Messianism and Puritanical Reform (Medieval and Early Modern Iberian World)

MESSIANISM AND PURITANICAL REFORM

THE MEDIEVAL AND EARLY MODERN IBERIAN WORLD EDITORS

Larry J. Simon (Western Michigan University)

Isidro J. Rivera (University of Kansas) Donna M. Rogers (Middlebury College) Arie Schippers (University of Amsterdam) Gerard Wiegers (Radboud University Nijmegen) VOLUME 29

MESSIANISM AND PURITANICAL REFORM MahdÊs of the Muslim West BY

MERCEDES GARCÍA-ARENAL

Translated from Spanish by Martin Beagles

BRILL LEIDEN • BOSTON 2006

Cover illustration: ‘The King visiting the Hermit’, fol. 15a of Assar, Mihr u Mushtari (Ryl Persian MS24). (Reproduced courtesy of The John Rylands University Library, Manchester.) This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data García-Arenal, Mercedes Messianism and puritanical reform : Mahdis of the Muslim west / by Mercedes García-Arenal ; [translated from the Spanish by Martin Beagles]. p. cm. -- (The medieval and early modern Iberian world, ISSN 1569-1934 ; v. 29) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 90-04-15051-X (alk. paper) 1. Muslims—Spain—History. 2. Spain—History—711-1516. 3. Mahdism. 4. Messianism—Spain—History. I. Title. II. Series. DP98.G37 2006 297.2’4—dc22 2005058261

ISSN 1569-1934 ISBN-13: 978-90-04-15051-5 ISBN-10: 90-04-15051-X © Copyright 2006 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill Academic Publishers, Martinus Nijhoff Publishers and VSP. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Brill provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910 Danvers MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. printed in the netherlands

For Nicolás and Clara

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements ...................................................................... Abbreviations ..............................................................................

ix xi

Introduction ................................................................................

1

Chapter One. The Time of the Prophets. The Conversion of the Maghreb to Islam ........................................................

31

Chapter Two. The Rise of the Fà†imid Dynasty ..................

62

Chapter Three. Berber Prophets and Messianic Rebels in Muslim Spain ..........................................................................

77

Chapter Four. The Contribution of Legalism to Mahdism: Rigour, Censorship, Violence ................................................

96

Chapter Five. The Contribution of Sufism to Mahdism: Prophethood and Grace ........................................................

118

Chapter Six. The Almohad Revolution and the Mahdì Ibn Tùmart ....................................................................................

157

Chapter Seven. Mahdism after the Almohads ........................

193

Chapter Eight. The Marìnids and Sharìfism ..........................

217

Chapter Nine. The Rise of the Sa'did Dynasty ......................

246

Chapter Ten. A˙mad al-Manßùr al-Dhahabì ..........................

269

Chapter Eleven. The last Spanish Muslims: Messianic prophetism among the Moriscos ..........................................

296

Chapter Twelve. Ibn Abì Ma˙allì and his adversaries............

325

viii

contents

Concluding Remarks ..................................................................

352

Sources and Bibliography ..........................................................

357

Index ..........................................................................................

381

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This book has taken shape very slowly. Elements of other topics and interests on which I have worked over the years have gradually become intertwined in it, and these issues have deviated, detained and—I would like to think—enriched the text which is presented here. Over such a long period of time, I have of course accumulated a large number of debts of gratitude, participated in a large number of fruitful discussions and benefited from a large number of comments by colleagues, all of which have contributed to the development of my work. My main debt is to my colleagues in the Department of Arab Studies at the CSIC in Madrid (M. Fierro, M. Marín, C. de la Puente, F.R. Mediano, D. Serrano) with whom it is always such a privilege to work, but also to all those visiting professors who have come to work at it, and in particular Sarah Stroumssa and David Wasserstein. The list of people to whom I owe suggestions and insights is a very long one, and I will only name those who read the original ms., Maribel Fierro, Manuela Marín and Fernando R. Mediano. They made important comments, criticisms and suggestions, many of which have been incorporated in the version published here. F.R. Mediano and I have worked together in research projects in recent years: this collaboration has been very fruitful for me and is reflected in this book, which owes a lot to his generosity and intelligence. My debt to Michael Brett is immense and goes back to the distant time when he was the supervisor of my post-doctoral research project at the SOAS. His thorough reading of this book, his comments on its various sections, and his exigency and heroic generosity in reading two separate versions of it, have all contributed tremendously to its improvement. Rachid El Hour was a big help in checking footnotes and bibliography and Juan Ignacio Pérez Alcalde made the final revision and the index. The foundations of what would eventually become this book were first laid in 1988–89, during the year I spent at the Princeton Institute for Advanced Study with my son and daughter who were small children at the time. It is to them, with much love, that this book is dedicated.

