falakun

tudīruhā anmulun wa-rāḥātu
lahā nujūmun ka-sh-shahri ʿiddatuhā
suʿūduhā wa-n-nuḥūsu tārātu
ka-annamā quṭbuhā tadūrū bihī
ʿalā mamarri z-zamāni sāʿātu.
minism. It was ascribed to the time of a legendary Indian king of the remote
past. Nard was invented earlier than chess. It was invented in order to show
that no worldly goods are gained through cleverness and skill and that the
world bounces human affairs around capriciously. Chess was then invented in
order to counter the ideas suggested by | nard. It shows that success goes to 165
the prudent individual, while misfortune befalls the ignorant person. The old-
est available source here is the late ninth-century al-Yaʿqūbī,20 followed closely
in time by al-Masʿūdī.21 The other version did away with those pre-Islamic
Indian trappings and came right out with the application to the Muslim sit-
uation. It declared chess to be representative of the Muʿtazilah view, while
nard expressed the jabrī belief in predetermination. In al-Masʿūdī’s words, “one
of the speculative theologians considered the inventor of chess a Muʿtazilite
(ʿadlī) and as having control over his own actions, and the inventor of nard as
acting under constraint (mujbar) and showing by his game that he cannot do
anything on his own but is active according to the dictates of predestination
(qadar).”22
The two strains had already grown together in the Risālat ḥikmat waḍʿ
an-nard wa-sh-shiṭranj by Abū Zayd al-Balkhī (ca. 236–322/850–934),23
al-Masʿūdī’s considerably older contemporary:
The sages have always followed the custom of expressing obscure intellec-
tual matters through similes and forms (pictures) amenable to observa-
20 Cf. al-Yaʿqūbī, Taʾrīkh, I, 99 ff.

21 Cf. al-Masʿūdī, Murūj, I, 157f., also VIII, 320. Al-Masʿūdī was used by authors such as
an-Nuwayrī, Nihāyat al-arab, XIV, 321.
22 Cf. al-Masʿūdī, Murūj, VIII, 320.
23 Cf. Abū Zayd al-Balkhī, in Ms. Istanbul Topkapısarayı Ahmet III 1541, fol. 724a–b. The
manuscript is an enormous collection of dozens of works written on the text pages and
in the margins, cf. the description in Cat. Karatay 8683. For al-Balkhī’s work, cf. Wieber,
Schachspiel, 27, 38, 151, 491. The text is reproduced in the Libro del Ajedrez, published by
Pareja Casañas, I, text 10–12, trans. 10–12. The remainder of al-Balkhī’s discussion, cov-
ering one more folio in the Istanbul manuscript, is also resumed in the Libro del Aje-
drez, I, text 12–15, trans. 12–16. The quotation in the Libro del Ajedrez is quite accurate.
Some of the changes made in it reflect a changed religious climate. Al-Balkhī was also
quoted by Ibn Bābah, Raʾs māl an-nadīm, Ms. Istanbul Turhan Velide Sultan 234, fols. 127a–
131a.
The book on the wisdom of nard, with which Abū Bakr ar-Rāzī, a contemporary of
al-Balkhī and al-Masʿūdī, is credited (above, Ch. II, n. 168), most probably dealt with the
same subject and, if it were preserved, could be expected to shed much light on the origin
of the dogmatic debate.
tion by the senses, in order to make them easier to understand, since the
clearest and soundest proof is always such direct observation. Often they
contrived24 to invent things which outwardly were an amusement for the
common people, while their inner meaning served to train the minds and
senses of the elite. The purpose was to utilize the eagerness of the ignorant
mass as a means to achieve wider and more general usefulness. For the
166 sense of hearing, they thus invented | the musical instruments, for vision,
artistic clocks, and for speech, the insertion into the narrative of stories
based on various kinds of proverbs and facetious anecdotes.25 The games
of nard and chess belong into this category, because they were so arranged
that outwardly they were an amusement for the common people. Substi-
tutes for them of the same excellent order and suitability for gambling
are not to be found in ancient and modern times.26 They were there-
fore enthusiastically welcomed by all nations and spread among them.
The Greek, Persian, and Indian races ( jīl) boasted of having invented
them.
Their inner meaning is intended to turn around the clarification of
mankind’s most important moot problem, the problem of qadar27 versus
jabr, free choice versus compulsion. Since ancient times, the official rep-
resentatives28 of all religious groups and persuasions have differed with
respect to this most difficult and vexing problem. One group says that
human movements, actions, and efforts and man’s happiness and unhap-
piness, his success and failure consequent upon them, take place under
compulsion (ijtibār wa-ḍṭirār) for a reason, external to them and their
power, which gives and withholds. (A subdivision composed of)29 the
24 The Ms. has yaḥtājūn ilā “need,” which is perhaps more correct than yaḥtālūn li- found in
the Libro del Ajedrez.
25 Wa-dhālik fī ḥiss (Ms. ḥʾs) al-masmūʿ ka-ālāt at-taʾlīf wa-fī ḥiss al-manẓūr ka-⟨l-⟩ālāt al-
badīʿah fī maʿrifat as-sāʿāt wa-fī ḥiss al-manṭiq ka-taḍmīnihim ḍurūban min al-kalām aḥā-
dīth muʾallafah fī ḍurūb al-amthāl wa-l-khurāfāt.
26 Fa-innahū lam yūjad min qadīm az-zamān wa-ḥadīthihī luʿbatān badala-humā min ḥusn
at-taʿbiyah wa-wujūb al-qamr bihimā. The Libro del Ajedrez has, “Nothing can be found in
ancient and modern times that compares to chess and nard as to beautiful arrangement
(naṣbah, referring to the combination of plays available in the game) and suitability (read
wa-wujūb?) for play. However, one is forbidden, and the other is permitted.” Perhaps,
wa-wujūb (wa-wujūd) was originally wa-jūdat “excellent gambling (play)” in both cases (?).
27 Here, “free will,” referring to the Muʿtalizah designated as Qadarīyah.
28 Read al-mutadayyinūn.
29 The words in brackets are a useful addition in the Libro del Ajedrez.
religionists holds that the external reason is the destiny determined by

God which cannot be repelled, while (that composed of) the naturalists
holds that that reason is depending on the propitious and unpropitious
lots of the spheres (as-sihām al-falakīyah).
The other group says that all the unhappiness and happiness, the suc-
cess and failure coming to human beings through their movements and
actions, result from their good or bad choice and their successful30 and
futile activities. This brought about the appearance of the religion of the
Zoroastrians (majūs) and dualists. They posited two agents for unhappi-
ness and happiness, failure and success. The Zoroastrians assumed two
primeval principles, Yazdān and Ahriman, the dualists, light and dark-
ness.
The inventor of nard imitated the first school by means of the rules of
his game, putting the two dice in the place of the external reason that
allows no efforts to be made except in accordance with what it gives and
grants.31 He thus made it patently clear how the more | ignorant and 167
less likely individual may win out over the more deserving and potent
one, and how the incapable individual, if favored by the external cause,
may succeed, while the prudent individual, if abandoned by it, may be
frustrated. The one succeeds in obtaining and concentrating his position
(khuṭūṭ?), whereas the other is frustrated and confused in his activities
and left behind.32
The inventor of chess, in turn, imitated the second school by means of
the rules of his game, not positing an external reason for actions but giving
the players equivalent tools as substitutes for the powers established in
man and having everything depend on choice in their use. It is clear
how difficult things become for (the person making a bad choice) and
how his opponent (gharīm) gains control over his position (khuṭūṭ?),
although the tools are the same, and eventually defeats (q-m-r) him.33
It is comparable to warfare, the most important business in the world,
where good management and bad choice lead, respectively, to salvation
and perdition. The fact that in this most important business, success
30 Read ḥarfihim?, ḥirafihim?

31 One would expect “takes.”
32 Khuṭūṭ, here and below, may possibly refer to the rows of squares on the chess board,
unless it has to be read ḥuẓūẓ “portions.”
33 Libro del Ajedrez: “Thus he showed clearly how the individual making a good choice may
defeat the one making a bad choice and how he may make things (or, things may become?)
difficult for him.”
obviously depends on good management, and lack of success on faulty

management, indicates that all other activities and ways of making a
living must be similar to it.
It is striking that the reports on the philosophical-dogmatic significance of

chess and nard refrain from passing any sort of value judgment. Al-Balkhī’s
reference to Zoroastrianism and dualism in connection with free choice (chess)
is not counterbalanced by any stress on Islam in connection with determinism
(nard). The Muslim case against nard has always been stronger than the one
against chess. Here, too, chess probably was the more acceptable game. Its
Muʿtazilī character may, therefore, have been meant to be an argument in favor
of Muʿtazilism, as against the “orthodox” Muslim nard view of the world, and it
could have been the brilliant invention of one of the proponents of Muʿtazilah
views.
It is quite possible that doctrinal considerations with respect to free will were
behind the often quoted statement attributed to Ibn ʿUmar that “chess is worse
than nard.” It was usually explained along lines already indicated by Ibn Abī
d-dunyā. In the first place, nard is not as mentally absorbing as is chess, which
thus is more likely to lead to the non-observance of the prayer times. And in
the second place, it does not give rise to as many disputes and quarrels. Ibn Abī
d-dunyā maintains that Ibn ʿUmar naturally knew that the strict prohibition
of nard was something generally agreed upon, while chess was viewed much
168 more leniently. Thus, his paradoxical | contention that chess is worse than
nard was meant to caution against chess playing in view of those two serious
drawbacks.34 However, we may suggest that the remark was in fact prompted
by some forerunner of the debate we find in al-Balkhī in elaborated form, and
was a protest against chess as the alleged reification of the dogma of free will.
Much later, as-Sakhāwī may have felt something of the sort when he brought
the Mālikite statement that “chess is more fun (alhā) than nard” into relation
with the old debate.35
That debate did not spill over into the oldest literature on chess, if we can
rely on the excerpts that are preserved in manuscript. Although the origin
of that literature can be dated back to the eighth century, it probably did
not antedate it, so that the reason why it is not mentioned there appears to
34 Cf. Ibn Abī d-dunyā, Dhamm, 35, 57 f.

35 Cf. as-Sakhāwī, Shiṭranj, fol. 30a. As-Sakhāwī has reference to the end of Ibn Abī Zayd’s
Risālah fī furūʿ al-Mālikīyah. This is not the passage in the famous Risālah, 324f. For certain
Mālikites considering chess worse than nard, cf. Wieber, Schachspiel, 182. Cf. also above,
p. 93.
be not chronology but its highly dubious value as a recommendation for the
game. It appears in the later chess literature and is also reflected elsewhere.
According to aṣ-Ṣafadī, Ibn Taymīyah is supposed to have said that “playing
nard was better than playing chess, because the nard player acknowledges
predetermination (al-qaḍāʾ wa-l-qadar), while the chess player denies it and is
thus closer to Muʿtazilism.”36 Aṣ-Ṣafadī finished his report of the statement on
a note of doubt (“or so he said”). In fact, it occurs in the much later as-Sakhāwī
without attribution. As-Sakhāwī may have omitted the name of Ibn Taymīyah
on purpose, but it would seem more likely that the statement had long been
in anonymous circulation. Ibn Taymīyah in fact quoted an existing dictum, in
order to show that not only nard but also chess was highly objectionable. He
expressed himself in favor of the view that chess was worse than nard with
or without compensation (ʿiwaḍ), “because it has all the corruptive features
of nard and more, such as barring the heart from the remembrance of God
and from prayer and the like: therefore, it has been said that chess follows the
doctrine of qadar, while nard follows the doctrine | of jabr, seeing that the 169
heart is more occupied with thinking in chess.”37 As-Sakhāwī spoke of the more
detrimental influence of chess on the mind, in the sense that chess “requires
weighing (taqdīr) and counting the moves before making them, in contrast to
nard where the player does the counting afterwards.”38 And he adds: “It has
therefore been stated that chess is built upon Muʿtazilah doctrine (madhhab
al-qadar), while nard is built upon determinist doctrine.”39
A further step in the development of the doctrinal view of chess and nard
is also attested by aṣ-Ṣafadī. He says that with respect to the nard player, the
dice act like predestination and work at times for him and at other times
against him, while he moves the counters as the pips require. “But if the nard
player possesses good judgment, he knows how to manage and how, through
cleverness, to win and to defeat his opponent, while abiding all the time by the
decision of the dice. This agrees with Ashʿarite doctrine.” Quoting this remark
of aṣ-Ṣafadī, al-Qalqashandī cautiously added that nard was forbidden by the
religious law, lest he left the reader with the impression that in theory at least,
36 Cf. aṣ-Ṣafadī, Ghayth, II, 52; Wieber, Schachspiel, 192f. The Ṣafadī passage was already
known to Hyde, II, 52–54. From another source much used by him, the Bodleian manu-
script of Ibn Sukaykir (above, Ch. IV, n. 116), Hyde, II, 54–56, quotes a brief reference to free
choice and predestination.
37 Cf. Ibn Taymīyah, Fatāwī, II, 9.
38 This statement also appears in az-Zarqūnī’s Commentary on Mālik’s Muwaṭṭaʾ, IV, 357.
39 Cf. as-Sakhāwī, Shiṭranj, fol. 30a.
he approved of it.40 Aṣ-Ṣafadī was certainly not the first to make the tripartite
division between skill, luck, and a mixture of both in playing games. In the
Libros de acedrex, dados, e tablas of Alfonso el Sabio (1221–1284), it is stated
that chess depends on reason, dicing on luck, and board games played with dice
(such as backgammon) on a combination of reason and luck.41 It is a reasonable
assumption that in the Muslim world, the comparison of the third type with
Ashʿarism was also made long before the time of aṣ-Ṣafadī.
As far as the official Muslim attitude toward gambling was concerned, the
debate about the metaphysical meaning of chess and nard remained what it
had been from the start, a jeu d’esprit, a witticism, albeit one with a sharp
dogmatic edge. Not many people, if anybody, would have dared to argue on
the basis of it that gambling as such was a good thing indicative of moral and
170 religious rectitude. However, in one vast segment of Muslim religious life, | we
do indeed encounter occasionally a wholehearted approval of the symbolic
gambler who recklessly gambles away all he possesses. This was in Ṣūfism. Only
the daring imagination of the mystic would have ventured to turn convention
around to such an extent. And apparently, only the mystics who were at home
in the Iranian orbit did that. A pious orthodox theologian would no doubt
approve of the sentiment that the sinner is closer to God’s mercy than anybody
else, and if he was mystically inclined, he might express the deathbed wish
to be buried on the hill where winedrinkers, thieves, and, among still more
types of sinners, also gamblers lay buried. But it took a convinced mystic to
claim that the true prince of gamblers, the gambler who does not stop gambling
before he has lost everything he owns (pākbāz) down to the shroud intended
for his burial, is symbolic of the mystic’s greatest virtue and most essential
accomplishment, his freeing of himself from all the material impediments on
his way toward union with the divine.42
Al-Qushayrī had already argued that the prohibition of maysir in the Qurʾān
was an indication of the total defeat of the mystic, as far as this world is
concerned:
40 Cf. aṣ-Ṣafadī, Ghayth, II, 52; al-Qalqashandī, Ṣubḥ, II, 141. Cf. also the note in the Libro del
Ajedrez, mentioned above, Ch. II, n. 269.
41 Cf. A. Steiger’s edition (above, Ch. II, n. 97), 6–10.
42 Cf. H. Ritter, Das Meer der Seele, 304, 202. In conservative works on the lives of the pious
such as Abū Nuʿaym al-Iṣfahānī’s Ḥilyah, gambling has no place whatever. Qimār is men-
tioned once with reference to horse racing, in connection with Sufyān ath-Thawrī’s trans-
mission of the Prophetical tradition on jalab and janab (Ḥilyah, VII, 118, cf. Concordance,
I, 353b; Lane, 464c). Another incidental reference to race horses: Ḥilyah, VI, 161.
Maysir is forbidden in the religious law. In the law of love, the people
(i.e., the Ṣūfīs) are subjected (maqhūr, i.e., they are losers when lots are
cast and gambling for material gain is done). This is hinted at in Qurʾān
5:90–91/92–93. Their bodies are cast away on the streets of predestination,
trampled upon by anyone returning from the source of the things pre-
destined who happens to pass by. Their spirits can be disposed of freely
according to the legal rule of subjection. The lot of legal ruling has come
out against them (cf. the story of Yūnus, Qurʾān 37:141/141).43
Such total defeat was the precondition for the mystic’s success in his quest
of the divine and his liberation from the ordinary conventions of religion and
society. In the gamble of the world, only the loser was the true winner.
The one thing that nobody has the right to gamble away is his religion. There
was a Jew who lost everything in the dicing den, his money, his house, his gar-
den, and even one of his eyes, but he did | not gamble away his religion and did 171
not become a Muslim.44 Again, the lesson for Muslims is clear. All the mate-
rial goods of this world are of no account and may be squandered. Indeed, they
should be squandered with the carefree abandon of the compulsive gambler.
However, no man should risk his relationship to God and the loss of his spiritual
well-being.
Whether gambling was seen as good or bad from the metaphysical point of
view, the important fact is that its relationship to the realm beyond material
concerns was at times clearly perceived and, more often, felt instinctively.
This, it would seem, exercised a greater influence upon the actual practice of
gambling in Muslim civilization than all the pronouncements of the guardians
of law and tradition. If gambling was “a kind of question addressed to destiny,”45
it had no place in a view of the world that knew that no such question must
ever be asked. If it was, it was at the peril of one’s salvation, and it showed
complete disregard for what human life was meant to be. A Muslim could not
have avoided being at least dimly aware of this implication of gambling. He
would never have been comfortable in defying social organization and beliefs
to such an extent, if he could help it. Gambling aroused a deep-seated feeling of
metaphysical guilt which tended to inhibit the natural instinct for it, although
it was unable to suppress it.
43 Cf. al-Qushayrī, Laṭāʾif al-ishārāt, II, 140 f.

44 Cf. H. Ritter, Das Meer der Seele, 294.
45 Cf. T. Reik, in Ploscowe and Lukas (eds.), Gambling, 94.
chapter seven
172 A Note on Hazard
The basic features of most types of games are identical or very similar. More-
over, they are extremely ancient in the history of mankind. This makes it very
difficult to trace borrowings. A game that is introduced into a new environment
may be conflated with one having existed there for ages. Thus, later generations
are all too easily confused as to where its origin has to be sought.
Linguistic indications are important by themselves. They become especially
revealing when they are not isolated but are supported by evidence from
characteristic features belonging to a given game. Chess is the most striking
example. Even if we were poorly informed about the non-Western history of
the game, we would have no doubt that its appearance in the West was the
result of borrowing.
The four-suit card game familiar in the West has now been safely recognized
as having been borrowed from Near Eastern civilization. Playing cards that
are clearly the prototype of the Western cards have been discovered, and the
process of borrowing can be located in an area where it was geographically and
culturally possible. In addition, some linguistic evidence at least is provided by
Italian naibi, Spanish naipes, for playing cards.1
Qirq made the transition into Spanish in the form alquerque. This would
seem to suggest that the game of merels in a number of variations entered the
West from the Near Eastern cultural orbit. However, it may have met in the West
with similar games already existing there.
If there is no corroborative evidence, linguistic data are to be treated with
great caution. Italian (Tuscan) minchiate was once thought to be derived from
Persian mang, mangiyā.2 The words are indeed very similar in sound, but
there is nothing to show the existence of any typological relationship, and the
question remains how a Persian word could get to Tuscany and be adopted
173 there for a specific kind of game. Linguistic coincidences are expectedly not |
uncommon. Indian prāśa(ka), pāśa(ka), pāsa(ka) “dice” sounds like Ar. faṣṣ,
Spanish dado like Ar. dad (above, Ch. II, n. 13).3 Someone who wishes to lose

2 Cf. K. Himly (above. Ch. II, n. 268).
3 Cf. H. Lüders, op. cit. (above, Ch. III, n. 11), 16, and, for faṣṣ, above, Ch. II, n. 134. The
great Golius may be forgiven for having suggested the derivation of dado from dad (Lexicon
a note on hazard 511
himself still further in the realm of fancy might point to the fact that Ar. qamara
is close in sound to old English gaman, and also to gammon, supposedly a
variant of gaman, attested from the seventeenth century on. Nor would it be
difficult to find an Arabic dialect in which qimār sounded like *ʾmōr and thus
was quite similar to (southern) Italian mor(r)a, a game apparently similar to
the guessing game called kharīj in Arabic.
Not only the history of games but also the origins and etymological connec-
tions of the names under which they are known are usually obscure, and this
adds to the general uncertainty. Clearly, games wandered around the world los-
ing their original names and, in general, any tangible indication that would
assure us of the fact of borrowing. This was undoubtedly the case with Near
Eastern games (and the particular rules according to which they were played)
in relation to games in the West. However, two extremely important Western
words associated with the idea of gambling stand a good chance of being of
Near Eastern origin. One of them is “risk.” The identity in form and the dis-
cernible history of the word in the West speak strongly for its derivation from
Ar. rizq “sustenance.”4 The borrowing, if indeed there was one, took place within
the commercial sphere. The extension of meaning which turned it into an
appropriate term to be employed in connection with gambling was, it seems, a
strictly Western development.
The other term is “hazard.” Its possible Arabic origin has been discussed
extensively for over a century and is now often presented as a fact. If it can
be proved, it may very well be said that Western gambling got its name from
the Muslim world—which does not mean, though, that anything more than
just a word is involved. But can it be proved? The English word “hazard” goes
back to a | French form. The earliest attestation of the word is found in French 174
where it occurs already in the twelfth century; in English, it first appears around
1300.5 The forms without final d in the Southern Romance languages, such as
Spanish azaro, are generally considered to be related. This assumption is no
doubt correct, as is the assumption that those forms are the more original ones,
the initial h and final d being later modifications.
Arabico-Latinum, 808). Cf. G.B. Pellegrini, Gli arabismi nelle lingue neolatine, 97 (Brescia 1972).
Pellegrini also discusses another very doubtful Arabic etymology in the field of games (pari
e caffo) and agrees to the derivation of zara (hazard) from zahr (zahār), as does F. Nasser,
Emprunts lexicologiques du français à l’ arabe, 202 f. (Beirut 1966).
4 Cf. H. and R. Kahane, in Verba et vocabula, E. Gamillschegg zum 80. Geburtstag, 276–283
(Munich 1968), and B.Z. Kedar, in Studi Medievali, X/3 (1969), 255–259.
5 Cf. Oxford English Dictionary, V, 136a.
The scholarly discussion of the etymology of hazard began in earnest in 1853

when F. Diez had this to say in his Etymologisches Wörterbuch der romanischen
Sprachen, p. 33 (s.v. azzardo):
Weder dem buchstaben noch dem begriff genügt arab. ʿdarr [i. e., ḍarr]
schade Freytag III, 10b. Besser in beiden beziehungen passt hebr. zarah
bedenkliche sache: ihm aber würde eher ein roman. feminin entsprechen,
das sich nur in dem erwähnten neuital. zara findet. Man erwäge daher
noch arab. jasara würfeln, jasar würfelgesellschaft, würfelpartie, dem
man den vorzug vor allen zuerkennen dürfte (denn arab. s [sin] kann
roman. z werden), wäre der wegfall des anlautes so leicht hinzunehmen;
in jasmin findet er nicht statt.
In the second edition of his work (Bonn 1861), Diez referred with justified disap-
proval to J. von Hammer-Purgstall who had meanwhile suggested that Spanish
“azar (sors inopinata)” might go back to assr “difficulty” (he wrote al-ʿaṣr but
presumably meant ʿusr).6 It could hardly be claimed that the discussion of
hazard went off to a good start, considering the suggestions just mentioned
which in hindsight seem plain foolish. The combination of hazard with yasara7
yields hardly more than agreement with respect to one letter, the r. Even worse,
yasara and its derivations (including maysir) were known only as faded literary
reminiscences in the environment in which the borrowing might have taken
place. Strangely enough, it seems still to have been considered a possibility as
late as 1927.8 However, it can be safely ruled out.
K.A.F. Mahn, writing in the mid-fifties of the nineteenth century, quoted
Diez in extenso but preferred another etymology:
Vom arab. şehār [i.e., zihār] der Würfel. (Das Wort findet sich in der
175 Form şar auch im Türkischen, und wird in den Wbb. von Kieffer und |
Handscheri für ursprünglich türkisch gehalten. allein mit Unrecht; es ist
aus dem arab. şehār zusammengezogen). Arabisch heisst zwar jetzt der
Würfel kāʾb, entlehnt von kybos, cubus, denn es heisst auch kube, corps
cubique, allein in den vulgärarab. Wbb. findet sich nur şehār für Würfel,
6 Cf. J. von Hammer-Purgstall, Über die arabischen Wörter im Spanischen, 112 (Vienna 1854
[1855], Sitzungsberichte der k. Akad. d. Wiss., philosoph.-hist. Classe 14).
7 It is also mentioned as a possibility in the Vocabulario degli Accademici della Crusca, I, 908a
(Florence 1863).
8 Cf. K. Lokotsch, Etymologisches Wörterbuch der europäischen … Wörter orientalischen Ur-
sprungs, 170 f. (Heidelberg 1927).
z.B. bei Hélot, Humbert p. 90 (dort şehar mit kurzem a), Canjes: şehār
und şār; offenbar von der Wurzel şahara (Freytag, 2, 261) glänzen, weiss,
schön sein. Mit dem Artikel al … entsteht aşşahar und aşşār, so dass das
Provenz., Span. und Portug. das arab. Wort mit dem Artikel, und ital. zaro,
zara dasselbe ohne Artikel am treusten darstellen.9
This equation of hazard with a supposed colloquial Arabic zahr “dice” was
taken up by W.H. Engelmann in his Glossaire des mots espagnols et portugais
dérivés de l’arabe and promoted by R. Dozy’s recasting of Engelmann’s work.10
It is widely accepted today, as shown, for instance, by its adoption in standard
English dictionaries and encyclopaedias in current use (although some prefer
the Persian-Turkish word). Vol. XIX (Orientalia), 203b–205b, of Französisches
etymologisches Wörterbuch, begun by W. von Wartburg, which appeared in
Basel in 1967, presupposes the correctness of the derivation in its entry zahr.
However, some excellent scholars have preferred not to say anything about
hazard as a possible loan from Arabic.11
Turkish zar means “dice,” and so does Persian zār. No study appears as yet to
have been made of the history of either word and its earliest attestation. While
the older view, as represented by Steingass, 606a, was that the Persian word
was a loan from the Turkish, it has been pointed out that there are no genuine
Turkish words beginning with z; therefore, the likelihood is that Turkish zar is
a loanword from Persian.12 In connection with the Persian-Turkish word, Greek
zari (azari) must be considered as a potential clue for the determination of the
date for the possible westward march of | the term. According to Renée Kahane, 176
a traditional etymology deriving zari from ozarion, supposedly a diminutive of
ozos “knot (in wood),” is now being abandoned by Greek scholars in favor of an
oriental derivation.13 As far as can be established from the data at hand, zari
9 Cf. K.A.F. Mahn, Etymologische Untersuchungen auf dem Gebiete der romanischen Spra-
chen, 7 (Berlin 1863 [1854–1882]). Needless to say, repeated borrowing, as implied in Mahn’s
concluding sentence, is out of the question in this case.
10 Leiden 1861, 70, and Leiden 1869, 224.
11 Cf. E. Littmann, Morgenländische Wörter im Deutschen, 2nd ed. (Tübingen 1924); A. Steiger,
in his edition of Alfonso el Sabio, Libros de acedrex, dados e tablas (1941), and idem,
Origin and Spread of Oriental Words in European Languages (New York 1963), although he
appears to have favored the Arabic derivation in his earlier Contribución a la fonética del
hispano-árabe, 271 (Madrid 1932); E.K. Neuvonen, Los arabismos del espanol en el siglo XIII
(Helsinki 1941).
12 Cf. G. Doerfer, Türkische und mongolische Elemente im Neupersischen, III, 215 (Wiesbaden
1967, Veröffentlichungen der Orientalischen Kommission 20).
13 Cf. N.P. Andriotis, who in the second edition of his Etymologiko lexiko tês koinês neoel-
is attested in Greek not before the fourteenth century. Thus, a Greek loan from
Turkish zar would seem the most likely assumption. The prothetic a in azari,
in her view, can be explained as an inner Greek development (pl. tazaria: sg.
azari), so that it would be unnecessary to fall back upon the Arabic definite
article.
While the Persian-Turkish word no doubt was in use early enough for it to
have been around when hazard made its appearance in the West, the presence
of the word in Western Europe could not be explained without the assumption
of an Arabic intermediary. A direct loan from Persian, let alone Turkish, in the
twelfth century is not a serious possibility.
The meaning of “dice” for zahr (or zihār?, presumably a plural), the ordinary
Arabic word for “flower,” is, as is usually pointed out, not well established. If
it did indeed exist, its phonetic correspondence, if provided with the definite
article, to Spanish azaro is unassailable. According to R. Dozy’s Supplément, I,
608, zahr in the meaning of “dice” is listed in the dictionary of E. Bocthor (3rd
ed., Paris 1864), zihār in the Algerian pocket dictionary of Hélot (Algiers, n. y.,
first edition Paris 1847), and zahr an-nard “nard counters” in the Moḥīṭ (Beirut
1870).14 Even assuming that the compilers of these dictionaries reproduced
an actual usage correctly and independently of one another, we would need
further evidence to show that such a usage was common already in the Arabic
spoken in the West in the early Middle Ages. We have to admit that our
knowledge of that Arabic is very limited in general, and much more so as far as
vulgar speech and gambling slang are concerned. Yet, the meaning of “dice” for
zahr cannot be considered proven, unless we have at least some evidence for
it from earlier times. Some such evidence may possibly be found in the Dīwān
177 of at-Tallaʿfarī (who, | however, lived in Syria). The old printed text shows zahr
used in a verse where the meaning of “dice” is rather clearly indicated. However,
in his quotation of the verse, al-Kutubī has qamr instead of zahr.15 Since I failed
to locate the verse in the Escorial manuscripts of the Dīwān, the actual text must
remain in doubt for the time being. Zahr looks very similar to rahn, but since
rahn could only mean “stake,” the word does not fit well into the context where
lênikês of 1967 assumes Arabic origin. I wish to thank my old friends, Henry and Renée
Kahane, for the valuable information they kindly gave me.
14 The first edition of Bocthor’s Dictionnaire français-arabe, which dealt with Egyptian Ara-
bic, appeared in Paris 1828–1829. I assume (but was unable to check) that it already con-
tained the information on zahr “dice”. Our earliest reference is Cañes’s Diccionario, I, 467b
(Madrid 1787): zhr aṭ-ṭwlh, zʾr, zyq (!). His sources remain to be discovered.
15 Fa-l-kaʾsu wa-z-zahru laysa yakhlū—minhā yamīnī wa-lā yasārī. Al-Kutubī has wa-l-qamru
and minhum (?). See above, Ch. V, n. 50.
the poet apparently had in mind some sort of gambling equipment he wishes
to hold in his hand. This objection also applies to qamr which would refer to
the activity of gambling (or, perhaps, to the gambling winnings), and at any
rate, qamr may owe its existence to the rather natural substitution of a better
known word for a less common one.
If Arabic zahr in fact acquired the meaning of “dice,” it probably came about
through an adaptation of the Persian word zār16 to an Arabic word which
sounded similar and lent itself to pleasant associations. Flowers and gardens, in
conjunction with wine and games, commonly expressed the idea of joyous and
restful relaxation in the imagery of poets. It would have been most appropriate
for the gamblers’ slang to designate their dice as flowers and thereby evoke all
the poetical connotations of the word. It is all but impossible to assume, as was
done by Mahn, that things went the other way and Arabic zahr “flower” was
transformed into Persian-Turkish zār “dice.” However, it should be understood
that the relationship between zār and zahr remains totally conjectural. There
could have been other reasons why “flower” took on the meaning of “dice,” if in
fact it did.
It could also be doubted for semantic reasons that azaro was derived from
zahr “dice.” The word was used in Spanish for certain plays involving particular
throws of the dice. We also find reazar, apparently an inner Spanish extension
of the word.17 Although the general usage of “hazard” is attested earlier, the
restricted meaning was presumably the one in which the word was originally
employed and which developed in common speech in the direction of risky
gambling, that is, “hazard.” In this case, it may legitimately be | asked why zahr 178
“dice” should have been adopted into Spanish in a very narrow and specific
technical meaning.
Everything considered, the Arabic etymology of “hazard” cannot be claimed
to be an established fact. After all, azaro could also be a still unexplained (and,
probably, unexplainable) gambling word of native Romance origin, and it was
only by chance that it sounded similar to a possible Arabic prototype. However,
Muslims, in Spain as elsewhere, were greatly addicted to nard as the principal
dice game. Thus, it would have been quite natural for the one or other Arabic
gambling term to enter popular speech. For many scholars, this probably is
as good a reason as any for clinging to the hope that the Arabic derivation of
“hazard” will eventually be confirmed. Whether or not this will ever happen,
16 Cf. A. Barthélemy (and H. Fleisch), Dictionnaire arabe-français, 505 (Paris 1934–1954). It is

obvious that the references of the Dictionnaire to zahr “dice” were taken from the older
lexicons.
17 Cf. Alfonso el Sabio (above, Ch. II, n. 97), 300–303, 362ff.
there is enough evidence to show that the flow of gaming knowledge from
the Muslim world to Western Europe was a noticeable ingredient in the vast
cultural interchange that characterized the Middle Ages and left a lasting mark
upon world civilization.
v
“Sweeter Than Hope”:
Complaint and Hope in Medieval Islam

Contents
Foreword 520 [VII]
I. The Complaint about the Times 525 [1]

1 “Time” and “The Times” 528 [4]
2 The “Golden Age” Complex 545 [18]
3 Time or Man? 560 [31]
4 Secular Complaints and Religious Complaints 573 [43]
II. Hope and Wishes 591 [59]

1 Terminology and Definitions 597 [65]
A Synonymous Uses 598 [65]
a rajâʾ/ amal 598 [65]
b ṭamaʿ-ḥirṣ/ rajâʾ/ amal 603 [69]
c munyah-umnîyah/ rajâʾ/ amal 609 [74]
B Distinctions and Definitions 612 [77]
2 The Perceived Effects of Hoping and Wishing 626 [89]
a Deceptiveness and Unreality 627 [90]
b The Death Connection (umnîyah-manîyah/
amal-ajal) 646 [107]
c Hope and Activity (amal/ʿamal) 652 [112]
d Sweet Hope, Enjoyable Wishes 660 [119]
e Hopes and Wishes Achieved—Directed toward Man
and God 672 [129]
f Long Amal—Rajâʾ and Fear 682 [139]
Concluding Remark 691 [148]

VII Foreword
ʿAbd-al-Malik b. Marwân asked Salm b. Yazîd al-Fahmî: ‘Which was the

best of the times you have lived in and which rulers were the most
perfect?’ He replied: ‘I have seen no ruler who did not have both critics
and eulogists. And time has always raised up some people and put down
others. All men criticize their time because it wears out the new and makes
the young old and decrepit, and everything in it comes to an end except
hope.’1
Like the casual poetical references to “sweeter than hope, more tender than
complaint,”2 this statement combines hope with complaint as the two opposite
poles of man’s approach to life. In the verse, it is true, the complaint which
the poet has in mind is that special complaint of lovers which is a low-key
expression of disappointment with love gone wrong. The proverbial sweetness
of hope, as we shall see, is but one of hope’s many aspects. In contrast, the
1 Cf. Kitâb al-Maḥâsin wa-l-aḍdâd, ascribed to al-Jâḥiẓ, 136 (Beirut, n.y.). I have been unable so
far to establish the identity of Salm b. Yazîd, although I have included in my search the many
permutations possible if the forms of the names were not exactly reproduced. He appears to
have been one of the longevous men (muʿammarûn), the fictional bearers of the wisdom of
the ages. He cannot be identified with Salm b. Ziyâd, below, n. 205.
2 As in the description of a songstress’ voice by the caliph ar-Rāḍî:
Araqqu min-a-sh-shakwâ wa-aḥlâ min-a-l-munâ

Wa-arwaḥu min amnin wa-alṭafu min ḥissi
cf. aṣ-Ṣûlî, Akhbâr ar-Râḍi bi-llâh wa-l-Muttaqî li-llâh, ed. J. Heyworth Dunne, 175 (London
1935). The French translation by M. Canard (Algiers 1946–1950) omits the poetry.
Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, al-Baṣâʾir wa-dh-dhakhâʾir, ed. I. al-Kaylânî, II, 275 (Damascus
1964–), cites two verses, which he says are reportedly by ar-Raḍî, on the appearance of wine
when it is being mixed with water. The second verse reads:
Araqqu min-a-sh-shakwâ wa-aḥlâ min-a-l-munâ

Wa-aʿdhabu min ḥubbin yazîdu hawâ ḥubbi
Possibly, the line that interests us was not of the invention of ar-Râḍî (or of the poet whoever
he was quoted by at-Tawḥîdî). More source material is needed to decide the question of origin.
Cf. also below, n. 655.
Araqqu min ash-shakwâ, with a different continuation, also occurs in a poem by Abû Bakr
al-Khuwârizmî, cf. ath-Thaʿâlibî, Yatîmat ad-dahr, IV, 123 (Damascus 1304).
foreword 521
wisdom of a long lifetime about which the caliph ʿAbd-al-Malik b. Marwân

inquires categorically denies the existence of perfection in this world. There
may be good as well as bad in political life, but people in general are more
inclined to see, and to complain about, the bad. The one constant that makes
life bearable is the eternal hope for a better future. It constitutes the antidote
against regret about the past and against despair in the present. In complaining
about what was and is, and in wishing and hoping for what might be, Muslim | VIII
civilization as reflected in the preserved literature appears to have seen the
essence of human life.
In the following pages, an attempt has been made to collect and analyze
a variety of attitudes and reflections which may give us some inkling of the
mood of Muslim society. As the exchange between caliph and sage shows,
society was interpreted in terms of individual experience. Like the life of the
individual, society appeared to be affected by natural deterioration and the
quality of the hope it nourished. Personal feeling and the mood created by it
were seen as the true model for the aggregation of individuals that make up
society. Thus it would seem that the sum of individual expressions which can
be gathered from the sources provides a guide that is adequate and not just the
only one available to an understanding of the forces that determined societal
behavior. The opinions that were expressed came from intellectuals, even if
they masqueraded, as they occasionally did, as the voice of ordinary people.
This raises the problem how representative they are of the totality of society. In
default of a simple solution to this problem, the assumption must suffice that
in the realm of intellectual speculation, existence equals expression and vice
versa. Unless the idiosyncratic character of a given view can be proved, it has
to be considered as representative of society as a whole.
The only possible approach open to us is the collection of whatever informa-
tion the sources can be made to yield, combined with the cautious evaluation
of that information on the basis of quantitative and qualitative indications. The
main weight of the investigation has to be carried by the sheer accumulation
of evidence. The enormous extent, in time and in space, of Muslim civilization
guarantees unevenness of coverage, thus adding another element of uncer-
tainty. Like any other human organization, Muslim society underwent constant
change. Yet, it must be admitted that the historical development of the atti-
tudes and ideas investigated here largely eludes us. For the time being, it would
seem the better part of wisdom to refrain from letting ourselves be forced into
seeing lines of historical development where we would like to find them with-
out being sure that they are indeed there.
The following pages contain many quotations, usually brief ones of a verse or
two or short prose passages. The question of the original context is important.
522 v. “sweeter than hope”
It has always been kept in mind but could not always be discussed. Sometimes,
the context was not readily available. Also, general reflections on human feel-
ings often appear in the sources as asides that stand by themselves and do not
really need their context in order to acquire the status of acceptable evidence.
The authorship of verses and, for that matter, of prose sayings cannot always
IX be established | with sufficient certainty, nor is it always certain that alleged
authors were indeed the real ones. Again, this is not crucial for our purposes.
In most cases, the nature of our subject makes it more important for us to know
that a certain sentiment existed and was expressed than to be able to name the
individual who gave expression to its existence.
It may be contended that the following discussion is too much oriented
toward verbal usage, words plain and simple, and that too little attention is
paid to implicit evidence, to cases where words such as complaint or hope
are not used but the thought processes underlying them can be presumed to
be present. Such criticism is not entirely unjustified inasfar as it shows how
much more remains to be done by future scholars. As regards our investigation,
it is hardly true that, according to an epigrammatical statement known to
al-Ghazzâlî, it makes no difference which words are used once the intended
meaning is understood.3 Meanings become clear to us only after we have
painstakingly connected them with certain words. It is the words, each one
of them with multiple shades of meaning, that, slogan-like, have a life of their
own and exercise a powerful influence upon emotions and attitudes. Therefore,
our preference for words serves the valuable purpose of bringing us as close
as possible to developing a feeling for seeing things as the people of the past
themselves did. It helps us to avoid as much as possible speculation about
what existed and was active only subconsciously and is perceived by us as
existing only as the result of our substituting our own ways of thinking. Even
with respect to words, it was necessary to choose a narrow focus, since the
number of words that have potential bearing on our all-encompassing subject
is vast. Selectivity had also to be practiced with respect to individual topics;
thus, millenarianism, which plays a large role in the Western discussion of
hope, has been left undiscussed here as not being central to the subject of hope
in Islam.
The proper handling of all the available sources is a precondition for the kind
of research undertaken here. Religious sources and secular sources—if such
a distinction makes any sense at all in dealing with Islam—must be given an
equal hearing. Not surprisingly, the religious sources contain more abundant
3 Cf. al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ, III, 164 (Cairo 1352/1933): lâ ḥijra fî l-asâmî baʿda fahmi l-maʿânî.
foreword 523
information on the aspects of our subject with which they are concerned, and
they are also in their way more systematical. Ṣûfî “hope and fear” exemplify
this statement. Potentially valuable information is concealed everywhere, and
the danger of overlooking some of it or of attaching disproportionate attention
to some evidence over the other is ever present. From past experience I know
that | even familiar sources may slip through the net. Reading hundreds of pages X
may yield only one small piece of information, while a few pages unread could
have been a veritable mine of it. At the present stage of Islamic studies when so
much material remains still unpublished, and in view of the lack of large-scale
subject indexes, the sin of oversight is hardly avoidable. It should, however, be
stressed that only a very small portion of the available literature has been used
here.
The subject treated in this essay was previously presented by me in two
lectures. “The Complaint about the Times” was discussed in a lecture at the
University of Ohio, in Columbus, Ohio, on October 19, 1978; against my usual
practice of not giving the same lecture twice, I repeated this lecture for the Yale
Medieval Consortium. “The Uses of Hope in Muslim Civilization” was the topic
of the Annual Distinguished Lecture in Arab Studies at Georgetown University,
Washington, D.C., on December 5, 1979. Certain general ideas and the related
topic of the role of competition in Muslim society were briefly discussed in a
lecture on “The Study of Muslim Intellectual and Social History: Approaches
and Methods,” presented at the University of Michigan on October 9, 1980 and
published in 1981.
The difficult undertaking of trying, even on the most modest scale, to recap-
ture something of the mood that shaped the past of Islam requires a good deal
of hope and trust in the progressive nature of scholarly endeavors. Ibn al-Jawzî
was reported to have said: “Hope is not good for anyone except scholars. If they
did not have hope, they would not write books.”4 Presumably, Ibn al-Jawzî, who
wrote many books himself, considered this a praiseworthy aspect of hope, and
not one of the manifestations of its vain and deceitful nature. This essay at least
is an expression of such good hope. With respect to its technical execution, a
4 Cf. al-ʿAynî, ʿUmdat al-qârî, X, 584 (Constantinople 1309–1310); Ibn Ḥajar, Fatḥ al-bârî, XIV,
11 (Cairo 1378–1383/1959–1963); al-Qasṭallânî, Irshâd as-sârî, XI, 74 (Cairo 1326) (who omits
mention of Ibn al-Jawzî). I have not yet been able to trace the statement to one of Ibn al-Jawzî’s
many works. GAL, Suppl., I, 919, no. 75f., lists a Kitâb ar-Rajâʾ wa-sâʿat (?) ar-raḥmah, but,
as Istanbul Ms. Laleli 3767, fols. 62a–67b, shows, this refers to chapter 53 of Ibn al-Jawzî’s
Tabṣirat al-muhtadî dealing with ar-rajâʾ wa-saʿat ar-raḥmah and does not contain the above
remark.
variant of the famous saying used in the foreword of my History of Muslim

Historiography seems to be applicable: Wa-laʿalla fî kathîrin mim-mâ taraktu
mâ huwa ajwadu min qalîlin mim-mâ adraktu.5
5 Cf. al-Ḥuṣrî, Zahr al-âdâb, ed. ʿAlî M. al-Bijâwî, I, 4 (Cairo 1389/1969).

chapter one
The Complaint about the Times 1
It was so that friend visited friend to drink wine and to listen to the music
of girl musicians.
It became so that friend visited friend to confide worries and to complain
about the times
(Wa-kâna ṣ-ṣadîqu yazûru ṣ-ṣadîqa—li-shurbi l-mudâmi wa-ʿazfi l-qiyâni

Fa-ṣâra ṣ-ṣadîqu yazûru ṣ-ṣadîqa—li-baththi l-humûmi wa-shakwâ z-za-
mâni)6
“It (once) was—it has (now) become”7 was a formula used not infrequently to
express dissatisfaction with changes that were occurring during an individual’s
lifetime.8 Specific disappointment with the course events had taken was thus
stated by al-Buḥturî:
6 Cf. Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, aṣ-Ṣadâqah wa-ṣ-ṣadîq, ed. I. al-Kaylânî, 164 (Damascus 1964);
ath-Thaʿâlibî, Yatîmah, IV, 241. According to the Yatîmah, the poet was Abû Saʿd Aḥmad b.
Muḥammad b. Mallah al-Harawî, a contemporary or near-contemporary of at-Tawḥîdî. He
is listed under no. 393 in E.K. Rowson and S.A. Bonebakker, A computerized listing of bio-
graphical data from the Yatîmat al-dahr by al-Thaʿâlibî (Paris-Los Angeles 1980, Onomasticon
Arabicum, série listing 3). I do not know whether the vocalization Mallah is securely attested.
Bathth, the “confiding,” or rather spreading, of worries is attested as a noun in the meaning
of worry in Qurʾân 12:86, where it appears next to ḥuzn. The combination bathth-ḥuzn
naturally remained in use, cf., for instance, Kitâb al-Aghânî, VIII, 163 (Bûlâq 1285), Agh.3,
IX, 277, 278 (Cairo 1345ff. and various reprints). Al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ, IV, 252, l. 4, has the verb
baththa by itself in the sense of bathth ash-shakwâ: “He who complains (baththa) is not
patient.” See also below, nn. 222, 254.
Shurb al-mudâm wa-ʿazf al-qaynah occurs in a verse by Ṣarîʿ-al-ghawânî Muslim b. al-Walîd
and is followed in the next verse by a lover’s complaint, cf. his Dîwân, ed. Sâmî ad-Dahhân, 5,
no. 1, verses 12 f. (Cairo 1958, 1970).
7 The verbs most commonly used to express this contrast are kâna and ṣâra (or aṣbaḥa).
8 Rarely, the change is considered one for the better, as in the verse by aṣ-Ṣafadî from his Tamâm
al-mutûn fî sharḥ Risâlat Ibn Zaydûn, ed. M. Abû l-Faḍl Ibrâhîm, 280 (Cairo 1389/1969), on the
advantages he derived from his patron that made him the object of envy:
People before used to pity me—later thanks to you they became ( fa-ṣayyartahum) my
enviers.
It was my hope to return rich (mumallakan).

It became my hope to return safe (musallaman)?9
Usually it was total disgust with the changes that had taken place. The decay
2 of morality might be boldly described in terms of the change from | what
things once were to what they had now become.10 Lost youth and strength were
complained about in these verses:
I was like a branch for the wind to rest in.

I have become wood without water and leaves.11
The loss of political control supposedly caused ʿAlî to exclaim: “Yesterday, I

was a leader (amîr). Today, I have become powerless (maʾmûr),”11a The Ṣûfî
al-Ḥasan b. Bundâr complained about the use of written works on gnosis which
he said was unnecessary in the past: “Was it not that gnosis was in the hearts,
whereas now it has become something to be learned from books?”12 Above all
else, the greatest disenchantment and a cause of complaint were the result of
the change in people who were once trusted unreservedly. Thus, Ibn al-Muʿtazz
complained that “you were for me a hope and have now become a misfortune.”13
Another tenth-century poet, ʿAbd-al-Majîd b. Aflaḥ al-Ghaznawî regretted his
former trust in people:
9 Cf. al-Buḥturî, Dîwân, ed. Ḥasan Kâmil aṣ-Ṣayrafî, (III), 1985 (Cairo 1963ff.).
10 Cf. the anecdote of Muzabbid, below, n. 154. Cf. also ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât,
II, 15 (Bûlâq 1287–1288): “Abû d-Dardâʾ said: People were leaves without thorns; they
have become thorns without leaves.” Earlier attestations of the remark have what may
be the more original form: “Today they are (wa-hum al-yawm),” cf. al-Jâḥiẓ, Bayân, ed.
ʿAbd-as-Salâm M. Hârûn, III, 127 (Cairo 1367–1369/1948–1950); Abû Sulaymân al-Khaṭṭâbî,
ʿUzlah, 68 (Cairo 1385). See R. Gramlich (below, n. 86), 115.
The topic of the changed objective of mourning was easily cast in the kâna-ṣâra form,
see below, no. 206.
11 Cf. Barîyah (?) b. Abî l-Yusr ar-Riyâḍî, Talqîḥ al-ʿuqûl, Leiden Ms. Or. 442 (1), fol. 43a. The
manuscript provides a tashdîd for the name Barrîyah (?) but vacillates in putting it on top
of r and y. The name could also be Burayyah and the like. Cf. GAL, I, 132; R. Sellheim, Die
klassisch-arabischen Sprichwörtersammlungen, 127 (The Hague 1954).
11a Cf. Ibn Abî l-Ḥadîd, Sharḥ Nahj al-balâgahah, ed. Ḥasan Tamîm, III, 585 (Beirut 1963).
12 Cf. as-Sulamî, Ṭabaqât aṣ-Ṣûfîyah, ed. Nûr-ad-dîn Sharîbah, 503 (Cairo 1372/1953).
13 Cf. Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Dîwân, ed. B. Lewin, IV, 169, no. 261, verse 4 (Istanbul 1945, Bibliotheca
Islamica 17d), in a marthiyah.
the complaint about the times 527
I was for a while approaching people with praise because

I did not know them but have now become ( fa-l-âna aṣbaḥtu) repentant.14
In the preceding century, Ibrâhîm b. al-ʿAbbâs aṣ-Ṣûlî movingly reproached

Ibn az-Zayyât for letting him down and going back on the promise of true
friendship:
You were my friend when the time (az-zamân) was friendly,

But when it was no longer interested,15 you became a source of constant
hostility.
I used (qad kuntu) to complain to you about the time, 3
But it became so that I ( fa-aṣbaḥtu) criticized the time on your account.
I used to count on you for support against misfortune.
Now here I am, seeking protection against you.16
Death, in particular, brings out the fundamental change between the situation
in the past and the situation now. Thus, eulogies such as the one of Ḥammâd
ʿAjrad on Muḥammad b. Аbî l-ʿAbbâs, a son of as-Saffâḥ, would contain the
line:
I have become humbly submissive to time (ad-dahr),

After I had been the master of ad-duhûr.17
The sudden contrast caused by death was made vivid in the famous sayings of
the philosophers at the funeral of Alexander: “He who was strong and mighty
yesterday has become today (aṣbaḥa al-yawma) weak and humble.”—“Even
14 Cf. ath-Thaʿâlibî, Tatimmat al-Yatîmah, ed. Abbas Eghbal, II, 80 (Teheran 1353/1934).
15 This seems to be a close and adequate translation of the root n-b-w commonly used in this
connection. Cf., for instance, nabat an-nafs with the approximate meaning of “attention
slackens” or “unhappiness (boredom) sets in” in Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, Imtâʿ, ed. A. Amîn
and A. az-Zayn, II, 194, l. 7 (Cairo 1939–1944), or, again in connection with at-Tawḥîdî,
Yâqût, Irshâd, ed. D.S. Margoliouth, V, 406 (Leiden-London 1907–1927, E.J.W. Gibb Memorial
Series 6), ed. A.F. Rifâʿî, XV, 51 (Cairo, n.y. [1355–1357]): “Disinterest of ad-dahr in me (nubûw
ad-dahr bî).” See also below, n. 82.
16 Cf. Ibn Qutaybah, ʿUyûn al-akhbâr, III, 74 (reprint Cairo 1963–1964); Agh., IX, 28, 34, Agh.3,
X, 57, 67; ash-Sharîshî, Sharḥ al-Maqâmât, I, 252 (Cairo 1306); an-Nuwayrî, Nihâyat al-arab,
III, 92 (reprint Cairo, n.y. [ca. 1965]). Also aṭ-Ṭabarî, Annales, III, 1376.
17 Cf. Agh., XIII, 99, Agh.3, XIV, 376. On Ḥammâd ʿAjrad’s relation to the son of as-Saffâḥ, see
C. Pellat, in EI2, s.v. Cf. the verses in Ibn Hishâm. Tijân, 81 (Hyderabad 1347).
those who were not looking at Alexander were afraid of him; (now) those who
look at him have become unafraid of him,” and so on.18
In these sayings, temporal adverbs (“yesterday-today,” “now”) appear fre-
quently. Elsewhere, statements on the change from what once was to what the
situation is now usually dispense with such adverbs. They do occur occasion-
ally, and they are always implicit whether or not they are mentioned expressly.19
A more important and much more difficult problem is the concept, or bundle
of concepts, hidden in the use of words for “time” in connection with the com-
plaint about it. Is the dissatisfaction one with some abstract ever-present force
4 or with the con|ditions prevailing in the particular circumstances in which the
complainer finds himself? Or, perhaps, is it a combination of both never fully
separable in the mind of the complainer? Obviously, an attitude that evolved
from the view that “time” as such served as a reason for complaint would lead
to human behavior different from one that was the result of considering the
“present times” a source of unhappiness for the individual in his particular cir-
cumstances or in his society and moment in history.
1 “Time” and “The Times”
The concept of “time” poses a fundamental problem for physics, and it has been
one of the fundamental problems of philosophy in the Hellenistic world and
its successor civilizations in East and West. Here, we need not go at all into
this vast subject. We can restrict ourselves to a consideration of certain, in a
way superficial, manifestations of it in linguistic usage. Of the Arabic words
for “time,” two require attention in our context: zamân (zaman) and dahr.
Others, such as waqt or ḥîn play no significant role. Disregarding the constant
attempts to establish distinctions between the terms made by philologists
and philosophers, a rough distinction can be made as follows. Dahr might be
used to indicate the never-ending circular flow of time, zamân the linear time
18 Cf., for instance, al-Mubashshir, Mukhtâr al-ḥikam, ed. ʿAbd-ar-Raḥmân Badawî, 240f.
(Madrid 1958); Iḥsân ʿAbbâs, Malâmiḥ Yûnânîyah fî l-adab al-ʿArabî, 116 (Beirut 1977).
19 I. Loew made his discussion of the Aramaic word for “now” (“this time”) the occasion for
referring to Jewish complaints about changing times, cf. Hebrew Union College Annual,
11 (1936), 193ff., reprinted in I. Loew, Zur jüdischen Folklore, 137ff. (Hildesheim-New York
1975). For the implied opposition of “einst” and “jetzt” in pre-Islamic views on fate, cf.
W. Caskel, Das Schicksal in der altarabischen Poesie, 42ff. (Leipzig 1926, Morgenländische
Texte und Forschungen 1).
segment, and waqt a given point in time. In actual usage, a large amount of
interchange can be observed in the use of all these words. If, in Qurʾân 76:1,
dahr appears to assume the meaning of a linear time segment, this would seem
to be conditioned by the preceding ḥîn; however, ḥînun min-a-d-dahri may be
understood as a time segment carved out of the circular flow of time.19a Zamân
as a linear time segment was often replaced by ayyâm “days” in connection
with complaints. Waqt also occurred in the sense of zamân as in this verse of
al-Mutanabbî:
A noble young man (i.e., Sayf-ad-dawlah) who desires his territory and
time (waqt) to be wide,
Finding the times in which he lives (awqâtahû) and the ambitions he can
pursue too narrow for him.20
Already in pre-Islamic times, the partial identity of dahr and zamân in linguis- 5
tic usage was well established. In Islam, the two words came to be used without
sharp distinction. The range of meanings inherent in them became fully inter-
changeable. This was the case primarily in poetry and in artistic prose. For
poets, it always was the meter that determined the choice of one word over
the other and allowed, if so indicated, also the use of waqt or other terms. Par-
allelism favored the use of both words in close proximity. In such cases, the
author may have had semantic distinctions in his mind. When, for instance, a
great littérateur such as Abû l-Faḍl Ibn al-ʿAmîd spoke of treacherous time as
dahr khaʾûn ghadûr wa-zamân khadûʿ gharûr,21 he most likely felt some subtle
distinction in the words and even consciously intended to convey it. What it
was, we cannot be sure and can at best speculate about. In connection with the
complaint about the times, this constitutes a fundamental difficulty for us. It is
19a Cf. Abû Nuwâs, Dîwân, 292 (Beirut 1382/1962): zamânan min-a-d-dahri.
20 Cf. al-Mutanabbî, Dîwân, ed. ʿAbd-al-Wahhâb ʿAzzâm, 313 (Cairo 1363/1944), ed. ʿAbd-ar-
Raḥmân al-Barqûqî, Sharḥ Dîwân al-Mutanabbî, III, 407 (reprint Beirut, n.y.); quoted by
ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât, I, 275.
A verse by a certain Abû l-Wafaʾ ad-Dimyâṭî starts: “O owner/ruler (mâlik) of al-waqt
and az-zamân,” cf. ath-Thaʿâlibî, Tatimmah, I, 72. This probably suggests not so much
identity as a differentiation between the present moment and a somewhat longer period
of time. Similarly, a distinction is apparent in the verse of al-Mughîrah b. Habnâʾ (ca. 700):
“In ad-dahr and al-ayyâm, there is a lesson for man,” cf. Ibn ʿAbd-al-Barr, Bahjat al-majâlis,
ed. M. Mursî al-Khûlî and ʿAbd-al-Qâdir al-Quṭṭ, I, 240 (Cairo, n.y.). Cf. Abû Nuwâs, Dîwân,
341: min zamânin wa-dahri.
21 Cf. al-Ḥuṣrî, Zahr, I, 561.
often hard to decide whether the complaint was directed against the temporal
circumstances of the complainer, his times, or against abstract time. Practically,
the specific meaning is assured only in those cases in which the complaint was
directed expressly against “our time” (for which both zamânunâ and, probably
less frequently in ordinary prose, dahrunâ were used).22 Ambiguity attaches to
many other occurrences.
It may be noted that some conceptual and syntactical distinctions between
dahr and zamân remained in force. Thus, the adverbial ad-dahra “always,”
dahraka, etc. “you … always” was a usage for which zamân was not really
suitable. While it was possible to combine the adjective “long” with dahr, and
there are occurrences of it,23 it was not very common; the definition of dahr
after all required long duration in time. Zamân was freely employed with a
depending genitive; this was much less usual in connection with dahr.24 The
6 combination of dahr with the demonstrative | pronoun did occur,25 but again,
it seems to be less frequent than it was with zamân. In the presence of the
demonstrative pronoun, the object of the complaint is likely to be the specific
times of the complainer, but this is not necessarily so. In those cases in which
the complainer used a possessive pronoun in the singular, whether with dahr
or with zamân, the intended nuance of meaning can often not be grasped
clearly. It is perhaps characteristic of the situation in this respect that the
tenth-century poet Tamîm b. al-Muʿizz addressed yâ dahru in one line and,
22 With the suffix in the singular, ahl dahrî clearly means contemporaries, as in al-Ḥuṣrî,
Zahr, I, 4.
23 In connection with the lexicographers’ efforts to establish more or less precise lengths for
zamân in contrast to dahr, we find ad-dahr aṭ-ṭawîl in al-Azharî, Tahdhîb al-lughah, ed.
ʿAbd-as-Salâm M. Hârûn, M. ʿAlî an-Najjâr, and Ibrâhîm al-Ibyârî, VI, 193 (Cairo 1964–1967).
Cf. also ʿAbîd (ʿUbayd?) b. Sharyah, Akhbâr, 436 (printed together with Ibn Hishâm, Tîjân):
“He stayed dahran ṭawîlan.” See, further, Sharḥ Dîwân Labîd, ed. Iḥsân ʿAbbâs, 36 (Kuwait
1962), where al-Buḥturî, Ḥamâsah, 139 (Leiden 1909), ed. L. Cheikho, 93 (reprint Beirut
1387/1967), moreover, has az-zamânu for al-ʿazâʾu in the first half-verse; Qays b. al-Khaṭîm,
Dîwân, ed. T. Kowalski, no. 13, verse 7 (Leipzig 1914); Abû ʿUbayd, Gharîb al-ḥadîth, II, 158,
l. 13 (Hyderabad 1384/1964 ff.); Ibn Hishâm, Tîjân, 81, 141.
24 Except for the lexicographical passage, below, n. 42, dahr with a following genitive seems
to require special syntactic circumstances, as in the poem of Ibn Dûst in ath-Thaʿâlibî,
Yatîmah, IV, 306: “Ad-dahr is the dahr of the ignorant,” or ʿAbîd b. Sharyah, 424: “The time
of the one who (dahru man …).”
25 Cf., for instance, Ibn Hishâm, Tijân, 81; Abû Hilâl al-ʿAskarî, Dîwân al-maʿânî, II, 202 (Cairo
1352); Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, Imtâʿ, I, 16; ath-Thaʿâlibî, Tatimmah, I, 98 (Miskawayh);
al-Ḥuṣrî, Zahr, (II), 669 (dhâka d-dahra).
in the next line, took it up again with yâ zamanî, although yâ dahrî, with the
possessive pronoun, would have been metrically possible in the first place.26
In Graeco-Arabic translation literature, which influenced Arabic linguis-
tic usage, a distinction between dahr and zamân, as, respectively, aiôn and
chronos, was observed in philosophical works.27 In Aristotle’s Physics 251a1,
dahr renders aiôn in a poetical passage.28 In Metaphysics 1072b29 f., the descrip-
tion of theos as zôê kai aiôn synechês kai aidios appears in the Arabic translation
as fa-idhan huwa ḥayâh wa-huwa muttaṣil azalî;29 aiôn was not rendered by a
special word. This was no doubt intentional. Dahr would have made a partic-
ularly dubious rendering in the context for monotheists, Christian and Mus-
lim.30 The dreambook of Artemidorus provides interesting information for the
non-philosophical literature, although he did not use the word aiôn. Accord-
ing to the comparison of the Greek and Arabic usage in Artemidorus made by
E. Schmitt,31 chronos was rendered by zamân, waqt, and ḥayâh (Schmitt, 18),
hôra by zamân and waqt (Schmitt, 19), and kairos usually by waqt but also by
zamân (Schmitt, 13). Zamânunâ occurs for nyn (Schmitt, 372a), but ahl dahrinâ
was also used for “contemporaries” (Schmitt, 269a: andrôn sophôtate, 346a: hoi
kathʾhêmas, cf. also Schmitt, 199: fî zamâninâ, kathʾhêmas).
In poetic literature, “our dahr” appears to refer unambiguously to contem- 7
porary circumstances in a verse by al-Mutanabbî:
The people of our dahr are small people,

Even if they have stout bodies.32
26 Cf. Tamîm b. al-Muʿizz, Dîwân, ed. M.H. al-Aʿẓamî and others, 427 (Cairo 1377/1957).
27 Cf., for instance, H.A. Wolfson, Repercussions of the Kalam in Jewish Philosophy, 158f. (Cam-
bridge, Mass.-London, England, 1979); G. Endress, Proclus Arabus, 124f., and elsewhere
(Beirut 1973, Beiruter Texte und Studien 10); H.-J. Ruland, Die arabischen Fassungen von
zwei Schriften des Alexander von Aphrodisias, 93, 112, 114f. (diss. Saarbrücken 1976). I owe
the reference to Ruland’s work to Dimitri Gutas.
28 Ar. trans., ed. ʿAbd-ar-Raḥmân Badawî, (II), 803, l. 9 (Cairo 1384–1385/1964–1965).
29 Ar. trans., ed. M. Bouyges, III, 1613 (Beirut 1938–1952, Bibliotheca Arabica Scholasticorum
5–7).
30 Cf. the discussion of the ḥadîth lâ tasubbû ad-dahr, below, pp. 10ff.
31 Cf. E. Schmitt, Lexikalische Untersuchungen zur arabischen Übersetzung von Artemidors
Traumbuch (Wiesbaden 1970, Veröffentlichungen der Orientalischen Kommission, Akade-
mie der Wissenschaften und der Literatur, 23).
32 Cf. al-Mutanabbî, Dîwân, ed. ʿAzzâm, 92, ed. al-Barqûqî, IV, 190, quoted by ath-Thaʿâlibî,
Yatîmah, I, 153. Note that dahrunâ here is in a way contrasted with an individual’s lifetime,
as al-Mutanabbî, in the preceding verse, speaks of a heart not to be consoled by wine and
an ʿumr as short and miserable as are the paltry gifts of shabby people.
In verses of Abû Tammâm’s Waḥshîyât, we encounter for once not a com-

plaint but an expression of satisfaction with “our dahr”:
All his days resulted for us

In luck that let us fulfill our aspirations.
Our dahr was not, as is (proverbially) said about the dahrs: ‘One day for
us, another against us.’33
Apparently, the circumstances at a given period of time are meant. In the innu-
merable examples of dahr with a possessive prefix, the primary connotation
is not that of present circumstances but rather of the complainer’s personal
daimôn or tychê (if the use of these Greek terms is permissible), for instance:
I see God giving to me, while my dahr takes away.34
My dahr has tried to trick me …35
I criticize my dahr, but ad-dahr is

Deaf to an educated person’s criticism.36
My complaint is directed against my dahr. So, whom do I blame?

My criticism is directed against myself. So, whom do I blame?37
Every animal, Abû l-Fatḥ al-Bustî said, that is food for another animal is on
guard against it, as rats are on guard against cats, but
No doubt, man is eaten by his dahr. Why, then, does

This unfortunate being not seek safety against ad-dahr?38
33 Cf. Abû Tammâm, Waḥshîyât, ed. ʿAbd-al-ʿAzîz al-Maymanî ar-Râjkûtî, 84 (2nd printing,
Cairo 1970). See, further, al-Ḥuṣrî, Zahr, (II), 669, and below, n. 155.
34 Cf. ʿAbd-al-Munʿim b. ʿAbd-al-Muḥsin aṣ-Ṣûrî, in ath-Thaʿâlibî, Tatimmah, I, 67.
In connection with al-Mutanabbî, H. Ringgren (below, n. 48), 178, refers to “a number
of passages in which ‘my time’ or ‘his time’ denotes the individual destiny of the person in
question.”
35 Cf. Kushâjim, Dîwân, ed. Khayrîyah M. Maḥfûẓ, 200 (Baghdâd 1390/1070).
36 Cf. Kushâjim, Dîwân, 481.
37 Cf. Muḥammad b. al-Ḥusayn b. Muḥammad b. Ṭalḥah, in ath-Thaʿâlibî, Tatimmah, II, 18.
38 Quoted in an-Nuwayrî, Nihayâh, III, 115, ll. 16 f.
“The arrows of his dahr” refers to a person’s individual situation which is 8

his destiny.39 The prose statement: “He who does not accept his dahr as it
comes will be long on blame for ad-dahr,”40 shows the dependence of personal
circumstances on the general power of fate. It also involves the meaning of “life”
or the individual’s “lifetime” that often underlies dahr, and, much more rarely,
by extension also zamân. For commentators of poetry and lexicographers it
was at times convenient to paraphrase dahr as “evil event/death.”41 But it was
more natural and common to find an approximate understanding of it in “life”
or “lifetime.”42 “Life” yields a straightforward translation in a verse like this:
You have wasted your dahr fearing

Events and misfortunes in respect to it.43
Of course, mostly there is ambiguity. When Abû Tammâm said:
39 Cf. ath-Thaʿâlibî, Yatîmah, IV, 118, quoting Abû Bakr al-Khuwârizmî.

40 Cf. Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, Imtâʿ, II, 151, l. 8. At-Tawḥîdî clearly echoes the verse:
If I do not accept from ad-dahr all that

I dislike, I shall have to criticize ad-dahr a long time,
which may be of proverbial inspiration. See below, n. 197. Cf. also al-Mufaḍḍal b. Salamah,
Fâkhir, ed. C.A. Storey, 201, l. 9 (Leiden 1915), for the proverb: “He who criticizes ad-dahr
will criticize a long time.” See I. Goldziher, Die Ẓâhiriten, 154 (Leipzig 1884).
The meaning of min dahrihî in a verse of the pre-Islamic poet ʿUrwah b. al-Ward
depends on the understanding of its syntax; “counting himself wealthy in his dahr” is more
likely than “of his lifetime,” particularly in view of the variant min nafsihî appearing in
ʿUrwah’s Dîwân, ed. ʿAbd-al-Muʿîn al-Mulawwiḥî, 71 ([Damascus?] 1966); Ibn Qutaybah,
Shiʿr, 566 (Beirut 1964).
41 Dahr is glossed as mawt “death” in connection with the much quoted verse of Abû Dhuʾayb
that “ad-dahr is not pleased with the impatient,” cf. as-Sukkarî, Sharḥ ashʿâr al-Hudhalîyîn,
ed. ʿAbd-as-Sattâr A. Farrâj and Maḥmûd M. Shâkir, I, 4 (Cairo 1384/1965), cf. below, n. 219.
Since the culminating event resulting from the activity of dahr is death, the relationship
of the two concepts expressed by the same word is not surprising, cf., e. g., H. Ringgren,
op. cit. (below, n. 48), 8, 30 ff.
For dahrî paraphrased as ʿâdatî, “my custom,” cf. Lisân al-ʿArab, V, 380 (Bûlâq 1300–
1308).
42 Ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, Mufradât fî gharîb al-Qurʾân, II, 21 (Cairo 1322, in the margin of Ibn
al-Athîr, Nihâyah), defines dahru fulânin as “the period of his life.”
43 Cf. Tamîm b. al-Muʿizz, Dîwân, 65. For the possibility that a contrast is intended when dahr
appears next to ʿamr/ʿumr, cf. above, n. 32, and Ibn Hishâm, Tîjân, 228: “In my past dahr,
there is a life (ʿamr) with which a man can be pleased.”
The effects of your palms (generosity) remain in my dahr,44
he could have meant my life, or my times, or my fate. Dahr in the meaning of

“always” with a possessive pronoun could signify “my lifetime (dahrî),” as in
9 a poem by Abû Bakr al-Khuwârizmî.45 A medieval | translator of the verse of
al-Mutanabbî: li-kulli mriʾin min dahrihî mâ taʿawwadâ used tota vita sua, while
a modern translator suggested “his time.”46
In connection with the discussion of the complaint about the times, such
always present problems of specific interpretation constitute an unavoidable
difficulty. If it cannot be removed, it should at least always be kept in mind.
In more general terms, the linguistic situation was most decisively determined
by the fact that in pre-Islamic times, the revolving flow of time (ad-dahr) was
conceived, in keeping with old pagan tradition, as an agent power, personal-
ized or not, which produced events affecting nature and, in particular, human
beings. The translation “Fate” has often been used. If not fully acceptable, it is
not altogether inappropriate.47 The idea of seeing in “time,” whatever its defini-
tion, a force determining human “fate” continued to affect Muslim complaints
about time or the present times. As a supposed ingredient in Arabian/Mus-
lim “fatalism,” it has found much attention in modern scholarly literature.48
This literature has, therefore, particular relevance to the present investigation,
which, however, is more concerned with bringing out the anti-fatalism inher-
ent in expressions of complaint against personal and societal conditions. It
remains a fact that the general connotation of time as fate and time as the pass-
ing circumstances in which a person may temporarily find himself was never
fully separated in the minds of poets and littérateurs, and presumably, among
the masses. Artists and intellectuals, at least, were never quite able to free
44 Cf. Abû Tammâm, Dîwân, Sharḥ aṭ-Tibrîzî, ed. M. ʿAbduh ʿAzzâm, II, 67 (Cairo 1964–1965).
45 Cf. ath-Thaʿâlibî, Yatîmah, IV, 124.
46 Cf. W.F. Boggess, Hermannus Alemannus’ Latin anthology of Arabic poetry, in Journal of the
American Oriental Society, 88 (1968), 660 f.
47 Cf., for instance, W.M. Watt, in Studia Islamica, 50 (1979), 9: “… dahr or ‘time.’ The transla-
tion ‘fate’ is not altogether appropriate, since dahr is often replaced by the normal word for
time, zamân, and even by ayyâm ‘the days.’ Probably this means no more than we might
mean by such a phrase as ‘the course of events’.” While Watt is basically correct, the sit-
uation, as we have seen, is considerably more complicated. For dahr-zamân, cf. also, for
instance, H. Ringgren, op. cit. (n. 48), 30 ff.
48 A good example of the literature on the subject is H. Ringgren, Studies in Arabian Fatalism
(Uppsala Universitets Årsskrift 1955:2). This literature is principally interested in what is
perceived as pre-Islamic views, although the Islamic situation is not entirely neglected.
themselves from the inherited conventions associating the words for “time”
with the treachery and fickleness of ancient “fate.” While individuals in Islam
felt strongly about their personal situation and times, long tradition condi-
tioned them to look at and think about their particular circumstances in time
as being part of a general phenomenon applicable to all human beings. Hence,
individual zamân and abstract dahr became largely in|distinguishable in their 10
minds. We should never forget that no matter how careful we may be in the
interpretation of the sources, we can rarely be sure whether an author was
reflecting on his own particular times or was simultaneously also thinking in
general terms.
It goes without saying that an agent “time” was totally incompatible with the
fundamental religious views of Islam. As will be shown, much tension and divi-
sion resulted from this fact in the attitudes taken toward complaining. A good
example of the problem of dahr and its relationship to zamân is the discussion
of the famous ḥadîth: “Don’t slander ad-dahr, for God is (= is identical with) ad-
dahr (lâ tasubbû d-dahra fa-inna llâha huwa d-dahru).” This discussion went on
for many centuries. As always, the original date and early history of the ḥadîth
in its various recensions are difficult to determine. It is, however, clear that it
is a very old ḥadîth and has as good a chance as any other ḥadîth to go back to
the time of the Prophet or, at least, to have originated close to his time. Qurʾân
45:24 speaks of those misguided people who say that “there is only our life in
this world. We live and die, and only ad-dahr causes us to perish.” The verse
requires the explanation that God is the one who causes life and perdition. This,
then, could be succinctly expressed in the form that there is no such dahr, but
it is identical with Allâh.49 Traditions beginning with lâ tasubbû in other con-
nections were common.50 This formulation may, therefore, be a recasting of the
original statement. But it is the equation of God with ad-dahr51 that is impor-
tant and has all the signs of being a very ancient statement. On the surface, it
appears to be extremely daring and likely to give rise to misunderstandings. It
49 Aṭ-Ṭabarî, Tafsîr, XXV, 84 (Cairo 1321), who quotes the tradition, cites the following sug-
gestions made for translating ad-dahr in Qurʾân 45:24: az-zamân; al-ʿumr; ad-dahr wa-z-
zamân; al-layl wa-n-nahâr.
50 Some of the lâ tasubbû traditions are listed in A.J. Wensinck and others, Concordance et
indices de la tradition musulmane, II, 378b5 ff. (Leiden 1936–1969).
51 In his commentary on a verse in one of the Hudhalite poems, as-Sukkarî, Sharḥ ashʿâr
al-Hudhalîyîn, II, 150 (no. 2, verse 17), indicates the existence of a variant reading li-d-dahri,
for li-llâhi that appears in the text. There is not much significance to that, but it has found
a good deal of attention ever since J. Wellhausen referred to it in his Reste des arabischen
Heidentums, 222, n. 2 (Berlin 1897).
would probably not have been invented after the early years of Islam.52 The
11 contention that it was | circulated by believers in ad-dahr who were called
Dahrîyah and might have wanted to find in it a Prophetic validation of their
beliefs seems unlikely; there is no indication for the existence of an organized
movement of this type at the early date when the hadîth was already in circu-
lation. Its origin in some inner-Islamic sectarian polemic appears a farfetched
assumption when it is quite natural to find the occasion for the statement in
Qurʾân 45:24 and, perhaps, in the need to counteract the pre-Islamic view of ad-
dahr. This need was all the stronger since the tradition was deeply embedded
in cultural life and, in particular, poetry. It should, however, be noted that the
connection of the ḥadîth with an organized group called Dahrîyah is attested
as early as the time of Abû ʿUbayd’s Gharîb al-ḥadîth (around 800),53 and it is
evident that the heat generated by the ḥadîth that caused its later prominence
was due to the fact that it could provide ammunition to rebels against accepted
beliefs.
On occasion, the verb sabba was taken to “indicate, a majore ad minus, that
one must not slander anything, except where the religious law has permit-
ted slandering …”54 It was, however, generally assumed that its use included
the idea of criticism and the expression of dissatisfaction with misfortunes
which constituted the reason for so much human complaining.55 Thus, al-ʿUtbî
52 The other forms of the ḥadîth are the ones that occur in the older collections of al-Bukhârî
and Muslim, as well as Mâlik’s Muwaṭṭâʾ, cf. Concordance, I, 50a, and II, 92b. Cf. also
al-Bukhârî, al-Adab al-mufrad, ed. M. Fuʾâd ʿAbd-al-Bâqî, 200f. (Cairo 1375). The lâ tasubbû
recensions, among others, appear in the Musnad of Ibn Ḥanbal. For the significance of
the statement in the context of fatalism, see H. Ringgren, 46ff., with further references.
For early attestations of the traditions, cf. W.A. Graham, Divine Word and Prophetic Word
in Early Islam, 212 f. (The Hague and Paris 1977).
Supposedly the formulation, “for ad-dahr is God,” also existed, cf. Ibn Ḥajar, Fatḥ,
XIII, 185: “(The tradition, ‘Do not say, (Oh) the frustration caused by ad-dahr, for God is
ad-dahr,’) occurs in the transmission of Yaḥyâ b. Yaḥyâ al-Laythî on the authority of Mâlik
in a form that has at the end, ‘for ad-dahr is God.’ Ibn ʿAbd-al-Barr says: (Yaḥyâ) contradicts
all the transmitters on Mâlik’s authority and all the transmitters of the ḥadîth in general,
all of whom have, ‘for God is ad-dahr.’ ” The editions of Ibn ʿAbd-al-Barr’s Istidhkâr and
Tamhîd, which may have been the source of the quotation, have not been accessible to
me. Al-ʿAynî, ʿUmdah, X, 445 f., whose commentary on the ḥadîth is much briefer than
that of Ibn Ḥajar, took no notice of Ibn ʿAbd-al-Barr’s statement. Cf. also Lane, 923c, s.v.
dahr.
53 Cf. Abû ʿUbayd, below, n. 70.
54 Cf. Ibn Ḥajar, Fatḥ, XIII, 186.
55 The tradition was thus included in the chapter on criticism of the times by ar-Râghib
(d. 413/1022) built up to the ḥadîth in the following manner in one of his elo-
quent brief essays on “Disapproval of those who criticize ad-dahr”:
Your censure of ad-dahr calls for censure of yourself, and your considering
it slow turns the rein of blame unto yourself.56 For ad-dahr is one of God’s
arrows detached from the handholds of His laws57 and rising from the
direction of the clearly written notations of His pens. Falling into it takes
place by the decision of the Creator, the course of things taking place
in accordance with their natures and corresponding to their powers and
situations. Who is the one who would blame the snakes for biting with
their fangs or the scorpions for stinging with their tails? How could they
be criticized when they | were created pervaded by poison! God’s decision 12
is to be obeyed in every situation, and His command is to be accepted
contentedly. Thus excuse az-zamân from your stinging (qawâriṣ) remarks,
and cover it with the veil of gnawing (on it) with your teeth.58 And
remember the statement of the Prophet: ‘Don’t slander ad-dahr, for God
is ad-dahr.’ Your duty is to submit to the decision of the One Exalted and
Great. Such a person achieves the most praiseworthy end and is guided
best in religious and worldly matters.59
The most passionate debate of the meaning of the ḥadîth was naturally reserved
for the exegetes of ḥadîth, and they never got tired of it. They approached the
task either from a philological point of view or as theologians. Usually they
combined both approaches. The beginnings of the debate can be traced to the
second half of the eighth century, though it may have begun earlier. The name
of ʿAbd-ar-Raḥmân b. Mahdî (d., presumably in his sixties, in 198/213) appears
in this connection in the Kitâb al-Hayawân of al-Jâḥiẓ.60 He was followed by
al-Iṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât, II, 223. The same author also referred to it briefly in his Mufradât,
II, 21.
56 That is, instead of blaming your horse for running too slowly, you should blame yourself.
57 For ad-dahr shooting arrows, see below, n. 129.
58 If I understand the text correctly, it means that the “veil” is to serve as protection against
biting criticism.
59 Cf. ath-Thaʿâlibî, Yatîmah, IV, 284. It may be noted that dahr and ʿaṣr in the full title of the
Yatîmah appear to indicate lasting time and present times: “The eternal unique pearl, The
best achievements of the contemporaries.”
60 Cf. al-Jâḥiẓ, Ḥayawân, ed. ʿAbd-as-Salâm M. Hârûn, I, 340 (Cairo, n.y., variously reprinted),
I, 166 (Cairo 1323–1327/1905–1907).
ash-Shâfiʿî (150–204/767–820)61 and by Abû ʿUbayd al-Qâsim b. Sallâm (ca. 154–

224/770–838).62 His Gharîb al-ḥadîth is likely to have been the first full-scale
discussion, since later on he was always referred to as the oldest source. At any
rate, he is the oldest preserved authority on the subject. His remarks formed
the basis for later lexicographers.63 The arguments and conclusions remained
largely the same throughout. Usually it was the phrasing that was different,
and there were always many examples from supposedly pre-Islamic poetry to
choose from. In later times, scholars had to pay some attention to intellectual
currents that had meanwhile assumed importance, and to the ever growing
number of authorities who had expressed themselves on the subject and whose
views had to be reported.64
13 The main points of the discussion can be gathered from the following trans-
lation of two significant examples, one being Abû ʿUbayd’s early treatment, and
the other Ibn Taymîyah’s fatwâ dating from about five centuries later.
Abû ʿUbayd on the ḥadîth of the Prophet: ‘Don’t slander ad-dahr, for God
is ad-dahr.’
No Muslim must be ignorant of the true explanation (wajh) of ‘for God
is ad-dahr.’ This is because the atheists (ahl at-taʿṭil) use it as an argument
against the Muslims. I have seen one of those suspect of Manichaeism
(zandaqah) and Dahrîyah views do that. He said: ‘Don’t you see he says, for
God is ad-dahr!’ I replied: Would anyone slander God ever in all eternity
(âbâd ad-dahr)? Al-Aʿshâ already said in the ignorance of pre-Islamic
times:
God has claimed for Himself good faith and

Praise, and has entrusted man with (being subject to) blame.65
61 Cf. al-Azharî, Tahdhîb, VI, 192.

62 See below. Also, the numerous authors concerned with the interpretation of ḥadîth, for
instance, Ibn Qutaybah, Taʾwîl mukhtalif al-ḥadîth, ed. M. Zuhrî an-Najjâr, 222–224 (Cairo
1386/1966), or Ibn Fûrak, Bayân mushkil al-ḥadîth, 94–96 (Hyderabad 1362). Ibn Fûrak
almost totally depends on Ibn Qutaybah, although at the end, he adds a discussion of one
of the related traditions.
63 Cf. al-Azharî, Tahdhîb, VI, 191f., or Majd-ad-dîn Ibn al-Athîr, an-Nihâyah fî gharîb al-ḥadîth,
who was the principal source on ḥadîth for the Lisân al-ʿArab, s.v. dahr.
64 The extent the discussion had assumed by the fifteenth century can be seen in Ibn Ḥajar,
Fatḥ, X, 195 f., XIII, 184–186, and XVII, 242.
65 Cf. al-Aʿshâ, Dîwân, ed. R. Geyer, 155, no. 35, verse 2 (London 1928, E.J.W. Gibb Memorial
Series, N.S. 6).
In my opinion, the (proper) explanation (taʾwîl) of the statement is

this: The Arabs were concerned with criticizing and slandering ad-dahr
when they suffered misfortunes such as death, old-age decrepitude, loss
of property, and other things. They used to say: ‘The knocks of ad-dahr
have hit them.’ ‘Ad-dahr has caused them to perish.’ ‘Ad-dahr has come
upon them.’ Making ad-dahr the agent, they criticized it for all that. They
mentioned it in their poems. Thus a poet said with reference to people
who had perished:
Ad-dahr claimed them for itself in the morning.

Ad-dahr is the one that shoots at me, while I do not shoot.
O Dahr, you have caused us great loss
Of the best of us and fissured the bone66
And deprived us of what you will not replace for us.
O Dahr, you have been unfair in your judgment.67
ʿAmr b. Qamîʾah said:
The daughters of ad-dahr have shot at me, from where I cannot

see.
How about one who is shot at, while he himself cannot shoot!
If it were arrows, I could have guarded against them.
But arrows were not used for shooting at me.
Upon two hands once and upon a staff I raise myself up
With difficulty and, after a threefold effort, am finally able to stand.68
66 Cf. Lisân al-ʿArab, VII, 154, s.v. w-q-r.

67 While Lisân al-ʿArab, VII, 154, ascribes the verses to al-Aʿshâ, they appear elsewhere under
the name of al-Ḥârith b. Khâlid or al-Ḥârith b. Wâʿlah, see Geyer’s notes to his edition of
Aʿshâʾs Dîwân, 238, no. 204. For the other two poets, cf. F. Sezgin, Geschichte des arabischen
Schrifttums, II, 417 and 147 (Leiden 1975), referred to further on as GAS.
68 Cf. C. Lyall, The Poems of ʿAmr Son of Qamîʾah, text, 23, trans., 26, no. 3, verses 11, 12, and 10
(Cambridge 1919). The last verse is better placed before the other two. The sequence of the
verses is the same here as in Ibn Qutaybah, Shiʿr, 293 (Beirut 1964), although two different
verses intervene there between the first two verses. The same sequence as in Lyall’s edition
of the Dîwân is attested in Agh., XVI, 165, Agh.3, XVIII, 142. Quotations in al-Marzubânî
show the sequence 9, 11, 12, omitting verse 10, cf. his Muʿjam ash-shuʿarâʾ, ed. ʿAbd-as-Sattâr
Farrâj, 3 f. (Cairo 1379/1960), and the abridgment of his Muqtabas, entitled Nûr al-qabas (by
al-Yaghmûrî), ed. R. Sellheim, Die Gelehrtenbiographien des Abû ʿUbaidallâh al-Marzubânî,
251 (Wiesbaden 1964, Bibliotheca Islamica 23a).
14 He indicated that ad-dahr did that to him through old-age weakness

(?).69
God has indicated in His Book that they held this view and branded
them liars (Qurʾân 45:24). The Prophet said: ‘Don’t slander ad-dahr,’ which
is to be explained: Don’t slander the one who does those things to you and
causes those misfortunes to you, for if you slander their agent, the slanders
falls upon God, because He is their agent, and not ad-dahr.
This is the true explanation of this ḥadîth, if God wills. I do not have
any other for it.70
Someone like the great Shîʿah poet and community leader, ash-Sharîf ar-Raḍî
(d. 406/1015), might use other quotations from pre-Islamic poetry and expand
a little his description of God’s power as an agent, but he did not add anything
of real substance.71 A much more developed stage of the discussion appears
in the fatwâ of Ibn Taymîyah (661–728/1263–1328) concerning the meaning
of the ḥadîth. The philological evidence was omitted. Instead, the heaviest
artillery that theology and philosophy could muster was brought to bear upon
it. The crucial element in Ibn Taymîyah’s argumentation is the full acceptance
of the identification of ad-dahr with az-zamân, understood as physical time.
Ibn Taymîyah was thus assured a priori that the ḥadîth dealt with a creature
of God which cannot be God. It seems that he overlooked giving any sort
of positive explanation for the ḥadîth. While he was clearly skeptical of a
metaphorical understanding of the use of ad-dahr in it, he also did not consider
the suggestion made elsewhere that ad-dahr might stand for ṣâḥib ad-dahr
“Master of ad-dahr.”72 He apparently felt satisfied with attributing a negative
character to the ḥadîth as having had its origin in a polemic against pre-Islamic
believers in an agent dahr, as had others before him. This is what he had to
say:
Question: Does the Prophet’s statement, ‘Don’t slander ad-dahr, for God
is ad-dahr,’ agree with the views of the Unionists (Ittiḥâdîyah)?73 Please
explain!
69 Read bi-ḍuʿf ?? “Made this half of old age” seems an unlikely translation of the printed text.
70 Cf. Abû ʿUbayd, Gharîb al-ḥadîth, II, 145–148.
71 Cf. ash-Sharîf ar-Raḍî, al-Majâzât an-nabawîyah, ed. Ṭâhâ M. az-Zaynî, 235f. (Cairo 1387/
1967).
72 Cf. Ibn Ḥajar, Fatḥ, XIII, 184.
73 See the later reference to them. For Ibn Taymîyah, the most prominent representative of
pantheism—or whatever term may be used—was Ibn ʿArabî.
Answer—God be praised: The statement is transmitted also in other 15

recensions, such as: ‘God says, Man injures me by slandering ad-dahr
when I am ad-dahr.74 I am in control (bi-yadî al-amr). I cause night and
day to revolve.’ Or: ‘Don’t slander ad-dahr, for God is ad-dahr. He causes
night and day to revolve.’ Or: ‘Man may say, Oh the frustration caused by
ad-dahr ( yâ khaybata d-dahri)!, when I am ad-dahr.’
His statement in the ḥadîth, ‘I am in control. I cause night and day to
revolve,’ makes it clear that it is not meant here that He is az-zamân. For
He just indicated that He causes night and day to revolve. Now, night and
day is az-zamân. Thus, the ḥadîth itself shows that He is the one who
causes az-zamân to revolve and enables it to be active ( yuṣarrifuhû), as
is also indicated in Qurʾân 24:43f. (which is taken to refer to rain and,
in verse 44, contains the phrase ‘He causes night and day to revolve’) …
Causing night and day to revolve means transforming the conditions of
the world by causing rain to descend which is the cause of the creation
of plants, animals, and minerals. This is the cause of transferring human
beings from one condition to another, which implies raising up some
people and putting down others.
God has indicated in more than one passage of the Qurʾân that He has
created az-zamân (6:1, 21:33, 25:62, 3:190, and other verses).
A rational person will not imagine that God is az-zamân, for az-zamân
is the measure of motion, and the measure of motion belongs to the
category of accidents and attributes that subsist in something else, such as
motion and motionlessness, blackness and whiteness. A rational person
will not say that the Creator of the world belongs to the category of
accidents and attributes that need material substances ( jawâhir) and
specific things (aʿyân), for accidents do not subsist by themselves but
need a substratum (maḥall) to subsist in. Now, whatever needs something
other than and separate from itself does not exist by itself but through that
other. It thus requires that by which it exists and is not self-sufficient. How,
then, could it be the creator of everything outside of it?
It is known that the rank orders are three …75 He (It) is self-sufficient
and does not need anything outside of Himself (itself). This is the de-
74 The hopeless attempt was made to read here the accusative ad-dahra “always” and to
understand it as indicating God’s permanent control of time, cf., for instance, Ibn Fûrak,
Bayân, 96.
75 The printed text indicates a lacuna in the manuscript used for publication. Possibly, the
argument runs that the three rank order (animals, plants, and minerals, rather than high,
scription of the Creator, Praised be He. How could one imagine that he
belongs to the first kind?
The heretics who hold the view of oneness (waḥdah), indwelling
(ḥulûl), and union (ittiḥâd) do not say that He is az-zamân, nor do they
say that He belongs to the genus of accidents and attributes. Rather, they
say that He is the totality of the world or indwelling the totality of the
world. There is thus no problem for them in the ḥadîth, even if he had not
16 explained in it that ‘He | causes night and day to revolve.’ How could it be
(reconciled with view of the Unionists? or assumed that He is az-zamân?)
when it says in the ḥadîth itself that ‘He is in control. He causes night and
day to revolve’?
Now that this has been clarified, two well-known views remain, held
by Ḥanbalites and others with respect to the ḥadîth. One is the statement
of Abû ʿUbayd and most scholars that this ḥadîth was given expression to
in order to refute things said by the people of the Jâhilîyah and the like.
When a misfortune struck them or they were prevented from achieving
their goals, they started to slander ad-dahr and az-zamân. One of them
thus might say: ‘May God disgrace ad-dahr which has caused us trouble,’
or: ‘May God curse az-zamân in which such-and-such a thing has hap-
pened.’ Frequently, this (idea) occurs in poets and the like. For instance,
they said: ‘O dahr, you did such-and-such,’ in the intention to slander the
one who did those things and attribute them to ad-dahr. However, since
God is the one who originated and did those things, the slander falls upon
Him. Ad-dahr is His creation. He is the one who causes it to revolve and
enables it to be active. The implication (of the ḥadîth) is: Man slanders the
one who does those things, but it is I (God) who did them. When he slan-
ders ad-dahr, his intention is to slander the agent, even if he attributes the
action to ad-dahr, which has no (power to) act (on its own). The agent is
only God alone.
A suitable comparison76 is that with a man who has received a right
judgment from a judge or a right fatwâ from a muftî and starts to say, ‘May
low, and intermediate) can be shown not to be self-sufficient and to be subject to time
(??).
76 Ibn Qutaybah, Taʾwîl, 224, and Ibn Fûrak, Bayân, 95, used the case of the instigator of a
murder and the murderer as an illustration. If Zayd orders his slave Fatḥ (Ibn Fûrak: Bakr)
to kill someone, people might curse Fatḥ and say: “Don’t slander Fatḥ, for Zayd is Fatḥ.”
Ibn Taymîyah, or one of his predecessors, might have been aware of this comparison and
concluded that while dahr could well be compared to a murderer, it would be improper
God curse him who rendered this judgment or this fatwâ.’ The judgment
or the fatwâ goes back to the Prophet. The slander thus falls upon him,
even if the slanderer in his ignorance attributed the matter to the actual
transmitter …77
The other view is that of Nuʿaym b. Ḥammâd78 and a group of ḥadîth
people and Ṣûfîs in addition to him: Ad-dahr is one of the names of God
and means The Eternal (a parte ante and a parte post: qadîm/ azalî). In
some of their prayers, they transmitted (the phrase): ‘O dahr, O dayhûr,
O dihâr!’79 This meaning is correct since God is the first and there is
nothing prior to Him, and He is the last and there is nothing after Him.
This meaning is correct. | However, opinions differ concerning His being 17
given the name of dahr.80
At any rate, all Muslims agree, and it is known through pure reason, that
God is not ad-dahr which is az-zamân or what corresponds to az-zamân.
For people are agreed that az-zamân is night and day as well as that which
corresponds to it in Paradise (Qurʾân 19:62) … There is no sun and moon
in Paradise, but the times (al-awqât) are known there through other lights
which it has been transmitted appear from underneath the divine throne.
Thus, az-zamân there is the measure of the motion that causes those
lights to appear in Paradise.
Beyond that, is there a self-subsistent, fluctuating (sayyâl) substance
( jawhar) that is ad-dahr? In this respect views differ. A group of Platonic
philosophers have assumed as certain (athbatû) it(s existence), as they
have assumed as certain (the existence of) independent universals out-
side, called Platonic ideas and absolute ideas. They have also assumed
as certain (the existence of) hyle that is matter independent of form,
and they have assumed as certain (the existence of) the void as a self-
subsistent matter.
to compare God with the instigator of murder. But Ibn Taymîyah’s choice of an example
also shows how much more dominant the role of the judiciary had become for scholars
over the years.
77 The intended meaning of the omitted, seemingly corrupt words was probably something
like this: The transmitter, however, does act in some manner, whereas az-zamân cannot
be considered a true agent, because it is God who causes it to revolve and enables it to be
active.
78 Apparently, the ḥadîth transmitter who died ca. 228/843, cf. GAS, I, 104f. (Leiden 1967).
79 Subforms of dahr which do not appear to be listed in the dictionaries but no doubt were
used by mystics, although a precise reference remains to be found.
80 On this question, see Goldziher, Ẓâhiriten, 153 f.
However, the mass of rational philosophers and other rational persons

know that all this has no reality in the outside world. They are just matters
assumed and posited by the mind. The Sophists (read al-mughâliṭûn)
assume that something assumed as certain in the minds exists as such
outside the minds. They have also assumed that with respect to absolute
existence, although the absolute by definition has existence (only) in the
minds, and the only thing that exists outside is something specific, that is,
the specific things (aʿyân) and the attributes subsisting in them. There is
no space except a corporeal substance ( jism) or that in which it subsists,
no time except the measure of motion, and no matter separate from form.
Indeed, there is no matter combined with forms other than the corporeal
substance in which the accidents subsist, and no form except that which
is an accident subsisting in a corporeal substance or that which is a
corporeal substance in which an accident subsists.
This matter and similar matters have been treated in greater detail
elsewhere. The intention here has been to call attention briefly to their
implications. And God knows best.81
The exorcism of an agent “time,” accomplished by equating it with some sort

of physical time, was thus still needed long after Islam was firmly established.
The complaint about the present times always contained an undercurrent of
rebellion against the world order, which may not always have been merely
subconscious. While we are often left in doubt as to whether a complainer
was more interested in calling attention to his own temporary plight than in
criticizing, as it were, God’s work, or whether he had the opposite purpose in
18 mind, the Muslim reflections on | “time” always retained a certain element of
religious, and not only social, tension.
O you who blame ad-dahr when it is no longer interested,82

Do not blame ad-dahr for its treachery!
Ad-dahr is subject to orders and has one to give it orders
To whose orders ad-dahr turns.83
81 Cf. Ibn Taymîyah, al-Fatâwî al-kubrâ, I, 343–345 (Cairo, n.y. [1384–1386/1965–1966]).

82 For nabâ, see above, n. 15.
83 Cf. ar-Riyâḍî, Talqîḥ al-ʿuqûl, fol. 43a.
2 The “Golden Age” Complex
“There exists in human nature a strong propensity to depreciate the advantages

and to magnify the evils of the present times.”84 This is how Edward Gibbon
with his customary eloquence expressed the common human misconception
of the good old days. It makes memory pleasurable. As an Arabic commentator
on Aristotle’s Metaphysics remarked, memory goes together with hope, and
both are pleasurable as they are concerned with things that have no actual
existence and human beings who hope as well as those who remember imagine
them as actually realized in existence.85
Beyond the common individual experience and the belief in a better, if
non-existent, past, the history of various societies was reconstructed as hav-
ing enjoyed at the start a period of greatness and goodness and then having
gone through a process of steady deterioration. As T. Nöldeke once remarked,
Islam raised the golden-age view of the past to almost the status of a religious
dogma.86 It did so, however, with the difference that its golden age was not pro-
jected back into a mythical past. On the contrary, the historical and mythical
past, the times before Islam appeared on the scene, was seen as unrelievedly
evil. Those evil conditions were | brought to an end by the divine revelation 19
which came to Muḥammad and was to set things right once and for all. His-
tory did not fully cooperate in this grand scheme, as history has a way of doing.
The process of transforming the time of Muḥammad’s prophecy into a golden
age thus appears to have had its origin already in the very early days of Islam.
84 Cf. E. Gibbon, The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, ch. XXXI, ad 410 (Vol. IV, 108, in
the edition London 1925).
85 Cf. the Arabic translation, ed. M. Bouyges, III, 1613, 1616.
86 Cf. T. Nöldeke as quoted by R.A. Nicholson, Studies in Islamic Mysticism, IX (Cambridge
1921): “Wie verständig ist M(aʿarrî) auch darin, das(s) er nicht an dem fast zum Dogma
der islamischen Überlieferung gewordenen Satze festhielt, dass die Menschen in früheren
Zeiten besser gewesen wären als die Zeitgenossen (nr. 162, 4 als zweifelhaft, 146, 3 als bes-
timmt ausgesprochen), vermutlich wollte er damit besonders den Vorzug der ‘Genossen
des Propheten’ treffen.”
I owe this reference to R. Gramlich, Vom islamischen Glauben an die “gute alte Zeit,”
in R. Gramlich (ed.), Islamwissenschaftliche Abhandlungen Fritz Meier zum sechzigsten
Geburtstag, 110–117 (Wiesbaden 1974). Gramlich’s article deals exceedingly well with, pri-
marily, Muslim religious attitudes. It makes a more detailed exposition of this topic unnec-
essary here. Cf. also F. Meier’s contribution to R. Brunschvig and G.E. von Grunebaum
(eds.), Classicisme et déclin culturel dans l’ histoire de l’Islam, 217–245 (Paris 1957), a work
that in a way anticipates some of the concerns of this chapter.
Famous early traditions of the Prophet state explicitly that a decline from the
glorious days of Prophecy was to take place rapidly and inexorably within
the next few generations. When century followed upon century and Islam
continued to exist with all the ups and downs of its temporary fortunes, the
idea of rapidity and continuity in decline clearly conflicted with observable
reality. In the long view of religion and theology, this did not matter. The
world had peaked in the time of the Prophet and his generation and had gone
downhill ever since. The obvious material growth of Islam as a civilization was
discounted in this connection. It was discovered that the world in pre-Islamic
times possessed a certain unique greatness. Yet, this realization did nothing
to shake the firmly established predominance of the conviction that the world
had seen its golden age in the time of Muḥammad and would never be the same
again till its expected end. Some individuals, and in a way certain Shîʿah groups,
attempted to correct this view by pointing out pre-Islamic achievements and
by arguing that there was continuity in the circular form of history and that
there existed a discontinuous process of progress. The majority view, constantly
repeated, was not really called into question.
The inevitable consequence of this golden-age concept was that little good
could be expected from the present if it was measured against that only true
and permanent standard of goodness. The present times thus were a priori
corrupt. Their corruption ( fasâd az-zamân) was more obvious in certain indi-
vidual and historical situations than in others. At least, it was felt more heavily
by some observers and expressed with greater fervor. But the conviction that
such corruption existed was always there and likely to find expression at any
time. From the religious point of view, the objectionable connotations of dahr
did not help. Whether they implied time or the present times, dahr and zamân
were always open to criticism by everybody. Negative criticism of them (dhamm
az-zamân) was not always accompanied by open complaint; in fact, as we shall
see, unrestricted complaining was at times considered as behavior unbecoming
for a pious Muslim and not the proper response to the prevailing corruption.87
The ascetic outlook, moreover, centered upon the intrinsic worthlessness and
20 evil of this world (ad-dunyâ) which for the individual | was of brief duration and
good only inasmuch as it enabled him to prepare for eternal life in the other
world. The negative criticism of this world (dhamm ad-dunyâ) had in a way
precedence in the literature over the dhamm ( fasâd) az-zamân, but it merged
with it at an early date88 and no distinction was maintained between the two.

88 The process of merger is still apparent in Ibn Abî d-dunyâ’s important Dhamm ad-dunyâ,
Complaint was always implicit, and so was, to some degree, the feeling that
times had been better before, if only because the corruption of the world was
so much more clearly realized in the early years of Islam.
Just a very few examples of the innumerable critical statements about the
times and the world will suffice here. Thus, ash-Shaʿbî, who died, probably in his
early eighties, between 721 and 725, saw the consequences of the theory of con-
stant deterioration from a golden age in political, rather than exclusively moral,
terms: “For a while, people lived together in religion and piety. This stopped,
and they lived together in modesty and mutual respect. This stopped, and peo-
ple were able to live together only by means of promises and intimidation.”89
Thus free democratic association came to be replaced by tyrannical govern-
ment. People can be governed only by the carrot and the stick, unless there is
an—unlikely—religious revival and a return to the good old days. The present
times offer much ground for dissatisfaction, although it is the people them-
selves that are basically responsible for it, because their behavior has made
iniquitous government inevitable. Ash-Shaʿbî concluded his quoted statement
on an even more pessimistic note: “I guess, worse is to come.”
Another statement saw moral decay as leading to complete apathy: “People
used to act and not to talk. They then got to talk and not to act. Now, they
neither talk nor act.”90 Individual morality, rather than political corruption, is
the target here. There is again complete disillusionment with the present times.
They are bad, and the deterioration that had taken place is irreversible and
permanent.
A typical statement on the prevailing dismal state of affairs may be quoted
here for its general validity as an indication of a state of mind considered
exemplary and proper throughout medieval Islam. It comes from the chapter
on “the corruption of the time and its people” in a work by the tenth-century
al-Khaṭṭâbî. However, its author, Manṣûr b. ʿAmmâr, | lived around the year 800. 21
He was counted among the Ṣûfîs, and he certainly thought and spoke in the
long established tradition of pious preachers. His statement seems to have been
derived from a written work of his. It is called a “description of the times (ṣifat
az-zamân),” and this associates it with the criticism of ad-dunyâ which paints
edited by E. Appelrot-Almagor (unpublished doctoral dissertation UCLA 1973, now in

press in Jerusalem).
The dhamm ad-dunyâ also loomed large in the minds of littérateurs, in fact so much
so that they tried to establish its first occurrence in poetry, cf. Ibn Qutaybah, Shiʿr, 302, in
connection with the sixth-century poet Yazîd b. Ḥadhdhâq.
89 Cf. Ibn Qutaybah, ʿUyûn, I, 279.
90 Cf. ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât, I, 350.
a totally negative picture of this material world of ours. This is how Manṣûr b.
ʿAmmâr described it:
Time has changed so much that the tongue has become weary of describ-
ing it. It was young, and has now entered its dotage. It was smooth, and
has now become rough. It was fertile, and has now dried out. Its taste was
sweet, and has now become bitter.
Almost every brave man one sees is full of worries, nor does one find
a good person trusting anyone. Only fools are now (the time’s) allies, and
only scatterbrains have ended up being comfortable with it. Thus, good-
ness has become just a word, religion an empty shell, humility deception,
abstemiousness a pretense, manliness deceitful talk, and the command to
do good and the prohibition to do evil have become wilfulness, wrath, and
conceitedness of soul. Expressions of taking refuge in God91 have become
(self-)praise and glorification.
The man who permits himself to be deceived by his (optimistic) views
of human beings, who does not replace hope with despair, and who
does not keep firm control of his heart and his feelings is foolish and
deceived, deserving to be censured by everybody, regretful of the outcome
(of actions and events), and put down at the bottom of the scales.
Beware, beware of people! Men, true men (nâs), have become few;
what remains is strange beasts (nasnâs),92 wolves wearing clothes. If you
seek them out, they frustrate you. If you ask them for help, they abandon
you. If you seek their advice, they cheat you. If you are noble, they envy
you. If you are of a humble station, they despise you. If you are a scholar,
they declare you a cheat and innovator. If you are ignorant, they upbraid
you and give you no guidance. If you talk, they call you an empty windbag.
If you keep silent, they proclaim you a slow-witted, tongue-tied fool. If you
are thorough, they say you are just pretentious. If you are superficial, they
declare you to be dumb and stupid.93 Keeping company with them is a
painful disease. Keeping away from them is the effective medicine for it.
91 Read al-istiʿâdhah (?), for al-istiʿâdhah of the printed text.

92 The play on the words nâs and nasnâs was commonly used in this context. According to
al-Khaṭṭâbî, ʿUzlah, 63, Abû Hurayrah explained nasnâs as those who resemble, but are
not, human beings. Cf. M.J. Viguera, El Nasnâs, in Orientalia Hispanica F.M. Pareja, I, 651ff.
(Leiden 1974); F. Viré, in EI2, s.v. ḳird.
93 This rhetorical technique to describe perversity was employed quite commonly. In a
saying ascribed to Luqmân, it serves to characterize good men in contrast to bad men,
cf. al-Mubashshir, 266–268.
Medicines are inevitably bitter and taste bad. But choose the medicine
with its bitter taste over the disease with the evil and harm it does!94
Manṣûr b. ʿAmmâr proceeded on the assumption that there once was, or should 22
have been, a time when everything was alright with man and society, and
that it was in his times that everything has completely turned around and
changed to the contrary. His recommendation to the despairing individual who
sought to escape from the iniquity of the situation was withdrawal—which
was the subject central to the work of the author who quoted him, but which,
while recommended by many, was rejected by the majority of Muslim religious
thinkers conscious of the need for human cooperation.95 His catalogue of the
sins of this world represents the standard view common among the men of
religion and those reflecting their attitudes and repeated endlessly in many
variations. The impression, however, is strong that Manṣûr b. ʿAmmâr would
have insisted that the harsh description of conditions applied with particular
force to his own times.
Muslims who were more secular in their outlook, or rather, whose views
were not completely determined by pietism, shared this pessimistic view of
the world in their times. Al-Jâḥiẓ wrote an epistle on the subject of dhamm
az-zamân, supposedly for one of his friends. His attitude is strictly personal.
His own times and circumstances were clearly responsible for his vehement, if
highly polished, criticism. The culprit was “the complete change of our times,
the corruption of our days, and the coming out on top (dawlah) of our mean and
ignoble (contemporaries).” As Shakespeare put it in different circumstances:
… the world is grown so bad,

That wrens may prey where eagles dare not perch:
Since every Jack became a gentleman,
There’s many a gentle person made a Jack.
Richard III, Act I, Scene III
While it was believed in the past, al-Jâḥiẓ argued, that modesty and truthfulness
in conduct were enough to assure well-being for the individual, all these once
desirable qualities have become a distinct disadvantage under the changed
circumstances for the person who possesses them. It can indeed be proved
94 Cf. al-Khaṭṭâbî, ʿUzlah, 67 f. For Manṣûr b. ʿAmmâr, see GAS, I, 637f.

95 Cf. F. Rosenthal, in A. Banani and S. Vryonis (eds.), Individualism and Conformity in
Classical Islam, 55 (Wiesbaden 1977, Fifth Giorgio Levi Della Vida Biennial Conference).
[Below, article VI, 1. Ed.]
that all evil behavior is nowadays the key to success. The undeserving are
praised even for their shortcomings and mistakes. The times treat the honest,
competent, decent, deserving individual shabbily. The whole situation as it
exists now makes life hardly worth living any more.96 This indictment of the
23 times clearly was the bit|ter complaint of a particularly situated individual who
felt aggrieved by their supposedly changed character. Behind it, however, is the
vision of a former ideal situation, which, of course, never existed. It also exhibits
all the elements which, by the time of al-Jâḥiẓ, had long dominated the general
view of “time” and which were to continue to do so.
A positive evaluation rarely resulted from thinking about time in general
terms. It is, for instance, not possible to match the pages and pages of verse
in the poetry of Abû Tammâm and al-Buḥturî criticizing time and the times97
with a similar body of material in their praise. The common staple for authors
who felt compelled to make room for the expression of views that opposed the
predominant negative opinion was a statement attributed to ʿAlî. In reply to a
person who criticized the world in his presence, ʿAlî is supposed to have said:
This world is a proper residence for those who treat it frankly and prop-
erly, a healthy residence for those who understand its meaning, a wealthy
residence for those who use it to provide for themselves from it.98 It is
the place where God’s prophets worshiped, the place that has received
the divine revelation, the place of prayer for God’s angels, and the place
of commerce for His saints. They have acquired in this world (divine)
mercy and gained it in Paradise. Who could criticize it when it has given
permission to leave it, heralded the occasion for separating from it, and
announced its own death. Its joys have thus kindled the desire for (eter-
nal) joys, and its tribulations (the fear of eternal) tribulation, causing fear,
giving warning, arousing desire, deterring by fright.
96 Al-Jâḥiẓ’s epistle was translated by C. Pellat, Arabische Geisteswelt, German trans.

W.W. Müller, 198–201 (Zürich and Stuttgart 1967, Bibliothek des Morgenlandes), English
translation under the title The Life and Works of Jâḥiẓ by D.M. Hawke, 122–124 (London-
Berkeley-Los Angeles 1969). Pellat took the text he translated from Ḥasan as-Sandûbî (ed.),
Rasâʾil al-Jâḥiẓ, 310 f. (Cairo 1352/1933). As-Sandûbî did not indicate his source. It is likely
that it was Ibn ʿAbdrabbih, ʿIqd, cf. the edition by A. Amîn, A. az-Zayn, and Ibrâhîm al-
Ibyârî, II, 342–345 (reprint Cairo 1357/1956).
97 Cf. al-Âmidî, al-Muwâzanah bayn shiʿr Abî Tammâm wa-l-Buḥturî, ed. as-Sayyid A. Ṣaqr, II,
230 ff. (Cairo 1965).
98 The provisions, of course, are understood to be the good deeds which pave the way for
admission into Paradise.
O you who criticize this world and use the excuse of being deceived
by it!99 When did it deceive you! Through the misfortunes suffered by
your forefathers, or through the resting places in the soil of your female
ancestors? How many have you made sick with your own hands and
ill with your own efforts! You desire to find a cure for them,100 you ask
physicians | for prescriptions to give to them, and you look for a medicine 24
for them. This search of yours has been of no use for them. Your medicine
has not cured them. This world has set up for you the place where you will
come to fall, and your resting place there where your crying will not be of
use to you and your loved ones will not help you.101
In commenting upon ʿAlî’s statement, Ibn Abî l-Ḥadîd quite correctly remarked
that it is in fact criticism of the world turned into praise. It has found a place
here only in order to show that if it is indeed the best praise of this world with
which religious scholars have been able to come up, they have done very little to
disprove the justification for constant criticism. In generally accepted fashion,
the statement praised the world for the opportunity it offered to prepare for the
other world. It also argued, however, for the assumption that the world as such
was not responsible for its blameworthy aspects, but these were due to actions
taken by human beings. This touches on a crucial issue in connection with the
complaint about the times, to be discussed later on.
There exists an important and unique text, dating to the second half of the
tenth century, which forcefully disputes the view that the past was better, even
if it does nothing to contradict the notion that this world tends to be bad. In
99 This second part of ʿAlî’s statement presents textual difficulties and shows major variants,
if it is not simply omitted. Thus, al-Ḥuṣrî and Ibn Kathîr read here: “… and divert yourself
with wishes (al-muʿallil nafsah bi-l-amânî, see below, n. 676). When did the world deceive
you or when did it weigh down heavily (read ishtaddat?) upon you?”
100 The antecedent of “them” is clearer in the other versions. Worldly trouble is not inherited
but caused by the harm done (to others) by the individual himself. Ibn Kathîr reads: “How
many of those for whom you seek a cure and ask a physician for prescriptions have you
made sick with your own hands and ill with your own efforts. Your medicine does not help
them, and your crying is of no use to them.” Al-Ḥuṣrî and Ibn Kathîr end their shortened
quotation at this point.
101 The above translation renders the text of al-Bayhaqî, al-Maḥâsin wa-l-masâwî, ed.
F. Schwally, 386 (Giessen 1902). Cf., further, al-Ḥuṣrî, Zahr, I, 42; ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî,
Muḥâḍarât, II, 222; Ibn Kathîr, Bidâyah, VIII, 7 (Cairo 1932–1938); Ibn Abî l-Ḥadîd, V, 241f.
(with a number of variants and reversal of the position of the two parts); an-Nuwayrî
al-Iskandarânî, Kitâb al-Ilmâm, ed. E. Combe and A.S. Atiyya, II, 301 (Hyderabad 1388–
1396/1968–1976).
their search for a striking illustration of the religious contention that there
was a continuous decline and the present was the worst of times, scholars had
recourse to a dramatic story centering around the sacred person of ʿÂʾishah. We
are told that she was often heard to recite verses of the great Labîd, the younger
contemporary of the Prophet:
Gone are those in whose jurisdiction it was possible to live.

I have remained among posterity like the skin of persons affected by skin
disease.
Now, they all cheat and are insincere in whatever they say.
Even if someone does no wrong intentionally, he is censured for whatever
he says.102
25 When she was finished with reciting these verses, ʿÂʾishah would exclaim;
“What would Labîd have said, if he had lived to see these times (of ours)!” In
later quotations of this story, it was always brought up to date;103 the longer the
time that had elapsed between its earlier attestation and the later quotation,
the longer did the chain of important transmitters become. Each one of these
102 Cf. Sharḥ Dîwân Labîd, 153, 157. The reading of the second verse differs considerably in the
sources. It is translated here from ʿAbdallâh b. al-Mubârak and al-Khaṭṭâbî.
For the frequent imitations of the first verse and its early use, in its entirety or in part,
as a cento, cf. Ibn al-Marzubân, Faḍl al-kilâb ʿalâ kathîr man labisa ath-thiyâb, who used
it as a starting point for his complaint about the human condition, ed. Ibrâhîm Yûsuf
(Cairo 1341), ed. trans. G.R. Smith and M.A.S. Abdel Haleem (Warminster, England, 1978);
Ḥamzah al-Iṣfahânî, History of Iṣfahân, as quoted by Yâqût, Irshâd, ed. Margoliouth, III, 83,
ed. Rifâʿî, VIII, 142 f. In Yâqût, the poet is stated to be Lughdah/Lukdhah; this is probably
more likely than the authorship of Abû l-Aswad ad-Duʾalî, claimed in Yâqût, Irshâd, ed.
Margoliouth, IV, 282, ed. Rifâʿî, XII, 38, whence it was taken over in the edition of Abû
l-Aswad ad-Duʾalî’s Dîwân, by M. Ḥasan Âl Yâsîn, Nafâʾis al-makhṭûtât, II, 47 (Baghdâd
1373/1954, edited again by the same, Baghdâd 1384/1964). Cf. also Ibn al-Marzubân, op. cit.;
ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât, II, 15; aṣ-Ṣafadî, Wâfî, ed. Ramadân ʿAbd-at-Tawwâb, XII,
87 (Wiesbaden 1979, Bibliotheca Islamica 61). Further, al-Khaṭîb al-Baghdâdî, Bukhalâʾ, ed.
Aḥmad Maṭlûb, Khadîjah al-Ḥadîthî, and Aḥmad Nâjî al-Qaysî, 100 (Baghdâd 1384/1964),
quoting Jaḥẓah al-Barmakî; Abû Hilâl al-ʿAskarî, Dîwân al-maʿânî, I, 31, II, 198 (Jaḥẓah
al-Barmakî); idem, Kitâb aṣ-Ṣinâʿatayn, 27 (Cairo 1320), ed. ʿAlî M. al-Bijâwî and M. Abû
l-Faḍl Ibrâhîm, 37 (Cairo 1371/1952); al-ʿAbbâsî, Maʿâhid at-tanṣîṣ, II, 111 (Cairo 1316).
103 When it suited their purpose, scholars could, of course, restrict themselves to the Labîd-
ʿÂʾishah relationship, cf. Ibn ʿAbd-al-Barr, Istîʿâb, ed. ʿAlî M. al-Bijâwî, 1337 (Cairo, n.y.
[1380/1960]), and al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ (below, n. 106). Al-Ghazzâlî was satisfied with merely
referring to ʿÂʾishah quoting Labîd as an indication of her approval of poetry.
famous individuals was made to echo ʿÂʾishah’s sentiment as applicable to his

own times: “And how about ʿÂʾishah had she lived to the present …!”
In the oldest available source, the work on zuhd by ʿAbdallâh b. al-Mubârak
(ca. 118–181/736–797), the chain of transmitters comprises the historians
Maʿmar (b. Râshid, d. 153/770) < az-Zuhrî (d. ca. 123–125/740–743) < ʿUrwah b.
az-Zubayr (d. ca. 93–95/711–714).104 In the other sources, the chains of trans-
mitters (which, in the case of the Kitâb al-Aghânî, includes the famous name of
aṭ-Ṭabarî) start to diverge with Hishâm b. ʿUrwah b. az-Zubayr (d. 146/763).105
It is thus obvious that the story originated, or, at any rate, picked up speed and
celebrity, at the latest in the early eighth century. Its enormous lasting pop-
ularity, with its constantly growing chain of transmitters, is confirmed by the
fact that even in the eighteenth century, Murtaḍâ az-Zabîdî was still so much
interested in it that he devoted considerable space to it in his commentary on
al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ, II, 241 (Kitâb as-samâʿ).106 The story’s original con|nection 26
with ʿÂʾishah is quite possibly historical. The occasion for ʿÂʾishah to quote
Labîd’s verses reportedly was the killing of Ḥujr b. ʿAdî by Muʿâwiyah.107 Since
Labîd’s poem was a eulogy, such a setting for the story is most appropriate, and
it was hardly a general complaint about deteriorated times. But whether or not
the occasion for ʿÂʾishah’s remark was rightly stated, the recollection that she
made it may very well be accurate.
There can be no doubt that, as soon as the story was put in circulation by the
early historians, it was taken to be an illustration of the corruption of the times
and the constant deterioration that had allegedly taken place in history. But it
was easily possible to turn the moral of the story around and use it to make
the point that, if people in every age had valid complaints about the times they
104 Cf. ʿAbdallâh b. al-Mubârak, Az-Zuhd wa-r-râqâʾiq, ed. Ḥabîb-ar-Raḥmân al-Aʿẓamî, 60f.
(Nasik, India, n.y. [ca. 1971]).
105 Cf. Ibn ʿAbdrabbih, ʿIqd, II, 339; Agh., XV, 141, Agh.3, XVII, 65, quoted by aṣ-Ṣafadî, al-Ghayth
al-musajjam fî sharḥ Lâmîyat al-ʿAjam, II, 129 f. (Cairo 1305); al-Khaṭṭâbî, ʿUzlah, 65; al-
Khaṭîb al-Baghdâdî, Bukhalâʾ, 100 f., cf. F. Malti-Douglas, in Bulletin d’Études Orientales, 31
(1979) (Damascus 1980), 36; ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât, II, 12, 223, cited by R. Gram-
lich, op. cit. (above, n. 86), 115, n. 39.
106 Cf. Murtaḍâ az-Zabîdî, Itḥâf as-sâdah al-muttaqîn bi-sharḥ asrâr Iḥyâʾ ʿulûm ad-dîn, VI,
477–479 (Cairo 1311, reprint Beirut). Murtaḍâ quoted the Nafaḥât al-akhyâr fî musalsalât
al-akhbâr by Ibn Nâṣir-ad-dîn ad-Dimashqî (777–842/1375–1438). For Ibn Nâṣir-ad-dîn, cf.
GAL, Suppl., II, 83; as-Sakhâwî, aḍ-Dawʾ al-lâmîʿ, VIII, 104 (Cairo 1353–1355). According to
Ḍawʾ, he also wrote a biography of Ḥujr b. ʿAdî (below, n. 114). It can be assumed to have
made reference to the passage of the Badîʿ al-Hamadhânî.
107 Cf. al-Balâdhurî, Ansâb, IV A, ed. M. Schlössinger and M.J. Kister, 229 (Jerusalem 1971).
lived in as being the worst ever, temporal conditions must always have been
bad or appeared to be bad, so that there was nothing special to the present
situation. In the second half of the tenth century, the Badîʿ al-Hamadhânî did
just that. The occasion was his reply to an essay “criticizing the times” which
his teacher, the celebrated philologian Ibn Fâris, had sent to him. Ibn Fâris
was moved to complaining by his impression that al-Hamadhânî had forgotten
what he owed him for the instruction he had received from him.108 Regrettably,
Ibn Fâris’ original work does not seem to have been preserved. Al-Hamadhânî
structured his argument in the form of going back from later to earlier periods
to the beginning of human history; he seems to suggest that even without the
activities of man and, perhaps, prior to his existence, conditions were bad for
the angels in the world. The somewhat precious literary system of periodization
for Islamic times was used by him also elsewhere:109
He wrote to the Shaykh Abû l-Ḥasan Aḥmad b. Fâris in reply to a letter he

had received from him in which he criticized the times.
Indeed—may God grant a long life to the Shaykh and Imâm—, he is
27 ‘wet | mud,’110 even if one may have suspicions,111 and people belong to
Adam, even if it is a long time112 and the contraries have become overlaid
(?) and the genetic strains have become mixed.
The Shaykh and Imâm (Ibn Fâris) says: ‘The times have become cor-
rupt.’ Now, would he not please tell me when they have ever been good?
Perhaps during the ʿAbbâsid dynasty? Well, we have seen its end and
heard about its beginning.
Or in the Marwânid era? Considering its history
108 Cf. an-Nuwayrî, Nihâyah, VII, 262: “When al-Hamadhânî was mentioned in the majlis of
Abû l-Ḥusayn b. Fâris, the latter expressed himself in about the following manner: The
Badîʿ has forgotten what he owes us for having been his teacher. He has been disobedient
to us and shown disrespect for us. God be praised! The times have suffered corruption,
and the human species has changed.”
109 Cf. al-Badîʿ al-Hamadhânî, Rasâʾil, 15 (Cairo 1304, in the margin of Ibn Ḥijjah, Khizânat
al-adab).
110 Cf. Qurʾân 15:26, 28, 33.
111 Zanna bi- aẓ-ẓunûn in this meaning occurs, for instance, in Agh., IX, 162, XII, 111, Agh.3, XI, 4,
XIII, 338. The meaning here seems to be that in spite of doubts one may harbor concerning
the continuity of the human condition and inspite of the differences in human beings,
men have always been the same and have always reacted in the same manner.
112 Cf. al-ʿImâd al-Iṣfahânî, al-Fatḥ al-Qussî, ed. C. Landberg, 4 (Leiden 1888), see F. Rosenthal,
A History of Muslim Historiography, 2nd ed., 296 (Leiden 1968).
Don’t drive away (camels) that are in their seventh month after
parturition with the remainder of their milk.113
Or in the Ḥarbite years (of the first three Umayyad rulers)?
When the spear was buried in the kidneys,

And the sword was sheathed in the necks,
And there was Ḥujr’s stay at night in the desert,
And the two Ḥarrahs and Karbalâʾ.114
Or at the Hâshimite oath of allegiance (of ʿAlî)? Now, ʿAlî says: ‘Would that
the ten from among you (?) had a chief from the Banû Firâs!’115
Or in the Umayyad days (of ʿUthmân), when (the rebels) marched 28
against the Ḥijâz and the eyes/spies (were directed) toward the rear
ends?116
113 This is the first half of a verse by the sixth-century poet al-Ḥârith b. Ḥillizah, cf. his
Dîwân, ed. F. Krenkow, 27 (Beirut 1922). In keeping with the rest of the poem, the meaning
intended here seems to be that there ought to be a good deal of uncertainty as to whether
things were really as great under the Marwânids as one might assume them to have
been. The verse, and its occurrence in the passage of al-Hamadhânî, are indicated in the
Wörterbuch der klassischen arabischen Sprache, ed. M. Ullmann, Vol. K, 189a, under k-s-ʿ
(Wiesbaden 1970).
114 Meter kâmil, rhyming in -lâ. A specific historical reference may be concealed in the first
two lines. Ḥujr b. ʿAdî mentioned in line 3 was the early ʿAlid martyr killed by Muʿâwiyah
(above, n. 107). The nightly stay could refer to the night spent by him and his companions
in constant flight before he was killed on the following day, cf., for instance, al-Balâdhurî,
Ansâb, IV A, 224; aṭ-Ṭabarî, Annales, ed. M.J. de Goeje and others, II, 140 (Leiden 1879–1901).
“Desert” could refer to Marj ʿAdhrâʾ near Damascus where the killing took place in 51/671.
The reference to the battle of the Ḥarrah and to Karbalâʾ needs no comment, cf. the
recent study of the Ḥarrah event by M.J. Kister, in Studies in Memory of Gaston Wiet, 33–49
(Jerusalem 1977). The dual here appears to have been used for metrical reasons. The Ḥarrat
Wâqim where the battle took place was “one of the ḥarrahs of Medina,” cf. Yâqût, Muʿjam
al-buldân, ed. F. Wüstenfeld, II, 252 (Göttingen 1866–1873).
115 From an address by ʿAlî, complaining about lack of support, on the occasion of Busr b.
(Abî) Arṭâh’s attack against ʿAlid partisans in the Yemen on behalf of Muʿâwiyah, cf. Ibn
Abî l-Ḥadîd, I, 268. ʿAlî expressed there the wish for a thousand knights of the Banû Firâs (b.
Ghanm b. Thaʿlabah b. Mâlik b. Kinânah, cf. also Ibn Ḥazm, Jamharat ansâb al-ʿArab, ed.
E. Lévi-Provençal, 178 [Cairo 1948]). They were renowned for their bravery. The reference
to “the ten among you” is not clear to me. It could hardly be ʿishrah in the sense of “Would
that you were familiar with … .”
116 “The rebels marched” translates an-nafîr. The men who moved against ʿUthmân and
Or during the ʿAdawî commandership (of ʿUmar)? Now, its leader says:
‘After the camel’s tush breaks through in its eighth month, does there
remain anything but going downhill?’117
Or during the Taymî caliphate (of Abû Bakr)? Now, its leader says:
‘Blessed be the one who died in the years when Islam was weak!’118
Or in the time of the Message (of Muḥammad)? Now, it was said on the
day of the conquest of Mecca: ‘Be quiet, girl! Integrity has become a thing
of the past.’119
Or during the Jâhilîyah when Labîd said:
Gone are those in whose jurisdiction it was possible to live.

I have remained among posterity like the skin of persons affected by
skin disease.
Or earlier than that when the brother of the ʿÂd said:
The land where we were and which we used to love,

Men then being men, and the time a time.120
eventually caused his death were called nuffâr in the sources. I have no certain explanation
for al-ʿuyûn (no doubt the original reading) ilâ al-aʿjâz. Possibly, the rear ends of the camels
of the departing Egyptians followed by spies are meant (?).
117 ʿUmar’s pedigree went back to ʿAdî b. Kaʿb b. Luʾayy. Nuzûl, here translated “going down-
hill,” replaces an original nuqṣân “defect, decrease,” in order to rhyme with buzûl. When
the Prophet compared the growth of Islam to the successive stages of the growth of camels,
stopping with bâzil, ʿUmar made the quoted remark, cf. Concordance, I, 178a28.
118 Abû Bakr’s remark to the effect that with the spread of Islam, the religious purity and
fervor of the Muslims had decreased is quoted in the dictionaries under nʾnʾ.
119 The story in connection with which this remark was made may be found in Ibn Hishâm,
Sîrah, ed. F. Wüstenfeld, I, ii, 816 (Göttingen 1858–1860), trans. A. Guillaume, 548f. (Oxford
University Press 1955, reprinted 1967). At the time of the conquest of Mecca, someone
wrenched the silver necklace of a young sister of Abû Bakr from her neck. Abû Bakr
brought her before Muḥammad and asked for the return of the necklace, but nobody
responded. Note that the person who made the remark was Abû Bakr, and not the Prophet,
as is also intimated by al-Hamadhânî.
120 A version written in gold upon a thousand-year old arrowhead, according to Ibn Hishâm,
Tîjân, 129, replaced “time a time” with “country a country.” This reading also appears in the
ʿÂʾishah—Labîd story as reported in ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât, II, 15. The second
half of the verse was also quoted by aṣ-Ṣafadî, Ghayth, II, 187. Aṣ-Ṣafadî’s context required
that the verse, as here, be understood in the sense that the people and the times were
in the past as they ought to be. But “people are people” or “man is a man” also signifies
Or earlier than that, in the time of Adam on whose authority the following
verse has been transmitted:
The land and those upon it have changed. 29

The face of the earth is now dusty and ugly.121
Or earlier than that when the angels said: ‘Are You going to place on it one
who will cause corruption on it and shed blood (Qurʾân 2:30)?’
No! Human beings have not (now) become corrupt; it has always been
the same thing.122 The days have not (now) become dark; darkness has
just spread. How could anything become more corrupt, unless it was all
right before? How could anyone reach evening, unless he started out with
morning?123
Al-Hamadhânî’s message is clear. There never was a time in history which did
not offer ample cause for complaint. There never was a morning of untainted
goodness and happiness. Consequently, one cannot speak of the deterioration
of the human condition as a new development. The only thing observable is
variations in a constant situation which produce a state of affairs that may be
either more or less bad. Many Muslim thinkers, as also many ordinary people,
no doubt felt the same way. Since they were, however, confronted here with a
concept of history that was not easily harmonized with the dominant view, it
that they are always the same and do not change. Another verse in the same mold states
that “men are not the men I knew, and the mansion not the mansion I used to know,” cf.
al-Ibshîhî, Mustaṭraf, II, 73, chapter 56 (Bûlâq 1268).
121 Adam’s poem presumably had its origin in the highly imaginative early Islamic litera-
ture dealing with Arabian prehistory. It went on to enjoy considerable popularity, cf., for
instance, Ibn Hishâm, Tîjân, 17; aṭ-Ṭabarî, Annales, I, 146; al-Masʿûdî, Murûj, ed. C.A.C. Bar-
bier de Meynard and B.M.M. Pavet de Courteille, I, 65 (Paris 1861–1877), ed. C. Pellat, I, 39
(Beirut 1966); ath-Thaʿlabî, Qiṣaṣ al-anbiyâʾ, 45 f. (Cairo, n.y.). Sometimes, it was denied that
it was genuine Adamic poetry, as, according to Ibn Hishâm, Tîjân, 18, by Jubayr b. Muṭʿim
(d. ca. 59/678–679).
122 Lit., “there has just been constant analogy.”
123 Cf. al-Hamadhânî, Rasâʾil, 260 f., quoted by ath-Thaʿâlibî, Yatîmah, IV, 178f.; aṣ-Ṣafadî,
Ghayth, II, 198f., also by the excerptor of the Ghayth, Ibn Ḥijjah, Burûq al-Ghayth, Leiden
Ms. Or. 1036, fol. 156a–b; al-Qazwînî, Kosmographie, ed. F. Wüstenfeld, II, 326f. (Göttingen
1848–1849); an-Nuwayrî, Nihâyah, VII, 262–264; al-Qalqashandî, Ṣubḥ al-aʿshâ, I, 458–460
(Cairo 1331–1338/1913–1919); al-ʿAbbâsî, Maʿâhid, II, 37. The significance of the passage was
stressed by F. Meier and, following him, R. Gramlich (above, n. 86).
was much safer to rely on quotation than come forward with independent for-
mulations. It is, indeed, quite noteworthy how often al-Hamadhânî’s statement
was quoted in later times, even in contexts where, it might be argued, there was
no pressing need to quote it.
More roundabout ways toward the same goal of expressing doubt about the
myth of the perfect past were taken occasionally. When Abû Firâs observed
that nobody could be found who did not complain about the times, he asked
dramatically whether every friend was really so very unfair, and every time
30 chary of producing noble men.124 The expected | answer to such a rhetorical
question was no doubt meant to be that things always tended to be bad, even
if the poet’s experiences in his own time were particularly unhappy ones.
Another way to deal with the idea of a golden past irrevocably lost was to
devise a utopia that in theory could be reestablished at any given time or could
be shown to exist but be inaccessible to mankind. It might be asked whether
the times could ever be good and what the conditions would have to be in order
to produce good times. This question, as so many other original and important
ones, was raised in the circle of Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî. “What,” it was asked,
“would be the shape and appearance of times that are free from any harm?”
Abû Sulaymân as-Sijistânî, cast in the role of spokesman for what was consid-
ered then eternal wisdom, skilfully covered in one sentence all the necessary
requirements with respect to the decisive components of society such as reli-
gion, government, morality, scholarship, and economics: “It would require that
religiosity is fresh, that the government is progressive, that prosperity is gen-
eral, that knowledge is in demand, wisdom desired, morality pure, and that
the religious call (daʿwah) is all-encompassing, that the hearts are sound and
that mutual dealings among men take place upon a fair and equal basis, that
statesmanship is firmly grounded and that intellectual insights are converging
(and harmonious).” This answer to the question of the form of the ideal society
that would guarantee good times was obviously intended to be recognized as
entirely unrealistic, so that the objection could be raised immediately that it
would mean “the suspension of generation and decay which are the nature of
this place,” that is, the world we know. The philosopher’s retort was forthright.
You are wrong, he said to the critic. There is no denying the immutability of
the process of generation and decay, but there are two aspects of it. It is obvi-
ous that the earth has periods of fertility alternating with periods of infertility.
124 Cf. Abû Firas, Dîwân, ed. Sâmî ad-Dahhân, I, 315 (Beirut 1944), ed. R. Dvořák, Abû Firâs,
188, 297 (Leiden 1895). In ad-Dahhân’s edition, the text signals not a question but a
statement.
Likewise, religions and governments have times of prosperity alternating with

times of corruption, times of progress as well as times of regression, of increase
as well as decrease. If, he continued, the objection of his critic were absolutely
valid, we could never wish for a just king, an outstanding leader, an effective
organizer, a knowledgeable administrator. But this is not so, he contended, as
we can see in our own times … And here, he referred to the recent experience
of his own country. Like his namesake of old, the ʿAbbâsid caliph Abû Jaʿfar
al-Manṣûr, the by then deceased ruler of Sijistân, Abû Jaʿfar Amîr Aḥmad, had
been an outstanding example of all the virtues that are necessary to produce
ideal times along the lines just laid down.125
Amîr Aḥmad’s rule was, in fact, highly praised in his time, and correctly 31
so in the judgment of modern historians.126 In the context of the discussion,
however, we get the impression that the respect paid to the contemporary
ruler was quite marginal to it. In fact, the reference to a utopia realized may
have been made in the intention to make it clear that any such utopia was,
on the contrary, unrealizable. As Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî explained elsewhere,
imperfection affecting both time and place is needed in order to prevent man
from becoming overbearing toward God and his fellowmen.127 For him, and
others who were convinced of an essentially circular movement of history, the
possibility of a sustained existence of ideal times, in the past as well as in the
present and the future, in which there is nothing to complain about must be
ruled out. As al-Hamadhânî had argued in his linear description of historical
progression, a golden age did not, and according to immutable human nature
could not, exist.
It does not seem to be due to chance that the formulations mentioned here
which more or less explicitly deny the possibility of an age of flawless perfection
date in general from the later fourth/tenth century. Once again, we see here the
effect of uniquely favorable political and economic circumstances allowing the
expression of less inhibited views about the world than were possible either
before or after. However, to judge from the sparse indications we have, there
always was a good deal of sympathy for these views.
125 Cf. Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, Imtâʿ, II, 48.

126 Cf. C.E. Bosworth, in The Cambridge History of Iran, IV, 131f. (Cambridge 1975).
127 Cf. Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, Risâlah fî l-ʿulûm, ed. trans. M. Bergé, in Bulletin d’Études
Orientales de l’ Institut Français de Damas, 18 (1963–1964), 272, 287, para. 32.
3 Time or Man?
The pre-Islamic view of dahr as an agent time was never entirely uprooted. The
times could always be accused of being the active cause of an individual’s mis-
fortune and of being the justification for his complaints. Even when “time” was
narrowly conceived as one’s own lifetime, it could be accused of being the agent
who caused the inevitable progression toward old age and death. It was routine
for a scholar of later times, such as Ibn ad-Damâmînî (763–827/1361/2–1424), to
rhyme plaintively:
My time (zamânî) has hit me with things that have hurt me.
Unlucky constellations have come, and lucky ones have disappeared.
It turned out that I was sick among men
With old age. Would that youth were to return!128
32 Like many other abstract terms, “time” (mostly dahr but also, following it,
zamân) was personified in poetical speech. Time not only shoots and hits.129
It builds and destroys130 and acts in many ways suitable for a powerful agent.
It causes change and separation;131 “the days” about which al-Mutanabbî com-
plained in an ode to Kâfûr were the army ( jund) that had caused his separation
from him.132 Time is a mount which often moves with faltering steps and stum-
128 Cf. as-Sakhâwî, Ḍawʾ, VII, 186.

129 Cf., for instance, Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah, Dîwân, ed. Shukrî Fayṣal, Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah, ashʿâruh wa-
akhbâruh, 132, 135 (Damascus 1384/1965); Ibn Аbî d-dunyâ, Dhamm az-zamân, 308, no. 256,
see Abû Nuʿaym, Ḥilyat al-awliyâʾ, X, 150, ll. 15 f. (reprint Beirut 1387/1967); Kushâjim,
Dîwân, 480; al-Mutanabbî, Dîwân, ed. al-Barqûqî, III, 141; Abû ṣ-Ṣalt Umayyah, in Ibn Abî
Uṣaybiʿah, ʿUyûn al-anbâʾ, ed. A. Müller, II, 54, l. 8 (Königsberg and Cairo 1882–1884), speak-
ing of the times as “most troublesome (ankad).” Cf. also Imruʾu-l-Qays, Dîwân, ed. M. Abû
l-Faḍl Ibrâhîm, 295 (Beirut 1958). See also above, n. 57, below, nn. 177, 188, and Ringgren,
op. cit.
130 Cf. Ibn Hishâm, Tîjân, 96.
131 Cf., for instance, in a marthiyah by Ibn ʿUnayn, Dîwân, ed. Khalîl Mardam Bak, 97 (Dam-
ascus 1365/1946):
Time (az-zamân) is deceitful with its people.

…
Time (ad-dahr) that causes separation between us has been unfair.
132 Cf. al-Mutanabbî, Dîwân, ed. ʿAzzâm, 450, ed. al-Barqûqî, II, 119.
bles.133 One speaks of the hands of time,134 of its slumbering eye,135 of its face
whose joyful countenance represents the poet’s benefactor,136 even of its life.137
If time is bad, it is so ugly that dreaming about it would be a nightmare.138 It acts
unfairly and treacherously.139 There were many other such metaphoric usages
which reinforced the idea of “time” as an agent force. Poets, of course, addressed
it innumerable times as if it were a person.
The idea of the circular flow of time inherent in dahr provided the complaint
about the times with its principal theme and form, that is, that things were
topsy-turvy,140 that something good has been replaced with its opposite evil. It
was also granted that the continuous flow of time could be expected to restore
good times in the long run:
Don’t censure our time (zamânanâ), 33

If its harshness affects us.
God’s severity will end,
And then His mildness will come.
Turbidity of life is followed for
The young man by its purity.
Thus, pure water is preceded
By scum swept along in it.141
Pawns, after all, become queens when they succeed in crossing the chessboard
to the eighth rank.141a By and large, though, complaints about prevailing evil
133 Cf. Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah, Dîwân, 57.

134 For instance, Ibn Hishâm, Tîjân, 50: “The hand of ad-dahr showed the face of hope”;
ʿUmârah al-Yamanî, ed. H. Derenbourg, ʿOumâra du Yémen, sa vie et son œuvre, I, 206
(Paris 1897, Publications de l’ École des Langues Or. Vivantes, IV, 10); Ibn Abî l-Ḥadîd, III,
114, quoting an Andalusian poet: “The hand of time has changed me …”, etc.
135 Cf. Muslim b. al-Walîd, Dîwân, 5, no. 1, verse 14.
136 As in a verse by Abû Hilâl al-ʿAskarî, Dîwân al-maʿânî, I, 42.
137 Cf. ʿUmârah al-Yamanî, I, 236: “For my poetry will last until the life of ad-dahr comes to an
end.”
138 Cf. ath-Thaʿâlibî, Yatîmah, II, 118, quoting Ibn Lankak.
139 Ibn Lankak, ibid.
140 For the literary topos in the West, cf. the remarks in E.R. Curtius, Europäische Literatur
und lateinisches Mittelalter, 102–106 (Bern 1948), trans. W.R. Trask, 94–98 (Princeton 1953,
Bollingen Series 36).
141 Cf. Manṣûr b. Abî Manṣûr al-Harawî, in ath-Thaʿâlibî, Yatîmah, IV, 243; aṣ-Ṣafadî, Tamâm,
85.
141a Ibn Sharaf al-Qayrawânî, as quoted by Ibn Bassâm, adh-Dhakhîrah fî maḥâsin ahl al-
Jazîrah, IV, i, 176 (Cairo 1364/1945).
conditions appear to outnumber expressions of hope for the self-adjusting

revolution and the return of better days. The individual complaining about
the evil that had befallen him usually did not console himself with future
expectations. He was concerned with the complete turnabout of conditions he
was facing. In the religious tradition, the sudden reversal from good to evil was
expressed in traditions ascribed to the Prophet such as: “A time will come when
a man is a believer in the evening and an unbeliever in the morning, when he
is a believer in the morning and an unbeliever in the evening. The Messenger
of God was asked where reason (al-ʿuqûl) would be then, and he replied that
most people of that time will be deprived of reason.”142 And there were, of
course, many traditions on the progressive deterioration of knowledge and
the eventual prevalence of ignorance,143 in keeping with the religious view of
the good old times mentioned earlier. In secular complaints about the present
times, it was said that the bottom has turned around to become the top, the
bellies have become the backs:
Thus, the bellies of this dahr have become

Backs, and the top of a thing has become like its bottom.144
The foxes have become lions, and the lambs have become wolves.145
The dregs of society have worked their way to the top:
34 I have seen time raise all the scum

And put down everyone of a noble station,
Just as a living person sinks in the sea,
While a corpse always floats upon it,
And just as a scale will bring down every full weight
And raise up every light weight.146
142 Cf. Ibn Abî Zayd al-Qayrawânî, al-Jâmiʿ fî s-sunan, Ms. Rabâṭ 1781d, fol. 31a.
143 Cf., for instance, al-Khaṭîb al-Baghdâdî, al-Fiqh wa-l-mutafaqqih, II, 152ff. (Beirut 1395/
1975).
144 Cf. as-Sijistânî, Muʿammarûn, ed. I. Goldziher, Abhandlungen zur arabischen Philologie, II,
56 (Leiden 1899), ed. ʿAbd-al-Munʿim ʿÂmir, 67 (Cairo 1961). For the metaphor, cf. also the
seventh-century poet Qays b. Dharîḥ, in Ibn Qutaybah, Shiʿr, 524.
145 Cf. Ibn Abî l-Ḥadîd, I, 735.
146 Cf. Ibn ar-Rûmî, as quoted, together with similar expressions of dismay about the perver-
sity of the times, by ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât, I, 316. The reference to weighing
scales implies honesty and dishonesty. Ch. 94 of al-Buḥturî’s Ḥamâsah is entitled on ad-
dahr raising up some people and putting down others.
Those at the bottom of the social order have taken over the positions of
leadership. This, incidentally, was a particularly useful theme for personal
invective. It may have had its origin in it rather than in general reflections
about the corruption of the times; those to be guarded against have become
the guardians, and so on.147 Gentlemen have been reduced in social status;
prowess and virtue have turned into meanness. Among Ibn Lankak’s many
verses “complaining about and criticizing the time and the contemporaries,”
some also expressed this idea. The second verse was particularly admired
because of a clever play on words, which cannot be reproduced in translation:
O what a time this is that has clothed

Free and noble men in lowliness and meanness!
In my opinion, you are not a time (zamân).
You are nothing but a chronic disease (zamânah).
How can we hope that anything good will come from you,
When in you virtue is meanness?
Is it insanity ( junûn) what we see
Coming forth from you, or obscenity (majânah)?148
Things may be so bad that for most people not doing evil means doing good.149
The inexpert are entrusted with the examination of skilled crafts|men.150 The 35
ignorant lord it over the learned. Ignorance is knowledge, chastity immodesty,
and this is “the least blemish in your time.”151 As an ʿAbbâsid prince, Abû ʿÎsa b.
al-Mutawakkil, said:
I complain to God about what I see happening in our times—

All the injustice and wrong done in them.
147 Cf. the verses about the problematic al-flʾf/qs, quoted in the name of a rather dubious
poet al-Bardakht in al-Khaṭṭâbî, ʿUzlah, 66, and, together with other relevant verses, in
Ibn Qutaybah, Shiʿr, 601. They were, however, also attributed to ʿAbdallâh b. Hammâm
as-Salûlî (cf. GAS, II, 324) in Ibn Qutaybah, Shiʿr, 545 f., ʿUyûn, I, 57, and elsewhere. They
appear as a taḍmîn (from Ibn Hammâm) in verses of Abû Bakr al-Khuwârizmî, cf. ath-
Thaʿâlibî, Yatîmah, IV, 135. Whether al-flʾf/qs might be an unrecognized foreign word?
Since Latin plebs is unlikely and flattery is involved, could it be Greek kolax?
148 Cf. ath-Thaʿâlibî, Yatîmah, II, 117; Abû Hilâl al-ʿAskarî, Dîwân al-maʿânî, II, 201, etc.
149 Cf. al-Mutanabbî, Dîwân, ed. ʿAzzâm, 505, ed. al-Barqûqî, III, 407, quoted by al-Khaṭṭâbî,
ʿUzlah, 67, and, together with much poetry relevant to our subject, by Ibn Аbî l-Ḥadîd, I,
739.
151 Cf. Ibn Nubâtah, quoted in ath-Thaʿâlibî, Yatîmah, II, 147; Ibn Abî l-Ḥadîd, I, 740.
Slaves have risen above their masters,

And ignorance is more exalted among them than is knowledge.151a
A person may have the highest potential, but the times frustrate him and
thwart his ambitions.152 The market for scholarship vacillates between the two
extremes of being highly active and very sluggish. In these times, which belong
to the ignorant, the most bearish market is that for notebooks and inkwells.153
As a rather earthy anecdote of the jokester Muzabbid put it, morality has gone
from one extreme to the other. In the good old days, “a man in love with a girl
would correspond with her for a year. Then he would be satisfied with chewing
the same gum she was, and, when they eventually met, they would talk and
recite poetry to each other. But now, when a man falls in love with a girl, he
thinks of nothing but lifting her leg, as if Abû Hurayrah had been his witness
for the marriage ceremony.”154
The view of time as the theomorphic agent of corruption and cause for all
complaints thus survived in Islam which by its very nature should have offered
it fierce resistance unless it could be seen as a figure of speech employed,
in a way, unthinkingly. For Muslims, however, a more fundamental dilemma
presented itself. Where was the blame to be placed, upon the force of time
or upon the nature of man? The observer not swayed by religious speculation
about the goodness of the world as determined by the wise plan of the deity was
inclined to see the world with its infinity of events affecting man as an innate
mixture of pleasant and unpleasant features.155 Man was considered a creature
151a Cf. aṣ-Ṣûlî, Ashʿâr awlâd al-khulafâʾ, ed. J. Heyworth Dunne, 105 (London 1936).
153 Cf. Ibn Dûst (above, n. 24).
154 Cf. Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, Imtâʿ, II, 55. Related material appears on the page following in
the Imtâʿ. Unless the reference to Abû Hurayrah conceals some intricate allusion which
escapes me, it means that the man acts as if he were legally married with the blessing of
the great religious and legal authority.
155 Cf. al-ʿÂmirî, al-Iʿlâm bi-manâqib al-Islâm, ed. Aḥmad ʿAbd-al-Ḥamîd Ghurâb, 118, 140
(Cairo 1387/1967).
In this spirit, it was said proverbially that “time is two days, one for you and the
other against you.” This statement, supposedly made by the mukhaḍram poet an-Namir
b. Tawlab, was much repeated, cf. al-Qâlî, Amâlî, I, 102, ll. 3f. (Cairo 1373/1953); Ibn Abî
l-Ḥadîd, V, 698. It was also turned around, half-seriously and half-jokingly, in verses by
a certain Abû ʿAwânah al-Mihrajânî as quoted in ath-Thaʿlabî, Qiṣaṣ al-anbiyâʾ, 27: The
statement is not correct; it is one day of pleasantness, and many days of unpleasantness.
Conversely, an anonymous poet contended that in the days of his hero, all days were happy
ones, cf. Abû Tammâm, Waḥshîyât, 84 (above, n. 33).
in whom | good and evil were inextricably mixed.156 It was widely felt, at least 36
by those who had reason for complaining, that neither time nor man could
be restrained from letting evil predominate as a rule. Since, however, man was
seen by Islam as the center of action in this world, it was natural for him to be
held responsible for the discomfort with the times which he experienced. The
problem might well have been put in the words of a modern novelist: “It doesn’t
do any good to blame the people or the time—one is oneself all of those people.
We are the time.”157 This modern statement implies a complete interiorization
of the world, which was probably alien to the author of the often quoted verse:
They say: There is corruption in the times.

No! They are corrupt. The times are not corrupt.158
The rejection of time, or the times, as a responsible agent that comes to the
fore in this verse was occasionally ascribed to al-Aʿshâ, presumably the most
famous bearer of the name who was a contemporary of the Prophet. Although
not totally excluded, it is unlikely that this ascription is correct. If so, it would
indicate the existence of a pre-Islamic rebellion against the inevitability of
fateful time. Be this as it may, the thought that the principal responsibility for
the deterioration in the circumstances of the complainer was his own fault, or
that of his contemporaries, appealed to Muslims. Poetic variations of the idea
attest to its popularity. A ninth-century poet proclaimed:
Night and day (al-jadîdân) in their long alternation

Are not corrupt, but people have been corrupted.159
And, in the following century, a minor poet mused that it was not right to put
the blame on the times:
156 Cf. al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ, IV, 3.

157 Cf. James Baldwin, Another Country, 342 (Dell Paperback, 7th printing, Sept. 1974).
158 This single verse was included in R. Geyer’s edition of al-Aʿshâ, Dîwân, 260, no. 214. It
was quoted anonymously, for instance, in Ibn ʿAbdrabbih, ʿIqd, II, 341, quoted, in turn, by
ash-Sharîshî, I, 90; Abû Hilâl al-ʿAskarî, Dîwân al-maʿânî, II, 201; an-Nuwayrî, Nihâyah, III,
269; al-Ibshîhî, Mustaṭraf, I, 76. In some of the quotations, it is preceded by another verse.
Even on the assumption that those quotations used a verse originally by al-Aʿshâ as a cento,
the ascription to him remains highly doubtful.
159 Cf. Abû Hilâl al-ʿAskarî, Dîwân al-maʿanî, II, 200. With slight changes, the verse is made to
state that the times are not defective but people are in al-Bayhaqî, Maḥâsin, 487, cf. also
ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât, II, 223.
37 I don’t complain about these times of mine. I would do them wrong, were
I to do that.
Rather I complain about the people of these times.160
Already Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah had versified the common complaint about the times
that focused on friendship turned sour. In complaining that friends were no
longer as true and faithful as they once were, he said:
O my two friends! I do not criticize my time.

I criticize the people of my time.
……
God be praised! How corrupt people have become
And how little faithfulness exists among friends!161
It is significant that the powerful name of ash-Shâfiʿî was invoked to give weight
to the idea that man is responsible for his times. It does not matter whether
the verses to this effect quoted in his name were really by him. His authorship,
whether true or fictitious, carried the same authority:
Had they been fair, they would have been dealt with fairly, but they were
unjust. Thus, time (dahr)
Dealt with them unfairly and afflicted them with worries and tribulations.
They came to hear the voice of the present recite to them:
Tit for tat. The times themselves (zamân) are blameless.
The idea occurs even more explicitly in these verses attributed to him:
We blame our times, but the blame lies in us.

Our times are blameless except for us.
We slander the times, although they have committed no crime.
If the times could talk about us, they would slander us.162
160 Ibn Ḥammâd al-Baṣrî as quoted in ath-Thaʿâlibî, Yatîmah, III, 229, and Tatimmah, I, 14.
Usually, it is time that is the wrongdoer (ẓâlim), cf. Yatîmah, III, 246.
162 Cf. the collection of verses ascribed to ash-Shâfiʿî and published as his Dîwân by M. ʿÂrif
az-Zuʿbî, 82 f. (Beirut 1391/1971).
In a very different sense, time is said to be hurt by the assault of an unbreakable
determination, so that there is no justification for complaining about any hurt caused by
it, cf. aṣ-Ṣafadî, Tamâm, 64.
After completing his onerous task, a scribe once wrote down these verses at
the end of the manuscript copied by him163—a good indication of their wide
appeal. The dilemma of where to place the blame was playfully utilized by
ash-Sharîf ar-Raḍî, when a friend did not fulfill a given promise:
Shall I complain about you, or shall I complain about 38

The time that your breaking of your promise is one of its sins?
No! I shall complain about it, for how often (before)
Have I considered the doings of time to be strange events.164
It appears that the discussion of whether time or man was to blame was
popular.
It is human nature to seek an alibi for one’s own failings in unpleasant and
difficult situations. A mountebank, entertaining the crowd with his monkey,
explained his demeaning situation, ironically, in verses that put the responsibil-
ity for his lucky success on time (al-ayyâm), and not on himself.165 A politician
would blame the times for his downfall and make them the scapegoat for his
shortcomings. For the hostile poet speaking about him, the obvious implica-
tion was that it was not the times but the man himself who should shoulder
the blame:
Al-Muʾayyad complains that he has been dismissed

And criticizes the time, showing that he is stupid.
I said to him: Don’t criticize the time!
You are thereby wronging its fair days.
And don’t be angry when you are dismissed!
For you possess no fairness and no knowledge.166
The idea could be turned around for purposes of flattery: If a man’s being in the
present time is a blemish for him, his being in these times is an adornment for
them.167 Variations on this subject were not unknown, as, for instance:
163 Cf. the edition of Ibn Qutaybah, ʿUyûn, II, 260.

164 Cf. ash-Sharîf ar-Raḍî, Dîwân, I, 187 (Beirut, n.y. [1961?]). For the last line, cf. Dîwân, I, 258,
l. 5. It was not the time that did wrong but the faithless people who had turned into dogs,
cf. al-Khaṭîb al-Baghdâdî, Bukhalâʾ, 120.
165 Cf. the Monkey Maqâmah of al-Badîʿ al-Hamadhânî, Maqâmât, trans. W.J. Prendergast, 85
(reprint, ed. C.E. Bosworth, London and Dublin 1973), quoted by al-Ḥuṣrî, Zahr, (II), 1084.
166 Cf. Ibn ʿUnayn, Dîwân, 229, quoted by aṣ-Ṣafadî, Ghayth, I, 218; al-ʿAbbâsî, Maʿâhid, II, 44.
167 Cf. ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât, I, 188; Nashwân, al-Ḥûr al-ʿin, beg. (Cairo 1367/1948).
Were I to blame time (dahr) after I met him

And received his gifts, I would deserve punishment for slander.168
Or, a generous man is an excuse for the sin of the times (az-zamân).169
Scholarship and craftsmanship certainly depended upon the individual
himself, and he should take the blame for lack of success instead of com-
39 |plaining about the times, as scholars were wont to do.170 This idea was rarely
stated expressly in these terms. The sixteenth-century Ṭâshköprüzâdeh, how-
ever, was one of those who saw through the alibiing and courageously ex-
pressed disapproval. He considered it a great and widespread misfortune “in
our time” that there existed a teaching system which allowed the teacher to
teach his students a few lines a day without paying attention to the larger con-
text. This system enabled unqualified individuals to teach. “Such people are the
reason for the disappearance of scholarship, and, in spite of it, they blame the
times.”171
Assessing responsibility ceased more or less to be a problem wherever time
and individual were largely or completely identified. People were viewed as
closely conforming to their times,172 and it was contended that they “are more
like their times than their fathers.”173 They were so closely identified with the
times that they were well advised to march in lockstep with them174 and roll
with their punches. “Turn with time however it turns.”175 As Bashshâr b. Burd
put it:
168 ʿAbd-al-Muḥsin b. Muḥammad aṣ-Ṣûrî, in ath-Thaʿâlibî, Tatimmah, I, 36.

169 Al-Khushnâmî, in ath-Thaʿâlibî, Tatimmah, II, 17.
171 Cf. Ṭâshköprüzâdeh, Miftâḥ as-saʿâdah, I, 47 (Hyderabad 1329–1356).
172 This is the title of a brief historical monograph by al-Yaʿqûbî, Mushâkalat an-nâs li-
zamânihim, ed. W.G. Millward (Beirut 1962), trans. by the same, in JAOS, 84 (1964), 329–
344. If the work were not preserved, it might be expected to contain a disquisition on the
subject under consideration here, but this is not the case.
173 For this often quoted remark, cf., for instance, Ibn Saʿîd, ʿUnwân al-murqiṣât, ed. M. Ab-
delkader, 4 (Algiers 1949).
174 Cf. Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, Imtâʿ, III, 217:
Step with ad-dahr whenever it steps.

Run with ad-dahr as it runs.
175 Cf. Ibn Abî l-Ḥadîd, IV, 748.

I am just like the times. When they are sober,

I am, and when the times are silly, I am.176
Inevitably, a false friend would be seen as acting in concert with ad-dahr and
be called as false as it:
How many a friend did I have who, when

He saw that time had got me, got me,
Prepared for me with an arrow, and when
He saw that time had shot me, shot me.177
A witty singing girl, however, playfully told the poet Diʿbil who delicately 40
expressed to her his burning desire by saying that time (az-zamân) should give
both of them the joy of meeting each other and join lover to lover:
Why leave it to time when you are the time?

Thus give us the joy of meeting!178
It was still flattery but of a more serious nature when a ruler or someone of,
at least in the eyes of the observer, equally important status was completely
identified with time. A wisdom saying in the Ethiopic translation of the sayings
of the ancient philosophers has a king ask:
How is the time? He received the answer: The time is you yourself. If you
do it well, the time is good. If you do it badly, the time is bad.179
176 Cf. Agh., III, 61, 68, Agh.3, III, 225, 240. We are told that Sufyân b. ʿUyaynah recited the
verses when he realized that the aṣḥâb al-ḥadîth, once the best behaved of people, had
now become the worst and that in tolerating them, he and others had become similar
to them. Cf. the remarks of M. aṭ-Ṭâhir Ibn ʿÂshûr in his edition of Bashshâr’s Dîwân,
IV, 113f. (Cairo 1369–1386/1950–1966), where the verse is included upon the authority of
Agh.
177 Ibrâhîm b. al-ʿAbbâs aṣ-Ṣûlî, as quoted in Abû Hilâl al-ʿAskarî, Dîwân al-maʿâni, II, 199f.
178 Cf. Ibn ʿAbdrabbih, ʿIqd, VI, 398; al-ʿAbbâsî, Maʿâhid, II, 14 (with slight variants). Diʿbil’s
verse was taken over into the editions of his Dîwân by L. Zolondek, 83 (University of
Kentucky Press 1961), M. Yûsuf Najm, 116 (Beirut 1962), and ʿAbd-al-Karîm al-Ashtar, 216
(Damascus, n.y. [ca. 1965]), but not in that of ʿAbd-aṣ-Ṣâḥib ad-Dujaylî (an-Najaf 1382/
1962).
179 Cf. A. Dillmann, Chrestomathia aethiopica, 40 (Leipzig 1866, reprint Darmstadt 1967), cf.
the translation by S. Euringer, in Orientalia, N.S., 10 (1941), 363.
The caliph Muʿâwiyah was credited with the statement:
We are the time. Those whom we raise up rise, and those whom we put
down sink low.180
Even if self-confidence was his outstanding characteristic, Muʿâwiyah would

hardly have made such a remark. He was elsewhere said to have held perfectly
orthodox views on the times as showing continuing deterioration.181 It remains
to be seen whether the quoted statement was connected with the name of the
caliph already in early times; if so, the attribution to him must have come from
hostile quarters. In the course of time, the equation of the mighty with time
and the times came to be a proper, and commonplace, expression of the view
that conditions were determined by an individual or an all-powerful govern-
ment. A poet such ash-Sharîf ar-Raḍî relied upon established custom when he
concluded a poem flattering a wazîr with the thought that the wazîr’s support
guaranteed to anyone the attainment of his wishes, for “you are the time (az-
zamân), and how could anyone seeking its intercession be frustrated?”182 The
rather poor reputation of “time” as a benefactor of human beings was, of course,
41 conveniently disregarded in this connec|tion. What does not sound right for
the age of Muʿâwiyah was perfectly acceptable in that of ʿUmârah al-Yamanî
(d. 569/1174). Addressing Ruzzayq b. Ṭalâʾiʿ, he rhymed:
You are the time. The people you raise up are exalted,
And those whom you put down have no banner raised for them.
Those whom you neglect are rejected,
And those whom you look at are overawed.183
In fact, the fervent claim that the addressee of a laudatory poem was the time
had become a suitable climax for it. Failing that, a poet might have recourse
to addressing his benefactor as the master of the time which was his obedient
servant and did his bidding.184
180 Cf. an-Nuwayrî, Nihâyah, VI, 7, l. 18.

181 Cf. al-Balâdhurî, Ansâb, IV A, 24, ll. 17 f., and p. 30 f. Al-Balâdhurî’s source was al-Madâʾinî.
182 Cf. ash-Sharîf ar-Raḍî, Dîwân, II, 495.
183 Cf. ʿUmârah al-Yamanî, I, 347, quoted by aṣ-Ṣafadî, Tamâm, 356.
184 Cf., for instance, Ibn Sanâʾ-al-mulk, Dîwân, ed. M. Ibrâhîm Naṣr and Ḥusayn M. Naṣṣar, II,
97 (where the addressee is equated with ad-dahr), 19, 74, 84, 88, 124, 171, 246, 268 (where he
is called its master), 129 (where he is described as more powerful), 302 (the spirit governing
the body of ad-dahr) (Cairo 1388/1969).
In a number of variations, the idea can be shown to have been around since
early ʿAbbâsid times. Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah claimed that what was good for Hârûn
ar-Rashîd, was good for everybody:
O you who are eager for good times!

The well-being of Hârûn is the well-being of the times.185
Al-ʿAkawwak (d. 213/823) addressed the powerful general and politician Ḥu-
mayd b. ʿAbd-al-Ḥamîd aṭ-Ṭûsî (d. 210/825) in the words:
You are the time whose activities treat

Mankind with both severity and leniency,
and he spoke of “a king whose plans (ʿazm) are the times, and whose actions are
the vicissitudes of time (duwal).”186 A generation or two later, Saʿîd b. Ḥumayd
combined the identification of ruler and time with a disavowal of the need for
complaining about prevailing conditions when such a great individual could
be held responsible for them:
I see that the tongues of complaint addressed to you are blunted.

They are listless to express anything but praise.
They stop at (tuqîmu ʿalâ) useless censure
And have nowhere to go except to you.
You are just like the time (az-zamân) with the manifold 42
Happenings and things it produces.
If the time’s fairness and generosity are minimal,
Who could give protection against its injustice?187
Rather differently, the sad times faced by a bereaved person were considered
determined by the deceased and the loss of him. This was a proper thought for
a woman’s marthiyah:
185 Cf. Agh., III, 146 f., Agh.3, IV, 42, taken over into Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah, Dîwân, 664.
186 Cf. Agh., XVIII, 108, 110, Agh.3, XX, 30,34. “Severity and leniency” here means that the
totality of mankind’s experience in his time depends on his actions.
Al-ʿAkawwak also composed the famous verses equating Abû Dulaf with the world,
cf. Agh., XVIII, 111 f., Agh.3, XX, 39; F. Rosenthal, Aḥmad b. aṭ-Ṭayyib as-Saraḫsî, 102f. (New
Haven 1943, American Oriental Series 26). Cf. the collection of al-ʿAkawwak’s poems by
A. Naṣîf al-Janâbî, 189 and 134 f. (an-Najaf 1391/1971).
187 Cf. al-Ḥuṣrî, Zahr, (II), 1030.
A particular fate (dahrun!) has hit me with the loss of my dear compan-
ion.
I complain about my times (zamânî) by complaining about him.188
Honestly and touchingly, ash-Sharîf ar-Raḍî mourned his distinguished (and

much maligned) contemporary, the Shîʿah poet Ibn al-Ḥajjâj (d. 391/1001), by
describing him as “the bright light side of the spirit of the times (qad kunta
khiffata rûḥi z-zamâni).”189
Where time and individual were seen as identical, it was not necessary to
make the difficult choice of where to put the blame. Another and simpler way
to avoid making a decision was for authors to play it safe and opt for both time
and man as the culprits that gave them cause for complaining. “The times and
the people living in them (contemporaries, az-zamân wa-ahluh)” was after all
a set phrase in common use. The sages, we are told, held the view that “it is
the nature of human beings to criticize their times and to be dissatisfied with
the people of their age.”190 Ash-Shâfiʿî was said to have recommended in a verse
ascribed to him that a person should wash his hands of the times and the people
in them.191 Again in connection with the theme of failed friendship, Ibrâhîm b.
al-ʿAbbâs aṣ-Ṣûlî announced:
I have tested the times and the people of the times.

Both deserve criticism and censure.
The times have estranged me from my friend,
And my friend has caused me to become intimate with my enemy.192
188 Cf. al-Qâlî, Amâlî, II, 324, l. 6.

189 Cf. ash-Sharîf ar-Raḍî, Dîwân, II, 442. Sometimes, the meaning of khiffat ar-rûḥ tended
toward “frivolity.”
Al-Mutanabbî had said: (As long as one does not see you, people are all alike). “Time is a
word, and you are its meaning.” The verse was greatly admired by Abû l-Faḍl Ibn al-ʿAmîd,
cf. al-Mutanabbî, Dîwân, ed. al-Barqûqî, IV, 398; ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât, I, 188.
For a person addressed as “heart to the body of az-zamân,” cf. al-Qalqashandî, Ṣubḥ, IX,
67, l. 5.
190 Cf. Ibn ʿAbdrabbih, ʿIqd, II, 342.
191 Cf. ash-Shâfiʿî, Dîwân, 48.
192 Cf. Abû Hilâl al-ʿAskarî, Dîwân al-maʿânî, II, 200. The times, in turn, were described as doing
the testing with the help of the noxious people who were active in them, as in a verse by
al-Mîkâlî, quoted in ath-Thaʿâlibî, Tatimmah, II, 7: “I wonder about the times when they
test me with people that have weak brains.”
Another poet would speak of testing his dahr and trying out human beings 43
only to find out that nobody deserved praise in jest or in earnest.193 And a poet
might leave open the question whether time (ad-dahr) and individual were two
separate entities, inspite of their identity as far as the effect upon the individual
was concerned. In the sense of the modern novelist cited above (n. 157), he
could argue:
I see that you are complaining about time, wronging it.

Each person that you have kept company with is a time.194
In general, it can be said that in poetical speech at least, time, or the times,
appears much more commonly as the responsible agent than does man him-
self. The pristine tradition of a metaphysical agent time was strong. Most peo-
ple nurtured in the medieval atmosphere were inclined to accept a metaphys-
ical cause for worldly developments. Many thoughtful individuals, however,
challenged this attitude and tried to replace it with the theory of innate human
behavior as the true agent. Any conflict with Muslim religious beliefs was
hidden under the cloak of metaphoric usage, so that it could easily be over-
looked and disregarded. Yet, those complaining about the times had to contend
with different approaches prescribed by either secular attitudes or formal reli-
gion.
4 Secular Complaints and Religious Complaints
Man as an individual might be said to be never satisfied. “In the summer, he

wishes it were winter, and when winter comes, he dislikes it.”195 The early
ʿAbbâsid poet Abû sh-Shîṣ expressed this commonplace idea in the words:
“The person who has little is never satisfied with the times.”196 For the reli-
193 Cf. Abû ṣ-Ṣalt Umayyah, in Ibn Abî Uṣaybiʿah, II, 60, l. 9.
194 Cf. ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât, II, 422.
195 Cf. Jalâl-ad-dîn Rûmî, Mathnavî, ed. trans. R.A. Nicholson, III, 23, IV, 24, Book III, verse 371,
quoting the statement in Arabic (London 1925–1940, E.J.W. Gibb Memorial Series, N.S. 4).
Nicholson quotes a commentator as ascribing the verse to Imruʾu-l-Qays, an unlikely
and unverifiable attribution. For the general contrariness of human beings, which, in
particular, interested moral philosophers, cf. Ibn Qutaybah, ʿUyûn, II, 2. “If they were
commanded to be impatient, they would be patient,” and when they are forbidden to do
something, they are particularly eager to do it.
196 Cf. Ibn Qutaybah, Shiʿr, 723.
giously motivated individual, Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah said, endless complaining about

ad-dahr was the inevitable consequence of human unwillingness to accept all
44 its unpleasantness.197 The general | conclusion was that “it is customary for man
to complain about time (… shakwâ l-marʾi li-d-dahr ʿâdatun).” It must, however,
be noted that, when Ibn Sanâʾ-al-mulk made this statement, he considered the
glorious days of al-Qâḍî al-Fâḍil and the conquest of Ascalon in 583/1187 an
exception to the rule.198
The psychological makeup of human beings is characterized by unchange-
ability. A mystic such as Ibn ʿArabî might be expected to advocate man’s ability
to change, but even he felt compelled to admit that “a man blames the situa-
tion he is in today and praises the one that existed yesterday; yet, the man is the
same, and not somebody else, having blamed yesterday the situation in which
he then found himself and praised the one before it.”199 In this spirit, those
who complained about the times or complained about man were reminded
occasionally that there was no real change at all in the world. Equanimity was
called for in dealing with this world and its good and bad aspects alike.200 This
thought found expressions such as:
Time (ad-dahr) has the same beginning and end.

Men are like men, and days (ayyâm) are like days.201
Variations of the theme read:
The end of ad-dahr is similar to its beginning—

One day to another, days to days.202
Or:
197 Cf. Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah, Dîwân, 175; Agh., III, 172, Agh.3, IV, 93; at-Tanûkhî, al-Faraj baʿd ash-
shiddah, I, 103, II, 215 (Cairo 1357/1938); al-Ḥuṣrî, Zahr, I, 89, and above, n. 40. According to
al-Ḥuṣrî, the poet was Mûsâb. ʿAbdallâh b. Ḥasan b. al-Ḥasan b. ʿAlî b. Abî Ṭâlib (cf. GAS,
II, 599). He was said to have composed the verses in prison. Al-Marzubânî, Muʿjam, 288,
merely said that there was a mixup here with the verses of Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah. The fact that
Abû l-Faraj al-Iṣfahânî did not know them as verses of the ʿAlid speaks strongly against the
possibility that he was the author.
198 Cf. Ibn Sanâʾ-al-mulk, Dîwân, II, 17.
199 Cf. Ibn ʿArabî, al-Futûḥât al-Makkîyah, IV, 134, ch. 498 (Cairo and Mecca 1329/1911).
200 Cf. also above, pp. 32 f.
201 Cf. Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, Imtâʿ, III, 150. Cf. above, n. 120.
202 Cf. ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât, II, 221.
Ad-dahr is just like the times (az-zamân) that are past,

And we are just like the first generations.203
Man’s constant dissatisfaction with the present was also often expressed in
variations upon the theme that the days which make you weep are many, but
right after they are gone, you weep for them204 and | wish they were back. For 45
both people and the times are always alike in that they always give reason for
complaint. After the death of Salm b. Ziyâd, who was governor of Khurâsân in
the 680s, one of his associates, Ḥanẓalah b. ʿArâdah mourned:
I was angry with Salm, but when I lost him

And found out about other people, I wept for Salm.205
Al-Faḍl b. ar-Rabîʿ, we are told, applied this verse to the Barmecides and said:
“We used to (kunnâ) be angry at them but then got to (ṣirnâ) wish to have them
back and to weep for them.” But the verse was also attributed to a contemporary
poet, Nahâr b. Tawsiʿah.206 Abû Tammâm’s reflection, if it was his, concerned
the times, and not an individual:
No sooner had I stopped weeping about a time whose faults I disliked,

When it was over and I wept for it.207
203 Cf. Ibn Abî l-Ḥadîd, III, 281. The seventh-century Ḥârithah b. Badr (cf. GAS, II, 326) was
credited with the verse:
Ad-dahr is just like the yesterday that is past

And like the tomorrow that is coming—and everything will disappear,
cf. ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât, II, 221.

204 Bakâ min-bakâ ʿalâ. The common form is mâ bakaytu min zamânin illâ bakaytu ʿalayhi.
It was ascribed to ash-Shaʿbî (d. ca. 721–725) by al-Khaṭṭâbî, ʿUzlah, 64. This attribution
was, of course, unhistorical, but it testified to the wide currency enjoyed by the statement.
Attributions of verses using the theme to specific poets are often doubtful. Minor modifi-
cations of the basic stock of related verses are common.
Ar-Riyâḍî, Talqîḥ al-ʿuqûl, fol. 62b, also used the kâna-ṣâra formula: “We used to weep
because of someone. Now we have come to weep for him.”
205 Cf. al-Jahshiyârî, Wuzarâʾ, ed. Muṣṭafâ as-Saqqâʾ, Ibrâhîm al-Ibyârî, and ʿAbd-al-Ḥafîẓ
Shalabî, 262 (Cairo 1357/1938).
206 Cf. Ibn Qutaybah, ʿUyûn, II, 4. For Nahâr b. Tawsiʿah, cf. GAS, II, 379.
207 Abû Tammâm’s verse (in which fî is used instead of min) apparently does not appear in
his Dîwân (?). It was quoted by Ibn ʿAbdrabbih, ʿIqd, II, 341; al-Ibshîhî, Mustaṭraf, II, 75.
And his contemporary, Abû Ḥafṣ ash-Shiṭranjî, complained in this connec-

tion about the similarity of yesterday and today with respect to the misery they
were causing:
No sooner had a day passed where I hoped for relief

And I was remembering it, when I wept for yesterday.208
Verses of this kind constituted the theme song of a tenth-century philosophical

discussion on man’s natural and unconscious desire for his earlier days:
What is the reason (Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî inquired) for man’s longing
for what is past of his life, so that he yearns with nostalgia, cries restlessly,
and spends much time reliving the past in his imagination? Poets have
cried out in this sense:
No sooner had I finished weeping about a time whose vicissitudes I

was criticizing
And it was gone, when I began to weep for it.209
46 Or:
Many a day I have wept about and, when

I entered another, I wept for it.210
Or:
I hope for tomorrow, but when it comes,

I weep for the yesterday that is gone.
This happens even if the past times were very bad and full of worries.
This is so only because of a psychological disposition211 which man is
208 Cf. Agh., V, 12, Agh.3, V, 177; al-Ḥuṣrî, Zahr, I, 98.

209 This verse, which is similar to the verse ascribed to Abû Tammâm, was quoted also by
ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât, II, 223.
210 The verse in this form was apparently ascribed to Ibn Bassâm al-Bassâmî by an-Nuwayrî,
Nihâyah, III, 102, l. 14. For related verses by Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah, cf. his Dîwân, 412, 385; Ibn
Qutaybah, Shiʿr, 679; al-Ḥuṣrî, Zahr, I, 98 (see аn-Nuwayrî, loc. cit.); ash-Sharîshî, I, 90; Ibn
Abî l-Ḥadîd, V, 447; al-Ibshîhî, Mustaṭrâf, II, 73. According to al-Masʿûdî, Murûj, VIII, 251,
ed. Pellat, V, 194, the quoted verse was supposedly by Ibn al-Muʿtazz.
211 Lit., “a secret belonging to the soul.”
not conscious of and is not able to discover except after long and careful
study and investigation and philosophical efforts where the right words
and meaning are more important than sex and money and where one is
concerned mainly with what is good and noble in this world and the other
world.212
The response of Miskawayh made it clear that the sole issue here was, in
fact, lost youth, rather than general conditions. However, the verses quoted
belonged originally to the complaint about the times and their constant calam-
ities.
The unchangeable continuity of man and the times served as a sort of
counterweight to the age-old theme of ayna “ubi sunt?”, the plaintive cry for
the good old days when there were truly great men who are gone and leave
us wondering where their likes might be found now.213 On the other hand, it
also produced a carpe diem attitude which advocated that enjoyment of the
present take the place of constant useless complaining about the times. In the
secular spirit, it was indeed enjoyment that was often recommended. For the
religious thinker, it rather meant the proper use of the present for preparing for
future salvation. Thus Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah would warn against looking backward
and against wishing that the present moment would never pass:
Don’t ever say to a thing just past:

Would that it had not gone yesterday.
Strive for today and don’t worry about yesterday!
Every day holds its own troubles for you.214
When speaking of the unsurpassed giants of the past, Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah made 47
it quite clear that it was really irrelevant whether or not they were actually
better than later generations.215 In a sense, he was constantly looking forward,
but what he was looking forward to, was not temporal improvement but death
212 Cf. Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî and Miskawayh, al-Hawâmil wa-sh-shawâmil, ed. Aḥmad Amîn
and as-Sayyid Aḥmad Ṣaqr, 37 (Cairo 1370/1951).
213 The theme of ayna? was investigated in some detail first by C.H. Becker, in an article
republished in his Islamstudien, I, 501–519 (Leipzig 1924), which found much attention
at the time.
214 Cf. Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah, Dîwân, 30. Cf., in this connection, the remarks on him by H. Ringgren
(above, n. 48), 158 ff.
215 Cf., for instance, Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah, Dîwân, 154.
and what was expected to come after it. Occasionally he mourned the loss of
youth. He stressed, however, the need for being satisfied with one’s present
situation as the only appropriate course of action.216 He gave the impression
of recommending equanimity in the face of an unchangingly hostile world and
acceptance of the present, rather than striving for a better future on earth and
ineffective complaining.
The brevity of life was another consideration. Life is too short to be wasted
on blaming time for its vicissitudes:
Seize what is pure in your time (zamân)

And leave alone what is murky in it!217
An anonymous philosopher was credited with the good advice to be satisfied

with prevailing conditions voluntarily, because otherwise one would be forced
to be satisfied with it. He concluded that this was an irrefutable argument
against the desire to complain about the times, for nobody was ever treated
fairly by time in accordance with his just deserts, whether it be good or bad
fortune.218
The uselessness and ineffectiveness of complaining was considered a strong
argument against it. It is in this sense that a couplet attributed to an оbscure
ʿAbdallâh b. Hârûn al-ʿArûḍî must be understood:
O you whose speech is adorned with eloquence (bayân)!

Don’t censure time (az-zamân), for time will not give you satisfaction.219
There is no purpose in complaining and criticizing, since time, personalized

dahr, does not listen:
216 Cf., for instance, Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah, Dîwân, 157.

217 Cf. Kushâjim, Dîwân, 270. “Pure (ṣfw)” and “dirty (kdr)” were common descriptions for good
and bad times. Kushâjim imitated here the thought variously expressed in verse that time
is too short to be wasted on mutual recrimination.
218 Cf. al-Mubashshir, 331, in the chapter of sayings attributed to anonymous sages.
219 Cf. Agh., VI, 6, Agh.3, VI, 159. Note the play on ʿataba and аʿtaba. Fa-laysa yuʿtibuka
z-zamânu probably hearkens back to an often quoted verse by the Hudhalite poet Abû
Dhuʾayb which states that ad-dahr is not kind to someone who is impatient: wa-d-dahru
laysa bi-muʿtibin man yajzaʿ-u, cf. J. Hell’s edition and translation of Abû Dhuʾayb’s poems,
in Neue Huḏailiten-Diwane 1 (Hannover 1926); as-Sukkarî, Sharḥ ashʿâr al-Hudhalîyîn, I, 4.
For aʿtaba as the opposite of asâʾa, see Agh., VIII, 19, Agh.3, VIII, 360.
I censure my time when time has a deaf ear

For censure by cultivated men of letters (adîb).220
The pitiful “complaint of the stranger (shakwâ al-gharîb)” was an obligatory 48

topic of literature. More importantly, complaining was de rigueur in two large
realms of intellectual life. One of them was the poetry, and occasionally the
prose, concerned with love and friendship. In affairs of the heart, complaining
was felt the natural thing to do. Disappointment and frustration were so much
more frequent than fulfillment, and they seemed to conform much more natu-
rally to the tender emotions of love. A man might tell his wife not to complain
too much as such nagging would put an end to the love he felt for her. This was
no doubt meant to be a humorous remark.221 But in all seriousness and in innu-
merable variations, poets contended that complaining was necessary in love. It
contributed to the joys of love by means of the sweet sorrow of parting and the
pangs caused by having the beloved so near and yet so unapproachable. Not
complaining made a lover’s misery still greater.222 The lover’s only wish was to
complain to the beloved and be listened to.223
In the relationship among friends, which was felt to be emotionally identical
with that of love, complaining was always present but served a somewhat
different function. True friendship, the only friendship worth the name, meant
that friends were able to discuss their worries freely with each other and
that they always listened willingly to their mutual complaints, as Ibrâhîm b.
al-Mudabbir (d. 278/892–893), for instance, put it:
He complains to me and I complain to him

With chaste words and disturbing words.224
Listening to a friend’s complaints was indeed the least a friend could do for
his friend, because it was by itself a welcome relief from worry.225 Sufyân
220 Cf. Kushâjim, Dîwân, 481.

221 Cf. al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ, II, 54.
222 Cf. al-Qâlî, Amâlî, I, 32, quoting Ibn Abî Murrah al-Makkî.
This idea was transferred from profane love to sacred love in the statement of Ibn
Khafîf (d. 371/981–982) that “the chronically ill person is the one who is consumed by
worries and is prevented from complaining (bathth ash-shakwâ),” cf. as-Sulamî, Ṭabaqât,
466.
223 Cf. al-ʿAbbâs b. al-Aḥnaf, Dîwân, 195 (Beirut 1385/1965); Agh., VIII, 20, Agh.3, VIII, 361. Cf.
also below, n. 225.
224 Cf. Agh., XIX, 118, Agh.3, XXII, 166.
225 Cf. aṣ-Ṣafadî, Ghayth, I, 94.
ath-Thawrî reported in the name of Sulaymân (b. Arqam?) a variant of the

proverbial cheir cheira niptei/ manus manum lavat: “complaining to one’s friend
is like washing one hand with the other.”226 The lack of sympathetic listening
to complaints among friends showed the depth of corruption of the times.227
The faithless and unreliable friend dominated the complaint about the times
49 to such a degree that an essay, unfor|tunately not preserved, could be written
on “Criticism of the times and the censure of friends.”228
The other source of almost obligatory complaining belonged to scholars and
writers. They felt compelled to express the view that something had gone fun-
damentally wrong with their particular concerns. They felt, or pretended to
feel, dissatisfied with the caliber of the men engaged in intellectual activities in
their time. They might even argue that nobody worthy of the name of scholar or
littérateur could be found. Things were no longer what they used to be. In par-
ticular, they bemoaned the fact that the general interest in intellectual matters
as well as the support given to them had diminished in their times almost to the
vanishing point. Occasionally, the prefaces of works included a captatio benevo-
lentiae in order to create a favorable climate for their reception,229 and this was
achieved by progressing from a positive concern with the author and his work
to a gloomy assessment of the prevailing intellectual climate. The tone was set
by Ibn Qutaybah in the introduction of his Adab al-kâtib: “I have noticed that
our contemporaries stray from the path of adab, consider it bad to be known
as adîbs, and shun its people.” At every stage of life, people pay no attention,
or not enough attention, to study. “Scholars are condemned to obscurity and
defeated by the constant assaults of ignorance, while the star of quality has set
and the market of piety has become inactive and bringing low prices for the
merchandise of those working in it.230 Scholarship has become a blemish for
scholars, and excellence and virtue have become defects. The property of kings
has become something to be spent on pleasures. Rank and dignity, which are
the charity tax of nobility, are sold like worn-out clothes,” and so on in a spirit of
high moral indignation. Characteristically, though, the addressee of the work,
the wazîr Abû l-Ḥasan ʿUbaydallâh b. Yaḥyâ b. Khâqân, is an exception. He is
unaffected by the intellectual and moral decay around him.231
226 Cf. ʿAbdallâh b. al-Mubârak, Zuhd, 303.

227 Cf. above, n. 16.
228 Cf. Ibn al-Fuwaṭî, Talkhîṣ Majmaʿ al-âdâb, ed. Muṣṭafâ Jawâd, IV, i, 315 (Damascus 1962).
229 Cf. the instructive collection of materials and discussion of prefaces by P. Freimark, Das
Vorwort als literarische Form in der arabischen Literatur (Diss. Münster 1967).
230 Cf. above, n. 153.
231 Cf. Ibn Qutaybah, Adab al-kâtib, ed. M. Grünert (Leiden 1900) and later editions, and
A later littérateur, the South Arabian Nashwân (d. 573/1178), summarized 50

the points made by Ibn Qutaybah briefly in a very simplified manner. Liter-
ature constitutes lost merchandise that is not in active demand because of
the corruption of his contemporaries. Scholarship is a blemish for scholars.
All-around excellence and virtue are considered a disgrace for those who
possess them. Today, no person of high moral character and deserving
consideration is left. Kings are businessmen called rulers, wine merchants
(?) exercising political control, all of them surrounded by their like-minded
flunkies and followers. However, the ruler addressed by Nashwân is a
bright spot on (the face of) his dark times.232 Therefore, he, Nashwân, has hopes
of finding at his court a market for the literary merchandise he is offering
him.233
In the struggle between the representatives of Greek and Arabic learning,
it could be argued that philosophical thought and literary skill had progressed
beyond anything the ancients could have hoped for, as was done, for instance,
by Ibn Qutaybah.234 On the other hand, those steeped in the Graeco-Arabic
tradition and impressed deeply with the unmatched importance and author-
ity of the scientists and philosophers of Antiquity might extend the customary
scholarly complaints to mourning about a lost golden age never to be recovered
and to a total condemnation of irreversible decay. In ar-Risâlah al-Miṣrîyah,
Abû ṣ-Ṣalt Umayyah (d. beg. 529/1134) thus reviewed the great scientists pro-
duced by Egypt in Classical times: “They were the famous sages in those times,
while in this time of ours, science has been wiped out completely from Egypt
and its very name has become unknown. Only scum has remained, common
ignoramuses, blind boors. Most of them are fools, but they are well versed in
deception and trickery and naturally gifted for them because of the tendency
toward flattery and diplomacy in their character. In this respect, they outdo
the extensive commentaries on the work by such men as al-Jawâlîqî and al-Baṭalyawsî
as well as G. Lecomte, L’ Introduction du Kitâb Adab al-Kâtib d’Ibn Qutayba, in Mélanges
L. Massignon, III, 45–64 (Damascus 1957). In another famous introduction, Ibn Qutaybah
argued along lines which, in fact, contradicted the assumption of the progressive decay of
the times; the thesis of Shiʿr is that the ancient and modern poets should not be judged on
the basis of this difference, that what is now old was once new and what is now new will
be old.
232 The metaphor of a ghurrah “bright spot” in zamân bahîm appeared earlier in the poetry
of al-Buḥturî, Dîwân, (III), 1744. Ingeniously, al-Buḥturî combined its use for praise of his
addressee in the first half-verse with its appropriate use for a horse in the second.
233 Cf. Nashwân, al-Ḥûr al-ʿîn, beg.
234 Cf. Ibn Qutaybah, Adab al-kâtib, ed. Grünert, 5 f.
all those earlier and later men and exceed all nations.”235 The relationship
between scholarly achievement and moral standing that is assumed here as
given was not explained. As we have seen, it was basic to the intellectuals’
discontent with their time.
Men whose personal disposition made them inclined toward pessimism and
self-pity included all classes and professions in their negative view. Abû Ḥayyân
51 at-Tawḥîdî was the outstanding and quite tragic example. | As his biographer
put it, “he used to complain about the vicissitudes of his time (life?) and to
weep in his works about its frustrations.”236 On some occasion, he happened
to describe the corruption of contemporary merchants, only to be told by the
wazîr—whose words no doubt were those of at-Tawḥîdî—that corruption in
reality was general. The times have become completely indescribable. The only
thing to be astonished about is the fact that they continue getting worse and
worse. If this process were to stop, there might perhaps be hope for something
for which one no longer has any hope at all. At this point, at-Tawḥîdî—again in
someone else’s name—offered the thought that since those conditions were
brought about by the weakening of religious conviction and a decrease in
political skill and this, in turn, was caused by heavenly/astrological influences,
a change might occur, even if human beings on their part can do nothing about
it.237
It stands to reason that the scholarly complaints, no matter how sincerely
intended, implied a good deal of self-promotion. Complaints about the state of
intellectual life at a given time and in a given region were often justified. Physi-
cians, for instance, were frequently not as numerous, learned, and dedicated,
as they were considered to have been at other times. Yet, this line of complaint
also had a long and hallowed tradition. This makes it doubtful how much reality
attached to individual cases of complaining. Much of it was certainly conven-
tional. What applied to physicians, also applied to the innumerable complaints
about the deterioration of the moral fiber of the scholarly/religious establish-
ment. The fact that the complainers themselves, such as authors when they
published their books, or the group to which they belonged,238 thought of
themselves as exceptions to the rule unaffected by the corruption around them
undermines the objectivity and validity of their complaints. It might even be
235 Cf. Abû ṣ-Ṣalt Umayyah, ar-Risâlah al-Miṣrîyah, ed. ʿAbd-as-Salâm Hârûn, Nawâdir al-
makhṭûṭât, I, 30 f. (Cairo 1370/1951).
236 Cf. Yâqût, Irshâd, ed. Margoliouth, V, 381, ed. Rifâʿî, XV, 6. “Its” referring to time/life seems
more likely here than “his.”
237 Cf. Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, Imtâʿ, III, 62 f.
238 Cf., for instance, Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, Imtâʿ, II, 194.
argued that on the contrary, complaints of this sort should be interpreted as

hiding the view that improvement had actually taken place or was on its way.
To the extent that the complainer stated or hinted, as he often did, that his
own work was better than what had heretofore been available, his complaint
implied in a way a belief in a progressive development of science and scholar-
ship, expressed as a proud boast in the often quoted verse that those of former
times had left much to do for those of a later age.239
It is obvious that a wide variety of complaints about many things can eas- 52
ily be found. Statements that express satisfaction with one’s times are much
harder to come by. Nostalgic recollections of past joys and pleasures, often in
connection with the fond memory of lost youth, were commonly expressed.
There was no end to literary celebrations of the reveler’s bliss in his enjoy-
ment of wine and love. The contemplation of the beauty of nature and special
occasions such as festivals gave rise to frequent expressions of happiness. An
individual would express pride in his unusual achievements and admit to a
feeling of satisfaction with his circumstances. The generosity of benefactors
produced smug satisfaction in the beneficiary, and many were the praises sung
of the wonderful times that were the result of the actions of benefactors or
potential benefactors. A poet might wax ecstatic in saluting the beautiful times
(ḥusn az-zamân) having arrived with the appointment of a new wazîr.240 All
this, however, was strictly momentary, if it was not mercenary. It did not involve
the considered judgment of an author on the character of his times or even
his own personal situation in them. Statements of joy and satisfaction often
hinted at the exceptional character of the good experiences that made their
authors pleased with their times. They might conceal a negative view of them
in the overall scheme of things. Worldly happiness was also presented as a
memento mori. A fictitious inscription left by a mythical figure of the remote
past reported that he had enjoyed life to the full and had obtained more than
he had ever wished. His glory had almost reached to the most remote stars, but,
and this is the sad conclusion, there is no way to achieve eternal life.241 As far as
this world and the opportunities offered by it are concerned, this is deep and
239 Cf. Abû l-ʿAlâʾ al-Maʿarrî, Siqṭ az-zand, cf. Shurûḥ Siqṭ az-zand, (II), 525 (reprint of ed. Cairo
1365/1946); F. Rosenthal, The Technique and Approach of Muslim Scholarship, 63 b (Rome
1947, Analecta Orientalia 24). For a discussion of “the problem of progress” according to
al-Masʿûdî, cf. T. Khalidi, Islamic Historiography, 110–113 (Albany, N.Y., 1975).
240 Cf. ath-Thaʿâlibî, Tatimmah, II, 49, quoting Judge Manṣûr b. Muḥammad al-Azdî al-Harawî,
who, as suggested by the editor of Tatimmah, must be identical with Manṣûr b. (al-Ḥâkim)
Abî Manṣûr al-Harawî.
241 Cf. Ibn Hishâm, Tîjân, 201; ash-Sharîshî, II, 75. See below, n. 724.
total pessimism. It indicates a hopeless disenchantment with times destined

to end soon, whether they were good or bad. We shall consider later how such
sentiments fitted into Muslim views of the functions of hope.
When the authors of anthologies devoted sections of their works to the
negative criticism of time, literary and ideological conventions required that
they also gave a hearing to the material in praise of it available in their sources.
They had precious little to offer. They usually fell back upon what was described
as “a nice poem in praise of time”:
Time has shown compassion for my poverty

And pity on my long troubles.
53 It has fulfilled my every hope/desire
And put to rest all my fears.
Verily, I shall forgive it for
Many/old ones of its former sins,
Even down to the crime it has committed—
Those things that grey hair has done to my head.242
Another version shows one of those small changes in phrasing which are
extremely frequent in the transmission of Arabic poetry and which may make
big changes in meaning, as is the case here. The one sin the author of these
verses did not forgive az-zamân was the fact that the passing of time had turned
his hair grey. The more one looks at the verses, the more obvious it becomes
that they were just another expression of the ordinary complaint about time
as viewed in the context of the personal life of the individual; they were not,
as claimed, praise for time’s benevolence. For the majority of Muslim writers,
grey hair and old age were indeed the final indignity which time perpetrated
242 Cf. Abû Hilâl al-ʿAskarî, Dîwân al-maʿânî, II, 198; al-Ḥuṣrî, Zahr, I, 140, Jamʿ al-jawâhir
(Dhayl Zahr al-âdâb), ed. M. Amîn al-Khânjî, 275 (Cairo 1353), ed. ʿAlî M. al-Bijâwî, 332
(Cairo 1372/1953); Ibn Khallikân, Wafayât al-aʿyân, ed. Iḥsân ʿAbbâs, II, 125 (Cairo? 1972). In
the second verse, ashtahi appears in al-ʿAskarî and al-Ḥuṣrî, artajî in the other sources. For
“put to rest,” al-Ḥuṣrî and Ibn Khallikân have “protected me against.” The alleged context
of the verses confirms the impression that they had very little to do with the subject of
the praise or blame of the times: A certain Abû ʿAlî aṣ-Ṣûfî, or Abû l-Ḥusayn al-ʿAsqalânî,
paid a visit to the wazîr al-Ḥasan b. M. b. Ḥârûn al-Muhallabî whom he had known and
befriended long ago when al-Muhallabî was a poor vagrant in such desparate straits that
he was wishing for death (“Is there no death for sale that I might buy it?”). When he was
about to leave, al-Muhallabî improvised the verses to indicate how far he had come since
those days.
upon human beings; they made present conditions always a proper subject for
complaining.
All such attitudes toward time and life were hardly objectionable to Muslims,
even those of firm religious convictions. However, religious thinkers tended to
stress the idea that complaints should be directed only to God (cf. Qurʾân 12:86).
More importantly, they felt that quite in general, complaining was not the
proper attitude for a human being to take in the face of adversity. Expectedly,
their view was often shared by those who were not concerned with expressing
theological convictions. It was common to begin a verse with ilâ llâhi ashkû or
ashkû ilâ llâhi “I am complaining to God.” The poet in this way affirmed the
seriousness of a justified complaint. The formula found its clearest expression
in a marthiyah by an obscure, probably early Islamic poet, al-Ghaṭammash
aḍ-Ḍabbî;
I am complaining to God, and not to man, that I 54

See the earth remains while friends disappear.
My friends! Were it not death that has hit you,
I would utter censure, but one cannot censure death.243
Even Ibn Sînâ used the formula, provided that the following verses were cor-
rectly attributed to him, when he complained about time, by which he meant
his personal misfortunes:
I am complaining to God about the times which with their

Always new ( jadîd) vicissitudes have worn out my sharp (ḥadîd) facul-
ties—
Tribulations that have turned to me, as if I
Had become a magnet for their iron.244
Eventually, the formula could be used, it seems in a facetious vein, even by a

great religious scholar, Ibn Ḥajar, when he introduced an epistle on an itch from
which he was suffering:
243 Cf. at-Tibrîzî, Sharḥ Dîwân al-Ḥamâsah, ed. Muḥyî-ad-dîn ʿAbd-al-Majîd, II, 354 (Cairo,
n.y.). Cf. also Agh., XVIII, 187, Agh.3, XXI, 77:
I complain to God about the sorrows I have.

My Lord suffices me. I do not complain to anyone.
244 Cf. Ibn Abî Uṣaybiʿah, II, 16, ll. 6 f. Ḥadîd may be preferable to the jadîd of the text.
I am complaining to God because of these times and because of

The illness that has entered my body.
Because of my suffering, existence tenderly mourns for me,
While neither my illness nor, indeed, my times mourn for me.245
Complaining as such was pronounced disadvantageous and improper also

in secular contexts. Thus, al-Buḥturî considered its permissibility contingent
upon al-Fatḥ b. Khâqân’s attitude toward him:
If you were not angry, I would not

Criticize the time and complain about circumstances (al-khuṭûbâ).246
It was good advice for a courtier not to indulge in complaining, because his
55 ruler might easily get annoyed by it.247 It was also viewed as a sign of | stupidity
in that it revealed the complainer’s lack of comprehension of the true nature of
time.248 Worldly wisdom suggested that a person should not complain about
his misfortune to other human beings, since he would thereby call attention to
it and give them an advantage over him. Such complaining would be as useless
as it would be for the wounded prey to complain to the birds of prey. Having
said this, al-Mutanabbî continued that time (dahr) itself was amazed at his
patience; he concluded that the times were young in former generations but
had now reached old age and suffered from decrepitude.249
245 Cf. Ibn Ḥajar, Dîwân, ed. as-Sayyid Abû l-Faḍl, 145 (Hyderabad 1381/1962). In ath-Thaʿâlibî,
Tatimmah, II, 60, a poet expressed sadness about the loss of his youth in verses beginning:
I complain to God about the wrongdoing of my grey hair …
When Abû Tammâm complained to az-zamân about his loss of weight and was directed by
it to his prospective benefactor, he did not mean to equate time with God but attempted
a rather witty parody of the common complaining about it, cf. Abû Tammâm, Dîwân, ed.
ʿAzzâm, II, 133 (for the poem, see again below, n. 335); al-Âmidî, Muwâzanah, II, 326.
246 Cf. al-Buḥturî, Dîwân, I, 152.
247 Cf. Hilâl b. al-Muḥassin aṣ-Ṣâbiʾ, Rusûm dâr al-khilâfah, ed. Mîkhâʾîl ʿAwwâd, 88, ll. 14f.
(Baghdâd 1964), trans. E.A. Salem, 71 (Beirut 1977).
248 Cf. ash-Sharîshî, II, 321.
249 Cf. al-Mutanabbî, Dîwân, ed. ʿAzzâm, 513, ed. al-Barqûqî, IV, 295, quoted by aṣ-Ṣafadî,
Ghayth, I, 97, II, 82, and (in connection with Ibn Zaydûn’s shakwâ al-jarîḥ ilâ l-ʿiqbân
wa-r-rakham) Tamâm, 349. Aṣ-Ṣafadî, Ghayth, II, 82, also speaks of useless complaint as
that “of a drowning man to the waves.”
ʿAlî’s statement that “he who reveals any harm suffered by him is satisfied with humil-
It is patience (ṣabr) that is at issue here. It was said that strong resolve did
away with complaining, just as complaining was inevitable in the absence of
patience.250 In the face of the ferocious assault of the times, gentlemen showed
patience and did not complain, as they detested complaining and refused to
think of it.251
When the times make a mean person prosper,

Show patience with what they have done.
A (bird’s) tail may be higher than the head,
Just as smoke is higher than the fire.252
The conflict between complaining and patience, which appeared irreconcil-

able, posed a serious problem for the men of religion. True ascetics, such as
Abû Sulaymân ad-Dârânî, thought of this world as totally irrelevant, deserv-
ing of neither blame nor praise.253 Thus, for him and his likes, complaining
did not enter the picture at all. But, generally, it was assumed that it detracted
from the obligatory religious virtue of ṣabr. Already the early al-Fuḍayl b. ʿIyâḍ
(d. 187/January 803) had explained | patience in misfortune as the absence 56
of complaining (an lâ tabuththa).254 The Ṣûfî Ruwaym (d. 303/915–916) suc-
cinctly defined patience as not complaining.255 A contemporary of Ruwaym,
ʿAbdallâh b. Muḥammad al-Kharrâz, praised not complaining together with the
concealment of any harm suffered as the hallmark of patience.256 For Aḥmad
b. Khaḍrawayh (d. 240/854–855), the truly patient man was the one who was
iation” had its explanation in other statements about the harm that comes to a person
who complains, cf. Ibn Abî l-Ḥadîd, V, 259. Cf. also I, 359, where a poet replies to a ques-
tion about his condition that he is patient with respect to the vicissitudes of time, since
he does not want to be seen sad. It might make his enemies rejoice (sh-m-t) or aggrieve
his friends.
250 Cf. al-Buḥturî, Ḥamâsah, 193, ed. Cheikho, 131 and XLVIII. The poet was a certain Mâlik b.
Ḥudhayfah an-Nakhaʿî. It would be helpful if he could be placed in an historical context.
It may be noted that patience could also be said to be “the key for what one hopes for,” cf.
at-Tanûkhî, Faraj, II, 237.
251 Cf. aṣ-Ṣafadî, Ghayth, II, 182.
252 Cf. aṣ-Ṣafadî, Ghayth, II, 166, in the name of a certain ʿAmmâr al-Kûfî.
253 Cf. Abû Nuʿaym, Ḥilyah, IX, 266, ll. 10 f.
254 Cf. Abû Nuʿaym, Ḥilyah, VIII, 91, l. 20. Al-Fuḍayl also rebuked a man who complained to
him for seeking a guide other than God, cf. Ḥilyah, VIII, 93, ll. 23f.
255 Cf. as-Sulamî, Ṭabaqât, 183; al-Qushayrî, Risâlah, 85 (Cairo 1367/1948); Abû Nuʿaym, Ḥilyah,
X, 301; Ibn Abî l-Ḥadîd, III, 700.
256 Cf. as-Sulamî, Ṭabaqât, 289, ll. 12 f.
patient with his patience, and not the one who was patient but did complain.257
The proper attitude to take with respect to God is not to complain.258
However, Ṣûfîs did not altogether reject the view that it was all right to
complain to God, even if it was completely wrong to complain to human beings.
They were totally irrelevant. Consequently, complete trust in God required,
among other things, not to think of complaining to them but to make God
“the place of your complaint,” as Maʿrûf al-Karkhî (d. ca. 200/815–816) put
it.259 Abû Turâb an-Nakhshabî said that, if the pious did not complain to
anybody but God, it was because of their fear of God;260 thus, apparently, they
could complain to God without any fear. Jacob’s insistence upon the beauty of
patience according to the Qurʾân referred to a kind of patience, in the view
of Bishr al-Ḥâfî (d. ca. 226/840–841), which admitted of no complaining to
people.261 It is, perhaps, not entirely due to happenstance that in repeating
Bishr’s statement, al-Makkî and al-Ghazzâlî extended its scope by omitting “to
people.”262 Conversely, Ṣûfîs, no less than the old poet,263 thought that where
there was no patience, complaining was inevitable. A mystic driven to insanity
by his asceticism, a certain Saʿdûn, addressed a verse to this effect to Dhû n-Nûn
al-Miṣrî.264
From the religious point of view, complaining about one’s life and times and
57 contemporaries furthermore contained the implication of | rebellion against
God’s all pervasive wisdom. The prohibition against slandering ad-dahr might
be adduced as an old witness from the ḥadîth literature.265 Another old ḥadîth
might have been directed against complaining and blaming others when things
went wrong: A person who claims that the people have perished—by which
here, no doubt, having lost their chance for salvation is meant—is the one

258 Cf. Abû l-Ḥusayn b. Ḥind al-Fârisî, in as-Sulamî, Ṭabaqât, 401, ll. 4f.
259 Cf. as-Sulamî, Ṭabaqât, 87, ll. 9–11; Abû Nuʿaym, Ḥilyah, VIII, 360, l. 13. Since according
to worldly wisdom, complaining to people had a negative effect, Judge Shurayḥ advised
against it and spoke of making God “your place of complaint and refuge (mashkâka
wa-mafzaʿaka),” cf. Ibn ʿAbdrabbih, ʿIqd, III, 204. Cf. also below, nn. 737 and 764.
262 Cf. Abû Ṭâlib al-Makkî, Qût al-qulûb, II, 28 (reprint Beirut, ca. 1973); al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ, IV,
252, l. 4.
264 Cf. Abû Nuʿaym, Ḥilyah, IX, 371; aṣ-Ṣafadî, Wâfî, ed. B. Radtke, XV, 193 (Wiesbaden 1979,
Bibliotheca Islamica 60).
265 See above, pp. 10 ff.
most lost of all.266 While the bearing of these ḥadîths upon complaining and
rebellion against God is somewhat speculative, a statement attributed to ʿAlî
made the point clearly: “He who gets to complain about a misfortune which has
befallen him complains about his Lord.” A commentator offered the following
amplification: “He complains about the agent who brought about the misfor-
tune, and not about the misfortune itself, because it did not befall him on its
own accord. Now, its agent is God, and a person who complains about God sins
against Him.”267 ʿAlî, however, left the door open for at least some complaining.
He acknowledged the possibility of complaining to God. For him, “complaining
about something to a believer is like complaining to God, while complaining
to an unbeliever is like complaining about God.” His commentator felt quite
uncomfortable with this statement, since it contradicted the general view of
the undesirability of complaining. He indicated that it was a religious attitude
(madhhab) and different from the customary view (ʿurfî).268
For moderate Ṣûfî theoreticians such as Abû Ṭâlib al-Makkî, it was at least
part of patience for a person to conceal his misfortunes and his pains and
to forego seeking relief from them by complaining.269 Al-Ghazzâlî decided in
favor of concealing one’s poverty or illness or any kind of misfortune on the
assumption that it constituted one of the treasures of piety. Following Abû
Ṭâlib al-Makkî,270 he made an apparent concession with respect to his ban on
complaining. He quoted al-Ḥasan al-Baṣrî as having said that, if a sick man
first praises God and gives thanks to Him and then makes reference to his
pains, this cannot be considered complaining (which al-Ḥasan al-Baṣrî would
otherwise have found objectionable). Yet, al-Ghazzâlî seems to have felt that
any mention of one’s | troubles meant complaining about God, and this, of 58
course, was strictly forbidden.271
While proper piety was averse to complaining, except, perhaps, in the sense of
addressing oneself to God in the hope of gaining His mercy, this was definitely
266 Cf. Concordance, VII, 104b51–53; al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ, III, 300.

267 Cf. Ibn Abî l-Ḥadîd, V, 507.
268 Cf. Ibn Abî l-Ḥadîd, V, 786. Cf., further, the verses on the uselessness of complaining to
human beings and equating such complaining to complaining about God in ash-Sharîshî,
I, 189.
269 Cf. Abû Ṭâlib al-Makkî, Qût, I, 198f. Cf. also al-Muḥâsibî’s brief warning against complain-
ing about misfortunes in his Waṣâyâ, ed. ʿAbd-al-Qâdir Aḥmad ʿAṭâ, 66 (Cairo, n.y.).
270 Cf. Abû Ṭâlib al-Makkî, Qût, II, 28.
271 Cf. al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ, IV, 251 f. On the role of patience in fatalism, cf. H. Ringgren (above,
n. 48), 53 ff.
not because the Muslim religious view of man and the times was cheerful and
confidently optimistic. The contrary was clearly true. Islam officially acknowl-
edged the presumed fact of constant deterioration and decline from a glorious
high point in its earliest history. Whatever attitudes can be labeled as “secu-
lar,” were certainly not uninfluenced by these religious views, even if at times
they protested against them. Even those secular attitudes were, however, con-
ditioned overwhelmingly by the ever present miseries and disappointments of
human existence in both its individual and its collective aspects. Subjectively,
man was seen as possessing a natural predisposition toward dissatisfaction
with his status. “We forget time’s benefits (ayâdî) among us and remember
of our time (min dahrinâ) only its misfortunes (nuwabah).”272 Objectively, the
times were seen as always bad enough to give rise to justified complaints. The
intellectuals both secular and religious who were the spokesmen for individ-
uals as well as society preferred, it seems, on the whole to deal with the more
somber sides of human life. It cannot really be proved or disproved that their
outlook was shared by all or many. It is tempting to assume and not unlikely
that it was.
If shared widely, man’s urge to complain about evil conditions in his time
and circumstances as a member of society could arguably act as a self-fulfilling
prophecy. The depressing feeling that the times are bad, if constantly expressed,
is likely to work toward making them bad, not worth living in them or trying
to improve them. Confidence and optimistic buoyancy, on the other hand, are
likely to have the effect of creating a better, more progressive social environ-
ment to live and work in. The attitude toward hope, which circumscribes all
human expectations of the future, is conjoined with that toward the past and
present. It may either reinforce it or offer a corrective to it.
272 An anonymous verse quoted in ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât, II, 223.

chapter two
Hope and Wishes 59
Wish that I knew—man is the possessor of hope

(Yâ layta shiʿriya wa-l-insânu dhû amalin)273
“Wishing”—here expressed by the “particle of wishing,” layta274—and hoping

are the terms most characteristic of a human ability, which is hardly at all
present in any conscious way in animals, to look into the future and make it
part of the individual’s aspirations. Since every individual participates in the
processes of wishing and hoping, we can expect them to produce a cumulative
result affecting society. And since they may take on distinctive quantitative
and qualitative appearances and, moreover, since their expression, once it has
found its desired literary forms, can be expected to create emotional attitudes
that are to some degree standardized, a given civilizational complex is likely
to develop its own mood determining the way it faces the future, and this
mood may possess some traits that distinguish it from corresponding moods
prevailing in other societies. Furthermore, since mood cannot help influencing
action, history is no doubt shaped by the power of psychological imaginings
whose common denominator is verbalized in terms such as hope and wishes as
well as their contraries such as despair. Many other concepts, of course, share in
273 Cf. the eighth-century Ibn ad-Dumaynah, Dîwân, ed. Aḥmad Râtib an-Naffâkh, 97 (Cairo
1379). The poem was known as the laytîyah because of its many layta verses. The half-verse
appears in this form also in Agh., XX, 150, Agh.3, XXIV, 138, in a poem doubtfully attributed
to a certain Yaḥyâ b. (Abî) Ṭâlib al-Ḥanafî, who lived around 800. Its author was, however,
identified aṣ-Ṣimmah b. ʿAbdallâh al-Qushayrî in Yâqût, Muʿjam, III, 297, s.v. Shaʿabʿab.
Aṣ-Ṣimmah apparently lived around 700, see GAS, II, 342 f.
Interestingly, and rather disconcertingly, the version attributed to aṣ-Ṣimmah replaces
“man is the possessor of hope” with wa-l-aqdâru ghâlibatun, expressing resignation in the
face of an overpowering fate which defeats wishes not in accordance with its dictates.
The substitution in Agh. of a reference to hope as central to man’s make-up was possibly
secondary. Unless it was due to the influence of Ibn ad-Dumaynah, it is hard to say what
might have caused it. It may have been intended to sound a more cheerful note. Or it was
meant to reinforce the notion that all of man’s natural hoping and wishing is ineffective
when it goes against predetermination.
274 Ḥarf, or kalimat, at-tamannî was the term used for ( yâ) layta, cf. Lisân al-ʿArab, II, 392f.;
az-Zamakhsharî, Kashshâf, I, 225 (Bûlâq 1318–1319), see below, n. 430; Ibn Ḥajar, Fatḥ, XVI,
346, see below, pp. 105 f.
the formation of the totality of man’s attitude toward the future, but hoping and
wishing quintessentially represent the good and bad aspects of human ways of
anticipation of the future and the resulting mood of individual and society.
60 In Islam, hoping and wishing were generally seen as psychological necessi-
ties innate in man. Muslims might not have subscribed to the view that hope,
like love, is one of simplest elementary expressions of life.275 They certainly did
not go so far as does a modern scholar who argues that hope might have been
biologically programmed into human beings, so that they might survive in the
struggle for existence, because “an evolutionary advantage was gained by peo-
ple who thought well of the future or of their immediate prospects.”276 But we
find it clearly stated in Muslim sources that “hope is in the nature of (maṭbûʿ fî)
every and all human beings.”277 And it was contended that “by the way man is
constituted, he is pervaded through and through with greed (ḥirṣ),278 and his
thoughts (khawâṭir) are dominated by wishes (amânî).”279
If hope is innate in human beings or even, as in the view of pre-Islamic poets,
a part of everything that life consists of,280 it can be expected to last all through
the lifespan of the individual. Kaʿb b. Zuhayr put it thus:
Man’s hope stretches out as long as he lives.

The eye does not come to rest till the footstep does.281
275 Cf. J. Pieper, Über die Hoffnung, 27 (Munich 1949): “eine der ganz einfachen Urgebärden
des Lebendigen.”
276 Cf. Lionel Tiger, Optimism, The Biology of Hope (New York 1979), in particular, pp. 20f.
277 Cf. Ibn Ḥajar, Fatḥ, XIV, 11.
278 For the meaning of ḥirṣ in this connection, see below, p. 74.
279 Cf. Ibn al-Marzubân, Muntahâ, 9, at the beginning (see below, n. 295).
280 Cf. the verse by the aged ʿAmr b. Qamîʾah, Dîwân, text, 23, trans. 26:
I have been ruined by the hoping I have been doing (taʾmîl) day and night
And the hoping I have been doing year after year.
C. Lyall translated taʾmîl “looking forward to.” Cf. also the verse apparently by ʿAbdah b.
aṭ-Ṭabîb quoted by al-Mubarrad, Risâlah fî aʿjâz abyât tughni fî t-tamthîl ʿan ṣudûrihâ, II,
169 (Cairo 1371/1951), but ascribed to ʿAlqamah in ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât, I, 283,
cf. also Gottfried Müller, Ich bin Labîd, 126 (Wiesbaden 1981).
281 Lit., “come to an end,” cf. Kaʿb b. Zuhayr, Dîwân, ed. T. Kowalski, 133 (Cracow 1950, Polska
Akademia Umiejętności, Mém. de la Commission Orientaliste 38), as-Sukkarî, Sharḥ Dîwân
Kaʿb b. Zuhayr, 229 (Cairo 1369/1950), trans. O. Rescher, Beiträge zur arabischen Poësie, VI,
3, 158 (n.p. [Istanbul], 1959–1960).
A verse by Labîd reads: When a man spends a night working, he thinks that he has
hope and wishes 593
More prosaic utterances as to the lifelong duration of hope are, for instance,
to be found in the famous ḥadîth about the persistent growth of | greed (ḥirṣ) 61
and hope (amal),282 or sayings such as the one transmitted by Ibn al-Muʿtazz
to the effect that the soul does not give up hope till it enters death (ajal).283
Verses of Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah spoke of “life being spent before wishes are” and of
“hopes associating with man as long as he remains alive.”284
The question arose whether there was a difference in the degree of strength
of hoping and wishing at different ages of the individual. The mentioned tradi-
tion indicated that ḥirṣ and amal—or, according to another version, the desire
for continued life and more property—continued to last undiminished into old
age and retained their youthful vigor.285 As the ḥadîth came to be understood,
this meant in a way that greed and hope were growing with aging or, at least,
gained in relative strength in comparison to most other vital functions.286 Less
than two centuries later, the Muslims learned that Aristotle had taken a differ-
ent position. According to Rhetoric 1389–1390 (quoted here following the Arabic
translation), the young live by hope, because they live for the future which
stretches out before them while their past is brief. Therefore they have much
hope. The old, on the other hand, find it difficult to hope because of their long
finished working, but “man is acting/hoping as long as he lives.” Sharḥ Dîwân Labîd, 254,
has ʿâmil “acting.” The various editors of Ibn Qutaybah, Shiʿr, 199, read âmil “hoping.”
M.J. de Goeje, in his edition of Ibn Qutaybah, Shiʿr, 152, l. 13 (Leiden 1904), indicated the
occurrence of the variant reading ʿâmil. A definite decision as to Labîd’s original reading
is impossible. ʿÂmil, it seems, deserves preference. It may have been replaced under the
influence of the growing acceptance of the amal/ʿamal confrontation (see below, n. 624).
The verse of Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah, Dîwân, 299:
I see predestination (al-maqâdir) working constantly,

While man, as long as he lives, hopes constantly (âmilun amalan),
was hardly influenced by Labîd.

