The Convergence of
The Convergence of Judaism and Islam
JudaISM
ISLaM
and
Religious, Scientific, and
Cultural Dimensions
university Press of Florida
Edited by Michael M. Laskier and Yaacov Lev
The Convergence of Judaism and Islam
University Press of Florida
Florida A&M University, Tallahassee
Florida Atlantic University, Boca Raton
Florida Gulf Coast University, Ft. Myers
Florida International University, Miami
Florida State University, Tallahassee
New College of Florida, Sarasota
University of Central Florida, Orlando
University of Florida, Gainesville
University of North Florida, Jacksonville
University of South Florida, Tampa
University of West Florida, Pensacola
The Convergence of
Judaism
and Islam
Religious, Scientific,
and Cultural Dimensions
Edited by Michael M. Laskier
and Yaacov Lev
University Press of Florida
Gainesville · Tallahassee · Tampa · Boca Raton
Pensacola · Orlando · Miami · Jacksonville · Ft. Myers · Sarasota
Copyright 2011 by Michael M. Laskier and Yaacov Lev
Printed in the United States of America. This book is printed on Glatfelter
Natures Book, a paper certified under the standards of the Forestry
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All rights reserved
16 15 14 13 12 11
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
The convergence of Judaism and Islam : religious, scientific, and cultural
dimensions / edited by Michael M. Laskier and Yaacov Lev.
p. cm.
Includes index.
ISBN 978-0-8130-3649-6 (alk. paper)
1. Judaism—Relations—Islam. 2. Islam—Relations—Judaism.
I. Laskier, Michael M., 1949– II. Lev, Yaacov.
BP173.J8C67 2011
296.3'97—dc22
2011011170
The University Press of Florida is the scholarly publishing agency for the State
University System of Florida, comprising Florida A&M University, Florida
Atlantic University, Florida Gulf Coast University, Florida International University, Florida State University, New College of Florida, University of Central
Florida, University of Florida, University of North Florida, University of South
Florida, and University of West Florida.
University Press of Florida
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Contents
Acknowledgments vii
1. Introduction 1
Michael M. Laskier and Yaacov Lev
2. Judaism and Islam: Fourteen Hundred Years of Intertwined Destiny?
An Overview 10
Norman A. Stillman
Section I. Religion, Law, and Mysticism
3. Quran and Muslim Exegesis as a Source for the Bible and
Ancient History 23
Brannon Wheeler
4. The Quran’s Depiction of Abraham in Light of the Hebrew Bible
and Midrash 45
Bat-Sheva Garsiel
5. Present at the Dawn of Islam: Polemic and Reality in the Medieval
Story of Muhammad’s Jewish Companions 64
Shimon Shtober
6. The Use of Islamic Materials by Non-Muslim Writers 89
Yehoshua Frenkel
7. The Martyrdom of Sol Hachuel: Ridda in Morocco in 1834 109
Juliette Hassine
8. Halakhah through the Lens of Sharī῾ah: The Case of the Kuhlānī
Synagogue in S an῾ā’, 1933–1944 126
Mark S. Wagner
9. Jewish Mysticism in the Lands of the Ishmaelites:
A Re-Orientation 147
Ronald C. Kiener
Section II: Scientific, Professional, and Cultural Pursuits
10. Al-Khwarizmi’s Mathematical Doctrines in Ibn-Ezra’s Biblical
Commentary 171
Michael Katz
11. Pharmacopoeias for the Hospital and the Shop: Al-Dustur
al-bimaristani and Minhaj al-dukkan 190
Leigh N. Chipman
12. Jewish Parody and Allegory in Medieval Hebrew Poetry
in Spain 208
Libby Garshowitz
13. Mishaf al-Shbahot—The Holy Book of Praises of the Babylonian Jews:
One Thousand Years of Cultural Harmony between Judaism and
Islam 241
Merav Rosenfeld-Hadad
14. Encounters between Jewish and Muslim Musicians throughout the
Ages 272
Amnon Shiloah
15. “Estos Makames Alegres” (These Cheerful Maccams)—External
Cultural Influences on the Jewish Community of Izmir on the Eve
of the “Young Turk Revolution”: Theater and Music 284
Efrat E. Aviv
16. Poverty and Charity in a Moroccan City: A Study of Jewish
Communal Leadership in Meknes, 1750–1912 299
Jessica Marglin
List of Contributors 325
Index 330
Acknowledgments
This edited volume is about religion, intellectualism, and culture in Judaism and Islam. There are few, if any, studies that resemble it when focusing on the medieval and early modern times. The authors recruited for
this purpose rank among the best researchers in their field: historians,
scholars of Arabic and Hebrew literature, musicologists, mathematicians,
and philosophers. Indeed, some chapters are a mélange. The picture that
emerges is that the relationship between Judaism and Islam is complex
and depends on social conditions, common or contradictory interests,
and religious and cultural exchanges. During the final preparations for
the publication of this volume, one of the authors, Professor Juliette Hassine from Bar-Ilan University, passed away prematurely. She was a dear
colleague, and we shall cherish her memory.
We express our sincerest gratitude to the following people and institutions: Professor Fred Astren, director of the Jewish Studies Program at
San Francisco State University; Bar-Ilan University’s Aharon and Rachel
Dahan Center for Culture, Society and Education in the Sephardic Heritage and its director, Dr. Shimon Ohayon; and William Frost, president of
the Lucius N. Littauer Foundation in New York. Without their gracious
and generous financial support, the realization of this project would not
have been possible.
We are equally indebted to Yitzhak Kerner, the former administrative
director of the Faculty of Jewish Studies at Bar-Ilan University, and to
its former dean, Professor Moises Orfali, for their invaluable advice, as
preparation for the book was under way beginning in 2006. The help provided by Professor Eliezer Tauber, the former chair of our department,
viii r Acknowledgments
and his secretaries, Dganit Boni-Davidi and Ravital Yitzhaki, proved
indispensable.
Considerable work has been invested by Professors Brannon Wheeler,
Avigdor Levy, Bat-Zion Eraqi-Klorman, and Dr. Alanna Cooper of our
editorial board. They took out much time from their busy schedules to
peer-review the chapters.
We are thankful to Michael Glatzer, the academic secretary of the BenZvi Institute and associate editor of its prestigious journal, Pe῾amim: Studies in Oriental Jewry, for his great diligence in the initial editing process
of the manuscript. Special thanks go to Elaine Durham Otto, who thoroughly and skillfully copyedited the work. Last but not least, we praise
Amy Gorelick, editor-in-chief of the University Press of Florida, and
Michele Fiyak-Burkley, both of whom took charge of accompanying the
manuscript to press.
1
Introduction
Michael M. Laskier and Yaacov Lev
The single and collaborative leading works on Jews and Muslims in medieval and modern times published in English during the past four decades
include Shelomo Dov Goitein’s Jews and Arabs: Their Contacts through
the Ages (New York: Schocken Books, 1974); Bernard Lewis’s The Jews of
Islam (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984); Steven M. Wasserstrom’s Between Muslim and Jew: The Problem of Symbiosis under Early
Islam (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1995); Joshua Blau’s The
Emergence and Linguistic Background of Judaeo-Arabic: A Study of the
Origins of Middle Arabic (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1965); Norman A. Stillman’s Jews of Arab Lands: A History and Source Book (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America, 1979); and Benjamin H.
Hary, John L. Hayes, and Fred Astren, eds., Judaism and Islam: Boundaries, Communications, and Interaction: Essays in Honor of William M. Brinner (Boston: Brill, 2000).
Goitein’s Jews and Arabs paints a rather idyllic picture of Jewish-Muslim relations. Most of his analysis extends from the early days of Islam
on into the fourteenth century. Although of superb quality, it is a general
work. The same holds true for Lewis’s analysis in The Jews of Islam, which
is less diverse. It probes the links between Islam and other religions, general Judeo-Muslim traditions, as well as the late medieval and early modern periods that refer to Jews and Muslims in Sunni and Shiite milieus.
Wasserstrom’s Between Muslim and Jew sheds significant light on specific
Jewish-Muslim interaction in the context of messianism, Midrash, the
influence of Judaism on the emerging Shiite community, and class structure. Conceptually, Wassrestrom builds upon the findings of social and
2 r Michael M. Laskier and Yaacov Lev
political historians regarding interreligious symbiosis. This excellent book
is confined to early Islam.
Blau’s pioneering study The Emergence and Linguistic Background of
Judaeo-Arabic strictly concerns the symbiotic aspects of language and
linguistics. Stillman’s Jews of Arab Lands is a historical source book that
is largely based on a wealth of primary documents, many of them published in their entirety. It covers the period from early Islam until 1880.
The twenty-eight essays subsumed in the edited volume honoring William M. Brinner analyze and document Jewish-Muslim coexistence from
the advent of Islam until the 1970s. It encompasses religious, historical,
philosophical, linguistic, literary, and political themes. Albeit an impressive thematic undertaking, it seeks to cover in a single book an extremely
broad period and suffers from a periodization imbalance: the overwhelming majority of the essays relate to the Middle Ages.
The Convergence of Judaism and Islam with its sixteen chapters is the
most comprehensive and exhaustively written collection of interdisciplinary essays to date on the Judeo-Muslim experience dating from medieval times to the advent of modernity. This is its raison d’être. There is
innovative research into fresh topics pertinent to the days of the prophet
Muhammad, the great caliphates, and the multiethnic Muslim empires at
the height of their achievements and during their decline. The book is not
rigidly structured according to chronological or thematic principles, nor
does it follow a strict historical-chronological mode. The broader thematically based essays are complemented by specialized problem studies, all
of which make larger points. The chapters do not run consecutively and
successively from one early period or century to the next with perhaps
the sole exception of studies relating to Jews in early Islam. Even the essays that focus on the modern period relate largely to the persistence and
vitality of the traditional Judeo-Muslim relationships and commonalities.
In several Islamic societies as late as the 1930s, the benefits of modernstyle education or the dissemination of occidental ideals among Muslims
and Jews were nonexistent or the lot of tiny privileged elites. Countries
like Yemen remained immune to modernization for a long time. Changes
occurred under European colonialism in much of the Arab and Islamic
worlds, and among the non-Muslim minorities in their midst, owing to
the gradual integration into the modern world economic system and
with the rise of nation-states. These phenomena are investigated separately in our companion volume, also sixteen chapters long, entitled The
Introduction r 3
Divergence of Judaism and Islam: Interdependence, Modernity, and Political Turmoil.
How does this volume fit into the larger discourse in the field and contribute to its enhancement? Like other leading studies, the central thesis
permeating our sixteen essays is that Judeo-Muslim ties during the medieval and early modern periods were relatively peaceful at many levels
evolving around cultural diversity and intellectual and professional cooperation. This contrasted sharply with the grim realities in premodern Europe under Christendom where policies of institutionalized persecutions
and acute socioreligious marginalization prevailed. At the same time,
however, we contend that the positive convergence was not consistently
idyllic and had been nuanced. While not denying the vitality of Goitein’s
“symbiosis,” we share the term commensality expounded by Stillman as
being a more suitable expression of coexistence derived from mutually
advantageous gains. Similar to other books, we examine factors related to
history, literature, culture, and religion. Judeo-Muslim relations are measured by the extent of closely knitted ties, mutuality, interpenetration, and
occasional tensions and disagreements that arise at different levels. But
there is more: several key essays extend the definition of the relationship
to Jewish communal life per se in the realm of Islamic society, at times
parallel to it.
As already suggested, the major studies listed above are more restricted
in scope or suffer imbalances of historical periods. Other studies emphasize Judeo-Arabic language and literature or concentrate heavily on religious aspects. Several are textbook-oriented as well as reference works,
or they are more theoretical in nature, expanding on works of existing
scholarship by incorporating symbolic and conceptual aspects of interreligious symbiosis. We believe very strongly that our project will have a
lasting value.
Two broadly defined sections guide this volume: (1) premodern Jewish-Muslim religious judicial and mystical interaction, commonalities,
and conflicts; and (2) scientific-intellectual, professional, and cultural
pursuits. The opening chapter, “Fourteen Hundred Years of Intertwined
Destiny in Judaism and Islam?” provides a comprehensive overview by
Norman A. Stillman. Like Hava Lazarus-Yafeh, a leading scholar of Islam, Stillman points out that medieval realities significantly differed
from modern ones. While taking a bird’s-eye view of Jewish-Muslim
interrelationships throughout the centuries, Stillman characterizes this
4 r Michael M. Laskier and Yaacov Lev
intertwined destiny as “commensality,” derived from the Spanish term
convivencia (cohabitation, coexistence), which implies living together in
a shared environment. This sharing applied well throughout the duration
of the Ottoman Empire. Whereas much of the focus in his analysis is set
on the Middle Ages and the early modern era, Stillman deviates to some
degree by going beyond these periods. He admits that political factors
of the modern era did hurt the Judeo-Muslim entente, yet other central
reasons including the adoption by Muslim secular intellectuals, nationalists, and religious leaders of modern western anti-Semitic notions as well
as Christian traditions of the blood-libels. Over time, anti-Jewish feelings
gained momentum in the Muslim milieu through the radical Islamism—
Sunni and Shiite—that extended beyond the Middle East and North Africa, including the European Union, where large concentrations of Jews
and Muslim migrants could be found.
Section One—Religion, Law, and Mysticism—opens with Brannon
Wheeler’s chapter, “Quran and Muslim Exegesis as a Source for the Bible and Ancient History.” Wheeler examines the concept of the “Arab”
prophets in the Quran and early Muslim exegesis. Using Muslim exegesis
and documentary evidence from the ancient and late antique Near East,
he details how Muslim exegetes used biblical references and other preIslamic conceptions of prophethood to demonstrate that Muhammad was
a continuation and culmination of an ancient Arab history of prophecy.
In addition to illustrating how Muslim exegetes fashioned their authority
vis-à-vis Judaism and Christianity, this Islamic conception of prophecy
highlights the more general historical context from which biblical and
Quranic notions of religious authority emerged from the common culture
of the ancient Near East.
Bat-Sheva Garsiel’s “The Quran’s Depiction of Abraham in Light of the
Hebrew Bible and Midrash” also analyzes the Quran, stressing the possible Jewish, Christian, Judeo-Christian, or Gnostic sources of inspiration
for the Quranic revelation. Abraham emerges as a figure that is respected
by the Bible and Quran. Although at first glance the Quranic depiction of
Abraham “seems to be a modification of some earlier Jewish traditions,”
Abraham is perceived in the Quran as a prophet, the father of the believers, and the first Muslim. The Prophet saw himself as the final prophet in
the footsteps of Abraham, whose true monotheistic religion was falsified
by the Jews and Christians.
Introduction r 5
In “Present at the Dawn of Islam: Polemic and Reality in the Medieval
Story of Muhammad’s Jewish Companions,” Shimon Shtober contends
with other aspects pertinent to the early Islam. He discusses the relationship between the Prophet and Arabia’s Jewish elite, concurrent with the
precarious cultural and social climate to which ordinary Jews were then
exposed.
“The Use of Islamic Materials by non-Muslim Writers” by Yehoshua
Frenkel, provides a full spectrum of Jewish-Muslim interrelationship by
painting a broad picture of Jews within the matrix of Muslim state and
society. This essay is neither an investigation into the interdependence
between Islam and Judaism nor an attempt to reveal commonalities in
the holy sources. Relating to the post-632 ce periods under the caliphates,
Frenkel argues that the Muslim version of the rise of Islam and the position of the Jews within the Muslim state was not challenged by the Jews,
who instead chose to “manipulate the dominant Islamic version of the
past and used it to tell a historical story that supported their own case.”
He utilizes a sixteenth-century Hebrew text of Joseph b. Isaac Sambari
(edited and published by Shimon Shtober) that recounts Jewish history
under Islam, concluding that the non-Muslims “learned to read Islamic
tradition in a subversive way” and have produced what can be dubbed a
“counter history.”
It is thus acknowledged that all non-Muslim religious groups under
the caliphates and later Muslim central authority usually refrained from
challenging the hegemonic position of Islam and its laws head on. Notwithstanding, tensions arose when the relations between Muslims and
non-Muslims were at a low ebb or once the latter felt particularly threatened as communities or as individuals.
Juliette Hassine’s “The Martyrdom of Sol Hachuel: Ridda in Morocco
in 1834” is a case in point, focusing on the problem of Jewish conversion under Islam. In 1834, Sol Hachuel, a fourteen-year-old Jewish girl
from Tangier, was beheaded, having been charged by a Sharī῾a court in
Fez with accepting Islam and then reverting back to Judaism—an accusation which she denied. Backed by source material in French, Judeo-Arabic, and Hebrew, hitherto untapped, this study analyzes Judeo-Muslim
relations based on the concept of ridda (apostasy). It defines Hachuel’s
execution as martyrdom in the collective memory of Moroccan Jewry,
while myths about her abounded. Thereafter, Jews in significant numbers
6 r Michael M. Laskier and Yaacov Lev
regarded the Muslim qādīs, Muslim witnesses who incriminated her, and
even the Sharifian Sultan Abd al-Rahman as “losers,” “immoral men,” and
“dishonest.” Whereas Hassine does not rule out that her sources may well
be regarded as “apologetic literature” favoring Hachuel, there can be no
doubt that her beheading affected Jewish-Muslim relations adversely in
precolonial Morocco with long-range consequences.
As in nineteenth-century Morocco, Jews in other Muslim lands were
either victimized by certain stringent aspects of Islamic jurisprudence or
sought to benefit from its contents that proved advantageous to them. This
appears to have been the case for Yemen in the 1930s, where issues concerning both Islamic Law and Halakha emerged. The study produced by
Mark Wagner, “Halakha through the Lens of Sharī῾ah,” is a case in point.
In 1935, Jews in S an῾a’ were in conflict over whether the Kuhlānī Synagogue
was private property or within the domain of a pious endowment (waqf).
The Jewish leadership enlisted the ruling Imām Yahyā H
amīd al-Dīn to
help resolve the crisis. Simultaneously, prominent Yemeni Muslim jurists,
too, became involved. What was the decision adopted by the Imam? Did
it differ from the recommendations offered by the Muslim jurists? In the
broader sense, to what extent were non-Muslim legal systems regarded as
legitimate in post-Ottoman Islamic Yemen? Wagner addresses these and
other intriguing issues.
The Judeo-Muslim interrelationship went beyond religious orthodoxy
to include mysticism. Ronald C. Kiener’s chapter, “Jewish Mysticism in
the Lands of the Ishmaelites: A Re-orientation,” is an attempt to rewrite
the history of Jewish mysticism by examining its geographical origins and
focusing on its medieval and premodern manifestations. It is also an effort to wrest the account of Jewish mysticism from its Eurocentric focus
and place it instead in the context of Islamic culture. Kiener elaborates
at length on the ways in which Islamic culture helped shape mysticism
among the Jews beginning in ninth-century Baghdad and continuing
with such currents as the Sufi-tinged Jewish pietist movement of thirteenth-century medieval Egypt, the ecstatic Kabbalah movement founded
by Abraham Abulafia, and the origins of the so-called Spanish Kabbalah.
His major thesis is that based on this research the centrality of Islamic
culture cannot be ignored in developing a historical account of the evolution of Jewish mysticism.
Islam and Judaism complemented each other in other vital domains:
the mathematical sciences, the professions, and cultural diversity. Section
Introduction r 7
Two—Scientific, Professional, and Cultural Pursuits—begins with Michael Katz’s chapter, “Al-Khwarizmi’s Mathematical Doctrines in Ibn
Ezra’s Biblical Commentary.” Rabbi Abraham Ibn Ezra (1098–1164) was
something of a polymath, best known for his biblical commentaries. He
was also a mathematician, and Katz discusses the impact of al-Khwarizmi’s mathematics on Ibn Ezra’s writings. Al-Khwarizmi (780–845) was a
luminary from whose name and works are derived terms such as algebra
and algorithm, while Ibn Ezra is considered a transmitter of al-Khwarizmi’s mathematical ideas to Europe. As far as Ibn Ezra’s use of al-Khwarizmi’s mathematical principles in his biblical commentary, Katz points out
that “over the years Ibn Ezra’s approach was challenged from both the
religious and scientific points of view.” Nonetheless, he states, “No one
can deny the elegance with which Ibn Ezra integrates mathematics into
his biblical exegesis.”
Although during the Middle Ages Jews and Muslims collaborated in
mathematics and other sciences, while Jews are known to have contributed to the field of medicine, the point that pharmacy was a Jewish profession is less well known. The fact that two of the most popular pharmacopoeias were composed by Jews is even more esoteric. Leigh N. Chipman’s
chapter, “Pharmacopoeias for the Hospital and the Shop: al-Dustur albimaristani and Minhaj al-dukkan,” examines two thirteenth-century
pharmacopoeias, one written by Jewish Karaite physician Abu al-Fadl
Dawud ibn Sulayman ibn Abi al-Bayan al-Isra’ili and the second by the
other little known Jewish druggist, Abu al-Muna Dawud ibn Abi Nassar
al-Kuhin (Cohen) al-῾Attar al-Haruni al-Isra’ili. One of these pharmacopoeias (al-dustur al-bimaristani) was aimed at hospital use, while the
second (Minhaj al-dukkan) was designated for private pharmacies. Both
texts were written in Arabic, and Chipman asks whether the Jewishness of
the authors is reflected by their works or had influence on the content. She
states that these works were “aimed principally at a non-Jewish audience”
and that they “express no clear-cut religious identity beyond a general
monotheism.”
The benefits reaped by the Jews under Arab Islam at its zenith through
the enrichment of medieval Hebrew and poetic creativity—infused by
Arab poetry—compares well with the progress they made in science and
the professions. This is lucidly corroborated by Libby Garshowitz’s “Jewish Parody and Allegory in Medieval Hebrew Poetry in Spain,” where she
refers to Anadalusia as the place this decisive encounter took place. Her
8 r Michael M. Laskier and Yaacov Lev
discussion is focused on the transmission of Arabic culture in Hebrew
guise into the Jewish communities of twelfth-century Christendom. Of
particular importance is the love poetry of Jacob ben Elazar (c.1170–1235),
author of a ten-chapter collection (maqama/mahberet) of love stories
composed in about 1233. She singles out chapters 7 and 9 and points out
that Jacob ben Elazar’s poetry testifies to his “virtuosity and adroitness
in the Hebrew language” and the contribution of Arabic poetry in this
context.
The following three chapters complement Garshowitz’s study on Andalusia: Merav Rosenfeld-Hadad’s “The Holy Book of Praises of the Babylonian Jews: One Thousand Years of Cultural Harmony between Judaism
and Islam,” Amnon Shiloah’s “Encounters between Jewish and Muslim
Musicians throughout the Ages,” and Efrat E. Aviv’s “‘Estos Makames Allegres’ (These Cheerful Macams)—External Cultural Influences on the
Jewish Community of Izmir on the Eve of the ‘Young Turk Revolution.’”
Merav Rosenfeld-Hadad devotes attention to the impact of ArabicIslamic paraliturgical songs on Jewish culture and Hebrew poetry, with
roots in Iraq, pointing out that since the days of the ῾Abbasid Caliphate
in the lands of Islam, the content of the Jewish religious poems “comprises
themes and ideas that were inspired by the Quran and the Hadith as well
as Arabic poetry, Islamic philosophy, theology, and mysticism. . . . It lasted
more than a thousand years . . . and continued across the Ottoman Empire, when Islam was no longer as strong and powerful. Such influence is
still evident in the Aleppo-Syrian Jewish community of New York.”
Amnon Shiloah’s chapter is about music and musicians. He describes
the collaboration of the renowned Jewish musicians and their Muslim
counterparts and fleshes out important illustrations of such interaction
mainly in Tunisia, Iraq, Egypt, Uzbekistan (Bukhara), and Tajikistan.
Whereas Rosenfeld-Hadad speaks about Arabic-Islamic songs enriching
Hebrew poetry, Shiloah turns to the influence of Jews on their non-Jewish
milieu.
Efrat E. Aviv provides a wide array of cultural phenomena to include
Ladino, Turkish, and aspects of early modernization. Yet her main concern is with the influence by Ottoman Turkish musicians and theatrical
performers on Izmir’s Jewry in the final decades of the nineteenth century
and at the beginning of the twentieth century.
Covering mid-eighteenth-century Morocco until the inauguration
of the colonial era in 1912 is Jessica Marglin’s “Poverty and Charity in
Introduction r 9
a Moroccan City: A Study of Jewish Communal Leadership in Meknes,
1750–1912.” This final chapter tackles the “culture of giving” and the ways
Jews and Muslims coped with their less fortunate populations in one of
Morocco’s most traditional urban conglomerations. The case study of
Meknes is considerably important, for it is one of the key inland royal
Moroccan cities where the Jewish community was sizeable. Marglin applies charity and poverty to the broader Middle Eastern/North African
context. Her findings reveal that (1) prior to the penetration of European
concepts about charity, Jews and Muslims viewed poverty as a permanent
and natural reality that could be treated but by no means eradicated; (2)
both groups portrayed the poor either as inferior beings worthy of some
contempt or innocent victims of their fate; (3) donating to charity in order to assist the poor or scholars was a religious duty (by way of waqf
endowments among Muslims and heqdeshim among Jews), particularly
pronounced during holidays and feasts; and (4) while Meknessi Jews regarded poverty as a fact of life that could not be altered, they nevertheless
went beyond providing temporary relief. Part of the communal leadership’s goal had been to protect their members from avoidable impoverishment, by centralizing their responses to poverty and charity. Their Muslim counterpart chose not to act in a similar fashion.
2
Judaism and Islam
Fourteen Hundred Years of Intertwined Destiny? An Overview
Norman A. Stillman
One does not have to be a specialist in Comparative Religion, Islamic,
Jewish, or Middle Eastern Studies to know that Muslim-Jewish relations
are not—on the whole—ideal at this moment in time. Usāma bin Lādin
has on numerous occasions over the past few years called for a jihād
against “the Jews and the Crusaders.”1 The tropes and themes of both European medieval and modern post-Enlightenment anti-Semitism are to
be found among the principal tenets of virtually all contemporary Islamist
groups. This is irrespective of whether they are Sunni, such as the Ikhwān
al-Muslimūn, al-Qā῾ida, al-Jamā῾a al-Islāmiyya, and H
amas, all in the
Middle East, or Jamī῾at al-῾Adl wa’l-Ihsān and an-Nahdā in the Maghreb,
or H
izb ut-Tahrīr in Europe, or for that matter whether they are Shī῾ī, as
in the case of Khomeinism or H
izbollāh.2
But it is not only among the Islamists who, after all, represent a small
minority among Muslims, that such ideas have currency, but alas, among
many members of the broader Muslim population as well. When the Malaysian prime minister, Mahathir Mohammed, said in a speech before
the Organization of the Islamic Conference in October 2004 that “today
the Jews rule the world by proxy” (an allusion to the topos of The Protocols of the Elders of Zion), he not only received unanimous applause from
the kings, presidents, amirs, and ministers in attendance, but was praised
even by such a widely respected and generally enlightened figure as the
Afghan president, Hamid Karzai.3
Judaism and Islam: Fourteen Hundred Years of Intertwined Destiny?
r 11
There can be no doubt that the pervasiveness of anti-Semitism across
the broad spectrum of contemporary discourse is a concomitant of the
Muslim world’s emotional and political engagement in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. In fact, such ubiquitous fantasies as the Blood Libel or the
Jewish conspiracy to dominate the world are without any precedence in
the longue durée of Islamic thought. Like so many aspects of modernity in
Asia and Africa, these ideas are Western imports, historically un-Islamic,
and have been branded as such by a few bold and enlightened Muslims.4
This lamentable hostility has, regrettably, been reciprocated within
certain quarters of Jewry as well. Visceral anti-Islamic sentiments can be
found among extreme religious-nationalist quarters both in Israel and
the Diaspora. For decades, popular, generally nonacademic, historians
have been producing revisionist accounts of the Judeo-Islamic historical
encounter which emphasize a “persecution and pogrom” approach that is
the very antithesis of the Wissenschaft des Judentum’s “golden age” vision,
but like the latter, this is a polemical distortion of the past and, indeed, a
more seriously distorted one. Fortunately, this anti-Islamism is even more
of a minority fringe phenomenon in the Jewish world than is its homologue in Muslim society.5
The widespread contemporary animus obscures the fact—in the public
mind, at least—that the historical relations between Muslims and Jews,
and between Islam and Judaism, have been far different in the course of
the 1,400 years since the birth of Islam. And while never idyllic—nothing
in human history has ever been so—the cultural interaction was for long
periods mutually beneficial, and interpersonal relations were often good,
at times even cordial, and certainly far more nuanced than the contemporary state of affairs would suggest. There is also a tragic irony in all of this,
since Islam and Judaism have so much in common and have contributed
so much to each other’s development.
As to the issue of “Intertwined Destiny” as posed by the title of this
chapter, it should be emphasized that one does not mean to imply the element of Divine Providence or preordination—something best left to the
theologians—but rather, whether or not these two religious civilizations,
Judaism and Islam, have been intertwined in what the arbiter dictum of
English usage, the Oxford English Dictionary, calls the “weakened sense”
of the word destiny, namely, “What in the course of events will become
or has become . . . ultimate condition.”6 When suggesting the title of this
12 r Norman A. Stillman
chapter to the editors of this volume, it was debated whether or not it
could be with or without the question mark, the reason being that with
regard to the past the declarative is most appropriate, whereas as far as the
future is concerned, the interrogative is more prudent. As a historian, this
author feels more at ease when looking at the past, and it is in the course
of the 1,400 years of the Judeo-Islamic longue durée that an intertwined
destiny is most apparent.
The intimacy and mutuality of the social and cultural interaction between Judaism and Islam has been characterized by many leading scholars using the biological metaphor of symbiosis. The term was popularized by Shelomo Dov Goitein in the book Jews and Arabs, in which he
referred to a period of “creative Jewish-Arab symbiosis, lasting 800 years
[ca. 500–1300], during the first half of which the Muslim religious faith
and Arab nationhood took form under Jewish impact, while in the second half traditional Judaism received its final shape under Muslim-Arab
influence.”7
Goitein’s schema is too neat and tidy an oversimplification: first Judaism gives to Islam and then Islam to Judaism. Further, it does not properly
appreciate the later Middle Ages, during which, he notes, Jews “had their
full share in the appalling decline of those [i.e., Arab] countries,” and it
totally ignores the modern era. Nevertheless, both the notion of symbiosis and Goitein’s basic periodization took hold and became the standard
conceptualization in scholarship.8
However, since symbiosis can be characterized by either a parasitic or
a commensal form of mutualism, it may be more appropriate to describe
the interrelationship—the intertwined destiny—by the concept of “commensality,” which not only implies living together in a shared environment (like the Spanish term convivencia, often used by historians of Islamic Spain and early kingdoms of the Reconquista), but also, as its Latin
root would indicate, “sharing from the same table” (in this case a table of
culture, not comestibles).9
The destiny of Islam and Judaism was intertwined from the time of
the prophet Muhammad’s mission in seventh-century Arabia. Without
wishing to become involved in what has become on the whole an arid and
futile debate that began with Abraham Geiger in the nineteenth century
and was followed by Charles Torrey, Richard Bell, Tor Andrae, and Goitein in the twentieth, as to whether Jews, Christians, or Judeo-Christian
and Gnostic sectarians were the primary sources of inspiration for the
Judaism and Islam: Fourteen Hundred Years of Intertwined Destiny?
r 13
Quranic revelations, suffice it to say that there was a significant and specifically Jewish component among those influences, including religious
ideas, ethical notions, and biblical lore. This is being said while taking
cognizance of Julian Obermann’s still valid caveat that seemingly Jewish
material could have come into earliest Islam from Christians, and seemingly Christian material could have been transmitted by Jews (although
this author has always found this much less likely).10 However, there are
simply too many significant parallels between Judaism and Islam to be
reasonably explained as coming exclusively, or primarily, from non-Jewish sources. It is noteworthy that the great body of extra-Quranic lore
which comprises an important part of Muslim scriptural exegesis (tafsīr
al-Qur’ān) is actually called isrā’īliyyāt, or Israelite narratives, and some of
the earliest transmitters such as ῾Abd Allāh b. Salām and Ka῾b al-Ahbār
were converts from Judaism. Early Islam’s receptivity to Jewish hagiographic lore is further reflected in the oft-quoted H
adīth that enjoins traditionalists: H
addithū ῾an Banī Isrā’īl wa-lā H
araj (Relate traditions from
the Israelites without any qualms).11
As to parallels, it is the very structural model of the Islamic religion,
which is far closer to that of Judaism than it is to Christianity, that testifies to an early formative Jewish influence. But more importantly, this
structural similarity laid the foundation for the historical commensality, the intertwined destiny of Judaism and Islam, over the centuries that
followed. The most distinguishing features of this structural congruence
were the shared, strict, uncompromising monotheism of the two faiths
which rejects all iconography of Deity; the analogous notions of an allencompassing Divine Law that is partially revealed in a written scripture
and partially oral in form and that is conceived of as the path one follows
(halakha/sharī῾a); the parallel notions of purity and impurity (tahara,
tum’a/ tahāra, najas) and of religiously permissible and impermissible
food (kasher, taref/hallāl, harām); and the physical marker of circumcision. All of these structural affinities helped to create the psychological
possibility for a productive mutual existence. The Islamic perception of
Jews as ahl kitāb (scriptural people) together with the more numerous
Christians and Zoroastrians and the absence in Islam of the Christian
claim to being Verus Israël and of the odium theologicum precluded the
Jews being the ultimate “other” in Islamic society and also laid the groundwork for an interaction considerably less fraught with the tensions obtaining in Christendom despite the limitations of the dhimma social system.
14 r Norman A. Stillman
For their part, the Jews’ perception of Islam as not being idolatrous in
the way Christianity was perceived also contributed to the course of the
intertwined destiny. Jewish apocalyptic writings (the midreshē ge’ūla) interpreted the Islamic conquests as divine retribution visited upon wicked
Edom (Byzantine Christendom).12
The five hundred years following the Muslim conquests were an axial
period for both Judaism and Islam. The majority of world Jewry at that
time now lived in the Dār al-Islām. The conquests engendered a veritable
wave of urbanization, the like of which the world west of India had not
seen since Greco-Roman times, and it was during this period that the
majority of Jews (particularly in their great demographic center of Bavel/
Iraq) completed the transition that had already begun in Late Antiquity
from an agrarian to a cosmopolitan way of life.13
It was also during the first half of this period that Jews, from Iraq in the
east to Spain in the west, went over to speaking Arabic, the lingua franca
of the new oikoumene. But more important than merely adopting Arabic
as their spoken vernacular, Jews by the tenth century were using Arabic
in Hebrew characters for nearly all forms of written expression, including
in the religious domain. Queries and responsa (she’ēlōt u-tshūvōt), scriptural exegesis (parshanūt), legal documents (shetarōt), and treatises of all
sorts were written in Judeo-Arabic.
One reason for this thorough linguistic assimilation, as Joshua Blau has
pointed out, is that in the Jewish Middle Eastern heartlands, Arabic supplanted Aramaic, the previous koiné of both Jews and Gentiles, which had
already been used for both religious and profane writing. Thus the transition to Arabic seemed a natural process affecting everyone irrespective of
nationality or confession.14 Three additional reasons should supplement
Blau’s explanation. First, there was the recognized linguistic kinship of
Arabic to Aramaic and Hebrew that mitigated any feeling of foreignness.
In fact, this kinship was duly recognized by the medieval grammarians
and philologists. Second, there was the tremendous prestige of Arabic
within Islamic society. This cult of language had a definite psychological impact upon the Jews of the Caliphate. Perhaps the most remarkable
example of the profundity of this impact is Moses Ibn ῾Ezra’s well-known
statement in his Kitāb al-Muhādara wa’l-Mudhākara that it was due to the
power of their “eloquence and rhetoric” that the Arabs had been able to
subjugate their great empire.15 The third reason for the thoroughgoingness
of the linguistic assimilation is that there was a secular aspect in medieval
Judaism and Islam: Fourteen Hundred Years of Intertwined Destiny?
r 15
Islamic general culture for which Arabic was the medium, and thus it
could safely be shared. By contrast, no such parallel existed in medieval
Christian Europe where Latin was the language of a thoroughly clerical
culture, and the vernaculars enjoyed no comparable prestige.
As noted previously, the centuries following the Muslim conquests
proved to be an axial age for both Judaism and Islam. This period of more
than half a millennium saw the classic systematization and formulation
of their respective religious systems. Within the major urban centers of
the Caliphate, Jews, together with other non-Muslims, took part in creating the secular aspects of the emerging medieval Islamic civilization and
developed their own flourishing Jewish culture along parallel lines.
In Iraq, where the Gaonic academies were already flourishing centuries
before Baghdad became the ῾Abbāsid capital, some of the early schools of
Islamic jurisprudence were established in close propinquity to the battē
midrash and the yeshivōt. In fact, in early Arabic usage majlis was a Muslim parallel to yeshiva/methivta. Although the many striking parallels between halakha and sharī῾a with regard to their scope of application, formulation, and methodology pose problems rather than solve them, they
are indicative of a shared universe of religious, legal, and intellectual discourse, shared attitudes, and an awareness of what each other was doing.
Already at the end of the nineteenth century, the father of Islamic Studies,
Ignaz Goldziher, noticed the striking parallel—indeed, almost identical
phraseology—in the formulas used by Muslim and Jewish jurisconsults
in their responsa. But as Gideon Libson has astutely observed, the relationship between the legal sources of Jewish law and those of Muslim law
“may involve a feedback model, according to which the Jewish system first
influenced the Muslim, which at a later stage exerted influence on Jewish
law.”16
This awareness was at its height during the Hellenistic renascence in
the medieval Islamic world, a period that Goitein has dubbed the Intermediate Civilization and Adam Mez, die Renaissance des Islams. In the
cosmopolitan urban environment of Baghdad and other cities, there was
widespread interconfessional contact within intellectual society. The famous shocked eyewitness account by the tenth-century Andalusian theologian Ibn Sa῾dī of an open philosophical majlis in Baghdad is but one of
many accounts of nonsectarian cultural intercourse. Within this intellectual environment, Jewish religious leaders followed their Muslim counterparts in adopting philosophy in the defense of religion, often to meet
16 r Norman A. Stillman
similar challenges raised by freethinkers, such as H
iwi ha-Balkhī coming
from within the Jewish fold or Ibn al-Rawandī and Abū Bakr al-Rāzī, who
emerged from the Muslim community.17
The cultivation by Arabic-speaking Jews of Hebrew grammar and
lexicography under the direct inspiration of Arab linguistic science (fiqh
al-lugha) is yet another area in which Jewish culture was nourished and
enriched by its contact with medieval Islamic High Culture.
But perhaps nowhere was this enrichment more evident than in the
new style of Hebrew poetry that emerged in al-Andalus in the late tenth
century which adapted not only the rhymes and meters of Arabic prosody but even some of its profane themes as well. Jews cultivated this new
Hebrew poetry, not as Blau has suggested because they did not possess
the necessary mastery of Classical Arabic, but rather because they had
so thoroughly assimilated the cultural mentalités et sensibilités of the surrounding Islamic society in which poetry was considered the ultimate
national art form, that they, therefore, consciously chose to compose their
own poetic artistic endeavors in their own national language.18
There were, to be sure, limits to this Judeo-Islamic commensality on
the level of high culture—limits that were inherent in a premodern, hierarchal society in which religion was the primary mark of identity and in
which one religious community was regnant and all others subordinate.
Judeo-Islamic commensality on the level of high culture did indeed
decline as the more cosmopolitan, secular aspects of the medieval Hellenistic renascence and overall material prosperity of the Arabic-speaking
parts of the Muslim world waned after the mid-thirteenth century. This
marks the end of the “creative symbiosis” in Goitein’s historical vision. For
him, as for many other students of “Classical Islam,” the social and intellectual transformation of the Middle East and North Africa in the later
Middle Ages is interpreted according to a Spenglerian model of decadence after efflorescence. However, I would contend that the changes that
took place ought to be seen as an adaptation by Islamic civilization to
historical challenges from within and without.
In spite of the changed atmosphere and the concomitant tendency toward greater marginalization of non-Muslims generally within the Muslim world, Judeo-Islamic commensality remained strong on the level of
popular culture up until the modern era. Even in those places where Jews
were compelled by force of law or custom to reside in their own ghettoized (such as the Mellāh, the H
ārat al Yahūd, the Qā῾a, or the Mahalleh)
Judaism and Islam: Fourteen Hundred Years of Intertwined Destiny?
r 17
quarters, they were never as hermetically separated from their Gentile
neighbors socially, linguistically, or culturally, as were their coreligionists
in much of Christian Europe prior to the Emancipation.19
Jews were both producers and consumers of vernacular literature. They
continued to occupy an important place in musical composition and performance. In Iran, Jewish musicians were guardians of the courtly musical tradition through the Qajar and Pehlavi dynasties, since music was
something the Shi῾i mullahs viewed somewhat askance. In the Maghreb,
Jewish musicians preserved zajal and malhūn notebooks brought over by
Andalusian emigrés. In some countries—most notably the Maghreb and
Yemen—they were the master artisans par excellence.20
Almost everywhere, Jews were an integral part of the local economy,
and with the coming of the Sephardim after the Expulsions from Iberia
and Sicily, Sephardi and Livornese Jews not only infused new physical and
intellectual life into Islamicate Jewish communities, which had undergone
a serious demographic decline in the pandemics of the later Middle Ages,
but played a significant role as middlemen between the Muslim world and
Europe.
Modern times brought about a weakening and eventually an end to
Judeo-Muslim commensality, and this, too, was part of the intertwined
destiny in OED’s sense of “what has become.” The process of modernization which began with the mercantile and later physical penetration of
the European powers into the Islamic world had a profound impact upon
Jews and Muslims, albeit affecting them very differently. As noted above,
commensality always had its limits. And while most Muslims tended to
view the cultural, economic, and political forces from without with a natural suspicion and no little hostility, Jews and their minorities saw new
horizons and were relatively quick to avail themselves of the opportunities
afforded them first through the Imtiyāzāt (capitulations) and then, in far
greater numbers, through the modern education provided by religious
and cultural missionaries—in the case of the Jews, particularly by the Alliance Israélite Universelle schools. The latter gave its pupils far more than
Western education. It gave them a new sense of themselves, new rising expectations, and an advantage of opportunity over the largely uneducated
Muslim masses as the Middle East and Maghreb were being ineluctably
drawn into what Emanuel Wallerstein has dubbed “the World Economic
System.”21 Thus, even before our contemporary phenomenon of globalization, Jews participated in what Charles Issawi has referred to as “the rise of
18 r Norman A. Stillman
the Millets,” and they came to have a place in the new economy that was
out of all proportion to their numbers or their traditional social status.22
Having no true proprietary investment in the Islamic social system, many
Jews came to identify with the colonial powers, and irrespective of the
strength of their attraction to Zionism, only a tiny few were attracted to
local or Pan-Arab nationalisms and virtually none to Pan-Islamic nationalism. The intertwined destiny had become a parting of the ways.23
But did this spell the end of the intertwined destiny? The lack of a resolution to the conflict between Israel and the Palestinians, the heightened
tensions between Jews and the Muslim populations in several Western
European countries, particularly in France, and the sorry state of MuslimJewish relations worldwide referred to at the beginning of this chapter
would all seem to indicate that, for better or for worse, Muslims and Jews
still share a destiny that is intricately intertwined.
Notes
1. The text of the document in English translation may be found at <http://www.fas.
org/irp/world/para/docs/980223_fatwa.htm>. The text is discussed in Bernard Lewis,
“License to Kill: Usama bin Ladin’s Declaration of Jihad,” Foreign Affairs (November/
December 1998).
2. See Norman A. Stillman, “Islamic Fundamentalism,” and “Islamic Diaspora,” in
Antisemitism: A Historical Encyclopedia of Prejudice and Persecution (Santa Barbara:
ABC Clio, 2005), 1:358–60 and 360–61, respectively.
3. Mahathir’s remarks received extensive press coverage. See, e.g., David E. Sanger,
“Malaysian Leader’s Talk Attacking Jews Draws Ire from Bush,” New York Times (October 21, 2003); Paul Krugman, “Listening to Mahathir,” New York Times (October 21,
2003); and the editorials “Islamic Antisemitism,” New York Times (October 18, 2003), and
“Le modèle Mahathir,” Le Monde (October 29, 2003).
4. See, e.g., Muqtedar Khan, “Some Muslims Give Islam a Bad Name,” Wall Street
Journal (October 30, 2001).
5. This historiographical process is discussed in Stillman, “The Judeo-Islamic Historical Encounter: Visions and Revisions,” in Israel and Ishmael: Studies in Muslim-Jewish
Relations, ed. Tudor Parfitt (Richmond, Surrey: Curzon, 2000), 1–12.
6. OED, 1:702b, s.v.
7. Goitein, Jews and Arabs: Their Contacts through the Ages, rev. ed. (New York:
Schocken Books, 1974), 10. For a thoughtful discussion of the notion of symbiosis in this
context, see Steven M. Wasserstrom, Between Muslim and Jew: The Problem of Symbiosis
under Early Islam (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1995), 3–12.
8. Goitein, Jews and Arabs, 8. Bernard Lewis, e.g., speaks of “symbiosis” as well and
adopts a similar periodization in The Jews of Islam (Princeton: Princeton University
Press, 1984). See particularly 77–78, referencing Goitein.
Judaism and Islam: Fourteen Hundred Years of Intertwined Destiny?
r 19
9. Stillman, “The Commensality of Islamic and Jewish Civilizations,” in Middle Eastern Lectures 2 (Tel Aviv: Moshe Dayan Center for Middle Eastern Studies, Tel Aviv University, 1997), 81–94. For the classic expression of the notion of convivencia, see Americo
Castro, The Spaniards, trans. Willard F. King and Selma Margaretten (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1971). See also the comment on Castro’s terminology in Thomas
F. Glick, Islamic and Christian Spain in the Early Middle Ages (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1979), 292–93.
10. For a review of the historiographic debate, see Stillman, “The Judeo-Islamic Historical Encounter,” 3; and also Julian Obermann, “Islamic Origins: A Study in Background and Foundation,” in The Arab Heritage, ed. Nabih Faris (Princeton: Princeton
University Press, 1944), 58–120.
11. See M. J. Kister, “H
addithū ῾an banī Isrā’īla wa-lā haraja,” Israel Oriental Studies 2
(1972): 215–39.
12. For these apocalyptic midrashim, see Yehuda Ibn Shemuel (Kaufmann), ed.,
Midreshē Ge’ūla (Jerusalem and Tel Aviv: Mossad Bialik, 1953), 31–48, 49–54, 162–98,
and 254–86. See also Bernard Lewis, “An Apocalyptic Vision of Islamic History,” BSOAS
13, no. 2 (1950): 308–38.
13. The main outlines of this process of transition are described in Stillman, The Jews
of Arab Lands: A History and Source Book (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society,
1979), 27–35, and Stillman, “The Jew in the Medieval Islamic City,” in The Jews of Medieval Islam: Community, Society, and Identity, ed. Daniel Frank (Leiden: Brill, 1995), 3–13.
14. Joshua Blau, The Emergence and Linguistic Background of Judaeo-Arabic: A Study
of the Origins of Middle Arabic (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1965), 19–22. David J.
Wasserstein has recently offered compelling new arguments concerning the Arabization
process that provide considerable nuance to Blau’s schema. See his “Why Did Arabic
Succeed Where Greek Failed? Language Change in the Near East after Muhammad,”
Scripta Classica Israelica 22 (2003): 257–72, in particular 271–72 concerning the Jews.
15. Moses Ibn ῾Ezra, Kitāb al-Muhādara wa’l-Mudhākara, ed. Montserrat Abumalhan Mas (Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Cientificas, 1985), 1:42; Hebrew
translation, B. Halper, Sefer Shirat Yisra’el (Kitāb al-Muhādara wa’l-Mudhākara) (repr.
Jerusalem, 1966–67).
16. Ignaz Goldziher, “Über eine Formel in der jüdischen Responsenlitteratur und in
den muhammedanischen Fetwâs,” ZDMG 53 (1899): 645–52; Gideon Libson, “Halakhah
and Reality in the Gaonic Period,” in The Jews of Medieval Islam, ed. D. Frank, 98n105.
For a brief survey of the question, see Yaakov Meron, “Points de contact des droits juif
et musulman,” Studia Islamica 60 (1984): 83–117. On the possible Jewish influences at
the early stage, see J. R. Wegner, “Islamic and Talmudic Jurisprudence: The Four Roots
of Islamic Law and Their Talmudic Counterparts,” American Journal of Legal History 26
(1982): 26–29. However, see Goitein’s caveat in his essay “The Birth Hour of Muslim Law”
in Studies in Islamic History and Institutions, ed. S. D. Goitein (Leiden: Brill, 1966): 126.
17. Goitein, “The Intermediate Civilization,” in Studies in Islamic History and Institutions (ed. S. D. Goitein), 54–70; and Adam Mez, Die Renaissance des Islams (Heidelberg,
1922; repr., Hildesheim: Georg Olms, 1968). From the time of Wissenschaft des Judentums scholars, the philosophical encounter between Islam and Judaism in this period
20 r Norman A. Stillman
has been one of the two principal foci of scholarship in Judeo-Islamic studies. The pioneer work is Salomon Munk, Mélanges de philosophie juive et arabe (Paris: 1859; repr.,
Paris: Librairie Philosophique de J. Vrin, 1927) and one of the best recent works is Lenn
E. Goodman, Jewish and Islamic Philosophy: Crosspollinations in the Classic Age (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1999). Ibn Sa῾dī’s account is quoted by Alexander
Altmann in his Translator’s Introduction to Saadya Gaon, Book of Doctrines and Beliefs
(Oxford: East and West Library, 1946), 13–14.
18. For the juxtaposition of Blau’s views and my own, see Blau, “Medieval JudeoArabic,” in Jewish Languages: Themes and Variations, ed. Herbert H. Paper (Cambridge,
Mass: Association for Jewish Studies, 1978), 121–31, and Stillman, “Response,” 137–41.
19. For an overview of the process of social isolation, see Stillman, The Jews of Arab
Lands, 64–94.
20. For Jews and vernacular literature, see Stillman, “The Judeo-Arabic Heritage,”
in Sephardic and Mizrahi Jewry: From the Golden Age of Spain to Modern Times (New
York: New York University Press, 2005), 48–51, 54nn20–23; on Jews as musicians in the
Maghreb, see Amnon Shiloah, “Music,” in Morocco, ed. Haim Saadoun (Jerusalem: BenZvi Institute, 2003), 205–12 [Heb.]; Shiloah, “Music,” in Tunisia, ed. Haim Saadoun (Jerusalem: Ben-Zvi Institute, 2005), 184–92 [Heb.]; and Norman A. Stillman and Yedida
K. Stillman, “The Art of a Moroccan Folk Poetess,” ZDMG 128, no. 1 (1978): 66–67; for
the Jewish role in Iranian music, see Habib Levi, Ta’rīkh-i Yahūd-i Irān, vol. 3 (Tehran:
Beroukhim, 1960), 435–36, 1011. The literature on the Jews as artisans par excellence
in the Maghreb and Yemen is very rich. See Robert Attal, Les Juifs d’Afrique du Nord:
Bibliographie, rev. ed. (Jerusalem: Ben-Zvi Institute, 1993); Erich Brauer, Ethnologie der
jemenitischen juden (Heidelberg: Carl Winters Universitätsbuchhandlung, 1934), 233–55;
and Esther Muchawsky-Schnapper, “The Arts,” in Yemen, ed. Haim Saadoun (Jerusalem:
Ben-Zvi Institute, 2002), 155–60 [Heb.].
21. The role of the Alliance has been the subject of several major studies, the two
most important of which are Michael M. Laskier, The Alliance Israélite Universelle and
the Jewish Communities of Morocco, 1862–1962 (Albany: SUNY Press, 1983) and Aron
Rodrigue, French Jews, Turkish Jews: The Alliance Israélite Universelle and the Politics of
Jewish Schooling in Turkey, 1860–1925 (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1990). See
also Stillman, The Jews of Arab Lands in Modern Times (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication
Society, 1991), 3–64.
22. Charles Issawi, “The Transformation of the Economic Position of the Millets in
the Nineteenth Century,” in Christians and Jews in the Ottoman Empire: The Functioning
of a Plural Society, vol. 1, ed. Benjamin Braude and Bernard Lewis (London: Holmes and
Meier, 1982), 261–85.
23. Stillman, “Frenchmen, Jews, or Arabs? The Jews of the Arab World between European Colonialism, Zionism, and Arab Nationalism,” in Judaism and Islam: Boundaries,
Communication, and Interaction: Essays in Honor of William M. Brinner, ed. Benjamin
Hary, John L. Hayes, and Fred Astren (Leiden: Brill, 2000), 123–38; also Stillman, “Middle Eastern and North African Jewries Confront Modernity: Orientation, Disorientation, Reorientation,” in Sephardi and Middle Eastern Jewries: History and Culture in the
Modern Era, ed. Harvey E. Goldberg (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1996),
59–72.
Section I
Religion, Law, and Mysticism
3
Quran and Muslim Exegesis as a Source
for the Bible and Ancient History
Brannon Wheeler
As elucidated by Stillman, the commonalities between Islamic and Jewish civilizations contributed immeasurably to each other’s development.
This is most evident in the realm of their scriptures, religious sanctuaries,
inscriptions, and stories of prophethood.
In his exegesis of Q 7:59–93, Sayyid Qutb (1906–66) describes the stories of Noah, Hūd, S ālih, and Lot as metaphors for the warnings given to
the heedless by God.
This story captures the nature of faith and the nature of disbelief
in the souls of human beings. It displays a repeated pattern for the
faithful hearts and a repeated pattern for the disbelieving hearts.
Those who believe in all of the messengers have no arrogance in
their hearts and obey the messengers of God. It is not surprising that
God would select one of them to speak and to warn them. Those
who disbelieve in all of the messengers, they are the ones assuming
their own greatness in sin, arrogantly thinking that authority was
given into their hands by God the master of creation and the word.1
All of these prophets were sent with the same message and all were rejected by their people, who were then punished by God for their infidelity.
Sayyid Qutb offers a similar interpretation of the stories of Hūd, S ālih, and
Shu῾ayb in Q 11:50–95 and 26:123–91.
This metaphorical interpretation of the stories of Hūd, S ālih, and
Shu῾ayb is not uncommon in the history of scriptural exegesis. John
24 r Brannon Wheeler
Wansbrough cites the stories of these prophets as typifying the “prophetic
cycle,” in part related to his contention that large portions of the Quran
are to be understood as requiring “haggadic” exegesis.2 In support of the
conclusions of H. Hirschfeld, A. J. Wensinck argues that Hūd was an allegorical figure and that the name derives from the root hwd relating to
Jews, Jewish practices, and Judaism.3 C. C. Torrey likewise asserts that the
name Shu῾ayb is derived from sha῾b meaning “people,” and A. Geiger
takes the story of Shu῾ayb as a confused conflation of biblical elements.4
Much of this interpretation is related to the presumption that similarities
between the Bible and Quran are due to the latter being dependent upon
the former.
In part, this metaphorical or literary interpretation of the stories of
Hūd, S ālih, and Shu῾ayb is due to the perception that these prophets do
not appear in the Bible. All of the other prophets mentioned by name in
the Quran appear to have biblical counterparts, although some disagreement exists about the exact identification of certain names: Adam, Idris
(Enoch), Noah, Abraham, Ishmael, Isaac, Jacob, Lot, Joseph, Job, Moses,
Aaron, David, Solomon, Elijah, Elisha, Jonah, Zechariah, John, and Jesus.
Dhu al-Kifl is consistently identified by Muslim exegetes as the son of
Job, and Muslim exegetes identify many of the unnamed prophets in the
Quran with biblical figures such as Ezekiel (Q 2:243), Samuel (2:246–51),
and Jeremiah (2:259). Quran exegesis identifies the three messengers in
Q 36:13–29 with the New Testament apostles Simon, John, and Paul, and
other Muslim stories of the prophets also include accounts of Daniel and
Samson.
Western scholars have often ignored the question of the historicity of
the stories of the prophets contained in the text of the Quran, choosing
to focus instead on the historical context in which the Quran was produced. Many scholars have attempted to evaluate the text of the Quran as
a source for the history of the prophet Muhammad and early Islam, and
scholars continue to concentrate on the history of the text of the Quran.5
But the historicity of the contents of the Quran as they relate to ancient
and biblical history are overlooked, usually as evidence only that the
Quran is derivative and depends upon earlier written and oral sources.
Despite some suggestive remarks by scholars such as Reuven Firestone
and Roberto Tottoli, little has been done to investigate what information
the contents of the Quran can provide for the history of the Bible and the
ancient Near East.
Quran and Muslim Exegesis as a Source for the Bible and Ancient History
r 25
The following pages examine the Muslim exegetical concept of the
Arab prophets as it relates to the Quran, the Bible, and other literary and
documentary evidence from the ancient Mediterranean and Near East.
Part one considers the literary and documentary evidence outside of the
Quran for the Muslim image of prophethood. Part two introduces a wide
range of sources evincing the existence of an ancient model of prophethood consistent with what is defined by Muslim exegesis on the Quran.
This evidence shows how Muslim exegetes identify a model of prophethood linked with a territorial sanctuary that allows them to highlight and
synthesize evidence from pre-Islamic sources to typify a Quranic model
of prophethood. This model allows them to conceptualize and argue for
the Arab provenance of prophecy, that the prophethood of Muhammad
is a continuation and culmination of the ancient history of prophethood.
Arab Prophets and Prophecy among the Arabs
Muslim historians and exegetes mention a number of prophets who
might be considered Arab prophets. These include otherwise unknown
figures such as Khālid b. Sinān b. ῾Ayth al-῾Absī, who, according to alMas῾ūdī and others, lived in the period between Jesus and Muhammad.
Ibn Hishām mentions the prophets Satīh and Shiqq, who foretold the
coming of the prophet Muhammad to the South Arabian king. Other
Arab prophets are identified in local contexts, such as the prophet Radwā
in al-Jabal al-Akhdar near Muscat, the prophet ῾Umrān in S alālah, and
the prophets Aila and Zurayq in the Baqa῾ Valley of Lebanon. Some of
these prophets might be related to the development of saint shrines and
other local traditions regarding the importance of the burial sites of certain people. Others appear to be a continuation of older traditions associated with prophetic, priestly, and other cultic activities found throughout
the ancient and late antique Near East.
Inscriptional and other documentary evidence from the ancient Near
East and the Arabian Peninsula in particular attests to a number of functionaries and activities that appear to be consistent with the conception of
prophecy in the Quran and early Islamic exegesis. The common Quranic
terms “prophet” [nb’] and “apostle” [rsl] are not found frequently among
the Semitic inscriptions of the northern Arabian Peninsula and Fertile
Crescent but are linked with terms found in Southern Arabic inscriptions and in Ethiopic.6 The Quran contains other terms associated with
26 r Brannon Wheeler
prophetic activity and the prophet Muhammad in particular, such as
“kāhin” cognate to the Hebrew Bible “priest” [kōhen]. Both Q 52:29 and
69:42 make a clear distinction between the prophetic status of Muhammad and that of a kāhin. According to Ibn Kathīr, a kāhin received visions
from the Jinn and delivered them to people as though they were revelations from heaven.7 That the prophetic role of the kāhin was known in
pre-Islamic Arabia is also evident from reports preserved in the biographies of the prophet Muhammad. Exodus 3:1 and 18:1 refer to Jethro, the
father-in-law of Moses, as the “kōhen” of Midian, suggesting that the term
be applied to priestly figures among certain Arab tribal groups.
The term khn is also attested in Phoenician, Punic, at Deir Alla, in Old
Aramaic, Official Aramaic, Jewish Aramaic of Palestine, and Mandaic.8
In Old Aramaic inscriptions, the kōhin is often linked with a particular
deity such as Ba῾al [khn b῾lt], Ashtarte [khnt ῾štrt], Ba῾alshamayim [khn
Šb῾lšmn], and Yahweh [khny’zy yhw ’lh’]. A Nabataean inscription refers
to the kāhin of Lat and Allāt [khn ’ltw ’lht’].9 Such references suggest that
the kāhin was associated with a particular location and people attached
to certain deities. Hebrew and Old Aramaic inscriptions also provide the
title of “great” or “high” kāhin [hkhn hgdl, khn’ rb’], implying a hierarchy and possibly the affiliation of the kāhin to a state or other political
establishment.10
Ibn Durayd records a tradition that the pre-Islamic kāhin ῾Amr b. alJu῾ayd, of the Rabī῾ah b. Sa῾d, was considered an “afkal,” a term known
from the Sumerian apkallu, and attested also in Nabataean, Palmyrene,
Hatran, Sabaean, Lihyanite, and Hasaean.11 Like the kāhin, the afkal is
often linked with particular gods, including Lāt and Allah, in Lihyanite,
Hasaean, Hatran, and Nabataean inscriptions.12 A Palmyrene inscription mentions the “afkal of ῾Uzaza Allah the Good and Merciful” [’fkl dy
῾zyzw ’lh’ tb’ wrhmn].13 The afkal is also connected with kingship and the
state. A Lihyanite inscription refers to an afkal as “the representative of
the Ghassan” [wkl h῾sn], and a Hatran inscription mentions “Sntrq king
of Arabia son of Nusrw the lord, the great father, the great priest [’fkl rb’]
of Shamash.” Both the kāhin and the afkal seem to be closely affiliated
with the functioning of and the officiation at cultic activities such as sacrifice and the consecration of certain objects and locations. A Dedanite
inscription mentions the “Afkal of Wadd and his sons,” who consecrate
a boy as a victim or servant of the god Dhu Ghabat [dh ġbt]. A Lihyanite
Quran and Muslim Exegesis as a Source for the Bible and Ancient History
r 27
inscription attests to a rock being consecrated to Ba῾alshamin by a female
afkal [’fklt] named Bahani.14
Additional terms found in ancient and late antique inscriptions demonstrate the existence of other figures engaged in activities and having a
standing not unlike that associated with prophets in the Quran and early
Islamic exegesis. The rbnwt of several Palmyrene inscriptions appears
to designate an office of administration and custodianship sometimes
associated with sanctuaries.15 An Old Aramaic inscription from Nerab
southeast of Aleppo identifies the bas-relief of Sin-zir-ban, the kamar of
Shahar in Nerab [kmr Šhr bnrb] as resting on a “throne” or “couch” [’rst]
often related to kings. A group or perhaps a class of individuals holding
the status of kamar is recorded as erecting a statue in the earliest dated
Palmyrene inscription (44 bce) and another group is credited with the
dedication of a temple and its implements to the gods Bel, Yarhibol, and
Aglibol in a Palmyrene inscription from the temple of Bel dated to 45 ce.
The term ptwr also appears in a Nabataean inscription from Madā’in S ālih
to label an office of an individual responsible for cultic activities such as
the dedication of a tomb, and the term is also used to refer to altars in
Hatra.16
Muslim exegetes highlight a number of terms used in the Quran that
relate the establishment and government of sanctuaries or sacred locations to prophetic activities. The most common terms are permutations
of hrm and msjd, which occur more than a dozen times together in the
phrase al-masjid al-harām (Q 2:144, 149, 150, 191, 196, 217, 5:2, 8:34, 9:7,
19, 28, 17:1, 22:25, 48:25, 27), linked with the cultic site of Mecca and a
series of prophets. On the authority of Ibn Ishāq and al-Suddī, Ibn Kathīr
explains that the true custodians of the Meccan sanctuary, mentioned in
Q 8:34, are the prophet Muhammad and his followers.17 The exegesis of
other verses, such as Q 5:97 and 9:17–18, specifies the cultic responsibilities of the prophets at the sanctuary, and other sources testify to the wider
use of these terms in relation to cultic activities. Thamudic inscriptions
attest to the use of the root hrm as a verb to describe the “consecration”
of a rock, a location, or a person [nšwn], and the term is associated with
the consecration of food to the temple of Wadd in a Minaean inscription. An inscription from Palmyra appears to commemorate the dedication of consecrated objects. A Nabataean inscription from Pozzuoli near
Naples in Italy refers to the restoration of a sanctuary [mhrmt’]. Two other
28 r Brannon Wheeler
Nabataean inscriptions from Kharayeb and al-Jawf mention the making
or building of sanctuaries [mhrmt’] for Dhushara, and a Minaean inscription seems to designate a particular location as a sacred site [hrm].18
Muslim exegesis on Q 28:57 and 29:67 makes the claim that the Israelites, during the time in the wilderness of wandering near Midian, had a
“safe sanctuary” [haram amīn]. Muhammad b. ῾Alī al-Shawkānī (d. 1250)
points to the description of the safe sanctuary, provided with fruits of all
kinds and provisions from God, as a parallel to the sanctuary in Mecca.19
Muhammad b. ῾Abdallāh Ibn Abī Zaminīm (d. 399) uses the description
of the Israelite sanctuary in Q 26:57–59 to extend a parallel between the
prophetic activity of Muhammad and Moses.20 According to al-Baydāwī,
the mention of the “safe sanctuary” [haram amīn] in Q 28:57 is a reference to the Meccan sanctuary that God provided the Quraysh in order to
protect them from the surrounding tribes who might persecute them on
account of their following the prophet Muhammad, as the Israelites were
protected from Pharaoh in Midian.21 Muslim exegetes mention other sites
of Israelite pilgrimage in the Arabian peninsula, including al-Rawhā’” and
the Masjid al-Khayf in Minā.22
In the Quran, the term masjid is most commonly linked with the adjective harām [al-masjid al-harām], although the term masjid occurs in
other contexts, such as Q 7:29–31 [kull masjid] and in the plural [masājid,
masājid allāh] (Q 2:114, 9:17, 22:40, 72:18) indicating a reference to a more
generic location. The term msgd occurs in Official Aramaic and in a number of Nabataean inscriptions as a place or the object of cultic activities,
and in the Targum Yerushalmī on Genesis 11:4, the root sgd is used to refer
specifically to idol worship or the idol itself [bayt segīdū].23 An inscription from Madā’in S ālih mentions the msgd’ that was built for the god
Sa’bu, and an inscription from Imtan records a msgd’ that was offered “to
Dushara and A῾ra the god our lord who is in Bosra.”24 Nabataean inscriptions from Sahwit al-Khidr and the Roman road between Damascus and
Palmyra use msgd’ in reference to columns erected by specific individuals.25 A stele from Bostra is inscribed as “the msgd’ which Yamlik son of
Masku offered to Dhushara A῾ra for his well-being and the well-being
of his sons.”26 In other Nabataean inscriptions from Jebel Ithlib, the term
msgd’ is used to refer to a stele carved in relief and niches. Two other
Nabataean inscriptions designate altars dedicated to Ba῾alshamin and to
Allāt, “the lordess of the place.”27
Quran and Muslim Exegesis as a Source for the Bible and Ancient History
r 29
The use of msgd to refer to cult objects is consistent with the accounts
of the sanctuaries and shrines established by Abraham in the Bible and
Muslim exegesis. Genesis 21:22–34 narrates Abraham’s claim over a well
he dug at Beersheba in association with the Philistine Abimelech, who
is told (in Genesis 20:7) that Abraham is a prophet. Jewish exegesis explains that the “eshel” planted by Abraham in Genesis 21:33 is a sanctuary or shrine that Abraham establishes at Beersheba, to be understood
in comparison with the other shrines established by Abraham where he
built altars and invoked Yahweh at the oak of Moreh in Shechem (Genesis
12:6–7), the oak of Mamre in Hebron (Genesis 13:18), and between Bethel
and Ai (Genesis 12:8). In his history, al-Tabarī preserves an account of the
episode of Abraham at the well of Beersheba in which it is stated that the
sanctuary established by Abraham was a masjid, thus linking the cultic
sites associated with Abraham’s prophetic activity with the masjid of the
Quran.28
Muslim exegetes link Abraham also with the establishment of the sanctuary at Mecca in the exegesis of Q 2:125 and 3:97, both of which refer to
the “place of Abraham” [maqām Ibrāhīm] as a place of safety. According
to reports given on the authority of Ibn ῾Abbās, the maqām Ibrāhīm encompasses all the locations where the rituals of the pilgrimage are performed, or to the entirety of the area enclosed in the sanctuary [haram].29
Thus the location of the sanctuary defined by Abraham corresponds to
the area required for the performance of the rites. Abraham’s establishment of sanctuaries and the building of altars in Genesis is consistent with
activities described in other inscriptions, such as the inscription found in
the vicinity of a shrine at Hatra that mentions the building of an altar and
a “place” [mqm]. A Minaean inscription uses the term mqm as a reference
to the “places” of the gods Wadd and Athtar of Qabad, and a Thamudic
inscription refers to the “service of the “places” [mqmt].30
By using these terms to describe Abraham’s cultic activities from the
Quran and Bible, Muslim exegetes also relate Abraham’s sanctuaries to
the Israelites. Q 26:57–59 and 44:25–26 refer to the “maqām karīm” of the
Israelites, which exegetes connect to the “maqām amīn” of Q 44:51–53
and the “maqām rabbi-hi” of Q 55:46 and 79:40–41. Ibn Kathīr and others
understand these passages to refer to the eschatological position of the
Israelites, but some exegetes link these locations with Eden and with the
sanctuary at Mecca.31 Ibn al-Jawzī associates the context of Q 44:17–29
30 r Brannon Wheeler
with the locations through which Moses led the Israelites, and Yāqūt alludes to the Valley of T
uwwā near Mecca in Q 20:12 and 79:16 as the location where Moses is supposed to have received the tablets of the Torah.32
The identification of the Meccan sanctuary as the “maqām Ibrāhīm” displaces the rabbinic association of “ha-maqōm” in Genesis 22:4 with the
future temple in Jerusalem. The cultic function of the Meccan sanctuary
precedes and, later under the custodianship of the prophet Muhammad,
supersedes the cult of the Israelite temple in Jerusalem.
Other Ancient and Arab Prophets
The activities linked to locations and objects associated with Muhammad
and pre-Islamic prophets like Moses and Abraham are consistent with the
evidence found in inscriptions throughout the late antique and ancient
Mediterranean and Near East. In focusing on the connection between
prophethood and the founding of sanctuaries, Muslim exegetes were
able to draw upon a rich pre-Islamic tradition linking religious figures
and enclosed or protected locations. Several Aramaic inscriptions from
the northern Arabian city of Tayma refer to a hgr’ dedicated to Manat
[mnwh], “the goddess of goddesses.”33 An Aramaic inscription from Carthage mentions the hgr’ as the boundary enclosing the hill upon which
were built the sanctuaries of Ashtart [῾štrt] and Tanith [tnt], and a Nabataean inscription describes part of a tomb as a hgry or “protected” for
those who dedicated it.34 A Thamudic inscription appears to link a hgr
directly with a figure responsible for a protected sanctuary [dh’lhrm].35
Other inscriptions, using terms associated with activities in the Quran,
attest to sanctuaries and enclosures dedicated by particular individuals.
A Hatran inscription engraved on a plaque dedicates a dwelling [mškn],
a protected place [htm], and a catalog of other items.36 Another Aramaic
inscription from Tayma marks a special stone as dedicated to Manat, the
“goddess of goddesses.”37 A Minaean inscription designates a particular
location as “protected” [hm], and a Lihyanite inscription marks a tomb
[qbr] as protected [hm]. The generic term for “place” [’tr] is also attested
as being used to designate sacred or protected locations. A Palmyrene
inscription refers to “Allāt the lordess of the place” [rbt ’l’tr],38 and a Nabataean inscription, from Elus on the road between Petra and Gaza, marks a
special place [znh ’tr’] established by Notairu “for the life of Aretas king of
Quran and Muslim Exegesis as a Source for the Bible and Ancient History
r 31
the Nabataeans.”39 Other terms can refer to specific places designated for
certain ritual activities, such as the Nabataean reference to the “place of
the sacred banquet” [mškb] and the Phoenician inscription marking the
“holy place” [mqdš] of S addam-Ba῾al in Malta.40
Muslim exegesis on Q 5:3 explains that the term “nusūb” refers to special stones that were set up around Mecca to mark the boundaries of the
sanctuary in pre-Islamic times. The setting up of stones, pillars, and other
markers is widely attested in literary and documentary sources. A treaty
between Assur and Tyre (675 bce) mentions a “Bethel” and the treatises
of the kings of Kerak and Arpad in Syria were written on standing stelae.41
The Bible (Ex 34:14, Deut 16:22) refers to the mšb as the means to worship
other gods, and a host of Greek words refer to the “baitulia” [bayt-el] as
stones that were believed to represent certain gods. The Lexikon of Suidas
(tenth century ce) describes how the Arabs of Petra worshipped the god
Ares through a standing stone.
Theus Ares is the god Ares at Petra in Arabia. The god Ares is worshipped by them for they venerate him above all others. The image
is a black stone, rectangular and unshaped, measuring four feet in
height by two feet in width. It is set on a base worked in gold. To this
they burn incense and against it they pour the blood of the sacrificial animals. And that is their form of libation.42
The terms mšb and nšb are used commonly in the ancient world to designate stones marking temples and other sanctuaries in Phoenician, Aramaic, Minaean, Plamyrene, Nabataean, Syriac, and Safaitic. An Old Aramaic inscription testifies to a nšb erected for Allāt in the temple of Allāt.43
A Nabataean inscription along the stepped path up Jabal al-Khubtha
claims: “These are the nšyby of al-Uzza and the lord of the house [wmr
byt’] which are made by Wahballah the caravan leader son of Zaidan.”44
Pillars and other more stylized stones are also set up and inscribed
with dedications marking certain locations as sanctuaries. A Palmyrene
inscription on a column drum of limestone from the Ba῾al-Shamin sanctuary records that it was offered to Ba῾al-Shamin, “the good god,” by Attai
and Shbahai, the daughters of Sahra, and Ata, the daughter of Firdaws, in
the year 335 [=23 ce].45 A similar Palmyrene inscription is found on an
altar in the temple of Arsu identifying the altar as dedicated to Arsu, to
Qismaya, and to the “daughters of El” in the year 375 [=64 ce].46 An Old
32 r Brannon Wheeler
Aramaic stone, perhaps from the time of Nabonidus in the fifth century
bce, now in the Louvre, pictures the god Salm of Hajam above a cult officiant before an altar.
In the 22nd year . . . [in Taym]a, Salm of Mahran and Shingala
Ashira, the gods of Tayma, to Slam of [Hajam] . . . appointed him
on this day [in Tay]ma . . . which Salm-Shezeb, son of Pet-Osiri,
set up [hqym] in the temple of Salm of Hajam, therefore the gods
of Tayma made grants to Salm-Shezeb, son of Pet-Osiri, and to his
descendents in the temple of Salm of Hajam, and any man who
shall destroy this pillar [swt’], may the gods of Tayma pluck out him
and his descendants and his name from before Tayma. This is the
grant. . . . Neither gods nor men shall bring out Salm-Shezeb, son of
Pet-Osiri, from this temple, neither his descendants nor his name
(who are) priests [kmry’] in this temple forever.47
The connection between the cult officiant, here identified as a “kmr,” and
the setting up of the stone in a sanctuary is further emphasized by the
protection of the stone and the site being linked with the family of the
cult officiant.
A number of the inscriptions show a connection between the standing
stones and burial sites. A similar connection between nušūb and tombs is
made in Q 70:43.
The day they emerge from their graves quickly [al-ajdāth sirā῾-an]
as though rushing to nušūb.
A Neo-Punic inscription from Tunis designates a stone “set up” [tn’ ’bn
z] to mark the tomb of Ahath-Milkath. Other types of standing stones
are used to mark the places of sanctuaries and burial sites. Lihyanite and
Hasaean inscriptions refer to the protection [hm] of tombs, and the Nabataean Turkmānīyah tomb inscription provides an elaborate description of
the consecration and protections afforded the tombs on which it is written.48 Other terms, such as wgr and npš, can refer to both tombs and sanctuary markers, and the widespread use of these terms may indicate that
one of the primary means for identifying a sanctuary was with a tomb.49
The term npš is commonly used among the Safaitic cairns of the basalt
desert.50 A Nabataean inscription marks a spot dedicated “to Allah and
her wgr.” Several Lihyanite inscriptions on standing stones refer to the
erection of a “kherem” [hrm] on a regular, seasonal basis, as a gift to the
Quran and Muslim Exegesis as a Source for the Bible and Ancient History
r 33
gods. A Thamudic inscription from Rūdat al-Nāqah states: “For my god
[allahi], a kherem.”51
The older widespread link between standing stones, sanctuaries, and
burial sites is also evident in the close association of the Meccan sanctuary with burials and funerary rites. Muqātil b. Sulaymān states that there
are seventy prophets buried in the sanctuary of Mecca, including Hūd,
S ālih, and Ishmael.52 In his commentary on Q 2:125, al-Suyūtī lists the
various prophets who are buried in the Meccan sanctuary.53 According
to al-H
alabī, there are three hundred prophets buried in the area around
the Ka῾bah, and the Ka῾bah itself is a stone structure considered by some
to mark the burial site of various implements associated with pre-Islamic
kings and prophets.54 Many of the rituals associated with the pilgrimage
to Mecca, in pre-Islamic and Islamic times, including circumambulation
of the tomb, wearing of certain types of clothing, and restrictions on behavior, closely parallel funerary and mourning customs attested in Jewish,
Christian, and pagan contexts.55 A number of Ka῾bah-like cube structures
are found in pre-Islamic Arab areas such as Petra and Madā’in S ālih.
Older, pre-Islamic inscriptions attest to a range of activities associated
with cultic objects and locations, many of which have direct parallels with
biblical examples and the Quranic image of prophethood highlighted by
Muslim exegetes. Pilgrimage [hgg] and the visitation of standing stones
and tombs is a frequent example. A Safaitic inscription from a cairn in the
basalt desert refers to a visit.
Behold, there came a supplicant and visited this building, being a
traveler of Yamāmat, keeping off dangers, and he became a brother
here.56
Note that this inscription mentions a number of significant details which
are suggestive of aspects associated with the visitation of tombs and sanctuaries: travel in the name of a deity, safety of a traveler and protection of
the site, supplication of a god at the location, and joining a brotherhood of
other travelers or adherents. Inscriptions from Tayma also tell of pilgrimage as a penance for adultery and seeking a healing for sickness.57 A Dedanite inscription records a visit for sins, and another Safaitic inscription
records an experience of misfortune by a visitor.58 Ugaritic inscriptions
attest to the visitation of tombs for feeding the dead, consulting the dead,
and mourning.59
Some inscriptions demonstrate how travel to the site or establishment
34 r Brannon Wheeler
of the sanctuary is related to a vision. The Deir ῾Alla inscription records
the vision of Ballam, son of Beor, the “seer of the gods,” and another Old
Aramaic inscription is attributed to “the hand of the seer and the hand
of the diviner.”60 An Aramaic inscription from Elephantine records the
bringing of a dream to the temple for interpretation.61 In an inscription
from Hatra it is stated that the altar and the chapel were dedicated after
someone saw a vision in a dream [dhzy’ bhlm’].62 Stephanus the Byzantine
relates that Aretas, son of Obadas, received a prophecy from his father
about the founding of a city in Arabia, the vision of a man dressed in
white on a white camel as a site of the new city, which was to be built on a
rock.63 Several Safaitic inscriptions mention visions including the dream
of a well, the vision of a father from the wilderness, and the vision of an
uncle accompanied by a drawing of a woman thought to represent Allāt
who is invoked in the inscription.64
Many of the inscriptions record ritual activities practiced at the sanctuary or location of the pilgrimage. A Safaitic inscription appears to record
the circumcision of the person named on the stone, a practice mentioned
by Origen and Bardesanes as common among the “Ishmaelites” at the
age of thirteen.65 Another Safaitic inscription mentions the practice of
augury [῾f], and the practice of writing or inscribing at the location of
the sanctuary is widespread.66 Examples of writing include the writing
of personal names and the name of locations from which visitors traveled.67 Also common is the nonliterary depiction of seven dots, dashes,
and crescents—symbols normally attributed to a group of seven Babylonian deities.68 Some inscriptions show that pilgrims recorded their visit
by inscribing the name of a deity.
Wani b. Fasi cut [tqt] the name of he who is above him so that he
might favor him, bless him, and guide him [fardh ws῾dh w’hrth].69
˘
Drawings of human, animal, and nonrepresentational figures are also
common, as is the drawing of items thought to have been sacrificed and
dedicated at the site.
Inscriptions and archaeological evidence often attest to pilgrimages to
sanctuaries for the purpose of making an offering. An Old Aramaic chalice from Iran, dated to 600 bce, is inscribed as an offering to a deity.70 A
silver bowl from Tell al-Maskhūta in the eastern Nile Delta, dated to the
fifth century bce, is inscribed as being an offering to “the God” [hn-’lt]
from Qynw, son of Geshem, king of Qedar.71 Three bronze statues are
Quran and Muslim Exegesis as a Source for the Bible and Ancient History
r 35
dedicated to Ilumquh, master of Awwam, in a Sabaean inscription, and
a Dedanite inscription records the offering of a statue to the god Dhu
Ghabat by Abdgawth, son of Zaydallah, to honor the house of Ahu Ali
and Ammi-Bal of Dedan.72 In a Nabataean inscription from Imtan to the
Southeast of Bostra, a msgd is dedicated as an offering to Dushara and
A῾ra, and Palmyrene inscriptions record the dedication of altars to various deities.73 An engraved plaque from Hatra lists the items dedicated to
a particular location, including a mace, spade, axe, trough, and lever, and
it details a curse put there to protect the contents.74 Safaitic inscriptions
from the basalt desert preserve brief accounts of sacrifices and offerings
made for protection from the gods.75
Some of the offerings and the pilgrimages made to make the offerings
are reported to be in fulfillment of a vow. Papyri from Nessana catalogs
the offerings brought to the monastery for the pilgrimage to Sinai.76 An
Ammonite seal of Abīnadab records the vow Abīnadab made to Astarte
in Sidon and the statues dedicated at a particular location.77 A Phoenician
inscription from the coast between Tyre and Acre states that ῾Abd-Alim
installed a gate and doors to Ba῾al-Shamin in fulfillment of a vow. Dedanite inscriptions mark the offering of statues to Dhu Ghabat and other
deities as a votive offering [hnd-r].78 A Thamudic inscription from Aqabah
Mashid records the consecration [nd-r] of an individual. Inscriptions in
Proto-Sinaitic originally from the entrance to a mine record the vows of
miners to offer sacrifices if they are rescued by the gods.79
Some evidence also suggests that the rules for behavior at sanctuaries and for pilgrims was not unlike some of the regulations defining the
Islamic ritual of the pilgrimage to the Meccan sanctuary. A Lihyanite inscription consecrates [’hrm] a rock “so that no woman can ascend it.”80
The shedding of blood in the sanctuary [hgb] is prohibited by a Palmyrene
inscription.81 An inscription from Shrine IV in Hatra contains an invocation against anyone wearing shoes past a certain point at the site.82 Two
altars were set up and dedicated to “She῾a-Alqum, the Good, the Bountiful,” by Ubadu, son of Animu, son of Sa῾d-Allāt the Nabataean, “who does
not drink wine [l’ št hmr]” in the year 132 ce.83 Two Thamudic inscriptions
refer to the shaving of the head and the plucking out of hair in association
with pilgrimage and visitation of the site of the inscription.84
These examples attesting to the establishment and visitation of sanctuaries demonstrate the continuation of patterns and practices well
known from the royal inscriptions of the ancient Near East. Numerous
36 r Brannon Wheeler
inscriptions record the erection of statues, pillars, temples, and cities by
kings in order to ensure their good fortune and the well-being of their
kingdoms. The “List of Date Formulae” of the reign of Hammurabi provides a catalog of activities later attested in scattered popular inscriptions
and in the Arabic literary descriptions of the cult at the Meccan sanctuary and elsewhere through pre-Islamic Arabia. Hammurabi establishes
justice, constructs thrones, builds walls, erects temples and shrines, provides water for pilgrims, gives protection to his people, dedicates sacred
objects such as thrones, statues, and daises for deities, and digs canals. The
parallel building activities of Marduk in the Enuma Elish suggest a close
relationship between the creation of the natural world by the gods and the
construction of civilization by kings. More specific examples from South
Arabia demonstrate that the model was current in the Arabian Peninsula,
and examples from Nabataean and Lihyanite inscriptions show the spread
and continuity of the practices.85
Early Islamic accounts of ῾Abd al-Muttalib’s recovery of Zamzam and
the eventual reestablishment of the sanctuary under the prophet Muhammad conform to this general ancient model.86 In other ancient civilizations, the king or cult officiant circumambulated the walls of his capital
city, ritually linking his authority to the establishment and protection of
that territory. The different accounts of the recovery of the True Cross
and the building of the churches in Palestine are another example of this
ancient model linking the recovery of the cult object with the establishment of a sanctuary and the pilgrimages to the sanctuary to visit the cult
object. In other ancient and Arabian contexts the custodian of the sanctuary establishes his status as cult officiant by erecting the cult object, often
accompanied by divination or receiving a vision from the deity.87 Muslim
exegetes construct the image of prophethood, linking the civilizing function of the cult officiant with the founding of the sanctuary, from this
general model found in the legends of the True Cross, the ancient Near
East, and also in China, Rome, Egypt, and Southeast Asia.
Conclusion
In his al-Kāmil fī al-ta’rīkh, ῾Alī b. Abī al-Karam Ibn al-Athīr (555–630)
refers to the Jews’ rejection of the prophets Hūd and S ālih as being mentioned in the Bible.
Quran and Muslim Exegesis as a Source for the Bible and Ancient History
r 37
As for the People of the Torah, they allege that there is no mention
of ῾Ād, Hūd, Thamūd, and S ālih in the Torah. Their word among the
Arabs in pre-Islamic and Islamic times is like the repute of Abraham. Their rejection of this was not as astounding as their rejection
of the prophethood of Abraham and his message and likewise their
rejection of the existence of the Christ.88
That Jews (and Christians) might deny the mention of the Arab prophets
is not unwarranted given the argument made by Muslim exegetes for the
Arab provenance of ancient prophecy. Muslim exegesis maintains that
the prophets Hūd, S ālih, and Shu῾ayb are part of the biblical tradition as
is the prophet Muhammad and the model of prophethood epitomized by
the stories of these prophets.
Muslim exegetes draw upon a rich tradition of cultic activity attested
throughout the ancient and late antique Near East and Mediterranean but
especially in the Arabian Peninsula and the Fertile Crescent. Stories of the
prophets in the Quran are provided against the backdrop of a larger biblical and ancient Near Eastern milieu in which prophets are identified for
their role as custodians of the sanctuary, and the sanctuary as a model for
civilization. For the Muslim exegetes, the historicity of Arab prophecy is
demonstrated by reference to this pre-Islamic evidence, evidence which is
taken to depict prophethood in terms consistent with the model of prophecy found in the Quran and in the life of the prophet Muhammad. This
model, evinced in ancient sources, allows Muslim exegetes to emphasize
biblical materials to demonstrate the Arabian heritage of Israelite prophecy and the central importance of Arabian prophets to the history of ancient prophecy.
It is important to note that, by drawing upon the Bible and other ancient sources to construct a Quranic model of prophethood, Muslim exegetes are engaging directly with the extant text of the Bible. Despite the
widespread idea that Muslims do not accept the Bible as authoritative and
dismiss it as unreliable, it is evident that Muslim exegetes used the Bible to
demonstrate the authority of the Quran and the prophet Muhammad.89 At
issue is not a matter of arguing over the text of the Bible but of gaining the
biblical text as an ally, as data for the construction of a generic paradigm
of prophethood that allows for Islam to have a historical pedigree. It is
not a question of whether or not prophethood was, historically, like it is
38 r Brannon Wheeler
conceived and portrayed by Muslim exegesis. This is analogous to how
Christian “Old Testament Theology” reconstructs a “history” of the Bible
that features the origins and development of certain key Christological
concepts such as covenant, salvation, and messianism. The Muslim reconstruction of the history of prophethood is not unlike how Christian theologians claim the Old Testament prefigures the mission of Jesus Christ; for
Muslim exegetes, the evidence of the Bible and ancient Near East testifies
to the Quran and the prophet Muhammad as a continuation and culmination of the ancient history of prophethood.
The lack of attention given to the historicity of the Quran’s accounts of
ancient prophets is particularly striking given the rich history of using the
Bible as a source for the history of the ancient Near East. Parallels between
the Quran and the Bible would seem to suggest at least the possibility of
using the Quran to supplement the information found in the Bible. This
would seem especially relevant for that scholarship focusing on the Arabian Peninsula and the Arabs in the Bible and the ancient world. Historians and biblical scholars, however, whether they accept or reject biblical
sources, routinely ignore the Quran and Muslim exegesis in their study of
ancient Arabia.90
Baruch Halpern observes that the Bible is judged to be history not because it contains a factual account of the past but rather because it knows
it is lying about that past.91 The Bible and, mutatis mutandis, the Quran
and its exegesis are historical insofar as they tell a story that communicates
a certain message. History is not just a more or less accurate account of
“what happened” without the direction of the context in which the story
of the past is told, redacted, and received. Nor is the issue about whether
the account in the Quran is more accurate than in the Bible. Muslim exegetes use certain parts of the Quran, such as the “Arab prophets,” to pull
together a larger conception of prophecy that makes the Bible an example
of the more general model of ancient prophecy, a model that is consistent
with the paradigm of prophethood in the Quran and the mission of the
prophet Muhammad. Indeed, the generic nature of the Quranic model
of prophethood allows Muslim exegetes to highlight the cultic practices
associated with Yahweh in the Bible, evidence of practices often ignored
by Jewish and Christian interpretation. Muslim exegesis represents a conscious and strategic decision to place the biblical text within the context of
the ancient Near East and a certain conception of prophets and prophecy
among the Arabs.
Quran and Muslim Exegesis as a Source for the Bible and Ancient History
r 39
Notes
1. Sayyid Qutb, Fī z.ilāl al-Qur’ān (Cairo: Dār al-Sharūq, 2004), 3: 1306.
2. See John Wansbrough, Quranic Studies (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1977),
esp. 21–25. Also see the comments of Andrew Rippin, “Sālih,” in Encyclopaedia of Islam,
2d ed. (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1995), 8:984, and “Literary Analysis of Qur’ān, Tafsīr, and Sÿra:
The Methodologies of John Wansbrough,” in Approaches to Islam in Religious Studies, ed.
Richard Martin (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1985), 151–63.
3. See A. J. Wensinck and Ch. Pellat, “Hūd,” in Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2d ed. (Leiden:
E. J. Brill, 1971), 3:537–38, and H. Hirschfeld, Beitræge zur Erklærung des Koræn (Leipzig:
O. Schulze, 1886), 17n4.
4. See C. C. Torrey, The Jewish Foundation of Islam (New York: KTAV, 1933; reprint,
1967), 71; A. Geiger, Was hat Muhammad aus dem Judenthum aufgenommen? (Bonn,
1833), trans. Judaism and Islam (Madras, 1898), 137–42. Also see the discussion in Roberto Tottoli, “Shu῾ayb,” in Encyclopaedia of the Qur’ān, ed. J. McAuliffe (Leiden: E. J.
Brill, 2004), 605–606 and his Biblical Prophets in the Quran and Muslim Literature (Richmond: Continuum, 2002), 45–65.
5. See, e.g., A. Sprenger, Das Leben und die Lehre des Mohammad (Berlin: Nicolai,
1861); Arthur Jeffery, “The Quest of the Historical Mohammed,” Muslim World 16 (1926):
327–40; Richard Bell, “Mohammed’s Call” and “Muhammad’s Visions,” Muslim World
24 (1934): 13–19, 145–54; Rudi Paret, Mohammed und der Koran (Stuttgart: W. Kohlhammer, 1966); F. E. Peters, “The Quest of the Historical Muhammad,” International Journal
of Middle East Studies 23 (1991): 291–313; Claude Gilliot, “Muhammad, le Coran et les
‘contraintes de l’histoire,’“ in The Qur’an as Text, ed. Stefan Wild (Leiden: E. J. Brill,
1996), 3–26. To some extent this has been inversed by Uri Rubin, The Eye of the Beholder:
The Life of Muhammad as Viewed by the Early Muslims. A Textual Analysis (Princeton:
Darwin Press, 1995). On the Quran text, see the groundbreaking but unfinished work in
Arthur Jeffery, Materials for the History of the Text of the Qur’ān (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1937);
Theodor Nœldeke, Geschichte des Qorāns. Dritter Teil: Die Geschichte des Korantexts,
ed. G. Bergstræsser and O. Pretzl (Leipzig: T. Weicher, 1938; reprint, Hildesheim, 1981);
Anton Spitaler, Die Verszæhlung des Koran (Munich: Verlag der Bayerischen Akademie
der Wissenschaffen, 1935); A. Fischer, “Grammatisch schwierige Schwur- und Beschwœrungsformeln des klassischen Arabisch,” Der Islam 28 (1948): 5–6; Rudi Paret, Der
Koran: Kommentar und Konkordanz (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1971); Angelika Neuwirth,
Zur Komposition der mekkanischen Suren (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1981).
6. Walter W. Müller, “Südsemitische Marginalien zur Etymologie von nābī’,” Biblische
Notizen 32 (1986): 31–37; Müller, “Ubersetzung dieser Inschrift,” Texte aus der Umwelt
des Alten Testaments. Band I. Lieferung 6 (Gütersloh: G. Mohn, 1985), 662; H.-P. Müller, ThWAT 5 144; von M. Görg in Biblische Notizen 26 (1985): 9; W. Leslau, Ethiopic and
South Arabic Contributions to the Hebrew Lexicon (Berkeley: University of California
Press, 1958), University of California Publications in Semitic Philology, vol. 20, 32; ῾Alī
al-Akwa῾, al-Amthāl al-yamanīyah (Beirut: Muassasat al-Risalah, 1984/1320), vol. 2, nr.
5854; Müller, Beitræge zur hamito-semitischen Wortvergleichung: Hamito-Semitica, ed. J.
and Th. Bynon (Hague: Mouton, 1975 [Janua Linguarum, series practica 200]), 68, nr. 58.
40 r Brannon Wheeler
On the “nabū” (perhaps “diviner”) attested at Mari, see H. B. Huffmon, “Prophecy
in the Mari Letters,” Biblical Archaeological Review 3 (1970): 199–224; A. Schmitt, Prophetischer Gottesbescheid in Mari und Israel (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1982); A. Malamat,
“A Forerunner of Biblical Prophecy: The Mari Documents,” in Ancient Israelite Religion:
Essays in Honor of Frank Moore Cross, ed. P. D. Miller et al. (Philadelphia: Fortress Press,
1987). For the Assyrian “nabītu,” see H. Weippert and K. Seybold, Beiträge zur prophetischen Bildsprache in Israel und Assyrien (Freiburg: Universitats Verlag, 1985).
7. See Ibn Kathīr, Tafsīr al-Qur’ān al-῾az.īm, on Q 52:29. Also see the discussion of the
kāhin in T. Fahd, La divination arabe (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1966); William Robertson Smith,
“On the Forms of Divination and Magic Enumerated in Deut. XVIII, 10–11,” Journal of
Philology 13 (1885): 273–87; 14 (1885): 113–28; A. Jamme, “La religion sud-arabe préislamique,” Histoire des Religions 4 (1947): 239–307.
8. See DNWSI 1: 490–91; Lidzbarski, Handbuch, 294; Theeb 2000: 125–26; Tomback
1978: 138; Sokoloff 1992: 225; Macuch 1963: 195–96; Euting 249: 2; Cowley 30: 18; Fitzmyer
and Harrington A56: 1.
9. See KAI 11; KAI 14, 15; CIS 1: 379; Cowley 1923: 38, 1; Savignac 1932: 591–93, no. 2.
10. On these terms, see IEJ 36: 39m3 and Cowley 1923: 30, 18.
11. For the reference to ῾Amr b. al-Ju῾ayd, see Ibn Durayd, Ishtiqāq, ed. Wüstenfeld,
197; Bevan, 154–55; T. Fahd, “Kāhin,” Encyclopaedia of Islam, 4: 421. For the references to
῾fkl in other languages, see DNWSI 1: 95–96; Qudrah 1993: 72; Theeb 2000: 33–34.
12. For these inscriptions, see Qudrah 1993; Jamme 1052; Hatra 67: L3; Aggoula 1991:
67; Dijkstra 1995: 235; Iram, BIAUL 10 (1971): 57–58.
13. CIS 3974: 2, 4064: 5.
14. See Jaussen and Savignac: 55; Hatra: 345; Jaussen and Savignac: 49, 64; Winnett
1937: 17.
15. See Bounni and Teixidor: 44.
16. On the Nerab inscription, see Cooke: 64. The bas relief is not located in the Louvre museum. For the Palmyrene inscriptions, see Asad and Gawlikowski, 29. For the
Nabataean inscription, see Healey 1993: 29, 1. For examples at Hatra, see Dijkstra 1995:
214 (Hatra 68); Aggoula 1989:311 (Hatra 338) and Safar 1971: 11–12 (Hatra 290).
17. See Ibn Kathīr, Tafsīr al-Qur’ān al-῾az.īm, on Q 8:34. In his exegesis of Q 8:34, alT
abarsī reports that the verse refers not to the prophet Muhammad and all his followers
but only to those believers who are truly fearing of God. See al-Tabarsī, Majma῾ al-bayān
fī tafsīr al-Qur’ān, on Q 8:34, 44:51–53, 55:46, and 79:40–41.
18. For the Thamudic inscriptions, see Philby 1956: 40 [hrm], and Jaussen and Savignac 64 [’hrm]. On the Minaean inscription, see Jaussen and Savignac: 7, in which is
mentioned the consecration of food [ys ῾rbn] to the temple of Wadd as a penance for
violating something sacred [hrmn]. For the Palmyrene inscription, see Hillers and Cussini 3927: 3. For the Pozzuoli inscription, see Lacerenza 128–31. For the inscription from
Kharayeb, dated to 101 ce, see Starcky 1985: 181. For the inscription from al-Jawf, dated
to 44 ce, see Savignac and Starcky: 1957. For the Minaean inscription, see Jaussen and
Savignac: 120.
19. See Muhammad b. ῾Alī, Fatī al-qadīr al-jāmi῾ bayna fannī al-rawāyah wa aldirāyah min āilm al-tafsīr, ed. Hisham al-Bukhārī and Khutr ῾Ikārī (Beirut: al-Maktabat
al-῾Asrīyah, 1996), on Q 28:57.
Quran and Muslim Exegesis as a Source for the Bible and Ancient History
r 41
20. See Muhammad b. ῾Abdallāh Ibn Abī Zamanīn, Tafsīr Ibn Abī Zamanīm:
Mukhtasar tafsīr Yah
ya’ b. Salām, ed. Muhammad H
asan Muhammad H
asan Ismā’īl and
Ahmad Farīd al-Mazīdī (Beirut: Dār al-Kutub al-῾Ilmīyah, 2003), on Q 26:57–59.
21. See al-Baytāwī, Anwār al-tanzīl wa asrār al-ta’wīl, on Q 28:57.
22. For an overview of these traditions, see Uri Rubin, Between Bible and Qur’ān: The
Children of Israel and the Islamic Self-Image (Princeton, N.J.: Darwin Press, 1991), 38–41.
23. See DNSWI 663; DISO 160; Lidzbarski, Handbuch: 328; Cowley: 44, 3.
24. Winnett and Reed: 157; Cooke: 101.
25. For Sahwit al-Khitr, see Healey 1996: 96. For Dumer on the road from Damascus
to Palmyra, see CIS 2: 161, Cooke: 97.
26. Cantineau 1978: 24.
27. Littman 1940: 21–22, nos. 23–24; RES 2052.
28. See al-Tabarī, Ta’rīkh al-rusul wa al-mulūk, 1: 271–72; Brinner, The History of alT
abarī, 65–66. Also see the narratives in al-Tha῾labī, Qisas al-anbiya, 47; Ibn Sa῾d, Kitāb
al-tabaqāt al-kabīr, 1: 46–47; Reuven Firestone, Journeys in Holy Lands: The Evolution of
the Abraham-Ishmael Legends in Islamic Exegesis (Albany: SUNY Press, 1990), 48–51.
29. See the references given in Ibn Kathīr, Tafsīr al-Qur’ān al-῾az.īm, on Q 2:125 and
al-Tabarī, Jāmi῾ al-bayān fī tafsīr al-Qur’ān, on Q 2:125.
30. For the Hatra inscription, see Hatra: 62. For the Minaean inscription, see Jaussen
and Savignac: 17. For the Thamudic inscription, see Jaussen and Savignac: 286.
31. See, for example, Muhammad b. al-H
asan al-Tūsī, al-Tibyān fī tafsīr al-Qur’ān, ed.
Ahmad H
abīb Qasīr al-῾Āmilī (Maktab al-A῾lām al-Islāmī, 1409), on Q 26:51–59.
32. See Shihāb al-Dīn Abū ῾Abdallāh Yāqūt, Mu῾jam al-buldān (Beirut: Dār S ādir,
1957), s.v. T
uwwā, Jābars. Also see Muhsin al-Malaqqab al-Ghayt al-Kāshānī, Tafsīr alsāfī (Tehran: Maktabat al-Sadd, n.d.), on Q 18:83 and ῾Alī al-Fatl b. al-H
asan al-Tabarsī,
Majma῾ al-bayān fī tafsīr al-Qur’ān (Beirut: Dār Maktabah al-H
ayyāh, n.d.), on Q 18:84.