ABBREVIATIONS

AIEO Annales de l’Institut des Etudes Orientales BSOAS Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies BLE Bulletin de Litterature Eclesiastique The Encyclopaedia of Islam. First edition EI1 2 The Encyclopaedia of Islam. New edition EI EOBA Estudios Onomásticos-Biográficos de al-Andalus IBLA Revue de l’Institut des Belles Lettres Arabes HUCA Hebrew Union College Anual JAOS Journal of American Oriental Studies JRAS Journal of the Royal Asiatique Society JSAI Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam MEAH Miscelánea de Estudios Árabes y Hebraicos MIDEO Mélanges de l’Institut Dominicain d’Études Orientales RIEEI Revista del Instituto Egipcio de Estudios Islámicos REMMM Revue des Mondes Musulmans et de la Méditeranée ROMM Revue de l’Occident Musulman et de la Méditeranée ZDMG Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft

INTRODUCTION

This is a book about revolutionary movements of a messianic and millenarian character—in Islamic terms, a book about Mahdism. It is also a book which addresses the question of mediation between God and men, and the political repercussions of this question in the history of the pre-modern Muslim West. When I started laying the basis for this study many years ago, my original intention was to gather information on all those political and religious movements which had been carried out in the name of a Mahdì, or charismatic messianic leader, in the Islamic West, an area including both the Maghreb in North Africa and al-Andalus in the Iberian Peninsula. I initially set myself very broad chronological limits, and intended to study Mahdìs from the century of Arab conquest right down to the colonial period. Clearly, such a broad scope would require allowance to be made for the considerable differences between the circumstances and historical contexts of all the Mahdìs concerned; it would also need to take into account variations in the historical role and ideological content of the movements themselves, as described in sources as widely different as historical chronicles, hagiographical dictionaries or mystical treatises. My main aim was to focus on the recurrence of like events in different Mahdist movements and to show the resemblances between accounts of those events. I wanted to see how people acted in the expectation of a future that never happened. I was also interested by the symbols and vocabulary used to describe Mahdist movements and, more generally, by the ways in which power perpetuates itself in society through the use of language. These, then, were my starting points. However, I soon became aware of the need to modify my original intentions. On the one hand, I was forced to narrow my geographical focus as Mahdism revealed itself to be particularly important in al-Maghreb al-Aqßà, roughly equivalent to today’s Morocco. This area, with al-Andalus (Muslim Spain) now constitutes the main focus of attention of this book. I also decided to narrow my chronological scope and take my study only as far as the 17th century, since the pre-colonial and colonial periods would require separate studies of their own in order to be covered

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satisfactorily. Conversely, I realized the need to widen my general perspective as I came to see the close relationship between Mahdism and two underlying issues of fundamental importance which would have to be analysed explicitly if sense were to be made of the Mahdist movements. The first of these issues has to do with the nature of Muslim eschatological and messianic beliefs, and their relationship with the problem of mediation between God and men. In general terms, this problem has tended to take the form of a debate over the extent of separation between man and his Creator; a debate, that is to say, over prophetic ability and sainthood. Sainthood, the question of how God touches human beings, is an apparently theological problem which nonetheless has very important cultural and political dimensions, because it calls into play the very nature of knowledge and the boundaries of political authority. Historically, there has always been tension between two main groups or factions when it comes to disputing the nature of man’s relations with his Creator. On one side are those who derive knowledge from the written word of the Qur"àn and the ˙adìth as taught and transmitted by scholars who control their study and interpretation. Such scholars interpret God and his law, but they also interpret the entire social and political order by deciding what is and what is not legitimate. On the other side are those who enjoy and advocate a different kind of knowledge, that which is inspired or achieved through direct contact, through intimacy with God. Such believers can go so far as to cast doubt on the need for initiation or instruction by a formal teacher, or on the need to study books. Their knowledge is received by divine inspiration. Needless to say, tensions between these two groups were an important part of the general background to Mahdist movements as they developed in the pre-modern period. The second fundamental issue which affected the writing of this book is that of the relationship between Mahdism and the legitimacy of power, i.e. of the Imamate, an institution relying on the succession to the Prophet Mu˙ammad as head of the community of believers. Mahdism inspired two of the three revolutions that unified the Maghreb between the 4/10th and 6/12th centuries, those led by the Fà†imids and the Almohads. Mahdist movements raise the question of how to revolt legitimately against established authorities which have lost their legitimacy in the eyes of the rebels. Thus the concepts of legitimacy and authority in the political and religious leadership of Muslims, together with their opposing counterparts imposture and