283 Cf. Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Âdâb, ed. I. Krachkovsky, Izbranni’e sochineniya, VI, 84 (Moscow and
Leningrad 1960); G.W. Freytag, Arabum Proverbia, III, i, 130 (Bonn 1838–1843). A half-verse
by the same Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Dîwân, IV, 227, no. 384, said that “as long as man is alive, he is
a servant of hope.”
284 Cf. Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah, Dîwân, 7 (cf. below, n. 499) and 432 (below, n. 452).
285 Cf. Concordance, I, 105b and 447a. See also below, nn. 406f. and 768.
286 A comparable statement is that about the waning pleasures of life which leave to the old
only the pleasure of listening to interesting tales. It was attributed to Abû ʿAmr b. al-ʿAlâʾ,
cf. F. Rosenthal, A History of Muslim Historiography2, 210, 295f.
experience. Thus they live both by remembering and by hope—with remem-

brance of the past no doubt more prominent—because much of their life lies
in the past and only little remains of it.287 The Aristotelian view was reflected
by Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî and Miskawayh in their discussion of the reasons
why the old yearned for their youth. These included the argument that
Hope for lasting life is strong in youth. Man in a way expects to have a long
life in front of him. Whenever some time of his life is gone, he realizes
that a portion of his allotted span has been taken away, and he yearns to
start all over again with it because of his desire (ṭamaʿ) for eternal life,
something that is inaccessible to the perishable body.288
62 This shows how the difference between the Prophetic view and that of the
Greek philosopher was bridged by Aristotle’s Muslim followers. Hope was taken
to be a special desire, a desire for life as strong in old age as it is in youth, but
what Aristotle correctly recognized as a fact that was physiologically justified,
was for the Muslim religious moralist a clear misapprehension of the true
meaning and purpose of life on earth. No real conflict appears to have arisen
between the two views, and both indeed assumed that hoping and wishing
were inborn in human beings and ineradicable.289
Language is indispensable for defining abstract matters. In choosing words to

express them, it gives them existence. Thus the terms employed for such inde-
terminate concepts as hoping and wishing as well as the substantive range of
meaning attributed to them are absolutely fundamental. Trying to understand
them is the first, and in a way also the last, step in understanding the role they
287 Cf. Aristotle, Khaṭâbah, ed. ʿAbd-ar-Raḥmân Badawî, 122f., 125 (Cairo 1959); Ibn Sînâ, Shifâʾ,
Khaṭâbah, ed. M. Salîm Sâlim, 157, 160 (Cairo 1373/1954); Ibn Rushd, Talkhîṣ al-Khaṭâbah,
ed. ʿAbd-ar-Raḥmân Badawî, 196, 200 (Cairo 1960).
288 Cf. Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî and Miskawayh, Hawâmil, 38. It was their famous contempo-
rary Firdawsî, ed. J. Mohl, I, 142 f. (Paris 1838–1878), who said: “Youth may hope for old age,
but white hair never gets black again.” For the significance of ṭamaʿ here, cf. below, pp. 69ff.
289 Wishing is pronounced characteristic of youth in the saying: “Youth is the meadow of
wishes (ash-shabâb riyâḍ al-аmânî),” cf. ar-Riyâḍî, Talqîḥ al-ʿuqûl, fol. 43a. It does not seem
to be a commonly expressed idea.
A couple of verses ascribed to Maḥmûd al-Warrâq are probably to be understood in
approximately this sense: “A man of eighty is not closer (to fulfillment and happiness)
than a newborn child, but a young man may have hopes which may, or may not, come
true,” cf. his Dîwân, coll. ʿAdnân Râghib al-ʿUbaydî, 111 (Baghdâd 1969).
hope and wishes 595
may have had in determining the life of individuals and society.290 “Hope” hap-
pens to be represented by two words in Arabic which were used as commonly
as our “hope” and can usually be rendered by it. This is a situation that is by no
means to be taken for granted. If we look into what is known to us about the
Semitic languages in pre-Islamic and pre-Christian times, we do not easily find
terms that qualify for consistent translation by “hope” and could be unhesitat-
ingly be identified with it or assumed to cover a similar range of meaning. This
applies to the Hebrew of the Bible as well as Akkadian, and even to the later
Syriac, to name only the languages best known to us.290a
In Islam, hope and wishes were prominent themes for reflection. They had
their special niche in religious literature, and they enjoyed wide use in ordinary
speech. They are thus likely to have found attention beyond casual references
and chapters in adab encyclopaedias and to have monographs composed on
them. A few titles of such monographs have been transmitted. Regrettably,
none of them seems to be preserved, if we except Ibn Abî d-dunyâ’s Qiṣar
al-amal. There is also a distinct possibility | that the titles, on which we have 63
to rely, are misleading and have no direct relationship to the contents.291
Al-Madâʾinî (around 800) was credited with a Kitâb at-Tamannî.292 If his
work was concerned with “wishing,” it may have dealt with the relevant pas-
sages from the Qurʾân and the ḥadîth literature as well as with poetry and
folkloristic stories on the subject. A distinguished, if slightly less famous con-
temporary of al-Madâʾinî, ʿAlî b. ʿUbaydah ar-Rayḥânî (d. 219/834),293 wrote
a Kitâb al-Yaʾs wa-r-rajâʾ “Despair and Hope” and a Kitâb al-Muʾammal wa-l-
mahîb “The Hoped for and Stood in Awe of.”294 The former looks as if it might
have been a forerunner of the faraj baʿd ash-shiddah literature and contained
stories of rescue from the depth of despair; but it might also have dealt rather
with statements in poetry and prose on the proper approach toward hoping
and not hoping under certain conditions. The latter appears likely to have been
a discussion of the correct behavior of persons who looked for promotions and
gifts from their benefactors. However, even the vocalization of the words is
uncertain; it might be al-muʾammil, referring not to the intended benefactor
but to the hopeful client. This interpretation could be supported by reference
290 Cf. also my remarks in the Foreword, above.

290a Cf. W. Zimmerli, Der Mensch und seine Hoffnung im Alten Testament (Göttingen 1968),
Engl. trans. (Naperville, Illinois, n.y.).
291 For another example, see above, n. 172.
292 Cf. Ibn an-Nadîm, al-Fihrist, ed. G. Flügel, 104, l. 11 (Leipzig 1871–1872).
293 See GAS, II, 58, 63.
294 Cf. Fihrist, 119, ll. 25 f.
to the combination al-âmil wa-l-maʾmûl often used later on. It appears as the
title of a treatise published as a possible work of al-Jâḥiẓ. In reality, it is a chap-
ter of the large adab encyclopaedia al-Muntahâ fî l-kamâl by Muḥammad b.
Sahl b. al-Marzubân, who lived in the first half of the tenth century; in it, Ibn
al-Marzubân discussed the recommendable attitudes to be taken by officials
who hoped for advancement from their superiors.295 It can be assumed that
ar-Rayḥânî was indeed concerned with wishing. He was quoted as the author
of a saying dealing with the subject. It stated that “wishes are the imaginings
(makhâʾil) of ignorance.”296
A title which, as far as the present investigation is concerned, is misleading
is that of the Kitâb al-Amal wa-r-rajâʾ by the Twelver-Shîʿah Muḥammad b. ʿÎsa
b. ʿUbayd b. Yaqṭîn, who, according to the available indications, lived through
64 most of the ninth century. The Fihrist made | some remarks as to its contents
and stated that the work was of the bishârât “good news” type. Thus, it belonged
to the Twelver-Shîʿah treatises on the virtues and rewards of the imâms and
their followers and dealt with Shîʿah political aspirations.297
In sum it would seem that these lost monographs on hoping and wish-
ing might have contained some noteworthy incidental information, without,
295 For Ibn al-Marzubân and his work, cf. Fihrist, 137; GAS, II, 76. The edition of al-Âmil
wa-l-maʾmûl as a pseudo-Jâḥiẓian treatise by Ramazan Şeşen was published in Beirut
1387/1968. It begins: qâla al-Bâḥith. This confirms the attribution to Ibn al-Marzubân, as
he was known as al-Bâḥith ʿan muʿtâṣ al-ʿilm.
296 Cf. ash-Sharîshî, II, 253. A saying ascribed to Socrates in al-Mubashshir, 118, l. 5, says that
“the wishes are the snares (ḥabâʾil) of ignorance.” Ḥabâʾil and makhâʾil look suspiciously
alike. The sayings probably go back to the same original.
297 Cf. Fihrist, 223, l. 15; Muḥammad b. ʿUmar al-Kashshî, (Маʿrifat akhbâr ar-) Rijâl, ed.
as-Sayyid Aḥmad al-Ḥusaynî, 450 f. (Karbalâʾ, n.y.); aṭ-Ṭûsî, Fihrist, 167 (an-Najaf 1380/1961);
an-Najâshî, Rijâl, 235f. (Bombay 1317); S.M. Prozorov, Arabskaya istoricheskaya literatura v
Irake, Irane i Sredney Azii v VII–seredine X v. (Shiitskaya istoriographiya), 139–143 (Moscow
1980). As stated in Ibn an-Nadîm’s Fihrist, Ibn Yaqṭîn included in his work information
received from Muḥammad (b. al-Ḥasan) b. Jumhûr al-ʿAmmî, who lived in the time of the
imâm ar-Riḍâ, to whose circle Ibn Yaqṭîn is also said to have belonged, probably when he
was very young, cf. aṭ-Ṭûsî, Fihrist, 172f.; an-Najâshî, Rijâl, 238; Prozorov, op. cit., 78–80. His
son, al-Ḥasan b. Muḥammad b. Jumhûr, gave the same information to Abû ʿAlî Muḥammad
b. Hammâm, whose dates are 258–336/872–early January 948, cf. aṭ-Ṭûsî, Fihrist, 167; GAS,
I, 332. Ibn Hammâm was the transmitter of Ibn Yaqṭîn’s books and riwâyât on Ibn Yaqṭîn’s
authority. Now, assuming that Ibn Yaqṭîn was in direct contact with Muḥammad b. Jumhûr
and Ibn Hammâm, his life spanned most of the ninth century, but uncertainties remain,
especially whether he really lived long enough for Ibn Hammâm to be his transmitter.
hope and wishes 597
however, contributing much of substance to what we can learn from the pre-
served material.
As is to be expected, a considerable literature exists on the Western under-
standing of the concept of hope. Until a quarter of a century ago, scholarly
works on hope were, it seems, written under the impact of the devastating expe-
rience afforded by the catastrophe of the 1930’s and 1940’s. They were mostly
informed by the heritage of Christianity, or, more rarely, the modern opposi-
tion to it, and are theological and philosophical in character. The authors often
focussed on ideas such as millenarianism, utopianism, and Messianism, as well
as something vaguely identifiable as “hope for society.” Thomism was not infre-
quently their principal inspiration.298 The titles at times indicated that the
works were meant to establish a theology or metaphysics of hope.299 This lit-
erature was predominantly concerned with speculative thought and much less
so, if at all, with factual historical information. As far as medieval Christian-
ity is concerned, a good deal of factual information may be found in P. Lain
Entralgo, La espera y la esperanza, Historia y teoria del esperar humano.300 A
model of philological research on the subject is the dissertation of J.J.A. Schri-
jen, which deals with all Greek references to | elpis and elpizein from Homer 65
to Plato.301 Islam was mentioned in passing in the work of H. Desroche.302 No
doubt, many worthwhile recent publications have escaped my attention.
1 Terminology and Definitions
The principal terms requiring investigation are the roots r-j-w and ʾ-m-l for
“hoping” and m-n-w for “wishing.” They are well known for their use as apparent
synonyms. However, distinctions were made between them (and other, related
298 Cf. C. Delia Penta, Hope and Society (Washington 1942); J. Pieper (above, n. 275).
299 J. Moltmann, Theology of Hope (English trans., New York and Evanston 1967); R. Azevedo
Alves, A Theology of Human Hope (St. Meinrad, Indiana, 1974); G. Marcel, Homo Viator, An
Introduction to a Metaphysics of Hope (English trans., London and Chicago 1951).
300 Third ed. (Madrid 1962).
301 J.J.A. Schrijen, Elpis, De voorstelling van de hoop in de Griekse literatuur tot Aristoteles
(Groningen 1965). Heinrich von Staden kindly called my attention to this work.
302 H. Desroche, Sociologie de l’ espérance (Paris 1973). An English translation was announced
for 1979 by Routledge & Kegan Paul.
Note, further, H. Kimmerle, Die Zukunftsbedeutung der Hoffnung, Auseinandersetzung
mit Ernst Block’s “Prinzip der Hoffnung” aus philosophischer und theologischer Sicht, 2nd
ed. (Bonn 1974). On the work by L. Tiger, see above, n. 276.
terms) under certain conditions. There are innumerable examples for their
seemingly indiscriminate use. Only a few of them can be presented in the
following pages. It should, however, always be kept in mind that the very fact
that different words were used might indicate that differences in meaning were
perceived. A few lines by al-Aḥwaṣ show most of the terms relevant to our
discussion in close parallelism but with a degree of semantic difference left to
the listener and reader to evaluate:
You will not obtain all you hope for (ammaltahû),

Nor will you be spared all you try to avoid.
Not every greedy person (dhî ḥirṣin) will gain from his greed,
And not everything a man hopes for (râjin) will be useful for him.
How many a person asks a wish (umnîyatan), which, were he to attain it,
Would leave him to have to be content with a bad reputation among
people.303
A Synonymous Uses
a rajâʾ/amal
R-j-w and ʾ-m-l304 were consistently paired or used in strict or free parallelism
66 both as nouns and as verbs. Dictionaries defined amal as | rajâʾ.305 Rajâʾ, in turn,
303 Cf. al-Aḥwaṣ, Shiʿr, coll. ʿÂdil Sulaymân Jamâl and Shawqî Ḍayf, 136 (Cairo 1390/1970). From
a later time, cf. the verses by ash-Sharîf ar-Raḍî, Dîwân, I, 70, which speak of wishes (amânî)
unfulfilled, the former luck gone, and no hope (r-j-w) for a reversal, worries everywhere,
and persistent hopes (âmâl) disappointed.
304 While rajâʾ permits some plausible etymological speculation (see below, n. 330), amal,
I think, does not, inspite of many theoretical possibilities. Thus, no comparison can be
made between the two words from the etymological point of view.
No convincing relationship can be established between the meaning “hope” and the
meaning “to consider” of the fifth conjugation. Arab philologists have tried but with
no acceptable result. For Abû Hilâl al-ʿAskarî, al-Furûq al-lughawîyah, 58 (Cairo 1353),
taʾammul is intense looking with the hope of (al-muʾammal bih) learning about what one
is looking for.
Poets occasionally made use of the effect provided by combining the two meanings.
Thus, al-Buḥturî, Dîwân, (III), 1663, described uniqueness as “moon of taʾammul, rain
cloud of taʾmîl.” (For a different combination of âmâl, muznah, and amânî, cf. Muslim b.
al-Walîd, Dîwân, 263, no. 45, verse 34.) Again, al-Buḥturî, Dîwân, (III), 1644, spoke of “what
you have been looking or hoped for with respect to (the jâriyah called) Amal (mâ dhâ
taʾammalta aw ammalta fî Amal).” Cf. also ash-Sharîf ar-Raḍî, Dîwân, II, 240, or, in prose,
al-Qalqashandî, Ṣubḥ, IX, 114, l. 19: al-qulûb al-mutaʾammilah al-âmilah.
305 Cf. al-Azharî, Tahdhîb, XV, 395. The definition was stated to go back to al-Layth. Cf. also
Lisân al-ʿArab, XIII, 28; ash-Sharîshî, I, 56, II, 60; aṣ-Ṣafadî, Ghayth, I, 141.
hope and wishes 599
was, however, not normally defined in them by amal,306 but by its opposite yaʾs
“despair.” The reason for it, it seems, was that rajâʾ was understood to possess
a wider range of meanings than were commonly expressed by amal; the latter
covered only one aspect of the former.307 A formal difference between the two
nouns, that is, the fact that rajâʾ did not allow of a plural formation while
amal did, can be observed to have been operative not infrequently in their
alternating use.
Amal could be the object of the verb r-j-w:
(O Lord!) You are benevolent and have not frustrated

The call of one who hopes for Your hope (râjin amalak).308
Or, as in a verse by al-Buḥturî:
We have long hopes (âmâlun ṭiwâlun) with respect to ad-dahr,

Which we are hoping for (nurajjîhâ), but short lives.309
Rajâʾ as the object of ʾ-m-l seems to be not quite as common. It appears, for 67
instance, in a verse by Jamîl in the form ar-rajâʾu l-muʾammalû.310 Jamîl con-
306 But cf., for instance, Murtaḍâ az-Zabîdî, Itḥâf, IX, 164.
307 Cf. al-Azharî, Tahdhîb, XI, 181b; Lisân al-ʿArab, XIX, 23: “Ar-rajâʾ, as a part of amal, is the
opposite of al-yaʾs.” Al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ, IV, 141, l. 15, spoke simply of ar-rajâʾ as the opposite
of al-yaʾs. Ar-rajâʾ, of course, also contrasted with fear.
308 Cf. al-Qâlî, Amâlî, II, 229, l. 18; Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, al-Ishârât al-ilâhîyah, ed. ʿAbd-ar-
Raḥmân Badawî, 121, l. 15 (Cairo 1950). ʿAdî b. Zayd already spoke of râjin amalan, cf. his
Dîwân, ed. M. Jabbâr al-Muʿaybid, 99 (Baghâd 1385/1965); al-Buḥturî, Ḥamâsah, 316, ed.
Cheikho, 217.
309 Cf. al-Buḥturî, Dîwân, (II), 960, quoted by al-Ḥuṣrî, Zahr, I, 225. The likely influence of the
first aphorism of Hippocrates is even more visible in “hope is long, life is short,” cf. Ibn
Abî d-dunyâ, Dhamm ad-dunyâ, 309, no. 257; Abû Nuʿaym, Ḥilyah, X, 151, l. 4. For a later
variation, see below, n. 345.
Cf., further, Ibn al-Jawzî, Dhamm al-hawâ, ed. Muṣṭafâ ʿAbd-al-Wâḥid and M. al-Ghaz-
zâlî, 639 (Cairo 1381/1962):
Then, despair ( yaʾs) to be born patiently by the soul after

It had rajat amalan. Despair helps to be patient.
For occurrences in prose, cf. Ibn Abî d-dunyâ, Dhamm ad-dunyâ, 255, no. 52: wa-rajâʾuhum
alladhî îyâhu yaʾmulûn, or Ibn Hindū, al-Kalim ar-rûḥânîyah, 62 (Cairo 1318/1900): mâ
tarjûhu min al-amal.
310 Cf. Jamîl, Dîwân, ed. F. Gabrieli, in Rivista degli Studi Orientali, 17 (1938), 155, ed. Ḥusayn
versely also used al-amal al-marjûw in verses describing his chaste approach to
Buthaynah. He was satisfied with “‘No’ and ‘I can’t’, and wishes, and bi-l-amali
al-marjûwi when the one who hopes for it (âmiluh) has become frustrated.”311
The somewhat artless juxtaposition of the two words is more natural in
prose than it is in poetry. In prose, one might, for instance, speak of “the
children of ar-rajâʾ wa-l-аmal”312 or advise against “mounting al-amal wa-r-rajâʾ
at all times in all circumstances because in most cases both drive man toward
unpleasantness.”313 And they were used, as we have seen,314 both together in
the title of a book.
In poetry, combined use in verbal forms occurred in a prominent place
of Bânat Suʿâd. Arjû wa-âmulu emphasized Kaʿb b. Zuhayr’s ardent hope for
something he felt could not be.315 About the middle of the eighth century, Abû
Dulâmah rhymed:
May you miss what you are strongly hoping for (tarjûhu wa-taʾmuluhû).316
And another celebrated wit of the preceding generation, Ḥamzah b. Bîḍ, said:
You have added to what I used strongly to hope for (kuntu arjû wa-
âmulû).317
Naṣṣâr, 162 (2nd printing, Cairo 1967), quoted in Agh., VII, 98, Agh.3, VIII, 131. There is
nothing special to the construct combination “hope of the hoper (uʾammilu … amala
l-murtajî),” cf. ʿUmar b. Abî Rabîʿah, Dîwân, ed. P. Schwarz, I, 107, no. 143, verse 9 (Leipzig
1901–1909), ed. M. Muḥyî-ad-dîn ʿAbd-al-Ḥamîd, 306 (2nd printing, Cairo 1380/1960).
311 Cf. Jamîl, Dîwân, ed. Gabrieli, 160, ed. Naṣṣâr, 169. If the indicated variant al-makdhûbi is
preferred, the verse would be irrelevant in this context.
312 Cf. Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, Imtâʿ, I, 2.
313 Cf. Ibn Hindû, 24, among the sayings of Plato included in the edition quoted. “More
excellent amal and more reliable rajâʾ” appears in a saying ascribed to Plato in Abû
Sulaymân as-Sijistânî, Ṣiwân al-ḥikmah, ed. ʿAbd-ar-Raḥmân Badawî, 132 (Teheran 1974).
Cf. also, for instance, aṭ-Ṭabarî, Annales, III, 721, 812.
315 Cf. Ibn Hishâm, Sîrah, I, ii, 890. G.W. Freytag, Caabi Ben-Sohair carmen in laudem Muham-
medis dictum, 2, n. 2 (Halle 1823), noted: “Voces arjû et âmulu, quae idem significant, sed
conjunctae certitudinem spei designant … .” (see also below, n. 414). Guillaume, in his
translation, 599, idiomatically rendered “I hope and expect,” retaining the emphasis that
here and elsewhere is implied in the pairing of the two words.
316 Cf. Agh., IX, 131, Agh.3, X, 256.
317 Cf. Agh., XV, 25, Agh.3, XVI, 223. For Ibn Bîḍ, see GAS, II, 333f. Cf., further, Agh., XVIII, 122,
Agh.3, XX, 59 (see below, n. 762); al-Buḥturî, Dîwân, (II), 1026: natarajjâhu wa-naʾmuluhû.
hope and wishes 601
Both nouns were paired in a verse from the tenth century:
We are people whose bounty is lush, so that 68

Ar-rajâʾu wa-l-amalu graze among us.318
In both poetry and prose, the roots were as a rule more skilfully interwoven.
According to Plato, justice “raises amal and strengthens rajâʾ.”319 God was
invoked as “the one for whose benefits one may hope and from whom reward
is hoped for (al-maʾmûl minhu az-zawâʾid al-murtajâ minhu ath-thawâb),”320
or, simply, as “the goal of the hopes of those who harbor hope (muntahâ âmâl
ar-râjîn),”321 and the like. A poetic prayer of Kushâjim used these words:
O Lord! Bless (me) with good speech,

If I am not blessed with good work.
And do not cut off my firm hope (amalî wa-r-rajâʾa),
For You are ar-rajâʾ, and You are al-amal.322
A few more verses, all of them to be found in Agh., may serve as further
illustrations. It was thus said in reference to the Umayyad governor Khâlid
al-Qasrî:
A good noble young man to be hoped for, a good hope!

( fa-niʿma l-fatâ yurjâ wa-niʿma l-muʾammalû)323
Abû sh-Shibl addressed al-Mutawakkil in words similar to those we have seen

were addressed to God:
318 Cf. ath-Thaʿâlibî, Yatîmah, I, 332.

319 Cf. Abû l-Ḥasan b. Abî Dharr (al-ʿÂmirî?), as-Saʿâdah wa-l-isʿâd, ed. Mojtaba Minovi, 234
(Wiesbaden 1957–1958); ʿAbd-ar-Raḥmân Badawî, Platon en pays d’Islam, 151f. (Teheran
1974, Wisdom of Persia Series 13). The reference may be to Republic 351D, where, however,
the word “hope” does not occur.
320 Cf. Naṣr b. Muzâḥim al-Minqarî, Waqʿat Ṣiffîn, ed. ʿAbd-as-Salâm M. Hârûn, 34 (Cairo
1365).
321 Cf. as-Sarrâj, Lumaʿ, ed. ʿAbd-al-Ḥalîm Maḥmûd and Ṭâhâ. ʿAbd-al-Bâqî Surûr, 95 (Cairo
1380/1960).
322 Cf. Kushâjim, Dîwân, 424. Cf., further, Agh., X, 141, Agh.3, XI, 377: “Hope ( fa-rju) for delivery
coming from God and be of good hope (wa-aḥsin-i-l-amalâ)!”
323 Cf. Agh., XIX, 63, Agh.3, XXII, 25.
He is the end and the one hoped for, for whom a petitioner hopes.
(… wa-l-maʾmûlu yarjûhu l-muʾammil).324
Jamîl made seemingly synonymous use of the two roots in love poetry:
And how could you hope (turajjî) for coming together with her, after she
has been remote
And the rope of coming together has been torn, severing the one you hope
for (tuʾammilû).325
69 The caliph al-Walîd b. Yazîd expressed a common sentiment when he rhymed:
Not everyone who has hopes gets what he hopes for.

(wa-laysa bi-lâqin mâ rajâ kullu âmilî).326
And the early ʿAbbâsid poet Abû Dahmân also stated the same idea in giving
vent to his disenchantment with his experiences in Egypt:
If Egypt disappointed my hopes (mâ kuntu artajî),

And he for whom I had hopes there (kuntu âmulu) did not live up to his
promise—
Well, not everything a noble young man fears turns out to be a misfor-
tune,
And he does not get everything he hopes for.327
A verse by Abû Tammâm proclaimed:
He spread hope (ar-rajâʾa) for us inspite of vicissitudes

By means of which many hopes have been wrestled to the ground (maṣâ-
riʿu l-âmâlî).328
324 Cf. Agh., XIII, 22, Agh.3, XIV, 193. For muʾammil as “petitioner,” see below, n. 747.
325 Cf. Jamîl, Dîwân, ed. Gabrieli, 159, ed. Naṣṣâr, 161, quoted in Agh., VII, 97, Agh.3, VIII, 130.
326 Cf. Agh., VI, 107, Agh.3, VII, 13.
327 Cf. Agh., XIII, 113, XIX, 151, Agh.3, XV, 24, XXII, 256. “He for whom” seems more likely than
“that for which.” The context, which alone could enable us to decide which is correct, is
not available.
328 Cf. Abû Tammâm, Dîwân, ed. ʿAzzâm, III, 77, quoted in Agh., XV, 104, Agh.3, XVI, 392. As Abû
Tammâm stated elsewhere (Dîwân, ed. ʿAzzâm, III, 61), separation may gain a stranglehold
on hopes (mukhannaq al-âmâl) and thereby shackle hope (ar-rajâʾ).
hope and wishes 603
A later author quoting the verse commented that amal here was com-
pensation for (ʿiwaḍ) ar-rajâʾ.329 He apparently meant to make a distinction
between the ordinary worldly hope expressed by amal and the much wider and
more exalted sweep of rajâʾ, a distinction to which Islam had become accus-
tomed.
b ṭamaʿ-ḥirṣ/rajâʾ/amal
An extension of the range of meaning of “hope” was indicated by the quasi-
synonymous use with hope of words ordinarily implying a certain amount of
action-directed “desire” or “greed.” In particular, the root t-m-ʿ, which mostly
suggested something like actively desiring, tinged with the negative connota-
tion of greed, was closely associated with rajâʾ and amal. Etymologically, the
root r-j-w is easily brought into connection with Syriac r-g-g “to desire.” This
constitutes a sort of historical link between rajâʾ and ṭamaʿ in their conceptual
range. It would seem possible that a biliteral Proto-Semitic *r-g expressed quite
generally a sense of commotion. Three-radical roots derived from it retained
this external | meaning in a variety of ways, but it was also internalized to 70
express a mental and psychological state and activity within the range of desir-
ing and hoping.330
In Islam, two avenues led to the most direct identification of ṭamaʿ and
rajâʾ. First, and most importantly, Qurʾânic r-j-w was considered early on as
containing the meanings of “fear” as well as “hope.” Already in the first half
of the eighth century, Muqâtil b. Sulaymân defined the two aspects (wajh) he
found in rajâʾ as ṭamaʿ and khashyah. Expectedly, the religious approach to
“hope” started from the passages of the Qurʾân which Muqâtil quoted in this
connection.331 The ingenious interpretation of Qurʾân 13:12 found in khawfan
wa-ṭamaʿan the pairing of fear and hope; conversely, in Qurʾân 39:9, yaḥdharu
329 Cf. Ibn Abî l-Ḥadîd, I, 350 f.

330 Syriac ragyâ “soft, fresh” seems very close in form but is too remote in meaning to be
related to “hope,” although this is not entirely excluded. It would lead too far here to
investigate the Semitic roots containing the combination r-g and try to establish their
possible starting points in external and internal commotion, but note Arabic rajja “to
be in commotion” and rajiya “to be bewildered,” as examples of physical and mental
commotion.
Since hoping is closely related to imagining, it may be pointed out that the root
w-h-m also appears to have had its starting point in agitation internalized. Many other
triliteralizations of *h-m in Arabic and other Semitic languages support this view.
331 Cf. Muqâtil b. Sulaymân, al-Ashbâh wa-n-naẓâʾir, ed. ʿAbdallâh Maḥmûd Shaḥâtah, 168
(Cairo 1395/1975). Cf. Ḥubaysh b. Ibrâhîm Tiflîsî, Wujûh-e Qurʾân, ed. Mehdî Mohaghghegh,
… wa-yarjû indicated for ḥ-dh-r the meaning of fear.332 In the second place,
just as the opposite of rajâʾ was defined by the concept of yaʾs “non-hope,
despair,” the same word yaʾs was also seized upon to serve as the opposite of
ṭamaʿ, even though there existed another root, q-n-ṭ, which filled the need for
an opposite.333
A verse by Abû Tammâm, in which amal and ṭamaʿ appeared next to each
other:
71 (The hand of complaint) turns around among (the poems) new amal
That is clothed in two garments of new ṭamaʿ,
aroused the emphatic disapproval of al-Âmidî. He felt that amal and ṭamaʿ,
even if they were originally different in meaning, had become so much alike
that they could not be used effectively in the way Abû Tammâm did here:
The meaning of ṭamaʿ, amal, and rajâʾ is one and the same in intent and
usage. One may say: ‘I hope (anâ âmil) for relief from God,’ just as one
may use aṭmaʿ or arjû (in the same connection). Their parallel usage is
possible (tunsaq baʿḍuhâ ʿalâ baʿḍ) only because they are different words.
One may also say: ‘ṭamaʿ, or amal, or rajâʾ is cut off from someone,’ or
109 f. (Teheran 1340). Ibn ad-Dahhân, al-Aḍdâd fî l-lughah, ed. M.Ḥ. Âl Yâsîn, Nafâʾis
al-makhṭûṭât, I, 4, 11 (an-Najaf 1372/1952), explains: ar-rajâʾ li-ṭ-ṭâmiʿ wa-l-khâʾif. Cf., further,
below, pp. 78 f.
332 Cf. Abû Ṭâlib al-Makkî, Qût, I, 215, ll. 9 ff., similarly al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ, IV, 144.
333 Cf. Ibn al-Athîr, an-Nihâyah fî gharîb al-ḥadîth wa-l-athar, IV, 279 (Cairo 1322); aṣ-Ṣafadî,
Tamâm, 253. Cf. Lisân al-ʿArab, VIII, 146: “Al-yaʾs is al-qunûṭ. It is also said: Al-yaʾs is the
opposite of ar-rajâʾ.”
Qurʾân 39:53: “Do not give up hope for the mercy of your Lord (lâ tâqnaṭû mir-raḥmati
llâhi),” was designated the most hopeful (arjâ) verse of the Qurʾân in Abû Ṭâlib al-Makkî,
Qût, I, 213, ll. 15 f.; al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ, IV, 128. (There were other verses so described, such
as Qurʾân 24:22, according to the ḥadîth transmitted by Muslim, Ṣaḥiḥ, II, 632 [Calcutta
1265/1849], cf. Concordance, II 231a28, or Qurʾan 93:5f., according to al-Makkî and al-
Ghazzâlî.)
An alleged distinction between yaʾs and qunûṭ was drawn by Abû Hilâl al-ʿAskarî,
Furûq, 203: “The distinction between yaʾs, qunûṭ, and khaybah (‘frustration, lack of suc-
cess’) is that qunûṭ is much more emphatic than yaʾs. Khaybah comes only after amal,
because it is the impossibility of attaining what one hopes for. Yaʾs, on the other hand,
may come both before and after amal. Rajâʾ and yaʾs are opposites that alternate with one
another as do frustration (khaybah) and success (ẓafar). Khâʾib is the one who is cut off
from what he hopes.”
hope and wishes 605
(using any of these words) ‘has been frustrated.’ If there was a differ-
ence between these words in original linguistic usage but they are now
used identically,334 then there is no point in Abû Tammâm’s (quoted
verse).335
A few examples for the manner in which the close association between ṭamaʿ
and rajâʾ (and, it seems more rarely, amal) operated will suffice here. In a prose
context, it was said: “Do not ṭ-m-ʿ, for hope (rajâʾ) is gone.”336 Or, we hear that
two brothers of the royal house of al-Ḥîrah consoled one another on the death
of a third brother with these words: “What (good) is ṭamaʿ where there is no
hope ( fî-mâ lâ yurjâ)?”337
A verse by a certain Umm aḍ-Ḍaḥḥâk al-Muḥâribîyah used the verb rajâʾ
followed by ṭamaʿ in the accusative. The construction admits of various syn-
tactic interpretations, but a tautological accusative was possibly intended here.
Among the things, she said, that make love vanish there also is
Despair ( yaʾs) eventually leaving the soul numb after

It had rajat ṭamaʿan—Despair helps to be patient.338
Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah used parallelism:
How can we hope (narjû) for eternal life or desire (naṭmaʿu)

To live when our predecessors dwell in graves.339
He also made use of the parallelism between wishes (munâ) and maṭâmiʿ:
One who is passionately involved with this world

Is taken captive by wishes and enslaved by maṭâmiʿ.340
334 This translation is based upon textual emendation. It appears to be correct and to yield
the required sense.
335 Cf. al-Âmidî, Muwâzanah, II, 326 f.; Abû Tammâm, loc. cit. (above, n. 245).
336 Cf. al-Minqarî, Waqʿat Ṣiffîn, 84.
337 Cf. al-Madâʾinî, Taʿâzi, ed. Ibtisâm M. aṣ-Ṣifâr (?) and Badrî M. Fahd, 89 (an-Najaf 1971).
340 Cf. Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah, Dîwân, 217. For ṭ-m-ʿ/ m-n-w, cf. also Ibn ʿAbd-al-Barr, Bahjah, I,
160; Abû Hilâl al-ʿAskarî, Jamharat al-amthâl, ed. M. Abû l-Faḍl Ibrâhîm and ʿAbd-al-
Majîd Qaṭâmish, I, 274 (Cairo 1384/1964); Ibn al-Jawzî, Dhamm al-hawâ, 36. Abû l-
ʿAtâhiyah, Dîwân, 391: “I accept from my soul the wishes with which it deceives
72 Maṭmaʿ, pl. maṭāmiʿ, was commonly used as “place of hope, things hoped
for.” Lâ maṭmaʿ indicated that “there is no hope.”341 Thus, the verse of Abû
l-ʿAtâhiyah serves to show the identity of wishing and hoping.
It is better to die, a verse tells us, than being a person for whose help
no hope is harbored when something happens and for whose kindness and
benefactions ( fî l-maʿrûfi) one has no maṭmaʿ.342 At-taʾmîl wa-ṭ-ṭamaʿ were
paired in a verse of al-Aḥwaṣ.343 A verse by Ibrâhîm b. al-ʿAbbâs aṣ-Ṣûlî spoke of
the troops of despair ( yaʾs) he would ordinarily muster in order to deal with the
onslaught of hope (amal). This is the reading of one of the sources quoting the
verse; in another, “hope” is replaced by a synonymous ṭamaʿ.344 Objectionable
hope for a long and good life was fittingly castigated by ʿUmârah al-Yamanî in
a marthiyah:
The ṭamaʿ of a man with respect to life is a deception.

Long hopes (ṭawîlu l-âmâli) with respect to it mean short ones.345
The opposition of ṭamaʿ and yaʾs occurred commonly. The meaning of hope
for the former, and non-hope for the latter, is transparent. A chapter heading
reading Bâb aṭ-ṭamaʿ wa-l-yaʾs is not unexpected.346 A Hudhalite poet rhymed:
Rest assured that despair without delay

Is better than false hope (ṭamaʿ),
And delay speeded up effectively
Is better than frustrated hope (amal).347
me, when it makes me wish them, ṭamaʿan.” Here, “greedily” may be a better translation
than “hopefully.”
Another word for “desire,” shahwah, belongs basically to a different conceptual realm
and has therefore been excluded from the present investigation, but cf. the heading, appar-
ently by the author himself: ikhtilâf al-himam wa-sh-shahawât wa-l-amânî, in Ibn Qutay-
bah, Uyûn, I, 258, or the phrase: “the amânî and shahawât of this world,” in al-Ghazzâlî,
Iḥyâʾ IV, 332.
341 Cf. Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, Imtâʿ, II, 131, ll. 11 f.
342 Cf. al-Bayhaqî, Maḥâsin, 188.
343 Cf. al-Aḥwṣ, Shiʿr, 144; Agh., IV, 54, Agh.3, IV, 259.
344 Cf. Abû Наyyân at-Tawḥîdî, Baṣâʾir, I, 113, and al-Bakrî, Simṭ al-laʾâlî, ed. ʿAbd-al-ʿAzîz
al-Maymanî, I, 241 (Cairo 1354).
345 Cf. ʿUmârah al-Yamanî, I, 51.
346 Cf. Ibn ʿAbd-al-Barr, Bahjah, II, 159–162.
347 Cf. Ibn Qutaybah, Shiʿr, 556; Abû Ḥilâl al-ʿAskarî, Dîwân al-maʿâni, I, 161 (Abû Tammâm).
hope and wishes 607
“The soul perishes between despair and hope (al-yaʾsi wa-ṭ-ṭamaʿi)” is a

statement that appeared in a verse by Hârûn ar-Rashîd.348 If love is not to be
stagnant, the stimuli of both yaʾs and ṭamaʿ must be present.349
The contrasting of ṭamaʿ and yaʾs often served to strengthen moralizing 73
pronouncements which extolled despair at the expense of hope (ṭamaʿ). Thus,
a verse by Maḥmûd al-Warrâq contrasted not hoping with active hope and
proclaimed the former more praiseworthy:
To hope for despair is more praiseworthy than to practice hope.

(wa-l-yaʾsu aḥmadu marjûwin min-a-ṭ-ṭamaʿ i).350
The attribution of moralizing verses to names such as Maḥmûd al-Warrâq must

always be subject to doubt. It is even more so in the case of the seventh-century
Abû l-Aswad ad-Duʾalî and the verse that appears among his poetry:
Despair, indeed, brings modesty closer than does ṭamaʿ.351
On the other hand, little doubt attaches to the historicity of a verse by Saʿîd b.
ʿAbd-ar-Raḥmân, a grandson of Ḥassân b. Thâbit, in which he warned against
ṭamaʿ and stated that maṭāmiʿ are poverty while yaʾs is wealth.352
A Ṣûfî could contend as a matter of course that “fear is despair, and ar-
rajâʾ is aṭ-ṭamaʿ.”353 The ṭamaʿ aspect of rajâʾ made hope undesirable, and
both rajâʾ and ṭamaʿ were less desirable than yaʾs, giving up hope in favor of
fear.354 A saying ascribed to Aristotle opposed ṭamaʿ, unreasonable greed, to
yaʾs, contentment: “Aṭ-ṭamaʿ is poverty present, and al-yaʾs is obvious-
wealth.”355 The good and proper side of hope was set against its negative
348 Cf. Ibn al-Jarrâh, Waraqah, ed. ʿAbd-al-Wahhâb ʿAzzâm and ʿAbd-as-Sattâr A. Farrâj, 19
(Cairo, n.y. [1372/1953]).
350 Cf. Maḥmûd al-Warrâq, Dîwân, 91.
351 Or, “is closer to.” Cf. Abû l-Aswad ad-Duʾalî, Dîwân, 30; Abû Hilâl al-ʿAskarî, Jamharah, I,
277.
352 Cf. al-Buḥturî, Ḥamâsah, 197, ed. Cheikho, 133, quoted by Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, Imtâʿ,
II, 148.
353 Cf. Abû Bakr al-Wâsiṭî, in as-Sulamî, Ṭabaqât, 303. For Ibn ʿArabî, Iṣṭilaḥ aṣ-Ṣûfîyah, 13
(Hyderabad 1367/1948), ar-rajâʾ was ṭamaʿ in the near term (while al-khawf warned against
unpleasantness in the future).
354 On Ṣûfî fear and hope, see below, pp. 141 ff.
355 Cf. al-Mubashshir, 200, ll. 6 f.
aspect expressed by misplaced maṭmaʿ, ṭamaʿ which is excessive and undesir-

able, in a verse by Abû Tammâm:
My hope directed to you alone I consider a noble ambition.

With respect to all other people I consider it maṭmaʿ.
Al-Buḥturî was supposed to have imitated this conceit when he praised al-Fatḥ
b. Khâqân as a noble friend who
Took over my hope after confiscating it from groups

Who are such (low-class people) that with respect to them âmâl are
maṭamiʿ.356
74 Ḥirṣ was excessive desire or greed and occasionally described as “the worst kind
of ṭamaʿ.”357 It, too, was sometimes associated with hope. This was the case in
a famous ḥadîth,358 which quite likely served as a precedent for later pairings
of the concepts. The Prophet, we are told, thus spoke of “these skulls (which)
harbored the same desires (ḥ-r-ṣ) and the same hopes (ʾ-m-l) as you do.”359
Again, a chapter heading could combine ḥirṣ and amal, although the material
treated in the chapter itself left them largely separate.360 Maḥmûd al-Warrâq
would encompass both in his fervent complaint:
How long, Oh, how long will you be

A slave to ḥirṣ and âmâl!361
Greed could also be seen not only as a bad consequence of exaggerated hop-
ing362 but also as a more positive form of hope and desire. This was the case
when it was directed toward the acquisition of every conceivable knowledge in
356 Cf. Abû Tammâm, Dîwân, ed. ʿAzzâm, II, 333, and al-Buḥturî, Dîwân, (II), 1303; Abû Hilâl
al-ʿAskarî, Ṣinâʿatayn, 171, ed. al-Bijâwî and Ibrâhîm, 227. Cf. also Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî,
Baṣâʾir, II, 181, l. 15: “Hopes directed to anyone but you are mistakes and guesses (khawâṭiʾ
wa-ẓunûn).”
357 Cf. ash-Sharîshî, I, 278 (see below, n. 361).
358 Cf. above, n. 282, and below, n. 768.
359 Cf. al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ, III, 176, ll. 18 f.
360 Cf. Ibn ʿAbd-al-Barr, Bahjah, I, 152–158.
361 Cf. Maḥmûd al-Warrâq, Dîwân, 59, quoting from Ibn ʿAbdrabbih, ʿIqd, III, 207; ash-Sharîshi,
I, 278; Ibn ʿAbd-al-Barr, Bahjah, I, 156.
362 Cf. the Platonic saying in Ibn Hindû, 62, referred to above, n. 309.
hope and wishes 609
fulfillment of an individual’s true and proper hope. A civilization which by then

had become fully conscious of its intellectual foundations was well prepared for
understanding this view which was expressed in a verse by Ṭâshköprüzâdeh in
the sixteenth century.363
c munyah-umnîyah/ rajâʾ/amal
The verbs and nouns derived from the root m-n-w in the meaning of “wishing”
were without question often treated as almost, or even completely, identical
in meaning with r-j-w and ʾ-m-l.364 A variant reading in a verse of ʿUmar b.
Abî Rabîʿah replaced atarajjâ (or laki arjû) by atamannâ.365 At-tamannî wa-
l-amal was paired by a mystic to pinpoint one of the causes of the corrup-
tion of nature.366 A person might wish that | someone’s al-munâ wa-l-âmâl be 75
granted to him.367 It could be said that “most of a person’s wishes and hopes
(akthar amânîh wa-âmâlih)” were concentrated upon one thing.368 An adab
encyclopaedia treated al-amânî wa-l-amal in the same chapter,369 and it was
almost routine for a scholar of the fourteenth-fifteenth century to give his work
a title such as al-Munyah wa-l-amal.370
In conjunction, “wishes and hopes” was employed to form phrases such
as “the obtainment of wishes and hopes” which became trite expressions for
greatest possible success. Slight variations occurred such as, for instance,
nayl al-munâ wa-idrâk al-amal371 or idrâk (nayl) al-amânî wa-bulûgh al-
363 Cf. Ṭâshköprüzâdeh, Miftâḥ, I, 5.

364 A likely etymon would seem to be the paʿʿel of the root in Biblical Aramaic, meaning
“to apportion, to appoint.” Wishing would be an internalized apportioning of something
for oneself. There are, however, too many possibilities for the root to permit plausible
speculation as to the derivation of Arabic m-n-w.
For the relationship to ṭ-m-ʿ, see above, n. 340.
365 Cf. ʿUmar b. Abî Rabîʿah, Dîwân, ed. Schwarz, II, 1, Arabic text, 246, no. 437, notes, 126, ed.
ʿAbd-al-Ḥamîd, 503.
Tamannî was explained as tarajjî in aṣ-Ṣafadî, Tamâm, 49.
366 Cf. Abû l-Ḥasan Ibn aṣ-Ṣâʾigh, in as-Sulamî, Ṭabaqât, 314.
367 Cf. al-Bâkharzî, Dumyat al-qaṣr, ed. ʿAbd-al-Fattâḥ M. al-Ḥulw (Helou), I, 60 (Cairo 1968–
1971), citing Hudhdhâb b. Dahtham ash-Shaybânî.
368 Cf. Ibn Qayyim-al-Jawzîyah, Miftâḥ dâr as-saʿâdah, I, 293 (Beirut, n.y.). Cf., further, ʿUmâ-
rah al-Yamanî, I, 330: yatamannâhu wa-yaʾmuluhû.
369 Cf. ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât, I, 280–283.
370 … fî sharḥ Kitâb al-Milal wa-n-niḥal, by Aḥmad b. Yaḥyâ b. al-Murtaḍâ, cf. the partial
reedition of the work by S. Diwald-Wilzer, Die Klassen der Muʿtaziliten (Wiesbaden 1961,
Bibliotheca Islamica 21).
371 Cf. ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât, I, 282, in the proverb “sweeter than …” (below,
n. 652).
âmâl.372 When descriptive adjectives were added, they were of the conven-
tional variety. Thus, al-Ḥasan al-Baṣrî is said to have spoken of this earthly
habitation as one whose “wishes are false and whose hopes are futile.”373 Love
at its most passionate was said to lead to losing one’s mind and to “hoping for
what cannot be and wishing for what cannot materialize.”374 A person could
become disgusted with “embracing hopes and sharing his bed with wishes.”375
A littérateur was described as “wishing for advancement and hoping for suc-
cess ( yatamannâ ʿulûw shaʾnih wa-yuʾammil iqbâl zamânih).”376 Scholarly and
literary disciplines (âdâb) were, most exceptionally, so good that they made
“the plant of wishing bear fruit and the night of hoping become brightly moon-
lit.”377
76 Alternate use of forms of these roots was an old literary tradition in poetry.
The legendary “first” marthiyah, one composed by Ḥimyar for his father Sabaʾ,
contained a verse which, in literal translation, says:
We hope with respect to ad-dahr the ultimate in wishes.

(nuʾammilu fî d-dahri aqṣâ l-munâ).378
Much of the common thought on hopes and wishes was expressed by the use
of alternation in a verse of Zuhayr b. Masʿûd aḍ-Ḍabbî:
Wish that I knew—but wishes are misleading,

And man, when he hopes, is deceived.379
372 Cf. Abû Hilâl al-ʿAskarî, Dîwân al-maʿânî, II, 101 (“sweeter than cheap prices, safe roads,
… .”); Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, Muqâbasât, ed. M. Tawfîq Ḥusayn, 282, 67th muqâbasah
(Baghdâd 1970). Cf. also, with another word for “desire,” nayl al-bughyah wa-dark al-
maʾmûl as a metaphor for excellence in al-Bâkharzî, Dumyah, I, 110.
373 Cf. Ibn Аbî d-dunyâ, Dhamm ad-dunyâ, 253, no. 50; Abû Nuʿaym, Ḥilyah, II, 136.
374 Cf. Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzîyah, Rawḍat al-muḥibbîn, ed. Aḥmad ʿUbayd, 137 (Cairo 1375/1956).
Cf. also the description of love in the name of Pythagoras which includes “long last-
ing ṭamaʿ and wishful thinking (at-tamâdî fî ṭ-ṭamaʿ wa-l-fikr fî l-amânî),” quoted in an-
Nuwayrî, Nihâyah, II, 126.
375 Cf. Ibn Sanâʾ al-mulk, (Excerpts from) Maṣâʾid ash-shawârid, Ms. Princeton, Yahudah 3873
(Cat. R. Mach, no. 3466), fol. 5b; aṣ-Ṣafadî, Ghayth, II, 227. For “sleeping with hope as a
bedfellow (muḍâjiʿan amalî),” cf. ash-Sharîf ar-Raḍî, Dîwân, I, 114, l. 9.
376 Cf. aṣ-Ṣafadî, Ghayth, I, 20.
377 Cf. Ṭâshköprüzâdeh, Miftâḥ, I, 5.
378 Cf. Ibn Hishâm, Tîjân, 51. Aqṣâ, ghâyah, muntahâ, and the like were the commonly used
words to express the final goal of hoping and wishing.
379 Cf. Abû Tammâm, Waḥshîyât, 87. Ibn Maymûn, Muntahâ aṭ-ṭalab, Ms. Yale S-54 (Catalogue
hope and wishes 611
Full of sorrow because of the departure of his beloved Lubnâ, Qays b. Dharîḥ
said, referring to himself, that Lubnâ
Disappointed you in wishes you had hopes for.380
When one wishes something, one can only hope that it will come true, as stated
in a verse by Ziyâd al-Aʿjam:
I used to make myself wish from you, Ibn Maʿmar,

Wishes which I hope will fully materialize.381
Az-Zabîr, a son of a poet of Umayyad times, ʿAbdallâh b. az-Zabîr, praised

Muḥammad b. ʿUyaynah b. Asmâʾ b. Khârijah, who, it was suggested, was
worried because he might not be able to emulate his father:
Do wishes bring you to what you

Have been hoping for with respect to ʿUyaynah?382
The great Jarîr was justified to worry on account of the hopes and wishes he
harbored:
I am deceived, diverted by wishes.

At night, I always hope that your property be mine.383
While Muslim b. al-Walîd spoke of wishes approaching a Barmecide with many

hopes,384 Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah contrasted human hopes and wishes with the reli-
gious verities:
God is most truthful (aṣdaqu). Hopes are false, 77

And those wishes in the breast are mostly delusions (wasâwisu).385
Nemoy 389), fol. 153b, has idh yaʾmulu for mâ yaʾmulu. For the poet, see GAS, II, 208. For
munâ and âmâl in a verse by Ibn Qunbur, see below.
380 Cf. Agh., VIII, 122, Agh.3, IX, 199. On the poet, see GAS, II, 411f.
381 Cf. Agh., XIV, 105, Agh.3, XV, 386. On the poet, see GAS, II, 373f.
382 Cf. Agh., XIII, 48, Agh.3, XIV, 260. On the poet’s father, see GAS, II, 329f. I am not sure that
I have understood the verse correctly.
383 Cf. Jarîr, Dîwân, 501 (Beirut 1379/1960); Ibn Qutaybah, Shiʿr, 398.
385 Cf. Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah, Dîwân, 193; al-Jâḥiẓ, Ḥayawân, V, 191. Al-Jâḥiẓ quoted the verse anony-
Later, al-Khalîʿ had the hopes do the wishing which he would like to see
frustrated:
And may their hopes not be granted what they wish for.386
For the desperate lover, non-hope ( yaʾs) was really not very different from
hopeless wishing, although he had to admit that they were not the same as
far as the affected individual was concerned:
How surprisingly close are despair and wishes,

Even though for us they are not alike.387
In all the endless pairing of hopes and wishes, an important difference between
the two terms came to the fore on occasion. The poet Ḥamzah b. Bîḍ, we are
told, cursed a flourishing village. When he returned to it, he found that his
curse had been fulfilled. He remarked that he had assumed that he would not
be granted his wish, and was told: “Well, you were granted it. It would have
been better for you to wish for Paradise.” He replied: “I know myself. I would
not wish for something I am not qualified for, but I hope for the mercy of my
Lord.”388 Wishing was seen here as something frivolous and arbitrary, while
hoping, expressed by r-j-w, was a genuine and purposeful religious act. This was
a view of great significance for the Muslim attitude toward wishing and hoping.
We shall hear more about it.
B Distinctions and Definitions

Certain distinctions in meaning have already been pointed out, such as the
emphatic effect of the pairing of rajâʾ and amal, the trend toward negative
connotation in connection with ṭamaʿ, or the minor significance of wishes as
against the fundamental impact of religiously motivated hope. Like all attempts
at verbal expression of psychological states, the terms left much room for indi-
mously. It is not found in the old edition of Ḥayawân. A related verse is that of Ibn ar-Rûmî
which concludes that al-amânî wasâwisu, cf. Abû Hilâl al-ʿAskarî, Ṣinâʿatayn, 171, ed. al-
Bijâwî and Ibrâhîm, 227. Cf. also Freytag, Arabum proverbia, II, 563.
386 Cf. al-Khalîʿ, Ashʿâr, coll. ʿAbd-as-Sattâr A. Farrâj, 32 (Beirut 1960); Agh., VI, 181, Agh.3, VII,
166; at-Tanûkhî, Faraj, I, 62; Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, Ishârât, 233, l. 11, spoke of a “hoper of
wishes (âmil al-munâ).”
387 Cf. Abû Tammâm, Waḥshîyât, 186.
388 Cf. Agh., XV, 16 f., Agh.3, XVI, 206. On Ibn Bîḍ, see above, n. 317.
hope and wishes 613
vidual manipulation, even if their basic identity was sufficiently established by

convention. If pressed, the authors of the passages presented here as evidence
for identity in mean|ing would probably argue in each case that subtle distinc- 78
tions determined their choice and served to enrich the impressions they meant
to convey. Authors also employed rajâʾ and amal in juxtaposition, even though
they discussed elsewhere possible distinctions between them;389 they, indeed,
would have been justified to contend that the distinctions, or at least a distinc-
tion of some sort, also applied in the case of paired use.
Even more so than dahr and zamân, rajâʾ and amal were used as complete
synonyms. They expressed the concept of “hope” with no readily discernible
difference. It would seem clear that this was so already in pre-Islamic times.
However, the Qurʾân and early religious usage led to a noteworthy distinc-
tion which in the course of time became more and more firmly embedded
in Muslim thinking. Amal occurs in the Qurʾân only twice. In Qurʾân 15:3,
it clearly refers to the pernicious hope for worldly well-being which occu-
pies and distracts unbelievers.390 In the other passage, Qurʾân 18:46, it is as
clearly the good religious hope for being rewarded by God: “Property and
children are the pride of this worldly life. The good things that last find a
better reward and better hope with your Lord.”391 The commentators, never-
theless, managed for the most part to interpret the use of amal here in con-
junction with the material goods of “property and children” and to see its
role of indicating Paradisiacal reward as related to its ordinary role as hope
for worldly benefits. The role of amal “hope” as a code word signifying the
futile concern with the perishing and, in fact, worthless goods of this world
was greatly reinforced by the concept of ṭûl al-amal “long hope” and its oppo-
site, qiṣar al-amal. In religious thought and parlance, “long hope” stood for
all that was considered harmful and strictly to be avoided in man’s attitude
on earth. Yarjû at-tawbah bi-ṭûl al-amal “‘hoping’ for forgiveness with long
‘hope’,” to give an example, marked the perverse behavior of someone who har-
bored the pious hope for divine forgiveness but foolishly thought that he could
obtain it not by acting properly but by constant selfish and shortsighted hop-
ing.392
389 Cf. Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî and Miskawayh, Hawâmil, 132, l. 18, and the passage of the
Hawâmil to be quoted below, pp. 82 ff.
390 Cf. also below, n. 613.
391 The second sentence appears in Qurʾân 19:76 with maraddan instead of amalan. The
choice of the word there might have been influenced by the rhyme letter.
392 Cf. Ibn Abî l-Ḥadîd, V, 441. Cf. also above, n. 388.
The root r-j-w, on the other hand, occurs in the Qurʾân some twenty-five
times. It is used there mainly in reference to God and life after death.393 It
is also commonly provided with a negation in speaking of those for whom
79 the result of “hoping” will, or more likely will not, be a | good thing. Hence,
commentators and translators have attributed to it the negative meaning of
“(not) to fear” or a neutral meaning such as, for instance, “(not) to reckon with”
(so R. Paret in his German translation). The lexicographers, of course, were not
at a loss to find evidence for the meaning of “to fear” also outside the Qurʾân.394
The theological intent is transparent, especially so in connection with Qurʾân
71:13. In a word-by-word rendering, the verse says something like “Why do you
not hope ( yarjûna) for God’s dignity?” This sounds as if human beings could
“hope” for God to have, or have not, the one or other quality—a preposterous
hope that required interpretation, such as “seeing/assuming,” “fearing,” or, if it
indeed was hoping, “hoping for the result of faith and belief in the oneness of
God.”395 “Hope” and “fear” commonly converge in the idea of “expecting,”396
and there is no objection to finding this convergence also present in the root
r-j-w. As far as the Qurʾân is concerned, it would seem to be secondary to the
meaning of “hoping.” Be this as it may, for the history of hope and fear in Islam
the most important Qurʾânic passage was 17:57: “They hope for His mercy and
fear His punishment (wa-yarjûna raḥmatahû wa-yakhâfûna ʿadhabahû).” While
the opposite of “hope” was found in the words for “non-hope, despair,” as we
have seen, here khawf appears contrasted with “hope” (but, it may be noted,
not opposed to it). This contrast was eagerly seized upon by the men of religion,
that is, the preachers and then, in particular, those of the inward bent that
393 It may be noted, for whatever it may be worth, that the famous verse on the gharânîq (in
connection with Qurʾân 53:19 f.) speaks of hope (turtajâ) for their intercession.
394 See also above, n. 331.
395 Thus Ibn al-Jawzî, Zâd al-masîr, VIII, 370 (Damascus 1384–1385/1964–1965).
396 Arabic tawaqqaʿa is commonly used for both to hope and to fear. Its meaning of “to
expect” derives from “to assume with respect to oneself that something will happen.” Like
related words, it has little to contribute to our quest. Its neutral meaning was, for instance,
signalled in the verse: “Good and bad and what I fear and hope for and what I expect,”
cf. ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât, II, 32; Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzîyah, Rawḍah, 264, 292. In
contrast, it was clearly “to fear,” for instance, in a verse such as: “In God is what we hope
and what we expect,” cf. Ibn Abî l-Ḥadîd, I, 406, and so on. Another verb for “to expect” is
intaẓara, which has the same basic meaning as exspectare. It was used in defining hoping
and wishing, see below, p. 85. It was combined with ʾ-m-l, for instance, in a verse by ʿUmar
b. Abî Rabîʿah, Dîwân, ed. Schwarz, I, 9, no. 6, verse 3, ed. ʿAbd-al-Ḥamîd, 114: “What I was
hoping and expecting from her.” In at-Tanûkhî, Faraj, I, 77, the Prophet was addressed as
the man whom narjûhu wa-nantaẓiru.
hope and wishes 615
evolved into Ṣûfism. The efforts of Ṣûfî theoreticians, such as as-Sarrâj and
al-Qushayrî, who organized mystic thought around contrasting pairs of terms,
eventually made hope and fear one of the standard topics of religious reflection,
as will be discussed later on.
Philologians in the first place but also philosophers and religious thinkers
attempted to establish meaningful distinctions between amal, rajâʾ, ṭamaʿ, and
tamannî. Traditional and original thought often went | hand in hand, as appears 80
from the material presented here. It is not surprising that the most interesting
reflections on the subject were produced in the tenth century or that it was one
of the thinkers of that period who preserved for us a passage from al-Jâḥiẓ on
hopes and wishes.
The extent of quotations is usually difficult to establish, and it is somewhat
uncertain whether the passage from al-Jâḥiẓ extended to and included the
remarks on hopes and wishes, but it seems likely that it did. In his disquisi-
tion, al-Jâḥiẓ argued for the usefulness and necessity of the complementarity
of human feelings and attitudes. They had been established by God in comple-
mentary pairs for the welfare of mankind. Laughter and crying, death and life,
patience and gratitude, and so forth, all have their particular functions in this
general scheme, as does forgetting.397 Forgetfulness may seem to be something
unnecessary and harmful. It is, however, a good thing and a divine blessing, for
were a person to remember all his misdeeds and all the dangers awaiting him,
it would distract him from the acquisition of what he needs in order to keep his
worldly affairs in good repair and to improve his chances with respect to life
in the other world. Seriousness and playfulness with its enjoyment of wishes
and laughter also belong into this context. Even if wishes and laughter have no
known immediate beneficial effect, they produce a good feeling in the soul, and
they have useful consequences, because they mean rest and leisure, joy398 and
energy. The mention of wishes led to a consideration of the distinction between
wishes and hopes (al-amânî wa-l-âmâl):
Hopes are tied to causes, while wishes go free with no restriction or need
for a cause.399 Improving the incidence of wishes through the expectance
397 On the blessings of memory and forgetfulness, cf., for instance, Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzîyah,
Miftâḥ dâr as-saʿâdah, I, 277.
398 Cf. below, nn. 668–672.
399 The metaphors used here play on the double meaning of “rope” and “cause” in sabab.
Cf. also Ibn ʿAbd-al-Barr, Bahjah, I, 152: “Hope happens for a cause, while the gate of
wishes is open for everybody to enter.”
of wishes (read: ‘hopes’400) is something common to all souls. (The souls)

cannot be kept from (wishes and hopes). They cannot go without them.
The living, sensing soul is not permitted to remain unoccupied and with-
drawn from all activity; (if it were,) it would be identical with the dead.
Whenever the heart does not encounter plans for doing something good
or bad in connection with some established worldly or otherworldly need,
it must still turn toward some sort of activity. After withdrawal (from all
activity), there are only wishes. Thus, wishing has become one of the
81 most harmful and | most firmly rooted fundamental matters. The heart
cannot constantly support the loneliness of thought and the boredom
of reflection and speculation about the kingdom of heaven and earth
…401
Regardless of any distinction between them, hopes and wishes were seen here
in the end as not much different in their negative effect upon man’s desire and
power to act and thus upon his moral stance.
From about the end of the tenth century, Abû Hilâl al-ʿAskarî, a philologian,
Abû Ḥayyan at-Tawḥîdî and Miskawayh, in their capacity as philosophers,
and the somewhat later Qushayrî, a mystic moralist, have left us noteworthy
statements. In his treatise on distinctions between related concepts, Abû Hilâl
al-ʿAskarî also included a discussion of the difference between rajâʾ/ amal and
ṭamaʿ, as he saw it in accordance with the philological tradition in which he
stood:
Rajâʾ is the assumption that something good will happen,402 although the
person concerned is doubtful about it, yet tends rather toward assuming
400 It seems certain that one of the amânî in this difficult sentence is a mistake for âmâl, but
whether it was the first or the second occurrence, is hard to establish.
401 Cf. Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, Baṣâʾir, II, 277 f.
402 Az-ẓann bi-wuqûʿ al-khayr. This looks almost like a translation of the Platonic definition
(Definitions 416A) of elpis as prosdokia agathou. Prosdokia was rendered by the root r-j-w
in Artemidorus, see E. Schmitt (above, n. 31), 407a. Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, 1115a9,
defined fear as prosdokia kakou. The Arabic translation of the Nicomachean Ethics, ed.
ʿAbd-ar-Raḥmân Badawî, 122 f. (Kuwait 1979), has tawâqquʿ sharr.
An approximate conceptual equivalence between ẓann and rajâʾ can be observed
in various ways, cf. al-Aḥwaṣ, Shiʿr, 196, no. 147, verse 4, and 198, no. 148, verse 6; Abû
l-ʿAtâhiyah, Dîwân, 453; Abû Nuʿaym, Ḥilyah, X, 58, ll. 6f., citing Yaḥyâ b. Muʿâdh; Abû
Ḥаyyân at-Tawḥîdî, Akhlâq al-wazîrayn, ed. M. b. Tâwît aṭ-Ṭanjî, 102, ll. 9f. (Damascus, n.y.
[1385/1965]), for the sequence raʾy-ẓann-amal. See also above, n. 356, and below, nn. 428,
670, 728 (Ibn Sanâʾ-al-mulk), 821.
hope and wishes 617
that it will indeed happen, without any (real) knowledge being involved.
There is evidence for that in the fact that one does not say, ‘I hope that the
Prophet will enter Paradise,’ because this is a certainty. It might be said,
‘I hope that he will enter Paradise,’ if this were not known. Rajâʾ is hope
(amal) with respect to something good, and dread and fear with respect
to something bad, for both involve doubt with respect to what is hoped
for or feared.403
Rajâʾ comes about only because of some cause calling for it, such as
the generosity of (the person) hoped for or (the effort to get) in contact
with him (?).403a It is (grammatically) transitive. One may say, ‘I have
hoped (for) Zayd (accusative),’ meaning ‘I have hoped for something good
coming from Zayd,’ because (it would make) no (sense for) rajâʾ to be used
with persons as direct objects.
Ṭamaʿ, on the other hand, is what does not come about from a cause 82
calling for it. If one desires (ṭ-m-ʿ) something, it is in a way an internal
psychological process (ḥaddathta nafsaka bih),404 without there being
403 Ibn ad-Dahhân (above, n. 331) stated that “ar-rajâʾ applies to doubt and certainty.” It seems
that he means that hope may be entertained for something that is possible but doubtful as
well as for something that is possible and likely. This is different from Abû Hilâl al-ʿAskarî’s
argumentation but not fundamentally so. For the relation of hope and fear to doubt, cf.
al-Ghazzâlî, below, n. 821.
403a Aw mâ bih ilayh may need an added yaṣil to yield the sense indicated, which is apparently
what is meant.
404 Cf. the famous verse by Labîd, below, n. 432. The Kûfan philologian Thaʿlab (Abû l-ʿAbbās
Aḥmad b. Yaḥyâ) defined wishing (tamannî) as “ḥadîth an-nafs concerned with what
will, and will not, be,” cf. al-Azharî, Tahdhîb, XV, 533b; Ibn al-Athîr, Nihâyah, IV, 118;
Lisân al-ʿArab, XX, 163. Az-Zajjâjî, Amâlî, ed. ʿAbd-as-Salâm M. Hârûn, 19 (Cairo 1382),
listed among the meanings of tamannâ in the first place that it indicated an internal
psychological process of man (tamannâ ar-rajul idhâ ḥaddatha nafsah).
ʿUmar b. Abî Rabîʿah, Dîwân, ed. Schwarz, 9, ed. ʿAbd-al-Ḥamîd, 112, appealed to his
beloved in these words:
You are the wishes and ḥadîth an-nafs, (when we are) alone
As well as in company. You are eye and ear.
Cf. also below, n. 498.

For Ibn ʿArabî, wishes were an internal psychological process concerned with what
is unattainable; they may give pleasure while they last but prevent the achievement
of familiarity with and annul the moments of spiritual inspiration (al-awqât), cf. his
Tajallîyât, 50 (Hyderabad 1367/1948), see also below, n. 805.
any cause calling for it. Therefore, ṭamaʿ is considered blameworthy, while
rajâʾ is not …405
While Abû Hilâl al-ʿAskarî summarized traditional wisdom, a greater degree

of originality could be expected from tenth-century philosophers such as Abû
Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî and Miskawayh. They included wishes in their study of
hope:
Question: Why does hope, whenever the body ages, show youthful
vigor?406 Abû ʿUthmân an-Nahdî said: ‘I have lived 180 years and have
come to dislike everything except hope, which is the sharpest ever.’407
83 What is the cause of this situation and the implication of it? What is
amal in the first place, umnîyah in the second, and rajâʾ in the third? Do
they comprise what is beneficial in the world? And if they do, why do
405 Cf. Abû Hilâl al-ʿAskarî, Furûq, 203, ed. ʿÂdil Nuwayhiḍ, 239f. (Beirut 1393/1973).
The next item in the Furûq is not quite clear to me. It is supposed to deal with the
distinction between wajal “fear” and amal, but this distinction is not discussed at all.
Perhaps, al-wajal should read rajâʾ. More probably, there is a homoioteleuton omission
here, which caused the omission of the section on wajal and amal, while the one dealing
with rajâʾ and amal is preserved. (A distinction between wajal and khawf was discussed by
Abû Hilâl al-ʿAskarî on the preceding page.) His statement that “amal is rajâʾ with staying
power ( yastamirru)” may refer to the long-term character sometimes attributed to amal,
see below, p. 87.
406 Thе play on the roots shâba and shabba was incorporated in the Prophetic tradition on
ḥirṣ and amal (see above, n. 285), cf. aṣ-Ṣafadî, Ghayth, I, 82 (where we find ṭûl al-amal).
In the other version of the ḥadîth which does not speak of ḥirṣ and amal but of ḥirṣ for
property and ḥirṣ for life, h-r-m and sh-b-b were used, cf., e.g., Ibn Ḥanbal, Musnad, II,
256 (Cairo 1313); Ibn Mâjah, Sunan, (II), 1415 (Cairo 1381–1382/1972). In still another version
(without ḥirṣ), only shâba occurs, cf. at-Tirmidhî (with Ibn al-ʿArabî, ʿÂriḍat al-aḥwadhî),
IX, 205 (Cairo 1350/1931).
407 More commonly, Abû ʿUthmân’s age was given as 130 years. Also, the concluding words of
the widely quoted statement attributed to the longevous Abû ʿUthmân (ʿAbd-ar-Raḥman
b. M-ll) were phrased differently in other sources. It could be that aḥadd mâ kân “sharpest
ever” should be read ajiduh kamâ kân “I find it as it was,” or the like. A version in Ibn
Abî d-dunyâ has Abû ʿUthmân declare that he has noticed a diminishing of everything of
himself except of his hope, cf. Ibn Abî d-dunyâ, Qiṣar al-amal, Ms. Damascus, Ẓâhirîyah,
Majmûʿ 50, fol. За (I am grateful to James A. Bellamy for kindly providing me with a
photostat copy of the text). Further quotations are al-Jâḥiẓ, Bayân, III, 177; Ibn Qutaybah,
Maʿârif, ed. Tharwat ʿUkâshah, 426 (Cairo 1960); al-Khaṭîb al-Baghdâdî, Taʾrîkh Baghdâd,
X, 204, ll. 21 f. (Cairo 1349/1931); Ibn ʿAbd-al-Barr, Istîʿâb, (II), 854; Ibn Abî l-Ḥadîd, V. 292,
310; Ibn Ḥajar, Tahdhîb, VI, 278 (Hyderabad 1325–1327).
hope and wishes 619
people exhort each other to be short on hope, to cut out wishing, and
to deflect any hope except (hope) in God and directed toward God, as He
covers up weaknesses, pities tears, accepts repentance, and forgives sins,
and any hope (amal) for anyone other than Him is futile and any hope
(rajâʾ) for anyone except Him is transitory?
Answer, as stated by Abû ʿAlî Miskawayh:
In this question, one of the soul’s actions has been taken and combined
with one of nature’s actions which concern the body’s relationship to
nature and bodily temperament. Then, the two have been compared.
But they are different from one another and not similar. Therefore, (the
comparison) has caused astonishment. Amal and rajâʾ and munâ belong
to the properties of the rational power. Old age and the deficiencies
that affect the body, as well as the weakness of the powers dependent
upon temperament are natural matters (residing) in organs that become
dulled through use and weak with the passing of time. The actions of
the soul, on the other hand, become stronger and more effective when
they are repeated and made to last. They are contrary to the condition
of the body. For instance, intellectual vision becomes strong and sharp
through use, so as to be able to perceive in a short time what took it
(before) a long time to perceive and to get quickly at something that was
(before) hidden from it. Physical vision, on the other hand, becomes dull
and weak through use; it becomes less effective and eventually dwindles
away.
The difference between amal and rajâʾ on the one hand and umnîyah
on the other is obvious. Amal and rajâʾ are connected with matters of
choice and things of that sort, whereas wishes are connected with what
does not involve choice and reflection. There is nothing to prevent wish-
ing the absurd (muḥâl) and things which do not involve, or have, any
discernment.408
Amal is more exclusively concerned with matters of choice, while
rajâʾ is in a way concerned with both (matters of choice and matters
of chance).409 A man may hope for (r-j-w) rain and fertility, but only
a man who possesses power and reflection would hope (ʾ-m-l). As for
408 Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, Imtâʿ, III, 162f., tried to explain the difficulty of obtaining
one’s wishes as caused by the fact that “wishing is purely a product of the sensing soul,
while the thing wished is obtained on (material) occasions (?) subject to much inter-
ference.”
409 The logical term mushtarak is used.
wishes, they are, as you know, all over the place in every direction. A
man may wish to be able to fly, or to become a star, or to ascend to
84 the sphere to observe its | condition.410 He does neither r-j-w nor ʾ-m-l
this. He may hope for (r-j-w) rain, but he would hope (ʾ-m-l) only for
one bringing down drops and producing abundant moisture.411 These are
clear distinctions.
As to your question why people exhort each other to be short on
hope, to cut out wishing, and to deflect any hope except (hope) in God,
my reply is that this is so because all other things we may hope for or
wish (al-maʾmûlah wa-l-marjûwah wa-l-mutamannâh) are unsupported
and finite and, further, turn into nothingness such as they are, dwindle
away, disappear, and undergo decay, and not a thing of them stays put
for a single moment. If someone were to get at them and get of them
whatever he wanted, the thing (he has got) would be ready right away
to turn into nothingness and dwindle away as such, or his hope (rajâʾ)
and wishing would turn into nothingness and dwindle away. However,
all of it that is joined to God is eternal and never cut off, nor does it
dwindle away. Rather, God is constantly emanating and bestowing it
liberally—Exalted and sanctified be His name! There is no power except
through Him. He suffices us and aids us and guides us to the straight
path.412
The distinction made here and elsewhere between arbitrary wishing and pur-
poseful hoping was brought into play rather strangely by a commentator on
Kaʿb b. Zuhayr’s Bânat Suʿâd in connection with the mentioned pairing of
arjû wa-âmulu413 in a verse of the poem. In the process, that commentator
also turned around the distinction made by Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî and Misk-
awayh between rajâʾ and amal. He maintained that “rajâʾ was used only for
the possible, while amal was used for the possible and the impossible (mus-
taḥîl), as in the verse: ‘Would that youth were to return for a day so that
I could tell what grey hair has wrought,’ although it is known that the old
410 Ibn Bâjjah referred to man wishing the impossible, such as speaking to the dead; this does
no harm as long as he knows that such wishes are false, cf. Rasâʾil Ibn Bâjjah al-ilâhîyah,
ed. Majîd Fakhrî, 87 (Beirut 1968) (see below, n. 693).
411 The reference is probably not to God but to the kind of rain which could be the object of
ʾ-m-l.
412 Cf. Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî and Miskawayh, Hawâmil, 233–235.
413 Above, n. 315.
hope and wishes 621
never regain youth.”414 In his commentary, the grammarian Ibn Hishâm com-
mented that the supposed | distinction made here between amal and rajâʾ 85
rightly applied only to tamannî and rajâʾ.415 The other writer was obviously so
strongly convinced of the identity of hoping and wishing that he thoughtlessly
transferred the distinction properly made between the two words for hope to
hoping and wishing. It is, of course, not surprising to find that these fine—
and largely arbitrary—distinctions could not always be correctly adhered to.
Another indication of their tenuousness may be found in a verse by at-Tihâmî
(d. 416/1025) where he spoke of hope for the impossible: “If you hope for the
impossible (rajawta l-mustaḥîla), you build (your) hope upon the edge of an
abyss.”416
At some undetermined time, a sociological distinction between amal and
rajâʾ cropped up in a saying ascribed to Plato. So far, it appears to be unique
and cannot be placed in a larger context. According to the saying, if a person
wants something (raghbah) from a person of a station higher than his own, it
is called rajâʾ. If he wants something from those around him (?) or from equals,
it is called amal. And if he inappropriately wants something from persons of
lower rank, it is called flattery (tamalluq).417
The moralizing religious tendency which came to dominate discussions
of hopes and wishes was not surprisingly present in al-Qushayrî’s brief but
influential statement on the difference between them:
Hope (rajâʾ) is the heart’s concern with something liked that is to be

obtained in the future. Just as fear happens with respect to a future time,
414 Cf. Gerardus Joannes Lette, Caab. Ben. Zoheir, 10 f. (Leiden 1748), repeated by Freytag
(above, n. 315). For Lette and Reiske, cf. C.F. Schnurrer, Bibliotheca Arabica, 195f. (Halle
1811). Neither Lette nor Freytag indicated the authorship of the commentary they quoted.
According to I. Guidi, Ǵemâleddîni Ibn Hiśâmi Commentarius in Carmen Kaʿbi ben Zoheir,
V, n. 1 (Leipzig 1871), the commentary consisted of excerpts from that of Ibn Hishâm
which he was publishing. However, since the passage in question was known to and
remarked upon by Ibn Hishâm (see n. 415), it must have had a longer history; in general,
it would seem that the commentary used by Lette was not based on Ibn Hishâm alone.
The distinction between rajâʾ and amal was repeated in the commentary on Bânat Suʿâd
contained in Ms. Yale L-416 (Catalogue Nemoy 302), fol. 29a–b, but without reference to
the verse.
For layta as used mostly for mustaḥîl, see below, pp. 105f.
415 Cf. Ibn Hishâm, ed. Guidi, 91.
416 Cf. at-Tihâmî, Dîwân, ed. M. Zuhayr ash-Shâwîsh, 47 (2nd printing, Damascus 1964),
quoted by al-Bâkharzî, Dumyah, I, 115.
417 Cf. Multaqaṭât Aflâṭûn, in ʿAbd-ar-Raḥmân Badawî, Platon (above, n. 319), 288.
thus hope occurs for what is hoped for ( yuʾammal) in the future.418 Hope
gives life and self-control (istiqlâl) to the hearts. The distinction between
hope and wishing is that wishing produces laziness in the person who
does it, so that he does not proceed energetically and seriously. The
contrary is the case with the person who possesses hope. Thus, hope is
praiseworthy, while wishing is something sickly (maʿlûl).419
In trying to work out a distinction between hope (rajâʾ) and wishing (tamannî),
al-Ghazzâlî expectedly fell back upon the religious connection:
(A person who expects rain where rain is neither frequent nor impos-
sible has the kind of expectation that should be called wishing rather
than hope, for) the term rajâʾ is true only if it is applied to the expec-
tation (intiẓâr) of something that is (pleasant and) liked, when all its
86 causes that fall under | human choice can be accounted for and there
remains that which does not fall under man’s choice, which is God’s grace
(able) to turn away all that might interfere and prevent it from happen-
ing. …420
The commentators on al-Bukharî’s Ṣaḥîḥ addressed themselves to the prob-

lem of distinction in comments on a chapter in the kitâb ar-riqâq entitled
“On long hope ( fî l-amal wa-ṭûlih),” although it may be noted, authoritative
ḥadîths employing the phrase ṭûl al-amal do not occur in the chapter and
are not known from the authoritative collections. Al-ʿAynî (762–855/1361–1451)
restricted himself to two statements:
The distinction between amal and tamannî is that amal is what is pre-
ceded by a cause, while wishing is (on) the contrary (what is not preceded
by a cause).
One of the sages said that a man can never extricate himself from hope
and, if what he hopes for eludes him, he relies upon wishing.421
418 Cf. Aristotle, De partibus animalium 669a21.

419 Cf. al-Qushayrî, Risâlah, 62. The editors of the edition Cairo 1385/1966, 318, note that maʿlûl
means madhmûm but give no references.
420 Cf. al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ, IV, 124; Murtaḍâ az-Zabîdî, Itḥâf, IX, 166.
421 Cf. al-ʿAynî, ʿUmdah, X, 584. The statement of the sage occurs in Ibn ʿAbd-al-Barr, Bahjah,
I, 152, and is quoted in the name of Bashshâr in ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât, I, 283.
Al-ʿAynî went on to quote the verse above, n. 385, and a version of the saying attributed
elsewhere to Ibn al-Muqaffaʿ, below, n. 525.
hope and wishes 623
Ibn Ḥajar (773–852/1372–1449) expended this slightly to read:
“Amal is the hope for a long life and greater wealth liked by the soul. It
is similar to wishing (tamannî).” (Here follow the two statements as in
al-ʿAynî, although no mention is made of ‘sages’). “It has also been said:
Hope means that a person wants (irâdah) to obtain something that it is
possible to obtain. Then, if it eludes him, he wishes it.”422
Al-Qasṭallânî (851–923/1448–1517), apparently quoting from Ibn Ḥajar, omitted

al-ʿAynî’s second statement but continued Ibn Ḥajar’s discussion with the last
two sentences on the distinction between rajâʾ and tamannî from al-Qushayrî.
Like his two predecessors, he then used the quotation mentioned above (n. 4),
and he copied from Ibn Ḥajar the statement quoted below (n. 713).423
Ibn Ḥajar had occasion to reiterate his view on the subject in connection
with the kitâb at-tamannî of the Ṣaḥîḥ:
Tamannî is an irâdah with regard to the future. If it is wishing for some-

thing good unconnected with envy, then it is desirable; otherwise, it is
blameworthy. It has been said that tamannî and tarajjî are differentiated
by generality and particularity (ʿumûm wa-khuṣûṣ). Tarajjî is for what is
possible, while tamannî is for what is more general than that.424
The philological discussion was, of course, always kept going. In the eighteenth 87
century, it was represented by Murtaḍâ az-Zabîdî. In connection with the
chapter on ṭûl al-amal wa-faḍîlat qiṣar al-amal of the Iḥyâʾ, he referred to the
following distinctions, taken largely from the basic stock brought together by
the lexicographers:
Know that amal is the expectation of the occurrence of a thing (tawaqquʿ

ḥuṣûl ash-shayʾ). It is employed mostly for what is unlikely (tabʿud) to
occur. A person who is planning to travel to a far (baʿîd) country might
say, ‘I hope (ʾ-m-l) that I shall arrive.’ He would not say, ‘I hope (ṭamiʿtu),’
unless he is near it, for (one has) ṭamaʿ only for what is near. Rajâʾ is in

423 Cf. al-Qasṭallânî, Irshâd, XI, 74.
424 Cf. Ibn Ḥajar, Fatḥ, XVI, 344, also al-ʿAynî, ʿUmdah, XI, 436. Al-Qasṭallânî, Irshâd, XII, 194,
was more concise: “Tamannî is more general than tarajjî, because it is for what is possible
and what is not, while tarajjî is only for what is possible.”
between amal and ṭamaʿ, for he who hopes (ar-râjî) may fear that what
he is hoping for (maʾmûluh) may not happen. The good for which (one
harbors hope) in the heart that it may be obtained is amal. The fear (one
harbors in the heart) is apprehension (îjâs).425
In other words, amal here is long-term positive expectation. Ṭamaʿ is a short-

term desire which it is hoped will be gratified immediately or soon. And rajâʾ
is an expectation uncertain of the outcome which may be positive or negative.
None of these distinctions had any reality except in the minds of those who
thought it interesting or useful to make them, and not even they would have
employed them with any consistency.
Kalâm as such was not concerned with the concept of hope as something
of theological significance that required constant discussion. As much as any-
thing else, this fact serves to demarcate the boundaries between Muslim specu-
lative theology on the one hand and mysticism and religious traditionalism on
the other. As we have seen, someone like al-Jâḥiẓ might pay occasional atten-
tion to hope. In Muʿtazilah discourse, wishing was seen at times as having its
own particular character in the parade of human attitudes. Tamannî was con-
sidered by Judge ʿAbd-al-Jabbâr in connection with the possible evil results
of intellectual processes (al-qabâʾiḥ al-ʿaqlîyah) such as guessing, speaking,
believing. Wishing was brought by him into relationship with guessing (ẓann)
or believing (iʿtiqâd). In the former case, it depends on its purpose whether
it is good or evil.426 Since it is not connected with somebody other (than the
wisher), but an individual wishes only for circumstances that revert upon the
wisher himself or someone considered equivalent to himself, it is free from the
88 second of three kinds of intellectual evil.427 If wishing is | assimilated to believ-
ing, it is equivalent to it with respect to good and evil but less susceptible to the
effects that may come from one’s wish.428
425 Cf. Murtaḍâ az-Zabîdî, Itḥâf, X, 236. For îjâs, the printed text has îḥâsh, something like
“desolation/alienation/fear.” It may have been the author’s preferred choice. However, îjâs
seems more likely.
426 The text of ʿAbd-al-Jabbâr should possibly read: gharaḍ ⟨ḥasan⟩ ḥasun, or gharaḍ ḥasan
with the apodosis being understood.
427 They were enumerated by ʿAbd-al-Jabbâr, Mughnî, XIV, 154.
428 Cf. ʿAbd-al-Jabbâr, Mughnî, ed. Muṣṭafâ as-Saqqâʾ, XIV, 259 (Cairo 1385/1965). For another
statement by ʿAbd-al-Jabbâr on tamannî, see D. Gimaret, Théories de l’acte humain en
théologie musulmane, 41 (Paris 1980). In view of Qurʾân 2:78/73 (see below, n. 487) where
amânî and ẓ-n-n occurred together, Fakhr-ad-dîn ar-Râzî, Tafsîr, III, 139 (Cairo 1354/1935),
briefly referred to their relationship. On ẓ-n-n and hope, see above, n. 402.
hope and wishes 625
Seemingly in contrast with ʿAbd-al-Jabbâr and probably with most thinkers,

Muʿtazilites and others,429 az-Zamakhsharî appears to have viewed wishing not
as an internal process but as something realized only through being formally
expressed in speech. Qurʾân 2:94f. tells the Jews that if they consider it to be true
that Paradise will be theirs in particular, they should wish for death, but they
will not do this because of their awareness of the sins they have committed.
The Muʿtazilite commentator considered three possibilities in order to explain
how it can be known that this was so and they had not wished for death. First,
there was no tradition to the effect that they did. Then,
(if the objection were to run that) wishing is an internal process (min
aʿmâl al-qulûb) and thus something secret not accessible to anybody else,
the answer would be: Wishing is not an internal process. It is only a
person’s explicit statement, ‘Wish I had … (layta lî ka-dhâ …).’ When he
says that, then it can be said that he has wished. Layta is the particle of
wishing (kalimat at-tamannî).430 It is absurd to assume that there could
be awareness (taḥaddî) of what is inside the human mind (aḍ-ḍamâʾir
wa-l-qulûb). If tamannî were an internal process and they had indeed
wished, they would have said, ‘We did wish for death in our hearts,’ but
there is no tradition to the effect that they did so.
The third objection, namely, that they did not say it because they knew that
they did not speak the truth when they maintained that Paradise was theirs,
was refuted by az-Zamakhsharî with the argument that they made many obvi-
ously false statements without the slightest hesitation. Thus, why should they
not have claimed that wishing was an internal process and they had done it
when they could be sure that the secret character of internal processes would
prevent others from finding out whether their claim was true or false?431 It is
429 According to Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah, Dîwân, 370, God does not require wishes to be pronounced
in order for Him to hear them:
Praised be He who grants wishes when they are thoughts (bi-khawâṭirin)

In the soul not spoken by a tongue.

431 Cf. az-Zamakhsharî, Kashshâf, I, 225. Al-Bayḍâwî, Anwâr at-tanzîl, ed. H.L. (O.) Fleischer,
I, 74 (Leipzig 1846–1848), took only brief notice of az-Zamakhsharî’s discussion. Fakhr-ad-
dîn ar-Râzî, Tafsîr, III, 190, maintained that according to Arabic usage, tamannî, like khabar
89 possible that the arguments of az-|Zamakhsharî, and of the Muʿtazilî tradition

he is likely to have followed, were created ad hoc, in order to solve the problem
assumed to be present in the Qurʾânic passage. Yet, they may indeed reflect a
special view of wishing as a verbal statement. This, it seems, would also have
distinguished it from hoping.
For the most part, however, wishing was clearly as little distinguished theo-
retically from hoping as were the terms of hoping from each other. The variety
of psychological and social consequences seen as inherent in all of them can
thus be dealt with together, and this will be done in the following pages.
2 The Perceived Effects of Hoping and Wishing
Disagreement as to the role of hoping and wishing in human life was rooted
mainly in the difference of judging their potential effect. It could be seen
as either good or bad. Correspondingly, a case could be made either for or
against them. No doubt this was so already in pre-Islamic times. It remained the
fundamental issue in Islam. No clear-cut difference developed in this respect
between the pre-Islamic heritage and the views held by Muslims in all their
variety. However, official Islam insisted upon the worthlessness of this world
and therefore took an extremely dim view of any hoping or wishing for material
gain. This then created a certain tension between the secular outlook and the
religious outlook. It is this tension that will be our primary concern.
The very moment at which the religious outlook began to assert its influence
comes dramatically alive in one of Labîd’s famous poems. It contained these
three verses:
If you intend to leave and travel, do it

And disobey the commands of debilitating laziness!
Lie to your soul when you talk to it!
Telling the soul the truth shortchanges hope.
But do not lie to it with respect to the fear of God!
Force it to have piety toward God Almighty!432
“information,” indicated only what was expressly stated. It cannot be employed for “what
is in the heart.” Others were of the opinion that it was mushtarak and could be used to
express “both the meaning (maʿnâ) subsisting in the heart and the word (lafẓ) indicating
that meaning.”
432 Cf. Sharḥ Dîwân Labîd, 179 f.
hope and wishes 627
Particular fame attached to the second verse, which was often quoted. It was
one of the select number of verses acclaimed at times as the “most | poetic” 90
verse in Arab poetry.433 In the internal psychological process434 which is hop-
ing, it is important to keep illusions alive and to prevent reality (interpreted
later as intended by Labîd to be the reality of death435) from intruding and sti-
fling hope which banishes inactivity and laziness and provides an individual
with the energy to do what he wants or ought to do. There is, however, an excep-
tion to this reliance upon one’s inner resources, as Labîd, now thinking of the
new religion, was quick to add. Piety and the fear of God are not to be bargained
away in any attempt to have hoping and wishing govern man’s worldly activi-
ties. They are true realities which must be constantly in the mind and heart of
man. He must be completely honest with himself about his religious duties and
the unchangeable truths of Islam. They leave no doubt about the insignificance
and potential harmfulness of human activities unless they are directed toward
metaphysical goals.
a Deceptiveness and Unreality

The case of hopes and wishes with respect to their beneficent or harmful effects
always remained moot in Islam. “If wishes can be praised, they can also be
blamed,”436 and this applied equally to hope. However, their case was already
greatly prejudiced by the Qurʾân. In Qurʾân 57:14, it speaks of the deceptiveness
of wishes: “And the wishes deceived you (wa-gharratkumu l-amânîyu) until the
command (amr) of God came, and the deceiver (al-gharûr) deceived you with
respect to God.” The “deceiver” was commonly interpreted to be Satan who,
of course, inspired all vain wishes;437 less frequently, it was understood to be
433 According to Sharḥ Dîwân Labîd, this was done by Bashshâr.

434 Cf. above, n. 404.
435 In addition to Sharḥ Dîwân Labîd, cf. also Ibn Qutaybah, Shiʿr, 120.
Aṣ-Ṣafadî, Ghayth, II, 85–100, is by far the best collection of material on the present
subject. At this time, it is not clear how much of this material was possibly available to aṣ-
Ṣafadî in some earlier source. He made no doubt his own contribution to whatever it was.
He was plagiarized by al-ʿAbbâsî, Maʿâhid, I, 183–185. Al-ʿAbbâsî omitted aṣ-Ṣafadî’s many
digressions and restricted himself more closely to the topic at hand. He quoted the verse
from aṭ-Ṭughrâʾî, which was aṣ-Ṣafadî’s starting point, rather early in his presentation,
and he closed with aṣ-Ṣafadî’s own verses. While this might have alerted a knowledge-
able reader, it does not absolve al-ʿAbbâsî from the accusation of plagiarism. Incidentally,
he was the copyist of a work by aṣ-Ṣafadî, Nuṣrat ath-thâʾir ʿalâ l-mathal as-sâʾir, cf. the
edition by M. ʿAlî Sulṭânî, 33 (Damascus, n.y. [ca. 1972]).
437 Cf., for instance, al-Minqarî, Waqʿat Ṣiffîn, 125, and below, nn. 438 and 446.
the world. The common interpretation of the mentioned “command” was that
it referred to death. Since the context speaks of events on the Last Day, the
“command” may, however, not have been meant to be quite as specific as that,
91 even though it is true that wishing, in the phrase | “wishing for death,” was put
by the Qurʾân into close connection with death. Medieval interpreters tended
to understand the wishes in Qurʾân 57:14 as referring to “long hopes and the
desire (ṭamaʿ) for extended life,”438 unless the context was deemed to call for
something more specific historically such as the wishes of the hypocrites that
the Muslims would suffer reverses.439 Interestingly, modern translators showed
much vacillation in the choice of words used by them to translate amânî in
the Qurʾânic passage. We thus find “wishes” in Sale, Blachère (p. 916: souhaits),
and Paret (Wünsche); “desires” in Marracci (concupiscentiae), Pickthall (“vain
desires”), Dawood (p. 106), and Bar Shemesh (taʾawôt); “fancies” in Arberry and
Krachkovsky (mechtanniya); “dogmas” in Bell;440 and even “hopes” in Henning
(Hoffnungen). Stylistic considerations may have influenced the choice, but we
have here a good illustration of the problems besetting the understanding and
verbalization of psychological phenomena.
The pre-Islamic view of hopes and wishes was thus reinforced by the Qurʾân.
It became routine to combine the words for them with roots such as gharra,
khâna, khadaʿa for “deceiving,” khâba for “frustrating,” or kadhaba for “lying.”
For Labîd, “wishes are misleading roads (wa-l-munâ ṭuruqu ḍ-ḍalâli).”441 “More
deceptive than wishes” was taken to be a proverbial expression.442 Being as
deceptive as they are, “wishes blind the eyes of insight.”443 This recalls Ibn
438 Cf., for instance, az-Zamakhsharî, Kashshâf, III, 163. Az-Zamakhsharî, Kashshâf, I, 387,
explained Satan’s la-umanniyannahum in Qurʾân 4:119 as “futile wishes for a long life and
the attainment of hopes.”
439 So, for instance, Ibn al-Jawzî, Zâd, VIII, 167; Fakhr-ad-dîn ar-Râzî, Tafsîr, XXIX, 226 (Cairo,
n.y.).
440 Apparently, in analogy to the semantic development of hawâ, pl. ahwâʾ.
441 Cf. Sharḥ Dîwân Labîd, 74. Ḍalla and mannâ occur juxtaposed in Qurʾân 4:119. Unrealistic
hope provoked the reflection that al-amânîyu ḍillatun in ash-Sharîf ar-Raḍî, Dîwân, I, 264.
An alleged saying of Ibn Ḥazm’s cousin, the wazîr Abû l-Mughîrah (see C. Pellat, in EI2, III,
790b), took the form: “Most hopes are misleading (akthar al-âmâl ḍalâl),” cf. Ibn Bassâm,
Dhakhîrah, I, i, 131, l. 7 (Cairo 1358/1939); an-Nuwayrî, Nihâyah, VII, 310, l. 11. Cf. also Kaʿb b.
Zuhayr, Bânat Suʿâd, below, n. 510.
442 Cf. Abû Hilâl al-ʿAskarî, Jamharah, II, 85; aṣ-Ṣafadî, Tamâm, 317. In the verse quoted by
aṣ-Ṣafadî (inna l-amânîya gharar), the meaning would rather seem to be that wishes
are risky and may have good or bad results. Cf. also the verse of the caliph ar-Râḍî:
“O hopeful man who is lost in the turbulence of gharar….,” cf. aṣ-Ṣûlî, Akhbâr ar-Râḍî,
185.
443 Cf. Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Âdâb, 70; Ibn Abî l-Ḥadîd, V, 308, 580.
hope and wishes 629
ʿArabî’s remark that “hope without insight is not to be relied upon.”444 Graeco-
Arabic wisdom literature included a saying attributed to Plato to the effect
that “hope is psychological self-deception (al-amal khidâʿ an-nafs).”445 For the
Muslim | religious mind, both hopes and wishes were Satanic delusions (wasâ- 92
wis).446
Al-Ḥasan al-Baṣrî admonished ʿUmar b. ʿAbd-al-ʿAzîz to “give up being
deceived by hope before death (al-ajal) intervenes.”447 Al-Ashtar had suppos-
edly told ʿAlî that “living by hope (so as to postpone death) is something only a
deluded person would do.”448 “Beware of lying hopes, as they make you forget
predestination (al-aqdâr) and destroy lives,” was another such pious admoni-
tion; this one was projected back into fictional pre-Islamic history.449 Hopes
(âmâl) are “like a mirage that deceives those who see it and does not fulfill the
hope (rajâʾ) one harbors.”450 Ascetic poetry as represented by Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah
made much of the theme, as could be expected. In the awareness of inescapable
death, an individual should not play with lying hope (al-amal al-kadhûb).451
Man hopes, even though hopes are lying.

Hopes associate with man as long as he remains alive.452
He should not let himself be deceived by hope in his worldly affairs, and the
anguished question may be asked:
444 Cf. Ibn ʿArabî, Risâlat Lâ yuʿawwal ʿalayh, 17 (Hyderabad 1367/1945).

445 Cf. al-Mubashshir, 166, l. 14.
447 Cf. Abû Nuʿaym, Ḥilyah, II, 138, see below, n. 620. Another of many related statements
was, for instance: “If you were to see the coming of your death, you would hate the
deceptiveness of hope,” cf. al-Qâlî, Amâlî, II, 54; Ibn Abî l-Ḥadîd, V, 630.
448 Cf. ad-Dînawarî, al-Akhbâr aṭ-ṭiwâl, 155 (Cairo, n.y.).
449 Cf. Ibn Hishâm, Tîjân, 258.
450 Reported as an alleged Bedouin statement by al-Aṣmaʿî, according to Abû Ḥayyân at-
Tawḥîdî, Baṣâʾir, II, 109; al-Ḥuṣrî, Zahr, I, 405; aṣ-Ṣafadî, Tamâm, 314. The mirage image
was not infrequently invoked to characterize the unreality and deceptiveness of hopes
and wishes, cf. Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah, Dîwân, 224: “How many wishes standing in front of you
were only like a glistening mirage!” An anonymous “poet-sage” quoted by Ibn Abî d-dunyâ,
Dhamm ad-dunyâ, 327, no. 329, compared the deceitfulness of this world to a mirage cre-
ated by hopes, amusements, and wishes. See also below, n. 497.
452 Cf. Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah, Dîwân, 432 (see above, n. 284).
Till when, O soul, will you let yourself be deceived by lying hope?453
In their deceptiveness, hopes and wishes are very much akin to “time.”454 It was
most fitting to begin a marthiyah with the plaintive words:
How little do we learn from time,

And how much are we deceived by wishes.454a
93 Like “tricky time which overturns all hopes,”455 hopes and wishes are totally
unreliable. They may, or may not, be fulfilled. They may turn out contrary to
expectations; man does not know nor could he do anything about it. These were
standard themes and constantly sounded refrains. Hiding his disappointed
hopes, a certain al-Mughîrah b. ʿAmr b. ʿUthmân, presumably the poet grand-
son of the caliph,456 generalized that “man does not obtain his hope,”457 and a
member of the Yazîdî family of littérateurs reflected that “the greedy person (al-
ḥarîṣ) is often prevented from obtaining his wishes.”458 Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah again
repeatedly stressed the exaggerated nature of man’s wishing which dooms him
to frustration:
You have hoped for more than you can attain,

As life, even if it is a long one, inevitably comes to an end.459
How many long hopes there are
Not attained by the hoper!460
People seek hopes they do not attain.461
453 Cf. Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah, Dîwân, 22, further, 204, 298 (see below, n. 625), 333, 419 (see below,
n. 475).
454 Cf., for instance, above, n. 21.
454a Cf. ash-Sharîf ar-Raḍî, Dîwân, II, 459.
455 Cf. ash-Sharîf ar-Raḍî, Dîwân, I, 27.
456 Cf. al-Balâdhurî, Ansâb, ed. S.D. Goitein, V, 121 (Jerusalem 1936), ed. Iḥsân ʿ Abbâs, IV, i, 619
(Beirut and Wiesbaden 1400/1979, Bibliotheca Islamica 28d).
457 Cf. Agh., IV, 67f., VII, 138, Agh.3, IV, 287, 290, VIII, 217. Cf. also al-Buḥturî, Ḥamâsah, 315, ed.
Cheikho, 217; Ibn Abî l-Ḥadîd, V, 635.
458 Cf. Agh., XVIII, 92, Agh.3, XX, 259. For the Yazîdîs, see GAS, II, 610.
hope and wishes 631
Rather plainly, it was stated that “a wisher is sometimes granted his wish, and
sometimes he is not.”462 The most famous expression of the frustration behind
all wishing was a verse both pleasing and sophisticated by al-Mutanabbî:
Man does not obtain all he wishes.

The winds take the ships where they do not desire to go.463
The nautical theme had already been sounded by Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah:
You have wishes (even) when the wind blows violently against you
With waves above you and seas below you.464
Fate (dahr)465 and predestination (qadar, aqdâr)466 or God may intervene | 94

between man and the fulfillment of his hopes and wishes. Strangely enough,
Qays b. al-Khaṭîm, who lived in the late fifth and early sixth centuries, used
Allâh in this connection, if the transmission is to be trusted:
Man hopes to encounter his wishes,

But God rejects anything except what He wants.467
For Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah, it is the vicissitudes of time that interfere with the real-
ization of hopes believed to be about to come true.468 And a later poet would

463 Cf. al-Mutanabbî, Dîwân, ed. ʿAzzâm, 469, ed. al-Barqûqî, IV, 366.
465 Ordinarily, dahr was used (cf., for instance, Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah, Dîwân, 405), but changing
zamân appeared in a verse by a certain ʿUwaymir b. Sâlim al-ʿAbsî, cf. al-Buḥturî, Ḥamâsah,
364, ed. Cheikho, 252. Cf. also Ḥamd b. Muḥammad at-Tawwajî: fa-l-âna qad ḥâla baynî
wa-l-munâ zamanî, see al-Bâkharzî, Dumyah, I, 530.
466 Cf., for instance al-Ḥârith b. Khâlid al-Makhzûmî (see GAS, II, 417):
Would that I knew—how many a wish is accommodated,

While others are interfered with by al-qadar.
See Agh., III, 107, Agh.3, 226.

467 Cf. Qays b. al-Ḥaṭîm, Dîwân, ed. Kowalski, 28, trans. 56, no. 11, verse 8, ed. Ibrâhîm as-
Sâmarrâʾî and Aḥmad Maṭlûb, 54 (Baghdâd 1381/1962), ed. Nâṣir-ad-dîn al-Asad, 98 (Cairo
1381/1962). The verse also appears among the poems ascribed to ash-Shâfiʿî, Dîwân, 41,
where the rhyme-word is arâdâ, for Qays’ yashâʾu.
invoke time when he had to cope with many obstacles in obtaining what he
wished to obtain from his beloved.469
The other commonplace knowledge concerned the fact that hopes and
wishes might lead to unexpected results. It found its classical expression in a
verse supposedly by an-Nâbighah al-Jaʿdî, but more likely of proverbial origin:
Man hopes to live on,

But a long life may be harmful to him.470
An early ʿAbbâsid poet sang:
Whenever I hope for a good day,

Something unpleasant interferes with my hope.471
95 There may be many unhoped for meetings with the beloved, but again, there
may be separations not anticipated with fear.472 One may wish for a friend to be
near, but then again, having found out more about him, one may wish he were
far away.473 In general, hopes may bring what should have been feared, and
vice versa. The early eighth-century Shabîb b. al-Barṣâʾ thus described man’s
psychological confusion in these words:
469 Cf. Abû l-Ḥasan al-Baṣrî, in al-Bâkharzî, Dumyah, I, 333.

470 Cf. al-Buḥturî, Ḥamâsah, 143, ed. Cheikho, 95; Ibn Qutaybah, Shiʿr, 94; al-Balâdhurî, Ansâb,
ed. ʿAbd-al-ʿAzîz ad-Dûrî, III, 271 (Beirut and Wiesbaden 1398/1978, Bibliotheca Islamica
28c); Abû Tammâm, Waḥshîyât, 155, where the verse is ascribed to Labîd, see Sharḥ Dîwân
Labîd, 356; (Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah, Dîwân, 184 n.); az-Zajjâjî, Amâlî, 111; al-Qâlî, Amâlî, II, 8;
adh-Dhahabî, Taʾrîkh al-Islâm, III, 87 (Cairo 1367–), etc. See also the references in Shiʿr
an-Nâbighah al-Jaʿdî, coll. ʿAbd-al-ʿAzîz Rabâḥ, 191 (Damascus 1384/1964). In some sources,
“hopes” was replaced by “desires ( yahwâ, yarghab).”
A slight recasting appears in Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah, Dîwân, 162 (wa-ṭûlu l-ḥayâti ʿalayhi
ḍarar). As an example of a paraphrase, cf. Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Dîwân, IV, 209, no. 337, verse 3.
471 In Agh., III, 139, XI, 31, Agh.3, IV, 87, XII, 144, the poet is said to have been Muḥammad b.
(Abî) Umayyah (see GAS, II, 607), whereas the verse is attributed to Ibn Аbî ʿUyaynah (see
GAS, II, 137) in al-Yazîdî, Amâlî, 137 (Hyderabad 1948) (not in Ghedira, below, n. 725). The
poem continued: “And I see the days not bringing near what I am hoping for (artajî) from
you but bringing near my death (ajalî).”
472 Cf. al-Âmidî, Muwâzanah, as quoted by ash-Sharîf al-Murtaḍâ, Ṭayf al-khayâl, ed. Ḥasan
Kâmil aṣ-Ṣayrafî and Ibrâhîm al-Ibyâri, 216 (Cairo 1381/1962). The verse was attributed
there to Muslim b. al-Walîd, but it does not seem to be found in the editions of his
Dîwân.
473 Cf. ath-Thaʿâlibî, Yatîmah, II, 145, quoting Ibn Nubâtah.
hope and wishes 633
The souls hope for something that they cannot master,

While they fear things that will not injure them.474
It was, after all, not that unusual that a person wished for something and his
wish then would cause his death (rubba mutamannî ḥatfuh fî umnîyatih).475
The idea naturally appealed to the religious turn of mind. Owing to the tricki-
ness of circumstances—khuṭûb that are the work of ad-dahr—, human wishes
do not turn out the way they were intended to.476 A man may obtain his sus-
tenance from a direction which he had neither hoped nor expected that it
would come from.477 Combining in a way secular with religious thinking, Ibn
Abî l-Ḥadîd commented on a remark by the poet at-Tihâmî which said that
“many a wish is sweeter than obtaining (it) (wa-rubba umnîyatin aḥlâ min-a-
ẓ-ẓafari)”: A place far away may be described as a real utopia, still, a person
may be disappointed when he gets there. A scholar who is highly praised for
his learning may turn out to be much less learned than expected. All this, how-
ever, is different with respect to the other world which surpasses all wishes and
expectations.478
The perversity of human psychological processes as produced by hoping
and wishing inspired writers of poetry and prose to create fictional situations
having it as their theme. There was a wrong kind of wishes which were not
meant to be taken seriously but illustrated a kind of desperation engulfing the
wisher. The poet Ibn Bîḍ wished something on | people which he regretted 96
to see fulfilled.479 Aṣ-Ṣafadî quoted examples from love poetry that pretend
to prefer death to separation from the beloved. A frustrated lover expressed
the wish to be buried together with his beloved for a brief moment of close
contact; then the beloved should return to life while he himself would remain
dead contentedly, since that brief intimacy constituted the fulfillment of all he
474 Cf. Agh., XI, 95, Agh.3, XII, 275. For Ibn al-Barṣâʾ, see GAS, II, 386f.
475 From a speech given by Muʿâwiyah’s half-brother ʿUtbah (d. 44/665, see adh-Dhahabî,
Taʾrîkh al-Islâm, II, 231f.) in the year 41/462, cf. Ibn Аbî d-dunyâ, Makârim al-akhlâq, ed.
J.A. Bellamy, 139, l. 5 (Wiesbaden 1973, Bibliotheca Islamica 25); al-Qâlî, Amâlî, I, 233, ll. 19f.
(with further material on the subject); aṣ-Ṣafadî, Tamâm, 55. Cf. also Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah,
Dîwân, 419, no. 437, verses 9 f.; al-ʿImâd al-Iṣfahânî, al-Fatḥ al-Qussî, 42. See, further, Ibn
Abî l-Ḥadîd, IV, 758, and below, n. 575.
478 Cf. at-Tihâmî, Dîwân, 41 (see below, n. 653); Ibn Abî l-Ḥadîd, II, 760f.
could wish for.480 A wish by Kuthayyir ʿAzzah was considered a bad one and
roundly disapproved: “I would like it, indeed, if you were a young female camel
and I were a noble male camel, and we would flee together …”481 Another wish,
which probably would have been characterized as a bad one, was that of a lover
whose ardent love made him wish that he were tossed about on a raft in the
ocean together with his beloved.482
Stories about competitive wishing in a social setting where people asked
each other to have a wish were considered interesting enough to be noted fre-
quently in the literature. It was a literary motif but at times reflected historical
data.483 The motif of unfortunate contradictory wishes formed part of the sub-
ject of the perversity of wishing. Its most famous representative was the story of
the three wishes which at the end left the person who made them right where
he started. An early Muslim version is that of the man who was granted three
prayers (daʿawât). Upon the urging of his wife and daughters, he ceded one to
his wife who wished to be the most beautiful human being on earth. When he
got angry at her, he wished that she be changed into a pig. Then his daughters
beseeched him to wish that she be changed back to her original state. He did,
and thus his three wishes came to naught.484
Hoping and wishing were unreal in that they were frequently directed
97 toward impossible goals. This fact evoked a good deal of comment and | found
various literary expressions. An often quoted statement of “the philosophers”
ran: “Wishes deceive you and, when it comes to the realities, leave you aban-
480 Cf. aṣ-Ṣafadî, Ghayth, II, 92, quoting verses by his contemporary Athîr-ad-dîn Abû Ḥayyân
al-Gharnâṭî.
481 Cf. Kuthayyir ʿAzzah, Dîwân, ed. Iḥsân ʿAbbâs, 162 (Beirut 1391/1971). The quotation in
aṣ-Ṣafadî, Ghayth, II, 92, has slight variants. Cf. also Ibn Qutaybah, ʿUyûn, I, 262, l. 6. Among
the poems quoted by aṣ-Ṣafadî in this connection, the verses attributed by him to a certain
al-Fazârî occur elsewhere with the attribution to a certain Junâdah, cf. Abû Hilâl al-ʿAskarî,
Ṣinâʿatayn, 56, or Najdah b. Junâdah, as indicated by al-Bijâwî and Ibrâhîm in their edition
of the Kitâb aṣ-Ṣinâʿatayn, 76, n. 6.
482 Cf. al-Qâlî, Amâlî, I, 143, l. 21.
483 Cf., for instance, al-Jâḥiẓ, Ḥayawân, V, 195f., and Bayân, III, 159, ll. 3–5, repeated in Abû
Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, Baṣâʾir, II, 180; Ibn Qutaybah, ʿUyûn, I, 258 (quoted in ar-Râghib
al-Iṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât, I, 281), 263; Agh., III, 4 f., Agh.3, III, 94f. (the daughters of the
poet Dhû l-Iṣbaʿ wishing for the ideal husband); F. Rosenthal, Humor in Early Islam,
112 (Leiden 1956). Cf. also aṣ-Ṣafadî, Ghayth, II, 90, and, for instance, the verse by Abû
Tammâm: “If beauty were asked to have a wish (or, considering the plural: to have as
many wishes as it might want), it would wish to be like him,” cf. his Dîwân, ed. ʿAzzâm,
IV, 310.
484 Cf. Ibn Qutaybah, ʿUyûn, IV, 117.
hope and wishes 635
doned (al-amânî takhdaʿuka wa-ʿind al-ḥaqâʾiq tadaʿuka).”485 No information

is at hand that might allow us to trace the history of this statement. The
ḥaqâʾiq here could refer to the religious verities, and the statement would just
be another expression of the thought that wishful thinking detracts from the
necessary concern with the metaphysical realities. Thus, it did not say any-
thing about the irrational character of the wishing process. This, however, is
not certain; the matter is also not decided by a statement attributed to the
caliph ʿUmar who in one of his sermons supposedly said that “faith is not
through wishing but through realities.”486 Be this as it may, wishes were casti-
gated as unreal by lexicographers in connection with Qurʾân 2:78/73 (ummîyûn
lâ yaʿlamûna l-kitâba illâ amânîya). The verse understandably caused much
puzzlement among the interpreters, and continues to do so.487 The last word
was often given the approximate meaning of “expression of ignorance.” This
was based upon the philological argument which, according to al-Azharî, ran
as follows: “When someone says something that has no reality (lâ ḥaqîqah
lahû), but he likes the thing, one says to him, ‘This is munâ,’ or ‘this is an
umnîyah.’”488 Later, Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî said that “reality is not (or: is not
obtained through) wishing (laysa al-ḥaqîqah bi-t-tamannî),”489 and ar-Râghib
al-Iṣfahânî maintained that “most wishing is the mental perception (taṣawwur)
of what has no reality.”490 The use of taṣawwur points toward a philosophical
origin.
Aristotelian philosophy (Rhetoric 1370a28f.) informed its Muslim follow-
ers that fantasy (phantasia, takhyîl/takhayyul) was a certain sense perception
(aisthêsis, ḥiss) activated ( yatawahham) by remembering or hoping (taʾmîl)
and producing their pleasurable sensation. Hope draws pleasure for the future
from the remembered past, with the sense perception of fantasy being the cat-
alyst in the present.491 Ibn Rushd eventually described the underlying process
in somewhat questionable simplification as follows:
Takhyîl is a weak sense perception which constantly produces ( yaf ʿal)

either remembering or hoping. If it lacks remembering, it also lacks hop-
ing. This | is so because hope is a potential creation (tarkîb) in the future 98
485 Cf. al-Ḥuṣrî, Zahr, I, 359; ash-Sharîshî, II, 253; aṣ-Ṣafadî, Tamâm, 55.
486 Cf. Ibn Abî l-Ḥadîd, III, 759. See also below, n. 618.
487 Cf. R. Paret, Der Koran, Kommentar und Konkordanz, 22 (Stuttgart, etc., 1971).
488 Cf. al-Azharî, Tahdhîb, XV, 534b. See also Fakhr-ad-dîn ar-Râzî, Tafsîr, III, 139.
489 Cf. Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, Ishârât, 254, ll. 16 f.
490 Cf. ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, Mufradât, IV, 133.
491 Cf. Aristotle, Khaṭâbah, 51, and Ibn Sînâ, Shifâʾ, Khaṭâbah, 100.
of things that were sensed in the past, which is remembering. Thus, when
remembering is removed, hoping, too, is necessarily removed.492
The role of the imagination, expressed by the root kh-y-l, as the mainspring
of hopes and wishes in recalling a lost past or reflecting on what might be
now or in the future was familiar to the Arabs already in pre-Islamic times. It
was visualized in the celebrated ṭayf al-khayâl, the nightly apparition of the
beloved in the frustrated lover’s imagination. The apparition as such repre-
sented imaginary wish fulfillment.493 Its close relationship with wishing was
implicitly assumed by the littérateurs who spoke of it. In its futility, the ṭayf
deserved all the negative attributes which, as we have seen, belonged to wish-
ing.494 It was an unreal product of the imagination,495 an empty, meaningless
word.496 It was described as a mirage497 and considered a ḥadîth an-nafs.498
Hoping and wishing were expressly mentioned in connection with it occasion-
ally, though, perhaps, not very frequently.499 Qays b. al-Khaṭîm spoke of wishes
as being instrumental in the desired apparition of the beloved. He conceded,
however, that such apparition was of little value and merely, as he put it, an
amusement for someone subject to deception.500 In verses ascribed to ʿUmar
492 Cf. Ibn Rushd, Talkhîṣ al-Khaṭâbah, 91.

493 Cf. Agh., XI, 85, Agh.3, XII, 251, quoting Abû Wajzah (see GAS, II, 428f.); ash-Sharîf al-
Murtaḍâ, Dîwân, as quoted in his Ṭayf, 162: khuyyila lî naylu l-munâ.
494 The principal source is ash-Sharîf al-Murtaḍâ, Ṭayf (above, n. 472). His exhaustive work
was expanded by its editors into a veritable encyclopaedia of the ṭayf al-khayâl.
495 Cf, for instance, as-Sharîf al-Murtaḍâ, Ṭayf, 134, l. 6, 136, l. 3, 143, l. 2, also the verse quoted
below, n. 658.
496 Cf. ash-Sharîf al-Murtaḍâ, Ṭayf, 144, 176.
497 Cf. ash-Sharîf al-Murtaḍâ, Ṭayf, 177, l. 3, cf. above, n. 450.
498 Cf., for instance, ash-Sharîf al-Murtaḍâ, Ṭayf, 168, l. 18, and his explanation, 169, l. 4, where
he equated the amânî of his verse with aḥâdîth an-nafs. See, further, the appendix of the
edition of the Ṭayf, 206 (al-ʿAbbâs b. al-Aḥnaf) and 210 (Jirân al-ʿAwd). For ḥadîth an-nafs,
see above, n. 402.
499 Even without the use of the ordinary terms, the connection is obvious. Note that Kaʿb
b. Zuhayr spoke of “needs (ḥâjât),” paraphrased as “wishes” by O. Rescher in his German
translation, cf. his Beiträge zur arabischen Poësie (above, n. 281), 126. For ḥâjât as “wishes,”
cf., for instance, Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah, Dîwân, 7, last two verses; Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Dîwân, IV, 136,
no. 221, verse 12; aṭ-Ṭabarî, Annales, Introductio, etc., ccvii.
500 Cf. Qays b. al-Khaṭîm, Dîwân, ed. Kowalski, 5, trans. 6, no. 2, verse 3, ed. as-Sâmarrâʾî and
Maṭlûb, 25, ed. al-Asad, 16; ash-Sharîf al-Murtaḍâ, Ṭayf, 46f. The verse was often quoted,
as, for instance, by Ibn Аbî ʿAwn, Tashbîhât, ed. M. ʿAbdul Muʿîd Khân, 91 (London 1950,
E.J.W. Gibb Memorial Series, N.S. 17); al-Yazîdî, Amâlî, 79 (editor’s footnote).
hope and wishes 637
b. Abî Rabîʿah (but not contained in the manuscripts of his Dîwân), the lover
expressed the wish to be united with his beloved always, in life and after death.
He realized that this could be only in a dream world:
Would that ( yâ layta), when death (manîyatî) approaches, I 99

Were to smell what is between your eyes and mouth!
Would that my corpse were to be washed (ṭahûrî) entirely with your
spittle!
Would that it were to be embalmed (ḥanûṭî) with your marrow and
blood!
Would that Sulaymâ were to share my bed in my sleep (al-manâm)—
Either at green Paradise or in Hell!501
ʿAbd-aṣ-Ṣamad b. al-Muʿadhdhal (d. ca. 240/854) said:
I did not obtain him. So I obtained him through wishes

In my sleep secretly and no longer shunned.
Dreaming joined us after separation.
We met, although we were apart.502
Love poetry generalized the ṭayf al-khayâl concept and, with only incidental
reference to it, would describe the beloved as a wish brought near by hopes
and, maybe, realizable under changed circumstances.503
Imagination and wishes were considered to be so intimately entwined with
the concept of the nightly apparition that it could be said: “Would that there
were a ṭayf stirred up for me by wishes in the imagination ( fa-yâ layta ṭayfan
khayyalathu liya l-munâ).”504 Al-Kumayt’s verse:
501 Cf. ʿUmar b. Abî Rabîʿah, Dîwân, ed. Schwarz, II, 244, ed. ʿAbd-al-Ḥamîd, 501. On the subject
of love after death, cf. F. Rosenthal, in the Festschrift for Marvin H. Pope to appear in
1982.
502 Cf. Ibn Аbî ʿAwn, Tashbîhât, 76; ash-Sharîf al-Murtaḍâ, Ṭayf, 112, and the references given in
the appendix, 199, 234, 270. For Ibn al-Muʿadhdhal, see GAS, II, 508, and for the ascription
of the verses to a certain (Ismâʿîl b. Ibrâhîm b. Ḥamdawayh) al-Ḥamdawî or al-Ḥamdûnî,
see Ṭayf.
503 Cf. the verses by Saʿîd b. Ḥumayd on the poetess Faḍl in Agh., XVII, 5, Agh.3, XVIII, 160;
F. Rosenthal (above, n. 501).
504 Cf. an-Nuwayrî, Nihâyah, II, 238, without attribution. Cf. also ash-Sharîf al-Murtaḍâ, Dî-
wân, as quoted in the edition of Ṭayf, 159 n.: mâ altaqî illâ kamâ zaʿamat amânin.
When I woke up, I found the khayâl to be

The wishes and thoughts of my soul,
is properly interpreted to mean that the nightly apparition (khayâl) was the
result of wishes.505 It strongly suggests the idea that wishes and thoughts of all
kinds are behind a person’s dreams.
Hopes and wishes were seen as related to sleep and dreams as physical and
100 psychological phenomena.506 A Greek saying, which became known | in Ara-
bic translation, had already stated that hopes are the dreams of those awake.507
Wishes share with dreams the attributes of unreality and inconstancy. Both are
equally worthless. “Wishes and dreams are equivalent.”508 “Wishes and dreams
are brothers.”509 “Wishes and dreams are what leads astray (inna l-amânîya wa-
l-aḥlâma taḍlîlu)” was the formulation given to this idea by Kaʿb b. Zuhayr in his
famous Bânat Suʿâd.510 The sleeping eye was “dreaming with wishes (bi-l-amânî
ḥâlimah).”511 The possibility for a meeting might appear so remote that only
dreams and wishes ( fî n-nawmi aw fî l-amânî) could provide an imaginary sub-
stitute for it.512 Lying wishes and dreams make false promises and are equally
505 Cf. al-Kumayt, Dîwân, ed. Dâwûd Sallûm, I, 222 (Baghdâd 1969–1970); al-Âmidî, Muwâ-
zanah, II, 169; ash-Sharîf al-Murtaḍâ, Ṭayf, 15. For al-Kumayt, cf. Kathrin Müller, Kritische
Untersuchungen zum Diwan des Kumait b. Zaid (Freiburg 1979). Cf. also the verse by ash-
Sharîf al-Murtaḍâ, Ṭayf, 123, l. 9, 124. “Thought ( fikr [ah])” was often mentioned as the
origin of the ṭayf.
506 Cf. the phraseology employed by Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, Ishârât, 188, l. 16, and 238, l. 2.
507 Cf. Gnomologium Vaticanum, ed. L. Sternbach, no. 375 (reprint Berlin 1963): hai elpides
egrêgorotôn enhypnia. Further references to the Greek sources are given in Sternbach’s
edition. In Aelianus, VI, xiii, 29, the saying happens to be ascribed to Plato. In Arabic
translation, it is found ascribed to Plato in ash-Sharîshî, II, 253, in the form: at-tamannî
ḥulm al-mustayqiẓ wa-salwat al-maḥzûn. The addition referring to consolation gives a
positive connotation to wishes here (see below, nn. 674–676).
508 Cf. Ibn Abî l-Ḥadîd, IV, 745.
509 In al-Jâḥiẓ, Ḥayawân, V, 191, the saying was ascribed to ʿAbd-ar-Raḥmân b. Abî z-Zinâd,
a secretary of ʿUmar b. ʿAbd-al-ʿAzîz. No attribution is given in Ibn Qutaybah, ʿUyûn, I,
261; al-Ḥuṣrî, Jamʿ al-jawâhir, ed. al-Khânjî, 150, ed. al-Bijâwî, 184; ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî,
Muḥâḍarât, I, 281. Ibn Abî z-Zinâd died seventy-four years old in 174/790–791, cf. al-Khaṭîb
al-Baghdâdî, Taʾrîkh Baghdâd, X, 228–230, and Hârûn in his edition of al-Jâḥiẓ, Bayân, II,
280.
510 Cf. as-Sukkarî, Sharḥ Dîwân Kaʿb b. Zuhayr, 9; Ibn Hishâm, ed. Guidi, 84–87.
511 Cf. Ibn Аbî d-dunyâ, Dhamm ad-dunyâ, 337, no. 377.
512 Cf. Muslim b. al-Walîd, Dîwân, 342 (derived from Agh., VI, 14, XVIII, 84, Agh.3, VI, 168, XX,
242).
hope and wishes 639
to be avoided.513 Wishes are false dreams (al-munâ aḍghâthu aḥlâmi).514 The

dreamlike unreality of wishes provided the basis for an anecdote ascribed to
the legendary dream interpreter Ibn Sîrîn. A person reported a dream in which
he saw himself swimming where there was no water and flying without wings.
Ibn Sîrîn explained that it showed that that person was given to wishing.515
However, for Saʿîd b. Ḥumayd, it was the wishes that remained when the past
receded into an elusive dream world:
Events past are a sleeper’s dreams.

What stays with him is wishes.516
It was often said that all that remained of past good times, spent mainly in the
enjoyment of love, was wishes for them to return, which were unlikely to be
fulfilled.517
Wishes which were daydreams and did not have the slightest relation to 101
reality deserved to be characterized as childishness (at-tashâghul bi-l-munâ
min af ʿal aṣ-ṣibâ).518 They were a waste of time. The unhappy lover could say
of himself that
I am spending my entire day with talk and wishes,

While worry and I are brought closely together during the night.519
The pious ascetic considered it as only natural that beguiled by the world he
would waste his life on earth in wishing.520
You have wasted (afnayta) your life any way you proceeded,
Desiring children and desiring family and property.521
513 Cf. al-Ḥuṣrî, Zahr, (II), 650.

516 Cf. al-Qâlî, Amâlî (an-Nawâdir), III, 170. Elsewhere, the verse was ascribed to Dîk al-Jinn,
cf. F. Rosenthal, Gambling in Islam, 159, n. 4 (Leiden 1975); Abû Hilâl al-ʿAskarî, Dîwân
al-maʿânî, I, 342.
517 Cf. the verses quoted in aṣ-Ṣafadî, Ghayth, II, 6.
518 A saying ascribed to al-Kindî in Abû Sulaymân as-Sijistânî, Ṣiwân al-ḥikmah, 294.
519 Cf. Ibn ad-Dumaynah, Dîwân, 88, quoted in Agh., VIII, 133, XV, 154, Agh.3, IX, 217f., XVII,
100. With an additional verse not found in Ibn ad-Dumaynah, the verse was quoted in the
name of Majnûn in Agh., I, 183, Agh.3, II, 45. Cf. also Ibn Qutaybah, ʿUyûn, I, 262, l. 15.
520 Cf. Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah, Dîwân, 376, cf. also 13.
For an opponent of Greek logic such Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzîyah, the occupa-
tion with logic meant frustration and defeat. It also meant wasting one’s life on
wishes and being found deficient on the Last Day (by having missed the oppor-
tunity to do works counting toward salvation).522
In consequence of their disconnectedness from reality, wishes could easily
be harmful. Sages as different as Aristotle and Ardashîr b. Bâbak, among oth-
ers, supposedly stated that wishes constituted a source of grief.523 They meant
sorrow and trouble for those who thought of them as diverting.524 “Long hope
means long sadness.”524a For rationalist thinkers, they had the even more sinis-
ter result of destroying reason. Al-Jâḥiẓ525 has a remark attributed to the caliph
Yazîd b. Muʿâwiyah that “three things wear out reason and indicate (men-
tal) weakness: Quick answering, long wishing, and immoderate laughter.” And
102 he continued | with a statement by the Muʿtazilite Muʿammar b. ʿAbbâd that
“wishes are for the soul what idle babbling (turrahât) is for the tongue,” some-
thing that indicates lack of rational intelligence. Only a stupid individual would
allow himself to be deceived by hope.526 Indulgence in wishing was stupidity
plain and simple. ʿAlî for one was credited with the remark that no reliance
should be placed upon wishes, as they are “the merchandise of fools (baḍâʾiʿ
an-nawkâ).”527
522 Cf. Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzîyah, Miftâḥ dâr as-saʿâdah, I, 158.

523 Cf. Ḥunayn, Nawâdir, Ms. Munich ar. 651, fol. 15a, see Badawî, Platon en pays d’Islam, 294,
ll. 14 f.; al-Mubashshir, 200, l. 11; an-Nuwayrî, Nihâyah, VII, 12, ll. 3f. Also Abû Hilâl al-ʿAskarî,
Dîwân al-maʿâni, II, 91, 96.
524 Cf. ash-Sharîf ar-Raḍî, Dîwân, II, 188. Cf. Ibn Qutaybah, ʿUyûn, IV, 137, l. 11: “Hope means
trouble (al-ʿanâʾmaqrûn bi-r-rajâʾ).”
524a Freytag, Ar. Prov., III, i, 307.
525 Cf. al-Jâḥiẓ, Ḥayawân, V, 190f. Other authors feature only the remark attributed to the
caliph, cf. Ibn Qutaybah, ʿUyûn, I, 260 f.; al-Ḥuṣrî, Jamʿ al-jawâhir, ed. al-Khânjî, 150, ed. al-
Bijâwî, 184; Ibn Abî l-Ḥadîd, IV, 745, also ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât, I, 281, without
attribution. A somewhat different unattributed version occurs in al-Jâḥiẓ, Bayân, II, 336,
ll. 2 f. According to the paroemiographers (see below, n. 664), Ibn al-Muqaffaʿ had already
stated that “the large number of wishes wears out reason, drives away contentment, and
corrupts sensibility.” Cf. also ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât, I, 281, and above, n. 421
(where ḥiss “sensibility” is supplanted by “religion”). Further, Freytag, Arabum Proverbia,
III, i, 19: “Hope sickens the heart and does harm to thinking.”
526 Cf. Ibn ʿAbdrabbih, ʿIqd, III, 190, l. 22, quoting verses ascribed to Abû l-Aswad ad-Duʾalî (but
apparently not contained in the edition of his Dîwân).
527 Cf. Ibn ʿAbdrabbih, ʿIqd, III, 157, ll. 11 f.; Ibn Abî l-Ḥadîd, IV, 745; ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî,
Muḥâḍarât, I, 281; ash-Sharîshî, II, 253. Ibn Abî l-Ḥadîd, V, 278, quoted a verse of his saying
that “wishes are acquisitions of the ignorant.” See also above, n. 296.
hope and wishes 641
Wishes consumed the entire life of mean and contemptible persons.528

Heretical thought supposedly seized upon man’s unceasing and unthinking
occupation with wishing as a possible explanation of the success of religious
beliefs concerning life after death. Abû Nuwâs is alleged to have said:
You are kept busy with wishes while you are alive
And after death about milk and wine (cf. Qurʾân 47:15).
Life, then death, then resurrection—
All fictitious talk, O Umm ʿAmr.529
Frustrated hoping and wishing had the psychological effect of making a per-
son feel unhappy and restless. On occasion, they might also afford some rest
and respite from worries and disappointments.530 It was, however, the oppo-
site of hope, despair ( yaʾs), that was more often praised for the relief it pro-
vided,531 and respite from hope was seen as restful.532 Despair followed upon
hope, which thus proved to be useless and deceptive. “How close is despair to
hope!” was Ibn al-Muʿtazz’s comment on the hope that had been entertained
only yesterday for the recovery of a person dead today.533 “The beginning of
despair is the end of hope”534 was a formulation which no doubt originated
under the influence of the well-known statement of Aristotle on the relation-
ship of thought and action.535 Already an ʿUdhrite poet from the first half of the
seventh century, Hudbah b. Khashram, reflected that some hope might not be
prof | itable, while some despair was more wholesome and restful.536 Attain- 103
ment gives pleasure, but a person frustrated in his quest finds rest that comes
from despair.537 The love-sick soul unable to attain its desire has to take refuge
528 Cf. the verse by Ibn Sharaf al-Qayrawânî, quoted in aṣ-Ṣafadî, Ghayth, II, 100.
529 Cf. Ibn Qutaybah, Shiʿr, 691.
530 See below, pp. 123f.
531 Yaʾs murîḥ, cf. al-Qâlî, Amâlî, II, 68, l. 12; Freytag, Arabum Proverbia, II, 563.
532 Cf. aṣ-Ṣafadî, Ghayth, II, 100, quoting Abû l-Ḥusayn al-Jazzâr.
533 Cf. Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Dîwân, IV, 158, no. 248, verse 4.
534 Cf. Usâmah b. Munqidh, Kitâb al-ʿAṣâ, ed. ʿAbd-as-Salâm M. Hârûn, Nawâdir al-makhṭûṭât,
II, 192 (Cairo 1371/1951).
535 Cf. Ibn Khaldûn, Muqaddimah, trans. F. Rosenthal, II, 415, n. 10 (2nd printing, Princeton
1967, Bollingen Series 43).
536 Cf. al-Buḥturî, Ḥamâsah, 243, ed. Cheikho, 166, in chapter 104 on yaʾs and râḥah. For
Hudbah, see GAS, II, 265 f. His long poem with the rhyme letter -ḥu, quoted in Ibn Maymûn,
Muntahâ aṭ-ṭalab, fol. 125a ff., does not include the verse.
537 Cf. Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Âdâb, 84. Cf. also Âdâb, 63, on the weariness caused by ṭamaʿ and the
restfulness of yaʾs.
in despair and the rest it provides.538 Especially, when hoping proved true to
its ordinary deceitfulness, only despair was able to bring the needed relief.539
This was even more so when hope, as it often did, leaned toward excessiveness
(ṭamaʿ).540
With their strong hold over man’s feelings and emotions, hoping and wishing
could come close to paralyzing his control over himself. His psychological
addiction to them reduced him to a state of slavery where he had to do their
bidding and from which he could not escape. Wishes are a “driving” force,541
which, as the verb sâqa suggests, leaves him as much under their control as
animals are under the control of the driver. The lover becomes subservient to
wishes when promises postponed deprive him of the ability to act like a free
man.542 Man is caught in the net (mushtabik) of hopes; as soon as one hope
is given up, new hopes constantly appear,543 so that he never gets out of it.
The “ropes (ḥabâʾil)” or “bonds (ʿurâ)” of hopes are a sort of lifeline people
hang on to544 in the mistaken opinion that this might help them; wearying
hopes, however, are also constraints (ḥalaqât) from which they should free
themselves.545 “Hope,” Ibn as-Sammâk said, “is a rope in your heart and a fetter
104 on | your foot. If you remove the rope from your heart, the fetter on your foot
will also be removed.”546 “The soul belongs to its strong hopes (wa-n-nafsu
538 Cf. Qays b. Dharîḥ, in Ḥusayn Naṣṣâr, Qays wa-Lubnâ, 141 (Cairo, n.y. [ca. 1379/1960]); Agh.,
VIII, 124, Agh.3, IX, 201 f.
539 Cf. Ibn al-Marzubân, Muntahâ, 31 f.
540 Cf., in particular, the 104th chapter of al-Buḥturî’s Ḥamâsah.
541 Cf. ʿUmar b. Abî Rabîʿah, Dîwân, ed. Schwarz, II, 190, no. 280, verse 4, and II, 207, no. 310,
verse 4, ed. ʿAbd-al-Ḥamîd, 447 and 469. It could, however, also be said that a person
“drives” wishes to his soul, cf. Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, Baṣâʾir, I, 336, or that death “drives”
hopes, cf. ash-Sharîf ar-Raḍî, Dîwân, I, 90. Note also that the quotation of ʿUmar’s first verse
in Agh., IV, 36, Agh.3, IV, 214, reads tashûqu “excites.”
542 Cf. Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Dîwân, ed. B. Lewin, III, 130, no. 238, verse 4 (Istanbul 1950, Bibliotheca
Islamica 17c).
544 For ḥabâʾil, cf. Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah, Dîwân, 280, 627, for ʿurâ, cf. 377; Abû Hilâl al-ʿAskarî, Dîwân
al-maʿânî, I, 93. On the “towing of the rope (ḥabl) of hope/wishes” as positive hoping and
wishing, see the verses quoted by aṣ-Ṣûlî, Ashʿâr awlâd al-khulafâʾ, 213 (Ibn al-Muʿtazz) and
308 (ʿAbdallâh b. ʿAlî, uncle of as-Saffâḥ and al-Manṣûr). The German mystic also spoke of
hope as a rope, but one capable of helping him to escape from damnation, cf. Angelus
Silesius, Cherubinischer Wandersmann, I, 222, in Sämtliche poetische Werke, ed. H.L. Held,
III, 31 (München 1949), quoted by Desroche (above, n. 302), beg.
545 Cf. Ibn Abî l-Ḥadîd, III, 456.
546 Cf. al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ, III, 208, l. 4. For Ibn as-Sammâk, see GAS, I, 185.
hope and wishes 643
mim-mâ taʾmulu amalâ)”547 and thus loses its freedom of decision. A person
can indeed be free only when he does not permit himself to be made a slave of
his desires (maṭâmiʿ).548 One of the conditions of freedom is not being enslaved
by long-term wishes.549 In short, just like reason, human willpower runs the
danger of being affected by hoping and irrational wishful thinking.550
It was recognized that illusory hope might be artificially induced by the
use of drugs such as wine. A pre-Islamic poet, al-Munakhkhal al-Yashkurî, is
supposed to have been the author of a qaṣîdah where this is the theme of its
two most famous verses:
When I am drunk, I am the master of lofty castles (al-Khawarnaq and

as-Sadîr).
When I am sober, I am the master of a few sheep and goats and camels.551
Abû Hilâl al-ʿAskarî thought that the theme was particularly well expressed in
verses by Ibn ar-Rûmî, in which he spoke of “the widening hope of an inebriated
person who would eventually hope for something that is not allowed to exist”:
Wine like a last breath

Too tender to perceive and sense—
Its gentle breeze has in its drinker’s heart
The spirit (rûḥ) of hope and respite (râḥah) for the soul.
It spreads in the hope of the person drunk with it,
Till he hopes for the return of yesterday.552
A verse by Ḥassân b. Thâbit, quoted by Abû Hilâl al-ʿAskarî in this context,

appropriately reappeared in the literature on ḥashîsh, which was naturally
547 Cf. ʿUmar b. Abî Rabîʿah, Dîwân, ed. Schwarz, II, 142, no. 196, verse 2, ed. ʿAbd-al-Ḥamîd,
367; Agh., IV, 71, VI, 18, Agh.3, IV, 294, VI, 177.
548 Cf. Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, Ishârât, 30, l. 3, and 42, l. 13. Cf. also Ibn ʿAbdrabbih, ʿIqd, III,
205, l. 5 (“Despair is a free man, hope is a slave”), or as-Sulamî, Ṭabaqât, 494, ll. 7f., quoting
Abû ʿAbdallâh at-Turûghbadhî.
549 Cf. Ibn Abî l-Ḥadîd, III, 708.
550 Cf. also above, nn. 283, 340, 361, and below, n. 703.
551 Cf. Qudâmah, Naqd ash-shiʿr, ed. S.A. Bonebakker, 13 (Leiden 1956), ed. Kamâl Muṣṭafâ,
36 f. (Cairo 1963). Abû Hilâl al-ʿAskarî, Dîwân al-maʿânî, I, 314, quoted the verses in the
name of al-Akhṭal, while aṣ-Ṣafadî, Ghayth, I, 265, ascribed them to an Arab (Bedouin).
For al-Munakhkhal, see GAS, II, 183.
552 Cf. Abû Hilâl al-ʿAskarî, Dîwân al-maʿânî, I, 314.
105 concerned with the drug’s hallucinatory effects.553 The op|ponents of the use
of wine and other drugs pointed out that their alleged beneficent results were
merely in the imagination (expressed by the root w-h-m). They caused laziness
and destroyed the mind. It was merely imaginary when they caused joy and
banished worries. What enticed the common people to the use of ḥashîsh was
the desire for “pleasure in the imagination (al-ladhdhah al-wahmīyah).”554 On
the other hand, addicts considered the pleasurable effects of drugs as going
beyond mere hoping and wishing to a kind of instant wish fulfillment. In fact,
artificially induced hope also belonged to the supposedly desirable aspects of
hoping and wishing and not only to their useless and detrimental connection
with unreality.555
The negative impact of wishing was represented with particular force by the
“particle of wishing”556 layta, yâ layta, layta shiʿrî. It stood as a symbol for it in
linguistic usage. Layta was turned into a noun to indicate unfulfillable wishing.
Particular renown was attached to a verse ascribed to a Christian poet who lived
around 600, Abû Zubayd aṭ-Ṭâʾî:
Would that I knew—but what use do I have of “would-that”!

“Would-that” is trouble and useless, as is “wish-that.”
(Layta shiʿrî wa-ayna minniya laytun—inna laytan wa-inna lawwan
ʿanâʾu)557
Variations were numerous. A layt is rarely of any use. It is a miss (nabwah).

Neither regret nor a layt nor law-anna is any help.558 Neither “would-that” nor
553 Cf. F. Rosenthal, The Herb, 109 (Leiden 1971). [Above, p. 244, Ed.]
554 Cf. al-ʿUkbarî, as-Sawâniḥ al-adabîyah, as quoted by Abû t-Tuqâ al-Badrî, Râḥat al-arwâḥ,
Ms. Paris ar. 3544, fol. 30a.
557 Cf. L. Cheikho, Shuʿarâʾ an-Naṣrânîyah baʿd al-Islâm, part I: ash-Shuʿarâʾ al-mukhaḍramûn,
77 (Beirut 1924); Ibn Qutaybah, Shiʿr, 222. The verse was mostly quoted anonymously,
cf., for instance, Abû Hilâl al-ʿAskarî, Ṣinâʿatayn, 57, ed. al-Bijâwîand Ibrâhîm, 77; Abû
Sulaymân as-Sijistânî, Ṣiwân, 358; ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât, I, 281; Ibn Ḥajar, Fatḥ,
XVI, 353. For Abû Zubayd aṭ-Ṭâʾî, see GAS, II, 161 f.
The first half-verse appears in a poem by Abû Qaṭîfah, cf. Agh., I, 15, Agh.3, I, 28; Yâqût,
Muʿjam, I, 538, IV, 1025. For Abû Qaṭîfah, see GAS, II, 424f.
For the ḥadîth on laww as the work of Satan, see Concordance, VI, 151a8–11.
558 The three preceding statements are in the form of verses as quoted by Abû Sulaymân
as-Sijistanî, Ṣiwân, 358.
hope and wishes 645
“perhaps” can bring back anything, and certainly not one’s lost youth.559 “Man
perishes while his hope has not perished nor has the connection of ‘will-be’
with his ‘would-that.’”560 A frustrated | lover might wish for death in order to 106
have a respite from his torment, but “where,” he exclaims, “is would-that?”561
And it speaks against people that they would always say “Would that we” when
“Oh would that” is of no use.562
Layta, it was stated correctly, was used mainly for what is impossible, and
only very rarely for what is possible.563 One might use it for wishing for some-
thing as obviously impossible as finding “the water of the Euphrates give infor-
mation”564 or, more subtly, as seeing that “all the soul’s wishes are granted it.”565
Innumerable other such wishes were introduced by layta. Even when the word
was used for something possible, it was usually something that was possible
only in theory and was not actually expected to happen. An aura of hopeless-
ness surrounded nearly all its poetic uses. The many verses beginning “Would
that I knew whether I shall (or: “would that I could”) ever again spend the
night in …,”566 obsessively expressed unfulfillable longing. Even if the possibil-
ity existed, being again in the old place would not be what it once was. In his
famous poem, Ibn ad-Dumaynah sadly came to the conclusion that wishing
was of no use:
559 Cf. al-Qâlî, Amâlî, II, 270, (Dhayl), III, 78, l. 19, and 79, l. 6.
560 Cf. Maḥmûd al-Warrâq, Dîwân, 51, derived from Ibn ʿAbd-al-Barr, Bahjah, I, 146. Cf. also
Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah, Dîwân, 460: “Often ‘perhaps (ʿasâ)’ and ‘will be’ have caused deception.”
Ibn Abî d-dunyâ devoted considerable space to the danger of postponing matters (sawfa,
taswîf ), cf. his Qiṣar al-amal, fols. 40b–41b, corresponding closely to fols. 19b–20b. It is one of
the hosts of Iblîs. Perdition lurks in as-sawf and al-layt. Al-Ḥasan (al-Baṣrî) warned against
the preoccupation with tomorrow and neglect of today inherent in taswîf, and so on.
The particles laʿalla and ʿasâ “perhaps” were seen as indicative of “hope.” Their frequent
occurrence in the Qurʾân was claimed to constitute proof that hope was a divine station
on the mystic path, cf. Ibn ʿArabî, Futûḥât, II, 86.
561 Cf. Agh., III, 79, Agh.3, III, 362. For the poet ʿUkkâshah b. ʿAbd-aṣ-Ṣamad, see GAS, II, 524.
562 Cf. al-Walîd b. Yazîd, in Agh., VI, 104, Agh.3, VII, 8.
563 Cf. Ibn Ḥajar, Fatḥ, XVI, 346: yataʿallaq bi-l-mustaḥîl wa-bi-l-mumkin qalîlan.
565 Cf. Agh., V, 95, VIII, 166, Agh.3, V, 359, IX, 283.
566 Cf., for instance, the verse said to have been recited by Bilâl in al-Bukhârî’s Ṣaḥîḥ, see Ibn
Ḥajar, Fatḥ, XVI, 347; al-Bakrî, Muʿjam mâ staʿjam, ed. Muṣṭafâ as-Saqqâʾ, III, 1015 (Cairo
1945–1951); Yâqût, Muʿjam, III, 854; Lisân al-ʿArab, IV, 10, XIII, 137, etc., or the even more
famous verse by Jamîl, Dîwân, ed. Gabrieli, 70, ed. Naṣṣâr, 65; Agh., II, 144, VII, 83, Agh.3, II,
393, VIII, 103.
I would say laytanî many times, if it were of any use for me.
My soul would express many wishes, if it could expect them to be
granted.567
Thinking of his beloved in his illness, Qays b. Dharîḥ melancholically resigned

himself to unhappiness, because the wish that past times come back even for
one day was impossible of fulfillment.568 Many poets played with the thought
that old age had some advantages. However, the number of those who wished
for the impossible, namely, that they could be young again, was probably much
107 greater. The note of despair | sounded by ʿUmârah al-Yamanî in the face of old
age and approaching death was but one expression of a common mood:
Would that I knew who after my death

Will be seen inhabiting my house!
Also, would that I knew
Who will read these books
On which I spent
My life night and day!569
Giving up on wishes and promises was the recommended and necessary pro-
cedure in view of their predominant deceptiveness and likely harmfulness. Yâ
laytanî wa-l-munâ ka-smihâ was the way in which ʿAbd-ar-Raḥmân, the poet
son of Ḥassân b. Thâbit, put it.570 Wishes are just wishes. They are indeed as
bad as the word “wishes” and the general reputation of wishes suggest—useless
and harmful.
b The Death Connection (umnîyah-manîyah/ amal-ajal)

Pre-Islamic Arabs were inclined to reflect on death as the inevitable termi-
nation of all human striving, and monotheism transmitted to Islam a strong
awareness of death as a definite end and a new beginning for the individual.
All the good as well as all the bad that existed for him in the world came to
an end with it. Those Muslims in whom the feeling of the unworthiness of this
567 Cf. Ibn ad-Dumaynah, Dîwân, 98, 172. Ibn Qutaybah, ʿUyûn, I, 262, has laytanâ.
568 Cf. Naṣṣâr, Qays wa-Lubnâ, 79; Agh., VIII, 129, Agh.3, IX, 210.
569 Cf. ʿUmârah al-Yamanî, 274.
570 Cf. al-Buḥturî, Ḥamâsah, 96, ed. Cheikho, 62.
For the idiom ka-smi-, cf. A. Spitaler, Aṣ-ṣabru kа-smihî, as-safâhatu ka-smihâ und
Ähnliches, in Der Orient in der Forschung, Festschrift für Otto Spies, 634–656 (Wiesbaden
1967).
hope and wishes 647
world was strongly developed accepted it as a foregone conclusion that death

was a welcome relief from improper and unrealistic hoping and wishing and
an opportunity, hazardous though it was, for true fulfillment. The voices that
claimed a certain goodness for the things of this world were never stilled, but
even a tough realist such as the great Umayyad governor al-Ḥajjâj could plau-
sibly be credited with a degree of disdain for this world and a preference for
the hope held out by Muslim religious beliefs. When he was ill and the rumor
spread that he had died, he dismissed it by saying: “So what? I surely do not
wish never to die. Only after death can I hope for all that is good.”571 He admit-
ted implicitly that some good did exist in this world. Only death, however, could
open the door to all of it in its purity and perfection.
Worldly hopes and wishes were felt to stand in an adversary relationship to
death. This insight did not fail to make the transition from religious conviction
into general consciousness. It was expressed in a | great variety of ways. A 108
marthiyah fittingly used it in connection with the motif of ayna “where”?:
“Where is now the hope with which you used to associate, where are now your
wishes in this world?”572 But an accidental circumstance helped the idea to
sink even more deeply into the Muslim mind. What was seen to be the same
root (m-n-w) was shared by wishing (umnîyah, etc.) and death (manîyah, pl.
manâyâ), and a jingling rhyme connected hope (amal) with a word for the final
term of human life (ajal). No reliable evidence seems to exist that the play on
these words was already used in pre-Islamic times. It may very well have been.
The combination of umnîyah and manîyah took many forms. It was said that
“he who remembers death will forget wishing.”573 The futility of indulging in
wishes was expressed in the gnomic verse: “How many a wish has attracted
death!”574 Or, phrased somewhat differently: “The death of the wisher may be
in his wishes.”575 “Death (manâyâ) in this world laughs at mundane wishes.”576
A wish incapable of fulfillment could be described as munyah dûnahâ manîyah
“a wish precluded by death.”577 Fluttering hearts torn between the fear of death
571 Cf. al-Madâʾinî, Taʿâzî, 51.

573 Cf. Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, Imtâʿ, II, 61.
574 Cf. an-Nuwayrî, Nihâyah, III, 102, l. 7; aṣ-Ṣafadî, Ghayth, II, 100. The poet was said to be
Ibn Bassâm al-Bassâmî. Quoted as a proverb in (Zayd b. Rifâʿah?), Kitâb al-Amthâl, 64
(Hyderabad 1351).
575 Cf. Ibn Zaydûn, Risâlah, in aṣ-Ṣafadî, Tamâm, 22, 49 f. See above, n. 475.
576 Cf. Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Âdâb, 79. See also Ibn Khaldûn, Rihlah, ed. M. Tâwît aṭ-Ṭanjî, 163, l. 5
(Cairo 1370/1951).
577 Cf. Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, Ishârât, 402, l. 17. See also below, n. 716.
and the hope for victory in an impending battle were, as expressed by the genius
of al-Mutanabbî, in a state “between death and wishes.”578 The same great poet
also suggested that a situation so distressing that death appeared desirable was
characterized with sufficient clarity as one in which “death was identical with
wishing (wa-ḥasbu l-manâyâ an yakunna amâniyâ).”579 Once established as an
accepted figure of speech, there was no end to variations. Ash-Sharîf ar-Raḍî,
for instance, would employ a non-rhyming combination:
Our gullibility extends the delays of wishes,

And we forget thereafter the swiftness of death.580
109 The grim opposition of umnîyah and manîyah was also employed facetiously,
and love poetry included verses such as: “Kissing your mouth is my wish, even
if it means my death,”581 or: “My heart wishes to join my killer; he just is either
my wish or my death.”582
While the alignment of munyah and manîyah was common in the language,
it retained a definitely literary flavor. The reason is obvious. Manîyah does not
occur in the Qurʾân, and it occurs only rarely in the ḥadîth. It is a word with
pagan connotations and was primarily preserved through Arab poetical tra-
dition. The situation was totally different with respect to amal and ajal. Ajal
was much used in the Qurʾân in its meaning of “term.” It was also used to indi-
cate the ultimate “term” of peoples and individuals.583 A curious and difficult
ḥadîth making use of the opposition amal-ajal was transmitted in different
versions. It tells about a line drawing made by the Prophet. In it he repre-
sented graphically the relationship of man with death (ajal) that had almost
enclosed him and amal that stands outside, as well as the aʿrâḍ (or ʿurûḍ).
578 Cf. al-Mutanabbî, Dîwân, ed. ʿAzzâm, 140, ed. al-Barqûqî, IV, 336. Imitations attest to the
popularity of the verse, cf. al-Kutubî, Fawât, ed. M. Muḥyî-ad-dîn ʿAbd-al-Ḥamîd, I, 248, l. 1
(Cairo 1951), ed. Iḥsân ʿAbbâs, I, 344 (Beirut 1973–) (as-Sâsakûnî); aṣ-Ṣafadî, Wâfî, XII, 246,
l. 10, and 262, l. 17.
579 Cf. al-Mutanabbî, Dîwân, ed. ʿAzzâm, 439, ed. al-Barqûqî, IV, 417; ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî,
Muḥâḍarât, II, 293; аn-Nuwayrî, Nihâyah, VII, 133; Ibn Abî l-Ḥadîd, III, 417, etc. In this
sense, the horrors awaiting the damned in Hell were described as so terrible that “what
they wish for there is to perish (amânîhim fîhâ al-halâk),” cf. al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ, IV, 451,
l. 17.
581 Cf. Ḥamd b. Muḥammad b. Fûrajah, in al-Bâkharzî, Dumyah, I, 419; see further, I, 181.
582 Cf. Ibn Sanâʾ-al-mulk, Dîwân, II, 371.
583 Cf. R. Paret, Der Koran, Kommentar und Konkordanz, 134.
hope and wishes 649
The meaning of the last word, which occurs only in one version, constitutes
the crux for the correct interpretation of the ḥadîth, which appears not yet
to have been achieved. It seems to say that when man is unsuccessful with
respect to the aʿrâḍ “worldly goods,” hope gets to him, and, if he is unsuccessful
with hope, then, certainly, death speedily gets to him. Whether or not this is
the correct understanding of the ḥadîth, it is clear, especially from al-Bukhârî’s
second version, that its purpose was to describe primarily the relationship
between amal and ajal, with death being always close and the ultimate win-
ner.584
Not surprisingly, therefore, amal-ajal, or their plurals âmâl-âjâl, was much
more popular than the literary play on the words derived from the root m-n-w.
A verse ascribed to Maḥmûd al-Warrâq:
I have cried because of the closeness of death

And the remoteness of the passing of hope,585
effectively repeated the theme of persistent hoping cut short by death. Regard- 110
less of its true authorship, it no doubt reflected a thought current since the
earliest times of Islam.
The Khârijite poet Qaṭarî b. Fujâʾah supposedly exhorted himself to avoid
being inveigled by false hopes:
O soul! Do not let yourself be diverted by false hope!

Wishes have often been proved false by death.586
584 Cf. Ibn Ḥajar, Fatḥ, XIV, 12 f. A collection of different versions is found in Ibn Аbî d-
dunyâ, Qiṣar al-amal, fol. 2a–b, among them “man concerns himself with hope, but death
(al-mawt) interferes and carries him off,” cf. also al-ʿAynî, ʿUmdah, X, 585, copied by al-
Qasṭallânî, Irshâd, XI, 76. At-Tirmidhî, IX, 204, quoted the version according to which
the Prophet did not draw lines but touched his head. Other simplified versions appear
in ʿAbdallâh b. al-Mubârak, Zuhd, 86; an-Nuwayrî al-Iskandarânî, Ilmâm, VI, 217f. Cf. also
Qiṣar al-amal, fol. 4b, where the Prophet speaks of drawing lines representing hope and
death ending wishes.
585 Cf. Maḥmûd al-Warrâq, Dîwân, 109. The editor cites there many of the sources containing
the verse. “Passing ( fawât)” = “reaching its term (fulfillment)”?
586 Cf. al-Buḥturî, Ḥamâsah, 315, ed. Cheikho, 217. The Ḥamâsah was the only source for this
verse in F. Gabrieli’s collection of the poetry of Qaṭarî, in Rivista degli Studi Orientali, 20
(1942–1943), 355, and Iḥsân ʿAbbâs, Shiʿr al-Khawârij, 47 (Beirut, n.y. [ca. 1963]).
Cf., further, the verses by a certain Muknaf b. Muʿâwiyah at-Tamîmî on disappointed
hopes cut short by death, in al-Buḥturî, Ḥamâsah, 316, ed. Cheikho, 218.
His contemporary and fellow Khârijite, ʿImrân b. Ḥiṭṭân, is said to have put
the same idea into slightly different words when he addressed his cousin and
wife Jamrah:
O Jamrah! O Jamrah! Do not allow yourself to be carried away by hope,

For the hoper’s guesswork may be proved false by death.587
Another, somewhat later poet, Abû n-Najm, expressed the role of death in
bringing all hopes to an end in the verse:
All of us hope for an extension of the term of death,

Though fate (al-manâyâ) hurts all hope.588
The speed with which death comes to interfere with human aspirations led
Muslim b. al-Walîd to compare the swiftness and assuredness of blows admin-
istered to the heads of enemies on the day of battle with the swiftness and
assuredness of “death hurrying toward hope (ka-annahû ajalun yasʿâ ilâ
amali),”589 a deft image that was much admired. His contemporary Abû l-
ʿAtâhiyah, in his ascetic view of the world, naturally exploited the theme for
all it was worth, for instance:
The death of young men is quicker than (it is for them to attain) what they
hope for.590
111 God be praised for our terms (âjâlunâ) being short.
We seek lasting life with our long hopes.591
How does death (âjâl) cut hopes short
587 Cf. Iḥsân ʿAbbâs, Shiʿr al-Khawârij, 28. ʿAbbâs referred as his source to as-Suyûṭî, Muzhir,
ed. M. Aḥmad Jâd-al-Mawlâ Bak, M. Abû l-Faḍl Ibrâhîm, and ʿAlî M. al-Bijâwî, I, 398 (Cairo,
n.y.). The disputed woman’s name there is Khawlah.
588 Cf. al-Jâḥiẓ, Ḥayawân, VI, 509, Bayân, III, 194; Ibn ʿAbd-al-Barr, Bahjah, I, 157. For Abû
n-Najm, see GAS, II, 371 f.
589 Cf. Muslim b. al-Walîd, Dîwân, 9, no. 1, verse 30, and aṣ-Ṣûlî, Akhbâr Abî Tammâm, ed. Khalîl
Maḥmûd ʿAsâkir, M. ʿAbduh ʿAzzâm, and Naẓîr-al-Islâm al-Hindî, 102 (Beirut, n.y.); Abû
Hilâl al-ʿAskarî, Ṣinâʿatayn, 152, 223, ed. al-Bijâwî and Ibrâhîm, 205, 288; Ibn Khallikân, I,
44 f.; aṣ-Ṣafadî, Ghayth, II, 7 f., etc. The poet’s own high regard for this verse and his bragging
about it vis-à-vis Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah were reported by Hârûn b. ʿAlî b. Yaḥyâ b. al-Munajjim
(see Fihrist, 144, l. 8), cf. Agh., III, 138f., Agh.3, IV, 27f. (quoted in a footnote in the edition
of Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah, Dîwân, 615 f.).
hope and wishes 651
And how quickly do hopes end in death!592

… You seek lasting life and you hope constantly.
… (Events) announce the death of wishes and bring the end (âjâl) close.593
Human beings are so constituted that they constantly think of hope but not of
death.594
Prose sayings and proverbs were no less concerned with driving home the
lesson to be derived from the opposition of amal and ajal. ʿAlî was credited with
what originally was an anonymous pronouncement,595 namely, that “he who
runs guided by the rein of hope will be caused by death to stumble (man jarâ
fî ʿinân amalih ʿathara bi-ajalih).”596 Al-Ḥasan al-Baṣrî was credited with the
remark that man “cannot win the race with death (ajalak) and cannot attain
his hope (amalak).”597 The metaphor from horse racing was popular and could
be rephrased, for instance, in the form that running with the horses of wishes
might cause a fatal stumble.598
It became ordinary linguistic usage to say: “Hope has faded, and the end
has drawn near,”599 and the like. Maxims such as “death (âjâl) interferes with
hope (âmâl)” were easily incorporated into a verse warning against excessive
hopefulness.600 The saying “hope oversteps death (al-amal yatakhaṭṭâ al-ajal)”
briefly described man’s lifelong hoping which vainly tried to compete with the
certainty of death.601 The idea that death was the snare of hope was considered
a proverb,602 and Graeco-Arabic | wisdom literature did not let the opportunity 112

594 Cf. Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah, Dîwân, 323. Cf. also Ibn Abî l-Ḥadîd, V, 655: “Don’t let yourselves be
deceived by hope and by forgetting death.”
595 Cf. Abû Hilâl al-ʿAskarî, Dîwân al-maʿâni, I, 95, l. 19. The statement appears among the
sayings of Hermes in al-Mubashshir, 19, l. 13.
596 Cf. Ibn Abî l-Ḥadîd, V, 292. Cf. also Ibn Abî l-Ḥadîd, IV, 739: “Know for certain that you will
not attain your hope or go beyond your appointed term (ajalak),” and above, n. 447.
597 Cf. Ibn ʿAbdrabbih, ʿIqd, III, 206, with a versification by Ibn ʿAbdrabbih.
598 Cf. Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Dîwân, IV, 196, no. 312, verse 6. Cf., further, below, n. 624.
599 Cf. R.A. Nicholson, The Tarjuman al-ashwaq … by Ibn al-ʿArabî, 10f. (London 1911, Oriental
Translation Series, N.S. 20).
600 Cf. ʿAlî b. al-Jahm, Dîwân, ed. Khalîl Mardam Bak, 68 (Damascus 1369/1949).
601 Cf. Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Âdâb, 83. Cf. his Dîwân, IV, 224, no. 376, verse 12: The truth of death
appears untrue when wishes overstep it (takhaṭṭathu). Cf. also above, n. 283.
602 Cf. Abû Hilâl al-ʿAskarî, Jamharah, I, 118, quoting a versification of Kalîlah wa-Dimnah.
Abû l-Hilâl al-ʿAskarî himself described the destructive influence of death upon all human
striving in a verse comparing the world to
of amal/ ajal pass unnoticed. A saying attributed to Socrates describes death as

the thing nearest (to man) and hope as the thing farthest.603 Chapter headings
such as can be found in al-Buḥturî’s Ḥamâsah (ch. 131) or the Muḥâḍarât
of ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî (II, 287) mention death as interfering with human
hopes.
Occasionally, both the combination of umnîyah/ manîyah and the combi-
nation of amal/ ajal were found jointly in the same passage, as in the saying:
“Hope has often produced death, and a wish has brought it forth (rubbamâ ath-
mara al-amal ajal wa-natajat al-umnîyah manîyah).”604 A curious example is
the double transmission of a view critical of time and this world. In one ver-
sion, it was attributed to an unnamed sage. He described time (ad-dahr) as
“wearing out the body, constantly renewing hope (âmâl), and bringing death
(âjâl) close.”605 The other version purported to be the dictum of a monk: “Time
wears out the body, constantly renews hope, keeps wishes (umnîyah) remote,
and brings death (manîyah) close.”606
No matter which pair of words was employed, the endless repetition, usu-
ally by means of ingratiating rhymes, of the thought that hoping and wish-
ing were useless in the face of inevitable death can be assumed to have con-
tributed its share to elevating pessimism to the status of a sort of normative
wisdom.
c Hope and Activity (amal/ʿamal)

Yet a further extension of amal/ajal included another rhyming word, ʿamal
“work.” Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah combined all three words in the verses:
Death (ajal) creeps up upon you from behind,

While hope (amal) is in front of you.
A house—when hope comes to build it up (taʿmuruhâ),

The vanguard of death (âjâl) comes to tear it down.
Cf. his Dîwân al-maʿânî, II, 181; al-Bâkharzî, Dumyah, I, 525; aṣ-Ṣafadî, Wafî, XII, 81. On ʿ-m-r
in this connection, see below, n. 687.
603 Cf. al-Mubashshir, 105, l. 6; ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât, II, 287. For an aphorism
ascribed to Hermes, see above, n. 595. Cf. also below, n. 624.
604 Cf. Ibn al-Marzubân, Muntahâ, 39. Cf. also the verses ascribed to Abû l-Aswad ad-Du-ʾalî
and referred to above, n. 526.
605 Cf. al-Qâlî, Amâlî, II, 55.
606 Cf. al-Qâlî, Amâlî (Nawâdir), III, 42; Ibn ʿAbdrabbih, ʿIqd, III, 173, ll. 21f. This version was
quoted by al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ, III, 179 bottom; Murtaḍâ az-Zabîdî, Itḥâf, VIII, 91.
hope and wishes 653
Truly the only thing that will save

You is truthfulness and work (ʿamal).607
This triad of terms had become so well established in early years that no hes- 113
itation was felt about dating it back into remote antiquity. No less a legendary
figure of the past than al-Khiḍr warned Dhû l-Qarnayn that hope might put
before him things which he could not achieve and which he would be pre-
vented from accomplishing by death (amalak—ʿamalak—ajalak), and he told
him when he was dying, that “hope is finished, the time of death has come, and
the work (accomplished for life after death) remains.”608 A fictitious inscrip-
tion supposedly deciphered by Wahb b. Munabbih put the same idea some-
what differently: “Were you to see how little time remains for you till your
death, you would give up your long hope and you would desire to increase your
work.”609
The person who would go to work right away, postpone hoping, and be
prepared for death was pronounced clever by the Ṣûfî Yaḥyâ b. Muʿâdh.610 And
Abû Dâwûd aṭ-Ṭâʾî spoke of achieving one’s hope at the cost of approaching
death and postponing one’s work as if it were to profit somebody else.611 The
relationship between the three terms was also elaborated in this manner: “He
who works in the time of his hope before the arrival of his death will benefit
from his work and not be harmed by his death. He who falls short (in his work)
in the time of his hope before the arrival of his death will be deprived of (the
benefit derived from) his work and be hurt by his death.”612
This relationship between hoping and wishing and man’s activity on earth
had the potential of significantly influencing social and spiritual attitudes.
607 Cf. Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah, Dîwân, 286. The “truthfulness (ṣidq)” meant here is the proper upright-
ness of human activity.
608 Cf. Ibn Hishâm, Tîjân, 94, l. 2, and 106, ll. 3 f.
609 Cf. Ibn Abî d-dunyâ, Qiṣar al-amal, fol. 6b; Ibn al-Jawzî, Dhamm al-hawâ, 668.
610 Cf. al-Khaṭîb al-Baghdâdî, Taʾrîkh Baghdâd, XIV, 203, ll. 3f.
611 Cf. Ibn Аbî d-dunyâ, Dhamm ad-dunyâ, 344, no. 402.
612 Cf. Ibn Abî l-Ḥadîd, I, 339.
The three terms were used together in a quite different manner in a saying ascribed to
al-Ḥasan (al-Baṣrî) in Ibn Abî d-dunyâ, Dhamm ad-dunyâ, 354, no. 450 (cf. 355, no. 452),
and to Asclepius in al-Mubashshir, 29: “Asked to describe this world, he said: Yesterday is
a term completed (ajal), today is work, and tomorrow is hope.” In other words, this world
consists of a past that is gone, a present which is to be devoted to activity, and an unknown
future for which one can only harbor hope. This presumably mirrors the Muslim religious
view that the hopes for life in a better world can be fulfilled only by working daily toward
ʿAmal “work, activity,” like its counterpart ʿilm “knowledge,” was claimed for
the religious sphere early in Muslim history. While “knowledge” was felt by
many to be, in particular, the theoretical understanding of religious concerns
114 necessary for salvation, “work” was | the activity of man which, if done properly,
would assure for him bliss in the other world. The religiously approved actions
were the ones meant in the statements just quoted. It is work for the other
world from which hope might divert human beings, according to one of the
explanations given for Qurʾân 15:3.613 Since mundane hoping and wishing were
directed basically toward the taudry goods of this world, they prevented man
from devoting himself to salvific activity. When death put an end to them, it
was too late for him to do anything further or undo what he had done wrong
when he was alive. Man should not wish for death, since it meant that he will
be cut off from any activity and could no longer do the good deeds a Muslim
was expected to do.614 It was an indication of weakness in a human being if he
did not work for his life after death but, instead, “gives in to the soul and allows
it to follow its passion and does nothing but wish in every conceivable manner
that God will come to his rescue,” as a celebrated ḥadîth stated (… man atbaʿa
nafsah hawâhâ wa-tamannâ ʿalâ Allâh al-amânî).615
that end. The sequence “tomorrow … today” which appears in the edition of al-Mubashshir
is found only in one of the manuscripts. For a Muslim ascetic view in this sense, cf., for
instance, Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Dîwân, IV, 215, no. 352, verse 2:
Tomorrow wishes, yesterday despair—today funeral or wedding.
A clever and completely secular use of the triad of terms was made by Kushâjim, see below,
n. 704.
613 Cf. al-ʿAynî, ʿUmdah, X, 584.
614 Cf. Hammâm b. Munabbih, Ṣaḥîfah, ed. M. Hamidullah, in Majallat Majmaʿ al-ʿilmî al-
ʿArabî bi-Dimashq, 28 (1972–1973/1953), 443, no. 76; Concordance, V, 430a31f. The transmit-
ter of the Ṣaḥîfah reported a difference of opinion as to whether the correct reading was
ʿamalih or amalih. The published text has ajalih, which does not make sense.
The permissibility or prohibition of wishing for death was much discussed. This sub-
ject, as well as the subject of suicide, has great if rather indirect relevance for the attitude
toward hope and despair.
615 For the famous ḥadîth, cf. Concordance, I, 261b11 f., II, 163a11f., VI, 277a12f. In al-Ghazzâlî,
Iḥyâʾ, IV, 124, l. 16 (Murtaḍâ az-Zabîdî, Itḥâf, IX, 166), al-ʿâjiz, commonly found in the tradi-
tion, was replaced by al-aḥmaq, probably on account of the contrast with the previously
mentioned kayyis. It reflects the view that excessive wishing was stupid. For a relation-
ship between ʿajz and kasal, see Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzîyah, Miftâḥ dâr as-saʿâdah, I, 113, and
below, n. 636. Cf. also below, n. 769.
hope and wishes 655
Al-Ḥasan al-Baṣrî was considered the prime early authority for the view
that man must concern himself with the conflict between hope and activity.616
He said that hypocrites, in contrast to believers, “postpone work and wish for
God (to come to their rescue).”617 For al-Ḥasan al-Baṣrî, we are told, faith had
nothing to do with wishes. They may prevent man from laying in a store of good
works and “having a good opinion” of God’s mercy. They represent the wrong
kind of having a good opinion of God; the right kind is doing good deeds in His
behalf.618 There is the danger “for man to lose (the benefit of) his work through | 115
hoping.”619 Al-Ḥasan al-Baṣrî exhorted people to “take hold of the assurance
lying in work and not to be deceived by hope before death intervenes.”620 It
thus comes as no surprise that he was also credited—at least as early as the time
of Ibn Abî d-dunyâ and, no doubt, much earlier—with the concise statement
on hope versus work: “As soon as a human being has long hopes, he hurts
his, activity (ma aṭâla ʿabd al-amal illâ asâʾa аl-ʿаmаl).”621 The maxim appears
in this, and slightly different, forms also as an anonymous proverb.622 It was
moreover ascribed to ʿAlî.623
616 Cf. B. Reinert, Die Lehre vom tawakkul in der klassischen Sufik, 192 (Berlin 1968, Studien zur
Sprache, Geschichte und Kultur des islamischen Orients, N.F. 3).
617 Cf. Abû Nuʿaym, Ḥilyah, II, 153, l. 9.
618 Cf. az-Zamakhsharî, Kashshâf, I, 387, to Qurʾân 4:119f.; Ibn al-Athîr, Nihâyah, IV, 118. Cf. also
ash-Shaʿrânî, Mukhtaṣar Tadhkirat al-Qurṭubî, 5 (Cairo 1395/1975), and above, n. 486.
619 Cf. Abû Nuʿaym, Ḥilyah, II, 139, l. 2.
620 Cf. Abû Nuʿaym, Ḥilyah, II, 138, l. 22, see above, n. 447. Ibn ʿAbd-al-Barr, Bahjah, I, 152,
ascribed to al-Ḥasan al-Baṣrî the statement that “as soon as hope is far (?), work is loathed
(mâ baʿuda amal illâ mulla ʿamal).” This suggests a positive estimate of hope as a spur
to action, which seems strange in the mouth of al-Ḥasan al-Baṣrî. Remote hoping for
the impossible as an impediment to every activity is a plausible understanding of the
statement, but again, he is unlikely to have expressed this thought. And having no hope for
salvation would not have been considered by him as a valid excuse for giving up religious
activity.
621 Cf. Ibn Abî d-dunyâ, Qiṣar al-amal, fol. 10b. Cf. also Abû Nuʿaym, Ḥilyah, VIII, 99, l. 13, in the
biography of al-Fuḍayl b. ʿIyâd, but the reference to al-Ḥasan al-Baṣrî’s statement may not
go back the time of al-Fuḍayl. It may have been inserted by Abû Nuʿaym. Further, Ibn Аbî
d-dunyâ, Dhamm ad-dunyâ, 373, no. 531: “Work is adversely affected by long hope (innamâ
sâʾa al-ʿamal min ṭûl al-amal).”
622 Cf. Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, Imtâʿ, II, 149; Ibn ʿAbd-al-Barr, Bahjah, I, 152 (“kills work”);
Freytag, Arabum Proverbia, III, i, 307.
623 Cf. Ibn Abî l-Ḥadîd, V, 310. Maʿrûf al-Karkhî prayed for divine protection against long hope
as it prevented good work, cf. Ibn Abî d-dunyâ, Qiṣar al-amal, fol. 10a–b; Abû Nuʿaym,
Ḥilyah, VIII, 361, l. 15.
A very different view of the relationship between hope and activity may be mentioned
The association that developed between amal and ʿamal became so close
that authors, or copyists, were sometimes confused as to which word consti-
116 tuted the correct text.624 There was little doubt, however, in the | religious mind
that a most serious consequence of hoping and wishing was neglect of doing
what was acceptable in the eyes of God. It often happened that an individ-
ual had to confess that he had done too little work, since he was deceived by
hope.625 Man should not be carried away by hope so that he would end up with
a shortage of works,626 and he should not let predetermination work all the
time while he stands by idly hoping.627 The most useful hope was said to be
one that made it easy for a person to work toward obtaining the divine reward
hoped for.628
Indulgence in hoping and wishing caused laziness (kasal, another rhyme
word). When religious and mystic authorities stressed this point, they meant
laziness with respect to doing deeds pleasing to God. This was no doubt the
view of al-Qushayrî.629 In the opinion of Yaḥyâ b. Muʿâdh in the ninth century,
“a human being does not cease to be tied to indolence (tawânî) as long as he
here, although it belongs rather to the Ṣûfî discussion of hope and fear. It is found in the
famous first aphorism of Ibn ʿAṭâʾllâh, Ḥikam, 9 (Damascus, n.y.), translated by V. Danner,
22 (Leiden 1973): “One of the signs of relying on one’s own deeds (ʿamal) is the loss of
hope (rajâʾ) when a downfall occurs.” According to the commentators, ordinary religious
activity was contrasted here with the individual’s mystic abandonment to the divine.
Under adverse circumstances, the individual who put too much stress upon ordinary
religious actions will find that he has less hope for gnosis and salvation. Vice versa, if he
feels his hope diminishing, he knows that he put too much stress on ordinary religious
actions.
624 Cf. above, nn. 281 (Labîd) and 614. A different version of the saying cited above, nn. 595
and 596, found in the Chester Beatty manuscript of al-Mubashshir, replaced amal with
ʿamal: “He who gives free rein to his work will stumble in the hippodrome of death.” This
appears to be wrong. (Cf. also the even less likely version in Ibn ʿAbd-al-Barr, Bahjah, II,
189: “He who runs in the hippodrome of his hope will stumble in the rein of his death [?].”)
In a saying attributed to Socrates: “Of the two terms delimiting life, hope (amal) makes
life last, and death (ajal) annihilates it,” “work” replaced “hope” in ash-Shahrastânî, ed.
W. Cureton, II, 282 (London 1842–1846), cf. D. Gutas, Greek Wisdom Literature in Arabic
Translation, 112 f., 327 (New Haven 1975, American Oriental Series 60).
However, the edition by ʿAbd-al-ʿAzîz M. al-Wakîl, II, 145 (Cairo 1387/1968), II, 87 (Cairo
1395/1975), has the expected amal.
628 Cf. ʿAbdallâh b. Khubayq, in as-Sulamî, Ṭabaqât, 145, ll. 10f. (using rajâʾ).
hope and wishes 657
is concerned with the promise of wishes,”630 and a tenth-century Ṣûfî, Abû

ʿUthmân al-Maghribî, maintained that “a person who devotes himself to wishes
cuts himself off by procrastination (taswîf ) and indolence.”631 Again, it was
allegedly a Ṣûfî who found a seal ring with the inscription: “He who is used
to nightly conversation with wishes will stay on the path of indolence.”632 In
the theological view, long hope produced laziness with respect to acting in
conformity with the dictates of obedience to God as well as procrastination
with respect to repentance.633 The possibility was, however, considered that
non-hope ( yaʾs), despair of obtaining forgiveness from God, might result in
excessive fear and cause people to refrain from activity (takâsul) and to indulge
in sinful behavior.634
Just as “knowledge” continued to signify all human knowledge, “work” con-
tinued to include all worthwhile human activity on earth. The existence of a
possible negative effect of hoping and wishing upon it was not only taken for
granted by the men of religion, but it was also acknowledged by those of a
more secular outlook on human affairs. Among them, as we will see, hoping
and wishing were recognized as having their particular indispensable and use-
ful aspects. Overindulgence | in them, however, was also chastised by them in 117
no uncertain terms. It was argued that the problem of divine predetermination
was not to be resolved in the sense that human activity was of no account. It still
remained important for human beings to be as active as they could be and not
to substitute wishes for actions. This insight was felt to be important enough to
make a seventh-century authority of legendary renown serve as its spokesman.
Abû l-Aswad ad-Duʾalî thus censured his son Abû Ḥarb for not working and not
seeking to earn a livelihood:
The search for a livelihood is not accomplished by wishes.

Rather, cast your bucket into the well with all the others!
One day, it will come up full for you. Another day,
It will come up with muck and little water.
Do not harbor wishes and be inactive and lazy,
Transferring (your activity) to divine predetermination and predestina-
tion!
630 Cf. as-Sulamî, Ṭabaqât, 111.

631 Cf. as-Sulamî, Ṭabaqât, 483.
632 Cf. Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, Baṣâʾir, II, 46. Cf. also Ishârât, 176, ll. 4f.
634 Cf. al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ, IV, 144. See also below, n. 786.
For the predetermination of the Merciful One brings

Sustenance for human beings from heaven,
Determined to be either contracted or extended,635
While human weakness causes misfortune.636
There can be no doubt about God’s predetermination of everything, the poet

contended, but this is no reason for man to sit around and do nothing but
wishing; rather, he should contribute his share of activity in order to make, as
it were, God’s purpose come true. Since the first two verses were often quoted
by themselves, it could be argued that the remaining three verses with their
theological orientation were not originally connected with them and that the
poet’s advice to his son was purely secular in nature. This is very well possible
but cannot be proved.
The theme of the uselessness of constant hoping in the face of death was
combined, in verses ascribed to Maḥmûd al-Warrâq, with the human devotion
to pleasures and relaxation as well as their tendency toward letting laziness
rule their behavior.637 It was, however, purely secular thought that no great
achievement in this world can materialize for either individuals or society
when hoping takes the place of hard work and man fails to act decisively. The
multiplication of hopes and the resulting neglect of constructive activity might
118 be one of the causes of | political decline.638 Wishes bring no results (lâ maḥṣûl
lahâ) for individuals,639 nor, in the words of Abû Tammâm, does feeding in
their pastures make anybody fat.639a The meanness of envy shows itself in
the fact that the envious individual takes his revenge merely by wishing, and
not by acting and fighting as an enemy would.640 Just as youth is not brought
back by dyeing one’s hair or knowledge acquired by claiming to possess it,
635 For this usage of qabḍ and basṭ cf Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Dîwân, III, 161, no. 262, verse 20.
636 Cf. Abû l-Aswad ad-Duʾalî, Dîwân, 36, 43. For the first two verses, cf. also Agh., XI, 122, Agh.3,
XII, 330. The source of the remaining three verses is Yâqût, Irshâd, ed. Margoliouth, IV, 281,
ed. Rifâʿî, XII, 36. For weakness and laziness, see above, n. 615.
637 Cf. Maḥmûd al-Warrâq, Dîwân, 113.
638 Cf. al-Mubashshir, 136f., among the sayings attributed to Plato. Taḍʿîf “multiplication”
could also mean “weakening,” which would make the saying an expression of the con-
structive effects of hope. However, the so-called Western recension of al-Mubashshir reads
al-iṭṭikâl ʿalâ (Spanish se acomendar), instead of taḍʿîf.
639 Cf. ash-Sharîshî, II, 253.
639a Cf. Abû Tammâm, Dîwân, ed. ʿAzzâm, III, 67; ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât, I, 281.
640 Cf. al-Qâlî, Amâlî (Nawâdir), III, 214, ll. 14 ff., in the name of Yaḥyâ b. Khâlid (al-Bar-
makî).
hope and wishes 659
wealth is not attained by wishes,641 nor, for that matter, is anything of real
importance in the world:
Say to the person who hopes (r-j-w) for great things (maʿâlî al-umûr):
Without effort, you hope for the impossible.642
Or, as a later poet put it,
With the points of spears and the cutting edges of swords

Is eminence secured, and not by false wishes.643
The general insight that, apart from luck which was often given a decisive role,
only effort and hard work could bring success always remained alive. The verse
telling us that
High positions (maʿâlî) are acquired in accordance with the amount of

effort expended.
Those who seek eminence (ʿulâ) must spend sleepless nights,
was not without reason popular and quoted in the entertaining and educa-
tional literature.644 The detrimental effect upon ambition and success pro-
duced by hoping and wishing and the sloth resulting from them thus was occa-
sionally stressed on the secular plane. It was also clear to the representatives of
pious devotion that the hope for profit was the in|centive for all worldly labor. 119
Al-Muḥâsibî made this point in order to justify the need of human beings to
hope for reward in the other world.645 In general, the confrontation of amal and
ʿamal, to the disadvantage of hope, was of religious inspiration and expectedly
spread far and wide.
641 Cf. al-Balâdhurî, Ansâb, III, 83 f., in the name of Muḥammad b. ʿAlî b. ʿAbdallâh b. ʿAbbâs.
642 Cf. Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzîyah, Miftâḥ dâr as-saʿâdah, I, 108. Cf. also ash-Sharîf ar-Raḍî, Dîwân,
II, 375, l. 3.
643 Cf. Nûr-ad-dîn al-Isʿirdî, Dîwân, Ms. Escurial or. 472, fol. 62a: Bi-sumri l-ʿawâlî wa-d-diqâqi
l-qawâḍibi—tushâdu l-ʿulâ lâ bi-l-amânî l-kawâdhibi. Cf., further, below, n. 677.
644 Cf. the introduction of the story of Sindbad the Sailor in the Arabian Nights and az-Zarnûjî,
Taʿlim al-mutaʿallim, trans. G.E. von Grunebaum and T.M. Abel, 39, ch. 5 (New York 1947);
aṣ-Ṣafadî, Ghayth, II, 9. The verses were also quoted in a footnote of the edition of Ibn
Jamâʿah, Tadhkirat as-sâmiʿ wa-l-mutakallim, 78 (Hyderabad 1353).
645 Cf. J. van Ess, Die Gedankenwelt des Ḥâriṯ al-Muḥâsibî, 127f. (Bonn 1961, Bonner Orientalis-
tische Studien, N.S. 12).
d Sweet Hope, Enjoyable Wishes

While hoping and wishing might lead man away from reality and cause the
harm that easily befell him when he did not have his feet planted firmly on
the ground, they were also necessary to provide him with the psychological
fortitude required to face reality and its discouraging and depressing effects.
To be sure, hoping and wishing did not constitute a cure. They were illusions,
with the always present potential of turning into something very dangerous.
Yet, they were all a man had left when he was about to be crushed by worry and
misfortune. They provided at least temporary relief and comfort and enabled
him to go on living.
The distance between what is salutary and what is destructive in human
psychological reactions is often a short one. Thus, indecision as to the most
desirable attitude to take with respect to hoping and wishing came naturally.
No doubt, it was widespread also among Muslims. A good example for the
difficulty to take a stand in the matter comes from Graeco-Arabic translation
literature. A verse attributed to Menander proclaims that “an unfortunate man
is saved by hope.”646 It appears in the Arabic translation of the monosticha
ascribed to the Greek poet in a rather exact rendering. “Hope,” however, was
replaced in it by “wishes”: “An unfortunate man lives by wishes.”647 In the
gnomologium of Ibn Hindû, this statement was transformed to read: “The
unfortunate person is the one who lives by wishes.”648 Ibn Hindû’s formulation
was no doubt intended to signify that living by wishes would have unhappy
results for the person who did it—just the opposite of what the Greek version
originally meant.
Another, more ambiguous example is furnished by two more monosticha
of Pseudo-Menander: Hai elpides boskousi tous kenous brotôn and elpis gar
hê boskousa tous pollous brotôn. The preferred understanding of these verses
120 inclines toward attributing a negative sense to them. Many—or worthless |
and stupid—people are led to pasture like dumb animals and, in a manner of
speaking, filled up with misleading hopes instead of nourishing food. However,
it does not seem entirely excluded that the empty (kenous) human beings here
are the ones bereft of worldly goods and having nothing to live on and to live
for. There are many of those, and they are fed, and sustained, by hope. The
Arabic translation employed ghalaba ʿalâ in both cases. It appears to mean
646 Cf. Stobaeus, ed. C. Wachsmuth and O. Hense, IV, 997 (reprint Berlin 1958); Menandri
Sententiae, ed. S. Jaekel, 34, no. 30 (Leipzig 1964). Cf. also above, n. 624.
647 Cf. M. Ullmann, Die arabische Überlieferung der sogenannten Menandersentenzen, 21,
no. 37 (Wiesbaden 1961, Abhandlungen für die Kunde des Morgenlandes, 34, 1).
648 Cf. Ibn Hindû, 135. For bi-t-tamannî, read, with Ms. Aya Sofya 2452, bi-l-munâ.
hope and wishes 661
that many, or unoccupied ( furrâgh), human beings are overcome by hope and
suffer defeat at its hand, clearly a negative view of the effects of hope.649
In some remote way, the Greek tradition was partially responsible for the
designation of hope as “sweet.” When Bias was asked what it was that was sweet
for human beings, he replied in one word: “Hope.”650 No exact translation of
Bias’ remark seems to exist in Arabic, but another saying, commonly quoted in
Greek literature, was translated into Arabic in the name of Pythagoras: “Asked
to mention the sweetest (aḥlâ) thing, he replied, ‘That which one desires.’”651
The Greek original stressed attainment of desires, and attainment is not men-
tioned in the Arabic sources, but no significance seems to attach to this omis-
sion. At any rate, Muslims knew of the sweetness of “attaining” one’s wishes,652
but they also expressed the opinion that wishing by itself was sweeter (aṭyab)
than the attainment of one’s wishes and hopes.653 That wishing had the power
of giving a person greater pleasure than wish fulfillment was an indication of
the tremendous force of illusion residing in it. In stark sexual language, it was
described as comparable to the greater sweetness (aṭyab) of emission during
sleep as compared to actual coitus.654
The sweetness of hopes and wishes continued to be a much employed 121
metaphor. The poet an-Nâjim thus praised the art of a songstress as being a
kind of
649 Cf. Ullmann, Menandersentenzen, 22 and 30, nos. 44 and 111; Menandri Sententiae, ed.
Jaekel, 38, no. 51, and 124, no. 12. Schrijen, Elpis, 76ff., devotes a special chapter to the
connection of boskein with hope.
Furrâgh is reminiscent of the definition of love as the pastime of an “empty” soul, that
is, of a person who has nothing better to do.
650 Cf. Gnomologium Vaticanum, no. 155. Cf. Schrijen, Elpis, 63, in connection with Pindar’s
mention of sweet hope in verses quoted by Plato, Republic 331A (Schrijen, Elpis, 163).
651 Cf. F. Rosenthal, Sayings of the Ancients from Ibn Durayd’s Kitâb al-Mujtanâ, in Orientalia,
N.S. 27 (1958), 41, 170, no. 32, and the references given there; Abû Hilâl al-ʿAskarî, Dîwân
al-maʿâni, II, 93. Cf. also Ibn Qutaybah, ʿUyûn, I, 261, ll. 3f., with the attribution to Ibn Abî
Bakrah (below, n. 661); al-Bayhaqî, Maḥâsin, 295, l. 4, where “wishes” is the answer to the
question about the most enjoyable (amtaʿ) thing.
For hêdiston in the Greek saying, Arabic would usually use the root l-dh-dh, see below,
n. 664.
652 See above, nn. 371 and 372.
653 Cf. at-Tihâmî (above, n. 478). Old love poetry championed the idea that for psychological
reasons, hope was more satisfactory than fulfillment, cf. ʿUmar b. Abî Rabîʿah, Dîwân, ed.
Schwarz, II, 224, no. 336, ed. ʿAbd-al-Ḥamîd, 484; Agh., I, 63, 68, Agh.3, I, 143, 165, and Ibn
Qays ar-Ruqayyât, below, n. 694.
654 Cf. al-Jâḥiẓ, Ḥayawân, V, 192. Atyab may rather be “more pleasurable.”
Singing more pleasurable than the pleasure felt when falling asleep,
Sweeter and more desirable than a person’s wishes for the hope contained
in them to become true.655
Or, in the words of his prominent contemporary Ibn al-Muʿtazz:
The cupbearer’s eye in moving was whispering constantly to me

Something sweeter (aṭyab) and subtler than wishes do.656
The same Ibn al-Muʿtazz quoted a verse by Abû Tammâm in which “the honey
sweetness of wishes (maʿsûl al-amânî)” was compared to sweet wine in a
cup.657
Considering the falseness and unreality of wishes, calling them sweet
required some rationalization. Thus, ash-Sharîf al-Murtaḍâ argued, in connec-
tion with the deceptiveness of the ṭayf al-khayâl, that many false things are,
after all, sweet of taste.658 For the mystic thinker, a certain sweetness attached
to the process of wishing while it lasted, but it merely added to its deceptive-
ness.659 There was, of course, nothing false in the hope for God which was the
sweetest gift in the mystic’s heart.660
Another adjective descriptive of hopes and wishes was “enjoyable (m-t-ʿ).” In
the name of ʿAbd-ar-Raḥmân b. Аbî Bakrah, al-Jâḥiẓ noted that hope provided
the most enduring enjoyment (amtaʿ) in the world.661 It should, however,
655 Cf. Ibn Abî ʿAwn, Tashbîhât, 124; an-Nuwayrî, Nihâyah, V, 118. For an-Nâjim, see GAS, II,
588 f. See also above, n. 2.
656 Cf. Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Dîwân, III, 82, no. 156, verse 6. Abû Nuwâs had already said of the
cupbearer that with his eyes he aroused in him a wish which was most pleasurable and
sweet for his heart, cf. his Dîwân, 37.
657 Cf. Abû Tammâm, Dîwân, ed. ʿAzzâm, IV, 519; Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Fuṣûl at-tabâshîr, 22 (Cairo
1344/1925).
658 Cf. ash-Sharîf al-Murtaḍâ, Ṭayf, 177, l. 11.
659 Cf. Ibn ʿArabî, Tajalliyât, 50 (above, n. 404).
660 Cf. al-Qushayrî, Risâlah, 63, in the name of Yaḥyâ b. Muʿâdh (below, n. 798).
661 Cf. al-Jâḥiẓ, Ḥayawân, V, 190, Bayân, II, 107; Ibn Qutaybah, ʿUyûn, I, 261; ar-Râghib al-
Iṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât, I, 280, citing “a sage”; Ibn Abî l-Ḥadîd, V, 308. In a slightly different
form, the remark was quoted by the paroemiographers (below, n. 664) with an attribution
to a certain Umm al-Khuss.
According to Khalîfah b. Khayyât, Taʾrîkh, ed. Akram Ḍiyâʾ al-ʿUmarî, I, 98, 306 (an-
Najaf 1386/1967), ʿAbd-ar-Raḥmân b. Abî Bakrah lived from 14/635–636 to 89/706–707. Cf.
also Khalîfah, Ṭabaqât, ed. al-ʿUmarî, 203 (Baghdâd 1387/1967). Other dates of death such
as 96/714–715 or 101/719–720 appear elsewhere. They are probably wrong, but there was
hope and wishes 663
not be overlooked that, like others who quoted the | remark in later times, 122
al-Jâḥiẓ, although he evidently saw in it an important truth, surrounded it
with statements highly critical of wishes. Among them, there was even one
attributed to the same Ibn Abî Bakrah which stated that wishing for a long life
would make a person unprepared for life’s misfortunes.662 On the other hand,
an Arab Bedouin replied to the question about the most enjoyable things in the
world by mentioning playful banter with the beloved, talking with a friend, and
“wishes to while away one’s days.”663
Pleasure (ladhdhah) was among the great comforts that wishes were able
to provide. The greatest possible pleasure was described by the proverb: “More
pleasurable than wishes (aladhdh min al-munâ).”664 Poets considered the idea
suitable for use in their work. Abû Nuwâs would happily remember kisses more
pleasurable than wishes.665 For Kushâjim, nothing was more pleasurable than
a promise and the hope raised by it, even if it remained unfulfilled.666 Wishes
were paired with pleasurable things (and be said to have the same undesirable
effect of drawing attention away from the joys of Paradise).667
Joy (surûr), pure joy, was another positive consequence of being gifted with
hope. Only hope, and not wealth, can give joy to the soul.668 In fact, one of the
attempted definitions of joy was “the attainment of wishes,”669 just as a def-
inition of hope called hope “an assumption (ẓann) requiring the attainment
so much confusion with respect to the identity and biography of Ibn Abî Bakrah that no
decision seems possible. Ibn Abî l-Ḥadîd spoke of ʿUbaydallâh b. Аbî Bakr, meaning prob-
ably ʿAbd-ar-Raḥmân’s older brother ʿUbaydallâh b. Аbî Bakrah. Cf. also below, n. 669. For
Abû Bakrah, see M.T. Houtsma and C. Pellat, in EI2, s.v.
662 Cf. al-Jâḥiẓ, Ḥayawân, V, 193.
663 Cf. al-Qâlî, Amâlî, I, 212; al-Ḥuṣrî, Zahr, I, 352; ash-Sharîshî, II, 253.
664 Cf. the paroemiographers such as Ḥamzah al-Iṣfahânî, ad-Durrah al-fâkhirah fî l-amthâl
as-sâʾirah, ed. ʿAbd-al-Majîd Qaṭâmish, (ii), 376 (Cairo 1971–1972); Abû Hilâl al-ʿAskarî,
Jamharah, II, 221; Freytag, Arabum Proverbia, II, 562 f.
For the relevant material, cf. now l-dh-dh in Wörterbuch der klassischen arabischen
Sprache, in particular, the reference to ar-rajâʾ wa-l-amal ladhîdhân (Wörterbuch 504b30–
32); cf. also Nicomachean Ethics 1168a 31 f., trans., ed. Badawî, 320.
665 Cf. Abû Nuwâs, Dîwân, 631. Cf. also above, n. 656.
666 Cf. Kushâjim, Dîwân, 146. The editor’s only source here was ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî’s Muḥâḍ-
arât. For another poetical application of the proverb, cf. ash-Sharîf ar-Raḍî, Dîwân, I, 12.
667 Cf. al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ, I, 323, l. 25.
668 Cf. Ibn Qutaybah, ʿUyûn, I, 260, I. 20; al-Bayhaqî, Maḥâsin, 295, l. 3; ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî,
Muḥâḍarât, I, 280.
669 Cf. al-Bayhaqî, Maḥâsin, 295, ll. 8 f., in the name of ʿAbd-ar-Raḥmân b. Abî Bakr. Apparently
the above-mentioned Ibn Аbî Bakrah (n. 661) was meant, and not the son of the Caliph.
of what means joy.”670 Fondly remembered days of the past were described
as “the letter heading of joy and wishes (ʿunwâna l-masarrati wa-l-amânî).”671
Even more pointedly, the uplifting emotional effect that wishes could provide
123 was compared to the joyous emotion felt | by the beholder of beauty.672 Hope,
fulfilled or not, was a source of enjoyable entertainment: “Hope is a friendly
companion who, if he does not give you fulfillment (of your wishes), did enter-
tain you (or, according to another reading: did give you enjoyment).”673
Wishing is a consolation for the worried. Indeed, it is the only true kind of
consolation available to human beings.674 It is an outlet for worries:
When the worries I have crowd one upon the other in my heart,
I seek ways for them to get out through wishing.675
And again:
I divert my heart with wishes. Perhaps,

I can free myself from worry through wishes.
Although I know that there is no hope of being united with you,
My wishing is not diminished.676
670 Cf. ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, Mufradât, II, 59, here translated after the slightly different text
in the edition Cairo 1970, I, 278. See above, n. 402.
671 Cf. Ibn Khallikan, III, 364, quoting Ibn Bassâm al-Bassâmî.
672 Cf. Ibn Abî l-Ḥadîd, V, 308.
673 Alhâka, probably a simplified reading, appears in al-Ḥuṣrî, Zahr, I, 352, Jamʿ al-jawâhir,
ed. al-Khânjî, 150, ed. al-Bijâwî, 184; ash-Sharîshî, II, 253. Istamtaʿa bih is found in Ḥunayn,
Nawâdir, Hebrew trans., ed. A. Loewenthal, 37, German trans. by the same, 135 (Frankfurt
am Main 1896), among the sayings of Ptolemy; Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Âdâb, 51; al-Mubashshir, 254
(where the negation lam was omitted by the printer by mistake); ash-Shahrazûrî, Nuzhat
al-arwâḥ, ed. Syed Khurshîd Ahmed, I, 314 (Hyderabad 1396/1976); aṣ-Ṣafadî, Ghayth, II,
90.
674 Cf. above, n. 507, and Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, Imtâʿ, III, 78. The text of the Imtâʿ has as-
slwyn, corrected by the editors to as-sukrayn. A correction to as-salwatayn seems prefer-
able. Aṣ-Ṣafadî, Ghayth, II, 100, refers to “being inebriated through the cups of wishes.” Cf.
also above, n. 552. However, some explicit equation of wishing with drunkenness is needed
if one is to accept the reading as-sukrayn.
675 Cf. the paroemiographers (above, n. 664) and ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât, I, 281.
676 Cf. aṣ-Ṣafadî, Ghayth, II, 99. ʿ-l-l II and V was commonly used for diverting (entertaining,
occupying) soul, heart, worries with hope or wishes, cf., for instance, above, n. 99, and
below, n. 690, etc. See also at-Tanûkhî, Faraj, II, 221, 223.
hope and wishes 665
But it could also be said that a person “is unable to banish worry with wishes,
just as he cannot reach eminence without noble deeds.”677 And a man might be
criticized for spending his days wishing and still have to “use the arm of worry
as a pillow” when he goes to bed at night.678
Hoping and wishing give rest and respite. Rest (râḥah) was widely thought
of as being more easily attained by giving up on worldly ambitions and desires
fueled by hopes and wishes,679 but the notion that | “hopes give rest to the 124
souls”680 was not entirely absent. Firdawsî praised hope as being not only the
most gentle (âhista) and agreeable (shâyista) of the qualities giving happiness
but also as the most restful one (bar âsûda az ranj).680a Respite from worries
was provided by wishes for the disappointed lover:
Wishes mean rest, even if they divert us

From passion for her with something that will not be.681
Unhappy events need not be feared excessively, because they carry the poten-
tial of two kinds of rest. They lead to either wishes or death (bi-l-munâ aw
bi-l-manâyâ).682 Naturally, where hope was directed toward the divine, it meant
“rest for the hearts in beholding the generosity of the One (al-muʾaḥḥad).”683
Such hope could be described as “pleasure in the heart and rest (ladhdhah fî
l-qalb wa-rtiyâḥ) in the expectation of what one likes.”684
Most importantly, it was often thought that life itself could be sustained
only by taking refuge in hoping and wishing. Like the worst kind of incurable
disease which discourages hope, death holds the special terror that, when it
677 Cf. Bashshâr, in Agh., III, 56, Agh.3, III, 214; Abû Hilâl al-ʿAskarî, Dîwân al-maʿânî, I, 137.
678 Cf. Abû Hilâl al-ʿAskarî, Dîwân al-maʿânî, II, 103, Ṣinâʿatayn, 215, ed. al-Bijâwî and Ibrâhîm,
279. On loosening the bonds of worry through wishes, cf. Ibn al-Muʿtazz, in aṣ-Ṣûlî, Ashʿâr
awlâd al-khulafâʾ, 226.
679 See the discussion of yaʾs, above, p. 102 [p. 641, Ed.].
680 Cf. aṣ-Ṣafadî, Ghayth, II, 90. Irtiyâḥ of the heart might be used to define hope (rajâʾ), cf.
al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ, IV, 124 and 141 (below, n. 821).
680a Cf. Firdawsî, ed. Mohl, VI, 372.
681 Cf. ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât, I, 281; aṣ-Ṣafadî, Ghayth, II, 96.
682 Cf. aṣ-Ṣafadî, Ghayth, II, 177, apparently quoting al-Qâḍî al-Ashraf, the son of al-Qâḍî
al-Fâḍil (whose father also was named al-Qâḍî al-Ashraf).
683 Cf. Abû Nuʿaym, Ḥilyah, X, 386, l. 21, in the name of the Ṣûfî Muḥammad b. Khafîf; as-
Suhrawardî, ʿAwârif al-maʿârif, in the margin of al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ, IV, 320, trans. R. Gram-
lich, 426 (Wiesbaden 1978, Freiburger Islamstudien 6). As-Suhrawardî’s text has al-marjûw
for the very similar al-muʾaḥḥad of Abû Nuʿaym.
comes, man forgets his wishes and is no longer able to wish.685 This implies
that life requires hoping and wishing to be livable. On the most positive level,
hope is a constructive force which helps man to overcome evil and destructive
influences. It works toward giving him confidence in the possibility of future
success in whatever he is doing; it must be proportionate to his actual efforts,
so that he can exercise the best possible activity and be successful in it.686
It is needed for building things (ʿ-m-r) in this world and make them flourish,
for the benefit of both the individual and his society. One of the arguments
raised against astrology stated that, assuming that astrologers were always
right with their predictions for themselves and for others, in particular with
respect to advance knowledge of the time of death, this would have a number
125 of disturbing | consequences, among them “the narrowing of hopes which
give psychological comfort and make this world prosper (ʿ-m-r); such a person
would not accomplish the good hoped for because of the evil expected.”687
As an expedient for making life more bearable, hope was contrasted with
the sad oppressiveness of reality. Man in general had a “narrow” (i.e., unhappy)
life and “wide” (i.e., comforting) hope (ḍâqa ʿalayhi ʿamrun—wa-ttasaʿa r-
rajâʾu).688 The implication was that hope could have the effect of relieving the
drabness and terror of life. Abû Tammâm proclaimed that the light provided
by hope was more broadening for eye and heart than any light observable in
the landscape.689 About three centuries after him, aṭ-Ṭughrâʾî gave the most
perfect expression to the theme of hope removing the anxiety and depression
inherent in human life by raising psychological expectations and thereby cre-
ating a sense of cheerfulness. It is contained in a verse of his celebrated Lâmîyat
al-ʿAjam:
I divert the soul with hopes and watch out for it (them?).
How narrow would life be without the wideness of hope!
685 Cf. the marthiyah containing this idea in ash-Sharîf ar-Raḍî, Dîwân, I, 217.
686 Cf. Bilawhar wa-Bûdhâsf, ed. D. Gimaret, 82f. (Beirut 1972), trans. by the same, 120 (Paris
1971). Cf. also the maxim on the correspondence of wishes to achievements (kull imriʾ
amânîh talîq bi-maʿâlîh) in aṣ-Ṣafadî, Ghayth, II, 90.
687 Cf. Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Âdâb, 55. Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, Muqâbasât, 61, 2nd muqâbasah, may
have thought along similar lines when he suggested that a person who does not know
astrology may be stronger in his tawakkul and his (metaphysical?) hope and fear than one
who does. For hope and ʿ-m-r, see also above, n. 602.
689 Cf. Abû Tammâm, Dîwân, ed. ʿAzzâm, I, 360; aṣ-Ṣûlî, Akhbâr Abî Tammâm, 149.
hope and wishes 667
(Uʿallilu n-nafsa bi-l-âmâli arqubuhâ

Mâ aḍyaqa d-dahra lawlâ fusḥatu l-amali)690
Without such recourse to hoping and wishing, life would move constantly
within its cheerless and restricting confines toward its speedy end. This is the
message of the ʿImâd al-Kâtib al-Iṣfahânî:
These days are just sheets of paper

On which we are recorded and which are then wiped clean.
I did not notice anything in my time like the circle of wishes
Widened by hope when life is narrow.691
Worries might drive a man mad unless he falls back upon this kind of comfort:
Would that I knew what excuse there could be except

God’s decision with respect to the sustenance He gives and the depriva-
tion I am suffering.
I would have staggered madly (ahîma) under the load of
Worry, were it not for the distraction provided for me by wishes.692
Whether or not these verses belong to love poetry, the attitude expressed in 126
them, and elsewhere in love poetry, toward hoping and wishing was felt to
be generally applicable to all life situations. Their effect was, understandably,
acknowledged to be not altogether constructive but rather a palliative of lim-
ited duration and effectiveness. Ibn Mayyâdah, who lived in the first half of the
eighth century, was deeply dissatisfied with being merely able to wish that he
could be with his beloved Laylâ. Wishes, he mused, were best when they came
true. If they did not, at least they allowed us to live with the happy illusion of
well-being:
Wishes from Laylâ are beautiful as if Laylâ were

Relieving my thirst with a cool drink by means of them.
Wishes, if they come true, are the best of wishes.
If not, we have lived with their help for a time in luxury.693
690 Cf. aṣ-Ṣafadî, Ghayth, II, 85–100 (see above, n. 436).

691 Cf. aṣ-Ṣafadî, Ghayth, II, 85, Wâfî, ed. H. Ritter, I, 139 (reprint Wiesbaden 1962, Bibliotheca
Islamica 6a). Cf., further, for instance, as-Sharîf ar-Raḍî, Dîwân, II, 130, 179.
692 Cf. aṣ-Ṣafadî, Ghayth, II, 98 (Abû l-Ḥusayn al-Jazzâr).
693 Cf. Ibn Mayyâdah, Shiʿr, coll. M. Nâyif ad-Dulaymî, 39 (Mosul, n.y. [ca. 1968–1970]), with
In the early centuries of Islam, it was customary to think along these lines.
Verses by Ibn Qays ar-Ruqayyât stated that it made no difference to the lover
if his beloved fulfilled her promises or did not fulfill them, for if she did not,
“we shall live for a while by means of the hopes you are giving us.”694 Al-ʿAbbâs
b. al-Aḥnaf thought that the pleasurable comforts of wishes would enable
him to live till separation would come to an end.695 His contemporary, Abû
Muḥammad al-Yazîdî, spoke of living by the hope that separation would end
as the only possible means of survival.696 Another contemporary, Ibn Qunbur
127 (Qanbar), proclaimed | himself satisfied if his beloved would just allow him to
wish and go on living:
Feed me wishes, so that I may live by means of them,

And withhold giving (yourself) fully as long as you give me my hopes.697
further references; al-Ḥuṣrî, Zahr, I, 352; aṣ-Ṣafadî, Ghayth, II, 90. For Ibn Mayyâdah, see
GAS, II, 442 f.
Al-Jâḥiẓ, Ḥayawân, V, 191f., quoted the verses as Arab Bedouin poetry and substituted
Salmâ for Laylâ, as did Ibn Qutaybah, ʿUyûn, I, 261, and al-Ḥuṣrî, Jamʿ al-jawâhir, ed. al-
Khânjî, 150, ed. al-Bijâwî, 184. Al-Qâlî, Amâlî (Dhayl), III, 102, and ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî,
Muḥâḍarât, I, 280, have Suʿdâ and ascribe the verses to one of the Banû Ḥârith. Ash-
Sharîshî, II, 253, who has Laylâ, ascribed them to Abû Tammâm (?).
The second verse only was quoted by the paroemiographers (n. 664), and Abû Hilâl
al-ʿAskarî, Ṣinâʿatayn, 57, ed. al-Bijâwî and Ibrâhîm, 77. It indicated to Ibn ʿArabî, Tajallîyât,
50, that its author had no sense (ʿaql). It also was quoted in Europe already by E. Pocock,
Lamiato’l Ajam, Carmen Tograi, Poetae Arabis Doctissimi; unà cum versione Latina, & notis
… Accessit Tractatus de Prosodia Arabica (by Samuel Clericus), 162 (Oxford 1661). Pocock
knew the verse from Ibn Bâjjah’s al-Qawl fî ṣ-ṣuwar ar-rûḥânîyah which is preserved in the
manuscript of Ibn Bâjjah’s selected writings once owned by him, now Bodleian Pocock
206, cf. Rasâʾil (above, n. 410), 87.
694 Cf. Ibn Qays ar-Ruqayyât, Dîwân, ed. N. Rhodokanakis, Der Dîwân des ʿUbaid-Allâh Ibn
Ḳais ar-Ruḳajjât, 236 (Vienna 1902, Sitzungsberichte, Akad. d. Wiss., Wien, philos.-hist. Cl.
144), ed. M. Yûsuf Najm, 137 (Beirut 1378/1958); Agh., IV, 165, Agh.3, V, 96. Rhodokanakis
took ḥînan as belonging in the relative clause and translated “by means of what we hope
for from you one day.” This seems less likely.
695 Cf. Abû Hilâl al-ʿAskarî, Ṣinâʿatayn, 56f., ed. al-Bijâwî and Ibrâhîm, 77. Apparently not in
his Dîwân.
696 Cf. Agh., XVIII, 83, Agh.3, XX, 239.
697 Cf. Agh., XIII, 8, Agh.3, XIV, 161; Abû Hilâl al-ʿAskarî, Ṣinâʿatayn, 57, ed. al-Bijâwî and
Ibrâhîm, 77; Abû Ḥаyyân at-Tawḥîdî, Imtâʿ, II, 176. Variant readings occur in connection
with the difficult second half-verse. For the poet, see GAS, II, 443.
hope and wishes 669
The idea expectedly lived on. Thus a thirteenth-century poet, a certain ʿAfîf-
ad-dîn Isḥâq b. Khalîl (d. 672/1273–1274), would compose verses such as these:
Without the promises made by hopes for me to live by

I would, dear fellow tribesmen, have died long ago.
The noble steed of my hopes has a cheerfulness to it
Which makes it run at full speed by the promise of wishes.698
Again, whether or not these are verses of love poetry, it makes no difference.
The sentiment expressed had acquired a sort of general validity, just as the
ṭayf-al-khayâl imagery was seen by medieval Muslims as expressive of a general
conviction about the power of the imagination as something at times benefi-
cent and always human.
On a less positive level, this power was considered as necessary for the poor
and the shiftless. It enabled them to tolerate their fate and even to be satisfied
with their low position in society. One of the countless anecdotes told about
Muzabbid tells us that he was once exhorted by someone to abstain from all his
aspirations for wealth and comfort. He countered by saying: “I have no control
over anything but wishes. Shall I abstain from them?”699
Wishes were proverbially “the capital of the bankrupt (raʾs mâl, or ruʾûs
amwâl, al-mafâlîs).” This was an old phrase, which may have been pre-Islamic
(?). At any rate, it appeared already in a verse of the early ninth century:
When I wish for money, I spend the night happily.

Wishes are the capital of the bankrupt.
Were it not for wishes, I would die of sadness and grief,
When I think of the near-emptiness of the purse.700
The easy, if spurious cheerfulness of the simile had great appeal for littéra- 128
teurs. The Fâṭimid prince Tamîm b. al-Muʿizz compared the way in which the
flowers of a meadow irrigated by a waterwheel played with the eyes of the
beholder to that of wishes playing with the bankrupt.701 At about the same
698 Cf. aṣ-Ṣafadî, Ghayth, II, 95 f., Wâfî, ed. M. Yûsuf Najm, VIII, 412 (Wiesbaden 1971, Biblio-
theca Islamica 6h).
699 Cf. Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, Baṣâʾir, II, 160 f.
700 Cf. al-Jâḥiẓ, Ḥayawân, V, 191; Ibn Qutaybah, ʿUyûn, I, 261; al-Bayhaqî, Maḥâsin, 295; ar-
Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât, I, 281.
701 Cf. Tamîm b. al-Muʿizz, Dîwân, 246. Tamîm clearly was the inspiration of Ibn Ẓâfir, see
F. Rosenthal, Gambling, 19, n. 71. [Above, p. 356. Ed.]
time, Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî preached: “I see only wishing in your posses-
sion, and wishing is the capital of the bankrupt.”702 And for this reason, one
of the Khâlidî brothers, Muḥammad b. Hâshim, warned against being a slave
to wishes.703 An individual in temporary financial straits might proclaim hope
to be the only currency in his possession, as did the hapless debtor, wittily
described by Kushâjim, in the cat-and-mouse game his creditor was playing
with him:
As it has turned out, I have no money except hope.

I am working without any (profit from my) work.
I have a creditor who lies in wait for me.
His great chicanery has foiled my tricks.
Whenever a term was established between us (for repayment),
I imagined that it meant my end.704
Later wits harkened back to the verses about the capital of the bankrupt
and spoke of their money belts with all their earnings (ʿаmаl) as “empty of
dînârs, full of hope.”705 Or they contended that if a person had hope among
his possessions, it was like money kept safe in sealed bags706—like money in
the bank, as we would say.
The middle classes could take occasional financial setbacks lightly and joke
about them. The large low strata of society had indeed little but hope to
live on. The wishes and efforts of a beggar were concentrated on nothing
more than clothing and food.707 The Banû Sâsân, traveling mountebanks of
various descriptions, might rightly complain—or, for that matter, boast—that
their nourishment was hopes, and reflect ruefully that as far as reality was
concerned, this did not help. Hopes did not contribute to their worldly goods
and social standing.708
702 Cf. Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, Ishârât, 153, l. 6.

