A BIOGRAPHY OF HANBAL OR HANBAL CONTRA MUNDUM by Hanbal contra mundum

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Classical Arabic Biography The Heirs of the Prophets in the Age of al-Ma mu¯n

Pre-modern Arabic biography has served as a major source for the history of Islamic civilization. In the first book-length study in English to explore the origins and development of classical Arabic biography, Michael Cooperson demonstrates how Muslim scholars used the notions of heirship and transmission to document the activities of political, scholarly, and religious communities. The author also explains how medieval Arab writers used biography to tell the life-stories of important historical figures by examining the careers of the Abbasid caliph al-Ma mu¯n, the Shiite Imam Alı¯ al-Rid·a¯, the Sunni scholar Ahmad Ibn Hanbal, and the ascetic Bishr al-Ha¯fı¯. Each of these · · · figures represented a tradition of political and spiritual heirship to the Prophet Muh·ammad and each, moreover, knew at least one of the others, regarding him as a rival or an ally. The study reconstructs the career of each figure from his own biographies, as well as from the biographies of the others. Drawing on anthropology and comparative religion, as well as history and literary criticism, the book offers an account of how each figure responded to the presence of the others and how these responses were preserved or rewritten by posterity.     is Assistant Professor of Arabic in the Department of Near Eastern Languages and Cultures at the University of California, Los Angeles.

Cambridge Studies in Islamic Civilization Edtorial board    (general editor)                                      Published titles in the series are listed at the back of the book

Classical Arabic Biography The heirs of the prophets in the age of al-Ma muÂŻn

MI C HAEL COO PERSON University of California, Los Angeles

          The Pitt Building, Trumpington Street, Cambridge, United Kingdom    The Edinburgh Building, Cambridge CB2 2RU, UK 40 West 20th Street, New York, NY 10011-4211, USA 477 Williamstown Road, Port Melbourne, VIC 3207, Australia Ruiz de Alarcón 13, 28014 Madrid, Spain Dock House, The Waterfront, Cape Town 8001, South Africa http://www.cambridge.org © Michael Cooperson 2004 First published in printed format 2000 ISBN 0-511-03361-3 eBook (Adobe Reader) ISBN 0-521-66199-4 hardback

Dedicated to my parents, and to the memory of my grandparents

The reader familiar with tales of people now dead, with the feats of those plunged into the cavern of extinction never to emerge, with the lore of those who scaled the heights of power, and with the virtues of those whom Providence delivered from the stranglehold of adversity, feels that he has known such men in their own time. He seems to join them on their pillowed thrones and lean companionably with them on their cushioned couches. He gazes at their faces – some framed in hoods, others lambent under helmets – seeing in the evil ones the demonic spark, and in the good ones that virtue which places them in the company of angels. He seems to share with them the best pressings of aged wine in an age where time no longer presses, and to behold them as in their battles they breathe the sweet scent of swordplay in the shadows of tall and bloodstained lances. It is as if all that company were of his own age and time; as if those who grieve him were his enemies, and those who give him pleasure, his friends. But they have ridden in the vanguard long before him, while he walks in the rear-guard far behind. al-Safadı¯, Wa¯fı¯, I: 4 · Men by mere principles of nature are capable of being affected with things that have a special relation to religion as well as other things. A person by mere nature, for instance, may be liable to be affected with the story of Jesus Christ, and the sufferings he underwent, as well as by any other tragical story: he may be the more affected with it from the interest he conceives mankind to have in it; yea, he may be affected with it without believing in it; as well as a man may be affected with what he reads in a romance, or sees acted in a stage play. He may be affected with a lively and eloquent description of many pleasant things that attend the state of the blessed in heaven, as well as his imagination be entertained by a romantic description of the pleasantness of fairy land, or the like . . . A person therefore may have affecting views of the things of religion, and yet be very destitute of spiritual light. Flesh and blood may be the author of this: one man may give another an affecting view of divine things with but common assistance: but God alone can give a spiritual discovery of them. Jonathan Edwards, “A Divine and Supernatural Light,” Selected Writings (1734), 71

Contents

Preface Acknowledgements List of abbreviations Note on transliteration Note on dating systems Glossary

1 The development of the genre 2 The caliph al-Ma mu¯n 3 The Imam Alı¯ al-Rid·a¯ 4 The H · adı¯th-scholar Ah·mad Ibn H · anbal 5 The renunciant Bishr al-H a ¯ fı ¯ · Conclusions Appendix The circumstances of Alı¯ al-Rid·a¯’s death Bibliography Index

xi xiv xvi xvii xviii xix

1 24 70 107 154 188

193 197 211

Preface

If poetry is the “archive of the Arabs,” biography is the archive of the Muslims. Premodern Arabic literature contains biographies of hundreds of thousands of Muslims (and occasionally non-Muslims) from soldiers and scholars to lovers and lunatics. With this diversity of subjects comes a variety of forms, ranging from simple lists of names to elaborately detailed narratives. In a few cases, above all that of the Prophet Muh·ammad, biographers strove for exhaustive coverage of a subject’s life from birth to death. More commonly, they collected the names of all the notable men, and sometimes the notable women, who had lived in a certain town, practiced a single profession, or died in a particular century.1 The entries in such collections are often very short. However, the collections themselves are so large that historians have been able to mine them for information about kinship, marriage, political alliances, labor, social status, and the transmission of knowledge in premodern Muslim communities.2 Scholars of Arabic literature, for their part, have preferred to deal with single entries that contain descriptions, anecdotes, and lines of poetry. They have analyzed compilers’ use of sources, traced changes in the representation of a single subject over time, and brought to light biographers’ notions of plotting, characterization, and moral thematics.3 Given the genre’s diversity of form, one may wonder whether the term biography properly applies to it at all. Admittedly, it is awkward to refer to a list of names as a work of biography. Yet it is equally awkward to impose a ﬁrm distinction between the bare list and an annotated one, or between the annotated list and one where the notes have grown into anecdotes. Moreover, the tradition itself regarded all such works as related. In their discussions of 1

Surveys of the genre include Hafsi, “Recherches” (cf. Robinson, “Al-Mu a¯fa¯”); Gibb, “Islamic Biographical Literature”; von Grunebaum, Medieval Islam, 276–81; Khalidi, “Islamic Biographical Dictionaries”; Auchterlonie, Arabic Biographical Dictionaries; Khalidi, Arabic Historical Thought, 184, 204–10; Al-Qa¯d·¯ı, “Biographical Dictionaries”; Roded, Women. E.g. Cohen, “Economic Background”; Bulliet, Patricians; Crone, Slaves; Shatzmiller, Labour; Melchert, Formation; and further Humphreys, Islamic History, 187–92. E.g., the work of Fähndrich and Leder; also Malti-Douglas, “Controversy”; Ra¯g˙ib, “Al-Sayyida Nafı¯sa”; van Ess, “Ibn al-Re¯wandı¯”; Eisener, Faktum und Fiktion; Homerin, Arab Poet; Spellberg, Politics.

xii

Preface

history and historiography, late-classical scholars described biography as a genre whose minimal topical and structural element is the individual human subject.4 In practice, the genre was indeed distinct from annalistic history and performed specific duties with respect to it. On this point the biographers are less forthcoming, but a close study of their works reveals a distinctive approach to the problem of historical inquiry. As is evident from the popularity of works devoted to groups of people, Arabic biographers did not see their task as consisting primarily in the commemoration of individual lives. Rather, they used life-stories to document and perpetuate traditions of authority based on knowledge borne and transmitted, or merely claimed, by groups (t·awa¯ if, sing. ·ta¯ ifa) of specialized practitioners. By recording the activities of single members, biographers sought to demonstrate the legitimacy of the group’s chosen enterprise as well as the place of individual subjects within the tradition. In seeking to account for both the documentary and belletristic aspects of the genre, this book hopes to show (among other things) that its “literary effects” arose in response to the need to negotiate crises in the history of the groups whose collective life the biographers had undertaken to record. Of all the traditions of knowledge contested by the ·ta¯ ifas, none was more hotly disputed than the legacy of the Prophet Muh·ammad. Muh·ammad reportedly said: “The bearers of knowledge are the heirs of the prophets.”5 The political and religious history of premodern Muslim societies was often envisioned by participants and observers as a struggle among claimants to this legacy of knowledge, and much scholarly attention was devoted to sorting out the claims. To illustrate how biographers applied this schematic notion of social order to the rough-and-tumble negotiation of that order in history, I have chosen four figures of the third/ninth century and surveyed the textual record of their lives. Each of these figures – the Abbasid caliph al-Ma mu¯n, the Shiite Imam Alı¯ al-Rid·a¯, the Sunni scholar Ah·mad Ibn H · anbal, and the ascetic Bishr al-H a ¯ fı ¯ – claimed heirship to Muh ammad, or was declared to · · have done so by his biographers. Moreover, their respective claims ranged from the complementary to the flatly contradictory. Most helpfully for our purposes, each of the four also had significant contact with at least one of the others. As a result, their respective biographers had to address the claims made by representatives of rival ·ta¯ ifas. The collective textual afterlife of these four men thus permits a contrastive examination of the ways in which their biographers dealt with competing claims to authority. The period during which our four subjects flourished, the first half of the third/ninth century, is fraught with dramatic events. These include the struggle between al-Ma mu¯n and his relatives for control of the caliphate, the designation of Alı¯ al-Rid·a¯ as heir apparent, and the Abbasid Inquisition. These events, whose spectacular character made them prominent episodes in the 4 5

S·afadı¯, Wa¯fı¯, I: 42; Suyu¯t·¯ı, Ta rı¯kh al-khulafa¯ , 4; Khalidi, Arabic Historical Thought, 56. Inna ‘l- ulama¯‘a warathatu ‘l-anbiya¯ . Wensinck, Concordance, IV: 321.

Preface

xiii

biographies of those involved, are also symptomatic of broader trends. AlMa mu¯n appears to have been testing ambitious notions of caliphal authority. The failure of both his major initiatives – the designation of al-Rida¯ as heir · apparent, and the Inquisition – set the stage for the eventual compromise with Sunnism. Sunnism itself first takes on a distinct political and doctrinal identity during this period. It appears first as a set of practices and opinions attributed to pietists like Ibn H · anbal, and emerges as the officially sanctioned ideology of the Abbasid caliphate. Shiism, too, was still in its formative period: though its major doctrines had already crystallized, its subsequent understanding of the Imam’s role in history drew upon the experiences of the third-century Imams, including al-Rid·a¯ . Meanwhile, asceticism, at first often congruent (in Baghdad, at any rate) with proto-Sunnism, emerges as a distinct style of piety, laying the groundwork for the appearance of a new mystical tradition, Sufism. A study of the representatives of four leading traditions of heirship to the Prophet permits a synoptic vision of the conflicts and compromises that shaped later belief and practice. It also brings into relief the work of biographers, whose accounts of their respective heroes contain the bulk of the information we are ever likely to obtain about this formative period of Islamic civilization.

Acknowledgements

It is a pleasure to thank the many friends and colleagues who have contributed to this work. Wolfhart Heinrichs, my Doktorvater, and Roy Mottahedeh ably supervised the early research from which this book has grown. Ah·mad Mahdavı¯ Damgha¯nı¯ inspired my study of Shiite literature, and Everett Rowson oﬀered an astute critique of chapter 3. Michael Cook, Tayeb ElHibri, Christopher Melchert, Claudia Rapp, and A. Kevin Reinhart read a preliminary study on Ibn H · anbal and Bishr al-H · a¯fı¯, and generously responded with corrections, comments, and references. Marigold Acland of Cambridge University Press made the editorial process a pleasure. The careful comments of the Press’s readers, who alas must remain anonymous, proved of inestimable help. My colleagues and I owe an all-too-frequently unacknowledged debt of gratitude to the editors and publishers of classical Arabic texts in the Arab countries, Iran, India, Europe, and elsewhere. Only their prodigious and often unremunerative labors keep the tradition alive and make the critical study of it possible. I am also indebted to the Arabic librarians, past and present, of Harvard’s Widener Library; and to David Hirsch, Middle East bibliographer at the University of California, Los Angeles, without whose expert assistance this work could never have been completed. Among my teachers I also thank Abbas El-Tonsi, John Flanagan, Gary Gregg, Abdelfattah Kilito, Muhsin Mahdi, Sandra Naddaf, Richard Niebuhr, Dwight Reynolds, A. I. Sabra, Wah·¯ıd Sa¯mı¯, Paula Sanders, Stanley Tambiah, and Wheeler Thackston. I am equally grateful to Fath·¯ı Abd Alla¯h, Diane Abu Gheida, Ladan Akbarnia, Carol Bardenstein, Mahmoud Al-Batal, Sinan Antoon, Basil Arabos, Henning Bauer, Kristen Brustad, Carolyn Cross, Ibra¯hı¯m Da¯wu¯d, Ayman El-Dessouki, Rachel d’Oronzio, Jamal Elias, Liljiana Elverskog, Jean Field, Hulya Findikcioglu, Michael Fishbein, Rebecca Foote, James Gelvin, Shalom Goldman, William Granara, Steven Gross, Latifeh Hagigi, Sa d al-Dı¯n H · asan, Ah·mad H · assa¯n, Stephen Hughey, Mahmoud Ibrahim, Usa¯ma Khalı¯l, Nuha Khouri, Hilary Kilpatrick, Mattias Klein, Antonio Loprieno, Joseph Lowry, Mirena Mehandjiyska, John Nawas, Najwa Al-Qattan, Nasser Rabbat, Maissa El-Rifaie, Susan Rosenfeld, Paula xiv

Acknowledgements

Russo, Leyla Rouhi, Yona Sabar, David Schaberg, William Schniedewind, Stuart Semmel, Rebecca Spang, Devin Stewart, Stephanie Thomas, Shawkat Toorawa, Avram Udovitch, Leif Wenar, and YaÂŻsir al-ZayyaÂŻt. I also thank my students at UCLA for their encouragement, and Melissa Brooner for leaving the light on. Although my teachers, colleagues, and friends deserve most of the credit for the existence of this book, none is responsible for any errors of fact or interpretation it may contain. I do hope, however, that they will feel responsible for drawing any such errors to my attention.

Abbreviations

EI1 EI2 EIr H ·A KB ManIH · MDh MU SAN TB T ·H · ThG TMD TRM UAR

xvi

Encyclopaedia of Islam. 4 vols. and supplement. Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1913–38 Encyclopaedia of Islam. New edition. Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1958–in progress Encyclopaedia Iranica. Ed. Ehsan Yarshater. London and Boston: Routledge, 1982–in progress Abu¯ Nu aym al-Is·faha¯nı¯, H · ilyat al-awliya¯ Ibn Abı¯ T·a¯hir T·ayfu¯r, Kita¯b Baghda¯d Ibn al-Jawzı¯, Mana¯qib al-ima¯m Ah·mad Ibn H · anbal al-Mas u¯dı¯, Muru¯j al-dhahab Ya¯qu¯t, Mu jam al-udaba¯ al-Dhahabı¯, Siyar a la¯m al-nubala¯ al-Khat·¯ıb al-Baghda¯dı¯, Ta rı¯kh Baghda¯d Ibn Abı¯ Ya la¯ al-Farra¯ , T · abaqa¯t al-H · ana¯bila Josef van Ess, Theologie und Gesellschaft Ibn Asa¯kir, Tarı¯kh mad·¯ınat Dimashq al-T·abarı¯, Ta rı¯kh al-rusul wa ‘l-mulu¯k Ibn Ba¯bawayh, Uyu¯n akhba¯r al-Rid·a¯

Note on transliteration

This book follows the Library of Congress transliteration system for Arabic, but without indicating ﬁnal ta¯ marbut·a or distinguishing between alif mamdu¯da and alif maqs·u¯ra. In connected discourse, the hamzat al-was·l is indicated by an apostrophe. Technical terms and place names used in English appear without transliteration (e.g., Shiite, Baghdad), as do Anglicized derivatives of Arabic words (e.g., Alid).

xvii

Note on dating systems

Dates are given according to the Hijrı¯ calendar and then according to the Gregorian (e.g., 230/845). When only the Hijrı¯ dating is certain, the corresponding range of anno domini years is indicated (e.g., 230/845–46).

xviii

Glossary

This list covers terms used without explanation after their ﬁrst appearance. Arabic expressions not included in the glossary are glossed in the text. abda¯l: see badal. abna¯ (sing. banawı¯); also abna¯ al-dawla and abna¯ al-da wa: originally, the Khurasani supporters of the Abbasid revolution; later, their descendants resident in Baghdad, whether soldiers or civilians. adab (pl. a¯da¯b): the cultivation of the literary and linguistic sciences. ahl al-h·adı¯th: students and teachers of H · adı¯th (q.v.), often synonymous with ahl al-sunna (q.v.). ahl al-sunna (wa ‘l-jama¯ a): in the third/ninth century, a sect that stressed the importance of the sunna (q.v.), cultivated the H · adı¯th (q.v.), and rejected Imami Shiism and the khalq al-Qur a¯n (qq.v.). akhba¯r (sing. khabar): historical information, often conveyed in a narrative. akhba¯rı¯: a collector of akhba¯r (q.v.). a¯lim: see ulama¯ . al-amr bi ‘l-ma ru¯f wa ‘l-nahy an al-munkar: “enjoining good and forbidding evil” (Qur a¯n 3: 104, etc.); an ideal of conduct invoked by the ahl al-sunna (q.v.). a¯mma: the common people; among Shiites, a non-Shiite. awliya¯ : see walı¯. ayya¯r (pl. ayya¯ru¯n): a hooligan or gangster; an irregular mercenary. badal (pl. abda¯l or budala ): one of a limited number of holy men gifted with special powers of intercession. baraka: the power to confer blessing. budala¯ : see badal. da wa: a call to allegiance, speciﬁcally (1) the summoning of support for the so-called Abbasid revolution of 132/749; and (2) the summoning of support for al-Ma mu¯n’s rebellion against al-Amı¯n. xix

Glossary

faqı¯h (pl. fuqaha¯ ): one capable of fiqh (q.v.). fata¯ (pl. fitya¯n): a young man possessing authority based on physical strength or endurance; a member of a criminal fraternity (often synonymous with ayya¯r [q.v.]). fiqh: interpretive skill; the ability to discern the right course of action in ritual and legal matters; formal text-based jurisprudence. ghayba: speaking ill of a fellow Muslim; backbiting, slander. ghula¯h: among Shiites, a derogatory term for those who ascribed supernatural powers, notably immortality, to the Imam (q.v.). ghuluww: the doctrine of the ghula¯h (q.v.). H · adı¯th: an authenticated report of the Prophet’s words or actions; the corpus of such reports (cf. sunna).

ilm: knowledge, often knowledge of H · adı¯th (q.v.) specifically. imam, Imam, ima¯m al-huda¯: one who in his capacity as a Muslim leads other Muslims, whether in group prayer or as a head of state. Among Sunnis, it is used as a title for exemplary scholars (e.g., Ibn H · anbal); this meaning is rendered here as “imam.” Among Twelver Shiites, it refers to one of twelve destined leaders of the Muslim community; this meaning is rendered here with capitalization (“Imam”). The caliph al-Ma mu¯n (among others) referred to himself as ima¯m al-huda¯ or “rightly guided and rightly guiding leader”; this title will be given in transliteration. ima¯mat al-huda¯: the office of the ima¯m al-huda¯ (q.v.). Imamism: the branch of Shiism (q.v.) from which Twelver Shiism (q.v.) emerged. isna¯d: a list of the persons who have transmitted a report from one generation to the next. kala¯m: a discourse on religion that employs syllogistic reasoning; theology; dogmatic speculation. khalq al-Qur a¯n: the belief that the Qur a¯n was created by God, as opposed to being co-eternal with Him. madhhab (pl. madha¯hib): a school of fiqh (q.v.); a community of affiliated scholars. magha¯zı¯: the military campaigns undertaken during the Prophet’s lifetime; a work describing these campaigns; a common designation for early biographies of the Prophet. ma rifa: mystical knowledge, as opposed to ilm (q.v.). mih·na: a “trial” or “test”; specifically, the Inquisition put into effect by the caliph al-Ma mu¯n.

Glossary

xxi

mushabbiha: “anthropomorphists” (cf. tashbı¯h); a derogatory term for literalist H · adı¯th-scholars. ra y: “judgement” or “opinion”; a type of fiqh (q.v.) that could take place without reference to H · adı¯th (q.v.). ri a¯sa: the office or attribute of leadership; the attainment of a popular following. rid·a¯, al-: an acceptable leader of the community; the title of the eighth Imam of the Twelver Shiites (and thus capitalized: “al-Rid·a¯”). rija¯l: literally “men”; the term for a sub-genre of biography that examines the reliability of transmitters of H · adı¯th (q.v.). Shiism: the belief that the office of Imam (q.v.) may be held only by a descendant of Alı¯ b. Abı¯ T·a¯lib. sı¯ra: literally “conduct”; a common title of biographical works, especially those dealing with the Prophet. sunna: the exemplary practice of the early Muslim community; (pl. sunan) a report of this practice. Unlike a Hadı¯th (q.v.), a sunna in the latter sense can · report the practice of any exemplary early Muslim. Sunni, proto-Sunni: associated with the ahl al-sunna wa ‘l-jama¯ a (q.v), either in its formative period (“proto-Sunni”) or in its later manifestations (“Sunni”; cf. Sunnism). Sunnism: the mature articulation of the creed of the ahl al-sunna (q.v.), characterized by solidarity with the historical caliphate and communal organization by madha¯hib (see madhhab). ·tabaqa (pl. ·tabaqa¯t): A generation; a group of persons comparable in some way. Commonly used as a title of biographical works.

ifa: a group of persons possessing the same expertise, holding the same ·ta¯ oﬃce, or otherwise engaged in a common and characteristic activity. ta rı¯kh: a biographical work that provides the death-dates of its subjects; a historical work organized by year; history as a ﬁeld of inquiry. tashbı¯h: the assertion of a similarity between God and created things; anthropomorphism. Twelver Shiism: the branch of Shiism (q.v.) that holds that the succession of Imams ended with the twelfth.

ulama¯ (sg. a¯lim): literally “those who know”; a common term for scholars, especially scholars of H · adı¯th (q.v.).

walı¯ (pl. awliya¯ ): literally, a friend or aﬃliate of God; a person credited with extraordinary piety and spiritual power. waqf: among Imami Shiites, the belief that a particular Imam is the last of the line.

xxii Glossary waÂŻqifa: a group of Shiites professing waqf (q.v.). wara : scrupulosity; the strict avoidance of the forbidden and the suspect, as gauged by the sunna (q.v.). zaÂŻhid: a renunciant; an ascetic. zuhd: renunciation of the world; self-denial; asceticism.

CH A PT ER 1

The development of the genre

  : I want to return to this generation. I want to know about your life as a shaykh.        : About me? About my life?   : Yes.        : Yes. At ﬁrst there was [the tribe of] Abbad. The shaykh of Abbad back then was Kayid Ibn Khatlan. Shaykh of the shaykhs of Abbad . . . From Andrew Shryock, Nationalism and the Genealogical Imagination: Oral History and Textual Authority in Tribal Jordan1

Akhba¯r, H · adı¯th, and Sı¯ra Until recently, modern scholarship (following Otto Loth) has tended to assume that classical Arabic biography arose in conjunction with the study of 2 Muslim scholars, we are told, set out to H · adı¯th and H · adı¯th-transmitters. collect information on the reliability of transmitters. Eventually they extended their inquiries “to other groups – legal scholars, doctors, Sufi masters, and so on,” with the intention of showing “that the history of the Muslim community was essentially that of the unbroken transmission of truth and high Islamic culture.”3 This understanding of the genre is accurate in some respects: classical Arabic biography undoubtedly emphasizes the notion of transmission, and some of the earliest collections do list transmitters of Hadı¯th. Yet the genre itself did not originate among the Hadı¯th-scholars. Were · · this so, we would expect the earliest compilations to consist exclusively of entries about transmitters. But, as Willi Heffening was the first to note, biographical collections on poets, singers, Qur a¯n-readers, and jurisprudents are 4 Even older are the biographies at least as old as the ones on H · adı¯th-scholars. 11 12

Shryock, Nationalism, 12. Loth, “Ursprung.” Here and throughout I use “H · adı¯th” and “H · adı¯th-scholars,” not “tradition” and “traditionists,” for the reasons cogently expounded in Hodgson, Venture, I: 63–66. Hourani, History, 165–66; see also Gibb, “Ta rı¯kh”; Abbot, Studies, I:7. For a summary presentation of (to my mind) a more correct view, see Khalidi, Arabic Historical Thought, 204–05. Heﬀening, “T·abaqa¯t.”

Classical Arabic Biography

(magha¯zı¯, then sı¯ra) of the Prophet, which had attained a substantial bulk even before the appearance of H · adı¯th-biography. This precocious variety assumes greater plausibility if we acknowledge that biography originated among those narrators, transmitters, and redactors whom Ibn al-Nadı¯m (d. before 388/998) calls al-akhba¯rı¯yu¯n wa ‘l-nassa¯bu¯n waas·h·a¯bu ‘l-siyar wa ‘l-ah·da¯th, “collectors of reports, genealogists, and authors of biographies and [accounts of] events.”5 These figures, most conveniently designated akhba¯rı¯s or “collectors of reports,” first rose to prominence at the court of the Umayyad caliph Mu a¯wiya (r. 41–60/661–80).6 They professed expertise in the pagan sciences of genealogy, poetry, and pre-Islamic tribal history. Some of them were also authorities on the life and times of the Prophet – that is, the corpus of reports from which both sı¯ra and H · adı¯th proper were later to emerge. The akhba¯rı¯s’ earliest works – when there were “works” at all7 – exist only in later citations. Nevertheless, it is possible to reconstruct the ways in which they defined the directions early Arabic historiography, including biography, was to take. Much of the information collected by the akhba¯rı¯s consisted of or included lists of names, often in the form of genealogies. Indeed, the citation of genealogies was almost impossible to avoid. This is because Arabic names typically contained a series of patronymics (expressions like “son of ” and “daughter of ”) going back many generations. As a result, practically every name contained a family history that could serve as the nucleus of a collective biography. When they mention a person, the early akhba¯rı¯s frequently pause to comment on the ancestors mentioned in his genealogy. Alternatively, they start at the beginning of a family tree and tell a brief story about some or all of the figures in the list, as Shaykh Khalaf does in his interview with Shryock.8 The utility of such performances, then as now, is to serve as an armature for narratives and poetry that support tribal claims to past glories and present rights. Unless the interlocutor is familiar with the reputation of one’s ancestors, an unadorned list of names is not an effective genealogy. The minimal and possibly the earliest sort of Arabic biography thus appears to have consisted of a genealogy accompanied by a narrative. Werner Caskel, and before him Ignaz Goldziher, noted the close association of genealogy (nasab) and narration (qas·s·) in premodern Arabic literature.9 More recently, Shryock has demonstrated the interdependence of the two forms in the oral histories of the Jordanian Bedouin.10 Plausibly enough, bare lists do appear when the narra15 16

17 18

19 10

Ibn al-Nadı¯m, Fihrist, 131–67. Abbot, Studies, I: 14–31; and further Goldziher, Muslim Studies, II: 43ff.; Schoeler, Charakter, 46–48. See, e.g., Leder’s reservations on the “books” attributed to al-Haytham (Korpus, 8ff.). See, e.g., Ibn H · azm, Jamhara, passim, e.g., 117; for contemporary parallels, see Shryock, Nationalism, e.g., 51–52. Goldziher, Muslim Studies, I: 168, 170; Caskel, Gˇamhara, I: 35. Shryock, Nationalism, 65, 145, 319ff. On the relation between ansa¯b and early historiography see further Mus·t·afa¯, Ta rı¯kh, I: 81–82, 98–99, 115; Khalidi, Arabic Historical Thought, 49–54.

The development of the genre

tor does not wish to pronounce in favor of one or another tribe. In Jordan, Shryock found that tribal histories (that is, performances of nasab and qas·s·) inevitably challenge the claims made by neighboring clans and tribes. The tribal ulama¯ (as his informants are called) were reluctant to relate their histories for fear of provoking a hostile reaction from neighboring rivals. After one eight-hour session with a tribal a¯lim, Shryock reports that he succeeded in recording only a bare genealogy: the narrative component had “collapsed under the weight” of participants’ efforts to “negotiate an acceptable version.”11 In many cases, the bare lists we find in early Arabic sources may have been compiled by akhba¯rı¯s working long after particular disputes had been settled or forgotten. In other cases, they may be artifacts of a written history that strove to maintain neutrality. Besides genealogies, the early sources contain lists (tasmiya) of persons credited with particular occupations or unusual feats or attributes. Some of these lists appear to date back to pre-Islamic times: they name tribal celebrities such as arbiters, trackers, and even “men whose big toes dragged on the ground when they rode.”12 As Stefan Leder has noted, such lists, like genealogies, “give expression to the perception of closed and independently acting social units.”13 In the Islamic period, the akhba¯rı¯s applied a similar principle of classification to a wider range of persons. These persons included prophets, Companions, caliphs, Successors, jurisprudents, H · adı¯th-scholars, Qur a¯nreaders, transmitters of poetry and rare expressions, schoolteachers, participants in feuds, people who were the first to do a certain thing, and people afflicted with leprosy, lameness, and other maladies.14 Because the placeholders in incidental lists were not necessarily related in any other way, compilers frequently added identifying remarks (akhba¯r) like those appended to genealogies.15 Again, the bare listing of names is a theoretical possibility, occasionally realized. More commonly, however, we find narration, or at least description, appended to some or all of the items in the list. As the genealogies and tasmiya¯t indicate, the first Arabic biographers (i.e., the akhba¯rı¯s) did not confine themselves to collecting information about H · adı¯th-scholars. Heffening’s discovery of early works on poets, singers, and the like confirms this view. Still, the oldest extant collection, the T · abaqa¯t alkubra¯, does appear to be a catalogue of H adı ¯ th-transmitters. Compiled by al· Wa¯qidı¯ (d. 207/822) and Ibn Sa d (d. 230/845), the T abaqa ¯ t contains entries of · widely varying length on Muslims of the first six generations. In many cases, it offers assessments of its subjects’ reliability as transmitters. However, it also contains many reports that have little bearing on reliability, as well as a substantial biography of the Prophet. This genre, certainly, is older than H · adı¯thbiography: a substantial magha¯zı¯ is attributed to Ibn Isha¯q, who died in · 150/767. At first glance, then, it appears that the compilers of the T · abaqa¯t 11 12 14

Shryock, Nationalism, chs. 4 and 5; citations on p. 108. 13 Ibn H Leder, Korpus, 199. · abı¯b, Muh·abbar, 132, 189, 233. 15 Ibn Qutayba, Ma a¯rif, passim. E.g., Ibn Hisha¯m, Sı¯ra, III: 87.

Classical Arabic Biography

adopted the sı¯ra as well as the list-form from the akhba¯rı¯s. Upon closer examination, however, it seems more accurate to suggest that al-Wa¯qidı¯ and Ibn Sa d were akhba¯rı¯s, and that Hadı¯th-biography proper, while doubtless influ· enced by the example of the Tabaqa¯t, appeared later and under different · circumstances. To justify this assessment, we must look more closely at the circumstances under which H · adı¯th-studies emerged as a discipline distinct from the collection of akhba¯r. In the Umayyad period, “H · adı¯th” – that is, akhba¯r about the Prophet – had yet to attain the status of a distinct body of texts. Of the akhba¯rı¯s active in Medina and Damascus in the early third/ninth century, we find several who claimed expertise in subjects that included, without special distinction, the corpus later codified as Hadı¯th. For example, the Damascene · akhba¯rı¯ Muh·ammad b. Muslim al-Zuhrı¯ (d. 124/741) is credited with knowledge of the Prophet’s campaigns (magha¯zı¯), post-prophetic history, and 16 The sweeping nature of this declaration suggests that his contem“H · adı¯th.” poraries had yet to enforce any strict classification of sı¯ra-related topics.17 AlZuhrı¯ himself was reportedly the first to use isna¯ds (lists of transmitters) to check the genuineness of H · adı¯th. G. H. A. Juynboll agrees that the systematic examination of authorities began at that time (c. 130/747, with Shu ba b. alH · ajja¯j). However, he places the “structured collection” of H · adı¯th rather later: the two earliest compilers of musnads (books of H adı ¯ th arranged by transmit· ter) both died in 228/847.18 The tardy but seemingly abrupt appearance of H · adı¯th proper has been corroborated by Joseph Schacht, who notes that the Iraqi jurist Abu¯ Yu¯suf (d. 182/798) commonly cited historical reports of juridical import without isna¯ds, while his younger contemporary al-Sha¯fi ı¯ (d. 204/820) differentiated between Prophetic biography and “legal traditions” 19 The implication is that (i.e., H · adı¯th) because only the latter had good isna¯ds. the strict division between H adı ¯ th and other kinds of history, that is, sı¯ra, · magha¯zı¯, and akhba¯r, came late but took hold, in this case at least, within a single generation. The new insistence on H · adı¯th as a distinct category, and on the isna¯d as a necessary concomitant of historical narration, evidently caught the akhba¯rı¯s off guard. One of them, Awa¯na b. al-H · akam (d. 147/764–65 or 158/774–75) is reported to have said: “I gave up H adı ¯ th because I couldn’t stand the isna¯d.”20 · Even in the middle of the third/ninth century, by which time the akhba¯rı¯s had given up H · adı¯th, the scholars insisted on denouncing them. Al-Bukha¯rı¯ and Yah·ya¯ b. Ma ı¯n, for example, called Ibn al-Haytham a liar, and al-Da¯raqut·nı¯ labeled Ibn al-Kalbı¯ matru¯k “abandoned” as a transmitter.21 In some cases, the critics appear to be condemning the akhba¯rı¯s’ ignorance of H · adı¯th proper, and in other cases deploring their failure to apply Hadı¯th-standards to the · 16 17 19 21

Mus·t·afa¯, Ta rı¯kh, I: 157–58; cf. Juynboll, Muslim Tradition, 146–159. 18 Hinds, “Magha¯zı¯ and Sı¯ra,” 189–92. Juynboll, Muslim Tradition, 9–23. 20 Schacht, Origins, 75 and 139. MU, IV: 513; Ibn al-Nadı¯m, Fihrist, 134. MU, V: 606; 5: 595.

The development of the genre

Prophet’s biography and other historical narratives. Either way, it is clear that the H · adı¯th-scholars were the newcomers, and that their professional selfdefinition required condemnation of the older akhba¯rı¯ tradition.22 Most misleadingly for us, the H · adı¯th-men also retrojected their criticism upon akhba¯rı¯s of previous generations. Ibn Ish·a¯q (d. 150/767), for example, was regarded as an authority by his contemporary al-Zuhrı¯. A century later, however, he was censured by Ibn H · anbal (d. 241/855) for “leaving things out and changing them” in his recitation of the Prophet’s campaigns.23 Similarly, the so-called “H · adı¯th” of Abu¯ Mikhnaf (d. 157/774) was declared “worthless” by Yah·ya¯ b. Ma ı¯n (d. 233/847).24 This pattern of retrospective condemnation has created the false impression that the early akhba¯rı¯s were sloppy H · adı¯thscholars, and indeed that such a thing as “H adı ¯ th” existed as a disciplined · canon in the early period at all. Ironically, however, it was precisely the formalization of H · adı¯th-criteria that left the Prophet’s sı¯ra and the allied biographical and historical genres in the hands of the akhba¯rı¯s. By the early third/ninth century, the H · adı¯th-scholars had committed their texts to compilations arranged by transmitter or by theme.25 In either format, the H · adı¯th was now severed from the sequential narrative of the Prophet’s biography. Admittedly, a given H · adı¯th remained formally identical to a report in the sı¯ra: both consisted of a listing of transmitters culminating in a first-person eyewitness account, often in multiple versions. Yet the H · adı¯th-reports were now arranged by transmitter or by subject (e.g., prayer, inheritance, contracts, etc.), while the reports in the sı¯ra remained a sequential set of narratives.26 With these boundaries in place, the akhba¯rı¯s could produce Prophetic biographies without falling afoul of the 27 Thus al-Wa¯qidı¯ (d. 207/822) was called “an authority on H · adith-scholars. the Prophet’s biography (al-magha¯zı¯ wa ‘l-siya¯r), the conquests, and disputed matters of H · adı¯th, jurisprudence, and akhba¯r.” Not surprisingly, “a number of H adı ¯ th-scholars considered him weak,” a typical reaction – as we have seen · – to such broad expertise. Yet even those who questioned his knowledge of H · adı¯th were willing to concede his authority in other fields. “As far as biography (akhba¯r al-na¯s wa ‘l-siyar), jurisprudence, and the other sciences are 22 23

26 27

See also Robinson, “Study,” esp. 206. Ibn H · anbal, Ilal, I:17 and I: 22; Ibn al-Nadı¯m, Fihrist, 136; MU, V: 220; Abbot, Studies, I: 87–91. Ibn Ish·a¯q was condemned in his own time, but not for his isna¯ds: his major contemporary critic, Ma¯lik b. Anas, did not always use them himself (Robson, “H · adı¯th”). Although some later authorities spoke approvingly of Ibn Ish·a¯q (Guillaume, Life, xxxv–xxxvi), such assessments were often arbitrary (Juynboll, Muslim Tradition, 163–90), reinforcing the sense that we are dealing with collective self-assertion through akhba¯rı¯-bashing rather than strictly 24 Ibn al-Nadı¯m, Fihrist, 136–37; MU, V: 29. individual assessments of transmitters. The ﬁrst musnads are credited to Yah·ya¯ b. Abd al-H · amı¯d, Musaddad b. Musardad (both d. 228/847) and Nu aym b. H · ammad b. Mu a¯wiya (d. 229/848). Juynboll, Muslim Tradition, 22 (on Musaddad see also Goldziher, Muslim Studies, II: 139, note 3). See further Wansbrough, Sectarian Milieu, 77ﬀ. On the mutual respect eventually established on the basis of this division of labor, see Schacht, Origins, 139, and note 6.

Classical Arabic Biography

concerned, he is a reliable authority by consensus.”28 Similarly, his scribe and successor Ibn Sa d (d. 230/845) was called “an expert in the akhba¯r of the Companions and Successors,” not a Hadı¯th-scholar.29 Admittedly, the · T · abaqa¯t the two men produced is well supplied with isna¯ds, indicating that Ibn Sa d, at least, had mastered the evidentiary protocol of the H · adı¯th-scholars. However, as Juynboll has pointed out, the book contains “hardly any” material that falls into the category of H · adı¯th, not even in the biographies of Companions in whose entries one would expect to find it.30 The contents of the T · abaqa¯t thus illustrate the extent to which the earliest biographies, even of the Prophet, were the work of akhba¯rı¯s, not H · adı¯th-scholars proper. As the contents of the T abaqa ¯ t indicate, the akhba¯rı¯s had assumed author· ity over the biography of the Prophet as well as the lives of the Companions and Successors. It is clear why: in the beginning at least, the compilation of a Prophetic biography required expertise in pre-Islamic genealogy and history, fields that had long been the acknowledged province of the akhba¯rı¯s. In later periods, the closest parallel to the contents of the sı¯ra does not appear in the writings of the H · adı¯th-scholars, but rather in the works of akhba¯rı¯s, particularly al-Mada¯ inı¯ (d. 225/839–40). Al-Mada¯ inı¯ is clearly an akhba¯rı¯: his works deal with the history of Quraysh, the conquests, caliphs, poets, and such odd subjects as wedding parties, coinage, and persons famous for their propensity to flatulence.31 To him are also attributed twenty-seven works on the Prophet, covering his physical appearance, his sermons and letters, his enemies and detractors, his military campaigns, the delegations he sent to the tribes, etc. The subject matter of the latter works thus corresponds to the contents of the earliest known recensions of the Prophet’s biography (those by Ibn Ish·a¯q and Ibn Sa d). These topics include pre-Islamic Arabian history, the Prophet’s mission, the resistance to Islam, the emigration to Medina, and Muh·ammad’s negotiations and military campaigns. Biography, then, originated among akhba¯rı¯s, not H · adı¯th-scholars proper, who in the early third/ninth century had barely come into existence as writers of books. By the third/ninth century if not earlier, scholars exclusively interested in H · adı¯th had begun to condemn the akhba¯rı¯s, including those of older generations, for failing to uphold the newly emerged rules for H · adı¯th-transmission. At the same time, they conceded to their akhba¯rı¯ contemporaries the right to compose biographies, including those of the Prophet. This entente appears to have succeeded in part because many akhba¯rı¯s had acquired competence in the evidentiary protocol of H · adı¯th.

Professional specialization and collective biography The history of akhba¯r after c. 200/800 becomes the history of the diﬀuse ﬁelds of specialization that emerged from it. These include not only Hadı¯th but also · 28

Ibn al-Nadı¯m, Fihrist, 144; MU, V: 392–93. Note that ﬁqh in this period did not necessarily 29 Ibn al-Nadı¯m, Fihrist, 145. entail knowledge of H · adı¯th. 31 Juynboll, Muslim Tradition, 24–27. Ibn al-Nadı¯m, Fihrist, 149–52.

The development of the genre

the various branches of adab (the literary and linguistic sciences) and of ta rı¯kh (history). Many of these branches developed their own biographical traditions. Common to all the traditions was the notion of descent, now understood as a metaphorical rather than a literal genealogy. An examination of early biographical writing, whether by akhba¯rı¯s or H · adı¯th-scholars, bears out one element of Hourani’s contention that biographers intended to establish “unbroken transmission.” However, this transmission did not always have to do with “truth,” as Hourani proposes. More exactly, it had to do with knowledge, an attribute of poets and singers as well as of H · adı¯th-transmitters. As we have seen, the H adı ¯ th-men insisted on evaluating transmitters as well as · (or instead of) the reports they transmitted. Similarly, biographers of musicians, poets, and grammarians felt the need to compile a catalogue of experts in their respective disciplines. In the apologetic prefaces they attached to their works, the adab-biographers made explicit what was implicit in H · adı¯th-biography, namely, the notion that professional legitimacy derived from the documented transmission of knowledge.

Rija¯l-works and H·adı¯th-biography The earliest biographical tradition particular to H · adı¯th-studies is the rija¯l-collection, which consists of a list of persons named as authorities in the transmission of reports.32 One of the oldest extant examples conﬁrms Heﬀening’s suggestion that the genre represents a “special application” of techniques of composition already in use among akhba¯rı¯s. This is the T · abaqa¯t of Khalı¯fa b. Khayya¯t· (d. 240/854–55), which groups transmitters by generation, tribe, and place of residence. Khalı¯fa also compiled a chronological history, and may therefore be considered an akhba¯rı¯ of sorts. However, neither his history nor his T · abaqa¯t contains much akhba¯r. In the T · abaqa¯t, the information most important for H adı ¯ th-purposes – namely, where and when the transmitter was · active – must be inferred from the placement of that transmitter’s name in the generational, tribal, and regional classes. anbal Much more detailed is the Ilal wa-ma rifat al-rija¯l ascribed to Ibn H · (d. 241/855). However, its compilers evince little awareness of the organizational techniques in use among akhba¯rı¯s: the imam’s comments on transmitters and texts are placed in whatever order they happened to be spoken during H · adı¯th-sessions. A roughly contemporary work, the Ta rı¯kh of al-Bukha¯rı¯ (d. 256/870) takes the transmitters’ names as the unit of organization and lists them alphabetically for easy reference. Al-Bukha¯rı¯’s entries are invariably brief, mentioning only the subject’s teachers and students, e.g.: “Isma¯ ı¯l b. Sa ı¯d b. Rumma¯na al-Yama¯nı¯; he heard Ibn Umar; Yu¯suf b. Abd al-S·amad related on his authority.”33 The fragments of rija¯l-criticism ascribed to al- Ijlı¯ (d. 261/875) are only slightly more forthcoming: one transmitter, he says, was “a harsh and ill-natured man, but he knew the sunna.”34 As these examples 32 34

For a list of rija¯l-works see Juynboll, “Rija¯l.” Cited in Muryani, “Entwicklung,” 61.

Bukha¯rı¯, Ta rı¯kh, I: 1: 356; no. 1126.

Classical Arabic Biography

indicate, the rija¯l-critics had little interest in akhba¯r as such. Their comments are ascriptive rather than narrative, and almost always bear on the subject’s reliability as a transmitter. This does not mean that the tradition could not grow: on the contrary, the contentious nature of H · adı¯th-criticism produced a farrago of judgements, pro and con, that had to be appended to the entries on individual transmitters. This process eventually culminated in the massive compilations of al-Dhahabı¯ (d. 748/1348) and Ibn H · ajar al- Asqala¯nı¯ (d. 852/1449). However, it did not result in anecdotal biography of the sort found in Ibn Sa d’s T · abaqa¯t. Even the long entries in late rija¯l-books favor laconic assessments (albeit a great many of them) over extended narratives. With the appearance of distinct schools of jurisprudence (madha¯hib) came dictionaries devoted to their affiliates, who were often transmitters as well as jurists.35 Such compilations, unlike the rija¯l-books, are not concerned with weeding out unreliable transmitters. Rather, the compilers were intent on demonstrating the distinctive attainments of their school. To the extent that such a project necessitated praising affiliates and criticizing rivals, some biographers collected anecdotes with as much enthusiasm as any akhba¯rı¯ (for the H · anbalı¯ tradition, see chapter 4). Others, however, were still interested only in the transmission of H · adı¯th – not H · adı¯th in general, but the sequence of teachers of which they formed a part. As a result, their works consist of name-lists supplemented with such minimal facts as death-dates, teachers, and students. In a study of one such collection, Rudolf Sellheim suggests (following Ibra¯hı¯m Madku¯r) that the brevity of the entries is due to the “abashedness and humility” of the compilers.36 But this remark strictly speaking applies only to autobiography (and as it happens, is not true there either).37 I would argue rather that long entries on H · adı¯th-scholars are only needed when membership in the group is being contested: that is, in rija¯l-books. Lists of one’s own teachers, on the other hand, document a figurative genealogy back to the Prophet. Instead of parentage, the relevant relationship is the equally successive one of hearing and transmission. The implied narrative of succession to the Prophet, not the idiosyncrasies of any of the men named in the list, makes the best argument for one’s own authority to transmit H · adı¯th. An endless series of nearly indistinguishable entries does not therefore fail to take account of individuality. Rather, it succeeds in excluding it.

Musicians A more explicit example of collective self-assertion comes from al-Ja¯h·iz·’ (d. 776/868) compilation on musicians.38 The ancient philosophers, al-Ja¯h·iz· states, divided knowledge ( ilm) into four arts (a¯da¯b). Of the four, Muslim scholars 35 36 37 38

On the early history of madhhab-biography, see Melchert, Formation, esp. 145–46. Sellheim, “ Izzaddı¯n.” See Edebiyat VII: 2 (1997; special issue on Arabic autobiography). Ja¯h·iz·, “T·abaqa¯t al-mughannı¯n”; cf. Mus·t·afa¯, Ta rı¯kh, I: 140 and I: 176.

The development of the genre

quickly attained a precise knowledge of three: astronomy, geometry, and chemistry. Yet the fourth art, music (luh·u¯n, ghina¯ ), suﬀered from neglect. People grasped its principles only by intuition, or by hearing of Persian and Indian ideas on the subject. Then al-Khalı¯l b. Ah·mad derived a metrical system for poetry and music. His system came to the attention of Ish·a¯q b. Ibra¯hı¯m al-Maws·ilı¯, who, with his greater experience as a performer and auditor, perfected it and made it into a science. Since then, every age has had its generation of musicians who learn from those before them, and who along with their musical skill cultivate various reﬁnements of character. Unfortunately, biographers have not yet written about the celebrated musicians of al-Ja¯h·iz·’ day. To give his contemporaries their due, he has composed an account of “their characteristics, their instruments, and the styles they attribute to themselves and pass on to others,” and arranged his account by 39 The biogra·tabaqa¯t, here meaning “categories of comparable excellence.” phies themselves have not survived, so the second part of al-Ja¯h·iz·’ project – the narration of individual lives within a master-narrative for the musician class – cannot be studied. Nevertheless, his introduction provides a relatively early and complete instance of the etiological narrative, that is, the story a biographer tells to legitimize his category of subjects and lay the groundwork for his exposition of the virtues of individual exemplars within the category.

Poets Early akhba¯rı¯s took a particular interest in poetry, which like music soon found its apologists.40 The early Islamic view of poets and poetry was preponderantly hostile. Although poetry survived the advent of Islam, it perforce renounced its claim to supernatural inspiration.41 Not surprisingly, the earliest biographers of poets do not adduce an etiology for their subjects. Instead, they argue for the importance of being able to identify good poetry, something mere amateurs cannot hope to do. In the earliest extant biographical work on poets, Ibn Salla¯m al-Jumah¯ı (d. 232/846) begins with a complaint about · declining standards. “Much of the poetry one hears is contrived and fabricated,” he says, “no good at all, and no proof-text for correct Arabic.” This is because “people have passed it from book to book without taking it from the Bedouin and without submitting it to the judgement of scholars.”42 In response to a man who declares that he could appreciate a poem perfectly well without asking an expert, al-Jumah·¯ı replies: “If you like a coin but the moneychanger tells you it’s false, what good does your appreciation do you then?”43 His attitude parallels (but does not necessarily derive from) that of 39 40 41

Ja¯h·iz·,”T·abaqa¯t al-mughannı¯n,” III: 133; cf. Hafsi, “Recherches,” 107–8. On poetic biographies, see Tarabulusi, Critique; Sezgin, Geschichte, II: 92–97. See Qur a¯n 26: 225–8, and further Goldziher, Muslim Studies, I: 40–97, esp. 56; Kister, “Sı¯rah”; 42 Jumah·¯ı, T Amidu, “Poets”; and Heinrichs, “Meaning,” 121. · abaqa¯t, 5–6. Ibid., 8.

Classical Arabic Biography

the H · adı¯th-scholars: antiquity and authenticity confer authority upon a text, the content of which cannot stand on its own merits without the imprimatur of the experts. As in Hadı¯th-studies, too, the requirement of authenticity requires a foray · into biography in order to establish the names and works of the most reliable authorities. Al-Jumah·¯ı explains that he has “classified the poets of the preIslamic, Islamic, and transitional periods, and ranked them.”44 The result is “ten classes of four poets of equal skill.”45 Unlike Ibn Sa d and Khalı¯fa, alJumah·¯ı constructs his ·tabaqa¯t on the basis of excellence, not geography or age. Excellence, in turn, depends on the twin criteria of authenticity and quality. Some poems and poets are more authentic than others: ancients more than moderns, and desert-dwellers more than urbanites. Within each category, moreover, some poets are better than others, and here explicitly aesthetic considerations play a role. Imru al-Qays, for example, is superior to other equally authentic (i.e., old) poets because “he invented things that no one had said before, things that the Arabs considered beautiful.”46 Any biographical elaboration beyond these minimal facts is not necessary for a critical discussion of the verses. Most of the entries, accordingly, contain citations of poems rather than anecdotes. A biographer of the next generation, Ibn Qutayba (d. 276/889), offers a more explicit justification for his work. Cultivated people, he says, refer to poetry when discussing “usage, grammar, the Qur a¯n, and the H · adı¯th.” Like al-Jumah·¯ı, Ibn Qutayba conflates this philological standard with a literary one, for which he regards the ancients as the highest model. Provided they respect convention, however, some modern poets may attain parity with the ancients: I do not consider the ancient poets any more favorably because they are old, nor do I think any less of recent poets because they are new. Rather, I consider both groups without bias, and give each its due. I have seen scholars who approve of, and anthologize, poor poetry just because the person who composed it lived a long time ago. I have also seen them denigrate solid poetry only because it was composed in their own time, or by someone they have actually seen. But God has not restricted knowledge, poetic talent, and eloquence to one age as opposed to another, nor has He made it the special property of one people while denying it to another. Rather, He has divided it and made it the common property of all His creatures in all ages, and made everything ancient modern in its time, just as every noble line has a humble origin. After all, Jarı¯r, alFarazdaq, al-Akht·al, and others like them were once considered modern.47

This bold statement has the eﬀect of extending the biographer’s ﬁeld down to his own time and then leaving it open for his successors. Indeed, Ibn Qutayba’s chronological arrangement permits future compilers to append biographies 44 45

On “ranking” see Khalidi, “Biographical Dictionaries,” 57. Jumah·¯ı, T diﬀerent, due perhaps to later · abaqa¯t, 21–22. The actual arrangement is somewhat 46 Ibid., p. 47. interpolations (see Sha¯kir’s introduction, 20–21). Ibn Qutayba, Shi r, I: 76, I: 62–63.

The development of the genre

without disturbing the structure of the work, something al-Jumah·¯ı’s t·abaqa¯tscheme makes impossible. Moreover, by using the poet’s death-date, not the quality or ancientness of his verses, as his axis of organization, Ibn Qutayba foregrounds the poet as the subject of interest. Unlike al-Jumah¯ı’s entries, · which contain little more than verses, Ibn Qutayba’s include information on “the poets and their times, their abilities, their modes of composition, their tribes, the names of their fathers, and those who were known by nicknames or honorifics,” as well as the events that prompted the composition of their poems.48 Mere names, he says, convey little unless accompanied by “a tale, a historical event, a genealogy, an anecdote, or a verse deemed good or unusual.”49 Ibn Qutayba may have opened the pages of biography to the modern poets, but it was another biographer, Ibn al-Mu tazz (d. 296/908), who treated them as subjects worthy of commemoration in their own right. In his T · abaqa¯t alshu ara¯ al-muh·dathı¯n, Ibn al-Mu tazz treats only the poets of the Abbasid period, and goes even further than Ibn Qutayba in citing biographical reports as well as verses. In the anecdotes, he pleads the cause of the “modern” poets by suggesting a continuity between them and their ancient predecessors. Like the ancients, the moderns were given to strange mannerisms, debauchery, and the flouting of convention. The poet Abu¯ al-Hindı¯, for example, died by falling off a roof in a drunken stupor, Abu¯ Nuwa¯s composed verse while intoxicated, and Abu¯ Dula¯ma went carousing instead of accompanying his patron on the pilgrimage.50 In his critical comments on the verses, Ibn al-Mu tazz does not refer to “ancientness” or “authenticity.” Instead, he repeatedly praises badı¯ , the characteristic literary device of the moderns.51 In another work, the Kita¯b al-badı¯ , he argues that badı¯ appears in the Qur a¯n, the H · adı¯th, and ancient poetry, and modern critics have no right to repudiate their contemporaries who employ it. In the T · abaqa¯t, he points out examples of badı¯ and praises the work of poets known to have favored the technique.52 Distributed as they are throughout the biographical entries, his comments add up to a practical characterization of the technique, an endorsement of it, and by extension, a vindication of his subject, the modern poets. Evidently his project was successful: by the time Abu¯ al-Faraj composed his Kita¯b al-agha¯nı¯ (d. 356/967) it was acceptable to treat the ancients and the moderns together as subjects of biography, and in no particular order at all.

Grammarians Like H · adı¯th-studies and poetical criticism, the sciences of language crystallized as a distinct discipline at a relatively early date. The ﬁrst known 48 49 51 52

Ibid., I: 59–60. For an example see Leder, “Frühe Erzählungen.” 50 Ibn Qutayba, Shi r, I: 59–60. Ibn al-Mu tazz, T · abaqa¯t, 56, 91–92, 138, 195. See further W. Heinrichs, Isti a¯rah; S. P. Stetkevych, Abu¯ Tamma¯m, 5–37. E.g., Bashsha¯r b. Burd (21–31), Muslim b. al-Walı¯d (235–40), and Abu¯ Tamma¯m (283–87).

Classical Arabic Biography

biographical works on grammarians are nearly as old as the early works on 53 H · adı¯th-scholars and poets. Among the earliest extant is that of alMarzuba¯nı¯ (d. 368/979 or 384/994), transmitted in an abridgement by al-H · a¯fi z· al-Yaghmurı¯ (d. 673/1274). The original reportedly contained biographies of genealogists as well as language scholars, but the work as it stands is dominated by a concern for grammar and grammarians.54 On the assumption that its abridgement omits rather than adds material, al-Marzuba¯nı¯’s work performed two signal services for the grammarians. First, it justifies grammar by characterizing it as a guardianship of the Arabic language, the medium of God’s Revelation to Muh·ammad and of the Prophet’s H · adı¯th. Second, it documents the founder’s transmission of this trust to his successors. Just like H · adı¯th-scholars, poets, and musicians, the grammarians could lay claim to a distinctive ilm conveyed intact through the generations. Al-Marzuba¯nı¯ begins with a series of statements attributed to the Prophet and other prominent historical figures exhorting believers to cultivate good pronunciation and grammar. Then he recounts one anecdote after another showing Muslims, notable and otherwise, committing solecisms. After the last anecdote – in which Abu¯ Amr b. al- Ala¯ (d.155/772) deplores the miswritten sign-boards of the cotton-traders – al-Marzuba¯nı¯ brings in his hero Abu¯ alAswad al-Du alı¯ (d. 69/688). Abu¯ al-Aswad, he reports, learned the principles of desinential inflection from Alı¯ b. Abı¯ T·a¯lib. Later he was commissioned by the governor Ziya¯d b. Abı¯hi to teach people the vowel-markers “because their speech had deteriorated.” Abu¯ al-Aswad ignored the commission until, one day, walking along the river-bank in Basra, he overheard a Qur a¯n reader misvowel a word and thus invert the meaning of a verse (Qur a¯n 9: 3). He then said to himself, “It is no longer permitted me to neglect the people!” and forthwith invented a transcription-system for the inflectional endings Alı¯ had taught him. “He made the nominative, the genitive, and the accusative; and people flocked to him to learn pure Arabic.”55 This origin-tale, which occurs in several variants, displays a conspicuous constructedness.56 Abu¯ al-Aswad refuses to teach grammar, or is forbidden to do so. This prohibition serves merely to set the stage for what happens next, namely, that he overhears a particularly flagrant error and reverses his position, thereby rescuing a community on the verge of inglorious collapse due to its members’ ignorance of case inflection. Of course, he cannot really have done so, because several of the figures accused of committing solecisms lived long after his time.57 Yet this inconsistency serves the biographer’s purpose as well: had Abu¯ al-Aswad succeeded in eradicating error once and for all, there would be no need for more grammarians. 53 55

56 57

54 Hafsi, “Recherches,” 87; Mus·t·afa¯, Ta rı¯kh, I:222. See Makdisi, Humanism, 165. Yaghmurı¯, Nu¯r, 4–5; also Ibn al-Anba¯rı¯, Nuzha, 4–7; Ibn al-Nadı¯m, Fihrist, 60; Is·faha¯nı¯, Agha¯nı¯, 12: 4463–65; MU, III: 436–37; Makdisi, Humanism, 122. On awa¯ il see Noth and Conrad, Historical Tradition, 104–8; Juynboll, Muslim Tradition, 10ﬀ. Abu¯ al-Aswad died in 69, while e.g. Abu¯ Amr b. al- Ala¯ , who deplored the traders’ signs, died in 155.

The development of the genre

Having described the origin and utility of prescriptive grammar, alMarzuba¯nı¯ sets out to establish that Abu¯ al-Aswad’s knowledge was transmitted to subsequent generations (yantaqilu ‘l- ilmu min tabaqatin ila¯ tabaqa). He · · thus reports that “the most outstanding of [Abu¯ al-Aswad’s] disciples, and the most retentive, was Anbasa b. Ma da¯n al-Fı¯l. When Abu¯ al-Aswad died, the people flocked to Anbasa. When he in turn died, people studied with his besttrained pupil, Maymu¯n al-Aqran.”58 Each of those named will have an entry later in the book, and each entry will name the students who carried on the tradition in their turn. Sometimes, too, al-Marzuba¯nı¯ adds a story about how a particular figure came to join the class. The celebrated Sı¯bawayh, for example, took up grammar when his H · adı¯th-teacher rebuked him for misusing the negative particle laysa. Like Ibn al-Mu tazz with his poets, alMarzuba¯nı¯ enjoys stories that illustrate his subjects’ oddities. Even these stories, however, reinforce the distinct endowment of the grammarians. Abu¯ Amr b. al- Ala¯ , for example, was happy to learn that al-H · ajja¯j b. Yu¯suf had died, not only because al-H ajja ¯ j had been pursuing him, but also because the · death-announcement illustrated the correct pronunciation of a difficult word. Another grammarian, I¯sa¯ b. Umar, was punished for refusing to return some clothing left with him for safekeeping; even as he was being caned, he used two unusual diminutives to protest his chastisement.59 The early biographical compilations on H · adı¯th-scholars, musicians, poets, and grammarians illustrate the formation of what Leder has called literarische Personengruppen, a “secondary theme” of early historiography (to apply Noth and Conrad’s terminology) which reflects the increasing professionalization of Muslim scholarship after the second/eighth century.60 The H · adı¯th-scholars compiled lists of transmitters in quasi-genealogical chains going back to the Prophet, hoping thereby to affirm the authenticity of their reports. Al-Ja¯h·iz· reached back to pre-Islamic times to dignify musicians. The biographers of poets and grammarians sought to justify their subjects’ privilege by invoking the connection between language and the Revelation. In each case, biographers insisted that the ·ta¯ ifa met the dire need for experts in one field or another. By making a list of these experts, the biographers also made a case for their authority as critics. In adab as well as in H · adı¯th, the biographers considered their intervention a necessary concomitant of establishing new, selfdefined fields of expertise.

The t·a¯ ifa model Of all the reformulations of group identity that arose with Islam, the most productive one for biographers proved to be that of heirship to the Prophet.61 58 60 61

59 Yaghmurı¯, Nu¯r, 87. Ibid., 95, 30, 46. Leder, Korpus, 197ﬀ; Noth and Conrad, Historical Tradition. For the early development of this notion as a political and religious idea, see Nagel, Rechtleitung, to whom my debt will be obvious, especially in ch. 2 below.

Classical Arabic Biography

The caliphs appear to have been the first to assume this mantle. This maneuver required suppressing the corresponding claims of Muh·ammad’s family, claims that were to resurface in the Shiite argument for heirship. However, not all the interpretations of Muh·ammad’s mandate were so absolute. Among the most influential was that of the Sufis, who proposed various plans for dividing the Prophet’s functions among his heirs. The most detailed plan is that of Abu¯ Nas·r al-Sarra¯j (d. 378/988–89), who divided “those who know” into three groups: H · adı¯th-scholars, legists, and Sufis. Each group (s·inf) specializes in a particular area – H · adı¯th, textual interpretation, and mysticism respectively. Each has its methods, technical terms, and exemplary practitioners. Furthermore, each group defers (or should defer) to the expertise of the others.62 Since al-Sarra¯j was not a biographer, we cannot use his works to see how he would have applied his system to classify or write about historical individuals. But a similar blueprint for dividing religious practitioners into categories appears, at approximately the same time, in the work of another Sufi, Abu¯ T·a¯lib al-Makkı¯ (d. 386/996), who based his scheme on a Prophetic H · adı¯th that divides the early Muslims into generations of forty years each.63 According to Ibn al-Jawzı¯ (d. 597/1200), Abu¯ T·a¯lib “built upon” this H · adı¯th by listing the leading caliph, legist, H adı ¯ th-scholar, Qur a ¯ n-reader, and renun· ciant (za¯hid) in each generation. The scheme appealed to subsequent scholars, who continued to fill in names for the later generations. The resulting catalogue covers fourteen generations, each forty years long, and names the outstanding practitioner in each of the five “aspects of religion” in each generation. In the fifth, for example, “the caliph . . . was al-Ma mu¯n b. alRashı¯d; the legist was Abd Alla¯h b. Idrı¯s al-Sha¯fi ı¯; the H · adı¯th-scholar was Yah·ya¯ b. Ma ı¯n; the Qur a¯n-reader was Yah·ya¯ al-H ad ramı ¯ ; and the renunciant · · was Ma ru¯f al-Karkhı¯.”64 Abu¯ T·a¯lib’s appropriation of the Prophet’s H · adı¯th presents the classical Arabic biographical project in microcosm. First, Abu¯ T·a¯lib proposes a division of religious practitioners. Unlike al-Sarra¯j, he does not describe these groups as “heirs of the prophets,” but the principle of functional division is the same. Then, in the manner of al-Haytham b. Adı¯, Ibn H · abı¯b, Ibn Qutayba, and other akhba¯rı¯s, he names representatives in each division. Organized by generation, the resulting catalogue is open ended, and can be (and indeed was) kept up to date by later transmitters. Such explicit divisions of religious practitioners into separate but complementary lineages may very plausibly have originated among Sufi theorists eager to carve out a place for themselves in a hierarchy unselfconsciously dominated by H · adı¯thscholars and legists.65 Whatever its origins, the division-of-labor model eventually became the most productive paradigm for collective biography. The most common term 62 63 64 65

Sarra¯j, Luma , 4–11. See further Mackeen, “S·u¯fı¯-Qawm,” esp. 220; and Melchert, “Transition.” Ibn Ma¯ja, Sunan, no. 4058; cf. Bukha¯rı¯, S·ah·¯ıh·, 5:60–61. Ibn al-Jawzı¯, Talqı¯h·, 382–84. Mackeen, “S·u¯fı¯-Qawm”; Reinhart, “Transcendence,” 9–10; and ch. 5 below.

The development of the genre

for the collectivities themselves is ·ta¯ ifa, “group entrusted with an exclusive body of knowledge or characteristic activity.” Ya¯qu¯t al-H · amawı¯ (d. 626/1229) applied the term to literary scholars, and Ibn Khallika¯n (d. 621/1282) to “scholars, kings, princes, viziers, and poets.” The longest catalogue is probably that of al-Dhahabı¯ (d. 748/1348), who lists forty categories of persons about whom biographies have been written. They range from prophets and kings to lovers, lunatics, and gamblers. His younger contemporary al-S·afadı¯ (d. 764/1362) lists ten: Companions, H · adı¯th-scholars, caliphs, kings, officials, judges, Qur a¯n-readers, scholars, poets, and a miscellaneous category that includes allies of God (awliya¯ ), preachers, physicians, astronomers, grammarians, theologians, and litterateurs. Al-Suyu¯t·¯ı (d. 911/1505), who represents the culmination of the classical tradition, mentions sixteen groups. They include prophets, Companions, exegetes of the Qur a¯n, memorizers of the Qur a¯n and H · adı¯th, grammarians and philologists, legal theorists, holy men, inheritance calculators, rhetoricians, legists, Qur a¯n-readers, judges, and caliphs.66 As these examples show, a ·ta¯ ifa could be an actual occupational group as well as an abstract category of biographical subjects. Some (e.g., “judges”) corresponded to contemporary professions, while others (e.g., “prophets”) were retrospective. Others again are sometimes retrospective and sometimes descriptive, e.g., “Sufis,” a group whose earliest exemplars did not always designate themselves as such. Conversely, the biographers did not write about every occupational group: no one to my knowledge ever composed biographies of prayer-callers, midwives, or garbage collectors, all of whom may have possessed a sense of communal solidarity similar to that ascribed to members of the more celebrated ·ta¯ ifas. Al-Sarra¯j identified the members of each of his three Personengruppen as “knowers” and heirs of the prophets. However, not all groups could claim descent from Muh·ammad or any connection with religious scholarship. Of alSuyu¯t·¯ı’s sixteen groups, for example, three (scribes and essayists, calligraphers, and poets) have only a tangential relationship with prophecy, or none at all. Biographers of groups like these nevertheless endeavored to legitimate their subjects’ field of interest. A common tactic was to insist that their work, however far afield, had as its ultimate purpose the clarification of some aspect of the revelation. Ya¯qu¯t, for example, describes his literary scholars as experts in Qur a¯n and H · adı¯th, even though many of them had nothing to say about either. However, they did know Arabic, knowledge of which “is religion itself.”67 Another strategy was to expand the definition of knowledge. Interpreted loosely, the H · adı¯th about heirship to the prophets suggests that the possession of any kind of ilm qualifies a ·ta¯ ifa for heirship and a place in biography. Introducing his compilation on physicians, Ibn Abı¯ Usaybi a · 66

MU, I: 33; Ibn Khallika¯n, Wafaya¯t, 20; Dhahabı¯ in Sakha¯wı¯, I la¯n, 84–86, tr. Rosenthal, History, 388–91; S·afadı¯, Wa¯fı¯, I: 51–55; Suyu¯t·¯ı, Ta rı¯kh al-khulafa¯ , 1. MU, I:32. He still worried, though: “I do not deny that it would have been worthier for me to have spent my time at the mosque and at my prayers” instead of writing biography (I: 31–32).

Classical Arabic Biography

declares that “the practice of medicine is among the noblest and most lucrative trades, and is mentioned extensively in Scripture and legal injunctions.” Therefore, “the knowledge ( ilm) of bodily ailments has become linked with that of religion.” From this follows the necessity of writing about those “whom God has privileged with this knowledge,” pagans and Christians as well as Muslims.68 Like members of a lineage, members of a normative ·ta¯ ifa have their single ancestor: the first person to gain the knowledge or perform the characteristic activity of the group. Moreover, just as each generation of a lineage gives birth to the next, members of a scholarly or occupational ·ta¯ ifa pass their mandate on from one generation of practitioners to the next. Finally, like individuals of common ancestry, members of the ·ta¯ ifa are theoretically interchangeable. All of them know or do the same thing, and their prestige derives from the degree to which they uphold the mandate conferred by the first generation. In his discussion of the exclusivity of biographical dictionaries compiled by the ulama¯ , Tarif Khalidi affirms that biographers “made an explicit or implicit appeal to a doctrine of the elite, by whose labors and in whose lives religion subsists and is transmitted from one generation to the next.”69 Of course, such a vision of the past necessarily resulted in a certain distortion of the historical record. Discussing the manifestations of self-awareness among intellectuals of the fourth/tenth century, Wolfhart Heinrichs notes that scholars used awa¯ il-tales and back-projection to “create the impression that the same kind of compartmentalization with which they were faced already obtained a hundred or more years earlier.”70 In many cases, it was the biographers who lent the early history of their ·ta¯ ifa whatever coherence it later appeared to possess, often by extending its history back into early Islamic times and sometimes even beyond. Typically, biographers used the introductions of their works to present programmatic expositions of the venerability of their ·ta¯ ifa and its indispensability to the community. They also used their subjects as mouthpieces for such expositions, or, more commonly, let their subjects’ words and deeds affirm the ·ta¯ ifa’s claim to authority. The case studies in this and the subsequent chapters will illustrate each of these processes in detail. Despite its failure to correspond exactly to historical and social reality, the t·a¯ ifa-model was no biographer’s fancy either. Rather, it corresponded to an important structure of self-presentation and self-perception. At the broadest level, as Roy Mottahedeh has shown with reference to Buyid society, medieval Muslims professed membership in a complex combination of kin groups, patronage institutions, professional associations, regional factions, and racial collectivities. The Buyid polity thus comprised numerous semi-independent and often overlapping social groups (referred to variously as ·tabaqa, s·inf, and jins) held together by relationships of mutual loyalty among differently privileged members. These networks of loyalty operated at all levels of society, 68 70

Ibn Abı¯ Us·aybi a, Uyu¯n, 7–8. Heinrichs, “Contacts,” 255.

Khalidi, “Islamic Biographical Dictionaries,” 64.

The development of the genre

from the men of the regime down to food sellers, rag dealers, and cobblers.71 In Buyid society as elsewhere, however, only certain social groups – the literate classes and particularly the scholars – left substantial testimony about their perceptions of themselves and of other groups. These perceptions were strikingly schematic, as is evident from the scholars’ self-classification into categories of specialization. In his study of classical Islamic “humanism” (adab), George Makdisi shows how scholars distinguished in practice as well as in theory between practitioners of the religious and the literary sciences, and within each of these broad categories, among numerous sub-fields. Each set of experts claimed exclusive possession of a body of knowledge deemed desirable for others to learn or necessary to the community at large. Although an individual scholar might attain expertise in more than one field (and many did), representatives of the two super-groups, the ulama¯ (religious scholars) and the udaba¯ (“humanists,” in Makdisi’s translation), often asserted their differentia forcefully enough to provoke mutual antagonism.72 To this survey of the evolution of classical Arabic biography one development must be added: the compilation of biographical works embracing subjects of different ·ta¯ ifas. Modern scholarship usually credits Ibn Khallika¯n (d. 681/1282) with the first catholic biographical dictionary, but this sets the date about two centuries too late. Arguably, the first move back to comprehensiveness was the compilation of biographical dictionaries that took some criterion other than ·ta¯ ifa-affiliation as their basis of inclusion. For example, al-Khat·¯ıb al-Baghda¯dı¯ (d. 463/1071) included in his Ta rı¯kh Baghda¯d anyone of importance who had spent time in the city of Baghdad. The work therefore contains biographies of subjects from a variety of ·ta¯ ifas, including “caliphs, descendants of the Prophet, dignitaries, judges, legists, H·adı¯th-men, Qur a¯nreaders, renunciants, righteous men, littérateurs, and poets.”73 A century later, Ibn Asa¯kir followed the same procedure for Syria in his Ta rı¯kh Dimashq. A century later again, Ya¯qu¯t (681/1282) moved toward comprehensiveness in a different way by merging some of the ·ta¯ ifas. He collected biographies of “grammarians, lexicologists, genealogists, famous Qur a¯n readers, chroniclers, historians, well-known stationers and scribes, epistolographers, eponymous calligraphers,” and the like. All these he placed together in a work on a super ifa called al-udaba¯ , “people of culture.”74 Only after all this did Ibn ·ta¯ Khallika¯n compose his Wafaya¯t al-a ya¯n. This work includes prominent Muslims from a wide variety of periods and classes. It organizes the entries alphabetically, a format which “entails mixing up the ancients and the moderns, and mixing up subjects of different categories,”75 as the author says. Similarly broad policies of inclusion eventually resulted in such titanically comprehensive works as the Siyar a la¯m al-nubala¯ of al-Dhahabı¯ (d. 748/1348) and the Wa¯fı¯ bi ‘l-wafaya¯t of al-Safadı¯ (d. 764/1362). Both compilers · 71 73 75

72 Mottahedeh, Loyalty, 97–174. Makdisi, Humanism, 1–200. 74 TB, I: 227 (= old edn. I: 212–13). MU, I: 29. Ibn Khallika¯n, Wafaya¯t, I: 20. On the work, see Fähndrich, “Man and Men.”

Classical Arabic Biography

apparently tried to include every Muslim of importance (according to a certain deﬁnition of importance: the prayer-callers, midwives, and garbagemen did not make it in). In a sense this trend signals a return to the original impulse of Ibn Sa d and his colleagues, who took all important Muslims as their proper subject. In another sense it anticipates the aspirations to all-inclusiveness of such modern works as the Encyclopaedia of Islam.

History and biography Authors of the second/eighth and third/ninth centuries do not oblige us with discussions of the genre within which their works should be classified. Even so, many works bear titles suggestive of an interest in life-stories rather than events.76 These titles include sı¯ra, “account of conduct,” mana¯qib “virtues,” matha¯lib “vices,” maqtal, “death-tale,” ·tabaqa¯t, “generations,” ta rı¯kh, “listing of death-dates,” and most broadly akhba¯r al-na¯s, “accounts of notable persons.” In later periods, we find mana¯qib and sı¯ra used for single-subject biography, and ·tabaqa¯t used for collective biographies arranged in chronological order. The term ta rı¯kh, confusingly, refers to annalistic histories as well as to biographical collections that mention the death-dates of their subjects. Similarly, the term akhba¯r applies to works that narrate historical events, but not by year; and thus also to collections of biographical anecdotes, usually about a single subject.77 Perhaps because of these terminological ambiguities, later compilers often write as if history, or at least the history that mattered to them, were simply a collection of biographies.78 Thus al-Subkı¯’s famous guidelines for the historian (adab al-mu arrikh) are actually instructions for writing biographies (tara¯jim).79 Similarly, al-S·afadı¯’s eulogy of ta rı¯kh is actually a description of the benefits of reading biography. But these examples are misleading: in theory and in practice, the historians and critics of the late-classical tradition also evince a clear awareness of the distinction between the two genres. For alS·afadı¯, the distinction arises from their respective arrangement of material: Mu arrikhu¯n have customarily organized their works either by year, which is more appropriate for history (ta rı¯kh) because events and occurrences thus appear in order; or in alphabetical order, which is more appropriate for biographies (tara¯jim) because the entry on a particular person will bring together in one place events that befell him in various years, either in summary fashion as is more common, or, less usually, in detail.80 76

78 79

In this connection it is noteworthy that the poet Abu¯ ‘l- Ata¯hiya (d. 211/826) describes himself as reading a copybook (daftar) containing instructive accounts of historical ﬁgures (Dı¯wa¯n, 77 439: rhyme za¯wiya). For examples see Ibn al-Nadı¯m, Fihrist, 131–67. Gibb, “Islamic Biographical Literature”; Hamad, “History and Biography.” Subkı¯, T · abaqa¯t, 2: 22–25 (quoting his father Alı¯ b. Abd al-Ka¯fı¯); cited in Sakha¯wı¯, I la¯n, 132, tr. Rosenthal, History, 372. S·afadı¯, Wa¯fı¯, 1: 42; see also Khalidi, Arabic Historical Thought, 56.

The development of the genre

This definition implies that the two genres overlap in content, and indeed they often do.81 For example, even a cursory look at al-Suyu¯t·¯ı’s biographies of the caliphs reveals that he took much of his material from annalistic histories. Yet he evidently felt it necessary to extract this material and repackage it as biography. In his introduction, he explains why. Chronicles, he says, jumble together individuals from different occupational groups (t·awa¯ if), making it difficult to find out about members of any one group. To provide this information, one must compile their akhba¯r separately. Al-Suyu¯t·¯ı emphasizes the distinction by dividing his sources into two types: books on history (al-h·awa¯dith, “events”) and books on “other material” (ghayru ‘l-h·awa¯dith). The first set consists of annalistic histories (e.g., those by al-Dhahabı¯ and Ibn Kathı¯r). The second set contains biographical compilations (e.g., those by al-Khat·¯ıb, Ibn Asa¯kir, and Abu¯ Nu aym al-Isfaha¯nı¯) as well as a number of adab-works (e.g., · al-Mubarrad’s al-Ka¯mil and Tha lab’s al-Ama¯lı¯). For al-Suyu¯t·¯ı, then, biography performed a function distinct from that of annalistic history. As a genre, moreover, it fell into the same category as literary and philological writing. What then were the distinct functions of biography as opposed to annalistic history? A convenient illustration comes from the ·ta¯ ifa of caliphs, who seem inextricably positioned between the two. The narrative histories follow their activities in detail, and even the most laconic annals perforce mention them frequently. At the same time, we find biographical entries devoted to them as individuals, listed either in order of reign, or mixed in with entries on other notables.82 The caliphs therefore make the ideal test case for any proposal about differences between historical and biographical representation. More broadly, they also pose a challenge to the notion of ·ta¯ ifa-biography. The caliphate is the archetypal instance of heirship to the Prophet, and should lend itself readily to the t·a¯ ifa model I have outlined. Formally, caliphal biography does conform to the model: one of the earliest extant compilations on caliphs, the Ta rı¯kh al-khulafa¯ of Ibn Yazı¯d, presents them as placeholders in a list that begins with Muh·ammad,83 while one of the last ones, al-Suyu¯t·¯ı’s work of the same title, treats them as a t·a¯ ifa defined by Qurashı¯ descent and the establishment of de facto power.84 Even so, caliphal biography differs in one important respect from the other traditions surveyed so far. Those who documented the lives of H · adı¯th-scholars, grammarians, and the like were usually themselves members of the group, or at least advocates of its claim to knowledge. However, Ibn Yazı¯d, al-Suyu¯t·¯ı, and all the caliphal biographers in between 81

83 84

See further Abba¯s’ remarks on the interplay of the two in the work of Ibn Khallika¯n (Wafaya¯t, VII: 65–81). For the titles of early works on caliphs and the caliphate, see Ibn al-Nadı¯m, Fihrist, 134–63; Abbot, Studies, I:80ff; Mus·t·afa¯, Ta rı¯kh, I: 122, 132, 162, 164, 210, 214, 220, 221. Ibn Yazı¯d (? ⫽ Ibn Ma¯ja, d. 273/886–87), Ta rı¯kh al-khulafa¯ . The work thus covers the Ra¯shidu¯n, the Umayyads, and the Abbasids down to al-Mutawakkil II (d. 903/1497), omitting “those who claimed the caliphate as secessionists and were unsuccessful, e.g., a good many Alids and a few of the Abbasids.” The Fa¯t·imids he excludes on the grounds that their Qurashı¯ descent was falsified (Suyu¯t·¯ı, Ta rı¯kh, 4ff).

Classical Arabic Biography

were not themselves caliphs, and only rarely display a programmatic intention to shore up the caliphal claim to authority. As Noth and Conrad have shown, even the earliest treatments of the caliphs can be divided into two types: historical and biographical. Historical treatments mention the caliph whenever he plays a role in the event being described; but the event, not the caliph, is the focus of the narration. Biographical treatments of the caliphs, on the other hand, deal only with them, and consist of programmatic listings of vital statistics and sometimes anecdotes.85 A comparable division holds true for later works as well. The histories, like those by al-Ya qu¯bı¯ (d. 284/898) and al-T·abarı¯ (d. 310/923), proceed in chronological order, often year by year. They record the accession and death of each caliph, and record the events of his reign. Frequently, the caliph plays no role in these events and is therefore absent from the narration. The biographical works, on the other hand, consist of entries on individual caliphs, and tend to adduce akhba¯r in thematic rather than chronological order. Occasionally, historical and biographical presentations do co-exist in a single work. In such cases, however, they appear in separate sections. Al-T·abarı¯’s Ta rı¯kh, for example, contains an annalistic section for the narration of events and a separate section for caliphal biography (sı¯ra). Looking more closely at the biographical treatment of a single caliph, Abd Alla¯h al-Ma mu¯n (the subject of chapter 2), we find two works that appear to blur the distinction between annalistic history and akhba¯rı¯ biography. These are the Kita¯b Baghda¯d of Ibn Abı¯ T·a¯hir T·ayfu¯r (d. 280/893) and the Muru¯j aldhahab of al-Mas u¯dı¯ (d. 345/956). By Noth and Conrad’s criteria, nevertheless, both works function as biographies, not histories. In the Kita¯b Baghdad, al-Ma mu¯n is at the center of the action. Frequently, he is the protagonist of the anecdotes. When he is not, he is often mentioned or described by others. Even when the text digresses into akhba¯r about his courtiers, the subjects chosen are precisely those dictated by the progress of the caliph’s career. In the Muru¯j, similarly, the focus often wanders away from al-Ma mu¯n, but his reign is the unit of organization that frames all the reports in his entry. Moreover, many of the reports are adduced specifically to comment on historical events mentioned only later, or not at all. To understand how this sort of treatment differs from that of the annalistic histories, it will be useful to make a more specific comparison. As a model for the annalistic treatment, we may take the historical section of al-T·abarı¯’s Ta rı¯kh, which contains the most detailed and most commonly epitomized account of al-Ma mu¯n’s reign.86 The text consists of documents as well as narrative reports. The documents include the Mecca protocol, by which the caliph al-Rashı¯d divided the rule between his sons al-Amı¯n and al-Ma mu¯n. They 85 86

Noth and Conrad, Historical Tradition, 37, 76–96, 138–42. TRM, VI: 527–650 (annals of al-Ma mu¯n’s reign; related material appears in the preceding section on al-Amı¯n), 650–51 (summary sı¯ra), 651–66 (anecdotal sı¯ra); tr. in Tabari, War and Reuniﬁcation.