33. See Theeb: 1993; Beyer and Livingstone 1987: 291–92; Dijkstra 1995: 74, 75–76; CIS
2: 336. On the identification of Manat [mnwh] in these inscriptions and locations, see
Atlal 7 (1983): 105–106; ZDMG 137 (1987): 290–91; Syria 62 (1985): 65–66. According to
Cooke, A Text-book of North Semitic Inscriptions: Mohabite, Hebrew, Phoenician, Aramaic, Nabataean, Palmyrene, Jewish (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1903), 219, the center of
the Manat cult was in Qudayd on the pilgrimage route between Mecca and Medina.
34. See WR 79; CIS 200; JS 1: 30.
35. For the Aramaic inscriptions, see WR 79; CIS 200; JS 1: 30. For the Thamudic
inscription, see JS 609 (2: 618).
36. See F. Safar, Sumer 27 (1971): 3–5; al-H
atr, 45; Aggoula, RIH 4: 181–83; R. Degen,
Neue Ephemeris III: 1978: 68–72; Vattioni, Iscrip.: 90–91.
37. See al-Theeb, Aram and Nabat, ’lht (Aram, no. 1: 2 “goddess”).
38. See JS 162; JS 81; RES 2052.
39. See Cantineau 1978: 43; Dijkstra 1995: 48–49.
40. See WR 57; CIS 234; JS 1: 40. Also see J.T. Milik, Discoveries in the Judaean Desert
(Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1962), inscription 108; CIS 1: 132; Cooke: 38.
41. See Rœllig: 1995.
42. Suidas, Lexicon, ed. A. Adler (Leipzig: In aedibus B. G. Teubneri, 1931), 713.
43. See CIS 2: 182.
42 r Brannon Wheeler
44. See Healey, 81; Dalman 1912: 96–98; Marklein 1995: 111–14.
45. See Asad and Gawlikowsky, 111, A 1498/9192.
46. See Asad and Teixidor 1985: 286; Dijkstra 1995: 98.
47. See CIS 2: 113; DNWSI 2: 781; DISO 191; Cooke: 69.
48. See, for example, JS 79, 81, 257, 312 and Jamme 1996: 1044–50, 1058. For the Nabataean, see Healey, The Nabataean Tomb Inscription of Mada’in Salih (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1993), 238–42.
49. See Beeston: 158; Leslau 1987: 608; Theeb 2000: 83; Jamme 1996: 1045, 1046, 1050,
1058.
50. See Oxtoby 1968: 29, 31, 34; Winnett and Harding: 244, 404, 849, 924, 1051, 2004,
2469; pl. 587. For Nabataean examples, see CIS 2: 332 from al-῾Ula; W. al-Sālihī, Sumer 31
(1975): 26–27 from Madā’in S ālih.
51. For the Nabataean inscription, see CIS 2: 183. See Jaussen and Savignac, 569.
52. See Muqatil b. Sulayman, Tafsīr Muqātil b. Sulaymān, ed. ῾Abdallāh Mahmūd
Shihātah (Cairo, 1979), on Q 2:125. Also see the reports in Muhammad b. ῾Abdallāh alAzraqī, Akhbār Makkah, 39; al-Fāsī, Shifā’ al-gharām bl-akhbār al-balad al-harām (Cairo,
1956), 1: 197. Also see the discussion of these references in Uri Rubin, “The Ka῾ba: Aspects
of Its Ritual Functions and Position in Pre-Islamic and Early Islamic Times,” Jerusalem
Studies in Arabic and Islam 8 (1986): 110–11.
53. See al-Suyūtī, al-Darr al-manthūr fī tafsīr al-ma’thūr, on Q 2:125.
54. See al-halabī, Sīrah al-H
alabī, 14. For other references to the burial of prophets in
the Meccan sanctuary, see Ibn Qutayba, Ma῾ārif, 14; Ibn Sa῾d, T
abaqāt al-kubrā, 1: 52.
On monoliths, see P. Arnaud, “Naïskoi monolithes du Hauran,” in Hauran I: Recherches
archéologiques sur la Syrie du sud à l’époque hellénistique et romaine, ed. J.-M. Dentzer
(Paris: Paul Geuthner, 1985), 2: 373–86. For general comments, see J. Wellhausen, Reste
arabischen Heidentums, Gesammelt und Erläutert, 73–94; H. Lammens, L’Arabie Occidentale Avant l’Hégire (Beirut: Imp. Catholique, 1928), 101–79, esp. 167, 173–76; Dominique Sourdel, Les cultes du Hauran à l’époque Romaine (Paris: Imp. nationale, 1952),
esp. 19–112; J. Teixidor, The Pagan God: Popular Religion in the Greco-Roman Near East
(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1977), 62–99; K. Dijkstra, Life and Loyalty: A
Study in the Socio-Religious Culture of Syria and Mesopotamia in the Graeco-Roman Period Based on Epigraphic Evidence (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1995); U. Avner, “Ancient Cult Sites
in the Negev and Sinai Deserts,” Tel Aviv 11 (1984): 115–31.
55. See, e.g., Arent Jan Wensinck, “Semitic Rites of Mourning and Religion: Studies on
the Origin and Mutual Relations”; E. W. Lane, An Account of the Manners and Customs
of the Modern Egyptians (London: East-West Publication, 1890); G. E. von Grunebaum,
Muhammadan Festivals (New York: Schuman, 1951). For this paragraph, see Brannon
Wheeler, Mecca and Eden: Ritual, Relics, and Territory in Islam (Chicago: University of
Chicago Press, 2006).
56. See Littman 1940: 1211.
57. See Winnett and Reed: 63, 9, 10.
58. See Jaussen and Savignac: 52; Winnett 1937: 12; Oxtoby 1968: 101.
59. See KTU 1: 20–22, 142; 1: 124, 161; 1: 5, 11–22; Lammens, 1928: 203; Grimme 1929:
Quran and Muslim Exegesis as a Source for the Bible and Ancient History
r 43
24–30; Lewis: 1989; Smith and Bloch-Smith: 1988. For Safaitic evidence of mourning, see
Winnett and Harding.
60. See Deir ῾Alla 1:1; KAI 202, A, 12.
61. See CIS 2: 137.
62. See Ibrahim 1986: 528, dated 125 ce.
63. Stephanus 144.19–26. For the city of Obada as the location of the burial of Obadas,
see Stephanus 482.15–16. The god ῾BDT is mentioned in the En Avdat inscription (Negev,
Obadas) and is found in Dedanite/Lihyanite inscriptions (Sima, Inshriften 59). On the
cult of Obadas, see Healey, Religion, 147–51 and Dijkstra, Life, 319–21.
64. See Winnett and Harding: 1679; Littman 1943: 325, 403–404.
65. See Winnnett and Harding: 1423; Origen, Philocalia 23.16.28–29; Bardesanes,
Book 58.2.
66. See Winnett and Harding: 3696.
67. See, e.g., Jaussen and Savignac: 162, 182, 665, 692; Qudrah 1993: 160.
68. On the seven dots, see Beatrice Laura Goff, Symbols of Prehistoric Mesopotamia
(New Haven: Yale University Press, 1963), esp. 450–54; E. Douglas Van Buren, “Symbols
of the Gods in Mespotamian Art,” Annalecta orientalia 23 (Rome: Pontificium Institutum
Biblicum, 1945), esp. 74–82; Hehn, “Siebenzahl und Sabbat,” LSS II, 5 (1907): 4–6, 17–27,
44–58; Zimmern, “Die sieben Kinder Enmesarra’s,” ZA 23 (1909): 363–66; Weidner, OLZ
22 (1919): supp. 1012; Van Buren, “The Seven Dots in Mesopotamian Art and Their Meaning,” AfO 12 (1941): 277–89.
69. Winnett and Reed: 16.
70. See Dupont-Sommer 1964: 115; Dijkstra 1995: 246.
71. I. Rabinowitz, “Aramaic Inscriptions of the Fifth Century bce from a North-Arab
Shrine in Egypt,” JNES 15 (1956): 1–9; W. Dumbrell, “The Tell el-Maskhufla Bowls and
the ‘Kingdom’ of Qedar in the Persian Period,” BASOR 203 (1971): 33–44.
72. See Sabaic 567: 9–10; Jaussen and Savignac, 41.
73. See Dussaud and Macler 1901: 36; Cooke: 101; Asad and Gawlikowski: 118, A
1471/8834.
74. See Safar 1971: 3–5.
75. See Ryckmans, HUCA 23 (1950–51): 431–3; CIS 875, 852, 3946; 4359, 1658; Littman:
649.
76. See Casper J. Kraemer Jr., Excavations at Nessana, vol. 3: Non-Literary Papyri
(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1958), 13, 62, 89.
77. See Aufrecht 1989, 56: 3.
78. See Winnett and Reed, 9; Jaussen and Savignac, 2: 83; Jaussen and Savignac, 82;
Philby 1956:167.
79. See Cairo Museum 52517, 52514, 52510.
80. See Jaussen and Savignac: 64; Winnett 1937: 17.
81. See Asad an Gawlikowski 101.
82. See Hatra: 29.
83. See Cooke: 140.
84. See Winnett and Reed: 41, 42.
44 r Brannon Wheeler
85. See, e.g., RES 3624; CIH 957, ANET 663; RES 4653; Jamme 538; ANET 663; RES
283; Tawfiq: 31–32, no. 13; RES 2774; Tawfiq: 24–25; ANET 666; Philby: 84, Jamme 1963;
Jamme: 949; NET 669–70.
86. On the relationship of the sanctuary at Mecca in pre-Islamic times with other
Arab sanctuaries and their custodians, see T. Fahd, “Une partique cléromantique à la
Ka῾ba préislamique,” Semitica 8 (1958): 55–79 [=Proceedings of the 27th International
Congress of Orientalists 24 (1957): 246–48]; T. Nöldeke, “Der Gott MRA BYTA und die
Ka῾ba,” Zeitschrift für Assyriologie 23 (1909): 184–86; Shahabuddin Ansari, “How Ka῾ba
Came to Be Defiled with Idols,” Studies in Islam 19 (1982): 39–45.
87. See the examples cited in Hoyland, Arabia and the Arabs, 159–61. On the role of
divination and dream interpretation in the office of the sanctuary custodian, see T. Fahd,
La Divination arabe (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1966); A.F.L. Beeston, “The Oracle Sanctuary of
Jar al-Labba’,” Le Muséon 62 (1949): 207–28; H.J.W. Drijvers, “Inscriptions from Allāt’s
Sanctuary,” Aram 7 (1995): 109–19.
88. Ibn al-Athīr, al-Kāmil fī al-ta’rīkh, ed. C. J. Tornberg, Ibn-el-Athiri, Chronicon
Quod Perfectissmum Inscribitur (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1867; reprint, Beirut, n.d.), 1: 93. A
similar comment is found in Muhammad b. Jarīr al-Tabarī, Ta’rīkh al-rusul wa al-mulūk
(Beirut, n.d.), 1: 139.
89. For this, see Brannon Wheeler, “Arab Prophets of the Quran and Bible,” Journal
of Quranic Studies, 8(2006): 24–57.
90. See, e.g., Ernst Axel Knauf, Midian (Wiesbaden: O. Harrassowitz, 1988), and his
Ishmae: Untersuchungen zur Geschichte Palästinas und Nordarabiens im 1.Jahrtausend v.
Chr. (Wiesbaden: O. Harrassowitz, 1985).
91. See Baruch Halpern, The First Historians: The Hebrew Bible and History (San Francisco: Harper and Row, 1988).
4
The Quran’s Depiction of Abraham in
Light of the Hebrew Bible and Midrash
Bat-Sheva Garsiel
The Quran is a collection of Muhammad’s teachings, aimed at inculcating
the belief in one God and presenting its principles to the nascent Muslim
community (2:185). The Quran integrates figures, among them biblical
ones, into its suras in order to reinforce the subject under discussion and
to exemplify it.1 Unlike the Bible, therefore, whose stories appear in more
or less chronological order, the Quranic figures may appear in one sura
and reappear in another in varied sermons or in other contexts. Consequently, those who wish to discuss a figure in the Quran must glean information from different suras in which the character appears and construct
him like a mosaic, fitting together relevant depictions and characterizations from various texts.
Abraham and Moses are the most important among the early prophets
to appear in the Quran. The Quran viewed Moses as the prophet sent
to transmit a new religion to his people and Abraham as the father and
founder of Islam. Muhammad is regarded as the conglomerate character
of both of them, as the one continuing their mission and sealing the chain
of all prophets. Similarities between the depiction of Abraham in the early
Jewish traditions and its parallels in the Quran have been noticed by
scholars.2 Earlier scholars, however, did not fully capture the wide scope
of the parallels; neither did they delve into the reasons for the changes
wrought by the Quran in its adaptations.
This study examines the image of Abraham in the Quran in comparison
with the wide range of Jewish sources that preceded the Quran, including
46 r Bat-Sheva Garsiel
midrashic exegeses, and discusses the major differences between these
various traditions.
Abraham: The Prophet, the First Muslim, and the Founder of Islam
Abraham’s image in the Quran underwent developments and modifications. At the onset of Muhammad’s Mecca period, Abraham was considered an ordinary prophet, appearing generally in the list of prophets and
messengers.3 But at the close of the Mecca period and during the Medina
period, when Muhammad realized that the Jews were not willing to convert to Islam, he changed his approach. He ceased presenting Islam as a
stage parallel to but more developed than Judaism, and instead he spoke
of Islam as a religion more ancient than and completely separate from
Judaism. In line with this concept, the image of Abraham in the later suras
was transformed into that of the first Muslim, the person who laid the
earliest foundations of Islam.4
One of the reasons for which Abraham was selected as the first Muslim is that his persona was famous and revered in all of the monotheistic
religions. This is reflected in the Quran, which asks: “People of the book,
why do you dispute concerning Abraham? The Torah was not sent down,
neither was the Gospel, but after him” (3:65).5 According to this concept,
“Abraham in truth was not a Jew, neither a Christian; but he was a Muslim, a H
anif. Certainly he was never one of the idolaters.”6 The term H
anif
attributed to Abraham describes a man who believes in only one God. At
that time, the new religion was not yet called “Islam.” The Quran used the
term islam to refer to submission and obedience to God and acceptance
of His rulership. The Quran thus coined a new term, one found neither in
the Hebrew Bible nor in the New Testament.
At first glance, the Quran’s description of Abraham seems to be a modification of some earlier Jewish traditions, with an added emphasis laid on
Abraham’s being a Muslim, that is, on his obedience and submissiveness
to God. There is some basis in Genesis 17:1 for such a description when
the Lord said to Abraham: “Walk in My ways and be blameless,” which
seems to allude to a person who follows the guidance of God and walks
in His ways. Similarly, there are comments in early midrashim (postbiblical homiletic commentaries on biblical texts), emphasizing Abraham’s
submissiveness to God. One midrash states that “even when he did not
find a place to bury Sarah, Abraham did not question God’s ways.”7 That
The Quran’s Depiction of Abraham in Light of the Hebrew Bible and Midrash
r 47
is, Abraham accepted God’s decree submissively. Another midrash depicts
Abraham as one who heeded God’s orders, even with regard to a minor
commandment given orally.8 Yet another midrash states: “Since you have
made known to all that you love Me, and you did not withhold your son
. . . I will treat you as if I asked you to sacrifice yourself, and you did not
hesitate.”9 Therefore, it seems to me that the description of Abraham as
“submissive and obedient” may very well have been influenced by the
earlier Jewish sources that Muhammad or his disciples heard from their
Jewish neighbors, but in the Quran it undergoes accentuation, expansion,
and Islamization. The principle of submissiveness turns from an appropriate characteristic of a believer to a term that characterizes the community
of believers who are faithful followers of Muhammad. At a later period,
this principle is extended to become a concept defining the new, exclusive
religion of Islam.10
David Zvi Baneth disagrees with the interpretation of the term Islam
as “submissiveness to God.” He argues that submissiveness to God expresses a very high spiritual level, and it cannot be that when Muhammad
established the new religion he used a high-level language to speak to
his simple audience. Moreover, his earliest followers included slaves and
poor people who would not be persuaded to join a new religion by the
idea of “submissiveness.” On the contrary, that would distance them from
it. Therefore, Baneth suggests that the term Islam denotes unity, wholeness, totality, something indivisible. The emphasis is on wholeness, not
on submissiveness. To reinforce his idea, Baneth points out that Muhammad blamed his people for believing in polytheism. So it is logical that
the term Islam is the opposite of “association” (idolatry). Thus it signifies
faithfulness, indicating that a person must give himself wholly to one God
only. The term Islam became the name of the new religion in contrast to
polytheistic religions that worship a multiplicity of gods.11
Muhammad’s mission was thus to restore the faith of the H
anifyya,
namely, the belief in one God, which was the belief of Abraham, the first
Muslim. In the Quran, when God commanded Muhammad to obey him
submissively, he replied: “I have surrendered myself to the Lord of all beings. My Lord has guided me to a straight path, a right religion, the creed
of Abraham, a man of pure faith, he was no idolater” (6:161).
Muhammad is depicted in the Quran as a follower in the footsteps of
Abraham. The analogy between the two, as reflected in the Quran, is the
basis for the Muslim view that the first Muslim community epitomized
48 r Bat-Sheva Garsiel
the synthesis of Islam, Judaism, and Christianity, while it also signified
something distinct from those two monotheistic religions. Moreover, according to the Muslim viewpoint, Muhammad’s mission was to spread
Islam, the religion of Abraham, which was distorted or forsaken by Jews
and Christians alike.12
According to the Quran, Abraham was a prophet (19:41) who passed
God’s test and proved himself to be a true believer (2:124). God took Abraham as a dear friend (4:125). Abraham was the father of the believers and
the first Muslim.13 The Torah was brought down from heaven to the Children of Israel at a later date, only during the days of Moses. Therefore, the
Children of Israel are not the followers of Abraham. Only Muhammad
and his community of believers are the true disciples of the religion of
Abraham, and they were the first to follow in his footsteps (3:68; 16:123).
Ibn Hisham (ninth century CE) relates that Muhammad entered the
schools (madāris) of the Jews and invited them to convert and become
Muslims. When they asked him to what religion he belonged, he replied:
“The religion of Abraham.”14
It is noteworthy that the Quran’s perception of Abraham as a prophet
is already found in Genesis, when God appeared to Abimelech in a dream
and referred to Abraham as “a prophet.”15 Similarly, in the midrash we
find: “Abraham is a prophet.”16 Likewise, the perception that Abraham
passed a test is found in Genesis: “God put Abraham to the test. For now
I know that you fear God.”17 Even the perception in the Quran that God
took Abraham as a friend is based on a couple of midrashic homilies:
“Yedid [a friend] is Abraham”;18 “Abraham is called ‘Yedid.’“19
To summarize, Muhammad attributed characteristics to Abraham that
were known to him and his disciples from the Hebrew Bible and its midrashic exegeses. At the same time, a slight Islamization of the image is
recognizable in the emphasis illuminating Abraham’s obedience and submissiveness, which paved the way for Abraham to become, according to
the Quran, the father of Islam.
Building the Ka῾ba and Abraham’s House
Another indication of the Quran’s perception that Islam preceded Judaism is that according to the Quran, Abraham built the Ka῾ba together with
Ishmael even before the Pentateuch was delivered to the Jewish people.
The Quran’s Depiction of Abraham in Light of the Hebrew Bible and Midrash
r 49
This place became the holiest site to Islam and the center for pilgrimages
and the observance of additional religious ceremonies (2:125, 127; 3:96–97;
22:26–27).20 Abraham is reported to have prayed to God and requested:
“Make this a secure land, and provide its people with fruit” (2:126; 14:35–
37). He asked God to distance him and his sons from idol worship. He also
thanked Him for the birth of his sons, Ishmael and Isaac, and added that
he had settled his sons in Mecca (14:35–40). Abraham requested that God
send a messenger to the settlers of Mecca from amongst them (2:129).21
The Temple in Mecca is the earliest house of worship (3:96);22 therefore,
the Ka῾ba is regarded as the Temple of Abraham.23 According to commentaries on the Quran, Mecca has a stone called the Station of Abraham
where there is a carving of Abraham’s foot. It served as a site of prayer
(2:125; 3:97).24
The Quran tells us that Muhammad calls out to his listeners: “Take to
yourselves Abraham’s station for a place of prayer” (2:125). The Quran thus
treats the Ka῾ba as “Abraham’s place of prayer.” So far, no basis for this
tradition has been found among the local Jews.25 However, it is noteworthy that in the Book of Jubilees, the expression “The House of Abraham”
appears when Abraham says to Jacob: “I built the house for myself . . .
and for my seed.” “And this house I built for myself. . . . And he named it:
The House of Abraham.”26 Muslim traditions and Western scholars posit
that during the pre-Islamic period, there were individuals or groups of
monotheists in Arabia known as “Hunafa.”27 One may suggest that these
individuals were familiar with the expression “The House of Abraham,”
similar to what appears in the Book of Jubilees. Apparently, this information reached them through Christians in Ethiopia, since the Book of Jubilees was among their holy writings. One may presume that monotheistic
Arabs in the environs of Mecca and Medina transferred the “House of
Abraham” tradition to their own holy site.28
According to another opinion, the Ka῾ba was a holy site for idol worshippers during the pre-Islamic period. Muhammad at first tried to persuade Muslims to terminate Ka῾ba worship, but when he realized that
they would not give it up, he purified it of idolatry by bringing it into
the framework of Islam, sanctifying it, and attributing its founding and
ceremonial rites to Abraham.29 In Shelomo Dov Goitein’s opinion, Muhammad felt that the existence of the Ka῾ba and its worship in Mecca
was a sign of the grace of God, since it brought business to the city to
50 r Bat-Sheva Garsiel
such an extent that the city was dependent on it economically. Therefore,
Muhammad retained the Ka῾ba ritual in Islam.30
It seems to me that it is worthy of note that Genesis mentions four
times that Abraham built an altar to God31 and that the motif of “building
an altar” can also be found in early midrashic traditions.32 If Muhammad
and his disciples were indeed aware of these midrashic traditions, they
may have transferred the site of the altar from the Land of Israel to Mecca
in order to create an additional link between Abraham and Islam.
Analogies between Muhammad and Abraham
The description of Abraham in the Quran was affected by the desire to
establish analogies between Abraham and Muhammad. Abraham Geiger
estimates that Muhammad identified himself with Abraham to the extent
that at times, when Muhammad refers to Abraham, he digresses from the
subject of his discourse and inserts motifs unrelated to the original theme
but related to his own life. Thus he transforms himself from a storyteller
of ancient events to a preacher on contemporary ones. For example, when
Muhammad relates an argument between Abraham and his father and his
people regarding idolatry, he shifts from the story of Abraham’s argument
with his listeners to direct moral preaching to his own audience on the
subject of Paradise and Hell (26:69–104).33 A similar shift in the Quran
may be found in the portrayal of Abraham’s reproof of his father concerning idolatry. In this text, Muhammad speaks of Abraham’s readiness
to ask God to pardon his father. Suddenly Muhammad turns to his own
audience and comments that he, too, is willing to pray to God on behalf
of his listeners who are idol worshippers (19:41–50).
Another example of an analogy between Muhammad and Abraham is
embedded in the story of Abraham in Ur of the Chaldeans. The Quran
delineates how Abraham reached the conclusion on his own that there is
one God:
When night outspread over him, he saw a star and said, “This is my
Lord,” but when it set, he said, “I do not love the setters.” When he
saw the moon rising, he said: “This is my Lord,” but when it set, he
said: “If my Lord does not guide me, I shall surely be of the people
gone astray.” When he saw the sun rising, he said, “This is my Lord,
this is greater.” But when it set, he said: “O my people surely I am
The Quran’s Depiction of Abraham in Light of the Hebrew Bible and Midrash
r 51
quit of that you associate. I have turned my face to Him who originated the heaven and the earth. A man of pure faith, I am not of the
idolaters.” (6:75–79)
In this Quranic episode, the influence of postbiblical Jewish sources is
discernible. In these sources, the departure point is how Abraham managed to achieve recognition of one God by means of his own power and
solely by examining the celestial bodies and observing their weaknesses.34
One may assume that the Quran borrowed the kernel of the story from
Jewish sources and intertwined them into its suras with the intention of
creating an analogy between Muhammad and Abraham. Both of them
lived among idolaters; some of whom bowed down to the sun and moon
(41:37). And each reached an awareness of one God on his own.
The Quran goes on to relate that after he had recognized one God,
Abraham attempted to persuade his father and his people to forsake idol
worship, for the idols could not assist them and were unable to provide
their believers with a means of support (6:74; 21:52–56; 29:24–25). Likewise, Abraham reasoned with his audience that there is only one God,
the Creator of the universe (21:56). In another passage, Abraham tries to
persuade his audience: “Serve God and fear him; that is better for you”
(29:16). He then clarifies that the peoples preceding them had rejected the
messengers sent to them and therefore had been punished. At this point
in the story, Muhammad again shifts from the role of storyteller to that of
a preacher threatening his people that they, too, will be punished if they
do not abandon their idols (29:22–24). The Quran continues, relating that
Abraham decided to destroy the idols in order to convince his people
that the idols are worthless. When the people left, he shattered the idols,
leaving just the biggest one untouched. When his people saw what he had
done, they asked Abraham if he had destroyed them. He replied that it
was the big idol who had shattered the others and suggested that they ask
that idol for confirmation. But the people replied that no idol could speak.
So Abraham asked them why they worshipped such idols if they did not
have the power to help or harm. His people had no answer, so they called
out: “Slay him or burn him” (21:57–68; 29:24; 37:83–98).
In the confrontation between Abraham on the one hand and his father
and his people on the other hand, we can also recognize the influence of
the midrash that describes the tactics used by Abraham to persuade his
peers that the idols were helpless.35 The Quran apparently portrays the
52 r Bat-Sheva Garsiel
confrontation in order to point out the similarities between Muhammad
and Abraham. At the beginning of his mission, Muhammad was compelled to argue with his people, sometimes unsuccessfully, in order to
persuade them to forsake their idols. In order to strengthen his position
and to give validity to his words, he selected a similar story about Abraham’s life that was familiar to his audience.36
It is noteworthy that according to the Quran, Abraham attempted to
persuade his father to believe in one God, and when he refused, Abraham
prayed, “Forgive my father, for he is one of those astray” (26:86). In other
suras, however, the Quran states that the Prophet and his believers were
forbidden to request that idolaters be pardoned. Nevertheless, the Quran
justifies Abraham’s act, explaining that “Abraham asked not pardon for
his father, except because of a promise he had made to him. And when
it became clear to him that he was an enemy of God, he declared himself quit of him” (9:113–114). In this instance, as in the case of Noah, who
asked forgiveness on behalf of his transgressor son, the story of Abraham prompts a discussion on the appropriateness of asking forgiveness
for pagans. This question interested Muhammad’s followers a great deal,
especially the first believers who apparently attempted to request pardon
for their pagan relatives.37
The Quran relates that Abraham was expelled from his homeland. His
father became so angry with him for not believing in his idols that he
evicted him (19:46). There is another passage, however, that seems to contradict this, and it presents another reason for Abraham’s departure: “We
delivered him and Lot unto the land We blessed” (21:71). According to the
first statement, Abraham was exiled from his homeland by his father; but
the second one infers that Abraham was in danger (apparently from his
people or his father), and therefore God helped him escape. In contrast,
in Genesis there is no hint of any danger or force by anyone—only a command by God: “Go forth from your native land and from your father’s
house to the land that I will show you. I will make of you a great nation
. . . and they set out for the land of Canaan.”38
It seems to me that the Quran gives other reasons for Abraham’s leaving his home in order to create an analogy to an incident in the life of
Muhammad. The Quran notes that nonbelievers in Mecca plotted to have
Muhammad arrested or expelled from Mecca (8:30), and Muhammad was
compelled to flee to Medina. This description shows an analogy between
The Quran’s Depiction of Abraham in Light of the Hebrew Bible and Midrash
r 53
Abraham and Muhammad. Both were exiled from their countries because
of their belief in one God. And, just as Abraham was saved from his pursuers and merited the blessing of God, so was Muhammad saved from the
people of Mecca, and he succeeded in his mission.
According to John Kaltner, the Quran emphasizes that Abraham left
his country in order to distance himself from idolaters, whereas his destination is rendered of secondary importance. Therefore, there is only
one brief statement that mentions the blessed land to which Abraham
escaped.39 In my opinion, Muhammad preferred not to emphasize the
promise to Abraham that he and his descendants would inherit the Land
of Israel. So he modified the reason why Abraham left his land and minimized the importance of the destination of his escape. This change suits
Muhammad’s universalistic approach, which views the religion of Islam
in its multinational scope, in contrast to Judaism, which focuses on the
selection of the People of Israel and the inheritance of the Land of Israel.
Covenant between the Pieces (Berith bein ha-Betarim)
The Quran significantly alters the biblical story of the Covenant between
the Pieces. According to the Quran, Abraham asked God to show him
how he resurrects the dead. God’s reply was as follows: “Why, dost thou
not believe?” “Yes,” he said, “but that my heart may be at rest.” Said He,
“Take four birds and twist them to thee, then set a part of them on every
hill, then summon them, and they will come to thee running. And do
thou know that God is All-mighty, All-wise” (2:260).
In Jewish sources, the Covenant between the Pieces plays a central
role.40 Although the Quran adopts some of the early Jewish material in
its story, the central motif is changed. In contrast to the Jewish sources,
in which the Covenant between the Pieces stresses the promise of the
Land of Canaan to the forefather of the people and his descendants, in the
Quran the central motif is God’s ability to resurrect the dead. The themes
concerning the Land of Israel and the covenant with Abraham and his
descendants are not even mentioned. It seems to me that the Quran disregarded the promise of the Land to the People of Israel in order to minimize as much as possible attention to the land promised to the Children of
Israel,41 because in the Quran’s perception, Abraham was the first monotheist, the father of the religion of Islam, which is principally a universal
54 r Bat-Sheva Garsiel
religion (34:28) and is not dependent on the People of Israel and the Land
of Israel.
It is noteworthy that the motif of the resurrection of the dead that became a central motif in the Quran’s story of the covenant is not entirely
foreign to Jewish sources—it is found in the Midrash Hagadol42 citing a
sage named Abba Hanan.43 However, the description of the resurrection
of the dead in the Quran adds the motif of joining the pieces. According
to Geiger, the joining of the pieces is a motif foreign to Judaism.44 But in
my opinion, the motif is found in the vision of the dry bones in the book
of Ezekiel. There it says: “I prophesied as I had been commanded . . .
and the bones came together bone to matching bone; the breath entered
them, and they came to life.”45 Apparently Muhammad was influenced by
elements of the Covenant between the Pieces found in Genesis and the
midrash, as well as by elements that appear in the Vision of the Dry Bones
in Ezekiel, and integrated them into its description of the covenant.
The Angels’ Visit to Abraham and the Destruction of Sodom
Another event in the life of Abraham that the Quran deals with is the
angels’ visit to Abraham on their way to overturning Sodom. The event is
described in two suras (11:72–78; 51:24–30).46 Table 4.1 presents the variations in the story between the Jewish sources and the Quran.
The story of the angels’ visit in the Quran is similar to the biblical narrative, with some midrashic additions. According to the midrash, Abraham saw three angels, invited them to join him, and served them food,
but they only seemed to eat and drink.47 In the Quran, on the other hand,
the messengers of God came to Abraham, who served them food, but they
did not touch the food. The Quran apparently integrated into its story the
Midrashic motif of the angels only appearing to eat and drink, adding
some descriptive details. In the Midrash, the description is based on the
view that the angels are not flesh and blood and therefore do not eat. This
motif was absorbed in the Quran, but an additional element was added:
the messengers did not touch the food. The Quran’s story introduces another alteration: According to the midrash, the angels feared Abraham;
however, in the Quran, Abraham feared the angels. These changes may
have stemmed from the desire to add tension and drama to the story. One
should bear in mind that Muhammad would preach to his audience, and
The Quran’s Depiction of Abraham in Light of the Hebrew Bible and Midrash
r 55
Table 4.1. The Angels’ Visit to Abraham: A Source Comparison
Genesis 18:1–15
Midrash
Sura 11:69–72
Sura 51:24–30
Abraham saw three
people, invited them to
his home, gave them
bread, cakes, meat, butter, and milk.
Abraham saw three
angels.1
Abraham saw God’s
messengers and hurried
to bring them roasted
meat.
The visitors came to
Abraham. He gave
them meat that was
soft and good.
The angels appeared to be eating
and drinking.2
The angels feared
Abraham.3
He saw that they were
not touching the food
and feared them. They
calmed him down.
Abraham was
upset by them; they
calmed him down.
The angels told him that
they were sent to the
people of Lot.
His wife laughed.
They told him of
the birth of a smart
son.
They told him that
Sarah would give birth
to a son.
They told her of the
birth of Isaac and after
him Jacob.
Sarah laughed to herself,
saying: “Now that I am
withered, am I to have
enjoyment with my
husband so old?”
His wife smote her
His wife’s reaction:
“Will I indeed give birth face and said: “An
old woman barren.”
and I am old and my
husband is old?”
Notes
1. Bereshit Rabba (Wilna), 48:9.
2. Baba Mezia, 86b.
3. Bereshit Rabba (Albeck and Wilna), 48:14.
sometimes they became bored and wished to leave. In order to keep their
attention, he would sometimes add dramatic elements to his preaching.
Other changes in the Quran involved the interpretation of Sarah’s reaction. In one sura (11:71), Sarah laughed before she heard of the future
birth of Isaac. In another, “she smote her face” after the angels notified her
of the future birth of Isaac (51:29). Quran commentators have attempted
to explain Sarah’s laugh before she heard the news of the birth of a son.
Tabari thought that her laugh stemmed from her wonder at the behavior
of the Sodomites, who did not react to the angels’ words when they were
informed of the punishment they could expect.48 Tabari offers another
opinion, according to which Sarah saw Abraham honoring the guests and
56 r Bat-Sheva Garsiel
serving them, but they were not eating. She approached to serve them, but
they did not eat. So she said: “What a wonder! We are serving our guests
because we honor them, and they are not eating.” So Sarah laughed.49
Baidawi reviewed a number of opinions: (a) Sarah laughed out of fear
when she realized that the messengers were angels; (b) She laughed out
of joy at hearing of the death of the evil people, the Sodomites; (c) She
smote her face out of embarrassment, for she was menstruating and felt
a heat wave.50 Another explanation brought by Baidawi is that when they
gave the good tidings to Sarah, that she would give birth to a child at the
age of 90, she laughed out of amazement.51 Yet another explanation is that
she laughed out of excitement.52 We must note, however, that the last two
opinions stray from what is written in the Quran, since according to the
Quran, Sarah laughed before hearing the news of the birth of a son. In
order to be able to accept either of those explanations, the order of the
sentences should be changed: the statement that Sarah heard the good
tidings concerning the future birth of Isaac and afterwards of Jacob has to
precede her laugh.53
In my opinion, the Quran’s changes are due to rhetorical considerations: Sarah’s laugh precedes the news of the future birth of a child, since
such laughter arouses interest and tension among the listeners, who wonder: why did Sarah laugh? This wonder makes them more attentive in
expectation of the good news. However, the portrayal of Sarah smiting
her face after hearing the news reinforces the idea that the intent was to
stimulate expectation and tension in the audience; since the custom of
smiting one’s face seems generally to be a sign of mourning, not of joy, the
listeners are surprised and look forward to the continuation of the story.
The story of Abraham’s attempt to save Lot and his people appears
twice in the Quran. In sura 11, the angels relate the story of their mission
to Abraham and he argues with God about Lot’s people. But God answers
him that the punishment has been decreed and cannot be revoked (11:74–
76). In sura 29, on the other hand, Abraham only requests that Lot be
saved, and God replies that Lot and his household will be saved (29:32). In
two other suras, the angels notify Abraham of their mission to destroy the
people of Sodom, and Abraham does not even react, let alone try to save
them (15:57–60; 51:31–37). Sura 11, which relates Abraham’s attempt to save
the Sodomites, is partly similar to the Bible’s version, but in contrast to the
biblical narrative, which relates at length how Abraham attempts to save
the Sodomites and requests mercy on their behalf,54 sura 11 condenses the
The Quran’s Depiction of Abraham in Light of the Hebrew Bible and Midrash
r 57
description of Abraham’s attempt to save them. In other suras, this part of
the story is omitted entirely. In our opinion these changes are deliberate
and correspond to the Quran’s concept that a sinner should be punished
and that the merit of forefathers or of righteous people does not help to
save him (9:113–114).
The Binding Episode
In the Quran, the story of the binding of Abraham’s son is very condensed
in scope. It appears only once (37:101–10), and very few details are given.
Abraham informs his son that in his dream he saw that he must sacrifice
him. The son consents, and Abraham lays him down to sacrifice him.
Then Abraham hears a voice that says to him: “Abraham, thou hast confirmed the vision.” And he redeems his son with a large sacrifice.
The story in the book of Genesis is much more detailed. According to
the narrative, God commands Abraham to sacrifice his son, thus testing
Abraham. He says to him: “Abraham,” and he answers: “Here I am.” And
He says: “Take your son, your favored one, Isaac, whom you love, and go
to the land of Moriah, and offer him as a burnt offering.”55 In the midrash
Pirqei De-Rabbi Eliezer,56 however, we find an addition: “That night the
Holy One blessed be He appeared to Abraham and said to him, Please
take your son, your only one, whom you love, Isaac.” The word night is
apparently a Metonymic ellipsis for “in a dream at night.” That is, according to Pirqei De-Rabbi Eliezer, Abraham was commanded in a dream to
sacrifice his son.57
The biblical story describes the preparations for the sacrifice, how the
father and son go together to the site of the sacrifice, and the son asks
his father: “Here are the firestone and the wood, but where is the sheep
for the burnt offering?”58 The father replies: “God will see to the sheep
for His offering, my son.”59 It seems that according to Genesis, Isaac was
unaware of his father’s intention. The midrash also notes Abraham’s readiness to sacrifice his son out of his belief in God;60 however, it also speaks
of Isaac’s readiness to be a sacrifice at the command of God.61 The detailed
description in the Bible, along with the midrashic additions, contribute
to the creation of an atmosphere of tension and drama and highlight the
motif of sacrifice with regard to both father and son. This description was
picked up by the Quran in its condensed narrative.
Following the narrative of the binding of Isaac in Genesis, an angel
58 r Bat-Sheva Garsiel
appears a second time to Abraham and blesses him: “Because you have
done this and have not withheld your son, your favored one, I will bestow
My blessing upon you and make your descendants as numerous as the
stars of heaven and the sand on the seashore, and your descendants shall
seize the gates of their foes.”62
There is an opinion that the description of the binding in the Quran
indeed incorporates some components of the biblical story and the relevant midrashim, but that the Quranic portrayal lacks narrative details and
artistic means. The differences stem from the fact that the Quran’s main
purpose is the message, and conveying the message generally takes precedence over the literary and artistic qualities of the story.63 In my opinion,
the main difference is due to the different goals of the two traditions. In
the Jewish sources, the binding of Isaac plays a significant role in God’s
promise to multiply the descendants of Abraham and grants them victory over their enemies and an important status among all the peoples of
the earth.64 In the Quran, there is no interest in promoting these national
aspects pertaining to Abraham’s seed and the inheritance of the Land of
Canaan. Therefore, the condensed episode serves primarily as another
demonstration of Abraham’s obedience.
The interesting point in the Quran’s story of the binding episode is that
the identity of the son who was to be sacrificed is unclear. The Quran’s
commentators and Muslim scholars express different opinions. Some assume that the bound son is Isaac, while others think it is Ishmael. These
opinions are summed up by Ya῾qubi, who adds that there are many traditions that support the different views.65 Tabari thinks that the bound son
was Isaac. Nevertheless, he encapsulates the two approaches and presents the varied argumentations. Tabari concludes his review, expressing a
wish: “If only the Quran had stated explicitly which son was bound.”66
Western scholars, too, are divided about the question of who was the
unnamed bound son. Some of them, like Geiger, think it was Ishmael.67
Others, like Richard Bell and Firestone,68 think it was Isaac. Firestone
explains that Muhammad erased Isaac’s name because he did not wish to
extol the sacrifice of Isaac, and possibly he meant by that to diminish the
importance of Isaac as a forefather of the Chosen People.69 Haim Zeev
Hirschberg, on the other hand, assumes that Muhammad did not know
which son had been bound.70 Newman adds that Muhammad related the
story of the binding at a period when he still did not know that Ishmael
was the son of Abraham.71
The Quran’s Depiction of Abraham in Light of the Hebrew Bible and Midrash
r 59
The historical background may explain the omission of the name of
the bound son. The incident of the binding was related during the Mecca
period, when Muhammad still did not have many admirers, and many
mocked him and his teachings. He therefore deliberately concealed the
name of the bound son. Had he said this son was Ishmael, not only the
Jews but also the Arabs who knew the biblical and midrashic stories from
their Jewish neighbors would have mocked him for his ignorance. Had he
said that Isaac was the bound son, then Arabs to whom Muhammad addressed most of his words would have been disappointed that specifically
Isaac, a forefather of the Jews, had agreed to be bound. So Muhammad
adopted an approach of obtuseness that would appeal to both sides.72 It
seems to me that indeed Muhammad deliberately used obtuse language
with regard to the bound son, for in the biblical source it is significant that
the son was Isaac. God selected Isaac as Abraham’s heir and, following the
binding, promised him that he would have many descendants and gain
ascendancy over his enemies. Muhammad chose to disregard this promise that gives a national dimension to the story. Therefore, he omitted the
name of the bound son. By doing so, Muhammad omitted one of the main
messages of the story. There is no mention of the promise or of the destiny
of the People of Israel.
Conclusions
The considerable attention in the Quran to the figure of Abraham indicates a process of development in the image of Abraham. He was transformed from a prophet to the father of Islam and builder of the Ka῾ba.
Muhammad saw himself as the direct follower in the footsteps of Abraham. According to the Quran’s perception, the religion of Islam is the
religion of true monotheism that preceded Judaism and Christianity and
follows the religion of Abraham. Muhammad viewed himself as the reflection and counterpart of Abraham. Both attempted to persuade their
listeners to leave idolatry and worship one God who was the Creator of
the world. Both suffered threats and enmity on the part of their communities, most of whom worshipped idols, but both succeeded in their task: to
transmit to the world the true religion.
The Quran deals with episodes and motifs taken from the life of Abraham similar to the ones dealt with in the Bible and in midrashim. But this
similarity does not mean that Abraham in the Quran always corresponds
60 r Bat-Sheva Garsiel
to the biblical and midrashic Abraham. In the Quran, Abraham’s image is
modified according to different outlooks. The Quran mentions Abraham’s
deeds and events of his life, but molds them and links them to similar
situations in Muhammad’s life. At times, however, the Quran deliberately deviates from this path and changes motifs in the stories concerning
Abraham. Sometimes Muhammad conceals national motifs dealing with
the people of Israel such as the promise of a multiplicity of descendants
of Abraham, inheritance of the Land of Canaan, or the promise of superiority over enemies. Consequently, the stories of Abraham in the Quran
differ from those in the Bible and midrashim. Abraham is portrayed in
the Quran especially as a prophet, the founder of a universal religion.
This approach is evident in the description of his departure from his father’s house to go to a new land, in the story of the Covenant between the
Pieces, and in the episode of the binding. Muhammad regarded himself as
analogous to Abraham, but he added that he was the last of the prophets
and thus superior to all his predecessors including Abraham. For he restored the original and true religion that had been corrupted by the other
monotheistic religions, and he himself was the final transmitter of the true
religion.
Notes
1. Cf. Angelika Neuwirth, “Myths and Legends in the Qur’ān,” Encyclopaedia of the
Qur’ān (Leiden: Brill 2003), 3:477–97.
2. The first to discuss the issue was Geiger. See A. Geiger, Judaism and Islam (1898;
translated from German by F. M. Young; reprint, New York: Ktav, 1970). Significant
scholarly contributions to our topic were made by R. Firestone in the following publications: R. Firestone, “Abraham’s Son as the Intended Sacrifice (al-dhabih, Koran
37:99–113): Issues in Koranic Exegesis,” Journal of Semitic Studies 34, no. 1 (1989): 95–131;
R. Firestone, Journeys in Holy Lands: The Evolution of the Abraham–Ishmael Legends
in Islamic Exegesis (Albany: SUNY Press, 1990); R. Firestone, “Comparative Studies in
Bible and Koran: A Fresh Look at Genesis 22 in Light of Surah 37,” Judaism and Islam:
Boundaries, Communications, and Interaction (Leiden: Brill, 2000), 169–74; R. Firestone,
“Isaac,” Encyclopaedia of the Qur’ān (Leiden: Brill, 2002), 2:561–62; R. Firestone, “Merits,
Mimesis, and Martyrdom: Aspects of Shi῾ite Meta-historical Exegesis on Abraham’s Sacrifice in the Light of Jewish, Christian, and Sunnite Traditions,” in The Faith of Abraham,
ed. M. Hallamish, H. Kasher, et al. (Ramat Gan: Bar Ilan University Press, 2003), 93–112
(Hebrew). See also U. Rubin’s studies: “H
anifiyya and Ka‘ba: An Inquiry into the Arabic
Pre-Islamic Background of the Din Ibrahim,” Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 13
(1990): 85–112; Between Bible and Koran: The Children of Israel and the Islamic Self-Image
(Princeton: Darwin, 1999).
The Quran’s Depiction of Abraham in Light of the Hebrew Bible and Midrash
r 61
3. Abraham is mentioned in the following suras of Mecca: 6:74–83, 11:69–76, 14:35–41,
15:51–60, 16:120–23, 19:41–50, 21:51–73, 26:69–89, 29:16–18, 37:83–113, 38:45, 42:13, 43:26–
27, 51:24–37, 53:37, and 87:19.
4. For further discussion, see A. Guthrie, “The Significance of Abraham,” Muslim
World 32 (1955): 113–20, and F. E. Peters, Muhammad and the Origins of Islam (Albany:
SUNY Press, 1994), 118–21.
5. The English translation of the Quran is from A. J. Arberry (New York: Macmillan,
1983).
6. Ibid., 67. It is noteworthy that the expressions “Abraham’s creed,” “Abraham was a
H
anif,” and “he was not one of the idolaters” appear in the Quran ten times: suras 2:135;
3:67, 95; 4:125; 6:79, 161; 12:38; 16:120, 123; and 22:78.
7. Baba Bathra 15a.
8. See Bereshit Rabba, Wilna edition (reprint: Jerusalem, 1994), 64:4 (Hebrew). In the
Albeck edition there is a small difference.
9. Bereshit Rabba, ed. J. Theodor and Ch. Albeck (Berlin, 1912), 56:12 (Hebrew).
10. Cf. J. D. Levenson, “Abraham among Jews, Christians, and Muslims: Monotheism,
Exegesis, and Diversity,” Arc: The Journal of the Faculty of Religious Studies 26 (McGill,
1998): 5–29.
11. D. Z. Baneth, “The Original Meaning of Aslama,” Israel Oriental Studies 1 (1972):
185–89.
12. D. Waines, An Introduction to Islam (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1996); Ya῾qubi, Ta’rikh, 1 (Leiden: Brill, 1969), 13–14.
13. Suras 2:128, 131, 133; 3:65–67; 4:125; 6:161; 12:38; and 16:120–23.
14. Ibn Hisham, Sirat al-Nabi (Cairo: Dar al-Kutub al-῾Arabi, 1937), 2:179.
15. Genesis 20:7.
16. Bereshit Rabba (Albeck and Wilna), 40:2.
17. Genesis 22:1, 12.
18. Menahot 53: 2.
19. Midrash Tanaim, Deuteronomy (Tel Aviv: Hoffman ed., 1963), 33:12.
20. Cf. Levenson, “Abraham among Jews, Christians, and Muslims,” 27.
21. When he says, “A Messenger one of them,” Muhammad means that he is the messenger who was sent to the people of Mecca. It also means that Abraham mentioned
Muhammad as his follower.
22. The Quran stresses the fact that the temple in Mecca was built before the temple
in Jerusalem.
23. Rubin, The Quran (Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University Press, 2005), 2:26–27 (Hebrew).
24. Most of the exegeses identify “Abraham’s Station” with the “Holy Stone” in Mecca
that bears the same name. They explain that the stone is called “The Station of Abraham” because Abraham stood on it when he built the Ka῾ba, or when he came to visit
Ishmael and put his feet on the stone for Ishmael’s wife to wash them, and the footprints
remained on the stone.
25. R. Bell, A Commentary on the Qur’ān, ed. C. E. Bosworth and M. E. Richardson
(Manchester: University of Manchester Press, 1991), 2:23.
62 r Bat-Sheva Garsiel
26. The Book of Jubilees, ed. A. Kahana (Tel Aviv: Masada, 1956), 22:24 (Hebrew).
27. U. Rubin, H
anifiyya and Ka῾ba, 109.
28. Ibid., 107.
29. Geiger, Judaism and Islam, 73; and H. Lazarus-Yafeh, “The Pilgrimage Religious
Problems in Islam,” Israel Academy of Science and Humanities 5 (1976): 223–24.
30. S. D. Goitein, The Islam of Muhammad (Jerusalem: Hebrew University, 1956), 99
(Hebrew).
31. Genesis 12:7–8; 13:4, 18.
32. Sabbath 88a; Bereshit Rabba (Albeck edition), 39:16; Bammidbar Rabba (Jerusalem, reprint of Wilna edition, 1882), 10 (Hebrew).
33. See Geiger, Judaism and Islam, 99.
34. Cf. Jubilees 12:17–20; Bammidbar Rabba 14:2. In Bet ha-Midrash 2, ed. A. Jellinek
(Leipzig, 1853; Vienna, 1878), the story is more similar to the story in the Quran.
35. Bereshit Rabba (Albeck and Wilna), 38:13; Midrasch Hagadol Genesis, ed. M. Margulies (Jerusalem, 1947), 12:1 (Hebrew).
36. Cf. Guthrie, “The Significance of Abraham,” 117.
37. R. Tottoli, Biblical Prophets in the Qur’ān and Muslim Literature, trans. from Italian
by M. Robertson (Richmond: Curzon, 2002), 25.
38. Genesis 12:1–6.
39. J. Kaltner, Ishmael Instructs Isaac (Collegeville, Minn.: Liturgical, 1999), 112.
40. Genesis 15:8–21.
41. For another instance in which Muhammad omits the topic of the Promised Land,
see the discussion of Ur of the Chaldeans, above in section 3.
42. Midrash Hagadol, Genesis, Lech Lecha 17.
43. Abba Hanan is third generation of the Tanaim (approximately second century
CE), which means that it is a very old Jewish tradition.
44. Geiger, Judaism and Islam, 100.
45. Ezekiel 37:1–11.
46. The visit of the angels is briefly mentioned in other suras: 15:51–60 and 29:31–32.
47. Baba Mezia 86b.
48. Tabari, Tafsir al-Tabari min Kitabihi Jami al-Bayan ´An Tawil Aiy al-Koran. B, 4
(Beirut: Dar al-Fikr, 1994), 293.
49. Tabari, Ta’rikh al-Rusul wa-l-Muluk (Leiden, 1964), 1:250.
50. Baidawi, Anuar al-Tanzil wa-Asrar al-Tawil (Ausenbrook: Bibliu 1968), 1:440.
51. Ibid., 2:285.
52. Al-Jalalayn, Tafsir al-Imamayn al-Jalalayn (Beirut: Dar al-Ma’rifa, n.d.), 295.
53. Geiger, Judaism and Islam, 102.
54. Genesis 18:23–32.
55. Genesis 22:1–2.
56. This collection is a midrashic work on Genesis, part of Exodus, and on a few
sentences on Numbers, ascribed to Eliezer ben Hyarcanus and composed in Italy shortly
after 833 CE.
57. Pirke Rabbi Eliezer (New York: M. Higger ed., 1948), 31:6 (Hebrew).
The Quran’s Depiction of Abraham in Light of the Hebrew Bible and Midrash
r 63
58. Genesis 22:7.
59. Genesis 22:8.
60. Bereshit Rabba (Albeck edition) 56:4.
61. Sanhedrin 89b; Bereshit Rabba (Wilna and Mantova) 56:8; Lekach-Tov (=Pesikta
Sutarta), ed. S. Baber (Wilna, 1880), Genesis 22:6 (Hebrew); Tanhuma (Mantova, 1563;
reprint, Makor ed., Jerusalem, 1970), the portion of Vayera, on the phrase “Some time
afterwards.”
62. Genesis 22:16–18.
63. Kaltner, Ishmael Instructs Isaac, 123.
64. Genesis 22:15–18.
65. Ya῾qubi, Ta’rikh, 1 (Leiden, 1969) 1:25.
66. Tabari, Ta’rikh: 294–301.
67. Geiger, Judaism and Islam, 103.
68. Firestone, “Isaac,” 561–62.
69. Firestone, “Merits,” 93–112.
70. H. Z. Hirschberg, “The Torah Stories in Ancient Arabia,” Sinai 18 (1946): 163–81
(Hebrew).
71. N. A. Newman, Muhammad, the Qur’ān, and Islam (Hatfield, Pa.: Interdisciplinary Biblical Research Institute, 1996), 365.
72. Cf. C. C. Torrey, The Jewish Foundation of Islam (New York: Jewish Institute of
Religion Press, 1933), 90.
5
Present at the Dawn of Islam
Polemic and Reality in the Medieval Story
of Muhammad’s Jewish Companions
Shimon Shtober
In the year 1832, Abraham Geiger, a prominent member of the scientific movement known as Die Wissenschaft des Judentums, completed
a dissertation entitled “Was hat Mohammed aus dem Judenthume aufgenommen?”(What did Muhammad obtain from Judaism?).1 In the coming years many scholarly studies have dealt with this question in detail.
However, even now, over 175 years after Geiger introduced the question,
no exhaustive work has been produced. I do not presume to have exhausted the subject, but I would like to explore the question of Jewish
involvement in the creation of Islam from a different perspective.
According to Muslim traditions, documented in the sīrah literature,
some eminent Jewish leaders, living in the H
ijāz, approached Muhammad, associated with him, and soon converted to his religion. This very
early Islamic tradition was perpetuated by a similar series of legends,
which proliferated in the Middle Ages and were widespread among Jews
and Christians, especially in the Muslim East. The core of the legends,
dealt with here, consists of the next motifs: (1) A group of eminent Jewish leaders/sages came to Muhammad and tested the credibility of his
supposed heavenly mission; (2) soon they converted to Islam out of fear
and constraint; (3) those “luminaries” were motivated by the desire to
save their brethren from the evil that was awaiting them at the hands
Polemic and Reality in the Medieval Story of Muhammad’s Jewish Companions
r 65
of Muhammad;2 (4) However, Muhammad’s new Jewish companions enriched Islam, as they did collaborate with the Prophet in the composition
of the Quran.
This study explores the various versions of this medieval story, which
occurs in many sorts of literary materials, such as apocalypses, chronicles,
and historical tractates. Asserting that this type of legends is fraught with
anti-Islamic polemic, I will try to unravel these implicit polemic intents.
1. The Encounters of Muhammad with Jews of the H
ijāz
A careful examination of the social environment in which Muhammad
operated and of the cultural climate that prevailed in the Arabian Peninsula during the first third of the seventh century indicates that the prophet
who brought the word of Islam to the Arabs had already had encounters
with Jews in Mekka, his place of birth.3 Furthermore, from the time that
he emigrated to Yathrib (later renamed Medina) in 622, these encounters
intensified and turned into an open, lengthy, ongoing dialogue with the
local Jews. This dialogue, which became increasingly harsh and hostile,
extended over the next five years, until 627, the year that Muhammad
landed the death blow to the last remaining Jewish tribe in Medina.4
The Quran contains only vague traces of these encounters between
Muslims and Jews, which were fraught with violence on the part of the
Muslims, but they were recorded in detail in the first comprehensive work
on the history and deeds of Muhammad, al-Sīrah al-nabawiyyah. This
biographical work, which is also named the Sīrah of Ibn-Ishāq, after its author, was put into writing already at the beginning of the second century
of the Hijra.5 The different Muslim literary genres report in detail the tradition about individual Jews from the tribes and communities that lived
in al-H
ijāz who converted to Islam in the last decade of Muhammad’s life.
They also provide an even broader description of the Jewish tribes of the
Banū Qaynuqā῾, Nadīr, and Qurayza and of the inhabitants of the desert
oasis of Khaybar who clung to the beliefs of their ancestors. Their fate was
a bitter one, and when they resolutely refused to adopt Muhammad’s new
religion, they were exiled from the Arabian Peninsula, some to the north
of the H
ijāz and some in the direction of the Fertile Crescent. Members of
the Qurayza met an especially bitter fate, and many died a martyr’s death
for their staunch refusal to convert to Islam.6
66 r Shimon Shtober
2. The Jewish Companions of Muhammad: ῾Abd Allāh ibn Salām,
Prototype of a Leader
It should be stressed once again that unlike most of their brethren, only
a tiny minority of the members of the above-mentioned Jewish tribes associated with Muhammad and adopted the Islamic faith. As with every
subject that involves the history of the Jews in Arabia, here too our information derives from Muslim historical sources, which state that throughout all the years in which Muhammad operated, no more than twenty
of these Jews converted to Islam.7 I will focus my discussion on one of
the unique members of this particular group, who serves as an example
from whom we can generalize about the entire group. I am referring to
῾Abd Allāh ibn Salām (henceforth AiS), who was one of the first and
most prominent Jewish converts to Islam.8 In many ways he is representative of his companions. AiS, son of the tribe of the Banū Qaynuqā῾, who
lived in Medina, is described in Muslim tradition as the most prominent
member of his tribe socially and as a spiritual sage. In using the word
sage, I am presuming that the Jews who lived in the Arabian Peninsula at
that time practiced normative, rabbinical Judaism.9 AiS’s views may have
been similar to those of the hanīfs, the pre-Muslim monotheists, as there
is evidence that he shared their reverence for the al-Ka῾ba and believed
that it was the “House of Abraham.”10
The sīra of ibn Ishāq relates a vivid story of the conversion of AiS to
Islam, as he himself reconstructed it:
When I heard about the Apostle, whose description, his name and
his time11 [I had known beforehand], I was aware that he was the
person whose arrival we had awaited. When he entered Medina I
was filled with joy. When he established his residence in al-Qubbā,
a man came and informed me of this, while I was working at the top
of the date palm,12 and my Aunt Khālida bint al-H
ārith was sitting
beneath it on the ground. I began saying the praise Allāhu akbar,
and reiterated it, until my aunt reproached me and said, “I swear by
Allāh that even had you heard that Musā ibn ῾Imrān had arrived,
you would not have reiterated the Takbīr (the praise formula Allāhu
akbar).” I said to her, “My aunt, he is the brother of Mūsā ibn ῾Imrān
and follows his religion! Their religious mission is one!” She asked
me, “Is he the prophet they proclaimed would come at the End of
Polemic and Reality in the Medieval Story of Muhammad’s Jewish Companions
r 67
Days (annahu yub῾ath ma῾a nafs al-Sā῾ah)?” I responded, “Indeed,
he is!” And then I went to him and converted to Islam. When I
returned to my family, I instructed them to do the same, and they
converted.13
There are indications that AiS wished to keep the Sabbath and other
Jewish laws even after his conversion. But there are many traditions in the
Sīra literature that claim that from the moment he became a Muslim, he
identified with its spiritual world and provided staunch assistance to Muhammad in his frequent theological disputes with the Jews.14 He clearly
expressed his devotion to Islam and his identification with the goals of the
developing Muslim community already in the fourth and fifth years of the
Hijra (626–27), when Muhammad fought against the large Jewish tribes
in Medina—Nadīr and Qurayza—and decimated them. During the siege
on Nadīr, ῾Abd Allāh enthusiastically cut down the date palms that were
his erstwhile brethren’s source of livelihood. This constituted the most effective form of pressure, forcing them to surrender to Muhammad. After
the surrender of the Banū Qurayza, and before the men were massacred,
AiS was appointed to guard their women and children, who had been
taken into captivity.15
The intensity of AiS’s faith was unusual, even among Muhammad’s Jewish friends, to the extent that Quran commentators found over a dozen
different verses in the Quran that presumably allude to ῾Abd Allāh’s faith
in Muhammad’s prophetic mission. The following two verses are examples of such statements: “Was it not a sign to them, that it is known to the
learned of the children of Israel (an ya῾lamahu ῾ulamā’ Banī Isrā’īl)?”16 “It
is He who sent down upon thee the Book . . . and those firmly rooted in
knowledge (wa-al-rrāsikhūna fī al-῾ilmi) say we believe in it.”17 In these
verses and others, most of the commentators identified ῾Abd Allāh ibn
Salām as the first and foremost of these learned children of Israel.18 Thus
Muslim tradition even further magnified and glorified AiS and his abilities. Inter alia, it attributed to him the ability to prognosticate, primarily
because of his knowledge of the Pentateuch and other holy scriptures.
For example, AiS stated that the third caliph, ῾Uthmān ibn ῾Affān, was
described in the Book of God as “the leader of the deserters and the killers” (amīr ῾alā al-khādhil wa-al-qātil), and consequently prophesied that
he would be murdered.19 The extent to which the Muslims revered AiS is
68 r Shimon Shtober
reflected in the hadīth tradition brought in the name of Sa῾d ibn Waqqās,
as follows: “I have not heard the Prophet say about any living person
on earth that he is of the people of Paradise, except for ῾Abd Allāh ibn
Salām.” Another tradition is brought in the name of Mu῾ādh, another of
Muhammad’s companions. According to this hadīth, Muhammad is cited
as saying that religious information should be sought from four scholars, one of whom is ῾Abd Allāh ibn Salām.20 Indeed, the Muslims availed
themselves of him extensively to obtain information from the Bible or the
midrashim or to repeat it in his name.21
3. A Collective Portrait of the Jewish Converts to Islam
in the Sīra Literature
It was stated earlier that in spite of AiS’s unique status, he is to be regarded
as a particular case from which we can generalize about the entire group.22
The discussion here is thus expanded to include all of Muhammad’s Jewish friends, their relationship with the Prophet of Islam, and of course
the evolution of the character of AiS. Muhammad’s Jewish friends appear
over the course of 1,000 years in different historical texts as well as in
pseudo-historical texts as a defined group having its own idiosyncratic
makeup. Their roots begin in Muslim literature, from which they branch
out and make their way into Byzantine chronography and into Jewish historiography of the Middle Ages and the early modern era. It is therefore of
interest to follow the recurring appearance of this group in these historical writings and to analyze the fabric of the motifs that make up this tale.
The earliest of these texts is found in the Sīra of Ibn-Ishāq, which was put
into writing already at the beginning of the eighth century, approximately
120 years after Muhammad’s death. It reads as follows:
A group of Jewish sages (nafar min ahbār Yahūd)23 approached the
Messenger of Allāh and said, “Oh Muhammad, give us answers to
the four riddles that we shall put before you. If you can do so, we
shall follow in your footsteps, we will confirm the truth of your
teachings, and we will believe in you.” The messenger of Allāh said
to them, “You must swear to me in the name of Allāh and his covenant that you will confirm the veracity of my words, if I can answer
your questions.” The sages responded, “We shall!” He said to them,
Polemic and Reality in the Medieval Story of Muhammad’s Jewish Companions
r 69
“Come, ask what you wish.” They said to him, “Tell us how the newborn resembles the mother, whereas the seed comes from the man?”
. . . They said to him, “How do you sleep?” He said to them, “ . . . such
is my sleep. My eye is asleep but my heart is awake” (tanām ῾aynī
wa-qalbī yaqzan). They said to him, “Tell us about what Israel [the
patriarch Jacob] voluntarily forbade himself and why?” Muhammad
answered them, “I swear in Allāh’s name and you too know that in
the time of Israel, the food and drink he most loved were the milk
and meat of the camel. One time he became ill, and Allāh cured him
of his illness. Since then he has forbidden himself his much-loved
food and drink, as a sign of thanksgiving to Allāh, that is, he forbade
himself the meat and milk of the camel.” They said to him, “Tell us
about the spirit that lay upon him.” He said to them, “You know the
angel Gabriel. He came to me [in a dream].” They said to him, “We
swear in God’s name that it is true. But Muhammad is our enemy.”
(wa-lākinnahu Muhammad lanā ῾aduw).24
The Jewish sages go to Muhammad to try to get a sense of who he is and
to determine whether he is a true prophet. Their questions/riddles were
of the type that, in the future, Muslims would term Dalā’il al-nubuwwah
(proofs that verify the prophecy).25 Argumentation of this sort and endeavoring to gather proof that Muhammad was indeed a prophet generally came into existence in later times as a result of the disputations
between Muslims and other monotheists, beginning in the Umayyad period, at the earliest. Thus this reconstruction of the encounter between the
“Jewish sages” and Muhammad in the sīra may have been an anachronistic description. In any event, this encounter between the two sides is a polemical confrontation that takes place against a theological background.
The tension and the hostility between the two sides, as they are described
at the end of the episode in ibn Ishāq’s book, reflect to a certain extent the
actual state of affairs that existed with regard to Jewish-Muslim relations
in the last decade of Muhammad’s life. Muhammad seemingly passes the
test of his reliability as a prophet, but the Jewish sages nonetheless stubbornly regard him as an enemy. From a literary perspective, this event,
of the sages asking riddles of Muhammad in order to test him, became
a central motif that was repeated in all medieval versions of the story
of the interreligious encounter. With time, the story was supplemented
70 r Shimon Shtober
and enlarged both by Islamic materials such as the hadīth, and by extraIslamic traditions, thus creating a tale out of the historical kernel underlying the story of Muhammad’s Jewish companions.
4. Rudiments of a Legend: From Arabia to Palestine and Byzantium
The first signs of the developing tale already appear in a Hebrew apocalyptic text called The Secrets of Rabbi Simeon bar Yohāi. The earliest version
of this pseudo-epigraphic text apparently dates back to the end of the
Umayyad period, that is, the first half of the eighth century. The content
relevant to this discussion reads as follows:
R. Simeon said, “At the beginning of his reign, he will go out to do
evil to Israel and great men of Israel will join him, and give him a
wife from amongst them, and there will be peace between him and
Israel, and he will conquer the entire kingdom.”26
The vicissitudes of the relationship between Muhammad and the Jews
are summarized here in a most laconic way some one hundred years after
the actual event was recorded in the sīrah. It is commonly accepted that
this section of The Secrets existed in one form or another already at the
end of the Umayyad period.27 As in the manner of an apocalyptic midrash
that contains a visionary element, it is written in vague terms. He (Muhammad) will “do evil to Israel,” but because “great men of Israel will join
him,” and they will even “give him a wife from amongst them,” this will
lead to peace between him and Israel. This is the first time that Muhammad’s Jewish companions appear in a Hebrew source, where they are referred to as “great men of Israel,” much the same as the Sirāt Ibn Hishām’s
reference to them as sages (ahbār Yahūd).
Two motifs emerge from this midrash, and both give literary expression to the violent clashes between Muhammad and the Jewish tribes.
This somber state of affairs is reflected in one of the motifs, which in the
future will be the linchpin that ties together all versions of the tale of the
sages who joined Muhammad. This motif explains why these sages were
thrust into Muhammad’s lap. The text alludes to the Prophet of Islam’s desire to do evil to their brethren, while the sages attempt to foil these plans.
Why Muhammad wanted to do evil to Israel and what impelled him to
do so is not explained in this very short, obscure text. It will be clarified
Polemic and Reality in the Medieval Story of Muhammad’s Jewish Companions
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in later versions of this tale. The second motif—giving a Jewish wife to
Muhammad—is unique to The Secrets of Rabbi Simeon bar Yohāi. It is
based on the story of the marriage of S afiyya to Muhammad after he conquered the Khaybar oasis in 628/7h. S afiyya was the daughter of H
uyayy
ibn Akhtab, one of the Jewish leaders of Khaybar and a sworn enemy of
Muhammad.28 This motif, whereby the sages assuage the Prophet’s rage by
giving him a wife, appears exclusively in the apocalyptic Secrets of Rabbi
Simeon bar Yohāi and does not reappear in any of the texts that will be
discussed below.
*
*
*
During the first decades of the ῾Abbāsid period, this legend made its
way into the Christian world. Of the stories commonly found in Eastern
provinces of Christianity and incorporating this legend, I will discuss its
earliest version, which was included in the historical work of the Greek
monk Theophanes Confessor, who lived and was active in Byzantium.
Between the years 810 and 814, Theophanes wrote his Chronica, in which
he covered the history of the kings of Rome, Persia, and Arabia. In a story
about the life of Muhammad, he incorporated the tradition of the Jews
who came to him and adopted his religion.
When he [Muhammad] first appeared, the mistaken Hebrews
thought him to be their wished-for Messiah. Therefore some of the
dignitaries went to him, adopted his faith, and abandoned the religion of Moses, prophet of God. And those who did this were ten in
number, and they lived with him until he slaughtered (an animal).
However, when they saw him eating the flesh of a camel, they realized that he was not the person they thought him to be. Because they
were afraid to leave his faith, these contemptible people taught him
vicious things against us, Christians, and went on living with him.29
Theophanes’ main purpose in integrating this episode into the section
that he wrote about the emergence of Islam was to humiliate Muhammad,
the enemy of Christianity. The objective of the Greek monk’s stinging attack on the Prophet of Islam was to repudiate the Divine origin of his
teachings. In his story about the actions taken by the “Hebrew” dignitaries, he makes it abundantly clear that the beliefs and teachings of Islam
came to Muhammad from a human source—the Jews—whose beliefs, as
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far as Theophanes himself was concerned, were wrong as well. Thus the
Byzantine chronicler simultaneously attacked the beliefs of Christianity’s
adversaries on two fronts—the Jewish and the Islamic.
As to the substance of the story suggested by Theophanes, it is not
difficult to observe the similarity between some of the components of
the original story in the Sīrah of Ibn-Ishāq (regarding the group of Jews
who were keen on visiting Muhammad) and the Greek version. In Theophanes’ story, the group that came to Muhammad thought that he might
be the Messiah (similar to AiS’s hopes). That is why they came to test
him and to try to understand him. After their expectations were proven
false, they adopted his new religion against their will because they were
afraid of him.30 Moreover, the Byzantine chronicle was the first to specify
that ten Jews converted to Islam and to characterize them as dignitaries
of their community.31 With time, this perfect typological number—ten—
would become a permanent feature of most of the versions of the tale that
were produced in the late Middle Ages. Another element that Theophanes
took from the Sīra is the eating of camel meat, which is particularly characteristic of the Arab or Muslim diet.32
5. Sa῾adya Gaon Tells the Story of Muhammad’s Companions
Beginning in the tenth century, Jewish versions of the tale, based largely
on a common earlier source, spread throughout the eastern Mediterranean Basin.33 Most of the versions made mention of or developed the
basic elements that appear in the Muslim versions as well as in the Christian version of the previous two centuries, some with changes in the story
or the addition of new characters. The basic features of the story were
expanded into a much more coherent and articulate plot than that of the
earlier versions. One of the earliest Jewish versions of the legend, and the
most detailed, was written originally in Judeo-Arabic.34 In English translation, it reads as follows:
[And it was] a time of hardship when his kingdom began.35 He
claimed that he had the gift of prophecy, and his kingdom would
survive until the days of al-Muqtadir.36 But there are those who say
that the chronology of these Kings corresponds to the order of the
“Jewish” counting [eventually, the Seleucid counting] of “RoF’E[y],”
that the end of his reign would be the same as the numerical value
Polemic and Reality in the Medieval Story of Muhammad’s Jewish Companions
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of the letters “PeR’E,” and he shall be a wild man.37 But God knows
all, and neither of the two alternatives should be disregarded: the
story of Muhammad’s companions and the events of his life. This
is the book [that comprises] the story of Muhammad who was
in S arsa al-Ghanam, a place [also] named al-Jabal al-H
adīth, and
the events of his life until he moved to S arsa and to the H
ijāz, on
account of the monk who was in Balqīn, on a post called “the sign
of the Sun.” [Now] about the sages who came and told him about
the events that had occurred to him and connived the composition
of a book. They wrote down their names, each one of them within
a sūra of his Quran. They interpolated [a verse] and wrote: “Thus
did the sages of Israel counsel the wicked ALLaM [violent one],” in
a hidden and jumbled way, so that it would not be understood. Let
G-d curse the man, to whom this book comes his way, who understands it and informs one of the gentiles. There was a monk named
H
abīb Bahīrā, [his name] may it not be remembered. These are
the sages who came to him: Abraham, also named Ka῾b al-Ahbār;
Absalom, also named ῾Abd al-Salām; Ya῾akov, also named ῾Umar
al-Shahīd; Yōhanan, also named al-Munhazam ilā al-Janna; Akīvā
al-Antōki, also named al-Tā’ir fī al-Janna; El῾azar, also named S āhib
al-῾Asā; Yiftah, also named al-Maqtūl fī hubb al-Nabī; Shema῾yah
also named Murīd al-Nabī ilā al-bayt; Barūch, also named alMaqtūl fī sabīl al-Nabī; ῾Asā’el, also named Khatan al-Nabī; H
afs abū
S afiyya mar’at al-Nabī.38 These are the ten [sages] who came to him
and were converted to Islam by him, in order to prevent him from
harming Israel even in the slightest. They produced a Quran for him
and interpolated the writing of their names, each of them [in one
sūra].39
It seems that the provenance of this story was found in some historical
treatise. The proof for this comes from the title of a parallel geniza document whose wording is almost identical to that of Gil’s document. The
title of this second document (Ms. JTS ENA 2554, fol. 2) identifies the
story as a supplement to the book of history (Ilhāq ilā Kitāb al-Ta’rīkh).40
Indeed, Gil’s document provides us with specific data about the approximate time of the events. The introduction to “The Story of Muhammad’s
Companions” contains information that places it in the tenth century. The
mentioning of the Caliph al-Muqtadir, as well as expressions of the tense
74 r Shimon Shtober
anticipation of the imminent end of the Muslim kingdom, reveal that.
Moreover, the date that symbolizes “the end of his reign” is represented by
the word RoF’Ey or PeRe’, the numerical value of its Hebrew letters, [1]281
of the Jewish-Seleucid counting, which corresponds to the year 969/970.
This all points definitively to the period of al-Muqtadir’s heirs, the second half of the tenth century.41 In the case of this particular text, we can
establish that the author is Rav Sa῾adya Gaon, the author of the abovementioned Kitāb al-Ta’rīkh, who was active in the tenth century.
The above story of Muhammad’s companions is broader than the earlier stories. Motifs and figures were added to those that appeared in the
Muslim Sīra and Theophanes’ Chronica. The plot branches out and develops beyond what we have seen in the earlier versions above due to
the appearance of a new character—the Christian monk Bahīrā. He was
not mentioned in any of the earlier texts that deal with the Jewish sages.
Based on the Muslim tradition of the story, which took shape in the eighth
century, this monk, Bahīrā, was Muhammad’s confidant from the time
that the future prophet of Islam, as a young lad accompanying his uncle,
Abu T
ālib, came to the monk’s cell in Busrā in southern Syria at the end
of the sixth century.42 The monk revealed to Muhammad during a feast
he [Bahīrā] had made in honor of the lad that he was destined to be a
prophet. Although not indicated in Gil’s version of the story, it is important to mention Bahīrā’s intense hatred of the Jews. According to the
early version of the Jewish story about Bahīrā, which originated close in
time to the Muslim version, the monk persuaded Muhammad to do evil
to the Jews. That is why in the supplement to Kitāb al-Ta’rīkh, the unflattering “(his name) may it not be remembered” was wished upon Bahīrā.43
In order to ward off the harm that might befall their people, ten Jewish
sages went to Muhammad, outwardly adopted his religion, and became
his companions. As part of this friendship, these Jewish sages produced
sections of the Quran for him and interpolated their names in different
verses of it.44 The Jewish sages, the heroes of this version of the story,
were ten in total, a number with which we are already familiar from the
episode described by Theophanes, a typological number that symbolizes
a perfect formulation. In contrast to what we have seen up until now,
here the names of the ten learned men are specified, and each is given his
own identity. We no longer have a collective group of anonymous people.
In this document, the Jewish sages are identified not only by name but
also by their titles.45 Moreover, AiS appears again as one of their leaders.
Polemic and Reality in the Medieval Story of Muhammad’s Jewish Companions
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According to this version, he is listed second after Ka’b al-Ahbār, who is
also a well-known figure—a Muslim born to a Jewish father of Yemenite
origin who converted to Islam; Ka’b died in 731/113h.46 In the list of the
ten sages, particular note should be taken of the Judaizing of an important
Islamic figure, ῾Umar ibn al-Khattāb, the second caliph in the history of
the Muslim kingdom. This pattern of peopling the group of Jewish sages
with key Islamic figures and attributing them Jewish origin is in keeping
with the ancient Jewish account of the active presence of Jews in the creation of Islam.
6. An Early Version of the Jewish Legend Encapsulated in
a Late Seventeenth-Century Chronicle
The early Jewish story about Bahīrā and the group of Jewish sages who
joined Muhammad and converted to Islam was preserved almost in its
entirety, although in some different form, in a later historical work. It
is found in the first three chapters of the Sefer Divrey Yosef (The Book
Containing the Sayings of Joseph, henceforth SDY), which describes the
beginnings of Islam. The author of this sweeping historical work, Yosef
Sambari, wrote it in the second half of the seventeenth century.47 Due to
its length, I will present below only a small part of the contents of these
chapters, with major deletions:
And a new king arose, with renewed decrees48 in the land of the East,
and his name was Muhammad b. ῾Abd Allāh. He was a hero and a
soldier and a successful man and his time was auspicious for him,
[but] wherever he turned he did evil, through his good friend and
loyal ally, the great astronomer . . . the uncircumcised Buhayrān.49
Muhammad was joined by two wise men to do evil, rather than
good. One was named Turhmān, and the second was a prominent
sage among the wise men of Israel, and he changed his name to
al-Imām ῾Alī. Both of them strengthened his [i.e., Muhammad’s]
hand to set up a new religion in the world. In addition, Muhammad
decreed to the Muslims [laws], according to what is written in their
books. He called the name of this book “Quran” and he said that he
had brought down this book for them from Heaven. . . . And this
man [Muhammad] knew not how to write, but he knew how to put
it together, and the Imam ῾Ali wrote it in ink.
76 r Shimon Shtober
After these events, Buhayrān, the uncircumcised, advised Muhammad to destroy, to kill, and to exterminate all the seed of the Jews
who did not come to his aid and keep his covenant. And when one
of the Jewish sages saw . . . all the troubles that befell Israel, and he
saw that Muhammad waxed great . . . he went and made a pact with
him, and he became his soldier hero, and changed his name to Abū
Bakr. Nonetheless, he remembered Israel, and he and al-Imām ῾Alī
made a covenant that they would kill the Gentile [Buhayrān] and
they conspired against him to slay him.50
The motif of the Judaizing of the founders of Islam, which appears
succinctly in the tenth-century geniza document,51 has been considerably
expanded here. That document identified ῾Umar ibn al-Khattāb among
the ten sages, whereas here we have the addition of another two Caliphs—
founders of Islam. According to Sambari, Abū Bakr and ῾Alī had previously been Jews, and they converted to Islam in order to help Muhammad create his new religion and also in order to save their brethren. The
empowerment of some of these Jewish sages in Sambari’s book and in
Gil’s version of the story, and their identification as Muslims who had
held high office in the nascent days of the Muslim state, may have been
intended to lend credibility to the “fact” that they had participated in the
creation of Islam. The plot of the Jewish Abū Bakr and ῾Alī to kill Bahīrā,
who had conspired to do evil to the Jews, was put into effect during a wine
feast which the monk gave in honor of Muhammad and to which the two
were invited as well.52 That is the continuation of the story in the SDY.
Sambari’s motif of the feast is testimony to the antiquity of the material
that he incorporated into his work, as its source is the Sīrah of Ibn-Ishāq.53
This motif does not appear in a single one of the extra-Islamic medieval
versions of the story, except for the SDY.
In the next chapter, after the story of Bahīrā in the SDY, ῾Abd Allāh ibn
Salām returns as the leader of that same group of Jewish sages that come
to Muhammad:54
And there were four learned men of Israel in Damascus, great and
wise sages and their sin(!) was their leader,55 ῾Ōvadyahū b. Shalom,
who did not fear God. And they came to Muhammad to test him
with riddles and were ensnared in his trap. They became part of his
entourage and adhered to his covenant. And ῾Ōvadyahu b. Shalom
introduced the following law for them: a woman who is divorced
Polemic and Reality in the Medieval Story of Muhammad’s Jewish Companions
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from her husband and married another man, and the latter hated
her, her first husband who sent her away, shall not be allowed to take
her for a wife until she defiles herself with another man, and then
she is permitted to her first husband.56
This too is a reworking of the ancient story, because the motif of probing Muhammad by means of riddles and the ensnarement of the Jewish
sages in Muhammad’s trap originated in the sīra and the hadīth57 and is
not to be found in any of the other versions of the story. Even though
the story evolved over the course of 1,000 years between the writing of
the sīra and the writing of the SDY, and the venue was moved from Medina in al-H
ijāz to Damascus, it is this later work which reintroduces AiS.
It also resurrects his image as he was in the very early sources—in the
Quran and the sīra. Moreover, AiS’s connection with the Quran is also
mentioned here explicitly. His contribution to the creation of Islamic law
is expressed in this medieval story, by attributing to him the divorce law
that was incorporated into the Quran. This contribution of AiS to a book
that according to Muslim belief is of divine origin implies that he and his
companions were responsible for writing it. We have seen above the deeds
of the other nine sages, of whom AiS was one of the leaders, who also
participated in the writing of the Quran and interpolated their names into
its verses which they themselves wrote. In this work, Sambari joins those
who contest the divine origins of the Quran and who denounce it as the
product of human creation.
Summary
Muhammad’s contact with the Jewish communities in al-H
ijāz in the first
three decades of the seventh century resulted in violent clashes. His encounters with members of those communities culminated in the expulsion of the Banū Qaynuqā῾ and the Banū Nadīr tribes and the massacre
of the Banū Qurayza and of some of the Jews living in Khaybar. In terms
of polemics and religious persuasion, the preaching of the Prophet of Islam produced meager results. Very few indeed were the number of Jews
in Arabia who converted to Islam. Islamic historical tradition, and the
sīrah literature in particular, include a story of a group of Jewish sages
who come to test Muhammad with riddles, are convinced of the veracity of his religious mission, and adopt his religion. In those sources, AiS
78 r Shimon Shtober
is presented as the most respected, learned member of this group. These
sources give literary shape to AiS, according him breadth and individual
characteristics, in contrast to the other Jewish sages who came to Muhammad. An examination of the different texts of the tale of Muhammad and
his Jewish companions leads to the conclusion that ῾Abd Allāh served
as the exception from which we can generalize about the entire group of
Jewish sages. This group, like Christian figures such as Bahīrā, served as an
effective tool in the propaganda machine of the expanding Islam, which
resolutely went about acquiring followers to the new religion. The propaganda claim that is implied by the very existence of such a group could
be worded as follows: If learned figures from among the Ahl al-Kitāb [the
People of the Book] adopt Muhammad’s new religion, all the more so the
rest of their brethren. The rejoinder of the opposing side to this claim
is expressed in the various transformations, which the Jewish tale about
Muhammad’s Jewish companions underwent. Primarily, the Jewish sages
converted against their will and out of fear, and then they brilliantly aided
Muhammad in writing the Quran and interpolated their names into its
verses.58 By so doing, they answered the Muslim allegation that they had
tampered with the text of the Bible in order to conceal the proofs therein
regarding Muhammad’s religious mission.59 Here the Jewish sages retaliated by relating how they had ruined the Quran by incorporating their
names into it. They were thus hinting, so to speak, that they did not touch
their own scriptures, but instead wrote their opinion of the holy book of
the Muslims and its lack of validity. It can thus be said that the “sages,”
such as AiS and his associates who had accomplished their bold feat, were
enlisted in this tale to serve as a mirror reaction to the religious struggle
that existed in those days. This Jewish reaction was intended, inter alia,
to stem the tide of conversion of the members of their community to the
Muslim religion that was making inroads both politically and militarily.
Apparently, this was the Sitz im Leben of the string of tales that we have
discussed here. We can regard these stories as folklore and the like, but
we still have to remember that those who, at the time, copied and disseminated them regarded them as the truth and used them as an effective
weapon in the interreligious dispute in which they were engaged.
Polemic and Reality in the Medieval Story of Muhammad’s Jewish Companions
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Appendix: Additional Sources of the Medieval Story
about the Jewish Companions of Muhammad
As argued above, “the story of the companions of Muhammad” (Kissat
ashābat [!] Muhammad), the first detailed Jewish version, appeared in
the tenth century.60 From this point on, the story reappeared in different
literary forms, up to and including Sambari in the seventeenth century.
These are the texts extant today:61
1. Al-Bukhārī,62 Al-Sahīh, 3:51 (written in Arabic):
The section of the coming of the Jews to the apostle when he arrived
at al-Madīna . . . Abū Hurayra in the name of the apostle, who said,
“Had ten Jews believed in me, then all the Jews would have believed
in me.”
2. Kissat ashāb Muhammad, Ms. JTS ENA 2554, fol. 2 (written in JudeoArabic ):63
The story [about] the friends of Muhammad. Appendix to the Book
of History. This is a book that comprises the story of Muhammad,
who dwelt in the grazing field that is called al-Jabal al-H
adīth, and
how he fared until he went up to S an῾ā’ and to al-H
ijāz owing to the
monk who was in Balqīn on a post called “the sign of the Sun.” They
that came from among the sages went over to him and reminded
him of his affairs and composed the book [the Quran] for him
and interpolated and wrote at the beginning of a sūra of his Quran
their names. They interpolated [a verse] and wrote: “Thus did the
sages of Israel counsel the wicked ALLaM [violent one],” in a hidden and jumbled way, so that it would not be understood. Let God
curse the man, that this book comes his way and would explicate
this to one of the nations. There was the monk named Bahīrā, [his
name] should not be mentioned. These are the sages who came to
him: Abraham also named Ka῾b al-Ahbābar; Absalom also named
῾Abd al-Salām; Ya῾akov also named ῾Umar al-Shahīd; Yōhanan also
named al-Munhazam ilā al-Janna; ῾Akīvā al-Antoki also named
al-Tā’ir fī al-Janna; El῾azar also named S ahib al-῾Asā; Yiftah also
named al-Maqtūl fī hubb al-Nabī; Shema῾ayah also named Murīd
80 r Shimon Shtober
al-Nabī ilā al-bayt; Barūch also named al-Maqtūl fī sabīl al-Nabī;
῾Asa’el also named Khatan al-Nabī; H
afs abū S afiyya mar’at al-Nabī.
These are the sages who came to him and were converted to Islam
by him, in order to prevent him from harming Israel even in the
slightest. They produced for him a Quran and interpolated the writing of their names, each of them within a sūra, without ground for
suspicion. And they wrote in the sūra: “Thus did the sages of Israel
counsel the wicked ALLaM in the name of Allāh.”
3. Ms. Cambridge University Library T-S 8K 20.2, fol. 2a-b (written in
Hebrew):64
And if they had done to us as our enemies65 who were brought by
Essar H
adon [an Assyrian emperor] from Kutha had wrought us
and like those who came after them with the shepherd [Muhammad] had done, the one who sojourned in the place known as the
New Mountain. He had dealings with the monk [Bahīrā] who dwelt
in the place named Balqīn, perched on a post known by the name
of the Sign of the Sun. He had likewise dealings with the ten elders: Abraham also named Ka῾b al-Ahbār; Absalom also named
῾Abd Allāh b. al-Salām; Ya῾akov also named ῾Umar al-Shahīd and
Yōhanan also named al-Munhazam ilā al-Janna and their friends,
each by his name and his titles. They came to him and composed
that shameful sign [the Quran], and so they wrote and interpolated
their names, each and everyone. And so it is written in the sūra of
the Cow:66 “Thus did the sages of Israel advise the wicked ALLaM
[Muhammad].” All this was done in order to save the people of the
Lord so that he does not harm them with his plottings.
4. The Commentary of Abū al-Faraj Furqān b. Asad67 on Deuteronomy
32:28; manuscript of the Russian National Library, Firkovitch Collection
II, no. 2086, fol. 87 (written in Judeo-Arabic):
And he said that the meaning of the phrase “void of counsel” (Deuteronomy 32:28) refers to the counsels of the ten [sages] who say that
they have composed this one, single book [the Quran]. And here
was [the threat of] annihilation of Israel.
Polemic and Reality in the Medieval Story of Muhammad’s Jewish Companions
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5. Al-Sama’ual al-Maghribī,68 Ifhām al-Yahūd, pp. 57–58 (written in
Arabic):
The Jews assert that Muhammad had dreams indicating that he was
to be a head of state (sāhib dawla), that he traveled to Syria on business of H
adīja, met Rabbis and told them his dreams, and that they
recognized that he was to be a head of state. Then they attached to
him a companion, ῾Abd Allāh b. Salām, who instructed him for
some time in scholarship and jurisprudence of the Torah. They go
so far in their claim as to ascribe the miraculous eloquence of the
Quran to its compilation by ῾Abd Allāh b. Salām. They also maintain that it was he who stipulated in the marriage law that a wife after
her third divorce [sic!] from her husband shall not be permitted to
remarry him until she has been married and divorced from another
man, the purpose being, in their contention, to make the children
of the Muslims mamzerīm [illegitimate children].69
6. Abraham Zakkut,70 Sefer Yuhassīn, Ms. Bodleian Library, Oxford,
Heb. d 2798, fol. 63 (written in Hebrew):
In the year 794 ca 71 Muhammad [appeared, and the Christians said]
that his father was an Arab Gentile and his mother was a Jewess of
an Ishma’elite descent. He was a scion of all religions. These were
three men who completed with him the book he wrote [the Quran]:
Sirgo, Esseno—a false Christian—who began as a preacher of the
Christian religion in Egypt. After this event he and a Jewish sage,
Ben Yōhanan of Antioch converted to his religion.72 It is said that he
[Muhammad] was thirty-four years old and died in the year 632 of
the Common Era.73
7. “The Tale of Muhammad,” ed. B. Cohen (written in Hebrew):74
And it came to pass in the days of Zedeqiah the King of Judah, and
he did evil things in the eyes of the Lord. And He sent against them
the King of the Chaldeans . . . and He drove them into the Exile
of Babylon . . . and they went from bad to worse for some fifteen
hundred years for the Exile was heavy upon them. And it came to
82 r Shimon Shtober
pass in those days and behold a man, one of the sages of Israel . . .
and his word was like that of a man of God who would listen to a
dream and interpret it. And there came a day and behold a man is
standing at the entrance of the house at sunrise and said to him, I
dreamt a dream and there is none who can interpret it, therefore I
came to you this day. And he said, in my dream I am standing in the
midst of a large wood at the end of the middle-watch . . . and behold
there grew an almond-tree in my left palm and it had twelve sinews
[i.e., branches] . . . and behold the fire of God fell from Heaven and
consumed the hand with all that were in it. And when he heard the
dream, the man was increasingly afraid and felt faint . . . and said in
his heart: “Woe unto us for the days of visitations have come upon
us.” Then he assembled all the people and he said to them: “Sanctify yourselves for fasting, call for the [holy] gathering and pray to
God, for the days of visitations have come of which there is a prophecy [by] Hosea, saying Israel knows that the prophet is a fool and
mad is the man of spirit.”75 Then he told them about the man and
his dream . . . and he told them: “This is the interpretation: This
man [Muhammad] will rule for about nine hundred years. . . . The
animals are the rest of the nations who will believe in him, saying,
‘Verily the prophet of the Lord art thou.’ . . . Now let us take clever
counsel and bring confusion to his tongue and destroy his livelihood, lest he becomes a stumbling stone for the House of Israel.
And choose from among yourselves ten men, one out a thousand,
who know science and grasp knowledge and who have strength to
stand at the royal gates and bring there counsel from afar.” It came
to pass while they were talking with him and told him about the
generation of Enosh and of the Flood . . . and all that happened to
Abraham in Ur-Kasdīm . . . and all the words of the Torah that are
fearful about Hell (Gehinōm) and the Garden of Paradise. All these
matters will be written in a book using haughty language, so that
all that hear it their ears will ring and will say that its contents are
from God, that no man or woman born could have made them,
and the name thereof will be al-Qur’ān. They will put it into the
hands of the man. And they went before him each on his own and
he knew not, and they were among those that ate from his table all
the days. And the whole congregation heard it and they chose ten
men, clever, wise ones, men of understanding and of fame . . . who
Polemic and Reality in the Medieval Story of Muhammad’s Jewish Companions
r 83
spoke in Arabic. They [the ten sages] sat for two months and wrote
in the book whatever their hearts offered . . . and they gathered the
congregation and they replied with these words saying, our souls we
offer to die in your stead and you shall carry our sins for we acted
treacherously against the Lord in following this man. The One who
tries the hearts, the Lord knows that not in rebellion nor treachery
was this deed done, but in order to turn his heart backwards . . . and
in order to be for you a great deliverance. It is better that we ten leave
the congregation to save you, so that a whole congregation perishes
not from Israel with their children after them. Then there came a
day when he [Muhammad] lifted his eyes and he saw, behold, a wise
man come to meet him and he fell on his face to the ground before
Muhammad. He said unto him: “I beseech you my lord, a vision appeared to me and behold the angel of the Lord rose up in flight . . .
and he was carrying you on his shoulders, mounted the throne of
the Lord and the Lord placed his hand upon your head. Then I heard
them say that the whole world was created for his sake, for he is the
chosen of the Lord.” Muhammad was greatly amazed, but when he
heard it he took courage and his heart grew increasingly haughty.
After ten months, there came all the sages and they brought counsel
from afar, estranged his friend, and stole his heart on that day, and
Muhammad’s hands strengthened and he arose and he set them up
as the heads of the people, and they were among those who partook
of food at his table.
Notes
1. Geiger’s Was hat Mohammed aus des Judenthume ufgenommen was published in
Bonn in 1833. It was translated into English under the title Judaism and Islam.
2. In some versions of the legend, the hostility demonstrated by Muhammad toward
the Arabian Jews is already taken into account, and therefore the authors of these versions have provided another explanation for the act of conversion.
3. See Aloys Sprenger, Das Leben und die Lehre des Mohammad, 2d ed. (Berlin, 1899),
1:490; W. Montgomery Watt, Muhammad at Mecca (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
1953), 158–61; Watt, Muhammad’s Mecca (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1988),
36–38, 44–45.
4. The exhaustive study on this issue is A. Jan Wensinck, Mohammed en de Joden te
Medina (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1908). Cf. Frants Buhl, Das Leben Muhammeds, 2d ed. (Heidelberg: Quelle und Meyer, 1930), 211–77. On the extermination of the last tribe, the Banū
84 r Shimon Shtober
Qurayza, see M. J. Kister, Studies on the Emergence of Islam (Jerusalem: Magnes Press,
1999), 75–98 (Hebrew).
5. Muhammad ibn Ishāq (85h./704–151h./768), a prominent Medinese traditionalist.
His Sīra is usually referred to by the name of its compiler, Ibn Hishām. See Alfred Guillaume, The Life of Muhammad: A Translation of Ishaq’s Sirat Rasul Allah (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1955), xiii–xli.
6. See Wensinck, Mohammed en de Joden te Medina, 93–174; Yisrael Ben Ze’ev, The
Jews in Arabia (Tel-Aviv: Mizpeh, 1931), 126–64 (Hebrew); H
ayyim Ze’ev Hirschberg,
Israel in Arabia: The History of the Jews in H
imyar and the H
ijāz from the Destruction of
the Second Temple until the Crusades (Tel-Aviv, 1946), 141–49 (Hebrew).
7. Cf. Hirschberg, Israel in Arabia, 142–43, 301nn26–31.
8. ῾Abd Allāh ibn Salām (hereafter AiS) was presented in the medieval Jewish story as
the leader of Muhammad’s Jewish companions. Muslim sources are replete with details
about his life.
9. He is described as habr in Muhammad Ibn Hishām, Al-Sīrah al-nabawiyyah, 4
vols., ed. Musā al-Saqā et al. (Beirut, 1410h./1990), 2:121. Ibn Ishāq intentionally enhanced the status of other Jews who converted to Islam. For some characteristics of the
religious life of the Jews in Arabia, see S. D. Goitein, “Who Were the Obvious Teachers of
Muhammad?” Tarbiz 23 (1952): 146–59 (Hebrew), and Hirschberg, Israel in Arabia, 176,
191–98.
10. Cf. Uri Rubin, “H
anīfiyya and Ka῾ba: An Inquiry into the Arabian Background of
dīn Ibrāhīm,” JSAI 13 (1990): 85–112, see 109; Michael Lecker, Muslims, Jews, and Pagans:
Studies on Early Islamic Medina (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1995), 53 and note 9 there.
11. The Apostle = Muhammad. “His time” = of appearance.
12. AiS was apparently pollinating his palm trees.
13. Ibn Hishām, Al-Sīrah al-nabawiyyah, 2:121–22. Since Wensinck was well aware of
the fact that most Jews adamantly repudiated Muhammad and his religious message, he
doubted the reliability of the report of AiS’s swift conversion. Goitein, on the other hand,
assumed that AiS had already accepted Muhammad’s religious mission in some fashion
while Muhammad was still in Mecca. S. D. Goitein, The Islam of Muhammed: How Did
a New Religion Emerge in the Shade of Judaism? (Jerusalem: Akademon Press, 1966), 163
(Hebrew).
14. His nostalgic attitude toward the knowledge of Jewish law is established in Muhammad b.῾Amr al-Wāqidī, Kitāb al-Maghāzī, ed. Malcolm Jones (London: Oxford
University Press, 1966), 40. As to his solidarity with Islam, see Ibn Hishām, Al-Sīrah
al-nabawiyyah, 2:151, 156–58.
15. Al-Wāqidī, 1:372 (Nadīr); 2:509 (Qurayza).
16. Quran Sūra xxvi: 197 (The Poets). See Arthur J. Arberry, The Koran Interpreted
(London: John Allen and Unwin; New York: Macmillan, 1955), 2:74.
17. Quran Sūra iii: 7 (The house of ῾Imrān). Arberry, The Koran Interpreted, 1:73.
18. In his commentary on the Quran, Baydāwī identified sixteen references to AiS. He
presents AiS as the leader of the group of Jewish sages, using the wording “῾Abd allāh
and his friends.” See Wilhelm Fell, Indices ad Beidhawii Commentarium in Coranum
(Leipzig: F.C.W. Vogel, 1878), s.v. Abdullah ibn Sallām.
Polemic and Reality in the Medieval Story of Muhammad’s Jewish Companions
r 85
19. Some other Jewish and Christians sages had this capacity for prognostication as
well. Cf. Kister, Studies on the Emergence of Islam, 104–105.
20. Ahmad ibn H
ajar Al-῾Asqalānī, Al-’Isābah fī Tamyiz al-Sahābah, ed. Muhammad al-Bajāwī (Cairo: Dār Nahdat Misr lil-tab῾ wa-al-Nashr, 1970), 4:119, ll. 9–10. His
respected place in Paradise was evident, as he was described as “the tenth of the first ten
people there.”
21. An instructive example of his familiarity with such information is found in M. J.
Kister and Menahem Kister, “The Jews in Arabia: Notes,” Tarbiz 48 (1979): 231–49 (Hebrew), see 247 (citation of Mālik, Muwatt’a, 1:129–33).
22. Cf. the second section above, “The Jewish Companions of Muhammad,” between
notes 7–9.
23. Nafar (in Arabic) is a party from three to ten men. Cf. Joseph G. Hava, Al-Faraid
Arabic-English Dictionary (Beirut: Catholic Press, 1970), 787. On the number of ten Jewish sages, see the Byzantine and Jewish tales brought in the coming three chapters.
24. Ibn Hishām, Al-Sīrah al-nabawiyyah, 2:141–42 (with omissions). Only the third
and fourth riddles are cited in full, because of their relevance to the discussion that follows. See especially the excerpt from Theophanes’ Chronica in the next section.
25. As to the Dalā’il literature, see Al-Bayhaqī, Dalā’il al-nubuwah wa-Ma῾rifat Ahwāl
S āhib al-sharī῾ah, 7 vols., ed. ῾Abd al-Mu῾tī Qal῾ajī (Beirut: Dār al-Kutub al-῾Ilmiyyah,
1405h./1985); Camilla Adang, Muslim Writers on Judaism and the Hebrew Bible (Leiden:
E. J. Brill, 1996), 35–36, 148–50; Annemarie Schimmel, And Muhammad Is His Messenger
(Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1985), 32–33.
26. Yehuda Even Shmu’el (Kaufmann), Midrashim of Redemption (Tel-Aviv: Dvir
Publishing House and Mosad Bialik, 1954), 171 (Hebrew). The most common name,
among others, given to this apocalyptic vision by its editors is “The Secrets of Rabbi
Shimon Bar Yohāi,” as the apocalyptic visions were ascribed to the distinguished rabbi
of the second century. See the critical edition of Even Shmu’el in his Midreshey Ge’ūlah,
169–74.