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usurpation, have come to be ever-present elements in this book. On both these counts, Mahdism features in nearly every facet of Western Islamic political and religious life, and I will try to demonstrate in this book to what extent it is a pivotal question, at the heart of the sources themselves. From the chronological starting-point of this study, in the medieval Maghreb, historical chronicles show a constant preoccupation with the problem of dynastic legitimacy: historians try to explain in the simplest possible terms difficult doctrinal questions like the legality of the conquest of power by a particular dynasty, the legitimacy of rebellion, or the perniciousness of innovation. Innovation was regarded as pernicious both because it was a threat to political and social tranquillity and because that which was ancient was regarded as sacred. The purpose of such historiography was not only to legitimise the dynasty which had sponsored the writing of such accounts, but also to free society from doctrinal disputes which were full of potential religious and social hazards. The kind of power represented in these chronicles was portrayed in an image so successfully constructed that it hardly varied over time. In addition, hagiographical literature—which together with historical chronicles make up most of the sources upon which this book is based—disseminates paradigms of exemplary behaviour and presents notions of moral authority which remained widely spread for an extremely long period of time. These, then, were the two issues which forced me to widen the scope of the work I originally intended to carry out. Allowance for these two issues has required me to adopt methodological approaches which are outlined later in this introduction. I shall need also to distinguish between Islamic doctrine, common to the Islamic world in general, and its local application in different periods of the history of the Maghreb. This entails another of the difficulties and ambivalences I have been faced with when studying the material upon which this book is based and it is that messianism is part of a corpus of religious concepts within theology or the history of religious ideas, but must also be studied from a political and social point of view if we are to understand the effect of such movements upon the communities from which they emanate. At the same time, the strand of apocalyptic inspiration needs to be separated out from political, economic and social factors even when there is a clear and simultaneous relationship between the two. Exactly the same kind of economic, political and social factors can be held responsible

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for a sudden swing to apocalyptic inspiration as might just as easily have been responsible for other equally common reactions, such as emigration, opportunism, banditry, or even a general attitude of quietism and resignation. One important fact which needs to be borne in mind is that the development of a sense of apocalyptic inspiration tends to coincide with the development of theological and mystical ideas in the highest, most inaccessible and elitist circles of society, rather than in the less favoured groups forming the popular base of a movement. This does not imply that such ideas are derived from the dominant classes and are merely handed down from those at the “top” of society. Millenarian movements involve far more complex relations than this, and one of my main preoccupations throughout the writing of this book has been to try to distinguish between the beliefs and expectations of followers of Mahdist movements and the persona and doctrinal elaboration, where it exists or when we know of it, of the “Messiah” himself. Only by keeping this distinction in mind is it possible to analyse which aspects of an individual’s preaching and thoughts come to acquire public legitimacy, and in what ways and for what reasons, at the same time recognising that such ideas will always be transformed during that process of acceptance. Attention must therefore be paid to beliefs as the cornerstones for rebellion and resistance, but also as generators of political ideology employed by those in positions of power. This reference to the idea of popular beliefs brings me on to the concept of “popular religiosity” used to discuss religious practices which, though not necessarily heterodox, do not feature explicitly in the canon. This would include practices of a divinatory or magical character, and even the alleged miraculous properties of certain people or of certain places like graves. The notion of “popular religiosity” is related to that of “popular culture”, no longer interpreted as the delayed and degraded reception of ideas generated by the elite but, as we see from the work of Michel de Certeau, as the appropriation and transformation of ideas formulated by others. Once marked and transformed, a belief can take on a different life with a different meaning and a different significance for those who take it over.

I The belief in the coming of a Saviour sent by God belongs to the Judaeo-Christian-Muslim tradition of the Messiah which made its first

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appearance in late Judaism and was fully developed by Christianity. Before the 2nd and 3rd centuries C.E. the term “messiah” had a connotation closer to its etymological sense of the “Anointed” and was an attribute of kings. Later, as the idea of the royal persona became more closely associated with the notion of future salvation, the term “messiah”, which had never been subjected to dogmatic definition, was left open to varying interpretations. Even for Christians, who took this interpretation furthest, the term continued to retain some of its early ambiguity. In the New Testament Christ, the Anointed One, is acclaimed as King after entering Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, and resuscitates as God on Easter Sunday. This ambiguity also pervades the term “Mahdì”. At the same time, belief in sacred history, in the unfolding of a divine plan from the moment of Creation till the End of the World, pervades the civilisations of the Middle East, North Africa and Europe from the early 4th century onwards. The sacred texts of the three Abrahamic religions all record the revelations of a series of prophets of the past predicting salvation in the future. The millenarian tradition, so powerful and so widely studied in the history of Judaism and Christianity, has tended to develop within Islam under the label of “Mahdism”. The terms “Messiah” and “Messianism” have a specifically Judaeo-Christian ring and imply a whole series of non-Islamic doctrines and beliefs, but most scholars find it admissible to employ these terms in an Islamic context so long as one is clear about the sense in which they are being used, i.e. to convey the important idea of an eschatological figure, the Mahdì, who “will rise” to launch a great social transformation in order to restore the purity of early times and place all aspects of human life under divine guidance for a period preceding the End of Time. Like “messiah”, the term “Mahdì” moves in the same uncertainty of definition over a kingdom of this world or the next, over “a man sent from God” and a divinely guided or divine being.1 In principle, however, he is a second Mu˙ammad, a descendant of the Prophet bearing the same name, Mu˙ammad ibn 'Abd Allàh. As such, he embodies the aspirations of his followers for the restoration and revitalization of the purity of the Faith, creating a just social order and a world free from oppression where the renewed Islamic