The development of the genre

also include the correspondence exchanged between the half-brothers as their relationship deteriorated, and the letters by which al-Ma mu¯n commanded assent to the doctrine of the created Qur a¯n. The narrative reports include an account of the civil war between al-Amı¯n and al-Ma mu¯n; brief notes on the designation and subsequent death of al-Ma mu¯n’s Alid heir apparent, Alı¯ b. Mu¯sa¯ al-Rid·a¯; and a blow-by-blow account of the factional strife in Baghdad before al-Ma mu¯n’s resumption of authority there. Other reports mention official appointments and provincial insurrections. A particularly long sequence describes the interrogations carried out to determine the allegiance of the scholars to the doctrine of the created Qur a¯n. The listing of events for the year 218/833 ends with a report on the caliph’s death, followed by the separate sı¯ra or biographical section. Instructive as it may be in some respects, particularly in its citation of documents, the annalistic part of al-T·abarı¯’s account is neither a complete biography nor even a complete history. It tells us almost nothing of al-Ma mu¯n’s life before he became caliph. He appears briefly when he is named as one of his father’s heirs, and again only when the civil war breaks out. Even when it treats his years in power, the annalistic account confines itself to the outward course of events. It is preoccupied with dissention, conflict, and war, and gives the impression that al-Ma mu¯n’s reign, like the reigns of the other caliphs, consisted of one armed struggle after another. Moreover, it eschews commentary, discussion, and presentation of evidence for or against any explicit interpretation of al-Ma mu¯n’s behavior.87 Admittedly the text includes such documents as T·a¯hir’s famous “mirror for princes” and the caliph’s Inquisitionletters. But we learn almost nothing about the intellectual and literary preoccupations that prompted the composition of these documents. Nor is there any mention of developments in the religious and secular sciences, of art and architecture, or social and religious movements, except when their representatives resort to violence. The biographical sources, including al-T·abarı¯’s own sı¯ra-section, provide a very different picture of al-Ma mu¯n’s reign. For present purposes, however, the best example comes not from al-T·abarı¯ but rather from al-Mas u¯dı¯’s Muru¯j. One day, the caliph al-Qa¯hir (r. 320–22/932–34) summoned Muh·ammad b. Alı¯ al- Abdı¯, an akhba¯rı¯ who possessed expert knowledge of the “characters and dispositions” (akhla¯q wa-shiyam) of the Abbasid caliphs. Brandishing a lance, al-Qa¯hir demanded to hear about his predecessors: “Don’t hide anything from me,” he ordered, “and don’t improve the story, or make it rhyme; and don’t leave anything out!” Al- Abdı¯ agreed to speak only after receiving a promise that the caliph would not harm him. He then related brief biographies of the Abbasids from al-Saffa¯h to al-Mutawakkil.88 The report on al-Ma mu¯n · runs as follows: 87

The only explicit assessment I ﬁnd concerns the civil war: al-T·abarı¯ says that removing alMa mu¯n from the succession “was not something al-Amı¯n thought of or resolved to do; in fact, he had intended to be faithful to the agreement and to his brother” (VIII: 374). MDh, IV: 313–14.

Classical Arabic Biography

At the beginning of his reign, when he was under the sway of al-Fad·l b. Sahl and others, he made use of astrological predictions and felt compelled to heed their dictates. Following the practice of the ancient Sasanian monarchs such as Ardashı¯r b. Ba¯bak, he devoted himself to the reading and intense study of ancient books, and attained expertise in understanding them. But when you-know-what happened to al-Fad·l b. Sahl and al-Ma mu¯n came to Iraq, he dropped all that and adopted the doctrines of divine transcendence and human free will. He held sessions with theologians and cultivated experts in disputation and speculation, including Abu¯ al-Hudhayl and Abu¯ Ish·a¯q Ibra¯hı¯m b. Sayya¯r al-Naz·z·a¯m. Some of them he agreed with, and others not. He also made a practice of meeting with religious and literary scholars, whom he brought in from provincial cities and supported by regular stipends. Thus he stimulated interest in speculative reasoning. People learned how to discuss and dispute, and each faction wrote books defending its point of view. He was the most clement, forbearing, able, generous, and freespending of men, and the farthest from frivolity. His viziers and courtiers emulated him and imitated his conduct.89

This report illustrates three distinctive functions of biographical as opposed to historical discourse. First, al- Abdı¯ assumes al-Qa¯hir’s familiarity with the events of history: hence the reference to the “you-know what” that happened to the vizier, al-Fad·l (meaning his assassination in Sarakhs).90 This presumption of knowledge on the reader’s part is typical of biography, whether of caliphs or anyone else. Of course, not all biographical anecdotes require familiarity with the historical context. Witticisms and citations of poetry, in particular, often require only minimal knowledge of the persons involved, and no knowledge of speciﬁc historical events. Moreover, when a historical fact is particularly important, a biographer or his source will supply a summary account of the event in question.91 In general, however, biography tends to assume a knowledge of context, and this knowledge tends to be identical to the content of annalistic history. Second, biography, operating as it does on the margins of history, serves as a repository for expressions of opinion.92 Al- Abdı¯’s report includes an assessment of al-Ma mu¯n’s character, a history of his intellectual development, and a characterization of philosophical activity during his reign. Such judgements are the special province of biography, which can oﬀer them without worrying about the year in which they should be placed. As we have noted, the biographers of caliphs were not themselves caliphs. Indeed, they were often members of ·ta¯ ifas whose claim to authority contradicted or competed with that of the caliphs. When writing annalistic history, a H · adı¯th-scholar like al-T·abarı¯ could include materials that suggest disapproval of a particular policy or a particu89 90

Ibid., IV: 318–19; also Gutas, Greek Thought, 77ﬀ. Similarly, the remark about astrological predictions may be an allusion to al-Ma mu¯n’s nomination of an Alid heir in expectation of the apocalyptic end of the Abbasid dynasty (as suggested in Madelung, “New Documents”). That al-Ma mu¯n sought signs in the heavens is conﬁrmed by the “Risa¯lat al-khamı¯s” (S·afwat, Jamhara, 3: 379; Arazi and El ad, “Epître,” 67: 91 49). See, e.g., TRM, VIII: 665–66. I am indebted here to Wallace-Hadrill, who argues that the Roman biographer Suetonius set out to supplement, not replace, the historical account of Tacitus (Suetonius, 8–22).

The development of the genre

lar dynast. Yet this judgement remains implicit. In biography, on the other hand, the caliph’s critics could praise and condemn him, seek explanations or excuses for his behavior, and even take a position on the legitimacy of his dynastic claims. A similar propensity for interpretation is evident in the biographies of lesser figures as well. Indeed, it is often only by consulting the biographies of the persons named in the annals that the modern reader can discern the texture of lived experience that lay behind the events the historians recount with such dispassionate concision. Finally, al-Mas u¯dı¯’s report suggests that biographical narratives derived their authority from appearing to be anecdotes in the literal sense, that is, undisseminated reports (from the Greek anekdoton, “not given out”). AlQa¯hir assumes that al- Abdı¯ is aware of family secrets that he has prudently kept hidden, even from those most entitled to hear them. He also suspects that al- Abdı¯ will rhyme, leave things out, and otherwise alter the story to suit his audience. To force him to speak, the caliph must threaten to punish him for silence in the same way that he would punish him for slander. For his part, al Abdı¯ must persuade al-Qa¯hir of the accuracy of his account, which he does by reporting scandals. As he appears to have understood, only when al-Qa¯hir hears unpleasant things about his predecessors will he believe that he is hearing the real story. By reporting secrets, biography assumes an air of veracity.93 In fact, the “secrets” al- Abdı¯ relates were hardly secret: they appear in al-Mas u¯dı¯’s Muru¯j. Even so, al- Abdı¯’s report commands interest, and exudes authority, because it offers (or purports to offer) insights into “character and disposition” that were missing from annalistic history. 93

On the connection between secrecy and “true history” in modern Jordan, see Shryock, Nationalism, 109–10, 189, 237.

C HA PTER 2

The caliph al-Ma mu¯n

Go away and leave me alone with my deeds, for none of you can help me now, or avert whatever punishment might befall me. But stand together, all of you, and speak well of me if you can. If you know of evil I have done, refrain from mentioning it, for I will be taken from among you [and judged] by what you say. From al-Ma mu¯n’s deathbed speech, as reported by al-T·abarı¯1

Introduction According to Muslim tradition, the institution of the caliphate began in Medina, at the roofed assembly hall (saqı¯fa) of the tribe of Sa¯ ida. When the Prophet died in 11/632, the community split into three camps. His daughter Fa¯t·ima, her husband Alı¯ b. Abı¯ T·a¯lib, and their followers “withdrew” to her house. The rest of the Meccan emigrants – the Muha¯jiru¯n – gathered around Abu¯ Bakr and Umar. Meanwhile, the Muslims native to Medina – the Ans·a¯r – assembled at the Saqı¯fa. When they learned of the meeting, Abu¯ Bakr and Umar hastened to the Saqı¯fa as well. There they found the Ans·a¯r preparing to elect a new leader and thereby wrest the leadership of the community away from the Muha¯jiru¯n. But Abu¯ Bakr intervened, insisting that “the Arabs would not concede authority to anyone but this clan of Quraysh,” the clan that included himself and Umar. One of the Ans·a¯r then proposed that each side choose its own chief. Umar reports: “The discussion grew heated and voices were raised, and I feared that a split was imminent, so I said, ‘Abu¯ Bakr! Hold your hand out,’ and he did. I pledged allegiance to him; the Muha¯jiru¯n did as well, and then the Ans·a¯r.”2 This gesture of fealty made Abu¯ Bakr the ﬁrst caliph (“successor”) of the Prophet in his capacity as leader of the Muslim community.3 As Wilferd Madelung has shown, the decisive intervention of Abu¯ Bakr and Umar saved the notion of undivided authority similar to that enjoyed by the 11 12 13

TRM, VIII: 648. Ibn Hisha¯m, Sı¯ra, 4: 308–11; Tyan, Califat, 154–63; Lecomte, “Sak·¯ıfa.” For references to the caliphs as heirs of the prophet(s), see Goldziher, Muslim Studies, 2: 100–01; Tyan, Califat, 454; Crone and Hinds, God’s Caliph, 31, note 29, and 98–99.

The caliph al-Ma mu¯n

Prophet. Moreover, the argument that the succession to Muh·ammad should abide in Quraysh was eventually accepted by nearly all Muslims of subsequent generations. Even so, the Meccans’ deﬁnition of the caliphate had its costs. First, it eventually permitted the ascendance of the Umayyads who, although of Quraysh, were late converts to Islam. Their rise to power came at the expense of both the Muha¯jiru¯n and the Ans·a¯r, and gave later generations cause to complain that the caliphate had become no more than a worldly kingship. Moreover, the coup at the Saqı¯fa conspicuously excluded Alı¯ b. Abı¯ T·a¯lib. Insofar as Abu¯ Bakr and Umar advocated a genealogical notion of succession, they had to come to terms with Alı¯’s claim, which was arguably stronger than their own. This they did by insisting that prophets had no heirs, but Alı¯ was not convinced. He did eventually become caliph, but too late to stop the ascendancy of the Umayyads.4 The Abbasid dynasty, of which Abd Alla¯h al-Ma mu¯n (r. 198–218/813–833) was the seventh caliph, was descended from the Prophet’s uncle al- Abba¯s. The family came to power after anti-Umayyad missionaries calling for an uprising in the name of al-rid·a¯ min a¯l Muh·ammad, “an acceptable ruler from the Prophet’s family,” found enthusiastic support for their cause in Khurasan. The rid·a¯ or “acceptable ruler” probably meant (as Patricia Crone has argued) a caliph to be agreed upon by subsequent consultation. In a process that remains obscure, an Abbasid rather than an Alid (that is, a descendant of the Prophet through Alı¯) eventually emerged as al-rid·a¯.5 The reasons for the military success of the revolution of 132/749 are complex and controverted. Broadly speaking, it appears to have capitalized on resentment of land-tenure and taxation policies that favored the central government and large landowners at the expense of the Arab settlers and the Persian peasantry.6 The Khurasani forces that overthrew the Umayyads have been described as consisting predominantly of Arabs, predominantly of Persians, or of some combination of Arabized Iranians and Iranized Arabs. Apart, however, from the ethnic composition of the troops, it was an elite of Arab and Arabized commanders, called the abna¯ al-dawla or “sons of the revolution,” who came to play the most conspicuous role in the new Abbasid government.7 Because so many of our sources invoke the Khurasani troops, particularly the abna¯ , as the executors and sometimes the instigators of Abbasid policy, it will be helpful to understand the nature of their power in concrete terms. According to al-Ja¯h·iz·, the Khurasani abna¯ boasted of having been the ﬁrst to support the Abbasid revolution. In the beginning of time, they said, the Ans·a¯r had come to the aid of the Prophet; now, at the end of days, the Khurasanis 14 16

15 Madelung, Succession, passim. Crone, “Meaning.” Daniel, Political and Social History, esp. 189–99; Kennedy, Early Abbasid Caliphate, 35–45, 177–87; Shaban, Abbasid Revolution. On the abna¯ see Ayalon, “Military Reforms”; Sharon, Black Banners and Revolt; Arazi and El ad, “Epître”; Agha, “Agents”; Zakeri, Sa¯sa¯nid Soldiers; Daniel, “Arabs”; Crone, “ Abba¯sid Abna¯ .”

Classical Arabic Biography

had come to the aid of his Abbasid heirs. The abna¯ prided themselves on their record against the Umayyads, and on their terrifying appearance. They dressed in long coats of wool, let their hair grow long, and sported curling moustaches. In combat, they rode with banners, clappers, and drums, and fought with lances, swords, battle-axes, and a sort of truncheon called a “pagan-basher” (ka¯ﬁ r-ku¯b). “We were created,” the typical banawı¯ would brag, “to topple dynasties, obey the caliphs, and support the state.”8 Once settled in Baghdad, they took it as their home, calling it “the Khurasan of Iraq.” There they appear to have served as an urban police force: al-Ja¯h·iz·’ banawı¯ describes his comrades as ﬁghting in gateways, trenches, arcades, alleys, and prisons.9 Once secure in power, the Abbasids used fabricated historical reports to articulate an anti-Umayyad and anti-Alid narrative of manifest destiny for their dynasty.10 They declared the Umayyads, descendants of the Prophet’s enemies, to have been usurpers, and insisted that the caliphate belonged rather to the descendants of the Prophet’s family. This of course forced them to argue against the claims of the Alids, which they did by emphasizing the primacy of Muh·ammad’s uncle, their ancestor al- Abba¯s, over his descendants in the female line. Alternatively, they accepted the Alid claims but then argued that a descendant of Alı¯ had transferred the imamate to a descendant of al Abba¯s.11 In the event, however, the most important threat to their dynasty was not the Alids but the Khurasanis. Despite their debt to the local families that had supported their cause, the Abbasid caliphs proved no less determined to wring Khurasan for its revenue than the Umayyads had been. The exactions imposed by one Abbasid governor, Alı¯ b. I¯sa¯ b. Ma¯ha¯n, once again provoked the Khurasanis to rise against the central government.12 The ailing caliph alRashı¯d marched east to suppress the rebellion but died while on campaign, leaving the empire to be ruled by his son Muh·ammad al-Amı¯n. Another son, Abd Alla¯h al-Ma mu¯n, had accompanied al-Rashı¯d to Khurasan. After his father’s death, he remained in Marv (now called Mary, in present-day Turkmenistan) as governor of the province. Five years later, a second Khurasani revolution brought him to power as the seventh caliph of the Abbasid dynasty.

Al-Ma mu¯n in history Abd Alla¯h was born in Baghdad in 170/786, reportedly on the very night his father al-Rashı¯d succeeded to the caliphate. Abd Alla¯h is described as “lightcomplexioned with a yellowish cast, with large eyes and a long, ﬁne beard streaked with grey; narrow in the forehead, with a mole on one cheek.”13 His 18 10 12

19 Ja¯h·iz, “Mana¯qib,” I: 14–21. Ibid., 26–27; Crone, “ Abba¯sid Abna¯ ,” 18–19. 11 Lassner, Islamic Revolution. Ibid., 55–71; Crone, “Meaning,” 102–03. 13 Daniel, Political and Social History, 125–82. TB X: 182 (no. 5330).

The caliph al-Ma mu¯n

mother Mara¯jil, a Persian concubine, died soon after his birth. Tales of his childhood compare him favorably to his frivolous half-brother Muh·ammad, six months his junior. But while Abd Alla¯h was only half Arab, Muhammad · was of full-blooded Qurashı¯ descent through his mother Zubayda, who pressed al-Rashı¯d to name her son heir apparent. Al-Rashı¯d was reportedly torn between her pleas and his conviction that the studious Abd Alla¯h would make a better ruler.14 Eventually, he nominated Muh·ammad (with the title of al-Amı¯n) to succeed him, and Abd Alla¯h (with the title of al-Ma mu¯n) to follow as second successor. According to the documentary sources, al-Rashı¯d also stipulated that al-Ma mu¯n be given exclusive sovereignty over the province of Khurasan. As Tayeb El-Hibri has shown, however, it is more likely that al-Ma mu¯n was supposed to serve as a military governor subject to al-Amı¯n. Al-Rashı¯d’s “stipulation,” with all its attendant conditions and limitations on caliphal power, was retrojected into the sources to justify al-Ma mu¯n’s later rebellion against al-Amı¯n.15 Upon al-Rashı¯d’s death in 193/809, al-Ma mu¯n assumed the governorship of Khurasan and established his capital in Marv. When al-Amı¯n, now the caliph, asserted the right to collect revenues and appoint officials in Khurasan, al-Ma mu¯n resisted his demands. He also took to calling himself the ima¯m alhuda¯ or “rightly guiding leader.” His understanding of this title emerges from a later document, a letter to the army (“Risa¯lat al-khamı¯s”) which he wrote after the civil war.16 In the letter, al-Ma mu¯n tells his Khurasani supporters that the rule (by which he evidently means the imamate and the caliphate, interchangeably) belongs to the Prophet’s descendants. The rightful leader of the community is chosen by God, not by men, and therefore commands the absolute loyalty of his subjects. The leader’s responsibility, in turn, is to guide the community aright.17 It is not clear whether al-Ma mu¯n had espoused this sweeping definition of the imamate before the breakdown of relations with alAmı¯n, or whether it arose in the course of the conflict that followed. In any event, his claim to military, administrative, and fiscal independence was provocative enough. Al-Amı¯n responded by excluding al-Ma mu¯n from the succession and dispatching an army to reassert caliphal sovereignty in Khurasan. The historical sources depict this response as a violation of the Mecca protocol. As El-Hibri has shown, however, al-Rashı¯d’s original protocol was probably more 14

See, e.g., MDh, III: 362–63. But cf. El-Hibri, “Harun,” esp. 463, and “Regicide,” 337–39, from which it seems plausible that these accounts represent later pro-Ma mu¯nid fabrications. El-Hibri, “Harun”; Arazi and El ad, “Épître,” 66: 39–40 and 44, suggest a similar reading of the “Risa¯lat al-khamı¯s”. S·afwat, Jamhara, III: 377–97; tr. Arazi and El ad, “Epître,” 67: 47–70. Arazi and El ad place its composition between 202 and 204 (ibid., 67: 39–40, note 141). Yet it says nothing at all about the designation of Alı¯ al-Rid·a¯, which took place in 201, and to which one would expect some allusion given the subject of the letter. If anything, the document reads as if the caliph were trying to prepare his partisans for the designation. Nagel, Rechtleitung, 140–44; Arazi and El ad, “Epître,” 66: 44–49.

Classical Arabic Biography

favorable to al-Amı¯n than our sources knew or were willing to acknowledge.18 More fundamentally, as Elton Daniel has argued, the war was the latest campaign in the long battle between the province and the central governments that had sought to exploit it as a source of revenue. Al-Amı¯n and his advisors represented the centralizing impulse, while al-Ma mu¯n and his advisors in effect advocated what Daniel calls “Khurasani particularism.” Al-Ma mu¯n’s promises to lift certain taxes and to reform the administration, as well as his cultivation of the local aristocracy, all suggest that he had indeed taken local interests to heart.19 Indeed, he represented his campaign against the Abbasid caliphate as a re-enactment of the revolution of 132/749, calling his cause the “second da wa,” i.e., the second call to revolution.20 As we have seen, the abna¯ al-dawla who had followed the Abbasids to Iraq had become Iraqi rather than Khurasani in their loyalties. Their descendants, still called abna¯ , thus took up arms in defense of al-Amı¯n. Meanwhile, those abna¯ whose families had remained in Khurasan, or who happened to be in Marv when the war broke out, were recruited to fight for al-Ma mu¯n. AlMa mu¯n’s commander, T·a¯hir b. al-H · usayn, was apparently a descendant of one of the original abna¯ al-dawla.21 Many of his troops, however, were “unassimilated, half converted, or unconverted Iranians” and Turks.22 In the fratricidal conflict that ensued, the forces of al-Ma mu¯n’s second da wa routed a succession of Iraqi armies and laid siege to the Abbasid capital. As the Baghdad abna¯ deserted in the face of T·a¯hir’s threats to confiscate their estates, al-Amı¯n and his commanders armed the citizens (ahl al-arba¯d·) and paid “naked men,” “prisoners,” and “hooligans” ( ayya¯ru¯n) to defend the capital.23 “The catapults pounded away at both banks,” al-Mas u¯dı¯ reports, “and fires and demolitions ravaged Baghdad, al-Karkh, and other places on both sides of the [Tigris] river. The glories of the city fell into ruin . . . People fled from place to place, and fear was everywhere . . . The mosques were left empty, and prayer stopped.”24 Al-Amı¯n was killed, reportedly on T·a¯hir’s orders, while trying to flee the city.25 With his half-brother’s death (198/813), al-Ma mu¯n was proclaimed caliph in the major towns of the empire, although he continued to hold court in Marv. He eventually appointed T·a¯hir to the governorship of Khurasan, where the victorious commander and his descendants realized the perennial hope of the local population, namely, that the provincial revenues be spent locally, at least in part.26 In 201/817, al-Ma mu¯n dealt a second blow to the Abbasid dynasty by naming an Alid, that is, a descendant of the Prophet’s cousin and son-in-law Alı¯ b. Abı¯ Ta¯lib, to succeed him as caliph. In his announcement of the desig18 20 22 23

24 26

19 El-Hibri, “Harun.” Daniel, Political and Social History, 175–99. 21 Arazi and El ad, “Epître,” 67: 39–46. Kaabi, “Origines.” Crone, “ Abba¯sid Abna¯ ,” 14. Hoﬀmann, “Pöbel”; see also Cahen, “Mouvements”; Sabari, Mouvements, esp. 77–100; Mottahedeh, Loyalty, 157–58; Cheikh-Moussa, “Historien”; Crone, “ Abba¯sid Abna¯ ,” 18. 25 MDh, IV: 412–13. Cf. Arazi and El ad, “Epître,” 66: 44; El-Hibri, “Regicide.” See Daniel, Political and Social History, 198–99; cf. Kennedy, Early Abbasid Caliphate, 166.

The caliph al-Ma mu¯n

nation, al-Ma mu¯n expresses himself in a style similar to that of the “Risa¯lat al-khamı¯s”. He declares that he has “wearied his body, has caused his eye to be sleepless, and has given prolonged thought” to the succession. After examining the members of the Abbasid and Alid houses, he has found no one more virtuous, scrupulous, and learned than the Alid Alı¯ b. Mu¯sa¯. He therefore declares Alı¯ his heir apparent, conferring upon him the title of al-Rid·a¯. Inspired ultimately by God, this decision regarding the succession is binding on the Muslim community.27 Faced with this declaration, many modern scholars have confessed puzzlement. Given al-Ma mu¯n’s claim to be one of a series of rightly guided imams, why would he confer the succession upon a member of another house? As Francesco Gabrieli has shown, al-Ma mu¯n displayed every evidence of sympathy for the injustices suffered by the descendants of Alı¯, and continued to espouse pro-Alid policies throughout his reign.28 More important, perhaps, he regarded both the Alids and the Abbasids as members of the Prophet’s family, and thus equally qualified to assume the imamate.29 His gift of his daughter in marriage to Alı¯ al-Rid·a¯’s son affirmed this tie, and may even have been intended to produce a line of imams with combined ancestry. In any event, the elevation of the Abbasids to the status of ahl al-bayt could only redound to their advantage. The Abbasids, admittedly, could trace their lineage back to the Prophet’s uncle, al- Abba¯s. However, this claim lacked the charismatic appeal of direct descent through Alı¯ and Fa¯t·ima, as is evident from the efforts of Abbasid propagandists to claim that the privileges of such descent had been transferred to the Abbasids. Apart from its theoretical justification, al-Ma mu¯n’s choice of a specifically Alid successor appears natural enough given the animosity between him and his Abbasid relatives. The second da wa had not only split the ranks of the abna¯ but also introduced a new contingent of unassimilated Iranian troops ( ajam) – the ones blamed, as it happens, for the murder of al-Amı¯n.30 The Abbasids and their supporters cannot have trusted al-Ma mu¯n, nor he them. Having, however, broken the power of the Baghdad caliphate, he was entitled – indeed, obligated – to dispose of the succession in the manner he saw fit.31 In the event, his decision did not represent a radical departure from the stated objectives of the original Abbasid da wa. As Crone has shown, many of the so-called Abbasid revolutionaries of 132/749 had expected that al-rid·a¯, “the 27 28

Ibn al-Jawzı¯, Munaz·am, X: 93–99; tr. in Crone and Hinds, God’s Caliph, 133–39. Gabrieli, Ma mu¯n, 29ff. See also Kennedy, Early Abbasid Caliphate, 157–58, on the continuity between al-Ma mu¯n’s pro-Alid policies and those of his predecessor al-Mahdı¯. Madelung, Imam al-Qa¯sim, 75. Arazi and El ad have the impression that the “Risa¯lat alkhamı¯s” excludes the Alids from the imamic succession (Arazi and El ad, Epître, 67: 58, n. 183). Rather, it affirms that there have always been imams chosen from among the Prophet’s descendants (ahl al-bayt), including the Abbasids (e.g., S·afwat, Jamhara, III: 386). The only Ha¯shimı¯ specifically excluded is al-Amı¯n, who failed in his charge and was rightfully deposed. TRM VIII: 486–87. Al-Amı¯n was killed by ajam speaking Persian; he died calling for help from 31 Nagel, Rechtleitung, 422–23; El-Hibri, “Regicide,” 348. the abna¯ .

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acceptable leader,” would turn out to be an Alid.32 By calling his successor alRid·a¯, al-Ma mu¯n evidently meant to invoke and fulﬁll the promise that had brought the Abbasids to power, arguably under false pretenses, more than half a century before.33 Given his declared position on the imamate, not to mention his political predicament, al-Ma mu¯n’s designation of an Alid successor was hardly the quixotic aberration it may appear in retrospect. Even so, the designation was disingenuous in one respect. Alı¯ al-Rid·a¯, the designated heir apparent, was not merely a prominent member of the Alid house. Rather, he was regarded by many contemporary Shiites as the eighth of a line of legitimate Imams34 descended from Alı¯ and Fa¯t·ima. His grandfather, Ja far al-S·a¯diq (d. 148/765), had taught that one Alid in each generation was the true if unacknowledged leader of the Muslim community. This Imam was an infallible interpreter of the law, and his guidance was indispensable for the attainment of salvation. Ja far himself was recognized as Imam of his age by his followers, as was his son Mu¯sa¯ al-Ka¯z·im. When al-Ka¯z·im died (183/799), some of his followers insisted that he had been the last Imam. Others, however, declared that the imamate had passed to his son Alı¯ b. Mu¯sa¯. Before the issue could be resolved, the news came that al-Ma mu¯n had named Alı¯ b. Mu¯sa¯ his heir apparent.35 In the document of designation, al-Ma mu¯n nowhere acknowledges al-Rid·a¯’s status as an Imam of the Shia. The Shiite understanding of this oﬃce was incompatible with al-Ma mu¯n’s; indeed, it necessarily implied the illegitimacy of the Abbasid caliphate. The caliph may therefore have regarded the designation as a way of bringing the Shiites back into the fold, as Madelung has suggested; or as a way to discredit the premises of Imami Shiism, as Tilman Nagel’s account implies and as the Shiite sources frankly claim.36 Both of these claims are plausible, although there is no direct evidence for either of them. There is, however, direct evidence that al-Ma mu¯n was concerned with more pressing matters than al-Rid·a¯’s claim to the imamate. After his heir apparent’s death, the caliph wrote a conciliatory letter to his Abbasid relatives. When they replied with a torrent of abuse, he responded in kind. In this second letter, he excoriates the Abbasids for their obstinacy and corruption and embarks on a passionate defense of the historical rights of the Alid family. Then, referring to cryptic predictions vouchsafed to him by his father, he confesses that he nominated al-Rid·a¯ in expectation of the apocalyptic end 32

34 35

Crone, “Meaning”; on al-rid·a¯ see further Arjomand, “Crisis,” 491–92; and on the cognate title al-mard·¯ı, Bonner, “Al-Khalı¯fa al-Mard·¯ı.” Sourdel, “Politique,” plausibly cites Mu tazilı¯ and Zaydı¯ notions of the imamate as inﬂuences upon al-Ma mu¯n. Cf. however Madelung, Imam al-Qa¯sim, 74. On “Imam,” “imam,” and ima¯m al-huda¯, see glossary. The implications of this turn of events on the Imami community will be discussed in chapter 3. Madelung, Imam al-Qa¯sim, 75; Nagel, Rechtleitung, 414–24. The suggestion that al-Ma mu¯n nominated al-Rid·a¯ to win over Alid rebels seems implausible given that the rebellion of Abu¯ al-Sara¯ya¯ in Ku¯fa had already been quelled at the time of the appointment (ibid., 414).

The caliph al-Ma mu¯n

of the Abbasid dynasty.37 This confession, which Madelung and van Ess are inclined to accept,38 need not be taken as a complete explanation of the caliph’s motives at the time he announced the designation. It is nevertheless compatible with the other motives outlined above. If al-Ma mu¯n thought that he was destined to be the last Abbasid caliph, he had all the more reason to nominate an Alid rather than an Abbasid heir.39 The Abbasids and the abna¯ were appalled by the designation of al-Rid·a¯, blaming it on the machinations of the caliph’s vizier al-Fad·l b. Sahl.40 In Baghdad, the Abbasids annulled their allegiance to al-Ma mu¯n and appointed in his place his uncle, Ibra¯hı¯m b. al-Mahdı¯. Ibra¯hı¯m, previously famous only as a singer, displayed great initiative, battling al-Ma mu¯n’s representative al41 H · asan b. Sahl on the one hand and the Baghdad vigilantes on the other. These vigilantes were led by Sahl b. Sala¯ma and Kha¯lid al-Daryu¯sh, who promised to restore law and order by enforcing the Qur a¯nic command to enjoin good and forbid evil (al-amr bi ‘l-ma ru¯f wa ‘l-nahy an al-munkar; 3: 104, etc.). In practice, this meant organizing the citizens against the depredations of the ayya¯ru¯n and the unpaid caliphal soldiery stationed in Baghdad. The viziers al-H · asan and al-Fad·l kept al-Ma mu¯n unaware of the Abbasid counter-caliphate, telling him that Ibra¯hı¯m was merely governing as his representative. It was reportedly the heir apparent, Alı¯ al-Rid·a¯, who revealed to alMa mu¯n the extent of the chaos in Iraq. The caliph responded by setting out, albeit at a leisurely pace, for Baghdad. During the journey, the vizier al-Fad·l was murdered in a bathhouse at Sarakhs. Shortly thereafter, Alı¯ al-Rid·a¯ also died, reportedly of a surfeit of grapes. Al-Ma mu¯n displayed great grief at his heir apparent’s demise, and retained for a time the green uniforms and banners adopted (instead of the Abbasid black) at the accession ceremony. He also tried to persuade another Alid to accept the designation as heir apparent.42 Yet the timing of al-Rid·a¯’s death, especially in conjunction with that of al-Fad·l, has led many historians to conclude that the caliph did away with them to placate his disgruntled Abbasid relatives. As John Nawas has noted, al-Rid·a¯ happened to die very near the spot where al-Rashı¯d, al-Ma mu¯n’s father, was buried.43 The implication, perhaps, is that the visit to his father’s tomb put al-Ma mu¯n in mind of his obligations to his family, and overcame his compunctions about doing away with al-Rid·a¯. The later Shiite sources, certainly, are nearly unanimous in accusing the caliph 37 38 39

Madelung, “New Documents,” 340–42. Ibid., 345–46; ThG, III: 154; cf. Crone and Hinds, God’s Caliph, 94–95. The letter may also explain why the “Risa¯lat al-khamı¯s” refers to the Abbasids as the last of the Prophet’s line (kha¯tam mı¯ra¯thihi: S·afwat, Jamhara, III: 386). On the abna¯ objections see Ya qu¯bı¯, Ta rı¯kh, II: 547; Jahshiya¯rı¯, Wuzara¯ , 312–14; Crone, “ Abba¯sid Abna¯ ,” 10. Gabrieli (Ma mu¯n, 32–34) argues convincingly that al-Fadl was not · involved. Jahshiya¯rı¯’s report suggests that the vizier merely defended the designation to the disgruntled abna¯ . See further appendix. For a detailed account see Kennedy, Early Abbasid Caliphate, 151–62; on Ibra¯hı¯m see Menard, 42 “Ibrahim.” Is·faha¯nı¯, Maqa¯til, 416–17; see further below, chapter 3, note 94. Nawas, “Psychoanalytic View,” at 98.

Classical Arabic Biography

of poisoning him. The later Sunni sources tend to think al-Ma mu¯n innocent, doubtless because of the pro-Alid policies he continued to promulgate until his death.44 While al-Ma mu¯n obviously profited by the deaths of al-Fad·l and al-Rid·a¯, there is little good evidence that he murdered either of them. In the case of alFad·l, a group of the caliph’s military advisors had more immediate reason to do so. When al-Rid·a¯ reported that Iraq had lapsed into chaos, the caliph sought confirmation from his advisors, who confessed to the veracity of the report. Al-Fad·l, angered by the revelation of his deceit, vented his wrath on these men, who apparently then plotted his murder as a matter of selfdefense.45 Apart from this report, there is evidence that al-Fad·l expected trouble. Before setting out for Iraq, he asked al-Ma mu¯n to guarantee his safety, and a caliphal letter to this effect has been preserved.46 As for al-Rid·a¯, one of the earliest accounts suggests that, if he was indeed poisoned, the culprit was not al-Ma mu¯n but rather the Khurasani general Alı¯ b. Hisha¯m, who (the account implies) acted without the caliph’s knowledge.47 This is a plausible suggestion: the abna¯ had objected to the designation, and Alı¯ b. Hisha¯m, like the other commanders engaged in the battle for Iraq, would have seen the utility, if not the necessity, of eliminating al-Rid·a¯ from the succession.48 Unfortunately, the evidence for their actually having done so is fragmentary and indirect. Similarly, the question of whether al-Ma mu¯n proposed or condoned actions taken by his subordinates against al-Fad·l or al-Rid·a¯ cannot be resolved on the basis of the extant sources.49 Nevertheless, the possibility that someone other than the caliph had a hand in the suspicious events of 202–203/818 should be granted more attention than it has received so far.50 When al-Ma mu¯n finally reached Baghdad in 204/819, his return to the capital brought a restoration of order. The counter-caliph Ibra¯hı¯m went into hiding, and the vigilante leader Sahl b. Sala¯ma agreed to “remain indoors.” The caliph displayed an interest in the sciences: later sources credit him with supporting the Banu¯ Mu¯sa¯’s work in astronomy, al-Khwa¯rizmı¯’s composition of the foundational treatise on algebra, and the translation of Greek science and philosophy into Arabic.51 Al-Ma mu¯n’s own biographers have almost 44

46 49 51

These include a proclamation that none should praise Mu a¯wiya (who had wrested the caliphate from Alı¯ b. Abı¯ Ta¯lib), a declaration of the superiority of Alı¯ to the other Companions, and a proposal to legalize temporary marriage (apparently a sunna of Alı¯). See Gabrieli, Ma mu¯n, 60–62; Sourdel, “Politique,” esp. 40–41. Note that Alid-sympathetic does not mean Imami Shiite: see further Sourdel, “Politique,” 35; Nagel, Rechtleitung, 414; Zaman, Religion, 45 TRM, 8: 564–65; Gabrieli, Ma mu¯n, 55–57. 110–12. 47 48 Madelung, “New Documents.” Ya qu¯bı¯, Ta rı¯kh, II: 550–51. See appendix. 50 Cf. Madelung, “ Alı¯ al-Rez·a¯,” I: 878. See appendix. See Ibn al-Nadı¯m, Fihrist, 339; Ibn Abı¯ Us·aybi a, Uyu¯n, I: 259; and now Gutas, Greek Thought, esp. 53–60, 75–104. KB mentions the caliph’s expertise in medicine and nutrition (31) and the translations from Persian made during his reign (86). For further references see ThG, III: 200–01. His curiosity about the contents of the Egyptian pyramids is described in Maqrı¯zı¯, Mawa¯ iz·, I: 113–14, citing al-Mas u¯dı¯’s lost Akhba¯r al-zama¯n. Today, guides describe the opening in the north face of the Pyramid of Cheops as having been made by al-Ma mu¯n. See further Stadelmann, Grossen Pyramiden, 121–23.

The caliph al-Ma mu¯n

nothing to say about any of this. They do, however, dwell on his practice (apparently begun in Marv) of holding debate-sessions with scholars of various persuasions. He shared with the Mu tazilı¯ scholars a critical attitude toward the sunna (the reported normative practice of the Prophet and the Companions). On occasion, he allegedly defended his caliphate using the Murji ı¯ argument that those who serve as caliphs are legitimate, evidence of their unworthiness notwithstanding. He obviously had some sympathy for the Imami view that Alı¯ and his descendants were legitimate imams, although he did stop short of rejecting Abu¯ Bakr, Umar, and Uthma¯n. The most important creed he espoused, however, was the so-called Jahmı¯ doctrine that the Qur a¯n was created by God as opposed to being co-eternal with Him.52 Unwilling, perhaps, to provoke a population of Baghdad is still suspicious of him, al-Ma mu¯n forbore making public proclamation of this creed until 212/827, and waited another six years to demand adherence to it.53 The fateful moment came in 218/833, the last year of al-Ma mu¯n’s reign. While on campaign against the Byzantines in Syria, he sent a series of letters to Ish·a¯q b. Ibra¯hı¯m, his deputy in Baghdad, ordering him to question judges and notary-witnesses, and later also H · adı¯th-scholars and jurists, to conﬁrm their belief in the createdness of the Qur a¯n (khalq al-Qur a¯n). In the letters, the caliph adopts a tone familiar from the “Risa¯lat al-khamı¯s” and the announcement of al-Rid·a¯’s succession. The caliphs, he says, are the heirs of the prophets and possessors of knowledge ( ilm), and must “exert themselves earnestly for God.” After study and reﬂection, he has resolved to act against those “ignoramuses” who deny that God created the Qur a¯n. Such a denial implies that the Book is co-eternal with God, a heresy the caliph condemns as tashbı¯h (“anthropomorphism”), that is, the assertion of similarity between God and one of His creatures. To make matters worse, the heretics have the temerity to call themselves the ahl al-sunna wa ‘l-jama¯ a – roughly, “the orthodox community” or (from a modern perspective) the “proto-Sunnis.”54 He condemns their desire for “leadership” (ri a¯sa), deplores their ascendancy over the common people (al- a¯mma), and threatens them with dire punishments if they do not recant.55 Al-Ma mu¯n ordered a number of scholars sent to him in al-Raqqa, and carried out their inquisition (mih·na) himself. A second group was interrogated 52

Specific references will appear below. For an exhaustive account of the schools, see Madelung, Imam al-Qa¯sim; ThG, III: 159ff. Van Ess concludes that al-Ma mu¯n held Murji ı¯ and Jahmı¯ views, but was not a Mu tazilite (ThG, III:157). Reportedly he was dissuaded by fear of how the H · adı¯th-scholar Yazı¯d b. Haru¯n (d. 206/821–22) would react (Jad a¯n, Mih·na, 114–18; ThG, III: 177). I adopt this term from Zaman, who uses it to designate “those groups of the late 2nd/8th and 3rd/9th centuries which defined their identity in terms of what they saw as their adherence to the Prophet’s sunna,” with an emphasis on H · adı¯th and the exemplary status of the Prophet and his Companions (Religion, 1). For a self-description see T ·H · , 1: 24–36, and below, pp. 107–17. TRM, 631–44; Tabari, Reunification, 199–210. On the khalq al-Qur a¯n, see Madelung, · “Controversy”; Jad an, Mih·na, 11–44.

Classical Arabic Biography

by Ish·a¯q in Baghdad. Nearly all of those interrogated eventually submitted (although many later retracted their confessions). The few who had withheld their assent were dispatched to Syria. Before the dissenters could reach him, however, al-Ma mu¯n died (218/833), reportedly because he ate fresh dates while bathing in cold water. On his deathbed, he exhorted his heir al-Mu tas·im to treat the Alids kindly and to continue the Inquisition. Al-Mu tas·im (r. 218–227/833–842) carried out this testament by overseeing the interrogation and flogging of Ibn H · anbal, the only surviving Baghdadi dissident. The next caliph, al-Wa¯thiq (r. 227–232/842–47), executed the proto-Sunni insurrectionist Ah·mad b. Nas·r al-Khuza¯ ı¯. The legacy of al-Ma mu¯n ended only with the accession of al-Mutawakkil (r. 232–47/847–61), who lifted the Inquisition, extended caliphal patronage to the proto-Sunnis, and demolished the tomb of 56 the Alid martyr al-H · usayn b. Alı¯ b. Abı¯ T·a¯lib. Although al-Ma mu¯n did not live long enough to do more than set the Inquisition in motion, it remains the most controversial episode of his reign. Over a century of modern scholarship has wondered why he persecuted the proto-Sunnis, and why he used the createdness of the Qur a¯n as a test of faith. In his pioneering study of 1897, Walter Patton argued that al-Ma mu¯n, swayed by Mu tazilı¯ and Shiite convictions, was endeavoring to impose a 57 “rational” view of the Qur an upon the anti-philosophical H · adı¯th-men. However, as Madelung has shown, the dogma of the uncreated Qur a¯n was not part of Shiite doctrine at the time.58 According to Fahmı¯ Jad a¯n, moreover, Mu tazilı¯ scholars wielded no particular influence at court, and alMa mu¯n himself was hardly a dogmatic proponent of their views.59 Given these findings, more than one scholar appears to have concluded that the createdness doctrine was simply a convenient weapon against the ahl al-sunna.60 To arrive at a more satisfactory explanation, it will be necessary to survey what students of the Inquisition have discovered about the political affiliations of the men interrogated, and more broadly about the nature of the relationship between the scholars and the state. These matters constitute essential background not only for the study of al-Ma mu¯n but also for that of Ibn H · anbal (ch. 4) and Bishr al-H a ¯ fı ¯ (ch. 5). · In his study of the early caliphate, Nagel depicts the Abbasid dynasty as having promised to rule according to the sunna, that is, with the legal findings of the ulama¯ . Al-Ma mu¯n broke from this model by claiming the right to pass judgement on “all questions,” including but not limited to matters of faith. As ima¯m al-huda¯, he set himself the task of reconciling the differences among Muslims. This impulse explains his designation of al-Rida¯ as heir apparent as · well as his fondness for hosting debates among representatives of different sects. In Nagel’s view, the Inquisition marks the failure of this utopian policy 56 57 58 60

On the phasing out of the mih·na, see Hinds, “Mih·na.” Patton, Ahmed Ibn H · anbal; and further Sourdel, “Politique.” 59 Madelung, Imam al-Qa¯sim, 66; also ThG, III: 447. Jad a¯n, Mih·na, 47–109. E.g., Nawas, “Ma mu¯n,” 60–62; see further below.

The caliph al-Ma mu¯n

of reconciliation. The ahl al-sunna, who had their own notions of religious authority, had no intention of bowing to the caliph’s. Many of them, moreover, espoused generalized anti-Abbasid views, and had ties to long-standing opposition movements. Faced with their recalcitrance, the caliph resolved to impose his rights as imam by force.61 In their study of the same period, Crone and Hinds agree that al-Ma mu¯n took his responsibilities as ima¯m al-huda¯ seriously. However, they dispute Nagel’s contention that the early Abbasid caliphate ever declared itself faithful to the sunna as defined by the scholars. Rather, they argue, the caliphate had since its inception made a claim to exclusive and absolute religious authority. In calling himself ima¯m al-huda¯, al-Ma mu¯n was merely reasserting that authority. During the early Abbasid period, the jurists had become more assertive about the independent validity of their legal judgements. In response, al-Ma mu¯n resolved to settle the issue by declaring the Qur a¯n created and daring the jurists to challenge his judgement. With the “restoration of Sunnism” under al-Mutawakkil, the issue was resolved to the benefit of the scholars. Crone and Hinds thus conclude (following Gibb and Lapidus) that the failure of the Inquisition marks the permanent separation of religious and political authority in Islam.62 Crone and Hinds’ conclusions have been challenged by Muhammad Qasim Zaman, who argues that the relation between the scholars and the state was, both before and after the mih·na, one of cooperation, not conflict. The early Abbasid caliphs patronized proto-Sunni scholars, who in turn lent legitimacy to the regime. This state of affairs necessarily entailed mutual recognition. While conceding that many scholars, proto-Sunni and otherwise, held aloof from or even fought against the state, he argues that caliphs and scholars commonly acknowledged one another as competent to deliver legal judgements. The Inquisition, according to Zaman, represents a short-lived aberration from this pattern. He does not offer a specific explanation for al-Ma mu¯n’s policy toward the proto-Sunnis, nor for the role of the createdness-doctrine in that policy. He does, however, argue that the religious authority the caliph claimed was not categorically different from that ascribed to Abbasid caliphs before and after him. Thus, “if there ever was a divorce of religion and the state, it did not occur in, nor was it the product of, the early Abbasid times.”63 Al-Ma mu¯n’s understanding of himself as ima¯m al-huda¯ may have been an innovation, as Nagel suggests, or it may have been a conscious revival of longstanding caliphal claims, as Crone and Hinds would have it. Either way, the caliph’s hostility to the proto-Sunnis is plausible. But the specific events of the Inquisition demand further explanation. Crone and Hinds treat the ahl alsunna as independent-minded jurists, as some of them doubtless were. But the men interrogated during the Inquisition were preponderantly either 61 62

Nagel, Rechtleitung, esp. 116–54, 430–46. Crone and Hinds, God’s Caliph; for antecedents see Tyan, Califat, 439–73; Gibb, 63 Zaman, Religion; citation on p. 213. “Government”; and Lapidus, “Separation.”

Classical Arabic Biography

64 state-appointed judges, or teachers of H · adı¯th. Regarding the former, there is little evidence that they ever tried to contradict al-Ma mu¯n’s rulings before the Inquisition.65 Moreover, it is not clear whether their doing so would have posed an immediate threat to the caliphate. In practice as well as in theory, the caliph could depose his judges at will, or summarily reverse their rulings.66 As for the H · adı¯th-men, there is little indication that those interrogated were active fuqaha¯ . Quite the contrary: Ibn H · anbal, the most prominent Baghdadi dissident, rejected the use of ra y and qiya¯s and reportedly declared al-Sha¯fi ı¯’s foundational treatise on jurisprudence unworthy of being copied out.67 According to Crone and Hinds, these distinctions do not matter: the mere existence of legal authority independent of the caliphate constituted an intolerable act of defiance.68 Yet the fact remains that the two largest categories of victims – judges and H · adı¯th-men – had little in common. The former were state appointees, while many of the latter shunned any involvement with the state. Finally, a few of the men interrogated – most prominently Ibra¯hı¯m b. al-Mahdı¯, the former counter-caliph – had no significant reputation in H · adı¯th or fiqh. The most promising explanation for the diversity of the interrogees emerges from an investigation of their sectarian and political affiliations. Enough work has been done on this topic to inspire Nawas to complain that “the sheer number of factions and groups is burdensome: H · anbalites, proto-H · anbalites, the Abna¯ , Khurasani loyalist fighters, vigilantes, Abbasids, Hashimites, Persian elements, Alids, Shi ites, Kharijites, Murji ites, and of course Arabs and non-Arabs of recent and remote Khurasani ancestry.”69 He could have added the neo-Umayyads (or Sufya¯nids), the H · arbı¯ya, the h·ashwı¯ya, the na¯bita (or nawa¯bit), the Sunnis (or proto-Sunnis) and the mushabbiha. Yet it is clear even from these lists that many of the names refer to the same groups. For example, mushabbiha, nawa¯bit, and hashwı¯ya are all terms of abuse for the · scholars of H · adı¯th, many of whom were associates of Ibn H · anbal. In fact, it is possible to sort out most of these groups, and to establish the threat they posed, or were thought to pose, to al-Ma mu¯n. Most broadly, al-Ma mu¯n feared two kinds of enemies. The first kind consisted of men who espoused interpretive doctrines different from or inimical to his own. The second consisted of groups known to have taken up arms against the Abbasid caliphate generally or his caliphate specifically, or likely to do so in the future. Part of the reason for the proliferation of associations decried by Nawas is that the caliph and his contemporaries treated both sets of opponents as essentially identical. As it happens, this impression often 64 65

67 69

See Nawas, “The Mih·na of 218,” and further below. In Jahshiya¯rı¯, Wuzara¯ , 315–16, a judge refuses to accept his command to recognize testimony from a witness. The judge is dragged away and deposed (cf. immediately below). See Tyan, Organisation judiciaire, I: 139–57 and 176–82; Coulson, History, 122–24; and Coulson, “Doctrine.” For an example from al-Ma mu¯n’s reign, see, e.g., Ya qu¯bı¯, Ta rı¯kh, II: 571–72, where the Caliph not only reverses a verdict but has the oﬀending judge punished. 68 T Crone and Hinds, God’s Caliph, 91–93. ·H · , I: 31 and 57; see further ch. 4. Nawas, “The Mih·na of 218,” 707.

The caliph al-Ma mu¯n

proved correct. The first man interrogated in the mih·na, the Syrian H · adı¯thscholar Abu¯ Mus’hir al-Ghassa¯nı¯ (d. 218/833), not only denied the createdness of the Qur a¯n but also had a history of revolutionary association. In 195/810–11, when the Umayyad known as al-Sufya¯nı¯ led Damascus in rebellion against al-Amı¯n, Abu¯ Mus’hir had served the rebel in the capacity of judge. He may well have done so under duress. Even so, al-Ma mu¯n reportedly held the appointment against him and mentioned it derisively during his interrogation. Threatened with decapitation, Abu¯ Mus’hir did confess that the Qur a¯n was created. Still suspicious, al-Ma mu¯n nevertheless ordered him to be sent to Baghdad, where he died in prison.70 In their studies of the Inquisition, Nagel, Jad a¯n and van Ess have unearthed similar connections between the interrogees and opponents of the Abbasids in general or of al-Ma mu¯n in particular.71 Inevitably, the political opposition appears in conjunction with seemingly contingent dogmatic differences. Al-Ma mu¯n’s interest in Ibra¯hı¯m b. al-Mahdı¯, for example, seems straightforward enough on political grounds. Ibra¯hı¯m had been elected caliph by the Baghda¯dı¯s when they disavowed al-Ma mu¯n, and had gone into hiding when the latter returned to the capital. The troops who fought for him consisted of abna¯ , that is, descendants of the first Abbasid revolutionaries, now 72 commonly called “the troops of al-H · arbı¯ya” after their quarter in Baghdad. Also on Ibra¯hı¯m’s side were the ayya¯ru¯n, the “hooligans” who had fought for al-Amı¯n during the civil war. Ibra¯hı¯m himself was eventually captured and pardoned. In 210/825, however, several men, among them ayya¯ru¯n, were arrested on charges of conspiring to restore him. The danger of another such uprising seems sufficient cause for al-Ma mu¯n to keep an eye on Ibra¯hı¯m, especially if he suspected that the abna¯ , who prided themselves on their ability to “topple dynasties,” would rise again on behalf of the counter-caliph.73 But here too we find a doctrinal dimension. Ibra¯hı¯m, it turns out, took a dim view of al-Ma mu¯n’s Alid sympathies. During his brief counter-caliphate, moreover, he had demanded the repentance of Bishr al-Marı¯sı¯ (d. 218/833), a prominent advocate of the khalq al-Qur a¯n.74 Ibra¯hı¯m himself was no scholar, but it seems that anti-Alid and anti-Jahmı¯ sentiments went hand in hand with opposition to al-Ma mu¯n.75 It is therefore plausible that al-Ma mu¯n would assume the converse was true: that is, anyone espousing anti-Alid and antiJahmı¯ sentiments was opposed to him. 70

71 72

74 75

KB, 153; TB, XI: 72–75 (no. 5750); SAN, X: 233–38; Jad a¯n, Mihna, 132–37; Madelung, “The · Sufya¯nı¯”; ThG, III: 452–53. Nagel, Rechtleitung, 430–46; ThG, III: 446–81; Jad a¯n, Mih·na, 189–263. On the abna¯ see Ja¯h·iz·, Mana¯qib, 25–28; Ayalon, “Military Reforms,” 4–12; Crone, “ Abba¯sid Abna¯ ,” with a discussion of the H · arbı¯ya on p. 10. On the abna¯ , see above, pp. 25–26, 28; Ibra¯hı¯m was also accused of being popular only because food prices had been low during his reign; see Al-Qa¯d·¯ı, “Earliest Na¯bita,” 39–40. TB, XII: 459–60 (in the entry for Qutayba b. Ziya¯d, no. 6941); ThG, III: 173–77. H · anbal, Dhikr, 79 (Ibra¯hı¯m’s mih·na); Nagel, Rechtleitung, 439–40 (with a further connection between Ibra¯hı¯m and the Sufya¯nı¯ movement); Al-Qa¯d·¯ı, “Earliest Na¯bita,” 39–40, esp. note 41; ThG, III: 449–51.

Classical Arabic Biography

This is precisely the purport of al-Ma mu¯n’s denunciation of the ahl alsunna, who were most emphatically anti-Alid and anti-Jahmı¯. Of course, there was more to their self-definition than that. Most prominently, they were devoted to H · adı¯th, and eschewed theological speculation. Accordingly, they were literalists: hence the derogatory terms mushabbiha (anthropomorphists) and h·ashwı¯ya (roughly, “know-nothings”) applied to them by the caliph and his supporters.76 Moreover, their leaders were conspicuously scrupulous, and shunned the court (see further ch. 4). Some of them also claimed the right to enforce the h·udu¯d (penalties for wine-drinking, fornication, and the like) on their own initiative.77 This was the meaning of their call to “enjoin the good and forbid evil.” Admittedly, the most prominent vigilante leader, Sahl b. Sala¯ma, eventually submitted to caliphal authority. Moreover, his supporters fought against, not with, other anti-Ma mu¯nid elements such as the ayya¯ru¯n.78 Therefore, we cannot assume that all those who opposed the Abbasids were necessarily in collusion. Yet the diversity of the group alMa mu¯n called in for interrogation, and the clear links between some of them and one or another of the opposition movements, lend weight to Jad a¯n’s conclusion that the Inquisition was a sweeping gesture of political repression carried out under the guise of a doctrinal dispute.79 Even so, Jad a¯n goes too far, I think, in separating the doctrinal from the political. As Nagel’s account makes clear, tashbı¯h, the praise of Uthma¯n, and al-amr bi ‘l-ma ru¯f were not merely pretexts to crack down on dissent. Rather, they were inseparable from the nature of the dissent, and threatening in themselves. Whatever the actual composition of anti-regime sentiment, the Abbasids and their apologists saw their opponents as dangerous primarily because of their “ignorance.” Among other things, “ignorance” meant unwillingness to agree with the caliph that God is unlike any of His creatures, that Alı¯ was superior to Uthma¯n, and that only the caliph could punish fornicators and wine-bibbers. Indeed, it was precisely because of such “irrational” beliefs that a man might await the millennial return of al-Sufya¯nı¯, or tie a Qur a¯n around his neck and join the vigilantes. As a rhetorical trope, certainly, the insistence on the seditious and heretical ignorance of the common people and their leaders is ubiquitous in the state-sympathetic sources. Al-Ma mu¯n’s first Inquisition letter speaks of “the great mass of ignorant subjects and the rabble of the common people” who “have no capacity for reflection, insight, or reasoning from God’s proof and guidance.”80 A similar attitude is evident 76

79 80

The H ¯s were aware of the opprobrious label mushabbiha, and protested against it (T · anbalı ·H ·, 77 See further Crone, Slaves, 252 n. 521. I: 35). Lapidus, “Separation,” argues for a connection between the vigilante movement and later H · anbalı¯ opposition to the caliphate. Madelung, “Sahl b. Sala¯ma,” argues rather that the H · anbalı¯ Sunnis drew their support from the groups Sahl had fought against. Sahl was associated with at least one prominent proto-Sunnı¯, the rebel al-Khuza ı¯; however, we are also told that Ibn H · anbal disapproved of his activities (ThG, III: 174 and 471). Jad a¯n, Mih·na, 267–90. On al-Ma mu¯n’s language here, see Steppat, “From Ahd Ardasˇhı¯r.”

The caliph al-Ma mu¯n

in al-Ja¯h·iz·’ treatment of the proto-Sunnis, whom he calls the na¯bita. These na¯bita are anthropomorphists and predestinarians; they refuse to curse Mu a¯wiya;81 they are vulgar, ignorant, and heretical; they command a large popular following; and al-Ja¯h·iz· is afraid of them.82 The caliph and his apologists may have been mistaken in conflating all the dissidents they mention into an undifferentiated mass of vulgar malcontents. However, the historical record tends to support their impression that those who deplored the caliph’s religious opinions could command substantial popular support. There are, for example, accounts of a crowd that gathered outside al-Mu tas·im’s palace on the day Ibn H · anbal was flogged. Reportedly, too, Ibn H anbal was later approached by a group of men who had planned a · coup against al-Wa¯thiq. As for proto-Sunni willingness to carry out an armed uprising, we can adduce the abortive revolt against al-Wa¯thiq by Ah·mad b. Nas·r al-Khuza¯ ı¯, who enjoyed popular veneration after his death.83 Moreover, as Lapidus has suggested, the proto-Sunnis commanded substantial support from the Khurasanis in Baghdad. The vigilante-leader Sahl b. Sala¯ma, the dissident scholar Ah·mad Ibn H · anbal, and the insurrectionist al-Khuza¯ ı¯ were all descendants of Khurasani abna¯ . Although al-Ma mu¯n did not live to witness al-Khuza¯ ı¯’s uprising, he evidently suspected trouble from the scholar’s compatriots: when the caliph proposed a public cursing of Mu a¯wiya, he was reportedly dissuaded for fear of a violent response by the “Khurasanis.” It is not clear whether he meant the ahl al-sunna of Khurasani origin, or the who were still armed and dangerous), or some comH · arbı¯ya (that is, the abna¯ bination of these. But the point is clear: proto-Sunni Khurasanis disapproved of his policies, and were capable of defying him with force.84 Where does this leave the judges, who presumably had little interest in stirring up popular resentment against the regime? From the Inquisition-letters, it seems that al-Ma mu¯n suspected them not of plotting against him, but rather of failing to enforce his declaration that the Qur a¯n was created. In practice, this probably meant that they certified notary-witnesses ( udu¯l) without questioning them about their views on the Qur a¯n.85 This is the best explanation for the first letter, which despite its broad-ranging denunciations, encharges the governor of Baghdad with a limited task. He is to ascertain that all those in state employ, in particular the judges, and by extension the 81

Cursing Mu a¯wiya, who had wrested the caliphate from Alı¯, indicated that one was a philoAlid, while defending him was a characteristic practice of the proto-Sunnis. Al-Qa¯d·¯ı, “Earliest Na¯bita,” 42ﬀ. Al-Qa¯dı¯ refrains from identifying al-Ja¯h·iz·’s na¯bita with the ahl al-h·adı¯th or the ahl al-sunna, but documents (p. 43, note 61) the common view (with which I agree) that these groups were essentially the same. On Ibn H · anbal, see ch. 4 below; on al-Khuza¯ ı¯, who had also participated in Sahl b. Sala¯ma’s movement, see Nagel, Rechtleitung, 464; Jad a¯n, Mih·na, 167–73; ThG, III: 465–73. Lapidus, “Separation”; Madelung, “Sahl b. Sala¯ma”; ThG, III: 447–49. Nawas (“The Mih·na of 218”) has disputed the Khurasani connection on the grounds that many of those interrogated in the mih·na were from elsewhere. But Lapidus, Madelung, Nagel, and van Ess nowhere claim that Khurasanis were the only ones opposed to the mih·na-caliphs – quite the contrary. On the udu¯l see Tyan, Organisation judiciaire, I: 349–72; Coulson, History, 146.

Classical Arabic Biography

notary-witnesses whom they appoint, are of right belief. Only when this procedure provoked unexpected resistance did al-Ma mu¯n broaden the scope of the Inquisition to include Hadı¯th-scholars and jurists generally. The results of · this new round of interrogations evidently conﬁrmed his suspicions of the “dangerous ignorance” prevalent among men revered by the a¯mma. By its end, the Inquisition had grown into a mechanism for rooting out “heresy,” and by extension sedition, wherever they might be found. As Nagel and van Ess have emphasized, a conspicuous target of the Inquisition was tashbı¯h, “anthropomorphism.”86 Indeed, had al-Ma mu¯n wished for a pretext to haul in as many dissidents as possible, he could hardly have done better than to choose tashbı¯h. However, the status of the Qur a¯n was not the only, nor even the most prominent, point of contention between the caliph and the so-called mushabbiha. At least equally important were the “anthropomorphist” assertions that God had spoken to Moses (taklı¯m), and that the blessed would see God in Paradise (ru ya¯).87 Why did al-Ma mu¯n not use one of these assertions as a pretext to call the Inquisition? The reason is simple: all “anthropomorphist” views, with one exception, have direct support in the Qur a¯n or the H · adı¯th. The exception is the uncreatedness of the Qur a¯n, which can only be asserted or refuted by syllogistic argument.88 Had alMa mu¯n insisted on an allegorical interpretation of taklı¯m and ru ya¯, he would have been forced to argue against the plain sense of the relevant scriptural passages. With the khalq al-Qur a¯n, however, he could make his case on purely logical grounds, with the assurance that here, at least, his opponents would not have the resources to reply in kind.89 The proto-Sunnis did eventually scrape together a refutation, but only in the wake of the Inquisition (see ch. 4). Their triumph over the Inquisition did not come about because they had a good argument for the uncreatedness of the Qur a¯n.90 Nor, despite some clever legends to the contrary, did they argue successfully that the Abbasids had no right to enforce a doctrine the Prophet himself had seen ﬁt to ignore.91 Rather, they triumphed because their principled resistance to state coercion had substantial popular support, just as al-Ma mu¯n had feared.

Al-Ma mu¯n and his biographers A reign as complex and controverted as al-Ma mu¯n’s posed a challenge to his biographers.92 Their responses can be divided into several historical stages. 86 87 88

91 92

Nagel, Rechtleitung, 439ff; ThG, III: 449, 459, 464, 467, 473. For these and other anthropomorphic views, see Ibn H · anbal, Radd, 33–44; T ·H · ; I: 29, 31. This has been pointed out most recently by Nawas (Ma mu¯n, 61), who nonetheless later confesses himself “in the dark as to why al-Ma mu¯n’s choice fell on it rather than on any other 89 issue” (ibid., 75). Cf. Crone, Slaves, 258, n. 608. Kala¯m-arguments were indeed offered by some proto-Sunnis (see van Ess, “Ibn Kulla¯b”), but it is unclear whether they had any effect on caliphal policy. On these legends, see ThG, III: 502–08. The works or sections of works treated here as biographical (see ch. 1) are KB, passim; TRM, VIII: 650–66; MDh, IV: 4–46; TB, X: 181–89 (no. 5330); TMD, XXXIX: 222–93; Ibn al Imra¯nı¯, Inba¯ , 96–103; SAN, X: 272–318; Suyu¯t·¯ı, Ta rı¯kh al-khulafa¯ , 283–340.

The caliph al-Ma mu¯n

The first, embodied in the work of Ibn Abı¯ T·a¯hir T·ayfu¯r, reflects the impressions of the caliph’s contemporaries and of the generation immediately following. Their reports concede his judicial, military, and even interpretive authority. At the same time, they evince a sustained interest in episodes that reveal the limits of that authority, which they in effect portray as that of a king, not a rightly guiding imam. A shift in emphasis occurs in al-Tabarı¯’s biography of al-Ma mu¯n, which upholds his judicial and military authority but implicitly denies his interpretive power and indeed his claim to knowledge. The sixth/twelfth century marks another shift. The compilers of this period grant al-Ma mu¯n ilm, but define this knowledge as identical to that of the H · adı¯th-scholars. This misrepresentation survived into the final stage, that of the Mamluk-period biographers. Even so, the biographers of this period were able to restore a sense of al-Ma mu¯n as an Alid-sympathetic and intellectually adventurous caliph, a combination of which they vigorously disapproved.

Ibn Abı¯ Ta¯hir’s Kita¯b Baghda¯d · The surviving portions of the Kita¯b Baghda¯d by Ibn Abı¯ T·a¯hir T·ayfu¯r (d. 280/893) cover only a limited period: from the caliph’s return to Baghdad (204/819) to his death at the front (218/833). Even in its incomplete form, however, the work oﬀers a lively counterpoint to the terse synopses of the annals. Ibn Abı¯ T·a¯hir is certainly aware of al-Ma mu¯n’s claims to religious authority, and includes several reports that seem designed to defend it. Yet most of the narrators cited in the Kita¯b Baghda¯d evince little interest in depicting al-Ma mu¯n as a successful ima¯m al-huda¯. More commonly, they depict him as a king (malik) remarkably adept at handling challenges to his authority. Upon returning to Baghdad, al-Ma mu¯n faced the hostility of an Abbasid court that blamed him for the siege of the city, the death of al-Amı¯n, and the appointment of an Alid heir apparent. According to Ibn Abı¯ Ta¯hir’s sources, · al-Ma mu¯n did not defend himself in the grandiose language of the “Risa¯lat al-khamı¯s”. Rather, he embarked on a program of conciliation based on clemency and displays of remorse. First, he let T·a¯hir b. al-H · usayn persuade him to drop the green uniforms and banners adopted at al-Rid·a¯’s accession ceremony, and return to the Abbasid black.93 Then, he pardoned al-Fad·l b. alRabı¯ , who had advised al-Amı¯n during the civil war. According to the Kita¯b Baghda¯d, al-Ma mu¯n confessed that, as a child, he had been afraid of the vizier, who would not return his greetings. But when he saw his old enemy reduced to a menial position in the banquet hall, he resolved to show his gratitude to God by forgiving him.94 Finally and most famously, he pardoned the counter-caliph, Ibra¯hı¯m b. al-Mahdı¯, who had gone into hiding and was later captured, despite having disguised himself as a woman. Such clemency was doubtless an attribute of the ima¯m al-huda¯. Yet Ibn Abı¯ T·a¯hir’s sources do not depict it that way. Rather, they suggest that the caliph’s willingness to forgive 93

KB, 1–2.

KB, 5–11.

Classical Arabic Biography

arose from his desire to conciliate his family. According to one report, he felt such remorse over his brother’s death that he burst into tears at the sight of Ta¯hir, the general who had commanded the siege of Baghdad. He was also · stung by a poem of reproach commissioned by al-Amı¯n’s mother Zubayda, and granted her a generous stipend.95 Other appeals to family feeling were equally successful. According to one report, he threatened to punish the counter-caliph’s mother if she did not reveal her son’s whereabouts; but when she wrote back describing herself as al-Ma mu¯n’s mother as well as Ibra¯hı¯m’s, al-Ma mu¯n relented and did not press her. When Ibra¯hı¯m was later captured, al-Ma mu¯n forgave him and restored his estates.96 Besides al-Ma mu¯n’s clemency ( afw), the Kita¯b Baghda¯d stresses his justice ( adl) and his forbearance (h·ilm). These, too, are imamic virtues, but the Kita¯b Baghda¯d treats them rather differently. Most often, the caliph displays them when the effrontery of his petitioners leaves him no choice. Riding one day through al-Rus·a¯fa, for example, he was accosted by a man who shouted out accusations against one of his entourage. Embarrassed, al-Ma mu¯n rode away, then turned on the offender to demand that he compensate the man. According to another report, he was presiding at the grievance-court (majlis al-maz·a¯lim) when he recognized a Christian who had shouted at him on the road. Despite being caned as a punishment for his effrontery, the Christian said that he would continue to demand satisfaction. Al-Ma mu¯n then relented and granted his request.97 In several instances, al-Ma mu¯n’s forbearance serves as the pretext for a comical story hardly commensurate with the dignity of an ima¯m al-huda¯. One day, for example, a visitor found the caliph calling for a towel to wipe a piece of burned food from his hand: The servants could all hear him, but none responded. Infuriated, I went out to find them. I found some rolling dice, others playing chess, and others setting up cockfights. I said, “You bastards, don’t you hear the Commander of the Believers calling you?” One said, “Just one more throw”; another said, “Let me finish this move”; and another said, “Go on ahead and I’ll follow you.” I got so angry I lost track of what they were saying to me, and as I was reviling their mothers, I heard al-Ma mu¯n calling me. I went back to him and found him laughing. “Go easy on them,” he said, “they’re people, just as you are.” “What,” I said, “and let you lick your hand clean?” He asked if that was how I treated my servants. I replied that if my son, not to mention my servants, neglected me that way, I would kill him. He said, “That is how the common people would react; but our manners are the manners of kings.” I retorted, “[Your] manners are beyond those of kings, or even prophets, for that matter.”98

As his visitor’s comment implies, al-Ma mu¯n’s attributes included kingship as well as heirship to the prophets. Like the caliph in this story, however, the Kita¯b Baghda¯d emphasizes the kingly rather than the caliphal. This attitude is 95

KB, 16; 12 (cf. 163–64).

KB, 100–03, 128.

KB, 55–56.

KB, 51–52.

The caliph al-Ma mu¯n

evident even in treatments of the quintessentially imamic attribute of knowledge. According to Yah·ya¯ b. Aktham, his chief judge, al-Ma mu¯n possessed exemplary knowledge of medicine, astrology, fiqh, and Hadı¯th. Yet the caliph · 99 recites no H · adı¯th in the Kita¯b Baghda¯d, and nods off during a lesson in fiqh. On one occasion, admittedly, he displayed virtuosity in kala¯m by persuading an apostate to return to Islam.100 Much more conspicuous, however, are his attainments in poetry, music, and science. According to Ibn Abı¯ T·a¯hir’s sources, al-Ma mu¯n could recite verses appropriate to any occasion, from chess matches to executions.101 He displayed an expert’s appreciation of music and called for particular passages to be played again and again.102 At a banquet, he described the medicinal and nutritive properties of over three hundred dishes.103 On another occasion, he demonstrated that air has mass by filling a glass vessel with water and noting that the water did not enter the spout when he blocked the end of it with his finger.104 Al-Ma mu¯n’s expertise in all these matters may have been impressive and valuable, but it consists of adab (literary training) and h·ikma (philosophical rationalism) rather than imamic ilm. Ibn Abı¯ T·a¯hir was certainly aware of al-Ma mu¯n’s religious and political aspirations. Indeed, the Kita¯b Baghda¯d is one of the two sources to preserve his Inquisition-letters. However, it contains little evidence that his contemporaries were persuaded of the success of his endeavors. According to Yah·ya¯ b. Aktham, al-Ma mu¯n convoked his debate-sessions in order to guide the community towards his own views on the imamate. On one occasion, he confided that he favored Alı¯ b. Abı¯ T·a¯lib over his own ancestor al- Abba¯s. At the same time, he rejected the extreme claims of the Imamis, arguing that one can prefer Alı¯ without condemning the other Companions.105 Later, however, he adopted a harsher line and announced his intention to proclaim the public cursing of Mu a¯wiya.106 Ibn Abı¯ T·a¯hir’s sources thus offer little reason to suppose that al-Ma mu¯n was perceived as steering the community in the right direction. Regarding the cursing of Mu a¯wiya, for example, we are told that a succession of advisors eventually persuaded the caliph that such a policy would be unwise. As Nagel points out, al-Ma mu¯n sought to restore the unity of the community through debate, but reacted poorly when the parties failed to submit to his judgement.107 The most obvious illustration of this pattern is the Inquisition, and here, at least, Ibn Abı¯ T·a¯hir appears to have endeavored to cast al-Ma mu¯n’s policies in the best possible light. The biographer’s partisanship is evident from his account of the caliph’s meeting with the Syrian Hadı¯th-scholar Abu¯ Mus’hir al-Ghassa¯nı¯. According to Ibn Abı¯ Ta¯hir’s · · report, al-Ma mu¯n asked the scholar to assent to the createdness of the Qur a¯n, which he did. The report does not mention that Abu¯ Mus’hir had to 99 101 105

100 KB, 34–35. On al-Ma mu¯n’s knowledge of ﬁqh, see below, p. 53. KB, 32–33. 102 103 104 KB, 99, 125, 159ﬀ. KB, 104–05, 178–83. KB, 31. KB, 95. 106 107 KB, 40–44. KB, 50. Nagel, Rechtleitung, 136–54; 400–10.

Classical Arabic Biography

be threatened with decapitation, and was later sent to prison where he died. Moreover, it alleges that he could not answer the caliph’s questions about the Prophet’s practice. It therefore implies that he was a fraud, and that alMa mu¯n was right to persecute him.108 Oddly enough, this is the only report in the Kita¯b Baghda¯d of a meeting between al-Ma mu¯n and a H · adı¯th-scholar. Even so, the caliph’s hostility toward the proto-Sunnis, or more exactly their presumed hostility to him, comes through all the same. In his first Inquisition-letter, al-Ma mu¯n mentions that two groups are responsible for spreading the pernicious doctrine of the uncreated Qur a¯n. The first group consists of those who call themselves Sunnis. The second consists of “adherents of the false way, who display submissiveness to someone other than God and who lead an ascetic life – but for another cause and not the true faith.”109 These false ascetics have “agreed with [the Sunnis] and joined them in advocating their noxious opinions . . . in order to carve out positions of leadership (ri a¯sa) and moral authority.” According to a dubious story in the Kita¯b Baghda¯d, al-Ma mu¯n had occasion to debate with one of these zealots himself. Fortunately, Ibn Abı¯ T·a¯hir preserves not only the story but the apparently genuine report that served as the basis for it. The genuine report resembles the many accounts of obstreperous plaintiffs who appear at the maz·a¯lim. It relates that a commoner (rajul min al-su¯qa) was pestering a member of the elite (min al- uz·ama¯ ) for repayment of a debt. The notable struck the commoner, who cried out that justice had died with Umar (b. al-Khat·t·a¯b, the second caliph). Both men were brought before al-Ma mu¯n. Upon hearing that the commoner came from the town of Fa¯miya, he pointed out that Umar had given the Muslims permission to sell the natives of that region as slaves. He then gave the commoner a thousand dirhams and sent him away.110 In the elaborated version, described as another memory of the same event, the commoner is now an ascetic (za¯hid) who shouts “O Umar!” as he passes the caliph’s palace. Al-Ma mu¯n overhears him, orders him brought inside, and asks him the reason for his outburst. The ascetic replies that the palace reminded him “of the ruins of the Caesars and the edifices of tyrants.” The governor Ish·a¯q b. Ibra¯hı¯m advises flogging the man or beheading him, but al-Ma mu¯n cannily remarks that the zealous ascetic is hoping for just such a punishment. The caliph instead engages the ascetic in debate, forcing him to admit that he does not object to elaborate buldings generally, or to seeing the caliph reside in a pre-existing palace. Rather, he objects only to the expenditure of public funds on new buildings. Al-Ma mu¯n replies that the palace, which is the only building he will construct, serves the useful purpose of intimidating foreign potentates. He then addresses the matter of Umar, saying that the second caliph led a noble people who had seen their Prophet with their own eyes. Now, however, the community consists of “people from places like 108 109

KB, 153; cf. TRM, VIII: 643, SAN, X: 233–38; Jad a¯n, Mih·na, index; ThG, III: 452–53. Ahlu ‘l-samti ‘l-ka¯dhibi, wa ‘l-takhashshu ι li-ghayr Alla¯h, wa ‘l-taqashshuﬁ li-ghayri ‘l-dı¯n (KB, 110 KB, 38–39. 185 ⫽ TRM, VIII: 632, Tabari, Reuniﬁcation, 202). ·

The caliph al-Ma mu¯n

Bazu¯far, Fa¯miya, and Dastmı¯sa¯n, who when they go hungry, eat you; when they are satisfied, overwhelm you; and when they rule you, enslave you.” The implication is that harsh rule is permissible, even necessary, in a way it was not in the past. Al-Ma mu¯n then gives the zealot a gift and sends him on his way, warning him that he might not be so forbearing the next time.111 Where did this spurious ascetic come from? As a topos, the caliph-denouncing zealot antedates al-Ma mu¯n. In his Uyu¯n al-akhba¯r, Ibn Qutayba includes several tales in which preachers berate a series of caliphs, among them alMans·u¯r.112 Another precedent is the story reported by Ya qu¯bı¯ according to which al-Fud·ayl b. Iya¯d· dissuaded al-Rashı¯d from using torture to regain embezzled funds.113 In all these cases, however, it is the caliph who is persuaded, not the zealot. Al-Ma mu¯n’s story, though it displays some of the topoi common to other renditions (e.g., the caliphal advisor who suggests killing the ascetic), contains a novel element: the caliph argues with his challenger and defeats him. This novelty may reflect transmitters’ memories of a historical event, namely, al-Ma mu¯n’s encounter with Sahl b. Sala¯ma, one of the leaders of the Baghdad vigilante movement. During the second phase of the civil war, Sahl explicitly challenged the authority of al-Ma mu¯n’s representatives, proclaiming that he would “fight anyone who contravenes the Book and the sunna, whoever it might be, from the government or otherwise.” The people of West Baghdad rallied to his call to “enjoin the good and forbid evil,” building towers of bricks and weapons, topped with copies of the Qur a¯n, to signal their allegiance. Captured and later released by the counter-caliph Ibra¯hı¯m, Sahl persisted in his activities until al-Ma mu¯n reached Baghdad. Then, al-T·abarı¯ tells us, the vigilante leader was taken to see the caliph, who gave him a gift but commanded him “to sit at home.”114 A zealot eventually reconciled to al-Ma mu¯n, Sahl may have served as the inspiration for stories about dissident ascetics who confront the caliph and then depart the palace chastened but unharmed. As Madelung and van Ess have shown, relations between the vigilantes and the proto-Sunnis were not always good.115 Even so, the success of the vigilante movement evidently predisposed al-Ma mu¯n to be suspicious of those who invoked al-amr bi ‘l-ma ru¯f, a group associated (in the other zealot-stories, at least) with the ascetics. In the writings of the caliph’s younger contemporary and client al-Ja¯h·iz· (d. 255/869), we find evidence to suggest that such suspicions were well founded. In his epistle against tashbı¯h, al-Ja¯h·iz· numbers among the opponents of Mu tazilism certain zealots who equate virtue with poverty. He quotes them as arguing that “virtue, leadership, reputation, and nobility of character are proportional to roughness of skin, shabbiness of dress, frequency of fasting, and a preference for solitary rambling.” With his usual cleverness, al-Ja¯hiz objects that, if this claim were true, the ascetic Companions of · · 111 113 115

112 KB, 39–40. Ibn Qutayba, Uyu¯n, II: 359–70. 114 Ya qu¯bı¯, Ta rı¯kh, II: 501. TRM, VIII: 552; 572–73; see further ThG, III: 173–75. See above, n. 78.

Classical Arabic Biography

the Prophet would have succeeded as caliphs instead of Abu¯ Bakr and Uthma¯n.116 This argument would certainly have appealed to al-Ma mu¯n: it makes the caliphs, not the ascetics, the true heirs of the Prophet. Apart from its possible allusion to Sahl, the narrative transformation of a commoner into an ascetic zealot reflects another preoccupation common to al-Ma mu¯n, al-Ja¯h·iz·, and the akhba¯rı¯s: the notion of collusion between the proto-Sunnis and the “common people.” In the Inquisition letters, the caliph accuses the proto-Sunnis of seeking leadership among the common people, who he presumes are identical with the dregs of society.117 In his epistle on tashbı¯h, al-Ja¯h·iz· is more precise, quoting Wa¯s·il b. At·a¯ to the effect that popular support for anthropomorphism comes from plasterers, weavers, boatmen, goldsmiths, and the like.118 Tradesmen and skilled laborers like these should have been distinct, even in al-Ma mu¯n’s mind, from the siflat al- a¯mma, a term more usually applied to the “street vendors, naked ones, people from the prisons, riffraff, rabble, cutpurses, and people of the market” who had fought for al-Amı¯n.119 Indeed, it is the small property owners, not the “dregs of society,” whom Madelung identifies as probable partisans of Sahl b. Sala¯ma.120 Later, some proprietors may also have rallied around the protoSunnis: the crowd that gathered in disapproval of Ibn H · anbal’s trial was reportedly composed of people who “closed up their shops and armed themselves” before converging on the palace.121 It is perhaps noteworthy in this context that some of the early proto-Sunni ascetics are identified as being shopkeepers, or having connections with them.122 Al-Ja¯h·iz·, who unlike alMa mu¯n lived to witness the flogging of Ibn H · anbal, may therefore have had good reason to identify proto-Sunni “heresy” with tradesmen and shopkeepers rather than the “dregs of society.” As Wada¯d al-Qa¯d·¯ı has shown, al-Ja¯h·iz·’s attitudes toward “popular heresy” (i.e., proto-Sunnism) partake of surprise, contempt, anger, fear, and a certain degree of self-criticism.123 For the most part, the narrators of the Kita¯b Baghda¯d are more restrained, depicting the common people as petitioners rather than seditious heretics. Even so, sentiments like the ones al-Ja¯h·iz· expresses in his epistle and al-Ma mu¯n in his Inquisition-letters surface from time to time. One particularly revealing report states that when the caliph announced his intention to decree public cursing of Mu a¯wiya, Yah·ya¯ b. 116 117 118 119

121

122

123

Ja¯h·iz·, Rasa¯ il, I: 301. Cf. Rudé on the fallacy of the “criminal mob” (Crowd in History, 198ff.). Ja¯h·iz·, Rasa¯ il, I: 283. TRM VIII: 448 (Tabarı¯, War, 139; cited in Crone, “ Abba¯sid Abna¯, ” 18); Hoffmann, “Pöbel,” · 35. On the distinction between the ayya¯ru¯n and the more respectable classes, see Hoffmann, 120 Madelung, “Sahl b. Sala¯ma,” 336. “Pöbel”, 40; ThG, III: 106. This is the (admittedly unreliable) account of Ibn al-Faraj (H · A, IX: 204–5); see further below, pp. 131–34. The family of Ma ru¯f al-Karkhı¯ (d. 200/815–16) sold flour (TB XIII: 206; no. 7177); al-Sarı¯ ¯ mir, “Al-Sarı¯,” 191); and al-Saqat¯ı (d. 251/865) owned a shop (TB IX: 187; no. 4769); Bin A · Bishr b. al-H a ¯ rith encouraged an associate to “stick to the market” (H · · A, VIII: 340). Al-Qa¯d·¯ı, “Earliest Na¯bita,” 43ff.