27. Many scholars assumed that it had been composed in this early stage of Islamic
history. Cf. Heinrich Graetz, Geschichte der Juden, 3d ed., vol. 5 (Leipzig: Oskar Leiner,
1860), 406–10; Even Shmu’el, Midreshey Ge’ūlah, 169–74; Bernard Lewis, “An Apocalyptic
Vision of Islamic History,” BSOAS 13 (1949/51): 308–38, see 309, 323–31.
28. On the marriage of S afiyya to Muhammad, see Ibn Hishām, Al-Sīrah al-nabawiyyah, 3:271, 278, 4:219; Al-Wāqidī, 2:707–709; Julius Wellhausen, Muhammed in Medina
das ist Vakidi’s Kitab al-Maghazī (Berlin: G. Reimer, 1882), 36, 172, 190. On H
uyayy ibn
Akhtab, cf. Ibn Hishām, Al-Sīrah al-nabawiyyah, 2:123.
29. Theophanes, Chronica, 342. This English version is based on the translation from
the Greek made by Schwabé. Cf. Moshe Schwabé, “About the Ten Jewish Friends of Muhammad,” Tarbiz 2 (1931): 74–89 (Hebrew), see 75n1.
30. In Ibn Hishām (Al-Sīrah al-nabawiyyah, 2:129) this chapter was entitled “Who
Were the Jewish Sages That Converted Hypocritically to Islam?” The Sīra also states
explicitly that the sages feared Muhammad.
31. Cf. section 3 above: “A Collective Portrait,” note 23. The number of sages is also
attested to in the hadīth of Muhammad ibn Ismā῾īl Al-Bukhārī (Al-Jāmi῾ al-Sahīh, ed.
86 r Shimon Shtober
Ludolf Krehl, [Leiden 1862–1908], 3:51). The tradition there states in the name of the
Prophet, “Had ten Jews believed in me, then all the Jews would have believed in me.” See
appendix, section 1.
32. Cf. the third question in the excerpt (section 3 above, near note 24).
33. Most of the manuscripts that contain these versions were retrieved from the Cairo
Geniza.
34. This Cambridge University Library manuscript, T-S 161.32, was deciphered and
translated from the Judeo-Arabic by Moshe Gil. See Gil, “The Story of Bahīrā and Its
Jewish Versions” in Hebrew and Arabic Studies in Honor of Joshua Blau, ed. Haggay BenShammay (Jerusalem: Tel-Aviv University, Faculty of Humanities and Hebrew University of Jerusalem, Institute of Asian and African Studies, 1993), 193–210 (Hebrew), see
206–10.
35. The Kingdom of Muhammad. The very beginning of this manuscript is missing,
and therefore the first sentence of this text is fragmentary.
36. Al-Muqtadir, the eighteenth Abbāsid caliph, ruled the Muslim empire between
908 and 932.
37. The acronym of the date “RoF’E[y]” is based on the biblical verse “Rof ’ey elīl kullechem” (Ye are all physicians of no value; Job 13:4). The numerical value of the corresponding Hebrew letters R.F.A. is [1]281 (the year of the Seleucid era), i.e., 969–70. The
anagram PeR’E (alluding to the biblical verse “He shall be a wild ass of a man”; Genesis
16:12) was one of Muhammad’s most common appellations in medieval Jewish polemical literature. Cf. M. Steinschneider, Polemische und apologetische Literatur in arabischer
Sprache zwischen Muslimen, Christen, und Juden (Leipzig, 1877) in the indices (Register):
455 s.v. PeR’E (Hebrew).
38. In this manuscript, eleven sages are enumerated!
39. Gil, “The Story of Bahīrā,” 207–208. At the end there are some apocryphal verses
ascribed to the Quran.
40. Cf. appendix, section 2. A. Neubauer, ed., Mediaeval Jewish Chronicles and Chronological Notes (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1895), 2: 89–110, published a Judeo-Arabic manuscript of the Bodleian Library entitled Kitāb al-Ta’rīkh.
41. The eschatological literature is replete with messianic speculations corresponding
to those years. See Gil, “The Story of Bahīrā,” 198–99.
42. One of the Islamic versions of this story is included in the Sīra. Cf. Ibn Hishām,
Al-Sīrah al-nabawiyyah, 1:147–49; Al-’Asqalānī, 4:271 (no. 598: Bahīra al-Rahīb).
43. Gil, “The Story of Bahīrā,” 206, iii, ll. 8–9. On Bahīra in the multifaceted polemic
arena, see Shimon Shtober, “The Monk Bahīrā, the Counselor of Muhammad, and the
Jews: Between Polemic and Historiography,” Proceedings of the Tenth World Congress of
Jewish Studies 1 (Jerusalem, 1990): 69–78 (Hebrew).
44. See David Zevi Baneth, “The Ten Jewish Companions of Muhammad,” Tarbiz
3 (1932): 112–16 (Hebrew). See 112–13 for conjectures as to the components of the early
Jewish story of Bahīra. See also Gil, “The Story of Bahīrā,” 193–98.
45. The names of the sages and their titles take up fourteen lines of the manuscript.
See Gil, “The Story of Bah.īrā,” 206.
46. Cf. M. Schmitz, “Ka’b al-Ahbār” Encyclopaedia of Islam 4 (1978): 316–17.
Polemic and Reality in the Medieval Story of Muhammad’s Jewish Companions
r 87
47. See Shtober, Sefer Divrey Yosef by Yosef ben Yitzhak Sambari: Eleven Hundred
Years of Jewish History under the Muslims (Jerusalem: Ben-Zvi Institute, 1994), 13–73
(Hebrew), for a detailed description of Sambari and his book.
48. Exodus 1:8; Babylonian Talmud, Tractate Sota, 11a.
49. Buhayrān is the diminutive Arabic form of the name Bahīra.
50. Shtober, Sefer Divrey Yosef, 90–93.
51. See section 5: “Sa῾adya Gaon Tells the Story,” near note 38 (cf. the list of the sages
in the geniza text: “Ya῾akov also named ῾Umar.”) and after note 46.
52. Shtober, Sefer Divrey Yosef, 93–94.
53. Cf. Ibn Hishām, Al-Sīrah al-nabawiyyah, 1:148, and Guillaume, Life of Muhammad, 79–81.
54. Shtober, Sefer Divrey Yosef, 95.
55. A pun is intended in the Hebrew text “va-ashamam be-ro’sham” (their sin was
their leader) instead of the scriptural phrase “va-asimem be-rāsheikhem” (I will put them
as leaders). The latter is a quote from Deuteronomy 1:13. ῾Ōvadyah ben Shalom is a literal
translation of the name ῾Abd Allāh ibn Salām. Cf. the beginnings of the list of the sages
and appendix, nos. 2 and 3.
56. Shtober, Sefer Divrey Yosef, 95. The law of the divorced women: Quran 2:229–30.
The interpolation of this law into the Quran was already ascribed to AiS by Al-Sama’ual
al-Maghribī, a twelfth-century convert to Islam, in his polemic treatise, Ifhām al-Yahūd.
See Al-Sama’ual b. ῾Abbas al-Maghribī, Ifhām al-Yahud, ed. Moshe Perlmann, Proceedings of the American Academy for Jewish Research 32 (1964): 57–59. Al-Maghribī’s Ifhām
is one of the sources used by Sambari in his chronicle.
57. As to the Sīra, cf. section 3 above, near notes 23–24. On the hadīth literature, see AlBukhārī, (Al-Sahīh, 4:49), where he reports that AiS came to put riddles to Muhammad.
58. Cf. the version of the Geniza document in section 5 above, between notes 35–39,
and in the appendix, nos. 2 and 3.
59. In Muslim sources beginning with the Quran, this allegation is defined as Tahrīf,
i.e., (a blame of) distorting or corrupting the original biblical text.
60. Cf. the text in section 5, between notes 34–39 above. I have shown that some of
the basic elements of this story are embedded in Muslim and Christian traditions of the
second and third centuries after the Hijra.
61. Those versions of the story that I have already presented are not included in this
appendix, except the saying of Al-Bukhārī mentioned in note 31.
62. Al-Bukhārī lived in the years 194h./810–256h./870. This citation of al-Bukhārī’s AlS ahīh illustrates the inchoate features of this legend that appear in the hadīth literature.
63. According to J. Mann, “An Early Theologico-Polemical Work,” Hebrew Union
College Annual 121, no. 13 (1937–38): 426, the time of the composition of Kissat ashāb
Muhammad is the first half of the tenth century or possibly the preceding century. See
also Baneth, “Ten Jewish Companions,” 114–16.
64. Mann, “An Early Theologico-Polemical Work,” 425, assumed that this Cambridge
manuscript was written in the tenth century. Baneth, “Ten Jewish Companions,” 113,
determined correctly that this manuscript is simply a Hebrew translation of Manuscript
JTS ENA 2554, fol. 2.
88 r Shimon Shtober
65. The Samaritans. Cf. Kings II, 17, 24ff.
66. Sūrat al Baqarah (the Sūra of the Cow) is the second chapter of the Quran.
67. The Karaite commentator, Abū al-Faraj Furqān b. Asad (Yeshū῾ah b. Yehūda), a
resident of Jerusalem, lived in the eleventh century. See Leon Nemoy, Karaite Anthology
(Excerpts from the Early Literature) (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1952), 123–32.
68. Al-Maghribī was a twelfth-century Jewish mathematician and physician who
converted to Islam. Ifhām al-Yahūd is a harsh polemic treatise that he wrote. Cf. Moshe
Perlmann’s introduction to Samau’al al-Magribī, Ifhām al-Yahūd, 15–18.
69. Cf. the text of Sambari, above between notes 54–56.
70. Abraham Zakkut, a distinguished Jewish historian, was born ca. 1440 in Salamanca (Castile). He Left Spain in the wake of the Expulsion of 1492 and died ca. 1515
in Damascus. See Aharon Freimann’s introduction to Sefer Yuhassīn ha-Shalem, 3d ed.
(Jerusalem, 1966) (Hebrew) (reprint of Filipowskiws edition of Sefer Yuhassīn), 1–11.
71. Obviously, the date is erroneous, as Muhammad appeared roughly in the year 610.
72. Cf. “Yōhanan . . . , Akīvā al-Antoki” in the geniza text cited in chapter 5, between
notes 37–39.
73. Cf. Filipowski, Yuhassīn: 247b.
74. “The Tale of Muhammad,” was published by B. Cohen in Revue des études juives
88 (1929): 12–17. He holds that this pseudo-epigraphic text was composed in the seventeenth century. Due to its great length, I only quoted the relevant parts of it with many
omissions.
75. Hosea 9:7.
6
The Use of Islamic Materials
by Non-Muslim Writers
Yehoshua Frenkel
The collection and transmission of narratives about the emergence of Islam and the links between the new religion and neighboring communities
was a popular practice among Muslim authors from the early years of the
caliphate. Yet this tradition of learning and teaching was not confined to
Muslim communities, and vestiges of several Islamic historical traditions
can be identified in both Jewish and Christian sources. These texts, written in Arabic, Judeo-Arabic, Hebrew, and Syriac, seem to reflect a mirrorimage of the Islamic narrative.
This study dwells upon a few historical narratives that support the thesis that the various communities making up the rich human mosaic of
the central lands of the caliphate’s vast domain were bound together by
an Arabo-Islamic cultural symbiosis. This development could take place
only after the enrooting of the caliphate in the Near East, the unchallenged recognition by its population of the hegemonic position of Islam,
the canonization of sacred Islamic history, the evolution of identity, and
the development of a sense of place.1 The acknowledgment of Islam’s hegemony was not limited to the Muslims. This perception was respected
by all of the religious communities that lived within the boundaries of the
Abode of Islam.
It will be argued that narratives of the past actually reflect the authors’
identities and their religious community interests. The historical discourse illuminates the conflicting communal concerns. Chroniclers were
apparently resolved to fortify their publics’ positions. This led authors
90 r Yehoshua Frenkel
(being Muslims, Christians, or Jews) to strengthen their collective identities and produce opposite interpretations of familiar historical narratives.
Concentrating closely on the respective interpretations of these historical
texts, we can investigate the interaction between Muslims and the People
of the Book (ahl al-kitab) in the Fertile Crescent and to hypothesize about
the role of these accounts in political and communal discourse. In order
to advance the thesis stated above, I will present successive Islamic, Jewish, and Christian historical traditions revolving around similar events,
after which I will draw conclusions from these narratives.
The Emergence of the Islamic Caliphate
The victories of Arab tribes over Byzantine and Sasanian armies and the
emergence of the Islamic Caliphate (c. 660) instigated deep changes in the
human, cultural, and religious map of western Asia and northern Africa.
A new political and social order emerged from the vestiges of the past
empires. Societies that for long centuries viewed themselves as the protectors of human civilization and true believers, and looked upon the Arab
tribes of the desert as the barbarian enemy, found themselves controlled
by people they regarded as evil.2
The Arabs, who for hundreds of years had been confined to the limits
of the civilized world, had become the new rulers of western Asia and
northern Africa (c. 650). They were a minority in the vast sea of Christians, Zoroastrians, Jews, and other religious and ethnic communities.
Under these circumstances, the caliphs adopted a sophisticated policy.
They did not aim to convert the indigenous occupied population, but
rather accepted the very continuation of these communities under the
shadow of Islam. The Islamic regime and holy law (shari῾a) enabled nonMuslims to retain their old systems of beliefs and practices. Administrative measures enabled Jewish and Christian communities in the Fertile
Crescent to persist under Islam. They had only to state their recognition
of the hegemonic position of Islam and to pay a poll tax (jizya; jawaāli) to
the agents of the caliphate.3
The community heads of the People of the Book (kitabiyūn) came to
terms with the inferior position of their communities. There are no noteworthy indications to suggest that the majority of the non-Muslim population rejected the Islamic polity, and it seems that the contrary reaction
was more common. Those among the indigenous people (muwalladūn)
The Use of Islamic Materials by Non-Muslim Writers
r 91
who aspired to join the conquerors could do so by immigrating to the
garrison towns (amsār), where it was much easier to assimilate.4 In addition, the Umayyad (660–750) found legal solutions to overcome the obstacles that had been hampering mass conversion to Islam, in particular
to solve the financial difficulties caused by emigration and conversion.5
This opened the doors for mass assimilation.6
Moreover, ῾Abd al-Malik’s (fl. 685–705) arabization of the caliphate’s
administration generated a profound linguistic revolution. Within several
decades, Arabic replaced the languages previously used by the population
of the Fertile Crescent. As a result, the central Islamic lands, and particularly the urban centers of the caliphate, witnessed the expansion of a
new Arabo-Islamic civilization.7 This civilization was adhered to by Arab
tribesmen, and the diverse cultures of these regions, including Jews and
Christians, were engulfed by it.8
Before giving several Jewish and Christian accounts on the relations
between their communities and the dominant Islam, I will look at some
stories that were popular among Muslim authors who wrote on the Islamic conquests (futuhat). These pseudo-historical traditions often include anecdotes about the role of Jews and Christians in helping the advance of Islam. This kind of historical account had polemical significance.
It was used by Muslim writers not only to prove the truth of Islam and that
it was the ultimate faith, but also to negate the validity of other religions
and even to present these religions as essentially the enemies of Islam.
In the Islamic accounts of the emergence of Islam we can distinguish
two complementary types of descriptions of the functions played by the
“People of the Book” in this formative period. In both, the ancient religions
serve to legitimate the new mission, Islam. In one, Jews and Christians are
represented as negative and refutable. In the other, they are described
as collaborating with the advancing Muslims. Although these narratives
construct their image as untrustworthy people, they do not contradict
their role as eyewitnesses confirming the message of the Prophet.
Some Muslim authors present the ahl al-kitab as people who acquired
the knowledge of reality, but refrained from obedience to the truth.9 This
vision of the People of the Book can be easily traced in the hagiography (sira) of the Prophet and in Quranic exegesis, particularly in those
chapters of the sira that depict Muhammad’s encounters with Jews and
Christians.10 These people are said to have preserved written evidence
concerning the future coming of the prophet Muhammad but concealed
92 r Yehoshua Frenkel
this secret knowledge. Moreover, they are portrayed as adversaries who
deny the mission of God’s Messenger (rasul Allah) and even as the open
enemies of his mission.11
One example of this representation of the Jews is the story about the encounter between Muhammad and ῾Abd Allah b. Sallam (of Qaynuqa῾).12
The story recounts that this Jewish leader warned the Prophet that the
Jews were a sort of people who would not hesitate to voice false accusations (buht).13 Another example is the story of Muhammad’s birth. The
Jews knew it would happen in Arabia but plotted to assassinate the newborn.14 A third example used by Muslim authors to advance their claim
that in closed circles Jews and Christians retained and transmitted secret
information concerning the coming of the Prophet is the story about the
monk Bahira.15 In this story the monk recognizes the seal of the prophethood on Muhammad’s back.16
Narratives of Conquests
The advance of Muslim armies from Arabia northward toward the Byzantine territories during the last years of the Prophet’s life and immediately following his death (in 632) is described in great detail in several
Islamic chronicles. In these accounts the other type of representation of
the People of the Book in the Islamic sources often appears, namely their
support of the advancing Islamic armies.17 For example, a version of the
conquest of Caesarea by Mu῾awiya contains a sub-narrative in which the
Muslim commander ensures the welfare of a local Jew who in return leads
the Muslims into the city through a secret gateway.18
Another salient topic in the biography of Muhammad and the accounts
of the advance of Islam is the legal measures taken by the Muslim leadership, who are said to have inserted certain provisions into the treaties of
surrender that aimed to safeguard the status of the “People of the Book.”
Early examples to this are the supposed agreements between Muhammad
and the Jews of Arabia. Muslim writers treating this issue claimed that the
Prophet exempted the Jews of the Khaybar Oasis from paying the poll tax
(jizya).19
Another related issue is the accords that are said to have been agreed
upon between the Muslim commanders and the population of the conquered lands. Several narratives on the Islamic conquests (futuhat) incorporate what are known as ῾Umar’s stipulations (shuruht),20 which were
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signed between the indigenous population of the conquered lands and
the notable Muslim caliph.21 Moreover, these pseudo-historical traditions
include stories about the indigenous population anticipating the advance
of the Muslims. They are said to await the fulfillment of the prophetic
tradition about the coming of ῾Umar b. al-Khattab and his forces.22
Over and over again, the Islamic narrative of the emergence of the caliphate depicts the non-Muslim subjects as cooperating with the armies of
Islam and signing truce pacts (aman; ῾ahd) with the Muslim commanders. A case in point is the pseudo-historical account of Khalid b. al-Walid’s
journey (13/635). Muslim authors claim that on his way from Iraq to Damascus, Khalid seized the historical town of Tadmur (Palmyra in Syria).
The local Christian inhabitants agreed to pay the Muslim commander a
sum of money, in return for which he pledged to protect (dhimma) them.
This story continues with another example in which Khalid meets the
archbishop (usquf=episcopes) of Damascus outside the eastern walls of
city, and the latter asks him to preserve the covenant (῾ahd) between the
victorious armies and the city’s occupants. Similar narratives are told
about other locations in Syria. The detailed pseudo-treaty between Abu
῾Ubayda ibn al-Jarrah and the inhabitants of Baalbek (Heliopolis in Lebanon), and the accounts of the agreements between ῾Amru b. al-῾As and
several Palestinian towns, are among those examples.23
These types of narratives reconstructing the glorious past of Islam were
adopted by later Muslim jurists, who claimed to have copied them into
their manuals and market inspection (hisba) handbooks. The abundance
of these texts in various genres supports the thesis that they formed an
indispensable component of the Islamic discourse. The authors of these
works produced copies of what they argued to be ῾Umar’s agreements
with the protected people of various towns controlled by the caliphate.
Historical sources providing information about these Muslim-dhimmi
covenants describe complex legal documents consisting of corresponding paragraphs. While the protected people undertake not to convert their
Muslim neighbors or to build new synagogues, monasteries, or churches,
to cooperate with the agents of the Islamic government, pay the jizya tax,
etc., the renowned caliph and his chief commander promise to protect the
property, lives, and religious practices of the dhimmis.
The emergence of an Islamic polity brought about the necessity of selfdefinition and the rejection of the polemical positions that the adversaries of Islam voiced.24 A clear-cut definition to separate the new Islamic
94 r Yehoshua Frenkel
community from other religious denominations was implemented.25 This
led to the articulation of the Islamic creed (kalima or shahada) and to
a redefinition of the term believers (mu’aminun).26 If in the Quran this
term could apply to the pietistic monotheists in general, from the Abbasid
period onwards the term referred solely to pious Muslims.27 Coins and
inscriptions indicate that along with this development, the name of the
prophet Muhammad became visible.28 It is used as a confirmation of Islam
as the sole true religion and its prophet as the last messenger.29 To bear
witness that Muhammad is the seal of the prophets (khatam al-nabiyyin/
khatim al-anbiya) became one of the principal tenets of Islam.30 Recalling
the Islamic vision of the history of God’s revelation to humanity, it is not
surprising that Muslim authors claimed Islam to be the correct version
of the true religion that past messengers had taught (inna al-dina ῾inda
allahi al-islahmu).31
Muslim theologians and jurists were active simultaneously in articulating the Islamic worldview and belief principles and in collecting information on the inhabitants of the Near East.32 Some of these works reflect
familiarity with the pre-Islamic history of the indigenous communities of
the Fertile Crescent as well as with their sacred scriptures.33 This is evident
as well from non-historical genres of medieval Arabic literature such as
catalogs of faiths and religions (milal wa-nihal). From collections of anecdotes it is visible that the narratives of the People of the Book were not
terra incognita.34 These Arabic texts seem to reveal a certain communication between their writers and the non-Muslim population.35 Yet history
and heresiography were used not only to narrate the past or describe the
present. Muslim authors employed these branches of knowledge as tools
to establish the hegemony of Islam and to refute the worldview of nonIslamic religions.36
It seems sound to argue that these writings reflect both the problems
encountered by the caliphate in the vast territories under its control and
the efforts made by Muslim jurists to legitimize the political and social
order that they aspired to enforce in the Abode of Islam.37 Moreover, those
Muslim scholars who were troubled by questions regarding the relationships between Muslim and non-Muslim may have manipulated pseudohistorical accounts and used them in order to support their political and
social agenda.38
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The Non-Muslims’ Reaction
How did the non-Muslim subjects of the caliphate react to the pseudohistorical traditions and documents presented above? It seems that the
“Protected People” refrained from challenging the accuracy of these texts
or records, let alone commenting on the sacred Islamic historiography,
which reflected the official Islamic ideology. Jews and Christians were immersed in Arabic-Islamic civilization and familiar with its writings. They
chose to take what I would term as “a compromise approach.” Although
openly accepting the sacred historiography produced by the Muslim authors, the “People of the Book” in fact manipulated the dominant Islamic
version of the past and used it to tell a historical story that supported their
own cause.39
They employed a sophisticated self-definition that made it possible for
them to draw lines of demarcation between the governing religion and
their own enclave communities. Samul ben Nissim Masnuth, for example,
states that “nations differ in three components: tongue, script, and religion.”40 Nethanel ben al-Fayyumi (a Yemenite Jew d. c. 1165) asserts that
“every nation should follow the doctrine that reached it, trail its prophets’
path, and pursue its priests and heads. In this way no one remains without
a religious doctrine. Everything is from God (rabb) the One and Unique
and unto Him we are returning.41 All turn toward Him and pray, and every soul to Him points, as is said ‘and the spirit returns to God who gave
it.’“42 Al-Fayumi then deals with the common Muslim accusation that the
Jews forged the Holy Bible, which the Almighty gave to Moses in Sinai
using inter alia a Quranic verse (14:4): “And We never sent a messenger
save with the language of his folk.”43
It was stated above that the People of the Book had a good knowledge
of various Arabic literary genres and that, due to interreligious polemics,
they were familiar with the texts used by the Muslims to rationalize their
inferior status.44 Hence we should not be surprised to discover that Jews
and Christians aspired to take Muslim arguments and turn them in their
favor.45 This is very common in circumstances such as the long and ongoing interreligious debate. By using different interpretations of a familiar
narrative, it is easier to rebuff the opposite party.46 Each side draws its own
arguments and uses them against the other party.
We now return to the claim made in Muslim sources that ῾Abd Allah
b. Sallam played a significant role in Muhammad’s story by recognizing
96 r Yehoshua Frenkel
his true prophetic mission. Yosef Sambari, a Hebrew chronicler living in
Ottoman Egypt, does not refute the details of this narrative, but writes
that ῾Obadiah b. Shalom (the Hebrew version of the Arabic ῾Abd Allah
b. Sallam) was a man who did not “revere the Lord,”47 thus suggesting the
reason for what he sees as ῾Obadiah’s betrayal.48
Another example of the close relationship between Muslim and kitabiyun is the legendary story of Bahira the Monk.49 Christian writers present
Bahira (also named Sargis, Sergius, Nestorius) as a heretical (Nestorian or
Arian) monk. They depict him in their anti-Islamic polemical texts as one
who misguided his audience. This picture served Christian sources (written in Syriac and Arabic) as a tool to refute Muslim voices that argued that
mankind anticipated the coming of Muhammad.50
The Jewish Reaction
The Jewish Bahira legend reflects the convoluted relations between Jews
and Muslims.51 Moreover, in some chronicles this narrative reflects the
strained relations between Jews and Christians in the Abode of Islam,
rather than the history of Muhammad. This seems to be the case with
Sambari’s history.52 Sambari does not deny that the Prophet expressed
anti-Jewish positions; indeed, Muslim sources are rich in detailed descriptions of an ongoing conflict between the small community of the Faithful and the Jews of Arabia.53 To clarify this chapter in the early history
of Islam, Sambari employs a simple method. He argues that anti-Jewish
feelings among the Muslims in Medina were cultivated by Buhairan, an
obtuse and wicked astrologer who attempted to induce Muhammad to
give the Jews a final blow. Yet Abu Bakr (caliph 632–34), who is said to be
the son of the Exilarch (resh galutha), plotted with ῾Ali b. Abi Talib (caliph
656–61) to kill Buhairan and thus delivered the Jews.54
Moreover, Jewish communities claimed that Muhammad ensured their
protection and well-being under the Abode of Islam. According to this
presentation, the Prophet granted a group of Jews a letter guaranteeing
their life, property, and religious practices (kitab dhimmat al-nabi) as a
reward for their help fighting on Saturday (al-sabt= Sabbath) for the cause
of Islam. At the same time, by stating that “they will not [be forced to]
renounce their religion, will not violate the Sabbath, and will not annul
the reading in the Pentateuch (al-tawrah = Torah),” the document defines
Jewish identity under Islam.55
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A Jewish historical legend claims that the Jews dwelling in the Khaybar
Oasis in the early seventh century were from the House of Rachabites.56
The victorious Muslim forces evicted them from this location and compelled them to emigrate, yet negotiations between the quarreling parties
resulted in exempting the Jews of Khyabar from paying the poll tax (jizya). An Arabic petition sent from Tiberias to the Fatimid court in Cairo
clearly states this claim.57 This reconstruction of the past was prevalent
among the Jews of the Lands of Islam and can also be found in a late Hebrew account on the arrangements agreed upon between the Muslims and
the Jews of Khaybar. Moreover, the text states that the authenticity of this
tradition was approved by Muslim jurists.58
It has been mentioned above that Islamic sources maintained that the
indigenous population of the Fertile Crescent cooperated with the advancing Islamic armies. Taking up this narrative, Jewish sources write that
the military successes did not put an end to the cordial relations between
Jews and the emerging Islamic polity. A case in point is a Geniza document that contains a report on the meeting between the Jews and Muslims
in Jerusalem. The Jews are said to have helped ῾Umar b. al-Khattab in
cleaning the holy city (quds) and exposing the ruins of the Temple. They
pointed out to the caliph the location of the Rock, and he ordered them to
build the Dome, which covered it. Then ῾Umar issued a decree permitting
seventy Jewish families to relocate from the Galilee to Jerusalem.59 Hence
they built a synagogue on the Temple Mount and visited the site.60
Another example of this line of argumentation can be detected in a
Jewish adaptation of the story of ῾Amru b. al-῾As, the Muslim conqueror
of Egypt.61 In this version of the history, the Islamic leadership of the Nile
Valley demonstrates friendship toward the conquered population, and the
Jewish and Muslim parties sign a peace pact.62 This reconstruction of the
past served the Jews of Islam. They could argue that the kings of Ishmael
respected them and showed goodwill.
Several accounts of later events also indicate that the symbiotic rapport
between the caliphate and the protected people did not break off even
with the profound changes that the Fertile Crescent witnessed during the
disintegration of the ῾Abbasid Empire.
The first example is an account by a Jewish chronicler of the caliph
al-Mu῾tadid (279–289/892–902), who awoke from a nightmare in which
Elias appeared in front of him and warned him of the danger that would
ensue if he accomplished his evil device: “I will punish you severely if
98 r Yehoshua Frenkel
the Jews of Baghdad are hurt.” The caliph called upon Netira, the head
of the Jews, who came to the court dressed in shrouds. The Jewish leader
explained to the caliph that the mysterious person he had seen was Elijah,
the protector of the Jews, adding that Elias and al-Khidr are one and the
same. At this point we notice a change of roles in the story’s dialogue.
Netira, who in the first scene expressed great fear, now plays the role of a
dignitary who holds the keys to the ruler’s court (sultan), while the caliph
takes on the reverse position, that of the advocate. He suggests that the
Jews will stop having to pay the poll tax. However, Netira insists that his
people will continue to pay the jizya, arguing that the payment protects
them. The caliph agrees with this counsel and undertakes to collect the
jizya according to “the sacred tradition of the Prophet (sunna).” Hence the
Jews of Baghdad adopt the dress code of the ῾Abbasids, demonstrating
in this way their confidence in the caliph’s assurance. When Sufis plan to
attack the Jewish community of Baghdad, the caliph orders them thrown
into the Tigris River. The passing of the heroes of these stories does not
put an end to the close contacts between the Jews and the caliph’s court.
Netira continues to play an important role in the court of the caliph’s
successor, al-Muqtadir (295–320/908–32), and the ῾Abbasids’ favorable
attitude continues when Netira is replaced by Sahl. It is even said that
this Jewish leader regularly sent money to Kufa, where the coins were
distributed among the offspring of ῾Ali b. Abi Talib (i.e., Shiites) and the
Hashimites (i.e., ῾Abbasids).63
A partial explanation of the popularity of al-faraj ba῾d al-shidda (deliverance after hardship) episodes among Jewish authors might be the
literary-religious tradition that starts with the biblical book (megillah) of
Esther.64 This topos is reflected in a Jewish source recounting an event
that happened in Baghdad during the Saljuq period and that shows how
the Jews internalized their role as dhimmis. In it, we read that while the
sultan had been persecuting the Jewish community, a pious woman, the
daughter of Joseph the physician, declared that she had seen the prophet
Elijah in a dream and that “she had been told by him that the redemption of Israel was at hand.” Hearing about these messianic expectations,
the caliph considered punishing the Jews, but he was warned by the chief
Muslim judge of Baghdad that “no person who has ever done evil to the
Jewish people has remained unpunished.” At night, Elijah appeared to
the caliph himself, “who was struck with awe.” Hence the Jews of Baghdad were exempted from taxation.65 This exchange of roles seems to be a
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traditional literary topos that Jewish writers employed to confront their
people’s complicated conditions under the caliphs.
The Christian Reaction
Christian narratives about similar events occasionally take a different
path, particularly when it comes to details, yet they share with the Jewish
narratives declared acceptance of the hegemony of Islam. These narratives
suggest that Christian leadership found a convenient strategy in publicly
admitting their inferiority under Islam, hoping thus to safeguard their
communities and clergymen.
In an epistle attributed to the bishop Mar (mor) Gabriel from the Tur
῾Abdin region (in southeast Turkey), we read that he met ῾Umar b. alKhattab, the caliph of the Muslims (kalifa de-hanfota). At the end of the
meeting, the bishop handed the caliph a letter, and the caliph marked
the document. It guaranteed the Christians’ freedom of belief and church
practices. The Christians were promised that they would be able to carry
on with religious processions and that the clergy would be not liable to
pay state taxation.66
In some historical traditions, the Christian version of the episodes is
completely opposite to the plot offered by the Jewish writers. This is evident in the Christian sources that tell the story about ῾Umar b. al-Khattab,
his arrival in Jerusalem, and his negotiations with Sophronius, the last
Byzantine patriarch of the city.67 The sequence of events described in these
accounts brings together the head of the local church and the head of the
Muslims. They negotiated the conditions of surrender before reaching
an agreement that stipulated the conditions of the local people. In return
for the patriarch’s capitulations and the willingness of his congregation to
reside under the shadow of the caliphate, ῾Umar issued an accord document (sulh) that recorded his undertakings to protect the Christians and
to guard their churches.
The Christian version of the surrender covenant includes an additional
paragraph. It states that the Commander of the Faithful promised the
local Christian population that the caliphate would prevent Jews from
residing with them in Jerusalem. Following the endorsement of this covenant, ῾Umar looked for a place to pray. Since he and the representative of
the church were at the Holy Sepulcher, Sophronius suggested that the caliph pray in the church. But ῾Umar refused, claiming: “Would I pray here
100 r Yehoshua Frenkel
then in the future Muslims will demand the location for themselves.”68
By transmitting this pseudo-account, the Christian chronicler actually
says to his audience that this noble act by the Commander of the Faithful
saved the church from confiscation. The Muslims should follow ῾Umar’s
footsteps and not harass the Christian congregation as had happened in
the Holy City during the days of al-Hakim. In addition to this object, the
historical account aims to displace the Jewish population of Jerusalem.
The use of historical accounts to rationalize contemporary conditions
was not limited to explanations of the conditions of the Protected People
under the caliphs; it also served to clarify stories of relics and places. For
example, an Armenian author claims in his description of sacred relics in
Constantinople that they were brought to the Byzantine capital following
the defeat of the imperial armies in the battle of Yarmuk (636). According
to this story, the Christians were able to remove the sacred objects from
the Church of the Resurrection while the Ishmaelite force encamped in
Jericho. They carried the items from Jerusalem to the coast and loaded
them on vessels heading for Constantinople. Following this successful
rescue operation, the Christians demanded that the Muslims swear an
oath guaranteeing their security, and then they opened the city’s gates.69
Conclusion
It is not surprising that Jews and Christians put forward their claims centuries after the emergence of the Islamic polity. The kitabiyun’s reactions
to the Islamic historical accounts could be established only after the latter
became firmly rooted in Muslim consciousness. This development went
hand in hand with the growth among the Muslims of a strong spirit of selfidentity and the sense of an attachment to their place of residence.70 This is
clearly reflected in the merging of Islamic sacred history and geography.71
Often the building of Islamic solidarity was accompanied by the depiction
of cities and regions as spaces blessed with a unique Islamic aura.
Only the accomplishment of these mental and intellectual evolutions
could open the way for the Jews and Christians of the Land of Islam, who
were not political dissidents and hence accepted the dominance of the Islamic state. It is evident that the “Protected People” (ahl al-dhimma) who
lived under the shadow of the caliphs were familiar with the prevailing
topoi in the Arabo-Islamic chronicles and other literary genres. Yet, while
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the Muslim authors endeavored to reconstruct the early historical past
of the congregation (umma) and supply the jurists with textual evidence
to justify anti-Jewish and anti-Christian regulations and taxations, the
kitabiyun learned to read the Islamic tradition in a subversive way.72
Not disputing their position as communities without political power,
the People of the Book argued that the model of the past restricted the
measures that the governing Islamic administration could take against
them. In order to secure their communities’ position and to supply explanations of past events, both internally to members of their communities and externally to the governing Islamic umma, they acquired the
knowledge to manipulate the Islamic historical narrative.73 The “Protected
People” argued that the primary Islamic texts ensured their property and
lives. They demonstrated a close reading of Islamic sacred history in order
to claim that it was the duty of the Islamic polity to protect them.
Moreover, they interpreted these pseudo-documents in a manner that
safeguarded the kitabiyun’s autonomy and strengthened the position of
their leadership. They manufactured what Amos Funkenstein called inauthentic narrative that served them as a counterhistory. The function of
counterhistory is polemical, although I do not argue that by a systematic
exploitation of the Islamic hegemonic narrative the non-Muslim authors
aimed to distort the Muslims’ self-image through the destruction of their
collective memory.74
The interests of the governing Islamic power were at odds with the concerns of the “Protected People.” Adhering to their respective communal
interests, Muslim, Christian, and Jewish writers used similar accounts to
fortify their communities’ positions. Hence it is not surprising to discover
that, although analogous accounts of past events were used, they were
construed in opposite ways. Saying so, we might deduce another conclusion from the above texts: under the caliphs, the Fertile Crescent witnessed the development of an Arabo-Islamic culture that encompassed
all segments of the population. This culture enabled the People of the
Book to live side by side with their Muslim neighbors. It underlined the
legal pseudo-contractual relations between the hegemonic Islamic state
apparatus and the Protected People. There is no need here to present the
reaction of Muslim authors to this interpretation of the ideal polity.75 Historical reality proved time and again that the Muslim majority rejected the
harmonious picture depicted by the kitabiyun.
102 r Yehoshua Frenkel
Notes
1. Place, according to this interpretation, is more than the location where social processes are taking place. It is a communal domain that carries administrative and political
notations as well as cultural and religious meanings. In this role, place and landscape
hold a special position. They are exhibited in written works and occupy a dominant position in popular practices and manners. John Agnew, “Representing Space: Space, Scale,
and Culture in Social Science,” in Place/Culture/Representation, ed. James Duncan and
David Ley (London: Routledge, 1993), 251–71.
2. The biblical verses “And the angel of the Lord said to her: Behold, you are with
child, and shall bear a son; you shall call his name Ishmael; because the Lord has given
heed to your affliction. He shall be a wild ass of a man, his hand against every man and
every man’s hand against him; and he shall dwell over against all his kinsmen” (Genesis
16:11–12) were quoted by some Christian authors when describing the defeat of the Byzantine Empire and the emergence of the Islamic Caliphate. Andrew Palmer, The Seventh
Century in the West-Syrian Chronicles (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1993), 230
and note 581; Walter Emil Kaegi, “Initial Byzantine Reaction to the Arab Conquest,”
Church History 38 (1969): 140, 143, 146; H. W. Bailey, “To the Zamasp-Namak,” BSOAS 6
(1930–31): 55–56, 582n73; Robert H. Hewsen, “The Geography of Pappus of Alexandria:
A Translation of the Armenian Fragments,” Isis 62 (1971): 202n71.
3. Commonly Muslim jurists refer to Quran 9:29. U. Rubin, “Qur’an and Poetry,” JSAI
31 (2006): 139, mentions earlier studies; Taqi al-Din Ahmad b. ῾Ali al-Maqrizi (766/1364–
845/1441), al-Suluk li-ma῾rifat duwal al-muluk, ed. M. M. Ziyada (Cairo: Matba῾at Dar
al-Kutub, 1934) 1:712, records the collection in Cairo of the poll tax (682/1283–84). The
Copts and the Jews came to Dar al-῾Adl, where they paid the money while the heads of
the Mamluk civil administration were present.
4. Khalil Athamina, “Arab and Muhajirun in the Environment of Amsar,” Studia Islamica 66 (1987): 10.
5. The unclear distinction between the jizya and kharaj categories caused particularly
severe difficulties. Jasir b. Khalil Abu Safiya, Bardiyat qurra ibn Sharik al-῾absi (Riyad:
Markaz al-Malik Faysal lil-buhuth, 2004), 121–23; Hamilton A. R. Gibb, “The Fiscal Prescript of ῾Umar II,” Arabica 2 (1955): 1–16; Azeddine Guessous, “Le rescrit fiscal de ῾Umar
b. ῾Abd al-῾Aziz: une nouvelle appreciation,” Der Islam 73 (1996): 113–37.
6. Abu Ja῾far Muhammad b. Jarir al-Tabari, Ta’rikh al-rusul wal-muluk, ed. M. J. De
Goeje (Leiden: Brill, 1879; repr., 1964), 2:1353–54, 1507–10.
7. Bailey, “To the Zamasp-Namak,” BSOAS 6 (1930): 56 (§ 13); Sidney H. Griffith,
“Anthony David of Baghdad, Scribe and Monk of Mar Sabas: Arabic in the Monasteries
of Palestine,” Church History 58 (1989): 19; Sidney H. Griffith, “From Aramaic to Arabic:
The Languages of the Monasteries of Palestine in the Byzantine and Early Islamic Periods,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 51 (1997): 24–29.
8. Joshua Blau, The Emergence and Linguistic Background of Judaeo-Arabic, 3d ed. (Jerusalem: Ben-Zvi Institute, 1999), 4, 34–41; Norman Ruth, “Jewish Reaction to ῾Arabiyya
and the Renaissance of Hebrew in Spain,” Journal of Semitic Studies 28 (1983): 64–66.
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9. It seems that this role of the indigenous population did not stop with Muhammad’s
death. It is narrated that a monk in Damascus read a Greek inscription that predicted the
future victories of the ῾Abbasids. Shams al-Din Muhammad b. ῾Ali Ibn Tulun al-Salihi
(1485–1536/880–953), Qurrat al-῾Uyun fi akhbar bab jirun, ed. S. Munajjid (Damascus:
al-Majma῾ al-῾ilmi al-῾arabi, 1964), 8 (quoting Ibn al-῾Asakir, Ta’rikh madinat dimashq).
10. Mahmoud Ayoub, The Qur’an and Its Interpreters (Albany: SUNY Press, 1992),
296 (quoting al-Tabari); Abu al-Hasan ῾Ali b. Ahmad al-Naysaburi [Nisaburi] al-Wahidi (d. 468/1075), Kitab asbab al-nuzul, ed. W. al-Zakari (Beirut: al-Maktaba al-῾Asriya,
1421/2000), 53; Moshe Gil, “Religion and Realities in Islamic Taxation,” Israel Oriental
Studies 10 (1980): 21–25. Gil accepts these literary traditions as authentic historical documents. I do not agree with his interpretation.
11. Abu Bakr Muhammad ibn al-Tayyib al-Baqillani (d. 1015), Kitab al-bayan (Miracle
and Magic: A Treatise on the Nature of the Apologetic Miracle and Its Differentiation from
Charisms, Trickery, Divination, Magic, and Spells), ed. Richard J. McCarthy (Beirut: Librairie Orientale, 1958), 82–83 (§ 97), 86 (§ 106).
12. Montgomery W. Watt, Muhammad at Medina (New York: Oxford University
Press, 1956), 197.
13. Abu al-Bakr Ahmad ibn Husayn al-Bayhaqi (384–458/994–1066), Dala’il alnubuwwa wa-ma῾rifat akhwal sahib al-shari῾a, ed. Abd al-Muti῾ Qal῾aji (Beirut: Dar
al-Kutub al-῾Ilmiyah, 1405/1985), 6: 260–61, 266–67.
14. Raif George Khoury, Wahb b. Munabbih, das Heidelberger Papyrus (Wiesbaden:
O. Harrassowitz, 1972), 1:118; Muhammad Ibn Sa῾d (784–845), Kitab al-tabaqat al-kabir
(Beirut: Dar al-Fikr, 1994), 1:162–63; Ahmad b. Wadih al-Ya῾qubi, Ta’rikh (Historiae), ed.
M. Th. Houtsma (Leiden: Brill, 1883/1969), 2:5–7.
15. Ibn Hisham, al-Sira al-nabawiyya, ed. al-Saqa et al. (Cairo, 1971), 1:191–94; Abu alHasan ῾Ali al-Mas῾udi (d. c. 345/956), Muruj al-dhahab wa-ma῾adin al-jawahir, ed. Ch.
Pellat (Beirut: L’Universite Libanaise, 1974), 1:83 (§ 150); Jalal al-Din Abu al-Faraj ῾Abd alRahman b. ῾Ali Ibn al-Jawzi (510–597/1117–1201), al-Wafa bi-ahwal al-Mustafa, ed. M. A.
῾Ata’ (Beirut: Dar al-kutub al-῾ilmiyya, 1408/1988), 141 (who names the monk Nastora).
Among Muslim commentators it is common to connect this episode with Quran 5:82.
16. This monastery (Dair al-Ba῾iqi) was visited by Muslim pilgrims as late as the late
Abbasid period. Abu al-Hasan ῾Ali b. Abi Bakr al-Harawi (d. 611/1215), Kitab al-῾isharat
ila ma῾rifat al-ziyarat, ed. A. ῾Umar (Cairo: Maktabat al-Thiqafa, 1423/2002), 24.
17. Albrecht Noth (in collaboration with L. Conrad), The Early Arabic Historical Tradition: A Source-Critical Study, translated from the German by Michael Bonner (Princeton: Darwin Press, 1994), 19, 167.
18. Abu al-῾Abbas Ahmad b. Yahya ibn-Jabir al-Baladhuri (d. ca. 279/892), Futuh alBuldan, ed. M. De Goeje (Leiden: Brill, 1866), 141.
19. Qutb al-Din Musa b. Muhammad al-Yunini (d. 726/1326), Dhayl mir’at al zaman
[sequel to the mirror of the time] (Haydar-Abbad, 1380/1961), 2:253 (ah 701).
20. The Arabic sources refer to this document also as the covenant (῾ahd), contract
stipulations (shurut), or treaties (῾aqd) of ῾Umar. They argue that the caliph signed these
agreements with Jewish and Christian inhabitants of the cities that the Islamic armies
104 r Yehoshua Frenkel
conquered in the early years of the caliphate. It would be extremely difficult to accept this
early date. See Milka Levy-Rubin, “Shurut ῾Umar and Its Alternatives: The Legal Debate
on the Status of the Dhimmis,” JSAI 30 (2005): 170–206.
21. A. Noth, “Abgrenzungsprobleme zwischen Muslimen und Nicht-Muslimen: Die
Bedinungen Umars unter einem anderen Aspekt gelesen,” JSAI 9 (1987): 290–315; English translation in R. Hoyland, Muslims and Others in Early Islamic History (Aldershot:
Ashgate, 2002), 103–24. Mark R. Cohen, “What Was the Pact of ῾Umar? A LiteraryHistorical Study,” JSAI 23 (1999): 101–57, edited a Mamluk version of the pact.
22. Nur al-Din ῾Ali b. Burhan al-Din al-Halabi (ah 975–1044), Insan al-῾uyun fi sirat
al-amin al-ma’mun [al-Sira al-Halabiyya] (Cairo, 1964), 351; al-Tabari, Ta’rikh, 1: 2405;
Ibn al-Jawzi, Muntazam 4:43 (ah 15); Izz al-Din Ibn al-Athir (1160–1233), al-Kamil fi alta’rikh (Beirut: Dar Sadir, 1966), 2:499–500.
23. Al-Baladhuri, Futuh al-Buldan, 110–12, 130, 135. The complicated relations between these two leaders are beyond the scope of the present study. See M. J. Kister, “On
the Papyrus of Wahb b. Munabbih,” BSOAS 37 (1974): 545–71.
24. Michael A. Cook, “The Origin of Kalam,” BSOAS 43 (1980): 33; Josef Van Ess,
“Political Ideas in Early Islamic Religious Thought,” British Journal of Middle Eastern
Studies 28 (2001): 153–56.
25. Cf. the graffiti: “I believe that there is no god except Him in whom the children
of Israel believed (Quran 10:90) [believing as] a Muslim hanif nor am I among the polytheists (Quran 3: 67).” Fred McGraw Donner, “Some Early Arabic Inscription from alHanakiyya, Saudi Arabia,” JNES 43 (1984): 185; an anti-Umayyad report blaming them
for painting the wall of the Dome of the Rock with frescos representing human figures,
as churches are decorated. Abu al-Fida Isma῾il Ibn Kathir (701–74/1301–73), al-Bidaya
wa-al-nihaya (Beirut: Dar al-Kutub al-῾ilmiya, 2001), 8:288 (ah 96).
26. Frederick M. Denny, “Ummah in the Constitution of Medina,” Journal of Near
Eastern Studies 36 (1977): 43; R. B. Serjeant, “The Sunnah Jami῾ah, Pacts with the Yathrib
Jews, and the ‘Tahrim’ of Yathrib: Analysis and Translation of the Documents Comprised in the So-called Constitution of Medina,” BSOAS 41 (1978): 12–15; Uri Rubin, “The
‘Constitution of Medina’: Some Notes,” Studia Islamica 62 (1985): 13–16.
27. Quran, 49: 14, 6: 82, 33: 35; Dimitry Baramki, “al-Nuqush al-῾arabiyya fi al-badiya
al-shamiya,” al-Abhath 17 (1964): 335 (no. 67: ll. 6–7); Moshe Sharon, “Arabic Inscriptions from Rehovoth and Sinai,” Israel Exploration Journal 43 (1993): 55–56; Abu Bakr
Muhammad ibn al-Tayyib al-Baqillani (d. 1015), al-Insaf fima yajibu i῾tiqaduhu wala
yajuza al-jahlu bihi, ed. I. A. Haydar (Beirut, 1986), 89–90.
28. Cf. l. 3 in the inscriptions on the inner octagonal arcadec of Qubbat al-Sakhra
in Jerusalem (72/692). C. Kessler, “Abd al-Malik’s Inscription in the Dome of the Rock,”
JRAS (1970): 2–14; Estelle Whelan, “Forgotten Witness: Evidence for the Early Codification of the Qur’an,” JAOS 118 (1998): 4. The inscription evidently reflects the early
Umayyads’ image of Islam.
29. Robert G. Hoyland, “Writing the Biography of the Prophet Muhammad: Problems and Solutions,” History Compass 5 (2007): 11.
30. Referring to the Quran, Al ῾Imran, 3:144, al-Ahzab, 33:40; ῾Abd Allah ibn Mubarak
al-Marvazi (736–97), Kitab al-zuhd wal-raqa’iq, ed. Habib al-Rahman al-῾Azami (Beirut,
The Use of Islamic Materials by Non-Muslim Writers
r 105
1966), 557 (tradition 1598); Hartwig Hirschfeld, New Researches into the Composition and
Exegesis of the Qoran (London: Royal Asiatic Society, 1902), 22, 23; John Wansbrough,
Quranic Studies: Sources and Methods of Scriptural Interpretation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1977), 64–65; Gerald Richard Hawting, “The Disappearance and Rediscovery of the Zamzam and the Well of the Ka’ba,” BSOAS 43 (1980): 48–49; Y. Friedmann,
“Finality of Prophethood in Sunni Islam,” JSAI 7 (1986): 177–215.
31. Quran, Al ῾Imran, 3:19 “The true religion with God is Islam. Those who were given
the Book were not at variance except after the knowledge came to them, being insolent
one to another.”
32. Julian Obermann, “Political Theology in Early Islam: Hasan al-Basri’s Treatise on
Qadar,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 55 (1935): 138–62; Frank Griffel, “Toleration and Exclusion: Al-Shafi῾i and al-Ghazali on the Treatment of Apostates,” Bulletin of
the School of Oriental and African Studies 64 (2001): 339–50; Steven Wasserstrom, “Mutual Acknowledgments: Modes of Recognition between Muslim and Jew,” in Islam and
Judaism: 1,400 Years of Shared Values, ed. Steven Wasserstrom (Portland: Institute for
Judaic Studies, 1994), 64–65; G. D. Newby, A History of the Jews of Arabia from Ancient
Times to Their Eclipse under Islam (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1988),
14–17.
33. Abu al-Hasan ῾Ali al-Mas῾udi (d. c. 345/956), Kitab al-tanbih wal-ishraf, ed. M.
J. De Goeje (Leiden: Brill, 1893); Bibliotheca Geographorum Arabicorum 8:112–14; alMutahhar ibn Tahir al-Maqdisi (fl. 966), al-bad’ wal-ta’rikh, ed. and trans. Houart (Paris,
1899–1919), 4:34–41.
34. This is reflected even in popular literature. In the story of the hunchback, his
corpse is transferred from the house where he has died to the house of a Jewish physician, then to the house of a Muslim neighbor, and ends up in the home of a Christian tradesman, who is portrayed as a drunkard. As the Jew, who is depicted as greedy,
tramples on the dead body, he cries out: “O Ezra (Uzayr), O Moses, O Aaron, O Jushua
son of Nun.” Alf Layla wa-Layla from the Earliest Known Sources, ed. Muhsin Mahdi
(Leiden: Brill, 1995), 283, 284, 285; Tausend und Eine Nacht Arabisch (nights 104–106), ed.
Maximilian Habicht (Breslau, 1825), 2:125–29; Alf Layla wa-Layla, ed. Bulaq (Cairo, 1252),
1:74–75; H. Haddawy, trans., The Arabian Nights (New York: Norton, 1990), 1:208–11.
35. Sh. Pines, “A Note on an Early Meaning of the Term Mutakallim,” Israel Oriental
Studies 1 (1971): 224–40.
36. G. Newby, The Making of the Last Prophet: A Reconstruction of the Earliest Biography of Muhammad (Columbia: University of South Carolina, 1999), 10–11; Steven
Wasserstrom, Between Muslim and Jew: The Problem of Symbiosis under Early Islam
(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1995), 180–81
37. ῾Umar’s stipulations (al-shurut al-῾umariyya) can be traced not only in the chronicles but also in Islamic law manuals. Abu Bakr Muhammad b. al-Walid al-Turtushi
(451–520/1160–1126), Siraj al-muluk, ed. M. F. Abu Bakr (Cairo: al-Dar al-Misriya, 1994),
542–47 (chap. 51 fi ahkam ahl al-dhimma).
38. M. J. Kister, “Haddithu ῾an Bani Isra’il wa-la harja: A Study of an Early Tradition,”
Israel Oriental Studies 2 (1972): 215–39; Kister, “Do Not Assimilate Yourselves,” Jerusalem
Studies in Arabic and Islam 12 (1989): 321–71.
106 r Yehoshua Frenkel
39. See the account of the Syrian patriarch Michael: “Ruha (Edessa) fell to the Moslem
Arabs in 639 ad. It surrendered to the Arab general, Iyad Ibn Ghanm, who granted to the
Bishop of Edessa the terms of the surrender. According to these terms, lives and property
of the Christian inhabitants were to be secured as ahl-al-dhimma, in return for one dinar
and two measures of flour to be paid for each male citizen.” Translated by Joseph Tarzi,
“Edessa in the Era of Patriarch Michael the Syrian,” Hugoye 3 (2000): paragraph 4.
40. Midrash Daniel wu-Midrash Ezra, eds. I. S. Lange and S. Schwartz (Jerusalem:
Mekisai Nirdamim, 1968), 11. Scholars do not agree on Samul ben Nissim Masnuth’s
place and time. Some arguethink that he lived in Aleppo in the twelfth century, while
others advance the opinion believe that he lived in the western Mediterranean in the
fourteenth century.
41. Paraphrase on Quran, 2:156. On al-Fayyumi, see R. C. Kiener, “Jewish Isma‘ilism
in Twelfth-Century Yemen: R. Nethanel al-Fayyumi,” Jewish Quarterly Review 74 (1984):
249–66.
42. Koheleth 12:7.
43. Bustan al-ukul [Gan ha-sekhalim], ed. Yusuf Kafah (Qiryat Ono: Halikhot Israel,
1984), 114–16.
44. S. Griffith, “Jews and Muslims in Christian, Syriac, and Arabic Texts of the Ninth
Century,” Jewish History 3 (1988): 66, 81.
45. Cf. the opposite roles of Abraham and Ishmael in Jewish and Muslim legends. A.
Schussman, “Abraham’s Visits to Ishmael: The Jewish Origin and Orientation,” Tarbiz 49
(1980): 329, 337, 345.
46. ῾Abd al-Masih b. Ishaq, Risala [The apology of al Kindy, written at the court of
al Mamun (d. circa 215/830), in defense of Christianity against Islam] (Villach, Austria:
Light of Life, 1998), 35–38, 45–51, 78–79, 85–86.
47. In contrast to the biblical verse: I Kings 1:3, where Obadiah is described as a heartfelt believer.
48. Yosef Sambari, Sefer Divrei Yosef: Eleven Hundred Years of Jewish History under
Islamic Rule, ed. Sh. Shtober (Jerusalem: Ben-Zvi Institute, 1994), 95.
49. R. Hoyland, Seeing Islam as Others Saw It (Princeton: Darwin Press, 1997), 538.
50. S. Gero, “The Legend of the Monk Bahira: The Cult of the Cross and Iconoclasm,”
in La Syrie de Byzance à l’Islam, ed. P. Canivet and J-P. Rey-Coquais (Damascus, 1992),
47–58; S. Griffith, “The Prophet Muhammad,” in The Life of Muhammad, ed. U. Rubin
(Aldershot: Ashgate, 1998), 354, 373, 380–84.
51. M. Gil, “The Story of Bahira and Its Jewish Version,” Hebrew and Arabic Studies in
Honour of Joshua Blau (Tel Aviv and Jerusalem, 1993), 200 (Hebrew).
52. See Sh. Shtober, “The Beginning of Islam in Jewish Sources,” Pe῾amim 61 (1994):
90 (Hebrew).
53. More than one Muslim writer claims the Jews showed open hostility toward Muhammad. On this and on Jewish and Christian reactions to Islamic sacred history, see
Jacob Lassner, The Middle East Remembered: Forged Identities, Competing Narratives,
Contested Space (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2000), 313–85.
54. Eliyahu Capsali (fl. 1523), Seder Eliyahu Zuta, ed. Aryeh Shemuelevits (Jerusalem:
The Use of Islamic Materials by Non-Muslim Writers
r 107
Ben-Zvi Institute, 1975) 1:38 (chap. 5). On this source, see Martin Jacobs, “Exposed to
All the Currents of the Mediterranean: A Sixteenth-Century Venetian Rabbi on Muslim
History,” AJS Review 29 (2005): 33–60. See also Sambari, Sefer Divrei Yosef, 90 (§a), 93
(§b).
55. S. D. Goitein, Qiryat Sefer, 9:507–21 (in Judeo-Arabic and Hebrew).
56. Jeremiah 35.
57. Moshe Gil, “Religion and Realities in Islamic Taxation,” Israel Oriental Studies 10
(1980): 28, 33.
58. Sambari, Sefer Divrei Yosef, 97 (line 135).
59. M. Gil, Palestine during the First Muslim Period (Tel-Aviv: Misrad Habitahon,
1983), 2:1–3 (doc. 1) (Hebrew).
60. B. Dinur, ed., Israel in Exile (Tel-Aviv: Dvir, 1973), 1:42 (doc. 10) (Hebrew).
61. Sambari, Sefer Divrei Yosef, 95 (§d).
62. This diplomatic term (baqt) was not strange to medieval Arab writers. Martin
Hinds and H. Sakkout, “A Letter from the Governor of Egypt to the King of Nubia and
Muqurra Concerning Egyptian-Nubian Relations in 141/758,” in Studia Arabica et Islamica: Festschrift for Ihsan Abbas, ed. W. al-Qadi (Beirut, 1981), 209–29.
63. Nathan b. Isaac ha-Bavli (the Babylonian), Akhbar Baghdad in M. Gil, In the
Kingdom of Ishmael (Tel-Aviv: Misrad Habitahon, 1997), 2:33–40 (doc. 11) (Hebrew).
64. On this genre in Muslim circles, see M. S. Khan, “Miskawaih and Arabic Historiography,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 89 (1969): 718, 719. See also Nissim
ben Jacob ben Nissim ibn Shahin (eleventh century), An Elegant Composition Concerning Relief after Adversity, translated from the Arabic with introduction and notes by
William M. Brinner (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1977); Dan Ben-Amos, “Jewish
Folk Literature,” Oral Tradition 14, no. 1 (1999): 176, 177, 184.
65. S. D. Goitein, “A Report on Messianic Troubles in Baghdad in 1120–21,” Jewish
Quarterly Review 43 (1952): 57–76; republished by Gil, In the Kingdom of Ishmael, 2:229–
34 (doc. 87) in Hebrew.
66. F. Nau, “Un colloque du Patriarche Jean avec l’emir des Agareens,” Journal asiatique (1915): 274; N. A. Newman, The Early Christian-Muslim Dialogue: A Collection of
Documents from the First Three Islamic Centuries, 632–900 ad (Hatfield, Pa.: Interdisciplinary Biblical Research Institute, 1993), 29.
67. Al-Tabari, Ta’rikh al-rusul wal-muluk, 1:1403–10.
68. Yahya b. Sa῾id al-Antaki, Kitab al-Ta’rikh [Annales], ed. L. Cheikho (Beirut, 1909),
2:17–18.
69. Sebeos, Histoire d’Heraclius, translated from Armenian and annotated by F. Macler (Paris, 1904), 97–98.
70. Zayde Antrim, “Ibn Asakir’s Representations of Syria and Damascus in the Introduction to the Ta’rikh Madinat Dimashq,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 38
(2006): 109–29.
71. The growth of the fada’il (virtue of place) genre clearly reflects this development.
James E. Lindsay, “῾Ali Ibn ῾Asakir as a Preserver of Qisas al-Anbiya’: The Case of David
b. Jesse,” Studia Islamica 82 (1995): 54, 79.
108 r Yehoshua Frenkel
72. Numerous accounts report on persecutions and other harassments of the People
of the Book by Islamic authorities. Al-Maqrizi, al-Suluk li-ma῾rifat duwal al-muluk,
1:753.
73. Cf. the story on al-Ma’mun and Sa῾id b. Ziyad in Damascus and the pact that
the Prophet presumably gave to Tamim al-Dari. Al-Tabari, Ta’rikh al-rusul wal-muluk,
1:1142–43 (ah 218); Abu al-Qasim ῾Ali Ibn ῾Asakir (499–571/1075–1176), Ta’rikh madinat
dimashq wa-dhikru fadliha wa-tasmiyat man hallaha min al-amathil au ijtaza bi-nawahiha min waridiha wa-ahaliha, ed. M. al-῾Amrawi (Damascus 1415/1995), 21:60–61 (no.
2476 quoting al-Tabri); Muhammad Ibn Manzur (630–711), Mukhtasar ta’rikh dimashq
li-ibn ῾asakir (Damascus: Dar al-Fikr, 1989), 9:297–98 (no. 145).
74. “History, Counter-History, and Narrative,” Alpayim 4 (1991): 206–13 (Hebrew).
For a critic of Funkenstein, see David Biale, “Counter-History and Jewish Polemics
against Christianity: The Sefer toldot yeshu and the Sefer zerubavel,” Jewish Social Studies
6 (1999): 130–32.
75. Cf. Muhammad ibn Muhammad Ibn Sasra, al-Durra al-mudi’a fi al-dawla alzahiriya (A Chronicle of Damascus, 786–99/1389–97), ed. and trans. W. M. Brinner
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 1963), 1:126–29.
7
The Martyrdom of Sol Hachuel
Ridda in Morocco in 1834
Juliette Hassine
In memory of my late brother, Raphael Hassine
Judeo-Muslim ties in Morocco deteriorated in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. An important historical development that characterized
the tense relationship between Jewish communal leaders and the Muslim
authorities is the beheading of a Jewish maiden before a crowd for the
crime of ridda (apostasy). As an initial step, it will be necessary to delineate the concept of ridda, how the law was applied in Morocco in 1834,
and how the Jewish leaders reacted against this particular case.
The victim was 17-year-old Sol Hachuel of Tangier, also known by the
members of her community as Sol Hatsadiqqah (Sol the Righteous).1 Jews
in central and southern Morocco called her Lala Soulika (Dame Soulika).
A Moslem court in Fez condemned her to death by beheading in the year
1834.2 Her prosecutors claimed that she converted to Islam and then reverted to Judaism. She firmly denied the charge.
Evidence for our arguments concerning the state of relations between
Judaism and Islam at the time will be adduced from piyyutim (Jewish
religious poetry) and texts written about her. Another important source
for an examination of the credibility of the reservations of the Jews regarding the administration of justice and law in Morocco is a book by a
French Christian traveler called A. Rey. His Souvenirs d’un voyage au Maroc, published in Paris in 1844, includes an important chapter describing
the stages in the case, showing that each stage corresponds to the ridda
110 r Juliette Hassine
procedure as set out in Malikite law, still in force in Morocco today. A
Muslim religious personality acquainted with the case almost certainly
provided the author with the information.
The field of the relations between Jews and Muslims in Morocco has
not heretofore been analyzed in the light of case studies such as the ridda
event. Furthermore, no other researchers have described the execution
of Sol Hachuel against the backdrop of the Islamic legal framework and
Jewish sources (using some manuscripts not previously available). This
research is thus the first of its kind.3
The reign of Sultan Abd al-Rahman, who confirmed the young girl’s
death sentence, has been studied and described on the basis of official
documents by Ahmad Ibn Khālid Al-Nasiri Al-Salawī. The chronicle
called Kitāb Elistiqsa liackhbari doual al Magrib Alaqsah (Book of the
Chronicles of the Far Western Maghreb) is extremely important for understanding the social and legal structure surrounding the sultanate.4 The
archives of the Muslim authorities of Fez remain closed to scholarly study.
Herein, we shall rely on rare Hebrew sources together with two manuscripts, one in Hebrew and the other in Judeo-Arabic, which until we
discovered them were not previously known to scholars. We are referring
to a piyyut in a manuscript by Rabbi Yedidiah Monsoniego, which opens:
Remember the righteousness of a woman of valor
and discuss her formidable strength and tell it to your children.5
צדקת אשת חיל זכרו
ועזוז נוראותיה שיחו לבניכם ספרו
and to a q#sā, which begins with the verse “Bisam Allah qaomi aouel klamí
lerav La῾lami” (In the name of God, my shelter, I will dedicate my words
to the Master of the Universe).6 This q#sā Bisam Allah qaomi is of the type
current in the literary circle of malhun.7 Because of the subject matter’s
complexity, we shall not discuss every paragraph dealing with the ridda
issue, but restrict ourselves to a few select paragraphs. We shall also refer
to other piyyutim published in editions not readily available today together with the Judeo-Arabic q#sās in manuscript form.
According to the laws of protection (dhimma), which defined the status
of the Jews as dhimmi or a protected minority under Islamic rule, rulers
and judges were not permitted to force a Jewess to become a Muslim.8 In
this historic context, it was illegal to treat Sol as a Jewess accused of ridda.
The Martyrdom of Sol Hachuel: Ridda in Morocco in 1834
r 111
Therefore, in our opinion she was tried as a Muslim and brought to the
scaffold as a Muslim, though she was a Jewess.
The crime of ridda constitutes a complex topic in Muslim law. Hanafi
law states that if a Muslim denies his religion he is offered the opportunity
to return to Islam. Thus he is given three days of grace because the judges
believe there is an element of doubt and all doubt must be removed. The
Malikite law of Morocco adds that if the defendant was a slave or a woman,
the demand to recant must be presented within three days of the apostasy
becoming public. The defendant should not be deprived of bread or water.
Hanbali law contains similar provisions. The Imami law distinguishes two
types of apostates. The first is referred to as a “deviant apostate,” that is, one
who has Muslim parents and whose penitence is not accepted. Before his
mandatory execution, he must be separated from his wife and deprived of
the right to bequeath his property. The second type is called a “social apostate,” that is, one whose parents are not Muslims. This person converted to
Islam as an adult but then reverted to his former religion.
The latter was Sol’s case according to the prosecutors, and if she did
not recant, she had to be executed.9 The three-day period of grace or tuba
(days of penitence) allows the judicial authorities the opportunity to try to
persuade the accused to recant. The appointees of the judicial instance try
to convince the accused of the superiority of Islam over other religions.
They are commanded to prove the truth inherent in the faith and in Muhammad’s mission. The arguments are drawn from religious precepts, and
the intention is to bring the accused to recognize his mistake.
A charge of ridda requires a rigorous interrogation of the witnesses by
a religious court, a procedure apparently intended to deter Muslims from
preferring false charges against non-Muslims living under Muslim rule.
To prove ridda, one needs at least two witnesses. These witnesses are
usually male adult Muslims of upright character with no history of mental
illness. They cannot be slaves. Witnesses can only give testimony after the
qadi (Islamic judge) has established their fitness, after a private and public
inquiry, and after he is convinced that their characters display no evidence
of bias or prejudice. In this context, a person cannot be relied on to bear
witness against his enemy.
If the accused is condemned to death based on evidence that is afterwards found to be false, the witness must pay diyah (compensation) and
may even be condemned to death for perjury, according to Shafii law. If
a witness has a justifiable excuse not to appear before the court, then two
112 r Juliette Hassine
other witnesses can present his evidence, except in the case of slander and
compensation. Testimony is recorded, and the witnesses must sign the record. The La῾lami (court scribe), who writes up the documents, also signs
them. Other witnesses may also add their signatures to the testimony of
the two primary witnesses.10
According to the ordinances for prosecuting the crime of ridda, Sol
Hachuel was defined as a social apostate (a Muslim woman born of nonMuslim parents), whose age and healthy state of mind made her liable to
the death penalty. Because she was female and because she was being tried
under Maliki law in Morocco, Sol was given the prescribed three days to
recant.
All the religious poetry written about her delves deeply into her incarceration and the judges’ attempts to persuade her to recant. At the same
time, none of the Hebrew and Judeo-Arabic texts showed that the Jews
properly understood the concept of ridda in general or its application
in Sol’s case. The authors failed to comprehend that the aim of the persuasion as dictated by law constituted an attempt to get the accused to
recant in the hope of averting the death penalty. In Ma῾ase ba-Na῾ara haTsadeqet (A Tale of a Righteous Maiden), Yosef Ben-Na῾im recounts that
she was not starved in prison but deprived of food because she refused
to eat the prison fare as it did not accord with Jewish dietary laws; hence
Rabbi Raphael Ha-Tsarfati smuggled food to her.11 Seemingly, Ben-Na῾im
thought that the provision of food and water to prisoners was an act of
goodwill and not dictated by the law.12
Both the piyyutim in Hebrew and the q#sā in Judeo-Arabic hint that
there was a legal process including witnesses and official documents, for
example, in “In Praise of the Fortunate Maiden” by Ya῾aqov Abihazirah:
Together they plotted perjury
They lied that she converted to the worthless religion
They wrote and signed a wicked plot
And she, perish the thought, had expressed no such words
יחדיו להעיד שקר הסכימו
אמרו המירה לדת הבל למו
קשר רשעים כתבו וחתמו
והיא חלילה לא נשמע בפיה
The Martyrdom of Sol Hachuel: Ridda in Morocco in 1834
r 113
Note also the following reference to the witnesses in Bisam Allah qaomi:
On the day that they prepared the contract and came to their master
and gave witness . . .
we wait for them to be destroyed for their perjury
...יום עמלו כאגטהום וזאוו לסידהום וסהדו סהודהום
עלא סהאדת זור נראהום בלבדיקא
]ביום שעשו השטר ובאו לאדונם והעידו עדיהם
[על עדות השקר נראה אותם בכליון
These quotations from Jewish contemporaries show that the conduct
of the trial followed the legal precepts of interrogation of the witnesses
and signed statements witnessed by the court scribe. The authors’ claims
attack the witnesses. They cite perjury and forged documents in what may
be called a “plot.” They view Sol as a pious Jewess who had never converted to Islam.
The piyyutim refer to signed affidavits. In the q#sā Bisam Allah qaomi,
the anonymous poet mentions a kagt (document), which would be interpreted by the Jews as a signed affidavit or even a marriage contract.
Rey writes in his book that Sol admitted that she pronounced the
Shahāda, i.e., declared her allegiance to Islam in a moment of weakness
but immediately repudiated her words. She used these words in an attempt to prevail upon those who came to arrest her not to take her away
with them. These men claimed that if she had something to repudiate, it
was a sure sign that at some stage she had sworn allegiance to Islam and,
as such, they had sufficient grounds to arrest her. When she resisted arrest, they tied her hands behind her back with a silk handkerchief and
threatened that if she did not go willingly, they would take her by force.13
In a report received by the painter Alfred Dehodencq in the early 1850s,
Sol fell in love with a Muslim and married him, but when her husband
suddenly passed away, she decided to return to her faith and community.14
And thus the two events—the declaration of faith and the marriage—
are included in the non-Hebrew traditions about Sol. However, these
should be discussed as hypotheses and not as indubitable truth, given that
to date no one has yet produced any documents confirming the theory.
Therefore, in Sol’s case we must relate to these hypotheses as possible accusations in the ridda trial.
114 r Juliette Hassine
We would point out that Jews forced to convert to Islam during the
oppressive rule of Sultan Mawlay Yazid (reigned 1790–92) were permitted to revert to Judaism by Sultan Sliman II (reigned 1792–1822). So here
was a precedent for such a return to one’s former religion in Moroccan
history. Other examples include the rule of the Marinids in Morocco at
the end of the thirteenth century, when converts were permitted to return
to Judaism, even though Sharia law prohibited this. The qadi Ahmed alWansharisi, who lived in the fifteenth century, stated that Jews who were
forcibly converted could go back to their faith. This precedent in Morocco
accords with the laws of the dhimma, which state that compelling dhimmi
to convert, even to Islam, is forbidden, and furthermore it abides by the
dictates of the Quran and the teachings of Muhammad.15 Sultan Abd alRahman (reigned 1822–1859) probably knew of Sliman II’s decision and
thought that he could follow a similar practice in the case of Sol Hachuel.
Her sentence was passed by the members of the ῾ulamā’ (the qadi could
be a member of this council). In Morocco the sultan is the “commander
of the faithful,” but he is not permitted to rule on matters of Islamic law.
Rather, his responsibility lies only in implementing religious ordinances.
When he is notified that a sentence has been passed, he is expected to authorize its execution. He has no right to veto a trial’s outcome or a judge’s
sentence, except for legal reasons such as a flaw in the evidence, procedure, etc. Due process is his first priority in order to guarantee the rule of
law.
If he is the sole instance for the authorization of a death sentence, one
may ask why he did not use his privilege to delay the execution of the
sentence for an indefinite period while Sol was held under arrest or even
housed in the palace harem. But such a step might seem unsuitable for a
pious Muslim in the eyes of members of the ῾ulamā’ from the Bildiyyin
(converted Jews) group.16 It appears that the contemporary Wahhabism
of Sliman II’s period influenced Abd al-Rahman, who valued the members of the Bildiyyin council of mostly Jewish origin. These “new Muslims” attended Sliman II from boyhood and served him as teachers and
mentors. As an adult, he accepted them as arbiters of Muslim law. This
group, which retained its influence during the rule of Abd Al-Rahman,
did not advocate improvement in the social and economic conditions of
the Jews.17 The legal case of Sol the Jewess presented an additional opportunity to deal harshly with the Jews. The pious sultan could not ignore
The Martyrdom of Sol Hachuel: Ridda in Morocco in 1834
r 115
their recommendation to carry out the death sentence. In the malhun in
the manuscript Bisam Allah qaomi, the influence of the ῾ulamā’ and its
expeditious action in the Sol trial is described in a pictorial manner:
Morning and evening they met with the Islamia
When the important people gathered together with the ῾ulamā’
They said what a noble woman, it is a pity that you should remain
A homeless Jewess and you such a beautiful example of God’s
creation
... עמלו לף דגיא מעא לאיסלמיא,סבאח ועשיה
וזאת מלומא מעא לעולאמא,חין נזמעו לומא
תבקא/כסארא/ קאלוהא יא סריף
יא זנת לכליקא/ יהודייה כאת תדור
]בוקר וערב עשו אסיפה מהר עם האיסלאמיא
עם החכמים/ ובאו ביחד/ כאשר נתאספו הגדולים
חבל תשארי/ אמרו לה הוי האצילה
[ יפת הבריאה/ יהודיה משוטטת
The q#sā emphasizes that they sent a Muslim woman to persuade her to
practice Islam. The term Islamia is a synonym for Bildiya, a Muslim of
Jewish origin. Abd al-Rahman, who was faithful to the laws of Islam, listened to the counsel of the ῾ulamā’ and accepted their advice. The chronicle of Khālid al-Nasiri tells us that the ῾ulamā’ prevented the execution
of two thousand people from the Sherrarda tribe.18
Regarding Sol, he inclined toward the ῾ulamā’, which included members of the Bildiyyin who favored the death penalty. Owing to his loyalty
to this group, he apparently declined to use his authority to delay the
execution.
The other factor that contributed to the adopting of the recommendation and the implementing of the death sentence forthwith (after the
three-day wait) was widespread publicity. Sol’s case had become a public
issue. If it was clear that she was not coerced into converting, any effort
or attempt by a member of the court or by the sultan himself to reverse
the sentence could seem like a reaction to outside pressure and therefore
an insult to Islam and its laws. According to Rey, the qadi in Tangier attacked Sol’s parents for publicizing the matter. In his opinion, the publicity prevented his intervention in their daughter’s favor.19 Would things
116 r Juliette Hassine
have turned out differently if the matter had been treated with discretion?
We can never know. There are no grounds for the claim that the family’s
activity caused the publicity. One may claim that from the moment the
witnesses testified that Sol was an apostate Muslim, the matter became
public, and within the Moroccan context of 1834, such publicity served
to warn others, viz., death is the appropriate treatment for apostates from
Islam. Discretion, therefore, was not in Islam’s interest or in the interest
of the young Jewess.
The authors of the piyyutim about Sol, who were leading rabbis in Fez at
that time, saw the sultan as the highest authority, capable of saving the
young Jewess from a bitter end. In their opinion, if the sultan refused
to postpone the death sentence indefinitely after an unjust trial, it was
because of arbitrariness and cruelty and not because of loyalty and commitment to the laws of Islam.
In H
ayyim H
aliwa’s piyyut about Sol, the Muslims who tortured and
condemned her to death are characterized as lions and bears, members
of a false religion, unclean water, sexually perverted, brave as dogs and
Datan and Aviram, who rebelled against Moses.20
The sultan’s servants and advisors and the sultan himself are described
in a somber way without any restraint or fear, for these texts were only
comprehensible to the Jews and were passed from hand to hand within
the community. Rabbi Shmuel Elbaz in his Shimekha yah qiddesha (Your
Name, Almighty, she sanctified) describes how she was brought to the
sultan’s palace in Fez:
To the criminal city
She was sent with zeal
To lie among the uncircumcised
Where she would forget God’s service.
שלחה בחמדה/ ”לעיר הפלילים
שם תשכח עבודה/ תשכב בין ערלים21
Rabbi Elbaz, a resident of Fez at the time, called the town in which the
sultan lived a “criminal city.”
In this context, focusing on the relations between Jews and Muslims in
Morocco in 1834, we would like to bring attention to another salient point
The Martyrdom of Sol Hachuel: Ridda in Morocco in 1834
r 117
in Rabbi Elbaz’s piyyut. He calls the Muslims ῾arelim (uncircumcised),
which is surprising given that Muslims circumcise males for religious reasons. The term is therefore not consistent with reality. An examination
reveals that it is in accordance with Talmudic tradition (see especially
Tractate Nedarim 31a, dealing with vows), where it is written that a person who swears not to benefit from an uncircumcised person may nevertheless benefit from an uncircumcised Jew, but not from a circumcised
non-Jew.
In other words, the circumcision of a non-Jew does not alter his ῾arel
status, nor does failure to circumcise a Jew prevent him from still being
a Jew. Almost certainly then, in his piyyut, Rabbi Elbaz uses the word
uncircumcised as a synonym for “non-Jewish.” Rabbi Elbaz was known as
a great scholar and teacher of Torah and Talmud, who almost certainly
knew the Talmudic source, and he used it to justify the word uncircumcised in describing the Muslims of his time. It is appropriate to add the
last words of Sol to her executioner as they appear in H
ayyim H
aliwah’s
piyyut, ῾Am asher nivharu (People who were chosen).
Put on your sword
So she spoke, I will be killed, and I will not sin against my religion
חגר חרבך הרק ורוץ כגבור
כה דברה אהרג ולא אעבור
Sol encourages her executioner to kill her so that she may be made a martyr and not transgress any of the three prohibitions for which one should
be ready to accept martyrdom rather than violate them. The three prohibitions are idolatry, murder, and sexual immorality (see the Babylonian
Talmud, Tractate Sanhedrin 72b). H
aliwah sees Islam as idolatry and not
as a monotheistic religion. In his opinion, Sol was right in preferring martyrdom to living as a Muslim. H
aliwah’s conception of Islam is similar to
that of Elbaz’s, proving that the relations between the two religions, Islam
and Judaism, were profoundly strained.
In both the piyyutim and q#sās, the Muslim community, witnesses,
judges, and the sultan are described as a gang of losers, immoral and dishonest, lacking ethical standards and spirituality; therefore, the only alternative was to curse them for what they had done to a young, righteous
Jewess. In the manuscripts of the Judeo-Arabic q#sās, Sol’s mourners call
118 r Juliette Hassine
the Muslim judges “illegitimate” (al fsolim), which followed Maimonides,
who referred to the prophet Muhammad as ha-Pasul (the illegitimate
one).22
The poems mention documents produced in court and apparently presented to the sultan as well. Let us consider the declaration of allegiance
to Islam. Did Morocco of 1834 require that conversion to Islam should
be confirmed by a written document, as was the case in the Andalusia
of Maimonides under the Muwahidūn (the “Unitarians”) and in later
periods? At the time when the Muwahidūn also ruled in Morocco, the
many incidents of conversion arising from oppression and persecution
aroused suspicions of insincere conversion. Thus converting to Islam, it
was decided, should be an act of free will and not merely a superficial act.
Therefore, the converts declared fidelity to Islam before witnesses, and a
document was drawn up to that effect, which was witnessed by a notary
and signed by the convert. This procedure was like a statement or bearing
witness, and its requirements created the assumption that the candidate
understood the law with requisite awareness of the religious duties expected of him.23
In his book, Rey reviews the stages of conversion to Islam as carried out
in Andalusia.24 It is reasonable to assume that his source of information
believed that the Andalusian procedure from the Muwahidūn era was
perhaps comparable to that followed in Morocco.
With regard to the procedures and laws relating to the age of a person
condemned to death and the method of implementing the sentence, the
concept of taklif (the imposition of duties on mankind by God) is of importance.25 Other legal concepts such as ’akl or state of mind and bulugh,
i.e., physical and sexual maturity, according to Islamic law also should
have played a role in Sol’s case.26 Sol was 17 years old at the time her sentence was passed, and she was not pregnant, weaning, or menstruating.
Under Islamic law, these factors should have been checked before carrying out the death sentence.27
According to Islamic law, tuba (the grace period of penitence) normally lasts three days, but it could have been extended to further investigate whether or not the condemned person’s decision to revert to the
former religion was freely made. Because a decision regarding the choosing of one’s religion should not be coerced, torture is not permitted.
Tuba is part of a legal procedure and is common to both Hanbali and
Maliki law current in Morocco of that day; it was not accepted in Sunni,
The Martyrdom of Sol Hachuel: Ridda in Morocco in 1834
r 119
Shi῾a, or Hamami law. Yedidiah Monsoniego claimed that Sol was tortured for two months. Was this during the tuba period, which suggests
it lasted two months? If this were indeed the case, it would have been
exceptional and would also have represented a gesture of goodwill and an
attitude of human kindness and consideration for the girl by the Muslim
court. Rabbi Monsoniego, who composed his piyyut to mark the end of
the thirty-day mourning period, did not see things this way.28
In some cases, the death sentence was considered insufficient, and the
body was burned or thrown into a river. This decision was left to the qadis, who were always uncertain about how to dispose of the remains of
heretics. To bury them in a Muslim cemetery is forbidden, nor should
their bodies, unlike other Muslim departed, be treated with the respect
required by Islamic teachings. For example, they did not say the Shahāda
prayer over them while facing in the direction of Mecca. In the q#sā Bisam
Allah qaumi, one of the Muslim women says:
Look at those features,
they do not merit burning
ראה דאק לגנזור
מא יסתאהלסי חריקא
]הנה הפנים היפות ההן
[לא תיאות להן השריפה
These words confirm the popular custom that the body of one condemned
to death for apostasy (ridda) was incinerated, for which there certainly
was historical precedent.29 When the community found a Muslim guilty
of betrayal, his body was burned and subsequently mutilated.30 In Sol’s
case, we find no evidence that her body was mutilated by the crowd present at the execution. Sol was sentenced as a Muslim, and the authorities
responsible for disposing of her body could decide whether to bury it,
burn it, or throw it into the river. If the body was buried in a Jewish cemetery, this would have been the result of an agreement between the Muslim authorities and the Jewish community and therefore a demonstration
of goodwill.
According to Jewish sources, the crowd did not mutilate the body,
proving that the Muslim judicial authorities in Fez remained in control of
the execution. These authorities apparently agreed to give her body to the
Jewish community, even though Sol was treated as an apostate Muslim
120 r Juliette Hassine
whose execution should have taken place before sunset immediately after
the tuba period.
Rey’s book describes the ridda process in detail, and he researched the
subject in depth, seemingly with the help of Muslim legal experts. However, there are lacunae in the treatment of the laws of evidence in his book.
The rabbis showed little knowledge or understanding of the workings of
ridda. None of the poets or the authors of the q#sās at any time indicate
that Sol converted to Islam; on the contrary, they say that she remained
loyal to her religion. According to Yedidiah Monsoniego, the judges decided to torture her:
Perhaps she would convert when
She cried out in suffering
פן ואולי תמיר את דתה
תזעק בחבליה
Monsoniego became a member of the rabbinical court in Fez in 1840.31 He
claimed that the judges forced Sol to convert to Islam. The ῾ulamā’ and the
sultan, however, knew that forced conversion was illegal. It went against
the very notion of dhimma status, which governed the relations between
Muslims and other “People of the Book.” Therefore, they made certain
that the question of Sol’s Judaism was not raised during the trial or during
the tuba persuasion and torture period. In their opinion, these methods
were employed to ensure that she remained a Muslim, whereas the Jewish poets saw them as an attempt to coerce her into converting to Islam.
Was this paragraph found in the Pact of Omar known to the Jewish
poets? If they had known it was illegal to force a Jewess to convert, would
they not have used this information to attack the sultan and the judges
for their lack of compliance with the laws of Islam’s founding fathers? This
claim would have strengthened the protests against the Muslim authorities in Fez.
This argument, which does not appear in any of the poetry, proves
that the laws of dhimma prohibiting the forced conversion of a Jew to
Islam were not clear to the Jewish authors or even to the community
leaders, who claimed only that Sol was forced to convert without mention of Islamic laws against such activity. This ignorance of Islamic law
in the events surrounding Sol shows how deep the abyss was between
the Jewish and Muslim communities. We are talking about two separate,
The Martyrdom of Sol Hachuel: Ridda in Morocco in 1834
r 121
completely different worlds, different not only religiously and socially but
also culturally.
Indeed, the Jewish writings about Sol Hachuel in the texts and manuscripts that we have quoted herein could be principally classified as apologetic literature, and consequently these poems should not be relied upon
as historical documents faithfully reflecting the total system of relationships between the two communities. Therefore, literary criticism as cultural hermeneutics could assume that these same manuscripts and texts
try to construct a narrative and a tradition about Sol Hachuel, and for
that purpose, it was preferable to the authors to bring out matters such as
incomprehension and barriers between the two communities rather than
to deliver a balanced picture of this issue (Sol’s case) in order to represent
the broader relationships between the Muslims and Jews in Morocco in
the first half of the nineteenth century.
Notes
1. Regarding the surname, we have adopted the form used by Eugenio Maria Romero
in his play El Martirio de la Joven Hachuel (Gibraltar: Imprenta Militar, 1837), three years
after Sol’s execution.
2. The Jewish community of Fez has retained its official documentation of Sol Hachuel’s execution, found in Yahas Fez, a collection of sources on the history of the Jews
of Fez. In 1879 the leader of the Jewish religious court, Avner Israel Ha-Tzarfati, sent the
material to Isidore Loeb, one of the heads of the Alliance Israélite Universelle. (I would
point out that two poems about Sol were published earlier in 1844 in Qol Ya῾aqov by
Ya῾aqov Berdugo in London.) The documents may be found in David Ovadiah’s book
Fez we-Khahameha (Fez and Its Sages), 2 vols. (Jerusalem: Beit Oved, 1979). Sol is referred to in 1:157.
3. This work is part of a wider research project on Moroccan Jewry in the first half of
the nineteenth century, which has occupied me for more than six years. This discussion
about the ridda issue forms part of a chapter dealing with the relations between Jews
and Muslims during the period. I have published an article in Hebrew on Sol Hachuel,
“Le-Itzuv Demuta shel Giborat Tarbut lefi Teqstim” (The formation of a popular heroine reflected in texts), which appeared in an anthology, Isha be-Mizrah, Isha mi-Mizrah
(Woman of the Orient, Woman from the Orient), ed. Tova Cohen and Shaul Regev
(Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 2005), 35–54 (see especially the bibliography,
53–54).
4. The chronicle was translated separately by Eugène Fumey, orientalist and diplomat
in the French diplomatic service, who served in Tangier between 1897 and 1903 (the year
of his death) and it was published in parts 9 and 10 of Archives marocaines (Paris: Ed.
Leroux, 1906, 1907).
122 r Juliette Hassine
5. This piyyut about the martyrdom of Sol Hachuel was only recently discovered,
written on the last pages of one of the two manuscripts by Rabbi Yedidiah Monsoniego
entitled Qupat ha-Rokhlim (The Peddler’s Satchel), setting out that which is forbidden
and permitted by Torah law. The contents are arranged in alphabetical order, summarizing sources and referring to them. The manuscript, which includes the piyyut about
Sol, is in the possession of Rabbi Dr. Moshe Amar of Bar-Ilan University. In his poem,
the author testifies that it was written on the thirtieth day after Sol’s execution. Rabbi
Monsoniego also served as a ritual slaughterer in Fez and was appointed a judge on
the rabbinical court in 1840, replacing his father, Rabbi Raphael Monsoniego, after his
death. For further biographical and bibliographical details, see Sefer Minkhat Ziqaron,
ed. Moshe Amar (Lod: Orot Yahadut Ha-Maghreb, 1999), 1–9.
6. This q#sā about the righteous Sol came to me as a text found in a manuscript in the
possession of Dr. Hayyim Bentov of Bar-Ilan University. Throughout this essay, we refer
to the q#sā by its opening phrase, Bisam Allah qaomi (In the name of God my shelter).
7. The Arabic qassida in Morocco is called malhun. The q#sā is a less complex poetic
form than the qassida and was adopted in popular Jewish literature in Morocco. The
manuscript q#sā Bisam Allah qaomi was influenced by the Arabic qassida of the malhun
type. The structure of the Sephardic Hebrew qassida is derived from the Arabic qassida.
In the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, after the Arabic qassida of the malhun type
became the primary poetic form in Morocco, even Hebrew verse accepted the form. The
q#sā Bisam Allah qaomi belongs to the malhun genre and is characterized by a division
into stanzas (aqsam) accompanied by a refrain (harba). The stanzas are composed of
strings. Each string has two parts: the first part includes three lines whose rhyme changes
in each stanza. The second part includes two couplets. The rhymes of the couplets are
uniform in each stanza. For a discussion of the malhun, see Meir Nizri, “Ha-Prosodiyyah
shel ha-qassida be-shir yedidut le-or ha-qassida ha-Aravit (al-Mallhun) be-Morocco,”
PhD thesis, Bar-Ilan University, Ramat-Gan, 1997.
8. Moroccan Jews were defined as dhimmis or a “protected minority” by the Muslim
authorities. The delineation was common practice as regards non-Muslims and included
both Jews and Christians, who were described as “People of the Book.” They were allowed to live under Muslim rule if they accepted a number of limitations embodied in
the Pact of Omar, compiled in 687 ce (Muslim date, ah 78) and named after its originator, Omar b. al-Hatāb. These precepts were designed to ensure the supremacy of Islam
over the other religions. One of the clauses relevant to our discussion is the prohibition
against discouraging anybody from converting to Islam. The dhimmis who obeyed these
rules were guaranteed protection against threats to their lives and possessions and were
permitted freedom to organize their religious and social life. The Pact of Omar in effect
separated Muslims from other communities. This segregation deepened over time, so
that by the early nineteenth century very little communication took place between the
Jewish community and the Muslim authorities, a situation exacerbated by persecution.
Jews could neither read nor write Classical Arabic, because as dhimmis they were forbidden to study the Quran. This explains the Jewish ignorance of complex legal matters
such as ridda, under whose provisions Sol was sentenced to death. See Antoine Fattal,
Le statut légal des non-musulmans en pays d’Islam (Beirut: Imprimerie Catholique, 1958),
The Martyrdom of Sol Hachuel: Ridda in Morocco in 1834
r 123
18–20, 36–37, 61–63, and André Chouraqui, La condition juridique de l’Israélite marocain
(Paris: Presses du Livre français, 1950), 21–25, 47–55.
9. For a discussion of the various statutes of the law of ridda, see H. Ennaifer, Foi et
justice (Groupe de Recherches Islamo-Chrétien) (Paris: Centurion, 1993), 104–13, and
Fattal, Le statut légal, 141, 163–73.
10. For an explanation of the role of the witness in a ridda trial, see also the entry for
Shahid (witness) in the Encyclopedia of Islam, CD-ROM edition V.I.I.
11. This text is included in Yosef Ben-Na῾im, Malkhe Rabbanan (Jerusalem: 1930). See
my article in Isha be-Mizrah, Isha mi-Mizrah, 48 (see note 3 above).
12. See A. Rey, Souvenirs d’un voyage au Maroc (Paris: Bureau du Journal d’Algérie,
1844), 152. Rey records that the governor gave instructions to provide Sol with food and
drink during her three days of imprisonment. Prior to this, he explained to her parents
that only after three days would the situation become clear whereupon he would be able
to decide her future (148–49). This is in accordance with the tuba process within the
ridda proceedings.
13. See the piyyut “Et godel shevah na῾arah ashira, asaper” (The highest praise for
a young woman, I will sing and tell), which is included in Ya῾aqov Avihazirah, Yagel
Ya῾aqov (Netivot, 2001). We quoted lines 11–13.
14. See Rey, Souvenirs, 148–66. The painter Alfred Dehodencq, who visited Tangier in
the 1850s, included accounts of Sol’s case as told by her contemporaries living in Tangier
in his memoir, as collected by Gabriel de Séailles, Alfred Dehodencq: Histoire d’un coloriste (Paris: P. Ollendorff, 1885), 113. He also portrayed her in his painting Execution of a
Moroccan Jewess. For statutes concerning marriage in Islamic law, see under Nikah in the
Encyclopaedia of Islam (Leiden: Brill, 1995, viii), 26–35.
15. For further information about the return to Judaism of those forced to convert to
Islam in Morocco, see H. Z. Hirschberg, Toldot ha-Yehudim be-Afrika ha-Tsefonit (The
History of the Jews in North Africa) (Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik, 1965), 1:84–85, 279–82
(Hebrew); Eliezer Bashan, Yahadut Morocco, ῾Avra ve-Tarbutah (Moroccan Jewry, past,
and culture) (Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuhad, 2000), 21, 62 (Hebrew); Rey, Souvenirs,
72–84. At this stage, it would be appropriate to make a number of comments on Malikite
law, which is one of the basic elements of Moroccan Islam. The state has been administered using this body of law since the eleventh century (the Murabittin period). Spiritual
leaders with mystical tendencies helped to spread the law and contributed to the expansion of a popular fundamentalist Islam. However, during the reign of the sultan Sliman
II from the Alawite dynasty (1792–1822), the influence of Wahhabism increased, and
this trend continued under his heir, Sultan Abd al-Rahman, while he remained loyal
to Malikite law. Important historians specializing in Moroccan history, such as Abdallah Laroui, claim that the people were not shaped by Islam but rather by the form of
Malikism that developed in Morocco. See Laroui, Islamisme, Modernisme, Libéralisme
(Casablanca: Centre culturel arabe, 1997), 159. Other historians such as Mohammed Othman Benjelloun agree that Malikite Islam has distinctive features, being more tolerant
not only of other religions but especially with the “People of the Book,” who settled in
Morocco. See his book Projet national et identité au Maroc (Casablanca: Eddif, 2000), 79.
To quote King Hassan II on the same subject: “Malikism is the intellectual backbone of
124 r Juliette Hassine
our culture. The Malikite teachings produced a number of great sages in Andalusia and
the Maghreb, and we rely on them in the application of our legal principles. It is an open
culture which borrows from other legal schools, aiding us to solve the problems that we
encounter.” See Hassan II and Eric Laurent, Le génie de la modération (Paris: Plon, 2000),
110–11.
16. See Mohammed Kenbib’s monumental Juifs et Musulmans au Maroc, 1859–1948
(Rabat: Université Mohammed V, Faculté des sciences humaines, 1994), 51, 61, 711.
17. We should emphasize that Sultan Abd al-Rahman was characterized by his loyalty
to the religious institutions as set out in the Malikite laws, defined by both Moroccan historians and Sultan Hassan II as an open and tolerant body of law. Because his religiosity
was influenced by Wahhabism, the combination is likely to create considerable tension
and, as in Sol’s case, perhaps even lead to the death penalty. This tendency was reinforced
by the ῾ulamā’ from the Bildiyyin group.
18. In his chronicle, Ibn Khālid al-Nasiri al-Salawi relates how Abd al-Rahman reconsidered his decision to behead two thousand members of the Sherrarda tribe who
were accused of treason. Prior to acting on his decision, he consulted the ῾ulamā’, whose
members advised him not to spill so much blood. The sultan accepted their advice and
canceled the mass execution. See Archives marocaines, 10:127. In Sol’s case, apparently, a
legal decision came down which called for the death sentence with a recommendation
to carry out the execution as soon as possible. The British consul Drummond Hay wrote
a letter to the Foreign Office in England from Tangier on June 9, 1834, a few days after
Sol was executed in Fez. In the letter he cited the ῾ulamā’’s influence as one of the major
causes for the implementation of her sentence. See the British Foreign Office Archive,
Diary of the British Consulate, Tangier FO 174/218, vol. 8, 1834–1836. This letter was first
published by Ph. Abensur in the periodical Etzi 3, no. 11 (December 2000): 1, 6.
19. Rey, Souvenirs, 152.
20. The pejorative epithets used against Sol’s judges are found in a piyyut by H
ayyim
H
aliwah, which starts with the sentence “ ῾Am asher nivharu/le-shem ule-tehila” (A people chosen for fame and praise). The piyyut was included in Rabbi Ya῾aqov Bendugo, Qol
Ya῾aqov (London, 1844), 129–31.
21. Shimkha yah qiddesha is found in a manuscript at Bar-Ilan University (no. 566).
A scholarly edition of the piyyut was published in Yehuda Razhabi, Mi-Ginzat Shirat Qedem (Texts and Studies in Oriental Liturgical Poetry) (Jerusalem: Misgav Yerushalaim,
1991), 87–93. Rabbi Shmuel Elbaz was a member of a family of religious judges and
scholars from Sefrou, although he lived in Fez and was almost certainly present in the
city when Sol Hachuel was executed.
22. The q#sā found in the manuscript at Bar-Ilan University (no. 142) opens with
the sentence “shimu ya nash ma zra/fimdinat Fes lkahra” (Hear, gentlemen, what happened in the despicable city, Fez). In line 16, we read “get up, illegitimate witnesses, and
testify.” The poet is referring to Muslims, whom the Jews saw as illegitimate. In general,
the Jews of Morocco of every generation used this term (in Hebrew, pasul) to refer to
Muslims. This phenomenon is anchored in Moroccan Jewish tradition and is derived
from Maimonides’ Igeret Teman (Epistle to Yemen), in which he preferred the epithet
ha-Pasul instead of referring to Muhammad by his name. See Igeret Teman, Halkin ed.,
The Martyrdom of Sol Hachuel: Ridda in Morocco in 1834
r 125
trans. Boaz Cohen (New York: American Academy for Jewish Research, 1952), 28, 52. The
authors of the piyyutim about Sol—all sages and rabbinical judges and well acquainted
with Maimonides’ religious thought and philosophy—were fully aware of these details.
In fact, it appears they reread Maimonides’ works, especially Igeret Teman, before writing
their poetry.
For sources discussing Maimonides’ attitude toward Islam and forced conversion in
North Africa, see Nehamiah Levtzion’s articles and also the articles by Menahem BenSasson and Eliezer Schlossberg, which appeared in Pe῾amim 42 (Winter 1990): 8–60.
23. For sources on forced conversions in Andalusia in the Muwahidūn period, see
Judit Taragona and Angel Saenz-Badillos, “Moshé ben Maimon sous le pouvoir almohade,” in Présence juive au Maghreb, ed. Joseph Tedgui and Nicole S. Serfati (Saint-Denis:
Bouchère, 2004), 203–18. See especially 214–15.
24. Rey, Souvenirs, 147, 153.
25. See the entry for taklif in the Encyclopaedia of Islam (Leiden: Brill, 2000),
10:149–50.
26. In Rey’s book, Souvenirs d’un voyage au Maroc, 153–54, the governor repeats in
Sol’s presence, “You are certainly not insane.”
27. We express our gratitude to the president of the Shari῾a court in Israel, Ahmed
Natour, who explained the paragraphs relating to ’akl and bulugh in the laws of ridda,
after checking the relevant sources in Muslim law books. The meeting took place in his
office on January 7, 2004. The relevant paragraphs in the law will be examined in detail as
part of a more extensive research project now in progress. Here we have only presented
a summary of the law and general conclusions.