1 M. Brett, “Le Mahdì dans le Maghreb Médiéval”, REMMM 91–94 (2000) pp. 93–106.

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law will become universal. The Mahdì is a second Mu˙ammad who will inaugurate an era of righteousness. “Messiah” is not the only term used in this book that is derived from the study of other religions and doctrines more closely studied than Islam, terms that need to be defined in order to prevent later dependence on an implicit mental model which does not necessarily coincide with Islamic doctrines. The term “eschatological”, for example, as used throughout this book applies to beliefs about what will happen when History is concluded, when the End or Eschaton comes, a time when good will be rewarded and evil punished. This Eschaton is synonymous with the Apocalypse, when what is hidden will finally be revealed, in other words, the reality of God. This revelation will be the fulfilment of the divine purpose in history which Marjorie Reeves, in her seminal work on apocalyptic thought in the medieval Christian West, has shown to involve a different understanding of the time-process. In apocalyptic terms the moving moments of time are no longer felt as succeeding each other, but as fulfilling a divine purpose in proceeding towards a fore-ordained conclusion. This relates the present moment to a definite beginning and a definite end; it can give a sense of belonging in time and links the fleeting moment to a transcendent purpose outside time. The idea that History has a beginning and an End (Eschaton) is by no means incompatible with its interpretation in cyclical terms. Because time is imagined as cyclical, change and renewal have no limits. History is lived as a story of successive struggles to achieve paradise on earth. There are, as a result, three associated forms of belief. The first holds that the Eschaton/Apocalypse is imminent, a catastrophic event for which the world must be ready. Such a belief has served to give people “Chiliasm”, the belief that the End will be preceded by a period of peace, harmony, equality and justice for all mankind. “Millenarianism” is understood to be characteristic of religious movements which expect imminent salvation in this world, of which there has been a wide range. Most millenarian movements are also messianic, in that their followers believe that salvation will be brought by a saviour who mediates between the human and the divine. The man who assumes such a role is naturally considered extraordinary, and blessed with supernatural powers. On those occasions when such men reach positions of political power, they are inevitably totalitarian in their claim to obedience. In this book I will focus mainly on millenarian movements led by just such men although a further problem of terminology

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arises: the term “messianic” designates both belief in the messianic role of a particular leader, and also the belief that the leader himself has in his own messianic mission. There is a distinction to be made, sometimes even an opposition, between what a Mahdì says he is, and what his followers think he is. Sometimes the sources only allow us a glimpse of such distinctions, but in those cases they provide a means of evaluating the conjunction of the historical with the phenomenal, the propaganda and its reception. Another important terminological consideration is the relationship between the words “messianism” and “mysticism”. Mystical experiences derive from a close contact, sometimes described as direct contact, with God, an experience of God, which is known as hierophany. The certainty of such contact can drive some mystics, especially those of a visionary or ecstatic nature, to undertake messianic political activity within the community to which they belong.

II The origins of such beliefs in Islam go back to the very beginning and have generated a great deal of controversy. The term Mahdì, or the “rightly guided”, is not used in the Qur"àn, but clearly derives from the rooth h-d-y, which does appear and generally makes some sort of allusion to divine guidance, with occasional connotations of redemption. For example: “Oh believers, look after your own souls. He who is astray cannot hurt you, if you are rightly guided (idhà ihtadaytum)”. Q5:105. It nevertheless appears as an epithet from a very early period.2 Scholars have tended to agree that the idea of final redemption was not a part of Mu˙ammad’s preachings, nor of the beliefs of his early followers, that it developed after the times of the Prophet, during and after the Civil War period, as a part of the religious controversies which accompanied the rise to power of the Umayyad dynasty in the second half of the 7th century. The term itself was first used to designate a long-awaited sovereign who would re-establish the primitive purity of Islam during the second civil war, after the death of the Caliph Mu'àwiya. Against this traditional view, a very different interpretation was first proposed in 1911 by the

2

See the article “Mahdì” by W. Madelung in EI 2.