The caliph al-Ma mu¯n

Aktham objected that the common people and particularly the Khurasanis (that is, the Baghdadis of Khurasani origin) would not stand for it. The caliph then consulted his trusted companion, the adı¯b and theological dabbler Thuma¯ma b. Ashras (d. 213/859),124 who elaborated on Yah·ya¯’s assessment. The a¯mma, he claimed, are easily led. “If you sent them a black-clad man with a stick in his hand, he would lead 20,000 of them to you.” This apparent allusion to the Abbasid revolution seems to mean that the people would as soon ﬁght against the caliph as for him. Thuma¯ma then adduced a Qur a¯nic verse comparing the people to livestock (25: 46). Finally, he recounted a recent experience of his. One day he saw a man selling medicines in the street: He was calling out: “Cures for albugo, cataracts, glaucoma, dimsightedness, and myopia!” Meanwhile one of his eyes was lusterless and the other had a poultice [?] on it. But the people had gathered around him and were surging forward asking him to prescribe for them. I dismounted, plunged into the crowd, and called out: “Hey you! You look as if you need your eyes treated more than anyone else does! You say this medicine cures complaints of the eye. Why don’t you use it yourself ?” He said, “I’ve been here for ten years and I’ve never seen a bigger idiot than you.” “How’s that?” “Where do you think my eye problem started?” “I don’t know.” “In Egypt!” The crowd converged on me, saying, “He’s right! You’re an idiot!” They looked as if they meant to harm me, so I said, “By God, I did not realize that his eye problem started in Egypt!” And it was only by this subterfuge that I escaped them.125

Amused, the caliph agreed with Thuma¯ma that the a¯mma are easily duped. But what neither man mentioned is that Thuma¯ma acquiesced in the scam because he feared the violence of the crowd. The commoners, gullible or not, posed a real threat – or at least the caliph and his courtiers imagined that they did. Again, their suspicion may have been well-founded. When during the counter-caliphate of Ibra¯hı¯m b. al-Mahdı¯ Bishr al-Marı¯sı¯ was tried at the Rus·a¯fa mosque, apparently on charges of advocating the khalq al-Qur a¯n, the people (al-na¯s) are described as gathering to lynch him.126 In his response to the Umar-invoking zealot, al-Ma mu¯n made no reference to his rightly guided imamate. Rather, he invoked the memory of the Prophet, the practice of Umar, and the necessities of state. This self-presentation is in keeping with the general tone of the reports in the Kita¯b Baghda¯d, which treats the caliph’s power only as it manifests itself in response to particular challenges. The theoretical basis for al-Ma mu¯n’s imamate, and the legitimacy of his claims to interpretive authority, do not appear as subjects of particular interest to Ibn Abı¯ Ta¯hir’s informants. From the Inquisition-letters, · and from the scattered references to popular discontent, we can surmise that these issues were a matter of concern in some quarters. Indeed, to the extent 124 126

125 ThG, III: 159–72, esp. 163 n. 54. KB, 50–51. TB,12: 459–60 (in the entry for Qutayba b. Ziya¯d, no. 6941); ThG, III: 176–77.

Classical Arabic Biography

that al-Ma mu¯n’s contemporaries supported his imamate, it appears that they did so because they shared his fear of “vulgar proto-Sunni heresy.” For Ibn Abı¯ Ta¯hir, however, this concern did not prompt a sustained defense of al· Ma mu¯n’s ima¯mat al-huda¯. The biographer’s reticence on the matter does not mean that he meant to subvert his subject’s authority as caliph. On the contrary: his choice of reports leaves the impression that he was rather taken with al-Ma mu¯n. If the reports are any guide, the caliph’s associates thought of him as a quick-witted, fair-minded, and enterprising leader, temperamental but quick to forgive. His status as heir of the Prophet and ima¯m al-huda¯ doubtless hovered as the unspoken background to “that singular property that makes command eﬃcacious,” as Durkheim felicitously deﬁned power.127 However, Ibn Abı¯ T·a¯hir’s sources found little to report for or against the proposition that al-Ma mu¯n really was an heir of the Prophet and a rightly guided imam.

Al-T · a¯barı¯’s sı¯ra-section If Ibn Abı¯ T·a¯hir is noncommittal about al-Ma mu¯n’s imamate, al-T·a¯barı¯ appears positively dismissive. Of the twenty-one reports in his sı¯ra-section, seventeen tell of al-Ma mu¯n’s expertise in poetry, or recount verses spoken by him, about him, or for him. In one case, he discerns flaws in a poem that even the poet did not see. In another, he completes the second half of each line of an elegy before the poet can.128 The nature of these anecdotes may reflect alT·abarı¯’s inability to find a place for them in the annalistic section of his work. Because they are mostly undated, and generally have little to do with particular battles or appointments, they could only be dumped in the sı¯ra-section. But of all the stories he could have selected (he evidently had the Kita¯b Baghda¯d available) al-T·abarı¯ chose these. The most plausible explanation for this editorial policy is that it constitutes an indirect commentary on al-Ma mu¯n’s claim to the imamate. As al-T·abarı¯ knew from the Inquisition-letters, alMa mu¯n laid claim to interpretive authority, an attribute that demanded ilm. The anecdotes in the sı¯ra-section convey that he did have knowledge, but not ilm consisted in a good ear for verse. of Qur a¯n, H · adı¯th, or fiqh. Rather, his This may be a laudable attribute in a king, but hardly redounds to the credit of a self-proclaimed ima¯m al-huda¯. Al-T·a¯barı¯’s implicit criticism does not mean that he deemed al-Ma mu¯n an illegitimate caliph. The historian lived intermittently in Baghdad during the Samarran anarchy and the second siege (251/865), took up continuous residence there at the beginning of the Abbasid revival under al-Muwaffaq, and lived to witness and write about the decline that set in under al-Muqtadir. Having experienced the civil disorders that befell Baghdad at the hands of slave troops and mercenary armies, al-T·abarı¯ can hardly be blamed for supporting, however tacitly, a strong state authority.129 In his Qur a¯nic commen127 129

Durkheim, Elementary Forms, 370. See, e.g., TRM VIII: 551.

128

TRM, VIII: 657–58.

The caliph al-Ma mu¯n

tary, he interprets verses 3: 26 and 4: 59 to mean that obedience is due to the ruler, whoever he may be.130 Strikingly, however, he refers throughout the discussion not to caliphs or imams but to the sult·a¯n or “ruler,” the vaguest term possible. Similarly, he named his Ta rı¯kh “the history of prophets and kings,” not “prophets and caliphs.” Like Ibn Abı¯ T·a¯hir, al-T·abarı¯ appears to have deemed al-Ma mu¯n a king rather than an imam.

Al-Mas u¯dı¯’s Muru¯j The entry on al-Ma mu¯n in al-Mas u¯dı¯’s Muru¯j lacks the focus of the Kita¯b Baghda¯d or al-Tabarı¯’s sı¯ra-section. It wanders into anecdotal byways of all sorts, returns periodically to the caliph, then rambles off again into the doings of poets, buffoons, and parasites. Even so, it offers unique testimony about alMa mu¯n’s character and reign. Al-Mas u¯dı¯ was a Shiite who nevertheless acknowledged the legitimacy of the Abbasids (but not the Umayyads).131 Although al-Ma mu¯n in his opinion could not have been an ima¯m al-huda¯, he was still a king, and a good one at that. To begin with, the civil war was not his fault. While al-T·abarı¯ (in his annals) depicts a gradual deterioration of relations abetted by advisors on both sides, al-Mas u¯dı¯ uses dramatic anecdotes to pin the blame squarely on al-Amı¯n. In these anecdotes, al-Amı¯n deliberately violates the Mecca protocol, then plays drunkenly in a fish-pond as the catapults level Baghdad. Nor could al-Ma mu¯n have prevented the war, which was a matter of fate. To support this contention, al-Mas u¯dı¯ adduces reports in which the caliphs al-Mans·u¯r and al-Rashı¯d predict the catastrophe. In one of these reports, al-Rashı¯d watches his sons recite their lessons, and tearfully confesses that they will one day come to blows. Asked how he knows this, he adduces “an irrefutable sign passed on to the knowers, by the trustees, from the prophets.”132 This notion of inheritance through the “trustees” (aws·iya¯ ) reflects the Abbasid claim, apparently modeled on Shiite descriptions of Alı¯, that the Prophet made al- Abba¯s his trustee.133 Another passage ascribes precognition to the caliph al-Mans·u¯r, though without the reference to heirship.134 In the chapter devoted to al-Ma mu¯n his stepmother Zubayda addresses him as “heir to the knowledge of the first ones.”135 From these passages, one might conclude that the early Abbasid caliphs claimed an inherited ilm that included precognition. However, the prediction-stories cannot serve as reliable evidence for this conclusion. Evident fabrications designed to justify al-Ma mu¯n’s rebellion against al-Amı¯n,136 they suggest that caliphal 130 131

132 133

134

T·abarı¯, Ja¯mi , VIII: 490–504. On al-Mas u¯dı¯’s Shiism, see MDh, II: 29, where he mentions a (lost) biography he wrote of the T·a¯libı¯s and the Imams; and further Pellat, “Mas u¯dı¯”; Shboul, Mas u¯dı¯, 59; Khalidi, Islamic Historiography, 133 (argues that he accepted the Abbasids as caliphs but not as imams). MDh, III: 361. Tyan, Califat, 314–15 (includes an example of al-Rashı¯d being addressed as “the son of the Imams . . . and the trustees”); see further Zaman, Religion, 122. 135 136 MDh, III: 404. MDh, III: 424. See El-Hibri, “Regicide.”

Classical Arabic Biography

ilm was a plausible narrative device, but not an effective component of Abbasid legitimacy. Certainly al-Mas u¯dı¯ did not believe that the caliphs could know the future. In one report he cites, al-Rashı¯d agonizes over the decision as to which of his sons to appoint as successor; in another, a casual observer perceives what al-Rashı¯d does not: namely, that dividing the empire is a bad idea.137 Particularly instructive in this respect is al-Mas u¯dı¯’s version of the zealotstory. In the Kita¯b Baghda¯d, as we have seen, an ascetic appears to harangue al-Ma mu¯n. In the Muru¯j, the zealot returns with more fanfare. The narrator of this version is Yah·ya¯ b. Aktham, the caliph’s chief judge. According to Yah·ya¯, al-Ma mu¯n was presiding over the Tuesday dinner for scholarly guests when a stranger “in coarse whites with his trousers rolled up” gained admittance. This “Sufi” asked the caliph whether his authority was based on the consent of the community or merely on his power to command obedience. AlMa mu¯n replied that it was neither. Rather, he was caliph because the previous ruler had appointed him to the post. He admitted that those who tendered their oaths of allegiance to him may have done so unwillingly. Nevertheless, he implied, there is no other standard by which to declare a person caliph. He then launched into a vaguely worded and self-defensive narrative of his reign. The rule fell to him, he said, when his brother “took the path he took.” He then sought to abdicate in favor of “an acceptable leader,” an allusion to alRid·a¯. But when civil war broke out again, he had no choice but to reclaim the rule. After delivering this apologia pro vita sua, al-Ma mu¯n charged the Sufi to pass his words on to the community, and to keep an eye out for a likely replacement. “You, my man, are my messenger to the community of Muslims. When they have agreed upon someone acceptable to them, I will defer to him in this matter of the rulership.”138 Satisfied, the Sufi took his leave. The caliph then dispatched an agent to follow him. Later, the agent returned to report that the Sufi had gone into a mosque where “fifteen men like him in dress and appearance” asked about his interview with the caliph. The Sufi had related the speech, and his colleagues had signaled their approval of it. After listening to the spy’s report, al-Ma mu¯n remarked to Yah·ya¯ that one little speech had spared them the trouble of dealing with “those people.” Yah·ya¯ replied, “Praise to the God who inspires you, Commander of the Believers, with the right and the proper in word and deed.”139 The caliph’s speech to the Sufi contains no reference to a rightly guided imamate, only to a sort of trial-and-error meritocracy. Given the failure of his policies, it is perhaps understandable that al-Ma mu¯n would avoid any reference to his imamate. Rather, he argues merely that he is doing a better job than his predecessors. But if this is the point of the report, the story’s coda undermines it. Unlike Ibn Abı¯ T·a¯hir’s lone zealot, the Sufi represents a group of 137

MDh, III: 362–63; III: 364.

138

MDh, IV: 19–21.

139

MDh, IV: 20–21.

The caliph al-Ma mu¯n

potential revolutionaries. To avoid “trouble,” al-Ma mu¯n gives him an answer that will satisfy him. But the answer appears in the end to have been insincere. In the final exchange between Yahya¯ and the caliph, both men appear to con· sider the latter an ima¯m al-huda¯ whom God inspires with knowledge of the right thing to do. This ironizing epilogue may be a later addition to a story intended as an apologia for al-Ma mu¯n. As it stands, however, the story depicts him as a crafty king rather than a trustworthy imam, and a far cry from the caliph of the “Risa¯lat al-khamı¯s”. One point, nevertheless, tells in al-Ma mu¯n’s favor: he did follow ostensibly meritocratic principles when he appointed Alı¯ al-Rid·a¯, “the acceptable one,” to succeed him. The designation of an Alid heir may explain al-Mas u¯dı¯’s partiality to the caliph. In his account of the episode, the biographer notes alMa mu¯n’s kindness to al-Rid·a¯, who, he writes, died of a surfeit, or possibly by poison. But he says nothing to suggest that, if al-Rid·a¯ was poisoned, alMa mu¯n was responsible.140 In another part of the book, he even gives alMa mu¯n a chance to explain his motives for the designation. One day, he reports, the caliph al-Ra¯d·¯ı (r. 322–29/934–40) asked why his ancestor alMa mu¯n had “gone from black to green and back to black again,” an allusion to the Rid·a¯-episode. The court akhba¯rı¯ Abu¯ Bakr al-S·u¯lı¯ (d. 335/946) replied by relating a conversation between al-Ma mu¯n and Zubayda. Al-Ma mu¯n entered Baghdad still wearing the green he had adopted at al-Rid·a¯’s accession. When Zubayda remonstrated with him, he divulged the real reason for his loyalty to the Alids. Of all the Ra¯shidu¯n, only Alı¯ b. Abı¯ T·a¯lib appointed members of the Abbasid family to positions of power. The Abbasids were thus in debt to the Alids, a debt which he had tried to repay by appointing al-Rid·a¯ as his heir apparent.141 This explanation, genuine or otherwise,142 is compatible with al-Ma mu¯n’s reported project of reconciling the estranged factions in the Muslim community. It is equally plausible as a fabrication, with the purpose of proving that the caliph was not an Imami Shiite (which was a good or a bad thing, depending on the audience). In any case, it does depict the caliph as acting in good faith. Al-Mas u¯dı¯’s tolerant affection for the caliph is nowhere more evident than in the description of his death. An earlier source, al-Tabarı¯’s chronicle, relates that al-Ma mu¯n and two companions ate fresh dates while dangling their feet in cold water. As a result, they all developed fever, and al-Ma mu¯n died. Displaying his typical interest in documents, al-Tabarı¯ concludes by citing the caliph’s last will and testament.143 Al-Mas u¯dı¯’s report, on the other hand, is a masterpiece of dramatic narration. While at the front, al-Ma mu¯n offered a reward to anyone who could bring him a fish he had spotted in a pool. A 140 141

142

MDh, IV: 27–28; cf. IV: 5. Al-S·u¯lı¯ appends a poem in which al-Ma mu¯n expresses amazement at the Abbasid neglect of the Alids (MDh, IV: 334–35; cf. Gabrieli, Ma mu¯n, 34). Ibn Abı¯ T·a¯hir credits T·a¯hir b. al-H · usayn, not Zubayda, with persuading the caliph to return 143 TRM, VIII: 646–50. to black (KB, 1–2).

Classical Arabic Biography

servant eventually succeeded in retrieving the fish, but splashed the caliph with cold water in the process. By the time the fish had been prepared, al-Ma mu¯n was too ill to eat it. When the physicians despaired of him, he asked to look out at his army. “He was taken out into the night and given a view of the tents and the troops, spread out in all their multitudes with the campfires blazing. He said, ‘O You whose kingdom shall not perish, have mercy on one whose kingdom has perished.’” He was returned to his bed, with an attendant ready to help him recite the profession of faith. When the time came, the attendant pronounced the words for him in a loud voice. The physician Ibn Masawayh commented that the caliph was too ill to distinguish between God and Mani. “At that, al-Ma mu¯n opened his eyes in grandeur and rage, with a furious dignity never before seen, and reached out to strike at Ibn Ma¯sawayh. He tried to address him, but could not. He cast his tearfilled eyes to the heavens, and his voice suddenly returned. He said: ‘O You Who do not die, have mercy on this mortal.’ The next moment he was gone.” Al-Ma mu¯n is evidently a good Muslim: he dies on the battlefield, with his hand lifted to strike the irreverent Christian physician. He is also a king: in his last moments, it is the end of his kingship (mulk) that he mourns. The fish, as Biancamaria Scarcia-Amoretti has pointed out in another context, is an old Iranian symbol for kingship.144 Here, al-Ma mu¯n’s vain pursuit of it causes his demise. Despite their differences, the biographies of al-Ma mu¯n compiled by Ibn Abı¯ T·a¯hir, al-Tabarı¯, and al-Mas u¯dı¯ appear equally indifferent to the caliph’s claims to rightly guided leadership of the community. Ibn Abı¯ T·a¯hir’s sources treat him as an impressively learned and clement king, but not as an ima¯m alhuda¯ (although they do cite his statements to that effect in the Inquisitionletters). Al-T·abarı¯ appears eager to add that, whatever al-Ma mu¯n’s virtues may have been, they did not extend to ilm, at least not of the imamic variety. For his part, al-Mas u¯dı¯ evinces fond regard for the caliph’s Alid sympathies. He also preserves evidence that the Abbasid claim to ilm clung to existence as a literary trope. But neither the biographer nor his sources appear to take the claim very seriously. Their indifference to the caliph’s imamate does not mean that the biographers believed him to be a bad or illegitimate ruler. On the contrary, Ibn Abı¯ T·a¯hir and al-Mas u¯dı¯ in particular display a lively appreciation of him, albeit for different reasons. Even so, their treatment of him differs from the treatment biographers of other ·ta¯ ifas accorded their subjects. Instead of emphasizing his claim to the prophetic legacy, they depict him as less of an heir than he claimed to be.

The Sunni revival of al-Ma mu¯n Two centuries after al-Mas u¯dı¯, al-Ma mu¯n’s image changes in an unexpected direction. For the ﬁrst time in the extant tradition, he is represented as a 144

Scarcia Amoretti, “Interpretazione.”

The caliph al-Ma mu¯n

scholar of H · adı¯th and a defender of the sunna. The change begins in the Ta rı¯kh Baghda¯d of al-Khat·¯ıb al-Baghda¯dı¯ (d. 463/1071) and reaches maturity in the Ta rı¯kh Dimashq of Ibn Asa¯kir (d. 571/1175). A third work, the Inba¯ of Ibn al- Imra¯nı¯ (d. 580/1184–1185), takes al-Ma mu¯n’s part so enthusiastically that it grants him, at long last, the attributes of a rightly guiding imam. To defend him, the Sunni biographers occlude his most distinctive attributes: his Shiite and Jahmı¯ convictions and the policies that they inspired. The designation of al-Rid·a¯, for example, is mentioned only in passing. The Inquisition, similarly, vanishes from his biographies, surviving only in the vitae of its victims.145 Most surprisingly, an ever-increasing number of reports depict the caliph as an enthusiastic student of H · adı¯th. The evidence for Sunni revisionism hardly means that the historical caliph 146 Al-Ya qu¯bı¯ reports that al-Rashı¯d sent him to had no exposure to H · adı¯th. study with H adı ¯ th-scholars and jurists,147 and al-Khat·¯ıb notes that al-Qa¯sim · 148 It is perhaps therefore all b. Sala¯m wrote a book on difficult H · adı¯th for him. the more significant that his known writings nowhere cite H · adı¯th. His letter of designation for al-Rid·a¯ cites a sunna of Umar, but the “Risa¯lat al-khamı¯s” and the Inquisition-letters cite no sunan at all.149 Ibn Abı¯ T·a¯hir, al-Mas u¯dı¯, and al-Tabarı¯ nowhere depict him as reciting H · adı¯th, even where one might expect him to: in his message to the Byzantines, for example, or in his last testament.150 Meanwhile, other references suggest that he maintained a critical distance from H · adı¯th. He reportedly “excelled in fiqh according to the 151 madhhab of Abu¯ H · anı¯fa,” precisely the madhhab least committed to H · adı¯th. In the Kita¯b Baghda¯d, he refers in the same breath to “the speech of His prophets and their heirs” (kala¯ma anbiya¯ i ‘l-la¯hi wa-warathati rusulihi), a phrase that makes caliphal speech as authoritative as the Prophet’s.152 In a Twelver Shiite source, we find him arguing that the only way to distinguish true reports from false is by analysis of their contents (not their isna¯ds). He then uses the method to prove the imamate of Alı¯ b. Abı¯ Ta¯lib.153 Although the report is dubious, the opinions it attributes to the caliph are plausible enough: as the imam alhuda¯, he is qualified to interpret the sunna in a way the scholars are not, and without recourse to Hadı¯th (which he nevertheless appears to know very well). · 145

146 147

148

149 150 151 153

See, e.g., al-Khat·¯ıb’s entry on Abd al-A la¯ Abu¯ Mus hir al-Ghassa¯nı¯ (TB, XI: 72–75; no. 5750). Ibn Asa¯kir does mention the khalq controversy, but only in a comical story about a poet (TMD, XXXIX: 279). Although he says nothing about al-Rid·a¯, the biographer does deal brieﬂy with al-Ma mu¯n’s Alid sympathies. He quotes him to the eﬀect that Alı¯ is good, but the other Companions are not, therefore, bad (XXXIX: 232, cf. 238–39). The case for caliphal Hadı¯th-expertise is persuasively made in Zaman, Religion, esp. 125. · Al-Ma mu¯n was a quick study but al-Amı¯n was not (Ya qu¯bı¯, Ta rı¯kh, II: 501; Goldziher, Muslim Studies, II: 65). TB, XII: 405 (no. 6868); cited in Zaman, Religion, 157. The book, or perhaps another like it, seems rather to have been written for T·a¯hir b. al-H · usayn (TB, XII: 403); in any case it was ridiculed by some of the ahl al-h·adı¯th (see ibid., XII: 405, 410). Crone and Hinds, God’s Caliph, 136 (translation), 95 (discussion). TRM VIII: 629–30, 647–50; KB, 156. 152 Ibn Taghrı¯birdı¯, Nuju¯m, II: 225; cited in Hinds, “Mih·na.” KB, 32–33. UAR, II: 185–200 (see further ch. 3).

Classical Arabic Biography

Despite the caliph’s attested reservations about H · adı¯th and his hostility to its adherents, his Sunni biographers were determined to rehabilitate him for Sunnism, which they did by depicting him as a Hadı¯th-scholar. In al-Khat¯ıb’s · · Ta rı¯kh, Yah·ya¯ b. Aktham relates that he was sleeping at the palace and got thirsty in the middle of the night. The caliph rose and brought him a cup of water. When Yah·ya¯ protested, al-Ma mu¯n recited: “Al-Rashı¯d related to me, from al-Mahdı¯, from al-Mans·u¯r, from his father, from Ikrima, from Abu¯ al Abba¯s, from Jarı¯r, from Abd Alla¯h: ‘I heard the Prophet, may God bless and save him, say: ‘The lord of a people is their servant.’”154 This report, as it happens, is plausible enough: the caliph’s H · adı¯th is an Abbasid one, that is, a report whose isna¯d contains the names of his ancestors. Crone and Hinds have suggested that the caliphs’ fondness for such reports signals an attempt to assert familial privilege as interpreters of the sunna as against the claims of the 155 Zaman on the other increasingly powerful H · adı¯th-scholars and jurists. hand argues that the Abbasid caliphs recited H adı ¯ th to emphasize their mem· bership in the scholarly community, not their position outside it. Even so, Abbasid isna¯ds, he suggests, did have a polemical undertone: they undercut the Imami Shiite notion of privileged transmission from Alı¯.156 Zaman’s account seems the more appropriate for the Abbasids in general, while Crone and Hinds’ makes better sense for al-Ma mu¯n (whom even Zaman admits to be an exceptional case). In Ibn Asa¯kir’s Ta rı¯kh, al-Ma mu¯n’s H · adı¯th-activity expands, and his reports are no longer Abbasid in provenance. The Ta rı¯kh lists the caliph’s teachers and those who related on his authority, just as it does for ordinary transmitters. A series of reports then shows him reciting H · adı¯th from the pulpit, at the battlefront, and even at the racetrack.157 The most remarkable account is one in which he plays (convincingly, it seems) at being a H · adı¯thscholar. The narrator is again Yah·ya¯ b. Aktham: One day, al-Ma mu¯n said to me: “Yah·ya¯, I want to recite H · adı¯th!” I said: “Who better than you, Commander of the Believers?” He said: “Set up a pulpit for me on the concourse.” He then alighted and related H · adı¯th. The ﬁrst report he recited was on the authority of Hushaym, from Abu¯ al-Jahm, from al-Zuhrı¯, from Abu¯ Salama, from Abu¯ Hurayra, from the Prophet: “Imru l-Qays is the standard-bearer of the poets on their way to Hell.” He went on to recite some thirty Hadı¯th. When he descended, he · said, “What did you think of our lecture, Yah·ya¯?” “Most noble, Commander of the Believers. The elite and the common people alike gained understanding.” “Bah! I ﬁnd nothing attractive in [being with] you. The real lectures belong to those dressed in rags and carrying inkwells.”158

This report may reﬂect the memory of a short-lived caliphal impulse. Yet it seems too conveniently constructed to serve the purposes of Sunnis eager to 154 156 158

TB, X: 185 (no. 5330). Zaman, Religion, 120–35. TMD, XXXIX: 234–35.

155

Crone and Hinds, God’s Caliph, 84, and note 1; also 92–93. TMD, XXXIX: 223–25, 235–36, 240.

157

The caliph al-Ma mu¯n

rehabilitate al-Ma mu¯n’s reputation while preserving their privilege as the bearers of H · adı¯th. The choice of texts is odd: the caliph’s first H · adı¯th (and the only one quoted) lashes out at the poets. Perhaps it is too much to see this report as a calculated response to al-Tabarı¯’s portrayal of al-Ma mu¯n as a poetry addict. Yet the caliph’s citation of an anti-poetry H · adı¯th amounts to a condemnation of many of his companions and indeed of his own way of life, at least as portrayed in the antecedent biographical tradition. The element of self-abasement becomes even more conspicuous when the caliph descends from the pulpit and compares himself unfavorably to his fellow-heirs, the H · adı¯th-scholars. To corroborate our suspicions about these reports, we must look more closely at their narrator, Yahya¯ b. Aktham (d. 242/857). One of the most vivid · and unusual personalities of the period, Yah·ya¯ began his career as a student of H · adı¯th. His sarcastic backtalk reportedly provoked one of his teachers to remark that he would “do well in the company of you-know-who,” meaning the caliphs.159 Later, he was appointed judge of Basra. When the Basrans accused him of pederasty, he was dismissed from his post. Eventually, however, al-Ma mu¯n “recognized Yah·ya¯’s scholarship and intelligence, and was so impressed with him that he made him chief judge.”160 After a long tenure, Yah·ya¯ fell from favor in 215/830–31, reportedly because of “his treatment of the people and his pernicious conduct,” in particular his misuse of charitable funds.161 We hear nothing more of him during the Inquisition under al-Ma mu¯n’s successors. With the lifting of the mih·na under al-Mutawakkil, he returned to the judgeship in place of the disgraced Ibn Abı¯ Du a¯d. Despite his association with the free-thinking al-Ma mu¯n, not to mention his reported stinginess, competitiveness, and mendacity, Yah·ya¯ cuts a heroic figure in the Ta rı¯kh Baghda¯d. The reason, it turns out, is that he “was free of heretical innovation, and belonged to the ahl al-sunna.” No less an authority than Ibn H · anbal declares that he never knew Yah·ya¯ to express a heretical opinion. The reason for this praise appears to be that Yah·ya¯ once dissuaded al-Ma mu¯n from legalizing temporary marriage (a practice apparently endorsed by Alı¯ b. Abı¯ T·a¯lib). “This was a great credit to him, unprecedented in Islam.” Evidently impressed, Sunni transmitters also credit him with holding the correct view of the Qur a¯n. He reportedly declared that “anyone who says it is created should be asked to repent. If he does not, he is to be beheaded.”162 Given the timing of his fall from grace, Yah·ya¯ may well have been a victim of the Inquisition, as Jad a¯n has suggested.163 Certainly the image of a proto-Sunni Yah·ya¯ finds partial corroboration in earlier sources. Ibn Abı¯ T·a¯hir, who otherwise displays no particular interest in him, credits him with helping to dissuade al-Ma mu¯n from cursing Mu a¯wiya.164 AlMas u¯dı¯, who appears equally impartial, includes a story in which Yah·ya¯ 159 162

TB, XIV: 197 (no. 7489). TB, 14: 201–03 (no. 7489).

160

161 MDh, IV: 21–23. TRM, VIII: 649. 164 Jad a¯n, Mih·na, 95–98. KB, 50.

163

Classical Arabic Biography

argues (against Thuma¯ma b. Ashras and al-Ma mu¯n) that the Prophet’s Companions are infallible sources of sunna.165 Not all the critics were willing to overlook the doubts about Yah·ya¯’s character. Some asserted that he recited H · adı¯th he had copied from books, and two authorities flatly call him a liar. In the end, however, his Sunnism won the day.166 Whatever his faults of character, they were overlooked in view of his anti-Alid and anti-Jahmı¯ credentials. This ta dı¯l (declaration of reliability) proved particularly useful for Sunni biographers concerned with al-Ma mu¯n’s reputation. When they set out to remake the caliph as a Sunni, they appear to have found reports by Yah·ya¯ that helped them make their point. A few of the reports (e.g., al-Khat·¯ıb’s, with its Abbasid isna¯d) may be genuine. Ibn Asa¯kir’s, on the other hand, are too fulsome to be persuasive. For example, the caliph’s invidious comparison of opportunist scholars like Yah·ya¯ to the ragged men he deems the true scholars of H · adı¯th appears particularly calculated to flatter the sensibilities of the proto-Sunni ascetics – precisely the men whom the historical caliph denounced as frauds, heretics, and rabble-rousers. Yah·ya¯ may have fabricated this report to protect his reputation among the ahl al-h·adı¯th, among whom he had begun his studies, and whose opinions he evidently shared. Alternatively, later Sunni transmitters may have used his name as a convenient peg upon which to hang exculpatory reports about alMa mu¯n. As an attested H · adı¯th-scholar and proto-Sunni, Yah·ya¯ made a convenient narrator – so convenient that compilers were willing to overlook such faults of character as would ordinarily have cast doubt on his veracity. His reports, or reports attributed to him, were granted presumptive reliability by every Sunni biographer after al-Khat·¯ıb. Besides the reports in al-Ma mu¯n’s entries, certain other reports cited in the biographies of his contemporaries contain examples of his purported H · adı¯thactivity. On the face of it, these reports appear to compel credence: as Zaman points out, biographers are unlikely to have adduced such reports to enhance caliphal reputations. Had they wished to achieve this effect, they would have placed the reports in the entries for the caliphs instead.167 But even if we agree that the stories were adduced to enhance the reputation of the scholars, the result is the same: the stories are still unreliable. This is because the scholars involved, or those who related on their authority, had good reasons of their own to enhance or even fabricate reports of their H · adı¯th-activity at the court of al-Ma mu¯n. The dubious character of these reports may be demonstrated by looking at the two most detailed examples from al-Khat·¯ıb’s Ta rı¯kh. The first states that Sulayma¯n b. Harb (d. 224/838–39) once stood on a pulpit near the palace gate · and recited H · adı¯th to an audience of thousands. The black-clad Abbasid gen165 166

167

MDh, 4: 8. A telling example of his rehabilitation: in KB, al-Ma mu¯n refuses to serve wine to Ya¯h·ya¯ (143); in TB, it is Yah·ya¯ who refuses to drink it (XIV: 197; no. 7489). Zaman, Religion, 126.

The caliph al-Ma mu¯n

erals gathered at the front, and al-Ma mu¯n sat in a room above, looking 168 through a curtain and writing down H · adı¯th. Reading further in the entry, we find that Sulayma¯n also served as a judge in Mecca. Accepting state appointments inevitably provoked condemnation by proto-Sunni scholars, who described state service as “slaughter without a knife.”169 The objection probably arose from their knowledge that as magistrates, they were subject to caliphal authority.170 Because their refusal to serve was tantamount to an attack on the state, it was punished accordingly (i.e., by flogging).171 Being forced to accept a judgeship could mitigate the offense. However, Sulayma¯n does not appear to have been coerced. While at court, he also came into contact with Ibn Abı¯ Du a¯d (d. 240/854), later famous as the Abbasids’ chief inquisitor.172 His biography recounts the meeting in a face-saving story: Ibn Abı¯ Du a¯d, with the caliph’s approval, tried to outwit him, but Sulayma¯n shamed him into silence by citing sunan. This report, like the one about his reciting H · adı¯th to masses gathered at the palace, is not unlikely in itself (although it is unclear why al-Ma mu¯n would put himself to the trouble of trying to hear a H · adı¯th-lecture from an upper-story window). Yet both accounts must be evaluated in light of Sulayma¯n’s evident preoccupation with acquitting himself of the suspicion that attached to judges, and with his awkward position as a H · adı¯th-scholar drawn into the orbit of a heretical caliph. Whether Sulayma¯n circulated the exculpatory reports in his own defense is unclear. But later Sunni scholars would have had an interest in establishing his orthodoxy: many of the most prominent, including Ibn 173 H · anbal, Abu¯ Zur a¯, and al-Bukha¯rı¯, recited H · adı¯th on his authority. The second report of al-Ma mu¯n’s interest in H · adı¯th appears in the biography of Umar b. H abı ¯ b (d. 207/822–23). The caliph, we are told, pardoned a · condemned prisoner when Umar recited an Abbasid H · adı¯th enjoining forgiveness. The caliph then confided to Umar that he had fulfilled all his desires except one: to sit on a chair and recite Hadı¯th. But he never would, because · 174 H · adı¯th-transmission was incompatible with “caliphal rule and kingship.” Reading further in the report, we find that Umar too served as a judge (in Baghdad and Basra). Not surprisingly, the overwhelming majority of 168 169

170

171

172 174

TB, IX: 35 (no. 4622); Zaman, Religion, 126. TH I: 174; see further Ibn Asa¯kir, Ta¯ rikh kabı¯r, I: 28–48; and Coulson, “Doctrine.” Noteworthy here is the case of the proto-Sunni H · adı¯th-scholar Sharı¯k b. Abd Alla¯h (d. 177/793–94), who served as a judge. Signiﬁcantly, his biography relates a long story about his fearless punishment of an agent of al-Rashı¯d’s mother, al-Khayzura¯n (TB IX: 288–90; no. 4838). See references in n. 66 above, especially Coulson, “Doctrine.” Another reason for aversion to the judgeship was evidently “the hesitation to pronounce with certainty the correct rule of law and the danger of the wrong application of the law in individual cases” (Coulson, “Doctrine,” 223). As reportedly happened to Abu¯ H · anı¯fa: (TB XIII: 327–29 (no. 7297)), though the story is probably apocryphal. For other examples see Coulson, “Doctrine,” 211–13. 173 ThG, III: 481–502. TB, IX: 37, 34 (no. 4622). TB, XI: 198–99 (no. 5903); Zaman, Religion, 120.

Classical Arabic Biography

authorities condemn him as unreliable. As if in response, his biography contains reports that appear calculated to make both himself and his patrons seem devoted to the sunna.175 Some of the stories feature al-Rashı¯d, and are at least plausible; but the one about al-Ma mu¯n is not. In it, Umar describes himself as the youngest of the Basran delegation present. By the time of alMa mu¯n’s accession, however, Umar had already been a judge for nearly forty years. He also states that al-Ma mu¯n was so impressed with him that he appointed him judge in Basra – a position he already held at the time this incident allegedly took place. The best explanation for these anomalies is that Umar placed himself, or had a sympathetic transmitter place him, in a story originally told about another caliph. Indeed, there exists another version in which the caliph is named as al-Mans·u¯r.176 Despite its inclusion of these dubious reports, al-Khat·¯ıb’s Ta rı¯kh also contains what seems to be a more believable depiction of al-Ma mu¯n’s attitude toward the sunna and its representatives. This depiction turns up in al-Khat·¯ıb’s biography of Abu¯ Nu aym al-Fad·l b. Dukayn (d. 218/833 or 219/834), who though a Zaydı¯ was rehabilitated for the ahl al-sunna because of his resistance to the Inquisition.177 The episode it describes took place as the vigilante movement in Baghdad was coming to an end. Al-Ma mu¯n had forbidden al-amr bi ‘l-ma ru¯f because “the people had agreed upon an imam,” presumably meaning Sahl b. Sala¯ma, and were punishing and imprisoning oﬀenders on their own authority. When al-Fad·l rebuked a soldier for fondling a woman, he was dragged before the caliph on charges of forbidding evil. Al-Ma mu¯n commanded him to perform his ablutions and pray. Al-Fad·l washed “according to what al-Thawrı¯ related of Abd Khayr’s H · adı¯th of Alı¯,” and prayed in the manner “ascribed to Amma¯r b. Yasa¯r.” Having observed all this, al-Ma mu¯n then posed him a series of diﬃcult problems in inheritance-calculation. When he responded to all of them correctly, al-Ma mu¯n said: “Who would [dare] forbid the likes of you from enjoining the good? My prohibition applied only to a group who have taken evil for good.”178 This report can be read as another zealot-story, told this time from the zealot’s point of view. Al-Ma mu¯n has forbidden al-amr bi ‘l-ma ru¯f, a prohibition that casts grave suspicion on his commitment to the sunna. But as al-Fad·l discovers, the caliph knows the sunna very well, and respects those who display a command of it.179 Perhaps, too, alFad·l’s application of a H · adı¯th of Alı¯ allowed the caliph to recognize that his prisoner was a fellow Alid-sympathizer. In that case, his leniency amounts to a declaration that the true Sunnis are those who acknowledge the primacy of Ali, as opposed to the notoriously anti-Alid “rabble” who call themselves the ahl al-sunna. 175 177 178 179

176 TB, XI: 197–98 (no. 5903). Goldziher, Muslim Studies, II: 71–2, note 8. Madelung, Imam al-Qa¯sim, 79 and n. 231. TB, XIII: 350 (no. 6787; I thank Christopher Melchert for this reference). On al-Ma mu¯n’s reverence for the Prophet (not quite the same as a command of sunna, but a start), see KB 40, 148–49 (⫽ TRM VIII: 62).

The caliph al-Ma mu¯n

Despite the caliph’s rehabilitation as a H · adı¯th-scholar in the historically Sunni sense, the biographical tradition did not entirely forget the antagonism that existed between him and the ascetic zealots. Indeed, with his new Hadı¯th· credentials, the caliph as imagined in the sixth/twelfth century could defend himself even more effectively than he could in the days of Ibn Abı¯ T·a¯hir. The version of the zealot-tale that appears in the Ta rı¯kh Dimashq demonstrates this clearly. This version (the fourth so far, counting al-Fad·l b. Dukayn’s) describes an incident that supposedly took place on al-Ma mu¯n’s campaign against the Byzantines in Syria. The caliph was walking outdoors when he was accosted by a man wearing a shroud and covered in embalming fluid. Alarmed, he asked the man whom he was looking for. “I have come for you,” said the man. “Why don’t you greet me, then?” asked al-Ma mu¯n. The man replied that he did not deem it right to greet a ruler responsible for the corruption of the holy war. Rejecting a suggestion that he behead the man, the caliph agreed to debate him. At the debate-session, the shroud-wearer accused the caliph of condoning the sale of wine in the camp, allowing slave women to show their faces, and permitting men and women to consort freely. AlMa mu¯n replied to the first of these accusations by asking how the ascetic could be sure that the substance for sale is wine if he does not drink it himself. When the shroud-wearer mistakenly identified vinegar, grape-juice, and pomegranate-extract as wine, al-Ma mu¯n cried out: “God, I seek your favor by dissuading the likes of this man from commanding the right!” After refuting the zealot’s other two accusations, al-Ma mu¯n declared: Shroud-wearer, I can think of three things you might be: in debt, persecuted (maz·lu¯m), or given to over-interpreting (ta awwalta fı¯) the Hadı¯th of Abu¯ Sa ı¯d al-Khudrı¯. There · the Prophet says in his sermon: ‘The best jiha¯d is to speak the truth before a tyrant.’ You’ve made me out to be the tyrant – but you are the oppressor here! You have claimed for yourself the position of ‘enjoining the good,’ and in doing so committed a wrong much more grievous [than doing nothing would have been]. By God, I shall not flog you, or do more than shred your shroud. But may I be cut off from my rightly guided ancestors if I let anyone stand where you’re standing right now without proofs to back him up, and if I let him go without flogging him anything less than a thousand strokes and crucifying him on the spot!180

Like the other Sufi-stories, Ibn Asa¯kir’s gives us a zealot who seeks out the caliph, boldly challenges him, and loses the argument. However, the arguments here are new. Al-Ma mu¯n accuses the shroud-wearer of interpreting H · adı¯th in a self-serving way, and even recites the text his opponent had in mind. This “Hadı¯th of al-Khudrı¯” echoes (though the caliph does not say so) · the Qur a¯nic account of how Moses stood up to Pharaoh (Qur a¯n 7: 103ff.). Such a challenge evidently called for more than a disingenuous defense of the sort the caliph used against al-Mas u¯dı¯’s Sufi. He accordingly invokes the 180

TMD, XXXIX: 250–54. The story appears in al-Zubayr b. Bakka¯r’s Muwaﬀaqiya¯t, 51–57; cited in Jad a¯n, Mih·na, 256–60. For the H · adı¯th see Ibn H · anbal, Musnad, V: 251, 256.

Classical Arabic Biography

caliphal succession beginning with the Ra¯shidu¯n, continuing through almahdı¯yu¯n (the Abbasids), and currently reposed in himself, alluding thereby to his hereditary legitimacy and his ima¯mat al-huda¯. This argument is what one might expect from al-Ma mu¯n’s “Risa¯lat al-khamı¯s” and his Inquisitionletters. However, it bears little resemblance to the arguments ascribed to him in the other zealot-tales. Given its consistency with the letters on the one hand, and its inconsistency with the antecedent biographical tradition on the other, Ibn Asa¯kir’s report is either an authentic survival or the result of a deliberate process of characterization. Transmitters eager to establish al-Ma mu¯n’s Sunni credentials either found or concocted a speech for him that reflects his documented attitudes, including his suspicion of the “false ascetics.” They appear to have added a H · adı¯th-consciousness entirely absent in his own writings – an element without which al-Ma mu¯n would be simply an innovator seduced by kala¯m. This H · adı¯th-element, in turn, explains the longevity of the zealot-character. A story featuring a H · adı¯th-scholar would be uncomfortably reminiscent of what really happened: al-Ma mu¯n persecuted the scholars over a point of kala¯m, displaying indifference if not contempt for their knowledge of Prophetic sunna. A story featuring a vigilante, on the other hand, was reminiscent of nothing but Sahl b. Sala¯ma’s meeting with al-Ma mu¯n, which ended happily for the caliph. Moreover, no story could plausibly depict al-Ma mu¯n as besting a real scholar on a point of H · adı¯th. But he could easily outwit a nameless ascetic who comes armed with only one proof-text.181 The depiction of the shroud-wearer as a zealot bent on self-righteous denunciation of the caliphate evidently contains elements drawn from reality. Al-Ja¯h·iz· appears to have had similar figures in mind when he wrote his epistle against tashbı¯h, and persons matching this description crop up in the annals of the zuhha¯d (see ch. 5). Whether al-Ma mu¯n was constantly being accosted by such figures is another matter. Given the recurrence of the topos and its progressive elaboration, it appears rather to have been a convenient device for presenting transmitters’ notions (quite different in each case) of al-Ma mu¯n’s imamate and its implications for his relationship with his fellow heirs. In Ibn Abı¯ T·a¯hir’s version, the caliph replies to an unfavorable comparison with Umar, and defends his building project by adducing reasons of state. In alMas u¯dı¯’s, he argues that he happens to be caliph and is doing a better job than the other candidates. He also offers to resign if a better candidate appears. In al-Khat·¯ıb’s, he defends his prohibition of the amr bi ‘l-ma ruf wa ‘l-nahy an al-munkar on the grounds that the vigilantes have misapplied it. In Ibn Asa¯kir’s, finally, he again defends the sunna against a vigilante, this time alluding to his hereditary Abbasid imamate. In some ways, Ibn Asa¯kir’s version most closely coincides with al-Ma mu¯n’s documented description of himself. 181

Such a characterization is plausible: many proto-Sunni ascetics made a point of shunning H · adı¯th-study (see ch. 5).

The caliph al-Ma mu¯n

Yet the resemblance appears more an accidental consequence of Sunni revisionism than the result of faithful historical transmission. Whatever al-Ma mu¯n’s attitude toward Hadı¯th may have been, he was not · a proto-Sunni H · adı¯th-scholar. Why, then, did his Sunni biographers insist that he was? Although their motives cannot be reconstructed with any certainty, it is still possible to outline the circumstances that may have predisposed them to take such a generous view of him. The most conspicuous such circumstance is the caliphate’s new status as the symbol of an embattled Sunnism. Soon after his accession in 232/847, al-Mutawakkil lifted the Inquisition and declared al-sunna wa ‘l-jama¯ a the explicit creed of the regime. In subsequent generations, as the caliphate struggled against a variety of external threats, the 182 Baghdad Sunnis, notably the H · anbalı¯s, rallied noisily around the Abbasids. Al-Ma mu¯n’s early Sunni biographers were not H · anbalı¯s, but shared their conviction that the Abbasid regime was legitimate. Al-T·abarı¯, as we have seen, stressed the necessity of obedience to the authorities. At the same time, he had his reservations about individual caliphs, including al-Ma mu¯n. In al- T·abarı¯’s day, critical distance was possible because caliphal authority was still theoretically absolute. Apart from the fate of particular caliphs, the institution was evidently strong enough to bear the blame for its failures of policy. After 334/945, however, the brutality of the Shiite Buyid amirs transformed the Abbasids into objects of pity rather than criticism; hence, it seems, the far more forgiving attitude of al-Tabari’s successors. Even under the Sunni Seljuks, who entered Baghdad in 447/1055, the security of the caliph’s person and property was contingent upon his submission to the authority of the amir. Al-Khat·¯ıb al-Baghdadı¯, who witnessed the transition from Buyid to Seljuk rule, is perhaps not coincidentally the ﬁrst biographer whose extant works 183 ascribe H · adı¯th-transmission to al-Ma mu¯n. During the lifetime of al-Khat·¯ıb’s successor Ibn Asa¯kir, the Abbasid caliphate rose and fell again. In a bid to free himself from Seljuk domination, the foolhardy al-Mustarshid (r. 512–529/1118–35) marched against the Amir Mas u¯d, who captured and eventually executed him.184 In a letter to Mas u¯d, the Sultan Sanjar reveals that the Seljuks, despite appearances, regarded the caliph with superstitious awe: The moment this letter reaches you, go into the caliph’s presence, kiss the ground before him, ask for his mercy and forgiveness, and beg and plead with him; for there have appeared here [in Baghdad] heavenly and earthly signs and wonders, unbearable to hear of, much less witness: storms, lightnings, and earthquakes, lasting twenty days, along with disorder in the army and disturbances in the towns. I fear for myself before God, because of His signs, and the people’s refusal to pray in the mosques or let the preachers take the pulpit. It is unbearable! By God, by God, follow my order and return the caliph to his seat, with a ﬁt retinue, as we and our fathers used to do.185 182 183

185

For an overview, see Laoust, “Hanbalisme,” esp. 80–98. Al-Khat¯ıb was evidently on good terms with the caliph al-Qa¯ im (r. 422–67/1031–75), whose · 184 patronage he enjoyed (MU, I: 497–514). Hillenbrand, “Mustarshid.” Suyu¯t¯ı, Ta rı¯kh, 688–89; see further Goldziher, Muslim Studies, II: 69–71. ·

Classical Arabic Biography

It was during al-Mustarshid’s ill-fated reign that Ibn Asa¯kir, a Damascene, made his visit to Baghdad (for five years, beginning in 520/1126).186 Ibn Asa¯kir’s depiction of al-Ma mu¯n, even more than al-Khat·¯ıb’s before him, is consistent with the image of the caliph as representative and defender of the faith. Al-Ma mu¯n is a H · adı¯th-expert who easily rattles off isna¯ds; he is also a devoted warrior who tears himself away from his beloved slave to go and die (like al-Mustarshid) at the front.187 After al-Mustarshid’s failed attempt to reassert the authority of the caliphate, the Abbasids acquiesced (for a time, at least) in the enforced passivity of their forebears. The Jewish traveller Benjamin of Tudela describes alMustad·¯ı (r. 566–75/1170–80) as leaving the palace only once a year. But the people’s reverence for the caliph only grew: whenever he appeared in public, they gathered in great numbers to kiss his sleeve-ends, which he dangled from a high window above the adoring crowd. “He is like the Prophet in their eyes,” Benjamin reports.188 The reaction of literary men to this state of affairs may be guessed from the account of Ibn Jubayr, who visited Baghdad at the same time. He describes the city as the seat of the Ha¯shimı¯ imamate, but laments that “calamities and disasters” have left it “an effaced campsite and a vanished trace, a ghost of its former self.” The caliphs live in “pleasant captivity” in palaces adorned with balconies and elegant gardens, but the real authority rests with pages, slaves, and eunuchs. Al-Mustad·¯ı himself “appears only briefly, to keep him concealed from the common people; yet the briefer his appearances, the more famous he becomes.”189 It was during this period – specifically, during the reign of al-Mustad·ı ’s predecessor al-Mustanjid (r. 555–66/1160–70) – that the biographer Ibn al- Imra¯nı¯ (d. 580/1184–85) composed the most laudatory of all the Abbasid biographies. In the introduction to his Inba¯ , Ibn al- Imra¯nı¯ declares that his subject is “the victorious Abbasid dynasty,” identical to the “Ha¯shimı¯ mission of right guidance.” The first entry in the Inba¯ is devoted to the Prophet, the founder of the ·ta¯ ifa. Next come the first four caliphs, followed by brief and scabrous notices on “those Umayyads to whom power passed afterwards.” After this awkward interregnum, power “returned to its rightful and worthy possessors, the family of the Prophet and his cousins [the Abbasids], who are the heirs of his knowledge and the trustees of his revelation.”190 Given this introduction, one might expect al-Ma mu¯n’s entry to defend his ima¯mat al-huda¯, and it does. 186 188

189

187 MU, IV: 44. TMD, XXXIX: 283–84. Benjamin of Tudela, S·efer Mas·a o¯t, 36–39. On the sacrality of the caliph, see further Abel, “Khalife,” who argues for the religious dignity of the oﬃce even in the Umayyad period, as well as for an increasing approximation of the Abbasid caliphate to Imami and Ba¯t·inı¯ images of the sacred ruler. Cf. also Tyan, Califat, 450–71, and Crone and Hinds, God’s Caliph, who document the caliph’s claims to, and exercise of, religious authority. Presupposing as they did the exercise of temporal power, the legislative and theological initiatives of the early caliphs represent a diﬀerent phenomenon than the sacrality of his person (treated separately in Tyan, Califat, 471–73), although the two aspects are doubtless related. 190 Rih·lat Ibn Jubayr, 202–03. Ibn al- Imra¯nı¯, Inba¯ , 1–60.

The caliph al-Ma mu¯n

However, it does so in accordance with Ibn al- Imra¯nı¯’s notions of the office, which are “Shiite” in the Abbasid sense, and thoroughly anti-Alid. Armed with these convictions, Ibn al- Imra¯nı¯ breaks the Sunni tradition of silence regarding the crises of al-Ma mu¯n’s career. The first of these crises is Alı¯ al-Rid·a¯’s heir apparency. Even Ibn al- Imra¯nı¯ cannot find a good explanation of the caliph’s motives for nominating an Alid heir. The biographer does, however, take it upon himself to explain that alRid·a¯ proved unworthy of his office. After accepting the designation, he says, the heir apparent went out to a mosque and invoked God’s blessings upon Adam, Noah, Abraham, Ishmael, Muh·ammad, Alı¯, and himself. “When the caliphal troops saw him doing this, they dismounted en masse and prostrated themselves before him.” Al-Ma mu¯n, “fearing he would lose the caliphate then and there,” had al-Rid·a¯ turned back from the mosque and went out to lead the prayer himself. “Soon afterward,” says Ibn al- Imra¯nı¯, “ Alı¯ b. Mu¯sa¯ [al-Rid·a¯] happened to die.”191 This report may preserve the memory of a real incident: according to Twelver Shiite sources, al-Rid·a¯ was imprisoned in Sarakhs as the result of a similar accusation.192 For Ibn al- Imra¯nı¯, in any case, the point was simply that al-Rid·a¯ did not deserve the heir apparency. The biographer claims that al-Rid·a¯ died a natural death, but the implication to be drawn from the story is that if he was assassinated, it was for a good reason. Regarding the second controversy of al-Ma mu¯n’s reign, the Inquisition, Ibn al- Imra¯nı¯ employs a similar strategy. He suppresses what he cannot explain, and uses spurious reports to head off the most damaging implications for al-Ma mu¯n. Of the creationist doctrine, he makes no mention. At least, he says nothing about it in al-Ma mu¯n’s entry, where one might expect to find it. Instead, he discusses it where it will do less harm: in the entry for another caliph. This turns out to be al-Mu tas·im, who inherited from al-Ma mu¯n the responsibility for prosecuting the Inquisition and as a consequence ordered the dissident scholar Ibn H · anbal to be flogged in open court (see ch. 4). Ibn al- Imra¯nı¯’s version, which bears little resemblance to any other account of the event, fawns on Ibn H · anbal, alludes to the flogging only in the vaguest way, and exonerates al-Mu tas·im. The caliph, says Ibn al- Imra¯nı¯, persecuted Ibn H · anbal only at the instigation of the judge Ibn Abı¯ Du a¯d. The latter “urged [this course of action] because he was a Mu tazilı¯ while [Ibn H · anbal] – may God be pleased with him – was the imam of Sunnism.” At his trial, Ibn H · anbal refers to his family’s support of the Abbasid revolution. Suitably impressed, the caliph releases him (in reality, he flogged him and then released him, but Ibn al- Imra¯nı¯’s account omits this detail). “Until the day he died, Ibn H · anbal used to praise al-Mu tasim, mention this incident, and pray God to have · mercy on him.”193 As Ibn al- Imra¯nı¯ would have it, al-Mu tasim acted on false information · given by advisors who claimed that Ibn H · anbal held his views in ignorance. 191 192

Ittafaqa fı¯ aqı¯bi dha¯lik wafa¯tu Alı¯ b. Mu¯sa¯. Ibid., 99. 193 UAR, II: 183–84; see further p. 87 below. Ibn al- Imra¯nı¯, Inba¯ , 105.

Classical Arabic Biography

Later, the caliph realized his error, with the blame for this unfortunate episode falling upon Ibn Abı¯ Du a¯d. Ibn H · anbal, descendant of the abna¯ al-dawla, emerges as a loyal supporter of the Abbasids, while al-Mu tas·im emerges with a reputation for fairness and disputational acumen. Given his explanatory strategy, it is clear why Ibn al- Imra¯nı¯ cannot mention the Inquisition in alMa mu¯n’s entry. The caliph was no pawn of his advisors in this matter. Rather, he espoused the creationist doctrine with unmistakable personal enthusiasm. Any explanation of why the doctrine was correct when al-Ma mu¯n held it but wrong when al-Mu tas·im renounced it would be too awkward. Despite its tendentious character, Ibn al- Imra¯nı¯’s biography commands a certain respect. His Sunni predecessors avoided the matter of al-Rid·a¯ as best they could, and mentioned the Inquisition only in the biographies of its victims. Ibn al- Imra¯nı¯, evidently jealous on behalf of a caliphate that in his time had become “a ghost of its former self,” mounted a plucky defense of one of its most controversial dynasts. To do so, he slandered al-Rid·a¯ but lionized Ibn H · anbal, doubtless a prudent choice. With regard to the Inquisition, his solution is more economical than that of the H · anbalı¯ biographers, who invoke miracles to explain the scholar’s release (see ch. 4). Although later Sunni compilers could not accept al-Ma mu¯n as an ima¯m al-huda¯, they did adopt (consciously or otherwise) al- Imra¯nı¯’s strategy of exculpating the mih·na-caliphs by blaming their advisors.

The H · adı¯th-men strike back The Mamluk tradition of Syria and Egypt marks a ﬁnal transformation in alMa mu¯n’s reputation. After the fall of Baghdad to the Mongols in 656/1258, Arabic biography, like the Abbasid caliphate itself, moved westward into a new era. In his recent study of Arabic historiography, Tarif Khalidi has emphasized the variety of new perspectives in Ayyubid- and Mamluk-period writings on the past. The historians, he says, display an increasing willingness to interrupt historical narration with “personal comments or opinions on people and events,” as well as a new assertiveness in criticizing contemporary rulers. At the same time, they deplore the retrojection of current opinion upon the representation of past ﬁgures, and display great skill in identifying the biases of their colleagues.194 Those biographers who renewed the study of the Abbasid caliphs demonstrate a boldness and critical acumen that bear out Khalidi’s impressions. They evince an eagerness to pass judgement, and an admirable zeal in assembling whatever evidence might serve as a basis for their evaluations. At the same time, their temporal remove from the early Abbasid caliphate permitted assessments more dispassionate than those of their predecessors who were embroiled in the endemic factional turmoil of Baghdad. The most important caliphal biographer in the Mamluk tradition, Shams 194

Khalidi, Arabic Historical Thought, 182–204.

The caliph al-Ma mu¯n

al-Dı¯n al-Dhahabı¯ (d. 748/1348), deals with al-Ma mu¯n as a biographical figure in his own right, and as a personality to be analyzed in the entry devoted to Ibn Hanbal.195 Al-Ma mu¯n, he says, “was one of the great Abbasids, with · many virtues overall.” Unfortunately, he was also a Shiite. The designation of an Alid heir does not disturb al-Dhahabı¯: elsewhere, he declares al-Rid·a¯ to have been “a person of importance, and worthy of the caliphate.”196 Rather, the problem with al-Ma mu¯n’s Shiism is that it led him to espouse the doctrine of the khalq al-Qur a¯n. In his entry on Ibn H · anbal, the biographer elaborates on this judgement. The Muslim community, he says “had always held that the Qur a¯n is the speech of God, inspired and revealed by Him, and had thought no more of the matter until the doctrine suddenly appeared declaring it . . . created and made, and attributed to Him only honorifically.” The Jahmı¯ya, who espoused this view, kept it a secret during the reigns of al-Mahdı¯, alRashı¯d, and al-Amı¯n. But then the caliph al-Ma mu¯n appeared. He was an intelligent man and a speculative theologian, with an interest in the rational sciences. He collected the books of the ancient Greeks and had their philosophy translated into Arabic. He exerted vigorous efforts in these endeavors. Not only the Mu tazilı¯s and Jahmı¯s but indeed the Shiites came to the fore, he being one of the latter. Eventually he was led to summon the community to assent to the doctrine of the createdness of the Qur a¯n. He put the scholars to the test, and was unrelenting [in his prosecution of the Inquisition]. In the same year he died, leaving a legacy of calamity and disaster to the faith.197

Al-Dhahabı¯’s student Ta¯j al-Dı¯n al-Subkı¯ (d. 771/1370) also deals with alMa mu¯n in a biographical entry on Ibn H · anbal. There he takes pains to show off the attractive aspects of the caliph’s character. “Historians have mentioned that he excelled in fiqh, Arabic, and tribal history, all while being decisive, resolute, clement, learned, wily, awe-inspiring, tolerant, intelligent, eloquent, and pious.” He relates anecdotes demonstrating al-Ma mu¯n’s knowledge of H · adı¯th, his respect for scholars, his generosity, and his forbearance. “Our only aim,” says al-Subkı¯ of his digression, “has been to show that [al-Ma mu¯n] was a scholar and a good man.” Then, like al-Dhahabı¯ before him, al-Subkı¯ proceeds to argue that al-Ma mu¯n’s interest in philosophy – specifically, “the little he knew of ancient learning” – led him to adopt and enforce the dogma of the created Qur a¯n. Even so, the blame does not fall squarely on the caliph. Rather, al-Subkı¯ argues, the fault lies with “evil scholars” (fuqaha¯ al-su¯ ), particularly Ibn Abı¯ Du a¯d, who led him and his successors astray.198 The last representative of the Mamluk tradition, Jala¯l al-Dı¯n al-Suyu¯t·¯ı (d. 911/1505), proves the sternest critic of al-Ma mu¯n. He praises the caliph’s learning and piety, but deplores the “excessive Shiite tendencies” that led him to confer the succession upon Alı¯ al-Rid·a¯. Al-Suyu¯t·¯ı seems aware of the 195 196 198

SAN, X: 272–90 (al-Ma mu¯n); XI: 177–358 (Ibn H · anbal; see further ch. 4). 197 Ibid., IX: 387–93 (see further ch. 3). Ibid., XI: 236. Subkı¯, T · abaqa¯t, II: 56–59.

Classical Arabic Biography

Shiite readings of the episode, mentioning, for example, the claim that alMa mu¯n intended to abdicate in favor of al-Rid·a¯.199 This allegation is common in Twelver sources (though Ibn al- Imra¯nı¯ was aware of it as well). He also includes the report, first adduced by al-Mas u¯dı¯, of the caliph’s meeting with Zubayda.200 By adducing this report, he seems to say that alMa mu¯n had praiseworthy intentions in nominating al-Rid·a¯ (and therefore, it seems, cannot have murdered him). Misguided as it may have been the designation of Rid·a¯ pales in comparison to the caliph’s major crime: the proclamation of the created Qur a¯n and the subsequent persecution of the H · adı¯th-scholars. Like his predecessors, alSuyu¯t·¯ı does not realize that the H · adı¯th-attributions to al-Ma mu¯n are dubious. Following Ibn Asa¯kir and al-Dhahabı¯, he lists al-Ma mu¯n’s teachers and those who related on his authority, and retells the story of the caliph’s H · adı¯th-lecture. But he also uses his biographer’s privilege of drawing together disparate evidence to reach a general conclusion about his subject. His conclusion, in a word, is that for al-Ma mu¯n, much learning proved a dangerous thing. It was his “interest in philosophy and the ancient sciences” that “led him to espouse the creation of the Qur a¯n.” When he declared the khalq al-Qur a¯n an article of faith, “people were outraged, and the country stood on the brink of insurrection.” Lest the reader doubt the enormity of this event, al-Suyu¯t·¯ı comes back to it in the concluding section of the Ta rı¯kh. There he discusses the saying that “every hundred years, a calamity befalls the Muslims.” In the second century, the calamities were the civil war between al-Amı¯n and alMa mu¯n, and the Inquisition. Of the two, the Inquisition was worse, because it was the first tribulation “to compromise [the community’s] religious mission with heretical innovation. No caliph before [al-Ma mu¯n] had ever summoned the community to anything resembling heresy.” In al-Suyu¯t·¯ı’s view, the Inquisition was more than misguided theology; it was a world-historical catastrophe.201 The Mamluk-period accounts of al-Ma mu¯n’s career demonstrate that biographers did not confine themselves to commenting upon and correcting older biographies. Rather, they used the genre to re-evaluate their subjects’ careers in light of reports they found in the annals, producing in the process a reinterpretation of the historical events themselves. As heirs to the labors of their predecessors, al-Dhahabı¯, al-Subkı¯, and al-Suyu¯t·¯ı had no choice but to credit the sixth/eleventh century transformation of al-Ma mu¯n into a H · adı¯thscholar. They dutifully reproduced the reports that credit the caliph with expertise in H · adı¯th. But their commitment to exposing the “characters and dispositions” of their subject led them to consider all the available evidence, including the caliph’s interest in philosophy, his appointment of al-Rid·a¯, and his belief in the uncreatedness of the Qur a¯n. As a result, they were able to undo, or at least put into unflattering perspective, the centuries-old misrepre199

See below, p. 92.

200

Suyu¯t·¯ı, Ta rı¯kh, 491–92.

201

Ibid., 489, 492, 497, 837.

The caliph al-Ma mu¯n

sentation of al-Ma mu¯n as a pillar of H · adı¯th. This re-evaluation, in turn, restored to the mih·na its full signiﬁcance as a formative crisis in the relationship between the scholars and the state.

Conclusions Al-Ma mu¯n reportedly commented that “a ruler will forgive anything except tale-telling, violations of privacy, and attacks on the dynasty,” or in a variant, “attacks on kingship.”202 Fortunately, biographers routinely ignored his warning. Their irreverence does not imply doubts about al-Ma mu¯n’s legitimacy as caliph. It does, however, set caliphal biography apart from other subgenres of ·ta¯ ifa-based historiography. The biographers of Shiite Imams, H · anbalı¯ scholars, and Sufis emphasize their subjects’ heirship to the Prophet, a heirship most conspicuously manifested in ilm, knowledge. In his day, alMa mu¯n claimed a similar legacy for himself. Indeed, he specifically declared himself the ima¯m al-huda, “the rightly guided leader.” The majority of his biographers, however, did not endorse this claim. For Ibn Abı¯ T·a¯hir, alMa mu¯n was a good king, learned, clement, and forbearing. For al-Tabarı¯, he was an eloquent and poetically gifted sovereign with (we may infer) dangerous ideas about the Qur a¯n. For al-Mas u¯dı¯, he was a caliph but not an imam, an honor the biographer reserved for the Alids. Ibn Abı¯ T·a¯hir and al-T·abarı¯ do cite the Inquisition-letters in which the caliph makes his claim to the ima¯mat al-huda¯, and Ibn Abı¯ T·a¯hir cites a few reports that imply acquiescence in the claim. Outside these passages, however, al-Ma mu¯n’s early biographers depict him as a king, not a “knower” and an heir to the Prophet. In the second stage of Ma mu¯nid biography, Sunni scholars suddenly insist that he did have ilm. However, they define it, in proper Sunni fashion, as consisting of H · adı¯th. Al-Ma mu¯n doubtless knew H · adı¯th. However, it seems to have consisted of the Abbasid reports his family had favored since the days of al-Mansu¯r. Moreover, he proclaimed that he was the best qualified to interpret · the Prophetic (and caliphal) sunna. In consequence, he took a dim view of the H · adı¯th-scholars. He denounced them as ignoramuses, accused them of sedition, and set in motion the Inquisition that interrogated, imprisoned, and chastised many of them. The Sunni rehabilitation of al-Ma mu¯n glosses over these complications. It depicts him as learned in H · adı¯th and deferential to the scholars. The evidence it uses to do so is suspect, originating as it does with scholars who had broken the taboo against serving the state. This does not mean that the reports are entirely false. Some, indeed, contain plausible elements, particularly the mention of Hadı¯th with specifically Abbasid isna¯ds. · Although the image they present of al-Ma mu¯n contradicts his own writings, as well as the depiction of him in earlier biographies, it does accord with the later Sunni image of the Abbasid caliph as representative and defender of the 202

S·a¯bi , Rusu¯m 50; variant in MDh, IV: 7; also TMD, XXXIX: 262.

Classical Arabic Biography

faith. Even the critical Sunni biographers of the Mamluk period make no attempt to overturn the entrenched notion that al-Ma mu¯n was a H · adı¯thscholar. However, their works do return to the older tradition of granting alMa mu¯n one kind of authority while denying him another. He was caliph and a king, but not a rightly guided ima¯m: indeed, his Inquisition was a calamity for the faith. The only biographer who grants him imamic dignity is the Seljukperiod author Ibn al- Imra¯nı¯, but then again he granted it to all the Abbasid caliphs. When it comes to the two great crises of al-Ma mu¯n’s reign, even Ibn al- Imra¯nı¯ must resort to misdirection and tactful silence to preserve the caliph’s reputation. Despite their legitimist stances, all the sources preserve memories, albeit distorted ones, of al-Ma mu¯n’s crises of authority. As far as the sources allow us to judge, Baghdadi opposition to al-Ma mu¯n manifested itself in several distinct but interrelated forms. The Baghdad abna¯ and the ayya¯ru¯n had fought for al-Amı¯n during the siege of Baghdad, and later sided with the countercaliph Ibra¯hı¯m b. al-Mahdı¯. The vigilante movement, which evidently drew its adherents from the class of small proprietors, resisted the ayya¯ru¯n on one side and the counter-caliph on the other, though it eventually capitulated, in the person of Sahl b. Sala¯ma, to the authority of al-Ma mu¯n. Religious opposition from the isolationist wing of the proto-Sunnis (see ch. 4) had a popular dimension as well, being associated with craftsmen, skilled laborers, and shopkeepers. Within proto-Sunnism, moreover, there appears to have been a specifically ascetic strain of opposition to the caliphate. The writings of al-Ja¯h·iz· as well as the mih·na-letters describe these ascetics as anthropomorphists and thus collaborators in proto-Sunni heresy (see further ch. 5). In the face of such worrisome hostility, state-sympathetic transmitters evidently siezed on the comforting notion that al-Ma mu¯n could outwit the representatives of proto-Sunni vigilantism. These transmitters conflated the vigilantes, the dissident H · adı¯th-scholars, and the ascetics into a single figure: a zealot who challenges the caliph and comes away defeated. The first such report is an evident fabrication based on an older report about a commoner hauled before the grievance-court. The model for the transformation also appears to have been real. It is the caliph’s encounter with the vigilante leader Sahl b. Sala¯ma, who met with him and came away satisfied with his imamate. In later incarnations, the zealot’s appearance and argument change, as do alMa mu¯n’s rebuttals. In al-Mas u¯dı¯’s version, the caliph admits that he holds his position by accident, and would concede it to a better candidate. In Ibn Asa¯kir’s, he delivers a ringing defense of his exclusive right to uphold the sunna. In al-Khat·¯ıb’s Ta rı¯kh we find a version told from the zealot’s point of view, in which both caliph and vigilante emerge as defenders of a sunna. Significantly, however, this particular vigilante turns out to have been a Zaydı¯. These many transformations bear out the impression of Hila¯l al-Sa¯bi (d. · 448/1056–57), who declared caliphal biography to have been “influenced by the play of opinion, altered by tendentious reworkings of all kinds, trans-

The caliph al-Ma mu¯n

formed by the passing of successive and turbulent ages, and compromised by migrating isna¯ds.”203 Even so, one trend is clear. Al-Ma mu¯n’s biographers accepted his caliphate but rejected his imamate. This rejection is never explicit. Some biographers appear indifferent to his claim, while others think it unworthy of serious discussion. Others, again, accept it in theory, but then redefine it out of existence, or avoid defending its operation in practice. Whatever their intentions may have been, the result of their labors was to strip al-Ma mu¯n of imamic authority in the eyes of posterity. Ironically, this process derived much of its momentum from the work of biographers who respected and even revered the Abbasids. In praising al-Ma mu¯n as a just king or a H · adı¯thauthority, they probably meant no harm. Yet to praise an imam as anything less than an imam is to reject his claim to the office. In effect, the biographers accepted al-Ma mu¯n’s reported argument that he was caliph simply because someone had to be. Many of his contemporaries evidently accepted this argument as well. As compensation, however, they insisted on keeping the title “imam” for someone else.

203

S·a¯bi , Rusu¯m, 141.

C HA PTER 3

The Imam Alı¯ al-Rid·a¯

Those who pose questions only want to test [me] and ﬁnd a path to doubt and misbelief . . . Don’t you and your crowd see that I respond to [your inquiries] when I can remain silent instead? Alı¯ al-Rid·a¯, cited by al-Kashshı¯1

Introduction The Twelver Shiites believe that their Imams represent a tradition of heirship to the Prophet through Alı¯ b. Abı¯ T·a¯lib, Muh·ammad’s cousin, son-in-law, and designated successor. In an oration delivered at Ghadı¯r Khumm during the last year of his life, the Prophet took Ali’s hand and announced: “Whoever is my affiliate is Alı¯’s also.” He warned the assembled Muslims that when he died they would be responsible for two legacies he was leaving in their care. The first was the Qur a¯n, and the second was the people of his household: his daughter Fa¯t·ima, her husband Alı¯, and their sons al-H · asan and al-H · usayn. This speech, attested in Sunni as well as Shiite sources (though not in Ibn Ish·a¯q’s Sı¯ra or al-Tabarı¯’s Ta rı¯kh), supported the claim that the Prophet had appointed Alı¯ his successor.2 In the event, however, the succession took a different path. When Muh·ammad died, Alı¯ and Fa¯t·ima remained with his body while the Muslims at the Saqı¯fa pledged allegiance to Abu¯ Bakr. After being passed over twice more, Alı¯ finally became caliph in 35/656. Five years later he was assassinated, and Mu a¯wiya, the governor of Syria, assumed the caliphate for himself and the Umayyads. Alı¯’s son al-H · asan made a counterclaim, but abdicated under Umayyad pressure. Another son, al-H · usayn, rose in revolt and was killed, along with a small party of followers, by Umayyad troops at Karbala¯ (61/680). In later generations, Alı¯’s descendants, the Alids, periodically incited or joined similar uprisings only to suffer brutal retaliation from the Umayyad and Abbasid caliphs. The partisans (shı¯ a) of the Alids thus came to regard the family’s history as one of righteous struggle against 11 12

Kashshı¯, Ikhtiya¯r, 603. Ya qu¯bı¯, Ta rı¯kh, II: 125; cf. Nawbakhtı¯, Firaq, 28–32; Laoust, “Role,” 24–26.

The Imam Alı¯ al-Rid·a¯

usurpers bent on thwarting the succession the Prophet had prayed for at Ghadı¯r Khumm.3 Within the Shia itself, however, opinions differed on the identity of the Alid best qualified to claim the imamate or leadership of the community. Some held that one Alid in each generation was the one true Imam, that is, the possessor of authoritative knowledge ( ilm) of the revelation and the law. Some held that Alid descent and ilm were sufficient conditions for leadership, and indeed the only attributes of the Imam. Others, however, ascribed to him infallibility and even immortality.4 Claims of the latter sort appear to have arisen because of disputes over the identity of the Imam. According to the works of later heresiographers, the Shia was riven by conflicting allegiances to the various Alids who claimed the imamate, or had it claimed (sometimes posthumously) on their behalf. Even if we take into account the heresiographers’ tendency to multiply schools and reify every subtle shift of opinion, it is still evident that lively debates about the nature and identity of the Imam were commonplace among Shiites. In this contentious atmosphere, some claimants distinguished themselves from their rivals by attributing an ever-increasing range of powers to themselves. Should an aspiring Imam hesitate to offer such claims on his own behalf, his adherents, our sources show, would offer them in his stead. The frequently acrimonious disputes that ensued appear to have put at least some of the candidates in an awkward position. We find them exerting themselves to restrain their followers’ enthusiasm, or struggling to reply to visitors who demand immediate proof of their imamate. Even the death of an aspirant only set off another round of claims and counter-claims. Those partisans who hoped for his messianic return would recount tales of his miraculous escape from death, while those who had embraced a successor would reply with equally elaborate stories of the old Imam’s final agony. At the close of the second century, many Imami Shiites had come to agree that the previous Imams had been Alı¯ b. Abı¯ T·a¯lib, his sons al-H · asan and alH usayn, and then (according to some) al-H usayn’s lineal descendants Alı¯ b. · · al-H usayn, Muh ammad al-Ba ¯ qir, Ja far al-S a ¯ diq, and Mu ¯ sa ¯ al-Ka ¯ z im. By that · · · · time, too, the Imamis had articulated a vision of the imamate as a gift from God. The Imams, like the prophets, offered the promise of salvation, and like them were fated to meet with scorn and persecution. Creeds expressing this vision were ascribed to all the historical Imams, especially Alı¯ b. Abı¯ T·a¯lib. According to one such creed, the office of Imam owes its origins to the time before the creation of the world. First, God took a part of His own light and created the Prophet Muh·ammad. After eliciting the obedience of the future generations of mankind (Qur a¯n 7: 172), He taught them that “guidance is with [Muh·ammad], that the light is his, and that the imamate is his family’s.” 13 14

See, e.g., Khuwarizmı¯, Rasa¯ il, 160–61. On the early development of Imami Shiism see Hodgson, “Early Shı¯ a”; Hodgson, Venture, I: 256–67, 372ﬀ.; Rajkowski, Early Shı¯ ism; Kohlberg, “From Imamı¯ya” and “Imam and Community”; Jafri, Origins; Momen, Introduction; Modarressi, Crisis.

Classical Arabic Biography

Next God “placed the Universe, and unfurled Time,” creating the earth, the sky, the angels, and ﬁnally Adam, repository of the divine light. Then the light passed into our natures, and shone forth in our Imams. We are the lights of the sky and the lights of the earth. Through us is salvation, and from us comes hidden knowledge. History leads to us, and with our mahdı¯ [roughly, “redeemer”] comes the last and decisive sign: the seal of the Imams, the savior of the community, and the terminus of the light. We are the most excellent of created beings, the noblest of those who attest God’s unity, and the proofs of the Lord of the Universe. Let him who professes allegiance to us be congratulated on his good fortune.5

The Imams are thus the heirs of the prophets because of a divine spark that passed from the Prophet to Alı¯ and his descendants. One of these descendants, moreover, will return to deliver the faithful at the end of time. On this view, the Prophet’s announcement at Ghadı¯r Khumm did not make Alı¯ his successor. Rather, it was a ceremonial acknowledgement of a succession God had ordained before the creation of the world. The claimant eventually chosen by many Shiites as the eighth Imam was Alı¯ b. Mu¯sa¯ b. Ja far b. Muh·ammad b. Alı¯ b. al-H · usayn b. Alı¯ b. Abı¯ T·a¯lib, called al-Rid·a¯.6 Early non-Shiite historians, even those sympathetic to the Alids, have almost nothing to say about him except that he was nominated as heir apparent by al-Ma mu¯n and died shortly thereafter. One of his companions reportedly wrote an account of his death, but it is nowhere cited in the extant sources.7 Also lost is the entry on him in the Maqa¯til al-t·a¯libı¯yı¯n by Muhammad b. Alı¯ b. H · amza (d. 287/900), although extracts of it survive in a work of the same title by Abu¯ ‘l-Faraj al-Is·faha¯nı¯ (d. 356/967). In this work, al-Is·faha¯nı¯ evinces a Zaydı¯ Shiite rather than an Imami notion of the imamate. That is, he takes a sympathetic interest in any Alid who rose against the government, but does not revere a particular subset of Alids as divinely gifted Imams. Bounded by his interest in the “murders” of the Alids, his entry on alRid·a¯ deals only with the latter’s heir apparency and death. The entry is an important early source for these events, but adds little to our understanding of al-Rid·a¯’s early career or his reputation among the Imami Shiites of his day. Given the paucity of early source material, the modern reader must depend largely on a relatively late and thoroughly tendentious corpus of writings on al-Rid·a¯, that of the Twelver Shiites.8 The Twelvers, today the largest single Shiite group in the world, are an Imami community that derives its name from the number of Imams it recognizes as the legitimate bearers of the title. The list begins with Ali b. Abı¯ T·a¯lib, al-H · asan, and al-H · usayn, and continues through the latter’s descendants, including al-Rid·a¯. It ends with the Imam 15 16

17 18

MDh, I: 32–33. The chroniclers plausibly state that al-Ma mu¯n gave him his title (see ch. 2), but Twelver biographers insist that the Shiites did (UAR, I: 13–14). Wafa¯t al-Rid·a¯, credited (Naja¯shı¯, Rija¯l, 184) to Abu¯ al-S·alt al-Harawı¯ (see below). For a comprehensive compilation see Amı¯n, A ya¯n, IV (part 2), passim. The best critical account is Madelung, “ Alı¯ al-Rez·a¯.”

The Imam Alı¯ al-Rid·a¯

Muh·ammad al-Qa¯ im, who made one appearance before vanishing without an heir in 260/874. The Twelvers believe that al-Qa¯ im will return, after an occultation of unspecified length, to “fill the world with justice as it is now filled with injustice.”9 These doctrines crystallized around the year 300 , after which we find al-Rid·a¯’s name in lists of the canonical twelve Imams.10 Within a century came the biographies, the earliest extant being the capacious Uyu¯n akhba¯r al-Rid·a¯ by Ibn Ba¯bawayh al-Qummı¯ (d. 381/991). According to the Twelver sources, Alı¯ al-Rid·a¯ was born in Medina in 148/765 or 153/770. His father Mu¯sa¯ al-Ka¯z·im had been Imam before him, and designated him as his successor. Al-Ka¯z·im died in Baghdad in 183/799, allegedly poisoned by order of the caliph al-Rashı¯d. Al-Rid·a¯ thereupon claimed the imamate. A group of his father’s followers, called the wa¯qifa, nevertheless refused to acknowledge him, claiming instead that al-Ka¯z·im was either still alive or in occultation.11 An exchange quoted in Ibn Ba¯bawayh’s biography provides what may be a genuine impression of al-Rid·a¯’s early reputation outside his community. A non-Shiite speaker recalls that al-Rid·a¯ “used to speak of theology (takallam) in Medina, and gather theologians (as·h·a¯b al-kala¯m) around him.” A Shiite interlocutor corrects him, saying: “The pilgrims would come to him and ask him about what was permitted and what was not, and he would answer them. Sometimes he would use kala¯m against those who argued with him.”12 Al-Rid·a¯’s only recorded political activity in this period amounts to a brief involvement in negotiations between the Abbasid government and an Alid rebel. In 200/815, his uncle Muh·ammad b. Ja far declared himself caliph in Medina, but an Abbasid army defeated him and eventually forced him to recant. According to the Zaydı¯ biographer alIs·faha¯nı¯, the Abbasid general asked al-Rid·a¯ to deliver a message to the rebel calling upon him to surrender.13 From this brief reference it appears that alRid·a¯ did not advocate rebellion against the state, and indeed could be called upon to cooperate with the Abbasid authorities. In Ramada¯n 201/March 817, the Abbasid caliph al-Ma mu¯n declared al· Rid·a¯ his heir apparent. The designation undoubtedly affirmed al-Rid·a¯’s position as head of the Alid house, a position long understood as co-extensive with the imamate. But for the Shiites who believed in al-Rid·a¯’s imamate it upset every preconceived notion of how caliphs and Imams were supposed to behave. The Twelver sources expend a great deal of effort to explain why alMa mu¯n nominated al-Rid·a¯, why the latter accepted the charge, and why, despite the appearance of good will, the caliph was merely upholding the long caliphal tradition of plotting against the Alids.14 For their part, the 19

12 13 14

See further Kohlberg, “From Ima¯mı¯ya” and “Imam and Community”; Arjomand, “Crisis,” 10 Arjomand, Authority. Kohlberg, “From Ima¯mı¯ya.” Waqf means declaring an end to the imamic succession; those who do so are called wa¯qifa (sing. wa¯qifı¯). For Twelvers, waqf is a heresy except in the case of the last Imam. UAR, I: 177–78; see also Madelung, “ Alı¯ al-Rez·a¯,” at I: 877. Is·faha¯nı¯, Maqa¯til, 360; Gabrieli, Ma mu¯n, 27. Cf. UAR, II: 161, II: 207. UAR, II: 175.