28. Line 12 of the manuscript reads, “῾inuha shne hodashim / yeme ῾onya umerudeha”
(They tortured her for two months / the days of her suffering and her bitterness).
29. Fattal, Le statut legal, 165–66. In Souvenirs, Rey introduced the possibility of the
body being burned or even that Sol might have been executed by burning (167).
30. See the Archives marocaines (1907), 10:155.
31. See the introduction to Minhat Zikaron by Yedidiah Monsoniego, ed. Moshe Amar
(Lod: Orot Yahadut Hamagreb, 1992).
8
Halakhah through the Lens of Sharī῾ah
The Case of the Kuhlānī Synagogue in S
an῾ā’, 1933–1944
Mark S. Wagner
In 1935, Jews in S an῾ā’, embroiled in a dispute over the leadership of the
Jewish community in Yemen, sought the legal ruling of the Zaydī imām,
Yahyā b. Muhammad H
amīd al-Dīn, on whether the Kuhlānī Synagogue
was private property or a pious endowment (waq f). The status of the synagogue as property would strengthen the position of one of two factions
within the Jewish community. Depending on the outcome, one faction
might become dominant in all of the synagogues in the city. The acrimony
that ensued between Muslim jurists over the imām’s ruling brought into
sharp focus the divisions between them regarding the status of Jewish
law and the interaction of Islamic and Jewish legal systems and raised the
following questions: What is non-Muslim law, and what is its relevance
to the Muslim jurist? Should Jews be permitted to commit acts that are
illegal in Islamic law if they do not bring them to the attention of a Muslim court? More broadly, are non-Muslim legal systems legitimate as legal
systems?
With the Kuhlānī Synagogue dispute as a case study, we outline the
varied and conflicting solutions that Muslim jurists in Yemen devised to
respond to these questions using Zaydī sources and legal documents from
the early twentieth century. The case of the Kuhlānī Synagogue is special
in that it forced Muslim jurists to decide what happened when Jews did
something that was legal in Judaism but illegal under Islamic law.1 Moreover, it forced Muslim jurists to rule on a substantive issue of Jewish law.
The Case of the Kuhlānī Synagogue in S
an῾ā’, 1933–1944
r 127
Table 8.1. The Case of the Kuhlānī Synagogue
Plaintiff: S ālih b. Yahyā S ālih
Claim:
Legal representation:
Jewish supporters:
Muslim supporters:
The synagogue is private property
R. ῾Amram Qorah Ahmad al-H
ādirī
The majority of the Jewish community
(pro-kabbalah)
Sharī῾ah court judges, rank-andfile Muslims
Defendant: R. Yūsuf S ālih
(plaintiff ’s cousin)
The synagogue is public property
R. Sālim Sa῾īd al-Jamal
Reformist faction (anti-kabbalah)
Imām Yahyā
Note: Muslim Judges: Lutf al-Zubayrī, H
usayn Abū T
ālib, H
usayn al-῾Amrī, and Imām Yahyā.
First, a few words are in order about the legal system in S an῾ā’ in the
first half of the twentieth century and the Jews’ place within it. Faced with
numerous Arab uprisings against their rule over Yemen, the Turks, who
had ruled since 1872, capitulated their legal authority in the 1911 Treaty
of Da῾῾ān. They ceded the application of Sharī῾ah and the right to appoint judges to the reigning Zaydī imām, Yahyā H
amīd al-Dīn (d. 1948),
in the (northern) region of Yemen where Zaydīs were the majority.2 In
1918 Imām Yahyā entered the city, bringing Turkish rule over S an῾ā’ to an
end. Three Sharī῾ah courts were established in S an῾ā’, as well as a court
at the imām’s residence that was overseen by a judge. Muslims were able
to choose the judge before whom they wished to present their case. One
of the judges was responsible for cases involving Jews, in addition to his
regular duties. Above these four courts sat a court of appeals (mahkamat
al-isti῾nāf). Highest of all was the High Council (al-majlis al-῾ālī’ consisting of seven judges.3 Imām Yahyā, in theory at least, was the ultimate legal
authority.
Jews’ appearance as claimants in Sharī῾ah courts predated these twentieth-century developments. In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries,
Yemeni rabbis railed against Jews who took recourse to Muslim courts
because it undermined their own authority. They also regarded it as a
sin.4 Nevertheless, Yemeni Jews brought many of their disputes to Muslim courts, even those involving only Jews.5 Engaging in “forum-shopping,” they brought their disputes to the courts that offered the highest
likelihood of success. For example, Jewish women, faced with inheriting
nothing under halakhah, turned to Muslim courts, where they inherited
half as much as men.6 Jewish divorce cases in Yemen routinely involved
128 r Mark S. Wagner
both Muslim and Jewish courts because one or both parties perceived an
advantage in involving a Muslim court in their case.7
In early December 1933, the rabbi of the Kuhlānī Synagogue in S an῾ā’,
Yūsuf S ālīh, decided, with the support of most of his congregation, to
change the synagogue’s prayer rite. The decision to change the rite reflected the congregation’s new orientation toward a movement for the
reform of Judaism in Yemen, called Dor De῾ah.8 Adherents of the Dor
De῾ah movement sought to purge Judaism of kabbalistic concepts embedded in Sephardic (called “Shāmī” in Yemen) prayers and liturgical
practices.9 Three congregants objected vociferously to the change. In response to the disorder that ensued, Imām Yahyā ordered the synagogue
closed.10 For the next two years a man whose authority was respected by
both factions, Yahyā Abyad, served as chief rabbi, but his death in 1935
rekindled the conflict.
S ālih b. Yahyā S ālih, one of the three congregants who in 1933 had objected to the change in rite, was also the cousin of the rabbi who initiated
the change. He went to a Muslim court and claimed ownership of the
synagogue. By bringing the issue to a Muslim court, he sought to gainsay
any claims to leadership advanced by R. Yūsuf S ālih (his cousin), the majority of the congregants, and the Dor De῾ah movement. If the synagogue
was his private property, he was entitled to determine the ground rules.11
Imām Yahyā requested the assistance of R. Sālim Saīd al-Jamal (1907–
2001), one of his point men on Jewish affairs and a figure in the Dor De῾ah
movement.12 Imām Yahyā asked al-Jamal to translate into Arabic certain
Hebrew documents relating to the legal status of the synagogue. In the
interest of fairness he asked a rabbi from the opposing faction, ‘Amram
Qorah, to translate the same documents. When R. Qorah encountered the
Hebrew term heqdesh (consecrated property), mentioned in connection
with the synagogue, he translated the term as “waq f” (pious endowment).
This was an idiomatic translation. It was a logical claim as the Jewish legal
concept of heqdesh (consecrated property) had evolved among Yemen’s
Jews into a virtual mirror image of the Muslim concept of a waq f.13
In Islam, waq f property is distinguished from both private property
and public property (such as a road or stream). Its founder’s designation
of the property, motivated by religious intention, causes the waq f property to cease (the meaning of waq f) from being bought, sold, inherited,
or taxed. Waq f property usually includes both revenue-generating and
The Case of the Kuhlānī Synagogue in S
an῾ā’, 1933–1944
r 129
non-revenue-generating enterprises. For example, stores, fields, or rental
properties are designated as part of a waq f, along with a mosque or religious academy whose upkeep is financed by them.
Islamic law forbids making synagogues into pious endowments.14 R.
Qorah was probably aware of this. Therefore, by translating heqdesh as
waq f he hoped that the Muslim ruler would decide that the synagogue
was privately owned, thereby denying the reformers a platform. His opponent, R. al-Jamal, was in a quandary. He knew that waq f is the best
translation of heqdesh and that Islamic law prohibits designating a synagogue as a pious endowment. He also argued that the private ownership of
synagogues is forbidden in Jewish law and thus he could not, for the time
being, countenance putting forward a competing private property claim.15
Not to be outmaneuvered by his opponent, R. al-Jamal translated heqdesh
as ibāhah (public property),16 an innovative translation that triggered an
angry backlash from many of the most prominent Muslim jurists in Yemen and from rank-and-file Muslims who heard sermons denouncing his
clever translation—and him—in the mosques of S an῾ā’.17
The dispute over the Kuhlānī Synagogue quickly spread to eight other
synagogues in the city, each of which faced a conflict between those
claiming “public property” in the name of the reformist faction and those
claiming private ownership in the name of the anti-reformist faction.
From 1933 to 1944 the two factions (within the rabbinic leadership) pursued their claims to authority in Sharī῾ah courts.
By taking their claims concerning S an῾ā’’s synagogues to Muslim
courts, the two Jewish factions threatened the survival of all of the approximately twenty synagogues in S an῾ā’ because their Islamic legality
was dubious. The Pact of ῾Umar stipulates that non-Muslims may not
build new houses of worship. Whether or not they may renovate or rebuild existing synagogues was a source of disagreement.18 At two points
in Yemeni history, 1668 and 1762, Zaydī imāms destroyed the synagogues
of S an῾ā’.19 Several synagogues were also destroyed or looted during tribal
rampages in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries that were unconnected to these decrees.20 In short, any synagogue in existence in early
twentieth-century S an῾ā’ could not have been built before the eighteenth
century at the earliest.
Some Muslims viewed the upheaval within the Jewish community
caused by the controversy over synagogues as a harm that outweighed
130 r Mark S. Wagner
the benefit of their continued existence. Therefore, the controversy provided an opportunity to those who wished to press for the destruction of
all of the synagogues in S an῾ā’. The controversy also spread to Manākhah,
a town in the H
arāz Mountains with a significant Jewish population.
When the three Jewish plaintiffs challenged the change in prayer
rite at the Kuhlānī Synagogue, the matter went before the judge, Lutf b.
Muhammad al-Zubayrī (1875–1944). In al-Jamal’s work, The Synagogues
of S an῾ā’, the Capital of Yemen, al-Zubayrī is the principal villain—corrupt, violent, an inveterate Jew-hater, and a lecher.21 The Yemeni historian
Muhammad Zabārah describes al-Zubayrī as one who “leaned toward
Prophetic traditions and had a preference for revelatory evidence [i.e.,
Quran and Sunnah]” (kāna . . . mā῾ilan ilā l-sunan al-nabawiyyah watarjīh al-dalīl).22 Al-Zubayrī belonged to the branch of Zaydī jurisprudence that leaned toward Sunnī Traditionism. Though nominally ZaydīShī῾ī, these scholars stressed the authoritative status of canonical Sunnī
hadīth collections. Their belief in scriptural authority helps explain the
bifurcation of authority within the Yemeni judicial system between the
Zaydī imām on one side and Traditionist judges on the other that is on
display in the case of the Kuhlānī Synagogue.23
Shortly after the controversy in the Kuhlānī Synagogue reached the
Muslim courts in May 1935, al-Zubayrī wrote a letter to Imām Yahyā.
He called for the destruction of the Kuhlānī Synagogue and explained
further:
[The objecting congregants] claimed that all of the Jews’ synagogues
are waq fs, knowing full well that an infidel may never establish a
waq f. They had the impudence to state this explicitly. Is this not
clear evidence of the mockery in their hearts for the Sharī῾ah of
[the prophet] Muhammad b. ῾Abdallāh, may the prayers of God be
upon him?24
Soon thereafter, Imām Yahyā summoned R. al-Jamal and R. ῾Amram
Qorah, representatives of each Jewish faction, and asked them to translate Hebrew documents relating to the status of the synagogue in question. Qorah translated the term heqdesh (pious endowment) into Arabic
as waq f, while al-Jamal produced the novel translation “public property”
(ibāhah). Imām Yahyā shouted, “What is this ibāhah, O Jamal? You willfully distort the correct translation of ‘heqdesh’!”25 Al-Jamal responded:
The Case of the Kuhlānī Synagogue in S
an῾ā’, 1933–1944
r 131
“God forbid that your servant should willfully distort anything. I merely
translated the essence (῾inyan) of the word heqdesh, which is ibāhah, so
that it might be of use to your Jewish subjects in this matter, for we do
not have a law of pious endowments (din heqdeshot) under the laws of
Muhammad.” Imām Yahyā was persuaded by this explanation. “You have
brought before us a word and its essence,” the imām said. “It is true that
῾Amram [Qorah] translated the word and al-Jamal translated its essence,
and it is correct that the essence is the principal thing.”26
This incident caused a furor among some senior jurists. One of them,
Qādī H
usayn al-῾Amrī, the head of the High Council (al-majlis al-῾ālī),
sought an audience with the imām. (Qādī al-‘Amrī’s son, ῾Abdallāh, was
the chief minister of Imām Yahyā’s government.) Qādī al-‘Amrī complained that al-Jamal was trying to trick the Muslims and attack Islam.
According to al-Jamal, (who gives the text of this conversation in Hebrew), Imām Yahyā refined his ruling in the following reply:
He said that [Qādī al-‘Amrī] was correct that if the Jews come before
us with a claim of “pious endowment” it is incumbent upon us to
push aside and nullify the claim, but if they arrived arguing “public
property,” even though we know that among them it is a claim of
pious endowment [emphasis added], we must accept it, because it
is enough that they themselves know that there is no law of pious
endowments for synagogues among the laws of Islam.27
According to al-Jamal’s account, the members of the judicial apparatus
were nearly unanimous in their objection to Imām Yahyā’s position. Many
of the most vociferous opponents of the imām’s ruling had studied the
religious sciences together, shared an orientation toward Sunnī Traditionism, and were related to one another.28 This shows a bifurcation within
the Islamic legal system in Yemen between the Zaydī imām, who had the
right as a mujtahid to issue binding rulings, and a Sunnī-inspired judicial
apparatus that had evolved to the point where it did not need an imām.29
The pro-kabbalah faction that represented roughly two-thirds of the Jews
of S an῾ā’ and opposed the reformist Dor De῾ah were aligned with Imām
Yahyā’s opponents in the judiciary.
It is worth noting that the controversy over the status of synagogues
had financial implications for those Muslims who argued that synagogues
were private property. When Imām Yahyā took S an῾ā’ from the Turks in
132 r Mark S. Wagner
1918, Jews claimed that the land on which the Jewish Quarter (qā῾ alyahūd) was built was their private property. Muslims claimed that it was
waq f land on which Jews had neglected to pay rent. Jews countered that
the paucity of documentation for their claims of private ownership were
due to looting by tribesmen. The court determined that waq f land was
mixed (multabis) with land privately owned by Jews. A one-time payment
of 7,500 riyals from the Jewish community to the waq f was negotiated in
1918.30 The chief rabbi, Yahyā Ishāq, was made responsible for allotting the
payment to community members.
When the synagogues controversy began in the mid-1930s, R. Sālim
Sa῾īd al-Jamal argued that Yahyā Ishāq, then head of the faction that
claimed private ownership, made individual Jews’ payments for the Jewish Quarter proportional to the size of their homes. He considered roads,
bathhouses, and synagogues the responsibility of the entire community.
Thus the faction now claiming private ownership of synagogues, al-Jamal
argued, had in the past accepted the idea that they were “public property.”31 Moreover, if the Muslim court ruled that synagogues were private
property, representatives of the Muslim waq f could argue that those properties still remained to be bought or rented from them. In short, for financial reasons it would have been in many Muslim jurists’ interests to press
for the synagogues to be considered private property.
Imām Yahyā removed the judge Lutf al-Zubayrī from the case of the
Kuhlānī Synagogue and gave it to H
usayn Abū T
ālib, whom al-Jamal describes as honest, wealthy, and loyal to Imām Yahyā.32 Having scored a
major victory with the imām’s statement, al-Jamal entered H
usayn Abū
T
ālib’s courtroom as the representative of the Dor De῾ah faction. Al-Jamal
explained the halakhic position to the judge:
The legal statute of Moses (al-qānūn al-shar῾ī al-mūsawī), which
was set down and legislated by Mūsā b. Maymūn [Maimonides],
based on the great commentary on the Torah (sharh al-tawrāh alkabīr),33 that is followed by all Jews in the world, [says] that synagogues in cities were built according to the wishes of every Jew in
the world and they are “public property” (mubāh) to any who wish
to pray therein, even if they are from the ends of the earth.34
Ahmad al-H
ādirī, the attorney for the anti-reformist faction, objected,
insisting that al-Jamal’s claim of ibāhah was clearly a fiction.35 He said,
The Case of the Kuhlānī Synagogue in S
an῾ā’, 1933–1944
r 133
“Never before in history has there been heard a claim of ‘public property’
concerning the synagogues of the Jews.”36 The judge, H
usayn Abū T
ālib,
was in a difficult position, caught between Imām Yahyā and the majority
of Muslim jurists. He usually sided with the latter.
In June, H
usayn al-῾Amrī met with Imām Yahyā a second time to protest his position on the synagogue issue. Yahyā interrupted him with a
paraphrase of Quran 5:42, a proof-text for the right of non-Muslims to appeal to Muslim courts: “If they come to you, judge between them by what
has been commanded.”37 The imām reiterated his point that the property
which the Jews claimed to be a waq f was not a waq f because they did not
perform acts pleasing to God (see appendix). “If, however, they claim
ibāhah before us, we must accept it. Even if we know that it is a waq f for
them, the principal thing is what they claim before us.”38
On July 10, 1935, Yahyā sent a telegram to the Dor De῾ah faction. He
was clearly exasperated with them. “We have written enough [on this issue] to satisfy a donkey—the point is the division of the synagogues in
pious trust (qismat al-kanā᾽is al-mawqūfah).”39 In the telegram the imām
mistakenly described the synagogues as having waq f status. Realizing that
the imām’s wording would do them (and him) more harm than good,
the Dor De῾ah camp did not mention it.40 In August 1936, according to
al-Jamal, the Imām made the same mistake, using the word “waq f” in
reference to the synagogues issue.41 This may show that Imām Yahyā was
not particularly exercised over such terminology.42
Soon after the imām’s telegram was sent, the officiating judge, H
usayn
Abū T
ālib, declared in court that it is impossible for Jewish law not to have
a law of waq f and that Zaydī law cancels the Jewish law. He tried to force
an end to the controversy by demanding that notable Jews affiliated with
the Dor De῾ah faction swear that the synagogues were waq fs. He likely
saw this as a way to call their bluff—that is, no matter how ingenious the
claim of “public property,” they really believed that synagogues were pious endowments. After they swore that the synagogues were pious trusts,
the Muslim court would annul the claim of waq f and those Jews claiming
private ownership would win.43
Thus began a dramatic battle of oaths. Since Imām Yahyā agreed in
principle that synagogues could be “public property,” he demanded that
the pro-kabbalah faction swear that the synagogues were private property.44 Each side demanded that the other swear to a losing proposition:
134 r Mark S. Wagner
if the Dor De῾ah members swore to the waq f status of the synagogues,
they would become private property because a waq f synagogue was an
oxymoron in Islamic law. If the pro-kabbalah faction swore that the synagogues were private property, they would contravene halakhic regulations
governing the status of synagogues in cities.
All parties involved agreed that Jews should take oaths according to
Jewish law. The Jews of S an῾ā’ possessed an elaborate ceremony for extracting oaths, based on Geonic precedent.45 The ceremony took place
at the al-Dhamārī Synagogue, in front of the “Torah of Ages” (tawrāt aldahārī), a scroll believed to have been written by Moses himself.46 Funerary preparations were made on behalf of the man who swore falsely, for he
would surely die. Water for washing a corpse was brought, as well as a bier,
a shroud, a pickaxe to dig the grave, a hoe and a basket for the displaced
earth, and frankincense. Burning the frankincense would help disguise
the putrid odor emitted by the false witness immediately after death. Ten
rams’ horns would be blown ten times each, and the oath would be made
before the assembled audience.47
Imām Yahyā was so impressed by the persuasive power of this ceremony that on at least one occasion he ordered a Muslim whom he believed to be committing perjury to submit to it. (The Muslim in question,
a wealthy merchant, fled the scene before swearing, thereby forfeiting his
claim.)48 With Imām Yahyā backing the Dor De῾ah faction and H
usayn
Abū T
ālib backing the pro-kabbalah faction, the two sides reached a stalemate. Neither of them was able to force the other side to take an oath.
Although they had won a powerful ally in Imām Yahyā, the Dor De῾ah
camp eventually abandoned R. al-Jamal’s “public property” ruse. One reformist partisan claimed ownership of the Kuhlānī Synagogue. The synagogue was divided in two, and each side was refurbished as an independent synagogue.49 On one side, R. Yūsuf S ālih and his congregation prayed
according to their rite and studied texts given primacy by Dor De῾ah.50
On the other side, their ideological rivals, adherents of kabbalah, prayed
according to their rite and taught the Zohar. This arrangement lasted until
the mass emigration of Jews from Yemen to Israel in 1949–50.51 This story
has an ironic epilogue: S ālih b. Yahyā S ālih, one of the three men who adamantly rejected the change in the Kuhlānī Synagogue’s rite and claimed
ownership of it, ended up joining the Dor De῾ah half of the synagogue
that was under the leadership of his cousin, Yūsuf S ālih.52
The Case of the Kuhlānī Synagogue in S
an῾ā’, 1933–1944
r 135
Aside from its intrinsic value as a good story, the controversy over the
Kuhlānī Synagogue illuminates the issue of the interaction between Muslims and non-Muslims in the framework of Islamic law. R. al-Jamal took
pride in the legal fiction he had thought up to escape the ban on nonMuslim waq fs. He trusted that this fiction played a role in bettering the
lot of the Jews. However, while he was assembling documentation of the
controversy in preparation for his emigration to Palestine, he discovered
that he had not been the first person to skirt the issue of non-Muslim pious endowments by using the term “public property” (ibāhah).
A copy of an 1866 fatwā, obtained by R. al-Jamal from the rabbi of a village south of S an῾ā’, describes that town’s synagogue as “public property.”53
The scribe who copied the document in 1936 notes that he did not recognize the judge’s signature. Therefore, the judge who wrote this document
is unknown. According to the document, two brothers who had owned
the synagogue
made it into public property (abāhū) to their satisfaction and of
their own free will with a designation of public property (ibāhatan)
from which there is no recourse. There is nothing to prevent a Jew
who wants to pray there from praying, nor is there any shame, harm,
or cause for worry in this. None of the Jews are to squander [its
resources] or to let it fall into disrepair. Instead it should remain
public property (mubāhah) for prayer, without any selling, buying,
or inheritance of it.54
The formulation above, written by a Muslim judge, stated the case for
synagogues’ status as public property in a stronger manner than R. alJamal had stated in court. Therefore, al-Jamal did not merely pull the wool
over the eyes of powerful Muslims. Rather, a pragmatic understanding of
the interaction between Muslim and Jewish legal systems undergirded his
ostensible ruse. That this logic was apparent to Muslims who dealt in this
gray area explains both the Muslim judge’s ruling of public property above
and Imām Yahyā’s sympathy toward R. al-Jamal’s legal fiction.
The case of the Kuhlānī Synagogue forced Muslim jurists to grapple
with the question: What is Jewish law? If Jews have a legal institution that
resembles a Muslim waq f in every respect, is it a waq f? If so, and seeing
that a waq f is forbidden to them, what is to be done about a putative waq f
of the Jews? What Imām Yahyā and the anonymous judge had in common
136 r Mark S. Wagner
was a philosophical position regarding the boundaries between Muslim
and non-Muslim law. This position relies upon the strict separation of the
two. Here, the impetus to keep in place the judicial separation of dhimmīs
seems to derive less from an “intention to maintain the autonomy of the
Jewish courts,” as Gideon Libson defines it, than from the intention to
maintain the divine nature of Islamic law.55 Jewish law was the domain of
unbelief. The Muslim state permits Jews to engage in such unbelief. This,
after all, is what makes them Jews. If Muslim jurists were to rule on discrete substantive issues within Judaism, such as the status of synagogues
as property within Jewish law, they risk sliding down a slippery slope.
They would be charged with using the legal process to Islamicize Judaism,
eventually breaking down the social distinctions between the Muslim majority and the Jewish minority.
Thus, from this perspective, Jewish law is what responsible Jews say it
is. Attempting to determine whether a particular Jew was acting in accordance with Jewish law would constitute another slippery slope, whereby
the interpreters of divine law (Sharī῾ah) become involved in the study and
application of a legal tradition that has lost its divine mandate (halakhah).
Ironically, whereas on a theoretical level this stance dismisses Jewish law
and, by extension, Judaism, on a practical level it allows a great deal of
flexibility to Muslims and Jews who routinely come into contact with each
other in legal settings. Nevertheless, no matter how great the imagined
gulf separating Jewish law from Sharī῾ah, Imām Yahyā still found himself
ruling on parochial questions such as whether or not Jews could study the
Zohar.56
It is precisely within such an interpretational scheme that terminological sleight of hand, such as the translation of the Hebrew heqdesh (pious endowment) as ibāhah, fills a needed function. This position, while
maintaining the supremacy of Islamic law, defends Jewish law by default.
It even defends, and may indeed rely upon, cunning legal devices made
by Jews. It is also important to note that in exercising his legal reasoning,
the Zaydī imām was charged with evaluating the benefit (maslahah) to his
Muslim and Jewish subjects. A radical overhaul of Judaism by Muslims
surely would prove destabilizing to both parties and, more importantly,
would blur the boundaries between them.
The Yemeni judges Lutf al-Zubayrī, H
usayn al-῾Amrī, and other members of the judicial apparatus took an activist stance toward combating
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illegality in the Jewish community. In the case of the synagogues controversy, this involved addressing the halakhic issue of the status of synagogues in property law. While all would agree that Islamic law negates
Jewish law, in this case it mattered to them what type of property Jews
believed synagogues to be. Thus their view of Jewish law can be said to be
sympathetic: from this vantage point Jewish law is a reflection of Islamic
law. The episode in which the judge H
usayn Abū T
ālib, after listening to
R. al-Jamal’s exposition of the Talmud and Maimonides’ Mishneh Torah,
said that Jews surely must possess a law of waq fs (he was correct) encapsulates this perspective on the division between Islamic and Jewish law.
Why must Jewish law possess a law of waq fs? The qādī’s assumption is that
Jewish law is fundamentally rational—it must agree with Islamic law or
else be made to do so. Thus the claim of ibāhah, rooted in the dissimilarity
between the two legal systems, is suspect.
Conflicts between the Sharī῾ah and Jewish law may also be the result
of Jews incorrectly characterizing the content of halakhah or deliberately
misleading Muslims about it (as happened in the case of R. al-Jamal).
In this context we note that none of the Muslim jurists discussed here
advocated an independent review of the sources of Jewish law. It was the
testimony of Jews in Arabic that was the source of information on it.
The documentation of the 1930s synagogues controversy also shows
the multiplicity of historically contingent factors that informed the application of Islamic law. The documents also shed light on the role of
personal relationships in the synagogues controversy. There seems little
reason to doubt the authenticity of either the mutual antipathy between
R. al-Jamal and members of the Islamic judiciary or his connection with
Imām Yahyā. The imām, after all, was unsympathetic to change in the lives
of the inhabitants of S an῾ā’.57 One factor that contributed to his decision to
support the reformist Jewish faction may be that his aide, R. Sālim Sa῾īd
al-Jamal, was affiliated with that faction.
The judicial politics of S an῾ā’ in the early twentieth century played an
important role in the synagogues controversy. By Imām Yahyā’s time a
judicial bureaucracy that was ideologically oriented toward Sunnī Traditionism had developed to the point that the Zaydī ideal of “the informed
decision of the Imām of the Age” (ijtihād imām al-zamān) had become an
impediment. R. al-Jamal goes so far as to suggest that the imām’s unpopular affirmation of the “public property” legal ruse in the controversy over
138 r Mark S. Wagner
the Kuhlānī Synagogue emboldened those opposed to his rule. This suggestion, in turn, leads to the conclusion that the synagogue controversy
hastened the end of the Zaydī imāmate in Yemen.58
Appendix: The Problem of the Synagogue Waq f
In Islamic law, the establishment of a waq f (a pious endowment) depends
on its founder performing an act pleasing to God (qurbah). Whether or
not a non-Muslim is capable of performing acts pleasing to God, and
therefore is able to establish a waq f, is a debatable point. Among Sunnī
jurists, the idea that a non-Muslim might establish a waq f to benefit the
poor or his progeny was inoffensive. Indeed, non-Muslims in the Ottoman Empire appeared before Sharī῾ah courts to establish waq fs.59 Nevertheless, the possibility that a non-Muslim house of worship, an institution
devoted to the propagation of unbelief (kufr), might be considered waq f
property posed a problem for Sunnīs. Therefore, it is illegal to designate
a synagogue as a waq f.60
The Zaydī law manuals disagree on the issue of whether non-Muslims
could establish waq fs. (Both agree that non-Muslim houses of worship
cannot be waq fs). The Sharh al-azhār stipulates as one of the five prerequisites for a person who wants to establish a waq f that he must be a Zaydī
Muslim.61 A commentary adds: “for [establishing a pious endowment] is
a deed pleasing to God and unbelievers never perform acts pleasing to
God” (li-annahu qurbah wa-lā qurbah li-kāfir).62 In contrast, the Bahr alzakhkhār argues that non-Muslims can establish other types of waq fs. It
explained:
A waq f may be established for the ahl al-dhimmah, for they perform
deeds pleasing to God (fīhim qurbah), as God said, “God did not
forbid you . . .” (Q 60:8) but not for their churches and synagogues
and its servants . . . [and] not for the Torah and the Gospels due to
their having been abrogated. (italics added).63
The nineteenth-century jurist Muhammad b. ῾Alī al-Shawkānī, whose
influence was still felt among jurists in twentieth-century Yemen, explains
why the establishment of waq fs must be limited to Muslims:
As for the stipulation of Islam [for the founder], it has been established that a waq f is an act pleasing to God that calls for a great
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reward, and an unbeliever is unsuitable for this. If he does establish
one, the thing that he has established is not the shar῾ī waq f that is our
subject (italics added).”64
Al-Shawkānī’s caveat seems to indicate that he was aware that non-Muslims established pious endowments of their own and that they may have
had laws governing such endowments. His discussion contains a significant ambiguity that allows two contradictory answers to the question of
what should be done about a non-Muslim waq f. The first of these considers the non-Muslim waq f void, in which case a Muslim court is justified in
redistributing, confiscating, or even destroying such property. The second
treats non-Muslims as free to establish endowments so long as they do not
seek the intervention of the Sharī῾ah court.65 In other words, “don’t ask,
don’t tell.”66 On the one hand, non-Muslim pious endowments are categorically forbidden. On the other, they are not a concern of the Muslim
court so long as disputes involving them are not brought before the court.
Thus if the issue of a non-Muslim pious endowment were to find its
way to a Sharī῾ah court, a jurist basing himself on al-Shawkānī’s position
might conclude either that the issue lay outside the court’s proper sphere,
the Sharī῾ah, or that he might intervene. In fact, individual jurists reached
both of these conclusions.
Al-Shawkānī’s son Ahmad, who, like his father, served as chief qādī,
ruled on this very issue in September 1857. In his ruling (which dealt,
incidentally, with a dispute over the Kuhlānī Synagogue), the younger
Shawkānī quoted his father in his ruling that “unbelievers never perform
pious acts and the prerequisite for establishing a waq f is Islam.”67
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank Bernard Haykel and David S. Powers for their comments on an earlier draft of this chapter.
Notes
1. Islamic legal manuals from highland Yemen, where the tradition of Islamic law was
Zaydī and the non-Muslims in question most often were Jews, described hypothetical
scenarios in which non-Muslims did something that was legal in their religion but that
contravened Islamic law. Nevertheless, these prescriptive sources seem to have little or
140 r Mark S. Wagner
no connection with reality. For example, two Zaydī law manuals, the Bahr al-zakhkhār
(Ahmad b. Yahyā b. al-Murtadā, Kitāb al-Bahr al-zakhkhār al-jāmi῾ li-madhāhib ῾ulamā’
al-amsār [San῾ā’: Dār al-hikmah al-yamāniyah, 1988] = Bahr al-zakhkhār) and the
Sharh al-azhār [῾Abdallāh b. Miftāh, al-Muntaza’ al-mukhtār min al-ghayth al-midrār
al-ma῾rūf bi-sharh al-azhār [Sa῾dah: al-Jumhuriyyah al-yamaniyyah, Wizārat al-῾adl,
2003] = Sharh al-azhār), discuss the possibility that a non-Muslim man might marry
a woman during the mandatory waiting period after divorce (῾iddah) or that he might
marry his daughter to a relative to whom she was forbidden. Bahr al-zakhkhār 4:147;
Sharh al-azhār 5:138, 262–63, 10:526–27.
Jewish law also mandated a waiting period after a divorce and forbade marriages
between relatives. Therefore, it is difficult to discern any practical import to the scenarios described in these Muslim legal works. Gideon Libson, Jewish and Islamic Law: A
Comparative Study of Custom during the Geonic Period, Islamic Legal Studies Program
(Cambridge: Harvard Law School, 2003), 371.
2. R. B. Serjeant and Ronald Lewcock, S an῾ā’: An Arabian Islamic City (London:
World of Islam Festival Trust, 1983), 96.
3. Shalom Gamliel, Bate hakneset be-San῾ā’ birat teman (Jerusalem: Makhon Shalom
le-shivte yeshurun, 1996–97), 1:39–40.
4. Yehiel Nahshon, Hanhagat ha-qehilah ha-yehudit be-teman (Me῾ot 17–18) (Tel
Aviv: Ha-Agudah le-tipuah hevrah ve-tarbut, 2002), 156–58. It seems that in the town of
H
ujariyyah, the rabbinic authorities succeeded in their demand that appeals by Jews to
Muslim courts be made with their prior consent. Violators of this rule were fined (ibid.,
137n254). See also Isaac Hollander, “Halakha, Sharī῾a, and Custom: A Legal Saga from
Highland Yemen, 1990–1940,” in Islamic Law: Theory and Practice, ed. Robert Gleave and
Eugenia Kermeli (London and New York: I. B. Tauris / St. Martin’s Press, 1997), 157–84,
see 157.
5. Yehudah Ratzhaby, “῾Inyane yehudim be-teman be-῾arkha’ot shel goyim,” in H
iqre
῾ever ve-῾arav mugashim le-yehoshu῾ah blau ῾al yede haverav be-melot lo shiv῾im, ed.
H
aggai Ben-Shammai (Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University, 1993), 515–35, see 515–17; Nahshon,
Hanhagat ha-qehilah, 138.
6. Yosef Tobi, “Yerushat nashim be-hevrah ha-yehudit ve-ha-muslimit,” in Bat Teman: ῾Olamah shel ha-ishah ha-yehudiyah, ed. Shalom Serri (Tel Aviv: E῾eleh be-tamar,
n.d.), 35–50; Nahshon, Hanhagat ha-qehilah, 144, 149–50.
7. Sometimes one or both Jewish parties turned to Muslim courts to “adjust” the
divorce settlement. In other cases, the Muslim court drew up a document finalizing
the spouses’ financial obligations to one another, and the Bet Din provided a Jewish
document of divorce (a get). Sometimes the Jewish court adjusted the settlement that
had been reached by the Muslim court. Nahshon, Hanhagat ha-qehilah, 141–44; Isaac
Hollander, “Ibra in Highland Yemen: Two Jewish Divorce Settlements,” Islamic Law and
Society 2, no. 1 (1995): 1–23.
8. The chief exponent of the Dor De῾ah movement was R. Yahyā al-Qāfih (1849–1932),
who attempted to modernize the educational system of Jews in Yemen by introducing
secular subjects into the curriculum. He also mounted a withering critique on kabbalistic texts and traditions.
The Case of the Kuhlānī Synagogue in S
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9. Nahshon, Hanhagat ha-qehilah, 310; Ismar Elbogen, Jewish Liturgy: A Comprehensive History, trans. Raymond P. Scheindlin (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1993), 293. The reformers advocated that Jews in Yemen adhere to the “Baladī” rite,
which they believed to be based in the Judaism that had been practiced in Yemen before
the diffusion of kabbalistic works and practices in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Some who prayed according to the Baladī rite, however, opposed Dor De῾ah. The
struggle over rite in Yemeni Judaism began in the eighteenth century, with the attempts
by the Jewish grandee Sālim al-῾Irāqī to change the prayer rite to Shāmī and the efforts of
R. Yahyā S ālih (Maharis) to defend the Baladī rite. Yosef Tobi, ῾Iyyunim bimgilat teman
(Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1986), chap. 6.
10. Shalom Gamliel, Pequde teman: Mas he-hasut be-teman (Jerusalem: Makhon Shalom le-shivte yeshurun, 1982), 167.
11. Given the profusion of synagogues in S an῾ā’, if a Jew did not approve of his synagogue’s affiliation (kabbalistic or anti-kabbalistic), why would he not simply pray at another one more to his liking? This was a question that Muslim jurists raised more than
once during the synagogue controversy. To some extent, affiliation with a particular
synagogue was family oriented. Extended families tended to live close together in the
Jewish Quarter. The reformist position at the S ālih Synagogue was represented by the
Badīhī family, who lived close to the building and prayed there. Gamliel, Bate hakneset,
2:93. Also, some synagogues, such as the al-Dhamārī Synagogue, which housed a Torah
scroll said to have been written by Moses, were considered to be especially prestigious.
Each synagogue congregant had a set place to pray, a pallet near the wall, a book
stand, and a place where he kept books for his own edification and to teach his children.
Gamliel, Bate hakneset, 2:240n7. A Jew who did not pray three congregational prayers
a day, called “qāti῾ salāh,” could not be a legal witness, as was the case for Muslims of
dubious probity (mashkūk al-῾adālah) under Islamic law. Moshe Piamenta, Dictionary
of Post-Classical Yemeni Arabic (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1990–91), 405. The various duties in
the synagogue—serving as the precentor (shaliah sibor), opening the Ark, unrolling the
Torah scroll, putting the Torah scroll away, lighting the candles, cleaning—brought no
financial remuneration but were considered great honors. That said, a congregant honored with reading from the Torah (῾aliyah) was expected to pay for the privilege. The
resulting income went to the upkeep of the synagogue and to the support of the students
who studied therein. Yehiel Nahshon, Bate kneset bi-San῾ā’ (Me’ot 17–18) (Netanyah: HaAgudah le-tipuah hevrah ve-tarbut, 2001), 48; Nahshon, Hanhagat ha-qehilah, 286. A
given synagogue’s factional affiliation would also have determined the content of the
curriculum taught by the rabbi in his daily lessons.
12. In 1996, at the age of 90, R. Sālim Sa῾īd al-Jamal published the documents relating
to the case of the Kuhlānī Synagogue in three volumes, under the misleadingly bland title
The Synagogues of S an῾ā’, the Capital of Yemen. The book included documents that R.
al-Jamal acquired years after the controversy from the son of the man from the opposing
faction who initially had claimed ownership of the Kuhlānī Synagogue. It also includes
verbatim conversations between R. al-Jamal and conversations that did not occur in
his presence. He explains that his record of such conversations was based on his close
contacts with prominent Muslims, particularly three of Imām Yahyā’s sons. Gamliel,
Bate hakneset, 1:369.
142 r Mark S. Wagner
The documents relating on the case of the Kuhlānī Synagogue constituted a portion
of a much larger corpus of hundreds of legal documents that R. al-Jamal collected before emigrating to Palestine in 1944. After a career in the Israeli Ministry of Religions,
al-Jamal founded the “Shalom Institute for the Tribes of Yeshurun.” He published several
collections of the Muslim legal documents that he had collected in Yemen, along with
Hebrew transliterations, translations, and commentaries. Bernard Haykel has drawn attention to the historical value of these documents in a paper delivered at the Judaism
and Islam in Yemen workshop held at Princeton University’s Woodrow Wilson School
on October 27, 2002.
13. In the Talmud, heqdesh referred to property donated for the upkeep of the Temple
in Jerusalem. R. Isaac Alfasi (d. 1103) applied the rules of heqdesh to synagogues, an innovation that was upheld by his successors among the Sephardic rabbis, most notably
Maimonides. David Fink, “The Corporate Status of Hekdesh in Early Sefardic Responsa,”
in The Touro Conference Volume, ed. Bernard S. Jackson (Chico, Calif.: Scholars Press,
1985), 17–24, see 20–22. Queries to Maimonides in Judeo-Arabic concerning consecrated
property used the terms heqdesh or waq f and the Arabic verb awqafa. Maimonides,
Teshuvot ha-rambam, ed. Joshua Blau (Jerusalem: Mekise nirdamim: Jerusalem: 1985),
2:363, 371, 477. In response to a question concerning a heqdesh, Maimonides used the
Hebrew term heqdesh and the Arabic terms waq f and mūqif interchangeably. Ibid., 2:363.
In Yemen, the identification between the halakhic concept of heqdesh and the concept of
a waq f was even more marked. The clearest illustration of this point is the fact that a Jew
who wanted to establish such an endowment needed to have a pious intention (qurbah).
Nahshon, Hanhagat ha-qehilah, 242–43; Piamenta, Dictionary, 389.
14. See the appendix: “The Problem of the Synagogue Waq f.”
15. The Talmud specifies that synagogues in cities (krakhin) were public property
that could not be sold (BT Megilah 26), a position affirmed by Maimonides (Mishneh
Torah, Sefer Ha-Ahavah, Hilkhot tefilah 11:16). See also Israel Poleyeff, “The Sale of a
Synagogue,” Journal of Halacha and Contemporary Society 2, no. 1 (1982): 19–34.
16. Muhammad Fārūq al-῾Akkām, “Des fondements de la propriété dans la jurisprudence musulmane: la mainmise sur les biens vacants (al-istilā ῾alā al-mubāh),” Revue des
Mondes Musulmans et de la Méditeranée 79–80 (1996): 25–41.
17. Gamliel, Bate hakneset, 2:34–35. Islamic law concerning synagogues, wrote Richard Gottheil, “occasioned much pious fraud on the part of the Jews themselves.” Richard Gottheil, “An Eleventh-Century Document Concerning a Cairo Synagogue,” Jewish
Quarterly Review (original series) 19 (1907): 467–539, see 490.
18. The Zaydī imām al-Murtadā (1363–1437) says that the Imām should destroy synagogues unless there is a benefit (maslahah) that justifies their continued existence (Bahr
al-zakhkhār, 5:462–63). Dhimmīs cannot rebuild what has been destroyed in places other
than those where they were considered to have lived at the time of the Islamic conquests. (Yemen is not one of them.) The nineteenth-century jurist Muhammad b. ῾Alī
al-Shawkānī took the same position. Nayl al-awtār, ed. T
āhā ῾Abd al-Ra’ūf Sa῾d and
Mustafā Muhammad al-H
awārī (Cairo: Maktabat al-Qāhirah, 1978), 9:318. On the matter
of whether or not they may rebuild synagogues that have been destroyed, a commentator
on the fifteenth-century Sharh al-azhār wrote that dhimmīs are allowed to do so, “even
The Case of the Kuhlānī Synagogue in S
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in our lands.” Sharh al-azhār, 10:497n6. The twentieth-century Zaydī jurist Ahmad b. alQāsim al-῾Ansī also states that dhimmīs may rebuild destroyed synagogues. Ahmad b.
al-Qāsim al-῾Ansī, al-Tāj al-mudhhab li-ahkām al-madhhab (San῾ā’: Maktabat al-yaman
al-kubrā, 1947), 4:453.
On the problems that “new” synagogues posed to some Muslim jurists in North
Africa, see Matthias B. Lehmann, “Islamic Legal Consultation and the Jewish-Muslim
Convivencia: al-Wansharīsī’s Fatwā Collection as a Source for Jewish Social History in
al-Andalus and the Maghrib,” Jewish Studies Quarterly 6 (1999): 25–54, see 34–41; John O.
Hunwick, “The Rights of Dhimmīs to Maintain a Place of Worship: A Fifteenth-Century
Fatwā from Tlemcen,” al-Qantara 12, no. 1 (1991): 133–55, and Hunwick, “al-Mahīlī and
the Jews of Tuwāt,” Studia Islamica 61 (1985): 155–83, see 167–68.
19. In 1668 Imām al-Mutawakkil Ismā῾īl destroyed most of S an῾ā’’s synagogues and
sent its Jewish population, along with the rest of the Jewish population of Yemen, to
Mawza῾, a town on the Red Sea coast, to await deportation to India. After this expulsion, called the “Mawza῾ Exile” (galut mawza῾) in Jewish sources, the oldest synagogue
in S an῾ā’, the Kanīs al-῾ulamā’ (Midrash he-hakhamim) was converted into the “Mosque
of the Expulsion” (Masjid al-jalā). A poem by the jurist Muhammad b. Ibrāhīm al-Sahūlī
in praise of the expulsion, rendered in an ornate calligraphic frieze, adorns its walls. Serjeant and Lewcock, S an῾ā’, 392, 398–400; Muhammad b. Ahmad al-H
ajrī, Masājid S an῾ā’
(San῾ā’: Wizārat al-ma῾ārif, 1941–42), 42; al-῾Ansī, al-Tāj al-mudhhab, 4:454n1; Bernard
Haykel, Revival and Reform in Islam: The Legacy of Muhammad al-Shawkani (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 119. In 1762, following the fall of the Jewish
grandee Sālim al-῾Irāqī, Imām al-Mahdī ῾Abbās ordered the destruction of the synagogues of S an῾ā’. They were rebuilt in 1792. Serjeant and Lewcock, S an῾ā’, 394, 400–418.
20. Gamliel, Bate hakneset, 3:341, 346.
21. According to al-Jamal, al-Zubayrī’s appetite for bribes led him to prolong the
synagogues controversy. Gamliel, Bate hakneset, 2:71–73. Imām Yahyā investigated his
corruption but could not find witnesses willing to testify against him. Ibid., 3:201. AlZubayrī lured a young sayyidah into his home in al-Rawdah and raped her. Witnesses
saw his crime, and Imām Yahyā had al-Zubayrī jailed. The imām’s wife questioned the
girl, and she was exiled to H
ūth. Lutf al-Zubayrī died in prison, and nobody would accompany his body to the cemetery. Ibid., 3:202.
22. Muhammad Zabārah, Nuzhat al-nazar fī rijāl al-qarn al-rābi῾ ῾ashar (San῾ā’:
Markaz al-dirāsāt wa l-abhāth al-yamaniyya, 1979), 491–93. On al-Zubayrī, see also ῾Abd
al-Salām b. ῾Abbas al-Wajīh, A῾lām al-mu῾allifīn al-zaydiyyah (McLean, Va.: Imam Zaid
bin Ali Cultural Foundation, 1999), 799; Ahmad b. Muhammad al-Shāmī, Min al-adab
al-yamanī (Beirut: Dār al-Shurūq, 1974), 83.
23. On this movement within Zaydī jurisprudence, see Haykel, Revival and Reform,
10–12.
24. Gamliel, Bate hakneset, 1:329.
25. Ibid., 2:34. Al-Jamal rendered this conversation in Hebrew, so Imām Yahyā may
have said waq f when he intended the Hebrew term heqdesh.
26. Ibid., 2:34.
27. Ibid., 2:34–35.
144 r Mark S. Wagner
28. Zabārah uses almost the same expression to describe Zayd al-Daylamī (1867–
1947), the head of the Court of Appeals, that he had used to describe Lutf al-Zubayrī:
“He inclined toward Tradition and the preference for revelatory evidence.” Muhammad
Zabārah, Nuzhat al-nazar fī rijāl al-qarn al-rābi῾ ῾ashar (San῾ā’: Markaz al-dirāsāt wa
l-abhāth al-yamaniyyah, 1979), 304–305. Al-Zubayrī, who, according to al-Jamal, was the
chief agitator against the imām’s view, had received ijāzah from Qādī H
usayn al-῾Amrī.
Ibid., 491–93. Zubayrī was one of the qādī’s son ῾Abdallāh’s teachers. Ibid., 375–76. ῾Abd
al-Karīm Mutahhar also received ijāzah from H
usayn al-῾Amrī and was related to him.
Ibid., 358–60.
29. Al-Jamal wryly observes that Zayd al-Daylamī, one of the most vociferous critics
of ibāhah for synagogues, once ruled that a synagogue was public property. Gamliel, Bate
hakneset, 2:300.
30. Yehudah Ratzhaby, ed., Bo’i teman (Tel Aviv: Afiqim, 1967), 193–228; Serjeant and
Lewcock, S an῾ā’, 427–31; Piamenta, Dictionary, 418.
31. Gamliel, Bate hakneset, 2:283–84, 372–73.
32. Ibid., 1:332, 2:72.
33. By “sharh al-tawrāh al-kabīr” al-Jamal meant the Gemara. Ibid., 1:331n2.
34. Ibid., 1:330–31. Al-Jamal paraphrased the argument in the Gemara that synagogues in cities may not be sold.
35. Al-Jamal describes this man as an “attorney” (῾orekh din).
36. Gamliel, Bate hakneset, 1:331.
37. Al-Jamal says that he heard about this conversation from Imām Yahyā’s sons ῾Alī,
Ismā῾īl, and al-Qāsim. Ibid., 1:369.
38. Ibid., 1:371.
39. Ibid., 1:390.
40. Ibid., 1:394–95.
41. Ibid., 2:255n6.
42. See al-Jamal’s comments on this point in ibid., 1:395, 2:255n6, 2:271n1.
43. Ibid., 1:413.
44. Ibid., 1:416.
45. Boaz Cohen, Jewish and Roman Law: A Comparative Study (New York: Jewish
Theological Seminary of America, 1966), 2:728. I would like to thank Eli Alshech for this
reference.
46. Gamliel, Bate hakneset, 3:164.
47. Ibid., 1:416–17.
48. Ibid., 3:164–65.
49. It is unclear from R. al-Jamal’s account whether this was the result of a ruling by
either Imām Yahyā or H
usayn Abū T
ālib or whether it was a compromise agreement
reached independently by the two factions.
50. Dor De῾ah stressed the importance of studying halakhah (the Gemara and Maimonides’ Mishneh Torah) and works of medieval Jewish philosophy (Se῾adyah Gaon’s
Kitāb al-amānāt wa l-i῾tiqādāt and Maimonides’ Dalālat al-hā῾irīn; Yosef Qāfih, Ketavim, (Jerusalem: ῾Amutat Yad Mahari Qafah, 1989–2001), 2:1036; Yosef Tobi, “Trumat
ha-rav yosef qafih le-heqer yahadut teman,” Sefer zikaron le-rav yosef ben david qafih, ed.
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r 145
Zohar ῾Amar and H
ananel Serri [Ramat Gan: Bar Ilan University Press, 2001], 117–31,
see 125.
51. Gamliel, Bate hakneset, 2:69, 3:86, 307–308.
52. Ibid., 3:309n16.
53. Al-Jamal calls this place “al-Qāriyah.” Ibid., 2:338. In his Insiqlopediyah le-hakhme
teman (Encyclopedia of the Sages of Yemen) (Bene Beraq: Makhon le-heqer hakhme
teman, 2001) (sub Moshe Madmūn), Moshe Gavra explains that this place was the village of “al-Qārrah” south of S an῾ā’, which was a vacation spot for prominent rabbis from
S an῾ā’, including R. al-Jamal. The village contained two synagogues: one belonged to the
῾Uzayrī clan, and the other was “public” (sibori) (352–53).
54. Gamliel, Bate hakneset, 2:338.
55. Libson, Jewish and Islamic Law, 172.
56. See Mark S. Wagner, “Jewish Mysticism on Trial in a Muslim Court: A Fatwā on
the Zohar—Yemen 1914,” Die Welt des Islams 47, no. 2 (2007): 207–31.
57. Serjeant and Lewcock, S an῾ā’, 93–96.
58. Gamliel, Bate hakneset, 2:72.
59. Haim Gerber, “Ha-Yehudim ve-mosad ha-heqdesh ha-muslimi (waq f) bi-imperiyah ha-῾othmanit,” Sefunot 17 (new series 2) (1983): 105–31; Ron Shaham, “Christian and
Jewish ‘waq f’ in Palestine during the Late Ottoman Period,” Bulletin of the School of
Oriental and African Studies 54, no. 3 (1991): 460–72; Miriam Hoexter, “Waq f Studies in
the Twentieth Century: The State of the Art,” Journal of the Economic and Social History
of the Orient 4 (1998): 474–95.
60. Al-Subkī’s treatise on the construction and repair of churches and synagogues
was apparently prompted by a dream he had in which a shaykh brought up the troubling
issue of property made waq f for the support of a non-Muslim house of prayer. Seth
Ward, “Construction and Repair of Churches and Synagogues in Islamic Law: A Treatise
by Taqī al-Dīn ῾Alī b. ῾Abd al-Kāfī al-Subkī” (PhD diss., Yale University, 1984), 118–19n7;
Moshe Gil, Documents of the Jewish Pious Foundations from the Cairo Geniza (Leiden: E.
J. Brill, 1976), 8–9; Antoine Fattal, Les Statut Légal des Non-Musulmans en Pays d’Islam
(Beirut: Imprimerie Catholique, 1958), 143; Muhammad Qadrī Bāshā, Du Wakf (Cairo:
Imprimerie Nationale, 1896), 49–53.
61. Sharh al-azhār, 8:173–4. A commentary adds: “Even if [he is an unbeliever] by
incorrect interpretation” (wa-law ta’wīlan), meaning that Shāfi῾īs and other non-Zaydīs
are also forbidden to establish waq fs.
62. Ahmad b. al-Qāsim al-῾Ansī adopted the same position in his twentieth-century
manual of Zaydī law. Al-Tāj al-mudhhab, 3:282. Al-Jamal commented on this statement
in Bate hakneset, 2:367.
63. Bahr al-zakhkhār, 4:153.
64. Muhammad b. ῾Alī al-Shawkānī, al-Sayl al-jarrār al-mutadāffiq ῾alā hadā’iq alazhār, ed. Muhammad S abhī (Beirut: Dār Ibn Kathīr, 2000), 3:50.
65. Virtually the same argument is made by Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyyah in his Ahkām
ahl al-dhimmah, ed. Subhī al-Sālih (Beirut: Dār al-῾ilm li l-malāyīn, 1981), 1:301: “If [the
unbelievers] establish a waq f among themselves and do not appeal to us for legal decisions or ask us for rulings on its legality there is no objection—its legality is the same as
146 r Mark S. Wagner
that of their nullified contracts and marriage agreements (῾uqūdihim wa-ankihātihim
al-fāsidah).”
66. Ibn Qudāmah relates that “one is not to investigate their matter or ask about their
matter unless they make recourse [to Muslim judges] (lā yabhath ῾an amrihim wa-lā
yas῾al ῾an amrihim illā in ya῾tūhum).” Gideon Libson, “Otonomiyah shiputit ve-peniyah le-῾arkha’ot mi-sad bene he-hasut ῾al pi meqorot muslimiyim bitqufat ha-ge’onim,”
in The Intertwined Worlds of Islam: Essays in Memory of Hava Lazarus-Yafeh (Jerusalem:
Hebrew University Institute of Asian and African Studies, Ben-Zvi Institute, and Bialik
Institute), 334–92, see 346n37, 348n43.
67. Gamliel, Bate hakneset, 1:146–7, 3:287. This nineteenth-century case shows that the
ambiguous status of synagogues in S an῾ā’ as property played a role in disputes over their
leadership before the emergence of the Dor De῾ah reform movement in the twentieth
century.
9
Jewish Mysticism in
the Lands of the Ishmaelites
A Re-Orientation
Ronald C. Kiener
During the last quarter century, the discipline known as the history of
Jewish mysticism has produced a significant mass of evidence indicating
the importance of Islamic and Middle Eastern culture for the shaping of
Jewish mysticism and Kabbalah. As a result of this international scholarly
investigation, the foremost scholar in the field today, Moshe Idel of the
Hebrew University, was able to declare in 1991: “Muslim culture is the
primary source of influence upon Jewish mysticism.”1 This pronouncement is a far cry from the state of the field only fifty years ago, when
most eyes looked to Europe in order to provide narrative explanations
for the history and development of Jewish mysticism. Thirty years ago,
Marshall Hodgson noted this Eurocentric gaze, correctly attributing it
to Gershom Scholem, the pioneering researcher of the twentieth century
who bestowed on the field its credibility. Hodgson wrote in 1974: “Scholem’s magnificent Major Trends in Jewish Mysticism [published in 1942] is
based largely on manuscripts from Italy and Germany, and hardly professes to say much of Judaism in Islamdom except where there were direct contacts—as with the exiles from Spain.”2 Even as Hodgson penned
this observation, some of Scholem’s contemporaries and disciples were
beginning to widen the net, so to speak.3 Twenty-five years after Hodgson’s comment, and despite an enormous international effort to bring
Jewish mysticism into the discourse of Middle Eastern religious history,
148 r Ronald C. Kiener
a vituperative scholarly exchange took place between Gil Anidjar and
Moshe Idel, with Anidjar accusing the field of Jewish mysticism studies
of a kind of Jewish Orientalism—either an intentional ignoring of Islamic
contextualization, or a disgusted distancing from the entire issue of Islam.
Idel, in turn, accused Anidjar of willful deceit in his tendentious characterization of the field and all but charged Anidjar—of course, only rhetorically—with libel against the field and against Idel in particular.4 Idel quite
rightly pointed out that the field has come a long way; and yet, outside of
the specialists’ domain, Jewish mysticism seems still to be a phenomenon
of European provenance. In the history of ideas, it is now widely acknowledged—thanks primarily to the work of Harry Austryn Wolfson—that
medieval Jewish philosophy in the guise of Moses Maimonides or Judah
Halevi cannot be properly understood without a deep appreciation of the
intellectual culture of al-Kindi or Ibn Sina or Ibn Rushd. But medieval
Jewish mysticism is often popularly portrayed as either a xenophobic or
a slightly Christian-influenced religious movement. With that in mind,
what I am attempting in this chapter is not simply to summarize the state
of the field but to suggest that since so much of the history of Jewish
mysticism takes place either in or on the periphery of the Lands of the
Ishmaelites—to use a Jewish medievalism—we must rewrite the history
of Jewish mysticism accordingly. A good bit of the work has been done
piecemeal, and a new narrative that takes this research into account has
yet to be written. I propose to lay out a preliminary case for such a reorientation, first by considering the geographical origins of the earliest forms
of Jewish mystical activity, then by reviewing some of the classic cases of
medieval Jewish mysticism, and finally by observing some premodern
and latter-day trends.
Early Jewish Mysticism
Since Jewish communities had thrived in what is known as the Ancient
Near East for more than a millennium before the Muslim conquests of
the seventh century, and since the internal affairs of the Jews were of little
concern to the new masters of the Muslim Middle East, it was only natural
that the patterns and structures of Jewish life under Persians and Byzantines would persist into the Muslim era. Even if we discount the historicity
of the conquest narratives as an imposition of ninth- or tenth-century
historical wishful thinking onto a time of great upheaval, it seems from
Jewish Mysticism in the Lands of the Ishmaelites: A Re-Orientation r 149
the surviving Jewish literature that the Jews fared the transition to Muslim
rule rather well. There was no great upheaval with the arrival of the Muslim conquerors and their subsequent Umayyad regime. Indeed, all the
major Jewish communities survived intact, and all the major communal
institutions—the rabbinic academies of Sura and Pumbedita, the institutions of the Gaonate and the Exilarchate—flourished. More important,
what was taught in the Jewish academies was left untouched by the new
regime. What was preached and inculcated by rabbis of Sassanid Iran and
Byzantine Palestine continued to be preached and inculcated by rabbis of
Muslim Iraq and Palestine.
So it should come as no surprise that the magical and mystical traditions of late antique Judaism, which had been promulgated for many
centuries, should pass into what would henceforth be Middle Eastern Judaism. And this presumption is borne out by the data: the agglomeration
of texts, archived magical papyri, amulets, and incantation bowls both
before and after the Muslim conquest all attest to the popular survival of
hoary Jewish magic and learned meditations, even as the ancient Hebrew
and Aramaic formulae began to be peppered with Judeo-Arabic.5
Going back to Greek and Roman Palestine, there is solid textual evidence that some Jews, inspired by the fantastic descriptions of heaven
found in the prophetic book of Ezekiel, had engaged in visionary tours of
heaven, thereby encountering heretofore undisclosed secrets of the divine
realm. Socially unorganized but fairly widespread, these early Jewish mystics pondered the mysteries of the celestial heikhalot (throne rooms) and
meditated on the imagery of the heavenly merkabah (the divine chariot
of Ezek. 5). Pseudepigraphical and anonymous texts recount these pneumatic celestial visitations, ascribed to both ancient biblical and legendary
rabbinic figures. For over a thousand years, from Hasmonean times until
well into the tenth century, these so-called merkabah texts were produced
and recopied in the lands of eventual Islamic domination.
The merkabah homilies eventually consisted of detailed descriptions
of multiple-layered heavens (usually seven in number), often guarded
over by angels and encircled by flames and lightning. The highest heaven
contains seven palaces (heikhalot), and in the innermost palace resides
a supreme divine image (God’s Glory or an angelic image) seated on a
throne, surrounded by awesome hosts who sing God’s praise.
The ascent texts are extant in four principal works, all redacted well after the third century but certainly before the ninth. These texts all recount
150 r Ronald C. Kiener
ascent experiences of legendary biblical or rabbinic figures, and many of
them contain episodes that are repeated, sometimes in great detail, in
either Christian or Islamic “tours of heaven.”
While throughout the era of merkabah mysticism the problem of creation was not of paramount importance, the treatise Sefer Yesirah (Book
of Creation, hereafter SY) represents an attempt at cosmogony, tinged
with a merkabah milieu. The proposals for dating this anonymous text
have ranged anytime between the first and ninth centuries, and it is never
cited until the tenth. It features a linguistic theory of creation in which
God creates the universe by combining the twenty-two letters of the Hebrew alphabet, along with the ten numerals, or sefirot.
Researchers David Halperin and Gordon Newby have done the most
to recover hints of merkabah mysticism in early Islam. In his book Faces
of the Chariot, Halperin has provided a fascinating appendix that recounts
numerous reverberations of merkabah imagery in tafsir and hadith and
possibly in the Qur’an itself. More recently, Halperin has adduced a
variety of striking parallels between merkabah accounts and Shi῾ite descriptions of Muhammad’s mi῾raj.6 Newby in particular tried to situate variations of merkabah mysticism in the H
ijaz environment of
Muhammad’s day. It should be argued here against the most astonishing
claim these two have made; namely, that the Jews of the seventh-century
H
ijaz were “greatly interested in mysticism” and that Muhammad practiced certain ritual acts which reeked of Jewish merkabah mystical practice, particularly with reference to the heavenly ascension of Muhammad,
the mi῾raj.
It seems to me simple common sense that when we use the Qur’an or
hadith to infer as to the religious trends of the Arabian Jews, we ought to
regard the results of our efforts with a healthy bit of skepticism. In many
ways, a description of Arabian Judaism from Arabic and Islamic sources
would be akin to describing first-century Rabbinic Judaism from the synoptic gospels.
With that in mind, we take the hadith and tafsir concerning merkabahlike practices in Muhammad’s day as evidence of merkabah awareness in
the third century ah, but not in the first. By the time Islam had settled
into the lands of the great Jewish communities north of Arabia, merkabah
became a real religious phenomenon worthy of Islamic interest, and it is
not before the ninth century that these images first appear in the exegetical literature.
Jewish Mysticism in the Lands of the Ishmaelites: A Re-Orientation r 151
It is against this larger backdrop that we ought to mention the persistent assertion by a number of scholars of early Shi῾ism, in particular
Paul Kraus, of a notable similarity between the aforementioned merkabah
cosmogonical text SY and the esoteric letter speculations found in eighthcentury Shi῾ite ghulat teachings. The entire matter has been thoroughly
and positively recapitulated by Steven Wasserstrom.7 The most compelling comparison involves the central assertion in the SY that the three
Hebrew letters alef-mem-shin, corresponding to the elements Air, Water,
and Fire, constitute “primal” letters from which all other letters are derived, and the ghulat teaching that the three Arabic letters ῾ayin-mimshin, corresponding to ῾Ali, Muhammad, and Salman Pak, constitute a
primal hierarchy of divine hypostases. If we were to accept this comparison, then we would be forced to reject the more anterior proposals for
the date of the SY’s composition, which is something most contemporary
scholars are hesitant to do. The assertion that the letter doctrine of the SY
is derived from Kufan ghulat teachings may indeed be a bit of philological
overreaching, as Yehuda Liebes forcefully argues.8 But if this connection
could be affirmed, it would constitute another powerful bit of evidence for
the Islamic background of early Jewish metaphysics.
Rather than begin the charted history of Jewish mysticism in the Middle East with seventh-century H
ijaz, we should look to the ninth century
ce, and we should look toward Baghdad.9 Four coinciding sets of data
point to this later date: first, the many copied manuscripts of merkabah
texts of Iraqi and Palestinian provenance, most dating no earlier than the
ninth century; second, the emergence of Hebrew liturgical poetry, mainly
in Palestine, and rarely earlier than the ninth century, that takes up merkabah themes and imagery; third, the occasional and recurring reports of
Jewish visitors to Baghdadi S ufi sessions and their miraculous conversion
to Islam;10 and fourth, the reports of either an Iraqi or Palestinian Jewish
scholar, reputed to have traveled from Iraq to Italy, where he left ancient
magical and mystical traditions in the possession of European Jews. These
reports come in multiple and garbled versions and are scattered across
many centuries, but the essence of the tradition is this: a sage traveled
from Baghdad to Italy, and either by oral or textual means, transmitted
esoteric teachings to an elite circle of European rabbinic figures who went
on to found a mystical stream in the Rhineland area. One version of the
story, recorded in a book written by Shem Tov ibn Shem Tov in fifteenthcentury Spain, recounts the travels of a certain Rabbi Qashisha’ (an
152 r Ronald C. Kiener
improbable name meaning “elder one”) from the Iraqi academy of Mata
Mehasya to Apulia, in the twelfth century. There Rabbi Qashisha’ taught
from a small book that he had assembled, and the great mystic German
rabbi, Judah the Pious, came from Corbeil to study at Rabbi Qashisha’s
feet.11 While there is no other record of such a travel on the part of Rabbi
Judah the Pious, if the tradition were true, it would place the migration
of Iraqi Jewish mysticism to Europe no earlier than the twelfth century,
when Rabbi Judah the Pious lived.
An even earlier variation on this migration trope comes in the guise
of a single mysterious Iraqi Jew who appears in a Hebrew poetic legend
entitled “The Chronicle of Ahima῾as” written in Italy in 1054.12 Here we
are told a similar tale: a Rabbi named Abu Aharon—otherwise identified
as Aaron ben Samuel of Baghdad, a practitioner of magic and a teacher
of merkabah traditions—visits Apulia in the ninth century. Rather than
Rabbi Judah, this wondrous Abu Aharon teaches Judah’s ancestors, the
scions of the rabbinic Kalonymus family. And indeed, some 350 years
later a devoted student of R. Judah the Pious, no less than R. Eleazar of
Worms, the last great light of the German Pietists, as these mystics are
now called, and a descendant of the Kalonymus clan, records a detailed
name-by-name seventeen-generation isnad of how the secrets of Abu
Aharon passed through the Kalonymus family in order to reach him.
If only we could know what these secrets were!13 It is generally accepted
that the secrets of Abu Aharon concerned the order and wording of the
ritualized liturgy of the Jewish prayers, an esoteric lore which was one
of the principal disciplines of the German Pietists. This is as much as R.
Eleazar of Worms alludes to. But what these secrets were we do not today
know. Certainly, it was in Iraq in the ninth and tenth centuries that the
first prayer orders were composed: the Siddurs of Amram Gaon and Saadya Gaon. Could it be that Abu Aharon was the conduit whereby these
orders came to Europe, enhanced with mystical interpretations?
Other reports of the migration of Jewish esotericists from the Middle
East to Europe keep popping up in the few historical comments proffered by European kabbalists. For example, Rabbi Isaac ben Jacob Cohen
of Soria, a mystic who wrote in the latter half of the thirteenth century,
provides this firsthand account:
When I was in the great city of Arles, a master of this tradition
showed me an extremely old booklet. Its handwriting was crude and
Jewish Mysticism in the Lands of the Ishmaelites: A Re-Orientation r 153
is different from our own. It was transmitted in the name of a great
rabbi and gaon. They referred to him as Rabbi Masliah. Now the
venerable Gaon, our Rabbi Pelatiah, was from the holy city of Jerusalem. And this booklet was brought by a great scholar and pietist
known as Rabbi Gershom of Damascus. He hailed from Damascus
and lived in Arles for approximately two years, and people there told
stories about his great wisdom and wealth. He showed this booklet
to the elder sages of that generation. I copied from it some things.14
If we cautiously back away from the specifics, what we are left with
is this: the implantation of long-existent merkabah secrets to European
Jewry came by way of the transplantation of Eastern lore through the
migration of Middle Eastern Jews to Europe. Whether the legend of Abu
Aharon is fact or trope, it seems reasonable to believe that it was not European Jews traveling to Muslim Iraq that resulted in the appearance of
merkabah lore in Europe, but the reverse case: Jews from Iraq and Palestine brought heretofore unknown esoteric traditions to Europe.
So to sum up this first phase in the history of Jewish mysticism, we have
the emergence of an esoteric lore, centered on the visionary ascent experience of the merkabah, which developed in the pre-Islamic Near East. As
Halperin has shown, beginning in the ninth century, some Muslim writers utilized these traditions, particularly in expanding upon the tradition
of Muhammad’s glorious mi῾raj.15 In this case the dynamic of osmosis
seems to point from Judaism to Islam, and traces of this flow can be found
in early Muslim magical, alchemical, and arithmomantic sources.16 And
it is quite possible that the forces of osmosis flowed in both directions,
as Jews were situated in one of the most prominent early centers of S ufi
and Shi῾ite activity, Baghdad and southern Iraq. Possibly of special significance are the comparisons drawn by Michael Sells between merkabah
visionary accounts and the famous mi῾raj of Abu Yazid al-Bistami, who
died in 878, though far from Baghdad.17
Early Kabbalah
It is in the later half of the twelfth century that a new form of Jewish mysticism appears in Provence, a teaching that builds upon the merkabah
lore but now adds a theosophic dimension that was foreign to the largely
descriptive accounts of the charioteers. The first known literary artifact
154 r Ronald C. Kiener
that puts forth this new theosophic teaching is entitled the Sefer ha-Bahir,
“The Book of Brilliance,” and it caused quite a stir in rabbinic circles in
southern France in the third decade of the thirteenth century. This book,
which is shot through with symbolic and Gnostic themes heretofore unknown in Jewish circles, centers around the revolutionary teaching that
God’s mystery is made manifest through ten divine emanations, or sefirot,
which constitute a cosmic tree, a symbolic matrix of hypostases that interact in a Gnostic pleroma of cosmic good and evil, and in their totality
provide the mystic with knowledge of the divine Being. Additionally, the
heretofore relatively unknown doctrine of metempsychosis finds a home
in a Jewish text.
Gershom Scholem, the towering figure of twentieth-century scholarship in Jewish mysticism, devoted more than a few studies, including his
groundbreaking doctoral dissertation, to this short and cryptic book. In
endeavoring to uncover the historic sources for the Bahir, Scholem was
struck by certain parallels between it and an ancient, now lost, book of
merkabah magic, angelology, and demonology entitled Sefer Raza Rabbah (The Book of the Great Secret), mentioned and cited by Iraqi and Palestinian Jewish scholars in the ninth, tenth, and eleventh centuries. First
mentioned (and condemned) in the ninth century by the Qaraite Daniel
al-Qumisi, the Raza Rabbah was also referred to in more glowing terms
by the eleventh-century Rabbanite leader Hai Gaon of Baghdad. While it
is unlikely that any of the newer theosophic themes of the Bahir can be
located in the Raza Rabbah, it is clear that some of the magical passages
of the Bahir derive from it. For Scholem, teachings of Iraqi provenance
find their way into European Jewish mystical discourse. Scholem adopted
the legendary pedigree for the Bahir found in a thirteenth-century secondhand account: “This book came from the Land of Israel to the old
Pietists, the Sages of Germany, the kabbalists, and from there it appeared
and reached some of the eminent scholars among the Rabbis of Provence,
who were in pursuit of every kind of secret knowledge.”18 In Scholem’s
detailed theory, the Bahir starts with Eastern magical and angelogical traditions (possibly Abu Aharon?) transplanted to Italy, then to Germany,
then to Provence, where it was finally redacted in the 1170s, and only then
to Spain, where it is first cited by name in the 1230s. In pushing his theory
of an Eastern proto-Bahir, Scholem also noted certain Arabisms to be
found in the Hebrew style of one part of the Bahir, a discussion of the
Hebrew vowels, which he asserts in typical understatement “are cause for
Jewish Mysticism in the Lands of the Ishmaelites: A Re-Orientation r 155
reflection.”19 Here is the most salient example: in asking about the significance of the Hebrew vowel hireq, the Bahir reports that it is an expression
for burning: u-ma’y mashma῾ hireq, leshon soref (“And what is the meaning of hireq? It is an expression for burning.”)20 and this association of the
word hireq with the word burning does not occur in Hebrew or Aramaic,
but does work if one recalls that the Arabic word haraqa means “burn.”
Scholem maintained that while the Bahir was composed in Provence,
some of its thematic and stylistic sources came from the East.
As a further embellishment of Scholem’s vague claim for Eastern origins for the Bahir, Ronit Meroz has recently proposed that a far more sizable portion of the Bahir than those parallels to the lost Sefer Raza Rabbah
must be situated in Iraq of the ninth century or, at the very latest, the first
half of the tenth century.21
Also recently, an interesting if implausible alternative to Scholem’s account for the origins of the Bahir has been offered by Michael McGaha,
situating the text against the backdrop of contemporary Andalusian
S ufism.22 McGaha rejects Scholem’s account for the history of the origins
of the Bahir; rather than thinking of it as a Provencal text that found its
way to Spain, McGaha believes that it was written in northeastern Spain
“at the end of the twelfth or beginning of the thirteenth century, by an
Arabic-speaking Andalusian refugee from Almohad persecution.”23 This
hypothesized author was under the influence of early S ufi theosophy,
Gnosticism, and letter mysticism, not unlike that found in the near contemporary Futuhat al-Makkiyah of Muhyi Din Ibn al-῾Arabi. To take one
example of McGaha’s evidence, we have the already mentioned notion
that the ten divine hypostases are presented in the Bahir as the fruit of a
cosmic tree, also referred to as the ha-male’ (“the all,” the pleroma). We
quote from §14 of the Bahir:
It is I who have planted this tree that the whole world may delight
in it and with it. I have spanned in it the All, called it “All,” for on it
depends the All and from it emanates the All; all things need it and
look upon it and yearn for it, and it is from it that all souls flower.24
Scholem took this imagery as evidence for an ancient heretical Judeo-syncretistic Gnostic source for the Bahir, though he could not explain exactly
how this material reached a medieval author. Using a more levelheaded
approach, McGaha turns to Ibn al-῾Arabi’s discussion of the shajarat alwujud (the tree of existence):
156 r Ronald C. Kiener
He [God] is the Root, and we are the branch of the Root. The [divine] names are the bough of this tree—I mean the tree of existence—and we are identical with its fruit, or rather, He is identical
with its fruit.25
McGaha furthermore notes that the Bahir’s frequent term for the pleroma, often symbolized by water imagery, is directly and terminologically
related to Ibn al-῾Arabi’s term mala’, also enveloped by water metaphors.
That which prompted Scholem to engage in convoluted hypothesizing
and surmises about ancient Gnostic sources, McGaha resolves with economical simplicity. Needless to say, the issue is far from resolved,26 since
both Scholem’s and McGaha’s theories rest on a good bit of speculation,
but at the very least the argument for Islamic influences deserves further investigation. If Meroz’s dating is accurate, then instead of looking
to Andalusia, we should redouble our efforts to understand the impact of
S ufism upon the Iraqi Jewish community of the ninth and tenth centuries
and use those early segments of the Bahir as a test case.
The Thirteenth Century
The thirteenth century is the decisive one for the development of Jewish mysticism. During this century, at least three distinct Jewish mystical schools or movements emerge: (1) the so-called Spanish Kabbalah,
constructed on the Bahir’s revolutionary doctrine of the ten sefirot as
emanations of God, culminating in the Bible commentary known as the
Sefer ha-Zohar (or “Book of Splendor”) written in central Spain in the
late thirteenth century; (2) the so-called prophetic Kabbalah of Abraham
Abulafia, the peripatetic Spaniard who traveled throughout the Mediterranean basin, including war-ravaged Palestine in 1260; (3) and the esoteric
pietism of Abraham Maimuni, son of Maimonides, and his disciples, in
Ayyubid Egypt. Each of these mystical traditions, some more than others,
were the products of a robust interaction between Islamic and Jewish cultures. Let us start with the most obvious, the Egyptian-Jewish pietism of
the Maimunis of Egypt, and then return to what seems the most distant,
the Spanish Kabbalah of late thirteenth-century Christian Guadalajara.
Abraham Maimuni was the son and successor of the renowned Rabbi
Moses ben Maimon, or as he is known in the West, Maimonides. Abraham
Jewish Mysticism in the Lands of the Ishmaelites: A Re-Orientation r 157
was Maimonides’ only son, born in 1186, and upon the death of his father
in 1204, at the tender young age of 18, Abraham inherited the position of
Nagid, or ra’is al-yahud, the semiofficial leadership of Egyptian Jewry, a
kind of counter-exilarchate established by the Shi῾ite Fatimids to offset
the similarly entitled position in Sunni Baghdad.27
Maimonides was a controversial figure whose work came under attack during his lifetime but even more ferociously after his death. He is
most famous for two works: a massive legal codex, the Mishneh Torah,
and a dense philosophical text, Dalalat al-H
a’irin, or “The Guide for the
Perplexed.” This latter work, though primarily an exegetical defense of
a rationalist Aristotelian interpretation of the Bible, lent itself to many
interpretations, and its concluding section, which discusses the concept
of the “Perfected Man” and the goal of the pious life, to “persist” in God’s
presence, touches on themes that were current in Islamic mysticism.28 It
is therefore not surprising to learn of the S ufi master H
asan ibn Hud in
Damascus in the thirteenth century, who taught his students from the
Guide.29
Whatever the interpretation, Maimonides’ work generated a bitter internal controversy amongst Jewish intellectuals. Some thought his work
too daring, too threatening. It was during one phase of this controversy
in the thirteenth century that Abraham wrote a book which served as a
defense of his father’s legacy. This book is entitled Kifayat al-῾Abidin (“The
Complete Guide for the Pious”), which has been compared in structure
and content to al-Ghazali’s Ihya ῾Ulum al-Din.30 Only a portion of the
Complete Guide survives, but if we extrapolate from the extant portion,
it was probably three times as long as his father’s original philosophical
work. Goitein, one of the principal researchers of this Egyptian pietist
tradition, says of the Kifayat al-῾Abidin: “It united, in a unique combination, the three great religious elements of the Judaeo-Islamic culture of the
High Middle Ages: religious law, which pervaded all aspects of life with
its innumerable minutiae; ethical pietism, which gave meaning and significance to all the injunctions of the Law; and finally, the spirit of Greek
philosophy, which brought system, order, and lucid reasoning into the
enormous mass of religious traditions.”31 The work is a strenuous defense
of his father’s great writings, both the legal code and the philosophical
treatise. Ferocious in his defense, Abraham maintains that the ascetic and
pietistic turn he provides to his father’s system is precisely what his father
158 r Ronald C. Kiener
passed down to him, and that the classical texts of Judaism are encoded
with an esoteric set of secrets which signal this pietist turn. What is striking to any student of S ufism in the suluk of Abraham is that he makes the
regular calls for zuhd, “asceticism” in the religious life of his people, and
in doing so he specifically praises the practices of the now widely known
urban Cairene S ufis. He in fact bemoans the present-day loss of numerous ascetic practices, which he attributed to the ancient biblical prophets,
and bewails the fact that in his day, these pious rituals are practiced by the
S ufis of Islam and not by the true inheritors of the Prophets, the Jews.
For example, concerning the practice of donning ragged cloaks during
initiation into the pietist group, a practice not common amongst the Jewish masses then or now, Abraham writes:
You know that there is to be found amongst these S ufis of Islam
(al-mutasawwifun min al-islam)—because of the sins of Israel—the
ways of the ancient holy Israelites, which is not to be found or is little
found amongst our present-day community.32
This lachrymose theme is repeated with a variety of specific Sufi-like practices praised by Abraham, including nocturnal prayer vigils, the need for
isolation and tears in prayer, and subsistence on alms.
Unfortunately, since the portion of Abraham’s treatise dealing with
wusul, the theology and doctrine, is no longer extant, it is impossible to
more precisely place Abraham into a particular S ufi system. We know he
admired the S ufis and thought many of their practices were worthy of
emulation, and we further know from the work of Paul Fenton that his
pietist prescription survived for a few generations in upper-class Egyptian
Jewry, creating a short-lived elitist movement that may have drawn from
refugees or the descendants of refugees from the Almohad persecutions
of Spain.33 Ultimately, Abraham’s way failed, and his reforms and the pietist movement he championed did not survive much past the early fifteenth century, if we are to accept Fenton’s assertion that David b. Joshua
b. Abraham (who died c. 1415) represents the last link in this Maimonidean pietist circle.34 It was during David b. Joshua’s reign as Nagid that he
was presented with a plaintive request by the wife of Basir, the bellmaker,
to go after her wayward husband, now infatuated with the mystical fraternity of the S ufi master Yusuf al-Kurani, a thirteenth-century preacher
of the tariqah of al-Junayd. This touching letter indicates the allure that
S ufism held for Jews in fourteenth-century Cairo:
Jewish Mysticism in the Lands of the Ishmaelites: A Re-Orientation r 159
The maidservant the wife of Basir the bellmaker kisses the ground
and submits that she has on her neck three children because her
husband was completely infatuated with [life on] the mountain with
al-Kurani, in vain and to no purpose, a place where there is no Torah, no prayer, and no mention of God’s name in truth. He goes
up the mountain and mingles with the mendicants, although these
have only the semblance, but not the essence, of religion.
The maidservant is afraid there may be there some bad man who
may induce her husband to forsake the Jewish faith, taking with him
the three children. The maidservant almost perishes because of her
solitude and her search after food for the little ones. It is her wish
that our Master go after her husband and take the matter up with
him according to his unfailing wisdom, and what the maidservant
entreats him to do is not beyond his power nor the high degree of
his influence.35
We do not know how the Nagid responded to this plea, but it is quite
possible that the bellmaker Basir had crossed a communal line, and it was
precisely because of the Nagid’s sympathy for S ufism that the abandoned
wife turned to her last hope.
It is by no means the case that with the close of this group, the interplay of S ufism and Middle Eastern Judaism came to an end. The Cairo
Genizah, that great literary storehouse of discarded manuscripts found a
century ago in the ruins of Cairo’s Ben Ezra synagogue, has given forth
dozens of texts in Judeo-Arabic and in Hebrew of either S ufi-influenced
treatises for a Jewish audience, or else Hebrew transcriptions of S ufi classics, from al-H
allaj to al-Ghazali to al-Suhrawardi to Ibn al-῾Arabi.36 If
ever there was a syncretistic full-fledged Jewish S ufism, it was during the
thirteenth and fourteenth centuries in Egypt.
A second individual of this thirteenth century, of far less glorious
lineage, also illustrates signs of S ufi impress. We now turn to Abraham
Abulafia, the itinerant holy man and Messianic pretender, who—unlike
most of the key figures in the history of Jewish mysticism—never received
rabbinic ordination and never served as a communal leader. Born in Saragossa, he traveled to the far-flung reaches of the Mediterranean, a student
and teacher sporadically of philosophers and mystics alike. In fact, he was
once run out of town in Comino, near Malta, for his improprieties. Imprisoned and condemned to death by the Vatican in 1280 for presenting
160 r Ronald C. Kiener
himself to Pope Nicholas III as the Messiah, his life was spared, and he
traveled on, spreading throughout the eastern Mediterranean his unique
mystical system, the so-called prophetic Kabbalah. Like the Nagid Abraham Maimuni, Abraham Abulafia imagined himself a devoted disciple of
Moses Maimonides, and over the course of his life Abulafia wrote (all his
writings are in Hebrew) three progressively more detailed full commentaries to the Guide of the Perplexed.
As I have described elsewhere,37 Abraham Abulafia has been a particularly perplexing figure for modern scholars. Since most of his voluminous writings remained in manuscript form until very recently, he was
relatively unknown in learned pious circles, and when the first Wissenschaft des Judenthums scholars encountered his writings in the nineteenth
century, there was much excitement and controversy. The first scholar
to encounter Abulafia in the Munich Hebrew manuscript collection of
the Bavarian State Library, Meyer Heinrich Landauer, concluded that
Abulafia was nothing less than the author of the Sefer ha-Zohar, the aforementioned towering work of the so-called Spanish Kabbalah. Needless to
say, this is an attribution that is no longer advanced. Nevertheless, Gershom Scholem devoted an entire chapter of his aforementioned Major
Trends in Jewish Mysticism to Abulafia, ignoring many other key thirteenth-century players. Today Moshe Idel has become the leading Abulafia scholar, devoting numerous volumes to the study of this enigmatic
mystic, and has placed emphasis on Islamic influences upon the Abulafian
tradition.38
Neither a pietist nor a theosophist, Abulafia claimed that his interpretation of Maimonides, and the systematic mystical program it generated,
took over where the merkabah visionaries and the sefirotic topographers
left off. His mysticism was a mysticism of Maimonidean psychology,
where the soul through a particular kind of prescribed meditation is led to
the divine effulgence and to a deathlike experience of utter unity with the
Divine Being. The goal of the mystical path was to untie the knots which
bound the soul to the material world and to thereby achieve a prophetic
ecstasy, at which moment the mystic perceives himself to be one with
God.
From the beginning, modern scholars have noted a S ufi-like tinge to
much of Abulafia’s teachings, and it is clear in his Hebrew writings that
he was at the very least familiar with, if not conversant in, Arabic religious terminology. Two features immediately point to a S ufi backdrop to
Jewish Mysticism in the Lands of the Ishmaelites: A Re-Orientation r 161
Abulafia’s system: (1) among his writings are first-person accounts of mystical meditations and “manuals of discipline,” step-by-step procedurals for
practicing a combined aural and visual meditation on the divine names
and the Hebrew letters; and (2) his assertion that the goal of his mysticism
is nothing less than unity with God, a deathlike state in which the mystic
feels hu’ hu’ (“he is He”), an exact replication of al-H
allaj’s expression of
unio mystica. As to the first point: one is hard pressed to find in Jewish
mystical literature outside of the ancient merkabah texts any first-person
accounts of mystical transport, and the genre of “manuals of discipline,”
so noteworthy in S ufi adab literature, is one of the distinguishing features
of Abulafia and his followers. As to the second point: the goal of the mystic way in the theosophical Kabbalah of Spain is rarely described so boldly
as union with or even death unto God; instead, the Spanish mystics of the
sefirot (and all their latter-day followers) speak at most of devequt, “adhesion” or a close drive-by acquaintance with God.
Idel has referred to Abulafia’s mysticism as “the Kabbalah of Byzantium,” for Abulafia had few if any followers in Spain, and not a single Abulafian treatise (by either master or disciple) was ever composed there. All
his writings were composed in the eastern Mediterranean, and his successor school flourished for a time in Palestine. No doubt Abulafia’s short
visit to Acre in 1260 had something to do with the success of his school in
the land of Israel, and a number of his disciples in the Galilee went on to
produce writings even more pronouncedly integrating the master’s teachings with S ufi traditions. One student in particular, R. Natan b. Sa῾adya,
wrote a remarkable short tract entitled Sha῾arey S edeq (Gates of Justice)
that contains numerous references to Islamic spiritual practices.39 For example, in this text, which is replete with first-person descriptions of complicated nocturnal meditations on the name of God, we find:
I . . . have probed my heart for ways of grace to bring about spiritual
expansion and I have found three ways of progress to spiritualization: the vulgar, the philosophic, and the Kabbalistic way. The vulgar
way is that which, so I learned, is practiced by Ishmaelite ascetics.
They employ all manner of devices to shut out from their souls all
“natural forms,” every image of the familiar, natural world. Then,
they say, when a spiritual form, an image from the spiritual world,
enters their soul, it is isolated in their imagination and intensifies the
imagination to such a degree that they can determine beforehand
162 r Ronald C. Kiener
that which is to happen to us. Upon inquiry, I learned that they
recite (zokhrim) the Name of God in the Ishmaelite language, and
they say “Allah.” I investigated further and I found that when they
pronounce these letters, they direct their thought completely away
from every possible “natural form,” and the very letters ALLAH and
their diverse powers work upon them. They are carried off into a
trance without realizing how, since no Kabbalah has been transmitted to them. This removal of all natural forms and images from the
soul is called by them “effacement” (mehiqah).40
This last reference, to the S ufi doctrine of mahw, is a perfectly plausible
and accurate rendering of the concept, and the description of the dhikr
is also exact.
Other Palestinian disciples of Abulafia, including Isaac b. Samuel of
Acre, who then traveled to Spain, mix the master’s teaching with S ufi
ideas. Idel hypothesizes that the Palestinian mystics may have already
been engaged in a S ufi-Jewish syncretism à la Abraham Maimuni, and
with the arrival of Abulafia, they found a master whose teaching fit their
own tariqah.41
In a survey of Jewish mysticism in the Middle East, it may be far afield
to now turn to Reconquista Spain to look for signs of Islamic influence on
the so-called Spanish Kabbalah. The one sustained modern attempt to do
so, by Ariel Bension, was not much more than vaguely suggestive of such
connections.42 Yet the so-called convivencia between Christians, Jews, and
Arabs in Castille and Spain makes the gaze worthwhile.
Drawing on the teachings first articulated in the Sefer ha-Bahir, a distinctively theosophical and theurgical form of Jewish mysticism sprang
forth first in Provence; then in Northeast Spain, centered in Gerona; and
finally in central Spain—all in the thirteenth century. Unlike the unknown
author of the Bahir, we know many of the key figures of this mystical
branch and its various subbranches by name, and we know that at least a
handful of them were literate in Arabic, which is not surprising given the
Mozarabic character of Spain at this time.
Much has been written recently on the influence of Islamic neoPlatonism for the development of the sefirotic symbolism of the Spanish Kabbalah. At least there are striking parallels that cannot easily be
dismissed.43 Furthermore, beyond the broad doctrinal comparisons,
there are many folkloric, terminological, and literary themes in Spanish
Jewish Mysticism in the Lands of the Ishmaelites: A Re-Orientation r 163
Kabbalah, particularly as expressed in the Sefer ha-Zohar, which spark
certain questions in the comparative religionist. To take but one example
of a literary theme, the appearance in a late portion of the Zohar corpus
of a theory of a fourfold interpretation of scripture is strikingly similar to
Shi῾ite and S ufi approaches to scriptural exegesis, even more so than it is
to Christian text-theory.44 Or, to take a terminological example noted over
a hundred years ago by Steinschneider, the imagery of “a donkey bearing
books” (hamor nose’ sefarim) found in Zohar H
adash 101c bears a striking
resemblance to the image of Qur’an 62:5: al-himar yahmilu asfaran.45
On the doctrinal level, the myriad theories of divine emanation and
the differing and competing locations of the Divine Will and Intelligence
in these myriad systems all point to a fervid intellectual climate in which
precise influences are difficult to determine. Scholem, who studied Arabic
in Basle as a young Orientalist, was first to suggest Islamic phenomenological parallels, but ultimately it has been others who have done the philological spadework regarding Islam. In particular, some of the obscure
details of Isma῾ili cosmology seem to reverberate in certain thirteenthcentury Kabbalistic theories of the sefirotic world, and here it is Israeli
scholars like Sarah Heller-Wilensky, Yehuda Liebes, Amos Goldreich,
and Moshe Idel who have done most of the work. Islamic neo-Platonism
comes in many guises, and it may be just as reasonable to attribute these
similarities to the common denominator of the Long Recension of the
Theology of Aristotle, which was rendered into Hebrew, as it is to look
into the Rasa’il Ikhwan al-Safa’ (which was also partially rendered into
Hebrew), or al-Kirmani, or the neo-Platonic writers of Ishraqi and Andalusian Sufism.
This study is not intended to thoroughly review the Islamic context
for the massive Sefer ha-Zohar, which could easily become a book-length
effort. Suffice it to point out two important facts concerning the Zohar:
(1) as a matter of historical documentation, the principal author of the
Zohar—or alternatively, the lead sage of the circle that produced the bulk
of the Zohar—was familiar with Islam in Spain;46 and (2) the extant Zohar,
a massive anthology of diverse literary pieces in three volumes that runs
over 1,600 pages, contains numerous Arabisms, doctrinal affinities to S ufi
teachings,47 and interpretations of rituals and symbols in a S ufic key.48
Therefore it may prove worthwhile to view this anthology, and the socalled Spanish Kabbalah from which it sprang, as emerging from within
an Islamicate context.
164 r Ronald C. Kiener
Conclusion
There was much Jewish mysticism after the thirteenth century, and a good
deal of it continued to take place in the lands of the Ishmaelites. Kabbalah
took root throughout the Mediterranean, and there was much Kabbalistic literature (some of it in Judeo-Arabic) in North Africa, Palestine, and
Syria well into the eighteenth century.49 The famous mystical confraternity of sixteenth-century Safed occurred under Ottoman domain, and
many of the Safed circle moved on to Damascus. The seventeenth-century
mystical messiah Sabbetai S evi, whose messianic mission culminated in
apostasy to Islam, conducted his most successful campaign in Egypt, Turkey, and Palestine.50 Well-documented is the fact that a small number of
Sabbatians followed their messiah into the religion of Ishmael, forming
the crypto-Muslim sect of the Dœnmeh. This group reportedly survived
in Turkey until the twentieth century and periodically arises in public discourse as the source for intriguing conspiracy theories in modern Turkish
politics.
It is our modest hope to have persuaded the reader with these selected
but highly representative examples that a new accounting of the history
of Jewish mysticism is in order, one that places key historical developments in the narrative of Jewish mysticism within an Islamicate and Middle Eastern environment. Future recountings of the historical sweep of
the many streams of Jewish mysticism will have to situate them in their
proper setting—the lands of the Ishmaelites.
Notes
1. Moshe Idel, “Jewish Mysticism and Muslim Mysticism,” Mahanayyim 1 (1991): 33
(Hebrew).
2. Marshall G. S. Hodgson, The Venture of Islam (Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 1974), 2:202n1.
3. Scholem himself made significant contributions to the study of Jewish mysticism in
Islamic lands. For example, Gershom Scholem, “Sifro ha-῾Aravi shel R. Yosef Ibn Waqar
῾al ha-Qabbalah u-ve-Filosafiah,” Kiryat Sefer 20 (1943–44): 162–153.
4. See the exchange between Gil Anidjar, “Jewish Mysticism Alterable and Unalterable: On Orienting Kabbalah Studies and the ‘Zohar’ of Christian Spain,” Jewish Social
Studies 3 (1996): 89–157, and Moshe Idel, “Orienting, Orientalizing, or Disorienting the
Study of Kabbalah: ‘An Almost Absolutely Unique’ Case of Occidentalism,” Kabbalah 2
(1997): 13–47.
Jewish Mysticism in the Lands of the Ishmaelites: A Re-Orientation r 165
5. See Shaul Shaked, “Medieval Jewish Magic in Relation to Islam: Theoretical Attitudes and Genres,” in Judaism and Islam: Boundaries, Communication, and Interaction:
Essays in Honor of William M. Brinner, ed. B. Hary, J. Hayes, and F. Astren (Leiden: E. J.
Brill, 2000), 97–109.
6. David Halperin, “Hekhalot and Mi῾raj: Observations on the Heavenly Journey in
Judaism and Islam,” in Death, Ecstasy, and Other Worldly Journeys, ed. J. Collins and M.
Fishbane (Albany: SUNY Press, 1995), 265–88.
7. Steven Wasserstrom, “Sefer Yesira and Early Islam: A Reappraisal,” Journal of Jewish
Thought and Philosophy 3 (1993): 1–30.
8. Yehuda Liebes, Torat ha-Yesirah shel Sefer Yesirah (Jerusalem: Schocken, 2000),
233–35.
9. Paul Fenton, “Judaism and Sufism,” in The Cambridge Companion to Medieval Jewish Philosophy, ed. D. Frank and O. Leaman (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2003), 201–17.
10. Abu H
amid al-Ghazali, Ihya’ ῾Ulum al-Din (Beirut, n.d.), 2:294.
11. Shem Tov ibn Shem Tov, Sefer ha-Emunot (Ferara, 1556) 4:14.
12. The Chronicle of Ahima῾as, ed. Benjamin Klar (Jerusalem: Tarshish, 1974)
(Hebrew).
13. Israel Weinstock and Gershom Scholem traded arguments over the “secrets” of
Abu Aharon in Tarbiz 32 (1962/63). Weinstock claimed he had found a text that contained the secrets, and Scholem argued that Weinstock was misled.
14. Published by G. Scholem, Mada῾ey ha-Yahadut 2 (1927): 248-9. See Joseph Dan,
ed., and Ronald Kiener, trans., The Early Kabbalah (New York: Paulist Press, 1986), 169f.
15. Michael Sells has drawn useful parallels between merkabah visionary accounts
and the famous mi῾raj of Abu Yazid al-Bistami, who died in 878, though far from Baghdad. See Sells, Early Islamic Mysticism: Sufi, Qur’an, Mi῾raj, Poetic, and Theological Writings (New York: Paulist Press, 1996), 357n65. Bension suggested such a dynamic (specifically concerning the doctrine of paradise and hell) in his impressionistic The Zohar in
Moslem and Christian Spain (1932; repr., New York: Sepher-Hermon Press, 1974), 48.
16. Yair Tzoran, “Magic, Theurgy, and the Science of Letters in Islam and Its Parallels
in Jewish Literature,” Jerusalem Studies in Jewish Folklore 18 (1996): 19–62 (Hebrew). This
osmotic dynamic also flowed from Judaism to early Eastern Christian mysticism. See
Bernard McGinn, The Foundations of Mysticism (New York: Crossroad, 1991), 9–22.
17. Sells, Early Islamic Mysticism, 357n65.
18. Shem Tov b. Shem Tov, Sefer ha-Emunot, 94a, citing Isaac b. Jacob Cohen of Soria.
19. Gershom Scholem, Origins of the Kabbalah (Princeton: Princeton University
Press, 1987), 56n12.
20. The Book Bahir: An Edition Based on the Earliest Manuscripts, ed. D. Abrams (Los
Angeles: Cherub Press, 1994), 133, §28.
21. Ronit Meroz, “On the Time and Place of Some of Sefer ha-Bahir,” Daat 49 (2002):
135–80 (Hebrew).
22. Michael McGaha, “The Sefer ha-Bahir and Andalusian Sufism,” Medieval Encounters 3 (1997): 20–57.
166 r Ronald C. Kiener
23. Ibid., 31.
24. The Book Bahir, 125.
25. William Chittick, The Sufi Path of Knowledge: Ibn al-῾Arabi’s Metaphysics of Imagination (Albany: SUNY Press, 1989), 100, translating al-Futuhat al-Makkiyah, ed. U. Yahia
(Beirut, n.d.), 3:315.11.
26. Alternatively, Wolfson argues a Jewish-Christian source lies behind this image.
See Elliot Wolfson, “The Tree That Is All: Jewish-Christian Roots of a Kabbalistic Symbol
in Sefer ha-Bahir,” Journal of Jewish Thought and Philosophy 3 (1993): 31–76.
27. Paul Fenton, “Abraham Maimonides (1186–1237): Founding a Mystical Dynasty,”
in Jewish Mystical Leaders and Leadership in the Thirteenth Century, ed. M. Idel and M.
Ostrow (Northvale, N.J.: Jason Aronson, 1998), 127–54.
28. Jose Faur, Homo Mysticus: A Guide to Maimonides’s Guide for the Perplexed (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 1999).
29. Ignaz Goldziher, “Ibn Hud, the Mohammedan Mystic, and the Jews of Damascus,”
JQR o.s. 6 (1894): 218–20.
30. Aviva Shusman, “The Muslim Sources of Rabbi Abraham Maimuni’s Book Kitab
Kifayat al-῾Abidin,” Tarbiz 55 (1985–86): 229–50 (Hebrew).
31. Shlomo Dov Goitein, “A Treatise in Defence of the Pietists by Abraham Maimonides,” JJS 16 (1965): 105.
32. Abraham Maimonides, The Highways of Perfection, ed. S. Rosenblatt (Baltimore:
Johns Hopkins University Press, 1938), 2:266.
33. Obadyah Maimonides, The Treatise of the Pool: al-Maqala al-H
awdiyya (London:
Octagon Press, 1981).
34. See Paul Fenton’s edition of al-Murshid ila al-Tafarrud wa’l-Murfid ila al-Tajarrud
(Jerusalem: Mekize Nirdamim, 1997); Fenton, Deux traités de mystique juive (Lagrasse:
Verdier, 1987).