703 Cf. ash-Sharîshî, II, 253; an-Nuwayrî, Nihâyah, III, 107; aṣ-Ṣafadî, Ghayth, II, 100.
704 Cf. Kushâjim, Dîwân, 412. In addition to using amal, ʿamal, and ajal, Kushâjim used ajal in
the last verse in two different meanings. In the first verse, lâ mala provides a visual pun on
amal. ʿAmal next to ʿâmil indicates here the profit gained from working (see also the note
following), a semantic development known also from the older Semitic languages.
705 Cf. aṣ-Ṣafadî, Ghayth, II, 97. The poet was ʿAlam-ad-dîn Aydemir al-Muḥyawî.
706 Cf. aṣ-Ṣafadî, Ghayth, II, 97, without attribution.
707 Cf. Agh., VI, 79, 83, Agh.3, VI, 315, 323.
708 Cf. C.E. Bosworth, The Mediaeval Islamic Underworld, I, 68 (Leiden 1976); ash-Sharîshî, II,
340.
hope and wishes 671
However important and necessary all these palliative uses of hoping and 129
wishing were for human life, another, even more far-reaching benefit to human-
ity was claimed for hope in the form of a ḥadîth attributed to the Prophet: “Hope
(amal) is a mercy for my nation. If it did not exist, no mother would suckle a
child, nor would anybody plant a tree.”709 As the fear of death is ever present
and the end is certain, only hope allows human beings to assume that there
might be a future for them in this world and motivates them to keep it from
being destroyed.710 Without hope, procreation and any other activity neces-
sary for the perpetuation of the human race would cease. It may be noted that
the hope approved here under the guise of religion is, in fact, directed toward
purely secular ends. The tradition is an affirmation of psychological reality and
the role of hope in it beyond the dictate of otherworldly beliefs. A story told
about al-Mufaḍḍal b. Faḍâlah seems on the surface to have a similar import.
He asked God to take hope (amal) away from him, and when his prayer was
answered, he was unable to eat and drink, until he asked God to restore hope
to him.711 However, what is meant here, it seems, is the loss of hope for salvation
which makes life unbearable.
Religious scholars were aware of the life-sustaining role of hope, notwith-
standing the customary condemnation of hoping in and for this world as unbe-
coming to dedicated believers. They tried to achieve a compromise between
the two views. A remarkable formulation to this effect appeared in the late
commentaries on the Ṣaḥîḥ of al-Bukhârî. It would seem likely that it existed
already in earlier times:
Hope has a subtle secret. Without hope, nobody would enjoy life (tahan-
naʾa bi-ʿaysh),712 and no soul would be happy and eager (lâ ṭâbat nafsuh)
to start any kind of activity in this world. Hope deserves blame only when
a person indulges too much in it and does not prepare himself for the
other world. An individual that does not run this risk is not obliged to
dispense with hope (lam yukallaf izâlatah).713
709 Cf. ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât, I, 283; aṣ-Ṣafadî, Ghayth, II, 90. Regrettably, earlier
sources for this statement are not available to me at this time.
710 This explanation of the supposed ḥadîth was suggested by ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî when he
quoted statements attributed to al-Ḥusayn and Muṭarrif (probably, b. Ṭarîf) in connection
with it.
711 Cf. Ibn Abî d-dunyâ, Qiṣar al-amal, fol. 3b.
712 More exactly, grammatically undetermined ʿaysh should be understood here in the sense
of livelihood: Nobody would work to make and enjoy a living.
713 Cf. Ibn Ḥajar, Fatḥ, XIV, 11; al-Qasṭallânî, Irshâd, XI, 74.
e Hopes and Wishes Achieved—Directed toward Man and God

Two related topics will be touched upon in this section, (1) the frequent claim,
130 uttered with considerable satisfaction in most cases, that a | person’s hopes and
wishes had indeed found fulfillment, and (2) the direction in which a person
should look for support toward their fulfillment. The former clearly conflicted
with the view of the nefariousness of worldly ambitions, but it was a conflict
which was hardly noticed and easily tolerated. The latter opened up a gap
between the demands of religious piety and customs of long standing and
deeply rooted in linguistic usage.
Hopes and wishes were, of course, not infrequently fulfilled in real life. Poets
often remembered those wonderful and fleetings occasions, whether in love or
in other human endeavors, when their dearest hopes were fulfilled. The pursuit
of one’s wishes with deliberate dignity (at-taʾannî wa-l-ḥilm) could make them
become true.714 Their achievement was the final culmination of all efforts and
left no room for further activities:
When a man attains his hopes, he has

Thereafter nothing to aspire to (muqtaraḥ).715
Wish fulfillment could be followed only by death (laysa baʿd bulûgh al-munâ
illâ nuzûl al-manîyah).716 A person who attained his wishes might be elated but
also pained when he discovered that his people blamed him for their inability
to share in his success.717 The promise of wish fulfillment was recognized to
be an important tool in commerce and politics. The ruler must fulfill the
merchant’s hopes concerning the price his merchandise might bring, that is,
pay enough for it.718 A Qarmaṭian leader would try to gain support by promising
those who would join him that “he would fulfill their hopes.”719
714 Cf. aṣ-Ṣâḥib Ibn ʿAbbâd, Dîwân, ed. M. Ḥasan Âl Yâsîn, 171 (Baghdâd 1384/1965). Cf. also the
verses quoted in the name of Ibn Hind (Ibn Hindû?) by al-ʿAbbâsî, Maʿâhid, I, 65. On the
role of patience in this connection, see above, n. 250.
715 In al-Ḥuṣrî, Zahr, I, 269, the poet’s name is simply Abû l-Fatḥ. On the strength of it, the
verse was included by the editor in Kushâjim, Dîwân, 130. However, a manuscript of Zahr,
as indicated in the edition, identified Abû l-Fatḥ as the son of Ibn al-ʿAmîd. Ar-Râghib
al-Iṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât, I, 282, also credited him with it. According to al-ʿAbbâsî, Maʿâhid,
I, 178, he composed it in connection with an invitation to a banquet.
717 Cf. Ibn Bassâm, Dhakhîrah, I, i, 131, l. 2.
718 Cf. Ibn Hishâm, Tîjân, 182, l. 19.
719 Cf. aṭ-Ṭabarî, Annales, III, 2265. “To make someone wish (mannâ)” was commonly used in
hope and wishes 673
A fighter in the ʿAlid cause, wishing to accomplish heroic deeds, concluded

a poem with the words:
Were I to die a thousand deaths by obtaining (my) wishes,

I would say, when I am dead: I don’t care.720
The wish fulfillment counted upon and considered possible concerned as a rule 131
special wishes under special circumstances. In a more reflective mood, doubts
might arise as to whether complete wish fulfilment was really desirable. It could
cause an individual to want to relive the past and to have it last forever. It might
thus, perhaps, be as well that it was not possible. This is the import of verses by
the early ninth-century poet Abû l-ʿÂliyah ash-Shaʾmî:
If the wishes I have for my life (min dahriya)721 were fulfilled for me,
Although not everybody who has wishes fulfilled is therefore on the right
path,
I would say to days past: Do come back! And I would say
To days that have come (and are here now): Do keep away!722
Wish fulfillment should not be the paramount goal, no matter how important
it might seem to the individual. Given the fact that man is pervaded through
and through by desire and wishes, it could happen that
A person who falls short in his search, turns away from pursuing what
is right, and is incompetent in his pursuit may attain his dearest wishes.
One who exerts himself strenuously and opts for a straight procedure (?)
is deserving above and beyond what he seeks in his hopes. However, even
if the attainment of wishes means success, opting for what is right is more
proper for an intelligent man. He who exerts himself in the search for
what is appropriate for him needs no excuse when he withdraws from
something which, if it escapes him, deprives him of the rank of excellent
and virtuous people.723
the sense of “to encourage someone by promises,” cf., for instance, aṭ-Ṭabarî, Annales, III,
1749.
721 Or: “were fulfilled by my dahr.”
722 Cf. R. Sellheim, Gelehrtenbiographien, 210; al-Kutubî, Fawât, ed. ʿAbd-al-Ḥamîd, I, 254, ed.
ʿAbbâs, I, 350 f.
723 Cf. Ibn al-Marzubân, Muntahâ, beg. (above, n. 279).
The advice dispensed here by Ibn al-Marzubân to aspiring government

officials implies that a person can make his wishes come true, if he keeps them
modest and also if he disregards what is correct and proper. If he makes great
efforts, he deserves more than he may hope for, but while wish fulfillment might
be thought of as success, it is always better to do what is right, and if a person
does his best, it makes no difference whether or not he achieves the deserved
success.
“End of hope,” “end of wishes,” using words such as ghâyah or muntahâ, was
the phrase generally employed to indicate the highest state of perfection or
the goal of the most fervent aspirations. It was not unusual to go a step farther
and boast of having accomplished things above and beyond ( fawq, jâwaza) the
keenest expectations:
132 All my life have I experienced life to the full

And obtained more than I could ever have wished.724
However, the poet sadly continued, although his nobility almost reached the
stars, he had discovered no way to live eternally. Reflecting upon earlier suc-
cesses in love, another poet exclaimed:
By my life! In al-Kûfah, my wishes were fulfilled for me,

And more than I could have wished, with respect to lovely maidens.725
An individual might be described as more than anyone could wish.726 Beauty

and good character might be so extraordinary as to transcend the soul’s
wishes.727 Gifts received from a patron could exceed the happy recipient’s
wishes, guesses, and hopes.728 God’s grace and bounty would naturally sur-
pass wishes and hopes.729 The ascetic, however, thought of going beyond

725 Cf. Agh., XVIII, 21, Agh.3, XX, 103. The poet was Abû ʿUyaynah, see the collection of his
poems by A. Ghedira, in Bulletin d’Études Orientales (Damascus), 19 (1967), 94. Cf., further,
Abû Tammâm, Dîwân, ed. ʿAzzâm, IV, 601, quoted by ash-Sharîshî, II, 60; Ibn al-Muʿtazz,
Fuṣûl at-tabâshîr, 96.
726 Cf. Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, Imtâʿ, I, 30, l. 11.
727 Cf. Ibn ar-Rûmî, in Abû Hilâl al-ʿAskarî, Dîwân al-maʿâni, I, 306; al-Ḥuṣrî, Jamʿ al-jawâhir,
ed. al-Khânjî, 139, ed. al-Bijâwî, 171.
728 Cf. Ziyâd al-Aʿjam (see GAS, II, 373f.), in Ibn Qutaybah, ʿUyûn, III, 152, l. 7; Agh., XIV, 102,
Agh.3, XV, 379, or Ibn Sanâʾ-al-mulk, Dîwân, II, 265.
729 Cf. al-Bayhaqî, Maḥâsin, 479, l. 18, and Agh., VIII, 164, Agh.3, IX, 278.
hope and wishes 675
earlier hopes merely as an indication that man was never satisfied and came
up with ever new hopes.730
The beloved was seen as the object of the lover’s wishes. In his eyes, she was
the end of all wishes and combined in her person everything that one might
wish.731 “My wish (munyatî, munâya)” and “my hope (amalî)” were common
terms of endearment used in addressing her since old times.732 ʿAbbâsid poets
combined them with other, simular words of endearment in order to evoke the
ardor and impetuousness of their love. Ibrâhîm al-Mawṣilî addressed his wife as
Dûshâr, my lady, my goal, my wish,

My joy of all people, give me back my sleep!733
ʿUlayyah, the daughter of the caliph al-Mahdî, used a slightly different combi- 133
nation in addressing a lover:
He is my concern (hammî), the wishes of

My soul, my quest, my hope.734
Later in the same ninth century, Ibrâhîm b. al-Mudabbir crammed nearly

everything into one verse, so as to suggest complete physical and psychological
compatibility with the songstress he loved:
My hope (rajâʾî), my quest (suʾlî), my hope (amalî),

My life, my ear, my eye.735
A philosopher enamored with the great problems of philosophy considered

them “the wish of the ancients and the moderns.”736 In a more profound way,
730 Cf. Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah, Dîwân, 66, 70, 305.

731 Cf., for instance, Abû Ṣakhr al-Hudhalî (see GAS, II, 405), in as-Sukkarî, Sharḥ ashʿâr
al-Hudhalîyîn, (II), 916; Ibn Maymûn, Muntahâ aṭ-ṭalab, fol. 216a, speaking of a group of
women, “the end of wishes,” or Ibn Mayyâdah, in Agh., II, 88, Agh.3, II, 260: “Suʿdâ is
anybody’s wish. She combines chastity with a beautiful face,” or Ibn Zaydûn, in aṣ-Ṣafadî,
Tamâm, 15: “You are all the wishes of my soul combined.”
732 Cf., for instance, Muslim b. al-Walîd, Dîwân, 196, or ʿUmar b. Abî Rabîʿah, Dîwân, ed.
ʿAbd-al-Ḥamîd, 487, etc. etc.
733 Cf. Agh., V, 3, Agh.3, V, 158.
734 Cf. aṣ-Ṣûlî, Ashʿâr awlâd al-khulafâʾ, 70, see the edition of ʿUlayyah’s poetry, in preparation
as a Yale dissertation by Sana Azmi. [The dissertation was never completed. Ed.]
735 Cf. Agh., XIX, 120 f., Agh.3, XX, 171.
736 Cf. Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, Imtâʿ, III, 108, l. 5.
Ṣûfism applied “wishes” as a term of endearment to the deity in its erotic

imagery. Already Dhû n-Nûn al-Miṣrî found this usage fully developed:
My wishes (munâya)! Wishes extraordinary! You are for me all I can wish.
You are wealth extraordinary when there is indigence.
You are the extent of my quest, the end of my desire,
The place of my hopes, my innermost thought.737
Many different proper names, both male and female, were formed from the
roots for hoping and wishing. The intended significance of names of this type
was not spelled out in the sources. The most obvious explanation is that they
expressed wish fulfillment. Their bearers fulfilled the hopes and wishes of their
parents and relatives who were overjoyed by the birth of the child or who
thought that the baby was as good and beautiful as they might hope for.738
There is, however, a slightly different possibility of explanation. These names
might often have been meant not to express an established fact but the desire
or expectation of the parents that the child should grow up to become truly per-
fect in all the good qualities that were the common objects of hopes and wishes.
134 The mother | of a prominent seventh-century personality, Mâlik b. Asmâʾ, was
called Asmâʾ al-munâ. Her name, or rather surname, “Wishes” was said to have
been given to her because of her beauty.739
Intellectuals at all times were well aware of the emotional impact of the
idea of wish fulfillment which suggested the highest possible degree of per-
fection. When bipartite book titles became an accepted literary custom, their
first part often mentioned hopes and wishes to indicate the author’s convic-
tion that his work was all that could be desired and exhausted its subject. The
use of these terms served the purpose of whetting the prospective reader’s
appetite and promised him, as it were, full satisfaction with the work’s con-
tent.
737 Cf. as-Sulamî, Ṭabaqât, 21. Note, however, the variant reading shakwâya “my complaint,” for
âmâli “my hopes,” in Abû Nuʿaym, Ḥilyah, IX, 390, and the edition of as-Sulamî’s Ṭabaqât
by J. Pedersen, 27 (Leiden 1960). See above, n. 259, and below, n. 764. For further examples,
see, for instance, al-Ḥallâj, ed. L. Massignon, Le Dîwân d’Al-Ḥallâj, 13, 30 (Paris 1955),
or F. Rosenthal (above, n. 95), 51, quoting Ibn ʿArabî, cf. also Ibn ʿArabî, Kitâb al-Isrâʾ,31
(Hyderabad 1367/1948).
738 Cf. S.D. Goitein, A Mediterranean Society, III, 318 (Berkeley, Los Angeles, and London 1978).
739 Cf. al-Balâdhurî, Ansâb, IV A, 73, l. 11, ed. ʿAbbâs, IV, 89, l. 11, trans. O. Pinto and G. Levi Della
Vida, Il Califfo Muʿâwiya I, 95 (Rome 1938).
hope and wishes 677
The positive thrust which the concepts of hoping and wishing carried within
themselves in the Arabic language when Islam came to power found its prin-
cipal outlet in their application to interpersonal relations. Hoping and wishing
were directed toward individuals who were, or were thought of as being, able to
fulfill a person’s desire for some kind of material benefit or advancement. The
pre-Islamic poet al-Aswad b. Yaʿfur, known as Aʿshâ Nahshal, asked:
What can I hope for after the departure

Of the family of Muḥarriq and after the Iyâd?740
Al-Aswad here expressed a feeling of hopelessness caused by changes that had

taken place. He also implied that hopes of whatever description had to focus
for their fulfillment on other human beings.
Maʾmûl “hoped for” was, above all, an accepted term of praise for individuals.
A person “hoped for” someone else in the sense that the latter would be
able and willing to satisfy his hopes and wishes. Zuhayr spoke of someone as
“faithful in treaties and maʾmûl.”741 A lesser, somewhat later poet, Faḍâlah b.
Sharîk, said that he “used to hope for (arjû) Abû Ḥafṣ.”742 For Abû l-Aswad
ad-Duʾalî, it was a consolation of sorts to realize that he was not the first to hope
for something from someone and be disappointed.743 In laudatory poetry, this
conceit remained standard. | The ever growing volume of this genre produced 135
a most amazing variety of modifications, too numerous and too familiar to
require documentation here.
As verbs and nouns, the two words for hope were, it seems, employed in this
particular connection without any distinction.744 In participial form, especially
in the passive, maʾmûl was the accepted term in secular use; marjûw, while
used, appears to have been of less frequent occurrence.744a In fact, âmil and
740 Cf. al-Aʿshâ, Dîwân, 296, no. 17, verse 8, and the notes in the German section, 291, for the
numerous quotations of the verse. Cf. also Boggess (above, n. 46), 663f. For Aʿshâ Nahshal,
see GAS, II, 182 f.
741 Cf. Thaʿlab, Sharḥ Dîwân Zuhayr b. Abî Sulmâ, 308 (Cairo 1363/1944); Agh., IX, 156, Agh.3,
X, 309. The crucial maʾmûl vanishes, however, if one adopts the variant reading that has
“not unknown (ghayri majhûli),” God was, of course, also addressed as al-maʾmûl, cf., for
instance, at-Tanûkhî, Faraj, I, 38, see also above, n. 320.
742 Cf. Agh., X, 172, Agh.3, XII, 76. For Faḍâlah, see GAS, II, 144.
743 Cf. Abû l-Aswad ad-Duʾalî, Dîwân, 27, where we find rajjaytu, while it is ammaltu in Agh.,
XI, 124, Agh.3, XII, 333.
744 See also above, nn. 322–324.
744a Cf. al-Qalqashandî, Ṣubh, IX, 178, l. 11: “He is al-marjûw al-muʾammal.” It is a striking
maʾmûl became quasi-technical terms to indicate a relationship between client

and master: “You are the first, and I am the last; you are the mâʾmûl, and I am the
âmil.”745 It was understood that someone in the position of master expected to
be approached with “hope” by his client. It probably was rather daring for the
poet Muḥammad b. Ḥâzim al-Bâhilî to claim, in addressing his superior, that
It is not hopes that incline me toward you.

The fact is the noble man is the brother of any other noble man.746
In ʿAbbâsid court life, petitioners, people who came to court wanting some-
thing (and that included practically everybody), were referred to as “the hope-
ful ones (al-muʾammilûn).” Khâlid b. Barmak, we are told, wished to replace
the term suʾʾâl “petitioners”, which had the strongly negative connotation of
beggars, with a more polite zuwwâr “visitors,” because “those hopeful ones”
included persons of rank and merit who did not deserve to be all lumped
together under a demeaning designation.747 Poets whose living as a rule
depended upon a caliph’s generosity naturally praised him as al-maʾmûl.748
As is the case in English and other languages, abstract “hope” was personified
also in Arabic. Upon his appointment as heir apparent in 56/676, Yazîd b.
Muʿâwiyah was acclaimed as “a hope for you to have and a safe term (amal
136 taʾmulûnah wa-ajal taʾmanûnah).”749 In another | political context but again at
an early date, Yazîd b. al-Muhallab, in 91/715–716, considered himself “the hope
(rajâʾ) of the Iraqians.”750
Conversely, someone who was not the object of hope was a person of no
account. Verses ascribed to Ṣâliḥ b. ʿAbd-al-Quddûs, who lived in the second
half of the eighth century, made this clear once and for all:
indication of the preference for ʾ-m-l in mundane matters that ʾ-m-l, in all its stock phrases,
occurs constantly in the model letters in this volume of the Ṣubḥ, as against the very few
and insignificant occurrences of r-j-w.
745 Cf. Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, Imtâʿ, I, 8, l. 4. See above, n. 295.
Râjî was, of course, also used, but in a less technical manner. Addressing a patron or
a caliph, a poet might say that the person who puts his hope in him is not frustrated
(wa-r-râjîka laysa yakhîbu), cf. Muslim b. al-Walîd, Dîwân, 120, no. 13, verse 32, or Abû
Muḥammad al-Yazîdî, in Agh., XVIII, 82, Agh.3, XX, 238.
746 Cf. Agh., XII, 163, Agh.3, XIV, 103. For Ibn Ḥâzim, see GAS, II, 517.
747 Cf. Agh., III, 36, Agh.3, III, 173.
748 For instance, al-Mutawakkil, cf. ʿAlî b. al-Jahm, Dîwân, 176; Agh., IX, 119, Agh.3, X, 232, and
Abû sh-Shibl, above, n. 324, or ar-Râḍî, cf. aṣ-Ṣûlî, Akhbâr ar-Râḍî, 27.
750 Cf. aṭ-Ṭabarî, Annales, II, 1306, l. 14.
hope and wishes 679
If you cannot be approached with the hope that you will be found capable
of fending off misfortunes,
And your home is not a place where one receives kindness and gifts,
And you have no position of influence, so that you can provide others
with a livelihood,
And you cannot intercede for people on the Day of Resurrection,
Then it makes no difference whether you are alive or dead.
A wooden toothpick (khilâl) is more useful than your life.751
The person in the position to fulfill the hopes and wishes of others was under
an obligation which it was frequently not easy for him to discharge: “The
heaviest burden for a man to bear is reserved for the one who bears other
men’s hopes (âmâl al-muʾammilîn).”752 It could happen that a man normally
possessing power and wealth was asked for a favor at an inopportune time
when he had nothing to give away. In such cases, he would console himself
and his client with the thought of better days to come.753 Considering the
social conventions of his time and civilization, it would probably not have
been possible for him to say, as did Benjamin Franklin of the Governor of
Pennsylvania, that “having little to give, he gave expectations.”754 The one
thing that was always there and needed not to be given was expectations and
hope.
When the person approached for favors did not want to be generous as he
was expected to be, he had to make use of subterfuges. This, however, was not
always sufficient to deter persistent petitioners. For instance, when a cham-
berlain went into action and denied access to a poet, the latter shrugged it
off and maintained that the veil (ḥijâb) set up by the chamberlain (ḥâjib) was
no deterrent to hope (amal), since experience shows that the sky holds out
hope (r-j-w) for rain when it is veiled by clouds.755 Hopes and wishes were, of
course, often disappointed, and this provoked resignation or bitterness. A poet,
however, might also blame | himself for the lack of success of his efforts and rue- 137
fully remark that he should not have attempted to ask a certain individual for
favors:
751 Cf. al-Buḥturî, Ḥamâsah, 310, ed. Cheikho, 213 f. See also above, n. 342.
752 Cf. Abû Hilâl-ʿAskarî, Dîwân al-maʿâni, II, 104.
754 Cf. Benjamin Franklin, Autobiography, 46 (Modern Library edition, New York 1932).
755 Cf. Abû Tammâm, Dîwân, ed. ʿAzzâm, IV, 446; Agh., XV, 106, Agh.3, XVI, 396.
You are not the one to blame. I am, because

I placed my hopes in someone other than the Creator.756
This verse blends the traditional expression of secular hope with the religious
view that human beings should not put their hopes in other human beings
but only in God. Just as complaints were, if at all, permissible only if they
were addressed to God,757 hopes, too, had their proper place in man’s relations
to his God. ʿAlî was credited with remarks such as: “Fear only your sin, hope
(r-j-w) only for your Lord!,” or: “Direct your hopes (âmâl) to the One whom your
hearts love.”758 Another variation of the theme ascribed to ʿAlî singled out four
particularly urgent matters: “Everybody should (1) harbor hope (r-j-w) only for
his Lord, (2) fear only his sin, (3) not be ashamed, when he does not know, to
say, ‘I don’t know,’ and (4) if he does not know, not be too proud to learn.”759 A
verse by the ʿAlid partisan ʿAdî b. Ḥâtim said:
I hope for (arjû) my God and fear my sin.

I hope only for the forgiveness of my Lord.760
In a remarkable reversal, the theme of sin or crime and hope was again sec-
ularized. Isḥâq al-Mawṣilî wrote to al-Maʾmûn who, for some reason, had re-
proached him:
The only thing that is greater than my crime is my hope

For your gracious forgiveness of my sin and my error.
If both the one and the other are of great extent,
You are still greater than my crime and my hope.761
756 A verse supposedly by Abû l-Faraj al-Iṣfahânî, directed against the wazîr al-Muhallabî, cf.
aṣ-Ṣafadî, Wâfî, XII, 224.
757 See above, pp. 53 f.
758 Cf. al-Ḥusrî, Zahr, I, 43.
759 Cf. al-Yazîdî, Amâlî, 141; Ibn ʿAbdrabbih, ʿIqd, III, 147.
760 Cf. al-Minqarî, Waqʿat Ṣiffîn, 489; Ibn Abî l-Ḥadîd, II, 841. For ʿAdî b. Ḥâtim, see A. Schaade,
in EI2, s.v.
Ibn Lankak rhymed: “I have put my hope in God and nobody else—Perhaps, God will
show mercy to the evildoer,” cf. ash-Sharîshî, II, 79.
761 Cf. Agh., V, 111, Agh.3, V, 393.
When Abû Nuwâs was about to indulge in wine, the commission of another sin, that
of putting his hope in his beloved drinking companion, was just additional proof of his
godlessness:
hope and wishes 681
The practical piety of the Ṣûfîs was cognizant of the traditional attitude 138
toward hope but insisted on God being everyone’s only permissible hope (amal
al-muʾammilîn).762 The theme was worked out in full detail in an exemplary
story to be found in Abû Nuʿaym’s Ḥilyah:
(A man who had run out of money was asked who he hoped would help
him to get out of his predicament. He mentioned the host of the gathering
he was attending. He was told that this would not do, since God had said:)
“I shall cut off the hope of anybody who hopes for anyone but Me (and
replace it) with despair … . Could he hope for anyone but Me in difficult
situations when these are in My hands, or hope for anyone but Me and
knock at someone else’s door in poverty when the keys to all doors are
in My hands? … Who is the man who ever hoped for (help from) Me
against his misfortunes, and I did not help him? Who is the man who ever
hoped for (forgiveness from) Me for his crimes, and I cut off his hope?
… I concentrated the hopes of My servants in Me, so that they were cut
off from anyone else. I stored763 their hope with Me, but they were not
satisfied with My custody … . Why do I see man turning away from Me
with his hopes? … Am I not the home (maḥall) of all hopes,764 and who
would cut them off from Me? Those who hope, don’t they do right to hope
for Me? If I gave each one of the inhabitants of My heavens and My earth
as much thinking power as I have given to them as a whole, and then
said to them, ‘Hope for Me,’ and they did, and if I gave each one of them
whatever he asks for, still, what I possess would not be diminished the
least bit … .”765
Aḥmad, who is my hope (al-murtajâ), whenever something happens,

Come, my master, let us disobey the tyrant of the heavens!
Cf. Abû Nuwâs, Dîwân, 117; Ibn Qutaybah, Shiʿr, 691; al-Ḥuṣrî, Jamʿal-jawâhir, ed. al-Khânjî,
137, ed. al-Bijâwî, 168.
762 Cf. Abû Nuʿaym, Ḥilyah, X, 183, l. 16, also X, 179, ll. 9f., 18. On a more practical level, it
was seen as useless to put one’s hope in human beings, cf. Agh., XVIII, 122, Agh.3, XX,
59.
763 Hope directed toward a human being was called a treasure store, cf. Agh., IX, 31, Agh.3, X,
62. Ibn Khaldûn, Riḥlah, 123, l. 3, addressed someone as being a unique “hoped-for treasure
(dhukhr marjûw).”
764 Cf. above, nn. 259 and 737.
765 Cf. Abû Nuʿaym, Ḥilyah, X, 187.
This passage uses ʾ-m-l and r-j-w about evenly, although ʾ-m-l occupies a more
prominent position. Most of the hoping envisioned in it is, indeed, amal and
concerned with worldly matters. Rajâʾ in connection with God tended to be
associated with the hope for metaphysical bliss, particularly in the combina-
tion with “fear” as discussed in the following section. However, as far as the
obvious conflict between secular and religious hoping is concerned, it could
hardly be maintained that hoping for the support of a human benefactor as
well as addressing one’s wishes to him was allowed in Islam to find continued
expression in literature (and in daily life), because it involved amal directed
toward those very insignificant and impermanent worldly benefits and there-
fore did not conflict with the view of God as the only permissible depository
139 of true rajâʾ. | Rather, the explanation seems to lie in the fact that religious
pressure on society, strong as it was, was not powerful enough in this case to
eradicate an ancient tradition.
f Long Amal—Rajâʾ and Fear

The religious attitude of official Islam toward hope crystallized early in the form
of two concepts, (1) long hope (ṭûl al-amal)766 and (2) hope as contrasted with
fear (rajâʾ—khawf ). Broadly speaking, the former concerned human attitudes
toward the affairs of this world. The latter dealt with human attitudes required
by virtue of man’s position vis-à-vis the metaphysical establishment dominated
by the presence of an all-powerful deity as well as his expectation of reward in
Paradise and damnation in Hell.
We have encountered “long hope” repeatedly before. It was seen primarily as
an irrational concern with the extension of the individual’s life span, but it also
included all other conceivable hopes for worldly well-being and advantage. All
such hopes were condemned as futile and, in fact, dangerous. The basic stock
of evidence, which changed little in the course of time, was brought together
by Ibn Abî d-dunyâ in his treatise on the highly praised opposite of long hope,
“short hope (qiṣar al-amal).”767 The Prophet’s disapproval of man’s constant
preoccupation all through his life with ḥirṣ and amal was part of it;768 if it did
not originally specify “long” hope, it was clearly meant, and the watchword of
long hope was always understood as implied in the tradition. Another tradition,
transmitted with some variants, had the Prophet express his “greatest fear for
766 The combination of the root ṭ-w-l with rajâʾ was uncommon, see, for instance, Freytag,
Arabum Proverbia, III, i, 307.
767 See, in general, above, p. 78, and, for Ibn Abî d-dunyâ, above, n. 407.
768 See above, nn. 282, 285, 406, and, for instance, ʿAbdallâh b. al-Mubârak, Zuhd, 87; Ibn Abî
d-dunyâ, Qiṣar al-amal, fol. 3a; al-Bukhârî, in Ibn Ḥajar, Fatḥ, XIV, 10–16.
hope and wishes 683
you all,” which he said was caused by “two qualities, the pursuit of passion
(ittibâʿ al-hawâ) and long hope, for the former keeps (you) from the truth and
the latter causes (you) to forget the other world.”769 The tradition was also
ascribed to ʿAlî, and this ascription probably was in a sense more original.770
At any rate, it was accepted by the entire Muslim community and never ceased
to be quoted. The destructive effect of long hope was understood to extend
beyond the individual to society as a whole. In one of the versions reported by
Ibn Abî | d-dunyâ, the Prophet spoke of “my nation (ummatî),” and, according to 140
some unnamed sage, it was stated that the ruin of “the nations” was precipitated
by it.771
“Short hope,” on the other hand, embodied the proper manner of dealing
with man’s uncontrollable desire for material improvement in matters of this
world. Asceticism (zuhd), that is, the eschewing of all material goods in the
realization that an extremely low value attaches to them, was defined as “short
hope.”772 Short hope made living easy for the individual as it permitted him to
be little concerned with food and clothing.773 While worldly desires and long
hope precluded man’s untutored reception of God’s gifts, zuhd and short hope
favored it.774 If short hope was not identical with zahâdah,775 it was certainly
the mark (ʿalâmah) of zuhd.776 It was the key to preparedness for the other
world.777
769 Cf. Ibn Аbî d-dunyâ, Qiṣar al-amal, fol. 1b. For hawâ as the bias and prejudice conducive
to religious innovation and sectarianism, see above, nn. 440 and 615.
770 Cf. al-Yaʿqûbî, Taʾrîkh, ed. M.T. Houtsma, I, 247 (Leiden 1883), II, 184 (an-Najaf 1358/1939);
ʿAbdallâh b. al-Mubârak, Zuhd, 86; Ibn Abî d-dunyâ, Qiṣar al-amal, fol. 4b; Ibn Abî l-Ḥadîd,
I, 496; Ibn Ḥajar, Fatḥ, XIV, 10.
772 Cf. Ibn Abî d-dunyâ, Qiṣar al-amal, fol. 3b, with the attribution to Sufyân (ath-Thawrî); Ibn
Kathîr, Bidâyah, VIII, 10. See also below, n. 776.
773 Cf. Ibn Аbî d-dunyâ, Qiṣar al-amal, fol. 4a, Dhamm ad-dunyâ, 266, no. 99, and p. 130 where
further references are given.
774 Cf. Ibn Abî d-dunyâ, Dhamm ad-dunyâ, 265, no. 95, and p. 128; Abû Nuʿaym, Ḥilyah, VI, 312,
ll. 12 ff., VIII, 135, ll. 18 ff., in a Prophetical tradition transmitted through al-Fuḍayl b. ʿIyâḍ;
al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ, III, 177.
775 ʿAlî supposedly made this claim, cf. Ibn Abî l-Ḥadîd, II, 419.
776 Cf. Shâh al-Kirmânî, in as-Sulamî, Ṭabaqât, 193, ll. 15 f., see also 264, l. 1 (Abû Muḥammad
al-Jarîrî). Al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ, IV, 209, credited Aḥmad b. Ḥanbal and Sufyân with the
remark. Cf., further, Abû Sulaymân ad-Dârânî, in Abû Nuʿaym, Ḥilyah, IX, 266, l. 13, and
270, l. 11. The identical remark was made by Ḥâtim al-Aṣamm with respect to fear, cf.
al-Qushayrî, Risâlah, 60.
777 Cf. Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzîyah, Ḥâdî al-arwâḥ, 68 (Cairo 1381/1962).
It was contended that the most effective activity of man in this world was
trust in God (tawakkul) combined with short hope.778 Indeed, tawakkul, which
also included ṣabr, was the overarching concept determining hope. Hope was
part of the much larger theological problem of trust in God, which was seen
as having profound consequences for the way human beings felt and behaved.
Trust in God set the course for mundane hope, but it was also an important
factor in the human approach toward metaphysical hope and fear. This was
clearly expressed in a statement attributed to the eighth-century Ṣûfî al-Fuḍayl
b. ʿIyâḍ: “I am ashamed in the face of God to say that I trust in God. If I did trust
in Him properly, I would not fear anyone or hope for anyone but Him.”779 The
problem of long and short hope in this world was in a way inseparable from
that of hope and fear with respect to the other world.
141 The discussion of hope and fear, with its Qurʾânic base,780 was institution-
alized in conservative Ṣûfism,781 as evidenced by the special chapters devoted
to the topic in the works of as-Sarrâj, al-Qushayrî, Abû Ṭâlib al-Makkî, and al-
Ghazzâlî, to name only the most prominent and influential theoreticians. For
the more extreme forms of mysticism, it was basically irrelevant. It had, how-
ever, become so much part of the religious landscape that it could never be
entirely overlooked.782 Expectedly, Ṣûfîs often tended toward individual inter-
pretation of hope and fear in the light of their personal thought and their
desire for originality and deeper understanding. Therefore, their views should
be investigated individually; in many cases, the sources provide sufficient infor-
mation. Some Ṣûfîs, notably al-Muḥâsibî,783 Abû Saʿîd-i Abû l-Khayr,784 and
ʿAbdallâh al-Anṣârî,785 have already been studied in considerable depth with

779 Cf. Ibn ʿAbdrabbih, ʿIqd, III, 178.
781 It must have sounded strange to later Muslims to hear the poet Muslim b. al-Walîd say
about Jaʿfar b. Barmak that “fear and hope are directed toward him,” even if amal, and not
rajâʾ, was used for hope, cf. his Dîwân, 251, no. 40, verse 31.
782 A good example is Ibn ʿArabî’s discussion of fear and non-fear and hope and non-hope
in his Futûḥât, II, 184–186. He doubted that they could fully function as true stations on
the mystic path and, although he referred to fear and hope as the two equal components
of faith, viewed them as subordinate to the major quest and, in effect, as quite risky
impediments for the mystic’s search for divine reality.
783 Cf. J. van Ess (above, n. 645), 120–130.
784 Cf. F. Meier, Abû Saʿîd-i Abû l-Ḫayr, 148–184 (Teheran, Leiden, and Liège 1976, Acta Iranica,
III, iv). Nothing can be added here to Meier’s masterly exposition of the meaning of fear
and hope in Ṣûfism.
785 Cf. S. de Laugier de Beaurecueil, Autour d’un texte d’Anṣârî: la problématique musulmane
hope and wishes 685
a view to their specific attitudes toward hope (and fear). These studies have
also paid due attention to relevant views of other Ṣûfîs on the subject. More
work along the same lines remains to be done.
One aspect of the discussion of hope and fear has always been considered, in
the past and by modern scholars, as being of particular significance. It concerns
the problem whether hope or fear belongs in the center of religious conscious-
ness. It has much bearing upon human behavior. Fear, especially excessive fear,
may cause withdrawal from worldly affairs,786 while hope may stimulate partic-
ipation in them, at least as long as they can be used to promote spiritual welfare.
On the other hand, fear may be a spur to activity beneficial not only for the indi-
vidual’s soul but also for the community, while hope may produce inac|tivity787 142
through excessive trust in God, if not through self-deception about man’s real
destiny, and therefore also inhibit socially helpful enterprise.
A model for the religious individual preempted, in all his thoughts and
actions, by the fear of death and concern with the hereafter was created in the
person of the just mentioned al-Fuḍayl b. ʿIyâḍ (d. 187/January 803). Like many
others, he saw the fear of God as the mainspring of all that is good.788 His friend
Sufyân b. ʿUyaynah stated that he had never seen anyone more fearful than
al-Fuḍayl and his (own?) father.789 But while al-Fuḍayl was more fearful of God
than any other human being, he was also very hopeful, more so than anyone
else, for people in general (arjâ li-n-nâs).790 Apparently, he was solicitous for
their welfare and convinced that, if they followed his counsel, they stood a
good chance of achieving salvation. This understanding is suggested by another
version which indicates that he was not only the most fearful of men but also
the best advisor (anṣaḥ) for the Muslims.791 He was, of course, convinced of
the futility of all worldly hope (ṭûl al-amal),792 and he equated long hope with
unhappiness, and short hope with bliss.793 Yet, he was not unaware of the
de l’ espérance, in Revue Thomiste, 59 (1959), 339–366, a profound study of a brief passage

from al-Anṣârî’s Manâzil as-sâʾirîn with its many commentaries.
787 For Abû ʿUthmân al-Maghribî, surrender to hope meant inactivity (taʿaṭṭala), while sur-
render to fear meant despair (qaniṭa), cf. as-Sulamî, Ṭabaqât, 482, ll. 15f.; al-Qushayrî,
Risâlah, 63; Ibn Abî l-Ḥadîd, III, 694.
788 Cf. al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ, IV, 140. Abû Nuʿaym, Ḥilyah, IX, 259, l. 11, has Abû Sulaymân ad-
Dârânî.
789 Cf. Abû Nuʿaym, Ḥilyah, VIII, 85, ll. 1 f.
790 Cf. Abû Nuʿaym, Ḥilyah, VIII, 86, l. 18; Ibn Ḥajar, Tahdhîb, VIII, 296.
791 Cf. Abû Nuʿaym, Ḥilyah, VIII, 90, ll. 5 f.
792 Cf. Abû Nuʿaym, Ḥilyah, VIII, 99, l. 12. See also above, n. 774.
793 Cf. Ibn Аbî d-dunyâ, Qiṣar al-amal, fol. 9a.
great value of metaphysical hope. Even if God were to cast him into the fire
of Hell, he would not despair of Him (ayistu/yaʾistuh),794 that is, his hope for
God’s ultimate mercy would never and under no circumstances come to an
end. Al-Fuḍayl’s view of the proper relationship between fear and hope found
expression in the statement: “Fear is preferable (afḍal) to hope as long as a
person is in good health. When death comes upon him, hope is preferable to
fear.” It was apparently the reporter of this statement on al-Fuḍayl’s authority,
a certain Isḥâq b. Ibrâhîm aṭ-Ṭabarî, who explained this statement as follows:
“If he does good when he is in good health, his hope is great when death
comes, and he is confident (ḥasuna ẓannuh). If he does not do good when he
is in good health, he is not confident (sâʾa ẓannuh) when death comes, but
his hope is great.”795 Fear in life produces justified hopes for salvation, while
hope is the only thing that remains when nothing more can be done. Fear thus
142 constitutes the | safe course to follow for all the living, and it should govern
human behavior.
A model for the pious belief in the preferability of hope presented itself in
the person of Yaḥyâ b. Muʿâdh (d. 258/872). He was acclaimed as the personi-
fication of “the science of hope (ʿilm ar-rajâʾ) who gave excellent expression to
its aims.”796 He was particularly eloquent with respect to hope.797 The sweet-
est of God’s gift in his heart was hope.798 In discussing the cheerful outlook on
the world (as against the ascetic and fearful negation of it), which can be found
sometimes in Ṣûfism and which was notably represented by Abû Saʿîd-i Abû
l-Khayr, F. Meier rightly pointed to Yaḥyâ b. Muʿâdh as Abû Saʿîd’s most impor-
tant forerunner in this respect. It is noteworthy, however, that the long entry
on Yaḥyâ in Abû Nuʿaym’s Ḥilyah, X, 51–70, appears to slight his reputation as
the outstanding advocate of hope. Abû Nuʿaym started out with a perfunctory
description of Yaḥyâ as “hoper (râjî),”799 and the sayings and verses he quotes
have a few references to hope, which, however, are quite inconspicuous and
in no way distinguished from the ordinary run of Ṣûfî pronouncements on
the subject. Elsewhere, moreover, Yaḥyâ appears as a champion of the equiv-
alence of hope and fear. He is supposed to have said that fear of punishment
794 Cf. Abû Nuʿaym, Ḥilyah, VIII, 88, l. 22, and 95, l. 13.
795 Cf. Abû Nuʿaym, Ḥilyah, VIII, 89, ll. 1–4. Cf. Meier, Abû Saʿîd-i Abû l-Ḫayr, 154.
796 Cf. as-Sulamî, Ṭabaqât, 107. Abân b. Abî ʿAyyâsh was said to have made much mention of
“the chapters of hope,” cf. al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ, IV, 125; Meier, Abû Saʿîd-i Abû l-Ḫayr, 165; Ibn
al-Jawzî, Tabṣirah (above, n. 4) (Abân b. ʿUthmân!).
797 Cf. al-Qushayrî, Risâlah, 16, quoted by Ibn Khallikân, VI, 165.
798 Cf. above, n. 660; de Laugier de Beaurecueil (above, n. 785), 347.
799 Cf. Abû Nuʿaym, Ḥilyah, X, 51, l. 8.
hope and wishes 687
and hope for forgiveness are the two good things that accrue to a sinner, who
thus stands like a fox between two lions, for his evil deeds.800 The most telling
remark attributed to him is the following: “He who worships God in fear drowns
in the ocean of (his) pious meditations (adhkâr). He who worships Him in hope
without fear goes astray in the deserts of deception. But he who worships Him
in fear and hope together moves straight onward on the high road of (his) pious
meditations.”801
Hope in general took second place to fear. This primacy of fear was sanc-
tioned by a long and famous theological history going back into the most
remote past. As far as Islam was concerned, it was not fortuitous that Yaḥyâ,
the chosen representative of hope, was later than al-Fuḍayl, the model of fear,
by the better part of a century. It does not seem at all unlikely that the mate-
rial and intellectual flourishing of the golden age of | the ʿAbbâsids had some- 144
thing to do with convincing some Ṣûfîs that the world was not all bad, and
greater optimism was justified also in metaphysical matters. But fear was not
easily deprived of its firm hold on the religious mind. Its primacy was in fact
constantly stressed. Fear ought to be stronger (gh-l-b) than hope, for if hope
dominates fear, awareness and sensitivity (both expressed by the single word
al-qalb) become corrupted. This view, it seems, was already expressed by al-
Ḥasan al-Baṣrî, whose authority carried particular weight.802 But with the slight
variant “confused” for “corrupted,” Dhû n-Nûn was also credited with it.803 Abû
Sulaymân ad-Dârânî reportedly saw corruption of the present moment (al-
waqt, taking the place here of al-qalb of the other versions) as the result of the
prevalence of hope over fear.804 It may be noted that Ibn ʿArabî maintained that
hope, if it was not in proper harmony with al-waqt, might spoil it, and thus was
seemingly more dangerous than fear; it must added, though, that in Ibn ʿArabî’s
view, the situation (ḥukm) with respect to hope was for the most part the same
as the one with respect to fear.805
Unambiguous statements stressing hope over fear do not seem to be easily
available. Hope could perhaps claim a closer relationship to the love of God
800 Cf. al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ, IV, 140. Al-Ghazzâlî, IV, 141, went so far as to attribute to him a remark
in favor of fear: The safest people tomorrow will be those most fearful today.
801 Cf. Abû Ṭâlib al-Makkî, Qût, I, 242, ll. 2 f.; al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ, IV, 144.
802 Cf. Ibn ʿAbdrabbih, ʿIqd, III, 178, ll. 13f.; H. Ritter, Studien zur Geschichte der islamischen
Frömmigkeit I, in Der Islam, 21 (1933), 14.
803 Cf. al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ, IV, 141; Meier, Abû Saʿîd-i Abû l-Ḫayr, 153.
804 Cf. as-Sulamî, Ṭabaqât, 76, l. 7. However, in the version in al-Qushayrî, Risâlah, 61, it is again
al-qalb, cf. Meier, Abû Saʿîd-i Abû l-Ḫayr, 152, at least in the printed text.
805 Cf. Ibn ʿArabî, Futûḥât, II, 184–186, see also above, n. 404.
than fear, as contended already by as-Sarrâj, and it had a greater affinity to the
vast and complex realm of divine mercy. In general, however, the impression
prevails that it came after fear in the scale of religious values. No undue impor-
tance should be attached to the fact that in as-Sarrâj and al-Qushayrî, as well
as in an occasional adab work like the ʿIqd, fear was treated before hope, and
this order was reversed later on in Abû Ṭâlib al-Makkî and al-Ghazzâlî. There
was some hesitant speculation about the relative position of hope and fear in
the rank order of mystic stations, which seemingly favored the former over the
latter on some occasions. But for Abû Ṭâlib al-Makkî, it was fear that signaled
real faith (ḥaqîqat al-îmân) and perfect knowledge (kamâl al-ʿilm),806 and he
had much to say about the numerous kinds of fear (makhâwif ),807 which did
not have their counterpart in the treatment of hope. His discussion of hope
was padded by statements which upon closer inspection inclined toward con-
145 firming the superiority of fear: “He | who does not know fear does not know
hope,”808 or “Only people of hope can fear properly,” which indicates, he added,
that fear is superior to hope just as men are superior to women.809 The situa-
tion is not much different in al-Ghazzâlî. Characteristically, the chapter on fear
in the Iḥyâʾ is noticeably longer than that on hope.
Al-Ghazzâlî, the great compromiser, was naturally inclined to champion the
equivalence of hope and fear, and he did so emphatically. It was an old idea
in Ṣûfî theory. The two bridles (zimâmân),810 the two wings ( janâḥân) needed
both for flying,811 the two mounts (maṭîyatân)812 were no doubt old metaphors
in Ṣûfî usage for hope and fear, and they retained lasting appeal. Abû l-ʿAtâhiyah
maintained that the gnosis of God required both hope and fear,813 and he made
it clear that
Only the man who fears can hope for God.

He who hopes fears, and he who fears hopes.814
806 Cf. Abû Ṭâlib al-Makkî, Qût, I, 225.

807 Cf. Abû Ṭâlib al-Makkî, Qût, I, 231.
808 Cf. Abû Ṭâlib al-Makkî, Qût, I, 215, l. 29.
809 Cf. Abû Ṭâlib al-Makkî, Qût, I, 219, l. 26, and 236, l. 3.
810 Cf. Meier, Abû Saʿîd-i Abû l-Ḫayr, 148 f.
811 Cf. Meier, Abû Saʿîd-i Abû l-Ḫayr, 156; Abû Ṭâlib al-Makkî, Qût, I, 239f.; Ibn Аbî l-Ḥadîd, III,
503.
812 Cf. al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ, IV, 123; H. Ritter (above, n. 802), 14.
hope and wishes 689
Abû Ṭâlib al-Makkî clearly tilted toward the view of equivalence. “The true
believer is one who keeps the balance between fear and hope,”815 he said among
other similar statements.
“Equivalence” appeared in the Qurʾân dictionary of ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî in
the formulation “fear and hope are equivalent ( yatalâzamân).”816 As a philol-
ogist, he employed it to explain the assumption that r-j-w meant both to hope
and to fear, no doubt continuing an earlier tradition. Since he is now thought
to have lived in the early years of the fifth/eleventh century,817 he antedated al-
Ghazzâlî who also used the formulation in his discussion of fear and hope, no
doubt also relying upon earlier sources. Al-Ghazzâlî was much more detailed
and outspoken than any of his mystic predecessors among those mentioned
here. As he saw it, a person overcome by despair or fear must be provided
with the remedy of hope in order to have his proper balance | restored.818 He 146
combined this statement with a complaint about his own times where peo-
ple are too far gone for such a cure; neither the encouragement of hope nor
the threat of excessive fear could bring them back to the road of the truth.
Al-Ghazzâlî considered it the wrong question to ask whether fear or hope is
preferable. It depends on whatever is needed under given circumstances. Hope
and fear are both medicines to be used according to the sickness they are sup-
posed to cure. The right question is, which of the two is more suitable (aṣlaḥ),
and not, which is preferable. If they are weighed, hope and fear should bal-
ance each other. Al-Ghazzâlî cited Abû Ṭâlib al-Makkî to the effect that it is the
ultimate goal of the believer to achieve equilibrium with respect to them.819
It appears to be a fact that people in general tend toward hope; this results
from delusion (ightirâr) and lack of religious understanding and gnosis (qillat
al-maʿrifah).820
Al-Ghazzâlî explained the theoretical foundation for the equivalence of
hope and fear by the kind of logical reasoning which was his stock in trade:
815 Cf. Abû Ṭâlib al-Makkî, Qût, I, 239, l. 6.

816 Cf. ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, Mufradât, II, 59, s.v. r-j-w. The text continues that this is so
because “he who hopes for something also fears the contrary (that it might not be), and
vice versa.” This addition, however, does not appear in Mufradât, ed. Cairo 1970, I, 278. It
is, in fact, inappropriate in the philological context.
817 Cf. W. Madelung, ar-Râġib al-Iṣfahânî und die Ethik al-Ghazâlîs, in R. Gramlich (ed.),
Islamwissenschaftliche Abhandlungen (above, n. 86), 152–163.
819 Cf. already as-Sarrâj, Lumaʿ, 91. See also above, n. 815.
820 Cf. al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ, IV, 143 f.
Everything that attests to the superiority of hope is at the same time an

indication of the superiority of fear, for the two are equivalent (mutalâz-
imân). Everybody who hopes for something he likes (maḥbûb) also fears
that it might escape him. If he has no such fear, he also does not like it,
nor does he hope for and expect it. Thus hope and fear are equivalent and
cannot be disassociated from one another. It is indeed permissible for one
to be stronger (gh-l-b) than the other while they are both present, and the
heart may be preoccupied with one of them and pay no attention to the
other at the moment and neglect it. This is so because it is a condition of
hope and fear that they are attached to what is doubtful, since whatever
is known is neither hoped for nor feared. Thus, if something that is liked
can exist, it also can certainly not exist. The tentative estimate (taqdîr)
that it exists gives rest to the heart—it is hope. The tentative estimate
that it does not exist gives pain to the heart—it is fear. The two tentative
estimates are surely there balancing one another ( yataqâbalân) when the
thing that is expected is in doubt. For some reasons which may be present,
one side of the doubt may outweigh the other. This then is called assump-
tion (ẓann). It may be the reason for the one being stronger than the other.
If the assumption that what is liked exists is the stronger, hope is strong,
and fear, in relation to it, is latent (?), and vice versa. In any event, they
are equivalent.821
In sum, it would seem that the pessimism of fear, strong from the beginning,
147 gained steadily in strength over the centuries. It is, however, | noteworthy that
al-Ghazzâlî admitted a widespread hold of hope upon most people. He disap-
proved of it and considered it unworthy of good Muslims, but it is an indication
that human nature had not changed much since pre-Islamic times. Officially,
however, the religious mind became more and more convinced that hope had
a necessary partnership with fear but played the lesser role in this partnership.
It also completely denied hope’s legitimacy as long as it was directed toward
worldly matters in the form of “long hope.”

Concluding Remark 148
The tripartition of the flow of life into periods known as past, present, and
future was fully accepted in Muslim thought as a true datum of physics, not-
withstanding the often realized difficulties inherent in the concept of a present.
It was again al-Ghazzâlî who gave clear expression to the idea that human
activity was conditioned by the different significance of these stages for the
psychological behavior of the individual. His focus was on the particular Ṣûfî
concern with mystic states and stations, in this case, the role of the momen-
tary “state (ḥâl)” in its connection with hope, but his remarks encompass the
entirety of human existence:
Everything you like or dislike that comes to you is divided into something
existent in the (present) state (ḥâl), something existent in the past, and
something expected (muntaẓar) in the future. If you consider in your
mind something existent in the past, it is called memory or remembrance
(dhikr, tadhakkur). If you consider in your mind something existent in
the (momentary) state, it is called ecstasy (wajd), taste (dhawq), and
perception (idrâk)—it is called wajd just because you find (w-j-d) it in
yourself. If you consider in your mind something existent in the future
and it dominates your thinking and feeling (qalb), it is called expectation
(intiẓâr or tawaqquʿ). If it is something you dislike which causes (you)
pain in the heart, it is called fear (khawf, ishfâq). If it is something you like
which gives (you) pleasure in the heart as well as rest in the anticipation
of it and through the emotional and mental (qalb, bâl) concern with it,
such restfulness is called hope …1
Memory generally operates in human beings in the form of a sentimental

remembrance of the past which recalls only the good that happened in it. It
may serve to make the present more tolerable. More commonly, it may make
it seem even worse than it is by comparison. On the large canvas of history, it
may produce the false image of a past that was objectively better than anything
coming after it. Little exception was taken in Islam to the belief in the existence
of an incomparably better past; it is remarkable that, as we have seen, exception
was taken to it at all.
1 Cf. al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ, IV, 123 f. See also above, nn. 396, 420, 680, 684, and 821.
The mystic saw the “present” as the exalted moment2 in his search at which a
certain degree of illumination might be achieved, if all the signs were right, but
which, if at all possible, had to be converted into something more permanent.
149 Outside the Ṣûfî path, the present was an | undetermined extent of time, the
present times in which the individual spent certain parts of his life. It was
debated whether conditions in the present times were the result of human
activity. Under the influence of pre-Islamic tradition, the times were often seen
as having a life of their own. They confronted the individual and the society
in which he lived and influenced action or inaction. According to Islam, they
were largely dependent on man’s relation to the divine. It is likely that most
individuals coped quietly and uncomplainingly with the problems they were
facing in their daily lives. They may even have been more or less pleased and
satisfied with their own circumstances. Upon reflection, however, attention
was usually paid to negative features which then appeared to loom larger than
anything else. The voicing of complaints tends to be more common under
all circumstances than expressions of approval, since the intellectual effort
required to think about and express one’s feelings is more readily made when
it might be seen as correcting inequities and excusing failure. Expression of
dissatisfaction with the times was the rule. The thoughtful individual felt that
the utmost wariness and skepticism were the preferred approach to his times,
no matter how pleasant they might seem. A necessary corollary was the call
to enjoyment of the good times while they lasted. Many, no doubt, followed it
and approved of it, even if religious belief was clearly not in favor of it and at
the very least considered it shortsighted.
The human attitude toward the future is determined by hope in all its
manifestations. The future’s uncertainty has always been frightening to man.
The question whether human existence has “meaning” has often been asked,
and the answer to it has been sought in man’s future rather than his past.
The asking of the question is by itself an indication of conscious and true
humanity. The existence of a satisfactory answer remains highly doubtful.
Muslim monotheism started with the search for an answer and found it in the
belief that the future is not uncertain. The course of history, of the individual
as well as the community, is known, and all hopes and wishes have to be
adjusted to its certain metaphysical end. The innate psychological necessity for
man to attempt to do something about the future was thus given its clear and
definite direction. However, enough latitude was allowed to the human mind
for playing with mundane hopes, while letting metaphysical hopes alone for
2 On the concept of waqt, see above, n. 804.

concluding remark 693
a while, and for acknowledging the usefulness of mundane hoping for human
existence, while being aware of the danger of illusion and deceptiveness.
Many usages of the famous formula in shâʾllâh “if God wills”3 must be trans-
lated in idiomatic English by forms of the verb “to hope.” We | always have 150
to be cautious about reading too much into the use of the word “God” in a
monotheistic society; it tends to become part of linguistic convention and may
be employed unthinkingly, and even by atheists. Muslim theoretical discus-
sions of the formula would naturally heed its religious connotation and insist
upon the reality of it. Thus we are justified in interpreting it as an indication of
the view that dependency upon external guidance governed all expectations
for the future. This is in contrast to our “hoping” which is an exclusively inter-
nal process with the individual. Our sources show that Muslims were aware of
both aspects of man’s preoccupation with what was going to happen to him.
According to the more secular view, he could make hoping and wishing work
for or against him and use his natural inclination toward them for either pos-
itive or negative ends. On the other hand, the primary religious concern was
with establishing harmony between man’s desires and the largely immutable
reactions to be expected from metaphysical reality. Society, it would appear,
always included individuals who were willing to choose an optimistic stance
toward life and let themselves be guided by it. The majority, however, can be
assumed to have been convinced that the barriers confronting human ambi-
tions were divinely established and, in fact, existed for a fundamental purpose,
the purpose of making man inclined toward pessimism with regard to his life
on earth and prudently hesitant with his regard to his chances for future salva-
tion.
In the present struggle between those who contend that it is possible to
establish general Muslim attitudes toward certain matters and those who argue
that all such generalizations are meaningless abstractions with no reality
except in the minds of their inventors, the study of complaint and hope is a
sort of textbook case seemingly supporting both views. It is characteristically
human to reflect on the past and the future along the lines of individual expe-
rience and needs. Habits of thought and feeling are developed and become
traditional, but no matter how strong they are and how forcefully they are incul-
cated by society and religious systems, no uniformity with respect to views on
elementary human concerns and practices based on them can be achieved in
intellectually alive civilizations, certainly not in one as far-flung as Islam. Some
preferences can be detected. There is nothing wrong with generalizing from
3 Cf. L. Gardet, in EI2, s.v.

them, unless, of course, contradictory evidence can be found to invalidate an

attempted generalization. Our first task, however, must be to make sure that we
know, within the narrow limits that are set for any historical knowledge what-
ever, what can be known on the basis of reasonably well attested data—apart
from what we might just hope and wish to know and what we might complain
about that we do not know.
vi
The Individual and Society
∵
vi.1
‘I Am You’—Individual Piety and Society in Islam 33
One of man’s earliest dreams and hopes no doubt revolved around finding
ways to overcome the obvious and severe limitations placed by nature upon
the power of the individual. Two such ways clearly suggested themselves. One
of them was the banding together in small or large groups acting in concert
for the benefit of the individual in control. The other was the improvement,
in some manner, of the personal strength of the individual. The first was the
realistic and ultimately successful approach. It led to the formation of what
we call societies. The second was, for all practical purposes, merely wishful
thinking. It has remained so through the ages. But the dream lived on and has
never ceased to exist and to exert a strong fascination upon many imaginative
human beings.
A concrete attempt to increase individual power, through the invention of
tools and weapons, had the obvious drawback of doing for one individual
exactly what it was able to do for another. Thus, in reality, whatever gain in
power it brought canceled itself out in the long run. As folklore and literature
and, alas, history tell us, hope was always alive in power-starved individuals
that they might find the unique all-powerful weapon or the unique means
of transportation of unbeatable speed and use them for their own exclusive
benefit. It has proved to be a thoroughly irrational hope.
In nature, mixture, increase, and growth were easily observable and univer-
sal phenomena. These three natural processes were indeed vehicles for poten-
tial gains in individual power, although, again, in a very limited way and one
equally accessible to everybody. Anything approaching a true understanding of
how these physical phenomena came about and operated was totally beyond
the intellectual grasp of past generations of scholars and scientists. Only in
most recent years have we begun to unravel these great mysteries of life. Nev-
ertheless, many attempts were made by earlier thinkers to come to grips with
the multifarious problems involved. Medieval Muslim philosophers expectedly
participated in this task. A few examples of how this was done in the name of
“union” are given later on.
Another hope for greater individual power lay in what may be called “self-
identification” or, rather, “other-identification.” In essence, this is something | 34
very different from mixture, increase, and growth, although, understandably,
it was not always kept distinguished from them. By assuming the identity of
some other, and presumably greater, power while retaining one’s own, a per-

698 the individual and society
son, it was thought, might be able to increase his limited human capacities
many times over. Needless to say, such assumption of another additional iden-
tity was a physical impossibility. It was sheer magic, something that would have
seemed possible only to those who believed in the efficacy of supernatural pow-
ers on the physical level. The exultant cry of “I am you” had its origin in the
murky world of magical longings and beliefs. To us, it makes sense only if we
recognize that that was precisely where it originated. Its earliest attestations
in history and its survivals in primitive civilizations make this fact abundantly
clear.
Magic identification was a kind of standard procedure for solving the mys-
teries of both the natural and the supernatural worlds. It was stated that this
god is that god, a is b, and immediately, power was gained and difficulties were
removed. The Sanskrit Brahmanas are replete with statements of this sort: “All
the deities are Agni; all the deities are Viśnu …”1 The newcomer who is exam-
ined by the Brahman with the question “Who are you?” is supposed to answer “I
am yourself.” Upon further questioning as to who the Brahman is, the appropri-
ate reply to be given is “You are soul. What you are, that am I.”2 At a much later
stage of religious development, Sikhs supposedly addressed the deity in these
words: “You are I, and I am You, there is no difference, as there is none between
gold and bracelet, water and wave.”3 Man and God are indistinguishable as are
matter and form, form and matter.
Assyrian incantations made use of the same device to give comfort and
reassurance: “I am heaven, you cannot touch me. I am the earth, you cannot
bewitch me … Enlil is my head, my face the day; Urash, the perfect god, is
my face; my neck is Ninlil’s necklace; my arms are the crescent of the western
Sin; Lugaledinna [and] Lataraq are my breast; my knees are Mukhra; my feet
35 that walk … You are mine and I am yours.”4 The last phrase establishes |
1 Cf. A.B. Keith, Rigveda Brahmanas, Harvard Oriental Series, XXV (Cambridge, Mass., 1920),
p. 107. The references to Indian material are found in an instructive review article by O. Wein-
reich, in the course of which he studied briefly the complex of questions considered here, cf.
Archiv für Religionswissenschaft, XIX (1916–1919), 165–169.
2 Cf. E.B. Cowell, The Kaushitaki-Bráhmaṇa-Upanishad, Bibliotheca Indica, Vol. XXXIX (Cal-
cutta, 1861), pp. 146, 149.
3 Quoted from M. Horten, Die Philosophie des Islam (Munich, 1924), p. 153. On matter and form
in this connection, see below, n. 27.
4 Cf. G. Meier, Die assyrische Beschwörungssammlung Maqlū, Archiv für Orient-forschung,
Beiheft II (Berlin, 1937), pp. 27, 41, 57. For the middle passage, cf. P. Garelli, in Daedalus, CIV,
2 (1975), 51. In ancient Mesopotamia, a deity would increase its power by making boastful
first-person claims to almost universal identification, cf., in particular, the text published by
“i am you”—individual piety and society in islam 699
identity through mutual possession. This is a common variation of the I-am-you

concept. Thus, Darius says in one of his inscriptions: “Mine is Ahura Mazda,
Ahura Mazda’s am I.”5 Zoroastrianism is further credited with the use of the
identification formula. In view of the sources through which this information
has reached us, however, the suspicion of Christian influence arises. Gushtāsp
asked Zoroaster whether the predicted future divine being would be greater or
less great than Zoroaster himself and received this reply: “I am he, and he is I. He
is in me, and I am in him.”6 Modern scholarly literature most commonly refers
to the idea of other-identification as it found expression in a Greek magical
papyrus dating from the ad fourth or fifth century: “I know you, Hermes, and
you know me. I am you, and you are I.”7 In pagan magic in modern Ethiopia, we
hear, the magician receives the incarnation of the deity and identifies himself
M.E. Cohen, in Journal of the American Oriental Society, XCV (1975), 606f. And for the dead
to claim, and thereby be assured of, identification with the divine was common in Egypt, as
M. Lichtheim reminds me with reference to P. Barguet, Le Livre des morts (Paris, 1967), pp. 43,
85 f. For the formula expressing mutual possession in Canticles and Judaism, cf. J. Goldin, in
Journal of the American Oriental Society, XCVT (1976), 40.
5 Cf. R.G. Kent, Old Persian, American Oriental Series, XXXIII (2d ed., New Haven, 1953), p. 145.
Cf. I. Gershevitch, Old Iranian Literature, Handbuch der Orientalistik, I, iv: Iranistik, II, i
(Leiden, 1968), p. 9.
6 Cf. Theodore Bar Kônay, Liber scholiorum, ed. A. Scher, Corpus Scriptorum Christianorum
Orientalium, Scriptores Syri, Series II, LXV–LXVI (Paris and Leipzig, 1910–1912), II, 74, cited
by G. Messina, I Magi a Betlemme (Paris, 1933), p. 60; J. Bidez and F. Cumont, Les Mages hel-
lénisés (Paris, 1938), II, 128; U. Monneret de Villard, Le leggende orientali sui Magi Evangelici,
Studi e Testi, CLXIII (Città del Vaticano, 1952), p. 129; J. Doresse, Les livres secrets des gnostiques
d’ Égypte (Paris, 1958), p. 204. Cf. also Monneret de Villard, op. cit., pp. 41, 131f. The Christian-
ization of Zoroaster is obvious in an apparently late work quoted in A. Mingana, Catalogue of
the Mingana Collection of Manuscripts, Vol. I, Syriac and Garshūnī Manuscripts (Cambridge,
1933), col. 323: “On fol. 59 a, it is said that Zoroaster (Zrdšh) said to his disciples: ‘Anyone who
does not eat my body and drink my blood, and mix with me and I with him, will have no
salvation.’ ”
7 Cf. K. Preisendanz, Papyri graecae magicae (Leipzig and Berlin, 1931), II, 47, no. 8, line 50. Cf.,
further, for instance, R. Reitzenstein, Poimandres (Leipzig, 1904), pp. 21, 28, 365; A.J. Wensinck,
in the introduction to his translation of Bar Hebraeus, Book of the Dove (London, 1919), pp.
cixf.; C.A. Nallino, Raccolta di Scritti, Vol. II (Rome, 1940), p. 301 n. 1.; M. Pulver, in The Mysteries:
Papers from the Eranos Yearbooks, Vol. II, Bollingen Series, XXX (New York, 1955), p. 177;
F.-N. Klein, Die Lichtterminologie bei Philon von Alexandrien (Leiden, 1962), p. 140 n. 1.
The many magic “I am …” identifications caused C.G. Jung to remark that they “might
as well have been taken from an alchemical treatise,” cf. Mysterium coniunctionis, trans.
R.F.C. Hull, Bollingen Series, XX (Princeton, 1963; 2d ed., 1970), p. 237. In fact, alchemy, as
shown by Jung, was a great beneficiary of the ancient belief in increased power through the
transfer and addition of identities.
with it.8 And the Zuñi Indians address their gods in prayer in these words: “We
shall be one person.”9
36 Magic here is close to religion, and it comes as no surprise that the basic
idea of union between man and god—for the benefit, to be sure, of man—was
effortlessly taken over into the various mainstreams of spiritualized religion.
Famous passages such as “I and the Father are one” (John 10:3) immediately
come to mind. Gnostic religions, in particular, are characterized by the fact that
they reconstruct the power system that holds the world together or may tear
it apart by means of an intricate series of mutual identifications of all known
physical and historical data and metaphysical abstractions. The understanding
of the system is the first and decisive step toward salvation.
A further, if extremely limited, way to increase individual power through the
addition or assumption of another identity was felt to exist in sexual union.
The myth of Aristophanes in Plato’s Symposium stresses not by chance the
great power, menacing even to the gods, which human beings possessed in the
original state when the sexes were permanently united in one being. That the
sex act made one out of two would seem to be an idea that is quite unlikely to
have suggested itself to man at as early a stage of his intellectual development
as did magic identification. Yet, it spread early and widely, if by no means
generally.10 A long and all-pervasive tradition, for which we may mention only
the Bible and Greek philosophy as the most important channels, has resulted
in its appearing to us as a most natural and self-evident expression of I-am-you
as part of the power play of individuals.
8 Cf. E. Cerulli, “La festa del Battesimo e l’Eucarestia in Etiopia nel secolo XV,” Analecta
Bollandiana, LXVIII (1950), 449.
9 Cf. R.L. Bunzel, “Zuñi Ritual Poetry,” 47th Annual Report of the Bureau of American Ethnol-
ogy (Washington, 1932), p. 784, quoted in R. Benedict’s Pattern of Culture. The index of
J.G. Frazer’s Golden Bough (3d ed.), s.v. “identification,” lists such items as identification
with an animal as a homoeopathic charm, of persons with corn, of a girl with the Maize
Goddess.
10 A Chinese example appears in the Shih Ching, according to the translation of A. Waley,
The Book of Songs (Boston and New York, 1939), p. 26:
That a mere glance of plain leggings

Could tie my heart in tangles!
Enough! Let us two be one.
My colleague, Hugh Stimson, informs me that such an expression of love union (which
may be translated more precisely as “to be one with you”) is exceptional in Chinese.
Still more recent in its chronological origin is the alter ego (Greek allos egō11)
concept of friendship. No doubt man attempted even during the early stages
of history to increase his individual power through identification with other
individuals as allies and friends and used for this purpose magic rituals such
as the mingling of blood and the like. At some later date in human history,
the idea was spiritualized and conceived of as the mingling of kindred spirits
becoming one in two separate bodies. For the Greeks and Romans, it was
already commonplace. Men like Cicero12 would retain a cautious “almost” to
characterize the union achieved, but Saint Augustine for one did not hesitate
to speak plainly of “one soul in two bodies.”13 The original purpose of enlarging
the | individual’s power through identification with the friend was soon no 37
longer fully realized by those who called their friend their alter ego. In the
course of time it became an entirely conventional definition of friendship with
no understanding of the true meaning behind it.
The three concepts, that of religiomagic other-identification, that of union
in love, and that of union through friendship, were all alive in the Muslim orbit.
Considering their previous history in the ancient world, it certainly should
not surprise us that we encounter them in Islam. There is, however, one thing
that should indeed surprise us. That is the unusual vigor they displayed in
medieval Muslim thought. The interest they found and the concern they were
able to arouse are confirmed not only by the frequency with which the I-am-you
expression can be traced in the preserved literature but also by the many
variations that were played on it in the course of time. Frequent attestation of a
given topic always signals the fact that great cultural importance was attached
to it. Constant efforts to find and express new variations indicate the existence
of a reservoir of undiminished vitality.
It is necessary and appropriate to give here a few illustrations for the man-
ner in which all three ideas were treated in Muslim thought, even if Islamic
scholars are familiar with the subject and no exhaustive study of all the avail-
able material is possible here. The friendship topic, it may be mentioned, was
most recently broached by Professor Goitein in his remarkable brief paper on
“Formal Friendship in the Near East.”14
11 For allos egō as going back to the Stoic Zeno, cf. Diogenes Laertius, VII, 23; Gnomologium
Valicanum, ed. L. Sternbach (reprint Berlin, 1963), pp. 113f. Sternbach cites many more
references.
12 De amicitia, XXI, 81. Cf. N.J. Perella, The Kiss Sacred and Profane (Berkeley and Los Angeles,
1969), pp. 61 f.
13 Confessions, IV, 6. Cf. Perella, op. cit., p. 62.
14 In Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society, CXV (1971), 484–489.
Muslim references to the alter-ego type of definition of the friend are numer-
ous. Nothing that could be considered a strictly literal and direct translation of
Greek allos egō has, to my knowledge, shown up so far; it would seem likely
that the expression did not occur in the Greek literature that was translated
into Arabic. Its Aristotelian prototype (Nicomachean Ethics 1166a31: allos autos)
was translated accurately ākhar huwa huwa, “an identical other,” as L.V. Berman
kindly informs me. The similar definition of the friend as “someone else who
is you except that he is not you (in person)” is the paraphrase that found gen-
eral acceptance. Incidentally, the definition of “one soul (in two bodies)” which
appears in the classical passage of the Nicomachean Ethics 1168 b 8 was also
not transmitted in its exact form among the formal definitions of friendship,
although it is not absent from erotic contexts. Close friendship could be com-
pared to the union of body and spirit,15 and close friends could be described
as “being like one soul.”16 A rather strange inversion, if the text is correct, is the
38 description of two handsome boys of the merchant class who | dressed alike
and behaved always in a completely identical manner as “two spirits in one
body.”17
Another aspect of other-identification, which is related to the alter-ego idea
of friendship and may therefore be briefly alluded to here,18 is the belief in the
attraction of like to like19 and in the possibility of evaluating a person by the
company he keeps20—“guilt by association” is the slogan by which the negative
15 Cf. Yāqūt, Irshād, ed. D.S. Margoliouth, E.J.W. Gibb Memorial Series, VI (Leiden and
London, 1907–1927), VI, 119; ibid., ed. A.F. Rifāʿī (2d ed., Cairo, n.d. [1357/1938]), XVI, 178,
with reference to al-Fatḥ b. Khāqān and al-Mutawakkil. Cf. also ibid., ed. Margoliouth, I,
367; ibid., ed. Rifāʿī, II, 208.
16 Cf. al-Masʾūdī, Murūj, ed. Barbier de Meynard and Pavet de Courteille (Paris, 1861–1877),
VII, 73; ibid. (Cairo, 1346/1927), II, 336.
17 Cf. ibid. (Paris, 1861–1877), VIII, 185; ibid. (Cairo, 1346/1927), II, 482.
18 Cf. also F. Meier, Die Fawāʾiḥ al-ǧamāl wa-fawātiḥ al-ǧalāl des Naǧm ad-din al-Kubrā
(Wiesbaden, 1957), pp. 72–75 (“Gleiches zu Gleichem”), pp. 76–87 (“Unio mystica”). Meier
establishes a historical nexus of spiritual and mystical union with microcosm-macrocosm
speculation rather than, as has been attempted here, with psychological and ethical
attitudes.
19 For instance, hôs aiei ton homoion agei theos hôs ton homoion (Homer, Odyssey, XVII,
219), to gar homoion pros to homoion (Hermes Trismegistus, ed. trans. A.D. Nock and
A.-J. Festugière [Paris 1945–1954], III, 57). Or koloion poti koloion (Aristotle: Nicomachean
Ethics 1155 a 34 f.; Eudemian Ethics 1235a; Magna Moralia 1208b).
20 For instance, Euripides, Phoenix (frag. 812 Nauck), speaking of someone enjoying the com-
pany of evil persons: toioutos estin hoisper hēdetai xynōn; Antonius Melissa, in Migne,
Patrologia Graeca, CXXXVI, col. 937A; Ecclesiasticus 13:15f.; A. Schneider, Der Gedanke
side of it has become so unhappily known in recent years. The Islamic aspect
of this subject in all its ramifications deserves a monograph. The basic theme
is well expressed in a verse which is constantly quoted and ascribed to either
ʿAdī b. Zaid or Ṭarafa:
Don’t inquire about a man but inquire about his companion,

For every companion imitates whomever he associates with.21
According to the early speculative theologian an-Naẓẓām, “natures attract what

is similar to them (shākalahā) on account of being of the same kind, and
they are inclined toward what is close to them on account of agreeing [with
them].”22 And the great littérateur al-Jāḥiẓ has a brief survey on the subject: | 39
“You are marked by the sign of those with whom you keep company, and the
actions of those who are your friends are attributed to you. Therefore, beware
of evildoers and of any association with dubious characters. There are current
proverbs and written sayings to this effect, such as ‘Man is wherever he puts
himself,’ or ‘One thinks of a man what one thinks of his companion,’ or ‘A man
[is characterized] by his like (shikl), a man [is characterized] by his friend.’23
der Erkenntnis des Gleichen durch Gleiches in antiker und patristischer Zeit, Beitrāge zur
Geschichte der Philosophic des Mittelalters, Supplementband II (Münster, 1923), pp. 65–
76.
21 See, for instance, the following passages, most of which provide additional information
relevant to the subject: al-Buḥturī, Hamāsa, ed. R. Geyer and D.S. Margoliouth (Leiden,
1909), pp. 307 f.; Miskawaih and at-Tauḥĭdī, Hawāmil, ed. A. Amīn and as-Saiyid A. Ṣaqr
(Cairo, 1370/1951), p. 178; Ibn Bassām, Dhakhīra, Vol. IV, i (Cairo, 1364/1945), p. 227; as-
Sulamī, Ādāb aṣ-ṣuḥba, ed. M. Kister (Jerusalem, 1954); pp. 25ff.; ash-Sharīshī, Sharḥ al-
Maqāmāt (Cairo, 1306/1888), I, 216.
22 Cf. Abū l-Faraj al-Iṣfahānī, Aghāni (Būlāq, 1285/1868), VII, 154; (3d ed.; Cairo 1345/1926–),
VIII, 249. Cf. also the chapter heading: “Friendship Comes through Similarity” (al-mawad
da bi-l-mushākala) in Ibn Qutaiba, ʿUyūn al-akhbār (Cairo, 1343–1349/1926–1930), III, 7f., or
the anonymous saying in al-Mubashshir, Mukhtār al-ḥikam, ed. ʿAbd-ar-Raḥmān Badawī
(Madrid, 1377/1958), p. 325, to the effect that “the basic support of friendship is similarity”
(ʿimād al-mawadda al-mushākala). Further references were collected by H. Knust in his
edition of the Spanish translation of al-Mubashshir, in Mittheilungen aus dem Eskurial,
Bibliothek des Litterarischen Vereins in Stuttgart, CXLI (Tübingen, 1879), pp. 84 n. b and
631; al-Māwardī, Adab ad-dunyā wa-d-din (Cairo, 1315/1897), p. 102.
23 The remark attributed to the Prophet in Miskawaih, Jāwidhān khiradh, ed. ʿAbd ar-Raḥ-
mān Badawī (Cairo, 1952), p. 103: al-marʾ bi-akhīh may thus have to be understood as “a
man [is characterized] by his friend.”
You will not be able to beware of all people. Be intimate only with those who
are free from all blemishes.”24
To return to the definitions of friendship, the one of the friend as “someone
else who is you except that he is not you” was naturally ascribed to Aristo-
tle, “our sage and philosopher.” In the presence of Isḥāq b. Ibrāhīm al-Mauṣilī,
the celebrated musician and littérateur who was born in ar-Rayy and was of
Persian extraction, someone praised the beautiful conciseness of this Aris-
totelian definition. Isḥāq al-Mauṣilī had a ready retort. The Persians outdid
the ancient Greeks in this respect. They said it all in one word. Dōst, Per-
sian for “friend,” indicates dū ast, that is, “is two.” Thus, the one word dōst
by itself defines the friend as “one in essence, two in reality and by designa-
tion.”25
It is not without significance that the brilliant littérateur and philosopher
at-Tauḥīdī, giving the word to an-Nūshajānī but apparently speaking for him-
self as well as for his entire circle, denied the possibility that one human being
could assume the identity of another. According to at-Tauḥīdī, the Aristotelian
definition has only ideal validity (min nāḥiyat al-ʿaql). It has none for the real
world, which, on the contrary, is based fundamentally upon the existence of
differences between individuals and upon constant changes within individu-
als. The purpose of the definition of the friend as the alter ego is to encourage
friends to aspire to the greatest possible agreement in likes and dislikes. Here
we have what is clearly a rationalist rebellion against pristine magic assump-
40 tions conflicting with what was conceived as reality.26 At-Tauḥīdī as a | man
of great learning was aware of the scientific and theological efforts made to
24 Cf. al-Jāḥiẓ, Risālat al-Maʾād wa-l-maʾāsh, ed. P. Kraus and M.T. al-Ḥājiri, Majmūʾ rasāʾil
al-Jāḥiẓ (Cairo, 1943), p. 30; ed. ʿAbd as-Salām M. Hārūn, Rasāʾil al-Jāḥiẓ (Cairo, 1384/1964),
I, 126 f. One may contrast with that the famous verse by an-Nābigha adh-Dhubyānī which
says that he who does not overlook a friend’s blemishes on occasion will have no friends
left.
25 Cf. Abū Sulaimān as-Sijistānī, Ṣiwān al-ḥikma, in the recension preserved in the Istanbul
MS Murad Molla 1408, fol. 48a–b, in the article dealing with King ʾrwn and Secundus the
Silent.
26 Cf. at-Tauḥīdī, Muqābasāt, no. 106, ed. M. Taufīq Ḥusain (Baghdad, 1970), pp. 449f. An
anecdote emphasizing the total difference of individuals appears in the corpus of let-
ters of Aristotle and Alexander (Istanbul MS Fatih 5323): “When Lwṭwnyfs, so the story
goes, advised Sydhrws, saying, ‘If I were you, I would kill that man,’ S. replied, ‘Since I
am not you, I shall not kill him.’” The same remark is ascribed to Alexander himself in
Miskawaih, Tahdhīb (Cairo, 1322/1904), p. 66; ed. C.K. Zurayq (Beirut, 1967), p. 204; trans.
Zurayq (Beirut, 1968), p. 181; trans. M. Arkoun (Damascus, 1969), p. 306. I have no certain
explain the process of union. They made hardly any allowance for the facile
assumption that I could become you merely by wishing this to happen or by
vague psychological processes. A few specimens of this continuing discussion
may serve here to show how the problem was handled on the physical and
theological levels.
According to a Syriac work on definitions, probably by Michael the Inter-
preter, which appears to have received the form in which it is preserved around
800, thus well in Muslim times,
Union (ḥḏāyūṯā) is that which from two or many is one, or it is the rational
process (? mellṯā) which contracts, and unites into one, things that were
separate. It is divided into seven kinds:
(1) Natural, such as body and soul, or elements united with one another
naturally, or food which unites with the body and becomes one with
it.
(2) Voluntary, such as the statement that ‘the assembly of people were
one soul and one mind.’
(3) Personal (representative), such as the prophet who carries the per-
sona of God or the messenger who carries the persona of the king.
(4) That of mixing, such as flour and chalk.
(5) That of mingling, such as wine and water.27
(6) That of composing, such as house and gate. And
(7) That of companionship, such as husband and wife.28
Being in a similar tradition, Ibn Sīnāʾs definition of union (ittiḥād) agrees in

many respects:
identification to offer for the Greek names. Autolykos and (Hege)sandros would be par-
ticularly close to the written forms, but the known bearers of these names do not seem to
fit the situation.
27 Cf. the alchemical-mystical image of the mixture of sulphur and fire, according to Jalāl
ad-Dīn Rūmi, Mystical Poems of Rūmī, trans. A.J. Arberry (Chicago, 1968), p. 30: “Sulphur
came to a fire; it said, ‘Come out to me, beloved! My form is not your form, but I am all you,
my form is a veil. I become you in form and reality when you arrive, my form is blotted out
in the encounter.’ ” The union envisaged here is that of matter and form.
28 Cf. G. Furlani, “Il libro delle definizioni e divisioni” di Michele l’Interprete, Memorie della
R. Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei, Cl. di sc. mor., stor. e filol., Series VI, Vol. II (1926),
pp. 85 f., 126.
Union is a noun of many meanings. It is used for
(1) The sharing (ishtirāk) of things in one attribute, be it essential or

accidental, such as the union of swan and snow in whiteness and of
ox and man in animal.
(2) The sharing of attributes in one object, such as the union of taste
and smell in the apple.
41 (3) The combination (ijtimāʿ) of object and attribute in one essence,
such as man resulting from body and soul.
(4) The combination of many substances (ajsām), as through contiguity
in the case of cities, or through contact as in chairs and beds, or
through juncture as in the limbs of animals.
Most deserving to be called “union” is the resulting of a numerically

single substance ( jism) from the combination of many substances, in
consequence of the nullification of their individual properties because of
the abolition of their shared limitations (ḥudūd) and the nullification of
their ends through being joined.29
On the theological level, we have, for instance, the discussion provoked by

Christian views of the Trinity, which, on the Muslim side, was, of course, polem-
ical and strictly negative. In our larger context, it is mainly interesting because it
makes no connection whatever with Muslim mystic theories of union between
the human and the divine and stays entirely within the categories established
by the Christian theologians. The nature of this particular dimension of the idea
of “union” may be illustrated by the following excerpt from the Mughnī of the
Muʿtazila theologian Judge ʿAbd al-Jabbār:
… There are several aspects to the statement of the Christians about union
(ittiḥād). Thus, they may say that the Son, belonging to the hypostases,
united with Jesus, or they may say that what he is united with is the
Substance which is the three hypostases. Now, if they say that the Son is
united with the latter, they have to say that the Son is a creator, maker,
doer, a god, or they would make the creator and god to be the Father
whose logos, the Son, is less than the Father.30
29 Cf. Ibn Sīnā, Ḥudūd, in Tisʾ Rasāʾil (Cairo 1908/1326), p. 99, ed. trans. A.-M. Goichon,
Avicenne: Livre des Définitions (Cairo, 1963), text, pp. 39f., trans., pp. 56f.
30 No correction of the text seems to be required.
Furthermore, their statement “united with Him” has several aspects.

Thus, they may say that he is in the situation in which he was, but the
will of the Father is the will of Christ, and the will of Christ is His will.
Or the will of both of them is separate, but what the one wills, the other
must [also] will. This is what we mean by union, even if the essence of
the god and the essence of the human being, or their substance, remains
in the situation they were. Or they may say that union requires leaving
the situation in which both their essences were. In this case, they must
say that he united with Him by being close to Him, Jesus thus becoming
in a way a marginal extension of Him. One of them is thus reported to
have said that he mixed and mingled with Him. Or they must say that
he dwelled (ḥalla) in Him, not that he was close to Him. Those who say
that must admit one of two things. Either they may say that He dwelled
in all parts of Jesus, or they may say that He dwelled in one part of him.
This | is so if they say that, even if He unites with him, He does not give 42
up being Himself and Jesus being two substances and essences. If they say,
however, that they have become truly one, as we have been told about the
majority of the Jacobites that according to them the two substances have
become one substance, then it is their opinion that union has made the
essences and substances give up being such till they have become one.
Furthermore, those who make such statements must say that He, if he
unites with him, becomes united with him always, or they may say that He
is united with him in one situation and not in the other. Likewise, at the
death and crucifixion of Jesus, they must say, according to their dogmatic
beliefs, that He is united with him as He was or that He has given up being
united with him.
This is what rational analysis allows to state about union. We shall
explain the wrongness of it all. Then we shall refute the Christian state-
ment concerning the worship of Jesus and related matters.
It should be known that the Christian discussion shows that it is their
opinion that the one united with the body of Jesus is a god, powerful so as
to make happen what can rightly happen only from God. For they insist
in this case that he appeared from Him and is obliged to produce divine
activity. It is thus necessary that there were united with Him a Son of
God and His logos. If it were their opinion that it is not possible for the
Son to do what it is within the special power of the Eternal One to do,
the statement would not be right. They can thus not escape from that,
or from the statement that the one united with the body of Jesus is the
Father Himself, and it is therefore correct that he appears from Him, and
through him the divine activity is done.
Their statement about the worship of Christ requires what we have

mentioned in two senses:
(1) God is united with him. He therefore deserves to be worshiped on

account of his divinity, not on account of his humanity.
(2) The Son is the one united, but he deserves to be worshiped like the
Father.
Their statement that Christ is two substances, divine and human, makes
it necessary to state that the one united with is a god. They have said that
he is the Son or the Substance comprising the three hypostases.
That which invalidates their statement on union likewise invalidates
these two aspects …31
Philosophical and theological speculations of this sort did not have much influ-
ence upon ordinary men and did not prevent them from enjoying stories about
the identification of individuals. A man complained to Abū Bakr about some-
43 thing ʿUmar had done. He asked Abū Bakr the rhetorical question whether |
he, Abū Bakr, or ʿUmar was in fact caliph. Abū Bakr replied: “He is, but he is
I.”32 Of course, Abū Bakr, and not ʿUmar, was the caliph. He meant to say that
complete identification with a true friend entails the total elimination of any
differences in the roles played by them in society. When, according to a pre-
sumably apocryphal tradition, ʿAlī expressed the wish to appoint ʿAbdallāh b.
ʿAbbās as his representative in the arbitration proceedings after Ṣiffīn, he was
told not to do it, since “he is you, and you are him.”33 The ideal of true friend-
ship and brotherhood was believed to have been realized among the exemplary
leaders of ancient Islam. It was known to be unattainable in reality. The friend
as the alter ego always remained a wishful thought deeply felt at times but also
an opportunity for exhibiting wit and literary polish. We cannot always safely
decide which it was in the many references to it from literature, as, for instance,
in the case of verses addressed by ath-Thaʿālibī to the religious scholar Abū
Sulaimān al-Khaṭṭābī, who was his senior by about thirty years:
Whether you travel around, Abū Sulaimān, or stay in one place,

Whether you happen to live nearby or far away—you are right with me.
31 Cf. ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Mughnī, Vol. V, ed. Maḥmūd M. al-Khuḍairi (Cairo, n.d. [1958]), pp. 114–
116.
32 Cf. at-Tauḥīdī, Ṣadāqa, ed. I. al-Kailānī (Damascus, 1964), p. 129.
33 Cf. Ibn aṭʾ-Ṭiqṭaqā, Fakhrī, ed. W. Ahlwardt (Gotha, 1860), p. 112; ed. Beirut, 1386/1966, p. 91.
You are none but myself. I am therefore afraid that you might leave me.
I am willing to give my life for you—no, for myself, for you are I.34
The formulaic use of I-am-you to designate the friend finds an amusing expres-
sion in a letter of recommendation which Bishr al-Marīsī wrote to a well-
connected high official. It begins: “I have sent to you so-and-so who is I as I
am you. Thus be I-am-you to him!”35 Bishr al-Marīsī is known for the highly
unfavorable reputation he gained because of his alleged theological views, but
the statement just quoted is easy to understand, even if it sounds a little like
a parody of those complicated arguments bandied about by the speculative
theologians.
The I-am-you identification was indeed used for low comedy. There is the
famous anecdote ascribed to one of the proverbial fools of the Arabs, Haban-
naqa al-Qaisī. He had a long beard but wore a necklace of shells and bones.
He wore it, he said, so that he could recognize himself by it, since he was
always afraid that he might lose himself. One night when he was asleep, his
brother took that necklace and put it on. Seeing his brother wear the neck-
lace the next morning, Habannaqa said to him: “Brother, you are me; now, who
am I?”36 Meant, it | seems, as a mere joke, this anecdote touches important 44
problems of identity and recognition. For Ṣūfīs, other-identification made self-
identification impossible or superfluous. When Ibrāhīm b. Adham, one of the
early models of Ṣūfīsm, was sought by his townsmen and they were told that
he was in a certain garden, they went around shouting: “Where is Ibrāhīm b.
Adham?” Soon, he himself joined them and went around with them, shouting:
“Where is Ibrāhīm b. Adham?”37 In contrast, a Juḥā story is just frivolous, which
is what we would expect from Juḥā stories: “When Juḥā once came home, he
found a slave girl of his father’s asleep. He lay down with her. She awoke and
cried: ‘Who is that?’ Juḥā said: ‘Keep quiet. I am my father.’”38 When a poet
34 Cf. Yāqūt, Irshād, ed. Margoliouth, II, 84; ed. Rifāʿī, IV, 254. For al-Khaṭṭābī, see below,
n. 62.
35 Cf. at-Tauḥīdī, Baṣāʾir, ed. I. al-Kailānī (Damascus, 1964–), II, i, 196.
36 The references to the Habannaqa story are numerous, e.g., Ḥamza al-Iṣfahānī, ad-Durra
al-fākhira fi l-amthāl as-sāʾira, ed. ʿAbd al-Majīd Qaṭāmish (Cairo, 1971–1972), I, 125; Ibn
al-Jauzī, Akhbār al-ḥamqā (Cairo, 1347/1928), p. 24; I. Goldziher, Beiträge zur Sprachge-
lehrsamkeit bei den Arabern (Vienna, 1872), II, 28 (p. 612 of Sitzungsberichte d. Akad. d.
Wiss., phil.-hist. Kl. [Vienna, 1872]); H. Ritter, Das Meer der Seele (Leiden, 1955),
pp. 143 f.
37 Cf. Ibn al-Jauzī, Mudhish (Baghdad, 1348/1929), p. 415; Ritter, Meer, pp. 579f.
38 Cf. at-Tauḥīdī, Baṣāʾir, II, i, 205.
accused another poet of plagiarism, the latter claimed facetiously that he was
entitled to plagiarize his poetry because both their fathers had the same name.
The former replied:
Let us assume, when you steal it, my poetry is your poetry.

But how am I you, and your father my father?39
This makes the point that property can change hands without changing iden-
tity, but individuals, in spite of the alleged force of I-am-you thinking, are, in
the poet’s opinion, not given this gift.
The dividing line between friendship and love was always thought in medie-
val Islam to be thin, so thin as to be hardly noticeable or, indeed, noteworthy.
Poetry and prose vie with each other in describing true love as a mingling of the
spirit of the lovers so perfect that it may ultimately create the illusion of even
their bodies being one and identical. “The Mingling of the Spirits,” or “of the
Souls,” was the appropriate title for a book on the theory of love.40 Two lovers,
a poet would rhyme prosaically,
Are one spirit but put together in two bodies.41
On the other hand, a poet might sing with deep and genuine feeling:
We cling to one another. Our breaths mingle.

I feel that spirit commingles with spirit.42
45 Were you to see us covered by the cloak of darkness,
You would think of us as being in one body.43
39 Cf. Ibn al-Abbār (and al-Ballafīqī), al-Muqtaḍab min Kitāb Tuḥjat al-qādim, ed. I. al-Ibyārī
(Cairo, 1957), p. 154. Abū Baḥr Ṣafwān b. Idrīs at-Tujībī (d. 598/1202) is addressing here
Muḥammad b. Idrīs b. Marj al-Kuḥl (d. 634/1236–1237).
40 For the author at-Tamīmī, cf. Brockelmann, GAL, S., I, 422. The work is quoted by Ibn
Qaiyim al-Jauziya, Rauḍat al-muḥibbīn, ed. A. ʿUbaid (Cairo, 1375/1956), pp. 143, 379, and
Mughulṭāy, Biographical Dictionary of the Martyrs of Love, ed. O. Spies, Bonner Orientalis-
tische Studien, XVIII (Stuttgart, 1936), p. 16.
41 The poet, az-Zāhī, died after 360/970, cf. al-Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī, Taʾrikh Baghdād (Cairo,
1349/1931), XI, 350.
42 Ibrāhīm aṣ-Ṣābiʾ, in Yāqūt, Irshād, ed. Margoliouth, I, 347; ibid., ed. Rifāʿī, II, 70f.; ath-
Thaʾālibī, Yatimat ad-dahr (Damascus, 1304/1886), II, 37.
Poet after poet would describe physical love as giving the illusion of merging the
physical identities of the lovers.
43 Cf. Ibn al-Muʾtazz, Dīwān (Cairo, 1891), I, 77.
This was the way in which Ibn al-Muʿtazz expressed what was a common
topic in love poetry and theory. Ibn Sanāʾ al-Mulk elaborated on it:
In tight embrace I thought that I

Was alone in bed with none to share it,
Thinking that pressing him had caused
The curved shape of his ribs and my ribs.44
Using the figure of the slanderer, the conventional spoilsport of true romance
in Arabic love poetry, another modification of the theme says:
Our slanderer became suspicious.

Tonight he would go and visit us.
He meant to interfere with us
And force us not to see each other.
I foiled him. I embraced my love
So tightly that it made us one.
Thus, when he came to us, he saw
A single person, nothing else.45
The complete identity of person as well as property was proclaimed by a poet

using the vulgar form of speech in these simple words: “I am him. My thing
is his thing” (ana hū wa-shaiyī shaiyū).46 Yet, the great Ibn ar-Rūmī had stated
movingly in immortal verses that physical union was not enough and that it
would always seem to lovers that the thirst of their minds and feelings for each
other would not be quenched “unless their two spirits are seen mingled.”47
44 Cf. Ibn Sanāʾ al-Mulk, Dīwān, ed. M.I. Naṣr and Ḥusain M. Naṣṣār (Cairo, 1388/1968–1969),
II, 416.
45 The poet was aḍ-Ḍarīr al-Irbilī who died in 660/1261–1262, according to al-Yūnīnī, Dhail
Mirʿāt az-zamān (Hyderabad, 1374–1380/1954–1961), II, 166f.; al-Kutubī, Fawāt al-Wafayāt
(Cairo, 1951), I, 264; aṣ-Ṣafadī, Nakt al-himyān (Cairo, 1329/1911), p. 143. However, according
to Yāqūt, Irshād, ed. Margoliouth, IV, 30, and ed. Rifāʿī, IX, 268, the poet was al-Ḥusain b.
Saʿd al-Āmidī who died in 444/1052. Since aḍ-Ḍarir al-Irbilī was about twelve years younger
than Yāqūt, the latter’s quotation of the verses under another name all but excludes
aḍ-Ḍarīr’s authorship. Al-Kutubī, loc. cit., goes on to quote similar verses on the subject
by other poets.
46 Cf. Ṣafī ad-Din al-Ḥillī, al-ʿĀṭil al-ḥālī, ed. W. Hoenerbach, Die vulgärarabische Poetik
(Wiesbaden, 1956), p. 120, line 13.
47 Cf. Ibn ar-Rūmī, Dīwān: Ikhtiyār, ed. Kāmil al-Kailāni (Cairo, n.d. [1924]), p. 27. For one
of the descriptions explaining how the mingling of the spirits could be achieved, cf.
46 Theoreticians would explain, as did the tenth-century ʿĀmirī, that “the

approach of love is the cause of lovers being together, and when love has
reached sincerity, it is the cause of their becoming one. Thus, the beginning
of mutual love is a cause of togetherness, and the end (entelechy) of mutual
love is a cause of union.”48 More generally, love, according to the philosophers,
is the attraction a person feels for a beautiful form and the desire to become
one with it: “When the soul sees a beautiful form, … it desires to be one with it.
Therefore, it abstracts it from matter and establishes it in its own essence and
becomes it, as happens also in the case of the intelligibilia.”49 Epistemology in
the realm of the sensibilia, if we may use the term epistemology in this way, is
here considered analogous to that in the realm of the intelligibilia. As knowl-
edge is the identification of the knower with the things to be known, aesthetic
appreciation and emotional response are the identification of the individual
with the objects of beauty. Knowledge of the supernatural becomes possible
only through identification with it, as the Greek magical papyrus and Muslim
mystics tell us.50 Complete oneness is the only way to achieve true knowledge
in love as well as in religion.
The mutual relationship in form and kind (tanāsub, mushākala, mujānasa),
which, as we have already seen above in another connection, was considered
the prime bond between individuals, also explains the existence of love. “Love
is the mingling of one spirit with the other on account of the mutual relation-
ship in form existing between the two.” This is one of the numerous efforts
made to define love. Another, for instance, runs: “Love is the agreement of char-
acter, the mutual affinity in form and kind of what one loves, the desire of every
soul for what is related with it in form and kind when it was originally cre-
ated and before it entered the body.”51 The result may be that lovers become
sick simultaneously, even though they are far away from each other. When one
lover falls into the ocean, the other throws himself into it,52 not because of any
J.T. Monroe, in G.E. von Grunebaum, ed., Arabic Poetry: Theory and Development, Third
Giorgio Levi Della Vida Biennial Conference (Wiesbaden, 1973), p. 150. The passage from
the Rasāʾil Ikhwān aṣ-Ṣafāʾ (Cairo, 1347/1928), III, 264f., quoted by Monroe also includes
Ibn ar-Rūmi’s verses.
48 Quoted in Miskawaih, Jāwidhān khiradh, p. 360. The editor states that his Arabic text is
based on emendation since the mss. used by him are ambiguous here.
49 Cf. Miskawaih and at-Tauḥīdī, Hawāmil, p. 142.
50 The knowledge of God is impossible for anybody but the mystic who can say, “Since you
are I, I know you,” cf. Mystical Poems of Rūmī, trans. Arberry, p. 36.
51 Cf. Ibn Qaiyim al-Jauzīya, Rauḍat al-muḥibbīn, p. 140.
52 For this most famous story which was quoted over and over again, cf., for instance, Ritter,
Meer, p. 411.
suicidal impulse but as an unconscious reflex. Complete identification as the

result of spiritual affinity characterizes “the love of one soul for the other,
since the soul of the lover knows apperceptively that it is identical with the
essence of the beloved and that its perception of the beloved is identical with
its perception of itself, which is the meaning of oneness.”53 A verse expresses
the idea simply and forcefully:
Whenever something touches you, it touches me. 47

Thus, you are I in every circumstance.54
We have been slowly approaching the mystic ambience. Here, we have entered
it. All three aspects of I-am-you merge and become most effective in Ṣūfism.
The late true giants of modern Islamology, Louis Massignon and, above all,
Hellmut Ritter, have discussed the rich material and illuminated its signifi-
cance with an enormous knowledge and, more important, deep and unique
empathy.55
The idea of a possible union between humanity and divinity or, more pre-
cisely, of divinity identifying itself with humanity is foreshadowed in a curious
old tradition of the Prophet in which God Himself says as part of a longer state-
ment: “… And my slave has never ceased to approach me with supererogatory
works without my eventually loving him. Then, I was his ear (lit., hearing) [by
means of] which [he] hears, his sight by means of which he sees, his hand by
means of which he grasps, and his foot by means of which he walks …”56 Ṣūfīs
would take this tradition in stride and be happy with it, but they, too, had their
doubts (see n. 66). Religious scholars were expectedly deeply worried by it and
tried to explain it in one way or other. An instructive summary of the principal
53 Cf. al-Anṣārī, Mashāriq anwār al-qulūb, ed. H. Ritter (Beirut, 1379/1959), pp. 8f., in one of
the numerous passages of the work concerned with I-am-you.
54 Cf. al-Ḥallāj, Dīwān, ed. L. Massignon, Journal Asiatique, CCXVIII (1931), 82, quoted by
al-Anṣārī, loc. cit. For other I-am-you verses in the Dīwān, cf. 30 f., 45f., 52, 75f., 93.
55 Cf. L. Massignon, “Ana al-Haqq,” Der Islam, III (1912), 248–257, reprinted in his Opera
Minora, ed. Y. Moubarac (Beirut, 1963), II, 31–39; cf. also Actes du Seizième Congrès Inter-
national des Orientalistes (Athens, 1912), p. 118, and Ritter’s Meer, pp. 5, 143, 377, 408–413,
556 f., 575–595, 601, 608, 629; Massignon, La Passion de Husayn Ibn Mansûr Hallâj, new ed.
(Paris, 1975), I, 168 ff., III, 47 ff., 54 ff.
56 Cf. A.J. Wensinck and others, Concordance et indices de la tradition musulmane (Leiden,
1936–1969), VI, 529a 13f.; Ritter, Meer, pp. 559, 588. For a discussion of the tradition by
al-Junaid, cf. A.H. Abdel-Kader, The Life, Personality and Writings of al-Junayd, E.J.W. Gibb
Memorial Series, n.s. XXII (London, 1962), text, p. 33, trans., pp. 154f.
interpretations which were proposed in the course of time, including brief side
glances at Ṣūfism, was given by Ibn Ḥajar in his Commentary on al-Bukhärī’s
Ṣaḥīḥ:
Consideration has been given [to the problem of] how the Creator could
be the ear, eye, etc., of man. Different answers have been proposed.
(1) The statement involves comparison and means that I was his ear and
eye with respect to his giving preference to My command, so that he
loves to be obedient to Me and gives preference to serving Me, just
as he loves those limbs.
(2) It means that he is totally occupied with Me, so that he does not
listen with his ear to anything but what pleases Me, and does not
see with his eye anything but what I have commanded him.
(3) It means that I shall make his goals for him [as clear] as if he were
obtaining them with his ear, eye, etc.
48 (4) I was as helpful to him as his ear, eye, hand, and foot, in supporting
[him] against his enemies.
(5) Al-Fākihānī57 says, and he was preceded in this idea by Ibn Hu-
bayra:58 It appears to me to be a case of elision of a governing noun,
in the sense of “I was the guardian of his ear by means of which he
hears, so that he hears only what is permissible for him to hear, and
the guardian of his eye, in the same way, etc.”
(6) Al-Fākihānī says: It is possible that it means something else more
subtle than what has been mentioned, namely, his hearing means
what is heard by him. The verbal noun can occur in the meaning of
the passive participle, for instance, “so-and-so is my hope,” meaning,
“he is hoped for by me.” In this case, the statement means that he
hears only the remembrance of Me, enjoys only the recitation of
My Book, feels comfortable only in discourse with Me, looks only
at the wonders of My divine realm, and stretches out his hand as
57 Apparently, the grammarian and ḥadīth scholar, ʿUmar b. ʿAlī b. Sālim (Ibn) al-Fākihānī.
According to Ibn Ḥajar, Durar (Hyderabad, 1348–1350/1929–1931), III, 178 (cf. Brockelmann,
GAL, S., II, 15), he died in 731/1331, but, according to a seemingly more reliable tradition, he
died in the night from Thursday to Friday, (6–)7 Jumādā I, 734/13–14 January 1334, cf. Ibn
Kathīr, Bidāya (Cairo, 1351–1358/1932–1939), XIV, 168; Ibn Farḥūn, Dībāj (Cairo, 1351/1932),
pp. 186 f.; as-Suyūṭī, Bughya (Cairo, 1326/1908), p. 262.
58 D. 560/1165, cf. Brockelmann, GAL, S., I, 687 f.; G. Makdisi, in EI, 2d ed., III, 802f.; H. Mason,
Two Statesmen of Mediaeval Islam (The Hague and Paris, 1972).
well as his foot only in connection with whatever pleases Me. Ibn
Hubayra also expressed this idea.
Aṭ-Ṭūfī59 says: Scholars of consequence agree that the statement is
meant to be understood metaphorically and that it refers to [God’s]
help, support, and strengthening of man to such a degree that it is as
if God were Himself in the position of the organs of man which man
employs for support. Therefore, another recension reads, “Thus, by
means of Me he hears, and by means of Me he sees, and by means of
Me he grasps, and by means of Me he walks.” [Aṭ-Ṭūfī] continued:60
The unionists (ittiḥādīya) think that it is [not metaphorical but]
real and that the Truth is the eye of man, using as evidence the
appearance of Gabriel in the form of Diḥya.61 It was a spiritual being
that took off his form and appeared as a human being. They said
that [if an angel can do it,] God is all the more able to appear in the
form of total or particular [material] existence. God is far above the
statements of wrongdoers!
Al-Khaṭṭābī62 says: The statement involves comparison and refers 49
to the success God gives to His slave in the works he undertakes
with the help of those limbs and to the ready creation of love [by
God] for him in them, in that He guards his limbs and protects him
from doing things disliked by God, such as listening with his ear
to entertainment, looking with his eye at what God has forbidden,
grasping with his hand what is not permitted, and walking with
his feet toward things wrong and futile. Ad-Dāwūdī63 as well as
al-Kalābādhī64 inclined toward this view. The idea intended is (?),
‘I shall guard him so that he will be busy only with things that make
59 He was Najm ad-Dīn Sulaimān b. ʿAbd al-Qawī (d. 716/1316), cf. Ibn Ḥajar, Durar, II, 154–157;
as-Suyūṭī, Bughya, p. 262; Ibn al-ʿImād, Shadharāt (Cairo, 1350–1351/1931–1932), VI, 39f.;
Brockelmann, GAL, S., II, 133 f.
60 It is not clear whether what follows is indeed a continuation of the quotation or a
comment by Ibn Ḥajar. It is, however, rather unlikely that the unionists would be referred
to in this place if it were not a quotation in context.
61 Cf. EI, 2d ed., II, 363 b.
62 For this well-known tenth-century authority on ḥadīth, cf. Brockelmann, GAL, S., I, 275,
and F. Sezgin, GAS, I, 117 f., 210 f.
63 The Dāwūdī possibly meant here had the name Abū Jaʿfar Aḥmad b. Saʿīd, according to
Ḥājjī Khalīfa, Kashf aẓ-ẓunūn, ed. Sherefettin Yaltkaya (Istanbul, 1941–1943), I, 545.
64 The tenth-century ḥadīth scholar listed in Brockelmann, GAL, S., I, 280, and Sezgin, GAS,
I, 216 f.
Me love [him] (maḥābbī).’ For when He loves him, He does not

like him to be busy with things that would cause Him to dislike
him.
(7) Al-Khaṭṭābī also says: He may have expressed by this statement the
speed with which his prayer is answered and the search becomes
a success, since all human efforts are undertaken by means of the
limbs mentioned. Some say in this sense that no limb of man will
move except in God and for God, as all of them work through the
Truth for the Truth. In the Zuhd, al-Baihaqī65 transmits the remark
of Abū ʿUthmān al-Ḥīrī,66 one of the leaders of the mystic path, to
the effect that the statement means “I was quicker to fulfil man’s
needs than his ear is to hear, his eye to see, his hand to touch, and
his foot to walk.”
Some later Ṣūfīs see in the statement a reference to their station of annihi-
lation and obliteration. They say that it refers to the ultimate goal, mean-
ing that man stands by virtue of God making him stand, loves by His loving
him, and sees by His looking at him, without any remaining trace of a
designation or definition, will (amr) or description. The statement means
that man observes God making him stand till he stands, loving him till he
loves Him, and looking at him till he goes looking at Him with his heart.
Some misguided people take the statement to refer to their claim that
when man adheres to outward and inner worship till he is cleansed of all
impurities, he becomes equivalent to the Truth ( fī maʿnā al-ḥaqq)—God
is above that!—and that he is totally annihilated from his self till he gives
witness that God is the one who remembers Himself and declares Himself
50 one and loves Himself and that all those things and definitions | become
pure nonexistence in his witnessing, even if they are not nonexistent
outside. The unionists and those who speak of absolute oneness have
nothing to go on in any way [with respect to the statement of the ḥadīth]
…67
It is, indeed, quite unlikely that the divine tradition of the Prophet antici-
pated mystic speculations and was anything more than an anthropomorphic
65 Cf. Brockelmann, GAL, S., I, 618 f.

66 The printed text has al-Jīzī, but the ninth-century mystic Abū ʿUthmān al-Ḥīrī an-Nīsābūrī
is meant here, cf. as-Sulamī, Ṭabaqāt aṣ-Ṣūfīya, ed. Nūr ad-Dīn Sharība (Shuraiba) (Cairo,
1372/1953), pp. 170–175.
67 Cf. Ibn Ḥajar, Fatḥ al-bārī bi-sharḥ al-Bukhārī (Cairo, 1378–1383/1959–1963), XIV, 128–130.
metaphor. Yet, it seems clear that Ṣūfī ideas about the identification of man
and God appeared very early in the history of Islam. We cannot state with any
precision by how many years their spread antedated the ninth century.
Abū Yazīd al-Bisṭāmī is particularly famous for his concern with the identi-
fication formula and the problems it raises.68 He is presented as its archetypal
representative. For all we know, he may have some historical claim to such a
designation. “I have sought God for sixty years. Then I noticed that I was He
( fa-idhā anā huwa).”69 “I was absent from God for thirty years, my absence from
Him being my remembering Him. When I kept away from Him, I found Him
in each state until it was as if He was I (ka-annahū anā).”70 “I am the divine
throne,” “I am the tablet and the pen,” “Praise be to me”—Abū Yazīd is said to
have exclaimed. In short, he felt that the mystic’s task was the ultimate recog-
nition of the identity of spiritual man with the universe.71
Al-Ḥallāj earned even greater fame for his fervent “I am the Truth” directed
to the deity. Generations of religious thinkers accepted or modified it. They
considered it the proper starting point for reflecting on human identity in
relation to the divine. “I am you,” addressed to the deity as well as to the
beloved, was chosen by al-Ḥallāj’s contemporary, Abū Bakr ash-Shiblī, as his
means of expressing the idea of giving up individual identity and merging it
with the all-in-one.72 Such identification with God was explained later on as
humble self-effacement, hardly in the spirit of the early generations of ecstatic
mystics. Jalāl-ad-Dīn Rūmī felt impelled to view it in that light: “Take the famous
utterance,” he said, “that ‘I am God.’ Some men reckon it as a great pretension,
but ‘I am God’ is in fact a great humility. The man who says ‘I am the servant
of God’ asserts that two exist, one himself and the other God. But he who says
‘I am God’ has naughted himself and cast himself to the winds. He says, ‘I am
God’: that is, ‘I am not, He is all, nothing has existence but God, | I am pure 51
nonentity, I am nothing.’ In this the humility is greater …”73 In the same spirit,
68 Cf., in particular, as-Sahlajī’s biography of Abū Yazīd, ed. ʿAbd ar-Raḥmān Badawī, Shaṭaḥāt
aṣ-Ṣūfīya (Cairo, 1949), pp. 37–148.
69 Cf. al-Muṭahhar b. Ṭāhir al-Maqdisī, al-Badʾ wa-t-taʾrikh, ed. C. Huart, Vol. II, Publications
de l’ École des Langues Orientales Vivantes, IV, xvii (Paris, 1901), text, p. 91, trans., p. 81.
70 Cf. Abū Nuʿaim al-Iṣfahānī, Ḥilyat al-auliyāʾ (Cairo, 1351–1357/1932–1938; reprint, Beirut,
1387/1967), X, 35; Ritter, Meer, pp. 630 f.
71 Cf. Ritter, Meer, pp. 628 f.
72 Cf. as-Sarrāj, Lumaʿ, ed. ʿAbd al-Ḥalīm Maḥmūd and Ṭāhā, ʿAbd al-Bāqī Surūr (Baghdad,
1380/1960), p. 437; Ritter, Meer, p. 412.
73 Cf. Rūmī, Fīh mā fīh, trans. A.J. Arberry (London, 1961), pp. 55f. Cf. also P. Nwyia, in Studia
Islamica, XL (1974), 98.
Rūmī also maintained that “To know the science of ‘I am God’ is the science of
bodies; to become ‘I am God’ is the science of religions.”74
Ibn ʿArabī, two generations before Rūmī, was the most important and influ-
ential representative of an uncompromising mystic monism, of the total elim-
ination of any distinction between the I and the rest of the physical and meta-
physical world. The characterization of Ibn ʿArabī’s doctrine as monism pure
and simple is an oversimplification, but it retains validity in the face of recent
legitimate attempts to stress other aspects of his multifaceted thought and to
rearrange its basic patterns in different ways. It is his attitude toward oneness
that makes an indelible impression upon the modern student as it did upon his
contemporaries. Echoing earlier mystic thinkers, Ibn ʿArabī proclaimed in one
of his muwashshaḥ poems:
I am my lover and my love and the beloved.

I am my seeker and the search and the one sought.75
The idea can be traced back without hesitation to Plotinus (Enneads, VI, 8, 15)
who spoke of the One as uniting in itself the object of love (erasmion) and love
and love of itself. The enormous share of Neo-Platonism in the formation of
views on union and metaphysical other-identification in Islam is a well-known
historical fact that needs no further elaboration at this point. I-am-you as the
most succinct expression of complete oneness greatly stimulated Ibn ʿArabī’s
poetic sensibility as well as his mystic fervor. He played with it on various
occasions. Thus, he said, for instance:
If you are you, you are it,

And if you wish, I am you.
O my wish, O my beloved!
It is you (pl.) and I wherever you are.
I know that I am
In your (pl.) care since you have taken care (been taken care of?).
74 Cf. Rūmī, Fīh mā fīh, trans. Arberry, p. 235.

75 Cf. Ibn ʿArabī, Diwān (Būlāq, 1271/1854), p. 211; S.M. Stern, Hispano-Arabic Strophic Poetry
(Oxford, 1974), p. 175. See also Ritter, Meer, pp. 556f. Ibn ʿArabī, Futūḥāt (Cairo and Mecca,
1329/1911), II, 390, ch. 197, refers to this passage from one of his poems:
I am my lover, I am my beloved.
I am my boy, I am my girl.
If I were to restrain myself and keep myself

From you (pl.), you would have been restrained.
My own self, and I am no other, 52
Is yours (pl.). Thus be you, too, mine!76
Elsewhere, he rhymes:
I am not I, and I am not he,

For whoever I am and whoever he is are identical.
O he! Say: You are I.
O I! He and you are identical.
No! I am not I.
No! He is not he.
If he were he, our eyes
Would not look through him to him.
There is none but us in existence.
I and he, and he and he.
Thus, whom do we have through us for us
As he has through him for him?77
Dim recollections of the pristine magic origin of the I-am-you identification

worked their way again to the surface in Ṣūfīsm. They found expression in the
identification of the self with inanimate objects. In his beautiful Language of
76 Cf. H.S. Nyberg, Kleinere Schriften des Ibn al-ʿArabī (Leiden, 1919), text, p. 99, trans., p. 185.
Nyberg’s translation reads:
Wenn du du bist, so bist du, willst du aber, so werde ich du.

Mein Liebling, welch eine Sehnsucht empfinde ich nicht nach euch und mir
(zusammen: daß wir vereinigt werden) da, wo du bist!
Ich weiß ja, daß ihr mich behaltet, weil du behalten worden bist.
Hātte ich mich selbst von euch zurückgezogen, so wärest du fürwahr (vom Außer-
göttlichen) in Besitz genommen worden.
Mein eigenes Selbst—und ich bin kein anderes—gehort ja euch an: so sei denn
auch du mein!
77 Cf. Ibn ʿArabī, Futūḥāt, I, 496 f. In Futūḥāt, II, 401, we read:
If you had seen whom we have seen,

You would say nothing but that I am identical with you (anā huwa anā).
the Ants, as-Suhrawardī al-Maqtūl, ten years older than Ibn ʿArabī but cut down
in the prime of life long before the latter’s death, claimed identity with the
magic cup of Jamshīd in which everything that happens in the world can be
observed and which is thus a metaphor for the entire world:
When I heard from my master the description of the cup of Jam,

I was myself the world-displaying cup of Jam.78
53 The moon receives its light from the sun; it is as if a mirror sees the sun reflected
in it and exclaims, “I am the sun.” Likewise, the mystic has the right to say,
“I am the Truth, Praise be to me.”79 Najm ad-Dīn al-Kubrā, himself about ten
years older than as-Suhrawardī, was even more explicit. In his mystical absence
from the material world, he becomes the sun. At that moment, his shaikh has
a vision. He sees himself walking with Najm ad-Dīn in Mecca and being asked
by him whether he knows who he, Najm ad-Dīn, is. The shaikh does not know
what to say. He asks him to tell him who he is, and Najm ad-Dīn replies: “I am
that sun in the sky.”80 Rūmī’s master, Shams-i Tabrīzī, who stands for Rūmī’s
own I and the divine You, is not only named “Sun” but also constantly identified
with the sun in Rūmī’s poetry.81 The poetical figures of speech comparing Rūmī
himself and others with inanimate objects, while they do have their origin as
metaphors in secular poetry, come vividly alive as symbols of the mystic poet’s
magic assimilation of the world to himself. It is as if we have come full circle
and hear again the voice of the old Mesopotamian magician. The consciousness
behind the words, however, is now a very different one.
We have reached the point in our discussion where we are prepared to ask our-
selves the question what it was that produced this intensive interest in I-am-you
in Muslim civilization. No doubt, the force of tradition was a potent factor. It
derived from the world view of the ancient Near East and from the popular phi-
losophy and the sophisticated metaphysics of the Hellenistic world. Here, as in
all other facets of Muslim intellectual life, historical continuity made itself felt.
78 Cf. O. Spies and S.K. Khatak, Three Treatises on Mysticism, Bonner Orientalistische Studien,
XII (Suttgart, 1935), text, p. 5, trans., p. 17. The recent edition of the work by S.H. Nasr, in
Bibliothèque Iranienne, XVII (Paris, 1970), was not available. On Jamshīd’s cup, cf. Ritter,
Meer, pp. 6 f., 584 f.
79 Cf. Spies and Khatak, op. cit., text, p. 11, trans., p. 26.
80 Cf. Meier, op. cit. (above, n. 18), p. 27.
81 Cf., for instance, Arberry, Mystical Poems of Rūmī, pp. 19, 51, 69, 75, 79, 94, 107, 116. The sun,
however, is also called his slave (p. 121).
But apart from cultural continuity, the question, I believe, can be answered on
the basis of what has been said in the beginning, namely, that the individual’s
yearning for other-identification reflects the search for an alternative to social
organization as man’s best hope for increased personal power. Islam in prin-
ciple stresses the unique worth of the individual, provided that all his actions
are directed toward the maintenance of the societal structure of which he is
part. This attitude may reflect the way human life had to be lived in Arabia
in order to safeguard human survival in a difficult environment where each
individual counted but none could last without group support. Be this as it
may, as Islam developed, religious ethics in its totality was conceived as aim-
ing at service to society. Although the term umma, nation, has been overused
in the scholarly literature of recent times, there can be no doubt that it was
the umma, or rather, the jamāʿa, the community, that was the intended ben-
eficiary of whatever an individual was supposed to do or not do. Individual
salvation depended in the first place on acting in concert with the rest of society
and in acting for the good of one’s fellow men. Writers on | individual piety in 54
the early centuries of Islam make it perfectly clear that individual piety meant
being convinced that “he who desires a central place in Paradise must adhere to
the jamâʿa”82 and “he who deviates an inch (lit., span) from the jamâʿa deviates
from Islam.”83
The withdrawal from society, expressed by terms such as ʿuzla, waḥsha, or
khalwa, was a topic of constant discussion among the pious. A good deal was
said in favor of it, but the sum total of opinions unfavorable to it seems to
exceed by far those extolling its spiritual merits. Ṣūfīs had no illusions about
the essential loneliness of the pursuit of the mystic path. For them, however,
that was but another hardship to be suffered. “Walk the paths of the truth
and do not feel lonely because you will meet so few people there,” was the
quotation used by Sufyān b. ʿUyaina to express this sentiment.84 Dāwūd aṭ-Ṭāʾī
recommended to the pious that they cut down as much as possible on their
contacts with people,85 and he quoted a ḥadīth to the effect that the person who
mingles with people and suffers the harm they inflict (upon him and others)
is a better Muslim than the one who does not do that.86 Ibrāhīm b. Adham,
82 Cf. Concordance, I, 144a2 f., quoted by Abū Nuʿaim, Ḥilya, IV, 184, in connection with the
ṣaḥābī Zirr b. Hubaish.
83 Cf. Abū Nuʾaim, Ḥilya, I, 280, for the ṣaḥābī Ḥudhaifa b. al-Yamān.
84 Ibid., VII, 306.
85 Ibid., p. 343.
86 Cf. Concordance, II, 61 a 32 f.; Abū Nuʿaim, VII, 365. Cf. also the long elaboration in al-
Ghazzālī, Iḥyāʾ (Cairo, 1352/1933), II, 213f.: An Israelite sage was unable to please God by
we are told, made much of the verse: “Take God as a companion and leave
people aside.”87 He also declared that love for human beings indicates love of
the material fleeting and worthless world, while not caring for them means
not caring for this world.88 He is further credited with an interesting variation
of the famous saying on self-knowledge. Instead of merely repeating that “he
who knows himself knows his Lord,” he explains that “he who knows himself
concerns himself with his self, and he who knows his Lord concerns himself
with his Lord and nobody else.”89 Wuhaib b. al-Ward approved of a remark
ascribed to an unnamed sage that wisdom, or piety, consists of ten parts, nine of
them silence, and one withdrawal from human company; when the sage found
silence beyond his powers, he withdrew from human company, and lo and
behold, he obtained all the nine parts of wisdom or piety that were silence.90
According to Bishr al-Ḥāfī, the person “who deals with God truthfully shuns the
company of people,”91 and according to Dhū n-Nūn al-Miṣrī, true withdrawal
55 from human company is achieved by the mystic only when he is | able to
withdraw from himself.92 In the view of al-Muḥāsibī, the fact of a mystic’s
intimacy with God is indicated by his avoiding the company of human beings.93
The statements just quoted on the virtues of withdrawal from society have
been mentioned because they are about all the express statements on the sub-
ject that Abū Nuʿaim al-Iṣfahānī saw fit to include in his vast work on the saints
of Islam. Among the many curious definitions of Ṣūfīsm which Abū Nuʿaim
places at the beginning of his biographies, only one, it seems, speaks about
the avoidance of human company, and then only in a rather vague manner:
“Ṣūfism is being adorned for the ascent [along the mystic path] and being
alone for the encounter [with the divine]” (at-taḥallī li-t-tarāqī wa-t-takhallī
li-t-talāqī).94 Abū Nuʿaim was concerned with piety rather than ecstatic mys-
ticism. His apparent reluctance to endorse withdrawal from society was fully
shared, however, by other authors such as al-Qushairī and al-Ghazzālī in their
popular works which can be said to represent the majority view of Muslims
writing many sacred books and by retiring to an underground retreat but eventually suc-
ceeded in finding God’s pleasure by mingling with people in their daily lives.
87 Cf. Abū Nuʿaim, VII, 373, VIII, 10 f.; al-Ghazzālī, Iḥyā, II, 198.
88 Cf. Abū Nuʿaim, VIII, 19.
89 Ibid., p. 15.
90 Ibid., III, 314; al-Ghazzālī, Iḥyā, II, 198.
91 Cf. Abū Nuʿaim, VIII, 347.
92 Ibid., IX, 368; al-Qushairī, Risāla (Cairo, 1367/1948), p. 51.
93 Cf. Abū Nuʿaim, X, 107 f.
94 Ibid., VIII, 237.
as a whole, if such a sweeping generalization is permissible. In his Risāla,95

al-Qushairī reports Dhū n-Nūn’s praise of withdrawal as the best approach to
sincere devotion (ikhlāṣ).96 For al-Qushairī, withdrawal from human company
is more an interior process taking place within the individual. It is the rejection
of one’s own blameworthy qualities, or mutual protection for the Ṣūfī himself
as well as the people against the evil they do,97 or something that is all right
when it is done in secret, that is not even apparent to other human beings.
They do not realize that when a Ṣūfī shares their company, it does not involve
his inner state. Thus, we are told that al-Junaid said: “I have been talking to God
for thirty years, and people were thinking that I was talking to them.”98 Loneli-
ness not entirely filled with the remembrance of God is merely temptation, and,
according to Abū Yaʿqūb as-Sūsī, as al-Qushairī reports, “only strong men have
the strength to isolate themselves [from human company]; for the likes of us,
direct social contacts are more easily available and more useful.” It is, perhaps,
revealing that al-Ghazzālī, in the book on withdrawal from human company of
the Iḥyāʾ, enumerates six religious and mundane advantages that may be found
in avoiding human contacts, but the supposed disadvantages, which give the
edge to sociability as the preferred mode of human behavior, are seven.99 It
may be correct to say that throughout | medieval Islam, the prevailing attitude 56
of the pious and the mystics was that for them in their total occupation with the
divine, social ties with other human beings were irrelevant, and the vast major-
ity of them lived accordingly. Such irrelevancy was professed by al-Muḥāsibī in
a story about his relations with al-Junaid. When al-Muḥāsibī, as he frequently
did, asked al-Junaid to go out with him for a walk and a round of discussions
95 Cf. al-Qushairī, Risāla, pp. 50 ff.

96 Cf. also above, n. 92.
97 Even the supreme state of mystic experience called fanāʾ “annihilation” was occasionally
given such an interpretation in these circles, cf. al-Qushairī, Risāla, p. 36.
98 Cf. al-Ghazzālī, Iḥyāʾ, II, 202.
99 Ibid., pp. 197–216. An analysis of this passage was given recently by R. Dankoff in a
paper read at the Meeting of the American Oriental Society (April 1975). A monograph
such as the Kitāb al-ʿUzla (Cairo, 1385/1965) by the aforementioned (nn. 34, 62) Abū
Sulaimān al-Khaṭṭābī, although it maintains the appearance of a long paean on the
virtues of avoiding human company, does not contradict the point made here. The author
distinguishes between two kinds of ʿuzla. The first is withdrawal from the jamāʿa, and this,
he emphasizes, is terribly wrong and deserves no consideration whatever. The other kind
of ʿuzla, the subject of the monograph, is the avoidance of contact with human beings,
especially if they are common and evil people, as a precaution against suffering possible
harm. This ʿuzla should be practiced in moderation. It is merely a sensible form of behavior
under certain circumstances.
on spiritual matters, al-Junaid did not want to give up his cherished solitude
and expose himself to the distracting sight of streets and people. He told al-
Muḥāsibī how he felt, and was reproached in these words: “How can you speak
of your withdrawal from human beings and of finding intimacy in it? If one half
of all mankind were close to me, I would not find intimacy in their company,
and if the other half were far from me, I would not feel lonely because of their
absence.”100
The official view in medieval Islam, the one the ordinary individual always
heard about and read about, was that all his hopes for strength and power lay
in his cooperation with, and service to, others. It was unmistakable for him that
society was everything and the individual by himself condemned to his natural
state of powerlessness. Some men, exceptional ones, to be sure, must have felt
a deep inner urge to rebel against this state of affairs. They did it by falling back
upon the ancient alternative that had been living on. They assumed for them-
selves the right to outgrow their personal limitations by simply proclaiming
that I am you, you the friend, you the lover, and, above all, you the deity which
was conceived as demon, lover, and friend, merging in one the three traditional
objects of the identification of the self with others. By doing so, they struck a
familiar chord in the hearts and minds of many who were fascinated by the
magic formula without always realizing what it entailed. The use of I-am-you
in this manner was truly a rebellion in society-centered Islam and ran counter
to its fundamental teachings. The subversive nature of I-am-you was often felt
intuitively. The opposition provoked thereby left its imprint in the literature
and history of Ṣūfism. Matters came to a head when Ibn ʿArabī succeeded in
popularizing his monistic outlook. A bitter struggle ensued, confirming that
something vital for Islam and Muslim society was involved. The struggle went
on for centuries between the pro- and anti-Ibn ʿArabī factions, which, it should
be noted, were by no means to be equated with mystics on the one hand, and
religious scholars on the other. A younger contemporary of Ibn ʿArabī, the great
57 Shāfiʿite jurist ʿIzz ad-Dīn b. ʿAbd | as-Salām, called Ibn ʿArabī a heretic (zindīq)
but at the same time praised him as a “pole” (quṭb) of mystic life. In Ibn ʿAbd as-
Salām’s eyes, Ibn ʿArabī was a venerable holy man; yet, he had to declare himself
against him because, as a jurist, he was concerned with “the outward meaning
of the religious law and with guarding the fence of the law.”101 Translated into
our terms, Ibn ʿAbd as-Salām acknowledged Ibn ʿArabī’s mystical speculations,
100 Cf. Abū Nuʿaim, X, 74, 255 f.

101 The statement of Ibn ʿAbd as-Salām appears in as-Suyūṭī, Tanbiʾat al-ghabī bi-tabriʾat Ibn
al-ʿArabī, Istanbul MS Laleli 3645, fol. 161a–b.
with their stress upon I-am-you, as valid expressions of genuine religious feel-
ing and understanding, but he rejected them because they threatened to tear
apart the legal framework that held Muslim society together.
If we accept the interpretation given here that the extraordinary interest in
I-am-you which we find in medieval Muslim civilization was a way of protest-
ing the official contention that only social organization could remove man’s
inherent limitations, we may ask whether medieval Christianity was not suffi-
ciently similar to Islam in its view of man and society, so that medieval Chris-
tians might have looked for the same avenue of rebellion and escape. It can,
I believe, be shown without great difficulty that medieval Christianity was by
no means as exclusively focused on society as the individual’s only refuge and
salvation. Thus, the incentive to revert to the old magic of I-am-you was much
weaker. The formula, however, was alive and familiar. With Cicero and Saint
Augustine as authorities for the concept of spiritual union in friendship, the
alter-ego definition was well known in medieval Christianity. For love union as
a means of other-identification, there was the authority of the Bible, reinforced
by the uninterrupted Classical tradition. The story of Pyramus and Thisbe, for
instance, gave rise to ravings such as those found in the poem of the twelfth-
century Matthew of Vendôme:
Pyramus and Thisbe are two and are not two. One love
Joins them both and does not let them be two.
They are two and are not two, because the mind is one for both,
One the faith, one the spirit, one the love.
A singular love, one pleasure, prohibits them to be two,
But the difference in body proves them to be two.
They are two, they are one. Thus they are two in body, in mind
One, thus a singular love unites the two.102
102 Cf. P. Lehmann, Pseudo-antike Literatur des Mittelalters (Leipzig, 1927), p. 31:
Piramus et Tisbe duo sunt nec sunt duo, iungit

ambos unus amor nec sinit esse duos.
Sunt duo nec duo sunt, quia mens est una duorum,
una fides, unus spiritus, unus amor.
Esse duos prohibe(n)t amor unicus, una voluptas
et probat alteritas corporis esse duos.
Sunt duo, sunt unum, sic sunt duo corpore, mente
unum sicque duos unicus unit amor.
58 No longer tied explicitly to the Classical tradition, there is the swain in Ulrich
von Lichtenstein’s Frauendienst, dating from the middle of the thirteenth cen-
tury, who suggests to his lady that they love each other so deeply that “we two
are so closely united that both of us are one I (together, ein ich—einig), and as
you are mine, so I am yours.” Sad to report, the old magic for once did not work.
The lady coolly replied: “Sir, that may not be. Be you yours. I am mine.”103 Ulrich
von Lichtenstein appears to have been skeptical of the feasibility of complete
union. His attitude may have been closer to medieval Western mentality than
was Matthew of Vendôme. In Islam, doubts such as the ones expressed by at-
Tauḥīdī may have been something more exceptional.
The concept of union with the divine was also a living tradition in the
Western Middle Ages, kept alive in various ways, which included the I-am-you
formula. On the basis of Biblical verses, the author of the Aurora Consurgens
used it to symbolize alchemical procedure: “I stretch forth my mouth to my
beloved, and he presseth his to me; he and I are one.”104 It found profound
mystical expression in connection with the spiritual marriage of the nun to
Christ and provoked ecstatic utterances not unlike those of al-Ḥallāj:
I you, you I, we two are one.

Thus, the two of us become one.105
103 Cf. Ulrich von Lichtenstein, Frauendienst, ed. R. Beckstein (Leipzig, 1888), II, 157f., quoted
by Perella, op. cit. (above, n. 12), p. 97:
Vrouwe, dâ soltû mich meinen

herzenlîchen als ich dich,
unser zweien sô vereinen
daz wir beidiu sîn ein ich.
wis du mîn, sô bin ich dîn.
herre, des mac niht gesîn.
sît ir iuwer, ich bin mîn.
104 Cf. Aurora Consurgens, ed. trans. M.-L. von Franz, Engl. trans. R.F.C. Hull and A.S.B. Glover,
Bollingen Series, LXXVII (New York, 1966), pp. 144 f., 375ff.
105 Cf. Perella, op. cit., p. 97, quoting A. Oppel, Das Hohelied Salomonis und die deutsche
religiöse Liebeslyrik, Abh. zur Mittleren und Neueren Geschichte, XXXII (Berlin and Leip-
zig, 1914), p. 29, from the anonymous Minnende Seele in a fourteenth-century ms.:
ich du, du ich, wir zwei sin ein,

also wirt ein von uns zwein.
In the more recent West, our concept has fallen on evil days. Considering its
irrational magic background, it could hardly be otherwise. The late sixteenth-
century poet could feelingly address a friend as “Thou which art I.”106 But the
alter-ego formula became eventually a learned memory. Today, I would ven-
ture | to say, it is something that is considered slightly embarrassing. Magic 59
thinking naturally appealed to romantic poets. “Be thou me, impetuous one,”
Shelley exclaimed when he wished to identify with the restless spirit of the
wind.107
Love union is still described romantically by modern popular writers as “the
craving for complete fusion, for union with one other person.”108 It will be noted
that the author quoted describes it as a “craving,” and presumably does not
believe, as people did in ages past, in the possibility of its being some sort
of reality. A poet such as Robert Graves also seems to harbor doubts when
speaking of love union half seriously and half mockingly in this vein:
After, when they disentwine

You from me and yours from mine,
Neither can be certain who
Was that I whose mine was you.
To the act again they go
More completely not to know.109
The pomposity of metaphysical speculation involving other-identification did

not hold up under rationalist pressure. It inspired Swinburne’s facetious state-
ment in the poem “The Higher Pantheism in a Nutshell”:
You are certainly I; but certainly I am not you.110
Yet, theologians will surely revert to the I-am-you concept from time to time
and please thereby the multitudes not aware of its implications.
In the nineteenth century, a fateful attempt was made to replace I-am-you
with I-am-I. The reality of general human weakness was perversely denied.
106 John Donne, at the beginning of the poem “The Storme” addressed to Mr. Christopher
Brooke.
107 From “Ode to the West Wind,” written in 1819.
108 Cf. E. Fromm, The Art of Loving (New York, 1956), pp. 52f.
109 From the poem “The Thieves,” cf. Poems Chosen by Himself (New York: Anchor Book, 1958),
p. 177.
110 Cf. Swinburne’s Complete Works (London and New York, 1925), V, 248.
The existence, rare though it presumably was thought to be, of the superior,
self-sufficient individual who needs only to find himself and be himself, was
proclaimed by Friedrich Nietzsche. He had the seeming failure of the entire
Neo-Platonic and mystic tradition to back him up when he sought the One
not in the metaphysical realm but here on earth: “Lack of substance causes
the weaker to throw itself at the stronger; it wants to find shelter, it wants, if
possible, to become one with the stronger. The stronger, on the other hand,
keeps the weaker away from itself … rather, in growing, it divides itself into two
and more than two.”111 The desire for identification with others is rightly seen as
the outgrowth of human awareness of man’s natural limitations. In Nietzsche’s
view, however, the hypothetical “strong” individual ought to realize that those
natural limitations do not apply to him and are surmountable by having magic
60 recourse to his own inner resources. Ideas of this sort have | lingered on. Just a
few years ago, the futile retreat to “I want to be me” was popularly seen as the
road to salvation in a never-never world.
The concept of I-am-you as an alternative to society has lost much of its
magic appeal. It has not, however, irreversibly run its course; tradition and men-
tal habits formed over the millennia will somehow keep it alive, perhaps indef-
initely, as a figure of speech or an inspiring figment of the imagination.112 In
medieval Islam, it played an important role in the continuing tension between
man and society. It helped to satisfy the need for reconciling two conflicting
facts, the one being that man is a unique individual and physically frail, the
other that he wishes to grow beyond his limitations and at the same time escape
from the shackles of conformity to society.
111 Cf. Nietzsche, Der Wille zur Macht, no. 655.

112 There are intriguing book titles such as I’ll Be You and You Be Me, a book for children (ages
3 to 7) by Ruth Krauss and Maurice Sendak (New York: Harper and Bros., 1954), or I Am
Also You, a book of thoughts with photographs by Jay Thompson (Clarkson N. Potter, Inc.,
1971). I have not been able to see these books, but I assume that in some peculiar way, they
may bear on the subject under discussion. Another clipping in my files contains a long
poem in Arabic by ʿAjjāj al-Mihtār, entitled Anti anā, from al-Bināʾ (Beirut), January 1st,
1960, p. 15.
vi.2
Gifts and Bribes: The Muslim View 135
(Read November 14, 1963)
Among the earliest results of the civilizing process among mankind has been
the replacement of force by persuasion as a means for the individual to achieve
his desires. And the form of persuasion whose effectiveness was no doubt
obvious from the very beginning was the giving of gifts. In the ancient Near
East, it was recognized as a legitimate and, it seems, customary way to obtain
action by the men in power. It was also recognized, of course, that there was a
borderline beyond which the giving of gifts became immoral if not illegal. This
borderline is best described by the distinction that may be made between a gift
and a bribe.
The existence of a simple linguistic distinction of this kind may by itself be
of some significance. In many Western languages, it does not seem to exist as
neatly and precisely expressed as in modern English. The Semitic languages of
the Near East, as far as we know, were more developed in this respect.1 At any
rate, Arabic shares with English the ability to make a clear and concise verbal
distinction between gifts and bribes. Muslim civilization thus possessed the
necessary linguistic equipment for a theoretical discussion of the legal, moral,
and societal problems involved.2 Soon after its birth, Islam came to extend
1 The situation in Akkadian is illustrated in a brief article by J.J. Finkelstein, “The Middle
Assyrian Šulmânu-Texts,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 72 (1952): 77–80. For Biblical
Hebrew, one may compare the dictionaries, s.v. sh-ḥ-d. It deserves notice that the terms are
not always used in an unambiguously pejorative sense.
2 With the establishment of the Ottoman Empire, and in general, the closer we approach
modern times, the information from both primary and secondary sources becomes more
and more detailed. A backward projection presumably would not be too risky in view of
the permanent character of the problem. However, the present discussion is restricted to
information coming from the older, “medieval” period. Only one author from Ottoman times
has been used for basic information (Ibn Nujaym, see n. 6).
The only work in a Western language known to me that deals adequately with bribery in
Islam is E. Tyan’s Histoire de l’ organization judiciaire en pays d’Islam (2 v., Paris, 1938–1943)
1: pp. 425–431. The second edition (Leiden, 1960, pp. 289–292) contains few changes in this
section. Other works I consulted contain only passing references. However, since they tend to
be of a handbook type dispensing with meticulous references to research by other scholars,
some relevant treatments may have escaped me.

over an area where the giving of gifts had been, for thousands of years, an
established custom that was deeply rooted in human nature. This custom was
bound to clash with the new religion’s great concern with strict moral norms
and, in particular, its concept of a divine justice that pervades human society
and can under no circumstances be influenced or bought. The giving of gifts is
approved and praised as a charitable activity, and it is viewed as an important
contribution to the establishment of better personal and communal relations.
Bribery3 is strictly forbidden and severely censured. God’s curse is to rest upon
the giver of bribes, the taker of bribes, and the go-between.4
In practice, much finer distinctions were needed. From the earliest years of
the Muslim Empire, the jurists discussed what gifts were permitted and which
were not, when gifts became illegal bribes, and even, under what circumstances
136 bribes could be considered legal and | permissible. The Qurʾân had no occasion
to make express mention of the word for bribe. A passage referring with strong
disapproval to those who “eat suḥt,” the precise meaning of which cannot be
established with certainty, was connected with bribery but explained as gen-
erally forbidding all kinds of unlawful gain, among which bribery occupied a
particularly offensive position.5 Another verse of the Holy Book: “Do not con-
sume your property among you wrongly and do not approach with it the judges
The present-day situation in Islamic countries seems to be fairly well characterized by the
fact that a lengthy study of bribery in Egyptian law contains only a perfunctory reference to
the Islamic literature on the subject. Moreover, this reference appears only in the Arabic part
and is not to be found in the French text. Cf. A.R. Khafagui, in Egypte Contemporaine 48–52
(1957–1961), in particular, 48 (1957), no. 288, p. 7 (Arabic).
3 The technical terms are hadîyah “gift” and rashwah (also vocalized rishwah or rushwah)
“bribe.” Arabic possesses other words for both concepts. For possible, if doubtful cognates
of rashwah in other Semitic languages, cf. C. Brockelmann, Lexicon Syriacum (Halle, 1928),
p. 745a; L. Koehler–W. Baumgartner, Lexicon in Veteris Testamenti Libros (Leiden, 1951), p. 910b;
and E.S. Drower–R. Macuch, A Mandaic Dictionary (Oxford, 1963), p. 422a, 437b.
4 This statement (ḥadîth) of the Prophet is cited in every discussion of bribery. For its location
in the authoritative ḥadîth collections, cf. A.J. Wensinck, A Handbook of Early Muhammadan
Tradition (Leiden, 1927), p. 40, and A.J. Wensinck and others, Concordance et Indices de
la tradition musulmane (Leiden, 1936–) 2: p. 262a. The “go-between” is only occasionally
included.
5 Qurʾân 5: 42/46, 62/67, 63/68, and the Arabic commentaries on the passage (in particular,
aṭ-Ṭabarî [d. 310/923], Tafsîr [30 v., Cairo, 1321/1903] 6: p. 139f.) as well as the native Arabic
dictionaries. Cf. also, for instance, Wakîʾ (d. 306/918), Akhbâr al-quḍâh (3 v., Cairo, 1366–
1369/1947–1950) 1: p. 53 f. The traditional interpretation of the term suḥt cannot be considered
certain, since it might easily be a mere guess based on the context. The “eating” of suḥt admits
of many possibilities; it may be the eating of unclean food, taking interest, telling untruths and
gifts and bribes: the muslim view 731
…,” was also interpreted as a prohibition of bribery, although this interpretation

is by no means the only and most authoritative one proposed.6
During the state of a pristine purity of morals which was customarily con-
sidered to have been prevalent in the time of the Prophet and his immediate
successors, all gifts to persons in authority were considered forbidden. Espe-
cially in the case of judges, all gifts qualified as unlawful gain (suḥt), while the
acceptance of bribes reduced a judge to the status of unbeliever. But already
less than a century later, in the early eighth century, the pious caliph ʿUmar b.
ʿAbd-al-ʿAzîz is said to have complained that what had been a “gift” in the time
of the Prophet had, by his time, become a “bribe.”7
The distinction between gifts and bribes was once expressed by a Muslim
scholar with admirable succinctness: “A bribe is what a person gives in order
to obtain help, whereas a gift is something to which no condition is attached.”8
More truly in the Islamic spirit is a confrontation of the terms dating from the
late ninth or early tenth century. Surprisingly enough, it does not come from a
lawyer but from a mystic concerned with man’s inner life, al-Ḥakîm at-Tirmidhî.
slandering, etc. The corresponding verbal root also is too general in its meaning of corruption
or destruction and is not of much help in determining the meaning of the noun.
Suḥt occurs in the Qurʾân only here in a context castigating the sinful behavior attributed
to the Israelites. However, this is not sufficient to support the suggestion that it was some sort
of foreign term borrowed from Aramaic or formed under Aramaic influence, cf. A. Jeffery, The
Foreign Vocabulary of the Qurʾân (Baroda, 1938), p. 165 f. In connection with the interpretation
of suḥt as bribery, it is curious to notice that the word is extremely similar to the Hebrew and
Aramaic word for “bribe” (shuḥd-). The change from d to t could be explained as having been
caused through assimilation to the Arabic root s-ḥ-t. It would seem that we are confronted
here with a mere coincidence.
6 Qurʾân 2: 188/184. Cf. the Treatise on Bribery of Judges and Others and its Subdivisions (Risâlah
fî r-rashwah wa-aqsâmihâ li-l-qâḍî wa-ghayrihî) by Ibn Nujaym al-Ḥanafî (d. 970/1563). This
monograph formed part of Ibn Nujaym’s Collected Treatises. I do not know whether it has
been printed. I have used the Istanbul MS. Laleli 3694: fols. 51b–55a, and the better Yale MS.
A–169 (Nemoy 915): fols. 57b–60b. In this particular connection, Ibn Nujaym refers to al-Biqâʿî
(d. 885/1480) and al-Ḥalwânî (d. 448 or 449/1056–1058). Cf. also the dictionary of Ibn Manẓûr
(d. 711/1311), Lisân al-ʿArab (20 v., Bûlâq, 1300–1307 [1308]/1882 [1883]–1890) 18: p. 292. However,
aṭ-Ṭabarî, among many others, does not mention the interpretation that connects the verse
with bribery.
7 For references to this tradition, cf. Wensinck and others, Concordance 2: 262a.
8 Cf. Ibn Nujaym who gives as his source a commentary by Abû Naṣr al-Baghdâdî (apparently,
Aḥmad b. Muḥammad b. al-Aqṭaʿ who lived in the eleventh century) on a famous work by
al-Qudûrî (d. 428/1037). This leads us back into the eleventh century, but the statement is
likely to have been formulated many years earlier. Cf. Tyan, Histoire 1: p. 426, who also cites
Ibn Nujaym (apparently from another work).
His work, dealing with the subtle distinctions between synonymous or con-
trasting terms (Kitâb al-Furûq), was evidently written in imitation of earlier
lexicographical works on the subject,9 and contains a chapter on the differ-
ence between gifts and bribes. Giving gifts, according to al-Ḥakîm at-Tirmidhî,
is an act intended to establish a mutual attraction and inclination between the
hearts and souls of giver and recipient. If, however, the recipient is in a position
of authority, or someone depending on or connected with political authority,
then the gift becomes a bribe. The explanation why this is so is based entirely on
moral-metaphysical (not moral-material or moral-societal) grounds. The polit-
ical authority is the shadow of God on earth. Justice, therefore, is its normal
procedure. Thus, it would be unjust and, in addition, displeasing to God if His
justice which He has bestowed upon His creatures freely and without charge
were to be bought by gifts given to those in authority. Such gifts are bribes to
137 be compared, on the basis of the supposed etymol|ogy of rashwah “bribe,” with
water drawn from a well by means of a bucket (rishâʾ). This is an artificial pro-
cedure. Justice should not be drawn from a judge (ḥâkim) in this manner. It
should flow naturally like running water. Consequently, gifts to those invested
with political authority or to anyone connected with them are bribes.10
It is obvious that the author when speaking of political authority includes
the judiciary. While in keeping with modern conceptions, we are inclined to
keep the judiciary separate from the political administration, Muslim theory
does not lend itself to such a distinction. In fact, the discussion of gifts and
bribes, when it comes to finding precedents from early Islam, always quotes
remarks made generally about “officials,” whether their functions were judi-
cial or administrative (or, as usual, both judicial and administrative). When
a provincial official brought back much wealth and insisted that it all came
from gifts given to him, the Prophet is said to have rebuked him and to have
told him that he should have stayed home quietly and seen how many gifts he
would have received then.11 The caliph ʿUmar, whom tradition came to consider
the fountainhead of all Muslim political and legal practice, is said to have writ-
ten to his officials that gifts are bribes and they should, therefore, not accept
9 The rather extensive work on the subject by al-ʿAskarî, al-Furûq al-lughawîyah (Cairo,
1353/1934), p. 137f., does not deal expressly with gifts and bribes but restricts itself to
discussing the various words for “gift.”
10 For the work of al-Ḥakîm at-Tirmidhî, I have used the Istanbul MS. Aya Sofya 1975: fol. 17a–
b.
11 Cf., for instance, Wakîʿ, Akhbâr al-quḍâh 1: p. 57f., or as-Sarakhsî, Mabsûṭ (30 v., Cairo,
1324–1331/1906–1913) 16: p. 82.
a gift from anybody.12 In the course of time, however, Muslim scholars came
to feel that it was a real problem whether, with respect to gifts and bribes, a
distinction should be made between judges and other administrative officials.
Already at an early date, the view that a distinction should be made between
the two groups was implicitly indicated by those scholars who inserted, into the
aforementioned tradition concerning God’s curse resting upon those involved
in bribery, the words “in judgment,” thereby more or less restricting the appli-
cation of the tradition to the judiciary.13 In the ninth century, the Mâlikite Ibn
Ḥabīb stated flatly that legal scholars considered it equally reprehensible to
give gifts to the central government (as-sulṭân al-akbar), judges, provincial offi-
cials (ʿummâl), or tax collectors14—a statement which presupposes the exis-
tence of other authorities who did make a distinction between the different
categories. And in the sixteenth century, a lawyer expressed himself strongly
opposed to those who, against what he says is the traditional view, were of the
opinion that a bribe given to a political or military leader (amîr) was in the eyes
of the law equivalent to a bribe given to a judge.15
Meanwhile, the discussion went on as to how gifts to men in positions of
political authority were to be treated legally. In the year 707/ 1307–1308, the
question had once more become acute because the two men then in actual
control of Egypt, Baybars and Sallâr, and other Egyptian leaders had received
gifts—we are not told what gifts and from whom—and three leading legal
12 Cf. Wakîʿ, Akhbâr al-quḍâh 1: p. 56. The practice appears to have been quite different,
cf., for instance, Ibn ʿAbd-Rabbih (d. 328/940), ʿIqd (3 v., Cairo, 1305/1887) 1: p. 15f., or
the story reported about Salm b. Ziyâd, a governor of Khurâsân (about 680–685), in
the eleventh-century work on the gifts and treasures of rulers and other highly placed
personages by ar-Rashîd b. az-Zubayr, Dhakhâʾir, ed. M. Ḥamîd Allâh (Kuwait, 1959), p. 13.
The literature dealing with historical “firsts” places the first Muslim case of bribery
(for securing an appointment with the caliph) in the reign of ʿUmar, cf. as-Suyûṭî, Wasâʾil
(Baghdad, 1369/1950), pp. 97 and 152. And the widespread bias against the employment
of Christian and Jewish officials was nourished by a statement attributed to ʿUmar that
they were particularly susceptible to bribes—which later provoked a Muslim’s retort
that his own people “are today more readily disposed to accepting bribes than they,” cf.
al-Ibshîhî, Mustaṭraf (2 v., Bûlâq, 1268/1851–1852) 1: p. 120, and A. Fattal, Le Statut légal des
Non-Musulmans en pays d’ Islam (Beirut, 1958), p. 242.
13 Cf. Wakîʿ, Akhbâr al-quḍâh 1: pp. 45–47. Wakîʿ himself seems to have assumed that the
recensions containing the additional words were more original. This, however, seems
unlikely.
14 Cf. Taqî-ad-dîn as-Subkî, Fatâwâ (2 v., Cairo, 1355–1356/1936–1937) 1: p. 215.
15 Ibn Nujaym, in the introduction to his monograph.
scholars, one of them apparently close to Baybars and Sallâr,16 had handed
down the opinion that their acceptance was forbidden on the basis of the
Prophet’s statement: “The gifts of officials are fraud.”17 This caused the great
Shâfiʿite judge, Badr-ad-dîn Ibn Jamâʿah (d. 733/1333), to express his dissent in
138 a small pamphlet on the subject in which he proved that | the acceptance of
those gifts was permissible. When, in the year mentioned, the attention of the
famous Shâfiʿite, Taqî-ad-dîn as-Subkî (d. 756/1355), was drawn to the matter,
he inquired of still another authority, Ibn Rafʿah (d. 710/ 1310), about it and
was informed that the recipients of the gifts had declared that they had made
gifts in return, and this made the gifts they received legally acceptable, even if
nothing more valuable than a chicken was given in return. Taqî-ad-dîn as-Subkî
now went to work himself and wrote an extensive treatise on gifts given to
political and military leaders, entitled Decisive Statement on Gifts for Officials
(Faṣl al-maqâl fî hadâyâ al-ʿummâl). This treatise seems to have been preserved
in manuscript only to the point just mentioned, but the preserved summary
clearly indicates that (1) Taqî-ad-dîn as-Subkî thought that the problem was
more or less identical for both political leaders and judges and (2) in the
case under review, he hesitantly considered acceptance of the gifts as not
absolutely forbidden, although such gifts to men in authority, according to
majority opinion, should not become the private property of the recipients.18
We do not know whether the case involved an international exchange of
gifts, a type of diplomatic activity that was of considerable importance in
medieval times. On the international aspect of the problem, we have a report
by another scholar of the fourteenth century, this time a Ḥanafite, named aṭ-
Ṭarsûsî. He informs us that a certain general, Arghûn, had asked for a legal
opinion as to whether he was permitted to accept and retain a gift from the
16 The three men were ʿAbd-al-ʿAzîz b. ʿAbd-al-Jalîl an-Nimrâwî (d. 710/1311), Muḥammad
b. Yûsuf al-Jazarî al-Khaṭîb (d. 711/1312), and al-Ḥusayn b. ʿAlî b. Sayyid-al-kull al-Uswânî
(d. 739/1338).
17 That is, gifts received by officials result from fraudulent purposes. This is another standard
tradition in the discussion of gifts and bribes, cf. Wensinck and others, Concordance 4:
p. 543b. Other recensions have “amîrs” instead of “officials,” cf. Wakîʿ, Akhbâr al-quḍâh 1:
p. 59 f., and al-Mâwardî (below, n. 36).
18 The Faṣl al-maqâl has so far been signalized as existing only in the Leiden MS. or. 2421.
Unfortunately, it turns out that the Leiden MS. does not contain the complete text but only
the title-page and its verso (p. 7 f.). Thus, only the first page of the work is preserved. The
loss is all the more regrettable since it seems very likely that the author included concrete
data, historical and bibliographical. They are very sparse in the preserved abridgment
which he prepared himself and included in his Fatâwâ (n. 14) 1: 213–217. The abridgment
is restricted mainly to the standard quotations.
king of the Franks and consider it his private property. He asked two of the
men already mentioned, Ibn Jamâʿah and Taqî-ad-dîn as-Subkî, as well as a few
Ḥanafite scholars. The latter, we are told, joined Ibn Jamâʿah in an affirmative
opinion, whereas as-Subkî expressed the conviction that Arghûn was not per-
mitted to keep the gift as his private property but should turn it over to the
public treasury. According to aṭ-Ṭarsûsî himself, the test which a leader has to
apply under such circumstances is to find out whether the Muslim community
does or does not approve of his acceptance of the gift.19
Aṭ-Ṭarsûsî’s report on as-Subkî agrees with the opinion expressed by the
latter in his work on gifts to officials. His reference to Ibn Jamâʿah can be traced
to the latter’s Handbook of Muslim Administrative Law.20 In fact, Ibn Jamâʿah
explains that ash-Shâfiʿî, Mâlik, and Ibn Ḥanbal made a distinction according to
whether the gift was proffered before or after the outbreak of open hostilities. In
the former case, the gifts belong to the Muslim leader personally as his private
property; otherwise, they form part of the booty. This distinction is, however,
not made by Abû Ḥanîfah, the founder of the fourth of the legal schools. Abû
Ḥanîfah (and, according to certain authorities, also Ibn Ḥanbal) permits the
Muslim leader to retain the gift as his personal property.
As aṭ-Ṭarsûsî also informs us, his basic source of reference for the discus-
sion of the problem was a work by the main exponent of Abû Ḥanîfah’s school,
ash-Shaybânî (d. 189/804).21 A complication is caused by contradictory state-
ments attributed to the Prophet. There are undeniable historical reports to
the effect that Muḥammad himself accepted gifts from unbelievers.22 On the
other hand, he is also said to have categorically forbidden the acceptance of
any such gifts. Ash-Shaybânî comes to the conclusion that it is disapprovable
practice for an army commander to accept gifts from non-Muslim rulers, but
if he does, he must hand them over and add them to the Muslim booty.23
19 Cf. aṭ-Ṭarsûsî, Tuḥfat at-Turk, used in the Istanbul MS. Halet 535: fol. 148a-b. It remains to
be determined which Arghûn is meant here. There appears to be no connection between
his case and the afore-mentioned one.
20 Ed., trans. H. Kofler, “Handbuch des islamischen Staats- und Verwaltungsrechtes,”Islamica
7: (1935): 11, and Abhandlungen für die Kunde des Morgenlandes 23, 6 (1938): 94.
21 Sharḥ Kitâb as-Siyar al-kabîr, by ash-Shaybânî with notes by as-Sarakhsî, ed. Ṣalâḥ-ad-dîn
al-Munajjid (Cairo, 1957) 1: pp. 97–99.
22 Cf., for instance, A.J. Wensinck, Handbook, p. 87f.; Abû ʿUbayd (d. about 837–838), Kitâb
al-Amwâl (Cairo, n. y. [1353/1935]), pp. 256–258; ar-Rashîd b. az-Zubayr, Dhakhâʾir, pp. 6–8.
23 In this case, he may draw on the Muslim booty for a return gift of the same value or a
slightly higher value, according to Qâdikhân (d. 592/1196), Fatâwâ (4 v., Calcutta, 1835) 4:
p. 590.
139 Explanatory remarks by another great legal authority, as-Sarakhsî, who | lived
in the eleventh century, stress the fact that the word used here is “disapproved.”
It implies that no strict prohibition to accept such gifts is intended but merely
a warning against accepting them. A gift from a highly placed unbeliever
might easily influence the Muslim leader who is its intended recipient to take
a friendly attitude toward the non-Muslim enemy. Or, according to another
rationale for the solution suggested by ash-Shaybânî, gifts are given to the
Muslim leader in order to prevent him from pressing hostilities. Now, the
pursuit of hostilities is not accomplished by the individual leader personally
but by the Muslim community as a whole. Consequently, although he himself
has no claim to the gifts, the community does, and the gifts should, therefore,
be retained and added to the general booty. This reasoning also affords a
good solution for the dilemma caused by the historical precedents set by
the Prophet. Since he himself—in contrast to any other individual—can be
believed to have been able personally to effect the defense of the Muslim
cause and to press hostilities, there can be no doubt as to his being justified
in retaining gifts as his personal property.24 Considerations of this sort then
lead to the ruling that the envoy of a military commander is entitled to retain
gifts presented to him by the enemy commander, since they can be assumed to
have been given to him voluntarily, and not out of fear.25
As-Sarakhsî throws in further references to the problem of the permissibility
of accepting gifts from unjust rulers. This is highly offensive to the pious, but
there are precedents for it from among some of the early Muslims. Only in
connection with this problem does the term “bribe” appear in the discussion,
for one of the points to be considered here is the question whether or not
the ruler amassed most of his property through illegal extortions and bribery.
With regard to the international exchange of gifts, the question of bribery is
hardly ever raised. In many of these cases, more than a mere gift may often have
been involved. Too close a scrutiny of such high-level diplomatic amenities was
rarely possible and was, presumably, considered inadvisable. Gifts made to, or
exchanged among, highly placed Muslims may also often have been intended
to accomplish some definite purpose desired by the giver. The sources are
usually silent about this point. The bribery of lower officials was seldom of
such great interest as to deserve detailed reporting in the written sources, that
is, the historical literature. A need, however, was felt to make some allowance
24 For the exceptional position of the Prophet in this respect, cf. also Taqî-ad-dîn as-Subkî,
Fatâwâ 1: p. 214, who quotes Ibn ʿAbd-al-Barr (d. 463/1071), Istidhkâr.
25 Cf. Qâḍîkhân, Fatâwâ 4: p. 590.
for the prevailing custom which winked at the giving of gifts in all dealings
between the ruling establishment and the people. Some sort of theoretical
justification for the common practice was bound to make its appearance. It
was accomplished by redefining both “gift” and “bribe” in terms of the purpose
for which either was intended. Thus, the author of a work supposedly dating
from the twelfth century, entitled Kitâb Mufîd al-ʿulûm wa-mubîd al-humûm,26
presents this summary of the then current thought concerning permissible and
forbidden gifts:
The gift is distinguished from the bribe in four ways.
1. A person gives someone money he deserves and makes him a present,

so that he may give him something in return. This is a permissible gift.
If the recipient of the gift actually gives him something in return, that
settles it. If he does not but still retains the original gift, it is unlawful
gain (suḥt).
2. He gives him a gift because of his decency and knowledge or because of
his noble descent. If the recipient does, in fact, possess those qualities,
he is permitted (to accept the gift). However, if the giver merely thinks
that the recipient is an influence toward decency, while, in reality, he
is a person who might cause bad relations between him and God; or
he just thinks that he is a scholar, while, in reality, he is ignorant; or he
thinks that he is a descendant of ʿAlî, while, in reality, his pedigree is
spurious, then it is forbidden.
3. He pays out money to royal doorkeepers and the intimates of amîrs,
in order to enlist their support for something he desires or for some
enterprise he has in mind. If, under these circumstances, he is after
something that is forbidden, such as, for instance, [a position in?] the
police, the extortion of property, the office of land tax collector, the
office of levying road tolls (raṣad), or the office of collector of taxes due
from fiefs, it is something that is forbidden. Also, if a poor man makes
a gift to a royal doorkeeper, the latter is not permitted to accept it, as
long as he does not give him something in return.
4. He gives him a gift in connection with something that it is his specific
duty to do (according to the terms of his office). This may involve, for
26 (Cairo, 1310/1892–1893), p. 111. The author is said to have been a certain Jamâl-ad-dîn
al-Qazwînî. He starts out by saying that the subject is one that has been extensively
debated.
instance, giving him a gift so that he will testify, (if he is an official wit-
ness) whose specific duty it is to give testimony before the judge, so
140 that he | render judgment between the two parties or answer his oppo-
nent for him (?), and the like. This is forbidden, and he is not permitted
to accept the gift. But if it is the case of a permissible activity, it is not
forbidden. The giving of gifts is permissible under these conditions, if
the giver will thereby be enabled to accomplish his activity. Thus, he
may say to him: “Hand this petition to the authorities, and you will
get from me so-and-so much.” Or: “Help me in this matter.” The basic
consideration one should keep in mind is this: If the activity as such
is forbidden, as, for instance, the commission of an act of injustice, the
hearing of fraudulent evidence, the giving of aid and comfort to wrong-
doers, then it is forbidden to take anything whatever. And, likewise,
anything he may take is to be considered unlawful gain, if the activ-
ity sought has to do with something that is his specific duty, such as
preventing torts (maẓâlim), hearing truthful evidence, or seeing to it
that right prevails.
In this sense, lexicographers also came to define the term “bribe” as “achieving
something one needs through trying to get into someone’s good graces (bi-l-
muṣânaʿah, another polite term for bribery).” Consequently, if the bribe is given
to achieve an improper purpose, it falls into the forbidden category. However,
if the purpose in offering a bribe is to obtain a right or to repulse an injustice,
it does not fall under the curse contained in the afore-mentioned tradition of
the Prophet. One of the Prophet’s companions, Ibn Masʿûd, while in Abyssinia
during the early Muslim emigration to that country before the hijrah, gave
someone there two dînârs in order to escape detention, and a number of lead-
ing personages of the second generation after Muḥammad are credited with
the statement that there is nothing wrong with a person attempting bribery
(ṣânaʿa) whenever he is afraid of being treated unfairly and wishes to protect
his life and property.27
All this also largely applies to the judiciary, which is part of the political life of
the Muslim community and not basically distinguished from it. We do not learn
much about details as far as they affect the doings of officials other than those
connected with the judiciary. This can be explained not so much by the fact that
theoretical discussions of the problem of bribery can be expected to be found
27 Cf. Majd-ad-dîn Ibn al-Athîr (d. 606/1210), Nihâyah (4 v., Cairo, 1322/1904) 2: p. 87. A century
later, his remarks were repeated by Ibn Manẓûr, Lisân al-ʿArab 20: p. 37.
not in histories but, above all, in legal works, and these were predominantly
concerned with the situation as it existed within the judiciary. Rather, the
reason seems to be that bribery was only one of the many ways of wrongdoing
among government officials. There were other ways which on the whole were
of greater consequence and eventually led to that general, cynical despair with
public life, which is so obvious and which is characteristically expressed in
verses such as these:
The lawyer says to me, not knowing what he is talking about:

“Leave unlawful money alone and be satisfied with little.”
Now, if I cannot find lawful money
And do not eat what is unlawful, I would starve to death.28
Bribery probably played only a minor part in bringing about this situation.
On the other hand, bribery loomed very large indeed as the greatest poten-
tial threat29 to the integrity of the judiciary. In spite of frequently heard com-
plaints to the contrary and the presumably widespread feeling that “judges
being devils, the best exorcism is bribes,”30 judicial integrity has on the whole
always been very high in Islam and was anxiously guarded by the authorities
concerned. It is, therefore, in connection with the judiciary that the prob-
lem of bribery is given the closest attention. It was never quite forgotten that
any gift to a judge could assume an aspect of impropriety and that, basi-
cally, judges should not be allowed to accept any gift whatever. Gifts in con-
nection with the judicial process are bribes. They “cause hearing, heart, and
sight to disappear.” Or, quoting the “Wisdom” (in its Qurʾânic sense of part
of the divine revelation given to the prophets of old), “they blind (tuʿawwir)
the eyes of the wise (cf. Exodus 23:8; Deuteronomy 16:19).” “When a gift comes
in by the door, integrity (amânah) leaves by the window.” Already the caliph
ʿAbd-al-Malik b. Marwân (685–705) is supposed to have turned this idea into
verse:
When a bribe tries to wriggle its way into a house

To enter there, while integrity, too, resides in it,
The latter hurries to escape from the bribe and turns
its back in the manner
28 Cf. Ibn al-Fuwaṭî, Talkhîṣ Majmaʿ al-âdâb 4, 1, ed. Muṣṭafâ Jawâd (Damascus, 1962), p. 496.
29 Of course, judges had other opportunities for malfeasance in financial matters, such as
the embezzlement of inheritances and the like.
30 Cf. ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât (2 v., Bûlâq, 1287/1870) 1: p. 124 f.
In which a wise man turns away from the answer of

an ignoramus.31
141 The acceptance of any gift was considered unlawful, not only for judges but for
all the minor members of the judiciary, not excluding the lowly court employee
who admitted complainants into the presence of the judge. As-Sarakhsî refers
to the accepted custom for all parties to a lawsuit to give something to such
employees, so that they would let them enter and present their case. This
as-Sarakhsî brands as a crime, because justice is to be meted out without
anybody being paid for it, and nothing should stand in the way of justice being
done. The judge himself, if he knows about this situation and does nothing
to suppress the evil custom, commits as grave a sin as if he were to tolerate
wine-bibbing and fornication in his courthouse.32
The possibility was taken into account that the judge’s children, his secre-
taries, or any other member of his staff might be bribed, in order to influence
the judge in behalf of the briber. This was strongly condemned. It could hap-
pen that the judge was unaware of what was going on, but if he knew about
it, the situation was equivalent to bribing the judge himself.33 Yet, the assump-
tion is also made occasionally that corrupt judges may not only know about
such bribes but even approve of and instigate their acceptance.34
Positions comparable and related to the office of judge such as the office of
the market supervisor (muḥtasib) were subject to the same caution with regard
to gifts and bribes as were the judges themselves. Market supervisors were
warned not to accept gifts from businessmen or craftsmen under their jurisdic-
tion, even if it was a question of such small items as having a market supervisor’s
cat fed by a butcher. And, in turn, their subordinates were to be closely watched
for any unlawful acceptance of gifts or bribes. It was shrewdly observed in this
connection that officials in important positions are most vulnerable to suspi-
cion not so much in consequence of their own actions as through the behavior
of their subordinates.35
31 Cf. Wakîʿ, Akhbâr al-quḍâh 1: p. 55 f.

32 Cf. as-Sarakhsî, Mabsûṭ 16: p. 81.
33 Cf. Qâdikhân, Fatâwâ 3: pp. 130 and 301.
34 Cf. al-Bazzâzî (d. 827/1424), al-Fatâwâ al-Bazzâzîyah, used in the Yale MS. A-166 (Nemoy
888): fol. 218a.
35 Cf. Ibn al-Ukhûwah (d. 729/1329), Maʿâlim al-qurbah, ed. R. Levy (London, 1938), p. 13f. The
reference to the market supervisor’s subordinates appears also in ash-Shayzarî (d. 589/
1193), Nihâyat ar-rutbah, ed. al-ʿArînî and M.M. Ziyâdah (Cairo, 1946), p. 10. The story of
the cat is found already in al-Ghazzâlî (d. 505/1111), Iḥyâʾ (4 v., Cairo, 1352/1933) 2: p. 293.
However, such rigorous attitudes were unrealistic for a number of reasons.

At certain times, they may have caused hardships to some of the individu-
als involved and may have seemed to hamper rather than promote the cause
of justice and of a well-organized society. In connection with its treatment of
the judiciary, the administrative handbook of al-Mâwardî (d. 450/1058) merely
mentions briefly that seeking to obtain a judgeship by means of money pay-
ments is to be considered unlawful bribery and that a judge should not accept
any gift from a party in a lawsuit or anyone else under his jurisdiction.36 The
statement is vague and leaves much unsaid that might have been properly said
on the subject. It would thus seem to indicate the existence and, indeed, preva-
lence of exceptions to the strict view on gifts and bribes.
Of necessity, the most common of such exceptions was the permission to
receive gifts from close relatives. The prohibition to accept gifts rests upon the
shoulders of the judge much more heavily than upon any other official, because
he represents the majesty of the religious law and must follow and uphold all its
injunctions. Yet even one of the usually very strict Mâlikites, Ibn Yûnus (twelfth
century), stated that “a judge must not accept a gift from anyone, neither a
relative nor a friend, even if he gives in return a gift that is many times more
valuable—except from a parent or a child and those especially close relatives
for whose needs one must have more respect than for the unlawful character
of gifts.” As was suggested by Saḥnûn, the founder of Maghribite Mâlikism
(d. 240/854), among those relatives were to be counted the judge’s maternal
and paternal aunts and the daughters of his brothers.37
Another nearly general exception was made for gifts which came from peo-
ple who had been in the habit of giving gifts to the judge before he assumed
office. It was stressed, however, that they must not be engaged in a lawsuit at
the time they make the gift, and the gift must not be larger than what they used
to give formerly.38 Nonacceptance of gifts was, of course, considered preferable
even under those circumstances.39
36 Cf. al-Mâwardî, al-Aḥkâm as-sulṭânîyah (Cairo, 1298/1881), p. 72.

37 Cf. Taqî-ad-dîn as-Subkî, Fatâwâ 1: p. 215. Cf. also D. Santillana, Istituzioni di diritto musul-
mano malichita (2 v., Rome, 1938 [actually: 1943]) 2: p. 569.
38 Cf. Qâdîkhân, Fatâwâ 3: p. 131. Loans are also included in the prohibition to accept gifts
from non-relatives.
39 Cf. Taqî-ad-dîn as-Subkî, Fatâwâ 1: p. 215. According to as-Sarakhsî, Mabsûṭ 16: p. 82, it is up
to the judge to decide whether or not to accept a gift. While the giving of gifts is a praise-
worthy custom, this applies only to a situation where no official activities are involved;
in the case of judges and government officials, the greatest care has to be exercised in
142 Another exception was made for judges who received no salary from the
government and needed to supplement their incomes. It was recognized that
good salaries were the only reasonable measure that might be taken in order
to forestall the always present temptation to accept bribes.40 But the financial
situation of judges was often quite insecure and exposed to great fluctuations
depending on different local political and economic conditions. When he
needed it, the judge was allowed to seek and accept financial support where
he was able to find it. A possible way to earn money was for him to offer his
services for hire for a certain period. For instance, it was considered permissible
for him to write documents for persons who commissioned them from him.
However, he was not allowed to take any payment whatever for any task that
belonged within the range of his judicial duties.41 If he received no salary from
the government, he was considered entitled to accept payment from the parties
engaged in a lawsuit before him, because, in a sense, they employed him as
judge, and his acceptance of payment from them was comparable to drawing
on an orphan’s estate by its trustee when he needed it.42
Most importantly, there was the bribe that was given for the purpose of
seeing to it that justice was done and the righteous cause upheld or pro-
moted through the intervention of the judge. While a person is forbidden
to offer a bribe to a judge for sponsoring an unjust cause, he is fully within
his rights when offering one in the interests of justice, in order to protect
his life and property. However, in this case, the judge on his part is forbid-
den to accept the proffered bribe, since it is his duty to see to it, impartially
and without pay, that justice is done. A similar situation exists when a bribe
is offered to a suitably placed person, who might as often as not have been
a judge, for the purpose of having him straighten out one’s affairs with the
authorities. Here, it is likewise legal to offer the bribe and illegal to accept
it. In this case, however, scholars suggest a subterfuge which enables the two
to get together. The intended recipient of the bribe is hired and paid for a
day, or any other specified time, leaving it open for what kind of work he
is to be employed. There is some doubt as to whether it was permissible to
deciding whether a gift may be accepted. Cf. also E. Sachau, Muhammedanisches Recht
nach Schafiitischer Lehre (Stuttgart-Berlin, 1897), p. 704.
40 Cf. Ibn Ḥajar, Rafʿ al-iṣr, ed. Ḥâmid ʿAbd-al-Majîd and others (Cairo, 1957–), 1: pp. 208,
211 f., referred to by A. Mez, Die Renaissance des Islâms (Heidelberg, 1922), p. 212, following
R. Guest’s edition of al-Kindî, The Governors and Judges of Egypt (Leiden-London, 1912),
p. 597 ff.
41 Cf. Taqî-ad-dîn as-Subkî, Fatâwâ 1: pp. 216 f., as well as Ibn Nujaym.
42 According to Ibn ʿAqîl, cf. below, n. 44.
ask for intercession with the authorities without mentioning a possible bribe
but making a payment or giving a gift after the deal was successfully com-
pleted.43
A good summary of the situation was given by the Ḥanbalite Ibn ʿAqîl
(apparently, Abû l-Wafâʾ, d. 513/1119), as reported by Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzîyah
(d. 751/1350). According to Ibn ʿAqîl, the potential sources of income for a judge
fall into four categories, that is, bribes, gifts, wages, and salaries. Each of the
first two categories is again subdivided into two categories. As to bribes, there
are some given for the purpose of achieving an unlawful end. It is forbidden
either to give or to accept them. And then, there are bribes given to a judge so
that he will make a just decision and see to it that the rights of the giver are
upheld. In this case, the judge (ḥâkim) is forbidden to accept the bribe, but the
action of the giver is not to be classified as forbidden. Gifts given to a judge,
in turn, can be subdivided into gifts he was accustomed to receive before he
was made a judge. These may be continued. On the other hand, gifts which
started to come in only after he had been appointed to the judgeship, are to
be further subdivided into two groups. There are gifts from persons with no
legal procedures pending | within the jurisdiction of the judge who is to receive 143
them. They fall into the “disapproved” category, which means that they are not
strictly forbidden. And then, there are gifts given by persons who are involved in
a lawsuit before the judge in question. They are forbidden and may be neither
offered nor accepted.44
Obviously, those who were caught accepting illegal gifts or bribes had to
expect some kind of penalty for their misbehavior. Dismissal was the natural
consequence of being convicted of having accepted bribes. Thus, a judge who
accepted bribes was liable to dismissal, but the possibility had to be considered
that this might not always happen.45 When it was possible to prove that a
43 Cf. Qâḍîkhân, Fatâwâ 3: p. 130, who was cited by Ibn Nujaym. Ibn Nujaym further reports
a similar statement on the four different kinds of bribes from the Fatḥ al-qadîr (by Ibn
Humâm, d. 861/1457). He also cites another authority to the effect that there are three
kinds of gifts: (1) gifts for the establishment of friendly relations, which may be offered as
well as accepted; (2) gifts for the purpose of soliciting support for unjust causes, which
may be neither offered nor accepted; and (3) gifts given by a person for the purpose of
escaping injustice, which may be offered but may not be accepted. In connection with
them, the hiring subterfuge may be resorted to. Acceptance of a gift is also permissible if
it is given after the desired purpose has been accomplished, provided this was done with
good intentions. Cf. also the footnote of the editor of Wakîʿ, Akhbâr al-quḍâh 1: 60 n. 3.
44 Cf. Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzîyah, Badâʾiʿ al-fawâʾid (4 v., Cairo, n. y.) 3: p. 146 f.
45 Cf. Qâḍîkhân, Fatâwâ 3: p. 129.
judge had accepted a bribe, his decision in the case where the bribe had been
passed was invalidated and did not take effect; when the bribe had gone to
someone in the judge’s family or entourage, its recipient had to return it.46 The
subordinate of the market supervisor who was suspected of accepting gifts and
bribes was apparently simply dismissed, and it looks as if no further penalty
was attached.47
Not many details are given as to the extent of further punishments that might
await a person convicted of bribery. This is only natural in view of the fact that
in Muslim law, the type and extent of punishment are largely left to the dis-
cretion of the judge in crimes of this kind. In general, bribery was considered
a crime that required the taʿzîr punishment. This could mean anything from a
verbal rebuke to imprisonment or flogging. It could also include public expo-
sure, and we hear that this was recommended as the most effective punishment
for a person who accepted bribes. Such an exposure in the market streets, it was
argued, would be more keenly felt by the offender than flogging in private. The
overriding principle is the judge’s opinion as to how the well-being of the com-
munity might be served best. If he thinks that public exposure, even blackening
the culprit’s face and shaving off half of his beard, might help to combat the very
prevalent evil of bribery, he is entitled to impose such punishment.48
No chronological sequence or development in the Muslim attitude toward
bribery can be discovered in the literature consulted, after the element of
chance, which involves such matters as the late attestation of earlier views or
missing evidence, has been taken into sufficient consideration. There exists a
strong temptation to speculate that earlier opinion championed the straight
path of strict morality and that the more tolerant views were the product
of moral deterioration in Muslim society. Leaving aside the few years of the
very earliest period of Islam before the Conquests spread its dominion over a
large part of the world, we must admit that there is not the slightest evidence
for such an assumption. Certain details and refinements may not have found
their expression, in the early centuries of Islam, in the same form that is
attested for later periods. But we can be almost certain that substantially all
46 Cf. Qâḍîkhân, Fatâwâ 3: pp. 129 f. and 301. Other authorities, however, maintained that,
even in the case of bribery, the judgment remained effective. Others again held that no
judgment of a judge known to accept bribes was valid, whether or not a bribe had been
passed in a particular case, cf. al-Bazzâzî (above, n. 34). It was also considered possible for
the recipient of the bribe to repent and return the bribe, which then voided any possible
consequences of having accepted it in the first place (Ibn Nujaym).
47 Cf. Ibn al-Ukhûwah (above, n. 35).
48 Cf. Ibn Nujaym’s monograph, at the end.
the views expressed were always known and discussed orally if not in writing.
Attitudes and their expression changed slightly back and forth with changing
political and economic circumstances, but the social problem, inherited from
long before the coming of Islam, never ceased to be present and presented an
identical challenge which admitted of no great variety in the forms the human
response was able to take.
We can hardly expect that medieval Muslims would have succeeded in
finding a definite solution where none has as yet been found. Their efforts
had some decidedly negative aspects. Among these, we may list the absence
of any suggestions for a clear-cut practical procedure for dealing with a kind
of offense where man is pitted against society and where the offenders and
those who are to judge them belong to the same stratum of society. And, more
ominously, there seems to have been a certain tendency to see all sides of
the problem and to seek some accommodation to actual conditions without
paying sufficient regard to the dangerous possibilities opened up by this sort
of thinking. Despite the restrictions with which it is hedged, the permission
for the judge to continue accepting gifts from those who had given him gifts | 144
before his assumption of office seems to create a most convenient loophole,
and the choice of the criterion of purpose for the distinction between legal
and illegal bribes merely confused the picture instead of helping in the fight
against bribery. But there is also much that is greatly to the credit of Muslim
scholars in their efforts to deal with the problem. In the first place, they deserve
credit simply for discussing its theoretical and practical aspects constantly and
earnestly. There are enough hints to justify the guess that much more was said
and many more concrete proposals were made in private conversation among
scholars than were allowed to enter the published literature, which as usual
remained restricted to a narrowly circumscribed set of basic arguments. And
secondly, it is to their credit that they always stressed the moral and human
aspects involved, which are indeed fundamental in any such struggle between
natural human urges and the requirements of society.
vi.3
739 Cannabis and Alcohol: The Green and the Red
The historian conversing with scientists is at a disadvantage. His presumed

facts and the conclusions based upon them cannot be either proved or dis-
proved by constantly renewable experiments. They depend upon fossilized
sources that are often limited, more often than not the result of fallible observa-
tions and hazardous transmission. And then, they are subjected to the vagaries
of the combinatory powers of the human mind, which are even more fallible.
On the other hand, historians can give free play to their creative imagination
because of the limitations inherent in the character of their information. This
makes possible an arrangement of the available data in such a way as to allow
for the emergence of a clear and instructive picture of the historical impact on
human society of the subject under study.
In the past, the means of written communication were much more expen-
sive and difficult of access than they are today. Scholars and writers had to be
vastly more selective with respect to what they would choose to write down.
The ordinary human experiences of daily life were often taken for granted and
little commented upon. This was true of many matters that appear to us to be
fundamental for an understanding of man and society. One such example is the
use of drugs for sensory stimulation. At certain periods in history—and our
own is one of them—such use causes noticeable and unusual societal prob-
lems.
Such a period occurred in the Muslim world in the late twelfth or early
thirteenth century when the use of hashish became a social problem in the far-
flung regions dominated by Islam. It has remained one ever since. From Central
Asia, the use of hashish worked its way rapidly and relentlessly westward until
it reached Muslim Spain. “The Herb”, “The Green One”. “The Morsel of Thought”,
could not be stopped. Its many other nicknames were used as terms of endear-
ment and also of mystification, but with increasing frequency it came to be
called “The Evil Herb” or “Satan’s Own Food”. For the benefit of latter-day schol-
ars, the calamity became so marked that the literature of the time could no
longer overlook the existence of hashish.
With respect to its effect upon society, the use of hashish should be consid-
ered under three aspects, each very different in nature and significance: first, its
use for purely medical applications; second, its sporadic and haphazard con-
sumption for non-medical purposes; and third, its spread from casual use by
individuals to wide-spread consistent use by society at large.

cannabis and alcohol: the green and the red 747
The knowledge of a possible medicinal use for cannabis passed from Clas-
sical Antiquity to the physicians and pharmacologists of Muslim civilization.
Although the historic references are few, a small number of allegedly beneficial
applications are mentioned. Problems of language and terminology, however,
constantly interfere with our understanding; less | so, perhaps, in the strictly 740
medical and pharmaceutical literature than in general reports on hashish.
Sometimes drugs other than cannabis, or in addition to it, may have been
involved in a so-called medicinal use. In some instances, there is no way of
knowing what the confection referred to as “hashish” really was; in others there
is no doubt. Furthermore, there is no clear indication from medieval times
that cannabis was ever smoked. Apparently the smoking of it began about the
same time that tobacco cigarettes were introduced from the New World. Before
that, hashish was eaten as a confection, usually made up of a variety of ingre-
dients.
No matter how much or how little the literature has to say about cannabis,
it was always present in the Muslim pharmacopoeia, just as it had been known
and used by Galen and Dioscurides long before the appearance of Islam.
The use of hemp leaves was recommended in a large number of ailments: to
stimulate the appetite, to dissolve flatulence, as a diuretic, to clean up dandruff,
to clear the brain, for soothing pain of the ears. It was also “good for digestion”,
and one report claims its usefulness in epilepsy.
That hashish was also used as a stimulant—or, to translate the Arabic term
literally, as an “intoxicant”—by some individuals in the Muslim world between
the seventh and twelfth centuries remains a conjecture. There is no informa-
tion in the historical sources. In Islamic society, it was of no concern to pub-
lic authorities what an individual did in the privacy of his home, especially
if, as in the case of hashish, no explicit statement against its use existed in
the authoritative religious texts. As long as individual action did not come
to public attention and cause a public nuisance, it was likely to be disre-
garded.
There are many who feel that what an individual does in private is indeed no
matter of public concern. But when sufficiently large numbers of individuals all
do the same thing, it will inevitably provoke public scrutiny and, if necessary,
some kind of public action.
In the case of hashish use in Muslim society, from the 12th century on it
became obvious that it was a problem for society and that action was called
for. But what kind of action, and how to justify it in a society held together
by one thing only—the religious law of Islam? The Prophet Muḥammad and
the early Muslims could not be credited with an express statement declaring
hashish unlawful. Because hashish use had not been a problem in the early
years of Islam, there had been no reason to take note of it. In contrast, the con-
sumption of alcohol was a different matter. Well known for its effects, it was
forbidden in Muslim law on the basis of the Holy Qurʾân. Thus, legal scholars
used as their principal argument for control of hashish the assumed similarity
of its effects with those of wine and other alcoholic beverages. Unfortunately,
just as it is true today, the factual situation was ambiguous, and the necessary
legal reasoning was therefore compromised. Already the jurists had to con-
tend with problems concerning the prohibition of wine, and any comparison
of hashish with alcohol was troublesome because their effects were not identi-
cal.
Not only did the jurists compare hashish with wine, but also poets who used
the terms the “green one” and the “red one”. Even though wine was forbidden
and illegal, it was enjoyed by many, in particular by the upper classes who
could afford it. Since poetry about wine was extremely popular, with the advent
of hashish, its rich repertory of poetic images and rhetorical figures could
be transferred easily. In Islam, every educated individual (and many of those
with little formal education) was a poet, so verses on hashish provided new
sensations for the jaded tastes of the connoisseurs.
Another literary convention of the writers from Near Eastern times as well
741 as Classical | Antiquity was the highly esteemed form of the playful exposition
of the merits or faults of two comparable objects. For example, different kinds
of animals, flowers, human occupations, and cities were often compared. In
Muslim civilization this form of poetry reached new pinnacles of artistry. Quite
naturally, as soon as the hashish habit had insinuated itself into wider social
groups, writers of the day applied the literary form to an alleged rivalry between
hashish and wine.
Such was the case with a poet who lived in Syria from 1222 to 1258, and who
exercised his considerable wit and poetic skill by composing a long rhymed
debate between imaginary pro-hashish and pro-wine parties. Characteristi-
cally, he does not reveal his own preference nor does he make any moral judge-
ments about either hashish or wine. Whether poets approved or disapproved
of the moral practices they used for themes in their poetry remains a mystery.
Personal experience or opinion counted for little, linguistic and literary virtu-
osity was their goal. And yet, this medieval Syrian poet presents in his poem
the main arguments that have been repeated over and over again in popular
discussions for and against the use of hashish.
First, the word is given to the pro-hashish party:
1. Greetings, my friend! Don’t listen to the critics

And don’t condemn without a legal basis!
2. You wish to know about wine and the green stuff.
Thus listen to the words of a true expert!
3. Hashish has qualities that wine cannot boast of.
Can wine be drunk in mosque and Sufī Convent?
4. You can obtain the green stuff without haggling.
You do not need much gold and silver for it.
5. No! Unlike wine, it is a gift. It’s gratis,
Yes truly indispensable though cheap it may be.
6. It grows in meadows green like heavenly gardens,
Whereas their wine is like a Hellish firebrand.
7. Their wine makes you forget all meanings. Our herb
Recalls the mysteries of godly beauty.
8. The secret of hashish lifts up the spirit
In an ascent of disembodied thinking.
9. It is the spirit pure. Free are its confines
From worries. Only the elect may taste it.
10. No feet have trampled on it, nor has black pitch
Been used for sealing casks and made them dirty.
11. The body is not tired eliminating
And vomiting like an inflated wine-skin.
12. No one will think of you as void of reason,
Nor call you a corrupter of religion.
13. Tucked in a handkerchief it can be carried.
No cup is needed if you wish to use it.
14. Hashish involves no sin. You are not punished.
There’s no disgrace, no quarrelsome companions.
15. In times both good and bad you can enjoy it.
It is no hindrance to nights of devotions.
16. There is no danger of raids by policemen. 742
The government will not unjustly fine you.
17. You find yourself clean, virtuous, and witty,
Bright, too, and free from all annoying dullness.
18. You find you have no enemies to hate you.
You always have a lot of friends around you.
19. The beloved, tasting it, will sneak away from
Invidious chaperones and come unbidden.
20. Another thing: it’s good for your digestion.
But all its many virtues cannot be mentioned.
21. They’re all there when my company at eating

Hashish is a gazelle like a willow slender!
22. She treats me to a pretty poem, singing,
Her voice putting to shame the cooing pigeon.
23. She flirts with me demurely with her big eyes,
And when she smiles shows rows of brilliant white teeth.
24. When critics talk about hashish, don’t listen!
Their aim is to deter you. Don’t obey them!
Then it is the turn of the champions of wine:
25. Now, dear companion whom I love so dearly,

Accept right guidance to preserve your pleasure!
26. Would you by eating grass that is not juicy
Want to be like a dumb beast without reason?
27. Please disregard the views of bestial people!
Just pass around the starry, shining jewel!
28. ’Tis wine I mean. A traveler lost is guided
At night back to the right path by its brilliance.
29. Their herb brings shame upon a decent person
So that he slinks about just like a killer.
30. It reproduces on his cheeks a green sheen.
His face seems darkish, like pale dust its color.
31. When his friend thinks of him at night, he shudders.
It is like morning turning into dark night.
32. Our wine brings honor to the lowly person
And dignity so that none is his master.
33. When wine appears, it banishes all worry.
The drinker’s thirsty heart is fully sated.
34. When wine appears, the drinker’s secret gets out
And gladdens him, his rosy cheek wine-colored.
35. Unlike hashish, its qualities are useful.
Speak out! Count and describe wine’s many meanings!
36. That other substance is harmful to mankind.
Thus tell us all about the evil in it!
37. No caliph surely ever tasted hashish,
Nor did a king in full command and power.
743 38. No poet ever seriously praised it
In words as artful as the singer’s, Maʾbad.
39. No strings were ever plucked in praise of hashish.
The roseate drink alone can make this happen.

40. Whatever else but wine can tinge the hands that
Holding a cup of wine reflect its color?
41. Drunk the beloved turns and bends down, swaying
Gracefully like the bent branch of a willow,
42. Giving you wine like wine in her saliva,
The white teeth in her mouth agleam and brilliant.
43. She hesitates no more to join her lover.
Then she forgets all on the day that follows.
44. Who would refrain from something of this nature?
I was not well advised to give up drinking.
45. But for those meddlers I would ne’er be sober,
Nor would I listen to the critics’ comments.
46. Drink wine! Don’t listen to censorious people,
Though wine may be outlawed in our religion!
Note that the poet was writing at a time when the hashish wave was still in its
early stages and probably had not yet engulfed urban life. Perhaps this is why
he can afford to give the impression of a certain objectivity. Nonetheless, his
arguments are very familiar. He begins triumphantly with a fanfare: hashish
has not been proved illegal. He continues with the trump card of addicts: it
is used by the representatives of true religious fervor—the mystics. It is even
eaten in mosques. It involves no sin, no legal danger, no penalties. It is easily
carried and consumed. Above all, it is cheap, much cheaper than wine, and
everyone can afford it. But the poet describes only briefly the physical and
mental deterioration caused by hashish, because the wine lovers are only too
glad to make their most important point, namely, that in contrast to wine,
hashish means low social status and reduces its users to the dregs of society
and culture. But the hashish addicts think of themselves as an elite group. They
claim beautiful experiences in the realm of pure spirit, experiences that set
them apart from the rest of the common herd of the uninitiated. They are alone
and withdrawn, but they have many friends. They believe that the drug makes
them peaceful, and they feel that by using it, they become especially lovable
individuals.
The poet permits each side to claim that its favorite intoxicant is a powerful
aid to seduction. His poem, like so many others, was meant to appeal to erotic
fancy. In fact, hashish use was often declared detrimental to sexual activity, but
it was also described, in the same way as in the above poem, as a means to
obtain sexual satisfaction from a lover unaware of being under the influence of
the drug and whose inhibitions were weakened by its use.
Poets in later times continued to compose short “jeux d’ésprit” exalting the
alleged virtues of hashish. Whether or not they were serious is difficult to deter-
mine. Quite often, it seems, they reflected the positive attitude toward the drug
that was characteristic of certain members of the upper class intellectuals. For
them, hashish is a thing of true beauty; it gives them irrepressible joy and
repose and provides them with relief from worries and anxiety. It reveals to
them secrets and opens to them new meanings. It increases their understand-
744 ing and enlarges their imaginative perceptions. An affinity of the hashish eater |
to music was occasionally reported. No truly violent actions directed against
other persons under the influence of hashish are mentioned in these stories;
but the pro-hashish faction never comes to grips with the points raised by the
attackers.
These scholars compiled a long list of the mental and physical ill effects
caused by the drug: reddening of the eye, dryness of mouth, excessive sleeping
and heaviness in the head when the drug takes possession of the brain, as well
as numbness of the extremities. Prolonged use dries up the semen (already
noted by Galen) and cuts off the desire for sexual intercourse, cuts short the
reproductive capacity, brings forth hidden disease, harms the intestine, makes
the limb inactive, causes a shortage of breath, diminishes vision in the eye
and increases pensiveness in the imagination after initially causing joy; hashish
produces narcosis, laziness, stupor, weakening of sense perception, foul breath,
ruination of color and complexion.
Hashish is mind changing and personality changing, causing “insanity in the
habitual user”, “changes the mind making it absent from reality”.
Habituation to hashish is also stated. “Among the greatest physical harm
caused by it is the fact that habitual users of it are hardly ever able to repent of
it because of the effect it has upon their temper” says al-Zarkashi, and al-Badri
concurs: “The user cannot separate from it and leave it alone”.
Hashish is stated consistently by its adversaries to be something that saps the
user’s energy and ability and willingness to work. Implicitly this was considered
its greatest danger to the social fabric.
Finally, a holyman, Sheikh al-Hariri described what may be the lingering
effect of chronic hashish usage. He claimed that abstinence for a long period
was necessary to overcome the long-term action of the drug in the organism.
“One has to give it up for forty days, until the body is free from it, and forty
more days until he is rested from it after becoming free”. The jurists also used on
occasion the persuasive form of rhyme to speak about hashish. Their attitude
was extremely negative, as one from their ranks put it:
All the destructive effects of wine

Are found in hashish many times over.
They tried to fight hashish or assumed the official posture against the drug,
but they were waging an uphill struggle. Even though they were successful
in arguing for the illegality of hashish, they proved decidedly unsuccessful in
devising effective means for curtailing its use. On the contrary, it appears that
eventually they became resigned to letting matters take their course.
The similarity of views and arguments, then and now, is the most striking fea-
ture of the medieval debate. The dilemma still exists between the rights of indi-
viduals (which in our view, if not the Muslim, may extend to self-debasement
and self-destruction) and the needs of society. It is no closer to being solved. The
same romantic claims to beauty and spiritual release and other benefits derived
from hashish use, and on the other hand, the same strong statements about its
generally harmful effects are heard today. The most appropriate course for soci-
ety to take is still mired in the same kind of helplessness and confusion. Many
things have changed, of course, yet the only really new element to appear in the
picture is the scientific ability modern society now possesses to understand and
measure objectively the properties and effects of the drug. This is a very recent
development. Until a decade ago, it was not possible to discover any satisfac-
tory scientific literature on cannabis. | Perhaps the current efforts of scientists 745
can be translated soon into beneficial social action. Even though the historian,
familiar with the character of man and society through the ages, is not inclined
to believe in the coming of the millennium in our own day, still that unscien-
tific component of man’s mind called “hope” constantly raises its small voice to
say: “Maybe it will”.
Editorial note: This paper was to be read by the author at the dinner attended
by the participants of the Symposium. The references to the Muslim Scholars
quoted may be found in the following text: Franz Rosenthal, The Herb, Hashish
versus Muslim Medieval Society, E.J. Brill, Leiden, 1971 [Above, work III, pp. 137–
340. Ed.].
vi.4
35 The Stranger in Medieval Islam
Mobility, the need or desire to move over short or long distances, is one of
mankind’s strongest urges. It has manifested itself in a great many forms and
has taken on culturally specific traits. Here we shall attempt to deal with a lim-
ited aspect of mobility in the past centuries of Muslim civilization, one that may
be considered a byproduct of traveling that was an extremely prominent fea-
ture of that civilization, namely, the stranger. “Travel … generates that peculiar
species of social being of unknown identity—the stranger”, as a recent writer
put it.1
The historical significance in every age and region of the perceived or real
categorization of some individuals or groups as different and strange in a given
society and not fully belonging to it is obvious for the past and arguably even
more so at present. It is a limitless subject that can in no way be exhausted here.
A restriction to medieval Islam may seem manageable. It still involves, however,
a tremendous—and, if truth be told, in fact unmanageable—body of informa-
tion of the greatest variety and every conceivable human activity, even though
it is our purpose and procedure to stay closely to the written sources and avoid
undocumented generalization. Searching out and interpreting everything rel-
evant would not be possible. The necessary choice has been governed by the
wish to stress, implicitly, what may be, or seem to be, characteristic of Islam in
comparison to earlier Near Eastern and earlier or later Western conceptions,
however similar.
At the outset, we should remind ourselves of an undeniable basic truth
concerning Islam. Within the community of believers and wherever Muslims
36 were in political control, there was, in theory, no such | distinct category as
a “stranger”. Ideally, every Muslim was always at home among other Muslims
and not distinct from them in a way that would mark him as belonging to
such a separate category. An exception may have existed in the environment
of hostile sectarians, but even among them, the prevailing sentiment may
frequently have been that expressed by the Ḫāriǧite ʿImrān b. Ḥiṭṭān who spoke
of “us being the children of Islam and God being one”, and believers being
1 Cf. E.J. Leeds, The Mind of the Traveler from Gilgamesh to Global Tourism, 15 (Basic Books 1991).
A brief chapter entitled “The Stranger” appears on pp. 62–64.

the stranger in medieval islam 755
brothers related through Islam.2 This community feeling extended to some

degree even to non-Muslims within the realm of Islam; in contrast, everybody
from outside of it, although being, of course, a stranger, enjoyed a special status
which followed its own different rules and, therefore, can be excluded from
consideration here.
An important consequence of that ideal Muslim attitude toward the stranger
was that he could not claim to be dealt with as a separate entity in Muslim law,
although for a variety of reasons, travel enjoyed a conspicuous position in it.
This contrasts sharply with the situation in more ancient times. The stranger
was seen as a large problem in Classical Antiquity and given a correspondingly
large niche in legal thought, not to speak of his peculiar status in Ancient Near
Eastern Judaism.3
Among the constantly changing currents of life in any given Muslim society,
the actual situation was obviously different from the ideal one. There were
“strangers” everywhere, thus we have here another example of the possible
conflict between religious teaching and reality, one of the many that had their
share in shaping Muslim civilization. That | reality, and the reflections about it, 37
are the subject of the following pages. The material presented will be treated
as if it were historically homogeneous, which it definitely is not. Urban Islam
felt no doubt differently about the nature of the stranger than did the Arabs
of pre-Islamic Arabia. The inhabitants of rural areas can be assumed to have
viewed strangers in a different light; we know practically nothing about them.
2 Al-Mubarrad, Kāmil, ed. W. Wright, 534, 538 (Leipzig 1864–1881).

3 Very recently, discussions, mostly incidental, of the variety and significance of travel in
Muslim civilization have become more frequent in the scholarly literature, but there is as
yet nothing to compare in volume to the profusion of work on the subject of the stranger in
the biblical Near East and Classical Antiquity where it has been treated under many different
angles in ways quite inapplicable to the situation in Islam. Apart from numerous excellent
treatments in encyclopaedias and related works, cf. some recent books such as Christiana van
Houten, The Alien in Israelite Law (Sheffield 1991. Journal for the Study of the Old Testament,
Suppl. Series 107); Christoph Bultmann, Der Fremde im antiken Judah (Göttingen 1992); and,
most instructive, Reinhard Feldmeier, Die Christen als Fremde. Die Metapher der Fremde in
der antiken Welt, im Urchristentum und im 1. Petrusbrief (Tübingen 1992); Marie-Françoise
Baslez, L’ étranger dans la Grèce antique (Paris 1984); Albrecht Diehle, Die Griechen und die
Fremden (München 1994). It is not surprising that in Concepts of the Other in Near Eastern
Religions (Leiden 1994. Israel Oriental Studies 14), the equation of “other” with “stranger” is
attempted only among Assyriologists such as J. Bottéro, “Les étrangers et leurs dieux, vus de
Mésopotamie”, The contributions dealing with Islam contrast the “other” with the “other self”
not conceived as “stranger”.
Geographical location and prevailing conditions provided variations of the

norms that evolved in and applied to urban Islam. Changes over time must
always be reckoned with; they are thoroughly obscured by the nature of the
literary tradition.
Linguistically, two terms require consideration. They are ġarīb and aǧnabī.
The rich metaphorical terminology can be safely disregarded. Terms such as
ibn al-arḍ “son of the land” or ibn al-qasṭal “son of the dust” were shared by
the stranger with a motley crowd of travelers, guests, Ṣūfīs ( fuqarāʾ), etc.4 Ibn
al-sabīl “son of the road” and ʿābir al-sabīl “traverser of the road” met with more
resonance because of their Qurʾānic associations. A ḥadīṯ of the Prophet said:
“Be in this world as if you were a stranger or an ʿābir al-sabīl”. This called for
an explanation of “or” and of the distinction between ġarīb and ʿābir al-sabīl.
The former was defined as “one who may take up residence in a foreign place”
and the latter as “one who intends to go to a faraway place (because he is in
a difficult situation and cannot stay in one place)”.5 The stranger may also be
called son of the road “because when he makes his appearance among people
who do not know him, the only pedigree (nasab in the sense of nisba) he can
muster is one that connects him to the road whence he comes”.6
Of ġarīb and aǧnabī, the former is of almost exclusive importance for our
subject. The noun “stranger” may be the original meaning of ġarīb; its adjectival
usage in the meaning of “strange, rare, marvelous”, and so on, may represent a
38 secondary, if very ancient, development.7 This | strongly suggests a connection
with the general Semitic root ġ-r-b (Ugaritic ʿ-r-b) in the meaning of “to enter”,
best known for its use for the “entering” of the sun = “sunset” and hence
“West” (Hebrew maʿarāḇ, Aram. meʿʿālē šimšā, Ar. maġrib, Akkad. erib šamši).8
4 Cf. Ibn al-Aṯīr, Muraṣṣaʿ, ed. Ibrāhīm al-Sāmarrāʾī, 66, 263, 278 (Baghdad 1391/1971).
5 Cf. Ibn Ḥaǧar, Fatḥ, XIV, 8 (Cairo 1378–1383/1959–1963), with more information on the subject.
For further references to the ḥadīṯ, see A.J. Wensinck, and others, Concordance et Indices de la
Tradition Musulmane, IV, 117, ll. 51 f. (Leiden 1936–1969), and below, n. 96.
6 Cf. al-Šarīšī, Šarḥ al-Maqāmāt, I, 69 (Cairo 1306).
7 It should be kept in mind that the basic terms commonly used in connection with the subject
under discussion here are difficult to translate consistently so as to reflect the nuances of
Arabic usage. No satisfactory English equivalents exist to render ġurba and waṭan uniformly.
The distinction between stranger, poor, and Ṣūfī tends to become less and less clear-cut. The
meaning of “exile” for ġarīb and ġurba may also be present, as, for instance, in al-Saḫāwī,
al-Ḍawʾ al-lāmiʿ, I, 41, l. 3 (Cairo 1353–1355), and elsewhere. It is confirmed by the legal usage
of taġrīb “to punish by sending into exile”, ġurba thus corresponding to ǧalāʾ. See also below,
n. 155. The specific use of ġarīb as “not related by blood” is presumably Islamic.
8 Ugaritic ʿ < ġ is a conditioned sound change. It may be noted that in those Semitic languages
in which ġ became ʿ, the root ʿ-r-b shows an unusually large number of homonyms.
The standard Akkadian dictionaries list errebu (CAD)/errēbu (von Soden) as

“newcomer, person accepted into the family, intruder” as well as the collective
errebtu “refugees, immigrants”.9 The Akkadian usage suggests that the ġarīb was
originally not one who removed himself from his group and environment. He
was primarily seen from, so to speak, the receiving end, that is, the group faced
with persons attempting to enter it, who were usually not welcomed with open
arms, and even less so as equals. The problem of the stranger as an intruder
among genuine tribal members was, however, well recognized and pondered in
Arabian society. The other side of the coin represented by the person who left
his own group in the intention, or with the result, of not returning offered much
less of a problem at the point of origin. In historical times, these distinctions
had naturally long disappeared from Arabic linguistic usage.10
The word ġarīb happens to be absent from the Qurʾān. Aǧnabī also does
not occur but appears to be represented in sūra 4:36 by the seemingly related
al-ǧār al-ǧunub within an enumeration of classes of people that are to be shown
kindness: wa bi-l-wālidayni iḥsānan wa bi-ḏī l-qurbā wa l-yatāmā wa l-masākīni
wa l-ǧāri ḏī l-qurbā wa l-ǧāri l-ǧunubi wa l-ṣāḥibi bi-l-ǧanbi wa bni l-sabīli wa mā
malakat aymānukum. While most of the items listed occur elsewhere in the
Qurʾān, the two connected with the root ǧ-n-b do not. They are therefore even
less open to precise interpretation than the other terms.11 For our purposes,
we can be satisfied with what became the accepted traditional understanding,
that is, the | equation of al-ǧār al-ǧunub with the ġarīb. The juxtaposition 39
of ḏī l-qurbā and al-ǧunubi certainly suggests for the latter the meaning of
non-relative (literally, perhaps, the one on the sidelines, the outsider); it may
not be too far-fetched to assume that wa l-ṣāḥib bi-l-ǧanb is no more than an
explanatory glosse to al-ǧār al-ǧunub.12
9 The noun formation is equivalent to that of Arabic ġarīb.

10 Medieval etymologies, such as the one combining stranger (ġarīb) with raven (ġurāb)
because of the raven’s reputation for sinisterness and foreboding separation, do nothing
for philology. They were not intended to but served solely as poetical metaphors. See
al-Ǧaḥiẓ, Ḥayawān, II, 115, III, 135 ff. (Cairo 1323–1325), ed. ʿAbd al-Salām M. Hārūn, II, 316,
III, 437 ff. (Cairo 1367–1369/1948–1950, reprinted at various times); al-Mubarrad, Kāmil, 84.
11 It may be noted that aǧnabī is not listed in A.J. Wensinck and others, Concordance. Ǧunub
is listed there only for its sexual meaning.
12 It cannot be decided whether al-ṣāḥib bi-l-ǧanb, as assumed here, is to be lined up syn-
tactically with the preceding al-ǧār al-ǧunub or, as is usually assumed, with the following
ibn al-sabīl. In the latter case, it would refer to the traveling companion, while ibn al-sabīl
would be distinguished from it as referring to guests, cf. Lisān al-ʿarab, I, 268, l. 5 (Būlāq
1300–1308).
Medieval commentators availed themselves of the possibility to exercise

their ingenuity. Ibn al-Ǧawzī, for instance, provided two alternatives for al-ǧār
ḏī l-qurbā and three possible explanations for al-ǧār al-ǧunub. The former may
refer to the related neighbor (it is, of course, clear that a neighbor is near,
so why, a Muslim exegete could fairly ask, should “neighbor” be qualified by
“nearness”?). Or al-ǧār ḏī l-qurbā meant a neighbor who was a Muslim, “near”,
under this assumption, referring to religion. Al-ǧār al-ǧunub, we hear, could
also be vocalized al-ǧār ḏī l-ǧanb (perhaps, in order to make it harmonize with
al-ṣāḥib bi-l-ǧanb?). Its three possible meanings are:
First: The unrelated stranger, according to Ibn ʿAbbās, Muǧāhid, ʿAṭāʾ, ʿIkri-
ma, al-Ḍaḥḥāk, Ibn Zayd, Muqātil, and others.
Second: Your neighbor to your right, to your left, in front of you, and behind
you, according to al-Ḍaḥḥāk on the authority of Ibn ʿAbbās.
Third: The Jews and the Christians (among your neighbors), according to
Nawf al-Šaʾmī.13
Ibn al-Ǧawzī was following the commentary of al-Ṭabarī who drew this conclu-
sion:
The statement most likely to be correct is the one advocated by those

who say that al-ǧunub here means the unrelated stranger (al-ġarīb al-
baʿīd), whether he be a Muslim or a polytheist, a Jew or a Christian, since,
as explained before, al-ǧār ḏī l-qurbā is the neighbor who is related by
blood. This makes it necessary that the neighbor ḏū l-ǧanāba is the unre-
lated (baʿīd) neighbor, so that (the Qurʾānic statement) is an all inclusive
40 exhortation as to how to treat neighbors of all kinds, | whether related
or unrelated (qarīban aw baʿīdan). Furthermore, in Arab speech, al-ǧ-n-b
means al-baʿīd, as in the verse of al-Aʿšā of the Banū Qays:
For the identification of al-ǧunub with ġarīb, see Lisān al-ʿarab, I, 269. The grammat-
ical speculations that were advanced in support of this interpretation remain, however,
speculative and on the whole unconvincing. For the plural aǧnāb, apparently of a singu-
lar ǧunub, as attested already in pre-Islamic times, see the poem of al-Ḫansāʾ referred to
below, n. 142.
13 Ibn al-Ǧawzī, Zād al-masīr, II, 79 (Damascus 1384–1388/1964–1968). For Nawf, see Ibn Abī
Ḥātim al-Rāzī, Ǧarḥ, IV, 1 (Hyderabad 1941–1963), and Ibn Ḥaǧar, Tahḏīb, X, 490 (Hyderabad
1325–1327), where a few more references are given. His is obviously a highly tendentious
interpretation. It remains to be seen where it is to be placed in history.
I came to visit Ḥurayṯ ʿan ǧanābatin …,
where ʿan ǧanābatin means from afar (buʿd/ġurba).14
A more limited term than ġarīb, aǧnabī was well suited to express the modern
restriction of “stranger” to “foreigner”, with the specific meaning of belonging to
a different “nationality” in a sense not known in medieval Islam. The existence
of two words, as, for instance, (English) stranger and foreigner/alien or (Ger-
man) Fremder/Fremdling and Ausländer, both in each case going back a long
time,15 facilitated the distinctive present-day usage, with “stranger” losing a
good deal of its currency. The situation in Arabic as to ġarīb and aǧnabī was dif-
ferent, but it seems that territoriality of some sort was always felt more strongly
in connection with aǧnabī, and this made it quite suitable for the modern
usage.16 The connotation of “other” developed in English from “alien” is, how-
ever, basically absent from either Arabic word, although iġtirāb, for instance,
may serve as the modern Arabic translation of “alienation”. Altogether, the term
aǧnabī and its relatives can be dismissed from further consideration for the
investigation of the stranger’s role in medieval Islam. As far as it is concentrated
in a term, ġarīb and its derivatives can be expected to provide the desired infor-
mation.17
14 Al-Ṭabarī, Tafsīr, V, 51 f. (Būlāq 1323–1339, reprint Beirut 1400/1980). It would seem a little
injudicious to relate ǧanāba to ǧunub as al-Ṭabarī does without hesitation. For al-Aʿšā’s
verse, see his Dīwān, ed. R. Geyer, 49 (Leiden 1928. E.J.W. Gibb Memorial Series, N.S. 6).
Al-Zamaḫšarī, Kaššāf, I, 364 (Būlāq 1318–1319), quotes a verse ascribed to Balʿāʾ b. Qays
which mentions muǧāwir ḏū raḥim and muǧāwir ǧunub. The attribution could well be
spurious, and it is by no means certain that the verse should be accepted as proof for the
meaning of ǧunub. We have very little information for Balʿāʾ (see, e.g., al-Ǧāḥiẓ, Bayān;
Aġānī; ʿIqd; al-Āmidī, Muʾtalif ). The only date we have for his lifetime is the statement
that he was no longer alive by the Yawm al-Ḥurayra, one of the days of the Yawm al-Fiġār,
near the end of the sixth century.
15 An early fifteenth-century passage, quoted in the Oxford English Dictionary, speaks of
“strange foreyners, nought of his proper people”.
16 B. Lewis calls attention to a distinction noticeable in contemporary usage between aġānib
used for non-Arabs and, occasionally, non-Muslims and ġurabāʾ referring to non-Lebanese
Arabs, cf. “The Other and the Enemy”, in B. Lewis and F. Niewöhner (eds.), Religionsge-
spräche im Mittelalter, 372 (Wiesbaden 1992. Wolfenbütteler Mittelalter-Studien 4).
17 We may add that neither ġarīb nor aǧnabī adopted the connotation of stranger as enemy
that is found in some Semitic roots and in other languages, cf., for instance, Akkadian
nakru versus Hebrew noḵrī/ Syriac nuḵrāyā; Latin hostis. For an Indian parallel, see P.
Thieme, Der Fremdling im Ṛgveda (1938. Abh. für die Kunde des Morgenlandes 23,2). It may,
41 Who was called a “stranger”? In general usage, it was everybody who left
his original place of residence and went abroad. A combination such as al-
ġurabāʾ wa l-wāfidūn/wāridūn could occasionally be used to make a distinction
between resident strangers and visiting aliens17a, but ordinarily, no distinction
was made between leaving home for good, or staying abroad for some time
and gradually losing any intention to return, or just traveling with no thought
of permanently changing one’s residence such as was done by pilgrims, mer-
chants, and fortune seekers; here we may include groups like beggars, crooks,
and wandering low-class entertainers who often had no place they could call
home. The large contingent of students in search of higher education were not
really “strangers” (but see below, pp. 70f. [p. 791. Ed.]). Those who became schol-
ars of repute usually tended to migrate in order to find suitable positions and
frequently did not return to the places of their birth and early upbringing.18
Many other intellectuals, in particular poets, went wherever they could hope
to find patrons. “Guests (ḍayf )” were mostly from abroad or from out of town,
but they were treated as a separate category and not as “strangers”. A verse of
the famous Ḥātim al-Ṭāʾī contains the combination al-ḍayf al-ġarīb; it seems to
be very uncommon, and not just because of its apparent redundancy.19 Slaves
who were often imported from abroad belonged to a legal and social stratum of
their own and were not lumped together with what came under the heading of
of course, not have been all that unusual in some spots of the vast Muslim world to equate
opponents with strangers, see EI2, III, 1159b, s.v. ʿImād Šāhī.
17a Cf., for instance, al-Saḫāwī, Ḍaw᾿, 77, l. 3; VII, 229, l. 13; XI, 70, also, I, 41, l. 3.
An interesting distinction was suggested by S.D. Goitein between foreigners in Alexan-
dria and in Fusṭāṭ: Those who decided to stay in Egypt went on to the capital, while those
who were uncertain of their future course were mostly found in Alexandria, and this might
explain why clashes between foreigners and the local population were common in Alexan-
dria but not in Fusṭāṭ. See A Mediterranean Society, IV, 8 (Berkeley-Los Angeles-London
1983).
18 In discussing The Civilian Elite of Cairo in the later Middle Ages, 411, n. 4 (Princeton 1981),
C.F. Petry ventures the estimate that about 30–40 percent of ʿulamāʾ in Egypt during the
fifteenth century were foreign-born. He also expresses doubt as to “whether foreigners
were assimilated into the greater society” (ibid., 319). See below, p. 67.
19 In Ḥātim’s dīwān as edited by F. Schulthess, we find al-ḍayf al-ḍaʿīf, see Schulthess, Der
Dīwān des arabischen Dichters Ḥātim Ṭej, no. XLTV, verse 7, Ar. text, 25, trans., 45 (Leipzig
1897). This, of course, would make the verse pointless in our context. Schulthess knew
of the variant reading al-ḍayf al-ġarīb from the Göttingen manuscript of al-Zubayr b.
al-Bakkār, al-Aḫbār al-Muwaffaqīyāt (now edited by Sāmī Makkī al-ʿĀnī, Baghdad 1972,
449). It also appears in al-Ǧāḥiẓ, Ḥayawān, I, 193, ed. Hārūn, I, 383, and thus can claim
ancient attestation. It would, however, be difficult to decide upon the more original form.
“strangers”. Soldiers were commonly shifted around in | foreign countries. Ṣūfīs, 42

finally, adopted homelessness as a way of life and were not strangers as ordi-
narily understood; they were at home everywhere but, as we shall see (below,
pp. 54ff.), nowhere in this material world and constituted thus a special type of
strangers.
Many who for some reason or other left home were forced by unforeseen
circumstances, or chose voluntarily, to stay away. Still others might have been
forced by political developments to become strangers, exiles, in a foreign coun-
try. However prolonged or permanent their absence from home, the literary tra-
dition with its growing body of reflections on strangers assigned to all the same
status and characteristics. This tradition had its starting point in the conven-
tions and the lifestyle of pre-Islamic Arabia. There separation from the beloved
and the longing for reunion were dominant topics of poetry, even if those hap-
penings produced full-fledged “strangers” only in the imagination.
Reflections on the stranger stress his utter miserableness.20 Constant and
bitter complaining is the hallmark of his existence. Yet, the Muslim view, nour-
ished by the adab literature, that all matters human have a positive as well as a
negative side was extended to cover the stranger. The negative aspects were
expressed most frequently and most forcefully, but certain advantages were
noted that could be found in breaking away from home and in living in a strange
environment.
The most pervasive of the negative aspects was clearly the state of “humilia-
tion (ḏull/ḏillah)” from which a stranger could only rarely escape.21 Its oppo-
site is ʿizz which might often be rendered by “prestige”. ʿIzz tends to vanish
whenever home, family, and the friends among whom one has grown up are
abandoned and have become nothing but a fond memory. The “familiarity
(uns)” with them that had provided protection and comfort becomes “desola-
tion (waḥša)”, the depressing feeling of being alone and having nobody to turn
to. It complements the poverty that was seen as something that strangers as a
rule were unable to overcome. Being a stranger and being poor went hand in | 43
hand, just as they formed one category already in Old Testament times (Leviti-
20 (German) Elend, elend “misery, miserable” is etymologically Ausland, cf. J. & W. Grimm,
Deutsches Wörterbuch, III, 406 (Leipzig 1862), s.v. Elend: “urbedeutung dieses schönen,
vom heimweh eingegebnen wortes ist das wohnen im ausland, in der fremde, und das
lat. exsul, exsilium, gleichsam extra solum stehen ihm nahe”. Territoriality remains rec-
ognized by more recent authors as etymologically involved, but it is played down in favor
of legal/social factors, cf. Brockhaus-Wahrig, Deutsches Wörterbuch (Wiesbaden-Stuttgart
1981), s.v. elend (adj.): “in fremdem Land, aus dem Frieden der angeborenen Rechts-
genossenschaft ausgewiesen, verbannt”. All this applies to some degree also to ġarīb.
21 Ibn al-Marzubān (below, n. 46), 63–68, devotes a special chapter to ḏull al-ġurba.
cus 19:10, 23:22).22 Poverty may equal or surpass the stranger’s misery. It was
pronounced by many to be the worst affliction that could befall a human being,
as stated, for instance, in a famous verse of the late sixth-century poet ʿUrwa
b. al-Ward.23 Yet, it was a moot question what really constituted the ultimate
misery. The decision was difficult to make, and no unanimity was achieved. It
might be argued that if you have enough to live on in a foreign country, being
a stranger is not so bad, because poverty is worse,24 but on the other hand,
it could be said that having little or nothing defines the stranger as well as
anything25 or that being a stranger is at least as bad as being poor:
I have seen nothing like poverty to put down a noble youth,

and nothing like wealth to elevate a scoundrel.
I have seen no prestige for a man like a large family,
and no humiliation like remoteness from his origins.26
And I have seen no lack more harmful to one living
among human beings than the lack of intelligence.27
Poverty in a strange country is really bad.28 Yet, making a choice may present
a challenge to one’s wit, and it was deemed the wisest course to let the answer
hang in the air. Thus, it was suggested that the greatest calamity for anybody
was “poverty while traveling, or rather illness in a foreign country, or rather
being deposed from office and forced to relinquish one’s possessions”.29 Simi-
22 Cf. van Houten, op. cit., (above, n. 3), 121 ff.