Classical Arabic Biography

non-Twelver sources dwell on the civil war that broke out in Iraq as a result of the designation but say little about al-Rid·a¯ or his heir apparency. The historians agree that he traveled from Medina to the capital in Marv and received the oath of allegiance as heir apparent; his son took al-Ma mu¯n’s daughter in marriage.15 Al-Is·fa¯ha¯nı¯, the only non-Twelver to describe these events in any detail, states that al-Rid·a¯ was reluctant to accept the honor, and did so only on condition that he serve al-Ma mu¯n in an advisory capacity. According to al-Tabarı¯, it was al-Rid·a¯ who informed al-Ma mu¯n of the Abbasid countercaliphate in Baghdad. A Twelver report concedes as much, albeit with a good deal of fanciful elaboration.16 When al-Ma mu¯n decided to return to Iraq and reassert his authority there, the heir apparent set out with him. In a town called Sana¯ba¯d, on the outskirts of Nu¯qa¯n in the region of T·u¯s, al-Rid·a¯ fell ill and died (S·afar 203/September 818).17 Al-Ma mu¯n ordered his body interred beside that of the caliph Ha¯ru¯n al-Rashı¯d, who had perished in T·u¯s a decade earlier while campaigning against rebels in Khurasan. Sunni chroniclers of the Abbasid caliphate follow al-T·abarı¯ in attributing al-Rid·a¯’s death to a surfeit of grapes.18 Most Imami biographers, on the other hand, consider his appointment an act of caliphal duplicity and his death a consequence of deliberate poisoning. In favor of the latter view is the convenience, for al-Ma mu¯n, of suddenly being rid of the greatest single obstacle to a reconciliation with his Abbasid relatives. In favor of the caliph’s innocence, on the other hand, are his well-known pro-Alid views, which he maintained until the end of his life (see above, ch. 2), as well as the absence of credible reports of his guilt, even in pro-Alid and Shiite sources. Pious visits to al-Rid·a¯’s tomb seem to have begun soon after his death, and classical works attest to a continuous tradition of pilgrimage (ziya¯ra) to the site. The fourth/tenth-century geographer Ibn Hawqal referred to the place as · a mashhad, “tomb-shrine,” later the name of the town that grew up around it. In his biography of the Imam, Ibn Ba¯bawayh provides the reader with prayers to recite at the shrine.19 The present mausoleum, centerpiece of the Iranian city of Mashhad, dates back to the reign of Il-Khanid sultan Muh·ammad Khuda¯banda Uljaytu¯ (d. 717/1317), with many additions and restorations dating to Safavid and Qajar times.20 Today, it is one of the major pilgrimage sites anywhere in the world. In a recent study, Nasrine Hakami estimates the number of visitors in 1974 to have been over ﬁve million. Popular Iranian Shiism regards Ema¯m Reza¯ (as he is called in Persian) as a refugee buried far · from his ancestors. At the same time, he reigns as the “King of Khurasan” 15 16 17

18 19

Ya qu¯bı¯, Ta rı¯kh, II: 550–51; TRM, VIII: 554; Is·faha¯nı¯, Maqa¯til, 374ﬀ. TRM, VIII: 564; cf. UAR, II: 160. There is some dispute about this date, which appears to contradict the numismatic evidence. See Sourdel, Vizirat, II: 210–11. TRM, VIII: 554, 568; also Ibn A tham, Futu¯h·, VIII:322ﬀ. 20 UAR, II: 254–88. Mu tamin, Ra¯hnama¯; Streck, “Mashhad.”

The Imam Alı¯ al-Rida¯ ·

with the mausoleum as his court. Folk poetry calls his shrine “the Mecca of the poor” and deems a visit there equivalent to a thousand pilgrimages to the Ka ba. Visitors inundate the tomb with written petitions asking all the Imams, particularly the twelfth, to admit them to Heaven, to spare them torment in the grave, and to enable them to visit the shrines of other Imams. Other petitions beg for a house, a television set, a spouse, a job, or exemption from military service. Pilgrims who come to thank Rez·a¯ for granting their wishes leave offerings of money, carpets, and furniture, or, in the case of cures, objects symbolizing the healed limb or organ. As the pilgrims make their threefold perambulation of the cenotaph, they pass the nearby tomb of Ha¯ru¯n al-Rashı¯d. As they do so, they curse him and al-Ma mu¯n.21 In petitioning the Imams collectively while retaining the memory of alRid·a¯’s particular fate, the Mashhad pilgrims recapitulate a salient feature of Twelver biography. As a divinely inspired guide, each Imam is interchangeable with his successors and predecessors. Much of what al-Rid·a¯ says and does in his biographies could with equal plausibility be attributed to any of the other Imams. To this extent, his Twelver vitae resemble the productions of Christian hagiography, whether Western or Byzantine, which often take place “fictively in some far-off moment of the past” or in “the reversible time of myths.”22 As individuals, however, each of the Imams carried out his mission at a particular juncture in history. Unlike the typical saintly vita, therefore, a Twelver biography purports to establish precise chronology using exact dates and isna¯ds for its akhba¯r.23 One reason for maintaining this appearance of accuracy is polemical. The biographers were writing not only for the Twelver community but against the historical traditions of other Shiite groups, as well as that of the Sunnis (whom they call al- a¯mma, “the ignorant mass”). Scholars in each camp objected, or could potentially object, to every significant claim of historical fact or interpretation made by scholars in the other. The following remark of al-Majlisı¯ (d. 1111/1699 or 1700) makes it clear that the interpretation of a (supposedly) non-doctrinal matter such as the death of al-Rid·a¯ was divided along sectarian lines: Know that our side and the other side disagree about whether the blessed al-Rid·a¯ died a natural death, or whether he perished as a martyr, by poison; and if the latter, whether it was the accursed al-Ma mu¯n or someone else who poisoned him. The more prevalent view on our side is that he died a martyr, poisoned by al-Ma mu¯n.24

Even within this ostensibly historical framework, the content of many akhba¯r is thoroughly mythographic. In particular, Twelver biography abandons historical plausibility insofar as it treats al-Rid·a¯ in light of later, fully developed notions of the imamate. For this reason, it deﬁes modern critical attempts to discern how al-Rid·a¯ himself understood the oﬃce. An interesting remark in 21 22

Hakami, Pèlerinage, 42–59. See Delehaye, Legends; Patlagean, “Ancient Byzantine Historiography”; Boyer, “Attempt,” 23 28–31. The citations are from Patlagean, 111. E.g., UAR, I: 18–19. Majlisı¯, Bih·a¯r, XII: 311.

Classical Arabic Biography

this regard is that of the Sunni biographer al-Dhahabı¯ (d. 748/1348), who describes al-Rid·a¯ as “a person of importance, and worthy of the caliphate.” But, he says, the Shiites “fabricated lies about him, and attributed to him things he never said,” including the claim that he was infallible.25 Technically, al-Dhahabı¯ is probably right, unless we believe that al-Rid·a¯ understood the oﬃce in precisely the same way scholars writing two centuries later did. Unfortunately, his Twelver biographers tend to represent him as doing just that.26 Even so, their writings provide good evidence that he did claim the imamate. This evidence consists of reports that preserve, whether by necessity or through inadvertence, memories of the Imam’s sometimes unsuccessful struggle to make his claim persuasive. From a reading of these reports, we can propose an account of the circumstances – including the nomination to the heir apparency – under which al-Rid·a¯ endeavored to win the allegiance of his contemporaries. This account, in turn, permits an appreciation of how much transmitters and biographers contributed to the eventual success of his eﬀorts.

The construction of al-Rid·a¯’s imamate As Aviad Kleinberg has shown in the case of Christian saints of the later Middle Ages, a reputation for sanctity did not arise naturally as a result of the candidate’s charisma. Rather, it was the result of a complex negotiation that involved the prospective saint, his or her contemporaries (sympathetic and hostile), and the Latin-literate biographers who chose a particular version of the saint’s life for commemoration.27 The construction of al-Rid·a¯’s imamate can be described as the result of a comparable process of development. The process began in the Imam’s lifetime, during which he strove to guide his followers, persuade doubters, refute opponents, and bring malcontents back into the fold. After his death, reports of his words and deeds were incrementally modified to conform to developments in Imami doctrine, or simply retold for greater effect. This process of transmission, modification, and elaboration culminated in the Uyu¯n of Ibn Ba¯bawayh, who enshrined one set of reports as canonical.28 The presence of many explicitly polemical reports confirms that al-Rid·a¯’s imamate was a matter of dispute. Admittedly, many reports appear to have been elaborated or fabricated by pro-Rid·a¯ transmitters. Yet even these seem to preserve a memory, albeit distorted, of al-Rid·a¯’s struggle for recognition. In compiling the Uyu¯n, Ibn Ba¯bawayh was interested not only in al-Rid·a¯, 25 26

SAN, IX: 387–93. One might argue that al-Rid·a¯ would have known the teachings of his predecessors al-Ba¯qir, alS·a¯diq, and al-Ka¯z·im on the imamate. However, the argument cannot be made merely by citing the existence of these ﬁgures, because our sources on them are just as mythographic as the ones 27 Kleinberg, Prophets, passim. on al-Rid·a¯. On Ibn Ba¯bawayh see Fyzee, Creed, 6–23. The Uyu¯n is dedicated (I: 2–8) to the Buyid viceroy of al-Rayy, al-S·a¯h·ib ibn Abba¯d (d. 385/955). See further Tawh·¯ıdı¯, Akhla¯q, 166; Madelung, “Imamism,” 13–29; Kraemer, Humanism, 66.

The Imam Alı¯ al-Rida¯ ·

but also in affirming the newly crystallized creed of Twelver Shiism in the face of various opponents. Given his polemical aims, it is hardly surprising that Ibn Ba¯bawayh’s doctrinal preoccupations should be evident in his biographical practice. What is surprising, though, is the extent to which his “evidence” for al-Rid·a¯’s imamate preserves the memory of the controversies that raged over the issue in the Imam’s time. Of course, the reports we find in Ibn Ba¯bawayh had already undergone a good deal of recasting by the time they reached him. Only occasionally does a given report betray its origin in a particular stage of the process. Moreover, all the reports are subordinated to his program of exposition, which undoubtedly distorts the nature of whatever debates were occurring nearly two centuries before. Even so, the sheer quantity of reports makes it possible to gain a sense of the different stages through which al-Rida¯’s · reputation passed before assuming its canonical form. Ibn Ba¯bawayh’s Uyu¯n cites many proofs that al-Rid·a¯ was the eighth Imam. Many of these proofs are simply apodictic. On several occasions, for example, his father al-Ka¯z·im pointed to him and declared: “This is my heir.”29 In his last will and testament, his father also named him as his executor.30 Moreover, the list of Imams transmitted by God to Muh·ammad and Fa¯t·ima reportedly contained al-Rid·a¯’s name.31 Most of the proofs, however, consist of al-Rid·a¯’s replies to questions about ritual and law. One Isma¯ ı¯l b. Bazı¯ , for example, asks him about the proper order of prayer, the legal status of figured garments, the disposition of orphans promised in marriage, and the necessity of veiling in the presence of eunuchs.32 On one level, these questions are genuine requests for information. As al-Rid·a¯ is made to say, the community needed imamic rulings to clarify the Qur a¯n and sunna.33 On another level, they imply a broader challenge: can al-Rid·a¯ answer any question satisfactorily? In other words, is he really the Imam?34 In questions about ritual and law, the challenge is usually implicit. Occasionally, though, apparently innocuous reports contain references to opinions (inevitably ascribed to a third party) that appear to contradict alRid·a¯’s rulings, along with an implied request that he clarify his position. Told that gold and silver vessels are reprehensible, his interlocutor Isma¯ ı¯l b. Bazı¯ mentions that “some associates of ours relate that [your father] Mu¯sa¯ [alKa¯z·im] owned a silver-plated mirror.” No, replies the Imam, it was a plain mirror, although it did have a silver bracket.35 In more obvious cases, queries were evidently constructed simply to determine whether al-Rid·a¯ could answer them. One interlocutor, for example, asks al-Rid·a¯ why God created many 29

UAR, I: 20–33. On the nass see Nawbakhtı¯, Firaq, 30; Momen, Introduction, 153–55; ·· Modarressi, Crisis, 122, note 93. The document does not mention the imamate speciﬁcally. However, Ja far al-S·a¯diq reportedly used a similar testament to confer the succession upon al-Ka¯z·im (Rajkowski, Early Shı¯ ism, 31 32 33 UAR, I: 42–45. UAR, II: 18–20. UAR, II: 20–21. 563–64). Cf. Kohlberg, “Imam and Community,” which shows that Imami scholars displayed various attitudes ranging from acceptance to disagreement with the opinions of living Imams. UAR, II: 18.

Classical Arabic Biography

species instead of just one. Another wants to know why God drowned innocent children in Noah’s flood. Yet another demands to hear why Pharaoh’s conversion was invalid.36 Even more unfriendly are the questions that probe the history of the Alid family and the imamate. If Alı¯ b. Abı¯ T·a¯lib was so conspicuously virtuous, why did his contemporaries not rally around him? Why did he wait twenty-five years to fight for his rights? And why did the 37 Outside the imamate go to al-H · usayn’s children instead of al-H · asan’s? Uyu¯n, in a report preserved by al-Kashshı¯, a man asks the most basic question of all: “Are you an Imam?”38 I have found only one comparable report in Ibn Ba¯bawayh, whose sources appear to have recognized that a simple “yes” (al-Rid·a¯’s reply in both cases) was less persuasive than a demonstration of ilm.39 Admittedly, one can imagine a perplexed believer asking such questions for his own edification. But al-Rid·a¯’s reputation would still depend on his ability to provide satisfactory replies to questions that only an Imam can answer. In the case of Ja far al-S·adiq, we are told that an entire schism erupted when he answered the same question in two different ways.40 One suspects that interested Shiites had a list of difficult questions they posed to every claimant to the imamate. In a letter preserved by al-Kashshı¯, al-Rid·a¯ declares: I have answered many, many questions, so you and whoever else wants to should examine [my answers] and consider them well. If you don’t find relief [from doubt] there, [my obligation is finished, because] I have provided you with all the proof and lesson [you need]. Asking too many questions is shameful, in our view. Those who pose questions only want to test [me] and find a path to doubt and misbelief . . . Don’t you and your crowd see that I respond to [your inquiries] when I can remain silent instead? [If I do] it is because I have the right to, not because of what you and your supporters say: namely, that I don’t know [the answers]. However, I have no choice, because I know these matters for a certainty while you remain in doubt.41

If the Uyu¯n is any guide, the skeptics who gave al-Rid·a¯ the most trouble were the wa¯qifa (“those who stop”). One of Ibn Ba¯bawayh’s proofs, the so-called tablet of Fa¯t·ima, alludes to a “blind and black calamity” that will arise over the succession to al-Ka¯z·im.42 The “calamity” is evidently the appearance of the wa¯qifa, whom the tablet calls “liars and deniers.” This group, according to the heresiographers, believed that al-Rid·a¯’s father al-Ka¯z·im was the last 36

39 40

UAR, II: 75–77. The answers are (1) so that He would not be suspected of impotence; (2) because He had rendered all women barren for the forty years preceding the flood, and (3) the conversion was invalid because it occurred under duress. UAR, II: 81–82. Regarding the first question, the Imam answers that Alı¯ had been so zealous in fighting the enemies of God that he alienated their surviving relatives; regarding the second, he answers that Alı¯ modeled his conduct on that of the Prophet, who forbore attacking the Meccan polytheists until he could be assured of victory. The answer to the third question is uncharacteristically curt: “Because that’s where God put it, and ‘He is not to be asked about 38 Kashshı¯, Ikhtiya¯r, 463. what He does’” (Qur a¯n 21: 23). UAR, II: 209 (this is the Ibn Qiya¯ma¯ report, on which see below, p. 79). 41 42 Nawbakhtı¯, Firaq, 73. Kashshı¯, Ikhtiya¯r, 603. UAR, I: 42–45.

The Imam Alı¯ al-Rida¯ ·

Imam, or had never died at all.43 In al-Kashshı¯’s report, the man who asks alRid·a¯ directly if he is the Imam has first to be assured that the old Imam is “properly dead” (mada¯ mawtan), as opposed to “disappeared.”44 In the Uyu¯n, · Ibn Ba¯bawayh blames the appearance of the wa¯qifa on the greed of al-Ka¯z·im’s trustees, who denied his death so they could keep his property.45 But as the Uyu¯n itself reveals, there were more principled reasons for doubting al-Rid·a¯. One such reason emerges in a report about al-H · usayn b. Qiya¯ma¯, identified as “a leader of the wa¯qifa,” who asked permission to speak with al-Rid·a¯. Upon being admitted, he asked “Are you an Imam?” “Yes,” responded al-Rid·a¯, to which Ibn Qiya¯ma¯ retorted that he could prove the contrary. Al-Rid·a¯, we are told, sat silent for a long time, “scratching at the ground” with his staff. Finally he asked how Ibn Qiya¯ma¯ could prove this. The latter replied that Ja far alS·a¯diq stipulated that every Imam must have children. Al-Rid·a¯, even at his advanced age, had none. Al-Rid·a¯ “bowed his head longer than he had the first time,” and finally replied that God would soon grant him a heir. Of course, as the report goes on to relate, a son (the future Imam Muh·ammad al-Taqı¯) was born within the year.46 This report, which appears to preserve a genuine memory of al-Rid·a¯’s confrontation with the wa¯qifa, also reveals how transmitters manipulated the evidence to make their case for his imamate. His immediate associates (two of whom narrate the report) evidently controlled access to him, probably with the intent of protecting him from awkward questions like this one. He may have given an unsatisfactory answer to this particular question on some occasion or other, the memory of which survives in this report of his discomfort. According to some skeptics, moreover, the infant who appeared in 195/810 was actually the son of one of al-Rid·a¯’s slaves.47 If so, it may have been questions like Ibn Qiya¯ma¯’s that prompted the Imam to adopt the child as his heir. Once he knew that an heir would appear (naturally or otherwise), the Imam could allow skeptics like Ibn Qiya¯ma¯ to question him, knowing that his answers could later serve as evidence of his foreknowledge. In retrospect, even his silences could be piously interpreted as moments during which he received inspired knowledge of the future, or debated the wisdom of revealing that knowledge to Ibn Qiya¯ma¯. Finally, it is significant that Ibn Qiya¯ma¯ insisted 43

44 45

See Shahristanı¯, Milal, 345–46, Na¯shi , Us·u¯l, 47–48, and Nawbakhtı¯, Firaq, 86–90, who adds that the waqf-position came in several variations. Some believed that al-Ka¯z·im escaped from prison and hid, others that he died but was resurrected, and others again that he died and will return at the end of time. Of this latter group, some considered al-Rid·a¯ and the subsequent Imams to be al-Ka¯z·im’s representatives. Yet another faction held that he delegated one Muh·ammad b. Bashı¯r and his successors to serve as Imams. See also Rajkowski, Early Shı¯ ism, 616–18; Momen, Introduction, 56–57; E. Kohlberg, “Mu¯sa¯ al-Ka¯z·im.” Ikhtiya¯r, 463. UAR, I: 112–14; 106. The tales of appropriated property conﬂict with al-Ka¯z·im’s reputation for poverty, and Ibn Ba¯bawayh tries to explain away the discrepancy (UAR, I: 114). Al-Ka¯z·im probably had a substantial income: he is credited with regularizing the collection of the tithes (actually khums, a ﬁfth of income) and benefactions paid to the Imam by his followers 46 UAR, II: 209–10. (Modarressi, Crisis, 12–15). See Modarressi, Crisis, 62–63, note 38, and references cited.

Classical Arabic Biography

on confronting al-Rid·a¯ instead of ignoring him. His skepticism, like that of his contemporaries, does not appear malevolent. Rather, it came from a genuine desire to find and acknowledge the Imam of the age, and to protect the community from the danger of following an impostor. The wa¯qifa’s other claim, namely that al-Ka¯z·im had never died, appears to have given al-Rid·a¯ trouble as well. When he heard them claim that his father was still alive, he could do no more, it seems, than protest their assertions: “God Almighty! The Prophet died, but [al-Ka¯z·im] didn’t?!”48 The appearance of an heir may have won back some of the wa¯qifa, as the story of Ibn Qiya¯ma¯ claims. Others, however, held out – as late as the 1950s, according to one account.49 Ibn Ba¯bawayh, in any event, speaks of them in the present tense, and felt it necessary to refute them. As we have seen, he adduces reports that accuse them of wanting to retain al-Ka¯z·im’s property. Furthermore, he includes accounts of al-Ka¯z·im’s death, with the explicit purpose of refuting those who think him still alive. These reports are worth a moment’s notice, because they will serve as the models for two otherwise inexplicable stories about the death of al-Rid·a¯. The reports Ibn Ba¯bawayh cites agree that the Imam Mu¯sa¯ al-Ka¯z·im was poisoned by the caliph al-Rashı¯d while under house arrest in Baghdad. In the reports, al-Ka¯z·im informs a group of Alid visitors that the caliph is going to poison him. However, he cannot die until he is fated to do so (when al-Rashı¯d uses the poison prematurely, he ends up poisoning his own dog). First, the Imam announces, he must travel to Medina to appoint his successor. He vanishes mysteriously from prison and makes the trip from Baghdad to Medina and back in a single night. Then he drinks doctored water, or eats tainted food, and dies. The Alid dignitaries who come to see the body find no trace of foul play. They are not fooled, because they heard him predict his own death. Then they wash, shroud, and bury the Imam. One of them is quoted as exclaiming: “How can they say he’s alive when I buried him myself ?!” Ibn Ba¯bawayh comments: “I have only reproduced these reports in this book to refute those who declare [al-Ka¯z·im] the last Imam.” One difficulty, however, still remained. Ja far al-S·a¯diq, the sixth Imam, had declared that only an Imam may wash his predecessor’s corpse. At the time of al-Ka¯z·im’s death in Baghdad, al-Rid·a¯ was in Medina. Therefore, the wa¯qifa argued, al-Rid·a¯ cannot have washed his father’s corpse (from which it also follows, more or less, that al-Ka¯z·im cannot have died). This argument clearly gave Ibn Ba¯bawayh some trouble. He begins by arguing that someone other than the new Imam may happen to wash the corpse, but this does not invali48 49

UAR, I: 112–14; 106. Some modern scholars describe them as having disappeared into the Imami mainstream by the end of the third/ninth century (e.g., Kohlberg, “Mu¯sa¯,” at 647). However, the group was still active at the beginning of the fourth/tenth century, when Abu¯ Sahl al-Nawbakhtı¯ attacked them in his Tanbı¯h (Arjomand, “Crisis,” 505); and Madelung has found mention of them in the Maghrib in the 1950s (“Notes,” 87–97; cited in Modarressi, Crisis, 61).

The Imam Alı¯ al-Rid·a¯

date the new Imam’s position. Then he tries a new tack: “We have heard reports to the effect that al-Rid·a¯ did wash [al-Ka¯z·im’s] corpse while remaining invisible to some of those who were assembled for that purpose.” He hopes that this will settle the matter, since “[even] the wa¯qifa do not deny that God can fold the earth for the Imam and enable him to travel long distances in a short time.”50 If the struggle against the wa¯qifa is any guide, al-Rid·a¯ owed the spread of his reputation not only to his own efforts but also to those of sympathetic eyewitnesses and transmitters.51 According to the Firaq al-Shı¯ a, some of the wa¯qifa acknowledged him as Imam when “they saw him perform certain feats which convinced them.” Others, however, “later came to believe the accounts of his companions and to trust their opinion of him, and so returned to the Imami doctrine.”52 This passage implies many of the reports we find in the Uyu¯n first circulated in al-Rid·a¯’s generation or the one immediately following, when persuasive reports of his imamate would have been most immediately needed. The Firaq does not say whether the accounts were put in circulation by al-Rid·a¯’s companions, or merely attributed to them. Even so, the passage confirms that the Imam’s reputation spread through the efforts of his associates. Who precisely were these figures? The Uyu¯n tells us almost nothing about the men named in its isna¯ds, and the rija¯l-works are almost equally laconic.53 The Uyu¯n does, however, preserve a sense of the circumstances under which al-Rid·a¯’s contemporaries came to believe in his cause. On the way to Marv, the Imam stopped at Nishapur. There he was mobbed by citizens seeking H · adı¯th. As Richard Bulliet has shown, the Nishapuris of later centuries regarded the study of Hadı¯th as a rite of passage and a mark of social distinction.54 Their · predecessors appear to have taken a similar interest in H · adı¯th, and to have considered al-Rid·a¯ a privileged transmitter by virtue of his descent from the Prophet. In the one H · adı¯th actually quoted in the report, al-Rid·a¯ relates the Prophet’s promise of salvation to anyone who testifies to the oneness of God. By implication, it seems, al-Rid·a¯ can promise the key to salvation to anyone who hears him recite this H · adı¯th. Perhaps not coincidentally, the Nishapuris attributed miraculous powers to al-Rida. When he planted an almond tree in his host’s yard, people took the almonds as remedies for ophthalmia, birth pains, and animal colic. Similarly blessed were the pots made from a quarry where he had stopped, and a fountain from which he had drunk.55 When he rode out of the city, a crowd of scholars reportedly clung to the reins of his 56 Their reverence for “the Prophet’s son” mule and begged him for H · adı¯th. does not make the Nishapuris Shiites, much less proto-Twelver Imamis. But the fervid attachment to his memory there and elsewhere doubtless proved 50 53 54 56

51 52 UAR, I: 95–108. Cf. Modarressi, Crisis, 105. Nawbakhtı¯, Firaq, 89. The most important exception is Abu¯ al-S·alt al-Harawı¯, who will be discussed below. 55 Bulliet, Patricians. UAR, II: 132–37; Scarcia Amoretti, “Interpretazione.” UAR, II: 134.

Classical Arabic Biography

conducive to the fabrication and acceptance of hagiographic reports like the ones in the Uyu¯n. In the most strikingly mythographic of these reports, al-Rid·a¯’s ilm balloons into comprehensive knowledge of all books and languages, as well as the ability to read minds and foretell the future. The transmitters of these reports used the topos of question-and-answer to construct tales in which the Imam defeats his interlocutor on the latter’s ground, no matter what the subject. To impress an audience skeptical of his ilm, he uses the condensed, jargon-heavy style of the speculative theologians.57 In a long debate held at the caliph’s court at Marv, he refutes the Jewish Exilarch, the Nestorian Catholicos, and the dualist mutakallim Imra¯n al-S·a¯bi with citations from the Torah, the Gospels, and the Psalms, followed by a barrage of expertly constructed syllogisms.58 Other reports credit him with knowing all languages, including Greek, Persian, and Slavonic.59 Moreover, he can read minds, a power he demonstrates by reminding his visitors of questions or favors they forget to ask. He can also foretell future events, such as the civil war between al-Amı¯n and alMa mu¯n, the execution of the Abbasid general Harthama b. A yan, and his own death by poison. He even knows when it will rain, and tells his companions to bring an umbrella (he himself stays dry despite the storm).60 Stories like these present the Imam as more than a source of legal rulings for his Imami followers. Rather, he is a repository of knowledge of all kinds, and can therefore serve as the ideal representative of the entire Muslim community. Ibn Ba¯bawayh’s willingness to admit miracle-stories like these was to earn him the censure of rationalist biographers.61 In his own day, however, his position was the skeptical one, in contradistinction to that of the so-called ghula¯h and mufawwid·a. Since the imamate of Ibn Abı¯ T·a¯lib, disagreements had reportedly broken out between those Shiites who venerated the Imam as a privileged interpreter of the law and those who revered him as a manifestation of divinity.62 Adherents of the former view accused the adherents of the latter of ghuluww, literally “exaggeration,” referring to the ascription of divinity to the Imams.63 Although the heresiographers’ accounts of the early disputes are dubious, the debate itself was certainly current in Ibn Ba¯bawayh’s time. In his credal works, he condemns ghuluww as well as the cognate heresy of tafwı¯d· (the view that the Imams maintained the world in God’s place; but often used 57

58 60 61

E.g., VAR, I: 150–53, where the Imam refutes tashbı¯h. Van Ess attributes al-Rida¯’s “Mu tazil· ism” to the intervention of his transmitters (ThG, III: 156–57). On Ibn Ba¯bawayh’s relationship with the Mu tazila, see Madelung, “Imamism,” 17. 59 UAR, I: 154–78; see further Rajkowski, Early Shı¯ ism, 632–33. UAR, II: 227–28. Ibid., II: 200–26. By “miracle” in this chapter I mean dala¯la, a change in the natural order eﬀected by God as 62 proof of al-Rid·a¯’s imamate. Cf. p. 133, note 121. See, e.g., Nawbakhtı¯, Firaq, 32–33. Hodgson (“Early Shı¯ a”) describes ghuluww as a term of abuse used by Twelvers for “any primitive Shı¯ ite speculation” that did not become a part of post-occultation doctrine. Ironically, many of the doctrines described as “exaggerated” later became standard (e.g., the cursing of the ﬁrst caliphs). See further Buckley, “Early Shiite Ghula¯h.” On modern “ghula¯h” sects, see Moosa, Extremist Shi ites.

The Imam Alı¯ al-Rid·a¯

as a synonym for ghuluww).64 As Hossein Modarressi has shown, however, many of the arguments associated with these movements, including the attribution of infallibility and omniscience to the Imams, did ﬁnd their way into the scholarship of Qumm, where Ibn Ba¯bawayh worked.65 The text of the Uyu¯n reveals that certain “exaggerations” had indeed attached themselves indelibly to the Imam’s biography. Yet it is also clear that Ibn Ba¯bawayh strove to head oﬀ any misapprehensions that might arise from them. He prefaces the chapter on thaumaturgy with al-Rid·a¯’s warning that wonders occur only because God responds to his prayers. After a story in which the Imam predicts the time of his uncle’s death, Ibn Ba¯bawayh interjects a reminder that the Imam knew the life spans of the Alids only because the Prophet had written them down.66 Similarly, certain reports appear calculated to show that the Imam’s knowledge of the future does not permit him to change it. In one case, a man who had seen the Prophet in a dream and been given a number of dates representing his remaining years of life asked al-Rid·a¯ to give him a larger number of dates. The Imam refused: “Had the Prophet given you more, I would have as well.” When another man asked to be cured of gangrene, al-Rid·a¯ healed his mouth but not his foot, comforting him with the thought that bearing pain is a virtue. The implication is that the man was destined to limp. Most dramatically, the Imam cannot avert his own murder.67 Besides the comments he makes on the more misleading reports, Ibn Ba¯bawayh lets al-Rid·a¯ pronounce critiques of the “exaggerators” as they supposedly existed in his time. One such report takes on particular importance in light of the Imam’s eventual fate. The narrator tells the Imam that certain ghula¯h “in the Sawa¯d of Kufa” claim that the Imam al-H · usayn was never killed. Rather, he ascended to Heaven, leaving a double to die in his place. AlRid·a¯ denies this vigorously. For one thing, the Prophet himself predicted the death of al-H · usayn. Furthermore: By God, al-H · usayn certainly was killed. Not only that, but men better than he were killed as well, namely, the Commander of the Faithful [ Alı¯] and his son al-H · asan. Not one of us goes unmurdered (ma¯ minna¯ illa¯ maqtu¯lan). I myself, by God, shall die by poison, assassinated by a certain someone. I know this because of the covenant vouchsafed me by the Prophet of God, who had it from Gabriel, who had it from God Almighty.68

This report may be authentic: as R. P. Buckley has pointed out, the ﬁrst known writings against ghuluww originate with contemporaries of the Imam.69 On the other hand, later generations were so concerned with the matter that it is easy to imagine them putting their words in al-Rid·a¯’s mouth. During his lifetime, al-Rida¯ evidently subjected himself to captious ques· tioning by followers and skeptics alike. As al-Kashshı¯’s letter indicates, the 64 67 68

65 66 Fyzee, Shi ite Creed, 100–5. Modarressi, Crisis, 19–51. UAR, II: 207. UAR, II: 200–26. UAR, II: 203–04. An allomorph of this claim is attributed to Ja far al-S·a¯diq; see Rajkowski, 69 Buckley, “Early Shiite Ghula¯h,” 319. Early Shı¯ ism, 609.

Classical Arabic Biography

Imam continued to answer questions even when he knew they were being asked only to test him. Moreover, the Uyu¯n lets us suspect that when the wa¯qifa insisted on an heir, he produced one. Part of al-Rid·a¯’s success, then, consisted in admitting the legitimacy of the demands made of him, even by the skeptics. Yet he cannot have satisfied all his interlocutors: long after his death, some skeptics still questioned his imamate. In his own day, it seems, he could only cry out in exasperation when his contemporaries insisted that alKa¯z·im had never died. Later, however, transmitters evidently found or constructed narratives to affirm all the necessary Twelver positions. First, all the Imams except the twelfth had died; to claim otherwise was to be an “exaggerator.” Second, al-Ka¯z·im had designated al-Rid·a¯ as his heir and then died, with al-Rid·a¯ washing his corpse. Al-Rid·a¯, moreover, had furnished independent proof of his imamate. He could answer any question he was posed, read minds, predict the future, and best any opponent in debate. Finally, he had produced an heir and thus fulfilled the remaining condition of the imamate. The widespread acceptance of these claims came about largely through the efforts of his transmitters, who appear to have been most active during or shortly after his imamate. In producing the definitive biography of the Imam, Ibn Ba¯bawayh’s Uyu¯n conceals the details of this process. Even so, it conveys a clear sense of the collaborative and cumulative nature of the Imami biographical project and thus of the sacred history of Twelver Shiism.

Abu¯ al-S·alt al-Harawı¯ and the death of the Imam Al-Rid·a¯’s designation as heir apparent evidently came as a surprise to the Imami community. The Uyu¯n records two cases in which he was asked why he had accepted it. In the ﬁrst report, the irritated Imam replied that if Joseph could accept a post as master of Pharaoh’s granaries, then he (al-Rid·a¯) could certainly accept the designation as successor to al-Ma mu¯n. After all, Joseph was a prophet, while he himself is only an heir (was¯ı). Further, al-Ma mu¯n is · a Muslim, while Pharaoh was a polytheist. In the second report, the questioner says: “People are wondering how you could accept the heir apparency given your renunciation of the world.” The Imam reminds his interlocutor that he was threatened with death if he did not agree, and again makes the comparison to Joseph. He also hints that the accession will never come to pass: “I accepted this charge knowing that I would soon be relieved of it.”70 Accompanied by the caliph’s representatives, al-Rid·a¯ traveled from Medina to Basra, Ahwa¯z, and Fa¯ris and then northeast to Nishapu¯r and Marv to accept the designation. The Twelver sources ascribe to al-Ma mu¯n’s messenger Raja¯ b. al-Dah·h·a¯k an account of the Imam’s constant prayer during the journey. Everywhere he stopped, people gathered around him to hear his Hadı¯th-reports and legal judgements.71 When he reached Marv, he was given · the customary privileges of an heir apparent: a separate residence, a ceremo70

UAR, II: 138–39.

UAR, II: 180–83.

The Imam Alı¯ al-Rida¯ ·

nial guard (shurt·a), and a corps of bodyguards (h·aras).72 A report ascribed to a slave woman, Ghadr (or Udhr), oﬀers a glimpse of the Imam’s domestic life. Ghadr and her companions originally belonged to al-Ma mu¯n: “We were in heaven in his palace, what with all the food and drink and perfume and dinars.” Then, al-Ma mu¯n gave her to al-Rid·a¯. “In his house,” she reports, “I lost all the luxuries I had had. We had a forewoman who would wake us up at night and make us pray; that was the hardest thing for us. I kept hoping to leave his house.” Although she eventually left, her stay at al-Rid·a¯’s house evidently made an impression on her. Her grandson al-S·u¯lı¯ remarks that “she would often ask about al-Rid·a¯.” Then she would say: I don’t recall much about him except that I used to see him perfuming himself with incense of ﬁne Indian sandalwood, and then putting on rose-water and musk. When he prayed the early morning prayer, he began as early as possible, then remained prostrate until the sun rose. Then he would see visitors, or ride out. No one could raise his voice in his house, no matter what; everyone would always speak in a low voice.73

Understandably, the Imami community would have been eager to know what happened when al-Rid·a¯ met al-Ma mu¯n. However, the events of the heir appa74 Therefore, rency took place far from the Imami centers in Iraq and the H · ija¯z. the community had to rely on reports transmitted by sympathetic witnesses in Marv. The most commonly cited witness is Abu¯ al-S·alt Abd al-Sala¯m b. S·a¯lih· al-Harawı¯ (d. 236/851), who was reportedly living in Nishapur when the Imam’s party stopped there on its way to Marv. From the Uyu¯n, it appears that he followed the Imam to the caliphal court, remained with him there during the heir apparency, and then accompanied him on the ill-fated journey to Baghdad. This close association with the Imam presumably formed the basis for Abu¯ al-Salt’s lost book Wafa¯t al-Rida¯ (“The Death of al-Rida¯”), · · · credited to him by al-Naja¯shı¯ (d. 450/1058).75 Pilgrims to al-Rid·a¯’s shrine know Abu¯ al-S·alt as the Imam’s companion in his ﬁnal hours, and still pay respectful visits to his tomb, which lies twelve kilometers outside Mashhad.76 Given his indispensability as a transmitter of al-Rida¯’s akhba¯r, Abu¯ al-Salt · · has been declared a reliable witness by most Shiite authorities. Upon closer inspection of his career, the need for insistence on this point becomes evident. According to non-Shiite reports, Abu¯ al-Salt was indeed present at Marv, but · in his capacity as companion to the caliph al-Ma mu¯n.77 A well-known 72

76 77

For da¯r al-Rid·a¯ see, e.g., UAR II: 240; on the guards, Ibn H · abı¯b, Asma¯ , 201–2; on the privi73 UAR II: 179. leges of the walı¯ al- ahd, see Tyan, Califat, 267–86. Al-Rid·a¯ refers to T·u¯s as mawd·i ghurba, and exhorts pilgims to “brave the distance” to visit his shrine (UAR, II: 254–55). On the diﬃculty of getting proper reports from Marv, see ThG, III: 155. Al-Is·faha¯nı¯ complains of a similar problem regarding the T·a¯libı¯s in general: eyewitnesses to ﬂight, secrecy, and violent death are hard to come by (Günther, Quellenuntersuchungen, 18). ¯ Naja¯shı¯, Rija¯l, 172. There is a late work of the same title by al-H · usayn b. Muh·ammad Al Us·fu¯r al-Bah·ra¯nı¯ (Tihra¯nı¯, Dharı¯ a, XXV: 119). Mu tamin, Ra¯hnama¯, 438; Hakami, Pèlerinage, 66. This account follows TB, XI: 47–52 (no. 5728); and ThG, III: 157–58. Note that Abu¯ al-S·alt was thiqatun ma mu¯nun ala¯ ‘l-hadı¯th (“reliable and trustworthy with Hadı¯th” (Kashshı¯, · · Ikhtiya¯r, 615)), not thiqatu ‘l-Ma mu¯ni ala¯ ‘l-h·adı¯th (pace Rajkowski, Early Shı¯ ism, 628).

Classical Arabic Biography

renunciant, he had gone to Marv to enlist in the frontier wars.78 He reportedly impressed the caliph with his forensic skills, and remained in his favor “until [the caliph] decided to promulgate the opinions of Jahm and the createdness of the Qur a¯n.”79 The first proclamation of the khalq al-Qur a¯n dates to 212/827, meaning that Abu¯ al-S·alt probably returned to Baghdad with alMa mu¯n and remained there at least until that time.80 The reports of Abu¯ al-S·alt’s activities in Baghdad depict him as well respected by prominent proto-Sunnis, perhaps because of his patronage of H · adı¯th-scholars (and his opposition to the dogma of the created Qur a¯n). Yet he did have a fondness for reciting H · adı¯th of a Shiite cast, and many observers expressed reservations about him. One inquisitive transmitter reports finding him moderate in his views: “He gave precedence to Abu¯ Bakr and Umar, invoked mercy upon Uthma¯n and Alı¯, and said nothing but good about the Prophet’s Companions. But then there are those reports he would relate about [their] flaws” – presumably out of the narrator’s earshot. Such ambiguous testimony left a later generation of Shiite critics in a quandary. AlNaja¯shı¯ (d. 450/1058) called him a reliable transmitter, while al-T·u¯sı¯ (d. 460/1067) labeled him a Sunni ( a¯mmı¯).81 Their Sunni counterparts saw him as a Shiite pure and simple, and attacked him with every derogatory epithet in their polemical lexicon.82 As if in response, subsequent Shiite critics affirmed his reliability, even to the point of citing his appearances in Ibn Ba¯bawayh’s Uyu¯n as evidence for his character.83 In retrospect, Abu¯ al-S·alt’s views clearly threatened the binary oppositions on which both Sunnis and Shiites founded their notions of reliability.84 For their time, however, his opinions were hardly unique. Indeed, they are remarkably similar to those ascribed to al-Ma mu¯n. Abu¯ al-S·alt’s close relationship with the caliph suggests that he may have been among those associated with an evanescent “sect” called the muh·additha. According to (pseudo?) al-H · asan al-Nawbakhtı¯ (d. 310/922) and Sa d b. Abd Alla¯h al-Qummı¯ (d. c. 300/912–13), this group consisted of “Murji ı¯s and H · adı¯th-scholars” who endorsed the imamates of Mu¯sa¯ al-Ka¯z·im and Alı¯ al-Rid·a¯. They reportedly did so in order to curry favor with al-Ma mu¯n, and reverted to their former beliefs when al-Rid·a¯ died.85 In all probability, this “sect” is merely a label for 78 79

82 84 85

Cf. UAR II: 134, where he reports leaving Nishapur with al-Rid·a¯. Abu¯ al-S·alt apparently believed in an uncreated Qur a¯n: he is described as successfully refuting representatives of the Jahmı¯ position (TB, XI: 49; no. 5728). Al-Ma mu¯n’s biographies do not mention him, except to cite him as the narrator in the following report. Abu¯ al-S·alt once spent the night talking with al-Ma mu¯n; when the lamp went out, the caliph rekindled it himself rather than wake the servants (TB, X: 186 [no. 5330]; TMD, 81 Naja¯shı¯, Rija¯l, 172; T·u¯sı¯, Rija¯l, 380. XXXIX: 260). 83 See the editor’s notes to al-T·u¯sı¯, Rija¯l, 380. E.g., Khu¯ ı¯, Mulakhkhas·, 49. He was thus described as bayn al-farı¯qayn (Scarcia Amoretti, “Interpretazione,” 51, note 3). Nawbakhtı¯, Firaq, 91; Madelung, Imam al-Qa¯sim, 78; ThG, III: 197, note 14, which proposes that they appeared in Kufa, where al-Rid·a¯’s brother served as governor. Presumably their endorsement of al-Ka¯z·im was retrospective, as there could have been no political advantage to advocating his imamate under al-Rashı¯d.

The Imam Alı¯ al-Rid·a¯

those of al-Ma mu¯n’s subjects who perforce swore allegiance to al-Rid·a¯. Even so, the implied doctrinal position is perfectly plausible. In light of the nomination, a contemporary observer could easily conclude that both the caliph and his heir apparent were legitimate imams. Abu¯ al-S·alt was not a Murji ı¯, but he was a H · adı¯th-scholar, and his position matches that ascribed to the muh·additha. The Twelvers, of course, later rejected this position, but they could not reject Abu¯ al-S·alt, who was their major source for information on al-Rid·a¯’s final months. As will be evident from the examination of his testimony, it is difficult to reconstruct exactly what Abu¯ al-S·alt’s opinions may have been. In Ibn Ba¯ba¯wayh’s Uyu¯n, he almost always appears as an unequivocal partisan of alRid·a¯’s imamate. One report, however, appears to preserve a memory of his conversion to Imamism. In a report he ostensibly narrated himself, Abu¯ alS·alt relates that he went to see al-Rid·a¯ in Sarakhs. He had difficulty gaining access to the Imam, who was confined to his house and encumbered with fetters. When he finally managed to see him, Abu¯ al-S·alt demanded an explanation for the rumor that the Imams thought of other men as their slaves. AlRid·a¯ swore that the accusation was false: “If all men are slaves to us, as the rumor has it, then tell me where we would have bought them?” Then he asked: “Do you deny, as some do, that God has given us the wila¯ya (privilege of leadership)?” Abu¯ al-S·alt replied: “God forbid! I acknowledge your wila¯ya.”86 This report is dubious: there is no support for the claim that al-Rid·a¯ was kept under arrest during the journey from Marv to Sarakhs.87 Even so, it makes the plausible suggestion that Abu¯ al-S·alt, like many of al-Rid·a¯’s contemporaries, insisted on testing him to find out whether he was the Imam. According to this report, in any event, he was persuaded (although of what precisely is not clear; wila¯ya is less straightforward a term than ima¯ma).88 Given Abu¯ al-S·alt’s doctrinal ambiguity, one might suspect that his reports would leave something to be desired from the Twelver point of view. Indeed, his testimony – in its original form, at any rate – clearly proved unsatisfactory to the Twelvers. This is evident from a comparison of the two recensions that preserve it. The first appears in the Maqa¯til of al-Is·faha¯nı¯, who used it, along with other reports, to tell the story of al-Rid·a¯’s nomination and his untimely death.89 Al-Is·faha¯nı¯ may not have transmitted Abu¯ al-S·alt’s testimony word for word, but he may be presumed innocent of lending it a Twelver cast: his own orientation was Zaydı¯, not Twelver, Shiite. The other recension of Abu¯ al-S·alt’s testimony appears in Ibn Ba¯bawayh’s Uyu¯n, where it resoundingly affirms the Twelver point of view. Interestingly, neither al-Is·fa¯ha¯nı¯ nor Ibn Ba¯bawayh refer to the book Abu¯ al-S·alt reportedly wrote about al-Rid·a¯. Instead, each cites various and non-overlapping sets of transmitters back to 86 88 89

87 UAR, II: 183–84. But cf. appendix on the ill-will of his shurt·a. On the role of skepticism in the construction of sainthood, see Kleinberg, Prophets, esp. 21–70. Is·faha¯nı¯, Maqa¯til, 374–80.

Classical Arabic Biography

him.90 A comparison of the two recensions of Abu¯ al-S·alt’s testimony shows that his reports, but not his book, enjoyed wide dissemination. Moreover, his original testimony – at least as preserved in al-Isfaha¯nı¯ – was not at all unfa· vorable to al-Ma mu¯n. Omitting for the moment the testimony attributed to Abu¯ al-S·alt, alIs·faha¯nı¯’s account of the designation and death of al-Rid·a¯ runs as follows. AlMa mu¯n vowed that if he won the civil war, he would appoint the worthiest of the Alids to succeed him. The viziers al-Fad·l and al-H · asan b. Sahl remonstrated with him, but eventually agreed to support the plan.91 Al-Rid·a¯ was brought to Marv, but declined the offer. He resisted the threats offered by the viziers, capitulating only when al-Ma mu¯n invoked the example of the caliph Umar, who had ordered the beheading of anyone who disputed the community’s choice of successor. After the ceremony of allegiance, al-Rid·a¯ fell ill, apparently poisoned. One report alleges that the Banu¯ Sahl feared that he would denounce them to the caliph. Another report suggests that the caliph came to resent al-Rid·a¯ when the latter admonished him for allowing a servant to pour the water for his ritual ablution. Both of al-Is·fa¯ha¯nı¯’s reports of the poisoning itself depict the caliph as the culprit. In the first, a servant relates that al-Ma mu¯n ordered him to let his nails grow, and then asked him to knead “something resembling tamarinds.” Later, the caliph visited al-Rid·a¯, called for pomegranates, and told the servant to squeeze them. Al-Rid·a¯ drank the juice and died two days later, presumably poisoned by a toxic residue that passed from the servant’s nails into the juice. According to the second account, the caliph had needles placed in the stems or stalks of grapes and left for a few days. Al-Rid·a¯, who was fond of grapes, ate some of the tainted fruit during his illness and died. Al-Ma mu¯n kept his 90

Al-Is·faha¯nı¯ cites three chains, of which at least one appears to be from a book (also called Maqa¯til al-T · a¯libiyı¯n) by Muh·ammad b. Alı¯ b. H · amza (d. 287/900). However, the link between Muh·ammad b. Alı¯ and Abu¯ al-S·alt is vague (balaghanı¯ an). Of the other two links, one is equally vague; only the third appears to represent direct oral transmission (h·addathana¯). On alIs·faha¯nı¯’s immediate sources see Günther, Quellenuntersuchungen, 127–29 (Ah·mad b. Muh·ammad b. Sa ı¯d), 170–72 (al-H · asan b. Alı¯ al-Khaffa¯f) and 190–91 (Muh·ammad b. Alı¯ b. H · amza). The latter is credited with a Maqa¯til al-T · a¯libiyı¯n; al-Is·faha¯nı¯ refers to the transmission using dhakara, which indicates a written source (on types of transmission see Günther, Quellenuntersuchungen, 100–09). Al-Naja¯shı¯ calls Muh·ammad b. Alı¯ b. H · amza “reliable, a source of H · adı¯th, and doctrinally correct” (Rija¯l, 245). For his part, Ibn Ba¯bawayh mentions no written works at all. One of his isna¯ds runs through three generations of the Abna¯ Ha¯shim, a family of attested transmitters, but the name of the person who probably heard from Abu¯ alS·alt himself appears to have disappeared. Another runs from Abu¯ al-S·alt to an attested transmitter of al-Rid·a¯’s akhba¯r, but then through two generations of unattested Abna¯ Tamı¯m, of Quraysh, who are also responsible for transmitting a spurious death-tale attributed to Harthama b. A yan (see below, p. 95). Finally, Ibn Ba¯bawayh does not mention al-Is·faha¯nı¯’s work, although it is likely to have been completed by the time he wrote the Uyu¯n, and is cited in the work of his younger contemporary al-Shaykh al-Mufı¯d. A relatively early source claims that al-H · asan was a mawla¯ (affiliate) of al-Rid·a¯, and sent him a question about tashbı¯h. Jahshiya¯rı¯, Nus·u¯s·, 54–55, following Radı¯ al-Dı¯n b. T·a¯wu¯s, Faraj, 139–40. Even so, it appears that the viziers disapproved of the nomination. See Gabrieli, Ma mu¯n, 32ff.; Sourdel, Vizirat, II: 207–08; Madelung, “New Documents,” 38; Rekaya, “Ma mu¯n,” at VI: 334.

The Imam Alı¯ al-Rida¯ ·

death a secret for twenty-four hours and then displayed the body to a group of Alid relatives to show them that no violence had been done to the Imam. The account ends with two dirges for al-Rida¯. The first is vaguely worded, but · the second, by Di bil b. Alı¯ al-Khuza¯ ı¯ (d. 246/861), denounces the Abbasid caliphs and then asks whether al-Rid·a¯ was poisoned. Di bil is not sure, but thinks that a natural death is too suspiciously convenient.92 Interwoven with the foregoing account, we find four pieces of testimony attributed to Abu¯ al-S·alt al-Harawı¯. The first affirms the caliph’s Alid sympathies. In conversation with Abu¯ al-S·alt, he remarks that “his Abu¯ Bakr” – that is, his successor – is unlike the Abu¯ Bakr of the a¯mma (the non-Shiites). The second report indicates that al-Rid·a¯ was poisoned. It has him take to his bed and say: “Abu¯ al-S·alt! They’ve done it!” The third report declares the caliph innocent of involvement in the poisoning. Speaking to al-Rid·a¯ on his deathbed, he declares: “It is hard for me, my brother, to have lived to see your last day, for there was hope that you might live. But even harder and more painful for me is that people will say I poisoned you – but I am innocent before God of that!” Al-Rid·a¯ replies, “You are right, Commander of the Believers; by God, you are innocent.” The fourth and last report attributed to Abu¯ al-S·alt depicts al-Ma mu¯n as persuaded that a miracle would occur at the Imam’s grave. He orders him to be buried next to al-Rashı¯d, and recalls his deathbed prediction that his grave would fill with water. When the grave is dug, the water indeed appears, with fish swimming in it, then dries up.93 Al-Is·faha¯nı¯’s account in the Maqa¯til suggests two things. First, rumors that the caliph had poisoned al-Rid·a¯ became current soon after the latter’s death.94 Second, Abu¯ al-S·alt al-Harawı¯ was not the source of them. Three of his reports depict the caliph as cognizant of al-Rid·a¯’s virtue, and one specifically denies (in the words of the Imam himself) that he is innocent of poisoning his heir apparent. Had Abu¯ al-S·alt provided any evidence for the caliph’s guilt, one of al-Isfaha¯nı¯’s sources for his testimony would doubtless have cited it. · Admittedly, Abu¯ al-S·alt appears to believe someone poisoned al-Rid·a¯. But he does not say who (or, if he did, that part of the testimony has not reached us). Al-Is·faha¯nı¯ appears to have taken this evidence – or lack of evidence – seriously. In his preface, he says that al-Ma mu¯n conferred the succession upon alRid·a¯, “then contrived to poison him, or so it is said.” In a book devoted to the 92

Wa-ayyuhma¯? Ma¯ qulta? In qulta sharbatun . . . / Wa-in qulta mawtun innahu la-qamı¯nu (Is·faha¯nı¯, Maqa¯til, 380). If it is genuinely contemporary, this poem establishes that rumors of poison began immediately upon al-Rid·a¯’s death, but even his supporters were uncertain whether they were true. Before citing this report, al-Is·faha¯nı¯ says he has reached the end of the tale of Alı¯ b. Mu¯sa¯ alRid·a¯. However, it seems he told one more story which his amanuenses – Ibra¯hı¯m b. Ah·mad alT·abarı¯ (d. 393/1002) and Abd Alla¯h b. al-H · usayn al-Fa¯risı¯ – added to their notes. See Günther, Quellenuntersuchungen, 17. This impression is corroborated by Abd Alla¯h b. Mu¯sa¯’s reply when al-Ma mu¯n asked him to accept the heir apparency after al-Rid·a¯’s death. The Alid refused, saying: “Do you think I haven’t heard what you did to al-Rid·a?’ Later he mentions “the poisoned grapes you killed him with” (Is·faha¯nı¯, Maqa¯til, 416–17).

Classical Arabic Biography

wrongful deaths of the Alids, any reservation about the caliph’s guilt is significant. If Abu¯ al-Salt thought al-Ma mu¯n innocent, he was not the only Shiite (or · philo-Alid) to do so. Al-Ya qu¯bı¯, for example, suggests that al-Rida¯ was poi· soned by Alı¯ b. Hisha¯m, a prominent Khurasani supporter of the Abbasids.95 Y. Marquet, who considers al-Ya qu¯bı¯ “a fanatical Shiite,” regards him as favoring the caliph’s innocence, and takes this to have been the contemporary Shiite view.96 The philo-Alid historian al-Mas u¯dı¯ cites evidence for alMa mu¯n’s Shiite leanings, notes his kindness toward al-Rid·a¯, and mentions both surfeit and poison as possible causes of the Imam’s death.97 Most significantly, perhaps, an early Imami authority says nothing to suggest that al-Rid·a¯ was murdered by the caliph or anyone else. This is al-Kulaynı¯ (or al-Kulı¯nı¯, d. 328/939–40 or 329/940–41), compiler of al-Ka¯fı¯, a voluminous collection of the a¯tha¯r of the Imams. The Ka¯fı¯ contains murder-stories for other Imams, including a poison-tale about Mu¯sa¯ al-Ka¯z·im. But in his remarks on al-Rid·a¯, al-Kulaynı¯ states simply that “when al-Ma mu¯n set off for Baghda¯d, he brought [al-Rid·a¯] with him, and he passed away in that village,” i.e., Sana¯ba¯d, in S·afar 203, at the age of fifty-five.98

Abu¯ al-S·alt and Ibn Ba¯bawayh By the time Ibn Ba¯bawayh took up the matter of al-Rid·a¯’s designation and death in the Uyu¯n, Shiite sentiment had evidently hardened. In his Risa¯lat ali tiqa¯da¯t al-ima¯mı¯ya, a treatise on the Twelver creed, the biographer declares it a matter of faith to believe that the Prophet Muh·ammad and all the Imams but the last had been murdered. The Prophet was poisoned, Alı¯ was assassinated, and al-H · usayn fell in battle. Alı¯’s son al-H · asan was poisoned, as were the rest of the Imams except the last. To deny any of this, he says, is to contradict the Imams’ own declarations on the matter, and is tantamount to renouncing Islam. In the Risa¯la, this argument has the explicit purpose of rebutting the ghula¯h and the mufawwid·a, who ascribed immortality to particular Imams.99 In the Uyu¯n, as we have seen, Ibn Ba¯bawayh gives al-Rid·a¯ an opportunity to aﬃrm that all the Imams have died or will die unnatural deaths.100 In that context, the argument appears to be serving as a retort not only to the ghula¯h but also to the wa¯qifa, whose claim that al-Ka¯z·im was still alive amounted to a declaration that he was immortal. But why murder? To refute the ghula¯h as well as the wa¯qifa, a natural death 195 196 197 198

199 100

Ya qu¯bı¯, Ta rı¯kh, II: 550–51. Marquet, “Sˇi isme,” at II: 138 and II: 127. Cf. Millward, “Al-Ya qu¯bı¯’s Sources.” MDh, IV: 5; cf. IV: 28. Kulaynı¯, Us·u¯l, I: 259 (al-Ka¯z·im), I: 486 (al-Rid·a¯). The verbs used to describe al-Rid·a¯’s death are tuwuﬃya and qubid·a, both suggesting natural causes. Fyzee, Shi ite Creed, 101–03. UAR, II: 203–04. He does not say “except for the last,” suggesting that the report is genuine, or at least older than the formation of Twelver dogma.

The Imam Alı¯ al-Rid·a¯

on the Imam’s part should serve just as well as death by foul play. The wellattested assassinations of Alı¯ b. Abı¯ T·a¯lib and al-H · usayn obviously set a precedent, but still cannot explain the insistence, sometimes on the basis of very tenuous evidence, that eleven of the twelve Imams were murdered. Natural causes, it appears, could not generate a sufficiently convincing or memorable death-certificate. As we have seen in the case of the frightened caliphal biographer al- Abdı¯, stories that purport to reveal scandal are for some reason more readily accepted than reports that argue for plausible but unspectacular solutions. As a literary device, moreover, murder-stories are more effective as proof of decease than tales of natural death. Because they concentrate on the question of the murderer’s identity, they leave no opportunity to ask whether a murder was actually committed at all. Finally, the murder-doctrine forces the interpretation of an Imam’s death into a misleading binary form: either the caliph murdered the Imam, or no one did.101 This way of putting the question overlooks the possibility that, if the Imam were indeed murdered, someone other than the caliph is guilty. In the case of al-Rid·a¯, al-Ya qu¯bı¯’s early and plausible suggestion that Alı¯ b. Hisha¯m poisoned him without the caliph’s knowledge or consent (as the account implies) was never entertained, or even mentioned, by the biographers.102 Helpful as the murder-doctrine might have been in some respects, it left Ibn Ba¯bawayh with the task of explaining why the caliph designated al-Rid·a¯ in the first place. He cites evidence for various explanations, and declares that he favors one report above the rest.103 The report, a less elaborate version of which appears in al-Is·faha¯nı¯’s Maqa¯til, has the caliph explain that he appointed al-Rid·a¯ because of a vow he made in the darkest hour of the civil war. His half-brother al-Amı¯n had sent an army to bring him to Baghdad in chains, his general Harthama failed to subdue Sijista¯n and Kirma¯n, and an insurrection threatened Khurasan. Besieged and penniless, al-Ma mu¯n says he turned despairing to God. “I vowed to Him a solemn vow, with sincere intent, that if He granted me the caliphate and saved me from all these disasters, I would place the charge where God had placed it.” Al-Ma mu¯n’s fortunes immediately took a turn for the better. “So when God did what I had asked Him to do, I wanted to fulfill my part of the bargain; and I found no one worthier of the charge than al-Rid·a¯.”104 This report depicts al-Ma mu¯n as believing that the imamate properly belonged to the descendants of Alı¯ b. Abı¯ T·a¯lib. Given what the non-Twelver sources tell us about al-Ma mu¯n, this is plausible enough. Even so, Twelver transmitters felt inspired to elaborate on the matter. This is evident from a number of related reports also cited in the Uyu¯n. In one, al-Ma mu¯n recalls that his father al-Rashı¯d once described al-Ka¯z·im as the true ruler of the Muslims. “But isn’t that you?” asked al-Ma mu¯n. His father replied: “I am the leader of the community in appearance, by force of strength and coercion; but 101 104

So, e.g., Crone, Slaves, 258, note 606. UAR, II: 151–52.

102

See appendix.

103

UAR II: 166.

Classical Arabic Biography

[al-Ka¯z·im] is the true Imam.”105 In another report, al-Ma mu¯n makes a full confession of the Alid creed before an audience of H · adı¯th-scholars and theologians (jama¯ a min ahl al-h·adı¯th wa-jama¯ a min ahl al-naz·ar). He begins by arguing that because H · adı¯th reports are contradictory, some must be false. The only criterion for judging a H · adı¯th should be “the referential content of the report itself (dalı¯l al-khabar fı¯ nafsihi).” After this eye-opening bit of reasoning, he demolishes a long series of reports claiming virtues for Abu¯ Bakr and Umar. Using a combination of syllogism and scriptural citation, he then argues for the necessary character of the imamate in the abstract, and for the imamate of Alı¯ b. Abı¯ T·a¯lib in particular.106 These two reports contain no allusion to what the Uyu¯n will soon describe as the caliph’s betrayal of alRid·a¯. The absence of any condemnation of al-Ma mu¯n implies that they were put into circulation by transmitters convinced of his sincerity. In a third case, a transmitter appears to have taken a report favorable to the caliph and appended to it a spurious declaration of his bad faith. In the report, alMa mu¯n hears al-Rid·a¯ refute ghuluww and declares: “Correct knowledge is only to be found among the members of this house, and you are the heir of that ancestral knowledge.” After the session, the narrator congratulates the Imam for having won over the caliph. “Don’t be deceived,” replies the Imam, confiding that al-Ma mu¯n will eventually poison him.107 If we omit the coda, this report, like the others just cited, affirms that al-Ma mu¯n recognized, or at least made a show of recognizing, the legitimate claims of the Alids. Ironically, this concession made it all the easier for later transmitters to argue that he betrayed al-Rid·a¯ precisely because he recognized him as the Imam. Even more ironically, the eyewitness credited with this interpretation is none other than Abu¯ al-S·alt al-Harawı¯. In the Uyu¯n, Ibn Ba¯bawayh has Abu¯ al-S·alt report a conversation that supposedly took place between the caliph and the Imam. Al-Ma mu¯n says to al-Rid·a¯: “I have recognized your knowledge, virtue, asceticism, scrupulosity, and piety, and I deem you worthier of the caliphate than myself.” Al-Rida¯ replies: “If the caliphate is yours and if · God made it so, then it is wrong for you to strip off something God has imposed on you and place it on someone else. And if the caliphate is not yours, then it is wrong for you to give me something that does not belong to you.” Seeing that he cannot persuade the Imam, al-Ma mu¯n offers to make him heir apparent instead. Al-Rida¯ replies with a prediction of his own fate, transmitted from the Prophet: “I will die before you, foully murdered by poison, with the angels of heaven and earth weeping over me. I will be buried in a foreign land, next to Ha¯ru¯n al-Rashı¯d.” The caliph protests, asking who would dare commit such a crime; but al-Rida¯ refuses to tell him. Al-Ma mu¯n then accuses · al-Rid·a¯ of refusing the designation to enhance his reputation for pious renunciation of the world. The Imam shoots back with the accusation that the 105 107

106 UAR, I: 88–93. UAR, II: 185–200. UAR, II: 202. A report of similar purport is attributed (II: 239) to Abu¯ al-S·alt al-Harawı¯ by the same set of transmitters (Tamı¯m- Abd Alla¯h-Ah·mad al-Ans·a¯rı¯).

The Imam Alı¯ al-Rid·a¯

caliph has appointed him to achieve precisely the opposite effect. Frustrated, al-Ma mu¯n threatens to kill him if he does not accept. The Imam, recalling the Qur a¯nic injunction against choosing death, submits, on the condition that he serve only as an advisor.108 In a second report, the narrator asks Abu¯ al-S·alt the critical question. “How could al-Ma mu¯n bring himself to murder al-Rid·a¯ after having shown such esteem and affection for him, and making him his successor?” Abu¯ al-S·alt replies: Al-Ma mu¯n honored him because he knew what virtue al-Rid·a¯ possessed. He made him his successor to show people that al-Rid·a¯ was ambitious after all, so their affection for him would vanish. But when everything that happened only made people love and esteem al-Rid·a¯ all the more, al-Ma mu¯n brought in theologians from far and wide to refute al-Rid·a¯ and thus diminish his standing among scholars and reveal his frailty to the common people. However, al-Rid·a¯ refuted every opponent – Jewish, Christian, Magian, Sabean, Hindu, atheist, materialist, or Muslim from whatever dissident sect – and compelled him to accept his proofs. The people said, “He is worthier of the caliphate than al-Ma mu¯n.” The caliph learned of this, and grew wrathful and envious. In the meantime, al-Rid·a¯ arrogated none of the caliph’s privileges, and would obey the caliph’s wishes whenever he could. Yet this only increased the caliph’s resentment. The caliph showed nothing; but when nothing else would do, he murdered al-Rid·a¯ with poison.109

Taken together, the reports ascribed to Abu¯ al-S·alt portray the caliph as acting in precisely the way his supposed Alid sympathies would dictate, but only up to a point. He offers to abdicate in the Imam’s favor, but his good intentions evaporate when al-Rid·a¯ proves less pliant than he had anticipated. Even as they condemn al-Ma mu¯n, the reports also protect the Imam from any suspicion of collusion with him. Al-Rid·a¯ states his objections to the designation forthrightly, submits only under duress, and continues to prove his possession of superior ilm. To the extent that all of these predications are plausible, not only in themselves but also as opinions Abu¯ al-S·alt is likely to have held, the reports may well contain some authentically old material. Unfortunately, none of the reports matches any part of the testimony we have seen ascribed to Abu¯ al-S·alt by al-Is·faha¯nı¯ in the Maqa¯til. A similar alteration of Abu¯ al-S·alt’s testimony is apparent in Ibn Ba¯bawayh’s account of the murder itself. The Uyu¯n adduces four separate accounts of it.110 The first states that al-Ma mu¯n ordered a servant to knead a poisonous substance and then prepare pomegranate juice for al-Rid·a¯. Al-Rid·a¯, who was already ill, drank the juice and subsequently died, the caliph making a show of grief over him. This report is substantially the same as that cited in al-Is·faha¯nı¯’s Maqa¯til, albeit with an entirely different chain of transmission.111 108 111

109 110 UAR, II: 139–40. UAR, II: 239; cf. II: 172–74. UAR, II: 240–50. This story suggests that Ibn Ba¯bawayh did not have either Maqa¯til book (al-Is·faha¯nı¯’s or Muh·ammad b. Alı¯ b. H · amza’s) available to him: if he had, he would certainly have cited the servant’s ﬁrst-person report as conﬁrmation of this secondhand one.

Classical Arabic Biography

In the second report, Ya¯sir al-Kha¯dim relates that the Imam fell ill and fainted before reaching T·u¯s. The caliph arrived at his bedside “barefoot, bareheaded, beating his head, clutching his beard, sighing, and weeping, with the tears flowing down his cheeks.” He wondered aloud which was worse: the loss of al-Rid·a, or the people’s suspicions that he – the caliph – had poisoned him. At some point during the night, the Imam died. The next morning, true to the caliph’s prediction, people gathered and accused him of murdering “the son of the Prophet of God.” Al-Ma mu¯n asked al-Rid·a¯’s uncle to announce that al-Rid·a¯ would not be coming out that day. The crowd, tricked into believing that the Imam was still alive, dispersed. This report has much to recommend it. Its narrator, Ya¯sir al-Kha¯dim, was an attested companion of al-Rid·a¯, and his testimony accords with the accounts of al-Ya qu¯bı¯ and al-Tabarı¯. · Unfortunately, it nowhere states that al-Rid·a¯ was murdered, or that the caliph ever had the intention of harming him. Ibn Ba¯bawayh obviously considered these two reports sufficiently suggestive to merit inclusion in the Uyu¯n. Yet he was not satisfied with them, and appended two more stories, both of which declare the caliph guilty of poisoning his heir. In the first of these, Abu¯ al-S·alt al-Harawı¯ recounts that al-Rid·a¯ foretold his own death and entrusted him with instructions to be followed at his gravesite. When al-Ma mu¯n offered the Imam some grapes, he ate three, tossed away the bunch, and rose. “Where are you going?” the caliph asked. “To the place where you have sent me,” replied al-Rid·a¯, and took to his bed. Abu¯ al-S·alt, keeping watch outside the door, was accosted by a young man who identified himself as Muh·ammad, al-Rid·a¯’s son and successor, transported from Medina and through the locked doors of al-Rid·a¯’s house. Muh·ammad ordered Abu¯ al-S·alt to accompany him into al-Rid·a¯’s room. There the future Imam greeted his father, licked the foam from his lips, and extracted from his chest “something like a bird,” which he swallowed. Al-Rid·a¯ then died, and Muh·ammad ordered Abu¯ al-S·alt to fetch various items from a storeroom, all of which had never been there before: a wash-basin, a basket containing alRid·a¯’s shroud, and al-Rid·a¯’s coffin. After Muh·ammad performed the last rites over his father’s body, the coffin flew up through the roof and disappeared. A few moments later, the roof opened again and al-Rid·a¯’s corpse (presumably a simulacrum) reappeared unwashed and unshrouded. Muh·ammad then commanded Abu¯ al-Salt to open the door for al-Ma mu¯n, who entered weeping. · The burial proceeded as al-Rid·a¯ had predicted. Water appeared in the grave, and fish appeared in the water; then a larger fish appeared and consumed the smaller ones. A vizier explained to the caliph: “Al-Rid·a¯ is telling you that your Abbasid kingdom, for all its greatness and long life, is like these fish. When your time runs out and your dynasty has run its course, God will send one of [the Alids] to overpower and annihilate you.” Al-Ma mu¯n, who had already admitted that al-Rida¯ must be an Imam, assented to this interpretation. He · asked Abu¯ al-Salt to repeat certain words he had spoken during the burial, but · the latter could no longer remember them. The caliph assumed that he was

The Imam Alı¯ al-Rid·a¯

hiding something and ordered him to be imprisoned. A year later, we find Abu¯ S·alt in prison, praying to God in the name of the Prophet and his family to free him. Muhammad the Imam then appears, breaks his chains, marches him · out of prison, and tells him that he is safe from al-Ma mu¯n. “And in fact,” concludes Abu¯ al-S·alt, “I have not seen al-Ma mu¯n since.”112 This “novelistic” account (as Stefan Leder might call it) apparently inspired the fourth and final murder-story, which is cleverly designed to dispel any remaining doubts about al-Rid·a¯’s death. According to this report, al-Rid·a¯ summoned the narrator, Harthama b. A yan, and announced: “That tyrant has resolved to poison me using grapes and crushed pomegranates.” He then conveyed a series of instructions for Harthama, who spent the next day as anxious “as a seed in a frying pan.” When the caliph called for grapes and pomegranates, Harthama could not bring himself to watch the scene. He retreated to his lodgings where, at sunset, he heard al-Rid·a¯ returning. Doctors and attendants were coming and going, and Harthama was told that al-Rid·a¯ had been taken ill. “The people had their suspicions, but I knew what had happened because of what he had told me.” At some point during the night, wailing broke out to announce the death of al-Rid·a¯, and al-Ma mu¯n himself appeared in mourning attire. The next day, everything took place as al-Rid·a¯ had predicted. The caliph wanted to wash the body, but Harthama warned him off. A white tent then appeared in the courtyard; Harthama carried the Imam’s body inside, then emerged to wait. When the caliph taunted him with the claim that only an Imam can wash the corpse of an Imam, Harthama replied that the next Imam was indeed present, hidden inside the tent. Then the tent was struck, revealing the shrouded body of al-Rida¯. All efforts to dig · a grave failed until Harthama struck at the earth with a spade, at which point the grave dug itself. The grave filled with water, and a large fish appeared and thrashed about. When the water subsided, the Imam was lowered into his grave, which closed by itself. To understand the odd features of these two reports, we must look back to the dispute over al-Rid·a¯’s imamate. In the controversy that followed alKa¯z·im’s death, partisans of his continuing imamate claimed that he had never died. As we have seen, al-Rid·a¯’s partisans responded with detailed accounts of al-Ka¯z·im’s demise. For maximum polemical utility, these accounts had to include several elements. First, the murderer (in this case al-Rashı¯d) must declare his intention to do away with the Imam. Second, the Imam must predict his imminent death, preferably with a reference to the exact manner in which it will be effected. Third, the murderer must endeavor to conceal his crime, the implication being that anyone who doubts the story has fallen for the deception. Finally, the new Imam must arrive to wash his father’s corpse. In his defense of al-Rida¯’s imamate, Ibn Ba¯bawayh related tales of al-Ka¯zim’s · · 112

Here the “transmitters” slipped up: the historical Abu¯ al-S·alt traveled back to Baghdad with the caliph and remained in his entourage for nine more years.

Classical Arabic Biography

death clearly designed to fulﬁll precisely these requirements. When, in turn, alRid·a¯ died, his followers were evidently prepared for a similar outbreak of waqf. To anticipate possible skepticism, they evidently constructed a series of death-tales to make all the same polemical points about al-Rida¯ that they had · learned to make about his father. Just as the older reports did for al-Ka¯z·im, these accounts establish that al-Rid·a¯ is truly dead, that another Imam has succeeded him, and that his successor appeared to perform his funeral rites.113 To make the accusation against al-Ma mu¯n as damning as possible, the transmitters of the fourth report chose an a¯mmı¯ (non-Shiite) narrator, Harthama b. A yan. To make their story corroborate the accounts we know from the Maqa¯til, or ones similar to them, they added poisoned pomegranates to Abu¯ al-S·alt’s grapes. They also inserted yet another dig at the wa¯qifa: now it is al-Ma mu¯n who complacently declares that only an Imam can wash the corpse of another Imam. Furthermore, they appear to have tried to make the story square with Abu¯ al-S·alt’s. In the tale ascribed to him, Abu¯ al-S·alt does not hear about the poisoning in advance, but he witnesses it. Harthama, on the other hand, hears a prediction of the poisoning, but does not see it. Similarly, Harthama is forbidden to peek into the tent while Muh·ammad washes al-Rid·a¯’s corpse, while Abu¯ al-S·alt is asked to assist. This complementarity breaks down only at the gravesite. Either Abu¯ al-S·alt presided over the burial, or Harthama did. The events in the stories do not admit of their both being present at the same time. For all their cleverness, the fabricators of the fourth report give themselves away with the attribution. The historical Harthama b. A yan (d. 201/816) was a prominent military commander under al-Rashı¯d and al-Ma mu¯n. Given his vigorous prosecution of the war against Abu¯ al-Sara¯ya¯’s Alid insurrectionists in Kufa, Harthama is hardly likely to have had any sympathy for Alids and their causes.114 Worse yet, he died some two years before al-Rid·a¯. Oddly enough, Ibn Ba¯bawayh was aware of this: elsewhere in the Uyu¯n, he adduces as proof of al-Rid·a¯’s imamate his prediction that Harthama would soon be beheaded in Marv.115 Why then was Harthama chosen to narrate this story? The reason is evidently that he too died under suspicious circumstances in Marv. According to al-T·abarı¯, Harthama was planning to inform the caliph of the crisis in Iraq. Fearing the consequences of such a revelation, the vizier al-Fad·l b. Sahl denounced Harthama ﬁrst, accusing him of collusion with the Alid rebel Abu¯ al-Sara¯ya¯. When Harthama arrived in Marv, al-Ma mu¯n ordered him to be beaten, dragged away, and imprisoned. A few days later he was murdered at al-Fad·l’s behest.116 Thus, by a kind of strange logic, 113

115

In the event, the dispute that broke out after al-Rid·a¯’s death was of a diﬀerent nature altogether. His son al-Taqı¯ (also called al-Jawa¯d) was only seven years old at the time of his father’s death, and some thought him too young to be an Imam. His partisans argued successfully that Imamic ilm was hereditary and innate, not acquired. Nawbakhtı¯, Firaq, 92–93; Modarressi, 114 Crisis, 62–64; Arjomand, “Crisis,” 496–97; ThG, III: 197. TRM, VIII: 534–35. 116 UAR, II: 210. TRM, VIII: 542–43; Jahshiya¯rı¯, Wuzara¯ , 315–18.

The Imam Alı¯ al-Rida¯ ·

Harthama gained a reputation for having died a martyr to the Alid cause, and became a plausible transmitter of pro-Rid·a¯ tales.117 What about the narrator of the third tale, the ubiquitous Abu¯ al-S·alt alHarawı¯? As we have seen, the fables attributed to him in the Uyu¯n are a far cry from the testimony ascribed to him in the Maqa¯til. In some cases, he becomes the narrator of reports originally credited to others. For example, alIs·faha¯nı¯ cites Alı¯ b. al-H · usayn or Ah·mad b. Muh·ammad b. Sa ı¯d to the effect that al-Ma mu¯n bullied al-Rid·a¯ into accepting the nomination. In the Uyu¯n, however, it is Abu¯ al-S·alt who makes this claim. In other cases, one element of his original testimony serves as the basis for an elaborate legend. An example is the brief miracle-report ascribed to him in the Maqa¯til, where water and a fish appear in the Imam’s grave. The Uyu¯n-version is much more elaborate, with the additions consisting largely of the three necessary constituents of imamic death-tales: prediction, caliphal culpability, and corpse-washing by the successor.118 In one case, finally, the transmitters dropped part of his testimony: his report that al-Rid·a¯ declared al-Ma mu¯n innocent is nowhere to be found in the Uyu¯n.119 Who did all this to Abu¯ al-S·alt? In theory, he could have done it to himself. He survived al-Rid·a¯ by thirty-three years (and al-Ma mu¯n by eighteen), and could have spent his days in Baghdad embroidering his memories of Marv. But if al-Khat·¯ıb’s biography of him is any guide, the Baghdadi transmitters watched him like a hawk, and they say nothing to suggest that he purveyed legends of al-Rid·a¯’s death. More telling is the brevity of his testimony in the Maqa¯til. If he had related elaborate death-tales during his lifetime, al-Is·faha¯nı¯ would doubtless have used them in his book, which after all is specifically about caliphs who murder Alids. Therefore, the best explanation for the discrepancy between the two recensions of Abu¯ al-S·alt’s testimony is that the Uyu¯n tales were constructed and transmitted only in Imami (and later, Twelver) circles after his death. Al-Is·faha¯nı¯ may have known the tales to be fabricated, or he may not have known about them at all. Of the men credited with transmitting Abu¯ al-S·alt’s stories to Ibn Ba¯bawayh, at least one may be spurious, and several others are possible fabricators. Ah·mad b. Alı¯ al-Ans·a¯rı¯, the most commonly cited immediate trans117

118

119

Neither al-Naja¯shı¯ nor al-T·u¯sı¯ mentions Harthama as a companion of al-Rid·a¯ (indeed, neither mentions him at all). Later Twelvers provided him with a Shiite whitewashing that obscures him beyond recognition (e.g., al-Irbilı¯, Kashf, III: 87). As Scarcia Amoretti has shown, the version that appears in the Uyu¯n draws on elements of an Islamicized Iranian legend according to which a prophet challenges a water spirit and is buried alive. The ﬁsh appear in the legend as symbols of divine kingship. On the basis of such parallels, she describes Abu¯ al-S·alt as a “typical interpreter of the ferments and the religious mentality of the eighth Imam’s Khurasani contemporaries” (“Interpretazione,” 51, based on UAR, I: 205–09). If correct, this judgement would apply less to Abu¯ al-S·alt than to the transmitters who used his report as the inspiration for their stories. The same is true of another piece of evidence from the Maqa¯til, the poem by Di bil in which he wonders whether al-Rid·a¯ was poisoned. The Uyu¯n devotes a chapter to elegies on the Imam, including verses by Di bil, but this particular poem does not appear.

Classical Arabic Biography

mitter from Abu¯ al-S·alt, died sometime after 304/916–17, making the interval between the two almost impossibly long.120 Between al-Ans·a¯rı¯ and Ibn Ba¯bawayh in the isna¯d of Abu¯ al-S·alt’s debate-report are Abd Alla¯h b. Tamı¯m al-Qurashı¯ and his son Tamı¯m, who also transmitted Harthama’s spurious death-tale. In the isna¯d of Abu¯ al-S·alt’s death-report, the lowest common informant is Alı¯ b. Ibra¯hı¯m b. Ha¯shim. Following Schacht’s common-link theory, both Tamı¯m b. Abd Alla¯h and Alı¯ b. Ibra¯hı¯m are likely suspects in the elaboration of Abu¯ al-S·alt’s testimony.121 Given the almost total lack of information on the men named, it is impossible to speculate any further. More important than naming the culprits, however, is recognizing their collective achievement. Singly or in collaboration, they took Abu¯ al-S·alt’s suggestive but ambiguous testimony and constructed from it a series of fictions. These fictions enabled al-Rid·a¯ to fulfill his promise that he would die foully murdered by al-Ma mu¯n.

Collision and collusion among the ta¯ ifas · In his discussion of the Twelver accounts of al-Rid·a¯’s heir apparency, van Ess declares that al-Ma mu¯n serves in them merely as a prop.122 By this he evidently means that the caliph does just what the Twelvers need him to do: first he designates al-Rid·a¯, and then he poisons him. However, it should be clear that Ibn Ba¯bawayh expends considerable effort trying to explain both these actions. As a result, al-Ma mu¯n attains a certain degree of complexity in his own right. He is a partisan of the Alids and an admirer of al-Rid·a¯, but he is fated to poison him.123 As a result, his predicament is tragic, or at least pathetic. When he learns, in pseudo-Harthama’s story, that al-Rid·a¯ foretold his own death, he realizes that his heir apparent really was the Imam. His complexion changes, and he faints. In his delirium, he calls out the names of the Imams from Alı¯ b. Abı¯ T·a¯lib through Alı¯ al-Rid·a¯, all of whom will stand against him on the Day of Judgement.124 As a historical attribution, this speech is implausible (to say the least), but it is perfectly consistent with the caliph’s character as the Twelver sources imagined it. He is an Alid sympathizer who murdered al-Rid·a¯ in a fit of jealousy, and now he feels remorse.125 Structurally, the ·ta¯ ifa of caliphs in Twelver biography serves as the demonic double of the ·ta¯ ifa of Imams. The caliphal claim to heirship represents a perversion of the true Alid one, just as oppressive caliphal rule represents a perversion of the imamate. As counterpoints to the Imams, the caliphs serve an 120

123 125

T·u¯sı¯, Rija¯l, 443. The reason seems to be that an intermediate transmitter, one Abu¯ Bakr b. 121 122 Schacht, Origins, 171ﬀ. ThG, III: 156. S·a¯lih·, is omitted (see ibid., 397). 124 E.g., UAR, I: 154–78. UAR, II: 249. Unlike the tragic heroes of Western drama, the caliph cannot plead compulsion by fate. According to al-Rid·a¯, God does not decree acts of disobedience because “He is too just to ¯ bı¯, Nathr al-durr, compel his creatures to sin and then punish them.” See UAR, I: 142–45; A quoted in al-Irbilı¯, Kashf, III: 142; and further Fyzee, Creed, 36–37; Sourdel, “Imamisme,” 239–41; and Madelung, “Imamism,” 19–20.