35. S. D. Goitein, “A Jewish Addict to Sufism in the Time of Nagid David II Maimonides,” JQR 44 (1953–54): 37–49.
36. A few examples will suffice: see Hartwig Hirschfeld, “The Arabic Portion of the
Cairo Genizah at Cambridge,” JQR o.s. 15 (1902–1903): 167–81, esp. 176–77, 180–81 (Hallaj); H. Hirschfeld, “A Hebraeo-Sufic Poem,” JAOS 49 (1929): 168–73 (al-Ghazali); Franz
Rosenthal, “A Judaeo-Arabic Work under Sufic Influence,” HUCA 5 (1940): 433–84 (alSuhrawardi). See Fenton, Pool, notes 10–15; Fenton, “Les traces d’Al-H
allag, martyr mystique de l’Islam, dans la tradition juive,” Annales Islamologique 35 (2001): 101–127; Fenton,
“Two Akbari Mss. in Judeo-Arabic” (Hebrew), in Beyn ῾Ever le-῾Arav, ed. Y. Tobi (Tel
Aviv: Reubven Mass, 2004), 82–94 (Ibn al-῾Arabi).
37. Ronald Kiener, “From Ba῾al ha-Zohar to Prophet to Ecstatic: The Vicissitudes of
Abulafia in Contemporary Scholarship,” in Gershom Scholem’s Major Trends in Jewish
Mysticism: 50 Years After, ed. P. Schäfer and Y. Dan (Tübingen: J.C.B. Mohr, 1993), 145–59.
38. Moshe Idel, Studies in Ecstatic Kabbalah (Albany: SUNY Press, 1988), index s.v.
“Sufism.”
39. This book’s author was unknown until recently. See now Moshe Idel, “R. Natan
ben Sa῾adya Harar: Ba῾al Sefer Sha῾arey S edeq ve-Hashpa῾ato be-Eres Yisra’el,” Shalem
7 (2001): 47–58.
Jewish Mysticism in the Lands of the Ishmaelites: A Re-Orientation r 167
40. Sefer Sha῾arey S edeq, ed. Yosef Parush (Jerusalem: Shaare Ziv, 1999), 21.
41. Idel, Ecstatic Kabbalah, 91–96.
42. Bension, The Zohar in Moslem and Christian Spain. See Fenton, “Two Akbari
Mss,” 82n4.
43. See Shlomo Pines, “Shi῾ite Terms and Conceptions in Judah Halevi’s Kuzari,”
Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 2 (1980): 165–251, esp. 243–47; Moshe Idel, “HaSefirot she-me-῾al ha-Sefirot,” Tarbiz 51 (1981–82): esp. 270n168; Amos Goldreich, “MiMishnat H
ug ha-῾Iyyun: ῾Od ῾al ha-Meqorot ha-Efshariyyim shel ha-Ahdut ha-Shavah,”
Jerusalem Studies in Jewish Thought 6 (1987): 141–56.
44. See Ronald Kiener “The Image of Islam in the Zohar,” Jerusalem Studies in Jewish
Thought 8 (1989): 45*n5.
45. Ibid., 45–46*nn7–10.
46. Kiener, “Image of Islam.”
47. See Ronald Kiener, “Ibn al-῾Arabi and the Qabbalah: A Study of Thirteenth-Century Iberian Mysticism,” Studies in Mystical Literature 2 (1982): 26–52.
48. Paul Fenton, “The Symbolism of Ritual Circumambulation in Judaism and Islam—Comparative Study,” Journal of Jewish Philosophy and Thought 6 (1997): 355f.
49. A good example would be Joseph b. Abraham Ibn Waqar of the fourteenth century. See Georges Vajda, Recherches sur la philosophie et la Kabbale dans la pensé juive
du Moyen Age (Paris: Mouton, 1962), and most recently Paul Fenton’s edition of Sefer
Shorshey ha-Qabbalah (Los Angeles: Cherub Press, 2004).
50. Paul Fenton, “Shabbetay Sebī and His Muslim Contemporary Muhammed anNiyāzī,” Approaches to Judaism in Medieval Times 3 (1988): 81–88.
Section II
Scientific, Professional,
and Cultural Pursuits
10
Al-Khwarizmi’s Mathematical Doctrines in
Ibn-Ezra’s Biblical Commentary
Michael Katz
In the introduction to his Hebrew translation of Ibn al-Muthanna’s Commentary on the Astronomical Tables of al-Khwarizmi (780–845), Rabbi
Abraham Ibn-Ezra (1089–1164) writes:
קם חכם גדול בישמעאל יודע סוד חכמת החשבון וחכמת...
וכל. וזה החכם היה מחמד בן מוסי אלכואריזמי...העתים
חכמי הערבים שבימים האלה כופלים וחולקים ומוציאים
והוא הוציא כל מעשה הלוחות...השורש ככתוב בספר החכם
בדרך אחרת קלה על התלמידים שהיא שוה באחרונה
.למעשה כנכה החכם מהאינדיאה רק לא נתן טעם לדברים
[There arose a great scholar in Ishmael who knew the secret of the
wisdom of reckoning and the wisdom of times . . . and this scholar
was Muhammad ibn-Musa al-Khwarizmi. And all Arab scholars
nowadays multiply and divide and extract the root as is written in
the scholar’s book . . . and he brought out all the tables’ work in
another way, easy for the students, which is equal in the end to the
work of Kanka the Hindu scholar, but he gave no reason for the
words.]
Ibn-Ezra is best known as one of the leading biblical commentators in the
Judaic tradition. But in the wide spectrum of his writings we also find poetry, science, linguistics, philosophy, and mathematics. Specifically, mathematics is thoroughly and systematically studied in two books by IbnEzra—Sefer ha-Ehad (Book of the Unit) and Sefer ha-Mispar (Book of the
172 r Michael Katz
Number). The influence of the great ninth-century scholar Muhammad
al-Khwarizmi is manifest in these books. Al-Khwarizmi’s impact is also
noticeable in at least two other arithmetical manuscripts (in Hebrew and
Latin) that have recently been attributed (not unreservedly) to Ibn-Ezra.1
Arguably, Ibn-Ezra was one of the first to convey to Europe the ideas of alKhwarizmi and with them certain fundamental doctrines of arithmetic.2
Muhammad ibn-Musa al-Khwarizmi was a scholar in Caliph alMamun’s celebrated “House of Wisdom” in ninth-century Baghdad. He
wrote extensively on mathematics and astronomy, and some of his writings were translated from Arabic into Latin, to be used as textbooks in
schools throughout Europe from the twelfth century if not before. His
best-known book is Kitab al-H
isab al-Jabr w’al-Muqabala (Book of Calculus of Completion and Balancing). The term algebra was coined from alJabr and the term algorithm from al-Khwarizmi. Some scholars3 maintain
that in writing this book al-Khwarizmi was influenced by (a translation
of) a Hebrew manuscript entitled Mishnat ha-Midot (Study of Measures,
by a mysterious Rabbi N). Other scholars4 disagree, and they are probably
right. But that discussion is beyond the scope of the present essay.
Another well-known book of al-Khwarizmi is Kitab al-H
isab al-Hindi
(Book of Hindu Calculus), bringing to the Arab world, and later to Europe, some basic ideas of Hindu mathematicians. Also worth noting here
is al-Khwarizmi’s Istiqraj Tariq al-Yahud (Treatise on the Jewish Calendar), where he discusses the nineteen-year cycle of the Hebrew calendar
as well as the specific dates of Rosh ha-Shana (Jewish New Year) and several other Jewish festivals.
What we want to show in this essay is that al-Khwarizmi’s fundamental
principles were utilized by Ibn-Ezra not only in his mathematical writings
but also, in a subtle yet substantial manner, in his biblical commentary.
This is most clearly revealed in his extensive discussion of the Holy Name
in chapter 3 of the book of Exodus. And this will be the focus of our attention in the present essay.
The Holy Name
The story of the first encounter between Moses and God is often devoutly
rehearsed and seldom fully understood. Perhaps hardest to understand
are the verses dealing with God’s name. We hear God speaking to Moses
Al-Khwarizmi’s Mathematical Doctrines in Ibn-Ezra’s Biblical Commentary r 173
from the burning bush, ordering him to deliver the Israelites from slavery in Egypt. Moses at first maintains that he is unfit for the job, but God
insists that he should do it. Then we read:
ויאמר משה אל האלהים הנה אנכי בא אל בני ישראל ואמרתי
להם אלהי אבותיכם שלחני אליכם ואמרו לי מה שמו מה
ויאמר אלהים אל משה אהיה אשר אהיה:אומר אליהם
ויאמר כה תאמר לבני ישראל אהיה שלחני אליכם
.(י”ד- י”ג,’)שמות ג
[And Moses said unto God, Behold, when I come unto the children
of Isra-el and shall say unto them The God of your fathers hath sent
me unto you; and they shall say to me, What is his name? what shall
I say unto them? And God said unto Moses, I AM THAT I AM: and
he said, Thus shalt thou say unto the children of Isra-el, I AM hath
sent me unto you. (Exodus 3:13–14)]
These bracketed lines are taken exactly as they are, including capitals and
punctuations, from the Winston edition of the King James Version. The
key words here are EHYEH ASHER EHYEH (I AM THAT I AM) and
then just EHYEH (I AM). In various other English translations we have
“I will be what I will be” (or “I shall be what I shall be”) and then “I will
be” (or “I shall be”).
The immediate question arising here is—Did Moses get an answer to
his query? More than a few scholars and commentators maintain that he
did not. God said to him—I am who I am and you needn’t know my name.
The Lord refused to divulge His name. The reason might be that knowing
a name entails having a measure of domination. In the book of Genesis,
Adam is called upon to give names to animals, so as to signify his domination of the animal kingdom.
Other commentators (probably the majority) hold that Moses did get
a definite answer to his question. The repetition at the end of verse 14 of
just the word Ehyeh (“Ehyeh hath sent me unto you”) means that this (“I
am” or “I will be” or “I shall be”) is in fact God’s name as He gave it to
Moses. The idea is that God’s name signifies the very essence of Being (Existence). Indeed, closely related to the word Ehyeh, in root and meaning,
is the word Havaiah (Being; Existence; Creation), which in turn is closely
related to the ineffable Hebrew name of the Lord—Jehovah in English.
174 r Michael Katz
Ibn-Ezra’s Approach
Ibn-Ezra belongs here to the second group of commentators mentioned
above. In his view God tells Moses that Ehyeh is His name. But in order to
show the power and uniqueness of this name, Ibn-Ezra goes far beyond
literal meaning. There are two commentaries by Ibn-Ezra on Exodus (and
on parts of Genesis). One is usually referred to as “The Short Ibn-Ezra”
and the other as “The Long Ibn-Ezra.” In the long one, the consideration
of verse 14 is very lengthy indeed. It spreads over two or three full pages
in various editions of Mikraot Gedolot.5
The extraordinary length of commentary on a single verse stems from
the fact that here Ibn-Ezra mobilizes linguistics, astronomy, astrology,
mathematics, and philosophy to interpret and extol the Holy Name. In
the present essay we consider the mathematical part, where the idea is to
show that God’s name consists of letters whose gematric-numerical values
have unique and beautiful properties.
There are three distinct letters in the Hebrew word Ehyeh—Aleph ()א,
Hey ( )הand Yod ()י. The Hey appears again as the last letter. In Haviah
and in the ineffable name we find again two of these letters—Hey (twice)
and Yod, together with another letter, Vav ()ו. So altogether there are four
distinct letters here—Aleph, Hey, Vav, and Yod, with gematric values 1, 5,
6, and 10, respectively.
In Jewish tradition gematric values are specific numerical values attached to Hebrew letters. Gematria has to do with manipulations of these
values and of combinations of values of several letters or words. It should
be noted that Ibn-Ezra does not always approve of the use of gematria.
His disdain of certain utilizations of gematria can be seen, for instance, in
his commentary on Genesis 14:14. This verse tells us that the first of the
three Patriarchs, Avraham (then still called Avram), led a contingent of
318 men to chase and attack the armies of the four kings who had taken
his nephew Lot as prisoner of war. There is a famous Drash (homiletic
interpretation), appearing in the Talmud (Tractate Nedarim) and in the
Midrash (Bereshit Rabba), asserting that in fact this contingent consisted
of just one man—Avram’s domestic steward, the Hebrew letters of whose
name, Eliezer, have gematric values adding up to 318. Rashi (Rabbi Shlomo Yitzhaki), the greatest biblical exegete in Judaic tradition, quotes
this Drash without any comment. Ibn-Ezra also mentions it, stressing that
Al-Khwarizmi’s Mathematical Doctrines in Ibn-Ezra’s Biblical Commentary r 175
it is Drash and that the scripture doesn’t talk gematria with which anyone
who so wishes can “bring out any name for good or for bad.”
It seems that what Ibn-Ezra dislikes is the game (or art), quite popular in some circles nowadays, of summing up the values of letters in a
word or a phrase in order to “discover” hidden meanings and connections.6 But when it comes to considering mathematical properties of a
specific number that happens to be the gematric value of a certain letter,
he does not hesitate to make the most of it. And that is exactly what he
does with the numbers 1, 5, 6, and 10. He concludes his discussion of these
numbers with the observation that their sum is 22—the total number of
Hebrew letters (so presumably the letters of the Holy Name represent the
full alphabet). But most of the discussion is dedicated to properties of
each of the four numbers (and an additional number—9, for reasons to
be explained below) by itself. Yet, while handling each number separately,
Ibn-Ezra unfolds some of the fundamental principles of arithmetic. This
is what we are about to show now.
In the following section, from the lengthy mathematical paragraph in
Ibn-Ezra’s commentary on God’s name we shall quote, not necessarily in
the order of their appearance, sentences and subparagraphs dealing with
properties of the special numbers 1, 5, 6, and 10. In each case we start with
the Hebrew original, followed by a bracketed English translation (as it is
in the opening paragraphs of the first two sections above) and then by
explanations and remarks. We shall similarly dedicate one section to the
more general principles and one to the properties of the special number
9. An additional section will relate to the lengthy commentary on the Ten
Commandments.7
Specific Properties
We start with a fairly simple property that holds for each of the four numbers under consideration (and for no other number).
וכל מספר מרובע ששם.ואלה ארבעתם אהוי הם הנכבדים
אחד נוסף על המרובע ככה יש בשרשו וככה בדומה
. וכן במרובע חמשה חמשה ובמרובע ששה ששה.לו
אלה הד‘ מספרים לעולם שומרים עצמם במרובעת וזהו
.מעלתם על כל המספרים המרובעים
176 r Michael Katz
[And these four—Aleph, Hey, Vav, Yod—are the distinguished ones.
And every squared number where one is added to the square the
same is in its root and the same in its like. And so in the square of
five five and in the square of six six. These four numbers forever
uphold themselves in square, and this is their eminence over all
squared numbers.]
The mathematical property referred to here is the repetitive nature of endings of powers of certain numbers. If a squared number ends with 1, IbnEzra tells us, then so does its root. Put vice versa—if a number ends with
1, so does its square. And by saying “and the same in its like” and then
“forever,” Ibn-Ezra probably means that the same is true for other powers, not only squares. For instance, the powers of 11, the smallest two-digit
number ending with 1, are 11, 121, 1331, and so on. This holds also for the
powers of 5 (5, 25, 125, . . . ) and of 6 (6, 36, 216, . . . ).
While maintaining that this property holds for the four distinguished
numbers (and for no other number), only with respect to the first three of
them Ibn-Ezra states it in detail. Regarding the fourth one, the idea is that
powers of 10 (10, 100, 1000, . . . ), like those of any number ending with
0, always end with 0. However, Ibn-Ezra doesn’t admit here a name or a
symbol for zero, and we shall return to this point later on.
We turn now to properties signalizing each of the four numbers separately. Easiest to handle is Ibn-Ezra’s one-sentence reference to the number 6.
ואין בכל מערכת,וחשבון ששה הוא חשבון שוה בחלקיו
.מספר שוה רק אחד
[And the sum 6 is an equal sum in its parts, and in the whole system
there is no equal number but one.]8
That is, in the system of numbers from 1 to 9 (the one-digit numbers), the
number 6 is the only one that is equal to the sum of its factors (6 = 1•2•3
= 1+2+3).
Next we turn to the number 1, the most magnificent and most powerful
number—the origin and building block of all numbers, Ibn-Ezra tells us.
And then he provides three specific properties of the number 1, the last
two of them tying it to the remaining two notable numbers—5 and 10.
Al-Khwarizmi’s Mathematical Doctrines in Ibn-Ezra’s Biblical Commentary r 177
והוא. והוא בכל מספר במעשה,כל מספר הוא באחד בכח
.יעשה בפאה אחת מה שיעשה כל מספר בשתי פאות
ובחברך מרובעו אל מרובע כפלו אז יהיו,והנה כח האחד
וכאשר תחבר מרובע האחד אל מרובע ראש הנפרדים...חמשה
.יהיה המחובר הוא הדומה
[Every number is in 1 potentially, and 1 is in every number actually.
And it will do on one side what every number will do on two sides.
And here is the power of the 1, and when you add its square to the
square of its double, then there will be 5 . . . and when you add the
square of 1 to the square of the head of separates, the sum will be
that which is the like.]
The first sentence here refers to the most basic idea that the number 1 can
give rise to any potential number, and any existing number is the sum of
several repetitions of 1.9 This entails a certain specific property presented
in the next sentence. The number 1 is half of its successor, 2. Any other
number is half of the sum of its successor and predecessor. That is, in
present-day mathematical formulation:
1 = ½(2)
2 = ½(1+3)
3 = ½(2+4)
and so on.
(As we shall explain below, Ibn-Ezra doesn’t have here 0 as a number.
If he had, he would have had to notice that the number 1 is also the mean
of its successor and predecessor, i.e. 1 = ½(0+2).)
I translate the word Hineh into Here, though there are other equally
good potential translations. And “the head of separates” is the first odd
number (3). Also “the like” is the number 10, so called as it is “like 1,” as we
shall soon see. Thus, in present-day mathematical formulations, the last
two sentences in the quotation above simply say:
12 + 22 = 5
and
12 + 32 = 10.
And these two sentences are meant to lead us to properties of the
numbers 5 and 10.
כי אם תחבר מרובעו אל,וזהו חשבון השוה במרובעים
וכל מספר לפני חמשה.מרובע כפלו כה יהיה מעוקב חמשה
יהיה ערך המעוקב אל השנים המרובעים בחשבון בערך
. ולמעלה מחמשה יהיה הדבר בהיפוך.החשבון אל חמשה
178 r Michael Katz
[And this (5) is a sum that is equal in squares, for if you add its
square to the square of its double, the same will be the cube of 5. And
any number preceding 5 the value of its cube to the two squares in
the sum will be as the value of the sum to 5. And above 5 this will
be in reverse.]
For the number 5 what we have here is:
53 = 52 + (2•5)2
For a number, say 4, smaller than 5 we have:
43 < 42 + (2•4)2 by a factor of 4 to 5
For a number, say 6, greater than 5 we have:
63 >62 + (2•6)2 by a factor of 6 to 5
These are all, we note, derivatives of the identity:
N3 = (N2 + (2N)2)(N/5)
So we get the factor N to 5, which reduces to 1 if N=5. The number 5
draws a border in this formula between ratios smaller than 1 and greater
than 1. Ibn-Ezra wouldn’t have, and probably wouldn’t like, this kind of
abstract formulation. But conceivably he would be pleased to see that the
next formula in this line singles out precisely his next distinguished number, namely 10, as the next border case, for
N3 = (N2 + (3N)2)(N/10)
And indeed the number 10 draws a similar border, this time in geometry, as Ibn-Ezra proceeds to show.
,ואם תשים אלכסון עגול במספרו ותוציא יתר בשלישית
יהיה המשולש שהוא שוה השוקים כמספר הקו הסובב
ולפני זה המספר יהיה ערך.וכמוהו המרובע הארוך בעגול
.המשולש אל הקו כערכו אל עשרה ולמעלה ממנו הפך הדבר
[And if you place a circle’s diameter of this number (10) and draw
a chord at the third, the triangle that is of equal sides will be of the
number of the round line, and like it the long quadrilateral in the
circle. And prior to this number the value of the triangle to the line
will be as its value to 10, and above it the reverse.]10
Al-Khwarizmi’s Mathematical Doctrines in Ibn-Ezra’s Biblical Commentary r 179
To understand what Ibn-Ezra tells us in this paragraph we need the
following plot, where the two chords cut the diameter at one-third and
two-thirds of its length.
The area of the rectangle is equal to the area of the big triangle, IbnEzra says. This is easily seen to be true, since the height of the triangle is
twice the width of the rectangle while the triangle’s base coincides with
the rectangle’s long side. (And also since the two small triangles cut by the
big triangle from the two corners of the rectangle are congruent to the two
small triangles cut from the big one above the rectangle.)
Now, if the length of the diameter is 10, Ibn-Ezra maintains, then the
area of the big triangle (and hence also the area of the rectangle) is equal
to the length of the circle’s perimeter. While if the length of the diameter
is smaller than (or greater than) 10, then the ratio of the triangle’s area to
the circle’s perimeter (or the reverse of this ratio) is the same as the ratio
of the diameter length to 10.11
These comments of Ibn-Ezra are captured by the formulas below,
where A denotes area, T is for triangle, R for rectangle, P for perimeter, C
for circle, and D for diameter.
A(T) = A(R) = P(C)•D(C)/10
Hence, clearly—
A(T) = A(R) = P(C) if D(C) = 10
A(T) = A(R) < P(C) by a factor of D(C) to 10 if D(C) < 10
A(T) = A(R) >P(C) by a factor of D(C) to 10 if D(C) >10
General Principles
So much for specific properties of the four distinguished numbers. And
now to three fundamental principles of arithmetic. We see the following lines as the truly exciting part in Ibn-Ezra’s commentary on the Holy
180 r Michael Katz
Name. But we stress that for him these lines here, the way he weaves them
into the broader discussion, constitute merely an account of one aspect of
his study of the numbers (1 and 10) representing the letters Aleph and Yod.
והנה כל המספרים...ודע כי האחד סוד כל המספר ויסודו
והנה...הם תשעה מדרך אחת והם עשרה מדרך אחרת
עשרה הוא דומה לאחד והוא שם כולל האחדים שהם
. ותחלת המספרים הדומים לאחדים...מאחד עד עשרה
כי בהגיעך לעשרים אז הם שני עשרות כנגד שני אחדים
ושלשים כנגד שלשה אחדים וכן כל עשרות עד תשעים הם
ובהגיעך למספר מאה.תשע עשרות כנגד תשעה אחדים
הוא דומה לאחד ובהגיעך לתשע מאות גם הם כנגד תשעה
גם האלף הוא.אחדים עד שתגיע לאלף שהם עשר מאות
,דומה לאחד עד היותם תשעה אלפים כנגד תשעה אחדים
ובהגיעך לעשרת אלפים אז נשלם החשבון בהיותו רבבה
כי כל ראשי, וככה עד עשר רבבות על הדרך הזה.אחת
על כן אמרו חכמי המספר.המספרים הם דומים לאחד
כי כל המספרים הם חלק מעשרה או התחדש מכפלו
.או ממחברתו אל אחדיו או מהשנים דרכים נחברים
[And you should know that the one is the secret of every number
and its foundation. . . . And here all numbers are nine from one way
and are ten from another way. . . . And here ten is like one and it
is a name which includes the ones that are from one to ten . . . and
the start of the numbers that are like the ones. For when you reach
twenty then there are two tens against two ones and thirty against
three ones, and so all tens up to ninety are nine tens against nine
ones. And when you reach the number hundred it is like one, and
when you reach nine hundred these too are against nine ones, until you reach thousand that are ten hundreds. Also the thousand is
like one till there are nine thousand against nine ones, and when you
reach ten thousand the sum is concluded by its being one myriad.
And so to ten myriads along this way, for all heads of the numbers
are like one. Hence sages of the number said that all the numbers
are parts of ten or generated from its multiple or from its aggregate
with its ones or from the two ways combined.]
One is the secret of arithmetic, and all numbers originate from it,
Ibn-Ezra says here. Then he explains that there are two ways to look at
Al-Khwarizmi’s Mathematical Doctrines in Ibn-Ezra’s Biblical Commentary r 181
numbers. One is to consider nine different numbers, while the other is
to think of ten numbers. Yet 10 is not really a new number requiring a
new symbol, as it is in fact like 1. Ten is an inclusive name of the one-digit
numbers and the first member of a new series of numbers resembling
those of the basic series.
It is thus clear that Ibn-Ezra doesn’t have here zero as a number in its
own right with its own symbol. He does have it in other writings, using
the same symbol we use today, borrowed from Indian mathematicians.
He calls it Small Wheel (Galgal Katan )גלגל קטן, and the idea presumably is that the emptiness of this symbol represents the nothingness of
zero.
What Ibn-Ezra has here, without spelling it out, is the notion of zero
as an empty space within a number of two digits or more. Moreover, between the lines we read here three of the most fundamental doctrines of
arithmetic as we know it today, though they date from antiquity and from
the Middle Ages. These are
1. The Decimal System
2. The Notion of Zero
3. The Position Principle
Ibn-Ezra states here that ten is like one and twenty is like two ones and
so on. Similarly, one hundred is against one and two hundred is against
two ones and so on; and this too is the case for thousands and myriads
and beyond. The head of each system of numbers is like 1 (and the second
member of each system is like 2, etc.). And the “sages of the number”
(mathematicians) tell us that in this way all numbers are combinations of
units and multiples of 10.
The decimal system is presented here together with the maxim (stemming from the position principle) that no new symbols are needed for
numbers from 10 and on. All one has to do is look at the head of each
number (or system of numbers) and at the way the number is built from
units and multiples of 10. Thus when we see, for example, the number
3333
we know that from left to right the first digit represents three thousand,
the second three hundred, the third three tens, and the fourth three
units. The same symbol (3) appears here four times, but each time it is
read differently according to its position. This way of writing numbers is
182 r Michael Katz
commonplace nowadays, seemingly obvious and natural. We take it for
granted, hardly ever noticing the ingenuity behind it, assuming perhaps
that it was like this always and everywhere. But it wasn’t. For instance,
roman numerals, based on the decimal system without the position principle, require different symbols in different positions, and so the number
above would be:
MMMCCCXXXIII
Without the compactness enabled by the position principle, arithmetic would not have reached the advanced stage where it is today. It was
from Hindu mathematicians that this principle was borrowed and implanted into medieval Arab mathematics. And it was from the writings of
al-Khwarizmi, translated into Latin, among others, that the principle was
imported to Europe and incorporated into western mathematics.
And this is also where the notion of zero, as a number or an empty
place, comes into the picture. It is instrumental in discerning, for example, the number three thousand and thirty-three from the number three
hundred and thirty-three. In our present-day writing, the first of these
two numbers is:
3033
In Ibn-Ezra’s writing, in line with his work discussed here, it would be:
גג ג
And with the Small Wheel, it would become:
ג0גג
Note that even though Ibn-Ezra used Hebrew letters, for example, the
third letter Gimmel -whose gematric value is 3, and hence he wrote from
right to left as is common in Hebrew, the number as a whole would be
ordered just as we always see it ordered. For counting in Hebrew used to
start from units (3 and 30 rather than 33).
The Number 9
From the discussion above, another number, 9, emerges as deserving our
respect. It doesn’t designate a specific letter of the Holy Name, but it is,
Al-Khwarizmi’s Mathematical Doctrines in Ibn-Ezra’s Biblical Commentary r 183
Ibn-Ezra says, the number of all (different) numbers. In other words, in
the decimal system, which lies at the heart of Ibn-Ezra’s treatment of the
letters of Ehyeh and Havaiah, 9 is the largest one-digit number.12
Now, to show the beauty of the number 9, Ibn-Ezra, in the passage we
are studying, writes as follows, right after telling us that there are nine
numbers altogether.
ואם תכתוב התשעה בעיגול ותכפול הסוף עם כל המספר
תמצא האחדים שמאלים והעשרות הדומות לאחדים
ובהגיעך אל חמשה שהוא האמצעי אז יתהפכו.לפאת ימין
.המספרים להיות העשרות אחדים והאחדים עשרות
[And if you write the nine in a circle and multiply the end by each
number you will find the ones left and the tens that are like the ones
on the right side. And when you reach five, which is the middle one,
then the numbers will capsize so that the tens become ones and the
ones tens.]
The circle drawn below, with the numbers from 1 to 9, shows what IbnEzra has in mind here. And we note that to many people nowadays this
is a well-known game.
At the top of the circle we have the number 9 (9 multiplied by 1). Below
it we have from left to right the number 18 (9 times 2). In the third line
we find the number 27 (9 times 3). This is followed by 36 (9 times 4) and
then by 45 (9 times 5). So far we have gone from top to bottom, and we
have had tens on the left and units on the right. But now we have reached
multiplication by 5 at the very bottom of the circle. So we’ll turn around
and start climbing up. And from this point onward we’ll read from right
to left, so that tens will be on the right and units on the left. In the bottom
line we’ll find the number 54 (9 times 6). Above it we have 63 (9 times 7).
Further up we get 72 (9 times 8) and finally 81 (9 times 9).
We note that the position principle once again plays a central role here.
184 r Michael Katz
And if at this place in his work Ibn-Ezra had a symbol, say 0, for zero, he
could have added it left of the 9. Then he would start with 09, as we sometimes write the number 9 today (e.g., in dates), and end with an additional
number, 90 (9 times 10), thus neatly closing the story (and the circle).
The Ten Commandments
One last sentence we want to quote from the passage we are dealing with
is this:
. חמש כנגד חמש, כמספר עשר אצבעות,והנה עשר ספירות
[And here are ten numberings, like the number ten fingers, five
against five.]
This dichotomy, five against five, leads us to a similar dichotomy, relating
to the Ten Commandments. Like other traditional commentators,13 IbnEzra speaks of two tables with five commandments on each—those concerning human-to-God commitments on one table and those concerning
human-to-human commitments on the other. Ibn-Ezra adds an assertion,
accompanied by a detailed explanation, that in each of the tables the commandments appear in order of importance (or severance). Most severe
on the first table is “I am the Lord thy God,” and on the other “Thou shalt
not kill.”
Ibn-Ezra’s comments on Exodus 20:2 (where we find the first commandment) are even longer than those on the verse concerning God’s
name that we scrutinized above. Among other things he writes here the
following lines that are relevant to our discussion.
וכולם...ואנשי המחקר מצאו כל דברי הגופות שהם עשרה
כי הוא,נסמכים על הראשון ונלווים אליו וממנו יצאו
כי ממנו יצא כל חשבון וכל.כמדות האחד בחשבון עשרה
והנה זה הדבור הראשון.חשבון ימצא בו כי הוא היסוד
כי,שאמר השם הנכבד כולל כל מצוות הלב הלשון והמעשה
וכבר פירשתי... אין עליו מצוה,מי שאינו מאמין בלבו בשם
.כי הדבור הראשון הוא היסוד ועליו כל בניני המצוות
[And the men of research have found all things of the objects to
be ten. . . . And they all lean on the first one and accompany it and
were derived of it, for it is like the virtues of the one in the sum of ten.
Al-Khwarizmi’s Mathematical Doctrines in Ibn-Ezra’s Biblical Commentary r 185
For from it emerged every sum and every sum will be found in it for
it is the foundation. And here this, the first commandment that the
revered God spoke, includes all precepts of the heart, the tongue
and the deed. For he who does not believe in his heart in God, on
him there is no precept. . . . And I already explained that the first
commandment is the foundation and on it are all constructs of the
precepts.]
Ibn-Ezra speaks here about facets of objects. Researchers have found,
he says, ten such facets (quality, quantity, etc.), and they all relate to the
first one, presumably the object itself (the other nine merely describing
various attributes). Thus, he maintains, we have here the like of the number 1. Here he returns to arithmetic, our concern; specifically to the notion
of the number 1 as the foundation of all numbers. Similarly, he tells us,
the first commandment is the basis of all precepts, for you won’t follow
God’s rules and obey His instructions if you don’t believe in Him. Thus
the first commandment is the essence of religious observance just as the
first number is the essence of arithmetic.
We note that here too al-Khwarizmi’s influence cannot be ignored. The
italicized words in the bracketed paragraph above echo the words of alKhwarizmi in the following paragraph.
From the Latin Translation of Book of Hindu Calculus:
Et iam patefeci in libro algebr et almucabalah . . . quod uniueresus numerus sit compositus et quod uniuersus numerus componatur super
unum. Unum ergo inuenitur in uniuerso numero.
English translation by André Allard:
I’ve already told in a book about al-jabr and al-muqabala . . . that
any number is a compound and that any number is formed in the
unit. The unit is thus in any number.14
Concluding Remarks and Story
Over the years Ibn-Ezra’s approach was challenged from both the religious and the scientific points of view. Religious critics argued that it
belittles God to have the glory of His name rest on numerical considerations. More relevant to our work here are the following mathematical
observations:
186 r Michael Katz
1. Ibn-Ezra’s manipulations concerning specific numbers may look like
nothing much more than games. They may be amusing, but at least some
of them are also trivial.
2. With enough patience and imagination, any number can be shown
to have quite a few unique mathematical properties. As an example, we
note that more than a millennium before Ibn-Ezra, Philo of Alexandria,
in his book Al Beriat ha-Olam (On the Creation of the World), provided
lists of properties of the numbers 4 and 7.
3. The specific properties Ibn-Ezra lists stem from the fact that we work
within the decimal system. In his eloquent treatment of the decimal system, Ibn-Ezra seems to ignore the fact that this system is not God-given
(even though He gave us ten fingers). Ibn-Ezra can hardly be blamed for
this, since throughout history the decimal system (perhaps because of
the ten fingers) was universally the most popular one. However, as is well
known, there were always other systems, like the duodecimal system and
most notably nowadays the binary system. And needless to say, in any
nondecimal system, the properties Ibn-Ezra singles out with regard to,
say, the number 9, as exhibited in the “clock” above, would relate to another number. Ibn-Ezra himself noted this in his mathematics books.
It is easy to agree with these arguments. Still, no one can deny the elegance with which Ibn-Ezra integrates mathematics into his biblical exegesis. And no one can take away from him his account of the basic tenets of
arithmetic in the paragraph we are studying here. I would also venture to
say that in the dichotomous division mentioned above (five against five),
together with the continued reliance on the number 1 (and the awareness
of the notion of zero), we may perhaps see hints of the binary system
(alongside the decimal system, epitomized by the number 9).
It is on this combination (Ibn-Ezra’s liking of dichotomies on the one
hand, and of the number 9, on the other) that the following story rests. It
is borrowed from a small book entitled Mahalach Shevilei ha-Daath (The
Course of Wisdom’s Paths), where it is called Tahbulla (stratagem). The
book was written by Rabbi Moshe Kimhi in the twelfth century and has
since been published with commentaries in several editions. The story
appeared as an appendix in some of these editions, making its way to the
entry “Ibn-Ezra” in the Hebrew Encyclopedia. It shows the respect, mixed
with humor, with which Ibn-Ezra was held in spite of the criticism leveled
against him. So here it is, translated from Hebrew almost word by word:
Al-Khwarizmi’s Mathematical Doctrines in Ibn-Ezra’s Biblical Commentary r 187
It was found written in the book of deeds of the sage Rabbi Abraham
Ibn-Ezra that once he traveled by sea with fifteen of his students.
And there were also fifteen hollow men (Reikim) with him there.
Then one day God cast a storm into the sea and the boat was about
to break down and sink. The captain then ordered that half the men
on board be thrown into the sea to ease the load. The sage IbnEzra saw this and said to the captain: “What you tell us to do is
right because it is better that half of us die and not all of us. So let us
cast lots to decide who will be the ones to be thrown into the sea.
And this is what we shall do. All thirty men will stand in one row
and we shall start counting from the first one to the ninth and
this ninth one will be thrown overboard. This way we shall go on
until every man captured as number 9 is thrown away into the sea.”
And the men agreed to do so and they said to the sage Ibn-Ezra:
“Rise, for this is your duty. You will align us as you like.” And he got
up and aligned them in such a way that always in the ninth place
was caught one of the hollow men until they were all thrown from
the boat and the students came out clear. And this is how he aligned
them: First he stood four students, then five hollowed, and two students, and one hollowed, and three students, and one hollowed, and
one student, and two hollowed, and two students, and three hollowed, and one student, and two hollowed, and two students, and
one hollowed.
In this story the bad guys are called Reikim (hollow or empty), meaning
that they were void of good deeds and learning. This reminds us of the
empty Small Wheel denoting zero, and accordingly we shall now use 0 to
indicate an evil man. And to comply with binary language we shall use 1 to
indicate a righteous man (a student in this story). So this is how the above
lineup would look (and it is easy to check that every ninth symbol is 0).
111100000110111010011000100110
To celebrate the “victory” of Ibn-Ezra and the men of virtue in this
story, there is a short poem attributed to Ibn-Ezra in some editions of the
book mentioned above. I bring here the Hebrew original, followed by my
poor English translation.
188 r Michael Katz
שיר מרובע מפי הראב”ע
כל אוון ורע לצדיק לא אירע
התחל בנושע וסיים ברשע
.הסב בתשע ויצא הרשע
A song of four lines, Ibn-Ezra composed:
To no ill and harm was the righteous exposed;
Begin with a saved, with a sinner conclude,
Go round by nine, and all malice preclude.
Now let’s all hope and wait for total abolishment of malice, so we can
live in a world of goodness and purity, a world in which Ibn-Ezras and
al-Khwarizmis enrich each other in knowledge and insight, live side by
side in harmony, and contribute together to the advancement of science
and humankind.
Notes
1. See Tony Levy, “Hebrew and Latin Versions of an Unknown Mathematical Text by
Abraham Ibn Ezra,” Aleph 1 (2001): 295–305, and also Shlomo Sela, Abraham Ibn Ezra
and the Rise of Medieval Hebrew Science (Boston: Brill, 2003), 21.
2. For the influence on Ibn-Ezra of other Muslim scholars, consult, e.g., chapter 5 in
Irene Lancaster, Deconstructing the Bible: Abraham Ibn Ezra’s Introduction to the Torah
(London: Routledge Curzon, 2003) as well as several articles in Isadore Twersky and Jay
M. Harris, eds., Rabbi Abraham Ibn Ezra: Studies in the Writings of a Twelfth-Century
Jewish Polymath (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1993).
3. For example, S. Gandz, The Mishnat ha-Middot (Berlin: J. Springer, 1932).
4. For example, G. B. Sarfati, “Mishnat ha-Midot,” in H. Ben-Shammai, ed., H
eqer
῾Ever we-῾Arav (Tel Aviv and Jerusalem: Tel Aviv University and Hebrew University,
1993), 463–90 (Hebrew).
5. Mikraot Gedolot (Great Bible Readings), often called the Rabbinic Bible, is a collection of traditional biblical exegeses highly revered by Orthodox Jews.
6. Another explanation might be that Ibn-Ezra wants to reserve gematria strictly to
matters of the utmost glory and mystery, such as God’s name, our concern in the present
essay.
7. Throughout this essay, the translations (and explanations) are mine, but in some
places I have consulted H. Norman Strickman and Arthur M. Silver, Ibn Ezra’s Commentary on the Pentateuch (New York: Menorah, 1996). (Similar explanations and presentations can be found in several Hebrew sources, e.g., in the Torat Chaim Chumash, published by Mossad Harav Kook.) I tried to translate quite literally, and hence the English
Al-Khwarizmi’s Mathematical Doctrines in Ibn-Ezra’s Biblical Commentary r 189
text, just like the Hebrew original, is not easy to read and understand. I hope the added
explanations and remarks will be of some help.
8. Here and in the sequel I use the term Sum to translate the word H
eshbon. In the
present context this seems more appropriate than calculus or calculation or computation
(the terms to which the word H
eshbon usually refers in modern Hebrew).
9. This is another place where al-Khwarizmi’s influence is evident, as we show at the
end of the section on the Ten Commandments.
10. Ibn-Ezra uses the term Alakhson for the diameter of a circle, while in today’s
Hebrew this term refers to the diagonal of, say, a rectangle or a parallelogram, and the
word for diameter is Kotter. Similarly, he uses here the term Yetter for a circle’s chord,
while in modern Hebrew Yetter is the hypotenuse of a right triangle and the word for
chord is Meitar—quite similar to Yetter and from the same root. We find here, perhaps
for the first time, the term Shveh Shokayim for an isosceles triangle, just as in present-day
Hebrew.
11. Two remarks are needed regarding this point. First, Ibn-Ezra did not mean to
equate area and length conceptually, but only the numerical values of these two entities
in the present context. This almost goes without saying. Second, the “equality” here is
in fact only an approximation (though a very close one). It’s hard to know whether IbnEzra was aware of this. He would have been, had he tried to provide a formal proof of
his claim. However, in the spirit of al-Khwarizmi and other Moslem mathematicians of
the time, Ibn-Ezra showed little interest in formal “Greek type” proofs.
12. It is worth noting that for similar reasons the number 9 is held in awe by various
traditional cultures. Here are two examples. In Chinese culture this awe is attested, e.g.,
by the nine concentric circles in Beijing’s Temple of Heaven, where there are nine stones
in the first circle, eighteen in the second, and so on up to eighty-one in the last circle.
And in Buddhist temples, in India and elsewhere, we often find nine stairs leading to the
Buddha.
13. For example, Ramban (Rabbi Moshe Ben Nahman) and H
ezkoni (Rabbi H
ezekiah
Ben Manoah).
14. See André Allard, “The Arabic Origins and Development of Latin Algorithms in
the Twelfth Century,” Arabic Sciences and Philosophy 1, no. 2 (1991): 233–83.
11
Pharmacopoeias for the Hospital
and the Shop
Al-Dustur al-bimaristani and Minhaj al-dukkan
Leigh N. Chipman
Two thirteenth-century works, one aimed at hospital use and the other at
private pharmacies, constitute the basis of our study. We will show that
the differences between them derive not only from the different audiences but also from the fact that one was authored by a physician and the
other by pharmacists—that is, by members of the target audiences. We
will also discuss the Jewish identity of the authors and its relevance for
their writings.
Abu ’l-Fadl Dawud b. Sulayman Ibn Abi ’l-Bayan al-Isra’ili (d. 634/1236)
was a pupil of Ibn Jumay῾, Saladin’s court physician. Himself physician to
Saladin’s successor, al-῾Adil, and the teacher of the medical biographer
Ibn Abi Usaybi῾a, Ibn Abi ’l-Bayan was director of the Nasiri hospital in
Cairo, and he composed his famous al-Dustur al-bimaristani fi ’l-adwiya
al-murakkaba (The Hospital Rule with Regard to Compound Drugs) for
use there.1 This work was published by Sbath in two essentially identical
versions,2 and consists of an introduction and twelve chapters that deal
with the various kinds of compound drugs in use during the late twelfth
and early thirteenth centuries.
Al-Dustur al-bimaristani forms part of the Arabic tradition of hospital
dispensatories. Ibn Abi ’l-Bayan’s most prominent predecessors were Sabur b. Sahl (d. 255/869)3 and Ibn al-Tilmidh (d. 560/1165),4 both of whom
were Christians working in Baghdad. Al-Dustur al-bimaristani has remained well known to the traditional practitioners of the Middle East,
Pharmacopoeias for the Hospital and the Shop r 191
Table 11.1 Comparing the Contents of al-Dustur al-bimaristani and Minhaj al-dukkan
Topic
Chapter for
al-Kuhin al-῾Attar
Chapter for
Ibn Abi ’l-Bayan
Preface (khutba)
Advice
Syrups (sharāb)
Robs (rubb)
√
1
2
3
√
Confections (murrabā)
Electuaries (ma῾jūn)
Stomachic pastes (jawārish)
Powders (safūf)
Pastilles (qurs)
Lohochs (lu῾ūq)
Pills (habb)
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
5
1
2
4
4
5
3
Hiera (iyārij)
Decoctions (matbūkh)
Eye salves (kuhl)
Eye powders (ashyāf)
Ointments (marham)
Oils (duhn)
Poultices (tilā’)
Dentifrices (sanūn)
Laxatives (mushilāt)
Plasters (dimād)
Errhines (sa῾ūt)
Substitute
Glossary
Weights
Ethics
Simples
Testing
11
3
3
7
7
12
10
9
11
8
9
6
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
5
20
21
22
23
24
25
not least through its being quoted extensively in Minhaj al-dukkan, another thirteenth-century manual of pharmacology and also with a Jewish
author, but aimed at private pharmacists rather than at hospitals.5
Minhaj al-dukkan wa-dastur al-a῾yan fi a῾mal wa-tarakib al-adwiya
al-nafi῾a lil-insan (The Management of the [Pharmacist’s] Shop and the
Rule for the Notables on the Preparation and Composition of Medicines
Beneficial to Man) was composed in 658/1260 in Cairo by the otherwise
unknown Abu ’l-Muna Dawud b. Abi Nasr al-Kuhin al-῾Attar al-Haruni
al-Isra’ili, a Jewish druggist. The work has twenty-five chapters, beginning
with a moralizing exhortation to al-Kuhin al-῾Attar’s “son,” and includes
chapters on simples, substitute drugs, and weights and measures. The
192 r Leigh N. Chipman
other chapters describe the preparation of compound medicines. This was
a very popular book that survives in about thirty manuscripts. According
to Goitein, it continued to be in use by “traditional druggists” in Cairo until the twentieth century,6 and according to Levey, it was “still very popular
mainly outside the large cities” as late as the 1960s.7 In his introduction,
al-Kuhin al-῾Attar states that he is composing this work because none
of the preceding formularies have been suitable for pharmacists; rather,
they have been written by physicians for physicians and are not as useful
in a drugstore setting as they are in a hospital.8 Backing for this claim can
be found in the titles of the formularies: al-Dustur al-bimaristani (The
rule for the hospital) versus Minhaj al-dukkan (The management of the
[apothecary’s] shop).
Table 11.1 compares the structure of the two works. Even the most cursory glance reveals that Minhaj al-dukkan contains more subjects than
does al-Dustur al-bimaristani. While most of the text of Minhaj al-dukkan
follows the usual structure of aqrabadhinat (i.e., pharmacopoeias), that
is, a division into chapters according to the method of preparation, these
chapters are preceded and followed by chapters more commonly found
in medical encyclopedias such as Ibn Sina’s al-Qanun fi ’l-tibb. True to his
aim of providing pharmacists with all the knowledge they need, al-Kuhin
al-῾Attar combined the simple formulary with the relevant sections of encyclopedias aimed at physicians. Most of these additions were placed after
the pharmacopoiea proper (chapters 20–25), but like the encyclopedias,
which begin by defining the character and qualities desirable in a physician, Minhaj al-dukkan begins with a section on the qualities and character of the aspiring pharmacist. With this exception, all the material in
Minhaj al-dukkan relates to practical rather than theoretical knowledge.
Like Minhaj al-dukkan, al-Dustur al-bimaristani begins with a preface.
This, in fact, is the only nonformulary section there. The prefaces of books
do not form a literary genre in themselves but are programmatic notes
setting out the author’s purpose in writing. According to Freimark, “In the
central part, almost always introduced by the rhetorical formula amma
ba῾du (‘now, then, now to the point’), the author states the real reason for
writing his book. For this he mostly uses topoi, which consist largely of
schematic patterns of thought and expression belonging to literary tradition, and which have parallels in European literatures of the late classical,
medieval, and early modern periods. On the other hand, several authors
also show personal approaches based on reality.” 9
Pharmacopoeias for the Hospital and the Shop r 193
Even the most cursory reading of the khutba of Minhaj al-dukkan reveals its formal structure and use of topoi common to prefaces throughout Arabic literature. The characteristic tripartite division into opening
praises, middle (“objective”) part, and closing praises10 is present: an exordium (p. 9) praising God for giving humanity the intelligence to know
and use the various animals, vegetables, and minerals on earth is followed
by a rehearsal of al-Kuhin al-῾Attar’s motives and objectives in composing Minhaj al-dukkan (pp. 9–11). These are followed by a detailed table of
contents (pp. 12–13).11 Finally, a single sentence (p. 13) asks for God’s help
in achieving the author’s purposes.12
What are al-Kuhin al-῾Attar’s motives and objectives? He aims to fill
a perceived need for a book that would cover all of pharmacy, pointing
out the lack of such a book, aimed specifically at pharmacists, among
both ancient and modern writers. This is his major criticism of our other
subject here, Ibn Abi ’l-Bayan. He continues by stating the requirements
of his readers and clarifying his method.
Al-Kuhin al-῾Attar begins the main part of his preface with the following words:
And now to the point, I have longed for a collection that would
comprise all my objectives, sufficient for all the needs of one desiring to achieve comprehension of everything relating to it. That
would enable him to dispense with a guide to show him the details
of the craft of pharmacy which he needs for what occupies him, not
absolutely but in relation to his fellow. For this craft is the most honorable craft after the craft of medicine. [This is] because it is a tool
of the craft of medicine, whose subject is the observation (nazar)
of the human body in order to preserve health if it is present or to
restore it if it is absent.13 This is only done through drugs, simple and
compound, and customary foods. I have not found a book comprising all I wanted, neither an ancient nor a modern pharmacopoeia
sufficient for what I intended.14
Two points are raised here: (1) the need for a comprehensive book of
pharmacology, and (2) the status of pharmacy as the handmaid of medicine. The former is the result of the latter: pharmacy’s importance requires
a special book devoted to it alone.
Of course, a good reason for writing a book is the fact that your predecessors have not done the job properly15 or were doing a different job
194 r Leigh N. Chipman
altogether. Al-Kuhin al-῾Attar states this clearly: Although Ibn Abi ’lBayan could have written the kind of book he himself intends, he did not
do so.
Indeed, in my time the shaykh al-Sadid Ibn ’l-Bayan composed a
fine book named al-Dustur al-bimaristani, and stated that he noted
in it everything that is needed, and there is no call for another collection. But upon my life! He omitted many things that are necessary to anyone with an interest in this craft, that is, the craft of
pharmacy, which is known nowadays as the craft of perfumery and
syrups (sina῾at al-῾itr wa-’l-ashriba).16 It was not above his capability, may God have mercy upon him, to compose something simpler
in words and more useful, but he intended to be brief, and he addressed skilled physicians, for he mentioned in it [= his book] the
rule for making syrups in general and robs in general and suchlike,
and this is only for whoever understands medicine. But as for the
apothecary or syrup-maker who wants to be guided by his words,
it is necessary to clarify things to him as a teacher with a pupil, so
that the reader remains safe from danger and free of responsibility.
When this became clear to me, I understood how little use it was,
despite its many virtues. If it had been more detailed and contained
everything that I collated, I would not have dispensed with it nor
composed this choice book.17
Indeed, Ibn Abi ’l-Bayan himself says that he is writing for an audience
of physicians: “And now to the point, this is a rule-book (dustur) comprising a clarification of the compound drugs used for most of the illnesses for
which one is confined (muqtassar ῾alayha) in the hospital, and they are
those used by most physicians, and their benefit is known, and their fame
(dhikr) is widespread, of what Dawud b. Abi ’l-Bayan the mutatabbib collected, and it is twelve chapters.”18 Despite the fact that the pharmacist was
supposed merely to carry out the physician’s instructions, implying that
the physician’s knowledge of drugs was equal to that of the pharmacist,
there is clearly a difference in the level of knowledge required by different
readers.
A striking omission, both from the khutba itself and from Minhaj aldukkan as a whole, is any discussion of pharmacological theory. This is
true of the physician-authored al-Dustur al-bimaristani, too. However,
Pharmacopoeias for the Hospital and the Shop r 195
that work specifically limits itself to the practical and does not claim to
enable physicians to dispense with all other books.
*
*
*
Ibn Abi ’l-Bayan is the author most quoted by al-Kuhin al-῾Attar, with
eighty-two appearances of his name in the text of Minhaj al-dukkan. AlKuhin al-῾Attar uses a number of formulae to quote Ibn Abi ’l-Bayan: min
dustur ibn ’l-Bayan (5 mentions; all appear in Sbath’s edition); min lafz
ibn ’l-Bayan (2 mentions; neither appear in Sbath); min khatt ibn ’l-Bayan
(6 mentions; none appear in Sbath); min al-dustur (43 mentions; almost
all appear in Sbath); min (al-)dustur al-bimaristan(i) (22 mentions; 3 appear in Sbath); ῾an or li-’bn bayan (3 mentions; none appear in Sbath).
In short, about three-eighths of the recipes al-Kuhin al-῾Attar seems to
quote from al-Dustur al-bimaristani are not present in Sbath’s edition.
While it is easy to explain the absence of some recipes, the fact that almost
no recipes quoted as taken from “al-dustur al-bimaristani,” appear in Ibn
Abi ’l-Bayan’s work is problematic. Without a doubt, al-Kuhin al-῾Attar
had been in personal contact with Ibn Abi ’l-Bayan—recipes he received
orally (min lafz ibn ’l-Bayan; ῾an ibn ’l-Bayan) or as a kind of personal
communication (min khatt ibn ’l-Bayan) may very well not have been
included in the “official” compilation of recipes. But why is “al-dustur albimaristani” quoted so often, if it is not Ibn Abi ’l-Bayan’s pharmacopeia?
Perhaps, contrary to what is generally accepted, rather than composing a
dispensatory himself, Ibn Abi ’l-Bayan selected recipes from an existing
one used at the Nasiri hospital.
Examination of the manuscript of Ibn Abi ’l-Bayan held in the library
of the Royal College of Physicians of London19 revealed a slightly different text than that published by Sbath. Most recipes can be found in both,
but some exist in Sbath that are missing in MS Tritton 38 and vice versa.
This is not unusual in medical manuscripts in general and pharmacological ones in particular. What is unexpected, however, is that none of the
additional recipes should be one of those quoted by al-Kuhin al-῾Attar as
coming from al-Dustur al-bimaristani. Part of the solution may be that
“al-Dustur al-bimaristani” can be construed as a generic title given to
books containing recipes that were used in hospitals, rather than the title
of a particular work written by one author.
Ibn Abi ’l-Bayan was the teacher of Ibn Abi Usaybi῾a, who is al-Kuhin
al-῾Attar’s contemporary. On the basis of the sheer number of quotations
196 r Leigh N. Chipman
of Ibn Abi ’l-Bayan in Minhaj al-dukkan,20 it may well be that he was
al-Kuhin al-῾Attar’s teacher as well. This can be supported by the fact
that Ibn Jumay῾—Ibn Abi ’l-Bayan’s teacher—is also quoted extensively
in Minhaj al-dukkan. A specific chain of transmission (Ibn Jumay῾ >Ibn
Abi ’l-Bayan >al-Kuhin al-῾Attar) seems a more meaningful explanation
for this than a personal preference on al-Kuhin al-῾Attar’s part for quoting
Jewish authors. If indeed al-Kuhin al-῾Attar and Ibn Abi Usaybi῾a were
not merely contemporaries but fellow students, the question of why Ibn
Abi Usaybi῾a did not include al-Kuhin al-῾Attar in his ῾Uyun al-anba’
becomes more pointed.21 The most obvious answer is because al-Kuhin
al-῾Attar cannot be numbered in tabaqat al-atibba’; he was not a physician
but only a pharmacist, as indicated by his name.
*
*
*
One of the most important aspects of a pharmacist’s work is the relationship with prescribing physicians. Comparing recipes composed by Ibn
Abi ’l-Bayan for use in hospitals with the way those recipes are quoted
in Minhaj al-dukkan for use by the private pharmacist can elucidate this
relationship. How, then, do recipes from al-Dustur al-bimaristani appear
in Minhaj al-dukkan? The first characteristic that leaps to sight is the lack
of verbatim quotation. Unlike most of the other sources quoted in Minhaj
al-dukkan,22 Ibn Abi ’l-Bayan seems to give more details than al-Kuhin al῾Attar does, as in the recipe for squill (Urginea maritima) oxymel (sharab
al-sakanjabin al-῾unsuli). See table 11.2.
Most obvious here are the detailed indications provided by Ibn Abi
’l-Bayan that are completely missing from al-Kuhin al-῾Attar’s version of
the recipe. Does he expect the physician to prescribe this medicine explicitly, thus making indications unnecessary? If so, why is this not always
the case? In addition, Ibn Abi ’l-Bayan gives highly detailed instructions
for preparation, contrasting sharply with al-Kuhin al-῾Attar’s vagueness:
rather than sealing the mixture for two months and leaving it in the sun,
Ibn Abi ’l-Bayan rather pedantically places the box in the hot sun and
then takes it out of the sun, before mixing it with either sugar or good
pure honey; rather than letting it achieve the [desired] consistency, Ibn
Abi ’l-Bayan requires that the sugar and vinegar be cooked like plain oxymel (the recipe for which he has already given).
Another recipe with more detailed instruction in the al-Dustur albimaristani version is for root oxymel (sharab sakanjabin usuli), which
Pharmacopoeias for the Hospital and the Shop r 197
Table 11.2 Two Versions of the Recipe for Squill Oxymel Syrup
al-Dustur al-bimaristani, p. 46
Minhaj al-dukkan, p. 37
Squill oxymel syrup
Squill oxymel syrup
From Ibn Bayan’s Dustur
Beneficial for hemiplegia and facial
paralysis and joint pains and bad constitution and coarseness of the spleen;
opens obstructions in the liver.
Take from a medium squill bulb at
harvest time the
Take from a medium squill bulb at harvest
time the
quantity of one and a half ratls [1 ratl= quantity of one and a half ratls. Chop finely
app. 300 grams] Chop finely with a
with a
wooden knife and place in a linen
cloth and suspend
wooden knife and place in a linen cloth and
place in
in a vessel filled with strong vinegar
a glass vessel filled with seven and a half
ratls of
strong wine vinegar
Let there be the space of two fingers
between it
Let there be the space of two fingers between it
and the vinegar
and the vinegar
Stop the mouth of the vessel and place
in the hot sun
Stop the mouth of the vessel and leave in
the sun
for two months; take out of the sun.
For every ratl of sugar or good pure
honey, add
Then take of this vinegar four uqiyyas for
every ratl of
four uqiyyas [1 uqiyya= app. 24
grams] of the squill vinegar. Cook as
plain
sugar. Let it reach [the desired] consistency
and
oxymel, remove and use.
remove.
describes in detail the procedure for dissolving sugar in vinegar.23 However, this recipe also shows al-Kuhin al-῾Attar using the Baghdadi ratl
while Ibn Abi ’l-Bayan leaves the choice of the Egyptian or Baghdadi ratl
to the person making up the medicine—one would expect the opposite,
with the hospital being more precise than the private shop.
Several recipes in al-Dustur al-bimaristani have more detailed indications than their counterparts in Minhaj al-dukkan, as in the recipe for
barberry pastilles (Berberis vulgaris, quras al-amirbaris al-rawandi). See
table 11.3.
Table 11.3 Two Recipes for Barberry Pastille with Rhubarb
al-Dustur al-bimaristani, p. 37
Minhaj al-dukkan, p. 97
Barberry pastille with rhubarb
Barberry pastille with rhubarb
From the Dustur
Good for weak liver and stomach,
extended and
We note its excellent benefits.
phlegmatic fevers, alleviates tertian,
quartan and quintan fevers, opens
obstructions, opposes putrefaction
occurring in the arteries, good for the
beginning of dropsy caused by heat in
the liver and evil qualities, strengthens
the internal organs.
Iraqi roses, cleaned of thorns, seven
dirhams, grated licorice
Rosebuds cleaned of thorns, seven dirhams, licorice
and manna and barberry juice, of each
four dirhams,
and manna and barberry juice, of each
four dirhams,
spikenard and mastic and agrimony herb spikenard and mastic and agrimony herb
and
and
bamboo-sugar, of each two dirhams,
peeled
bamboo-sugar, of each two dirhams,
peeled
rocket seed, three dirhams, fine lac and
Chinese or Turkish
Rocket seed, three dirhams, fine lac and
Chinese or Turkish
rhubarb and nutmeg and saffron, of each
a dirham
rhubarb and nutmeg and saffron, of each
a dirham
Macerate the manna and barberry juice
in endive
Macerate the manna and barberry juice
in endive
juice after removing its froth
juice after removing its froth
Knead with it the rest of the ingredients
after
Knead with it the rest of the ingredients
after their
grinding and sifting them, and make
their weight
grinding and sifting and form into pastilles. [Make]
accurate; form into pastilles and dry in
the shade.
each pastille two and a half dirhams, so
that when it
Make each pastille one mithqal.
dries its weight remains one mithqal.
Beneficial.
Pharmacopoeias for the Hospital and the Shop r 199
The contrast between the several lines of benefits of this pastille according to Ibn Abi ’l-Bayan, and so al-Kuhin al-῾Attar’s laconic nadhkur
manafi῾ahu fi ’l-far῾ is striking. Ibn Abi ’l-Bayan claims that this pastille
is beneficial for weakness of the liver and stomach and for chronic and
phlegmatic fevers; alleviates (literally: halves, shatara) tertian, quartan,
and quintan fevers; opens blockages; acts against putrefaction occurring
in the arteries, is beneficial for the beginning of dropsy caused by the heat
of the liver and evil properties; and strengthens the internal organs. All alKuhin al-῾Attar says is something along the lines of “We note its excellent
benefits.” Was this perhaps such a successful panacea that the pharmacist
considered exact indications unnecessary? He ends the recipe with the
word nafi῾ (beneficial), indicating that this medicine did, in fact, work.
Did he rely on the physician to prescribe this pastille correctly?
Once again, the instructions for preparation are slightly more detailed
in al-Dustur al-bimaristani; however, Minhaj al-dukkan has more practical advice on how to reach the desired dry weight of each pastille.
In the case of a decoction of fruits (matbukh al-fakiha) called maybukhtaj, the version appearing in Minhaj al-dukkan is more detailed. See
table 11.4.
In this recipe, the Minhaj al-dukkan version lists several additional
stages of preparation: The various simples are soaked in almond oil before being tied in a linen rag; ingredients are pounded and added to the
julab to which the second straining of the cooked fruits is poured—and
these extra ingredients are missing from the Dustur al-bimaristani version
(perhaps a line was omitted from the Sbath manuscript?); the final mixture is formed into pills before being dissolved for ingestion. Moreover,
the last sentence of the recipe is a list of ailments for which this decoction
is beneficial, and the Minhaj al-dukkan version adds hemicrania (shaqiqa)
to purification of the brain, nerves, and long-standing eye problems.
The only place where Ibn Abi ’l-Bayan gives more details than al-Kuhin
al-῾Attar is, surprisingly, at the heading, when discussing the name of the
medicine: he notes that this is a decoction known in Egypt as al-maybukhtaj (a Persian word meaning “cooked wine”) and in Syria and Iraq as
“decoction of fruits,” while al-Kuhin al-῾Attar conflates this by the heading “Decoction of fruits, and this is the one known as al-maybukhtaj.”
According to both authors, the two names refer to the same thing, but
Ibn Abi ’l-Bayan tells his readers where each name is used. It is unclear
whether this is of any significance; after all, in other recipes al-Kuhin
Table 11.4 Recipes for a Decoction of Fruits (maybukhtaj)
al-Dustur al-bimaristani, p. 123
Minhaj al-dukkan, p. 123
Description of a decoction known in Egypt as
Description of a decoction of fruits and this is the
one
known as maybukhtaj.
maybukhtaj and in Syria and Iraq as “decoction of fruits.”
Many people use it in spring and autumn; it
purges
various humors, phlegm, yellow bile and burnt
black bile;
removes evil excesses. It has many virtues and
no danger.
Take de-pipped raisins, fifteen dirhams, chebulic and yellow myrobalans, both cleaned, and
Indian [myrobalan] and Syrian bugloss and
licorice and maidenhair and mallow-wood and
crushed fumitory seeds and barberry, of each
three dirhams; Meccan senna and polypody
and Cretan dodder, tied in a linen rag and
added after boiling, of each four dirhams;
fleshy plums, cut in half, fifteen units,
From the Dustur
Many people use it in spring and autumn; it purges
various humors, phlegm, black bile and yellow
bile;
removes evil excesses. It has many virtues and no
danger.
Take de-pipped raisins, fifteen dirhams, chebulic and yellow [myrobalans], both pitted, and
Indian [myrobylan]and bugloss and licorice and
maidenhair and mallow-wood and crushed fumitory seeds, of each three dirhams, Meccan senna
and green polypody and Cretan dodder, soaked
in almond oil and tied in a linen rag, added after
boiling, of each four dirhams; thick plums, fifteen
units
cleaned tamarind twelve dirhams, sebesten and
jujube, thirty units,
flowers of Iraqi violets, three dirhams, waterflowers of Iraqi violets, three dirhams, water-lily
lily and fresh rose, of each seven flowers, leek
and fresh rose, of each seven flowers, leek seeds,
seeds, one mithqal, fennel seeds, half a dirham. one mithqal, fennel seeds, half a dirham.
Crush those drugs that need to be crushed and
Crush those drugs that need to be crushed,
steep all in four hundred dirhams of sweet water
steep all in four hundred dirhams of pure
water for a day and a night. Boil until a quarter for a day and a night. Boil until a quarter remains,
strain and mash into it twelve dirhams of cassia
remains, strain and mash into it twelve dirfistula scales and ten dirhams of manna. Strain
hams of cassia fistula scales and ten dirhams
of manna. Strain again over twelve dirhams of again over one uqiyya of julep and a spoonful of
almond oil.
julep.
Sprinkle it with
Sprinkle the surface of the vessel with sweet smelling Chinese or Turkish rhubarb
half a dirham of sifted agaric, half a dirham of and agaric and pounded yellow turpeth with
gummy edges, of each half a dirham, and one
turpeth and ground and sifted rhubarb, half a
daniq of scammony.
dirham and one daniq of rubbed scammony
and a spoonful of almond oil; use.
One may add, to the above seeds, hiera picra, one
One may add to these seeds, one mithqal of
mithqal, and knead everything in endive juice or
hiera picra, and knead everything in fennel
fennel juice and form into pills and swallow with
juice and swallow four hours before drinking
julep four hours before drinking the decoction.
this decoction.
And this is to cleanse the brain and nerves and Beneficial for hemicrania, cleansing the brain and
chronic eye diseases.
nerves and chronic eye diseases.
Pharmacopoeias for the Hospital and the Shop r 201
al-῾Attar has been the one adding information about the different names
in different places.
However, there are a few recipes with almost no difference, such as a
gargle for clearing the brain, where al-Kuhin al-῾Attar strains the liquid,
but not necessarily through silk, as Ibn Abi ’l-Bayan recommends,24 or
they simply have different names for the same thing, as in the identical
recipe for a poultice called a jabar in Minhaj al-dukkan and a dimad in
al-Dustur al-bimaristani.25
Al-Kuhin al-῾Attar has certain expressions that he adds almost invariably, no matter whom he is quoting. The most common addition is the
word nafi῾, “beneficial,” which often appears tagged on to recipes. This
almost never appears in the sources; indeed, when a similar word, like
mujarrab, “tried and tested,” appears in the source-recipe, in Minhaj aldukkan it will usually be accompanied by nafi῾ as well. An interesting
variant is nafi῾ in sha’a allah. The addition of “God willing” has the effect
of weakening the approval expressed by “beneficial”—perhaps this recipe
is not so beneficial after all? This might be the medico-pharmaceutical
equivalent of the historians’ allahu a῾lam, “God knows best,” indicating
at least a lack of certain knowledge and even distrust.
Up to now we have dealt principally with the professional identity of
the two authors. What of their religious identity? We know from Ibn Abi
Usaybi῾a’s biography of Ibn Abi ’l-Bayan that he was a Karaite Jew. This
information could not be derived from the extant text of al-Dustur albimaristani—it contains not the slightest hint as to the religious identity
of its author. Neither the Jewish nor the Muslim dietary laws have had
any influence on the ingredients used to prepare drugs of classical Greek
origin. The ashes of crabs and scorpions, wine, and the flesh of various
unclean animals all appear there. The same is true of the recipes recorded
in Minhaj al-dukkan. However, in contrast to al-Dustur al-bimaristani,
Minhaj al-dukkan does contain clues that hint at al-Kuhin al-῾Attar’s Jewishness. The first clue, of course, is his name. The combination of al-Kuhin
(= the priest) al-Haruni (= the Aaronid) al-Isra’ili (= the Israelite) suggests an actual Jew, rather than a Jewish convert to Islam or a descendant
of one, possible interpretations of the nisba al-isra’ili by itself. Ibn Abi
’l Bayan’s name, as it appears in al-Dustur al-bimaristani, does not even
include this nisba. Without Ibn Abi Usaybi῾a’s biography, there would be
no evidence that Ibn Abi ’l Bayan was Jewish at all, let alone a Karaite.
202 r Leigh N. Chipman
Other clues to al-Kuhin al-῾Attar’s religious identity appear mainly in
the chapter on drug synonyms, of all places. In a work written in Arabic
characters and aimed principally at a non-Jewish audience, a few plants
are given names in Hebrew, as well as different Arabic names (in contrast
to one of the most famous works in this genre, Maimonides’ Sharh asma’
al-῾uqqar,26 which gives no Hebrew names). In this chapter, al-Kuhin
al-῾Attar gives his readers interesting information about various plants,
sometimes in addition to a list of synonyms and sometimes instead of it.
One interesting anecdote, particularly in light of the author’s identity
as a Jew of the priestly caste (from which his title al-kuhin = ha-kohen
derives) appears in the entry for ῾ushar (Calotropis gigantea or Asclepias
gigantea):27
Milkweed: this is the plant from which the sugar known as sukkar
al-῾ushar28 comes. It is a plant bearing fruit about the size of a pomegranate, green on the outside and white on the inside. In it is a wool
softer than silk, from which the clothes of the priest who served in
the Temple used to be made. I have been told that it is unlucky in the
house, and I do not know the reason for this. It is reported that the
priest would use it for serving exalted God and was not permitted
to change it for another.
This tale does not appear in any of the other sources used in this section, while the secondary literature knows of ῾ushar only as a source of
sugar.29 However, R. Sa῾adya Gaon30 in his Tafsir on Exodus 25:4 states
that ῾ushar is a kind of flax found only in Egypt , completely white and
not colored.31 Indeed, the general consensus of Rabbanite tradition is
that the words shesh and bad appearing in the biblical descriptions of
the priestly garments refer to linen,32 whereas the Karaite tradition is that
these garments were of silk.33 Although the Karaites are also likely to have
accepted Sa῾adya’s identification of ῾ushar, we suggest that the reference
to the priestly garments as being made of a kind of linen indicates that
al-Kuhin al-῾Attar—for whom no biographical details survive—is more
likely to have been a Rabbanite Jew.
What then can we say of the relevance of their Jewish identity for our
two authors? In a discussion of the medical works of Maimonides, surely
someone whose Jewish identity was important to him in other intellectual
spheres, Lieber has pointed out that
Pharmacopoeias for the Hospital and the Shop r 203
literate Jewish physicians of the medieval Islamic world, like their
Muslim and Christian colleagues, were to base their ideas essentially
on the writings of Galen and, through them, on the Hippocratic
corpus—that is, on pagan Greek concepts. And the same held for
the medicine of Christian Byzantium.
This international, or rather interfaith, unity of medicine was
made possible by the fact that it was essentially untouched by theological considerations. . . . The Bible or Talmud are hardly ever invoked in medieval Jewish medical writings; just as the Koran makes
little intrusion into the mainstream of Islamic medicine.34
Lieber’s point seems certainly to hold true of the physician Ibn Abi ’lBayan. But what of the pharmacist al-Kuhin al-῾Attar? Unlike al-Dustur
al-bimaristani, Minhaj al-dukkan contains two chapters (1 and 23) devoted to ethics, a large part of which have a religious flavor. In chapter
1, al-Kuhin al-῾Attar immediately reminds his son that God has created
men as intelligent beings and given them free will, thus enabling them to
do good. The emotion uppermost in one’s soul should be reverence for
God.35
Chapter 23 begins with a passage reminiscent of the Jewish prayer recited upon wakening: “I thank Thee, Everlasting and Eternal King, Who
hath returned my soul unto me in mercy.” Al-Kuhin al-῾Attar tells his son:
Know that on each day the creation is renewed,36 and know that
sleep is the lesser death. When a person wakens from sleep, it is as if
he had been newly created, and it is incumbent upon him to thank
exalted God for His power and His keeping him alive and able to
thank Him for His grace.37
There is constant mention of God throughout this chapter: One must
aim to be worthy of God’s reward; all profits are a gift from God; one must
have faith in God, for it is He who provides livelihood, not human customers; be grateful to God always, no matter what your situation: if it is
good, that it is good, and if bad, that it is not worse. The chapter ends with
the words: “May God make you one of those who keep and fulfill [His
laws], and not make you one who forgets and is neglectful. God directs
all courses.”38
Both in form and content, these chapters of Minhaj al-dukkan are
very similar to the ethical wills found in medieval Jewish literature. Two
204 r Leigh N. Chipman
near-contemporary examples are the “Father’s Admonition” (Mussar ab)
of Judah ibn Tibbon (fl. late twelfth century) and the “Gates of Instruction” (Sha῾arei ha-mussar) attributed to Maimonides and probably composed by a thirteenth-century physician.39 Naturally, the Jewish ethical
wills are addressed from father to son, as is Minhaj al-dukkan in its entirety. Like chapters 1 and 23 of Minhaj al-dukkan, the father delineates the
correct way of life for his son. I will give a few examples of similar ideas:
Ibn Tibbon tells his son, “Thou knowest, my son, that the Creator did not
specify a recompense for any of the Ten Commandments, except for honoring parents,”40 while al-Kuhin al-῾Attar says, “Follow your prayers by
serving your parents, for Paradise is open before you during their lives.”41
Or again, Ibn Tibbon says, “My son! If thou writest aught, read it through
a second time, for no man can avoid slips,”42 while al-Kuhin al-῾Attar
tells his son, “If you write a letter to anyone, reflect on it very much, for
it is your intelligence sealed with your seal.”43 Even the advice that alKuhin al-῾Attar gives his son, to treat his shop and goods as a learned
man treats his books—that is, to check them regularly and know what is
there44—appears in the Mussar ab, in admonitions on the proper care of
one’s library.45
Al-Kuhin al-῾Attar regards carrying out one’s duties as a pharmacist
properly as a religious obligation, on the same level as belief. To him, the
profession of pharmacy means constantly to fulfill the injunction to love
one’s neighbor as one’s self. Neglectfulness on the pharmacist’s part is potentially life-threatening, thus such neglect would be a sin.46 Despite the
similarities to Jewish material noted above, however, al-Kuhin al-῾Attar
expresses no clear-cut religious identity beyond a general monotheism.
The relevant Arabic terminology was shared by Jews, Christians, and
Muslims, allowing pharmacists from every community to see al-Kuhin
al-῾Attar’s moral injunctions as relevant to themselves, as relevant as his
instructions for preparing medicines.
Glossary of Pharmaceutical Terms
Decoction: a liquid preparation made by boiling a medicinal plant with
water.
Julab: julep, simple syrup.
Pastille: a small medicated or flavored tablet.
Pharmacopoeias for the Hospital and the Shop r 205
Pill: a small pellet or tablet of medicine, taken by swallowing whole or by
chewing.
Poultice: a soft moist adhesive mass, as of dough or clay, that is usually
heated, spread on cloth, and applied to warm, to moisten, or to stimulate
an aching or inflamed part of the body.
Rob: thickened juice of ripe fruit, obtained by evaporation of the juice
over a fire until it acquires the consistence of syrup.
Notes
1. See Manfred Ullmann, Die Medizin im Islam (Leiden, 1970), 309; Juan Vernet, “Ibn
Abi ’l-Bayan,” Encyclopaedia of Islam 2, 3:683.
2. For a discussion of this issue, see E. Lev, L. Chipman, and F. Niessen, “A Hospital
Handbook for the Community: Evidence for the Extensive Use of Ibn Abi ’l-Bayan’s alDustur al-bimaristani by the Jewish Practitioners of Medieval Cairo,” Journal of Semitic
Studies 53 (2008): 104–105. The two editions are P. Sbath, ed., “Le Formulaire des hôpitaux d’Ibn abil Bayan, médicin du bimaristan annacery au Caire au XIIIe siècle,” Bullétin
de l’Institut d’Egypte 15 (1932–33): 9–78; and P. Sbath and C. D. Avierinos, eds. and trans.,
“Sahlan Ibn Kaysan et Rašid al-Din Abu Hulayka: deux traités medicaux,” Bulletin de
l’Institut d’Egypte 25 (1953): 43–75. References to “Sbath’s edition” throughout are to the
1932–33 edition.
3. On Sabur b. Sahl, see O. Kahl, “Sabur b. Sahl,” Encyclopaedia of Islam 2, 8:694.
4. On Ibn al-Tilmidh, see S. K. Khamarneh, “Ibn al-Tilmidh,” Dictionary of Scientific
Biography (New York, 1970–90), 13:415–16.
5. A recent edition is Abu ’l-Muna al-Kuhin al-῾Attar, Minhaj al-dukkan wa-dustur
al-a῾yan, ed. H. al-῾Asi (Beirut, 1992). On the book and its author, see L. Chipman, The
World of Pharmacy and Pharmacists in Mamluk Cairo (Leiden, 2010).
6. Shlomo Dov Goitein, A Mediterranean Society. vol. 2: The Community (Berkeley,
1971), 265.
7. M. Levey, Early Arabic Pharmacology (Leiden, 1973), 98.
8. Minhaj al-dukkan, 9.
9. Peter Freimark, “Mukaddima,” Encyclopaedia of Islam 2, 7:496. I would like to
thank Prof. Sarah Stroumsa for referring me to Freimark’s work.
10. Peter Freimark, Das Vorwort als literarische Form in der arabischen Literatur
(Münster, 1967), 23.
11. Ibid., 26–27: “Oft ist das Vorwort der Ort, den der Autor als Inhaltverzeichnis
benutzt. Es werden die einzelnen Kapital und Unterabschnitte des Buches aufgeführt,
um dem Leser die Behandlung des Gegenstands in Werk deutlich zu machen und um
die Benutzung des Werkes zu vereinfachen.”
12. Ibid., 62: “Im Ganzen ist dieser Schlussteil immer viel kürzer als die erster Teil des
Vorworts, er wird auch gelegentlich ausgelassen.”
206 r Leigh N. Chipman
13. This definition of medicine is that of Ibn Sina. See al-Qanun fi ’l-tibb (Beirut,
1420/1999), 1:13.
14. Minhaj al-dukkan, 9–10.
15. See, e.g., ῾Ali b. al-῾Abbas al-Majusi, Kamil al-sina῾a al-tibbiyya (Bulaq, 1870),
1:3–6: criticisms of previous books by Hippocrates, Galen, Oribasius, Paul of Aegina,
Ahrun, Ibn Serapion, and Muhammad b. Zakariyya’ al-Razi (al-Hawi). Contradiction
of one’s predecessors was a favourite topos; see Freimark, Vorwort, 40.
16. This corroborates al-Biruni’s etymology of saydalani originally referring to perfumers, particularly traders of sandalwood. Hakim Mohammed Said, ed. and trans., AlBiruni’s Book on Pharmacy and Materia Medica (Karachi, 1973), 1:4–5; cf. Max Meyerhof,
“Das Vorwort zur Drogenkinde des Beruni,” Quellen und Studien zur Geschichte der
Naturwissenschaften und der Medizin 3 (Berlin, 1932): 4–5 (Arabic text).
17. Minhaj al-dukkan, 10.
18. Al-Dustur al-bimaristani, 17.
19. Royal College of Physicians of London, MS Tritton 38; Arthur Tritton, “Catalogue
of Oriental Manuscripts in the Library of the Royal College of Physicians,” Journal of the
Royal Asiatic Society (October 1951): 182–92.
20. To say nothing of the direct reference to him and his book in the preface to Minhaj al-dukkan, see above.
21. For Ibn Abi Usaybi῾a’s criteria for inclusion, see Franak Hilloowala, “An Analysis
of Ibn Abi Usaybi῾ah’s Uyun al-anba fi tabaqat al-atibba” (PhD diss., University of Arizona, 2000), 145–63.
22. For a detailed comparison of al-Kuhin al-῾Attar’s sources and the use he makes of
them, see Chipman, The World of Pharmacy, 18–45.
23. Minhaj al-dukkan, 97.
24. Minhaj al-dukkan, 197, and al-Dustur al-bimaristani, 52; another example is the
recipe for habb muntin (“stinking pill”), in which Ibn Abi ’l-Bayan uses two-thirds of
a dirham of hiera picra while al-Kuhin al-῾Attar uses three dirhams (al-Dustur al-bimaristani, 31; Minhaj al-dukkan, 115).
25. Minhaj al-dukkan, 193, and al-Dustur al-bimaristani, 65.
26. Max Meyerhof, ed. and trans., Šarh asma’ al-῾uqqar (L’explication des noms des
drogues), un glossaire de matière médical composé par Maïmonide (Cairo, 1940).
27. Minhaj al-dukkan, 249.
28. According to Edward W. Lane, Arabic-English Lexicon (London, 1863–93), s.v., this
is “a well-known kind of sugar, in which is somewhat of bitterness,” or else “this is a kind
of red sugar, which falls like dew upon this tree.” See also Minhaj al-dukkan, 239, under
sukkar al-῾ushar, and 224, under taranjabin misri.
29. Rosa Kuhne Brabant, “Le sucre et le doux dans l’alimentation d’al-Andalus,”
Médiévales 33 (1997): 59: “Le terme sukkar . . . ne s’appliquait pas exclusivement au sucre
de canne maus aussi aux sucres extraits d’autres plantes comme . . . ῾ušar.” ῾Ushar is not
mentioned in Robert B. Serjeant, Islamic Textiles: Materials for a History up to the Mongol
Conquest (Beirut, 1972), but see now Z. Amar and T. Friedman, “Milkweed—Fibers to
Fabric,” Shuttle, Spindle, and Dyepot 28 (1997): 43–45.
Pharmacopoeias for the Hospital and the Shop r 207
30. R. Sa῾adyah Gaon (269–331/882–942) was a theologian, philosopher, and philologist, one of a very few Jewish thinkers to be mentioned in the Arabic biographical
literature. He was the head of the Talmudic academy at Sura, and his Tafsir is the first
translation of the Torah into Arabic. P. B. Fenton, “Sa῾adya ben Yōsēf,” Encyclopaedia of
Islam 2, 8: 661.
31. Yehuda Ratzaby, A Dictionary of Judaeo-Arabic in R. Sa῾adya’s Tafsir (Ramat-Gan,
1985), 101 (Hebrew).
32. Exodus 28:1–43 describes the garments of the high priest in detail, using the words
shesh and bad. Both words are conventionally translated as “linen”—in other words, Rabbinic Jewish tradition knows no other cloth originating from plant fibers used for the
priestly garments. See Nahum Sarna (commentary), Exodus = Shemōt: The Traditional
Hebrew Text with the New JPS Translation (Philadelphia, 1991).
33. I consulted the extant Karaite translations/commentaries on Exodus noted in
Meira Polliack, The Karaite Tradition of Arabic Bible Translation (Leiden, 1997), appendix 3. In all cases, shesh was translated as harir, “silk.” The verses containing bad were not
translated.
34. Elinor Lieber, “The Medical Works of Maimonides: A Reappraisal,” in Moses Maimonides: Physician, Scientist, and Philosopher, ed. F. Rosner and S. Kottek (Northvale,
N.J., 1982), 15.
35. Minhaj al-dukkan, 15.
36. Another citation from the Jewish prayer book. The first blessing recited before the
Shema῾ refers to God as “He who in His goodness renews the work of creation each day
constantly.”
37. Minhaj al-dukkan, 265.
38. Ibid., 271.
39. “A Father’s Admonition by Judah Ibn Tibbon,” and “The Gate of Instruction Attributed to Maimonides,” in Hebrew Ethical Wills, ed. and trans. I. Abrahams (Philadelphia, 1926), 1:51–93, 101–17.
40. Ibid., 1:56.
41. Minhaj al-dukkan, 268.
42. Hebrew Ethical Wills, 1:68.
43. Minhaj al-dukkan, 268.
44. Ibid., 268.
45. Hebrew Ethical Wills, 1:80–81.
46. Minhaj al-dukkan, 16.
12
Jewish Parody and Allegory
in Medieval Hebrew Poetry in Spain
Libby Garshowitz
With the arrival of Fez native Dūnash ben Labrat (died ca. 990) in Cordoba, Spain, and his introduction of Arabic quantitative meter, structure,
themes, and rhetorical style into Hebrew poetry, the golden age of Hebrew Andalusian poetry was launched.1 Its most prominent representatives over the next two centuries (ca. 1020–1150), beginning with the
Muslim caliphate of the welcoming ῾Abd-ar-Rahmān III (912–61), were
Samuel ibn Nagrela (993–1056), Moses ibn Ezra (1055–ca. 1140), Solomon
ibn Gabirol (1021–58), and Judah Halevi (1075–1141).
But many other poets soon joined their ranks, excelling in the creation
of a new and enriched genre of poetry by the Jews of southern Spain, concentrated mainly in the Andalusian cities of Granada, Córdoba, and Seville and in the border city of Toledo, which embraced both Christian and
Muslim influences. Their proximity to the seats of Muslim power enabled
Andalusian scholars to become deeply involved with the learned courtiers
there, skilled in belles-lettres, philosophy, and the narration of the glories
of their conquests. Furthermore, these literary contacts enhanced their
own creative skills, hitherto devoted to writing philosophical and grammatical treatises, codes of law, technical studies, and biblical translations,
among others, in the Arabic language.
Soon, however, Andalusian Jews set out to write their own poetry
in Hebrew, deeming it appropriate that their language was sufficiently
rich and elegant to leave behind the domain of the Arabic language and
Jewish Parody and Allegory in Medieval Hebrew Poetry in Spain r 209
demonstrate their own skill, virtuosity, and wit in creating distinctively
Jewish poetry in Hebrew.2 They abandoned both writing in Arabic and
translations of Arabic works into Hebrew and fashioned their literary
discourses to reflect their contemporary milieu and to infuse them with
Jewish topics in themes, form, style, and content. These Jewish craftsmen drew their inspiration from the Jewish literature in which they were
steeped from their great past and reflected, perhaps in hindsight, their
uncertain present and future. Their sources stemmed from all aspects
of the biblical, midrashic, and talmudic literatures that they brilliantly
wove into their secular and sacred poetry. Biblical allusions abound in
these literary creations, as they wrote in their poetry of the destruction
of their two temples, the loss of their hegemony and their land of Israel,
and the lengthy exile, as exemplified by Dūnash ben Librat’s “Sleep Not!”;3
the promises of eventual redemption, as in Samuel ibn Nagrela’s “Wake
Up, Wake Up”;4 the awesome wonders of God’s creation, as in Solomon
ibn Gabirol’s metaphysical treatise “Royal Crown”;5 laudatory poems in
praise (shevah) of benefactors and friends, as in the several dedications
to different patrons, both in Arabic and Hebrew, in Judah Alharizi’s Sefer
Tahkemoni;6 and the pleasures—and dangers—of wine, as in Samuel ibn
Nagrela’s “Wake Up, Wake Up” and Moses ibn Ezra’s “Drink Up, Enjoy.”7
Shifting seasons and lush gardens, fading and dying but reviving once
again as winter edges into spring, were frequent themes in these poems.8
Andalusian poets wrote of battles and wars and ultimately their distaste
of them.9 Dicta, moralia, and philosophical musings permeate this poetry
as do “boasting” poems, a distinctive feature of both Arabic and Jewish
poetry.10
Many of these poems formed the sacred and secular corpus of Hebrew belles-lettres. Also included in this corpus and heavily influenced by
the Arabs was love poetry, specifically “poetry of desire” (shirat hesheq).11
Filled with lust (hesheq) and longing, eroticism and jealousy, these poems
were a direct heir of Arabic love poetry—characterized by its lavish scenes
of nature, soirées devoted to enjoying wine, indulging in flirtatious dalliance in the presence of male and female servants, reading poems and
improvising, playing musical instruments, and writing erotic descriptions of love between male and male/female lovers, usually designated by
the Hebrew terms svi and ῾ofer, for the men and sviyya and ῾ofra for the
women. Love poetry did not always garner approval; for example, Moses
Maimonides (1138–1204) disparaged it.
210 r Libby Garshowitz
Maimonides’ Views on Love Poetry
Maimonides’ objections to love poetry, both Arabic and Hebrew, stemmed
from his belief that the Arabic language itself would be regarded as “out of
place, vulgar, perhaps even blasphemous, and certainly inappropriate to
a semi-religious or quasi-religious occasion.” Concerning poetry’s recitation in Hebrew, Maimonides’ objection derived “from the language of the
subject. . . . If, however, the purpose of that poem were vice, in whatever
language it may be, it is prohibited to recite it.” According to Kozodoy, “the
recitation of poems in the Hebrew language, by contrast [to the Arabic]
would in the view of [elders and saintly men] be permissible no matter
what the particular sentiments being expressed, on the grounds that the
language itself is sacred, and, being sacred, purifies and exalts that which
is expressed in its syllables. The language, they would say, is an elevating
and dignifying force; by its inherent sublimity it sacralizes the lowliest of
subject matters.” Kozodoy continues that Maimonides would have no use
for this view, from the standpoint of the subject, not the language. As we
shall see, Maimonides may not have approved of the material presented
in this essay, the decidedly erotic poetry of Jacob ben Elazar.12
Biblical Intertexuality and Influence of Arabic Literature
The principal text for the genre of erotic poetry was the biblical Song of
Songs. Hebrew poets wove biblical verses into their own works with ingenuity. Although the format, metrics, and themes of these Hebrew love
poems may be derived from Arabic poetry, their images and language
were purely biblical and midrashic. The sensuous language of Song of
Songs aroused later Jewish poets to emulate the idyllic language, erotic
images, and ideas of this collection of biblical love stories as intertextually they recalled the sheer joy, revelry, and lovemaking of the lovers in
the biblical book, which resonates with explicit corporeal imagery and
sensual expressions of affection between the coy but compulsive lovers.
Descriptive passages of passionate love scenes found their way into the
poetry of the Andalusians.13 The love poetry of the Middle Ages is filled
with expressions like “lovesick (holat ’ahavim) am I,” declares the damsel
who is totally enraptured with her soulmate, or “my beloved is like a gazelle” (domeh dodi li-sevi ’o le-῾ofer ha-’ayyalim).14 The love scenes in Song
of Songs with its rich settings were magically exported into the secular
Jewish Parody and Allegory in Medieval Hebrew Poetry in Spain r 211
poetry of Spanish Jewry as they lauded the luxuriant gardens of Spain
with her majestic mountains, warbling birds, and fleet-footed animals.
One of the many themes that Hebrew poets explored in biblical literature was the allusion to the marital relationship between God and Knesset
Israel, the Jewish people, his acknowledged bride. This relationship, however, is replete with betrayal and recommitment, rejection and restoration, deception and redemption.15 Themes of perfidy and unrequited love,
therefore, are both explicit and implicit in human male-female relationships, and both found their way into medieval Hebrew poetry, whether
openly or disguised.
Influence of Arabic Maqāma Literature on Hebrew Mahbarot
Another genre of poetry found in the extensive works of Andalusian Jewry
and directly influenced by Muslim culture and literature is maqāmāt (Arabic) or mahbarot (Hebrew) literature in rhymed prose and metered poetry. These compositions contain descriptions of travels and wanderings
undertaken by Jews to many places in the Maghreb (west) and the Mashriq
(east), wherever Jews lived, the communities the travelers encountered
there, and their raucous adventures in faraway places, real or imagined
(bidayon).16 These literary creations found responsive audiences and followed very closely upon what is regarded as the close of the golden age of
Andalusian poetry, when literary activity began flourishing in northern
Christian Spain following the traumas created by the upheavals of the Almoravid (1090) and Almohad (around 1147) invasions, which decimated
Jewish communities in southern Spain and forced many Jews northward
into Christian Spain and elsewhere in the Iberian Peninsula as well as to
other countries. These “wanderings,” different from those (imaginative)
tales in maqāma literature, were poignantly recorded by Andalusian poets such as Moses ibn Ezra, who was forced to leave Andalusia and who
penned many poems detailing his previous unfamiliar solitude.
The master composer of Hebrew maqāmat (henceforth mahbarot)
was Judah Alharizi (1165–1225). With his translation of al-H
ariri’s Arabic
maqāma into Hebrew, known as Mahberot ’Iti’el and the subsequent authorship of his own Sefer Tahkemoni in elegant, polished prose and poetry, the stage was set for other medieval Spanish Jewish scholars to follow
in his footsteps.17 One such author was Alharizi’s contemporary and fellow
Toledan, Jacob ben Eleazar (Abenalazar, c. 1170–1235).
212 r Libby Garshowitz
Jacob ben Elazar’s Sippurei ’Ahava
Jacob ben Elazar was the scion of a distinguished family, a Toledan, a wanderer, and a grammarian who translated the Arabic-language version of
the book of animal fables, Kalila ve-Dimna, into Hebrew, and composed
allegorical philosophic works and poetry.18
He penned his own ten-chapter maqāma or mahberet, Sefer Meshalim
(Book of Tales or Fables), also called Sippurei ’Ahava (Love Stories), in
about 1233. This work is described by its editor as “having no equal in this
literary genre in the medieval period.”19 In this work the reader encounters
many of the subjects found in the scant examples of liturgical and secular
poetry cited above. However it is indebted in content to sources found in
other literatures—Greek, Persian, Provençal, Spanish and Hebrew.20 Allegorical paeans on the soul’s yearnings—in dialogue with the heart—to
know wisdom, are reminders of Jacob ben Elazar’s magisterial philosophical works.21 There are poems in praise of Hebrew, poetic descriptions of
the competitive nature of poets, and a diversionary debate between prose
and poetry (poetry wins)22 and pen and sword (so does the pen), concluding that both are subject to God.23 Further enhancing this work are
animal fables, interspersed with ethical discussions, tales of treacherous
dealings between men and women, usually instigated by the latter and a
common theme in maqāma literature. Also included are a legion of the
usual suspects found elsewhere in medieval literature: bold hunters in
animal form, handsome young men, and beautiful young women, all in
pursuit of love, song, and dance. Ben Elazar demonstrates his wit, and
perhaps racism, in his description of fierce battles with wicked black giants (kushim) who lack wisdom and in his tales of Yoshefe’s ménage à trois
and “Kima’s and Sahar’s Love Story.”24 His cast of characters also include
bearded hypocrites, middle-aged lechers, and deceitful young orphans.
These tales are provocative, filled with the vice and wickedness of the
townspeople that the travelers encounter. They are subtly woven tales of
morals and codes of conduct, as one might expect from authors who have
also written more somber works.
Jacob ben Elazar’s place in the Arab-Christian milieu was conducive to
the acquisition of consummate knowledge of the Arabic and Hebrew languages and cultures.25 His travels to northern Spain and Provence would
also have brought him into contact with other literatures and poetry such
Jewish Parody and Allegory in Medieval Hebrew Poetry in Spain r 213
as that of the troubadours. He surely would have encountered their writings on issues of morality, society, gender, and sexual relations, which
were common themes in the Jewish world. Familiarity with the poetry
in these areas, as well as the composition of that of his fellow Toledan,
Judah Alharizi’s Tahkemoni, influenced Jacob ben Elazar to carry on the
tradition of injecting another perspective into the literature of desire, that
of parody, into his Hebrew composition. As the contact between Arab
and Hebrew cultures lessened somewhat and translations of Arabic works
into Hebrew increased, Jacob ben Elazar joined the cadre of authors who
left the eloquence of Arabic poetry and language to articulate the expressiveness of Hebrew. Furthermore, as Andalusian poets moved northward
and encountered other cultures, especially those of Christian Spain, they
found that the Arabic language was not the lingua franca it had been in
Muslim Andalusia.
Jacob ben Elazar’s contemporary, Judah Alharizi, described in his varying dedications to different patrons the state of Hebrew: “the holy tongue,
he was informed, was fast deteriorating, having been abandoned by its
people, who now favored the Arabic language,”26 which expresses succinctly ben Elazar’s motives for writing his “Love Stories” in Hebrew: first,
he wanted to chastise the Arabs who boast about the profundity and richness of the Arabic language and thereby mock the paucity of Hebrew to
address many subjects,
Is there such a language to cheer and smear
And love arouse, as the Arabs’?
Are there words as rich for wars and lore
as ours?27
Ostensibly offended by this flaunting, Jacob ben Elazar stated, as his second reason for writing his composition, his belief that the divinely ordained Hebrew language was eminently qualified to express profound
thoughts:
[God] has chosen the Sacred Tongue, the Hebrews’ language, over
others,’
He who mocks our tongue in turn is mocked and scorned
Because in a lesser language and alien tongue he speaks to this [Arab]
nation.28
214 r Libby Garshowitz
Jacob ben Elazar continues: “My Book of Tales’ intent and my dialogues
will respond to Arabs who the Sacred Tongue assail, vaunting their boldness over me, saying, only in their language can tales be told!” (ll. 11–14)
According to these naysayers, only the Arabic language can “praise,
ridicule, arouse love, mock” (ll. 16–17), to the extent that even Jacob ben
Elazar’s fellow Jews are convinced that the Arabic language is superior:
“They [the Arabs] have seduced my people and have so deceived them
that indeed [my people] say that the Ishmaelites silence all others with
their flattery and there are no words as pleasing [῾arevim] as the Arabs’“
(῾aravim, ll. 20–21). Sefer Meshalim, then, is designed to remove the
stigma of the “primitive nature” of Hebrew, which ostensibly shames his
people.29 He will reveal that the Hebrew language has not fallen into desuetude, since by zealously “posing riddles [hiddot] and allegorizing”30 (l.
26) “whose content and good taste the astute [’ish maskil] will surely understand” [bin yavin, l. 4], his fellow Jews will see what they have hitherto
neglected. And, indeed, Sefer Meshalim rings out with song, ridicule, parody, satire, an abundance of puns, alliterations, praise, love, and entertainment [sha῾ashu῾im] (introduction, ll. 2, 11). Jacob ben Elazar challenges
the Arabs to retract their derision of the Hebrew language since he will
demonstrate its superiority and exaltedness because God has endowed
humankind with intelligence, perception, and speech. And if, indeed, the
Hebrew language has lost some of its luster, Jacob ben Elazar will invigorate it.
The pivotal narrator in each mahberet of this work is a foreigner, as
found in Arabic literature, in this case Lemuel ben Itiel, of proverbial
fame,31 storyteller par excellence (ll. 31–35), who is our author’s own alter
ego. Ben Elazar has inserted his own name, Jacob, into his introduction,
abjuring plagiarizers (zar) to distance themselves from his work, on the
pain of death, a most unlikely eventuality for vulnerable Jews living as
dhimmis in Andalusian Spain or who were migrating elsewhere because
of persecution and destruction.32 There are no central characters in this
composition as in Alharizi’s Sefer Tahkemoni. What is found throughout,
however, is a medley of subjects that have little connection to the rituals of Judaism per se, but as the reader will see, there is a strong advocacy of its teachings (torot), moralizing, and the quest for wisdom and
the eschewing of treachery and violation of norms.33 Jacob ben Elazar’s
effusive praise and thanks to God and his wondrous creations reverberate
throughout this composition, as found in the sacred and secular poetry
Jewish Parody and Allegory in Medieval Hebrew Poetry in Spain r 215
of his predecessors and contemporaries. As the reader quickly discovers,
Jacob ben Elazar’s Sefer Meshalim is more than an entertaining book of
tales. It is a book whose alternate name, “Love Stories,” marries love and
fantasy, fun and frolic, parody and satire. This essay, then, focuses on Jacob ben Elazar’s love poetry in Mahbarot Seven and Nine, in which are
found lusty tales of women besting men in battle, resourcefulness, and
poetic creativity.
Mahberet Seven: Yoshefe and His Two Loves
The protagonist of Mahberet Seven is Yoshefe, (’ish yafeh, l. 4),34 whose
well-to-do parents, like the aristocrats around them, have lost both status
and wealth because of the rise of evildoers (l. 6). Stricken with wanderlust
and perhaps wanting a better life than he is now experiencing due to his
reduced social status, Yoshefe is provided with rations for a long journey
from his land of H
asar Susa, the inheritance of Simeon’s descendants.35
During his travels, he joins bands of roving drunkards and gluttons and is
quite content to eat and drink with them and tell tall tales, all in rhymed,
metered poetry. Upon their arrival in magnificent Cairo (ll. 48–63), whose
beauty Yoshefe extols with even more elegance (u-misrayim me-hullala,
be-hura me-’ahoteha), the scruffy young man is led to a marketplace, ringing with the sounds of music, where the wares are enchanting women. He
singles out the most beautiful gazelle (ll. 69–75) of all, whose eyes inflame
him and captivate his soul. He cannot, however, purchase her until he
resolves his slovenly state. That being done, he purchases her with money
that he has hidden in his torn garments. With an agent’s help, he also procures a magnificent house, surrounded by courtyards, waterfalls, lavish
gardens, and stone lions spouting cascades of water, the typical backdrop
found in contemporary Hebrew and Arabic literature and frequently the
setting for wine soirées. He takes this most beautiful and chaste Yefefia
as his lover (ra῾ya),36 ensconces her in his house, and arouses her desire
(hisheqah), which she pretends to rebuff, warning: “My friend (yedidi), my
eyes have spread a net,” the first hint to the reader that women will take
charge of both their bodies and voices. Yoshefe is consumed with passion and stung by her arrows of love (ll. 113–19). The virginal Yefefia has
entrapped her lover with metaphorical weapons of war (u-milhama meqaddeshet), instead of the reverse, and she succumbs to his charms, apparently without the benefit of sanctification through marriage. Henceforth
216 r Libby Garshowitz
they spend their days and nights eating, drinking, and making love, batting their eyelashes and winking at each other,37 kissing, hugging, fondling
each other, consumed by the fires of love, unquenchable by their tears, as
they sing of their mutual hunger (ll. 140–43). Yefefia becomes desire personified, a woman not afraid to express her wants and her passion, which
have come to pervade her total being (ll. 124–27). Their growing love is
shared, and Jacob ben Elazar minces no words in his erotic descriptions
of their passionate lovemaking.