23 Dīwān, ed. ʿAbd al-Muʿīn al-Mallūḥī, 91 (n.p. [Damascus] 1966):
Daʿīnī li-l-ġinā asʿā fa-innī

raʾaytu l-nāsa šarrahumū l-faqīru.
24 Cf. al-Tawḥīdī, Imtāʿ, ed. A. Amīn and A. al-Zayn, II, 151 (Cairo 1939–1944). Cf. also below,
n. 65.
25 Cf. Ibn Abī l-Ḥadīd, Šarḥ Nahǧ al-balāġa, ed. Ḥasan Tamīm, V, 261f. (Beirut 1963–1964),
quoting Ḫalaf al-Aḥmar:
Don’t think that a stranger is the one who is far away!

Rather, a stranger is the one who has little or nothing (al-muqill).
26 “Origins (aṣl)” as to tribe and locality has the variant reading “family, folks (ahl)”.
27 Cf. al-Ǧāḥiẓ, Bayān, ed. ʿAbd al-Salām M. Hārūn, I, 245 (Cairo 1367–1369/1948–1950).
28 Cf. Abū l-Faraǧ al-Iṣfahānī, Adab al-ġurabāʾ, ed. Ṣalāḥ al-dīn al-Munaǧǧid, 32 (Beirut 1972).
29 Cf. al-Rāġib al-Iṣfahānī, Muḥāḍarāt, I, 111 (Būlāq 1286–1287).
larly, some fictitious sages differed in their answers to a king who asked for their
opinion on the greatest misfortune. Some said simply poverty, others poverty in
a foreign country, others again being abroad and sick at the same time; finally,
they | all agreed that the very worst experience for a person to suffer was giving 44
an enemy the opportunity to rejoice at his misfortune!30 The witty realist here,
it seems, won out over the tentative ethicist.
For a sixth-century poet, leaving home entailed low self-esteem and dis-
torted personal values:
He who goes abroad considers his friend an enemy.

He who does not honor himself is not honored by others.31
But being removed from one’s country could also test an individual’s mettle
and count among many afflictions like “bonds, imprisonments, being abroad,
separation, and remembering an (absent) lover”.32 The way strangers might feel
was movingly described in verses which for greater effect were attributed to
al-Šāfiʿī:
The stranger is as fearful as a thief,

as depressed as a debtor, as humiliated as a prisoner.
When he recalls his folks and his country,
his heart flutters like a bird’s wing.33
30 Muḥāḍarāt, I, 161.
31 Cf. Zuhayr’s Muʿallaqa as translated by T. Nöldeke, Fünf Moʿallaqāt, III: Die Moʿallaqa
Zuhair’s, 19 (Vienna 1901. Sitzungsberichte d.k. Akad. d. Wiss. in Wien, Phil.-Hist. Kl. 144);
Dīwān, 32 (Beirut 1379/1960).
32 Cf. Abū Tammām, Ḥamāsa, Šarḥ al-Tibrīzī, III, 270 (Cairo, n.y.); al-Ǧāḥiẓ, Bayān, IV, 62, and
idem, Ḥayawān, only ed. Hārūn, VII, 159. As always in such often quoted verses, there are
differences in the wording. The quotation in ʿAyn al-quḍāt al-Hamaḏānī, Šakwā al-ġarīb
ʿan al-awṭān, replaces wa ġtirāban wa furqatan wa ḏikra ḥabībin with wa štiyāqan wa
ġurbatan wa naʾya ḥabībin, see the edition and translation by Mohammed ben Abd el-Jalil,
in Journal Asiatique 216 (1930), text, 25, trans., 194; English trans, by A.J. Arberry, A Sufi
Martyr. The Apologia of ʿAin al-Quḍāt al-Hamadhānī (London 1969). Al-Ǧāḥiẓ, Ḥayawān,
calls it a thief’s poetry. Cf. also Ibn ʿAbd al-Barr, Bahǧa, ed. M. Mursī al-Ḫūlī and ʿAbd
al-Qādir al-Quṭṭ, II, 108 (Cairo, n.y. [1967–1973?]). Arberry refers to the biography of ʿAyn
al-quḍāt in Tāǧ al-dīn al-Subkī, Ṭabaqāt al-Šāfiʿīya, VII, 129 (Cairo 1383/1964).
33 Cf. Dīwān al-Šāfiʿī, collected by M. ʿAfīf al-Zuʿbī, 66 (Beirut 1391/1971). I do not know the
source of the quotation and was unable to check other editions of al-Šāfiʿī’s poetry. A
variant of the first verse appears in Ibn ʿAbd al-Barr, Bahǧa, I, 224.
Indeed, he is constantly aware and fearful of the danger that “he is liable to tak-
ing every possible hit”, as a gnomic verse puts it.34 He knows that he has nobody
to support him and no respite from the persistent worries that imprison him
and deprive him of sleep, as stated in verses by al-Ḥasan b. Maḫlad b. al-Ǧarrāḥ,
a hapless, oft-deposed wazīr of al-Muʿtamid.35 Even under more favorable con-
45 ditions, staying | abroad is always like building castles in the air (ka-bunyāni
l-quṣūri ʿalā l-riyāḥi) and brings no lasting benefit.36
Losing one’s friends and, in old age, the members of one’s own generation
may cause feelings best compared to those of being a stranger. A lover can
transcend any separation from the beloved by the true love he has in his
heart:
Strange that a passionate lover should complain about remoteness.

How could a beloved be away from the heart of the lover!
Your image is in my eye, words remembering you are in my mouth,
You reside in my heart. Thus, how can you be absent!37
But having no friends at all is another story:
He who lives without a lover in his life

spends it living the life of a stranger.38
And the common experience of growing older and surviving one’s contempo-
raries inspired these verses in a poet of the late seventh century:
34 Ibn ʿAbd al-Barr, Bahǧa, I, 223: inna l-ġarība bi-kulli sahmin yuršaqu.
35 Cf. Ibn al-Marzubān (below, n. 46), 67, where the editor refers to al-Ṣafadī, Wāfī, ed.
Ramaḍān ʿAbd al-Tawwāb, XII, 268 (Wiesbaden 1979. Bibliotheca Islamica 6 l).
36 Arabian Nights, 709th Night, ed. W.H. Macnaghten, III, 447 (Calcutta 1939–1942), trans.
E. Littmann, IV, 279 (Wiesbaden 1953). Wherever available, passages in the edition of
M. Mahdi (Leiden 1984) will be indicated.
37 Cf. Ibn Qayyim al-Ǧawzīya, Miftāḥ dār al-saʿāda, 139 (Beirut, n.y.); idem, Rawḍat al-muḥib-
bīn, ed. Aḥmad ʿUbayd, 19 (Cairo 1375/1956). The famous second verse is also quoted in the
Arabian Nights, 157th Night, I, 778, trans. Littmann, II, 311.
38 Cf. al-Rāġib al-Iṣfahānī, Muḥāḍarāt, II, 24. The identification of a stranger as a person
who has no friend occurs in Šarḥ Nahǧ al-balāġa, IV, 753, 757, V, 347; al-Zamaḫšarī, Rabiʿ
al-abrār, I, 253 (Cairo 1992). As Abū l-Faraǧ al-Iṣfahānī tells it in his Adab al-ġurabāʾ, 32,
the loss of friends means ġurba while being at home. See also, below, n. 82.
The last mentioned passage in Šarḥ Nahǧ al-balāġa, also quotes a verse containing the
curious combination aǧnabīyun ġarībun: “When a man’s (parents) turn away from him
one day, he is a total stranger among human beings”.
If the seventies are your age, you have

no physician for what ails you except death.
…
If the generation (qarn) to which you belong is gone
and you are left behind in (another) generation, you are a stranger.39
The dead in their graves were strangers, no matter how close by was the
cemetery in which they were buried.40 The famous poet ʿAlī b. al-Ǧahm, of
the ninth century, was observed sitting among the graves | after his release 46
from detention and complaining about being all alone in this world in a more
permanent way than the forgotten dead or any stranger:
Every stranger residing in a strange country longingly

remembers his family, neighbors, and home country.
I, however, have no home country that I could remember
except the graves, the homes of those buried in them.41
Ibn al-Ǧahm’s often quoted—and said to be his last—verses presumably antic-

ipated his impending death that would make him a stranger to his friends:
Pity the stranger in a foreign country,

what has he done to himself!
He left his friends, and they had no use
for life after he was gone, nor did he.
He enjoyed great prestige when he lived near his domicile,
but later, when he was far away, he was downcast.
Being a stranger far away, he says:
God is just in whatever He does.42
A stranger would do best to consider his plight as another sign of God’s justice
as it was defined by philosophical theologians. He can wait until death makes
him a permanent stranger.
39 Cf. al-Ǧaḥiẓ, Bayān, III, 195; Ibn Qutayba, ʿUyūn, II, 322 (reprint Cairo 1963–1964); Šarḥ
Nahǧ al-balāġa, II, 578; Ibn ʿAbd al-Barr, Bahǧa, I, 226, 234. The poet, a certain al-Taymī,
supposedly responded to a remark by the governor al-Ḥaǧǧāǧ. The information is said to
go back to al-Ǧumaḥī.
40 Cf. Šarḥ Nahǧ al-balāġa, III, 737.
41 ʿAlī b. al-Ǧahm, Dīwān, ed. Ḫalīl Mardam, 184 (Damascus 1369/1949), from Aġānīʾ, IX, 115
(Būlāq 1285), Aġānī3, X, 224.
42 Op. cit., 154. The sources quoted there by the editor do not all have all four verses.
Homesickness is the common denominator and the underlying spiritual

cause of all the misery of strangers. It is self-induced by their folly of leaving
home. The famous pietist al-Muḥāsibī was thus put, we hear, in a state of great
emotion when a singer recited these verses in his presence:
I am shedding tears in a strange country

as long as a stranger’s eyes do that.
Since the day I left my country,
nothing has ever turned out right for me.
How strange of me to leave behind
the homeland where my beloved dwells!43
For the bedouin, bliss (ġibṭa) is “having enough to live on while staying attached
47 to one’s homegrounds (al-kifāya maʿa luzūm al-awṭān) and sit|ting together
with one’s friends”, while humiliation (ḏilla) means for him “moving around
all over and being remote from one’s homeland”.44 God should be implored
to grant the ultimate, if unrealistic, blessing and return “every stranger to his
homeland”.45 The ineradicable love for one’s country, which “was part of the
faith”, and the homesickness that was deemed an integral part of the status
of stranger spawned early monographs “on yearning for home (al-ḥanīn ilā
l-awṭān)”. Of the little that is preserved, best known is the essay attributed
to al-Ǧāḥiẓ, apparently a ninth-century work whose author, however, may
have been the less famous Mūsā b. ʿĪsā al-Kisrawī. Later adab encyclopaedias
customarily deal with the subject. Among them, the Kitāb al-Maḥāsin wa l-
masāwī of al-Bayhaqī holds considerable interest because of its informative
chapters on “the good aspects of yearning for one’s home country” and “the
43 Cf. al-Rāfiʿī, al-Tadwīn fī ahbār Qazwīn, ed. ʿAzīz Allāh al-ʿUṭāridī, II, 116 (Beirut 1408/1987).
The meter requires reading yawma for yawman in the second verse and supplying bi
between ʿaǧaban and wa li-tarkī in the third. Context and attribution require check-
ing.
44 Al-Ǧāḥiẓ, Ḥanīn, 38f. (Beirut 1402/1982), ed. ʿAbd al-Salām M. Hārūn, Rasāʾil al-Ǧāḥiẓ, II,
407 (Cairo 1385/1965); Ibn al-Marzubān (below, n. 46), 56, where other sources are listed;
al-Ibšīhī, Mustaṭraf, II, 53 (Būlāq 1286).
45 Abū l-Faraǧ al-Iṣfahānī, Adab al-ġurabāʾ, 34 (see also 82): “May God bless the days of
union with ample rain—and return every stranger to his homeland”. The first half-verse
could be adapted to a given situation, as was done by Ibn Ǧubayr when he arrived in
Baghdad and wanted to invoke God’s blessing on Bāb al-Ṭāq, see Ibn Ǧubayr, Riḥla, ed.
W. Wright and M.J. de Goeje, 216 (Leiden and London 1907. E.J.W. Gibb Memorial Series
5).
bad aspects of those who dislike their home countries”, which mostly deal with
homesickness.46
In this literature, we encounter all the motifs developed in connection with
being strangers that in some form or other occur over and over again. Mighty
rulers shared the pains of homesickness with lesser mortals; they wished | to be 48
buried in their own native countries that they had left on military adventures,
just as the biblical Yūsuf wished to be buried in the grave of his forefathers.47
Someone who had achieved great success in a country that treated him better
than the one in which he was born nevertheless was greatly moved whenever
he thought of it.48 Others expressed the conviction that being in poor circum-
stances (ʿusr) at home provided greater prestige (aʿazz) for a person than being
well-off ( yusr) in a strange country:
Being close to home in poverty is better

than a life of ease being away.49
“Everybody’s country is his nurse, and his home is his cradle”, while “the strang-
er far away from his town and people is like a runaway bull which is a target for
every hunter”.50 Preferring flora to fauna for comparison, someone said that
46 Al-Bayhaqī, Maḥāsin, ed. F. Schwally, 326–329, 329–341 (Giessen 1902). I have dispensed
here with consistent references to al-Bayhaqī’s work.
For al-Ǧāḥiẓ, Ḥanīn, see above, n. 44. An English translation was, I remember, prepared
as a doctoral dissertation at the University of Pennsylvania by Salih Habl around 1950. I do
not know what became of it.
Al-Kisrawī inspired another little essay on the subject which has been preserved. It was
the work of Ibn al-Marzubān (Muḥammad b. Sahl) who included it into his large adab
work entitled al-Muntahā fī l-kamāl, ed. Ǧalīl al-ʿAṭīya (Beirut 1407/1987), who indicates
parallel passages from other authors. In contrast to al-Kisrawī, Ibn al-Marzubān tells us,
he arranged his work according to topics and concentrated mainly on poetry. For the
Muntahā, see F. Rosenthal, Sweeter than Hope, 63, n. 295 (Leiden 1983). [Above, p. 596.
Ed.]
I have no information on the book by Muḥammad b. Ibrāhīm Ḥ-w-r, al-Ḥanīn ilā l-
awṭān fī l-adab al-ʿarabī ḥattā nihāyat al-ʿaṣr al-Umawī (Cairo 1973?). For a recent study,
see A. Arazi, “al-ḥanīn ilā al-awṭān. Entre la Ǧāhiliyya et l’lslam: Le Bédouin et le citadin
réconciliés”, in Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft 143 (1993), 287–
327.
47 Al-Ǧāḥiẓ, Ḥanīn, 39 ff., ed. Hārūn, Rasāʾil, II, 408 f.
48 Al-Ǧāḥiẓ, Ḥanīn, 6, ed. Hārūn, Rasāʾil, II, 383 f.
49 Al-Ǧāḥiẓ, Ḥanīn, 9, ed. Hārūn, Rasāʾil, II, 386f.; Ibn al-Marzubān, 35, 55; Ibn ʿAbd al-Barr,
Bahǧa, I, 224.
50 Al-Ǧāḥiẓ, Ḥanīn, 8, ed. Hārūn, Rasāʾil, II, 385.
“the stranger is like a plant which has been removed from its soil and has lost
the water that nourished it”.51 Or, remaining on the human level, “the sages
compared the stranger to an orphan without parents that has no mother to
fondle and no father to take care of it”.52 Thus Nāʾila bint al-Farāfiṣa al-Kalbīya
complained when she was brought to ʿUṯmān to become his wife that “God
had wanted her to be a stranger in Medina, having with me neither father nor
mother”.53 A stranger must do without the accustomed conveniences of his
native country, no matter how modest they may have been.54 However, the
stress is throughout on the humble status that dogs the stranger and hurts him
the most. “Being in a strange country means worry, and having little or nothing
means humiliation (al-ġurba kurba wa l-qilla ḏilla)”, as indicated in the verse:
Friends! Never wish to be in a strange country!

Wherever he may be, a stranger is humbled.55
49 We may conclude this rapid run through the misery that is being a stranger by
mentioning that the animal world was not immune to the human stranger’s
sense of loneliness and impotence. Gifted as he was with extraordinary perspi-
cacity, Iyās b. Muʿāwiya, the famous judge and a younger colleague of al-Ḥasan
al-Baṣrī, recognized from a distance the presence of a strange dog in a pack.
The dog gave itself away by its subdued barking which contrasted sharply with
the hearty noises made by the other dogs. It turned out that the strange dog
was tied up and the dogs harassed it with their barking as if among them it was
a stranger among strangers.56 Bees attacked a strange swarm trying to invade
51 Al-Ǧāḥiẓ, Ḥanīn, 10, ed. Hārūn, Rasāʾil, II, 387; Ibn al-Marzubān, 66; Ibn ʿAbd al-Barr,
Bahǧa, I, 225.
52 Al-Ǧāḥiẓ, Ḥanīn, 14, ed. Hārūn, Rasāʾil, II, 391; Ibn al-Marzubān, 65.
53 Al-Ǧāḥiẓ, Ḥanīn, 26 f., ed. Hārūn, Rasāʾil, II, 400.
54 Al-Ǧāḥiẓ, Ḥanīn, 11, 17 f., ed. Hārūn, Rasāʾil, II, 388, 393ff.; Ibn al-Marzubān, 41f.
55 Al-Ǧāḥiẓ, Ḥanīn, 13, ed. Hārūn, Rasāʾil, II, 390. Ibn al-Marzubān, 65, establishes a causal
chain from ġurba to worry to humiliation to destitution: al-ġurba kurba wa l-kurba ḏilla wa
l-ḏilla qilla. For the rhyming pair ġurba-kurba, see also, for instance, ʿAyn al-quḍāt, Šakwā,
text, 30. A slightly different twist: “He who is able to tolerate ġurba is safe from kurba”,
appears in al-Bayhaqī, Maḥāsin, 329.
56 Cf. al-Ǧāḥiẓ, Ḥayawān, II, 25, ed. Hārūn, II, 76; Ibn Ḫallikān, Wafayāt, ed. Iḥsān ʿAbbās,
I, 248 (Beirut, n.y. [1972]); al-Ibšīhī, Mustaṭraf, II, 53. Iyās b. Muʿāwiya’s long biography in
Judge Wakīʿ, Aḫbār al-quḍāt, ed. ʿAbd-al-ʿAzīz Muṣṭafā al-Marāġī, I, 312–374 (Cairo 1366–
1369/1947–1950), has a similar anecdote about roosters (p. 365), which also appears in
al-Ǧāḥiẓ, Ḥayawān, II, 53, ed. Hārūn, II, 153, but does not include the anecdote mentioned
their hive, as stated by Aristotle.57 “Strange” here is hostile, which is not the
usual understanding of the word in Arabic (see above, n. 17). The Greek text
speaks about an allotrion (smēnos), in Arabic ḫalīya uḫrā ġarība. “Strange” thus
entered the text (al-Ǧāḥiẓ connecting it with bees instead of beehive), where it
quite possibly might not have been used in an original Arabic composition.
Comments on the negative features of life as a stranger are innumerable.
Most of them are remarkable as literary statements as well as for the way
they play on human feelings and emotions. The positive side, the possible
advantages of being a stranger, also had its advocates. What is said about it,
however, cannot match the diversity of the reflections on the stranger’s utter
wretchedness. It rests mainly on certain desirable effects of mobility and a
realistic appreciation of the possible motives and consequences of leaving
home to seek one’s fortune. Travel may indeed widen a person’s horizon and
constitute a valuable education.58 Still, the motto of the contented stranger
was quite | simply an opportunistic ubi bene ibi patria. Some “chose wealth 50
over homeland” and maintained that “affluence is a stranger’s homeland, while
living under poor conditions turns one’s homeland into a strange country”.59
It could be argued that a reason for going elsewhere might be to escape from
unjust treatment at home, as suggested by the renowned poet al-Farazdaq in
Umayyad times.60 However, the search for an improved economic condition
was often the decisive motive.
While the Qurʾān seems unequivocal in its recommendation of travel, as,
for instance, in sūra 62:15 which may be translated that God “made the earth
a tamed animal for you, so ride on (the earth’s) shoulders”, the Prophetic
traditions vary in their view of the advantages and disadvantages of it. The
here. There can, however, be little doubt that al-Ǧāḥiẓ got the anecdote from the biograph-
ical tradition on Iyās, and quite likely from the monograph about him by al-Madāʾinī.
57 Al-Ǧāḥiẓ, Ḥayawān, V, 126, ed. Hārūn, V, 416 f., referring to Aristotle, Historia animalium
626b13, ed. trans. D.M. Balme and Allan Gotthelf, III, 358f. (Cambridge and London 1991.
Loeb Classical Library); Arabic trans, by Yūḥannā b. al-Biṭrīq, ed. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān Badawī,
Ṭibāʿ al-ḥayawān, 437 (Kuwait 1977). Ġarīb is an ordinary translation of Greek allotrios, see
below, n. 131.
58 A medieval etymology of safar “travel”, based upon a wrong identification of homonymous
roots, explains that safar is called thus because it reveals (s-f-r ʿan) the psychological
disposition (wuǧūh) and character (aḫlāq) of human beings, cf. Lisān, VI, 33, ll. 6f., s.v.
s-f-r; al-Šarīšī, Šarḥ al-Maqāmāt, I, 48.
59 Ibn al-Marzubān, 57ff., 60.
60 Gf. al-Farazdaq, Dīwān, I, 160 (Beirut 1386/1966), quoted with variants by al-Ibšīhī, Mus-
taṭraf, II, 47.
pre-Islamic tradition saw the risk of leaving home balanced by the opportunity
travel offered for renewal when staying at home might lead to getting rusty. Abū
Tammām is credited with having developed this thought in verse:
A man’s prolonged stay in the tribe slowly ruins

his stamina and beauty. So go abroad to find renewal ( fa-ġtarib tata-
ǧaddadi)!
I have noticed that the sun is more loved
by people if it does not shine on them all the time.61
It seemed highly recommendable to escape the curse of poverty by seeking suc-

cess abroad. In verses variously ascribed to ʿUrwa b. al-Ward or the muḫaḍram
poet al-Namir b. Tawlab, this idea is expressed in ringing words:
Risk your life to obtain material gain!

Sitting at home with your folks is hideous.
Money means dignity and respect.
Poverty means ugly humiliation.62
Al-Šāfiʿī was pressed into service also for this idea, as he was for the opposite
view:
51 Leave your homeland and go abroad in search of advancement (al-ʿulā)!

Go and travel, for travel has five benefits:
Relief from worries, gain of a livelihood,
knowledge, education, and keeping company with good men.63
61 Quoted in al-Ǧāḥiẓ, Bayān, II, 187; Ibn ʿAbd al-Barr, Bahǧa, I, 240f.; al-Šarīšī, Šarḥ al-
Maqāmāt, I, 115; al-Ṣafadī, Ġayṯ, II, 49 (Cairo 1305). Al-Ṣafadī (here and Ġayṯ, II, 68f.) offers
a collection of verses employing extravagant comparisons of staying at home with a dead
person in his tomb, a sword in its sheath, fire being ineffective while concealed in the flint-
stone, the powerless pawn becoming a mighty queen by crossing the chess board, and the
like.
62 Cf. ʿUrwa b. al-Ward, Dīwān, 43; al-Namir b. Tawlab, Šiʿr, collected by Nūrī Ḥammūdī
al-Qaysī, 49 (Baghdad 1969); Ibn Qutayba, ʿUyūn, I, 238.
63 Al-Šāfiʿī’s collected poems (above, n. 33), 41, from al-Yāfiʿī, Mirʾāt al-ǧinān, II, 26 (Hyder-
abad 1337–1339). The attribution to him is pure fancy, and it is not always mentioned, as is
the case in the Arabian Nights, 932nd Night, IV, 467, trans. Littmann, VI, 149. For the groups
that profit from traveling, cf. Saʿdī, Gulistān, III, 28.
Speaking about going abroad, al-Rāġib al-Iṣfahānī has something to say

about the desirability of abandoning one’s home whenever this holds out the
opportunity for an individual to establish himself abroad. The statements he
adduces on the subject of seeking well-being in a foreign country as against
hardship at home (al-yusr fī l-taġarrub ʿalā l-ʿusr fī l-waṭan) are eloquent but in
the end unimpressive because they are so few:
It is said: Well-being in a strange country makes it one’s home, while

hardship at home makes home a strange country.64
It is said: If you are well-off, you are truly at home (lit., every saddle
[raḥl] is your saddle—every place is yours), and if you are hard up (at
home), your own people shun you.65
ʿAbd-al-Malik asked al-Ḥāriṯ66 which country he liked best. He replied:
Wherever I enjoy good conditions and am in a position of great authority,
neither the Kūfa of my father nor the Baṣra of my mother.
A rough life in a strange country and being wealthy is more comfortable
than a soft life at home and being poor.
Buzurǧmihr said: The happy person is the one who goes after his
livelihood, while the unhappy person is the one who stays attracted to
the land of his birth.
This statement was the source of the poet who said:
The souls of the ambitious strive to attain high stations,

while the hapless strive to stay at home.
Al-Mutanabbī:
The only right place for a man to be is one that is agreeable,

and his only close folks are good friends.67
64 Cf. also Ibn Qutayba, ʿUyūn, I, 245; Šarḥ Nahǧ al-balāġa, V, 335; Arabian Nights, 950th Night,
IV, 527, trans. Littmann, VI, 367, as a verse in the meter sarīʿ. See also above, e.g., n. 59.
65 The version in al-Tawḥīdī, Imtāʿ, II, 151, reads: “If you are well-off, every folks is your folks
( fa-kull ahl ahluka), and if you are hard up, you are a stranger among your own people”.
For the second half as a verse, cf. Arabian Nights, 26th Night, I, 213, and 976th Night, IV,
617, trans. Littmann, I, 312, and VI, 491.
66 Al-Ḥāriṯ b. Ḫālid al-Maḫzūmī, who is most likely meant here, was ʿAbd-al-Malik’s governor
of Mecca for a short time.
67 Cf. al-Šarīšī, Šarḥ al-Maqāmāt, I, 115, but apparently not in al-Mutanabbī’s Dīwān(?).
52 Abū Nuwās said: I was entering the government palace in Baghdad, when
I saw Abū Dulaf al-Karaǧī68 clinging to one of the curtains of the inner
circle and declaiming:
The search for a living causes separation

from one’s friends and native land
And transforms the strongest of men
into one weak and submissive,
So that he ends up led just as (a horse) is
by the bit in the bridle’s loop.
The rest is death, and he is
like something that has never been.
Abū Nuwās reacted to these verses by inviting the amīr to his chambers
with the promise to recite two verses that would console him. They went,
and after they had eaten and drunk, Abū Dulaf told Abū Nuwās to say his
piece, and Abū Nuwās recited these verses:
If you enjoy great prestige in some coutry, though it be

far away, don’t keep yearning for your native country!
It is just one place like others. The best place to be is
the one that protects you against (the vicissitudes of) time.69
68 The printed text has al-Karḫī, but the famous Abū Dulaf al-ʿĪǧlī who was amīr of al-Karaǧ
is no doubt meant. For a poem by Abū Dulaf interpreted as expressing homesickness, see
al-Bayhaqī, Maḥāsin, 332 f.
69 The verses recited by Abū Nuwās appear in other sources without attribution. There
are slight variations in the first verse, as in Ibn al-Marzubān, 59: “If you are in a land
as a stranger, consider it your best hope ( fa-raǧǧihā)” see below, n. 137. The related
idea that you can always find new folks and a new homeland wherever you go was
expressed in verses ascribed to Abū Tammām. They were not by him but were included
by him in his Ḥamāsa, ed. ʿAbd al-Munʿim Aḥmad Ṣāliḥ, 87, no. 83 (n.p., n.y. [after
1400/1980]):
Don’t let yourself be hindered in the pursuit of the easy life

by the soul’s striving for (its) folks and native land!
Wherever you take up residence, you’ll meet
places/folks and neighbors/friends to replace the old ones.
Ibrāhīm b. al-ʿAbbās al-Ṣūlī is mentioned as the possible author, and on this basis, the
verses are included in his biography in Yāqūt, Iršād, ed. D.S. Margoliouth, I, 274 (Leiden
(When he heard these verses), Abū Dulaf was cheered up, and he gave
Abū Nuwās a large gift.70
Material success was, of course, often, and probably as a rule, not achieved in
spite of an individual’s best efforts. Whatever the reason, | such disappointment 53
might be made more tolerable, if it could be blamed on providence:
I left my folks and went abroad in the hope of riches.

I stayed abroad far too long, but my hopes were not fulfilled.
No trick can enable a young man to gain a good living,
as there is no way to obtain a fortune against God(’s will).71
Realistically, an unhappy stranger could summon few consolations. If he was

a scholar, he might claim that his knowledge would shield him from despair.72
Inherited from Classical Antiquity,73 this comforting thought was certainly not
always true. A more readily available diversion was reading a good book, as
al-Ǧāḥiẓ and others tell us.74 Needless to say, that was likewise no panacea.
As believers in life after death, Muslims could look at the stranger’s fate from
a metaphysical perspective. Here, too, pagan Antiquity had set an example: It
makes no difference whether one dies at home or abroad, since the road to the
and London 1907–1927. E.J.W. Gibb Memorial Series 6), ed. A.F. Rifāʿī, I, 192 (Cairo, n.y.
[1355–1357]). Cf. Ibn al-Marzubān, loc. cit.; Ibn ʿAbd al-Barr, Bahǧa, I, 244f. Al-Šarīšī, Šarḥ
al-Maqāmāt, I, 115, explains: “When you are in a strange country, the yearning for home
must not prevent your enjoyment of life’s pleasures, for the earth is one, and human beings
are of one kind (ǧins)”.
70 From al-Rāġib al-Iṣfahānī, Muḥāḍarāt, II, 360 f.
71 Ibn ʿAbd al-Barr, Bahǧa, I, 223. The above translation follows the reading given there
for the last line: wa lā li-ǧudūdin ǧaddahā llāhu maḏhabu, lit. “fortunes cut off (by God)
(?)”.
72 In Ibn Qutayba, ʿUyūn, II, 121, this is presented as an idea found in an Indian book.
73 Cf. the popular saying about knowledge as the only possession that swims with you when
your ship sinks, see Ibn Durayd, Muǧtanā, trans. F. Rosenthal, in Orientalia, N.S. 27 (1958),
38, 167, reprinted in idem, Greek Philosophy in the Arab World, no. VII, (Variorum, Aldershot
1990); idem, “Witty retorts … from the Kitāb al-aǧwiba al-muskita of Ibn Abī ʿAwn”, in
Graeco-Arabica 4 (Athens 1991), 198. Buzurǧmihr is said to have proclaimed that education
(adab) turns a stranger into a chieftain, cf. al-Mubarrad, Kāmil, 45.
74 “A book is a good acquaintance in a strange country”, says al-Ǧāḥiẓ, Ḥayawān, I, 19, ed.
Hārūn, I, 38. “Reading books helps to overcome the depression commonly experienced
in a strange place (waḥšat al-ġurba)”, according to al-Ḫaṭīb al-Baġdādī, Taqyīd al-ʿilm, ed.
Yūsuf al-ʿIšš, 124 (Damascus 1949).
other world is equally long in each case.75 This wise saying was often quoted,
although it was unsatisfactory to Muslims in that it left open the question
crucial to them as to where in the other world that road would lead. Islamic
traditions could offer greater comfort. When a believer died abroad without
mourning women to weep for him, heaven and earth took over and cried
for him.76 He could rest assured that death abroad equaled martyrdom77 and
54 guaranteed | him admission to Paradise. Dying a stranger in faraway Ḫurāsān,
a poet who was born in Gaza could hope that God would grant him forgiveness
for his sins. To make his case stronger, however, he added two more arguments,
the fact that his place of birth was the same as that of the great al-Šāfiʿī,
as well as the fact that he was an old man (šayḫ kabīr78), and not just a
stranger.
The continuous struggle of poets, litterateurs, and sages to find new words
and forms for expressing traditional feelings about the condition of strangers
was accompanied by religious beliefs. Among them, the most important was
the adoption of the status of “strangers” by Ṣūfīs; if somewhat ambiguous
in its manifestations, it proved extremely influential. Another contribution
of religious thought was the famous ḥadīṯ proclaiming Islam’s original state
as a ġarīb; it produced an enormous volume of discussion but was mostly
interpreted in a way that left it without overt influence on general sentiment
about strangers.
The ancient use of travel as a metaphor to describe man’s sojourn on earth
was widely accepted in Islam. Its obvious implication is that human beings are
strangers always and everywhere. Believers went a step further and pointed
to metaphysics and life after death as man’s true and only home. This way
of thinking had always been familiar to Muslims. However, inward religiosity
as cultivated by ascetics and mystics adopted it not only as a metaphor but
also as a lifestyle. If life on earth was a journey, this fact had to be made
75 Cf. the references given in n. 73 to Ibn Durayd, 40, 170, and Ibn Abī ʿAwn, 201.
76 This is an addition to the ḥadīṯ badaʾa al-Islām ġarīban to be found in al-Bayhaqī’s Šuʿab
al-īmān, according to Murtaḍā al-Zabīdī, Itḥāf al-sāda, I, 265, ll. 6ff. (Cairo 1352/ 1933). The
edition of the Šuʿab (Beirut 1410/1990) does not appear to contain it (?).
77 Cf. Ibn ʿAbd al-Barr, Bahǧa, I, 221. In Šīʿa literature, ġarīb may complement maẓlūm and
šahīd, see B. Scarcia-Amoretti, in EI2, VI, 958b, s.v. maẓlūm.
78 Al-Ṣafadī, Ġayṯ, I, 102. Al-Ṣafadī probably took the story from the biography of the poet,
Ibrāhīm b. Yaḥyā b. ʿUṯmān al-Ġazzī, in Ibn Ḫallikān, Wafayāt, I, 60. On the poet who lived
from 441/1049–1050 to 524/1130, see GAL2 I, 294, Suppl. I, 448.
apparent by constant travel,79 and if, further, this meant being a stranger, its
outward manifestation was for Ṣūfīs to present themselves as strangers. They
should not stay in one place. They should even become fugitives, so as to avoid
contamination by the worldly concerns of the homebound:
ʿAmr b. ʿUṭmān al-Makkī told this story: I met a man on the circuit among
Egyptian towns, and I asked him: Why don’t I ever find you staying in one
place? He replied: How could someone who is being sought stay in one
place?! I retorted:
Are you not in His grip wherever you are? That is indeed so, he replied, 55
but I am afraid that I might choose a town as my permanent home, and
He might catch me being as neglectful (of true devotion to Him) as the
others there are.80
The consequences for the pious of being the ultimate and permanent strangers
were dramatically described by the great al-Tawḥīdī. He infused literary tradi-
tion with both Ṣūfī internalization and philosophical discipline in a way that
was hardly possible after his time. All his works quite generally remain for
us the outstanding source to learn about Muslim reflections on many of life’s
basic phenomena. His personal circumstances and, perhaps even more so, his
psychological predisposition moved him toward constant complaining about
almost everything. He thus naturally identified with the fate of the stranger,
whether he himself was one in actual fact or only in his imagination.81 These
verses served as his leitmotif:
Wherever he sets foot, the stranger is humbled.

His arm is short, his tongue always blunted.
79 It may suffice to mention the prominence of travel in the thought of Ibn ʿArabī, which
has often been remarked upon, cf., for instance, Y. Ibish, “Ibn al-ʿArabī’s theory of jour-
neying”, in Y. Ibish and I. Marculescu (eds.), Contemplation and action in world religions,
Selected papers, 205–211 (Houston 1978), taken from Y. Ibish and P.L. Wilson, (eds.), Tradi-
tional modes of contemplation and action, 441–449 (Teheran 1977). For the Muslim travel
symbolism, see the remarks by J.G. Bürgel, “Die Symbolik der Reise in der Islamischen
Geisteswelt”, in A. Zweig and M. Svilar (eds.), Kosmos-Kunst-Symbol, 113–138 (Bern 1986.
Schrifien zur Symbolforschung 3).
80 Abū Nuʿaym, Ḥilya, X, 153 (reprint Beirut 1387/1967). For ʿAmr al-Makkī, cf. F. Sezgin, GAS,
I, 650.
81 The importance of the ġarīb in the thought of al-Tawḥīdī has been strongly emphasized by
J.L. Kraemer. Humanism in the Renaissance of Islam, 182, 220, 238, 268, 287 (Leiden 1986),
cf. also p. 25 for Ṣūfīs as ġurabāʾ.
Wherever you see him, you find him always without a friend.82
People have one another, but he has no one83 to help him.84
The important assumptions governing the status of the stranger are all together
here, such as lack of influence and constant humiliation as well as an absence
of human contacts and of the necessary support derived from them.
The verses occur again when al-Tawḥīdī discusses with Miskawayh the prob-
lem why some people yearn to travel and are willing to undergo all the hard-
ships involved, including the always threatening ḏull al-ġurba, while others
prefer to stay put at home as unmovable as rocks on a mountain or (as insensi-
tive to the wider world) as pebbles in a brook. Miskawayh’s answer is that man’s
56 innate longing for sensual objects | differs in potency according to the particu-
lar sense involved. Those who have a preference for the sense of vision and for
anything that is observable by the eyes and provides visual impressions display
a strong desire to go abroad and travel all over the world. This desire is weaker
and secondary among those in whom the other senses are preponderant and
who therefore do not care for traveling.85
This physiological explanation, which is brilliant if unsupportable, omits any
specifics concerning the stranger. Elsewhere, however, al-Tawḥīdī provides an
emotional description of the meaning of the stranger’s condition in psycholog-
ical/metaphysical terms. Unable for the moment, he says, to exhaust all that
could be said about “the ġarīb and his tribulations and about ġurba and its
remarkable characteristics (ʿaǧāʾib)”, he uses the verses just quoted to start his
exposition of the subject, which he states again is imperfect and incomplete.
He adds another verse:
It is not from grief caused by the fear of separation

that my tears flow, but the ġarīb is a ġarīb.85a
82 This verse is not always included by al-Tawḥīdī. See also above, n. 38.
83 Translating qalīl here by “few” would hardly be adequate.
84 Al-Tawḥīdī, Baṣāʾir, ed. Wadād al-Qāḍī, VIII, 155 (Beirut 1408/1988); Išārāt, ed. ʿAbd al-
Raḥmān Badawī, 79 (Cairo 1950), ed. Wadād al-Qāḍī, 81 (Beirut 1402/1982); al-Tawḥīdī and
Miskawayh, Hawāmil, ed. A. Amīn and al-Sayyid A. Ṣaqr, 226 (Cairo 1370/1951). In a foot-
note to her edition of Baṣāʾir, al-Qādī mentions the attribution of the verses to a certain
Abū Yaʿlā Muḥammad b. al-Ḥasan al-Baṣrī in al-Bāḫarzī, Dumya, ed. ʿAbd al-Fattāḥ M. al-
Ḥilw, I, 341 (n.p., n.y. [Cairo 1388/1968]).
85 Al-Tawḥīdī and Miskawayh, Hawāmil, 226–228.
85a The verse is by the little known Muḥammad b. ʿAbd al-Malik b. Ḥabīb al-Faqʿasī. The
original has “death” for “separation”, see ʿUmar b. Šabbah, Taʾrīḫ al Madīna, ed. Fahīm
This verse places the stranger into a category of strangeness all his own. It
is something that includes undesirable interruptions of the individual’s role
within the society to which he belongs. It extends beyond that to an innate
or internalized condition from which there is no escape except by means of
sincere devotion to God and unconditional faith. “It is said that a stranger is
the one who has close contact with the beloved. Nay, he is the one to whom
no attention is paid by the snooping busybody (who is the traditional bane of
lovers). Nay, he is the one who is treated well by his drinking companion. Nay,
he is the one who is called from nearby. Nay, he is the one who is a ġarīb in his
ġurba. Nay, he is the one who has no blood relative (nasīb). Nay, he is the one
who has no share in the truth. If this is so, let us weep about such a tough and
faulty condition:
Perhaps, shedding tears might bring relief from

emotional distress for one so deeply troubled inside.”86
Such relief, however, was no doubt unlikely in the case of a stranger such as 57
al-Tawḥīdī had in mind.
His sermon rushes on relentlessly with an extravagant play on different
grammatical forms of the root ġ-r-b: “The stranger (ġarīb) is the one whose
beautiful sun has set (ġarabat), who is far from (iġtaraba) his beloved and
from those who blame (lovers in love), who acts strangely (aġraba) in word
and action, who enters strange ground (ġarraba) in both progress and retro-
gression, who presents a strange picture (istaġraba) in his tattered clothes”.87
“The stranger”, the author continues, “is the one whose appearance speaks of
one tribulation after the other, who bears the mark of disturbance after dis-
turbance, and whose reality becomes clear to him in the continuity of time.
He is the one who is absent when he is present and who is present when
he is absent. He is the one whom you do not know when you see him and
whom you do not wish to know when you do not know him”. His disconsolate
state can be compared to that described in a famous poem by al-Mutanabbī as
M. Šaltūt, I, 294 (Beirut 1410/1990); Yāqūt, Muʿǧam, ed. F. Wüstenfeld, I, 145 (Göttingen
1866–1873). For al-Faqʿasī, see Sezgin, GAS, II, 538.
86 As pointed out by al-Qāḍī, this is a verse by Dhū l-Rummah, Dīwān, 577 (Damascus
1384/1964). Understandably, strangers have the right to cry and not be blamed for it, cf.
Ibn ʿAbd al-Barr, Bahǧa, I, 223.
87 It is tempting to vocalize the forms as passive in some cases but the vocalization as
indicated by al-Qāḍī is no doubt correct.
“having no folks (to be comfortable with), no native land (to repair to), no drink-
ing companion (to whom to confide his innermost thoughts), no cup (with
wine to get drunk), no comforting friend”.88 Being tossed about among all kinds
of people, experiencing constant occasions of sadness and worry, constant
losses and misfortunes, in short, unending, devastating blows of fate—this
characterizes the lot of the stranger. It is beyond description. “It characterizes
the stranger as one who has no name to be remembered by, no prominent fea-
tures (rasm) to be recognized from, no folds to be unfolded,89 no excuses that
could be made for him, no sins to be forgiven, no blemishes to be covered”.
The list of perplexing and contradictory conditions to which such a stranger
might find himself exposed goes on and on. “The strangest (aġrab) of strangers
is the one who has become a stranger in his native land. The person who
is farthest away is the one who is far away in a locale where he is nearby”.
He can do nothing right. He is disbelieved when he speaks the truth. “He
deserves pity.90 No matter how long he is on his journey, he never moves ahead.
58 He suffers continued | misfortune without committing any sin. Without any
shortcomings, he is strongly hurt: without his doing (?),91 he is in deep distress”.
He is paid no attention and is not listened to. When he asks for something,
he is not given it, and when he does not say anything, he is not approached
first. When he sneezes, nobody says “God bless you!” Nobody watches out for
him. When he wants to pay a visit to someone, the door is closed in front of
him. At this point, al-Tawḥīdī switches to another rhetorical device favored
by preachers, that is, invoking the deity: “We have become strangers among
Your creatures, so make us feel at home in Your courtyard! We have become
shunned among them, so shower us with Your gifts!” Since the stranger got into
his situation among his fellow creatures by reminding them of their failure to
observe their duties toward God, he feels that he is entitled to God’s protection
against them.
Al-Tawḥīdī’s answer to what the ġarīb is breaks off here. Again he insists that
he could say much more. However, by way of conclusion, he restricts himself to
clarifying the principal meaning of his discussion. He enumerates the points he
88 Al-Qāḍī refers to al-Mutanabbī, Dīwān, ed. ʿAbd al-Wahhāb ʿAzzām, 468 (Cairo 1363/1944).
89 This refers to the procedure of reading a scroll so as to gain access to its contents. The
stranger cannot be read like a book.
90 Yā raḥmatā li-l-ġarībi. Badawī refers to the verses of ʿAlī b. al-Ǧahm which have been
translated above, see n. 42.
91 Min ġayr ǧadwā (?). ǧadwā appears to have a negative meaning here, and not its ordinary
one of gift, etc., that occurs later.
has made that mark the condition of the stranger as so frightfully dismal, but
he does so only for the purpose of commanding the reader to forget all that. In
truth, he declares, “the stranger is the one who brings metaphysical information
from God and calls to (serving) Him. Nay, he is the one who spends his life
remembering God and putting his trust in Him. Nay, he is the one who turns to
God and hates anyone but Him. Nay, he is the one who gives his life and soul to
God and exposes himself to His favor”. In this sense, every human being should
be a stranger. He must dedicate himself wholeheartedly to God and practice his
faith with the greatest devotion. He must abandon his evil ways and sinfulness.
He must listen to the stirring words that the author has employed in order to
convince him that he should strive for God’s forgiveness. Al-Tawḥīdī’s stranger
is thus presented as a faithful Muslim and as the universal model for all human
beings who ought to comprise within themselves all the contradictions of the
material world and thereby show their total unconcern with it. The ġarīb is, in
fact, the real qarīb, the person unrelated to the outside world and related to the
spiritual world, man’s true and only home.92
The idea that the soul is a stranger in this world and must liberate itself 59
through a return to its metaphysical world where it belongs may conveniently
be labeled as “Neoplatonic”. Neoplatonism provided widely known antecedents
and might be claimed as an important source of inspiration for these Muslim
reflections. It was natural for philosophers to recall the view of the soul as a
stranger in this transitory world,93 but in this respect, they were in the Islamic
mainstream which had always stressed the need for the individual to be in this
world as if he were a stranger.94 Real life, that is, eternal life, begins only after
death. Thus Ibn Qayyim al-Ǧawzīya, for instance, commented:
Wherever a believer takes up residence in this (worldly) mansion (dār),

he is a stranger there, and he is in foreign territory (or exile, dār al-ġurba),
as the Prophet has said: “Be in this world as if you were a stranger!” It
is, however, a ġurba that will come to an end, and he will get back to
his native land and mansion. The ġurba that offers no hope that it will
ever end is the one in the vile mansion (that is this world, dār al-hawān)
involving separation from the native land that was arranged and prepared
92 The above paraphrase of al-Tawḥīdī’s Išārāt, ed. Badawī, 78–86, ed. al-Qāḍī, 80–87, con-
veys, it is hoped, some of the aura surrounding the stranger in Muslim metaphysical
speculation.
93 Cf. al-Tawḥīdī, Imtāʿ, I, 215.
94 See already above, p. 37, and cf. also Iḥsān ʿAbbās (below, n. 101), 98.
for him,95 and he was commanded to make provisions for the journey
back to it—that is the ġurba that offers no hope for a return … .96
The great impetus given by Ṣūfīsm to feelings of disdain for this world led to
their routine self-identification as strangers and established the symbolism for
ġurba as the dangerous immersion in the world of the senses. Al-Suhrawardī
al-maqtūl could thus entitle one of his essays “The Story of al-ġurba al-ġarbīya”
in order to describe a voluntary journey (thus not really an “exile”) into the
material world: the “west”, however, turns out to be the world of darkness and
a prison.97
The religious tradition with great potential, although it remained unreal-
ized, for merging all the various strands of thought about the stranger into one
overarching concept was the famous and enigmatic badaʾa l-Islāmu ġarīban wa
sa-yaʿūdu kamā badaʾa ġarīban fa-ṭūbā li-l-ġurabāʾi “Islam began as a stranger,
and it will return as a stranger as it began. Therefore, blessed are the strangers”.
60 There are minor variant readings; the | text quoted here is that in Muslim’s
Ṣaḥīḥ.98 A reading badā “appeared” has deservedly found little support;99
“began” is strongly supported by “return = be again”, and by the frequent com-
bination of badaʾa and ʿāda in the Qurʾān, where the roots refer to creation and
resurrection. The plural ġurabāʾ, in the coda blessing the strangers, supports the
assumption that the singular ġarīb was intended to be the noun “stranger”, and
the growing stress on the adjectival meaning of “rare” was, in fact, something
secondary. Further, it has never been suggested that the blessing on strangers
might not have been an original part of the ḥadīṯ; it is usually, if not always,
attested in connection with it. The ḥadīṯ does not appear in the Ṣaḥīḥ of al-
Buḫārī. It is hard to explain why this is so, but it need not necessarily mean
that al-Buḫārī doubted the genuineness of the ḥadīṯ. At any rate, no such doubt
was ever raised in the religious literature or in casual quotations, as far as I can
see.
95 “For which he was shaped and prepared” seems to be a less likely translation.
96 Ibn Qayyim al-Ǧawzīya, op. cit., (above, n. 37), I, 151.
97 For the much studied little work, see the edition by H. Corbin, Œuvres philosophiques
et mystiques de Shihābaddin Yaḥya Sohrawardī, I, 273–297 (Teheran and Paris 1952). An
English translation is included in W.M. Thackston, The mystical and visionary treatises of
Shihabuddin Yahya Suhrawardi, 100–108 (London 1982).
98 Muslim, Ṣaḥīḥ, īmān 232, I, 104 (Calcutta 1265/1849).
99 Cf. the footnotes in Ibn Māǧa, Sunan, (II), 1320 (Cairo 1381–1382/1972), and Ibn ʿAbd al-Barr,
Ǧāmiʿ bayān al-ʿilm, II, 119 (Cairo, n.y.).
While the form of the ḥadīṯ presents no problems, its precise meaning is any-
thing but clear, and it was much debated. A knowledge of the context in which it
originated and what it originally referred to would be extremely helpful, but, to
all indications, it is not within our reach, much as we would welcome a definite
historical situation as its starting point. At least one monograph was written
that, in the words of Iḥsan ʿAbbās, “basically revolves” around the ḥadīṯ, the
Kitāb al-ġurabāʾ by the fourth/tenth-century al-Āǧurrī.100 Although the work is
said to be published,101 its full text has not been available. The analysis by Iḥsan
ʿAbbās provides much insight into the problems of ġarīb and ġurba in Islam, but
it would serve no purpose here to use it as a substitute for al-Āǧurrī’s full text.
Clarifying additions appear early and continue through the centuries.102
Muslim offers another recension that does indeed omit the blessing on the
ġurabāʾ. It enlarges the ḥadīṯ with the statement that “Islam | will take refuge103 61
between the two mosques as a snake takes refuge in its hole”.104 There also is
a recension that explains ġurabāʾ as al-nuzzāʿ/al-nawāziʿ min al-qabāʾil “those
who secede from the tribes”.105 Such additions complicate the picture and
present more difficulties of interpretation. Muslim’s addition could be under-
stood eschatologically but need not be. The nuzzāʿ/nawāziʿ tradition appears to
exclude any eschatological implications and again points to specific contempo-
rary circumstances.
100 On Abū Bakr Muḥammad b. al-Ḥusayn (to distinguish him from an older Āǧurrī listed
in Sezgin, GAS, I, 165), see GAL Suppl., I, 274; GAS, I, 194. Much of his preserved scholarly
output has been published since the 1980s.
101 According to vague references to its publication in Kuwait found in the edition of al-
Āǧurrī, Aḫlāq ḥamalat al-Qurʾān, ed. ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz b. ʿAbd al-Fattāḥ al-Qārīʾ, 103 (Medina
1408/1987).
The article of Iḥsān ʿAbbās is published in Mélanges de l’Université St. Joseph 50 (1984),
Arabic section, 91–101.
102 The eighteenth-century commentator of al-Ġazzālī’s Iḥyāʾ, Murtaḍā al-Zabīdī, has a repre-
sentative collection of statements, cf. Itḥāf (above, n. 76), I, 264–266, in connection with
the kitāb al-ʿilm of the Iḥyāʾ, I, 34 (Cairo 1352/1933), trans. Nabih A. Faris, 98 (Lahore 1962).
103 For the root ʾ-r-z, cf. T. Nöldeke, Belegwörterbuch der klassischen arabischen Sprache, ed.
Jörg Kraemer, 17b (Berlin 1952–1954).
104 In addition to Muslim, loc. cit. (above, n. 98), cf., for instance, al-Tirmiḏī, in Tuḥfat
al-Aḥwaḏī, VII, 180–183 (Cairo 1387/1967), where the Ḥiǧāz is indicated as the place of
refuge. This addition appears by itself as a ḥadīṯ in praise of Medina in al-Buḫārī, see Ibn
Ḥaǧar, Fatḥ, IV, 465. Its connection with the ġurabāʾ ḥadīṯ is thus clearly secondary.
105 Cf., for instance, Ibn Ḥanbal, I, 398, V, 343 (Cairo 1313); Ibn Māǧa, (II), 1320; al-Dārimī, II,
311 (n.p., n.y. [ca. 1970]). On nuzzāʿ/nawāziʿ, see the Leiden edition of al-Ṭabarī, Annales:
Introductio, Glossarium, Addenda et Emendanda, DIX (Leiden 1901).
The ġurabāʾ were interpreted as the good Muslims. They are stated to be “of
my nation”.106 They are those “who will reverse the corruption of my sunna
that was caused by people after my death”,107 and “they will revive my dead
sunna”.108 Or “they are the ones who are continuing the conditions in which you
(i.e., the Prophet’s contemporaries) are today”.109 Taking isolation as the mean-
ing inherent in ġurba suggested that the ġurabāʾ constituted a rare elite few in
numbers. More people hate than love them.110 Religious scholars liked to see
themselves counted among those ġurabāʾ. They were entitled to enjoy such an
exceptional position, since true religious knowledge (ʿilm) was possessed only
by a very small minority. “The believers are few among people, and scholars
are few among the believers”.111 It is, however, rather strange to find “Islam” or
“faith” in the ḥadīṯ replaced outright by ʿilm, as is the case in one of the versions
quoted by Ibn ʿAbd al-Barr. Ibn ʿAbd al-Barr also cites an explanation of the
ġurabāʾ as “those who will revive the sunna and teach it to mankind”, adding a
saying to the effect that “the religious scholars are strangers (and rare), because
62 there | are so many ignoramuses”.112 Some circles took a different approach. In
an allusion to the ḥadīṯ in the form: “He who becomes a stranger (iġtaraba)
when Islam becomes a stranger”, such a stranger may be claimed by different
religious groups as one of their own. He thus may be the expected Mahdī, a
Ṣūfī saint (badal), a gnostic ʿārif among the philosophers, or, according to the
commentator’s colleagues, the Muʿtazilites, one among the scholars of ʿadl and
tawḥīd.113
Islam’s beginning as a stranger was an idea that was easily acceptable, for in
early Muslim history, the believers were indeed a strange and small minority
among the large mass of non-Muslims. The return of Islam as a stranger, how-
ever, was problematic. It left open the questions as to when the future return of
Islam would occur in time and why Islam should be called a stranger after all
those centuries of expansion and numerical growth. We have seen that there
was much agreement on the second question: Islam was a stranger, because the
number of true believers and sincere Muslims was small. But it was not clear
when this regrettable situation would come to a head. According to some of
106 Al-Tawḥīdī, Imtāʿ, II, 78.

107 Al-Tawḥīdī, loc. cit.
108 Al-Ġazzālī, Iḥyāʾ, loc. cit.
109 Ibid.
110 Ibid.
111 Ibn Qayyim al-Ǧawzīya, Miftāḥ, I, 147.
112 Ibn ʿAbd al-Barr, Ǧāmiʿ, II, 119 f.
113 Šarḥ Nahǧ al-balāġa, III, 434 f.
the explanations cited, it could, in this world, be anytime; it might always be

stated, and be employed even today as a powerful motif, that “we live in a time
in which Islam is again a stranger”.114 In particular, it could be the dearth of
true ascetics and pious mystics that at any time makes Islam again a stranger.
When al-Tawḥīdī visited Mecca in 353/964, he heard one in this select group
comment that the stranger meant in the ḥadīṯ “is the one who flees from city
to city, from mountaintop to mountaintop, from place to place, from sea to
land, till he is safe. But how can he find safety with those fires spreading in east
and west and destroying all plant life and animal and human productivity115
with the inevitable result of covering every mouth, silencing every speaker,
confusing every intelligent individual, choking every drinker, and giving every
drinker a bitter taste? Thinking about it ravishes the mind and causes great
sadness and worry”.116 This moving description, while reflecting the traditional
status assumed for strangers, has unmistakable eschatological undertones. The
preferred moment for the return of Islam as a stranger is indeed the end of
the world. The | rarity of true believers as well as the assumed concentra- 63
tion of Islam between Mecca and Medina are easily understood by anyone
who so desires as signs of the approaching Last Day. An authoritative state-
ment to this effect is that of Ibn al-Aṯīr: “In the beginning, Islam was a solitary
stranger with no family because of the small number of Muslims at that time
… The Muslims will be few at the end of time, so they will come to be like
strangers … The blessing on strangers refers to Paradise (destined) for those
Muslims who lived at the beginning of Islam and those who will live at the
end. God gave Paradise especially to them, because they bore patiently the
harm done to them first and last and adhered steadfastly to the religion of
Islam”.117
The theoretical view of the stranger, with all its intellectual speculations and
artistic exaggerations, is relatively clear. It can be assumed to have been familiar
to all in the educated strata of society and to have been part of their thoughts
and feelings. It probably was adopted as normative by society at large; in the
absence of sufficient concrete information, this would be difficult to prove. It
114 Cf. ʿAbd al-Qādīr b. Muḥammad al-Ǧazīrī, Durar al-fawāʾid, 130 (Cairo 1384), and al-
Ḫumaynī, al-Ḥukūma al-Islāmīya, 9, 65, 145 (n.p. [Cairo], 1979).
115 English translations of Qurʾān 2:205 give “tillage and stock”.
116 Al-Tawḥīdī, Imtāʿ, II, 79.
117 Ibn al-Aṯīr, Nihāya, III, 173, s.v. ġ-r-b (Cairo 1322). The Qurʾānic use of b-d-ʾ and ʿ-w-d no
doubt favored the eschatological interpretation of the ḥadīṯ.
is even more difficult to gain a picture of the relationship of theory to actual

practice. How were strangers treated in real life and what role did they play in
society? Our sources again are literary and the deductions that can be made,
uncertain. It is, after all, obvious that when we read, for example, that strangers
are to be treated with generosity and kindness, we cannot be sure whether this
was actual practice, or an ideal to be lived up to, or an admonition for a society
where people normally treated strangers with less than civility.
“Strangers” as organized groups were often involved in historical develop-
ments of all kinds and dimensions, but they were rarely designated as such.
At any given time, there were plenty of people, especially in the larger towns,
who qualified as resident or temporary strangers.118 Sometimes, they would
be labeled as strangers, as in the case of merchants supplementing the local
commercial establishment. A large town may have a “strangers’ quarter (ḥārat
al-ġurābāʾ)”119 which may be assumed to have been a section of town inhabited
by strangers but we cannot tell when this was the case, how many there were,
64 whether they were segregated there, and so on. In general, when larger | groups
of settlers from outside were willing and able to retain their identity as separate
units of their own, they did not do so explicitly as “strangers”, as this was largely
inappropriate in the Muslim context. Organizing principles were national ori-
gins, as in the case of Andalusians in the Maghrib and the East or Khurāsānians
in Western locations. National and ethnic origins gave names to and affirmed
the coherence of military bodies as well as foreign dynasties and college stu-
dents. Religio-legal affiliations often harbored large groups of strangers, such
as the Mālikites in largely non-Mālikite Egypt or Ṣūfīs everywhere. Classes of
professionals included itinerant strangers that were not routinely organized
as such. A powerful potential principle of organization was apparently not
employed for a general classification as strangers, that is, the sharing of a lan-
guage other than that of the linguistic majority; numerous locations harbored
large concentrations of speakers of foreign languages, but this does not seem
to have given rise to lumping some of them together as “strangers”. Skin color,
another distinguishing mark, was much commented upon but not as consti-
tuting a separate group of “strangers” thus designated. One might perhaps go
so far as to claim that even where “strangers” are referred to as a group, it
should be understood as a plurality of individuals rather than an organized
group.
118 See also above, p. 41.

119 Cf. N. Elisséeff, La Description de Damas d’ Ibn ʿAsākir, 138, n. 2 (Damascus 1959).
A traveler from Spain could thus refer to Spanish ġurabāʾ he encountered

in the East and write about their special living conditions.120 Ṣūfīs who found
themselves isolated in a dangerous situation might see themselves as a group of
strangers in a Ṣūfī house,121 although this could reflect the general classification
of Ṣūfīs as “strangers”.122 There does not seem to have been very much of the
sort. It may be characteristic of the largely unorganized status of strangers
in medieval Islam that ḥisba works do not document any special concern
for strangers in the market supervisor’s office. Admittedly, they do not quite
belong to what was normally seen as the market, but they stray into the ḥisba
literature only in a very marginal manner. As the muḥtasib’s duties included
the supervision of public baths, he could stipulate that bathkeepers pro|vide 65
bathing trunks for rent to strangers and needy people.123 It is, however, difficult
to imagine a muḥtasib in a Muslim town doing what his Byzantine counterpart
in the border town of Lāḏiqīya (Latakia) did, as Ibn Buṭlān reports as a shocking
curiosity, namely, auctioning off harlots to strangers who would take them to
special hotels where they had made reservations.124 It is probably not by chance
that we hear again about inns for merchants and strangers in a Western fringe
area.125
Egypt, for millennia a magnet for strangers of all kinds, produced a biograph-
ical dictionary explicitly designed to list “strangers”. The Kitāb al-ġurabāʾ of
the fourth/tenth-century Ibn Yūnus126 is known only from quotations, and we
thus do not learn much about its general view of strangers. Other biographical
local histories list everybody of note who was somehow connected with a given
locality and do not make a summary distinction between strangers and non-
120 Ibn Ǧubayr, Riḥla, 52, 243, 376. Here we hear about love for ġurabāʾ as well as fuqarāʾ, the
latter term probably aiming less at the poor in general than the “poor” Ṣūfīs.
121 Al-Tawḥīdī, Imtāʿ, III, 92.
122 “Strangers” also occurs as a generic term for professors who apparently were not natives
of the places where they taught, cf. al-Saḫāwī, Ḍawʾ, IV, 30, l. 7, 213, l. 20, VI, 115, l. 27, IX,
268, l. 22.
123 Gf. Ibn Bassām, Nihāyat al-rutba, ed. Ḥusām-al-dīn al-Sāmarrāʾī, 79 (Baghdad 1968); al-
Šayzarī, Nihāyat al-rutba, ed. al-Sayyid al-Bāz al-ʿArīnī, 88 (Cairo 1365/1946).
124 Cf. al-Qifṭī, ed. J. Lippert, 24 (Leipzig 1903), trans. J. Schacht and M. Meyerhof, The Medico-
Philosophical Controversy between Ibn Buṭlān of Baghdad and Ibn Riḍwān of Cairo, 57 (Cairo
1937).
125 Here in connection with the muḥtasib’s concern that the inn’s financial administrator
(mutaqabbil) not be a woman, cf. Ibn ʿAbdūn, ed. E. Lévi-Provençal, in JA 224 (1934), 239,
trans. by the same, Séville musulmane au début du XIIe siècle, 110 (Paris 1947).
126 See Sezgin, GAS I, 357 f.
strangers, although in many, if not most, cases, the biographees were neither
native born nor longtime residents. Another work having ġurabāʾ in its title,
the Adab al-ġurabāʾ by the author of the great Kitāb al-Aġānī, who spent most
of his life in Baghdad, is a work of fiction.127 It employs the firmly established
topos of the stranger’s misery as a foil for stories about verses scribbled on walls
or, less frequently, on rocks. At times, these inscriptions are accompanied by
ripostes from later arrivals on the scene, and occasionally they are provided
with dates in the fashion of tourists who wish to leave a memento (aṯar) of
their visits, as at the Pharos of Alexandria. The involvement of “strangers” is
almost always deduced from the melancholy character of the verses and tells
us next to nothing about the fictional strangers’ circumstances.128 Even more
so than in the case of Ibn Yūnus’ Ġurabāʾ, Abū l-Faraǧ’s strangers constitute no
organized group but exclusively represent individuals.
66 The ancient tradition that viewed strangers with awe as gifted with special
unusual powers continued into Islam. Magicians and the like, even if they were
not designated as strangers, were depicted as being of foreign origin. In the
alchemical literature, a title such as Kitāb al-Ġarīb seems to have represented
this tradition,129 and in connection with remarkable religious information,
Abū ʿĪsā al-Warrāq’s Kitāb al-Ġarīb al-mašriqī may have drawn on it.130 Dream
interpretation might be expected to have dealt with dream visions of strangers.
A good deal of it can be found in the classical work of Artemidorus that was
translated into Arabic.131 However, comparatively little of the sort was included
127 Above, n. 28, and H. Kilpatrick-Waardenburg, in Actes du 8me Congrès de l’Union

Européenne des Arabisants et Islamisants, 127–135 (Aix-en-Provence 1978).
128 Inscriptions on various objects were a favorite device of the belletristic imagination. See
also al-Bayhaqī, Maḥāsin, in connection with strangers.
129 Cf. P. Kraus, Jābir ibn Ḥayyān, I, 124 (1942–1943. Mémoires de l’Institut d’Égypte 44–45).
In n. 11, Kraus refers to a work ascribed to the Ismāʿīlī Abū Yaʿqūb al-Siǧistānī, see Sezgin,
GAS, I, 575. Since we have only the titles and excerpts for this and the following work, the
intended meaning of ġarīb remains uncertain and, in the case of the following title, has
often been misunderstood.
130 The passage is not contained in the Flügel edition of the Fihrist. It appears in manuscript
Tonk and the translation of the Fihrist by B. Dodge, (I), 419, 441 (New York and London
1970). See J. van Ess, “Ibn ar-Rēwandi, or the making of an image”, in al-Abḥāṯ 27 (1978–
1979), 19, n. 3, and S. Stroumsa, in JAOS 114 (1994), 165, n. 18.
131 Cf. Elisabeth Schmitt, Lexikalische Untersuchungen zur arabischen Übersetzung von Arte-
midors Traumbuch, 263, 372 (Wiesbaden 1970). The translation uses ġarīb mainly for xenos
and allotrios. A rare case of two Greek words (alloethnōn kai xenōn) rendered by only
one Arabic equivalent (qawm ġurabāʾ) occurs here, see the Greek text of Artemidorus,
in the popular Muslim literature on dreams. In its eventual, most impoverished

state represented by the small pamphlet ascribed to Ibn Sīrīn, some attention
is paid to travel and absences from home. A king dreaming of finding himself
in unfamiliar territory could expect to experience misfortune and humiliation,
as confirmed by Qurʾān 27:34.132 If sūra al-Aʿrāf appeared in one’s dream, it
might presage the misfortune of dying abroad as a stranger, while the Yūsuf
sūra was fittingly interpreted as promising success abroad.133 Certain birds
were assumed to be indicative of destitute strangers (cranes), strange bedouin
women (female ostriches), or unmarried strangers (male ostriches); however,
“strange” appears here in the printed text in some cases where it did not belong
originally.134 The assumption appears to be that one did | not dream much 67
about strangers, and it might be concluded that strangers as a category were
not much on the average person’s mind.
Individual strangers could, if they so desired, merge into the local popula-
tion, and no doubt most of them did.135 Very rarely, however, do the sources
state that it was something recommendable. Thus, we must assume that no
matter how routinely strangers assimilated, this was not considered a topic
fit to dwell upon. Our best example comes from a pre-Islamic poet, the sixth-
century ʿAbīd b. al-Abraṣ:
Be cooperative when you are somewhere (abroad),

and don’t say, I am a stranger!
A stranger should not claim favored treatment, because, the poet continues, he
may find himself closer to the people he encounters abroad than to his folks at
home.136 And he should have high hopes for the land where he takes up resi-
ed. R.A. Pack, 192, ll. 23f. (Leipzig 1963), and the edition of the Arabic translation by T. Fahd,
349, l. 4 (Damascus 1964). “Strangers” were a much more varied lot in the Greek view than
they were in Muslim eyes.
132 Ibn Sīrīn, Taʿbīr al-ruʾyā al-ṣagīr, 3 (Cairo 1355/1936 [1359/1960]).
133 Op. cit., 65 f., ch. 25.
134 Op. cit., 59, ch. 22. The immediate source for all this is represented by ʿAbd al-Ġanī
al-Nābulusī, Taʿṭir al-anām fī taʿbīr al-manām (Cairo, n.y.). Cranes may indicate future
travel, among many other things, but the word ġarīb does not occur there (II, 192). In
connection with the female ostrich, ġarība is replaced, no doubt correctly, by its look-alike
ʿarabīya “Arab” (II, 310), and the word “stranger” is absent in connection with the male
ostrich (II, 74).
135 But see above, nn. 17a and 18.
136 C. Lyall, The Dīwāns of ʿAbīd ibn al-Abraṣ, of Asad, and ʿĀmir ibn aṭ-Ṭufayl, of ʿĀmir ibn
dence.137 On the other hand, especially in later centuries, some people such as
scholars may often have insisted upon retaining some of their foreign charac-
teristics. Under certain circumstances, persons of high rank would appreciate
being categorized as strangers living in exile or at least pretending that theirs
was a condition that was not permanent.138
Strangers naturally included all types, including shady characters such as
confidence men. A man who was seventy-five years old went abroad looking
for a wife, because where people did not know him, he could claim to be only
fifty.139 By and large, however, the literature tries to give the impression that
honest strangers could and should claim special consideration, because they
were strangers. A stranger’s faux pas deserve to be overlooked. Someone in
68 Mecca wrote verses on a | wall in the holy mosque, in order to elicit support
for him to make contact with a slave girl, a songstress, with whom he had fallen
in love:
I am a stranger and as such deserve help,

hopelessly infatuated, so show compassion with my long turmoil!140
Whether his pleading was successful, we do not know, but at any rate, this is
pure fiction and most unlikely to have ever had its counterpart in real life.
Occasionally, however, friendly attitudes toward strangers were recorded
with approval, and this may have mirrored reality. Great kindness shown to a
stranger by a distinguished family might make that stranger feel like being a
member of the family.141 “Refuge of the stranger (maʾwā al-ġarīb)” could func-
Ṣaʿṣaʿah, text, 73f., trans., 19 (Cambridge 1913, reprinted 1980. E.J.W. Gibb Memorial Series
21). Lyall’s translation reads:
Help thou a land while thou dwellest therein,

and say not—‘I am a stranger here’;
Ofttimes the stranger from afar becomes the nearest:
often the nearest kinsman is cut off and becomes strange.
The verses are quoted, for instance, in al-Ǧāḥiẓ, Bayān, IV, 67.
138 Cf. Ibn Ḥaǧar, Ḏayl al-Durar al-kāmina, ed. ʿAdnān Darwīš, 99 (Cairo 1412/1992).
139 Šarḥ Nahǧ al-balāġa, V, 866. “Old stranger” could thus be used for referring to a proverbial
liar.
140 Abū l-Faraǧ al-Iṣfahānī, Adab al-ġurabāʾ, 78 f.
141 Op. cit., 44.
tion as an epithet of perfection in pre-Islamic times.142 Later, descriptions of

an individual as “being kind to strangers (mukrim, murfid al-ġurabāʾ)” were not
uncommon.143 The Yemenite Rasūlid al-Malik al-Ašraf (778–803/1377–1400)—
a prolific author who, we are told, made use of something as seemingly mod-
ern as ghostwriters—would show extraordinary kindness to strangers.144 The
biographer wrote from personal experience, which may have colored his judg-
ment; the strangers may have been sporadic visitors, thus more like guests than
strangers. Travelers in foreign countries were naturally very sensitive to the
treatment they received and motivated to report on it. Ibn Ǧubayr was quite
specific in describing grants and jobs given to strangers by some governments
in countries he visited. He stressed the fact that Maġribites, his countrymen,
were the principal beneficiaries, but others were also included. In northern
Syria, he encountered what he considered was an especially favorable climate
for strangers.145 By | contrast, in a town like Messina where unbelievers pre- 69
dominated, a stranger could not expect a friendly reception.146
Strangers were in the happy position of being able to refer to a sunna
of the Prophet—no doubt, an ad hoc invention—to bolster their claim to
being treated with kindness and generosity.147 The plea “I am a stranger” came
easily on a variety of occasions.148 Helpful consideration was often expected
by the strangers themselves, whatever their status, or by others on their
142 Cf. al-Ḫansāʾ, Dīwān, 7 f. (Beirut 1379/1960), poem rhyming on -āhā. The Dīwān has al-
ḍarīki, approximately “one down on his luck”, for al-ġarībi. The latter appears in the quo-
tation of the verse by al-Mubarrad, and S.A. Bonebakker makes a case for its possible
originality (“Mubarrad’s version of two poems by al-Khansāʾ”, in Festschrift Ewald Wag-
ner zum 65. Geburtstag, II, 99 f. [Beirut 1994. Beiruter Texte und Studien 54]). It might be
argued, however, that an original ḍarīk was replaced by ġarīb, not only because ḍarīk was
a rare word but also because ġarīb had become a more meaningful concept in the time
between al-Ḫansāʾ and al-Mubarrad.
143 In al-Subkī, Ṭabaqāt al-Šāfiʿīya, VI, 125 (Cairo 1383/1964), the “strangers” probably were
students and visiting scholars. See, further, al-Saḫāwī, Ḍawʾ, I, 98, l. 4, VII, 182, l. 17, 229,
l. 13, VIII, 125, l. 15, XI, 70bottom, XI, 148, l. 6.
144 Cf. Ibn Ḥaǧar, Inbāʾ, IV, 265 (Hyderabad 1387–1396/1967–1976); al-Saḫāwī, Ḍawʾ, II, 299. See
also Inbāʾ, VII, 289, l. 9.
146 Ibn Ǧubayr, Riḥla, 323.
147 Arabian Nights, 36th, 53rd, and 935th Nights, I, 298, 407, IV, 480, trans. Littmann, I, 433, 573,
VI, 166. In the second passage, the ḥadīṯ was extended to cover strangers who were sick. It
is not insignificant that in the corresponding version of the first passage in ed. Mahdi, I,
459, the statement ascribed to the Prophet is not mentioned.
148 Cf. al-Balāḏurī, Ansāb, ed. Ḫalīl ʿAṯāmina, VI B, 150 (Jerusalem 1993).
behalf.149 On the other hand, it might turn out to be an unpleasant experience,

if you found yourself a stranger and were suspected of being wealthy.150 Still,
being a stranger was a valid excuse at times.151 A stranger with special skills or
attractive personal qualities was often welcomed by foreign rulers who realized
the potential benefits they might reap from his employment.152 A remote
model was the Yūsuf story of the Qurʾān 12:21. It was considered proverbial
wisdom that it was advisable to make a homeless stranger feel at home, so
as to increase one’s chances to receive a friendly reception if one happened
to get into a similar situation.153 However, no matter how much charitable
consideration might be given to needy strangers, when they had the misfortune
of dying abroad all alone (ġarīban waḥīdan) with no relatives or friends, who
might not even know about their death,154 they possibly faced the prospect of
70 burial in a | section of the cemetery that was set aside for just those cases,155
149 Cf., for instance, Arabian Nights, 18th, 288th, 328th, 794th Nights, I, 130f. (ed. Mahdi, I, 210,
l. 14), II, 161, 255, IV, 50, trans. Littmann, I, 200, III, 135, 262, V, 377. Cf. also 10th Night, I,
66, trans. Littmann, I, 120, ed. Mahdi, I, 127, l. 42, in the story cycle of the Porter, where
“stranger” alternates with the slightly more specific “non-Arab (Persian)”. The same cycle
also offers a good example for a certain solidarity displayed by strangers with one another,
see 14th Night, I, 102, trans. Littmann, I, 161, ed. Mahdi, I, 178, ll. 34ff.
150 Arabian Nights, 39th Night, I, 321, trans. Littmann, I, 462.
151 Arabian Nights, 553rd Night, III, 47, trans. Littmann, IV, 154.
152 For instance, Arabian Nights, 934th, 937th Nights, IV, 475, 478, trans. Littmann, VI, 160,
173.
153 Cf. al-Mubarrad, Kāmil, 134.
154 Arabian Nights, 140th Night, I, 672, trans. Littmann, II, 165. The miserable fate of dying
alone could also befall someone at home in his own country, cf. 402nd Night, II, 422f.,
trans. Littmann, III, 532 f. The combination ġarīb waḥīd seems to have lost its connection
to the status of stranger and become a metaphor for overpowering loneliness in Arabian
Nights, ed. Mahdi, I, 487, l. 11. In the story of Ǧullanār, the childless king was certainly no
“stranger”, although others in the story were. In Arabian Nights, III, 543, trans. Littmann,
V, 91, waḥīd farīd may go back to a correction by someone who considered the reference
to “stranger” inappropriate.
Al-Saḫāwī’s Ḍawʾ is roughly contemporaneous with the common texts of the Arabian
Nights. It had, of course, often to deal with individuals who died abroad, and the fact
was not mentioned expressly by the addition of ġarīb. When it was, however, it mostly
served the purpose of pitying the deceased rather than merely stressing his foreign death,
cf. Ḍawʾ, V, 21, 277, 318, VI, 232, VII, 145 (ġarīban ʿan waṭanihī wa ʿiyālihī), VIII, 61, 180, IX, 34,
110, 188 (ġarīban farīdan), XI, 61 (ġarīban šahīdan as a martyr from the plague). This may
not apply to passages where it refers to death in exile (see above, n. 7).
155 In the biographies of ʿUṯmān b. Abī Bakr al-Nāširī and Muḥammad b. Muḥammad al-
ʿAlawī al-Taʿizzī, al-Saḫāwī refers, respectively, to the maqbarat al-ġurabāʾ in Taʿizz and
hardly a potter’s field but in view of the importance attached to proper funeral
sites, no doubt an undesirable resting place. Fear of a violent death that would
lead to the mutilated body remaining without burial and grave “on the ground
in the manner of strangers” had already been given expression with poetical
pathos in the Šāhnāme.156
The general run of strangers could be well-off or poor or of any economic
situation in between. The large contingent of students who studied abroad
probably fitted into this picture. However, they could not always count on the
financial support of parents and family and often qualified as poor strangers
in need. Colleges as they developed over the centuries had their own support
systems, and footloose Ṣūfīs could rely on increasingly powerful organizations
to take care of them. But the rank and file of students, especially before the
college system was in place, often felt lost in an unfamiliar environment. When,
for instance, a Spanish scholar went East to study with the famous al-Sīrāfī
(d. 368/979), depression set in because he missed his country and his | folks. 71
Upon meeting al-Sīrāfī, he was cheered up and saw the purpose of his stay
abroad fulfilled (wa ġurbatī ittaṣalat bi-buġyatī);157 regrettably we do not learn
whether this was also due to al-Sīrāfī’s friendly behavior toward him as a
stranger. One of Yāqūt’s teachers, a man who knew many languages, would
explain an Arabic text to a student who did not understand it, in the student’s
own language; this was a laudable act of kindness toward a stranger, but it is
the maqābir al-ġurabāʾ in Cairo, cf. Ḍawʾ, V, 127, l. 10, and IX, 146, l. 6. In the second case,
Ibn Ḥaǧar, Inbāʾ, VIII, 444, omits this particular fact.
Dying “a stranger in exile (ṭarīdan ġarīban)” is the greatest curse to befall anybody,
cf. Šarḥ Nahǧ al-balāġa, IV, 704, presumably relying on Abū Miḫnaf. It occurs in a nasty
exchange of messages between Muʿāwiya and Qays b. Saʿīd, which is rarely quoted in
extenso but often referred to. In this connection, the combination ṭarīdan ġarīban seems
to be attested as quoted only by Ibn Abī l-Ḥadīd. Ġarīban alone appears in al-Mubarrad,
Kāmil, 298, while ṭarīdan is the choice of Ibn Qutayba, ʿUyūn, II, 213, al-Masʿūdi, Murūǧ, V,
45 (Paris 1861–1877), and Ibn ʿAbd Rabbih, ʿIqd, IV, 338 (Cairo 1949 and later reprints). For
these references and others, see M. Schloessinger’s edition of al-Balāḏurī, Ansāb, IV A, 26,
and notes (Jerusalem 1971), as well as the translation by O. Pinto and G. Levi Delia Vida, Il
califo Muʿāwiya I, 28 (Rome 1938).
156 Firdawsī, Šāhnāme, II, 390 Mohl. In the Moscow edition, III, 141, the verse is banished
into a footnote. The use of the Arabic word for stranger makes it slightly suspect. Fritz
Wolff’s splendid Glossar zu Firdousis Schahname, 598b (Berlin 1935), has been helpful here
as usual.
157 Yāqūt, Iršād, ed. Margoliouth, III, 87, ed. Rifāʿi, VIII, 151. The scholar in question, ʿAbd Allāh
b. Ḥammūd, appears often in the works of al-Tawḥīdī, see Aḫlāq al-wazīrayn, ed. M. b.
Tāwīt al-Ṭanǧī, 370, n. 4 (Damascus 1385/1965); al-Ṣafadī, Wāfī, XVII, 151.
sad to report that this professor was not popular with his students because he
would spend time in class telling stories and reciting poetry instead of sticking
to his subject!158
Such anecdotal information is confirmed by the stress that the educational
literature puts on the proper attitude toward students who are strangers. “(The
teacher) must be friendly toward a stranger who comes to stay with him, and
must cheer him up by being cordial, since a newcomer feels bewildered (wa
yatawaddad li-ġarīb ḥaḍara ʿindahū wa yanbasiṭ lahū li-yašraḥ ṣadrahu ( yušraḥ
ṣadruhū?) fa-inna li-l-qādim dahša)”. He must not add to his embarrassment
by staring at him and being too obvious in paying attention to him because
of his perceived strangeness.159 The teacher’s duty of not being overbearing
(tawāḍuʿ) in dealing with any of his students is supported by a statement
attributed to al-Šāfiʿī that a teacher “must be patient with students, includ-
ing strangers”.160 A story, which may possess some historicity, confirmed this
Šāfiʿite attitude or may even be the origin of it. The Šāfiʿī disciple al-Rabīʿ
b. Sulaymān received a letter from his incarcerated colleague al-Buwayṭī, in
which, among other things, al-Buwayṭī recommended patience with strangers
as well as all other students of al-Šāfiʿī’s works.161 One may mention in this
connection a lesson from ancient medical history that was taught to Muslim
physicians and was probably known far beyond the medical profession. It was
72 Hippocrates who was said to | have lifted the old ban on admitting strangers to
the Asclepiad family of physicians and to have “made the strangers who came
to study medicine like his own children”. This involved no risk because med-
ical students were under oath not to divulge the professional secrets of the
Asclepiads.162 While nothing is said here about strangers in general, it could
158 Yāqūt, Iršād, ed. Margoliouth, VI, 232, ed. Rifāʿī, XVII, 59f.
159 Ibn Ǧamāʿa, Taḏkirat al-sāmiʿ, 43 f. (Hyderabad 1353).
160 Op. cit., 66.
161 The anecdote is referred to in a note to the edition of Ibn Ǧamāʿa, 66. Cf., among other
sources, Ibn Abī Ḥātim al-Rāzī, Ādāb al-Šāfiʿī wa manāqibuh, ed. ʿAbd al-Ġanī b. ʿAbd
al-Ḫāliq, 127 (Cairo 1372/1953); al-Ḫaṭīb al-Baġdādī, Taʾrīḫ Baġdād, XIV, 302, which probably
was the source of Ibn Ḫallikān, Wafayāt, VII, 65 f.; al-Subkī, Ṭabaqāt al-Šāfiʿīya, II, 165. Three
slightly different versions appear in Abū Nuʿaym, Ḥilya, IX, 148.
162 Cf. Isḥāq b. Ḥunayn, Taʾrīḫ al-aṭibbāʾ, ed. F. Rosenthal, in Oriens 7 (1954), 66f., 67f., re-
printed in idem, Science and Medicine in Islam, no. II (Aldershot 1990). This is the source
of later quotations such as al-Mubaššir, Muḫtār al-ḥikam, ed. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān Badawī,
44, l. 13, 47, l. 8 (Madrid 1377/1958). For the phrasing employed in the Arabic translation
of the Hippocratic Oath, see F. Rosenthal, The Classical Heritage in Islam, 184 (London
1975).
easily be interpreted as normative for them all. Later hospitals, it may be

added, might stipulate in their charters that their admission policy, although
it contained a number of restrictions, should not distinguish between natives
and strangers.163
Concern for strangers, as individuals and groups, was praised and, perhaps,
practiced in government circles under the right political and economic condi-
tions. This again seems to have happened especially in the marginal regions of
the Muslim world.164 Into early times, we are led by a passage from a supposed
letter by ʿUmar to Muʿāwiya. It concerns judicial procedure and is rather singu-
lar in that it recommends kindness to and concern for a stranger (wa taʿahhad
al-ġarīb) in court proceedings. The reason given is that a neglected stranger
might discontinue his efforts to obtain his rights and return to his folks.165
Finally, it may be repeated that charity for the poor was assumed to include
strangers. This was probably because many of them were poor. The parsimo-
nious charity which we hear was dispensed during the ḥaǧǧ may have included
the numerous resident strangers who crowded Mecca and Medina most of the
time.166
To sum up: A social phenomenon as ubiquitous and many-sided as the stranger

does not allow a one-dimensional description applicable to | all times and 73
locations. None can be given for medieval Islam. This seems to be true, even
if it is only a tiny fraction of the information buried in a vast literature that has
been picked out here as it were at random. Internal borders were largely absent
within the Muslim world, and mobility for a variety of reasons was the rule, at
least in the urban orbit and among those attracted to it. In contrast to the ahl
al-ḏimma, a binding legal definition of the stranger did not exist, and thus his
status was always undefined and subject to change.
Inherited factors such as were taken over from pre-Islamic civilizations
and bedouin life combined with the general human emotion conveniently
163 Cf. Aḥmad ʿĪsā (Issa) Bey, Taʾrīḫ, al-bīmāristānāt fī l-Islām, 138 (Damascus 1357/1939). The
quoted item al-ahlī wa l-ġarīb in the waqf charter of the Manṣūrī Hospital in Cairo was
not reproduced in al-Maqrīzī, Ḫiṭāṭ, II, 406 (Būlāq 1270, reprint Beirut, ca. 1970).
164 Cf. Ibn al-Ḫaṭīb, Nufāḍat al-ǧirāb fī ʿulālat al-iġtirāb, ed. A. Muḫtār al-ʿIbādī (voc.?), 139, 183,
327 (Cairo, n.y. [ca. 1968]). The employment of strangers by governments was, of course,
widespread.
165 Cf. al-Ǧāḥiẓ, Bayān, II, 150, quoted rather freely in Šarḥ Nahǧ al-balāġa, III, 756.
166 Cf. al-Ǧazīrī, op. cit., (above, n. 114), 684. For the processes of population mixture in early
Mecca, see M.J. Kister, “Strangers and allies in Mecca”, in Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and
Islam 13 (1990), 113–154.
described as homesickness to form the widely accepted theoretical attitude

toward strangers as expressed in the literature. It included a strong streak of
materialism suggesting material well-being, or the lack of it, as the criterion
for determining the value of the stranger’s existence, but the expression it
found was rather subdued in comparison with the constant, long litany of bitter
complaints about the miseries that were seen as the stranger’s lot.
The actual situation of strangers is so far only dimly and quite sporadically
perceivable, and no generalization as to the attitude toward them can be made,
probably because Islam, as has been stated, provided no unambiguous concep-
tualization that could be transposed into practice. It might be said, however,
that happily, xenophobia is not a word that comes to mind in considering the
situation and treatment of strangers in daily life.
As the turn toward inwardness and pious reflection as well as organized
mysticism grew steadily, it could not have failed to leave its mark also on the
view of strangers in theory and actuality. All human beings could be described
as strangers during their brief sojourn in this passing world. This miniscule
amount of time was something infinitely limited for each individual as com-
pared to eternity and was to be used for making preparations to reach one’s
true home in the metaphysical world. This made all the stranger’s troubles irrel-
evant in the larger scheme of things. Where everybody was a stranger, nobody
was a stranger. But how widely this feeling spread in society, cannot be accu-
rately measured.
There doubtless was a discrepancy between assumptions and facts with
respect to the status and treatment of strangers. It was always true that strang-
ers in a way existed and at the same time did not exist. Both aspects of their
being can be, it seems, assumed to have exercised some degree of influence on
the historical course of Islam.
74 Some Additional Notes
(n. 3) While I have chosen here to discuss the inner-Muslim understanding of

the stranger, the present-day focus of the discussion is commonly on strangers
from outside and non-Muslims. See already W. Heffening, Das islamische Frem-
denrecht bis zu den islamisch-fränkischen Staatsverträgen (Hannover 1925), and
recently the contributions of G. Schoeler and P. Heine to Meinhard Schuster
(ed.), Die Begegnung mit dem Fremden, 117–142 (Stuttgart-Leipzig 1996).
(n. 10) Cf. ġurāb al-iġtirāb in Ḥamza al-Iṣfahānī, al-Tanbīh ʿalā ḥudūṯ al-taṣḥīf,
165 (Baghdad 1387/1967) = 82 (Damascus 1388/1968).
(n. 24) However, verses describing the condition of the stranger as the very
worst there is, no matter where he is or how well he does, are not rare, see,
e.g., Ibn Aydemir, al-Durr al-farīd, II, 336, V, 274, 256 (in marg.), 469 (Wiesbaden
1408–1410/1988–1989, facsimile prepared by F. Sezgin).
(n. 33) Further Ibn al-Marzubān (n. 46), 68.
(n. 37) Poets were fond of the internalized concept of the stranger defining him
not so much by his own physical remoteness as by the temporary absence of
his dear ones or being an unloved lover, see Ibn Aydemir, IV, 141, 260, 357 (= V,
317), V, 16 (quoting al-Ġazzī [n. 78]), V, 19 (al-Ṭuġrāʾī).
(n. 46) A work on homesickness by ʿĪsā b. Sulaymān al-Ruʿaynī (581–630/1185–

1232/3) had a first chapter on ḏamm al-ġurba wa l-iġtirāb, see Ibn al-Šaʿʿār,
Qalāʾid (ʿUqūd) al-ǧumān fī farāʾid šuʿarāʾ al-zamān, IV, 455 f. (facsimile Frank-
furt a. M. 1410/1990).
(n. 58) Also Ḥamza al-Iṣfahānī, Tanbīh, 176f. = 111. Note that the sources tend to
give a literal interpretation to wuǧūh “faces”.
(n. 63) Experience gained through travel may provide superior insight into the
forces of history, according to al-Masʿudī in the introduction of Murūǧ.
(n. 69) The universal validity of the sentiment expressed in the Ḥamāsa verse
is stressed by al-Balawī, Kitāb Alif bāʾ, I, 65 (Būlāq 1287).
(n. 72) “An intelligent person is nowhere a stranger (wa mā ʿāqilun fī baldatin
bi-ġarībi)” says a verse quoted by Ibn Aydemir, V, 504 in marg.
Influenced by Ṣūfīsm (n. 92), an 8th/14th-century poet pronounced piety
as the perfect means to overcome the misery generally assumed to haunt the
stranger (Ibn Ḥaǧar, Inbāʾ, III, 264, anno 797):
People all over the world assume that

even the most prestigious stranger is humble.
My answer to them is: A stranger who is God-fearing,
wherever he takes up residence, is a mighty man (ǧalīl).
(n. 81) Tawḥīdī texts dealing with the ġarīb have been assembled by Wadād
al-Qāḍī in Mélanges de l’Université St. Joseph 50 (1984), Arabic section, 127–
139.
(n. 85) The simple idea that boredom is behind the human urge to move
from place to place was supposedly championed by Yaḥyā b. ʿAdī, according
to al-Ṯaʿālibī, Laṭāʾif al-ẓurafāʾ, ed. Q. al-Samarrai, fol. 38b (p. 369, Leiden 1978).
75 (n. 118, pp. 63f.) Occasional attempts to expel certain strangers as a group were
made. In 821/1418, for instance, it was publicly announced in Cairo that “every
stranger should return to his homeland”. This caused, of course, great concern
to the aʿāǧim (Ibn Ḥaǧar, Inbāʾ, VII, 297, see also IV, 231).
(n. 129) According to M. Ullmann, Die Natur- und Geheimwissenschaften im

Islam, 208, 452 (Leiden 1972), a manuscript of the work ascribed to Abū Yaʿqūb
al-Siǧistānī is preserved in Tübingen. It can be expected to hold the key to the
meaning of ġarīb here.
(n. 130) See also van Ess, Theologie und Gesellschaft im 2. und 3. Jahrhundert
Hidschra, VI, 432 (Berlin and New York 1995).
(n. 141) Appeals for support on the basis of a person’s known helpfulness to
strangers as well as recommendations are attested in letters and documents,
see Yūsuf Rāġib, Marchands d’étoffes du Fayyoum au IIIe/IXe siècle, II, 44 f., 84ff.
(Cairo 1985. Supplément aux Annales Islamologiques 5), and W. Diem, Ara-
bische Briefe auf Papyrus und Papier aus der Heidelberger Papyrus-Sammlung,
Textband, 90ff., 96f., 213 (Wiesbaden 1991. Kommission für Papyrus-Editionen,
Heidelberger Akademie der Wissenschaften, Philos.-hist. Kl.).
(n. 154) After a great teacher’s death, a younger scholar might feel like a ġarīb
farīd, see Ḍawʾ, III, 350, l. 17.
The reported inscriptions from the tomb of the great wanderer al-Šayḫ al-
Harawī (542–611/1147/8–1215, cf. GAL Suppl., I, 879) neatly combine the secular
and spiritual aspirations of the stranger: “This is the tomb of the lonely human
stranger ʿAlī b. Abī Bakr al-Harawī. He lived as a stranger and died lonely with
no friend to eulogize him, no intimate to weep for him, no family to visit him,
no colleagues to attend to him, no child to look for him, no wife to mourn him.
May God compensate for his loneliness and pity his stranger’s lot!”, and so on.
See al-Mustawfī, Taʾrīḫ Irbil, ed. Sāmī al-Ṣaqqār, I, 152–154, and commentary, II,
247–250 (Baghdad 1980).
(n. 158) Further Ibn al-Šaʿʿār, V, 23.

vi.5
On Suicide in Islam 239
In a historical investigation of suicide it is necessary to distinguish between

the occurrence of actual cases of suicide and the theoretical discussion of the
problems connected with it. Cases of suicide may occur in any place and at any
time. Unfavorable social, or psychic, or psycho-physiological conditions have
been considered as causes of the phenomenon. Suggestions have been made
as to how to limit, or eliminate, its occurrence. It would seem possible that the
frequency of suicide could be curbed by remedying the conditions conducive
of it. However, under the prevailing circumstances, such general improvement
appears not to be in sight, and, at any rate, the occurrence of various cases of
suicide is and will be unavoidable.
Discussions of the problems connected with suicide, on the other hand,
are much less to be taken for granted. It is true that there is evidence for
the presence of speculation about the ethical aspects of suicide even among
“primitive” human beings. There are instances which show that men at a very
low stage of cultural development considered suicide as a violation of the
established social order or as an act directed against the welfare of the “soul”
of an individual.1 In general, it would seem that “primitive” human beings
reflected along approximately the same lines as the author of the most pen-
etrating modern discussion of suicide, David Hume, who started out to prove
that “if suicide be criminal, it must be a transgression of our duty either to
God, our neighbour, or ourselves,”2 and came to the conclusion (contrary to
that of the “primitive” thinkers) that it was none of those three possibili-
ties.
Yet, it remains a fact that theoretical reasoning about suicide is compara-
tively rarely encountered among “primitive” groups. During certain periods it
also is very little noticeable in higher civilization. A possible explanation of the
attitude of “primitive” groups may be found in the assumption that they were so
stunned by the unnatural character of suicide that they considered it a catastro-
phe beyond the sphere of human reasoning. Such a mental attitude, however,
1 Cf. J. Wisse, Selbstmord und Todesfurcht bei den Naturvölkern 516f. and passim (Zutphen,
1933); S.R. Steinmetz, Der Selbstmord bei den afrikanischen Naturvölkern, in Zeitschrift für
Socialwissenschaften 10.362, 374 (1907).
2 D. Hume, Essay on Suicide, in Essays 2.407 (London, 1875).

could hardly be expected to have prevailed in the more highly developed stages
of society. Here another explanation suggests itself.
Only in the assumption that the life of an individual is continued in some
form or other after his death and that he will then be punished for his deed
can there be not the slightest doubt that suicide in fact is a harmful act. The
religions which thus convinced their faithful believers of the frightful conse-
quences of suicide succeeded in keeping the rate of its incidence very low. The
lack of, or the emancipation from such religious guidance has to be paid for
by an increase in the number of cases of suicide, but at the same time a keen
interest in the theoretical aspects of suicide comes to the fore. Consequently, it
would seem that the prevalence of a firm, unshattered religious belief accounts
for the periodic avoidance of independent discussions of the problem of sui-
cide.
The correctness of this assumption is borne out by the situation prevalent in
240 Graeco-Roman and, | especially, in modern times. Suicide was a favorite topic
of Hellenistic philosophy and of the period of enlightenment in the eighteenth
century, when the prestige of traditional religion was at a low ebb. The history
of suicide in Islam lends itself, mutatis mutandis, to similar observations.
It follows from the preceding remarks that the investigation of suicide in
Islam falls into two parts: 1) The actual (or legendary) cases of suicide, or
attempted suicide, as they have been reported in Arabic literature, and 2) the
theoretical discussions of the problem of suicide, both those reflecting the
official attitude of Islam and those which originated outside the sphere of
Muslim theology. Since the latter aspect is the more important one, it has here
been given precedence over the statistics of actual cases which appears to be
of limited significance.
I Theoretical Discussions of Suicide
1 The Official Religious Attitude
(“A religion amongst the followers of which suicide is almost absolutely

unknown …”)3
3 Th. Nöldeke, Sketches from Eastern History 72 (London-Edinburgh, 1892).

on suicide in islam 799
a The Qurʾân
In view of the negative attitude of Judaism and Christianity toward suicide4
it would appear to be a likely assumption that Muḥammad on his part, too,
considered suicide unlawful. Under the spell of this assumption some West-
ern scholars have embarked upon the dubious procedure of demonstrating
Muḥammad’s disapproval of suicide from several Qurʾânic passages which
quite generally speak of the prohibition to kill or to inflict bodily harm upon
somebody.5 Understandable though these efforts may be, they will forever
remain as inconclusive as the lengthy discussions whether the Biblical com-
mandment: Lô tirṣâḥ, did or did not include the prohibition of suicide in the
mind of its originator.
There are, however, four passages in the Qurʾân [2.54(51); 4.29(33); 4.66(69);
and 18.6(5)], as well as one in Muḥammad’s biography, which demand our
attention.
The episode from the life of the Prophet might have been brought up for
discussion in connection with the treatment of the theological material bear-
ing on suicide. However, since it seems to reflect an attitude which may be
interpreted as being at variance with the consensus of theological opinion,
it might well represent a tradition which might go back to the very earli-
est years of Islam. It is said that on several occasions during the prolonged
period devoid of revelations which followed Muḥammad’s first experience of
divine inspiration, the Prophet in desperation ascended the highest hill near
Mecca in the intention to hurl himself from its top and thus end his life.6
It is strange that Muḥammad’s intention to commit suicide as expressed in
this story does not appear to have evoked any comment in Muslim litera-
ture.
Qurʾân 4.66(69) would also seem to indicate a condoning attitude toward
suicide, if it is committed for a worthy purpose; for the passage deals with the
assumption that the Muslims might be commanded “to kill themselves (uqtulû
4 Cf., for instance, J. Robeck, Exercitatio philosophica de εὐλόγῳ ἐξαγωγῇ sive morte voluntaria
philosophorum et bonorum virorum etiam Judaeorum et Christianorum (Rentelii, 1736); J. Ham-
burger, Real-Encyclopädie des Judentums, Abt. II, 1110–1113 (Neustrelitz, 1896); A. Perls, Der
Selbstmord nach der Halacha, in MGWJ 55. 287–295 (1911). The problem of suicide in Graeco-
Roman civilization has repeatedly been investigated, cf., for instance, Ch. Lecrivain, Le suicide
dans l’ antiquité grecque, in Mém. de l’ Acad. des sciences, inscr. et belles-lettres de Toulouse, XII,
11.195–216 (1933).
5 Cf., especially, W.M. Patton’s notable article on Suicide (Muhammadan), in Encyclopedia of
Religion and Ethics 12.38 (New York, 1921).
6 Cf. Th. Nöldeke-F. Schwally, Geschichte des Qorâns 1.84 (Leipzig, 1909).
anfusakum).” The commentators, however, are of the opinion that this verse
is an exhortation to seek death in the Holy War, and thus, of course, would
not apply to individual suicide. Or they refer to Qurʾân 2.54(51) where Moses,
rebuking the Israelites who worshiped the Golden Calf, tells them to seek
forgiveness from their Creator and to “kill themselves ( fa-qtulû anfusakum).”
This verse was interpreted by a littérateur of the tenth century as a justifi-
cation of suicide.7 Muslim theologians, however, are averse to the assumption
that God would command anybody to commit a sin as grave as suicide in order
to atone for some other sin. Therefore, the verse is interpreted not as referring
to suicide, but to a mutual8 killing which was to take place either in the form of
241 a gigantic suicide pact or of a slaughter of the | worshipers of the Golden Calf
by those Israelites who had had no part in their sin.9 Other authorities think of
spiritual suicide, i. e., the suppression of lustful desires, or of a death through
baḫʿ, which appears to signify “grief” or “self-reproach.”10
This last interpretation, in turn, is inspired by Qurʾân 18.6(5), a verse which
would seem to indicate the possibility that Muḥammad might torment himself
(to death?) with self-reproach and grief on account of the disbelief in his sto-
ries prevailing among his contemporaries. The phrase used in this connection
(bâḫiʿun-nafsaka) probably was never intended as an indication that Muḥam-
mad might choose a violent self-inflicted death. Some Western translators, it
is true, think of suicide,11 but there is very little conclusive evidence to show
that the Muslim commentators saw in this passage anything else but an allu-
sion to the possibility that the Prophet might die as the result of psychic self-
torment.
Another Qurʾânic passage, however, is of a far greater importance for our
investigation than the three just mentioned. This is Qurʾân 4.29(33), which
reads, in R. Bell’s translation:12 “O ye who have believed, do not consume your
property among you in vanity, except there be trading by mutual consent on
your part, and do not kill each other (wa-lâ taqtulû anfusakum);13 verily Allâh
7 Cf. below p. 251.

8 Cf. below p. 241.
9 Cf. Ṭabarî, Tafsîr 1.219–221 (Cairo, 1321/1903). The latter suggestion agrees with the Biblical
narrative of Exodus 32.27f. Such agreement, however, is of little consequence for the
interpretation of the Qurʾânic passage.
10 Cf. Bayḍâwî, Commentarius 1.60 (ed. by H.L(O). Fleischer, Leipzig, 1846–1848).
11 As, for instance, Du Ryer and Henning, but the majority adopts what seems to be the more
correct interpretation.
12 Edinburgh, 1937.
13 “Lit. ‘do not kill yourselves’ (Bell).”
hath become with you compassionate. 30(34) Whoever does that14 in enmity
and wrong we shall one day roast in fire; for Allâh that is easy.”
Wa-lâ taqtulû anfusakum would ordinarily be translated: “and do not kill
yourselves.” The use of the reflexive pronoun in a reciprocal meaning does not
seem to occur in other Semitic languages. Qurʾân commentators, however, are
agreed that this usage is found in a number of passages in the Qurʾân, and from
them the Arabic lexicographers derived for nafs the meaning of “brother” or
“fellow Muslim.”15
The reciprocal interpretation of nafs seems to have its origin in passages

in which the plural, anfus, is used with reference to the collective qual-
ities of the persons addressed, thus assuming the connotation of “peo-
ple like yourselves.”Rasûlum-min anfusikum [Qurʾân 3.164(158); 9.128(129);
cf. also 16.89(91)], according to the commentaries, signifies a prophet
of your own kind, an Arab like you. Min anfusikum azwâjan [Qurʾân
16.72(74); 30.32(20); and 42.11(9)] is interpreted as “pairs of your kind.”
Much more uncertain is an identical interpretation of Qurʾân 10.23(24);
innamâ baġyukum ʿalâ anfusikum; here other authorities advocate the
reflexive meaning of the pronoun.
A reciprocal meaning is further assumed in other cases where anfus
would seem to refer to the persons in question as both individuals and
representatives of collective characteristics. Qurʾân 24.12(12); ẓanna l-
muʾminûna wa-l-muʾminâtu bi-anfusihim ḫayran is interpreted, with ref-
erence to Qurʾân 4.29(33), as holding each other in esteem, because all
believers can be considered one individual. Qurʾân 49.11(11): lâ talmizu
anfusakum is considered to signify: Do not disparage each other. Qurʾân
2.84(78): lâ tasfikûna dimâʾakum wa-lâ tuḫrijûna anfusakum-min diyâri-
kum is said to refer to spilling each other’s blood and driving each other
14 It is debatable whether the pronoun ḏâlika refers to the preceding verse as a whole, or
merely to wa-lâ taqtulû anfusakum, cf. Ṭabarî, Tafsîr 5.22, and Râzî, Mafâtîḥ 3.212 (Cairo,
1310/1890). If one accepts the latter interpretation, the arguments derived from the context
in favor of the translation: “and do not kill each other,” would appear to be somewhat
weakened, though not invalidated.
The general modern works on suicide start their quotation of the Qurʾânic passage
with wa-lâ taqtulû anfusakum, and thus give the impression that ḏâlika only refers to that
phrase.
15 H. Reckendorf, Die syntaktischen Verhältnisse des Arabischen 399 (Leyden, 1898), has a brief
reference to Qurʾân 2.84(78) under Reziproke Verhältnisse. I do not know of other modern
works where this phenomenon might have been treated in greater detail.
from their respective homes. Opinions are divided regarding Qurʾân

24.61(61): fa-sallimû ʿalâ anfusikum; among the various interpretations
which have been proposed we find: Salute your family (i. e., people like
yourselves), and also, again with reference to Qurʾân 4.29(33): Salute each
other.
As far as the interpretation of 4.29(33) is concerned, the evidence is inconclu-

sive. From the grammatical point of view the verse in question may contain a
prohibition of individual suicide, but the possibility remains that anfus might
refer to members of the group. However, the context is concerned with mutual
242 dealings among Muslims. A prohibition of individual suicide, therefore, | would
seem strangely out of place here. Those Muslim commentators and modern
translators16 who think that the passage refers to the killing of one Muslim by
the other might, consequently, be correct.
The Muslim attitude toward Qurʾân 4.29(33) was profoundly influenced by
the fact that the great Ṭabarî supported the interpretation which refers to a
mutual killing, and did not even mention the possibility of another rendering.17
For the reciprocal use of anfus aṭ-Ṭabarî offers the explanation that all Muslims,
as members of one persuasion (millah), one creed (daʿwah), and one religion
(dîn), are like one individual; thus, if one Muslim kills the other, it is as if he kills
himself, since the killer and the killed person constitute a united front (ahl yad
wâḥidah) against their non-Muslim opponents.
Faḫr ad-dîn ar-Râzî mentions some more reasons why anfusakum in this
passage may mean “each other.”18 He quotes a ḥadîṯ to the effect that “the believ-
16 A few translations, chosen at random in the available editions, reveal that a reference to
suicide was assumed by F.E. Boysen (Halle, 1775); C. Savary (Amsterdam, 1786); S.G.F. Wahl
(Halle, 1828, following Boysen); L. Ullmann (1840, etc.); J.M. Rodwell (London, 1876); Fr.
Rückert-A. Müller (Frankfurt, 1888); E.H. Palmer-R.A. Nicholson (London, 1900, 1928);
M. Henning (Leipzig, 1901, etc.).
Mutual killing is the interpretation adopted by A. du Ryer (London, 1649, English
translation from Du Ryer’s original French); D. Nerreter (Nürnberg, 1703); A. Kasimirski
(Paris, 1840, etc.); Muḥammad ʿAlî (Lahore, 1920); M. Pickthall (New York, 1930).
Among the scholars who, in a note or through a double translation, indicate that more
than one interpretation is possible are L. Marracci (Padova, 1698); G. Sale (London, 1764);
D.F. Megerlin (Frankfurt a/M, 1722); J. Le Beaume (Paris, 1878, p. 757); E.M. Wherry (Boston,
1884); ʿAbdallâh Yûsuf ʿAlî (Lahore, 1937); R. Bell (Edinburgh, 1937).
17 Tafsîr 5.22. Th.P. Hughes, however, was hardly justified in omitting any mention of sûrah
4.29(33) from the article on Suicide in A Dictionary of Islam (2nd ed., London, 1896).
18 Mafâtîḥ 3.212.
ers are like one soul (individual),” and he further refers to the expression:
“We have been killed, by the Lord of the Kaʿbah,” used by pre-Islamic Arabs
in the case that one, or some of them were killed; for they are said to have
considered the death of one or some of them as identical with the death of
all of them.
According to ar-Râzî, some commentators also deny the possibility of a ref-
erence of the passage in question to suicide on the grounds that their religious
belief enjoins the Muslims not to kill themselves; for, it is stated, the great pain
caused by suicide and the stigma attached to it clearly mark it as forbidden in
this world, while the severe punishment of suicide which must be expected in
the other world marks it as forbidden with regard to the life after death. Conse-
quently, the argument continues, if suicide is thus clearly marked as forbidden
in both this world and the other, an express prohibition of it in the Qurʾân would
be superfluous.
It seems, however, that ar-Râzî was not quite satisfied with this argumen-
tation, for he goes on to show that an express prohibition of suicide in the
Qurʾân might after all not have been superfluous. In fact, though all commen-
tators respect aṭ-Ṭabarî’s authority, they admit nevertheless that the reference
in Qurʾân 4.29(33) may as well be to suicide. A testimony in favor of this inter-
pretation, which antedates aṭ-Ṭabarî and the other commentaries in terms of
direct transmission, is available in a story told about ʿAmr b. al-ʿÂṣ. According
to al-Wâqidî19 and al-Buḫârî,20 the reported event took place during the expe-
dition to Ḏât as-Salâsil in the year 8 H. During a cold night the great general did
not perform the prescribed ablutions after a nightly pollution, and he excused
himself for his omission with a quotation from the Qurʾân 4.29(33): “And do not
kill yourselves; verily Allâh has become with you compassionate.” There are dif-
ferent versions to the story, which later on also found its way into the Qurʾân
commentaries;21 it is debated whether ʿAmr quoted the Qurʾânic passage to his
companions during the expedition, or rather to the Prophet after his return,
and also, whether he made a partial ablution, or rather an ablution with sand
(tayammum).22 At any rate, the verse 4.29(33) was at a very early date used | 243
19 Cf. J. Wellhausen, Muhammed in Medina 316 (Berlin, 1882).

20 Ṣaḥîḥ 1.77 (Cairo, 1320/1902, Kitâb at-tayammum, bâb 7).
21 Cf. Zamaḫšarî, Kaššâf 1.203 (Cairo, 1307/1889–1890), and Bayḍâwî, Commentarius 1.205f.—
Cf. also Saraḫsî, Mabsûṭ 1.111 (Cairo, 1331/1913).
22 Ibn Ḥajar, Fatḥ al-Bârî, ad Buḫârî Ṣaḥîḥ, loc. cit., gives a good summary of the discussion.
Since the printed edition of the Fatḥ was not available, I used a manuscript in the New
York Public Library, which contains part of the work.
by the science of tradition as evidence for the assumption that the prescribed
ablutions could be curtailed, or replaced by the tayammum when their correct
execution would entail a danger to life and health. It thus appears to have been
interpreted as a prohibition of suicide.
Those scholars who hold that the passage under consideration contains
an express prohibition of suicide often justify its insertion in the Qurʾân by
asserting that it is intended as a warning against the habit of the “Indian fools”
to commit suicide by baḫʿ,23 a habit which it would not be proper for Muslims
to imitate.24
Or it is suggested that many a believer might wish to end his own life because
he is afraid that as a punishment for the sins he committed great pains might
be his lot when he will be called before his Maker on the Last Day; therefore, in
order to prevent such senseless acts of desperation, it was considered advisable
to warn expressly against the commission of suicide in the Qurʾân.25
Further examples of interpretational ingenuity lead away from the simple
interpretation of Qurʾân 4.29(33). Thus the verse is explained as a negation of
the injunction to kill themselves which had been imposed upon the worshipers
of the Golden Calf [Qurʾân 2.54(51)];26 it is stated that Allâh does not expect
anything so difficult from the Muslims, as is shown by the fact that the text
goes on to say: “Verily Allâh has become with you compassionate.”27
It is further argued that the passage under discussion aims at the commis-
sion of crimes and sins which would deserve death.28 And philosophy comes
into its own by an interpretation of the verse as a prohibition of any action that
might humiliate and do harm to the soul, thus causing its true death.29
In conclusion it may be said that there is no absolutely certain evidence
to indicate that Muḥammad ever discussed the problem of suicide by means
23 Cf. above p. 241. Baḫʿ, in this connection, seems to signify abstention? The case of Mubâriz
ad-dîn Sunqur of Mârdîn who, while in exile in Damascus, became desponding on account
of his unfortunate situation and did not take any food except water until he died from
exhaustion (Sibṭ Ibn al-Jawzî, Mirʾât az-zamân 412, ed. by J.R. Jewett, Chicago, 1907, anno
619/1222), is a good example of the kind of “suicide” which the Muslim commentators here
have in mind.
For the knowledge of Indian suicide in Arabic literature, cf. below n. 86.
24 Cf. Râzî, Zamaḫšarî, and Bayḍâwî, loc. cit.
25 Cf. Râzî, loc. cit.
26 Cf. above, p. 240.
27 Cf. Râzî, Zamaḫšarî, and Bayḍâwî, loc. cit.
28 Cf. Râzî and Bayḍâwî, loc. cit.
29 Cf. Bayḍâwî, loc. cit.
of a divine revelation, although the possibility remains that Qurʾân 4.29(33)

contains a prohibition of suicide. It is, however, certain that from the early days
of Islam on this and some other passages of the Qurʾân were considered by
many Muslims as relevant to the subject.
b The Ḥadîṯ
While the Qurʾânic attitude toward suicide thus remains uncertain, the great
authorities of the ḥadîṯ leave no doubt as to the official religious attitude of
Islam. In their opinion suicide is an unlawful act. Thus, at the latest in the eighth
century but most probably much earlier than that,30 Islam as a religion had
come to condemn suicide as a grave sin.
The great ḥadîṯ collections contain special chapters on suicide, but also refer
to it in various other places.31 There are altogether seven traditions concerned
with suicide. They have been handed down with occasional slight divergences
in the chain of transmitters, or, more frequently, with certain divergences in
the text of the tradition. Nearly all those seven traditions have been accepted
by al-Buḫârî and Ibn Ḥanbal, each of whom only omits one.
This is a brief summary of their contents:
A. This ḥadîṯ appears as a statement ascribed to God Himself (ḥadîṯ qudsî).

It is mentioned by al-Buḫârî32 who gives two versions of the story. According
to one version the Prophet was present when a wounded man killed himself.
Whereupon | God said: My servant anticipated my action by taking his soul 244
(life) in his own hand; therefore, he will not be admitted into Paradise.
The other version adds that in his shocked condition that man severed his
hand with a knife and died from loss of blood. This addition would seem to
imply that an action causing one’s own death, even if such result was not
intended or its possibility realized, was considered unlawful. However, another
30 No decision is possible as to whether the substance of the traditions in question goes back
to Muḥammad and his time or not.
31 A.J. Wensinck’s masterly Handbook of Early Muhammadan Tradition 222, s.v. Suicide
(Leyden, 1927), greatly facilitates the location of all the relevant passages and presents
an excellent summary of the traditional Muslim attitude toward suicide. I have had
no access to the collections of Ibn Mâjah and ad-Dârimî, but I feel fairly certain that
they do not contain any additional traditions. It would also seem that no additional
material could be found in the secondary works on traditions which contain references to
suicide.
32 Ṣaḥîḥ 1.343 and 2.373 (ed. by L. Krehl, Leyden, 1862–1908). Cf. Ibn Qutaybah, Maʿârif 80
(Wüstenfeld).
tradition (F) precludes such an assumption, and Ibn Ḥajar, al-Buḫârî’s com-
mentator, does not consider it.33
B. The second ḥadîṯ is found in al-Buḫârî34 and Ibn Ḥanbal.35 It contains the
following statement of the Prophet: Whoever strangles himself will repeat his
deed in the Fire, and whoever kills himself by stabbing his own body with some
weapon will repeat his deed in the Fire. Ibn Ḥanbal further mentions suicide
by precipitating oneself from a high place.
C. This ḥadîṯ appears in al-Buḫârî36 and Muslim three times.37 Ibn Ḥanbal38
quotes it with seven, and an-Nasâʾî39 with three different riwâyahs. It is further
mentioned by aṭ-Ṭayâlisî.40 It refers to certain crimes, among which swearing
by a religion other than Islam is always mentioned. Then the following state-
ment of the Prophet is reported: Whoever kills himself (with a steel instrument,
or something else) will be punished in the same manner in the fire of Hell (or:
on the Day of Resurrection, in the other world).
D. In addition to al-Buḫârî’s version,41 this ḥadîṯ has been handed down by

Ibn Ḥanbal42 in four, and by at-Tirmiḏî43 in five versions. It is also quoted by
Muslim,44 an-Nasâʾî45 and aṭ-Ṭayâlisî.46 It is nearly identical with (B), referring
to suicide by poison, a steel instrument, or precipitation from a high place, and
its subsequent punishment in Hell by the enforced repetition of the identical
action. Some versions add that such punishment will take place “permanently,
unendingly, always.” Since, in contrast to the Muʿtazilah and the Ḫawârij, the
33 Cf. Ibn Ḥajar, Fatḥ al-Bârî, ad Buḫârî (see above n. 22).

34 Ṣaḥîḥ 1.343 (Krehl).
35 Musnad 2.435 (Cairo, 1313/1895–1896).
36 Ṣaḥîḥ 1.343, 4.124, and 4.264 (Krehl).
37 Ṣaḥîḥ 1.455–457 (in the margin of Qasṭallanî, Iršâd as-sârî, 6th ed., Bûlâq, 1304–1305/1886–
1888).
38 Musnad 4.33 f.
39 Sunan 2.139 f. (Cairo 1312/1894–1895).
40 Musnad 166 (Hyderabad, 1321/1903).
42 Musnad 2.254, 2.478, and 2.488 f.
43 Ṣaḥîḥ 2.3 f. (Bûlâq, 1292/1875).
44 Ṣaḥîḥ 1.454 (in the margin of Qasṭallânî).
45 Sunan 1.279.
46 Musnad 317.
orthodox Muslims do not admit the possibility of an eternal sojourn in Hell,47

the addition of these words is rejected by them as a Muʿtazilah falsification of
the original tradition.48
E. The historical setting of this tradition is not entirely the same in all versions.
Two main versions can be distinguished, one of which appears twice in al-
Buḫârî,49 and the other once in al-Buḫârî50 and three times in Ibn Ḥanbal.51
Muslim52 has two versions. The story, in brief, reports that a man who fought
most valiantly on the side of the Muslims was seriously wounded, and, in order
to shorten his sufferings, he fell upon his own sword and thus ended his life.
Since the Prophet had predicted that this man would be doomed in spite of the
valor he displayed for the Muslim cause, his suicide was taken as an indication
that the Prophet had not been mistaken.
It is the purpose of this tradition to show that only the final outcome of a
man’s actions can decide whether he will be saved or doomed. With regard to
the problem of suicide the tradition is interesting inasmuch as it implies that
no previous meritorious action can prevent the consequences of suicide.
F. The accidental death by his own weapon of the poet ʿÂmir b. Sinân b.
al-Akwaʿ in the battle of Ḫaybar (anno 7 H.) is, according to this ḥadîṯ, not to be
considered a suicide, although some people had feared that this accident would
appear to be a suicide and thus deprive Ibn al-Akwaʿ of the heavenly reward
he deserved for his martyr|dom. al-Buḫârî53 gives a short version of this story, 245
while three detailed narratives are found in Ibn Ḥanbal,54 and two in Muslim.55
The historians also make mention of the event.56
47 Cf., for instance, Ašʿarî, Maqâlât al-Islâmîyîn 474, ed. by H. Ritter, in Bibliotheca Islamica 1
(Stambul-Berlin, 1929–1930).
48 Cf. also Ibn Ḥajar’s commentary to Buḫârî’s chapter on suicide.
We would be inclined to assume that the contested words originally belonged to the
tradition and antedated these theological speculations.
49 Ṣaḥîḥ 2.223 f. and 4.253 f. (Krehl).
50 Ṣaḥîḥ 4.253 f. (Krehl).
51 Musnad 2.309 f. and 4.135.
52 Ṣaḥîḥ 1.458–461 (in the margin of Qasṭallânî).
54 Musnad 4.46 ff. and 4.51 ff. Cf. also Muḥammad b. ʿAlî as-Saraḫsî, Šarḥ as-siyar al-kabîr
1.72 ff. (Hyderabad, 1335/1916–1917).
55 Ṣaḥîḥ 7.450–456 (in the margin of Qasṭallânî).
56 Cf. the sources enumerated by L. Caetani, Annali dell’Islam II, 1.24 and 45 (Milan, 1907).
G. According to a tradition reported by Ibn Ḥanbal,57 Muslim,58 Abû

Dâwûd,59 an-Nasâʾî,60 at-Tirmiḏî,61 and aṭ-Ṭayâlisî,62 Muḥammad refused to say
prayers over the body of a man who had killed himself.63
However, the question whether it is permitted to say prayers for a suicide
or not is widely debated. At-Tirmiḏî adds that some ḥadîṯ scholars were of the
opinion that every Muslim is entitled to prayers after his death, even if he died a
suicide; he further states that, in the opinion of another muḥaddiṯ, some other
person and not the Imâm, the regular prayer leader, should say the customary
prayers.
As-Saraḫsî (d. 483/1090) also mentions the difference of opinion prevailing
among theologians with regard to this point.64 Ibn Ḥajar, commenting upon
al-Buḫârî’s chapter on suicide, notes that al-Buḫârî made no reference to the
tradition which forbids funeral rites for suicides; he adds, however, a statement
of Mâlik to the effect that the repentance (tawbah) of a suicide would not
be accepted.64a Therefore, no prayers should be said for a suicide. Yet, the
performance of the prescribed death rites in the case of a suicide is said to be
the common practice in Muslim countries in modern times.65
A question of minor importance is not mentioned in these seven canonical
traditions, but seems to have occasionally been discussed, namely, which crime
is the greater one, homicide or suicide. Ibn Rašîd, as quoted by Ibn Ḥajar,66
evidently considered homicide the graver sin; for he states that since a person
57 Musnad 5.87.
58 Ṣaḥîḥ 4.315 f. (in the margin of Qasṭallânî).
59 Sunan 2.83 (Lucknow, 1312/1895, Kitâb al-janâʾiz).
60 Sunan 1.279.
61 Ṣaḥîḥ 1.198.
62 Musnad 106. [Ibn Mâjah, Sunan 1.239, Cairo 1313.]
63 Cf. also M. d’ Ohsson, Tableau général de l’ Empire Othoman 2.324 (Paris, 1788).
64 Šarḥ as-siyar al-kabîr 1.72 ff. Cf. also Nawawî’s commentary on Muslim, Ṣaḥîḥ (above n. 58);
Nawawî, Minhâj aṭ-ṭâlibîn 1.225 (ed. by L.W.C. van den Berg, Batavia, 1882–1884); Ibrâhîm
b. Muḥammad al-Ḥalabî, Multaqâ al-abḥur (Kitâb aṣ-ṣalâh, bâb aš-šahîd).
64a Cf., however, Saḥnûn, al-Mudawwanah al-kubrâ 1.177 (Cairo, 1323/1905–1906).
65 Cf. Th.P. Hughes, A Dictionary of Islam 622, s.v. Suicide (2nd. ed., London, 1896). But cf.
also J. Wisse Selbstmord und Todesfurcht 332, for the statement that the Muslims of the
French Sudan do not accord funeral rites to a suicide. See also below p. 253.
66 Fatḥ al-Bârî, ad Buḫârî’s chapter on suicide. Ibn Rašîd’s remark was occasioned by the
observation that the heading given by al-Buḫârî to the chapter in question reads qâtil
an-nafs (“manslayer”), instead of qâtil nafsih (“suicide”). In the opinion of Ibn Rašîd, it
was al-Buḫârî’s intention thus to evoke in the mind of the reader an association of suicide
with homicide.
who committed suicide and wronged only himself is doomed, the more so does
a murderer who wronged someone else deserve the same fate. However, a fatwâ
of the early eighteenth century judges suicide more severely than homicide.67
No life-long blemish is attached to a person who once unsuccessfully at-
tempted to commit suicide. This is illustrated by the story of a girl who had
become a Muslimah in the early years of Islam and, having committed some
sin, tried to take her own life. When later on people wanted to marry her, her
father (?) went to ʿUmar and asked him whether he should tell her suitors about
her past. On this occasion, ʿUmar most emphatically forbade him to reveal to
anyone what God had concealed (by not letting her suicide succeed).68
The sum and substance of the theological attitude toward suicide as ex-
pressed in the relevant traditions can be stated as follows: Suicide is an unlawful
act. The person who commits suicide will be doomed and must continually
repeat in Hell the action by which he killed himself.69 It is debated whether
prayers are said for a suicide or not. If a person kills himself accidentally, it is
not considered suicide.
By far the most interesting aspect of the Muslim theological attitude toward 246
suicide is the application to suicides of the lex talionis in the other world. The
concept of Hell and life after death has in many religions been strongly influ-
enced by the principle of retaliation. Certain aspects of the legends of Tantalus
and Tityus represent this principle in Greek mythology. The Hindus expected
evil-doers to be requited for their deeds in Hell with the same tortures they
inflicted upon others,70 and Christianity maintains that the limb which sinned
should be punished after death.70a However, the extension of the principle of
retaliation, to suicides is peculiar, and the exact source from which Muslim the-
ology derived it remains to be determined.70b
67 Cf. M. d’ Ohsson, Tableau général 4,2.525 (Paris, 1791). D’Ohsson, in turn, was quoted
by E. Lisle, Du suicide 344 n. 1 (Paris, 1856). Cf. also L. Westermarck, The origin and
development of the moral ideas 2.247 n. 5 (London, 1908).
68 Cf. Muṣṭafâ Jawâd (below n. 105), whose source I was not able to check.
69 M. Asín Palacios, La escatologia musulmana en la Divina Comedia 122 n. 1 (Madrid, 1919.
2nd ed. 1943, p. 149), refers to a number of theological works where the same principle is
mentioned.
70 Cf. Encyclopedia of Religion and Ethics 11.844b (New York, 1921).
70a Cf., further, the Handwörterbuch des Deutschen Aberglaubens 4.213ff., s.v. Hölle (Berlin-
Leipzig, 1931–1932).
70b Muslim criminal law relies to a considerable extent upon the principle of retaliation, but
its influence upon the concept of the punishment of suicide is uncertain.
Fiqh, in general, is little concerned with suicide. Legal compendia discuss the question
of prayers for suicides (above n. 64). They further specify that no kaffârah and diyah are
2 Non-Theological Opinions
(“… a mali non naturali, rimedio non naturale.”)71
Proverbial or figurative use of an expression frequently is indicative of the fact

that the idea expressed has become the common property of a people. It is,
therefore, hardly surprising that such usage in connection with suicide is very
restricted in Islam. There are, however, a few instances of it.
Some collections of proverbs contain the expression: suriqa as-sâriq fa-
ntaḥara: “When things were stolen from a thief he went and hanged himself.”72
One author hastens to add that the allusion to suicide must be taken metaphor-
ically: “He almost hanged himself, even as people say: So-and-so kills himself
out of rage, i. e., he almost kills himself.”73 Such moralizing is ultimately inspired
by theological considerations, but the fact remains that popular feeling did not
exclude suicide as a possible reaction to personal misfortune.
The above-mentioned author, however, is quite right in maintaining that the
expression: to kill oneself, is occasionally used in a figurative manner. In order
to emphasize the great speed with which a messenger on horseback brought
home the news, it is permissible to say that the messenger “killed himself.”74 In
poetry, despairing lovers75 and ungrateful courtiers76 speak about suicide as the
needed for a suicide (Mâlikî rite, cf. Ḫalîl b. Isḥâq, Muḫtaṣar 2.691, Italian translation
by I. Guidi–D. Santillana, Milan, 1919). According to the Šâfiʿite, an-Nawawî, no qiṣâṣ
is needed, while the question of kaffârah and diyah is doubtful (Minhâj aṭ-ṭâlibîn 3.112;
186, v. d. Berg). Cf. also G. Bergsträsser–J. Schacht, Grundzüge des islamischen Rechts 104
(Berlin-Leipzig, 1935. Lehrbücher d. Sem. f. or. Sprachen 35).
71 G. Leopardi, Dialogo di Plotino e di Porfirio.
72 Cf. Abû Hilâl al-ʿAskarî, Jamharat al-amṯâl 1.332 (Cairo, 1310/1892–1893, in the margin of
Maydânî), and Maydânî, in G.W. Freytag, Arabum Proverbia 1.618 (Bonn, 1838–1839).
73 Cf. ʿAskarî, loc. cit.—Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzîyah, however, seriously considers the possibility
that wrath and anger might lead to suicide (Iġâṯat al-lahfân 12, Cairo, 1322/1904).
74 Cf. Miskawayh, Tajârîb, anno 321/933, in H.F. Amedroz–D.S. Margoliouth, The Eclipse of the
ʿAbbasid Caliphate 1.262 f., transl. 4.298 (Oxford, 1920–1921).
75 Cf. Ibn Dâwûd, Zahrah 139 (al-Buḫturî; but the verse is not contained in the edition of his
Dîwân, Constantinople, 1300/1882–1883) and 349 (ed. by A.R. Nykl and I. Ṭûqân, Chicago,
1932. The Or. Inst. of the Univ. of Chicago, Studies in Ancient Or. Civilization 6).—Cf. also the
verse quoted in the Arabian Nights 1.284 (Cairo, 1302/1885, story of King ʿUmar an-Nuʿmân
and his two sons):
Wa-aqtulu nafsî fî hawâka maḥabbatan.
76 Cf. Ibšîhî, Mustaṭraf 1.229 (Bûlâq 1268/1851–1852).

only solution for the unfortunate situation in which they find themselves.76a As
a rule they have in mind a slow death from grief and self-reproach, and mâta
“to die” might have been used by them rather than qatala nafsahû “to commit
suicide.”
The Arabian Nights, which may, however, represent the usage of a very recent
period, use the phrase: “Don’t kill yourself,” approximately in | the meaning 247
of “Don’t get excited;” thus, at least, it is used by the wife of the wazîr who
thought that her husband was bewailing merely the monetary loss when his
son had an affair with the expensive slave-girl Anîs al-Jalîs whom the wazîr had
bought for the Sultân.77 The Arabian Nights are also rather loose in their use of
suicide threats (of the type of suicide as revenge). The wicked girl who desires
the execution of the king’s son tries to reach her goal by repeated threats of
suicide, so that her sin would cling to the king, who had driven her to that act of
desperation, until the Day of Resurrection.78 The wazîr who is unable to make
his master tell him the reason for his sadness threatens to kill himself before his
master’s eyes.79 If a lover who is supposed to be of lowly origin persecutes the
daughter of the king with his attentions, she is inclined to think that he might
be a suicide candidate.80 Lovers frequently threaten to commit suicide.81
All these passages indicate that the idea of suicide was not entirely absent
from the Muslim mind. A further indication in the same direction may be
found in the fact that for nafs meaning “the whole, or the essence of a thing,”
the lexicographers had no better evidence than the phrase qatala nafsahû “to
commit suicide.”82
76a In pre-ʿAbbâsid poetry, the idea of suicide occurs in a poem by al-Ḫansâʾ who says that in
her grief she would kill herself, if she did not see that others had suffered similar losses
(rhyme sîn).
Later substitution of the idea of suicide occurs in a poem ascribed to the legendary
representative of nadâmah, al-Kusaʿî. Al-Kusaʿî was so disturbed by what he had done that
he said that, if he had the courage, he would cut off his fingers (Ṯaʿâlibî, Ṯimâr 104f., Cairo,
1326/1908; Lisân al-ʿArab 10.18 f., s.v. ksʿ, Bûlâq, 1300–1307/1883–1890). According to Azdî,
Badâʾiʿ al-badâʾih 1.20 (Cairo, 1316/1898), al-Kusaʿî in this connection speaks of suicide.
77 Arabian Nights 1.107 (Cairo, 1302/1885, story of the two wazîrs, and Anîs al-Jalîs).
78 Op. cit. 3.60 ff. (stories about the artfulness of women).
79 Op. cit. 3.250 (story of Sayf al-Mulûk and Badîʿat al-Jamâl). The characters involved are
described as non-Muslims.
80 Op. cit. 3.206 (story of Ḥayât an-Nufûs).
81 Op. cit. 2.303 (story of Ḥâsib Karîm ad-dîn). Cf. also 3.202, where the man-hating Ḥayât
an-Nufûs threatens to kill herself if her father should constrain her to marry one of her
many suitors.
82 Cf., for instance, Lisân al-ʿArab 8.119, s.v. nafs (Bûlâq, 1300–1307/1883–1890).
However, the considerable interest in the problem of suicide which becomes

noticeable in the latter part of the third/ninth century and lasts well into the
fifth/eleventh century could hardly be explained as the result of an internal
Muslim development. The evidence at our disposal points to the fact that
the increased speculation about the problem in that period was provoked by
the impact of ancient philosophy upon Islam and a corresponding general
weakening of the religious influence.
It is true that the political insecurity which prevailed in the Muslim world
from the fourth/tenth century on brought in its train an increase in the num-
ber of suicides. A characteristic story illustrating this state of affairs is that of
the tax-collector Abû l-ʿAbbâs b. Sâbûr who perished at the hands of his tor-
turers in 375/985–986. Shortly before his death he sent an anonymous letter
to the jurisconsult Abû Bakr al-Ḫuwârizmî, asking him whether a person who
suffered intolerable tortures was permitted to commit suicide. As it could be
expected, al-Ḫuwârizmî replied in the negative and recommended patience,
which would be amply rewarded with forgiveness of sins in the other world.
But when al-Ḫuwârizmî learned who it was that had put the question to him, he
remarked that it did not make any difference whether Ibn Sâbûr killed himself
or not, because a man like him would anyhow be doomed.83 Yet, the darkness
of the political situation alone, though it accounts for some cases of suicide,
would not have been sufficient to overcome the customary reluctance of the
Muslims to discuss the theoretical aspects of the phenomenon.
Greek discussions about suicide reached the Arabs in various ways. For
instance, a medico-philosophical definition of love ascribed to an ancient
Greek authority takes into account the possibility of a lover’s suicide in the heat
of his passion.84
The Pseudo-Aristotelian Book of the Apple suggests that death self-chosen is
not detrimental to true philosophers, but a feeling of duty, like that possessed
by a guardian at a frontier pass, prevents philosophers from committing suicide
and thus depriving their bodies from the protection of the soul against the lusts
and passions of this world.85
83 Cf. Abû Šujâʿ, History, anno 375/985–986, in Amedroz-Margoliouth, Eclipse 3.118, transl.
6.120.
84 Cf. Ibn Dâwûd, Zahrah 17. Further references in Islamic Culture 14.420 n. 6 and 7 (1940);
15.398 (1941). Ḥunayn is our oldest source for this definition of love. Cf. also Muġulṭây,
Martyrs of Love 1.26 f. (ed. by O. Spies, Stuttgart, 1936. Bonner Or. Studien 18).
85 Cf. D.S. Margoliouth, The Book of the Apple, ascribed to Aristotle, in JRAS 1892.234. The
relevant Platonic passages are quoted by Bîrûnî, India 2.171 (transl. by E. Sachau, London,
1888).
Another attitude is suggested by a story about the “Indian philosophers”

which may ultimately go back to Hellenistic traditions rather than to | genuine 248
Indian sources. Some of those Indians, it is stated, “when they felt that their
lives were polluted threw themselves into a fire, in order to purify their souls,
to clean their bodies, and to free their spirits.”86
Al-Fârâbî’s exposition of Plato’s philosophy also touched the problem of sui-
cide. According to al-Fârâbî’s work, Plato’s Apology and Phaedo contain an affir-
mative answer to the question whether death is preferable to a life beneath
human dignity or not.87 Although Socrates’ death undoubtedly was no sui-
cide, it has served as a justification of suicide in some Hellenistic philosophical
schools. And it is easy to realize that the description of Socrates’ death which
was well-known to the Arabs; or the many sayings ascribed to Socrates which
stated that death is preferable to life; or a passage like that contained in al-
Fârâbî must have stimulated the discussion of the problem of suicide for which
Islam gave an answer which apparently differed from that of Plato and Socrates.
86 Cf. Šahrastânî, Milal 456 (ed. by W. Cureton, London 1842–1846. Transl. by T. Haarbrücker,
Halle, 1850–1851, 2.373).
Bîrûnî reports the Indian custom of the self-sacrifice of widows and other types of
suicide found in India, especially in connection with the veneration of the river Ganges
(India 2.155, 164, 170–171, and 191. Cf. also Ibšîhî, Mustaṭraf 2.167).—In this connection,
cf. also the story of Ḥayât an-Nufûs, in the Arabian Nights 3.218 (Cairo, 1302/1885), which
contains as examples of matrimonial love two stories, one concerning a man, and the
other a woman, who both had themselves buried alive after the death of their respective
spouses.
We also have some historical reports in Muslim literature about cases of suicide among
Indians. Thus, the Indian prince Jaypâl was released by Maḥmûd of Ġaznah, who wanted
to exploit the psychological effect which Jaypâl’s re-appearance in his humiliated state
would have had upon his Indian subjects. Jaypâl, however, threw himself into the fire
and was burned to death, cf. Ibn al-Aṯîr, Kâmil, anno 392/1001–1002; Ibn Kaṯîr, Bidâyah
10.330 (Cairo, 1531 ff./1932ff.); Muḥammad Nâẓim, The Life and Times of Sulṭân Maḥmûd of
Ghazna 88 (Cambridge, 1931).
Another Indian prince, Bajî Rây of Bhâṭiyah (Bhatinda?), preferred death by his own
hand to captivity after his defeat by Maḥmûd, presumably in 395/1004, cf. Nâẓim, op. cit.
101.
In 602/1205–1206, the Banû Kawkar who lived in the mountains between Lahore and
Multan in the Panjab, were defeated and pursued by the soldiers of the Ġorid Muḥammad
b. Sâm of Ġaznah. They built a big fire, exhorted each other to prefer suicide to death at
the hands of the Muslims, and jumped into the fire, cf. Ibn es-Sâʿî, al-Jâmiʿ al-Muḫtaṣar
169 f.; Ibn al-Aṯîr, Kâmil, anno 602.
87 Alfarabius, De Platonis philosophia § 24 (ed. by F. Rosenthal-R. Walzer, London, 1943. Plato
Arabus 2).
The great writer of the fourth/tenth century, Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, in-
cludes among his Muqâbasât one which in its first part appears to be remi-
niscent of al-Fârâbî’s description of the life beneath human dignity where man
is like an animal and where it makes no difference whether his shape is that
of a human being or that of a fish. Remarkably enough, this first part of the
muqâbasah is followed by a lengthy discussion of suicide.87a This discussion
deserves to be translated here, since it appears to be the only such detailed
treatment of the subject which has been preserved in the available Arabic lit-
erature.88
The first part of the muqâbasah deals with an (alleged) talk by an-Nûšajânî
on the different kinds of existence. This is a brief résumé of this part:
There is a kind of existence which, on account of its baseness and deficiency,
is like non-existence. And there is a kind of non-existence which, on account
of its excellence and perfection, is like existence. In the possession of such
excellence and perfection an individual attains real existence, even though
he is non-existent, and life, even though he is dead, and divine bliss and
happiness.
People are dominated by bodily desires which lead them to destruction. If
249 they would subdue | their passions and aspire to goodness, they would achieve
spiritual and intellectual perfection and be eternally happy. But man is inclined
to follow his natural volition rather than the intellect. Therefore, perfection is
rarely encountered among men, and it is very exceptional to find in human
87a A coincidence, which is so strange that it deserves to be mentioned, is the occurrence of

the same two topics, i. e., bestial passions and suicide, in a discussion which took place
between Samuel Johnson and his friends on April 21, 1773 (cf. J. Boswell, The Life of Samuel
Johnson).
88 Muqâbasât 215–221 (ed. by Ḥasan as-Sandûbî, Cairo, 1347/1928–1929). For another case of
suicide reported by Tawḥîdî, cf. below n. 148.—Tawḥîdî also appears to know an alleged
case of animal suicide (if it actually is a case of suicide): A stallion, noticing that his owner
had mated him with his own mother, hurls himself into some wâdî and thus perishes
(Imtâʿ 2.31, Cairo, 1942).
According to G. Le Strange’s translation of The Geographical Part of the Nuzhat-al-Qulûb
2.275, by Ḥamdallâh Mustawfî (E.J.W. Gibb Memorial Series 23, 1–2, Leyden-London, 1915–
1919), a dog whose master died in Qazwîn in 740/1340, “began to beat himself against the
ground so that he killed himself.” The Persian text might, however, merely imply that the
dog did not leave the spot until he died.
Muġulṭây, Martyrs of Love 1.100 (Spies), tells about the suicide of a female duck whose
mate had been slaughtered. Muġulṭây also reports the Ṣûfic parable of the suicide of a little
bird during a discussion of love (op. cit. 1.176).
beings such qualities as charity (al-iḥsân), kindness (al-jamîl), justice (al-ʿadl),

and moderation (al-ʿiffah).89
The correctness of this statement is illustrated by a personal experience of
the narrator. He tells us that, in a wâdî covered with an abundance of fresh green
grass, he and his friends met a man who loudly proclaimed his desire to be a
cow so that he might have his fill of that luxurious grass; he even imitated the
chewing of a cow. When reminded of the baseness of his desire he maintained
that this desire was well justified under the circumstances, and thus revealed
his total depravity. Is there any difference between such a man and a donkey, a
braying animal?
There is, at-Tawḥîdî continues, the possibility of Ṣûfic influence. He reports
the story of a Ṣûfî who expressed the wish to be a donkey, meaning that he
would like to be relieved of the responsibilities which rest upon man during
his stay in this world and in the next world. Yet, it must be admitted, at-Tawḥîdî
states, that the Ṣûfî’s desire to be a donkey is a sign of his ignorance of the real
human values.
Here ends the first part of the muqâbasah. A short introductory paragraph
leads over to the discussion of suicide. This paragraph stresses the fact that the
following second part of the muqâbasah is complementary to the first and that
the reader should pay careful attention to it, since he will find revealed in it the
real purpose and meaning of human life. Then, at-Tawḥîdî goes on to say:
Recently we saw what happened to a learned Šayḫ. This Šayḫ had come to
live in very reduced circumstances. Therefore, people began to avoid him
more and more, and his acquaintances no longer wanted to have anything
to do with him. This went on for a while until one day he entered his home,
tied a rope to the roof of his room, and hanged himself, thus ending his
life.
When we learned about the affair, we were shocked and grieved. We
discussed his story back and forth, and one of those present said: What an
excellent fellow! He acted like a man! What a splendid thing he did of his
own free will! His action indicates magnanimity and a great staunchness
of mind. He freed himself from a long drawn-out misery and from circum-
stances which were unbearable, on account of which nobody wanted to
have anything to do with him, and which brought him great privations
and a steady reduction of his means. Everybody to whom he addressed
himself turned away from him. Whenever he knocked at a door, it was
89 I. e., σωφροσύνη, cf. Islamic Culture 14.407 n. 4 (1940).

closed before him. Every friend whom he asked for something excused
himself.
While that person thus defended the action of the suicide, someone
else replied: If that Šayḫ escaped from the dreadful situation which you
have just described, without getting himself into another situation which
might be considerably more frightful and of a much longer duration than
that which he had been in, it would indeed be correct to say that he
did a splendid thing. What a noble fellow, one might then say, he was,
considering the fact that he found strength and the means to commit such
a deed! One would have to admit that every intelligent person should feel
compelled to do the same thing, to imitate him and to arrive at the same
decision of his own free will.
However, if he had learned from the religious law—no matter whether
the ancient or the new one90—that such and similar actions are forbid-
den, it would be necessary to say that he did something for which God
has ordained quick punishment and disgrace in the painful fire of Hell.
My God! He could surely have learned from any intelligent and judicious,
learned and educated person, from anybody who has some intelligence
and knows the elements of ethics—let alone him who knows what to
say and to do and to choose always the best procedure of and occasion
for doing things91—that such actions are forbidden and that even the
commission of much lesser deeds is prohibited. Why did he not suspect
himself and scrutinize his motives and consult someone who might have
given him good advice! And all this happened on account of a situation
which was such that if he had extricated himself from it, he would there-
after have encountered92 many things so much worse that they would
have made him forget his former hardships.
He ought to have known that it is necessary to avoid any connection
with such an action, which is detested by the intellect, considered sinful
by tradition and shunned with horror by nature; for the generally known
injunctions of the religious laws and the consensus of all in each gener-
ation and region show that suicide is forbidden and that nothing should
be done which might lead to it. The reason for the prohibition of suicide
90 I. e., the laws of the ancient philosophers and of the Muslim religion. The word šarâʾiʿ
can be used with reference to the laws of the ancient philosophers; nevertheless, the
juxtaposition of the ancient (philosophical) šarîʿah and the new (Muslim) šarîʿah, as we
find it in this passage, is interesting.
91 I am not quite certain whether this is the correct interpretation of the passage.
92 … ʿanhu la-ntahâ baʿd …
is | that suicide might be committed under the influence of ideas and hal- 250
lucinations which would not have been supported by a clear mind and
would not have occurred to a person in the full possession of his mental
faculties. Later on, in the other world, the person who committed suicide
under such circumstances would realize the baseness of his action and
the great mistake he made; then, he cannot repair, correct, or retract what
he did.
Even if compliance with the demands of the intellect, or information
derived from both intellect and revelation would have required him to
commit such a deed, he should not have handed himself over to destruc-
tion. He should not have of his own free will done something which
is despised by persons who are discerning and ingenious, religious and
noble. He should not have broken established customs, opposed en-
trenched opinions, and usurped the rights of nature. But all the more so
should he have refrained from his deed since intellect and speculation
have decided, without leaving the slightest doubt, that man must not sep-
arate those parts and limbs that have been joined together (to form his
body); for it is not he who has put them together, and it is not he who is
their real owner. He is merely a tenant in this temple93 for Him Who made
him dwell therein and stipulated that in lieu of the payment of rent for his
dwelling he take care of its upkeep and preservation, its cleaning, repair
and use, in a manner which would help him in his search after happiness
in both this world and the next world.
If94 an individual’s aspirations are limited to gathering provisions for
his journey to the abode of righteousness, he can be certain to reach his
goal and to stay there. There he will find, all at the same time, plenty of
good things, continuous rest, permanent beatitude, and ever-present joy;
there will be no indigence or need, no damage or loss, no sadness or grief,
no failure or difficulties. This will be the reward of an acceptable way of life
and of a long practice of sublime human qualities, as well as a belief in the
truth, propagation of righteousness, and kindness toward all creatures. If
an individual lives in a manner contrary to this, the permanent misery
which he will have to endure and from which he will not be able to escape
will be correspondingly great.
We ask God in Whose hands rests the power over everything that He
may guide us toward that way of life which is preferable for this world and
93 I. e., the human body.

94 wa-⟨iḏâ⟩ kâna … fa-lâ budd …?
which will lead to greater happiness in the world to come. For if we were
left without His kind care and customary benevolence, we would be lost
and forsaken. We would have to expect a very sad fate at the resurrection
in the other world, and long suffering and great grief would be our lot.
O God! Have mercy with our weakness and cover us with Your kindness
and helpfulness, so that we may turn to You wholeheartedly, entrust
our affairs to Your guidance willingly, place our confidence in You in
repentance, and enter into Your protection with a sincere heart, O Lord
of the worlds!
Various topics have been discussed in this muqâbasah, but I do not
think that I am imposing on you, because you are so much interested in all
theoretical and practical affairs. Moreover, this muqâbasah is not entirely
uninstructive. I ask you to use your imagination and to put the various
parts of this muqâbasah together. You might then be able, following the
most excellent models, to close your eyes before95 something which per-
haps might seem somewhat confused and not entirely understandable.
Knowing your noble personality, I am sure that you will do that in order
to do justice to me, your friend.
At-Tawḥîdî’s discussion shows that some people in his time were of the opinion
that an individual was permitted to commit suicide at his own discretion,
especially under adverse circumstances.96 Much more prominence, however,
is given to the opposite point of view, namely, that both religion and logic forbid
the commission of suicide.
The impression prevails that at-Tawḥîdî favored the latter alternative. It is,
however, important to observe that both the introduction and conclusion of the
discussion of suicide hint at the necessity to take the whole muqâbasah as a unit
in which the various parts elucidate each other and of which the real meaning
will be disclosed only after the most careful scrutiny. Since it was stated in the
first part of the muqâbasah that only a virtuous life is real existence, at-Tawḥîdî’s
attitude toward suicide may have been similar to that found in the Book of the
Apple and the Socratic literature, namely, that merely a sense of duty toward his
body should prevent a virtuous, rational being from committing suicide, which
in itself is a comparatively irrelevant act.
Miskawayh, a contemporary and acquaintance of at-Tawḥîdî, derived from
Greek philosophy the statement that it is cowardice rather than courage to
95 Or rather: to find out?

96 Cf. above, p. 247.
strangle or poison oneself in order to escape poverty or humiliation.97 However,

a welcome confirmation of the philosophical leniency with regard to suicide
comes from a quarter where we would hardly expect it. Al-Qirqisânî’s (10th
cent.) long exposition of Qaraite law and religion contains a chapter on suicide
which deals with the problem from the Jewish point of view, but has some
introductory remarks which are of general interest.98 Al-Qirqisânî observes
that one hardly | ever finds an author who devotes his attention to the problem 251
of suicide; then, he goes on to say: “And I mention suicide only because I have
noticed that some adepts of speculation (man yantaḥil an-naẓar) consider
it permissible and maintain that he who commits suicide does not deserve
any punishment (in the other world); for they say, no one else suffered harm
through him, but he caused harm only to his own soul (himself) of which he
is the owner.” Al-Qirqisânî does not state whether the “adepts of speculation,”
i.e., the students of Greek philosophy, whom he has in mind, were members
of the Jewish or Muslim faith. Since, however, the educated Jews of the tenth
century fully shared in the intellectual life of their Muslim environment, the
situation described by al-Qirqisânî applied to all his contemporaries regardless
of religion.
Philosophical disregard of the religious prohibition of suicide might also
have found its expression in two treatises by the great scientist Ibn al-Hayṯam
(d. 430/1039), who was a younger contemporary of at-Tawḥîdî. Unfortunately,
only the titles are preserved. They read: On making death desirable to man
according to the discussions of the ancients, and Another treatise on the same
subject according to the discussions of the moderns.99 It seems fairly certain
that these treatises did not deal with the opinions of those pious persons who
considered death desirable because it would give them the opportunity to
stand before their Lord.100 We might possibly find in Ibn al-Hayṯam’s treatises
another variation of the philosophical demonstration that the common human
fear of death is unjustified. If this should be the case, they would have no bear-
ing on the subject of suicide; for the treatises which aim at dispelling the innate
human fear of death quite naturally omit any mention of the possibility that a
97 Miskawayh, Tahḏîb al-aḫlâq 62 (Cairo, 1298/1881).

98 Kitâb al-anwâr wa-l-marâqib 683–687 (book 4, ch. 47, ed. by L. Nemoy, New York, 1941).
Nemoy has published an English translation of the chapter in JBL 57.411–420 (1938).
99 Cf. Ibn Abî Uṣaybiʿah, ʿUyûn al-anbâʾ 2.95, 1. 5 f. (ed. by A. Müller, Cairo-Königsberg,
1882–1884).
100 One also encounters the view that the meeting of the Lord is something to be dreaded. Cf.
also above p. 243.
human being might kill himself. However, the wording of the titles in the list
of Ibn al-Hayṯam’s works would seem to suggest that the philosopher-scientist
also had in mind people to whom death appeared so desirable that they chose
to die by their own hands.
That verses extolling the desirability of death could be an additional incite-
ment to commit suicide is shown by the story of Abû Aḥmad, a son of the
Sâmânid wazîr Abû Bakr b. Ḥâmid (first half of the 10th cent.). It is stated that
Abû Aḥmad could not overcome the loss of the wealth and luxury in which
he had been brought up; a passage of the Qurʾân 2.54(51),101 and the following
verses by Manṣûr b. Ismâʿīl al-Miṣrî al-faqîh (d. 306/918):
I always said, when they gave boundless praise to life: There are a thou-
sand unknown virtues in death.
For example: when one is dead, one need no longer be afraid of having to
face death later,102 and one also gets rid of unfair companions,103
confirmed Abû Aḥmad in his intention to commit suicide. Before he took the
poison which brought about his death, he composed the following lines:
Whoever hopes that he may live—I would rather hope that I may die and
thus be free.
There are a thousand virtues in death. If they were known, death would
generally be loved.104
101 Cf. above p. 240.

102 Cf. also the various collections of sayings on the subject of death, as, for instance, that by
Ibn ʿAqnîn in his Ṭibb an-nufûs (A.S. Halkin, in Proceedings of the American Academy for
Jewish Research 14.123, no. 232, 1944).
103 On another occasion, Manṣûr al-faqîh expressed the commonplace idea that a death in
battle is preferable to a life of humiliation, cf. Ibšîhî, Mustaṭraf 1.87.
For Manṣûr’s biography, cf., especially Ibn Ḫallikân, Wafayât, and Subkî, Ṭabaqât aš-
Šafiʿîyah 2.317 (Cairo, 1324).
104 Cf. Ṯaʿâlibî, Yatîmat ad-dahr 4.2 ff. (Damascus, 1304/1886–1887). Ṯaʿâlibî is quoted by Majd
al-Mulk Jaʿfar b. Šams al-Ḫilâfah, Kitâb al-Âdâb 107 (Cairo, 1349/1931), and A. Mez, Die
Renaissance des Islâms 354 (Heidelberg, 1922). The verses also appear in Ibn Abî l-Ḥadîd,
Šarḥ Nahj al-balâġah 2.388 (Cairo, 1329/1911).
II Reported Cases of Suicide105
1 Introductory Remarks
By far the greatest number of reported suicides concerns cases in which sui-
cide was committed in anticipation of an inevitable death which | more often 252
than not would have been preceded by cruel tortures. There is hardly ever
any blame attached to this kind of suicide, nor does it provoke any specific
comment. It would seem that the age-old tradition of history and myth which
offers many examples of a self-inflicted death in the face of an inescapable
fate or the threat of dishonor has proved to be stronger than religious injunc-
tions.
A few examples will suffice to show how historical and legendary tradition
made the Arabs acquainted with a lenient attitude toward suicide under cer-
tain circumstances.
Sanaṭrûq, king of al-Baḥrayn, being on the point of being captured by Arda-
šîr, jumped from the wall of his castle and thus perished.106
105 In addition to A. Mez’s references to suicide in the 4th/10th century, some material
has been collected by Muṣṭafâ Jawâd, al-Muntaḥirûn fî l-Jâhilîyah wa-l-Islâm, in al-Hilâl
42.475–479 (February, 1934), and, for the Muslim west, by H. Pérès, La poésie andalouse en
arabe classique au XIe siècle 466 f. (Paris, 1937. Publications de l’Institut d’Études orientales,
Faculté des Lettres d’ Alger 5).
Mez mentions the cases of suicide referred to in nn. 104, 139, 144, 145, and 148; Pérès
those in nn. 114 and 147; and Muṣṭafâ Jawâd those in nn. 68, 110–112, 132, 134–136, 144, 161,
163, 165, and 171–173.
Muṣṭafâ Jawâd does not indicate his sources, but it is obvious that for the cases of
the 7th/13th century he draws upon his edition of Ibn al-Fuwaṭî, al-Ḥawâdiṯ al-Jâmiʿah
(Baġdâd, 1351/1932–1933). The fact that so many cases of suicide are found in Ibn al-
Fuwaṭî’s History is convincing proof of the assumption that it is mainly due to the charac-
ter of our sources that the reported cases of suicide in Islam are so exceedingly rare.
An article by C.H. Woodman, The suicide of the Ottomans, in Appleton’s Journal 17, N. S.
2.533 f. (New York, 1877), although it is mentioned in H. Rost’s comprehensive Bibliographie
des Selbstmords no. 2579 (Augsburg, 1927), has, of course, nothing to do with suicide,
but deals with the “suicidal” policy of the Turkish Empire, especially with regard to its
minorities.
Since the summer of 1943 when I first started to work on my notes on suicide in Islam,
I have had little time and opportunity to do extensive reading in Arabic literature. I do not
doubt that more cases of suicide than are listed in the following pages have been recorded
by Muslim authors.
106 Cf. Ṭabarî, Annales 1.820 (ed. by M.J. de Goeje and others, Leyden, 1879–1901).
A married Jewish basket-maker whom the wife of the king intended to

seduce had no other way out but to plunge himself down from the roof of the
high castle. He was miraculously saved.107
On the other hand, Saul’s suicide is not known to Muslim authors.108 The
silence of Muslim tradition on this point may not be entirely accidental, since
it may be assumed that the Biblical report of Saul’s end was objectionable to
the Jewish and Christian informants from whom Muslim historians and the-
ologians received their information on Israelite history. Al-Qirqisânî, however,
in agreement with other Jewish scholars, states that “Saul could not escape pun-
ishment at the hands of his enemies. Therefore, he chose death by his own
hand, before his enemies would kill him. Otherwise, he might have suffered
something worse than death. For this reason his suicide is excusable.”109
Some Arab tribal leaders who reached a very old age and did no longer com-
mand the full respect of the whole tribe, are said upon realizing their plight
to have started drinking pure wine, until they died. Two of these muʿammarûn,
reported by Muslim antiquarians to have suffered such fate, are Zuhayr b. Janâb
and ʿAmr b. Kulṯûm.110 Their action could hardly be called suicide. However,
the third person who is said to have died in the same manner, ʿÂmir Mulâʿib al-
asinnah, the uncle of ʿÂmir b. aṭ-Ṭufayl, according to other sources, committed
suicide by stabbing himself with his own sword in a state of drunkenness.111
Characteristically enough, the numerous (pre-Islamic) Arabs who are men-
tioned in the muʿammarûn literature never think of suicide, although they are
loath of life and consider death preferable to the infirmities of old age; the same
107 Cf. Sarrâj, Maṣâriʿ 89 f. (Stambul, 1301/1884), in R. Paret, Früharabische Liebesgeschichten

70 f. (Bern, 1927); Abû l-Layṯ as-Samarqandî, Tanbîh al-ġâfilîn 226f. (Stambul, 1325/1907).
108 Cf. Ṭabarî, Annales 1.558 f.; Kisâʾî, Qiṣaṣ al-anbiyâʾ 182 (Cairo, 1308/1890–1891); M. Grün-
baum, Neue Beiträge zur semitischen Sagenkunde 185ff. (Leyden, 1893).
109 Kitâb al-anwâr wa-l-marâqib, loc. cit.
110 Cf. Abû Ḥâtim as-Sijistânî, Muʿammarûn, in I. Goldziher, Abhandlungen zur arabischen
Philologie 2.24–29 (Leyden, 1899); further, Aġânî 21.93ff. (ed. by R.E. Brünnow, Leyden,
1888. Zuhayr b. Janâb), and 9.184 (Bûlâq, 1285/1868–1869. ʿAmr b. Kulṯûm; nothing is said
here about suicide). Ibn Qutaybah, Šiʿr 274 (de Goeje).
111 Cf. Abû Ḥâtim as-Sijistanî, loc. cit.; Ṯaʿâlibî, Ṯimâr 78f. (Cairo, 1326/1908); Ibn Ḥamdûn,
Taḏkirah, excerpts in translation published by A. v. Kremer, in Sitz.-Ber. K. Akad. d. Wiss.,
philos.-hist. Classe 6.424 (Vienna, 1851).
Ibn Ḥabîb, Kitâb al-muḥabbar 470–473 (ed. by I. Lichtenstädter, Hyderabad, 1361/1942),
adds al-Burj aṭ-Ṭâʾî to this group. Cf. also Aġânî 12.127f.
Of course, cases of men who die from excessive drinking, like Ibn Qaratakîn who
perished in 340/951, are no suicides (cf. Miskawayh, Tajârib, in Amedroz-Margoliouth,
Eclipse 2.143, transl. 5.150).
attitude continued to prevail throughout the whole Muslim poetical literature

dealing with the subject of old age.
The motif of the miraculous cure of a hopelessly sick person who in despair 253
tried to end his own life is not unknown to the Arabs. Thus the attempted
suicide of the poet Abû ʿAzzah ʿAmr b. ʿAbdallâh al-Jumaḥî (killed after Uḥud,
anno 3/625) resulted in his being cured from his disease.112 With the later
Muslim authors who are interested in medical curiosities, the cure, especially,
of dropsy through a self-inflicted wound is a popular theme, but the intention
of suicide as a rule is not apparent.113
The interplay of a heroic tradition, which preferred death to dishonor, and
a religion, which considered suicide prohibited under any circumstances, can
occasionally be observed. Thus it is reported that the ʿAbbâdid Caliph al-
Muʿtamid who was certain to fall into the hands of his enemies during the siege
of his castle near Sevilla in 1090 refrained from committing suicide because of
the magnitude of this step. al-Muʿtamid was not killed by the enemy on that
occasion, but he lived for five more years in great misery.114 The report serves
as an introduction to a poem by al-Muʿtamid. In view of these facts, it is not
impossible that the Caliph himself (or some later historian) invented the story
of his religious scruples in order to explain why he preferred a life in disgrace
to an honorable death.
In this connection one might also refer to the case of al-ʿÂḍid bi-llâh, the
last of the Fâṭimid rulers of Egypt, who died in 567/1171, three days after the
mentioning of the ʿAbbâsids had been substituted to that of the Fâṭimids in the
ḫuṭbah, al-ʿÂḍid had been ill before, and it is doubtful whether he ever learned
before his decease about this deathblow to his dynasty. Nevertheless, rumors
circulated (in Egypt) to the effect that in despair about the final decline of his
power he ended his own life by sucking the poisonous stone of a ring he was
wearing.115
112 Cf. Tanûḫî, Faraj 2.94 (Cairo, 1903–1904); Ibn Ḥabîb, Kitâb al-muḥabbar 300f.
113 Cf., for instance, Usâmah b. Munqiḏ, Iʿtibâr 2.108 (ed. by H. Derenbourg, Paris, 1886–1889.
Publ. de l’ École des langues or. viv. II, 12), transl. by P.K. Hitti 176f. (New York, 1929).
114 R.P. Dozy, Historia Abbadidarum 1.303 f. (Leiden, 1846–1863). Cf. R. Dozy-E. Lévi-Provençal,
Histoire des Musulmans d’ Espagne 3.150 f. (2nd ed. Leyden, 1932).
115 Cf. Sibṭ Ibn al-Jawzî, Mirʾât az-zamân 181.—Abû l-Fidâʾ, Annales Muslemici 5.68, anno
682/1283–1284 (ed. by J.J. Reiske, Copenhagen, 1794), says about Masʿûd b. Kaykâʾûs b.
Kayḫusraw, whom he considers the last of the Saljûqs of Asia Minor and whose death he
places in the year 708/1308–1309, that he lost his power and reportedly ended his own life
by poison. However, the accuracy of this statement of the distinguished historian is open
to grave doubts.
The poisonous ring, as the royal instrument of suicide, plays a considerable role in
Occasionally, the discrepancy created by tradition and religion in the popu-

lar sentiment regarding suicide was cleverly exploited by unscrupulous princes.
In 646/1249, the Ayyûbid ruler of Egypt, al-Malik aṣ-Ṣâliḥ, wanted to send his
brother and predecessor, al-Malik al-ʿÂdil, into exile to Šawbak. When al-ʿÂdil
refused to go, aṣ-Ṣâliḥ’s retainers killed him. Then, the rumor was spread that
al-ʿÂdil had strangled himself; he was buried like a stranger, without the cus-
tomary mourning rites.116 Aṣ-Ṣâliḥ may have speculated that the people would
willingly accept the fact that al-ʿÂdil had killed himself in his misfortune, but,
at the same time, have no sympathy for a man who committed the grave sin of
suicide.
In this connection it is necessary to mention the motif of suicide committed
by would-be prophets and founders of religious sects in order to deceive the
simple-minded. This motif has been ascribed to the Iranian heretic known as
al-Muqannaʿ. In contrast to other sources which state that he ended his life
254 by poison,117 it is also reported that he | attempted to burn himself to death
so that his followers might think that his body had vanished from the earth.
However, his half-burned corpse was found in the oven which he had used for
his purpose.118
classical and ancient oriental tradition. Šîrîn, for instance, was said to have died in this
manner, cf. Ṯaʿâlibî, Histoire des rois des Perses 729 (ed. by H. Zotenberg, Paris, 1900);
Muġulṭây, Martyrs of Love 1.171. (Spies). Firdawsî 7.405 (Mohl), omits mention of the ring.
Cf. Ṭabarî, Annales 3.140.
116 Cf. Sibṭ Ibn al-Jawzî, Mirʾât az-zamân 512.
A Qutluġ Ḫân ruler of Kirmân, Jalâl ad-dîn Suyurġatmiš, suffered a similar fate at
the hand of his sister Pâdišâh Ḫâtûn, in the year 693/1294, cf. Ḥamdallâh Mustawfî,
Taʾrîḫ-i-Guzîdah 1.532, abridged transl. 2.133, ed. and transl. by E.G. Browne (Leyden,
1910–1913. E.J.W. Gibb Memorial Series 14).
Upon the order of the Sultân al-Malik an-Nâṣir Ḥasan, Eljbuġâ of Tripoli killed Sayf
ad-dîn Arġûn Šah, Governor of Damascus, in a Damascus prison. Eljbuġâ then declared
that Arġûn Šâh had been found with the knife which had caused his death in his hand,
“implying that he had killed himself,” cf. Ibn Taġrîbirdî, Nujûm, ed. by W. Popper, anno
750/1349, in Univ. of California Publ. in Semitic Philology 5.76f. (Berkeley, 1932ff.).
In early ʿAbbâsid times, Aḥmad b. Hišâm appears to have planned to poison Yaḥyâ b.
Ḫâqân and to make people believe that Yaḥyâ committed suicide, according to a story in
Tanûḫî, Faraj 1.118 (Cairo, 1903–1904), following Jahšiyârî (cf. M. ʿAwwâd, in Revue de l’Acad.
Ar. de Damas 18.322, 1943).
117 See below n. 135.
118 Cf. Bîrûnî, Âṯâr 211 (ed. by E. Sachau, Leipzig, 1878), transl. by the same 194 (London,
1879). Bîrûnî mentions 169/785–786 as the date of al-Muqannaʿ’s death. The most detailed
account of al-Muqannaʿ is found in an-Naršaḫî’s History of Buḫârâ, which I consulted in
an English translation prepared by Richard N. Frye.
Another category of suicide stories most definitely reflects ancient customs

and literary traditions which Islam did not entirely succeed in stamping out.
These are the stories of suicide committed on account of an unfortunate love
affair.119
Pre-Islamic concepts appear to be responsible for certain cases of this type
of suicide among Bedouins. It is true that there is little significance to the
case of “a Bedouin (who) shot himself at the nuptials of a wife whom he had
divorced, and who had married another man.” It is, however, interesting to
observe that this suicide story is coupled with the world-wide legendary motif
of the maidens who precipitated themselves from a hill top in order to escape
marriage to men whom they disliked.120 Also the customary suicide of unwed
Ruwala girls whose lovers deserted them when they were expectant mothers
obviously has its origin in ways of thinking uninfluenced by Islam.121
The stories of lovers who committed suicide because they were prevented
from being together have persistently lived on in Arabic literature. Usually
it is a sudden unexplained death, or a slow fading-away, which cannot be
called suicide, that leads to the death of unfortunate lovers—the death of the
enamored Banû ʿUḏrah “welche sterben, wenn sie lieben.”122 In later centuries,
the voluminous Arabic encyclopaedias devoted to those celebrated stories
special chapters On those who killed themselves out of love.123
119 In view of the eternally human aspect of the subject it would, of course, be pedantic to
try to press all suicides of this type into the strait-jacket of literary tradition. If we had any
accurate statistics, we might find a much larger number of such cases.
Modern times lie outside the scope of this paper, but cf. an instance from nineteenth
century Persia, mentioned by E.G. Browne, A Year amongst the Persians 499 (2nd ed.,
Cambridge, 1927).
120 Cf. J.L. Burckhardt, Notes on the Bedouins and Wahábys 156n. (London, 1830). The legend
of the Maiden Rock is quoted by J. Wisse, Selbstmord und Todesfurcht 143 and 439.
A woman who was deserted by her husband is said to have precipitated herself from
the top of a hill, according to A. Jaussen, Coutumes des Arabes au pays de Moab 96 (Paris,
1908). Jaussen also reports three other cases of suicide.
Usâmah b. Munqiḏ, Iʿtibâr 2.111, transl. by Hitti 179, tells the story of a Kurdish girl
who had been captured by the Franks and was found drowned in the river. Although the
Arabic is not altogether clear, the text seems to imply that people thought that the girl had
drowned herself in order to escape dishonor. Cf. also below nn. 149, 151, and 162.
121 Cf. A. Musil, The Manners and Customs of the Rwala Bedouins 240 (New York, 1928). Unless
the girl kills herself, her father or brother would kill her.
122 H. Heine, Der Asra, in Romanzero, 1. Buch.—Cf. Ibn Qutaybah, ʿUyûn al-aḫbâr 4.131 (Cairo,
1925–1930).
123 Cf. Nuwayrî, Nihâyat al-arab 2.195–197 (Cairo, 1343/1924). Ibšîhî’s chapter on those who
However, cases of a violent self-inflicted death are not entirely absent from
those stories. The Pyramus-and-Thisbe motif of the lover who commits suicide
out of grief over the supposed death of his beloved who, being alive and learning
about her lover’s suicide, in turn makes an end to her own life, is attributed to
one of the Banû ʿUḏrah.124 Another version of the same story does not lead to
suicide: A lover, upon finding his girl killed by a lion, kills that lion, then gives
directions to be buried together with his beloved, and, immediately after, dies
himself from shock.125
Another tragic love motif is represented by the story of ʿAbbâs of the Banû
Ḥanîfah. In a dark night, ʿAbbâs mistakes his beloved and the girl in her com-
pany for some of his pursuers. He kills his beloved with an arrow-shot, then,
realizing the tragic mistake he made, he recites two verses to the effect that
such a cruel blow of fate calls for either patience or suicide. He decides upon
the latter course and severs his jugular veins with a knife.126
255 Love suicides of a similar type in a Muslim urban setting may already have
been influenced by the Greek conception of love.127 A famous example is con-
tained in a story which has been preserved in a number of slightly different
versions: A slave girl, after having recited a couple of verses about the tribula-
tions of love, jumps into the river; a male slave, reciting a few appropriate verses
to the effect that love compels him to follow his beloved, likewise dives into the
water, and they both drown embracing each other.128
died from love (Mustaṭraf 2.199–206) contains no cases of suicide proper. Muġulṭây,
Martyrs of Love 1.96 f., 98, 104, 152 f., 168 f., 178f., 190f., and 200ff. (Spies), contains stories
involving suicide.
124 Cf. Nuwayrî, Nihâyat al-arab 2.195.
125 Cf. Ibsîhî, Mustaṭraf 2.203 f. Cf. also Sarrâj, Maṣâriʿ 294–296, in R. Paret, Früharabische
Liebesgeschichten 18 and 75, where the different versions are discussed.
126 Cf. Ibn Qutaybah, ʿUyûn al-aḫbar 4.133 f.; Muġulṭây, Martyrs of Love 1.178f., from the Kitâb
al-Iʿtilâl by Muḥammad b. Jaʿfar al-Ḫarâʾiṭî.
127 Cf. above p. 247. Hellenistic influence is assumed by G. v. Grünebaum for the Arabian
Nights ( JAOS 62.283 n. 68, 1942; cf. below n. 129). The idea that a noble princess would
prefer a self-chosen death to capture or dishonor, as expressed in the stories of Ḥayât
an-Nufûs (Arabian Nights 3.202, Cairo, 1302/1855) and of ʿUmar an-Nuʿmân and his two
sons (op. cit. 1.156), could hardly be traced to any specific source, but a burlesque trait, like
the suicide of the bath attendant whose greed had caused him to lead his wife into the
arms of another man (op. cit. 3.58, stories about the artfulness of women), may well have
had a Greek prototype.
128 The story goes back to al-Jâḥiẓ. Cf., for instance, Ibn Dâwûd, Zahrah 351ff.; Sarrâj, Maṣâriʿ
72, in R. Paret, Früharabische Liebesgeschichten 15; Ibn Ḫallikân, Wafayât 5.123f. (ed. by
F. Wüstenfeld, Göttingen, 1835–1842), transl. by MacG. De Slane 2.405–407 (Paris, 1842–
Here again, we find instances of the interplay between ancient traditions and
religious injunctions. A young man was forced to sell his beloved slave-girl and,
in addition, lost the money he had received for her. In desperation he attempted
to commit suicide in the waters of the Tigris but was rescued by some near-by
persons. A šayḫ in the crowd rebuked him severely that he had risked his soul,
merely because he had lost his material possessions. The young man went
home and still felt so lonely that only the fear of the hell-fire prevented him
from killing himself.129
While Islam was thus not fully able to triumph over deeply engrained tradi-
tions, the great influence of its teachings upon its adherents shows itself in the
fact that the statistics of suicide knows of hardly any theologian who ended
his own life. A noteworthy exception is Ibn Sabʿîn, the philosopher and mys-
tic, who is said to have committed suicide in Mecca in 669/1271; in view of his
eccentric personality which is so clearly recognizable in his writings, his deci-
sion to commit suicide might have been influenced by an attitude of protest
against accepted beliefs and opinions.130 But the general truth of the statement
that suicide hardly ever occurs among orthodox Muslim theologians seems
incontestable, and no perusal, however careful, of the numerous biographi-
cal dictionaries of Muslim divines is likely to refute this fact. However, some
allowance may be made for the possibility that, if a theologian or a scholar actu-
ally did commit suicide, the case was hushed up and did not enter the historical
records. A ripe old age is considered a special blessing and a reward for piety; it
is said that the philosophers who make light of the religious law are known for
1868); Nuwayrî, Nihâyat al-arab 2.195. Instead of drowning, another method of suicide
used in this connection is smashing one’s own brain.
For the Ṣûfic version of this story (which omits the element of suicide), cf. Hebrew
Union College Annual 15.445 (1940).
A transposition of this motif into historical reality is found in Ibn al-Aṯîr, Kâmil 11.270
(ed. by C.J. Tornberg, Uppsala, 1851); Ibn Kaṯîr 12.273, whose source is Ibn as-Sâʿî. In
569/1173–1174 the young prince Abû l-ʿAbbâs, who was soon to become Caliph under the
name of an-Nâṣir li-dîn Allâh, fell down from a high cupola (qubbah). When his servant, by
the name of Najâḥ, who was with him, saw that, he threw himself down after the prince.
Both remained alive. When Najâḥ was asked for the reason of his action, he replied: “I did
not want to survive my master.”
129 Cf. Tanûḫî, Faraj 2.152. It may, however, be noted that the loss of his money, rather than
that of his girl, is considered the reason of the young man’s attempted suicide. This is the
story which v. Grünebaum knows from the Arabian Nights (above n. 127).
130 Cf. below n. 167 and 168. The majority of sources does not mention his suicide.—Cf. n. 166
and 178.
the relatively young age at which they die,131 and the commission of suicide is
considered a further indication of the perversion of heretics.
Muslim education also might account for the fact that suicide among the
insane is very rare. A celebrated case of this kind is that told about the famous
lexicographer al-Jawharî (d. before 400/1010). Al-Jawharî apparently suffered a
nervous breakdown; he is said to have fastened a couple of wooden doorwings
to his shoulders and, under the illusion of being able to fly, to have jumped
from the roof of the Old Mosque in Nîsâbûr.132 Since in a state of mental
256 derange|ment the individual does not foresee the fatal result of his action, such
cases can, of course, not be classified as suicides.
On the other hand, death as the result of “suicidal” missions133 and of the
desire for martyrdom occurs not infrequently, since such death is considered
highly commendable according to Muslim religious concepts. However, such
cases are no suicides in the proper sense of the term.
2 A Chronological List
23/644: According to a dubious tradition, Abû Luʾluʾah, the murderer of the
Caliph ʿUmar, killed himself with the same scimitar he had used for his deed,
immediately after the murder. Abû Luʾluʾah, however, allegedly was no Muslim,
but a Christian or a Magian.134
163/779–780: The heretic al-Muqannaʿ, realizing that he would not be able to

escape the enemy who was besieging his fortress, poisoned his family and also
ended his own life by poison.135
264/877 (or 260/873): There is no evidence for the correctness of the statement
of a late source that the great Christian scholar, Ḥunayn b. Isḥâq, committed
suicide by swallowing poison.136
131 Cf., for instance, Tâšköprüzâdeh, Miftâḥ as-saʿâdah 2.4 (Hyderabad, 1329/1911).
132 Cf., for instance, Yâqût, Iršâd 6.157 (Cairo, s. a.). The story serves the purpose of explaining
why al-Jawharî’s Ṣiḥâḥ was left unfinished at the time of his death.
133 I do not know of cases of suicide by Ḥaššâšîn when they were apprehended after comple-
tion of their missions. Cf., however, the famous story of al-Ḥasan b. aṣ-Ṣabbâḥ ordering
some of his followers to commit suicide before the eyes of the envoy of Malikšah, quoted,
for instance, by Ibn Kaṯîr 12.159 f., anno 494/1100–1101.
134 Cf. Masʿûdî, Murûj 4.277 (ed. by Ch.A.C. Barbier de Meynard-B.M.M. Pavet de Courteille,
Paris, 1861–1877). Cf. also Ġazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ 4.342 (Cairo, 1326/1908).
135 Ṭabarî, Annales 3.494; Ibn Ḫallikân, Wafayât 4.136f. (Wüstenfeld), transl. by MacG. De
Slane 2.205 f. See above p. 253 f.
136 Cf. Bar Hebräus, Taʾrîḫ Muḫtaṣar ad-duwal 252 (ed. by A. Ṣâlḥânî, Beirut, 1890). Cf. also
285/898(?): Ṣâliḥ b. Mudrik aṭ-Ṭâʾî, who had been engaged in robbing pilgrim
caravans, saw that he would not be able to avoid capture by Abû l-Aġarr.
Therefore, he took a knife from a servant, who brought him something to eat,
and killed himself with it.137 Another source, however, places Ṣâliḥ’s death in
the year 287/900 and does not make any mention of his alleged suicide.138
291/903: While in prison, the Qarmaṭian leader, Ḏû š-Šâmah, attempted to end

his life by cutting his veins with a splinter of a broken porringer, but he was
saved and later on executed.139
4th/10th cent. (first half?): Suicide of Abû Aḥmad b. Abî Bakr.140
315/927–928: A certain Šîrâzî refused to hand over to the wazîr ʿAlî b. ʿÎsâ a list
of those Baġdâdîs and Kûfîs who were in correspondence with the Qarmaṭian
Abû Ṭâhir Sulaymân b. al-Ḥasan al-Jannâbî. Emprisoned, the Šîrâzî went on a
hunger strike and died after eight days.141 His action is not called a suicide by the
author who reports the story, and it is doubtful whether the man anticipated
the fatal result of his action.
332/943–944: A Muslim historian appears to be impressed with the courage of

a Russian youth who killed himself with his scimitar when he realized that fur-
ther resistance against the numerically superior Muslims under al-Marzubân
would be useless.142
351/962: After his defeat by the Byzantines, Ibn az-Zayyât, the master of Ṭarsûs,
jumped from the balcony of his house into the river which flowed underneath
it, and drowned himself.143
F. Rosenthal, Die arabische Autobiographie 17 (Studia Arabica I, Rome, 1937. Analecta

Orientalia 14).
137 Cf. Masʿûdî, Murûj 8.191 f.
138 Cf. Ṭabarî, Annales 3.2191 f.
139 Cf. ʿArîb, Ṭabari continuatus 4 (ed. by M.J. de Goeje, Leyden, 1897); A. Mez, Renaissance
348.
140 See above p. 251.
141 Cf. Miskawayh, Tajârib, in Amedroz-Margoliouth, Eclipse 1.181f., transl. 4.204.
142 Op. cit. 2.67, transl. 5.74.
143 Op. cit. 2.191, transl. 5.208.—It is, of course, hardly possible to decide whether persons who,
as it is frequently reported, die in jumping from the roof of a house, or the like, while being
pursued, do so in the hope of escape or with a suicidal intention. The mamlûk, for instance,
369/980: al-Muṭahhar b. ʿAbdallâh, a general of the Bûyid ʿAḍud ad-dawlah,

committed suicide by severing the arteries of both arms. He realized that he
was unable to accomplish the task which had been entrusted to him, and he
was afraid that he might lose his position to his competitor, Abû l-Wafâʾ. The
257 historian who reports this event is | deeply shocked by it and calls it “very
remarkable, since here is a man who throws his life away because he is afraid
to lose his master’s favor.”144
369/979–980 (??): The same ʿAḍud ad-dawlah, according to an early though

hardly reliable source, compelled the Ḥamdânid princess Jamîlah bint Naṣr
ad-dawlah to live in the whore district of Baġdâd; she preferred drowning
herself in the Tigris.145
392/1001: A certain Bâbân, confident of the wazîr Farruḫân b. Šîrâz, killed

himself in the bath, because he was persecuted by his enemies after the death
of his master. He was, however, no Muslim, but a Magian.146
399/1009: ʿAbd ar-Raḥmân Sanchol, ruler of Cordoba, tried to kill himself in

order to escape torture and execution, but he was prevented from committing
suicide by his executioners.147
4th/10th cent. (latter part??): A Christian physician, Abû l-Ḥasan ʿAlî b. Ġassân
al-Baṣrî, drowned himself for a number of reasons, among them financial
difficulties, illness, and a passionate love for someone else’s slave.148
who killed his master, al-Malik al-Amjad, and jumped from the roof of the house into the
middle courtyard, may have acted in this manner because he preferred this type of suicide
to a certain death after capture (cf. Abû l-Fidâʾ, Annales Muslemici 4.364, Copenhagen,
1792, anno 627/1229–1230; Kutubî, Fawât 1.81, Bûlâq, 1299/1882). Such cases are of interest
for us only if some author considers them suicides.
144 Op. cit. 2.409–411, transl. 5.448–450. Cf. A. Mez, Renaissance 21.
145 Mez, Renaissance 21 n. 9 and 341, refers to Ġuzûlî, Maṭâliʿ al-budûr 2.48 (Cairo, 1300/1882),
who quotes Ṯaʿâlibî, Laṭâʾif 55 f. (ed. by P. de Jong, Leiden, 1867). Cf. also Amedroz-
Margoliouth, Eclipse 2.204 n., transl. 5.443 n.
146 Cf. Hilâl aṣ-Ṣâbiʾ, Taʾrîḫ, in Amedroz-Margoliouth, Eclipse 3.417, transl. 6.443.
147 Cf. R. Dozy-E. Lévi-Provençal, Histoire des Musulmans d’Espagne 2.289.
148 Cf. Tawḥîdî, Imtâʿ 2.169 (Cairo, 1942); Abû l-Muṭahhar Muḥammad b. Aḥmad, Ḥikâyât
Abî l-Qâsim al-Baġdâdî, ed. by A. Mez, Abulḳâsim, ein baġdâder Sittenbild 83 (Heidelberg,
1902). Cf. Mez, Renaissance 354.
beg. 5th/11th cent.: During the reign of al-Ḥâkim bi-amri llâh, it is stated, many
women killed themselves because they feared that they might suffer indignities
from the black slaves whom al-Ḥâkim had instigated against the Egyptian
population.149
468/1075–1076: A story of undetermined historical reliability states that in Baġ-

dâd a certain Ibn ar-Rawwâs was so deeply grieved by the death of the woman
he loved that he did not eat and finally strangled himself.149a
474/1081–1082: Out of grief over the death of his son Dâwûd, the Saljûq Sulṭân
Malikšâh attempted several times to take his own life, but was prevented from
committing this act of desperation by his courtiers.150
479/1086: After his defeat by Tâj ad-dawlah Tutuš, the Saljûq ruler of Aleppo,
Sulaymân b. Qutulmiš, killed himself with his scimitar. Other sources, however,
claim that he was killed in battle or during the flight after his defeat.151 It is
interesting to observe that Sulaymân’s father, Qutulmiš, was found mysteriously
dead on the battlefield after his defeat by Alp Arslan in 456/1064, and people
thought that he might have died “from fear.”152 And in
500/1107: Sulaymân’s son, Qilij Arslan, after his defeat by Jâwalî, a retainer of
the Sulṭân Muḥammad Šâh, chose death by drowning himself in the Ḫâbûr.
Most sources, however, assume that his death in the Ḫâbûr was caused by an
accident.153
149 Ibn Kaṯîr, Bidâyah 12.10.

149a Muġulṭây, Martyrs of Love 1.104 (Spies).
150 Cf. Ibn al-Aṭîr, Kâmil 10.78 f. (ed. by C.J. Tornberg, Leyden, 1864). Ibn Taġrîbirdî, Nujûm 5.113
(Cairo, 1353/1935), stresses the extraordinary character of Malikšâh’s behavior.
151 Cf. EI, s.v. Sulaymân b. Ḳutulmish. Cf., further, Ibn al-Qalânisî, Taʾrîḫ 119 (ed. by H.F. Ame-
droz, Beirut-Leyden, 1908); Ibn Kaṯîr, Bidâyah 12.130, Fikret Isiltan, Die Seldtschuken des
Akserayi 34 (Leipzig, 1943. Sammlung orientalischer Arbeiten 12). Ibn Kaṯîr, loc. cit., also
mentions the attempted suicide of the wife of Sâbiq, Ismâʿîlî lord of Qalʿat Jaʿbar, between
Bâlîs and ar-Raqqah. Some people disapproved of her action, but when she explained that
she had sought death in order to escape the dishonor of falling into the hands of Malikšâh,
they thought that she had been right to try to kill herself.
152 Cf. Ibn al-Aṯîr, Kâmil 10.24; Ibn Ḫallikân, Wafayât 8.18 (Wüstenfeld), transl. by MacG. De
Slane 3.231 f.
153 Cf. EI, s.v. Ḳılıdj Arslan; Ibn Kaṯîr 12.167; Ibn Taġrîbirdî, Nujûm 5.190f. (Cairo, 1353/1935),
anno 498.
500/1107: The wife of the Ismâʿîlî leader, Aḥmad b. ʿAbd al-Malik b. ʿUṭâš who
had fallen into the hands of the Sulṭân Muḥammad after the conquest of his
castle, Šâhdiz near Iṣfahân, threw herself from the top of the castle and thus
perished.154
510/1116–1117: When the troops of the African Zîrid, ʿAlî b. Yaḥyâ, routed the
258 inhabitants of | Jabal Waslât,155 some of them ended their own lives by pre-
cipitating themselves from the mountain.156
520/1126: When the Ismâʿîlî headman of a village in the county of Bayhaq, whose
name was al-Ḥasan b. Samîn (?), saw that he would not be able to escape before
the troops of the Sulṭân Sanjar, he ascended the minaret of the local mosque
and jumped down to his death.157
532/1137–1138: Ibn al-Buquš as-Silâḥî, a governor of Baġdâd under the ʿIrâqî

Saljûq Ġiyâṯ ad-dîn Masʿûd, had been dismissed by his master from his post
in Baġdâd because of his misrule, and was held captive in the Fortress of Takrît.
As-Silâḥî expected to be put to death and he preferred drowning himself in the
Tigris.158
598/1202: A certain Ibn ʿAṭîyah had accused another man of having in his
possession a sum of money belonging to the wazîr Abû Bakr b. ʿAṭṭâr. When he
could not prove his accusation he himself was incarcerated. He threw himself
into the well in the courtyard of his prison and perished.159
604/1207–1208: An official of the treasury in Baġdâd, ar-Raḍî b. Harṯamah,

hanged himself. He was under investigation for embezzlement.160
639/1241–1242: ʿAbdallâh b. ʿAbd ar-Raḥmân al-Barjûnî, a secretary of the trea-

sury in Baġdâd, ended his life by hanging himself, supposedly because of an
unfortunate love affair.161
154 Cf. Ibn al-Aṯîr, Kâmil 10.302; Ibn Kaṯîr 12.167.

155 Apparently, Djebel Ousselat, about thirty miles west of Kairouan.
156 Cf. Ibn al-Aṯîr, Kâmil 10.366.
157 Cf. op. cit. 10.445.
158 Cf. op. cit. 11.43.
159 Cf. Ibn as-Sâʿî, al-Jâmîʿ al-Muḫtaṣar 82 f., part IX (ed. by Muṣṭafâ Jawâd, Baġdâd, 1353/1934).
160 Cf. op. cit. 237.
161 Cf. Ibn al-Fuwaṭî 149.
643/1245: The ten daughters of an inhabitant of Damascus did not want to

expose themselves to possible dishonor in the streets of the war-torn city and
preferred to stay in their house and be burned to death.162
645/1247–1248: Badr ad-dîn Muḥammad b. Ward, an assistant secretary of the

treasury in Baġdâd, attempted without success to kill himself by cutting his
throat while being held for the investigation of his financial status.163
647/1249–1250: Ḥusayn b. Tâj ad-dîn b. al-ʿAlqamî, a relative of the wazîr Muʾ-

ayyad ad-dîn b. al-ʿAlqamî, hanged himself. He appears to have been insulted in
the course of a quarrel between himself and a Jew, and when he did not succeed
in having his case brought before the wazîr, he committed suicide (?).164
653/1255: A man in Baġdâd accused himself of the murder of a person who,

he said, had made improper advances (taʿarraḍa bi …) to him while he was a
youth. He stated that at that time he had left the country and had visited Syria,
Jerusalem, and Mecca; now, he said, he had returned in order to atone for his
crime. Since no trace of the family of the alleged victim could be found, the man
was considered innocent. His feeling of guilt, however, caused him to attempt
suicide by cutting his jugular vein, but he was rescued in time.165
662/1264: Suicide of the muḥaddiṯ Abû Ṭâhir Ismâʿîl b. Ṣârim al-Kinânî, in

Egypt.166
669/1271: ʿAbd al-Ḥaqq b. Ibrâhîm Ibn Sabʿîn reportedly committed suicide in

Mecca by severing his veins.167 For those who were opposed to his teachings his
suicide was a further proof of his heresy. One of his pupils, however, contended
that Ibn Sabʿîn’s voluntary decision to commit suicide and thus to hasten
his reunion with his Creator merely confirmed the unusual character of his
personality.168
162 Cf. Sibṭ Ibn al-Jawzî, Mirʾât az-zamân 498.

163 Ibn al-Fuwaṭî 217.
164 Id. 248.
165 Id. 307.
166 Cf. G. Wiet, Les biographies du Manhal Safi (by Ibn Taġrîbirdî) 61 (Cairo, 1932. Mém. de
l’ Institut d’ Égypte 19).
167 Cf. Kutubî, Fawât 1.247 (Bûlâq, 1299/1882).
168 Maqqarî, Nafḥ 1.592 (ed. by R. Dozy–G. Dugat–L. Krehl–W. Wright, Leiden, 1855–1861).
Cf. also M. Amari, in JA V, 1.256 (1853). L. Massignon, Die Ursprünge und die Bedeutung
678/1279–1280: The body of an unidentified man who had hanged himself was
found in the Muʾaḏḏin’s qubbah of the Niẓâmîyah College.169
In the same year, a son of Majd ad-dîn b. al-Aṯîr died without a previous
illness. His father had beaten him in the presence of a number of important
259 personalities, because he had played | truant. People said that the boy felt
disgraced because his father treated him that way, and ate opium which caused
his death.170 It seems that the author who reports this story is not convinced
that the boy intended to destroy himself by eating the opium.
679/1280–1281: A woman who had learned that her husband was required to pay
to the government an amount of money far beyond his means hanged herself,
because she was afraid that she and her husband would have to suffer extortion
and torture.171
684/1285: Because of the high prices and the food shortage a woman threw
herself into the Tigris.172
686/1287: Najm ad-dîn, a tax-official in Baġdâd, committed suicide when he

realized that he would not be able to pay the outstanding sums of money which
he was required to pay.173
688/1289: Šihâb ad-dîn ʿUmar, the son of a daughter of Ṣafì ad-dîn ʿAbd al-
Muʾmin, hanged himself in his own house, for no apparent reason.174
724/1324: A high official of the Egyptian administration, Karîm ad-dîn al-kabîr,

who had met with some misfortune in his career, hanged himself in prison.175
740/1340: A Christian convert to Islam, Rizqallâh b. Faḍlallâh, also a high Egyp-

tian official, killed himself for similar reasons.176
des Gnostizismus im Islam, in Eranos-Jahrbuch 1937.76f. (Zurich, 1938), is reminded by Ibn

Sabʿîn’s reported manner of death of Stoicism and Neo-Platonism.
169 Ibn al-Fuwaṭî 408.
170 Id. 409.
171 Id. 4i3.
172 Id. 447.
173 Id. 451.
174 Id. 460.
175 Cf. G. Wiet, Les biographies du Manhal Safi 213; JA IX, 7.267–268 (1896); Ibn Iyâs, Badâʾîʿ
1.162 (Bûlâq, 1311–1312/1894), anno 722.
176 Cf. G. Wiet, op. cit. 148.
769/1367–1368: An Egyptian army officer, Sayf ad-dîn Qunuq al-ʿIzzî, who had
been implicated in an unsuccessful revolt, committed suicide by drinking water
and swallowing sand until he died.177
788/1386: The qâḍî Šihâb ad-dîn Aḥmad b. Muḥammad b. az-Zarkašî died

suddenly in Cairo. People suspected that he had poisoned himself, because of
his many debts.178
795/1393: When the henchmen of al-Malik aẓ-Ẓâhir Barqûq were about to seize
Minṭâš in Syria, the latter inflicted four wounds on himself with a knife, but he
became unconscious and could not finish his attempted suicide.179
799/1396: Iyâs al-Jirjâwî died while being tortured by Ibn aṭ-Ṭablâwî, upon
orders of Barqûq. There was a rumor that he had swallowed some poison which
he carried in a ring. Others, however, were of the opinion that his illness was the
cause of his death.180
800/1398: Ibn aṭ-Ṭablâwî tried to commit suicide by slashing his belly with a
scimitar when he was led to the torture upon orders of Barqûq, but his guards
prevented him from executing his intention.181
841/1438: A woman jumped to her death from the top of her house. She had been
refused permission to participate in the funeral of her son by Dawlat Ḫojâ who
had just been appointed muḥtasib of Cairo in order to enforce the prohibition
for women to show themselves in public.182
889/1484: One of the crack archers of the army of al-Malik al-Ašraf Qâʾitbey
asked the latter to transfer to him the fief of some deceased person. When his
177 Cf. G. Wiet, op. cit. 281; Ibn Taġrîbirdî, Nujûm, ed. by W. Popper, in Univ. of California Publ.
in Semitic Philology 5.256.—According to Wiet, op. cit. 75, another army officer, Sayf ad-dîn
Iljây al-Yûsufî an-Nâṣirî, who like Qunuq had been implicated in an unsuccessful revolt,
died a suicide in 775/1373. However, in the Nujûm 5.220 (Popper), Ibn Taġrîbirdî states that
Iljây threw himself into the water in order to escape his pursuers, but his heavy clothes
dragged him down.
178 Ibn Taġrîbirdî, Nujûm 5.439 (Popper).
179 Op. cit. 5.550 (Popper).
180 Op. cit. 5.570 (Popper). Cf. also above p. 253.
181 Op. cit. 5.580 (Popper).
182 Op. cit. 6.764 (Popper).
request was refused, he killed himself by cutting his throat (ḏabaḥa nafsahû),
“because he was angry at the Sulṭân.”183 This is an interesting instance of the
type of suicide known as suicide as revenge.184
893/1488: Similarly, an officer of the same Sulṭân asked him for the grant of
a more lucrative fief, since he had a large family to support and was in great
financial difficulties. He, too, was refused, and he went and hanged himself. The
author who reports this story185 stresses the fact that the officer in question was
a religious and intelligent man of an excellent character.
183 Ibn Iyâs, Badâʾiʿ 2.225 (Bûlâq, 1311–1312/1894).

184 Cf. above p. 247.
185 Ibn Iyâs, Badâʾiʿ 2.255 (Bûlâq, 1311–1312/1894).
vii
Sexuality, Gender, and the Family
∵
vii.6
Fiction and Reality: Sources for the 3
Role of Sex in Medieval Muslim Society
Medieval Muslim intellectuals delighted in categorizing the pleasures of this

world in poetry and prose. One author tells us that the pleasures are six in
number and affect all the senses: food, drink, clothing, sex, scent, and sound.
The most excellent and most important pleasure, he says, is clearly—food. He
has a good point. Of all the pleasures, food is the only one absolutely essential
for the individual. But we should not overlook the fact that the quoted state-
ment comes from the introductory remarks of a thirteenth-century cookbook.1
Authors concerned with other subjects would have indicated different pref-
erences, and there were expectedly many occasions for praising sexual enjoy-
ment as the greatest of human pleasures.2
Our knowledge of medieval Muslim society depends almost exclusively
upon literary sources. Fortunately, they are plentiful and of a very wide range.
These sources allow us to gain some perception of the relationship between
individual and society in matters of sexual attitudes and morality. The prob-
lem to which I wish to address myself here is the manner and extent to
which such sociological knowledge can be gleaned from some genres of litera-
ture.
The underlying dilemmas in that relationship are as universal as they are
fundamental. One of them is quite simply that human society and civilization
require for their very existence a certain amount of regulation of sexual expres-
sion. Whatever its degree, the individual will have to submit to it, and he may
easily feel oppressed by it and tempted to circumvent it. The other dilemma
results from the fact that what is seen as being of benefit to society is not always
considered by the individual as being of benefit to him. Sociologists nowadays
never tire of reminding us of the importance of this fact. In very short order
I have come across statements such as “Policy designed to maximize benefits
to the | individual may not maximize the welfare of the community,” and “The 4
central dilemma … is that the aggregate of reasonable individual desires is a
1 Muḥammad b. al-Ḥasan al-Kātib al-Baghdādī, Kitāb aṭ-Ṭabīkh, ed. F. al-Bārūdī (Beirut, 1964),
p. 9, trans. A.J. Arberry, in Islamic Culture, XIII (1939), 32.
2 Cf., for instance, the beginning of the Jawāmiʿ al-ladhdha (below, p. 16).

840 sexuality, gender, and the family
societal nightmare.”3 We may add that unreasonable desires, even if they seem
tolerable in small numbers of individuals, are all the more likely in the end to
cause such uneasiness to society.
Throughout history, societies everywhere have established elaborate sets of
moral rules, often of an irrational or seemingly irrational character. They will
no doubt continue to do so in the future, no matter how different the rules
may turn out to be. The perfect system has obviously not yet been devised, and
presumably never will be.
The established rules of sexual morality and institutions in a given soci-
ety have commonly been subjected to friendly or hostile—rarely impartial—
evaluation, both from within that society and from other societies in contact
with it. Value judgments are even more suspect in this connection than they are
with respect to other social phenomena. Emotional involvement is inevitably
added to the always present influence of general political and intellectual cur-
rents. It is hardly surprising that for centuries Islam and Christianity were
highly critical of each other’s moral views. This has changed in recent times,
although the old tradition lingers on. Western scholarship at least has come
to take a generally favorable view of the Muslim system as reflected in the
theoretical, ideal guidelines of religion and law. It is now a much repeated com-
monplace that Islam is a “sex positive” religion and society, in contrast with
the pervasive negative attitude attributed to traditional Christianity. A Euro-
pean medievalist, R.W. Southern, describes the situation in these terms: “To
Western ideals essentially celibate, sacerdotal, and hierarchical, Islam opposed
the outlook of a laity frankly indulgent and sensual, in principle egalitarian,
enjoying a remarkable freedom of speculation, with no priests and monaster-
ies built into the basic structure of society as they were in the West.”4 Islamicists
cannot avoid feeling that some sleight of hand is involved here; theory and
practice on either side are mixed in unequal amounts to sharpen the contrast.
Southern’s description, however, would appear fundamentally sound to many
people today. Instead of “sex positive” and “sex negative” one might perhaps
prefer a more moderate definition. Islam always took care to admit that sexu-
ality existed as a problematic element in the relationship of individuals and
society and never hesitated to leave room for the discussion of approval or
disapproval. Traditional Christianity was inclined to pretend that sexuality’s
3 Both statements appeared during the space of less than a year in the Bulletin of the Amer-
ican Academy of Arts and Sciences, XXX, 2 (1976), 22, and XXX, 5 (1977), 14. The first is by
A. Zolberg, in connection with population problems, and the second by D. Bell, with respect
to technology and environment.
4 R.W. Southern, Western Views of Islam in the Middle Ages (Cambridge, Mass., 1972), p. 7.
fiction and reality 841
legitimate right of existence was limited, and further discussion was to be

avoided as much as possible.
The shift in favor of Islam in the balance of scholarly judgment is primarily 5
due to modern developments in Western civilization which have culminated in
present-day views that ascribe to sexuality a decisive role in all human affairs.
Modern Muslim writers have naturally felt the effect of these views. A recent
study by the Tunisian Abdelwahab Bouhdiba contains valuable insights.5 Yet its
dominant theme is a sort of paean to the harmonious equilibrium achieved in
Islam between sexuality and religious sanctity. The study pays no regard to the
numerous counterforces that were at work putting the relationship between
religion and sex on a different level. It was not only strongly entrenched asceti-
cism that stressed their mutual exclusiveness. An old anecdote tells of the aris-
tocratic Muslim and a woman he fell in love with at first sight. It happened
at the Kaʿba, which is often the fictional setting for emphatic statements on
morality.6 He went up to her and recited the verse:
I have a great passion for my religion while I like pleasures.

How can I have a passion for pleasures as well as Islam?
The lady replied: “Leave the one, and you will have the other.” It may, or may
not, mean something that in another version of the story it was the lady who
made the advances, and the pious gentleman the one who used the verse, and
a continuation of it, to rebuke her.7
5 Abdelwahab Bouhdiba, La sexualité en Islam (Paris, 1975). Bouhdiba’s bibliography reveals

a paucity of serious contemporary Arabic works on the subject in both its historical and
substantive aspects.
6 Cf., for instance, below, n. 47, or the fictitious case of compound transgression, of a man
fornicating with his mother in the Kaʿba while both are fasting in Ramaḍān, to be found
in ʿIzz ad-Dīn Ibn ʿAbd as-Salām, Qawāʿid al-aḥkām fī maṣāliḥ al-anām, ed. Ṭ.R. Saʿd (Cairo,
1388/1968), II, 108. The quotation in Ibn al-Ukhūwa, Maʿālim al-qurba, ed. R. Levy (London
1938), pp. 33 f., trans., p. 11, may be a somewhat shortened and slightly toned-down version
of this passage, rather than being derived from another work of Ibn ʿAbd as-Salām, which,
however, is not excluded. The title in Ibn al-Ukhūwa is al-Fawāʾid fī l-maṣāliḥ wa-l-mafāsid;
fawāʾid appears to be a substitution for qawāʿid. The incipit of the published text agrees with
that indicated for Ibn ʿAbd as-Salām’s al-Qawāʿid aṣ-ṣughrā by Ḥājjī Khalīfa, Kashf aẓ-ẓunūn,
ed. Şerefettin Yaltkaya (Istanbul, 1941–1943), col. 1360.
7 Ibn al-Jawzī, Dhamm al-hawā (Cairo, 1381/1962), pp. 24 f. In Ibn al-Jawzī’s versions, the Muslim
nobleman was ʿAbdallāh b. Ḥasan b. Ḥasan, no doubt the great-grandson of ʿAlī who perished
during the reign of al-Manṣūr. His date of death is given as 145/763 by Abū l-Faraj al-Iṣfahānī,
Maqātil aṭ-Ṭālibīyīn (Cairo, 1368/1949), p. 196. Ibn al-Jawzī’s isnād suggests as written sources
6 If Paradise was depicted as the perfect repository of all sensual pleasures, it

was first and foremost an affirmation of their true role in human life. It was a
recognition of the fact that, no matter how desirable that might be, they could
not be eradicated from it. Without question, simple people as a rule continued
to believe that Paradise was to compensate them for what they had missed
on earth. Thoughtful individuals, however, would wonder why the pleasures
of Paradise were so much in conflict with what the Law considered beneficial
for the individual and society on earth. They would argue that those pleasures
were possible in Paradise only because their harmful and corruptive aspects
were no longer operative in the other world.8 Another approach, among the
many that were attempted, was, for example, taken by the Ẓāhirite Ibn Ḥazm.
Since for him revelation, and not reason, decides what is allowed and what is
forbidden, he can simply dodge the issue and refuse to consider the argument
that it would be absurd for God to forbid indulgence in certain pleasures on
earth but permit them in Paradise.9 Thus, the sensual Paradise became to a
large degree a symbol for society’s misapprehensions about sensual pleasure
on earth. Such speculations imply an awareness of the disruptive potential
of sexuality for the smooth functioning of the social order, rather than that
glowing affirmation of sexuality one may be tempted to see in the pleasures
of Paradise under the influence of modern ideas.
That influence is pervasive and very real. It greatly complicates our search
for historical insight. Let me give another example. It concerns the aspect of
our problem which has always been considered the single most important
criterion for the special complexion of Muslim society, the position of women.
one of the works of Ibn al-Marzubān (d. 309/921–922) for the first version, and ʿUmar b.
Shabba (d. 263/876, or 264) for the second. The additional verse in the second version reads:
My soul has made this world and its attraction attractive for me,
But my inner voice warns me of death and turns me off.
Another version depicts the woman as someone who just happened to pass by when the
Ṭālibid ʿAlī b. ʿAbdallāh al-Jaʿfarī, who was still alive in the time of the caliph al-Mutawakkil,
was reciting the verse, see Abū l-Faraj al-Iṣfahānī, Kitāb al-Aghānī (Būlāq, 1285/1868), XIX,
142, whose informant was Muḥammad b. al-ʿAbbās al-Yazīdī (d. 310/922, or 313; one wonders
why al-Yazīdī, who was born in the early forties of the ninth century, should have needed
two informants between himself and al-Jaʿfarī). As always in the case of such anecdotes, it is
difficult or impossible for us to reconstruct the earliest stage of their literary fixation.
8 Aṣ-Ṣafadī, Wāfī, Vol. II, ed. S. Dedering (Istanbul, 1949), pp. 84f.
9 Ibn Ḥazm, al-Iḥkām fī uṣūl al-aḥkām (Cairo, 1345–1348/1926–1929), I, 55; (Cairo, n.d.), I, 50.
The famous passage of Usāmah b. Munqidh on the coarse freedom of Frankish

women shows that on occasion Muslims themselves were aware of the dif-
ference of their society in this respect.10 Whatever the actual situation, the
theory as mirrored in medieval Muslim writings was saturated with negative
views. They might once have been taken for granted and passed unnoticed in
the West. Today, we are conditioned to suspect and perceive “male sexism,” to
use a current term, even where the professed attitude on the whole seems to
be positive. For instance, the Ṣāḥib Ibn | ʿAbbād wrote one of his well-crafted 7
compositions for use on the occasion of the birth of a baby girl. He is pro-
fuse in his praise of the many Arabic words that are feminine in grammatical
gender and at the same time designate what is most important and benefi-
cial in human affairs. Life itself is feminine, and without it, bodies would not
be active and mankind would be unknown. Paradise, which is also feminine,
has been promised to the pious, and it is the reason why the prophets were
sent to mankind, and so on. It is all in the spirit of al-Mutanabbī’s famous
verses:
Were all women like this one, women would surely be thought to excel
men.
Being feminine is no blemish for the sun, nor is being masculine a matter
of pride for the moon.
For a brief moment we are happy to think that a famous wit and littérateur,
who also was a powerful statesman, for once comes out squarely against com-
mon prejudice. But then we realize that the Ṣāḥib also counsels his imaginary
addressee to be happy and cheerful. He hails the baby girl as the herald of many
brothers to follow. No particular subtlety is required to see that the entire exer-
cise was meant to serve as a letter of consolation for someone who had the
misfortune of being blessed with a girl instead of a boy.11
There is no need here to belabor the elementary truth that nobody can
step outside his own immediate cultural boundaries, as little, to use another
cliché, as Archimedes could argue from postulates disregarding physical reali-
10 Usāmah b. Munqidh, Iʿtibār, trans. P.K. Hitti, An Arab-Syrian Gentleman and Warrior (New
York, 1929), pp. 164 f.
11 Ath-Thaʿālibī, Yatīmat ad-dahr (Damascus, 1304/1886), III, 83f. Al-Mutanabbī wrote the
poem in 337/end of 948 at the death of Sayf ad-Dawla’s mother. He spoke of “the one we
have lost” which the Ṣāḥib of necessity replaced by “like this one.” Cf. al-Ḥuṣrī, Zahr (Cairo,
1389/1969), I, 347 f.
ties. Cross-cultural value judgments are always based on preconceptions. This

should not discourage us from making them. Our first task, however, is ascer-
taining the data on which judgments may be based. In our field of study, this
task is far from being accomplished. Whatever can be said at this time is quite
limited and impressionistic.
The sources we have for learning about the way medieval Muslim society
faced the demands of human sexuality are many and varied. At the same
time, they leave us with an acute sense of dissatisfaction and uncertainty.
The compass of time and space, of people and customs, is too large, and, as
compared with it, the coverage provided by literature is too sparse. Meaningful
statistical evaluation seems out of the question. It may be suggested, though,
that valid results might be obtained from intelligent statistical analyses, asking
the proper questions, of the frequency of references across the vast literature
and within the work of individual authors. To my knowledge this approach has
not yet been tried. Considering its enormous difficulties, it may indeed not be
realistically feasible at this time.
It is tempting to project observations from the contemporary scene back-
8 ward | into the past. This is being done occasionally, but it is a dubious and
dangerous procedure, especially in areas highly vulnerable to the leveling influ-
ence of common humanity. It has been my experience that any historical study
of expressions of basic human instincts ultimately reaches the point where the
very existence of differences due to time and environment seems questionable
or, at any rate, the differences appear to be minimal and irrelevant. The more
one learns, the stronger is the temptation to be satisfied with the impression
that sameness outweighs difference. Using the present when studying the past
can only add to obscuring differences and blurring contrasts that the historian
seeks to discover. For reliable guidance, we must painstakingly collect and eval-
uate the information available in the old sources.
The conflict between what the individual considers beneficial to himself and
what is beneficial to society was not one to be discussed as such in medieval
Muslim literature, certainly not in these terms. The reasons are obvious. Indi-
viduals lived for society and were seen as one with it. Societal norms were firmly
established on a religious basis. If the individual was not satisfied with them, it
was his duty to adjust to them. Everything concerned with eroticism was con-
sidered a strictly personal, totally individual matter. As much as anything in
Islamic theory, it was to be left to individual choice. But it would have been
considered preposterous to assume that it could in any way affect, let alone
alter, the accepted norms of society.
The religious and legal literature was, of course, cognizant of the existence
of the potential for conflict between individual and society and gives much
information about it in what it says and, perhaps more, in what it does not
say.
Philosophical thought in the Greek tradition was content with adjusting
abstract ideals to no less abstract Muslim religious norms. The Platonic ideal
state, for instance, as seen by Ibn Sīnā, relies upon preferably monogamous
marriage as its firmest pillar. The family is the official institution that serves
to produce progeny and to assure the preservation of property. In it, man is
the provider. The wife should be satisfied with what the husband provides.
She contributes her proper share to the upbringing of the children, whereas
the husband’s duty is to provide the material support for them. There may be
valid reasons for divorce, but the marriage ties should never be easily broken.
Any other sexual activity detracts from the ideal and should be outlawed
as socially harmful and futile.12 Ibn Sīnā, brief as he is, was still a bit more
explicit than al-Fārābī had been before him in his discussion of the ideal
human society. And a complete description of the human condition as Ibn
Ṭufayl’s Ḥayy b. Yaqẓān purports to be almost totally disregards the existence
of male and female in order to stress the unimportance of matter and all its
works.
The philosophical view of the fundamental undesirability of sexual expres- 9
sion rules out serious consideration of it as a factor determining society. For the
Ikhwān aṣ-Ṣafāʾ, love is the primary force that makes the world go round, and
is responsible for all worthwhile associations. The Ikhwān do not completely
overlook physical aspects. They give them, however, a small and insignificant
part in the whole scheme. For them, it is the one aspect of love that it would be
easy and most convenient to dispense with.13
12 Ibn Sīnā, Kitāb ash-Shifāʾ, Ilāhīyāt ed. I. Madkour and others (Cairo, 1380/1960), II, 447–451.
Ibn Sīnā was used by Ibn Nafīs, Theologus Autodidactus, ed. M. Meyerhof and J. Schacht
(Oxford, 1968), pp. 34 f., trans., pp. 61 f.
13 Rasāʾil Ikhwān aṣ-ṣafāʾ (Cairo, 1347/1928), III, 268 f. A rather unusual expression of the idea
of the irrelevancy of sexuality seems to exist in the list of homosexuals among prominent
early Muslims going back, apparently, to al-Madāʾinī. It is preceded in the source that
quotes it by a statement credited to al-Madāʾinī to the effect that “manliness (murūwa)
is not wickedness and immorality but food spread out, presents given, modesty known,
and harm not done.” The list is, it seems, not meant as something to slander politically
objectionable individuals, but, if it is to be connected with the statement on murūwa, is
meant as an illustration of the insignificance of sexual inclination for the determination
of personal worth. This is admittedly an uncertain speculation, for we cannot say whether
al-Madāʾinī had made the connection between murūwa and the list, or what purpose he,
or the original compiler, had in mind. See R. Sellheim, ed., Die Gelehrtenbiographien des
When at-Tawhīdī asked Miskawayh for the reason why there is universal
admiration for beauty, he couched the question in physical terms, mostly from
the language of poetry, such as longing, gazing, loving, yearning, sleeplessness,
and vivid imaginings. Are we dealing, he asked, with “physical effects, or psy-
chological developments, or intellectual processes, or spiritual preserves, or are
we dealing with haphazard matters not depending on cause and effect?” Misk-
awayh sensed the drift of the question and therefore made a special effort to
play down the physical element and stress its subordinate role.14 But we should
not forget that in the same circle of thinkers and writers, man may be exhorted
at one time to “be by means of his nature a virtuous person, by means of his
soul a higher [nonterrestrial] body, and by means of his intellect a self-sufficient
god.”15 Yet, at another time, it was said that he should be aware of his mortality
and realize that
The pleasure of life is animal pleasure,

And not what the philosophers say it is.16
10 The ascetic and antimaterial trend is prominent in the literature dealing with |
abstract thought, whether philosophical or religious and mystical. It would
be as easy to contend that it had no influence beyond a certain, albeit large,
elite group, as that it represented the dominant attitude of Muslim society as
a whole. Those who articulated this trend occupied some of society’s most
influential positions. There can be no denying that their views left their mark
on it, but the constant insistence upon and radical advocacy of these views
raises some doubt as to how effective they were in reality.
Abū ʿUbaidallāh al-Marzubānī (Wiesbaden, 1964), pp. 183f. According to J. Kraemer, the
list also appears in Ibn Durayd, Wishāḥ, see Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen
Gesellschaft, CX (1961), 271. Part of the description of murūwa is found in al-Bīrūnī, Jamāhir
(Hyderabad, 1355/1936), p. 10, as I learn from the Wörterbuch der klassischen arabischen
Sprache, Vol. K, 247b.
14 At-Tawḥīdī and Miskawayh, al-Hawāmil wa-sh-shawāmil, ed. A. Amīn and as-Sayyid A.
Ṣaqr (Cairo, 1370/1951), pp. 140–143, cf. pp. 242 f.
15 At-Tawḥīdī, Muqābasāt, 62d muqābasa, ed. Ḥ. as-Sandūbī (Cairo, 1347/1929), p. 252; ed.
M.T. Ḥusayn (Baghdād, 1970), p. 255.
16 The verses are ascribed to Abū Sulaymān al-Manṭiqī as-Sijistānī, cf. Ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿa, ʿUyūn
al-anbāʾ, ed. A. Müller (Cairo and Königsberg, 1882–1884), I, 322; aṣ-Ṣafadī, Wāfī, Vol. III,
ed. S. Dedering (Damascus, 1953), p. 166.
Among the most promising sources for our quest are all those works which
were not professedly ideological when they touched upon the subject of sex,
and which were always tolerated as vehicles of unconventional thought. These
works constitute the various genres of popular and entertaining literature.
There is, of course, no way to escape from conventionality even in being uncon-
ventional. In their flights of the imagination, these works managed to stay close
to accepted morality and at the same time be on occasion highly critical of
it.
The products of popular and entertaining literature addressed themselves to
the unpretentious many and to the sophisticated seekers of intellectual stim-
ulation. Relaxation—the momentary freedom from the duties and restraints
imposed by reality—was their principal line of defense against attacks upon
their right to exist in a world that gives man his only chance to work for eter-
nal bliss and should therefore be soberly employed only for serious ends as
determined by established societal norms. Any kind of entertaining literature
in poetry or prose was usually stated to be a temporary diversion from stress
and strain. It was acceptable as a means to keep hearts and minds from get-
ting dull and rusty through too much work. Furthermore, those who had no
hearts and minds to speak of, those who were considered insufficiently pre-
pared by natural endowment for coping with life’s reality, such as women and
children, the simple minded and the uneducated, were good customers for the
lesser products of this literature. Only little of it was adjudged to be of value
for moral instruction. Perhaps, the best-known view expressing the objection-
able facet of belles lettres is the one that distinguished among various types of
poetry and declared some of them morally unsuitable, and that not only for
women and children.17 We are thus forewarned to exercise caution in looking
for social significance in the evidence for sexual attitudes provided by fiction.
It may often highlight the unusual and thereby distort rather than illuminate
reality. Much depends again on whether we put the stress on the expressed and,
more often, implied flouting of official societal norms or on the noticeable def-
erence to them.
Poetry is famous for being the most prolific product of the Arabic and 11
Muslim imagination. It cannot be entirely passed over here, though I can be
brief. Others are much better qualified to speak about poetry than I am. Sheer
bulk adds to the difficulty of extracting general statements on poetry as a source
17 The legal view expressed it precisely: “With respect to the recital of Arab poems, those that
mention immorality, wine, and youths are disapproved because they mention shameful
behavior,” cf. Qāḍīkhān, Fatāwī (Calcutta, 1835), IV, 379f.
for living moral attitudes. Much that ought to be considered has hardly been
investigated from our point of view. Much is still locked away in manuscripts.
It does not facilitate our task that Muslim literary theory was very much taken
with the concept of “the best poetry being the most deceptive one,” which has
recently been studied in great depth by J.C. Bürgel.18 On a less abstract level,
we hear, for instance, that al-Mubarrad expressed the opinion in connection
with the poetry of Abū Nuwās that “quite a few poets say things openly in their
poems which are the opposite of what they leave unexpressed.”19 Thus, the
problem of how much weight can be attributed to apparent social implications
of poetical statements is complicated, quite apart from such ambiguities as
the ones created by the mystical poets’ constant metaphorical use of erotic
images and language. We must also be on the alert for the distorting effects
of poetical traditionalism which conflicted with the desire for originality. Not
infrequently, it led to ever more daring, even outrageous, modifications of
erotic themes, something with which we are regrettably familiar from modern
fictional literature. On the other hand, traditionalism not only served as an
excuse for unconventional behavior but also masked the true character of a
poet’s commitment.
These obstacles to sociological understanding appear all the more unfor-
tunate when we recall I. Goldziher’s remark that in Islam “we find the phe-
nomenon of a people’s poetry being for centuries a living protest against its
religion.”20 Goldziher spoke of wine poetry, but it is indeed obvious that most
love poetry was at variance with moral norms commonly accepted in Islam,
at least since ʿAbbāsid times. The simple description of a man making love to
a woman, with the audience being left in doubt as to their legal status, was
already quite contrary to official morality. Personal satire continued an ancient
tradition and went far beyond permissible decency in its use of scurrilous slan-
der. Poets no doubt did not hesitate to stand up in the right company and recite
such verses. We can also be quite sure that some poets practiced what they
18 “Die beste Dichtung ist die lügenreichste,” Oriens, XXIII–XXIV (1970–1971), 7–102.
19 Jamāʿatun min-a-sh-shuʿarāʾi yuḍmirūna fī ashʿārihim khilāfa mā yuẓhirūna, cf. Ibn Falīta
(?), Rushd al-labīb, MS Istanbul Topkapısarayı Ahmet III 2486, fol. 58a; MS Yale L-114,
fol. 53a. The edition and translation by Mohamed Zouber Djabri (Erlangen, 1968) was not
available to me. From Current Work in the History of Medicine, 92 (Oct.–Dec. 1976), I learn
that parts of the work were treated in Erlangen dissertations by A. Husni-Pasha (1975), B.
al-Khouri (1975), and G. al-Bayati (1976).
20 I. Goldziher, Muslim Studies, Eng. trans. C.R. Barber and S.M. Stern (London, 1967–1971), I,
35. In early Islamic times, a poet excused himself for his verses on wine in these words: “I
had too much to say, and therefore spoke as poets do” (ibid.).
spoke about in their poetry and defied conventional mores in the way they
lived, and we would not need the | ample indications we have from literature 12
to assure us that the life-style ostensibly advocated by them was also practiced
at times by others.
The word “protest” used by Goldziher is certainly appropriate. Many poets
might have denied the intent to protest, but the workings of the poetical
imagination, regardless of the realities that might have inspired it, registered a
protest against prescribed social attitudes. The point at issue is again the extent
to which the poetical imagination reflected feelings and attitudes shared by the
people in general. Poetry possessed vast public appeal beyond literary coteries
and the leadership elite which were its primary audience. It can be assumed
that poets expressed sentiments widely shared by and typical of society as a
whole. Their sentiments, however, were not indicative of any large-scale open
rejection of norms that were accepted as the proper guidelines for individual
behavior. They remained, so to speak, a silent protest, confirming acceptance
of, if not satisfaction with, things as they were.
It would be nonsensical to argue that there is anything the poets say about
sexual behavior that did not have its large role in reality. The apparent close-
ness of spiritual to earthly love in poetry is a familiar phenomenon much
commented upon. The great Ibn ʿArabī often expressed his mystic ideas in fer-
vent, erotical imagery. Now, he had a son who wrote erotic verses that were
clearly meant to be anything but mystical. The fictional eroticism of both father
and son must be taken as true reflections of social experience. The religiously
charged environment in which the elder Ibn ʿArabī moved in Syria was comple-
mented by another sort of environment in which his son moved and in which
probably almost anything went, if within anxiously watched limits of outward
propriety.
The palpable and pervasive respect for propriety usually felt mutes the
protest proclaimed by the imagination. Poetry allows some glimpses at a reality
very different from the official ideal, a small and in its total significance minor
slice of reality. Most importantly it confirms that the desire for erotical expres-
sion beyond that approved by society was always alive.
A much smaller but significant part of fictional entertaining literature is the

prose romance. Much less demanding than poetry and other literary genres, it
had a large popular following. It appealed to the young and helped to shape
their perception of life. Moreover it can be assumed to have tempered imag-
ination with a certain regard for the level of experience of its mass audience.
Nearly all Arabic prose romances are concerned with heroic warfare. They were
intended to give religious and political inspiration. Eroticism as such has little
room in them. Therefore, it is all the more interesting that a large number of
daring erotic episodes is found incorporated in them. The Futūḥ ash-Shāmʿ, the
novelistic elaboration of the edifying theme of the Muslim conquest of Syria, for
example, is of quite recent date in its published form,21 but the basic materials
13 of the | compilation are certainly medieval. In it, we find women and children
ghosting in the background. That was their traditional role when men fought
the good and bloody fight. But at regular intervals, we also find women very
much in the foreground of action, much more so than is warranted by the actual
history of even the early years of Islam.
We see the women of the enemy whose fate it is to learn new domestic
duties, the better to serve the conquerors.22 Then, there are the interfaith love
incidents created by the religious conflict. They drag out over many pages. The
wife or sweetheart refuses to accept the new religion adopted by her man when
he becomes separated from her. She remains Christian, he searches for her, they
fight, she kills herself, he is offered a beautiful captive who turns out to be the
daughter of the Christian Emperor (Futūḥ, I, 51–56). More frequently, the girl is
given a positive role. The daughter of the lord of Aleppo was desired by the son
of the lord of ʿAzāz when they all were still Christians. When she converted to
Islam, it inspired him, too, to adopt Islam to win her hand, to be instrumental
in the assassination of his own Christian father, and so on—it is a long story (I,
186f.). At times, it seems as if the ancient motif of love transcending political
barriers is made to serve far beyond the call of historical and fictional duty, and
the Muslim success appears to derive primarily from the valor and innocence
of noble maidens in the enemy camp.23
From the erotic point of view, the motifs border occasionally on the risqué:
a princess has a secret love affair, gives birth to a boy, abandons him, the
foundling is brought up like a prince by another king, sent off to be married to
his mother (neither, of course, knowing about the relationship), is captured by
the Muslims, his intended bride/mother enters the Muslim camp pretending to
have converted, is told by the Arab leader that the Prophet had revealed to him
in a dream that the young man was in reality her son, mother and son recognize
each other, both become Muslims, she delivers her royal father’s castle into the
hands of the Muslims (II, 75–82). Or, a princess defeats all suitors in the stadium,
21 I used the text of the Futūḥ ash-Shaʿm printed in Cairo in 1354/1935.