The Imam Alı¯ al-Rid·a¯

important purpose in Twelver biography. Most notably, their persecution of the Imams confirms the rightness of Imami claims. If the Imams were not a threat, the caliphs would not have to murder them. To emphasize this point, Ibn Ba¯bawayh cites several reports to the effect that a particular caliph acknowledged the Imam of his age. As part of this strategy, the same reports represent the Imam as reluctant to proclaim his identity to the caliph. The implication is that the Imam did not challenge the caliph directly, and provided no pretext for the latter to do away with him. Rather, the caliph simply perceives his rival’s superior virtue and murders him (as al-Rashı¯d explained regarding al-Ka¯z·im) “because kingship has no mercy.”126 When the caliph murders his rival, he must do so precisely because he knows him to be the Imam. If the biographer can show this, then the murder itself becomes proof of his subject’s imamate. The Twelver reports that feature al-Ma mu¯n use elements derived from his biographies, including court figures like the singer Mukha¯riq,127 events like the debate-sessions associated with the caliphal court, and possibly even symbols like the fish that plays a role in al-Ma mu¯n’s death-tale apud al-Mas u¯dı¯. Most notably, the Uyu¯n also mentions an ascetic zealot who rebukes the caliph. The report (ascribed, once again, to Abu¯ al-S·alt) states that a “Sufi” was accused of theft and brought to court. There, he defended himself by attacking alMa mu¯n. Specifically, he accused him of failing to provide for the destitute as stipulated in the Qur a¯n (8: 41 and 59: 7). The caliph turned to al-Rid·a¯, who customarily sat with him during public sessions, to ask his opinion. The Imam replied laconically that the Sufi had stolen only because he had been robbed. Al-Ma mu¯n then flew into a rage and threatened to amputate the Sufi’s hand. The Sufi audaciously replied that he could not because he (the caliph) was the son of a slave woman purchased with funds from the public treasury. “That,” he said, “makes you a slave to everyone, East and West, until they free you; and I haven’t freed you yet.” Finally, he accused the caliph of “denying the rights of the Prophet’s family.” The report continues: “What should be done with him?” said al-Ma mu¯n, turning to al-Rid·a¯. Al-Rid·a¯ said: “God Almighty said to Muhammad: ‘Cogent proof (al-h·ujja al-ba¯ligha) belongs to God. It does not reach the ignorant man, lest he despite his ignorance understand it as a knowledgeable man would. This world and the next are sustained by proof.’ And this man has adduced it.” Al-Ma mu¯n thereupon ordered the Sufi released. Then he withdrew from the public eye and preoccupied himself with al-Rid·a¯. Eventually he murdered him by poison.128

This report brings together representatives of three traditions, each with an account of its rights and responsibilities. At the beginning of the narrative, the caliph and the Imam have managed, however awkwardly, to reconcile their claims. When the Suﬁ appears, he takes the side of the Imam against the caliph, and so shatters the entente. In his own biographies, al-Ma mu¯n always 126

UAR, I: 88–93.

127

Ibid.

128

UAR, II: 237–38.

100 Classical Arabic Biography outwits the zealots with historical and jurisprudential arguments. Here, however, he flies into a rage and threatens to mutilate his challenger. He also resolves to poison the Imam, a tactic that amounts to an admission that the latter’s arguments – albeit voiced by the Sufi – have won the day. Apart from its historicity (even Ibn Ba¯bawayh calls it doubtful) this report resonates with recurrent attributions of solidarity between Shiite and Sufi exemplars. In a recent study, Hamid Algar has drawn attention to reports of meetings between the early Imams, particularly Mu¯sa¯ al-Ka¯z·im, and contemporary Sufis. Early Sufi authors such as al-Kala¯ba¯dhı¯ (d. 385/995) and alHujwı¯rı¯ (d. c. 465/1071) list the first six Imams as exemplars for their subjects. Later compilers – preponderantly Sunnis – tell stories of meetings between the Imam al-Ka¯zim and the ascetics Shaqı¯q al-Balkhı¯ (d. 194/810) and Bishr al· 129 One of these tales concerns Alı¯ al-Rid·a¯ in particular. In H · a¯fı¯ (d. 227/841). his entry on the Baghdad ascetic Ma ru¯f al-Karkhı¯ (d. 200/815), the Sufi biographer al-Sulamı¯ (d. 414/1021) states that the ascetic converted to Islam at the hands of al-Rid·a¯ and then worked as his doorkeeper. “One day,” he adds, “the Shiites congregated at [al-Rid·a¯’s] door in such numbers that they broke Ma ru¯f’s ribs, and he died.”130 Unfortunately, this event is supposed to have occurred in Baghdad, a city the Imam never visited. Al-Dhahabı¯ thus calls alSulamı¯’s account “incorrect,” adding that “perhaps al-Rid·a¯ had a doorkeeper named Ma ru¯f, the same as that of the Iraqi renunciant.”131 Algar, similarly, concludes that the historicity of such stories is “unproven” and only one is even “fully plausible.” He nevertheless finds in their mere existence “historical and even spiritual significance” because they illustrate the Imams’ status as “exemplars of the spiritual virtues” within the Sufi tradition.132 The perdurability of this status is evident in Sufi masters’ frequent claims to descent from the Imams. In the case of Alı¯ al-Rid·a¯, we find the founders of the Bektashı¯, Kubra¯wı¯ya, and Ni matulla¯hı¯ Sufi orders and their various sub-branches tracing their chain of authority from Alı¯ b. Abı¯ T·a¯lib, whom they believe to have received mystical gnosis from the Prophet. The chain of transmission then continues through the Twelver Imams as far as al-Rid·a¯, from him to Ma ru¯f al-Karkhı¯, and from al-Karkhı¯ through various intermediaries down to the founders of the respective orders.133 These mythical genealogies, like the Sufi-episode in the Uyu¯n, illustrate an important function of the ·ta¯ ifa-model: the vindication of one’s ·ta¯ ifa using the testimony of a representative of another. This strategy will recur in the biographies of Ibn H · anbal and the ascetic renunciant Bishr al-H · a¯fı¯ (chs. 4 and 5), who (according to their biographers at least) were united in their disapproval of the Abbasid caliphs.

129 130 132

Algar, “Ima¯m Mu¯sa¯”; see also Massignon, Essai, 109–10. 131 Sulamı¯, Tabaqat, 85. SAN, XI: 343. I have found no references to Ma ru¯f in the Uyu¯n. 133 Algar, “Ima¯m Mu¯sa¯,” 9. Ibid., 10–11; Momen, Introduction, 209–11.

The Imam Alı¯ al-Rid·a¯ 101

The tradition of criticism Benefiting as it did from a long tradition of narrative misattribution, supplementation, and omission, the Uyu¯n managed to reconcile the conflicting demands of historical plausibility, doctrinal necessity, and spiritual inspiration. As a result, it proved extraordinarily successful. Nearly every biography of al-Rid·a¯ from the fifth/eleventh century down to the present time draws on it, and its account of the Imam’s demise remains the firm if unexamined conviction of Twelver Shiites today.134 Despite its popularity, however, Ibn Ba¯bawayh’s account, particularly his treatment of al-Ma mu¯n, did not escape criticism from later Shiite scholars. Surprisingly, perhaps, the dissenters did not base their objections on the dubious transmission and attribution of the relevant accounts. Instead, they directed their criticism to “the referential content of the report itself,” to use al-Ma mu¯n’s supposed phrase. In the Uyu¯n, Ibn Ba¯bawayh adduces al-Rid·a¯’s attributes as evidence for his imamate. Of these attributes, his knowledge, certainly, is ontologically necessary. His death by foul play, on the other hand, is less clearly so. Is murder a necessary condition or concomitant of the imamate? Or is it a contingent attribute of the Imams, like their physical appearance or the number of their children? This question was addressed systematically and critically by Ibn Ba¯bawayh’s younger contemporary al-Shaykh al-Mufı¯d (d. 413/1032). AlMufı¯d disagreed with many of Ibn Ba¯bawayh’s positions – implied or explicit – on the nature of argumentation generally, and on the nature of the imams specifically.135 He considered certain properties, such as infallibility, to be necessary attributes of the Imam; and certain other properties as possibly existing but not necessary. Regarding the Imams’ knowledge of all crafts and languages, for example, he writes that nothing prevents them from having such knowledge. However, it is not rationally necessary that they have it (la¯ wa¯jibun min jihati ‘l- aql wa ‘l-qiya¯s).136 The same applies to supernatural knowledge: “I hold that the Imams could read the minds of certain people and knew what was to happen before it happened. However, this is not a necessary attribute nor a condition of their imamate.”137 What about death by foul play? AlMufı¯d is aware that Ibn Ba¯bawayh made the murder-argument to refute the ghula¯h, who held the Imams to be divine and thus immortal. Though he too has no patience for the ghula¯h, whom he calls “misguided infidels,” al-Mufı¯d is unwilling to twist either logic or history for the sake of refuting them. As for [Ibn Ba¯bawayh’s] statement that the Prophet and the Imams all died by poison or by violence: some of them did, and the others did not. It is certain that Alı¯, alH · asan, and al-H · usayn left this world murdered, not by natural causes. Of their successors, [al-Ka¯z·im] was poisoned, and al-Rid·a¯ probably was as well, although there is 134

136

The present-day citizens of Mashhad have reportedly added a new character to the story: a slave-woman who tricked the Imam into taking the poison (Hossein Ziai, personal communi135 cation). See further Sourdel, “Imamisme”; Madelung, “Imamism,” 21–25. 137 Mufı¯d, Awa¯ il, 76. Ibid., 77.

102 Classical Arabic Biography some doubt about it (wa-yaqwa¯ fı¯ ‘l-nafs amru ‘l-Rid·a¯ wa-in ka¯na fı¯hi shakk). As for the others, there is no way of knowing whether they were poisoned, assassinated, or killed in captivity. Accounts claiming [murder] fall under the heading of divisive rumors, and are not susceptible to conﬁrmation.138

In his biographical practice, al-Mufı¯d conforms to his stated positions on the imamic attributes as well as his reservations about making unsubstantiated accusations. According to his Kita¯b al-irsha¯d, the fourth, fifth, sixth, eighth, ninth, tenth, and eleventh Imams died natural deaths; Alı¯ b. Abı¯ T·a¯lib and alH · usayn were assassinated; and al-H · asan and Mu¯sa¯ al-Ka¯z·im were poisoned. In the entry on Muh·ammad al-Taqı¯, al-Mufı¯d affirms the criterion for accepting murder-tales. “It is said that he died from poisoning, but I am aware of no confirmed report saying so, such as would make me attest to it.”139As for alRid·a¯, al-Mufı¯d presents the same reports al-Is·fa¯ha¯nı¯ used in the Maqa¯til, that is, reports that do not insist on the caliph’s guilt.140 Al-Mufı¯d seems to think it likely that al-Rid·a¯ was poisoned, not because Ibn Ba¯bawayh’s murder doctrine says so, but because reasonably trustworthy reports imply that this was the case. Ironically, al-Mufı¯d’s decision to include al-Is·faha¯nı¯’s poisoning stories in his widely cited Irsha¯d exposed him to criticism by later scholars who shared his doubts about the poisoning of al-Rid·a¯. The first of these skeptics appears to be Rad·¯ı al-Dı¯n b. T·a¯wu¯s (d. 664/1266), who “used to read extensively and subject such matters to careful investigation and scrutiny,” and “did not agree or believe that al-Ma mu¯n poisoned [al-Rid·a¯].”141 Among the readings that contributed to this conviction was al-Ma mu¯n’s letter to the Abbasids, which he found in the Nadı¯m al-farı¯d of (Ibn) Miskawayh (421/1030). As we have seen, the letter argues for the precedence of Alı¯ b. Abı¯ T·a¯lib over al- Abba¯s, praises al-Rid·a¯ in the highest terms, and describes his death as an unfortunate and unexpected event.142 If Ibn T·a¯wu¯s thought this letter authentic, it is clear why he considered the caliph innocent of al-Rid·a¯’s murder. Besides affirming al-Ma mu¯n’s Alid sympathies, the letter suggests that he held his Abbasid relatives in such low esteem that he is unlikely to have murdered the Imam just to please them. Next in the line of skeptics is Alı¯ b. I¯sa al-Irbilı¯ (d. 717/1317). In his view, al-Ma mu¯n’s “kindness to and affection for [al-Rid·a¯], and his appointment of him at the expense of his own relatives and children, all support and confirm” the skepticism of Ibn T·a¯wu¯s. Moreover, he says, al-Mufı¯d “mentions certain 138 140

142

139 Mufı¯d, Tas·h·¯ıh·, 217. Mufı¯d, Irsha¯d, 326. He attributes them not to al-Is·faha¯nı¯, but to the latter’s source, Muh·ammad b. Alı¯ b. H · amza. Al-Mufı¯d may have used the older source directly, but it appears more likely that he simply reproduced al-Is·faha¯nı¯’s recension (omitting the miracle of the gravesite, which in any event does not appear in all the manuscripts of al-Is·faha¯nı¯’s work). Al-Mufı¯d includes no material not already found in the Maqa¯til, and we know he had it available because he cites it in another part of the Irsha¯d (276). Cf. al-Majlisı¯, who imagines that al-Is·faha¯nı¯ copied from al-Mufı¯d 141 Irbilı¯, Kashf, III: 112. (Bih·a¯r, XLIX: 309). Madelung, “New Documents,” 340–44; above, pp. 30–31.

The Imam Alı¯ al-Rida¯ 103 · things that my critical sense cannot accept.” These include the claim that the Imam antagonized the sons of Sahl, who retaliated by turning the caliph’s opinion against him. This explanation, says al-Irbilı¯, “is not particularly convincing.” The Imam “was too preoccupied with matters of religion and salvation” to involve himself in court intrigue. Moreover, had al-Ma mu¯n found al-Rid·a¯ troublesome, all he had to do was ask him to stop his exhortations, not murder him. “Furthermore, we do not know that needles plunged into grapes make the grapes poisonous; medical reasoning indicates that they would not.” Finally, al-Irbilı¯ too refers to the caliphal letter, in which he remembers reading that al-Ma mu¯n insulted the Abbasids and praised alRid·a¯.143 “These and similar points,” he concludes, “acquit al-Ma mu¯n of suspicion that he would pursue the undoing of such a noble soul, especially when doing so would mean perdition in this world and the next.”144 Al-Irbilı¯’s frequent disclaimers, as well as his need to invoke Ibn T·a¯wu¯s’ authority, suggest that the other view of al-Rid·a¯’s death was the more prominent. Indeed, I have found no Twelver source before Muh·ammad Ba¯qir alMajlisı¯ (d. 1111/1699–1700) that cites the dissenters, and even al-Majlisı¯ cites them only to condemn them. He ascribes the belief in murder to “our side,” and the other view to “dissenters.” He calls al-Irbilı¯’s arguments “silly,” and offers a rebuttal of them. Al-Rid·a¯ probably did attack the sons of Sahl, out of obedience to the command to enjoin good and forbid evil. For his part, the caliph had planned from the outset to use the nomination to pacify rebellious Alids in the provinces. When al-Rid·a¯ had served this purpose, he did away with him. “Thus, the truth is what [Ibn Ba¯bawayh], al-Mufı¯d, and other eminent authorities have stated.” That is, al-Rida¯ “died as a martyr poisoned by the · accursed al-Ma mu¯n – curses on him, and on all usurpers and oppressors forever!”145 The fourteenth/twentieth-century Shı¯ ite authority Muh·sin al-Amı¯n (d. 1371/1951–52), the last representative of the classical tradition, also opts for poisoning. However, he is less caustic and more thorough than al-Majlisı¯ in responding to al-Irbilı¯’s objections. He bases his reconstruction on a combination of external historical evidence, psychological plausibility, and reliance upon the authority of his predecessors, specifically al-Is·faha¯nı¯, implying that he finds Ibn Ba¯bawayh’s reports dubious and unreliable. The appointment “may have been a trick from the beginning, as al-Majlisı¯ would have it, or it may have been sincere.” However, the caliph is doubtless guilty of murder, because “even good intentions are subject to change when a ruler fears for his power.” The caliph’s motive for killing both al-Fad·l b. Sahl and al-Rid·a¯ was his desire to regain control of Iraq. Al-Is·faha¯nı¯’s account supports the conclusion that al-Rid·a¯ fell ill because of some food he happened to eat; al-Ma mu¯n then seized the opportunity to poison him. About the grapes he says: “It is 143

The passage al-Irbilı¯ cites from it does not appear in the version translated by Madelung (“New Documents,” 340–44). Al-Irbilı¯ is nevertheless correct in his recollection of the tone of 144 145 the letter. Irbilı¯, Kashf, III: 112–13. Majlisı¯, Bih·a¯r, XII: 311.

104 Classical Arabic Biography clear from the report that the needles were infused with a subtle poison. We are not meant to think that their mere insertion into the grapes produced the toxin.”146 The afterlife of the murder-stories illustrates that Twelver biographers, whether they believed al-Ma mu¯n guilty or not, write as if Ibn Ba¯bawayh’s reports have little bearing on the issue. Perhaps they knew that his reports were indefensible as historical evidence, and preferred not to compromise their arguments by citing them. When they adduce murder-accounts, the later authorities use the ones from al-Is·fa¯ha¯nı¯’s Maqa¯til, which appear to have acquired Twelver credentials simply because they had been cited by al-Mufı¯d. Moreover, all of the critics except for al-Mufı¯d adjudicate the issue on the basis of the personality of the actors and their knowledge of the historical context. For al-Mufı¯d, the manner of al-Rid·a¯’s death had nothing to do with his imamate. The other biographers do not assert that it did, but nevertheless feel obliged to take a position on the issue. For Ibn Ta¯wu¯s and al-Irbilı¯, the · caliph’s behavior is best explained by assuming his good faith. For al-Majlisı¯ and al-Amı¯n, it is best explained by assuming his perﬁdy. More recent work by Shiite scholars shows that the dispute is far from over. In 1985, Ja far Murtad·a¯ al- Amilı¯ published a polemical screed that insists on al-Ma mu¯n’s malevolence. In 1995, H · asan al-Amı¯n made a more judicious but equally heartfelt argument for the caliph’s good will.147 Despite their diﬀerences, both scholars follow their critical predecessors in arguing largely from external evidence and downplaying the reports in Ibn Ba¯bawayh’s Uyu¯n.

Conclusions Like al-Rid·a¯’s shrine at Mashhad, his biographical tradition is the result of a long process of reconstruction, expansion, and elaboration by his faithful. At the time of his death and burial in an obscure corner of Khurasan, al-Rid·a¯ was one of several claimants to the imamate. Worse yet, he died compromised by his appointment to the heir apparency. With the crystallization of Twelver doctrine in the early fourth/tenth century, he nevertheless assumed his place as the eighth of the twelve Imams. The deﬁnitive Twelver account of his life by Ibn Ba¯bawayh displays the traces of the struggles undergone to substantiate this claim. The biographer represents al-Rid·a¯ as the self-evidently superior and eternally predestined leader of the Muslim community. In al-Rid·a¯’s day, however, neither of these claims was easy to substantiate. The primary means of doing so was the question-and-answer session, of which the extant reports appear to convey the tone, if not always the precise content. The Uyu¯n, of course, presents al-Rid·a¯ as upholding in his answers the unchanged 146

Amı¯n, A ya¯n, IV (part 2), 154–58. A similar historical argument appears in a number of Western works, e.g., Sourdel, “Politique,” 34; Vizirat, I: 209. However, the revolt of Abu¯ alSara¯ya¯ in Kufa had already been suppressed at the time of the nomination (see further Nagel, 147 ¯ milı¯, Haya¯h siya¯sı¯ya; Amı¯n, Rida¯. A Rechtleitung, 414). · ·

The Imam Alı¯ al-Rid·a¯ 105 and unchanging teachings of his forbears. However, because the reports must preserve a semblance of the original questions to make their point, they permit a partial reconstruction of the conditions under which al-Rida¯ carried · out his struggle for recognition. The minimal conditions of the imamate in al-Rid·a¯’s day included Alid descent and privileged interpretive insight. The mere fact of al-Rid·a¯’s descent from al-H · usayn met the first condition without any effort on his part. The second condition was ilm, knowledge, which consisted at least in part of fiqh, interpretive ability. How could an Imam prove that his ilm was greater than that of other H · adı¯th-scholars and jurists? The pioneering theorists of Imamism responded to this challenge with impressive resourcefulness. The one thing an Imam knew better than anyone else was his family history, which embodied a sunna that went back to the Prophet. As the Uyu¯n reveals, this sunna included everything from the mirrors hanging in al-Ka¯z·im’s house to alS·a¯diq’s favorite H · adı¯th. Among those who had accepted his family’s imamate, al-Rid·a¯ could relate the details of his ancestors’ domestic lives with every assurance that they would be accepted as evidence of privileged insight (as, according to the definition, they were). In redefining the sunna in such a way as to restrict the number of its potential interpreters, the Imamis were behaving in a manner different only in detail from that of the Sunni H · adı¯th-scholars, who confined exemplarity to the Prophet and the Companions, and ilm (in the post-lapsarian present) to themselves.148 Once the principle of privileged insight was established, however, it lent itself to polemical exaggeration by partisans of different Alid candidates. In the course of the formative debates on the nature and identity of the Imams, ilm came to encompass knowledge of everything, including the past, the future, and the secret thoughts of men. Evidently, al-Rid·a¯ found such misconceptions irritating. For one thing, they compromised the integrity of the original definition of ilm. For another, they made the Shia an object of outraged condemnation and baffled ridicule. Most important, perhaps, the Imam could not possibly live up to the expectations they generated. Among these expectations was that he would do a better job of ruling than the Abbasid caliph. Oddly enough, al-Ma mu¯n himself appears to have shared in these expectations. However, his designation of al-Rid·a¯ as heir apparent upset the longstanding arrangement by which the Imam held himself aloof from an office he was not permitted to occupy. Had al-Rid·a¯ succeeded as caliph, he would have had to define the office without reference to a concurrent perversion of it. In the event, death saved him and his community from the crisis his accession would doubtless have provoked. Moreover, his untimely decease fitted in all too well with the notion that “all the Imams die murdered,” and doubtless helped to sustain it. As satisfying as it was for 148

I am grateful to Nagel for pointing out the parallel roles of the Sunni Companions and the Shiite Imams (Rechtleitung, 290–91).

106 Classical Arabic Biography doctrinal purposes, however, the murder-doctrine only emphasized the parallelism between the caliphs and the Imams. By murdering their rivals one by one, the caliphs were the ones who defined the length of their imamates and the timing of the succession. For this reason, perhaps, some Shiite scholars took issue with Ibn Ba¯bawayh’s insistence on the murder-doctrine in general, or with his account of al-Rid·a¯’s death in particular. As the case of Abu¯ al-S·alt al-Harawı¯ suggests, a contemporary observer could profess loyalty to al-Ma mu¯n as well as to al-Rid·a¯. A companion of both men, he appears to have thought the caliph innocent of murdering the Imam. Unfortunately for the Twelvers, he was one of the few sympathetic eyewitnesses to the Imam’s last days. From his reports, transmitters eventually constructed a complete explanation of the designation, the Imam’s acceptance of it, and the circumstances of his untimely death. This explanation follows Abu¯ al-S·alt in attributing genuine Shiite sympathies to al-Ma mu¯n. However, it insists that the caliph, despite his acknowledgement of al-Rid·a¯’s superiority, poisoned him in a fit of jealousy. To be useful to Ibn Ba¯bawayh, Abu¯ alSalt’s original testimony had to be changed almost beyond recognition. These · changes include many elaborations and one critical omission: the Imam’s declaration of the caliph’s innocence. Yet the portrait of al-Ma mu¯n that emerges from these heavy-handed manipulations accords surprisingly well with the image of him that appears in his own biographies and in other documentary evidence. His Shiite sympathies, his intellectual venturesomeness, and even his Sufi critics play a prominent role in the Twelver reports, as they do in his own biographies. However doubtful parts of it may be as history, the Rid·a¯-legend demonstrates the power of biography in creating and sustaining communities of faith. The Firaq states that some who doubted al-Rid·a¯’s imamate returned to the Imami fold because they heard akhba¯r that convinced them of the truth of his claim. In their own way, the skeptics of the wa¯qifa made a contribution as well. By insisting that al-Rid·a¯ meet their very high and very specific expectations, they helped define a notion of heirship to the Prophet that could thrive even after the caliphs no longer existed as meaningful objects of comparison. In this, too, the Twelvers resemble the Sunnis. Both groups used the notion of heirship to the prophet to express dissatisfaction with the caliphate and to advocate another, better imam. It is al-Ma mu¯n’s ill fortune to have contributed to the reputation of two such figures, the other being Ah·mad Ibn H · anbal, the subject of the next chapter.

CH A PT ER 4

The H · adı¯th-scholar Ah·mad Ibn H · anbal

By God, I have given all I could in this eﬀort; and I hope to come out of it even, without winning or losing. 1 Ibn H · anbal after his trial, as cited by his son S·a¯lih·

Introduction The Qur a¯n exhorts the believers to obey the Prophet (59: 7) and emulate his good example (33: 21). When he died, according to Ibn Hisha¯m’s Sı¯ra, some of the mourners wanted to bury him in the mosque. Others, however, recommended interring him with his companions. Then Abu¯ Bakr spoke up: “I heard the Messenger of God say that no prophet has ever been buried anywhere except in the place where he died.” His deathbed was accordingly lifted off the floor and his grave was dug on the spot.2 Ibn Hisha¯m’s account thus credits Abu¯ Bakr with being the first to invoke Muh·ammad’s words as a source of guidance after his death. In later times, the Prophet’s words and deeds, transmitted by such men as Abu¯ Bakr, took on an importance second only to that of the Qur a¯n. In the first and second centuries, however, the Prophet’s practice was only one component of the sunna – the normative practice of the first Muslims. By force of circumstances, the judgements of the Companions appear to have been an equally rich source of precedent. As Islam spread beyond Medina, the men and women who could recall the practice of the early community were the only source of information even for such elementary rituals as prayer and almsgiving. At the same time, many sunan were fabricated to support one or another dynasty, faction, or school of thought; and even genuine reports were spuriously “lifted,” that is, ascribed to the Prophet rather than the Companions.3 In response to the proliferation of reports, critical transmitters claimed for themselves an authority superior to that of their rivals the akhba¯rı¯s and the qus·s·a¯s· (“storytellers”), whom they decried as purveyors of pious legends, historical fables, and scurrilous gossip.4 The need for 11 13 14

12 S·a¯lih·, Sı¯ra, 66. Ibn Hisha¯m, Sı¯ra, IV: 314–15. Goldziher, Muslim Studies, I: 18–125. On the akhba¯rı¯s, see p. 2ﬀ. above; on the qus·s·a¯s, see Juynboll, Muslim Tradition, 9–76.

107

108 Classical Arabic Biography a good account of sunna became even more pressing after the Medinese jurist Muh·ammad b. Idrı¯s al-Sha¯fi ı¯ (d. 204/820) made the definitive argument for its indispensability to the formulation of law. The bases of jurisprudence, he said, consisted of the Qur a¯n, the sunna, consensus, and analogy. The sunna, in turn, consisted of the attested practice of the Prophet or of the Companions, with the former taking precedence.5 Many H · adı¯th-scholars found al-Sha¯fi ı¯’s jurisprudence more acceptable than that of the older schools of law, which now seemed overly dependent on ra y, “judgement” or “opinion,” not Prophetic practice.6 For some scholars, however, even al-Sha¯fi ı¯ was an innovator. The leading representative of the rigorist school, Ah·mad Ibn H · anbal (164–241/780–855), declared that analogy and consensus, even as last resorts, had no place in the law. Rather, the Qur a¯n and the sunna – transmitted in the form of H · adı¯th by specialists like himself – were the only acceptable guides to belief and action: Religion consists solely of the Book of God and genuine reports of practice transmitted on the authority of trustworthy persons. [Such reports must] relate information that is authentic, believable, and generally known. They must confirm one another. They must go back as far as the Prophet (may God bless and save him), his Companions (may God be pleased with them), the next generation, the generation after that, or to members of subsequent generations who are acknowledged leaders (a imma) worthy of emulation. [These leaders] cleave to originary practice (sunna) and cling to the remnant thereof. They perpetrate no innovations, inspire no mistrust, and provoke no dissension. They are not proponents of analogical reasoning (qiya¯s) or of personal judgement (ra y). Analogy is invalid in matters of religion, and personal judgement is even worse. Advocates of ra y and qiya¯s in religion are misguided innovators, except when there is a precedent (athar) for [their verdict] in [the verdicts of] past authorities.7

Despite its emphasis on “past authorities,” this notion of sunna permitted – indeed, required – that later generations strive to live just as the ﬁrst Muslims had.8 Their guide in this striving was to be the sunna, which for Ibn H · anbal meant the totality of reliable reports about the Prophet and the Companions.9 Ibn H · anbal admitted that the number of believers endowed with adequate knowledge ( ilm) had been decreasing steadily. However, knowledge had not disappeared altogether. Rather, God had preserved a remnant of “knowers” in every age. This remnant consisted of H · adı¯th-scholars, whose duty it was “to guide the errant, warn against perdition, revive the dead with the Book of God, and use the Prophet’s sunna to save the ignorant and damned.”10 Prominent scholars were thus imams or “exemplars,” encharged with saving the community from innovation and dissent. The sunna, at ﬁrst a guide to 15 16

18 19

Schacht, Origins, esp. 58ﬀ., 134. On the debate between as·h·a¯b al-h·adı¯th and as·h·a¯b al-ra y, see further Melchert, Formation, 17 T 1–31; Dickinson, “Ah·mad b. al-S·alt.” ·H · , I: 31; cf. I: 15. Cf. Hodgson, Venture, I: 318–32. Ibn H systematically between the two types; see further Melchert, · anbal did not distinguish 10 ManIH Formation, 15–16. · , 167.

The Hadı¯th-scholar Ahmad Ibn Hanbal 109 · · · practice in uncertain circumstances, had now become a means of salvation in its own right. For many of his contemporaries, it was Ibn Hanbal who came closest to ful· ﬁlling the mission God had entrusted to the ahl al-h·adı¯th. He is described as a dark-skinned man of middle height who wore a coarse white turban and loincloth, and dyed his beard with henna. He would avoid conversation on worldly matters, “but if ilm were mentioned, he would speak.”11 He was born in Khurasan to a prominent abna¯ family of Basran origin; his grandfather had been governor of Sarakhs.12 After his father’s premature death, his mother moved to Iraq. He thus grew up in Baghdad, where he attended a Qur a¯nschool. At sixteen, he left home to seek H · adı¯th, and traveled to Kufa, Basra, the Hijaz, and the Yemen to attend the lectures of noted transmitters. He reportedly refused help, even from his mother, and was forced to travel on foot even to destinations as distant as Mecca and Tarsus. During his journeys, he would sleep with his head resting on a brick. Despite these privations, he eventually memorized (it is said) the texts and isna¯ds of one million H · adı¯th-reports. Back in Baghdad, Ibn H anbal taught H adı ¯ th until compelled to stop by the · · Inquisition. He did not, however, accept payment for teaching, nor did he accept charitable gifts from admirers. His family supported itself on the rents of a tenement which he owned, and on the sale of cloths spun by his wife. Among his closest associates were his son S·a¯lih· (d. 265/878)13 and his cousin 14 both of whom later wrote biographies of him, as H · anbal (d. 273/886–87), well as Abu¯ Bakr al-Khalla¯l (d. 311/923), who collected his opinions and com15 posed the ﬁrst biographical dictionary for the nascent H · anbalı¯ school. The works ascribed to Ibn H · anbal himself were compiled by his disciples, sometimes directly from dictation, and in some cases apparently with substantial contributions by the compilers.16 Chief among these works is the Musnad, which ranks among the six canonical collections of Sunni H · adı¯th. Other works of importance for our purposes are the Kita¯b al-zuhd, a collection of reports on the great ascetics of history; the Kita¯b al-wara , on proper conduct in a variety of everyday situations; the Kita¯b al- ilal wa-ma rifat al-rija¯l, on ala¯ al-zana¯diqa wa ‘l-jahmı¯ya, a H · adı¯th and H · adı¯th-scholars; and the Radd refutation of the createdness of the Qur a¯n and a reply to the accusations of anthropomorphism. When the caliph al-Ma mu¯n ordered the examination of the jurists in 218/833, Ibn H · anbal, who was not a judge, was not immediately named. 11 12

15 16

ManIH, 208. · TB, V: 181 (no. 2632). The remainder of my summary is derived from the family biographies by S·a¯lih· and H · anbal; ManIH · ; and SAN, XI: 177–358. The imam’s eldest son; he reportedly handled his father’s correspondence and attended him on his deathbed. He was later appointed judge in Tarsus and then in Is·faha¯n (T ·H · , I: 173–76). The son of the imam’s paternal uncle Ish·a¯q; he taught H · adı¯th in Ukba¯ra and al-Wa¯s·it, and by his own account compiled the Musnad (T ·H · , I: 143–45). Melchert, Formation, esp. 137–55. See further Sezgin, Geschichte, I: 502–09; Melchert, Formation, 137–47.

110 Classical Arabic Biography Apparently taken aback by the resistance to the khalq al-Qur a¯n, al-Ma mu¯n then broadened the scope of the Inquisition to include H · adı¯th-scholars. Ibn Hanbal was duly interrogated, but withheld his consent to the createdness· doctrine. The caliph, then at Tarsus on the Byzantine frontier, ordered the Baghdadi dissenters sent to him for trial. However, they were spared when he suddenly died. Sent back to the capital in chains, Ibn H · anbal remained for a time in the commoners’ prison before entering the custody of Ish·a¯q b. Ibra¯hı¯m, the prefect of Baghdad. Ibn H · anbal’s uncle then interceded with Ish·a¯q to allow his nephew to defend his views in a debate. To everyone’s dismay, Ibn H · anbal still refused to capitulate. Dragged before al-Ma mu¯n’s successor, the caliph al-Mu tas·im, he disputed the createdness of the Qur a¯n with the court scholars and resisted all attempts to reach a compromise. On the third day of his trial, still defiant, he was suspended between two posts and flogged. Then, surprisingly, he was released.17 Ibn H · anbal continued to teach for the remainder of al-Mu tas·im’s reign, but went into hiding during the reign of the next caliph, al-Wa¯thiq, who pursued the Inquisition vigorously. The mih·na finally came to an end under al-Wa¯thiq’s successor al-Mutawakkil. Soon after his accession in 232/847, he declared alsunna wa ‘l-jama¯ a, the anti-Shiite and anti-philosophical stance Ibn H · anbal had long represented, the official creed of the Abbasid caliphate. He also invited Ibn H · anbal to attend him at Samarra. The scholar, now old and ill, reluctantly complied. Soon afterwards, he was permitted to return to Baghdad. He refused thereafter to teach H · adı¯th, apparently for fear that alMutawakkil would ask him to tutor the heir apparent. He had also come to resent his relatives, who had accepted the caliph’s gifts. Ibn H · anbal remained in seclusion until he died in 241/855, at the age of seventy-seven. He was reportedly besieged in his later years by courtiers begging forgiveness for the Inquisition, and his funeral was described as the largest Islam had ever known. Now restored to favor, the H · anbalı¯s of Baghdad rallied around the Abbasid caliphate, although their penchant for vigilantism and anti-Shiite rabblerousing often earned them condemnation by the authorities.18 This period also witnessed the development of a distinctively H · anbalı¯ school of jurisprudence. As Christopher Melchert has now conclusively demonstrated, Ibn H · anbal himself did not found the institution that bears his name.19 Indeed, the notion of a “H · anbalı¯ school” would doubtless have been repugnant to him. Due, however, to the efforts of Abu¯ Bakr al-Khalla¯l, who “followed up [his] texts, wrote them down, and checked their proofs,”20 a H · anbalı¯ school of fiqh did emerge, and eventually became one of the most prominent social and intellectual forces in Sunni Islam. Much of its influence is due to Abu¯ al-H · asan al17

18 19 20

H · anbal places this event in 219, but given the length of Ibn H · anbal’s imprisonment, 220 is a likelier date (ThG, III: 462; cf. Jad a¯n, Mih·na, 151). See Laoust, “H · anbalisme” and Profession; Makdisi, Ibn Aqı¯l; Sabari, Mouvements, 101–20. Melchert, Formation, esp.137–55. Dhahabı¯, Siyar, 14: 297, cited in Melchert, Formation, 143.

The H · adı¯th-scholar Ah·mad Ibn H · anbal 111 Ash arı¯ (d. c. 324/935), who shored up H · anbalı¯ literalism with deftly argued kala¯m to lay the foundation for modern Sunni theology.21 Later, Ibn H · anbal’s rigor and personal courage were most spectacularly emulated by the Damascene jurist Taqı¯ al-Dı¯n b. Taymiya (d. 728/1328), famous for his polemics against Shiism, Ah·madı¯ Sufism, and tomb-cults. Ibn Taymiya in turn served as a formative example for the Najdı¯ reformer Muh·ammad b. Abd alWahha¯b (d. 1206/1792), whose missionary activity spurred the formation of the modern state of Saudi Arabia.22 Through his disciples and through the works compiled in his name, Ibn H · anbal thus remains important in modern Sunni Islam. His teachings are invoked not only by Wahha¯bı¯ and other H · anbalı¯ jurists, but also by contemporary Sufi thinkers, who appear anxious to secure his approval of their doctrines.23 Designated an imam (that is, a leader and exemplar in the Sunni sense),24 Ibn H · anbal became a favorite subject of biographers both inside and outside the school.25 The H · anbalı¯ biographers took particular interest in the Inquisition, which posed two problems for their madhhab. The first was the apparent contradiction between Ibn H · anbal’s quietist pronouncements and his refusal to heed the caliphal declaration of the khalq al-Qur a¯n. The second problem was the necessity of explaining why the inquisitors released him if he had never capitulated. Several Sha¯fi ı¯ biographers also composed biographies of the imam. Although they praised his bravery and his knowledge of H · adı¯th, some doubted his fiqh, that is, his ability to derive rulings from the H adı · ¯th as opposed to simply memorizing it. Of course, such insinuations provoked an indignant response from the H · anbalı¯s. Finally, a few Sufi biographers, impressed by his Sunnism, his piety, and his lifelong poverty, wrote biographies of the imam as well. The H · anbalı¯s, some of whom were Sufis themselves, did not object, except when Abu¯ Nu aym al-Is·faha¯nı¯ (d. 430/1038) went so far as to declare him a Sufi. In recognition of Ibn Hanbal’s heirship to the Prophet, his biographers gave · him a sı¯ra nearly as long as the Prophet’s, and just as replete with evocative detail. The imam’s exemplification of the sunna in the fallen world of thirdcentury Baghdad depended on his living in the same social and material world as his fellow men, and that is how his biographers portray him. Al-Ma mu¯n and his biographers, as we have seen, called the Baghdadis “rabble,” and described them as ragged, ignorant, and dangerous. Ibn Hanbal and his biog· raphers, on the other hand, call them na¯s, “people,” and praise the ragged ones as virtuous ascetics. In his study of the Gospels, Erich Auerbach argued that the depiction of the moral struggles of ordinary people opened up daily life 21 22 23

Goldziher, Introduction, 103ff., esp. 105; Makdisi, Humanism, 5–7. Laoust, Essai, esp. 76–80 and 506–14. A search of the Internet turns up hundreds of references to Ibn H · anbal in Islamic Web pages and discussion groups. Some invoke his (alleged) approval of Sufism; others cite him in polemics for and against “Salafism” (by which the authors appear to mean the Muwah·h·id or 24 See glossary. “Wahha¯bı¯” movement). For early works see Laoust, “Hanbalisme,” 81, 96, 98, 102, 107.

112 Classical Arabic Biography as a digniﬁed subject of mimesis for the ﬁrst time in Western literature.26 In the Arabic Islamic tradition, the Prophet’s sı¯ra arguably set a comparable precedent. Muhammad, like Jesus, began his mission among the poor and the · outcast, and their responses to his challenge are depicted with unblinking attention to concrete and frequently awkward material circumstances. Similarly, Ibn H · anbal’s biographers, many of whom appear to have been inspired by the sı¯ra, treat the world of the a¯mma as an appropriate setting for the emergence of religious truth.

Ibn Hanbal and the proto-Sunni community · The family biographies depict Ibn H · anbal and his associates as a community set apart by its knowledge of and devotion to the sunna. The imam’s familiarity with the world of the first Muslims appears to have been astonishingly thorough: a report preserved in a later source has him ask his wife Rayh·a¯na to stop wearing a certain kind of shoe because “it didn’t exist in the Prophet’s time.”27 According to S·a¯lih·, his father would cite a precedent for judgements covering even the most trivial aspects of daily life. When he led a prayer for men who had missed the Friday devotions, he justified his action by referring to the practice of Companions who had done the same.28 For the practice of walking ahead of funeral processions, he cited not only the Prophet but also Abu¯ Bakr, Umar, Uthma¯n, and a grandson of Umar as authorities. When S·a¯lih had a new ceiling put in, his father protested by dictating a report about a Companion who refused to enter his house after the ceiling had been decorated.29 In the Kita¯b al-wara , similarly, the imam or one of his disciples adduces a precedent for practically every question brought to their attention.30 One such exchange illustrates the workings of his fiqh, which at least theoretically excluded analogical reasoning. Asked whether girls should be allowed to play with dolls, he replied that dolls are images, and images are forbidden. To prove this, he cited a report to the effect that anything with a head is an image, and pointed out that dolls have not only heads but chests, eyes, noses, ¯ isha report playing with dolls? When and teeth. But, he was asked, didn’t A he expressed a doubt about the report in question, his disciple Abu¯ Bakr alMarru¯dhı¯ (d. 275/888–89)31 adduced a series of H · adı¯th in which the Prophet disapproves of cloth and furnishings decorated with animal shapes.32 In commanding his disciples to avoid the “dubious” (al-shubha),33 Ibn H · anbal acted on the principle that one should avoid those permitted things which resemble forbidden things, so as to establish a “border” around the for26 27 28 30 31 32 33

Auerbach, Mimesis, 24–49. T states that he only objected because her shoes would squeak. ·H · , I: 429. A parallel report 29 S·a¯lih·, Sı¯ra, 34–38. Ibid., 40–41; cf. Ibn H · anbal, Wara , 185. See further Spectorsky, “Ah·mad b. H · anbal’s Fiqh.” Abu¯ Bakr Ah·mad b. Muh·ammad, compiler of the Kita¯b al-wara (T ·H · , I: 56–63). Ibn H · anbal, Wara , 141–43. Deﬁned as “that of which we can say neither that it is h·ala¯l nor that it is h·ara¯m”; ibid., 47.

The H · adı¯th-scholar Ah·mad Ibn H · anbal 113 bidden.34 The consequent sense of separation within the community of believers is evident from the Kita¯b al-wara , which assumes that outsiders (man tukrahu na¯h·iyatuhu) fail to uphold all the injunctions of the sunna. As a result, anything they build, inhabit, wear, produce, sell, or give away constitutes a likely source of contamination. For example, they buy and sell in the street, even though the sunna forbids impeding a public thoroughfare. Ibn H · anbal thus enjoined his followers not to drink water from wells built along the road or buy merchandise from street vendors.35 Because involvement with the world (al-dunya¯) inevitably exposes a believer to objects that may be contaminated, Ibn H · anbal exhorted his disciples to engage in trades they could oversee themselves. In the Kita¯b al-wara , he recommends plaiting palm-leaves or making spindles as a way to earn a living.36 In the family biographies, he notes his wife’s conformance to this injunction, reporting to S·a¯lih· that “when prices were high, your mother would spin a fine cloth, and make curtains to sell for two dirhams more or less; and that’s how we would eat.”37 As these examples suggest, Sunni scrupulosity tended to isolate the community from the economic mainstream. It could also weaken, if not sever, ties of kinship. Ibn H · anbal forbade his disciples to run errands on behalf of relatives who lent money at interest or represented merchandise dishonestly.38 If one’s parents serve food of unknown provenance, one should refrain from eating rather than simply leave. Should they persist in eating doubtful food, however, one should live elsewhere.39 On one occasion, al-Marru¯dhı¯ asked Ibn H · anbal whether it is acceptable in such cases to induce vomiting. The imam could recall only one Companion who had done so. Al-Marru¯dhı¯ then brought up the example of the Baghdad ascetic Bishr b. al-H · a¯rith (d. 227/842; see ch. 5). His brother had sent some dates from Ubulla, and his mother pleaded with him to eat just one. Bishr obeyed, but then went up on the roof and spat it out.40 Ibn H · anbal praised the ascetic’s scrupulosity, but noted that such rigor was only possible if one did not have a family to support (Ibn H · anbal was married; Bishr was not).41 Ibn H · anbal’s penchant for scrupulosity is nowhere more evident than in his dealings with the state, a particularly virulent source of ritual pollution.42 Asked about the reliability of one H · afs· al-Farkh, Ibn H · anbal said, “I haven’t written anything of his; he was a follower of the government.”43 Kept in confinement at the palace of al-Mu tas·im, Ibn H · anbal “made excuses” to avoid eating the food served to him by the caliph’s staff. According to S·a¯lih·, he said: “I only ate as much as I needed to keep body and soul together, and 34

35 39

He attributes the expression al-ha¯jiz min al-hala¯l to Maymu¯n b. Mahra¯n (Ibn Hanbal, Wara , · · · 44) and Sufya¯n b. Uyayna (ibid., 50), and ﬁnds a similar sentiment in the H · adı¯th (ibid., 48); cf. the teachings of al-H · asan al-Bas·rı¯ (Massignon, Essai, 169), al-Muh·a¯sibı¯ (van Ess, Gedankenwelt, 96–98), and the rabbinic “fence around the law” (Hereford, Pirke Aboth, 19). 36 37 38 Ibn H Ibid., 17. S·a¯lih·, Sı¯ra, 40. Ibid., 53. · anbal, Wara , 27–29. Ibn H anbal, Wara , 48. “Doubtful food” included food bought with ill-gained proﬁts, not · 40 41 simply food that was h·ara¯m in itself. Ibid., 84–85. Ibid., 87. 43 For precedents see Lecomte, “Sufya¯n,” 59. Ibn H · anbal, Ilal, I: 18.

114 Classical Arabic Biography considered myself as one under compulsion” (cf. Qur a¯n 6: 19). According to S·a¯lih·, he ate nothing at all while at the palace.44 The reason, evidently, was that caliphal wealth was illegitimate. In a family argument about al-Mutawakkil’s gifts, the imam dismissed the precedent of Ibn Umar and Ibn Abba¯s, who had accepted money from the treasury. “So what?” he said. “Now if I knew that this money had been honestly made, without oppression or wrongful gain, then I wouldn’t care.”45 When S·a¯lih· later accepted the caliph’s stipend, his father stopped taking meals with him. Evidently the “doubtful” character of state income tainted anything bought with it, even food ritually permissible in itself. Even in his last illness, the imam refused to eat a gourd that had been baked in his son’s oven.46 When after the Sunni restoration in S·a¯lih· assumed the office of judge in Is·faha¯n, he reportedly wept when the caliph’s letter of appointment was read aloud. He recalled that his father had always urged him to live as an ascetic (mutaqashshif), and would be grieved to see him now, garbed in the black robes of an Abbasid official.47 As Leah Kinberg has argued, the natural consequence of scrupulosity is zuhd (renunciation).48 Unlike the mystics, Ibn H · anbal did not describe asceticism as a purgative stage through which the believer must pass on his way to experiential knowledge of God. Rather, it was a way to avoid shubha, and a form of sunna in itself. Judging by the H · adı¯th in the Kita¯b al-zuhd, Ibn H · anbal imagined the Prophet to have been an extreme ascetic. He relates that Muh·ammad slept on a folded cloak rather than a bed, and suffered from cankered jowls because he had nothing to eat but vine leaves.49 In the biographies, Ibn H · anbal, apparently in emulation of Muh·ammad, denies himself all but the simplest food. “Often he would eat his bread with nothing but vinegar,” reports S·a¯lih·. “Many times I saw him shake the dust off pieces of dried bread and put them in his bowl. He would pour water on the bread to soften it, and then eat it with salt. I never saw him buy pomegranates, quinces, or any fruit except grapes, dates, and watermelon, which he would eat with bread.”50 Like the avoidance of the “dubious” such conspicuous renunciation also distinguished the proto-Sunni community from outsiders. In the Kita¯b al-zuhd, Ibn H · anbal cites reports that predict dire consequences for those believers who succumb to self-indulgence. On Judgement Day, according to the Prophet, those who made a practice of eating butter and honey will be closely questioned.51 Even as Ibn H · anbal’s self-denial distanced him from many of his fellow Muslims, including the caliphs, it brought him closer to the renunciants – that is, to those who were renowned for their zuhd, not their H · adı¯th-scholarship. In al-Ma mu¯n’s biographies, as we have seen, a nameless ascetic appears again 44 47 48

45 46 S·a¯lih·, Sı¯ra, 59; H H Ibid., 113. · anbal, Dhikr, 53. · anbal, Dhikr, 106. T ·H · , 1: 174; see further ch. 2, notes 66 and 170. Kinberg, “What is meant by zuhd.” Cf. Hurvitz, “Biographies,” on S·a¯lih·’s “moral message” in 49 Ibn H depicting his father’s zuhd. · anbal, Zuhd,51I: 47, I: 65. S·a¯lih·, Sı¯ra, 40; cf. Ibn H anbal, Zuhd I: 45, I: 55. Ibn H · · anbal, Zuhd, I: 63–64.

The H · adı¯th-scholar Ah·mad Ibn H · anbal 115 and again to criticize the caliph’s failure to uphold the sunna. Ibn H · anbal’s biographies mention a similar figure who – as might be expected – provokes the imam’s admiration. The first appearance of such a figure in the Hanbalı¯ · tradition comes in S·a¯lih·’s biography. Narrating for himself, Ibn H · anbal reports that a ragged visitor appeared at the door to greet him and to ask: “What is zuhd?” Ibn H · anbal replied that it is qis·aru ‘l-amal, meaning something like “Fear of not entering Heaven.” He stood watching the man as he left the alley, and later remarked that he wished S·a¯lih· had met the man.52 If at all genuine, this report suggests that Ibn H · anbal appreciated demonstrations of zuhd even outside H adı ¯ th-circles. In the Kita¯b al-zuhd, he cites several · reports that might have predisposed him to welcome his ragged visitor. In one, the Prophet says: “There are many unkempt, dusty men wrapped in two ragged garments, disdained by all; but who, should they call upon God, would have their wishes granted.”53 Even so, the biographical report suggests that an itinerant ascetic (or mystic) was still an exotic object for Ibn H · anbal. The report describes the visitor in detail – “a sunburned man wearing a fur pelt, and under it a shirt, carrying no bag, pouch, or stick” – and notes Ibn H · anbal’s surprise that he has traveled all the way from “the East” equipped in that fashion. Perhaps, then, al-Ma mu¯n was right to suspect a collusion between the ahl al-sunna and the “sanctimonious pseudo-ascetics.” When the ascetics praise Ibn H · anbal, they inevitably mention his defiance of the Inquisition. Obviously, ascetics as well as H · adı¯th-scholars disapproved of the Abbasid caliphate (see further ch. 5). But this disapproval would be dangerous only if the “zealots” could command a popular following, as al-Ma mu¯n believed they could. How well, then, do the H · anbalı¯ sources support the notion that the proto-Sunnis were rabble-rousers? Of the two family biographers, S·a¯lih· gives little evidence that the imam had inspired a popular following. H · anbal, on the other hand, is more forthcoming. When he went to al-Mu tas·im’s palace on the day of the flogging, he found that “the people had gathered in the square, in the streets, and elsewhere; the markets had closed and the people had assembled.”54 In his account of the trial, we find al-Mu tas·im repeating the accusation, first brought by al-Ma mu¯n, that Ibn H · anbal sought “leadership” (ri a¯sa).55 When the inquisitors argue against the imam’s release, they insist that leniency would result in “the perdition of the a¯mma,” presumably meaning that the common people would cease to fear the caliph’s authority.56 If at all genuine, these reports suggest that Ibn Hanbal had become sufficiently · celebrated to inspire a popular uprising, or at least make the caliphs fearful of one. The caliph’s apprehensions notwithstanding, the early Hanbalı¯ sources · make it clear that Ibn Hanbal dissuaded his followers from fomenting disor· der. He counseled them merely to avoid the forbidden, not to take active 52 54

S·a¯lih·, Sı¯ra, 46–47. H · anbal, Dhikr, 67.

53 55

Ibn H I: 59; see also I: 62, top. · anbal, Zuhd, 56 Ibid., 56. Ibid., 60.

116 Classical Arabic Biography measures to stamp it out. Asked about “enjoining good and forbidding evil,” he replied that rebuking offenders was preferable to using force against them. When al-Marru¯dhı¯ complained of a neighbor who was engaged in munkar, Ibn Hanbal said: “He’s responsible for himself. Disapprove silently (bi· qalbika), and leave him alone.” Under no circumstances should one summon the authorities, who might plunder the offender’s property or imprison him for life. Asked whether one might smash musical instruments or pour out wine, Ibn H · anbal allowed such action only if the offending items were lying in plain sight. Moreover, he warned against landing oneself in trouble through misplaced zeal, citing a H · adı¯th to the effect that “a believer should not humiliate himself,” that is, place himself in an awkward situation he cannot handle.57 Ibn H · anbal’s circumspection applied also to relations with the state. Even during the darkest days of al-Wa¯thiq’s Inquisition, he refused to join a rebellion proposed by fellow Sunnis. Explaining himself, he cited the Prophet’s dictum regarding an unjust ruler: “If he strikes you, be patient; if he plunders you, be patient; if you are subjected to his authority, be patient.”58 Admittedly, this sort of quietism reeks of profound disapproval: by enjoining submission to unjust rulers as a matter of principle, Ibn H · anbal in effect declared the caliphs unjust. Fahmı¯ Jad a¯n (like al-Ma mu¯n) reads behind such vigorous disapprobation a willingness to rise against the state.59 Some protoSunnis, notably al-Khuza¯ ı¯, indeed took that path. But the early H · anbalı¯ sources suggest that the imam himself had no such intentions. Of the numerous quietist H by H · adı¯th cited in the Dhikr, most are related · anbal, Ibn 60 Given their placeH anbal’s cousin and biographer, not the imam himself. · ment in the Dhikr, they evidently served to justify the family’s failure to join the uprising against al-Wa¯thiq.61 Doctrinal considerations aside, moreover, quietism was doubtless prudent. Although the caliphal abna¯ might hesitate to take their “pagan-bashers” to the heads of the H · anbalı¯s, the unassimilated Persians and Turks of the second da wa would not.62 For Ibn Hanbal, finally, · embroilment in factional turmoil would have meant (among other things) ceding some measure of control over his associates, his environment, and his activities. Such a loss of control, one imagines, would have been intolerable to a man bent on reducing his contact with the world to an absolute minimum. Taken together, the various early sources on the ahl al-sunna reveal a complex set of attitudes. Most notably, the proto-Sunnis lived by a stringent 57 59

60 62

58 Ibn H H · anbal, Wara , 154–55; also Dhikr, 99. · anbal, Dhikr, 83. He notes that under al-Mutawakkil, the imam was accused of harboring an Alid fugitive (H · anbal, Dhikr, 86–88). The H · anbalı¯ sources insist that the accusation is false, but Jad a¯n is inclined to think it true (Mih·na, 285–90). He also proposes that the Alid fugitive was none other than Abd Alla¯h b. Mu¯sa¯, whom al-Ma mu¯n reportedly asked to assume the heir apparency after al-Rid·a¯’s death (Is·faha¯nı¯, Maqa¯til, 416–17; see also ch. 3, n. 94). However, Ibn H · anbal’s aversion to “Ra¯ﬁd·¯ıs,” that is, Shiites who rejected the historical caliphate, makes Jad a¯n’s contention unlikely at best (see S·a¯lih·, Sı¯ra, 81; ThG, III: 450–51). 61 H Ibid., 83–84. · anbal, Dhikr, 89–99. See, e.g., Bugha¯’s response to the imam’s plight (H · A, IX: 197–98).

The H · adı¯th-scholar Ah·mad Ibn H · anbal 117 code of pollution and avoidance. As Mary Douglas has suggested, such codes frequently serve the purpose of deterring behavior for which no other sanction exists.63 Ibn H · anbal’s Kita¯b al-wara deals with scrupulosity, not (for example) the penalties for robbery, adultery, and murder. This is because such crimes were punished by the state while self-indulgence and other violations of sunna were not. Indeed, it was often the representatives of the state who committed the most egregious violations of sunna. To enforce the sunna in its entirety, as they believed they should, Ibn H · anbal and his followers trained themselves to regard any divergence from it with the most violent repulsion and disgust. They frequently expressed the hope that all Muslims would come to feel similarly, but appear to have resigned themselves to the fact that many would not. As a result, they divided the community into the ahl al-sunna and the outsiders, a category that covered everyone from date-eaters to Jahmı¯s. Such attitudes may give the impression that Hanbalism was an aggressive · movement bent on vilifying and suppressing anyone who disagreed with its creed.64 However, the sources show that Ibn H · anbal, at least, preferred simply to be left alone.65 Moreover, he counseled his disciples to rectify their own transgressions before condemning those of others. In this way, his relentless suspicion of nearly everything constituted a withdrawal from the world rather than an attack on it. In his account of the transition from paganism to Christianity in late antiquity, Peter Brown has described feelings of collective aversion as conducive to peaceful coexistence: “Clear-cut enemies and firm codes of avoidance, based on a sharp sense of pollution, can have the effect of protecting religious groups from each other. It gives them room to back off.”66 Indeed, Ibn H · anbal’s aloofness from the caliphate appears to have arisen from his aversion to a competing tradition of heirship to the Prophet. Strenuous avoidance, in such a case, amounts to a sort of grudging recognition – or at least an unwillingness to force the issue of who, precisely, the true heirs of the prophets really were. As long as the authorities and the unbelievers kept their distance, it was enough to disapprove “in one’s heart.” Only when al-Ma mu¯n forced the issue did Ibn H · anbal and his Sunnis engage in two things for which they had theretofore displayed little inclination: debate matters of theology, and defy the state.

The first mih·na-accounts67 According to the Hadı¯th-scholar Abu¯ Zur a (d. 264/878), Ibn Hanbal owed · · his fame first and foremost to his defiance of the Inquisition: “I always hear 63

Douglas, Purity and Danger, 133ﬀ. See also her remarks on ingestion as a metaphor for polit64 ical absorption (4, and chs. 3 and 10). Cf. Laoust, “Ibn H · anbal,” I: 274–75. A typical lament: “I want to go to Mecca and throw myself into one of those ravines where no 66 Brown, Authority, 16–17. one has heard of me.” ManIH · , 281. The most detailed study of Ibn H anbal’s trial is Patton’s Ah·med Ibn H · · anbal, based on alMaqrı¯zı¯’s Mana¯qib. An excellent overview appears in Hinds, “Mih·na.” Recent critical treatments are Jad a¯n, Mih·na, and ThG, III: 446–508, to which my debt will be obvious.

118 Classical Arabic Biography people speaking highly of Ibn H · anbal and granting him precedence over [the H adı ¯ th-scholars] Yah ya ¯ b. Ma ı ¯ n and Abu¯ Khaythama. It was never that way · · before the Inquisition. After he was tried, however, his reputation knew no bounds.”68 The importance of the mih·na is evident from the family biographies, both of which appear to have been written in response to it. For the events that transpired during the reign of al-Ma mu¯n, we may compare both biographies to the parallel account in al-T·abarı¯’s Ta rı¯kh.69 Taken together, these sources describe the Inquisition in great circumstantial detail – so much so, in fact, that they permit an interpretation of the episode quite different from the later (and now standard) H · anbalı¯ one. Specifically, they support Madelung’s argument that Ibn H anbal only gradually came to espouse the · dogma of a specifically uncreated Qur a¯n.70 Even more specifically, they suggest that Ibn H · anbal formed this opinion during the course of the Inquisition, and in response to it. The imam’s uncle Ish·a¯q, cited by his son H · anbal, describes the family’s first encounter with the Inquisition. One evening at sunset, a messenger came to ), summon Ibn H · anbal to the house of the neighborhood officer (s·a¯h·ib al-rab who told him to appear the next day at the hall of the prefect (da¯r al-amı¯r). As they left the officer’s house, Ish·a¯q suggested that Ibn Hanbal go into hiding. “How could I do that?” he replied, pointing out that the authorities might punish the family and their neighbors. “I don’t want harm to come to anyone on my account, so I’ll just wait and see what happens.”71 He knew that alMa mu¯n had already summoned seven scholars to Raqqa and heard their assent to the doctrine of the created Qur a¯n. “If only they had borne [their ordeal] and stood fast for God,” the imam remarked, “the matter would have ended there.”72 The next day, Ibn H · anbal and a number of other scholars were brought before Ish·a¯q b. Ibra¯hı¯m, the Baghdad prefect. According to al-Tabarı¯, Ish·a¯q read the caliph’s third mih·na-letter aloud to the scholars. He then asked them to assent to the contents of a document that he had before him. The document contained a statement to the effect that “nothing is like [God]; nothing in His creation resembles Him in any sense or in any aspect.” The first judge interrogated signified his assent. But then Ish·a¯q b. Ibra¯hı¯m, apparently at his own initiative, began asking the judges a direct question: “Is the Qur a¯n created?” The next four men affirmed their obedience to the caliph but would not declare the Qur a¯n created in their own words.73 Then, reports al-T·abarı¯, came Ibn H · anbal’s turn. He declared the Qur a¯n “the speech of God,” and refused to 68 70

69 ManIH TRM, VI: 631–45. · , 337–38. Madelung, “Controversy,” 513ﬀ; also Hinds, “Mih·na.” The transition from “not created” to “uncreated” will be studied below; a subsequent stage was from “uncreated” to “eternal,” which follows from the premise that God’s knowledge, which includes the Qur a¯n, is eternal (ThG, III: 71 H 460; and further Jad a¯n, Mih·na, 25–40). · anbal, Dhikr, 36–37. Ibid., 35. Naghsh erroneously emends the list of interrogees to read Ah·mad Ibn H · anbal instead of Ah·mad b. al-Dawraqı¯ (ibid., 35; cf. TRM, VIII: 634; and further ThG, III: 458). Evidently an instance of suku¯t (prudent silence): see van Ess, Gedankenwelt, 113–14.

The Hadı¯th-scholar Ahmad Ibn Hanbal 119 · · · say more. The prefect then read the document aloud. When he reached the part that said “nothing is like Him,” Ibn H · anbal interrupted him to recite: “Nothing is like Him; He is the One who hears and sees” (Qur a¯n 42: 11). One of the other scholars, Ibn al-Bakka¯ al-As·ghar, chimed in with an explanation of the verse, stating that it meant that God hears with an ear and sees with an eye. Ish·a¯q then demanded an explanation from Ibn H · anbal, who replied, “I don’t know. He is as He has described himself.”74 The family biographies agree with this account of the first interrogation, although S·a¯lih portrays one of the caliph’s men as more pugnacious, and H · anbal has the imam explain that he was only reciting a verse from the Qur a¯n.75 Ibn H · anbal was not the only scholar to withhold consent at the first interrogation. Many had answered ambiguously, and al-Ma mu¯n responded with an angry letter accusing them of hypocrisy, stupidity, and corruption.76 After a second round of interrogations, all but four capitulated. Of these, two – alQawa¯rı¯rı¯ and Sajja¯da – submitted after being loaded down with fetters. Only Ibn H · anbal and Muh·ammad b. Nu¯h·, a young man with little H · adı¯th-knowledge, continued to resist.77 Following the caliph’s orders, Ish·a¯q b. Ibra¯hı¯m dispatched the two dissenters to the Syrian front. During the journey, Ibn Nu¯h· urged Ibn H · anbal to stand fast despite the caliph’s promise to execute them. Then the news reached them that al-Ma mu¯n had died. The new caliph, alMu tas·im, ordered the dissenters sent back to the capital. Ibn Nu¯h· fell ill and died on the return journey. Ibn H · anbal, still in chains, reached Baghdad on a boat carrying prisoners of war. After a brief confinement in Da¯r Uma¯ra, he was sent to the commoners’ prison.78 His cousin H · anbal reports visiting him there and studying with him. He also reports that the imam devised a way to remove one of the fetters on his legs so he could lead the prisoners in prayer. In their discussions, Ibn H · anbal still referred only in general terms to the issue of the created Qur a¯n: “We were summoned to unbelief, but thank God for his blessing and succour! Praise be to Him for testing His servants in this way.”79 Al-Mu tas·im, whom the sources represent as reluctant to pursue the Inquisition, was apparently willing to leave Ibn H · anbal in prison. However, after a period of time variously reported as twenty-eight or thirty months,80 the imam was removed and interrogated again. The reason was that his uncle, Ish·a¯q b. Hanbal, had gone to the prefect, Is·h·a¯q b. Ibra¯hı¯m, to request his release. He reminded the prefect that both their families were descended from the abna¯ of Marv, and that their ancestors had fought side by side. Ibn H · anbal, he continued, had not questioned the Revelation, only disagreed on 74 76

78 80

75 TRM, 6: 639. S·a¯lih·, Sı¯ra, 49; H · anbal, Dhikr, 38. TRM, VI: 641–42. Ibn H · anbal mentions this letter in his account to H · anbal (Dhikr, 37). Although his memory of the text is inexact, his recollection of the spirit and style of the letter 77 For what little is known about Ibn Nu¯h·, see ThG, III: 458. is entirely accurate. 79 H anbal, Dhikr, 41–42; S H · · a¯lih·, Sı¯ra, 52. · anbal, Dhikr, 42–43. S·a¯lih·, Sı¯ra, 52; H anbal, Dhikr, 42; cf. Jad a ¯ n, Mih·na, 151–52; and ThG, III: 462. ·

120 Classical Arabic Biography its interpretation (ta wı¯l). He suggested that the prefect summon the scholars ( ulama¯ ) and the jurists (fuqaha¯ ) – not, H · anbal notes, the H · adı¯th-scholars (ahl al-h·adı¯th wa ‘l-a¯tha¯r) – and let the best argument win. The prefect had agreed. Later, an appalled family friend remonstrated with Isha¯q: “How could · you do that? Do you want to assemble all your cousin’s enemies against him, so they can prove their case against him?” Ish·a¯q had evidently hoped that his nephew would capitulate. But Ibn H · anbal was not to be swayed. When they came to plead with him, he said: “If the scholar assents out of fear, and the ignorant out of ignorance, when will the truth appear?” At this point, his uncle reports that he “gave up.”81 Following the terms of the agreement, Ibn H · anbal was removed from the prison and taken to the house of the prefect to meet with two caliphal representatives. At first, the imam was mystified by his interrogators. They showed him “a picture of the heavens and the earth, and other things.” In response to their questions, he could only reply: “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Then he took the initiative and asked one of the interrogators about “God’s knowledge,” a particular problem for the creationist position. If God is both eternal and omniscient, He must always have known the text of the Qur a¯n, which is therefore eternal as well. The interrogator could only aver that God’s knowledge was created. Ibn H · anbal then proclaimed him an unbeliever (ka¯fir) and could not be persuaded to retract the accusation.82 The prefect made a last effort to persuade him to recant: “Ah·mad, it’s your life at stake! [The caliph] has vowed not to kill you by the sword, but instead to thrash you and cast you into a place where you’ll never see the sun.” He then tried his own theological argument: “Does God not say, ‘We have made it an Arabic Qur a¯n’ (43: 3)? If He made it, didn’t he create it?” Ibn H · anbal replied with another verse, “He made them like a field of chaff” (105: 5), in which the same verb (ja ala) clearly means “to make into,” not “to create.” In the face of the imam’s obstinacy, the prefect gave up as well, and ordered him sent to the caliph al-Mu tas·im.83 Ibn H · anbal was transported to the palace, where he spent the night in confinement. On each of the next three days, he debated with the court scholars in the caliph’s presence. The two family biographies differ slightly on the precise order of events, and on the details of the discussions. On the first day, according to both accounts, Ibn Hanbal took the initiative by reciting to the · caliph a H · adı¯th summarizing the essential creed of Islam. The implication (made explicit in H · anbal’s version) was that if Ibn H · anbal had not denied this creed, why should the caliph try him? Al-Mu tas·im replied: “If I hadn’t found you already imprisoned by the [caliph] before me, I would not be examining you now.” The judge Abd al-Rah·ma¯n b. Is·h·a¯q (d. 232/846–47), described as 81 82

H · anbal, Dhikr, 43–44. In his account, S·a¯lih· explains the point as follows: “My father said [on some other occasion]: “God’s Names are in the Qur a¯n, and the Qur a¯n is part of God’s knowledge; so that whoever says that the Qur a¯n is created is an unbeliever, and whoever says that God’s Names are created 83 S·a¯lih·, Sı¯ra, 53–54; H is an unbeliever” (Sı¯ra, 53–54). · anbal, Dhikr, 43–46.

The Hadı¯th-scholar Ahmad Ibn Hanbal 121 · · · 84 an advocate of ra y and weak in H · adı¯th, then asked the imam his opinion of the Qur a¯n. According to H · anbal, he replied: “The Qur a¯n is part of God’s knowledge. Whoever claims that God’s knowledge is created has committed unbelief.” Evidently Ibn H · anbal had found a kala¯m-style argument to use against his opponents. However, he soon fell back on more familiar tactics. After further exchanges with his interrogators, he pronounced the slogan that he was to repeat on the days that followed. “Give me anything from the Book of God or the sunna of his Prophet to make me say that,” that is, to prove that the Qur a¯n was created. The judge Ibn Abı¯ Du a¯d then expressed surprise that the imam admitted only the Qur a¯n and sunna as evidence.85 Ibn H · anbal replied that he knew nothing of Ibn Abı¯ Du a¯d’s “interpretations” (ta wı¯l), but that they did not constitute grounds for persecuting people. The judge then declared him “misguided, misguiding, and an innovator.” AlMu tas·im, however, was not yet convinced, and ordered the discussion to continue. In subsequent exchanges, Ibn H · anbal rebutted two arguments derived from the Qur a¯n but was forced to concede a point based on H · adı¯th. Abd al-Rah·ma¯n b. Ish·a¯q recited a report to the eﬀect that “God wrote the dhikr,” meaning the Qur a¯n. With this text, reports the imam, “he defeated me and I fell silent.”86 At this point, according to S·a¯lih·, al-Mu tas·im ended the session and met privately with Ibn H · anbal and Abd al-Rah·ma¯n. The latter urged the caliph to be lenient: “For thirty years, [Ibn H · anbal] has enjoined obedience to you and approved of the pilgrimage and the holy war under your authority, and has kept to his own house.” The caliph admitted that he was impressed with his learning and would like to see him defend Islam at court. “If he would only compromise on whatever small point would resolve this impasse, I would unchain him with my own hands.” When Ibn H · anbal repeated his demand for proof, the caliph departed. Returned to his cell, Ibn H · anbal was visited by two court scholars, but declined to eat when food was served. Ibn Abı¯ Du a¯d appeared to ask if he was ready to compromise, but to no avail.87 On the second day, Ibn H · anbal reports to S·a¯lih·, “they began talking, one from over here and another from over there, and I would reply to one and then the other. If they cited any speech [or theological argument, kala¯m] not found in the Book of God or the sunna of His Prophet, nor in any account [of the Companions], I would say: ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’” His opponents then tried to catch him in an error of ﬁqh, but he silenced them by posing them a question about inheritance which they could not answer. Once again he met privately with the caliph and Abd al-Rah·ma¯n b. Ish·a¯q, and later 84 85

Ibn Sa d, T · abaqa¯t, VI: 251; Jad a¯n, Mih·na, 206. Ibn H · anbal later described Ibn Abı¯ Du a¯d as an ignoramus who relied upon the “Mu tazilı¯s” from al-Basra to supply him with arguments (Dhikr, 51). See further ThG, III: 464–65; 86 H 481–502. · anbal, Dhikr, 50, 55; ThG, III: 461. S·a¯lih·, Sı¯ra, 59–60. H · anbal’s biography places this scene on the afternoon of “the second day” (Dhikr, 52) which given the rest of the account can only mean the day after Ibn H · anbal went to the palace, not the second day of the interrogations.

122 Classical Arabic Biography with Ibn Abı¯ Du a¯d and his two representatives. As before, all efforts to persuade him failed.88 H · anbal’s account does not differentiate clearly between the second and third days of the interrogation, but much of the testimony he cites can be placed on the second day. Two of the interrogators, Burghu¯th and Shu ayb, tried to persuade the caliph that Ibn H · anbal was an unbeliever who should be executed. Another courtier, Ibn Sama¯ a, spoke instead of Ibn H · anbal’s prominent family, and suggested that he might one day capitulate.89 Ibn H · anbal reports that the caliph was the kindest of all, saying to him: “I have a loving regard for you, and I’ve been up all night thinking about you and wondering why it should be my ill fortune to have to deal with you. Fear God and have a care for yourself and your own life!” On the second or perhaps the third day, however, al-Mu tas·im accused him (as al-Ma mu¯n had) of seeking ri a¯sa (a popular following).90 In response, Ibn Hanbal merely repeated his creed: · “There’s the Qur a¯n, and the H · adı¯th of the Prophet, and the reports (akhba¯r) about him. Whatever proof comes from these, I accept.” Then the debate turned to anthropomorphism. The interrogators denied that God could see or be seen. They also made claims about His body (that is, His corporeality), adducing arguments Ibn H · anbal says he cannot bear to repeat. He also reports that his opponents attacked H · adı¯th. They pointed out that people recite the same reports with different isna¯ds, and that the reports themselves are compromised by fabrications. Ibn H · anbal agreed to confine himself to the Qur a¯n. By this time, however, Burghu¯th and Shu ayb wanted the caliph to execute him. Ibn Abı¯ Du a¯d wanted him to capitulate, because he valued the conversion of so tenacious an advocate. As for al-Mu tas·im, “he did not know enough to understand what was going on.”91 On the third day, Ibn H · anbal was interrogated for the last time. According to S·a¯lih·, who passes briefly over the end of the ordeal, Ibn H · anbal had removed the drawstring of his trousers and used it to lash his fetters together and carry them. On the third day, suspecting that something might happen to him, he replaced the drawstring so that his trousers would not fall. He was interrogated again, and after “much discussion,” al-Mu tas·im pleaded with 88

S·a¯lih·, Sı¯ra, 60–62. According to H · anbal, the imam’s uncle Ish·a¯q b. H · anbal was also present that evening, summoned by the prefect Ish·a¯q b. Ibra¯hı¯m in the hope that he might talk some sense into his nephew. Ish·a¯q b. H · anbal apparently stayed until the next day, because he reports that his nephew wanted him to be there “in case he was killed, that I might be present to carry him out.” But Ish·a¯q, who reports that he was afraid of having to talk to the caliph, took a seat in an anteroom outside the courtyard, and so did not witness the third and final interrogation (Dhikr, 53–55). On these figures see ThG, III: 463–64 (makes the argument that the interrogators were not Mu tazilı¯s, as the family accounts assume). H · anbal says “the third day,” but some of the exchanges he describes correspond to the ones S·a¯lih· places on the second day. One or the other biographer may be mistaken, or H · anbal may again be counting from the day of Ibn H anbal’s summons instead of from the first day of the · interrogations. Later, however, H · anbal calls the last day the third day also (Dhikr, 58). H · anbal, Dhikr, 57–58.

The Hadı¯th-scholar Ahmad Ibn Hanbal 123 · · · him to relent. Again he said: “Give me anything from the Book of God or the sunna of his Prophet.” The caliph then despaired of him and ordered him to be flogged. His shirt was removed, but not torn off, because it contained one or two of the Prophet’s hairs bundled in the sleeve. He was then suspended on a wooden framework. One of the officials present told him to hold on to the posts, but he did not understand why and failed to do so. As a result, his wrists were both dislocated during the flogging. “My father,” says S·a¯lih·, “continued to feel pain [in his wrists] until the day he died.” Al-Mu tas·im ordered the lictors to approach Ibn H · anbal one by one, strike two blows, and back away. Twice the caliph left his chair to remonstrate with the prisoner. Ish·a¯q b. Ibra¯him also tried to reason with him, and Ujayf b. Anbasa prodded him with the hilt of his sword. At one point Abd al-Rahma¯n · b. Ish·a¯q stood by and recited the names of all the scholars who had already capitulated. Ibn H · anbal only repeated his slogan. After each pause the flogging resumed, with the caliph calling out to the lictors to strike harder. Ibn H · anbal was eventually struck over thirty lashes. “Then I lost consciousness,” he reports, “and I was aware of nothing until I came to my senses in another room, with my fetters removed.”92 H · anbal’s account of the same events adds the first articulation of the positive doctrine that the Qur a¯n is uncreated. In Ibn H · anbal’s words: “They said to me: ‘Isn’t everything other than God a created thing?” So I said to them: ‘Everything other than God is a created thing, but the Qur a¯n is His speech, and is not created.’” He then turned to the caliph and said: These people have no ability to distinguish one thing from another, nor any capacity for clear expression. On what basis do you summon me to agree with them, if not the Book of God and the sunna of His Prophet? All they have is an interpretation they have concocted, and an opinion they have offered. The Prophet forbade disputation about the Qur a¯n, saying ‘Doubt about the Qur a¯n is kufr.’ I am not a doubter or a theologian; I am a man of reports and accounts (a¯tha¯r wa-akhba¯r). So fear God regarding me, and return to Him! By God, had I seen any merit [in what they say], I would have consented to it.93

He relates that al-Mu tas·im fell silent, and seemed about to relent. But then Ibn Abı¯ Du a¯d and Ish·a¯q b. Ibra¯hı¯m huddled around the caliph. Ibn Abı¯ Du a¯d declared that Ibn H · anbal was “misguided and misguiding,” an opinion seconded by the “Mu tazilı¯s from Basra.” Ish·a¯q added that he had “defied two caliphs” and releasing him would mean “the perdition of the a¯mma.”94 It was this line of reasoning, apparently, that proved effective. The caliph, says Ibn H · anbal, “grew angry and rude, and resolved to have me flogged.” It nevertheless appears that he once more urged Ibn Hanbal to relent. When his efforts · failed, he said: “God damn you! I had hopes that you might give in.” Ibn H · anbal states that he was then stripped of his shirt and placed between the posts. He adds that he rebuked the caliph, warning him against spilling the 92

S·a¯lih·, 62–65.

H · anbal, Dhikr, 60.

Ibid.

124 Classical Arabic Biography blood of Muslims, and citing an appropriate H · adı¯th. Again the caliph hesitated, but again gave in to the “Mu tazilı¯s,” who were crying out that he was a ka¯fir (unbeliever). In Hanbal’s account of the flogging, we also learn that the imam lost con· sciousness more than once. “When they stopped striking me, I regained consciousness. They would stop whenever I slumped and relaxed. I passed out and came to several times.” Even so, he is able to report on what transpired among the inquisitors in the meantime. “I heard [al-Mu tas·im] say to Ibn Abı¯ Du a¯d, ‘I don’t know what to do about that man.” When Ibn H · anbal passed out again, after being struck thirty-three or thirty-four times, al-Mu tas·im, who appeared frightened by the thought of killing him (ka-annahu ar abahu dha¯lik), ordered him taken down. Ibn Abı¯ Du a¯d now urged that he be imprisoned again because he would stir up the people. But the caliph, “who had more pity” for him “than the whole lot of them,” ordered him to be released.95 H · anbal, who had gone to the palace gate and was waiting in the anteroom, reports that a crowd had gathered in the square and in the streets. His cousin emerged dressed in clothes the caliph had given him, riding with Ibn Abı¯ Du a¯d on his right and Ish·a¯q b. Ibra¯hı¯m on his left. The officials pulled back his hood to show his face to the people in the anteroom and then conveyed him to the Tigris and put him on a boat. He was carried to Ish·a¯q b. Ibra¯hı¯m’s residence, and his uncle, his neighbors, and the local notables were summoned to identify him. He then prayed the noon prayer. Ibn Sama¯ a, one of the court theologians, objected that he should not do so while bleeding. The imam retorted that Umar b. al-Khat·t·a¯b had prayed while wounded, and Ibn Sama¯ a fell silent. At sunset, the imam was conveyed to his own house. H · anbal reports: “When he reached the door of the house, he tried to dismount, and I put my arm around him. Without my realizing it, my hand touched on a wound, and he cried out in pain. I pulled my hand back, and he dismounted leaning on me.” Inside, the imam “threw himself down face forward on the bed unable to move. But he had the clothes that had been given to him removed. They were sold and he gave the money away in charity.”96 After reporting the events of Ibn H · anbal’s chastisement, his biographers pause to clarify the points of fiqh it raises. S·a¯lih· cites his father’s statements that the Qur a¯n is uncreated and that anyone who disagrees should be beheaded if he does not repent. He also quotes his father as condemning those who say only that the Qur a¯n is the speech of God, even though, as we have seen, this is the view he himself expressed at his first interrogation. For H · anbal, the three pressing polemical concerns are the question of capitulation under duress, the question of forgiving the inquisitors, and the question of resistance to the government. Torture, flogging, and fettering, Ibn H · anbal comments, constitute “duress” (kurh; Qur a¯n 16: 106), but threats and imprisonment do not. The implication is that Sajja¯da and al-Qawa¯rı¯rı¯ were blame95

Ibid., 63–65.

H · anbal, Dhikr, 67–68.

The Hadı¯th-scholar Ahmad Ibn Hanbal 125 · · · less in their capitulation, but those who submitted without being chained or flogged are culpable. As to why he forgave his inquisitors, Ibn H · anbal states: “It does you no good to have your Muslim brother suffer on your account. Rather, forgive him and overlook his offense, that God may pardon you, as He has promised to do.” Finally, H · anbal confronts the problem of his cousin’s attitude toward the government. He lists twenty-five H · adı¯ths, all going back to the Prophet, to the effect that Muslims should submit to the authority of their leaders (umara¯ ). Leaders may be disobeyed if they command disobedience to God, but under no circumstances should one take arms against the government. Interestingly, Ibn H · anbal is quoted as reciting only three of these himself.97 The rest his cousin and biographer must have collected on his own as a justification for the imam’s position. The addition of H · adı¯th to support Ibn H · anbal’s opinions marks the beginning of the process by which he came to be credited with a fully articulated position on all the issues raised by the Inquisition. In the biography by S·a¯lih·, he condemns anyone who declares the Qur a¯n to be the speech of God and then “stops,” that is, refuses to elaborate.98 Yet this had been precisely his response at the first interrogation by Ish·a¯q b. Ibra¯h·¯ım. Only after his imprisonment did Ibn H · anbal use theological arguments, like the one about God’s knowledge. Later, he was still reluctant to debate theology, and constantly reminded his interlocutors that he would accept only the Qur a¯n and H · adı¯th as evidence. But the need to defend himself appears to have compelled him to give more thought to the matter than he had before. By the time of his final interrogation, he was able to make a positive declaration of the uncreatedness of the Qur a¯n. When he later recounted the event for H · anbal, the imam said that he could not repeat his opponents’ arguments because his tongue would not obey him. In the Radd ala¯ al-zana¯diqa wa ‘l-jahmı¯ya, however, he not only repeats the arguments but refutes them. By the time the Radd was composed, he and his disciples (or perhaps just the latter) had worked out a philosophically respectable defense of all their views, including the ones al-Ma mu¯n had decried as anthropomorphic. Evidently, the imam’s associates used the Radd to place in his mouth the arguments he should have made against the caliph’s scholars. The H · adı¯th-based arguments cited in the biographies may well have been supplied by the imam himself. But the kala¯m-arguments in the Radd can only have originated with later, more sophisticated advocates of tashbı¯h.

The capitulation reports In his discussion of Ibn Hanbal’s mih·na, van Ess concludes that he must have capitulated. Otherwise, al-Mu tasim would never have released him. To · conceal or mitigate the scandal, Sa¯lih and Hanbal claimed that he had fainted · · · 97 98

Ibid., 83, 96, 98. S·a¯lih·, Sı¯ra, 77. The only correct declaration is: “The Qur a¯n is the speech of God, uncreated.”