Meanwhile, a visit to the slave market yields up yet another breathtaking maiden, Yemima, “white and pure like the day” (ll. 143–46).38 Consumed with jealousy at being passed over by Yoshefe, she sells one of her
neck beads and commissions the overseer to buy her a horse, fine clothes,
a royal crown, and weapons, no matter the cost. She pays him the munificent sum of two thousand gold coins—money most likely stolen from her
previous master’s house (a common theme in Arabic literature), lies in
wait to ambush Yoshefe at his house, and finally enters in male disguise.
There, while he lies in a drunken stupor, entwined with Yefefia, Yemima
kidnaps Yoshefe and leads him away, still asleep, into real captivity (shevi),
as she says, no doubt in the hope that he in turn will now become captivated by her (ll. 144–64). An angry and jealous Yemima has turned the
tables on Yoshefe: Yefefia, a dutiful slave girl, had followed a few steps
behind Yoshefe, all the while preparing to ensnare him, but now he is
Yemima’s captive and he trails her. He is the captive in this game of love, its
victim, not knowing whether he will live or die, metaphorically of course.
Yoshefe appears again to be led, this time by a woman, not by the ne’er-dowells he has encountered in his bizarre travels. Intoxication, which opponents of wine soirées derided, was Yoshefe’s undoing, as Yoshefe himself
pointed out (ll. 15–19). His servitude to Yefefia as a metaphorical captive of
love, a common theme in love poetry, has turned into actual physical captivity. In a fit of pique, he expresses his innermost feelings at the situation
in which he now finds himself. Angry and completely subdued, Yoshefe
voices his discomfort at Yemima’s physical abuse, not knowing that his
captor is a woman in male disguise:
Woe is me, my lover, woe is me.
From your bosom have I been stolen away.
Jewish Parody and Allegory in Medieval Hebrew Poetry in Spain r 217
If only my bonds could be loosened.
Then revenge will be my way.
(ll. 166–67).
With an air of bravado (ll. 175–82), he challenges his captor (and the latter’s imaginary forces) to a duel, as one would expect a chivalrous knight
to do. He boasts of his bravery, which he imbibed with his mother’s milk,
flaunting his ability to pulverize them mercilessly because he is not like
every lover (hosheq), weakened by desire. Before the challenge can be
taken up, a newcomer appears on the scene, also on horseback, ranting
and armed with a flaming spear. It is none other than Yefefia, his first
love, who has discovered that Yoshefe is missing; she pursues him, also in
male disguise, roaring like a lioness bereft of her cubs. Yefefia and Yemima
tussle, noisily and lustily, amid dust and howls (ll. 183–99), swords ablaze,
their appearances disguised by their helmets, and argue about their love
for Yoshefe, whom Yefefia calls her “playmate” (yedid sha῾ashu῾ay, l. 237).
The reader can almost savor their aggressive altercation:
They fought a mighty battle.
One dives, the other thrives.
One shrieks, the other screams.
One chases, the other trails.
One trips, the other draws.
One on the right, one on the left.
One taunts, one flaunts.
(ll. 193–96)
And so on. Yemima strikes down Yefefia, and Yoshefe comes to her rescue, quaking, frightened (l. 191) to see deadly scorpions and snakes upon
her head (ll. 218–27). Her breasts are firm like apples, and he is suffused
with pain when he lands on them, thinking they were actual spears! Typically, in medieval poetry, female body parts are compared to weapons of
war, and raven black locks are also understood metaphorically, prepared
by the pursued seductress as a feigned deterrent during battle.39 The lover’s (hashuqa) beauty, white of skin and (blood) red of face, both beckons
and repels.
218 r Libby Garshowitz
Yoshefe is mortified to discover that he has been kidnapped by a
woman, not a man. Women have fought over him and prevailed, not he,
the self-styled intrepid warrior. Yoshefe, who is paradoxically referred to
as “a wise and perceptive son” (ben hakham ve-navon, ll. 6–7) at the beginning of this tale, is outwitted by two women and comments on the perfidious nature of the female species whose weapons are deceit and treachery,
seemingly ignoring the “real” weapons they brandished which had terrified him (ll. 219–20). Yoshefe is willing to overlook these perversities
because of the damsels’ profound beauty (ll. 229–33), saying, while still
abreast Yemima,
Treachery becomes women.
They have embraced its legacy.
Like their unshared equity,
It’s women’s sole property.
Unremittingly plotting against me,
Covering my face with notoriety,
If not for her great beauty,
Whose male conquest is her duty,
Seizing the sun’s light,
Like death is love’s might.
(Song of Songs 8:6)
A weeping Yefefia both consoles and is consoled. Her feverish wandering
(nedod) in search of her beloved has paid off. The two joyfully resume
their play while an embittered Yemima sobs noisily.
Pulchritude and play obsess Yoshefe, but it is poetry making that is
both Yefefia’s and Yemima’s venture. Says Yefefia,
Now, my sister, [stop crying], be quiet.
Plead profusely before him.
Prostrate yourself because he’s your lord.
If you’re shamed to utter separate words (devarim nifradim),
String them together as one (ve-hayu le-’ahadim).
(ll. 257–58)
Thus Jacob ben Elazar pleads his case for the sorry state of the Hebrew
language in the Jewish communities. Make poetry, not war, is his message.
Despite the fierce rivalry between Yefefia and Yemima,40 the former
surprises the reader with her magnanimity: after a lyric, lengthy, and
Jewish Parody and Allegory in Medieval Hebrew Poetry in Spain r 219
loving entreaty in which she describes her sadness at the temporary loss
of her beloved (hosheq), her brief separation from him, and how she pursued Yoshefe “from mountain to mountain” (ll. 240–50), in contrast to the
male lover in Song of Songs who “comes leaping over the mountains,”41
she entreats the weeping, bitter Yemima, “my sister,” also an inversion of
the term in the biblical Song of Songs,42 to join her and Yoshefe, to compose metered poetry: “wake up, wake up, sing a song,”43 which enthralls
Yoshefe (ll. 260–79). Yemima does, telling Yoshefe how her love for him
has entrapped her (shevi ’ahava), and now she pleads for reciprocal love (l.
269). Yoshefe is overjoyed by her pleas and consents, captivated by both
lovers’ beauty, their faces alternating between the red of pomegranates
and the whiteness of snow (ll. 275–79). Jacob ben Elazar has utilized the
descriptive visual imagery of medieval Arabic and Hebrew poetry, along
with flattery, exaggeration, simile, and metaphor to turn this battle among
jealous lovers into a witty farce about the use of language. Such was his
intent.
The two women’s bonding leads to the three lovers settling down into
a harmonious and loving ménage à trois, “kissing, hugging, lusting,”44 but
not before a still-chastened Yoshefe asks Yemima why, if she is so enamored of him, did she kidnap him and make him walk behind her horse,
beating him all the while? Said he to his lover (ra῾ayato) Yemima: “If you
loved and desired me, how could you steal me away into captivity?” (ll.
281–82). She protested that she did not like to be cast away when every
other suitor thought her beautiful and sweet-voiced. Yoshefe, nevertheless, persisted: “Your beauty you have praised, but me you have abased”
(l. 303). Yemima’s answer: “Because you took my sister Yefefia and cast
me away, I who am desired and esteemed by many a swain.” In alluring,
autoerotic song (ll. 287–302) Yemima gives voice to her own comeliness
(u-mare’i na’eh), as does the damsel in Song of Songs.45 Nor does she overlook her exquisite voice (qoli ye῾erav, ll. 283–302):
Is not every swain by my great beauty swayed?
On my face basks the sun in its rising and setting.
My face is a beloved’s toy and my voice a sweet joy.
(ll. 10 and 11)
Yemima, not to be outdone by her former rival, also regales Yoshefe with
his own attractiveness: “laughing, white, even teeth, not detached, like his
poetry thus!” (mesummadim ve-’ayn nifrad, l. 307), shining countenance,
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exquisite stature, perfectly hewn, “Did he come from the pleasures of
Paradise (ha-va mi-ma῾adan ῾eden), . . . its sole survivor?” (ll. 308–16).
Yoshefe is truly unique, but the reader can only smile at the profuse hype
and flattery, replete with similes and metaphors, comparing him with the
phenomena of creation and pristine Eden, beautiful like the young damsels themselves: “fair like the moon and pure like the sun.” The reader,
however, cannot ignore Yemima’s gibe at Yoshefe’s lack of poetic skill. He,
unlike them, cannot string together a coherent poetic stich! Yemima continues to enchant her lover with her tales (meshalim) of love, and all three
settle down and “play as is the habit of hedonistic lovers” (mesahaqim kemishpat ha-hosheqim, l. 317).
This idyllic situation, however, is soon disturbed with the arrival of
another chevalier, bloody sword drawn, whacking away at trees, shrieking and screaming, “splitting mountains with his strength and hurling
down cedars with his breath, dispersing all in his path” (ll. 317–19), ready
to do battle to save Yoshefe, who appears to be in no imminent danger.
There is no explanation for why his sword is bloodied. There has been no
report of any battle, nor does the new arrival appear to have suffered any
visible wounds. Our author, however, adds an ironic touch to the entire
scene: a once-shamed Yoshefe will now have his illusory honor restored
by a man, not a woman (ll. 321–24).46 Yemima challenges Yoshefe to fight
the newcomer, apparently fearing a new rival (ll. 317–26), another young
woman in male disguise, roles she and Yefefia had previously assumed.
The two men battle aggressively, shrieking, overheard by all, although no
one else is present! The newcomer turns out to be none other than young
(na῾ar, ll. 88, 389) Masos, from whose house Yoshefe had been kidnapped,
the procurer (sokhen) of all of Yoshefe’s wealth and the proprietor of the
original love nest. The two men rejoice and kiss at discovering each other
(l. 327) and return to Yefefiya and Yemima. Jacob ben Elazar continues
with the burlesque of Masos’s “bloody battle” and scoffs at his implied
chivalry by turning the “red” of the lover’s seductive lips and cheeks into
the “bloody red” of an idle sword.
With the men’s return to the by-now fearful and tearful women, the
farce continues. The women fear that Yoshefe has been captured or murdered by the new arrival but are overjoyed to find that this is not the
case. The ménage à trois quickly turns into a ménage à quatre, again at
Masos’s house, and they continue their former debauchery of eating and
Jewish Parody and Allegory in Medieval Hebrew Poetry in Spain r 221
drinking (l. 333). There seems to be no further play among them, however,
which may be a harbinger of future events, as we shall see. The only positive opinion Masos seems to contribute to this ménagerie is, like Yefefia’s
previous advice to Yemima, his suggestion that Yoshefe should continue
to string together individual words in his prose tale to fashion a truly
beautiful necklace of poetry (ll. 365–66).47 It would appear that Jacob
ben Elazar is truly as interested in song as in love, in keeping with his
intent of entertaining his readers and restoring the beauty of the Hebrew
language.
The unexpected arrival of messengers from Yoshefe’s father disrupts
the enlarged household as they announce the restoration of the family’s
wealth and authority, the return of craftsmen to their trades, the return of
high society to its former station, and the overthrow of the evildoers, who
had caused Yoshefe to embark on his voyage of self-discovery (ll. 341–56).
Yoshefe decides to return to his native land, much to Masos’s chagrin as
he bewails the sorrow that this parting (perud) will cause, since he and
Yoshefe have formed a love pact (berit ’ahava, l. 376) which parting will
sever. One wonders what kind of relations exist between the two men,
since Masos refers to Yoshefe as dod (ll. 382–84), beloved, rather than
yedid, friend, much like the love poetry written by men for men, their
῾ofer or sevi.48 Magnanimous Yoshefe invites Masos to join him on his
home journey and promises him that he will give him his young, pure,
chaste sister, S ippor (Birdie), as an ’ama, (attendant?) so that Masos may
“sit and chirp” (tashov ve-tispor, l. 391) with S ippor.49 Now it is Masos’s
parents’ turn to give him presents for his journey (ll. 394–97) to the S ippor
he loves, sight unseen (l. 394). The four leave Egypt for H
asar Susa, Yoshefe’s hometown, where they are joyously greeted. Handsome Masos
takes S ippor as his ’ama, and following a grand feast and the exchange
of gifts, Masos falls in love (now for real!) with S ippor and does not leave
her side for an entire year. Yoshefe, meanwhile, sits with his two young
loves, Yefefia and Yemima, all singing songs, posing puzzles, telling tales,
experiencing events, passing out parcels of clothing and other gifts as befits [Jewish] women, and performing righteous acts of loving-kindness.
No rivalry or jealousy bothers them, as is customary among friends (kemishpat haverim, l. 411), which is a subtle touch of irony, as we shall see.
Needless to say, Jacob ben Elazar is subliminally indoctrinating his readers with Jewish morals and ethics.
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For an entire year Yefefia and Yemima tutor S ippor (where is Masos?),
now referred to as Masos’s wife (l. 412) in the art of love and beneficence
and fill her young heart and mind with desire and intellect (melo’ hesheq
. . . u-vin ll. 422, 418), recounting adventurous love tales of young gazelles
(l. 413), which they know in abundance. We know very little about S ippor
other than her brother Yoshefe’s flattering words about her as young and
chaste. Neither her husband, Masos, nor Yoshefe speak of her beauty or
her intellect, which she so admires about her tutors. We are not told about
S ippor’s transformation from ’ama to wife. We know only that S ippor’s
youth renders her sensitive and easily influenced. Now S ippor begins to
“chirp” (ll. 417–40), earning the two ladies’ praise: “Many women have
performed heroically, but you have outdone them all!”50
But all is not as harmonious as it appears. There is a subtext here, a
new twist. S ippor’s song is different from the love songs of Yefefia and
Yemima. While Yefefia and Yemima had adapted to some kind of modus
vivendi with Yoshefe in their new love nest, they had insinuated, quite
cunningly, into their exquisite songs tales about fat, healthy gazelles
(shemenot beri’ot), jealous women (nashim meqanne’ot), women’s deceit
(me῾ilat nashim), women hated and loved (’ahuvot senu’ot), busybodies (ve-holekhot u-va’ot), and women suspected of committing adultery
(u-minhat qena’ot, ll. 413–14), common themes in Hebrew and Arabic
maqāma literature and usually recounted by men. S ippor now begins to
chirp, in rhymed verse, a rather different tune. After a full year of living in
the ménage à cinq, she bemoans her youthful bridegroom’s lack of sexual
know-how, awareness, and sophistication and begins to bewail her own
naiveté:
Wit have you taught [your] foolish maid [Sippor]
Who now knows just a little
A mind unversed in riddles and lore
Unveils an ignorant boor [Masos]
The deft knows riddles
The base his mouth proclaims
Your spirit on me is poured
And in mine is love galore
Tender and young is my beau
Filled with yearning but untested
Hitherto lovers he hates
Jewish Parody and Allegory in Medieval Hebrew Poetry in Spain r 223
And now his own desire he slakes
No opening for love appears
To find a portal he fears
To hug or kiss me he tries not
And now a storm churns the pot
Surely once his heart’s desire
For death his soul incites
Yet today with desire inflamed
He will yet arouse love’s flame
...............
His heart lacks desire (hesheq)
Like mine, as far as Shinar
As his rapport with me is close
My soul is not remote
............
Like ice bare of hair
Like a clean-shaven priest
Whom a razor has fleeced51
Like a man with no face
Stripped nude in disgrace
Like a man with no gear52
Displaying his fear53
Like a frothing madman54
One he scolds, another he chides
Like a fool inclined to folly
Inclined to sit naked and dotty
(ll. 418–40).55
As painful as S ippor’s plaint is, the reader is somewhat startled by her, and
Jacob ben Elazar’s, candor. And it is to this that Yemima and Yefefia answer, apparently derisively and sarcastically because their delicate senses
may be affronted by their novice’s crude words: “Many daughters have
acted daringly, but you have bested them all!”56 As a counterbalance to
the immediate desire that inflamed Yoshefe, Yefefia, and Yemima, rushing
headlong into love and lovemaking, Masos not only appears to be biding
his time but his erratic behavior, as described by S ippor, leads the reader
to wonder whether Jacob ben Elazar is mocking the genre of love poetry
itself in his exaggeration of its physical torments.
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Masos is young and untutored in the art of love and “has set his soul
(nafsho) to death / but the day will come when passion arouses his zest”
(u-vo ’esh ’ahava tiv῾ar, ll. 426–27), hopes S ippor, like the love martyr who
struggles incessantly with her/his passion, alternately flagging and surging. For the present Masos is content with platonic love, in S ippor’s words
(ve-lu qirvat yedid li tov, tehi nafshi ha-lo’ mis῾ar, l. 433), and S ippor, too,
must yield for the present. Perhaps Masos’s youth and inexperience have
led him to act wildly and irrationally when he appears to defend Yoshefe,
yet he has the ability and means to furnish Yoshefe’s love nest in Cairo!
Jacob ben Elazar ridicules Masos’s phlegmatic character as he turns hot
and cold, tearful and exuberant, in his relationships with both Yoshefe
and S ippor. In this mahberet, ben Elazar also appears to mock courtly
love with its martyr complex and ascetic nature, since it is not consonant
with Jewish tradition as is, supposedly, harmonious, monogamous married love, which, if faithful, poses no source of interest to him in this
parodic, satiric work. One’s wife should be of no legitimate concern to
anyone but her husband. It is only the adulterous wife or a chaste young
maiden who interests authors and readers of this piquant literature. In the
case of Masos and S ippor, married love concluded in abstinence, although
it had been a case of love at first sight, in each other’s company for a year!
Perhaps Yefefia and Yemima subliminally undermined this relationship
as they stoked S ippor’s curiosity and wonder with their tales of women’s
wiles and perfidy. One can only surmise the reason for this—jealousy and
thus betrayal of their protegée. But if S ippor entertains some ray of hope,
so should the reader.
Summary of Mahberet Seven
In the tale of “Yoshefe and His Two Loves,” Jacob ben Elazar introduced
into his love poetry a rare phenomenon prior to the advent of the maqāma
genre: women’s voices, somewhat stilled in biblical literature and medieval
Hebrew love poetry but quite prevalent throughout Songs of Songs. These
voices at times are equally strident and loving as they express both desire
and reserve. Our author has allowed the women to embody contrived
modesty through their provocation of their stricken lovers as Yefefia and
Yemima pursue Yoshefe and S ippor tries to revitalize Masos’s love through
plaints about the “courtliness” of her “courtier.” While handsome Yoshefe
Jewish Parody and Allegory in Medieval Hebrew Poetry in Spain r 225
is a slave of love, Masos is its quasi-martyr.57 Jacob ben Elazar’s hedonistic
tale of love has returned both the sensuousness of love and its poetry as
found in the biblical Song of Songs, parodic as it may be.
The Tale of Sahar and Kima
In Jacob ben Elazar’s tale of “Sahar and Kima’s Love” in Mahberet Nine,
the reader encounters another aspect of love poetry that differs markedly from the debauchery that is pursued by Yoshefe, Yefefia, and Yemima
and aspired to by S ippor. The hero of this mahberet, young Sahar (l. 62,
he is called na῾ar throughout), also has a rather interesting background.
While escaping from his authoritarian father, Salmon, a member of the
upper class as is Yoshefe’s family, he reaches the sea of Jaffa and there
finds a group of men fleeing from women (l. 8)! In a parodic rewriting
of the biblical Jonah story, the helpless seafarers, including Sahar, faced
with shipwreck and death because of a storm, promise to give money to
the poor in exchange for their salvation. The ship breaks up, and Sahar is
carried away by a strong wind to the dry land of the city of S ova (Aleppo,
ll. 6–19). Sahar is the sole survivor of the shipwreck, while the others
have been devoured by fish. He sings out the events of the shipwreck and
gives profuse thanks to God, the powerful creator of heaven and earth
and of the forces of nature (ll. 20–55). Meanwhile, in the city, from afar,
Sahar is observed by a beautiful woman who informs her mother of the
new arrival. They spread word of the newcomer’s handsomeness to everappearing new female arrivals, who, while gazing at him, see his handsome face turn into that of a sharp-toothed lion (ll. 60–61). The metaphor
cannot be misconstrued. Sahar is not only comely (yefi sahar, l. 65), like
the moon, but also strong and aristocratic. That strength is deceptive, for
he is soon entrapped by two laughing black giants whose spearlike eyes
pierce him (ll. 67–72). He calls them Amalek, Israel’s implacable enemy
whom Israel is commanded to both obliterate and commemorate.58 The
reader expects to find a valiant and courageous knight, sole survivor of a
shipwreck, ready to challenge his tormentors. Instead, we find that Sahar,
with the face and teeth of a lion, has the courage of a pussycat. He sees
these eyes as battle-ready, shooting arrows, and in metered song he bemoans his physical entrapment: “From the sea I’ve been delivered / and
in [this] house now I’ve been severed” (nimhasti, ll. 70–72). The brave
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hero is now faint with fear (ll. 67–72). Sahar, however, through Jacob ben
Elazar’s voice, may be dissembling, for in the language of prayer he cites a
phrase that is a cry to God for rescue, which does come, a subtle reminder,
perhaps, to his reader of God’s individual providence.59 He is released,
without the reader’s being told how, alluding perhaps to God’s mysterious
ways and the Jews’ future redemption.
While Sahar contemplates his misery, a fragrant apple enclosing words
of love (ll. 82, 84) is tossed his way by the beauteous, chaste Kima, the
confined resident of the palace.60 Neither she nor her companions know
whether they are more enchanted by Sahar’s radiance (zohar panav, l. 82)
or his song! Now it is Kima’s turn to sing words of love: “Welcome to
you, welcome [to you], [love-]struck at first sight (shalom le-kha, shalom
harug ῾eynayim” (l. 87). She continues, voicing her desire: “Lovesick from
pain and by her love for you slain, she has taken twofold of your desire. If
only I could be night and day with my antelope, laughing, hugging, and
fondling my breasts!” (ll. 87–89). The chase has begun, and so has the
sensual language! Both Kima and Sahar test each other throughout this
mahberet, sending messages on curtains (parokhet), reminiscent perhaps
of the Ark’s curtain, or through proxies, Kima’s alluring intermediaries,
who somehow incrementally increase in number.61 They send out feelers to each other, whether through these messengers or through (imaginary) kisses, Kima kissing her own hand (va-tenashqehu ῾al yadah kemo
mishpat yedidim ne’emanim), as if it were Sahar’s, “as is customary among
faithful friends.” She does not kiss his mouth, presumably because he is
not physically near her. In turn, Sahar kisses her “from afar” (ll. 90–92)
like a courtly, anguished suitor. According to Shulamit Elizur,62 this type
of kissing was customary among servants and masters, not lovers, as a
token of respect. However, since Sahar’s lovesickness reduces him to the
status of a “slave” to love, it is natural that Kima would obey the dictates
of the servant-mistress relationship as well as observe the rules of courtly
lovers who, unwillingly, must keep a physical distance from each other.
Satirically and jocularly, the lack of Sahar’s corporeal presence also prevents a closer relationship. The alluring Kima’s eyes, however, dance and
play as if they were hugging (ll. 295–96). Kima’s coquettishness fulfills
the requirements of courtly love, in which she reiterates that love among
distinguished, cultured persons (’asilim or nedivim) is a meeting of hearts
and minds, not flesh. That is the fate of friends who are separated lawfully
(ke-mishpat yedidim ha-nifradim ke-hoq, l. 92). Kima chastises Sahar:
Jewish Parody and Allegory in Medieval Hebrew Poetry in Spain r 227
Why are you angry and why downcast?
To kiss and hug, is that our task?
This is not done at our flat!
(ll. 301–309)
Nobility of heart and soul, protected by a guardian angel (malakh yedidim), is required for members of the higher classes, the aristocracy, not
members of the “half-breed class” (benei ha-ta῾aravot, ll. 299–300)!63
Kima emphasizes that pure love, righteous deeds, and the spirit of our
love are chivalrous (neqi-khaf bar pe῾alim ve-ruah ’ahavatenu nediva, l.
312). Their kisses, therefore, are symbolic, from afar! They may be in each
other’s company, not to hug or kiss but to purify and unite their hearts
(’aval lev zeh be-lev zeh doveq); such is the responsibility of the prestigious, to embrace moral instruction, righteousness, justice, and fairness
(musar haskel, sedeq u-mishpat u-mesharim, ll. 305–306).64 Indeed, they
converse and sing love songs (shir ’ahav) all through the night, neither
approaching nor touching, although they crave and ache for each other,
having to content themselves by simply drinking in each other’s radiance (ll. 328–33). But Jacob ben Elazar may be ridiculing this protracted,
drawn-out flirtatious affair, for the verb he uses, va-yithareshu, “and they
were silent” (l. 333), is the same verb used to describe the silence of the
people of Gaza “who surrounded [the house] and waited all night long to
kill Samson.”65 Yet this very root, h-r-sh, in a secondary sense, means “to
plough,” perhaps hinting that Kima and Sahar had not passed the night in
melody and misery but in (imaginary) lovemaking,66 the reason for dissimulating being Kima’s fear of her father the king, to whom she swears
that despite her passionate love for Sahar, their relationship is celibate. In
keeping with the ideals of courtly love, love for its own sake was worth
pursuing, worth suffering for. Sahar has endured Kima’s flirtations and
banishment from the palace’s environs. Also, he has endured the sting
of burning arrows and has been forced to suffer other indignities such as
endless wanderings, awaiting any word from Kima, content to listen to
anyone who has any knowledge of his beloved. In his lovesickness, Sahar
will pour out his torment to anyone who will listen. In an impassioned address in which he describes how they have mutually inflamed each other,
Sahar reiterates that their mutual separation (pereda) has slain her as well
as him. The woman, the owner of the apple (l. 104), whom Kima has sent
to test Sahar, now gives him a perfumed letter in which Kima pours out
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her heart and accuses him of slaying her! “Hurry up and heal me” (l. 131).
This buffoonery ends when Sahar realizes that Kima truly loves him and
wants him to join her in the palace in the capital. His dream has finally
materialized! Any desire for revenge because of his erstwhile distress is
dispelled upon his arrival at the palace. If the reader thinks that Sahar
has suffered sufficiently, then s/he errs. Sahar continues to be challenged
by the unapproachable Kima, who speaks in autoerotic terms of her own
beauty, teasing him: “Kima is beautiful / Beautiful to the sight and beautiful in height” (ll. 267–68).
Their much-too-prolonged traumatic courting, both in public and in
private, Sahar’s frustration and anguish, Kima’s coquetry, plotting, and
torment, “I’ve stalked him in my net” (l. 285), take their toll on Sahar.
Although he has played the so-called courtly lover who must protect
his lady’s virtue, he has paid a terrible price. When Kima finally relents,
she invites him to the palace and promises him love (dodim) instead of
“wanderings” (nedodim), but not before marriage. It is through Kima,
the coquette, that Jacob ben Elazar preaches abstinence before marriage.
This would be the Jewish way to conduct one’s sexual life. It is Kima who
speaks of “rules and precepts” ’eleh ha-huqqim ve-ha-torot (l. 308) that one
must observe in courting!67
Love Fulfilled
Although Kima has led Sahar on a not-so-merry chase, not everything is
serious in their love affair, as in Sahar’s whimsical comic swimming scene.
He must gain entrance to his love’s magnificent glass palace, surrounded
by water on all four sides and, in language strongly reminiscent of the
chaotic abyss prior to creation as well as the Israelites’ crossing of the Sea
of Reeds, Sahar is ready to disrobe and swim, but is afraid to do so for
fear of drowning (ll. 321–24)! The brave Sahar who had swum ashore in
order to escape a shipwreck and black giants, who had allowed himself to
be outwitted by Princess Kima and her father, the king, finds himself in
perilous circumstances, death by drowning, not what one would expect
from a chivalrous hero. But, as in S ippor and Masos’s tale, all is not well
with Kima and Sahar. Even before they are allowed to marry, the two lovers, who continue to sing of each other’s beauty and bemoan their mutual
entrapment, now begin to talk about love and strife (ll. 390–91), amid the
Jewish Parody and Allegory in Medieval Hebrew Poetry in Spain r 229
unquenchable fires of desire and reciprocal cruelty: “Both desire and war
kill! Woe to warriors and woe to lovers,” says Sahar (l. 370). Kima, who
has tortured Sahar with the arrows of love, continues to play hide-andseek with him. This love-and-hate relationship continues much too long
(ll. 390–91), as Sahar asks Kima if this is characteristic of lovers (te῾udat
’ahuvim). Are strife and conflict (riv u-madon, ll. 394–96) prerequisites
for composing love poetry? Adding fuel to the unquenchable fire of love
is Kima’s seemingly innocent request of Sahar to explain to her the difference between the pangs of love (dodim) and friendship (torat ha-yedidut).
The reader can sense Sahar’s feeling of despair as he admits that a beloved
speaks no truth and that love lacks understanding and knowledge and is
unable to distinguish between good or bad; such is the lesson the lover
takes with him to the grave (ll. 427–38).
As the two lovers continue to agonize over their dilemma on the meaning of love, a maid servant informs Kima of her father’s imminent arrival.
Kima’s fear of her father forces her to hide Sahar, but the king finds him
and assaults him. She assures her father that their love was chaste. “He
didn’t touch me, and I didn’t touch him . . . we were both clothed in righteousness . . . observant of the commandments (misva) and reverence for
our reputations” (ll. 472–75). The king ultimately gives his blessing to the
couple, calling Sahar “a man in whom God’s spirit abides” (ll. 517–18),
but not before asking Kima why they so desire each other. Kima details
both the torments and thrills of their love (ll. 483–84) in a brilliantly constructed and lengthy poem, similar in style to the Arabic-language qasida
(ll. 485–514).68 After the father’s violent death (the reader is not told how),
Sahar is enthroned in Aleppo in his stead, and following a year of wedded
bliss he and Kima begin another type of duet, quarrelling and mollifying, separating and then reconciling, proving the adage that the road to
true love is rarely smooth (ll. 522–23). When, as a married man, he is no
longer challenged by Kima’s flirtations and his mission of pursuing her,
the handsome Sahar (l. 6) turns into a replica of his own tyrannical father
(l. 7), taunting Kima, tormenting her for her defiance (ll. 524–26). Kima
reminds her husband of their pure, spiritual love, suppressing its consummation until they were married, reproving him for accusing her of Eve’s
primordial offence (l. 528) and repeating the ancients’ sins, bewailing the
fact that “lovers (hosheqim) have become oppressors” (῾osheqim, l. 544).
As they continue this state of “battle” and contrition, Kima says, “If there’s
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no quarrel in love, how can there be gentle, friendly rebuking or pleasing
bookmaking?”69 Sahar agrees, and the two maintain this state of affairs,
presumably throughout their marriage, until their dying day.
Insights into Mahbarot Seven and Nine
In Mahbarot Seven and Nine of Sefer Meshalim or Sippurei ’Ahava Jacob
ben Elazar has not only given voices to his women but he has also given
them names and identities. Names of lovers are not usually found in biblical poetry, except for the Shulamit in Song of Songs,70 nor in Hebrew
love poetry. Male lovers are anonymously addressed as ῾ofer, or sevi, or
the plural of these terms, as in Song of Songs. Jacob ben Elazar, however,
has generously endowed his actors with names that characterize their
traits, at times rather fiendishly. The choice of names in “Yoshefe and
His Two Loves” and “Sahar and Kima’s Love Story” cannot be accidental.
Masos’s name, joy, as in the biblical verse, “a bridegroom’s rejoicing over
his bride,”71 must be satirical, to say the least. There is a bridegroom and
a bride, but no marital bliss! Birdie/Sippor, who sings like the bird that
her name connotes, chirps her unexpected plaint (teluna) in which she
laments Masos’s boorishness and his lack of desire and affection, complaining, “He hasn’t even tried to kiss me!” (l.425). She, who sings of her
frustrated desire despite being well tutored in the art of love, only enhances Jacob ben Elazar’s seeming disdain for the serious nature of love
poetry, perhaps even the institution of courtly love, although in the tale
of Kima and Sahar he apparently displays his approval of it. S ippor’s tale is
harsh but comical and seemingly derides the tradition of the cruel female
lover so pervasive in Hebrew love poetry. Masos is the only male lover
in these two mahbarot who appears untainted by the pangs of love. His
façade as the jocular and prosperous procurer of Yoshefe’s opulent love
nest in Cairo and the quasi-defender of Yoshefe’s honor belies his parodied manhood and bizarre behavior. On the other hand, Yoshefe, Yefefia,
and Yemima, whose names signify “attractiveness,” “beauty” and “purity,”
respectively, are coveted and loved, and they prove that beauty and handsomeness succeed in attaining love, despite torment and anguish along
the way. Nowhere in his “Love Songs” has Jacob ben Elazar written about
S ippor’s beauty, only her youth, intellect, generosity, and composition of
poetry under the tutelage of Yefefia and Yemima. If our author is hinting
that Masos’s and S ippor’s unconsummated love is the expression of ideal,
Jewish Parody and Allegory in Medieval Hebrew Poetry in Spain r 231
courtly, and chaste love, advocated by some earlier Arab writers and later
Hebrew poets, the reader must remember that Masos and S ippor are now
married and therefore entitled to indulge in conjugal love, should they
wish to do so. This would be of no interest to any outsider. It is more likely
that Jacob ben Elazar is parodying the “abstinence” and “continence” advocated by those who believe in mystic love, who believe in the “slavery of
love” rather than in its realization.72 Sahar’s name signifies the full moon,73
whereas Kima’s name symbolizes the Pleiades, a cluster of stars that metamorphosed into the seven daughters of Aethra and Pleione, the seven
sisters. Hence Kima’s allegorical handmaidens at her beck and call in her
and Sahar’s “dance of love.”74
Throughout Mahbarot Seven and Nine, Jacob ben Elazar has used images of war and affection, portraying and parodying love as a veritable
battlefield, fought by both men and women. Might this warfare between
the sexes hint at Israel’s (and the Jews’) exile because of their baseless
hatred as they quarreled and quibbled with each other, abandoning
God’s teachings? Yefefia, Yemima, and Yoshefe dwell harmoniously, as
did their ancestors, arguably, in the early days of Israelite history. Hence
there seems to be little sermonizing or moralizing in their tale. Sahar and
Kima, however, quarrel incessantly, indulging in “love spats” (ll. 522–35)
once their love has been consummated. Kima, like S ippor, may have been
disappointed in her marriage, and she therefore derides its physical aspect: “The lust of the obscene is obscenity” (ve-khol hesheq benei naval
nevala, ll. 314–16) or “the spirit (ruah) of love arouses evil, but the spirit of
wisdom (hokhma) tantalizes” (ll. 480–82).75 Since Jacob ben Elazar only
hints at external elements for Israel’s woes, such as the aristocracy’s fall
from power along with its eventual restoration, could he be alluding to
the eventual reconciliation of his fellow Jews if they follow God, the commandments, and the paths of wisdom and excellence? Since our author’s
works are imbued with the pursuit of wisdom and the honing of the intellect, it is possible that he is reaching out to his fellow Jews to abandon
the fleshly pursuits of foreigners and take up once again the vocation of
Jewish living. Moreover, since Jacob ben Elazar has endowed Kima with
the desire for wisdom, it is through her words that he has introduced a
didactic, but also entertaining, quality into his poetry.76 He has created
Kima as the proactive partner in this love story, as one who carries the
greater part of poetry making, who is empowered not only by her body
but also by her voice. She is also the initiator of morality, introducing
232 r Libby Garshowitz
tidbits of wisdom throughout her poems. Love-smitten Sahar, however,
is left “without mind (lev) and knowledge” (da῾at, ll. 275–76), and he acknowledges Kima’s words of censure and admonishment as she keeps his
advances in abeyance: “Blessed is your good sense, and blessed are you”
(barukh ta῾amekh u-verukha ’at, l. 318). Jacob ben Elazar’s Sefer Meshalim
is more than a repository of games of love, in which artificial situations
and actors are posed. It is also a moralizing social commentary in praise
of mores, morals, and marriage through the voices of women. The reader
is reminded of his intent in composing this work: “They pose riddles, but
the intelligent and perceptive will comprehend their significance” (introduction, ll. 4–5).
Conclusion
Jacob ben Elazar’s success in showing the diversity of the Hebrew language favorably bridges the gap between Arabic literary discourses and
other maqāmas (mahbarot) written by his Jewish contemporaries. His
Sefer Meshalim, or Sippurei ’Ahava, has breathed humor into medieval
Hebrew. His intention to “pun, play, ridicule, and mock,” along with exaggeration and overblown phrases, is notably successful. He has transformed the texts he has used, Song of Songs and others, into moral and
didactic lessons for his contemporaries and for posterity. Furthermore,
what distinguishes this mahberet from others is not only the eloquent or
bawdy language used throughout, but also visual descriptions of duels,
palaces, and gardens. His characterization of make-believe actors turns
them into authentic human beings, visual and sentient. Both Yefefia and
Yemima become take-charge women: Yemima in the slave market, and
Yefefia’s invitation to her rival to join the love nest! If their “protégée”
S ippor is unsuccessful in her quest for love, it is Masos who is to blame.
If the reader is somewhat surprised by the fickleness and weakness of the
hero, Yoshefe, s/he needn’t be, for at the beginning of the tale of Yoshefe’s
wanderlust, he had attached himself to drunken sots, although “his desire
was remote from theirs” (l. 38). He is a “naif ” (’ish tam, l. 38). It is only
when he is infatuated with female wares in the slave market that he begins to initiate action, but not for long. With his capture by a woman, he
regresses and only then reacts. He is “led,” instead of “leading,” a captive,
no longer a captor. Instead of a stalwart “hero,” we find aggressive “heroines,” a sexual role reversal, similar to those in many Arab tales. Instead of
Jewish Parody and Allegory in Medieval Hebrew Poetry in Spain r 233
dueling and virile male warriors, it is women who have turned the tables:
disguised as males, they display full competence in martial arts, characteristic of tales of female prowess found in other contemporary tales such
as troubadour literature, with which Jacob ben Elazar would certainly
have been familiar.77
In another proverbial twist of the blade, Jacob ben Elazar has portrayed
his women as wily and resourceful, capable of achieving their goals. Not
only do men praise their beloved’s beauty but the women also “take up
the word,” so to speak, and proclaim, in autoerotic terms, their own nubile beauty and desire. They are sharp and canny. The tale of Yefefia and
Yemima illustrates their developing maturity. Far from being the ingénues
first encountered here, subservient to male seduction and lovemaking,
the two “slaves” have developed into proficient snarers of men, poets and
storytellers par excellence and sexual beings, comfortable in their sensuality and sexuality and content in their spiritual fulfillment. In this game
of sexual politics the women star, not the men, neither quaking Yoshefe
nor asexual Masos. It is only the young, unfortunate S ippor whose voice
chirps and rings out in plaintive song, bewailing her sorry lot. Two women
get what they want: Yefefia and Yemima live in ongoing harmony. They
achieve love and attention; young S ippor does not. In Jacob ben Elazar’s
tale of “Sahar and Kima’s Love,” flint-hearted, elitist, imprisoned Kima
(l. 251) displays her wit, sagacity, and song making in matters of love and
morals before she succumbs to her husband’s autocratic behavior.
In the narration of these two mahbarot, the reader is left with the impression that Jacob ben Elazar has applied his considerable linguistic skills
not only to satirize the game of love played out between men and women
through song but also to display his virtuosity and adroitness in the Hebrew language. Notwithstanding his satire, he displays eloquence and elegance in descriptions of the beauties of nature and his surroundings,
reminiscent of the sensual Song of Songs and contemporary medieval
poetry.
Jacob ben Elazar’s erotic prose and poetry might have antagonized
Maimonides, had he been alive, but Maimonides’ younger contemporary,
Moses ibn Ezra, writer non pareil of multilayered poetry, defended “love
(’ahava) and passion (ta’ava) as proper subjects for poetry,” because of
their charismatic appeal “in the sacred writings, even if their true inner
meaning is not always understood.”78 And thus it is with Jacob ben Elazar’s
poetry.
234 r Libby Garshowitz
Along with his objective to “praise, ridicule, arouse love, mock,” Jacob
ben Elazar’s actors have strung together words to make a necklace of song,
love, and beauty that both captivates and titillates the reader. In his collection of love songs, Jacob ben Elazar has included all the elements of
secular Andalusian poetry: luxuriant settings, wine, desire, praise, death,
plaints, and hyperbole. He has also incorporated, in a parodic and allegoric manner, the substance of courtly love: a burlesque of the aristocracy,
the lampooning of courtly wooing, quasi-secrecy, and imagination. Above
all, he has made his whimsical characters and situations breathe life and
frolic into this Hebrew mahberet. This work may not shed much light on
Jacob ben Elazar’s own personal life, but perhaps the circumstances that
led his male characters, Yoshefe and Sahar, to “flee,” namely, the downfall
of the elite or flight from one’s own family, may reflect some details of his
own history: personal turmoil or upheaval in the Jewish communities
amid hostile Muslim and Christian host societies with the resultant loss of
Jewish autonomy, scholarship, and culture. And, most likely, this particular work was intended to imbue the reader with wisdom (diverei hokhma),
knowledge (da῾at), and perception (derekh tevunot), key features of a
Spanish-Jewish intellectual. However, Jacob ben Elazar has proven the
mettle of his introduction: the Hebrew language can arouse love, mock,
play, sing, tantalize, brood, reflect, and, above all, entertain.
Notes
1. On Dūnash ben Labrat, see Eliyahu Ashtor, The Jews of Moslem Spain, 2 vols. (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1973), 1:252–63; Arie Schippers, Spanish Hebrew
Poetry and the Arabic Literary Tradition (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1994), 50. For a good background to medieval Hebrew poetry, see Ross Brann, The Compunctious Poet (Baltimore:
Johns Hopkins University Press, 1991), 1–22.
2. See Rina Drory, “Literary Contacts and Where to Find Them,” Poetics Today 14
(1993): 277–302. Her thesis stresses that non-Arabic contacts, especially in Christian
Spain, also contributed to the literary climate of Jews turning to writing in Hebrew.
3. See Hebrew Poetry in Spain and Provence (hereafter HPSP), 4 vols., ed. Hayyim
Schirmann (Jerusalem and Tel Aviv: Bialik Institute and Dvir, 1954, 1961), 1:34.
4. See in Schirmann, HPSP, 1:147, #4, hitna῾ari, hitna῾ari, based on Isaiah 52:1–2.
5. See Keter Malkhut in Schirmann, HPSP, 1:257–85.
6. See Drory, “Literary Contacts,” 284–87. Jacob ben Elazar, the author of Sefer Meshalim, or Sippurei ’Ahava, was also dependent on benefactors, such as Samuel and Ezra,
the sons of Judah ben Nathanael in Beaucaire, Provence, who were among Alharizi’s
patrons.
Jewish Parody and Allegory in Medieval Hebrew Poetry in Spain r 235
7. For Samuel ibn Nagrela, see, e.g., in Schirmann, HPSP, 1:164. For Moses ibn Ezra,
see, e.g., in Schirmann, HPSP, 2:372–73, #1.
8. See, e.g., Solomon ibn Gabirol in Schirmann, HPSP, 1:219, #79; Moses ibn Ezra in
Schirmann, HPSP, 2:371–72, #144.
9. See, e.g., Samuel ibn Nagrela’s “Battle at Alfuente,” in Schirmann, HPSP, 1:85–92.
For his distaste of war see HPSP, 142, #21, “war’s beginnings resemble a beautiful wench.”
10. See, e.g., Solomon ibn Gabirol, “I Am the Prince and the Song Is My Servant,” in
Schirmann, HPSP, 1:192, #61.
11. See Schippers, Spanish Hebrew Poetry and the Arabic Literary Tradition, 50, 140–
203; A. M. Habermann, ῾Iyyunim ba-shira u-va-piyyut shel yemei habeynayyim (Jerusalem: Rubin Mass, 1972), 47–50; Shulamit Elizur, Secular Hebrew Poetry in Moslem Spain
(Hebrew) (Ramat Aviv: Tel Aviv University Press, 2004), 3 vols., 2:69–127; Raymond P.
Scheindlin, Wine, Women, and Death (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1986),
77–89; Neal Kozodoy, “Reading Medieval Love Poetry,” in AJS Review 2 (1977): 115.
12. See Maimonides in his commentary to Mishnah ’Avot, 1:17, as cited by Kozodoy,
“Reading Medieval Love Poetry,” 111–13 and n. 1; Schirmann, “L’amour spirituel dans la
poésie hébraique du moyen âge,” Lettres Romanes 15, no. 4 (1961): 315–25, especially 315.
For all Maimonides’ citations on poetry, see Kozodoy.
13. These erotic poems were interpreted by later investigators as multilayered, openly
sensual on the simple (peshat) level, and descriptive of God’s and Israel’s love and attachment to each other on the rhetorical level (derash). Allegorical treatment of Song of
Songs as the divine-human relationship is the essence of Rashi’s interpretation and for
the Church fathers as the loving relationship between God and the Church.
14. Quotations are from Song of Songs 2:5; 1:9–11, 15.
15. For Israel as God’s bride, see Jeremiah 2:2 and Hosea 2:21–22. For God and Israel’s
troubled relationship, see Moses’ recapping of Israelite history in Deuteronomy 32; the
prophet Jeremiah’s indictment in 2:2–9, and the prophet Hosea’s recitation of God’s rejection of Israel in 2:7–15, 3:1.
16. See S. D. Goitein, “Ha-maqāma ve-ha-mahberet: pereq be-toledot ha-sifrut ve-hahevra ba-mizrah,” Mahberot le-sifrut 5 (1951): 26–40.
17. For a more complete list of Arab maqāmāt, see Lois Anita Giffen, Theory of Profane
Love among the Arabs: The Development of the Genre (New York: New York University
Press, 1971). See especially ibn H
azm’s (994, Cordova–1064, Jativa) Dove’s Neck Ring, ed.
and trans. W. J. Arberry (London: Luzac, 1953).
18. His philosophical works included Sefer pardes rimmonei ha-hokhmah ve-῾arugat
bosem ha-mezimah and Sefer gan ha-te῾udot ve-῾arugot huqqot hamudot. His grammatical work, which exists in fragmentary form in Arabic, was called Kitāb Al-Kamil (Sefer
ha-shalem). Animal fables in the form of moral-didactic and philosophic lessons were a
common feature in medieval literatures. For an in-depth discussion of Jacob ben Elazar
and his works, see also Jonathan Decter, Iberian Jewish Literature: Between al-Andalus
and Christian Europe (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2007), 136–49.
19. These comments were first made by Hayyim Schirmann, HPSP, 3:207–208, and
followed by Yonah David, who edited the sole unique manuscript. See his introduction,
iv and 7–11, for a brief biography of Jacob ben Elazar and details of his compositions. For
236 r Libby Garshowitz
a more extensive biography, see Schirmann’s History of Hebrew Poetry in Christian Spain
and Southern France, ed. Ezra Fleischer (Jerusalem: Magnes Press and Ben-Zvi Institute,
1977), 222–55; Ya῾akov ben El’azar: Kitāb al-Kamil, ed. Nehemiah Allony (Jerusalem:
American Academy for Jewish Studies, 1977), 6–11, in which Allony illustrates Jacob ben
Elazar’s depiction of Arabs as lacking culture.
20. See J. Schirmann, “Les Contes Rimés de Jacob ben Eléazar de Tolède,” Ėtudes
d’Orientalisme Dédiées a la Mémoire de Lévi-Provençal (Paris: G. P. Maisonneuve, 1962),
285–97, and J. Schirmann, History of Hebrew Poetry in Christian Spain and Southern
France, 224–40, 250–55.
21. Mahberet One elevates the desire to be wise into an erotic rhapsody about the love
of wisdom through the intellectual soul as opposed to the material one. See Schirmann,
History of Hebrew Poetry in Christian Spain and Southern France, 250–52; Decter, Iberian
Jewish Literature, 141–42.
22. Mahberet Three. See also Moses ibn Ezra’s Sefer Shirat Yisrael, ed. Ben-Zion
Halper (Leipzig: Matshaf, 1924), 62–80, and Alharizi’s Book of Tahkemoni: Jewish Tales
from Medieval Spain, trans. and annotated by David Simha Segal (Portland, Ore.: Littmann Library of Jewish Civilization, 2001), Gate 18, 175–89. Henceforth all citations to
Sefer Tahkemoni are to Segal’s edition.
23. Mahberet Four. See also Alharizi, Sefer Tahkemoni, Gate 40, 302–306 and, for its
analysis, 601–603.
24. Mahberet Seven (“Yoshefe and His Two Loves”) and Mahberet Nine (“Kima and
Sahar’s Love Story”) are analyzed in this essay.
25. See Yonah David, Sefer Meshalim, 7–8.
26. On Alharizi’s discourse on the composition of literary works in Arabic and Hebrew, see Drory, “Literary Contacts,” 285–92, and Judah Alharizi, Sefer Tahkemoni, 11–15.
27. Ha-yesh lashon le-hallel ’o le-gadef ve-la-῾ir ’ahavah ki-leshon ῾aravim, u-milhamot
ve-qorot ha-zemanim ve-’ay millim ke-millenu ῾arevim? See also Rina Drory’s translation
of this passage in “Literary Contacts,” 293; Schirmann, History of Hebrew Poetry in Christian Spain and Southern France, 222, 224 and nn. 1, 10. To quote Raymond Scheindlin’s
work, “Rabbi Moshe Ibn Ezra on the Legitimacy of Poetry,” Medievalia et Humanistica 7
(1976): 101–15, especially 101–102: “How is it that poetry is a natural aptitude of the Arabs
but an affectation among the other nations?” Unless otherwise indicated, all translations
are mine.
28. ki be-la῾agei safa u-vi-leshon ’aheret yedabber ’el ha-῾am ha-zeh, Isaiah 28:11. See
also Maimonides’ comments as cited in Kozodoy, “Reading Medieval Love Poetry,” 111–13
and note 1.
29. See Judah Alharizi, Sefer Tahkemoni, Arabic dedication, introduction, as quoted
in Rina Drory, “Literary Contacts,” 289. Alharizi states, “I have noticed that most of the
Israelite community in these lands of the East are devoid of the Hebrew language and
denuded of its beautiful garments.”
30. Ezekiel 17:2: hud hiddah meshol mashal. See also Drory: “put forth a riddle and
speak a parable,” in “Literary Contacts,” 293.
31. Proverbs 30:1, 31:1.
32. See, e.g., Solomon ibn Gabirol in Schirmann, HPSP, 1:227, #86: le-gonevei shir.
Jewish Parody and Allegory in Medieval Hebrew Poetry in Spain r 237
33. In Mahberet One, the soul (neshama) is perceived as a young, beloved, and lovesick fawn (῾ofra) in conversation with the heart, representative of the sinful body.
34. The reference is to Avshalom in II Samuel 14:25.
35. See Joshua 19:5; I Chronicles 4:31.
36. In Hebrew love poetry, the term ra῾ya connotes a beloved woman, usually one of
high rank.
37. On the role of the “eye” in Islamic love poetry, see Giffen, Theory of Profane Love
among the Arabs, 59; Ibn H
azm, The Dove’s Neck Ring, “On Hinting with the Eyes,” 68–70:
“and the frequency of surreptitious winks with the eye, and the inclination toward leaning against each other” (ll. 140–45). In Hebrew love poetry, see, e.g., Samuel ibn Nagrela
in Schirmann, HPSP, 1:167–68, #18, based on Song of Songs 4:9: libbevuni ῾einei sevi, “a
gazelle’s eyes have aroused me.”
38. See Rashi at Job 42:14 and also Song of Songs 6:10. On slave girls as prizes of war
and in relationships with Jews, see Shelomo Dov Goitein, A Mediterranean Society: The
Jewish Communities of the Arab World as Portrayed in the Documents of the Cairo Geniza,
6 vols. (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1967–93), 1:130–47.
39. See David Segal’s description in “Jacob ben Elazar’s Tales: The Essence of the Seventh Mahberet” (Hebrew), in Aharon Mirsky Jubilee Volume: Essays on Jewish Culture, ed.
Zvi Malachi (Lod: Habermann Institute, 1986), 353–64, especially 358, where Segal suggests that Yoshefe’s falling on Yemima’s spearlike breasts leads to his comical composition
of five verses of poetry!
40. This common theme in Arabic poetry was soon incorporated into medieval Hebrew poetry. See Schirmann, “L’Amour spirituel,” 318–19, who discusses this
phenomenon.
41. Song of Songs, 2:8.
42. 4:9. According to Schirmann, “L’amour spirituel,” 316, a true lover would never
renounce or abandon his first love should he take another one, and thus Yoshefe could
enjoy the pleasures of both women.
43. Alluding to Judges 5:12: ῾uri, ῾uri, dabberi shir! The prophetess Deborah is urged
to compose a victory song.
44. For Arabic-language versions of harmonious, polygamous matrimonial relationships, see J. C. Bürgel, “Love, Lust, and Longing: Eroticism in Early Islam,” in Society
and the Sexes in Medieval Islam, ed. Afaf Lutfi al-Sayyid-Marsot (Malibu, Calif.: Undena,
1979), 113–14.
45. Shehora ’ani ve-na’va, “I am dark but beautiful!” This in contrast to the later medieval love poetry in which the beloved’s skin is usually pale and white.
46. See also Segal, “Jacob ben Elazar’s ‘Tales,’“ 359.
47. Nelaqqet mi-peninim ve-’im mehubbarot ῾anaq neqashsher mi-savvronim. See
Song of Songs 1:10.
48. On the subject of erotic love between men see Schirmann, “The Ephebe in Medieval Hebrew Poetry,” Sefarad 15 (1955): 55–68.
49. See Judges 7:3: “Whoever is terribly afraid must turn back early (yashov ve-yispor)
from Mount Gilead.” In this writer’s opinion Jacob ben Elazar puns on the dual meaning
of the root s-f-r: 1. to sing, shout out; 2. safra, morning, or to rise early, on the analogy
238 r Libby Garshowitz
of the Aramaic. Therefore, my translation, repointing tashov to teshev, punning on the
words sippor and the Hebrew root s-f-r, or retaining the text, “go and sing.” The use of
the term ’ama, attendant or servant, is also strange, calling into question Yoshefe’s true
intention for his sister.
50. Proverbs 31:29: rabbot banot ῾asu hayil ve’at ῾alit ῾al-kullana.
51. In medieval love poetry, the lack of facial hair denotes the youth of the beloved.
See Elizur, Secular Hebrew Poetry in Moslem Spain, 2:83.
52. The phrase Jacob ben Elazar uses is “having no penis” (beli ’ever), as in Nahum 3:5
and beli ma῾ar in I Kings 7:36. See also Segal, “Jacob ben Elazar’s ‘Tales of Love,’“ 360,
where he describes S ippor’s derision of Masos as “crude.”
53. Nahum 3:5.
54. Paraphrasing I Samuel 21:14–15.
55. Habakuk 3:9.
56. I have altered slightly my previous translation at n. 55 above to reflect its antithetical meaning. See also Segal, “Jacob ben Elazar’s ‘Tales of Love,’“ 360.
57. According to prophetic tradition in Islam, “Who loves and remains chaste and
dies, dies as a martyr.” See Giffen, Theory of Profane Love among the Arabs, 103, and
Schirmann, “L’amour spirituel,” 315.
58. See Exodus 17:8–16; Deuteronomy 25:17, 19; I Samuel 15:2–3. Maskil, the hero of
Mahberet Six, also refers to the black man, Kushan Rish῾atayyim, as Amalek and derides
the former’s black mistress. On this inherent racist streak in Jacob ben Elazar’s Sippurei
’Ahava, see Schirmann, History of Poetry in Christian Spain and Southern France, 237 and
notes 62 and 63. See also Abraham Melamed, The Image of the Black in Jewish Culture: A
History of the Other, trans. Betty Sigler Rozen (London: Routledge-Curzon, 2003).
59. Psalm 64 (attributed to David) in which the psalmist asks God for protection from
Machiavellian slanderers who use their words like arrows. When this wish is fulfilled, the
psalmist praises God and offers up thanks. Verse 7, which Sahar quotes in his castigation
of the two black men, contains problematic language in the Hebrew text. The direction of
the arrows hurled by the mysterious plotters is reversed, with God’s help, and discharged
back at the evildoers. Their plotting has backfired, and the psalmist has found safety in
his trust in God. Rashi, at verse 7, suggests that this verse must be studied further.
60. On the use of “apples” as a love motif, see Songs 2:3, 5; 7:9; and 8:5. For medieval
poets, the alluring apple represents desire (teshuqa). For the importance of “writing” and
“letters” as a means of courting, see also Ibn H
azm, The Dove’s Neck Ring, “Of Allusion
by Words,” 65–67, and “Of Correspondence,” 71–72.
61. On the use of messengers as a conduit between the lover and his beloved in Arabic
poetry, see Ibn H
azm, The Dove’s Neck Ring, 73–75.
62. See Secular Hebrew Poetry in Moslem Spain, 2:112–13, in which Elizur analyzes a
love poem by Samuel ibn Nagrela found in Divan Shmuel Hanagid: The Collected Poetry
of Samuel the Prince, 993–1056 (Hebrew), ed. Dov Yarden (Jerusalem: Hebrew Union
College Press, 1966), 311: yishshaq ῾alai yado be῾ovro ῾alai, “he kisses [his] hand as he
passes me by.” See also Schirmann, “L’amour spirituel,” 318, who states that these type
of kisses were a mark of spiritual love, of necessity according to the [unwritten] code
of courtly love, unfulfilled by physical love. In his lengthier analysis of Sippurei ’Ahava
Jewish Parody and Allegory in Medieval Hebrew Poetry in Spain r 239
in History of Hebrew Poetry in Christian Spain and Southern France, 234–37, Schirmann
states that courtly love, abstinence from physical love, was not a “forever after ideal” in
Judaism, since its adherents are expected to marry and produce children.
63. My translation of malakh yedidim as “guardian angel” is influenced solely by the
context in which this phrase is found. Since the two chaste, but aroused, lovers do not
engage in “physical touching” but satisfy themselves with imagined caresses, an [imaginary] guardian angel was sent not only to prevent them from actual physical contact but
also to guard them from “messengers of love” (malakhei dodim, l. 115) who have aroused
their passion and through whom they hug and kiss each other (neshaqtiha neshaqatni) and who are sent, perhaps, to encourage their mutual love. In his notes to this tale
of “Kima and Sahar’s Love,” the editor, Yonah David, 160, suggests that the term malakh yedidim may be influenced by a foreign language which neither he nor Schirmann
(“L’amour spirituel,” 3l8) recognizes. Schirmann, however, in History of Hebrew Poetry in
Christian Spain and Southern France, 235 and n. 56, suggests that this phrase may refer
to a “friendly messenger” and may be borrowed from the Arabic. If Jacob ben Elazar’s
contact with troubadour literature was extensive, perhaps he knew such a phrase from
Provençal or Occitan literature.
64. Proverbs 1:3.
65. Judges 16:2.
66. See Judges 14:18: “If you hadn’t ploughed with my wife, you wouldn’t know the
answer [to my riddle].” The medieval commentator Rashi notes that the Philistine men
had engaged in sexual intercourse with Samson’s Philistine wife in order to pry from her
the answer to the riddle Samson had posed.
67. See also Raymond Scheindlin, “Sippurei ha-’ahavah shel ya῾akov ben el῾azar: Bein
sifrut ῾aravit le-sifrut romans,” Divrei ha-kongres ha-῾olami ha-’ehad-῾asar le-mada῾ei
ha-yahadut 3 (1994): 16–17.
68. Each line in this poem contains four stichs, with the first three in each line ending
in identical rhymes and the fourth stich ending in an identical rhyme throughout the
poem.
69. l. 545: ve-’ey mitqey tokhahot yedid ’o ’ey ne῾im sefer.
70. Songs 7:1. See also Scheindlin, Wine, Women, and Death, 81–82, who describes
this phenomenon in medieval love poetry.
71. Isaiah 62:5.
72. See, e.g., Schirmann, “L’amour spirituel,” 318–19, and Ibn H
azm, The Dove’s Neck
Ring, “On the Virtue of Continence,” 262–84: “The finest quality that a man can display in
Love is continence: to abstain from sin and all indecency” (262). For additional information on the idea of mystical love in Arabic literature, see Annemarie Schimmel, “Eros—
Heavenly and Not So Heavenly—in Sufi Literature and Life,” in Society and the Sexes
in Medieval Islam, 120–41, especially 122–24. See also Schirmann, “L’Amour spirituel,”
especially 317–19. Schirmann (316) also states that medieval Hebrew poets seemed to
have adhered to a certain “code mystérieux, lois de l’amour.” Dan Pagis, Change and Tradition in the Secular Poetry of Spain and Italy (Hebrew) (Jerusalem: Keter, 1976), 221–22,
describes Jacob ben Elazar’s emphasis on spiritual love.
73. See Songs 7:3, ’agan-ha-sahar, in combined form.
240 r Libby Garshowitz
74. The word kima occurs also in Amos 5:8 in combination with kesil, Orion, as it
does in Job 9:9, 38:31; Isaiah 13:10. In BT Berakhot 58b Samuel said: “Were it not for the
heat of Orion the world could not endure the cold of Pleiades and were it not for the cold
of Pleiades the world could not endure the heat of Orion,” which can be understood as
alluding to Kima’s alternating passion and cruelty toward Sahar. Furthermore, Samuel
puns on the word kima, referring to it as “about a hundred (ke-me’a) stars,” Kima’s handmaidens or perhaps the many trials Sahar must endure.
75. Along with these words Kima states that the status of “kind words” (nedivot) of
“spiritual love” (hishqam) are found in “their books, filled with innocence (tom) and
integrity (yosher), and reverence (yir’a) and humility (῾anava).” The editor, Yona David,
in his notes to this chapter and these lines, 160, understands “their books” to refer to the
books of love written by members of the “half-breed society,” that is, those of inferior
intellect. He states in the same note that Schirmann emends the text to read “our books”
(sefareinu). It is possible that if the correct reading is “their books” (sifreihem), then Jacob
ben Elazar may be subtly continuing his ridicule of them; if the emendation “our books”
(sefareinu) is followed, then our author could possibly be extolling Jewish literature to
his fellow Jews who may no longer be familiar with them, an accusation shared by his
contemporaries. However, Jacob ben Elazar may be casting an indirect jibe at the works
of Arab love poetry, which he intended to do, and therefore the reading “their books”
should be retained.
76. On the didactic and moralizing spirit of love poetry, see Catherine Léglu, “Satirical and Moralising Poetry,” in The Troubadours: An Introduction, ed. Sarah Kay and
Simon Gaunt (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 47–65.
77. For female mastery of the martial arts see Decter, Iberian Jewish Literature, 140–41,
who, citing Tova Rosen as well as other sources, briefly reviews the possible roots of the
themes of “cross-dressed knights” and female militancy.
78. See Moses ibn Ezra, Sefer ha-῾iyyunim ve-ha-diyyunim, ed. A. S. Halkin (Jerusalem: Mekitse Nirdamim, 1975), 277–79.
13
Mishaf al-Shbahot—The Holy Book
of Praises of the Babylonian Jews
One Thousand Years of Cultural Harmony
between Judaism and Islam
Merav Rosenfeld-Hadad
After a prolonged stay of nearly 2,600 years in the Diaspora, the Babylonian Jews returned in 1951 to their homeland, the renewed state of Israel.1
Only three years later, in 1954, they published their first edition of a book
entitled Sefer Shirim Tehilat-Yesharim Hashalem, Pizmonim, Bakashot
Vetishbahot (The Complete Book of Songs, Praise of the Righteous, Songs,
Supplications, and Praises), called also Mishaf al-Shbahot (pl. msāhif, s.
shbah). It was the second comprehensive collection of religious songs created by this community.2 The first was published in Baghdad in 1906.3
The book comprises poems belonging to all the occasions of the ancient para-liturgical practice which functions as a complementary worship to the main observance of communal occasions, such as the Sabbath
and the three main festivals, Passover, Pentecost, and Tabernacles, and
life-cycle occasions, such as circumcision and bar mitzvah. These are celebrated mostly outside the synagogue, by singing each of these poems to
a melody mostly adapted from an existing Arabic song.
This chapter addresses the Mishaf as a book of religious practice with
poems that reflect Jewish life, as an isolated community nourished only by
its own religious and cultural sources. It is also viewed as a collection of
poems that taken together narrate the story of Jewish existence as part of
a larger fabric of social and cultural life, in which a rich and long-lasting
242 r Merav Rosenfeld-Hadad
discourse between Judaism and Islam took place in many aspects of life
and scholarship. This is a story of one thousand years of Hebrew religious
poetry, its poets, and its carriers, the Babylonian Jews. In essence, this is
also the story of the para-liturgical song (PLS) of any other Arab-Jewish
community: all members of such communities are familiar with this repertoire, and its performance practice is as pivotal in their lives as it is for
the Babylonian Jews.
1. The Poems of the Mishaf
The Mishaf contains 371 poems of various genres. Most are written in Hebrew, but there are also poems in the Judeo-Arabic vernacular, Aramaic,
and Turkish, all written in the Hebrew alphabet. For most poems, the
author of the text is not named. These poems contain religious themes,
which express communal or private supplication, petition, and confession
to God, called Baqashah (supplication, pl. Baqashot). They also express
adoration, thanksgiving, intercession, and praise of God, called Shbah.
2. Musical Information Given in the Mishaf
The scant musical information given in this book is scattered over a few
headings of the poems. Only 15 out of the 371 poems have headings with
musical information of any sort. Each such heading includes a recommended melody, which is indicated by the opening words of another
poem. There are no particular qualities shared by these songs that appear
to differentiate them from the other songs in the Mishaf. Furthermore,
this musical information does not assist in tracing the original melody of
a specific song. However, it reveals the rich sources from which the melodies are borrowed. They can be taken from other para-liturgical poems
that appear in the Mishaf, from hymns that belong to the liturgy or other
religious practices, and from secular Arabic songs.
3. The Emergence of the PLS
The poems of the Mishaf show clearly that the history of the text of the
PLS is not necessarily the history of the PLS as a distinct religious genre.
Shiloah (1992, 111) describes the emergence of the piyyut, a religious sung
One Thousand Years of Cultural Harmony between Judaism and Islam r 243
poem, performed outside the liturgy, as a socioreligious process: “Thus in
the course of time the piyyut broke through the limitations of liturgy and
synagogue song and found an accepted niche during public and private
ceremonial occasions.” Shiloah does not mention any particular time at
which the PLS emerged. There are, however, scholars who tend to mark
the sixteenth century with Najarah’s poetry as a starting point for the appearance of the genre. His songs are described as a kind of para-liturgical
poetry performed at special pre-dawn rituals of devotion (Tietze and Yahalom 1995, 9). Najarah’s poems are not, however, radically different from
much earlier religious poetry and, therefore, the definite time in the past
at which this genre emerged is yet to be discovered.
4. The History of the PLS in the Context of
the Arabo-Islamic Cultural Domain
Scholars agree that the Arabo-Islamic influence on Hebrew religious poetry was strong, long-lasting, and encompassed both time and place (e.g.,
Altmann 1969; Scheindlin 1991, 1994; Levin 1986; Tobi 2000; Mirski 1992;
and Schippers 1994). It continued for more than a thousand years and
took root wherever Muslims were the rulers and Jews were their subjects.
It had started as early as the ninth century in the most important spiritual
centers of both Judaism and Islam, i.e. ῾Abbāsid Baghdad, and continued
in Muslim Spain, roughly between the tenth and fifteenth centuries (Tobi
2000, 40). Both periods represent the “Renaissance of Islam” (Stillman
1997, 87). During later periods, when Islam was no longer as strong and
powerful, this influence moved to different places throughout the Ottoman Empire.
The Arabo-Islamic impact on Hebrew poetry resulted in radical
changes that are evident in its form, style, content, and even language.
Indeed, the structural, poetic, and linguistic borrowings are so extensive
that some define it as a poetry that differs from Arabic poetry only in its
language (Tobi 2000, 7). In its content, Hebrew poetry expressed new
ideas, replacing themes of communal concerns and hopes with matters
involving the individual’s religious experience and wishes (Scheindlin
1991, 22). These ideas were inspired not only by Arabic poetry but also
by the Quran, the H
adīth (the sayings attributed to the prophet Muhammad), and Islamic philosophy, theology, and mysticism (Lewis 1984, 80).
244 r Merav Rosenfeld-Hadad
The intense presence of these sources in Hebrew religious poetry makes
the poems impossible to understand without a thorough acquaintance
with the wider cultural surroundings that nourished the mind-set of the
Jewish poets (Tobi 2000, 7).
However, this immense influence does not imply that Hebrew religious
poetry is a pure imitation of Arabic poetry. The Hebrew poets reached
literary peaks no less sophisticated than their Arabic counterparts—otherwise these poems would not have been treasured as a very important
form of Jewish poetry from the ninth century until the present day (Tobi
2000, 8, 11).
The pivotal role that Arabo-Islamic culture had in shaping the PLS is
also attested in its music. As early as the 1930s, major studies in ethnomusicology describe this strong influence on many aspects of the melody
and its rendition. Idelsohn (1923) and Lachmann (1929), two pioneering
scholars in the study of Jewish musical traditions among the communities
who lived in Arab countries, were the first to identify the strong presence
of this culture in their Jewish religious songs. From this point onward, the
way was opened for studies addressing religious songs in Jewish communities that still live in the same countries, such as the Djerba community
(Lachmann 1929; 1940; Davis 1985; 2002), communities that immigrated
to Israel, such as the Babylonian Jews (Idelsohn 1923; Shiloah 1983) or
to the West, such as the Syrian Jews in New York and elsewhere in the
Americas (Shelemay 1998; Kligman 2001). These studies show unequivocally that the Arabic musical tradition has long been a pivotal component
in the cultural life of these communities, religious as well as secular, and
in their identity as Arab-Jews (Shelemay 1998).
It is important at this stage to note that, regarding the influence of
Arabo-Islamic culture on Hebrew religious poetry and its music, this
study follows the path paved by findings made in previous works and
does not address any of the influences that Judaism had on Arabic culture
and Islamic religion. This presentation should by no means be seen as an
attempt to undermine the Jewish influence; rather, it is a reflection of the
particular focus of this study. That is to say, in literature and the arts in
general, and in Hebrew poetry in particular, “the Muslim influence on
the Jews is enormous, and it is almost entirely one way” (Lewis 1984, 81).
This assertion is equally valid in the case of the melodies, which are all
borrowed from the Arabic repertoire of songs, and which also dictate the
singing style of these Hebrew poems.
One Thousand Years of Cultural Harmony between Judaism and Islam r 245
The Historical and Cultural Scope of the Mishaf
The Poets: General Description
Discovering the names of the poets and establishing their chronological order reveals that the Mishaf covers one thousand years of Hebrew
religious poetry, dating from the tenth century. It contains poetry written
by the most prominent poets. All produced their work within the AraboIslamic civilization and were much influenced by it.
Seventy-two poets, whose work collectively comprises over 270 poems,
were identified in the Mishaf. The poems written between the tenth and
sixteenth centuries remain the most popular among Arab-Jews, including
the Babylonians, and also in some Ashkenazi communities. In particular,
these include poems by the most prominent poets of the golden age of
Muslim Spain, during the eleventh and the twelfth centuries, such as Ibn
Gabirol, Yehudah Halevi, and Avraham Ibn ῾Ezra. The fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, which ended with the expulsion of the Jews from Spain,
are not represented in the Mishaf.
The presence of the Babylonian poets in the collection is evident only
from the eighteenth century onwards. It is known that Hebrew poetry
continued to be written in Babylon of the post-῾Abbasid era (twelfth
and thirteen centuries) and mainly in the quasi-muwashshah style (shir
me῾eyn-ezori) (Tobi 1981, 51). It is also known that after the expulsion of
the Jews from Spain, the poets of the East, especially the Babylonians,
continued to write in the Spanish style (Tobi 2000, 19). Yet this period of
Babylonian religious poetry is not represented in the Mishaf. A possible
reason for this finding might simply be the lack of documented information regarding rabbinical scholarship of any sort, including poetry, between the fourteenth and seventeenth centuries. According to Benayahu
(1993, 9), neither books nor manuscripts from this period, or even earlier,
have survived. This is because Babylonian works of religious scholarship
were not copied throughout this period, as was the custom with Jewish
scholarship and poetry of Muslim Spain. However, the reason for the absence of earlier poems is not yet known definitely.
As to the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, Rosen-Moked (1982,
132) affirms that it is even possible to say that a certain kind of renaissance of the Spanish school took place among the Babylonian poets. This
is evident in the work of three nineteenth-century poets, ῾Abdallah Ben
Table 13.1. The Poets of the Mishaf
Period
Time
Place
Prominent Poets
῾Abbasid
Baghdad/
Muslim-Spain
Muslim Spain
10th
century
Baghdad and
Cordoba
Dunash Ben Labrat (915–70)
11th to
15th
centuries
Spain
Shlomoh Ibn Gabirol (1020–57)
8
Yishaq Ben Yehudah Ibn Ghayyath
(1030–89)
Yehudah Halevi (1075–1141)
1
Avraham Ibn ῾Ezra (1089–1164)
Maimonides (1138–1204)a
Yishaq Ben Yehudah Hasniri (13th
century)
Yosef Ben H
anan Ben Natan Ezobi
(13th century)
Zrahyah Halevi (13th century)
6
1
1
2
Libya
Shlomoh Ben Mazal Tov (16th
century)
El῾azar Ben Mosheh Azkari
(1533–1600)
Avraham Maimin (16th century)
Israel Ben Mosheh Najarah
(1555–1625)
Shim‘on Lavi (d. 1545)
Tunis
Fardji Shawat (16th century)
2
Morocco
Mosheh Ben Aharon Adhan (17th
and 18th centuries)
1
David Ben Aharon H
asin (1727–92)
2
Mosheh Ashkar Hakohen (18th
century)
23 Poetsd (18th and 19th centuries)
1
Provence
Ottoman
Empire
16th
century
Constantinople
Safed
Palestineb
17th and
18th
centuries
Baghdadc
18th
through
20th
centuries
Baghdad
H
alabe
H
alab Egypt
H
alab
H
alab
H
alab, Jerusalem–New York
Total PLSs
Yosef Ben Eliyah al-Hakham
(1835–1909)
Yishaq ῾Antabi (18th and 19th
centuries)
Refael ῾Antabi (19th century)
Mordekhay ῾Abadi (19th century)
Avraham ῾Antabi (20th century)
Yishaq ῾Abadi (20th century)
Poems in
the Mishaf
1
5
1
1
1
1
81
1
52
49
1
1
6
1
1
228
Notes:
a. Not certain.
b. Also Adrianople in Turkey, Damascus, Safed, and Gaza.
c. Under the Ottomans until 1918.
d. The most prominent poets are Mosheh Halevi (1835–1909) with seven songs; Rabi ῾Abdalla Ben Rabi Khther
Hnin (d. 1859) and Saleh Masliah (1773–1885) with six songs each; and ῾Ezra Ben Rabi Eliahu Sofer (19th century)
and Sason ben Rabbi Mordekhay (1747–1830) with four songs each.
e. Also known as Aleppo.
One Thousand Years of Cultural Harmony between Judaism and Islam r 247
Rabbi Khther Hnin, whose poems appear in the Mishaf, Yehezkel Hnin,
and Avraham Mosheh Shmuel. And despite the lack of information, some
of the strophic poetry of the Babylonian poets that appears in the Mishaf
attests to their acquaintance with the Spanish poetry and the muwashshah
(shir ezor) in particular.
Two other groups of poets are represented here. The first are the North
African poets from Libya, Tunis, and Morocco between the sixteenth and
eighteenth centuries. This is despite the fact that the close relationship
between the Babylonian and North African communities dates from the
ninth century (Gruner 1989, 49).
The second group is the poets of Halab (Aleppo), from the eighteenth
century onwards. This can perhaps affirm the close relationship between
the Babylonian and Syrian communities that was reinforced in the eighteenth century, when the former was in desperate need of leaders. After
a disastrous plague that killed a large number of its members, including
the leadership, the Babylonians invited the Syrian Rabbi S daqah H
usin
(1699–1733) to be the head of their community (Hakak 2005, 15). The work
of his son, Mosheh H
usin (d. 1810), was identified in the Mishaf.
Chronological and Geographical Boundaries
When the veil of anonymity is lifted from the poets of the Mishaf, a panoramic landscape of time and place is revealed. This book encompasses
chronological and geographical boundaries that are, although broad,
carefully defined. Within these boundaries, it conveys the four formative
periods of Hebrew religious poetry in general and the PLS in particular.
These poets lived in the major capitals of Arabo-Islamic civilization while
conducting an intense intellectual dialogue with the surrounding society.
The Mishaf documents the first encounter of the Jews with AraboIslamic culture in ῾Abbasid Baghdad during the tenth century; it then
moves to Islamic Spain from the eleventh to the fifteenth century, before
returning to western Asia under the rule of the Ottoman Empire in the
sixteenth century. This journey comes to an end in Baghdad between the
eighteen and the twentieth centuries, the city where this artistic and religious journey began.
Thus the Mishaf documents almost the entire history of Jewish paraliturgical poetry, embracing periods of cultural growth and flowering in
248 r Merav Rosenfeld-Hadad
Islamic civilization as well as periods of decline. It covers all times and
places in which Jews created and performed this genre under the wings
of the Arabo-Islamic civilization, which had given birth to this genre and
nourished its poetic and musical features through the entire second millennium. The first two periods are the formative and classical periods of
medieval Islam and Judeo-Arabic culture. The third period was the last
of the great periods of Islamic culture, when the large and creative Jewish
communities were scattered throughout the Ottoman Empire. And the
fourth and last period represents the final phase of Judeo-Arabic life in
Arab lands.
The Arabo-Islamic Culture as Reflected in the Mishaf
It would be almost impossible to portray in the framework of a single
study the influence of Arabo-Islamic culture and religion on the entire
collection of the PLSs in the Mishaf, in all its complexity and variety. The
aim of this study is more limited. Instead, four prominent poets will represent each of the four periods described above. Dunash Ben Labrat (915–
70) represents the first period in ῾Abbasid Baghdad. Shlomoh Ibn Gabirol
(1020–57) represents the second period in Muslim Spain and Israel Ben
Mosheh Najarah (1555–1625) represents the third period, in the Ottoman
Empire, mainly in the Middle East, including North Africa. Hakham Yosef H
ayyim Ben Eliyah al-H
akham (1835–1909) represents the last period,
mostly in Baghdad, then still under the rule of the Ottoman Empire.
The work of each of these poets is significant in both the history of Hebrew religious poetry, and in reflecting the influence of the Arabo-Islamic
culture on this poetry. The following sections give a general account of
the various aspects of this influence on the work of each of the four poets,
illustrated by one each of their poems, all of which are analyzed here in
this inclusive manner for the first time.
῾Abbasid Baghdad and Dunash Ben Labrat
In 762, during the reign of the caliph al-Mansur (754–75), Baghdad grew
from a small suburb near the capital of the Sassanid Empire, Ctesiphon,
into the capital of the caliphs of the ῾Abbasid dynasty. The small community of Jews, who had lived there from the third century, gradually
expanded and became the largest Jewish urban community in the area
One Thousand Years of Cultural Harmony between Judaism and Islam r 249
known today as Iraq (Rappel 1978, 31).Between the eighth and the tenth
centuries, various caliphs implemented different policies, for or against
the Jews; nonetheless, and despite all the restrictions, many Jews adopted
the values, manners, and customs of Arabic culture. By the tenth century,
Jews were using Arabic for nearly all forms of writing, both secular and
religious (Stillman 1997, 83). And the first blossoms of Arabo-Islamic influence on Jewish life, thinking, and writing, including religious poetry,
had started to be apparent (Ben Ya῾akov and Cohen 1971, 1445).
The period between the mid-seventh and mid-eleventh centuries witnessed the golden age of the geonim, the heads of the prospering academies of Jewish learning in Sura and Pumbedita, which were located in
southern Iraq and moved at the beginning of the tenth century to the
῾Abbasid capital, Baghdad (Fawzi 1993, 193). This era coincided with an
unparalleled efflorescence of Arabic culture during the Umayyad and
῾Abbasid dynasties. The strong influence of this culture on Jewish life
contributed to the growing importance of the Jewish leaders in Babylon. Thus Baghdad also became the spiritual capital of the Jewish people.
It was the place where rashey hagolah (the leaders of the Diaspora), the
highest authorities on Jewish law, lived. Here, Hebrew poetry encountered
Arabo-Islamic culture and as early as the ninth century, it started to come
under its influence (Tobi 2000, 40).
Dunash Ben Labrat (915–70), a poet, linguist, and musician, was a native of Fez. He received his education in Baghdad at the feet of Sa῾adyah
Gaon (882–942). In 960, he moved to Cordoba, where he became an influential figure whose role in establishing the foundations of the new Spanish school of Hebrew poetry was significant. As the earliest poet whose
work appears in the Mishaf, Dunash represents the first stage at which
Jewish scholarship was influenced by the Arabo-Islamic civilization. As
a devoted disciple of the Sa῾adyah Gaon, Dunash absorbed much of the
literary doctrine of the late Hebrew Babylonian poetic school (Fleischer
1975, 337). In this same cultural environment, he made his most revolutionary step, introducing Arabic poetic meter to Hebrew poetry (Tobi
2000, 55).
Arabo-Islamic Influence
Tobi (2000, 11) describes Dunash as the poet from the East who opened the
door to the Arabic influence on Hebrew poetry which became completely
250 r Merav Rosenfeld-Hadad
reliant on Arabic poetry, and every Jewish poet’s goal was to try his best
to follow the footsteps of the Arabic poets.
The Quantitative Meter
One of Dunash’s most significant contributions to Hebrew poetry was
the introduction of Arabic poetic meter, the quantitative meter, which is
based on a distinction between short and long syllables.4 It replaced the
Hebrew metric system, which was prevalent at that time, and was based
on the distinction between stressed and unstressed syllables (Stoetzer
1998, 619). Dunash’s invention is considered to be a revolutionary act of
immense influence on Hebrew poetry (Yahalom 1979, 24). This is because
it deviated from Hebrew grammar and bestowed on the meter the status
of an independent element overriding the grammar and content of the
text. As such, it also raised enormous opposition (Tobi 2000, 256).
The new meter had far-reaching implications for sung poetry. The old
system had not included any consideration of time. The articulation of the
words was according to the intensity of their syllables rather than their
length. As a result, a melody for a Hebrew poem was in free rhythm. The
new metric system, on the other hand, gave length to the syllables and
thus created the foundation of metered melody with flowing rhythms,
which was easier for singing. It also made the formal idea of a stanza
more prominent, an innovation that helped to bring music into religious
practice (Boehm 1971, 594).
Dunash’s pioneering invention was difficult to grasp until the time of
Ibn Gabirol, who furthered its presence in Hebrew poetry, religious as
well as secular (Levin 1986, 129). Only then, and subsequently over many
centuries, did it spread to other places, such as North Africa, Turkey, Syria,
Babylon, Egypt, and Yemen (Hrushovski 1971, 1121). From Dunash’s time
onwards, meters based on syllable counting have ruled Hebrew poetry.
Biblical Language
Dunash was not the first to introduce biblical language into Hebrew poetry, but he was the first to use it exclusively (Tobi 2000, 120). Inspired by
the Islamic adoration of Quranic language, his predecessor and teacher
Sa῾adyah viewed biblical Hebrew as a language which was by no means
less sophisticated, rich, or powerful than the language of the Quran.
Therefore, he encouraged the use of both the biblical style and the old
One Thousand Years of Cultural Harmony between Judaism and Islam r 251
paytanic style, which had been prevalent since the third century. The latter included a combination of biblical and new words created by the paytanim (poets) according to their special linguistic needs (Schirmann 1998,
39). The Spanish school of Hebrew religious poetry continued Dunash’s
legacy and insisted on rigid adherence to the form, syntax, and grammar
of pure biblical Hebrew (Tobi 2000, 56).
The Qasīda
In Cordoba, Dunash was the first poet to write perfect Hebrew qasīda,
the most prestigious and classic Arabic genre.5 The qasīda comprises a
variable number of bipartite lines, up to one hundred, all of which have
identical meter. The rhyming scheme is aa ba ca da, etc., that is, the rhyme
appears in both parts of the first line and only in the second part in the
rest of the lines (Jacobi 1998, 630). Later on, in Islamic Spain, Ibn Gabirol
adopted and developed this genre (Schirmann 1998, 124).
Dunash’s Dror Yiqra (Proclaim a Release) (first stanza, author’s
translation): Poetic Characteristics, Content, and Melody
Proclaim a release for both son and daughter
And the LORD shall guard you as the pupil of His eye
Your name is pleasant and shall never cease
Sit [and] rest on the Sabbath day
Dror Yiqra M(55;78), was written in 960 when Dunash was in Spain (Alcalay 1993, 160). It is sung during the Sabbath meals, especially during the
first meal on Friday evening. The poem reflects two of Dunash’s inventions: Arabic quantitative meter and the exclusive use of biblical language.
Most scholars call Dror Yiqra a zemer (song) and do not relate to its
poetic genre (Allony 1947, 36, 38; Schirmann 1954, 40; Fleischer 1975, 412;
Ratzaby 1996, 1:47–48; Breuer 1993, 24; Weinberger 1998, 134; Schirmann
1998, 126, 128). In Dunash’s time, the qasīda had reached its greatest length
and was cut into strophes, with shorter lines and a unique rhyme situated
at the end of each of them, instead of one rhyme at the end of the longer
original line. As the first poet to write Hebrew qasīda, it is likely that Dunash was influenced by this development, and what we see here reflects
this effect (Breuer 1993, 24). Breuer relies on this assumption when he
tries to explain the reason for the combination of two poetic elements
252 r Merav Rosenfeld-Hadad
noticeable in Dunash’s poem for the first time. These are the absence of
haruz mavriah, that is, a similar rhyme at the end of each of the strophes
of the poem, and instead, the appearance of a rhyme at the end of each
line of the strophe, and the changes of rhyme from one strophe to another.
The poem has six stanzas; each has four symmetrical lines of eight syllables and a similar rhyming scheme: aaaa, bbbb, cccc, etc. Dunash uses
the Arabic quantitative meter of a type called hazaj, hamarnin in Hebrew.6
This particular meter entered instantaneously into secular and religious
Hebrew poetry, and the most famous example is Dror Yiqra (Ratzaby
1996, 47).
Dunash uses biblical vocabulary, though in his own style. For example,
the first two words of the poem Dror Yiqra are a variation on three biblical sources. Leviticus 25:10 has veqeratem dror bares (and you shall have
the horn sounded throughout your land), Jeremiah 34:15 has liqro dror
(proclaim a release), and Jeremiah 43:8 has liqro lahem dror (proclaim for
them a release).7 The poem also demonstrates the change or twist Dunash
made in the grammatical function of these words and thus in their meaning. Perhaps he did this in order to fit the biblical quotations to the new
Arabic meter. For example, in line 2, in the phrase ne῾im shimkhem (your
voice is pleasant), the word ne῾im should be na῾im, as it appears in Psalm
35:3—zamru lishmo ki na῾im (sing hymns to His name, for it is pleasant).
Another example is in line 4—shvu nuhu (sit, rest). In the original text,
Numbers 22:19, it appears as shvu venuhu (sit and rest).
The heading of the poem does not indicate any melody to which it is
sung. The Babylonians have several melodies for this popular song. All of
them are based on maqāmāt (s. maqām, Arabic musical scale), although
their original Arabic songs have yet to be identified (see Shiloah 1983, 62
and note 15).
Muslim Spain and Shlomoh Ibn Gabirol
Jewish settlements in Spain developed significantly in the eighth century,
a short time after the Muslim conquest, and were in close relation with
the Babylonian leadership.
The period during the eleventh and twelfth centuries is regarded as the
best that Jews ever experienced under Islamic governance, as they enjoyed
a high degree of religious and civil autonomy. The free religious, political,
and cultural atmosphere gave rise to a significant Jewish courtier class,
One Thousand Years of Cultural Harmony between Judaism and Islam r 253
with a sense of identity combining Jewish and Arabo-Islamic cultural values and ideas. Social and intellectual collaborations were common and
normal between Jews, Muslims, and Christians (Brann 1991, 1).
Shlomoh Ibn Gabirol (1020–57) was a Spanish poet and philosopher.
He is regarded as the major religious poet of the Arab-Jews, and a large
number of his poems have been preserved in prayer books of many Jewish
communities. Eight of his poems were discovered in the Mishaf, and they
appear on various occasions.
Ibn Gabirol is considered the founder of the new school of religious
poetry in Muslim Spain and thus the most important poet of this era
(Mirski 1992, 159, 298; Levin 1986, 92). More than any other poet, he is
responsible for the great change that occurred in Hebrew poetry under
the influence of Arabo-Islamic culture. As a follower of Sa῾adiah Gaon
and Dunash, he is also seen as a poet who allowed deeper amalgamation
of Arabo-Islamic features with Jewish ideas and values in Hebrew poetry.
Arabo-Islamic Influence
Islamic Mysticism and Arabic Secular Poetry
The neo-Platonic School, founded in the third century by Plotinus, formulated an idea concerning the human soul and its purpose. The origin of the human soul, before it was united with matter, existed in the
Eternal and Supreme, and thus its goal was to return to this high origin.
This idea was adapted and further developed by the Islamic neo-Platonic
school, which viewed God as the Eternal and the Supreme. The earliest
step was made by al-Kindi (d. 866), the first Muslim philosopher, then by
the Ikhwān al-Safā (Pure Brethren), a group of Muslim philosophers in
Basra, Iraq, of the tenth and eleventh centuries. Later, it reached its intellectual fruition in the works of al-Farabi (872–950) and Ibn Sina (d. 1037)
(Levin 1986, 137).
The work of these neo-Platonic philosophers, mostly that of Ikhwān
al-Safā, was brought to Muslim Spain by the philosopher H
amid al-Din
al-Kermani (d. 1020) and studied by Ibn Gabirol, who eventually adopted
their ideas, which are clearly manifested in his poetry (Levin 1986, 139).
Among all the Jewish neo-Platonic philosophers of the Middle Ages,
Ibn Gabirol was the most original and significant; his ideas shaped the
core thinking of Jewish philosophy, theology, and Kabbalah (Jewish
254 r Merav Rosenfeld-Hadad
mysticism). He transplanted neo-Platonism into Hebrew poetry without
any feeling of contradiction between his Jewish religious beliefs and his
philosophical outlook (Guttmann 1964, 89).
This same idea also appears in the early Sufi mystic and ascetic poetry,
called zuhdiyyāt (ascetic poems, s. zuhdiyya, from the verb zahada, to renounce or to turn away from)(Levin 1986, 136). This genre was developed
in the early Islamic period and became the favourite poetic style during
the first years of the new Muslim empire, especially at the beginning of the
῾Abbasid dynasty in the eighth century (Stern 1974, 81). In a varied number of rhymes and metered lines, ranging from less than ten to over forty,
written in simple language, these poems convey the vigorous attempt of
the worshipper to come closer to God.
Levin (1986, 95) states without any equivocation that Sufi mysticism
had a strong impact on Ibn Gabirol’s life and work. He was the first poet of
Hebrew religious poetry to adopt the zuhdiyyāt genre, including its ideas,
not only in his poetry but also in his other works. He was influenced, in
particular, by the zuhd, the idea of the rejection of material comforts in
order to pursue personal contemplation and meditation, and he eventually adapted this concept as a way of life. Cole (2001, 30) raises only briefly
the possibility that Ibn Gabirol was the first Jewish Sufi.
Ibn Gabirol was the first Hebrew poet to shape his philosophical and
mystical ideas in a form that was entirely influenced by the imagery and
prosody of Arabic love poetry. He used it as a model for his description of
the love between God and the people of Israel, particularly for expressing
an intimate and direct appeal of the individual believer to God (Scheindlin 1991, 37; 1994:109). The religious state of the worshipper was one of
the most important ideas that occupied the Hebrew religious poets of
Muslim Spain (Levin 1986, 92). According to Scheindlin (1991, 139), it was
completely inspired and influenced by Arabo-Islamic ideas prevalent at
that time. Ibn Gabirol’s act, in this respect, is considered a radical development, because it demanded an absolute abandonment of the early Hebrew
hymnology in both form and content (Levin 1986, 119).8
The Muwashshah
Ibn Gabirol was the first Hebrew poet to write poems in the muwashshah
genre (Schirmann 1998, 316). In his time, this genre was disdained by classical and prominent poets, Jews as well as Muslims, as it was considered to
One Thousand Years of Cultural Harmony between Judaism and Islam r 255
be a promiscuous and sensual form of song, performed by female slaves in
taverns. Here also, Schirmann views Ibn Gabirol’s act as courageous. He
wrote his muwashshah in the mu῾ārada (imitation) technique prevalent in
Arabic poetry, particularly in this genre, which is based on the imitation
of an existing poem. The close contact that the Hebrew poets in general,
and Ibn Gabirol in particular, had with contemporary Arabic poets who
wrote muwashshahāt is attested by the numerous cases of mu῾ārada that
still can be ascertained, despite the scarcity of the Arabic material (Stern
1974, 45).
Ibn Gabirol’s Shfal Ruah (With Lowly Spirit, Scheindlin’s translation
1991, 177): Poetic Characteristics, Content, and Melody
1a With lowly spirit, lowered knee and head
1b In fear I come; I offer Thee my dread.
2a But once with Thee I seem to have no worth
2b More than a little worm upon the earth.
3a O Fullness of the world, Infinity3b What praise can come, if any can, from me?
4a Thy splendour is not contained by the hosts on high,
4b And how much less capacity have I!
5a Infinite Thou, and infinite Thy ways;
5b Therefore the soul expands to sing Thy praise.
The Baqashah Shfal Ruah M(16;9) also appears in the liturgy and is recited
in the Morning Prayer of the second day of Rosh Hashanah (Jewish New
Year).9 It reflects the longing of the feeble and humble worshipper for
the unreachable and Almighty God, emphasizing the huge gap existing
between the two.
Ibn Gabirol uses the Arabic poetic genre called qit῾a (pl. qita῾), psuqah
in Hebrew: a short and monothematic version of the often polythematic
qasīda, which was widely used for zuhdiyyāt. The qit῾a comprises not
more than ten lines, each divided over two hemistiches. In comparison
with the classical and sophisticated qasīda, the qit῾a tends toward simpler
diction, less elaborated rhetoric, and greater lyricism.
This genre symbolizes the real Spanish revolution in Hebrew poetry
under the influence of Arabo-Islamic culture, not only through its form
256 r Merav Rosenfeld-Hadad
but also through its content, that is, the intimate and direct appeal to God
(Fleischer 1975, 402). Six out of his eight poems in the Mishaf, including
Shfal Ruah, are qita῾.
The rhyming scheme is typical of the qit῾a: aa, ba, ca, da, etc. The poem
is structured on the Arabic meter called wāfir, hamerubeh in Hebrew,
which has eleven syllables in each hemistich of each line.10
Ibn Gabirol uses wide-ranging and versatile sources of biblical quotations and vocabulary.11 In a few cases, he quotes the biblical version as is.
For example, the first two words of the poem are taken from Isaiah 57:15
and Proverbs 17:19 and 29:23. In others, just like Dunash, he makes few
adaptations to fit the words into his poem. An interesting example is the
two words shfal qomah (low stature) in line 1, quoted from Ezekiel 17:6,
and translated in the poem as “lowered . . . head.” Here, Ibn Gabirol separates the words: shfal, which appears at the beginning of the verse, and
qomah at the end. He then slightly twists the grammatical form of the
verb shfal: in Ezekiel it appears in the feminine form, gefen sorahat shiflat
qomah (a spring vine of low stature) and in the poem in the masculine,
referring to a male worshipper. The word qomah (stature) is also changed
to veqomah (and stature), and between this pair of words, Ibn Gabirol
inserts another word, berekh (knee), perhaps intended to emphasize the
insignificant rank of the worshipper.
The thoughts, aspirations, and ordeals of the individual worshipper
are at the center of this poem. The influence of secular Arabic poetry on
the content is expressed through the direct and rather intimate speech of
the worshipper to his creator, God. The neo-Platonic idea combined with
Islamic mysticism, according to which the human soul has the potential,
the ability, and the need to unite with God through a spiritual process, is
also expressed here.
The earthly human body gives the worshipper a keen sense of worthlessness (lines 1 and 2). This human weakness creates a huge chasm between God and the worshipper, who nonetheless yearns to reach his
maker. The cosmic gap widely separating the two is expressed in its two
extremes: on the one end stands the humble and fearful worshipper, who
considers himself unworthy (lines 2, 3b and 4b); and on the other end
stands the Almighty God with His infinite measures of goodness and
greatness (lines 3a, 4a, and 5a). The yearning of the worshipper to unite
with God, and thus to close this huge gap, is expressed through a dynamic
process of self-struggle which is described throughout the poem. The last
One Thousand Years of Cultural Harmony between Judaism and Islam r 257
word of each of the lines ends with the syllable mah, which in Hebrew
constitutes the word mah (what). This word can open various questions
such as what to do, what to think, how to speak, etc. Thus it creates an
impression of the state of emotional turmoil the worshipper is in, which
grows even stronger as the appearance of mah is so dense; all five verses
of the poem end with this syllable.
With this emotional unrest, it seems, the answer hides in the question,
as mah also constitutes half of the word neshamah (soul), perhaps suggesting that the way to resolve this perplexing situation is through the
neshamah. Indeed, the poem ends with the optimistic hope of a devoted
lover when he finds the way to reach his beloved, God. This huge gap between the two can be reconciled only through the soul, which will unite
with God on common ground. It is expressed in the last verse through
two variations of the same word gadol (infinite or great): vehigdalta and
tagdil, used for God and the worshipper (lines 5a and 5b), respectively. For
God, vehigdalta hasadim (“ . . . and Infinite Thy ways”); and for the worshipper, lekha tagdil lehodot kol neshamah (“Therefore the soul expands to
sing Thy praise”). This unity between God and the worshipper is realized
through a spiritual process of contemplation and prayer that leads the
worshipper to unification with God.
Scheindlin (1991, 139) asserts that the form and structure of this poem
derived entirely from secular Arabic poems. Furthermore, he says that
its content is saturated with Islamic thinking to the extent that “the specifically Jewish element of the liturgy is either completely suppressed or
drastically reduced, and the theme of love all but disappears.”
In this poem, as in Dunash’s, there is no indication as to the melody
to which the poem should be sung. Two melodies are prevalent among
the Babylonians. The first is sung in maqām nawā jihārkah by Shlomoh
Reuven Mu῾alem (1905–89), who was one of the most famous cantors in
Baghdad of the first half of the twentieth century and later on in Israel. The
second version is sung in maqām bayāt by Moshe Havushah, the grandson of the Baghdadi cantor Gurgi Yair, a contemporary of Mu῾alem.12
The Ottoman Empire and Israel Ben Mosheh Najarah
For both Muslims and Jews, the year 1492 symbolizes the dramatic transition from the fifteenth century to the sixteenth. For the Muslims, it marks
the fall of their last hold in Spain, in Granada, and the end of classical
258 r Merav Rosenfeld-Hadad
Islam (Kahen 1995, 415). The Ottoman Empire became the next, and to
date, the last, of the great Islamic world states. In this same year, the Jews
were expelled from Spain, a trauma that left its mark on Jewish life for
many centuries. A number of places within the Ottoman Empire became
the home of large and important Jewish communities formed by both
the already existing Jewish population together with the new exiles from
Spain. The spiritual crisis of the post-exile experience led to a remarkable
engagement in Jewish mysticism, Kabbalah, which was accompanied by
rituals of singing. This was an attempt by the Jewish people, as a nation,
to understand the meaning of this last trauma while establishing a new
life under the wings of a new empire and hoping for a better future. In
addition, the void caused by the departure from the rich cultural milieu
of Spain was filled, for these Jews, by Ottoman Turkish culture (Tietze and
Yahalom 1995, 11). In this new environment Najarah’s poetry emerged,
reflecting the influence of the Turkish culture as well as Arabic.
The poet and musician Israel Ben Mosheh Najarah (1555–1625) mirrors
in his poetry both a strong bond with his predecessors, the poets of Muslim Spain, and a new poetic form, style, and content. His work symbolizes
a significant phase in the history of Hebrew religious poetry, inasmuch as
it represents, for the first time, a simple poetic version of the genre that is
more accessible to all members of the community (Benayahu 1990, 281).
Najarah’s poetry served as a model for an entirely new school of poets in
subsequent years, a school that still exists today in Hebrew religious poetry. There is no Arab-Jewish poet of religious poetry who has not been
influenced by Najarah (Benayahu 1990, 283). The Babylonians’ admiration for this poet is expressed through the inclusion of eighty-one of his
poems, which have been identified in the Mishaf and thus make him the
most popular poet in this collection.