22 The captured daughter of the Biṭrīq is given to ʿAbdallāh b. Jaʿfar who teaches her (Arabic)
cooking; she was already expert in Persian and Byzantine cooking, cf. ibid., I, 66.
23 Even the huris in Paradise make converts by appearing to high-ranking Christians in
dreams (ibid., II, 59).
is appointed commander of the anti-Muslim forces, falls in love with a prince

in the army, declares her love to him, is found out by a cousin of hers who in
turn had fallen in love with her, the cousin seizes her, declares himself in favor
of the Muslim cause, helps the Muslims in their enterprise while, I am sorry to
report, the girl disappears from the story for about a dozen pages; she eventually
also converts to Islam and is married off to the cousin (II, 84–98). Here we have
potential incest, free love, female masculinity, but everything is handled most
properly and leads to the proper Muslim denouement according to accepted
social norms.
Even more significant is the part played by Muslim women. There are mys|te- 14
rious knights in shining armor, fighting heroically. When approached, they turn
out to be women, the sister of one Muslim leader (I, 27–33), the wife of another
(I, 44–47, 79), showing their faithfulness and devotion to brother or husband
and in a way outperforming them in effectiveness in the cause of Islam. And
for a dozen or so pages, in the description of the battle of the Yarmūk, a stellar
cast of heroic women fills the traditional role of Bedouin women of inciting the
men to bravery and, moreover, doing brave deeds themselves far beyond any
historical reality. To be sure, they are encouraged at the beginning of the battle
by a man, the Muslim leader, who gives them a short pep talk. He starts cheer-
fully with an out-of-context quotation from the hadith: “Women are defective
in intelligence and religion” (I, 133).24 For obvious reasons, it is left unsaid but
is apparently implied that now the women have the opportunity to prove the
Prophet wrong, and they do go on to act most intelligently in the true religious
spirit.
It all tends to show that the author or prose bard tried to express two
somewhat conflicting realities. On the one hand, we have a muted protest
against the restricted status of women in his time. The basic theme of the
greater freedom of women in early Islam is historically quite true; women then
possessed more independence and were able to use it to the best advantage
of society. The theme is not unknown also to high literature and seems to have
been endorsed as a recommendable model that should, but did not, correspond
to reality.25 It must have pleased the large female segment of the audience, and
it probably also appealed to the secret longings of the men for more shared
24 For the hadith cf. A.J. Wensinck and others, Concordance et indices de la tradition musul-
mane (Leiden, 1936–1969), VI, 539, lines 9–11.
25 Al-Jāḥiẓ argued at length in the Kitāb al-Qiyān that in early Islamic times, it had been
permissible to converse with women and look at them. Cf. also Aḥmad b. aṭ-Ṭayyib
as-Sarakhsī as quoted in Jawāmiʿ al-ladhdha, MS Istanbul Fatih 3729, fol. 65.
experience among the sexes. On the other hand, everything is very proper
according to Islam, brothers and sisters, husbands and wives, foreign maidens
being servants or instruments in the cause of Islam. It is also all very chaste, no
explicitness of any sort, hardly even in the vocabulary, fully appropriate even
for young ears.
The picture is only slightly different in novels whose subject is not the heroic
age during which virtue and propriety ruled supreme without question but
is closer to the contemporary scene. The seamier sides of urban civilization
cannot be entirely overlooked and are occasionally mentioned. Down-to-earth
jokes are not unknown. Whatever love interest occurs is as chaste and proper
and subdued as could be wished.26
As The Thousand and One Nights shows, entertaining fiction without pre-
tense to history was not very different in its moral outlook. In a corpus as vast
15 and of | such composite origin, we should not be surprised to encounter at
times dubious anecdotes derived from the more sophisticated literature, as well
as occasional portrayals of unromantic reality. Physical love and erotic beauty
are explicitly described in prose and in poetic insertions. The descriptions may
have been shocking to earlier generations in the modern West, but in general
they show more artistic merit than can be found in much comparable mod-
ern literature. Men and women are often depicted as being very little restricted
in their opportunities of meeting each other and making love. The legalists
who were convinced that every societal and individual evil starts with the most
innocent contact between the sexes27 would, of course, have been shocked, just
as the poetry quoted would have shocked those who viewed all love poetry as
dangerous to morality. We find, however, a similar dichotomy here as in the his-
torical novels. The vulgar anecdotes are usually obvious intrusions; storytellers
are unlikely to have ever used them. They are canceled out by a large number
of educational discourses and sermons on conventional morality. Sexual mis-
behavior is almost always presented as the doings of despicable characters,28
or as practiced by lecherous fools leading to the deserved punishment, or as
something to be passed over in silence.29
26 H. Wangelin, Das arabische Volksbuch vom König aẓẒahir Baibars (Stuttgart, 1936), p. 305.
A recent analysis of the literature, which pays attention to its relation to reality, is U. Stein-
bach, Ḏāt al-Himma (Wiesbaden, 1972), cf. pp. 102–105, on love stories in the romances.
27 Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzīya, aṭ-Ṭuruq al-ḥukmīya (Cairo, 1372/1953), p. 281.
28 For instance, practically the only appearance of acknowledged lesbianism occurs in the
story of King ʿUmar b. an-Nuʿmān and his sons where the ugly witch Dhāt ad-dawāhī is
accused of it (390th Night of the Calcutta edition).
29 Cf., for instance, the missing story of the third eunuch in the 40th night.
True love has its misfortunes and sad consequences. Happily, it starts out
most often with a proper Muslim marriage or leads to one lasting forever. Vio-
lence, cruelty, and poverty are plentiful and important reflections of reality
in The Thousand and One Nights. Their role as factors in society is commonly
underplayed, I think, whereas romantic love freely expressed exercises a hold
over the imagination much more powerful than reality warranted. This indi-
cates a certain longing to break away from recommended moral norms. Yet, it
is more than counterbalanced by the always evident desire to convey satisfac-
tion with the established order. The reality of urban social life is assumed to be
morally acceptable and governed largely by healthy Muslim standards.
The poets and writers of fiction can tell us a good deal, but the branch of adab
literature most commonly understood by the term holds by far the greatest
promise of serving as a source for us to get behind official attitudes and gain
an insight into what real people thought and how they judged actions. It is well
known that this branch of adab literature is hard to define. It consists of top-
ically arranged accumulations of aphorisms, prose mini-essays, and snatches
of verse, rather than full-blown poems. It deals with a large variety of prob-
lems of language and literature and, above all, of ethical and practical behavior.
The numerous long works on love belong to it. It also includes the books more
specifically dealing with sexual matters, even some of those by physicians. A
distinguished scientist | and physician of the twelfth century indicates the pur- 16
pose of his erotic work in these words: “I have decided to write a book serious
as well as humorous, literary and entertaining as well as medical, theoretical
as well as practical, conversational (?) as well as philosophical.”30 By all odds
the most valuable preserved work of the genre is the Jawāmiʿ al-ladhdha by a
certain Abū l-Ḥasan ʿAlī b. Naṣr al-Kātib, probably of the late tenth century. Its
introductory words contain a convincing justification for doing something that
in less skilled hands and coarser minds could easily turn out to be objection-
able. The argument uses two premises generally accepted as valid in Muslim
scientific thought: for one, sex is an animal pleasure that man shares with
animals, and, second, man possesses superiority over all animals by virtue of
30 Fa-qad ajmaʿtu ʿalā inshāʾi kitābin jiddīyin hazlīyin adabīyin ṭibbīyin ʿilmīyin ʿamalīyin nidā-
mīyin (?) ḥikmīyin, cf. as-Samawʾal b. Yaḥyâ al-Maghribī, Nuzhat al-aḥbāb (al-aṣḥāb) wa-
muʿāsharat dhawī al-albāb ( fī muʿāsharat al-aḥbāb), MS Istanbul Aya Sofya 2129 (written
in Dhū l-Qaʿda 1113/April 1702), and MS Paris Ar. 3054. The Istanbul MS may have ḥilmī
as the last word; the correct reading of what I have pointed nidāmī remains to be estab-
lished. Part of the work formed the subject of an Erlangen dissertation by T. Haddad (1976),
cf. Current Work, above, n. 19.
his being endowed with reason. It follows that human sexual activity must be
combined with “the best cultural and literary attitudes and the finest verbal
expressions.”31 As a consequence, the Jawāmiʿ al-ladhdha and other works of
the kind tend to be in the best literary tradition and are valuable sources for
societal attitudes.
The literary form of adab often requires presenting all sides of controversial
subjects. The various views are reported, as it were, impartially, without stating
the author’s preference except indirectly. The pious Ibn al-Jawzī would entitle
his work on love “The Censure of Passion.” In spite of the work’s definite slant
in that direction, it does not slight any aspect of love. The conventional stance
of impartial reporting subscribed to by Muslim scholarship is helpful in many
ways but often leaves unanswered the question of social reality as seen by an
author. Take, for instance, the question of polygamy. Al-Ḥajjāj, the formidable
Umayyad governor, expresses the opinion that a man’s pleasure is complete
only when he has four free women as wives. Right away, a poet takes the hint,
sells everything he owns, marries four women for a substantial dowry, is very
much disappointed in all of them, and describes his plight in suitable verses as
befits a poet.32 A Bedouin, apparently in more modest circumstances, thinks
that a man who does not have two wives has not tasted the sweetness of life.
So he marries two wives and regrets it.33 A historian tells us about the actual
case of three murders as the result of a man’s having taken a second wife in
addition to his cousin to whom he was married: “Three persons are gone as
17 a result of the passion of ‘the soul that | incites to evil’—may God protect
us from the wicked afflictions of Satan.”34 Predictably, we are not told in so
many words what the authors, in reporting anecdote or fact, thought of the
official view of polygamy. We know that for economic, if no other reasons,
monogamy was the prevalent type of marriage in society at large. Thus, we are
probably justified in taking these stories to be the closest—and, in fact, the only
possible—approach to expressing doubt in the ultimate wisdom of one of the
established rules governing marital practice.
Or take a subject that is natural enough but quite unthinkable according to
official Muslim standards of behavior, that is, the case of the bride who is several
months pregnant when her father gives her away on the wedding day. It does
31 Maḥāsin al-adab wa-laṭāfat al-khiṭāb. I used MS Istanbul Fatih 3729 (written in Rabīʿ II
582/June–July 1186).
32 Al-Qālī, Amālī, Dhayl (Cairo, 1373/1953), III, 47 f.
33 Cf. ibid., II, 34. Cf. as-Subkī, Ṭabaqāt ash-Shāfiʿīya (Cairo 1383–/1964–), IX, 424.
34 Al-Ḥawādith al-jāmiʿa, wrongly ascribed to Ibn al-Fuwaṭī (Baghdād, 1351/1932), p. 452.
not seem to be a common topic in adab literature but has found its small place
in it.35 Two tenth-century poets chose to write a few clever verses about it. In
the one case, it is stated that the bride was pregnant by her future husband:
Abū Bakr al-Khuwārizmī on a man whose daughter was given away to her
bridegroom while she was several months pregnant by him:
O you who are giving away the girl after she has been deflowered,
You are seasoning the pot after it has been overturned.
It is just as the proverb says:
The house was whitewashed after having fallen in ruins.36
In the other case, it is seemingly implied that the bride had had relations with
another man:
Maẓlūma37 who has just been given in marriage to Ibn ʿUmar

Gave birth to a male child on her wedding night.
I said: Where is this boy from, since no human hand has touched her?
Her husband said to me: Is it not reported in a well-attested tradition
that
A man’s child belongs to the bed,
And to the bastard the stone?38
I said: Congratulations to you on his birth,
In spite of those who disagree with the tradition.39
The verses are satirical, and in satire, as we have mentioned, every kind of 18
slander was considered permissible. The poets do not give us the impression
that they are describing a very unusual occurrence. But how common, we may
ask, is the reality behind it? More to the point, do these verses, despite the
malicious snicker, reveal a certain tolerance of disapproved behavior, and do
they allow us to suspect some serious questioning of the validity of established
morality concealed behind jocose banter? The answer, I believe, should be that
35 Ar-Rāghib al-Iṣfahānī, Muḥāḍarāt al-udabāʾ (Būlāq, 1286–1287/1869–1870), II, 141.

36 Ath-Thaʿālibī, Yatīmat ad-dahr, IV, 147. On Abū Bakr al-Khuwārizmī, who died around 1000,
cf. F. Sezgin, Geschichte des arabischen Schrifttums, Vol. II (Leiden, 1975), pp. 635f.
37 “Wronged girl” appears to have been used here as a proper name. The first verse is omitted
in ar-Rāghib al-Iṣfahānī’s quotation (see n. 35).
38 The interpretation of the second half of the famous hadith is very much debated.
39 Kushājim, Dīwān, ed. Khayrīyah M. Maḥfūẓ (Baghdād, 1390/1970), p. 274.
indeed there is some but not much. It would again seem to be a muted protest,
one that would quickly melt away if it were to come out in the open and were
forced to confront societal disapproval.
Somewhat surprisingly, the adab literature occasionally expressed doubt
as to the morality of its own outspokenness. The use of explicit language in
literature was summarily proscribed in recent times in the West, which can
probably claim this as a unique distinction. It still strikes us as a bit strange
even today when we find the great Ibn ʿArabī addressing a legal question to his
infant daughter who was not yet able to speak and, lo and behold, he hears
her talk and give the right answer to the astonishment of everybody present.
It is not so much the miracle that seems strange but that Ibn ʿArabī should
have asked the infant girl of all things about some problem of ritual purity
resulting from sexual intercourse.40 I believe that today, however, we would
no longer dare to draw totally unwarranted conclusions from the multiplicity
of detailed terms for sexual life gathered by the Arab philologians. This is
something that G. Levi Della Vida rejected with his usual good sense and quiet
logic.41
Two of the most eminent of Arabic littérateurs of the so-called Golden Age,
al-Jāḥiẓ and Ibn Qutayba, found it advisable to apologize for their outspoken-
ness. When specific biological terms are used, al-Jāḥiẓ says, some people make a
show of piety. They cringe and recoil in embarrassment. Most of them are men
whose modesty, good breeding, talent, and dignity do not go beyond this sort
of affectation. Their hypocrisy only reflects on them and shows their meanness
… . These words were invented, he continues, to be employed by the speakers
of the language. If they had been meant to be left unspoken, there would be no
point in their having come into being in the first place, and it would be in the
interest of the sacred character (?, prudence?) and the preservation of the Ara-
bic language if these words were entirely eliminated from it. In addition, there
are enough examples for their use by, or in the presence of, the Prophet and
the greatest of the early Muslims to make them generally acceptable. Al-Jāḥiẓ
concludes with the proverb: “Each place has [its] verbal statement”—the right
19 words must always be | used in their proper places.42 Ibn Qutayba also relied
40 Ibn ʿArabī, al-Futūḥāt al-Makkīya (Cairo and Mecca, 1329/1911), III, 17.
41 As mentioned by G.-H. Bousquet, L’ éthique sexuelle de l’Islam (Paris, 1966), pp. 212f. Not in
the first edition of Bousquet’s work, published under the title La morale de l’Islam et son
éthique sexuelle (Paris, 1953).
42 Al-Jāḥiẓ discussed the subject in two works with slight variations, cf. Kitāb Mufākharat
al-jawārī wa-l-ghilmān, in Rasāʾil al-Jāḥiẓ, ed. ʿAbd as-Salām M. Hārūn (Cairo, 1384/1964–
on the precedents set by the irreproachable men of the past. He characterizes

his own well-known adab work as being
like a table on which diners can find dishes of different taste according
to their different desires. If you encounter in it stories that use explicit
language, do not let modesty or the pretense to modesty make you turn,
or look, away. There is nothing sinful in the words designating parts of the
body. Sinfulness is attacking other people’s honor, using falsehoods and
lies, and making slanderous accusations … . I do not mean to allow you
to use [such words] habitually and customarily in all circumstances for
whatever you may wish to say. You should use them when you tell a tale
or transmit a story which would lose through the use of circumlocution or
be deprived of its pleasant effect through allusiveness. I wish you would
make sparse use of them, in keeping with the custom of the pious ancients
who followed their instinct and thereby avoided mystification born of
hypocrisy and affectation.43
Even without the further evidence that we can muster,44 it is clear that these
statements represent a reaction against the invasion of literature by language
and topics theretofore largely excluded from it. Two factors were principally
responsible for the changed situation. One was the shift of the political center
of the Muslim world from the western toward the eastern Near East which
shook old Arabic literary conventions. The other was more fundamental. G.E.
von Grunebaum has explained it in one of his brilliant essays. It was the shift
1965). II, 92–94, and Kitāb al-Ḥayawān (Cairo, 1323–1325/1905–1907), III, 12; ed. Hārūn
(Cairo, 1366/1946), III, 40–43. See C. Pellat, Arabische Geisteswelt (Zürich and Stuttgart,
1967), pp. 434 f., Eng. trans., The Life and Works of Jāḥiẓ (London, Berkeley, and Los Ange-
les, 1969), p. 270; C.E. Bosworth, The Medieval Islamic Underworld (Leiden, 1976), I, 33. For
an application of the much used proverb to literary theory, cf. G. Schoeler, Einige Grund-
probleme der autochthonen und der aristotelischen arabischen Literaturtheorie, Abh. f. d.
Kunde des Morgenlandes, XLI, 4 (Wiesbaden, 1975), p. 9.
43 lbn Qutayba, ʿUyūn al-akhbār (Cairo, 1343–1349/1924–1930; repr. 1963–1964), I, y. See R.
Levy, The Social Structure of Islam (Cambridge, 1957), p. 235.
44 For instance, in connection with the idea popularized by al-Jāḥiẓ that homosexuality
spread in the Muslim world owing to the army life of the Khurāsānians who brought
the ʿAbbāsids into power, Ḥamza al-Iṣfahānī commented that it was Abū Nuwās who
introduced pederastic poetry, although, Ḥamza admits, he may not have been the first to
do so, and he thereby reflected changed political and social conditions. See E. Mittwoch,
“Die literarische Tätigkeit Ḥamza al-Iṣfahānīs,”Mitteilungen des Seminars für Orientalische
Sprachen, Westas. Studien, XII (1909), p. 138.
to a predominantly urban setting which had the result that “ritualized life
provided situations in which the unseemly would become seemly.”45 It was in
20 this setting | that writers of the stature of an al-Jāḥiẓ and an Ibn Qutayba felt
compelled to caution against excesses in the new literary style they themselves
used, and they did it in an eminently sane spirit.
Obviously, literature tends to overlook the ordinary. We do not hear much
of middle class reaction. For scholars, the use of vulgar language was natu-
rally unbecoming, something beyond the pale of scholarly dignity.46 Decorum
was demanded in holy places. Abū Nuwās was reproved for allegedly recit-
ing indecent verses of his in Mecca during the pilgrimage, “and this in such
a place!”47 The upper classes were widely depicted as enjoying literary licen-
tiousness. Thus, exceptions carry special weight. Among men of high rank, not
everybody was as sensitive as Sayf ad-Dawla. He objected to the last line of a
poem which read:
Thus your generosity has provided us

With food and drink and sex and clothing.
“On the whole a wonderful poem,” Sayf ad-Dawla exclaimed, “except for the
word ‘sex’. This is not a word to be used when one speaks to kings.” The
reporter’s comment: “This shows his remarkable sensitivity as a literary critic
(wa-hādhā min ʿajībi naqdihī).”48
Even physicians were reluctant to speak about some topics. The ninth-
century Christian physician Qusṭā b. Lūqā claimed that “Galen had not deigned
to discuss intercourse.”49 Not many later authors went that far, but at times they
found it necessary to justify and apologize for their discussion of subjects which
45 G.E. von Grunebaum, “Aspects of Arabic Urban Literature,” Al-Andalus, XX (1955), 259–281.
46 Cf. the anecdote told about Malik an-Nuḥāh al-Ḥasan b. Abī l-Ḥasan Ṣāfī, as reported by
Yāqūt, Irshād, ed. D.S. Margoliouth (Leiden and London, 1907–1927), III, 77; ed. A.F. Rifāʿī
(Cairo, n.d. [1355–1357/1936–1938]), VIII, 128 f.
47 Wakīʿ, Akhbār al-quḍāh, ed. ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz M. al-Marāghī (Cairo, 1366–1369/1947–1950), III,
278 f.
48 Ath-Thaʿālibī, Yatīmat ad-dahr, I, 14. I doubt that Sayf ad-Dawla merely objected to the
specific form used (mankūḥ). For ath-Thaʿālibī’s hesitation to quote the poet Ibn al-Ḥajjāj,
cf. ibid., II, 271, and J.C. Bürgel, in Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft,
CXXXI (1971), 162.
49 Qusṭā b. Lūqā, Fī (ʿilal) ikhtilāf an-nās fī siyarihim wa-akhlāqihim wa-shahawātihim wa-
khtiyārātihim, ed., trans. P. Sbath, “Le Livre des caractères de Qosṭā ibn Louqā,” Bulletin de
l’ Institut d’ Égypte, XXIII (1940–1941), 134.
they were not sure were to be considered medical problems or moral problems
to be left to society to handle.50
The adab literature makes it quite explicit that friendship and emotional 21
love were to be kept separate from marital relationships and other expres-
sions of sexuality. Ar-Rāghib al-Iṣfahānī devotes separate chapters of his large
anthology to those four subjects. What is puzzling is that he should have seen
fit to separate them in the middle by a chapter on courage. Motivation unac-
knowledged is always dangerous to speculate about. Perhaps ar-Rāghib meant
to suggest that courage is needed to separate the ideal in human relationships
from commonplace practice. He thereby confirmed the existence of the con-
flict between fiction and reality and suggested a possible approach to handling
it.
In these and many other ways, the literary genres considered here reveal
something about the Muslim attitude toward the eternal problem of how
inborn human longings can be brought to terms with societal demands. The
numerous bits and pieces of information await eventual integration. Summary
conclusions and valid generalizations may, however, be beyond our reach. They
can probably never be achieved where life in its totality is involved. Even to
attempt them seems frivolous. In the case of medieval Islam, whatever may
be approximately correct for one region or period, or one type of environment,
may be inapplicable to another. Also, as has been stated at the beginning, we do
50 For the medical attitude, which would need special consideration in connection with
our subject, cf. the rather dated and strange passage in C. Elgood, A Medical History of
Persia and the Eastern Caliphate (Cambridge, 1951), pp. 294–298: “The subject of sex, the
satisfaction of the sexual appetite, birth control and all that these subjects imply, was
treated with considerably more freedom of expression than is usual even to-day. Sex
entered so much into the daily life of the oriental that in this sense all the physicians of
those days were gynaecologists. Avicenna seems to have felt that the subject was perhaps
beneath the dignity of a physician, for having discussed the matter in the usual manner, he
adds: ‘It is by no means disgraceful for a physician to speak of the enlargement of the male
organ and of the narrowing of the female who receives it and of her pleasure. Nay rather it
is eminently proper, for it is by these means that the act of birth follows.’” The passage of
lbn Sīnā is to be found in the Qānūn (Rome, 1593), p. 563. His reluctance, of course, refers
only to the particular topic which he knew was always dealt with in the erotic literature
and which was properly speaking not the concern of the physician. Ar-Rāzī was apologetic
about discussing ubna, (see Bulletin of the History of Medicine, LII (1978), 45–60), and even
the author of the Jawāmiʿ al-ladhdha, fol. 42a (cf. also fol. 71b) recoiled from the subject for
which he used the synonym bighāʾ: “We have kept our book free from mentioning bighāʾ
because of its ugliness, shamefulness, and the great despicableness of the person afflicted
by it.”
not have enough detailed and unambiguous coverage. The social information
we can gather from the sources makes it clear that nothing human was strange
to medieval Muslim society. The particular mixture of fiction and reality they
present presupposes a freedom much tempered by restraint, even prudery. In a
sense, imaginative literature developed its own standard view of what the ideal
society should be like, just as religion, law, and philosophy had done. Different
as that standard was, it was apparently considered fully capable of existing side
by side with that of official Islam. It was certainly not felt that it needed to come
into conflict with it.
For official Islam, it was much less of a transgression to neglect a religious
obligation than come out openly against its theoretical necessity.51 Also, al-
Ghazzālī reports an authentic statement of Bilāl b. Saʿd, a man of the second
generation, that “misbehavior kept concealed harms only the person who mis-
behaves, but if it is brought out into the open and not rectified, it harms people
22 in | general.”52 Al-Ghazzālī quoted this remark with reference to some minor
lapse in the correct performance of prayer; any real sin, however small, would
not have been viewed by him as a minor matter.53 Yet the social philosophy
behind Bilāl’s statement appears to have been widely applied to matters of
moral behavior. It also explains why it rarely if ever occurred to anyone to ques-
51 Cf. Bousquet (above, n. 41) (Paris, 1953), p. 18; (Paris, 1966), pp. 10f.
52 Al-Ghazzālī, Iḥyāʾ (Cairo, 1352/1933), I, 172, at the end of the sixth chapter of the book on
asrār aṣ-ṣalāh. Bilāl b. Saʿd was considered the Syrian counterpart of the ʿIrāqī al-Ḥasan
al-Baṣrī. He therefore found the most attention in the Syrian biographical tradition, such
as the Taʾrīkh Dimashq of Ibn ʿAsākir, ed. M.A. Dahmān (Damascus, n.d.), X, 354–377; cf.
also adh-Dhahabī, Taʾrīkh al-Islām, Vol. IV (Cairo, 1369/1949), pp. 234–236. A lengthy biog-
raphy is also devoted to him in Abū Nuʿaym, Ḥilyat al-awliyāʾ (reprint Beirut, 1387/1967),
V, 221–234.
The statement is as authentic as anything known from these early times can be.
It was transmitted by al-Awzāʿī to ʿAbdallāh b. al-Mubārak and appears in the latter’s
Kitāb az-Zuhd wa-r- raqāʾiq, ed. Ḥabīb ar-Raḥmān al-Aʿzamī (Nasik, India, n.d. [ca. 1971]),
pp. 475f. Abū Nuʿaym, Ḥilyat al-awliyāʾ, V, 222, reports it from Ibn al-Mubārak. It is quoted
in several slightly different versions in Taʾrīkh Dimashq, X, 362f. The word translated
here “misbehavior” is either khaṭīʾa or maʿṣiya. The only variant that deserves notice is
between ukhfiyat-uʿlinat (al-Ghazzālī: ukhfiyat-uẓhirat) and khafiyat-ẓaharat. The latter
does not have the element of active effort present in the former. Since Bilāl is depicted as
particularly averse to hypocrisy, the reading ukhfiyat-uʿlinat may be more consonant with
his way of thinking, and it is indeed the reading found in Ibn al-Mubārak.
53 As a matter of fact, Bilāl b. Saʿd is credited with the remark: “Don’t look at the smallness of
a sin. Rather behold the One Whom you have sinned against.” See Ibn al-Mubārak, Zuhd,
p. 24; Abū Nuʿaym, Ḥilyat al-awliyāʾ, V, 223; Ibn ʿAsākir, Taʾrīkh Dimashq, X, 373.
tion openly the apparent discrepancy between ideal and reality. It was possible,
for better or worse, to abide by the established rules and at the same time
acknowledge quietly that reality could never be in complete harmony with
them and that fictional longings had their own kind of legitimacy. For sexual
morality, this probably resulted in as good an equilibrium as could be achieved
in a large and varied society.
vii.7
24 Male and Female: Described and Compared
An age-old intellectual game cherished by people of diverse educational and

social status was the comparison of the meaning and value of two objects or
concepts, either as seen by their advocates or, in a clever literary refinement, as
depicted by the two sides personified, fighting it out between themselves. In the
Muslim tradition, such Rangstreit literature became significant during the early
heyday of ʿAbbāsid rule,1 and it continued to command attention throughout
the Muslim Middle Ages. Together with the widespread preference of secular
moralists for pointing out the dichotomy of good and bad inherent in almost
1 M. Steinschneider’s bibliographical approach, which popularized the word Rangstreit in the

scholarly literature, remains very informative; see “Rangstreit-Literatur” in Sitzungsberichte
der kaiserlichen Akademie der Wissenschaften in Wien, Philosophisch-Historische Klasse 155(4)
(Vienna, 1908). The most comprehensive survey of the subject from the Arabist point of view
is Ewald Wagner’s Die arabische Rangstreitdichtung und ihre Einordnung in die allgemeine
Literaturgeschichte (Wiesbaden: Akademie der Wissenschaften und der Literatur, Abhand-
lungen der Geistes- und Sozialwissenschaftlichen Klasse, no. 8, 1962). Wagner makes sharp
distinctions between different forms and types of Rangstreit and the Arabic words used to
characterize it. This seems, indeed, the only way to attempt to bring order to an enormous
amount of varied material. For the purpose of this brief paper, however, no such effort seemed
necessary and any consistent distinction between the Arabic words would have been cumber-
some. See also Wagner’s contributions to The Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd ed. (Leiden: E.J. Brill,
1960–) under Mufākhara and especially Munāẓara.
Another important problem is that of interdependence among the civilizations that cul-
tivated the genre; it has been much discussed but is unlikely to find a generally acceptable
solution. A. Mez was convinced that “the extension of the mufāḍalah to objects and con-
cepts, for which the first evidence is found in the ninth century … can be explained only
as resulting from the influence of the Greek syncrisis”; see al-Azdī, Ḥikāyat Abī l-Qāsim, ed.
A. Mez, Abulḳâsim, ein bagdâder Sittenbild (Heidelberg: Carl Winter’s Universitätsbuchhand-
lung, 1902), p. xix. Such influence would seem highly plausible in view of the historical circum-
stances but cannot be proved, and Wagner’s cautious attitude is preferable for now, but see
also below, p. 32 and n. 52. The problem of the existence and direction of influence here is in
a way similar to that of the medieval troubadour poetry of western Europe.
For a combined effort to deal with the phenomenon of comparative debate, as well as a
rich source for the scholarly literature on the subject, see G.J. Reinink and H.L.J. Vanstiphout,
eds., Dispute Poems and Dialogues in the Ancient and Medieval Near East (Leuven: Departe-
ment Orientalistiek, 1991. Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta 42). Contributions on the Arabic
side are by J.N. Mattock, F. Leemhuis, W. Heinrichs, and C.J. van Gelder.

male and female: described and compared 863
everything, it appears to have furnished a much-needed outlet for a relativist

view of life contrasting with the dominant absolutism of religious dogma and
practice.
It was recognized that comparison has to stay within certain limits in order
to remain credible. One of the many insights of al-Ṣafadī in the fourteenth
century was expressed in this concise survey of a few of the relevant topics
pursued by Muslim littérateurs:
Some have written works comparing the virtues of the rose and the
narcissus, because poets were fond of the subject and spoke at length
about it (so that there was much material available for compiling essays
on it. They were able to do so) since such a comparison is possible. In
the same way, excellent authors have written on debates between the
sword and the pen concerning their respective merits, between dirham
and dīnār (silver coins and gold coins), between stinginess and generosity,
between Egypt (Cairo) and Syria (Damascus), between the East and the
West (of the Muslim world), between Arabs and non-Arabs (Persians),
between poetry and prose, and between girls and beardless boys, for in all
these cases | arguments in favor of either side are possible. On the other 25
hand, a debate between musk and ashes on their respective merits would
be irrational, and a gifted littérateur would hardly speak about ashes when
debating the virtues of musk. Al-Jāḥiẓ has written an original essay on the
subject.2
Although al-Ṣafadī’s reference to al-Jāḥiẓ could aim at the latter’s total oeuvre,
which includes a number of comparison essays, it would seem likely from the
context that the reference is to his Kitāb Mufākharat al-jawārī wa-l-ghilmān,
“The mutual rivalry of maidens and young men.”3 By good fortune, this essay is
2 Al-Ṣafadī, al-Ghayth al-musajjam fī sharḥ Lāmīyat al-ʿajam, 2 vols. (Cairo, 1305 [1888]), 2:158.
3 It must be stressed here again that English terms usually have ranges of meaning and subcon-
scious connotations quite different from the Arabic terms they try to translate. This causes
particular problems in the sociosexual context. Moreover, the Arabic words for males and
females, which are more varied for the former in the texts under consideration here, have
implications of age, physical development, and social status in the minds of native speakers;
when encountered on the written page, these often can no longer precisely be determined
and even less precisely captured by seemingly equivalent English words. The institution of
slavery as practiced in medieval Islam furthermore infused the terms jāriya (pl. jawārī) and
ghulām (pl. ghilmān) with the notion of unfree status, probably more so for the former than
the latter. In the famous description of Baghdadi cabarets, the entertainers are counted as
preserved; it was first edited by Charles Pellat in 1958.4 Al-Jāḥiẓ may have intro-
duced the subject into the mainstream literature. The timeliness of his effort is
evident from the fact that it was soon imitated. Already from the next gener-
ation a treatment of the subject by two famous intellectuals is known, having
been preserved in a later quotation. Both were outstanding representatives of
the general culture of the age. One of them was better known as a littérateur,
and the other as a philosopher. The littérateur, Aḥmad b. Abī Ṭāhir Ṭayfūr, lived
from 204/819–820 to 280/893; he was credited with essays on “the mutual rivalry
of the rose and the narcissus” and on “the greater merit of the Arabs as com-
pared to the non-Arabs.”5 The philosopher and all-around scholar, Aḥmad b.
al-Ṭayyib al-Sarakhsī, may have been born around 835, and he died in 286/899.6
It is true that al-Jāḥiẓ (ca. 160–225/776–869) was much older than either of
them, but as he happened upon the literary scene at a relatively advanced age,
we are justified in speaking of a one-generation difference.
The work that has preserved the discussion between the male homosexual
(lūṭī) who takes the part of (ṣāḥib) the boys and the fornicator (zānī) who
takes the part of the girls is an exhaustive and highly informative treatise on
all aspects of sexuality, entitled Jawāmiʿ al-ladhdha, approximately “Synopsis
of all that is known about pleasure.” The author was a certain Abū l-Ḥasan ʿAlī
b. Naṣr al-Kātib, who is possibly the man of the same name who lived from
428/1036 to 518/1124.7 It is not clear whether the discussion was taken from one
al-rijāl wa-l-ṣibyān wa-l-jawārī wa-l-ḥarāʾir, presumably understood as free men and unfree
boys, unfree girls and free women. See al-Tawḥīdī, al-Imtāʿ wa-l-muʾānasa, Aḥmad Amīn and
Aḥmad al-Zayn, eds., 3 vols. (Cairo: Lajnat al-Taʾlīf wa-l-Tarjama wa-l-Nashr, 1939–1944), 2:183;
al-Azdī, Ḥikāyat Abī l-Qāsim, p. 87. For the related problem of malīḥ, see below, p. 32.
4 The Arabic text is cited here according to the edition of ʿAbd al-Salām Muḥammad Hārūn,
Rasāʾil al-Jāḥiẓ, 4 vols. in 2 (Cairo: Maktabat al-Khānjī, 1384 [1964–1965]), 2:87–137.
5 See The Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd ed., s.v. Ibn Abī Ṭāhir Ṭayfūr; Fuat Sezgin, Geschichte des
arabischen Schrifttums (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1967–) 1:348–349, 2:614.
6 See Franz Rosenthal, Aḥmad b. aṭ-Ṭayyib as-Saraḫsī (New Haven: American Oriental Society,
American Oriental Series no. 26, 1943). Reference to Sarakhsī quotations in the Jawāmiʿ
(see below) is made in Franz Rosenthal, “From Arabic Books and Manuscripts VI: Istanbul
Materials for al-Kindî and as-Saraḫsî,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 76 (1956):
31.
7 The quotations to be found in the Jawāmiʿ would allow for it a date no earlier than the end of
the tenth century. H. Ritter, Das Meer der Seele (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1955), p. 457, may be correct
in identifying the author of the “ars amandi” with the Iraqi Shīʿite of the same name who is
further described as “secretary” (al-Kātib) in Yāqūt, Irshād al-arīb, D.S. Margoliouth, ed., 7 vols.
(Leiden: Gibb Memorial Series no. 6, 1907–1927), 5:433, and Aḥmad Farīd Rifāʿī, ed., 20 vols.
(Cairo: Maktabat ʿĪsā al-Bābī al-Ḥalabī, n. d. [1938]), 15:97–98, but this identification remains
of al-Sarakhsī’s published works or, more likely, was derived from oral transmis-
sion, but this makes hardly any substantive difference. It would agree with the
assumption of oral transmission that any dependence on al-Jāḥiẓ’s treatise is
not expressly acknowledged. Such dependence is obvious, however, from the
striking use of identical quotations and particularly from the fact that both al-
Jāḥiẓ’s and al-Sarakhsī’s discussions begin with references to the ghulāmīyāt,
girls dressed as boys in an erotic fashion of the | early ninth century,8 and later 26
happen to include references to eunuchs, who are rather marginal to the sub-
ject. The author of the Jawāmiʿ mentions the humorist Abū l-ʿAnbas al-Ṣaymarī
(213–275/828–888), who wrote an apparently rather coarse essay on the same
subject.9 He has also preserved many precious fragments of other old trea-
tises.10
so far as unprovable as the one with a tenth-century namesake suggested by Rosenthal,

“From Arabic Books and Manuscripts VI: Istanbul Materials for al-Kindî and as-Saraḫsî,”
p. 31.
8 The most complete, if somewhat too inclusive, treatment of the phenomenon remains
Ḥabīb Zayyāt, “al-Marʾa al-ghulāmīya fī l-Islām,” in al-Machriq 50 (1956): 153–192. It is, of
course, commented upon in all works dealing with ʿAbbāsid cultural history.
9 Quoted in the edition of Abū Nuwās’s Dīwān by Ḥamza al-Iṣfahānī (first half of the
tenth century) and made known first by E. Mittwoch, “Die literarische Tätigkeit Ḥamza
al-Iṣbahanis,” in Mittheilungen des Seminars für Orientalische Sprachen, Westasiatische
Studien 12 (1909): 126. The last part of the Dīwān, on mujūn, where it appears (Istanbul MS
Fatih 3775, fols. 55b–56b), has not yet been published. My thanks to Professors E. Wagner
and G. Schoeler for kindly giving me detailed information on the passage.
The title of the work is given by Ḥamza al-Iṣfahānī as Kitāb (tafḍīl) al-satihayn ʿalā l-
ḥariḥayn. Another title (for the same work?) appears among the works of Abū l-ʿAnbas
(sic leg., instead of Abū l-ʿbs) in Ibn al-Nadīm, Fihrist, G. Flügel, ed. (Leipzig: F.C.W. Vogel,
1871–1872), p. 314, l. 5; the Persian tanslation of M. Reza Tajaddod (Tehran: Ibn Sīnā, 1965),
p. 557, and the English translation by Bayard Dodge (New York: Columbia University Press,
1970), p. 736, have nothing on the author. The title Kìtāb al-Saḥḥāqāt wa-l-baghghāʾīn,
“On Lesbians and homosexual offenders,” appears with the inversion of the two compo-
nents in Jawāmiʿ with the authorship of Abū-l-ʿAnbas (as correctly stated in MS Chester
Beatty, whereas in MS Fatih it looks as if the author was the one of the Jawāmiʿ himself).
Baghghāʾ is often used as a word for male prostitute, but this may here be too specific;
see Everett K. Rowson, “The Effeminates of Early Medina,” Journal of the American Ori-
ental Society 111 (1991): 685–686. It cannot be determined whether the other references
to Abū l-ʿAnbas in the Jawāmiʿ go back to this work, which is possible but need not
be.
10 See, at the end of the discussion treated here, the remarks on Ibrāhīm b. Hilāl (b. Ibrāhīm)
b. Zahrūn al-Ṣābī (313–384/925–994) and a certain Abū Naṣr Bishr b. Hārūn. The latter
remains to be identified; his namesake mentioned in Miskawayh in 311/923 (H.F. Amedroz
An English translation of Jawāmiʿ has been published in typescript by Salah

Addin Khawwam with the title Encyclopedia of Pleasure.11 The title page seems
to suggest that the Arabic text was published simultaneously; if so, it has
remained inaccessible to me. This is all the more regrettable since the two
manuscripts, of which I have copies, show a good deal of textual divergence
and are not of a consistently high quality.12 The English translation has been an
exceedingly difficult effort and deserves credit for being reasonably successful.
Though it has not been published in a more accessible format, the translation’s
existence makes detailed information on the discussion unnecessary at this
juncture. The beginning and the end of the discussion are clearly marked, but
this does not necessarily mean that everything in between originally belonged
there. However, in the absence of firm evidence to the contrary, we may assume
that the text is basically intact as transmitted.13
Al-Sarakhsī is well known as the star student of al-Kindī, whose interests,
including a deep concern with the love phenomenon on the theoretical level,
and D.S. Margoliouth, The Eclipse of the ʿAbbasid Caliphate, 7 vols. [Oxford: Basil Blackwell,
1920–1921], 1:112) seems too early, but another more likely—if unconfirmed—candidate
appears in al-Tanūkhī, Nishwār al-muḥāḍara, Abood Shalchy, ed., 8 vols. (Beirut, 1971–
1973), 1:93–94, 3:114.
The Jawāmiʿ (MS Fatih, fols. 205a–208b; MS Chester Beatty, fols. 217a–220b) quotes the
work of a certain Yazdjard b. (?, corrupted from Mahbundād?) on the greater merit of
no-longer-virginal women as compared to virgins.
11 Encyclopedia of Pleasure by Abul Hasan ʿAli Ibn Nasr al-Katib, Salah Addin Khawwam, B. Sc.,
ed. and annotator, ʿAdnan Jarkas and Salah Addin Khawwam, translators (Toronto: Aleppo
Publishing, 1977). Copy in the Library of Congress.
12 The manuscripts are Istanbul MS Fatih 4729, dated in Rabīʿ II 582/June–July 1186, fols. 65a–
70a, and Dublin MS Chester Beatty 4635, dated Sunday, 15 Ṣafar 724/12 February 1324,
fols. 62a–70b. See A.J. Arberry, A Handlist of the Arabic Manuscripts, The Chester Beatty
Library, 8 vols. (Dublin: E. Walker, 1955–1966), 6:42. A fuller description is needed but can-
not be given here.
The discussion was quoted, no doubt from the Jawāmiʿ, by the historian al-ʿAynī
(762–855/1361–1451) in his Ḥikāyāt, MS Bursa Hüseyin Çelebi 890, fols. 7a (–10a? I did not
take down the full text and thus am unable to say how much was copied). As indicated by
ʿAbd al-Salām Muḥammad Hārūn in his introductory remark to the Jāḥiẓ essay, the Bursa
manuscript was known to Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn al-Munajjid, who referred to it briefly in a review
of Pellat’s edition of al-Jāḥiẓ’s Mufākhara in Majallat Maʿhad al-Makhtūṭāṭ al-ʿArabīya 3
(1957): 335, n. 5.
13 In connection with other Sarakhsī quotations the same problem shows up; for instance,
in al-Tawḥīdī, al-Baṣāʾir wa-l-dhakhāʾir, Wadād al-Qāḍī, ed., 10 vols. (Beirut: Dār Ṣādir,
1408/1988), 8:10–13.
he shared.14 This concern was widespread in that period, apparently as a result

of attempts by the intellectual theologians lumped together as “Muʿtazilites”
to fuse Greek philosophy with Muslim religious thought. The inclusion in al-
Sarakhsī’s bibliography of a work called Fī l-ʿishq, “On [Sensual] Love,” is poorly
attested, but a passage from his pen on the subject is preserved, and it clearly
shows his fascination with the Platonic tradition.15 As a littérateur, he was
also much interested in the more down-to-earth love affairs and escapades of
singers and other entertainers. In the text discussed here, it was natural for sen-
sitive and explicit material to appear side by side. Other Sarakhsī quotations
in the Jawāmiʿ include a description of ideal female beauty noteworthy for
its exceptional length, put in the mouth of his patron, the caliph al-Muʿtaḍid,
and followed by al-Sarakhsī’s comment that only caliphs and persons of high
rank are capable of such a refined description. Ordinary people would use less
refined ones, which he goes on to quote.16 Elsewhere, he is quoted for a sex-
based recipe he was given for curing the shortness and thinness of his beard,17
and in the chapter on the common belief that greater hairiness meant greater
sexual power he expressed | scientific criticism of al-Jāḥiẓ and argued that, con- 27
trary to al-Jāḥiẓ’s opinion, compensatory effects among bodily functions do not
apply to sexuality.18
Notwithstanding the general tendency among authors to deal with all as-
pects of sexuality, then as well as in later times a clear distinction was often
14 Another aspect of this relationship is illuminated by a text discovered by Matti Moosa

that deals with a religious disputation between a Christian church dignitary and various
Muslims, whose group also included Jews. See “A New Source on Aḥmad ibn al-Ṭayyib al-
Sarakhsī,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 92 (1972): 19–24; Arabic text in al-Majalla
al-Baṭrīrakīya (Damascus) 7 (1969): 189–197, 244–252.
15 Franz Rosenthal, The Classical Heritage in Islam (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1975),
pp. 106–107. For a brief excerpt form Mughulṭāy, see Rosenthal, “From Arabic Books and
Manuscripts IV: New Fragments of as-Saraḫsî,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 71
(1951): 135–136.
16 MS Fatih, fols. 96a–100a, MS Chester Beatty, fols. 100a–103b, trans. Khawwam, pp. 207–209.
17 MS Fatih, fol. 73a, MS Chester Beatty, fol. 74a, apparently omitted in trans. Khawwam,
where it should appear on p. 173. The reading of the text and thus the point of the remark
are not quite clear to me.
18 MS Fatih, fols. 8a–9a, MS Chester Beatty, fols. 8b–9a, trans. Khawwam, pp. 54–55. MS Fatih,
fols. 82b–83a, and MS Chester Beatty, fol. 85a–b, lack the chain of transmitters beginning
with al-Sarakhsī from al-Kindī that appears in trans. Khawwam, p. 107, introducing a
story about a woman being asked by a man to use an artificial penis (kīrbanaj) on him.
For a related anecdote, see al-Jāḥiẓ, Rasāʾil, 2:187, and Manfred Ullmann, Wörterbuch der
klassischen arabischen Sprache, vol. K (Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 1970), p. 489.
made between serious emotional love and obscene facetiousness (mujūn),

particularly as it affected the work of poets.19 Al-Jāḥiẓ made a much-quoted
defense of the use of sexually explicit terminology, arguing that the words con-
sidered objectionable by some would not have been allowed to enter the lan-
guage if they were not intended to be used. Soon after, Ibn Qutayba expressed
himself in a similar vein.20 Al-Jāḥiẓ, however, found it necessary to apologize in
his essay for dealing with a subject that some might find offensive. This apology
may not have been as much for the particular subject as in defense against the
general aversion to all lighthearted and frivolous occupations resulting from
religious concerns. This attitude was no doubt shared by al-Sarakhsī, at least in
his public stance.
The tone set by the introduction of the discussion (translated incompletely
by Khawwam) points in the same direction. It alludes to the problem of why
in early Muslim society poets could have composed love poetry addressed to
identifiable living women of high rank when in the later view accepted morality
made this definitely improper and unlikely to occur:
Aḥmad b. al-Ṭayyib said: I said to Aḥmad b. Abī Ṭāhir: It is easy for real
men21 to recite love poetry directed at women and describe their yearn-
ing for them, although they do not have the close relationship that would
legally allow contact with them. This was done, for instance, by Abū Dah-
19 Compare the comment in Ḥamza al-Iṣfahānī’s edition of the Dīwān of Abū Nuwās that he
preferred keeping this material distinct; see Abū Nuwās, Dīwān, vol. 4, Gregor Schoeler,
ed. (Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner, 1402/1982. Bibliotheca Islamica 20d), pp. 8 and 144. Serious
homoerotic or heteroerotic love poetry (which in the case of Abū Nuwās was kept sepa-
rate) was not affected by that distinction.
20 The Jāḥiẓ passage, for instance, was translated by Charles Pellat in Arabische Geisteswelt
(Zürich and Stuttgart: Artemis Verlag, 1967), pp. 434–435, and by James A. Bellamy in
“Sex and Society in Islamic Popular Literature,” as well as J.C. Bürgel in “Love, Lust, and
Longing: Eroticism in Early Islam As Reflected in Literary Sources,” both in Society and
the Sexes in Medieval Islam, Afaf Lutfi al-Sayyid-Marsot, ed. (Malibu, Calif.: Undena, 1979.
Sixth Giorgio Levi Della Vida Biennial Conference), pp. 29 and 81, respectively. For the
Ibn Qutayba passage, see Franz Rosenthal, “Fiction and Reality: Sources for the Role of
Sex in Medieval Muslim Society,” in Society and the Sexes, p. 19, and reprinted in idem,
Muslim Intellectual and Social History (Aldershot: Variorum, 1990) [Above, p. 857. Ed.]. For
al-Sarakhsī’s aversion to inappropriateness in thought and language, see the quotation
from his Marāḥ al-rūḥ in al-Tawḥīdī, Baṣāʾir, 6:106–107; al-Ābī, Nathr al-durr, 7 vols. (Cairo:
al-Hayʾa al-Miṣrīya al-ʿĀmma lil-Kitāb, 1981–1991), 3:312–313.
21 This translates ahl al-murūwāt, as in MS Fatih. The reading ahl al-mawaddāt in MS Chester
Beatty is unlikely.
bal al-Jumaḥī and ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b. Ḥassān b. Thābit22 in connection

with a daughter of Muʿāwiya b. Abī Sufyān, who was a caliph!—He men-
tioned the story and quoted the poems.—(Ibn Abī Ṭāhir) said:23 You talk
so much (about the subject) as if you were someone who does not know
(qad aktharta ikthār man lam yaʿlam) that discussions and debates have
taken place among the partisans of males and the partisans of women.
I replied: So, I would like you to tell me about that debate and discus-
sion and how and where the victorious outcome based on firm proof
was established. He said: Yes, I shall report to you what I remember. I
came to a gathering that included some refined persons (ẓurrāf ) who
were friends with youths and other refined persons who were friends with
women. These persons were engaged in an acrimonious dispute before I
entered, (even) calling the | friend of youths lūṭī and the friend of women 28
zānī.24 In the ensuing debate they mentioned what I am going to tell
you.
The choppiness of the first half of this statement does not, it seems, reflect
any textual distortions or omissions; rather, it is due to al-Sarakhsī’s desire
to get to his subject without the delay of detailing the implications of the
initial problem, that is, how to explain the daring of earlier poets in dealing
with identifiable women instead of using generic female names or none at all.
After about the end of the first century of Islam, the accepted social order that
had evolved officially made contact with unrelated free women unusual and
suspect, whereas contact with other males, regardless of differences in age and
status, was the natural order of social interaction.
The discussion reported by al-Sarakhsī occurs in the Jawāmiʿ in the chapter
devoted to homoerotic male love, entitled “on young men ( fityān),” another
term of many meanings, designating in males youthful age, nobility of young
adults, even something like knighthood, but also serving in other situations as
a polite indication of unfree status. The discussion might thus be assumed to be
22 For information on these two seventh-century poets, the latter the son of a more famous
father, see Sezgin, Geschichte, 2:149–150 and 422–423. The name of Muʿāwiya’s daughter is
said to be ʿĀtika.
23 MS Chester Beatty: fa-qāla seems more correct than MS Fatih: fa-qul.
24 This sentence is missing in MS Fatih. It seems that the use of lūṭī and zānī, which were also
the legal terms, was considered inappropriate under the circumstances. “Friends with”
renders aṣḥāb.
On the ẓurrāf, see M.F. Ghazi, “Un groupe social: ‘Les Raffinés’ (Ẓurafāʾ),” Studia Islam-
ica 11 (1959): 39–71.
favorable to the male side. In fact, the lūṭī has the first word, and he starts out
with the observation (derived from al-Jāḥiẓ) that “when one wants to describe
a girl as beautiful, one says that she is like a boy.” He goes on to quote verses on
the ghulāmīya that appear to give preference to the boy, such as those ascribed
to Abū Nuwās’s mentor Wāliba b. al-Ḥubāb:
A girl (?)25 who walks proudly and with disdain and speaks boldly—
She is dressed like a boy,26 though I would not compare her to him and
did not mean to disparage the boy.
At the end, however—as already hinted at in the initial equation of male and
female beauty—the discussion concludes with what might be called a draw:
When Ibn Abī Ṭāhir had finished with the description, I (al-Sarakhsī) said
to him: What is your opinion about what these two (the partisans of boys
and the partisans of girls) have to say? He replied: A boy’s jealousy of his
lover is more refined than a woman’s jealousy of a man because of her
fellow wife. I said: But what do you say about the remarks made by either
party? Tell me something that I can report on your authority with attribu-
tion to you. He said: Where they slandered each other I think they went
too far,27 and where they praised they made untrue and unseemly state-
25 MS Fatih simplifies by reading an unmetrical wa-fatātu/in. The unreadable word in MS

Chester Beatty may reflect wa-mīrāthīyatu/in found in al-Jāḥiẓ, Rasāʾil, 2:96. The unex-
plained mīrāthīya could perhaps mean a legally married woman since inheritance rights
are a condition of legal marriage, in contrast to a temporary mutʿa marriage as explained
at length in the Jawāmiʿ, but without further confirmation this is no more than a fanci-
ful guess. E.K. Rowson plausibly suggests that the word might refer to an inherited slave
girl.
26 This translates the text as found in al-Jāḥiẓ: wa-lahā zīyu l-ghulāmi. MS Fatih: tahādā
(for tatahādā) ka-l-ghulāmi, “she struts”; MS Chester Beatty, slightly against the meter:
tamshī mashya l-ghulāmi, “she walks as boys walk.” Tahādā looks sufficiently similar to
lahā zīyu to be a corruption of it: tahādā is defined as “walking (unsteadily) with someone’s
support” or, generally, as tamāyul, “swaying (in walking)”; see, for example, al-Azharī,
Tahdhīb al-lugha, ʿAbd al-Salām Muḥammad Hārūn, ed., 15 vols. (Cairo: al-Dār al-Miṣrīya
li-l-Taʾlīf wa-l-Tarjama, 1964–1967), 6:383; also, with the addition of “slowly” (al-tamāyul
fī l-mashy al-baṭīʾ), see Ibn Ḥajar, Fatḥ al-bārī, 17 vols. (Cairo: Muṣṭafā al-Bābī al-Ḥalabī,
1378–1383/1959–1963), 2:294–295. Al-Jāḥiẓ may have the more correct text; however, the
situation is far from clear.
27 The available manuscripts differ as to whether the statement is intended to be positive or
negative. The positive statement adopted here appears in MS Fatih: fa-mā arāhumā illā
ments. | However, among animals, the females are rarely more beautiful 29
than the males. It is only the face of the human male that changes28 with
the growing of the first hair on his cheek, when his coloring has been
infused with life and youth and the surface of his skin polished to a shin-
ing glow, his figure and whole being having reached perfection and his
proportions (true) beauty. Nature then has produced the following bloom
and mark (?) of young manhood.29
It is not quite certain whether the final three sentences, with their affirmation
of the superiority of adolescent male beauty, go back to the original discussion
or are editorial comment. Assuming them to be part of the discussion, the over-
all judgment expressed can be summarized as follows: An attempt is first made
to evade a direct answer by merely referring to the supposed greater refinement
of male jealousy compared to the coarseness of female jealousy. Jealousy was
much debated, also in the religious tradition, as a sort of touchstone for gen-
uine feeling in the relation of the sexes,30 and since refinement was so highly
valued in the intellectual climate of the times a slight tilt toward male eroticism
is implied. But then, both sides are blamed for too much partisanship, with the
apparent implication that their claims are equivalent. This again is modified
by an acknowledgment of nature’s assumed gift of greater beauty in the ado-
lescent male. Thus, on the whole, no forceful and exclusive endorsement of
any one point of view seems intended.
abʿadā fīhi. The negative version in MS Chester Beatty ( fa-mā abʿadā fīhi) appears to be
also in the text used by Khawwam. Either would be suitable, but until further evidence I
would prefer the above, possibly more weakly attested, rendering.
28 A word seems to be missing in the text. “Changes, becomes changed” seems a good guess.
29 The manuscripts seem to have: fa-innamā abdat al-ṭabīʿatu zahra[ta] l-shabābi wa-
nawrahū wa-shīʾ(at)ahū, but the textual problems are many. Khawwam’s translation is too
paraphrastic to be of help.
We may add to the preceding discussion that even as late a text as the Arabian Nights
could maintain that “if boys were not more excellent and more handsome, girls would
not be compared to them.” See Arabian Nights, 421st night, of the Calcutta text (Alf
layla wa-layla, 4 vols. [Calcutta: Thacker, 1839–1842], 2:459); 3:582–583 of Enno Littmann’s
masterful German translation, Die Erzählungen aus den Tausendundein Nächten, 6 vols.
(Leipzig: Insel, 1924).
30 For one convenient collection of statements on jealousy among many, see, for instance,
al-Nuwayrī, al-Ilmām bi-l-iʿlām fīmā jarat bihi l-aḥkām wa-l-umūr al-maqḍīya fī waqʿat al-
Iskandarīya, Aziz Surial Atiyya, ed., 6 vols. (Hyderabad: Maṭbaʿat Majlis Dāʾirat al-Maʿārif
al-ʿUthmānīya, 1388–1396/1968–1976), 6:221 ff.
The material presented by either side is not arranged in a strictly logical pro-
gression, and such haphazard raising of various points would seem natural in
a disputation. Prose portions are used by the debaters to bolster their respec-
tive cases with arguments from Qurʾān and ḥadīth and a few statements on the
alleged attitude of early Muslims. Most of this material condemned homosexu-
ality. An interesting defense advanced by the lūṭī against hostile traditions is a
denial of their authenticity. He says that he “does not know those ḥadīths” and
thus reduces them to the status of unknown or little-known traditions that are
of no value as legal arguments.
As befits a work not meant to be an earnest debate on moot points of
religion or philosophy but a literary entertainment that nonetheless had fun-
damental implications for societal morals and behavior, the stress is on how
poets, as the secular keepers of the Muslim social conscience, expressed them-
selves on those points. Poetry therefore dominates the discussion. Much of it
is anonymous; verses are often introduced as authored by “the poet” or “our
30 poet” (or “our friend,” ṣāḥibunā), meaning a poet favorable to | the side quot-
ing him, or merely by “another.” Few names of poets are given. Not surpris-
ingly, Abū Nuwās’s name appears most frequently, again attesting to his role
as the principal originator of homoerotic poetry in the Muslim environment.
With the exception of the twice-quoted ʿUkkāsha, all poets from the early
ʿAbbāsid period, among them Wāliba b. al-Ḥubāb, al-Raqāshī,31 and an uniden-
tified al-Zawwānī (reading?), are represented but once, and (following al-Jāḥiẓ),
there is a sprinkling of pre-Islamic poets such as Imruʾulqays, al-Aʿshā, and
ʿAlqama b. ʿAbada. Some of the individuals remain practically unidentified, as,
for instance, Abū Salīṭ al-Aʿrābī and al-Ṭarsūsī.32 As is usually the case in poetry
of this kind, the authenticity of an attribution can rarely be confirmed; formal
collections of a poet’s work, when they are preserved, often seem to disregard
such minor products.
Among the individuals addressed in verses, two early ʿAbbāsid judges stand
out as examples of the supposed inclination of judges toward forbidden homo-
31 Al-Raqāshī (Sezgin, Geschichte, 2:516) is credited with a poem in which he recommends

homosexuality, wine drinking, gambling, cockfights, and dogfights as the familiar cata-
logue of fashionable misbehavior in his time; see Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Ṭabaqāt al-shuʿarāʾ, ʿAbd
al-Sattār A. Farrāj, ed. (Cairo: Dār al-Maʿārif, n. d. [1375/1956]), p. 226.
32 Khawwam, p. 167, shows some confusion, involving the omission of al-Ṭarsūsī. He is no
doubt the Abū Ayyūb al-Ṭarsūsī mentioned several times in the edition of Abū Nuwās’s
Dīwān; see for example 4:75. Professors Wagner and Schoeler kindly answered my question
concerning him.
sexuality, a topic that endured through the centuries. Al-ʿAwfī (d. 201/816–817)33
served as judge of the East Side and al-Ruṣāfa (ʿAskar Mahdī) in Baghdad under
al-Rashīd, while Yaḥyā b. Aktham (d. 242/857) held a dominant position as al-
Maʾmūn’s chief justice. Little is said in the biographical sources about the repu-
tation of al-ʿAwfī, except that he was considered a weak transmitter of ḥadīth. A
generation later, when the prevailing attitudes had changed, Yaḥyā b. Aktham
could already during his lifetime become an open target for scurrilous attacks
on his supposed homosexuality, and the verses and anecdotes about him con-
tinued to be standard fare in literature.34
The distinction between facetiousness and serious purpose is obscured in
the discussion, and this lack of distinction blurs the picture. This seems to be
characteristic of the literary genre; occasionally, some particular argument may
intrude rather improperly. Thus the lūṭī contends that the heterosexual lover
needs material possessions to be successful in his search for a partner:
When I asked the girls to have intercourse with me on credit,

They turned away from me without agreeing to my quest for making love.
If I had money, they would have agreed to it,
But I have no access to money.35
33 For al-Ḥusayn b. al-Ḥasan b. ʿAṭīya al-ʿAwfī, see, for instance, Ibn Saʿd, Kitāb al-Ṭabaqāt al-
kabīr, Eduard Sachau et al., eds., 8 vols. (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1904–1940), 7, 2:74; Wakīʿ, Akhbār
al-quḍāt, ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz Muṣṭafā al-Marāghī, ed., 3 vols. (Cairo: Maṭbaʿat al-Istiqāma, 1366–
1369/1947–1950), 1:53, 3:265 ff.; al-Muʿāfa, al-falīs al-ṣāliḥ, Muḥammad Mursī al-Khawlī, ed.,
4 vols. (Beirut: ʿĀlam al-Kutub, 1981), 1:489–490; al-Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī, Taʾrīkh Baghdād,
14 vols. (Cairo: Maktabat al-Khānjī, 1349/1931), 8:29–32; Ibn Ḥajar, Lisān al-Mīzān, 6 vols.
(Hyderabad: Maṭbaʿat Majlis Dāʾirat al-Maʿārif al-Niẓāmīya, 1329–1331/1911–1913), 2:278.
Most of the sources cited by Ibn Ḥajar are now in print.
34 Yaḥyā b. Aktham needs no documentation here. For an example, see al-Masʿūdī, Murūj
al-dhahab, C.A.C. Barbier de Meynard and B.M.M. Paret de Courteille, eds., 9 vols. (Paris:
Imprimerie Impériale, 1861–1877), 7:43–48. The Aḥmad b. Abī Nuʿaym quoted there is sug-
gested, without further justification, by the editor of Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Ṭabaqāt al-shuʿarāʾ,
p. 523, to be possibly identical with Jaḥshōyah, who belonged to the circle of Yaḥyā b.
Aktham and who is also frequently quoted in the jawāmiʿ. See the references in the edition
of Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Ṭabaqāt al-shuʿarāʾ, pp. 522–523; C.E. Bosworth, The Mediaeval Islamic
Underworld (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1976), p. 63; Abū Nuwās, Dīwān, 4:8. In the statement quoted
by Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Ṭabaqāt al-shuʿarāʾ, p. 226, he appears among a number of intellectuals
who are claimed to have practiced a more conservative lifestyle than the one they vaunted
in their poetry. The statement reappears in Ibn Falīta (see below, n. 40); compare Rosen-
thal, “Fiction and Reality,” p. 11, n. 19 [Above, p. 848. Ed.].
35 Regrettably, the poet is not known to me. He is unlikely to have been pre- or early Islamic.
The idea that a woman’s love must be won with wealth and youth was an old
one;36 thus it is not really surprising that it turns up in the debate. What may
31 at first glance seem surprising is the failure of the champion of girls to make |
use of the reputed venality of male lovers, which is repeated in many variations
throughout the literature. Famous, for instance, was the reply attributed to the
poet Abū Tammām when he was taunted with the remark that his ghulām was
more accommodating to the high government official al-Ḥasan b. Wahb than
the latter’s ghulām was to him: “That is indeed so because he gives my ghulām
money, whereas I give his ghulām idle chatter.”37 An ancient antecedent of
this witticism exists, ascribed in Greek literature to the poet Anacreon and
the tyrant Polycrates: “Smerdies received from Polycrates gold and silver and
all that is customary for a pretty boy to get from a tyrant in love, but from
Anacreon he received songs and praising poems and all that is customary for
one to get from a lover who is a poet.”38 The missed opportunity of making a
case here from male venality is explained by the connection of this literature
with prostitution. Dwelling on that subject unnecessarily was not tolerated in
the refined climate of the discussion and repeatedly rejected as inappropriate
even by the author of the Jawāmiʿ.39
The most important question for us to consider is the aesthetic quality of the
material presented, as this leads to the heart of the matter: its emotional con-
tent or apparent lack of it. Cleverness and wit are present and combined with
a bluntness often aimed at provoking laughter rather than proving some point
of sexual preference. Technical perfection in the use of language and literary
artistry that for native critics were the hallmark of poetry are foremost through-
out, although not explicit issues. Feeling and emotion, however, appear to have
very little place. Admittedly, poetry can be appreciated fully only by native
36 The verses by Imruʾulqays and ʿAlqama quoted in the discussion also speak of the need
for money, in addition to youth, to be able to attract women. See also Ibn Qutayba,
ʿUyūn al-akhbār, 4 vols. (Cairo: al-Muʾassasa al-Miṣrīya al-ʿĀmma li-l-Taʾlīf wa-l-Tarjama
wa-l-Ṭibāʿa wa-l-Nashr, 1963–1964), 4:44–45.
37 The anecdote is translated here from al-Kutubī, Fawāt al-Wafayāt, M. Muḥyī al-Dīn ʿAbd
al-Ḥamīd, ed., 2 vols. (Cairo: Maktabat al-Nahḍa al-Miṣrīya, 1951), 1:268. As stated by
al-Ṣūlī, Akhbār Abī Tammām, Khalīl Maḥmūd ʿAsākir et al., eds. (Beirut: al-Maktab al-Tijārī
lil-Ṭibāʿa wa-l-Tawzīʿ wa-l-Nashr, n. d. [1965?]), p. 196, it circulated with many minor
variations. It clearly is a distillation of longer stories on the subject, in which Abū Tammām
and al-Ḥasan b. Wahb are the supposed actors.
38 Maximus Tyrius, Philosophoumena, Hermann Hobein, ed. (Leipzig: Teubner, 1910), 1 (p.
243). It needs to be stressed that no direct relationship can be established.
39 MS Fatih, fols. 42a, 71b: MS Chester Beatty, fols. 49b, 72a.
speakers of a language, and even their objectivity is open to doubt and their
supposed criteria, as expressed by the analysis of literary figures or as unstated
preferences, often seem to lack intrinsic force. Therefore, an evaluation by non-
native speakers of poetry for artistic and, above all, emotional impact is nearly
impossible. However, it can safely be contended that the poetry here seems to
lack felt emotion, unless emotion rests in sexuality as such.
It has often been remarked that emotion and feeling take second place
even in the work of as gifted a poet as Abū Nuwās, and may often be sought
in vain. This is more obvious in a related poetical genre, the epigrammatical
description in verse (waṣf ) of boys or girls. Comparison is implicit here. In
the sexological literature as in the Jawāmiʿ, the chapters dealing with the
characteristic features of maleness and femininity are also for the most part
kept separate. Those chapters may, however, contain comparisons or have
comparative chapter headings referring to the “greater excellence (tafḍīl)” | of 32
homosexuality as against heterosexuality, as is the case in Ibn Falīta’s Rushd
al-labīb ilā muʿāsharat al-ḥabīb.40
The waṣf 41 of boys and girls adopted as its most poetical form the ancient
vehicle of four lines (corresponding to two Arabic verses).42 Rarely one, quite
40 The once-popular work is preserved in many manuscripts. I used the two manuscripts
in the Yale Library, MS Landberg 114 (Catalogue Nemoy 1609), fols. 52a–67a (fols. 64 and
65a are blank), and MS Arabic 490, fols. 44b–60b (the manuscript is dated on Thursday, 18
Rabīʿ I 1067/4 January 1657, and for those interested in the history of Arabic scholarship in
Europe, bears the stamp of the library of Barbier de Meynard).
I have not seen the Erlangen dissertation by Mohamed Zouher Djabri (1968) that is a
translation of the relevant chapters 9–11 of the work, nor do I know whether an edition
of the Arabic text was actually published in New York in recent years (?). An English
translation by the translator(s) of the Jawāmiʿ supposedly appeared in Toronto in 1977,
according to the National Union Catalogue for 1981, vol. 7, p. 265a, but the Library of
Congress was unable to trace its copy, and the entry may be a mistake.
41 An instructive discussion of waṣf in general at its tenth-century stage is that of Alma Giese,
Wasf bei Kušāǧim (Berlin: Klaus Schwarz Verlag, 1981. Islamkundliche Untersuchungen 62).
As an example of how Kushājim handled erotic verses of this type, we may quote from
his Dīwān, Khayrīya Muḥammad Maḥfūẓ, ed. (Baghdad: Mudīrīyat al-Thaqāfa al-ʿĀmma,
1390/1970), p. 70:
He passed by us with a falcon in his hand.

He and the falcon have something wonderful in common.
The falcon hunts birds swooping down from on high,
while he hunts the hearts with the glances of his eyes.
42 On this type of poetry, see, most recently, the contributions of Benedikt Reinert in Neues
frequently three, or in exceptional cases four verses may also serve the purpose.
In the homoerotic setting, the epigram describes not an individual as such but a
“pretty (malīḥ)” representative of a certain occupation or someone engaged in a
special activity or having noteworthy personal characteristics, including name
or origin. “Handsome” may often serve as a better translation for malīḥ but does
not capture its full meaning, which is important for the proper understanding
of the word’s possible sexual connotation. At times, malīḥ may even be used
for something as vague and impersonal as the English all-purpose word “nice,”
for instance, in connection with objects such as books. In the corresponding
Greek literature (see below, n. 52), the term kalos, which would not ordinarily
appear as malīḥ in Arabic translation, is used.
In Muslim civilization, the epigram’s popularity increased in the urban cli-
mate of the tenth century. Already in the early post-classical period, epigrams
achieved that pinnacle of prominence that is marked by collections in mono-
graph form. Al-Thaʿālibī, whose lifetime straddled the transition from the tenth
to the eleventh century, may have been the first to make such a collection (this
requires confirmation from the Kitāb Alf ghulām preserved in manuscript but
to my knowledge not yet published). In the following centuries, the body of
material available to a potential collector grew steadily larger. The natural con-
sequence was that it became more and more difficult for a poet or hopeful ver-
sifier to be original. The topics and situations chosen for “description” became
more contrived; the sort of encyclopedic all-inclusiveness that generally char-
acterized the development of Muslim literary activity was soon attempted.
Compilers of collections not only had an increasing amount of material at their
disposal but also added to it with verses of their own composition. Practically
every poet, it would seem, felt obliged to try his hand on the subject; as minor
occasional poetry, however, such epigrams were not always included in a poet’s
collected works (see above, p. 30), although in the course of time they were
more and more. Adab works, such as al-Ṣafadī’s commentary on the famous
Lāmīyat al-ʿajam, reveled in these epigrams.43 The biographies of individual
poets did not fail to include many specimens.
The eventual result may be exemplified here by two fifteenth-century mono-
33 graphs that constitute the final stage of the collectors’ zeal. The au|thors are
Shihāb al-Dīn al-Ḥijāzī (790–875/1388–1471) and Abū l-Tuqā al-Badrī (847–
894/1443–1489). Among his many works, the former wrote two brief treatises.
Handbuch der Literaturwissenschaft, Band 5 (Orientalisches Mittelalter), Wolfhart Hein-

richs, ed. (Wiesbaden: AULA–Verlag, 1990), pp. 284–300, 366–408.
43 See above, n. 2. Al-Ṣafadī’s al-Ḥusn al-ṣarīḥ fī miʾ at malīḥ has not been available to me.
One of them is entitled Jannat al-wildān fī l-ḥisān min al-ghilmān, “The Paradise
(peopled by) Youths: On Beautiful Males,” and the other al-Kunnas al-jawārī fī
l-ḥisān min al-jawārī, “The Retrograde Running Stars (Qurʾān 81:16): On Beau-
tiful Maidens.”44 Al-Ḥijāzī began his first treatise with the customary fictitious
reference to popular demand (“as demanded by my contemporaries”) and with
what must be taken as an apology for writing on the subject. As he states, all of
the epigrams are of his own composition. Thus, the more than 160 entries for
males is quite a respectable number; typically, the verses addressed to females
add up to considerably less than half of that.
Al-Badrī’s vastly larger monograph is entitled Ghurrat al-ṣabāḥ fī waṣf al-
wujūh al-ṣibāḥ, “The Shining Dawn: On the Description of Fair Faces.”45 The
44 The two treatises, together with a third one on specimens of the Arabic meters, were
printed in al-Ḥijāzī, Majmūʿat thalāth rasāʾil (Cairo: Maṭbaʿat al-Saʿāda, 1326/1908 [copy
in the New York Public Library]), pp. 2–40 and 41–58. I am not aware of a more recent
printing. For al-Ḥijāzī, see Carl Brockelmann, Geschichte der arabischen Litteratur, Supple-
mentbände 1–3 (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1937–1942), 2:11–12, 3:1248; al-Sakhāwī, al-Ḍawʾ al-lāmiʿ,
Ḥusām al-Dīn al-Qudsī, ed., 12 vols. (Cairo: Maktabat al-Quds, 1353–1355/1934–1936), 2:147–
149. Al-Sakhāwī, as usual, has much interesting information; he also states that he had
published longer biographies of al-Ḥijāzī elsewhere.
45 MS British Museum 1423 (add. 23,445). The British Library kindly provided me with a
microfilm. The well-written manuscript is dated on 5 Dhū l-Ḥijja 875/25 May 1471. The
old catalogue (Catalogus codicum manuscriptorum orientalium qui in Museo Britannico
asservantur, Pars secunda, codices arabicos amplectens [London, 1871], 2:654–655), has a
reasonably complete description, indicating the chapter headings and referring to the
taqrīẓes, and also mentioning some of the poets quoted. It states correctly that the chap-
ter headings for chapters 5 and 17 are missing in the text. However, it indicates fol. 28 as
the place where the chapter heading of chapter 2 (dealing with adjectives formed from
the names of localities, religions, and the like, designated in the table of contents quite
interestingly by the word mutajannisūn) is to be found. This, however, is not the case;
the custos on fol. 27b indicates a gap. After fol. 177a there seems to be another gap. Thus,
a number of folios are missing; how many is hard to say. An inspection of the original
manuscript may be useful. On the basis of notes I took in 1973, I quote some verses in
my Gambling in Islam (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1975 [above, work IV. Ed.]); see the index under
al-Badrī.
On al-Badrī, see Brockelmann, Geschichte, 2:132; Brockelmann, Geschichte der arabi-
schen Litteratur, Supplementbände 1–3, 2:163; Franz Rosenthal, The Herb: Hashish ver-
sus Medieval Muslim Society (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1971), pp. 13–15 [above, work III. Ed.]; al-
Sakhāwī, al-Ḍawʾ al-lāmiʿ, 11:41–42. Al-Sakhāwī states that al-Badrī wrote the Ghurar [sic]
in Damascus in 865/1460–1461. Like the title, the date is no doubt incorrect. Ibn Sūdūn,
who died in 868/1464, is listed on fol. 176a as deceased, and the endorsements are dated in
871/1467. Admittedly, the Ghurra could have been written and published in stages, but this
Ghurra will serve as the source for the quotations on the following pages. It
is noteworthy that al-Badrī appears to have aimed at collecting verses differ-
ent from those in al-Ḥijāzī’s treatise. That the latter was written earlier seems
clear from the biographical data. The possibility that al-Ḥijāzī could have con-
ceived the idea for his work upon hearing about al-Badrī’s project can safely be
excluded; more likely, it was he who suggested the project to al-Badrī.
Al-Ḥijāzī was born in Egypt, al-Badrī in Damascus, but the intellectual cen-
ter for both was Cairo, which only in the next century was fated to lose its
political independence and with it much of its cultural dominance. The poets’
backgrounds were as different as could be. Al-Ḥijāzī was the precocious son
of a well-established family of scholars and had all the educational advantages
going with this status. Al-Badrī apparently was responsible for his own educa-
tion and lived his life at the lower end of the intellectual establishment in minor
positions, occasionally making a living as a merchant and at one time having
the good fortune of inheriting from one of his wives. Their lives crossed in a
significant manner: al-Ḥijāzī transmitted a considerable number of epigrams
to al-Badrī orally as well as, occasionally, in writing, and when al-Badrī pub-
lished his Ghurra (also referred to as al-Majmūʿ), al-Ḥijāzī was one of those he
solicited to write an endorsement (taqrīẓ, “blurb”) to accompany the publica-
tion. Al-Ḥijāzī obliged by contributing a rather lengthy statement of praise in
the customary flowery fashion. Like the other taqrīẓes, it was dated in 871/1467;
his, precisely, on Friday, 16 Jumādā II 871/23 January 1467. Al-Ḥijāzī was close
to eighty at the time. Only one other of the preserved taqrīẓes was written
34 by an old man, (Ibn) al-Hāʾim | al-Manṣūrī (798 or 799 to 887/1396(7)–1482),
then about seventy.46 Two were written by young men who were more or less
contemporaries of al-Badrī: ʿAbd al-Barr Ibn al-Shiḥna (b. 9 Dhū l-Qaʿda 851/16
January 1448, d. 921/1515) was not yet twenty at the time of writing,47 and Abū
remains to be proved. The problem is similar to that posed by his work on hashish and
wine, as discussed in The Herb, pp. 13–15 [above, pp. 146–148. Ed.].
For endorsements such as are preserved on the first six folios of the manuscript, see
Franz Rosenthal, “ ‘Blurbs’ (Taqrīẓ) from Fourteenth-Century Egypt,” Oriens 27–28 (1981):
177–196, reprinted in idem, Muslim Intellectual and Social History. Al-Sakhāwī expressly
refers to taqrīẓes of the work but mentions only two (al-Ḥijāzī and al-Hāʾim al-Manṣūrī)
of the five authors quoted in the manuscript. However, he adds five other well-known
names. Possibly, different endorsers were solicited for different “editions” (see also below,
n. 49), or different selections were made from the original corpus of “blurbs.”
46 Brockelmann, Geschichte, 2:22, Brockelmann, Supplementbände, 2:12; al-Sakhāwī, al-Ḍawʾ
al-lāmiʿ, 2:150–151.
47 Brockelman, Supplementbände, 2:94; al-Sakhāwī, al-Ḍawʾ al-lāmiʿ, 4:33–35.
Bakr Muḥammad b. ʿUmar Ibn al-Naṣībī (b. Rabīʿ I 851/May–June 1447) was but
a few months older.48 No dates are known for the fifth and last of the preserved
blurbists, Aḥmad b. Muḥammad al-Awtārī.49 The choice of a mixture of begin-
ners and accomplished authors was hardly accidental but served to advertise
the appeal of the work for both the older generation and those destined to keep
the flame burning in the future. Al-Ḥijāzī, in particular, was a natural choice.
Having reached the end of a prolific career, he could well afford to be gener-
ous in his praise of the much younger man whom he may have inspired and
who was ready to perpetuate his literary interests. Other blurbists whose state-
ments are not preserved are also represented in the Ghurra by verses of their
own composition (see below, n. 56), if fewer than those of al-Ḥijāzī. The ready
availability of prominent endorsers is a further testimony to the great popular-
ity of the work’s subject.
Al-Badrī’s principal achievement was his attempt to classify the vast material
he collected (and to which, as expected, he contributed some epigrams of
his own). He arranged it in a number of chapters, seventeen altogether; the
decision as to where to put some of the epigrams seems at times to have caused
a small problem for him. A striking difference between al-Ḥijāzī and al-Badrī
is that the former, having begun with caliphs and officials, placed verses on
bearers of certain names close to the end, while al-Badrī started out with them.
The first epigram he quotes is appropriately on the name Muḥammad, and
its author was Saʿd al-Dīn Muḥammad, the son of a famous father, the great
mystical writer Ibn ʿArabī:
O Muḥammad! Your eyes testify in my behalf

That I am one likely to be killed by beautiful eyes.
You have surpassed all the pretty ones, thus being their seal,
Just like your namesake (the Prophet), the seal of the Messengers.
48 See al-Sakhāwī, al-Ḍawʾ al-lāmiʿ, 8:259–260, and, for his father, 6:123. He was very proud
of his maternal grandfather, Muḥibb al-Dīn Abū l-Faḍl Muḥammad b. Muḥammad Ibn
al-Shiḥna (804–890/1402–1485), a historian of Aleppo from a prominent family of scholars;
see Brockelmann, Supplementbände 2:40–41.
49 Al-Sakhāwī, al-Ḍawʾ al-lāmiʿ, 2:214. Al-Sakhāwī knew that he was one of those who wrote
blurbs for the Majmūʿ of al-Badrī and that he wrote his in 878/1473–1474. He indeed quotes
the verses we find in the Ghurra manuscript. That manuscript was written before 878, but
some taqrīẓes may have been written and attached at a later date, so that the 878 date
is not entirely ruled out but very likely a simple mistake rather than an indication that
endorsements may have been solicited at different times. See above, n. 45.
(A-Muḥammadun50 ʿaynāka tashhadu lī

annī l-qatīlu l-aʿyuni l-nujlī
Fuqta l-milāḥa fa-anta khātamuhum
wa-kadhā samīyuka khātamu l-ruslī)
The dīwān of Saʿd al-Dīn b. ʿArabī contains a large number of epigrams on the
35 topics found in the Ghurra, but only a few of those quoted by al-Badrī | appear
to have been included in it.51 Among sons of famous fathers in medieval Islam,
Saʿd al-Dīn stands out as one of those who represented a totally divergent out-
look: his interest in love poetry seems entirely secular and artistic, in contrast
to the mystical bent so all-consuming and deep in his father’s works.
From this appropriately religious beginning, the Ghurra goes on to present,
according to a rough count, well over 2,500 items, an astonishing number
keeping in mind that all deal with one overall subject; moreover, al-Badrī was
selective and could have included very much more pertinent material. The
large Greek collection of epigrams known as the Anthologia Graeca is estimated
to contain about fifty percent more entries,52 but it deals with a large variety of
50 For the not-uncommon use in poetry of the nunation in the vocative, see W. Wright, A
Grammar of the Arabic Language, 2 vols. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1962),
2:387–388. The epigram also appears in the beginning of the treatise fī asmāʾ al-ghilmān
al-ḥisān in MS Berlin We. 1786 according to Ahlwardt’s Verzeichnis der arabischen Hand-
schriften der Königlichen Bibliothek zu Berlin, 10 vols. (Berlin: A.W. Schade, 1887–1899),
no. 8334. Its author could certainly not have been al-Thaʿālibī, Alf ghilmān; and Ibn Daf-
tarkhwān (see n. 54 below), Alf ghulām wa-ghulām, raises chronological problems. The
manuscript needs to be studied for any possible dependence on al-Badrī (?).
51 Saʿd al-Dīn was born in Malatya in 618/1221 during the stay there of his father, then
in his middle fifties; see Brockelmann, Supplementbände, 1:802–803; al-Kutubī, Fawāt
al-Wafayāt, 2:325–329; al-Ṣafadī, al-Wāfī bi-l-wafayāt, H. Ritter et al., eds., (Wiesbaden,
1935–), 1:186–188; Claude Addas, Ibn ʿArabī ou La quête du Soufre Rouge (Paris: Gallimard,
1989), index, pp. 398–399. The geographical/cultural environment he grew up in was
different, but he attended his father’s classes on his works. Regrettably, we do not know
what Saʿd al-Dīn thought about his father’s teachings. He is stated to have died in 656/1258.
His dīwān seems to be his only preserved work. Another title listed in Brockelmann is
not by him; compare H. Ritter, “Philologika IX. Die vier Suhrawardī,”Der Islam 25 (1939): 46,
73–79. I have used the Yale manuscript of the dīwan, MS Landberg 34 (Catalogue Nemoy,
no. 294), a modern copy.
52 According to H. Beckby’s introduction to his edition and German translation, 2nd ed. (4
vols., Munich: Heimeran, 1965–1968; first published 1957), 1:77. On the “love-names,” see
David M. Robinson and Edward J. Fluck, A Study of the Greek Love-names (Baltimore: The
Johns Hopkins Press, 1937), and Konrat Ziegler et al., eds., Der Kleine Pauly, 5 vols. (Stuttgart
and München: A. Druckenmüller, 1964–1975), s.v. Lieblings-Inschriften.
different topics. As in the case of the Rangstreit literature, it is obvious that the
Arabic erotic epigrams stand in line of succession to their Greek antecedents
as well as such ancient materials as the “love-name” inscriptions. However, as
in the case of the Rangstreit literature, the line of succession, tortuous and
underground as it was, cannot be traced by us. An in-depth comparison of the
Arabic with the Greek material might yield interesting contrasts.
Many poets are represented in the Ghurra. The vast majority of the collection
dates from Ayyūbid and Mamlūk times and thus reflects the cultural climate of
the author’s own period. Poets of the golden age of the ʿAbbāsids, most notably
Ibn al-Muʿtazz as well as (with hardly more than two entries each) Abū Nuwās
and Ibn al-Rūmī, make sporadic appearances, but all the pre-Ayyūbid material
is too sparse to disrupt the essential chronological unity of the most valuable
aspect of the collection: it draws a detailed and well-rounded picture of life
in medieval Muslim society, and this picture, despite its occasional baroque
traits, reflects concrete reality. We could, of course, glean all the data of al-Badrī
(and al-Ḥijāzī) from the works of individual poets, but it is instructive to find
the information here together in one place. The concentration on the male
component—only very rarely are women expressly mentioned53—gives the
appearance of one-sidedness, but with respect to many situations poets would
have had little occasion to speak of females.
The variety of component parts of proper names was characteristic of Mus-
lim onomastics.54 It is tempting to assume that verses on names came in handy
53 As, for instance, in a bisexual context (fols. 125b–126b), on malīḥs consorting with women,
or on a malīḥ having a son born to him:
An adolescent married prematurely, so that he gave birth to a son.

The one a star grown, the other a full moon appearing.
The lovers shared in him a father with the child.
(Murāhiqun ʿujila bi-l-nikāḥi ḥattā awladā

Fa-dhāka najmun qad namā wa-dhāka badrun qad badā
Wa-qtasama l-ʿushshāqu minhu wālidan [MS waladan] wa-l-waladā)
The correction suggested for the last line may not be necessary but seems to make better
sense.
54 On the basis of a collection devoted to maidens that was compiled in the mid-thirteenth
century by Ibn Daftarkhwān al-ʿĀdilī, the topic has been studied in detail by Jürgen
W. Weil, Mädchennamen verrätselt: Hundert Rätsel-Epigramme aus dem Adab-Werk Alf
ǧāriya wa-ǧāriya (Berlin: Karl Schwarz, 1984. lslamkundliche Untersuchungen no. 85); see
pp. 179–180 for a listing of Weil’s other publications on the subject. (Ibn) Daftarkhwān is
as quotations for anyone who wanted to display his wit in communicating with
someone of a given name. Such a practical purpose, however, could hardly
have motivated the profusion of epigrams on gentilics dealing with localities
36 and religious groups such as Christians, Jews, Samaritans, Zo|roastrians, even
polytheists. A Shīʿite could thus be addressed as rejecting his lover, just as the
Khārijites rejected ʿAlī:
A Shīʿite with a figure like the branch of a ben tree,

In whose eyelid is ensheathed and glitters the sword of the Legatee (ʿAlī),
A youth whose face is a luminous full moon,
Whose breath is fragrant musk,
To the one who wants to get intimate with him
He says what the Khārijites said about ʿAlī.
(Wa-shīʿīyun ka-ghuṣni l-bāni qaddan

yalūḥu bi-jafnihī sayfu l-Waṣīyī
Ghulāmun wajhuhū badrun munīrun
wa-nakhatuhū min al-miski l-dhakīyī
Yaqūlu li-man yarūmu l-waṣla minhū
kamā qāla l-khawāriju fī ʿAlīyī [fol. 37b])
A Christian reading the Gospels suggests to the poet the famous metaphor of
love union being as close as the ligature of the letters lām and alif :
O (you) who, when you are reading the Gospel,

Always turn away my unhappy heart from the Torah!
I have seen you in my sleep embracing me,
As the lām of the scribe embraces the alif.55
(Yā man idhā qaraʾa l-injīla ẓalla lahū

qalbī l-shaqīyu ʿani l-tawrāti munḥarifā
Innī raʾaytuka fī nawmī tuʿāniqunī
kamā yuʿāniqu lāmu l-kātibi l-alifā [fol. 39b])
quoted a number of times in the Ghurra. It may be an additional matter of interest that
al-Badrī devotes a special section to Turkish names of the ruling establishment of his time.
55 The incorporation of quotations in verses (taḍmīn) contributed to their appeal for edu-
cated readers. The often-quoted second verse is ascribed to different authors; see Franz
Rosenthal, Four Essays on Art and Literature in Islam (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1971), p. 56 [below,
p. 1049. Ed.].
A pretty Jew was reminded by Saʿd al-Dīn b. ʿArabī of his humble social status
as a member of a protected religious community and a non-Muslim:
This Jew who may belong to the

People of Hell but whose face is Paradise for me,
Shows himself always haughty and proud toward his lover,
Although (as a Jew) he bears the mark of humiliation.
(Hādhā l-Yahūdīyu lladhī kāna min

ahli l-jaḥīmi fa-wajhuhū lī jannatū
Abadan yatīhu ʿalā l-muḥibbi taʿazzuzan 37
hādhā wa-qad ḍuribat ʿalayhi l-dhillatū [fol. 40b])
In the social context, an individual’s dress was almost as important as his name.
Thus, the next, third chapter of the Ghurra is entirely devoted to garments
of various kinds and accessories like jewelry. A garment’s color most notably
added to its wearer’s attractiveness, as did the complexion of the individual
himself (which is a different subject and treated in another chapter [13]). There
follow the epigrams addressed to malīḥs of various social status, beginning
with caliphs (it is doubtful, however, whether the existence of a “caliph” in
contemporary Cairo was the reason for the retention of such verses), statesmen,
all kinds of military and civilian officials, and then on down the entire scale
of socially useful occupations and not-so-useful occupations, such as those of
robbers and thieves. Slaves are also included in the scheme. Such rather lowly
jobs as, for instance, that of courier (sāʿī) are not forgotten:
I’d give my life for a courier

Whose beauty has captured mankind.
I must become intimate with him,
Come what may.56
(Bi-l-rūḥi afdī sāʿiyan

jamāluhū sabā l-warā
56 The author is Burhān al-Dīn (Ibn) al-Bāʿūnī (777–870/1376–1465), one of the grand old
men of the contemporary scholarly establishment. According to al-Sakhāwī (see above,
n. 45), he as well as his brothers Shams al-Dīn (b. in the 780s/1378–1387, d. 871/1467) and
Jamāl al-Dīn (805–880/1403–1475) wrote endorsements for the Ghurra. Burhān al-Dīn and
Shams al-Dīn died close to the presumptive date of the Ghurra’s composition. See the
entry al-Bāʿūnī in The Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd ed., 1:1109–1110.
Lā budda lī min waṣlihī

wa-law jarā mahmā jarā [fol. 53a])
Hunting, shooting, riding, traveling to near or far places—each activity has its
own chapter. A returning traveler, his face weathered by his journey, may thus
be greeted with this epigram:
The friend whom I love has returned from a trip

With sunburn on his face.
I wonder about the sun’s impression on a moon
When the sun must not reach the moon.57
( Jāʾa l-ḥabību lladhī ahwāhu min safarin

wa-l-shamsu qad aththarat fī wajhihī atharā
ʿAjibtu min atharin li-l-shamsi fī qamarin
wa-l-shamsu lā yanbaghī an tudrika l-qamarā [fol. 65b])
38 The merchant traveler occurs again in chapter 8, dedicated to merchants and

jewelers, in verses playing on the similarity in sound and writing of the words
for camels, loads, and beauty:
A merchant who did not stay put in a land—

It is the moon’s custom to move from place to place.
He became so exceedingly beautiful that
Beauty turned out to be his camels’ loads.58
(Wa-tājirin lam yuqim bi-arḍin

wa-ʿādatu l-badri l-intiqālū
Afraṭa fī ḥusnihī fa-aḍḥā
Aḥmāla ajmālihī jamālū [fol. 85b])
Polo and ball games are included here, as are other activities of children such
as playing with pigeons and small birds. An imagined specific situation such
as a malīḥ feeding a small bird (zurzūr) from his mouth is transformed into an
erotic play on words:
57 The author is Ibn Nubāta (686–768/1287–1366), who is often quoted in the Ghurra.
58 The author is al-Ṣafadī, who quotes the epigram in his Jinān al-jinās fī ʿilm al-badīʿ (Con-
stantinople, 1299), p. 75; Samīr Ḥusayn Ḥalabī, ed. (Beirut: Dār al-Kutub al-ʿIlmīya, 1407/
1987), p. 129.
O (you) who is carrying (his pet) sparrow in his hand

You commit a grave sin among humankind!
Would you forbid lovers to kiss (your) red lips,
While you allow the sparrow to feed from your mouth?
For your sparrow’s sake, spare just a single visit,
And you will quench the thirst in the breast of your friends.
(Yā ḥāmila l-zurzūri fī kaffihī

aktharta fī l-nāsi tajannīkā
A-tamnaʿu l-ʿushshāqa lathma l-lamā
wa-tuṭʿima l-zurzūra min fīkā
Bi-ḥaqqi zurzūrika zur zawratan
tashfī ṣadā ṣadri muḥibbīkā [fol. 64a])
Verses on military and civilian officials are combined with those on legal ad-
ministrators; on the representatives of artistic and scholarly disciplines such
as poetry, prosody, and ḥadīth; on scientists such as astronomers and what are
seen as related activities—prayer leader, muezzin, and astronomical/religious
timekeeper (muwaqqit); on teachers, ascetics, and even philosophers and logi-
cians. On a pretty student of logic, al-Ṣafadī composed this epigram:
O you beautiful gazelle of a logician whose love 39

Has made (my) eyelids unable to meet for slumber,
When it covered my body with wasting disease.
Affliction may come from talk/logic.59
(Yā ḥusna ẓabyin manṭiqīyin ḥubbuhū

jaʿala l-jufūna ʿalā l-karā lā taltaqī
Wa-adhāba qalbī idh kasā jismī l-ḍanā
inna l-balāʾa muwakkalun bi-l-manṭiqī [fol. 72a])
Details of a central profession in a manuscript society, that of copyist, are not

overlooked. The obligatory manuscript “collation” (muqābala) elicits several
epigrams playing with various meanings of the Arabic word such as “opposi-
tion,” “facing (punishment),” and “algebra”:
59 On the proverb and the play on the double meaning of manṭiq as “talk” and “logic,” see
Franz Rosenthal, “The History of an Arabic Proverb,” Journal of the American Oriental
Society 109 (1989): 376–378.
My beloved collated his books,

And my heart became covered with apprehension.
Lord, keep him safe, for
The full moon that he is is in opposition.60
(Qābala l-ḥibbu kutbah

fa-fuʾādī ktasā walah
Rabbi sallimhu innah
badruhū fī l-muqābalah [fol. 84a])
Or:
I plucked a fresh rose that is

Your cheek from you with the slender figure.
So, all the time, I commit
A crime while you are collating/facing punishment.61
( Janaytu khaddaka wardan

ghaḍḍan wa-qadduka dhābil
Fa-hā anā kulla waqtin
ajnī wa-anta tuqābil [fol. 84a])
Or:
60 Al-Badrī’s source is al-Ṣafadī. On the technical meanings of muqābala, see The Encyclopae-
dia of Islam, 2nd ed., s.v. Muḳābala. Qābala was, of course, also used in its basic meaning
of “facing,” as in the epigram ascribed to Abū Ḥayyān al-Gharnāṭī, Dīwān, Aḥmad Maṭlūb
and Khadīja al-Ḥadīthī, eds. (Baghdad: Maṭbaʿat al-ʿĀnī, 1388/1969), pp. 442–443:
In class, I was faced (qābalanī) by a soft white

And a slim black (asmar), who both made my body an heir to perdition.
The one shaking a straight lance—his upper torso.
The other drawing a sharp sword—his eyelids.
61 Al-Ṣafadī, al-Ghayth al-musajjam, 2:45, explains the double meaning of the j-n-y he had in
mind (“plucking [fruits, etc.]” and “committing crimes”) and of the root q-b-l in the third
conjugation (“collating” and “a sinner’s facing punishment for his crime”). Without his
explanation, the reader might have a hard time figuring out the intended sense of tuqābil.
For the much-used topos of “plucking a rose from the cheek by kissing,” see, for instance,
Ibn Nubāta, Dīwān (Cairo: Maṭbaʿat al-Tamaddun, 1905), p. 174.
I have collated books with an (otherwise) aloof friend

Who thereby gave joy to a heart about to perish from fear.
I said: O you who inherits my heart in passion, 40
You have combined between restoration-and-collation/algebra.62
(Qābaltu kutban maʿ ḥabībin hājirin

fa-sarra qalban kāda an yafnā walah
Fa-qultu yā wāritha qalbī fī l-hawā
jamaʿta bayna l-jabri wa-l-muqābalah [fol. 84b])
The playing with the endless variety of human activities goes on and on.
Large merchants and small shopkeepers; jewelers; craftsmen employed in the
production of different kinds of weapons; workers in wood, stone, and metal;
builders; buyers and sellers of flowers and fruits; gardeners—all had epigrams
dedicated to the malīḥs among them. A salesman of drawer strings (tikka)
evokes a couplet of a type that is comparatively rare here in that it suggests
explicit sexuality:
O seller of drawer strings in his shop

Well braided and tied!
I don’t need but a drawer string
That you untie when we are alone in my house.
(Yā bāʾiʿa l-tikkati fī sūqihī

muḥkamatan bi-l-ḍafri wa-l-ʿaqdī
Mā ḥājatī illā ilā tikkatin
taḥulluhā fī khalwatin ʿindī [fol. 97a])
The only thing a skillful painter (muṣawwir) cannot capture in his work is his
own beauty.
In the craft of painting has risen a moon

Who matches every(thing) created with its like.
He paints all that is beautiful on earth,
Yet is unable to paint something like his face.
62 The author again is al-Ṣafadī. Walah apparently represents walahan. The two components
of the word for “algebra” probably refer to joy and fear.
(Samā fī ṣanʿati l-taṣwīri badrun

yuqābilu kulla makhlūqin bi-shibhih
Yuṣawwiru kulla mā fī l-arḍi ḥusnan
wa-yaʿjizu an yuṣawwira mithla wajhih [fol. 101b])
Players of various instruments, singers, dancers, singers who also play an instru-
41 ment while dancing, shadow players, all find the attention they deserve | be-
cause of their central position in the entertainment industry of their civiliza-
tion. Even the sweating of a dancer is grist for the poet’s mill:
One with intoxicating, bewitching eyes,

With sweet red lips and a well-proportioned figure,
Danced till he sweated, producing something like
Dewdrops as on a rose on his cheek.63
(Wa-sāḥiri l-alḥāẓi nashwānihā

ʿadhbi l-lamā muʿtadili l-qaddī
ʿArraqahū l-raqṣu fa-fī khaddihī
mithlu saqīṭi l-ṭalli fī l-wardī [fol. 132b])
The eating of hashish was common in the time of al-Badrī. It is documented

by no less than three epigrams in this context (fols. 127a–130b); four more are
quoted under varia (fol. 188a). Players of various games also have their epi-
grams; in the case of chess, there are twelve entries. The concluding chapters,
16 and 17, are devoted to the traditional themes of the beauty mole and the
first growth of hair on the face of the beloved. The interest in these chapters
is thus confined to specialists in these standard conceits of amatory poetry.
But chapter 15 on varia offers again many observations on daily life. Malīḥs
are depicted as laughing, crying, walking arm in arm, walking slowly. There
are Ṣūfīs and Qalandarīs among them. They go on the pilgrimage and per-
form its various rites. They swim, engage in nautical pursuits, and, in partic-
ular, participate in the many activities of the public bath. They look into mir-
rors, thus offering an opportunity for the poet to expand on an ancient and
favorite subject. From another practitioner of the homoerotic epigram, Mujīr
al-Dīn Ibn Tamīm (d. 684/1285), comes a variant on the mirror metaphor that
has intrigued people since mirrors were discovered and that is so commonly
63 The poet is Najm al-Dīn (Muḥammad b. Sawwār) b. Isrāʾīl (603–677/1206[7]–1278); see

al-Kutubī, Fawāt al-Wafayāt, 2:431–438; al-Ṣafadī, Wāfī, 3:143–145.
employed in Arabic literature. In Mujīr al-Dīn’s case, the metaphor is the dou-
ble enjoyment of an individual’s beauty caused by its reflection in the mir-
ror:
A blessing upon the friend’s mirror for being carried

In the hand of (someone as straight as) a branch of a fully grown ben tree!
It faced the moon in heaven with its (sur)face,
Thus showing me two moons together at one time.64
(Ṭūbā li-mirʾāti l-ḥabībi fa-innahā

ḥumilat bi-rāḥati ghuṣni bānin aynaʿā
Wa-staqbalat qamara l-samāʾi bi-wajhihā 42
fa-aratniya l-qamarayni fī waqtin maʿā [fol. 185a])
An entire chapter (14) deals with physical imperfections and defects that are
viewed as not being obstacles to true love. It starts out with epigrams on the
medical profession, physicians, oculists, barbers, and bloodletters. The com-
parison of physical ailments with the potential psychic harm caused by unful-
filled love was a favorite subject of love theory. Verses of (Ibn) Daftarkhwān, for
instance, address an unfeeling physician:
A physician, with whose glances passion toyed

So that his eyes became his eyelids’ arrows,
Cures the sick but does not cure a lover
And turns away from his moans and sighs.
How can someone passionately in love be healed
When the physician is no help for him against passion?
64 The last line (or the last two lines?) is said to be a quotation. The same text is given in
the biography of Mujīr al-Dīn in al-Kutubī, Fawāt al-Wafayāt, 2:541. It is preceded there
by verses on a malīḥ drinking from a pond that have the same last line. The text in al-
Ṣafadī, al-Ghayth al-musajjam, 1:73, differs slightly, reading juliyat, “polished,” for ḥumilat,
and substituting a metrically impossible synonym (kaffi!) for rāḥati. Another different first
verse appears in one of the biographies of his contemporaries by al-Ṣafadī, Aʿyān al-ʿaṣr
(Frankfurt am Main: Institute for the History of Arabic-Islamic Science, 1410/1990. Facsim-
ile prepared by Fuat Sezgin), 3:348. See Manfred Ullmann, Das Motif des Spiegels in der ara-
bischen Literatur des Mittelalters (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1992. Abhandlun-
gen der Akademie der Wissenschaften in Göttingen, philologisch-historische Klasse, Dritte
Folge, no. 198).
(Mutaṭabbibun ʿabatha l-hawā bi-liḥāẓihī

fa-ghadat lawāḥiẓuhū sihāma jufūnihī
Yubrī l-saqīma wa-laysa yubrī ʿāshiqan
wa-yaḥīdu ʿan zafarātihī wa-anīnihī
Kayfa l-sabīlu ilā shifāʾi mutayyamin
laysa l-ṭabību ʿalā l-hawā bi-muʿīnihī [fol. 152b])
Professions of love for malīḥs affected by malformations or diseases, often

of a kind considered loathsome, and the defense of such love against public
censure are touching, even if they degenerate into scurrilous verses on such
an insignificant flaw as bad breath, and play on the common theme of the
beloved’s enjoyable saliva:
You people attack me for being deeply in love with someone with bad
breath.
I’ll tell you frankly what my situation is:
My friend is chary with (his) saliva, so the mouth water
Just changed because it stayed (in the mouth) for too long.65
(Wa-ʿannaftumūnī idh kaliftu bi-abkharin

sa-ukhbirukum ʿan sharḥi ḥālī wa-baththihī
Ḥabībī ḍanīnun bi-l-ruḍābi wa-innamā
taghayyara māʾu l-thaghri min ṭūli makthihī [fol. 157a])
43 True love is not dependent on physical characteristics, and real beauty lies in
the mind and soul rather than the eye of the beholder. Verses by Ibn al-Muʿtazz
as quoted in the Jawāmiʿ al-ladhdha are the most eloquent expression of love
as a universal feeling that does not discriminate:
My heart jumps constantly at this and that.

Whatever it is that it sees, it does not reject it.
It falls deeply in love with beauty as is fitting,
And taking pity on ugliness, it loves it.66
65 Contrast the Greek saying in Ibn Abī ʿAwn, al-Ajwiba al-muskita, May A. Yousef, ed. (Berlin:
Klaus Schwarz, 1988), p. 116, no. 701; Franz Rosenthal, “Witty Retorts of the Philosophers
and Sages from the Kitāb al-Ajwibah al-muskitah of Ibn Abī ʿAwn,” Graeco-Arabica 4 (1991):
pp. 201–202.
66 Jawāmiʿ, MS Fatih, fol. 49b; MS Chester Beatty, fol. 60b. The translation of Khawwam, 123,
deserves quoting:
The few examples here, selected from thousands, may not be the best of
their kind, and the literal translations do not do justice to the literary artistry,
the lilting rhythm, and the allusive power of words and meanings that most of
them share. The poetic imagery is standard and worn out by common use; it is
much too repetitive and unoriginal to be great poetry. True feeling is obviously
absent from the genre as such, just as we have contended it is at our starting
point, the Rangstreit discussion. Epigrams are usually exercises in technical
skill, and these Arabic epigrams are so perhaps to an even greater degree since
composing them had become a test that anyone aspiring to be called a cultured
individual, let alone a poet, had to pass. Above all, love had developed into a
routine subject of versemaking that could dispense with felt emotion; the erotic
vocabulary had all but lost its original meaning and could even be applied as a
form of flattery. Sexuality gives way to a cult of beauty sought in every aspect of
daily life and in all the manifestations of higher civilization; sexual distinctions
are reduced to a minor role. Whether homoerotic or heteroerotic elements
prevail in direct comparisons or are analyzed in separate chapters or separate
essays, these collections present a shimmering, albeit solid and encompassing,
picture of a society in which a significant segment of the intellectual leadership
tried to teach that seeing love as beauty was the indispensable means for its true
fulfillment.
My heart has love for everybody.

It would reject nobody.
It adores beauty
And, having pity on ugliness, loves it.
The Arabic text, as indicated by Khawwam, occurs in al-ʿAbbāsī, Maʿāhid al-tanṣīṣ,

Muḥammad Muḥyī al-Dīn ʿAbd al-Ḥamīd, ed., 4 vols. (Cairo: Maṭbaʿat al-Saʿāda, 1367/1947,
reprint Beirut: ʿĀlam al-Kutub, ca. 1980), 2:41. See also Zayyāt, “al-Marʾa al-ghulāmīya,”
p. 164. I have as yet no confirmation of the attribution of Ibn al-Muʿtazz.
vii.8
247 Reflections on Love in Paradise
There are two reasons for the appearance of the following brief remarks in
this volume. One of them is my wish to be present and counted when a good
old friend and long-time colleague is honored. The other is my feeling that
Islam deserves to be heard in connection with the theme of love and death.
Both love and death were fundamental concerns in Muslim intellectual activity.
The ideas of Muslim thinkers and littérateurs on these subjects had, of course,
changed perceptibly from those current in the ancient Near East as the result of
the long history of the assimilation, in the region, of a variety of cultures, with
the Hellenistic one being the most prominent and effective among them. Yet,
significant echoes of the more remote Near Eastern past continue to be heard
in Islam.1
“Love” became known in Muslim civilization as the primary and all-encom-
passing “moving” force. In the spiritual sense as well as the physical one, it
provided the “motion” that was considered identical with all worldly existence,
animate and inanimate. The experience of love was particularly necessary for
human beings. “The heart of one who has never loved” was a hard, inhuman
heart,2 and a person who did not know love was no better than a donkey or
a stone.3 “Death” was the contrary of love. It marked the cessation of motion
1 Recent works on love in European languages are L.A. Giffen, Theory of Profane Love among
the Arabs: The Development of the Genre (New York and London, 1971), and Joseph N. Bell,
Love Theory in Later Ḥanbalite Islam (Albany, NY, 1979). The literature on death, especially
the theological side of it, has not been studied extensively, but cf. Mohamed Abdesselem, Le
thème de la mort dans la poésie arabe des origines à la fin du III/IXe siècle (Tunis, 1977).
For Muslim views on Paradise and love and sex in it, see, e.g., Ṣoubḥî El-Ṣaleḥ, La vie
future selon le Coran (Paris, 1971). A modern interpretation is that of Abdelwahab Bouhdiba,
La sexualité en Islam (Paris, 1975). See also A.J. Wensinck and C. Pellat, “Ḥûr,” Encyclopaedia
of Islam,2 and the chapter on Islam by T. Nagel in Tod und Jenseits im Glauben der Völker
(H.-J. Klimkeit, ed.; Wiesbaden, 1978): 130–144. The ḥadîth material is so commonly known
and quoted in the sources that no detailed references are as a rule needed here. A thorough
study of it in all its variety would be desirable, even if medieval scholars have done a splendid
job of collecting it in many books.
2 Cf. an-Nuwayrî, Nihâyah (Cairo, 1342 ff., undated reprint): VII, 41.
3 Cf. the relevant verses in Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyah, Rawḍat al-muḥibbîn (A. ʿUbayd, ed.; Cairo,
1375/1956): 176–178.

reflections on love in paradise 893
certain to come speedily to all individuals and to all human endeavor in this
world. Love and death were felt by sensitive thinkers to be joined inseparably
in the fabric of human life. Their views found expression in the pervasive
discussion among poets and philosophers of the true significance of love and,
even more importantly, in the speculations of mystics, on the basis of religious
experience and philosophical contemplation, about the true significance of
death.
Love, if it was true and deep, was considered destined to lead to sickness,
insanity, or death. There are various stages of love, the last being most fittingly
expressed by the metaphor of “killing” and “being killed.”4 And it was indeed no
mere metaphor. The emotional strain of love and, in particular, the voluntary or
involuntary denial of love fulfillment caused actual death through a prolonged
period of wasting away or an unexpected, sudden collapse. There were those
who ridiculed these notions,5 but they were firmly anchored in the esthetic
sensibilities of littérateurs. They became the unconscious attitude toward the
meaning of love in many, if not most, individuals.
Death to the world while still in it is the ultimate expression of the mys-
tic’s unconditional love of the divine. From the philosopher’s command to seek
a voluntary death in order to achieve true life to the mystic’s spiritual self-
annihilation for the sake of ridding himself of the encumbrances of the material
world and being ready for the full measure of divine love, it was only a short
step but one that shaped the religious complexion of Islam. It could lead to
abstruseness provoking self-mockery, as in these verses:
I have died in my love, being identical with my beloved.

My heart is distressed because of my separation.
I am removed from myself. Thus, whenever I gather myself 248
I am because of my ecstasy in a state of annihilation from myself.
O listener! Do you know what I am saying
When, indeed, I myself do not know?6
4 Cf., for instance, the often quoted verse on the three stages of love. Because it contains the
rare word timillâq, it was also quoted by the lexicographers, see Ibn Manẓûr, Lisân al-ʿArab, s.
rad. m-l-q.
5 When one of the Banû ʿÂmir was asked about his tribesman Majnûn who was consumed by
his love for Laylâ, he said that only weak-hearted Yemenites died of love; see Ibn al-Jawzî,
Dhamm al-hawâ (Muṣṭafâ ʿAbd-al-Wâḥid and M. al-Ghazzâlî, eds.; Cairo, 1381/1962): 310. Cf.
also Abû l-Faraj al-Iṣfahânî, Kitâb al-Aghânî (Bûlâq, 1285): I, 147 = Agh.3 I, 369.
6 Cf. aṣ-Ṣafadî, al-Ghayth al-musajjam fi sharḥ Lâmîyat al-ʿAjam (Cairo, 1305): I, 106.
But the seriousness and intensity of the mystical identification of love with
death were not to be denied. The conviction that the entire universe, material
and metaphysical, was united by the force of disembodied love and death of
the self was alive in many and accepted as the ultimate wisdom by myriads of
Muslims.
The large amount of discussion devoted to these ideas in Muslim literature
is an indication of the hold they exercised over vast numbers of the believers.
Because of their importance for the understanding of Islam, they have also
found much attention in the modern scholarly literature in East and West.
Their historical interest is matched by the importance of their inherent char-
acter as being fundamental for a better insight into general religious and psy-
chological phenomena; this has added to their attraction for the modern stu-
dent.
A more specifically Islamic aspect of the interaction of love and death devel-
oped as the result of Muslim religious views going back to the beginnings of
Islam. It deals with man’s fate after death in the realm beyond nature and is,
therefore, not directly combinable with common human concerns, although
it retains a full complement of sidelights on the human psyche and provides
valuable information on the workings of the medieval Muslim mind and social
attitudes. Life after death was a crucial dogma for traditional monotheism. It
was as important as the belief in one God, perhaps even more so because of
its great impact upon moral behavior on earth and the possibility to control
it. Everything connected with the other world was an inexhaustible subject of
speculation in Islam, elaborated according to the dictates of fancy and repeated
over and over again in the literature; the inherited information was cited end-
lessly, but it was also often modified at will and enriched.
The problems of love and sex in Paradise constituted only a small part of
this never-ending discussion. They involved, however, issues that were partic-
ularly sensitive for several reasons. First and foremost, there were unusually
many Qurʾânic data that had to be taken into consideration. They were sup-
plemented by traditions of the Prophet. At the beginning, these ḥadîths were
few in number. The correctness of their attribution to the Prophet can be nei-
ther proved nor disproved, but they definitely were ancient as well as generally
accepted. Moreover, they were specific and full of details. Another factor was
the unresolved relationship between love and sex. The understanding of this
difficult problem was complicated by the prevailing, if debated, view of love as a
separate, totally spiritual phenomenon. Furthermore, the emotional character
of the subject naturally exercised an excessively strong hold on the imagina-
tion and came up against the conflict between frankness and prudery, which
is present everywhere in Islam, in particular, in the religious attitudes toward
sex inculcated in the masses.7 The overarching fact, of course, was that human
knowledge with respect to anything in the hereafter was limited to traditional
statements not verifiable by reason or experience and thus open to all kinds
of arbitrary assumptions and interpretations. Moreover, religion and society as
established by Islam made open expressions of doubt impractical and danger-
ous.
The many references to Paradisiacal pleasures in the Qurʾân give promi-
nence to beautiful maidens, al-ḥûr al-ʿîn, thus called after their attractively
colored and shaped eyes. The descriptions of the huris in Paradise are in no way
explicitly sexual in the sense that they were said to gratify coarse sexual desires
of the blessed in Paradise.8 The implication of sexuality is, however, unmistak-
able. Medieval Muslims had no doubt about it, even if it was at times difficult to
reconcile them to the inappropriateness of assuming the existence in Paradise
of something that was viewed as having the potential of danger for individuals
and society. Sex life had its immoral aspects. If an individual indulged in them
and remained unrepentant, he could be almost sure of forfeiting Paradise and
being condemned to Hell. Naturally, sex does not play any role in the tortures of
Hell because, whatever the morality of it, its profoundly pleasurable character
was never in doubt. For this same reason, whatever its problematic aspects, it
could not be ruled absent from Paradise.
Tradition confirms the sexual appeal of the huris and their willingness to
make themselves attractive and pleasing to the blessed. They do so by assuming
the ingratiating and submissive attitude that was considered ideal for women
in this world in their relationship to the dominating male. Men were rewarded
with sexual potency increased beyond mortal human capability to the degree
unrestrained imagination would allow. On the other hand, anything considered
on earth unpleasant in the physical functions of the human body has no place
in Paradise. This includes all bodily excretions. They are | non-existent in 249
Paradise. The desire to produce children may be alive among the blessed, but
those children are born without the discomforts of pregnancy, and instanta-
7 Cf. J.A. Bellamy, in Society and the Sexes in Medieval Islam (A.L. Marsot, ed.; Malibu, 1979, Sixth
Giorgio Levi Delia Vida Biennial Conference): 34. An editorial footnote in the edition of the
Nihâyah of Ibn Kathîr, al-Bidâyah wa-n-nihâyah (ar-Riyâḍ, 1968): II, 292f., explains that the
Prophet’s answer to the question whether the people in Paradise would touch their wives
was omitted from this edition because it contains coarse language which the Prophet would
never have used. Ibn Kathîr is criticized for having mentioned it, see also, II, 286. (Cf. Murtaḍâ
az-Zabîdî, Itḥâf as-sâdah [Cairo, 1311, undated reprint]: X, 545f.)
8 Cf. El-Ṣaleḥ, La vie future (N 1): 64.
neously as desired. There will be children only if one wants them. Expectedly,
the contrary opinion is also represented. No birth will be given to children in
Paradise.9 It may be noted that this discussion appears to consider only the
desire of men for children; women were not asked. Incidentally, the position of
infants and small children in Paradise was another troublesome question for
theologians who were well aware how important an answer was for sorrowful
parents; whatever solutions were suggested, none of them squared with what
was considered bliss for the adults who were admitted to Paradise. A conces-
sion to popular sentiment is, however, occasionally made. Thus, it was said that
Muslim infants who had died before their parents would bring them water to
quench their terrible thirst on the Day of Resurrection and enter Paradise with
them when they did.10
Paradise is pleasure conceived most easily in human terms, but it is also pure
spirituality in no way defiled by sensuality. How to combine the contradiction
was by and large left unexplained and probably was overlooked by many. Rare
thinkers came to the wise conclusion that the situation in Paradise cannot
be understood and conveyed in human terms. Like everything concerning the
metaphysical realm, the “how” of love and sex in Paradise was an unanswerable
question that should not be asked. Things that are desired or feared may
not turn out to be as good or as bad as one expects, but with respect to the
other world the contrary is the case; everything there is bigger and better
than described because of the spirituality attaching to Paradisiacal delights.11
And it was contended in connection with Qurʾân 2:25 that the identity of the
attractions of Paradise with those known on earth had merely psychological
significance in that human beings like only what is familiar to them and dislike
anything unfamiliar.12 This would seem to be a hint that the reality of Paradise
was by no means exhausted by the available descriptions.
Critical thinkers of the lively and daring tenth century felt that the constant
and effortless eating, drinking, and cohabiting in Paradise, unaccompanied by
the physical and emotional upsets that give spice and variety to these func-
tions in earthly life, would produce boredom and thus be anything but pleasure.
It was recognized as a commonplace paradox that man desires what he does
9 Cf. Ibn Kathîr, Nihâyah (N 7): II, 291 ff.; ash-Shaʿrâni, Mukhtaṣar Tadhkirat al-Qurṭubî
(Cairo-Aleppo, 1395/1975): 136. The Tadhkirah itself was not available to me. Cf. also Ibn
Taymîyah, al-Fatâwî al-kubrâ (Cairo, 1966): II, 209.
10 Cf. Abû Ṭâlib al-Makkî, Qût al-qulûb (Cairo, 1310): II, 242.
11 Cf. Ibn Abi l-Ḥadîd, Sharḥ Nahj al-balâghah (Beirut, 1963): II, 761.
12 Cf. az-Zamakhsharî, Kashshâf (Bûlâq, 1318–1319): I, 202.
not have and is bored with anything that is easily available.13 Abû Ḥayyân at-
Tawḥîdî was bothered by this unhappy consequence of views generally held
about Paradise. He was, however, afraid to take the responsibility for giving
expression to a thought that ran contrary to popular as well as official belief.
Therefore, he chose a rather obscure speculative theologian, “a doubter of all
prophecies” as he is characterized elsewhere by the same at-Tawḥîdî,14 and had
him raise the question dramatically: “How remarkable is the situation of peo-
ple in Paradise! They stay there with nothing to do15 except eating and drinking
and cohabiting. Does this not make them depressed? Are they not bored? Do
they not feel dull? Do they not consider themselves superior to such a vile
state which is similar to that of dumb animals? Do they not become indig-
nant? Are they not disgusted?” At-Tawḥîdî’s reply is given in the name of Abû
Sulaymân al-Manṭiqî as-Sijistânî, his revered teacher, whom he often puts for-
ward as spokesman for his own ideas. In this particular case, the appearance
of Abû Sulaymân is clearly an added precaution on at-Tawḥîdî’s part which
enabled him to avoid expressing unorthodox views about the other world as
his own. Abû Sulaymân posits the intellect (reason: al-ʿaql) as the dominant
force controlling life after death in Paradise. The intellect does not know any
boredom or malaise. It is never bored with its activity, with the object of its
intellection, and feels one with it. This is the way, he states, the intellect behaves
in this world. All the more so can the intellect be expected to function in this
manner in the other world, its true home, the realm of pure existence. This
construction is clearly a spin-off from neo-Platonic philosophy. It was hardly
acceptable to religious Muslims as an explanation for something as fundamen-
tal as life in Paradise—and, we may add, while it may explain the absence of
boredom in the other world, it hardly explains the need for any presence there
of eating, drinking, and cohabiting. At-Tawḥîdî adds still another precaution. In
a highly apologetic vein, he concludes that the problem is a difficult one, even
an impossible one, to solve in human terms.16 The entire discussion is a good
13 Cf. at-Tawḥîdî and Miskawayh, al-Hawâmil wa-sh-shawâmil (A. Amîn and as-Sayyid A.
Ṣaqr, eds.; Cairo 1370/1951): 172 f.
14 Kitâb al-Imtâʿ wa-l-muʾânasah (A. Amîn and A. az-Zayn, eds.; Cairo, 1939–1944): I, 141.
Attacks on prophecy were identical with the denial of life after death.
15 “They have no work (ʿamal).” “Work” is a human being’s most important means toward
self-fulfillment and salvation.
16 At-Tawḥîdî, Muqâbasât (M.T. Ḥusayn, ed.; Baghdâd, 1970): 159–161, no. 35. The passage
from at-Tawḥîdî is referred to by El-Ṣaleḥ, La vie future (N 1): 133. For the philosophical view
of the problem of Paradise, cf., for instance, Rasâʾil Ikhwân aṣ-ṣafâʾ (Cairo, 1347/1928): III,
77 f.
example of the extreme delicacy with which rationalists such as they were had
250 to approach metaphysical problems, especially | if, as in this case, they were
likely to touch deep emotions.
If pure spirituality, or pure rationality, rules in Paradise, “love,” as differen-
tiated from sex, might be expected to be triumphant there, for the ideal of
worldly love was depicted as realized only if it was truly spiritual and devoid
of contamination by active sexuality. There is, however, little to be found about
love in this sense in Paradise. A tradition of the Prophet describes the huris as
receiving the blessed who are destined to be their husbands, when they arrive
in Paradise, lovingly (mutaḥabbibât), but theirs is also an attitude pervaded by
sexual sensuality (mutaʿashshiqât);17 they desire ( yashtahîna) their husbands
passionately (ʿawâshiq),18 and it is passionate love (ʿishq) that impels them to
hurry toward them to welcome them.19 The Qurʾânic use of a hapax legomenon
of somewhat doubtful interpretation (ʿuruban Qurʾân 56:37/36) is principally
responsible for endowing the huris with warm feelings of love, though not of
an entirely spiritual kind.
In fact, loneliness, in the form of not needing, or not having, as on earth the
support of others in order to be able to function, is seen as playing a large part
in life after death. Men will be summoned to the Last Judgement in droves,
but then each one of them will be left to answer for himself. Nobody he was
familiar with on earth will be there to stand up for him, and comparatively
little is said about the various possibilities of intercession that might ease his
lot. People will be admitted to Paradise, or driven to Hell, in large groups, but
again human contacts as they were common on earth fade into insignificance.
Even if indications to the contrary can be found in the traditions20 and even
if there existed a strong undercurrent in favor of seeing in Paradise merely
a continuation of conditions on earth, the blessed are pretty much left to
themselves, with the company of huris but with little need for emotions such
as love. A famous ḥadîth says, in a variety of slightly different formulations,
that “a man will be with those whom he loves.” On occasion, “on the Day of
Resurrection” is expressly added to it. Even without the addition, it is clear
from the contexts in which the ḥadîth is reported that the statement refers to
17 Cf. Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyah, Rawḍah (N 3): 240, 243.

18 Cf. ʿAbdallâh b. al-Mubârak, Kitâb az-Zuhd wa-r-raqâʾiq (Ḥabîb-ar-Raḥman al-Aʿẓamî, ed.;
Nasik, India, no year [1971?]): 553.
19 Cf. al-Muḥâsibî, Kitâb al-Tawahhum (A.J. Arberry, ed.; Cairo, 1937): 42.
20 According to a tradition, old friends meet sociably in Paradise and reminisce about the
good old days on earth when they prayed and obtained God’s forgiveness, cf. Murtaḍâ
az-Zabîdî, Itḥâf as-sâdah (N 7): X, 549.
a situation expected to arise on the day of awe. The contexts also make it quite
clear that the object of that love is the Prophet and God, and the love mentioned
is manifested by the eager performance of the religious duties of Islam. Such
love expressed on earth will assure an individual’s protection by God and His
Prophet in his hour of greatest need. The statement seems, however, also to
have been taken by itself to refer to togetherness with a person’s loved ones
at the Resurrection whenever they were people whom he had loved in God
on earth. Each one in the group is nevertheless judged according to his own
merit, and it is left unspecified who might be included in the group of loved
ones.21 It could be friends, relatives, or wives. However this may be, the ḥadîth
is dominated by the idea of religious love, a love in God and for God, which
is transferred from earth to Paradise with the individual who had practiced it
while he was alive. Paradise is indeed the ideal place for true love in that it
opens up the opportunity to love God exclusively in the way every human being
should love Him. If people love each other truly, they do so in God, a recurring
expression to signify unselfish proper relations between human beings also on
earth. But it is, of course, a love very different from the spiritual love of the
writers on erotic themes.
21 Cf. Ibn Ḥajar’s commentary on al-Bukhârî, entitled Fatḥ al-Bârî (Cairo, 1378–1383/1959–
1963): XIII, 176–179. According to Ibn Ḥajar, Abû Nuʿaym al-Iṣfahânî appears to have writ-
ten a monograph on the subject, entitled Kitâb al-Muḥibbîn maʿ al-maḥbûbîn. Cf. also
ʿAbdallâh b. al-Mubârak, Kitâb az-Zuhd (N 18): 360 f., and at-Tirmidhî, al-Jâmiʿ aṣ-ṣaḥîḥ
(with the commentary of Ibn al-ʿArabî, ʿÂriḍat al-aḥwadhî) (Cairo, 1350/1931ff.): XIII, 56,
IX, 232, and the modern commentary by al-Mahârakfûrî, Tuḥfat al-aḥwadhî (Cairo, 1382–
1384/1963–1965): IX, 518; VII, 60 f.
ʿAlî will enter Paradise with his entire family and staff, including, of course, his wife, the
Prophet’s daughter Fâṭimah, cf. Muḥammad b. Abi l-Qâsim aṭ-Tabarî, Bishârat al-Muṣṭafâ
li-Shiʿat al-Murtaḍâ (2nd ed.; an-Najaf, 1383/1963): 159, 173.
In the elegy on a brother of his, Ismâʾil b. Yasâr, whose life spanned the second half
of the seventh and the first half of the eighth centuries, stated that he would not meet
him again “till the Day of Resurrection” (lit., “gathering” ilâ l-ḥashr), cf. Kitâb al-Aghânî
(N 5): IIV, 126 = Agh.3 IV, 426. The same idea occurs in the elegy of Isḥâq al-Mawṣilî upon
his deceased father, cf. Agh. V, 47 = Agh.3 V, 257. However, the expression ilâ l-ḥashr was
used already in the seventh century in the sense of “for all eternity,” as in a poem by Anas
b. Zunaym who threatens that he would leave Ḥârithah b. Badr ilâ l-ḥashr if he does not
give up drinking wine, cf. Agh. XXI, 33 = Agh.3 VIII, 406. And in a satirical poem directed
against the eighth-century poet Marwân b. Abî Ḥafṣah, meanness is said to be encamped
at his house ilâ l-ḥashr, cf. Agh. IX, 47 = Agh.3 X, 93. Cf. also Agh. XVIII, 7 (Abû Nuwâs).
Cf., further, al-Qâlî, Amâlî (Cairo, 1373): 11, 71, line 18. Cf. also, for instance, Ibn Qutaybah,
ʿUyûn (Cairo, 1963–1964, reprint): III, 59, 61; IV, 137.
The very position of the subject of love in Paradise in the famous Muslim
treatises on the theory of love is revealing in this connection. Originally, love in
Paradise was of no concern to the writers of those works. The Dhamm al-hawâ
251 of Ibn al-Jawzî, for example—even | though it was written long after the early
period when secular thought was less intertwined with religious thought than
later on—totally disregards love in Paradise. Ibn al-Jawzî’s professed purpose in
writing his work, which was to argue for the blameworthiness of love and pas-
sion, may account for this fact. A man of his outlook would see no blameworthy
fault whatever in the religious promise of love and sexual pleasure in the other
world. However, his disregard of otherworldly love continued an accepted lit-
erary tradition. By contrast, the Ḥanbalite jurist Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzîyah, more
than a century and a half after Ibn al-Jawzî, included a section on the subject in
his Rawḍat al-muḥibbîn.22 He placed it appropriately after the theoretical dis-
cussion of love and before the large section devoted to the description of love
which may be harmful if it disregards established laws and which is right and
good if it is governed by pious abstinence and asceticism and centers around
the love of God. Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzîyah pursues legal and moral aims and
views love and sex as matters strictly to be controlled by Muslim religious con-
ventions. Thus, the promise of erotic pleasure in Paradise, as a substitute for
failures and shortcomings with respect to love and sex on earth, has its definite
place in his work. But it is no longer the tradition of love theory that he contin-
ues. Significantly, his argument gives no indication of the existence after death
of spiritual love as conceived by secular thinkers.
Passionate worldly love might be described in poetic hyperbole as eternal
and only temporarily suspended by death. The poetess Faḍl was greatly in love
with the well-known ninth-century poet, Saʿîd b. Ḥumayd. Being very sick, she
reproached him with not caring for her and rather wishing she were dead and
he were rid of her. Gallantly he reassured her of his love in moving verses:
May you not die before me, but let us both stay alive!
I do not want to see the day you die.
Rather let us both live in passion and hope, while God
Cuts down to size those who spread malicious gossip about us,
Until at last, when the Merciful One decides that we must die
And we have to face the inescapable,
22 Above (N 3). Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzîyah also wrote a large monograph on life after death
which deals in some detail with sexual pleasure in Paradise, Ḥâdî al-arwâḥ ilâ bilâd
al-afrâḥ, which has been printed repeatedly. The text used here was printed in Cairo,
1381/1962.
We shall die together, like two willow branches withered

After they had been, for a while, fresh and green.
Then let there be peace upon us in our resting places,
Until we stand before the scales of our Maker.
If we achieve Paradise, it will hold both of us, if such
Is His will. Or, if He wills, He will throw us into the Fire.
When it burns hot, kisses will cool us both,
And the coolness of sucking (saliva) will arouse us in pangs of love,
So that at last all those who are there eternally will say:
Would that we altogether had been lovers!23
Verses by another poet, Ibn ʿAbdal, addressed to a songstress with whom he

was in love referred to the possibility that if he were to see her in the hottest
spot of Hell, its fire would seem to him to cool.24 Beautiful as these verses are,
especially those of Saʿîd b. Ḥumayd, they concern the extraordinary and rare
passion a particularly sensitive person may have for a lover, but they tell us little
about the usual attitudes toward conjugal love.
What happens to ordinary human relations of love and affection that existed
on earth once death has done its cruel work of separation? Does Paradise sup-
port the idea of an undying love between husband and wife? Does it afford
the opportunity to resume broken ties and see one’s beloved ones again? This,
I believe, is the real test for the existence or non-existence of a meaningful
interaction between social life as lived on earth and as envisioned for Par-
adise.
23 Cf. Agh. XVII, 7. In our context, the last three verses are the ones that are most important.
They are, however, not found in Agh. but in aṣ-Ṣafadî, Wâfî (B. Radtke, ed.; Bibliotheca
Islamica 6:15 Wiesbaden, 1979): XV, 214 f. This is strange since aṣ-Ṣafadî obviously quotes
from Agh. Possibly, the text in the old edition of Agh., which is the only one available to
me, is defective. Cf. also aṣ-Ṣafadî, Ghayth (N 6): II, 93, where reference is made further to
verses ascribed to ʿUmar b. Abî Rabîʿah (P. Schwarz, ed.): II, 244.
24 Cf. Agh. II, 153 = Agh.3 II, 414.
In a verse by al-Aḥwaṣ, love is spoken of as lasting to the day on which the hearts are
tested, cf. his Dîwân (ʿÂdil S. Jamâl and Shawqî Ḍayf, eds.; Cairo, 1390/1970): 118. Again in
poetry it is stated that eternal love may continue in the grave and beyond the grave until
the Day of Resurrection and new life in either Paradise or Hell, cf. Hans Wehr (ed.), Das
Buch der wunderbaren Erzählungen und seltsamen Geschichten (Bibliotheca Islamica 18
[Wiesbaden, 1956]): 259, 264. In both cases the idea expressed is the eternality of love. An
eventual reunion and the resumption of earthly bonds are not really considered, though
they may be implied.
A very old ḥadîth25—one that, among other things, also suggests the absence
of some bodily excretions in Paradise—speaks of zawjatân “two wives” as a
252 portion | of the bliss that awaits every man admitted to Paradise. They are of
the most dainty beauty, so that “the marrow of their leg(bone)s can be seen
through the flesh.” The presence of “two wives” would appear to upset the
numerical balance between the sexes in Paradise, as was frequently observed
by Muslim scholars. Moreover, it contradicted a ḥadîth stating that women are
very much in the minority in Paradise, and another one, which was even more
popular, saying that women are numerically preponderant in Hell because of
their likely failure to acquire sufficient religious merit in this world. The sur-
plus of women over men was pronounced one of the signs (ashrâṭ) herald-
ing the coming of the Hour, which, however, did not mean anything for the
eventual situation in Paradise. If the “two wives” were huris—and the Qurʾân
44:54, 52:20 speaks indeed of “marrying”26 the blessed in Paradise to huris—,
they would not have to conform to ordinary human expectations as to the
distribution of the sexes. Counting the huris, there would anyhow be many
more females than males in the other world. Whether the “two wives” were
human beings or huris was, in fact, widely debated. To a scholar like Ibn Ḥajar,
reaching a decision on this point seemed beyond human capability. It was
assumed by some that they were human beings. They were considered addi-
tional to the number of huris allotted to the blessed. The lengthy “Tradition
of the Trumpet” (ḥadîth aṣ-ṣûr) speaks of seventy-two huris in addition to two
human wives.27 But the number of huris for each man alternated between the
conservative seventy-two and five hundred as the maximum. More extrava-
gant ḥadîths speak of 4,000 virgins and 8,000 no longer virginal women, or
of a paltry one hundred virgins, without specifying their terrestrial or Para-
disiacal origin. The dual in “two wives” gave rise, furthermore, to attempts to
explain it as a figurative allusion to other duals used in connection with the
description of Paradise (so that it did not have to be taken literally) or just
as an indication of unspecific plurality. Another possibility which seemed to
25 It appears also in the old Ṣaḥîfah of Hammâm b. Munabbih (M. Hamidullah, ed.; in Majal-
lat al-Majmaʿ al-ʿIlmî al-ʿArabî bi-Dimashq, 1372–1373/1953): XXVIII, 445, but its antiquity
does not depend on whether the Ṣaḥîfah has, or has not, come down to us in its original
form.
26 Wa-zawwajnâhum bi-ḥûr ʿîn. Cf. Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzîyah, Ḥâdî al-arwâḥ (N 22): 175. Zaw-
waja is explained as “joining” (qarannâhum).
27 The ḥadîth aṣ-ṣûr is discussed at length by Ibn Kathîr, Nihâyah I, 245ff. According to Ibn
Qayyim al-Jawzîyah, Ḥâdî al-arwâḥ (N 22): 182, already al-Walîd b. Muslim (d. 195/810)
wrote a monograph on it.
many to contain the germs for a solution of the dilemma was that “two” was
intended merely as a minimum figure. Interestingly, the figure of seventy-two
huris was also described as being in addition to “(a man’s) wives from this
world.”28
The gap existing between wives on earth and huris in Paradise is made
clear by the statement that the huris assigned to future inhabitants of Paradise
watch and censure their misbehaving wives on earth and tell them that their
marriage is only temporary, while they, the huris, will belong to their husbands
for eternity.29 This statement is clearly meant to warn women to be good to
their husbands, but its principal lesson would seem to be that wives from this
world have no claim to their husbands in Paradise. On the other hand, it may be
noted that, in spite of the delightfulness of the huris, we encounter a tradition
to the effect that human women are much superior to them because of the
religious merit they have a chance of accumulating in life, although, as we have
already seen, pessimists were of the opinion that they did not make use of that
opportunity in any large numbers. The ḥadîth also has a hortatory purpose and
was not meant to pass a definite comparative judgement. It may, however, be
considered as a hint that there was an occasional awareness, even among the
credulous, of the inanity, with respect to human relationships, of the traditional
speculations on Paradisiacal love and sex.
The continuity between life in this world and life in the other world was
further interrupted by the widely accepted traditional pronouncement that the
age during which human life on earth was seen as imperfect, that is, childhood
and old age, was not to be perpetuated in Paradise.30 Old women were not to be
found there, according to a practical joke played by the Prophet himself on an
old woman who became distressed when he told her that old women were not
allowed in Paradise. She was consoled when he explained that she would find
herself rejuvenated.31 Everybody lived in Paradise in youthful beauty and at an
28 The preceding information reproduces what Ibn Ḥajar, Fatḥ (N 21): VII, 133, has to say on
the subject Cf. also Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzîyah, Ḥâdî al-arwâḥ (N 22): 107, 185, etc.
29 Cf. ash-Shaʿrânî, Mukhtaṣar (N 9): 136. Cf. also the ḥadîth found in Ibn Mâjah and Ibn
Ḥanbal (see A.J. Wensinck and others, Concordance et indices de la tradition musulmane
[Leiden, 1936–1969]): II, 116a15: “Whenever a woman harms her husband, his huri wife says,
Don’t harm him, damn you! He is with you just as a guest and about to leave you soon and
come to us.”
30 See above (N 10), which, however, does not necessarily contradict this since there was
so much vacillation as to what to do with infants in Paradise; the idea of just having them
become adults there does not seem to have been entertained, or at least was not common.
31 Cf., for instance, F. Rosenthal, Humor in Early Islam (Leiden, 1956): 5f.
unchanging age of thirty or thirty-three years.32 Moreover, since so much value

was placed on virginity, women in Paradise would be virginal and be returned
each time after coitus to their virginal state. All this clearly made it difficult to
see in Paradise a direct continuation of marital happiness as experienced on
earth.
It seems doubtful whether much weight should be attached to the seemingly
offhand remark just cited that a man will meet “his wives from this world” in
Paradise, but it may, in fact, reflect a suppressed majority sentiment that hoped
253 for the resumption of earthly relations in the | hereafter. There is a small num-
ber of stories telling of the hope expressed for some remembrance of former
marital bliss in Paradise. Probably the most famous story of this kind is that
of Hind bint Asmâʾ b. Khârijah. Her first husband was ʿUbaydallâh b. Ziyâd b.
Abîhi. She was with him on the day he was killed in battle (10 al-Muḥarram
67/6 August 686). She could not bear his loss. One day she expressed her feel-
ings in these words: “I am looking forward to the Day of Resurrection, so that I
might see the face of ʿUbaydallâh b. Ziyâd.”33 Soon thereafter, she entered upon
a successful marrying career, counting among her husbands Bishr b. Marwân
and the governor al-Ḥajjâj. Another version of the same story is in the form
of a comparison between her three husbands. Hind is assumed to have said
that Bishr b. Marwân was most attentive to women and that al-Ḥajjâj was most
respectful, but “I wish that the Resurrection were here now, so that I might see
ʿUbaydallâh b. Ziyâd and find comfort in talking to him and looking at him.”34
The first version goes back to the historian al-Madâʾinî who died in the early
decades of the ninth century.35 The story, or at least the remark quoted, may be
historical. If it is not, it was certainly current within a century of the time when
it is supposed to have originated. It does not exemplify a love that defies the
awesome perils of the Judgment.36 It exemplifies above all the common belief
that a woman’s love is strongest for her first husband and lover of her youth.
Fully in the realm of fiction is the story of a certain Umm ʿUqbah who
had vowed that she would never marry again after the death of her husband
32 Cf. Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzîyah, Hâdî al-arwâḥ (N 22): 131; El-Ṣaleḥ, La vie future (N 1): 38.
33 Kitâb al-Aghânî XVIII, 129. Cf. ʿUrwah b. Ḥizâm, in al-Qâlî, Amâlî: III, 159, line 21.
34 Cf. Ibn Kathîr, Kitâb al-Bidâyah (Cairo, 1351–1358): VIII, 285.
35 Al-Madâʾinî’s treatise on women who were married several times (murdifât) is preserved
and published, but it deals with the Qurashites among them. His bibliography contains
other titles that might have been the source of the Kitâb al-Aghânî.
36 As stated by A. Mez, Die Renaissance des Islâms (Heidelberg, 1922): 310. Mez says that the
story is told “everywhere,” but he indicates only the insignificant reference in at-Tîfâshî,
Tuḥfat al-ʿarûs (Cairo, 1301): 162.
Ghassân. She soon realized that “he who is dead is gone (man mâta fa-qad
fâta),” and remarried. On the wedding night, she saw her late husband in a
dream. He reproached her for what she had done, and she was so upset that
she committed suicide. While she was still faithful to her vow, she had spoken
the verses:
I shall remember Ghassân, though he is far away,

And think of him till we meet again when we are resurrected.37
Poetry is also involved in the story about a Kûfan named Abû sh-Shaʿthâʾ
and the songstress Danânîr who belonged to a friend of his. Abû sh-Shaʿthâʾ
confided to her that he was greatly smitten with her. Whether it was merely
amorous banter with a man reputed to be chaste and having a sense of humor
or a pointed reproach of thoughts of love in an old man, we cannot be sure. At
any rate, she told him in verses that he should fast and pray. Then his appointed
place after death would be Paradise where she would meet him as a grown
youth in his prime endowed with all good qualities.38 The Day of Resurrection,
even the promise of the pleasures offered by the huris,39 was often considered
to be more of a deterrent to worldly passion than a potential boon to lovers.
A man very much in love with his wife reflected one night that such passion
as he felt was unbecoming and would constitute a burden for him when he
approached the Resurrection with it in his heart. He prayed to God to restore
his heart to a more becoming state—with the result that his wife soon fell ill
and died a few days later.40
The Pyramus-and-Thisbe tragedy of errors, which was well known to Muslim
writers on love, was also transposed into a religious setting featuring the hope
for life after death. A Muslim who had fallen in love with a Christian woman
converted to Christianity at the point of death, so as to be guaranteed to
meet her in the other world. The woman was also very sick. Not having been
37 Ibn al-Jawzî, Dhamm al-hawâ (N 5): 571. Cf. also al-Qâlî, Amâlî: III, 202–204.
38 Cf. Agh., XII, 114 f. = Agh.3, XIII, 345 (where Abû sh-Shaʿthâʾ is described as ʿafîf mazzâḥ),
and Ibn al-Jawzî, Dhamm al-hawâ (N 5): 274f. (where he is called a shaykh). From the chain
of transmitters indicated in Agh., it would seem that the proximate written source was a
work by az-Zubayr b. Bakkâr.
39 For instance, Ibn al-Jawzî, Dhamm al-hawâ (N 5): 85: Seeing a young man stealing glances
at a passing woman, Dhû n-Nûn al-Miṣrî recited verses to the effect that he should leave
alone women made of water and clay and turn his passion toward the huris, that is, he
should think about attaining Paradise.
40 Ibn al-Jawzî, Dhamm al-hawâ (N 5): 79.
informed that her lover had died, she on her part converted to Islam in order to
be able to meet her lover in Paradise, and she died right thereafter.41 A joke in
which Paradise plays a role tells of a beautiful wife of an ugly husband. Looking
into the mirror, she exclaimed that they both were vouchsafed Paradise, he
because he had gratefully supported her, and she because she had patiently
endured being married to such an ugly man; after all, Paradise belongs to both
the patient and the grateful.42 Nothing, one can see, is said here about the
couple being together again in Paradise in their former marital state. One rather
gets the impression that this would be a calamity that could not happen in the
glorious hereafter.
254 What these stories have in common is that they are set in the days of old; that
they seem to have originated in the early years of Islam and had a long history of
transmission; that they do not pay much attention to all the elaborate religious
mythology that grew up around Resurrection and Paradise; and that they reflect
the fact that women in Islam, especially those of the upper classes, often were
married in succession to several, sometimes prominent men.43 In addition to
illustrating the strong affection supposed to be felt by a woman for her first love,
Hind’s story also contains, it seems, an evaluation of ʿUbaydallâh as a human
being which, positive as it was, may have been welcome to his supporters. But
it does not really indicate that she expects, or would wish to expect, to continue
marital relations with him in Paradise.
However, the feeling that marital relationships of this world should be con-
tinued in the other world has found yet another expression in traditional reli-
gious speculation, the setting again being the multiplicity of marriages not
uncommon among Muslim women. The ḥadîth ponders the problem which of
her husbands a woman should join in Paradise. The solution most commonly
preferred is that she choose the one with the best character. An alternative sug-
gestion was made to the effect that it would be the one who on earth had been
her first husband whose bride she became as a virgin. It was also said that she
would belong automatically to the last of her husbands; this served as a warning
against remarriage.44
41 Ibn al-Jawzî, Dhamm al-hawâ (N 5): 459.

42 Ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât al-udabâʾ (Bûlâq, 1286–1287): II, 125. The man figuring
in the anecdote appears to be the famous Khârijite poet ʿImrân b. Ḥiṭṭân. Cf. an-Nuwayrî,
Ilmâm (A.S. Atiya, ed.; Hyderabad, 1393/1973): VI, 248.
43 For the frequency of remarriage among women in general, cf. S.D. Goitein, A Mediter-
ranean Society (Berkeley-Los Angeles-London, 1978): III, 274.
44 Cf. Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzîyah, Ḥâdî al-arwâḥ (N 22): 182, and Rawḍah (N 3): 240; ash-Shaʿrânî,
Mukhtaṣar (N 9): 135.
These traditions, it may be noted, show some concern for the situation of
women in Paradise. They seem to attempt to secure some rights for them there,
although this may be more apparent than real. Nearly all the fantasies about
Paradise are meant for men. They did not have to make a choice among those
of their wives whom they would like to encounter again in Paradise. Perhaps,
the ḥadîth of the two wives (from earth) should have given rise to speculations
on this subject, but to all appearances it did not do so.
The foregoing excerpts from a vast corpus of materials containing Muslims

views on love and sex after death permit a few general observations. One
must keep in mind, however, that the vagueness of the subject has given rise
to unusual fluidity in its treatment, and there was no real agreement among
medieval scholars upon many points of detail.
It is not surprising that the interests of women were almost totally disre-
garded in the traditional picture of Paradise. This is a clear extension of the atti-
tude predominant on earth. Life after death reflects life on earth also in other
respects, as is only natural since it was impossible to get away from human
experience and human terminology when thinking about Paradise (present-
day speculations on extraterrestrial life and the entire literary genre of science
fiction are witness to this fact). To intellectuals, it was at times acceptable to
profess agnosticism, to admit only that life in Paradise was much better than
life in this world but incomprehensible to our imagination and inexpressible
in human terms. Ordinary people, like true believers, saw the delights of Par-
adise in human terms, unaware of the contradictions this tended to lead to. An
unconscious desire to hold on to what they were accustomed to and familiar
with contributed to this attitude.
Factors inherent in the historical development of Muslim religion and civ-
ilization precluded the transfer of some of the refinements of erotic theory to
Paradise. The literature on love was essentially divorced from religious beliefs
and traditions. It was the creation of literary men and had its roots outside
Islam, though not entirely outside pre-Islamic Arabia. Further, love, in the sense
of pure friendship, was a standard topic in medieval Islam even beyond the
confines of books on love and poetry. It held, however, not much meaning
for Paradise where all inhabitants were seen as enjoying self-sufficient bliss—
something that Muslims, except for a minority among Ṣûfîs, considered unsuit-
able for human beings.
Conjugal love beyond death was given little consideration. The view of mar-
riage as a contract may have contributed to this attitude; in Paradise, there was
no need for business and legal dealings. The peerless Qurʾânic huris were fierce
competition for human wives who were as imperfect as everything in this world
must needs be by its very nature. Yet, it would seem that the theologians and
intellectuals did not reckon with human nature. The hope for a continuation of
marital relationships in Paradise may have been much more alive in the major-
ity of people than the written sources lead us to believe. Death was viewed
basically as an inevitable end and a radically new beginning. Human love in
its fullness reached out to it and succumbed to it, but it constituted an effec-
tive barrier to all that was undesirable as well as the little that was desirable in
this world. It was seen as leaving only an uncertain chance for the relationships
that human beings had enjoyed on earth. Paradise, it must be concluded, was
not developed into a helpful model for viewing the role of love and death in
human society.
vii.9
Muslim Social Values and Literary Criticism: 31
Reflections on the Ḥadīth of Umm Zarʿ
Rudolf Sellheim zum 65. Geburtstag
The lengthy Prophetic tradition known by its principal character as Ḥadīth

Umm Zarʿ (UZ) describes in artful literary terms how eleven women praised or
criticized their respective husbands. It found extraordinary attention in Mus-
lim religion and literature and deserves, as I hope will become clear in the fol-
lowing pages, another look from the Orientalist point of view. It is not that there
remains anything essential for me to contribute to what a multitude of Mus-
lim scholars have said about it during the course of more than a millennium,
but a discussion of it is clearly part of the Orientalists’ main task to promote a
sound understanding of the intellectual history of Islam through the publica-
tion and interpretation of solid data from the sources, even if these data may
be but insignificant drops in a vast ocean.
UZ, of which a tentative translation will be given in an appendix below,
had the good fortune of becoming attached to the Prophet himself. The
claim was made that the Prophet had compared himself to the (fictional)
husband of a (fictional) Umm Zarʿ with respect to his own treatment of his
beloved ʿĀʾishah—a comparison, by the way, recognized by Muslim scholars
as rather ambiguous (see below, pp. 38ff.). UZ was included by al-Bukhārī and
Muslim in their collections soon to become the most authoritative ones for
Sunnī Islam.1 It entered the mainstream of the ḥadīth literature and was always
commented on in detail by an endless chain of learned scholars who were
obviously fascinated by it. From the outset, it also had the attention of phil-
ologists/historians who valued it as a precious, representative example of
early Arabic prose literature. The process of combining all these aspects
reached a high point in the monograph on UZ by Judge ʿIyāḍ in the first
half of the 6th/12th century, entitled Bughyat ar-rāʾid li-mā taḍammanahū
ḥadīth Umm Zarʿ min | al-fawāʾid, a true masterpiece of Muslim critical 32
1 I have no information on the popularity of UZ in Shīʿite circles, if, as may be doubted, it found
much attention there with its focus on ʿĀʾishah.

research.2 The scope of his work is summarized at the end (pp. 214 f.) in these
words:
Our discourse has dealt with fine remarks on scholarly disciplines and
unusual aperçus on various kinds of literature. We have brought out here
about twenty problems of jurisprudence and a similar number of prob-
lems of Arabic grammar and syntax. We have, moreover, mentioned much
of what the commentators and interpreters of (UZ’s) meanings (aṣḥāb
al-maʿānī) have said, and we have established what we consider more cor-
rect and produced, thanks to my knowledge and power of memory, much
that has not been said before. In most of my linguistic remarks, I have
2 The text of ʿIyāḍ’s Bughyah I have before me indicates neither date nor town. The clearly
Northwest African printing appears to have been reproduced in Cairo from an edition pub-
lished in Morocco in 1975; the reprint is to be dated in 1983 (I owe this information to
S. Samoeil and A. Zamouri). The edition includes, on pp. 217–233, as-Suyūṭī on UZ. On ʿIyāḍ’s
work, see M. Talbi, Biographies Aghlabides extraites des Madārik du Cadi ʿIyāḍ, 17f. (Tunis
1968). See also id., in EI2, s.v. For an incidental reference to the Bughyah, see, for example,
the Spaniard al-Balawī, Alif bāʾ, I, 41 (Būlāq 1287), who describes it as a “booklet (sifr ṣaghīr).”
He refers to UZ as a source for the inclination toward joking and playfulness of the Prophet
and the early Muslims, see below, n. 72.
It deserves notice that UZ was often treated in monograph form. In the bibliography
given by Ibn Ḥajar in his Fatḥ, he expressly mentions some, cf. F. Rosenthal, “On medieval
authorial bibliographies,” in the festschrift for J.A. Bellamy, 255–274 (Princeton 1993). A mono-
graph entitled Rayʿ al-farʿ fī sharḥ ḥadīth Umm Zarʿ was written by Ibn Nāṣir-ad-dīn (777–
842/1375–1438), cf. as-Sakhāwī, Ḍawʾ, VIII, 104, line 20 (Cairo 1353–1355). Usually, quotations
from authors of works not preserved can be assumed to be derived not from monographs but
from commentaries on al-Bukhārī. Thus Ibn ad-Damāmīnī, of the same period, who is quoted
by al-Qasṭallānī, was the author of a philological commentary on the Ṣaḥīḥ (as-Sakhāwī, Ḍawʾ,
VII, 185, line 6 from bottom); since he was active as a litterateur, it would be interesting to
know whether he had anything special to say about the literary character of UZ.
One famous scholar, the great Ṭabarī, is unlikely to have been the author of a monograph
on UZ, although he is listed as such in the Catalogue of the Manuscripts of the Köprülü
Library, by Ramazan Şeşen and others, I, 551 (Istanbul 1404/1986), see also C. Gilliot, Exégèse,
langue et théologie en Islam: L’ Exégèse coranique de Tabari, 67 (Paris 1990). My colleague
G. Böwering was kind enough to obtain for me a microfilm of it. The few pages are certainly
not something aṭ-Ṭabarī would have written (Majmūʿah 1080/3, fols. 155b–158a, dated 18 Rabīʿ
II, 969/26 December 1561). Moreover, the younger Ibn al-Anbārī and the much later al-Jawharī
(Ṣiḥāḥ, IV, 1512 [Cairo 1377], for ṭabāqāʾ in statement VII) are quoted. It is rather unlikely
that the Ṭabarī who played a role in the later transmission of Muslim could be meant. The
sequence of the statements is the same as in al-Bukhārī/Muslim, but the proper names of the
women are included.
muslim social values and literary criticism 911
restricted myself to referring to those recognized experts (maqāniʿ hādhā

l-ʿilm) who mentioned them (earlier) and have only rarely dispensed with
such references to sources (shāhid), because I wanted to be brief and was
satisfied with what those exemplars have said, since they are the author-
ities in the field. I have given the references to sources (shawāhid) for the
meanings (maʿānī, of the statements) in order to facilitate their under-
standing, to show the various possibilities of their explanation, and to
prove that they have been correctly interpreted in view of the conver-
gence of minds and intellects with respect to them. In the last chapter,
I have discussed the science of rhetoric as it applies to the statements
of these women as well as the secrets of eloquence, the unusual criti-
cism, and the original forms they contain. This has been accomplished in
a manner sufficient for | students of this ḥadīth who have some knowl- 33
edge of literature and look forward to learning about the craft of liter-
ary composition and understanding the aims of the masters of this sub-
ject.
ʿIyāḍ remained a basic source of information for all, or, according to Ibn Ḥajar,3
most, later commentators.
The uninterrupted occupation with UZ is one of the virtues that make it a
rewarding subject of study (1). Other topics to be chosen here for investigation
are (2) the relative transparency of its isnāds and its history on the double track
of literature and religion; (3) its contribution to the history of Muslim philology,
both in the narrow sense of lexicography and grammar and the wider sense
of literary criticism; and (4) its contribution to the understanding of certain
social values in medieval Islam, primarily the position of and attitude toward
women. Again, it must be stressed, nothing unique can be learned from UZ that
could not be learned from other sources, but its sharply limited focus makes it
strikingly instructive.
(1) UZ burst forth on the literary scene at the latest about the second third of
the 2nd/8th century and at once captivated the hearts and minds of scholars
and the educated public. The last monograph of which I am aware is attested
for the middle of the 12th/18th century. Murtaḍā az-Zabīdī, in a comment
on a brief passage in al-Ghazzālī’s Iḥyāʾ, refers to his own lectures on UZ,
which, however, may never have been published.4 The information on its
3 Ibn Ḥajar, Fatḥ al-Bārī bi-sharḥ al-Bukhārī, XI, 164, line 5 (Cairo 1378–1383/1959–1963).
4 Cf. Murtaḍā az-Zabīdī, Itḥāf, V, 354 (Cairo 1311, reprint Beirut, ca. 1972). The Ghazzālī passage
early march to prominence, on the other hand, is very difficult to press into
a concrete chronological scheme, as it comes almost simultaneously from
overlapping authors. Moreover, the strong interest in it coincided with the
transition from papyrus to paper. Written products from that period left us
only scant remnants, and a decision between what was oral or published in
written form cannot always be made. Our earliest preserved author is Abū
ʿUbayd al-Qāsim b. Sallām (ca. 154–224/770–838). The massive size of his Gharīb
al-ḥadīth, which includes a full text of UZ with a substantial commentary
on it, presupposes a long history for its subject, and he himself states that a
number of scholars had already commented on it.5 It is also noteworthy that
34 UZ was ap|preciated that early and used as an authoritative source of rare
lexicographical material. Its status was enhanced soon after by its inclusion
as a tradition of the Prophet in the large collections of the 3rd/9th century,
but an authority of al-Bukhārī and Muslim, Ibn Abī Uways (d. 226/841), is
often quoted as already having extensively commented on it in writing.6 A
famous legal scholar from Spain, ʿAbd-al-Malik b. Ḥabīb (174–238/790–852),
is likewise frequently quoted for his work on UZ, and a work of his entitled
al-Wāḍiḥah is mentioned in this connection, but his role cannot as yet be
assessed.7
appears in his Iḥyāʾ (kitāb ādāb an-nikāḥ, bāb fī ādāb al-muʿāsharah), II, 40 (Cairo 1933), trans.
Hans Bauer, Von der Ehe, 72 (Halle 1917). Careful attention to UZ continued, of course, in
ḥadīth commentaries into modern times. One cannot fail to be struck by the unusual care
spent upon it by some modern editors of relevant texts. Their editions often include a sizable
apparatus referring to other sources and the differences that exist between them and their
own text.
5 Cf. Abū ʿUbayd, Gharīb al-ḥadīth, II, 286–309 (Beirut 1396/1976, a reprint of the Hyderabad
edition of 1384–1387/1964–1967, which was edited and/or supervised by M. ʿAbd-al-Muʿīd
Khān). The text as printed has no isnād, but a footnote on p. 289, n. 3, indicates that some
manuscripts had indeed isnāds. Abū ʿUbayd naturally remained an often used and highly
respected authority.
6 For Ismāʿīl b. ʿAbdallāh b. ʿAbdallāh Ibn Abī Uways, whose maternal uncle was Mālik, see, for
instance, al-Bukhārī, at-Taʾrīkh al-kabīr, I, 1, 364 (Hyderabad 1360–1378); Ibn Ḥajar, Tahdhīb
(Hyderabad 1325–1327), quoted here as Tahdhīb. Ibn Abī Uways used his father for information
on UZ. Ibn Abī Uways’ work is supposed to be preserved in the edition of Ibrāhīm b. al-Ḥusayn
Ibn Dīzīl. He is listed in Sezgin, GAS, I, 321. The editor of an-Nasāʾī (see below, n. 15) quotes Ibn
Dīzīl in his footnotes without indicating where he got his information. Cf. also F. Rosenthal,
op. cit. (above, n. 2), 266, n. 47.
7 The Wāḍiḥah is quoted expressly in ʿIyāḍ, 114, but the many other quotations could come from
some other work of Ibn Ḥabīb. He is said to have composed a large Gharīb al-ḥadīth, cf. Sezgin,
GAS, VIII, 251, IX, 220. Such a work may not have contained the full text of UZ. [Preserved parts
One of the prominent historians of the 2nd/8th century, al-Haytham b. ʿAdī

(ca. 120[?]–207/740[?]–822), is often cited as the transmitter of a recension
of UZ. He is quite likely to have included it in one of his published works
which, however, are not preserved.8 Already the earlier Abū Maʿshar Najīḥ
(d. 170/787) is said to have transmitted it; this may well be correct, but again,
the information remains one we are unable to evaluate.9 From the following
century, we have works displaying the full text by az-Zubayr b. Bakkār (early
170s–256/ca. 790–870) and by Ibn Abī Ṭāhir Ṭayfūr (204–280/819[20]–893).10
The Muslim historical literature continued in very different directions | leaving 35
no room for UZ. If a local history like that of ar-Rāfiʿī (d. 623/1226) paid loving
attention to it, it was due to particular circumstances.11 The voluminous adab
literature of later centuries, whose authors were certainly as familiar with UZ as
everybody else, also took little notice of it (if we except the rather special case
of the application to it of literary criticism by ʿIyāḍ). The adab encyclopaedia of
al-Ābī (d. 421/1030) was possibly the last work of its kind to include the text.12
The explanation may be that too much similar material on female skill with
of the Wāḍiḥah (see J. Aguadé’s publication of Ibn Ḥabīb’s Taʾrīkh, 67f., Madrid 1991) may
have appeared by now.]
The inaccessibility of many of the works that should have been consulted constitutes
a major problem. This applies not only to the early works but also to the later ḥadīth
works and commentaries, some of which I was not able to consult. Conclusions e silentio,
or rather ex ignorantia, often suggested themselves but whenever possible have been
avoided.
8 Cf. Stefan Leder, Das Korpus al-Haiṯam Ibn ʿAdī (Frankfurt a/M 1991). Among al-Haytham’s
works, the Fihrist, ed. G. Flügel, 100, line 2, lists a Kitāb an-Nisāʾ (see Leder, 31, 84). It might
have been a potential location for UZ but more probably should be ruled out as such.
9 Cf., for instance, Abū ʿUbayd, 289, n. 3, or ʿIyāḍ, 18. Also below, nn. 29, 64.
10 Az-Zubayr b. Bakkār (quoted here as Zubayr), al-Akhbār al-Muwaffaqīyāt, ed. Sāmī Makkī
al-ʿĀnī, 462–464 (Baghdad 1972). Note the misprints in the isnād, p. 462, line 2: ʿUthmān b.
(read ʿan) and Hishām b. Muhammad. In Zubayr, UZ is preceded by lengthy stories about
Ḥātim aṭ-Ṭāʾī. A mental connection between the generous Ḥātim and the generous Abū
Zarʿ may have been at work here. Zubayr may have quoted UZ elsewhere in his oeuvre (see
below, nn. 39, 64, 104, 115, 120?).
Ibn Abī Ṭāhir Ṭayfūr (quoted here as IaṬāhir), Balāghāt an-nisāʾ, 112–121 (Beirut 1972).
This is a section from the author’s large Kitāb al-Manthūr wa-l-manẓūm. He used Zubayr
as one of his sources.
11 Ar-Rāfiʿī, at-Tadwīn (= Taʾrīkh Qazwīn), ed. ʿAzīz-Allāh al-ʿUṭāridī, I, 351–372 (Beirut 1408/
1987), see below, pp. 43 ff.
12 Cf. al-Ābī, Nathr ad-durr, IV, 70–73 (Vol. IV was edited by M. ʿAlī Qurnah and Ḥusayn Naṣṣār
and appeared in Cairo 1985). UZ is included by Ābī in a section on witty remarks by women
and their views of their husbands.
words13 was in existence which did not carry the burden of being a religious
document such as UZ had become.
The approximate perimeters set here for the dating of the preserved literary
testimonia are seemingly supported by the likelihood that no earlier written
ones were known to Ibn Ḥajar.
(2) So popular had UZ quickly become that different isnāds for different recen-
sions accompany all the available material.14 IaṬāhir thus refers to three recen-
sions with their different isnāds. An-Nasāʾī (215–303/830–915) did what he no
doubt considered his duty as a scholar by presenting several recensions.15 Aṭ-
Ṭabarānī (260–360/873–971) followed the same course.16 Judge ʿIyāḍ made the
isnāds the appropriate foundation for his monograph.
With some confidence, we can cut through the great accretion of isnād
information and state that practically all ways of transmission lead back to
Hishām b. ʿUrwah b. az-Zubayr, who died at an advanced age in the year
145[46]/762[63].17 He claimed to have received the ḥadīth from his father
36 ʿUrwah (ca. 30–93 to 95/650[51]–711 to 14) either directly or indirectly. ʿUrwah’s |
source was ʿĀʾishah. The isnād Hishām < ʿUrwah < ʿĀʾishah is a very prominent
one, as is understandable in view of the close connection of ʿĀʾishah with the
Zubayrids.
There is an isnād not going back to Hishām but to his nephew ʿUmar, a
son of ʿAbdallāh b. ʿUrwah, reporting directly on the authority of his grand-
13 Cf. the clumsy story in ʿIyāḍ, 25, from an unnamed source, on a woman marrying off eleven
daughters in the same night. After a year, she asked each about her husband, and they
responded, with a few of their statements being identical to those in UZ. ʿIyāḍ rightly
comments that this is a story invented on the basis of UZ.
14 For Abū ʿUbayd, see above, n. 5.
15 Cf. an-Nasāʾī, Kitāb ʿIshrat an-nisāʾ, ed. ʿAmr ʿAlī ʿUmar, 203–218 (Cairo 1408/1988). This is
taken from his as-Sunan al-kubrā; the often printed Sunan does not contain UZ.
16 Aṭ-Ṭabarānī, al-Muʿjam al-kabīr, ed. Ḥamdī ʿAbd-al-Majīd as-Silafī, XXIII, 139–150 (Bagh-
dad 1984-ff.).
17 It must, however, be admitted that the appearance of textual differences in the recensions
of the first generation of transmitters after Hishām raises obvious doubts. Did these
transmitters simply permit themselves some freedom with a literary document, or was
Hishām himself not particularly careful with the text when he taught it on different
occasions, or was the name of Hishām misappropriated by the one or other scholar who
wanted to give his text greater authority? A clarification of these and similar doubts just
does not seem within our reach, as all the great efforts of modern scholarship to put isnād
criticism on a firm basis have as yet failed to produce rules applicable to individual cases.
See also below, p. 38.
father ʿUrwah.18 ʿUmar’s rather different recension has a special introduction

speaking of ʿĀʾishah’s boasting about her father’s early wealth19 and the Prophet
apparently rebuking her (see below, p. 41) and reciting UZ himself in its entirety.
This makes it very different because of the role of the Prophet as narrator. It
could have been more original and considered by other transmitters as a situ-
ation better not to be dwelt on.
In some way, this isnād cannot be separated from one that interposes ʿUmar’s
father ʿAbdallāh between Hishām and his father ʿUrwah. ʿAbdallāh’s lifetime
was uncertainly reconstructed by the biographers as extending from 45/666
to about, or after, 125/743. He was, at any rate, considerably older than his
brother Hishām.20 Very exceptionally, in an isnād attributed to al-Haytham b.
ʿAdī, another brother, Yaḥyā b. ʿUrwah, appears substituted for ʿAbdallāh.21
We find other names taking Hishām’s place22 or being interposed between
him and ʿUrwah, such as Abū l-Aswad instead of Hishām or Yazīd b. Rūmān
occurring between Hishām and ʿUrwah. Ibn Rūmān was known as a client of
the Zubayrids, and his death was placed in 130/747[48].23 A little more needs | 37
to be said about Abū l-Aswad Muḥammad b. ʿAbd-ar-Raḥmān b. Nawfal. He
18 Cf. Nasāʾī, 215; Ṭabarānī, 147–149; ʿIyāḍ, 5. On ʿUmar, see al-Bukhārī, Taʾrīkh, III, 2, 167; Ibn
Abī Ḥātim, Jarḥ, III, 1, 117 (Hyderabad 1941–1953); Tahdhīb, VII, 469f. In Tahdhīb, reference
is made to the ḥadīth of ʿĀʾishah’s boasting about Abū Bakr’s wealth. No date of death is
given. Lack of information also makes it impossible to evaluate the role of Dāwūd b. Shābūr
(Ibn Abī Ḥātim, I, 2, 415; Tahdhīb, III, 187) who is mentioned as a direct transmitter of UZ
from ʿAbdallāh in Ṭabarānī, 141.
19 The amount of Abū Bakr’s wealth was stated in ʿUmar’s recension of UZ in a way which
caused some uncertainty. Nasāʾī, 215: wa-kāna qad allafa alfa ūqīyah “he had amassed a
thousand ounces.” Ṭabarānī, 147, has qadar for qad; although this would make sense, it is
probably a simple mistake. ʿIyāḍ, 43, has abī for qad. Adh-Dhahabī, Mīzān, III, 175 (Cairo
1382/1963), in the biography of al-Qāsim b. ʿAbd-al-Wāḥid Ibn Ayman (who transmitted
UZ from ʿUmar), found qad omitted: wa-kāna alfa alfi ūqīyah, so that the amount would
be a million ounces; he considered this impossibly high and suggested that the first alf be
omitted. Tahdhīb, VIII, 325, refers to adh-Dhahabī.
20 ʿAbdallāh b. ʿUrwah appears in the isnād of al-Bukhārī and Muslim and thus those depen-
dent on them. See, for instance, IaṬāhir, 131, line 4; Nasāʾī, 204; Abū Nuʿaym (below, n. 49);
al-Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī, al-Asmāʾ al-mubhamah, ed. ʿIzz-ad-dīn ʿAlī as-Sayyid, 527 (Cairo
1405/1984); ʿIyāḍ, 4; Rāfiʿī 353. He is listed in Tahdhīb, V, 319–321.
21 Cf. ʿIyāḍ, 19. For Yaḥyā b. ʿUrwah, cf. Tahdhīb, XI, 258. Ibn Abī Ḥātim (IV, 2, 175) quotes his
father for the statement that Yaḥyā was considered more learned (aʿlam) than Hishām; he
does not say that Yaḥyā transmitted to Hishām, as Tahdhīb does.
22 Abū ʿUbayd (above, n. 5) vaguely: Hishām or some other Medinese.
23 Ibn Rūmān appears in Nasāʾī, 214. See also ʿIyāḍ, 20. He is listed in Khalīfah, Taʾrīkh, ed.
Akram Ḍiyāʾ al-ʿUmarī, (II), 418 (Baghdad 1387/1967); Tahdhīb, XI, 325.
was known as “the Orphan of ʿUrwah” because he was taken in as an orphan

by the Zubayrid family and grew up in their household. He is supposed to have
died around 131/749.24 A strange story which apparently cannot yet be securely
put into context by us, has it that he transmitted UZ only as far as it referred
to the Prophet himself, since he had heard only some of it from ʿUrwah on
a journey. He disapproved of Hishām’s transmission of it in its entirety and
broke with him. The information appears to go back to the famous exchange
of questions and answers by Abū ʿUbayd al-Ājurrī and Abū Dāwūd, the author
of the Sunan.25 Again, according to Ibn Lahīʿah as reported by al-ʿUqaylī, Abū
l-Aswad greatly admired the ḥadīth of Hishām on the authority of ʿUrwah, and
he often spent a year on it without getting through with all that could be said
about it (?).26 Whatever the precise meaning of all this may be, it would seem to
hint at serious quarrels among the Zubayrids as to which member of the family
held the precious copyright to UZ, that is, the right to transmit it and thereby
gain a certain reputation and, perhaps, even some material benefit.
It is clear, and quite possibly also historical, that Hishām b. ʿUrwah played a
central, if not exclusive, role in the history of UZ. He was generally considered
a more or less reliable transmitter. After he made the transition to the ʿIrāq to
try his luck with the ʿAbbāsids who had just come into power, his reliability
supposedly suffered as he came up with more and more traditions.27 The
24 Abū l-Aswad is listed Tahdhīb, IX, 307 f. He also figures in the isnād Ibn Lahīʿah < Abū
l-Aswad < ʿUrwah, cf. R.G. Khoury, ʿAbdallāh ibn Lahīʿah, 58f., 112, 136, 246, 249, 267
(Wiesbaden 1986); F. Rosenthal, A History of Muslim Historiography2, 395 (Leiden 1968).
He transmitted the Raids of the Sīrah.
25 Abū Dāwūd died in 275/889. No dates seem to be known for Abū ʿUbayd al-Ājurrī. Cf.
Sezgin, GAS, I, 165. According to the Catalogue of the Manuscripts of the Köprülü Library,
I, 157, the Köprülü manuscript contains only part III of the Suʾālāt Abī ʿUbayd Muḥammad
b. ʿAlī b. ʿUthmān al-Ājurrī … fī maʿrifat ar-rijāl. I do not know whether it(s recent edition)
includes the UZ passage or whether other parts of the work are preserved.
26 See Fatḥ, XI, 164, and Tahdhīb, XI, 51. The text of Tahdhīb shows yukallimuhū, which might
be understood to mean: “and he often spent a year on it, and not talking with Hishām.” This
makes little sense. Read yukammiluhū as translated above? In Fatḥ, Ibn Ḥajar opines that
this (controversy) was possibly the reason why Ibn Ḥanbal omitted UZ from his Musnad,
where indeed it cannot be found. This, however, requires confirmation.
Abū Jaʿfar Muḥammad b. ʿAmr al-ʿUqaylī (d. 322/934) wrote on personality criticism,
cf. Sezgin, GAS, I, 177; adh-Dhahabī, ʿIbar, ed. Ṣalāḥ-ad-dīn al-Munajjid and Fuʾād Sayyid,
II, 194 (Kuwait 1960–1966). In the edition of ʿIbar, the nisbah is vocalized ʿAqīlī, but at least
as-Samʿānī, Ansāb, IX, 341 (Hyderabad 1962–1982), lists him under ʿUqaylī.
27 Cf. al-Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī, Taʾrīkh Baghdād, XIV, 40, line 17 (Cairo 1349/1931): inbasaṭa fī
r-riwāyah. For Hishām’s position in the Zubayrid family, it should perhaps be taken into
change of opinion may have been triggered by his switch in loyalties which | 38
made for disillusionment in some circles. However, as so often, old age could
have had something to do with his diminished reputation. In his defense,
adh-Dhahabī allowed himself this remarkable outburst: “Sure, the good man’s
mind deteriorated a little, and his memory was no longer what it was when he
was younger. He forgot some material and relied on his imagination. So what!
Is he perhaps divinely exempt from forgetfulness?!”28
While the whiff of some element of doubt about Hishām’s personal status
is perhaps to be explained by the circumstances accompanying UZ’s entrance
into literature, the Zubayrid family connection is unmistakable. With hardly
any exception,29 all the names mentioned are connected to the Zubayrids. And
it probably was not by chance that one of the oldest texts available to us is found
in the work of az-Zubayr b. Bakkār, a member of the Zubayrid family.30
The various stages of the isnāds after Hishām and his generation are inter-
esting and important for UZ’s later history. In particular, the fact that the trans-
mitters from the first generation reporting from Hishām are credited with dis-
tinctive recensions suggests that regardless of Hishām’s outstanding role, his
framing of the story was not the only one in existence and the one to be adopted
without question. In some form, UZ started out as a Zubayrid family tradition,
belonging to a subcategory in the vast corpus of traditions that can be recog-
nized as the property of a given family anxiously guarded and handed down
among its member until they eventually became public property.
While the isnāds after Hishām or some other Zubayrid can be accepted as
historical, the problem of the genuineness of the chain going back from Hishām
to ʿĀʾishah defies any attempt on our part to apply a plausible critical judgement
and thus must be taken on trust. The historicity of the connection with the
Prophet is likewise lost in the mist of oral transmission. It would be easy to
point to the inappropriateness of the Prophet’s self-identification with Abū Zarʿ
as an indication that the Prophet could not have made it. On the other hand, it
is easy to argue that it was an original element because it may deemed unlikely
to have been added at a later stage. And, if a version of UZ existed already
consideration that his mother Sārah was a slave girl, cf. Muṣʿab az-Zubayrī, Nasab Quraysh,
ed. É. Lévi-Provençal, 248 (Cairo 1953); Ibn Qutaybah, Maʿārif, ed. Tharwat ʿUkāshah, 222
(Cairo 1960).
28 Cf. adh-Dhahabī, Mīzān, IV, 301.
29 The isnād Abū Maʿshar < ʿAbdallāh b. Isḥāq aṭ-Ṭalḥī < ʿĀʾishah, which appears in ʿIyāḍ, 18,
is not clear and probably defective.
30 Cf. also below, n. 37.
in his time—and there appears to be no positive indication from allusions

to the Qurʾān or the like that it was formulated at some later date—(cf. also
below, p. 52)—he might very well have enjoyed UZ as a clever and amusing
story.
In the eyes of the religious scholars, the glaring fault of the story was the
Prophet’s apparent identification with someone who callously divorced his
wife (after running away with a woman whom he had observed in a sexually
39 seductive pose); the Prophet did not approve of divorce without qualification, |
as is stated in several ḥadīths. This was almost certainly not an original issue.
The early texts and commentaries, as we know them in their printed forms
(Abū ʿUbayd, al-Bukhārī, Muslim, Zubayr, IaṬāhir), do not say anything that
might hint at any qualms in this respect. But with the growing influence of
religious scholarship, it must soon have become a matter of concern, which
then continued throughout the history of UZ. We are confronted with state-
ments ascribed to the first post-Hishām generation and actually found in their
recensions as transmitted. Abū Muʿāwiyah aḍ-Ḍarīr, who died at an advanced
age around 193–195/808–810, is said to have in his transmission of UZ on the
authority of Hishām a statement to the effect that Abū Zarʿ did not inten-
tionally initiate the divorce from his wife since it says that Umm Zarʿ con-
tinued to stay with him until he divorced her; thus, the divorce episode did
not enter into the Prophet’s remark to ʿĀʾishah.31 Al-Haytham b. ʿAdī is sup-
posed to have added to the comparison the cautionary “with respect to close
union and intimacy, and not separation and abandonment ( fī l-ulfah wa-r-
rifāʾ lā fī l-furqah wa-l-khilāʾ),” with al-Haytham’s name appearing in Fatḥ but
not in ʿIyāḍ.32 Quite commonly, objection was expressed by making ʿĀʾishah
respond to the Prophet that he was really better to her than Abū Zarʿ had been
to Umm Zarʿ; this addition was clearly intended as an allusion to the divorce
episode. Greater closeness and avoidance of anything that might harm her
such as a divorce also were important. And above all, it was reasoned that a
comparison need not extend to every single detail.33 How ʿIyāḍ and Ibn Ḥajar
viewed this situation may be illustrated by a translation of their respective pas-
sages:
31 Cf. ʿIyāḍ, 168. Abū Muʿāwiyah Muḥammad b. Khāzim (Tahdhīb, IX, 137–139) has been thor-
oughly discussed by J. van Ess, Theologie und Gesellschaft im 2. und 3. Jahrhundert Hidschra,
I, 216–218 (Berlin–New York 1991). Van Ess decides upon the dates 113–195/731–810.
32 See below. Al-Haytham is also not mentioned in ʿIyāḍ, 167.
ʿIyāḍ, 11f. Fatḥ, XI, 18534
Added in some recensions: “He di- Added in the recension of al-Haytham

vorced her, and I shall not divorce b. ʿAdī: “With respect to close union
you.”35 Aḥmad b. Khālid36 mentioned and intimacy, and not separation and
(this recension) in his Musnad. Also abandonment.” Az-Zubayr added at
added by Muṣʿab az-Zubayrī37 and the end: “Except that he divorced her,
others from | Hishām < ʿUrwah. Some- and I shall not divorce you.” The same 40
thing similar transmitted from Ismāʿīl in the recension of aṭ-Ṭabarānī.38 An-
Ibn Abī Uways < his father (above, Nasāʾī added in one of his recen-
n. 6) < Hishām < ʿUrwah [<], his father sions, and aṭ-Ṭabarānī: ʿĀʾishah said:
< ʿĀʾishah < the Prophet. He said: “O Messenger of God, rather you are
“Except that I shall not divorce you.” better than Abū Zarʿ.” In the begin-
In another recension: “I am to you as ning of the recension of az-Zubayr:
Abū Zarʿ to Umm Zarʿ with respect “Assuredly (bi-abī wa-ummī), you are
to close union and intimacy, and not indeed better to me than Abū Zarʿ
34 ʿIyāḍ takes up some of the points later on in his work. The passage in Fatḥ is largely
identical with al-ʿAynī’s comments (ʿUmdat al-qārī, IX, 476 [Istanbul 1308/1891]) and is
reproduced by al-Qasṭallānī, Irshād as-sārī, VIII, 91 (Būlāq 1305).
35 This is cited by al-Ghazzālī (above, n. 4).
36 Aḥmad b. Khālid (b. al-Jabbāb al-Qurṭubī) is identified by the editor of ʿIyāḍ, as the Spanish
Mālikite (246–322/860–939) who is credited with a Musnad ḥadīth Mālik, cf. M. Talbi, op.
cit. (above, n. 2), 427; adh-Dhahabī, ʿIbar, II, 192 f.
37 Muṣʿab az-Zubayrī (ca. 156–233[36]/773–848]51]), an uncle of az-Zubayr b. Bakkār, does
not refer to UZ in his preserved Nasab Quraysh, but might very well have included it in
some other work of his. He lived long after Hishām but is said to have transmitted from
ad-Darāwardī (below, n. 45). Cf. Sezgin, GAS, I, 271 f.; Tahdhīb, X, 162–164.
38 Ṭabarānī, 146, cites this addition from the recension of ʿAbd-ar-Raḥmān b. Abī z-Zinād <
Hishām. ʿAbd-ar-Raḥmān lived from 100/718[9] to 174/790[1], cf. Ibn Saʿd, V, 307f.; Sezgin,
GAS, I, 396. His father Abū z-Zinād ʿAbdallāh b. Dhakwān is listed by Khalīfah, Taʾrīkh, as
having died in 130/747[8], the same year in which Ibn Rūmān (above, n. 23) died. Bukhārī,
Taʾrīkh, III, 1, 83, has 131 and makes him a client of the Umayyads. Tahdhīb, V, 203–205,
indicates that he was a transmitter from ʿUrwah and to Hishām; this may have been
deduced from UZ.
The following statement is found in Nasāʾī, 215, 218, and in Ṭabarānī, 146, 149. While the
second recension mentioned by Nasāʾī and Ṭabarānī is that of ʿUmar (above, n. 18), the first
one is that of ʿAbbād b. Manṣūr < Hishām. ʿAbbād died in 152/769, cf. Tahdhīb, V, 103–105.
His recension of UZ is referred to in as-Sahmī, Taʾrīkh Jurjān, 42f. (Hyderabad 1369/
1950).
ʿIyāḍ, 11f. Fatḥ, XI, 185
separation and abandonment.” Ibn to Umm Zarʿ.”39 It seems that the

al-Anbārī40 transmitted (this recen- Prophet said that in order to com-
sion). It conveys the same meaning fort and reassure her and eliminate
as the other recension. Thereby, the the suspicion that the comparison
full significance ( fāʾidah) is realized. extends generally to all conditions of
ʿĀʾishah said: “O Messenger of God, Abū Zarʿ. (The divorce) is the only
rather you are better to me than Abū detail in (the ḥadīth) that women
Zarʿ.” would find blameworthy. It clarifies
the matter, and ʿĀʾishah herself re-
plied to it in a way suitable to a per-
son as excellent and knowledgeable
as she.
All this material shows how serious the problem became over time to the inter-
preters of UZ. More to the point, it raises grave suspicions as to the authenticity
of its attribution to the earliest stratum of the occupation with UZ. It is possible
to argue that a good deal or most of it was attached to the tradition because of
understandable scruples and for the purpose of moralizing and that that hap-
pened after the time of the supposed originator of a given recension. However
this may be, we have here a good example of the influence of religious views
upon a piece of once unself-conscious literature.
Another less frequently expressed moral objection was apparently called
for by the unabashedly materialistic set of mind that is all too evident in the
41 attitude displayed by Umm Zarʿ in particular but also by all the other players. A |
comparison of ʿĀʾishah to Umm Zarʿ could easily put the Prophet’s beloved wife
in the wrong light. The recension of ʿUmar is introduced by ʿĀʾishah’s boasting
about her father’s great wealth in Jāhilīyah times, and she is reproved by the
Prophet with the words: “Be silent, ʿĀʾishah, for I am to you as Abū Zarʿ (was) to
39 As in the preceding reference to az-Zubayr, the quotations do not occur in the printed text
of the Muwaffaqīyāt, see above, n. 10.
40 Ibn al-Anbārī (271–328/885–940) wrote a commentary on Gharīb al-ḥadīth which pre-
sumably included UZ and was the source of the frequent references to him in the later
literature. Cf. Sezgin, GAS, VIII, 151–154, IX, 144–147.
Umm Zarʿ,” whereupon he recites UZ to her.41 This is apparently not meant to

belittle Abū Bakr’s early wealth as inferior but to show her that wealth alone is
not a proper reason for pride, and boasting about it is reprehensible (see also,
below, p. 48).
The various recensions can be separated roughly as belonging to two main
tracks, the one philological/historical and the other religious (see above, pp.
34 f.), although it must be kept in mind that early Islam made no method-
ical distinction between all those intellectual endeavors. UZ was inevitably
religious because of the story’s connection to the ancient Muslim elite. It
was philological and historical because of its totally secular, literary character.
The religious version naturally soon preferred a simple shape as adopted by
such authorities as al-Bukhārī and Muslim (who, incidentally, took the rather
unusual step of ending their text on a philological note). The much less favored
secular track produced more variations, albeit of a kind not basically affect-
ing the text. It was more cavalier, it seems, about the sequence of the first ten
women’s statements (see below, 53). IaṬāhir, 121, took occasion to comment:
“The sequence is different. Everything has the same meaning with a wording
that shows pluses and minuses.” The same author also took over Zubayr’s clas-
sification of the eleven statements as five negative and six positive ones42 and
presented them accordingly. The positive, negative, or mixed43 import of each
statement was, in fact, a major issue of interpretation, and IaṬāhir may or may
not be right with his assessment in each case.
In the secular context, there was also greater openness to speculation about
the setting of UZ, its time and location as well as the identity of its characters. It
was placed explicitedly in the Jāhilīyah.44 This is not quite irrelevant, as a sup-
posed non-Muslim ambience could have a definite impact on the way it was to
be evaluated. Where a location other than Mecca is given, it is the Yemen, or,
more particularly, “a village in the Yemen where there lived a Yemenite tribe,”
which is occasionally further described as the Khathʿam.45 This was | presum- 42
41 See above, nn. 18 and 19.

42 IaṬāhir’s first recension is that of Muḥammad b. Ziyād Ibn al-Aʿrābī (d. 230[32]/845[47])
< Abū Muʿāwiyah. Since IaṬāhir was in his mid twenties when Ibn al-Aʿrābī died, he was
probably quite young when he studied UZ. Zubayr’s recension quoted by IaṬāhir was that
of ad-Darāwardī (below, n. 45). IaṬāhir’s third isnād goes back to ʿĪsā b. Yūnus (below,
n. 48).
43 The mixed status, that is, part negative and part positive, is expressly referred to by Rāfiʿī,
358 f.
44 Cf. IaṬāhir, 112; Nasāʾī, 211.
45 The recension containing this information is that of ad-Darāwardī < Hishām. ʿAbd-al-ʿAzīz
ably because of the Yemen’s preeminent role in ancient Arabian civilization

and folklore. There was, moreover, great concern about the anonymity of every-
body in UZ. Starting with the earliest interpretation of the Qurʾān, attaching
names was considered important for religious concerns, but here it may have
been the historical interest that gave impetus to the invention of names in order
to establish historicity by turning vague generality into detailed precision by
that simple device. If, as was the case with UZ, one or two of the women were
left anonymous, it merely added a sort of credibility to the whole. The major-
ity were provided with mostly ordinary names. They lack any clue as to why
they were chosen. Umm Zarʿ, we are told, had the very common name ʿĀtikah,
and her father, for no discernible reason, was named Ukaymil b. Sāʿid; the rest
of the family remained anonymous throughout.46 Nobody showed any inter-
est in the name Zarʿ. It is, however, interesting because of its rarity. Unlike its
extremely common diminutive Zurayʿ or other derivations from the same root
such as Zurʿah, Zarʿ seems almost unattested. We might imagine that it was pos-
43 sibly felt to be a foreign, i.e. South Arabian, name.47 | Centuries later, we find a
b. Muḥammad ad-Darāwardī died in 186/802 or at any rate in the second half of the 180s.
Cf., for instance, Bukhārī, Taʾrīkh, III, 2, 25; Ibn Abī Ḥātim, III, 2, 395f.; Samʿānī, Ansāb,
V, 330 f.; Tahdhīb, VI, 353–355. When Ibn Ḥajar lists Hishām as one of ad-Darāwardī’s
authorities, this is again almost certainly due to UZ. For the Khathʿam, see ʿIyāḍ, 23; G. Levi
Della Vida, in EI2, s.v.
46 Ṭabarānī, 150, has al-Ukayḥil b. Sāʿidah, probably a misreading or misprint? The name
ʿĀtikah does not occur in Zubayr, who is the first to attest the names to us, in the recen-
sion of ad-Darāwardī. Ibn Ḥajar (Hady as-sārī, ed. Ibrāhīm ʿAṭwah ʿIwaḍ, II, 81 [Cairo
1383/1963]; Fatḥ, XI, 166, line 20) credits the name ʿĀtikah to Ibn Durayd, Wishāḥ. The
latter’s Jamharah used UZ (see below, n. 60) but presumably without a reference to the
name ʿĀtikah. Only fragments of the Wishāḥ have been recovered so far, cf. Jörg Kraemer,
in ZDMG 110 (1961), 252 ff., and R. Weipert, in Oriens 32 (1990), 340. The work is referred to
also elsewhere in connection with UZ, cf. ʿIyāḍ, 15.
Al-Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī, al-Asmāʾ al-mubhamah (above, n. 20), who was, of course,
happy to have found the names, stated that he knew of no other isnād than that in Zubayr,
and his statement is quoted in an-Nawawī’s extremely popular commentary on Muslim
entitled al-Minhāj (often printed, also in the margin of Qasṭallānī, IX, 318). The subsequent
literature on mubhamāt relied much on the Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī’s pioneering work, as
did Ibn Bashkuwāl, Ghawāmiḍ al-asmāʾ al-mubhamah, ed. ʿIzz-ad-dīn ʿAlī as-Sayyid and
Muḥammad Kamāl-ad-dīn ʿIzz-ad-dīn, (II), 538 f. (Beirut 1407/1987).
47 A dictionary reference such as that of the Lisān, s.v. z-r-ʿ, to a proper name Zarʿ is based
exclusively on UZ. Other lexicographical works (such as al-Azharī, Tahdhīb, or Ibn al-
Athīr’s Nihāyah) do not mention it.
A Zarʿ b. Yashkur al-Yāfiʿī appears in aṭ-Ṭabarī’s History, I, 2954 of the Leiden edition (=
IV, 348 of the Cairo edition by Muḥammad Abū l-Faḍl Ibrāhīm), but the passage is suspect
Maghribī historian, the author of the important Rawḍ al-qirṭās, named Ibn Abī
Zarʿ. Practically nothing is known about him, and we certainly have no infor-
mation on the origin of his name. It is not entirely unlikely that it was originally
chosen in recollection of UZ.
Some minor spillovers into other fields of intellectual activity may be men-
tioned here. In their mystical thought and practice, Ṣūfīs would have had little
affinity to UZ, but in view of their progressively universal hold over Muslim
religious life, they could not entirely escape its magic. The famous Bishr al-
Ḥāfī (d. 227/January 842) was a student of both Abū Muʿāwiyah and ʿĪsā b.
Yūnus as-Sabīʿī who were involved in the transmission of UZ.48 In his great
work on the pious and mystics, Abū Nuʿaym al-Iṣfahānī (336–430/948–1038)
includes a long article on Bishr and, while not quoting UZ in full, refers to the
version in which the Prophet tells it to ʿĀʾishah, and he further has Bishr con-
firm that it was ʿĪsā b. Yūnus who told him the “story (qiṣṣah).”49 From the next
generation, we have the report of al-Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī, who at some time of
his life had studied with Abū Nuʿaym, informing us that Bishr, together with
his cousin ʿAlī b. Khashram, had studied UZ with ʿĪsā.50 This, however, hap-
pened probably in connection with Bishr’s youthful occupation with ḥadīth
and was before he renounced ḥadīth study and turned to asceticism and mys-
ticism.
of not belonging to aṭ-Ṭabarī’s original text (cf. Introductio, Glossarium, etc., DCXXVIII,
of the Leiden edition), and it is omitted in R.S. Humphreys’ English translation XV, 159
(Albany, New York, 1990). It is not quite clear whether the Istanbul manuscripts used
in Ibrāhīm’s edition contained it and thereby added weight to its possible genuineness.
According to his name, this Zarʿ belonged to a family of Yemenite descent.
A possible Z-r-ʿ is listed in G. Lankaster Harding, An Index and Concordance of pre-
Islamic Arabian Names and Inscriptions, 297 (Toronto 1971), from a then still unpublished
inscription. The vocalization is, of course, entirely uncertain, even if the reading is correct.
48 On Abū Muʿawiyah, see above, n. 31. ʿĪsā b. Yūnus was the principal transmitter of UZ
from Hishām. He died in 187/803 or beg. 191/806, cf. Ibn Saʿd, VII, 2, 185; Bukhārī, Taʾrīkh,
III, 2, 406, and at-Taʾrīkh aṣ-ṣaghīr, ed. Maḥmūd I. Zāyid, II, 222 (Beirut 1406/1986); Ibn
Abī Ḥātim, III, 1, 291 f.; al-Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī, Taʾrīkh Baghdād, XI, 152–156; Tahdhīb, VIII,
237–240. He makes a brief appearance in aṭ-Ṭabarī, History, anno 145, III, 298, of the Leiden
edition.
49 Cf. Abū Nuʿaym, Ḥilyat al-awliyāʾ, VIII, 536 (reprint Beirut 1387/1967).
50 Cf. Taʾrīkh Baghdād, VII, 68. ʿAlī b. Khashram has only a two-line entry in Ibn Abī Ḥātim
III, 1, 184, but his son ʿAbd-ar-Raḥmān is listed at some length in Taʾrikh Baghdād, X, 278f.
The complete pedigree indicated there shows that Khashram and Bishr’s father al-Ḥārith
were brothers.
A more explicit Ṣūfī connection attested for a much later time remains
mysterious. It is an item in the UZ bibliography of al-Qasṭallānī referring to a
commentary by “Sayyidī ʿAlī al-Wafawī according to Ṣūfī tradition and thinking
(ʿalā tarīq al-qawm wa-ahl al-ishārāt).”51
A statement of the educational value of studying UZ comes from pious, if
not particularly Ṣūfī, circles. In his History of Qazwīn, ar-Rāfiʿī lengthily deals
with it in connection with the biography of his father.52 He counted the latter’s
transmission of it as a noteworthy example of his scholarly activity. He taught
it to him in 563/1167[8] when he was about six years old. At the end of the
44 quotation, ar-Rāfiʿī says: “My father encouraged me as a child to | memorize this
ḥadīth because of the many useful points it raises and because it is a beautiful
piece of literary expression (li-kathrati fawāʾidihī wa-ḥusni alfāẓihī).” And he
concludes with edifying verses that show the grip on the imagination UZ had
acquired:
With respect to its acts of obedience, my soul

Has come to rest on infertile soil,
But if my Lord with His vast generosity
Takes care of me, there is no problem.
I achieved comfort through His kindness
As did Umm Zarʿ through Abū Zarʿ.
A curiosity is provided by an apparent allusion to UZ in the pharmacological

literature. In connection with zarnab, Ibn al-Bayṭār quotes statement VIII as an
anonymous verse.53 Al-massu massu arnab/wa-r-rīḥu rīḥu zarnab could indeed
be scanned as a rajaz verse, but its likely source for Ibn al-Bayṭār was UZ. It can
hardly be assumed that he was not aware of its provenience.
Less surprising is a reference to UZ in a geographical dictionary. Yāqūt quotes
it under shi/aqq as indicating a region.54 This is in keeping with UZ’s intimate
connection with philology, to which we are turning now.
51 Cf. Rosenthal, op. cit. (above, n. 2), 267f., n. 64.

52 Op. cit. (above, n. 11).
53 Cf. R. Dozy, “Über Sontheimer’s Übersetzung des Ibn-al-Baiṭār,” in ZDMG 23 (1869), 194f.;
Ibn al-Bayṭār, I, 158 f. (1965 reprint of the 1291 edition) = II, 462 (Beirut 1412/1992). Cf. Fatḥ,
XI, 173, who seems to say that Ibn al-Bayṭār and other pharmacologists took no notice
of zarnab (istankarahū). An independent existence of the UZ remark as Ibn al-Bayṭār’s
source is improbable.
54 Yāqūt, Muʿjam al-buldān, ed. F. Wüstenfeld, III, 308, s.v. (Göttingen 1866–1873). The term
is also explained under sh-q-q in Ibn al-Athīr and Lisān.
(3) Fictional narratives such as UZ constituted eagerly exploited source

material for early philologists collecting high-language Arabic idioms. UZ was
ideally suited to serve this endeavor. Its language reflects terminology some-
times explainable by poetry but most often unusual. It was, or certainly gives
the appearance of being, a genuine literary effort in the sense that it was
not a parody of highflown, nonsensical verbiage of the sort well known from
adab literature. When it became an indubitably authoritative ḥadīth, its lan-
guage had to be taken seriously; its early Muslim pedigree marked both its
language and its style as outstanding Arabic, whether it went back to
the Prophet or to ʿĀʾishah or some eloquent individual of the second genera-
tion.55
Explanations of terms accompanied the earliest texts of UZ, and the philol-
ogists who collected rare words (gharīb, gharāʾib) not only in the Qurʾān but
also in the ḥadīth literature soon incorporated the data they were able to cull
from UZ in their voluminous works. Abū ʿUbayd used it in his gharīb work. If
Ibn | Qutaybah (213–276/828–889) did not pay attention to UZ in his Gharīb al- 45
ḥadīth, his work may have been the last one of its kind to do so. However, he
did refer to UZ in other connections.56
It seems useless to speculate about early works of the kind that are not
preserved, as those of Abū ʿUbaydah Maʿmar b. al-Muthannā, but probably did
not include UZ, or about where the references to early grammarians found
frequently in the UZ commentaries come from. Gharīb al-ḥadīth works were
written in the early third/ninth century in remote Spain as is attested for
ʿAbd-al-Malik b. Ḥabīb who dealt with UZ.57 The interest in Spain in UZ is
also confirmed by the fact that the Gharīb ḥadīth Umm Zarʿ by Ibn al-Anbārī
was studied there.58 Al-Qālī (288–356/901–967) may have had something to do
55 Cf. ʿIyāḍ, 154.