126 Classical Arabic Biography under the lash.99 In itself, however, the imam’s loss of consciousness is plausible. According to the family accounts, he had eaten little or nothing for three days and then was struck some thirty blows with a whip. But the question remains: why was he released? Here too, the family accounts are believable enough. The caliph tried him only reluctantly, and at least one of the inquisitors ( Abd al-Rah·ma¯n b. Ish·a¯q) was openly sympathetic to him. He was flogged only because Ibn Abı¯ Du a¯d and Ish·a¯q b. Ibra¯hı¯m insisted on it; and neither of these men is represented as seeking his execution. Even Ibn Abı¯ Du a¯d reportedly urged the caliph to return him to prison. Moreover, the caliph appeared afraid to kill him. Indeed, he may have thought that the imam was likely to die of his injuries in any event. If these accounts are accurate, even in part, it appears that Ibn Hanbal could defy the Inquisition and still · escape with his life. Even so, van Ess argument has two salient bodies of evidence in its favor. First, there are the non-H · anbalı¯ accounts that insist that the imam capitulated. Second, there are the H anbalı ¯ accounts that insist, with sus· piciously mythographic elaboration, that he did not. The first capitulation-account appears in al-Ja¯hiz’s essay on the khalq al· · Qur a¯n. The author, a Mu tazilı¯ and a supporter of the mih·na, is hardly a neutral observer. But his account agrees with the H · anbalı¯ ones on many points of fact, if not of interpretation. The family accounts admit that the imam often confessed ignorance in the face of his opponents’ arguments. For S·a¯lih· and H · anbal, this concession is immaterial because the arguments in question ignored the Qur a¯n and the sunna. In al-Ja¯h·iz·’s account, however, Ibn H · anbal’s recalcitrance merely illustrates his perversity. An example is his response to a simple syllogism proposed by Ibn Abı¯ Du a¯d. Everything is either eternal or created; the Qur a¯n is a thing; only God is eternal; therefore the Qur a¯n must 100 In another be created. “I’m no theologian,” is Ibn H · anbal’s response. passage, the inquisitors demand that Ibn H anbal adduce some evidence from · the Qur a¯n and Hadı¯th (and in one recension, “rational argument”), but he cannot. Although this allegation seems the opposite of what the family accounts claim, it is plausible. The Qur a¯n and Hadı¯th contain no evidence · either way for the createdness of the Book. Knowing this, the inquisitors might well have asked Ibn H · anbal to adduce proof for its uncreatedness from those sources, something he could no more do than they could do the reverse. So far, al-Ja¯h·iz·’s account works well enough as an unsympathetic account of the events described in the H · anbalı¯ reports. However, the exchange that allegedly prompted the flogging has no parallel in the family biographies. A dispute arose, says al-Ja¯h·iz·, over the phrase “the Lord of the Qur a¯n,” which Ibn H · anbal claimed never to have heard. It was at that point that the caliph decided that he was a liar and resolved to flog him. Al-Ja¯hiz then declares that · Ibn H · anbal when he capitulated could not have been practicing prudential dissimulation (taqı¯ya). This wording assumes common agreement that Ibn 99

ThG, III: 464–65.

100

Ja¯h·iz·, Rasa¯ il, III: 293.

The H · adı¯th-scholar Ah·mad Ibn H · anbal 127 101 H · anbal did submit to the caliph. Moreover, it implies that he justified his submission later on the grounds of taqı¯ya. According to the Qur a¯n, a believer under duress (man ukriha) may speak kufr so long as he repudiates it in his heart (Qur a¯n 16: 106). In the family accounts, Ibn H · anbal states that beating and torture constitute kurh. If the imam did capitulate, then, he could have argued that he did so under duress. The biographies contain no indication that Ibn H · anbal ever made this argument. Nevertheless, someone appears to have done so, because al-Ja¯h·iz· felt compelled to rebut it. He does so by claiming that a believer cannot practice dissimulation among fellow believers. Moreover, Ibn H · anbal was never in sufficient danger to justify taqı¯ya: “He was never confronted with a brandished sword, nor was he struck any more than thirty times with an untipped whip with frayed ends, before he made his clear declaration of capitulation, and repeatedly at that.”102 In the family reports, when Ibn H · anbal states that he lost consciousness during the flogging, he uses the expression dhahaba aqlı¯, “I fainted,” which might also mean “I lost control of myself ” or “I didn’t know what I was doing.” One might suppose, then, that he made some concession while semi-conscious. But this is inconsistent with al-Ja¯h·iz·’ description of “a clear declaration of capitulation” made “repeatedly.” An author of the next generation, the universal historian al-Ya qu¯bı¯ (d. 284/898), provides an account of Ibn H · anbal’s Inquisition that is even more divergent from the family accounts. As an Alid-sympathetic and (apparently) pro-Abbasid writer, al-Ya qu¯bı¯ can be expected to have had little sympathy for Sunnis and their causes. His report, which is unattributed, states that Ibn H · anbal capitulated, but not because of the beating. Rather, an argument offered by one of his interrogators persuaded Ibn H · anbal to concede that the Qur a¯n must be created. Under questioning, he allegedly protested: “I am a man who has acquired knowledge of a certain kind, and that knowledge did not include this.” When “a number of lashes” proved ineffectual, the police prefect Ish·a¯q b. Ibra¯hı¯m asked permission to take over the debate:

“This knowledge you learned,” said Ish·a¯q. “Did an angel bring it down to you, or did you learn it from men?” “From men, of course.” “Bit by bit, or all at once?” “Bit by bit.” “So is there anything left you haven’t learned yet?” “There is.” 101 102

As noted by Hinds, “Mih·na.” Ja¯h·iz·, Rasa¯ il, III: 295–96. Al-Ja¯h·iz· adds: “Furthermore, he was not being held in a closed session, nor was his condition hopeless, nor was he weighed down with fetters, nor had he been intimidated with ferocious threats. In fact, he had been questioned most politely, but had answered most rudely. They [sc. his interrogators] were dignified, while he was flippant; and they were forbearing, while he was cavalier.” In both family accounts, we are told that before the flogging, the caliph examined the whips and ordered them exchanged for different ones. Neither account states what type of whips were eventually brought.

128 Classical Arabic Biography “Well then: this is one of the things you don’t know yet, and the Commander of the Believers is informing you of it now.” “Then I concur with what the Commander of the Believers says (fa-innı¯ aqu¯lu biqawli amı¯ri ‘l-mu minı¯n).” “Regarding the createdness of the Qur a¯n?” “Regarding the createdness of the Qur a¯n.” So they had people bear witness to this, and they conferred honors on [Ibn H · anbal] and let him go back to his own house.103

For a supporter of “caliphal imamism,” Ish·a¯q’s argument as given by alYa qu¯bı¯ would have represented the correct position, namely, that the caliph enjoys the right to make doctrinal pronouncements on his own authority. But the family accounts make no mention of any such argument being offered. Even had it been, it is unlikely that Ibn H · anbal would have conceded such a point so easily. It is also unlikely that Ish·a¯q b. Ibra¯hı¯m would have been the one to make the argument. Ish·a¯q, unlike the other inquisitors, was a police official, not a theologian. Admittedly, the family accounts show him debating briefly with Ibn H · anbal during the latter’s incarceration at his house. But on that occasion, at least, Ish·a¯q’s argument was based on Qur a¯nic verses, not cal104 iphal imamism, and Ibn H · anbal refuted him in any case. The last report of a capitulation appears in a much later source, the T · abaqa¯t al-Mu tazila of Ibn al-Murtad·a¯ (d. 840/1437). Its account of Ibn H · anbal’s trial is dubious, not least because it contains speeches invented to refute later criticisms of the Inquisition. One such criticism was that if early Muslims were not examined on the matter, why should later generations be?105 In his report, Ibn al-Murt·ad·a¯ allows Ibn Abı¯ Du a¯d to rebut this claim. He argues that the Prophet, Companions, and Successors said nothing about the createdness of the Qur a¯n because no one in their day voiced the wrong view. Ibn H · anbal, however, is “the head of a school (madhhab) who has assembled the common populace and the riffraff, who shout in the streets that ‘Nothing of God’s is created, and the Qur an is of God.’” This declaration will lead the ignorant to regard the Qur a¯n as the Christians regard Jesus.106 Ibn al-Murtad·a¯ also insists on the unlikely notion that al-Mu tas·im was a convinced Mu tazilı¯, and grants him more intelligent involvement in the interrogation than do previous reports of the event. The description of the end of the trial is essentially the same as that offered by al-Ja¯h·iz·. The exasperated caliph says to Ibn H · anbal: “You dispute, but whenever you are proven wrong, you say, ‘I am no theologian.’” Ibn al-Murtad·a¯ leaves no doubt that Ibn H · anbal capitulated: after thirty-eight lashes, “he confessed to the createdness of the Qur a¯n.”107 103

104 105

106 107

Ya qu¯bı¯, Ta rı¯kh, II: 576–77. This is one of the few extant early histories to mention the ﬂogging of Ibn H · anbal. Al-Mas u¯dı¯ states only that “al-Mu tas·im struck Ah·mad Ibn H · anbal thirty-three lashes to make him assert the createdness of the Qur a¯n” (li-yaqu¯la bi-khalqi lQur a¯n; MDh, IV: 52). Hinds takes this to mean that Ibn H · anbal capitulated (“Mih·na”). S·a¯lih·, Sı¯ra, 54. In an apocryphal tale, it was this argument that persuaded al-Wa¯thiq to stop the Inquisition (see ThG, III: 502–04). An argument evidently taken from al-Ma mu¯n’s mih·na-letters (TRM, 8: 635). Ibn al-Murtad·a¯, Tabaqa¯t al-mu tazila,122–25.

The H · adı¯th-scholar Ah·mad Ibn H · anbal 129

The H · anbalı¯ response Ibn H · anbal’s advocates never cite these capitulation reports, even to refute them.108 Yet they do appear to be writing against them. The T · abaqa¯t attributed to Ibn Sa d (d. 230/845) declares that Ibn H anbal “refused to say” that · the Qur a¯n was created, and so “was subjected to an ordeal and flogged.” While in prison awaiting punishment, “he remained steadfast in his view and did not capitulate to them regarding anything whatsoever.”109 This declaration, vehement as it is, leaves open the possibility that he did capitulate, albeit not while in prison. For their part, the family biographies say that he “lost his wits,” an expression van Ess reads as a subterfuge. Of the two accounts, H · anbal’s does a better job of explaining the motives of the inquisitors and their eventual decision to release the imam. However, it is S·a¯lih·’s account, not H · anbal’s, that appears in most later treatments of the Inquisition. Van Ess has speculated that H · anbal’s account was compromised by its reliance on the testimony of Ish·a¯q b. H · anbal, the imam’s uncle and the biographer’s father. It was Ish·a¯q who made the request to the governor that Ibn H · anbal be released in order to debate. Moreover, only Hanbal’s account contains an admission of defeat on the · imam’s part (“when Abd al-Rah·ma¯n cited the H · adı¯ths of al-Yama¯mı¯ and Ibn Ar ara, he confuted me and I fell silent”).110 Apart from their relative merits, however, neither of the family accounts, even if we presume them entirely accurate, could suffice as a response to the Inquisition. The reason is that the trial failed to produce a conclusive result as far as the Qur a¯n was concerned. Certainly, Ibn H · anbal’s reported willingness to be beaten to death served as a token of the rightness of his position, and was understood as such by his followers. But the notions of determinative evidence current among transmitters of polemical narratives demanded more explicit proof. Contemporary biographical literature gives the impression that “proof ” consisted – in ascending order of persuasiveness – of evidentiary dreams, conversion of the opponent, and a sign from God.111 The family accounts, and the testimony on which they are based, contain gestures toward all of these, but no more. On the assumption that Ibn H · anbal’s doctrine was the correct one – or perhaps more exactly, that the inquisitors’ was the wrong one – H · anbalı¯ transmitters had to supply the “proofs” that the trial itself had not. Although the resulting accounts cannot be definitively dated, several appear to have been constructed specifically to supply the deficiencies in others. To the extent this dependence can be demonstrated on stylistic 108

109

110

111

Ibn al-Jawzı¯ mentions that “other accounts of the ﬂogging-episode have reached us which we do not consider authentic and have therefore eschewed” (ManIH · , 337). Hinds, “Mih·na,” understands this to refer to the capitulation-reports. Ibn Sa d, T · abaqa¯t,VII: 354. Ibn Sa d was himself examined by the Inquisition, and capitulated (TRM, VI: 634; H · anbal, Dhikr, 35). He died eleven years before Ibn H · anbal. This entry, which mentions the imam’s death, is thus the work of a later hand, at least in part. H · anbal, Dhikr, 50, 55; ThG, III: 456, 461–62. Parts of H · anbal’s account do reappear in Maqdisı¯, Mih·na (ThG IV: 758, notes to III: 456; and further below). Cf. Cooperson, “Purported Autobiography.”

130 Classical Arabic Biography grounds, the reports can be placed in relative order. Any ordering based on the above criteria is necessarily speculative, and admittedly partakes of a certain degree of circularity. However, we do have another, broader chronology to work with: the order of the appearance of the reports in composite accounts attributable to known authors. At the very least, then, it is possible to reconstruct the stages of the representation of the mih·na in biographical compilations, even if we cannot specify the provenance of each report. The first reports of the flogging would have been those that circulated among the “crowd” (al-na¯s) who, according to H · anbal, had gathered “in the square and in the streets.” Such evanescent narratives would have been displaced, perhaps in a matter of days or even hours, by the reports of those closer to the action. Under these circumstances, the privileged reports for later biographers would have been those related by Ibn H · anbal and his family. Outside this circle, observers sympathetic to Ibn H anbal would have narrated · their own recollections of the event, and – to authenticate and ennoble their stories – combined them with whatever information they could glean from the testimony of those closer to the action than themselves. Such a scenario, at least, explains the features of the account attributed to one Abu¯ Imra¯n Mu¯sa¯ b. al-H · asan al-Baghda¯dı¯ and preserved in the Kita¯b al-mih·an of Abu¯ al- Arab (d. 333/944). The Kita¯b al-mih·an is a compilation of short tales about Muslims who suffered death, imprisonment, or torture at the hands of other Muslims in defense of the faith. Abu¯ Imra¯n’s report reads as if he had heard a second- or third-hand description of the trial and used it as the basis of an “eyewitness account.”112 He condenses the disputation into a few pithy slogans and moves quickly to the flogging, stating that one of the lictors “struck [Ibn H · anbal] two blows that split open his midriff, and his entrails spilled out.”113 But the imam remained steadfast: As he hung between the whipping-posts, having already been beaten but not yet released, with his head hanging low, his uncle approached him and said, “Nephew! Say the Qur a¯n is created but do it as an act of dissimulation!” Ah·mad lifted his head and told him, “Uncle, I tried my soul against the whip, and endured; I tried my soul against the sword, and endured; but when I tried my soul against Hell, I could not bear the thought.”114

Abu¯ Imra¯n’s explanation of Ibn H · anbal’s release is even more incredible: he claims that messengers arrived from Khurasan and Yemen to urge the caliph to free the imam because the provinces had revolted. This falsehood, like the ones that precede it, inspires little confidence that Abu¯ Imra¯n was actually present at the flogging. However, his report does offer a plausible recollection of how events might have appeared to the crowd outside: 112 113 114

Tamı¯mı¯, Mih·an, 438–44. The family accounts specify that the blows did not cause internal injuries (H · anbal, Dhikr, 68). According to H · anbal’s biography, the imam’s uncle was indeed present, but cowering (by his own admission) in the anteroom.

The H · adı¯th-scholar Ah·mad Ibn H · anbal 131 The [notable] people and the commoners gave a cry. Then the lictors emerged, saying that Ah·mad was dead. They told the commoners that he had been lying prone when they removed his irons . . . Then [al-Mu tasim], the enemy of God, emerged from · the palace with Ibn Abı¯ Du a¯d, the heretic, amid a huge escort. The commoners blocked [the caliph’s] route to the bridge, making him fear for his life. They shouted distressing things at him, and said, “You killed Ah·mad!” He replied, “But Ah·mad is alive!”

Abu¯ Imra¯n concludes his testimony by relating two dreams in which the angel Gabriel appeared and pointed out Ibn Abı¯ Du a¯d and his allies as “ungrateful” and Ibn H · anbal and his allies as “another people who will not be ungrateful” (Qur a¯n 6: 89).115 This coda, along with the identification of the caliph as “the enemy of God” and of Ibn Abı¯ Du a¯d as a “heretic,” make it amply clear that the Inquisition stirred passions that found little expression in the sober family biographies. Because almost nothing is known about Abu¯ Imra¯n,116 we cannot tell whether he was a real eyewitness, or whether he served as a peg on which to hang a later account fabricated in the heat of anti-Mu tazilı¯ polemic. But the combination of accurate detail and wild supposition suggests that the tale reflects the impression of those who gathered at the palace during the flogging. Abu¯ Imra¯n’s report sheds little light on the matter of whether Ibn H · anbal actually capitulated (if anything, it corroborates al-Ja¯h·iz·’ implication that he did and later claimed to be practicing taqı¯ya). But it does prepare us to understand why many observers, then and later, would exert such efforts to affirm that he did not. Even for so creative a narrator as Abu¯ Imra¯n, Ibn H · anbal’s release posed a problem. His solution – the sudden appearance of couriers from the provinces – amounts to an admission that the imam’s own testimony could not adequately explain why he was released. Abu¯ Imra¯n’s lame explanation also suggests that, despite the claims we will find in other reports, the unruliness of the crowd played no role in the caliph’s decision. Had the crowd actually threatened to storm the palace, as later reports will claim, we would expect Abu¯ Imra¯n of all people to say so. Why invoke “revolt in the provinces” when he could invoke an unruly mob right in front of the palace? The fact that he did not implies that the crowd was not so unruly after all, and that despite his free hand with the flogging-reports, Abu¯ Imra¯n was at least faithful to his recollections of the scene outside. Not surprisingly, none of Ibn Hanbal’s later biographers made use of Abu¯ Imra¯n’s awkward pastiche of a report. The biographers might have overlooked or eliminated the more obvious fabrications had it served their purpose to do so, but there was no need: they had at their disposal another, more polished explanation. The earliest extant version of it is ascribed to one Ah·mad b. al-Faraj and appears in the Hilyat al-awliya¯ of Abu¯ Nu aym al-Is·faha¯nı¯ (d. · 115 116

On dreams of this type, see Kinberg, “Legitimation,” esp. 58–68. His biographical notice in TB, XIII: 48 (no. 7012), is short and unhelpful.

132 Classical Arabic Biography 430/1038).117 In its claims about the flogging, the report is no more credible than Abu¯ Imra¯n’s. But, unlike Abu¯ Imra¯n, Ibn al-Faraj explains his presence inside the palace, describes at least the semblance of a theological disputation, and, above all, offers not one but four distinct explanations for Ibn Hanbal’s · release. At the time of the mih·na, reports Ibn al-Faraj, he was working for the government. One day, he noticed “that people had locked up their shops and taken up weapons.”118 Told that Ibn H · anbal was being tried, he went to the palace and persuaded the chamberlain to admit him. He was given a seat near al-Mu tas·im’s chair. When Ibn H · anbal was brought in, the caliph accused him of claiming that God speaks as human beings do, and that the Qur a¯n is His uncreated speech. Ibn Hanbal replied with a H · adı¯th describing God’s speech to Moses, but the caliph rejected it as a lie. The imam then adduced a verse from the Qur a¯n (32: 13) in which God refers to “my true speech.” AlMu tas·im turned to the vizier Ibn al-Zayya¯t119 and to Ah·mad Ibn Abı¯ Du a¯d and bade them reply. “Commander of the Believers, kill him,” they said, “and let his blood be upon our necks.” The caliph struck Ibn H · anbal in the face and knocked him down. At this point, the Khurasani commanders evinced dismay. Ibn al-Faraj explains that Ibn H · anbal’s father “had been the son of a Khurasani commander,120 and the caliph became fearful of what [the Khurasanis] might do to him; so he called for a pitcher and had [Ibn H · anbal’s] face sprinkled with water.” When he came to his senses, Ibn H anbal asked his · uncle whether the water sprinkled on him was rightfully taken from its owner. This show of scrupulosity apparently enraged the caliph, who vowed to beat Ibn H · anbal to death. Nevertheless, Ish·a¯q b. Ibra¯hı¯m managed to intervene. He approached Ibn H · anbal and told him that the caliph had retracted his opinion and had now declared simply that “There is no God but God.” When Ibn H · anbal repeated the declaration of faith, Ish·a¯q returned to the caliph and reported that he (the caliph) and the imam had now espoused the same doctrine. Al-Mu tas·im then ordered the imam set free. Ibn al-Faraj’s report contradicts the family accounts, and itself, in many critical details. The report describes al-Mu tas·im as meeting Ibn H · anbal for the first time and flogging him all during the same session. This contradicts Ibn al-Faraj’s own claim that the trial begun at least a day before he saw any of it. Moreover, no previous report mentions the H · adı¯th or the verse among those Ibn H anbal is supposed to have adduced. Even if we assume that the · 117

118 119

120

H · A, IX: 204–05. TB contains ﬁve persons with the name Ah·mad b. al-Faraj. Of those with known death-dates, only two could have witnessed the ﬂogging: Abu¯ Utba al-H · ija¯zı¯ (d. 271) and Zarqa¯n (d. 282). Ibn H anbal’s son Abd Alla ¯ h reportedly related H adı ¯ th from Abu¯ Utba, · · who is also described as a drunkard and a liar (TB, V: 100–02; no. 7484). Cf. above, p. 46. Abu¯ Ja far Muh·ammad (d. 233/847–48), vizier to al-Mu tas·im and al-Wa¯thiq. His presence here is an anachronism. Min abna¯ quwwa¯d Khura¯sa¯n; cf. TB, V: 181 (no. 2632): ka¯n min abna¯ al-da wa. On the Khurasani component of Sunni resistance to the caliphate, see above, pp. 39, 47–48.

The H · adı¯th-scholar Ah·mad Ibn H · anbal 133 exchange Ibn al-Faraj gives was one of many elided in the other accounts, we are still left with an extraordinarily brief and one-sided disputation. No other report mentions Ibn al-Zayya¯t or the Khurasani commanders, much less a caliph who disputes H · adı¯th and slaps the imam. Admittedly, al-Ya qu¯bı¯ also credits Ish·a¯q b. Ibra¯hı¯m with breaking the impasse. But the strategy Ibn alFaraj attributes to the police chief is entirely diﬀerent: in a comic turn, he has Ish·a¯q trick each party into believing that the other has capitulated. Clever as it is, the story is impossible on internal grounds. In order for the deception to work, neither al-Mu tas·im nor Ibn H · anbal can be allowed to hear Ish·a¯q’s exchanges with the other party. How then could Abu¯ al-Faraj, who is seated near the caliph, overhear both? As if aware that his account appears contrived, Ibn al-Faraj proceeds to strengthen it in three ways. First, he overdetermines the caliph’s release of Ibn H · anbal by bringing in the mob that appeared brieﬂy at the beginning of the report. [Ish·a¯q b. Ibra¯hı¯m] noticed something at the door, and said, “I’m going out to see what all that commotion is.” He went out, came back in, and said: “Commander of the Believers! The crowd (al-mala ) is plotting to kill you. As a sincere counselor, I advise you to let Ah·mad Ibn H · anbal go.” So [Ibn H · anbal] was sent out, with his shirt and his cowl in his hands.

Second, he dispels any suspicion that may have arisen that Ibn H · anbal did indeed capitulate, or that the caliph’s chastisement induced the imam to change his position on the Qur a¯n: I was the ﬁrst to reach the door. The people said [to Ibn H · anbal], “Tell us what you said, so that we know what to believe.” “What do you think I said?” replied Ibn H · anbal. “Write this down, you H · adı¯thscholars (as·h·a¯b al-akhba¯r), and bear witness, members of the common people (ma shar al- a¯mma): the Qur a¯n is the uncreated speech of God, and inseparable from him!”

Finally, he adds a miracle-tale that serves the same purpose as the Gabrieldreams in Abu¯ Imra¯n’s account, namely, to spell out that God has ratiﬁed Ibn 121 To do so, he makes use of a detail that appears in the H · anbal’s position. family accounts but remains undeveloped there. Afraid that the ﬂogging might destroy his clothing and expose his nakedness, the imam replaced his trousercord, which he had been using to carry his fetters. In Ibn al-Faraj’s report, the drawstring returns, like Chekov’s famous pistol, to serve as the prop in the last act of the drama: I was watching Ah·mad Ibn H · anbal as the blows fell on his shoulders. He was wearing trousers held up with a cord. The cord broke and the trousers slipped down. I noticed him move his lips, and the trousers were restored. [Later] I asked him about this and he said, “When the trousers slipped I said, ‘God, my God and Lord, you have stood with 121

By “miracle” in this and the next chapter I mean kara¯ma, a change in the natural order eﬀected by God in response to prayer by a walı¯ (for which see below, pp. 141ﬀ.).

134 Classical Arabic Biography me in this place; so do not expose me in public view.’ Then the trousers were restored.”122

Abu¯ Nu aym, the compiler of the H · ilya, deems the account of Abu¯ al-Faraj less accurate than S·a¯lih·’s. Yet he adduces a report corroborating this, the most implausible part of it. In this second report, the imam reports his prayer as follows: “If I am in the right, then do not expose my nakedness.”123 What was only implied in the Ibn al-Faraj version is here stated explicitly: if God performs miracles for the imam, it can only be because his opinion on the Qur a¯n is the correct one. The adduction of miracle-stories, a new development in the representation of Ibn H · anbal, appears to be a response to the perceived inconclusiveness of the trial. Admittedly, Ibn H · anbal was released; but neither al-Mu tas·im nor any of the interrogators was converted to his view. Add to this the possibility that he may have capitulated after all, a possibility that even sympathetic observers appear to have taken seriously. Even Ibn al-Faraj, who is clearly on the imam’s side, concedes that something like a capitulation did occur. Audiences needed a more plausible explanation for Ibn Hanbal’s release, and, · more importantly perhaps, unambiguous evidence that God endorsed the imam’s position. Taken on its own, the trouser-tale accomplishes this admirably, if only because it draws attention away from the question of a possible capitulation. Whether Ibn H · anbal remained steadfast to the end does not matter so much if it can be proven that his opinion was the right one. On the other hand, the trouser-tale has its problems too: why does no one but the narrator ever notice the miracle? Later biographers appear to have realized this, and to have exploited the story, in ever more skillful variations, to construct increasingly dense fictions about the end of Ibn H · anbal’s trial. Before turning to the subsequent fate of the Ibn al-Faraj report, we should consider another purported eyewitness account which also includes a miracletale. This is the full-blown fiction attributed to Sulayma¯n b. Abd Alla¯h al-Sijzı¯ and preserved in the T · abaqa¯t al-H · ana¯bila of Ibn Abı¯ Ya¯ la al-Farra¯ (526/1133).124 Sulayma¯n reports that he went to the palace and found “the people crowded around the gate, as if it were a festival day.” He entered the palace and stood next to the caliph’s chair. Al-Mu tas·im “entered, took his shoes off, and crossed his legs.” He told Ibn H · anbal not to fear, and the imam replied that he was not frightened “one little bit.” Ibn H · anbal then argued against the createdness of the Qur a¯n by citing Qur a¯nic verses in which the word “created” (makhlu¯q) does not appear. (The insistence of every “eyewitness” on inventing a new argument says much for their resourcefulness but not their credibility.) The caliph ordered him to be imprisoned, and the next day asked him how he had spent the night. He replied that he found himself unable to recite a certain verse of the Qur a¯n, and then discovered why: in the corner 122 124

123 H Ibid., IX: 196. · A, IX: 204–05. T H , I: 162–67. The entry on Sulayma¯n contains no information about him other than this · · report.

The Hadı¯th-scholar Ahmad Ibn Hanbal 135 · · · of his cell was a dead Qur a¯n. “So I washed it, wrapped it, prayed over it, and buried it.” Al-Mu tas·im cried out for an explanation of this bizarre story, and Ibn Hanbal replied: “Well, you’re the one who says it’s created – and every · created thing dies!” The caliph conceded defeat, but then Ah·mad b. Abı¯ Du a¯d and Bishr al-Marı¯sı¯125 suggested that the caliph kill Ibn H · anbal. Al-Mu tas·im replied that he had promised God not to behead him, so the Mu tazilı¯s proposed that he flog him to death instead. After three strokes came the miracle, here contextualized as the reason for Ibn H · anbal’s (temporary) deliverance: “As [the lictor] prepared to strike the fourth blow, I noticed that [Ibn H · anbal’s] sash had started to slip down. He lifted his face to the heavens and moved his lips. The earth split open and two hands emerged to restore his garment by the power of God Almighty. When al-Mu tas·im saw this, he said: ‘Let him go!’” Apparently unmoved, Ibn Abı¯ Du a¯d said to Ibn H · anbal: “Whisper to me that the Qur a¯n is created, and I’ll save you from the caliph.” The imam replied: “Whisper in my ear that it isn’t, and I’ll save you from Hell.” The next day, the caliph again asked Ibn Hanbal how he had spent the · night.126 The imam reported that he had had a dream vision of Judgement Day. Called before the divine tribunal, he was asked why he had been beaten. “For the Qur a¯n,” he replied. God then asked him how he knew that the Qur a¯n was divine speech. Ibn H · anbal cited an authority, Abd al-Razza¯q. Immediately God summoned Abd al-Razza¯q, who in turn cited Ma mar. Ma mar then appeared, and cited al-Zuhrı¯. God continued to call each trans¯ isha, the Prophet, the angels Gabriel mitter in turn, summoning Urwa, A and Isra¯fı¯l, the Preserved Tablet, and finally the Pen, who cited God. God declared all of them to be telling the truth: “The Qur a¯n is my speech, uncreated!” By coincidence, the caliph had had a dream in which he was given a transcript of this very episode. After hearing the imam’s tale, he exclaimed: “Ibn H · anbal is right, and al-Mu tas·im repents!” He then ordered the execution of Bishr and Ibn Abı¯ Du a¯d, but was dissuaded from carrying it out. Ibn H · anbal was returned to his house with full honors. Even more than Ibn al-Faraj’s, Sulayma¯n’s account makes a concerted effort to advance H · anbalı¯ polemic by including all three types of proof: evidentiary dreams, conversion of the opponent, and a sign from God. The report simplifies the point at issue into a memorable riddle using the Qu ra¯n itself as a prop. Next, it provides a dramatic narrative to make tangible the H · adı¯th-men’s claim to the legacy of the Prophet. Ibn H anbal’s isna ¯ d comes alive in Heaven, · where it becomes clear that “heirship to the prophets” ultimately means guardianship of the words of God Himself. Moreover, the report gives a clear and 125

126

Al-Marı¯sı¯ is not mentioned in the family biographies for the good reason that he died before Ibn H · anbal’s trial (on him see ThG, III: 175–88). Unlike Ibn al-Faraj, Sulayma¯n recognizes that the interrogation spanned three days (although he puts the interrogation on the wrong one). But this timing is convenient: it allows for Ibn H · anbal to hold his funeral for the Qur a¯n on the ﬁrst night in his cell and have his dreamvision on the second.

136 Classical Arabic Biography unequivocal (if supernatural) explanation for Ibn H · anbal’s release. It also forgives the caliph, who renounces the dogma of the created Qur a¯n and repents of his persecution of Ibn Hanbal. Finally, it implicitly rehabilitates the mihna · · itself: without it, the correctness of the Hanbalı¯ opinion might never have · come to light. Using jokes, riddles, and deft characterizations, the report makes these points so vigorously that it becomes completely unbelievable as history. No subsequent authority adduces it, and their rejection helps define the limits beyond which biographers – in their capacity as historians – would not go.127 For later H · anbalı¯ biographers, reports like those of Ibn al-Faraj and Sulayma¯n could not entirely displace the family accounts, which emanated from sources closer to the imam, and contained no blatant fabrications. The biographers accordingly used one of the family biographies, usually S·a¯lih·’s, as the armature of their accounts. However, they also pulled from other firstperson reports, primarily that of Ibn al-Faraj, whatever bits and pieces contributed to a more dramatically and polemically satisfying narration, and inserted them at the appropriate points in the story. In his Mana¯qib, for example, Ibn al-Jawzı¯ (d. 597/1200) interpolates into S·a¯lih·’s account reports confirming that Ibn Abı¯ Du a¯d, not al-Mu tas·im, bore responsibility for the Inquisition. To account for the release, Ibn al-Jawzı¯ has Ibn Abı¯ Du a¯d argue that letting the imam die inside the palace would make a martyr of him. Ibn al-Jawzı¯ adds two reports claiming that the caliph relented because he feared the mob. Next comes the tale of the trousers in several versions, along with a report to explain away a contradiction that arises when the parallel versions are cited: why do the narrators see the trousers being restored while the inquisitors do not? The answer (ascribed to none other than the prefect Ish·a¯q b. Ibra¯hı¯m) is that the miracle “was not noticed due to the consternation (dhuhu¯l) of those present.” Finally, Ibn al-Jawzı¯ cites testimony by two of the lictors, who report that they beat Ibn H · anbal nearly to death. This testimony evidently served to refute the claim that the imam was never badly hurt.128 For all its achievements, Ibn al-Jawzı¯’s account stops short of integrating all the reports into a single explanation. To achieve this, the H · anbalı¯ tradition had only to undertake an incremental adjustment of elements already present. This process had begun before Ibn al-Jawzı¯’s time: in the biography of Ibn Hanbal by al-Bayhaqı¯ (d. 458/1065–66) as cited by al-Dhahabı¯ (d. 748/1348), · we find a report that links the miracle with the alleged popular outcry. When Ibn H · anbal’s sash slipped, the narrator saw “a golden hand emerge from under the sash by the power of God. At that, the common people raised an outcry.” Neither al-Dhahabı¯ nor al-Bayhaqı¯’s epitomist Ibn Kathı¯r (d. 774/1373) gives this report in full.129 However, it does appear, perhaps on the authority of al-Bayhaqı¯, in a work roughly contemporary with Ibn al-Jawzı¯’s: 127

129

An element of the story does appear in Subkı¯, T t, II: 60, where the quip about the death · abaqa¯128 ManIH of the Qur a¯n is attributed to the singer Uba¯da. · , 319ﬀ.; citation at 337. SAN, 11:256; Ibn Kathı¯r, Bida¯ya, X: 335 (no common people).

The Hadı¯th-scholar Ahmad Ibn Hanbal 137 · · · the Mih·nat al-Ima¯m Ah·mad Ibn H · anbal of Abd al-Ghanı¯ al-Maqdisı¯ (d. 600/1203–4). There the report is narrated by Abbas b. Miskawayh (or Mashkawayh) al-Hamadhanı¯: We saw Ah·mad raise his face to the sky and move his lips. He had hardly ﬁnished his prayer when we saw a golden hand emerge from under his sash and restore it to its place by the power of Almighty God. At that the common people raised an outcry (fa-d·ajjat al- a¯mma) and prepared to storm the palace, and [the caliph] ordered him released.130

This account combines the crowd-report and the trouser-tale in a causal sequence: the people rioted when they saw the miracle, and the frightened caliph released the imam. Concise and plausible (if one believes in miracles), this explanation has only one disadvantage: it contradicts the testimony ascribed to Ish·a¯q b. Ibra¯hı¯m, according to which the spectators were too dismayed to notice the miracle. The contradiction is finally resolved in the Mana¯qib of Ah·mad al-Maqrı¯zı¯ (d. 845/1441–42), which removes the offending sentence from Ish·a¯q’s report.131 After six centuries of compiling and sifting through a mass of reportage and other documentation, and as many centuries of editorial efforts to construct an account that would vindicate Ibn H · anbal while upholding – if only in appearance – the evidentiary protocol typical of H · adı¯th-minded biography, the H · anbalı¯ literary tradition has now perfected its narrative response to the imam’s trial, flogging, and release. Compared to the Twelver consensus on the death of Alı¯ al-Rid·a¯ (ch. 3), the H anbalı ¯ mih·na-account displays remarkable restraint in dealing with the · caliphs. As we have seen, the Mamluk-period biographers disapproved of the Inquisition, and berated al-Ma mu¯n roundly for imposing it (see ch. 2). Even so, they were unwilling to let the episode compromise the legitimacy of the caliphate. Heirs of a biographical tradition that had affirmed Ibn H · anbal’s fortitude, they could afford to set his ordeal in a broader context. The most extensive attempt to do so is that of al-Subkı¯ (d. 771/1370), who in his entry on Ibn H · anbal makes a point of praising all the mih·na-caliphs. Al-Ma mu¯n, despite his errant ways, was a philosopher-king, al-Mu tas·im a warrior for the faith, and al-Wa¯thiq a cultured wit. The Inquisition was the fault of “bad scholars” ( ulama¯ al-su¯ ). But even they were not malicious, merely mistaken: “Had the jurisprudents in [al-Mu tas·im’s] entourage been aware of the truth, they would have guided him to it. They would never have deluded him into flogging the likes of [Ibn H · anbal].” Al-Subkı¯ concludes that this deviation from the otherwise admirable policies of the Abbasid caliphate had a purpose, namely, “to make evident God’s wise disposition concerning his creation.” By this he means that the mih·na allowed Ibn H · anbal to demonstrate the uncreatedness of the Qur a¯n.132 Al-Ma mu¯n would doubtless have been appalled had he known that his Inquisition would produce such a result. However, the same is not necessarily 130 131

Maqdisı¯, Mih·na, 109. Maqrı¯zı¯, Mana¯qib, cited in Patton, Ah·med, 110.

132

Subkı¯, T · abaqa¯t, II: 57–59.

138 Classical Arabic Biography true of al-Mu tas·im. As Zaman has pointed out, al-Mu tas·im, unlike his predecessor, did not allege his interpretive authority against that of the scholars. Rather, he was merely uncertain about which set of scholars to believe.133 It is probably too much to say that he ordered the flogging to find out whether the Qur a¯n was created. Yet torture is not only, or even primarily, a means of punishment: it is also a way to extract the truth.134 For contemporary observers, certainly, the mih·na had the effect of validating Ibn H · anbal’s position. Pronounced under torture, his insistence on the uncreatedness of the Qur a¯n assumed greater authority than it would have in any other context. In Ibn H · anbal’s day, indignant proto-Sunnis like Abu¯ Imra¯n could excoriate the Abbasids.135 Centuries later, however, the Abbasids were no longer in a position to flog anyone, and al-Subkı¯ could look back and see how helpful the Inquisition had been to the eventual triumph of Sunnism.

The cult of sanctity The H · anbalı¯ responses to the Inquisition indicate that transmitters and biographers had regarded the imam as a confessor of the faith. His contemporary, the ascetic Bishr b. al-H · a¯rith, reportedly described him as “standing where the prophets stand.”136 Typical of the attitude of later biographers is the assessment of Ibn al-Farra¯ : Ibn H · anbal was persecuted for the sake of God Almighty, the Book, and the sunna of the Prophet, but persevered and emerged victorious. God granted him eloquence during [his trial], clariﬁed his speech, and let his side prevail. [Ibn H · anbal] was threatened, but did not fear. He was warned, but did not quail. He spoke forthrightly, and revealed the truth. He shone in his words, and provided a meet example. He triumphed over scholars, and crushed the mighty. How he stands out among the truthful, and how close he is to the ancients!137

“If Ibn H · anbal had been one of the Children of Israel,” says Abu¯ Nu aym alIs·faha¯nı¯, “he would have been an a¯ya,” a sign or proof of God’s power. Even al- Abba¯dı¯ (d. 458/1066), a Sha¯fi ı¯ biographer who took a dim view of Ibn H · anbal’s fiqh, acknowledges that his career would make an uh·du¯tha, a “story” or “legend.” Similarly, al-Khat¯ıb al-Baghda¯dı¯, who was accused of bearing a · grudge against the H · anbalı¯s, cites a report to the effect that “God has strengthened the faith with two men without peer: Abu¯ Bakr on the day of the apos138 tasy, and Ibn H · anbal on the day of the mih·na.” Strikingly, appreciation of the imam’s achievement was not confined to the scholars. If his later biographies are any guide, people of all sorts came to 133 134

135 136 138

Zaman, Religion, 113. For parallels in another Abbasid trial, that of H · unayn b. Ish·a¯q, see Cooperson, “Purported Autobiography.” Cf. the fulminations of Nu aym b. H cited in Jad a¯n, Mih·na, 227–30. · ammad, 137 ManIH , 117–18. See further ch. 5. T H · · · , I: 12–13. H · A, IX: 166; Abba¯dı¯, T · abaqa¯t, I: 250; TB, V: 183–84 (no. 2632); see also T ·H · , I: 17; ManIH ·, 135–36.

The H · adı¯th-scholar Ah·mad Ibn H · anbal 139 regard him as a baraka-wielding holy man.139 Our most important source of information on this “cult of sanctity” is Ibn al-Jawzı¯, who documents and discusses the imam’s reputation in several works. Although his sources depict Ibn H · anbal as having been revered, or at least worthy of reverence, his whole life long, Ibn al-Jawzı¯ does cite a few reports that corroborate Abu¯ Zur a’s impression that it was the mih·na that made his reputation. For many observers, his ordeal seems to have evoked many of the same associations as the zealot-stories that crop up in the biographies of al-Ma mu¯n. Among these observers we must count al-Dhahabı¯, who in his biography of the imam cites the H · adı¯th of al-Khudrı¯ (“the best jiha¯d is to speak the truth before a tyrant”), precisely the text al-Ma mu¯n accused the shroud-wearing zealot of trying to apply.140 Ibn al-Jawzı¯, who is much less critical of the caliphs than al-Dhahabı¯, does not dwell on the imam’s defiance of the Abbasids. However, he does provide evidence to suggest that Ibn H · anbal’s fortitude under the lash captured the imagination of the common people. Although he professes disdain for the a¯mma, Ibn al-Jawzı¯ himself appears to have succumbed to the same temptation as they, namely, to admire Ibn H · anbal for performing a religious act that was at the same time a foolhardy display of defiance. According to Ibn al-Jawzı¯, the imam himself related the following tale. When he was stretched out on the whipping-posts, someone tugged at his garment from behind and announced: “I am Abu¯ al-Haytham, the thug, thief, and hoodlum. The caliph’s register says that I have been struck 18,000 lashes at one time or another, all in obedience to Satan for the sake of the world. So be strong in obedience to the Almighty for the sake of the faith.” According to this apocryphon, Ibn H · anbal later blessed Abu¯ al-Haytham for strengthening his resolve.141 Ibn al-Jawzı¯ includes this story in all three biographies he wrote of the imam, as if it were among the indispensable reports in any 142 In one of the three biographies, Ibn al-Jawzı¯ adds account of Ibn H · anbal. a series of anecdotes about the proverbial fortitude of the hoodlum Abu¯ alHaytham. These anecdotes display striking parallels, sometimes inverted, to the accounts of Ibn H · anbal’s Inquisition. In one, Abu¯ al-Haytham (here called by his proper name of Kha¯lid al-Hadda¯d) explains to al-Mutawakkil · and the vizier al-Fath· b. Kha¯ka¯n just how tough he is: He said, “Fill me a bag of scorpions, and I’ll put my hand in and feel as much pain as you would. The last lash hurts me as much as the first. And if you put a rag in my mouth 139

140

Ibn Manz·u¯r, Lisa¯n, deﬁned baraka as “growth and increase” or “an abundance of anything good.” Westermarck spoke of it as “a mysterious wonder-working force which is looked upon as a blessing from God” (Ritual and Belief, I:35). Geertz (writing, like Westermark, about contemporary Morocco) describes baraka as the consequence of a tacit proposition that “the sacred appears most directly in the world as as an endowment – a talent and a capacity, a special ability – of particular individuals,” whose best analogue is “personal presence, force of character, moral vividness . . . it is a gift which some men have in greater degree than others, and which a few, marabouts, have in superlative degree” (Islam Observed, 44). 141 142 SAN, XI: 233. ManIH Also S·ifa, II: 198; Munt·az·am, XI: 42–43. · , 333–34.

140 Classical Arabic Biography as I was being ﬂogged, it would catch ﬁre and burn from all the heat coming out of my innards. However, I have trained myself to bear [such torments] with fortitude.” Al-Fath said: “Shame on you! You are intelligent and eloquent! What drives you to · practice such nonsense?” He said, “I love power (al-ri a¯sa).”

In another report, Kha¯lid is described “sitting unsteadily because the flesh of his buttocks had been torn away by flogging.” His associates, a group of fitya¯n or “gangsters,” are discussing the feats of famous criminals. Kha¯lid then rebukes them: “Why are you talking about other people? Go do something yourselves, and let other people talk about you!”143 Mutatis mutandis, Ibn H · anbal – who is also described as seeking ri a¯sa – made essentially the same reply to those of his associates who submitted to the Inquisition.144 More broadly, Kha¯lid’s boasting and Ibn H · anbal’s stubbornness challenge the caliph’s authority in the same way: no amount of beating will change the attitude of either. In both cases, the caliph can either acknowledge the authority his challenger represents, or kill him. However, the latter act would betray his inability to respond on any level except that of brute force. Of the two “zealots,” Kha¯lid offers the lesser challenge: as al-Fath· b. Kha¯ka¯n insists, his position is ba¯·til (nonsensical and wrong). For just this reason, however, he can utter what Ibn H · anbal cannot, namely, that his challenge to the caliph enhances his power (ri a¯sa) over his followers. Because Ibn H · anbal’s positions, by contrast, have a claim to general recognition and are therefore truly dangerous, he must insist that he does not seek ri a¯sa. S·a¯lih· thus quotes him as saying after the flogging: “By God, I have given all I could in this effort; and I hope to come out of it even, without winning or losing.”145 Ibn al-Jawzı¯ presents his tales of hooligans and holy men without comment in the biographies. Surprisingly, however, he inveighs against similar stories in another work, the Naqd al- ilm (Talbı¯s Iblı¯s). There he criticizes the gullibility, ignorance, and spiritual laziness that drive the uneducated to venerate ascetics, fortune-tellers, and charlatans. Among the charlatans are the ayya¯ru¯n and fitya¯n, the self-proclaimed robber-heroes, whose thievery belies their claims to virtue. Again he cites the tales about Abu¯ al-Haytham Kha¯lid al-H · adda¯d, but this time he condemns them. Those who take pride in their ability to suffer beatings, he says, should turn their talents to pious exercises instead.146 From this chain of associations it would appear that the common people revered Ibn H · anbal for the same reason they admired the fitya¯n, namely, fortitude under the lash. This conflation of the imam and the fitya¯n reinforces our sense that asceticism, zealotry, and anti-Abbasid sentiment were linked in the popular imagination. More particularly, it indicates that the next step along the continuum was heroic banditry and criminal violence. Such an association evidently did no dishonor to Ibn H · anbal: if the state is unjust, virtue becomes a 143 145

144 Munt·az·am, XI: 42–43. E.g. H · anbal, Dhikr, 76–79. S·a¯lih·, Sı¯ra, 66. The imam is quoting Umar’s deathbed remark about his caliphate (Bukha¯rı¯, 146 Ibn al-Jawzı¯, Naqd, 415–30. Sah·¯ıh·, VI: 110).

The H · adı¯th-scholar Ah·mad Ibn H · anbal 141 crime, and good men become criminals. The admirers of the fitya¯n evidently assumed that the converse was true as well. Deplore this sloppy thinking as he might, even Ibn al-Jawzı¯ appears to acknowledge, consciously or otherwise, that being beaten by the caliph is a religious act. Otherwise, the fitya¯n would have no place in a chapter on religious deceit and demagoguery. Suggestive as it may be, Ibn H · anbal’s legendary kinship with the fitya¯n plays only a marginal role in his cult of sanctity. Far more commonly, he is described in terms befitting a walı¯ Alla¯h or “ally of God.”147 In Ibn al-Jawzı¯’s Mana¯qib, for example, his prayers are answered, his person and his relics are sought out for the blessing they confer, and his tomb is a shrine. His contemporaries are awestruck by his asceticism, hopeful of his intercession, and terrified of his disapproval. They are persuaded of his nearly messianic role in the triumph of the faith, and his consequent ability to confer personal salvation. Such attributions reportedly provoked protests on Ibn H · anbal’s part, but appear to have been accepted uncritically by most of his biographers. Admittedly, Ibn alJawzı¯ was to protest when Abu¯ Nu aym labeled the imam a Sufi, and alDhahabı¯ was to decry the miracle-tales that had attached themselves to his biography. But even these protests were relatively muted. Evidently, the stories of Ibn H · anbal’s extraordinary closeness to God could not be easily dismissed. If nothing else, they permitted his biographers to come to terms with two of the ·ta¯ ifa’s most important rivals, the Sufis and the Sha¯fi ı¯s. To understand how these relationships were negotiated, it will be necessary to look more closely at the cult of sanctity that arose around the imam. Even before the mih·na, Ibn H · anbal evidently enjoyed a reputation for profound knowledge of the sunna. More important, however, than his knowledge was his conspicuous application of it. “I have never written down a H · adı¯th of the Prophet,” he said, “without putting it into practice.”148 He thus qualified himself to perform one of the functions of the holy man, namely, to serve as an exemplar for his followers.149 In theory, of course, his task was to teach H · adı¯th, which his students were to use in their own efforts to emulate the Prophet. In practice, however, Ibn H · anbal’s exemplary application of the sunna made him an object of emulation in his own right. To judge from the reports in the Mana¯qib, the imam’s contemporaries observed his practice in even the most trivial matters. As biographer, Ibn al-Jawzı¯ fosters the cult by committing everything, including the trivia, to writing.150 In effect, he provides 147

149 150

A walı¯ is a helper or ally (na¯sir: Ibn Manzu¯r, Lisa¯n). A walı¯ Alla¯h would thus be someone who · · aids God’s cause on earth. It is often translated “saint,” which is reasonable enough given the walı¯’s attributes and the loose application of “saint” in current English. However, this rendering often provokes the objection that Islam does not canonize persons. Baldick (Mystical Islam, 7–8), suggests “friend of God,” but this is more exactly the translation of khalı¯l Alla¯h, the epithet of Abraham. Walı¯, moreover, was not (and is not) the ordinary word for friend in Arabic. As Baldick notes, the term has etymological overtones of patronage and clientage. 148 ManIH “Ally,” I think, conveys these overtones better than “friend.” · , 179. Brown, “The Saint as Exemplar.” Ibn al-Jawzı¯ states that he has written the imam’s biography for the instruction of “those who emulate him” (ManIH · , 6).

142 Classical Arabic Biography the sort of information about Ibn H · anbal that Ibn H · anbal himself sought about the Prophet, including not only his opinions on matters of faith and practice but his habits of speech, eating, and dress. The Mana¯qib records, for example, his belief that faith can increase or decrease, that the doctrine of the created Qur a¯n constitutes unbelief, and that the anthropomorphic verses are not to be interpreted allegorically. It also notes that he wore yellow shoes, depilated himself at home instead of at the bathhouse, and patched his clothes in colors that did not match.151 Of course, there was a danger inherent in such attentiveness: that Ibn H anbal’s practice “might then replace the principles of conduct traced by the · Qur a¯n and the sunna.”152 Such an outcome, though blasphemous, was not literally unthinkable. In a later source, Abu¯ Bakr al-Khalla¯l, a H · anbalı¯ of the second generation, mentions an “ignoramus” who said of the imam’s follow153 The imam himself was evidently ers that “Ibn H · anbal is their prophet.” aware of the danger. According to the Mana¯qib, he disapproved of anyone’s writing down his legal opinions. When, for example, a Khurasani student showed him his notes, the imam tossed the document away in anger.154 He also disapproved of those who sought to gain baraka by touching him. Yet selfdeprecation is also part of the dynamic of both sainthood and wila¯ya. The holy man insists on his unworthiness, and his followers take his modesty as further proof of his high standing. This dynamic subtends many of Ibn alJawzı¯’s reports, and indeed lends an almost novelistic sense of progression to the Mana¯qib as a whole. In one report, a neighbor recalls: I went into the entryway and found [Ibn H · anbal] sitting on the dirt ﬂoor. The dye in his hair had run, and I could see the white roots of his hair. He was wearing a small and soiled kara¯mı¯s waist-wrapper and a coarse shirt with dirt on the shoulder and sweat-stains on the collar. I asked him a question about scrupulosity and the acquisition of merit. No sooner had I asked the question than I saw his face fall and assume a sorrowful expression, as if he were disgusted with, and sorry for, himself, so much so that it pained me to watch him. As we were leaving, I said to someone who was with me, “Some days he seems so dissatisﬁed with himself.”155

As a result of this incident, Ibn Hanbal’s reputation presumably gained new · luster, even though he never answered his neighbor’s question – or if he did, the answer meant less to the storyteller than the imam’s air of self-reproach. As this report also suggests, Ibn Hanbal’s poverty served as the external · 151 153 154

155

152 ManIH Laoust, “Ah·mad b. H · , 6; 153, 154, 156; 256, 247, 256. · anbal,” 274. SAN, XI: 305. ManIH · , 276; see also 281–82. This attitude places the responsible biographer in a diﬃcult position. Ibn al-Jawzı¯ lamely argues that although Ibn H · anbal forbade anyone to commit his pronouncements to writing, “God decreed that they be recorded and organized and spread far and wide” (194). Ma¯ ara¯hu yantaﬁ bi-nafsihi ayya¯man. Ibid., 209; cf. 275. On zuhd and h·uzn, see Massignon, Essai, 169.

The H · adı¯th-scholar Ah·mad Ibn H · anbal 143 sign of spiritual authority. In the family reports, we find descriptions of his austerity and shabbiness. We are told, for example, that he would sit directly on the ground instead of using a mat or cushion, and forebore going to the bathhouse for fifty years. “My favorite days,” he reportedly said, “are when I wake up with nothing in the house.” Upon his death, he left behind “six or maybe seven qi as in a rag worth two da¯niqs that he had used to wipe his face.”156 Renunciation (zuhd), as we have seen, could come about as a consequence of scrupulosity (wara ) as well as imitation of the Prophet. One manifestation of it, the imam’s unwillingness to accept gifts, allowed him to play the patron, at least on occasion. Most often, he would return gifts.157 When he could not, he gave them away. When, for example, al-Mutawakkil sent him a sack of money, he redistributed it to impoverished scholars, in sums ranging from 50 to 200 dirhams. Even the sack he insisted on giving away to a beggar.158 In the Mana¯qib, shabbiness takes on an additional meaning: it is associated with membership in a secret fraternity of holy men. There are some intimations of this in the family accounts, as when S·a¯lih recalls that his father was moved by the sight of ragged men, and urged him to emulate them. In the Mana¯qib, we learn that Baghdadis believed that certain ragged men were among the abda¯l or budala , that is, one of a limited number of holy men gifted with special powers of intercession.159 Ibn Hanbal is depicted as familiar with · the notion, which he interprets in accordance with his ideas of virtue. Asked where the budala¯ might be found, he replies: “If not among the H · adı¯th-scholars, then I don’t know where.’” In another account, he says, “If the H · adı¯thscholars are not the abda¯l, then I don’t know who would be.”160 In the popular imagination, however, the notion appears only vaguely related to ilm. One Abu¯ Abd Alla¯h b. Sa¯firı¯ reports: When we were young, we used to worship in the Perfumer’s Mosque. Some of us worked weaving palm-fiber, others worked as spinners, and so on. One of us, a young man of prepossessing appearance, told us the following story. “We were fishing on the shore of the Dujayl. Darkness fell, and suddenly we saw a man in rags and tatters, walking along so fast I couldn’t catch him. I accosted him and said, “Hey you! Are you one of the abda¯l?” “Yes,” he replied . . . “Where are you coming from?” I asked. “From Ah·mad Ibn H · anbal’s.” “What were you doing there?” “Asking him a question about a disputed matter. Ah·mad is one of us; in fact, he’s better than we are.”161 156 159

157 158 ManIH S·a¯lih·, Sı¯ra, 43–44. H · , 276, 244–45; 419. · anbal, Dhikr, 99–101. See Goldziher, “Abda¯l”; Massignon, Essai, 112–14; and Chabbi, “Abda¯l” (esp. 1: 1: 174, on the H · anbalı¯ notion of abda¯l) from which I derive the tentative deﬁnition given above. Cf. also Melchert, “Transition,” 58, note 38, who describes the abda¯l as “the most saintly tradition160 161 ManIH Ibid., 147. ists.” · , 181.

144 Classical Arabic Biography Admittedly, Ibn Hanbal’s high standing arises from the characteristic scholarly function of answering questions about “disputed matters.”162 But the abda¯l, or more exactly the badal that appears in this story, is a ragged wanderer, not a known scholar. The obviously contrived nature of the report suggests that H · anbalı¯ transmitters were endeavoring to reclaim the notion of abda¯l from the ascetics. If any ragged renunciant could attain a reputation for extraordinary closeness to God, the painstaking efforts of the H · adı¯th-scholars might seem pointless. Indeed, certain ascetics of Ibn H anbal’s day decried · H adı ¯ th, while others had gone so far as to outline an alternative epistemology, · mysticism (see ch. 5). These developments evidently required a response from H · anbalı¯ transmitters. One response appears to be their emphasis on the imam’s poverty and austerity, as if to say that he could beat the ascetics at their own game.163 Another response, evidently, was to suggest that the abda¯l deem Ibn H · anbal worthier even than themselves. Besides giving Ibn H · anbal a position among the abda¯l, the Mana¯qib grants him istija¯bat al-da wa, the power to have his prayers answered. In later Sufi biography, efficacious prayer was a sign of wila¯ya (“affiliation with God”). Abu Nu aym, for example, numbers istija¯bat al-da wa among the powers of the awliya¯ .164 According to the Shiite Imam Alı¯ al-Rida¯, it was one of the · defining properties of the imamate, the other being knowledge.165 In Peter Brown’s early model of late-antique sainthood, the efficacy of prayer is indispensable to the holy man’s authority as patron and as intercessor. This authority is most dramatically demonstrated by the summoning of miracles, which prove particularly effective in securing allegiance and inspiring conversions.166 More recently, Claudia Rapp has shed new light on the holy man’s role as intercessor. The saint’s associates ask him to pray that they be guided in their spiritual striving, that they be spared temptation, and that their sins be forgiven. The desired result of the saint’s intercession, therefore, need not always be a miracle, nor need his patronage extend beyond the circle of his associates. By praying for the spiritual welfare of his followers, the saint secures their allegiance, receives their prayers in return, and contributes to the solidarity of the community of faith.167 In the Mana¯qib, Ibn H · anbal’s prayers serve a similar variety of functions. In one case, his invocation produced a spectacular evidentiary miracle: the raising of his trousers during the Inquisition. In another, he protected himself, and by extension the ahl al-sunna, by praying never to see al-Ma mu¯n, who indeed died soon afterward.168 Under more mundane circumstances, he solved problems for himself and his neighbors: banishing ants from his house, stopping his grandson’s nosebleed, and curing his neighbor’s crippled mother.169 162

163 165 167

The relative status of the two men is also evident from the fact that the ragged man went to visit Ibn H see further below, pp. 182–84. · anbal, not the other way around; 164 Cf. Laoust, “Ah·mad b. H anbal,” 274. H · · A, I: 5–17. 166 UAR, II: 200. Brown, “Rise and Function” and Authority, esp. 57–78. 168 169 Rapp, “For Next to God.” H ManIH · anbal, Dhikr, 41. · , 295–98.

The Hadı¯th-scholar Ahmad Ibn Hanbal 145 · · · As in the case of Christian saints, the power of Ibn H · anbal’s intercession was perceived to extend to his person and his effects. His contemporaries reportedly attributed miraculous effects to his touch, his gaze, his relics, the mention of his name, or simple proximity to his house. They gathered to see not only him, but anyone who had seen him or even prayed in his mosque.170 On the frontier, warriors claimed that one look from him conferred as much blessing as a year of pious living, and the catapult crews credited their hits to their invocation of him.171 His possessions, moreover, were invulnerable to flood or fire, and could transmit his baraka. When a student’s pen broke, Ibn H · anbal gave him one of his own; the student gave it in turn to a man who placed it in his date-palm hoping that the tree would bear fruit, which it did.172 The imam himself accepted transitive baraka in principle: he reportedly kept the Prophet’s bowl and some of his hairs.173 Characteristically, however, he was dismayed at being treated with similar reverence. When, for example, alT·aya¯lisı¯ touched him and then rubbed himself, the imam “waved his hand as if shaking something off it, saying ‘Where did you learn that?’ in tones of the most vigorous disapprobation.”174 Besides conferring blessings in this world, Ibn H · anbal also served as an index of one’s fate in the next. The Mana¯qib reports that “one’s opinion of Ibn H · anbal works as a test to distinguish the Muslim from the heretic.” A believer need not examine the arguments of the Ra¯fid·¯ıs, Na¯s·ibı¯s, Qadarı¯s, and Murji ı¯s: 175 Such declarations since they all hate Ibn H · anbal, they must be innovators. were not simply a matter of polemic, or a coded language for branding theological opponents. Rather, they amounted to curses, with excruciating consequences. One man reports that his tongue swelled up painfully after he criticized the imam. More gruesome fates befell other offenders in rough proportion to the severity of the offense. A man who fired a shot at the imam’s tomb had his hand wither. Ibn Abı¯ Du a¯d, the chief judge under al-Mu tas·im, was smitten by a palsy. Similarly, one of the men who flogged the imam during the Inquisition suffered an affliction that made him bark like a dog.176 Unless the offender begged forgiveness, as many reportedly did, his punishment would presumably continue in Hell. The most spectacular example of this principle is the fate attributed to the chief inquisitor. On the night he died, “fires were seen in Baghdad and elsewhere, as if Hell had opened its mouth and spewed out flame . . . in preparation for the coming of Ibn Abı¯ Du a¯d.”177 Conversely, allegiance to Ibn H · anbal held out the promise of salvation. One narrator reports a vision of the Day of Judgement in which he saw Ibn H · anbal dispensing the signet-rings that allow the dead to cross the bridge to Paradise. Another reports that Ibn H · anbal, seconded by three archangels, stands guard at the gate of Heaven.178 In such visions, scholars are projecting into the afterlife Ibn Hanbal’s earthly privilege of distinguishing between belief and · 170 174 178

171 172 Ibid., 150. Ibid., 149–50. Ibid., 295–98. 175 176 Ibid., 276. Ibid., 493–95. Ibid, 491–94. Ibid., 446–47 (cf. Kinberg, “Legitimation,” 65).

173 177

Ibid., 187. Ibid., 491.

146 Classical Arabic Biography unbelief. Popular devotion swept such distinctions aside, claiming rather that mere proximity to the imam’s tomb was enough to guarantee salvation. One visitor to the cemetery overheard a voice announce from the ground: “None of us are damned, thank God, because of Ahmad’s baraka.” Various witnesses · report dream-visits in which recently deceased friends and relatives thank the living for burying them near the imam. In one report, his baraka extends over the entire city of Baghdad: his tomb is one of the four for whose sake God forbears to punish the city for its sins.179 Significantly, Ibn al-Jawzı¯ treats all the manifestations of the cult on an equal footing. The scholars’ appreciation of Ibn H · anbal’s ordeal, his neighbors’ requests for intercession, and the hopeful visits to the tomb appear as equally legitimate acknowledgements of his service to the faith. Almost no claim was too extravagant for an exemplar of such conspicuous attainments. Only one assertion, it seems, met with reservation on the part of the H · anbalı¯s: the claim that the imam had been a Sufi. The culprit here was Abu¯ Nu aym al numbers all the “allies of Is·faha¯nı¯ (d. 430/1038), whose H · ilyat al-awliya¯ God,” even those of the Prophet’s generation, among the Sufis. The entry on Ibn H · anbal does not neglect his scholarly attainments. Indeed, it contains a lengthy section listing unusual H · adı¯th known on his authority, cites numerous reports of his learning and his fiqh, and praises him as a bastion against heresy.180 But Abu¯ Nu aym also describes him as one who “taught the renunciants” and “cultivated anxiety and preoccupation,” adding that “Sufism is polishing oneself with stains, and embellishing oneself with pains.”181 Introducing a series of reports on Ibn Hanbal’s asceticism, he interjects: “It has been said that Sufism is renunciation adorning a pious and scholarly man, like jewelry upon a young and shapely girl.”182 For Abu¯ Nu aym, evidently, Sufism and H · adı¯th-scholarship were perfectly compatible. Abu¯ Nu aym’s assimilation of Ibn H · anbal met with the tacit approval of some H adı ¯ th-scholars. Al-Khat ¯ ı b al-Baghda ¯ dı¯, for example, reproduced many · · of the Hilya-reports in his own biography of the imam.183 Ibn al-Jawzı¯, · however, found Abu¯ Nu aym’s appropriation of Ibn H · anbal irritating. In the introduction to the S·ifat al-s·afwa, he criticizes his predecessor’s work on literary as well as doctrinal grounds. The purpose of writing about the awliya¯ , he declares, is to document “their states of being and their moral character, so that the seeker may emulate them.”184 From this premise follow several rules for biographical writing, all of which Abu¯ Nu aym failed to heed. For one thing, an entry on a particular person should talk about him rather than cite stories about other people which he happened to transmit. Moreover, if a biographer must include dubious stories, he should at least warn the reader. 179

181

183

Ibid., 483–84. One visit is dated to 460/1067–68, meaning that the tomb-cult was active well 180 H before Ibn al-Jawzı¯’s day (481–82). · A, IX: 164–68. Al-tajallı¯ bi ‘l-a¯tha¯r, wa ‘l-tah·allı¯ bi ‘l-akda¯r, ibid., IX: 161. I thank Wolfhart Heinrichs for this 182 Ibid., IX: 174. elegant translation. 184 TB, V: 180, 182, 183, 185, 187 (no. 2632). Ibn al-Jawzı¯, S·ifa, I: 2ﬀ.

The H · adı¯th-scholar Ah·mad Ibn H · anbal 147 This is a particularly culpable offense, says Ibn al-Jawzı¯, since piety-minded people are less apt to criticize such tales. Indeed, stories in which awliya¯ perform bizarre feats might prompt readers to imitate them and harm themselves.185 Finally, Abu¯ Nu aym failed to understand what Sufism really means. “The trite rhymed prose” of the H · ilya “hardly contains a single correct meaning, particularly regarding the definitions of Sufism.” Sufism, Ibn alJawzı¯ explains, is a “path” (madhhab) understood by its adherents to mean more than renunciation. The Prophet and a number of believers in every age were ascetics, and some of the latter may also be Sufis. But the notion that every conspicuously pious Muslim is Sufi is a gratuitous misrepresentation.186 Ibn al-Jawzı¯ thus objects to the “attribution of Sufism to prominent figures,” 187 including Ibn H · anbal, “who had no idea of any such thing.” Ibn al-Jawzı¯’s comments in the S·ifa and elsewhere reveal the existence of a tension between scholars and ascetics, with the people preferring the latter. In his S·ayd al-kha¯·tir, he remarks: “We have seen and heard the common people praise a man, saying: ‘He does not sleep at night, nor break his fast, nor know a wife, nor taste any worldly pleasure! His body has wasted away, and his bones are so weak that he prays sitting down! He is better than the scholars who eat and enjoy their pleasures.’” However, learning and knowledge confer more benefit to others than any feats of self-denial. “One faqı¯h, even if his followers are few and his successors nonexistent, is better than a thousand men of the sort the commoners rub their hands upon for a blessing, and to whose funerals countless numbers flock.”188 These passages, and comparable ones in his other works, make Ibn al-Jawzı¯ appear a defender of ascetism as against Sufism, or a defender of the scholarly model as against them both. However, he seems rather to be defending Sufism against irresponsible accretions, just as he defends biography from the indiscriminate acceptance of irrelevant or misleading material. As Makdisi has recently discovered, Ibn al-Jawzı¯ appears to have been affiliated with the Sufis himself. For this very reason, perhaps, he was especially sensitive to facile characterizations of Sufi piety.189 As a H · adı¯th-scholar who was also an ascetic, Ibn H · anbal served his successors well. Moderate Sufi apologists like Abu¯ Nu aym could cite him as evidence against the more extreme claims of anti-H · adı¯th Sufism. H · anbalı¯ biographers, on the other hand, could cite him as proof that a scholar could outdo the renunciants in zuhd. The only difficulty was that the imam’s reputation as a walı¯ could inspire adoration for the wrong reasons. Ibn al-Jawzı¯ is aware of the problem, although he is much less judgemental in the Mana¯qib than his pronouncements elsewhere would imply. In any event, scholarly fulminations against popular piety evidently had little effect on practice. Perhaps because of their asceticism, H · anbalı¯ jurists appear to have been particularly prone to adulation. A particularly striking case is that of Taqı¯ al-Dı¯n Taymiya 185 187 189

186 For an example, see Ibn al-Jawzı¯, Naqd, 412. Cf. Ibn al-Jawzı¯, S·ayd, 25–27. 188 Ibn al-Jawzı¯, S·ifa, 1: 4. Ibid., 1:34; cf. Ibn al-Jawzı¯, Naqd, 415–30. Makdisi, “Hanbali School,” esp. 124–26.

148 Classical Arabic Biography (d. 728/1328), the Mamlu¯k-period jurist. Like his hero Ibn H · anbal, he was accused of professing anthropomorphism, and like him was examined by hostile jurists and cast into prison. Ironically for one who had condemned the veneration of holy men, he attracted an enormous popular following in Cairo and Damascus. When he died in the Damascus citadel, imprisoned for his legal judgements against visiting tombs, some of the mourners reportedly drank the water that had been used to wash his corpse.190 Like Ibn al-Jawzı¯, Ibn Taymiya appears to have been affiliated with the Sufis himself. Again, this affiliation may explain the urgency with which he condemned irregular or exaggerated manifestations of Sufi piety.191 Perhaps not coincidentally, it is in the writings of Ibn Taymiya’s contemporary al-Dhahabı¯ that we find the most rigorous criticism of the H · anbalı¯ biographical tradition. Al-Dhahabı¯ was accused by his contemporary al-Subkı¯ of disparaging the fuqara¯ (“the poor,” here meaning the Sufis) while favoring the 192 “anthropomorphists,” that is, the H · anbalı¯s. However, his lengthy biography of Ibn H · anbal assumes a skeptical posture toward even the most widely accepted constituents of Ibn H · anbal’s legend. In his account of the flogging, for example, al-Dhahabı¯ describes the trouser-tale as “a reprehensible story” (h·ika¯ya munkara). He suggests that one of the transmitters concocted it, and castigates al-Bayhaqı¯ for citing it “without daring to point out its undependability.” Similarly, he condemns Abu¯ Nu aym for including the “incorrect” account of Ibn al-Faraj, not to mention certain “abominable fantastications” (al-khura¯fa¯t al-samija) he is ashamed to repeat.193 For al-Dhahabı¯, the most important result of the Inquisition was not the vindication of Ibn H · anbal’s wila¯ya. Rather, it was the refutation of Jahmism. To drive the point home, he adduces several kala¯m-arguments against the createdness-doctrine.194 Similarly, he takes a dim view of Ibn H · anbal’s cult of sanctity. Ibn al-Jawzı¯, he says, should have been ashamed to reproduce dubious tales of adulation for the imam.195 Most often, al-Dhahabı¯ critiques the suspicious reports by picking apart their isna¯ds. Occasionally, he will also declare their content to be unlikely. Commenting on the claim that 20,000 Jews, Christians, and Magians converted to Islam at Ibn Hanbal’s funeral, he notes that the alleged eyewit· ness died a considerable time before the imam. He adds that “empirical and analytical considerations” (al- a¯da wa l- aql) indicate that it is impossible for thousands of people to convert without any notice being taken of the event by S·a¯lih·, H · anbal, al-Marru¯dhı¯, or other prominent transmitters of the imam’s akhba¯r.196 He thus appears to direct his criticism at the unlikelihood that such 190 192 193

194 196

191 Laoust, Essai, 111–50. Makdisi, “Hanbali School.” Subkı¯, T abaqa ¯ t, 2: 22; Khalidi, Arabic Historical Thought, 203–04. · SAN, XI: 255–56. To explain the imam’s release, al-Dhahabı¯ proposes (following a report ascribed to Abu¯ Zur a) that al-Mu tas·im “feared that [Ibn H · anbal] would die as a result of the flogging and the common people would rise up against him” (XI: 260). 195 SAN, XI: 290ff. SAN, XI: 209. SAN, XI: 343–44. For a philosophical discussion of these criteria, see Qazwı¯nı¯, Talkhı¯s·, and Taftaza¯nı¯, Mukhtas·ar al-ma a¯nı¯ (in one volume), 27ff.

The H · adı¯th-scholar Ah·mad Ibn H · anbal 149 an event would go unreported, not at the unlikelihood of the event itself. One may wonder, nonetheless, whether the transmission-critique disguises a skepticism about the possibility of such occurrences in the first place. Like Ibn al-Jawzı¯ before him, however, al-Dhahabı¯ cannot help being lenient in the case of Ibn H · anbal. Even when he declares particular claims to be false, he concedes that the fabricators acted in accordance with praiseworthy impulses. Thus, he says, “it is an improper exaggeration” to claim, as the frontier warriors did, that a single glance from Ibn H · anbal confers the benefits of a year of pious worship. However, the motive behind such a fabrication is “the love of God for His own sake.” Elsewhere he remarks that Ibn H · anbal was “not the sort of person who needs dream-visions to prove his wila¯ya.” Yet, he admits, such reports do “cheer a believer’s heart.” He will even acknowledge the forgers’ literary talents: an apocryphal tale about the end of the mih·na is false, he says, but still “a clever story” (qis·s·a malı¯h·a).197 As al-Dhahabı¯’s use of the term wila¯ya indicates, even a skeptical biographer could accept the notion that Ibn H · anbal was among the “allies of God.” For al-Dhahabı¯’s predecessors, however, it was evidently impossible to grant the imam such a status without attributing miraculous manifestations to him. As a result, H · anbalı¯ biographers often found themselves playing a game of one-upmanship with Sufi-minded transmitters, who attributed similar manifestations to their own exemplars. In the story about the four tombs that protect Baghdad from the wrath of God, the other three protectors are named as Mans·u¯r b. Amma¯r, Ma ru¯f al-Karkhı¯, and Bishr b. al-H · a¯rith. All three were renowned ascetics with only minor attainments in H adı ¯ th. Of the three, · Bishr b. al-H a ¯ rith appears most frequently in reports comparing Ibn H · · anbal to one of his ascetic contemporaries. For biographers in the Hanbalı¯ and Sufi · camps, the reports that compare the two men served as a basis upon which to judge competing claims of heirship to the Prophet. As a H · adı¯th-scholar who was also an ascetic, Ibn H anbal – or more exactly, his reputation – was des· tined to play an important role in the resolution of this dispute (see further ch. 5). Within the H · adı¯th-community itself, Ibn H · anbal’s legend served other important purposes. As we have seen, it afforded the H · adı¯th-community a position of strength from which it could forgive the Abbasid caliphate for the Inquisition. Moreover, it helped reinforce the specifically H · anbalı¯ claim to authority as against that of the other schools of legal interpretation. Of the four Sunni schools, the Sha¯fi ı¯ was closest to the H · anbalı¯ in stressing H · adı¯th. The differences between them, at least at first, lay in their respective attitudes towards fiqh. Ibn H · anbal disavowed explicit jurisprudential reasoning, and reportedly declared al-Sha¯fi ı¯’s Risa¯la unworthy of being copied out.198 For his part, al-Sha¯fi ı¯ thought little of the Hadı¯th-men’s inept efforts at systematic · thinking.199 Although he reportedly expressed the highest admiration for Ibn 197

SAN, XI: 211, 353, and 313.

198

T ·H · , I: 31 and 57.

199

Schacht, Origins, 57, 254.

150 Classical Arabic Biography 200 H · anbal personally, his followers were more circumspect. Thus, the entry on Ibn H · anbal by the Sha¯fi ı¯ biographer al- Abba¯dı¯ (d. 458/1066) contains two stories in which al-Sha¯fi ı¯ explains a point of fiqh to Ibn Hanbal.201 The most · celebrated breach between the two schools, at least as far as biography is concerned, occurred in connection with al-Khat·¯ıb’s Ta rı¯kh Baghda¯d. According to Ibn al-Jawzı¯, al-Khat·¯ıb had been a H · anbalı¯, but when his colleagues accused him of sympathy for “innovators,” he joined the Sha¯fi ı¯ school. “He then took up a cudgel against [the H · anbalı¯s] in his books, criticizing them indirectly, or even directly when he could.” In the Ta rı¯kh, he called al-Sha¯fi ı¯ “the imam and the ornament of the jurists,” while Ibn H · anbal was merely “the imam of the H adı ¯ th-scholars.” In one of the entries, he alluded to Ibn · H anbal’s disputational ineptitude. “What are you doing with that tyro?” he · cites one al-Karabı¯sı¯ as saying, referring to Ibn H anbal. “If you say the utter· ance of the Qur a¯n is created, he cries heresy (bid a); but if you say it isn’t, he also cries heresy!” In response to these slights against their imam, not only Ibn al-Jawzı¯ but also al-Suyu¯t·¯ı (d. 911/1505) wrote refutations of al-Khat·¯ıb.202 When more conciliatory biographers attempted to mend the breach, they did so by using stories, apparently apocryphal, of encounters between Ibn H · anbal and al-Sha¯fi ı¯. Ibn Asa¯kir, himself a Sha¯fi ı¯, relates one such tale in his Ta rı¯kh Dimashq. The caliph al-Rashı¯d asked al-Sha¯fi ı¯ to nominate his best student for the judgeship of the Yemen. Al-Sha¯fi ı¯ nominated Ibn H · anbal, who refused, saying: “I came here only to acquire learning from you, but you are ordering me to become involved with them!” meaning the caliphs. AlSha¯fi ı¯, says the narrator, was abashed.203 This story appears to have been constructed to build up Ibn H · anbal at the expense of his older contemporary. More commonly, however, biographers affiliated with the two madhhabs take pains to suggest that their respective exemplars recognized each other’s greatness. According to a report in the Mana¯qib, al-Sha¯fi ı¯ saw the Prophet in a dream and learned from him that Ibn H · anbal would be called upon to say that the Qur a¯n is created, but should refuse to do so. Al-Sha¯fi ı¯, who was living in Egypt, sent a letter to Baghdad to inform Ibn H · anbal of the news. When the messenger delivered the letter and demanded a reward, Ibn H · anbal gave the man his shirt. The messenger returned and showed the shirt to al-Sha¯fi ı¯. “I won’t take it away from you,” said the jurist, “but soak it and give me the water, so I can share the benefit of it with you.”204 This report recapitulates the project of H · anbalı¯ biography, supernatural accretions and all. It establishes that Ibn H anbal’s opinion of the Qur a¯n is the right one, and conveys this · message in an isna¯d from al-Sha¯fi ı¯ back to the Prophet. Supernatural elements notwithstanding, the report also observes certain historical facts. Al200 202

203

201 See., e.g., T Abba¯dı¯, T ·H · , I: 5. · abaqa¯t, 3; also Subkı¯, T · abaqa¯t, II: 61. Ya¯qu¯t, Mu jam, I: 503; TB, V: 178 (no. 2632) and II: 54 (no. 404); Malti-Douglas, “Controversy,” 121–22; Dickinson, “Ah·mad b. al-S·alt,” 413–14. 204 Ibn Asa¯kir, Ta rı¯kh kabı¯r, I: 28–48. ManIH · , 455–56.

The H · adı¯th-scholar Ah·mad Ibn H · anbal 151 Sha¯fi ı¯ indeed lived in Egypt, and Ibn H · anbal in Baghdad. Al-Sha¯fi ı¯ died before the Inquisition, so any awareness of it on his part must come through a dream. The two men were scholars of roughly equal standing, and the report refers to them as “brothers.” Both men are heirs of the Prophet, encharged with defending the faith in their generation. In life, Ibn H · anbal had his doubts about Sha¯fi ı¯ qiya¯s, just as al-Sha¯fi ı¯ criticized the obtuseness of the ahl alh·adı¯th. In this report, however, they have a common interest in safeguarding the Qur a¯n. Since it fell to Ibn H · anbal to defy the Inquisition, al-Sha¯fi ı¯ regards him as an ally of God, and seeks his baraka in the same way the neighbors, disciples, and pilgrims do. Although al-Dhahabı¯ disapproved of stories like this one, it achieves a purpose of which even he would approve: it affirms the bond between two exemplars who, whatever their differences on the acceptability of qiya¯s, agree that Sunnism is the creed of the saved.