Arabo-Islamic Influence: Text and Music
Both Arabic secular poetry and mysticism continued to be influential
in Najarah’s poetry. It reflects a combination of strong Jewish identity,
steeped in Jewish suffering and longing for redemption and elements
taken from the wider cultural environment, such as Arabic poetic genres
and melodies (Tietze and Yahalom 1995, 19). Indeed, the content of his
poems are no longer similar to Dunash’s serene descriptions nor to Ibn
Gabirol’s refined expression of the sensitive worshipper who experiences
One Thousand Years of Cultural Harmony between Judaism and Islam r 259
intimate and complex religious dilemmas regarding his relationship with
God. Najarah’s main concern is much more crucial; it is the emotional
state of the nation resulting from its memories of the painful expulsion
and the urgent need to create an atmosphere of faith in and hope for a
better future.
Najarah adapted Arabic and Turkish songs that describe earthly and
sensual love as models for his religious songs. This was expressed through
an abundance of metaphors and images of sensual love, while giving the
plot of a secular love song a religious meaning (Tietze and Yahalom 1995,
17).
Tietze and Yahalom (1995, 16) describe two sources of mystical concepts and ideas that inspired Najarah. The first consisted of the ideas and
rituals of the Baktashy Dervishes, the mystics from Turkey, who sang sensuous love songs with mystical portent. In his poetry, just as in Ibn Gabirol’s, the sensual flavor appears in the form of carnal images describing the
relationship between God and the people of Israel. In this respect, Najarah
kept the tradition of the Spanish school of Hebrew poets, who were influenced by the Islamic classical school of mysticism. Despite the fact that
Najarah was not a mystic himself, and the extent of his personal involvement in Jewish mystical life is uncertain, the second and new source of
influence reflected in his work involves the mystical ideas formed by the
kabbalist Isaac Luria (1534–72). Luria contributed new concepts that continued to be pivotal in Jewish mysticism long after his death (Tietze and
Yahalom 9, 41). Thus Najarah continued to amalgamate in his songs both
Islamic and Jewish mysticism, a combination that appeared in the Mishaf
for the first time in Ibn Gabirol’s work.
Najarah adapted and further endorsed the mishqal havarti foneti (phonetic-syllabic meter, PSM), known also as the Italian system (see Beeri
1985, 52; Tobi 1995, 26). The PSM is based on the principle of creating
a fixed number of syllables in each line of the poem, which is usually
strophic and with short lines. The syllables are defined with no distinction
between their length, long or short, as was the case in Dunash’s quantitative meter, or accentuation, accented or not accented, prevalent before
Dunash’s innovation. As a result, the shva n῾a (mobile shva) is regarded
as a vowel (Schirmann 1997, 689).13
Najarah’s preference for the PSM is heavily reflected in his work. Perhaps because most of his songs were written to existing Arabic or Turkish
songs, the simplest way he could adjust the Hebrew language to these
260 r Merav Rosenfeld-Hadad
songs was by using a flexible metric system such as this. From Najarah’s
time on, the PSM became widespread in the East and almost the only
meter used by most poets (Beeri 1985, 50).
The influence of Arabic music on Najarah’s work derived directly from
the original Arabic and Turkish songs that he had chosen as models for
his own, and their appearance in his work is of an unprecedented scope
(Seroussi 1990, 290).14 In his book Zmirot Yisrael (The Songs of Israel,
1587), he describes these songs as nigunim nokhriyim (foreign melodies),
and he states clearly that they are not appropriate for poems written in the
holy language, Hebrew, because they are divrey hesheq vezimah (words of
desire and lechery) (Najarah 1587, 1). Nonetheless, he, as his predecessors,
continued the practice of adapting Hebrew religious texts to foreign melodies of existing secular and popular songs, out of a wish that worshippers
would abandon these foreign songs and adapt the proper ones, his songs.
In addition, Najarah was the first to classify and edit his songs according
to their maqāmāt and not only according to their religious occasion (Tietze and Yahalom 1995, 14).
In the context of the para-liturgical singing, Najarah introduced a new
textual and musical device, the ptihah, a short introductory song succeeded by other longer ones. Half of the ptihot in the Mishaf are his.
Najarah’s Yihyu Kemos (They Shall Become as Chaff before the Wind)
(first stanza and refrain, author’s translation): Poetic Characteristics,
Content and Melody
1a They who worship their god Chemosh15 shall become as chaff
before the wind
1b And upon the worshippers of Bel16 agony shall come
2a To every man who supports his sculptured image
2b And to prevent its fall ties it with rope
3a And in his bosom he shall hide it
3b He sings to it in the midst of the congregation
4a And in time of stress it stops its ear
4b As if his worshipper is not in the same place
5a Happy is the people of the living God
5b And into the bosom of the living God and His lot he has fallen.
One Thousand Years of Cultural Harmony between Judaism and Islam r 261
This Baqashah which is sung at dawn, was inspired by a Turkish ghazal of
the poet Qazi Burhanuddin (1314–98), la’l-i lebin ki sordugum (It Is the
Ruby of Your Lips That I Am Asking About) (Tietze and Yahalom 1995,
133).
This poem presents one of the structural variations of shir me῾eynezori. It consists of four stanzas; the first has five lines, of which the last
functions as the refrain. Each of the following three stanzas has four lines
and is divided over two segments.
Najarah’s rich repertoire of original Arabic and Turkish sources resulted in an equally rich repertoire of poetic forms, which demonstrates
many types of rhyming patterns even in the frame of one poem. Indeed,
the poem under discussion has two sets of rhyming schemes. The first
is unique to each of the stanzas, and the second appears in the last word
of each of them and rhymes with the last word of each line of the first
stanza.17 The overall structure of the poem and its rhyming scheme are
typical of the shir me῾eyn-ezori and, in fact, of a large number of Najarah’s
poem (Schirmann 1997, 707).
The poem is written in the Arabic meter called rajaz (Tietze and Yahalom 1995, 133), the syllables of which are determined according to the
principle of the PSM. Thus each line has sixteen syllables, eight in each
hemistich.18
Najarah’s language is simple and uses vocabulary that is no longer
purely biblical, at least not to the degree and intensity of sophistication of
the Spanish school of poets.
The strong bond between God and the people of Israel is described
through a comparison with the type of relationship other nations have
with their gods. In this respect the poem reflects the shift from the concerns of the individual worshipper, which occupied Ibn Gabirol and his
contemporaries, to those of the nation, a development typical of poems
written in the post-exile era following the expulsion from Spain.
There is no indication in the Mishaf as to the melody to which Yihyu
Kemos is sung. However, in the heading of two other poems, Yihyu Kemos
is quoted as the recommended melody for their performance.19 The only
known melody sung by the Babylonians to Yihyu Kemos is performed by
Shlomoh Reuven Mu῾alem in maqām ῾ajam and by Havushah in maqām
bayāt (Shiloah 1983, 40).20
262 r Merav Rosenfeld-Hadad
10. Baghdad and al-H
akham
Iraq of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries was a battleground between the two great empires of the time—the Persians, who were mostly
Shiites, and the Ottomans, who were mostly Sunnites. The seventeenth
century added another catastrophe for Iraq: plagues that came from the
Far East through India and Persia beset the country and caused the deaths
of a large number of the people. Only from the mid-nineteenth century
was this problem finally solved, through the aid of international organizations (Rappel 1978, 64).
The leadership of prominent rabbis such as the Aleppo-born Rabbi
S daqah H
usin (1699–1733) and the most prominent and admired Rabbi
῾Abdallah Somekh (1813–89) brought significant improvements in the life
of this community, and during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Jews became influential in Iraq in both commerce and government.
One of their major achievements was the foundation of an educational
system for Jews and for the wider population of Iraq (Hakak 2005, 15).
However, this situation did not last long. From the 1930s onwards, the
conditions of life for the Babylonian Jews deteriorated rapidly, coming
to a tragic peak in the farhud (pogrom), the massacre and looting of 1941
(Ben Ya῾akov 1971, 90).
Life went back to normal; however, Zionism gained increasing publicity among the Jews and thus provoked frequent protests against them and
discriminatory legislation by the Iraqi government. After 1945, the situation deteriorated, resulting in the mass exodus of the Jews in 1950 and
1951, only two years after the establishment of the state of Israel (SpectorSimon 2003:351).
Al-H
akham (1835–1909), known also as Ben Eish H
ay (A Living Man),
was a rabbi, poet and the last spiritual leader of the Babylonian Jewry
on the eve of their mass emigration from Iraq (Ben Ya῾akov 1965, 194).
He was known as a progressive halakhic authority whose leadership was
widely recognized by all Jewish communities, Babylonians as well as others in the East and West (Stillman 1995, 21).
Al H
akham’s Poetry
Al-H
akham was a prolific writer of both rabbinical works and poetry. He
wrote more than two hundred poems, all of which reflect the influence of
One Thousand Years of Cultural Harmony between Judaism and Islam r 263
the Spanish school, as well as Najarah’s strong and more noticeable impact
(Ben Ya῾akov 1965, 190). Forty-nine poems by al-H
akham are found in
the Mishaf and thus reflect his special status and importance among the
Babylonians.
Arabo-Islamic Influence
Most of al-H
akham’s poems in the Mishaf, are written in simple language
using almost a fixed vocabulary, describing clear ideas presented mainly
in one of the less complex forms of shir me῾eyn-ezori. In this way, alH
akham, like Najarah, aimed to create songs that were accessible to all
members of the community. Many of his songs are typical of the Iraqi
indigenous folk songs, such as the zuhayrī and the ῾atābā. These genres
were prevalent in al-H
akham’s time and are very popular among the Babylonian Jews down to the present day (Avishur 1994, 79).
Al-
Hakham’s interest in Jewish mysticism, Kabbalah, is evident in most
of his poems. Thus he continued the long tradition of expressing mystical ideas and thoughts in poetry, as had his predecessors Ibn Gabirol and
Najarah. In his private life, al-H
akham maintained a reclusive life after a
family calamity (Ben Ya῾akov 1965, 197).
The special rhetoric and eloquence of the khatīb (Muslim preacher,
pl. khutaba) were very influential on the Jewish preacher, darshan, in
all Jewish communities in Arab lands (Ben Ya῾akov 1994, 253). In most
cases, the prominent khutaba were major religious scholars, poets, and
spiritual leaders with pietistic, ascetic, and mystical tendencies. Their sermons were intense amalgamations of quotations from the Quran and the
H
adīth, proverbs, and poetry drawn from a wide variety of sources. Many
of the khutaba had written works based on their preaching (Meisami
1998, 594).
The scholarly religious qualifications and authoritative status of the
khatīb, as well as his extensive reliance on scriptures, are equally typical
of al-H
akham, who was also known as a talented khatīb. His sermons
belonged to a tradition passed on to him by his father, one which had
run in the family for generations. These sermons were regarded by the
Babylonians as important events in their religio-cultural life (Ben Ya῾akov
1994, 259). Al-H
akham’s speech, in the spoken Arabic of the Babylonian
Jews, was simple and clear. His themes were mainly religious, imbued
with biblical quotations, moral sayings, proverbs, and popular stories,
264 r Merav Rosenfeld-Hadad
mostly derived from the Arabic written secular literary tradition, such
as Alf Layla wa-Layal (One Thousand and One Arabian Nights), but also
stories known in the oral tradition (Avishur 1994, 112).
Most of al-H
akham’s poems are written in biblical Hebrew, combined
with other Jewish religious sources, as well as the spoken Arabic of the
Babylonian Jews. Some of the poems are written entirely in Arabic. These
features are shaped into a style that amalgamates free and rhymed verse
with a simple form of shir me῾eyn-ezori (Avishur 1994, 111). It seems that
al-H
akham’s poetic style was inspired by his talent as a charismatic darshan, and his writing is simply an imitation of his speech.
Al-H
akham’s Barukh El H
ay (Blessed Be Our Living God; first stanza
and refrain, author’s translation): Poetic Characteristics, Content, and
Melody
1a Blessed be our living God
1b [Who] for His glory created us
2a [Who] brought us to bear [His] commandments
2b [Who] gave us the true Torah
3a [Who] manifested to us His sacred promise
3b With His commandments He sanctified us
4a Happy are the people who worship the living God
4b King and Lord of Hosts
5a Great and performs wonders
5b Blessed be our living God of confessions
In Barukh El H
ay M(213; 318), a song intended for Bar Mitzvah celebrations, al-H
akham uses the mu῾ārada technique and imitates Najarah’s Yihyu Kemos. Thus the presence of the Arabo-Islamic influence is evident
both in the sheer use of this technique and, as a result, in the almost total replication of Najarah’s poem. The poems are identical in their poetic
form, meter, rhyming scheme, and, to some extent, in their vocabulary.21
This poem, as Najarah’s, is shir me῾eyn-ezori. It has eight stanzas. The
first consists of five lines of which the last two function as a refrain. The
remaining stanzas have three lines each. In all stanzas, each line is divided
over two hemistiches.
One Thousand Years of Cultural Harmony between Judaism and Islam r 265
The poem also presents two sets of rhyming schemes, though in a simpler manner than Najarah’s: the first belongs to each of the stanzas, and
the second, to its refrain.22
Al-H
akham’s language demonstrates his scholarly knowledge of both
Jewish scriptures and of rabbinical writing. He also uses simple vocabulary that is known to his congregation and taken from passages in the
Bible, such as Psalms, Isaiah, Exodus, the Song of Songs, Proverbs, and the
liturgy (Ben Ya῾akov 1970, 328).
This poem expresses wishes and blessings for the bar mitzvah boy. His
thirteenth birthday symbolizes a significant stage in a young man’s life
as a Jew, a stage at which he is expected to act according to the rules and
spirit of the Torah. Two mystical elements are evident in the poem. The
first is based on the idea conveyed in the Zohar (part 1, 179:1), the book
of Jewish mysticism, according to which, at the age of thirteen, the yeser
hara῾a (the evil inclination) leaves the child and H
ayeser hatov (the good
inclination) replaces it. This idea is expressed explicitly in the third stanza
(line 3) nimlat mipah yokshim ([the bar mitzvah boy] has escaped from
the fowler’s trap [the evil inclination]), and in the fifth stanza (line 1) yeser
ksil se yomar veyeser tov ba bigvulo (Evil inclination be set apart and good
inclination enter his domain).
The second mystical idea is expressed through the word or (light),
which appears in various forms and symbolizes kabbalistic figures. According to the Kabbalah, haor hane῾elam (the hidden mysterious light)
is the mystical light of God. In Barukh El H
ay, two synonyms for light
appear in the second stanza. The first is orah (light): veyilvash khesimlah
orah (And he shall clothe himself in light as a garment) (line 1), and the
second is betifarah (glory or brilliance): asher ne῾etar betifarah, ([and] He
shall wear the crown of glory [that God gave him]) (line 2). Both lines describe the light as royal garments, a majestic dress and a crown, suggesting
that the bar mitzvah boy will be surrounded and protected by God’s holy
light and thus will be safe.
The melody of Najarah’s Yihyu Kemos is cited in the heading of this
poem as the melody to which the poem is recommended to be sung. The
maqām is thus the same, ῾ajam, and is the only melodic version for this
poem, which is sung by Shlomoh Reuven Mu῾alem.23
266 r Merav Rosenfeld-Hadad
The PLS and Its Poets in the Perspective of a Millennium
The brief yet extensive survey of the PLS leaves no doubt as to the role
of Arabo-Islamic culture in its creation. All the poetic characteristics of
the PLS, its form and content as well as its music, present this artistic
product as one that comprises four main combinations of elements that
might be understood as dichotomous. In its content, the PLS amalgamates elements taken from the religious worlds of both Islam and Judaism,
as illustrated in Ibn Gabirol’s poem. Furthermore, this genre is united in
another layer of what seem to be contradictory elements, the religious and
the secular. That is to say, these religious ideas and thoughts are expressed
many times through secular and mundane images borrowed from Arabic
love songs and are sung to their melodies, as shown in Najarah’s work. The
melodies themselves, typical of Arabic culture in general, create another
layer of dichotomy, as each of them combines elements such as measured
and unmeasured melodic sections and composed and improvised parts.
A further dichotomous layer of the PLS is created through the juxtaposition of oral and written traditions. The music of the PLS was not
documented in notation, but was transmitted orally, and thus can be
ephemeral and changeable. The text, on the other hand, is documented
and fixed. All of these three layers of seemingly polar elements are united
again in a poetic form and style created by the Arabic ῾arude (prosody)
and ῾ilm al-balagha (rhetoric), and written and expressed in Hebrew, with
its own grammatical rules, rhetoric, associations, and allusions.
This chain of extraordinary combinations is not exclusively confined
to the genre alone. It is also typical of both its poets and its carriers. The
biography of many of the poets attests very clearly to their strong and
immaculate Jewish piousness, combined with equally strong involvement
in the surrounding Arabo-Islamic culture, without any split or feeling of
contradiction between the two.24
The same mixture of elements also characterizes the identity of the
Babylonian Jews. This conclusion is based on interviews held by the author, between the years 2003 and 2008, with members of the Babylonian
community in Israel, all born in Baghdad during the 1930s and 1940s,
and all of whom immigrated to Israel between 1949 and 1951. They all
described their identity as having two components: Jewish religion and
Arabic culture. The harmonious coexistence between these two components was described almost unconsciously and in the same breath. Their
One Thousand Years of Cultural Harmony between Judaism and Islam r 267
Jewish identity was expressed as one which has a strong sense of belonging to the Jewish people; an allegiance that is bound to their shared history. As one of them, Morris Hadad, said, “My father was a Jew, his father
was a Jew, my grandfather’s father was a Jew, so I am Jewish, too, and my
children and their children forevermore will be Jewish as well. We can’t do
anything about it. This is our destiny.”25 The religious component of their
Jewish identity was described in a manner typical of the masortiym (traditionalists), Jews who keep the spirit and word of the commandments.
Hadad explained their approach: “Religion is meant to lishmor (to keep
and preserve) our Jewish identity. Tradition is the important thing and
not fanaticism.” Perhaps this strong sense of belonging, coupled with a
lack of fear of being converted, may explain the reason for the tremendous
influence that Arabo-Islamic culture had on these Jews in the past, as
well as in modern times. They acquired many of their customs and ideas
from this culture, in the most natural way, but at the same time they did
not have any sense of betraying their own identity and heritage as Jews.
For them, as they expressed it, blending with the Arabo-Islamic cultural
environment meant enhancing and intensifying their joy of life.
This coexistence, it appears, has its long and deep roots in ῾Abbasid
Baghdad of the mid-eighth century. The profound assimilation of the
“Islamicated Jews” of that time, as Stillman (1997, 86) calls them, who
adapted Islamic “mentalité et sensibilities,” never meant total assimilation.
“This simply could not occur in a traditional hierarchical society in which
religion was the hallmark of individual identity, the ultimate goal of individual concern, and the determinant of individual social and political
status.” It seems that Stillman’s observation of the past is equally relevant
more than a thousand years later. The main characteristics of the traditional and hierarchal society of the Babylonian Jews remained, in essence,
almost intact until the eve of their departure from Baghdad, and, to some
extent many of these characteristics still exist today.
Both the set of values and tastes that constitute the identity of the carriers of the PLS, as Jews by religion and Arabs by other aspects of their
culture, comprises, again, a combination of elements that might be understood as contradictory. In this respect, all three components of the paraliturgical realm are similar: the PLS, its poets across the centuries, and its
carriers all reflect, in their very nature, an innate coexistence between the
diverse elements existing in their cultural surroundings.
It is true, though, that this phenomenon can be found in other artistic
268 r Merav Rosenfeld-Hadad
products of other cultures at different times. Still, this doesn’t make it less
extraordinary, particularly when bearing in mind its intensity, which is
rooted in all layers of the para-liturgical realm, and its duration for centuries on end.
What are the reasons for this extraordinary phenomenon? What makes
these elements, which create a coherent genre, complementary yet contradictory at the same time? These questions are no doubt two of many other
questions that invite further study of the PLS of the Babylonians, as well
as of all Arab-Jews.
Notes
1. The period of 2,600 years begins from the first exile of the leadership of the kingdom of Yehudah to Babylon in 597 and 598 bce. Rappel 1978, 33.
2. Edited and published by Saleh Mansur, a Babylonian Jew who immigrated to Palestine in 1929. Ben Ya῾akov 1965, 208; 1980, 405 (Hebrew).
3. Edited and published by Rabbi ῾Ezra Dangur (1848–1930), who was a prominent
talmid hakham (religious sage) and the hakham bashi (chief rabbi) of the Babylonian
Jewry (1923–27). Ben Ya῾akov 1965, 172.
4. For Sa῾adyah’s knowledge of Arabic meter, see Tobi 2000, 58. For the debate among
scholars on whether Dunash was the first to write metered poetry, see Tobi 1995, 9.
5. For earlier attempts made by Hebrew poets to write qasīda, see Tobi 2000, 51.
6. For example, first two lines: 1-De; 2-ror; 3-yiq; 4-ra; 5-le; 6-ven; 7-’eim; 8-bat; 9-ve;
10-yin; 11-sor; 12-khem; 13-ke; 14-mo; 15-ba; 16-vat.
7. Other words were retrieved from Ezekiel, Psalms, Zechariah, Numbers, Ruth, and
Exodus.
8. For Jewish sources in Ibn Gabirol’s work, see Levin 1986, 65.
9. For the original function of this poem in the liturgy, see Fleischer 1975, 51, 397, 401.
10. For example, first line: 1-She; 2-fal; 3-ru; 4-ah; 5-she; 6-fal; 7-be; 8-rekh; 9-ve; 10qo; 11-mah.
11. He quotes from Isaiah, Proverbs, Ezekiel, Micah, Exodus, Psalms Leviticus, I and
II Kings, I and II Chronicles, Numbers, Psalms, and Job.
12. See the Mu῾alem Collection of liturgical and paraliturgical songs and recitation
of various biblical passages at the Babylonian Jewry Heritage Centre in Or-Yehudah;
Havushah 2009.
13. The shva n῾a is pronounced in English like the letter t in the word train, but will
be considered as the letter t in the word terrain, and thus in Hebrew it is regarded as a
syllable.
14. Also from Persian and Greek songs. Benayahu 1990, 221.
15. God of Moab and Edom.
16. The chief god of Babylon, known also as Merodakh.
17. For example, first stanza and refrain: AB AB AB CB DB (DB is also the refrain);
second stanza: EF GF HF IB.
One Thousand Years of Cultural Harmony between Judaism and Islam r 269
18. For example, first hemistich: 1-Yih; 2-yu; 3-ke; 4-mos; 5-῾’ov; 6-dey; 7-Ke; 8-mosh.
19. The songs are M(103;143) and M(213;318).
20. See note 12.
21. For example, the meter of the first line: 1-Ba; 2-rukh; 3-el; 4-H
ay; 5-e; 6-lo; 7-hey;
8-nu; 9-ki; 10-likh; 11-vo; 12-do; 13-be; 14-ra; 15-a; 16-nu.
22. For example, first stanza: AA AA AA BC CC; second stanza: DD DD DD.
23. See note 12.
24. For Dunash, see Tobi 2000; for Ibn Gabirol, see Levin 1986 and Stern 1974; for
Najarah, see Mirski 1962, Yahalom 1991, 29–36, Tietze and Yahalom 1995, and Benayahu
1990; for al-H
akham, see Ya῾akov 1994, Stillman 1995, and Zohar (2001).
25. Interview with Morris Hadad, Tel Aviv, November 11, 2003 (in Arabic and
Hebrew).
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14
Encounters between Jewish and
Muslim Musicians throughout the Ages
Amnon Shiloah
What best defines the relationships between Muslim and Jewish musicians is the strong feeling of belongingness to a community. Here, community means artists who share the same emotional experience, consider
music to be a lifestyle, draw on the same theoretical and expressive norms
for their music, and adhere to the values championed by both ancient and
modern authors.
The numerous Arabic and Hebrew sources glorifying the important
role and place of this music in the life of individuals and society presents us with diverse controversial opinions. Indeed, in the philosophical
approach that prevails during the golden age of Islamic civilization, one
finds ideas extolling the knowledge of music as a vehicle leading to philosophy, perfection, and happiness, as well as a force of harmony and morality.1 At the other extreme we find the harsh attitude of radical religious
authorities who don’t approve of music and see it as a debasing agent
endowed with an intoxicating influence, which drives the believer away
from concentrating on the meaning of prayer and scriptural messages and
from performing his religious duty. Between these two extremes stands
the particular mystic approach that perceives the influence of music as
rather elevating and brings the faithful close to his Creator. But this influence depends on the degree of his intention and devotion. Central to all of
these approaches is the belief in the overwhelming power of music, which
is both laudable and condemnable.2
Encounters between Jewish and Muslim Musicians throughout the Ages r 273
Against this general background let us proceed to the discussion on the
different aspects that have characterized the long-lasting collaboration of
famous Jewish musicians and their Muslim colleagues. It should be noted
that references to this subject are found in Hebrew and Arabic sources,
in European scholarly studies, and in oral folk traditions as well. Based
on this material, it would be interesting to ask, How is this collaboration
reflected in the testimonies of non-Jewish authors and musicians? I shall
provide a number of examples gleaned from various writings extending
from the pre-Islamic period to the twentieth century and representing
important centers from Central Asia to North Africa. These examples embody characteristic patterns whose meaning will be clarified at the conclusion of this article.
Al-Gharīd al-Yahūdī
Al-Gharīd al-Yahūdī was a poet, singer, and composer who lived in Medina during the early ninth century. His biography is reported by the tenthcentury author al-Isfahānī in his monumental Kitāb al-Aghānī (Book of
Songs), which contains a collection of poems from the pre-Islamic period
to the ninth century, all of which were set to music. Al-Gharīd the Jew is
described in this book as a Kohen (priest) of the posterity of Aharon ben
Amram and a member of the Jewish group living in Yathrib-Medina. AlIsfahānī mentions other Jewish poets belonging to the same group, but
the very fact that he dedicated a special entry to al-Gharīd points to his
artistic ability and reputation. Al-Isfahānī even reports that Muhammad
was pleased with one of al-Gharīd’s songs.3
Hirra al-yahūdiya
A second figure from the same period is the Jewish South Yemeni singer
and poet Hirra. She was the daughter of Binyamin, and her activity was
also linked to Muhammad but in a pejorative way.
In an article by the famous French scholar Charles Pellat entitled “Sur
quelques femmes hostiles au prophète,”4 the author analyses testimonies
concerning the participation of women poets and musicians in the campaign of propaganda against Muhammad’s
preaching for his new religion.
It is a well-known fact that in the Bedouin society of that time in which
274 r Amnon Shiloah
poetry and the singing of poems were considered a frightening weapon,
women fulfilled an important role in the tribal battles. They accompanied
their tribal warriors and encouraged them with singing, drumming, and
the utterance of epigrams (short poems ending with satiric attacks against
the enemies). They also marked a victory in battle with special songs and
lamented those who died with dirges giving expression to grief in verses.
Among the women who took part in the hostile campaign against
the prophet, Pellat mentions Hirra the Jewess as one of a south Yemeni
group of women from H
adramaut who joyfully celebrated the death of the
prophet with songs and drums.5
The View of Mgr. Higinio Anglés (1883–1969)
The following viewpoint of this eminent ecclesiastic Spanish scholar, who
for many years headed the Pontifical Institute for Sacred Music in Rome,
transfers us from the Arabian Peninsula to the Iberian Peninsula where a
musical and cultural symbiosis was established.
In a French article, “La musique juive dans l’Espagne médiévale,”6
Anglés wrote: “The many centuries of continuous existence of Jewish
communities in Spain, from the biblical period and particularly after the
Destruction of the Temple . . . until the year 1492, must be considered a
blessing for the art of music in the Iberian Peninsula.”7
Anglés mentions in this respect the extensive participation of Jewish
musicians in the musical life of their environment, particularly after the
Muslim conquest. Anglés stressed that the Jews were not passive recipients but rather active contributors who influenced the crystallization of
a cultural symbiosis. From evidence that has come down to us, we know
the name of eighteen Jewish court musicians who were active between the
ninth and fifteenth centuries. Anglés also cites documents attesting to the
existence of unique Jewish music, primarily liturgical. One of those documents was transmitted by a fifteenth-century chronicler who describes
the special participation of Jews in mourning ceremonies held after the
death of their benefactor, Alfonso, king of Aragon and Naples, in 1458. According to this testimony, at an assembly of Jews held in the town square
in the afternoon hours, six rabbis uttered Hebrew lamentations around
the coffin, and weeping women chanted their own appropriate dirges.8
Encounters between Jewish and Muslim Musicians throughout the Ages r 275
Al-Mansūr al-Yahūdī
From the period of crystallization of the Andalusian musical style, we
have an account of the first eminent Jewish musician mentioned in the
records: al-Mansūr al-Yahūdī, who was connected to the court of the
Umayyad caliph al-H
akam at Cordoba. The Arab author and biographer
al-Maqqarī (1591–1632) reports in the book Nafh al-tīb that the Jewish alMansūr was delegated in 822 by his patron, al-H
akam, to meet Ziryāb, the
leading Baghdadi musician at the court of Hārūn al-Rashīd in Kairawan.
In al-Maqqarī’s lengthy tale, Ziryāb is described as a highly gifted and
inspired innovator. After al-H
akam’s demise, Al-Mansūr was to persuade
him to offer his services to the new caliph, ῾Abd al-Rahmān, in Cordoba.
Thus al-Mansūr helped bring about the splendid era of Arab music in
Spain inaugurated by Ziryāb. It is assumed that al-Mansūr continued his
musical activity together with Ziryāb.9
Isaac ben Shime῾on al-Yahūdī
In the first half of the twelfth century in Cordoba lived another Jewish
musician, Isaac ben Shime῾on al-Yahūdī.
The Arab historian and literateur ibn Sa῾īd al-Maghribī lists him in
his extensive work, al-Mughrib fī hula al-Maghrib,10 among the most illustrious and learned Cordovan music masters. Isaac ben Shime῾on is
described as “one of the wonders of his time in his outstanding musical
mastership both as singer and instrumentalist.” Al-Maghribī adds that he
was a follower (perhaps a disciple) of the famous philosopher and musician ibn Bājja, known in the West as Avempace (d. 1139), who was considered a moving force in the establishment of the Andalusian style and as a
music theorist who was compared to the famous philosopher and music
theorist al-Fārābī (d. 950), according to the Tunisian author Ahmad alTīfāshī (1184–1253).11
Dhay al-Isrā’īlī
The Berber faction Dhū an-Nūnids, one of the numerous party kings
known as mulūk al-Tawā῾if, who appeared in Spain in the eleventh century,
276 r Amnon Shiloah
established themselves as an independent kingdom, fixing their capital in
Toledo. In the second half of the eleventh century, one of their descendants, al-Ma’mūn, ruled there and was known for the glory he endowed
to his court and for having fostered a brilliant Islamic cultural revival.
Famous in particular is the impressive banquet marking the celebration
of his grandson’s circumcision. An eyewitness described this event with
great details that have been fully reported by the Adalusian Arab author
Ibn Bassām (d. 1147) in his work al-Dhakhīra. During the long hours of
eating, drinking, and rejoicing, an ensemble of musicians performed behind a curtain. They were led by the Jew Dhay al-Isrā’ilī [another version
Dānī], who is described as a musician superior to the famous Ibrāhīm
al-Mawsilī (d. 804), who was one of the greatest musicians in the court of
the caliph Hārūn al-Rashīd in Baghdad and the father of the legendary
musician Ishāq al-Mawsilī (d. 850). The text tells that the host, al-Ma’mūn,
was highly excited while hearing the music that night, and what the Jew
performed was a song expressing sadness.12 It is worth mentioning that
the celebrated scholar Levi-Provençal has published a French paraphrase
of the aforementioned description.13
From Spain to Morocco
Alexis Chottin, who was the head of the National Conservatory of Arab
Music in Rabat, mentions in his Tableau de la musique Marocaine the
remarkable fact that when Hebrew texts are adapted to replace the original, they maintain the Arab metric and prosody, which, he points out, is
not a translation. In his chapter on synagogue music, he argues that Jews
are supportive of Andalusian music because “after a lengthy vacuum to
religious bans, when a new sultan was eager to return to tradition of the
ancient caliphs by reconstituting a sitāra, he often recruited new musicians and new dancers from the mellah.”14
The famous French painter Eugène Delacroix, who attended a Jewish
wedding in Tangier in 1832, wrote in his diary that the Jewish musicians
of Mogador were the best in Morocco.15
A well-known tale is illustrative of the presence of Jewish musical
groups in the royal courts and the positive attitude of the rulers toward
them. On the ninth of the month of Av, the sultan wanted to hear the
songs and music of a Jewish group who ordinarily performed at his court.
Encounters between Jewish and Muslim Musicians throughout the Ages r 277
He summoned the musicians to the palace. As painful as it was, the musicians could not refuse, but chose to play lamentations on this day of
mourning, which commemorates the destruction of the two temples.
The sultan greatly appreciated the pathos of these songs and asked what
prompted them. The Jews explained that on this day of fasting they were
forbidden to play music or rejoice. Henceforth they were known as the
“singers of affliction.”16
A similar tale with similar motive is known among Persian Jews. Here
the hero of the tale is a great Jewish musician, Isaac, who was a favorite of
Shah Nasr al-dīn (1848–1896). Isaac was summoned to play for the shah,
who was in a dour mood. It happened to be Yom Kippur, but Isaac had to
obey the shah’s order, and he played the tār (a long-necked lute) and sang
piyyutim he had heard that day in the synagogue. When the shah inquired
about the source of these moving songs, Isaac answered that they were the
holiest of all prayers sung by the Jews, whom he had to leave at the shah’s
behest. The ruler immediately let him return to the synagogue, showering
him with expressions of gratitude and gifts of gold coins.17
Alexander Christianowitsch in Algiers
The pianist Alexander Christianowitsch (1835–1874) arrived in Algiers in
1860 after serving in the Russian navy. Due to health problems, he remained in Algiers, where he sought to develop his keen interest in classical Arabian music of which he had acquired knowledge from Arabic
theoretical writings.18 His first exposure to Algerian music took place in
one of those coffee concerts in vogue at that time. The Jewish musical
ensemble he heard there featured a singer and players on rebāb (a spike
fiddle held on the knee), kemenjeh (viola), tār (frame drum), or derbukka
(goblet drum). This first encounter with Arab music fell far short of his
expectations and was rather a source of disappointment.19
One of his acquaintances advised him to meet a known expert in classical music who would satisfy his search. From this expert he learned that
the musicians he heard at the coffee concert were by no means representative of genuine classical music and that a Jew can never assimilate it
properly. To this assertion, Christianowitsch mentioned having enjoyed
the performance of a Jewish qānūn (cithar) player whose proficiency was
highly recognized and appreciated. While admitting the excellence of that
278 r Amnon Shiloah
player, the specialist contended, the pieces he performed belonged to a
popular musical genre, but he was not proficient in the art of the classical
multisectional form of the nūba.20
In the neighboring country of Tunisia, one finds a similar interpretation in the book on Tunisian music of S ādeq al-Rizqī.21 This author pretends that although most of the local Jewish musicians excelled as players
on a variety of musical instruments, they were deficient as performers of
classical Tunisian vocal pieces. The reason for this deficiency came from
their incapacity to produce the specific vocal intonations required in the
performance of this type of vocal pieces whose role was to underline the
correct meaning of the sung text. Besides, al-Rizqī argues, their Arabic
pronunciation was defective. They confused words and swallowed letters
to the extent that the text became incomprehensible; they simply did not
catch the secrets of classical Arabic and its expression.22
In The Artistic Emergence in Algeria,23 musicologist Nadya BouzarKasbadji devoted her first chapter to the Jewish composer and violinist
Edmond Nathan Yafil (1872–1928). She exalted the peculiar contribution
of this great master to the renaissance of Algerian music and the process
of innovating traditional music that increased its appeal among common
people.
Yafil published a selection of Jewish songs and the transcription in
European notation of numerous Algerian pieces. In 1909 he founded
a school of Arab music that became an essential factor in the process
of modernization of musical education. Two years later, he founded alMutribiyya, an organization that was essentially Jewish at its beginnings
and involved many active Jewish musicians, and in 1922 he was endowed
the chair of Arab music at the conservatory of music.
A remarkable representative of female artists was the Jewish sultana
Dāhud, alias Reinette l’Oranaise. This great blind artist excelled as a singer
and ῾ūd player, and after a notable career in Algeria, her celebrity continued in Paris, where she appeared in public concerts and made many
recordings.
In Paris, another Algerian who is still dominating the scene is Enrico
Massias. Enrico and his father were members of a famous ensemble in
Constantine founded and directed by his stepfather, Raymond Leiris, who
was assassinated in 1961.
Encounters between Jewish and Muslim Musicians throughout the Ages r 279
Jewish Tunisian Musicians
In Tunisia, toward the end of the nineteenth century and the first decades
of the twentieth, about sixty known Jewish artists were active in the indigenous theater, music, and recording industries. Many of them were
leading figures in the movement of the prevailing artistic reform and the
stylistic modernization of traditional art music. Among these musicians
were David Hajaj, Shalom Sa῾ada, Benin Semama, Raoul Journo, and the
Jerusalem-born cantor and composer Asher Mizrahi. A singular phenomenon in this development is the unusual and impressive participation of numerous highly gifted women. They included Louisa al-Tunisia,
the Semama sisters, Fritna Darmon, and Leila Sfez, who owned a famous
coffee concert, a meeting place for Jewish, Muslim, and Christian music
lovers. Leila Sfez was the aunt and teacher of one of the most famous artists of her time in the realm of theater and music, H
abiba Msika, until her
murder at the hands of an obsessive admirer.24
Jewish Musicians in Iraq
Jewish musicians played a determinant role in a traditional chamber music ensemble called Chalgi Baghdād, which specialized in the prestigious
classical multisectional genre called Iraqi maqām.25 This ensemble featured a solo singer called qāri’ al-maqām, who was generally a Muslim,
and four instrumentalists who played the djawza, a spike fiddle, the resonator of which was made of coconut, the santūr, a trapezoidal hammered
dulcimer, the dunbuk, a single-skinned drum, and the duff, a tambourine.
Such a group headed by the composer, ῾ud player, and singer Ezra Aharon, vocalist Mohammed al-Qabanjī, and six Jewish instrumentalists was
selected by the Iraqi authorities to represent Iraq at the first International
Congress of Arab Music, held in Cairo in 1932. It is noteworthy that the
participants, including composers Bela Bartok and Paul Hindemith and
musicologists Robert Lachmann, Curt Sachs, and H. G. Farmer, elected
Aharon as the best musician present, and Bartok wrote a complimentary
review of the ensemble. Aharon came to Palestine in 1934 and settled in
Jerusalem. When the first radio station was established in Jerusalem in
1936 by the British mandatory government, he was selected by composer
Karl Salomon to head a special section of Oriental Jewish music.26
280 r Amnon Shiloah
Composer and violinist S āleh al-Kuweitī is another Jewish musician
who gained sound fame. Upon the establishment of the first Baghdad
radio station in 1936, he was summoned to create and lead a musical
ensemble to perform regular concerts on the air. The famous Egyptian
singer Umm Kulthūm performed one of his songs.
In Baghdad, a group of four or five female drummers intoned refrains
to their leader’s singing. They appeared at parties of both Jewish and Muslim women.27
Central Asia
In Central Asia, Uzbekistan, namely in Bukhara, and in Tajikistan, a great
number of Jewish female and male musicians distinguished themselves
as performers, composers, and dancers in the classical music of the cyclic genre called shashmaqām (lit. six maqāms referring to multisectional
compositions comprising songs, instrumental music, and dances), as well
as in the contemporary styles established during the Soviet era. At times
their number reached 30 percent of all active professional musicians.
Among the most distinguished were Nerio Aminoff Sulman Yudakov,
Yeltchiti Zabsanov, and the Eliezeroff family. Also this region was blessed
with numerous gifted women musicians, such as Rina Glibova, and special female ensembles called Sozanda. These ensembles had three or four
singers who accompanied the singing and dancing of the soloist, who
would attach anklets to her legs.28
Conclusion
What conclusions can be drawn from the foregoing series of instances,
which refer to various forms of participation of Jewish musicians in their
respective indigenous musical activities? It seems to me that it is appropriate to observe the following patterns.
1. Obvious integration of these Jewish musicians into the indigenous
classical musical world and their assimilation with its spirit and
its norms and the variety of its timely predominating styles.
2. Active pioneering in the development and promotion of emerging new styles, particularly in modern times. They distinguished
themselves in this period in the elaboration and dissemination
Encounters between Jewish and Muslim Musicians throughout the Ages r 281
of a hybrid style, which represents a kind of modernization and
popularization of the classical musical tradition, making it more
appealing to the new generation of audience.
3. One finds occasional reluctance on the part of Muslim purists
concerning the deficient knowledge of Jewish musicians with
respect to established norms including defective knowledge of
classical Arabic and correct utterance in the performance of vocal music. In turn, their excellence as instrumentalists is usually
recognized and extolled.
4. The presence and active involvement in musical life of an unusual
number of gifted women musicians. This phenomenon is characteristic of modern times in particular.
5. In commenting on the remarkable involvement of numerous
gifted Jewish and Christian musicians in the musical life of their
surroundings, some scholars explain this phenomenon as a direct consequence of the hostile attitude toward music maintained
throughout the ages by radical Muslim religious authorities. To
bypass this intransigent approach, rulers and other prestigious
music lovers used the service of gifted non-Muslim musicians in
the realm of secular music at various times and places.
6. In view of the foregoing patterns, one may ask the pertinent question: Would it be possible to think that in the process of this long
collaboration between Jewish and Muslim musicians, to detect an
extent of a Jewish contribution, in other words, to admit that the
influence did not go exclusively one way? This is not a question
that can be answered with certainty. A kind of positive answer
is found in the aforementioned works of Anglés and Chottin to
which we can add the two tales on the stratagem used by Moroccan Jews and Persian Jews, who played synagogue music for
their respective rulers. Why then can we not conceive of an instinctive or random incorporation of Jewish elements in regular
performances?
A Lebanese collector of ancient recordings published a CD dedicated
entirely to the art of past Jewish musicians.29 He wrote in his introduction
that the secular music of the Jews of Arab countries is a rich and unexplored domain revealing a specific musical heritage. It does not refer to
a Jewish school in the Arab repertories in the full sense of the word, but
282 r Amnon Shiloah
it represents melismatic techniques, special arabesques, and preferential
musical modes.
Notes
1. These ideas are masterfully developed in A. Shiloah, The Epistle on Music of Ikhwān
al-Safā (Tel-Aviv: Tel Aviv University Press, 1978).
2. See A. Shiloah, “Music and Religion in Islam,” Acta Musicologica 69, no. 2 (1997):
15–28.
3. Abu al-Faraj Al-Isfahānī, Kitāb al-Aghāni, 24 vols. (Cairo: D(ah)r al-kutub almi(s1)riyya, c. 1929), 3:116–17.
4. Ch. Pellat, “Sur quelques femmes hostiles au prophète,” in Vie du Prophète Mahomet, colloquium (Strasbourg, 1980), 77–86.
5. Ibid., 83
6. Higinio Anglés, “La musique juive dans l’Espagne médiévale,” Yuval: Studies of the
Jewish Research Centre 1 (1968): 48–64.
7. Ibid., 48.
8. Ibid., 53.
9. Ahmad ibn Muhammad al-Maqqar(ih), Nafh al-tīb, ed. Ihsān ῾Abbās (Beirut,
1968), 3:122–23.
10. Ibn Sa῾id al-Maghribī, al-Mughrib fi hula al-Maghrib, ed. Shawqī Dayf
(Cairo,
1953), 1:128–29.
11. Benjamin M. Liu and James T. Monroe, Ten Hispano-Arabic Strophic Songs in the
Modern Oral Tradition: Music and Texts (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989),
42.
12. Ibn Bassām, al-Dhakhīra, ed. Ihsān ῾Abbās (Beirut: Dār al-Thaq(ah)fa, 1975),
4:1:126–36.
13. E. Levi-Provençal, Islam d’Occident (Paris: Librairie orientale et Americaine,
1948), 119–20.
14. Alexis Chottin, Tableau de la musique Marocaine (Paris: Geuthner, 1939), 149–53.
15. Eugène Delacroix, Journal d’Eugène Delacroix (Paris: Plon, 1893), 215.
16. Dov Noy, ed., Jewish Folktales from Morocco (Jerusalem: bitfutzot ha-golah, 1964).
17. Laurence D. Loeb, “The Jewish Musician and the Music of Fars,” Asian Music 4, no.
1 (1972): 3–14.
18. Alexander Christianowitsch, Esquisse historique de la musique arabe aux temps
anciens, avec dessins d’instruments et 40 mélodies notées et harmonisées (Cologne: M.
Dumont-Shauberg, 1863).
19. Ibid., 2.
20. Ibid., 5.
21. S ādeq al-Rizqī, al-aghānī al-tūnisiyya (Tunis: al-D(ah)r al-tunisiyya li’l nashr,
1967).
22. Ibid., 16–17.
Encounters between Jewish and Muslim Musicians throughout the Ages r 283
23. Nadya Bouzar-Kasbadji, L’Emergence artistique algérienne au XXe siècle: contribution de la musique et du théatre algérois à la naissance culturelle et à la prise de conscience
nationaliste (Alger: Office des Publications Universitaires, 1988); see also A. Shiloah,
“Rencontres et ententes musicales entre juifs et musulmans en Algérie,” Perspectives:
Revue de l’Université Hébraïque de Jérusalem 9 (2002): 170–83.
24. See A. Shiloah, “Témoignages sur le rôle des musiciens juifs dans la musique tunisienne,” Juifs et Musulmans en Tunisie, ed. Sonia Fellous (Paris: Smogy éditions, 2003),
300–316; A. Shiloah, “Ha-musiqa shel yehudei Tunisia,” Qehillot Yisrael ba-mizrah—Tunisia, ed. H
aim Saadoun (Jerusalem: Ministry of Education and Ben-Zvi Institute, 2005),
184–92.
25. The Iraqi maqām refers to a complex, highly structured genre belonging to types
of the compound form and is usually performed by a specialized group known as a
tchalghī baghdadi.
26. A. Shiloah, “Ezra Aharon ve-ha-zemer ha-῾ivri ha-mizrahi bi-tequfat ha-Yishuv,”
in Yerushalaim bi-tequfat ha-mandat, ed. Y. Ben-Arieh (Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 2003),
449–72.
27. A. Shiloah, “Ha-musiqa shel yehudei Iraq,” in Qehillot Yisrael ba-mizrah—Iraq, ed.
H
aim Saadoun (Jerusalem: Ministry of Education and Ben-Zvi Institute, 2002), 115–22.
28. Elena Reicher (Tamin), “Le-te῾udah shel ha-shirah ha-῾amamit shel yehudei
Bukhara–mimtza’im rishonim,” Pe῾amim 104 (2005): 115–23.
29. Bernard Moussali, Mélodies Judéo-arabes d’autrefois, Maghreb et Moyen Orient,
CD (Paris, Blue Silver 50556-2).
15
“Estos Makames Alegres” (These Cheerful
Maccams)—External Cultural Influences
on the Jewish Community of Izmir on
the Eve of the “Young Turk Revolution”
Theater and Music
Efrat E. Aviv
The relationship and mutual influences between the Jews and Muslims in
the Ottoman Empire in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries
are evidenced by focusing on the Jewish community of Izmir as a microcosm of the entire Empire. This affinity manifests itself in the adoption
of song and theater customs. Although these cultural instruments were
outcomes of the modernization processes experienced by the Ottoman
Empire, they served to strengthen, expand, and even increase the already
existing gaps within Jewish society.
As soon as the Jews expelled from Spain arrived in Turkey in 1492,
their lives were influenced by the Muslim-Ottoman environment. A particularly deep impression was made on dress and the living conditions
in the home. Evidence of influences in the use of cosmetics also exists,
such as Jewish women dying their hands for decorative purposes, as the
Turkish women were accustomed to doing. Interaction between Muslims and Jews also occurred in all matters related to culture and leisure.
For example, rabbinical religious authorities wrote restrictions regarding
External Cultural Influences on the Jewish Community of Izmir r 285
sitting in coffeehouses, a phenomenon that began in the mid-sixteenth
century among the Jews of the Empire.1 These and other influences were
more vastly expressed from the beginning of the nineteenth century, with
the introduction of modernization and westernization to the Empire.
The westernization and modernization of the Ottoman Empire, which
increased in intensity from the end of the eighteenth century, had a profound impact on Ottoman Jewry.
In the mid-nineteenth century, the Alliance Israélite Universelle organization began its activities among the Jewish communities in the Ottoman Empire. The Alliance established a network of modern schools,
which played a significant role in the westernization and modernization
of the local communities. An integral part of this westernization was the
introduction of western literary and artistic motifs into the communities’
cultural and artistic life.2 This was the beginning of a multifaceted cultural
transformation for the Jewish communities throughout the Empire. Journalism, literature, poetry, historical records, and naturally drama—both
original and translated—were influenced.
Modernization was more evident in Izmir than in other regions. In
fact, during the nineteenth century, Izmir became an important metropolis and one of the most renowned cultural and commercial centers in the
world and in the Ottoman Empire.3 Izmir’s financial and cultural prosperity attracted many Jews and other minorities such as Armenians and
Greeks. Therefore, we have chosen Izmir in order to make a case study
for the other communities in the Ottoman Empire, examining the various theatrical foundations and transformations undergone by the JewishSephardic theater and music.
As the upper classes discovered the opportunities for educational enlightenment at these new AIU schools, they began distancing themselves
from the old communal framework and traditions. New employment opportunities arose, clothing became more westernized, and wealthy Jews
left the Jewish quarters in Izmir and moved to new ethnically and religiously mixed areas.4 Until then, the Jews used to live in the bazaar areas
(Çarşı), such as Argat Bazar and Lazarato. From the end of the nineteenth
century, the wealthy families who were now new bourgeoisie moved to
the western side of the city, to neighborhoods such as Çeşme, Karataş,
Karantina, and Gœztepe, where new housing was built.5 Moreover, Ladino, which was the language used for daily life up to this period, was
286 r Efrat E. Aviv
now limited to religious use and was being replaced by French and later
Turkish.6 Yet the general public remained loyal to traditional values and
to the rabbis. This led to increasingly pronounced financial, intellectual,
and social divergence within the Jewish community.
This social and religious polarization influenced by the non-Jewish
population manifested itself mainly in theater and music. From existing literature on Jewish-Sephardic theater, it appears that even before
the Jews were expelled from Spain in 1492, their rich culture provided
Spanish Muslims with many themes for the theater. After the Expulsion,
Sephardic Jews owned theater companies and performed as entertainers,
dancers, actors, and puppeteers.7 For instance, there is testimony by an
eighteenth-century French author who notes that Jews were the ones activating the marionettes and the shadow theater figures, which were very
popular with the Turks.8
Muslim literature and historiography prior to the Expulsion from
Spain in 1492 mention the Jews as a theatrical theme. After the Expulsion, the Sephardic Jews are mentioned as dance troupe owners, comedians, puppeteers, and actors.9 There were two main influences in the world
of theater. One is found in the culture of the Ottoman Empire and the
other among descendants of the expellees themselves, who fled to Egypt
and the Maghreb. The latter, who settled in the Ottoman Empire, brought
Spanish influences with them. The findings of Metin And (1927–2008),
the Turkish theater historian and critic in charge of teaching acting at
Ankara University, show that the expellees who settled in Istanbul, Izmir,
and Salonica brought their culture and customs with them.10 There is evidence of several Jewish entertainment groups performing in the Turkish
theater (Orta Oyunu, Turkish commedia dell'arte), within the scope of
the shadow theater (Karagöz) and in puppet shows.11 The influence of the
Spanish Jewish groups was so vast that they even enriched the Turkish
language with the new Arabic and Spanish theatrical terms. But it was
not only culture that they brought with them from Spain; they were also
renowned for their skill in warfare, and they helped their Muslim hosts
in trade and economics, politics and industry, the sciences, and literature.
The French traveler Nicolas de Nicolay testified that the Jews taught the
Ottomans to create cannons and gunpowder.12 The Spanish Jews also introduced printing to the Empire, and they opened the very first Turkish
printing house in Istanbul in 1493.13
External Cultural Influences on the Jewish Community of Izmir r 287
A Short History of the Theater in the Ottoman Empire
At the dawn of the Ottoman theater, performances were held in the old
Byzantine city squares, with a line of boxes used as seats for the audience.
They were also held in tents and under canopies. Some shows were held
on water floats and rafts or presented in embassies during and after the
French Revolution, ostensibly for the foreign residents of the Ottoman
Empire, although they would also be viewed by the Sultans Mahmut the
Second (1808–39) and Abdülmecit (1839–61) and their entourages.14
After the introduction of coffee into the Empire in the second half of
the sixteenth century, many theater performances would take place inside
coffeehouses. Their owners would hire storytellers to attract clientele, as
well as jugglers, musicians, dancers, and puppeteers. However, the most
popular form of entertainment was the silhouette show.15 Theaters as we
know them today were built only from the first half of the nineteenth
century. By 1839, three Ottoman theaters had been established, featuring
predominantly Italian plays that were targeted at foreign audiences. The
French Theater (Fransız Tiyatrosu) was built in 1840 by the Ottoman government in conjunction with some foreign embassies. The first Turkishspeaking theater, called the Ottoman Theater (Osmanli Tiyatrosu), was
established in 1867 in ancient Istanbul.16
Cultural Influences on Jewish Theater
The Judeo-Spanish theater was thematically influenced by society, as
is evident by the performance of many Turkish plays, such as those of
Namik Kemal (1840–88). When the play’s subject matter caused distress
to the Jews, it was banned. An example appears in the journal HaMaggid:
From Constantinople we are informed that in one theater, Shakespeare’s play The Merchant of Venice was scheduled to be performed,
but thanks to the lobbying of Haham Başı Rabbi Moshe Halevi, the
play was banned, so as not to arouse the wrath of the people in the
scenes with Shylock the usurer.17
The rabbi feared that the ludicrous image of Shylock, which represents
the classic stereotype of the swindling Jew, would arouse scorn from
the Muslim audience. Furthermore, as modernization progressed and
288 r Efrat E. Aviv
the environmental influence on the Jewish community intensified, an
increasing number of plays were performed on Saturdays and festivals.
Women were finally allowed to perform. This phenomenon was so problematic that the actresses’ full names were never listed; only their initials
appeared. The theater, as it was, had many opponents, particularly the rabbis and religious figures. They considered the theater as halikha behuqot
hagoyim (following the ways of the Gentiles) and an offense against the
Jewish religion, regardless of the play’s theme. They believed the theater
was an acute threat to the purity of Jewish life.18
The educated strata of the Jewish community considered theater an
aesthetic art form that could contribute to the education of the lower
classes, who used to shove each other in the theater entrances. The newspapers published advertisements that recommended abstaining from unnecessary joking or laughter, bottle throwing, and littering during performances or bringing babies to the theater.
The elite saw the theater as a highly important cultural gauge and
wished to prove that Jewish society was not inferior to other societies in
its appreciation of theater as an art. Hence it was used as a way of integrating Jewish society into the general Ottoman-Turkish population. For
instance, one newspaper advertised a “dramatic and entertaining” evening, with all proceeds going to Talmud Torah, a prevalent phenomenon
in Jewish society, which meant raising money from plays for the needs of
the community. A committee was created for this Talmud Torah, headed
by senior Muslim functionaries, including the mayor and chief of police.
The ad states:
Our donor X has recently published a colorful invitation for our
people . . . to participate in a dramatic and musical evening that
will be given during mid-Passover, on Monday evening, April 1, at
the Sporting Club. This will not only be an occasion for enjoyable
entertainment and significant assistance to the devotion of Torah
study so dear to our community. The partaking of the play’s success is also a special opportunity to demonstrate to the non-Jewish
residents . . . that the Jewish community of Izmir knows how to
uphold its institutions and can be very generous with them. This is
truly a great honor and pleasure for us, to see the senior non-Jewish
External Cultural Influences on the Jewish Community of Izmir r 289
names that have joined together to do good, and have founded the
honorary committee.19
Influences on Jewish Music
Music was not new to the Izmir community, but it also witnessed some
innovations that had a direct impact on Muslim society. The songs of
Sephardic Jewry can be divided into two categories: religious songs sung
mainly in Hebrew and secular songs sung mainly in Ladino.
Religious Songs
Liturgical songs are sung in synagogues and at Jewish ceremonies such as
circumcision, bar mitzvahs, and weddings. The structure, style, and character of these melodies are derived from the Spanish musical heritage that
the expelled Jews brought with them to the Ottoman Empire from Spain.
Selihot (penitential prayers recited in the weeks preceding Yom Kippur)
and piyyutim of the High Holy Days are sung to these melodies. Other
melodies were composed after the Spanish Expulsion or were borrowed
from their host culture. These were meant to inspire the people and instill knowledge and love of Torah and Mitzvot (commandments) in their
hearts. Holidays, Jewish values, religious leaders, and holy objects were
all themes.
These songs were first sung in Hebrew, but later in Ladino, due to the
efforts of a small group of rabbis and poets, including Rabbi Avraham
Toledo, Rabbi Chaim Yom Tov Magola, and Rabbi Avraham Assa. Their
goal was to strengthen the weak spiritual level of the people, who no longer knew Hebrew and could not read holy texts written in this language.20
They wrote and translated books on Jewish law and ethics as well as liturgical poetry into Ladino. One example is a poem entitled Komplas De
Yosef HaTzaddik (Poems in Honor of Joseph the Righteous). Songs were
composed in Ladino honoring those who journeyed to the Holy Land to
pray at the graves of Tzaddiqim (righteous) or Jews who wished to end
their days there and be buried in its holy earth.
By the nineteenth century the masses could no longer read Hebrew,
and the educated elite read French or Italian. The translation of piyyutim,
290 r Efrat E. Aviv
especially those sung on the High Holy Days, became a necessity. Liturgical songs reached the height of their popularity during the sixteenth and
seventeenth centuries.21
Secular Songs
Sephardic Jews adopted several literary genres from their surrounding
culture; stories, parables, and proverbs were added to their repertoire of
prose; romances and chansons enlarged their cadre of poetry.
During the centuries that Judeo-Spanish communities existed far from
their Spanish homeland, romances became a symbol of their roots, deeply
seeped in Spanish culture. These romances evolved as Ladino singers made
their additions and changes. Thematically, romances resembled dramas,
with topics ranging from historic events to love, hate, war, and betrayal.22
Musically, Judeo-Spanish romances were Middle Eastern in structure,
containing scales with melodically flowing tunes with no repetitions in
the song. Romances often had more than thirty stanzas consisting of four
lines each. In contrast to Judeo-Spanish folk songs, which were cheerful
and primarily composed with Mediterranean tunes after the Expulsion,
the romances were composed in European scales, contained little text,
and often repeated the second half of the song.
Despite the risk of Judeo-Spanish music becoming highly “Ottomanized,” much of the Spanish character and style were retained, thanks to
liturgical songs and other singing traditions that were passed down for
generations.23
Spanish vs. Ottoman/Turkish Influence
Researchers disagree regarding the extent to which the Ottoman Jews
clung to their Spanish cultural roots. Some Judeo-Spanish folk music
researchers believe that many elements found in Ottoman Jewish music originate from the Iberian Peninsula. Others claim the distance from
Spain caused Levantine Jews to disconnect from Iberian musical traditions. During the nineteenth century, when Western culture had a great
influence on Jewish Levantine music and the French, Italian, Greek, and
English styles of song impacted the music of the time, a new approach was
created. The Jewish-Spanish community maintained an ongoing cultural
dialogue with their Ottoman Muslim hosts.24
External Cultural Influences on the Jewish Community of Izmir r 291
Edwin Seroussi describes the Turkish maccam as an example of this
new grafting. The Turkish maccam is an elaborate musical system. Typical key elements are defined musical forms, specific modes, and rhythmic
patterns. The maccam is equivalent to the complex Persian Arab musical
systems popular with urban life since the Middle Ages. The Turkish maccam is a musical arrangement containing many parts, both vocal and instrumental, set in a sequence known as fasil. Every part of the fasil is characterized by its own structure, rhythm, and parables. The Turkish maccam
became a part of Judeo-Spanish culture almost as soon as Jews settled in
the Ottoman Empire in the early sixteenth century. Written proof that
Jewish Ottoman music was influenced by Turkish music is found in the
headings and instructions accompanying many Hebrew liturgical songs.
From the sixteenth century, headings indicate which Turkish song served
as a basis for the Hebrew song or according to which Turkish melody the
Hebrew piyyut should be sung.25
A review of Turkish melody names listed in collections of piyyutim
from the sixteenth century makes it possible to prove how the names of
the Turkish songs became more common than names of Spanish ones
within a short time. Furthermore, it was proven that Turkish influence
was not limited to the musical field but extended to singing as well. From
the sixteenth century we find Hebrew liturgy composed by Sephardic poets in the Ottoman Empire possessing structures and meters borrowed
from Turkish song.26
Influences on Jewish Musicians
Jewish Ottoman composers of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries
became increasingly skilled at composing Turkish maccam. Liturgical and
para-liturgical singing became highly developed. Jewish poets and musicians formed musical groups in the large urban centers of Adrianopol
(Edirne), Izmir, and Istanbul. Some of these musicians served as rabbis
and cantors, while others split their time between the Jewish community
and the aristocratic Turkish courts that employed them. The famous cantors and musicians of Izmir include Rabbi Yom Tov Dannon, also called
Küçük Haham (the little hakham), who was active in the seventeenth century, and Rabbi Avraham Ariyas, known as Hace (expert teacher) by the
Turks, who lived in the early nineteenth century. Issac Barki, known as
Küçük Isak (little Issac), was one of Izmir’s most famous violinists and
292 r Efrat E. Aviv
composers in the mid-nineteenth century. Composers Chaim Alzarki
(who died in 1913) and Eliya Levy, known as Santuri Eliya (Eliya the Santuri player), were both active at the turn of the century.27
Issac Algazi (1889–1950) was also born in Izmir and studied cantorial
and Turkish music in the early twentieth century. Between 1923 and 1933
he served as the cantor in the Italian synagogue in Istanbul. His principal
teachers were his father, Shlomo Algazi, and the Jewish composer Shem
Tov Shikiar (1840–1920), who earned the title Hoca Santo (the saintly
teacher).28 Shikiar received lessons in the art of singing from the city’s
greatest singers, known as paytanim. He travelled to Istanbul when he
turned twenty and spent a few years learning from the greatest Hafızlar
(religious people who learn the Quran by heart and are learned in religious Islamic songs). Shikiar was also popular with Sultan Abdülhamit II
(1876–1909), who was fond of music and occasionally invited Shikiar to
his palace. Local Muslim singers used to envy Shikiar, and they expressed
it by giving him a hard time. Algazi was a violinist and composer who
taught in a school of the arts in Izmir and was so beloved by the sultan that
his work Hanoten Teshua Lamelakhim (Prayers for the King and Country)
was adopted by the palace as the official closing musical piece at state
receptions.29 Algazi was close to the president of the Turkish Republic,
Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, who hired him as a consultant to the National
Institute of Turkish Folklore and even invited him to sing at Dolmabahçe
Palace. Algazi derived his skill in artistic Turkish music from Shikiar.30
Shikiar also conducted Turkish music lessons in the “Shalom” and “Portugal” synagogues.31 These lessons were advertised in the local newspapers.
For example:
As previously announced, the Fasil in Mahor has been taught since
the third of Tevet in Kahal Kadosh Portugal by the teachers (Shem
Tov) Shikiar, (Haim)
Alzarki, (Shlomo) Algazi. . . . We are pleased
to learn that the audience attends the Kahal Kadosh for the rehearsals which are conducted with order and harmony. One can also
hear the Fasil . . . by the Maestro Shikiar. . . . The audience is most
enthusiastic.32
This notice proves how developed the musical activity of the Jews of
Izmir was in those years and how knowledgeable Jewish musicians were
in Turkish music. The fact that rehearsals were held in synagogues demonstrates that music was important.
External Cultural Influences on the Jewish Community of Izmir r 293
The Manner of Song Copying
In his book Krach shel Romi (City of Rome), Rabbi Moshe Yosef H
azan,
an Izmir native, describes the manner in which Christian tunes were adopted for prayers and holy texts.
. . . and I swear by the heavens and the earth that while I was in the
big city full of hakhamim and scribes called Smyrna (Izmir) (may
G-d protect it), I saw some of their hakhamim who were great poets
and musicians . . . and their leader was the wondrous Rabbi Avraham Hakohen Ariyas (may he be remembered in the next world)
and for their musical rhythms of the High Holy Days which call
for great humility and are called Chazanut. They would go to the
Christian church behind the partition during their days of worship
to learn from them that humbled sound which breaks all hearts and
then they would arrange from those sounds wondrous Qadishim
and Qedushot.33
In other words, the cantors used to go to the churches in order to learn
their tunes from the Christians, but that was only one example. Melodies
were taken from Muslims praying at their mosques as well. During this
period, the songs were mainly religious and para-religious and were composed using the popular instruments of Turkish music. However, from
the nineteenth century, songs lacking all religious content were composed
in the Jewish-Sephardic communities.
Parallel to the national awakening of the Balkans, the melodies used for
anthems, whether official melodies or songs expressing national ideologies, became a widespread phenomenon in the repertoire of many Jewish
communities. With the acceptance of the national state idea by the Jews
of Europe as a solution to the “Jewish problem,” the anthem melodies
entered the religious repertoire. It was now easy for synagogue cantors
throughout the Ottoman Empire to adopt the melodies of the patriotic
Turkish songs.34 For example, during the “Young Turk Revolution” in
1908, the masses held meetings supporting the new government, resulting in the composition of pro-revolution songs. One of the songs, named
Por La Libertad (For Liberty), contains twenty verses praising the new
government and describing the background leading to the revolution, and
it concludes by praising the values of freedom and equality that formed
the basis of the revolution. The song was apparently written and sung in
294 r Efrat E. Aviv
Ladino. Around 1908 Shir ha-geula (Song of Redemption) was written by
a teacher in the Jewish school in Silibri, in honor of Dr. Theodor Herzl’s
visit to Sultan Abdülhamit in Istanbul and was considered “a national
song of our own.”35
The Rabbis’ Response
As discussed earlier, music and theater affairs provoked the rabbis’ concern more than once. Like in formal Judaism, Islam places certain restrictions on the use of music in religious worship. Quranic recitation is
viewed by Muslims as reading (okumak in Turkish) rather than singing,
as often perceived by Western scholars.36 Indeed, some sources describe
close relations between rabbis and Muslims, such as rabbis who taught
Muslims Torah and Muslims who taught rabbis Islamic sources.37 An example is Rabbi Avraham Mandil (1820–83), known as Haham Aga, who
was a very talented composer and performer rumored to have sung with
Dervishes (Sufi order members) at the Galata Tekke (lodge) and even to
have been the teacher of şeyh Ayatüllah Efendi, leader of the Kulekapı
Mevlevis.
Yet at special times of the year the singing of highly melodic religious
songs within the religious service in either mosques or synagogues was
permitted. In Islam, it was mostly manifested by the Sufi brotherhoods
(Tarikatler).38
Despite the aforementioned, the Ottoman rabbis strongly opposed the
theater and secular songs, especially those that dealt with love or foreign
songs, since they lacked praise of G-d. Nonetheless, their main concern
was directed at songs of love and lust, the melodies of which were used for
the singing of prayers, or vice versa—the use of the melodies of religious
songs to express the lyrics of love songs. For example, Rabbi Eliezer Papo,
who lived in Sarajevo in the nineteenth century, expressed his repugnance
at the fact that cantors sang selihot to melodies of love songs on the High
Holy Days. He claimed that selihot are supposed to cause the person to feel
remorse and not to dance:
And I find the deed bad, that some cantors on days of selihot sing
some tones which hearing them gives you the desire to dance, from
here they let you comprehend that they do not understand what
comes out of their mouth . . . and especially make us think that with
External Cultural Influences on the Jewish Community of Izmir r 295
these cheerful maccams . . . the public does not awaken to do teshuvah and take the selihot as a song.39
Another prohibition regarding this matter is related to the Halachic prohibition on the theater regarding not following the ways of the Gentiles.
However, some rabbis attempted to negate this prohibition. For example,
Rabbi H
azan believed that the music used for worship in churches and
mosques was not a problem, for “finally, the same voices that are not
unique to their worship are permitted in our worship.”40 Rabbi Menahem
de Lonzano was the first Jewish composer to write the beginnings of Turkish songs as titles of his songs, indicating the melody to which his songs
should be sung. Rabbi de Lonzano said that he never wrote songs according to Turkish melodies that led to debauchery, but rather chose melodies
that aimed to humble the heart and elevate behavior. He therefore chose
only sad melodies from Turkish music and rejected the happy melodies.
He even mentioned in the prelude to his songs that many of his melodies
should not be sung on the Sabbath or on High Holy Days.41
Rabbi H
azan adds that adopting the non-Jewish melodies is necessary,
as the Jews were left with no remnants of their holy melodies. Thus there
was no choice but to use non-Jewish melodies and apply them to Hebrew
prayers. In other words, the problem was not the melody but the songs
that were taken from the non-Jewish surroundings and that were sung
in their language.42 Rabbi Papo also added that it was inappropriate to
sing religious songs using love song melodies; however, songs sung in
churches and mosques can be used, as they evoke remorse and submissiveness by non-Jews as well.
This entire topic was raised in a rabbinical discussion by Rabbi H
ayyim
Palacci (1787–1868). Palacci notes that the problem is actually with the
musical instruments. He comments that the two most popular instruments used by Muslims, the kemenche and the santur, are played by plucking their strings, and if something goes wrong with one of these instruments, they must be repaired immediately during playing, which would
be considered a desecration of the Sabbath. Thus if music must be played
in synagogue on the Sabbath, it should preferably not be an instrument
that will lead to its desecration.43
Perhaps the music was only an excuse for a more profound fear. In
the nineteenth century we hear about young Jews taking dancing lessons
with Muslims, discussing religion and political affairs and even studying
296 r Efrat E. Aviv
together, so that when a young Jew wanted to marry a Muslim, he or she
had to convert to Islam. This phenomenon was apparently not unique to
the Izmir community but occurred throughout the Ottoman Empire. In
1903, for instance, thirteen Jews chose to become Muslims, in 1907 five
Jews, and in 1908 eight. The Jewish community of Izmir decided to fight
this phenomenon and founded an association to combat assimilation.44
Perhaps the rabbis just took precautionary measures by prohibiting the
adoption of Gentile customs, including “borrowing” their music.
The current Jewish community in Turkey reports a 30 percent assimilation rate. It is unavoidable that this process, resulting in so high an assimilation rate among Turkish Jews, began as a massive and not marginal
phenomenon stemming from the period discussed in this article.
Conclusion
The influence of the surrounding Muslim culture on Ottoman and Turkish Jewry is evident. This influence was mutual, as Jewish culture affected
its surroundings as well, although to a lesser degree. These influences were
cause for disagreement in Jewish society, mainly between traditionalists
and progressive Jews, and widened the gaps that appeared as modernization set in. The opposition of the rabbis led to prohibition and stricter separation between Jews and Muslims, but the historical changes enhanced
the cultural collaborations and witnessed a process of total acculturation.
Notes
1. Yosef Yahalom, “Shira Ivrit Mistit Ve’Hareka Ha’Ivri Shela,” Tarbiz 4 (1991): 626–27.
2. The objective of Alliance Israélite Universelle was to educate in western ways and
instill openness to progress and new cultures all over the Spanish world. However, the
first to bring western civilization to these countries were actually the Christian missionary schools. AIU became the main source for disseminating modern and western ideas
in the Jewish-Spanish world. This is clearly expressed through the distribution of the
French language and culture.
See also Esther Benbassa and Aron Roderigue, Yehudey Sepharad Be’Artzot HaBalkan
(Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar Center Press, 2001), 93–100.
3. Daniel Goffman, “Izmir: From Village to Colonial Port City,” in The Ottoman City
between East and West: Aleppo, Izmir, and Istanbul, ed. Edhem Eldem, Daniel Goffman,
and Bruce Masters (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 128.
4. For more on clothes, see Siren Bora, İzmir Yahudileri Tarihi (Izmir: Gözlem Gazetecilik Basın ve Yayın A.ş, 1995), 80–81.
External Cultural Influences on the Jewish Community of Izmir r 297
5. Henri Nahum, “Yehudey Izmir BeSof HaMe’a Ha-19 Uvetchilat Hame’a Ha-20,”
Shorashim BaMizrach 4 (1998): 122–25.
6. David Yelin, “Kehilat Izmir,” HaShiloah 3 (1898): 461.
7. Shmuel Moreh, “Trumatam Shel Yehudey Sepharad LaTe’atron Ba῾olam HaMuslemi,” in H
evra veTarbut—Yehudey Sepharad Le’achar HaGerush, HaKongres HaBenleumi HaRevi῾i Leheker Moreshet Sepharad ve HaMizrah, ed. Michel Abitbol, Yom Tov
Assis, and Galit Hasan Rokem (Jerusalem: Misgav Yerushalayim, 1997), 206.
8. Elena Romero, “Hebetim Dramatiyim VeH
evratiyim BaTe’atron HaYehudi-Sepharadi BeTurkia UveArtzot HaBalkan,” Bama 127 (1992): 64.
9. Moreh, “Trumatam Shel,” 206, 209.
10. See Metin And, Drama at the Crossroads: Turkish Performing Arts Link Past and
Present, East and West (Istanbul: Isis Press, 1991). On the Turkish theater, see also Talat
S. Halman, Rapture and Revolution: Essays on Turkish Literature (Syracuse: Syracuse
University Press, 2007), 105–54.
11. Moreh, “Trumatam Shel,” 209.
12. Issac R. Molcho, “Lekorot Kehilot Israel: Konstantinople ve Izmir,” Ozar Yehudey
Sepharad 10 (1967–68): 23.
13. On the Jewish printing houses, see Gad Nassi, ed., Jewish Journalism and Printing
Houses in the Ottoman Empire and Modern Turkey (Istanbul: Isis Press, 2000).
14. Metin And, A History of Theater and Popular Entertainment in Turkey (Ankara:
Forum Yayinalri, 1963–64), 17–18; Stanford J. Shaw and Ezel Shaw, History of the Ottoman
Empire and Modern Turkey, 2 vols. (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1977), 2:129.
15. Ralph S. Hattox, Coffee and Coffeehouses: The Origin of a Social Beverage in the
Medieval Near East (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1985), 107–108.
16. Shaw and Shaw, History of the Ottoman Empire, 2:129.
17. HaMaggid 16 (April 31, 1903): 183.
18. See, e.g., Moshe Yosef H
azan, Krach Shel Romi (Livorno, 1872), siman aleph, daf
gimmel, ῾amud aleph.
19. El Komersial (The Commercial), March 28, 1907, 3–6.
20. On the group, see Moshe Attias, “HaMshorer Ha῾Amami Rabbi Avraham Toledo
ve Yetzirot BeLadino,” Shevet Ve῾am 2, no. 6 (1970): 117–35. See also Shlomo Rozanes,
Korot HaYehudim beTurkia uveartzot Qedem, part 5 (Sofia, 1937), 89–95. On the music of the Jews in Spain, see Amnon Shiloah, “Hashira haliturgit haYehudit beSepharad veHitpathuta,” in Moreshet Sepharad, ed. Haim Beinart (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1992),
714–25.
21. Moshe Attias, Kansionero Yehudi-Sepharadi (Jerusalem: HaMakhon leH
eker Yahadut Saloniki, 1972), 30.
22. Shmuel Rafael, Ha’Abir ve HaRe῾aya HaShvuya-Mehqar BaRomansa shel Dovrey
HaLadino (Ramat Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 1998), 13.
23. Yitzhak Levi, “Neginatam shel HaYehudim Yotzey Sepharad,” BaMaaracha 10, no.
6 (1970): 19.
24. Edwin Seroussi, “HaMusika shel HaShir Ha῾Amami BeLadino,” Pe῾amim 77
(1999): 5, 17.
298 r Efrat E. Aviv
25. Edwin Seroussi, “HaMakam HaTurki BeShirat Yehudey Sepharad,” Apiryon 32
(1994): 43–44; Molcho, “Lekorot Kehilot Israel,” 25.
26. Seroussi, “HaMakam HaTurki.” For Yahalom’s view on Turkish melodies, see Yosef Yahalom, “Rabbi Yisrael Najara ve Hithadshut HaShira Ha῾Ivrit BaMizrah Le’achar
Gerush Sefarad,” Pe῾amim 13 (1982): 96–124.
27. Pamela J. Dorn Sezgin, “H
akhamim, Dervishes, and the Court Singers: The Relationship of Ottoman Jewish Music to Classical Turkish Music,” in The Jews of the Ottoman Empire, ed. A. Levy (Princeton: Darwin Press, 1994), 595–96.
28. In Hebrew, sources spelled it Shikiyar, whereas Dorn Sezgin spells it şikar in
“H
akhamim, Dervishes, and the Court Singers,” 596–97.
29. Moshe D. Gaon, “LaMenazeah Binginot,” Mahberet Vav 1–3, nos. 54–56 (1957):
20–22.
30. Artistic Turkish music (Türk Sanat Müziği) is based on the notion of the Maccam.
31. Edwin Seroussi, Mizimrat Qedem: H
ayav VeYetzirato HaMusiqalit Shel HaRav
Yitzhaq Algazi MiTurkia (Jerusalem: Renanot, 1989), 13–14.
32. El Novelista, 10.1.1905, 18, quoted in Seroussi, Mizmirat Qedem.
33. H
azan, siman aleph, daf gimmel, ῾amud aleph.
34. Seroussi, “HaMusika shel HaShir Ha῾amami,” 11–12.
35. David Tajar, “
Zror Shirim Shel Yehudey Turkia,” Yeda ῾Am 31–32 (1967): 8–9.
36. Molcho, “Lekorot Kehilot Israel,” 25.
37. Dorn Sezgin, “H
akhamim, Dervishes, and the Court Singers,” 587–88.
38. Ibid., 596.
39. Eliezer Ben Shem Tov Papo, Damesek Eliezer—Orah H
ayyim (Belgrade, 1877), daf
Resh H
et, ῾amud Aleph.
40. H
azan, siman aleph, daf aleph ῾amud Bet, daf bet, ῾mud aleph.
41. Yahalom, Shira ῾Ivrit Mistit, 628.
42. H
azan, siman aleph, daf Dalet, ῾amud Bet.
43. H
ayyim Palacci, Lev H
ayyim—Orah H
ayyim, siman tet, daf yod ῾amud bet.
44. Bora, İzmir Yahudileri Tarihi, 94–95.
16
Poverty and Charity in a Moroccan City
A Study of Jewish Communal Leadership in Meknes,
1750–1912
Jessica Marglin
The leaders of Meknes’s Jewish community in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries faced a number of pressing issues, such as contentious
inheritance disputes and the maintenance of a delicate relationship with
the Muslim authorities. Yet undoubtedly caring for the community’s poor
constituted one of the most burning responsibilities facing this city’s Jewish leadership. The sheer number of community ordinances (taqanot)
passed concerning poverty and charity testify to its centrality in the eyes
of Meknes’s leaders. In a collection of seventy-three taqanot enacted between 1750 and 1912, thirty-four concern poverty and charity.1 Understanding the nature of Jewish communal leadership in Meknes requires
investigating the challenge that most concerned Meknes’s Jewish leaders—their responsibilities toward the community’s poor.
Drawing mainly from taqanot, but also from responsa literature
(she’elot u-teshuvot) and other communal and archival records, this essay
explores how the Jewish leaders of Meknes responded to the needs of the
poorest members of their community.2 In so doing, I address two separate
but intertwined issues. I investigate the history of poverty and charity in
Meknes and use the lens of poverty relief to examine the nature of Jewish
leadership there.
A close study of the texts produced by the Jewish leaders of Meknes
reveals that the control of charity constituted a strategy with which these
leaders asserted and consolidated their authority. While the responsibility
300 r Jessica Marglin
to provide for the Jewish poor in Meknes was undoubtedly religiously
motivated, charity also served a political function. Far from observing
a strict secular/religious divide, Jewish leaders combined the pious and
strategic roles of poor relief.
Beyond analyzing charity as a political tool, I ground practices of charity in their historical context. Looking at other Jewish communities in
the Middle East and Europe, I draw comparisons in order to shed light
on the nature of Jewish communal leadership. Beyond the Jewish community, I point out similarities and differences between Jewish and Muslim practices, although I shy away from claims concerning where these
norms originated.3 Temporally, I situate changing practices of charity in
the transformations sparked by increasing contact with Europe in the late
nineteenth century.
Meknes provides good ground for such a case study, though the differences among various Moroccan Jewish communities make drawing
general conclusions about Moroccan Jews difficult.4 Rather, this inquiry
contributes to emerging studies of poverty, charity, and Jewish leadership
in the Middle East more broadly. In particular I build upon the work
of Yaron Ben-Naeh and Mark Cohen, who as yet are the only scholars
to write on poverty and charity among Middle Eastern Jews.5 Although
studies of Muslim responses to poverty are more plentiful (especially concerning the legal and religious aspects of charity), relatively few scholars
have turned their attention to the social history of poverty and charity.
Unfortunately, no such studies exist for the Moroccan context.6 In order
to contextualize the case of Meknes, I thus rely primarily on studies of
communities elsewhere in the Middle East, particularly the Ottoman Empire. A full-scale comparison with Moroccan Muslim practice would involve original research using Muslim sources, which is beyond the scope
of this inquiry. Nevertheless, I draw preliminary conclusions about the
relationship between Meknes and Jewish, Muslim, and Christian communities in the region.
The Jews of Meknes in the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries
Meknes’s greatest claim to fame is its royal status (which it shares with Fez
and Marrakech). Chosen by the sultan Mulay Ismail as his new capital
in 1672, Meknes reached the height of its renown in the late seventeenth
and early eighteenth centuries. It did not take long for this new capital to
A Study of Jewish Communal Leadership in Meknes, 1750–1912 r 301
replace Fez as the center of Jewish learning in Morocco.7 Although by the
late nineteenth century both Meknes and its Jewish community had declined in importance, it nevertheless remained a vibrant hub of Moroccan
Jewish life. Most accounts agree that by the turn of the twentieth century,
the city’s Jews numbered about six thousand.8
The leadership of the Jewish community of Meknes followed patterns
found in many other Moroccan cities. At the top of the pyramid, the
va῾ad (or the ma῾amad), a council of learned elders, made the majority of
decisions for the community.9 Usually composed of seven men, including
rabbis and influential laymen, the va῾ad wrote the taqanot that regulated
much of the community’s daily life.10 The nagid was primarily responsible for relations between Jews and the Muslim authorities. He acted in
parallel to the communal council, and at times in cooperation with it.11 A
number of other communal officials—the head rabbi, the shohet (ritual
butcher), and the treasurer, among others—were appointed by the va῾ad
or by the community itself. Yet not every member of the council agreed
to each taqanah, and at times individual members passed taqanot on behalf of the entire group.12 I thus use the term “Jewish leaders” rather than
“va῾ad” in order to emphasize the fluidity of the group responsible for
communal decisions.
Meknes’s Jewish leadership was faced with a community that in socioeconomic terms largely resembled its Jewish and non-Jewish equivalents
throughout Morocco. Arriving at exact proportions for the makeup of
Meknes’s Jewish population is impossible at this point. Nonetheless, the
sources indicate a general schema of the community. A tiny minority of
extremely wealthy families occupied the top of the pyramid, comprising
between four and ten households at the end of the nineteenth century.13
These families were generally engaged in trade and had connections with
wealthy and influential Muslims.14 In the shadow of the fabulously wealthy
lived the majority of the population who earned their livelihood as artisans or small-time merchants—those I refer to as the “middling sorts.”15
Although these householders were normally able to support themselves,
they were poor enough to be in danger of slipping into destitution at even
minor catastrophes.16 In precolonial Morocco, political turmoil was often the catalyst for a fall from riches. During times of political instability, merchants were unable to open their stores, artisans could not work
in their shops, and many had their possessions looted by armed mobs.17
Finally, at the other end of the spectrum were the completely destitute,
302 r Jessica Marglin
those who relied entirely on the community and on individual charity for
their livelihood. They included the elderly, the “weak,” and others unable
to provide for themselves.18
Understandings of Poverty
In order to grasp the role of charity in the array of concerns preoccupying
Meknes’s leaders, one must understand whom they considered to be poor.
How did communal leaders view this sector of society and, by extension,
their responsibilities toward them?
Although explicit definitions of poverty in the taqanot of Meknes are
rare—generally the term poor (῾aniyim) is used without further specification—other sources from the period give us an idea of how the Jewish
communal leaders of Meknes defined “the poor.” They most commonly
used the term poor to refer to members of the community who regularly
received communal charity. Among those who could expect charity on a
weekly basis (the evening preceding the Sabbath) were “widows, orphans,
and the extremely poor,” a category that undoubtedly included the elderly
and others unable to provide for themselves.19 A separate distribution for
sages (or religious scholars) was called the haluqat ha-hakhamim.20 Migrant beggars traveling from city to city also merited the label “poor,”
and though they were only passing through, Meknes’s Jewish leaders were
responsible for them during their stay.21
A note of clarification concerning the inclusion of “sages” is in order.
Bridging the distinction between the “middling sorts” and the absolute
poor were scholars, or men of religion, often included in the category of
“poor” by Jews as well as Muslims.22 The ῾ulamā’ (Muslim scholars) were
considered poor because it was assumed that members of this group devoted their days to religious pursuits and therefore did not have time to
earn a living.23 Social histories of charity in Islamic contexts reveal that
a significant portion of pious endowments were dedicated to the ῾ulamā’
throughout the Middle East.24 Likewise, Jewish communities considered
it their duty to provide for their scholars.25 This included donations to
scholars abroad, especially in Palestine, from whence messengers arrived
on a regular basis seeking contributions to be distributed in the four holy
cities (Jerusalem, Hebron, Safed, and Tiberias). But neither among Jews
nor Muslims did the association of religious scholars with the “poor”
mean that these recipients of charity were necessarily indigent. In fact,
A Study of Jewish Communal Leadership in Meknes, 1750–1912 r 303
many Jewish and Muslim scholars who received charity were relatively
well off.26
The leaders of Meknes’s Jewish community had a clear sense of who
merited the title “poor” and thus who was entitled to charity. But how
did Meknes’s Jewish leaders relate to poverty, and what did they consider
their responsibilities toward the poor? It is best to begin by examining
the larger Middle Eastern context in which Moroccan Jewish attitudes
toward poverty were situated. In the early modern period—that is, before
European ideas about poverty took root across the Mediterranean—Jews,
Muslims, and Christians in the Middle East viewed poverty as a natural
aspect of society. In Miriam Hoexter’s analysis of Muslim charity in eighteenth-century Algiers, she points out that “the existence of poor people
in the community was conceived of as a permanent fact.”27 Poverty was
not a blight that an ideal society could theoretically eradicate. On the contrary, the very nature of Islamic pious endowments (in Arabic, waqf, pl.
awqāf, or habs, pl. hubūs), which constituted the most important form of
charity among Muslims, rests on the assumption of poverty’s permanence
in Muslim society. Awqāf invariably include the clause that when the line
of beneficiaries dies out, the endowment reverts to the poor.28
Middle Eastern Jews—including Meknes’s Jewish leaders—similarly
conceived of poverty as a permanent state that God commanded them to
do their best to ease.29 Although Jews in the Ottoman Empire sometimes
took a negative attitude toward beggars, they ultimately viewed poverty
as an inevitable evil that they were responsible for alleviating.30 Like most
Muslims, the Jewish leadership of Meknes assumed that poverty would always exist.31 In the late nineteenth century, these attitudes toward poverty
began to change.
The view of poverty as a natural aspect of society influenced the way in
which the Jews of Meknes viewed poor individuals. Jews around the world
considered it their religious duty to give charity.32 Nonetheless, in Europe
and the Middle East, many Jews looked down on the poor as inferior and
deserving of contempt. Ben-Naeh points out that although rabbis in the
Ottoman Empire encouraged Jews to have pity on the poor, it was nevertheless common for the rich to abuse the less fortunate.33 Meknes’s Jewish
leaders exhibited only concern for the poor in their writings, whom they
portrayed as innocent victims of fate.34 Their oft-repeated injunctions to
give charity reminded their community that giving was among the most
important responsibilities that Jews must perform.35
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Although not a source of contempt, everyone considered poverty
shameful for those who experienced it. The shame of the poor forms a
trope in the taqanot, whether because they could not afford certain pleasures in life or because they were unable to reciprocate the generosity of
friends and relatives.36 Humiliation clung closest to those who fell into
temporary poverty. Jews who had some sort of income felt acutely the
indignity of being unable to afford lavish celebrations or send appropriate gifts. Those who were permanently destitute, on the other hand, were
unlikely to even consider such luxuries in their struggle to merely stay
alive.37 Letters from the community of Meknes to the Alliance Israélite
Universelle (AIU) explicitly recount the humiliation of Jews who were
plunged into poverty by political turbulence.38 The experience of poor
Jews in medieval Cairo exhibits a similar pattern, with the suddenly impoverished far more ashamed than their permanently destitute coreligionists.39 Although the permanently poor were undoubtedly also humiliated
by their poverty, those hovering on the edge of destitution experienced a
different quality of shame, one that compounded the lack of riches with
the loss of social status.
Jewish attitudes toward the poor in Meknes often reflected the Muslim
context in which they developed, as did their organization of charity. Yet
Jewish leaders’ strategies of poor relief also exhibited significant differences related to characteristics of their leadership structure.
Meknes’s Jewish Leadership and the Organization of Charity
How did the Jewish leaders of Meknes respond to poverty? What can the
organization and regulation of charity tell us about their leadership? As in
Jewish communities across the world, the leaders of Meknes’s Jewish community considered it their religious responsibility to provide relief and
sustenance for those defined as “poor” both locally and abroad. Yet beyond this religious injunction, the control of charity constituted a strategy
by which Jewish leaders asserted and reaffirmed their temporal authority.
In reconstructing how charity operated among the Jews of Meknes,
I draw comparisons with Jewish and Muslim communities throughout
the Middle East. In general, the Jews of Meknes, like other Jewish communities in the region, centralized the distribution of charity more than
did Muslims. Indeed, in his study of eighteenth-century Aleppo, Abraham Marcus contrasts non-Muslims’ tendency toward centralization with
A Study of Jewish Communal Leadership in Meknes, 1750–1912 r 305
their Muslim neighbors’ more diffuse approach.40 This is undoubtedly related to the emphasis on individual charity in Islamic law, as opposed
to the development of communal charity in halakhah.41 Yet the interplay
between the control of charity and the legitimization of authority also
informed Muslim charity. Ottoman officials, from local bureaucrats to the
sultan himself, established charitable endowments (such as soup kitchens,
Quranic schools, and hospitals) as a way to consolidate and validate their
power.42 At various points in the nineteenth century, the beys of Tunis
employed similar charitable measures to legitimize their authority in the
eyes of their subjects.43 Among both Jews and Muslims, symbolic legitimization emerged from the leaders’ responsibility to provide relief for the
poorest members of the community.
One of the most important roles of the communal leadership structure was to ensure the regular collection and distribution of charity to the
poorest Jews in Meknes. Their level of monopoly over the sources of charity varied, from unobtrusively providing coffers in which Jews could place
their donations at their leisure, to levying taxes, to more symbolic strategies such as directing fines toward poor relief. Yet at every turn the Jewish
communal leaders of Meknes kept charity firmly under their control—a
striking contrast with the Islamic tendency to leave charity in the hands
of individuals.
Charity given by individual Jews either directly to the poor or to communal coffers undoubtedly constituted a major aspect of charitable giving in Meknes. While communal leaders were least able to control this
kind of voluntary giving, they nonetheless enacted regulations whenever
possible. Individuals placed their donations in the communal “poor box”
(qupah le-῾aniyim). Later official appointees collected and redistributed
the money.44 Holidays were popular occasions for such donations, especially the three major festivals (Pesah, Shavu῾ot, and Sukkot).45 Individuals also donated to the communal poor box to mark private celebrations,
such as a circumcision, a bar mitzvah, or a wedding.46 Such occasions
often entailed inviting the poor to feasts, almsgiving, and the distribution
of specialty food items, such as spiced meats or dried fruits.47 Jews and
Muslims across the Middle East shared the tradition of giving to the poor
on festive occasions.48 Muslims, however, tended to make such donations
directly to the poor, while Jews often went through a governing body.49
Finally, Meknes’s leaders were proactive in their attempts to collect charity from individuals. Various taqanot stipulated the responsibilities of a
306 r Jessica Marglin
treasurer (the gizbar or the gabbai), who would go from house to house
once weekly, gathering money and bread to be distributed to the poor on
Fridays.50
Once collected, Jewish leaders carefully regulated the ways in which
charity was meted out. The most important was undoubtedly the weekly
pre-Sabbath distribution, probably carried out by the same treasurer sent
to collect these funds.51 The communal leaders kept a list of weekly recipients, which included those unable to provide for themselves and religious
scholars. Special distributions were probably also organized in honor of
holidays, when extra charity was collected.52 The weekly distribution of
charity was unique to Jews; most Muslim pious endowments provided
for the poor on a daily basis through soup kitchens or other charitable
institutions.53
Among Jews, even the most private kinds of giving were regulated. In
1757, the communal leaders passed a taqanah limiting the amount individuals could give to various classes of beggars: talmidei hakhamim could
receive the most, followed by “important people” and then by everyone
else.54 Only emissaries from Palestine were exempt from such limitations.
The authors did not specify how these rules were to be enforced—in fact,
their strict observation seems unlikely at best. Nonetheless, the limitation
on direct, private giving indicates the great degree of control exercised by
Jewish leaders in Meknes over every aspect of charity.55
Although shelihim (Jewish emissaries) hailing from Palestine were exempt from regulations on individual giving, the communal leaders found
other ways to control donations to the holy land. Emissaries from Palestine arrived regularly in all the major cities of Morocco.56 The account
book of an emissary from Jerusalem who arrived in Meknes in 1895 records the donations of 136 individuals (or groups of individuals), as well as
the sums of a number of qupot.57 Numerous taqanot regulated donations
for these emissaries; their frequency indicates both the importance of
charity to Palestine and the high level of control to which it was subject.58
Meknesi Jews’ practice of sending significant amounts of charity to their
holy cities was similarly prevalent among Muslims, who regularly made
donations to the poor in Mecca and Medina.59
Although the leaders of Meknes’s Jewish community left some decisions regarding charity for Palestine up to individuals, Jews were not free
to give entirely as they saw fit. The donations given directly to the emissary when he arrived or those collected during the year and delivered in
A Study of Jewish Communal Leadership in Meknes, 1750–1912 r 307
a lump-sum were unregulated.60 Yet in the 1820s a series of taqanot fixed
certain holidays during which the Jews of Meknes were encouraged to
donate to particular cities.61 The community also prescribed donations to
the various qupot in honor of family celebrations. In 1886, for example, the
leaders decreed that every woman who gave birth should donate to Qupat
Rahel Imeinu (the collection box of Rachel the Matriarch), which went to
poor Jews in Palestine.62
Communal leaders did not control only voluntary donations; they also
saddled their constituents with obligatory contributions, which they collected primarily through an extensive taxation system. At various points
the leadership of Meknes’s Jews levied taxes on kosher meat and kosher
wine, the revenues of which went entirely to the poor.63 The tax on kosher
meat to benefit the poor (the gabella) dates to the early modern period in
Morocco; in 1603, the rabbis of Fez renewed it in a taqanah.64 A treasurer
was responsible for collecting these taxes and distributing the funds to the
poor. Ottoman Jews levied similar taxes on kosher meat.65 Taxation, one
of the most direct affirmations of governmental power, exemplifies the
close connection between authority and charity in Meknes.
Though central to Jewish leaders’ strategy for regulating charity, the
levying of taxes was probably secondary in import to the tax exemptions
they administered. The major tax on the Jews of Meknes was the jizya, the
poll tax required of all dhimmi subjects residing in Muslim lands. Communal leaders exempted men of religion from contributing to the payment of the jizya. A taqanah from 1800 stridently reprimands those who
tried to make talmidei hakhamim contribute during a year when the jizya
was particularly high.66 The authors conceded, however, that if a scholar
was engaged in his profession more than in the study of Torah, then the
exemption did not apply. Others were supposed to contribute to the jizya
“as much as they were able,” which meant that those with means paid the
taxes owed by the destitute.67 In order to enforce this system, Jewish leaders enacted a number of taqanot designed to prevent tax evasion.68 The
custom of exempting men of religion and the poor from taxes was also
practiced in Fez at least through the seventeenth century and in the Ottoman Empire through the early nineteenth.69
While taxes proved the most visible way in which the regulation of
charity reinforced Jewish leaders’ authority, they were equally careful to
manage other sources of poor relief. The pious endowments (heqdeshim)—
buildings or leases on buildings consecrated as sources of income for the
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poor—fell under their supervision.70 The use of heqdeshim as a source of
charity was closely related to Islamic practice, in which awqāf constituted
one of the most important charitable institutions.71 Among Jews as well,
pious endowments provided both housing and cash for local indigents
and scholars. For instance, two taqanot from the eighteenth century offered a detailed explanation of the status of ten stores built just outside
the walls of the Jewish quarter, the millāh.72 Both taqanot stipulated that
one-third of the stores’ hazaqot (the legal right of occupancy, considered
to be separate from either ownership or rental) be dedicated to the poor.73
When these hazaqot were sold, one-third of the proceeds went to charity.
The community also oversaw particular buildings dedicated to the
poor. One source concerns buildings that belonged to the gmilut hasadim
society (a “good deeds” society).74 It seems that the profits from these
buildings, including stores and houses, were collected by the society’s
treasurer and used for the its activities as well as distributed directly to the
poor. Another taqanah describes buildings rented specifically to the poor;
a treasurer was to be nominated to collect the rent from the tenants, from
which he was to deduct the amount donated by the community.75 At least
one heqdesh was dedicated to the Jews of Palestine.76 Private individuals could establish heqdeshim, as in the case of a woman who left part of
her property to the poor.77 Yet regardless of their specifications, Meknes’s
leaders took care to oversee how revenues from pious endowments were
collected and distributed.
While control over individual charity, taxes, and pious endowments
constituted concrete ways in which Meknes’s Jewish leaders asserted their
authority, a more symbolic strategy also fell under the auspices of poor
relief. Taqanot on a range of subjects often threatened potential offenders
with fines to be collected at the discretion of the beit din (Jewish court).
These fines, stipulated the authors, would be designated for the poor.78
A taqanah enacted repeatedly includes the threat of such a fine; it prohibited playing “karta” (or “al-karta”), a card game involving gambling.
At least three separate taqanot specified that fines collected for playing
“karta” would go to the poor.79 The collection of fines intended for the
poor was also a strategy used by Jews in Fez at least through the seventeenth century.80
It is difficult to determine the extent to which these fines constituted
an important source of charity. Yet the recurrence of the threat both to
fine community members and to donate these fines to the poor reveals
A Study of Jewish Communal Leadership in Meknes, 1750–1912 r 309
charity’s central role in the leadership structure of Meknes. On the one
hand, the stipulation that the fines were for a good cause undoubtedly
legitimized the prohibitions laid out in the taqanot. Jewish leaders’ control of charity thus enhanced their authority. On the other hand, the designation of extra public money for the poor—money that did not flow
from regular sources of communal income—reinforced the community’s
dedication to caring for its underprivileged members, again increasing its
legitimacy in the eyes of Meknes’s Jews.
Meknes’s Jewish leaders saw it as their responsibility to control almost
every aspect of poor relief, from donations by individuals to the symbolic legitimization incurred by levying fines to benefit the poor. Yet the
supervision of charity did not represent the limits of their responsibilities. Beyond their response to existing poverty, the Jewish leaders of Meknes took it upon themselves to address the future financial state of their
community.
Jewish Leaders and the Prevention of Poverty
Jewish leaders’ focus on the immediate relief of suffering reflected their
view of poverty as a permanent aspect of society. Nonetheless, they were
far from content to merely provide handouts. Jewish leaders in Meknes
waged a constant battle to prevent families from slipping into poverty
in the first place. Although structural poverty would always exist, they
nevertheless attempted to reduce the numbers of those who “fell from
their riches.” These efforts to control impoverishment are perhaps the best
evidence of the extent to which charity and authority were entwined. The
measures taken by Meknes’s Jewish leaders also demonstrate the extensive centralization of charity among Jews as compared to Muslims; no
attempt to prevent future impoverishment has been observed in Muslim
charitable efforts. The wide range of Jewish leaders’ authority stretched
on one axis from individual to communal actions, on another from local
to foreign causes, and on yet a third from present to future conditions.
Meknesi Jews’ strategies for controlling poverty also challenge the
dichotomy between “traditional” and “modern” approaches to charity.
Many scholars juxtapose traditional charity, which limits itself to the material relief of poverty, with modern (i.e., European) ideas about charity,
which seek to implement social policies that reduce and eventually eliminate poverty.81 The case of Meknes challenges this dichotomy, suggesting
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that Jewish leaders’ conception of poverty as permanent did not prevent
them from offering both immediate and long-term solutions.