56 I perused Ibn Qutaybah’s Gharīb al-ḥadīth briefly in the edition by ʿAbdallāh al-Jabbūrī
(Baghdad 1977). Ibn Qutaybah’s criticism of Abū ʿUbayd found much attention. It included
a passage dealing with statement VI (Abū ʿUbayd/Ibn Qutaybah: V), cf. G. Lecomte, “Le
‘Kitāb Iṣlāḥ al-Ghalaṭ’ d’lbn Qutaybah,” in Mélanges de l’Université St. Joseph 44 (1968), 180f.
The ʿUyūn al-akhbār, IV, 6 (reprint Cairo 1963–1964), quotes a statement in explanation
of Umm Zarʿ’s remark on the meeting of Abū Zarʿ with the other woman. Another
description of a good woman according to Abū d-Dardāʾ is said by Ibn Qutaybah, ʿUyūn,
IV, 9, to have been explained in his Gharīb al-ḥadīth.
57 Above, n. 7.
58 Cf. Ibn Khayr, Fihrist, ed. F. Codera and J. Ribera Tarrago, 197 (Zaragoza 1893, reprinted
Baghdad 1963); Sezgin, GAS, VIII, 154. On Ibn al-Anbārī, see above, n. 40. According to Ibn
an-Nadīm’s Fihrist, 75, line 24, he did not complete his Gharīb al-ḥadīth.
with its introduction and the promotion of UZ’s popularity.59 Among the much
quoted gharīb works exploiting UZ was the Kitāb al-Gharībayn (in Qurʾān and
ḥadīth) of al-Harawī (d. 401/1010[1]). Of particular importance was an-Nihāyah
fī gharīb al-ḥadīth of Majd-ad-dīn Ibn al-Athīr (544–606/1149–1201) because its
information from UZ was incorporated consistently by Ibn Manẓūr in his Lisān
al-ʿarab and thus was finally assured of entry into general lexicography. Earlier
dictionaries such as those of Ibn Durayd or Ibn Sīdah, if they used UZ, had
restricted themselves to the one or other noteworthy lexeme.60 After the Lisān,
UZ tends to be mentioned explicitly be lexicographers as one of their sources.61
46 Grammar and syntax counted as heavily among early Muslim philologists
as did lexicography, and in connection with UZ, they continued to do so, since
grammatical/syntactical discussions were considered indispensable for elu-
cidating all the numerous doubtful points. Much comparative material was
paraded, and it is in general instructive, especially in the detail assembled by
ʿIyāḍ. Right at the beginning, for example, it was the numeral “eleven”62 and
the verbal forms connected with it. There was, of course, no problem with the
required verbal form following upon “eleven women,” but there were three pos-
sibilities for the verb immediately preceding, jalasa/ijtamaʿa, jalasat/ijtamaʿat,
and jalasna/ijtamaʿna. The first was enshrined in al-Bukhārī,63 but the picture
59 Al-Qālī, Amālī, II, 10 (Cairo 1373) quotes Ibn al-Anbārī for a lexical gloss on UZ. Cf. ʿAynī,
ʿUmdah, IX, 472.
60 Ibn Durayd, Jamharah, III, 408a (Hyderabad 1351, reprint Baghdad ca. 1970) thus cites
ʿayāyāʾ (which already Abū ʿUbayd considered a doubtful reading, sometimes read gha-
yāyāʾ which was even more doubtful) from statement VII. Ibn Sīdah, Muḥkam, II, 148
(Cairo 1377–1393/1958–1973), cites the same word as “statement of a woman.” He appar-
ently assumed that everybody knew that this meant UZ.
61 In connection with n-q-th, Lane, 2835c, quotes Tāj al-ʿarūs for information from an unspec-
ified tradition, but Tāj, I, 651, line 2 (Būlāq 1306–1308), in fact, names UZ. Taj quotes the
information as provided by “Abū ʿUbayd,” exactly as we find it in Lisān, III, 18 (Būlāq 1300–
1308). Ibn al-Athīr, Nihāyah, IV, 179 (Cairo 1322), has the same text but does not mention
Abū ʿUbayd and, instead, has the siglum h standing for al-Harawī, cf. Yale manuscript
Landberg 545, fol. 172a, s.v. n-q-th. Abū ʿUbayd’s text, as we have it, is different. Al-Harawī’s
kunyah happens to be Abū ʿUbayd, but the textual situation does not permit to identify
him with the “Abū ʿUbayd” mentioned in Lisān, and he is not normally referred to by his
kunyah.
62 The ordinal numeral in statement XI also was subject to debate.
63 According to ʿIyāḍ, 24, quoting Ibn Nāṣiḥ (cf. Rosenthal [above, n. 2], n. 53), already the
recension of al-Haytham had ijtamaʿa. Ṭabarānī, 143, refers to the recension of ʿUqbah b.
Khālid (n. 65). For the entire complicated situation, cf. ʿIyāḍ, 26–31. Fatḥ, XI, 165, refers to
Ibn al-Tīn’s explanation of the use of the 3. m. sg. as due to the omission of jamāʿah “a group
in general is not uniform. The second form was found in Abū ʿUbayd and those
following him.64 For the third, the recensions of ʿUqbah b. Khālid, ʿAbbād b.
Manṣūr, or Abū Yaʿlā figure in the literature.65 ʿIyāḍ quotes the views of the
ancient grammarians. It is, however, obvious that all three forms were viable
and were legitimately employed. The historians in a way avoided the problem
by starting with kāna.
At the end, to give another example, there was kuntu in the Prophet’s remark
to ʿĀʾishah on his being to her as Abū Zarʿ to Umm Zarʿ. Was it the equivalent
of anā and indicated the present tense? This problem was easily solved. Never-
theless, it occasioned a thorough discussion that has its modern successors.66
Another aspect of philology came to the fore after grammar and lexicogra-
phy had been firmly established. It required a greater measure of sophistication
but had more specialized and limited applicability. This was the ʿilm al-badīʿ,
roughly “literary criticism.” The statements of the eleven women with | their sajʿ 47
and obvious literary artistry provided a great opportunity for identifying rhetor-
ical figures. By the time of ʿIyāḍ, the discipline had achieved general currency
and such wide appeal that a full-scale investigation of UZ in its light became a
natural enterprise. Before him, the subject appears to have been almost totally
disregarded. ʿIyāḍ not only made occasional remarks on it in connection with
the individual statements but he concluded that there was so much to be said
on it that a special chapter exclusively devoted to the rhetorical figures should
be included in his work.67 He was able to identify more than a dozen figures. He
had to admit, however, that different designations were used for the same figure
in some instances.68 Later authors quoted ʿIyāḍ on this subject, but no attempt
seems to have been made to improve or elaborate on what he had done.
of eleven women sat.” The identity of the frequently quoted Bukhārī commentator Ibn
at-Tīn still eludes me, cf. Ibn Khaldūn, Muqaddimah, II, 405, trans., II, 459; Ḥājjī Khalīfah,
ed. Şerefettin Yaltkaya, I, 545 (Istanbul 1941–1943).
64 Cf. ʿIyāḍ, 4, referring to the recension of Abū Maʿshar; IaṬāhir, 121; Nasāʾī, 204; Tirmidhī;
Ābī; Zamakhsharī; Rāfiʿī, etc. Fatḥ, XI, 165, refers to Abū ʿAwānah (d. 316/928, cf. Sezgin,
GAL, I, 174) who, according to Fatḥ, 164, 166, quoted the recension of Abū Muʿāwiyah in his
Ṣaḥīḥ. The published portions of Abū ʿAwānah’s Musnad (Hyderabad 1362–1363) cannot
be expected to include UZ.
65 Nasāʾī, 211, 214, and Fatḥ, 165. ʿUqbah died in 188/804 according to Tahdhīb, VII, 239f. For
ʿAbbād, see above, n. 38, and for Abū Yaʿlā, below, n. 87.
66 Cf. W. Reuschel, “wa-kāna llāhu ʿalīman raḥīman,” in Studia Orientalia in memoriam C.
Brockelmann, 147–153 (Halle 1968), cited by M.B. Schub, “The expression of panchronic
actions in Arabic,” in JSS 27 (1982), 57–59. See ʿIyāḍ, 168–170.
67 Cf. ʿIyāḍ, 57 and 186–214, his last chapter (see above, p. 2).
68 Cf. ʿIyāḍ, 207.
(4) While the philological occupation with UZ was an opportunity provided

by its intrinsic linguistic difficulty and also was in tune with the rapidly grow-
ing scholarly work in religious literature, its role in the latter that was more
or less forced upon it required that a search for some religious/legal mean-
ing be undertaken. Much effort was spent on producing, at any cost, results
that could plausibly be argued to be both acceptable and interesting to Mus-
lims.
The historians naturally had no need to reflect on any such deeper meaning,
but even Abū ʿUbayd shows (at least, in the text as printed) not the slight-
est concern in this respect. For compilers of large ḥadīth collections arranged
according to subject matter, the question immediately arose of where to put UZ.
Al-Bukhārī thus included it in the Kitāb an-Nikāḥ and chose for it the chap-
ter heading of ḥusn al-muʿāsharah maʿa l-ahl “how to be nice to one’s wives”
or “how to comport oneself with one’s wives and family.” Muslim opted for
the easy way out by entering it under the glories ( faḍl) of ʿĀʾishah; increas-
ing ʿĀʾishah’s standing in the Islamic community may indeed have been the
purpose of UZ’s connection with her and the Prophet, but it could hardly be
considered a moral or religious value hidden in it. For an-Nasāʾī, it belonged
into the context of wifely gratitude to her husband. Soon, whether UZ occurred
in the large collections or in more specialized works, a label had to be found
for it. Thus, at-Tirmidhī in his ash-Shamāʾil al-Muḥammadīyah wisely clas-
sified it as belonging to the ample available information on the Prophet’s
humor and participation in light banter (samar). Al-Bukhārī had the advan-
tage of having chosen the most obvious meaning of UZ, its contribution to the
understanding of the relationship between the sexes, and therefore carried the
day.
The mentioned meanings were accepted early in the literature on UZ, but
the ever expanding discussion made it necessary constantly to find something
48 new | to contribute, and the search for “useful points ( fawāʾid)” continued
apace. ʿIyāḍ had already in his possession normative information on all the
statements made by the eleven. He called it fiqh and added a paragraph to each
of them under this heading; later in his work (171–185), he enlarged upon and
presented a summary of it. His information is basically reproduced by Ibn Ḥajar
but not without largely recasting it and implicitly or explicitly presenting his
own views on the matter. As probably the most detailed yet concise statement,
his passage may be translated here (with references in the notes to the more
diffuse and often quite different ʿIyāḍ):69
69 Fatḥ, XI, 185–187. The numbering of the translation takes the place of the simple fīhi of
Useful points provided by this ḥadīth other than what has been men-
tioned before is the need for a man (husband).70
(1) To be friendly in the company of his wives (ahl) and to talk to them
about permissible subjects as long as it does not lead to something
that is to be avoided.71
(2) He may joke and relax, be playful with his wives and let them know
of his love for them as long as it does not cause damage as the result
of their committing offensive acts against him or turning away from
him.72
(3) Boasting about wealth is forbidden, while it is clear that excellence
in religious matters may be mentioned. A man may inform and
remind his wives of what he is doing (ṣūrat ḥālihī) for them, in
particular if ungratefulness, a natural characteristic of theirs, is in
evidence.73
(4) A woman may mention the kindnesses shown her by her spouse.74
(5) A man may honor one of his wives by word or action in the presence
of her fellow wives, on condition of (muḥilluhū) the absence of any
tendency toward injustice.75 Earlier, in the chapters on hibah, it has
been stated that it is permissible to single out one spouse by giving
her various presents, provided the other has been given all that she
is entitled to.76
(6) It is permissible for a man to converse with his wife when it is not
her turn.77
(7) By featuring conversation about past nations and their use of pro-
verbial examples for instruction, the ḥadīth makes this permissible
the text. For comparison, it may be mentioned that like most earlier commentators, Ibn
Ḥajar’s contemporary al-ʿAynī, IX, 476, restricted himself to just a few points. In al-ʿAynī’s
case, they more or less correspond to Fatḥ, items 2, 7, 8 (only wifely gratitude), 13, 18,
21.
70 This being the overall theme, the text seems to invite a correction, but none is necessary.
71 Cf. ʿIyāḍ, 32.
72 ʿIyāḍ, 37–41, 178–183. He expands on the very popular subject of the Prophet’s jokes and
why joking may be either good or bad joking.
73 ʿIyāḍ, 33, without the concluding general observation.
74 Cf. ʿIyāḍ, 174.
75 ʿIyāḍ, 33 f.
76 Cf. Fatḥ, VI, 135.
77 ʿIyāḍ, 34 ff.
as it does telling interesting stories and pleasant anecdotes for relax-

ation and psychological stimulation.78
(8) Women are encouraged to be faithful to their husbands and to avoid
scrutinizing too closely what they do (qiṣar aṭ-ṭarf ʿalayhim) as well
49 as to be grateful for | their kind deeds. Furthermore, a woman may
describe all the good and bad qualities of her husband of which
she is aware. Exaggeration is permitted here, on condition that it
does not become a habit, because this would diminish the dignity
(murūwah, of their husbands).
(9) The ḥadīth indicates that an informant (mukhbir) may interpret
the information (khabar) he collects by asking for comments or by
initiating comments on his own.79
(10) As shown in the ḥadīth, mention of a man’s (husband’s) faults is
permissible, if the intention is to discourage such activity. It would
then not be slander (ghībah).80 This was indicated by al-Khaṭṭābī,
but Abū ʿAbdallāh at-Tamīmī, ʿIyāḍ’s authority, found fault with
al-Khaṭṭābī’s statement, saying that such argumentation would be
valid only if the Prophet had heard the woman slandering her
spouse and let her do it.81 Speaking about someone not present,
however, is a different situation. It is similar to stating that among
the people, there is an individual with something.82 Perhaps, this
is what al-Khaṭṭābī meant, so that he cannot faulted for his state-
ment.
78 ʿIyāḍ, 36 f.
79 Cf. ʿIyāḍ, 41 f.
80 Ghībah, censured in Qurʾān 49:12, was usually counted among the major sins, cf., e.g., Fatḥ,
XIII, 79ff. The enormous importance of the subject in society and law explains why Ibn
Ḥajar dwells here on it at greater length.
81 ʿIyāḍ’s discussion (54–58) is summarized by Ibn Ḥajar in a rather dense manner. For
Abū Sulaymān al-Khaṭṭābī (d. 386/996 or 388), cf. GAL S I, 275f.; Sezgin, GAS I, 210f. Abū
ʿAbdallāh at-Tamīmī is identified by the editor of ʿIyāḍ with al-Māzarī, as he is usually
referred to. Al-Māzarī died in 536/1141 at the age of 83, cf. GAL S I, 663; Sezgin, GAS I, 136.
His commentary on Muslim, entitled al-Muʿlim bi-fawāʾid Muslim, should be checked for
the above remarks. It seems strange that Ibn Ḥajar would refer later to al-Māzarī without
mentioning his identity with Abū ʿAbdallāh at-Tamīmī. He probably assumed that the
reader would know it.
82 ʿIyāḍ, 54, quoting al-Māzarī, speaks of matters such as stealing or committing adultery
instead of the vague “something” ( fī l-ʿālam man yasriq wa-yaznī).
Al-Māzarī says:83 Someone says: Some of these women gave offensive

descriptions of their spouses, but this was not slander because the hus-
bands’ identities and names were not known. Al-Māzarī says: This excuse
would be necessary only if the person to whom the ḥadīth was told heard
them make slanderous remarks about their husbands and let them do it.
However, since the situation is different and ʿĀʾishah told a story about
anonymous women who were not present, it is not. If a woman gave an
offensive description of her husband, it would be forbidden slander for
both the speaker and the listener, unless that woman spoke in a complaint
before a judge. This is so with respect to a specific individual. As for an
unknown and unidentified person, there is nothing wrong with listening
to what is said about him, since he is not harmed,84 unless it is known85
that the one to whom he is mentioned knows him. Now then, those men
mentioned in the ḥadīth are totally unknown, both as individuals and as
to their identities, let alone their names, and it is (also) not established
that those women are Muslims, so that the law of slander would apply to
them. Therefore, the use of the ḥadīth for argumentation is invalid here
for the reasons indicated.
(11) It strengthens the views of those who disapprove of a woman who

had a spouse getting married (again), because it shows that Umm
Zarʿ acknowledged that her second husband honored her as much
as he could, yet she showed contempt for him and thought less of
him than of her first husband.86
83 What precisely is quotation from al-Māzarī is not quite clear. The printed text is possibly
slightly incorrect.
84 ʿIyāḍ’s remarks stress harm as a criterion of slander.
85 Rather than “he knows.”
86 In the recension of ʿUmar according to Nasāʾī, 218, but (dubiously) identified by al-ʿAynī,
IX, 475, line 18, as that of al-Haytham, we find wa-stabdalat baʿdahū wa-kullu badalin aʿwar
as a comment on the remarriage of widows or divorcees: “Every exchange is risky” and
likely to lead to something worse. Cf. IaṬāhir, 120; ʿIyāḍ, 159. For the problem caused in
Muslim society by the repeated and necessary remarrying of women and the yearning
expressed for an earlier husband, cf. F. Rosenthal, “Reflections on love in Paradise,” in John
H. Marks and Robert M. Good (eds.), Love and Death in the Ancient Near East: Studies in
honor of Marvin H. Pope, 18 f. (Guilford, Connecticut, 1987), reprinted in Rosenthal, Muslim
Social and Intellectual History (Aldershot, Hampshire, 1990) [above, p. 855f. Ed.]. Fatḥ, XI,
184, cannot refrain in this connection from quoting the famous verse mā l-ḥubbu illa li-l-
ḥabībi l-awwali. [On badal aʿwar, see also aṣ-Ṣafadī, ash-Shuʿūr bi-l-ʿūr, ed. ʿAbd-ar-Raḥmān
Ḥusayn, 100 (ʿAmman 1409/1988).]
(12) Love covers up bad treatment. Although Abū Zarʿ treated Umm Zarʿ
badly by divorcing her, this did not prevent her from showering him
with greatly exaggerated praise. One of the recensions hints that
Abū Zarʿ regretted having divorced her and wrote a poem about it.
In the recension of ʿUmar b. ʿAbdallāh b. ʿUrwah < his grandfather
< ʿĀʾishah where ʿĀʾishah reported the story from the Prophet from
Abū Zarʿ and Umm Zarʿ, she mentioned the poem of Abū Zarʿ on
Umm Zarʿ.87
(13) A man is permitted to describe women and their good features but
on condition that they remain anonymous. What is to be avoided, is
describing a specific woman in the presence of the man or describ-
ing female features that men are not permitted to look at intention-
ally.88
(14) In a comparison, the things compared need not be equal in every
aspect89 because the Prophet said, ‘I am to you as Abū Zarʿ …’. Meant
is what he explained in the recension of al-Haytham when he speaks
about intimacy and so on, but not all those details given about Abū
Zarʿ such as excessive wealth, son, servant, etc. as well as the total
disregard for religious matters.90
(15) Incidental reference to divorce (kināyat aṭ-ṭalāq) does not bring it
about in fact, unless it is combined with intention (nīyah). For the
Prophet compared himself with Abū Zarʿ who had (spoken about)
divorce, but this did not necessarily bring about divorce in fact, as
he had not intended (to proceed with) it ( yaqṣid ilayh).91
(16) Good people (ahl al-faḍl) from any nation may be used as models.
Umm Zarʿ told about the nice ways of Abū Zarʿ, and the Prophet
used him as an example. This statement was made by al-Muhallab,92
87 Fatḥ, XI, 185, had reported a statement in the recension of ʿUmar as transmitted by Abū
Yaʿlā to the effect that ʿĀʾishah “mentioned the poem of Abū Zarʿ on Umm Zarʿ.” Ibn Ḥajar
does not quote the poem and says that he did not find “this poem” in any other recension.
He sounds as puzzled by the remark as we are. The author of a Musnad, Abū Yaʿlā Aḥmad
b. ʿAlī b. al-Muthannā lived from 210/825[6] to 307/919[20], cf. GAL S I, 258; Sezgin, GAS I,
170 f.
88 ʿIyāḍ, 145 ff.
90 ʿIyāḍ, 183ff.
91 ʿIyāḍ, 184, in connection with (14).
92 Al-Muhallab b. Aḥmad b. Abī Ṣufrah, a Spanish commentator of al-Bukhārī, died as an old
man in 435/1044, cf. adh-Dhahabī, ʿIbar, III, 184.
but ʿIyāḍ rightly objected to | it that there is nothing in the context 51

to require that he used him as a model. Rather he indicated that
his situation with respect to ʿĀʾishah was the same as the situation
of Umm Zarʿ. Certainly, his (al-Muhallab’s) conclusion is sound in
the sense that the context of the story and the lawgiver’s apparent
approval and confirmation of it makes it permissible to use him as
a model. Similar to al-Muhallab’s statement is another to the effect
that the ḥadīth indicates acceptance of information coming from
only one individual (khabar al-wāḥid). Umm Zarʿ told about the
situation of Abū Zarʿ, and (following her report) the Prophet used
him as an example. ʿIyāḍ rightly found fault with this, too. Certainly,
its acceptance derives from the Prophet’s letting it pass without
disapproving of it.93
(17) It is permissible to use the phrase bi-abī wa-ummī, meaning fidāka
abī wa-ummī (see above, p. 40). This will be confirmed in the Kitāb
al-Adab, God willing.94
(18) A man may be praised to his face, if it is known that this will not
corrupt him.95
(19) It is permissible to say to a bridegroom bi-r-rifāʾ wa-l-banīn, if the
additional phrase at the end is established. This has been investi-
gated earlier in several chapters.96
(20) It is characteristic of the talk of women to be mainly about men. This
is different with men. Most of their talk is about making a living.
(21) It is permissible to use strange words and employ rhymed prose,
if it is not artificial. As stated by ʿIyāḍ quoted here abridged: The
statements of those women exhibit to the fullest well expressed
phrases and an eloquent style as well as many rhetorical figures,
especially the statement of Umm Zarʿ … .
Ibn Ḥajar’s unsystematic presentation of the uses of UZ reflects the unsystem-

atic growth of the list. In fact, the great variety of topics is hard to press into
a coherent scheme. There are minor technicalities of the science of ḥadīth (9,
[16], 17, 19). An important legal point concerns the limits of slander (10). Liter-
93 ʿIyāḍ, 171 and 184f.

94 ʿIyāḍ, 171–174. Bi-abī wa-ummī is used in the recension of ʿAbbād b. Manṣūr, cf. Nasāʾī, 214f.
The cross-reference given by Ibn Ḥajar refers to Fatḥ, XIII, 159f., 188–190.
95 ʿIyāḍ, 174f.
96 Cf. ʿIyāḍ, 175–178, 198.
ature in the sense of belles lettres is investigated as to form and purpose (21),
the limitations of comparison (14), the permissibility of entertaining aspects
in literature that covers even presumably pre-Islamic material (7), and the
suitability of its protagonists as models for Muslims (16). Points of general
morality such as boasting about one’s wealth (3) and praise of an individual
that is present (18) are touched in passing. Expectedly, problems of sexual
morality, together with their legal implications, dominate the picture. The
power of love in females is acknowledged (12) as is the basic theme of UZ, the
appropriate relationship between husbands and wives (1, 2, [3], 4, 6). Matters
that come up are the husband’s right to show preferable treatment among
his wives (5), the male right to talk about female features (13), the pitfalls
of divorce (15) as well as remarriage by divorced or widowed wives (11), the
52 wom|en’s right, within proper boundaries, to talk freely about their husbands
(8), and the female preoccupation with gossiping about their men which is
said to have no counterpart among the latter (20). For Ibn Ḥajar’s attitude, it
is, however, most noteworthy that he always adds restrictions to make clear
that any concessions granted to women must not infringe upon the dominant
position of the husband (2, 3, 5, 8).
Beyond the individual fawāʾid, it may said that, in general, an important
function of UZ was to indicate, in the name of Umm Zarʿ, how a household
should be run. A good husband was expected to be kind to his wives. He was
allowed to tolerate and share in their conversation, even if this meant being
together with one or more of his wives at the same time. He was also obliged
to provide for them generously within his means. He would treat his mother
generously, whether or not she lived in his household. All the women were to
be fed well, so that they would be plump and beautiful. On the other hand, the
sons, that is, all the males in the family, should be lean and spare. The principal
obligations of daughters included obediency97 and trying to be so good that
others would become envious. Servants were praised for being discreet, frugal,
and good housekeepers, as was obligatory upon the rest of the staff.98 We
are dealing here quite clearly with a middle or upper class urban household,
but no conclusion can be drawn from it as to where and when the narrative
originated.
As the foregoing excerpts from a vast literature show, UZ deserves the atten-
tion paid to it through the centuries. Its history is exemplary for the history of
significant segments of secular and religious literature and philology in Islam.

Those who commented on it had perforce to copy one another, so as to pre-

serve valuable information from their predecessors, but they always looked out
for something new to contribute to the discussion. The chaotic problems of
the furiously creative eighth-century intellectual developments are, of course,
not solved but brought if ever so little closer to an understanding. And, in
a painless, entertaining manner, UZ familiarizes the reader with important
aspects of the imprint made on society by Islam as a religion and civiliza-
tion.
Appendix
The translation of UZ given here follows the text of al-Bukhārī. Ideally, an edi-
tion of the text with an apparatus combining all the various readings should be
established first (the medieval scholars have eagerly collected all this material
but without making any sustained critical analysis of it). A thorough discussion
of all the possible meanings of words and phrases should precede, and | an 53
equally thorough discussion of how the statements might possibly be under-
stood should follow. This would vastly exceed the available space and could
not be done here. It also might by and large amount to not much more than
an often arbitrary process of selection by a present-day scholar from the often
more or less arbitrary choices offered by his medieval colleagues. The present
translation will be as literal as possible while realizing that this is a chimera,
and most of the interpretation is left open for the reader to puzzle over. Foot-
notes are few and selective and do not reflect the wealth of information avail-
able.
The divergent sequence of the statements of the first ten women may be
illustrated from representative examples in the following table where al-Bu-
khārī’s sequence serves as the basis:
Bukhārī99 Abū ʿUbayd100 Nasāʾī101 Khaṭīb102 Zubayr IaṬāhir103

(211: ʿUqbah) (215: ʿUmar)
I I I IV I IV I
II II II VIII II VIII VII
III III III IX III X VI
IV IV IV X VI I III
V VI V II V IX II
VI VII VI I IX VII IV
VII V VII V VIII VI VIII
VIII VIII IX VI VII V IX
IX IX VIII III IV II V
X X X VII X III X
Translation
Eleven women sitting together entered into a solemn compact that they would
not conceal any information about their husbands.
99 The sequence is identical in Muslim. It may be found, for instance, in Nasāʾī, 204, Rāfiʿī,
and the basic text of ʿIyāḍ.
100 Abū ʿUbayd’s sequence appears in Ābī and Zamakhsharī.
101 The recension of ʿUmar in Ṭabarānī, 147–149, has the same sequence, except that V and
I exchange places. However, Ṭabarānī, 143 f., quoting the recension of ʿUqbah b. Khālid,
which he equates with that of Yazīd b. Rūmān, has the sequence I,II,III,VI,VII,IV,V,VIII,IX,X.
102 Al-Asmaʾ al-mubhamah (above, n. 20). Al-Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī goes on to quote the version
with names from Zubayr, with V and VI exchanging places.
103 The listing of the five positive and five negative statements (see above, p. 41) is inverted
in Zubayr and IaṬāhir, but there is no complete agreement. IaṬāhir’s abridged quotation
from Zubayr expectedly follows the latter’s arrangement. Ṭabarānī, 139–141, quotes Saʿīd
b. Salamah b. Abī l-Ḥusām < Hishām reporting a sequence divided into negative and
positive statements in the order VII,I,III,VI,II; IV,V,VIII,IX,X, and adds after statement II:
“ʿUrwah said to him: These are the five men who are complained about.” Saʿīd occurs in
the alternate isnād mentioned by Muslim, see Tahdhīb, IV, 41f.
In the recension of ʿAbbād b. Manṣūr quoted in Ṭabarānī, 144–146, which lists only nine
women other than Umm Zarʿ (omitting VII), the sequence is II,III,I,VI,IV,V,VIII,IX,X.
I. The first woman said: My husband is the meat of a meager camel on a

mountain top, not easy to go up and not fat (enough) to take away.104
II. The second woman said: My husband is one about whom I spread no
information. I fear that I would omit nothing.105 If I mention it, I shall
mention (the entire story) front and back.
III. The third woman said: My husband, the big lout,106 if I speak up, I’ll be
divorced, and if I keep silent, I’ll be left suspended.107
IV. The fourth woman said: My husband is like the night of the Tihāmah,
neither hot nor cold, no fear and no loathing.108
V. The fifth woman said: Indoors, he is like a panther, and when he goes out,
he is like a lion. He asks no questions about what he observes.109
VI. The sixth woman said: When he eats, my husband stuffs himself. When
he drinks, he drinks it all. And when he goes to bed, he wraps himself up,
without inserting his hand to learn what ails (me).110
104 For fa-yuntaqal, the variant fa-yuntaqā (something like “to extract the marrow”) is offered.
The latter provides a rhyme, and we are left in the quandary to decide whether this is an
argument in favor of, or an argument against, its being the more original form—probably,
against.
The variant readings waʿth and qawr/qūr in connection with “mountain top” are listed
in Ibn al-Athīr, IV, 235, III, 317, and Lisān, III, 25, VI, 435, and as derived from Zubayr (but
not found in Muwaffaqīyāt) in ʿAynī, IX, 466, and Qasṭallānī, VIII, 80.
105 Another recension adds “evil” (Nasāʾī, 214 f.; Fatḥ, XI, 168), but perhaps “something” is
meant, with the negation being the complement of “fearing.” Some sense could be made
by referring the object pronoun to the husband, but this is unlikely.
106 On ʿashannaq, see M. Ullmann, Untersuchungen zur Raǧazpoesie, 84, 158 (Wiesbaden
1966).
107 Cf. muʿallaqah Qurʾān 4:129, explained as ayyim, i.e., with no sexual contacts.
108 Zubayr: “unhealthiness (wakhāmah);” ʿIyāḍ, 7, refers to al-Haytham’s addition wa-lā yu-
khāfu khalfahū wa-lā amāmah “absolutely nothing to be afraid of.”
109 While there can be little doubt about the principal quality of the lion, the (good or bad?)
qualities of fahd intended here are doubtful. Proverbs such as aksab min fahd (Ullmann,
Wörterbuch, K, 172) or the well known anwam min fahd were adduced. “Pussycat” suggests
a modern Western outlook, but this interpretation seems to have been in the mind of
ʿAbd-al-Malik b. Ḥabīb, according to ʿIyāḍ, 71.
The addition wa-lā yarfaʿu l-yawma ilā ghad “he does not postpone (what is to be done)
today until tomorrow” appears occasionally as in Zubayr.
110 Abū ʿUbayd: feeling for imperfections and thus aggrieving her, but the sexual interpreta-
tion that he is totally self-centered and does not take care of her needs seems preferable, cf.
Ibn Qutaybah, Iṣlāḥ (above, n. 56); al-Khaṭṭābī, according to ʿAynī, IX, 468, lines 23f.; ʿIyāḍ,
84 f. Since al-bathth does not rhyme properly, one is tempted to assume that li-yaʿlama
l-bathth was no original part of the statement but entered as an explanatory gloss. Note,
VII. The seventh woman said: My husband is an insensitive weakling.111 Every

sickness there is he has. He breaks your head or splits all the bones in your
body or does both.
VIII. The eighth woman said: My husband has a touch like a hare, and he smells
like zarnab.112
IX. The ninth woman said: My husband has high columns and a long sword
belt.113 He has lots of ashes (in his dwelling, indicating great hospitality).
His house is near the public meeting hall.
X. The tenth woman said: My husband is Mālik. Now, what about Mālik?!114
Mālik is better than that. His camels kneel in many places and graze in
few. When they hear the sound of fire being stoked,115 they realize that
they will perish.
however, that after “drinks it all,” ʿUmar’s recension (Nasāʾī, 217) has a phrase ending in
-thth: wa-idhā dhabaḥa ghtathth, explained as “when he slaughters (for guests), he picks
meager camels.”
111 The dubious ʿ/ghayāyāʾ (above, n. 60) is omitted in some recensions such as that of Zubayr
(where the printed text of what follows is garbled). See al-Jāḥiẓ, Ḥayawān, I, 60 (Cairo
1323–25).
112 See above, p. 44. This is generally explained as referring to the softness of a rabbit and the
sweet smell of a certain plant. Both arnab and zarnab are known as sexual slang terms, but
any application here seems questionable. An addition naghlibuhū (aghlibuhū) wa-n-nāsa
yaghlib “we control him while he controls everybody else” is thus vocalized in most texts.
The editor of Ṭabarānī, 140, 143, 147, vocalizes wa-n-nāsu yughlab, apparently: “as people
are used to be controlled.” This is most probably wrong if for no other reason then in
view of a rather similar idea in the Alexander cycle, see F. Rosenthal, in Graeco-Arabica
4 (Athens 1991), 199. Cf. also Qasṭallānī, VIII, 85, lines 27–29, for a related remark.
113 These metaphors for palatial buildings and tall stature are well attested in ancient poetry,
cf., for instance, al-Aʿshā, Dīwān, ed. R. Geyer, 70 (London 1928. E.J.W. Gibb Memorial Series,
N.S. 6); al-Khansāʾ, Dīwān, ed. L. Cheikho, 41 f. (Beirut 1895); ʿIyāḍ, 96 ff. For the metaphors
for “tallness” and “hospitality” together, cf. al-Muṭarrizī, Mughrib, ed. Maḥmūd Fākhūrī
and ʿAbd-al-Ḥamīd Mukhtār, II, 54 (Aleppo 1399–1402/1979–1982).
114 The idiom wa-mā …, repeated several times in Umm Zarʿ’s statement, is unanimously
explained by the commentators as an exclamation of praise (ʿIyāḍ, 105; Qasṭallānī, VIII,
87, line 2: istifhāmīyah li-t-taʿajjub wa-t-taʿẓīm), but the above neutral translation may
be preferable. Mālik (var. Abū Mālik, cf. Ṭabarānī, 140; ʿIyāḍ, 8) is generally accepted
as a proper name, but since the individual is not properly identified, this would not
compromise the discussion of ghībah.
115 Kindling a fire in preparation for the arrival of guests seems better than making some
sort of music (mizhar, see Lane, 1262b; Ṭabarānī, 145 [recension of ʿUmar]: mizmār). The
former reading (muzhir) was supposedly suggested by Abū Saʿīd aḍ-Ḍarīr. It remains,
however, doubtful and was emphatically rejected by ʿIyāḍ, 1122ff. According to Fatḥ, XI,
174, Zubayr read aḍ-ḍayf for al-mizhar, but this is not found in his Muwaffaqīyāt. ʿIyāḍ
XI. The eleventh woman said: My husband is Abū Zarʿ. Now, what about Abū
Zarʿ?! He made jewelry dangle from my ears and filled my arms with fat.
He made me glad, and I became very cheerful. He found me among people
with a few sheep and goats at a (remote) mountain slope116 and placed me
among people of neighing (horses) and groaning (camels), grinders (of
wheat) and cleaners (of chaff). With him I can talk without being cursed
out. I can sleep until morning. I can drink my fill.
The mother of Abū Zarʿ.117 Now, what about the mother of Abū Zarʿ?! Her
bundles are stuffed full, and her house is spacious.
The son of Abū Zarʿ. Now, what about the son of Abū Zarʿ?! His bed118 is like 56
the blade of a sword, and the leg bone of a kid satisfies him.
The daughter of Abū Zarʿ. Now, what about the daughter of Abū Zarʿ?!
Obedient to her father and obedient to her mother, filling out her clothes,
enraging the neighbor woman.119
The maid servant of Abū Zarʿ. Now, what about the maid servant of Abū
Zarʿ?! She never spreads our story. She never squanders our stores. She does
not fill the house with cobwebs.120
She said: Abū Zarʿ went out when the milk in the pail was being churned.
He met a woman who had two children like panthers121 playing underneath
supports the contention that the musical instrument ʿūd which he equates with mizhar
was well known among the ancient Bedouins. At the end, the recensions of Ibn as-Sikkīt
and Ibn al-Anbārī added wa-huwa imāmu l-qawmi fī l-mahālik (Fatḥ, XI, 175).
117 Some texts read “mother of Zarʿ,” which is unlikely. Zubayr’s omission of mother, son, and
maid (included, however, in IaṬāhir) counterbalances the addition of other members of
the household elsewhere (see below, n. 120) and shows that long no. XI was more amenable
to textual fluctuations.
118 Not in the printed text of Abū ʿUbayd.
119 “Obedience” has many variants in other recensions, such as zayn (ummahātihā wa-nisāʾ-
ihā) or riḍā ummihā (Zubayr; IaṬāhir). Zayn appears in Nasāʾī, 218, qurrat al-ʿayn in addi-
tion in Ṭabarānī, 146. Cf. ʿIyāḍ, 9, where also many variants for “enraging” are listed.
120 Next to the maid servant, who is a male khādim in, for instance, IaṬāhir and Ṭabarānī, 140,
146, or walīd (according to Fatḥ, XI, 181, to be found in Zubayr, whose Muwaffaqīyāt again
have nothing of the sort), the prosperous household of Umm Zarʿ is expanded to include
cooks (ṭāhī, pl. ṭuhāh) who stick conscientiously to stirring their pots. Further additions
are guests and property. AI-Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī claims that the list went so far as to include
the dog of Abū Zarʿ, cf. also ʿIyāḍ, 214, and, in general, ʿIyāḍ, 10, 152f.; Rāfiʿī, 368; ʿAynī, IX,
474 f.; Fatḥ, XI, 182, etc.
121 The “panthers” (above, n. 109; more accurately, according to F. Viré, in El2, s.v. fahd,
her waist with two pomegranates.122 He divorced me and married her. I mar-
ried after him a noble man who rode a sturdy horse and possessed a khaṭṭī
lance.123 He brought home to me a wealth of animals and gave me a couple
of every(thing) that comes home in the evening. He said: Eat, Umm Zarʿ, and
(also) provide for your folks!
She said: Now, if I were to gather everything he gave me, it would not come
up to the smallest of Abū Zarʿ’s vessels.
ʿĀʾishah said: The Messenger of God said: I am to you as Abū Zarʿ to Umm
Zarʿ.
“cheetah”) again are a problem, and there are variants quoted for it, such as “hawks” or
“lion cubs,” cf. ʿAynī, IX, 475, and Fatḥ, XI, 182.
122 “Pomegranates” would normally have to be understood as breasts, but “playing under-
neath her waist” does not go with breasts. A graphic explanation appears in Abū ʿUbayd,
308; Zamakhsharī, 54: Her posterior was so big that when she was lying on her back, it
raised here body above the ground and formed a gap large enough for a pomegranate to
pass through! ʿIyāḍ’s commentary (158) on the problem is particularly instructive. Fatḥ, XI,
183, knows of two recensions, the one by al-Ḥārith (b. Muḥammad b. Abī Usāmah) who
lived from 186/802 to 282/895 (cf. the English translation of aṭ-Ṭabarī, History, I, 247, and
index [Albany, New York, 1989]), and the other by al-Haytham, which simplify the matter
by replacing “waist” with, respectively, slip (dirʿ) and breast (ṣadr). See also Ibn Qutaybah,
ʿUyūn, IV, 6 (above, n. 56).
123 Khaṭṭī is generally explained as derived from a place name, cf. A. Giese, Waṣf bei Kušāǧim,
91 (Berlin 1981).
For “sturdy horse (sharī),” Zubayr and IaṬāhir (see also ʿIyāḍ, 160f.) have aʿwajī, after a
famous studhorse named Aʿwaj, on which see G. Levi Della Vida, Les “Livres des chevaux,”
index, 101 (Leiden 1928).
vii.10
Child Psychology in Islam 1
It is a modern and comparatively recent idea that the different stages of child-
hood represent individual and necessary stages which have a reason to be just
as they are. This is a very peculiar idea. It originated from the dynamic concept
of “development” as the guiding principle of the universe. By no means could
this idea be considered as something that would suggest itself to the simple
unprepared observer. For him, the child is the imperfect edition of the adult,
whose imperfections have to be overcome by the process of growing up … and
the sooner this is accomplished, the better. This, in fact, was the prevailing point
of view which persisted well into the eighteenth century. Then, for the first
time, it seems, the inherent laws that govern the different stages of childhood
came to be recognized. A new modern concept of the growth of human beings
started on its slow progress toward general acceptance. The study of child psy-
chology freed itself from the position as an auxiliary subject in the study of gen-
eral human psychology and became a subject in its own right. The obvious prac-
tical consequences of this new insight gained ground even much more slowly.
It can be said that as yet they are still far removed from being generally applied.
Child psychology in the sense in which we understand it today, thus, is
the product of a particular historical situation. It would, therefore, be wrong
to expect its full-blown existence in medieval times. In his excellent analysis
of al-Qabisi’s work on education, Ahmad Fuʾad al-Ahwani was, consequently,
eminently justified in saying that the psychological approach toward social
problems such as the education of children was all but unknown in medieval
sociological research.1
The Muslim literature on education is very extensive and important. It
has found the careful attention of many modern scholars in East and West,
although a number of works still remain unedited and the exhaustive history
of Muslim educational literature, in its origin and | development, has not yet 2
been written.2 However, to judge from the published material, this literature
1 A.F. al-Ahwani, At-Taʿlim fi raʾy al-Qabisi, Cairo 1364/1945, p. 36. [The original article lacked
diacritics in the transliteration. Ed.]
2 A recent article on The Muslim theories of education during the Middle Ages by M. Abdul Muid
Khan appeared in Islamic Culture 18, 1944. pp. 418–433.
The treatise on education by the Christian Arab philosopher Yahya b. ʿAdi is said to

is predominantly concerned with the important formal side of education and

contains comparatively little information on child psychology and the Muslim
view of it.
Under these circumstances, it does not seem far-fetched to ask whether
some such information might not be gathered from the many references to
children that are found in most branches of Muslim literature. In order to
gain an understanding of the concept of the world and of man that prevails
in a given civilization, it is quite useful to observe the attitude of the repre-
sentatives of that civilization toward the child, as that attitude reflects the
general outlook on many fundamental problems of human relationships. The
following pages, therefore, are devoted to the discussion of some stray notes
on the Muslim attitude toward childhood psychology which I collected in the
course of my readings. A more systematic and wider perusal of Muslim litera-
ture may yield interesting results, and certainly is a task which should not be
neglected.
A minor difficulty in this investigation is the fact that in Arabic as in other
languages, the terms for “child” are colloquially used as terms of endearment,
or flattery, or condescension for persons of a more advanced, and, eventually,
any age. The English dictionary, for instance, reflects this state of affairs under
the entries “boy” and “lad.” Arabic sabi, and even tifl, make no exception. Ibn
al-Athir reports the touching story that in the year 603/1206–1207, a boy (sabi)
said to his friend jokingly that he would hit him with a knife he was holding,
and plunged toward him. Accidentally, he hit the other boy in the belly with
the knife and killed him. He fled but was seized and condemned to death, but
before his execution he asked for paper and ink and wrote down the following
verses:
Without provisions of good deeds but a pure heart

Toward the generous Lord I am about to start.
But it would be wrong and base provisions to prepare
When to a person known as generous you repair.3
pay attention to the “anthropological-psychological element,” cf. G. Graf, Geschichte der

christlichen arabischen Literatur, Vol. 2, Citta del Vaticano 1947, p. 248 (Studi e Testi 133).
Without a direct knowledge of the work, it would be difficult to decide how relevant it might
be for our investigation.
3 Ibn al-Athir, Kamil, Cairo 1302, Vol. 12, p. 120. The story loses somewhat of its tragic char-
acter when we read in Ibn Kathir, Bidayah, Cairo 1351–1358, Vol. 13, p. 45f., that the inci-
dent happened when the two youths were drinking and, apparently, quarreling. It further
child psychology in islam 943
This story could well be used in our context, were it not for the fact that Ibn 3
al-Athir tells us that the age of the two boys was close to twenty. Fortunately,
there is a similar occurrence reported by another historian, where the persons
concerned actually are young children, and which will be quoted in its proper
place.4
As it will be seen, a certain concern with the meaning of childhood is pre-
dominantly found in four fields of intellectual activity, in legal-theological dis-
cussions, in mysticism, in philosophy, and in medicine—that is, a very repre-
sentative cross-section of the different aspects of Muslim science and learning.
However, before we go into that, a few words may be said about the dominant,
if superficial, picture of the Muslim concept of childhood psychology which
confronts the reader of Muslim works.
One will find that nearly every reference to a child’s activity is characterized
by the word “to play.” A child plays with everything he can lay his hands on, and
has no thought of any “serious” activity. Indeed, it is only the thought of being
permitted to play with balls and hockey sticks5 and to play with little birds after
school which makes school tolerable for children.6 The literary references to
children playing all sorts of games, innocent or mischievous, as a rule have the
attractive quality which attaches to the subject. Most appealing to us would
seem to be the stories which centre around the pets with which children used
to play.
The page in which al-Qifti describes an incident from his youth ranks among
the best that has been written in world literature on adolescence. Al-Qifti tells
us how he kept, as children do, an Isfahani cat as a pet. This cat happened
to give birth to a litter of kittens in his house. A male cat came and ate some
of the kittens. Angrily, young Qifti swore that he would kill the murderous
male cat. He set up a trap on the roof of the house and caught the cat in
loses when we learn from Ibn Taghri birdi, An-Nujum az-zahirah, Vol. 6. Cairo 1355/1936,
p. 192f. (quoted in the edition of Ibn Kathir), that the position and family connections of the
youths played a role in the affair. Ibn al-Athir’s source is not available to me, but it certainly
was his merit to have presented the story so as to bring out the element of human interest in
it.
4 See below, p. 15.
5 It may be noted that hockey stick and ball appear in the Arabic translation of the Alexander
novel as the symbols of childish playfulness, where the Greek text just has “ball,” cf., for
instance al-Mutahhar, Livre de la Creation, ed. by C. Huart, Paris 1899–1919, Vol. 3, p. 152f. (Publ.
de l’Ecole des langues or. viv. IV, 16–18, 21); Historia Alexandri Magni (Pséudo-Callisthenes), ed.
by W. Kroll, Berlin 1926, p. 40 f.
6 Cf. al-Ghazzali, Ihyaʾ, Cairo 1334, Vol. 1, p. 43.
it. But when he went up to the roof with a stick in his hand, in order to kill
it, he noticed the pretty daughter of his neighbour who gestured to him to
let the cat go. Confused, he let it go. When he went downstairs, his mother
asked him whether he had killed the cat as he had intended to do. No, he
replied; it was not the cat I had been looking for but another one. His mother,
however, gave him to understand that she knew what had happened, and with
the verse:
Two kinds of girls I rather would not touch:

The betrothed of the friend and the close neighbour’s (wife),
4 she threw water upon the just kindled flame.7

Many stories are woven around the little birds which were kept as pets. There
is, for instance, the hardly historical report of the boy who went out with his
bird at noon and encountered the caliph ʿUthman holding a nap.8 Or we hear
as-Silafi report what a scholar known as Ibn Hadaq al-Hufari had told him in
Alexandria: when, as a boy, he played with a little bird, the bird closed its eyes
and stretched out, so that he believed that the bird was dead. He threw it down,
and as soon as the bird touched the ground, it flew away. It had just played dead,
in order to get free. This seemed a strange story. Therefore, as-Silafì was glad to
have it confirmed by a certain Ibn Thumnah as-Safaqusi who said that he had
gone to school together with Ibn Hadaq and had been present when the story
with the bird happened.9
We are told that az-Zamakhshari blamed the loss of his leg on the curse of
his mother when he was a little boy. He had a string attached to the leg of a
little bird with which he was playing, and when the bird escaped and hid in a
crevice, he had tried to pull it out by means of that string and torn off its leg.
When his mother saw that, she got angry and wished that God would cut off
his leg as he had cut off that of his little pet.10
The dangerous plight of the bird in the hand of his little master was also used
by a poet, apparently Ibn ar-Rumi, in a magnificent metaphor:
7 Cf. Yaqut, Irshad, ed. by D.S. Margoliouth, Leiden–London 1907–1927, Vol. 5, p. 478f. (E.J.W.
Gibb Mem. Series 6) = ed. Cairo n. y., Vol. 15, p. 176 f.
8 Cf. al-Baladhuri, Ansab, ed. by S.D.F. Goitein, Jerusalem 1936, Vol. 5, p. 9. In this story, the
bird (taʾir) may, however, not have been a pet but some kind of fowl.
9 Cf. as-Silafi, Muʿjam, photostat ms. or. Cairo (Egyptian Library) taʾrikh 3932, p. 337f.
10 Yaqut, op. cit., Vol. 7, p. 147 Margoliouth = Vol. 19, p. 127 Cairo.
Just like a small bird within

a child’s palm which threatens it
With imminent death while for
the child it is joyful play.11
The playful child that cannot be held responsible for his acts is on a level
with the insane. Children at first have no intellect, as the philosophers | would 5
express it,12 and are no better than animals. Thus, whenever madmen are
mentioned in Muslim literature, the children who run after them are not
missing. And the extent of a person’s insanity is often sufficiently characterized
by stating that he sought the company of and felt at home among children. The
inability of children and women to do a man’s job is naturally often noted, and
Muslim history offered many opportunities to observe that the rule of children
spelled disaster for a country.13
Childhood, thus, was in general not considered a happy state to which one
would wish to return.14 Not even a poet would play with such an idea. Youth
with its obvious advantages is often wished back, but not the very early years
of one’s life (which, it should be noted, before the twentieth century were
beset with great physical dangers and also for this reason something little
desirable). When, for instance, the word siba occurs in the following verse by
Jamil:
11 Cf. ath-Thaʿalibi, At-Tamaththul wa-l-muhadarat, ms. or. Princeton 126 H, fol. 70 a and ms.
or. arabe Paris (Bibliotheque Nationale) 5914, fol. 79 a.
The proverb says: As-saʿw fi n-nazʿ wa-s-sibyan fi t-tarab “The little bird in agony,
the children amused,” cf. ath-Thaʿalibi, loc. cit. and ms. or Princeton 126 H fol. 110 b.
Cf. also Ibn Abi ʿAwn, Kitab-at-Tashbihat, ed. by M. Abdul Muid Khan, Cambridge–
London 1950, p. 393 E.J.W. Gibb Memorial Series N. S. 17. and Hermes, De castigatione
animae, ch, 5, para. 7, in W. Scott–A.S. Ferguson, Hermetica, Oxford 1936, Vol. 4, p.
308.
12 Cf., for instance, Ibn Sina, Shifaʾ, tabiiyat, beginning of fann 8 (ms. or. Bodleian Library
Pocock 113 = Uri 475, fol. 2 b–3 a). This was, of course, a much debated problem. For
the Stoics, children were alogoi, had no reasoning power, cf. H. von Arnim, Stoicorum
veterum fragmenta, Leipzig 1921–1924, Vol. 3, p. 143, following Alexander of Aphrodisias,
Scripta Minora, ed. by I. Bruns, Berlin 1887–1892, Vol. 1, p. 153; Vol. 2, p. 121f. (Supplementum
Aristotelicum II). Cf., however, below, p. 18.
13 Cf. the famous verse, quoted by Juwayni, Taʾrikh-i-jahangushay, ed. by M. Qazvini, Leiden–
London 1912–1916, Vol. 1, p. 220 (E.J.W. Gibb Mem. Ser. 16).
14 For the Sufi attitude, cf. below, p. 15 f.
Would that the days of childhood were come back,

and that a time that’s gone, Buthaynah, might return,15
it clearly refers to youth rather than childhood. Poetry widely used siba as
a synonym of shabab. The pleasures of youth, rather than the innocence of
childhood, might also have been in the mind of the poet who said:
What makes their homes so dear to men

is small things youth16 accomplished there.
Memory of home recalls to them
their childhood17 there—and homesick they become.18
The poet again is Ibn ar-Rumi, and his exquisite, sensitive nature might well
have conceived the then unusual idea that the remembrance of childish igno-
rance is greater joy than man’s knowledge of his insufficiency. However, the
6 use of the word shabab parallel with siba would | suggest that Ibn ar-Rumi,
too, rather had youth in mind. It is a deeply felt emotion that “makes the old
man yearn for his childhood (youth),”19 and the bitter realization of squandered
opportunities causes him to exclaim: “O lost existence of ours, take from our
life’s duration a year and bring back of youth (siba) a few days.”20
As the child was a miniature edition of the man, his behaviour was consid-
ered to give an indication of the future success or failure of the latter. A famous
anecdote tells about the grave concern of al-Muʿtadid when his five-year old
son Abul-Fadl, the later caliph al-Muqtadir, gave each of his playmates as much
of a bunch of out-of-season grapes to eat as he had himself. He gives, stormed
the caliph, all of them a share in something that, as things in this world go, is
valuable, and children by nature usually are not generous with such things. In
15 Cf. al-Bayhaqi, Al-Mahasìn wa-l-masawi, ed. by F. Schwally, Giessen 1902, p. 237. A different
recension has shabab, cf. F. Gabrieli, in Rivista degli Studi Orientali 17, 1938, p. 69.
16 Shabab.
17 Uhud as-siba.
18 Cf. R. Guest, Life and works of Ibn ar Rumi, London 1944, p. 79; ath-Thaʿalibi, op. cit., ms. or.
Princeton 126 H, Fol. 33b; Ibn Bassam, Dhakhirah, Cairo 1358ff., Vol. 1, part 1, p. 176. Cf. also
al-Marzuqi, Kitab al-Azminah, Hyderabad 1332, Vol. I, p. 6.
19 Cf. Ibn Bassam, op. cit., Vol. 1, part 1, p. 163.
20 Ibn Tabataba al-Alawi, quoted by ath-Thaalibi, op. cit., ms. or. Princeton 126 H, fol. 34 b–35
a.
The proverb: Kull imriʾ fi baytihi sabi (op. cit., fol. 70 a), seems to imply that every man
is as heedless and unconcerned as a child when he is in his own home.
this manner, the historians explained the ruinous expenditures of the reign of
al-Muqtadir as the result of an alleged innate quality of the caliph, while, in
fact, circumstances which he was not able to master forced him to exhaust his
finances.21
Future calamities could thus be predicted from a child’s early behaviour.
However, it was much more interesting to observe in a child the forebodings
of greatness in the field or profession of his choice. Anecdotes of this type are
frequent in biographical literature, and entire books have been written about
them, such as Ibn Zafar’s Kitab nujabaʾ al-anbaʾ. Young Muhasibi, one of these
stories runs, was given a few dates by a date merchant when he watched the
other children play near his house (he himself, of course, would never have
stooped so low as to participate in the playing of games). Before eating the
dates, al-Muhasibi asked the merchant where he had gotten them. When he
was told that he had sold dates to a customer who had then dropped some
of them, he asked the merchant whether he knew his customer, and when
the merchant admitted that he knew him, al-Muhasibi turned to the playing
children and asked them whether the date merchant really was a Muslim.
The children said: Yes, yes, and the merchant, understandably annoyed, asked
al-Muhasibi what he meant with that question. The reply was: If you are a
Muslim, look for the person who bought the dates and clear up your deal
with him, as hastily as a very thirsty person would look for water. You, being
a Muslim, give Muslim children unlawful food to eat!
This story is mentioned in Ibn Zafar’s work.22 In general, al-Muhasibi’s biog- 7
raphy is full of similar legends concerning his youth. It is clear that such sto-
ries of youthful precocity would grow up especially around the memory of
pious men, mystics, and scholars. Occasionally, they were also invented for a
much less innocent purpose, namely, in order to show how a child’s sophisti-
cation might nonplus a great mind. Thus, al-Jahiz tells us that the Muʾtazilah
Thumamah, one of the most brilliant intellects of his time, left his donkey
unguarded outside when he visited a friend. When he came out, he saw a
boy sitting on it. He asked him how he dared sitting on the donkey without
his permission. The boy replied that he was guarding it for him. Thumamah
was unwise enough to remark that he would rather have seen the donkey lost.
21 Cf. al-Khatib al-Baghdadi, Taʾrikh Baghdad, Cairo 1349/1931, vol. 7, p. 216; Ibn al Jawzi,
Muntazam, Hyderabad 1357–1359, Vol. 6, p. 71, anno 295.
Ethical philosophy under Greek influence considered the germs of character qualities
existing in the child, cf. below, p. 19.
22 Cairo n. y., p. 148 f.
This gave the boy a chance to retort: ‘If you feel that way about the donkey, then
assume that it is lost, and give it to me and earn my thanks.’ Thumamah could
think of no reply to such precocious wisdom.23
With regard to educational practice, the natural consequence of the convic-
tion that a child’s state was imperfection was to do everything in one’s power
to help the child to get out of his imperfect state. The use of force, if neces-
sary, was proper. The goal which the child was to attain was set by the educa-
tor, with no or little regard for the child’s inherent abilities and psychological
preparation. Occasionally, there also existed a certain disregard of child’s sensi-
bilities. Dawud, the founder of the Zahirite school, laughed when his little son,
Muhammad, the future author of the Kitab az-Zahrah, came to him crying and
complained that his companions had nicknamed him “wagtail.”24 And when
Muhammad said that his father’s laughter was hurting him more than the teas-
ing of his playmates, Dawud said: ‘Nicknames come from heaven. You sure are
a wagtail, son.’25
It must, however, be admitted that if this was the dominant attitude in
medieval Islam, there is no lack of statements which show a better intuitive
understanding of educational problems. Indeed, those statements, though not
very common, are frequent enough to assume for them a considerable influ-
ence in actual life. A tradition ascribed to the Prophet—an attribution which,
however, the Khatib al-Baghdadi who reports the tradition declares to be very
doubtful—deals with the youngest age: “Do not beat your children when they
cry, for the crying of a child is, for four months, the confession that There is
no God but God; for another four months, a prayer for Muhammad; and, four
8 months, a prayer for | his parents.”26 When the child reaches the age of per-
forming the daily prayers, “it is necessary to be kind with the children.” This is
the advice of Sufyan ath-Thawri as well as of Zubayd al-Yami.27 The latter used
23 Al-Khatib al-Baghdadi, op. cit., Vol. 7, p. 146. Cf. also Ibn al Jawzi, Akhbar az-zurraf,
Damascus, 1347, p. 103 f. and Kitab-al-Adhkiya, Cairo, 1306/49.
24 This meaning is indicated for ʿusfur ash-shawk in F. Steingass, Persian-English Dictionary,
London 1892, p. 852. Other dictionaries identify the word with other birds; or, what would
seem the safest thing to do, leave it unidentified.
25 Cf. al-Khatib al-Baghdadi, op. cit., Vol. 5, p. 256; Ibn al-Jawzi, op. cit., Vol. 6, p. 93, anno 297.
26 Cf. al-Khatib al-Baghdadi, op. cit., Vol. 11, p. 337 f.
27 He appears to be the scholar mentioned in al-Bukhari, Taʾrikh, Hyderabad 1361ff., Vol. 2,
part 1, p. 411, as Zubayd b. al-Harith al-Iyami, cf. also as-Samʿani, Ansab, Leiden-London
1912, fol. 54 a (E.J.W. Gibb Mem. Ser. 20); Ibn. Hajar, Tahdhib, Hyderabad 1325–1327, Vol. 3,
p. 310 f. He died between 122 and 124. One of his sons, Abd-ar-Rahman, appears in the
Ansab, loc. cit., and also in Ibn Hajar, Lisan al-Mizan, Hyderabad 1329–1331, Vol. 3, p. 415. A
to say to the children: “Those of you who pray get five nuts.” And Ibrahim b. al-
Adham said: “Son, look for traditions, and whenever you learn one, you will get
a dirham.” This proved to be as successful an educational device in this case as
it has continued to be in many, many others.28
When children get into the reading age, it is not very safe to entrust valuable
manuscripts to them. Thus, when the Qadi al-Fadil was asked for a copy of the
Hamasah for a child to read, he went through his library and found that all
of his thirty-five copies of the work were written by known personalities. He,
therefore, replied that none of them was suited for children, and he told the
person who had asked him for a copy to go and buy one for a dinar.29
It was also felt that “if a child is kept from play, and forced to work at his tasks
without intermission, his spirit will be depressed; his power of thought and
freshness of mind will be destroyed; he will become sick of study, and his life
will be overclouded, so that he will try all possible shifts to evade his lessons.”30
A saying ascribed to Plato said that in punishing youths, one should always
leave room for an excuse, in order to keep them from becoming stubborn
(mukabarah).31 Plato, again, is credited with the statement that parents should
not force their children to become like them, because they were destined to
live in a time different | from theirs.32 However, it probably was something 9
extraordinary in actual life when a jurist, such as the Hanafite Ibn al-Quduri,
son of ʿAbd-ar-Rahman appears to be the Zubayd al-Yami who is mentioned in the Ansab,
fol. 596 b.
28 Cf. Ibn al-Jawzi, At-Tibb ar-ruhani, Damascus 1348, p. 46.
29 Cf. al-Maqrizi, Khitat, Bulaq 1270, Vol. 2, p. 367.
30 Cf. I. Goldziher, in the article on Education (Muslim), in Hastings’ Encyclopaedia of Religion
and Ethics, Vol. 5, p. 206 a. Goldziher follows the Mudkhal ash-sharʿ ash-sharif by Ibn
al-Hajj al-ʿAbdari who, in turn, based himself on the Maraqi az-zulfa of the Spanish
jurist Ibn al-ʿArabi (d. 1148). The same school of educational thinking is reflected in Ibn
Khaldun’s Muqaddimah in the chapter on “Severity toward students harms them.” Cf. also
the Muqaddimah’s chapter on the fact that the inhabitants of the desert are closer to
bravery than sedentary people.
Greek child psychology is the ultimate source, cf. M. Plessner, Der Oikonomikos des
Neupythagoreers ‘Bryson’ und sein Einfluss auf die islamische Wissenschaft, Heidelberg
1928, pp. 202, 257, and 83 (Orient und Antike 5). The last mentioned passage refers to
Nasir-ad-din at-Tusi’s Akhlaq-i-Nasiri.
31 Cf. al-Mubashshir, Mukhtar al-hikam, no. 34 of the sayings of Plato in the edition prepared
by the writer [but later aborted; see Oriens 13–14 (1960-61) 132–158. The saying is on
p. 134.6–7 in the edition by ʿA. Badawī (Madrid 1958). Ed.].
32 Cf. F. Rosenthal, The technique and approach of Muslim scholarship, Rome 1947, p. 68 a
(Analecta Orientalia 24).
did not teach his son jurisprudence, and when asked why he did not do it, he
frankly replied: “Let him live as it is congenial to him.”33 It may be noted that
the author who reports the remark appears to do so with more admiration than
surprise or disapproval.
When we now turn from this brief description of the general attitude toward
the child in Islam to the more specific approach to the subject which we find
in some branches of intellectual activity, we encounter the rather unexpected
phenomenon that the Muslim religious law and dogma has since its earliest
times been concerned with making a distinction between children and adults.
The phenomenon is unexpected because the discussion of problems, such as
the problem of a special dogmatic position of children as distinguished from
that of their parents during their lifetime and after death, presupposes a long
history of theological speculation.34 Therefore, those problems could not have
arisen spontaneously during the formative stage of Muslim law and theology
in the first century of the Hijrah. Yet, there is little reason to doubt the fact
reported in the latter sources that already the seventh-century Kharijites, when
their precarious position caused them to be ruthless and to shed much blood,
apparently also that of little children, defended their actions by dogmatic spec-
ulations about the religious position of children. We are forced to assume that
the appearance of such speculations in Islam is no indigenous Muslim devel-
opment but was made possible by the fact that they were already current in
the religious climate which preceded Islam. To judge from the willing accep-
tance of such speculations, they were not only current but, because of their
hair-splitting sophistry, popular.35
The Jewish scholars discussed two questions: what is the fate of the dead lit-
10 tle children of wicked Jews in the world-to-come destined to be?, | and from
what moment of their life on do children qualify for resurrection? The diver-
gent opinions which were held in this connection were lengthily discussed in
33 Cf. al-Qurashi, Al-Jawahır al-mudiyah fi tabaqat al-Hanafiyah, Hyderabad 1332, Vol. 1, p. 93.
34 The ancient Egyptians, for instance, who were very much concerned with life after death
do not seem to have made a distinction between dead children and adults, cf. G. Foucart,
in Hastings’ Encyclopaedia of Religion and Ethics, Vol. 3, p. 537 b.
35 A problem of a different sort, that of moral responsibility, caused Greek philosophers to
consider the special case of young children who had died, cf. Alexander of Aphrodisias,
op. cit. (above, fn. 12), Vol. 1, p. 193. Already Plato (Republic 615C) hinted at the particular
fate which expects deceased infants in the other world. A special limbus infantum is
said to have been an Orphic belief, and the restriction of ultimate bliss to those who
the Talmud.36 On the basis of Malachi 3.19: “That it shall leave them neither
root nor branch,” it was argued by one authority that the little children (= root)
of wicked Israelites would have no part in the other world. But another rabbi
referred to Daniel 4.20: “… leave the stumps of the roots thereof in the earth,”
and to Psalm 116.6: “The Lord preserveth the simple,” in order to prove that those
little children were admitted to the other world. Hebrew pethaʾim “the simple,”
he states, is a word which is used in the meaning of “infant” in the sea cities,
and it was known to the Jewish scholars that the word in a very similar meaning
occurred in Arabic ( fata).37 As to the little children of the wicked non-Jews, we
are informed, there was general agreement of the authorities that they would
not enter the world-to-come.
The other problem, namely, from what moment on infants qualified for
admission to the other world, was even more difficult to solve. One authority
referred to Psalm 22.32: “They shall come and declare His righteousness unto a
people that shall be born,” in support of his opinion that little children would
be admitted as soon as they were born. But from the preceding verse, Psalm
22.31: “A seed shall serve him; it shall be told of the Lord unto the next gen-
eration,” another authority derived the information that an infant could enter
the other world when he died as soon as he was able to speak. He interpreted
the verb “it shall be told” as an active: “he shall tell.” Still another authority
insisted that the word “seed” indicated that with the moment of conception,
the child to be born was ready for Paradise if he should die. And again, we
hear that it was the ability to say “amen” which was the criterion; since the
letters of the word “amen,” as spelled in Hebrew, meant “God is a trustworthy
king.”
In Christianity, the problem of the salvation of children was connected with
that of child baptism. In general, children were considered to be free from
sins. Therefore, a sectarian opinion held that baptism for children meant their
admission to Paradise. But when child baptism became a universal custom
in Christianity during the fifth century, victory had fallen to another theory,
namely, the one which held that baptism was necessary for the salvation of
were initiated into the mysteria has been considered the origin of the discussion of the fate
of deceased infants in Christianity, cf. J. Kerschensteiner, Platon und der Orient, Stuttgart
1945, p. 145. Whether or not the same origin might also apply to the Jewish discussion I am
not in a position to decide.
36 Bab. Sanhedrin 110 b. Cf. L. Goldschmidt. Der Babylonische Talmud, Vol. 7, Berlin 1903,
p. 499 f. Further references to Jewish literature in P. Volz, Die Eschatologie der jüdischen
Gemeinde im neutestamentlichen Zeitalter, Tübingen 1934, p. 246.
37 Cf. J. Levy, Neuhebræisches und chaldæishes Wærterbuch, Vol. 4, Leipzig 1889, p. 157 b.
children since it freed them, not from acquired sins which they did not have,
but from the original sin.38 The question of the salvation or damnation of
children who died was thus solved in Christianity in a rather simple fashion
11 and depended entirely | on the fact of baptism. There was no more need for
such intricate speculations as they persisted to exist in Judaism. However, the
problem of the particular fate of infants after death having once been raised, the
knowledge of it was kept alive in Christianity. Muslims could have heard about
it in a Christian as well as a Jewish environment and thus have been started on
the way to their own original speculations.
The most comprehensive information about the various solutions which
were given to the perplexing problem of the status of little children in Muslim
dogmatic history is found in al-Ashʿari’s Maqalat al-Islamiyin. Al-Ashʾari stands
at the end of the spirited discussion of the subject. No basically new ideas
appear to have been advanced after him.
As to the attitude of the Khawarij, al-Ashʾari presents us with the following
resume: “The Khawarij hold three different dogmas with regard to infants.
(1) One group of them believes that the legal status of the infant children
of polytheists is the same as that of their parents, that is, they will be
punished in the Fire. The legal status of the infant children of Muslim
parents also is the same as that of their parents. This group differs with
regard to the case of parents who change their religion after the death of
their infant children. There are those who say that the legal status of those
dead infants will be changed so that they will share in the new legal status
of their parents. There are others who say that the dead infants retain the
status which their parents had when they died, and do not share in the
change of their legal status.
(2) The second group says that it is permissible to assume that God would
make the infant children of polytheists suffer in the Fire, without this
constituting for them a retribution, while, on the other hand, it is also
permissible to assume that He would not make them suffer. The infant
children of believers, however, will join their parents, because it is stated
in the word of God: ‘To those (who are followed by their progeny) in the
faith we will join their progeny.’39
38 Cf. H.G. Wood’s article on Baptism, in Hastings’ Encyclopaedia of Religion and Ethics, Vol. 2,
pp. 392–395. Wood bases himself on A. von Harnack, Dogmengeschichte.
39 Qurʾan surah 52, verse 21.
(3) The third group, the Qadariyah, says: The infant children of both polythe-
ists and believers are in Paradise.”40
In particular, al-Ashʿari states, with regard to the different groups of Khawarij,

that the Azariqah held that the legal status of the infant children of both believ-
ers and polytheists was that of their respective parents.41 They were contra-
dicted by the Sufriyah who did not admit that the infant children (of polythe-
ists) might be punished in the other world.42 An intermediate position was
held by the Thaʿalibah, a subgroup of the ʿAjaridah, who maintained that there
existed no friendship | toward, hostility against, or responsibility for the infant 12
children of either believers or unbelievers until those children reached puberty.
Then, they had to decide whether they would accept Islam (of the Kharijite
persuasion) or not.43 This was modified by a subgroup of the Bayhasiyah in the
sense that the children of believers remained believers as infants and adults
until they became unbelievers. The same applied to the children of unbeliev-
ers.44 A special case was also considered by some Khawarij. What happened
when the father of an infant child converted to Islam? The Saltiyah, a subgroup
of the ʿAjaridah, apparently started from the assumption that infants did not
automatically share in the religion of their parents. Therefore, they held that a
man who had become a Muslim (that is, an adherent of the Kharijite persua-
sion) was accepted by the Kharijites whereas his infant children were none of
their responsibility and were not Muslims until they reached puberty and were
then asked to declare themselves for Islam.45
The question of the fate which awaited young children of polytheists in the
other world when they died occupied the Ibadiyah. Some of them considered it
permissible to assume that God made those infants suffer in the other world but
not in the way of retribution (for having been unbelievers). Others considered
it permissible to assume that as an act of kindness, God admitted them into
Paradise. Others, still, held that God made them suffer by necessity and not by
choice.46
40 Al-Ashʿari, Maqalat al-Islamiyin, ed. by H. Ritter, Leipzig-Istanbul 1929–1930, p. 125f. (Bib-

liotheca Islamica 1).
41 Op. cit., p. 89.
42 Op. cit., p. 101.
43 Op. cit., p. 97.
44 Op. cit., p. 115 f.
45 Op. cit., p. 97.
46 Op. cit., p. 111.
As it was stated above, it seems a likely assumption that the question of

the religious status of the children of non-Kharijite Muslims was discussed in
early Kharijite days, as a justification for the murder of infants. The details,
however, especially where the fate of non-Muslim infants is discussed, are
certainly related to doctrines held by the Muʾtazilah. In connection with the
fundamental position of divine justice in Muʿtazilah dogmatics, it was most
appropriate for them to study God’s attitude toward irresponsible children.
Unfortunately, our knowledge of the early sectarian history in Islam is much
too limited to decide with any certainty whether such details first came up in
Kharijite or in Muʿtazilah circles.
A quite liberal attitude on the part of the Muʿtazilah toward the infant chil-
dren of polytheists is expressed by al-Jahiz who considered it as being against
the sunnah of the Prophet to convert those infants to Islam and to separate
between them and their parents before they reached the age of understand-
ing.47 And as a necessary consequence of God’s justice, the Muʿtazilah agreed
13 that it was not permissible to assume that God | would make infants who had
died suffer in the other world.48 But the answers differed with regard to such a
difficult question as to whether it might not be in contradiction to the assump-
tion of divine justice to assume that infants (as well as unbelievers and sinners)
of whom God knew that latter on in their lives they would become believers
might be deprived by God of their life before they reached that stage. Some said
that it was not permissible to assume that God could have them die before. On
the other hand, Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir and others permitted it.49 Bishr also held
that God theoretically had the power to punish infants (in the other world). The
apparent contradiction to divine justice which such an assumption implied
was evaded by Bishr by stating that if God would actually punish it, the infant
would not be an infant but a mature person and an unbeliever who deserved
such punishment.50
Another problem was whether God could make infants suffer in this world.
Yes, was the answer of some of them; He could make them suffer for no reason
and did not have to recompensate. No, said others who disapproved of the
assumption that God might punish infants. Most of the Muʿtazilah held that
God could make them suffer for a purpose, namely, as an example for adults,
but He would have to recompensate the infants for their suffering, because
47 Cf. al-Jahiz, Kitab al-ʿUthmaniyah, in Rasaʾil al-Jahiz, ed. by H. as-Sandubi, Cairo 1352/1933,
p. 24.
48 Al-Ashʿari, op. cit., p. 254.
49 Op. cit., p. 250.
50 Op. cit., p. 201.
otherwise He would be unjust. For others, again, the actual purpose of making
infants suffer was to give them a recompensation. It was also discussed whether
such recompensation could not be given to the infants without making them
suffer first.51
The extremist Shiʿah—incidentally, a group whose dogmatic history often
caused them to overcome the traditional reluctance to accept children as on a
level with adults in the case of children of ʿAlid descent52—also had its peculiar
opinions on the subject according to Al-Ashʿari. Some of them maintained
that infants suffered in this world and that their suffering was the result of a
divine act which was the necessary consequence of their being created beings
sensitive to pain. Others were of the opinion that such suffering was not a
necessary, mechanical consequence of their createdness but a special creative
act which took effect in them. A third group, finally, thought that the suffering
of infants was due partly to an act of God and partly to an act of some one
(something) else, and it was an individual act not necessitated by any cause.52a
As to the fate of infant children in the other world, one group held that God 14
would not punish infants and that they are in Paradise. The other assumed that
God may either punish those infants or forgive them.53
This, according to al-Ashʿari, also is the accepted dogma of orthodox Islam.
If God wills, He may punish the infants, and if He wills, he may do with them
whatever He wishes.54 The famous prophetical tradition: “Each child is born in
a natural state (of mind) until his parents make him Jewish, or Christian,” which
is transmitted with slight variations, also appears to aim at the basic innocence
of children in religious matters.55
The discussion of the subject did, of course, not cease throughout the whole
history of Muslim theology,56 and the traditions dealing with it are numer-
51 Op. cit., p. 253.

52 Cf. also R. Tchudi, in Handwœrterbuch des Islam, Leiden 1941, p. 79, on the Bektashiya:
“The other ʿAlid martyrs, too, especially those who perished during their childhood (the
maʿsum-i-pak), are very highly venerated by them.” [See EI, 2nd ed., I, 1162a (R. Tschudi).
Ed.]
52a Al-Ashʿari, op. cit., p. 56.
In connection with the Bakriyah, al-Ashʿari, op. cit., p. 286f., reports another way out
of the dilemma: The infants in the cradle do not suffer, even if they are maltreated. It is
even possible that God gives them pleasure through that.
53 Al-Ashʿari, op. cit., p. 55 f.
54 Op. cit., p. 296.
55 Cf., for instance, al-Murtada, Amali, Cairo 1325/1907, Vol. 4, pp. 2–5.
56 It is probably that it was this Islamic discussion which reflected itself in the work of a
ous.57 A good summary is found in the abridgment of al-Muttaqi al-Hindi’s

Kanz al-ʿummal. There, we find the following information:
The children of Muslims under twelve years of age will be under the divine
throne on the Day of Resurrection. They will be “little green birds” in the trees
of Paradise, in the safekeeping of Abraham. They will be on a mountain in
Paradise, in the safekeeping of Abraham and Sarah. One tradition restricts this
status of Muslim children to the time of the Day of Resurrection when they
would be returned to their parents. A dramatic version of a similar idea reports
how the Muslim children will lag behind on the Day of Resurrection and cry.
God then will order Gabriel to seat them in the shade of the divine throne and
to let them enter Paradise. But they will still cry like lambs separated from their
mothers, because they want their parents, and God then will command Gabriel
to bring in the parents together with their children.
The children of polytheists, on the other hand, will be servants to the people
in Paradise. Muhammad asked the Lord to let the infant children of polytheists
go, and He brought them into Paradise. They committed no evil deeds for which
they ought to be punished and be made part of the people in the Fire; they will,
therefore, be servants to the people in Paradise. However, there are traditions
of a different import: “O ʿAʾishah,” the Prophet said, “if you wanted, I would let
15 you hear their moaning in the Fire.” And a story, according to which those |
unbelievers who did not throw themselves voluntarily into the Fire when an
angel, as the Messenger of God, commanded them to do so, were thrown into
it with their forelocks and feet bound together, is said to have been applied by
Muhammad to the little dead children of polytheists.58
Once the question about the status of children after death had been raised,
it was the logical consequence to debate their role in the entire ceremonial
of life after death, as it was developed in Muslim dogmatics. A particular
problem which was frequently discussed was whether deceased infants would
Christian theologian such as the tenth-century Ibn al-Muqaffaʿ who wrote a Kitab fi maʿna
atfal al-muʾminin wa-l-kuffar, cf. P. Sbath, Bibliotheque de manuscrits Paul Sbath, Cairo
1928, Vol. 2, p. 123, no. 1004. Unfortunately, however, this work does not seem to have been
preserved.
57 Cf. the references in A.J. Wensinck, A Handbook of early Muhammadan tradition, Leiden
1927, p. 43. It is however, a noteworthy fact that none of the references is to the two Sahihs.
58 Al-Muttaqi al-Hindi, in the margin of Ibn Hanbal, Musnad, Cairo 1313, Vol. 6, p. 118f. Cf.
the Hyderabad edition of the Kanz (1312–1315), Vol. 7, p. 232f.; 238f.; 282f. The problem
of the fate of dead infants was also touched upon by R. Eklund, Life between death
and resurrection according to Islam, Uppsala, 1941, p. 60f. and W.M. Watt, Free will and
predestination in early Islam, London 1948, pp. 37, 78f., 107 and 136.
be questioned in the grave by the angels Munkar and Nakir, or not. With
his customary thorough documentation, as-Suyuti discussed this problem on
four pages entitled al-Ihtifal fi suʾal al-atfal. The answers that had been given
crossed the lines of the four legal schools. In the many centuries old discussion
individual scholars had chosen either side, according to their own information
and judgment. In his Sharh as-sudur fi sharh hal al-mawta fi l-qubur and other
works, as-Suyuti himself had inclined toward the opinion that children would
not be questioned in the grave. Now, apparently, he was ready to take the
other side. He had been convinced by a number of scholarly statements and
traditions, chief among them the tradition that Muhammad prompted (talqin)
his deceased son Ibrahim what to say when he would be questioned in the
grave, a tradition which had been quoted by Ibn Furak, in his Nizami fi usul
ad-din,59 as an argument against the Muʿtazilah’s denial of the questioning in
the grave.60
While such speculations as a rule were of little or no practical consequence,
the difference between children and adult raised actual practical problems and
could not be overlooked by the practical aspect of Muslim jurisprudence, even
apart from those branches of civil law in which the question of minority played
a well-established important role. The remarks in at-Tabari’s Ikhtilaf al-fuqahaʾ
about the behaviour in battle if Muslim children (and women) present on the
opposing side61 certainly had a practical background. There can be no doubt
that some material as to the actual treatment of children who committed
crimes could be found in Muslim literature. However, the only case which
I am at | present able to quote shows that in cases of manslaughter a child 16
had to pay with his life for his deed. In Muharram 559/December 1163, a little
child (sabi saghir) was found killed. Another child confessed to having killed
him with a sickle he had with him, because of an earring the other child had
taken from his ear. The earring was taken away from the child, and he was
killed.62
59 A copy of the Nizami is said to be preserved in Istanbul, cf. C. Brockelmann, GAL, Zweite
den Supplementbanden angepasste Auflage, Vol. 1, Leiden 1943, p. 176.
60 I was privileged to use the ms. or. 1153 H. of as-Suyuti’s pamphlet in Princeton University’s
splendid library.
61 Cf. at-Tabari, Ikhtilaf, ed. by J. Schacht, Leiden 1923, in the beginning (Veröffentlichungen
der “De Goeje-Stiftung” 10).
62 Cf. Ibn al-Jawzi, Muntazam, Hyderabad 1357–1359, Vol. 10, p. 208. Cf. also in this connec-
tion, the discussion as to which is the proper age for children to study traditions, as for
instance, in Ibn as-Salah’s Muqaddimah.
In general, theology and law could not and did not overlook the difference
between children and adults. It is, however, clear that theologians and jurists
took that difference for granted and did not speculate about its causes and did
not attempt to define it sharply.
In Sufism, the situation is similar, although in Islam, too, the mystic’s approach
to childhood is emotional and sentimental. As an intellectual discipline, Sufism
basically presupposes the most mature state of an individual’s mental develop-
ment as the soil in which it can grow best, and, therefore, has little interest in
children. But as an expression of true piety, it could not remain uninfluenced
by the age-old tradition which saw the symbol and model of perfect piety in
the child and in childlike innocence. A late Sufi, Ibn Qufl, is credited with the
statement: “If you want to become a saint (abdal), adopt some of the qualities
of little children. They have five qualities which, if found in adults, would make
them saints: They do not worry about their sustenance; they do not complain
about the Creator when they are ill; they share their food with others; when
they quarrel, they do not bear grudge and are eager to become reconciliated;
and when they are afraid, tears stream from their eyes.”63
Sufis, would vie with each other to provide for a ragged orphan child with
whom the other more fortunate children do not want to play.64 But the typical
Sufic use of stories about children is that of the parable. One Sufi, for instance,
is said to have noticed children at school who were crying. When he asked them
why they were crying, they replied: “Today is Thursday,64a the day on which the
writing exercises (kitab) are handed in to the teacher for marking, and now we
are afraid that he will beat us.” When the Sufi heard that, he himself began to
cry and said: “O soul, how will the day be on which the writing (kitab) is handed
into the Almighty for marking.”65
17 Or we may find a story whose protagonist combines the qualities of mystic
and exhibitionist madman in one person. Thus, there is a double reason for
such a person to be associated with children. Samnun as-Sufi was afflicted
63 Cf. as-Suyuti, Husn al-muhadarah, Cairo 1299, Vol. 1, p. 298f. As-Suyuti derived his infor-
mation about Ibn Qufl from Ibn Fadlallah’s Masalik.
64 Cf. al-Khatib al-Baghdadi, Taʾrikh Baghdad, Cairo 1349/1931, Vol. 9, p. 188.
64a According to the proverb, it is Saturday which weighs heavily upon children: Athqal min
yawm as-sabt ʿala s-sibyan, or Athqal min talʿat yawm as-sabt ala ibn khams wa-ibn sitt, cf.
ath-Tha ʿalibi, op. cit., ms. or. Princeton 126H, fol. 70a and ms. or. arabe Paris 5914, fol. 79a.
The second proverb appears only in the Paris manuscript.
65 Cf. al-Amili, Mikhlah, Cairo 1317, p. 154.
with a urinary disease as a divine punishment. In his dream, he saw one of the
pious of past times who advised him to solicit the prayers of school children as
an effective means to find redemption. After that, Samnun, therefore, used to
make the round of the various schools. In his hand, he would hold a glass into
which his urine would be dropping, and he would say to the children: “Pray for
your uncle who is afflicted by disease because of his tongue.”66
The most skilful use of the motif which we find in Sufi literature was made
by as-Suhrawardi al-maqtul in the introduction of one of his Persian trea-
tises, entitled Risalah fi halat at-tufuliyah. As-Suhrawardi sets the stage for
a rather involved discussion of mystical problems in these simple touching
words: “When I was a child, I played ball in the street, as it is the custom of little
children. I saw some children assemble. I wondered why they were assembling.
I came forward and asked them: ‘where are you going?’—‘To school, in order
to acquire knowledge.’ I said: ‘what would be knowledge?’ They said: ‘We don’t
know. You must ask our teacher.’ This they said, and left me … .”67
In this manner, Sufism, differing from the general attitude toward the child,
saw a state of greater perfection in the child’s difference from the adult. How-
ever, Sufism, too, did not probe into the reasons of this difference which it so
highly appreciated. It took it for granted that the child’s mind unconsciously
has a deeper insight into the values of life than that of the ordinary human
being.
The philosophical interest in the mentality of children has found its most
immediate expression on the popular level in a number of proverbs and edu-
cational maxims, most of them the cultural heritage of thousands of years. The
ease with which children learn and the lasting impression of early instruction
is compared to engraving in stone (as contrasted to writing upon water); to
making an imprint upon wet clay: to watering a tree when it is being planted;
to straightening young branches (as contrasted to hardened wood).68 A young
66 Cf. al-Khatib al-Baghdadi, op. cit., Vol. 9, p. 235.

67 Cf. Du-risala-i-farsi az Shaykh Shihab-ad-din Suhrawardi, ed. by Mahdi Bayyani, (Tehran)
1317/1939, p. 2.
68 Cf. al-Bayhaqi, Al-Mahasin wa-l-masawi, ed. by F. Schwally, Giessen 1902, p. 14; ath-Thaʿali-
bi, op. cit., ms. or. Princeton 126 H, fol. 53a; ash-Sharishi, Sharh al-Maqamat al-Haririyah,
Cairo 1306, Vol. 2, p. 299; Nasir-ad-din at-Tusi, Akhlaq-i-Nasiri, cf. M. Plessner, op. cit.,
(above, fn. 30), p. 86 f. The comparison with a recently planted tree also appears in Galen,
Kitab al-akhlaq, ed. by P. Kraus, in Publications of the Faculty of Art of the Egyptian Univer-
sity 5, 1939, p. 31.
person’s heart is like empty soil which accepts everything thrown into it,69 and
18 while adults | are more intelligent, they are also more pre-occupied than chil-
dren and, therefore, less able to learn.70 Children are greedy; so, if you give a
child one (thing), he wants two.71 They can be cheated with trifles, such as
raisins.72 If one jokes with them, they become insolent.73 A child remains a
child, even if he would meet a prophet (?).74 He knows better what is good
for himself—what he chews in his mouth.75 Children resent restraint. “My joy
at seeing his handsome face is like the joy of children at being let loose,” was
a metaphor of the Sahib Ibn ʿAbbad in one of his letters.76 A child thus feels
happier in the company of other children: “A child understands another child
better, likes him better, and feels more attached to him.”77 Restraint causes
resentment: therefore, children hate their tutors, and young men dislike old
men. This idea was expressed by a Greek poet whose verse, in Arabic transla-
tion, expresses the thought that an old man is an evil man in the opinion of
young men.78
Philosophical works have reference to child psychology only occasionally as
an illustration of some point under discussion, such as the above mentioned
remark from Ibn Sina’s Shifaʾ.79 Even such occasional references are not often
encountered. As we should expect in view of Greek philosophical tradition,
it is in works on moral philosophy intended to have a popular appeal that
some space is devoted to references to the child. The Rasaʾil Ikhwan as safaʾ
quite often have recourse to arguments from observations concerning children.
The Sincere Friends would occasionally fall back upon over simplifications.
Thus, they explain the different qualifications of children for the various crafts
as conditioned by their natural capacities, and the natural capacities as con-
ditioned by the stars. For this reason, they say, the Greeks in ancient times
69 Cf. ash-Sharishi, loc. cit.

70 Cf. al-Bayhaqi, loc. cit.
71 Cf. ath-Thaʿalibi, op. cit., ms. or. Princeton 126H, fol. 70a and ms. or. arabe Paris 5914,
fol. 78b–79a: ‫ﻻ ﺗﻌﻄﲔ اﻟﺼﱮ واﺣﺪا ﻓﯿﻄﻠﺐ اﺛﻨﲔ‬
72 Cf. ath-Thaʿalibi, loc. cit.: ‫اﳕﺎ ﳜﺪع اﻟﺼﺒﯿﺎن 󰈈ﻟﺰﺑﯿﺐ‬
73 Cf. ath-Thaʿalibi, loc. cit.: ‫ﻻﺗﺮ اﻟﺼﱮ ﺑﯿﺎض اﺳـﻨﺎﻧﻚ ﻓﲑﯾﻚ ﺳﻮاد اﺳـﺘﻪ‬
74 Cf. ath-Thaʿalibi, loc. cit.: ‫اﻟﺼﱮ ﺻﱮ وﻟﻮ ﻟﻘﻰ اﻟﻨﱮ‬
75 Cf. ath-Thaʿalibi, loc. cit.: ‫اﻟﺼﱮ اﻋﲅ ﲟﻀﻎ ﻓﯿﻪ‬
76 Cf. ath-Thaʿalibi, loc. cit.: ‫وﻓﺮﺣﱴ ﺑﻮ󰏄ﻪ اﻟﺼﺒﯿﺢ ﻛﻔﺮﺣﺔ اﻟﺼﺒﯿﺎن 󰈈ﻟﺘﴪﱖ‬
The edition of the Sahib’s Rasaʾil (Cairo 1947) was not available.
77 Cf. al-Bayhaqi, loc. cit.
78 Cf. Qudamah, Kitab al-kharaj, ms. or. arabe Paris 5907, fol. 225 b. ‫اﻟﺸـﯿﺦ ﻋﻨﺪ 󰈇ﺣﺪاث رﺟﻞ ﺳﺆ‬
79 See above, p. 4, fn. 12.
used to go with their children when they were about | to choose a craft to 19
the temple and bring sacrifices there.80 As a rule, however, the Ikhwan as-safaʾ
have more concrete explanations to offer. The character qualities of children,
such as bravery, and so on, are developed by them under the influence of their
environment.81 The exercise of the sense faculties is a function innate in the
child, and the same applies to the faculty of logical reasoning. When a child
sees another child, he would naturally conclude that the other child also has
parents like himself. When he sees another couple, he would reason that they,
like his own parents, would have children, and so on.82 No human being, the
Ikhwan as-safaʾ observe, feels securely anchored in himself. Everybody craves
for some one to lean on (tawakkul). This important psychological insight is
demonstrated by the attitude of children. They “trust their parents to procure
for them the food, drink, clothing, and other things they need. All day long they
are occupied with playing. They do not think about making a living and are not
concerned with looking for a livelihood, because they trust their parents. Their
hearts are undisturbed and their souls are at rest because they are so secure of
their parents.”83
The great Ghazzali, who had the valuable ability always to choose the best
available sources and to weld the most important material contained in them
into a system, was much concerned with educational problems in his works.
In the Ihyaʾ, he also seized the opportunity to insert occasional bits of insight
into the behaviour of children. A child originally knows no fear. He would play
with a lion or a snake which comes into his house. But when the child observes
the fear of those animals which is displayed by his father, he, too, would be
afraid and show the same symptoms of fear as does his father—an illustration
of the firm hold which example and tradition have over us.84 A child is deeply
attached to the objects which he feels belong to him. “It never separates from
such an object. If it is taken away from him, he just cries and screams until
it is given back to him. If he goes to sleep, he takes that object along with
himself in his clothes, and if he wakes up, he goes back and takes it. When
he becomes separated from it, he cries, and when he finds it, he laughs. He
80 Rasalʾil Ikhwan as-safaʾ Cairo 1347/1928, Vol. 1, pp. 221–223.

81 Op. cit., Vol. 1, p. 236.
82 Op. cit., Vol. 1, p. 347 f. and 360.
83 Op. cit., Vol. 4, p. 130. For the Ikhwan, the relationship of soul and body was comparable
to that of a child to his school. The child studies at school and is educated. When his
education is completed, nothing remains for him but to leave school and utilize the
knowledge he acquired there. op. cit., Vol. 3, p. 60.
84 Cf. Ihyaʾ Cairo 1334, Vol. 4, p. 146.
hates those who dispute its possession to him, and he loves those who give
it to him.”85 A child’s sense of reality is different from that of an adult; he,
20 therefore, considers the | figures of a shadow play as real beings.86 The desires
and ambitions in a child are different from those of other stages of human
development. Therefore, if a child were given the choice between the loss of
ball and hockey stick and the loss of the rank of ruler, he would feel no pain
whatever in relinquishing the rank of ruler.87 In general, when a child first
starts to move and to discern, it derives a feeling of pleasure from playing.
Playing comes to be his most pleasurable experience. Growing older, a human
being finds pleasure in finery, clothes, and riding. This newly acquired sense of
pleasure causes him to be disdainful of playing. Then, the dominant pleasure
is that of sex, and, eventually, that of power, rank, and position.88
All these reflections on child psychology move along the lines of Greek philo-
sophical thinking. Greek philosophy conditioned the minds of Muslim philoso-
phers for the receptions of such reflections. It is, therefore, characteristic that in
Arabic literature, we find the most detailed description of the gradual develop-
ment of the ethical qualities within the first years of a child’s life in the Arabic
translation of Galen’s Ethics.89 Starting from the premise that character quali-
ties exist by nature in some rudimentary form in all living beings,90 Galen finds
the basis for his analysis of ethics in the child. Therefore, he pays considerable
attention to child psychology in his work.
More than for Galen the philosopher, children presented a problem for Galen
the physician. The humoral pathology of Hippocrates and Galen made a clear-
cut distinction between children and adults. On the basis of that distinction, it
explained the difference in the susceptibility to diseases between children and
adults and suggested different cures and treatments. With the humoral pathol-
ogy, the distinction between children and adults was taken over unchanged
into Arabic medicine. “The humour of the infant differs from that of the old
man,” was a statement which could be made by the Ikhwan as-safaʾ without
85 Op. cit., Vol. 4, p. 286.

86 Op. cit., Vol. 4, p. 85.
87 Op. cit., Vol. 4, p. 22f.
88 Op. cit., Vol. 4, p. 267. Cf. also Tash Koeprae Zadah, Miftah as-Saʿadah, Hyderabad 1356,
Vol. 3, pp. 280–282.
89 Galen, Kitab al-akhlaq, ed. by P. Kraus, in Publications of the Faculty of Art of the Egyptian
University 5, 1939, pp. 28–30.
90 Cf. already in the beginning of the Kitab al-akhlaq, p. 25. For the continuity of this idea,
cf., for instance, Ibn Abi r-Rabiʿ, Suluk al-malik, Cairo 1929, p. 13.
any further explanation.91 Whether practical physicians, in their occupation

with the medical guidance and treatment of children, also paid special atten-
tion to psychological factors could be decided only after a careful study of the
large and largely unpublished medical literature in Arabic.92 At any rate, the
physicians considered environmental factors | in physical defects. This fact is 21
shown by the story of the cure of a member of the Munajjim family of a speech
defect in his early youth.
“While I was a child,” Abul-Hasan ʿAli b. Harun b. al-Munajjim told his son
Abul-Fath Ahmad, “I could not pronounce the r correctly. I pronounced it like
Ghayn. I was then four years old, or somewhat younger or somewhat older. One
day, Abu Talib al-Mufaddal b. Salamah, or Abu Bakr ad-Dimashqi—Abu l-Fath
was not sure who—came to my father and I was present. I said something
which contained an r, and mispronounced it. That man said to my father: ‘Sir,
why do you permit Abul-Hasan to speak this way?’ My father replied: ‘What
can I do. He just has that speech defect.’ Whereupon that man said—and I
listened and took good notice of what was taking place—: ‘A speech defect is
not possible when the organ of speech is sound. It is a bad habit which the
child acquired when he first began to speak, because he did not know how
to pronounce the words correctly or because he heard something which he
imitated. If he is left to his acquired habit, it will get control over him and
become his nature of which he then will not be able to rid himself. But if one
starts to wean him away from the habit when he begins to grow up, his tongue
will straighten out, and he will get rid of that habit. I shall free Abul-Hasan from
it. I do not like him to go on with it.’ Then, he said to me: ‘Put your tongue out.’
I did, and he looked at it and said: ‘The organ of speech is healthy. Pronounce
an r, son, and place your tongue on the roof of your throat.’ I did, but it did not
come out right. He, however, did not stop. Sometimes he was friendly with me,
sometimes severe. He had my tongue moved from one position in my mouth to
the other and every time had me pronounce an r. If it did not come out right,
he had my tongue moved to another position many times for a long time, until
I pronounced the r correctly in one of those positions to which he had had me
move my tongue. Then, he required me to repeat the r and had me do it until
my tongue was straightened out and the speech defect had disappeared. He
ordered that I should always be held to do that and that my teacher and my
tutor be charged with it. I should be held to pronounce the r in this manner (?),
91 Rasaʾil Ikhwan as-safa, Cairo 1347/1928, Vol. 4, p. 160.

92 The chapter on the treatment of infants in Ibn ʿAbbas al-Majusi, Kamil, Bulaq 1294, Vol. 2,
p. 52 ff., contains, of course, nothing of that.
and a mistake in my pronunciation should not be overlooked. This was done,

and I got control over it. Since that time, I have never mispronounced the r.”93
From the limited material which has here been presented, it would seem that
at different times and in various ways, attempts very modest ones, it is true—
have been made to pay attention to the factors which make the child some-
thing different from a mere miniature edition of the adult. The main avenues
through which those attempts were channeled were theological speculations,
22 as they had been cultivated by the | monotheistic religions of the Near East;
the ancient oriental tradition, likewise cultivated by the monotheistic religions,
that true piety was exemplified in the innocence of childhood; and, above all,
Greek philosophical and scientific knowledge. In addition, human wisdom and
understanding, as it had accumulated in the great civilization of Islam through
the centuries, may occasionally have afforded some individuals a brief glance
beyond the cherished conventional views concerning the place of the child in
human society.
93 Cf. al-Khatib al-Baghdadi, Taʾrikh Baghdad, Cairo 1349/1931, Vol. 12, p. 119f.; Yaqut, Irshad,
Vol. 5, p. 442 f. Margoliouth = Vol. 15 p. 115 f. Cairo (from at-Tanukhi, Nishwar al-muha-
darah).
viii
Science and Learning in Society
∵
viii.11
Materials for an Appraisal of

Knowledge as a Societal Force
Muslim authors showed a decided preference for stressing the positive role
of knowledge in society. Negative factors were played down and ultimately
rejected, but they were not entirely disregarded. The indispensability of knowl-
edge for any human societal organization is obvious. We would, however, hesi-
tate to assert without qualification that it can be usefully defined and believed
in as the truly supreme force in society. An aura of utopianism clings to the
powerful Platonic concept of the philosopher-king, and there is indeed reason
to question whether under given human conditions, the triumph of “knowl-
edge” could lead to the most viable of social orders. The reflections made by
Muslim scholars do not resolve the quandary. A presentation of what appears
to be some of the crucial features of the discussion may, however, help us in
establishing the degree of insight reached by them with regard to the real or
ideal position of knowledge in the material and intellectual struggle of man to
organize his life.
The Attitude Toward Doubt 299
It has been said that the Greek religious view of the world was dominated
by the antithesis of knowledge of the Gods and the lack of such knowledge,
whereas the Christian antithesis was that of faith and doubt.1 In Islam, both
views contend with each other. However, even more than ignorance, doubt
suffered from the stigma of religious connotations from which it was never able
to free itself.
There are several words for doubt in Arabic, but shakk became the accepted
technical term. Shubhah is also much used, and it is the favorite legal term for
suspicion and indecision as to the legality of a given view or activity. Shubhah
presents no real difficulty for its derivation from the Arabic root sh-b-h in its
common meaning of being alike or similar; it is the similarity of two sides,
1 1 Cf. H. Dörrie, Emanation, in K. Flasch (ed.), Parusia … Festgabe für Johannes Hirschberger, 130
(Frankfurt a. M. 1965).

968 science and learning in society
of two possible answers, that leads to two-sidedness or ambiguity and the

resulting attitude of doubt.2 Another word, rayb, is easily etymologized through
its occurrences in other Semitic languages such as Hebrew rîḇ “strife”; the
transition from strife, quarrel, being disturbed, and the like, to doubt is easily
explainable (there is no quarrel concerning something = there can be no doubt
concerning it). However, in the case of shakk, we are at a loss for a plausible
etymology which could give us some insight into the psychological dimensions
of the Muslim attitude toward doubt. The Arabic root has been connected
with Hebrew s-k-k (= [?] ś-k-k) “to cover, to weave together (for screening
purposes),” hence, to be complicated, to be stuck on something.3 The root
300 combination of sibilant followed by a doubled k or g in Semitic languages |
expresses other concrete meanings that may be connected with “doubt.” The
closest correspondence in meaning appears in Hebrew sheḡāḡāh “error,” but the
phonetic correspondence is somewhat remote. A combination with the root
w-sh-k is not entirely excluded. Since the connotation of w-sh-k seems to focus
on the idea of quickness, “doubt” may be something like rashness, instability,
going astray. This would tally with the suggested derivation of ʿilm.4 However,
there is also the more appealing possibility that sh-k-k is a secondary root to
be combined with Hebrew ś-k-h “to look (at something, either expectantly or
apprehensively),” Syrian sakkî “to hope,” Arabic shakâ “to complain.” This would
provide a perfect parallel to Greek skeptikos.5 But maybe, it is just too perfect
to recommend itself to the skeptical linguist.
Doubt in whichever way indicated became the true pariah and outcast of
Muslim civilization. It stands for all that is to be shunned like the plague. No
worse fate can befall man than being tossed into the sea of doubts and left there
to flounder and possibly to drown. Doubt in itself is a sufficient manifestation
2 2 ʿAlî is credited with the curious statement that shubhah is so called because it resembles
(tushbih) the truth, cf. Nahj al-balâghah, 97; Ibn Abî l-Ḥadîd, I, 481. For the alleged difference
between shakk and irtiyâb, cf. al-ʿAskarî, Furûq, 80.
3 3 Cf. S. Fraenkel, Die aramäischen Fremdwörter im Arabischen, 90, n. 2 (Leiden 1886). Fraenkel’s
suggestion was noted with hesitant approval in the sixteenth edition, prepared by F. Buhl,
of Gesenius’ Handwörterbuch über das Alle Testament, 543a (Leipzig 1915). It was implicitly
rejected by L. Koehler, Lexicon in Veteris Testamenti libros, 657a (Leiden 1951). It may be the
same root, with the somewhat altered meaning of “to penetrate, to intermingle,” that was
used by Muslim philologians to derive the meaning of “doubt,” cf. al-ʿAskarî, Furûq, 79: “Shakk
‘doubt’ comes from shakakta something if you combine it with something you insert into it.
Doubt is the combination of two things in the mind.”
4 1 Cf. above, pp. 10 ff. [Not reprinted here. Ed.].
5 2 Arabic n-ẓ-r, naẓar is also used to indicate that something is a matter of debate.
knowledge as a societal force 969
of ignorance.6 It was unthinkable for the Prophet to harbor even the slightest
of doubts. Therefore, when he said, “I am more liable to doubt than Ibrâhîm,”
it could mean only that since the Prophet had no doubts, Abraham is even less
likely to have had any doubts.7 The ḥadîth occurs in connection with Abraham’s
implied doubting of God’s ability to revive the dead (Qurʾân 2:260/262). The
Qurʾânic passage naturally worried the commentators a good deal. According
to az-Zamakhsharî, “necessary knowledge” admits of no expression of doubt,
as against “knowledge arrived at through deduction,” which does.8 Ibn Ḥajar
explains that doubt as understood in logic is incompatible with prophethood,
but there is another kind of doubt which may be described as “unconfirmed
ideas” (al-khawâṭir allatî lâ tathbut); such doubt could occur to prophets such
as Abraham.9
The principal weapon of heretics and unbelievers in their perpetual | fight 301
against the verities of Islam was the planting of doubt. Ibn al-Muqaffaʿ added
“Burzôê’s Introduction” to Kalîlah wa-Dimnah, in order to cause Muslims of
weak faith to doubt Islam and to make them an easy prey to Manichaean propa-
ganda.10 Ṣâliḥ b. ʿAbd-al-Quddûs, one of those suspected of being a Manichaean
(zindîq), is said to have grieved about his dead son, because the latter’s death
had made it impossible for him to read Ṣâliḥ’s “Book of Doubts” which made the
reader doubt everything.11 In the early tenth century, ar-Râzî possibly thought
that he was stressing the positive character of his research if he used the
title of “Doubts” concerning Proclus or Galen.12 But much later, it was a witty
way of striking a devastating critical blow to call the Tâʾîyah of the contro-
versial mystic, Ibn al-Fâriḍ, which had the title of Naẓm as-sulûk “The Mys-
tic Path Versified,” by the slightly-changed title of Naẓm ash-shukûk “Doubts
6 3 Kafâ bi-sh-shakk jahlan, cf. az-Zamakhsharî, Mustaqṣâ, II, 167 (Hyderabad 1381/1962). Cf.
also above, pp. 169 f. [Not reprinted here. Ed.].
7 4 Cf. Concordance, III, 166a1 ff.; Ibn al-Athîr, an-Nihâyah fî gharîb al-ḥadîth, II, 252 (Cairo
1322), and Lisân al-ʿArab, XII, 337, s.v. sh-k-k.
8 5 Cf. az-Zamakhsharî, Kashshâf, I, 282.
9 6 Cf. Ibn Ḥajar, Fatḥ al-bârî, VII, 221 ff.
10 1 Cf. al-Bîrûnî, India, ed. E. Sachau, 76 (London 1887) = 123 (Hyderabad 1377/1958), trans.
E. Sachau, I, 159 (London 1910); P. Kraus, in RSO, XIV, (1934), 14ff.
11 2 Cf. the entry on Abû l-Hudhayl al-ʿAllâf in the Fihrist, Persian translation, 295, also in the
Houtsma fragment.
12 3 Cf. the bibliography of ar-Râzî by al-Bîrûnî, Risâlah, ed. P. Kraus (Paris 1936). For the
preserved “Doubts concerning Galen,” cf. S. Pines, in Actes du VIIe Congrès International
d’ Histoire des Sciences, 480–487 (Paris 1953); M. Mohaghegh, in Majalle-i-Dânishkade-i-
Adabîyât wa-ʿUlûm-i-Insânî, XV, (1967), p. 10 of the reprint. Cf., however, Ḥamîd-ad-dîn
al-Kirmânî, Râḥat al-ʿaql, 363 f.
Versified.”13 Whether engendered through human mischief or innate Satanic

weakness, doubt was man’s mortal enemy, depriving him of the certainty that
his religion was intended and equipped to give him. If a troubled individual
looked for a savior from error, as al-Ghazzâlî did in his spiritual autobiogra-
phy, it was a search for deliverance from all nagging doubts and uncertain-
ties.
Greek logic and philosophy taught its Muslim followers to think about doubt
and to take it in stride as an ineluctable, if regrettable, stage of the dialectic
process. Some information on the existence of an ancient philosophical school
professing skepticism filtered down to the Muslim Middle Ages. Known as
al-Mâniʿah, a translation, via Syriac kâlôyê, of Ephektikoi, one of the Greek
designations for the Skeptics, it was defined as “a group which hindered and
prevented people from (acquiring) knowledge.” Its attitude toward knowledge
302 was rather lengthily and, in a way, dispassionately | discussed. The discussion
of Skepticism, however, did not make use of the term “doubt” and therefore
contributed only indirectly to the frequent warnings against the futility and
perniciousness of doubt.14 The speculative theologians15 attached the label of
“Sophists” to the representatives of epistemological skepticism. The problem of
13 4 Cf. Ibn Taymîyah, Naqḍ al-manṭiq, 62.

14 1 Cf. Abû l-Faraj b. aṭ-Ṭayyib, Commentary on the Categories, in Ms. Cairo ḥikmah 1m, fol. 3a–b.
This passage is more detailed than the well-known brief enumeration of Greek philosoph-
ical schools mentioned by (Ḥunayn and) al-Fârâbî, in F. Dieterici, Alfârâbî’s philosophische
Abhandlungen, text, 50, trans., 84 (Leiden 1890–1892), cited, in the subsequent litera-
ture, by Ṣaʿid al-Andalusî, Ṭabaqât al-umam, ed. L. Cheikho, 32 = 35 (Cairo, n.y.), trans.
R. Blachère, 74 (Paris 1935), and al-Qifṭî. ed. (A. Müller and) J. Lippert, 25f. (Leipzig 1903).
For Ḥunayn, cf. K. Merkle, Die Sittensprüche der Philosophen, 37 and 52 (Leipzig 1921). For
the Syriac Pseudo-Olympiodorus, cf. G. Furlani, in RSO, VII (1916–1918), 135f., 139f., where
briefer Syriac notices are mentioned.
On the subject of Skepticism in Islam, cf., above all, S. Horovitz, Der Einfluss der
griechischen Skepsis auf die Entwicklung der Philosophie bei den Arabern (Breslau 1915,
Jahres-Bericht des jüdisch-theologischen Seminars … für das Jahr 1914). See also J. Kraemer,
Ḥawl al-falsafah ash-shakkîyah al-ʿarabîyah, in Ṣalâḥ-ad-dîn al-Munajjid (ed.), al-Muntaqâ
min dirâsât al-mustashriqîn, 209–224 (Cairo 1955). Kraemer stresses the religious founda-
tion and orientation of Muslim skepticism, as contrasted to the secular skepticism of the
West.
15 2 With regard to the Sophists, the philosophers in Islam may have followed the lead of the
speculative theologians, rather than vice versa. For a philosopher’s condemnation of the
Sophists, cf., for instance, al-Fârâbî, Iḥṣaʾ al-ʿulûm, 23ff., where their attitude is viewed in
a completely negative light. Al-Kindî also wrote against them, cf. Fihrist, 256, 259 = 358,
362.
doubt as such was little involved here,16 but the horrified condemnation of the
Sophists’ stand applied just as well to the mortal danger caused by doubt. The
views ascribed to the Sophists were thought so outrageous and impossible that
it was seriously suggested, apparently by some traditionist religious scholars,
that the Sophists were an invention of the speculative theologians in their
efforts to undermine the simple true faith of Islam.17
The speculative theologians did ponder the problems of doubt as one of
the opposites of knowledge. They did so with a view to the particular doubt
in the existence of God. The concept was defined, and the conditions govern-
ing its incidence (aḥkâm) were discussed with all the customary subtlety. One
of the ideas suggested in | this connection concerned the possible obligation 303
to entertain doubts with regard to minor secondary problems left to indepen-
dent judgment (al-furûʿ al-ijtihâdîyah). However, the view of Abû Hâshim (al-
Jubbâʾî) and, supposedly, Abû Bakr (al-Bâqillânî) that doubt concerning God
is obligatory, because logical speculation which customarily has doubt as its
starting point is necessary (wâjib), is considered subject at least to the qualifi-
cation that it is not something about which man could have initially the power
of decision. On the other hand, it is not impossible that he is under the obli-
gation to continue doubting, because he has the power to decide to remove
doubt through logical speculation, and it is, indeed, obligatory, because man is
required to gain knowledge of God (which presupposes that at some stage, he
does not have such knowledge, and doubting is the first step toward it).18 But
apart from all such subtle reasoning, the common belief was that necessarily
and simply, doubt in God was unbelief.19
For a brief while, and with some lingering aftereffects, a more positive appre-
ciation of the possible benefits of a skeptical approach marked by doubt found
hesitant expression. The doubting attitude attributed to eighth-century fig-
ures such as Ibn al-Muqaffaʿ and Ṣâliḥ b. ʿAbd-al-Quddûs resulted from sincere
attempts to bolster or, at worst, to replace traditional Muslim beliefs through
16 3 According to ʿAbd-al-Qâhir, Uṣûl, 6 f., the Sophists fall into three groups, of which the first
denies all reality and knowledge, and the third assumes that belief creates reality. The
middle group are “the people of doubt” who profess agnosticism with regard to the reality
of things.
17 4 Cf. ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât, I, 44.
18 1 Cf. al-Âmidî, Abkâr, in Ms. Aya Sofya 2165, fol. 13b (cf. above, p. 228 [Not reprinted here.
Ed.]). Cf. also Abû ʿAlî al-Jubbâʾî, in ʿAbd-al-Jabbâr, Mughnî, XII, 185, 501ff. The Mughnî
expectedly offers throughout much information on the attitude of Muʿtazilah theologians
toward doubt.
19 2 Cf. Isḥâq b. Ibrâhîm al-Kâtib, Burhân, 102. See above, p. 135, n. 2 [Not reprinted here. Ed.].
rational, critical methods. To the glory of the Muʿtazilah, it can be said that
within their ranks, there existed convinced champions of doubt, as evidenced
by a noteworthy passage from the Kitâb al-Ḥayawân by al-Jâḥiẓ.20 In connec-
tion with the need of scientists to be skeptical of all transmitted information
and to check it always with all the means at their disposal, al-Jâḥiẓ speaks of
the more general applicability of the critical scientist’s attitude to the problem
of cognition as such, citing the opinions of contemporaries of his, among them
the great an-Naẓẓâm:
304 “Recognize the occasions and situations necessitating doubt, so | as to be
able to recognize the occasions and situations necessitating certainty, and do
study the doubts applicable to the doubtable. Were this to lead merely to
realizing (the need for) hesitation and then to assurance, it would be something
that is needed.
Realize further that all (scientists) are of the opinion that there are degrees
of doubt. They are not agreed on (the existence of) degrees of strength and
weakness in certainty.
When Abû l-Jahm said to al-Makkî,21 ‘I hardly have doubts,’ al-Makkî replied,
‘I hardly have certainty.’ Al-Makkî wanted to show that he felt superior to (Abû
l-Jahm), because he had doubts when doubts were called for, whereas Ibn
al-Jahm wanted to show that he felt superior to (al-Makkî), because he had
certainty when certainty was called for.
Abû Isḥâq (an-Naẓẓâm) said: I have had disputations with both doubters
and deniers among heretics,22 and I have found that the doubters have a
better insight into the essence of theological speculation (kalâm) than the
deniers. Abû Isḥâq also said: The doubter is closer to you than the denier. Never
has there been any certainty, unless there was doubt before. Nor did anyone
ever switch from one belief to another without an intervening situation of
doubt.
20 3 Cf. al-Jâḥiẓ, Ḥayawân, VI, 10 f. = VI, 35–37 (Cairo 1363/1944); Horovitz, Skepsis, 15, n. 30. It
would not be an argument against al-Jâḥiẓ's rather favorable attitude toward the skeptical
approach that his work begins with the words, “May God remove doubt (shubhah) from
you.”
Cf. the translation of the passage by C. Pellat, Arabische Geisteswelt, 281f.
21 1 Abû l-Jahm is apparently identical with Ibn al-Jahm, as he is called later on. He was
Muḥammad b. al-Jahm, the brother of the famous poet, ʿAlî. Muḥammad al-Makkî is
frequently cited in al-Jâḥiẓ and other works by al-Jâḥiẓ as one of his friends, cf. the
translation of the Livre des avares by C. Pellat, 342 (Beirut-Paris 1951).
22 2 This refers to the existence of God. Another reading: “with doubters and heretics,” would
remove the doubters from the category of heretics.
Ibn al-Jahm said: I truly long for the conversion (that falls to the lot) of those
beset by uncertainty (mutaḥayyir). For when uncertainty has cut off a man
from certainty, the lost thing he goes after (successfully) is clarity,23 and he who
finds what he has lost rejoices …24
The common people have fewer doubts than the elite, because they have
no hesitation with regard to believing something to be true (or false), and
they do not doubt themselves. They see no other choice except absolutely
believing something to be true or absolutely believing something to be false.
They exclude the third | possibility, that of doubt, which comprises the various 305
degrees of doubt, according to the presence or absence of suspicion with regard
to reasons for (taking or not taking a doubting attitude) and according to the
various measure of likelihood.
A man with some experience in speculative thought heard scholars approve
of some doubt. He extended this (attitude) to everything and finally assumed
that the truth or untruth of every thing is knowable (not absolutely but) only
according to a varying measure of likelihood. This man died, leaving no off-
spring nor anyone following his method. If I mentioned his name in this con-
nection, I would do no wrong. But presently I do not like to mention with
praise25 someone who partook in the dignity of kalâm and shared with the
others the name of mutakallim, especially one who held the opinion of the
precedence of istiṭâʿah.”
For al-Jâḥiẓ who reported this discussion, and others whose lifetime fell into
the period from the early eighth century to the middle of the ninth century,
shakk obviously showed the way toward a well founded understanding of
scientific data as well as the religious phenomena which were their prime
concern. The aforementioned discussion of later speculative theologians on
the applicability of doubt in connection with the existence of God contains
echoes of this Muʿtazilah attitude. These men belonged among those who
like Robert Browning’s Rabbi Ben Ezra exclaimed, “Rather I prize the doubt,”
considering it an instrument of intellectual vitality and growth. It would be
unfair to deny them recognition and admiration for having seized upon the
most effective approach to intellectual progress. Unfortunately, they chose, if
they had a choice in this matter, the metaphysical realm for the testing ground
23 3 The variant reading “certainty” seems more to the point, but the more difficult “clarity”
deserves preference. The difference between the two words in Arabic writing is very small.
24 4 The two statements that follow here have no apparent connection with the subject of
skepticism.
25 1 “Blame” would be easier, but al-Jâḥiẓ seems to mean that he wants to forego here praising
something that others might find deserving of blame.
of their ideas. The very fact of their faith in doubt as a means toward true
religious faith all but obliterated their memory.
A longer lasting witness to a hesitant recognition of the effectiveness of
doubt is a saying ascribed to a Greek scholar known as ʾllynws: “Asked why he
was always professing doubt, he replied: In defense of certainty (dhabban ʿan
al-yaqîn).”26 The remark occurs within a small group of sayings of which one
306 can be securely related | to a Greek prototype.27 Notwithstanding the absence
of decisive proof, it is likely that the idea expressed by ʾllynws derived from
Greek wisdom literature. This assumption is hardly refuted by the fact that the
same remark, with only the replacement of dhabban by the synonymous muḥâ-
mâtan but in the same question-and-answer form, appears in the ʿUyûn of Ibn
Qutaybah where it is ascribed to an ancient Muslim transmitter of traditions,
Raqabah b. Maṣqalah (or Masqalah), whose death is placed in 129/746–747.28
Both the authority to which it is ascribed, and the setting in which it occurs,
make it likely that the remark was understood to mean nothing more than
that a wary skepticism is indicated with respect to the acceptance of material
transmitted as Prophetical traditions. General wariness as part of the prudent
behavior of intelligent persons is also considered by ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî as
the meaning of the remark.29 His Muḥâḍarât include a brief chapter entitled
“Praise, and Blame, of Doubt and a Suspicious Attitude (sûʾ aẓ-ẓann).” It con-
tains a versification of the remark by a certain Abû Muḥammad al-Khâzin:30
My doubting, even if I do much of it, is merely

Protection for things that are certain.
Ar-Râghib further quotes the statement of an unnamed authority to the effect

that “the comfort of certainty is obtained through the discomfort of doubt.” For
the rest, he dwells on the need for skepticism before engaging in an undertaking
or putting one’s trust into another individual. The interpretation given to the
remark on doubt leading to certainty by a succession of Muslim scholars plays
down its significance. Still, in its origin, it would seem to have been a strong
26 2 Cf. Abû Sulaymân al-Manṭiqî as-Sijistânî, Ṣiwân al-ḥikmah, in the Istanbul Mss. Murad
Molla 1408, fol. 52a, Beşir Aǧa 494, fol. 57b, and Fatih 3222, fol. 39b.
27 1 Cf. Rosenthal, Fortleben, 366, n. 36.
28 2 Cf. Ibn Qutaybah, ʿUyûn, II, 139; Ibn ʿAbd-Rabbih, ʿIqd, II, 216.
29 3 Cf. ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât, I, 12 f.
30 4 Is he to be identified with Abû Muḥammad al-Ḥizâmî, one of the stingy individuals
mentioned by al-Jâḥiẓ in his book on the bukhalâʾ? In this case, the verses would originally
have been intended as facetious.
endorsement of the value of skepticism in the search for knowledge, and its
force may occasionally have been felt.
As shakk “doubt” was contrasted with yaqîn “certainty” and ʿilm “knowledge,”
so was ẓann “guessing, guesswork.” The little esteem expressed for ẓann in the
Qurʾân 53:28/29 was not universally shared later on, nor was the absolute unac-
ceptability of ẓann | in the science of ḥadîth31 generalized and extended to 307
other fields. Some guessing was even hailed as being equal to certain knowl-
edge.32 Ptolemy is credited with the remark that “guessing is the key to cer-
tainty.”33 Plato is represented as having said that “guesses are the keys to cer-
tainty, and visualizing things in the imagination provides the introduction to
clarity.”34 Another remark ascribed to Plato is added: “If you have doubts about
something, leave it alone and act in accordance with what you do not have
doubts about.35 Doubting (irtiyâb) certainty is sufficient information for you,
and guessing gives you enough clarity.” The aphorism of “guessing being the key
to certainty” was transformed into a verse by a poet who in one source remains
anonymous and in another, is called Saʿîd b. Ḥumayd.36 The poet’s direct model
is claimed to have been: “Sound guessing is the beginning of certainty.” In the
form, “guesses are the keys to certainty,” the idea is presented as a common say-
ing in the ʿUyûn,37 but it was even attributed to Ardashir.38 The ʿIqd cites the
caliph ʿUmar to the effect that “he who does not benefit from his guesses does
not benefit from his certainty,”39 and also reports the saying that “an intelligent
man’s guesswork is divination.”40 Although Muslim authors tend to bracket
shakk with ẓann, the terms hold approximately the same difference in meaning
as do its English equivalents. While skepticism implies a fundamental attitude,
31 1 Cf. Concordance, IV, 87a30 ff.

32 2 Cf. the verse cited in Isḥâq b. Ibrâhîm al-Kâtib, Burhân, 92. Cf. also ʿAbd-al-Jabbâr, Mughnî,
XI, 204, and passim, on the proposition that “preponderant opinion (ghalabat aẓ-ẓann)
takes the place of knowledge.”
33 3 Cf. al-Mubashshir, 255. For Greek equivalents of ẓann, cf. p. 200.
34 4 Cf. Kitâb as-Saʿâdah, 420.
35 5 Cf. the well-known ḥadîth: “Leave the things that puzzle you for those which do not puzzle
you.”
36 6 Cf. Ibn Qutaybah, ʿUyûn, I, 35, and Ibn ʿAbd-al-Barr, Bahjah, I, 419. For Saʿîd b. Ḥumayd
al-Kâtib, cf. Fihrist, 123 = 179, and the indexes to such works as Ibn ʿAbd-Rabbih, ʿIqd, and
Aghânî.
37 7 Cf. Ibn Qutaybah, ʿUyûn, I, 35.
38 8 Cf. Isḥâq b. Ibrâhîm al-Kâtib, Burhân, 91 f.
39 9 Cf. Ibn ʿAbd-Rabbih, ʿIqd, II, 242.
40 10 Cf. Ibn ʿAbd-Rabbih, ʿIqd, II, 244; Ibn ʿAbd-al-Barr, Bahjah, I, 419, who has “wise man”.
guessing involves scientific methodology and does not reveal much about the
attitude toward knowledge in a given society.41
308 It ought to be added here that the science of ḥadîth encouraged | a critical,
doubting spirit for its technical aspects, and this approach spilled over into
other fields such as the methodology of historiography.42 But after all has
been said, the fact remains that doubting as an epistemological tool and, even
more so, as a way of life was banned from Muslim society. The expression
“no doubt” which was much used in medieval Arabic was quite frequently an
emphatic and meaningful assertion that everything was all right, rather than
the hesitant equivocation it almost always implies in our modern usage. One
scholar could compliment another by saying that “I like your doubt better than
my certainty,”43 in order to indicate the sure grasp of his knowledge which
made doubts insignificant by comparison. Sectarians (ahl al-hawâ) were beset
by doubt, something that brought them into being in the first place, and they
were always disunited and lacked the monolithic strength that held the Muslim
community together.44 Doubt was not prized, except by the few who by and
large remained silent, or were silenced. In contrast to the belief of Xenophanes
at the very beginnings of Greek philosophy,45 certainty (al-yaqîn = to saphes)
with regard to matters divine and everything else did exist for Muslims and was
apparent to man. Knowledge not affected by doubt was passionately believed
to be within the easy reach of every believer. What this meant for the history of
knowledge in Muslim society need not be spelled out for the modern Western
observer.
41 11 For a statement on the difference between shakk and ẓann, cf. al-ʿAskarî, Furûq, 79.
42 1 Cf. al-Îjî, in Rosenthal, A History of Muslim Historiography, 201ff.
43 2 Cf. Ibn Qutaybah, ʿUyûn, II, 139; Ibn ʿAbd-Rabbih, ʿIqd, II, 217. Ibn Qutaybah has: “… than the
certainty of seven (scholars),” or is sabʿah “seven” a mistake of the editor or the printer and
should it read Shuʿbah, “Shuʿbah’s (i.e., my own) certainty”? Cf. also Abû Nuʿaym, Ḥilyah,
VII, 212.
44 3 Cf., for instance, Ibn Taymîyah, Naqḍ al-manṭiq, 42f. Hawâ, the arch-enemy of reason,
was also mentioned as a cause of doubt, for instance, by Baḥyâ, Hidâyah, 233. For the
corresponding view expressed by Paul the Persian, cf. above, p. 99 [Not reprinted here.
Ed.].
45 4 Cf. Diels, Vorsokratiker, I, 64, Xenophanes B 34, and, for the use made by the Skeptics of
this passage, cf. Diogenes Laertius, IX, 72.
Limitations on Individual Knowledge
Doubt in the existence of knowledge and in man’s ability to acquire it and make
it useful for his purposes was not generally tolerated. However, the extent to
which man as an individual was able to master the vast amount of knowledge
in the world was another matter. In this respect, the prevailing mood was a
moderate degree of realistic pessimism. Scholars learned in a given discipline | 309
or in a number of disciplines occasionally thought of themselves as complete
masters of all the knowledge in their respective fields, or were thought by
others to be. Considering the limited state of development reached by many
disciplines in the Middle Ages, this may often have been not all too far from
the truth. However, the production of knowledge was viewed as a continuing
process where the former generations always left much to do for the later
ones,46 and it was pointed out already by al-Jâḥiẓ,47 as it was later on by
Ibn ʿAbd-al-Barr,48 that the prevalence of the opposite view that the early
scholars had left nothing to be done for later scholars was harmful to scholars
and scholarship. The totality of knowledge was known only to the totality of
men,49 even if Muslims were customarily inclined to make an exception for
the Prophet (and, perhaps, the Shîʿah imâms) and flattery was often expressed
in a verse saying that God cannot be reproached for having concentrated the
whole world in one person. The limitations of individual knowledge in certain
well developed disciplines and vis-à-vis the totality of the constantly growing
accumulation of knowledge were obvious, and the social significance of this
fact was realized. While intelligence is a human characteristic and potentially
active in every human being. Ibn Ḥazm’s view that most people were stupid and
that the number of intelligent men was very small50 was probably shared by the
majority. The remedy was education, but obviously, society as a whole was not
46 1 Kam taraka l-awwalu li-l-âkhiri. Disapproval was indicated by as-Subkî, Ṭabaqât ash-
Shâfiʿîyah, I, 113. Cf. also Rosenthal, Technique and Approach, 63b, and id., in Osiris, IX
(1950), 559 f. [Below, article VIII, 12. Ed.]
47 2 Cf. Yâqût, Irshâd, VI, 58 = XVI, 78.
48 3 Cf. Ibn ʿAbd-al-Barr, Jâmiʿ, I, 99.
49 4 Cf. al-Mâwardî, Adab, 42. A verse of the Mahâbhârata says: “No one knows everything;
no one is omniscient. Never is knowledge in its entirety concentrated in one person,”
cf. L. Sternbach, in JAOS, LXXXIII (1963), 65a.
50 5 Cf. Ibn Ḥazm, Taqrîb, 180. Cf. also the saying ascribed to Ptolemy: “Scholars are strangers,
because of the great number of ignorant people,” cited by Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Âdâb, ed.
I.Y. Krachkovsky, Izbrannʾe sochineniya, VI, 51 (Moscow-Leningrad 1955–1960); al-Mâwardî,
Adab, 23; al-Mubashshir, 252; also Ibn ʿAbd-al-Barr, Jâmiʿ, II, 120. In a way, the famous
ḥadîth that “knowledge begins as a stranger and ends as a stranger” (cf. above, p. 97
prepared to spread education widely enough to cancel the factual truth of Ibn
Ḥazm’s observation. As we have seen, education had to be a continuous process
310 through|out the lifetime of the individual. Both the vastness of knowledge and
the natural dynamics of the process of learning required that it never stopped.
If a Ṣûfî pointed out that it made as little sense for a warrior to spend all his
life equipping himself as it did for a scholar to gather knowledge, he referred
to the need for action.51 He did not wish to imply that the search for more
military equipment or for better knowledge should ever stop, but he felt that
it was not possible for any single human being to wait for its completion,
before he put his accomplishments to use. The saddest moment in the life of
a philosopher such as Abû l-ʿAbbâs al-Lawkarî came when he realized that old
age and physical debility made it impossible for him to go on learning and add
to his knowledge.52
We often hear scholars castigate the “compound ignorance” defined as a per-
son’s not knowing that he does not know. Human failure with regard to the
possession of comprehensive knowledge was most commonly and universally
acknowledged by the constant repetition of the command to admit one’s igno-
rance, if such was the case. “Saying, ‘I do not know,’ constitutes one half of
knowledge” is both a Prophetical tradition and a saying found in Graeco-Arabic
wisdom literature.53 The phrase most widely recommended for use was lâ adrî
“I do not know.” Aristotle was described as saying that he was so fond of using it
that he used it also in cases where he possessed the required knowledge.54 No
educational device is omitted to hallow its constant employment.55 A some-
[Not reprinted here. Ed.]), embodies the same idea. For the general identification of the
ʿâmmah, the common people, as the ignorant and stupid majority, cf. also Badrî M. Fahd,
al-ʿÂmmah bi-Baghdâd fî l-qarn al-khâmis (Baghdâd 1387/1967).
51 1 Cf. Dâwûd aṭ-Ṭâʿî, as quoted by al-Khaṭîb al-Baghdâdî, Iqtiḍâʾ, 179.
52 2 Cf. al-Bayhaqî, Tatimmat Ṣiwân al-ḥikmah, ed. M. Shafîʿ, 121 (Lahore 1935).
53 3 Cf. Rosenthal, Technique and Approach, 63a, n. 4; also, Ḥunayn, Nawâdir al-falâsifah, in
Ms. Munich ar. 651, fol. 14b; al-Mubashshir, 200. Al-Bayhaqî, Taʾrîkh-i-Bayhaq, 143 (Teheran
1317), quotes the Prophet as saying that the use of lâ adrî is one-third of knowledge. The
Prophet also told the author in a dream that he who says, ‘I do not know,’ when this is so,
is the most learned of men. Cf. also al-Mubashshir, 303.
The remark that “asking questions is one half of knowledge” is accepted among the
sayings of Luqmân in Ḥunayn, Nawâdir, fol. 130a; al-Mubashshir, 273. Cf. above, pp. 255
and 269 [Not reprinted here. Ed].
54 4 Cf. Ibn Hindû, 77f., and, anonymously, al-Mubashshir, 334.
55 5 Among the authorities pressed into service as endorsers of lâ adrî, we find, for instance,
ʿAlî (cf. al-Yazîdî, Amâlî, 141 [Hyderabad 1948]), ʿAbdallâh b. ʿUmar (cf. above, p. 263
[Not reprinted here. Ed.]), and Abû Ḥanîfah, who comments on “lâ adrî is one half of
what | less explicit admission of doubt and ignorance is the use of the phrase 311
Allâh aʿlam “God knows better (best).” The ḥadîth commands: “It constitutes
part of knowledge to say, if one has no knowledge, Allâh aʿlam.”56 It is unusual
to find someone deprecate the use of these words. ʿUmar is depicted as having
done so. He expressed anger at people who in discussing a passage of the Qurʾân
made use of them, when in his opinion, they should have said either “we know”
or “we don’t know.”57 The use of Allâh aʿlam might have been appropriate in the
case of ordinary people and ordinary subjects, but scholarship and the impor-
tance of the subject matter made an unequivocal statement preferable in this
case.
The unwillingness to admit one’s ignorance and the perpetual scholarly
exhortation to overcome this harmful attitude were, of course, not exclusively
Islamic. The closest predecessor to Muslim civilization, the Syriac Church,
knew about it, and the great Aphrem stated the case in these words: “But this
which I have mentioned is found in the case of great sages, namely, that one
confesses, ‘I do not know.’ For this is their great knowledge that if they do not
know a thing, they confess that they do not know it.”58 In Islam where knowl-
edge acquired tremendous significance for an individual’s social standing, the
temptation to claim knowledge where there was none was a great danger for
the entire fabric of society. It was constantly warned against in the educational
literature and in the reflections of scholars about the alleged or real decay
of their specialties. In its most succinct form, this warning finds its endlessly
repeated expression in the numerous variations on the theme of the use of lâ
adrî.
Philosophy in the name of Plato and Aristotle popularized the notion of
the general insufficiency of human knowledge. It impressed itself deeply upon
knowledge” (cf. Taʾrîkh Baghdâd, XIII, 404). A number of ancient Muslims, among them
the Prophet himself and, prominently, Ibn ʿUmar, are invoked for establishing the right
attitude toward admitting lack of knowledge in Ibn ʿAbd-al-Barr, Jâmiʿ, II, 49–55; for part
of its material, this rather exhaustive treatment of the subject refers to ʿAbdallâh b. Wahb
and his Kitâb al-Majâlis. It is clear that the basic canon of all these traditions was more or
less fixed by the early eighth century. (Ibn Wahb ʿan Mâlik is cited for the subject already
in the History of Abû Zurʿah ad-Dimashqî, Ms. Fatih 4210, fol. 63b.)
56 1 Cf. Abû Khaythamah, no. 49 (ʿAbdallâh b. Masʿûd), also, no. 67; Concordance, IV, 317b38f.,
320b39 f., 337b49 ff.
57 2 Cf. I. Goldziher, Die Richtungen der islamischen Koranauslegung, 73 (Leiden 1920, reprint
1952). The reference is to aṭ-Ṭabarî, Tafsîr, III, 47, ad Qurʾân 2: 266/268.
58 3 Cf. C.W. Mitchell, S. Ephraim’s Prose Refutations, text, II, 6, trans., p. III (London-Oxford
1921).
312 Muslim consciousness, as indicated by | the many passages in literature where

it is referred to in one or both of the two basic forms: “The only aspect of
the excellence of knowledge I possess is my knowledge that I do not know,”59
and: “Were my saying, ‘I do not know,’ not a confirmation60 of the fact that
I do know, I would say that I do not know.” In Greek tradition, we find the
idea basically reduced to the following three sayings, all of which have their
prototype, it would seem, in a passage of Plato’s Apology 21D: “Heraclitus, the
physicist, said that as a youth (already) he had become the wisest man of all,
because he knew that he knew nothing”;61 “Democritus said, ‘I only know that I
do not know’”;62 and “Socrates believed that he knew nothing except that very
fact, while all the others did not even know this much.”63 The Arabic tradition
represents a conflation of all of them. The Democritean version appears in
Arabic also in the form of the sage’s attribution of his great knowledge to “my
recognition (maʿrifah) that my knowledge is small.”64 A rather close rendition
of the Socratic version, but with some fancy trimmings, comes to us from Ibn
Hindû: “Socrates said: I often used to dream that I was the most learned of my
contemporaries. I could not find myself deserving of this description except
313 by | virtue of the fact that I often say, ‘I do not know,’ in reply to matters I
am asked about.” Ibn Hindû adds another version: “It was revealed to me that
I was the most learned of men. I was surprised, because I was aware that I
59 1 In addition to Plato, this saying is also ascribed to Hippocrates (in another passage of
al-Mubashshir, 50), when it is not anonymous as, for instance, in Ibn Qutaybah, ʿUyûn,
II, 126; al-Mâwardî, Adab, 44; ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât, I, 23. Al-Mubashshir, 177,
quotes the Platonic saying that Plato knew only that he did not know, during his entire
stay in this world, cf. Rosenthal, Technique and Approach, 63a, n. 3.
60 2 The only noticeable variation in the wording of this saying occurs in connection with this
particular word. It is tathbîtan in a version going under the name of Plato, cf. al-Mubashshir,
167, and al-Mukhtâr min kalâm al-ḥukamâʾ al-arbaʿah, in Ms. Aya Sofya 2460, fol. 33a–b. A
minor variant, or rather, a mistake, is tathabbutan in Ḥunayn, Nawâdir, fol. 56b. Ibn Qutay-
bah, ʿUyûn, II, 126, has sababan, which must be corrected to tathbîtan. However, in the case
of the saying’s attribution to Socrates, the word used is ikhbâran, cf. al-Mubashshir, 125; Ibn
Abî Uṣaybiʿah, ʿUyûn al-anbâʾ, ed. A. Müller, I, 49 (Cairo and Königsberg 1882–1884). Where
the saying is connected with Archigenes, dalîlan is used (cf. al-Mubashshir, 302; Rosenthal,
Fortleben, 179, no. 50). Thus, all three versions occur in al-Mubashshir in different places.
It would seem a plausible assumption that they represent three different translations of
the same saying as attributed to different authorities.
61 3 Cf. Gnomologium Vaticanum, no. 310; Antonius Melissa, 959f.
62 4 Cf. Gnomologium Vaticanum, no. 264.
63 5 Cf. Antonius Melissa, 959 f. The first part only in Diogenes Laertius, II, 32.
64 6 Cf. al-Mubashshir, 297, see Rosenthal, Fortleben, 173, no. 5.
did not deserve this description, but revelation never lies. Thus, I deserve this
description, because I know that I do not know, whereas other people do not
know and do not know that they do not know.”65 Ibn Hindû goes on quoting an
Arabic verse to the effect that “the poor fellow does not know that he does not
know.” The verse rather castigates “compound ignorance” and does not aim at
praising the philosopher’s despair of achieving true knowledge. This is also the
case in the verse cited by Usâmah b. Munqidh:
You are ignorant, and you do not know that you are ignorant.
I wish I could see to it that you know that you do not know.
Ibn Munqidh, however, also mentions a versification of the Socratic saying:
Is it not remarkable that I am a man

Mighty in disputation, subtle in the choice of words,
Who dies with his soul possessing as its only knowledge
The knowledge that he has no knowledge?66
It is understandable that this great Greek idea re-occurs in a passage allegedly

of Persian origin that says that “it is part of knowledge to know that you do not
know.”67 On the other hand, it would have been most inappropriate to put this
remark into the mouth of the Prophet, and this seems not to have been done.
In fact, some resistance to its implications appears to have been current. It is
missing in a good many adab works where it might be expected to have made
its appearance. The reason for disregarding it could have been the triteness
that must have accrued to it over the years, as well as the fact that it was so
closely allied to Hellenism. However, an aversion to the moderate skepticism
implied in it is more likely to have made it objectionable to many Muslims.
Mere chance, or stylistic considerations, may likewise not have been the reason
why the second half of the Muʿtazilah saying cited at the outset of the present
book was omitted by some of the authors who reported it in later centuries.68
While the diffi|culty of knowledge and the need for constant and full devotion 314
to it were accepted facts, any doubts that knowledge might not yield itself even
to the most ardent and intense pursuit were better suppressed. In a society
which had come to accept the supremacy of the concept of knowledge, it
65 1 Cf. Ibn Hindû, 86.

66 2 Cf. Usâmah b. Munqidh, al-Badîʿ, 84 (Cairo 1380/1960).
67 3 Cf. Miskawayh, Jâwîdhân Khiradh, 74.
68 4 Cf. above, p. V [Not reprinted here. Ed.].
was, perhaps, possible to harbor some misgivings as to the possibility of the

realization in practice of full and certain knowledge, but many were naturally
reluctant to admit the possession of such misgivings either to themselves or to
others.
Personal Failings of Scholars
The educational literature never ceases repeating that scholars should be mod-
est and humble. Haughtiness and conceit were generally considered the pri-
mordial danger and curse of scholarship. Iblîs, while he was still answering to
the name of ʿAzâzîl and was not yet the devil, was the strongest among the
angels in independent judgment and possessed the greatest amount of knowl-
edge. This was what made him haughty.69 The angels in a body claimed to be,
if not better than the newly created Adam, then at least more knowledgeable
than he, because they had existed before him. While they were thus admir-
ing their own knowledge, they suffered a grim setback. It was Adam who was
taught by God all the names. Thus, he came into the possession of a knowl-
edge vastly greater than theirs.70 Again, knowledge proved a temptation, this
time for the new human race. Cain killed Abel, because he was envious of the
knowledge that Adam had specifically entrusted to him. Therefore, Adam later
on entrusted the book containing his last will and testament—and with it,
apparently, the sum and substance of his vast knowledge—to Seth and ordered
him to keep it concealed from Cain and his progeny.71 And so it went through
all of history. The Qârûn (Korah) of the Qurʾân became overbearing because
of his knowledge (Qurʾân 28:78/78). His behavior was all the more sinful and
destructive, because he claimed to possess a kind of real knowledge which, in
fact, he did not possess. When Jesus was hailed with the words, “Blessed be
the womb that bore you,” he retorted, “Blessed be the one whom God taught
315 His Book and | who did not be(come) a tyrant.”72 There is the famous tradi-
tion of the Prophet in which he censures those who seek knowledge in order
69 1 Cf. aṭ-Ṭabarî, Annales, I, 83.

70 2 Cf. aṭ-Ṭabarî, Annales, I, 99 f.
71 3 Cf. aṭ-Ṭabarî, Annales, I, 159 f.
72 1 Cf. Ibn ʿAbd-al-Barr, Bahjah, I, 438. The quotation is from Luke 11:27f. Jesus’ reply there is,
“… who hear the word of God and keep (it).” This, of course, is rather different from the
Arabic text, which may have added some echo of Psalms 1:1. The use of gibbôr in Psalms
112:2 should be noted, but contrary to the jabbâr of the Arabic text, it is a positive term
there.
to be able to contend and vie with scholars. It was extended to include, among
scholarly failings, an attitude of hostility toward stupid people and the desire
to draw attention to oneself.73 The tradition was part of the campaign directed
against the tendency of scholars to “study for this world” which was blamed
constantly. In adh-Dhahabî’s list of major sins, it was ranked as one, between
hypocrisy and deceit.74 Knowledge should be studied for its own sake, but,
alas, it seems there never was a period when this precept was widely prac-
ticed.
I have seen the people of our time

Seek knowledge not for the sake of knowledge,
But for vying with their colleagues
And for being equipped for tyrannizing and wronging others.75
Studying for the world deprives scholars of their heavenly reward in the other
world. In a more secular vein, it robs knowledge of its sweetness and splendor.76
In adh-Dhahabî’s list of major sins, it is combined with the equally grave sin
of “concealing knowledge” which means the death of the social usefulness
of knowledge. While knowledge must not be imparted to those who do not
deserve it or are not capable of understanding it, it must also not be withheld
from the deserving77 by some so-called scholar for selfish reasons, in order
to promote his own standing in the world. The transmission and spread of
knowledge bring it to fruition. Besides, it is also pointed out frequently that the
communication | of knowledge to others results in an increase of knowledge. 316
“The charity tax (zakâh) to be levied on knowledge is teaching those who have
not enough knowledge … Such a tax is even more necessary in the case of
knowledge, as knowledge is increased by spending. Knowledge, it has been
said, is like hair. Whenever some hair is shaved off, it grows back more strongly.
73 2 Cf. above, p. 172, n. 2 [Not reprinted here. Ed.].

74 3 Cf. adh-Dhahabî, Kitâb al-Kabâʾir, 140–143 (Cairo 1385/1965).
75 4 Cf. az-Zamakhsharî, Rabîʿ, in Ms. Yale L-5, fol. 184b; Ibn al-Jawzî, Manâqib al-Imâm Aḥmad
b. Ḥanbal, 148; al-Ibshîhî, Mustaṭraf, I, 24. Az-Zamakhsharî mentions as the poet Bashîr
b. ʿAbd-al-Raḥmân b. Kaʿb b. Mâlik al-Anṣârî, cf. Aghânî, XV, 27. M. Shafîʿ, Analytical
Indices to the Kitâb al-ʿIḳd al-Farîd, I, 204 (Calcutta 1935), lists him under Bishr. Instead
of “tyrannizing” (al-ghashm), which appears to be the best reading, Ibn al-Jawzî has
something like “winning disputes” (al-khaṣm), and al-Ibshîhî has “cheating” (al-ghashsh).
76 5 Cf. al-Mubashshir, 323, who speaks of knowledge and wisdom.
77 6 On this topic, cf., for instance, Ibn ʿAbd-al-Barr, Jâmiʿ, I, 110f.
If it is not shaved off, it retains its fixed size to which it grows back when it is
clipped. Left alone, it does not go beyond it.”78
Failures of this sort and faulty character traits make up the “evil scholar”
(ʿâlim as-sûʾ). We hear much about the harm he causes to himself and, above
all, to society. His harmfulness was stressed by the representatives of secular
learning, too, but, basically, the figure of the evil scholar was one inspired by
religion. Shades of the New Testament are unmistakable in the preference
shown for statements ascribed to Jesus concerning evil scholars.79 Scholars
were expected to have the proper qualities as established in the generally
accepted canon of ethics. Apparently in this sense, ʿAbdallâh b. al-Mubârak
claimed that there was greater need among men of religion for a little adab
than for much knowledge.80
The learned also have to observe society’s rules concerning morality. The
“wicked scholar” (al-ʿâlim al-fâsiq) was the frequent target of concerned edu-
cators. He is the worst of men, according to a remark ascribed to Jesus.81 Wâṣil
b. ʿAṭâʾ, however, also warned against men who were pious but at the same
time stupid. Together with wicked scholars, they belonged to the most harm-
ful type of human beings. In the case of wicked scholars, knowledge suffered
harm, because their knowledge was sure to be rejected on account of their
wickedness. In the case of those who were pious and stupid, the harm was
done through the spread of ignorance, since their piety was sure to make people
accept their ignorance. Moderation in both directions was, according to Wâṣil,
what promised the best hope for future salvation.82 Here, as so often, the thrust
is against piety and in favor of knowledge. However, fisq “wickedness,” that is,
317 moral misbehavior in the widest sense, was considered a | peculiar failing of
scholars. A pious man could not be “wicked,” if he was to be deserving of being
called pious in the first place. The socially unacceptable actions of a scholar
nullify his usefulness for society.83
Constantly repeated warnings of this sort indicate clearly that the conditions
warned against were thought to be quite prevalent, and probably were. The
emphatic condemnations of “studying for this world” suffice by themselves
78 1 Cf. Ibn Buṭlân, Daʿwat al-aṭibbâʾ, 20 (n.p., n.y.).

79 2 Cf., for instance, al-Khaṭîb al-Baghdâdî, Iqtiḍâʾ, 195f.
80 3 Cf. above, p. 174 [Not reprinted here. Ed.], and Usâmah b. Munqidh, Lubâb al-âdab, 231
(Cairo 1354/1935). Cf. also above, p. 293 [Not reprinted here. Ed.].
81 4 Cf. Kitâb as-Saʿâdah, 149.
82 5 Cf. at-Tawḥîdî, Baṣâʾir, I, 299; also, al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ, I, 52, trans. Faris, 153.
83 1 Cf. al-Mubashshir, 168, in the name of Plato: “The most unfortunate of scholars is the one
whose teachings are invalidated when disapproved (traits) of his become obvious.”
to show that many scholars did just that. They also seem to clash strangely
with the strongly held and frequently enounced thesis that knowledge brings
worldly material success. As usual, a verse tells the whole story:
The search for knowledge (ʿulûm) means much humiliation.

The neglect of it means grievous affliction.
Thus, bear with the search for knowledge, for
After humiliation, it means high rank and position.84
The optimistic note was triumphantly sounded by ḥadîth scholars who already
in the ninth century were confident of ultimately taking over political power, as
did, in fact, happen, and they ascribed the defeatist negativism to their Muʿtazi-
lah adversaries. This situation was graphically illustrated by Ṣâliḥ Jazarah
(d. 293/906, or 294) by means of an exchange of verses between a Muʿtazilah
who said:
Reading, writing, jurisprudence, and all scholarly occupation

Are the origin of discomfort, poverty, worries, humiliation,
and a ḥadîth scholar who responded:
Writing, study, the occupation with the notebooks of tradition

Are the origin of great piety and political ambition.85
The seeming contradiction can be easily resolved. The worldly success accom-
panying knowledge is a natural consequence, something that is inherent in the
nature of knowledge as an intellectual | and spiritual force dominating society, 318
which is bound to triumph over material things. It can do this by either dis-
regarding material things or by pressing them into its service. But in order to
harness this force, a person must rise above material considerations and show
contempt for the ordinary goods and pleasures of this world. Naturally enough,
the incidental result was often taken to be the intended goal, and the material
rewards going with knowledge were misunderstood as its true and desirable
consequences. As such a misunderstanding of the true nature of knowledge
84 2 Cf. al-Bayhaqî, Taʾrîkh-i-Bayhaq, 104. Another poetic recital of the almost automatic re-
wards of strenuous study and a good education may, for instance, be found in Niẓâmî’s Heft
Peiker, ed. H. Ritter and J. Rypka, 38 (Prague 1934), trans. C.E. Wilson, 35 (London 1924).
85 3 That is, the attainment of political power and leadership. Cf. Taʾrîkh Baghdâd, IX, 323f.;
Ibn ʿAsâkir, Taʾrîkh Dimashq, VI, 381 f. (Damascus 1329–1351).
was harmful to knowledge as the stuff that keeps society going, it required clar-
ification. This is why personal failings of scholars were the constant concern
not only of professional educators in Islam but also of every thoughtful Muslim.
And this is why it was necessary and unavoidable to have those interminable
complaints that scholars of a given time no longer followed the straight and
narrow path of an unselfish devotion to scholarship.
Knowledge as Life and as Food for the Soul
Attention was paid to the blemishes that might affect knowledge and scholars.
Much more, however, was said in favor of a positive evaluation of knowledge as
a force in society. Knowledge is useful. At least, all acceptable knowledge ought
to be useful. Much depends on the way in which “usefulness” is conceived.86
Often, as we have seen, the label of usefulness was reserved exclusively for
the metaphysical benefits which only certain types of religious knowledge
and religious activity could guarantee. In contrast, there was the frequent
observation that all knowledge was useful and should be cultivated. A certain
bias against theoretical knowledge of no immediate practical usefulness was
kept alive. Socrates “was asked why seawater had become salty. He replied: If
you can indicate to me the use that will come to you from knowing the answer
to this question, I shall give you the reason.”87 And Diogenes, “seeing a youth
with a lamp, said to him: Do you know where this fire comes from? The youth
replied: If you can tell me where it goes to, I shall tell you where it comes
from, thus effectively silencing Diogenes, something nobody else had been
319 able to do.”88 These | anecdotes undoubtedly of Greek origin were meant to be
sophisticated witticisms, rather than constitute a considered judgment on the
nature of useful knowledge. But they illustrate a common human reluctance to
accept the greatness of knowledge in its full dimension. This attitude continued
in Islam and did its share of harm. However, on the whole, it was counteracted
by the firm conviction that it was known what the usefulness of knowledge
really was.
The all-sustaining power of knowledge is captured in the simile of knowl-
edge being food for the soul. Various versions of it are met with in the Graeco-
Arabic tradition, “Like as the body grows through food and becomes firm
86 1 Cf. Ibn Sînâ’s definition of usefulness as the true good, in Rosenthal, A History of Muslim
Historiography, 61.
87 2 Cf. al-Mubashshir, 113.
88 3 Cf. ash-Shahrastânî, 333, trans. Haarbrücker, II, 192.
through exercise, thus the soul grows through studying and becomes strong
through patiently enduring (the hardships of) studying.”89 Diogenes, it
seems, was supposed to have made this statement. Someone else, apparently
Theognis, is said to have already played a variation on the theme: “Knowledge is
not on the level of food which suffices to feed two or three but cannot feed many
persons. Rather, it is like light which enables many eyes to see all at the same
time.”90 Diogenes, or, according to another version, the Church Father, Basilius,
admonishes us to take the appropriate measures against harmful knowledge in
the same way in which we are used to protect ourselves against harmful foods,
because knowledge is the food of the soul.91 According to Plato, the pleasure
which the soul shares with the body is that of food and drink, whereas its incor-
poreal pleasure is that of knowledge and wisdom.92 For Pseudo-Apollonius of
Tyana (Balînûs), proof of the incorporeality of the soul lies in the fact that it
does not partake of material nourishment. “According to the Stoics,” he reports,
“Socrates said that the soul eats; however, its food is something that is not cor-
poreal, since the food of the soul is knowledge.”93 Knowledge is also described
by Ibn Buṭlân as the thing that nourishes the intellect. It is for the intellect | 320
what food is for the body,94 since the two supplement each other and must
exist together in human beings. Ibn Taymîyah states that “the arrival of knowl-
edge in the heart is like the arrival of food in the body. The body is aware of food
and drink. In the same manner, the hearts are aware of the sciences (ʿulûm) that
establish themselves in them and which are their food and drink.”95 In the pop-
89 1 Cf. Kitâb as-Saʿâdah, 170. At its first occurrence, “studying” should, perhaps, be corrected
to “knowledge”.
90 2 Cf. Abû Sulaymân al-Manṭiqî as-Sijistânî, Ṣiwân, in Ms. Murad Molla 1408, fol. 44b; Themis-
tius, Peri philias, in the Syriac translation edited by E. Sachau, Inedita Syriaca, 49 (Halle
1870, reprint Hildesheim 1968).
91 3 Cf. at-Tawḥîdî, Imtâʿ, II, 34; al-Mubashshir, 283.
92 4 Cf. at-Tawḥîdî, Imtâʿ, II, 36.
93 5 Cf. Balînûs, Sirr al-khalîqah, fol. 172a. It is a bit strange to find the Stoics mentioned in
connection with incorporeality of the soul.
94 1 Cf. Ibn Buṭlân, Daʿwat al-aṭibbâʾ, 7. The same applies to adab, according to Miskawayh,
Jâwidhân Khiradh, 268: “When the intellect matures, adab coalesces with it, like as food
coalesces with a healthy body.” Aṭ-Ṭurṭûshî, Sirâj, 201, speaks of the ʿaql as being more
in need of wisdom and adab than is the body of food and drink. For Aristotle calling
“wisdom and knowledge the food of the intellect,” cf. az-Zamakhsharî, Rabîʿ, in Ms. Yale
L-5, fol. 185b.
95 2 Cf. Ibn Taymîyah, Naqḍ al-manṭiq, 36. “Knowledge is for the heart like water for plants and
like food for the body,” according to al-Bayâbânakî (d. 736/1336), cf. Ms. Veliuddin 1795,
fol. 53b.
ular conception, knowledge and books have always been identified as spiritual
food, down to the present day.
An even higher estimate of the value of knowledge is implied in the equation
of knowledge with life itself. Theology had its own reasons for speculating on
the relationship of life and knowledge.96 In popular lore, it was an idea often
expressed. Long before Islam, ancient Oriental thinkers had conceived the idea
of wisdom that gives life, and the Greeks spoke of those lacking education as
the waking dead.97 The ancient tradition remained alive in Islam. Aristotle is
credited with the saying that “knowledge is life, and ignorance is death.”98 In
Islamic terms, the life-negating character of ignorance is depicted in verses
such as these:
In ignorance there is death for the ignorant, before they die.

Their bodies are tombs, before they are buried.
A man who is not given life by knowledge is dead.
He enjoys no resurrection till the Resurrection.99
Knowledge, according to the poet, restores people and quenches their thirst,
321 like as rain falling upon wood gives it new life.100 Among | the many predi-
cates that are showered upon knowledge, we also find “the life of the dead,
the ornament of the living, the perfection of man.”101 For az-Zamakhsharî,
knowledge is the life of the heart after ignorance, as well as the light of the
eyes.102 Correspondingly, Usâmah b. Munqidh cites an unnamed philosopher
who called adab rather than knowledge “the life of the hearts.”103 The Jew-
ish mystic, Baḥyâ b. Pâqûdâ, speaks of the “knowledge which is the life of
96 3 Cf. above, p. 126 [Not reprinted here. Ed.].

97 4 Cf. Gnomologium Vaticanum, no. 55, in the name of Aristotle. “Those who do not under-
stand something wise are not alive,” runs a verse by Chairemon, cf. Stobaeus, III, 222. Cf.
also above, p. 287 [Not reprinted here. Ed.].
98 5 Cf. al-Mubashshir, 216, and the Liber de pomo, see J. Kraemer, in Studi Orientalistici in onore
di Giorgio Levi della Vida, I, 502, n. 6 (Rome 1956).
99 6 Cf. al-Mâwardî, Adab, 17, citing the verses as those of a contemporary. As-Subkî, Ṭabaqât
ash-Shâfiʿîyah, IV, 27, says that their author was a man from al-Baṣrah and that al-Mâwardî
recited them to Mahdî b. ʿAlî al-Isfarâʾinî. See also al-ʿAlmawî, Muʿîd, 9.
100 7 As quoted by at-Tawḥîdî, Imtâʿ, III, 175.
101 1 Cf. at-Tawḥîdî, Maṭâlib al-wazîrayn, ed. I. al-Kaylânî, 21 (Damascus 1961) = Akhlâq al-
wazîrayn, ed. M. b. Tâwît aṭ-Ṭanjî, 28 (Damascus 1385/1965).
102 2 Cf. az-Zamakhsharî, Rabîʿ, in Ms. Yale L-5, fol. 182b.
103 3 Cf. Usâmah b. Munqidh, Lubâb, 234.
their hearts.”104 Wisdom and knowledge are truly the food of the heart which
through them maintains its life, and if they are kept away from it for three
days, it dies.105 However, from a more technical, philosophical point of view,
Ibn Ḥazm argues against the idea, expressed, he says, by “the representatives
of religious scholarship (ahl ash-sharîʿah), that knowledge is the opposite of
death. This is wrong, for the soul, after leaving the body, is more firmly grounded
in knowledge than ever before, while the compound body does not know any-
thing.”106
More peculiar is the remark ascribed to the sages that “a man’s knowledge
is his everlasting child.”107 Eternal duration was more commonly associated
with books, which were also equated with physical progeny. The thought that
knowledge assured eternal life was indicated also in other sayings such as, for
instance: “He who gives life to some kind of knowledge never dies,” and, “the
guardians of wealth are dead, while they are alive. The guardians of knowledge
live, while they are dead.”108 This last saying appears in a version ascribed to ʿAlî
as: “The guardians of wealth are dead, while they are alive. Scholars last as long
as time (dahr).”109 A varia|tion on the theme that fathers give physical life, to 322
their children, while teachers give their students the good life, speaks of “ever-
lasting life.”110 Knowledge was indeed conceived as everlasting in Islam but this
referred to the religious insights which were not a human creation. Accord-
ing to the Prophetical tradition, the only hazard to eternal life knowledge must
overcome is the mortality of scholars; their disappearance is believed to fore-
shadow the Last Day and the end of the Muslim community. However this may
be, knowledge as “food” or as “life” was considered a fundamental condition for
the continued existence of the individual as well as society.
104 4 Cf. Baḥyâ, Hidâyah, 4.

105 5 Cf. Muḥammad b. Ibrâhîm b. Aḥmad al-Bustî, ar-Riʿâyah bi-waṣîyat al-murîdîn fî makârim
al-akhlâq, in Ms. Bursa, Haraççi 765, fol. 4a. The manuscript is dated in 587/1191, and the
author is unlikely to have lived before the twelfth century. However, I have been unsuc-
cessful in my attempts to identify him. The work begins with a chapter on knowledge,
which contains some of the common sayings on the subject cited here, and continues
with chapters on islâm, faith, repentance, and so on.
106 6 Cf. Ibn Ḥazm, Taqrîb, 72.
107 7 Cf. Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Âdâb, ed. Krachkovsky, VI, 65; Ibn ʿAbd-al-Barr, Jâmiʿ, I, 16.
108 8 Cf. Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Âdâb, ed. Krachkovsky, VI, 87.
109 9 Cf. Ibn ʿAbd-Rabbih, ʿIqd, II, 212.
110 1 Cf. al-ʿAlmawî, Muʿîd, 7; F. Rosenthal, in Orientalia, N.S., XXVII (1958), 42.
Knowledge in its Relation to Money and Power
Reflections on the material rewards of successful efforts to acquire knowledge

and to achieve the rank and status of a scholar generally made these points: 1.
The efforts are difficult and involve many hardships, humiliations, and depriva-
tions. 2. They must be made regardless of any hope for material rewards. 3. They
lead, however, to material rewards in the form of prestige which brings with it
a position of high regard in society and a certain measure of affluence. But 4.
knowledge by itself is a much more valuable possession than any material gain
that may come to the scholar.
Nobility of birth was held in the lowest esteem of all the material advantages.
It was certainly deemed by far less valuable than intellectual merit as proved
by the possession of knowledge:
The learned, intelligent person who is his own man

Has no need of (noble) family origins by virtue of the quality of his
knowledge.
Be whose son you want to be, and be perfect!
The outstanding keenness of his mind makes a man, nothing else.
How great is the difference between a man honored for his origin
And a man honored for his own sake!111
323 The verses echo the famous remark of ʿAlî that “a man’s value | consists in what
he knows or does well.”112 Ignorance, on the other hand, lowers the prestige an
individual may possess and annuls the advantages of noble birth:
111 2 Cf. the Houtsma fragment of the Fihrist, in the name of Judge Abû Muḥammad ʿAbdallâh
b. Aḥmad b. Zabr, cf. the Persian translation of the Fihrist, 320. For Ibn Zabr, see Rosenthal,
A History of Muslim Historiography, 512, n. 2.
112 1 Cf. above, pp. 256 and 281 [Not reprinted here. Ed.]. There are innumerable references,
cf., for instance, ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât, I, 17, or Ibn ʿAbd-al-Barr, Jâmiʿ, I, 99. A
versification of ʿAlî’s statement, allegedly by al-Khalîl, is often cited:
A high person is not like a low person.

No! Nor is the sharp-witted person like the dull-witted person.
…
A man’s value is the extent of what he knows and does well.
As was decided by the imâm ʿAlî.
Knowledge lifts the lowly person to the heights.

Ignorance keeps the youth of noble birth immobile.113
Rarely was there a point of view on which all the spokesmen of Muslim society
agreed so unanimously and which they expressed so persistently. It would not
do to suggest that there was a large residue of admiration for noble birth in
Muslim society, once it had moved out of the Arabian peninsula, and that the
intellectuals constantly and strenuously raised their voice against it, merely in
order to combat a tendency dangerous in their eyes and detrimental to their
particular interests. Noble birth had its advantages, but it could not compete
with money, and certainly not with knowledge. The Muslims themselves were
able to contrast the Muslim attitude toward social stratification determined
by birth with what they believed had been the dominant characteristic of
the Persian civilization preceding Islam, namely, its insistence upon social
immobility as the prerequisite for a well-ordered society and upon birth as
the decisive factor for the individual’s position in and value to society.114 On
our part, we may point out that in | Christian Europe, the shift from the 324
belief in the superiority of noble birth to the stress on personal merit was a
slow development indeed. It began gathering strength only in the fifteenth
century,115 inaugurating the “modern” era with its unprecedented flowering of
human achievement.
A much larger remnant of doubt and vacillation affected the Muslim attitude
toward money and property. Next to knowledge, commerce was the mainspring
113 2 Cf. ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât, I, 17: Ibn ʿAbd-al-Barr, Jâmiʿ, I, 18. Strangely enough,
Ibn al-Fuwaṭî, Talkhîṣ Majmaʿ al-âdâb, ed. Muṣṭafa Jawâd, IV, 1, 467 (Damascus 1962),
ascribes the verse to a certain ʿAfîf-ad-dîn Abû Bakr Aḥmad al-Iṣfahânî, unless his author-
ship was meant to refer to the two following verses.
114 3 Cf. al-ʿÂmirî, Iʿlâm, 160, trans. F. Rosenthal, in The Islamic Quarterly, III (1956), 52. (Con-
trast, however, above, p. 281 [Not reprinted here. Ed.], for the need for intellectual achieve-
ment, in order to be able to overcome restraints imposed by the stratification of society.)
It is interesting to see that in Miskawayh, Jâwîdhân Khiradh, 42, the knightly virtue of
bravery is compared to knowledge and found wanting. This is said to go back to the Sassa-
nian ruler Qubâdh (Kavadh). The problem of the relative merit of bravery and scholarship
might, in fact, have been discussed in pre-Islamic Iran, but its solution in favor of knowl-
edge and scholarship again casts doubt upon the Persian attribution (cf. above, p. 284, n. 3
[Not reprinted here. Ed.]).
The Greek attitude toward nobility of birth (eugeneia) was rather ambivalent. Coming
from good stock was considered important and even indispensable for virtue, but the
possession of virtue was the decisive factor.
115 1 Cf. C.C. Williard, in Studies in the Renaissance, XIV (1967), 33–48.
of the mobility of Muslim society. The power of money was fully understood
by scholars. Their own relative poverty as contrasted to the wealth of the
commercial and landholding segments of society remained for them an article
of faith firmly to be believed in and constantly to be proclaimed.116 Not very
many among them might have shown appreciation for the sentiment that the
principal merit of knowledge was to help a poor man to be satisfied with his
lot.117 As so many other vital concerns, the bitterness of the poorly rewarded
intellectual was most vividly put into words by Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî in
the tenth century.118 From later times, we can document what no doubt had
always been the actual situation, namely, that a certain middle-class prosperity
based on commercial activity was the background from which scholars most
commonly came (unless, perhaps, they happened to be born into a scholarly
family of established standing, but even these usually possessed commercial
connections).119 Those who overcame grinding poverty to become prominent
in scholarship were but a small minority, albeit a remarkable one. It would be
325 difficult to venture any kind of general | statement on the social background of
Muslim mystics. Whatever it was, they quite naturally rejected wealth in favor
of spiritual values, at least in theory.
A certain respect for wealth was not considered incompatible with learning.
Certain sayings expressing this view remained popular. “Why do wisdom and
wealth not go together?, Plato was asked, and he replied: Because perfection is
rare.”120 Meant primarily to extol wisdom, the saying takes note of the fact that
wealth, too, is an indispensable part of human perfection. An anecdote based
on Plato’s remark about “the wise going to the doors of the rich” (Republic 489B)
is cited frequently: “Diogenes was asked why the rich did not go to the doors
of the learned, whereas the learned went to the doors of the rich. He replied:
Because the learned know the value of money, while the rich do not know the
116 2 Cf., for instance, the verse by Abû l-Ḥasan ʿAlî b. Muḥammad al-Badîhî, cited in ar-Râghib
al-Iṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât, I, 17: “Most followers of knowledge and education are humble
and destitute,” or the verse on the scholar’s inkwell being the hideout of poverty, cited
in Rosenthal, A History of Muslim Historiography, 57.
117 3 Cf. ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât, I, 17, in the name of the caliph ʿUmar b. ʿAbd-al-ʿAzîz.
118 4 Cf., for instance, the quotations from at-Tawḥîdî’s works assembled in the biography of
at-Tawḥîdî in Yâqût, Irshâd.
119 5 Cf., for instance, the article “Ibn Ḥadjar,” in the second edition of the Encyclopaedia of
Islam. Cf. also above, p. 296 [Not reprinted here. Ed.].
120 1 Cf. at-Tawḥîdî, Baṣâʾir, in Ms. phot. Cairo adab 9104 (= Fatih 3695), IV, 116; al-Mâwardî,
Adab, 17 (anonymous); al-Mubashshir, 132; al-Bustân, in Ms. Paris ar. 4811, fol. 6a; Ikhtiyâr-
ad-dîn al-Ḥusaynî, Asâs al-iqtibâs, 48 (Constantinople 1298).
excellence of knowledge.”121 The Persian sage, Buzurjmihr, was also credited

with this saying, and it was expressly stated that it provided decisive proof for
the superiority of knowledge over wealth.122 Its prototype is well known from
Greek works. It does not appear there in precisely the same form as in Arabic,
and it is not uninstructive to compare the differences. In one of the Greek
versions, the reply Aristippus is said to have given to Dionysius reads: “Because
the wise know what they need, while the rich do not.”123 In another version,
Eubulus tells Socrates that the fact that the wise sit or even sleep at the doors
of the rich clearly proves the superiority of wealth over wisdom. Greek tradition
in a way rejected this probably more original form of the witticism. In Muslim
tradition, finally, it was completely superseded by the moralizing conclusion
in favor of knowledge. Still, the anecdote retained some of its old flavor and
suggested a | certain appreciation of material prosperity as a human good to be 326
appreciated even by scholars.
There was certainly no lack of embittered or cynical individuals who saw
wealth as the only worthy object of human endeavors and who even went so far
as to claim that all scholarly works were written only as a subterfuge for obtain-
ing wealth, as stated in a verse by ʿUthmân b. Khumârtâsh (d. 619/1222).124 How-
ever, it was clear to the majority and impressed upon them by the books they
were reading and the intellectual climate surrounding them that “wealth disap-
pears, whereas knowledge remains.”125 Your knowledge cannot be taken away
from you, but your wealth can, and often is.126 Knowledge is an inexhaustible
treasure,127 while all other treasures are not inexhaustible. It is a possession
which can be spent without thereby suffering any diminution. On the contrary,
it rather increases with being spent, something which is certainly not true of
material possessions.128 It is like the fire of a lamp which is not extinguished by
121 2 Cf. al-Mubashshir, 80, also, 19 (Hermes): Ibn Hindû, 102 (Dyqwmys). In Ibn ʿAbd-Rabbih,
ʿIqd, II, 213 f., the story is attributed to al-Khalîl, and “the rich” are replaced by “kings.”
122 3 Cf. Ibn Qutaybah, ʿUyûn, II, 122 (above, p. 258 [Not reprinted here. Ed.]); al-Mâwardî, Adab,
17; Ibn Abî l-Ḥadîd, V, 361.
123 4 Cf. Diogenes Laertius, II, 69; Gnomologium Vaticanum, no. 6. The editor of the Gnomolo-
gium Vaticanum gives many other references and quotes the text of the other version. For
the latter, cf. Schenkl, Florilegium Ariston, in Wiener Studien, XI (1889), 19; Stobaeus, V,
744.
124 1 Cf. al-Kutubî, Fawât, II, 62 (Cairo 1951–1953).
125 2 Cf. al-Mubashshir, 18 (Hermes).
126 3 Cf. ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât, I, 17.
127 4 Cf. the verses to this effect cited by al-ʿAlmawî, Muʿîd, 6ff. Those ascribed there to Abû
l-Aswad ad-Duʾalî apparently are not in his Dîwân.
128 5 Cf. Ibn Qutaybah, ʿUyûn, II, 120 (above, p. 256 [Not reprinted here. Ed.]); Ibn ʿAbd-Rabbih,
kindling another fire from it.129 It gives protection, whereas property requires
protection, and “it exercises control, whereas property is something over which
control is exercised.”130
For Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî, the superiority of knowledge over wealth was
a foregone conclusion, and he knew why the two never went together. Plato
and his own teacher, Abû Sulaymân al-Manṭiqî as-Sijistânî, were his authori-
ties: “Plato says: To the degree God gives wisdom, He withholds sustenance.131
327 Abû Sulaymân’s comment: This is because knowledge and wealth are like two |
wives (of the same man). They rarely go together and are reconciled to each
other. Also, a man’s portion of wealth results from the concupiscent and bestial
soul, whereas his portion of knowledge results from the rational soul. These
two portions oppose, and contradict each other. Further, a discerning and
discriminating person must realize that a man who possesses knowledge is
nobler in every conceivable respect than a man of wealth. If he is given knowl-
edge, he need not despair of money, of which a little suffices, or greatly worry
about the loss of it. Knowledge exercises control. Wealth is something over
which control is exercised. Knowledge belongs to the soul. Wealth is corpo-
real. Knowledge belongs to a man in a more personal manner than wealth. The
perils of the wealthy are many and sudden. You do not see a man who pos-
sesses knowledge robbed of his knowledge and left deprived of it. But you have
seen quite a few people whose money was stolen, taken away, or confiscated,
and the former owners remained helpless and destitute. Knowledge thrives on
being spent. It accompanies its possessor into destitution. It makes it possi-
ble to be satisfied with little. It lowers a curtain over need. Wealth does not do
that.”132
ʿIqd, II, 212; Miskawayh, Tahdhîb, 164.

129 6 Cf. Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Âdâb, ed. Krachkovsky, VI, 58, and, similarly, Ibn ʿAbd-Rabbih, ʿIqd, II,
214 (in the name of Sufyân b. ʿUyaynah). A saying attributed to Plato in the Ms. Paris ar.
3953, fol. 10a–b, adds that like the lack of firewood, non-communication of knowledge, “the
stinginess of its bearers,” leads to its destruction. Ḥunayn, Nawâdir, fol. 60a, and Ibn Hindû,
22, add the further idea in the name of Plato that in contrast to everything else in the world,
knowledge cannot be acquired with the help of servants. With respect to it, the individual
is left to his own devices and capabilities. Cf. also al-Mubashshir, 132.
130 7 Cf. ʿAlî to Kumayl, above, p. 256; n. 5 [Not reprinted here. Ed.]; al-Mâwardî, Adab, 21.
131 8 “The more intelligence, the less sustenance,” was the way Sufyân b. ʿUyaynah put it, cf. Abû
Nuʿaym, Ḥilyah, VII, 271.
132 1 Cf. at-Tawḥîdî, Imtâʿ, II, 49. See also Yâqût, Irshâd, VI, 150 = XVI, 231, where at-Tawḥîdî and
Ibn Sâsân agree that luck ( jadd) and knowledge rarely go together and that effort and
trouble (kadd) go with knowledge, while luck goes with ignorance.
However, knowledge meant wealth as was indicated, for instance, in a

remark ascribed to Muṣʿab b. az-Zubayr who was advising his son to acquire
knowledge, for, he said, “if you have wealth, knowledge will be an ornament
( jamâl) for you. If you do not have wealth, it will mean wealth for you.”133 It
brought with it worldly advancement in the way described by the caliph ʿAbd-
al-Malik to his sons: “Acquire knowledge, for if you are lords, you will thereby
advance in power and rank. If you belong to the middle class, you will become
lords. And if you are common people, it will enable you to make a living.”134 It
was, of course, also realized that money constituted power and together with
knowledge was the magic formula that insured leadership in human society.
Again, this was an idea derived from Hellenistic wisdom. It found expression in
a saying that reads: “In this life, seek knowledge | and wealth, and you will gain 328
leadership, for there are two kinds of people, the elite and the common people.
The elite will acknowledge your superiority because of your good knowledge
and your ability to act correctly, and the common people will acknowledge your
superiority because of your large property.”135
On the other hand, scholars were fascinated by the thought that knowl-
edge by itself guaranteed political power and, what is more, the sound exercise
of it.136 At the very least, it was considered one of the ways through which
political power could be achieved. Platonism, as it became known to the Mus-
lims in early ʿAbbâsid times, provided the foundation for this idea, although
it had no doubt been around and in the air long before the formal accep-
tance of the Greek philosophical heritage. An apparently old and often cited
dictum extolling the superiority of scholars over statesmen was attributed to
the legendary grammarian of the seventh century, Abû l-Aswad ad-Duʾalî, and
couched in this form: “There is nothing more powerful (aʿazz) than knowledge.
This is shown by the fact that kings exercise control (ḥukkâm) over people,
and scholars exercise control over kings.”137 If the scholars themselves can-
133 2 Cf. al-Mâwardî, Adab, 16; al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ, I, 8, trans. Faris, 17.
134 3 Cf. al-Mâwardî, Adab, 16 f.
135 1 Cf. Ḥunayn, Nawâdir, fol. 140a (ʾynsws = Aesop?); Ibn Hindû, 24 (Plato); al-Mubashshir, 139
(Plato), 277 (Luqmân); at-Tawḥîdî, Imtâʿ, II, 48 f. (Diogenes).
136 2 The idea was also turned around. Just as humanity would die out without man’s sexual
instincts, “knowledge would be lost, were there no love of leadership,” cf. Maḥmûd b.
Muḥammad (above, p. 249, n. 3 [Not reprinted here. Ed.]), in the name of al-Maʾmûn.
137 3 Cf., for instance, Ibn Qutaybah, ʿUyûn, II, 121 (above, p. 258 [Not reprinted here. Ed.]); Ibn
ʿAbd-Rabbih, ʿIqd, II, 215; al-Marzubânî, Nûr al-qabas, 12; Abu Aḥmad al-ʿAskarî, Maṣûn,
ed. ʿAbd-as-Salâm M. Hârûn, 137 (Kuwait 1960); al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ, I, 7, trans. Faris, 14; Ibn
Jamâʿah, Tadhkirah, 10; also al-ʿAskarî, Ḥathth, in Ms. Hamidiye 1464, fol. 55b.
not be in positions of political power, then at least, the rulers should have
knowledge. “Knowledge,” Aristotle says, “is an ornament of kings.”138 Again,
Greek statecraft is transferred to Iran in the form of a statement ascribed to
Anûsharwân: “When God means well for a nation, He places knowledge in
329 its kings, and kingship in | its scholars.”139 The concept of the philosopher-
king appears in Muslim adab under the name of Diogenes. “Asked when the
world was in good shape, Diogenes replied: When its kings philosophize, and
its philosophers are kings.”140 Abû Ḥayyân at-Tawḥîdî tells us that Diogenes’
remark evoked a negative response from the wazîr in whose presence it was
cited. With the political insight into human nature of the political realist, the
wazîr doubted its validity. Philosophy, he argued, concerned as it is with the
other world, implies an abdication from worldly affairs, “and how can a king
abdicate from worldly affairs and have a dislike for them? He must lead and
control the people of this world. This requires providing for material bene-
fits (for them) and avoiding material harm (coming to them). He has friends
whom he must guide, for whom he must set up houses and provide wealth,
with whom he must eat and drink together and whom he must take care of, and
whose private and public affairs he must oversee. A king is busier than a physi-
cian who must undertake many treatments with various drugs and diverse
diets, and yet must first consider his own soul and his own body and avoid
diseases and accidents (disease symptoms), inwardly and outwardly. How can
a man of so many needs and concerns, and even more (than have just been
described as falling to the lot of a king) be a king and also a sage (at the same
time)? Considering this a possibility, someone could argue that a king may
be gathering wisdom as (a champion of religious) propaganda, while directly
and immediately taking care of his government duties. However, this would
Among scholars, the superiority of scholars over kings came to be taken for granted.
An author of scholarly biographies (ṭabaqât) could begin his work with praising God who
had raised the level (ṭabaqât) of scholars over the heads and crowns of kings, cf. as-Subkî,
Ṭabaqât ash-Shâfiʿîyah, I, 13.
138 4 Cf. al-Mubashshir, 193. More commonly, it is said that knowledge is an ornament for all
who possess it. Cf. also al-ʿAskarî, Ḥathth, in Ms. Aşir Ef. 433, fols. 47b–48a.
139 1 Cf. the introduction of the great medical encyclopaedia of ʿAlî b. al-ʿAbbâs al-Majûsî,
Kâmil, I, 3 (Bûlâq 1294); al-Mâwardî, Adab, 20, who cites “an ancient scholar” as his
authority. Scholars naturally were aware that it served their own interest to recommend
to rulers that they seek the company of scholars, cf., for instance, Miskawayh, Jâwîdhân
Khiradh, 47 (Buzurjmihr), and all the other fürstenspiegel.
140 2 Cf. at-Tawḥîdî, Imtâʿ, II, 48 f. Cf. Ibn Hindû, 117: “(Crates), asked by Alexander who was fit
to be king, replied, ‘Either a philosopher who rules, or a king who concerns himself with
philosophy.’ ”
mean an intensely complicated state of confusion both for the kingdom and
for philosophy, rather than putting the matter on a solid footing in princi-
ple and in detail. The wazîr added: Therefore, we are unable to find in Islam
more than a small number of statesmen who governed abstemiously, piously,
and with a view to piety and righteousness.” Referring to the Zoroastrians
(Majûs), the author then switches from philosophy to religion and | discusses 330
the ideal relationship between political leadership and the religious law, as
he sees it. Ibn Khaldûn was later on to continue the debate about suitabil-
ity or lack of suitability of scholars for political leadership on entirely secular
grounds.141
The religious implications of the term “scholar” were also underlying the
opposite view of the mutual role of knowledge and political power which far
from proclaiming the dominance of scholars over kings considered any con-
tact of scholars with the government as something pernicious and improper,
at any rate for the scholars and for their scholarly status. The adab formula-
tion of this view attributed to the Syrian jurist, al-Awzâʿî (d. 157/774), tended to
be particularly emphatic, in order to achieve the greatest possible effect: “God
hates nothing more than a scholar who visits an amîr.”142 There also is a saying
credited to Sufyân (ath-Thawrî) that “there is a special valley in Hell inhabited
only by Qurʾân readers who (while alive) were frequent visitors of kings.”143
Other pertinent statements run: “The worst amîrs are those most remote from
the scholars, and the worst scholars are those closest to the amîrs.”144 And, “if
you see a scholar who is constantly around the government, you should real-
ize that he is a thief,”145 for the warning against contacts of scholars with the
government was frequently coupled with imprecations against the evils of a
scholar’s desire for wealth.146 The pious and the mystics considered all govern-
ment as tainted by money, and any contact with political power as defiling.
141 1 Cf. Ibn Khaldûn, Muqaddimah, trans. Rosenthal, III, 308ff.

142 2 Cf. al-ʿAlmawî, Muʿid, 32 f. Sezgin, I, 517, mentions a Maqâm al-Awzâʿî ʿind al-mulûk, which
may possibly have something to do with this saying. The statement was also made into a
ḥadîth with the substitution of “Qurʾân readers” for “scholars,” cf. Concordance, I, 397b7,
cited by Ibn Rajab (see below, n. 6 [n. 146 below. Ed.]) in Ibn ʿAbd-al-Barr, Jâmiʿ, I, 178, in
his chapter on blaming scholars for seeking contact with unjust amîrs. It is significant that
the remark is qualified here so as to refer only to unjust amîrs.
143 3 Cf. Ibn ʿAbd-al-Barr, Jâmiʿ, I, 165.
144 4 Cf. ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât, I, 18; az-Zamakhsharî, Rabîʿ, in Ms. Yale L-5, fol. 187b;
Ibn ʿAbd-al-Barr, Jâmiʿ, I, 185, etc. Cf. also Abû Nuʿaym, Ḥilyah, III, 243f.
145 5 Cf. al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ, I, 54, trans. Faris, 159; al-ʿÂmilî, Kashkûl, I, 180. Cf. also Abû Nuʿaym,
Ḥilyah, III, 184.
146 6 Cf. the chapter of Ibn ʿAbd-al-Barr’s Jâmiʿ just cited, or the short treatise by Ibn Rajab,
331 Many no doubt acted in accordance with this conviction, | and while saving
their own souls and those of their followers, contributed to the undermining of
effective government control and the weakening of the strength and vitality of
the social fabric. Most scholars, while suspicious of the purely material aspects
of government and wary of the all too obvious dangers always threatening men
in positions of leadership,147 were convinced that knowledge—their kind of
knowledge, to be sure—was the key to an equitable and satisfactory manage-
ment of society.
This conviction was matched by the hardly less meaningful conviction that
the search for knowledge and the spread of knowledge constituted the most
valid and effective incentives for formal social groupings on a more intimate
individual or community level. “Knowledge” was the group activity par excel-
lence leading to the formation of a nucleus with a great and desirable potential
for growing and, hopefully, for dominating society. We do find expressions of
the opposite view that knowledge is “a companion in loneliness” (muʾnis fî l-
waḥdah, and the like),148 that it serves as an escape mechanism and provides
a refuge for the individual from the iniquities of this world to which he could
repair at will, withdrawing into its shell. “A sage said to his son: You must con-
cern yourself with knowledge, for the least benefit it confers upon the person
possessing it is that he does not remain alone,”149 because knowledge is always
there to keep him company.
I am happy with loneliness,

Having taken knowledge for company,
Having withdrawn from the people,
And approving of forgetting and of being forgotten.150
commenting on the ḥadîth: “Hungry wolves let loose in a sheep enclosure could do no
greater harm than the love of wealth and noble rank do to a man’s religion,” reprinted in
the edition of Ibn ʿAbd-al-Barr. Jâmiʿ, I, 167–183.
147 1 Cf. the statements on “seeking leadership” collected by Ibn ʿAbd-al-Barr, Jâmiʿ, I, 143f.
148 2 Cf. al-ʿAskarî, Ḥathth, in Ms. Hamidiye 1464, fol. 54a. Cf. also above, p. 183 [Not reprinted
here. Ed.].
149 3 Cf. al-Mubashshir, 33. It is not meant here that a scholar will never be alone because he
will always find congenial company.
150 4 The poet was Abû l-Faḍl ʿAbd-ar-Raḥîm b. Aḥmad b. al-Ukhûwah al-Baghdâdî, and the
verses were quoted by his contemporary, the historian of Nîsâbûr, ʿAbd-al-Ghâfir (d. 529/
1134–1135), cf. R.N. Frye. The Histories of Nishapur, fol. 46b (Cambridge, Mass., 1965).
This sentiment was, however, more commonly voiced in connection with

books, those best companions and friends a man could have.151
The search for knowledge demands foregoing the pleasures of companion- 332
ship, but this is usually understood to mean frivolous and unprofitable human
relations.152 Knowledge is rather something to be shared. It is restricted to an
elite, since the ignorant are not only proverbially hostile to knowledge and
those who possess knowledge,153 but they also greatly outnumber the learned
and always will.154 This makes scholars always gravitate toward each other.
Learned men never find themselves strangers anywhere.155 They alone recog-
nize each other, since the ignorant are unable to perceive the worth of learning,
never having possessed any learning before.156 And they enjoy only the com-
pany of their peers. There is nothing to be pitied more than men of knowledge
who have to put up with ignoramuses.157 This often expressed view appears
151 5 Verses cited by Ibn ʿAbd-al-Barr, Jâmiʿ, II, 204, speak of knowledge as the best companion.
The context shows that this must be understood as referring to books as usual.
152 1 Cf., for instance, Ibn Jamâʿah, Tadhkirah, 83 f.; al-ʿAlmawî, Muʿîd, 61.
153 2 Cf. above, pp. 270f. [Not reprinted here. Ed.], and, for instance, Rosenthal, A History of Mus-
lim Historiography, 348. According to ash-Shâfiʿî, “knowledge is ignorance for the ignorant,
just as ignorance is ignorance for the learned” (cf. as-Subkî, Ṭabaqât ash-Shâfiʿîyah, I, 158),
but he thinks of knowledge mainly as jurisprudence.
154 3 Cf. above, p. 309 [p. 977 above. Ed.].
155 4 Cf. Ibn Qutaybah, ʿUyûn, II, 121 (above, p. 257, n. 2 [Not reprinted here. Ed.]). Contrast
p. 309, n. 5 [p. 977 above, n. 50. Ed.]. It has also been said that the ʿâqil, the man of
intelligence, is nowhere a stranger, cf., for instance, Ibn Abî d-dunyâ, ʿAql, 23.
156 5 The Greek original attributed to Xenophanes reads: “When Empedocles mentioned to him
that a wise man cannot be found, he replied, ‘Rightly so, for the person who wants to rec-
ognize a wise man must be wise himself’ ” (cf. Diogenes Laertius, IX, 20, and Gnomologium
Vaticanum, no. 283, where the authority is Empedocles himself, also further references).
The common Arabic version reads: “The man of knowledge (ʿâlim) recognizes the ignorant
person, because he (himself) was ignorant (once). The ignorant man, however, does not
recognize the man of knowledge, because he never was one.” Cf., for instance, Ḥunayn,
Nawâdir, fol. 66a (Aristotle); Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Âdâb, ed. Krachkovsky, VI, 60, cited by al-
Mâwardî, Adab, 17; at-Tawḥîdî, Imtâʿ, II, 44, where the situation governing the relationship
between physician and patient is adduced for comparison; al-Mubashshir, 190 (Aristo-
tle).
A further generalization, which poses an unsolved logical problem unless knowledge
is assumed to be natural or inspirational, states that knowledge can be recognized only
through knowledge, and this makes it impossible for those without knowledge to recog-
nize the worth of knowledge, cf. al-Mâwardî, Adab, 17.
157 6 Cf., for instance, Ḥunayn, Nawâdir, fol. 156b (Dymqrʾṭ Democrates), fol. 157a–b (anonymous
[Socrates]); al-ʿÂmirî, Iʿlâm, 179, who speaks of men of intelligence; Ibn ʿAbd-al-Barr,
333 also | in the form of a witty anecdote told of one of the Persian kings. He impris-
oned a scholar who had angered him together with an ignorant man in the
same room, as the worst punishment he could think of.158 Thus, in defense
against the world as well as on account of the intrinsic nature of knowledge,
scholars must band together, in order to insure the persistence of knowledge
in the world by communicating with each other and, above all, by transmit-
ting their knowledge to others, if they are deserving. Nothing is more sterile
than uncommunicated knowledge.159 Nothing is more significant for society at
large than the small groupings of teachers and students. Nothing, in short, has
greater basic value for society than knowledge.
Bahjah, I, 135; al-Mubashshir, 102 (Socrates). Versification of the idea attests further to its
wide appeal:
Nothing is more of a lost job than a man of knowledge

Whom the world forces to mingle with ignoramuses.
Cf. Ibn al-Fuwaṭî, Talkhîṣ, IV, 1, 383. For an illustrative anecdote involving Thumâmah, cf.
Ibn Abî l-Ḥadîd, V, 318.
158 1 Cf. Ibn ʿAbd-al-Barr, Jâmiʿ, I, 135. In Ibn ʿAbd-al-Barr, Bahjah, I, 543. ʿâqil and aḥmaq replace
ʿâlim and jâhil. In al-Mâwardî, Adab, 11, it is ʿâqil and jâhil.
159 2 Cf., for instance, Ibn Qutaybah, ʿUyûn, II, 126 (above, p. 260 [Not reprinted here. Ed.]),
or Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Âdâb, ed. Krachkovsky, VI, 60: “A person who conceals some kind
of knowledge is like one who does not know it.” Further, Ibn ʿAbd-Rabbih, ʿIqd, II, 215;
al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ, I, 49, trans. Faris, 144 f., and elsewhere in the Iḥyâʾ; Ibn ʿAbd-al-Barr,
Jâmiʿ, I, 3 ff., 122ff. In Muslim terms, the duty to communicate knowledge is succinctly
expressed in the words: “The charity tax (zakâh) on knowledge is the teaching of it,” cf.
ar-Râghib al-Iṣfahânî, Muḥâḍarât, I, 64f., and above, pp. 183 [Not reprinted here. Ed.] and
315 [p. 983 above. Ed.]. See also above, p. 326, n. 6 [p. 993, n. 129 above. Ed.].
viii.12
Al-Asṭurlâbî and as-Samawʾal on Scientific Progress 555
Badîʿ-az-zamân Abû l-Qâsim Hibatallâh b. al-Ḥusayn al-Baghdâdî al-Asṭurlâbî1

died in 534/1139–1140. He is said to have been a prominent scientist in an
age which could boast of many great scientists. As a designer of astronomical
instruments and as an efficient astrologer, he earned a fortune and gained
access to the great of his time.
He also was a successful, if indiscriminating, poet and littérateur. The Arabic
biographers of the 6th–12th and 7th–13th centuries, therefore, paid consider-
able attention to him. Their praise of his scientific achievements, to a degree,
is a reflection of the fame he gained as a literary figure.
Modern scholarship knows little about him. One of his literary works has
been preserved in manuscript but has not yet been studied.2 Great—and not
unjustified—scepticism has been expressed as to the value of his scientific
work. Since, however, none of his products has so far become available, no
definite judgment has been possible.
His chief claim to glory in the field of science is based upon his | construction 556
and description of an astrolabe (al-kurah dhât al-kursî) which could be used
for all latitudes. It is said that the “comprehensive” instrument constructed
by Abû Maḥmûd Ḥâmid b. al-Khiḍr al-Khujandî,3 upon which Al-Asṭurlâbî
1 The two reasons why aṣturlâb appears to be the proper Arabic form of Greek astrolabon may
be restated here (cf. S. Gandz, in HUCA 4, 1927, p. 474 ff.):
1. It is the form suggested by the Greek word.

2. A popular etymology, reported (and rejected) by al-Khuwârizmî, Mafâtîḥ al-ʿulûm, Cairo
1349–1930, p. 135 (cf. E. Wiedemann, in Sitzungsberichte der physikalisch-medizinischen
Sozietät zu Erlangen, 41, 1909, p. 33, and Ibn Khallikân, transl. by McG. de Slane, Paris
1843–1871, Vol. 3, p. 581), divides the word into asṭur (pl. of saṭr “line”) and Lâb, the fictitious
name of a person. The vocalization asṭur may have been invented to fit the theory, but it
is the more likely assumption that it reflects the actual pronunciation of the word. It is
virtually certain, however, that, in different times and by different people, different vowels
were used in the first and second syllables of the word.
2 Cf. C. Brockelmann, GAL Supplement, Vol. 1, p. 130.

3 Cf. GAL Supplement, Vol. I, p. 390. Al-Khujandî died after 994, according to his Taṣḥîḥ al-mayl,
cf. O. Schirmer, Studien zur Astronomie der Araber, in Sitzungsberichte … Erlangen 58–59,
1926–1927, pp. 33–88.

improved, could be used for one latitude only, and its inventor had argued
that it would not be possible to construct one which could be used for more
than one latitude.4 In this connection, no mention is made of the instrument of
az-Zarqâlî, which gained such fame in Occident and Orient and which had been
invented several decades before Al-Asṭurlâbî. The latter, we are told, submitted
his work to the outstanding scientists of the time and received their approval.5
On pp. 163–189 of the Ms. or. Marsh 663 of the Bodleian Library,6 we find
an anonymous treatise on the astrolabe. The title, at the head of the treatise,
reads Kitâb al-ʿamal bi-l-kurah, “On the use of the spheri(cal astrolabe)”. The
treatise consists of a lengthy introduction,7 which, on pp. 169–171, is followed by
a description of the construction of the author’s invention and, on pp. 172–189,
by forty chapters on the operation of the astrolabe. The unnamed author is
no other than Al-Asṭurlâbî, as the following information from the introduction
clearly indicates:
(1) The instrument was named by the author after his lord, Abû Naṣr Nûshar-
wân b. Khâlid, a wazîr of the Saljûqs Maḥmûd and Masʿûd as well as the caliph
al-Mustarshid. Nûsharwân, a famous patron of letters and sciences, died in 532–
1138.
557 (2) Literary and scientific productivity, as we find them | combined in al-
Asṭurlâbî, are not often found together in one person.8 Yet, the author of our
treatise manifests strong literary propensities. He quotes from a maqâmah
of the celebrated Ḥarîrî, a contemporary and, incidentally, also a protégé of
Nûsharwân. In order to please the latter, he quotes verses by Ibn ar-Rûmî9
4 This is not quite accurately stated, as we shall see.

5 For Al-Asṭurlâbî and his invention, cf., for instance, G. Sarton, Intr., Vol. 2, I, Washington 1931,
p. 204; H. Suter, in Encyclopaedia of Islam, s.v. al-Badîʿ al-Asṭurlâbî; idem, Die Mathematiker
und Astronomen der Araber, in Abh. z. Gesch. d. mathem. Wiss., X. Heft, Leipzig 1900, no. 278.
Yâqût, Irshâd, Cairo n. y., Vol. 19, pp. 273–275; al-Qifṭî, p. 339f. Müller-Lippert; Ibn Abî
Uṣaybiʿah, Vol. 1, pp. 280–282 Müller.
6 For a short description of this manuscript, cf. JAOS, 69, 1949, p. 149.
7 The general interest which often attaches itself to the introductions of Arabic scientific works
was mentioned by E. Wiedemann and Th. Mittelberger, in Sitzungsberichte … Erlangen, 58–59,
1926–1927, p. 197.
8 Conforming to the demands of Muslim civilization, every educated person would, of course,
produce occasional verses, and scientists make no exception to the rule.
9 Cf., e. g., Ibn aṭ-Ṭiqtaqâ, Fakhrî, p. 299 f. Ahlwardt.
al-asṭurlâbî and as-samawʾal on scientific progress 1003
concerning the wazîr Abû ṣ-Ṣaqr Ismâʿîl b. Bulbul,10 to whom Qusṭâ b. Lûqâ
had dedicated his work on the astrolabe. And for the same reason he tells at
length of an incident in the life of Abû ʿAmr b. al-ʿAlâʾ who saw in the timely
death of the great and famous governor al-Ḥajjâj b. Yûsuf a confirmation of his
own reading of Qurʾân 2.249 (250). The author’s interest in literary matters is so
pronounced that he even considers it worthwhile to report that, upon orders
of the Bûyid ʿAḍud-ad-dawlah, Abû l-Ḥusayn aṣ-Ṣûfî’s work on the astrolabe,11
one of his sources, was prefaced by the famous littérateur Ibn al-ʿAmîd with
an introduction which was included in the collection of Ibn al-ʿAmîd’s Epis-
tles.
(3) Al-Khujandî is referred to in the treatise. His “comprehensive” instrument

was not available at the time of the author, and he himself constructed one
according to al-Khujandî’s description. He found it quite imperfect, in spite
of its name. He describes the difficulties which would ensue for the average
person who would try to convert the instrument for the use in different lat-
itudes according to the method suggested by al-Khujandî in a special fifth
chapter of his work. He then goes on to say that he constructed for the amîr
ʿAlâʾ-ad-dawlah12 an instrument which could be used for all latitudes. The well-
known scholar Muʿtamad-ad-dawlah Ibn at-Tilmîdh13 | showed al-Khujandî’s 558
treatise to the great ʿUmar al-Khayyâm, in the presence of our author. ʿUmar
said that he had no time to occupy himself with the solution of the difficulties
of al-Khujandî’s work and expressed the desire to see the author’s instrument.
There existed two of them but they were not available because their owner
was abroad. Therefore, our author made another identical one from lead, and
explained his improvements to ʿUmar’s satisfaction.
Once before, the author had found the great ʿUmar’s approval. As a student,
he had written down a number of corrections to Qusṭâ b. Lûqâ’s work on the
astrolabe. His work was submitted to ʿUmar when the latter came to Bagdâd,
10 The manuscript wrongly names al-Muʿtaḍid as Abû ṣ-Ṣaqr’s master.

11 Cf. GAL, Vol. 1, p. 223, and Supplement, Vol. 1, p. 398.
12 No other ʿAlâʾ-ad-dawlah is known to me except the Ghaznawid Masʿûd, who died in
508–115. He was, however, a king, and no amîr.
13 This may be Muʿtamad-al-mulk Ibn at-Tilmîdh, who died in 512/1118–1119 (al-Qifṭî, p. 364f.
Müller-Lippert), or, perhaps, his better known grandson Amîn-ad-dawlah Ibn at-Tilmîdh
(cf. GAL, Vol. 1, p. 487 f., and Supplement, Vol. 1, p. 891). Cf. Suter, Mathematiker …, p. 117.
and such men as the Jewish philosopher Awḥad-az-zamân (Abû l-Barakât)

Hibatallâh studied with him. Our author did not approach ʿUmar himself. He
had discussed his work with his friend and teacher, Abû Muḥammad ʿAbdallâh
b. Saʿîd al-Irbilî, whose maternal uncle was Jâsûs al-falak, the Explorer of the
Firmament.14 Al-Irbilî wanted some authority to confirm our author’s criticism
of Qusṭâ b. Lûqâ and, therefore, consulted ʿUmar. ʿUmar, however, who had just
expressed to a group of his students his admiration for our young author, merely
said: “If he says that it is correct, it is correct, and if he says that it is wrong, it is
wrong”.15
There can thus be no doubt that the treatise in the Bodleian manuscript rep-
resents a work by Al-Asṭurlâbî on the astrolabe. It is the only scientific work by
the scholar which has so far become known, and, apparently, it is his main work.
The treatise, therefore, has some minor interest for the literary history of sci-
ence. In addition, it contains a few ideas about the progress of science and the
belief in authorities. They are not deep or new ideas but they are symptomatic
of the scientific attitude in Islam in an age where even science is widely—but
wrongly—believed to have been tradition-bound. Those ideas began to stir in
559 the author during his conversations with his teacher, al-Irbilî. Al-Irbilî | himself
is depicted as a person who dreaded any thought of criticism of the established
“authorities”. However, the stimulus for more independent thinking seems to
have come to Al-Asṭurlâbî from him and from the mixed cultural environment
which included scholars such as the Christian Ibn at-Tilmîdh and the Jew Abû
l-Barakât.
In his early youth, the author tells us, he had come across a manuscript of
the highly esteemed work on the astrolabe (al-ʿamal bi-l-kurah) by Qusṭâ b.
Lûqâ and had discovered many bad mistakes in it. He wondered whether other
students might have overlooked those patent mistakes because of a lack of sci-
entific knowledge—this seems to al-Asṭurlâbî to be absolutely impossible—or
because of a misplaced feeling of respect for the author. At any rate, al-Asṭurlâbî
showed his findings to his teacher al-Irbilî. The latter was inclined to accept his
conclusions but he thought that it was wrong (qabîḥ) to contradict the ancients
(and he, therefore, looked for further confirmation, see above). This attitude
moved the author to the following rather scornful remark: “He preferred the
ancients, just because they lived in ancient times, and he did not try to find out
whether they were right or wrong.”
14 Al-Irbilî is not known from any other source.

15 The translation, with the quotation referring to Al-Asṭurlâbî, and not to ʿUmar, seems
certain, although a slight correction of the text of the manuscript has been necessary.
Against this background, we must read al-Asṭurlâbî’s remarks about the

relationship between ancient and modern scientists (p. 165):
The ancients distinguished themselves through their chance16 discovery

of basic principles and the invention of ideas. The modern scholars, on
the other hand, distinguish themselves through the invention of a mul-
titude of scientific details, the simplification of difficult (problems), the
combination of scattered (information), and the explanation of (mate-
rial which already exists in) coherent (form). The ancients came to their
particular achievements by virtue of their priority in time, and not on
account of any natural qualification and intelligence. Yet, how many
things escaped them which then became the original inventions of mod-
ern scholars, and how much did the former leave for the latter to do!17
⟨In the maqâmah which⟩ he called al-Marâghîyah, the learned religious
leader Abû Muḥammad al-Ḥarîrî expressed himself very well on the sub-
ject of the greater excellence of the ancients as compared with modern
men. He said:
If those present would have a close look at it—do the ancients have 560
anything else but well-worn and limited ideas which are transmitted in
their name, just because they happen to have been born at an earlier date,
and not because of some (kind of natural) precedence such as the person
who returns from the watering place possesses over the person who goes
down to it?18
The Ms. or. Hunt. 539 (Uri 964) of the Bodleian Library was written in Rabîʿ I,
988/April–May 1580. It was copied from a manuscript written in 561/1165–1166,
in the lifetime of the author of the work contained in the manuscript, the
well-known mathematician and physician Abû Naṣr as-Samawʾal b. Yaḥyâ b.
16 Bi-mâ taʾattâ lahum min …

17 Cf. also the introduction of ʿUmar al-Khayyâm’s Algebra, ed. by F. Woepcke, Paris 1851, p. 2,
and G. Jacob and E. Wiedemann, in Der Islam, 3, 1912, p. 56. Ibrâhîm b. Sinân, Taḥlîl, Hyd.
1366, p. 4.
18 Sixth maqâmah, cf. the commentary of ash-Sharîshî, Cairo 1306, Vol. 1, p. 76f. Al-
Sharîshî wants to understand the expression which has here been translated by “well-
worn” as referring to ideas which were the object of research in ancient no more than
in modern times. The phrase here rendered as “limited” is said to refer to the written fixa-
tion of those ideas which has found equal attention by both modern and ancient scholars.
Cf. ash-Sharîshî, Vol. 1, p. 13 f.
ʿAbbâs al-Maghribî.19 In the beginning of the work, the name of the author is
given with an exceptionally large number of honorific epithets.
According to the Bodleian manuscript, the work it contains has the title
of al-Mabâdiʾ wa-l-ghâyât fî waḍʿ jamîʿ al-âlât li-l-Manṣûrî, “Everything on the
construction of all instruments by al-Manṣûrî.” Nothing further about a work
of this title, or an author by this name, is known, but it was made proba-
ble by A. Nicoll in his Catalogue of the Arabic manuscripts of the Bodleian
Library (p. 603) that the title was borrowed from a different work, the Jâmiʿ al-
mabâdiʾ wa-l-ghâyât ( fî ʿilm al-mîqât) by al-Marrâkushî.20 The contents of the
Bodleian manuscript was identified by Nicoll as as-Samawʾal’s Kitâb kashf ʿawâr
al-munajjimîn wa-ghalaṭihim fî akthar al-aʿmâl wa-l-aḥkâm, “The exposure of
the faults of the astrologers and their errors in most operations and judgments.”
The title does not seem to occur in the available list of as-Samawʾal’s works,21
561 and I have not been able to consult | the Leiden manuscript of the work. At any
rate, its attribution to as-Samawʾal is assured by the mention of his name in the
beginning, and also by the reference to another of his works, al-Bâhir.
The present work, and as-Samawʾal’s other mathematical work which is pre-
served in Istanbul are recommended to the attention of the historians of sci-
ence.22 His reputation, which was acquired the hard way since he was a mem-
ber of a minority group until his conversion to Islam in 558–1163, and the little
which has become known about him indicate that he was an original scholar.
Here, we are merely concerned with the general remarks which as-Samawʾal
expresses in the introduction of his work. They are an unusually vigorous and
well-documented exposition of the idea of progress in scholarship, as exempli-
fied in the field of mathematics. This exposition is certainly not faultless, and it
has its predecessors,23 but it does not have its equal anywhere else in the known
Arabic literature.
19 Cf. GAL, Vol. 1, p. 488, and Supplement, Vol. 1, p. 892.

20 Cf. GAL, Vol. 1, p. 473 f., and Supplement, Vol. 1, p. 866.
21 The particular manuscript of Ibn an-Najjâr’s Supplement to the Khaṭîb’s History of Bagdâd,
which was consulted by aṣ-Ṣafadî contained a marginal note which, among other things,
mentioned the existence of a copy of as-Samawʾal’s Refutation of the Jews which had at its
end a list of eighty-five titles of as-Samawʾal’s writings in his own handwriting (aṣ-Ṣafadî,
Wâfî, Bodleian Ms. or. Seid. Arch. A. 23, fol. 165b). This list appears to be lost.
22 The work also contains information about a number of earlier works of which no manu-
scripts are known to exist, such as Aḥmad b. aṭ-Ṭayyib as-Sarakhsî’s Treatise on the differ-
ences of the various zijs and al-Bîrûnî’s treatise on ʿAmal ash-shuʿâʾât bi-abʿad aṭ-ṭuruq ʿan
ash-shanâʿât (sic, not as-sâʿât).
23 Cf. above fn. 17.
The fact that as-Samawʾal grew up as a Jew, in the cultural milieu of a minor-
ity group, appears to have been responsible for his intellectual outlook. It made
him receptive to problems which most of those educated in the Muslim major-
ity civilization would, as a rule, consider unimportant and take for granted.
As-Samawʾal, of course, was not free from the influence of the dominating
ideas. He somehow became afraid of his own boldness. He felt obliged at the
end to maintain the paramount prestige of the ancient authorities. He implies
that in many instances, information about their intellectual accomplishments
may have failed to reach us. He also uses the common excuse that translators,
copyists, or transmitters are to blame for mistakes in the works of the ancients.
Nevertheless, even when the author follows traditional lines, his arguments are
well presented and would seem to deserve the hearing which is here accorded
to them.
… Most of them assume that the ancients discovered all the knowledge24
that can be known; that nobody is able to know what they did not know;
and that | that which they did not know cannot be known, nor can that 562
which they did not understand be understood by anybody else. Many
of them, therefore, refuse to listen when they hear that we corrected a
number of the most learned former scholars. Their very nature recoils
from such an idea. They cannot bring it over their lips. Their attitude
may be explained either by the assumption that all intellectual knowledge
which can be attained has reached its limits with the (ancients),25 that the
intellect will produce no new combinations—this is against the nature of
intellectual knowledge—, or their attitude may be explained by a belief
on their part that the ancients possessed infallibility and a power of mind,
the like of which no later person can have. Now, the only human beings
who possess infallibility are the prophets. Unless an excessive bias and
a fondness for strange opinions cause those people to equate knowledge
with prophetical inspiration, the facts will force them to admit that in
every age, knowledge manifests itself in an increasing volume and with
greater clarity.
The biographies of scientists bear witness to this fact. Euclid collected
the geometrical figures which were widely known in his time in a sys-
tematic work on the principles of geometry. He perfected the work by his
24 Al-ʿulûm more precisely is “branches of learning, sciences,” that is: “organized knowledge.”
25 The text could more easily be translated by: “… is in their opinion finite.” This, however,
would hardly be the sense required in this connection.
own additions of instructive figures. The statement that before the time
of Euclid, there existed no geometer or outstanding brain at all is contra-
dicted by the testimony of history. On the other hand, the contention that
Euclid knew more about geometry than the many excellent scholars who
lived before his time does not necessarily imply that Euclid might not be
succeeded by someone who, like as Euclid was better than his predeces-
sors, would be better than Euclid. There is, for instance, Archimedes. His
book on the Sphere and the Prism entitles him to such a rank (of supe-
riority over Euclid). In his Lemmata, Archimedes now had to admit his
inability to achieve the trisection of angles. After Archimedes, Apollonius
earned greater fame than anyone else, in particular, through his discovery
of the properties of conic sections.
No further progress was achieved (for a long time). Eventually, how-
ever, the measuring of the parabola was discussed by Ibrâhîm b. Sinân
b. Thâbit b. Qurrah;26 the trisection of angles by Abû Jaʿfar al-Khâzin aṣ-
Ṣâghânî;27 and the construction of the heptagon in the circle by Wayjan
b. Rustam al-Kûhî.28 The division of numbers by a number of numerical
563 quantities29 | and the theory of roots of numbers in which there occur
minus signs, as well as the demonstration of the arithmetical axioms of
Pythagoras—all that, with proofs added, was discussed by me in the Kitâb
al-bâhir. There still remain the division of angles into five equal parts;
the construction of regular polygons of eleven, thirteen, and seventeen
sides in the circle; all cases of trinomial cubic equations, quadrinomial
equations, as well as higher polynomial equations;30 and other problems.
Those problems are as yet unsolved, but it can be proven that a solu-
tion exists and is not impossible. The fact that their solution has been
26 Died in 335–946, cf. GAL, Vol. 1, p. 218 f., and Supplement, Vol. 1, p. 386. Thâbit b. Qurrah
already dealt with the problem, cf. GAL Supplement, Vol. I, p. 385 B 14. Ibn Sinân’s work
was published Hyderabad 1366.
27 Died between 350–961 and 360/970–971, cf. GAL Supplement, Vol. 1, p. 387. The Banû Mûsâ
already dealt with the problem, cf. K. Kohl, Zur Geschichte der Dreiteilung des Winkels, in
Sitzungsberichte … Erlangen, 54–55, 1922–1923, p. 180ff.
28 Lived in the second half of the tenth century, cf. GAL, Vol. 1, p. 223, and Supplement, Vol. 1,
p. 399 f. The first name is not clearly written in the manuscript, the second ends in an n,
instead of an m. Abû l-Jûd Muḥammad b. al-Layth, a contemporary of al-Bîrûnî, is said to
have treated the problem, cf. C. Schoy, in Isis, 7, 1925, p. 5.
29 Qismat al-majhûlât ʿalâ ʿiddat maqâdîr majhûlât. Since I am not sure which arithmetical
problem the author has in mind, the translation is uncertain.
30 ʿUmar al-Khayyâm’s treatment of cubic equations was certainly known to as-Samawʾal.
impossible for us and all our predecessors merely shows that the knowl-
edge at hand and the available postulates are not sufficient to discover
the solution and that other still unknown postulates are needed. It is not
impossible that we will be succeeded by someone to whom God will show
the solution. He may find it through other postulates of his own discovery.
Or he may be led to the solution from the known postulates from which
no one else had so far been able to reach it.
No sage or well-informed historian will deny the fact that all the various
disciplines of knowledge have manifested themselves in a process of
gradual increase and ramification. This process stops at no final point and
tolerates no irregularities.
A great number of valuable scientific ideas occurred to many former
scholars which they did not set down in writing. Socrates and the men
around him did not consider the written fixation of scientific material
appropriate. It was Socrates who said: ‘Do not put wisdom into the skins
of dead animals’.31
There also are a great number of works which no one we know has
ever seen. In the Laws, Plato mentioned the great misfortune of the
destruction of his library by fire.32 That library contained many thousand
precious works on philosophy and science. The fire is assumed to have
destroyed a great number of his own works and discoveries, which he had
culled from the discussions of his predecessors with great effort and of
which he did not possess any other copy.
There is no idea that might enter someone’s brain which might not
before have entered the brain of someone else. Every intelligent person
knows that the fact that someone is able to correct former scholars does
not imply that that same man possesses a greater knowledge than they
in all their branches of knowledge. It merely implies that he has farther
progressed than they in the knowledge of just that particular matter.
For how many reasons may errors enter the works of excellent scholars!
Some errors may be due to a copyist or scribe who miswrites a word
or omits something. If many copyists thereafter copy the same text in
succession, and each one of them further miswrites or omits words in
passages where the original copyist had already made copying mistakes,
the result will be very bad and the mistakes patent.
31 Cf. F. Rosenthal, The technique and approach of Muslim scholarship, Analecta Orientalia,
24, Rome 1947, p. 6a. Cf. also al-Yaʿqûbî, Taʾrîkh, Najaf 1358, Vol. I, p. 95.
32 Arabic scholars knew about Galen’s loss of his library (cf. Ibn Abî Uṣaybiʿah Vol. 1, p. 84f.
Müller). This story is here transferred to Plato.
The situation is even worse in the case of translators who transmitted

knowledge from one language to the other. They often understood pas-
sages which they attempted to translate differently from what the author
564 had intended them to be | understood. They also frequently encountered
difficulties in certain passages and treated them as they thought it would
be correct. The author, then, is held responsible while, in fact, he is not to
blame.
There are also many books whose authors died before their comple-
tion. Furthermore, there are many authors who, in view of some special
compelling purpose of their own, say things in their works which do not
conform to their actual convictions and opinions, and who do not care
whether they will be blamed for it. The purpose they follow, then, often
compels them to deal with something which they had no time to study
thoroughly while they wrote their work, because they were in a hurry.
Authors (this author?) know that if an author whose discussion is pre-
sented to the consideration of scholars had had the benefit of a free mind
and if his heart and his time had been as little preoccupied as those of
the critic who looks for mistakes, there would have often been no reason
to fear for him that corrections (of mistakes caused by hastiness) might
be indicated. Intelligent persons should, therefore, not hastily blame an
author. They should first ascertain, from his biography as far as it concerns
the composition of his work that he (did not) die before he was able to cor-
rect it and to spend much time in reflecting about it, and had no special
cogent reason to mention the things he had taken up.
The incentive to compose this book …
viii.13
The Defense of Medicine in 519
the Medieval Muslim World
The true or alleged failings of the physician as a practitioner and individual

have no doubt been the subject of invective and ridicule ever since the first
halting steps into the practice of medicine were attempted. Famous anecdotes
which the people of the classical world already told each other were repeated
with great relish by Muslim authors. They enjoyed telling about the comparison
of physician and painter to make the point that physicians bury their dead
and their mistakes remain undisclosed.1 We hear about the inhabitants of a
Greek town with an inefficient general and a death-bringing physician. They
were advised by Diogenes (in the Greek tradition it was Pausanias or Theocritus
[Thearidas?]) to defend themselves against enemy pressure by appointing the
general to the position of town physician and the physician to the position
of general.2 We are treated to the joke about the ignorant physician who felt
the left side of his patient and pronounced his liver affected. When the patient
seemed aggrieved and the physician tried to console him by saying that it was
not so bad, the patient exclaimed that he would rather die than go through
life as someone who differed from all other people in having his liver on the
left side.3 The Muslims not accepted by physicians, and medical writers felt
compelled to refute interesting information could be gathered on widely held
negative views about physicians, to be easily counterbalanced by numerous
expressions of praise for the skilful and wise practitioner.
1 Cf. al-Mubashshir, Mukhtâr al-ḥikam, ed. ʿAbd-ar-Raḥmân Badawî, 76 (Madrid 1377/1958),

where the anecdote is ascribed to Diogenes. For its Greek prototypes, as well as another
anecdote comparing medicine and wrestling, cf. my forthcoming Essays on Art and Literature
in Islam [Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1971, p. 3f. Ed.].
2 Cf. ash-Shahrastânî, Kitâb al-Milal wa-n-niḥal, ed. W. Cureton, 333 (London 1842–1846), trans.
T. Haarbrücker, II, 192 (Halle 1850–1851). For the Greek original, cf. Plutarch, Apophtheg-
mata Laconica 230F, and Gnomologium Vaticanum, ed. L. Sternbach, no. 343 (reprint Berlin
1963).
3 Cf. Abû Sulaymân al-Manṭiqî as-Sijistânî, Ṣiwân al-ḥikmah, according to the recension pre-
served in the Istanbul Ms. Murad Molla 1408, fol. 42b, also Beshir Aǧa 494, fol. 46b. The
role of the patient is played by a certain ʾ-th-r-w-d (z)-ṭ-y-s.ʾ This name could easily be read
Herodotus. However, it is more likely that some obscure jokester is meant.

520 A very different subject—and one which I feel deserves the brief | discus-
sion of its main aspects presented on the following pages—is the attacks lev-
eled against medicine as such. Physicians were, of course, not exempt from
the imperfections attaching to all human beings. Attacks against individuals
did not mean much and provided no valid justification for condemning the
entire science or craft. But there were those who denied the basic soundness
of medicine. Their arguments were naturally not accepted by physicians, and
medical writers felt compelled to refute them. These writers often played some-
thing like the role of devil’s advocate. If they did not invent the arguments
against medicine, they at least posed them anew in order to be able to discuss
and reject them. A certain ʿAbd-al-Wadûd b. ʿAbd-al-Malik, who lived in the late
eleventh and early twelfth century, wrote an essay entitled “The Blameworthi-
ness of Making a Living from the Craft of Medicine” (Fî Dhamm at-takassub
bi-ṣinâʿat aṭ-ṭibb).4 He begins by stating expressly that his “blame” of medicine
is not meant to detract from its value. Rather, he presents the arguments against
medicine in the spirit of debaters who take on the defense of obviously very
weak opinions. Thereby they wish in fact to strengthen the opposite, correct
point of view. An example would be advocating the opinion that the Nile flows
in the direction of Ghânah, or the Euphrates in the direction of Anatolia, when
everybody knows that these rivers flow in the opposite direction. The advocacy
of anything running against commonly held convictions is likely to be com-
pletely ineffective. It is hard to change the opinions of people when they can be
shown to be wrong. It is much harder to change their opinions when they hap-
pen to be right. This applies to the case of medicine. People are certainly right
to be convinced of the value of medicine. Thus attacks upon medicine are not
able to make them change their opinion. On the contrary, these merely serve
to confirm them in their high esteem of it. This is how ʿAbd-al-Wadûd justifies
his acting as a kind of devil’s advocate with regard to the alleged shortcomings
of medicine.
A similar approach was taken by Ibn Hindû, who lived a century earlier,
around the turn of the first millennium. A littérateur and government official,
he was trained and deeply steeped in Greek philosophy. In the eyes of his
contemporaries, this made him well qualified to write on medicine. He starts
521 out by declaring the attacks upon medicine | as not debatable, according to the
rules of dialectics proposed by Aristotle:5
4 ʿAbd-al-Wadûd’s work is preserved in the Istanbul Ms. Hekimoǧlu Ali Pasha 691. fols. 128b–
133b, briefly described by me in Oriens, 1954, 7:58. The fact that ʿAbd-al-Wadûd was a younger
contemporary of Ẓâfir b. Jâbir (see below, n. 14) confirms the dating suggested in Oriens.
5 “The Key to Medicine” (Miftâḥ aṭ-ṭibb) by Ibn Hindû was used by me in the Bursa Ms. Haraççı
the defense of medicine in the medieval muslim world 1013
I think that (people who consider medicine worthless) are among those
whom Aristotle has in mind when he declares it forbidden to enter into
debates with certain people and, instead, commands (their opponents)
to pray for them or to chastise them and to exercise firm control over
them. In the Kitâb al-Jadl (the Topics),6 he mentions that some kinds of
problems, such as, for instance, the problem of the part (the atom) or the
problem of eternity and createdness, must not be debated because of their
obscurity and subtlety. They require the immersion of the mind in refined
speculation and are not responsive to hasty thoughts and quickly applied
faculties. Then, there are problems that must not be debated because of
their clarity and obviousness. One should pray for the person who raises
such questions and ask God to give him sound sense perceptions. He
would, for instance, be the person who raises the problem of whether
the fire burns or the snow is cold. Then, there are problems that must
not be debated because they are disruptive of the social and political
situation (siyâsah) and impugn the fundamentals of the religious law.
A person who raises problems of this sort must (not be debated but)
rather be chastised and prevented from advertising7 them. This applies,
for instance, to someone who raises the problem of why it is necessary
to honor one’s parents or why it is not permitted to kill an innocent
person. Then, there is a fourth kind of problems, which may give rise to
discussion and where debate is permissible, namely, problems that are
neither entirely clear nor entirely obscure, nor do they have a deleterious
effect upon social and political matters. Now look, dear reader, at the
person who denies the validity of medicine, and take note that he covers
the eye of the sun and ignores the dawn of morn, in spite of the usefulness
of physicians and the beneficial outcome of most medical treatments
experienced by both the mass and the elite. Take note, further, how
such a person impugns the social and political order by (attempting to)
deprive people of something useful and to make them dislike8 some of
1120, fols. 49a–52b. The text of the Bursa Ms. was compared with the Istanbul Ms. Köprülü, I,
981. A description of the Bursa ms. may be found in A. Dietrich, Medicinalia Arabica, 198–202
(Göttingen 1966) (Abh. Akad. d. Wiss. in Göttingen, philol.-hist. Kl., III, No. 66).
6 Some remote similarities in detail occur in Topics 140b18 ff. Ibn Hindû hardly has in mind here
the general views expressed in the eighth chapter of the Topics.
7 The Köprülü Ms. has ʾ-l-t-w-f-h (?) according to my copy. Read at-tafawwuh. This and the
preceding two sentences were omitted in the Bursa Ms. (unless, again, the fault lies with my
copy).
8 Mss. w-t-r-ʿ-m-h-m, read wa-yuraghghibuhum.
life’s conveniences. Is there anyone more in need of prayer that he be

given the gift of (sound) sense perceptions, and more in need of being
chastised?
Thus, those who deny the validity of medicine are poor and misguided.
They do not deserve to be taken seriously and to be debated. It is obvious
that they are wrong.
This brave, if somewhat self-righteous, attitude was not enough. The hostile
522 arguments existed. They had to be considered and, if possible, | refuted. In his
brief fifth chapter (fol. 132a), ʿAbd-al-Wadûd claims that attacks upon the highly
useful craft of medicine by very many people do not merely aim at denying
the outstanding usefulness of medicine. They aim at denying the validity of
medicine as such, and, regrettable though it is, they have found considerable
response among the masses. “Uncounted times I have heard people say with
general approval: ‘Do not put yourself in the hand of a physician and do not
take to your bed!’—thus placing physician and bed into the same category of
dislike.” The reason for the effectiveness of the attacks upon medicine lies in the
sophisticated methods of argumentation followed by certain groups of specula-
tive theologians (mutakallimûn) and the inability of physicians to counter their
argumentation. The discussion usually leads to the use of sophistic/dialectic
arguments (al-burhân al-khaṭaʾî aw al-jadalî), and the ferocity of those oppo-
nents is indescribable. ʿAbd-al-Wadûd refrains from going into details, as he
does not9 think that he should mention the evil opinions they hold about
medicine, and there is no need for him to do so in his treatise. If a really tena-
cious opponent makes his assault upon medicine, it is as a rule impossible
to find a physician willing and able to take up the defense of his profession
and to give satisfactory replies to doubts expressed concerning the existence
(hal) of medicine, and even less so to the questions as to (its) quiddity (mâ),
quality (ayy shayʾ), and reason (lima). It would take much space to expose the
subtle methods of argumentation, but ʿAbd-al-Wadûd indicates that he might
do so if God lets him live long enough, “for up to now, I have never seen a
physician afflicted by one of those people who was able to extricate himself
well.”
We would have been better served if ʿAbd-al-Wadûd had given us a concrete
picture of the situation instead of this general denunciation, but he makes it
clear that it just does not do to brush aside the attacks as not worthy of debate.
He himself and like-minded colleagues do indeed tell us about some of the
9 The negation is omitted in the Ms.

arguments and counterarguments. There were (1) the religionists, those who
for religious reasons believed that medicine was useless and its practice an
indication of a serious lack of true religious faith. Understandably, this was a
particularly dangerous line of attack in the Muslim environment. Then, there
were (2) the faddists, in a way the secular counterpart of the religionists, who
felt that by following certain rules of conduct and, mainly, diet, they were
better able than trained physicians to preserve and restore their health. And
there were (3) those who argued from the difficulty of medicine that it was in 523
fact unattainable to man, and from its imperfections that it was invalid in its
entirety.
Some people would say when they were sick that they would eat and drink as
usual, but they would not allow themselves to be treated by a physician; rather,
they would put their trust in God. Ibn Buṭlân, the Christian physician of the
eleventh century (d. 1066), contemptuously remarks that these same people
would call in a veterinarian if one of their donkeys were to become sick.10 In a
civilization dominated by religious sentiment, they must have been numerous.
Many no doubt acted upon the belief that their fate was predetermined by God
and human attempts at interference through medical treatment were useless
and, indeed, sinful. Medicine was accused of trying to contravene the omni-
science and omnipotence of God. This was a challenge to the very existence of
medicine, because it could be argued that medicine could not very well have
come into existence if it was something that contradicted the divine scheme of
things, and, therefore, a true medical science did, in fact, not exist.10a
On the medical side, a reply considered convincing takes the approach that
medicine is as much an ordinary function as are eating and drinking. It is as
necessary for the maintenance of health, provided, of course, that God has
foreordained health for the individual; if not, medicine cannot be effective.
10 Ibn Buṭlân, Daʿwat al-aṭibbâʾ, 30 (the text in my possession indicates neither the date nor
the place of publication).
The subject of this article was also no doubt discussed by Ibn Buṭlân’s contemporary
and adversary, Ibn Riḍwân, in one of his many unpublished works.
10a However, many of the pious who considered it part of their trust in God to dispense
with medical treatment did so strictly on personal terms. They were not concerned with
attacking medicine as such or denying its potential efficacy, cf. the material presented by
B. Reinert, Die Lehre vom tawakkul in der klassischen Sufik, p. 207ff. (Berlin 1968).
Since, however, medicine is a craft and science, it is better regulated than

the individual’s unscientific intake of food and drink. This is how Ibn Hindû
expresses both the argument and the counterargument:
Those who fear that acknowledging the existence of medicine means

infringing upon God’s determination of man’s fate (qaḍâʾ) ought to stop
eating when they are hungry, and drinking when they are thirsty. God may
very well have destined them to perish from hunger and thirst. Thus, if
they eat and drink, they infringe upon God’s determination of fate. They
end up by substituting their wish for His wish. If, esteemed reader, you
look at all the (different) kinds of medical treatment, you will find none
524 that is not similar to eating when one is hungry, and | drinking when one
is thirsty. When a man’s body is hot, the physician prescribes that it be
cooled, and when it is cold, he prescribes that it be warmed. He prescribes
purgation for the constipated, and he prescribes for those with loose stool
the proper measures to be taken to stop their diarrhea. The difference is
that the medical knowledge of the great mass of people consists only of
small bits and scattered details. That of physicians, on the other hand,
is systematic and well ordered. My (seemingly scurrilous) reply to those
people, that they should abstain from eating and drinking when they are
hungry and thirsty, is nothing to be surprised about. Their belief (that
medicine is not permissible from the religious point of view) has caused
them to do things that are much stranger.
Ibn Hindû illustrates his last statement by three stories. A Ṣûfî believed that
his recitation of the Qurʾân would protect him against a snake charmer’s most
poisonous and vicious snake, but the snake bit and killed him. A speculative
theologian, Muḥammad b. ʿAbdallâh al-Iskâfî (d. between 854 and 856), was
so convinced of the futility of medicine that he asked the physician who pre-
scribed for him certain drugs to cure his violent diarrhea which drugs were
supposed to have the opposite effect of those prescribed, and he took them
and died. Finally, a bit of sarcasm: Ibn Hindû’s own teacher, the well-known
philosopher, Abû l-Khayr al-Ḥasan b. Suwâr b. al-Khammâr (d. after 1017), was
consulted by the chief of a group who denied the validity of nature11 about a
severe headache that was bothering him. Abû l-Khayr bluntly told him to go
and put under his head the book he had published under such-and-such a title
in which he denied the validity of the activities of the natures,11a and wait for
11 11a Instead of ṭabʾ (ṭabâʾiʾ) “nature(s),” one is badly tempted here to read ṭibb “medicine.”
God to cure him. These three stories are truly remarkable for the firmness with
which they attack the obscurantism of theologians and Ṣûfîs. Not many of them
were, of course, as fanatic and narrow-minded as Ibn Hindû’s stories describe
them, but it was certainly not the ordinary thing for Muslim writers to discredit
supernatural manifestations, no matter how bizarre, and to poke fun at them
in such a personal manner.
The figure of the convinced rationalist as exemplified by Ibn Hindû all but
disappeared soon after his time. When Ibn al-Quff (1233–1286) took up the
discussion of the rejection of medicine about two centuries | later, he was 525
much more respectful toward the theological argument, even if it was totally
unacceptable to him. He was a Christian, but Muslim thought patterns are
unmistakable in his argument, and it would seem certain that he was following
an earlier Muslim source. Ibn al-Quff discusses the attacks upon medicine in his
“Commentary on the Aphorisms of Hippocrates,” in connection with the first
aphorism. The first aphorism is the logical starting point for such a discussion,
and the other authors cited here also have reference to it in one way or another.
Ibn al-Quff has this to say:11
It has been said that the will, or knowledge, or power of God, in eternity or
following the (prevailing) horoscope as the astrologers say, either requires
the health of Zayd and that he will not fall sick for a specified time, or it
requires the change and dissolution of his temper. New, in the first case,
the science of medicine is not needed, because health is going to stay
in the body in question [even] without the application of the rules of
medicine. In the second case, the application of medicine is of no use.
In reply we say: Just as God has destined the existence of health, He
has made the proper application of medicine for the sake of health a
reason for health. To a person expressing such doubts [as just mentioned],
it can be said that he ought to take a respite from the task of eating
and drinking. The line of argumentation suggested above either requires
However, the author refers to people hostile to natural science, including medicine which
is concerned with the “natures,” the elements and the corresponding humors. In the
printed text of Ibn Abî Uṣaybiʿah, ʿUyûn al-anbâʾ, ed. A. Müller, I, 323 (Cairo and Königsberg
1882–1884), where this story is quoted from Ibn Hindû, we do indeed find ṭibb in both
places.
For a remotely similar story from the Chahár maqâle, cf. C. Elgood, A Medical History
of Persia (Cambridge: University Press, 1951), p. 250.
11 I used again the Istanbul Ms. Yeni Cami 919, fol. 2, of Ibn al-Quff’s Commentary, as I did in
Bull. Hist. Med., 1966, 40: 241 ff.
somehow satiety and being provided with water, or it does not require it.
If it does, there is no need to employ [eating and drinking]. In the second
case, there is no need either for employing [food and drink], as this would
be “trifling.” All this is absurd, because it would follow from it that the
existence of any food means “trifling,” which is a denial of God’s attributes
(taʿṭîl). It is an obvious error.
Ibn al-Quff went a step farther than Ibn Hindû in turning tables on the reli-
gionists. He accused them, rather than the practitioners of medicine, of being
irreligious. God did not create anybody or anything “in jest,” for no purpose,
or “triflingly,” as the Qurʾân says (23:115/117). Since medicine is as natural as
eating and drinking, and since the case against medicine rules out eating and
drinking as well as medicine as matters left to human initiative, there was no
need for God to create food. Creating food would have been “a mere jest” on
God’s part, depriving Him of the attributes requiring knowledgeable and pur-
poseful action by Him, and would thus, in fact, have thrown doubt upon His
existence.
The faddists, if we may call them such, were hardly intentional opponents
526 of medicine. Rather they were people unable to dissociate them|selves from
old-fashioned beliefs in the efficacy of certain practices which made medicine
superfluous and, by implication, deprived it of its raison d’ être. Some claimed,
we are told by Ibn Buṭlân,12 that as long as a man had bread at the baker’s,
nothing could harm him. ʿAbd-al-Wadûd devotes his second chapter to “the
great number of worthless men who enter the craft of medicine.” This chapter
is not entirely preserved in the unique manuscript. From what is preserved,
it would seem that he thought mainly of the many laymen with preconceived
notions about health who made the physician’s life miserable, if not impossible.
In Cairo and Tinnîs, in Baghdâd, Constantinople, and Aleppo, there could
be found people who stuck to their foolish ideas as to what they should eat
and how they should treat illness, with a wrongheadedness that exasperated
physicians. A friend of the author, the late physician Ẓâfir b. Jâbir al-Mawṣilî,13
had tried for about forty years to persuade the Aleppines to be reasonable but
12 Loc. cit.
13 According to Ibn Abî Uṣaybiʿah, II, 143, Ẓâfir was still alive in 1089.
had finally given up. As described by ʿAbd-al-Wadûd, all these practices were
not fundamentally different from those considered correct by the scientific
medicine of the time. They differed from it only in detail. However, they mark
the closest approach to faddist hostility to medicine we can hope to find
attested in medieval medical literature.
In times past, it was easy to point to failures in the physicians’ knowledge and
practice and to conclude from them that medicine was not a true science or
valid craft. In particular, the physicians’ greatest failure, namely, their inability
to stave off death from themselves and their patients, was a constant target of
attack. Our medical authors were firmly committed to the established system of
medicine and were patently unwilling to entertain the possibility that some of
the fault might lie in that system. They did not doubt that they were on the right
path and that individual failures were no reason for general condemnation.
They argued that such failures were, in fact, fully understandable as well as
mostly inevitable if the character, the subject, and the purpose of medicine
were considered and seen in the proper light.
Since the subject with which medicine works is the human body, any failure
of the physician is bound to arouse greater concern than failures in any other
craft or science. Man is the noblest thing in creation. Thus, having the noblest of
all subjects, medicine is the science or craft endowed | with the greatest nobil- 527
ity. This is a generally accepted idea, still used today in defense of medicine.14 As
ʿAbd-al-Wadûd puts it in his third chapter (fols. 129b–130b), the nobility of each
craft is determined by its subject (mawḍûʿ) and purpose (ghâyah).15 In the case
of medicine, the subject is man. Therefore, something extremely important is at
stake. The shoemaker works with leather. His subject is leather. Now, if he can-
not make reins or boots from his leather, he can make bags or something else.
But when the hour of a human being has struck, it would be difficult to change
him into some other animal. Nobody has ever been able to revive someone who
has died and to transform him into some other animal, which would be better
14 The New York Times of June 30, 1966, p. 35, quotes these remarks by R.R. Wilson: “Medicine
is one of the most difficult disciplines, for, after all, man is the most complex of living
beings and capable of the most extraordinary diversity of behavior. It need not be a matter
of embarrassment that clinical diagnosis should sometimes go astray.”
15 More precisely, here and later on, “end” (Greek telos).
than letting him decay. Difficult as it is, treating human beings offers the com-
pensation that the patient can help the physician by giving him information on
his state of health (in this connection, ʿAbd-al-Wadûd refers to the restricted-
ness of time and the difficulty of decision of the first aphorism). Dumb animals
cannot do this, which makes the task of the veterinarian more difficult than
that of the physician. The importance of the subject he works with earns more
blame for the physician when he fails, than gratefulness when he succeeds.
In certain situations, medical knowledge must not be applied, namely, where
there are ethical objections. But clearly, ʿAbd-al-Wadûd feels that the nobility
of its subject is no good reason for eliminating medicine. On the contrary, it
thereby gains in standing and has an indisputable right to exist.
Ibn Hindû also uses the comparison of medicine with other crafts, if in a
different manner, in order to refute those who deny the validity of medicine
because many patients have died under treatment. First, however, he takes care
of people who attack medicine as being too difficult for man and impossible of
attainment. He argues that they underestimate the power of the human intel-
lect. Disciplines such as astronomy/astrology and musicology are not rejected
out of hand, and they are more obscure than medicine and deal with more dif-
ficult subjects. Astronomy/astrology attempts to understand the remote and
majestic celestial bodies. Musicology affects not only man’s body but also his
soul. According to the musician’s skill and intention, music can produce laugh-
ter or tears, joy or sadness, and disarm enemies. If the human intellect can
528 encompass the | heavens and manage something as mysterious as the human
soul, it certainly should possess the courage and the ability to discover and cul-
tivate a science such as medicine. The known origins of medicine—Ibn Hindû
refers here to his remarks on the subject, meaning, it seems, the statements that
immediately precede his discussion of the attacks upon medicine—also stamp
it as a natural science not too difficult for man to master. Once it is understood
how a thing comes about and the reason for it is known, it no longer causes
astonishment. The idea that a thing is considered strange and astonishing as
long as the reason for it is unknown was stated by Aristotle.16 Ibn Hindû illus-
trates it with the story of “the egg of Columbus.” The problem of how to make
the sharp end of an egg stand upon an upturned cup is solved by covering the
cup’s surface with earth and sticking the egg into it. There is nothing astonish-
ing in the assumption that man could be able to master something as difficult
as medicine, and, in fact, he has been able to do so.
16 Very similar, if hardly the source of this reference, are the opening words of the Pseudo-
Aristotelian Mechanics.
In order to answer the argument based upon the recurrent failures of physi-
cians, it is only necessary to consider the purpose of medicine. Like any other
craft, medicine has its proper purpose and cannot be expected to go beyond it:
The purpose of carpentry is the manufacture of doors, beds, and chairs.