Conclusions Before the Inquisition, Ibn H · anbal stood at the center of a group of followers intent on preserving every detail of the sunna. To do so, they cultivated a profound knowledge of H · adı¯th as well as an aversion to the outside world. Their avoidance of “the dubious” entailed an abhorrence for the state and its representatives, whose wealth they presumed to be tainted by misappropriation. The court, as we have seen, regarded the common people as a breeding ground for clamorous ignorance and pigheaded perversity. The nascent H · anbalı¯ community, for its part, appears to have viewed the court as a hotbed of self-indulgence and doctrinal frivolity. As the Prophet’s heirs, however, the representatives of both groups professed to have the interests of their fellow believers at heart. Al-Ma mu¯n claimed that the Inquisition would save the souls of the “anthropomorphists,” or, failing that, purge the community of their noxious influence. Ibn H · anbal, conversely, eschewed rebellion against the state, citing H adı ¯ th to the effect that civil strife was worse than oppression. · Caught between the two sides were sunna-minded court scholars like Yah·ya¯ b. Aktham. During the Inquisition, one such scholar ( Abd al-Rahma¯n b. Isha¯q) · · proved the most solicitous of Ibn H · anbal’s welfare. Yet the legacy of alMa mu¯n, who had resigned himself to cultivating Jahmı¯ theologians as a counterweight to the scholars, continued to divide the Prophet’s heirs until the lifting of the mih·na. As the court theologians proved, Ibn Hanbal lacked the disputational · prowess to refute the createdness-doctrine. He did, however, have the fortitude to insist, despite browbeating, imprisonment, and flogging, that any such doctrine should at least be defensible on the grounds of Qur a¯n and sunna. Even so, the later, more elaborate refutations of Jahmism credited to him should more properly be ascribed to his associates and biographers. At his first interrogation, he asserted only that the Qur a¯n is the speech of God and that God is as He has described Himself. Only after prolonged experience debating with

152 Classical Arabic Biography the theologians did he make the positive declaration that the Qur a¯n is created. As the early H · anbalı¯ texts also show, his students (including his biographers) were capable of adducing proof-texts and arguments to support the imam’s position on everything from the permissibility of dolls to the illegality of rebellion. This process of retrospective assistance culminated in the kala¯marguments found in such texts as the Radd ala¯ al-jahmı¯ya. H · anbal and S·a¯lih· agree that the imam was released without capitulating, and evince little awareness that someone might think otherwise. But the hagiographic accounts, which invoke unruly crowds and evidentiary miracles to explain the release, betray the presence of a counternarrative. This counternarrative, preserved in three reports (two of them Mu tazilı¯), states that the imam capitulated. In H · anbal’s account, the release seems plausible; but his account was rarely cited by later biographers. To supply the lack of a conclusive vindication of the imam and his doctrine, the hagiographers drew on S·a¯lih·’s account and supplemented it with elements taken from fabricated eyewitness reports. These reports claim that a golden hand (or an invisible one) appeared in midair (or from under the ground) in response to the imam’s prayer that his trousers, shredded by the whips, not fall and expose his nakedness. A report of the fifth/eleventh century and afterwards combines this miracle-tale with old reports about the crowd of sympathetic Baghdadis who threatened to storm the palace. Later H · anbalı¯ biographies complete the picture: the miracle, which incidentally proves the rightness of Ibn H · anbal’s position, stirs the crowd and prompts the fearful caliph to free his prisoner. The imam’s defiance of the Inquisition earned him a reputation for “standing where the prophets stand.” This account of the event, attributed to the ascetic Bishr b. al-H · a¯rith, invokes the notion that it is the special task of prophets to rebuke kings. As we have seen, the shroud-wearer who accosted al-Ma mu¯n apparently harbored similar sentiments, based on the H · adı¯th that “the best speech is a truthful word spoken before an unjust ruler.” Viewed as a subject of narration, the tale of Ibn H · anbal’s trial is itself another zealotstory. In its Mu tazilı¯ versions, it ends the way the others do: with a capitulation by the zealot. In its H · anbalı¯ versions, however, it is the zealot who triumphs. If such stories indeed reflect the ways in which popular opposition was imagined, not only by the court but also by the ahl al-sunna, the appeal of the H · anbalı¯ account becomes evident. In effect, it invokes Moses’ defiance of Pharaoh rather than Sahl b. Sala¯ma’s capitulation to al-Ma mu¯n. The latter incident, as we have seen, inspired stories that show off the caliph’s disputational acumen. In light of the Qur a¯nic precedent, however, such stories are dubious: the prophet (or his heir the walı¯) should triumph, not the ruler. By virtue of Ibn Hanbal’s defiance, by virtue of his biographers’ skill, or most · likely by both, the H · anbalı¯ tradition succeeded in retelling the story in a more satisfactory way. The only catch was that al-Ma mu¯n and al-Mu tas·im were not Pharaohs: they too were heirs of the Prophet, and Ibn Hanbal insisted on the necessity ·

The Hadı¯th-scholar Ahmad Ibn Hanbal 153 · · · of submitting to their authority. This accommodationism, particularly convenient after the Abbasid adoption of Sunnism, is reflected in the H · anbalı¯ treatment of the caliphs. Only one biographical report vilifies al-Mu tasim; the · rest depict him as reluctant to harm Ibn H · anbal. Carrying this process a step further, the Mamluk-period biographers use their entries on Ibn H · anbal to place the Inquisition within a broader historical context. They argue that the caliphs, with the possible exception of al-Ma mu¯n, were not evil; rather, they were misled by heretical scholars. To stave off periodic irruptions of heresy, God has dispatched a series of pious exemplars, of whom Ibn H · anbal was one, to keep the community on the right path. The imam’s high station derives from his defense of the sunna, not his performance of miracles. Later Sunni biographers, particularly al-Dhahabı¯, thus fulminate against the attribution of miracles to the imam, attacking the reports on grounds of plausibility as well as of faulty transmission. Even without the miracles, Ibn H · anbal’s defiance of the Inquisition was sufficient to earn him the title of walı¯ Alla¯h or “ally of God.” Doctrinally, the title could refer simply to his service to the faith. As the later tradition makes clear, however, his contemporaries and followers understood it more broadly to mean that he was a source of baraka. In the sixth/eleventh century, Abu¯ Nu aym al-Is·faha¯nı¯ included him among the “allies of God,” a category that embraces Companions, H · adı¯th-scholars, and renunciant mystics. He also labeled him a Sufi, much to the indignation of Ibn al-Jawzı¯, who declared the label an anachronism. Ibn al-Jawzı¯ also castigated his predecessor for encouraging naive popular piety with baseless legends. Yet Ibn al-Jawzı¯ himself gives us a vivid portrait of Ibn H · anbal as the object of cultic veneration, complete with relics, dreams, and a tomb-shrine. Evidently, the Sufi and H · anbalı¯ traditions admitted a significant degree of cross-fertilization. However, this accommodation, like the reconciliation with the caliphate, had its limits: H · anbalı¯ biographers are careful to cite the renunciant Bishr b. al-H a ¯ rith as declaring · that, in defying the Inquisition, “Ibn H · anbal has stood where the prophets stand,” a feat of bravery he could not match, and a concession of the imam’s heirship to Muh·ammad. Curiously enough, Ibn H · anbal just as frequently expresses his deference to the authority of his ascetic contemporary. The next chapter, which takes up Bishr and his fate in the Sufi tradition, will examine this relationship more closely.

C HA PTER 5

The renunciant Bishr al-H · a¯fı¯

I cannot recall ever staying up all night, nor fasting for a day without eating in the evening. But God Almighty in His grace and generosity has people give a believer more credit than he deserves. 1 Bishr b. al-H · a¯rith al-H · a¯fı¯, apud al-Qushayrı¯

Introduction Among the virtues ascribed to the Prophet and the early Muslim community was ascetic renunciation. According to a H · adı¯th cited in Ibn H · anbal’s Kita¯b al-zuhd, a believer is entitled to nothing more than shade from the sun, a crust of bread, and a garment to cover his nakedness.2 According to another H · adı¯th, a man once interrupted the Friday prayer to complain to the Prophet about eating only dates and wearing only rough cotton. “There will come a day,” Muh·ammad replied, “when you will wear garments like the drapery of the Ka ba, with platters of food appearing before you day and night.” However, he continued, “you are better oﬀ now than you will be then, because on that day you will be at each other’s throats.”3 When the Prophet died, he reportedly left no property in cash or slaves, only his armor, which he had pawned for thirty measures of grain.4 The renunciation ascribed to the Prophet and his Companions suggested a preoccupation with the next world rather than the present one, and a conviction that luxury and those who enjoyed it were an abomination in the sight of God.5 For the ahl al-sunna, renunciation of the world went hand in hand with scrupulosity (wara ). By living in austerity, one avoided possible sources of ritual pollution.6 For some proto-Sunnis, renunciation also signalled a manner of devotion to the sunna distinct from, and indeed preferable to, the study of H · adı¯th. Among the most famous representatives of this position was Abu¯ Nas·r Bishr 7 Bishr was b. al-H · a¯rith (c. 152/767–227/842), called al-H · a¯fı¯, “the barefoot.” born in a village near Marv in Khurasan, where he may have been a member 11 15 16 17

12 13 14 Qushayrı¯, Risa¯la, 18. Ibn H Ibid., I: 60. Ibid., I: 35. · anbal, Zuhd, 45. Goldziher, Introduction, 116ﬀ.; Massignon, Essai, 116ﬀ. Kinberg, “What is meant by zuhd.” Massignon, Essai, 44, 114, 130, 208; Meier, “Bishr,” in EI2; ThG, 3: 104–6; Jarrar, “Bisˇr.”

154

The renunciant Bishr al-H · a¯fı¯ 155 of a paramilitary youth gang. He came to Baghdad and studied H · adı¯th. Eventually, however, he renounced study and transmission, devoting himself instead to pious renunciation. He reportedly lived with one or more of his sisters, and never married. He let his hair grow, cultivated a long moustache, and wore rags or patched clothing; van Ess describes him as “the first dervish to appear in Baghdad.”8 His fame reportedly reached the caliph al-Ma mu¯n, who surprisingly remarked: “There is no one left in this town before whom one 9 So many people need be abashed except for that elder, Bishr b. al-H · a¯rith.” flocked to his funeral procession that it took a full day to move his body from his house to his grave.10 His opinions, as far as they can be reconstructed, place him in the company of such figures as al-Fud·ayl b. Iya¯d· (d. 187/803), whom he knew.11 Al-Fud·ayl, like Bishr, criticized venal H · adı¯th-scholars, condemned innovation, kept aloof from the state, and shunned fame.12 Both asserted that H · adı¯th-study, being a mechanical process anyone can master, offers no evidence for a believer’s sincerity and no guarantee of salvation. One might expect Bishr’s attitude to alienate the ahl al-sunna, particularly the H · anbalı¯s, and there is some evidence that it did. However, the bulk of the evidence suggests that H · anbalı¯ H · adı¯th-scholars strove to accommodate rather than reject the renunciant ascetics. According to biographers in both camps, Bishr’s relationship with Ibn H · anbal was good. In the imam’s Kita¯b al-zuhd, Bishr appears as a transmitter of H · adı¯th, like the one on the believer’s entitlements cited above.13 In the Kita¯b al-wara , he serves as an exemplar in his own right: when al-Marru¯dhı¯ has a question about proper practice, Ibn H · anbal will ask what Bishr says about it.14 By the imam’s own admission, the two men never met.15 Even so, they had evidently managed to communicate via third parties, among them Abu¯ Bakr al-Marru¯dhı¯ and Bishr’s sister Mukhkha. As Maher Jarrar has shown, several prominent transmitters of Bishr’s akhba¯r were H · adı¯th-scholars with close ties to Ibn H · anbal. These include Abd Alla¯h, the imam’s son, who transmitted in turn to the Hanbalı¯ authority Abu¯ Bakr · al-Qat·¯ı ı¯ (d. 368/978); Ibra¯hı¯m b. Alı¯ al-Nı¯sabu¯rı¯ (d. 265/878), in whose house the imam reportedly hid during the mih·na; Ibra¯hı¯m b. Ish·a¯q al-H · arbı¯ (d. 285/898); and three others identified as H anbalı ¯ s. This leaves over thirty trans· mitters of unknown association, but nevertheless indicates a significant overlap of H · anbalı¯ and ascetic affiliations, extending to the transmission of biographical akhba¯r, in the third/ninth century and afterward.16 18 10 11

14 16

19 TB VII: 74 (no. 3517); ThG, III: 105. Sulamı¯, T · abaqa¯t, 40; TB VII: 75 (no. 3517). TB VII: 82 (no. 3517). Sulamı¯, T · abaqa¯t, 40; see also 12. The term for their association is s·ah·iba, which Mojaddedi elegantly glosses as “to have associated with, and thus obtained authority from” (“Reworking 12 Chabbi, “Fud·ayl.” Time Past”, 22). E.g., Ibn H anbal, Zuhd, I: 43 (twice), 45 (twice). The isna¯ds pass from Bishr through Baya¯n b. · al-H · akam and Muh·ammad b. H · a¯tim before 15reaching Abd Alla¯h b. H · anbal, the imam’s son. See, e.g., Ibn H Ibn H · anbal, Wara , 31, 84–85. · anbal, Wara , 70. Jarrar, “Bisˇr,” 192–95. See also TB, XIII: 203 (no. 7177), in which a report about Ma ru¯f alKarkhı¯ is narrated before an audience consisting of jama¯ a min ahl al-hadı¯th wa-jama¯ a min al· zuhha¯d.

156 Classical Arabic Biography The delicate balance eventually achieved, in the pages of biography at least, between the H · adı¯th-minded Sunnis and their ascetic colleagues, must be reckoned an achievement of the tradition. However, it is all the harder to discern in retrospect because of another biographical achievement, that of the Sufis. Sufism, one of the branches of Islamic mysticism, began to emerge, in conjunction with asceticism, during Bishr’s lifetime. Mysticism is a mode of cognition that treats the objects of belief as objects of experience: what the Sufis called tah·qı¯q or “realization.” The result was not ilm but rather ma rifa: that is, “not new knowledge of any facts or doctrines, but rather the perception of an overall meaning in the world.”17 In theory, mysticism need have nothing to do with asceticism. In practice, however, many religious traditions regard asceticism either as a purgative stage that prepares the way for mystical cognition, or as an appropriate response to a mystical conversion experience.18 In the particular case of Sufism, asceticism appears to have laid the groundwork for mysticism in part by rejecting H · adı¯th. As self-declared heirs of the Prophet, the Sufis sought more than conformance to his sunna: they aspired to his direct and loving relationship with God. Because of his critical attitude towards H · adı¯th, Bishr thus seemed to his Sufi biographers to have been among the founding members of their ·ta¯ ifa. In a recent study of the Baghdad school, Christopher Melchert has dated the emergence of mysticism proper to the middle of the third/ninth century. Thereafter, the ascetical and mystical traditions continued to coexist, albeit with a good deal of friction between their respective exemplars.19 Bishr’s biographies indeed contain hints that he clashed with younger contemporaries who were mystics. He appears to have had little to do with the influential lineage that began with the renunciants Ma ru¯f al-Karkhı¯ (d. 200/815–16) and al-Sarı¯ al-Saqat¯ı (d. 251/865) and continued with the mystics al-Kharra¯z (d. · 270/890–91?), al-Nu¯rı¯ (d. 295/907–908), and al-Junayd (d. 298/911?).20 Bishr also seems to have kept apart from his fellow ascetics, many of whom displayed a conspicuous devotion to the holy war (jiha¯d): al-Saqat·¯ı, for example, fought on the Byzantine front, and Shaqı¯q al-Balkhı¯ (d. 184/810) died in battle against the Turks.21 But Bishr did not join them, instead urging his contemporaries to “fear God and remain at home.”22 For Sufi biographers, these and similar pronouncements could easily serve as proof-texts for a mystical rather than an ascetic orientation. As a result, Bishr and a number of his ascetic contemporaries were drafted into the ranks of the Sufis. Indeed, they were granted the role of founders, a role better 17 19 20

18 Weber, Sociology of Religion, 169–70. Underhill, Mysticism. Melchert, “Transition.” ¯ mir, “Al-Sarı¯,” which describes al-Saqat¯ı as marking the transition On this lineage see Bin A · from asceticism to mysticism (214). Melchert characterizes Bishr as an ascetic, and identified most of the later figures as decidedly mystical in outlook (“Transition,” 55ff.). I use the term “renunciant” in cases where it is unnecessary or impossible to identify a figure as decidedly ascetical or mystical, or wherever it is necessary to refer to the two groups together. 22 H Sarra¯j, Luma , 207 · A, X: 116–17; VIII:64.

The renunciant Bishr al-Ha¯fı¯ 157 · ascribed to the mystics Dhu¯ al-Nu¯n and al-Junayd. Bishr’s new status as a Suﬁ was marked by the introduction of certain topoi, including a conversion-story, that occur with suspicious regularity in the vitae of the founders. As the centuries passed, his biography expanded to include miracles and mystical insights without precedent in the earliest accounts of his life. Yet for all their exuberance in building a myth for Bishr, the Suﬁ biographers preserved (perhaps inadvertently, in some cases) the memory of his advocacy of a Sunnism distinct from that of Ibn H · anbal.

Early images of Bishr The earliest extant account of Bishr, from the T · abaqa¯t of Ibn Sa d (d. 230/845), conveys the tension between H adı ¯ th-study and asceticism that · marked his career. The entry reads: Bishr b. al-H · a¯rith, God rest his soul. He had the kunya Abu¯ Nas·r. He was of the abna¯ of Khurasan, from Marv. He came to live in Baghdad, sought out H · adı¯th, and heard a great deal [of H adı ¯ th] from H amma ¯ d b. Zayd, Sharı ¯ k, Abd Alla ¯ h b. al-Muba¯rak, · · Hushaym, and others. Then he devoted himself to the worship of God, and withdrew from people, transmitting no H · adı¯th. He died in Baghdad on Wednesday, the eleventh of Rabı¯ I, 227. He was seen [in state] by a great number of Baghda¯dı¯s and others. He 23 was buried at the H · arb Gate, aged seventy-six years.

This entry contains practically all the reliable facts we have on Bishr’s life. The later sources have only a little to add regarding his origins and career. From Ibn Sa d’s term abna¯ , we may infer that Bishr, like Ibn H · anbal, was a descendant of Khurasanis who had fought for the Abbasids during the revolution. Al-Sulamı¯ adds that Bishr was “descended from chiefs.”24 The genealogy given in al-Khat·¯ıb’s Ta rı¯kh Baghdad suggests that the family was among the early Iranian converts to Islam.25 Bishr’s family may thus have been a prominent one, but unlike Ibn H · anbal’s has left no further trace in the extant sources. In any event, Bishr’s Marwazi and abna¯ origins place him among those Baghdadis associated with proto-Sunnism and deﬁance of the mih·na. He appears to have begun his study of H · adı¯th in Marv and continued it in Baghdad. This is to be inferred from the fact that not all his teachers (as listed here and elsewhere) have entries in al-Khat·¯ıb’s Ta rı¯kh. Of these teachers, the one likeliest to have inﬂuenced him is Abd Alla¯h b. al-Muba¯rak (d. 181/797), author of some of the earliest extant works on asceticism. He taught that study without application of the sunna was useless, a conviction later authors were to attribute to ascetics in general and Bishr in particular.26 It is easy to imagine that Ibn al-Muba¯rak’s views prompted Bishr to abandon H · adı¯thstudy altogether, though none of the extant sources say so. Finally, Bishr’s activities after his withdrawal from H · adı¯th-circles earned him a reputation for 23 25 26

24 Ibn Sa d, T Min awla¯d al-ru asa¯ ; cited in SAN, X: 474. · abaqa¯t, VII: 342. TB, VII: 71 (no. 3517); ThG, III: 105. H · A, VIII: 162–90; Khoury, “Importance,” 84–94; and ThG, III: 106.

158 Classical Arabic Biography piety sufficient to attract large numbers of mourners to his funeral. The H · arb Gate cemetery was to became a famous burial place for revered scholars, including Ibn Hanbal, but it is not clear whether the site already had that rep· utation when Bishr was buried there.27 Bishr’s truncated H · adı¯th-career and his reputation for piety are reflected in the rija¯l-tradition. Ibn Qutayba (d. 276/889) lists him among the H · adı¯thscholars but notes that after a certain point he “kept away from people, transmitting no H · adı¯th until his death.” He also refers to him, for the first time in the extant tradition, as “the barefoot.”28 Ibn Abı¯ H · a¯tim al-Ra¯zı¯ (d. 327/938–39) declares Bishr to have been a reliable transmitter, and names his teachers and students.29 With Ibn H · ibba¯n al-Bustı¯ (d. 354/965), we learn more about his fame outside H adı ¯ th-circles. After declaring him reliable, Ibn · H ibba ¯ n adds that “his proclivities to asceticism, and covert renunciation and · scrupulosity, are too well known to warrant plunging into a description of them here.” The only detail he supplies is that Bishr “followed [Sufya¯n] alThawrı¯ in fiqh and wara .”30 The meaning of this comparison emerges from Ibn H describes as a · ibba¯n’s entry on al-Thawrı¯ (d. 161/778), whom he 31 famously pious H adı ¯ th-scholar whose tomb he had visited. · For his early biographers, then, Bishr was a H · adı¯th-scholar distinguished for his asceticism and scrupulosity. They approve of his reputation, although they evidently deemed it beneath their dignity to recount reports of it. None bothers to explain, for example, how the nickname “barefoot” came to be applied to him. Moreover, they give no explanation for his abandonment of H · adı¯th-study. One biographer does not even mention it, and another keeps him in the H · adı¯th-fold by comparing him to Sufya¯n al-Thawrı¯, who despite his piety did not abandon H · adı¯th-transmission. The rija¯l-biographers thus appear torn between the impulse to let Bishr’s fame redound to the glory of their ·ta¯ ifa, and the duty of pointing out that it was only after he abandoned H · adı¯th-study that he gained a reputation for piety.

The emergence of Sufism Even as Bishr was making his way through the rija¯l-tradition, the Sufi biographers had begun to claim him for their own. In doing so, they preserved the tales that Ibn H · ibba¯n thought too well known to repeat. Ironically, it is these very tales that permit us to conclude that Bishr was not a Sufi at all.32 Before looking at these reports, however, it will be necessary to survey how the Sufi tradition attained sufficient momentum to carry Bishr along with it. 27 29 30

31 32

28 Alı¯, Baghda¯d, I: 142–45. Ibn Qutayba, Ma a¯rif, 525. Ra¯zı¯, Jarh·, I: 1: 356. Bustı¯, Thiqa¯t, VIII: 143. Fiqh in this context doubtless refers to pious insight into the meaning of the Qur a¯n, not “jurisprudence” in the later, technical sense (van Ess, Gedankenwelt, 79). Bustı¯, Masha¯hı¯r, 169–70; see further Lecomte, “Sufya¯n.” I am indebted to Melchert, “Transition,” for demonstrating the validity of such an approach.

The renunciant Bishr al-H · a¯fı¯ 159 In Bishr’s day, a s·u¯fı¯ meant an ascetic who wore a coarse, undyed woolen cloak. Massignon has found some ten figures before c. 300 to whom the term was applied, the earliest being the Ku¯fan ascetic Abu¯ Ha¯shim (d. 150/767–68).33 To signal an ascetic vocation, one could also wear a muraqqa or “patched cloak.”34 Such practices were controversial: woolen cloaks, while reminiscent of the coarse garments of the first Muslims, also resembled the attire of Christian ascetics. Moreover, they could give the wearer an unearned reputation for piety.35 Unfazed by these suspicions, the Baghdad ascetics who were specifically mystical in orientation began to apply the term “Sufi” to themselves. Once adopted, it came to designate the ·ta¯ ifa of mystics. As Jaqueline Chabbi has shown, however, the Sufis were not the only early mystics in Islam. The common belief that they were is due to the efforts of their theorists and biographers: confronted with representatives of other mystical traditions, they assimilated those whose opinions they could accept and excluded the rest.36 Unlike the ascetics, the Sufis taught contemplation and dissolution of the self in a loving God, and emphasized the “states” and “stations” through which the believer passes in his relationship with Him.37 The novelty of these teachings is evident from the profusion of contrastive self-descriptions ascribed to renunciants in both camps. Abu¯ Yazı¯d al-Bast·a¯mı¯ (d. 261/875), for example, declared that a mystic ( a¯rif) is preoccupied with hope, while an ascetic (za¯hid) is preoccupied with diet. Some believers, he added, are unworthy of mystical knowledge (ma rifa), and so God has preoccupied them with worship ( iba¯da).38 The ascetics responded in kind: al-Fudayl, for example, · declared that “whoever sits with an innovator receives no wisdom,” and alSaqat·¯ı condemned those who thought that esoteric knowledge could override the common duties of religion.39 Melchert has argued persuasively that the conflict between the ascetics and the mystics came to a head in 264/877, when the ascetic preacher Ghula¯m Khalı¯l (d. 275/888) asked the Baghdad authorities to arrest the mystics. God, said Ghula¯m Khalı¯l, should be feared, not loved. The most effective response to this threat of persecution was that of the Baghdad Sufi al-Junayd. First, he couched his mystical teachings in such obscure language that his detractors (not to mention some of his fellow mystics) could hardly understand them, 33

34 35 36 37

Massignon, Essai, 131–33. A group of vigilantes who rebelled in Alexandria 200/815–16 also bore the name (Melchert, “Transition,” 58, n. 43). Massignon, Essai, 53, 198; also 230, on the unsewn sheepskin cloaks of the Karra¯mı¯ya. Ibid., 131–32; van Ess, Gedankenwelt, 43–44. Chabbi, “Remarques,” and “Reﬂexions.” Note however that the states and stations did not always have a mystical meaning; see Melchert, “Transition,” 62. Sulamı¯, T · abaqa¯t, 74 and 71; Mojaddedi, “Reworking Time Past”, 47–53. For all his emphasis on mysticism, al-Bast·a¯mı¯ was no less an ascetic: he declared that he had attained gnosis by virtue of “an empty belly and an unclothed frame” (Sulamı¯, T · abaqa¯t, 74). Sulamı¯, T · abaqa¯t, 10 and 52. Later it was often the mystics themselves who made such statements, doubtless to protect themselves (Melchert, “Transition,” 64–65).

160 Classical Arabic Biography much less object to them. Second, he “put a new stress on outwardly acceptable behavior and self-description.” Finally, he proposed a tripartite division of devout believers that included a place for the Sufis. The three divisions, as Melchert has shown, correspond to “the ordinary devout,” “the earlier ascetics,” and “the speculative mystics.”40 Al-Junayd’s achievements proved of lasting importance to the development not only of Sufism but of Sufi biography and perhaps of early Arabic biography in general. His notion of a division of labor recurs in the writings of later Sufis, where it amounts to a bid for equal standing for the ·ta¯ ifa. In response, representatives of other ·ta¯ ifas made counter-assertions of their own heirship to the Prophet. Such a scenario, at any rate, explains the appearance of elaborate etiological narratives in biographical compilations of the fourth/tenth century and afterward. It also explains why third/ninth century rija¯l-biographies contain no defense of the 41 H · adı¯th-mission: that mission had yet to be challenged by the mystics. Within the Sufi tradition, the claim to heirship was inevitably asserted in the context of a proposed division of labor among the Prophet’s heirs. According to al-Sarraj (d. 378/988–89), the most prolific of the fourth/tenth-century Sufi theorists, there are three kinds of knowledge and three groups (as·na¯f) of “knowers.” First come the H · adı¯th-scholars, who preserve the sunna. Next come the jurisprudents, who interpret it. Then come the Sufis, who are the heirs of the Prophets and the “knowers” mentioned frequently in the Qur a¯n (e.g., 3: 18: “those who have knowledge witness that there is no God but He”). The Sufis accept all that the H · adı¯th-scholars and jurists have decided. Unlike them, however, they seek to ascend to lofty states of worship and devotion, a privilege (takhs·¯ıs·) not granted to the other ulama¯ . As ascetics, the Sufis prefer hunger and poverty over satiety and wealth. They evince humility and kindness to all. They dedicate themselves to the worship of God at the expense of all personal comforts and desires. Finally, they practice meditation leading to the diminishment of the soul or self and the attainment of the object of desire, i.e., God.42 Al-Sarra¯j’s contemporary al-Kala¯ba¯dhı¯ (d. 380/990 or 385/995) makes even more ambitious claims for the Sufis. God, he says, has blessed certain believers, apparently from the beginning of time. After these believers master the knowledge that study can impart, they inherit an ancestral knowledge that permits them to learn “on the authority of God” ( an Alla¯h). Such an elect has always existed, passing on its knowledge from generation to generation, and serving as a guide for the community. Al-Kala¯ba¯dhı¯’s description of them, while compatible with al-Sarra¯j’s, is much more exuberant, and stresses their direct descent from Muh·ammad: They have understood through God, and made their way toward Him, shunning all else. Their lights have pierced the veils, and their glances flicker about the Throne. They 40 42

41 Melchert, “Transition,” 68–70. See above, p. 14. Sarra¯j, Luma , 2–12; see also Mackeen, “S·uﬁ-Qawm Movement.”

The renunciant Bishr al-Ha¯fı¯ 161 · are spiritual bodies, heavenlike on earth, lordly among creatures: watching in silence, present and absent, kings in rags! They are strangers of every tribe, possessors of virtues, and guiding lights. Their ears are open and their hearts are pure. Their attributes are hidden, as beﬁts an elite of Suﬁs lambescent in their purity. They are the treasures God has deposited in His creation, and His elect among His creatures. God commended them to His Prophet, and entrusted them with his secrets. They occupied the Prophet’s bench during his lifetime, and became the best of his community after his death. And so they continued, with each calling to his fellow, the ones before summoning the ones to follow, each using the voice of a conduct that removed the need for words.43

A third Sufi theorist, the anonymous author of the Adab al-mulu¯k, is certain that Sufis are better exemplars than the representatives of other ·ta¯ ifas. In the past, he says, scholars were s·iddı¯qu¯n: that is, sober, ascetic, and mindful of the afterlife.44 Today, however, ulama¯ of every type (jurists, H · adı¯th-scholars, Qur a¯n-readers, exegetes, and philologists) “fall short of putting their knowledge into practice, being content instead to study.” Almost all of them pursue worldly gain, clamor after fame, disdain the poor, swagger pompously about, consume impermissible foods, and quibble over trivialities. As a result, “the very knowledge they possess bears witness against them.” After thorough study of the matter, he has reached the conclusion that no ·ta¯ ifa “is more committed to the sunna inwardly and outwardly, secretly and openly, contractually, intentionally, and practically, than that group known by the name of Sufis.”45 Of the fourth/tenth century theorists, al-Sarra¯j has the most to report about Bishr. Although the statements he ascribes to him contain little of a specifically mystical nature, they evidently fit in well enough with al-Sarra¯j’s notions of Sufism. He cites Bishr as enjoining others to “fear God in solitude,” not love Him.46 Other reports emphasize his scrupulosity, the characteristic virtue of the proto-Sunni ascetics. We are told, for example, that he was physically unable to extend his hand toward ritually suspect food.47 He is even described as admonishing a group of visitors who were showing off their patched garments. When one of them, a young man, retorted that they wore patches only to spread God’s religion, Bishr relented and declared them worthy of the muraqqa .48 These reports stress asceticism rather than mysticism. Others, however, could easily be construed as foreshadowing the doctrines of Sufism. In one report, Bishr recommends not only solitude but renunciation of any sort of social obligation. “Were I forced to see to a livelihood and attend to the needs [of a family], I might well become [something as unlikely as] a policeman.”49 In another, he seems to anticipate the tawakkul (absolute dependence) 43 44 45 48

Kala¯ba¯dhı¯, Ta arruf, 26–27. On s·iddı¯q as a term for the “proto-Suﬁs” see also Homerin, “Ibn Taymı¯ya’s Al-s·u¯fı¯ya,” 221. 46 47 Radtke, ed. Adab, 1–6. Sarra¯j, Luma , 207. Ibid., 45. Ibid., 187–88. In the biographies of ascetics, the mystics are often represented by argumenta¯ mir, “Al-Sarı¯,” 198; Mojaddedi, “Reworking Time Past”, 70. tive young men. See further Bin A Ibid., 200.

162 Classical Arabic Biography of the Sufis. He once made spindles for a living, but abandoned this trade when asked what he would do if he became blind and deaf.50 Finally, we have his critical attitude toward the H · adı¯th-scholars. He is quoted as enjoining them to pay the alms-tax on Hadı¯th, i.e., to put into practice five reports for · every two hundred they learn.51 Pronouncements like these were evidently susceptible to being adduced in support of Sufi positions. Thus al-Sarra¯j’s contemporary al-Kala¯ba¯dhı¯ includes Bishr (unfortunately without explanation) in a list of masters who taught Sufism and described the states and stations of the mystics.52

Bishr in early Sufi biography The Luma , the Ta arruf, and the Adab al-mulu¯k exemplify the efforts of the Sufi ·ta¯ ifa to carve out a niche for itself within the framework of Sunnism. The only component of ·ta¯ ifa-identity still needed was a systematic biographical compilation to name and describe the Sufi exemplars, including Bishr. This task was carried out by an author of the next generation, Abu¯ Abd alRah·man al-Sulamı¯ (d. 412/1021).53 Like al-Kala¯ba¯dhı¯, al-Sulamı¯ held that in every generation there are men who take up the Prophet’s task of calling their fellows to God. During the first generations of Islam, these “allies of God” were to be found among the ascetics (the subject of his lost Kita¯b al-zuhd). Then there appeared “the masters of the [mystical] states who spoke in the language of unity, experienced the oneness of God, and applied the method of 54 detachment.” These “later awliya¯ ” are the Sufis, the subject of his T · abaqa¯t. As his introduction shows, al-Sulamı¯ was clearly aware of the distinction between asceticism and mysticism. However, his historical scheme does not allow for the co-existence of ascetics and mystics in a single generation. Confronted with precisely that state of affairs, he chose to include certain ascetics among the “Sufis.” This is evident from the composition of the first generation, which begins with Ibrahı¯m b. Adham (d. 163/779–80) and ends with H · amdu¯n al-Qas·s·a¯r (d. 271/884–85). Some of the figures included are clearly mystics, such as Dhu¯ al-Nu¯n al-Mis·rı¯ (d. 245/860 or 246/861).55 One subject, al-Muh·a¯sibı¯, does not refer to himself as a Sufi in any of his extant works.56 Many, finally, are “pronouncedly ascetical.” These include al-Fud·ayl, 57 The word “Sufism” itself (tasawwuf) Ma ru¯f al-Karkhı¯, and Bishr al-H · · a¯fı¯. appears first only in the entry on Abu¯ H afs · 58 · al-Nı¯sabu¯rı¯ (d. c. 270/883–84), the fifteenth member of the first generation. As Jawid Mojaddedi has suggested, al-Sulamı¯ appears to have cast his net especially wide in the first generation in 50 51 53 54 55

Ibid, 194–95. The implication is that he would be just as dependent on God either way. 52 Ibid., 161. Kala¯ba¯dhı¯, Ta arruf, 36. On earlier works (now lost), see Sharı¯ba’s introduction to Sulamı¯, Tabaqa¯t, 50–51. Sulamı¯, T · abaqa¯t, 1–3; 518. Melchert calls him “the earliest to seem clearly from his own sayings more mystical than ascet56 57 Van Ess, Gedankenwelt, 6. Melchert, “Transition,” 54ﬀ. ical” (“Transition,” 57). Sulamı¯, T abaqa ¯ t, 119. ·

The renunciant Bishr al-H · a¯fı¯ 163 order to bridge the gap between the last zuhha¯d, whom he associated with the generations after the Prophet, and the first Sufis.59 To manage such a diverse group of subjects, al-Sulami imposed a rigid format on his entries. Nearly every entry contains a few biographical facts followed by twenty h·ika¯ya¯t, that is, “speeches, attributes, and reports of conduct,” the first of which is almost always a Prophetic H · adı¯th recited on the adı ¯ th seems intended to situate Sufism in subject’s authority.60 Although the H · a firmly Sunni context, the other h·ika¯ya¯t often subvert this aim. For one thing, they resemble H · adı¯th in their structure and their presumption of apodictic authority. For another, they often contain criticism of the ulama¯ . Al-Fud·ayl, for example, warns aspirants to stay away from Qur a¯n-readers because “when they like you, they praise you groundlessly, and when they don’t like you, they denounce you and people believe them.”61 Ibn Abı¯ al-Hawa¯rı¯ adds that they · fail to understand the Qur a¯n they recite: I read the Qur a¯n, and I look at a verse, and my mind is overwhelmed by it. The Qur a¯nmemorizers astound me! They recite the speech of God [all the time] – how can they sleep at night, or occupy themselves with anything of this world? If only they understood what they were reciting, and grasped it truly, and delighted in it, and thrilled to the sound of it in their own ears, they would so rejoice in the gift and the guidance they had been given that they would never sleep.62

The H · adı¯th-scholars, similarly, are often unworthy of the learning they possess. Dhu¯ al-Nu¯n berates them for “using their learning to make money,” and al-Saqat·¯ı regards their enterprise as propaedeutic at best: “If you begin as an abstinent and then move to the writing down of H · adı¯th, you lapse; but if you start with writing H adı ¯ th and then take up abstinence, you make it all the · way.”63 This is because the pursuit of knowledge should take place without intermediaries. “I came to know God through God,” says al-Bast·a¯mı¯, “and learned everything else by the light of God.”64 Given Bishr’s abandonment of Hadı¯th-scholarship, one would expect to · hear him adding his voice to this chorus. Surprisingly, however, one does not. The h·ika¯ya¯t in his entry contain maxims of good conduct, either by direct command (“Work on reducing aﬀectation, not on creating it”) or in the form of generalities (“You will never taste the sweetness of devotion until you build a wall of steel between yourself and your desires”); expressions of the speaker’s preferences or emotional states, with ethical implications (“I’ve been craving roast meat for forty years, but I’ve never had even a dirham to buy any”); enumerations of people blessed or cursed (“There are four whom God elevated because of the propriety of their diet,” followed by a list); and a cryptic prediction of the future (“There will come upon the people a time when the eye of the wise man will know no rest; there will come upon them a time when the stupid rise above the intelligent”).65 59 60

Mojaddedi, “Reworking Time Past”, 22. Sulamı¯, T ¯ t, 3. For a more detailed analysis, see Mojaddedi, “Reworking Time Past”, · abaqa 61 62 63 64 Sulamı¯, T Ibid., 102. Ibid., 55. Ibid., 72. 16–53. · abaqa¯t, 11. Ibid., 41–47.

164 Classical Arabic Biography Far from denouncing H · adı¯th, Bishr appears to have recited and sought it out, even among his fellow ascetics. According to other entries in the T · abaqa¯t, he related a Hadı¯th on eating garlic to Muhammad b. Abı¯ al-Ward, and · · requested two Hadı¯th-reports from I¯sa¯ b. Yu¯nus.66 Finally and most strik· ingly, he is depicted as engaging in an argument with a Sufi. An eyewitness reports: I was at Bishr’s, and he was speaking of contentment and reconciliation. Suddenly a Sufi (rajul min al-mutas·awwifa) spoke up: “Abu¯ Nas·r! You refrain from accepting charity from people to make them esteem you more. If you want to know what renunciation and contempt for the world really are, accept people’s charity and let yourself be humbled before them; then give away what they give you to the poor, and trust in God, and take your food from Beyond.” This stirred up Bishr’s associates. Bishr then replied: “You there, listen to my answer. There are three kinds of poor men. The first kind do not ask, and do not accept anything given to them. These are the spirituals; if they ask God for anything, He gives it to them; and if they swear an oath by God, He fulfills it for them. “The second kind do not ask, but accept what is given. They are the middlers; they live by trust in God and dependence on Him. It is for them that laden tables will be set in the Enclosure of Holiness. “The third type adopt forbearance and hold out as long as they can. When their need becomes too great, they go out to people, but their hearts are with God as they beg, and their sincerity makes up for their begging.” The man said, “I understand. God bless you!”67

Not even Bishr, it seems, could escape reproach by nameless zealots. This zealot is identified as a Sufi, implying that Bishr and his disciples belonged to some other group.68 As al-Junayd was later to do, Bishr divides the renunciants into three categories. However, none of his categories invoke mysticism as a criterion. The most sublime of the three is the ru¯h·a¯nı¯, who appears identical to the walı¯: that is, one whose prayers are answered. It is to this category that Bishr himself must belong, since (as his Sufi challenger points out) he has never been seen to beg. Having understood the implication, the Sufi acknowledges Bishr’s high station, even though there is nothing explicitly mystical about it.

Bishr in the later biographical tradition By placing him among the first generation of Sufis, al-Sulamı¯ ratified for posterity Bishr’s membership in the ·ta¯ ifa. Yet the entry itself tells us little more 66

Ibid., 249, 252–53. The texts deal with eating garlic, the assessment of s·adaqa, and “women’s jiha¯d” (i.e., the pilgrimage) respectively. None displays any conspicuous ascetic or mystical sig67 niﬁcance. Ibid., 47. Of al-Sulamı¯’s subjects, four are described as associates of Bishr: Abu¯ Sa ı¯d al-Kharra¯z (T · abaqa¯t, 227); Muh·ammad and Ah·mad, the sons of Abı¯ al-Ward (ibid., 249); and Abu¯ H · amza al-Bazza¯z (ibid., 295). One man called a Suﬁ, namely Abu¯ H · amza Muh·ammad b. Ibra¯hı¯m, is described as having “sat with” Bishr (T ·H · , I: 268; see further below, pp. 179–80).

The renunciant Bishr al-Ha¯fı¯ 165 · about him than do the scattered citations compiled by al-Sarra¯j. In both works, all Bishr does is speak. Only in the later biographical tradition do we glimpse him through the eyes of those who watched him act. The first extant work to preserve reports of his life among ordinary men and women is the of al-Sulamı¯’s student Abu¯ Nu aym al-Is·faha¯nı¯ (d. H · ilyat al-awliya¯ 430/1038). Abu¯ Nu aym, as we have seen, wrote his H · ilya to commemorate the awliya or “allies of God.” His entries are much more extensive than alSulamı¯’s, as if he intended to have his subjects demonstrate as many of the virtues of the awliya¯ as possible. In his introduction, Abu¯ Nu aym tells us what these virtues are. The awliya¯ , he says, inspire the loyalty of good men and the envy of martyrs and prophets. They evoke mindfulness of God in their associates. They are immune to temptation, and live in austerity. Their faith can produce miracles and cause their prayers to be answered. They are a minority whose number is constant and for whose sake God increases nations, causes the rain to fall, and prevents catastrophe.69 They have understood the true nature of the present world and rejected it. They cannot be tempted or dazzled by worldly glory. They are impassioned by God and enamored of His speech. They are sources of guidance, characterized by subtlety and sincerity. They are expansive in public and anxious in private, and they fulfill all their religious duties promptly and completely.70 Those who live this way are awliya¯ , and therefore obviously Sufis as well. To explain Sufism, Abu¯ Nu aym cites Ja far al-S·a¯diq: “If one lives according to the exoteric aspect of the Prophet, one is a sunnı¯; if one lives according to his esoteric aspect, one is a Sufi.”71 Other groups such as the H · adı¯th-scholars are allowed to be heirs of the Prophet, but only to part of his legacy; the rest of the legacy – the hidden part, conveniently enough – is the exclusive property of the Sufis. Although Abu¯ Nu aym’s entry on Bishr follows no discernible order,72 it contains all the elements of a life, and the groundwork for a legend. It explains that Bishr ran with a gang in his youth, then had a dramatic conversion experience. He left H · adı¯th-scholarship because the worldliness of his colleagues repelled him. He shunned fame, but was fated to endure it because of his conspicuous self-denial, which included walking barefoot (sometimes). He also had a sister, or perhaps three sisters, whose concern for his welfare endangered his pursuit of perfect renunciation. Even so, one sister, Mukhkha, was so scrupulous that she sought advice from Ibn H · anbal. All these narrative elements will persist, often with conspicuous elaboration, into the later tradition. The account that follows will analyze Abu¯ Nu aym’s presentation of these themes, and then survey some of the contributions later biographers made to each. 69 71

70 That is, they are the abda¯l (see above, pp. 143–44). H · A, I: 5–17. Ibid., I: 20. Note the non-technical use of sunnı¯ (Ja far was the sixth Imam of the Twelver Shiites). On the structure of the H · ilya and its entries, see Mojaddedi, “Reworking Time Past”, 55ﬀ.

166 Classical Arabic Biography

Bishr’s conversion73 According to a report in the H · ilya, people spoke of Bishr as they would speak of a prophet. Asked how his career had begun, he replied: It was by the grace of God. What can I tell you? I was a hooligan ( ayya¯r) and the head of a gang. I was crossing [the street] one day and noticed a piece of paper in the road. I picked it up and found there ‘In the Name of the Merciful and Compassionate God.’ I wiped it oﬀ and put it in my pocket. I had two dirhams with me, which were all I owned, and I went to the perfumers and spent [the dirhams] on a bottle of scent, which I rubbed on the paper. That night I fell asleep and dreamed that someone was saying to me: ‘Bishr b. al-H · a¯rith! You have lifted Our Name from the ground and perfumed it, and We shall exalt your name in this world and the next!’ Then everything that happened happened.74

In the Ta rı¯kh Baghda¯d, Bishr’s maternal uncle Alı¯ b. Khashram reports that his nephew “used to run with a gang (ka¯n yatafatta¯) in his youth, and was wounded.”75 However, the words ayya¯r and fata¯ (from which Ibn Khashram’s yatafatta¯ is derived) are not exactly synonymous in this period. The former refers to the “naked men” and “prisoners” who fought for al-Amı¯n during the siege of Baghdad and took to looting when he ran short of funds.76 Fata¯ refers more generally to members of urban paramilitary associations, including local toughs as well as professional criminals.77 Since Ibn Khashram pairs the mention of Bishr’s fata¯-activity with a reference to his Marwazı¯ origins, it would seem that Bishr participated in some sort of young men’s fraternity in his native regions before coming to Iraq.78 His being an ayya¯r in the strict sense is on the other hand unlikely. During the siege of Baghdad he would have been some forty-five years old, presumably well advanced in his career as a renunciant, and unlikely to take up mercenary violence. The use of the term ayya¯r in his conversion story thus suggests a retelling by a transmitter concerned more for effect than for accuracy.79 Apart from Bishr’s involvement with the ayya¯ru¯n or the fitya¯n, his conversion story, as Jarrar has pointed out, appears to be as much a topos as a biographical fact.80 Indeed, its most conspicuous feature is a distinct resemblance to the conversion tales associated with other first-generation “Sufis.” Al73

74 75

79 80

By conversion I mean “intensification” within a single religious tradition (James, Varieties, 189–258; Rambo, Understanding Religious Conversion, 39 and 172–74). The classical Arabic terms are tawba “act of repentance” and, in this context, tas·awwuf “becoming a Sufi.” Ibid., 8: 336. TB VII: 71 (no. 3517); also Ibn Asa¯kir, Ta rı¯kh kabı¯r, VII: 232; SAN, X: 474; see further ThG, III: 105 n. 56. Alı¯ is also called Bishr’s paternal uncle (Sulamı¯, T · abaqa¯t, 40) and even his 76 nephew (Ibn Asa¯kir, Ta rı¯kh kabı¯r, 7: 229). See Hoffmann, “Pöbel.” For the fitya¯n as criminals see above, pp. 139–41, referring to the reign of al-Mutawakkil, and as strongarm men see TB IX: 289 (no. 4838), where a judge (Bishr’s teacher Sharı¯k) calls for some fitya¯n al-h·ayy to carry convicts to the h·abs. Note, however, that other versions of the story do not mention his iya¯ra (e.g., Qushayrı¯, Risa¯la, 18; Ibn al-Jawzı¯, S·ifa, II: 183). But cf. Cahen, “Futuwwa,” II: 961–62, who stresses the fluidity of these designations. Jarrar, “Bisˇr,” 192.

The renunciant Bishr al-H · a¯fı¯ 167 Fud·ayl b. Iya¯d, for example, is supposed to have been a bandit (sha¯t·ir yaqta al-t·arı¯q) before he repented. Chabbi, who has her doubts about that story, notes that comparable reports appear in the biographies of “an entire series of early figures” and that the topos “appears to be part of a broader set of issues that have yet to be defined and analyzed.”81 In his study of al-Sarı¯ al¯ mir suggests that his subject’s repentance-tale is a literSaqat·¯ı, Tawfı¯q Bin A ary representation of what was doubtless a long and complex process of conversion. Al-Saqat·¯ı, though never described as a criminal, repented with conspicuous suddenness, and (like Bishr) as a result of performing a charitable act.82 What explains the conspicuous similarities in these reports? In any religious tradition, converts learn to narrate their experience in conformance with models supplied by the community to which they have converted (or within which they are renewing their faith). Indeed, their ability to do so serves as a sign of the validity of their experience.83 A comparable process of transformation occurs in literary traditions that seek to describe the conversions of historical figures. To their credit, the Arabic biographers do not use the technical language of later Sufism when they retell the repentance-stories of the early ascetics. Even so, the stories do appear to respond to the needs of a ·ta¯ ifa engaged in staking out a claim to knowledge distinct from that of H · adı¯thscholars and other ulama¯ . ilm through H · adı¯th-scholars, jurists, and Qur a¯n-readers all attained their a rationalized process of study and advancement culminating in public recognition of their competence. Significantly, the biographies of exemplars in these traditions lack conversion-tales like those ascribed to the Sufis. The Sufis, on the other hand, issued their definitions, exhortations, and denunciations (alSulamı¯’s h·ika¯ya¯t) on the basis of experience (tah·qı¯q), sometimes described – in an appropriation of isna¯d-terminology – as transmission from God. Unfortunately, the resulting insights could not meet the standards of authenticity and relevance upheld by the other ·ta¯ ifas.84 To overcome this disadvantage, the biographers of Sufis had to make their subjects’ formative experiences as persuasive a basis for authority as the book-learning of the ulama¯ . Conversion-stories like Bishr’s stress the immediacy of the conversion experience and its transformative effect, substantiating the notion that one can learn from God as well as from men. To render the transformation as convincing as possible, the convert should also turn aside from a life of crime, or at least from some observable attachment to the material world. Bishr spent his last two dirhams to perfume the name of God, and al-Saqat·¯ı repented after expressing relief that his shop had not burned in a market fire. In Bishr’s case, too, the story validates his conversion experience by invoking his standing among the people, who spoke of him as if he were a prophet. 81 83 84

82 ¯ mir, “Al-Sarı¯,” 194–96. Chabbi, “Fud·ayl,” 332–33. TB IX: 178 (no. 4769); Bin A Rambo, Understanding Religious Conversion, esp. 102–64. Cf. Bishr’s verses on this subject (H · A, VIII: 345).

168 Classical Arabic Biography

Bishr’s rejection of H · adı¯th In a recent study of the H · adı¯th-activity of the early renunciants, Melchert has confirmed that many in al-Sulamı¯’s first generations were noted transmitters. Eventually, however, the renunciants and the Hanbalı¯s (the community with · whom they were most closely associated) “pulled apart.” As ascetic and mystical practices became more demanding, renunciants evidently had little time to spend on H · adı¯th-study. Many early ascetics found their scholarly colleagues venal and self-important. Most important, perhaps, the criticism of transmitters, an integral part of H · adı¯th-study, seemed too much like ghayba, “backbiting” or “slander.”85 Even rija¯l-critics were not immune to doubt on this point. Melchert cites the particularly vivid case of Ibn Abı¯ H · a¯tim, author of the Jarh· wa l-ta dı¯l, who “put down the book he was holding and wept uncontrollably” when reminded that some of the transmitters the critics had condemned might already be in Heaven.86 If Bishr made a sudden and dramatic decision to abandon the study of H adı · ¯th, the sources do not treat it as a separate conversion experience. They do, however, cite him, with increasing frequency, as a critic of the scholars. The biographer to devote the most attention to the matter is Abu¯ Nu aym, whose reports were taken up by al-Khat·¯ıb al-Baghda¯dı¯. Both were prominent transmitters, and their willingness to cite Bishr’s anti-H · adı¯th pronouncements is striking. According to the H ilya, Bishr gave up H adı · · ¯th because he found the scholars distasteful. “The blot upon H adı ¯ th,” he says, “is the people who study · it.” The Companions took the Prophet’s knowledge, “clung to it, preserved it, and acted in accordance with it.” Today’s scholars, however, do not practice what they teach. Worse yet, they use their learning for worldly gain: “Knowledge has fallen to a crowd who use it to earn a living.” Once, he began to recite, then interrupted himself: “May God forgive me! It has reached me that ‘so-and-so related to me on the authority of so-and-so’ is one of the gates leading to worldly gain.” In another report he proclaims: “No one should mention any H · adı¯th in a situation where he has some worldly need and [can use the H adı ¯ th] to help him get what he needs.” In several reports, he offers · another argument: because he wants to recite, he should not. In one exchange, an exasperated petitioner asks him what excuse he would offer God for his refusal to teach. He replies: “I would say, ‘Lord, my soul wished to recite 87 H · adı¯th and so I refused [so as] not to give my soul what it desired.’” Evidently, too, he was aware of the ghayba-problem. One report has him say: “Do not ask about a question that entails knowledge of the faults of others.”88 In the Ta rı¯kh Baghda¯d, al-Khat·¯ıb states that Bishr “knew much H · adı¯th,” and lists his teachers (including Ma¯lik b. Anas) and even some students. However, “he found transmission distasteful, and buried his books on that 85 86 87

Melchert, “Early Ascetics,” esp. 10–12. SAN, XIII: 268; cited in Melchert, “Early Ascetics,” 11. 88 H H · A, XIII: 345, 340–41, 339, 355. · A, VIII: 349.

The renunciant Bishr al-Ha¯fı¯ 169 · account.” He reportedly declared that H · adı¯th is “no weapon by which to gain the Next World, nor is it proper preparation for the grave.” He was against saying haddathanı¯ (“he related to us”) because “there is a certain sweetness to · it. You have said h·addathanı¯, and people wrote it down, but what ever came of it?” H · adı¯th had become just another means for attaining worldly ends; he could not imagine how its students would be saved, nor why those who memorized it did so at all. He prayed God to make him forget all the H · adı¯th he had ever memorized, and hoped to bury his books while he could. According to one report, he was as good as his word: the narrator reports having buried eighteen loads of books belonging to Bishr. Lest, however, the reader imagine that Bishr rejected H · adı¯th altogether, alKhat·¯ıb cites three of his more moderate pronouncements: Often I come across something – that is, a H · adı¯th – I want to disseminate, but it seems incorrect to me. No one should recite a H · adı¯th unless it is correct. Yet when someone claims to have authenticated [a report], we say: “You’re a weak transmitter.” I know nothing better than [the pursuit of knowledge] when the object of it is God.89

The first statement reveals that Bishr may have abstained from H · adı¯th-transmission for fear of disseminating false reports. The second suggests that the scholars treated one other with suspicion, and teaching only invited one’s colleagues to judge and condemn one’s reliability. The last statement softens the effect of the preceding reports by suggesting that H · adı¯th-study is reprehensible only when its practitioners undertake it for the wrong reasons. To the extent that such questions exercised the conscience of many H · adı¯th-scholars, there was nothing distinctively “Sufi” about them. Hence, it would seem, the willingness of Abu¯ Nu aym and al-Khat·¯ıb to cite Bishr’s polemical statements about H · adı¯th-study. For later scholars in both camps, however, the tension between the Sufis (actual or back-projected) and the H · adı¯th-scholars appears to have been symbolic of a radical difference in orientation. For their part, the H · adı¯th-transmitters had their own reasons to be dubious of the renunciants, at least in retrospect. As Louis Massignon has argued, the construction of renunciant piety depended to a great extent on gnomic or ecstatic utterances (like alSulamı¯’s h·ika¯ya¯t) that were passed off as H · adı¯th. A renunciant might commune with a dead prophet and call the resulting “preternatural communication” a h·adı¯th mursal, that is, one known well enough to be cited with an incomplete isna¯d. Similarly, he might commune with God and label the result a h·adı¯th qudsı¯, the term usually reserved for communication from God to the Prophet.90 Such claims provoked dismay among the scholars, not only because the attributions seemed disingenuous, but also – one may guess – because the notion of continuing revelation of God’s will negated the historical mission of 89

TB VII: 73–75 (no. 3517).

Massignon, Essai, 100–08.

170 Classical Arabic Biography the ahl al-h·adı¯th. If any pious believer could receive messages from God or the prophets, and if such messages could assume the apodictic authority of Hadı¯th, there could be little point in preserving the historically authenticated · practice of the Prophet. Despite his reputation in the rija¯l-books for reliable transmission, Bishr appears to have narrated precisely the sort of “H · adı¯th” the scholars so vigorously deplored. In the H ilya, he relates a conversation between God and · Moses. He also tells a story about the legendary Awj b. Unuq, who, he says, “would plunge into the sea, collect teak for firewood – he was the first to discover teak – pull a whale from the sea, and roast it in the eye of the sun.”91 (The point is that God provided for Awj even though he was a pagan.) Five members of Bishr’s “generation,” including his associate al-Fud·ayl, reportedly 92 Later H disseminated similarly dubious H · adı¯th-minded biographers, · adı¯th. while respectful of Bishr, appear to have concluded that he cannot have been a reliable transmitter.93 Al-Dhahabı¯, for example, declares that Bishr did not know Arabic properly. He also reproduces the Awj-story without comment, evidently on the assumption that it would speak for itself and demonstrate Bishr’s unreliability as a transmitter.94 The polemic continued on the Sufi side as well, where it was, if anything, even harsher. The most direct expression of it occurs in a speech attributed to Bishr by al-Sha ra¯nı¯ (d. 973/1565): “O evil scholars! You are the heirs of the prophets! They bequeathed their knowledge to you, but you have weaselled out of living by it. Instead you have made your learning into a trade to support yourselves. Aren’t you afraid to be the first into Hell?”95 This declaration, though undoubtedly spurious, summarizes an entire history of contention. “Evil scholars” was the term al-Subkı¯ applied to the Mu tazilı¯s he blamed for the Inquisition.96 The implication here is that the H · adı¯th-men have renounced their role as exemplars and admonishers in return for worldly favor. Strikingly, however, Bishr (or a transmitter) still addresses them as the heirs of the prophets. Had he no hope for them at all, he would presumably not trouble himself to warn them.

Bishr’s fame In the Kita¯b al-wara , al-Marru¯dhı¯ reports having seen Bishr walking on a water-channel. When Ibn H · anbal expressed his disapproval, al-Marru¯dhı¯ explained that Bishr was only trying to escape the crowd that had gathered to look at him.97 Given that the point of the discussion is the permissibility of 91 93

95 97

92 H Massignon, Essai, 107–8. · A, VIII: 350–51. Bishr’s fate here parallels that of other early renunciants, who gradually disappeared from the 94 rija¯l-books (Melchert, “Early Ascetics”). SAN, XI: 470–72. 96 Sha ra¯nı¯, T abaqa ¯ t, I: 63. Subkı ¯ , T abaqa ¯ t, II: 56–59. · · Ibn H · anbal, Wara , 31. The channels ( abba¯ra¯t) are described as carrying water from a raising device (saqya) into wells or cisterns. If they passed through walls, they would have made convenient escape routes. Ibn H · anbal may have disapproved of walking on them because doing so would stir up sediment and cloud the water (I thank Stephen Hughey for his help on this point).

The renunciant Bishr al-H · a¯fı¯ 171 walking on the channels, this passing reference confirms the Sufi biographers’ insistence that Bishr was spectacularly famous. In the H · ilya, we are told that parents brought their children to him for blessings. Once, he gave a da¯niq (a sixth of a dirham) to a beggar; a seeker of baraka then accosted the beggar and offered to buy Bishr’s da¯niq for ten dirhams.98 As in the case of Ibn H · anbal, people evidently imagined him capable of miracles. One day, we are told, a suspicious merchant spied him buying bread, roast meat, and sweets. When he left the market, the merchant followed, hoping to catch him in an act of gluttony and expose him as a hypocrite. Bishr walked to a village, where he gave the delicacies to a man who was lying ill in a mosque. Disappointed, the merchant went for a stroll around the village, and returned to find Bishr gone. The sick man told him that Bishr had returned to Baghdad, which the merchant then discovered was some 160 miles away. The merchant had to wait a week for him to return on another errand of mercy, at which time the irritated renunciant conveyed him back to Baghdad in a single afternoon of walking. The merchant repented and became a Sufi.99 Other reports in the H · ilya depict Bishr in less spectacular circumstances, and imply that his fame was due less to a reputation for thaumaturgy than to his conspicuous austerity. One eyewitness recalls: One very cold morning, my brother and I went to see Bishr. We found him at the door of his house, with Khalı¯l al-Khayya¯t· . He rose, and we followed him. He was wearing a ragged fur coat and short ankle-boots. He went out to the market in a very thin loincloth. Whenever he passed a single man or a group of people, he would always call out out in a loud voice: “Peace be upon you!” When he reached the market, he stopped to ask a flour-seller yesterday’s price. “Good news for you, Abu¯ Nas·r,” said the man, “it’s gone down.” [Bishr] praised God and took [some flour].100

Although Bishr reportedly disapproved of making a show of asceticism, this report has him emerge on a cold day in thin and ragged clothing. Van Ess has suggested that such conspicuous destitution amounted to an expression of solidarity with the urban poor, speciﬁcally the irregular laborers and the ayya¯ru¯n.101 Certainly Bishr was penniless: “I’ve been craving roast meat for forty years,” al-Sulamı¯ quotes him as saying, “but I’ve never had even a dirham to buy any.” Moreover, he thought hunger a virtue: “He who tosses and turns in hunger is as worthy of heaven as the martyr who writhes in his own blood.” He even had a good word to say about the criminal classes: “I love a generous bandit (sha¯t·ir) more than a miserly Qur a¯n-reader.”102 Yet the biographies treat these dicta as spiritual counsel, not expressions of class resentment. Admittedly, Bishr could plausibly represent opposition to the established order. As a proto-Sunni, he (like his fellow Marwazı¯ Ibn H · anbal) regarded the khalq al-Qur a¯n as heresy, and disapproved of the Inquisition. As a 98 102

99 100 101 H H H ThG, III: 106. · A, VIII: 347–48. · A, VIII: 353. · A, VIII: 340. Sulamı¯, T abaqa ¯ t, 41–45. Cf. H A, VIII: 347: “If you’re worried by high prices, think of death, · · and you’ll stop worrying about the prices.”

172 Classical Arabic Biography descendant of the first Khurasani abna¯ , moreover, he (like the ayya¯ru¯n) might have resented al-Ma mu¯n’s second da wa, the siege of Baghdad, and the killing of al-Amı¯n. Even so, he reportedly refused to stand up for Ibn H · anbal during the Inquisition (see further below). Ironically enough for a man who had been promised fame, Bishr regarded it as a calamity. “The man who wants people to know him,” he said, “will never taste the sweetness of the next world.”103 “Whoever deals with God truthfully,” he added, “will shun other people.” When he could not shun them, he refused to speak with them. One witness reports: “I visited Bishr b. al-H · a¯rith and sat with him a while, and all he would say was, ‘Whoever loves fame fears not God.’”104 In a letter to his uncle, he declared: Know, Alı¯, that the one who suffers fame and notoriety suffers a great calamity indeed. May God cause us to bear it with the modest and humble self-abasement before His Greatness; may he guard us from its temptations and evil consequences, as He does in the case of his awliya¯ and of those whom He wishes to guide. Turn in upon the nearest thing to yourself – that is, to the gaining of God’s favor; and, whatever you do, do not let your heart seek the approval or fear the censure of your contemporaries.105

Here, perhaps, is another part of the explanation for Bishr’s withdrawal from H · adı¯th-circles. Public teaching exposed one to the judgement of students and fellow transmitters, and could tempt the believer to concern himself with his own reputation. As happened to Ibn H · anbal, however, Bishr’s avoidance of fame only made his reputation grow, and subjected him to even greater misery. Biographers evidently delighted in the paradox, and adduced numerous stories of confrontation between him and his admirers, or between him and God. According to one witness, Bishr was appalled to learn that children were afraid of him: One Friday, Bishr and I left the congregational mosque and passed through the alley of Abu¯ al-Layth, where some children were playing with jawz [walnuts or perhaps coconuts]. When they saw him they cried “Bishr! Bishr!” snatched up their jawz and scampered away. He stood still a moment, then said: “What heart could bear such a thing? I shall never set foot in this alley again until I meet my Maker!”106

According to the later tradition, he was no better pleased with the good opinion of adults. Al-Qushayrı¯ (d. 465/1073) reports that Bishr once overheard a man remark of him that “he refrains from sleeping all night long, and breaks his fast only every three days.” He burst into tears, saying: “I cannot recall ever staying up all night, nor fasting for a day without eating in the evening. But God Almighty in His grace and generosity has people give a believer more credit than he deserves.”107 Several reports postulate that even death could not break the vicious circle of fame and obscurity. In a posthumous dream-vision, Bishr reported that 103 106

104 H H · A, VIII: 343. · A, VIII: 347, 346. TB VII: 80 (no. 3517); Jarrar, “Bisˇr,” 228–29.

105

HA, VII: 342. Qushayrı¯, Risa¯la, 18.

107·

The renunciant Bishr al-H · a¯fı¯ 173 God forgave him but opened for him only half of Heaven. The reason was that he was insufficiently grateful for having been adored: “You could prostrate yourself on hot coals,” God told him, “and still not thank Me enough for the [reverence] for you that I have placed in the hearts of My creatures.”108 Another dreamer reports that Bishr continued to practice renunciation even in the afterlife: asked about conditions in Paradise, he replied that he missed his crust of bread.109 This odd story, like the legend of Ra¯bi a al- Adawı¯ya (d. 185/801–802?), who reportedly carried a torch to burn Paradise to the ground,110 offers a literary response to a characteristically Sufi problem: how to reconcile zuhd on earth with the indulgence believers are promised in the afterlife. Evidently, Bishr’s famous asceticism made him an appealing mouthpiece for transmitters tempted to speculate about such matters. Strikingly, however, even these later legends preserve a memory of the ascetical nature of his piety. Unlike the mystics, Bishr insists on the great gulf between man and God, even in Heaven.

Bishr’s barefootedness The most famous manifestation of Bishr’s zuhd was his reported aversion to wearing shoes. The first extant reference to him as al-H · a¯fı¯, “the barefoot,” appears in the Ma a¯rif of Ibn Qutayba (d. 276/889).111 Abu¯ Nu aym’s H · ilya reports that the bottoms of Bishr’s feet “had turned black from the dirt of his walking barefoot.”112 Jarrar, who has carried out an exhausive study of the theme, credits the first explanation of Bishr’s discalcity to a report by Abu¯ Alı¯ al-Fadakı¯ (d. 427/1055) cited in the Ansa¯b of al-Sam a¯nı¯ (d. 562/1197). “He was nicknamed al-H · a¯fı¯ because he went to a cobbler to ask for a strap for one of his sandals [when the old one] broke. The cobbler said, ‘What a burden all of you are to people!’ So [Bishr] flung the one sandal from his hand and the other from his foot, and swore never to wear them again.”113 This report implies that ascetics were in the habit of begging services from tradesmen, and that Bishr renounced shoes so as to stop being a nuisance. Later biographers, particularly those who wrote in Persian, insisted on ascribing mystical significance to Bishr’s barefootedness. In his Kashf alMah·ju¯b, al-Hujwı¯rı¯ (d. 465/1072) says that Bishr was so intensely absorbed in the contemplation of God that he never put anything on his feet. Asked the reason for his discalcity, he replied that the Earth is God’s carpet (cf. Qur a¯n 71: 19), and it is wrong to tread on it while wearing shoes. “A shoe,” adds alHujwı¯rı¯, “seemed to him a veil between him and God.”114 At·t·a¯r (d. 617/1220) adopts a different premise, namely, that Bishr happened to be barefoot when 108 111 112 113 114

109 110 H TB, VII: 83 (no. 3517). Smith, Ra¯bi a, 98. · A, VIII: 336. Ibn Qutayba, Ma a¯rif, 525. H · A, VIII: 347. At VIII: 340 he is described as wearing boots; cf. Jarrar, “Bisˇr,” 203. Sam a¯nı¯, Ansa¯b, IV: 26; Ibn Khallika¯n, Wafaya¯t, I: 275; Jarrar, “Bisˇr,” 199–200. Hujwı¯rı¯, “Kashf” (tr. Nicholson), 105.

174 Classical Arabic Biography he repented, and so chose to remain in that state. At·t·a¯r’s Persian account begins when Bishr picks up the paper with God’s name on it. The dreammessage from God is vouchsafed to a holy man (bozorg), who seeks out Bishr and finds him drinking with friends. Told of God’s message for him, he tearfully bids his friends farewell. “Then, still distracted, bareheaded and barefoot, he went out and repented.”115 A similar story appears in the Arabic Kita¯b al-tawwa¯bı¯n by At·t·a¯r’s contemporary Ibn Quda¯ma al-Maqdisı¯ (d. 620/1223).116 The later tradition’s eagerness to assign meaning to the story is also evident from the commentaries on al-Qushayrı¯’s Risa¯la. Al-Qushayrı¯ recounts that Bishr knocked on the door of a friend’s house and identified himself as “the barefoot.” From inside a little girl called out: “If you would buy a pair of sandals for two da¯niqs no one would call you ‘barefoot’ any more.” According to al-Qushayrı¯, Bishr himself was heard to recount this tale.117 In his commentary, Zakariya¯ al-Ans·a¯rı¯ (d. 926/1520) remarks that “Bishr took the incident as a lesson, which is why people transmitted the story on his authority.” Al-Ans·a¯rı¯’s commentator Mus·t·afa¯ al- Aru¯sı¯ (d. 1293/1876) adds that Bishr recounted the incident frequently because it was one of many zawa¯jir or “divine rebukes” that mark the transition to progressively higher spiritual states.118 The late appearance and subsequent expansion of the barefootednesstheme makes it difficult to grant credence to any particular version of it. Fritz Meier, though he concedes that the claims of the later biographers are “mere theory,” has the disconcerting mannerism of attributing the claims to Bishr himself. After citing the report about the cobbler, for example, he states that Bishr “later” justified not wearing shoes by referring to Qur a¯n 71: 19.119 The “carpet of God” explanation indeed appears later in the tradition than the cobbler-story, but this does not mean that Bishr himself cited it later in his career. Even Jarrar, who is well aware of the literary nature of the sources, credits Bishr with a conversion that persuaded him to walk barefoot, and treats later explanations like Hujwı¯rı¯’s as historically credible.120 More likely, however, the later biographers are merely responding to the Sufi tradition’s invitation to exegesis. This invitation arises, in turn, from the tradition’s selfproclaimed role as interpreter of the esoteric. Not all believers could be expected to agree that the Qur a¯n and H · adı¯th require some sort of supplementation in order to serve as guideposts to salvation. Even if one concedes to Abu¯ Nu aym that a stringent orthopraxy somehow equals or results in Sufism, one still cannot assert – in fact, one is all 115

116 117 118 120

At·t·a¯r, Tadhkira, I: 107. The biographer adds that certain anchorites would never spit on the ground or clean themselves with gravel because they saw a divine essence in all things. Enlightened persons see God’s light everywhere, as in the case of the Prophet, who walked on tiptoe to avoid stepping on angels which only he could see. Ibn Quda¯ma, Tawwa¯bı¯n, 201–02; cited in Jarrar, “Bisˇr,” 197–98. Qushayrı¯, Risa¯la, 19. Bishr indeed tells the tale himself in Ibn Asa¯kir, Ta rı¯kh kabı¯r, VII: 230. 119 Ans·a¯rı¯, Sharh·, I: 92; Aru¯sı¯, Nata¯ ij (on margin). Meier, “Bishr.” Jarrar, “Bisˇr,” 227.

The renunciant Bishr al-H · a¯fı¯ 175 the less justified in asserting – that exoteric Islam is insufficient unless supplemented by some independent body of secret gnosis or covert practice. The disputed necessity of Sufism explains why it so often takes the form of hints, allusions, and metaphors, and not of positive doctrine. If the Sufis accept the exoteric meanings of Islam, as al-Sarra¯j says they do, any positive doctrine they claimed to possess above and beyond the exoterica would likely have to be superfluous or redundant. One Sufi solution to this dilemma consists in rarely propounding specific doctrines but instead hinting and gesturing at some secret truth which members of the ·ta¯ ifa alone possess. Such an attitude in turn fosters a sort of hermeneutic excess which – in its biographical manifestation – encourages attempts to find new layers of meaning in every act and utterance of those individuals designated as exemplary Sufis.121 Doubtless the unlikeliest literary figure to have joined the ranks of Bishr’s interpreters is the German dramatist Gotthold Lessing. In Nathan der Weise, Lessing’s 1779 drama of religious toleration, Bishr turns up in the guise of a dervish called Al-Hafi. Lessing may have heard the name from Johann Jakob Reiske, the Latin translator of Abu¯ ‘l-Fida¯, or perhaps come across it in d’Herbelot’s Bibliothèque Orientale.122 Set in twelfth-century Jerusalem, the play casts Al-Hafi in the unlikely role of dervish, chessmaster, and treasurer to Saladin. Although Al-Hafi bears little resemblance to his namesake, he does make a speech that could serve as a defense of the latter’s Sufi biographers. In Act I, Al-Hafi comes to call upon his friend Nathan the Jew, who is surprised to see him wearing the sumptuous robes of the treasurer’s office. Nathan exclaims: “Is it you, or is it not? A dervish in such attire!” Al-Hafi protests: “Well, why not? Can one make nothing at all out of a dervish?”123 As the history of his biographies demonstrates, Bishr al-H · a¯fı¯’s admirers were able to make a great deal of him indeed.

Bishr’s sisters According to al-Sulamı¯, Bishr had three sisters, Mud·gha, Mukhkha, and Zubda. When Mud·gha died, “Bishr was most painfully aﬄicted and wept a great deal.” When this was remarked upon, he said: “I read in some book or other that when a believer falls short in his service to his Lord, God deprives 121

122 123

Amedroz finds the slippery referentiality of Sufi discourse irritating (“Notes,” 551–54). While his irony makes for a refreshing change from the effusions of those enthusiasts who take Sufi discourse at face value, it falls short of making the point intended here, namely, that a reluctance to refer to anything in particular confers an ability to refer – or appear to refer – to anything at all; and furthermore that this and related paradoxes may be considered evidence not of philosophical incoherence but of the inexpressibility of some higher truth. These are literary achievements of no small proportions. They allow us, for example, to make a Sufi of Amedroz himself: we have only to state that he belittles the Sufis in order to conceal his own affiliation with them and to avoid the reputation of sanctity. This sort of narratizing can be applied to any discourse, and cannot be successfully contradicted. Meier, “Bishr,” I: 1246. Lessing, Werke, I: 523. I adopt with some changes the translation in Lessing, Nathan, 15.

176 Classical Arabic Biography him of his companion; and she was my companion in this world.”124 The second sister, Mukhkha, had a reputation for scrupulosity – great enough, in fact, to earn her a place in the Hanbalı¯ tradition. According to the reports in · Ibn al-Farra¯ ’s Tabaqa¯t, she visited the imam to ask him about some matters · of ﬁqh. The story captured the attention of H · anbalı¯ as well as Suﬁ biographers, who recount several versions of it. In what appears to be the oldest version, the imam’s son Abd Alla¯h reports: Mukhkha, the sister of Bishr b. al-H · a¯rith, came to see my father. She said: “I am a woman with two da¯niqs of capital. I buy cotton, spin it, sell it for half a dirham, and make it through the week on one da¯niq. [But one night] T·a¯hir’s son [i.e., Abd Alla¯h b. T·a¯hir b. al-H · usayn] came patrolling with a torch, and as he stood talking to the street patrol, I spun several lengths by the light of his torch before it vanished. Now I know that God will ask me [about this], so solve this problem for me, and may God save you!” He replied: “Put your two da¯niqs [for this week] aside, and live without any capital until God provides for you.” [Later] I asked my father, “Dad, why didn’t you just tell her to put aside what she earned from the lengths [that she spun by the torchlight]?” He said, “Son, her question did not admit of hairsplitting (ta wı¯l).” Then he asked me who she was. I told him that she was Bishr’s sister Mukhkha, and he said: “I’ve met my match right here [?].”125

Mukhkha needed the imam’s advice for two reasons. First, using anything without permission was a violation of sunna.126 Second, light provided by a suspect source – in this case, the city authorities – was itself a major source of ritual pollution.127 H · anbalı¯ narrators, evidently impressed with this story, retold it for greater effect. In a second version, the woman is not identified at first. She asks a different version of the spinning-question, and then a question about whether the moaning of a sick person constitutes a complaint. Declaring later that he has never heard anyone ask about such things, Ibn H · anbal sends his son to follow her home and discover who she is. Learning her identity, the imam exclaims: “Such a woman could only be the sister of Bishr!”128 Abu¯ Nu aym’s H · ilya retells the tale of Mukhkha’s visit. Oddly, however, it also contains a report in which one of Bishr’s sisters thwarts his pursuit of exceptional scrupulosity. Bishr comes home one day to find a meal of bread and fish, and asks his sister about it. She explains that their deceased mother had appeared to her in a dream and told her that he had a craving for fish. He weeps but refuses the food: “I have been craving it for twenty-five years, but God would not approve of my returning to something I gave up for his sake.”129 Two reports in al-Khat·¯ıb’s Ta rı¯kh make a similar point. In one, 124 125 126

128

Cited in Ibn al-Jawzı¯, S·ifa, II: 294; also Ibn Khallika¯n, Wafaya¯t, I: 276. T ﬁnal remark is min ha¯huna¯ utı¯tu, which is not entirely clear to me. ·H · , I: 427. Ibn H · anbal’s ¯ sim reportedly copied 50,000 Hadı¯th by the light of a grocer’s lamp; One Abu¯ Bakr b. Abı¯ A · · when he remembered he had not asked the grocer’s permission, he washed his books clean and rewrote the H ¯th (Dhahabı¯, Ta rı¯kh al-Isla¯m XXI: 75; I thank Christopher Melchert for this · adı 127 Ibn H anbal, Wara , 104; see further above, pp. 133–34. reference). 129 · T H ·H · , I: 427–28. · A, VIII: 353.

The renunciant Bishr al-H · a¯fı¯ 177 Bishr’s sister (still unidentified) has him bring her yarn so she can mend his waistcoat. But when he weighs the yarn and discovers that she is preparing to make the garment bigger (or thicker), he says “Now that you’ve ruined it, just keep it.” In the second account, she complains of not having any meat on a feast day. Bishr goes out and returns with a piece of meat, but refuses to consume anything but the salt water used to prepare it.130 In all these cases, Bishr’s sister, despite her good intentions, endangers his wara . For this very reason, however, she can offer firsthand testimony about it. Apocryphal or otherwise, the stories at least have a plausible narrator – albeit an anonymous one who leaves rather a different impression than the Mukhkha of the H · anbalı¯ sources. In Ibn al-Jawzı¯’s S·ifat al-s·afwa, a work that represents a compromise between the H · anbalı¯ and Sufi traditions, it is the Mukhkha of the H · anbalı¯ sources who comes to the fore. As we have seen, Ibn al-Jawzı¯ begins the S·ifa with a critique of Abu¯ Nu aym’s errors as a biographer.131 Among these errors is his deficient coverage of women. “Given the inferiority of females,” says Ibn al-Jawzı¯, “the mention of pious women ( a¯bida¯t) should spur the indolent man to action.” By way of precedent, he notes that Sufya¯n al-Thawrı¯ “derived benefit from Ra¯bi a, and modelled his behavior in accordance with her sayings.”132 True to his word, Ibn al-Jawzı¯ includes several entries on pious women, including Bishr’s sisters. Their entry omits the reports of their interference, declaring rather that Bishr learned scrupulosity from one of them. It also contains the different accounts of Mukhkha’s visit, including one taken over from Abu¯ Nu aym in which Ibn H · anbal’s answer is not even reported. Instead he is merely made to exclaim: “O family of Bishr! May I never be deprived of you! I always hear the purest scrupulosity from you!”133 The omission of Ibn H · anbal’s answer to the question, and the elaboration of his final remarks, suggest that the story appealed to transmitters first and foremost because it illustrated the commonality of sentiment that existed between Bishr and Ibn H · anbal, as well as the awkwardness that arose from their presence together in Baghdad. Mukhkha and her brother shared Ibn H · anbal’s preoccupation with scrupulosity and his disapproval of the state. At the same time, Mukhkha’s visit amounts to an admission that Bishr was not qualified to judge fine points of wara . Were he able to do so, she would not need to ask the imam. But why did Bishr not ask the imam himself ? As we know from the H · anbalı¯ sources, the two never met. Although they agreed on a great many things, the remaining differences may have made a face-to-face meeting too awkward a prospect – for biographers, certainly, and perhaps for the two exemplars as well. By her visit, Mukhkha saves her brother from having to defer in person to Ibn Hanbal’s authority. Yet the report does not · make an unambiguous affirmation of the imam’s superiority. Rather, it ends with his praise for the piety of Bishr’s household. The importance of this 130 132

131 TB, VII: 77 and 78 (no. 3517). See above, pp. 146–47. 133 Ibn al-Jawzı¯, S·ifa, I: 6. Ibid., II: 294–96.

178 Classical Arabic Biography remark is evident from its progressive elaboration in the sources. Mukhkha and Bishr concede the imam’s authority in ﬁqh, while he makes a corresponding gesture of deference by admiring their piety. Apart from the historicity of Mukhkha’s visit, the recurrent stories about it suggest that later representa ifas approved of its implications. tives of the H · anbalı¯ and Suﬁ ·ta¯

Bishr and Ibn Hanbal · The Mukhkha-stories illustrate the delicacy that transmitters and biographers felt obliged to exercise when dealing with the relationship between Bishr and Ibn H · anbal. Both men exemplified somber piety and rigorous austerity. Yet their respective claims to authority were quite different. Ibn H · anbal drew his strength from rigorous adherence to the example of the Prophet as transmitted in H · adı¯th. Bishr, on the other hand, abandoned H · adı¯th-study for a life of solitude and self-examination. Given the similarities as well as the differences between the two men, their opinions of one another could easily function as evidence for or against later notions of the proper relationship between their respective ·ta¯ ifas. Although some reports favor one man over the other, most, like Mukhkha’s, succeed in balancing their respective claims and in emphasizing their solidarity against a third ·ta¯ ifa, that of the caliphs.134 The early biographical sources corroborate the impression that both men were regarded as exemplars of scrupulosity by their contemporaries. In the introduction to the Ta rı¯kh Baghda¯d, al-Khat·¯ıb notes that scholars who consider the Baghdad region to be usurped land (da¯r ghas·b) forbid buying and selling lots there. One witness then relates that his mother wanted to sell a house she had inherited. “She said to me, ‘Son, go to Ah·mad Ibn H · anbal and Bishr b. al-H a ¯ rith and ask them about it, because I do not like making deci· sions they might disapprove of.’” According to the son’s report, both men agreed that the house could be sold but not the lot.135 It is odd to find Bishr sought out for legal judgements; his biographers do not credit him with delivering any. Evidently, his reputation for sanctity qualified him to speak even on such fundamental matters as the disposition of property in the city. Significantly, his decision was the same as Ibn Hanbal’s. Whatever their differ· ences, the two men agreed, or were thought to agree, on the meaning of the law. Besides being admired by their contemporaries, the two men reportedly admired each other. In the Kita¯b al-wara , as we have seen, Bishr’s name crops up in discussions of proper conduct in various circumstances. Ibn H · anbal reportedly praised Bishr’s refusal to eat the produce of the Sawa¯d, and applauded his spitting out a suspicious date.136 In the Ta rı¯kh Baghda¯d, the 134

136

In an earlier study of this relationship (Cooperson, “Ibn H · anbal and Bishr al-H · a¯fı¯”), I overestimated the extent to which Bishr’s proto-Sunni asceticism was obscured by Suﬁ revisionism. Having read Melchert’s “Transition,” I should have known better. The present chapter 135 TB, I: 34 (= old ed. I: 4). endeavors to redress this deﬁciency. Ibn H anbal, Wara , 84–87. ·

The renunciant Bishr al-Ha¯fı¯ 179 · imam praises him even more warmly, calling him “the fourth of the seven abda¯l” and “one without peer in the community.” Like a man who can sit on the blade of a spear, Bishr “has left no room for another to occupy.” The day Bishr died, the imam exclaimed that the thought of him had given him a sense of companionship (la-qad ka¯na fı¯ dhikrihi uns). He then put on his cloak and braved the heat to march in Bishr’s funeral.137 In biographical entries devoted to Ibn H · anbal, we find Bishr expressing reciprocal admiration. In Abu¯ Nu aym’s H · ilya, for example, a witness recalls asking Bishr what softens the heart. Bishr replied that the “remembrance of God” (Qur a¯n 13: 28) would do so. He was then told that Ibn H · anbal had responded differently, giving “permitted foods” as the answer. Bishr declared this response the better one: the imam, he admitted, had “gotten to the heart of the matter.”138 Elsewhere he declares flatly: “Who am I compared to [Ibn H · anbal]? He is more learned than I!”139 In counterpoint to these reports of mutual admiration, the biographical sources also contain evidence that each man and his respective followers harbored certain reservations about the other. After praising Bishr’s scrupulosity about food, Ibn H · anbal noted that he too could avoid consuming Sawa¯dı¯ produce if he were unmarried and childless.140 He also disapproved of Bishr’s opinion that one could remove a potentially tainted coin from a sum of money and spend the rest, calling it “the view of the advocates of ra y.”141 Elsewhere he says of Bishr: “If he had married, his career would have been perfect.”142 In the H · ilya, Ibn H · anbal’s son remarks that his father shunned society more resolutely than Bishr: My father traveled to T·arsu¯s on foot; and to Yemen on foot; and performed five pilgrimages, three on foot; and no one in any of those places can claim to have seen him except when he came out for Friday prayer. He bore solitude better than anyone. Even Bishr, for all his [spiritual attainment], could not bear solitude for long; he would go out visiting an hour here, an hour there.143

Significantly, however, Ibn H · anbal did not criticize Bishr because he deemed him a Sufi. On the basis of Bishr’s condemnation of the H · adı¯th-men, Louis Massignon suggests that Bishr, like al-Muh·a¯sibı¯, must have entered into conflict with Ibn H · anbal. However, al-Muh·a¯sibı¯ was a mutakallim while Bishr was not, and it was al-Muha¯sibı¯’s kala¯m that Ibn Hanbal objected to.144 Moreover, · · neither Bishr nor al-Muh·a¯sibı¯ appears to have called himself a Sufi.145 For his part, Ibn H · anbal was aware of Sufis, or at least of one person who identified himself as such. This was Abu¯ H · amza Muh·ammad b. Ibra¯hı¯m al-S·u¯fı¯ (d. 269/882–83), who reportedly “sat with” both him and Bishr. Abu¯ H · amza himself relates that when he attended the imam’s circle, the latter would ask 137 139 142 144

138 TB VII: 81–82 (no. 3517); cf. Ibn H 70. H · anbal, Wara , 141 · A, IX: 182. 140 ManIH , 119. Ibn H anbal, Wara , 87. Ibid., 50. · · 143 TB, VII: 76 (no. 3517). H · A, IX: 183. Massignon, Essai, 208–9; cf. van Ess, Gedankenwelt, 113–15. Melchert (“H · ana¯bila,” 7, n. 20) 145 For al-Muh·a¯sibı¯ see van Ess, Gedankenwelt, 6. has also stressed this point.