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French orientalist Paul Casanova, who put forward the suggestive and polemical theory that belief in the imminence of the Final Hour was the prime and fundamental motif of Mu˙ammad’s preachings. In Casanova’s view, it was not Mu˙ammad’s original intention to establish a new political and social system so much as to warn his contemporaries that the End was nigh, meaning that Muslim eschatology should rightly be considered the oldest corpus in the Tradition. It was only later, seeing that the Final Hour had not arrived and that life must go on, that the Muslim community began, prudently and progressively, to undertake the task of self-organisation. The implication of Casanova’s theory, for the notion and the term Mahdì, is that the Mahdì is the avatar of Mu˙ammad; that he is, in fact, Mu˙ammad returned. More recently, David Cook has gone a step further and has strengthened this thesis by showing the close connection between the apocalyptic traditions and jihàd during the first and second centuries of Islam, whose combination provides the necessary legitimization for the conquests.3 Apocalyptic traditions, in other words, were a major factor in the ideological preparation of war. In 1977, Michael Cook and Patricia Crone presented their own innovative and polemical vision of the origins of Islam. According to the thesis of their controversial book Hagarism, Islam did not originate in the 7th century (the period of a solely military conquest) but developed gradually over two centuries of contacts with Christians and Jews. They argue that Islam emerged from the confluence of a Jewish messianic movement and a nativistic movement of Arabian tribesmen.4 According to Cook and Crone, Islam was a messianic movement from the outset, although the concept of Messiah was gradually transferred from the movement’s founder, Mu˙ammad, to his successor 'Umar al-Fàrùq, (an epithet originating in the Syriac term for “saviour” or “redemptor”) and then applied to Jesus and later to a Mahdì whose role it was to provide the world with abstract justice without a precise historical content. For these authors, what Islam added to Jewish-origin messianism was the concept of the Imamate as an eternal high-priesthood, which derives from the Samaritans. In each case, Samaritan and Islamic, we have an office

3

D. Cook, “Muslim apocalyptic and jihàd”, JSAI 20 (1996) pp. 66–104. The argument for a nativistic Arab movement is further developed by P. Crone, Meccan Trade and the Rise of Islam, Princeton, 1987, pp. 247 ff. 4

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in which supreme political and religious authority are fused, and in each case the primary qualification for office is the combination of religious knowledge with a sacred genealogy. Sulayman Bashear, who has carefully analysed the term “Fàrùq”, has shown that it appears in the early documents and texts, frequently related to the ahl alkitàb, and more specifically, employed by the Jews of Jerusalem.5 More recently, Fred Donner has argued against Cook and Crone’s theory on the basis of Quranic and early documentary evidence, that the Prophet Mu˙ammad inaugurated a religious movement focused on the concept of “believers” (mu"minùn), those who accepted the idea of God’s oneness, the coming of the Last Judgment and the need to live righteously in accordance with God’s revealed law. It would be towards the end of the first century Hijra when a narrower understanding of the community of believers, identified as Muslims (submitted), marks a clearer definition which leaves Jewish and Christian believers outside the movement.6 In the beginning, therefore, the messianic elements in the early tradition could have come from the Jewish groups at first included in Mu˙ammad’s community of believers. Bashear’s and Donner’s arguments may be convincing in refuting important parts of Cook and Crone’s theory, but to my mind they strengthen and complete Casanova’s: Mu˙ammad started by warning his contemporaries about the End of Time. This was a major point in his message directed to a community of believers which had no clear boundaries, at first and for a time, separating them off from Jews and Christians. Qur"àn (54:2) says: “The Hour of doom is drawing near and the moon is cleft in two. Yet when they see a sign, the unbelievers turn their backs and say ‘the same old magic’ ”. For Peter Brown on the other hand, this sùra vividly expresses the frustration of Mu˙ammad at the end of a long tradition that prevailed in the Mediterranean, where, during Late Antiquity, certain expectations of the supernatural, or of divine power were remarkably constant.7 Mu˙ammad’s monotheistic vision defined itself in part against an older mode that saw divine power represented on earth

5 S. Bashear, “The title Fàrùq and its association with 'Umar I”, Studia Islamica 72 (1990) pp. 47–70. 6 F. Donner, “From Believers to Muslims: confessional self-identity in the Early Islamic Community”, Al-Abhàth 50–51 (2002–2003) pp. 9–53. 7 P. Brown, The Making of Late Antiquity, Cambridge, Mss. 1978, p. 19.

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through exceptional human agents who were either good or evil but who had a relationship with the supernatural that was personal to them and clearly perceptible to fellow believers: the frontier between the saint and the sorcerer was very thin.8 In his The Making of Late Antiquity Brown sees Mu˙ammad and the rise of Islam as giving a decisive turn to the late antique debate about the holy, separating heaven from earth and the holy from the human. Behind all these arguments, from Cook and Crone onwards, lies the work of John Wansbrough on the Qur"àn and the early sources of Islam (Quranic Studies, 1977 and The Sectarian Milieu, 1978) in which he claimed that the literature upon which all such theories must be based is in fact an example of Heilsgeschichte (salvation history) that originated in a milieu of religious polemic with Christians and Jews, whose topoi do not allow us to use such sources as historical material. In The Sectarian Milieu, he argued that Islam was formed from a common stock of traditional Biblical motifs by means of the attribution of stories and the exegesis of texts, in a prolonged attempt to supply Islamic faith with a historical and scriptural identity different from the previous monotheistic expressions of Christianity and Judaism. In the case of Shì'ism, for example, such efforts served to identify the Imàm as the crucial figure in the conveyance of revelation from one generation to the next. It was only when the identity of the Imàm had been established according to increasingly specific Islamic criteria that the story of the designation of 'Alì as Mu˙ammad’s successor came into existence as a crucial historical fact on which the beliefs of Shì'ism rest, but upon which no reliance can be placed by the historian. The interest of such stories for the historian is their function as components of a specialised language in which religious ideas could be expressed and developed. Wansbrough’s sectarian milieu is well illustrated by the apocalyptic and eschatological literature of the period. One of the greatest influences upon it has been that of the Danielic tradition or rather, the surviving system of representations and images which constitute the Apocalypse of Daniel.9 This Apocalypse is made up of promises whose intensity and vagueness have allowed them to be used in many 8