It has wood as its subject. Not every kind of wood is suitable for doors.
Worm-eaten and knotty wood does not respond to the carpenter’s craft.
So it is also with medicine. Medicine has health as its purpose, and
the body of man as its subject. Not every human body is suitable for
treatment by a physician. Unsuitable are, for instance, the chronically ill,
the one-eyed, the bald, or persons affected by the third kind of hectic fever
(ad-daqq).17 Just as the validity of carpentry is not impaired if no bed can
be made from worm-eaten wood, so also the validity of medicine is not
impaired if the one-eyed or the bald cannot be cured.
Moreover, [Ibn Hindû continues], the crafts are of two different kinds.
The existence of some, such as carpentry and the goldsmith’s craft,
depends upon man from beginning to end. Others, such as agriculture,
have their beginnings and first steps dependent upon man, while their
perfection is entrusted to God and nature. Ploughing, sowing, and water-
ing are part of agriculture. The sprouting and the growth of the plants
depend upon God. Medicine belongs to the second kind. God has placed
in the body of man an “overseer” charged with the task of guarding his
health. If the body is affected by some symptom and that overseer has
at his disposal an instrument in the form of food and medicine, God
removes | the symptom from the body and restores it to health. The phi- 529
losophers have called this overseer “nature.” The men of religion have
called him “angel.” It is what Hippocrates has described by saying: “Nature
suffices to cure diseases. The physician is the servant of this nature.”18 The
only thing the physician does is to help along nature’s cure with the very
instrument that is needed for guarding health and removing disease. The
attainment of health rests upon the capability of nature, the responsive-
ness of the body to [nature], the adequacy of the instrument in supporting
the free exercise of [nature’s] activity, and the removal of the barriers that
17 Ar-Râzî, al-Ḥâwî, XVI, 5 f. (Hyderabad 1383/1963), concludes from Galen, De differentiis

febrium, VII, 313–318 Kühn, that there are three degrees of hectic fever of which “the third
is characterized by the total absence of humidity, failing strength, and the appearance of
the signs of dhubûl (Greek marasmos).”
18 For the corresponding passages from the Epidemics, cf. K. Deichgräber, “Die Stellung des
griechischen Arztes zur Natur,” in Die Antike, 1939, 15: 131f.
stand between nature and its aim. The farmer is not to be blamed, nor
the validity of agriculture to be denied, if the farmer does his agricultural
chores as they should be done, breaking the soil and choosing the right
time for sowing and watering, but then there comes a great heat wave and
destroys the plants. Likewise, the physician is not to be blamed, nor does
any shortcoming attach to his craft, if the patient is not cured after he has
treated him according to all that is in the power of medicine and has given
him every possible advice and directive. Careful study shows that crafts
that depend upon others (and not exclusively upon man) are successful
in the majority of cases, but not always. Were one to deny the validity of
medicine which secures health for the human body in most cases but not
always, it would be necessary to deny the validity of the entire range of
crafts. This would mean total damage and destruction.
Although God is mentioned, the argument hews as close to the secular line
as we have the right to expect from Ibn Hindû. Man’s God-given intellectual
powers must not be underestimated. They enable him to understand such
an intricate organism as the human body. On the other hand, forces beyond
human control are involved in a number of essential human activities. They
make a certain number of failures unavoidable, without thereby detracting
from the usefulness and basic correctness of these activities.
Medicine is not absolutely effective. It has its limits in the limitations of
human ability and knowledge. Ibn Buṭlân19 complains about people who
expect the physician to be able to distinguish between pregnant and barren
women by feeling the pulse. They expect the physician to know what is known
only to God. They do not understand, Ibn Buṭlân says, that medicine deals with
the possible. Given divine support, the merely possible takes on the appear-
ance of the necessary. It is unreasonable to deny the validity of medicine on
the grounds that it cannot control the health condition of every individual,
and that some patients have died under medical treatment. Conversely, it is
not right to ascribe the recovery of patients in all cases to the healing effect
530 of medicine. The | golden mean must be observed in judging the efficacy of
medicine. Thanks may be due to medicine, or they may be due to the assistance
of God or nature. This, according to Ibn Buṭlân, is what Hippocrates meant
when he spoke of “the difficulty of decision.”
Ibn al-Quff wrestles with the problems of the inevitability of death and the
haphazard character of medical treatment. The usefulness of medicine had
19 Daʿwat al-aṭibbâʾ, 30 f.
been doubted because capable physicians would be able to fend off death
from themselves if medicine indeed served the preservation of health and the
cure of disease. However, not even Hippocrates or other leading physicians
were able to escape death.20 Ibn al-Quff replies that in every science, primary
consideration must be given to its proper purpose, and this applies also to
medicine. The purpose of medicine is decidedly not fending off death, as this
is not possible. The assumption of everlasting life for individual human beings
is incompatible with the concept of divine wisdom, for three reasons. In the
first place, the soul is liberated from the body by death. Now, if it was happy
together with the body, it will be even happier when separated from it. If it was
unhappy together with the body, death will put an end to that unhappiness and
forestall the possibility that it might increase. Thus, death helps man to achieve
his true destiny. In the second place, since all individuals of the species of man
share in the common human nature, it would be absurd to exempt some but
not all of them from death. If there were such a thing as everlasting existence,
all individuals would necessarily have it. Apparently, this is considered an
impossibility within the limited space available on earth, and, consequently,
no human being can live on for ever. In the third place, if just some human
beings could live on without dying, it could happen that an unjust individual
in a position of authority might be singled out for continued existence. This
would result in lasting corruption, to the detriment of the world. It is a risk that
God in His wisdom would never have incurred.
Thus, the existence of death is a necessary part of the world order as devised
by divine wisdom, and it is obvious that no human science can be expected
to possess the power to overcome death. Its elimination can, therefore, not
be the purpose of medicine. The problem of death is, moreover, only one
aspect out of many within the purview of medicine. Now, logic indicates that
negation of a part does not entail negation of | the whole. The fact that the 531
elimination of death is not within the power of medicine does not negate
the true purpose of medicine. With respect to death, medicine has merely
the task of postponing the onset of the necessary decay of the body. The
purpose of medicine is “fending off putrefaction and preserving the [body’s]
original humidity from dissolution as far as possible by applying the necessary
20 The theme of the greatest of physicians and philosophers being unable to cure themselves
was popular and expressed in verses such as
Hippocrates paralyzed passed away

And plagued by pleurisy Plato died.
and appropriate method[s] with respect to quantity and quality, time, and
sequence.” And this real purpose, it is implied, is certainly fulfilled by medicine
in the way it is practiced by trained physicians.
The conviction that the right system of medicine is known once and for all
colors Ibn al-Quff’s reasoning with respect to the other objection he takes it
upon himself to refute. This objection centers around the conjectural character
(ḥads, ẓann, takhmîn) of the rules of medicine. The description of medicine as
“conjectural” is said to be generally agreed upon not only by the opponents
of medicine but also by the physicians themselves. It is claimed to be an
established fact that physicians always disagree with each other as to the proper
treatment of a patient. They make frequent mistakes. Their method is not based
upon sure knowledge. It is better described as experimentation. Ibn al-Quff’s
reply is quite simply that this does not affect medicine as such but “results from
the inability of the students of medicine to master its details and rules to the
proper extent.” When physicians disagree about the treatment of a patient, it
is because they have reached different conclusions concerning the symptoms
and the treatment required. If all of them were equally outstanding in their
mastery of medical knowledge, they would agree upon one and the same kind
of treatment—like so much else that has been said here, hardly a convincing
assumption.
The few authors cited are all comparatively recent, none being earlier than the
late tenth century. Whatever their medical tradition or religious background,
their discussion was determined by the philosophical and theological views
of earlier generations of Muslim scholars. We have come across more or less
explicit indications that the speculative theologians, the mutakallimûn, were
behind those attacks upon the very existence of medicine. This is confirmed
by the fact that ar-Râzî (865–925) wrote two treatises on the subject which are
not known to be preserved and so far are known only by title. One of them
was written for the purpose of refuting the attack upon medicine by al-Jâḥiẓ,
the famous Muʿtazilah littérateur (777–869), and the other for the purpose of
532 refuting the attack upon it by an-Nâshî, a well-known poet and speculative |
theologian (d. 905/906).21 Another refutation of al-Jâḥiẓ was written in the
21 Cf. Ibn an-Nadîm, al-Fihrist, cd. G. Flügel, 300, I. 24, and 299, 1. 28 (Leipzig 1871–1872); al-
Birûnî, Risâlat al-Bîrûnî (Épître de Bêrûnî contenant le répertoire des ouvrages de Muḥam-
mad b. Zakarîyâ ar-Râzî), éd. P. Kraus, 6 (Paris 1936); al-Qiftî, ed. A. Müller and J. Lippert,
274, ll. 18 f., and 273, ll. 17f. (Leipzig 1903); Ibn Abî Uṣaybiʿah, I, 316, II. 21f. and 3f.
Ar-Râzi also wrote monographs on such pertinent subjects as the inability even of
skilled physicians to cure all diseases, as this is not within the power of man (Ibn an-
tenth century by Ibn Mandawayh al-Iṣfahânî.22 In his attack upon medicine,

al-Jâḥiẓ may have mainly wished to exercise his ingenuity as a social critic, as he
did in the case of other professions, but it is also well possible that his principal,
if not exclusive, concern was the theological side of the problem. This would
seem more likely, especially in view of the fact that a similar work of ar-Râzî,
according to its title, takes issue with al-Jâḥiẓ’s attitude toward speculative
theology. In the case of an-Nâshî, the discussion dealt with ten points raised
by him, and it is highly probable that they were basically theological in nature.
As a seeming assertion of man’s will against divine providence and nature,
medicine, more than any other human activity, was suited to serve as a good
example in the debate of theologians and philosophers about God and His
attributes. This debate had its roots in pre-Islamic Christian theology, and
the special case of medicine was also incidentally considered by the Church
Fathers.23 However, Islam injected new life into philosophical theology as
early as the beginning eighth century, and the new ideas, intertwined with
politics, assumed a tremendous practical importance. This appears to be the
reason why the subject treated here became prominent and its discussion,
seemingly urgent for physicians in the Muslim environment in the ninth and
tenth centuries, lingered on far beyond that time.
Nadîm, 302, ll. 11f.; al-Bîrûnî, 10: al-Qifṭî, 277, 1. 2; Ibn Abî Uṣaybiʿah, I, 319, ll. 11ff.); the reason
why certain people do not want to have anything to do with (var. blame) physicians, even
skilled ones (Ibn an-Nadîm, 302, 1. 11; al-Bîrûnî, 10; al-Qifṭî, 277, 1. 1; Ibn Abî Uṣaybiʿah, I, 319,
ll. 8 f.); the reason why laymen, women, and ignorant physicians may turn out to be more
successful in the treatment of certain diseases than true professionals (Ibn an-Nadîm, 302,
ll. 15 f.; al-Bîrûnî, 10 f.; al-Qifṭî, 277, ll. 4 f.; Ibn Abî Uṣaybiʿah, I, 319, ll. 15f.); and the absence
in any craft, and not only in medicine, of craftsmen acknowledged all around (for general
ability) (Ibn an-Nadîm. 302, II. 13 f.; Ibn Abî Uṣaybiʿah, I, 319, ll. 14f.).
22 Cf. al-Qifṭî, 438, ll. 9 f., and Ibn Abî Uṣaybiʿah, II, 22, ll. 1f., also C. Brockelmann, Geschichte
der arabischen Litteratur, Suppl., I, 246 (Leiden 1937). Ibn Abî Uṣaybiʿah here calls the work
of al-Jâḥiẓ “attributed to him.”
23 Cf. H. Schadewaldt, “Die Apologie der Heilkunst bei den Kirchenvätern,” in Veröffentlich-
ungen der internationalen Gesellschaft für Geschichte der Pharmacie, 1965, 26: 115–130, espe-
cially, pp. 126 f. where a few negative voices, rejecting medicine as indicative of a lack of
trust in God, are listed. They were not many since, in contrast to Islam, Christianity was
historically committed to a deep religious respect for medicine.
viii.14
475 The Physician in Medieval Muslim Society*
Some time ago I had one of those welcome opportunities to recommend some-
one for a vacant position. The difficulty was that a nonpareil was required who
would be not only an inspiring teacher and crack administrator but also a mas-
ter of everything concerned with Islam and, in addition, well versed in several
other Near Eastern fields. Such requests are not uncommon, and I therefore like
to stress the fact that what we call Islamic studies is a very large field, much too
large to be mastered by any one individual. The customary complaint of schol-
ars, regardless of the particular vineyard they are cultivating, about neglect of
their own field is certainly justified in the case of Islamic studies. It is, how-
ever, undeniable that within Islamic studies, the study of Muslim medicine has
been reasonably well taken care of in the past and, in particular, in the last two
decades. Outside the world of Islam, England and Germany are the countries
with the largest share of accomplishments in this respect.
It is especially gratifying that many young scholars have been working on the
history of Muslim medicine. Manuscripts have been discovered and described,
and texts have been edited and translated. Two fundamental bibliographies
have been published, both in the same year—1970. The one by Manfred Ull-
mann in Tübingen was originally intended as a general survey of the history
of medicine in Islam, but its author realized that so much unknown material
was buried in manuscripts or remained concealed, unrecognized and misun-
476 derstood, in the printed books that it was necessary first | of all to provide
sound bibliographical data.1 The other work, by Fuat Sezgin of the University of
Frankfurt a.M., was conceived within the general framework of a comprehen-
sive history of Arabic literature to about the year 1000. The amount of hitherto
unknown manuscript treasures described by Sezgin is indeed remarkable, but
the author was also keenly aware of the absence of historical interpretation of
the data and felt compelled to make the daring attempt to provide a kind of
* The text of the Fielding H. Garrison Lecture, delivered on May 4, 1972, at the annual meeting
of the American Association for the History of Medicine in Montreal, Canada, is offered here
belatedly as a memento of what for me was a truly remarkable occasion.
1 M. Ullmann, Die Medizin im Islam (Leiden-Köln, 1970; Handbuch der Orientalislik, Erste
Abteilung, Ergänzungsband, VI, 1). An excellent brief survey of Islamic Medicine by M. Ull-
mann appeared in Edinburgh in 1978.

the physician in medieval muslim society 1027
provisional history of Muslim medicine in the early centuries of Islam.2 Both

works make it clear that the study of the history of medicine in Islam is still in
its beginning, that the source material has been identified only incompletely,
that it has hardly been studied in sufficient detail or not been studied at all,
and that the discoveries to be made and the problems to be solved are legion.
A comprehensive archive of microfilms of Near Eastern medical manuscripts
does not yet exist as far as I know,3 and collaborative projects, such as a proper
indexing of ar-Râzî’s vast Continens, of which an Arabic text has now appeared
in print, would not be easy to organize. Nevertheless, it is true that as far as
Islamic studies as a whole are concerned, the historians of medicine have com-
paratively little reason to complain about the progress that has been made.
Quite a few of the scholars who are now making significant contributions
to Muslim medical studies are general Islamicists rather than historians of
medicine, and not without reason. The Arabic medical literature is of consider-
able importance for the Classicist who can recover from it lost works of Greek
authors or use the Arabic translations for the textual criticism of preserved
Greek texts, and this applies also to fields other than medicine. Philologians
can gain valuable and much needed insights into Arabic lexicography and also,
to a lesser degree, into Greek lexicography from comparing the Arabic trans-
lation of a Greek text with its Greek original. It is, however, something more
basic than such externalities that attracts the student of Muslim civilization to
the study of Arabic medicine. Intellectual activity in medieval Muslim civiliza-
tion tended toward abstract thought and as a rule tried to keep away from the
concrete details of human existence. Misguided | mental acrobatics and arbi- 477
trary abstractions are not entirely absent from Arabic medicine, but, on the
whole, it lures the student with an entirely satisfactory combination of pro-
found intellectual concern and intimate contact with the realities facing the
individual and the society in which he lived. The specter of having to work in
the abstract void, which our outlook on life finds disquieting, is less threaten-
ing here than elsewhere in the study of Islam. Looking at Muslim physicians
as they are mirrored in the literature, we see a happy union of all that was
best in Muslim civilization in thought and action. S.D. Goitein has recently
sung the praise of physicians in the Muslim orbit in these ringing words: “The
2 Geschichte des arabischen Schrifttums, Band III: Medizin-Pharmazie, Zoologie-Tierheilkunde

bis ca. 430 H. (Leiden: Brill, 1970).
3 The Maʿhad al-Makhṭûṭât al-ʿArabîyah in Cairo is in the process of publishing catalogues of
its microfilms of medical manuscripts from collections in many countries. Two volumes have
appeared so far (Fihrist al-makhṭûṭât al-muṣawwarah (Cairo 1959 and 1978)).
torchbearers of secular erudition, the professional expounders of philosophy

and the sciences, disciples of the Greeks, heirs to a universal tradition, a spir-
itual brotherhood which transcended the barriers of religion, language, and
countries.” And, Goitein adds, “almost any doctor of distinction was also a mem-
ber of the entourage of a king, a sultan, a vizier, or a governor.”4
The qualitative aspect of medicine as a science and profession in Islam is
extraordinarily well described in Goitein’s phrases. They give us a view of the
mountain top where the air is pure and the sun shines bright. It is obvious,
however, that there must have been a broad supporting base for medical ser-
vices in Muslim society serving a large segment of it. Conditions there might
not have been quite as splendid as they were on the top. The significance of
that larger medical establishment for the welfare of society and for the gen-
eral character of medical practice must have been considerable. The question
which I am posing here and which I am trying to answer, however imperfectly
and tentatively, is: What do we really know about the quantitative aspect of the
medical establishment in medieval Islam? The linking of the study of the his-
tory of Muslim medicine with sociology will make it necessary for scholars to
go beyond the strictly medical literature in order to collect the necessary infor-
mation. Historical, biographical, and belletristic works have to be sifted, and
they are innumerable. The immense theological and juridical literature can be
expected to yield some relevant information, and philosophical works, in par-
ticular those dealing with ethics, are likely to make a small contribution. It may,
478 for instance, not be entirely | irrelevant to notice that even in a work on logic,
a famous eleventh-century Spanish author exemplifies a point in this manner:
“Thus, were you to say, ‘the physicians are highly skillful,’ everybody who hears
you say that would feel you are making a wrong statement. For ‘the physicians’
signifies something general, while ‘highly skillful’ obviously refers only to some
physicians,” and not to all.5 All such little bits and pieces submerged in a vast
ocean of literature will have to be collected. This is a task which has as yet hardly
begun and which will take a long time to bring to fruition. Synthesis and recon-
struction will be a difficult and uncertain process, in which much will have to
4 S.D. Goitein, “The medical profession in the light of the Cairo Geniza documents,” in Hebrew
Union College Annual, 1953, 34: 177. For Goitein’s fundamental research, see also below, pp. 482
& 489. The second volume of his A Mediterranean Society (Berkeley-Los Angeles-London: Uni-
versity of California Press, 1971) was not yet available when I presented the Garrison lecture.
The chapters on the medical profession (240–261) and druggists, pharmacists, perfumers, pre-
parers of potions (261–272) contain detailed and concrete information complementary and
superior to what is presented here.
5 Ibn Ḥazm, at-Taqrîb li-ḥadd al-manṭiq, ed. Iḥsân ʿAbbâs (Beirut: n.y. [1959]), 85.
be left to guesswork. It is no accident that present-day advocates of quantita-

tive history think preferably of the history of modern times where the needed
information is abundant. It is limited and haphazard for medieval times, in the
East to an even greater degree than in the West. The people of the Middle Ages
themselves had no techniques for measuring the quantitative aspects of his-
tory. Some of these techniques would not have been beyond their abilities, but
it seems that they were not particularly interested in this kind of approach.
Perhaps they were wiser than we are. History is not inclined to deal respect-
fully with quantities. At least so far, it has shown no inclination to attribute the
development of human civilization to quantitative aspects. History appears to
have a way of remembering the quality of achievements to make lasting value
judgments.
Our first question is necessarily: What information do we have about the
total number of physicians in a given locality at a certain time? Our sources
are chary with actual figures, which does not come as a surprise after what
has just been said. What we do find, are frequent references to all doctors in
some region or town, without telling us how many they were. We hear that
prominent physicians had numerous students; this is vague and, moreover,
the students need not always have been men who were practicing medicine
or intended to do so. In certain situations we hear about physicians in the
plural, such as, for instance, an unspecified number of physicians attached to
the army of an ʿAbbâsid caliph.6 An occasional miniature in a manuscript may
show us a number of physicians in consultation.7 Major hospitals are described
as most generously staffed, but no figures are given. And, not always but quite
frequently, it is a plurality of physicians that is reported to | have been in atten- 479
dance on a ruler or an otherwise prominent personage. In particularly favorable
circumstances, it is possible to make a count of at least some of the physicians
who served a given ruler during his lifetime.8 However, actual figures are rarely
met with. When they are, they are usually suspiciously round figures. Thus,
a ruler in the region of the Caspian Sea in the second half of the tenth cen-
tury had twelve doctors assembled to treat him for a special, baffling disease.
Incidentally, the more the twelve treated him, the sicker he became, and all
6 Ibn Abî ʿUṣaybiʿah, ʿUyûn al-anbâʾ, ed. A. Müller (Cairo and Königsberg, 1882–1884), I, 153.
7 H. Buchthal, “Early Islamic miniatures from Baghdad,” In J. Walters Art Gallery, 1942, 5: 18–39,
and K. Weitzmann, “The Greek sources of Islamic scientific illustrations,” in Archaeologica
Orientalia in Memoriam Ernst Herzfeld (Locust Valley, N.Y., 1952), 244–266.
8 S.Y. Jadon, “The physicians of Syria during the reign of Ṣalâḥ-al-Dîn,” J. Hist. Med. & Allied Sci.,
1970, 25: 323–340.
of them had to be honorably dismissed upon the insistence of the great medical
authority who was eventually brought into the case.9 The figure twelve arouses
suspicion, and the story itself does not in fact suggest that twelve doctors
could be found together in a provincial town. They had to be gathered from
nearby and distant locations. Again we hear that twenty-four, or twice twelve,
physicians were appointed when a hospital was founded in the capital city of
Baghdâd earlier in the same tenth century.10 Another report about the selection
of a superintendent for the same hospital speaks of more than 100 prominent
physicians from all over the area as having been considered for the position.
Here, the entire report, and not only the round figure, seems to be of somewhat
doubtful historicity. If we could assume, and it does not appear to be an unlikely
assumption, that there were really 100 physicians of prominence available at
any one time in a city such as Baghdâd, whose population is estimated to
have been around 300,000,11 there was no shortage of physicians per number
of inhabitants, as it is clear that the number of prominent physicians was
only a fraction of all the practitioners in residence. The best available figure
is given for Baghdâd in the year 931. In that year, some 860 physicians from
all over town were invited to pass an examination to show their competency.
There were others in addition who were not invited, because it was thought
unnecessary for them to undergo an examination.12 Here we get a minimum of
one physician for at most three hundred inhabitants, a very high ratio indeed.
480 Strangely enough, approximately the same ratio of physicians to | population
emerges a few centuries later from a report outlining the foundation of a new
city by royal decree in Mongol-ruled Iran. The blueprints called for providing
the new town with fifty physicians, each of whom was to have ten students
who no doubt were also already capable of practicing. Additional medically
trained personnel was to be attached to the new city’s hospital. The number
of houses in that town was set at 30,000. Thus, there was to be one physician
or qualified medical student for each sixty houses. If we assume five persons
per house, which it must be admitted will be considered by many a rather low
9 Ibn Abî Uṣaybiʿah, op. cit. (n. 6 above), I, 146. The number twelve is not found in the
earlier al-Qifṭî, Taʾrîkh al-ḥuḳamâʾ, ed. J. Lippert (Leipzig: 1903), 149f., making it even more
suspect. The medical authority was Jibrîl b. ʿUbaydallâh b. Bukhtîshûʿ (d. 1006), and the
ruler Khusrawshâh (b. Mubâdir, not in al-Qifṭî), presumably one of the Musâfïrids, but his
identity cannot safely be established.
10 Ibn Abî Uṣaybiʿah, op. cit. (n. 6 above), I, 310.
11 For the population estimate, see J.C. Russell, Trans. Amer. Philos. Soc., 1958, 48 (3): 88a. It
should be kept in mind that population estimates for medieval cities are highly uncertain.
12 Al-Qifṭî, op. cit. (n. 9 above), 191f.: Ibn Abî Uṣaybiʿah, op. cit. (n. 6 above), I, 22.
figure, we have again one physician for three hundred people. Unfortunately,
the report has been suspected, and with good reason, of being not an actual
contemporary document but a much later invention originating not in Iran but
somewhere in northern India, and we do not know whether the invention was
based upon actual models.13 It should therefore be considered as the expression
of someone’s thinking as to what the ideal medical situation ought to be.
Since ideals are rarely attained, the actual situation was hardly ever as good
anywhere, maybe not even in Baghdâd, except for that one fleeting moment
there.
Nowhere do we have, I believe, a clear-cut indication as to the distribution
of physicians within the larger cities, although, upon careful study, the known
location of hospitals may provide some useful hints. What is more distressing,
nothing is really known directly about the situation outside the larger urban
complexes. It is but a small consolation that our knowledge of society and
economics in medieval Muslim villages and rural regions is also practically
zero. The great al-Ghazzâlî tells us that a person may buy books on medicine in
order to be able to treat himself. However, if there is a physician in a given place,
such books can be dispensed with as a superfluous luxury.14 This implies that
there were many localities in which no physician could be found. Al-Ghazzâlî
probably had the average small town in mind, rather than sparsely populated
rural areas and villages.
What, we may ask next, do we know about the material situation of physi-
cians? Were they generally able to make a living from the practice of | medicine, 481
how much did they earn, how did their earnings compare with those of other
social groups within society? It is only natural for the literary tradition to stress
the success story. We hear about those tremendous salaries and extraordinary
gifts, those promotions to high rank and positions of power and influence,
that the physicians of the mighty and the rich are frequently reported to have
13 E.G. Browne, Arabian Medicine (Cambridge: University Press, 1921; reprint 1962), 108f. See
also Browne’s A Literary History of Persia (Cambridge: University Press, 1920; reprint 1969),
III, 86: and the literature cited by C.A. Storey, Persian Literature (London: Luzac, 1953), I (2),
1230. The putative author was the great statesman and historian Rashîd-ad-dîn Faḍlallâh
(d. 1318). A charter for a suburb founded by Rashîd-ad-dîn and named ar-Rashîdîyah
after him is considered genuine by its editors, Mujtaba Minovi and Iraj Afshar (Teheran,
1350/1972). I have not seen the publication and know about it only from the review by
B.G. Martin in J. Amer. Oriental Soc., 1973, 93: 561f. Thus I do not know whether it contains
the same or similar details about the hospital there.
14 Al-Ghazzâlî, Iḥyâʾ ʿulûm ad-dîn. Kitâb Asrâr az-zakâh (Cairo, 1352/1953), I, 199. Medical
self-help books were, of course, also useful for emergencies and for travelers.
received. Numerous stories tell us about them. It is difficult to translate them

into concrete data, except for the bare fact that large wealth was involved.
The stories do, however, reflect a larger truth. They tell us something about
society’s scale of values. Just as reports about vast sums of money lavished
upon entertainers or poets illuminate the role played by entertainment in a
given social structure, the stories about highly remunerated physicians indi-
cate Islam’s great esteem for medical knowledge, and their faithful preservation
in literature is to be understood as a continuous re-affirmation of this value
judgment even under adverse contemporary conditions. Occasionally, we also
hear about the material success of ordinary physicians in ordinary times. In
the early thirteenth century, an outstanding scholar, ʿAbd-al-Laṭîf al-Baghdâdî,
mentioned a man who came to Baghdâd to study with him. The man told him
that six years of medical practice in Tiflis had enabled him to acquire very con-
siderable property.15 Regrettably, no details are given. ʿAbd-al-Laṭîf himself, he
tells us, was unable to check the man’s veracity, and we, of course, are even less
in a position to do so.
Quite often, the biographies of highly successful physicians—and, naturally,
we have biographies only of them—mention hard and obscure beginnings.
One of them is described as having for a long time been a poor general practi-
tioner before he finally achieved fame and fortune. Another was a pharmacist
who supplemented his earnings by doing some prescribing of his own, until,
by some miraculous feat of diagnosis and cure, he came to the attention of the
ruler and gained prominence. It is not unreasonable to assume that the original
pre-success status of those men more accurately reflects the economic position
of the average physician. Recently, a most illuminating study of the history of
prices and salaries in the medieval Muslim East has been published by E. Ash-
tor, but the author has practically no additional information on the fees and
482 incomes of physicians.16 On the other | hand, Goitein has furnished us with new
and valuable facts. His information has been extracted with great ingenuity
from Jewish documents dating mainly from the eleventh and twelfth centuries
and found in the Cairo Geniza. This repository of discarded writings constitutes
the only large-scale hoard of documents from the Near Eastern Middle Ages
15 C. Cahen, “ʿAbdallaṭîf al-Baghdâdî, portraitiste et historien de son temps,” Bull. d’Etudes

Orientales de l’ Institut Français de Damas, 1970 [1971], 23: 123. Another example is the
Christian physician in tenth-century Spain who “earned (much) money and real estate
with (his practice of) medicine” (Ibn Juljul [below, n. 27], 96, quoted by Ibn Abî Uṣaybiʿah,
op. cit. (n. 6 above), II, 41)—again, no details.
16 Histoire des prix et des salaires dans l’ Orient médiéval (Paris: S.E.V.P.E.N., 1969).
that tells us something about how the ordinary people of the times worked
and lived. Goitein calls attention to the frequent references to contributions
made to charity by members of the various professions. The contributions of
physicians, he states, are rather large, but, he continues, “it is significant that
one physician paid only one dinar, the same as various dyers,” a craft that ranked
very low on the social scale. Another doctor gave 1½ dinars, the same amount
as a silk worker and some storekeepers.17
A student of Goitein, A.L. Motzkin, has made a special study of the docu-
ments giving information about a physician who was a member of a family of
high rank in the Jewish community. He concluded that “physicians belonged
to the upper middle class: They travelled widely, lived well, (and) had an excel-
lent education.”18 Clearly there are contradictions in the Geniza evidence, and
a generalization such as the one just mentioned does not tell the entire story.
The crucial question may be asked whether Jewish conditions as described in
the Geniza can be assumed to have validity for Muslim society as a whole. This
appears generally to be the case. The practice of the crafts and professions and
the rewards for it in the urban setting was not essentially different whether
members of the Muslim majority or minority groups were involved. Consider-
able hesitation seems, however, to be called for in the special case of the study
and practice of medicine. Both Christians and Jews enjoyed an unusual repu-
tation as physicians. Consequently, physicians in turn can be expected to have
occupied a highly visible position in their communities. It is well possible that
the poorer sort of physician was less conspicuously represented among them.
Physicians may by and large have constituted a materially more favored ele-
ment within minority groups than in the world at large.
The medical establishment in Islam also harbored physicians who worked
only part-time in the profession and gained only part of their livelihood from
it. Here we have another problem for the assessment of the material position
of physicians in society. A continuous, and at times very intensive, effort was
made to establish and enforce professional standards. It was nonethe|less not 483
too difficult to learn the craft from a few textbooks and to function quite com-
petently when circumstances made such a course economically attractive. The
great medical writer from eleventh-century Egypt, Ibn Riḍwân, is an outstand-
ing if exceptional example of how effective and successful medical self-study
17 S.D. Goitein, A Mediterranean Society (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California
Press, 1967), I, 78. See also n. 4 above.
18 A.L. Motzkin, “A thirteenth-century Jewish physician in Jerusalem,” The Muslim World,
1970, 60: 349.
could be. Ibn Riḍwân appears to have devoted himself full-time to the practice
of medicine in the sense that from a certain period of his life on, his principal
income was derived from it. It is noteworthy, though, how often the great
men of medicine, those who made the biographical dictionaries, are described
and known as having excelled not only in medicine but in a variety of other
disciplines. No doubt this reflects the well-known fact that physicians were
supposed to live up to the highest intellectual standards of their times, and
this required a good acquaintance with an established canon of subjects. In
the case of many leading physicians, it is, however, not at all certain that
the practice of medicine was their principal source of income. Doubts in this
respect are especially pertinent when we are dealing with men who were not
members of a minority religion but were Muslims and had family ties to the
ruling scholarly establishment. The class to which traditional scholars as a rule
belonged had its economic base in commercial enterprise. Even after they had
achieved rank and position, scholars were often deriving additional income
from commercial investments within or outside their own families. Thus, it
comes hardly as a surprise to us when we are told about the late twelfth-century
physician Raḍî-ad-dîn ar-Raḥbî that “he liked commerce.”19 Some more detail is
given about a slightly younger contemporary of ar-Raḥbî, named Kamâl-ad-dîn
al-Ḥimṣî. He, too, liked commerce. Not only that, he also made most of his living
from it. This was quite necessary, since he is said to have had an aversion to
making money from the practice of medicine. This aversion probably resulted
from religious scruples, but we are not told what his motivation was and thus
cannot be sure.20 He even went so far as to treat hospital patients free, although
doctors rendering hospital service usually did so on a salary basis. It may be
added that al-Ḥimṣî’s case turned out to be not very different from those of
other volunteer workers then as well as now. After a while, he permitted himself
484 to be persuaded to be put on the | payroll and to draw a salary for his services
just as his colleagues did. He continued to do so till the day he died. These
men seem to have been exceptions. It was comparatively rare for practicing
physicians to have close ties to the Muslim scholarly class. Many followed in the
footsteps of their fathers and forefathers who had practiced medicine before
19 Ibn Abî Uṣaybiʿah, op. cit. (n. 6 above), II, 194.

20 Ibid., II, 201. Cf. Burzôê’s statement, below, p. 488 [p. 1039 below. Ed.]. It may be mentioned
that the ninth-century ar-Ruhâwî, in the last chapter of his Adab aṭ-ṭabîb, appears to
have insisted that physicians work full time and if they cannot earn enough, give up their
practice. Cf. the rather opaque translation by M. Levey, Medical Ethics of Medieval Islam
(Philadelphia, 1967), Trans. Amer. Philos. Soc., 57 (3), 93f. Cf. also C. Bürgel in Sudhoffs Arch.,
1966, 50: 360.
them, and most chose the practice of medicine as a career that would provide
for their livelihood, presumably on a level that by and large did not exceed that
of the average shopkeeper.
Indirect evidence as to the economic position of physicians and their abil-
ity to make a living from the practice of medicine comes from the seamy
fringes, the realm of quacks and charlatans. The numerous references to their
existence and stories about them make it appear to have been a very large
realm indeed. The respectable writers on medicine professed to know about
them and warned against them. They were a constant subject of grave con-
cern to the authorities charged with the control of honesty and fair dealing
in the crafts and in commerce. One might easily get the impression that char-
latans were common and even outnumbered bona fide physicians. However,
this impression may be deceptive. There is no hard information that would
allow us to gauge the actual extent of charlatanry. We can be sure that there
was no dearth of ignorant and unqualified physicians. Considering the gen-
eral state of medicine at the time, this could hardly have been otherwise. But
there is a vast difference between lack of ability and outright fraud. While the
results may be equally unfortunate in either case, in a sociological context the
distinction must be preserved. It was customary for writers on medical deontol-
ogy to start out with bitter complaints about the situation that existed in their
times. They complained that medicine was in a state of decay, and things were
quite different from what they had allegedly been in an earlier age. Physicians
now no longer live up to the high standards of professional ethics and profes-
sional competence. Following the precedent of the Pseudo-Hippocratic Nomos,
reference was made to contemporary physicians as “physicians in name only,
and not physicians in reality.”21 Physicians were of course not the only ones
to make such complaints; all scholars made them with respect to their par-
ticular disciplines. “The complaint about the times” was a favorite topic. Such
statements were often conventional and, like all other medical deontology in
Islam, continued a tradition inherited from Hellenism. They reflect common
human psychol|ogy. Their truth, or untruth, would seem to be something that 485
can hardly ever be objectively decided.
Tradition and convention also played a large role in another area where we
are tempted to look for further information on the distinction between genuine
physicians and quacks. A special small niche in Arabic literature, in particular
within the vast structure of Arabic poetry, was reserved for the praise of the
21 Cf. Ibn Riḍwân, Fȋ t-taṭarruq bi-ṭ-ṭibb ilâ s-saʿâdah, Ms. Istanbul Hekimoghlu Ali Pasha 691,
fol. 121b; F. Rosenthal, op. cit. (below n. 36), 184.
good physician and the blame of the bad physician. The topic was popular and
much savored. If, for instance, a Christian physician bore the name of ʿÎsâ, i.e.,
Jesus, and if the poet who was treated by that ʿÎsâ was not satisfied with his
services, his muse might inspire him to rhyme:
Doctor ʿÎsâ, please, show pity!—You are Noah’s deadly deluge.

Separating soul from body—is your treatment’s only purpose.
Doctor ʿÎsâ, the physician—and Christ, ʿÎsâ, the Messiah—have, indeed,
nothing in common.
While the latter, Scripture tells us,—had the dead restored to new life,
You are quite a diff’rent ʿÎsâ.—You are here to kill the healthy.22
The imagery, it may be noted, is conventional. The poet quite possibly made up
the entire incident. Another poet who lavished praise upon an efficient physi-
cian named Ibrâhîm may, or may not, have had in mind an actual occasion, but
he was a bit more original in his imagery:
Ibrâhîm excels in his medical knowledge so much

That he is rightly called the true heir to medical science.
There are many who have wiped out or obscured its wide track,
Whereas he stands out as the man who will follow and clear it.
With the subtlety of his thinking he gives the impression
To be acting between blood and flesh as a calm mediator.
When the soul is annoyed with the body that it inhabits,
The good doctor succeeds in arranging a truce between them.23
Whether it is praise or blame, we are dealing with a traditional subject. And

again, we have to look for its roots in Classical Antiquity, in those centuries
of late Hellenistic civilization preceding the coming of Islam. Late Greek and
486 Byzantine anthologies such as those of Stobaeus and Pseudo-|Maximus Con-
22 The verses were reported by ath-Thaʿâlibî, Yatîmah (Damascus, 1304/1886–1887), I, 218. The
poet is uncertain. The verses were quoted by ash-Sharîshî, Sharḥ al-Maqâmât al-Ḥarîrîyah
(Cairo, 1306/1889), in the name of Abû Naṣr b. Kushâjim, whom the Yatîmah mentions in
this connection apparently as a son of the well-known poet Kushâjim. From ash-Sharîshî,
the verses were taken over in the collection of Kushâjim’s poetry by Khayrîyah M. Maḥfûẓ,
Dîwân Kushâjim (Baghdâd, 1390/1970), 128 f. It may be noted that Kushâjim wrote a long
poem in praise of his physician; see Dîwân Kushâjim, 173–175.
23 Ath-Thʿâlibî, op. cit. (n. 22 above), I, 507. The poet appears to have been as-Sarî ar-Raffâ.
The word “soul” here and in the preceding verses is, translated more literally, “spirit.”
fessor24 follow the same literary pattern and reveal a similar intellectual atti-
tude in their chapters devoted to medicine and physicians. The positive side
is pretty much neglected. Most of the information is either neutral or outright
negative. Human psychology is no doubt more responsible for this than are
the facts of the situation. Literary circles considered it more fashionable and
rewarding to make fun of physicians than praise them. Muslim littérateurs did
not differ in this respect from their Hellenistic predecessors. The poets among
them relished malicious satire, especially when it entailed no real risks, and
seized every opportunity to show off their biting wit. But whatever attention
was paid by them to physicians, was directed toward the upper layers of the
profession. The physicians they had in mind as a rule were, it would seem,
the highly reputed and supposedly well qualified physicians of the well-to-do.
Their criticism was not directed against charlatanry. Much as we may regret
it, it affords no clue as to the possible prevalence of fraudulent practitioners.
In fact, we cannot really prove that quackery was quantitatively much more
prevalent in Muslim society than it has been in more modern times. It proba-
bly loomed large in the minds of medieval men fearful as they perforce were
of disease, and their fears may have led to exaggeration and distortion. More-
over, quackery can be assumed to be in direct proportion to the general level
of education. It was high in Islam for its time, but the number of individuals
whose educational level made them easy marks for charlatans was naturally
very large.
Not surprisingly, quackery was a lucrative business where it went unchecked.
You might sell, we are told, a medicine that guaranteed the preservation of
healthy teeth and helped to eliminate bad mouth odor, incidentally a much
discussed subject and the butt of numerous jokes. Small wonder, then, that you
could make sixty to seventy silver dirhams a day selling it, not counting assorted
copper coins.25 Hawking a kind of paste or cake that served as a general tonic
and had the additional virtue of being able to allay the pangs of hunger for
twelve hours would always be profitable business, but in a period of famine
and inflation, it could bring in no less than three hundred dirhams a day.26
These figures were most probably exaggerated by the enterprising salesmen
24 Stobaeus, V, 898–901, in the edition of C. Wachsmuth and O. Hense, and Pseudo-Maximus

Confessor, Patrologia Graeca, XCI, 947–950.
25 E. Wiedemann, “Über Charlatane,” Sitzungsberichte der physikalisch-medizinischen Sozi-
etät in Erlangen, 1911, 43: 225f., from the Kashf al-asrâr of the thirteenth-century al-Jawbarî
(cf. S. Wild, in Proceedings of the VIth Congress of Arabic and Islamic Studies, 58–63 [Kungl.
Vitterhets Historie och Antikvitets Akademien, Filologisk-filosofiska serien, XV, 1975]).
26 Wiedemann, op. cit. (n. 25 above), 211.
487 themselves or by the writer who reported them. | We are also unable to translate
the amounts given into anything approximating their true purchasing power.
Furthermore, the preparation that served to relieve the discomfort of hunger is
described as having been effective, as it might well have been. And while both
medicines had to do with matters that were considered the proper concern
of the practitioner, they were rather marginal from the medical point of view.
Thus we do not learn here very much about the comparative situation of
medicine vis-à-vis quackery, and it does not really matter that the sums of
money mentioned probably amounted on an annual basis to more than even
a prominent physician could expect to earn.
Numbers and economic rewards are essential factors to be considered for
determining the position of physicians in society. A word remains to be said
about the role in Muslim society that physicians created for themselves by
virtue of the extent and character of their special contribution to it. The Muslim
religion is notable for preaching social consciousness and demanding that the
believers follow its mandates. We would expect the social consciousness of
physicians to have gone beyond ordinary limits. What information do we have
on this point?
We have seen that the sources tend to highlight financial and social success.
We are more likely to have details about the few physicians who gained access
to high society than the many who were not that fortunate. Very rarely do we
find an express statement to the effect that a physician kept away on purpose
from entering the service of an important personage when the opportunity was
offered to him.27 The rewards of social success were great. Occasionally it pro-
vided a valuable sinecure, even though few court physicians could have been as
lucky as one of those employed by the Ayyûbid sultan of Egypt, al-Malik al-ʿÂdil,
who died in 1218 at the age of about seventy-three years. That physician claimed
rather smugly that he had been eating the sultan’s bread for many years, and
the sultan had made use of his services just once, for a single day.28 Under nor-
mal conditions, fees were tailored to the patient’s ability to pay. A prominent
eye surgeon was willing to do a cataract operation for practically nothing on
the assumption that the patient was unable to pay the full fee. He changed
his mind and refused to go through with the operation when he learned that
27 Ibn Juljul, Ṭabaqât al-aṭibbâʾ wa-l-ḥukamâʾ, ed. Fuʾâd Sayyid (Cairo, 1955). 104, with ref-
erence to Saʿîd b. ʿAbd-ar-Raḥmân Ibn ʿAbd-Rabbih, a nephew of the famous Spanish
littérateur Ibn ʿAbd-Rabbih. Ibn Juljul is quoted by Ibn Abî Uṣaybiʿah (op. cit., n. 6 above),
II, 44.
28 C. Cahen, op. cit. (n. 15 above), III.
the patient had | more money than he had solemnly sworn he had.29 An early 488
autobiography claiming to embody the wisdom of a pre-Islamic sixth-century
Persian, Burzôê, tells us that a man may study medicine for four purposes: to
make money, to live the good life, to acquire rank and fame, or to assure for
himself lasting bliss in the other world. Such bliss was the greatest reward to
come to a physician. One way of assuring it for oneself was to treat all sick per-
sons without accepting any recompensation.30 Such religious motivation for
medical charity was probably less prominent in Islam than it was in medieval
Europe, even if the somewhat dubious exception mentioned before was noth-
ing unique, and physicians treating patients, whether in hospitals or elsewhere,
sometimes did not expect to be paid. We do not have any concrete information
on the amount of charity work done by physicians. However much it was, it
must have been little as compared to the needs of the large numbers of those
who could not afford medical attention, since the vast majority of the popu-
lation lived from hand to mouth with little to spare for extra expenditures. It
is clear, however, that the moral imperative to treat all sick Muslims without
regard to their social or financial status was very much alive. A hospital char-
ter stressed the point that that hospital should be open not only to the poor
but also to the rich,31 though there were precious few rich people ever to be
found in hospitals—which certainly leaves no doubt that no financial distinc-
tions should be made.
Practically no social distinctions are apparent in the many case histories
we hear about. The great ar-Râzî has left us a collection of mujarrabât, that
is, medicines tested in actual cases. His collection includes some 650 cases of
men, women, and children. The patients came in person to see the doctor, or
they wrote to him, or they had their complaints transmitted by somebody else,
or they complained in a manner not further specified.32 Presumably only the
more interesting cases were listed and, although this is not stated expressly,
only those where the prescribed medication proved effective. Thus the number
of 650 can be extrapolated into a rather large practice. At any rate, it would seem
29 Ibn Juljul, op. cit. (n. 27 above), 81 f.; quoted by Ibn Abî Uṣaybiʿah, op. cit. (n. 6 above), I,
230.
30 From Ibn al-Muqaffaʿ’s preface to his translation of Kalîlah wa-Dimnah, quoted from
T. Nöldeke’s German translation by F. Rosenthal, “Die arabische Autobiographie,” in Ana-
lecta Orientalia (Roma, 1937), XIV, 10 f.
31 Ahmad ʿÎsâ Bey, Taʾrîkh al-bîmâristât fî l-Islâm (Damascus 1347/1929 [rather, 1358/1940]),
138, with reference to the Manṣûrî Hospital in Cairo. “Rich and poor” means “everybody.”
The poor are referred to in the charter more explicitly.
32 Kitâb at-Tajârib, MS Istanbul, Topkapisarayi, Ahmet III, 1975.
489 that practically all of the patients were ordinary | people, and we may assume
that there were also some really poor people among them, though whether they
were charity cases remains doubtful.
Drugs appear to have been rather expensive, quite apart from the fact that
compound medicines were considered the more likely to be effective, the more
complicated and containing rare ingredients, and thus the more expensive,
they were. Precise data on the prices charged, especially retail prices, are few.
The vast pharmacological literature is not very likely to contain any, although
some may show up in future studies. Drugs and spices were important items
of commerce, and there is hope that more documents than those known so far
will be discovered. There are sad disappointments. An interesting letter from
the eleventh or twelfth century deals with the purchase of drugs, but as far
as prices are concerned, it restricts itself to giving the good advice to buy the
drugs at the proper prices.33 A papyrus appears to indicate prices but has so
far not been satisfactorily deciphered.34 The Geniza as studied by Goitein will
probably remain the most important source of information. It can be assumed
that patients often found drugs expensive and beyond their means. Physicians,
too, were concerned with the high prices of drugs. Medical writers wrote special
treatises on medicines for the poor, offering, it seems, advice on the less costly
medicines.35
Public health care on a large scale was clearly beyond the resources of
individual physicians. Governmental action and public financial support were
required. The charitable precepts of Islam, combined with the Classical tradi-
tion of the ruler’s moral and practical obligation to take care of the health of his
subjects,36 created the necessary climate. It was, however, upon the urging of
physicians that major steps to transform theory into reality were undertaken.
The famous tenth-century report on bringing medical services to rural areas
and to prisoners held in jail is a good example of cooperation between the gov-
33 A. Dietrich, Zum Drogenhandel im islamischen Ägypten (Heidelberg, 1954; Veröffentlichun-

gen aus der Heidelberger Papyrus-Sammlung, Neue Folge, I). Among the medical docu-
ments referred to by Dietrich, one published by A. Grohmann, in Archiv Orientálni, 1935,
7: 439, merely asks for information about the price of some potion. A papyrus in the
Viennese collection gives the price for one drug; another papyrus seems to contain more
data.
34 G. Levi Della Vida, “A druggist’s account,” Archaeologica Orientalia (n. 7 above), 150–155.
35 For Ibn al-Jazzâr’s work on the subject, cf. C. Brockelmann, Geschichte der arabischen
Litteratur, 2nd ed. (Leiden: Brill, 1943–1949), I, 274; M. Ullman, op. cit. (n. 1 above), 148.
36 Cf. al-Mubashshir, as quoted in F. Rosenthal, The Classical Heritage in Islam (London:
Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1975), 35.
ernment and the medical profession.37 It has always been praised very highly,
and rightly so. However, reforms | suggested are not always reforms realized, 490
and this appears to apply to this report. The only safe conclusion it allows us
to draw is that medical attention was not available in prisons, quite apart from
the presumably dismal medical situation in rural regions. We have some infor-
mation about what prison conditions were, or were supposed to be; it tells us
about the existence of prison chaplains, but nothing is said about medical ser-
vices provided for prisoners.38
The noblest expression of the deep concern of medieval Muslim society with
matters of public health was a highly developed hospital system, a network
of urban institutions with large staffs, providing numerous services and fre-
quently having teaching facilities attached to them. Here again, it was the physi-
cians who took the initiative and laid the groundwork. The eleventh-century
Zâhid al-ʿulamâʾ tells us, for instance, how he persuaded his ruler to found a
hospital as a reward for the successful cure of the ruler’s daughter from a severe
illness.39 Hospitals were completely dependent upon outside endowment sup-
port. What usually happened was that the initial endowment became insuf-
ficient or was dissipated after a rather short time. This made for progressive
deterioration of the original lofty conception of what a good hospital should be
like. But hospitals continued to be founded wherever government stability and
general prosperity permitted. Apparently there was always willing cooperation
on the part of physicians, and no dissent on their part on personal economic
grounds.40
I have tried here to marshall representative samples of the evidence we have,
or can expect to obtain, from literary sources, for the position of physicians as
a group in medieval Muslim society. Economically, it was, to all appearances, a
group comparable to that of the storekeeper/merchant class, with, of course, a
number of exceptions. Numerically, medical men naturally constituted a small
percentage of the population, numbering, even at the best of times, less than
one-third of one percent in some exceptionally favored location. They were a
37 Al-Qifṭî, op. cit. (n. 9 above), 193f.; Ibn Abî Uṣaybiʿah, op. cit. (n. 6 above), I, 221.
38 F. Rosenthal, The Muslim Concept of Freedom (Leiden: Brill, 1960), 62 [p. 77 above. Ed.].
39 Ibn Abî Uṣaybiʿah, op. cit. (n. 6 above), I, 253. The monograph of the Zâhid al-ʿulamâʾ on
the history of hospitals is unfortunately not preserved: at least no manuscript of the work
has as yet been noted in the literature.
40 The government, however, was advised to avoid spending too much money on public
health services. Cf. the early ninth-century fürstenspiegel still admired by Ibn Khaldûn
more than five centuries later, The Maqaddimah, trans. F. Rosenthal (New York: Bollingen
Series XLIII, 1958: Princeton University Press, 1967), II, 153.
special element also for cultural reasons. Medical theorists were convinced of
the truth of the Hellenistic idea of the inseparability of medicine and philos-
491 ophy. During the first two centuries of | ʿAbbâsid rule, “philosophy” was the
slogan of the elite, and the intellectual alliance of medicine with philosophy
generally added to the reputation of its practitioners. The alliance was always
shaky; soon, it became a constantly growing danger to the physician’s societal
standing. The word “philosophy”—that is, Greek philosophy—was anathema
to the masses and their leaders. If nineteenth-century Western medicine had
allied itself with “philosophy,” then at the pinnacle of the cultural hierarchy,
before “science,” the current frontrunner, took over, the damage to the stand-
ing of medicine in society would no doubt have been incalculable. Yet, it could
hardly have been as great as it was in medieval Islam where the very word “phi-
losophy” was in a sense suspect.
Another special aspect of the medical profession was its continuing inter-
faith character. With the growing retrenchment of the Jewish and Christian
positions and the hardening of the Islamic character of Muslim society, this,
too, lost more and more of its positive social significance.
Then, since the top of the profession depended upon upper-class patronage,
medical prestige and influence contracted with the growing fragmentation of
the Muslim world. This applies to the Muslim world before 1500; thereafter,
conditions changed again. However, the significance of this factor was less
specific since a general lowering of material standards was involved, with the
relative position of physicians left largely unchanged.
What influenced that position most in the course of history was the fact
that it was not altogether possible or desirable for physicians to fit themselves
comfortably into the dominant religious and legal framework of Islam. They
tried hard not to sell their souls, and they kept medicine, in the words of the
eleventh-century Christian physician Ibn Buṭlân, “the most useful of crafts
and the most profitable of enterprises,”41 that is, the craft and science most
beneficial for individuals as well as a society somewhat ambivalent about the
place it had to assign to it.
41 At the beginning of his Daʿwat al-aṭibbâʾ.

viii.15
Significant Uses of Arabic Writing* 50
On the fifteenth day of October of the year 1351, the well-known Shāfiʿite
jurist and author, Taqī-ad-dīn as-Subkī, released a legal opinion in reply to the
following question addressed to him:
What is your opinion concerning a man’s placing his foot upon a carpet
into which there are woven some letters of the alphabet arranged in
meaningful words such as “blessing,” “bliss,” “enduring strength”? Is it
permissible for a man to step on the portions of the carpet where these
words are found?1
In his reply, as-Subkī is inclined to consider it forbidden for a man to step on

such a carpet, although he says he is unable to offer sufficiently strong proof
for his opinion. Decisive proof would be necessary because an express prohibi-
tion by the Lawgiver, or reasoning based on sound analogy, is required in order
to declare something forbidden. He has no doubt, however, that he is dealing
with something that is to be classified as disapproved. There are people who
do consider it forbidden on the strength of the argument that every letter of
the alphabet is indicative of one of God’s most beautiful names. However, this
argument is not specific enough. Then, there are those speculations of “the sci-
ence of letters,” attributing magical and physical properties to individual letters.
Some of those speculations are clearly sinful and classified as disapproved; oth-
ers he has found through his own experience to be untrue.
Since these arguments cannot be used to decide the question, as-Subkī bases
his opinion on an argument which runs somewhat as follows. The Qurʾān refers
to God repeatedly as the “Creator of everything.” The letters of the alphabet are
to be included in the | expression “everything.” They are sections of the sound 51
* The following pages contain a 20 minute lecture presented at the meeting of the American
Oriental Society in Ann Arbor in April 1959, during a symposium on the uses of writing.
Except, of course, for the footnotes (and the fact that during delivery of the lecture some
passages were shortened or omitted by me in order to stay within the allotted time limit), the
text of the lecture is printed here much as it was delivered. It is hoped that it will be judged
for what it is—a brief and, of necessity, incomplete outline of a very large subject, a lecture
meant to be heard and not to be read.
1 1 Fatāwī, II, 563–565.

complexes that are accidents of the bodies created by the Lord; thus, they are
created together with them in the second or third place. Everything created by
God has its specific purpose. This purpose must be taken into consideration by
man whenever he uses something. It is inherent in the thing by virtue of the act
of creation, or it is fixed by the religious law. Any improper use of something
is permissible only if sanctioned by the Lawgiver. The Prophetic traditions
include the story of the cow that spoke up and protested against being used
for riding purposes. Anyone who argues that a cow can be used for riding must
bring special proof for his contention, or he may use the argument that riding
on them was one of the secondary purposes for which cows were created, even
if their primary and obvious purpose, which is always stressed, is that they
be used for plowing. Hence, the letters—and here we can observe the almost
universal failure of mediaeval scholars to make a clear-cut distinction between
sound and letter—were created in order to produce, by means of their proper
arrangement, the word of God and Muḥammad and of the other prophets and
the angels as well as other necessary, desirable, or permissible utterances. There
can be no doubt as to the correctness of the assumption that the fact that the
letters are used for the production of something necessary or desirable makes
it obligatory upon human beings to honor and reverence them. In the opinion
of lawyers, a piece of paper containing the name of God cannot be used for
writing on it secular stories or the like.2 In this case, of course, the situation
is clear since the name of God is involved. But what if it is a case of ordinary
letters that could be used for producing any word in the world? In this case, it
is still possible to make a case for a similar prohibition, since it is not necessary
to prove the complete identity of two cases but merely to prove the fact that
they share certain legal characteristics (causa legis).
An objection may be raised, his argument continues, to the effect that the
same letters that are used to indicate good and holy words may be used to
indicate evil words and words of unbelief. While this is true, it must be stated
that the letters were created for the former purpose. Like anything else, they
may be employed by human beings to serve either their proper purpose or a
contrary purpose.
52 In the latter case, however, we are dealing with an unjust and improper
action which as such is to be classified as forbidden. In this sense, some scholars
have gone so far as to wash each time before touching a piece of paper. Paper
can be used for writing down either good words or evil words. However, the
2 1 Some examples of the reverence shown by pious men for pieces of paper that may contain
the name of God, in H. Ritter, Das Meer der Seele, 295, 270 (Leiden 1955).
significant uses of arabic writing 1045
true purpose for which it was created and for which it must be reverenced is for
writing on it the Qurʾān, the Prophetic traditions, and all other useful kinds of
knowledge. Were a man to step upon a piece of paper upon which nothing had
as yet been written, intentionally and in full knowledge of the fact that all paper
must be reverenced, his action could be classified as a forbidden one. The same
applies to the letters of the alphabet. Those who know the purpose for which
the letters were created are not permitted to step on them. This admits making
an exception for persons ignorant of the purpose of writing, in conformity with
the widely accepted legal view that only knowledge of the fact that an action is
forbidden makes its commission a crime.
Therefore, as-Subkī concludes, only those who are aware of the facts con-
cerning the true purpose of writing as stated here commit a crime when they
step on such letters as are found on the carpet. However, though it may not
always be a crime, it could in any case be considered as forbidden, and the per-
son ignorant of the situation should be taught to know better.
This summary of as-Subkī’s legal opinion may serve, I believe, as a competent

guide through the vast field of writing in Islam. The practical uses of the Arabic
script have never been subject to any limitation. Arabic writing was used to
perpetuate the word of God and all conceivable forms of literary and scientific
endeavor, from the loftiest thought down to the strictly utilitarian notations of
the merchant and the idle scribblings of vulgar hands on the walls of houses
and rooms. It proved no less able than other types of writing to denote a
great variety of languages and to furnish transliteration signs sufficient for
the occasional fixation in writing of foreign sounds. Against the full weight
of a powerful literary tradition, it has also been able, when called upon, to
express widely divergent forms of Arabic speech, with as much or as little
success as similar efforts undertaken, for instance, within the English system
of writing. What, we may ask, is peculiar to, or remarkable in, the use of writing
in Islam?
One aspect, in particular, is suggested and strongly emphasized by as-Subkī’s 53
reflections. That is, the sacred character of writing in Islam. At the same time,
as-Subkī makes it clear—and he is certainly right in making this distinction—
that the sacredness of writing should be considered as something different
from the magical power that was widely believed to be possessed by writing.
It is true that both sacredness and magical power were early and insepara-
ble properties of writing. It is also true that letter magic was widely practiced
throughout Muslim history and the theory of specific properties inherent in the
letters was accepted as a possibly valid explanation of the mysteries of nature
even by some of the best minds produced by Muslim civilization. However, the
sacredness of writing in Islam was something more historically effective and

more basically and profoundly Islamic. It had its origin in the importance that
the Qurʾān attributed to the possession of written books by a religious commu-
nity, and it was intimately connected with the early Islamic discussion of the
meaning of the concept “word of God” as it affected the recitation and written
reproduction of the Qurʾān. From the very beginning all this revolved, specifi-
cally, around the Arabic language and Arabic writing and made both integral
components of the Muslim religion, a role which naturally assumed ever larger
proportions when Muslim civilization came to favor more and more its reli-
gious aspects and institutions. Arabic writing, even more so than the language,
became a sacred symbol of Islam.
The reason why writing outdistanced language as a religious symbol is easily
explained from historical circumstances. In the first powerful burst of energy,
the Arab Muslims succeeded in displacing the languages of quite a few territo-
ries and eventually supplanting them with their own. This was an astonishing
feat, considering the comparatively small number of speakers of Arabic and
the fact that they were originally no bearers of a higher civilization. The main
resistance to Arabic, in fact, came from long-established administrative insti-
tutions closely connected with the civilizations of the subject peoples, and it
took about half a century to overcome that resistance. Soon, time, space, and
numbers did their job of weakening the original impetus so that it was no
longer possible to influence additional masses of speakers of foreign tongues in
ever more remote territories and to require of them the tremendous sacrifice
of giving up their own languages. On the other hand, the sacrifice of chang-
54 ing scripts was much more easily accomplished. It has been alleged that | the
Arabic script is not particularly suited to express the sounds of the languages
that came to adopt it. However, at the time the change to Arabic writing was
made, the native scripts were often greatly inferior to Arabic in most technical
aspects. The switch to Arabic writing meant a break with the past, of course,
but it did not entail any great practical loss and actually made literacy eas-
ier.
In Muslim civilization, writing thus became a sacred religious symbol of the
first order. In consequence, the various religious groups other than Muslim
which lived within the boundaries of Islam adhered zealously to their partic-
ular scripts while willingly changing languages. There is no real evidence from
the pre-Islamic Orient to indicate the prevalence of writing over language as a
religious symbol, even though sacredness attached to writing from the earliest
times, and religious groups naturally tended to develop their own type of writ-
ing to be used for their original languages. In Islam, sacredness became a char-
acteristic element in writing. Its presence and effect were not only felt but also
discussed and analyzed. To this day, radical reforms of writing are widely felt to
constitute a break with a tradition that possesses the aura of religious sanctity.3
The feelings aroused by religious awe are not basically different from the emo-
tions stimulated by man’s artistic instincts. As-Subkī’s legal opinion centers
around the fact that writing was used in Islam as a form of artistic expression.
The extraordinary interest in calligraphy we encounter in Muslim civilization
is indeed as well known as it is remarkable. Writing was widely used as a deco-
rative element in architecture and in connection with small objects including
carpets, textiles, and a wide range of different utensils. The calligraphic execu-
tion of manuscripts and documents was a highly esteemed form of art. Numer-
ous varieties of the Arabic script were created, among them some using leaf and
flower motifs for embellishment, and again others of a zoomorphical character,
using letters in the form of animals, mainly birds. A rather extensive literature
on calligraphy was produced, of which a large part has been preserved.
This literature makes no effort to gloss over the fact that its primary purpose
was practical. Books on writing were meant to serve utilitar|ian ends. They were 55
published in order to help government officials whose main equipment was a
thorough command of the written word, and they prepared those officials for
success in an often highly lucrative profession. Therefore, this literature stresses
the full range of technical know-how required by an accomplished penman, to
the virtual exclusion of anything else. It also displays an understandable ten-
dency to link up calligraphy with intellectual pursuits rather than aesthetic and
artistic-emotional notions. However, there can be no doubt whatever that cal-
ligraphy also served to satisfy the artistic needs of human nature in Islam. One
of the writers on calligraphy, Ibn Durustawayh (d. 958), said that in addition
to the technical and utilitarian aspects to which he restricted his book, there
also existed, as another important but different aspect, ornamental writing on
paper and stone (taṣwīr, naqsh).4
Overwhelming evidence for the emotional-artistic element in Muslim cal-
ligraphy is furnished by its very character. The infinite pains that were taken in
order to develop new and more beautiful forms of writing point in the same
direction. Then there are occasional remarks that express aesthetic apprecia-
tion of writing in deeply felt emotional terms.5 We find comparisons of writing
3 1 A bitter denunciation of those who wish to replace Persian with Roman characters for the
writing of Urdu from a Pakistani newspaper (al-Islam, Vol. 6, No. 5 [Karachi, March 1, 1959]),
is a timely illustration and corroboration of the above statement.
4 1 Cf. Ibn Durustawayh, 2nd ed., 6 (Beirut 1927).
5 2 Since the sources contain little on aesthetic appreciation, the secondary literature also has
with objects of recognized beauty and emotional appeal, such as jewelry, flow-
ers, gardens, and textiles. The sphere of more intimate emotions is touched
when a beautiful handwriting is described as giving joy to the heart and plea-
sure to the eye,6 or when the sense of smell, so highly refined in the East, is
invoked and ink is compared to perfume,7 and a poet could say that
Saffron is the perfume of maidens,

And ink is the perfume of men.8
Here we also have an example of the significant connection of calligraphy with

erotic emotions which had become firmly established at the very latest in early
56 ʿAbbāsid times. “Tears upon the cheeks of | chaste young women are no more
beautiful than tears of the pen in a manuscript,” was a saying attributed to a
secretary of the caliph, al-Maʾmūn.9 Especially in love poetry, the comparison
of bodily features with letters of the alphabet became a standard ingredient of
the poetic imagery. The beloved’s hair curling about the temples was compared
to a qāf at each end of a line,10 or to the graceful curvature of the tail of the letter
rāʾ.11 Or it might suggest to the poet the shape of the letter nūn, and a mole on
the cheek of the beloved would then naturally be compared to the dot on top
of the nūn.12 The budding moustache might be likened to half of the letter ṣād
as penned by a skilled writer.13 All such beauty attested to the majesty of the
divine scribe.14
little on it. An exception we may mention here is A Survey of Persian Art, edited by
A.U. Pope. The second volume of the Survey deals with calligraphy. It would seem wrong,
though, to claim every expression of admiration for particular specimens of handwriting
as indicative of an appreciation of handwriting as a form of art in the sense we have in
mind.
6 3 Cf. at-Tawḥīdī’s short treatise on calligraphy, published in Ars Islamica, XIII–XIV (1948),
19, no. 93.
7 4 Al-Tawḥīdī, op. cit., 17, no. 71.
8 5 Al-Māwardī, 37 (Cairo 1315).
9 1 At-Tawḥīdī, op. cit., 12, no. 30.
10 2 Ibn Abī ʿAwn, Tashbīhāt, 250. Comparisons making use of individual letters (in contrast to
general comparisons with writing [below, p. 58, n. 1]), are said to appear first in the poetry
of Dhū r-Rummah. Cf. C. Brockelmann, GAL, Supplement, I, 87f.
11 3 Ibn Abī ʿAwn, Tashbīhāt, p. 251.
12 4 Ibn Abī ʿAwn, Tashbīhāt, 251, and aṣ-Ṣūlī, 60.
13 5 Ibn Abī ʿAwn, Tashbīhāt, 253. A number of examples were collected by aṣ-Ṣafadī, Ghayth
I, 77 f. Occasionally, the idea was carried a bit too far; cf., for instance, al-Ḥalabī, 80.
14 6 Al-ʿImād al-Iṣfahānī, Kharīdat al-qaṣr (Syrian poets), 189 (Damascus 1375/1955), where
jalla l-kātib, “majestic is the scribe,” evidently refers to God.
Even love union could be symbolized by the shape of a letter, in this case the
ligature of the letters lām and alif, written, as they are, closely entwined:
I saw you in my dream embracing me

Like as the lām of the scribe embraces the alif.
This verse was often quoted, and the simile underwent numerous variations
at the hands of successive poets.15 The same letters lām-|alif, read as a word, 57
15 7 References to the original verse were collected by ʿAbd-al-ʿAzīz al-Maymanī and H. Ritter
in their respective editions of al-Bakrī, Simṭ, I, 578, and ʿAbd-al-Qāhir al-Jurjānī, Asrār
al-balāghah, 185, trans., 221 f.
The name of the author of the verse is variously given: (1) Bakr b. an-Naṭṭaḥ, according
to aṣ-Ṣūlī, 62; Aghānī, XVII, 155. (2) Bakr b. Khārijah, according to al-ʿAskarī, Maʿānī, I,
243; al-Bakrī, Simṭ, I, 578; ash-Sharīshī, II, 114 (31st maqāmah) (= Cairo 1306, II, 98f.). (3)
Abū Bakr al-Muwaswas, according to ʿIqd, III, 227 (= Cairo 1305, III, 248). (4) Anonymous,
according to al-Qālī, Amālī, I, 226 (= Cairo 1373, I, 223); al-Jurjānī, Wasāṭah, 184 (not
seen, quoted from ʿAbd-al-Qāhir al-Jurjānī, Asrār al-balāghah, trans., 221f.); ʿAbd-al-Qāhir
al-Jurjānī, loc. cit.
The metaphor of lām-alif indicating close embrace (ʿānaqa, iʿtanaqa, also ʿaṭafa,
talāqā) is used mainly in connection with love union, but also for close friendship and,
once (Ibn al-Jawzī), for greedily hugging the material goods of this world: Ibn al-Muʿtazz,
in Ibn Abī ʿAwn, Tashbīhāt, 367; Abū l-Muṭāʿ Dhū l-Qarnayn, in ath-Thaʿālibī, Yatīmah,
I, 64, and Ibn Khallikān, III, 33; al-Ḥasan b. ʿAlī b. Abī Jarādah, in Yāqūt, Irshād, XVI, 15,
in the life of the historian Ibn al-ʿAdīm; ʿUmārah al-Yamanī, 59; al-Qaysarānī, in Kharī-
dat al-qaṣr (Syrian poets), 137, and al-Khafājī, 101; Muḥammad b. ʿAbdallāh b. al-Farrāʾ, cf.
A.R. Nykl, Hispano-Arabic Poetry, 258 (Baltimore 1946), and idem, Selections from Hispano-
Arabic Poetry, 172 (Beirut 1949); Ibn al-Jawzī, Mudhish, 555; Abū Jaʿfar al-Ilbīrī al-Baṣīr, in
al-Maqqarī, Analectes, I, 931.
In a prose context the metaphor of lām-alif is used to illustrate extraordinary prompt-
ness in fulfilling one’s promises; cf. Taʾrīkh Baghdād, XII, 479. As the title of a book, we
find it in an early work on love, ad-Daylamī’s ʿAṭf al-alif al-maʾlūf ʿalā l-lām al-maʿṭūf ; cf.
GAL, Supplement, I, 359, and R. Walzer, in JRAS, 1939, 407ff. I had no opportunity to check
grammatical monographs on alif-lām.
The locks of the beloved are compared to lām and alif by Abū Tammām, Dīwān, 462.
Cf. also Dīk-al-jinn, in al-ʿAskarī, Maʿānī, I, 247.
Walking unsteadily is compared to writing lām-alif on the road in verses ascribed to
the Umayyad poet Abū n-Najm al-ʿIjlī (GAL, Supplement, I, 90); cf. aṣ-Ṣūlī, 61f.; ar-Rāghib,
I, 61; al-Baghdādī, Khizānat al-adab, I, 100; cf. F. Krenkow in A Volume of Oriental Studies
presented to E.G. Browne, 264 (Cambridge 1922). Lām-alif here is said not to refer to the
ligature, but to the two individual letters.
A Persian verse warns against disorderly companions, “for alif becomes crooked
through consorting with lām”; cf. H. Relandus, Enchiridion studiosi, 249 (Utrecht 1709).
mean “no,” and thus we find a poet complaining about his sad fate as a rejected
lover:
The lām-shaped cheek and the alif-like straight figure of the beloved
Make definite reply to the question of the lover: lām-alif no!16
Fortunately, it was not always an unhappy message that the alphabeto-morphic

features of the beloved conveyed to the persistent lover:
The nūn of the eyebrow and the ʿayn of the eyelids,

Together with the mīm of the mouth, give the answer:
naʿam yes!17
All these and similar comparisons, which are extremely frequent in Arabic
poetry, seem tiresome and contrived to us because we do not attach any emo-
tional significance to the shape of letters. Conversely, their popularity in Islam
is a strong confirmation of the hold exercised by calligraphy over Muslim emo-
tions.
How did writing happen to occupy this particular place in Muslim civiliza-
tion? It is hardly a satisfactory answer to say that since all forms of pictorial
representation were greatly curbed in Islam, art took refuge in calligraphy.18
58 There must have been something to | suggest that writing was a suitable outlet
for artistic creativity; thus, we are back where we started. It also would not do,
in my opinion, to derive Muslim calligraphy from the wonderment and admi-
ration with which little-educated pre-Islamic Arabs considered the mystery of
writing.19 The truth is that Arabic writing originally showed extremely little
promise of developing into a form of art.
Nabataean writing, the predecessor of Arabic writing, even in the period
when the Nabataean state was flourishing and prosperous, could hardly be
called beautiful. Admittedly, judgments of this sort are wide open to subjective
criticism, and there may be some who would see a certain subtle elegance and
beauty in the elongated shapes of Nabataean letters. However, in its transition
to Arabic writing, Nabataean lost all the elegance and artistic refinement it
16 1 Al-Qayrāṭī (d. 1379), Dīwān. Cf. also Ibn Juzayy, in al-Maqqarī, Azhār ar-riyāḍ, III, 198.
17 2 ʿImād-ad-dīn ad-Dunaysirī, as quoted by Ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿah, II, 271.
18 3 C. Huart, Les Calligraphes et les miniaturistes de l’ Orient musulman, 2 (Paris 1908).
19 1 Cf., for instance, I. Goldziher, Muhammedanische Studien, I, 110f., 174, II, 7f. (Halle 1889–
1890).
may have possessed. The earliest Arabic documents of writing exhibit, to say
the least, a most ungainly type of script.20 As a matter of fact, the history
of the Semitic alphabetic writing gives little evidence of artistic tendencies.
As a utilitarian and economic product, the Semitic alphabet shunned luxury
features and was much less of a natural starting point for artistic development
than, for instance, Egyptian or Chinese writing.
In Semitic epigraphy, Palmyrenian in its later stages shows a tendency
toward developing artistic forms, possibly under the influence of Greek epi-
graphic refinement. South Arabia was closer in time and culture to the begin-
nings and later history of Muslim civilization. Epigraphic monuments in the
South Arabian alphabet show the highest development of a true feeling for
form and symmetry, coupled with graceful simplicity, ever achieved in connec-
tion with a Semitic language, including, I believe, later Arabic writing.
As far as writing on soft material is concerned, we have at our disposal com-
paratively few documents from the pre-Islamic period on which to base our
judgment. Many outstanding specimens of unusual calligraphic skill may have
been lost. We have, for instance, the Aramaic documents from the Achaemenid
period, the rich finds from the Dead Sea, or the old Syriac manuscripts, to men-
tion the most promising material for comparison. They all reveal a certain | 59
neatness and loving care in their execution, but whatever true artistic-emo-
tional elements they may contain—and, in my opinion, they contain hardly
any—would seem to be unintentional. The Arabs’ cultural heritage did not
make calligraphy the natural choice for artistic expression among Muslims.
Whether or not outside models influenced the rapid rise of Muslim calligra-
phy is an open question. Non-Semitic influences are, of course, not excluded.
But Greek writing in Syria, as it must have appeared to the Muslims, was pre-
sumably not very impressive. The famous Manichaean predilection for fine
books may have influenced Muslim calligraphy somewhere along the line but
hardly at its early beginnings. On the other hand, in the environment of Semitic
speech, South Arabian epigraphy could easily have served as a major source of
inspiration, but the fact that the Muslims knew and admired South Arabian
writing is the only, and insufficient, evidence we have.
The most likely starting point for the phenomenal development of callig-
raphy in Islam would again seem to be the sacred character of writing. It not
only demanded the careful and exact execution of religious documents, but
20 2 Cf. the discussion between A. Jeffery and N. Abbott in The Moslem World, XXX (1940),
191 ff., and Ars Islamica, VIII (1941), 65 ff. It is the extremely rapid development of Arabic
calligraphy which obscures the fact of the original ungainliness of the writing.
also led Muslims to see in writing an outlet for religious emotions and to dis-
cover in it the beauty of the divine and of the divine creation. From this starting
point, writing could have gained easily its position as an artistic medium on
every level of Muslim civilization. It maintained this position, favored by the
increasing religious intensity of later Muslim history. It was stimulated, per-
haps, by non-Arab artistic impulses unduly repressed by Islam; however, the
rise of calligraphy was so early and rapid in Islam that the earliest generations
of Muslims must have participated in it. This also makes it unlikely that the
requirements of a powerful bureaucracy created Muslim calligraphy even if
they greatly contributed to its development and growth. At any rate, the fusion
of religion and art in Muslim calligraphy became a reality. To this day, the
tablets with the names of the Prophet and the four caliphs high up in the inte-
rior of Aya Sofya will not fail to impress everyone who looks at them intently as
religious emotion frozen by art and as being no less effective as a religious and
artistic experience than Western religious painting was in a different if related
medium.
A further noteworthy aspect of writing in Islam, which is also illustrated
by as-Subkī’s fatwā, is the fact already alluded to that writing as such, and
Arabic writing in particular, formed the subject of much theoretical discussion
60 and analysis among all kinds of scholars | and writers. Like the other aspects
of the use of writing in Islam mentioned here, this is not something peculiar
to Islam. However, the practice of writing, even where it is extensive, must
not necessarily be accompanied by elaborate speculations as to the meaning
and purpose of writing, its peculiar characteristics, or its limitations. This we
find in Muslim literature. Some of the points raised certainly deserve a few
words in this context, as indicative of the role played by writing in Muslim
civilization.
The limitation of the effectiveness of writing most commonly deplored by
Muslim scholars was peculiar to the Arabic script. As al-Bīrūnī, writing around
the middle of the eleventh century near the end of his long and fruitful life,
phrased it:
Arabic writing has a great drawback. It contains letters identical in their

forms. They are easily confused, and there results the need for diacritical
marks to distinguish those letters from each other, as well as the need for
ways and means to express the grammatical terminations at the ends of
words. Where these marks are omitted, the meaning becomes obscured.
In addition, it is a widespread custom among scribes to neglect the colla-
tion and checking of the correctness of the text of a manuscript. In view
of this situation, it often makes no difference whether a book on a certain
subject does exist or does not, and reading such a book makes nobody the
wiser with respect to the subject matter it deals with.21
This and similar complaints confirm the fact that Muslim civilization de-
pended on writing for the preservation and augmentation of its intellectual
heritage. This is a point that needs stressing inasmuch as the apparatus of Mus-
lim scholarship gives the impression that the oral transmission of information
was valued very highly. The religious sciences, in particular, emphasized the
necessity of receiving information viva voce and considered the process of oral
transmission an indispensable guarantee for the correctness of the informa-
tion received. The question whether instruction by a teacher or self-instruction
with the help of books made the better scholar was often discussed and usu-
ally decided in favor of the first alternative.22 However, writing was always
used, even in the disciplines that made a fetish of oral transmission and of
astonishing—and no doubt | true—feats of memorizing. In fact, insistence 61
upon the paraphernalia of oral transmission became for wide circles a mere
pretense. Muslim scholarship always placed reliance upon the written word,
and it was this very circumstance that made it great. It was recognized that
there existed some technical limitations to writing which made it less accurate
in certain respects than oral transmission, but these were outweighed by the
durability and definiteness of written fixation. Muslim civilization was domi-
nated by the written word as modern Western civilization was, and still is, by
its printed counterpart.
One of the special features of writing which we find discussed in Muslim lit-
erature as being of practical importance is the individual character of a person’s
handwriting. The possibility of identifying individuals by their handwriting was
of particular importance in legal matters. The question was raised whether a
handwritten will that was not witnessed by other witnesses was valid. Accord-
ing to Ibn Ḥanbal, it was, provided the handwriting was known and could be
identified as that of the testator. A later Ḥanbalite added the comment that def-
inite identification of the handwriting was a reliable source of knowledge as to
the intention of the testator:
21 1 M. Meyerhof, Vorwort zur Drogenkunde des Bērūnī, in Quellen und Studien zur Geschichte
der Naturwissenschaften und der Medizin, II, 3 (1932), 14.
22 2 Cf. the discussion between two physicians of the 11th century, published by J. Schacht and
M. Meyerhof, The Medico-Philosophical Controversy between Ibn Butlan of Baghdad and
Ihn Ridwan of Cairo, 83ff. (Cairo 1957, Publications of the Faculty of Arts of the Egyptian
University 13).
Handwriting indicates the spoken word, and the spoken word indicates a
person’s will and intention. The most that could be said against assuming
validity of a handwritten will is that similar handwritings may be con-
fused with each other. This would fall into the same category as the possi-
ble confusion of figures and voices. God put something into the handwrit-
ing of each individual by which his particular handwriting can be distin-
guished from the handwriting of any other individual, in the same way in
which the figures and voices of individuals can be distinguished. People
do not have the slightest hesitation to testify that this is the handwriting
of a particular individual … . There is much evidence, almost amount-
ing to absolute certainty, in favor of the acceptability of the testimony of
a blind person under suitable circumstances when he is able to identify
the voice of someone involved. The possibility of the confusion of voices,
if not greater than that of handwritings, is certainly not smaller … .23
In this and other respects, handwriting came into its own as part of legal
procedure, at least, according to the opinion of certain lawyers. Considering
the importance of the legal sphere in Islam, this gave it added status.24
62 Not only its individual character but also the innate meaning and | purpose
of writing gave it evidential character. According to the firmly held world view
of philosophers and jurists, writing occupies the third place in the scheme
of things. First, there are the ideas in the mind and the intellect. Then ideas
become expressible through the spoken word. Finally, the spoken word gains
permanence and ubiquity through writing. It could be argued that writing
was the least original of the three stages, an image (mithāl) of an image of
an image.25 However, it was natural to assume that all of these stages were
equally necessary for civilization. The last one, as the least natural one, was
then the final achievement in terms of human cultural endeavor and deserved
the highest praise.
Echoing a sentiment also often expressed in Muslim literature, Abraham
Lincoln once had occasion to observe that the invention of writing was “great,
very great in enabling us to converse with the dead, the absent, and the unborn,
at all distances of time and space.”26 In Islam, this great invention reached the
23 1 Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzīyah (d. 1350), aṭ-Ṭuruq al-ḥukmīyah, 206f.

24 2 For handwriting and the science of the principles of jurisprudence, cf., for instance,
as-Sarakhsī, Uṣūl, I, 357–359.
25 1 Schacht-Meyerhof, op. cit., 84.
26 2 Quoted from a review by D.C. Mearns of The Collected Works of Abraham Lincoln, ed. by
R.P. Basler, in New York Times Book Review, February 8, 1953, p. 5.
pinnacle of its effectiveness. In addition to its elementary uses, it was the greatly
refined and indispensable tool of culture in all its aspects. It was the highly
adaptable vehicle for the expression of artistic emotion. And it shared and
represented the sacredness of the central fact of Muslim existence, the religion
of Islam.
Postscript: This article was published in Ars Orientalis, IV (1961), 15–23. Again,
the style of citation had to be changed here, in order to conform to that
employed in the rest of this book.
If I had known about it, I would have referred to the article by A. Schimmel on
Schriftsymbolik im Islam from the Festschrift for E. Kühnel, cf. R. Ettinghausen
(ed.), Aus der Welt der islamischen Kunst, 244–254 (Berlin 1959). On the sub-
ject of human and divine writing, cf. al-Ghazzālī, al-Maʿārif al-ʿaqlīyah, 73ff.
(Damascus 1383/1963). The lām-alif symbolism deserves to be treated in much
greater detail. Cf., for instance, Ibn ʿArabī, Futūḥāt, I, 75ff., 177 (Cairo 1329). Ad-
Daylamī’s ʿAṭf al-alif has found its editor in J.C. Vadet (Cairo 1962).
Bibliography 100
The following list contains all the works that have been cited in the footnotes
without sufficiently complete bibliographical indications. An effort has, how-
ever, been made to list all text editions mentioned, and not only those cited
by short title. [The Bibliography contains works referred to also in the other
articles included in Rosenthal's Four Essays on Art and Literature in Islam, not
reprinted here. Because of the repeated references to them in the works in this
collection, however, they have been retained. Ed.]
ʿAbdallāh al-Baghdādī (ninth cent.), Kitāb al-Kuttāb, ed. D. Sourdel, in Bulletin d’Études
Orientales de l’Institut Français de Damas, XIV (1952–1954), 115–153.
ʿAbd-al-ʿAzīz al-Kinānī (ninth cent.), Kitāb al-Ḥaydah, ed. Kamīl Ṣalībā (Damascus
1384/1964).
ʿAbd-al-Qāhir al-Jurjānī (d. 471/1078, or 474), Asrār al-balāghah, ed. H. Ritter (Istanbul
1945), trans. H. Ritter, Die Geheimnisse der Wortkunst (Wiesbaden 1959).
Abū ʿAwānah (d. 310/922): Musnad (Hyderabad 1362–1363).
Abū l-Faraj ʿAbdallāh b. aṭ-Ṭayyib (d. 1043), Commentary on Galen, De sectis, Ms. Manisa,
General Library, 1772.
Abū Nuʿaym (d. 430/1038), Ḥilyah (Cairo 1351–1357, reprint Beirut 1387/1967).
Abū Sulaymān (tenth cent.), Ṣiwān: Abū Sulaymān al-Manṭiqī as-Sijistānī, Ṣiwān al-
ḥikmah, Ms. Istanbul, Murad Molla 1408. In II, the work is quoted following the Ms.
British Museum or. 9033. Also, if so indicated, Ms. Fatih 3222, containing the recen-
sion of as-Sāwī.
Abū Tammām (d. 231/845–846, or 232), Dīwān (Beirut, n. y.).
Aghānī: Abū l-Faraj al-Iṣfahānī (d. 356/967), Kitāb al-Aghānī (Būlāq 1285). Also if so
indicated, 3rd ed. (Cairo 1345ff.).
Aḥmad b. Abī Duʾād (d. 240/854), Risālah fī faḍl al-ʿilm (see p. 35, n. 8).
Alcalà, Pedro: Pedro Alcalà, Vocabulista arauigo en letra castellana and Arte para lig-
eramente saber la lengua arauiga (Salamanca 1505), cited after the edition of P. de
Lagarde (Göttingen 1883).
al-ʿAlmawī (d. 981/1573): al-Muʿīd fī adab al-mufīd wa-l-mustafīd (Damascus 1349). Cf.
also F. Rosenthal, The Technique and Approach of Muslim Scholarship, 8ff. (Rome
1947, Analecta Orientalia 24).
al-ʿĀmilī (d. 1030/1621), Mikhlāh (Cairo 1317).
Āmulī (fourteenth cent.): Nafāʾis al-funūn (Teheran[?] 1315–1317).
Antonius Melissa: cited according to the edition in Migne, Patrologia Graeca, Vol. 136.
Arabian Nights: ed. W.H. Macnaghten (Calcutta 1839–1842), trans. E. Littmann (Wies-
baden 1960).
Arnold, Bihzād: T.W. Arnold, Bihzād and his Paintings in the Ẓafar-nāmah Manuscript
(London 1930).
al-ʿAskarī, Awāʾil: Abū Hilāl al-ʿAskarī (d. after 400/1009), Kitāb al-Awāʾil, Ms. Paris ar.
5986.
al-ʿAskarī, Ḥathth: Abū Hilāl al-ʿAskarī, Kitāb al-Ḥathth ʿalā ṭalab al-ʿilm, Istanbul Ms.
Ashir Ef. 433.
al-ʿAskarī, Jamharah: Abū Hilāl al-ʿAskarī, Jamharat al-amthāl (Bombay 1304).
al-ʿAskarī, Maʿānī: Abū Hilāl al-ʿAskarī, Dīwān al-maʿānī (Cairo 1352).
al-ʿAskarī, Ṣināʿatayn: Abū Hilāl al-ʿAskarī, Kitāb aṣ-Ṣināʿatayn (Cairo 1320).
al-ʿAskarī, Talkhīṣ: Abū Hilāl al-ʿAskarī, at-Talkhīṣ fī maʿrifat asmāʾ al-ashyāʾ, ed. ʿIzzat
Ḥasan (Damascus 1389/1969ff.).
101 al-ʿAskarī, Taṣḥīf : Abū Aḥmad al-ʿAskarī (d. 382/993), Sharḥ mā yaqaʿ fīh at-taṣḥīf, ed.
ʿAbd-al-ʿAzīz Aḥmad (Cairo 1383/1963).
The Assyrian Dictionary: of the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago (Chicago
1956ff.).
al-ʿAynī: Badr-ad-dīn al-ʿAynī (d. 855/1451), Majmūʿ yashtamil ʿalā ḥikāyāt wa-ghayrihā,
Ms. Bursa, Hüseyin Çelebi 890.
al-Azdī: Muḥammad b. Aḥmad al-Azdī (tenth cent.), ed. A. Mez, Abulḳāsim, ein Bagdā-
der Sittenbild (Heidelberg 1902).
Bābā at-Tunbuktī (d. 1032/1624, or 1036): Nayl al-ibtihāj (Cairo 1351/1932, in the margin
of Ibn Farḥūn, Dībāj).
Badīʿ-az-zamān al-Hamadhānī (d. 398/1008), Maqāmāt: (Cairo 1381/1962), trans. W.J.
Prendergast (London 1915).
al-Badrī (d. 894/1489), Rāḥat al-arwāḥ, Ms. Paris ar. 3544.

al-Baghdādī (d. 1093/1682), Khizānat al-adab (Cairo 1347).
al-Bakrī, Simṭ: al-Bakrī (d. 487/1094), Simṭ al-laʾālī, ed. ʿAbd-al-ʿAzīz al-Maymanī (Cairo
1354/1936).
al-Balawī (d. 604/1207): Kitāb Alif bāʾ (Būlāq 1287).
Bar Hebraeus (d. 1286) (Arabic chronicle): Taʾrīkh mukhtaṣar ad-duwal, ed. A. Ṣālḥānī
(reprint Beirut 1958).
Bar Hebraeus, Chronicon: Bar Hebraeus, Chronicon Syriacum, ed. (P. Bedjan) (Paris
1890), trans. E.A.W. Budge (Oxford 1932).
al-Baṭalyawsī (d. 521/1127): al-Iqtiḍāb fī sharḥ Adab al-kuttāb (Beirut 1901).
al-Bayhaqī (early tenth cent.): Kitāb al-Maḥāsin wa-l-masāwī (Cairo 1325).
Bibliotheca Geographorum Arabicorum: Vol. IV (Leiden 1879).
Binyon-Wilkinson-Gray: L. Binyon, J.V.S. Wilkinson, and B. Gray, Persian Miniature
Painting (London 1933).
al-Bukhārī (d. 256/870), Ṣaḥīḥ: (Cairo 1328).
Bustān: Ms. Paris ar. 4811. Cf. G. Graf, Geschichte der christlichen arabischen Literatur, I,
338 (Città del Vaticano 1944, Studi e Testi 118).
Concordance: A.J. Wensinck and others, Concordance et Indices de la tradition musul-
mane (Leiden 1936–1969).
ad-Damīrī (d. 808/1405): Ḥayāt al-ḥayawān (Cairo 1311).
ad-Dārimī (d. 255/869): Musnad, cited according to the Istanbul ms. Reiselküttap 257.
Diogenes Laertius: cited according to book and chapter, cf. ed. trans. R.D. Hicks (Cam-
bridge-London 1940).
Ḍiyāʾ-ad-dīn Ibn al-Athīr (d. 637/1239), Rasāʾil: ed. A. al-Maqdisī (Beirut 1959).
Dozy, Supplément: R. Dozy, Supplément aux dictionnaires arabes (Leiden 1881, reprint
Leiden-Paris 1927). Where no further indication is given, the reference is to II,
653a.
Dozy, Vêt.: R.P.A. Dozy, Dictionnaire détaillé des noms des vêtements chez les Arabes,
414–418 (Amsterdam 1845).
EI: Encyclopaedia of Islam, cited following the English edition. The second ed. began to
appear in 1954 (Leiden 1960ff.).
Ettinghausen, Arab Painting: R. Ettinghausen, Arab Painting (Lausanne-Paris 1962).
Fihrist: Ibn an-Nadīm (late tenth cent.), Kitāb al-Fihrist (Cairo 1348).
Firdawsī (d. 411/1020) ed. J. Mohl, Le Livre des rois (Paris 1838–1878). Reference to Mohl’s
edition is followed in brackets by reference to the system of Wolff, Glossar, with the
number of the ruler’s reign in italics.
Ghars-an-niʿmah aṣ-Ṣābiʾ (eleventh cent.), Hafawāt, ed. Ṣāliḥ al-Ashtar (Damascus
1387/1967).
al-Ghazzālī (d. 505/1111), Ḥikmah: al-Ghazzālī, al-Ḥikmah fī makhlūqāt Allāh (Cairo
1321).
102 al-Ghazzālī, Iḥyāʾ: (Cairo 1334).

al-Ghazzālī, al-Maʿārif al-ʿaqlīyah (Damascus 1383/1963).
al-Ghazzī (d. 984/1577): Badr-ad-dīn Muḥammad b. Muḥammad, Ādāb al-muʾākalah,
ed. ʿU.M. Bāshā (Damascus 1387/1967).
Gnomologium Vaticanum: ed. L. Sternbach, in Wiener Studien, IX–XI (1887–1889), re-
printed Berlin 1963.
Goitein: S.D. Goitein, A Mediterranean Society, I (Berkeley and Los Angeles 1967).
Grabar, Sainte Face: A. Grabar, La Sainte Face de Laon (Prague 1931, Zographica 3).
Graf, Verzeichnis: G. Graf, Verzeichnis arabischer kirchlicher Termini (Louvain 1954,
Corpus Scriptorum Christianorum Orientalium, Subsidia 8).
Gray: B. Gray, Persian Painting (Oxford 1940).
Grohmann: A. Grohmann, Arabic Papyri in the Egyptian Library, VI, 125f. (Cairo 1962).
Ḥājjī Khalīfah (d. 1067/1657): Kashf aẓ-ẓunūn, ed. G. Flügel (Leipzig-London 1835–1858).
al-Ḥalabī (d. 779/1377): Nasīm aṣ-ṣabā (Beirut 1883).
Ḥamzah al-Iṣfahānī (tenth cent.), Tanbih, ed. M.Ḥ. Āl Yāsīn (Baghdād 1968).
Holter: (K. Holter,) Les principaux manuscrits de la Bibliothèque Nationale de Vienne, in
Bulletin de la Société française de reproduction de manuscrits à peintures, XX (Paris
1937).
Holter, Galen-Handschrift: K. Holter, Die Galen-Handschrift und die Maḳāmen des Ḥar-
īrī, in Jahrbuch der kunsthistorischen Sammlungen in Wien, N. F. XI (1937).
Ḥudūd al-ʿālam (written in 372/982–983): trans. V. Minorsky (London 1937, E.J.W. Gibb
Memorial Series, N. S. 11).
Ḥunayn (d. 873): Nawādir al-falāsifah, Ms. Munich, Aumer 651, trans. (Hebrew) A. Loe-
wenthal (Frankfurt a. M. 1896), trans. (German) A. Loewenthal (Berlin 1896). In II,
reference is to the German trans.
al-Ḥuṣrī (d. 413/1022): Zahr al-ādāb (Būlāq 1293, in the margin of ʿIqd). Also, if so
indicated, Cairo 1305.
Ibn ʿAbbād (d. 385/995), Rūznāmajah, ed. M.Ḥ. Āl Yāsīn (Baghdād 1966) (fragments).
Ibn ʿAbd-al-Barr (d. 463/1071): Bahjat al-majālis (Cairo 1907) (excerpts). Also, if so
indicated, Cairo, n.y. (1967ff.?).
Ibn ʿAbd-al-Ḥakam (d. 257/871): Futūḥ Miṣr, ed. C.C. Torrey (New Haven 1922, Yale
Oriental Series, Researches 3).
Ibn Abī ʿAwn (d. 322/934), Tashbīhāt, ed. M. ʿAbdul Muʿīd Khān (London 1950, E.J.W.
Gibb Memorial Series, N. S. 17).
Ibn Abī Dāwūd (d. 316/928), Maṣāḥif : ed. A. Jeffery, Materials for the History of the Text
of the Qurʾān (Leiden 1937).
Ibn Abī Shaybah (d. 235/849), Muṣannaf : see above, p. 83, n. 4.
Ibn Abī Uṣaybiʿah (d. 668/1270): ʿUyūn al-anbāʾ fī ṭabaqāt al-aṭibbāʾ, ed. A. Müller
(Cairo-Königsberg 1882–1884).
Ibn al-Aḥmar (d. 810/1407–1408): Mustawdaʿ al-ʿalāmah (Rabat 1384/1964).
Ibn ʿAqnīn (twelfth cent.), Ṭibb an-nufūs: trans. A.S. Halkin, in Proceedings of the Amer-
ican Academy for Jewish Research, XIV (1944), 25–147.
Ibn ʿArabī (d. 638/1240), Futūḥāt (Cairo 1329).
Ibn al-Athīr (d. 630/1233), Kāmil (Cairo 1301).
Ibn Bādīs (d. 453/1061), ʿUmdat al-kuttāb: see p. 23, n. 1, and p. 48.
Ibn Bassām: Nihāyat ar-rutbah, ed. Ḥ. as-Sāmarrāʾī (Baghdād 1968).
Ibn Baṭṭūṭah (fourteenth cent.): Riḥlah, ed. C. Defrémery and B.R. Sanguinetti (Paris
1853–1859), trans. H.A.R. Gibb (Cambridge 1958–1962, Hakluyt Society, Second Series,
110, 117).
Ibn al-Buḥturī (twelfth cent.), Uns: Ibn al-Buḥturī, Uns al-masjūn, Ms. British Museum 102
or. 1097 (add. 19,534).
Ibn ad-Dāyah (d. between 330–340/941–951), Mukāfaʾah: (Cairo 1332/1914). Also if so
Ibn Durayd (d. 321/933), Ishtiqāq: ed. F. Wüstenfeld, Ibn Doreid’s genealogisch-etymolo-
gisches Handbuch (Göttingen 1954).
Ibn Durayd: Mujtanā, trans. F. Rosenthal, in Orientalia, N. S. XXVII (1958), 29–54,
150–183.
Ibn Durustawayh (d. 347/958): Kitāb al-Kuttāb, ed. L. Cheikho (Beirut 1921). Also, if so
indicated, 2nd ed. (Beirut 1927).
Ibn al-Fuwaṭī (d. 723/1323): Talkhīṣ Majmaʿ al-ādāb fī muʿjam al-alqāb, ed. Muṣṭafā
Jawād (Damascus 1962–1967).
Ibn Ḥajar (d. 852/1449), Fatḥ: Ibn Ḥajar, Fatḥ al-bārī bi-sharḥ al-Bukhārī (Cairo 1378/
1959).
Ibn Ḥajar, Tahdhīb: (Hyderabad 1325–1327).
Ibn Ḥamdūn (d. 562/1166–1167): Tadhkirah, Part VII, Ms. Bodleian Library, Pocock 328.
Ibn Ḥawqal (tenth cent.): Kitāb Ṣūrat al-arḍ, ed. M.J. de Goeje (Leiden 1873, Biblio-
theca Geographorum Arabicorum 2) = ed. J.H. Kramers (Leiden 1938–1939), trans.
J.H. Kramers and G. Wiet (Paris 1964).
Ibn Ḥibbān (d. 354/965): Rawḍat al-ʿuqalāʾ (Cairo 1328).
Ibn Hindū (d. early eleventh cent.): al-Kalim ar-rūḥānīyah fī l-ḥikam al-yūnānīyah
(Cairo 1318/1900). Also, if so indicated, Ms. Istanbul, Aya Sofya 2452.
Ibn Hishām (d. 218/833), Sīrah: ed. F. Wüstenfeld (Göttingen 1858–1860).
Ibn Hubal (d. 610/1213): Mukhtārāt (Hyderabad 1362–1364).
Ibn Jamāʿah (d. 733/1333), Tadhkirah: Badr-ad-dīn Muḥammad b. Ibrāhīm Ibn Jamāʿah,
Tadhkirat as-sāmiʿ wa-l-mutakallim fī adab al-ʿālim wa-l-mutaʿallim (Hyderabad
1353).
Ibn Jamāʿah (d. 767/1366), Uns: ʿAbd-al-ʿAzīz b. Muḥammad b. Ibrāhīm Ibn Jamāʿah, Uns
al-muḥāḍarah bi-mā yustaḥsan fī l-mudhākarah, Ms. Manisa, General Library, 5286.
Ibn al-Jawzī (d. 597/1200), Dhamm al-hawā: ed. Muṣṭafā ʿAbd-al-Wāḥid and M. al-
Ghazzālī (Cairo 1381/1962).
Ibn al-Jawzī, Manāqib: Ibn al-Jawzī, Manāqib al-Imām Aḥmad b. Ḥanbal (Cairo 1349).
Ibn al-Jawzī, Mudhish: (Baghdād 1348).
Ibn Juljul (tenth cent.): Ṭabaqāt al-aṭibbāʾ, ed. Fuʾād Sayyid (Cairo 1955).
Ibn Kathīr (d. 774/1373): al-Bidāyah wa-n-nihāyah (Cairo 1351ff.).
Ibn Khaldūn (d. 808/1406), Muqaddimah: trans. F. Rosenthal (New York 1958, Bollingen
Series 43).
Ibn Khallikān (d. 681/1282): Wafayāt al-aʿyān, ed. F. Wüstenfeld (Göttingen 1835–1842),
trans. McG. de Slane (Paris 1843–1871).
Ibn al-Khaṭīb (d. 776/1375), Nufāḍat al-jirāb, ed. A.M. al-ʿAbbādī (Cairo, n.y. [1968?]).
Ibn al-Mudabbir (ninth cent.): ar-Risālah al-ʿadhrāʾ, ed. Zakī Mubārak, Étude critique
sur la lettre vierge d’Ibn al-Mudabber (Paris 1931).
Ibn al-Muʿtazz (d. 296/908), Ādāb: ed. I.Y. Krachkovsky, Izbrannʾe sochineniya, VI, 40–88
(Moscow-Leningrad 1960).
Ibn al-Muʿtazz, Dīwān: ed. B. Lewin, Vol. III (Istanbul 1950, Bibliotheca Islamica 17c).
Ibn Nubātah (d. 768/1366): Sarḥ al-ʿuyūn (Cairo 1305, in the margin of aṣ-Ṣafadī, al-
Ghayth al-musajjam).
Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzīyah (d. 751/1350), aṭ-Ṭuruq al-ḥukmīyah: (Cairo 1372/1953).
Ibn Qutaybah (d. 276/889, or 270), Adab al-kātib: ed. M. Grünert (Leiden 1901).
104 Ibn Qutaybah, Maʿārif : ed. F. Wüstenfeld (Göttingen 1850).
Ibn Qutaybah, ʿUyūn: (Cairo 1925–1930).
Ibn Saḥnūn (d. 256/870): Muḥammad b. Saḥnūn, Ādāb al-muʿallimīn, ed. A.F. al-Ah-
wānī, at-Tarbiyah fī l-Islām, 2nd ed. (Cairo 1955), trans. G. Lecomte, in Revue des
Études Islamiques, XXI (1953).
Ibn aṣ-Ṣalāḥ (d. 643/1245), Muqaddimah: ed. M. Rāghib aṭ-Ṭabbākh (Aleppo 1931).
Ibn aṭ-Ṭiqṭaqā (wrote in 701/1302): al-Fakhrī, ed. H. Derenbourg (Paris 1895).
al-Ibshīhī (fifteenth cent.): al-Mustaṭraf (Būlāq 1268).
Ikhtiyār-ad-dīn (ca. 900/1494): Asās al-iqtibās (Constantinople 1298).
al-ʿImād al-Iṣfahānī (d. 597/1201), Kharīdat al-qaṣr (Syrian poets) (Damascus 1375/1955).
Imruʾul-Qays (sixth cent.), Dīwān: ed. M. Abū l-Faḍl Ibrāhīm (Cairo 1958).
ʿIqd: Ibn ʿAbd-Rabbih (d. 328/940), ʿIqd (Cairo 1316). Also, if so indicated, Cairo 1305.
al-Jāḥiẓ (d. 255/868–869), Bayān: (Cairo 1345).
al-Jāḥiẓ, Bukhalāʾ: trans. C. Pellat, Le Livre des avares (Beirut-Paris 1951).
al-Jāḥiẓ, Ḥayawān: (Cairo 1323–1325).
al-Jāḥiẓ, Madḥ al-kutub: cf. A. Rufai, Über die Bibliophilie im älteren Islam (Istanbul 1935,
Diss. Berlin).
al-Jāḥiẓ, Tāj: ed. Aḥmad Zakī (Cairo 1322/1914, reprint ca. 1967), trans. C. Pellat, Le Livre
de la Couronne (Paris 1954).
(Pseudo-) Jāḥiẓ: ad-Dalāʾil wa-l-iʿtibār (Aleppo 1346).
al-Jahshiyārī (d. 331/942): Kitāb al-Wuzarāʾ, ed. H. von Mžik (Leipzig 1926, Bibliothek
arabischer Historiker und Geographen 1). Also Cairo 1357/1938.
al-Jawālīqī (d. 539/1144): al-Muʿarrab, ed. E. Sachau (Leipzig 1867).

al-Jazarī (early thirteenth cent.): Ḥiyal (see above, p. 82, n. 3).
de Jerphanion, Miniatures: G. de Jerphanion, Les Miniatures du manuscrit syriaque 559
de la Bibliothèque Vaticane (Città del Vaticano 1940).
[al-Jurjānī, Wasāṭah: ʿAlī b. ʿAbd-al-ʿAzīz al-Jurjānī (d. 392/1002), al-Wasāṭah bayn al-
Mutanabbī wa-khuṣūmih (Ṣaydāʾ 1331).]
al-Khafājī (d. 1069/1659): Ṭirāz (Cairo 1284).
al-Khālidīyān, Tuḥaf : Muḥammad b. Hāshim al-Khālidī and Saʿīd b. Hāshim al-Khālidī
(tenth cent.), Kitāb at-Tuḥaf wa-l-hadāyā, ed. Sāmī ad-Dahhān (Cairo 1956).
Kindermann: H. Kindermann, Über die guten Sitten beim Essen und Trinken (Leiden
1964).
al-Kindī, Dafʿ al-aḥzān: Yaʿqūb b. Isḥāq al-Kindī (d. after 256/870), Risālah fī l-ḥīlah
li-dafʿ al-aḥzān, ed. trans. R. Walzer and H. Ritter, Uno scritto morale inedito di
al-Kindī, in Memorie, R. Accad. Naz. dei Lincei, Cl. di seiende mor., stor. e filol., Serie
VI, VIII, I (Rome 1938).
Kühnel, Miniaturmalerei: E. Kühnel, Miniaturmalerei im islamischen Orient (Berlin
1925).
al-Kutubī (d. 764/1363): Fawāt (Cairo 1951–1953).
al-Lakhmī (ca. 700/1300): Wāsiṭat al-ādāb, Ms. Paris ar. 6493, Vol. I.
Land, Anecdota Syriaca: J.P.N. Land, Anecdota Syriaca (Leiden 1862–1875).
Lane: E.W. Lane, Arabic-English Dictionary (London-Edinburgh 1863ff.).
Leroy: J. Leroy, Les Manuscrits syriaques à peintures (Paris 1964, Bibliothèque archéolo-
gique et historique 77).
Levy: J. Levy, Neuhebräisches und chaldäisches Wörterbuch (Leipzig 1876–1889).
Lisān al-ʿArab: Ibn Manẓūr (d. 711/1311–1312), Lisān al-ʿArab (Būlāq 1300–1308).
Löfgren-Lamm: O. Löfgren and C.J. Lamm, Ambrosian Fragments of an Illuminated
Manuscript containing the Zoology of al-Ǧāḥiẓ (Uppsala-Leipzig 1946, Uppsala Uni-
versitets Årsskrift 1946:5)
MacKinney: L. MacKinney, Medical Illustrations in Medieval Manuscripts (London 105
1965).
Mannebach, Fragmenta: E. Mannebach, Aristippi et Cyrenaicorum fragmenta (Leiden
1961).
al-Maqqarī (d. 1041/1631), Analectes: ed. R. Dozy and others (Leiden 1855–1861).
al-Maqqarī, Azhār ar-riyāḍ: (Cairo 1358–1361).
al-Maqrīzī (d. 845/1442): Khiṭaṭ (Būlāq 1270).
Martin: F.R. Martin, The Miniature Painting and Painters of Persia, India, and Turkey
(London 1912).
al-Marzubānī (d. 384/994), Nūr: al-qabas, ed. R. Sellheim (Wiesbaden 1964, Bibliotheca
Islamica 23a).
al-Māwardī (d. 450/1058): Adab ad-dunyā wa-d-dīn (Cairo 1900). Also, if so indicated,
Cairo 1315. Trans. O. Rescher, Das kitāb “adab ed-dunjā wa ʾddin” des … Māwerdī
(Stuttgart 1932–1933).
Maximus Confessor: cited according to the edition in Migne, Patrologia Graeca, Vol. 91.
al-Maydānī (d. 518/1124): Majmaʿ al-amthāl, ed. G.W. Freytag, Arabum Proverbia (Bonn
1839–1843).
Mez, Renaissance: A. Mez, Die Renaissance des Islāms (Heidelberg 1922).
Michael Syrus (d. 1199), Chronique: ed. J.-B. Chabot (Paris 1899–1910).
Miskawayh (d. 421/1030), Jāwīdhān Khiradh: ed. ʿAbd-ar-Raḥmān Badawī (Cairo 1952).
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viii.16
33 “Of Making Many Books There Is No End:”

The Classical Muslim View
In our time, we seem to have reached the point where we may well ask ourselves
whether the incessant production of books might not be too much of a good
thing. The more books we throw away (actually or figuratively), the more there
are to take their place. It is no longer unjustified to hope against hope that book
production could be limited, even if, on the face of it, it clearly involves an uphill
battle comparable to the limitation of population growth. Of course, those in
the book business, whether out in front or in the rear echelons, do not welcome
the prospect of reduced production and consider the idea as anything from
eccentric to scurrilous to outright dangerous.
Books have been valuable and cherished possessions all through history.
For the first time, their devaluation as material objects could possibly have
occurred in medieval Islam, what with the introduction of a rather cheap, yet
durable, writing material and the feverish and almost global activity in science
and scholarship.1 This could conceivably have happened, but it did not. Before
the Muslim era, no realistic opportunity existed for the feeling to arise that just
too many books might be around. The famous verse of Ecclesiastes 12:12: “Of
making many books there is no end, and much study is a weariness of flesh,” at
the most expresses a tentative apprehension as to theoretically uncontrollable
quantities of books, and so do other putative complaints about the vastness
of existing knowledge.2 The biblical verse presents many difficulties for the
1 A good brief survey of contemporary scholarship on all aspects of bookmaking is by G.

Endress, in Grundriss der arabischen Philologie, ed. by Wolfdietrich Fischer (Wiesbaden, 1983),
1:271 ff.
2 While I was working on this paper, the Book Review section of the New York Times of 20
March 1989 published an essay by Arthur Krystal, “On Writing: Let There Be Less,” dealing
interestingly with our subject as reflected through the ages. Krystal mentions the Ancient
Egyptian statement of Khakheperre-sonbe, which reads in the translation of W.K. Simpson:
“He said: Would that I had unknown speeches, erudite phrases in new language which has
not yet been used, free from the usual repetitions, not the phrases of past speech which
(our) forefathers spoke.” See W.K. Simpson (ed.), The Literature of Ancient Egypt (New Haven
and London, 1972, 1973), pp. 230–233. This should not be understood as a complaint about

“of making many books there is no end” 1067
understanding and lends itself to various interpretations. To the best of my—

admittedly very limited—knowledge, no unanimity has as yet been reached as
to what it really meant in its historical context. Whatever it did mean originally,
it does not contain evidence that already in ancient times, people complained
about too many books as physical objects being around. There were not, and
could not have been.
The fact that Eccl. 12:12 is widely considered a later addition poses a further
problem,3 but this is a minor matter. Among the principal difficulties is, for | 34
one, the great variety of meanings of the Hebrew verb “to make” and, in the
second colon, the meaning of the hapax legomenon lahag. Recent translations
include a conservative “book learning” for “to make = to use,”4 or “a thing of no
purpose” for “no end,”5 as well as more radical suggestions such as assuming
that lahag is in fact parallel to “no end”6 or re-interpreting the entire passage as
“Und lass dich, mein Sohn, von ihnen gut belehren, viele Bücher ohne Unterlass
zu benutzen und viel zu meditieren bis zur Körpermüdigkeit.”7 The question
of the applicability of “to make” to “books” appears to have been settled by the
existence of an equivalent idiom in Aramaic meaning “producing … a docu-
ment (spr znh zy ʼnh ‘bdt)” and the Akkadian usage of ennešu as a stage in the
bookmaking process.8 The possibility that “making” here might mean “collect-
ing” (with reference to Eccl. 2:8 “I got me singers”)9 must be put on hold for the
time being, although it would go well with the Arabic idiom of ikthār min al-
kutub for collecting many books.10 However, the production or overproduction
the existence of too much literature. Rather, it is an expression of the author’s desire to
be original. Expectedly, the modern plea for fewer books elicited heated responses among
the essay’s readers, as shown by letters to the Book Review of 30 April 1989, p. 5.
3 An exception is Michael V. Fox, Qohelet and his Contradictions (Sheffield, 1989. Bible and
Literature Series 18), p. 311. I am grateful to Robert R. Wilson for bibliographical guidance
through the vast ocean of biblical studies.
4 Cf. R.B.Y. Scott’s commentary on Ecclesiastes in the Anchor Bible (Garden City, NY, 1963).
5 Fox, op. cit., 237.
6 According to M. Dahood, cf. H.L. Ginsberg, Koheleth (Tel Aviv 1961), p. 139.
7 Osweld Loretz, Qohelet und der Alte Orient (Freiburg-Basel-Wien, 1964), p. 139.
8 Cf. Ginsberg, loc. cit.; Michael Fishbane, Biblical Interpretation in Ancient Israel (Oxford,
1985), pp. 30–32; Fox, op. cit., p. 328 f.
9 The presence of a possessive pronoun, which strengthens the meaning of collecting,
would hardly be needed or fit into the syntax of Eccles. 12:12.
10 It seems as yet undecided whether harbeh (= Aram. Saggi) is used here as an adjective or
as an adverb (cf. J. Goldin, “The end of Ecclesiastes,” in A. Altmann, ed., Biblical Motifs
[Cambridge, 1966], pp. 135–158.) The adverbial combination, lit., “the much making of
of books would seem to be connected in Eccl. 12:12 to the physical process of

writing rather than the intellectual task of composing works.
Lahag, translated traditionally as “study” reflecting the Greek translation
and a combination with Arabic lahija “to be deeply engaged in something”
(preferably, in study)11 remains uncertain. The derivation from the root hāgāh
(or a Ugaritic hg)12 cannot be dismissed offhand but leaves room for doubt.
Rabbinical associations of lahag with l- ̐-g and h-g-wy are as much guesswork
as modern theories. It should, however, be noted that both l- ̐-g and h-g-wy are
based upon the uttering of sounds, such as stammering or scoffing. The Targum
speaks of “(making) books of wisdom” as parallel to “(the occupation with and
understanding of) the words of the Torah.”13 More to the point, the Syriac trans-
lation has man(l)la which is most readily understood as “speech.” Following this
lead, a Syriac commentary of Ecclesiastes used “words (melle).”14 And Arabic
knows a noun lahjah in the meaning of “tongue, speech, dialect,” whose history,
however, is not quite clear.15 It is thus possible that lahag, whatever its deriva-
tion, refers to some sort of oral expression. This was suspected also by M.V. Fox
who states that “either ‘study’ or ‘utter’ would make sense here, because study
in the ancient world was essentially oral recitation.”16 Taking it all together, we
may conclude that Eccl. 12:12 indeed referred originally to the combination of
two modes of study, the reading and reproduction of written materials and oral
discussion. Whatever mode was used committed, in the eyes of the author, the
student to an endless and painful task.
books,” appears preferable. In Semitic languages there is no easy distinction between

“much” and “too much.” Thus, harbeh in Eccles. 7:16 is translated by Ginsberg “don’t
overdo,” cf. his The Five Megilloth (Philadelphia, 1969), p. 68.
11 Cf. for instance Muḥammad ibn al-Raḥmān al-Sakhāwī, al-Ḍawʾ al-lāmiʿ li-ahl al-Qarn
al-Tāsiʿ, 12 vols. (Cairo, 1353–1355/1934–1936), 9:259, “lahija bi-ṭalab al-ḥadīth wa-al-qirāʾah.”
12 See above, n. 6, and M. Dahood, “Canaanite-Phoenician influence in Qoheleth,” in Biblica
33 (1952), p. 219.
13 According to the publication of A. Sperber, The Bible in Aramaic, 4 vols. in 5, (Leiden. 1968),
5:167.
14 Cf. W. Strothmann (ed.), Kohelet-Kommentar des Johannes von Apamea (Wiesbaden, 1988.
Göttinger Orientforschungen, I Reihe: Syriaca, Band 30), p. 182. It is, however, not surpris-
ing to find huggaya “meditation” as a translation of lahag, cf. W. Strothmann, Kohelet-
Kommentar des Dionvsius bār Ṣalībī (Wiesbaden, 1988, Band 31).
15 I am greatly obligated to M. Ullmann for communicating to me his Wörterbuch entries for
lahjah. They seem to leave doubts in his mind as to the relationship between the root l-h-j
and lahjah.
16 Fox, op. cit., p. 328.
It may be worth noting that Eccl. 12:12 seems to be more famous now than it
was in premodern times. Generally speaking, the verse was not much discussed
and, again speaking generally, it was not frequently cited. From the medieval
Muslim environment, we have a comment by the tenth-century Karaite Salmon
ibn Yeruham, paraphrased by G. Vajda: “Et garde-toi encore des livres innom-
brables qui ont été faits.” Man must not attempt to become too wise. | Nobody 35
should make the rounds of cities and markets to search for philosophical and
heretical works.17 Reflecting further the attitude of certain segments of Mus-
lim scholarship, Abū al-Barakāt al-Baghdādī (d. ca. 547/1166) interprets Eccl.
12:12 as a warning against wasting time on books that are an outgrowth of the
human imagination, whose study could take up more than a human lifetime.
Abū al-Barakāt translates lahag as hadhayān “talking nonsense.”18
It was too much knowledge, not too many books, that was complained about
in ancient times and continued to be complained about through medieval
Islam. Knowledge, especially in certain fields, could not be mastered in its
entirety; of books there were, in a way, never enough. In the course of time,
we often hear it said that works in a given discipline were “many.” For exam-
ple, Ibn Khallikān (d. 682/1282) said that he did not intend to include caliphs
among his biographees, because “the many works on them are sufficient.”19
Works on history were so many that they obviously could not all be listed.20
And, in particular, anything connected with ḥadīth and other religious sub-
jects produced an enormous literature.21 When an eighth/fourteenth-century
scholar wrote a commentary of al-Bukhārī’s Ṣaḥīh, he was able to draw on
300 earlier commentaries;22 for him, this was a boast rather than a complaint.
17 Cf. G. Vajda, Deux Commentaires Karaïtes sur I’ Ecclesiaste (Leiden, 1971), pp. 61, 75.
18 Abū al-Barakāt Hibat Allah al-Baghdādī, al-Muʿtabar, 3 vols. (Hyderabad, 1357–1358/1938–
1939), 2:347, line 12 ff. I owe this reference to Moshe Perlmann.
In the following generation, Moses Maimonides interpreted the Mishnaic expression
“heretical books (sefarim hitsonim)” as including books on history and adab which con-
stitute a waste of time, cf. his commentary on the Mishna Sanhedrin, X, 1, ed. J. Qafih
(Jerusalem, 1934), p. 210.
19 Ibn Khallikān, Wafayāt al-aʿyān, 8 vols., ed. Iḥsān ʿAbbās (Beirut, 1968–1972), 1:20.
20 Cf. al-Ījī and al-Sakhāwī as quoted in F. Rosenthal, A History of Muslim Historiography2
(Leiden. 1968), pp. 242 ff., 388.
21 Cf. Murtaḍā al-Zabīdī, Itḥāf al-Sādah, 10 vols. (Cairo, 1311/1893). Reprinted in Beirut, 1:273,
line 14 ff.
22 Cf. al-Sakhāwī; Ḍawʾ, 10:21. The number 300 appears again in connection with al-Khiraqī’s
Mukhtaṣar. See The Encyclopedia of Islam, 2nd ed. (EI2), s.v. Ḥanābila, 3:159, col. 1, line 30
and again s.v. al-Khiraḳī (H. Laoust), 5:10, col. 1, line 23, but, of course, other figures
This superabundance of specialized works also led to an unwholesome restric-

tion to standard works.23
Despair in the face of an overwhelming amount of existing knowledge was
the almost universal complaint and the situation most generally referred to.
The physical problem of the multitude of books was much less obvious. There
were many reasons for this state of affairs. In the first place, it has to do with the
character of our sources. They were the work of authors who naturally would
not wish to play down the desirability of making more books—preferably, of
course, their own. Like ourselves, they would rarely be willing to admit that
anything of theirs could be superfluous, let alone harmful. In their forewords,
the one thing they generally avoided was referring to an existing glut of other
works on the subject.24 A second, more objective reason was the frequent lack
of books in a given environment and the constant need to replenish the stock.
In an area as vast and diversified as the Muslim world, imbalances in the supply
of books were unavoidable. Books that were plentiful in one place were hardly
known and accessible in another.25 Since books were expensive, scholars, with
rare exceptions, had to build up their libraries by copying materials with their
own hands; this was so not only at the beginning of their careers, but usually
continued throughout their lives. Not many were so fortunate as to be able to
buy (or inherit) books or have others do the copying for them as a favor or
inexpensively, and it was probably quite unique for a scholar to have a wife
whom he could train in proper copying.26
A third reason is peculiar to Muslim civilization and of great import for the
36 attitude toward books. It resulted from the never abandoned fiction—very |
soon to be enshrined in the very center of Muslim intellectual activity, the
science of ḥadīth—of the primacy of the spoken word. Books were seen as
innovations that came about only after the year 120/738 when the true mod-
els of scholarship, the men around Muḥammad and most men of the second
appear as well. In all cases, it can be assumed to have been a boast about the large number
of sources consudted.
23 Cf. Ibn Khaldūn, Muqaddimah, tr. by F. Rosenthal, 3 vols. (New York, 1958; Princeton, 1967),
2:455. See below, p. 43.
24 See the most useful dissertation by Peter Freimark on Das Vorwort als literarische Form
in der arabischen Literatur (Münster, 1967). Writing on Latin Prose Prefaces (Stockholm,
1964, Acta Universitatis Stockholmianiae, Studia Latina Stockholmiana 13), Toe Janson
apparently found nothing in his material on the overwhelming amount of available books
on a given subject, nor did Freimark in Arabic.
25 Murtaḍā al-Zabīdī, Itḥāf, 1:274, line 12 f.
26 Al-Sakhāwī, Ḍawʾ, 2:180, line 4 from bottom.
generation, were dead,27 and so on. In fact, of course, written books were indis-
pensable almost from the outset, as was admitted in various ways, for instance,
by claiming that memory had been good enough among the ancient Arabs to
suffice for preserving and safely transmitting all knowledge; among later gen-
erations, this was no longer the case.28 It became a matter of pride to own,
or, at least, have access to, as many books as possible. Yet the deep conviction
lingered that there was, in addition, something else that was essential for civ-
ilization, no matter how many, or how few, books were around. As a result,
their numbers were basically inconsequential. Yet even in this climate, sub-
dued feelings not only about the very existence of books but also about their
numbers can be observed on occasion. Religious scholars would complain that
once knowledge was committed to writing, there developed an unending pro-
cess of writing “book after book after book,”29 the implication being that oral
transmission was more restricted and thus less contaminated and more reliable
than the endless array of written material. Even for secular scholars, the great
increase in books (al-kutub wa-al-taṣānīf ) made it possible for ignoramuses to
infiltrate the ranks of qualified intellectuals, and actually diminish the quality
of books.30 In a way, this can be read as another faint complaint about the pro-
liferation of literature.
There were other ways in which feelings of this sort tried sporadically to work
their way to the surface. This is the subject of the following pages.
The formation of large libraries which was eagerly pursued inevitably led
to problems caused by quantity and variety. Selectivity in forming a library, be
it that of a private individual or one of semi-public character, was indicated.31
It was an occasional problem then and, needless to say, has remained one to
this day. Not discarding any book was considered the better part of wisdom,
even if it was a book on a subject beyond the owner’s interest and compe-
tence. The brief chapter on “the amassing of books (al-ikthār min al-kutub)”
in the Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī’s (d. 464/1071) Taqyīd al-ʿilm “The written fixation of
knowledge” contains the essence of medieval thought on the importance of
each single book for the educated. As the title suggests, the Taqyīd ultimately
comes out in favor of the written word but balances and, in a way, conceals
27 Al-Ghazzālī, Iḥyāʾ ʿulūm al-dīn, 4 vols. in 2 (Cairo, 1372/1953), 1:70, line 4ff., from Abū Ṭālib
al-Makkī, Qūt al-qulūb, 2 vols. (Cairo, 1310/1892), 1:159; 4 vols. in 2 (Cairo, 1351/1932), 2:37.
28 See, for instance, Ibn ʿAbd al-Barr, Jāmiʿ bayān al-ʿilm, 2 vols., (Cairo, n.d.), 1:69 f.
29 Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzīyah, al-Ṭuruq al-ḥukmīyah (Cairo, 1372/1953), p. 277.
30 Abū al-Barakāt Hibat Allah al-Baghdādī, al-Muʿtabar fī al-ḥikmah, 3 vols., (Hyderabad,
1938–1939), 1:3.
31 See below p. 38–39 [p. 1076 below. Ed.].
the message by first presenting a full array of negative attitudes toward books.
The chapter in question deals with three considerations that work against sell-
ing any of the books in one’s library or not buying books one has the oppor-
tunity of buying. Anecdotal as it is, it is best reported in the Khaṭīb’s own
words.32
The first of the three considerations is that a book deemed disposable may
later on turn out to be badly needed: “As remarked by some scholar, a person
must hoard all kinds of subjects, even subjects he does not know. He must
37 amass | works on very many subjects. He must not believe that he can dispense
with any subject. If he can dispense with some books on one occasion, he may
need them on another. If he is unhappy with them at one time, he may enjoy
them at another. If he has no time for them on a given day, he may have time for
them on another day. He must not act in a hurry (to sell a book or pass up the
opportunity to buy one), lest he later regret very much to have done so. It could
happen that someone discards a book and then wants it badly but cannot get
hold of it. This may cause him great trouble and many sleepless nights. We have
a story about a certain scholar who said: ‘Once I sold a book thinking that I did
not need it. Then I thought of some matter that was dealt with in that book. I
looked for it among all my books but could not find it. I decided to ask some
scholar about it the next morning, and I stayed up on my feet all night.’ When
he was asked why he did not sit down rather than stand, he replied: ‘I was so
perturbed that I could not get a wink of sleep.’”
This scholar only lost a night’s sleep and apparently was able to find a
replacement in a colleague’s library. But it could also be terribly frustrating and
expensive to sell or discard a book, as described by the Khaṭīb in the following
two stories: “Someone sold a book thinking that he did not need it. Then he
needed and looked for a copy but could not find any either to loan or to buy.
The man to whom he had sold his copy had left for his place of residence. He
went to him and told him that he would like to cancel the sale and return the
purchase price. When the man refused, he asked him to lend him the book,
so that he could copy the passage he was interested in. Again, he received a
negative response, so he went home frustrated and swore that he would never
again sell a book. There was someone else who sold a book which he thought he
did not need, but later he did need a passage from it. He went to the new owner
and asked him to let him copy the passage in question but was told: ‘You won’t
copy it unless you pay me the price of the entire book.’ So he had no choice
32 al-Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī, Taqyīd al-ʿilm, ed. Youssef Eche (Yūsuf al-ʿIshsh) (Damascus, 1949,
reprint 1975), pp. 136–138.
but to return the price of the book, in order to copy the passage he wanted.”33
The words of someone who was asked why he did not sell the books he did not
need sums it all up: “If I do not need them today, I may need them the next
day.”
The second consideration is that books in fields with which their owner is
unfamiliar at the moment may give him the opportunity to familiarize himself
with that field. Of course, any field of scholarship has its special interest: “When
someone bought a book outside his own special field and asked why he did that,
he replied: ‘When I buy a book outside my own field of learning, I do it in order
to make that particular field part of my knowledge.’ And when someone else
was asked why he did not buy books to have them in his house, he replied that it
was his lack of knowledge that prevented him from building up a library. He was
told that one who does not know buys books in order to know. Again, someone
else who used to buy every book he saw replied to | the question why he bought 38
books he did not need: ‘I may need (at some time) what I don’t need (now).’”34
We may add here that the Khaṭīb’s chapter ends with an anecdote about the
great bibliophile al-Jāḥiẓ (d. 255/868) to the same effect, with the stress on the
idea that all written materials should be investigated as to whether they contain
information not found elsewhere. Nothing should ever be dismissed offhand.35
The third consideration concerns books as a scholar’s indispensable tools.
He should therefore have them handy at all times: “A judge,” the story goes,
“used to go into debt to buy books. Questioned about it he replied: ‘Should I not
buy something that has taken me so far (in the world, i.e., to a judgeship)?’”36
Further in the same vein: “A carpenter had to sell his ax and saw. He was sad
about it and regretted having sold his tools, until one day he saw a scholar, a
33 Some trickery might be used by a rare book dealer, in order to raise the fee for lending a
book to what the price of the entire book should have been, cf. al-Sakhāwī, Ḍawʾ, 9:148. The
owners of lending libraries as a rule would seem to have been honest and often generous.
34 Here follow verses attributed to al-Sārī ibn Aḥmad al-Kindī, i.e., al-Sārī al-Raffāʾ. They are
not included in the 1355/1936 and 1981 editions of his dīwān. They deal with the widespread
topos of the lasting value of all knowledge and have little to do directly with the subject of
books.
35 Cf. also, for instance, Ibn Ḥazm, Marātib al-ʿulūm, in Anwar Chejne, Ibn Hazm (Chicago,
1982), text, 234, trans., p. 202f. Ibn Ḥazm also called it an error to decry the amassing of
books.
36 Al-Jāḥiẓ already discussed at length the “pleasure” of spending money on books, if it was
done for the sake of scholarship and not for purposes of religious ostentation as, he claims,
was done by the Manichaeans. Cf. Kitāb al-Ḥayawān, 7 vols., ed. ʿAbd al-Salām M. Hārūn
(Cairo, 1938–1945), 1:56. See also Ibn Ḥazm, loc. cit.
neighbor of his, in the booksellers’ market selling a book. Now he was consoled.
He remarked: ‘If a scholar can sell his tools, a craftsman is certainly excusable,
or even more so, when he sells his.’”
We may conclude from this discourse in praise of books—which is one
among many—that books were often so plentiful that one could think of
discarding some, but this was generally considered wrong and something one
was not supposed to do. There was, however, a dissenting voice if a rather lonely
one according to our knowledge. The well-known physician and scientist in
eleventh-century Egypt, Ibn Riḍwān, tells us that he either sold the books for
which he had no use or stored them away in chests. Selling them, he contends,
was preferable to storing them.37 It is not quite clear whether he meant that
it was better to put unneeded books back into circulation rather than keeping
them out of sight. It is, however, more likely given, Ibn Riḍwān’s great concern
with his finances, that he was unwilling to pass up an opportunity to make some
more money. He was well known as the champion of the hotly debated view
that learning from books was better than by means of oral instruction. It does
not seem that he was complaining about owning too many books, or more than
he was able to cope with, although this could have easily been the case.
Large semi-public libraries faced a bigger problem as to what to do with
their holdings when they grew too large. Books being valuable, the most com-
mon danger for libraries, not the least the libraries of which every college
had one with a scholarly librarian, was frequent inroads into their holdings
by neglect and theft (the always present danger of accidental destruction by
fire or water damage does not concern us here). When large libraries were
dissolved, it proved a bonanza for scholars who could acquire or appropri-
ate books cheap or sell worthless or made to appear worthless, library books
for their own benefit.38 The failure to return books borrowed from libraries
37 Cf. J. Schacht and M. Meyerhof, The Medico-Philosophical Controversy between Ibn But-
lan of Baghdad and Ibn Ridwan of Cairo, Arabic text 5 (Cairo, 1937), p. 38, from Ibn Abī
Uṣaybiʿah; F. Rosenthal, “Die arabische Autobiographie,” Studia Arabica I (Rome, 1937,
Analecta Orientalia 14), p. 22, from the manuscript of Ibn Riḍwān’s autobiography. The
eighteenth-century Murtaḍá al-Zabīdī, Itḥāf, 1:66, lines 15–67, line 11, still found the pas-
sage interesting enough to quote it.
38 Cf. Youssef Eche, Les Bibliothèques arabes (Damascus, 1967), p. 250. Selling books “by
the lot (bi-al-ʿadad)” from a bookseller’s estate might have been necessitated by their
large numbers but, above all, indicated general ignorance and a lack of discrimination by
potential buyers, cf. al-Sakhāwī, Ḍawʾ, 3:150, line 6. An ignorant (mutakhallif ?) son of Ibn
Yūnus would sell the books and works of his father left to him “by the pound (bi-al-arṭāl),”
cf. Al-Ṣafadī, Wāfī (Stuttgart, 1988. Bibliotheca Islamica 6u) 21:226, line 8.
or individuals was often bemoaned in verse and prose. It was thus probably
much more difficult to hold together large libraries than trying to weed out
unwanted materials. However, we also hear about an author’s hesitancy as to
whether | his works would be accepted for incorporation into a large library.39 39
Selectivity was always practiced by collectors and was required in forming a
waqf library.40
The deliberate destruction by fire or other means such as erasing (maḥā),
washing off (ghasala), tearing up (kharraqa), or burying (dafana) should be
mentioned here, even if it had other motives than the weeding out of books
when they had become too many. Regrettably, as elsewhere in the world,
book burnings were not unheard of in Islam. They affected principally books
adjudged heretical or otherwise religiously objectionable.41 This contributed
to the virtual disappearance of manuscripts of such works over the centuries.
Where there were both fervent partisans and violent opponents in substantial
numbers, of course, the situation was different. This, for instance, is shown
by Ibn ʿArabī’s (d. 638/1240) voluminous corpus. Even if there were those who
wrote fatwās permitting the destruction of all books by him,42 or who went
to such scurrilous lengths as tying the Kitāb al-Fuṣūṣ to the tail of a dog,43
his innumerable followers saw to it that copies of his works survived. An
instructive story on the destruction of a work of presumably literary merit is
reported in connection with a book by the blind poet al-Maʿarrī (d. 449/1057)
which supposedly criticized the Qurʾān. A librarian, of all people, destroyed
it. He was challenged by al-Wajīh al-Naḥwī (532–612/1137[8]–1215) with a witty
argument: If the work was indeed equal to, or better than, the Qurʾān, it would
be untouchable; on the other hand, if it was, as there could be no doubt,
inferior to it, it ought to be preserved as a witness to the inimitability of the
39 Cf. Eche, op. cit., 104 from Yāqūt, Irshād al-arīb, ed. D.S. Margoliouth, 7 vols. (Leiden-
London, 1907–1927), 1:242; ed. A.F. Rifāʿī, 20 vols. (Cairo, 1355–1357/1936–1938), 4:6.
40 Eche, op. cit., 198, from al-Qifṭī, Ikhbār al-ʿulamāʾ bi-akhbār al-ḥukamāʾ, ed. J. Lippert
(Leipzig, 1903), p. 269.
41 The justification for book burnings was probably always sought in lèse-religion. The sad
case of a grandson of ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jīlānī, ʿAbd al-Salām ibn ʿAbd al-Wahhāb (548–
611/1154–1214), whose books on magic and star worship were publicly burned, illustrates
the blend of personal, academic, and religious politics with suspicions of heresy that could
lead to legal proceedings and autodafés, cf. Ibn al-ʿImād, Shadharāt al-Dhahab, 8 vols.
(Cairo, 1350–1351/1931–1932), 5:45 f.
42 Cf. al-Sakhāwī, Ḍawʾ, 3:32, line 17.
43 Cf. Ibn Ḥajar, Inbāʾ, 9 vols. (Hyderabad, 1387–1396/1967–1976), 7:394, anno 823, quoted by
al-Sakhāwī, Ḍawʾ, 3:31.
Holy Book.44 Perhaps, the underlying and unexpressed moral of the al-Wajīh’s
remark was disapproval of the destruction of books in general.
The destruction of valuable property such as books expectedly found the
attention of jurists. Strict Ḥanbalite opinion, for instance, was expressed by a
scholar of the stature of Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzīyah (d. 751/1350). Other schools
and individuals saw the matter differently.45 Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzīyah held that
no financial responsibility resulted from the destruction of books. It was as
legal and free from liability as the destruction of everything connected with
wine. Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzīyah’s basic tradition is one of Abū Bakr al-Marrūdhī
(al-Marwazī) (d. 275/888) who consulted Ibn Ḥanbal (d. 241/855) on whether he
thought that he could burn or tear up a book he had borrowed that contained
objectionable matters. Ibn Ḥanbal expressed the view that it was permissible,
quoting a tradition to the effect that the Messenger of God once saw a book in
ʿUmar’s hand in which ʿUmar had written down material from the Torah that
had pleased him because it agreed with the Qurʾān. The Prophet’s face showed
such anger that ʿUmar rushed to the furnace and threw the book into it. How
then, Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzīyah continued, would the Prophet have felt had he
been able to see books which contradicted the Qurʾān and his Sunnah as were
published later. Only the Qurʾān and the ḥadīth were permitted to be put down
40 in writing, and this is presented as the view of Ibn Ḥanbal himself. | All books
on raʾy—here, approximately, dogmatic and juridical speculation—and all the
more so, all books on other subjects were anathema as leading to error. To err is
human, Ibn Ḥanbal is said to have opined, but the most prone to error are those
who write books. While the composition of books was seen as a complicated
legal problem, Ibn Ḥanbal and his followers were adamantly opposed to books
that were in conflict with the Qurʾān and the Sunnah. It was, however, different
with works written against those books; they could fall into any of the positive
legal classifications as necessary, preferable, or permitted.46 It does not take
much to realize that we have here a good example of the eternal problem of
censorship. Once set in motion, does it have proper limits, and can they be
observed without detriment to intellectual life and growth? We do not know
the answer.
Another common theme is that of an author himself burning his books
or ordering their destructions. Among littérateurs, Abū Ḥayyān al-Tawḥīdī (d.
44 Cf. Eche, op. cit., 188, following Yāqūt, Irshād, ed. Margoliouth, 6:235; ed. Rifāʿī, 27:59f.
45 See Ibn al-Jamāʿah, below, p. 42. (regarding the attitude towards the disapproval of writing
books.)
46 Cf. Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzīyah, al-Ṭuruq al-ḥukmīyah, pp. 275–277.
after 400/1009) is famous or infamous for having “burned his books at the end
of his life because they served no longer any purpose and he did not want
those who did not appreciate their worth to have them after his death.” In a
letter, in which he defends his action, he speaks of burning his valuable books
or washing them off. Having lost everybody near and dear to him, he says, “I
found it difficult to leave them to people who would play around with them,
besmirch my honor when looking into them, gloat over my oversights and
mistakes when studying them more closely, and look at each other (and say
how) incompetent I am.”47 This makes it clear that al-Tawḥīdī speaks about his
own books and not about books by others in his library. It would seem a bit
curious that he would burn his own works when they included books that had
been published and had been in general circulation for a long time. Therefore,
speaking about his own “books,” there can be no doubt that he had in mind
his unpublished manuscripts and, in particular, his notebooks and drafts.48
This also applies to, and is confirmed by, his list of those early Muslims who
served as model and excuse for his action. The earliest name in al-Tawḥīdī’s list
is Abū ʿAmr ibn al-ʿAlāʾ who buried his books. A Ṣūfī, Dāwūd al-Ṭāʾī (d. 205/821),
threw his books into the river,49 while Yūsuf ibn Asbāṭ locked his away in a
mountain cave.50 Another Ṣūfī, Abū Sulaymān al-Dārānī, burned his books in a
furnace.51 The great Sufyān al-Thawrī (d. 161/778) tore his manuscripts to pieces
47 Cf. Yāqūt, Irshād, ed. Margouliouth, 5:386 ff.; ed. Rifāʿī, 15:16, 9:21ff.
48 Ḥājjī Khalīfah, Kashf al-Ẓunūn, ed. Şerefettin Yaltkaya, 2 vols. (Istanbul, 1945–1947), vol. 1,
intro., col. 52b, quotes the section of Kunā from Ibn ʿAsākir’s History of Damascus as using
dafātir in connection with Sufyān al-Thawrī (below no. 52). Although historically, daftar
had different meanings (see EI2, s.v. “Daftar” [B. Lewis]), in our context “notebooks” is
intended. It need hardly be stated expressly that the range of meanings of Arabic Kitāb is
not coextensive with our “book.”
49 According to al-Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī, Taʾrīkh Baghdād, 14 vols., (Cairo, 1349/1931), 8:348,
line 2 f., Dāwūd al-Ṭāʾī did so after he felt sure that he no longer needed the books and
was ready to devote himself conclusively to solitary divine worship.
50 Mention of the mountain cave is not found in the biographical notices. They say that he
buried his books, with unhappy results for the reliability of his traditions. See al-Bukhārī,
Taʾrīkh, 8 vols. (Hyderabad, 1360–1378/1941–1958), 4 pt. 2:385; Ibn Abī Ḥātim al-Rāzī, Jarḥ
(Hyderabad, 1941–1953), 4 pt. 2:218 on the authority of his father Abū Ḥātim al-Rāzī;
al-Dhahabī, Mīzān al-Iʿtidāl, 4 vols. (Cairo, 1382/1963), 4:162; Ibn Ḥajar, Tahdhīb al-tahdhīb,
12 vols. (Hyderabad, 1325–1327/1907–1909), 11:408. This does not necessarily indicate that
al-Tawḥīdī invented the mountain cave for artistic effect—he could have found it in some
other source—but it is quite likely.
51 Abū Sulaymān al-Dārānī was an authority of Ibn Abī al-Ḥawārī (below, no. 61), who was a
contemporary of Sufyān al-Thawrī.
and scattered the pieces in the wind.52 The last name in the list is that of a
teacher of al-Tawḥīdī Abū Saʿīd al-Sīrāfī (d. 369/979), who exhorted his son
(Abū) Muḥammad53 to burn his books if they turned out to play him and others
false and distract them from acquiring religious merit; as in the numerous
examples from modern times for requests to destroy the literary Nachlass of
famous men, this request, of course, may or may not have been honored. The
variety of ways for the disposal of books we find in al-Tawḥīdī’s list is owed to
his sense of style, and not necessarily to the sources from which he derived his
information.
41 With the possible exception of Abū Saʿīd al-Sīrāfī who, however, was highly
praised for his asceticism, all these men were famous exemplars of Muslim
piety and religious commitment. Their alleged actions expressed their suspi-
cion of the written word in general. But they hardly were appropriate models for
al-Tawḥīdī who, in spite of pietistic episodes in his life, produced mainly works
that were quite worldly in character. As other sources make abundantly clear,
the destruction of one’s written materials is a topos of the science of ḥadīth
and of mysticism. How much reality was connected with the topos, we can-
not judge. Later biographers showed a certain lack of enthusiasm for reporting
these data.
We thus hear it said already about the first/seventh-century ʿAbīdah al-
Salmānī that he called for his “books” and erased them when he lay on his
deathbed. Asked for his reason, he replied that he feared that some people
might get hold of them who would not treat them properly ( yaḍaʿūnahā ghayr
mawāḍīʿihā).54 This seems to be the earliest and, superfluous to say, fictitious
example within the tradition of ḥadīth scholarship. The Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī
52 I have not gone through the large literature on Sufyān to find out whether this information
is repeated elsewhere.
53 The text has Muḥammad, but he is presumably Abū Saʿīd’s son Abū Muḥammad ibn
al-Ḥasan (whose name is occasionally distorted), see Ibn al-Nadīm, al-Fīhrist, p. 62f., also
31, line 23, as well as Bayard Dodge’s English translation, 2 vols. (New York, 1970), 1:136,
and the Persian translation by M. Riḍā Tajaddud (Teheran, 1343/1965), p. 106; ʿAlī ibn Yūsuf
al-Qifṭī Inbāh al-rūwāh, ed. M. Abū al-Fadl Ibrāhīm, 4 vols. (Cairo, 1369–1393/1950–1973),
1:314; Ibn Khallikān, Wafayāt, ed. Iḥsān ʿAbbās, 2:79; Sezgin, GAS, 9:98; al-Sīrāfi’s long
biography in Yāqūt, Irshād, ed. Margoliouth, 3:48–125; ed. Rifāʿī, 8:142–232, draws on
al-Tawḥīdī’s works, but the request to have his books burned is not mentioned there. On
Abū Saʿīd al-Sīrāfī, see also, more recently, G. Endress, “Grammatik und Logik” in Burkhard
Mojsisch (ed.), Sprachphilosophie in Antike und Mittelalter (Amsterdam, 1987, Bochumer
Studien zur Philosophie 3).
54 Ibn Saʿd, Ṭabaqāt, ed. E. Sachau and others, 9 vols. (Leiden, 1904–1940), 4:63, lines 17ff.;
al-Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī, Taqyīd, p. 61; Ibn ʿAbd al-Barr, Jāmiʿ bayān al-ʿilm, 1:67, etc.
mentions already Ibn Masʿūd among his many examples of men who erased
written ḥadīth material.55 He tells of Abū Qilābah that he willed his “books”
to another scholar if the latter survived him; if not, they were to be burned
or, according to another recension, torn up.56 A certain Yūnus ibn ʿĪsā meant
to burn his books.57 Shuʿbah ibn al-Ḥajjāj (d. 160/777) directed his son Saʿd
to wash off and bury his “books” after his death, which was done.5859 Others
buried eighteen chests and baskets of books for Bishr al-Ḥāfī. It is to the credit
of Ibn Ḥanbal that he could not see any sense in burning books.60
These and similar data continued to have a long life. The seventeenth-
century Ḥājjī Khalīfah has a list that includes al-Tawḥīdī’s Abū ʿAmr ibn al-ʿAlāʾ,
Dāwūd al-Ṭāʾī, and Sufyān al-Thawrī. He took their names not from al-Tawḥīdī
but from other sources which he indicates, but which I have been unable to
check. He added the Ṣūfī Ibn Abī al-Ḥawārī (6th/12th century) from the Ḥilyah
of Abū Nuʿaym al-Iṣfahānī (d. 430/103Q). The Ḥilyah presents different recen-
sions, all of which agree that Ibn Abī al-Ḥawārī was motivated by his conviction
that books may serve as guides to gnosis but become superfluous as soon as a
person attains gnosis and reaches the Lord.61
It is to Ḥājjī Khalīfah’s credit that he clearly distinguished between the two
strands that defined all the statements about the destruction of “books.” One of
them, he realized, was the need of ḥadīth theoreticians to produce telling evi-
dence for the alleged superiority of oral over written transmission. The other
was the persistent claim of pious individuals and devoted mystics to have direct
access to the divine which made any material medium such as books altogether
unnecessary and undesirable.62 Ḥājjī Khalīfah considers the view expressed by
Ibn Ḥajar in connection with Dāwūd al-Ṭāʾī that the motivation for the destruc-
tion of their books by men like him was the prevention of their | transmission 42
55 Taqyīd, p. 39, line 11 f. Ibn Masʿūd was put on the spot for transmitting a ḥadīth differently
from what his son had written down.
56 Taqyīd, p. 62.
57 Ibid. Yūnus ibn ʿĪsā was an authority on Bishr al-Ḥāfī.
58 Ibid.
59 Taqyīd, p. 63. According to Ibn Ḥajar, Tahdhīb, 1:445, Bishr disliked the transmission of
ḥadīth and therefore buried his books. Abū Nuʿaym has nothing on the subject.
60 Ibid.
61 Abū Nuʿaym, Ḥilyat al-awliyāʾ, 10 vols. (Reprint Beirut, 1387/1967), 10:6 f.
62 On the other hand, scholars were considered foolish to brag about composing works
without recourse to relevant literature. Such disregard of their predecessors meant that
they would not know what distinguished their works from those of others, cf. al-Zarkashī,
al-Burhān fī ʿulūm al-Qurʾān, 4 vols. (Cairo, 1376/1957), 1:16.
in a way that might lead to their being branded as “weak transmitters.” On his
part, Ḥājjī Khalīfah realized that more was involved here: “This explanation,”
he says, “would not hold for the destruction of their notebooks (dafātir) by Ibn
Abī al-Ḥawārī and his ilk. Dāwūd al-Ṭāʾī did what he did because he was con-
cerned about the resulting weakness of his isnād. On the other hand, Ibn Abī
al-Ḥawārī did it because of his asceticism and devotion to God. The explanation
why he (and others like him) chose to destroy (their books, instead of selling
them or giving them away) might perhaps be (sought in their fear) that, if they
had divested themselves of the possession of their dafātir through gift or sale,
their emotional (qalbī) attachment to them would not have been severed com-
pletely and they could not be sure that they might not at some time get the urge
to go back to them and study them, thereby occupying themselves with some-
thing other than God.”63
In historical cases, the evidence for such destruction is occasionally ambigu-
ous. Thus, we hear that Aḥmad ibn Ismāʿīl ibn Abī al-Suʿūd (814–870/1412–
1466) reached the point, probably because of religious scruples (?), where he
wanted to give up all his literary activities, and he washed off all his poetical
and prose writings, so that only his previously published works survived. How-
ever, another source maintains that this did not happen intentionally. When
Ibn Abī al-Suʿūd was in the process of sorting out the poems he did not like in
order to destroy them, a colleague appeared unexpectedly and he went out to
meet him. Meanwhile, he ordered someone to destroy the papers on the right
in his study. That individual became confused and destroyed the papers which
Ibn Abī al-Suʿūd wanted to keep. When Ibn Abī al-Suʿūd came back and saw
what had happened, he was very dismayed (suqiṭa fī yadihi) and destroyed the
rest.64
Such destruction of papers and notes, or books in our sense, whether histor-
ical or not, did not reflect on the size of book production. This, I feel, probably
also applies to a statement telling us that, at the time it was made, there were
people who disapproved of all authorship (al-taṣnīf wa-al-taʾlīf ), even of those
who were qualified and knowledgeable enough to write books. So far, I have
been unable to trace this statement to any source earlier than Badr al-Dīn ibn
Jamāʿah (639–733/1241–1333) who mentions it in his well-known treatise on
63 Cf. Ḥājjī Khalīfah, Kashf, 1:intro., col. 32 f. The wish to approach God (qaṣd wajh Allāh) was
generally accepted goal and precondition for any successful study. Without it, collecting
books would be useless, see, for instance, Yūsuf al-Balāwī, Kitāb alif bāʾ, 2 vols. (Būlāq,
1287/1870), 1:17, line 2 f.
64 See al-Sakhāwī, Ḍawʾ, 1:232 f.
education, entitled Tadhkirat al-sāmiʿ wa-al-mutakallim65 Ibn Jamāʿah strongly

disapproves of this attitude. If, he argues, there is no legal disapproval of the
written fixation of poetry and entertaining stories, provided no indecency is
involved, why, then, should the writing of books on useful religious subjects
be disapproved? It is obvious that unqualified people should never be allowed
to write books on any subject. As Ibn Jamāʿah sees it, the only possible expla-
nation for the disapproval of authoring books is the constant envy and com-
petitiveness among generations (al-taḥāsud bayna ahl al-aʿṣār).66 Quoting Ibn
Jamāʿah’s view, Ḥājjī Khalīfah then goes on to criticize it as a reflection | of the 43
popular attitude that considers only the achievements of earlier generations as
important and routinely holds contemporary scholars in low esteem, and he
treats his readers to the verses:
You who think nothing of contemporaries,

considering the ancients to be out in front:
The ancients were once young/new,
And the young/new will stay on and become ancient.67
Neither Ibn Jamāʿah nor Ḥājjī Khalīfah seem to be correct. The disapproval of
composing books may also here be rooted rather in the pietistic/mystic attitude
and the long tradition of philosophers (such as Socrates) and, above all, mystics
who feel revulsion at the thought of profaning their insights. It is not impossible
that the expression could be explained as a complaint about the proliferation
of books, but this does not really seem plausible.
The problem of overproduction is more directly addressed in the strong
sentiment in favor of abridgements and brief handbooks as against long, com-
65 See Ibn Jamāʿah, Tadhkirah (Hyderabad, 1953), p. 30. In the context, Ibn Jamāʿah men-
tions al-Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī, but the quoted statement is apparently not included in the
reference. In a somewhat shortened form, with the omission of the qualified and knowl-
edgeable persons, the statement is quoted by Ḥājjī Khalīifah, 1:intro., col. 39. On his own,
it seems Ḥājjī Khalīfah adds muṭlaqan “absolutely (disapproved).” Taṣnīf usually referred
to the original composition of books. Cf., for instance, al-Sakhāwī, Ḍawʾ, 1:46, line 19ff., on
the very learned Ibrāhīm ibn Khiḍr: “In spite of his learning, he did not occupy himself
with taṣnīf, although he made valuable notes on many books.” Cf. also Ibn Ḥajar, al-Durar
al-kāminah, 1st ed., 4 vols. (Hyderabad, 1348–1350/1929–1931), 3:490; idem, Inbāʾ, 1:184, or
al-Sakhāwī, Ḍawʾ, 2:79.
66 One may compare, from a different time and situation, al-Jāḥiẓ’s remark about an ignora-
mus who progressed from finding fault with al-Jāḥiẓ’s works to condemning the writing
of books in general (Kitāb al-Ḥayawān, ed. Hārūn, 1:19, 37–38).
67 See also below, p. 44.
prehensive, and scholarly works. The latter were, of course, always produced
in large numbers. They were, in fact, quite characteristic products of medieval
Muslim civilization. However, the attitude, serious in part and in part a snob-
bish pretense, that big books are a nuisance was old and deeply engrained. Al-
Tawḥīdī put it succinctly: “Big books are boring (al-kutub al-ṭiwāl musʾimah).”68
As A. Mez stressed long ago, writers of Muslim civilization’s so-called golden
age feared nothing more than boring the reader.69 This fear persisted through
the centuries and found expression in the frequently professed aversion to
unnecessary length and the claim of having exercised restraint for the sake
of brevity. While conciseness had special meaning for the entertaining liter-
ature, it soon invaded the scholarly and scientific community where it led to
the popularity of compendia. Resistance to the trend never faltered entirely.
For instance, in the introduction of his long geographical dictionary, Yāqūt
(d. 627/1229) expressed himself with strong emotion against any attempt to
shorten his work, quoting al-Jāḥiẓ as having been of the same mind when he
stated forcefully that an author is “like a painter; his work is a painting repre-
senting its subject perfectly, and the idea of abridging it means atrocious muti-
lation.”70 The practice (often also indulged in by us) of exploiting large works
for educational and/or commercial reasons by compiling shortened versions,
which, as noted by Yāqūt, stood a better chance of achieving wide dissemina-
tion, was part and parcel of medieval Muslim life.
It was recognized that progress dictated the creation of larger and better
works. Treatments of new and as yet unexplored subjects tended to start out
small and then grow to ever larger size in the course of time.71 Originality
was stressed as the fundamental purpose of and justification for writing and
was one of the guiding principles of research.72 The remark, already used by
44 Abū | Tammām (d. 231/846) the poet as a cento,73 was constantly repeated:
“How much did the ancients leave for later generations (kam taraka al-awwalu
lil-ākhiri).” al-Jāḥiẓ is quoted again by Yāqūt as having stated that nothing is
68 Cf. al-Tawḥīdī, al-Imtāʿ wa-al-muʾānasah, ed. Aḥmad Amīn and Aḥmad al-Zayn, 3 vols.
(Cairo, 1939–1944), 2:194, line 6.
69 Cf. Mez’s introduction to his edition of Abulḳāsim, ein bagdāder Sittenbild (Heidleberg,
1902), viii f.
70 Cf. Yāqūt, Muʿjam al-buldān, ed. F. Wüstenfeld (Göttingen, 1866–1873), 1:11f., trans. Wadie
Jwaideh, The Introductory Chapters of Yāqūt’s Muʿjam al-Buldān (Leiden, 1959), p. 16.
71 Cf. F. Rosenthal, The Technique and Approach of Muslim Scholarship (Rome, 1947. Analecta
Orientalia 24), p. 43a, and idem, A History of Muslim Historiography2, p. 71, n. 3.
72 As indicated in the enumeration of items that justify the writing of books, see below, n. 87.
73 See Yāqūt, trans. Jwaideh, p. 9, n. 4.
more harmful to science and scholarship than the opposite contention that the
ancients did not leave anything for later generations, as this had a discouraging
and debilitating effect.74 The consequence, however, was the constant creation
of new disciplines and subdisciplines, small at first and then often expanding to
barely manageable proportions. With the technical means then available, they
were probably unmanageable and required forgetting and discarding. More,
and better, techniques are available now and offer a certain, possibly deceptive,
measure of hope that we shall be able to keep up with the accumulation of
knowledge and of books.
The theoretical approach of philosophers to the overwhelming mass and
variety of knowledge put into writing was to suggest, as did al-Tawḥīdī and
al-Miskawayh (d. 422/1030), that “since the particulars ( juzʾīyāt) are infinite,
and whatever is infinite cannot achieve existence, it is the generalities of each
discipline, which comprise all its particulars in potentia, that should be aimed
at.”75 Deprived of its technical philosophical trimmings, the idea also lived
on and found expression, for instance, in al-Zarkashī’s (d. 794/1391) detailed
elaboration of the different Qurʾānic sciences. Since, he claims, “the ʿulūm
al-Qurʾān are innumerable and the Qurʾān’s meanings are inexhaustible, one
must deal with them (not exhaustively but) to the degree possible.” And “since
earlier scholars composed no work comprising the different topics (anwāʿ) of
Qurʾānic science in the way it was done in relation to the science of ḥadīth,” he
wrote his comprehensive work covering forty-six topics, but, he says,
I am aware that every one of these topics cannot be dealt with exhaus-
tively by any human being. If anyone tried, the whole of his life would
be spent, and yet, he would not accomplish his task. Therefore, we have
restricted ourselves to the principles (uṣūl) of each topic, with (only)
occasional hints at the details ( fuṣūl), for—quoting Hippocrates without
naming him—“the craft; is long and life is short.”76 We have dealt with
as much as can possibly be achieved by imperfect speech, in accordance
with the verse:
74 See Yāqūt, Muʿjam, 1:6, trans. Jwaideh, p. 9. Jwaideh notes that the statement recurs in the
biography of al-Jāḥiẓ in Yāqūt, Irshād, ed. Margoliouth, 6:58, ed. Rifāʿī, 16:78.
75 Al-Tawḥīdī and Miskawayh, al-Hawāmil wa-al-shawāmil, ed. Aḥmad Amīn and al-Sayyid
Aḥmad Ṣaqr (Cairo, 1370/1951), p. 268 f.
76 Below, in the reference by al-Shaʿbī to the common idea that human life is all too short to
know everything, it is not as certain as it is here and elsewhere that the first aphorism is
indeed the inspiration, but it seems highly probable.
They said: Take the essence/eye (ʿayn) of everything! I replied: There

is excellence in the essence/eye, but the beholder of the essence/the
glance of the eye (is imperfect).77
In the popular and entertaining literature, a simpler analogy was proposed in

a saying which, like the philosophical approach, also had its roots in classical
antiquity: Like a bee, an author should select the best flower. A more direct
version of the same idea was attributed to ancient Muslims such as ʿAbd Allāh
ibn ʿAbbās (d. 68/686) and Ibn Sīrīn (d. 110/728): “Knowledge is too much for
45 being comprehended in its entirety. Thus, take the best of every knowledge!”78 |
The statement of Ibn ʿAbbās was combined later with another one attributed
to al-Shaʿbī who, like Ibn Sīrīn, lived a generation after Ibn ʿAbbās. Al-Shaʿbī
(d. 105/723) supposedly also alluded to Hippocrates without naming him. As
he phrased it: “Knowledge is much, and life is little. Thus, take of knowledge
the variety of its inner spirit (arwāḥ)—that is, its essences (ʿuyūn)—and leave
alone its outward expression (ḥurūf )!”79
This advice was meant for the creative scholar and intellectual. For the mass
of the educated, the compendium, the short exposition of the essentials or
high points of a subject or the selective presentation of details, promised a
better approach toward the elusive mastery of knowledge in its infinite variety.
Another approach was for an author to justify writing a book by suggesting that
his work, being an original product, would serve to replace all other works in
the field80—this, we might say, being one way of dealing with the avalanche
of books. In writing his great chronological work, al-Bīrūnī (d. 440/1048), for
instance, claimed that the highly educated person who asked him to compose
such a work did so in order to have a book that would make it superfluous for
him to consult a large number of sources.81 More commonly, authors expressed
on their own the hope or conviction that they were about to replace any need to
consult all the earlier works that had dealt with their subject. The large number
77 This appears to be the correct interpretation of the verse to be read: . . .wa-lākin nāẓiru
al-ʿayni. See al-Zarkashī, Burhān, 1:9, 12, quoted in part by al-Suyūṭī, Itqān, 2 vols. in 1 (Cairo,
1317/1899), 1:5.
78 Cf. Freimark, p. 64, referring to al-Washshāʾ, Muwashshá, for Ibn ʿAbbās, and to Ibn ʿAbd
Rabbih, ʿIqd, for Ibn Sīrīn. This latter ascription appears also in al-Balawī, Kitāb alif bāʾ,
1:14, line 19.
79 See ʿAlī al-Ghuzūlī, Maṭāliʿ al-budūr, 2 vols. in 1 (Cairo, 1299–1300/1881) 1:7.
80 Cf. Freimark, pp. 40 ff., 164.
81 Cf. al-Bīrūnī, al-Āthār al-bāqiyah, ed. Sachau (Leipzig, 1878), p. 4, line 5 quoted by Freimark,
p. 142.
of titles such as al-Mughnī, it may be noted, also attests to this motivation. On

the other hand, it could also happen that a would-be author originally thought
that the existing literature was exhaustive and made another work on the same
subject unnecessary. After much research, however, he discovered that this
was not the case, and he was justified in going ahead with his project and
compose a more complete work likely to supplant all his predecessors’ efforts.
He reflected, at the end, “how much the ancients had left for later generations
to do.”82
The production of compendia in order to cope with the great amount of
material to be read and digested and to make the acquisition of knowledge eas-
ier for the student eventually found full discussion in both its positive and its
negative aspects in Ibn Khaldūn’s Muqaddimah.83 As Ibn Khaldūn (d. 808/1406)
saw it, the great number of scholarly works, coupled with the refinement and
sophistication reached in many fields, is an obstacle to scholarship, while the
great number of brief handbooks is detrimental to the formation of a sound
scholarly habit and thus of outstanding scholars. In many disciplines such as
grammar84 the literature is too vast for everything to be perused. More recently,
says Ibn Khaldūn, this has also come to apply to the many writings on literary
criticism which were produced in addition to the four standard works on the
subject.85 An even more crowded field, the science of ḥadīth, had developed
an enormous amount of books and this had the consequence that a limited
number of basic works was exclusively used for reference.86 Ibn Khaldūn, it
seems, considered this a rather dubious development. He did not go as far as | 46
to suggest that there were too many books on the market, but he clearly inti-
mated that something was wrong with the prevailing situation and called for
remedies if such could be found. Focusing his attention on the handbooks,
abridgements, and compendia, he acknowledged that one of the legitimate
purposes of authorship was generally recognized the production of brief and
succinct abridgements.87 The custom, he said, had become popular in his time
82 Cf. Ibn al-Athīr, al-Nihāyah fī gharīb al-ḥadīth, 5 vols. (Cairo, 1322/1904), 1:15, line 15f.; 6,
line 18; 8, line 15 ff.; 9, line 17.
83 Ibn Khaldūn, Muqaddimah, trans., F. Rosenthal, 3:288–291.
84 Op. cit., 3:324.
85 Op. cit., 3:340 f.
86 Op. cit., 2:455.
87 Op. cit., 3:287. See 284, n. 1123, for parallels. Ibn Khaldūn mentions the writing of abridge-
ments as the last of the seven justifications for authorship. Al-Maqarrī, Azhār al-riyāḍ, 3
vols. (Cairo, 1358/1939), 3:34, puts abridgements in the sixth place. They were promoted to
fourth place in Ḥājjī Khalīfah, 1:intro., col. 35.
(although it was, of course, widely practiced in preceding centuries). He consid-

ered such abridgements as often awkward but did not object to them as such.
He pointed out that on the one hand, they tended to be too succinct and com-
plicated for beginners, while, on the other, they were likely to stultify genuine
scholarly minds, for true scholarship, he argued, required the painstaking study
of long and detailed works over a considerable extent of time. It is clear that for
Ibn Khaldūn and those who followed him, the issue was not seen simply as
the superabundance of books, although he realized that it caused a problem.
It was rather a question of the proper methods and goals of scholarly and lit-
erary activity which were appropriate for a highly developed civilization such
as his. These methods and goals, however, happened unavoidably to be depen-
dent on the relentless production and wide availability of books. By his time
and very probably much earlier, their numbers had come to seem threaten-
ing.
Ibn Khaldūn’s discussion greatly impressed Ḥājjī Khalīfah who utilized it in
the introduction of his large catalogue of Arabic books in Istanbul or otherwise
known in his time.88 In his capacity as a bibliographer, Ḥājjī Khalīfah might well
have had special feelings about the cultural significance of the riches of book
production in Islam. About seven centuries earlier, the situation was differ-
ent. In his famous Fihrist, Ibn al-Nadīm (d. 380/990) had already vast numbers
of titles to report on, but there was no real reason for him to sense, let alone
comment on, too many books. So he concerned himself in his opening pages
with the technical aspects of bookmaking which to him meant handwriting
and scripts in their various forms and historical development. In the century
before Ḥājjī Khalīfah, Ṭāshköprüzādeh produced a mammoth catalogue of the
sciences, entitled Miftāḥ al-saʿādah. His interest lay in the enormous amount
of what he classified as special disciplines that together constituted the sum
total of written knowledge no longer to be mastered in its entirety; he had
occasion to mention only a limited number of standard works. It is due to
Ṭāshköprüzādeh’s influence that Ḥājjī Khalīfah in his introduction discourses
lengthily on knowledge and its multiple disciplines, instead of book production
as would have been logical. Thus, he misses out on the opportunity to speculate
on the subject that interests us here most. He remarks, however, in the begin-
ning that an exhaustive bibliography such as his had become finally necessary,
“because the scholarly disciplines and books are many, and the lives of individ-
uals are preciously short.”89
88 Ḥājjī Khalīfah, Kashf, 1:intro., col. 43 f.

89 Op. cit., 1:intro., col. 1. For the allusion to Hippocrates, see above, n. 76.
In conclusion, let me state that the feeling that there are simply too many
books in the world remains a present-day phenomenon and is left to us not | 47
only to ponder but also to try to do something about it, if this is in our power.
Possibly the fate of our civilization depends on it. In medieval Islam, books
as physical objects were valuable since, for the ordinary individual, they were
difficult to obtain and to amass; although plentiful in some locations, they
could be scarce in others. The censorial destruction of books for one reason
or another did occur at times, to the detriment of modern scholarship, but
contributed little to limiting the constant increase in the number of books.
The relationship between knowledge and books remained determined by a
fictitious and, from our point of view, unfortunate distinction between oral and
written information. Again, this did not contribute much to diminishing book
production. It did, however, give some slight encouragement to the age-old
tradition that some type of special secret or sacred knowledge was better left
unwritten. Still, in the face of the pretended belief in the superiority of oral
transmission, it was generally recognized that all knowledge was important
and would disappear without books. This recognition often extended to the
realization that all written materials were valuable and required preservation.
The only practical attempts, however, to regulate, if modestly, the flood of books
consisted of the production of works that were supposed to take the place of all
the previous publications in a given field, and of the composition of handbooks
and compendia, but the value and efficacy of these procedures did not remain
unquestioned. Before the age of printing and modern technology, this was
probably the most that could be done. The Muslim scholars cited here deserve
credit for having been aware, if ever so dimly, of the problems resulting from
the overproduction of books as an unintended by-product of the intellectual
flourishing of their civilization. As it turned out, of making many books there
was no end in medieval Islam, and we have every reason to be glad that this
was so.
Index of Selected Arabic,
Persian, and Turkish Words
The Index follows the order of the Arabic alphabet and dictionary listings by roots. Persian and
Turkish words are placed in accordance with their spelling in Arabic characters.
ibriya 249 ʾ-m-l 597–599, 609, 614n396, 619–620, 623,

ʾ-b-n, ubna, maʾbūn 216, 220n353, 677n744a, 682
859n50 amal 20, 598–601, 603–604, 605–606,
atūn 484 608, 612–613, 615–617, 618n406, 619–624,
ʾ-th-r, athar 786 629, 647–649, 651–652, 656, 659,
ʾ-th-m, ithm 413 670n704, 675, 679–680, 682, 685
ājurra 401 taʾmīl 635
ʾ-j-r, ijāra 436 āmil 678
ʾ-j-l, ajal 364, 498, 593, 629, 647–652, maʾmūl 596, 677–678
670n704 muʾammil 678
muʾajjal 435 ʾ-m-n, amāna 739
ʾ-kh-dh 231 ʾ-n-n, innamā 419
ʾ-d-b, II 69n149 ʾ-n-s, uns 761
adab, pl. ādāb 75, 347n4, 449, 453, 486, insānīya 103
610, 688, 984, 987n94, 997 ʾ-n-f, anaf 102n278
adīb 101n276a, 579–580 ʾ-h-l, ahl 762n26, 929
taʾdīb 182, 261, 446 ūqa, pl. uwaq 379n175a, 396n251
ʾ-d-m, adamī 171n121 ʾ-w-l, taʾwīl 539
ʾ-dh-n, adhān 430 ʾ-y-n, ayna 647
istiʾdhān 445
maʾdhūn 70 b-ʾ-r, biʾr al-nard 490
ʾrz, ʾrq, ʾrn 376 b-t-ʿ, bitʿ, bitaʿ 244n28
arnab 938n112 b-kh-r, mubakhkhar 167
āzād, (P.) 35 tabkhīr, tabakhkhur 226n380
ʾ-z-t, (āzāt) “free” (P.) 35n32a b-kh-s, bakhs 476
ʾ-s-r, asīr 56 b-kh-sh, mubakhkhash 221n356
iṣbahānī 173 b-kh-ʿ, bakhʿ 800, 804
aṣturlāb 1001n1 b-kh-l, bukhalāʾ (pl.) 171
ʾ-ṣ-l, aṣl, aṣlī 247, 441 b-d-r, budūr-bidar 465
uṣūl 1083 b-d-l, badal, pl. abdāl 782, 958
afarbiyūn, furbiyūn, afurbiyūn 166 tabādul 340n8
afyūn, afiyūn, ufiyūn 152, 166 b-r-r, barrī 155, 180n163, 190
ʾ-k-l, akala (pl.) 209 b-r-ʾ, birāʾ (pl.) 179
ʾ-m-m, umma 683, 721 burʾ al-sāʿa 248
imām 57, 58, 75, 432, 434 barāt 308n48
ʾ-m-r, amr 627, 716 b-r-d, IV 490
amra muṭāʿa 407 b-r-z, II 453
amīr 526, 733, 997 barsh 165–166, 223, 232, 248–249, 277
amīr al-ʿasharāt, al-amīr al-mushidd barrāsh 165
267–268 abrash 165n87
maʾmūr 526 b-r-ṣ, baraṣ 220
1090 index of selected arabic, persian, and turkish words
b-r-m, baram, pl. abrām 409, 414, 454–455 bawṣāʾ 401

bazādira, (pl.) 172 b-w-h, bāh 207n275
b-z-r, bizr 173, 190n200 b-y-t, bayt māl al-Muslimīn 77n187
mubazzar 278n58 bayrūtī 174
basātīn, (pl.) 288 b-y-ḍ, bayḍ 397
bustānī 155, 190 bayāṭira (pl.) 170
b-s-ṭ, basṭ 162, 658n635 b-y-ʿ, III 364, 366, 461
b-s-m, mabsim 217 bāʾiʿ, bayyāʿ 172, 267
bishbīsha (?) 172 bīmāristān 230
b-sh-r, bishārāt 596 b-y-n, bayān 578
b-ṭ-l, baṭala (pl.) 209
bāṭil, pl. abāṭīl 346, 350, 356, 372, 377n161, pākbāz 508
420, 444, 476–477 parsh 165n86
b-ʿ-d, buʿd 759 pīr 178
b-gh-y, bighāʾ 859n50
b-q-r, baqar 382n186 t-b-n, tibn 169n111
b-q-l 191n203 tubbān 389
b-q-y 448n2 tütün (T.) 169n111
buksa 401 takht-e nard 499n14
b-l-l, ballān 201–202 t-r-k, tark 49
b-l-ḥ, bal(a)ḥa 267 tark al-ḥurrīya 125
b-l-d, baladī 278 tiryāq, diryāq 158, 171
balād(h)ur 206n271 tiryaki 158n52
b-l-ʿ 211n291, 217n336, 273n36 t-f-ḥ, tuffāḥī 174
mubtaliʿ 267n9 t-m-m, tamāmī 377
b-l-gh, bāligh, bulūgh 49 t-w-b, tāba 174n143, 232
b-n, ibn al-arḍ, – al-qasṭal, – al-sabīl 756, istatāba 232
757n12 tawba 60n101a, 232, 808
bint al-jirāb 158, 168 tūnah 401
banāt (dolls) 347n6 tīnah 217n336
b-n-j, banj (bang) 152–153, 157, 166, 175, 178,
194, 209n284, 216, 228, 231, 240, 242, 244, th-q-b 221n356
247–249, 252, 253n70, 55–60, 278n57, 291 th-q-f, thaqīf 75
beng 198n232 thiqāf, muthāqafa, muthāqif 353, 394,
bankā 168, 194n214, 303n20 441
mubannij 152 th-q-l, thawāqīl 400
tabnīj 152, 216n334 th-w-b, thawb 358
band, bandah (P.) 49 thiyāb (pl.) 197
b-n-d-q 194
bunduqa, pl. banādiq 158, 171, 194, 401, jāh 116
443 gāmūsa 230
qaws bunduq 194n215 j-b-r, jabr 40, 503–504, 507
bunduqānī 170 jabrī 503
b-n-y, bannāʾ 171 ijtibār wa-ḍṭirār 504
b-h-t, III 490 j-b-l, jabalī 173
b-h-j, mubahhij 169 j-d-d 345, 496–497
b-w-ʾ, bawāʾ 460 j-dh-m, judhām 220
b-w-ḥ, ibāḥa 441 j-r-b, jirāb 158, 168
ibāḥa aṣlīya 247 mujarrabāt 1039
index of selected arabic, persian, and turkish words 1091
j-r-ḥ, jarāʾiḥīya 170 jawz māthil 165n87, 248

j-r-d, jarīd, jurdān 280 jāwaza 674
mutajarrid 169n112 j-w-l, IV 410, 455
j-r-m, mujrim 75n172 jawlaqī, jōlakhī 169n113
jarāʾim 75 j-w-h-r, jawhar, pl. jawāhir 541, 543
j-r-y, jāriya (pl. jawārī) 863n3 jayb(a), pl. jiyab 197, 271n31, 277n51
j-z-ʾ, juzʾīyāt 1084
j-s-s, jassāsa 349n17, 352 chars (charas) 156n29
j-s-m, jism, pl. ajsām 544, 706
j-ʿ-d, juʿaydī 170, 201n256 ¹ḥ-b-b 428
j-ʿ-l, juʿl, juʿāla, mujāʿala 364n100, 403, maḥabba 109n304
435–436, 437n138, 444 mutaḥabbibāt 898
juʿal 221n360 mustaḥabb 443
j-l-l, jalīl 795 ²ḥ-b-b, ḥabba, pl. ḥubūb 195n218
j-l-b, jalab 508n42 ḥibāb (pl.) 271n31
jalāʾib 384 ḥabab, ḥabāb 301n16
jallāb 172 ḥ-b-s 434
j-l-s, jalasa 926 ḥabs 56–58, 57n89, 60n101a, 117n333
jullanār 211n291 ḥ-t-m, miḥtam 401
j-m-ḥ, tajāmuḥ, jummāḥ 401 ḥ-j-j, ḥajj 793
j-m-d, jāmid 198 ḥ-j-b, ḥājib, ḥijāb 679
j-m-ʿ, VIII 926 ḥ-j-r, ḥājūra 401
jamāʿa 721 ḥujayyā 401
( jamāʿī), al-madīna al-jamāʿīya 112 ḥ-d-d, ḥadd 52n71, 58–60, 62, 79, 142, 234,
jawāmiʿ 277 236, 240, 245, 253n70, 258–261, 283, 290,
j-m-l, jamāl 995 297, 352, 446
jamīl 815 ḥudūd 706
j-n-n, jinn 123, 191–192 ḥaddād 406
janna 288n92 ḥ-d-th, ḥadīth 14, 99n263, 246, 307,
junayna 360n89 347n4, 422, 438, 442n153, 476, 488,
junūn 563 716, 721, 730n4, 756, 774, 780–782, 783,
j-n-b 758 802, 805–808, 851, 872, 873, 885, 898–
janab 508n42 899, 911, 918, 925, 955, 974, 978, 1070,
junub 757–758, 759n14 1077
janāba 758, 759n14 ḥadīth al-ṣūr 902
ajnabī 756–757, 759 – qudsī 805
j-n-d, jund 560 – al-nafs 636
jndh 294n121 ḥadātha 97
j-n-s, jins 96 ḥ-d-s, ḥads 1024
mujānasa 712 ḥ-r-r, ḥarr (“hot”) 32, 45
j-n-y 886n61 ḥarr (= ḥurrīya) 49
jahārdah (= ča-) 379n173 ḥurr, ḥurrīya, ḥarr, aḥrār 32–37, 40n48,
j-h-d, jihād 432, 475 45–49, 71, 102–103, 106–109, 106n291,
ijtihād 24 110n306, 112, 118, 118n339, 118n340,
j-w-d, jawād, jūd 102n280, 110 122n361, 124–125, 127
j-w-r, jār 758 ḥurr al-kalām, al-ḥurr al-karīm
j-w-z, jawz, pl. jawzāt 377, 395–396, 490 ḥurra 33
jawzat al-ṭīb 206 tark al-ḥurrīya 125
( jawzat) al-ṭībaḥ 160n62 muḥarrar, taḥrīr 46
ḥ-r-b, dār al-ḥarb 421 ḥ-ṭ-b, ḥaṭaba 286n81

ḥirāb 395, 441 ḥ-ẓ-ẓ, ḥaẓẓ, pl. ḥuẓūẓ 453, 505n32
ḥ-r-z, IV 449 ḥ-ẓ-w, ḥaẓwa 453
ḥaraz, pl. aḥrāz 396 ḥ-f-r, ḥāfir, ḥāfir al-ḥimār (al-muhr), ḥawāfir
ḥ-r-s, ḥāris, ḥarāsa 164, 201 al-ḥamīr 268, 382, 441
ḥ-r-sh, taḥrīsh, muḥārasha (=muhā-) ḥaffār 171
393n235, 394, 420, 444n161 ḥ-q-q, ḥaqq 61
ḥ-r-ṣ 608 ḥuqqa, pl. ḥuqq 197, 232
ḥirṣ 99n263, 592–593, 598, 608, 618n406, ḥaqīqat al-īmān 688
682 ḥaqāʾiq 635
ḥarīṣ 630 taḥaqquq (maqām taḥaqquq) 126
ḥ-r-ḍ, ḥurḍa 410 ḥ-k-k, maḥkūk 396
ḥ-r-f, ḥirāf 381n181 ḥ-k-m, ḥukm 123n367, 687
ḥurūf 1084 aḥkām 971
ḥ-r-f-sh, ḥarfūsh, pl. ḥarāfishah 170n116, 171, ḥukmī 47n59
181, 280n61, 294 ḥakam 404
ḥarfasha 275, 280n61, 294 ḥukamāʾ (pl.) 112
taḥarfasha 181 ḥākim 69n150, 262, 732, 743–744
ḥ-r-m 413 ḥ-l-l, ḥalla 707
ḥurma-khidma 89n224 ḥulūl 542
ḥarām 418–419, 427, 429–430 maḥall 541, 681
taʾkīd al-ḥurma 107 ḥāll 435
maḥārim 236n39 muḥallil 388, 433–440
taḥrīm 236 ff. ḥ-l-b, ḥalba 384, 448
ḥ-z-z, ḥizza 379–380, 428 ḥ-l-m, ḥilm 109n304
ḥazāz 207n275 ḥ-l-w, ḥalāwātīya 170n114
ḥ-z-n, ḥuzn 525n6 aḥlā 661
ḥ-s-s, ḥiss 176n150, 635, 640n525 ḥ-m-m, ḥamām 388–389
al-ḥiss al-shahwānī 101 ḥammām 484
ḥ-s-b, ḥisba 212, 445–446, 477–478, 785 ḥammāmī 201
muḥtasib 60, 63, 116n328, 268, 445–446, ḥummayātīya (?) 171n130
740, 785, 835 ḥ-m-s, V 293n112
ḥ-s-d 18n28 ḥ-m-ṣ, II 189–190
ḥasad 13–14, 16, 17n28 ḥammaṣa 191
taḥāsud 14 muḥammaṣ 157, 278
ḥ-s-n, iḥsān 815 muḥammaṣa 169
ḥ-sh-sh, ḥashīsh, ḥashīsha 7, 135–136, taḥmīṣ 198
143–144, 149, 151, 152–154, 166, 167, 173, ḥimmaṣa 171
175–176, 181, 183, 185, 188, 198, 205–206, ḥ-m-ḍ, ḥummāḍ 233n419
210, 222, 223, 225–227, 229, 235, 242– ḥ-m-q, aḥmaq 406
243, 250, 255, 257, 258, 291, 298, 305, ḥ-m-l, ḥammāl 171
360, 479, 643–644, 746–748, 752–753, ḥamātī 174
888 ḥanna 170n118
ḥashīshī, pl. ḥashīshīya 175–176, 225 ḥ-w-j, ḥājāt 636n499
ḥashāʾishī 172 ḥ-w-r, ḥārat al-ghurābāʾ 784
ḥashshāsh, pl. ḥashshāshūn, ḥashshāshīya aḥwar 464
161, 166, 172, 192, 273n36 (ḥūr), al-ḥūr al-ʿīn 895, 902n26
maḥshūsh 279n60 ḥ-w-z, ḥāza, ḥiyāza 449
ḥ-ṣ-r, ḥaṣīr 56n84 ḥ-w-ṭ, iḥtiyāṭ 63n120
ḥ-w-l, ḥāl 125 khuṭabāʾ (pl.) 112

istiḥāla 252 kh-ṭ-r, 453, 475n1
muḥāl 619 III (khiṭār, mukhāṭara) 364–365, 393, 403,
mustaḥīl 620–621 431, 434, 438, 475–476
ḥ-y-y, ḥayāʾ 102n278, 125, 220, 223, 305n36 khaṭar, pl. akhṭār 182, 364–365, 396, 412,
ḥaydarī 158, 307n44 432, 449, 453
ḥ-y-r, mutaḥayyir 972 khawāṭir 592, 625n429
ḥ-y-n, ḥān, ḥāna, pl. ḥānāt 302n18, 303n20, kh-f-f, II 171
309n52, 430, 480 khuff 382, 441
ḥuwayna (?) 169n105 pl. khifāf 485
ḥīn 528–529 istikhfāf 428
kh-l-ṣ, 34, 45n51, 49n65
kh-b-r, khabar 625n431, 930 ikhlāṣ 49n65, 723
– al-wāḥid 933 kh-l-ʿ, 360, 408
mukhbir 930 V 424
kh-b-l, khabāl 262 khalāʿa 359–360
kh-t-m, khātam 398 khawlaʿ 360
kh-d-r, khadar, mukhaddir 215 khalīʿ 360, 452n28
kh-d-ʿ, khadaʿa 628 mukhāliʿ 360
khidāʿ 476 khilʿa 358
kh-d-m, khidma-ḥurma 89n224 khulʿa 360n88
khudhrūf 401 kh-l-q, akhlāq 769n58
[Asín Palacios, Obras, II–III 463–465] takhalluq (maqām takhalluq) 126
kh-r-j, kharīj, kharāji, mukhāraja 367, 401, kh-l-w, khalwa 721
511 mukhallā (bi-nafsihī) 112
kh-r-f, kharūf 212n299 kh-m-r, khamr 241
kh-r-q, kharraqa 1076 khumār, makhmūr, mukhammar 145, 191,
khiraq (pl.) 191n202 236n4, 274n40, 303n20
mikhrāq 353, 401 kh-m-s, V 293n112
kh-s-s, khasīs, khissa 291, 303n20, 305 khamīs 398n261
kh-s-f 223 kh-m-n, takhmīn 1024
khasā-wa-zakā 367n118, 401 al-kh-m-y-ʾt-y-h, 171
khushdāsha 267 kh-n-th, makhānitha, makhānīth (pl.) 172
kh-sh-n, akhshān (pl.) 204 takhannuth 216
kh-sh-y, khashya 603 mukhannath 478
kh-ṣ-ṣ, khāṣṣa 226 khndh, 294n121
kh-ṣ-l, khaṣl 395, 432, 449 kh-w-f, khawf 607n353, 614, 618n405, 682,
kh-ḍ-r, IX 211n291, 271n31 688, 691
akhḍar, khaḍrāʾ 156, 168, 170, 173, kh-w-n, khāna 628
230n399, 267, 281n69, 286n81, 294 khiyāna 492
muʿāṭāt [?] al-khaḍrāʾ 294 khuwayna (?) 169n105
khuḍr 288n90 kh-y-b, khayba 604n333
khuḍārī 171 kh-y-r, 31n15
al-Khiḍr 170 khayr 42
kh-ḍ-r-m, mukhaḍram 416, 564n155, 770 khayrīya-ḥurrīya 106n291
kh-ṭ-ṭ, khuṭūṭ 505 ikhtiyār 34–35, 39–40, 42, 45, 91n232, 117,
kh-ṭ-ʾ, khaṭīʾa 860n52 127, 456n48
kh-ṭ-b, khuṭūb 586, 633 ʿubūdīya ikhtiyārīya 127
khuṭba 823 mukhtār 42n49, 43
kh-y-l, 636 dū bayt, 467n91, 468

V 280n61 d-w-r, IV 271
khayāl 226–227, 300n13, 638 dār (pl.) dūr al-qimār 480
khayālāt 226 duwāzdahmarj, 386
makhāʾil 596 dōst (P.) 704
takhyīl, takhayyul 635 d-w-l, duwal 571
mukhāyilīya 169n111 d-w-m, duwwāma 401
d-w-n, dīwān 386
dāt(h)ūra, 180n163, 248n50, 268 d-w-y, dawan 192n207
dād(h)ī, 259n98 dawāʾ 171, 192n207
dārah, 401n277 dawāh 263
davul tozu (dāwul-) 168n99 dayyūth, diyāthah, 219–220
d-b-b, dabīb 216 dīk, pl. duyūk, dīka 393, 444n161
dubb al-hīsh 174 d-y-n, dīn 43, 802
d-b-s, dibs 190
d-ḥ-r-j, 397 dh-b-dh-b, mudhabdhib 427n96
d-ḥ-ḍ, IV 369 dh-rāfāt, 400
diḥindiḥ, 401 dh-ʿ-r, dhuʿʿār (pl.) 75
d-ḥ-w, daḥw, midḥāh, pl. madāḥī 396–397, dh-k-r, dhikr 125, 222, 691
401 dh-l-l, dhull, dhilla 761, 766, 768
d-kh-l, dakhīl 437 dh-m-m, dhimma 435
d-d(-w), dad 348n13, 510 ahl al- 793
d-r-s, madrasa 431 dh-h-b, (al-ʿaql), I and IV 248n46, 285n80
mudarris 218 madhhab 589
dirkilah, etc. 347, 348n9 dh-w-q, dhawq 691
dirham, 207n272, 265, 863
diryāq, see tiryāq rāʾ (letter) 1048
drīs, 382n186 r-ʾ-y, raʾy 101, 1077
d-sh-sh, dashīsha 234n420 r-b-b, ribāba 410
d-ʿ-k, 189 rubūbīya 127
d-ʿ-w, daʿwa 558, 802 rabārīb (zabāzīb?) 400
pl. daʿawāt 634 r-b-ṭ, ribāṭ 277
duʿāʾ 419 r-b-ʿ, arbaʿata ʿashara 378
dafātir, 108o r-th-w, marthiya 571, 585, 606, 610, 630, 647
d-f-n, dafana 1075 r-j-j, rajja 603n330
d-q-q, diqāq (diqāf or difāf ) 395, 397 r-j-ḥ, urjūḥa 401
d-k-k, dukk 380–381, 399 r-j-z, rajaz 924
d-l-l, dallāl 171 urjūza 144
d-l-q, dalaq 218n344 r-j-w, 597–612, 614, 619–620, 659, 677 and
d-n-n, dann, pl. dinān 158n46, 208n18, n744a, 679–680, 682–690
277n51 rajāʾ 598–601, 603–605, 612–613, 615–623,
d-n-ʾ, danāʾa 441 629, 655n623, 675, 678, 682
d-n-w, dunyā 546–547 r-j-y, rajiya 603n330
d-h-r, dahr 498, 527–537, 539–544, 546, r-ḥ-m, 17n28
560–562, 566, 568–569, 573–575, 578, r-ḥ-y, raḥā 382
586, 588, 599, 610, 613, 631, 633, 652, r-d-d, murtadd 261
989 r-dh-l, radhāla 275
ṣāḥib al- 540 r-z-q, rizq 511
ahl dahrī 530n22 r-s-l, rasāʾil 455
r-sh-sh, rashsh, marshūsh 167, 192 zaʿfarān, 166

r-sh-w, rashwa (rishwa or rushwa) 730n3, z-f-f, zaffa 201n254
732 z-q-m, zaqqūm 140, 167n97, 179, 268n16, 307
rishāʾ 732 z-k-z-h, 161
r-ṣ-d, raṣad 737 z-k-m, zukām 307n41
r-ṣ-ʿ, marāṣīʿ 397 z-k-w, zakāh 347, 983
r-ʿ-sh, riʿsha 220 zakā, see khasā
r-ʿ-n, ruʿūna 188 z-l-m, azlām 409n30
r-ʿ-y, 113n319 zumurrud, 169n110
r-gh-b, raghba 621 z-m-n, zamān 105n289, 527–531, 534n47,
r-f-ḍ, rāfiḍa 170n120 535, 537, 540–543, 563, 566, 568–569,
r-f-ʿ, rafʿ (al-athqāl/aḥjār) 392, 443 571–572, 578, 584, 586n245, 613, 631n465
r-q-q, raqīq, riqq 47, 49, 104n285, 120 ḥusn al- 583
r-q-b, raqīb 410 zamāna 563
r-q-d, murqid, pl. marāqid 172n133, 243 z-n-d-q, zandaqa 75n172
r-q-ṣ, rāqiṣa, raqqāṣ 170 zindīq 75n172, 261, 538, 969
r-q-ʿ, ruqʿa (pl. riqāʿ) 369, 455, 501n18 z-n-y, zināʾ 58
r-n-ḥ, V 204n266 zānī 864, 869
r-h-n, 358 z-h-d, zuhd 553, 683
III (rihān, murāhana) 363, 364, 382, 386, z-h-r, zahr (zahār, zihār) 511n3, 512–515
412, 451, 455, 462n72, 493 z-w-d, zuwwāda 170
VI 366, 384n197, 388 z-w-r, zuwwār 678
rahn 404, 432, 514 z-w-l, (al-ʿaql) I and IV 248n46, 253n70
r-w-ḥ, V (tarayyaḥ) 204n266 zawāl 299n6
rūḥ, pl. arwāḥ 643, 1084 zyq, 514n14
rāḥa 641n536, 643, 665 zīh, 159–161, 167, 169, 191, 195, 213, 232–233,
rāḥat al-bāl 170 278
rayḥān 281n66 zayyāh 161
r-w-d, irāda 34, 42n49, 118n339, 623
murīd 42n49 s-ʾ-l, suʾʾāl 678
r-w-ḍ, riyāḍī 298n5 s-b-ḥ, sibāḥa 392
rūmī, 161 s-b-q, 15, 448–449, 453, 491
r-w-y, riwāya 806 II 384, 432
r-y-b, rayb 967 III (sibāq, musābaqa) 387, 392n233, 431,
irtiyāb 975 449
r-y-sh, rīsh 202n260 VI 14
rīsha 384n200 sabq 450
sabaq 432, 434, 441
zār (P.), zar (T.) 513–515 sābiq, pl. sawābiq 384, 455
z-b-n, muzābana 476 sabbāq 448
zajal, 174n143, 463, 472 asbaq 449
z-ḥ-l-q, zuḥlūqa 401 s-b-l, sabīl 756
z-ḥ-m, ziḥām 307n41 s-t-r, mastūr 75, 182. See also s-ṭ-l
z-r-z-r, zurzūr 884 mastūl (?) 192n208
z-r-q, mazārīq 443 sajʿ, 927
zarnab, 924, 938 s-j-l, musājala 388
z-ṭ-ṭ, zuṭṭ 170 s-j-n, 56n84
z-ʿ-b, 85n217 sijn 55, 56n84, 75, 117n333
zāʿibī 85 sijn al-jarāʾim 75
s-ḥ-t, suḥt 212, 730–731, 737 s-n-d, isnād 440n146, 841n7, 911, 914–915, 917,
s-ḥ-q, 204 1081
s-kh-r, sukhrī 90, 91 sundus, 181
taskhīr 90, 91n232 s-h-m, III 367, 369
musakhkhar 91n232 VI 369n127
suddar, 368, 382n186, 399–400, 461 sahm, pl. sihām 442, 452, 505
si-darah, sīdare, s-d-r-k 400 s-w-s, sūs 114
sadw, masādī, 396–397, 401 siyāsa 489, 1013
s-r-r, sirr 236n4, 272n34, 277n51 s-w-f, taswīf 657
asrār, esrār 158n51, 168, 284 s-w-q, sāqa 642
surūr 663 sūq, ahl al- 70
masarrāt 360n89 s-w-k, siwāk 209, 223n366
s-r-d, 212n297 s-y-f, sayf 442
s-r-ṭ-b-ʾ-w-y (?) 174 saykarān, 244, 247, 253
s-r-ṭ-n, II 181 and n168 s-y-l, sayyāl 543
s-ṭ-l (ṣ-ṭ-l), II, VII, and VIII 147, 208, 234
masṭūl, pl. masāṭīl 192n208, 208, 212, shāh (sheep) 444n161
286n81 shāh, shāh māt, shāhak, 375, 423
mastor, mastur (T.) 209 (shāhayn?) 487n58
saṭla 191, 204, 208 shāhīn, 487n58
saṭala (pl.) 209 sh-ʾ-ṭ-l, 208n279
saṭlānaj 208 sh-b-b, 618n406
s-ʿ-d, saʿd, saʿāda, suʿūd 171, 272n34 shabāb 946
s-ʿ-y, sāʿī, pl. suʿāh 171n122, 388, 883 sh-b-k, shibāk, mushābakah (bi-l-aydī)
s-f-f, I and VIII 189, 193n209, 202n261 392n233, 394
safūf 171 sh-b-h, shubha 967, 972n20
s-f-r, safar 769n58 sh-t-l, mashtūl 192n208
s-f-l, safāla 275 sh-ḥ-d, shuḥd 730n5
sufun (pl.) 442 sh-ḥ-dh, shaḥḥādh 448
sifanj, 221n356 sh-d-d, shadīdat al-saṭla 191
s-q-y, siqāya (bayt) 303n20 sh-r-r, shirra 310n57
sukkayt, 384n199 sh-r-b, shurb 359
s-k-r, 243 şerbetci, 198n232
sukr 90, 208, 243, 303n20 sh-r-ḥ, inshirāḥ 415
muskir 154, 215n319, 240–241, 243 sh-r-ṭ, ashrāṭ 902
sakrān 279n61 sh-r-ʿ, sharīʿa 236, 445–446, 816n90
sukkarī 171 ahl al-sharīʿa 989
sukurka, 157n38, 244n28 mashrūʿ 441
s-l-b, salb 414 sh-r-k, mushāraka 436
s-l-kh, maslakh 202 ishtirāk 706
s-l-ṭ, sulṭān 72n159, 113, 432, 434, 733 shash u panj, -zanān 485n49
sulṭāna 155 shash wa-yak, 358
s-l-f-h, 400 sh-ṭ-ḥ, 304n20
s-l-m, salam 476 shaṭḥ 306n36
salām 427n96 sh-ṭ-r, shaṭāra 71n158
istislām 250n59 shiṭranj, pl. shiṭranjāt 422, 481
s-m-r, samar 467n91, 470n105, 928 sh-ṭ-f, shaṭfa 267
s-n-n, sunna 782, 789, 954, 1077 shaʿbadha, 351
sunbul, 166 sh-ʿ-r, shuʿarāʾ (pl.) 112, 448
sh-ʿ-l, mishʿal 171 ṣ-f-d, ṣafadī 173

mashāʿilīya 170n117, 489 ṣ-f-w, 491
shaghzabīya, 392n233 ṣafw 347n4
sh-f-f, II 193n209 ṣ-l-ḥ, 443
sh-q-f, II (?) 193n209 ṣalāḥ 432
shaqfa kabshīya 163, 193n209, 286n81 maṣlaḥa 346, 432
sh-k-k, shakk 967–968, 973, 975 aṣlaḥ 689
sh-k-l, mushākala 712 ṣ-l-q, 190
sh-k-w, shakā 968 ṣalaqa 191
shakwā 579, 676n737 ṣalq 198
sh-m-ʿ, shumayʿa 172 ṣ-l-w, muṣallī 384
tashmīʿ 171 ṣundūq, 201
sh-m-l, shaml 172 ṣ-n-ʿ, 172, 266
shawānī (pl.) 390 shaykh al-ṣināʿa 199
shahārdah, 378 muṣānaʿa 738
sh-h-d, shahīd 774n77 ṣ-n-f, taṣnīf 1080, 1081n65
shahāda 420 ṣihyawnī, 173
shāhid 346n3 ṣ-w-r, ṣūra 437
shahdānaj, shahdānaq, 155, 175n149, taṣwīr 1047
180n163, 190, 207n275, 208, 219 muṣawwir 887
shādānaq, sharānaq, shādānak 155– taṣawwur 245n31, 635
156 ṣawlajān, pl. ṣawālij 391, 401, 497
sh-h-r, VIII 261n111 ṣ-y-ḥ, ṣiyāḥ 492
sh-h-w, VIII, shahwa 104n285, 215n321, 231, ṣ-y-d, V 172
243, 606n340 ṣ-y-r, ṣāra 525n7, 526n10
shahwānī 101
sh-y-ʾ, mashīʾa (ḥurrīyat al-mashīʾa) 36n32a ḍ-r-b, 405
sh-y-kh, mashāʾikh (pl.) 170 ḍarba 473n114
shīreh, 162n70 ḍ-r-s, ḍars 193n209
sh-y-l, shayl (al-athqāl/aḥjār) 392 ḍ-ʿ-f, ḍuʿafāʾ (pl.) 230
sh-y-n, shayn, shīn 306n38 taḍʿīf 658n638
ḍaghā, 491, 492n85
ṣād (the letter) 1048 ḍ-m-r, II, IV 384, 450
ṣ-b-b, ṣabīb (dam) 191 miḍmār 448, 450
ṣ-bāḥ (liʿb -) 395 ḍ-m-n, 403
ṣ-b-r, ṣabr 587, 684 ḍamān 267, 269
ṣ-b-w, ṣabī, ṣibā 942, 945–946 taḍmīn 882n55
taṣābī 360 ḍ-w-r, taḍawwur 245n31
ṣ-ḥ-ḥ, ṣaḥḥa 442 ḍ-y-q, II 220n354
ṣaḥīḥ 159, 161–162, 169, 239
ṣ-ḥ-b, aṣḥāb 276 ṭāʾūs (dhanab) 172
ṣ-ḥ-n, 191–192, 235, 262 ṭāq, 221n361
ṣ-d-r, 400 ṭ-b-kh, 189
ṣ-d-gh, ṣudgh, pl. aṣdāgh 217, 223 ṭabbākh 171
ṣ-d-q, ṣidq 653n607 ṭ-b-ʿ, ṭabʿ 104n285
ṣ-r-ʿ, ṣarʿ 208 ṭ-b-q, ṭabaqāt 996n137
muṣāraʿa 392, 442 muṭbaq 117n333
ṣ-ṭ-l, see s-ṭ-l ṭabl, 377
ṣ-gh-r, ṣaghīra 429 ṭuban, 368, 382, 400–401
ṭ-r-b, 304n20 ẓ-h-r, ẓāhir 501

ṭarab, taṭarrub 170, 256n85, 272n34, 356,
359, 414 ʿāqirqarḥā, 166
ṭ-r-d, 484 ʿ-b-th, 350
ṭ-ʿ-m, ṭuʿma 434 ʿ-b-d, ʿabd 33, 45–46, 50
maṭʿūm 198 ʿabd al-riqq 104n285
ṭ-f-r-y, 169n104, 191 ʿabd al-shahwa 104n285
ṭ-f-l, ṭifl 942 ʿabd al-ṭabʿ 104n285
ṭufaylī 170, 478, 487 ʿabd al-ʿaṣā 108n300
ṭfal 267n14 ʿibāda 127n397b, 282
dokuztaş (ṭoqūzṭāsh) 382n186 ʿubūda 127n397b
ṭ-l-s, aṭlas 303n20, 304n26 ʿubūdīya 33n22a, 47, 50, 118n339, 121–122,
ṭ-l-ʿ, ( fī ʿayn-) 210 125–126;
ṭ-l-q, ṭalāq 932 ʿubūdīya ikhtiyārīya 127
muṭlaq 112 mutaʿabbid 224n372
ṭ-m-r, maṭmūra 79, 117n333 ʿ-b-r, ʿibāra 448
ṭ-m-ʿ, 603, 617 ʿābir al-sabīl 756
ṭamaʿ 594, 604–608, 612, 615–618, ʿ-j-b, ʿajaʾib 776
623–624, 628, 642 ʿ-j-z, ʿajz ḥukmī 47n59
maṭmaʿ, pl. maṭāmiʿ 605–608, 643 ʿ-j-m, ʿajam 348
aṭmaʿ 454 ʿ-j-n, V 189
muṭammiʿ 444, 454n34, 481 maʿjūn 158, 165, 218n85, 267
ṭ-h-r, ṭāhir 251 maʿājīnī 171
ṭāba, pl. ṭābāt 191, 194, 211n291 ʿ-d-d, VIII 456n45
ṭ-w-ʿ, istiṭāʿa 973 ʿ-d-l, ʿadāla, ʿadl 420, 424, 428, 430, 782, 815
ṭ-w-l, ṭūl al-amal 613, 618n406, 682, 685 ʿadlī 503
ṭ(ā)wla, 514n14 ʿ-d-n, maʿdinī 304
ṭ-y-b, ṭāb 380, 399 ʿ-d-w, taʿaddī 226
ṭīb(a), see jawz ʿ-dh-r 60n102
aṭyab 661–662 ʿidhār 217
ṭ-y-r, II 191 ʿ-r-b 756n8
ṭayr, taṭyīr, muṭayyir 388–389, 441 ʿ-r-b-d 199n243
ṭ-y-f, ṭayf 636, 638n505 ʿarbada 245n32
– al-khayāl 637, 662, 669 ʿuruban 898
muṭayli/as 170n115 ʿ-r-j, miʿrāj 227, 298
ṭ-y-n, ṭīn 14n10 ʿ-r-s, muʿris 172n132
ṭīna 217n336 ʿ-r-ḍ, aʿrāḍ, ʿurūḍ 648–649
muʿarriḍ 172n132
ẓ-r-f, ẓurrāf 869 ʿ-r-f, ʿurfī 589
ẓ-f-r, ẓafar, ẓufr 169n104 maʿrifa 689, 980
ẓ-l-f, ẓilf al-ḥimār, aẓlāf al-maʿz 268n15 ʿārif 782
ẓ-l-m, ẓulm 476 ʿ-r-q, ʿirq al-luffāḥ 167
maẓālim 445, 738 ʿ-r-k, ʿirāk 392n233
ẓālim 566n160 ʿ-r-y, ʿury 437
maẓlūm 774n77 ʿarī, ʿārī 305n36
ẓ-n-n, 624n428 ʿ-z-z, ʿizz 98n261, 99n263, 103, 105n289, 761
ẓann 616n402, 624, 663, 690, 975, 1024 ʿazīz 122
sūʾ al-ẓann 974 aʿazz 767
maẓanna 221 ʿzʾ nfsʾ 166n92
ʿ-z-r 60n102 aʿlām (pl.) 202

taʿzīr 60–61, 63n120, 182, 240, 245, 258, ʿallām 203n261
260–262, 444, 744 ʿālim 999n156
ʿ-z-l, ʿuzla, ʿuzlet 49, 721, 723n99 al-ʿālim al-fāsiq 984
ʿ-z-m, ʿazm 419, 571 ʿālim al-sūʾ 983
ʿ-s-r, ʿusr 767 ʿulamāʾ (pl.) 238, 434
ʿ askarī 169n102 maʿlūm 159–160, 169, 234, 302–303n18
ʿ-s-y, ʿasā 645n560 ʿ-l-w, muʿallā 451
ʿ-sh-r, ʿashīra 170 ʿ-m-m, ʿimāma (khaṭf al-ʿamāʾim) 305n36
ʿ-sh-q, ʿishq, ʿawāshiq, mutaʿashshiqāt 898 ʿāmma 978n50
ʿashannaq 937n106 ʿ-m-d, ʿamūd 442
ʿ-ṣ-r, ʿaṣr 537n59 ʿ-m-r 666
maʿṣira 212 ʿamr, ʿumr 533n43
ʿuṣfūr 347 miʿmārīya (pl.) 171
ʿ-ṣ-w, ʿaṣā 108n300 ʿ-m-l, III 427n96
ʿ-ṣ-y, maʿṣiya 256, 860n52 X 231, 232, 266n5
ʿuṣāh (pl.) 75n172 ʿamal 652–654, 655n623, 656, 659, 670,
ʿ-ḍ-ḍ, ʿaḍḍ al-fakhdh 392n233 670n704
ʿ-ṭ-r, ʿaṭṭār 171 ʿummāl (pl.) 733
ʿ-ṭ-f, ʿaṭafa 1049n15 ʿuwaymila 172
ʿ-ṭ-l, taʿaṭṭala 685n787 ʿ-n-b-r, muʿanbar(a) 158, 173, 271n31
ʿuṭlah 486 ʿ-n-q, ʿānaqa, iʿtanaqa 1049n15
taʿṭīl 1018 ʿ-n-y, III 231, 232n411, 255
ahl al-taʿṭil 538 maʿnā 244, 304n20, 305n31, 626n431
ʿ-ṭ-w, III (?) 294 muʿaynī (?) 194n213
VI 231, 234 ʿ-w-ḍ, ʿiwaḍ 376, 432, 441, 507, 603
ʿ-f-f, ʿiffa 47, 101, 815 ʿayāyāʾ, ghayāyāʾ 926n60, 938n111
ʿafāf, ʿafīf 102n278, 103 ʿ-y-n, ʿayn (wujūd ʿayn) 126
ʿifrīṭ 170n116 (letter) 1050
ʿ-f-n, taʿfīn 190 (essence/eye) 1084
ʿ-f-w, ʿāfiya 81 aʿyān 541, 544
ʿ-q-q, ʿaqīq 210 muʿayyan 435
ʿ-q-d, ʿaqd 435
ʿuqda 166–167, 267 gh-b-r, ghubayrāʾ 142, 150, 157, 169, 174n142,
iʿtiqād 624 179–180, 215n321, 221n356, 226, 282–283, 291
ʿ-q-r, ʿaqr 209n284 gh-b-ṭ, ghibṭa 766
ʿaqāqīr (pl.) 236 gh-r-r 627–628
ʿ-q-l, ʿaql, ʿuqūl (pl.) 220, 226, 243, 248n46, ghurra 581n232
253n70, 283, 285n80, 291n105, 562, 624, gharar 434, 453, 465n83, 476
667n693, 897, 987n94 gharūr 627
ʿāqil 999n155 ightirār 689
ʿ-k-n, ʿukna 170 gharānīq 614n393
ʿ-l-l, laʿalla 645n560 gh-r-b 756, 777
maʿlūl 622 ghurba 756n7, 759, 764n38, 768, 776–777,
ʿ-l-j, ʿilāj 392 779–782
ʿ-l-m, ʿilm 654, 782, 968, 975 ghurāb 757n10
ʿilm al-badīʿ 927 gharīb, pl. ghurabāʾ 425, 579, 756–759,
ʿilm al-rajāʾ 686 774, 776–778, 781–790, 795–796,
ʿulūm (pl.) 985, 987, 1007n24 925–926
gharāʾib (pl.) 925 f-r-ḥ, afrāḥ (pl., rather than ifrāḥ) 292n111
ightirāb 759 mufarriḥ 158, 236
gh-r-m, II 480n31 f-r-s, farasā rihān 451
ghārim 437n138 f-r-ʿ, furūʿ 436
gharīm 505 – al-ijtihādīya 971
maghram 456n47 f-r-gh, farāghet, fārigh 49 and n66a
gh-z-l, ghazzāl 202n260 furrāgh 486, 661
gh-s-l, ghasala 1075 f-r-q, III 232
mughassil (al-amwāt) 171n127 f-r-k 169n103, 189, 193
gh-ṣ-b, ghaṣb 113, 476 f-r-m, farma 281n69
mughāḍāh 492 f-r-w-sh, II 181
gh-ṭ-y, II 243 f-s-d, fasād 421, 546
gh-f-l, ghufl 409 mafsada 415
gh-l-b 454n37, 474n116, 687, 690 mufsid 243
III 415 f-s-q, fisq 984
ghalab 395 fāsiq 255, 259, 426, 429, 984
ghulb 463n74 fiskil 384, 450
ghālib 340 f-s-w, fasā ʿāzib 166n92
maghlūb 340, 369n128 f-sh-l 215
gh-l-q, III 382n189 f-ṣ-ṣ, faṣṣ, dual faṣṣān, pl. fuṣūṣ 361, 370,
gh-l-m, ghulām, pl. ghilmān/ghulāmīyāt 455–456, 462, 510
202n261, 863n3, 865, 870, 874 f-ṣ-l, fuṣūl 1083
gh-l-y, ghalayān 198 f-ḍ-l, faḍl 928
gh-m-r 191 ahl al- 932
maghmūr 190, 452 afāḍil 112
gh-n-m, ghānim 437n138 tafḍīl 875
gh-n-y, ghanī, ghinā 125–126 mufāḍala 862n1
ghinā al-dhāt 126 f-ʿ-l, fāʿil 266, 267n9
maghānī (pl.) 171 f-q-r, fuqr, iftiqār 125–126
gh-y-y, ghāya 449, 610n378, 674, 1019 fuqarāʾ (pl.) 170, 189, 205, 756, 785n120
gh-y-b, I 267 f-q-ʿ, fuqāʿ 308n49
II 142, 226, 229, 273n34 f-q-h, fiqh 809n70b, 928
ghayb 233 f-k-k 358
ghība 930, 938n114 VII 232
gh-y-r, II 226 f-k-r, fikr(a) 158, 207, 221–222, 638n505
ghayra 219 f-l-s, IV 171n123, 233, 304n20
mutafalsif 171n123
f-ʾ-w/y, fiʾa 186 f-l-f-l, fulful 166
f-t-r, futūr 214–215, 262 f-l-k, aflāk (pl.) 356
mufattir 214–215, 240 f-n-n, fanna 221
f-t-l, fattāl 171 f-n-d, mufannid, mufannad 290n97
f-t-w, fatan 117, 601, 951 f-w-z, fāza, fawz, afwaz 451–453
fityān (pl.) 393, 414, 491, 869 fāz ʿAbbās 166
fatwā 8, 142, 182, 239, 266, 282, 538, 540, f-w-ḍ, tafwīḍ 43n50
542–543, 809, 1052, 1076 fūṭa 201
futūwa 487 f-w-q, fawq 674
muftī 279, 542 fuwaq (pl.) 379
fijrim 396n251 f-w-l, fūla 195, 213n308
f-kh-r, mufākhara, tafākhur 12, 17, 862n1 f-y-d, fawāʾid 841n6, 928, 934
f-y-l, fiyāl, mufāyala, mufāyil 368, 400– q-ṣ-ṣ, qiṣṣa 923