180 Classical Arabic Biography (with apparent sarcasm) “What do you say about it, Sufi?”146 As Melchert has shown, Ibn H · anbal was hostile to such Sufi practices as lone wandering and private worship. Admittedly, several of al-Sulamı¯’s “Sufis” appear in Ibn alFarra¯ ’s Tabaqa¯t, the major compilation of Hanbalı¯ biographies. However, the · · imam himself had only tangential connections with them;147 and of those who were ascetics rather than mystics, he reportedly approved. When an unnamed man belittled the ascetic Ma ru¯f al-Karkhı¯, Ibn H · anbal declared: “Could one wish for any ilm beyond what Ma ru¯f has achieved?”148 Despite his good relationship with the imam, Bishr himself does not have an entry in the T · abaqa¯t. However, this omission appears due only to the literal-mindedness of Ibn alFarra¯ , who included in the first t·abaqa only those who had actually met Ibn H · anbal. Thus Mukhkha, who asked the imam a question, has an entry. There she recounts some of Bishr’s reflections on divine favor, remarks which Ibn alFarra¯ saw fit to include.149 For his part, Bishr, by virtue of his complaints about H · adı¯th-scholars, would appear to have been critical of Ibn H anbal, if only by implication. He · reportedly averred that even a man as renowned as Sufya¯n al-Thawrı¯ or al150 Mu a¯fa¯ b. Imran would fall in his opinion should he recite H · adı¯th. Although he never criticized Ibn H · anbal by name, he does appear to have expressed disapproval of him on one occasion. One Abba¯s b. Abd al- Az·¯ım al-Anba¯rı¯ reports that he was attending one of the imam’s H · adı¯th-sessions ¯ sa¯ b. Yu¯nus: when someone mentioned a H adı ¯ th of I · “ I¯ sa¯ b. Yu¯nus never transmitted that Hadı¯th,” said Ahmad Ibn Hanbal. Then he said, · · · “God forgive me! [I should say] I don’t know whether the transmission of that H · adı¯th ¯ on the authority of I sa¯ b. Yu¯nus is correct.” Then he said, “God forgive me! It is known only by Bishr b. al-Ha¯rith.” · Said Abba¯s: I said, “I won’t find any way of seeing Bishr except by means of this H · adı¯th.” So I went to see him and told him the story and told him what Ah·mad had said. “May God grant me health!” he said twice. “This is a calamity and a tribulation: a H adı man!” · ¯th is mentioned, and it is said that it is correct only on the authority of one [ Abba¯s] said, “I was thinking to myself: How different the two men are!”151

According to this report, Ibn H · anbal deemed Bishr a reliable source of H adı ¯ th. Bishr, in turn, was evidently willing to grant admission to a visitor · who could mention Ibn H anbal’s name. But instead of seconding the imam’s · concern for establishing correct transmission, the ascetic only deplores a situation in which a Hadı¯th should have such precarious authority. He may also · be appalled at the notion that he should be called upon to judge the character of Ibn Yu¯nus.152 If their disagreements about H · adı¯th-study set Ibn H · anbal and Bishr apart, their shared disapproval of the Inquisition brought them together. As a proto146 148 151

147 T “H ·H · , I: 268; cited in Melchert, 149 · ana¯bila,” 5. 150 Melchert, “H · ana¯bila,” 4–9. TB, XIII: 202 (no. 7177). T H , I: 28. TB, VII: 74 (no. 3517). · · 152 Ibid., 7: 80. Cf. Melchert, “Early Ascetics,” 10.

The renunciant Bishr al-Ha¯fı¯ 181 · Sunni, and perhaps particularly as a Marwazı¯,153 Bishr condemned the mih·na. Regarding the scholars who had capitulated, he declared that “they should have let their hair be soaked with blood rather than give in.”154 A later report has him explain that Ibn H · anbal was asked to copy the sentence “God is the Lord of the Qur a¯n” but refused. “If he had,” says Bishr, “he would have given them what they wanted.”155 According to the imam’s biographies, Bishr spoke approvingly of Ibn H · anbal’s fortitude under the lash, comparing him to gold forged in the furnace of the Inquisition.156 Informed of this remark, Ibn H · anbal reportedly declared: “Praise God Who has caused our deed to gratify Bishr.”157 Ironically, it was the mih·na that eventually brought Ibn H · anbal around to Bishr’s view of H adı ¯ th-transmission. During the reign of al· Wa¯thiq, Ibn H anbal was forbidden to teach; later, under al-Mutawakkil, he · was offered the post of tutor to the caliph’s son. In exasperation, he vowed to stop transmitting altogether. Later, he declared that he had only known peace since he made his vow. “The right way,” he concluded, “is that of Bishr al158 H · a¯rith,” who had also renounced the teaching of H · adı¯th. Despite Ibn H · anbal’s expressions of approval, Bishr reportedly rued his failure to assist him during the crisis. H · anbalı¯ biographers, notably Ibn alJawzı¯, seized on these reports, evidently because they amounted to an admission of Ibn H “How ugly · anbal’s superiority. In the Mana¯qib, Bishr proclaims: 159 Reportedly, my leg is without a fetter upon it in defense of [Ibn H anbal]!” · too, he went to al-Mu tas·im’s palace on the day of the flogging and stood at the gate “like one distraught.” Inquiring anxiously whether the imam had capitulated, he offered to take his place if he had, and was relieved to learn he had not.160 The most telling report in this connection is one cited, with slight variations, by Abu¯ Nu aym al-Is·faha¯nı¯, Ibn al-Farra¯ , Ibn Asa¯kir, and Ibn alJawzı¯ in their respective biographies of Ibn H · anbal. It states that while Ibn H anbal was being flogged, or perhaps afterwards, Bishr was asked to make a · public declaration of support for him. According to Abu¯ Nu aym, he replied: “Are you commanding me to stand where the prophets stand?”161 Ibn alFarra¯ ’s report has him say: “You want me to stand where the prophets stand, but I cannot.”162 In Ibn Asa¯kir’s version, Bishr adds that his body is not strong enough to stand “on a level with the prophets.”163 In one of the several variants cited by Ibn al-Jawzı¯, Bishr finally spells out his meaning: “Ibn 164 H · anbal has stood where the prophets stand!” Bishr is evidently referring to Moses’ defiance of Pharaoh, an example he claims he is too weak to follow. 153 155

156 160 163

164

154 ThG, III: 448–49. SAN, XI: 323. SAN, XI: 258. The family accounts do not say that Ibn H · anbal was asked to copy anything, nor do they mention this sentence. But cf. Ja¯h·iz·, Rasa¯ il, III: 293ff. 157 158 159 H ManIH · A, 9: 170. 161 ManIH · , 117. 162 SAN, XI: 258. · , 117–19. Ibid., 336. H A, IX: 170. T H , I: 13. · · · Ibn Asa¯kir, Ta rı¯kh kabı¯r, I: 34. Cf. Ibn al-Jawzı¯’s comparison of Ibn H · anbal and the fata¯ Abu¯ al-Haytham (above, pp. 139–41). Though reportedly a “hooligan” in his youth, Bishr here specifically disclaims a signal virtue of the fata¯: a willingness to be flogged without flinching. ManIH · , 117–18.

182 Classical Arabic Biography As a result, he admits in effect that Ibn H · anbal is a worthier heir of the Prophet. Even some ascetics agreed: Abu¯ Nu aym cites the verdict of one Muhammad b. Mus ab, called “the pious” (al- a¯bid), who said: “Any one lash · · that fell upon Ah·mad Ibn H anbal for the sake of God is greater than [all] the ·165 days of Bishr b. al-H a ¯ rith.” · To settle the matter of which man was superior, or, better yet, to establish some sort of balance between them, transmitters and biographers resorted to the device of visionary dreams. Bila¯l al-Khawwa¯s·, for example, reports that he saw al-Khid·r in a dream and asked him his opinion of the two men. Al-Khid·r replied that Bishr had left no one like himself behind when he died. This makes him superior to the imam, who was still alive in 227/842. The imam himself, according to al-Khid·r, was a s·iddiq, a Sufi term for the ascetic precursors of the ·ta¯ ifa.166 This report evidently favors Bishr the “Sufi,” but does not neglect Ibn H · anbal. The same is true in reverse for H · anbalı¯ dream-tales, which favor the scholar but reserve a place for the ascetic. One narrator reports: When Ibn H · anbal died, I was deeply grieved. I went to sleep that night and saw him in a dream, swaggering as he walked. I said, “Abu¯ Abd Alla¯h! Why are you walking that way?” He said, “This is the way servants walk in Heaven.” I asked, “What did God do with you?” “He forgave me,” he said, “and crowned me, and gave me sandals of gold, all because I said that the Qur a¯n is the uncreated speech of God.” I asked him, “What did God do with Bishr?” He said, “Bravo for Bishr! I left him in the presence of the Almighty, before a laden table, with the Almighty facing him and saying, ‘Eat, you who never ate! Drink, you who never drank! Enjoy, you who have never known enjoyment!’” or words to that effect.167

Signiﬁcantly, even the dream-tales that express inter-t·a¯ ifa cordiality continue to abide by the unspoken rule that the two exemplars should never appear together. As we have seen, transmitters were willing to fabricate reports of interchanges between al-Ma mu¯n and Alı¯ al-Rid·a¯, or between Ibn H · anbal and al-Mu tas·im. Why not between Ibn H anbal and Bishr? First, there was no · model for it. In life, the two exemplars evidently preferred not to broach the matter of who should defer to whom. And, given the protocol current among H · adı¯th-scholars, a display of deference on someone’s part would have been inevitable. For one of the two to leave his house and visit the other would have signaled deference: students customarily traveled to see their teachers, not the other way around. Although the one visited could then rise to show respect for his visitor, the subsequent interchange would have been fraught with so many pitfalls that both men apparently preferred to avoid the exercise altogether. Later transmitters, similarly, could not imagine such a meeting taking place without resulting in an awkward judgement in favor of one or the other man. 165 167

166 H H · A, IX: 173. · A, IX: 191–92. For s·iddı¯q see above, p. 61. H A, IX: 190; Kinberg, “Legitimation,” 63. ·

The renunciant Bishr al-Ha¯fı¯ 183 · In later periods, any such judgement would have been particularly provocative because it would apply by extension to the two men’s respective ·ta¯ ifas, the H · anbalı¯ and the Sufi. Given the complex history of interconnection between the two, such a judgement would seem unnecessarily bellicose. Moreover, it would fly in the face of what appears to have been the consensus of influential theorists and biographers in both traditions: namely, that each ·ta¯ ifa had a distinct and indispensable function to serve in the community. In what seems to be an affirmation of this consensus, the sage and judicious al-Dhahabı¯ declined to pronounce one man superior to the other. “Bishr is great,” he con az¯ımu ‘l-qadri ka-Ah·mad). We do not cludes, “as Ibn H · anbal is great (Bishr · know the weight of deeds, only God does.”168 Coming as it does in the tenth/fourteenth century, al-Dhahabı¯’s conclusion may well be a rebuke to those of his predecessors who insisted on comparing the two exemplars. There are two exceptions, both in some way fantastic, to the rule of quarantine between the two men. The first is an apocryphal tale of a meeting between ¯ mina althe two, mediated, as in Mukhkha’s story, by a woman. The mystic A Ramlı¯ya has come to visit the ailing Bishr, and when Ibn H · anbal arrives on the same errand, she prays for them both. Later an anonymous note informs 169 Notice that the imam’s visit Ibn H · anbal that her prayer has been answered. to Bishr can be justified as a charitable act and not as arising in the first instance from his reverence for Bishr. Notice also that Bishr, being ill, cannot be expected to rise, meaning that we cannot know whether he would have. In its studious avoidance of these narrative pitfalls, the anecdote affirms rather than mitigates the awkwardness attendant upon any depiction of face-to-face contact. The second account of a meeting faces this awkwardness directly. Significantly, however, it appears in a biography of Ibn H · anbal, and even there in the form of a dream-vision. The narrator reports a dream in which he saw Bishr and Ma ru¯f al-Karkhı¯ sitting by the road. Asked what they were doing there, they replied that they were waiting for the “Commander of the Believers.” The narrator reports his surprise that “the city’s two ascetics” should be waiting to see the caliph. But when the procession appeared, the Commander of the Believers turned out to be Ibn H · anbal. Bishr leapt up and bent over as if to kiss him, but Ibn H anbal said, “No, that’s a non-Arab thing · to do (min fi l al-a a¯jim).”170 The two ascetics then asked the imam how he had achieved his high rank. He replied: “By my patience with these people,” presumably meaning the great mass of believers.171 In the narrative negotiation of deference, this dream-tale clearly gives precedence to Ibn H · anbal, who receives the veneration of not one but two famous representatives of the Sufi 168 170

171

169 SAN, XI: 201. Ibn Asa¯kir, Ta rı¯kh kabı¯r, II: 48. The ajam who appeared in Iraq as a result of the second da wa were seen as “unassimilated, half converted, or unconverted Iranians” (Crone, “ Abba¯sid Abna¯ ,” 14). Unlike Ibn H · anbal, Bishr had grown up in Marv, and could thus be described as a jam. Even so, the description of his conduct here seems to be a ﬁgment of the transmitter’s imagination. Maqdisı¯, Mih·na, 140.

184 Classical Arabic Biography ·ta¯ ifa, and indeed rebukes Bishr for fawning over him. Yet it also calls Bishr and Ma ru¯f “the two ascetics of Baghdad,” and sets them apart from the mass of believers with whom the imam must be “patient.” Most important, perhaps, it emphasizes that Ibn H · anbal, not al-Ma mu¯n or al-Mu tas·im, is the “Commander of the Believers.” The two Sufis thus affirm that in the struggle among the Prophet’s heirs, they stand with Ibn H · anbal against the caliphs, even though such an alliance demands a substantial concession of authority to Ibn H · anbal. Given the alliance of proto-Sunni scholars and ascetics against the mih·nacaliphs, the oddest testimony of all is that attributed to al-Ma mu¯n. According to al-Sulamı¯, the caliph stated that “there is no one left in this town before whom one need be abashed except for that elder, Bishr b. al-Ha¯rith.”172 Why · would al-Ma mu¯n have been “abashed” before Bishr? According to his own biographies, the caliph took a dim view of those ascetics who challenged him over points of sunna. Perhaps Bishr, who did not challenge him publicly, was a safe person for him to admire. Perhaps, too, the narrator of this report had an interest in making al-Ma mu¯n appear deferential to an exemplar of the sunna. And in fact the narrator turns out to be Yah·ya¯ b. Aktham, a notorious source for stories constructed to apply a Sunni whitewashing to al-Ma mu¯n.173 Al-Khat·¯ıb, who made a signal contribution to this process, includes Yah·ya¯’s report in his biography of Bishr.174 For their part, Bishr’s Sufi biographers would have appreciated the story, especially if they felt obligated to defend him against accusations of passivity during the Inquisition. Perhaps inspired by Yah·ya¯’s report, the Sufi commentator al-Ans·a¯rı¯ (d. 926/1520) claims that Bishr attained such high standing that al-Ma mu¯n decided to visit him. To pave the way, he asked Ibn H · anbal to persuade Bishr to agree. Ibn H anbal, however, refused to intercede for the caliph, and the visit · never took place.175 This obviously apocryphal story shows that the complex realities of the third century had been almost completely forgotten, at least by the fabricator of this report. No longer historical individuals, Bishr, Ibn H · anbal, and al-Ma mu¯n serve merely as representatives of their respective t·a¯ ifas. As such, they can be reshuffled to make a self-congratulatory point in a late Sufi text. Even so, al-Ans·a¯rı¯’s apocryphon does contain an echo, however faint, of the clamor of third-century Baghdad. Seven hundred years later, Ibn Hanbal still refuses to help al-Ma mu¯n shore up his religious author· ity. 172

174

175

Sulamı¯, T · abaqa¯t, 40. The town in question is evidently Baghdad, not Marv. When al-Ma mu¯n traveled to Marv on his father’s Khurasani campaign, Bishr was already some forty years old, and therefore doubtless already living in Iraq. Al-Ma mu¯n’s Baghdad years correspond to the time when Bishr was in his early ﬁfties or mid sixties, accounting perhaps for the caliph’s 173 Above, pp. 55–56. description of him as an “elder.” TB VII: 75 (no. 3157). This version has a ya nı¯ before Bishr’s name, making the name a gloss. Al-Ma mu¯n could thus have been referring, originally, to someone else. Ans·a¯rı¯, Sharh·, I: 88.

The renunciant Bishr al-H · a¯fı¯ 185

Conclusions The historical Bishr b. al-H · a¯rith withdrew from an early career as a H · adı¯thscholar to live in pious seclusion. His emphasis on asceticism and scrupulosity places him in the company of Fud·ayl b. Iya¯d· and other renunciants whose opinions were largely coincident with those of the emerging H · anbalı¯ movement. The major difference between the zuhha¯d and the ahl al-h·adı¯th was that the former rejected what they perceived as the empty learning and venality of the latter, as well as their willingness to impugn the character of believers in the name of rija¯l-criticism. But because these issues were of concern to many H · adı¯th-men as well, they did not drive a wedge between the two wings of the ahl al-sunna. Bishr’s criticism of H · adı¯th-scholarship was evidently acceptable: after all, he had tried it, and knew whereof he spoke. Moreover, his specific criticisms were not so different from those Ibn Hanbal himself could offer. · Both men insisted that the point of H · adı¯th-study was to learn and apply the sunna, not to seek fame or make a living. This commonality of sentiment is evident from the H · anbalı¯ sources, in which Bishr appears as a transmitter of H adı ¯ th and an exemplar of sunna. · A century or so after Bishr’s death, the mystics, now known as “Sufis,” set out to write their own history. Theorists such as al-Sarra¯j and biographers such as al-Sulamı¯, despite their awareness of the difference between asceticism and mysticism, declared Bishr and a number of his fellow ascetics to have been among the earliest Sufis. This predication, though anachronistic, was hardly arbitrary. Bishr’s conspicuous piety linked him to a tradition of world-rejecting asceticism present since the beginnings of Islam, and to which the Sufis wished to affiliate themselves. In seeking to explain why her subject, al-Fud·ayl b. Iya¯d·, became with the passage of time “less and less of a Sunni and more and more of a Sufi,” Chabbi has suggested that early Sufis, though well aware that al-Fud·ayl was no mystic, chose him as a precursor because he lent a cachet of pious orthodoxy to their still-marginal movement.176 The same appears true of Bishr. Irreproachable except perhaps for his failure to marry, he could serve as a symbol of Sufi conformance to Sunni orthopraxy. Moreover, his teachings, like al-Fud·ayl’s, anticipated the appearance of an ilm epistemology separate from H · adı¯th-study. Although Bishr did not reject (H adı ¯ th-study) in favor of ma rifa (mystical gnosis), he still rejected it, which · was enough to ensure his admission to the ·ta¯ ifa. Despite their assimilation of the early ascetics, the early Sufi authorities deserve credit (as Melchert has most recently and forcefully argued) for preserving their dicta more or less faithfully. That is, they do not put mystical pronouncements into their mouths. They did, however, set out to elaborate their vitae. In Bishr’s case, this elaboration took place through the adduction of narratives to illustrate his wila¯ya or “affiliation with God.” In later Sufi 176

Chabbi, “Fud·ayl,” 336 and 345.

186 Classical Arabic Biography biography, he has a dramatic conversion experience that turns him from a life of crime. His pronouncements against H · adı¯th-scholarship become progressively more vitriolic. He attains fame for his barefootedness, to which the Persian biographers assign mystical rather than ascetical significance. He shuns fame, but is condemned to suffer the adulation of his contemporaries. Finally, his sisters become famous too. In several accounts, they unwittingly compromise his striving for austerity. In other reports, however, one of them, Mukhkha, proves equally if not more devoted than he to the maintenance of perfect scrupulosity. Although many of these stories possess doubtful value as documentary history, they do illustrate the ·ta¯ ifa’s success in recasting its exemplars as conduits of continuing revelation. In the conviction that every word and deed of the awliya¯ possessed esoteric meaning, biographers created not only new interpretations of older stories but entirely new stories to be interpreted. No matter how elaborate Bishr’s vitae become, one constant is an interest in comparing him to Ibn H · anbal. This relationship possessed particular significance for biographers because it could function as a synecdoche for the relationship between the Sufis and the H · adı¯th-community. Most often, in the writings of both ·ta¯ ifas, the two exemplars express their admiration for one another. Even so, biographers appear to have taken the fact that the two men never met as a sign that, were they to meet (in a fabricated report, perhaps), an awkward interchange would occur, compromising the entente between the ifas. Ibn H · anbal, they felt, could not approve of a man who was indifferent ·ta¯ to H adı ¯ th, nor could Bishr defer to a man who was suspicious of any but exo· teric knowledge. With very few exceptions, transmitters appear to have concluded that a meeting between Ibn H · anbal and Bishr could not be described without producing a definite statement of one man’s superiority to the other. Even in dream-visions where Ibn H · anbal announces that he and Bishr have both been admitted to heaven, the two men do not appear in the same place at the same time. In an earlier study of Ibn H · anbal and Bishr, I argued that the former was an “inner-worldly ascetic” and the latter a “world-renouncing mystic.” Weber’s account of the two types, and of the relationship between them, does account remarkably well for the attributes both figures display in the later sources.177 As far as the piety each man exemplified during his lifetime is concerned, however, it would be more accurate to call both of them ascetics. Here it is tempting to accept Gert Mueller’s argument that Weber should have postulated two more permutations, a “world-renouncing ascetic” and an “innerworldly mystic.”178 Ibn H · anbal would still be the inner-worldly ascetic who regards himself as the instrument of God. His quest for merit consists in opposing the almost irretrievably corrupt institutions of the world. Bishr, for his part, would now be a world-renouncing ascetic: that is, he rejects the world 177 178

Weber, Sociology, 166–83; Cooperson, “Ibn H · anbal,” 91. Mueller, “Mysticism,” 71ﬀ.

The renunciant Bishr al-Ha¯fı¯ 187 · as sinful, and does not seek to act in it or upon it.179 As an ascetic, Bishr was closer in orientation to Ibn H · anbal than the Sufi tradition admits. Precisely because of the similarity, however, the remaining differences took on heightened significance. The biographers, like the parties involved, did not articulate these differences using descriptive terms like “asceticism” and “mysticism.” Even so, they seem uneasily aware that the exemplarity of both men implied a threat to the premises on which their respective ·ta¯ ifas justified their claims to knowledge. For this reason, they display a lively interest in reports that attempt to articulate and thereby delimit and control the difference. The most significant of these reports is the one that depicts Bishr as unwilling to stand up for Ibn H · anbal during the Inquisition. For the imam’s biographers, this declaration amounted to a concession that the scholars, not the ascetics, were the true heirs of the Prophet. The Sufi biographers did not take issue with this report, at least not explicitly. As a rebuttal, however, they had available Abu¯ Nu aym’s dictum that even prophets will envy the reward of the awliya¯ on the Day of Resurrection.180 Sufi biographers who accepted this characterization may thus have been justified in supposing that Bishr declined to stand where the prophets stand because he was already standing in a higher place. Although he supported Ibn H · anbal and Sunnism against the tyrannical heresy of the Abbasid Inquisition, Bishr needed neither H · adı¯th nor theology to find his way to God. Furthermore, he refused to let the travails of the umma interrupt his quest. Of course, the biographers did not make any of these claims explicitly. True to the Sufi emphasis on external validation of the walı¯’s internal state, they preferred to use the testimony of purported eyewitnesses. Ibn H · anbal, for example, far from joining those who condemned Bishr’s passivity, declares him the standard by which action in the world should be judged. Even the caliph alMa mu¯n acknowledges Bishr’s virtue, declaring that he, not Ibn H · anbal, was the only one before whom the Baghdadis stood abashed. Historically credible or not, this is the Bishr that his biographers gave to posterity. 179

180

A world-renouncing mystic, on the other hand, would ﬂee it merely to avoid being distracted by it; while an inner-worldly mystic would see it as a manifestation of the Deity into which he seeks to dissolve himself (ibid., 75ﬀ). H · A, I: 5.

Conclusions

Ever since I developed a taste for literature and learning, I sought out the biographies of scholars and men of letters . . . like one enamored and impassioned, searching as a lover for his beloved. 1 Ya¯qu¯t al-H · amawı¯ With ardor I sought out the biographies and death-dates of worthy men of the past, reading of those whom each period had brought together; and the material I collected compelled me to seek more of it, and pursue the subject further. Ibn Khallika¯n2

This study began by suggesting that the notion of heirship proved formative of the Arabic biographical tradition. The genre originated among akhba¯rı¯s, not H · adı¯th-scholars. It appears to have grown out of the pre-Islamic practice of combining a genealogy with a narrative about the persons named. However, it assumed its characteristic form by adopting a particular kind of genealogy – the transmission of knowledge – as a model. Nearly any ·ta¯ ifa, that is, any group of persons engaged in the transmission of ilm, could attain sufficient dignity to merit the composition of a collective biography. Some early subjects of biography, such as singers and poets, had little or nothing to do with the religious sciences. Other groups, such as scholars of language, used biography to argue that they did have a role to play in matters of faith. When the H · adı¯th-scholars belatedly began writing biography, they did so in the shadow of the akhba¯rı¯s, who already had to their credit such monumental achievements as the biography of the Prophet. Of the many notions of heirship current in the pre-modern Muslim milieu, that of heirship to the Prophet proved the most influential as a religious and political metaphor. Each of the four groups we have surveyed – the Abbasid caliphs, the Shiite Imams, the Sunni scholars, and the proto-Sufi ascetics – claimed heirship to Muhammad, or had biographers claim it on their behalf. · The textual careers of our four exemplars, including what biographers in each 1

MU, I:27.

188

Ibn Khallika¯n, Wafaya¯t, I: 19.

Conclusions 189 ·ta¯ ifa had to say about the representatives of the others, suggest that the heirship metaphor served several important functions. First, it served as a vehicle for asserting the legitimacy of one’s own tradition of authority. Second, it provided a pretext for expressing dissatisfaction with unjust rulers and a template for constructing descriptions of better ones. As expressed or implied in biography, the heirship metaphor also gave representatives of competing traditions a common basis for evaluating each other’s claims. At best, it provided a framework within which mutually beneficial divisions of labor could be proposed or vindicated. At worst, it made their disagreements all the more deeply felt. Flexible enough to serve different and even radically opposed agendas, the metaphor retained its power even as the reputations of particular exemplars were reinterpreted, re-evaluated, and in some cases changed almost beyond recognition. In the first half of the third/ninth century, the traditions of heirship to the Prophet evince little of the coherence they were to display in the subsequent literary tradition. The caliph al-Ma mu¯n emphasized his heirship to Muh·ammad by claiming the office of rightly guiding leader (ima¯m al-huda¯). However, he made this claim against the Abbasid caliphate, not on its behalf. In effect, he was a Shiite-sympathizing rebel who led a second Khurasani revolution against the caliphate. His designated successor, Alı¯ b. Mu¯sa¯ al-Rid·a¯, claimed the imamate on the basis of his Alid descent, and more specifically on the interpretive authority presumed to subsist in the lineal descendants of the Prophet’s grandson al-H · usayn. However, not all Imami Shiites accepted alRid·a¯’s claim, preferring to believe that his father, the previous Imam, had been the last of the line. Meanwhile, the self-proclaimed “people of the sunna” had come to develop their H · adı¯th-based, anti-Alid notions of heirship to Muh·ammad. Some accepted Abbasid patronage, and served the state as judges. Others, however, refused to acquiesce in an arrangement that made them subordinate to the caliph as interpreters of the sunna. Of the latter group, some proclaimed their own authority to “enjoin good and forbid evil,” while others retired into clannish isolation behind a barrier of scrupulosity. The fourth tradition we have examined, Sufism, hardly existed at all in this period. Its forerunners were to be found among the proto-Sunnis, specifically those who enjoined scrupulosity and asceticism but looked askance at the single-minded pursuit of H · adı¯th. Such figures evidently symbolized pious opposition to al-Ma mu¯n’s theologically assertive regime, and appear as characters in the recurrent tales of ragged zealots who challenge the authority of the caliph. But the zealots’ real-life counterparts, the Sunni renunciants, had yet to develop a distinctive epistemology that set them apart from their Hadı¯th-minded colleagues. · In the biographical tradition of subsequent ages, each of these traditions took on a coherence possible only in retrospect. This reformulation of the past emerges most clearly from the biographies written to commemorate the exemplars of each tradition. Of our four subjects, al-Ma mu¯n appears to have

190 Classical Arabic Biography undergone the greatest number of reversals. First, his biographers cut his pretensions down to size. Admire him though they might, they did not take his claims to the “rightly guided imamate” very seriously. Their critical distance is plausible enough given his record of scandalizing the representatives of nearly every strain of religious and political conviction. Moreover, his biographers, unlike those of the other exemplars, did not themselves belong to the ifa they were commemorating. With the decline of the caliphate, however, ·ta¯ the Sunnis rallied around the now-pathetic Abbasids. As part of this process, the biographers depicted al-Ma mu¯n as a master of H · adı¯th and a defender of Sunnism. To make this recuperation work, his designation of an Alid heir and his summoning of the Inquisition were swept under the rug. The caliph, not to mention the victims of the Inquisition, would doubtless have been perplexed, if not appalled, had he lived to witness such an odd transformation. Later, the biographers of the Mamluk period, far in time and space from the factional strife in Baghdad, saw through the pious misrepresentations of their predecessors. Having uncovered the scandals, they declared that al-Ma mu¯n’s Shiite convictions led him to espouse the doctrine of the created Qur a¯n. This particular conclusion is inaccurate, but the biographers’ achievement stands. Despite their disapproval of his conduct, they granted him the dignity of being judged on the basis of creeds he actually espoused. Al-Ma mu¯n’s Alid heir apparent, Alı¯ al-Rid·a¯, fared far better, at least in some quarters. Disbelieved, questioned, and harassed during his lifetime, he appears a century later as the eighth Imam of the Twelver Shiites. His eventual vindication doubtless owes something to his own efforts, preserved in the responsa he tirelessly delivered to followers and skeptics alike. Just as important, however, was the contribution of his partisans, who circulated his responsa, recounted his virtues, and supplied whatever miracle-tales were necessary to prove his imamate. Even so, the dispute apparently continued well into the fourth/tenth century. Otherwise it is difficult to explain the titanic efforts of Ibn Ba¯bawayh to prove al-Rid·a¯’s imamate beyond any doubt. To help make his case, the biographer insisted that al-Rid·a¯ died in proper imamic fashion, murdered by the caliph. Al-Ma mu¯n perforce assumed the role of villain, hardly a just reward for his lifelong advocacy of the Alid cause. Later Twelvers took issue not only with Ibn Ba¯bawayh’s inclusion of miracle-tales, but also with his presumption that al-Ma mu¯n poisoned the Imam. Their objections are cogent, and do them credit. But the Twelver conviction that the Imams, not the caliphs, were the true heirs of the Prophet made any such discussion marginal. In effect, al-Ma mu¯n’s real crime was claiming the caliphate while al-Rid·a¯ was alive. Anyone who would do that, the Twelver tradition has concluded, would hardly shrink from poisoning his rival. Yet it is not at all clear what would have happened had al-Rida¯ actually assumed the caliphate. · In retrospect, at least, his untimely death spared him the opprobrium of collusion with the tyrant, and preserved the Shiite imamate as an oppositional ideal of heirship to the Prophet.

Conclusions 191 While al-Rid·a¯’s biographers insisted that al-Ma mu¯n’s kindness to the Imam had been a trick, Ibn H · anbal’s biographers eventually convinced themselves that the Abbasid persecution of their exemplar had been a fortunate mistake. They had first to establish that Ibn H · anbal never gave in to the Inquisition, and that his resistance had vindicated their belief that the Qur a¯n was uncreated. In reality, Ibn H · anbal appears to have given little thought to the createdness of the Qur a¯n before the Inquisition. Only after being interrogated, threatened with death, imprisoned, tried again, and finally flogged by al-Ma mu¯n’s successor al-Mu tas·im did he emerge as a fluent advocate of the creationist position. More important, he assumed the role of destined defender of the faith, patron saint of the sunna, and baraka-wielding arbiter of salvation. Given his enormous prestige, his biographers exercised admirable restraint in writing about him. Many, admittedly, gave their imaginations free rein when describing his trial and flogging. But even this enthusiasm appears justified in view of the plausible and persistent rumors that he had indeed capitulated under the lash. With only minor exceptions, furthermore, the H · anbalı¯s respected the imam’s insistence upon deference to temporal authority. The eventual accommodation between the ahl al-sunna and the caliphate was helped along by al-Mutawakkil’s capitulation to Sunnism and the subsequent decline of the Abbasid dynasty. Later Sunni biographers, including the Mamluk-period authorities, continued to represent Ibn H · anbal as the champion of Sunnism against the deadly heresy of the Inquisition. But they did not blame the Abbasid caliphate, or question its heirship to the Prophet. Rather, they depicted al-Ma mu¯n as an exception to the rule. Many, moreover, took pains to point out the baleful influence of the court theologians, without whom the caliphs would never have dared abuse Ibn H · anbal. The result of these reformulations is a division of labor that echoes actual arrangements in the Mamluk period: a figurehead caliph, a sultan with (theoretically) limited juristic authority, and a scholarly class that enjoyed a (theoretical) monopoly on interpretive authority. A second accommodation emerges from the study of Bishr al-H · a¯fı¯, like Ibn H anbal a pious exemplar of the ahl al-sunna. In his own day, Bishr, like many · of his contemporaries, had his doubts about the utility of H adı ¯ th-study. Even · so, the H adı ¯ th-minded could not bring themselves to condemn him. Unlike al· Muh·a¯sibı¯, whom they did condemn, Bishr propounded no doctrine for his detractors to pounce on. Moreover, he was conspicuously pious, ascetical, and scrupulous, so much so that Ibn H · anbal regarded him as an exemplar. The event that cemented their uneasy alliance was the Inquisition. Ibn H · anbal, as Bishr explained, had stood where the prophets stand: that is, he had assumed Moses’ role of defying Pharaoh. Bishr himself, as everyone knew, had done nothing but praise the imam and deplore his failure to speak in his defense. The ascetics, represented by Bishr, thus conceded Ibn Hanbal’s authority. The · imam, for his part, reciprocated the gesture. He expressed his gratitude for Bishr’s approval, and eventually came to agree that one should not teach

192 Classical Arabic Biography H · adı¯th (at least not to princes). In later centuries, the balance of power shifted, at least in retrospect. The Sufi tradition, of which Bishr himself was only a precursor, announced that he had been one of its founding members. In his new role as Sufi exemplar, Bishr acquired a conversion, an almost indispensable topos of Sufi exemplarity, along with the power to work miracles and convey mystical insight. His comments against the H · adı¯th-scholars also grow sharper. By implication, too, his passivity during the Inquisition is justified: a mere ascetic might confront the world, but a true mystic simply transcends it. By the Mamluk period, even the rigorous and skeptical al-Dhahabı¯ could only proclaim that God alone could judge between Ibn H · anbal and Bishr al-H · a¯fı¯. On the basis of these case studies, this essay offers a response to the question of where biography stands in relation to historiography on the one hand and literature on the other. As a supplement to annalistic historiography, biography served as a venue for commentary on the events of history. To do so, it necessarily adopted techniques of plotting and characterization conventionally associated with fictional narration. But the presence of these techniques does not, I think, account for the fascination these texts exerted on such readers as Ya¯qu¯t, Ibn Khallika¯n, and al-Safadı¯. Rather, I would propose, the · reader’s (or listener’s) appreciation of biography depended upon the comparison of any one account to all the other known versions of the “same” story, and indeed of all the other accounts that had any bearing on the topic. This intertextual effect is particularly easy to discern in the cases I have presented, which offer multiple perspectives on a limited set of personalities and events. But I suggest that this effect is the quintessential literary achievement of premodern Arabic prose. The single most important consideration when seeking to understand both the documentary and literary effects of a report is not the identity of its eyewitnesses, transmitters, or compilers, or even the genre to which it belongs, but rather the presence of other reports that substantiate, contradict, or complement it, and by virtue of these relationships set up a necessarily interpretive and critical chain of associations in the reader’s mind. In choosing traditions that had a great deal to say about each other, I have proposed my own set of associations. Others, not least the parties themselves, would doubtless propose others. Having checked my reactions against those of the biographers whenever possible, I am nevertheless confident that the associations and connections offered here are plausible ones given the extant evidence, and as such contribute to our understanding of how premodern Arab-Islamic culture told its most important stories.

Appendix: The circumstances of Alı¯ al-Rid·a¯’s death

An early report states that Alı¯ b. Hisha¯m poisoned al-Rid·a¯. The source for the report, al-Ya qu¯bı¯, expresses little conﬁdence in it, introducing it with “it is said” (qı¯l). But he does seem sure that, if al-Rid·a¯ was poisoned, al-Ma mu¯n was not responsible.1 Given the suspicious timing of al-Rid·a¯’s death and the evidence for al-Ma mu¯n’s innocence,2 it appears worthwhile to investigate alYa qu¯bı¯’s report more closely. Although the report itself cannot be corroborated, it suggests the broader possibility that someone like Alı¯ b. Hisha¯m – that is, one of al-Ma mu¯n’s abna¯ commanders – took the step of removing alRid·a¯ without the caliph’s knowledge or consent. To substantiate the plausibility of this suggestion, it will be necessary to look more closely at other reports of the events in Marv and T·u¯s. There is ample evidence that the abna¯ in Baghdad opposed the designation of al-Rid·a¯.3 Not surprisingly, their comrades in Khurasan shared their dismay. According to al-Jahshiya¯rı¯, al-Ma mu¯n asked al-Fad·l b. Sahl to justify to the commander Nu aym b. H · a¯zim the designation of al-Rid·a¯ as heir apparent. Nu aym was a descendant of the abna¯ al-da wa: in his response to al-Fad·l, he cited his family’s longtime service to the Ha¯shimı¯ cause. He then declared that “he would not accept humiliation, nor accept obedience to one whose blood he had shed.” Al-Fadl remonstrated with him, but Nu aym retorted: · “You only want to take the kingship from the Abbasids and give it to the Alids, and then plot against them [in turn] to make the government Kisrawı¯,” i.e., Sasanid. In support of this accusation, he noted that the court had adopted not the Alid white but rather green, “the uniform of Chosroes and the Magians.” He then turned to al-Ma mu¯n and said: “Fear God, Commander of the Believers! Don’t let [al-Fad·l] cheat you of your religion and your rule, for the men of Khurasan (ahl Khura¯sa¯n) will not swear allegiance to a man whose blood drips from their swords.” Al-Ma mu¯n ordered Nu aym out, then asked al-Fadl whether he should kill him. Al-Fadl advised against this plan, · · noting that the caliph had recently killed Harthama b. A yan4 and Yah·ya¯ b. 11 13

Ya qu¯bı¯, Ta rı¯kh, II: 550–51; and above, p. 90. 14 See above, p. 31. See above, pp. 96–97.

See above, pp. 29–32.

193

194 Appendix Amir5 and ordered the humiliation of Abd Alla¯h b. Ma¯lik,6 all members of the abna¯ . Any more provocation, and the Khurasanis would rise. Al-Fad·l thus recommended that Nu aym be sent to fight against Ibra¯hı¯m b. al-Mahdı¯. Nu aym was duly sent, and (as al-Ma mu¯n had feared) went over to the side of the counter-caliph.7 Although this report appears to be a bit of nasty antiFad·l propaganda, the suspicions it ascribes to both sides are entirely plausible. Many of the abna¯ had gone over to al-Amı¯n, giving the caliph reason to fear that others might desert to Ibra¯hı¯m. The abna¯ , meanwhile, had been illtreated by al-Ma mu¯n, a circumstance they blamed on Fad·l.8 Given this state of affairs, Nu aym might well view the designation of al-Rid·a¯ as another plot by the vizier, while al-Ma mu¯n would hear Nu aym’s warning about the ahl Khura¯sa¯n as a threat. Under these circumstances, the last thing the caliph might be expected to do would be to put the abna¯ in charge of al-Rid·a¯’s safety. Yet that is apparently what he did. In his Asma¯ al-mughta¯lı¯n, Muh·ammad b. H · abı¯b (d. 245/859–60) reports that al-Ma mu¯n appointed a police detail (shurt·a) and a guard (h·aras) for al-Rid·a¯.9 The former may have presided over his public audiences while the latter served as a private guard.10 The head of the police is named as al- Abba¯s b. Ja far b. Muh·ammad b. al-Ash ath, who appears to be the banawı¯ of that name who was sent to al-Ma mu¯n’s court in Marv after serving as governor of Khurasan under al-Rashı¯d.11 The head of the guard is named as Sa ı¯d b. Salm,12 who may be the Sa ı¯d b. Salm who governed Mosul, Tabarista¯n, the · Jazı¯ra, and Sind under Ha¯ru¯n.13 Of these two men, the first, al- Abba¯s b. Ja far, had a background similar to that of Nu aym b. H · a¯zim. He was a descendant of one of the first supporters of the Abbasid da wa, and his brother Uqba fought on the side of al-Amı¯n in the civil war. A less likely guarantor of al-Rid·a¯’s safety is hard to imagine. The second man, Sa ı¯d b. Salm (if it is indeed he), was of Syrian rather than banawı¯ descent; his appointment may thus represent an attempt on al-Ma mu¯n’s part to counterbalance the power of the abna¯ in al-Rid·a¯’s shurt·a. 15

17 18 19 10 11

¯ mir b. Isma¯ ı¯l al-Ha¯rithı¯ (d. 200), “a quintessential Banawi” (Crone) who accomYah·ya b. A · panied Harthama to Marv. He addressed the caliph as amı¯r al-ka¯ﬁ rı¯n, and was executed on the spot (Ya qu¯bı¯, Ta rı¯kh, II: 546; TRM, VIII: 535; Tabari, Reuniﬁcation, 45 n. 135; Crone, Slaves, 257 n. 604). A son of one of the naqı¯bs, and head of the shurt·a under al-Mahdı¯, al-Ha¯dı¯, and Haru¯n (Crone, Slaves, 181–82). Al-Jahshiya¯rı¯’s sources claim that he was ousted by al-Fad·l on trumped-up charges of sexual licence and cursing his (al-Fad·l’s) mother (314–16). Jahshiya¯rı¯, Wuzara¯ , 312–14; cited in Arazi and El ad, “Epître,” 67: 32. See Harthama’s insults to him in ibid., 317–18. Ibn H · abı¯b, Asma¯ , 201–2. See Tyan, Organisation judiciaire, II: 352–435; Crone, Slaves, 248, notes 474 and 475. Crone, Slaves, 185. If the Mughta¯lı¯n report is correct, Crone’s guess that al- Abba¯s went over 12 The text reads s·ylm, which appears to be an error. to al-Amı¯n is mistaken. Crone, Slaves, 137–38. The statement in Arazi and El ad, “Epître,” that “le H · a¯jib de Alı¯ alRid·a¯ n’était autre que Shabı¯b b. H umayd b. Qah aba l ex-gouverneur de Qu ¯ mis,” with a refer· · ence to Crone, Slaves, 198, is an error: Crone tells us only that Shabı¯b was the head of al-Ma mu¯n’s h·aras, as is stated in Ya qu¯bı¯, Ta rı¯kh, II: 574.

The circumstances of Alı¯ al-Rida¯’s death 195 · Shortly after the caliph’s party departed for Iraq, al-Rid·a¯ died. The man suspected of murdering him is Alı¯ b. Hisha¯m al-Marwazı¯ (d. 217/832), who, it is said, served him a poisoned pomegranate. Originally from Khurasan, Alı¯ served as al-H · asan b. Sahl’s deputy in Baghdad and took an active part in the struggle for control of the city. He was one of the caliph’s confidants, and later served as governor in Jiba¯l, Azerbaijan, and Armenia.14 Given his banawı¯ background and his direct knowledge of the circumstances in Iraq, Alı¯ b. Hisha¯m is a plausible candidate to have attempted to further the caliph’s interests by doing away with al-Rid·a¯. However, it is difficult to place him in T·u¯s at the time of the Imam’s death. He was reportedly in Marv in 198/813,15 but appears to have gone thereafter to Iraq. When al-Ma mu¯n left Sarakhs for Iraq in Shawwa¯l 202/April 818, Alı¯ was encamped at Nahrawa¯n, a town north of Baghdad. In S·afar/September of the same year, al-Rid·a¯ died. In Dhu¯ alH · ijja 203/June 819, Alı¯ appears in Karkh, the southwest suburb of Baghdad, having been active in the negotiations preceding the capitulation of Ibra¯hı¯m’s forces.16 This sequence gives Alı¯ six months to travel approximately 800 miles to T·u¯s and poison al-Rid·a¯, and then nine months to return to Baghdad. However, al-T·abarı¯’s account gives the impression that he was continuously involved in the fighting around the capital.17 According to the Shiite sources, al-Rid·a¯ was buried at the house of H · umayd b. Qah·t·aba al-T·a¯ ı¯, next to al-Rashı¯d18 (who had died there while campaigning against Ra¯fi b. al-Layth). H · umayd b. Qah·t·a¯ba died in Khurasan, after serving as governor under al-Mahdı¯, in 159.19 According to al-T·abarı¯, however, al-Rashı¯d was interred in a house belonging to Junayd b. Abd al20 Junayd was an Umayyad governor of Rah·ma¯n or H · umayd b. Abı¯ Gha¯nim. 21 Khurasan, and had died in 115 or 116. H · umayd b. Abı¯ Gha¯nim was governor of Sı¯sta¯n under Ha¯ru¯n, and fought with al-H · asan b. Sahl against Ibra¯hı¯m b. al-Mahdı¯; he died in 210.22 Given the order of their appointments and deaths, these three men (H · umayd b. Qah·t·aba, Junayd b. Abd al-Rah·ma¯n, and H umayd b. Abı ¯ Gha ¯ nim) appear to have owned the house in turn. Also, it is · possible that the Shiite sources confused H · uma¯yd b. Abı¯ Gha¯nim with H umayd b. Qah t aba: Abu ¯ Gha ¯ nim (i.e., Abd al-Hamı¯d b. Rib ı¯ al-T·a¯ ı¯) was · ·· actually a cousin of Qah·t·aba.23 In any event, the likely owner at the time alMa mu¯n’s party passed through the region is H · umayd b. Abı¯ Gha¯nim. At the time of al-Rid·a¯’s death, he, like Alı¯ b. Hisha¯m, was in Iraq, engaged in a series of battles and negotiations with Ibra¯hı¯m b. al-Mahdı¯.24 Taken together, these reports suggest the following reconstruction. Even before al-Rid·a¯’s designation, al-Fad·l had embarked on a campaign to contain 14 16 17

20 24

15 KB, index; TRM, VIII: 543–44, 546, 595, 614, 622, 626. Jahshiya¯rı¯, Wuzara¯ , 304. TRM, VIII: 565–66, 571–72, 574. Alı¯ was eventually executed by al-Ma mu¯n. A written notice attached to his severed head explained that he had oppressed the people, spent money wastefully, and shed blood unlaw18 19 UAR, I: 18. Crone, Slaves, 188. fully (TRM, VIII: 627–28; KB, 146–48). 21 22 23 TRM, VIII: 343–44 and 345. Crone, Slaves, 98. Ibid, 175. Ibid., 174. TRM, VIII: 571.

196 Appendix the abna¯ , either because he feared their desertion or because he wished to maintain his ascendancy over al-Ma mu¯n (or both). Some of the abna¯ had indeed deserted, and those who were left reciprocated al-Fad·l’s malevolence, most immediately because they blamed him for the executions of their com¯ mir and Harthama b. A yan. It was in the interests of alrades Yah·ya¯ b. A Ma mu¯n’s abna¯ to effect a reconciliation with their Baghdadi counterparts, who, besides being their kinsmen, would serve as a counterweight to the power of the Banu¯ Sahl. However, this could only occur if al-Ma mu¯n first effected his own reconciliation with the Abbasids. The designation of al-Rid·a¯ came as the worst possible blow to these hopes: it affirmed the power of al-Fad·l and infuriated the Abbasids in Baghdad. Soon after al-Ma mu¯n set out for Iraq, al-Fad·l was murdered at Sarakhs. The perpetrators, though they claimed to be acting on the caliph’s orders, were probably agents of the abna¯ (who may have told them that the orders had come from al-Ma mu¯n).25 Next, al-Rid·a¯, whose police detail consisted of abna¯ , died near the estate of H · umayd b. Abı¯ Gha¯nim, a prominent banawı¯ general then engaged, along with Alı¯ b. Hisha¯m, in negotiations with Ibra¯hı¯m b. al-Mahdı¯. This sequence of events does not support the claim that Alı¯ b. Hisha¯m carried out the poisoning; indeed, it makes it more difficult for him to have done so, at least in person. It does, however, ascribe plausible means, motive, and opportunity to prominent abna¯ commanders, who could doubtless act through local agents (among them, perhaps, al-Rid·a¯’s shurt·a) to carry out the poisoning of the heir apparent. Admittedly the evidence is circumstantial, but no more so than the evidence for al-Ma mu¯n’s guilt. Given, moreover, the positive evidence for his innocence, the possibility of an abna¯ conspiracy deserves at least as much attention as the purely impressionistic case against the caliph. 25

On al-Ma mu¯n’s innocence in the murder of al-Fad·l, see above, p. 32.

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Index

Abba¯dı¯, al- 138, 150 Abba¯s, al- 25, 26, 43, 49 Abba¯s b. Abd al- Az·¯ım al-Anba¯rı¯ 180 Abba¯s b. Miskawayh al-Qurashı¯ 137 Abbasids 31, 41, 70 disapproval of 37, 94, 100, 113–17, 180, 187 H · adı¯th of 54, 67 as heirs of the Prophet 26, 27, 29, 33, 49, 62 later Sunni view of 61–67, 110, 136, 137 religious authority of 34–35, 60, 62, n188 rise to power of 25–26, 29–30 see also caliphs abda¯l 143–44 Abd Alla¯h b. al-Muba¯rak 157 Abd Alla¯h b. Mu¯sa¯ 89 n94, 116 n59 Abd Alla¯h b. Tamı¯m al-Qurashı¯ 98 Abd al-Ghanı¯ al-Maqdisı¯ 137 Abd al-Rahma¯n b. Isha¯q 120, 121, 123, 126, · · 129, 151 Abdı¯, al- see Muhammad al- Abdı¯ · abna¯ , abna¯ al-dawla 25–26, 28, 116, 157, 193–96 Ibn H · anbal’s descent from 64, 109, 119 as opponents of al-Ma mu¯n 28, 36, 37, 39, 68, 157, 172 and al-Rid·a¯ 31, 32 Abu¯ Alı¯ al-Fadakı¯ 173 Abu¯ Amr b. al- Ala¯ 12, 13 Abu¯ al- Arab 130 Abu¯ al-Aswad al-Du alı¯ 12 Abu¯ Bakr (caliph) 24–25, 70, 107, 138 polemical opinions on 33, 46, 86, 89 Abu¯ Bakr al-Khalla¯l 109, 110, 142 Abu¯ Bakr al-Marru¯dhı¯ 112, 113, 148, 155, 171 Abu¯ Bakr al-Qat·¯ı ı¯ 155 Abu¯ al-Faraj al-Is·faha¯nı¯ 11, 72, 73, 74, 87–90, 91 Abu¯ al-Fida¯ 175 Abu¯ H · afs· al-Nı¯sa¯bu¯rı¯ 162 Abu¯ H · amza al-S·u¯fı¯ 179–80 Abu¯ H · anı¯fa 53, 57 n171

Abu¯ Ha¯shim 159 Abu¯ al-Haytham see Kha¯lid al-Hadda¯d · Abu¯ Imra¯n 130–31, 132, 133, 138 Abu¯ Khaythama 118 Abu¯ Mikhnaf 5 Abu¯ Mushir al-Ghassa¯nı¯ 37, 43–44 Abu¯ Nu aym al-Isfaha¯nı¯ 19, 175, 187 · as biographer of Bishr al-Ha¯fı¯ 165–70, · 171–73, 176, 177, 179, 181, 182 as biographer of Ibn H anbal 111, 131, 134, · 138, 146, 153, 179, 181, 182 Abu¯ al-Salt al-Harawı¯ · as associate of al-Ma mu¯n 85–86, 89 as associate of al-Rid·a¯ 85–86, 87 cited by Ibn Ba¯bawayh 87, 90–98, 99 cited by Is·faha¯nı¯ 87–90, 93, 97 Abu¯ al-Sara¯ya¯ 96 Abu¯ Yazı¯d al-Bast·a¯mı¯ 159, 163 Abu¯ Yu¯suf 4 Abu¯ Zur a 117, 139 adab 6–7, 13, 17, 19, 23 adab al-mu arrikh 18 adl 42 afw 42 ahl al-h·adı¯th see H · adı¯th-scholars ahl al-sunna (wa ‘l-jama¯ a) 33–34, 55, 58, 112–17, 144, 151 al-Ma mu¯n’s view of 33–40, 43–48, 55, 59–60, 115, 151 and the zuhha¯d 44–45, 114–15, 154–55, 185–87 and the a¯mma 46–48, 68, 111–12, 115 see also H·anbalı¯s; Sunnis; zuhha¯d Ah·mad b. Alı¯ al-Ansa¯rı¯ 97–98 Ah·mad b. al-Faraj 131–34, 135 ¯ isha 112 A akhba¯r 75, 122, 148, 155 and the origins of biography 2–8 and ta rı¯kh 18–20 akhba¯r al-na¯s 5, 18 akhba¯rı¯s 2–8, 9, 14, 46, 51, 107 see also akhba¯r; Muh·ammad al- Abdı¯

211

212 Index Alı¯ b. Abı¯ Ta¯lib (caliph and Imam) 12, 28, · 49, 54, 55, 86 as Imam 30, 70–72, 78, 90, 98 al-Ma mu¯n’s veneration of 29, 38, 43, 51, 53, 91 and the succession 24, 33, 70 as Sufi exemplar 100 Alı¯ b. Hisha¯m 32, 90, 91 Alı¯ b. Ibra¯hı¯m b. Ha¯shim 98 Alı¯ b. I¯sa¯ b. Ma¯ha¯n 26 Alı¯ b. Khashram 166, 172 Alids 70–71, 72, 78 as heirs of the Prophet 24, 25 and al-Ma mu¯n 28–32, 34, 51, 73, 89 n94, 91–92 sentiment against 34, 37, 56, 63, 70–71 allies of God see awliya¯ Amı¯n, al- (caliph) 26–28, 37, 41, 46, 49, 172 ¯ mina al-Ramlı¯ya 183 A a¯mma, al- 46, 75, 89, 133, 139 and the ahl al-sunna 33, 46, 112, 115, 123 al-Ma mu¯n’s view of 33, 38, 40, 46–48, 111 amr bi ‘l-ma ru¯f, al- 31, 38, 45, 58, 60, 115–16 Ans·a¯r 24, 25 Ans·a¯rı¯, Zakariya¯ al- 174, 184 anthropomorphism 33, 40, 122, 142, 148 see also tashbı¯h Ardashı¯r 22 Aru¯sı¯, Mus·t·afa¯ al- 174 asceticism see zuhd ascetics see zuhha¯d Ash arı¯, al- 110–11 Asqala¯nı¯, Ibn H·ajar al- 8 At·t·a¯r 173–74 awa¯ il 12n56, 16 Awj b. Unuq 170 awliya¯ 15, 141–49, 152, 162, 165, 186–87 definitions of 141n147, 164 Awa¯na b. al-H · akam 4 ayya¯ru¯n 140, 166, 171–72 in civil war 28, 31, 37, 38, 68 see also fitya¯n badal see abda¯l badı¯ 11 Banu¯ Mu¯sa¯ 32 baraka 138–39, 139n139, 142, 144–46, 151, 153, 171 Bayhaqı¯, al- 136 Benjamin of Tudela 62 Bila¯l al-Khawwa¯s· 182 Bishr b. al-Ha¯fi 100, 149, 154–55, 185–87 attitude towards H · adı¯th of 157, 162, 163–64, 168–70, 172, 180, 187 and ayya¯ru¯n 166, 171–72 barefootedness of 158, 173–75 fame of 170–73

in Abu¯ Nu aym’s Hilya 165–70, 171–73, 176 · as Hadı¯th-scholar 155, 158 · and Ibn Hanbal 113, 138, 152, 153, 155, · 157, 170, 176–84, 186–87 in al-Khat¯ıb’s Ta rı¯kh 168–69, 176–77 · al-Ma mu¯n’s view of 155, 184, 187 and the mih·na 171, 180–82, 184, 187 sisters of 175–78 portrayed as Sufi 157, 161–62 and Sufi contemporaries 156, 164 in al-Sulamı¯’s T · abaqa¯t 162–63 as za¯hid 155, 161, 162, 171 Bishr al-Marı¯sı¯ 37, 47, 135 budala¯ see abda¯l Bukha¯rı¯, Muh·ammad b. Isma¯ ı¯l al- 4, 7 Burghu¯th 122 Buyids 16–17, 61 Byzantines 33, 53, 59 caliphs biographies of 3, 15, 17, 19–23 as heirs of the Prophet 13, 19, 24, 27, 33, 49, 53, 62, 152–53 Hanbalı¯ view of 113–14, 115–17, 124–25, · 151–52 later Sunni view of 61–67, 110, 136, 137 Twelver view of 98–100 see also Abbasids; Umayyads Companions (of the Prophet) 3, 6, 15, 45–46, 86, 128, 153, 154 as sources of sunna 33, 55–56, 112 conversion 87, 166–67 createdness see khalq al-Qur a¯n Da¯raqut·nı¯, al- 4 da wa 28, 29, 172 Dhahabı¯, al- 19, 76, 100, 182 as compiler 8, 15, 17 as biographer of Bishr al-H·a¯fı¯ 170 as biographer of al-Ma mu¯n 63–64, 66 as biographer of Ibn H · anbal 136, 139, 148–49, 153, 182 Dhu¯ al-Nu¯n 157, 162, 163 Di bil b. Alı¯ al-Khuza¯ ı¯ 89 dream-visions 83, 131, 182–84 of God 135 of Ibn H · anbal 145–46, 182–84 of the Prophet 129, 150–51 Fad·l b. Dukayn, al- 58 Fad·l b. al-Rabı¯ , al- 41 Fad·l b. Sahl, al- 22, 31, 32, 88, 96 Fath· b. Kha¯qa¯n, al- 139–40 Fa¯t·ima 24, 30, 70, 77, 78 fiqh 5, 6n28, 36, 65, 108, 121 al-Ma mu¯n’s knowledge of 43, 48, 53, 65 of H · anbalı¯s 110, 111, 121–22, 149–50, 176–78

Index 213 see also fuquaha¯ fitya¯n 140–41, 166 see also ayya¯ru¯n Fudayl b. lya¯d, al- 45, 159, 162, 163, 166–67, · · 170 compared with Bishr 155, 185 fuqaha¯ 54, 112, 147, 160, 161, 167 biographies of 1, 3, 8, 14, 17 and the mih·na 33, 35–36, 65 genealogy 2–3 Ghadı¯r Khumm 70–71, 72 Ghadr 85 ghayba 168 ghula¯h 82–83, 92 Ghula¯m Khalı¯l 159 ghuluww see ghula¯h grammarians 11–13, 15 H · adı¯th 10, 12, 15, 40, 86, 92, 151 of Abbasids 54, 67 application of 141 attacks on 92, 122 as basis for fiqh 108, 122, 125, 126 and biography 7–8, 13 citations of 59, 81, 92, 99, 112, 114, 115, 120, 121, 129, 132, 139, 154, 163 emergence of 2, 4–7, 107–08 study and teaching of 53–55, 56–58, 81, 108–09, 110, 112 see also H·adı¯th-scholars; sunna h·adı¯th mursal 169 h·adı¯th qudsı¯ 169 H · adı¯th-scholars 86, 107–09, 120, 133, 151, 153, 161, 167 caliphs as 53–61 biographies of 7–8, 14 criticized by zuhha¯d 155, 157, 162, 163, 168–70, 172, 180 as heirs of the Prophet 8, 13, 55, 108, 151, 152, 160, 165 and the mih·na 33, 34, 35–36, 43–44 and the origins of biography 1, 3, 10 and Sufis 169–70 see also Ibn H·anbal H · afs· al-Farkh 113 H · ajja¯j b. Yu¯suf, al- 13 see also Shu ba H · amdu¯n al-Qas·s·a¯r 162 H · anbal b. Ish·a¯q 109, 116, 119, 148 as biographer of Ibn H · anbal 114–26, 129 H · anbalı¯s 61, 109, 110–11, 116, 151–53 biographical practice of 129–51 and Sha¯fi ı¯s 149–51 and Sufis 111, 146–48, 153, 179–80 and zuhha¯d 144, 155, 168–70, 185–87 H · arbı¯ya, al- 37, 39 Harthama b. A yan 82, 91, 95, 96–97, 98

Hasan b. Alı¯, al- (Imam) 70, 71, 78 · Hasan b. Sahl, al- 31, 88 · hashwiya 36, 38 · hawa¯dith 19 · Haytham b. Adı¯, al- 4, 14 hika¯ya¯t 163, 167, 169 · h·ikma 43 Hila¯l al-S·a¯bi 68 h·ilm 42 history, see h·awa¯dith; ta rı¯kh h·udu¯d 38 Hujwı¯rı¯, al- 100, 173 H · usayn b. Alı¯, al- (Imam) 34, 70, 71, 78, 83, 91 Ibn Abd al-Wahha¯b 111 Ibn Abı¯ Du a¯d 55, 57 in H · anbalı¯ family accounts 121, 122, 123, 124 in Ibn al- Imra¯nı¯’s Inba¯ 63–64 in Mu tazilı¯ accounts 126, 128 in Sunni accounts 65, 131, 132, 135, 136, 145 Ibn Abı¯ H · a¯tim al-Ra¯zı¯ 158, 168 Ibn Abı¯ al-H·awa¯rı¯ 163 Ibn Abı¯ T·a¯hir T·ayfu¯r 20, 41–48, 52, 53, 55, 59, 67 Ibn Abı¯ Usaybi a 15–16 · Ibn Abı¯ Ya la¯ al-Farra¯ 134, 138, 176, 180, 181 Ibn Asa¯kir 17, 150, 181 as biographer of al-Ma mu¯n 53, 54, 60, 62, 66, 68 Ibn Ba¯bawayh al-Qummı¯ 73, 76–84, 86, 90–100 Ibn al-Bakka¯ al-Asghar 119 · Ibn Habı¯b 14 · Ibn Hanbal 55, 57, 65, 108–12, 151–53 · in Abu¯ al- Arab’s Mihan 130–31 · in Abu¯ Nu aym’s Hilya 131–34, 146, 165 · admiration for 138–46, 183 arrest of 118, 119–22 attitude towards the state of 113–14, 115–17, 124–25, 151–52 baraka of 133–34, 135–37, 141, 145–46 and Bishr al-H · a¯fı¯ 113, 138, 152, 153, 155, 157, 170, 176–84, 186–87 confinement of 113–14 emulation of 141–42 in family biographies 112–25, 152 fiqh of 36, 108, 112–17, 138, 176 flogging of 122–24, 126–28, 130, 139–40, 181 in Ibn al-Farra¯ ’s T · abaqa¯t 134–36, 176 in Ibn al- Imra¯nı¯’s Inba¯ 63–64 in Ibn al-Jawzi’s Mana¯qib 136, 139–46 interrogations of 118–19, 120–21, 126–28 popular support for 39, 46

214 Index Ibn Hanbal (cont.) · possible capitulation of 125–29, 131, 134, 152 and proto-Sunnis 112–17 as rija¯l-critic 5, 7 and Sufis 111, 146–48, 153, 179–80 zuhd of 113–15, 143, 147 Ibn H · ibba¯n al-Bustı¯ 158 Ibn Hisha¯m 107 Ibn al- Imra¯nı¯ 53, 62–64, 66, 68 Ibn Isha¯q 5, 6, 70 · Ibn al-Jawzı¯ 14, 150, 153 as biographer of Ibn Hanbal 136–46, 149, · 181 as critic of Abu¯ Nu aym 146–47, 153, 177 see also dream-visions; Hanbalı¯s; miracles · Ibn Jubayr 62 Ibn al-Kalbı¯ 4 Ibn Kathı¯r 19, 136 Ibn Khallika¯n 15, 17 Ibn al-Murtada¯ 128 · Ibn al-Mu tazz 11, 13 Ibn al-Nadı¯m 2 Ibn Qiya¯ma 79–80 Ibn Quda¯ma al-Maqdisı¯ 174 Ibn Qutayba 10–11, 14, 45, 158, 173 Ibn Sa d 3–4, 6, 8, 10, 18, 129, 157 Ibn Sama¯ a 122, 124 Ibn Taymı¯ya 111, 147–48 Ibn Yazı¯d 19 Ibn al-Zayya¯t 132, 133 Ibra¯hı¯m b. Adham 162 Ibra¯hı¯m b. Alı¯ al-Naysabu¯rı¯ 155 Ibra¯hı¯m b. Ish·a¯q al-H · arbı¯ 155 Ibra¯hı¯m b. al-Mahdı¯ 37 counter-caliphate of 31, 32, 45 pardon of 37, 41, 42 ilm 8, 12, 15–16, 167, 180 of caliphs 33, 41, 43, 48, 49–50, 67 of H · adı¯th-scholars 108–09, 112, 127–28, 141, 147, 167, 185 of Imams 71, 77–78, 82, 93, 105 of Sufis, see ma rifa; tah·qı¯q Imam (of the Shiites), see also Alı¯; al-Rid·a¯; Twelvers 30, 98–100 attributes of 70–71, 75, 82–83, 100 as heirs of the Prophet 70–71, 100 imam (of Sunnis) 111 see also Ibn H·anbal ima¯m al-huda¯ definitions of 27, 34–35, 60, 67–68 depictions of 41–42, 47–48, 50–51, 52, 53, 62–64 Imamis 33, 54, 71, 72, 74 Imra¯n al-S·a¯bı¯ 82 Imru al-Qays 10 Inquisition, see mih·na I¯sa¯ b. Umar 13

I¯sa¯ b. Yu¯nus 164, 180 Isfaha¯nı¯, al-, see Abu¯ al-Faraj; Abu¯ Nu aym · Isha¯q b. Hanbal 110, 118, 119–20, 129 · · Isha¯q b. Ibra¯hı¯m 33, 34, 44, 110, 119 · in early mihna-accounts 118–19, 123, 124, · 125, 127–28 in later Sunni accounts 132, 133, 136, 137 Isma¯ il b. Bazi 77 isna¯d Abbasid 54, 67 of Abu¯ al-Salt’s testimony 97–98 · criticism of 122, 148 use of 4, 6, 69, 75, 135, 150, 167 istija¯bat al-da wa 144 Ja far al-S·a¯diq (Imam) 30, 71, 78, 165 Ja¯h·iz·, al- 8–9, 25 as critic of ahl al-sunna 38–39, 45, 46, 60, 68 on Ibn H · anbal’s trial 126–27, 131 Jahmı¯s inﬂuence on al-Ma mu¯n of 33, 53, 65, 151 condemnation of 37–38, 56, 117, 148, 125, 151 jiha¯d 59, 121, 139 judges biographies of 15, 17 and the mihna 35–36, 39–40 · proto-Sunni view of 57, 114, 150 Jumah¯ı, al- 9–10, 11 · Junayd, al- 156, 157, 159–60 jurisprudence, see ﬁqh jurisprudents, see fuqaha¯ Kala¯ba¯dhı¯, al- 100, 160–61, 162 kala¯m 148 Ibn H · anbal’s objections to 121, 179 al-Ma mu¯n’s use of 43, 60 al-Rid·a¯’s use of 73, 82 Sunni use of 40n90, 111, 125, 148, 152 Kara¯bı¯sı¯, al- 150 Karbala¯ 70 Kashshı¯, al- 78, 79, 83 Ka¯z·im, see Mu¯sa¯ al-Ka¯z·im Kha¯lid al-Daryu¯sh 31 Kha¯lid al-H · adda¯d 139 Khalı¯fa b. Khayya¯t· 7, 10 Khalı¯l b. Ah·mad, al- 9 khalq al-Qur a¯n 43–44, 47, 55, 118–19, 171 Ibn Hanbal’s objection to 118–19, 120, 121, · 123, 125, 138, 150 al-Ma mu¯n’s advocacy of 21, 33–40, 43, 63–64, 65–66, 86 Sunni refutations of 133–35, 137, 148, 151–52 Kharra¯z, al- 156 Khat·ib al-Baghda¯dı¯, al- 17, 19, 150

Index 215 as biographer of Bishr al-Ha¯fı¯ 157, 168–69, · 176–77, 178, 184 as biographer of Ibn Hanbal 138, 146, 178 · as biographer of al-Ma mu¯n 53–54, 56–58, 61, 68 Khid·r, al- 182 Khudrı¯, Abu¯ Sa ı¯d al- 59, 139 Khurasan 25–28 Khurasanis 36, 37, 132, 157 see also abna¯ Khuwa¯rizmı¯, al- 32 Khuza¯ ı¯, Ah·mad b. Nas·r al- 34, 39 Kulaynı¯, al- 90 kurh 124, 127 Lessing, Gotthold 175 Mada¯ inı¯, al- 6 magha¯zı¯ 2, 3, 4 Mahdı¯, al- (caliph) 65 Majlisı¯, al- 75 Ma mu¯n, al- (caliph) 14, 25–26, 67–69 accession of 27–28 and the ahl al-sunna 33–40, 43–48, 55, 59–60, 115, 151–53, 172 pro-Alid policies of 28–32, 34, 37, 43, 53, 55, 91–93 and Bishr al-H · a¯fı¯ 155, 184, 187 caliphate of 28–40 death of 34, 51–52, 119, 144 H · adı¯th-knowledge of 43, 53–61, 66, 67, 92 in Ibn Ba¯bawayh’s Uyu¯n 91–100 in Ibn al- Imra¯nı¯’s Inba¯ 62–64 in Ibn T·a¯hir’s Kita¯b Baghda¯d 41–48, 53 in Is·faha¯nı¯’s Maqa¯til 88–90 as malik 41–43, 52 in Mas udı¯’s Muru¯j 49–52, 53 and the mih·na 33–40, 53, 63–64, 109–10, 118–19 scientiﬁc interests of 32–33, 32n51, 43 Shiite attitudes toward 31–32, 73–74, 75, 86–87, 88–90, 91–104 in later Sunni sources 64–67, 137, 153, 184 in T·abarı¯’s annals 20–21, 53 in T·abarı¯’s sı¯ra 48–49 in the Ta rı¯kh Baghda¯d 53–54, 56–58, 61 in the Ta rı¯kh Dimashq 53, 54, 59–60, 62 see also under Abu¯ al-S·alt al-Harawı¯; Alı¯ b. Abı¯ T·a¯lib; Alids; a¯mma; ima¯m al-huda¯; khalq al-Qur a¯n; al-Rida¯; zuhha¯d mana¯qib 18 Mans·u¯r, al- (caliph) 45, 49, 58 Mans·u¯r b. Amma¯r 149 maqtal 18 Mara¯jil 27 ma rifa 156, 159, 185 Ma ru¯f al-Karkhı¯ 14, 149, 156, 162, 180, 183 Marzuba¯nı¯, al- 12–13

Mas udı¯, al- 28, 55, 59, 66, 90 as biographer of al-Ma mu¯n 20, 21–23, 41, 49–52, 53, 67, 68 matha¯lib 18 Mawsilı¯, Isha¯q al- 9 · · maza¯lim 42, 44 · mihna · events of 32–33, 109–10 H · anbalı¯ accounts of 117–25, 129–38 reasons for 34–40 later Sunni depiction of 53, 63–64, 65–67, 129–38, 184 victims of 37, 43–44, 55, 63, 118, 119, 181 see also under Bishr al-H · afı¯; Ibn H·anbal miracles 82n61, 133n121, 165 of Bishr al-H · a¯fı¯ 171 of al-Ka¯zim 80–81 of al-Rid·a¯ 81, 82–83, 89, 94–95, 97 of Ibn H · anbal 133–34, 135–37, 141, 145–46, 152, 153 Mu a¯fa b. Imra¯n, al- 180 Mu a¯wiya 2, 39, 43, 46, 55, 70 Mubarrad, al- 19 Mud·gha 175 mufawwid·a 82–83 muh·additha 86–87 Muha¯jiru¯n 24–25 Muh·ammad (Prophet) 12, 40, 77, 92, 112, 128, 145 biographies of 2, 5, 6 emulation of 114, 142–43 heirs of (see also under caliphs; H · adı¯thscholars; Imam; Suﬁs) 13–15, 160–61, 165 political succession to 24–25, 70 as source of sunna 47, 53, 107–08, 112, 142–43 zuhd of 114, 154 see also Companions; dream-visions; magha¯zı¯; sı¯ra; Successors Muhammad al- Abdi 21–23, 91 · Muhammad b. Abı¯ al-Ward 164 · Muhammad b. Alı¯ b. Hamza 72 · · Muhammad al-Ba¯qir (Imam) 71 · Muhammad b. Ja far 73 · Muhammad b. Nu¯h 119 · · Muhammad al-Qa¯ im (Imam) 72–73 · Muhammad al-Taqı¯ (Imam) 79, 94 · Muha¯sibı¯, al- 162, 179 · Mukha¯riq 99 Mukhkha 155, 165, 175–78, 180 muraqqa 159, 161 Murji a 33, 86, 145 Mu¯sa¯ al-Ka¯z·im (Imam) 30, 71, 77, 79n45, 84, 86, 91–92, 99 death of 73, 79, 80, 90, 95–96 and Suﬁs 100

216 Index mushabbiha 36, 38, 40 see also tashbı¯h musicians 8–9 see also singers musnad 4 Mustad·¯ı , al- (caliph) 62 Mustanjid, al- (caliph) 62 Mustarshid, al- (caliph) 61–62 Mu tasim, al- (caliph) 34, 39, 63, 110, 119, · 137–38, 152–53 at Ibn Hanbal’s trial 120–24, 126, 131, 132, · 133, 134–35 Mutawakkil, al- (caliph) 34, 55, 61, 110, 139, 181 Mu tazila 45, 63, 123, 126, 152, 170 and al-Ma mu¯n 33, 34 mysticism 14, 155, 159–60, 162, 186–87 see also Suﬁs na¯bita 36, 39 Naja¯shı¯, al- 85, 86 na¯s 47, 111, 130 nasab, see genealogy Nawbakhtı¯, al- 86 Nu¯rı¯, al- 156 physicians 15–16 poets 1, 6, 9–11, 17, 53–54 proto-Sunnis, see ahl al-sunna Qa¯hir, al- (caliph) 21–23 Qa¯sim b. Sala¯m, al- 53 Qawa¯rı¯rı¯, al- 119, 124–25 qiya¯s 36, 108, 151 Qummı¯, Sa d b. Abd Alla¯h al- 86 see also Ibn Ba¯bawayh Qur a¯n 10, 12, 15, 45, 70, 77 as basis for ﬁqh 108, 121, 122, 123, 125, 126 createdness of, see khalq al-Qur a¯n Qur a¯n-readers 1, 3, 14, 15, 17, 167 criticism of 161, 163, 171 Quraysh 6, 19, 24–25, 27 Qushayrı¯, al- 172, 174 qus··sa¯·s 107 Ra¯bi a al- Adawı¯ya 172 Ra¯d·¯ı, al- (caliph) 51 Raja¯ b. al-D·ah·h·a¯k 84 Rashı¯d, al- (caliph) 45, 53, 58, 65, 96, 150 and al-Ka¯z·im 73, 80, 91–92, 98 succession to 20, 26–27, 49, 50 tomb of 31, 75, 89, 92 Ra¯shidu¯n 60 ra y 36, 108, 121, 179 Rayh·a¯na 112 Reiske, Johann 175 ri a¯sa 33, 115, 122, 140

Rid·a¯, Alı¯ b. Mu¯sa¯ al- (Imam) 21, 73–74, 104–06, 144 al-Ma mu¯n’s designation of 28–31, 34, 50, 51, 73–74, 84, 88–104 death of 31–32, 51, 74, 83, 88–90, 93–98, 193–96 heir apparency of 31, 73–74, 84–85, 86–87 in Ibn Ba¯bawayh’s Uyun 76–84, 90–98 as Imam 30, 73, 76–84, 86 in Is·faha¯nı¯’s Maqa¯til 88–90 shrine of 74–75 sources on 72–73, 85, 88n90 and Sufis 99–100 Sunni views of 53, 63, 65–66, 76 see also under Abu¯ al-S·alt al-Harawı¯; miracles rida¯ min a¯l Muhammad, al- 25, 29–30 · · “Risa¯lat al-khamı¯s” 27, 29, 33, 41, 51, 53, 60 rija¯l 7–8, 158, 160, 168, 170, 185 ru ya¯ 40 S·afadı¯, al- 17, 18 Sahl b. Sala¯ma 31, 38, 39, 45, 46 capitulation of 32, 38, 45, 60, 68, 152 saints, see abda¯l; awliya¯ Sajja¯da 119, 124–25 S·a¯lih· b. Ah·mad Ibn H·anbal 109, 112–14, 140, 143, 148 as biographer of Ibn H · anbal 112–15, 75–123, 124–26, 129, 136 Sam a¯nı¯, al- 173 Saqı¯fa 24–25, 70 Sarı¯ al-Saqat·¯ı 156, 159, 163, 167 Sarra¯j, Abu¯ Nas·r al- 14, 15, 160, 161–62, 175, 185 Seljuks 61 Sha¯fi ı¯, al- 4, 14, 36, 108, 149–51 Sha¯fi ı¯s 111, 149–50 Shaqı¯q al-Balkhı¯ 100, 156 Sha ra¯nı¯, al- 170 Shiites 31, 49, 65, 74, 75, 86 doctrines of 34, 70–72, 72–73 and Sufis 99–100 see also Imamis; Twelvers; Zaydis Shu ayb 122 Shu ba b. al-H · ajja¯j 4 shubha 112–13 Sı¯bawayh 13 ·siddı¯q 161, 182 sifla, see a¯mma sinf 14, 16, 160 · singers 1, 7 see also musicians sı¯ra of the Prophet 2, 4, 6, 112 as generic term 18, 111 of the caliphs 20 of al-Ma mu¯n 21–23, 48

Index 217 Subkı¯, Ta¯j al-Dı¯n al- 18, 65, 137–38, 170 Successors (of the Companions) 3, 6, 128 Suﬁs 15, 50, 59, 156, 174–75 as heirs of the Prophet 160–61, 162, 165 biographical practice of 162–84, 186–87 emergence of 158–61, 162–63 and H · adı¯th-scholars 169–70, 185 and H · anbalı¯s 111, 146–48, 153, 179–80 and the origins of biography 14, 160 and Shiites 99–100 see also zuhha¯d Sufya¯n al-Thawrı¯ 158, 180 Sufya¯nı¯, al- 37, 38 Sulamı¯, al- 100, 162–65, 180, 185 Sulayma¯n b. Abd Alla¯h al-Sizjı¯ 134–36 Sulayma¯n b. Harb 56–57 · Sulı¯, Abu¯ Bakr al- 51, 85 · sunna 45, 77, 107–09, 153, 176 attitudes toward 33, 34–35, 56, 157, 165 citation of 53, 57, 121 knowledge of 7, 58, 60, 141, 160 used in slogans 45, 61, 110, 122 among Hanbalı¯s 112–17, 185 · see also Hadı¯th · Sunnis, 32, 54–67, 70, 75, 86, 111, 151, 185 see also ahl al-sunna su¯qa, al- 44 Suyu¯t·¯ı, al- 15, 19, 65–66, 150 ·tabaqa 16 ·tabaqa¯t (genre) 9, 10–11, 18 T·abarı¯, al- 45, 53, 61, 70, 74, 94, 96 an annalist 20–21, 49, 51 as biographer of al-Ma mu¯n 41, 48–49, 52, 53, 55, 67 account of mih·na by 118–19 T·a¯hir b. al-H·usayn 21, 28, 41, 142n51 tafwı¯d, see mufawwid·a tah·qı¯q 156, 167 ifa 13–18, 98–100, 161, 178, 182–84 ·ta¯ of caliphs 19–20, 62, 67, 98–99 of H · adı¯th-scholars 158, 186 of Imams 98–99 of Suﬁs 156, 159, 160, 162, 164, 167, 175, 185–86 taklı¯m 40 Tamı¯m b. Abd Alla¯h 98 taqı¯ya 126–27, 131 tara¯jim 18 ta rı¯kh 7, 18, 18–23 tashbı¯h 33, 38, 40, 45, 60, 125 see also mushabbiha tasmiya 3, 14 tawakkul 161–62 ta wı¯l 59, 120, 121, 176 T·aya¯lisı¯, al- 145 Tha lab 19 Thuma¯ma b. Ashras 47, 56

T·usı¯, Shaykh al-T·a¯ ifa al- 86 Twelvers 53, 66, 74 beliefs of 70, 72–73, 77, 90, 100 biographical practice of 75–76, 87, 91–100 internal criticism among 101–04 udaba¯ 17 see also adab udu¯l 33, 39 ulama¯ 3, 16, 17, 160, 167 criticism of 161, 163 and the mih·na 34, 120, 137 see also ahl al-sunna; fuqaha¯ ; H·adı¯thscholars; ilm Ujayf b. Anbasa 123 Umar b. H · abı¯b 57–58 Umar b. al-Khat·t·a¯b 24–25, 33, 53, 86, 124 invoked by zuhha¯d 44, 47 Umayyads 25–26, 36, 49, 62, 70 Uthma¯n (caliph) 33, 38, 46, 86 walı¯, see awliya¯ ; wila¯ya Wa¯qidı¯, al- 3–4, 5–6 wa¯qifa 73, 78–81, 79n43, 84, 96 wara 112–14, 116–17, 143, 154, 177 Wa¯s·il b. At·a¯ 46 Wa¯thiq, al- (caliph) 34, 39, 110, 137, 181 wila¯ya 87, 142, 144, 149, 153, 185 ¯ isha; Fa¯tima; Ghadr; women, see A Mukhkha; Zubayda Yaghmurı¯, al- 12 Yahya¯ b. Aktham 46–47, 50–51, 53, 5–56, · 151, 184 Yahya¯ b. Ma ı¯n 4, 5, 14, 118 · Ya qu¯bı¯, al- 20, 45, 90, 91, 94, 127–28, 133 Yaqu¯t al-Hamawı¯ 15, 17 · Ya¯sir al-Kha¯dim 94 Yazı¯d b. Ha¯ru¯n 33n53 Zaydı¯s 58, 68, 72, 87 Ziya¯d b. Abı¯hi 12 Zubayda 27, 49, 51, 66 Zubda 175 zuhd 114–15, 143, 147, 154, 173 see also zuhha¯d; and under Bishr al-Ha¯fı¯; · Ibn Hanbal · zuhha¯d biographies of 14, 17 as awliya¯ 153 as critics of rulers 45–46, 59, 139, 152 as critics of al-Ma mu¯n 44–45, 46, 50–51, 58–61, 68, 99–100 and H · adı¯th 155, 162, 163–64, 185 and H · anbalı¯s 114–15, 144, 152, 155, 168–70, 185–87 and Suﬁs 156, 159–60 Zuhrı¯, Muh·ammad b. Muslim al- 4, 5

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