P. Brown, The Making of Late Antiquity, pp. 12–13. A. Abel, “Changements politiques et littérature eschatologique dans le monde musulman”, Studia Islamica II (1954) pp. 23–43. 9

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different ways. Daniel’s Apocalypse seems also to be the origin for an entire corpus of Islamic (and Christian) literature, and a whole series of later literary motifs coded in the same terms.10 The Book of Daniel is also the culmination of the Biblical ideology of the Kingdom of God united to a concept of royal messianism and divine kingship, a notion which finds its most powerful expression in the poems known as the Psalms of Solomon, which describe a victorious Jewish saviour-king establishing divine, universal rule over the Gentiles.11 Christian eschatological literature is imbued with such Danielic motifs, especially in Syrian apocalypses. In Mesopotamia a tradition of messianic expectations deriving from Late Judaism survived until the end of the 7th century and it reflects the crisis brought about by the Arab conquest of Syria. The Pseudo-Methodius, which begins with a history of the temporal world from Adam to Alexander the Great, prophesies the career of the Last Roman Emperor, who will appear at the end of the Arab invasions and before the reign of the Antichrist. This Last Emperor would be of Ethiopian origin and, after his victory over the Arabs, would reside in Jerusalem, uniting in his person all the characteristics of the Jewish Anointed King who would redeem his people.12 The hope of a Last World Emperor thus seems to have originated in a remote area of Syria threatened by Islam and under the influence of Jewish messianic sources. The Pseudo-Methodius spread very quickly throughout Byzantium and was translated into Latin in the Christian West in the early 8th century. It was known in Spain from a very early period and had a deep and widespread influence there.13 There are signs that an older version may have circulated among the Andalusian Mozarabs (Arabised Christians).14 Another important sequence of Byzantine prophecies are those known as the Oracles of Leo the Wise, which transfer the role of Last Emperor to an elected Pope, with whom true prophecy begins. Syrian and Byzantine motifs were to have a great influence 10 D. Cook, “An Early Muslim Daniel Apocalypse”, Arabica XLIX (2002) pp. 55–96. 11 See for example Geza Vermes, The Religion of Jesus the Jew, London, 1993, pp. 124 and ff. 12 P. Alexander, “The Medieval Legend of the Last Roman Emperor and its Messianic Origin”, Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes XLI (1978) pp. 1–15. 13 L. Vazquez de Parga, “Algunas notas sobre el Pseudo Metodio y España”, Habis 2 (1971) pp. 143–164. 14 L. Vazquez de Parga, “Algunas notas sobre el Pseudo Metodio y España”, p. 148.

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on Christian apocalyptics in the medieval West, where their path can be traced from the beginning of the 8th century down to the works of Joachim of Fiore in the second half of the 12th.15 PreIslamic North Africa had also seen apocalyptic predictions and fears after the invasion of the Vandals, as is shown by the sermons of bishop Quodvultdeus of Carthage.16 Indeed, it is these types of text from Late Antiquity which provide Crone and Cook with the basis for their theory, mentioned above, that Islam originated as a Jewish messianic movement. They base their argument, firstly, on the North African Christian text of 634, Doctrina Jacobi nuper baptizati, which quotes an Eastern letter informing that “a prophet has appeared among the Sarracens . . . who proclaims the arrival of the Anointed Christ”. The Hebrew text known as Secrets of Rabbi Simon ben Yohai uses messianic terms to describe the emergence of the Arabs and the establishment of their reign. Towards the end of the 7th century, the Syrian monk Yohanna Bar Penkayê in his book First Principles of the Temporal World points to the Islamic invasion, sent by God as a punishment for the sins of the Christians, as a precursor of the End of all Time.17 This Syrian text, which offers the first more or less detailed description of the origins of Islam, uses the term mhaddayana, close to the Arab term Mahdì, to describe the Prophet Mu˙ammad.18 The Apocalypse or “Vision” of Ba˙ìrà, the Christian monk who recognised Mu˙ammad and encouraged him to undertake his mission, composed in about 820, also refers to the Arab conquest as one of the events announcing the End of all Time, which will occur under the Seventh Imàm, and it explicitly quotes from the Pseudo-Methodius to support this idea, as well as being the first Christian apocalypse to speak of a Mahdì.19 Ba˙ìrà’s influence can be seen in the Muslim apocalypse