401 q-ṣ-b, qaṣab, qaṣaba, qaṣabāt 58, 164, 212,
380, 384, 449
qāf 1048 q-ṣ-d, qaṣīda 463, 643
q-b-ḥ, qabīḥ 75, 1004 q-ṣ-r, qiṣar (al-amal) 613, 682
q-b-r, maqbarat al-ghurabāʾ 790n155 q-ṣ-f 360
q-b-s, iqtibās 449 qaṣf, maqṣaf 204n266, 359–360, 480n33,
q-b-ḍ, qabḍ 658n635 493n91
qabaq 395n248 q-ṣ-w, aqṣā 610n378
q-b-l, qābala, muqābala 885, 886n60–61 q-ḍ-y, qaḍāʾ 1016
mutaqabbil 481 qāḍī 64, 445–446
q-b-w, qabw 201n256 q-ṭ-ṭ, qiṭṭ (raʾs al-) 169
q-t-l 192, 217n336, 225, 230n399 q-ṭ-b, quṭb 724
qātala, taqātala 12, 15 q-ṭ-ʿ 207n275, 232
q-ḥ-m, VIII 306n39 qaṭʿ 278
q-d-ḥ, ( fī ʿayn-) 210 quṭṭāʿ (pl.) 75n172
qidḥ 405, 451–452 q-ʿ-d, muqʿad 290n98
q-d-r, qadar, aqdār 503–504, 629, 631 q-l-l, qulla 196n222
al-qaḍāʾ wa-l-qadar 507 istiqlāl 622
qudra 117 q-l-b, qalb 691
miqdār, taqdīr 455, 507, 690 qallāb 381n183
q-d-s, quds 171 q-l-d, taqlīd 24
maqdisī 303n20, 305n33 q-l-ṣ, qalūṣ 364–365
q-r-r, qurrat al-ʿayn 172 q-l-ʿ, qalāʿa 401
q-r-b, II (qurbān) 290n98 miqlāʿ 443
qirba 196 qalandarī, qarandalī, qalandarāwī 158, 174
qurba 291n104 qalandarkhāne (P.) 480
qurbā 757–758 q-l-w/y 190
q-r-ṣ, qurṣ, pl. aqrāṣ 167n94, 189, 194, qula, miqlāʾ 401
234n420 q-m-r 339, 452, 505
qurṣa, pl. qiraṣah 397 qamara 400, 465–474, 491, 505, 511
qāwāriṣ (pl.) 537 qamira 466n88, 467n91, 469
q-r-ḍ, qurāḍa 186n187 III 364, 400, 419, 465, 468, 472n109, 491
q-r-ṭ, qirāṭ 173 IV 467n91, 470
q-r-ẓ, taqrīẓes 877n45, 878, 879n49 V 339
q-r-ʿ, qaraʿ 432 VI 340n8
maqrūʿ 369n128 VIII 364n100, 393
qurʿa 369n129, 370, 386 qamr 480n31, 504n26, 514–515
qarʿa 395n248 qamra 416n51
qirq 379, 381–382, 400, 446, 510 qāmir 358, 403, 452, 454
qirqāt (pl.) 481 maqmūr 358, 369n128, 452, 454, 461n63,
qarāmiṭah (pl.) 172n131 469
q-r-n, qarn 765 maqmūra 454
qurna, pl. quran (also qurn, qurūn?) qammār 446
173n139, 195, 282n69 qimār 339–340, 357, 359, 363, 370–373,
q-s-m 453 376–377, 389, 404, 412, 420, 431, 434,
qasāma 172 437n138, 446, 460, 468, 473n114, 480,
q-sh-sh, qashsh 192 483, 501n18, 508n42, 511
q-sh-r, maqshūr 189 muqāmara 396
muqāmir 368, 371, 373, 400, 448, 452n28, k-r-sh, kirsh, kirsha, pl. kurūsh 163–164,
472n111, 480n32, 481, 489 193n213
qamar (moon) 339, 400, 465–472 akrāsh 164n79
qumrī(ya), pl. qamārī 339, 469 k-r-k-m, kurkum 169n106
qimārkhāne (P.) 480, 499n13 k-r-m, karm, pl. kurūm 157n40
q-m-sh, qumāsh 294, 490 karam 455
qinnīn 377n160 karāma 235
qinnab, qunnab 155, 157, 175n149, 185, 188, karīm 33, 115
192n208 k-r-h, makrūh 240, 255, 427n96
qunbus (qanbas, qumbus, qunbuz) 155, k-s-r 193
157, 169, 302n18, 303n20, 304n21 k-s-l, kasal 215, 262, 656
qn’bs 155 takāsul 657
qunbura 497 k-ʿ-b, kaʿb, kaʿba, dual kaʿbatān, pl. kiʿāb 361,
q-n-ṭ, qaniṭa 685n787 370, 370n134, 371–372, 376, 381, 400, 409n30,
qunūṭ 604 and n333 425n88, 446, 458, 462n70, 473n114, 499n14,
q-n-ʿ, qanāʿet 49 512
q-h-r, maqhūr 509 k-f-f, kaff 159–160, 168, 194, 279n60, 290
q-w-t, qāt 144, 206 kafta 144
q-w-d, qawwād 172 k-f-r, kaffāra 809n70b
qwq 379 k-f-y 159
quwaq (uwaq) 379n175a k-l-b, kilāb (men) 371, 376n155
q-w-l, qawl 363 kilāb (dogs) 394
q-w-m, qāma ʿalā 217n336 k-l-m, kalām 448, 972, 973
maqām 125–126 mutakallim 973, 1014, 1024
maqāma 468, 1002, 1005 k-m-l, kamāl 101
q-y-n, qayn 406 kamāl al-ʿilm 688
q-y-s 487n59 k-n/tbābatī 164–165, 207, 212, 216n328, 227
kanjifah (ganjifah, etc.) 380, 398–399
k-ʾ-s, kaʾs, kās 197, 271n31, 303n20 k-h-n, kahāna 477n18
kāghid 399 takahhun 495
kāfūrī 158, 196, 275 kūbah 376, 377n160
k-b-b, II 190, 195 k-w-n, kāna 525n7, 526n10
kubba (kabba) 195 k-y-s, kīs 197, 302n18
kabāba 164–165 akyās 211n293
k-b-r, kabīra 414, 429 k-y-f, kayf (kēf ) 160
mukābara 949
k-b-sh, kabsh, kabsha, pl. kibāsh 163, 173, 278, li- (prep.) 467n91
393 lima (li-mā) 1014
kabshī 163, 193n209, 286n81 l-ʾ-ṭ 406n18
akbāsh 164n79 lām-alif 1049–1050
k-t-b, kitāb 1077n48 l-b-b, lubbī 463
kātib al-inshāʾ 211n290, 281 lubāba 164, 172n134, 216
kujja 338, 401 l-ḥ-d, malāḥida (pl.) 167
kajkūl (kashkūl, kachkūl) 194n214 l-dh-dh 661n651
k-ḥ-l, kuḥl 172 ladhdha 218n341, 226, 663
k-d-y, mukaddī 448 l-z-q, lazqa 170
k-dh-b, kadhaba 628–629 l-z-m, iltizāmāt 436
kurtūm 169n106 l-ṣ-ṣ, liṣṣ 448, 489
k-r-s, kirs 164n79 l-ṭ-ṭ 406n18
l-ʿ-b 345, 350–351, 381n184, 464n78 m-t-ʿ, amtaʿ 662

III 350, 471n107, 490n74 m-th-l, mithāl 1054
V 350, 354n53 muththal 462n70
VI 351, 354n53, 501n18 tamāthīl 423
lāʿib, pl. luʿʿāb 353, 389 māthil, see jawz;
malʿūb bi- 352n40 m-j-n, majāna 563
liʿb, laʿb, laʿib 345, 348n13, 350n25, mujūn 357, 865n9, 868
356–357, 359, 464n78, and passim majūs 505
luʿbatān (dual) 478 m-ḥ-w, maḥā 1076
luʿab (dolls) 347n6 m-kh-l-ʿ, II 202
laʿʿāb 351n33, 357n79, 478 m-r-ʾ, murūwa 99n263, 346n3, 420, 424, 431,
malāʿib 376n154 486–487, 845n13, 930
Laʿūb, Mulāʿib 345n2 marṭabān, pl. marāṭabīn 164
luʿāb 345n2, 355 mizr 161n64, 244n28
luʿbatbāz, luʿbatgān 500n15 m-s-kh, maskh 296
l-ʿ-q 345n2 m-s-k 56
l-f-ḥ, luffāḥ 167 misk 218n341
l-f-ẓ, lafẓ 625n431 mumassak 167
l-q-m, luqma 234n420 m-ḍ-gh 189, 217n336
luqayma 158, 169, 171 VI 224n373
l-q-n, talqīn 957 māqiṭ 401
l-q-y, VI 1049n15 m-l-ḥ, malīḥ 876, 881n53, 883–884, 887–888,
l-h-j, lahija 1069 889n64, 890
l-h-w 272n34 malīḥa 171
lahw 348n13, 350, 356–357, 359, 389, 465, mulaysāʾ (?) 171n126
478n18, and passim m-l-q, tamalluq 621
malāhī 428 m-l-k 113n319
alhā 506 minare gölgesi, see under n-w-r
l-w-ḥ, luwayḥ 279n61 mandīl,* 197, 488, 490
l-w-ṭ 194, 203n261 mang, mangiyā, mangiyāgar (P.) 499n13, 510
lūṭī 864, 869–870, 872, 873 m-n-w 597, 605n340, 609, 647, 649
malūf 172 mannā (II) 672n719
l-w-m, malāmī 293n115 manīya, pl. manāyā 498, 647–648, 650,
l-w-n, alwān 220 652
l-y-t, layta 591, 645–646 munya, munā 605, 619, 635, 675–676
l-y-n, līn 279n59 umnīya 618–619, 635, 647–648, 652
mulayyinat al-ṭibāʿ 172 pl. amānī 592, 628, 636n498, 662
tamannī 621–623, 625
mā 1014 mahārik (pl.) (P. muhraq, muhre) 376n155,
mākhūr, pl. mawākhīr 360, 481 499n14
māyah 448n2 m-w-t, mawt 533n41, 649n584
* [In the original index of Gambling in Islam, Rosenthal entered mandīl under the root n-d-l,
following the Arab lexicographers. In his essay “A Note on the Mandīl” (Four Essays on Art and
Literature in Islam, Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1971), he noted that the “derivation of mandīl from Latin
mantēle … is self-evident” (pp. 62–63). I have accordingly listed it alphabetically in this index.
Ed.]
m-w-l, mawwāl 192 n-ṣ-b, naṣba 504n26

mawālīyā 192–194, 448n2 n-ṣ-l, naṣl 382, 441–442
m-y-d, maydān 386, 389, 448–449 n-ḍ-l, niḍāl 431
m-y-ʿ, māʾiʿ 198 n-ṭ-ḥ, III niṭāḥ, munāṭaḥa 393, 444n161
n-ṭ-ʿ, naṭʿ 500n15
nʾnʾ 556n118 n-ṭ-q, manṭiq 885n59
unbūtha 368, 401 n-ẓ-r, naẓar 968n5
n-b-dh, nabīdh 246, 259–260, 286n81, 289, manẓara 214
488 munāẓara 862n1
n-b-w 527n15 intiẓār 614n396, 622, 691
n-j-s, najis 251 muntaẓar 691
tanjīs 142 n-ẓ-m, intiẓām 226
n-j-m, munajjim 171, 1001 n-ʿ-m, niʿma (verb of praise) 601
n-ḥ-b, III 364, 404 niʿam 16
n-kh-r, mankhūr 221n356 n-gh-r, nughar, nughayr 347n4
n-d-b, nadab 374, 432, 453 n-gh-w, munāghāt 448
n-d-m, nadāma 811n76a n-f-s, III and VI (competition) 14–19
nard 350, 357–359, 361–362, 371–373, nafas, nefes, pl. anfās 168n99, 220n354
376–379, 388, 399–400, 403, 407n25, 412, n-f-ʿ, manfaʿa 415
421–424, 426–428, 429, 446, 460–462, n-f-y 58
464–465, 468–471, 479, 481–483, 486–490, n-q-b 221n356
493, 495, 498–499, 502–507, 514, 515 naqīb 184, 197n226, 210n285, 444
pl. nardāt 481 n-q-r, III (munāqara) 393
nardbāz 499n14 nuqra 167, 266
nardashīr 376, 422, 425, 487 n-q-sh, naqsh 1047
n-z-ʿ, nuzzāʿ/nawāziʿ 781 manqūsha 170n116
n-z-l, nizāl 262n113, 299n6 naqshbīn-e mang 499n13
munāzala 392n233 n-q-ṭ, nuqaṭ (pl.) 370
n-z-h, anzah 204n267 n-q-l, manqala 379–380
munazzah 204n267 n-m-s, V 293n113
tannazzuh 359 nāmūsa 230
muntazah 271 n-h-d, munāhada 367
n-s-b, nasab 756 n-h-w/y, muntahā 610n378, 674
nisba 182, 756 n-w-b, nuwaba 590
nasīb 777 n-w-r, nūra 267
tanāsub 712 minare gölgesi 168n99
mansūb 142 n-w-ʿ, anwāʿ 1084
nasnās 548 n-w-l, VI 231
n-sh-ʾ, inshāʾ 455 n-w-m, VI 224n373
kātib al- 211n290, 281 nūn (letter) 1048, 1050
n-sh-b, nushshāb(a) 443 n-w-y, nawā 381n182
n-sh-ṭ, nashāṭ 260n105
n-sh-f 209, 224n371 h-d-y, hadīya 730n3
nāshif 223n370 h-r-sh, hirāsh, muhārasha 394, 444n161
nishāf 221n363 h-r-m 618n406
n-sh-w 243, 260n104 h-z-l, hazl 345
nashwa 243–244 h-ḍ-m, haḍm 299n10
nashāh 260n104 hāḍim 158
nashwān 245, 279n61 muhaḍḍima 170, 299n10
h-m-m, hamm 675 w-ʿ-ẓ, wāʿiẓ 366

himma 16n20 w-f-q, wāfaqa 419
h-n-ʾ, II 172 tawfīq 205
hindī 155, 190n200 ittifāq 245, 497
hindīya 179 w-f-y, wafāʾ 96n252
h-w-s, hawas 220 w-q-t, waqt, pl. awqāt 531, 543, 617n404, 687
h-w-n, hawān, dār al- 779 muwaqqit 885
h-w-y, hawā 683 w-q-ʿ, V 614n396, 691
ahl al- 976 tawqīʿ 83, 366
h-y-j, II 169n109 w-q-f, waqf 77, 218, 1076
h-y-sh, hīsh, see dubb w-k-l, tawakkul 666n687, 684, 961
w-l-d, walīd 939n120
w-j-b, wajab 432 w-l-ʿ, walaʿ 489
wājib 971 w-l-gh 345n2
w-j-d, wajd 691 w-l-y, walī 437
wujūd 126, 229, 267n9, 272n34 wālī 64, 389, 434
w-j-s, ījās 624 w-n-y, tawānī 656
w-j-h, wajh 538 w-h-b, hiba 929
wujūh 769n58, 795 w-h-m 603n330, 644
w-ḥ-d, waḥda 542 V 635
tawḥīd 782 wahm 392n233
ittiḥād 542, 705–706 wahmī 226, 644
ittiḥādīya 540, 715
w-ḥ-sh, waḥsha 721, 761 y-ʾ-s, yaʾs 98n261, 598, 604–607, 612, 641,
īḥāsh 624n425 657
w-d-y, diya 809n70b yāqūt 169n110
w-r-d y-b-s, yābis 198
wird 283 y-s-r 512
ward 462 yusr 767
w-r-q, waraq(a) 155 yāsir 416
wirāqa 483 aysar 454
warqāʾ 200n246 maysir 341, 360, 368, 372, 396, 397,
muwarraq 278n58 402–403, 409, 411–418, 423, 426, 434,
w-s-w-s, wasāwis 611, 629 451–452, 454–455, 458, 468, 476,
w-sh-ḥ, muwashshaḥ 470, 484n46, 718 491–492, 508–509, 512
w-sh-k 968 y-q-n, yaqīn 974–976
w-sh-m, mawshūm 426n90 yak, see shash wa-yak
w-ṣ-f, waṣf 875 y-m-m, tayammum 197, 803–804
w-ṣ-l, wuṣūl 170 y-w-m, yawm al-munāfasa, al-munāqasha,
w-ḍ-ʿ, VI 364n100, 792 al-musābaqa 15n18
w-ṭ-n, waṭan 756n7, 771 ayyām 529, 534n47, 567, 574
Index of Some Terms in Other Languages
The Index follows the English alphabet. Diacritics have been disregarded.
Abbreviations: Akk[adian], Aram[aic], Eth[iopic], Gr[eek], H[ebrew], Ind[ic], It[alian],
L[atin], N[orth] W[est] Sem[itic], Sem[itic], South Ar[abian], Sp[anish], Syr[iac].
aiôn (Gr.) 531 logos (Gr.) 707

aisthêsis (Gr.) 635 lʿūḇā (Syr.) 345n2
allos egō (Gr.) 701, 702
allotrios (Gr.) 769, 786n131 melein (Gr.) 231
alquerque (Sp.) 510 melle (Syr.) 1069
azar (Sp.) 512 minchiate (It.) 510
azaro (Sp.) 511, 514–515 monochōros (Gr.) 457
mor(r)a (It.) 511
*b-q (Sem.) 448n3
naipes, naibi (Sp.-It.) 510
chronos (Gr.) 531 n-p-s, n-p-ṣ (Syr.) 370n134
dado (Sp.) 510 ozos, ozarion (Gr.) 513

daimôn (Gr.) 532
paizein psēphois (Gr.) 371
ʾ eḡōz (H.) 396n251 pari e caffo (It.) 510n3
eleutheria, eleutheriotês (Gr.) 46, 109– pessā, peṣṣṯā (Syr.) 370n134
110 pessos (Gr.) 370n134, 457
eleutherios, eleutheros (Gr.) 109–110 phantasia (Gr.) 635
ennešu (Akk.) 1068 philokybos (Gr.) 371n137, 457
erasmion (Gr.) 718 phthonos (Gr.) 18n28
errebu, errēbu, errebtu (Akk.) 757 prāśa(ka), pāśa(ka) (Ind.) 510
psēphopaiktein, psēphos (Gr.) 371, 370n134
gh-r-b (Sem.) 756
q-s-m (H.) 453
hāgāh (H.) 1069 q-ṣ-m (Syr.) 453
ḥarrā, ḥarrāwī (Eth.) 32
ḥêr (Aram., Syr.) 31 raḥamīm (H.) 18n28
ḥêrûṯ (Aram.) 29 reazar (Sp.) 515
ḥêrûṯâ (Syr.) 32, 39 *r-g (Proto-Sem.) 603
ḥesed (H.) 17n28 r-g-g (Syr.) 603
*h-m (Sem.) 603, n.330
*ḥor (H.) 31 sakkī (Syr.) 968
hôra (Gr.) 531 s-g-r (Sem.) 56n84
sh-b-q (Aram.) 448n3
kalos (Gr.) 876 sheḡāḡāh (H.) 968
kybeuein, kybeutēs (Gr.) 371–372 sheḵnâ (Syr.) 56n84
shigaru (Akk.) 56n84
l-ʿ (Sem.) 345 skeptikos (Gr.) 968
lahag (H.) 1068–1070 s-k-k (H.) 968
lʿb, mlʿb (South Ar.) 345n2 sôphrôn, sôphrosynê (Gr.) 46–47, 101, 103, 109
l-ḥ-k (NW Sem.) 345n2 sʾṭl (Syr.) 208n279
index of some terms in other languages 1107
theos (Gr.) 531 xenos (Gr.) 786n131

ṭ-n-n (Syr.) 15n17
tychê (Gr.) 532 zara, zaro (It.) 510n3
zari (azari) (Gr.) 513
virtus (L.) 431
Index of Proper Names and Places
The index follows the English alphabet. The Arabic article, the abbreviation for ibn (b.), and
diacritics, including the hamza and ʿayn, are disregarded in the alphabetization.
ʿAbbād b. Manṣūr 927 ʿAbd-al-Qādir b. Muḥammad al-Qurashī

al-ʿAbbādī, M. 188, 288n92, 289n94 68n144, 69n148, 80n199, 237n4
al-ʿAbbās b. al-Aḥnaf 579n223, 636n498, 668 ʿAbd-al-Qāhir al-Jurjānī 83n210a
ʿAbbās, Iḥsān 129, 650n587, 781 ʿAbd-al-Raḥmān b. Abī Bakr (the caliph’s son)
Abbasi, Riza 25 663n669
al-ʿAbbāsī 552n102, 627n436, 672n714 ʿAbd-al-Raḥmān b. Abī Bakra 662–663
ʿAbbāsids 82, 271, 359, 554, 559, 563, 571, 678, ʿAbd-al-Raḥmān b. ʿAwf (?) 441n152
687, 862, 872, 881, 916, 995, 1048 ʿAbd-al-Raḥmān al-Barjūnī 832
poet 573, 602, 632, 675 ʿAbd-al-Raḥmān b. Ḥassān b. Thābit 646,
ʿAbda b. al-Ṭabīb 592n280 869
ʿAbdallāh b. ʿAbbās 80n201, 120, 338, 364, ʿAbd-al-Raḥmān b. Mahdī 537
403, 708, 758, 1084 ʿAbd-al-Ṣamad b. al-Muʿadhdhal 637
ʿAbdallāh b. al-ʿAbbās b. al-Faḍl b. al-Rabīʿ ʿAbd-al-Wadūd b. ʿAbd-al-Malik 1012,-1014,
360 1018–1020
ʿAbdallāh b. Abī Awfā 361 ʿAbd-al-Wahhāb, see Khaṭīb al-Nayrab
ʿAbdallāh b. ʿAnama al-Ḍabbī 416, 483 ʿAbd-al-Wahhāb b. ʿAlī b. Naṣr 244, 318
ʿAbdallāh b. Hammām al-Salūlī 563n147 ʿAbd-al-Wahhāb ʿAzzām 139
ʿAbdallāh b. Hārūn al-ʿArūḍī 578 Abel 982
ʿAbdallāh b. Ḥasan b. Ḥasan 841n7 ʿAbīd b. al-Abraṣ 787
ʿAbdallāh b. Maymūn 384n197, 434n121, ʿAbīda al-Salmānī 1078
436n131, 440n146, 444n161, 491n80 Abraha (the Abyssinian) 91
ʿAbdallāh al-Miṣrī al-majdhūb 235 Abraham (Prophet), see Ibrāhīm
ʿAbdallāh b. Muʿāwiya b. ʿAbdallāh b. Jaʿfar b. Abū l-ʿAbbās b. Sābūr 812
Abī Ṭālib 89 Abū l-ʿAbbās al-Sayyārī (al-Qāsim b. al-Qāsim)
ʿAbdallāh b. al-Mubārak 552n102, 553, 122
860n52, 984 Abū l-ʿAlāʾ al-Maʿarrī 460, 545n86, 583n239
ʿAbdallāh b. Ṭāhir 116 Abū ʿAlī al-Ṣūfī 584n242
ʿAbdallāh b. Thābit al-Tawwazī 365 Abū l-ʿĀliya al-Shaʾmī 673
ʿAbdallāh b. ʿUthmān b. Yaḥyā 124 Abū ʿAlqama 385
ʿAbd-al-ʿAzīz b. ʿAbd-al-Salām, ʿIzz-al-dīn Abū ʿAmr b. al-ʿAlāʾ 593n286, 1003, 1077, 1079
139–140, 259, 326, 369n129, 724, 841n6 Abū l-ʿAnbas al-Ṣaymarī 865
ʿAbd-al-Bāsiṭ b. Khalīl al-Ḥanafī 148 Abū l-Aswad al-Duʾalī 108n300, 552n102, 607,
ʿAbd-al-Jabbār (Judge) 624–625, 706 640n526, 657, 677, 995
ʿAbd-al-Laṭīf al-Baghdādī 53n74, 1032 Abū l-Aswad Muḥammad b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān
ʿAbd-al-Malik b. Marwān (caliph) 86n221, b. Nawfal 915–916
520–521, 739, 771, 994 Abū l-ʿAtāhiya 20, 75, 82n206, 566, 571, 574,
ʿAbd-al-Malik b. Ṣāliḥ b. ʿAlī b. ʿAbdallāh b. 577, 592n281, 593, 605–606, 611, 625n429,
ʿAbbās 80n201 629–631, 650, 652, 688
ʿAbd-Manāt of Kināna (tribe) 405 Abū ʿAwāna al-Mihrajānī 564n155
ʿAbd-al-Muhaymin b. ʿAbbās b. Sahl b. Saʿd Abū l-ʿAynāʾ 374, 417
385 Abū l-Bakhtarī (Judge) 442n153
ʿAbd-al-Qādir b. Abī Bakr al-Damāṣī Abū Bakr (al-Ṣiddīq) 363–366, 459, 556,
484n46 663n669, 708, 921
index of proper names and places 1109
Abū Bakr b. Ḥāmid (Sāmānid wazīr) 820 Abū Maḥmūd Ḥāmid b. al-Khiḍr al-Khujandī
Abū Bakr Muḥammad b. al-Faḍl 68 1001, 1003
Abū l-Barakāt al-Baghdādī 1069 Abū Maʿshar 372
Abū Dahbal al-Jumaḥī 868–869 Abū Maʿshar Najīḥ 913
Abū Dahmān 602 Abū Miḥjan 59n94
Abū l-Dardāʾ 526n10 Abū Muʿāwiya Muḥammad b. Khāzim al-Ḍarīr
Abū Dāwūd 240, 321–322, 425, 808, 916 918, 923
Abū Dāwūd al-Ṭāʾī 653 Abū l-Mughīra 628n441
Abū Dhuʾayb (al-Hudhalī) 367n120, 533n41, Abū Muḥammad al-Maghārī 121
578n219 Abū Muḥammad al-Yazīdī 668
Abū Dulaf al-Karajī (al-ʿIjlī) 571n186, Abū Mūsā al-Ashʿarī 425
772–773 Abū Muslim al-Khurāsānī 89n226, 475
Abū Dulāma 71n155a, 600 Abū l-Najm al-ʿIjlī 650, 1049n15
Abū l-Faraj al-Iṣfahānī 351n26, 386, 574n197, Abū Naṣr b. Khushājim 1036n22
680n756, 786 Abū Naṣr Nūsharwān b. Khālid 1002
Abū l-Fatḥ, see al-Bustī Abū Nuʿaym al-Iṣfahānī 120n350, 394n242a,
Abū l-Fatḥ ʿAlī b. Muḥammad b. al-ʿAmīd 508n42, 655n621, 681, 686, 722, 860n52, 923,
(GAS II,635) 672n715 1079
Abū Firās 80n201, 558 Abū Nuwās 59n94, 75n172, 199n242,
Abū Ḥafṣ 677 210n288, 216n335, 230, 286n81, 290n98,
Abū Ḥafṣ al-Shiṭranjī 576 430n104, 460, 498, 641, 662n656, 663,
Abū Ḥanīfa, Ḥanafites 67–69, 72n159, 78, 680n761, 772–773, 848, 857n44, 858, 870,
148–150, 175, 182, 239, 246–247, 255–256, 872, 875, 881
260, 269, 290, 326, 332, 421, 424, 427–428, Abū Qilāba 1079
435, 735 Abū Rāfiʿ 397
Abū l-Ḥasan ʿAlī b. Hārūn b. al-Munajjim Abū Saʿd Aḥmad b. Muḥammad b. Mallah
963 al-Harawī 525n6
Abū Ḥayyān al-Tawḥīdī 13, 14n10, 40, Abū Saʿīd Bermejo 188–189
51n69, 79, 99n265, 105n290, 108n300, Abū Saʿīd al-Sīrāfī 1078
113n318, 373, 391, 447–448, 452–453 Abū Saʿīd-i Abū l-Khayr 684, 686
nn., 490, 525n6, 533n40, 558–559, 576, Abū Salama (al-Khallāl) 475
582, 594, 616, 618, 620, 635, 670, 704, Abū Sālim Ibrāhīm (Merinid) 63n117
726, 775–779, 783, 814–815, 818–819, Abū Salīṭ al-Aʿrābī 872
846, 897, 991, 993, 996, 1076–1079, Abū l-Ṣalt Umayya 560n129, 573n193, 581
1081–1083 Abū l-Shibl 601, 678n748
Abū Hurayra 66, 179, 379n173, 388, 399, Abū l-Shīṣ 573
424n84, 438, 548n92, 564 Abū Shujāʿ al-Iṣfahānī 254n73, 324
Abū l-Ḥusayn al-ʿAsqalānī 584n242 Abū Sufyān b. Ḥarb 364
Abū l-Ḥusayn al-Ṣūfī 1003 Abū Sulaymān al-Manṭiqī al-Sijistānī
Abū ʿĪsā b. al-Mutawakkil 563 96n251, 99n263, 114n320a, 115n323, 237n4,
Abū ʿĪsā al-Warrāq 786 285n80, 351n28, 558, 704n25, 846n16, 897,
Abū Jaʿfar Amīr Aḥmad (of Sijistān) 559 993–994
Abū l-Jahm 972 Abū Ṭālib al-Makkī 116n327, 588–589,
Abū Jurthūm (al-Ḥimṣī) 215, 225n374, 281 604n333, 684, 688–689
Abū Khālid (steward of Shaykh Ḥaydar) Abū Tammām 355, 532–533, 550, 575,
184–185 586n245, 602, 604–605, 608, 634n483, 658,
Abū Lahab (b. ʿAbd-al-Muṭṭalib) 406–409 662, 666, 667n693, 770, 874, 1083
Abū l-Layth al-Samarqandī 393–394 Abū l-Tayyib Karawīya 229
Abū Luʾluʾa 828 Abū Turāb al-Nakhshabī 588
1110 index of proper names and places
Abū ʿUbayd al-Qāsim b. Sallām 157n38, 347, Aḥmad al-Thaqafī (Shihāb-al-dīn) 221n363
348n9, 536, 538, 542, 912, 918, 925, 927–928, Aḥmad b. ʿUbayd al-Baṣrī al-Ṣaffār 119
936 Aḥmad b. Yūsuf (Sharaf-al-dīn Abū l-ʿAbbās)
Abū ʿUbayda Maʿmar b. al-Muthannā 925 274n40
Abū ʿUmayr 347 Aḥmad b. Yūsuf b. Ṣafī-al-dīn, see ʿAlam-al-dīn
Abū Usayd al-Sāʿidī 385 al-Aḥnaf b. Qays 209n283
Abū ʿUthmān al-Maghribī 657, 685n787 Ahriman 505
Abū ʿUthmān al-Nahdī 618 Aḥūḏemmeh 39
Abū Yaʿlā 51n71, 927 al-Ahwani, Ahmad Fuʿad 941
Abū Yūsuf 67, 78, 247, 260, 326, 427n96 al-Aḥwaṣ 452, 481, 598, 606, 901n23
Abū Zarʿ 917–920, 924, 932, 939 al-Ahwāzī (Jamāl-al-dīn) 190n198
Abū Zayd al-Balkhī 503, 506 Ainesios (?) 95n244
Abyssinia 738 ʿĀʾisha 348n10, 441, 552–553, 556n120, 909,
ʿĀd (tribe) 556 914–915, 917–920, 923, 925, 927–928, 931,
Adam 37, 53–54, 554, 557, 982 933, 940, 956
al-Adhraʿī 253n70 on Ethiopians/games 347, 395n245
ʿAdī b. Ḥātim 680 on nard players 427, 488
ʿAdī b. Kaʿb b. Luʾayy 556 and n.117 ʿAjārida 953
ʿAdī b. Zayd 56n84, 57n88, 78n192, 82, al-Ājurrī, Abū Bakr Muḥammad (GAS I,194)
599n308, 703 219, 781
al-ʿĀḍid bi-llāh (Fāṭimid) 823 al-Ājurrī, Abū ʿUbayd Muḥammad (GAS I,165)
Adler, M.J. 29n14a 916
al-ʿAdlī 378 al-ʿAkawwak 571
ʿAḍud-al-dawla 358, 830, 1003 al-Akhṭal 643n551
Aelianus 638n507 Aktham (b. Ṣayfī?) 103n282
Aesop 95n244 Āl Yāsīn, M.Ḥ. 108n300, 116n327
ʿAfīfī, A. 125n384 ʿAlāʾ-al-dawla 1003
Aḥā bar Yaʿaqôḇ 29 ʿAlāʾ-al-dīn ʿAlī b. Aybak al-Dimashqī 192
Aḥīqar 31n15 ʿAlam-al-dīn b. Shukr (Ahmad b. Yūsuf b.
Ahlwardt, W. 140–150 al-Ṣāḥib Ṣafī-al-dīn) 218–219, 236–237,
Aḥmad b. ʿAbbād (wazīr in Almeria) 375 241, 280
Aḥmad b. ʿAbd-al-ʿAzīz (?) 87 Alamut 176
Aḥmad b. ʿAbd-al-Malik b. ʿUṭāsh 832 Alcidamas 52n73
Aḥmad b. Abī Ṭāhir Ṭayfūr 62n116, 73n162, Aleppo 169, 360, 484, 1018
75n173, 378n166, 393n235, 487n60, 864, Alexander (the Great) 101, 102n278, 113–115,
868–870, 913–914, 918, 921, 936 527–528, 704n26
Aḥmad b. Baraka 229 see also Dhū l-Qarnayn
Aḥmad b. al-Ḥusayn al-Masīlī 470 Alexander of Aphrodisias 111
Aḥmad b. al-Ḥusayn al-Miṣrī al-Ṣūfī (Shihāb- Alfonso el Sabio 362n97, 508, 513n11, 516n17
al-dīn) 196n225 ʿAlī b. ʿAbdallāh al-Jaʿfarī 841n7
Aḥmad b. Ibrāhīm al-Maqdisī al-Ṣāliḥī ʿAlī b. Abī Ṭālib 51n69, 58–59, 62n111, 74n169,
(ʿImād-al-dīn) 209 97, 127n397b, 179, 379, 406, 408, 412, 423,
Aḥmad b. Ismāʿīl b. Abī l-Suʿūd 1080 427n96, 526, 550–551, 555, 586n249, 589,
Aḥmad b. Khaḍrawayh 587 629, 640, 651, 655, 680, 683, 737, 841n7, 882,
Aḥmad b. al-Mudabbir 487 899n21, 989–990
Aḥmad b. Muḥammad al-Awtārī 879 ʿAlī b. Aḥmad al-Ahwāzī 119
Aḥmad b. Muḥammad al-Mūrī al-Adībī 467 ʿAlī b. Aḥmad al-Wāḥidī 45
Aḥmad b. Muḥammad b. Sulaymān al-Zāhid ʿAlī b. Dāwūd al-Jawharī 294n121
215n319 ʿAlī al-Ḥarīrī 143, 234, 258, 282, 316, 326, 752
ʿAlī b. ʿĪsā (wazīr) 76, 113n318 Kitāb Faḍāʾil al-ramy 432n113, 435n127,
ʿAlī b. al-Jahm 83–84, 86, 99n265, 651n600, 440n146
678n748, 765 Kitāb al-Hidāya fī ʿilm al-sabq wa-l-rimāya
ʿAlī b. Khashram 923 440n146
ʿAlī b. Makkī 286 MS Chester Beatty 4759 (Kitāb al-thamar
ʿAlī b. Muḥammad al-Miṣrī 124 al-rāʾiq al-mujtanā min al-Ḥadāʾiq)
ʿAlī b. Naṣr al-Kātib, Abū l-Ḥasan 853, 864 394n242, 396n254, 397–398nn259–260,
Jawāmiʿ al-ladhdha 853–854, 859n50, 421n70, 425–428, 441n150
864–867, 869, 874, 875, 890 Anṣār, Anṣārī 348, 393, 418, 433
ʿAlī al-Qayrawānī 164, 193 al-Anṣārī, ʿAbdallāh 684
ʿAlī b. Rabban al-Ṭabarī 153, 220n352 al-Anṣārī, Zakarīyāʾ 119n340
ʿAlī b. ʿUbayda al-Rayḥānī 595–596 al-ʿAnṭarī 97n257
ʿAlī al-Wafawī 924 Antioch 169
ʿAlī b. Yaḥyā 832 Antonius Melissa 95n243, 97n256
ʿAlids 444–445, 555n114, 574n197, 673, 955 Anūsharwān 995
al-ʿAllāma al-Ḥillī 59nn94 and 97, 62n111, Aphrem 37, 39, 979
63n119, 76n177 Apollonius of Perge 1008
Allāt 402 Apollonius of Tyana 103n282
Alp Arslan 831 Pseudo- (Balīnūs) 987
Alpin, P. 165 al-Aqfahsī, Ibn al-ʿImād 141, 144–145,
ʿAlqama b. ʿAbada 592n280, 872, 874n36 198n234, 221n356, 240, 242n21, 257, 269,
al-Āmidī, al-Ḥasan b. Bishr 83n213, 108n300, 291
550n97, 586n245, 604, 632n472, 638n505 al-ʿAqqād, Abū l-Khayr 161, 167, 196, 216
al-ʿĀmilī 99n265, 349n22, 356n75, 487n57, al-Aqraʿ b. Ḥābis 405
492n88 al-Aqṭaʿ 447, 490
al-Amīn (caliph) 358–359 Arabia 56–57, 275, 402–404, 422, 721, 990
Amīn-al-dīn al-Ḥimṣī 281 pre-Islamic 478
ʿĀmir Mulāʿib al-asinna 822 Arabian Nights 166, 228, 267, 350, 366, 370,
ʿĀmir b. Sinān b. al-Akwaʿ 807 399, 412, 475, 479, 483, 490, 659n644, 811,
ʿĀmir b. al-Ṭufayl 822 826n127
al-ʿĀmirī, Abū l-Ḥasan 53n74, 94n240, Arabs 345, 382, 812
102n280, 564n155, 712 vs. non-Arabs 863–864
see also Ibn Abī Dharr Arberry, A.J. 15n18, 119nn341–342, 485n49,
ʿAmr b. ʿAbd-al-Malik al-Warrāq 460 500, 628
ʿAmr b. al-ʿĀṣ 803 Archigenes 103n284
ʿAmr b. Dīnār 120 Archimedes 843, 1008
ʿAmr b. Kulthūm 822 Archytas 27
ʿAmr b. Qamīʿa 539, 592n280 Ardashīr b. Bābak 640, 975
ʿAmr b. ʿUṭmān al-Makkī 775 Arghūn 734–735
al-Amshāṭī 467n91 Aristaenetus 457–458
Anas b. Mālik 347n4 Aristippus 992
Anatolia/Anatolians (Rūm) 161, 169, 186, 191 Aristophanes 700
Andalusians 784 Aristotle 5, 31, 35n30, 47, 52–53, 102n278,
Angelus Silesius 642n544 109–115, 371, 450n15, 475, 489, 531, 545,
al-Anmāṭī (Abū ʿUmar ʿAlī b. Muḥammad) 593–594, 607, 616n402, 622n418, 635,
122 640–641, 663n664, 702, 704, 769, 978–979,
Anonymous, Kitāb al-amthāl 366n113, 987, 995, 1012–1013, 1020
394n240 Pseudo-, 812
Libro del Ajedrez, see Pareja Casañas Artemidorus 371, 403n2, 531, 616n402, 786
Asad b. ʿAmr 182 Baʿādah (?) 352

al-ʿĀṣ b. Hishām b. al-Mughīra al-Makhzūmī Badīʿ-al-zamān al-Hamadhānī 114n320,
406–408 374n149, 454n35, 490, 554–559, 567n165
al-ʿĀṣ b. Saʿīd 406 Badr, battle of 365, 406–408
Ascalon 574 Badr-al-dīn Muḥammad b. Ward 833
Asclepius 653n612 al-Badrī, Abū l-Tuqa Taqī-al-dīn 141–142,
al-Aʿshā 416, 538, 539n67, 565, 758, 872 143, 146–148, 160, 163–165, 167–168, 178–179,
Aʿshā Nahshal (al-Aswad b. Yaʿfur) 403n9, 184, 186n187, 190–191, 196, 203, 208, 210–213,
405, 409, 677 216, 218–219, 238, 253n70, 254n77, 262, 267,
al-Ashʿarī 34n29, 952–953, 955 272n34, 274, 276, 285n80, 287n87, 292,
Ashʿarites 507–508 351n28, 353n48, 381n182, 463nn73–74,
al-Ashtar, ʿAbd-al-Karīm 569n178 467n90, 478, 644n554, 752, 876–881,
al-Ashtar al-Naḫaʿī 629 888
Ashtor, E. 1032 Baer, G. 198n232
ʿĀṣim b. Muḥammad al-Kātib 86 Bağdatlı İsmail Pasha 139
al-ʿAskarī, Abū Aḥmad 442n154 Baghdad 76, 102, 158, 168, 175, 182, 186n187,
al-ʿAskarī, Abū Hilāl 42n49, 57n88, 349– 187, 271, 286, 490, 772, 786, 1003, 1018,
350nn21 and 25, 356n73, 368n125, 384n199, 1030–1032
396, 400–401, 404–405, 411n35, 454n38, al-Baghdādī, see ʿAbd al-Laṭīf
604n333, 616, 617n403, 618, 643, 651n602 al-Baḥrayn 185, 276
Asmāʾ al-munā 676 Baḥyā b. Pāqūdā 988
al-Aṣmaʿī 339n6, 409–410, 629n450 Bakr b. ʿAmr 385
Assassins 176–177, 228, 293 al-Bakrī, Abū ʿUbayd 606n344, 645n566
see also Ismāʿīlīs al-Bakrī, Ibn Abī l-Surūr 146, 158n47, 160n62,
al-Asṭurlābī, Badīʿ-al-zamān Abū l-Qāsim 167, 183n178, 196, 225n374, 232n412, 270n27
Hibatallāh b. al-Ḥusayn al-Baghdādī Balʿāʾ b. Qays 405–406, 409, 483
1001–1002, 1004–1005 al-Balādhurī 57, 74n169, 102n278, 385, 407,
ʿAṭāʾ (b. Abī Rabāḥ al-Qurashī) 412, 440, 758 553n107, 659n641, 676n739
al-Athram, Abū Bakr 375n151 Balīnūs, see Apollonius of Tyana
ʿĀtika 922 al-Balkhī, see Abū Zayd
ʿAṭīya al-Ḥaṣkafī 272n34, 294 Banū Arfida (Ethiopians) 348
Augustine 701, 725 Banū Firās 555
al-ʿAwfī 873 Banū Ḥanīfa 826
Awḥad-al-zamān (Abū l-Barakāt) Hibatallāh Banū Ḥārith 667n693
1004 Banū l-Ḥasḥās 104
al-Awzāʿī 860n52, 997 Banū Hāshim 385
Ayalon, D. 268n17, 383 Banū l-Ḥimās 491n83
Aya Sofya 1052 Banū Hind (of Shaybān) 416
ʿAyn Baṣal al-Ḥāʿik 467n91, 469 Banū Kawkar 813n86
al-ʿAynī 260, 409n30, 446n167, 536n52, Banū Qays 758
622–623, 649n584 Banū Sāsān 670
Ayyūbids 357, 484, 824, 881, 1038 Banū ʿUdhra 825–826
Azāriqa 953 al-Bāqillānī, Abū Bakr 971
al-ʿAzāzī (Shihāb-al-dīn) 484, 502n19 Barbeyrac, Jean 361, 495–496
ʿAzāzīl 982 al-Barhamatūshī 150
al-Azhar 277 Barhebraeus 259n98
al-Azharī 339n6, 359n86, 396n252, 449n6, Barmecides 281, 575, 611
451n18, 454n36, 530n23, 635 Barqūq, al-Malik al-Ẓāhir 835
al-ʿAzīz (Fāṭimid caliph) 388–389 Bar Shemesh, A. 628
al-Bashbughawī, ʿAlī b. Sūdūn 147, 156, 164, Bishr b. al-Muʿtamir 954

193, 212, 229, 360n89 al-Bisṭāmī, Abū Yazīd 717
Bashshār b. Burd 568 Blachère, R. 405–410 nn., 628
Basilius 986 Bouhdiba, Abdelwahab 841
al-Baṣra 74, 284, 771 Brahmanas (Sanskrit) 698
al-Baṭalyawsī 580n231 Bryson 48n59, 104n285
al-Bāʿūnī, Burhān-al-dīn (ibn) 883n56 Budūr (Ar. Nights) 366
Baybars (al-Malik al-Ẓāhir) 66n133, 79n196, al-Buḥturī 81n206, 119n343, 525, 550,
262, 269–271, 284, 390n226, 490n74, 562n146, 581n232, 586, 599, 608, 652
733–734 al-Bukhārī 57n90, 120n345, 161, 239, 246,
al-Bayhaqī, Abū Bakr Aḥmad al-Khusrawjirdī 357n78, 388, 402, 425–427 nn., 536n52,
437n137, 716 622, 649, 671, 780, 803, 805–807, 909,
al-Bayhaqī, ʿAlī b. Zayd 97n256 910n2, 912, 918, 921, 926, 928, 935–936,
al-Bayhaqī, Ibrāhīm b. Muḥammad 57n88, 1069
70n153, 81–90, 661–674 nn. passim, al-Bukhārī, ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz b. Aḥmad 349n19
766–767 Bunān al-Ḥammāl 99n263
Bayhasīya 953 Bürgel, J.C. 848
al-Bazzāzī, Muḥammad b. Muḥammad Burhān-al-dīn Ibrāhīm al-Ṣūfī al-Dimashqī
72n159, 248, 257 294
Beaumanoir, P. de 53n75 Burzôê 1039
Bedouins 51, 56–57, 115n327, 180, 347, 354, Busr b. (Abī) Arṭāh 555n115
368, 401n277, 629n450, 663, 667n693, 793, al-Bustī, Abū l-Fatḥ 102, 105n289, 532
825 Buthayna 600
Beirut 174 al-Buwayṭī 78, 792
Bell, H.I. 56n84, 628 Būyids 357, 386, 830, 1003
Bell, R. 91n232, 628, 800 Buzurjmihr 993
Bellamy, J.A. 440n146, 618n407 Byzantines 56n84, 363–365, 829
Bengal 178
Berman, L.V. 702 Cain 404, 982
Bias 661 Cairo, topography of 166, 173n137, 196n225,
Bible 29, 31, 700, 725 212, 216, 233, 263, 266–269, 270–271,
Ecclesiastes 1067–1070 360n89, 796, 863, 878, 1018
Exodus 29 Arḍ al-Ṭabbāla 270
Gospels 882 al-Azhar 277
Hebrew 17n28, 595 Bāb al-Lūq 270
Kings 33n23 Bāb al-Shaʿrīya 230
New Testament 983 Bāb al-Tabābīn 201n256
Old Testament 761 Bāb Zuwayla 201, 216, 270
Psalms 982n72 Barqūqīya 278
Torah 100, 420n68, 882, 1077 al-Baysarī Bath 201
Bilāl (b. Rabāḥ) 645n566 Būlāq 216, 270
Bilāl b. Saʿd 860 al-Bustān al-Kāfūrī/Kāfūr Park 158,
Bīr Raṭan 178, 191 196n225
al-Bīrūnī 372n139, 374n148, 376n155, Ezbekīya 235
378n168, 402, 451n22, 478n22, 813n86, 1052, al-Fāḍil Bath 201–202
1084 Ḥakr Wāṣil 270
Bishr al-Ḥāfī 122, 588, 722, 923–924, 1079 al-Junayna 213, 230, 270, 360n89
Bishr al-Marīsī 370, 709 al-Kabsh 163
Bishr b. Marwān 904 al-Khurunfish (Arcade) 201
al-Manṣūrī Hospital 167 Dhū l-Qarnayn 653

Qanṭarat al-Ḥashshāshīn 270 see also Alexander (the Great)
al-Qarāfa 148 Dhū l-Rumma 32, 396n251, 1048n10
Qaṣr al-ʿAynī 263 Dhū l-Shāma 829
Chaghatai 385–386 Diʿbil 354, 569
Central Asia 746 Diez, F. 512
China, Chinese 168, 178, 399 Dīk al-Jinn 496n4, 639n516
Chingiz Khān 187 al-Dimyāṭī, Abū l-Wafāʾ 384, 434, 436, 438,
Christianity 52, 495, 597, 725, 799, 809, 840, 440, 529n20
905, 950n36, 951–952, 1025n23 Dio Chrysostomus 26
Christians 28, 37–40, 52, 62, 76n178, 283, 290, Diogenes 100–101, 115, 986, 992, 996, 1011
348, 359, 531, 644, 706, 758, 828, 834, 850, Dionysius 992
882, 1004, 1017, 1033, 1042 Dioscurides 155, 215n325, 268n15, 747
Cicero 725 Diyār Bakr 157, 169
Clement of Alexandria 98n259 al-Diyārbakrī 143, 150, 411n35
Constantinople 1018 Dorotheus 372
Douillet, G. 383
al-Ḍabbī, Zuhayr b. Masʿūd 610 Dozy, R. 164n82, 169n111, 181n168, 223n370,
al-Ḍabbī, see ʿAbdalllāh b. ʿAnama 282n69, 304n26, 392, 513–514
al-Mufaḍḍal al-Duqqī (Abū Bakr Muḥammad b. Dāwūd
al-Ḍaḥḥāk 56n88, 451n18, 758 al-Dīnawarī) 121
al-Dahrīya 536, 538 al-Dūrī (Abū l-Muẓaffar ʿAlī b. Makkī b.
Damascus 183, 212, 234, 262, 267, 281n69, Muḥammad b. Hubayra) 286n84
354, 430, 439, 484, 488, 555n114, 878
Tawba Mosque 281n69, 863 Egypt/Egyptians 10, 56, 77, 160, 165, 169,
Damiette 183, 212, 266n5 177–178, 186, 188–190, 191, 233, 249, 252n65,
Danner, V. 655n623 266–267, 269–270, 280, 284, 294, 380,
al-Daqqāq, Abū ʿAlī al-Ḥasan b. ʿAlī 120, 386, 389–390, 398, 439, 480, 493, 581, 602,
122–123 698n4, 733, 760n17a, 784, 785, 823, 824, 863,
al-Dārānī, Abū Sulaymān 587, 683–687, 878, 1074
1078 Elwell-Sutton, L.P. 500
Darius 699 Empedocles 999n156
al-Darwīsh, Muḥyī-al-dīn 496n4 Endress, G. 8
David 123 Engelmann, W.H. 513
Dawood, N.J. 15n18, 628 Epictetus 37n33, 39n47
Dāwūd b. ʿAlī b. Khalaf (Ẓāhirī) 948 Erpenius, T. 366n113, 454–455
Dāwūd al-Anṭākī 155–156, 160–162, 223, 233 Ethiopia/Ethiopians 168, 178, 347–348,
Dāwūd al-Ṭāʾī 118, 721, 1077, 1079–1080 395n245, 699
al-Dāwūdī 715 Ettinghausen, R. 25, 398, 399n267
Dayr Qūṭā 360 Eubulus 992
Dede Khalīfa (Ibrāhīm b. Bakhshī) 149 Euclid 1007–1008
Democritus 980 Euphrates River 645
al-Dhahabī 66n133, 139n4, 142, 178n155, Ewliyā Čelebī 198n232
187, 198nn231–232, 209n282, 246, 266, 291,
375n151, 860n52, 917, 982–983 Faḍāla b. Sharīk 677
al-Dhahabī, Muḥammad b. Aḥmad 142 Faḍl (poetess) 637n503, 900
D’Herbelot 278n57 al-Faḍl b. al-Rabīʿ 358, 360, 575
Dhū l-Nūn al-Miṣrī 73n161, 76n180, 588, 676, Fakhr-al-dīn al-Rāzī 46, 412, 416, 625n431,
687, 722–723, 905n39 628n439, 635n488, 802–803
al-Fākihānī 714 Goitein, S.D. 10, 93n239, 102n278, 483n50,

al-Fanārī, Maḥmūd b. Pīr Muḥammad 143, 701, 1027–1028, 1032–1033, 1040
148–151, 175nn147–148, 216n330, 248, Goldziher, I. 46n53, 442n153, 848–849
257n90, 260, 277n53 Gramlich, R. 545n86
al-Fārābī 34n29, 53n74, 111–112, 813–814, 845, Granada 188–189
970n15 Graves, Robert 727
Pseudo-, 489 Greek, Greeks 26, 29n10a, 32, 94–118, 153,
al-Farazdaq 769 155, 177, 200, 208, 209n284, 231, 370–372,
Fārs 185 402–403, 450, 457–458, 475, 497, 504,
al-Fatḥ b. Khāqān 586, 608 513–514, 701, 704, 812, 826n127, 880–881,
Fāṭima 899n21 960
Fāṭimids 388–389, 398, 669, 823 Gregory of Nyssa 38n38
al-Fazārī (?) 634n481 Guillaume, A. 600n315
al-Fazārī, Abū Isḥāq 365 Gurgānī 483
Firās (tribe) 555 Gutas, D. 450n15, 656n624
Firdawsī 594n288, 665 Gypsies (zuṭṭ) 170
Fityān al-Shāghūrī 452n25a, 468n98
Fitzgerald, E. 499 Habannaqa al-Qaysī 709
Fox, M.V. 1068 al-Ḥaddād(ī) 175n147, 216n330, 260
Franklin, Benjamin 679 al-Hāʾim, Shihāb-al-dīn Aḥmad b. Muḥam-
al-Fuḍayl b. ʿIyāḍ 587, 655n621, 684–687 mad al-Manṣūrī 230, 272n36, 281n66,
Fulayfil (Badr-al-dīn) 194n215, 227n385 878
Fuzūlī (Fuḍūlī) 148, 274, 277n52, 278n56, 283, al-Ḥajjāj b. Yūsuf 66, 75, 647, 854, 904,
286n83, 291n102 1003
Ḥājjī Khalīfa (Kātib Chelebi) 48n63, 141,
Gabriel (angel) 715, 956 146, 148–149, 151, 175n148, 254nn73 and
Galen 113n316, 177, 207n275, 215, 221n357, 75, 256n84, 263–264nn118–119, 841n6,
226n380, 249n55, 747, 752, 858, 962, 1079–1081, 1086
969 al-Ḥākim bi-amri llāh 831
Gardet, L. 28–29, 130 al-Ḥakīm al-Tirmidhī 124n379a, 128, 731–732
Gardiner, T. 417 al-Ḥalīmī 421, 423
Gaza 774 al-Ḥallāj (al-Ḥusayn b. Manṣūr) 122,
Geniza 10, 483, 1032–1033, 1040 676n737, 717, 726
Ghassān b. Dhuhayl 417 al-Ḥalwānī, (Ḥalwāʾī) (ʿAbd-al-ʿAzīz),
al-Ghaṭammash al-Ḍabbī 585 Shams-al-aʾimma 69
al-Ghawwāṣ al-Nīsābūrī 466–467 Hama 169, 174n144, 357, 484
al-Ghaznawī, ʿAbd-al-Majīd b. Aflaḥ 526 Hamadhān 72n160, 182n180
al-Ghazzālī 16–17, 40n48, 73n161, 90n230, al-Hamadhānī, see Badī-al-zamān
91n232, 98n261, 99n263, 101nn270 and Hamdani, Abbas H. 146
276, 106n291, 116, 118n335, 125, 154n14, al-Ḥamdawī (al-Ḥamdūnī), Ismāʿīl b. Ibrāhīm
180n163, 253n70, 350n24, 375n152, 388n218, b. Ḥamdawayh 637n502
478, 488n64, 522, 552n103, 553, 588–589, Ḥammād ʿAjrad 96n252, 527
617n403, 621–624, 683–691, 722–723, 860, Hammer-Purgstall, J. von 512
911, 961, 970, 1031 Ḥamza b. Ḥabīb 413
al-Ghubārī 472 Ḥamza al-Iṣfahānī 352n38, 454–455,
al-Ghuzūlī 210n288, 214n315, 225n378, 552n102, 663n664
242n21, 261n111, 277n55, 296n124, 354–355, Ḥanafites 59, 64, 181–182, 246–248, 256–257,
469–498 nn. passim 260, 269, 363n99, 370, 379n172, 387, 396,
Gibbon, Edward 545 421, 424, 427n96, 433n120, 435
Ḥanbalites 59, 64, 252, 346, 369, 375n151, Henning, M. 229n392, 628
396, 398, 435n128, 436, 438, 542 Henry VIII of England 383
Ḥanẓala b. ʿArāda 575 Heraclitus 980
al-Harawī, see Abū Saʿd Hermes, Hermetic philosophy 95n244,
al-Harawī, ʿAlī b. Abī Bakr 796 97–98, 127–128, 651n595, 652n603,
al-Harawī al-Bāshānī, Aḥmad b. Muḥammad 699
926 Hesiod 13, 16
al-Ḥarīrī (ʿAlī b. al-Ḥusayn) 65 Ḥijāz 164
al-Ḥarīrī (Ṣūfī), see ʿAlī al-Ḥijāzī (Shihāb-al-dīn) 472, 876–879
al-Ḥarīrī (son of the preceding), see Muḥam- Hilāl b. al-Muḥassin al-Ṣābiʾ 482n37,
mad b. ʿAlī 586n247
al-Ḥarīrī al-Baṣrī, Abū Muḥammad al-Qāsim al-Ḥillī, Ṣafī-al-dīn 163
b. ʿAlī 455n51, 1002, 1005 Himly, K. 399, 510n2
Ḥārith (tribe) 668n693 Ḥimyar b. Sabaʾ 610
al-Ḥārith b. Ḥilliza 555n113 Hind bint Asmāʾ b. Khārija 904, 906
al-Ḥārith b. Khālid al-Makhzūmī 408, Hindus 809
459n56, 539n67, 631n466, 771 Hippocrates 96, 98, 113, 177, 599n309, 792,
al-Ḥārith b. Waʿla 539n67 962, 979n59, 1021–1023, 1083–1084
Ḥāritha b. Badr 575n203 al-Ḥīra 82, 605
Ḥāritha b. al-Nuʿmān 120 al-Ḥīrī (Abū ʿUthmān) 716
Ḥarra, battle of 555 Hishām b. ʿUrwa b. al-Zubayr 553, 914–
Hārūn b. ʿAlī b. Yaḥyā b. al-Munajjim 917
650n589 Hoja Nasreddin 201n255
Hārūn al-Rashīd (caliph) 242n21, 407n25, see also Juḥā
442n153, 483, 571, 607, 873 Homer 13, 96, 103, 597
al-Ḥasan b. ʿAlī b. Abī Ṭālib 51n69 Homs 169
al-Ḥasan al-Baṣrī 398, 589, 610, 629, Hoyle, E. 376n157
645n560, 651, 653n612, 655, 687, 768, Huber, A. 411n35
860n52 Hudba b. Khashram 641
al-Ḥasan b. Bundār 526 al-Hudhalī, Abū Bakr 365
al-Ḥasan b. Farrāḥ al-Muʾaddib (Abū ʿAlī) Hudhalite
466n90 poems 535n51, 606
al-Ḥasan b. Makhlad b. al-Jarrāḥ 764 poet 578n219
al-Ḥasan b. Muḥammad b. Jumhūr 596n297 Ḥudhayfa b. al-Yamān 179
al-Ḥasan b. Wahb 874 al-Hudhayl b. Ḥabīb 365
al-Ḥasan b. Ziyād al-Luʾluʾī al-Kūfī 69 Ḥujr b. ʿAdī 553, 555
Hāshimites 555 Ḥumayd b. ʿAbd-al-Ḥamīd al-Ṭūsī 571
Ḥashīshīya 176 Hume, David 797
al-Ḥaṣkafī 468 Ḥunayn b. Isḥāq 113n319, 190, 640n523,
Ḥassān b. Thābit 244–245, 406–407, 491n83, 664n673, 828, 978n53
607, 643 Hurmuz 185, 276
Ḥātim al-Aṣamm 683n776 al-Ḥusayn (b. ʿAlī b. Abī Ṭālib) 397, 452,
Ḥātim al-Ṭāʾī 491, 760, 913n10 671n710
Ḥaydar (al-Zāwajī, Shaykh) 289, 293 al-Ḥusayn b. ʿAlī b. Sayyid al-Kull 259n103
Ḥaydarīs 178, 182–187, 197, 232, 275, Ḥusayn al-Marwarrūdhī 248, 255, 259
293n115 Ḥusayn Pasha 263
Ḥaydarīya 158 al-Ḥuṣrī 551n99, 584n242, 529–532 nn.,
al-Haytham b. ʿAdī 913, 915, 918, 932 551n99, 663–680 nn. passim
Hélot, L. and H. 513–514 Hyde, T. 343, 498
Ibāḍiya 953 Ibn al-ʿAfīf al-Tilimsānī 211–212, 217, 225, 227,

Iblīs 14, 284, 291, 293, 981–982 271, 353n53, 430, 468
see also Satan Ibn al-ʿAlqamī 390n226
Ibn ʿAbbād (al-Ṣāḥib) 352–353, 447, Ibn al-Aʿmā, ʿAlī b. Muḥammad 186n187, 289
465–466, 490, 492, 672n714, 843, 960 Ibn al-Aʿmā, Ibrāhīm al-Baghdādī 279–280
Ibn ʿAbbās, see ʿAbdallāh Ibn al-ʿAmīd, Abū l-Faḍl 351n28, 529,
Ibn al-ʿAbbās, ʿAbdallāh (grandson of al-Faḍl 572n189, 672n715, 1003
b. al-Rabīʿ) 360 Ibn al-ʿAmīd, Abū l-Fatḥ 357, 492
Ibn ʿAbdāl 901 Ibn al-Anbārī 910n2, 925
Ibn ʿAbd-al-Barr 440, 536n52, 615n399, 782, Ibn ʿAqīl 743
977 Ibn al-ʿArabī, Abū Bakr al-Ishbīlī al-Maʿāfirī
Ibn ʿAbdrabbih 550n96, 565n158, 575n207, 58n91, 340, 363–364, 403–404nn8 and 10,
608n361, 643n548, 651n597 618n406
Ibn ʿAbd-al-Salām, see ʿAbd-al-ʿAzīz Ibn al-Aʿrābī, Muḥammad 383, 405, 432n114
Ibn ʿAbdūn 75n173, 77, 446 Ibn ʿArabī, Muḥyī-al-dīn 125–128, 467n91,
Ibn ʿAbd-al-Ẓāhir 196n225, 261n111, 265, 277, 540n73, 574, 607n353, 617n404, 629,
295 645n560, 662n659, 668n693, 676n737,
Ibn Abī l-Aswad al-Duʾalī (Abū Ḥarb) 657 684n782, 687, 718, 720, 724, 775n79, 849,
Ibn Abī ʿAtīq 459 856, 1076
Ibn Abī Awfā, see ʿAbdallāh Pseudo-, 387n212
Ibn Abī l-Baghl 87n222 Ibn ʿArabī, Saʿd-al-dīn Muḥammad 879
Ibn Abī Bakra, see ʿAbd-al-Raḥmān, ʿUbayd- Ibn ʿAsākir 182n178, 860n52
allāh Ibn al-Ashyab, Mūsā b. al-Qāsim b. Mūsā b.
Ibn Abī Dharr (al-ʿĀmirī ?) 371n137, 489n72, al-Ḥasan b. Mūsā 440n146
601n319 Ibn ʿAṭāʾllāh 655n623
Ibn Abī Duʾād 79n196, 85 Ibn al-Athīr al-Ḥalabī (Muḥibb-al-dīn) 217
Ibn Abī l-dunyā 375n151, 425, 426n93, Ibn al-Athīr, ʿIzz-al-dīn 182n178, 942–943
440n146, 506, 546n88, 595, 629n450, Ibn al-Athīr, Majd-al-dīn 348–352 nn.
645n560, 655, 682–683 passim, 393–400 nn. passim, 449n6, 451n18,
Ibn Abī l-Ḥadīd 551, 633, and 551–688 nn. 538n63, 783, 926
passim Ibn ʿAṭṭār, Abū Bakr (wazīr) 832
Ibn Abī Ḥātim al-Rāzī 370n130 Ibn al-ʿAṭṭār, ʿAlāʾ-al-dīn 157, 253, 323–324
Ibn Abī l-Ḥawārī 1079–1080 Ibn Bājja 620n410, 667n693
Ibn Abī Laylā (Muḥammad b. ʿAbd-al- Ibn Banīn 384
Raḥmān) 67 Ibn al-Barīdī 216
Ibn Abī Qumāsh 119 Ibn Bassām 33n24, 448–452, 561n141a
Ibn Abī l-Rabīʿ (Shihāb-al-dīn Aḥmad Ibn Baṭṭūṭa 183n181, 196
b. Muḥammad) 95n242, 110n306, Ibn al-Bayṭār 138, 153, 175, 188–189, 193,
489n69 207n275, 233, 249n55, 266, 316, 924
Ibn Abī l-Rabīʿ al-Hawwārī 139 Ibn Bīḍ, Ḥamza 600, 612, 633
Ibn Abī l-Rabīʿ al-Maʿāfirī 139 Ibn al-Buḥturī 81, 83n213, 89n227, 98n261,
Ibn Abī Saʿd al-Warrāq al-Bannāʾ 301n18 99n263
Ibn Abī Shayba 379, 396, 425 Ibn Bulbul, Abū l-Saqr Ismāʿīl 1003
Ibn Abī Ṭāhir Ṭayfūr, see Aḥmad Ibn al-Buqush al-Silāḥī 832
Ibn Abī Uways 912 Ibn Buṭlān 785, 987, 1015, 1017, 1022, 1042
Ibn Abī Zarʿ 923 Ibn Daftarkhwān al-ʿĀdilī 881n54
Ibn Abī Zayd al-Qayrawānī 58–59, 427n96, Ibn al-Dahhān 617n403
506n35, 562n142 Ibn al-Damāmīnī 450, 560, 910n2
Ibn al-Adraʿ 433 Ibn Dāniyāl 269n23, 380, 462
Ibn Daqīq-al-ʿīd 252n65, 253 Ibn al-Ḥanbalī 143, 146, 149, 360n89
Ibn al-Dāya 73n164, 95n244, 108n300, 152n3 Ibn al-Ḥasan al-Bakrī 149
Ibn al-Dumayna 591n273, 639n519, 645 Ibn al-Haytham 819–820
Ibn Durayd 45n51, 108n300, 109n304, Ibn Ḥazm 54, 75, 77n187, 129, 220n350,
123n369, 661n651, 926 555n115, 628n441, 842, 977, 988
Ibn Durustawayh 1047 Ibn Ḥijja al-Ḥamawī 210n288, 214n315,
Ibn Dūst 530n24 261n111, 265n2, 277n55, 281n66, 295n124,
Ibn Falīta 875 557n123
Ibn al-Fāriḍ 969 Ibn Hind (Ibn Hindū?) 672n714
Ibn Fāris, Abū l-Ḥasan Aḥmad 554 Ibn Hindū 95–117 nn. passim, 599n309,
Ibn Fūrak 538n62, 541n74, 542n76, 957 600n313, 608n362, 660, 980, 1012, 1016–1018,
Ibn al-Furāt (wazīr) 106n291 1020–1022
Ibn al-Fuwaṭī 60n101, 62n112, 63n119, 64n122, Ibn Hishām, ʿAbdallāh b. Yūsuf Jamāl-al-dīn
65n127, 74n167, 76n176a, 79nn194–195, 141, 621, 638n510
186n187, 580n228 Ibn Hishām, ʿAbd-al-Malik 406, 527n17,
Ibn Ghānim, ʿIzz-al-dīn ʿAbd-al-Salām b. 533n43, 556–557nn119–121
Aḥmad al-Maqdisī 139–140, 153, 180, Ibn Hubayra 714–715
221n359, 266n6, 273n37, 285, 291n104, Ibn al-Humām 257
303–305 Ibn Isḥāq 406
Ibn Ghānim, Shihāb-al-dīn Aḥmad 163 Ibn Jamāʿa, Badr-al-dīn 105n289, 154n13,
Ibn Ghassān 357 659n644, 734–735, 1080–1081
Ibn Ḥabīb, ʿAbd-al-Malik (d. 238/852) 733, Ibn Jamāʿa, ʿIzz-al-dīn 124n379
912, 925 Ibn al-Jawzī 100n266, 102n278, 118n336,
Ibn Ḥabīb al-Ḥalabī (d. 779/1377) 288n92, 121n355, 124n378, 256n84, 363n99, 491n78,
463, 470 490, 523, 599n309, 614n395, 758, 841n7, 854,
Ibn Ḥabīb, Muḥammad (d. 245/860) 76n178, 900
79n195, 405–408, 411n34 Ibn Jazla 153, 207n274, 215n323, 233
Ibn al-Hāʾim, see al-Hāʾim Ibn al-Jazzār, Nūr-al-dīn ʿAlī 148–296 passim
Ibn Ḥajar al-ʿAsqalānī 9, 120nn344a–347, Ibn Jubayr 789
139, 163n78, 178n155, 184n185, 259n103, Ibn Juljul 1032n15, 1038n27
273n34, 288n92, 347n4, 585, 623, 714, 806, Ibn al-Kalbī 383
808, 902, 910n2, 911, 914, 918, 928, 933–934, Ibn Kamāl Pāshā (Kemalpaşazade) 150–151,
969, 1079 425n84, 455
Ibn Ḥajar al-Haytamī 142, 144–145, 206, Ibn Kathīr 91nn233–234, 139n9, 182n178,
220n350, 224n372, 252n65, 260n104, 357n79, 438n143, 439n145, 551n99,
291n105, 373, 375n151, 380–381, 399–400, 551n100
429 Ibn Khafīf, Abū ʿAlī Muḥammad 579n222,
Ibn al-Ḥājib 253, 324 665n683
Ibn al-Ḥajjāj, Abū ʿAbdallāh al-Ḥusayn b. Ibn Khaldūn 3, 59n94, 63n117, 65n125,
Aḥmad 572 91n232, 92, 104n288, 450, 641n535, 647n576,
Ibn Ḥajjāj, Abū Ayyūb Sulaymān b. Sulaymān 681n763, 996, 1041n40, 1085–1086
105n290 Ibn Khallikān 19n31, 66n133, 240n11,
Ibn Ḥamdūn 460, 488 206n271, 281, 380n178, 433n117, 584n242,
Ibn Hammām, Abū ʿAlī Muḥammad 1069
596n297 Ibn Khamīs 289
Ibn Ḥanbal, Ḥanbalites 59, 62n112, 64, 145, Ibn al-Kharrāṭ 211–212
247, 252, 255, 290, 322, 369, 425, 427–428, Ibn Kharūf 80, 355n68
441–442, 536n52, 542, 683n776, 735, Ibn al-Khaṭīb, Lisān-al-dīn 188, 450
805–808, 1053, 1076, 1079 Ibn Khayrān 433
Ibn Khubayq, Abū Muḥammad ʿAbdallāh Ibn Qays al-Ruqayyāt 459, 668
124 Ibn Qayyim al-Jawzīya 56n85, 57n90,
Ibn Khuwêzmandād 54 60n103–162n111, 64, 66n136, 69n150,
Ibn Labbaykum (?) 464 127n397b, 219, 346, 363n99, 369, 370n131,
Ibn Lahīʿa, ʿĪsā 383, 385, 916 431, 436, 437n138, 438–439, 615n397, 640,
Ibn Lankak 563, 680n760 654n615, 743, 779, 900, 1077
Ibn Māja al-Qazwīnī 425, 618n406 Ibn Qillis 388–389
Ibn Makānis, Fakhr-al-dīn 216n334, 460n60, Ibn al-Qudurī 949
498n12 Ibn al-Quff 1017–1018, 1022–1024
Ibn Mālik (al-Jayyānī) 389n221 Ibn Qufl (Ṣūfī) 958
Ibn Maʿmar 611 Ibn Qunbur (Qanbar) 668
Ibn Mandawayh al-Iṣfahānī 1025 Ibn Qutayba 66n132, 73n165, 76n175,
Ibn Manẓūr (Lisān al-ʿArab) 31nn21–22, 81–82nn205–207, 89n227, 102n278, 341,
45n51, 82n208, 85n217, 164n79, 243n23, 404, 407, 409–410, 416, 491, 538n62, 542n76,
926 547n88, 573n195, 580–581, 668n693, 856,
Ibn al-Marāghī, Muḥammad b. Abī Bakr 311 858, 868, 925, 974
Ibn al-Marzubān, Muḥammad b. Khalaf Ibn Quṭlūbughā 9
552n102, 842n7 Ibn Qutulmish, Muḥammad b. Sulaymān
Ibn al-Marzubān, Muḥammad b. Sahl 372, 483, 831
592n279, 596, 642n539, 652n604, 674 Ibn al-Rafʿa 439, 734
Ibn Māsawayh 207n275 Ibn al-Raqīq al-Qayrawānī 229n392, 242n21,
Ibn Masʿūd 413, 426, 738, 1079 245n32
Ibn Mawāhib al-Ḥaẓīrī 97, 466n86, 467 Ibn Rāshid 808
Ibn al-Mawwāz 434, 437 Ibn al-Rassām, Aḥmad b. Muḥammad
Ibn Mayyāda 667 al-Ḥalabī 155, 292
Ibn al-Mubārak, see ʿAbdallāh Ibn Riḍwān, Abū l-Ḥasan 400
Ibn al-Mufarrigh al-Ḥimyarī 108n300, 154n13 Ibn Riḍwān, Abū l-Qāsim 63n117, 72n160, 75,
Ibn al-Mughaffal 361 76n181, 77n186, 82n207
Ibn al-Mulaqqin 45 Ibn Riḍwān, ʿAlī 96, 1033–1034, 1074
Ibn al-Munayyir, Nāṣir-al-dīn 284 Ibn Rūbīl al-Abbār 461
Ibn al-Muqaffaʿ 99n263, 622n421, 640n525, Ibn al-Rūmī 123n371, 562n146, 611n385, 643,
969, 971, 1039n30 674n727, 711, 881, 944, 946, 1002
Ibn al-Muqāmir, ʿAbdallāh b. Muḥammad b. Ibn Rushd 111–112, 434, 594n287, 635–636
Thābit 478 Ibn al-Ṣabbāgh 433, 443
Ibn al-Muʿtazz 64, 83, 90, 105n290, 118, 526, Ibn Sabʿīn 827, 833
593, 641, 642n544, 653n612, 662, 711, 881, Ibn Saʿd 66n133, 379, 385, 406
890 Ibn al-Ṣāḥib, Badr-al-dīn (al-wazīr Tāj-al-dīn)
Ibn al-Nadīm 87n222, 378n167, 433n117, 1086 498n12
Ibn Nafīs (ʿAlāʾ-al-dīn) 275n42 Ibn al-Ṣāḥib, Badr-al-dīn Aḥmad b. Muḥam-
Ibn al-Najjār, Jamāl-al-dīn Ibrāhīm b. mad 214n315
Sulaymān 221n363 Ibn Saʿīd al-Maghribī 80n202, 97n254,
Ibn al-Najjār, Shams-al-dīn Muḥammad 146, 188–189, 480, 568n173
167n99, 180n163, 191, 225, 232n412 Ibn al-Ṣāʾigh, Jalāl-al-dīn Abū l-Muʿizz
Ibn Naqīla (Nuqayla?) 214n315 al-Maghribī 241, 470
Ibn al-Naṣībī, Abū Bakr Muḥammad b. ʿUmar Ibn al-Ṣāʾigh, Shams-al-dīn 241n16
879 Ibn al-Ṣalāḥ 254, 324
Ibn Nubāta, ʿAbd-al-Raḥīm al-Fāriqī 355 Ibn al-Sammāk 642
Ibn Nubāta al-Saʿdī 563n151, 633n473 Ibn Sanāʾ-al-Mulk 354n53, 391, 468, 570n184,
Ibn al-Qāṣṣ 347n4 574, 711
Ibn Sanī-al-dawla, Ṣadr-al-dīn 430 Ibn Yūnus, Abū Saʿīd ʿAbd al-Raḥmān
Ibn Ṣaṣrā 366 al-Ṣadafī 785
Ibn Sayyid-al-nās 208 Ibn Yūnus al-Ṣiqillī 434
Ibn Shaddād, Bahāʾ-al-dīn 206n271 Ibn Zafar 947
Ibn Shaddād, ʿIzz-al-dīn 74n171 Ibn Ẓāfir 355, 669n701
Ibn al-Shammāʿ 236n4 Ibn Zayd 758
Ibn Shās (ʿAbdallāh b. Najm) 434 Ibn al-Zayyāt 527, 829
Ibn al-Shiḥna, ʿAbd-al-Barr 878 Ibn al-Zubayr, ʿAbdallāh 74n169, 426, 444
Ibn al-Shiḥna, Muḥibb-al-dīn 239 Ibn Zuqqāʿa 378
Ibn Shuhayd 498 Ibrāhīm (Prophet) 956, 969
Ibn Shukr, Ṣafī-al-dīn al-Ṣāḥib 218 Ibrāhīm b. ʿAlī, see al-Miʿmār
see also ʿAlam-al-dīn Ibrāhīm b. Adham 124, 709, 721, 949
Ibn Sīda 926 Ibrāhīm b. Asʿad al-Irbilī al-Laqānī 225n374
Ibn Sīnā 53n74, 56, 111 and n.315, 414n47, Ibrāhīm al-Mawṣilī 675
490, 499, 585, 594n287, 635n491, 705, 845, Ibrāhīm b. al-Mudabbir 579, 675
859n50, 960 Ibrāhīm b. Muslim 385
Ibn Sīrīn 66n133, 396n253, 412, 492, 639, 787, Ibrāhīm b. Shaybān 71n154
1084 Ibrāhīm b. Sinān b. Thābit b. Qurra 1008
Ibn Suwār, Abū l-Khayr al-Ḥasan b. al- al-Ibshīhī 340n8, 466nn89–90, 472n110,
Khammār 102, 1016 489n71, 557n120
Ibn al-Ṭabīb 80n200 al-Idkāwī 149
Ibn Taghrībirdī 92, 169n113, 211n292, Ikhshīd, Muḥammad b. Ṭughsh 481, 493
218n342, 236n4, 241n15, 276n47, 288n92, Ikhwān al-ṣafāʾ 117, 359, 845, 960–962
388, 393–395, 483n44–485n48 ʿIkrima 365, 758
Ibn Tamīm, Mujīr-al-dīn 888–889 ʿImād-al-dīn al-Kātib al-Iṣfahānī 84n215a,
Ibn Taymīya 80n199, 141–142, 144, 157, 109n301, 353n46, 354n57, 450–498 nn.
158n53, 186–187, 197, 198n232, 218n344, passim, 667
227, 236, 243, 245–246, 251–252, 255, ʿImrān b. Ḥiṭṭān 650, 754, 906n42
258, 261, 266, 282–283, 291, 296–297, al-ʿImrānī 398, 431, 435, 441
322, 346, 376, 398, 415, 427n96, 438–439, Imruʾu-l-Qays 573n195, 872, 874n36
477, 489, 492, 507, 538, 540, 542n76, India/Indians 168, 175, 178, 190, 227, 288, 402,
987 404, 503–504, 510, 813, 1031
Ibn Thābit, ʿAbdallāh b. Muḥammad 478 Indonesia 393
Ibn Thawāba 374 Iran/Iranians 177, 179, 508
Ibn al-Tilmīdh, Muʿtamad-al-dawla 1003– see also Persia/Persians
1004 under Mongols 1030–1031
Ibn Ṭufayl 845 Iraq/Iraqis 75, 168, 179, 182, 185, 352n39,
Ibn al-Ukhūwa 372n141, 446, 841n6 441–442
Ibn ʿUmar, ʿAbdallāh 379, 396, 401, 412, 423, al-Irbilī (Abū Muḥammad ʿAbdallāh b. Saʿīd)
425n84–426, 432, 459, 506 1004
Ibn Wahb 401 ʿĪsā (Jesus), see Jesus Christ
Ibn al-Waḥīd, Muḥammad b. Sharīf 288–289 ʿĪsā b. Yūnus al-Sabīʿī 923
Ibn al-Wakīl, Ẓahīr-al-dīn Muḥammad b. Iṣfahān 173
Ismāʿīl 286n84 al-Iṣfahānī, Ḥamza 401, 455, 857n44, 865n9
Ibn al-Wardī, Sirāj-al-dīn 178n157 al-Iṣfahānī, Nūr-al-dīn 287n84
Ibn al-Wardī, Zayn-al-dīn 155, 208, 217, 285, al-Isfarāʾinī, Abū Ḥāmid Aḥmad b. Muḥam-
286n81, 469, 478 mad 268n18
Ibn Yaqṭīn, Muḥammad b. ʿĪsā b. ʿUbayd 596 al-Isfarāʾinī, Abū l-Muẓaffar ʿImād-al-dīn
Ibn al-Yazdī, Jamāl-al-dīn 430–431 Shahfūr 372n142, 490n75
Isḥāq b. Ibrāhīm b. Muṣʿab 63n117 al-Jarsīfī, ʿUmar b. ʿUthmān 446

Isḥāq b. ʿImrān 207n275 Jaspers, K., x-xii 27
Isḥāq al-Isrāʾīlī 249n55 al-Jaṣṣās al-Rāzī, Abū Bakr 387n213, 437n138,
Isḥāq b. Khalīl (ʿAfīf-al-dīn) 669 441n152
Isḥāq al-Mawṣilī 358, 680, 899n21 Jāsūs al-Falak 1004
Isḥāq b. Rāhawayh 423 al-Jawālīqī 580n231
al-Isʿirdī, Nūr-al-dīn 138–139, 223, 227, al-Jawbarī 71n155, 157n36, 232, 292–293,
276–277, 288, 289n97, 291–292, 298, 300, 351n33, 355n67, 366n115, 398, 478, 1037n25
659n643 al-Jawharī, see ʿAlī b. Dāwūd
al-Iskāfī, Muḥammad b. ʿAbdallāh 1016 al-Jawharī (lexicographer) 219, 828, 910n2
Ismāʿīl b. Abī Khālid 361n94 Jaysh b. Khumārawayh 73
Ismāʿīl b. Aḥmad b. ʿAbd-al-Wahhāb (Tāj-al- al-Jayshī al-Ḥakwī 201–202
dīn) 275n42 Jerusalem 171
Ismāʿīl b. Jāmiʿ 483 Jesus (Christ) 706–708, 726, 982n72,
Ismāʿīl b. al-Maʿarrī 236n4 983–984, 1036
Ismāʿīl al-Makkī 120 Jews, Judaism 29, 31–33, 75n173, 79, 93n239,
Ismāʿīlīs 117, 167, 176 and n.153, 290n98, 832 348, 396n251, 403, 420, 482, 492n84, 495,
Israelites 73o n.5, 800, 822, 951 509, 625, 755, 758, 799, 833, 882–883, 952,
Istanbul 1086 1004, 1033, 1042
al-Ittiḥādīya 540–543 laws of 482–483
Iyād (tribe) 677 views of 819, 950
ʿIyāḍ (Judge) 909, 911, 913–914, 918–920, Jibrīl b. ʿUbaydallāh b. Bukhtīshūʿ 1030n9
926–928, 930, 933 al-Jilyānī 501
Iyās b. Muʿāwiya 768 Jūbān al-Qawwās 271
ʿIzz-al-dawla 357–358, 386 al-Jubbāʾī, Abū Hāshim 971
ʿIzz-al-dīn (a Shāfiʿī) 259 Juḥā 709
ʿIzz-al-dīn ʿAbd-al-Salām, see Ibn Ghānim see also Hoja Nasreddin
al-Jumaḥī, ʿAbdallāh b. ʿAbd-al-Raḥmān 366
al-Jaʿbarī 234n420 al-Jumaḥī, Abū ʿAzza ʿAmr b. ʿAbdallāh 823
Jābir b. Ḥayyān 153 Junāda 634n481
Jacob (Prophet) 588 al-Junayd 122, 723–724
Jacobites 707 Jung, C.G. 699n7
Jaʿfar (b. Yaḥyā b. Khālid) al-Barmakī 89, al-Jurjānī, see ʿAbd-al-Qāhir
370, 684n781 al-Jurjānī, Abū l-ʿAbbās Aḥmad b. Muḥammad
Jaʿfar b. Muḥammad al-Shīrāzī 184–185 (d. 482/1090) 256, 332
al-Jāḥiẓ 9, 13, 73n161, 81–82, 87n222, 104, al-Jurjānī, ʿAlī b. Muḥammad, al-Sayyid
108n300, 110, 372, 391–393, 401n277, 448, al-Sharīf 47–48, 339–340, 349n20
489, 491, 537, 549–550, 596, 615, 624, 640, al-Juwaynī, ʿAlāʾ-al-dīn ʿAṭā-malik 90n229
662–663, 703, 766, 769, 773, 851n25, 856,
858, 863–864, 865, 868, 870, 872, 947, 954, Kaʿb b. Zuhayr 592, 600, 620, 636n499, 638
972–973, 977, 1024–1025, 1073, 1082 Kaʿba 473n114, 803, 841
Jaḥẓa (al-Barmakī) 350n26, 552n102 Kāfūr al-Ikhshīdī 197n225, 269, 560
al-Jahshiyārī 358n82, 575n205 Kahane, H. and R. 511n4, 513
Jamīl al-ʿUdhrī 403n9, 599, 602, 645n566 al-Kalābādhī 124, 715
Jamīla bt. Naṣr al-dawla 830 Kamāl-al-dīn al-Ḥimṣī 1034
Jamra (Khawla) 650 Karagöz 158n52
Jamshīd 720 Karbalāʾ 555
Jānibak al-Tājī 276 Karīm-al-dīn al-kabīr 834
Jarīr 417, 611n383 al-Kāshānī 60
al-Khaffāf (Shihāb-al-dīn Aḥmad) 181n168, al-Kisāʾī, Muḥammad b. ʿAbdallāh 369n127

192n208, 214, 281n66 Kramers, J.H. 130
al-Khalīʿ 612 Kraus, P. 104n287, 378n168
Khālid b. ʿAbdallāh al-Qasrī 352n39 (?), 601 Kroeber, A. 340n11
Khālid b. Barmak 678 Kūfa 74, 75, 674, 771
Khālid b. Yazīd b. Muʿāwiya 108n301 al-Kūhistānī, Shams-al-dīn 48, 349n19,
Khalīfa (Ar. Nights) 228, 370 427n97
Khalīl b. Isḥāq al-Mālikī 438n140 Kulayb (tribe) 417
al-Khansāʾ 811n76a al-Kumayt 637
Khārijites 649, 650, 754, 806, 882, 950, Kurd ʿAlī, M. 99n263
952–953 al-Kurdī (Shams-al-dīn) 181
al-Kharrāz, ʿAbdallāh b. Muḥammad 587 Kurds 169
al-Kharrāz, ʿAlī b. Aḥmad 148 Kushājim 465, 492n84, 578n217, 601,
Khathʿam 921 653n612, 663
al-Khaṭīb al-Baghdādī 69n146, 74n171, Kuthayyir ʿAzza 634
80n197, 116nn327–328, 119–124 nn. passim, al-Kutubī 65nn126–129, 79n196, 80n199,
242n21, 268n18, 365n108, 433n117, 440n146, 81n206, 104n286, 105n290, 118n338,
567n164, 923, 936, 948, 1071–1073, 1078–1079 124n378, 139, 142, 163n78, 178n155, 208n280,
Khaṭīb al-Nayrab, ʿAbd-al-Wahhāb 118n338 222n363, 269n23, 281n68, 284n79, 288n92,
al-Khaṭṭābī 547–548, 552n102, 563n149, 298n1, 301, 482–486 nn., 514
575n204, 708, 715–716, 930
Khawārij, see Khārijites Labīd 368, 401, 552–553, 556, 592n281,
Khawwam, Salah Addin 866, 868 626–628
Khaybar, battle of 807 Lain Entralgo, P. 597
al-Khayyāṭ (Abū ʿAbdallāh Muḥammad b. Lāmiʿī 278n57
Aḥmad) 378 Lane, E.W. 155n26, 162, 164, 166n92, 220n350,
al-Khāzin (Abū Jaʿfar) al-Ṣāghānī 1008 293n112, 377n163
al-Khiḍr 170, 286, 653 Laoust, H. 142, 218n344
Khiṭa (China) 179 Latakia 785
Khurāsān/Khurāsānians 113, 178, 184, 185, Laʿūb 345n2
575, 774, 784, 857n44 al-Lawkarī, Abū l-ʿAbbās 978
al-Khusaʿī 811n76a Laylā 667, 893n5
Khusrawshāh 1030n9 Levi Della Vida, G. 36n32a, 53n75, 383–385,
al-Khuttalī 385 432n114, 856
Khuwārizm 401n276 Lichtenstein, Ulrich von 726
al-Khuwārizmī, Abū Bakr 520n2, 534, Lisān al-ʿArab, see Ibn Manẓūr
563n147, 812, 855 ʾllynws (Greek philosopher) 974
al-Khuwārizmī, Muḥammad b. al-ʿAbbās Lot 488
108n301 Lubnā 611
al-Khuzāʿī 372n143, 492 Lughda (Lukdha) 552n102
Khwāharzādeh 175, 248 Luqmān 101, 372, 403, 407n25, 454, 548n93,
al-Kinānī, Abū Ṭāhir Ismāʿīl b. Ṣārim 833 978n53
al-Kindī, Abū ʿUmar 369n129, 385n205, Luqmān al-Sarakhsī 29
493n92
al-Kindī, Yaʿqūb b. Isḥāq 34n28, 37, 53n74, al-Maʿarrī, Abū l-ʿAlāʾ 460, 545n86, 1075
99, 109n303, 157n38, 475n5, 478, 488n64, Maʿbad 301
639n518, 866, 970n15 al-Madāʾinī 405, 459n56, 595, 845, 904
Pseudo-, 387 Maghrib/Maghribis 784, 789
al-Kisāʾī, ʿAlī b. Ḥamza 413 Magians 828, 830
Maʿhad al-Makhṭūṭāt al-ʿArabīyya 1027n3 Mamlūk (period) 92, 268n17, 398, 881
al-Mahdī (caliph) 82, 98n261, 372, 492, 675 al-Maʾmūn (caliph) 62, 116, 481, 487, 680,
Mahdī (expected) 430n106, 782 873, 1048
Maḥmūd (of Ghazna) 455, 813n86 Maʿn b. Zāʾida 17n27, 57
Maḥmūd (Saljūq) 1002 al-Manbijī 178, 287n84
Maḥmūd b. Abī l-Qāsim b. Nadmān(?) Manichaeans/Manichaeism 538, 969, 1051,
al-Ḥanbalī 285n80 1073n36
Maḥmūd al-Muḥammadī l-Ḥanafī 150, 180 al-Manṣūr, Abū Jaʿfar (caliph) 559, 642n544,
Maḥmūd al-Warrāq 594n289, 607–608, 649, 841n7
658 Manṣūr b. ʿAmmār 547–549
Mahn, K.A.F. 512, 515 Manṣūr al-Faqīh (Manṣūr b. Ibrāhīm al-Miṣrī)
Maimonides 152n1, 153, 157n38, 166n91, 123
175n145, 233n419, 248n50, 252n65, 268n15, Manṣūr b. Ismāʿīl al-Miṣrī 820
420n68, 501, 1070n18 Manṣūr b. Muḥammad (Abī Manṣūr) al-Azdī
Majnūn 639n519, 893n5 al-Harawī 353n52, 462, 466, 561n141,
Makhzūm (tribe) 408 583n240
Makkī 286n84 al-Maqrīzī, Aḥmad b. ʿAlī 57n90, 74–
al-Makkī, see Abū Ṭālib 75nn169–171, 77 and n.183, 139, 141, 146,
al-Makkī, Muḥammad 972 160, 166–167, 175, 177–179, 184, 186, 190,
al-Malaṭī, Jamāl-al-dīn Yūsuf b. Mūsā 161, 196n225, 207n275, 230n400, 233, 241n16,
239–240, 247n42 249n55, 263, 270, 276, 286, 287n87,
Mālik, Mālikites 54, 57–60, 64, 243–259 290n98, 292, 296, 388–395 nn. pas-
passim, 290, 424–428, 431–434, 436–438, sim
440, 441n152, 443, 495, 506, 536n52, 735, 741, al-Marghīnānī, Burhān-al-dīn 48n62, 256,
784, 808 323, 332, 421n71, 424n84
al-Malik al-ʿĀdil 824, 1038 al-Marghīnānī, Zayn-al-dīn 48n59, 53n76
al-Malik al-Amjad Bahrāmshāh (of Baʿlabakk) Marj ʿAdhrāʾ 555n114
482 Marracci, L. 15n18, 628
al-Malik al-Ashraf (Rasūlid) 789 al-Marrākushī 1006
al-Malik al-Ashraf, Qāʾitbey 835 al-Marrūdhī (al-Marwazī), Abū Bakr 1076
al-Malik al-Ashraf b. al-Malik al-ʿĀdil (of Maʿrūf al-Karkhī 588, 655n623
Damascus) 484 Marwānids 554
al-Malik al-ʿAzīz (of Aleppo) 484 Maryam (Mary) 369
Mālik b. Asmāʾ 676 al-Marzubān 829
Mālik b. Ḥudhayfa al-Nakhaʿī 587n250 al-Marzubānī, Muḥammad b. ʿImrān 17n28,
al-Malik al-Muẓaffar (Ḥājjī) 389–390, 395 86n222, 539n68, 574n197
al-Malik al-Muẓaffar (of Ḥamāh) 357 Masrūq 427
al-Malik al-Nāṣir, Ḥasan 389n224 Masrūr (Ar. Nights) 432n115
al-Malik al-Nāṣir, Muḥammad b. Qalāʾūn Massignon, L. 121n355, 197n226, 713
389 Masʿūd (Saljūq) 1002
al-Malik al-Nāṣir, Yūsuf b. Muḥammad 485 al-Masʿūdī 57n88, 59n94, 74n169, 83n212,
al-Malik al-Saʿīd 390 84n214, 384n196, 488n61, 492n84, 503,
al-Malik al-Ṣāliḥ, Najm-al-dīn Ayyūb 269, 576n210, 795
824 Matthew of Vendôme 725–726
al-Malik al-Ẓāhir, see Baybars al-Māwardī 51nn69–71, 81–82nn205–206,
Malikshāh 831 96n252, 256, 258, 259n98, 325, 445n166,
al-Mallūḥī, ʿAbd-al-Muʿīn 496n4 477n18, 741
Maʿmar (?) 179 al-Mawṣilī (Taqī-al-dīn) 159
Maʿmar b. Rāshid 553 al-Mawṣilī, Isḥāq b. Ibrāhīm 704
al-Mawṣilī, ʿUmar b. al-Shiḥna 83n213 al-Mubarrad 592n280, 789n142, 848

Maximus Confessor 95n243 al-Mubashshir b. Fātik 90n231, 94–115 nn.
Pseudo-, 1036–1037 passim, 113n319, 372n140, 403, 450n13,
al-Maydānī 366n113, 454n.-455, 498n10 475n3, 494n7, 548n93, 596n296, 651–664
Mayer, L.A. 398 nn. passim
al-Māzarī 931 al-Mufaḍḍal al-Ḍabbī 366n113, 405, 454n39
al-Māzūnī 201 al-Mufaḍḍal b. Faḍāla 671
Mecca 57, 372, 407, 413, 473n114, 492, 556, al-Mufaḍḍalīyāt 367n121
783, 788, 793, 799, 827, 833, 921 al-Mughīra b. ʿAmr b. ʿUthmān 630
Medina 57, 413, 768, 781n104, 783, 793 al-Mughīra b. Habnāʾ 529n20
Meier, F. 49n66a, 127n397b, 397n259, al-Muhallab 932–933
686–688 al-Muhallabī, al-Ḥasan b. Muḥammad [b.
Menander 96n251 ʿAbdallāh] b. Hārūn 584n242, 680n756
Pseudo - 371, 660–661 Muḥammad the Prophet 49, 54, 56–58, 69,
Mercier, L. 383 86, 91, 96, 105n289, 118, 120–121, 123, 134, 150,
Mercury (planet) 372 180, 203, 236, 301n17, 345n2, 404–405, 422,
Merinids 63n117 427n96, 431, 495–496, 535, 545–546, 552,
Mesopotamia 698n4 556, 562, 565, 614n396, 713, 731–732, 789,
Mez, A. 54n81, 105n290, 344, 862n1, 1082 799, 800, 856, 879, 899, 903, 909, 1044, 1052,
Michael (Bāzūḏ) 37, 39 1070, 1076
Michael the Interpreter 705 biographies of 150
al-Mīkālī 572n192 on children and Paradise 956
al-Mīlawī, Yūsuf b. al-Wakīl 75n172, 198, 263 and coarse language 895n7
al-Miʿmār, Burhān-al-dīn (= Ibrāhīm al- on dahr 537–538, 540, 543
Miʿmār ?) 174n143, 195, 199, 216–217, 278 on death 648, 649n584
al-Miʿmār, Ibrāhīm b. ʿAlī 479–480 on desires and hopes 608, 618n406, 682
Minā 501 on doubt 968–969
Miskawayh 35n31, 40n48, 79nn193 and 197, on frivolity 346–348
87n222, 89n224, 96n250, 97n253, 99n263, on gambling/betting 363–365, 397, 402,
101–103, 109, 117, 357n80, 391, 478n23, 412–413, 425–426, 438
487n56, 488n64, 497n8, 577, 594, 616, ḥadīth of stranger 756
618–620, 776, 818, 846, 987n94, 991n114, on ḥadīth of Umm Zarʿ 915, 917–919, 923,
1083 925
Mongols (Tatars) 187–188, 354 on hope and fear 617, 671
Monochôros 457 humor of 928
Moses 46, 55, 800 on intoxicants 240–241, 275
Mosul 169, 280 on prisons 56–58, 63–64
al-Badrīya 280 on racing / games 382, 384–385, 432–433,
Motzkin, A.L. 1033 441–442, 488
Muʿāfā b. ʿImrān 427n96 son Ibrāhīm 957
Muʿammar b. ʿAbbād 640 on suicide 804–808
Muʿāwiya b. Abī Sufyān (caliph) 75n173, sunna of 954
91–92, 553, 555nn114–115, 570, 633n475, 793, on taḥrīsh of animals 393n235, 394, 420
869 traditions/statements of 46n54, 52, 118,
Muʿāwiya b. ʿUbaydallāh b. Yasār, Abū 157, 175, 179–180, 214, 221n360, 369, 451,
ʿUbaydallāh 98n261 508n42, 734, 735, 738, 747, 769, 894, 897,
al-Muʾayyad (Mamlūk ruler) 92, 567 912, 948, 955, 982, 989
Muʾayyad-al-dīn b. al-ʿAlqamī 833 on umma 683
Mubāriz-al-dīn Sunqur (of Mārdīn) 804n23 Muḥammad b. ʿAbd-al-Ḥakam 486
Muḥammad b. ʿAbd-al-Karīm b. al-Shammāʿ Mūsāb (poet) 574n197

236n4 Muṣʿab b. ʿAbdallāh b. Muṣʿab al-Zubayrī
Muḥammad b. ʿAbd-al-Malik al-Hāshimī 408
355 Muṣʿab b. al-Zubayr 995
Muḥammad b. Abī l-ʿAbbās al-Saffāḥ 527 al-Muscati, J. 146
Muḥammad Abū l-Faḍl Ibrāhīm 142 al-Mushallal 406
Muḥammad b. Aḥmad b. Dāwūd b. al-Najjār Muslim (b. al-Ḥajjāj) 52n72, 246, 321,
146 352n36, 536n52, 604n333, 780–781,
Muḥammad b. ʿAlī al-Ḥarīrī 234 806–808, 909, 912, 918, 921, 928
Muḥammad al-Azhar 464 Muslim b. ʿAqīl b. Abī Ṭālib 34
Muḥammad b. Dāwūd al-Ẓāhirī 242n21 Muslim al-Ḥanafī 196n221, 278
Muḥammad b. al-Ḥasan b. Jumhūr al-ʿAmmī Muslim b. al-Walīd (Ṣarīʿ al-ghawānī) 525n6,
596n297 611, 632n472, 650, 684n781
Muḥammad b. Hāshim al-Khālidī 670 al-Mustanṣir (caliph) 185
Muḥammad b. Ḥāzim al-Bāhilī 360, 678 Mustanṣirīya 280
Muḥammad b. Ibrāhīm b. al-Faḍl 123 al-Mustarshid (caliph) 1002
Muḥammad b. Makkī al-Mashhadī 272 al-Mustaʿṣim (caliph) 390n226
Muḥammad b. Muḥammad (of al-Baḥrayn ?) al-Mustawfī 485n47
185 al-Muʿtaḍid (caliph) 482, 867, 946
Muḥammad b. al-Naṭṭāḥ 119 al-Muṭahhar b. ʿAbdallāh 830
Muḥammad b. al-Rūmī 123 al-Muʿtamid (caliph) 764, 823
Muḥammad Saʿīd 399 al-Mutanabbī 80n200, 84n213, 108n300,
Muḥammad b. Ṣāliḥ (ʿAlid) 80n201 162n72, 529, 531, 532n34, 534, 560, 572n189,
Muḥammad al-Shīrāzī 178 586, 631, 648, 771, 777, 843
Muḥammad b. Ṭughsh (Ikhshīd) 481 Muṭarrif (b. Ṭarīf) 671n710
Muḥammad b. ʿUmar al-Warrāq (Abū Bakr,) al-Mutawakkil (caliph) 601, 678n748, 841n7
100 Muʿtazila 39, 503–507, 624–626, 640, 782,
Muḥammad b. ʿUyayna b. Asmāʾ b. Khārija 806–807, 867, 954, 957, 971, 973, 981, 985
611 al-Muʿtazz (caliph) 81n206
Muḥarriq (tribe) 677 al-Muthaqqib al-ʿAbdī 115n327
al-Muḥāsibī 16, 118n335, 125, 589n269, 659, al-Muttaqī al-Hindī 956
684, 722, 723–724, 766, 947 Muzabbid 526n10, 564, 669
Mujāhid 412, 758 al-Muzanī 175, 181–182, 247, 254n75
Muknaf b. Muʿāwiya al-Tamīmī 649n586
al-Muktafī (caliph) 105n290 al-Nābigha al-Dhubyānī 704n24
Mulāʿib al-asinna 345n2 al-Nābigha al-Jaʿdī 632
al-Munakhkhal al-Yashkurī 643 Nahār b. Tawsiʿa 575
Munkar and Nakīr (angels) 956 Nāʾila bt. al-Farāfiṣa al-Kalbīya 768
al-Muqannaʿ 824, 828 Najda b. Junāda 634n481
Muqātil b. Sulaymān 365, 603, 758 al-Nājim (poet) 661
al-Muqtadir (caliph) 87n222, 946–947 Najm-al-dīn al-Kubrā 127n397b, 720
Murra b. ʿAbbād (tribe) 405 al-Namir b. Tawlab 564n155, 770
Murād (tribe) 385 al-Naqqāsh, ʿAbd al-Razzāq (poet) 469n98
al-Muraqqish the Elder 367 al-Naqqāsh, Muḥammad b. al-Ḥasan
Murray, H.J.R. 375 364n104
Murtaḍā al-Zabīdī 350n24, 382n186, 553, al-Nasafī (ʿAzīz) 49n66a
623, 781n102, 911 al-Nasafī, Ḥāfiẓ-al-dīn 175n146, 181, 261
Mūsā b. ʿĪsā l-Kisrawī 766 al-Nasāʾī 806, 808, 914, 928, 936
Mūsā b. Yaghmūr 269 al-Nāshī 1024–1025
Nashwān al-Ḥimyarī 430n104, 567n167, 581 Pickthall, M. 15n18, 628

al-Nāṣir (caliph) 286n84 Pindar 661n650
al-Naṣīr al-Ḥammāmī 163 Pines, S. 53n74
Naṣīr-al-dīn Ṭūsī 489n70 Pīr Muḥammad al-Fanārī 150
Naṣrallāh al-Ṭūsī 178–179 Plato, Platonic 47, 53n74, 95, 99n263,
Nasreddin, see Hoja 101n276a, 103, 106–111, 113, 543, 597, 600n313,
Juḥā 601, 608n362, 616n402, 621, 629, 638n507,
al-Nawawī 45, 242, 246, 249n56, 250, 658n638, 661n650, 700, 813, 949, 950n35,
253–255, 258, 323–324, 346n3, 436, 443 975, 979–980, 987, 992, 994, 1009
Nawf al-Shaʾmī 758 Pseudo-, 38n39
al-Naẓẓām, Abū Isḥāq 486, 703, 972 Plotinus 94n242, 718
New World 747 Pocock, E. 667n693
Nicoll, A. 147n30, 1006 Polemo 371n137
Nietzsche, Friedrich 728 Proclus 969
Nile 212, 233, 266, 355, 390 Protestantism 495
Nīsābūr 182, 184, 828 Ptolemy 106, 664n673, 975, 977n50
al-Nishāwūrī (ʿAfīf-al-dīn) 184n185 Ptolemy (al-Gharīb, biographer of Aristotle)
Niẓāmiyya College 206n271, 834 53n74
Nizārīs 176 Pyramus and Thisbe 725
Noah (Prophet) 404 Pyrrho (?) 114n322
Nöldeke, T. 32n16, 35n32, 545 Pythagoras 94–95, 97, 99, 109, 112n315a, 115,
Nuʿaym b. Ḥammād 543 117, 610n374, 661, 1008
Nuʿaym b. Muwarriʿ b. Tawbah 119–120
al-Nuʿmān (ruler of al-Ḥīra) 56n88, 82 al-Qāʿah 405
Nūr-al-dīn 463 al-Qābisī, ʿAlī b. Muḥammad b. Khalaf 941
Nūr-al-dīn ʿAlī b. Bardbak al-Fakhrī 218 al-Qābūnī 380n177
Nuṣayb b. Rabāḥ 459 Qadarīya 504n27, 953
al-Nūshajānī 704, 814 al-Qāḍī al-Fāḍil al-Baysānī 201n257, 574, 949
al-Nuwayrī 156n31, 196n225, 225n377, 241n16, Qāḍīkhān 59n94, 61n104, 65n128, 68–70,
292n107, 459, 496n4, 503n21, 554n108, 72–78 nn. passim, 257, 396, 421, 427n97
576n210, 610n374 al-Qaffāl 254n75
al-Nuwayrī (al-Iskandarānī) 551n101, Qalandar (Shaykh) 178, 183, 203, 205
649n584 Qalandarīs/Qalandarīya 158, 888
al-Qālī 99n263, 102n278, 104n286, 396n251,
Ögetei 385 403n9, 491n83, 629n447, 925
Ottomans 158, 729n2, 821n105 al-Qalqashandī 51n71, 108n300, 141, 223, 248,
259, 370n134, 507, 677n744a
Pahlavi 376 Qamar-al-dawla 468
Pareja Casañas, F.M. 399, 423n77, 487n55, Qamar-al-zamān (Ar. Nights) 366
503–505 nn., 508n40 al-Qarāfī 143, 243–245, 247, 253–255, 258
Paret, R. 614, 628 Qaraite (law) 819
Paul of Aegina 153, 215n325, 242n19 Qarandal (Shaykh) 183n178
Pellat, Charles 459n55, 864 see also Qalandar (Shaykh)
Persia/Persians 35, 48–50, 100, 165n86, 167, Qarmaṭian(s) 172, 672, 829
168, 179, 182, 187, 198n235, 306, 363–365, Qārūn (Korah) 982
376–378, 504, 508–515, 704 al-Qasṭallānī, Quṭb-al-dīn 141, 144, 148,
Pharaoh 55, 91 221n358, 238
Philo 101n276a al-Qasṭallānī, Shihāb-al-dīn 150, 357n78,
Philokybos 457 445n167, 623, 649n584, 924
Qatāda b. Diʿāma 395 al-Rāzī, Muḥammad b. ʿAbdallāh b. ʿAbd-al-

Qaṭarī b. Fujāʾa 649 ʿAzīz b. Shādhān al-Muqriʾ 122–123
Qays b. Dharīḥ 562n144, 611, 646 Rescher (Reşer), O. 35n32, 84n215, 148,
Qays b. al-Khaṭīm 530n23, 631, 636 199n242, 228n390, 244n30, 274n41, 636n499
Qazwīn 182n180, 259n100 al-Riḍā (Imām) 596n297
al-Qazwīnī, ʿAbd-al-Ghaffār b. ʿAbd-al-Karīm Ritter, H. 29n14, 52n71, 83n210a, 87n222,
253n67, 256n83 99n263, 128n398a, 139nn3 and 9, 480n33,
al-Qifṭī 53n74, 89n227, 358n81, 943 508–509nn42 and 44, 687n802, 713
Qilij Arslan 831 Romans 431, 701
al-Qīrāṭī 352n44, 449n7, 471 Ruʾba 350n26
al-Qirqisānī 420n67, 819, 822 Rufus of Ephesus 153
Qudādār 270 al-Ruhāwī 482n38
Qudāma b. Jaʿfar 643n551 Ruhm 405
Qudāma b. Qays 405–406, 409 Rūm 110
al-Qudūrī 175, 260 see also Greek(s), Byzantines
Qumm 182n180 Rūmī, Jalāl-al-dīn 128n399, 485n49, 573n195,
Quraysh (tribe) 406–407 705n27, 717–718
al-Qurṭubī (Ibn Farḥ) 377, 413–416 nn., 424, al-Ruṣāfa (ʿAskar Mahdī) 873
495 Russell, B. 98n259
al-Qushayrī 47, 71n154, 72, 99n263, 102n277, Ruwaym 587
106n291, 115n324, 118–127 passim, 477, al-Rūyānī 175n149, 249, 256n83, 330, 332, 381
508, 615–616, 621, 623, 656, 683–688, Ruzzayq b. Ṭalāʾiʿ 570
722–723
Qusṭā b. Lūqā 215n318, 858, 1003–1004 al-Ṣābiʾ, see Hilāl b. al-Muḥassin
Sābūr 407n25
al-Rabīʿ b. Sulaymān 792 Saʿd b. Abī Waqqāṣ 418
al-Rāḍī (caliph) 520n2, 628n442, 678n748 Saʿd-al-dīn Muḥammad (son of Ibn ʿArabī)
al-Raḍī b. Harṯama 832 879–880, 883
Raḍī-al-dīn al-Raḥbī 1034 Saʿdī 100, 116n328
al-Rāfiʿī 175n149, 231 n406, 259, 323, 325, Saʿdūn 588
346n3, 367, 381, 429, 436, 443, 913, 924 Ṣafad 173
al-Rāghib al-Iṣfahānī 46, 99n265, 349n19, al-Ṣafadī 33n22a, 54n80, 97n253, 100n265,
358n83, 361n94, 369n128, 562n146, 102n278, 139, 212n303, 225n378, 234n422,
635–672n716 passim, 689, 771, 859, 974 237n4, 287n84, 366, 390, 462, 470, 507–508,
Rangstreit literature 862, 881, 891 556n120, 627n436, 633, 634n481, 863, 876,
Raqaba b. Maṣqala (or Masqala) 974 885, 901n23, 1048n13
al-Raqāshī 242n21, 872 al-Saffāḥ (caliph) 527n17, 642n544
al-Raqqa 463 Ṣafī-al-dīn al-Ḥillī 105n290, 158n48, 163,
Rasāʾil Ikhwān al-ṣafāʾ 359, 712n47 198n228, 200n247, 281n66, 286n81, 307–310,
Rashīd-al-dīn (Faḍlallāh) 385, 1031n13 467n91, 470n102
Rashīd-al-dīn Ibn Khalīfa 97, 99 Sahl b. ʿAbdallāh al-Tustarī 72
al-Rashīdī al-Lawkarī 497 Saḥnūn 428, 741
Rayy 182n180, 704 Ṣahyūn 173
al-Rāzī, see Fakhr-al-dīn Saʿīd b. ʿAbd-al-Raḥmān b. Ḥassān b. Thābit
Ibn Abī Ḥātim 607
al-Rāzī, Abū Bakr Muḥammad b. Zakarīyāʾ Ṣāʿid b. al-Ḥasan al-Rabaʿī 465–466
153, 155–156, 164n79, 207, 208n279, 215n318, Saʿīd b. Ḥumayd 571, 639, 900–901, 975
216n330, 220nn252–253, 233n418, 314, 378, Saʿīd b. Jubayr 423, 427
503n23, 859n50, 969, 1024–1025, 1027, 1039 Saʿīd b. al-Musayyab 396, 424n84, 434, 438
Sakenfeld, Katharine D. 17n28 Schrijen, J.J.A. 597

al-Sakhāwī, Aḥmad b. Khalīl 147 Secundus the Silent 704n25
al-Sakhāwī, ʿAlam-al-dīn ʿAlī b. Muḥammad Serageddin, L. 398
411n35 Seth 982
al-Sakhāwī, Muḥammad b. ʿAbd-al-Raḥmān Sevilla 77
81n206, 139–140, 146–306 nn. passim, 311, Sezgin, F. 411n35, 1026
424, 506–507, 553n106 al-Shaʿbī 340n8, 347, 384n200, 423, 547,
Ṣalāḥ-al-dīn 353n46 575n204, 1084
Salama b. al-Akwaʿ 441n152 Shabīb b. al-Barṣāʾ 632
Sale, G. 15n18, 628 al-Shābushtī 105n290, 359–360, 374
Ṣāliḥ b. ʿAbd-al-Quddūs 678, 969, 971 al-Shāfiʿī 59–60, 62, 65, 67, 144–146, 182, 242,
Ṣāliḥ Jazara 985 247–250, 254–255, 290, 346, 379–380, 412,
Ṣāliḥ b. Mudrik al-Ṭāʾī 829 429–430, 436, 442, 538, 566, 572, 735, 763,
Saljūqs 831, 1002 770, 774, 792
Sallār 733–734 Shāfiʿites 59, 175, 181–182, 249, 252, 269, 367,
Salm b. Yazīd al-Fahmī 520 379, 421, 423, 427–432, 435, 438, 443–444
Salm b. Ziyād 575 al-Shahrastānī 176n150, 656n624
Salmon ibn Yeruham 1069 al-Shahrazūrī 489n70, 664n673
Ṣaltīya 953 Shakespeare, W. 549
Samaritans 882 Shalaʿlaʿ 468
al-Samarqandī 179 Shamardal al-Bajalī 83
al-Sāmarrī 430–431 Shams-al-dīn al-Ṭayyibī (Ṭībī) 117
al-Samawʾal b. Yaḥyā b. ʿAbbās al-Maghribī, Shams-i Tabrīzī 720
Abū Naṣr 1005–1007 Shanfarā 462n70
Samnūn al-Ṣūfī 958–959 al-Sharābī 201
Ṣanʿāʾ 91 al-Shaʿrānī 59n99, 235n424, 294n123,
Sanaṭrūq 821 655n618
al-Ṣanawbarī 461, 463 al-Sharīf (Persian confectioner) 267–268
Sanjar 832 al-Sharīf al-Murtaḍā 354n56, 638n505, 662
al-Sarakhsī, Aḥmad b. al-Ṭayyib 108n300, al-Sharīf al-Raḍī 349, 444–445, 452, 475, 540,
851n25, 864–871 567, 570, 572, 628n441–667n691 passim
al-Sarakhsī, Shams-al-aʾimma Muḥammad b. al-Sharīshī 59n94, 102n278, 104n285, 449n10,
Aḥmad 43n50, 53–80 nn. passim, 89n227, 459n54, 491n83, 565n158–608n361 passim,
231n406, 242n21, 248, 250n58, 323, 421n71, 635n485–680n760 passim, 1005n18
736, 740, 808, 1054n24 al-Shāṭibī, Muḥammad b. Sulaymān 139
Ṣarīʿ al-ghawānī, see Muslim b. al-Walīd al-Shaybānī, Muḥammad b. al-Ḥasan 69,
al-Sarrāj 615, 684, 688 72n159, 247, 256, 260, 326, 427n96, 433n120,
Sassanians 178 441n152, 735–736
Satan 14n12, 38, 172, 178, 181, 191, 286n81, 309, al-Shayzarī 446
352, 402, 418–419, 460, 627, 629, 644n557 Shelley 727
see also Iblīs Shīʿa 444, 540, 546, 572, 596, 882, 955
Saul 822 imāms 977
al-Sawāḥil (Coastal Plains) 169 al-Shiblī, Abū Bakr (Ṣūfī) 121, 717
al-Sāwajī, Aḥmad 183, 313 al-Shiblī, Badr-al-dīn Muḥammad 351n33
al-Ṣaydalānī 254 Shīrāz 175
Sayf-al-dawla 529, 858 al-Shīrāzī, Abū Isḥāq 175–176, 242n21, 246,
Sayf-al-dīn al-Mushidd 225n378, 285n80, 317, 443n155
351n32, 353n53, 377, 485n49 Shuʿba b. al-Ḥajjāj 1079
Schmitt, E. 371, 531 Shurayḥ (Judge) 61, 74, 76, 394, 588n259
Ṣiffīn 708 al-Suhrawardī, ʿUmar b. Muḥammad

al-Sijistānī, see Abū Sulaymān 99n263, 665n683
al-Sijistānī, Abū Ḥātim 562n144 al-Sukkarī 533n41, 535n51, 592n281, 675n731
Sikhs 698 al-Sulamī, Abū ʿAbd al-Raḥmān Muḥammad
al-Silafī 466, 944 b. al-Ḥusayn 121–123, 579n222, 676n737,
Silvestre de Sacy, A.I. 53n74, 146, 156n29, 160, 685n787
165n85, 168n99, 176, 184n185, 186n187, 208, Sulaym b. Ayyūb al-Rāzī 240, 380
265n2, 289n96, 293n113 Sulaymā 637
al-Ṣimma b. ʿAlī al-Qushayrī 591n273 Sulaymān b. Arqam 580
Simplicius 27n4 Sulaymān b. Burayda 425
Sinān b. Thābit 76 Sulaymān b. Bulaymān 485
Sind 168 Sulaymān b. al-Ḥārith 385
al-Sīrāfī 791 al-Ṣūlī, Ibrāhīm b. al-ʿAbbās 106n290, 527,
Ṣiwān al-ḥikma, see Abū Sulaymān al-Sijistānī 572, 606
Socrates 17, 94, 96, 98, 100–101, 450, 596n296, al-Ṣūlī, Muḥammad b. Yaḥyā 45n51,
652, 655n624, 813, 818, 980–981, 986–987, 106n290, 492n84, 642n544, 665n678
992, 1009, 1082 Surāqa 180
Solon 95n244, 497 al-Sūsī, Abū Yaʿqūb 723
Sophists (al-mughāliṭūn) 544, 970 al-Suyūṭī 57nn88 and 90, 650n587, 957
Southern, R.W. 840 Swinburne 727
Spain (Muslim) 188–189, 515, 746, 785, 925 Syria/Syrians 169, 177, 186, 190, 266, 514, 789,
Steingass, F. 399n267, 485n49, 513 849–850, 863, 1051
Stobaeus 39n47, 95n243, 97n256, 128n398, Junaynat ʿUbayd (in Aleppo) 360
660n646, 1036 Zion (Ṣahyūn, northern Syria) 173
Stoics 987 Syriac 208n279
al-Subkī, Tāj-al-dīn 54n77, 60n104, 62n110,
78n190, 123n368, 254n75, 268n18 al-Ṭabarānī 914, 919
al-Subkī, Taqī-al-dīn 421, 438, 734–735, al-Ṭabarī, see ʿAlī b. Rabban
1043–1045, 1052 al-Ṭabarī, ʿAbd-al-Raḥmān b. Aḥmad (author
Suʿdā 667n693 of the Wāḍiḥ) 440n146
Sūdūn al-Shaykhūnī 262, 270 al-Ṭabarī, al-Ḥasan/Ḥusayn b. al-Qāsim)
Ṣūfīs 47–48, 118, 121, 125–128, 181, 183–187, 433, 443
189, 197, 203, 205, 208, 215, 227n384, 234, al-Ṭabarī, Isḥāq b. Ibrāhīm 686
239, 277–278, 282–283, 285n80, 293n112, al-Ṭabarī, Muḥammad b. Jarīr 34n25a,
294–295, 298, 357, 479, 509, 523, 543, 547, 53n76, 63n118, 74nn169–170, 75n174a,
588, 589, 685, 687–688, 692, 709, 716, 79nn193 and 196–197, 363–365, 406, 413,
761, 784–785, 791, 888, 907, 923–924, 977, 418, 476, 553, 555n114, 557n121, 672n719, 758,
1016–1017 802, 803, 910n2, 957
parables 814n88, 815 al-Ṭabarī, Raḍī-al-dīn Ibrāhīm b. Muḥammad
poor 146, 160, 170, 305n32 al-Makkī 439
as strangers 774–775, 780, 785 al-Tahānawī 48–50, 349n19
Ṣūfism 48, 117–128, 277, 282–283, 306, 508, al-Ṭaḥāwī, Abū Jaʿfar 69, 175, 181, 247
615, 676, 684, 686, 713–714, 719, 721–722, (Abū Jaʿfar 323 ?) 363n19, 387, 433n120,
724, 795, 958–959 435n128, 437n138, 441n152
Ṣufrīya 953 Ṭāhirids 374
Sufyān b. Ḥusayn 438 al-Ṭāʾī, Abū Zubayd 644
Sufyān b. ʿUyayna 569n176, 685, 721 Ṭalḥa b. Muḥammad b. Ibrāhīm b. Abī l-Aʿlā
Suḥaym 104 al-Ḥanbalī 140
al-Suhrawardī (al-Maqtūl) 720, 780, 959 al-Tallaʿfarī 444, 473, 479, 483–486, 514
Talmud 950 Transoxania 182, 267, 269

Tamīm al-Dārī 352 Treitschke, H. von 28
Tamīm b. al-Muʿizz 33n22a, 530, 669 al-Ṭūfī, Najm al-Dīn Sulaymān b. ʿAbd-al-Qawī
al-Tamīmī, Abū ʿAbdallāh 930 715
al-Tanūkhī 587n250, 614n396, 677n741 al-Ṭughrāʾī 627n436, 666
Ṭarafa 290n101, 368, 403n4, 703 Turks 158, 168, 179, 382n186, 438, 512–515
Targum 1069 al-Ṭūsī, ʿAbd-al-ʿAzīz b. Muḥammad 252, 324
al-Ṭarsūsī 734–735, 872 al-Ṭūsī, Shaykh al-Ṭāʾifa 596n297
Ṭāshköprüzādeh 117n330, 150n40, 352n41, Tustar 184
430n104, 568, 609, 1086
Tatars, see Mongols ʿUbaydallāh b. ʿAbdallāh (Ṭāhirid) 374
Tawaddud (Ar. Nights) 399, 412 ʿUbaydallāh b. Abī Bakra 663n661
al-Tawḥīdī, see Abū Ḥayyān ʿUbaydallāh b. al-Muẓaffar al-Marīnī al-
Ṭāwūs 120 Maghribī 479n27
al-Ṭayālisī 806, 808 ʿUbaydallāh b. Yaḥyā b. Khāqān 580
Thaʿāliba 953 ʿUbaydallāh b. Ziyād b. Abīhi 904, 906
al-Thaʿālibī 33nn22a and 24, 83nn210a Ubayy b. Khalaf 364
and 213, 108nn300–301, 359, 455, 465n84, Ukaymil b. Sāʿid 922
482n38, 529–534 nn. passim, 586n245, 708, ʿUkāẓ 404
796, 876 al-ʿUkbarī 140–141, 183–184, 186n187,
Thaʿlab, Abū l-ʿAbbās Aḥmad b. Yaḥyā 204n267, 211, 215–218n342, 227n382, 236,
617n404 238, 280, 644n554
al-Thaʿlabī 564n155 ʿUkkāsha b. ʿAbd-al-Ṣamad 645n561, 872
Thales 114 ʿUlayya bint al-Mahdī 676n734
Thaqīlīya 214 Ullmann, Manfred 158n43, 163n77, 169n106,
al-Thawrī, Sufyān 256, 365, 508n42, 579–580, 371n136, 1026
683n776, 948, 997, 1077, 1079 ʿUmar b. ʿAbdallāh b. ʿUrwa 914–915, 932
Theano 38n44, 104n285 ʿUmar b. ʿAbd-al-ʿAzīz 349, 629, 638n509, 731
Theodore bar Kônay 39n45 ʿUmar b. Abī Rabīʿa 609, 617n404, 636–637
Theognis 986 ʿUmar b. al-Khaṭṭāb 57–58, 59n96, 64, 65,
Theomnestus 209n284 74n168, 346, 348, 379, 393, 406, 418, 423,
Theon of Alexandria 109n303 556, 635, 708, 732–733, 793, 809, 828, 975,
Thumāma 947–948 979, 1077
al-Tīfāshī 488 ʿUmar Khayyām 499, 1003–1004, 1008n30
Tiflis 1032 ʿUmar b. Shabba 841n7
Tigris 280 ʿUmāra al-Yamanī 570, 606, 646
al-Tihāmī 621, 633 Umayyad(s) 413, 481, 555, 601, 611, 647
Timaeus, Ṭīmānāwus, Timotheos (?) Umm al-Ḍaḥḥāk al-Muḥāribīya 605
114n320a Umm al-Khuss 662n661
al-Timirtāshī 151, 181, 257, 261 Umm Zarʿ 931–932
Tinnīs 1018 ʿUmr Kaskar 360
al-Tirmidhī (Ṣūfī), see al-Ḥakīm al-Tirmidhī Unionists (ittiḥādīya) 540, 542, 715
al-Tirmidhī, ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz b. Khālid 256 al-ʿUqaylī 916
al-Tirmidhī, Muḥammad b. ʿĪsā 58n91, 340, ʿUqba b. Khālid 927
352n37, 365, 393n235, 618n406, 649n584, ʿUrwa b. al-Ward 533n40, 762, 770
806, 808, 928 ʿUrwa b. al-Zubayr 349n15, 553, 914–915
Tizmant (Egypt) 259n103 Usāma b. Munqidh 84n215a, 86n221,
al-Tizmantī 259, 326 95n244, 98n258, 101n273, 102n278, 107n296,
Tlemcen 430n106 113n319, 353n46, 641n534, 843, 980–981, 988
Ūshahanj 101 al-Yanbuʿī, Nūr-al-dīn ʿAlī b. ʿAbdallāh

ʿUtba b. Abī Sufyān 633n475 197n225, 203
al-ʿUtbī, Abū Naṣr Muḥammad 455, Yaʿqūb al-Ṣaffār 72
457–458, 536–537 al-Yaʿqūbī 74n171, 91n235, 411n35, 503,
al-ʿUtbī, Muḥammad b. ʿUbaydallāh 17n28 568n172, 683n770
ʿUthmān b. ʿAffān (caliph) 555, 630, 768, 944 Yāqūt 45n52, 74n169, 84n215a, 89n227,
ʿUthmān b. Khumārtāsh 993 102n278, 106nn290–291, 108n301, 184n185,
ʿUwaymir b. Sālim al-ʿAbsī 631n465 360n90, 373n144, 374n150, 386n211, 417n59,
al-ʿUzzā 402 552n102, 555n114, 658n636, 791, 924, 1083
Yazdān 505
Vajda, G. 1069 Yazīd b. ʿAbdallāh al-Turkī 386, 493
Venus (planet) 372 Yazīd b. Abī Khālid 361n94
Viré, F. 383 Yazīd b. Muʿāwiya (caliph) 640, 678
von Grunebaum, G.E. 857 Yazīd b. al-Muhallab 678
Yazīd b. Rukāna 442
Wagner, E. 862n1 Yazīd b. Rūmān 915
Wahb b. Munabbih 653 Yemen 56n88, 91, 164n79, 168, 237n4, 384,
Wahhābīs 297 555n115, 921–922
al-Wajīh al-Naḥwī 1076–1077 al-Yūnīnī 139n4, 237n4, 284n78, 357n79,
Wakīʿ, Muḥammad b. Khalaf 59–79 nn. 390n229, 483n44, 485nn47 and 49
passim, 242n18, 384n200 Yūnus (Jonah) 369, 509
Wāliba b. al-Ḥubāb 870, 872 Yūnus b. ʿĪsā 1079
al-Walīd b. al-Mughīra 407 Yūsuf (Joseph) 25, 55, 81–82, 767, 787, 790
al-Walīd b. Yazīd (caliph) 602, 645n562 Yūsuf b. Asbāṭ 1077
al-Wāqidī 385, 406, 416, 803 Yūsuf b. Mūsā 124
al-Ward, Wuhaib b. 722
Wartburg, W. von 513 al-Zabīr b. ʿAlī b. al-Zabīr 611
Wāṣil b. ʿAṭāʾ 984 Ẓāfir b. Jābir al-Mawṣilī 1018
Wāsiṭ 79 Zāhid al-ʿulamāʾ 1041
al-Wāsiṭī, ʿImād-al-dīn Aḥmad 281n69 Ẓāhirīya (in Damascus) 143–144
Watt, W.M. 40n48, 44n50, 534n47 Zakarīyāʾ (Maryam’s husband) 369
Wayjan b. Rustam al-Kūhī 1008 al-Zamakhsharī 414, 418, 425n84, 626,
Wellhausen, J. 535n51 626n438, 944, 969, 988
Wuḥaysh al-Asadī 463 Zanj 491n83
Wykes, A. 394n242, 401n277 al-Zaqqāq, Abū Bakr Muḥammad b. ʿAbdallāh
121
Xenophanes 976, 999n156 Zarʿ 922
al-Zarkashī, Muḥammad b. ʿAbdallāh b.
al-Yaghmūrī, al-Ḥāfiẓ 183n178, 196n224, Bahādur 139, 142–144, 150, 151, 157, 160,
241n16, 539n68 175, 182–183, 186–187, 207, 216, 220, 221n359,
Yaḥṣub (tribe) 385 222, 229, 234, 237, 242–243, 244n29,
Yaḥyā b. (Abī) Kathīr 426n93 246–247, 249–252, 254–255, 257–260, 266,
Yaḥyā b. (Abī) Ṭālib al-Ḥanafī 591n273 268, 291, 311–333, 380n180, 429, 752, 1083
Yaḥyā b. ʿAdī 796 al-Zarkashī, Shihāb-al-dīn Aḥmad b. Muḥam-
Yaḥyā b. Aktham 873 mad (qāḍī) 835
Yaḥyā b. Khālid (al-Barmakī) 658n640 al-Zarqālī 1002
Yaḥyā b. Muʿādh 123, 653, 656, 686–687 Zāwah 182, 184
Yaḥyā b. ʿUrwa 915 al-Zawwānī (?) 872
Yaḥyā b. Yaḥyā al-Laythī 536n52 Zayd b. Ḥāritha 105n289
al-Zaylaʿī 256, 260 al-Zubayr b. Bakkār 379, 913, 917–918, 936

Zayn al-Mawāṣif (Ar. Nights) 432n115 al-Zubayr b. al-Mundhir b. Abī Usayd 385
Zeno of Citium 701n11 Zubayrids 914–917
Zeno of Elea 113 Zuhayr 677
Zīrids 832 Zuhayr (of Almeria) 375
Ziyād al-Aʿjam 611, 674n728 Zuhayr b. Janāb 822
Zoroastrians, -ism (Majūs) 405, 505–506, al-Zuhrī, Ibn Shihāb 365–366, 438, 441n152,
699, 882, 996 553
Zubayd al-Yāmī (al-Iyāmī ?) 948–949 Zulaykha 25
Index of Subjects
ability (raʾy) 101, 1077 malāḥī 428

ablution 214, 251, 803–804 profligacy (khalāʿa) 359–360, 408
with sand (tayammum) 197, 803–804 anaesthesia 250
accidents 541–542, 544 analogy 1043
See also substance angels 40, 101, 550, 554, 557, 982, 1021, 1044
Achaemenid (period) 1051 animals 40, 113, 147, 226, 233, 284–285, 300,
addiction/habituation 135, 219, 223, 231–233, 338, 351–352, 382, 437, 441, 448, 476, 477,
281, 482, 752 532, 541, 591, 642, 660, 871, 897, 940, 945,
addicts 149, 156, 158, 161, 181, 195, 199, 205, 961, 1019–1020, 1047
207, 209, 212–213, 215, 225, 227, 247, 251, 255, bees 768–769, 1085
264, 268, 270, 272, 274, 292–293, 296, 305, beetles 221
644 birds 83, 102n278, 347n4, 381, 388–389,
aesthetic (qualities) 874, 893, 1047 586–587, 875n41, 884, 944, 956,
agnosticism 907, 970n16 1047
agriculture 266, 1021–1022 cranes, ostriches 341, 787
Ahl al-ṣuffa 120n350 doves (qumrīya) 468–469
Akkadian (language) 345n2, 595, 757, 1068 eagles 549
alcoholic beverages 134, 157, 240–247, 297, falcons 350, 487, 875n41
415, 748 grouse 341
See also wine larks (qunbura) 497
beer ( fuqāʿ, mizr) 161, 244n28, 246, nughar, nughayr 347n4
308n49 pigeons 200, 299, 349n19, 350, 381,
bitʿ, bitaʿ 244n28 388–390, 420–421, 441–442, 443, 446,
ghubayrāʾ 157 487, 495, 884
kumiss 246, 256n87 ravens (ghurāb) 757n10
must 252 ṣafw 347n4
nabīdh 246, 259–260, 286n81, 289, 488 sparrows (ʿuṣfūr) 347, 885
sukurka 157, 244n28 ṭayr, taṭyīr, muṭayyir 388–389, 441
alcoholics/alcoholism 234, 482 wrens 549
alien/alienation 759 zurzūr 884
See also other bull (fighting) 394
Allāh 535, 631 camels 153, 180, 230, 341, 364–365, 382,
See also God 385, 393n235, 393n242, 405, 408, 410,
Allāt 402 412, 416, 431, 432n115, 436, 439, 441,
alphabet 1043 448, 455, 555–556, 634, 643, 937, 938,
See also Arabic (language) 939
South Arabian 1051 cats 532, 943–944
alter ego 704, 708, 725, 727 cocks, cock fighting 393, 444n161, 482,
amīr (military leader) 526, 733, 737, 997 487
amnesties 79 cows 230, 285, 436, 815, 1044
amputation 59 dogs 229, 350, 394, 483, 567n164, 768
See also punishment donkeys 228, 230, 341, 382, 441, 443, 501,
amusement 134, 248, 341, 350, 357, 359–360, 815, 947–948, 1015
372, 422–423, 477, 486, 488, 504, 636 elephants 192, 382, 441, 443
lahw 348n13, 350, 356–357, 359, 389, fish 83, 229
477n18 foxes 562, 687
1134 index of subjects
gazelles 285–286, 293, 299–300, 301n18, rāʾ 1048

341, 352, 464, 466, 473 ṣād 1048
gnats 230 writing 1046, 1050
goats 643, 939 Aramaic 609n364, 730n5, 1051, 1068
horses 209, 229, 341, 384, 387, 432–434, arbiter (ḥakam) 404
437, 441, 448, 450, 581n232, 939 See also judges
horsemanship 385n202, 386, 432 architecture 1047
Lizāz (horse) 385 argumentation 1014
racing of 358n81, 362, 382–386, aristocracy 386, 422
390–391, 395, 404, 412, 423, 431, 436, army 560
439–441, 443, 448, 450–451, 454, 491, See also military
493, 498, 508n42, 651 art/artists 8, 534
lambs 562 artisans 93n239
lions 84, 87, 153, 221, 244–245, 339, 464, asceticism/ascetics 123, 184, 308, 546, 553,
562, 687, 937 587–588, 629, 639, 650, 653n612, 674,
monkeys 567 683, 774, 783, 841, 846, 885, 900, 923, 1079,
mules 382, 441, 443 1081
ox 304, 455 asocial (behavior) 273
panthers 937, 939 assassins (ḥashīshī) 225
rabbits, hares 938, 938n112 astragals 458, 462
rats 351, 532 astrolabe 1001–1004
reptiles 341 astrology 24, 403, 502, 582, 666, 1020
roosters 230, 768n56 astrologers 171, 1001
scorpions (and fighting) 393n242, 537 works on 372
sheep 417, 436, 442, 444n161, 643, 939, augury 426
998n146 awards ( juʿāla) 435–436, 437n138
snakes 233, 537 See also games; prizes
suicide of 814n88
taḥrīsh 393–394, 420 banishment 60, 82, 262, 444
wolves 87, 548, 562, 998n146 bankruptcy 66–68, 69, 309
annihiliation 48, 716, 893 baptism 951–952
antimony (kuḥl) 172 baths (public) 200–202, 228–229, 267, 484,
Antiquity 581, 747–748, 755, 773, 1036, 1085 785, 888
Graeco-Roman 200, 208 battle 650
aphorisms 209, 853, 975 See also war
See also proverbs beasts (nasnās) 548
apostates 65, 72n159, 261 beauty 664, 674, 676, 846, 867, 870–871, 884,
See also heresy 887–891
appetite 211, 250 See also pretty, handsome (malīḥ)
Arabic (language) 31, 379, 514–515, 1046 beer. See alcohol
See also literature (Arabic); script (Arabic) beggars 275, 279, 294, 670, 678, 760
grammar and syntax 910–911, 926–927, ḥarāfisha 171, 181
1086 mukaddūn 448
adverbs 528 belief 624
verbs/nouns 355, 598, 601, 644, 677 See also faith
idioms 925 believers 536, 562, 655, 671, 783
letters belles lettres 276, 447, 453, 847, 934
nūn 1048, 1050 See also literature (Arabic); littérateurs
qāf 1048 fiction 847, 852, 859
index of subjects 1135
beloved 105, 292, 299, 403n9, 463, 466, hallucinatory 266

468, 471, 473, 579, 611, 617n404, 632–634, terms for 155, 157, 169, 185, 188, 301n18
636–637, 646, 663, 668, 675, 764–765, 888, caravanserais 216
890, 893 censorship 1077
benefits certainty 121, 972
maṣlaḥa 346, 432 yaqīn 974–976
niʿam 16 chamberlain (ḥājib) 679
betting/wagering 83, 338, 363–364, 366–367, charity 14, 66–67, 76–77, 294, 402, 409,
375, 387, 389, 392, 403, 461 416–417, 419, 434, 730, 793, 815, 1033,
See also gambling 1039
bewilderment; commotion (rajiya; rajja) charlatans/quacks 71, 1035
603n330 See also swindlers/crooks
biographies 995n137, 1032 cheating 448, 491–492
boasting 12, 920, 929, 934 ḥirāf 381n181
body(ies) 818, 1036 khidāʿ 476
excretions of 895 chess 340n8, 341, 344, 346n3, 350, 356, 358,
as prison for soul 117–118 362, 372–374, 378, 388, 399, 402, 412, 417,
bookmaking 1067n1, 1068, 1087 421–423, 425, 427–428, 430, 443, 446, 460,
books 523, 526, 646, 886–887, 907, 987, 989, 468, 479, 481–482, 486–487, 489–491, 495,
998, 1010, 1047, 1053, 1068, 1073–1074, 1079, 498, 502–507, 510, 888
1087 boards 461, 493, 500, 561
abridgements of 1082–1083, 1086–1087 literature on 457n52, 507
copying of 1071 players 478
destruction of 1076–1081, 1088 shiṭranj, pl. shiṭranjāt 422, 481
handbooks 1086, 1088 terms for 155, 207n275, 208, 375
inshāʾ, rasāʾil (epistles, documents) 455 childhood 903, 941, 943, 945–946, 958, 964
kitāb, pl. kutub 1068, 1078n48 children 70, 346–347, 349, 351, 388, 613, 639,
multitude of 1070–1072, 1075–1076, 895–896, 942–943, 945–946, 948–949,
1085–1088 951–952, 958–961
production of 1067, 1081, 1087–1088 vs. adults, distinction 950, 957–959, 962,
booksellers 483, 1075 964
booty 347 and puberty 953
botanists 243 religious position of 950, 954–955
See also plants/botany salvation of 951–952
bravery 555n115, 961, 991n114 cities 114n320, 117n333
bribes/bribery 65, 270, 729–731, 736, 738–741, See also urban
744–745 civilization (Muslim) 24, 47, 92, 94, 130, 342,
vs. gifts 732 356, 447, 509, 521, 546, 1029, 1046–1047,
bridegrooms 933 1050–1053, 1071–1072, 1083
brotherhood 708 civil rights 444
buffoonery 489 clay (ṭīn) 14n10, 194, 217
cleanliness (ṭāhir) vs. uncleanliness (najis)
caliphs 51n71, 276, 301, 879, 883, 1070 251–255, 291
first four 92, 1052 clothing 839, 962
calligraphy 1047–1048, 1050–1052 See also garments
cannabis 136, 152, 154–155, 157, 166, 177, thawb, thiyāb 197, 358
192, 207, 220, 233, 284, 293, 304, 747, clubs 481
753 See also taverns
See also hashish (ḥashīsh) coffee 149
coins 32 compulsion 40, 44

colleges 791 See also free will
colors/imagery of 156, 287 jabr 40, 503–504, 507
black 211, 300, 310 computerization 8
blue 157 confections 166–167, 267
brown 288 confession/testimony (of faith) 222
carnelian 309 conjecture 1024
dust-colored 300 See also guessing, guesswork (ẓann)
green 181, 211, 217, 225, 230, 271, 278n58, contentment (qanāʿet) 49
286, 288–289, 298, 300 contests. See competitions
emerald 210, 309 contracts 338, 340, 435–436, 443
Kāfūrī 275 convent (Ṣūfī) 749
vs. red 179, 203, 211, 217, 309–310, See also monasteries
748–749 conversions 72n159
greenish-grey (complexion) 210, 223 Coptic (language) 165n86
grey 289 copyists 483, 656, 885, 1007, 1009
red 211n291, 262, 287, 298 corruption 546–547, 549, 553, 559, 563–565,
rosy (hue) 286, 289 581–582, 609, 1023
silvery/golden 287n85 corruptives 243–244, 245, 247, 255, 258
white 287–288, 298, 300 corvée 90n231a
yellow 211, 220, 262, 310 crafts 478, 1033, 1035
comedy 709 craftsmen/craftsmanship 276, 568
commerce 92, 267, 340, 415, 476–477, 483, creation 780
511, 550, 672, 1034–1035, 1040 creed; religious call (daʿwa) 558, 802
common people 973, 994–995 crime(s) 75, 75n172, 415
ʿāmma 977n50 criminals 57, 63, 293, 307, 490, 760
communications 443 ẓālim (wrongdoer) 566n160
community (of believers) 754 cuckoldry 219–220
See also umma (nation) cultivated, vs. wild (barrī) 155
compendium/a 1085–1086, 1088 customs (local) 62, 730, 737, 740, 844
compensation (ʿiwaḍ) 376, 432, 441, 507, ʿurfī 589
603
competitions 12–17, 19–20, 431–432, dance 355
443–444, 448, 523 dār al-ḥarb (non-Muslim territory) 421
See also games; sports death 55, 59n94, 85, 115n327, 117–118, 354,
shooting 387n213, 395, 412, 431, 433, 456, 498, 527, 533, 539, 550, 560, 577,
436–437, 438n140, 440, 443 584n242, 585, 605, 615, 625, 627–629,
sporting 338, 386, 388, 431, 440–442, 451 632n471, 633, 637, 645–652, 655, 658,
terms related to 12, 14–17, 19, 388, 415, 665, 671–672, 686, 765, 774, 820–821, 823,
862n1 892–894, 901, 905, 907–908, 989, 1019,
complaints 520, 522, 526, 528, 532, 546–547, 1022–1023
557, 575, 579, 582, 587, 590, 608, 676n737, ajal 593, 629, 647–652, 670n704
692–693 mawt 533n41, 649n584
about times 529–530, 534, 544, 550–551, debtors 61, 64, 670
553–554, 558, 561–563, 566–567, deceit 581, 982
571–574, 577–578, 580, 584–585, 588, See also cheating
689, 692 gharra, gharūr 627–628
to God 585–586, 589 decline/decay (of society) 546, 552, 558, 581,
shakwā 579, 676n737, 968 590
degradation 294 divine

deity(ies) 564, 676, 699 See also God
See also God law 28, 38
delusions and man, relation to 692
ightirār 689 mercy 688
wasāwis 611, 629 purpose 496
democracy 111–112 divorce 256–257, 369, 845, 918–919, 932, 934,
dervishes 277 940
See also (Index of) Proper Names: Ṣūfīs dīwān (office) 386
deserts 341 doubt 967, 969–970
desire vs. certainty 617n403, 974
and greed (ḥirṣ) 99n263, 592–593, 598, dangers of 971
608, 618n406, 630, 682 degrees of 972–973
shahwa, shahwānī 231, 243, 605n340 and ignorance 978
ṭamaʿ 594, 604–608, 612, 615–618, rayb 967, 975
623–624, 628, 642 shakk 967–968, 973, 975
desolation (waḥsha) 721, 761 and suspicion (shubha) 967, 972n20
despair 591, 595, 598, 604–607, 612, 614, dreams 205, 213, 228, 274, 341, 496, 638–639,
641–642, 646, 654n614, 657, 681, 686, 786–787
689 interpretation of 402
qaniṭa 685n787 drinking (alcohol) 419, 430, 896–897, 937,
yaʾs 98n261, 598, 604–607, 612, 641, 657 1015–1018
destiny 505, 509, 533 drowning 830, 831
manīya, pl. manāyā 498, 647–648, 650, druggists/pharmacists 171, 1028n4, 1032
652 drugs, materia medica 7, 11, 134–135, 149, 152,
detention 56 174–176, 178, 184–185, 228, 231, 236, 249–250,
See also imprisonment 257–259, 265, 295, 643–644, 746, 752–753,
determinism. See fate 1016, 1040
devil 499, 982 banj (bang) 152–153, 157, 166, 175, 178, 194,
See also (Index of) Proper Names: Iblīs; 209n284, 216, 228, 231, 240, 242, 244,
Satan 247–249, 252, 253n70, 255–260, 278n57,
diacritics 1052 291
dialectics 1012, 1014 barsh; abrash; barrāsh 165–166, 223, 232,
dice/dicing 361, 370–371, 373, 376, 381, 404, 248–249, 277
412, 420, 425–426, 446, 458, 462–464, 466, bugloss 236
470, 473, 479–480, 483, 487, 497, 501–502, depressants 134
505, 507, 513 hallucinatory 135, 158, 189, 206, 228,
dicing den 480–481, 499, 509 644
kiʿāb 361, 376, 381, 400, 409n30, 425n88, henbane 152–153, 166, 242n19, 244n29,
462n70 253
dictionaries 8, 514 saykarān 244, 247, 253
biographical 1034 lubāba 164, 216
geographical 924, 1083 narcotic 152–153, 160, 163–164, 175–176,
diplomatic (activity) 734 180n163, 181, 188, 215, 238, 252n65
dirham 207n272, 265, 863 nutmeg 206, 252–253
disciplines/subjects 1084, 1086–1087 opium 149, 153, 157, 244n29, 248, 253, 257,
disease. See illness/diseases/conditions 268, 277, 834
divination (practices) 453 afyūn 152, 166
qurʿa 369n129, 370, 386 qāt 144, 206
saffron (zaʿfarān) 166, 236, 249 etymology 8, 339, 510n3, 512–513, 515
scammony 249, 268 eulogies 527, 553
stimulants 134, 176, 252n65 eunuchs 865
terms related to 158, 166 evil 545, 548, 550, 561–563, 565, 590,
drunkards 255, 351, 446 623–624, 666
See also alcoholics/alcoholism excellence (tafḍīl) 875
drunkenness 65, 193, 241, 247, 292, 308, exile 82, 761, 779
822 existence 27, 229, 345, 521, 590, 592, 594,
dualists 505 1014, 1023
of God 971, 972n22, 973
earthquakes 149 and non-existence 126, 500, 544–545, 814,
eating/drinking 350, 359, 366, 671, 839, 818, 897
896–897, 937, 987, 1015–1018 expectation (intiẓār) 614n396, 622, 691
economics 6–7, 9–10, 265–266, 270, 342, 476, See also hopes; wishes/wishing
558, 769, 854, 1031 extortion 736–737
inflation 1037
ecstacy (wajd) 691 faddists 1015, 1018
education 770, 941, 961, 977, 987, 1037 faith 614, 655
effeminacy 216, 219 See also belief
See also homosexuality family 403, 639, 845
elite 487, 973, 994–995, 998 fanatics 422
emigration/emigrants 348, 738 fantasy (phantasia) 635
empiricism, experimentation 136, 205–208, fasting 222, 255, 262, 283
221n356 fatalism 35, 534, 536n52
endowments 1041 fate 87, 338, 351, 355, 371, 457–458, 461–462,
See also waqf 495–496, 499, 506, 528n19, 533–535, 572,
entertainment 356, 359, 664, 888, 1032 650, 669, 1015–1016
See also amusement; relaxation and time (dahr) 498, 527–537, 539–544,
mākhūr, pl. mawākhīr (cabarets) 360, 540, 546, 560–562, 566, 568–569,
481 573–575, 578, 586, 588, 599, 610, 613,
envy 16–17, 111, 525n8, 548, 658, 1082 631, 633, 652, 989
ḥasad 13–14, 16, 17n28 fatwās 8, 142, 182, 239, 266, 282, 538, 540,
epigrams 876, 877–881, 883–885, 887–889, 542–543, 809, 1052, 1076
891 fear 604, 621, 624, 632, 682, 691
epigraphy 1051 of death 671, 685
epistemology 5, 712 of God 627
eroticism 844, 849, 852–853, 865, 871, and hope 603, 614–615, 655n623,
899–900, 907, 1048 684–686, 688–690
explicit material 867–868 khawf 607n353, 614, 618n405, 682, 688,
images and language 676, 848–849, 891 691
literature 859n50, 881 fighting 353, 393n240
eschatology/end of time 179–180, 783 fiqh 809n70b, 928
Last Day 15n18, 628, 640, 783, 804, 989 Fire 806, 901, 952, 956
Last Hour 451, 902 See also Hell
trumpet 230 flattery 567, 569, 581, 621
eternal life 546 flogging 58–61, 65, 69n149, 744
ethics 33, 94, 104n285, 816, 984, 1028, See also punishment
1035 flowers 147, 287, 514–515
of Islam/religious 14, 721 symbolism of 281, 355
food 839, 987 See also leisure; relaxation

apples 267 free will 24, 27, 35, 40, 44, 91n232, 457, 506,
confections, and cannabis 267, 747 815–817
dates/date palms 212, 267, 385, 465 choice (ikhtiyār) 34–35, 39–40, 42, 45,
eggs 396, 446 91n232, 117, 456n48
fruits 147, 199, 213, 294 problem of 37, 39–40, 502
grapes 266 friendship 105n290, 107, 109n304, 271–272,
honey 167, 244n28, 287, 369 299, 527, 566, 579, 701–704, 708, 710, 725,
kirsha/kurūsh 163–164 859, 907, 953
millet 244n28 frivolity 356, 359, 402, 420, 424, 431, 457, 492,
nutmeg 206, 252–253 495, 572n189
nuts 190, 194, 377, 379, 401 bāṭil, pl. abāṭīl 346, 356, 372, 420, 444,
pears 267 476–477
peppers ( fulful) 166 funeral rites 261, 808–809
pomegranates 90, 169n110, 191, 199, 211, future 591–593, 621–623, 635, 666, 671, 691
229, 940
pork 424n84, 425–426 gaman/gammon 511
raisins 266 gamblers 414, 477–478, 480, 508
sugar, sugar cane 190 gambling 134, 341–344, 349, 356, 358,
sweetmeats 164, 294 360–362, 368–371, 373, 387–388, 390,
sweets 147–148, 190, 199, 212–213, 278 392–393, 396n251, 400, 402–403, 406,
fools 581, 640 418–419, 429, 431, 444–446, 451, 457–458,
forced labor 91–92 477–478, 487, 496, 501, 504, 509, 872n31
foreign countries/territories 29, 82, 756, casino/den 360, 480, 491, 493
761–763, 765, 771, 779, 789 compulsions/obsessions 486
foreigners 110, 187, 759, 789, 852 and debts 406–409, 479–481, 492
forgetfulness 615 defined 338–340, 363, 400–401, 433, 437,
fornication 56, 58, 72n159, 231, 283 439
fornicators (zānī) 864, 869 and drinking/wine 486, 515
fortune seekers 760 effects of 459, 473, 475
fraternity (Ṣūfī) 182 and exchange of money/property
See also monasteries 338–339, 363
freedom 27, 31, 33–34, 36, 39n47, 49n66a, imagery 461, 465
53–55, 79, 83, 94, 97–98, 107, 111–112, 123, kinds of 412–413
128, 130, 643 legality/illegality of 374, 383, 398, 405,
concept of 26, 28, 35, 40, 46–48, 51, 72, 80 414, 432, 490
ḥurrīya 32–33, 34n26, 35, 37, 45–49, as low-class occupation 488–489
71, 102n280, 103, 109, 110n306, 112, 118, maysir 341, 360, 368, 372, 397, 402–403,
124–125, 127 409, 411–418, 423, 426, 434, 451–452,
individual 55, 70, 90n231a, 115–116, 127 454–455, 458, 512
infikāk 232 prohibition of 396, 468, 491–492,
kinds/degrees of 26, 127 508–509
meaning of 50, 101–105, 120–122 opportunities 391–392, 395, 398
political 111–114, 117 paraphernalia 427n96, 515
problem of 24, 117, 129 qimār 339–340, 357, 359, 363–364,
station of 49–50, 125–126 370, 372–374, 376–377, 389, 404,
theological/metaphysical 27 412, 419–420, 431, 434, 437n138, 446,
value of 73 452–453, 460, 467n91, 480, 483, 505,
free time ( furrāgh) 486, 661 508n42, 511, 514–515
stories 407n25, 408–409 qalāʿa, miqlāʿ 401, 443

terms related to 340, 358, 363–364, qarʿah, qabaq 395n248
369n128, 376, 384, 414, 427n96, 432–441, qaṣab, qaṣabāt (rods, reeds) 380, 384,
447–448, 450, 453, 476, 481, 489, 507, 449
514–515, 603 qinnīn 377n160
uses of 415–417, 427 qirq, qirqāt 381–382, 400, 446, 481, 510
games 340, 343, 391, 404, 410, 420, 422, 424, qulah 401
428–429, 444, 453, 460, 486, 495, 497, rabārīb (zabāzīb) 400
510–511, 884, 888, 943 sadw, masādī 396–397, 401
See also chess; gambling; play; sports shahārdah 378
backgammon 341, 376n157, 508 suddar 368, 382n186, 400, 461
cards 377n163, 398, 510 al-ṭāb wa-l-dukk 380, 381, 399
kanjifah (ganjifah, etc.) 380, 398–399 tajāmuḥ, jummāḥ 401
casting lots 369–370, 386, 453 thawāqīl 400
children’s 368, 370n134, 372, 394–397, ṭuban 368, 382, 400–401
399–401, 412 tūnah 401
fourteen 361, 378, 379–380, 400–401, 424, unbūtha 368, 401
427n96 ūqah, pl. uwaq 396n251
hazard 511–515 urjūḥa 401
legality/illegality of 361, 378 zuḥlūqa 401
lizard game 368 paper game (liʿb al-kāghid) 399
manqala 379–380 ring game (liʿb al-khātam) 398, 443
names of tables (tabula, ṭabl) 377
ājurra 401 terms related to 400, 411
bawṣāʾ 401 daḥw, midḥāh, pl. madāḥī 396–397
bayḍ 397 fijrim/ūqa, pl. uwaq 396n251
buksah 401 ghufl 409
bunduqa, pl. banādiq (pill, pellet) 401 ḥaraz, pl. aḥrāz 396
dārah 401n277 ḥaẓwa 453
dh-rāfāt 400 laʿʿāb (player) 478
diḥindiḥ 401 maḥkūh 396
diqāf (difāf, diqāq) 395, 397 marāṣīʿ 397
dirkilah 347, 348n9 mazārīq 443
duwwāma 401 mujīl (drawing) 455
fiyāl, mufāyala, mufāyil 368, 400–401 qurṣah, pl. qiraṣah 397
ḥājūra 401 quwaq/uwaq 379n175a
ḥizza 379–380, 428 walnut ( jawz, pl. jawzāt) games 377,
ḥujayyā 401 395–396, 412, 490
kharīj, kharāji, mukhāraja 367, 401, Western 362
511 garments 218n344, 304, 358, 883
khasā-wa-zakā 367n118, 401 boots (khifāf ) 485
khudhrūf 401 cloth bag (qumāsh) 294, 490
kujjah 338, 401 mandīl 197, 490, 1065–1066
māqiṭ 401 pocket ( jayb(a), pl. jiyab) 197
midḥā 396, 401 generation (qarn) 765
miḥtam 401 generosity 108–110, 244, 352, 410, 455, 491, 617
mikhrāq 353, 401 geometry 1007–1008
munāhada 367 ghulām, pl. ghilmān/ghulāmīyāt 202n261,
nawā 381n182 863n3, 865, 870, 874
gifts 729, 730n3, 731, 740, 929 Graeco-Roman

vs. bribes 732–733, 737, 741–743, 745 Antiquity 200, 208
international exchange of 734–736 influence 32
kinds of 743n43 graves/cemeteries 118, 120, 605, 765, 790–791
and unbelievers 735–736 questioning in 956–957
girls greed 454, 476, 592, 607–608
See also women Greek 14
vs. beardless boys 863 authors, texts 153, 371–372, 402, 581, 1027
gluttony 217n336, 221 civilization 5
gnosis 526, 655n623, 688–689 influence 94
maʿrifa 689, 980 language 513–514
gnosticism 117, 700 literature 661, 874, 876, 880, 974, 986, 992,
God 693, 715 1051
attributes of 542, 1018, 1025 mythology 809
as Creator 537, 541–542, 714, 958, 1043 philosophers 127, 338, 594
and dahr 535 philosophy 117, 700, 818, 867, 964, 970,
Eternal (name of God) 543 976, 995, 1012, 1042
independence of (ghinā al-dhāt) 126 poets 660
as Lawgiver 1043–1044 religious views 967
laws of 537 tradition 661, 845, 980, 993, 1011
love for 687, 899 grief 640
mercy of 655 guessing, guesswork (ẓann) 616n402, 624,
names of 543, 1043–1044 663, 690, 974–975, 1024
ominiscient/omnipotent 39, 1015 guilt 63
relationship of man to 509, 717
tawḥīd (unity of God) 782 ḥadīth 14, 99n263, 246, 307, 347n4, 422, 438,
throne of 543, 956 442n153, 476, 488, 716, 721, 730n4, 756, 774,
trust in (tawakkul) 666n687, 684–685, 780–783, 802, 805–808, 851, 872–873, 885,
961 898–899, 911, 918, 925, 955, 974, 978, 1070,
wisdom of 1023 1077
word of 1044, 1046 on ʿĀʾisha, boasting of wealth 915n18
good, best (khayr) 31n15, 42 on ʿĀʾisha watching Ethiopians 348n10
goodness 546, 548, 565 on amusement 356–357, 429
government 11, 111, 357, 547, 558–559, 570, on casting lots 369n129
739, 997 collections 433n116, 928
central government (al-sulṭān al-akbar) commentaries 911n4, 912n7
733 on complaints 589
community state (al-madīna al-jamāʿīya) on dahr 535–538, 540–543, 588
112 on desires and hope 593, 608, 618n406,
forms of 112–113 648–649, 654, 671
governor (wālī) 64, 389, 434 eschatological 352
provincial officials (ʿummāl) 733 exegetes of 537
tyrannical (sulṭān al-ghaṣb) 113 on gambling 340, 357n78, 419–420, 445
Graeco-Arabic on hashish/intoxicants 179–180
dictionaries 8 on Ibrāhīm and reviving dead 969
tradition 986 isnāds 440n146, 841n7, 911, 914–915, 917,
translations 129, 371, 450, 531, 581, 660 1081
wisdom literature 17, 475, 497, 629, 651, on knowledge 977n50, 979
978 on laww 644n557
literature 595 ghubayrāʾ 142, 150, 157, 169, 174n142,

on love of wealth 998n146 179–180, 221n356, 226, 282–283, 291
on Paradise 892n1, 894, 902–903, hashish house 271, 279–280
906–907 history of use 176–178, 179, 183, 185–189,
patriotism 164 276, 295–296
on Prophet detaining someone 57 intoxication 148, 154, 245–246, 262, 274,
qudsī 805 278, 281, 285n80
on racing 382, 431 lore/stories of 138, 147
on scholars and amīrs 997n142 medical uses of 248–250, 266, 286n84
science of 161, 933, 975–976, 1071, names of/slang for 168–174
1079–1080, 1084, 1086 bāʿithat al-fikr 158
al-ṣūr (“Tradition of the Trumpet”) 902 bers 165
on thief 465 bint al-jirāb (daughter of the bag) 158,
of Umm Zar ʿ 909, 914, 919–920, 923, 168
929–930, 933 bizr (“seed”) 173
commentaries on 920, 925 diryāq, tiryāq 171
history of 916–918 dubb al-hīsh 174
translation of 935–940 farmah 281n69
ḥadīth al-nafs 636 hāḍim al-aqwāt 158
ḥajj 793 al-Ḥaydarī 158
See also pilgrimage/pilgrims hindīya (“Indian maiden”) 179
ḥammām (public bath). See baths (public) kibāsh 173, 278
handwriting 1048, 1053–1054, 1087 lazqah 170
happiness 101, 583 luqma, luqayma 158, 169, 171
ḥarām (forbidden) 418–419, 427, 429–430 malūf 172
harm (mafsada) 415 mufarriḥ 158
hashish (ḥashīsh) 7, 135–136, 143–144, 149, qalandarāwī 174
151, 152–154, 158, 166–167, 172–173, 175–176, safūf (medicinal powder) 171
181, 198, 255, 257–258, 269–270, 298, 305, ṣaḥīḥ 159, 161–162, 239
360, 479, 643–644, 746–748, 752–753, 888 shahdānaj 208
buying/selling 261, 269, 270 shajarat al-fahm/al-ṭarab 170
bayyāʿ al-ḥashīsh (hashish sellers) sharānaq 156
267 sulṭānat al-junūn (queen of insanity)
dallālūn (brokers) 171 155
qawwādūn (procurers) 172 ʿuqda 166–167, 267
confections 268, 296 zīh 159–161, 167, 169, 191, 195, 213,
consumption of 141, 145, 196–199, 231, 251, 232–233, 278
263 as plant 157, 246–247, 251–252, 260
effects of 205–206, 210, 222–223, 225–227, in poetry 155, 163, 749–751
229, 235, 242–243, 250 preparation/production of 172, 189–191,
apathy (khabāl) 262 194, 198, 265–267, 270
dayyūth, diyāthah 219–220 drying/toasting 189–190, 198
dullness ( futūr, mufattir) 214–215, 262 grinding 191–192, 204, 235, 262
lightmindedness (ruʿūna) 188 husking 189, 193
preoccupation ( fanna) 221 roasting 190, 198
sluggishness ( fashal) 215 secrets (of/from hashish) 275, 282
expense/cheapness of 265n2, 266, 277 solid state vs. liquid 198, 252–253
as forbidden 142, 144, 150, 180, 182, 219, terms related to 153–154, 160–163, 170,
238–240, 250, 258, 260–261, 296 180, 192
al-bishbīsha (manufacturers of) 172 zindīq (zandaqa) 75n172, 261, 538, 724,
fūlah (“bean”) 195, 213n308 969
ḥuqqa, pl. ḥuqq (small box) 197, 232 heroes 16
istatāba 232 and war 849
juʿaydī (eaters of) 170n117 women 851
lāṭa 194 hippodromes 382, 386, 391, 448–449
maʿjūn (paste) 158, 267 historiography 976
masṭul, masāṭīl, insiṭāl, istiṭāl history
192n208, 208, 212 circular form of 546, 559
maṭʿūm 198 concept of 557
muʿānāt 231 golden age (view of past) 545–547,
q-t-l (“killing of hashish”) 192 558–559, 581
qurna, pl. quran (also qurn, qurūn?) quantitative aspects of 1029
195 sequence and development 19–20
taʿāṭā, taʿāṭī 231, 234, 294 world 26
transport of 197 homeland 766, 769–770
and wine 139, 206, 222, 241–242, 251, 258, homesickness 766–767, 772n68, 794–795,
275, 280, 283–284, 289, 291–292, 294, 946
300, 309–310 homicide 808–809
ḥashīsha 154, 183, 185, 188, 225, 291 See also murder
ḥashshāsh 161, 166, 192 homoeroticism 869, 888, 891
health 391, 1015, 1017, 1021–1023 homosexuality 148, 172, 200, 216, 286n81,
health care (public) 76–77, 1040–1041 488, 845n13, 857n44, 872–873, 875
See also hospitals lesbianism 852n28
heaven 499–500 lūṭī 864, 869–870, 872–873
Hebrew (language) 345, 951 pederasty 430
hedonism 296 ubna 216, 220n353, 859n50
Hell 128, 288, 637, 648n579, 682, 807, 809, honor 102n278, 306n39
816, 883, 895, 898, 901–902, 997 hopes 12, 520, 522, 545, 548, 562, 584, 593,
Hellenistic 595, 597–599, 602–603, 609, 612–614,
culture 457, 528, 892, 981, 1035 619–620, 628, 651, 654n614, 655, 659,
philosophy 798, 813 677n744a, 678–680, 682, 689, 693
tradition 14, 458, 720, 826n127 concept of 597, 624
wisdom 994 effects of 661
hemp 152–155, 160–161, 174–176, 185, 189, 215, false 649, 659
233, 244n29, 254, 267, 269 and fear 523
cultivation 269–270, 290n99 in God 619–620, 662, 665, 680–681, 687
hindī (“Indian”) 155, 188 for the impossible 620–621, 634, 659
leaves of 181, 190, 207–208, 293n112 long and short 655, 657, 683–685, 690
products 135, 248, 265 metaphysical 682, 686
properties of 177, 191 rajāʾ 598–601, 603–605, 612–613, 615–623,
henbane. See drugs 629, 655n623, 675, 677–678, 682
henna 196 and wishes 591, 594, 606, 609–612,
herbs 154, 267 615–616, 621–622, 626–627, 630–632,
See also plants/botany 634, 636, 638, 641–642, 644, 647,
hereafter 654, 685, 819, 895, 904, 906 653–654, 656–657, 659–660, 662,
heresy 82, 128, 352, 430 665–667, 671–672, 676–677, 679, 693
heretics 70, 82, 239, 261, 290n98, 542, 828, hospitals 76, 793, 1029–1031, 1034, 1039, 1041
972 humanity (insānīya) 103
humiliation 586n249, 770, 984–985, 989 infants. See children

dhull/dhilla 761, 766, 768 information (khabar) 625n431, 930
hunger 213, 250 from one individual (al-wāḥid) 933
famine 1037 inheritance 369
strikes 829 injustice 563
hunting 339, 359, 383 innocence 63, 964
huris (beautiful maidens) 895, 898, 902–903, innovation/innovator 548, 1071
905, 907 inns 785
hyle 543 insanity 29, 128, 188, 221, 226, 248n46, 563,
hypocrites/hypocrisy 628, 655, 856–857, 588, 828, 893, 945
860n52, 982 See also mental disorders
intellect 44–45, 98, 101, 846, 897, 987, 1020
I-am-I (expression) 727 ʿaql 220, 243, 248n46, 253n70, 283,
I-am-you (expression) 701, 709–710, 713, 291n105, 562, 624, 667n693, 987n94,
718–720, 724–726, 728 999n155
identity 711 intellectuals 534, 991
idols 178 intelligibilia 712
ignorance 562–564, 580, 596, 635, 979, 984, intention (nīya) 932
990, 999 intercession 898
as death 988 intimacy; familiarity (uns) 761
illness/diseases/conditions 586, 589, 646, intoxicants 197, 198n232, 242, 245, 247–248,
665, 689, 762–763, 823, 893, 938, 958, 962, 252, 266, 747
1021, 1024n21 effects of 243–245, 260n104, 414
dandruff (ḥazāz, ibriya) 207n275, 249 intoxication 179, 199–200, 205, 208, 222,
epilepsy (ṣarʿ) 208 250–251, 253, 258, 260, 265, 304, 307–308,
zamāna 563 310
illusions (hawas) 220 definition of 242–243
imagination 636–637, 644, 669 hashish 209, 225, 236
imaginings; nightly apparitions (khayāl, pl. Islam 12, 19–20, 396, 431, 627, 729, 754–755,
khayālāt) 226–227, 300n13, 596, 635, 638 798, 840
imāms 57, 58, 75, 280, 430, 432, 434, 808 converts to 953, 1006
of Shīʿa 596 dietary laws 231, 249–250
immorality 847n17 divorce 254–257
and corruption ( fasād) 421, 546 fasting 255, 262, 282–283
imprisonment 57–58, 60–61, 63–66, 68, history of 909
70–71, 73, 80–82, 90 and medicine 1025n23
See also prisons/prisoners medieval 24, 136, 152, 200, 206, 295, 373,
to detain (ḥ-b-s, ḥabs) 56, 57n89, 58, 375, 475, 480, 547, 759, 863n3, 880, 907,
60n101a, 117n333 911, 948, 1042, 1067, 1070, 1088
independence 115 official/orthodox 282, 860, 955
ʿizz 98n261, 99n263, 103, 105n289 self-destruction in 250–251
indigence. See poverty and slavery 51, 53
individual(s) 11, 28, 112, 117, 573, 721, 728–729 study of 343, 523, 1026–1027
liberties 71–72 isolation (ʿuzla, ʿuzlet) 49, 721, 723n99
life after death 798
power of 697, 701 Jāhilīya 403, 418, 542, 556, 920
and society 24, 128, 135, 295–296, 592, See also pre-Islamic (period)
595, 658, 666, 753, 1027 jails 57, 61, 262, 489
infallibility 1007 See also prisons/prisoners
javelins 353, 395, 441 religious vs. theoretical 986

jealousy 219, 223, 870–871 search for 974, 978, 982–983, 989, 994,
jewelry 883, 939 997–998
jihād 432, 475 self-knowledge 722
jinn 123, 191–192 and social standing 979
jockeys 385 supremacy of 981, 992–993
jokes/playfulness 80, 180, 239, 347–348, 352, as treasure 993
358, 423, 564, 670, 910n2, 929, 960, 1011 vastness/extent of 1067, 1070–1071, 1084
journeys 778, 817, 884 kumiss, see alcohol
joy (surūr) 663
judges 61–63, 65, 69, 71, 74, 76, 80, 172–173, language(s) 1046
420, 444, 542, 731, 733, 739, 742, 745 See also Arabic (language)
ḥākim 732, 743–744 Akkadian 345n2, 595, 757, 1068
Judgment 904 Aramaic 609n364, 730n5, 1051, 1068
Day of 180, 230, 898 coarse/vulgar 447, 492, 514, 895n7
judiciary 70, 270, 542n76, 732–733, 738–740 Coptic 165n86
jurisdiction 70 explicit 857–858
jurisprudence 6, 8, 11, 58, 258, 910, 950, 957, Greek 513–514
985 Hebrew 345, 951
principles of 37 Persian 378–379, 513–515
jurist(s) 37, 51, 53–55, 57, 89, 205, 236–238, Semitic 31, 56, 60n102, 339, 595, 801, 968,
242, 248, 251, 256, 258, 265, 295, 383, 724, 1068n10
958, 1077 Southern Romance 511
on chess 376, 424–425 Spanish 510, 512, 515
on competitions 435, 441 Syriac 34, 56, 345, 595, 1051, 1069
on gambling 378, 390–391, 414–415, Turkish 513–515
420 law
on games 431–432 Islamic 57
on risk taking 369 Twelver Shīʿa 59
justice 28n8, 732, 740–742, 815 lawsuits 741, 743
divine 730, 765, 954 laziness 221, 622, 626–627, 644, 656–659
leadership/political power 994–995
killing 225, 800, 802, 957 legal categories 17, 730
See also murder agreement (ittifāq; wāfaqa) 245, 419, 497
kings 301, 476, 486–487, 559, 580–581, 997 disapproved of (makrūh) 240, 255,
knowledge 6, 654, 967, 971, 975–977, 984, 427n96
988, 990, 998, 1088 furūʿ 436, 971
deterioration of 562–564 necessary (wājib) 971
disciplines of 1009 obligations (iltizāmāt) 436
as everlasting 989 permissibility (ibāḥa) 441
as food/useful 985, 987–988, 1045 precautionary (iḥtiyāṭ) 63n120
of God 971 preferable (mustaḥabb) 443
ʿilm, pl. ʿulūm 654, 686, 782, 927, 968, 975, prohibited/forbidden (ḥarām) 236,
984, 987, 1007n24 418–419, 427, 429–430, 1043–1045
ʿulamāʾ (scholars) 238, 434 right (ṣaḥḥa) 442
and material gain 985 legal schools 175, 957
men of, vs. ignorant 999 legal theory 60, 64
and political power 996–997 leisure 14, 49, 615
and progress 4–6 See also relaxation
letters 1044–1045, 1047–1048, 1052 lotteries 339, 367–368, 417

science of 1043 love 283, 355, 457–459, 464, 483, 509, 579,
shapes of 1049–1050 583, 605, 607, 610, 639, 710, 712, 722, 845,
lexicography/lexicographers 45, 339, 352, 853–854, 859, 866, 868, 874, 889–890,
359, 382, 397, 533, 538, 614, 623, 635, 911, 891–894
926, 1027 associated with death 894
liberation 118 conjugal/sexual 852, 894, 898, 901, 907
See also freedom eternality of 901n24
liberty Greek concept of 826
See also freedom interfaith 850
civic 72, 113, 130 ʿishq 898
of individual 129–130 literature on 907
libraries 1071–1076 motif 850
licentiousness 292 object of (erasmion) 718
lies/lying 629 for Prophet and God 893, 899
See also deceit sacred/religious 579n222, 899
life after death 614, 641, 803, 809, 894, slavery of 33n22a
897–898, 900n22, 903, 905, 907, 950 and union 882, 1049
life/lifetime 533, 560, 593 love poetry. See poetry
literacy 1046 luck 424, 453, 496, 502, 508, 532
literary criticism 911–912, 927, 1086
literature (Arabic) 7–9, 33, 345, 363, 422, 456, madhhab 589
580, 761, 766, 844, 853–860, 874, 876, 889, madrasa 431
894, 909, 913, 925, 959, 962, 981, 988, 996, magic/magicians 698, 699–700, 701, 704, 719,
1026, 1035, 1070n18, 1072, 1086 725, 727–728, 786, 1045, 1076n41
adab, pl. ādāb 75, 347n4, 449, 453, 486, mandīl 197, 490, 1065–1066
610, 688, 984, 987n94, 997 manliness; dignity (murūwa) 99n263, 346n3,
biographical 947 420, 424, 431, 486–487, 845n13, 930
on death 892n1 man/mankind 548, 797, 1019–1021
on education 941 and choice 622
encyclopaedias 7, 595–596, 609 free (men) 26, 33, 38, 47n59, 51n71, 54, 70,
historical 913 94, 103, 106–111, 114, 116, 124n378, 129 (See
on love 907 also slave(s))
medical 962, 1019, 1027 liberty 130
Muslim 24, 942, 945, 957, 1052–1054 and relationship to God 47
pharmacological 747, 924, 1040 manuscripts 136–137, 1078
popular/entertaining 847, 849, 872, 1082, See also books
1085 marijuana 135, 154n16
religious and legal 62, 66, 844, 928 See also cannabis; hashish (ḥashīsh)
littérateurs 156, 238, 341–342, 349, 353, 406, market supervisor (muḥtasib) 60, 63,
411, 449, 454, 458, 460, 468, 478, 483, 529, 116n328, 268, 445–446, 740, 785, 835
534, 546n88, 580–581, 610, 630, 636, 669, marriage 564, 845, 853, 859, 903
1001, 1012, 1024, 1037, 1077 as contract 907
adībs 579–580 multiplicity of 906, 931n86
livelihood/sustenance 97, 270, 459, 478, 511, types of 854, 870n25
657–658, 667, 671n712, 679, 1033–1035 martyrdom 774, 807, 828
unlawful gain (suḥt) 212, 730–731, 737 master, [status of] (rubūbīya) 127
losing/losers 369n128, 452, 454, 461n63, 469 materialism/material gain 794, 985, 993
See also gambling mathematics 1006
matter, and form 40, 698 sôphrôn, sôphrosynê 46–47, 101, 103, 109
See also substance monarchy 113
maxims 959 monasteries 184–185, 277, 298, 359–360
See also aphorisms; proverbs money 103, 355, 361, 375, 403, 457, 464, 577,
medical services. See health care (public) 670, 737, 991
medicine 4, 175, 240, 250, 548–549, 551, 689, monism 718
746–747, 792, 859n50, 943, 962, 1011–1013, monogamy 845, 854
1015, 1017, 1025–1028, 1033–1035, 1037, 1040, monotheism/monotheists 495, 531, 646,
1042 692–693, 894
See also drugs moon 85, 229, 280, 287, 339, 353, 400,
books on 1031 465–471, 473, 543, 720, 884, 886–887
and Christianity 1025n23 morality 341, 526, 547, 558, 564, 744, 841,
deontology 1035 847–848, 852–853, 855–856, 868, 984
history of 1027 mosques 200, 203, 214, 277, 298, 749, 751, 781,
and humoral pathology 207, 1016n10 788
purpose of 1021, 1023 mourning rites 824
vs. quackery 1038 muftīs 279, 542
and religion 1016 murder 58, 62, 64, 152, 542n76, 809
rules of 1024 murīd 42n49
validity of 1013–1014, 1019–1022 music 147, 214, 287, 346n3, 351, 489, 525, 752
mental disorders 256, 260 instruments 147, 268n18, 504
See also insanity flute 452n29
merchants 70, 276, 483, 582, 760, 785, 884, lute 430
887 tambourine 346–347
Messianism 597 ṭunbūr 366
metaphysics 5, 117n330, 509, 573, 774, 779, musicology 1020
898 musk 167, 196, 218, 287, 308–309
of hopes/fear 597, 684 Muslims 28, 359, 364–365, 425, 428, 509, 515,
microcosm-macrocosm 702n18 531, 534, 690, 754, 758, 773–774, 782–783
military 10, 90n231a medieval 129–130, 135, 338, 343, 482, 862
class 276–277, 386, 482 mysticism/mystics 29, 118, 127, 284, 477,
expeditions 406–408 508–509, 574, 624, 684, 712, 721, 723, 731,
purposes 382, 395, 423–424, 431, 443 751, 774, 783, 794, 827, 893, 923, 943, 947,
milla 802 992, 997, 1079, 1082
millenarianism 522, 597 and illumination 692
mind poetry of 720, 848
See also intellect stations of 125, 684n782, 688, 691
dhihn, pl. adhhān 223, 283 traditions of 728
fikr(a) 207, 221–222, 638n505
minerals 541 Nabataean (inscriptions) 31, 1050
minority (groups) 71n154, 1006–1007, narcotics 243–244, 252, 257, 293
1033–1034 See also drugs
miʿrāj 227 nation/nationality 683, 759
misfortunes 527, 540, 542, 551, 568, 586–587, nature 38, 95, 134, 136, 697, 1016n10, 1021
589–590, 658, 663, 681, 763 beauty of 583
mobility 754, 769, 793 human 297, 537, 545, 564, 567, 619, 730,
modesty 306, 547, 549 908, 1023
ḥayāʾ 102n278, 125, 220, 223 man’s animal nature 100–103, 109
ʿiffa 47, 101, 815 al-sūs 114
night, and day 541–543, 565, 646 penury 479

nobles/nobility 33, 580, 989–991 perception
non-Arabs (Persians) 182, 348, 412, 423, 426, idrāk 691
790n149 taṣawwur 635
non-existence. See existence perfection 521, 674
non-Muslims 755, 782, 883 perfume 196
See also unbelief/unbelievers perjury 491–492
infants 954 Persian (language) 378–379, 513–515
numerals 371
oaths 172, 555 petitioners (suʾʾāl) 678
obedience 115 pharmacists. See druggists/pharmacists
obscenity; indecency 358 philologians/philologists 383, 400, 411, 453,
majāna, mujūn 357, 563, 865n9, 868 458, 528, 598n304, 615–616, 856, 909
occupations. See professions/occupations philology 6, 911, 924, 927
old age 539–540, 560, 584, 619, 646, 822, 827, philosopher-king 967, 995–996
903, 917, 978 philosophers 37, 39, 45, 90, 102–103, 112, 171,
grey hair 584, 586n245, 620 338, 487, 527–528, 543–544, 558, 569, 578,
youth, lost 577–578, 583, 586n245, 645 581, 615–616, 618, 634, 813, 816n90, 827, 885,
oneness (of/with God) 614, 713, 716, 718 893, 945, 970n15, 978, 1021, 1023n20, 1025,
waḥda 542 1082, 1084
onomastics 881 philosophy 6, 94, 101, 528, 540, 635, 675, 697,
opium. See drugs 812, 943, 979, 996, 1009, 1042
opponent(s) (gharīm) 505 Aristotelian 31, 635
oral Greek 964
recitation 1069 logic 640
transmission 1053, 1072, 1075, 1088 moral 573n195, 960
Orientalist (views) 909 Neo-Platonism 718, 728, 779, 897
orphans 742, 768, 916, 958 ontology, and freedom 27
other 759 Platonism 995
-identification 702, 709, 718, 721, 725, 727 physicians 10, 77, 85, 96, 174, 177, 190, 208,
other world. See hereafter 226, 475, 482n38, 551, 582, 853, 858, 889,
962–963, 1011–1015, 1018–1025, 1027–1028,
pagan (Antiquity) 773 1030–1034, 1036–1037, 1039–1041
Palmyrenian (inscriptions) 31 economic/social position of 1035, 1038,
pantheism 540n73 1042
paper 197, 278, 308, 912, 1044 piety 14, 547, 549, 580, 589, 626–627, 672,
parables 125, 500, 958 722, 827, 856, 958, 964, 984–985, 1079
Paradise 15, 181, 221, 228, 288, 298, 543, pilgrimage/pilgrims 52, 62, 282, 468, 760,
550, 612, 617, 625, 637, 663, 682, 774, 783, 858, 888
805, 842–843, 883, 897–898, 905–906, pills/pellets 158, 189, 191, 194–195, 211, 234,
908 401
children in 896, 951, 953, 955 kabāba (k-b-b) 164–165, 190, 195
love, sex in 894–895, 899–900, 903 pīr 178
marriage in 902–904 plagiarism 710
women in 907 plants/botany 160, 182, 185, 204, 254, 259,
particulars ( juzʾīyāt) 1084 268, 284, 288, 541
patience 85, 456, 586–589 basil (rayḥān) 281n66
ṣabr 587, 684 dāt(h)ūra 180n163, 268
pen (vs. sword) 863 henbane (saykarān) 244, 247, 253
jawz māthil 248 laudatory 677

“Judas tree” (dād(h)ī) 259n98 on love 290n98, 460, 462, 467–468,
mandrake root (ʿirq al-luffāḥ) 167 472–473, 633, 637, 648, 661n653, 667,
myrtle 271, 301n18 669, 868, 880, 1048
narcissus 863–864 marthiya 571, 585, 606, 610, 630, 647
nutmeg ( jawzat al-ṭīb) 206 mawālīyā (mawwāl) 192–194, 448n2
pellitory (ʿāqirqarḥā) 166 muwashshaḥ 470, 484n46, 718
poppies 153, 156, 190, 253 nadāma 811n76a
purslane 160 pre-Islamic 56n84
roses 301n18, 462, 863–864, 886, 888 of prisoners 80–82, 89
saffron 169n106, 236, 249 vs. prose 863
scammony 249, 268 qaṣīdas 463, 643
service trees/sorb 157 rajaz verse 924
shahdānaj barrī 180n163 sajʿ 927
spikenard (sunbul) 166 troubadour (of western Europe) 862n1
weeds 154 urjūza 144
zaqqūm tree 140, 167n97, 179, 307 wind (metaphors of) 354–355, 631
Platonic on wine 206n269, 276, 288n92, 848
concepts 543, 845, 967 zajal 174n143, 463, 472
philosophers/tradition 543, 867 poets 112, 205, 271, 413, 448, 483, 486, 893,
play 7–8, 134, 177, 241, 297, 338, 340, 345–346, 1001
349–350, 353, 356, 359–361, 415, 427, 429, mukhaḍram 416, 564n155, 770
496, 615, 943, 945, 948, 961–962 poison 153, 254, 537, 806, 820, 823–824, 828,
l-ʿ-b, liʿb 348n13, 350–351, 353, 356–357, 835
359 pole (quṭb) 724
luʿab (dolls; spittle) 345n2, 347n4, 355 police 189, 737
luʿʿāb al-ḥamām (pigeon players) 389 politics 475, 672
shadow play 355 and authority 732
swords 353–354, 394, 441–443, 555, 659, and oppression 79
863 siyāsa 489, 1013
pleasure 99, 175, 177, 208, 218, 226, 231, 250, polygamy 854
257–259, 272, 281, 305n28, 346, 348–349, polytheists 363–364, 408, 421, 758, 882
414–415, 460, 462, 488, 580, 583, 593n286, children of 952–954, 956
635, 641–642, 644, 658, 662–663, 896, 900, poor 123, 184, 410, 415–417, 669, 793
905, 962, 998 Ṣūfīs 146, 160, 170, 305n32
ladhdha 661n651, 663 population (data) 10, 1030n11, 1067
poetry 6–8, 13, 102n278, 194, 199, 272–273, poverty 69, 97–98, 115, 125, 294–295, 301n18,
279, 341, 352, 447–448, 451, 453–454, 465, 306, 584, 589, 607, 681, 762–763, 767,
496, 529, 533, 536, 539, 564, 584, 595, 770–771, 819, 853, 985, 991–992
600–601, 710–711, 748, 761, 792, 810, 811n76a, power/rank/position 126, 580, 962
846–847, 849, 852, 872, 874, 885, 888, 891, praise 527, 551
905, 925, 1035, 1050, 1082 prayer 122, 222–223, 245, 251, 253–255, 283,
of comparisons 863, 934 402, 412, 419, 421, 423, 427n96, 428–429,
dū bayt 467n91, 468 473n114, 477, 489, 506–507, 550, 634
on gambling 461–462, 472–473, 485 wird 283
on games 399–400 preachers 366, 614
on hashish 138–139, 146, 151, 169n110, predestination 509, 592n281, 629, 631
206n269, 276, 288n89 qadar, aqdār 455, 503–504, 507, 629, 631,
homoerotic 217, 857n44, 872 690
predetermination 502–503, 507, 591n273, builders (bannāʾūn) 171

656–658 cooks (ṭabbākhūn) 171
prehistory (Arabian) 557n121 couriers (sāʿī) 883
pre-Islamic (period) 35, 46, 56, 91, 275, courtiers 586
368–369, 402, 416, 480, 529, 534, 538, crossbowmen (bunduqānīyūn) 170
546, 595, 613, 626, 629, 636, 647–648, 934, dancers (rāqiṣa, raqqāṣ) 170
1051 druggists (ʿaṭṭārūn) 171, 1028n4, 1032
Arabia 383–384, 403–405, 755, 761, 907 dyeing 489
Arabs 32, 495–496, 646, 803, 822 falconers (bazādira) 172
civilizations 12, 793 farmah 281n69
concepts 825 grave diggers (ḥaffārūn) 171
poetry/poets 540, 592, 872 homosexuals (makhānitha, makhānīth)
views 560, 628, 692 172
prestidigitation (shaʿbadha) 351 importers ( jallāba) 172
See also magic/magicians lecturers (mudarris) 218
prestige 762, 765, 772, 989–990 makers (ṣunnaʿ [of hashish]) 172
ʿizz, aʿazz 761, 767 makers of electuaries (maʿājīnīya) 171
pretty, handsome (malīḥ) 876, 881n53, mendicants 169
883–884, 887–890 painters (muṣawwir) 887
pride 125, 414, 583 perfumers 1028n4
principles (uṣūl) 1084 porters (ḥammālūn) 171
printing 1088 procurers (qawwādūn) 172
prisons/prisoners 55–56, 58, 60–65, 68, ropemakers ( fattālūn) 171
74–75, 90, 574n197, 1040–1041 scavengers (mashāʿīlīya) 489
conditions of 73, 77, 79–82, 84, 86, 89 sellers (bāʾiʿūn) 172
for debtors 57, 58n92, 59, 66, 69–70, 76, smiths (ḥaddād) 406
78–79, 82 songstresses (maghānī) 171
history of, in Islam 74n168 spongers (ṭufaylī) 170, 478, 487
political 62, 73n164, 79 sweepers 489
sijn 55, 56n84, 75, 117n333 tailors 353
terms related to 75, 79, 117n333 tujjār 170
prizes 384–385, 389–390, 392, 395, 409–410, veterinarians (bayāṭira) 170
432–436, 441, 444, 448, 455, 498 watchmen (ḥāris, pl. ḥarasa) 201
ghalab 395 water drawers 171, 388
nadab 374, 432, 453 progress 3–6, 11, 546
qaraʿ 432 property 67–68, 70, 85, 110, 126, 342, 348,
s-b-q, sabaq 432, 441 360–361, 366, 403, 408, 412, 415, 418, 593,
stakes (khaṭar, pl. akhṭār) 364–365, 396, 613, 639, 845, 991, 993, 995, 1032
403, 412, 431–432, 438, 449, 453, 476 loss of 539
ṭumʿa (consumption of) 434 prophecy/prophethood 545–546, 969
wajab 432 prophetical traditions. See ḥadīth
professions/occupations 10, 168–172, 346n3, prophets 122, 550, 801, 824, 843, 1007, 1044
478, 488, 582, 883, 885, 887 prose 448, 451, 453–454, 529, 600–601, 633,
architects (miʿmārīya) 171 710, 853, 885, 933
astrologers (munajjimūn) 171, 1001 prosody 885
barbers/surgeons ( jarāʾiḥīya) 170, 263 prostitution 865n9, 874
beggars (shaḥḥādh) 448 proverbs 13, 366n113, 454–455, 504, 651,
blacksmiths (qayn) 406 655, 663, 810, 855–856, 945n11, 946n20,
brokers (dallālūn) 171 959
providence 495, 773, 1025 of donkeys 382n186

psychological (factors) 574, 576, 612, 617, on foot 387–388, 441, 443
626–629, 632–633, 638, 641–642, 660, 666, horses 358n81, 362, 382–386, 390–391,
671, 675, 691–692, 1035, 1037 395, 404, 412, 423, 431, 436, 439–441, 443,
and children 941–943, 960, 962 448, 450–451, 454, 491, 493, 498, 508n42,
public order 70–71 651
punishment 56–57, 65, 70, 299, 309, 686, for stakes 382–383, 385–386
743–744 rain 541
banishment 58 Ramaḍān 262, 430
death penalty 262–263 rank ( jāh) 116
ḥadd, pl. ḥudūd 51n71, 58–60, 62, 79, 142, rationalists 818, 1017
234, 236, 240, 245, 253n70, 258–261, 283, rationality (vs. spirituality) 898
290, 297, 352, 446 reality 227, 229, 232–233, 257, 267, 274, 349,
taʿzīr 60–61, 63n120, 182, 240, 245, 258, 356, 370, 447, 500, 544, 546, 582, 627, 634,
260–262, 444, 744 639–640, 660, 666, 670, 962, 970n16
purpose (ghāya) 610n378, 674, 1019 metaphysical 635, 693
purses (kīs, akyās) 197 reason 13, 458, 469, 486, 508, 543, 562, 640,
643, 842, 854, 895, 961, 1014
qāḍī(s) 64, 445–446 relaxation 161, 200, 272, 348, 515, 658, 847,
See also judges 930
qāt 144, 206 See also amusement
quiddity (mā) 1014 religion/religious 546–548, 558–559, 700,
Qurʾān 14, 54, 62, 367, 730, 748, 780, 803, 996
872, 894, 918, 925, 979, 1043, 1045–1046, acts 612
1076–1077, 1084 beliefs 573, 641, 647, 692, 798
commentaries on 180, 377, 413–414, 418, dīn 43, 802
420, 614, 628, 635 ethics 356
on commerce 476 law 61, 70, 78, 121, 123, 231, 237, 249, 251,
dictionary 46 258, 501, 507, 509, 536, 741, 747–748, 755,
on forced labor 90 816, 827, 842, 950, 1044
on gambling 395–396, 405, 411–413, 417, moralists 594, 1015, 1018
420, 423, 434, 492, 495, 508 scholars/thinkers 482, 487, 551, 585, 587,
gharānīq 614n393 614–615, 656, 671, 690
on hope 613–614 sciences 1053
on intoxicants 134, 175, 243 sects 824
on lahw 356 vs. secular views 12
on patience 588 symbols 1046
in poetry/literature 449, 595 views 535, 590, 626, 633, 653n612, 680,
recitation 429, 431, 997, 1016 688
sciences 5, 1084 remembrance/remembering 594, 636, 691,
sūrat al-Aʿrāf [7] 787 904, 946
sūrat al-Najm [53] 402 dhikr, tadhakkur 125, 691
sūrat Yūsuf [12] 55, 787, 790 of God 222, 402, 419, 421, 423, 507, 714,
723
racing 387n213, 390–391, 412, 434–441, 443 renunciation (tark) 49
barraza 453 repentance 62, 221, 232–233, 261, 527, 619,
of boats (sufun) 390, 442–443 818
of bovines (baqar) 382n186 tawba 60n101a, 808
courses (ḥalba) 384, 448 respite, rest (rāḥa) 641n536, 643, 665
resurrection 780, 818, 988 sectarians 176–177, 186, 225, 536, 754
Resurrection, Day of 679, 806, 811, 896, See also (Index of) Proper Names:
898–899, 904–906, 956 Ismāʿīlīs
See also eschatology/end of time; ahl al-hawā 976
Judgment secular (outlook) 549, 590, 626, 633
retaliation 809 sedition 73
diya 809n70b self- / other identification 697, 699, 701
revelations (to Muḥammad) 545, 550, 799, selling
805, 842 and faulty pricing (bakhs) 476
reward 601, 613 for future delivery (salam) 476
rhetoric, science of 911 invalid types of 421
rhetors (khuṭabāʾ) 112 Semitic languages 31, 56, 60n102, 339, 595,
rhythm 891 801, 968
risks 475, 511 alphabet 1051
rivers 147, 391 senses (scent/sound/smell) 198, 839
robbers/robbery 64, 152, 456, 489–490, 883 amber-scented 271, 289
highway 58, 75n172 musk 167, 196, 218, 287, 308, 309
rulers 70, 276–278, 434, 440, 482, 487, 520, sensibilia 712
569, 581, 586 sensibility (ḥiss) 635, 640n525
unjust 736 serfs (sukhrī) 91
rural (areas) 276, 755, 1031, 1040–1041 seriousness ( jidd) 345, 496
See also urban servants (eunuchs) 489
economy 93 sexes, relationship between 928, 934
sexism (male) 843
sages 572, 581 sex/sexual 134, 359, 482, 577, 839, 847, 853,
saints 550 859n50, 895, 904, 962
ecstatic 235 See also homosexuality
Ṣūfī (badal, pl. abdāl) 782, 958 activities 7, 351, 751–752, 845, 849, 854,
salām (greeting) 427n96 856
salvation 505, 577, 588, 640, 654, 655n620, attitudes/morality of 839–840, 847,
655n623, 671, 685–686, 693, 700, 721, 725, 861
728 heterosexuality 873, 875, 891
satire 848, 855, 1037 intercourse 78, 215–216, 293n115
scholars 580, 947, 989, 993, 996, 998, 1071 language of 661
ʿālim 202, 983–984, 999n156 literature 875
class of 1034 misbehavior 852
former/ancient 1007, 1009 slang terms
secular 1072 arnab 938n112
scholarship 558, 564, 568, 580–581, 583 zarnab 924, 938
science/scientists 5, 581, 583, 1001, 1005, 1009 union 700
biographies of 1007 sexuality 840–842, 844, 845n13, 859, 864,
history of 1004, 1006 867, 875, 887, 891, 895, 898
script (Arabic) 1045–1047, 1052, 1087 shape (ṣūrah) 437
seasons sharīʿa, pl. sharāʾiʿ 236, 445–446, 816n90
summer 573 See also Islam
winter 416, 573 sincerity (ikhlāṣ) 49n65, 723
secrets singing/dancing 276, 347, 478, 483, 569,
esrār 158, 284 661–662, 675, 888
of/from hashish 275, 282 songs (nagham) 204
sins 232, 239, 259, 281, 283, 286n81, 289, 299, society 297, 697, 724, 728, 730
308, 342, 398, 402, 419, 424, 549, 567–568, Arabian 757
619, 625, 680, 800, 804–805, 809, 811–812, dangers to 182, 295–296
824, 860 and economics 1031
ithm 413 ideal human 558, 845
kabīra, kabīr (major [sin]) 413–414, 429 and individual 10, 24, 521, 549, 590, 595,
major 373, 444, 982–983 658, 666, 683, 725, 728, 745–746, 753,
maʿṣiya 256, 860n52 839–840, 842, 844, 895, 1027
original 952 Muslim 6, 10, 222, 494, 521, 859–860, 881,
ṣaghīra (minor [sin]) 429 1032, 1041
skepticism, skeptics 970, 974–975, 981 withdrawal from 549
slander 281, 536–538, 543, 566, 568, 588, virtues of 722–723
931 sociology 1028
ghība 930, 938n114 soldiers 760
limits of 933 soothsaying 477n18, 495
slanderer (figure of) 711 soul(s) 14n10, 46–47, 50, 95, 97, 104, 110, 120,
slang 175–176, 490 220, 576n211, 593, 605, 626, 640–641, 643,
slavery 26–27, 32–33, 38, 39n47, 46–49, 712, 797, 804, 819, 846, 1020
51–55, 99–100, 102–105, 111, 115–116, 128, 642, bestial vs. rational 994
863n3 and body 117, 619, 812, 961n83, 1023,
institution of 54 1036
slave(s) 26–27, 50, 54, 70, 98–100, 102–104, and desires/wishes 231–232, 615–616, 623,
106, 108, 111, 113–114, 122–123, 126, 129, 417, 630, 633, 638, 640, 646, 654
435, 477, 564, 760 and knowledge 986–987, 989
ʿabd 33, 45–46, 50, 104n285, 108n300, 120 as stranger in world 779
beardless 219 sources 138, 844, 1017
girls 385, 393, 399, 407n25, 412 religious and secular 522
of God 52 Spanish (language) 510, 512, 515
kinds of 104n285 speech (kalām) 448
manumission of 67 spices 1040
merchants 54n81 See also food; plants/botany
raqīq 49 spirits (rūḥ, pl. arwāḥ) 643, 1085
sloth. See laziness spiritual/spirituality 896, 898
smoking 198–199 verities (ḥaqāʾiq) 635
water pipes 198n235 sports 341, 344, 349, 362, 390, 394, 396, 404,
sobriety 569 421, 444, 482, 493, 497
social/societal archery 363n99, 395, 423, 432, 434, 436,
attitudes 849, 851, 872, 894, 911, 1038 439–440
classes/groups 10, 174, 1031, 1039 arrows 382, 395, 402, 403n9, 405, 408–411,
conditions 534 413, 418, 427n96, 431, 441–443, 446,
norms/values 844, 847, 1032 451–453, 477, 498, 533, 537, 539,
order 91, 114, 130, 341, 509, 563, 797, 869, 569
967 fencing 392
philosophy 860 javelins (ḥirāb) 353, 395, 441
problems 177, 342 jurists on 363n99
status 200, 275, 486, 863n3, 883, 1033 polo 389, 391, 443
low 168, 275, 669–670 polo (ṣawlajān, pl. ṣawālij) 391, 401,
stratification 10, 35, 61, 359, 482, 991 497
welfare 457–458, 1028 spears 85, 443, 555, 659
spectators 386, 390–391, 435 individual 802

stadiums (maydān) 386, 389, 448–449 Judaism and Christianity on 799
swimming 392, 443 and lovers 825
terms related to 392n233, 394, 441 problem of 79, 804, 807–809, 812–814, 819
weight lifting 392, 443 prohibition of 803–805, 809–810, 816,
wrestling (muṣāraʿa) 392, 394, 441n152, 818–819
442–443 as revenge 836
stakes 361, 374, 407, 424, 432, 444, 455, 461, sin of 824
514 sulṭāns 72n159, 276, 432, 434
See also prizes sun 84, 287, 470, 543, 720, 884
rahn, rihān 358, 363, 364n100, 366, 382, sunna 782, 789, 954, 1077
386, 412, 432, 493, 514 See also ḥadīth
stars/planets 159, 356, 502, 583 on racing 431
Cassiopeia 159 supernatural powers 495, 698, 712, 1017
constellations 560 sustenance. See livelihood/sustenance
al-Farqad 84 swindlers/crooks 292–293, 478
Mercury 372 See also charlatans/quacks
Venus 372 swords 353–354, 441–443, 555, 659, 863
states (ḥāl) 125, 691 sympathizers [of the Prophet] (al-muʾallafa
stinginess 195, 213, 863 qulūbuhum) 404–405
stories (qiṣṣa) 923 Syriac (language) 34, 56, 345, 595, 1051, 1069
storytellers 206, 852
strangers 579, 754, 756–759, 761, 763–765, taqlīd (dependence upon tradition) 24
769, 777, 785–786, 793 taqrīẓes 877n45, 878, 879n49
conditions of 774, 788, 794 tattoos 426
defined 760, 768 taverns 305, 492
gharīb, pl. gharāʾib 425, 579, 756–760, See also clubs
774, 776–778, 781, 786n129, 786n131, ḥān, pl. ḥānāt 430, 480
788–790, 795–796, 925–926 tawfīq (divine success) 205
ghurabāʾ 781–782, 785, 789 tawḥīd (unity of God) 782
ghurba 756n7, 759, 764n38, 768, 776–777, tax/taxes 58, 71, 270
779–782 charity (zakāh) 347, 983
quarter of (ḥārat al-ghurābāʾ) 784 collectors 733, 737
status of 776, 778, 783 farming (ḍamān) 267
treatment of 784, 789–790, 792 tayammum (ablution with sand) 197,
students 11, 114, 239, 431, 568, 760, 784, 803–804
789n143, 791–792, 819, 911, 949n30, 989, teachers 446
1000, 1003, 1024, 1029–1030 terminology 31, 36, 48, 135–136, 356, 598, 925
submission 29 testimony 420, 424, 738
substance See also witness(es)
See also accidents theater 351
jawhār, pl. jawāhir 541, 543 theft/thieves 59–60, 64, 283, 372, 444, 465,
jism, pl. ajsām 544, 706 472, 489–490, 508, 883
successors (of the Prophet) 731 theological speculation (kalām) 972–973
suicide 233, 482, 654n614, 811, 905 mutakallim, pl. mutakallimūn 973, 1014,
attitudes toward 11 1024
cases of 821, 833–836 theology/theologians 6, 24, 117n330, 338,
commission of 828 458, 537, 540, 546, 809, 987
ethical aspects of 797 Christian 37, 39, 1025
Muslim 39, 117, 798, 800, 867, 896, 908, union 542, 705–708, 712–713, 718, 726–
955, 958, 1017, 1025 727
philosophical 765 of body and spirit 702
speculative 503, 624, 970–971, 973, 1014, in friendship 725
1016, 1024, 1025 ittiḥādīya (Unionists) 540, 542, 715
and suicide 827 in love 701
thirst 250 between man and god 700, 713, 726
thoughts (khawāṭir) 592, 625n429 urban
time 528, 534–535, 544, 550, 560–561, 570, See also rural (areas)
630, 652 areas/setting 92, 269, 274, 296, 382, 826,
of death 666 1031, 1033
ḥīn 528–529 civilization 852–853, 858, 876
waqt, pl. awqāt 531, 543, 617n404, 687 households 934
zamān 527–531, 534n47, 535, 537, institutions 1041
540–543, 563, 566, 568–569, 571–572, Islam 755–756
578, 583–584, 586n245, 613, 631n465 society 751
tobacco 154n16, 198, 263, 747 usury 239–240, 415, 476
See also smoking utopia/utopianism 558–559, 597, 633, 967
tools/weapons 353, 697
toothbrush (siwāk) 209 veil (ḥijāb) 679
torts (maẓālim) 738 venality 874
torture 82, 812, 821, 830, 834–835 veterinarians/veterinary medicine 383, 1015,
tourists 785–786 1020
traditionalism 848 vices 491
traditions (prophetic) 546, 562, 682, victims 415
1044–1045 violence 245, 274, 853
See also ḥadīth virgins/virginity 902, 904, 906
tragedy, of Pyramus-and-Thisbe 905 virtue(s) 14, 47, 109, 203, 296, 559, 563,
translators 1007, 1010 580–581, 596
of Qurʾān 614, 628, 800, 802 faithfulness (wafāʾ) 96n252
transmitters 552–553 kindness (al-jamīl) 815
transportation 697 visitors (zuwwār) 678
travel 755, 762, 769n58, 770, 774, 775n79, 776, viticulture 265
787, 795, 884 See also wine
literature 362
travelers 255, 756 waqf 77, 218
European 138 library 1076
trickery 581 war 423–424, 431, 442–444, 505
See also charlatans/quacks; swindlers/ holy 800
crooks waṭan 756n7
trust (in God) 588 wazīr(s) 76, 389, 570, 582–583, 833
truth/truthfulness 95–96, 549, 653n607 wealth 97–98, 125, 342, 387, 416, 497, 607,
ṣidq 653n607 659, 663, 669, 762, 771, 874, 920, 929, 934,
Turkish (language) 513–515 992, 994, 997, 1032
weapons. See tools/weapons
ʿulemā 238 well-being (ṣalāḥ) 432
umma (nation) 683, 721 “west” 756
unbelief/unbelievers 55, 348, 365, 431, 562, will 39
589, 731, 969, 971 irāda 34, 42n49, 118n339, 623
wine 7, 134, 146–147, 159, 172–173, 179, witness(es) 51n71, 262, 349n19, 420, 427–428,
185–186, 190, 196–198, 202–203, 210, 218, 431, 444, 738, 1053
225n374, 230–231, 234, 238, 240–242, 250– shāhid 346n3
254, 257, 259–261, 269–270, 274, 277–278, women 306n39, 346–347, 421, 430, 459, 842,
281, 297, 301, 305, 355, 361, 402, 427n96, 851, 903–904, 905n39, 906, 933
430, 459, 468, 486, 502, 520n2, 525, 531n32, ahl (folk) 403, 418
583, 641, 643–644, 662, 748–751, 847n17, and children 945
872n31 in ḥadīth of Umm Zarʿ 922, 931
drinkers/drinking 58–59, 244–245, 256, and Paradise 907
259, 274, 283, 286, 290n98, 297, 341, 355, and prisons 75
359, 461, 473, 508 and relationship with husband(s) 930
effects of 215, 243, 244–245, 246, status of 851, 911
260n105 zawjatān (“two wives”) 902
fermentation of (ghalayān) 198 words 522
and gambling 413–415, 417–419, 422 written word 1053, 1079
and hashish 139, 199–200, 206, 222, work, activity (ʿamal) 652–656, 659, 670
241–242, 251, 258, 275, 280, 283– worship (of God) 283, 427
284, 289, 291–292, 294, 300, 309– ʿibāda 128n397b, 282
310 writers/authors 580, 582, 656
houses 271 authorship 1081, 1082n65, 1086
as luxury 265 writing 1047, 1053–1054, 1069
poetry 206n269, 276, 288n92, 848 collation (muqābala) 885, 886n60
prohibition of 295, 418–419 Egyptian 1051
red 288 in Islam/sacred character of 1045–1046,
sellers 59n94, 446, 450, 581 1051
skins (qirbatayn) 196 ornamental, on paper and stone (taṣwīr
and song 214 and naqsh) 1047
trade 265 wrongdoing (ẓulm) 476
wine makers 268n18, 290n99 maẓālim 445
yellow 275 maẓlūm 774n77
winnings 411, 435
wisdom 101, 349, 450, 497, 521, 558, 618, 722, xenophobia 794
987–988, 992, 994, 1069
ḥilm 109n304 yoke (riqq) 47, 49, 120
literature 17 youth/young man 847n17, 874, 945–947, 949
wishes/wishing 592, 596–597, 605, 609, ṣabī, ṣibā 942, 945–946
618–619, 625, 628, 635, 636n498, 639, shabāb 946
646–649, 652, 662, 664, 672n719, 675–
676 zakāh (charity tax) 347, 983
competitive 634 zaqqūm tree 140, 167n97, 179, 307
fulfillment of 672–674, 676 legend 268n16
Index of Qurʾān Citations
2:25 896 10:23 801

2:30 557 11:114/116 283
2:54 799–800, 804 12:12/12 350
2:78/73 624n428, 635 12:21 790
2:84 801n15 12:33/33 81
2:94 625 12:86 585
2:178/173 46 13:12 603
2:188/184 731n6 15:3 613, 654
2:205 783n115 15:99/99 121
2:216/213 49 16:72 801
2:219/216 402, 413 16:89 801
2:249/250 1003 17:8/8 56n84
2:260/262 969 17:57 614
3:26/25 82 18:6 799–800
3:35/31 46 18:31/30 181
3:44/39 369 18:46 613
3:97/92 126 19:62 543
3:164 801 19:76 613n391
3:190 541 21:2/2 350
4:15/19 56 21:16/16 350
4:29 799–805 21:33 541
4:29/33 402, 420, 431, 476 21:55/56 350
4:36 748 23:115/117 350, 1018
4:43/46 413 24:2/2 56
4:66 799 24:12 801
4:92/94 46 24:22 604n333
5:33/37 58 24:43 541
5:42/46 203, 730n5 24:61 802
5:57–58/62–63 350 25:62 541
5:63/68 730n5 26:29/28 55
5:90/92 419 27:34 787
5:90/92–93 402 28:78/78 982
5:90–91/92–93 413, 418, 509 29:6/5 126
5:91/93 403 29:64/64 350
5:106/105 56 30:1–4/1–3 363
6:1 541 30:32 801
6:32/32 350 37:62/60 179
6:70/69 350, 352n41 37:141/141 369, 509
6:91/91 350 38:27/26 350
6:122/122 55 39:9 603
7:33/31 413 39:53 604n333
7:51/49 350, 352n41 42:11 801
7:98/96 350 43:32/31 53n76, 91
9:60/60 347 43:83/83 350
9:65/66 350 44:9/8 350
9:128 801 44:38/38 350
1158 index of qurʾān citations
44:43/43 179 57:20/19 350

44:54 902 59:9/9 119
45:24 535–536, 540 62:5/5 501
47:15 641 62:15 769
47:36/38 350 70:42/42 350
49:11 801 71:13 614
49:12 930n80 76:1 529
51:7/7 83n211 81:9/9 193
52:12/12 350 83:26 15
52:20 902 87:2/2 203
53:19 614n393 87:3/3 203
53:28/29 975 87:4/4 203
56:37 898 93:5 604n333
56:52/52 179

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Man versus Society in Medieval Islam

Brill Classics in Islam

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/bcii

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Rosenthal, Franz, 1914-2003, author.

Copyright 2015 by Koninklijke Brill nv, Leiden, The Netherlands.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

I. Introduction: The Study of Muslim Intellectual and Social History:

II. The Muslim Concept of Freedom Prior to the Nineteenth Century 21

III. The Herb: Hashish versus Medieval Muslim Society 131

IV. Gambling in Islam 335

V. “Sweeter than Hope”: Complaint and Hope in Medieval Islam 517

VI. The Individual and Society

VII. Sexuality, Gender, and the Family

VIII. Science and Learning in Society

Index of Selected Arabic, Persian, and Turkish Words 1089

The remarkable scholarly career of the most brilliant representative of the

Muslim Concept of Freedom Prior to the Nineteenth Century (1960), originally

incomprehensible,” as Karl Jaspers, whom Rosenthal cites, declared.7 These dis-

The French Existentialists … are united on two main lines of rebellion:

7 Ibid. p. 3; below, p. 27.

not13), and he sought to analyze and understand the manifold manifestations

Metaphysics), the social context and management of which he investigated in

The only possible approach open to us is the collection of whatever infor-

The result is the presentation in this volume of a vast amount of material,

16 The Herb, p. 3; below, p. 136.

18 The Herb, pp. 3–4; below, p. 136.

II The Muslim Concept of Freedom Prior to the Nineteenth Century.

Elmer H. Douglas, Middle East Journal, 15.4 (1961) 470–472.

Lenn Evan Goodman, Middle East Journal, 28.1 (1974) 86–87.

IV Gambling in Islam. Reviewed by:

V “Sweeter than Hope”. Complaint and Hope in Medieval Islam.

M. Arkoun, Arabica, 34.3 (1987) 387–388.

VI.1 “‘I am you’—Individual Piety and Society in Islam,” in:

VII.8 “Male and Female: Described and Compared,” in: Homoeroticism in

VIII.15 “Significant Uses of Arabic Writing,” Ars Orientalis 4 (1961) 15–23,

The publishers and I gratefully acknowledge permission to reprint the works

I [Introduction]. “The Study of Muslim Intellectual and Social History: Ap-

VI. The Individual and Society

1 “‘I am you’—Individual Piety and Society in Islam,” in: Individualism

VII. Sexuality, Gender, and the Family

VIII. Science and Learning in Society

11 “Materials for an Appraisal of Knowledge as a Societal Force,” from Knowl-

We would also like to acknowledge our gratitude to the Österreichische Nation-

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2015 | doi: 10.1163/9789004270893_003

Social History: Approaches and Methods

recently become again a subject of much forceful discussion. In the natural

1 Cf. Lewis Thomas, in Daedalus, 106, 3 (summer 1977), 163.

One of the most successful approaches to producing not only an illusion

2 Cf. Oriens, 20 (1967), 240.

of the present, on the problems of an independently active or manmade fate.

The predilection shown for comparisons to establish the most poetic of

sense were more specialized originally as they referred to particular areas of

The identification of ḥasad and munâfasah was discussed in a significant

19 Riʿâyah, ed. Smith, 305–323, ed. ʿAṭâ, 570–605.

I am envied. May God increase the envy of me!

Today, we are pitied by those who envied us.

And if one wishes for a telling characterization of radically worsened circum-

With the growth of scholarly and scientific activity, competition found an 11

if someday it can be more accurately computed, gives at least a valid indica-

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2015 | doi: 10.1163/9789004270893_004

I. The Problem 26 [1]

II. The Linguistic Terminology 31 [7]