Although Jewish leaders across the world passed regulations aimed at
controlling the financial affairs of individuals, scholars have yet to note
the long-term goal of preventing poverty in other Jewish communities
in the Middle East or Europe. Limitations on consumption intended to
alleviate financial crises only took effect for short periods of time.82 In
Meknes, however, regulations on consumption did not have time limits
attached and aimed at controlling poverty permanently. Although this
study reveals a new aspect of poverty relief, I suspect that further research
would reveal similar policies elsewhere.
Jewish leaders in Meknes used sumptuary laws as their primary strategy to curb poverty. These sumptuary laws limited expenditures at family
celebrations, holidays, and other occasions. They included detailed specifications of how many guests one could invite to certain events, who was
included in the acceptable list of guests (for instance, only family members
with a minimum degree of closeness), what kinds of food could be served,
and which gifts could be exchanged.83 The earliest surviving sumptuary
laws from Meknes date from 1769; they were augmented, renewed, and
altered fairly continuously until at least 1907. The fact that Meknes’s leaders constantly rewrote these laws shows on the one hand that they were
not being obeyed—otherwise, Meknesi Jews would not have required
repeated reminders of the rules—and on the other hand that they were
important enough to merit the effort of continuous reintroduction.
Although I use the term sumptuary laws to mean limitations on luxuries, I do not intend it to carry the connotations associated with sumptuary laws in Europe. In particular, the sumptuary laws passed in Meknes
were not aimed exclusively at the very rich. Rather, the authors’ explanations demonstrate that these taqanot were intended primarily for the
middling sorts, who were the members of the community most likely to
fall into poverty by spending too much on luxury consumption.
The intended consequences of sumptuary laws passed in other Jewish communities help explain their role in Meknes. Studies of sumptuary regulations in Poland, France, and the Ottoman Empire reveal commonalities among the uses of such regulations.84 European sumptuary
laws, aimed at preserving existing social hierarchies, included strict limits
on how much each social class was allowed to spend on particular occasions.85 Sumptuary legislation also strove to protect Jews from hostile
A Study of Jewish Communal Leadership in Meknes, 1750–1912 r 311
non-Jews in both Europe and the Middle East; many community leaders
believed that the conspicuous display of luxury incensed Gentiles against
Jews and thus endangered them.86 Finally, communal leaders attempted
to stave off financial crisis for individuals and the community as a whole
by regulating consumption.87
The language and nature of Meknes’s sumptuary laws reveal that the
city’s Jewish leaders were primarily concerned with the regulation of consumption in order to prevent financial disaster. A common justification
for the passing of sumptuary laws included in the body of the taqanot
explained that lavish spending caused the wealthy to waste money and
further devastated those who already hovered near poverty. The conclusion of a taqanah passed in 1907 put this reasoning succinctly: “All this
[sumptuary legislation] we saw fit to pass for the sake of the poor who are
unable to do as the rich.”88 Although the language of the taqanot uses the
term poor, its authors were not referring to the poorest members of the
community; such people would have been unable to afford even basic necessities, much less luxuries. Rather, they meant the middling sorts living
on the edge of poverty.
These middling householders’ efforts to “keep up with the Joneses”
caused them to lavish increasing amounts on holidays and family celebrations, which could easily result in financial disaster. In 1806, a taqanah was passed limiting the number of eggs one could send to friends
and relatives on the Sabbath of a family celebration. The authors wrote
that this regulation “gladdened all the householders and all those with
celebrations,” since it stifled the competition to send more eggs than one’s
neighbor.89 In 1897, another taqanah limiting spending on festive occasions concluded with the warning that many, including the wealthy, were
losing a great deal of money.90 Especially among the poorer members of
the community, their inability to reciprocate the gifts of their rich neighbors caused shame and even strife between husbands and wives. Leaders
feared that the poor would try to imitate the rich by sending equivalent
gifts on festive occasions and throwing similarly lavish celebrations in
spite of their far more limited means. In order to afford these luxuries,
householders took out loans and fell into debt.91
The economic motivations cited in the taqanot are corroborated by the
lack of other concerns normally at play in sumptuary legislation. There
is no evidence in the taqanot from Meknes that the leadership attempted
to delineate social classes through regulations on spending, since all
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regulations applied equally to rich and poor.92 Neither did the community
of Meknes enact limitations on consumption for fear of non-Jews’ jealousy. Such taqanot from other communities emphasized limits on public
displays of wealth that would attract unwanted attention from non-Jews.93
Yet only one taqanah from Meknes specified what individuals could wear
outside of the house;94 the vast majority concerned strictly intra-communal affairs.
Although laws limiting consumption were the most common ways
in which Meknes’s Jewish leaders attempted to protect their community
from slipping into poverty, they were not the only means exercised to
this end. First in 1825 and again in 1855, the leaders of Meknes enacted
taqanot prohibiting the sale or purchase of goods through middlemen.95
They explained that as the community was experiencing hard times, selling goods through middlemen was causing a number of householders to
lose money and go bankrupt.96 In 1855, communal leaders deemed the
taqanah sufficiently important that they ordered it read aloud in all the
courtyards of the millāh so that women, children, and the elderly—who
did not regularly attend synagogue—would also hear it.
While the Jews of Meknes viewed poverty as a fact of life that was not
within their power to eliminate, they nevertheless attempted to protect
their flock from avoidable impoverishment—a measure of control both
symbolic and practical. This strategy unsettles the dichotomy of “modern”
versus “traditional” Jewish approaches to poor relief. Nonetheless, at the
end of the nineteenth century, Meknes’s Jews confronted new ideas about
how to respond to the needs of the poor.
Changing Strategies of Charity
Morocco in the second half of the nineteenth century played host to the
drama of Europe’s steadily growing involvement in the Middle East. While
Europeans’ impact was primarily political and economic in the precolonial period, cultural norms—including medical practices and ideas about
the social order—were increasingly filtering into local communities. The
presence of European diplomats in more and more Moroccan cities affected communal leadership structures and introduced new ideas about
administrative responsibilities. European notions were often available to
Moroccan Jews relatively early thanks to the presence of the Alliance Israélite Universelle. The AIU was a Paris-based international organization
A Study of Jewish Communal Leadership in Meknes, 1750–1912 r 313
founded in 1860 to promote the education and political emancipation of
Jews outside of Western Europe, primarily in the Middle East, the Balkans, and North Africa.97 It opened its first school in Morocco in 1862
and steadily expanded its scholastic network throughout the precolonial
period.
Meanwhile, ideas about charity prevalent in nineteenth-century Europe were undergoing significant change, rooted in events of the sixteenth
century. Poverty was no longer considered an acceptable fact of life, deserving of pity and material aid; it was a deplorable state that could, with
the correct policies, be eradicated. Begging came to be seen as especially
egregious, and attempts were made to put beggars to work. European Jewish communities had begun to adopt these views as early as the seventeenth century, and by the late nineteenth century they were widespread.98
In London, for instance, new charitable organizations created after 1859
believed that the poor had the potential to pull themselves out of poverty
with the proper education, supervision, and carefully regulated aid.99 Nor
were Muslims in the Middle East immune to these ideological currents. In
Egypt, welfare reforms instituted midcentury introduced policies more in
line with European opinions on poor relief. Centralized poor houses were
created in Cairo, beggars were cleared from the streets, and able-bodied
vagrants were drafted into military service.100
Studies of the changing nature of charity among Middle Eastern Jews
have yet to be conducted, but it is clear that new practices in nineteenthcentury Meknes were related to European influences. For instance, at the
end of the nineteenth century the Jewish leaders of Meknes established a
hospital for the sickly poor.101 Although providing hospitals for those who
could not afford private medical care has a long history in Muslim societies, no evidence of similar practices among Middle Eastern Jews exists.102
Meknesi Jews’ decision to provide medical care most likely stemmed from
the influence of European “modernizers.” Jews in London, for instance,
began to provide medical care based on new developments in hygiene and
medicine.103 European consuls working in Morocco often invited Western
doctors or helped to establish hospitals as part of their efforts to reform
Moroccan society.104 Similar evidence that Meknes’s Jews were increasingly aware of the implications of Western medicine is found in a taqanah
from 1881 proscribing a number of changes in how charity was organized.
Among them, the communal leaders decreed that the money collected
from taxes on kosher meat was to be used to clear the trash in the millāh,
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in order to prevent further outbreaks of cholera such as the one suffered
two years earlier.105 Jewish leaders often organized such public health projects in cooperation with European diplomats.106
The AIU had an impact on the way charity was organized in Meknes
even before its first teachers arrived in the city. Although the AIU’s main
purpose was educational, at times of crisis the organization collected
emergency funds from wealthy European Jews and sent them to communities in need. In the late nineteenth century, the Jewish leaders of Meknes
began writing to the AIU asking for such funds and received sizeable donations at least twice.107
In 1902, the communal leaders of Meknes asked the AIU to found a
school in their city. The school would, they hoped, relieve the financial
hardships experienced by so many of the community’s poorer members.108
But the AIU’s arrival sparked a fierce controversy between Meknes’s leaders and the AIU. The debate was about more than charity, as the AIU
broadly challenged the authority of Meknes’s communal leaders.109 Yet the
fact that the ensuing storm centered on questions of charity reveals the
extent to which the control of poverty relief was intertwined with communal authority in Meknes.
The controversy erupted over the community’s pledge to contribute
30 duoros monthly to the AIU school, a sum that came from the tax on
kosher meat which normally went to the poor and the scholars of the
city. Although the community leaders of Meknes initially agreed to dedicate this sum to the cause of the AIU school, the vocal complaints of the
city’s scholars and other recipients of relief soon made them regret their
decision:
Bands of poor devils, no doubt counseled by Rabbi Shlomo Berdugo and Menachem Benabou, crisscrossed the Mellah, crying, “We
want the thirty duoros, we are dying of hunger, we no longer want a
school that takes our bread and gives us nothing.”110
The communal leaders even wrote to the AIU pleading with the Central
Committee to release them of their monthly obligation, claiming that “the
poor are crying out, saying, ‘Give us bread!’”111
The two camps—that of M. and Mme. Valadji (the schoolteachers),
the AIU Central Committee in Paris, and a few Meknesi Jews on the one
side, and the leaders of Meknes, scholars, and the poor on the other—
understood the significance of the thirty duoros very differently.112 From
A Study of Jewish Communal Leadership in Meknes, 1750–1912 r 315
Valadji’s point of view, these thirty duoros were a wise investment in the
future of Meknes’s Jews. By supporting the AIU school, the community
would enable their children to receive a modern education, one that prepared them for success in an increasingly European-oriented Morocco.
The AIU camp believed firmly that education and regeneration would
solve the problem of poverty in Meknes, as opposed to merely relieving it
through handouts.113
The communal leaders of Meknes, on the other hand, understood the
role of the AIU school very differently. They, too, saw the school as a
way to relieve poverty in their community.114 Yet their idea of helping the
poor followed the contours of the kind of poor relief they had previously
overseen in Meknes. They expected the AIU to send financial help from
Paris—immediate relief rather than long-term structural reforms. They
believed that their investment of 30 duoros would literally be returned to
them many-fold.115 These two views of charity—the community leaders’
focus on immediate financial relief and the AIU’s push for modern education—were seemingly irreconcilable, and the school was closed only six
months after it opened.
Meknes’s Jewish leaders resisted AIU-inspired strategies of poor relief
out of ideological convictions about what was best for the poor of their city.
Yet their opposition was no doubt compounded by the desire to maintain
their control of communal charity and thus to preserve existing structures
of authority. The fact that the 30 duoros had previously been designated
for scholars no doubt amplified the threat of the AIU’s encroachment on
communal administration. The scholars, many of whom served on or had
close ties to the ma῾amad, saw the positions threatened by the partial
loss of their weekly allotment. The council also worried about being seen
as indifferent to the suffering of their poor, a perception that would have
thrown their legitimacy into question. Communal leaders’ refusal to pay
the 30 duoros and the subsequent shuttering of the school marked their
retention of control over the organization of charity in Meknes.
Nonetheless, Meknesi Jewish leaders’ unwillingness to compromise
with the AIU did not mean they resisted all possibilities of change. Like
Muslim authorities in Egypt, Jews in Meknes introduced new innovations
in poor relief that reflected the growing influence of European ideas, such
as opening a hospital and taking sanitary precautions. Although the AIU
school failed in 1902, by 1911 Meknes’s leaders had invited the AIU for
a second try; the school opened in that year was a success.116 Meknes’s
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leaders eventually proved willing to accept innovations in poor relief and,
consequently, the relinquishment of some authority.
*
*
*
Questions of poverty and its relief figured prominently in precolonial
Meknes. At the individual level, Jews were constantly asked to give to
the poor. At the communal level, the challenge of caring for the city’s
Jewish poor constituted one of the most pressing issues facing the community’s leaders. The history of poverty and charity in Meknes concerns
both how Jewish leaders organized charity and how the Jewish leadership maintained itself. Charity was a responsibility saddled on Meknes’s
leaders as well as a tool they used to their advantage. Although I do not
deny the religious significance of charity, I argue that in their responses
to poverty, Meknes’s Jewish leaders were doing more than simply fulfilling the religious injunction to give charity. They simultaneously built and
maintained a structure of communal authority. Charity was not merely a
religious injunction; it pervaded the very nature of Meknes’s Jewish leadership structure. In addition, a careful study of the organization of poor
relief calls into question dichotomies between “modern” and “traditional”
approaches to poverty. It addresses the ways in which ideas about poverty
began to change in the late nineteenth century, adding another chapter
to the story of Europeans’ impact on Moroccan Jews. Further studies of
poverty and charity in the Moroccan context would add to these debates;
my hope is that this beginning will be enhanced by further research.
Notes
1. Mordechai Amar, ed., Taqanot of the Rabbis of Meknes (Jerusalem: H
evrat Ahavat
Shalom, 1996) (Hebrew).
2. On the authors of these taqanot, see Moshe Amar, “On ‘the Taqanot of Meknes’ in
the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries” (Hebrew), in H
evrah ve-Qehilah, ed. Avraham Haim (Jerusalem: Misgav Yerushalayim, 1991), 41–42. Collections of responsa from
Meknes include Raphael Berdugo, Mishpatim Yesharim: She’elot u-teshuvot, Hotsa’ah, 2d
ed. (Jerusalem, 1993); Messas Sar Shalom, Divrei Shalom (Meknes: Sayag, 1895); Shmuel
Amar, Dvar Shmuel (Casablanca: Razon, 1940). Archives consulted in Jerusalem include
the Jewish National and University Library (JNUL), the library of the Ben-Zvi Institute
(YBZ), and the Central Archives for the History of the Jewish People (AHJP). In Paris I
consulted the archives of the Alliance Israélite Universelle (AIU) and the Ministère des
Affaires Etrangères (MAE).
A Study of Jewish Communal Leadership in Meknes, 1750–1912 r 317
3. I agree with Mark Cohen on this point: see Mark R. Cohen, Poverty and Charity in
the Jewish Community of Medieval Egypt (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2005),
251.
4. Only Gabi Levi has focused on the history of the Jews of Meknes, although his
work is highly problematic. See Gabi Levi, The Jews of Meknes: Outlines of the Character
of a Community in Morocco (Tel-Aviv: Alef, 1982) (Hebrew).
5. Yaron Ben-Naeh, “Poverty, Paupers, and Poor Relief in Ottoman Jewish Society,”
Revue des Etudes Juives 163, nos. 1–2 (2004); Cohen, Poverty and Charity. See also S. D.
Goitein, A Mediterranean Society: The Jewish Communities of the Arab World as Portrayed in the Documents of the Cairo Geniza (Berkeley: University of California Press,
1967–1988), 2:91–143. No studies devoted to poverty and charity exist for Morocco, but
see the relevant section in Jane S. Gerber, Jewish Society in Fez, 1450–1700: Studies in
Communal and Economic Life (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1980).
6. On the legal history of awqāf in the Moroccan context, see David S. Powers, “The
Maliki Family Endowment: Legal Norms and Social Practices,” International Journal of
Middle East Studies 25, no. 3 (1993).
7. Gerber, Jewish Society in Fez, 38; Amar, “On ‘the Taqanot of Meknes,’” 38.
8. Eugène Aubin, Le Maroc d’aujourd’hui (Paris: A. Colin, 1904), 359–60. The number
six thousand is repeated by Mme. Valadji, director of the AIU girls’ school (AIU Maroc
XXXII E 561, Mme. Valadji to AIU, March 13, 1902).
9. Gerber, Jewish Society in Fez, 97.
10. Levi, The Jews of Meknes, 49. Gerber records that the members of the ma῾amad in
Fez were all scholars. Gerber, Jewish Society in Fez, 98.
11. The nagid was appointed by local Muslim authorities. Gerber, Jewish Society in Fez,
86.
12. Many taqanot were in fact only signed by one or two rabbis. However, to use the
term va῾ad to refer to decisions that were not signed by all members seems inaccurate.
It is my impression that the leadership structure was more fluid than this term indicates.
13. See the letter from Ben Hasin to the AIU, describing the economic state of the
Jewish community of Meknes in 1900. Amar, Taqanot, 421.
14. A tiny percentage of wealthy Jews was common in Jewish communities elsewhere.
See, e.g., Michel Abitbol, Les commerçants du roi, Tujjar al-sultan (Paris: Maisonneuve et
Larose, 1998); and Ben-Naeh, “Poverty,” 153.
15. I use this term, borrowed from European historians, to avoid the more confusing
alternative “middle class,” which has connotations that I do not want to introduce here.
By “middling” I mean neither wealthy nor very poor. According to Ben Hasin’s letter,
these artisans and merchants constituted 880 households (out of a total of 980)—that is,
the vast majority of the population. Amar, Taqanot, 421.
16. Some professions were more susceptible to impoverishment than others. According to an 1824 taqanah about gifts to the sultan, the poorest artisans were tailors, goldsmiths, and cobblers (who were exempt from contributing to gifts for the sultan). See
Amar, Taqanot, 179.
17. AIU Maroc II B 12–98, Community of Meknes to AIU, Tammuz 5671 (1911); AIU
Maroc II B 12–98, Community of Meknes to AIU, Tevet 5653 (1903); AIU Maroc III C
318 r Jessica Marglin
10.k.1, Community of Meknes to AIU, 1 Adar 5668 (1908); AIU Maroc XXXII E 549,
Moyal to AIU, June 21, 1911.
18. See Ben Hasin’s letter, in which he lists 100 householders of “the elderly, religious
scholars, and the weak” who received communal charity on a regular basis. Amar, Taqanot, 421.
19. Ibid., 421–23. Although Ben Hasin’s letter dates from 1900, the similarities between the categories he uses and those of Jewish communities elsewhere make it likely
that these definitions were relevant throughout the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.
See Ben-Naeh, “Poverty,” 154.
20. Amar, Taqanot, 423.
21. A taqanah from 1881 instructs that funds collected every six months were to be
distributed to “those passing and to those staying.” Ibid., 258; see also 276.
22. See Ben Hasin’s letter in which he includes “the elderly, religious scholars, and the
weak,” all of whom received charity, in one category. Ibid., 421.
23. Hoexter, “Charity, the Poor, and Distribution of Alms in Ottoman Algiers,” in
Poverty and Charity in Middle Eastern Contexts, ed. Michael David Bonner, Mine Ener,
and Amy Singer (Albany: SUNY Press, 2003), 150.
24. Ruth Roded, “Great Mosques, Zawiyas, and Neighborhood Mosques: Popular
Beneficiaries of Waqf Endowments in Eighteenth- and Nineteenth-Century Aleppo,”
Journal of the American Oriental Society 110, no. 1 (1990): 32–33; Amy Singer, Constructing Ottoman Beneficence: An Imperial Soup Kitchen in Jerusalem (Albany: SUNY Press,
2002), 28; Eyal Ginio, “Living on the Margins of Charity,” in Poverty and Charity in
Middle Eastern Contexts (note 23 above), 169; Adam Sabra, Poverty and Charity in Medieval Islam: Mamluk Egypt, 1250–1517 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000),
11.
25. Miriam Hoexter notes that the inclusion of learned men in the category of the
poor extended to Jews and Christians in the Middle East. Hoexter, “Charity,” 151. See also
Ephraim Frisch, An Historical Survey of Jewish Philanthropy: From the Earliest Times to
the Nineteenth Century (New York: Macmillan, 1924), 116–17.
26. A letter from the AIU schoolteacher sent to open the (failed) school in Meknes in
1902 claimed that of the 219 recipients of charity at least 36 were rich scholars. He enumerated another 27 relatives of scholars who were not poor but received charity anyway.
AIU Maroc XXXII E 561, Valadji to AIU, January 14, 1902.
27. Hoexter, “Charity,” 148. See also Sabra, Poverty and Charity, 174.
28. See, e.g., Powers, “The Maliki Family Endowment,” 384; Singer, Constructing Ottoman Beneficence, 31; Hoexter, “Charity,” 148. See also Sabra’s chapter on awqāf in Mamluk
Cairo: Poverty and Charity, chap. 4.
29. See especially Frisch’s chapter on the ruling principles and ideals behind Jewish
charity: Frisch, An Historical Survey of Jewish Philanthropy, chap. 4.
30. Ben-Naeh, “Poverty,” 175–76.
31. For instance, the community referred to “the poor” (ha-῾aniyim) as a permanent
social category, such as in specifications of fines that would be donated to the poor. See
Amar, Taqanot, 29, 85, 217, 385.
A Study of Jewish Communal Leadership in Meknes, 1750–1912 r 319
32. The history of charity in Judaism is beyond the scope of this essay. See Frisch,
An Historical Survey of Jewish Philanthropy, and Frank M. Loewenberg, From Charity
to Social Justice: The Emergence of Communal Institutions for the Support of the Poor in
Ancient Judaism (New Brunswick, N.J.: Transaction, 2001).
33. Ben-Naeh, “Poverty,” 160, 164. Ben-Naeh suggests that this attitude may have been
the result of European influence, as they considered the poor disgusting and dangerous
(176).
34. See, e.g., the letter of recommendation sent for a poor talmid hakham, a copy of
which was included among a collection of taqanot from eighteenth-century Meknes
(JNUL F 16107: 49). See also the letter concerning a widow and her orphaned son who
applied to the communal authorities for charity; although they worried that the young
man would turn to alcoholism, they nonetheless found no fault with the pair for being
poor (JNUL F 16107: 46).
35. See three letters encouraging Meknesi Jews to give charity from 1781 (JNUL F
16107: 54–55).
36. See Amar, Taqanot, 73, 93, 340, 363.
37. There are taqanot with instructions for people to give gifts only to the poorest of
their relatives who under no circumstances would be able to reciprocate. Ibid., 73.
38. AIU Maroc II B 12–98, Community of Meknes to AIU, Tammuz 5671 (1911).
39. Cohen, Poverty and Charity, 45–51.
40. Marcus, “Poverty and Poor Relief,” 176. See also Marcus’s observation that the
Ottoman administration in eighteenth-century Aleppo did not provide social welfare,
which was dealt with privately. Abraham Marcus, The Middle East on the Eve of Modernity (New York: Columbia University Press, 1989), 77. See also Cohen, Poverty and
Charity, 245, and Sabra, Poverty and Charity, 32.
41. This comparison has not been adequately explored and is undoubtedly overly generalized. See Frisch, An Historical Survey of Jewish Philanthropy, 34–40, 50, and Sabra,
Poverty and Charity, 4, 32.
42. Singer, Constructing Ottoman Beneficence, 27; Ginio, “Living on the Margins of
Charity,” 177; Sabra, Poverty and Charity, 32, 140–41.
43. Abdelhamid Larguèche, Les ombres de la ville: pauvres, marginaux, et minoritaires
à Tunis, XVIIIème et XIXème siècles (Manouba: Centre de publication universitaire, Faculté des lettres de Manouba, 1999), 117–35.
44. The communal poor box appears in the Mishna. Frisch, An Historical Survey of
Jewish Philanthropy, 100–101.
45. Amar, Taqanot, 421.
46. Frisch, An Historical Survey of Jewish Philanthropy, 105; Levi, The Jews of Meknes,
70; Gerber, Jewish Society in Fez, 70; Ben-Naeh, “Poverty,” 186.
47. Amar, Taqanot, 73, 93. See also Levi, The Jews of Meknes, 70; Shlomo A. Deshen,
The Mellah Society: Jewish Community Life in Sherifian Morocco (Chicago: University of
Chicago Press, 1989), 65.
48. Kenneth L. Brown, People of Salé: Tradition and Change in a Moroccan City,
1830–1930 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1976), 92–93, 97; Ben-Naeh,
“Poverty,” 187; Ginio, “Living on the Margins of Charity,” 172.
320 r Jessica Marglin
49. Marcus, “Poverty and Poor Relief,” 176; Ginio, “Living on the Margins of Charity,”
171–72, 177.
50. Amar, Taqanot, 422. See also the descriptions of the distribution of funds to the
poor in AIU Maroc XXXII E 561, Valadji to AIU, January 14, 1902, and May 15, 1902.
51. Levi, The Jews of Meknes, 71. This was also the case in the Ottoman Empire. BenNaeh, “Poverty,” 188.
52. One taqanah mentions a treasurer who collected money from the synagogues
every six months and distributed it to the migrant and the resident poor. See Amar,
Taqanot, 258.
53. For instance, a soup kitchen in Jerusalem served an average of 500 people soup
and bread twice a day. Singer, Constructing Ottoman Beneficence, 64. See also Roger Le
Tourneau, Fès avant le protectorat: étude économique et sociale d’une ville de l’occident musulman (Rabat: Editions La Porte, 1987), 257; Ginio, “Living on the Margins of Charity,”
170. Although some awqāf distributed money to the poor, these distributions took place
two or more times weekly. Le Tourneau, Fès avant le protectorat, 257; Hoexter, “Charity,”
156. It is likely that the unique nature of Sabbath observance among Jews prompted the
practice of weekly distributions on Fridays.
54. Amar, Taqanot, 6.
55. I have not included a discussion of the role of confraternities in this essay due to
lack of sources. See, e.g., JNUL F 16107: 32–33.
56. See Yaari, Emissaries of Palestine.
57. YBZ 1822: 6–7.
58. At least four taqanot relating to the division of funds for Palestine were enacted
between 1823 and 1826. Amar, Taqanot, 193, 196, 197, 200.
59. In Algiers, for instance, a number of pious endowments were dedicated to the holy
cities of Mecca and Medina. Hoexter, “Charity,” 152–54.
60. Emissaries collected both individual and communal donations in all the Jewish
communities they visited. Yaari, Emissaries of Palestine, 53.
61. Donations to Jerusalem would be made on Purim and on the seventeenth of Tammuz, as well as on the occasion of a circumcision or a wedding; to Safed on Lag be῾Omer and the first of Elul; to Tiberias on H
anukkah and the intermediate days of Pesah,
as well as on the occasions of a bar mitzvah and a wedding celebration; and finally, to
Hebron on Hoshanah Rabbah. See Amar, Taqanot, 200–201.
62. Ibid., 254.
63. See the 1881 taqanah, which nominated a treasurer to collect taxes on kosher wine.
Amar, Taqanot, 258.
64. Abraham ben Mordecai Ankawa, Kerem H
emer: The Book of Ordinances from the
Rabbis of Castile (Hebrew), vol. 2 (Ashdod: Makhon Osrot Ge’one Sefarad, 1997), no. 78.
See also Gerber, Jewish Society in Fez, 72.
65. Ben-Naeh, “Poverty,” 186.
66. Amar, Taqanot, 186, and Berdugo, Mishpatim Yesharim: She’elot u-teshuvot, v. 1:
no. 381; v. 2: no. 172.
67. Amar, Taqanot, 179.
A Study of Jewish Communal Leadership in Meknes, 1750–1912 r 321
68. Amar, Taqanot, 91. See also the required oath of honesty upon being assessed for
taxes (JNUL F 16107: 39).
69. Gerber, Jewish Society in Fez, 69; Ben-Naeh, “Poverty,” 186; Deshen, The Mellah
Society, 68.
70. See Cohen, Poverty and Charity, 200–204, and Yaacov Lev, Charity, Endowments,
and Charitable Institutions in Medieval Islam (Gainesville: University Press of Florida,
2005), 66–67.
71. Cohen suggests the influence of Islam for both the prevalence and the form of
Jewish pious endowments in medieval Egypt. Cohen, Poverty and Charity, 202–203.
72. The first taqanah is dated either 1747 or 1751. See JNUL F 43691: 19. The second is
from 1771. See Amar, Taqanot, 14. Another case of a heqdesh being dedicated to the poor
concerns a house that was transferred to Rabbi Yosef Berdugo in order to found a yeshiva
(AHJP MA/MK/28).
73. On the importance of hazaqot in Jewish history, see Meir Benayahu, “Legal Agreements Concerning ‘H
azaqot of Courtyards, Houses, and Stores’ in Salonika and the Rulings of Rabbi Yosef Taitatzaq,” Michael 9 (1985) (Hebrew).
74. JNUL F 16107: 32–33. These taqanot are from 1781.
75. Amar, Taqanot, 258.
76. YBZ 1822: 7. In 1895, its revenues yielded a donation of ten duoros, not a paltry
sum. See Le Tourneau, Fès avant le protectorat, 283.
77. Amar, Dvar Shmuel, no. 29.
78. Amar, Taqanot, 217, 385.
79. The first such taqanah is from 1786 (ibid., 29). For similar stipulations, see the
nineteenth-century taqanot in JNUL F 44688: 2, and JNUL B 578: 1.
80. Gerber, Jewish Society in Fez, 70–71.
81. On traditional Jewish charity, see Eugene C. Black, The Social Politics of AngloJewry, 1880–1920 (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1988), especially 76–78, 93, and Heinz-Dietrich Lowe, “From Charity to Social Policy: The Emergence of Jewish ‘Self-Help’ Organizations in Imperial Russia, 1800–1914,” East European Jewish Affairs 27, no. 2 (1997).
On the Middle Eastern context, see Mine Ener, Managing Egypt’s Poor and the Politics of
Benevolence, 1800–1952 (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2003).
82. Edward Fram, “The Limitation of Luxuries in the Jewish Community of Krakow
at the End of the Sixteenth Century and the Beginning of the Seventeenth Century,” GalEd on the History of the Jews in Poland 18 (2002): 17–23 (Hebrew).
83. Amar, Taqanot: 73–74, 75–76, 85–88, 93–95, 144–46, 163, 168, 261–62, 265–69,
358–62, 363–70, 390–93.
84. See Fram, “The Limitation of Luxuries”; Jay R. Berkovitz, “Social and Religious
Controls in Pre-Revolutionary France: Rethinking the Beginnings of Modernity,” Jewish
History 15, no. 1 (2001); Jay R. Berkovitz, Rites and Passages: The Beginnings of Modern Jewish Culture in France, 1650–1860 (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press,
2004), 35–58; Yaron Ben-Naeh, “‘One Cup of Coffee’: Ordinances Concerning Luxuries
and Recreation; A Chapter in the Cultural and Social History of the Jewish Sephardi
Community of Jerusalem in the Nineteenth Century,” Turcica 37 (2005).
322 r Jessica Marglin
85. Fram, “The Limitation of Luxuries,” 15 and 17; Berkovitz, Rites and Passages,
45–46. The sumptuary laws in the Ottoman Empire did not include references to class
hierarchies. Ben-Naeh, “‘One Cup of Coffee,’” 167.
86. Fram, “The Limitation of Luxuries,” 12–14; Berkovitz, Rites and Passages, 41–43;
Ben Naeh, “‘One Cup of Coffee,’“ 168, 181.
87. Fram, “The Limitation of Luxuries,” 16, 18–21; Berkovitz, Rites and Passages, 42;
Ben-Naeh, “‘One Cup of Coffee,’“ 169.
88. Amar, Taqanot, 365–66. “Do not waste” is a commandment originally found in
the Bible (Deuteronomy 20: 19–20).
89. Ibid., 73–74.
90. Ibid., 358–62. See also a very similar taqanah from 1907 (ibid., 363–70).
91. Ibid., 73–74, 93–95, 358–70.
92. Some even include the language “whether rich or poor” to drive this point home.
See ibid., 358–62.
93. Fram, “The Limitation of Luxuries,” 12; Ben-Naeh, “‘One Cup of Coffee,’“ 181.
94. Amar, Taqanot, 85–88, 390–93.
95. Ibid., 167, 222–24; see also 169.
96. Morocco suffered from famine in 1824–25. Ibid., 421.
97. On the AIU in Morocco, see Michael M. Laskier, The Alliance Israélite Universelle
and the Jewish Communities of Morocco, 1862–1962 (Albany: SUNY Press, 1983).
98. See Joseph Kaplan, “Spanish and Portuguese Jews: Relations with Ashkenazi Jews
in Amsterdam” (Hebrew), in Changes in New Jewish History: Collection of Articles in
Honor of Shmuel Ettinger (Jerusalem: Merkaz Zalman Shazar, 1988), 400–401, 411.
99. Black, Social Politics, 73, 93. On similar developments among French and Russian
Jews, see Lowe, “From Charity to Social Policy,” 57–60; Jay R. Berkovitz, The Shaping
of Jewish Identity in Nineteenth-Century France (Detroit: Wayne State University Press,
1989), 88, 100–104.
100. Ener, Managing Egypt’s Poor, chaps. 2 and 3.
101. YBZ 1847: 29. The hospital was founded between 1893 and 1901.
102. See, e.g., Sabra, Poverty and Charity in Medieval Islam, 73–80; Miri Shefer, “Charity and Hospitality: Hospitals in the Ottoman Empire in the Early Modern Period,” in
Poverty and Charity in Middle Eastern Contexts. There is also evidence that Christians
in the medieval period set up hospitals in Jerusalem. Lev, Charity, 82.
103. Black, Social Politics, 85–86.
104. See, e.g., MAE CC Mogador IV, Gay to Drouyn de Lhuys, July 18, 1865; MAE CC
Mogador IV, Luguau to Moustier, September 11, 1868; MAE CC Mogador V, Beaumier
to De La Vallette, August 5, 1869; MAE CC Mogador VI, Cara de Vaux to de Vernouillet,
April 5, 1879; MAE CC Mogador VIII, Lacoste to Ribot, November 5, 1891.
105. See Amar, Taqanot, 258.
106. See MAE CC Mogador IV, Drouyn de Lhuys to Gay, November 4, 1865; MAE CC
Mogador VI, Cara de Vaux to de Vernouillet, November 11, 1878.
107. For letters requesting funds, see AIU Maroc II B 12–98, Community of Meknes
to AIU, received January 14, 1897; Community of Meknes to AIU, Tevet 5663 (1903); AIU
A Study of Jewish Communal Leadership in Meknes, 1750–1912 r 323
Maroc III C 10.k.1, Community of Meknes to AIU, received June 27, 1887; Community of
Meknes to AIU, 1 Adar 5668 (1908).
On funds received from the AIU, see AIU Maroc II B 12–98, Community of Meknes
to AIU, Sivan 5658 (1898), and AIU Maroc XXXII E 549, Moyal to AIU, June 21, 1911.
108. AIU Maroc II B 12–98, Community of Meknes to AIU, Adar 5662 (1902).
109. Such controversies erupted almost everywhere that the AIU opened schools.
See Laskier, The Alliance Israélite Universelle, chap. 3, and Susan Gilson Miller, “Saints et
laïcs dans le Tanger Juif du XIXe siècle,” in Mémoires juives d’Espagne et du Portugal, ed.
Esther Benbassa (Paris: Publisud, 1996).
110. AIU Maroc XXXII E 561, Valadji to AIU, May 15, 1902.
111. AIU Maroc II B 12–98, Community of Meknes to AIU, Adar 5662 (1902).
112. At least one prominent community member was on the AIU’s side. Mordechai
Loubaton wrote to the AIU in Paris that he was committed to paying the thirty duoros
each month. AIU Maroc VII B 8.02, Loubaton to AIU, Sivan 5662 (1902).
113. AIU Maroc XXXII E 561, Mme. Valadji to AIU, March 13, 1902.
114. AIU Maroc II B 12–98, Community of Meknes to AIU, Adar 5662 (1902).
115. Valadji reported the communal leaders saying: “Que l’Alliance nous ferme ses
écoles . . . puisqu’elle ne nous envoie pas de secours pour nos pauvres.” AIU Maroc
XXXII E 561, Valadji to AIU, May 15, 1902.
116. See the series of letters sent by A. Moyal, the AIU teacher in Meknes from 1911 to
1916. AIU Maroc XXXII E 549.
Contributors
Efrat E. Aviv completed her doctoral studies in the Department of Middle Eastern Studies at Bar-Ilan University. She specializes in Turkish studies. Her dissertation was entitled “Fethullah Gülen—A Religious Leader and an Ideologist
in Turkey of the 1980s and the 1990s.” She received her master’s degree in Jewish
history from Bar-Ilan University in 2002 (Magna cum laude). Her thesis was entitled “Community, Culture, and Feminism: The Jewish Community of Izmir on
the Eve of the ‘Young Turk Revolution,’ 1899–1908.” She teaches Turkish and Ottoman history at Bar-Ilan University and is conducting her postdoctoral research
at the Begin-Sadat Center for Strategic Studies (BESA) on the Bar-Ilan campus.
She has published articles on Turkish affairs in Israeli newspapers and translated
Turkish poetry into Hebrew.
Leigh N. Chipman is a historian of medieval Islamic medicine, specializing in the
twelfth through fifteenth centuries ce. She received her PhD from the Hebrew
University of Jerusalem in 2006 and held a Kreitman Postdoctoral Fellowship
at Ben-Gurion University of the Negev, Beersheba, Israel, during 2006–2008. In
addition to her doctoral research, which focused on pharmacy and pharmacists
in Mamluk Cairo, Leigh has worked extensively on the medical material of the
Cairo Genizah. She is currently working on a study of an early commentary on
Ibn Sina’s al-Qanun fi al-tibb, Qutb al-Din Shirazi’s al-Tuhfa al-sa῾diyya, which
will shed further light on the medical history of Il-khanid Iran.
Yehoshua Frenkel, PhD, teaches Medieval Islamic history at the University of
Haifa. His recent publications include “Public Projection of Power in Mamluk Bilad al-Sham,” Mamluk Studies Review 11, no. 1 (2007): 39–54; and “Women in Late
Mamluk Damascus in Light of Audience Certificates (sama῾at) of Ibn Mibrad,”
in Egypt and Syria in the Fatimid, Ayyubid, and Mamluk Eras, ed. U. Vermeulen
(Peeters, 2006), 409–23.
326 r Contributors
Libby Garshowitz, PhD, Professor Emeritus in the Department of Near and Middle Eastern Civilizations, University of Toronto; past director of Jewish Studies;
member of various committees at the University of Toronto, in the general community and in professional organizations. She still teaches and directs graduate
students in medieval Hebrew poetry. Her research interests, professional presentations, and publications include textbooks for the teaching of Hebrew at university level, articles on the Jews of Spain, Jewish-Christian relations; Christian
scriptures; legal status of conversa women after the 1492 Expulsion; medieval
Hebrew poetry; contemporary Israeli literature; biblical and medieval exegesis,
and book reviews.
Bat-Sheva Garsiel, PhD, teaches in the Department of Middle East History at
Bar Ilan University. She has taught at other colleges and universities in Israel, the
United States, and the United Kingdom. Among her publications is Bible, Midrash, and Quran: An Intertextual Study of Common Narrative Materials (Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 2006) [Hebrew].
Professor Juliette Hassine of blessed memory, who passed away in August 2010,
was an internationally known scholar on the writings of Proust. She published
five books and sixty articles as well as contributed forty-one entries, thirty of
which are extended articles, to the Dictionnaire Marcel Proust (Champion, 2004,
Académie française Prize 2005). All these publications are based principally on
research of Proust’s drafts and manuscripts according to the Critique génétique.
Her list of publications also includes books she edited, many studies in fields such
as comparative literature and Hebrew literature, among the latter a book on Daliah Rabikovitch’s poetry. During the last ten years, Hassine conducted research
on Moroccan manuscripts of historical and literary value in Hebrew and JudeoArabic from the first half of the nineteenth century.
Michael Katz, PhD, is a senior lecturer in the Departments of Psychology and
Education at the University of Haifa. He is head of the Program of Education
and Human Development. Katz holds bachelor’s degrees in mathematics, psychology, and political science from Bar-Ilan University, master’s degree in social
psychology from Bar-Ilan University, and master’s and doctoral degrees in mathematics from Oxford University. He has held research and teaching positions at
the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, Bar-Ilan University, the London School of
Economics, Queen’s University at Kingston (Ontario), and San Francisco State,
and was a visiting scholar at Oxford and Stanford.
Ronald C. Kiener, PhD, is professor of religion and director of the Jewish Studies Program at Trinity College, Hartford, Conn. After an undergraduate degree
Contributors r 327
from the University of Minnesota, he earned his PhD in religious studies from
the University of Pennsylvania (1984). He is co-author of The Early Kabbalah
(Paulist Press, 1986), and the editor of a critical edition of the anonymous Hebrew
paraphrase of Saadia Gaon’s Book of Doctrines and Beliefs, to be published by the
Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities.
Michael M. Laskier holds a PhD in history from UCLA. An internationally recognized authority on modern Jewish history, Israel and the Arab world, and
modern Middle Eastern/Maghrebi studies, he is a tenured full professor at the
Department of Middle Eastern Studies, Bar-Ilan University, and director of the
Menachem Begin Center for the Study of Resistance Movements. Publications
include North African Jewry in the Twentieth Century: The Jews of Morocco, Tunisia, and Algeria (New York University Press, 1994, 2nd ed., 1997), winner of the
U.S. National Jewish Book Award; The Jews of the Middle East and North Africa in
Modern Times (Columbia University Press, 2003), co-edited with Reeva S. Simon
and Sara Reguer; Israel and the Maghreb: From Statehood to Oslo (University Press
of Florida, 2004); Israel and the Aliyah from North Africa, 1948–1970 (Ben-Gurion
University Press, 2007), in Hebrew, winner of the Renée and Nessim Ga’on Book
Award for 2008; and Israel on the Threshold of the Seventh Decade: New Studies on
Security and Foreign Policy (co-edited with Dr. Yitzhak Ronen, to be published by
Bar-Ilan University Press). He is currently working on a book entitled The European Union and the Maghreb: Political Tensions Offset by Common Interests and
two books on French Jewry, The Jews of France, 1945–1995: A Portrait of a Western
European Community and Dangerous Curves: French Jewry at the Beginning of the
Twenty-first Century.
Yaacov Lev, PhD, University of Manchester, is a tenured full professor of Islamic
medieval history at Bar-Ilan University. He is the author of Charity, Endowments,
and Charitable Institutions in Medieval Islam (University Press of Florida, 2005).
He served as co-leader with Dr. Miriam Frenkel of a research group on “Charity
and Piety in the Middle East in the Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages: Continuity and Transformation,” at the Institute for Advanced Studies, Jerusalem, in
2006–2007. Currently he is the chairperson of the Department of Middle Eastern
Studies at Bar-Ilan University.
Jessica Marglin is a doctoral student in the Department of Near Eastern Studies
at Princeton University. Her research focuses on the history of Jewish-Muslim
relations in North Africa in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. She is writing her dissertation on the history of Jews in the Moroccan legal system in the
nineteenth century. She received her master’s degree in Middle Eastern studies
from Harvard University, where she also completed her undergraduate studies.
328 r Contributors
Jessica is the recipient of a number of fellowships, including the Fulbright Fellowship and the Wexner Graduate Fellowship.
Merav Rosenfeld-Hadad recently completed her PhD in the Faculty of Music and
the Faculty of Asian and Middle Eastern Studies at the University of Cambridge
on the Paraliturgical Song of Babylonian Jews in the context of Arabo-Islamic
culture and religion. Her work was supported by the Cambridge Overseas Trust,
the ORS Award Scheme, and the Wingate Scholarship. Rosenfeld-Hadad specializes in religious and secular musical genres of both Jews and Muslims in the
Arabo-Islamic cultural domain in the past and in modern time. She is also interested in the role and function of this culture in the life and identity of Arab-Jews
in the past, in their original Arab countries, and at present in the West. This is
her first publication. It will be followed by a publication on aesthetic similarities
between the text and music of the Classical Paraliturgical Song and the Quranic
narrative.
Amnon Shiloah, PhD, is emeritus professor of the Department of Musicology,
Hebrew University of Jerusalem. Born in Argentina in 1928 to parents of Syrian
origin, he immigrated to Palestine in 1941. He studied music and flute in Jerusalem and Paris. He earned a master’s degree at the Hebrew University (Hebrew
and Arabic literature and biblical studies) and was awarded a PhD in musicology
and oriental studies from the Sorbonne in Paris. His research interests involve
history and theory of Arab and Jewish Near-Eastern musical traditions and medieval writings. His numerous publications include his magnum opus: the two
volumes of The Theory of Music in Arabic Writings published in the framework of
the RISM (Repertoire International des Sources Musicales) and two volumes of
essays (Arabic and Hebrew Writings on Music) published in the Variorum series.
In 2003 the French translation of his book Music in the World of Islam, won the
Grand prix de l’Académie Charles Cros: Littérature musicale.
Shimon Shtober holds a PhD degree from the Hebrew University of Jerusalem.
He served as a senior lecturer in the Departments of Arabic and Middle Eastern
History at Bar-Ilan University for many years. His main fields of research are
medieval Egyptian social history, Islamic historiography, and biblical exegesis in
medieval Spain and the eastern Mediterranean written in Judeo-Arabic. Publications include The Letters and Papers of Chaim Weizmann, vol. 7 (Jerusalem, 1977);
The Historical Digest of the Responsa Literature of Spain and North Africa, vols. 1
and 2 (Jerusalem, 1981–87); and Sefer Divrei Yosef: Eleven Hundred Years of Jewish
History under Muslim Rule (Jerusalem, 1994).
Contributors r 329
Norman A. Stillman, PhD, is the Schusterman/Josey Professor of Judaic History
at the University of Oklahoma and an internationally recognized authority on
the history and culture of the Islamic world and on Sephardi and Mizrahi Jewry.
He is the author of seven books and numerous articles in several languages. He
was editor of the Association for Jewish Studies Review from 1989 to 1999, and he
is currently the executive editor of the Encyclopedia of Jews in the Islamic World,
published both online and in print (Brill, 2010).
Mark S. Wagner is assistant professor of Arabic and director of the Arabic program at Louisiana State University. He received his PhD from the Department
of Middle Eastern and Islamic Studies at New York University. He works on premodern Arabic literary and legal texts, particularly as they shed light on MuslimJewish relations. His first book, Like Joseph in Beauty: Yemeni Vernacular Poetry
and Arab-Jewish Symbiosis (Brill, 2009), based primarily on his doctoral work,
analyzes the history and poetics of “Humayni” poetry, a semivernacular genre
from Yemen that was shared by Muslims and Jews. He is currently working on a
book on Jews who interacted with, and sometimes confronted, the Islamic courts
in Yemen in the first half of the twentieth century. This book will engage in debates surrounding the status of non-Muslims in Islamic law.
Brannon Wheeler, PhD, is the founding director of the Center for Middle East
and Islamic Studies and professor of history at the U.S. Naval Academy in Annapolis. He received his PhD in Near Eastern languages and civilizations from the
University of Chicago in 1993 and has been a visiting scholar at the Oxford Centre
for Islamic Studies, the College of Shariah and Islamic Studies at Kuwait University, and the Center for Middle East and Islamic Studies at the University of Bergen in Norway. Wheeler was the senior Fulbright fellow at the Royal Institute for
Inter-Faith Studies in Jordan, al-Azhar University in Egypt, and the Ministry of
Awqaf and Religious Affairs in Oman. He was the senior fellow at the American
Centers for Oriental Research in Jordan, a fellow at the Institute for Ismaili Studies in London, a research fellow at the American Institute of Maghreb Studies in
Tunisia, and the senior Islamicist-in-residence at the American Research Center
in Egypt. He has written and edited seven books including his most recent, Mecca
and Eden: Ritual, Relics, and Territory in Islam (University of Chicago, 2006). He
is the editor of the book series and journal of Comparative Islamic Studies, and has
been the guest editor of Islamic Law and Society and al-Tasamoh.
Index
Aaron, 24
῾Abadi, Yißhaq, 246
῾Abbasid Baghdad, 94, 243, 254, 267;
Dunash and, 248–53; Jews, 247; Miß˙af
al-Shaba˙ot (Holy Book of Praises) and,
249–52
῾Abbasid Caliphate, 8, 98
῾Abd Allāh ibn Salām (AiS), 76–78;
Muhammad and, 66–68, 92, 95–96; in
Quran, 67. See also Shalom, ῾Obadiah b.
῾Abd al-Mu††alib, 36
Abdgawth, 35
Abdülhamit II, 292
Abdülmecit, 287
Abihazirah, Y῾aqov, 112–13
Abimelech, 48
Abode of Islam, 89, 94, 96
Abraham, 4, 24, 73; angels visiting, 54–57,
55; binding episode, 57–59; building
Ka῾bah, 48–50; Covenant between the
Pieces and, 53–54; cultic activities, 29;
expelled from homeland, 52; father
of believers, 4, 52; as first Muslim,
46–48; as Óanif, 46; house of, 48–50;
idolatry and, 50–52; image, 59–60; as
Islam founder, 46–48; Muhammad as
follower, 47–48; Muhammad compared
to, 50–53; obedience, 58; one God and,
50–53, 57; as prophet, 46–48; prophethood, 37; Quran depicting, 45–60; sacrificing Isaac, 57–58; Station of Abraham,
49; as ῾Yedid, 48
Absalom, 73
Abu Aharon, 152, 153
Abu Bakr, 76, 96
Abulafia, Abraham, 6, 156, 159; “Kabbalah
of Byzantium,” 161; Íufism and, 160–62
Abu ˇālib, 74
Abya∂, Ya˙yā, 128
Academies: Gaonic, 15; Judaism, 149, 249
῾Adabi, Mordekhay, 246
Adam, 24, 173
Adhan, Mosheh Ben Aharon, 246
Adroitness, 8, 233
Adultery, 33, 222
Afkal, 26–27
Aglibol, 27
Aharon, Ezra, 279
Al-A˙bār, Ka῾b, 13, 75
Ahl-al-dhimma, 100, 106n39, 138. See also
Protected People
Ahl-al-kitab, 13, 78, 90–91. See also People
of the Book
AiS. See ῾Abd Allāh ibn Salām
Akīvā, 73
Alakhson, 189n10
Al῾Amrī, Óusayn, 133
Al Beriat ha-Olam (Philo of Alexandria),
186
Al-Dustur al-bimaristani: for hospitals,
190–91; Ibn Abi ᾿l-Bayan compiling,
190–204; Minhaj al-dukkan compared
to, 191, 192–204; recipes, 196–201, 197,
198, 200
Al-faraj ba῾d al-shidda, 98
Alf Layla wa-Layal, 264
Alfonso, 274
Algazi, Isaac, 292
Index r 331
Algazi, Shlomo, 292
Algebra, 7, 172
Algiers, 278
Algorithm, 7, 172
Al˙arizi, Judah, 209, 211, 213–15
῾Ali, 76
Allāh, 26, 32, 162; name of, 68–69, 80
Allard, André, 185
Allāt, 28
Allegory. See Jewish parody and allegory
Alliance Israélite Universelle (AIU), 17,
285, 296n2, 304; charity and, 314–15;
establishment and growth of, 312–13;
success, 315
Al-Qanun fi᾿l-tibb, 192
Altars, 27–29; building motif, 50; dedications, 31, 34–35
Alzarki, Chaim, 292
Amram, Aharon ben, 273
Andalusia, 7–8, 17, 155–56; conversions to
Islam, 118; music, 275; poetry, 208–11,
213, 234
Andrae, Tor, 12
Angels, 83, 102n2; Abraham visited by,
54–57, 55; Gabriel, 69; guardian angel,
227, 239n63; guarding heaven, 149
Anglés, Higinio, 274–75, 281
Anidjar, Gil, 148
an-Nah∂ā, 10
῾Antabi, Avraham, 246
῾Antabi, Refael, 246
῾Antabi, Yitshak, 246
Anti-Semitism, 10–11
Al-An†ōki, Akīvā, 73
Apocalyptic writings, 14, 65, 70–71, 85n26
Apologetic literature, 6, 121
Apostasy, 5, 111, 119, 164
Apostates: deviant, 111; social, 111–12, 116,
119
A῾ra, 35
Arabia, 12, 274
Arabic, 1–2, 91, 212, 214; Arabic-Islamic
songs, 8; Jews speaking, 14–16; as lingua
franca, 14; poetry, 7–8, 219, 243, 253–54;
qaßida, 229
Arabic literature, 94, 215–16, 231; influencing Jewish parody and allegory, 210–11;
themes, 222
Arabo-Islamic culture: Dunash influenced
by, 249–50; Al-Óakham influenced by,
263–65; in Miß˙af al-Shaba˙ot (Holy
Book of Praises), 248, 253–57; music
and, 244, 258–61; Najarah influenced by,
258–61; PLS and, 243–44; poetry and,
244, 258–61
Arabo-Islamic symbiosis, 89
Arabs, 1, 2, 12; ancient prophets, 30–36;
prophets and prophecy, 25–30
Aretas, 30, 34
Arithmetic, 172, 175, 180–82, 185–86
Ariyas, Avraham, 291
The Artistic Emergence in Algeria (BouzarKasbadji), 278
῾Asā᾿el, 73
Ashtarte, 26
Assa, Avraham, 289
Astrology, 174
Astronomy, 174
Ata, 31
Atatürk, Mustafa Kemal, 292
Al-Athīr, ῾Alī b. Abī al-Karam Ibn, 36
Attai, 31
Augury, 34
Azkari, El῾azar Ben Mosheh, 246
Ba῾al, 26
Ba῾alshamin, 27, 28, 31, 35
Babylonian Jews, 241–68, 266
Baghdad, 15; Al-Óakham in, 262–65. See
also ῾Abbasid Baghdad
Ba˙īrā, 73, 75–78, 92, 96
Baidawi, 56
Baitulia, 31
Baktashy Dervishes, 259
Bala∂ī rite, 141n9
Ballam, 34
Baneth, David Zvi, 47
Banū Qaynuqā῾, 65–67, 77
Baqashah, 242, 255, 261
Barberry pastille with rhubarb, 197, 198,
199
Barki, Isaac, 291
Bar Mitzvah, 241, 264–65, 289, 305, 320n61
Bartok, Bela, 279
Barūch, 73
Barukh El Óay, 264–65
332 r Index
Battē midrash, 15
Bedouin society, 273–74
Beggars, 302–3, 306, 313
Beit din, 308
Bel, 27
Believers, 40n17, 94, 272; Abraham as
father of, 4, 52; appeal by, 245; redefining Islamic, 94; submissiveness, 47;
testing, 48
Bell, Richard, 12, 58
Benabou, Menachem, 314
Benayahu, Meir, 245
Ben-Naeh, Yaron, 300, 303
Ben-Na῾im, Yosef, 112
Berbers, 275–76
Berdugo, Shlomo, 314
Berith bein ha-Betarim, 53–54
Bethel, 31
Between Muslim and Jew (Wasserstrom),
1–2
Bible, 4; chronology, 45; Dunash language,
250–51; in Jewish parody and allegory,
210–11; King James Version, 173; Muslim
exegesis as source, 23–39; poetry,
230; Quran as source, 23–39. See also
Exodus; Genesis; New Testament; Old
Testament
Binding episode: of Abraham, 57–59; in
Genesis, 57; Muhammad and, 59
bin Lādin, Usāma, 10
Bisam Allah qaomi, 115
Blau, Joshua, 1–2, 14, 16
Blood-libels, 4, 11
Bourgeoisie, 285
Bouzar-Kasbadji, Nadya, 278
Breuer, Zeev Z., 251–52
Brinner, William M., 2
Al-Bukhārī, 79
Burhanuddin, Qazi, 261
Burial sites, 25, 32–33. See also Tombs
Byzantines, 34, 148
Caesarea, 92
Cairo, 215, 230, 279, 304
Caliphates, 2, 276; ῾Abbasid, 8, 98;
Christians and, 99–100; Islamic, 90–92,
102n2; al-Mansur, 248; symbiosis with
Protected People, 97–98, 100
Camel meat, 69, 71–72
Chapels, 34
Charity, 9; AIU and, 314–15; distribution,
306; donations, 305–7, 320n61; endowments, 307–8; from fines, 308–9; in Meknes, 299–315; organization of, 304–9;
religious significance, 316; strategies,
312–16; in taqanot, 305–6, 313–14; taxes
and, 305, 307–8
Children of Israel, 67, 173; land promised
to, 53; Torah and, 48
Cholera, 314
Chosen People, 58
Chottin, Alexis, 276, 281
Christendom, 3, 8
Christianity, 4, 13, 48, 59; as idolatrous, 14;
Muhammad as enemy, 71
Christian musicians, 281, 293
Christianovitsch, Alexander, 277–78
Christians, 12, 13, 90; caliphates and,
99–100; Al-Kha††āb, ῾Umar ibn and,
99–100; musicians, 281, 293; poll taxes
and, 99; reacting to conquest narratives,
99–100. See also Non-Muslims
Chronicle of A˙ima῾as, 152
Church of the Resurrection, 100
Circumcision, 13, 34, 117, 289
Cohen, B., 81–83
Cohen, Isaac ben Jacob, 152–53
Cohen, Mark, 300
Cole, Peter, 254
Commensality, 3–4, 12; end of, 17; limits,
16
Conquests: Christians reacting to narratives, 99–100; Jewish narratives, 149;
Jews reacting to narratives, 96–99; Muslim narratives, 92–95, 148; non-Muslims
reacting to narratives, 95–96
Consecrations, 26–27, 32, 35, 40n18
Conversions: to Islam in Andalusia, 118;
Jews to Islam, 5, 68–70, 118; to Judaism,
109
Convivencia, 4, 12, 162
Counter history, 5
Covenant between the Pieces, 60;
Abraham and, 53–54; in Genesis, 54;
Muhammad and, 54. See also Berith
bein ha-Betarim
Index r 333
Creative Jewish-Arab symbiosis, 12, 16
Creator, 51, 59, 204, 272
Cultic activities, 25, 37; of Abraham, 29;
Muslim exegesis and, 37; officiating at,
26; of prophets, 27–28
Cult objects, 29, 36
Cultural diversity, 6
Cultural symbiosis, 274
Dāhud, 278
Dalā᾿ al-nubuwwah, 69
Dalalat al-Ó᾿irin, 157, 160
Damascus, 28, 77, 93, 153, 157; Safed in, 164
Daniel, 24
Dannon, Yom Tov, 291
Dar al-Islam, 14
Darmon, Fritna, 279
Darshan, 263
David, 24
Decimal system, 181–83, 186
Decoction, 191, 199, 200, 204
Dehodencq, Alfred, 113
Deity, 13, 26, 33–34, 36
Delacroix, Eugène, 276
de Lonzano, Mena˙em, 295
de Nicolay, Nicolas, 286
Dervishes, 259, 294
Deviant apostates, 111
Al-Dhakhīra, 276
Al-dhamārī Synagogue, 134, 141n11
Dhikr, 162, 194
Dhimma social system, 13, 98, 122n8, 136,
142n18, 307; defining status, 110, 120;
laws, 114
Dhū an-Nūids, 275–76
Dhu Ghabat, 26, 35
Al-Dīn, Ya˙yā, Óamīd, 6
Divine Law, 13, 136
Divine Providence, 11
Divine retribution, 14
Diyah, 111
Domekh, ῾Abdallah, 262
Donations, 305–7, 320n61
Dor De῾ah, 128, 131–34, 140n8, 144n50
Drawings, 34
“Drink Up, Enjoy,” 209
Dror Yiqra, 251–52
Dunash, 208–9, 246, 256, 257,
258–59; ῾Abbasid Baghdad and, 248–
53; Arabo-Islamic culture influencing,
249–50; Biblical language, 250–51;
Miß˙af al-Shaba˙ot (Holy Book of
Praises) and, 249–52; qaßīda, 251–52;
quantitative meter of, 250
Dushara, 28, 35
Eden, 29, 220. See also Paradise
Edom, 14
Ehyeh, 173–74, 183
El῾azar, 73
Elazar, Jacob ben, 8, 210–15; burlesque
of, 220; erotic descriptions, 216;
Hebrew language and, 221; humor of,
232; Jewish morals and, 221, 228, 231;
Ma˙beret Nine of, 225–32; Ma˙beret
Seven of, 215–24, 230–32; make poetry,
not war message, 218; names chosen
by, 230; personal history, 234; satire by,
223–24, 227, 233–34; voice, 226; women
portrayed by, 233
Elbaz, Shmuel, 116–17
Eleazar, R., 152
Elias, 97–98
Eliezeroff family, 280
Elijah, 24, 98
Elisha, 24
Elizur, Shulamit, 226
Emancipation, 17, 313
The Emergence and Linguistic Background
of Judaeo-Arabic (Blau), 1–2
Enlightenment, 10, 285
Ethics, 203, 221, 289
Exaggeration, 219, 223, 232
Exodus, 26, 172–74, 184, 202, 207n32, 265
Expulsion, 17, 77; Mawza᾿ Exile, 143n19;
Mosque of the Expulsion, 143n19;
Spanish Expulsion, 88n70, 245, 261,
286, 289–90
Ezekiel, 24, 149, 256
Ezobi, Yosef Ben hanan Ben Natan, 246
Faces of the Chariot (Halperin), 150
Al-Farabi, 253
Farmer, H. G., 279
Al-Fayyumi, Nethanel ben, 95
Fenton, Paul, 158
334 r Index
Fertile Crescent, 25, 37, 65, 101; indigenous
communities, 94, 97; language, 91;
People of the Book in, 90
Fines, 308–9
Firestone, Reuven, 24, 58
Flattery, 214, 219–20
Food, 54, 69, 193, 310; act of good will, 112;
consecration of, 27, 40n18; distribution,
305; feeding dead, 33; permissible, 13, 27.
See also specific foods
Freimark, Peter, 192
Funerary rites, 33
Funkenstein, Amos, 101
Gabriel, Mar, 99
Gadol, 257
Gaon, Rav Sa῾adya, 74, 153, 154, 202,
207n30
Gaonic academies, 15
Geiger, Abraham, 12, 24, 50, 58, 64
Gematria, 174–75
Genesis, 28–30, 46, 48–50, 173; Adam in,
173; binding episode in, 57; Covenant
between the Pieces in, 54
Geometry, 178–79
Geonim, 249
German Pietists, 152, 154
Gershom, Rabbi, 153
Ghassan, 26
Al-Ghazali, 157
Ghettos, 16–17
Ghulat teachings, 151, 153
Gil, Moshe, 73–74
Glibova, Rina, 280
Gnostics, 12, 154–56
Goitein, Shelomo Dov, 1, 12, 15, 16, 49, 192
Goldreich, Amos, 163
Goldziher, Ignaz, 15
Gospels, 46, 138, 150
Greek philosophy, 148
Hachuel, Sol, 5–6, 23; last words, 117; martyrdom, 109–21; sentencing, 114–15; as
social apostate, 112, 116; torture of, 116,
119; trial, 113. See also Ridda
Hadad, Morris, 267
Al-Óā∂irī, A˙mad, 132–33
Hadith, 8, 13, 70, 150, 243, 263
Hafizlar, 292
Hajaj, David, 279
Al-Óakham, 246; Arabo-Islamic culture
influencing, 263–65; in Baghdad, 262–
65; Miß˙af al-Shaba˙ot (Holy Book of
Praises) and, 262–68; works of, 262–63
Hakhohen, Mosheh Ashkar, 246
Al-Óalabī, 33
Halakha, 6, 15, 137, 144n560
Halevi, Judah, 208, 245, 246
Halevi, Zrahyah, 246
Half-breed class, 227, 240n75
Óaliwa, Óayyim, 116–17
Halperin, David, 150
Halpern, Baruch, 38
Óaluqat ha˙achamim, 302
Ha-male᾿, 155
Óamas, 10
Hammurabi, 36
Hanafi law, 111
Hanan, Abba, 54
Hanbali law, 111
Óanif, 46
Óanifyya, 47
Óasin, David Ben Aharon, 246
Hasniri, Yitshak Ben Yehudah, 246
Ha-Tsarfati, Raphael, 112
Havaiah, 183
Havushah, Moshe, 257, 261
Óazan, Moshe Yosef, 293, 295
Óazaqot, 308
Heaven, 149–50
Hebrew, 186, 210, 212, 214; calendar, 172;
Elazar and, 221; as entertaining, 234;
grammar, 16, 250–51; hymnology, 254;
literature, 215, 222; poetry, 7–8, 16, 211,
219, 230–31, 243–44, 252, 254, 259
Hebrew Encyclopedia, 186
Heikhalot, 149
Hell, 50, 82
Hellenistic renascence, 15, 16
Heller-Wilensky, Sarah, 163
Heqdesh, 128–31, 136, 307–8
˙gr᾿, 30
High Holy Days, 289–90, 294–95
Óijaz, 150–51
Hijra, 65
Hindemith, Paul, 279
Index r 335
Hineh, 177
Óireq, 155
Hirra, 273–74
Hirschberg, Haim Zeev, 58
Hirschfeld, H., 24
Óizbollāh, 10
Óizb ut-Ta˙rīr, 10
Hnin, ῾Abdallah Ben Rabbi Khther, 245,
247
Hnin, Yehezkel, 247
Hoca Santo, 292
Hodgson, Marshall, 147
Hoexter, Miriam, 303
Holy City, 97, 100, 153
Holy Land, 289, 306
Holy Name, 172–75, 180, 183
Holy Sepulcher, 99
House of Abraham, 48–50, 66
House of Rachabites, 97
Órm, 27
Hūd, 23, 36–37; metaphors of, 24–25
Hunafa, 49
Óußin, Mosheh, 247
Óußin, Rabbi Ídaqah, 247
Óutsin, Ídakah, 262
Hymnology, 254
Iberian Peninsula, 274
Ibn Abi ᾿l-Bayan: Al-Dustur al-bimaristani
compiled by, 190–204; audience, 194;
Jewish identity, 201–3; Al-Kuhin al῾Attar criticizing, 193–94; Al-Kuhin
al-῾Attar quoting, 195–96
Ibn Abi Usaybi῾a, 195, 201
Ibn Abī Zaminīm, Mu˙ammad b.
῾Abdallāh, 28
Ibn al-Muthanna’s Commentary on the
Astronomical Tables of al-Khwarizmi
(Ibn-Ezra), 171–88
b. Asad, Abū al-Faraj Furqān, 80
b. Al῾As, ῾Amru, 97
b. Sa῾adya, R. Natab, 161–62, 250
b. Salā, ῾Abd Allāh, 13
Ibn Bassām, 276
Ibn Durayd, 26
Ibn-Ezra, Abraham, 7; on al-Khwarizimi
mathematics, 171–88; praise and criticism, 187–88
Ibn ῾Ezra, Avraham, 245, 246
Ibn ῾Ezra, Moses, 14, 209, 211, 233
Ibn Gabirol, Solomon, 208–9, 245, 246,
250, 251, 258, 266; Miß˙af al-Shaba˙ot
(Holy Book of Praises) and, 252–53; in
Muslim Spain, 253; Muwashsha˙ and,
254–57; neo-Platonic School and, 253–54
Ibn Hisham, 48
Ibn Hud, Óasan, 157
Ibn Is˙āq, 27
Ibn Jumay῾, 190
Ibn Kathīr, 26, 27
Ibn Nagrela, Samuel, 208–9
Ibn Rushd, 148
Ibn Sa῾dī, 15
Ibn Shem Tov, Shem Tov, 151–52
Ibn Sina, 148, 192, 253
Ibn Tibbon, Judah, 204
Idel, Moshe, 147–48, 160–63
Idelsohn, Abraham, 244
Idolatry, 28, 49, 59; Abraham and, 50–52;
Muhammad and, 51–52
Idris, 24
Ilumquh, 35
Imami law, 111
Impurity, 13
Imtiyāzāt, 17
Inscriptions, 3–36, 28–32, 33
Intertwined destiny, 4; four hundred years
of, 10–18
Iraq, 15, 249; Jewish musicians, 279–80. See
also Baghdad
Isaac, 24, 55; Abraham sacrificing, 57–58
Al Ißfahānī, 273
Is˙āq, Ya˙ā, 132
Ishmael, 24, 48–49, 58
Islam, 1; Abode of, 89, 94, 96; Abraham as
founder, 46–48; Andalusia conversions,
118; believers, 94; classical, 16; divine
retribution of, 14; hegemony, 89–90;
Jews converting, 5, 68–70, 118; Jews
perceiving, 14; Judaism interdependence, 5; Judaism intertwined destiny,
10–18; Merkabah mysticism, 149, 150,
161; more developed than Judaism, 46;
non-Muslims using materials, 89–101;
Organization of the Islamic Conference,
10; Pan-Islamic nationalism, 18; polity,
336 r Index
Islam—continued
93–94; prophecy, 4; Renaissance of, 243;
social system, 18; as submission, 46–47.
See also Arabo-Islamic culture; Prophet
of Islam
Islamia, 115
Islamic Caliphate, 90–92, 102n2
Islamic High Culture, 16
Islamic law, 5–6, 15, 135, 305; illegalities in,
126; negating Jewish law, 137
Islamic philosophy, 8, 243
Israel: renewed state of, 241; sages of,
72–75. See also Children of Israel; Land
of Israel; People of Israel; Sages of Israel
Israeli-Palestine conflict, 11, 18
Israelites, 28–30
Al-Isrā᾿īlī, Dhay, 275–76
Isrā᾿īliyyāt, 13
Issawi, Charles, 17–18
Istiqraj Tariq al-Yahud, 172
Izmir, 8; influence on Jewish music,
289–90; influence on Jewish musicians,
291–92; modernization, 285; rabbis’
response to influence, 294–96; song
copying in, 293–94
Jacob, 24
al-Jamā῾a al-Islāmiyya, 10
Al-Jamal, R. Sāalim Saīd, 128–32, 134–35,
137, 141n12
Jamī῾ at al-῾Adl wa᾿I-I˙sān, 10
Ibn al-Jawzī, 29
Jehovah, 173
Jeremiah, 24, 252
Jesus, 24, 37; mission, 38
Jethro, 26
Jew Dhay al-Isrālī, 276
Jewish identity, 267
Jewish law, 15, 140n1, 289; Islamic law
negating, 137; Ku˙lānī Synagogue and,
135–36
Jewish leadership study in Meknes,
299–315
Jewish morals, 221, 228, 231
Jewish music: composition, 17, 244; Izmir
influences, 289–90; rabbis’ response,
294–96; religious songs, 289–90; secular
songs, 290; song copying, 293–94; Spanish influences, 290–91
Jewish musicians, 8; collaborating with
Muslim musicians, 281; encountering
Muslim musicians, 272–82; in Iraq,
279–80; Izmir influences, 291–92;
norms, 281; in Tunisia, 279. See also
Muslim musicians; specific musicians
Jewish-Muslim interrelationships, 3, 5
Jewish mysticism, 6, 263; beyond thirteenth century, 164; early, 148–53; early
Kabbalah, 153–56; migration of, 152;
overview, 147–48; thirteenth century,
156–63. See also Kabbalah movement;
Merkabah mysticism; Spanish Kabbalah
Jewish Orientalism, 148
Jewish parody and allegory: Arabic
literature influence, 210–11; biblical
intertexuality in, 210–11; love poetry,
209–10; ma˙barot influencing, 211;
Ma˙beret Nine, 225–32; Ma˙beret Seven,
215–25, 230–32; maqāma genre, 224, 232;
maqāmāt influencing, 211; overview,
208–9; Sippurei ᾿Ahava, 212–15
Jewish philosophy, 148, 253
Jewish pietist movement, 6
Jewish-Sephardic theater, 286
Jewry, 11; in Dār al-islām, 14; Morocco,
5–6, 109–10, 281
Jews, 1, 2, 90; ῾Abbasid Baghdad, 247; as
ahl kitāb, 13; Babylonian, 241–68, 266;
codes of, 15; colonial powers and, 18;
communal life, 3; companions of Muhammad, 64–83; conquest narratives,
149; conspiracy, 11; converting to Islam,
5, 68–70, 118; decline, 12; elite, 5; in ghettos, 16–17; helping Al-Kha††āb, ῾Umar
ibn, 97; Óijāz, 65; Ibn Abi ᾿l-Bayan
identity, 201–3; Islam perceived by, 14; of
Khyabar, 97; Al-Kuhin al-῾Attar identity, 201–3; Mecca, 65; medicine and,
7; in Meknes, 300–302; as middlemen,
17; migrants, 4; Morocco, 5–6, 109–10,
281; musical composition, 17; Ottoman
Empire, 284–86; Persian, 277, 281; poll
taxes and, 92–93, 97, 98; reacting to conquest narratives, 96–99; ruling by proxy,
Index r 337
10–11; Sephardic, 286, 290; in Sharī῾ah
court, 127; speaking Arabic, 14–16;
women’s inheritance and, 127; Zionism’s
popularity among, 262. See also Jewish
musicians; Non-Muslims
Jews and Arabs (Goitein), 1, 12
Jews of Arab Lands (Stillman), 1–2
The Jews of Islam (Lewis), 1
Jizya, 307
Job, 24
John, 24
Jonah, 24
Joseph, 24
Joshua, David b., 158
Journo, Raoul, 279
Judah the Pious, 152
Judaism, 1, 4, 13, 24; academies, 149, 249;
apocalyptic writings, 14; classical texts,
158; conversion to, 109; formal, 294;
Islam interdependence, 5; Islam intertwined destiny, 10–18; jurists in, 136–37;
legalities in, 126; less developed than
Islam, 46; morals and, 221; Muslims
returning to, 114; Rabbinic, 150; reform,
128
Judeo-Christians, 12
Judeo-Muslim traditions, 1–3
Judeo-Spanish theater, 287
Julab, 204
Ka῾bah, 33, 48–50
Kabbalah movement, 6, 147, 164, 253–54,
263, 265; early, 153–56; “Kabbalah
of Byzantium,” 161. See also Spanish
Kabbalah
Kāhin, 26
Kalonymus clan, 152
Kamar, 27
Al-Kāmil fī al-ta᾿rīkh, 36
Karzai, Hamid, 10
Kemal, Namik, 287
Kerak, 31
Al-Kermani, Óamid al-Din, 253
Kha†īb, 263
Al-Kha††āb, ῾Umar ibn, 75–76, 92–93;
Christians and, 99–100; Jews helping, 97
Khaybar, 65
Kherem, 32–33
Al-Khi∂r, Sahwit, 28
Khn, 26
Khomeinism, 10
al-Khwarizimi mathematics, 7; arithmetic in, 180–82; general principles,
179–84; geometry in, 178–79; IbnEzra on, 171–88; number 1 in, 176–77;
number 6 in, 176; number 9 in, 182–84,
189n12; numbers 5 and 10 in, 177–78;
specific properties in, 175–79; Ten
Commandments and, 184–85
Khyabar, 97
Kifayat al-῾Abidin, 157
al-Kifl, Dhu, 24
Kim˙i, Moshe, 186
Al-Kindi, 148, 253
Kings, 27
Kißßat aß˙āb, 79–80
Kitāb al-Aghānī, 273
Kitab al-Óisab al-Hindi, 172
Kitab al-Óisab al-Jabr w᾿al-Muqabala,
172
Kitāb al-Mu˙ā∂ara wa᾿l-Mudhākara, 14
Kitāb al-Ta᾿rīkh, 74
Kitāb Elistiqsa Liackhbari doual al Magrib
Alaqsah, 110
Kitabiyun, 100–101
Kmr, 32
Koiné, 14
Komplas De Yosef Ha Tzaddik, 289
Kosher meat, 307, 313–14
Kosher wine, 307, 320n63
Kozodoy, Neal, 210
Krach shel Romi (Óazan), 293
Kraus, Paul, 151
Al-Kuhin al-῾Attar: criticizing Ibn Abi
᾿l-Bayan, 193–94; as dedicated pharmacist, 203–4; expressions, 201; Ibn
Abi ᾿l-Bayan quoted by, 195–96; Jewish
identity, 201–3; Minhaj al-dukkan
compiled by, 190–204; objectives, 193;
simple formulary, 192
Ku˙lānī Synagogue: battle of oaths, 133–
34; case of, 126–29, 127; Jewish law and,
135–36; prayer rites, 128, 130; spread of
dispute, 129–30; status of, 126
338 r Index
Kulthūm, Umm, 280
Al-Kurani, Yusuf, 158–59
Al-Kuweitī, Íāle˙, 280
Lachmann, Robert, 244, 279
Ladino, 289–90
Landauer, Meyer Heinrich, 160
Land of Canaan, 52–53, 58, 60
Land of Israel, 50, 53–54, 154, 161, 209
Language: Biblical, 250–51; Dunash, 250–
51; Fertile Crescent, 91; Ladino, 289–90;
Latin, 12, 15, 172, 182, 185; Najarah, 261;
Quran, 250. See also Arabic; Hebrew;
Lingua franca; Linguistics
Latin, 12, 15, 172, 182, 185
Lavi, Shim῾on, 246
Laws: Dhimma social system, 114; Divine
Law, 13, 136; Hanafi, 111; Hanbali, 111;
Imami, 111; Malikite, 110, 111, 123n15,
124n17; Muslim, 15, 111, 114; non-Muslim, 126, 136; Sharia, 114; sumptuary,
310–12; Torah, 122n5. See also Islamic
law; Jewish law
Lazarus-Yafeh, Hava, 3
Leiris, Raymond, 278
Levey, M., 192
Levin, Israel, 254
Levi-Provençal, E., 276
Leviticus, 252
Levy, Eliya, 292
Lewis, Bernard, 1
Lieber, Elinor, 202–3
Liebes, Yehuda, 163
Light, 265
Lingua franca, 14, 213
Linguistics, 171, 174
Lisbon, Gideon, 136
List of Date Formulae, 36
Literature: apologetic, 6; Hebrew, 215, 222;
Talmud, 209. See also Arabic literature;
Jewish parody and allegory; Metaphors;
Poetry
Longue durée, 11–12
Lot, 23, 24, 56
Ma῾amad, 315
Maccam, 291, 295
Maghreb, 17
Al-Maghribī, Al-Sama᾿ual, 81, 88n68
Al-Maghribī, Sa῾īd, 275
Magic, 149, 151–54. See also Mysticism
Magola, Chaim Yom Tov, 289
Mahalach Shevilei ha-Daath, 186
Ma˙barot, 211
Ma˙beret Nine: of Elazar, 225–32;
insights into, 230–32. See also “Sahar
and Kima’s Love”
Ma˙beret Seven: of Elazar, 215–24,
230–32; insights into, 230–32; summary of, 224–25. See also “Yoshefe
and His Two Loves”
Mahmut the Second, 287
Ma˙w, 162
Maimin, Avraham, 246
Maimonides, 156–58, 160, 202, 209,
233, 246; objecting to love poetry,
209–10
Maimuni, Abraham, 156–58
Majlis, 15
Major Trends in Jewish Mysticism (Scholem), 147, 160
Al-Malik, ῾Abd, 91
Malikite law, 110, 111, 123n15, 124n17
Al-Ma᾿mūn, 276
Manat, 30
Mandil, Avraham, 294
Al-Mansur, 248, 275
Maqāma genre, 224, 232, 283n25
Maqām Amīn, 29
Maqāmāt, 211
Maqām Ibrāhīm, 30
Maqām rabbi-hi, 29
Al-Maqqarī, 275
Marcus, Abraham, 304–5
Marginalization, 3, 16
Martyrdom, 65, 224; of Hachuel, 109–21
M῾ase ba-Na῾ara ha-Tsadeqet, 112
Masjid, 28
Maßlia˙, Rabbi, 153
Masnuth, Samul ben Nissim, 95
Massias, Enrico, 278
Mathematics, 6–7, 171, 174. See also alKhwarizimi mathematics
Mawza᾿ Exile, 143n19
Maybukhtaj, 199, 200
Mazal Tov, Shlomoh Ben, 246
Index r 339
McGaha, Michael, 155–56
Mecca: Jews, 65; period, 46; pilgrimage to,
33; sanctuary, 27–30, 33, 36; sanctuary
stones, 31; temple, 49
Medicine, 7. See also Al-Dustur al-bimaristani; Minhaj al-dukkan
Medina period, 46
Meditation, 149
Meknes, 9; charity in, 299–315; Jewish
leadership study, 299–315; Jews in,
300–302; poverty in, 299–315; taxes,
307, 313
Mentalités et sensibilités, 16
Merkabah mysticism, 149, 150, 161
Meroz, Ronit, 155–56
Messiah, 71–72, 164
Messianism, 1, 38
Metaphors, 215, 217, 219, 225; prophets and,
23–24
Mez, Adam, 15
Middle Ages, 4, 7, 12, 72, 291; legends, 54;
pandemics, 17
Middlemen, 312; Jews as, 17
Midrash, 174
Midrash, 1, 46–48, 54, 57, 59–60, 70; influence, 51
Midrash Hagadol, 54
Mikraot Gedolot, 174
Millets, 17–18
Minhaj al-dukkan: Al-Dustur al-bimaristani compared to, 191, 192–204;
ethics described in, 203–4; Al-Kuhin
al-῾Attar compiling, 190–204; for
pharmacies, 191–92; recipes, 196–201,
197, 198, 200
Mi῾raj, 150, 153
Miß˙af al-Shaba˙ot (Holy Book of
Praises): ῾Abbasid Baghdad and,
249–52; Arabo-Islamic culture in, 248,
253–57; compiling, 241; Dunash and,
249–52; geographical and chronological
boundaries, 247–48; Al-Óakham and,
262–68; historical and cultural scope,
245–48; Ibn Gabirol and, 252–53; music
in, 242; Najarah and, 257–62; PLS and,
242–44, 266–68; poetry of, 242; poets
of, 245–46, 246
Mishnat ha-Midot, 172
Mishneh Torah, 157
Mishqal havarti foneti, 259. See also
Phonetic-syllabic meter
Mizra˙i, Asher, 279
Modernization, 2, 8, 17; music, 278–79,
281; Ottoman Empire, 285; process, 17,
284
Mohammed, Mahathir, 10
Monotheism, 13
Monsoniego, Yedidiah, 110, 119–20
Morocco, 8–9; Jewry, 5–6, 109–10, 281;
music of, 276–77; Muslims, 109–10. See
also Meknes
Moses, 24, 26, 30; Holy Name and, 172–75,
180, 183; prophethood, 28; in Quran, 45
Mosque of the Expulsion, 143n19
Msgd, 28–29, 35
Msika, Óabiba, 279
Msjd, 27
Mu῾ādh, 68
Mu῾alem, Shlomoh Reuven, 161, 257
Mu῾awiya, 92
Muhammad, 2, 12, 27, 36, 273; ῾Abd Allāh
ibn Salām and, 66–68, 92, 95–96; Abraham compared to, 50–53; as Abraham
follower, 47–48; authority of, 37; beliefs,
72; binding episode and, 59; birth of,
92; Covenant between the Pieces and,
54; custodian of Mecca sanctuary, 30;
enemy of Christianity, 71; expelled from
homeland, 52–53; idolatry and, 51–52;
image, 77; Jewish companions, 64–83;
Jews of Óijāz and, 65; as last of prophets, 60; legends, 70–72, 75–77; Mecca
period, 46; Medina period, 46; mi῾raj,
150, 153; mission, 47–48; one God and,
50–53; prophethood, 25–26, 28, 30, 69;
in Quran, 47; sages of Israel and, 72–75;
as seal of prophets, 94. See also Prophet
of Islam
Al-Muqtadir, 73–74, 98
Music, 8; in Algiers, 278; Andalusia,
275; Arabo-Islamic culture and, 244,
258–61; in central Asia, 280; in Miß˙af
al-Shaba˙ot (Holy Book of Praises),
242; modernization, 278–79, 281; of Morocco, 276–77; National Conservatory
of Arab Music, 276; Sabbath, 295;
340 r Index
Music—continued
secular, 281; in Tunisia, 278; Turkish,
293. See also Jewish music; Jewish musicians; Muslim musicians
Musicians: Christian, 281, 293; Ottoman
Turkish, 8. See also Jewish music; Jewish
musicians; Music; Muslim musicians;
specific musicians
Al-Muslimūn, Ikhwān, 10
Muslim exegesis, 4; as Bible source, 23–39;
cultic activities and, 37; scholars ignoring, 38
Muslim law, 15, 111, 114
Muslim musicians, 8; collaborating with
Jewish musicians, 281; encountering
Jewish musicians, 272–82. See also Jewish musicians; specific musicians
Muslims, 1, 2; Abraham as first, 46–48;
codes of, 15; conquest narratives, 92–95,
148; migrants, 4; Morocco, 109–10;
Ottoman Empire, 284–86; returning to
Judaism, 114; Torah and, 294. See also
Muslim musicians; Non-Muslims
Muslim Spain, 252–53
Al-Mu῾tadid, 97–98
Mutatis mutandis, 38
Mutualism, 12
Muwa˙idūn, 118
Muwashsha˙, 254–57
Mysticism: Merkabah, 149, 150, 161; in Íufism, 253–54. See also Jewish mysticism;
Kabbalah movement; Magic; Spanish
Kabbalah
Nabataeans, 31
Nabonidus, 32
Na∂īr, 65, 67, 77
Nafī῾, 201
Nagid, 157–60
Najarah, 243, 246, 264–66; Arabo-Islamic
culture influencing, 258–61; language,
261; Miß˙af al-Shaba˙ot (Holy Book
of Praises) and, 257–62; in Ottoman
Empire, 257–58; PSM and, 259–60
National Conservatory of Arab Music, 276
Nation-states, 2
Neo-Platonic School, 162–63, 253–54, 256
Neshamah, 257
Netira, 98
Newby, Gordon, 150
Newman, N. A., 58
New Testament, 24, 46
Nicholas III, 160
Noah, 23, 24
Nonbelievers, 52. See also Non-Muslims;
Unbelievers
Non-Muslims: beliefs, 90; law, 126, 136;
Ottoman Empire, 138; pious endowments, 135, 139; reacting to conquest
narratives, 95–96; truce pacts and, 93;
waaf, 139; writing with Islam materials, 89–101. See also Christians; Jews
Notairu, 30
Number 1, 176–77
Number 5, 177–78
Number 6, 176
Number 9, 182–84, 189n12
Number 10, 177–78
Nusrw, 26
Nußūb, 31
Obermann, Julian, 13
Occidental ideals, 2
Odium theologicum, 13
Oikoumene, 14
Old Testament, 38
Oral folk traditions, 273
Organization of the Islamic Conference,
10
Ottoman Empire, 4, 6, 8; Jews, 284–86;
modernization, 285; Muslims, 284–86;
Najarah in, 257–58; non-Muslims, 138;
theater, 287. See also Izmir
Ottoman Turkish musicians, 8
Pact of Omar, 120, 122n8
Pact of ῾Umar, 129
Palacci, Óayyim, 295
Pan-Arab nationalism, 18
Pan-Islamic nationalism, 18
Papo, Eliezer, 294–95
Paradise, 50, 204; garden of, 62; people
of, 60; pleasures of, 220. See also Eden
Para-liturgical song (PLS), 260; history
in Arabo-Islamic culture, 243–44; millennium perspective, 266–68; Miß˙af
Index r 341
al-Shaba˙ot (Holy Book of Praises)
and, 242–44, 266–68
Parody. See Jewish parody and allegory
Passover, 241, 288
Pastille, 197, 198, 199, 204
Paul, 24
Pehlavi dynasty, 17
Pela†iah, Rabbi, 153
Pellat, Charles, 273–74
Pentateuch, 48, 67, 96
Pentecost, 241
People of Israel, 53–54, 254, 259, 261;
destiny, 59; motifs, 60
People of the Book, 78, 90, 91, 120;
narratives, 94, 95, 105n34; safeguarding, 92
People of the Torah, 37
Persecution, 11
Persians, 148; Jews, 277, 281
Pharmacopoeias, 7; for hospital and
shop, 190–201
Philo of Alexandria, 186
Philosophy, 171, 174, 272; adopting, 15;
Greek, 148; Islamic, 8, 243; Jewish,
148, 253
Phonetic-syllabic meter (PSM), 259–60
Pilgrimage, 49; Israelite, 28; to Mecca,
33; for offerings, 34–35; as penance,
33; rituals, 29, 34; to sanctuaries, 36
Pill, 205
Pillars, 31
Pious endowments, 302–3, 320n59,
321n71; claims, 131; domain of, 6;
non-Muslim, 135, 139; poverty and,
306–8; synagogues as, 129, 133. See
also Waqf
Piyyut, 242–43, 277, 289–90, 291
Piyyutim, 109–10, 112–13, 116–17
Place, 102n1
Pleroma, 156
Plotinus, 253
PLS. See Para-liturgical song
Poetry, 171; Andalusia, 208–11, 213, 234;
Arabic, 7–8, 219, 243, 253–54; AraboIslamic culture and, 244, 258–61;
Bible, 230; Hebrew, 7–8, 16, 211, 219,
230–31, 243–44, 252, 254, 259; love,
209–10; of Miß˙af al-Shaba˙ot (Holy
Book of Praises), 242; women’s voices
in, 224, 230, 232. See also Jewish parody
and allegory
Poets, 245–46, 246. See also specific poets
Pogrom, 11
Poll taxes, 90, 307; Christians and, 99; Jews
and, 92–93, 97, 98
Pontifical Institute for Sacred Music, 274
Por La Libertad, 293
Portugal Synagogues, 292
Poultice, 205
Poverty, 9; attitudes toward, 304; determining, 302–4; in Meknes, 299–315;
modern and traditional approaches,
316; pious endowments and, 306–8; prevention, 309–12; sumptuary laws and,
310–12; in taqanot, 302, 304, 308, 310–11.
See also Beggars
Prayer rites, 128, 130, 141n11
Preordination, 11
Professions, 6–7, 317n16
Prophecy: Arab, 25–30; conception of,
37–38; Islam, 4
Prophethood: Abraham, 37; image, 33,
36; model, 37; Moses, 28; Muhammad,
25–26, 28, 30, 69
Prophetic cycle, 24
Prophet of Islam, 68–69, 71, 74, 77
Prophets, 4–5; Abraham as, 46–48; ancient
Arab, 30–36; Arab, 25–30; conception
of, 38; cultic activities, 27–28; historocity of, 24; metaphors and, 23–24;
Muhammad as last of, 60; Muhammad
as seal, 94
Protected People, 95; concerns of, 101;
symbiosis with caliphates, 97–98, 100.
See also Ahl-al-dhimma
PSM. See Phonetic-syllabic meter
Psuqah, 255
Pti˙ah, 260
Ptwr, 27
Purity, 13
al-Qā῾ida, 10
Al-Qabanjī, Mohammed, 279
Qā∂īs, 6
Qajar dynasty, 17
Qashisha᾿, Rabbi, 151–52
342 r Index
Qaßīda, 229, 251–52
Qassida, 122n7
Qi†῾a, 255–56
Qora˙, R., 129, 130
Quran, 8, 243, 263; ῾Abd Allāh ibn Salām
in, 67; Abraham depicted in, 45–60;
authority of, 37; as Bible source, 23–39;
Hafizlar, 292; as history source, 24–25;
language, 250; Moses in, 45; Muhammad in, 47; notions, 4; revelations, 13;
suras, 45–46, 51, 54, 56–57, 73
QurayΩa, 65, 67, 77, 84
Qu†b, Sayyid, 23
Qynw, 34
Rabbis: Rabbinic Judaism, 150; responding
to Izmir to influence, 294–96. See also
specific rabbis
Al-Rahman, Abd, 110, 114–15
Rasa᾿il ikhwan al Íafa᾿, 163
Al-Rashīd, Hārūn, 276
Rbnwt, 27
Religious songs, 289–90
Die Renaissance des Islams, 15
Renaissance of Islam, 243
Rey, A., 109, 113, 115, 118, 120
Ridda, 5, 109–10; complexity of, 111; grace
period, 111; trial, 113. See also Apostasy
Rob, 205
Rosen-Moked, Tova, 245
Rosh ha-Shana, 172
Royal College of Physicians of London, 195
“Royal Crown,” 209
Sa῾ada, Shalom, 279
Sa῾adya Gaon, 72–75
Sabbath, 241, 251, 295; distributions before,
306, 320n170; keeping, 67; music, 295;
violating, 96
Sabbetai Íevi, 164
Sa῾bu, 28
Sachs, Curt, 279
Sacrifice, 26, 35, 57–58. See also Binding
episode
Íaddam-Ba῾al, 31
Sa῾d ibn Waqqāß, 68
Al-Íafā, Ikhwān, 253
Safed, 164
Safe sanctuary, 28
Íafiyya, 71, 73
Sages of Israel, 78; Muhammad and, 72–75
“Sahar and Kima’s Love,” 225–30, 230–32
Sahra, 31
Saladin, 190
Íāli˙, 27, 36–37; metaphors of, 23–24
Íāli˙, R. Yūsuf, 128
Salm of Hajam, 32
Salomon, Karl, 279
Salvation, 38
Sambari, Joseph b. Isaac, 5, 75–77, 96
Samson, 24
Samuel, 24
Samuel, Isaac b., 162
Ían῾ā᾿, 126–39
Sanctuaries: behavior rules for, 35–36;
drawings, 34; founding of, 30; at Mecca,
27–30, 33, 36; pilgrimage to, 36; safe, 28;
visions and, 34
Sarah, laugh of, 55–56
Satire, 223–24, 227, 233–34
Scheindlin, Raymond P., 254, 257
Schirmann, Haim, 255
Scholem, Gershom, 147, 154–56, 160, 163
The Secrets of Rabbi Simeon bar Yo ˙āi,
70–71, 85n26
Sefer ha-Bahir, 154–56, 162
Sefer ha-Zohar, 156, 160, 163
Sefer Meshalim, 212, 215, 232
Sefer Raza Rabbah, 154–55
Sefer Ta˙kemoni, 209, 211, 214
Sefir Divrey Yosef, 75–77
Sefirot, 154
Sefir Yeßirah (SY), 150–51
Sells, Michael, 153
Semama, Benin, 279
Semama sisters, 279
Sephardic Jews, 286, 290
Seroussi, Edwin, 291
Sfez, Leila, 279
Sha῾arey Íedeq, 161–62
Shalom, ῾Obadiah b., 96
Shalom Synagogues, 292
Sharī῾a court, 5–6, 15; Jews in, 127
Sharia law, 114
Shawat, Fardji, 246
Al-Shawkānī, ῾Ali, 138–39
Index r 343
Shba˙, 242
Shbahai, 31
Sheli˙im, 306
Shema῾yah, 73
Shfal gomah, 256
Shfal Rua˙, 255–56
Shiites, 1, 10; ghulat teachings, 151, 153;
mullahs, 17
Shikiar, Shem Tov, 292
Shiloah, Amnon, 8, 242–43
Shimekha yah qiddesha (Elbaz), 116
Shmuel, Avraham Mosheh, 247
Shrines, 25, 29, 35–36. See also Sanctuaries
Shu῾ayb, 23–24
Shulamit, 230
Sickness, 33
Simile, 219
Simon, 24
Sins, 33, 83, 158, 229
Sin-zir-ban, 27
Sippurei ᾿Ahava, 212–15, 230, 232
Sīrah of Ibn-Is˙āq, 65, 68–70, 72, 74, 76–77
Sitz im Leben, 78
“Sleep Not!”, 209
Sliman II, 114
Social apostates, 111–12, 116, 119
Sodom, 54–57
Solomon, 24
Song copying, 293–94
Song of Songs, 210, 219, 225, 230, 232
Sophronius, 99
Soup kitchens, 305–6, 320n53
Souvenirs d’un voyage au Maroc (Rey), 109
Sozanda, 280
Spanish Expulsion, 88n70, 245, 261, 286,
289–90
Spanish Kabbalah, 6, 156, 160, 162–63
Squill oxymel syrup, 196
Station of Abraham, 49
Steinschneider, M., 163
Stephanus the Byzantine, 34
Stillman, Norman A., 1–4, 10–18, 23, 267
Stones: at Mecca sanctuary, 31; protection
of, 32; standing, 32–33
Al-Suddī, 27
Íufism, 153; Abulafia and, 160–62; allure
of, 158–59; ma˙w, 162; mysticism,
253–54; practices, 158
Sulaymān, Muqātil b., 33
Sumptuary laws, 310–12
Sunnis, 1, 10; tradition, 130–31
Suras, 45–46, 51, 54, 56–57, 73
Al-Suyū†ī, 33
SY. See Sefir Yeßirah
Symbiosis: Arabo-Islamic, 89; caliphates
and Protected People, 97–98, 100; creative Jewish-Arab, 12, 16; cultural, 274;
interreligious, 2–3; popularizing, 12
Synagogues, 130, 141n12, 289; al-dhamāri,
134, 141n11; legality of, 129–30; ownership, 132–33, 136; as pious endowments,
129, 133; Portugal, 292; Shalom, 292;
Talmud and, 142n15. See also Ku˙lānī
Synagogue
The Synagogues of Ían῾ā᾿, the Capital of
Yemen (al-Jamal), 130, 141n12
Al-ˇabarī, 29, 55, 58
Tabernacles, 241
Tableau de la musique Marocaine (Chottin), 276
Ta˙bulla, 186
Ta˙rēf, 87n58
ˇāib, Óusayn Abū, 133, 137
Talmud, 117, 137, 174, 203; literature, 209;
synagogues and, 142n15
Talmud Torah, 157, 288
Taqanot, 301–2; charity in, 305–6, 313–14;
donations in, 306–7; dress in, 312; fines
in, 309; poverty in, 302, 304, 308, 310–11;
signing of, 317n12; spending in, 311–12
Tasfir, 150
Taxes: charity and, 305, 307–8; on kosher
meat, 307, 313–14; on kosher wine, 307,
320n63; Meknes, 307, 313. See also Poll
taxes
Ten Commandments, 184–85, 204
Theater: cultural influences on Jewish,
287–89; Judeo-Spanish, 287; Ottoman
Empire, 287
Theophanes Confessor, 71–72, 74
Tietze, Andreas, 259
Al-Tīfāshī, A˙mad, 275
Toledo, Avraham, 289
Tombs, 32; circumambulating, 33; visitation, 33. See also Burial sites
344 r Index
Topoi, 192
Topos, 98–99
Torah, 37, 46, 96, 117; care of, 141n11;
Children of Israel and, 48; law, 122n5;
love of, 289; Muslims and, 294; spirit
of, 265; study, 288, 307; tablets, 30
Torah of Ages, 134
Torrey, Charles C., 12, 24
Tottoli, Roberto, 24
Truce pacts, 93
True Cross, 36
Tuba, 111, 118–19
Tunisia, 278–79
Al-Tunisia, Louisa, 279
Turkish music, 293
῾Ulamā᾿, 114–15, 120, 124n17, 124n18,
302
῾Ulum al-Din, 157
῾Umar’s stipulations, 92–93
Umayyad period, 70, 91
Unbelievers, 138–39, 145n61, 145n65
Unio mystica, 161
῾Uthmān ibn ῾Affān, 67
῾Uzaza Allah, 26
Va῾ad, 301, 317n12
Vehigdalta, 257
Virtuosity, 8
Vision of the Dry Bones, 54
Visions, 26, 34
Wahballah, 31
Wahhabism, 114, 123n15, 124n17
“Wake Up, Wake Up,” 209
Al-Walid, Khalid b., 93
Wallerstein Emanuel, 17
Wansbrough, John, 23–24
Al-Wansharisi, Ahmed, 114
Waqf, 6, 9, 128–34, 135, 137, 303; nonMuslim, 139; problem of, 138–39
Wasserstrom, Steven M., 1–2, 151
Weddings, 289, 305, 320n61
Wensinck, A. J., 24
Wgr, 32
Wine Soirées, 215–16
Die Wissenschaft des Judentums, 64
Wolfson, Harry Austryn, 148
Women: Elazar portraying, 233; Jewish
inheritance and, 127; voice in poetry,
224, 230, 232
World Economic System, 2, 17
Wußul, 158
Ya῾akov, 73
Yafil, Edmond Nathan, 278
Yahalom, Joseph, 259
Al-Yahūdī, Al-Gharī∂ 273
Al-Yahūdī, Isaac ben Shime῾on, 275
Yahweh, 26
Ya˙yā, Imām, 130–34, 137
Yair, Gurgi, 257
Yāqūt, 30
Yarhibol, 27
Yazid, Mawlay, 114
῾Yedid, 48
Yemen, 2, 17
Yifta˙, 73
Yihyu Khemotz, 260–61, 264–65
Yō˙anan, 73
“Yoshefe and His Two Loves,” 215–24,
230–32
Young Turk Revolution, 8, 293–94
Yudakov, Nerio Aminoff Sulman, 280
Zabāarah, Mu˙ammad, 130
Zabsanov, Yeltchiti, 280
Zakkut, Abraham, 81
Zamzam, 36
Zaydallah, 35
Zechariah, 24
Zemer, 251
Zionism, 18, 262
Ziryāb, 275
Zmirot Yisrael, 260
Zohar, 134, 136, 265
Zoroastrians, 13, 90
Al-Zubayrī, 130, 132
Zuhd, 158
Zuhdiyyāt, 254, 255