15 P. Alexander, “The Diffusion of Bizantine Apocalypses in the Medieval West and the beginnings of Joachimism” in A. Williams (ed.), Prophecy and Millenarianism, 1980, pp. 57–71, and P. Alexander, “Byzantium and the Migration of Literary Works and Motifs”, Medievalia et Humanistica New Series II (1971) pp. 47–68. 16 R. González Salinero, Poder y conflicto religioso en el Norte de Africa: Quodvultdeus de Cartago y los Vándalos, Madrid, 2002. 17 A. Scher, “Notice sur la vie et les ouevres de Yohannan Bar Penkayê”, Journal Asiatique, dixième série, X (1907) pp. 161–178, esp. 174–175. 18 F. Donner, “La question du messianisme dans l’islam primitif ” in M. GarcíaArenal, Mahdisme et Millénarisme, REMMM 91–92–93–93 (2000) pp. 17–27. 19 A. Abel. “Changements politiques et littérature eschatologique dans le monde musulman”, Studia Islamica 2 (1954) pp. 23–43, pp. 29–30.

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Kitàb al-silk al-zahìr fì 'ilm al-awwal wa-l-akhìr20 by Ka'b al-A˙bàr.21 Regardless of whether we accept that Islam originated as a Jewish messianic movement, there is little doubt that Islamic apocalyptics were influenced by the messianism of Daniel, by Late-Jewish apocalyptic texts and by the Syrian and Byzantine motifs in turn placed in movement by the arrival of Islam. They were also influenced by zoroastrian apocalyptic symbols and cosmological beliefs: a mixture of myths and beliefs disseminated by the spiritual revolution of the Late Antique world absorbed in a context of religious conversion and cultural translation. As a result, the apocalyptic and eschatological tradition of Islam is extraordinarily rich. Messianic influences combine with the literary genre known as isrà"iliyyàt (“stories which derive from the Israelites”), embracing various types of narrative found in the Qur"àn, the work of mystics and the compilers of edifying stories which, deriving from rabbinical and aggadic literature, were transmitted by Jews converted to Islam such as Wahb b. Munabbih and Ka'b b. A˙bàr.22 The isrà"iliyyàt are mostly stories about prophets and Biblical patriarchs (qißaß al-anbiyà" ) and thus cannot be considered eschatological literature as such, although they often come close: Noah (Nù˙) the first messenger (rasùl ), who warns his people of the imminent arrival of al-Dajjàl 23 or Enoch/Idrìs Elijah/Ilyàs, all well-known figures in Biblical apocalyptics, play an important role in treatises of mystical initiation and in popular beliefs such as that in supernatural beings who inspire the conviction that they can save Man from extreme situations.24 This is especially the case for the four prophets that Islamic tradition recognizes as being “alive” or “immortal”. Besides Idrìs and 'Ìsà ( Jesus), Elias is identified with al-Khi∂r (or al-Kha∂ir) a mysterious prophet-guide and immortal saint who plays an important role in popular piety and sufism. Many a mystical master, such as Ibn 'Arabì, claimed to have received the khirqa from Khi∂r.25 The Dajjàl (from 20

A. Abel, “Changements politiques”, p. 37. B. Chapira, “Légendes bibliques attribuées à Ka'b al-A˙bàr”, Revue des Etudes Juives LXIX (1919) pp. 86–107 and LXX (1920) pp. 37–43. 22 There is a wide-ranging bibliography on this genre, from I. Goldziher, “Mélanges judéo-arabes. IX. Isrà"iliyyàt”, Revue des Etudes Juives 44 (1902) to R. Tottoli, “Origin and Use of the Term Isrà"iliyyàt in Muslim Literature”, Arabica 46 (1999) pp. 192–210. 23 G. Canova, “The Prophet Noah in Islamic Tradition”, The Arabist. Budapest Studies in Arabic 23 (2001) pp. 1–20. 24 R. Tottoli, I profeci biblici nella tradizione islamica, Brescia, 1999. 25 I. Omar, “Khidr in the Islamic Tradition”, The Muslim World 83 (1993) pp. 279–94. 21

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the Syriac daggala) does not appear in the Qur"àn but does appear in Syriac Christian literature and presents elements to be found in the Apocalypse of St. John of Patmos as well as in the pseudo-apocalyptic literature from St. Ephraem to the revelations of Sibylla: he kills Elias and Enoch, the two witnesses put forward by God (they will come to life again) sent to denounce him. Moral apocalypses are also frequent in Jewish and Christian thinking and they have their roots in pagan Sibylline literature. One of their most common themes is the journey to heaven and hell, which reaches its most complete form in the Apocalypse of Enoch. In the Islamic world, this kind of apocalypse is linked with the literature of the Prophet Mu˙ammad’s night journey and his ascension to the heavens, a story deriving directly from Enoch’s version.26 The theme of punishments and rewards lends a pronounced moral emphasis to all of these accounts. The so-called moral apocalypses can also be seen as related to another genre of ancient apocalyptic literature, the apocalyptic stories or literal predictions of what will occur at the end of all time. The Islamic moral apocalypse which has a political, theological and social message, employs a form which assumes that its audience believes itself to be living through Earth’s last times. Using this assumption, the apocalyptist includes all groups, persons or activities which he wishes to condemn within this general feeling of fear of the End. This invests him with moral force and differentiates him from the religious establishment. Ultimately, the apocalyptist will attack anything considered permanent, or symptomatic of a society which does not believe in the imminence of the end of the world. The establishment thus becomes his mortal enemy: by virtue of its very name it conveys a sense of permanence which is the epitome of evil to the apocalyptist.27 It should not surprise us, therefore, that a number of these apocalyptists tend to meet with death at the hands of the authorities, such as the most famous of them all, the author of the Kitàb al-fitan Nu'aym b. Óammàd (d. 228/843), who died in prison.28

26

H. Busse, “Jerusalem in the story of Muhammad’s night journey and ascension”, JSAI 14 (1991) pp. 1–40; M. Nisan, “Note on a possible Jewish source for Muhammad’s ‘Night Journey’ ”, Arabica XLVII (2000) pp. 274 ff. 27 To use D. Cook’s term in “Moral Apocalyptic in Islam”, Studia Islamica 86 (1997) pp. 37–70 (p. 65). 28 Nu'aym ibn Óammàd, Kitàb al-fitan, Beirut: Dàr al-Fikr, 1993.

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These apocalypses constitute a genre of “history of the future”29 which was particularly productive in the Umayyad and 'Abbàsid periods and which refuted the legitimacy of the dynasty and its caliphs as “tyrants” and attacked the religious authorities for their connivance with them.30 They were a sign that the Hour was near. One important feature of the Muslim apocalyptists is that they divide the rulers of the world into prophets and tyrants, until the arrival of the future Mahdì who will be sent by God.31 This kind of literature was very common and had a widespread and lasting effect on popular beliefs. It will be seen that if the ruler under attack from such sources was not a “prophet”, one way of legitimising himself and avoiding being classified as a “tyrant” was to present himself as a Mahdì. This strategy, united to the notion of a Last World Emperor, was to become a useful political manouevre for a number of different leaders. Regardless of the influence of eschatological ideas from Late Antiquity, Islamic Tradition considers each of the prophets as an axis in the spiritual history of mankind. The great Muslim historian al-ˇabarì (d. 310/923) entitled his encyclopedic chronicle “The History of Prophets and Kings” with a view to emphasizing the prophetic quality of Islamic history. For al-ˇabarì, history is suffused with prophecy, and prophets become the special focus of human history in which the “sacred” ought not to be separated from the “profane”. The central importance of the prophetic guide in Islam can be seen in the number of traditions which claim that prophethood began with the creation of mankind. Adam is seen as the first in a long line of prophets who have been sent into the world to promote divine laws, and to guide mankind. Islam tends to consider prophets indispensable for humanity to be able to know God’s will, even with the exception of theological schools, such as the Mu'tazila who believe that humans can know God using solely their intellect, the prophets being an additional divine grace. Discussion of the issue of prophethood was common in the Islamic world from the beginning of the kalàm or scholastic theology. The issue was addressed in numerous works, which bore titles like “Signs of prophecy” (a'làm al-nubuwwa) or “Establishing prophecy” (Ithbàt al-nubuwwa). Such works sought to 29 In the words of F. Rosenthal, A History of Muslim Historiography, Leiden, 1952, p. 23. 30 D. Cook, “Moral Apocalyptic”, pp. 53–54. 31 D. Cook, “Moral Apocalyptic”, pp. 53–54.

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establish, on the one hand, the human need for prophets, and on the other, a list of characteristics which demonstrated the superiority of the Prophet Mu˙ammad over all others.32 The Qur"àn states (e.g. 10:48, 13:7, 16:36, 35:24) that no human community has ever been left without a prophet. Going further, the Sùra (14:8) claims that God has never sent a messenger who did not speak the language of the people to whom he had been sent. Nevertheless, a difference existed between a nabì or prophet able to reveal divine guidance but whose mission did not consist in transmitting a new law to the world, and a rasùl, or messenger of the new law. Mu˙ammad was not only the first prophet, and superior to all others, but was also known as khatm al-nubuwwa or khatam al-anbiyyà", expressions which both translate as “seal of the prophets” and are generally interpreted as meaning “last of the prophets”. There is, however, no unanimous agreement about the interpretation of this phrase, at least for the first Islamic centuries. Yohannan Friedmann has suggested that the concept relates to the eschatology of the early years of Islam: if Mu˙ammad was the last of the Prophets, this is because the Hour was imminent.33 In support of his theory, this same author presents copious material demonstrating that in early Islamic times, the dogma of the finality of Prophethood was not yet established, and that the possibility of the appearance of other prophets was in fact taken for granted. Even after belief had been established, in sunnite Islam, in the finality of Mu˙ammad’s prophethood, the link with divinity and its direct guide were too important for doors not to be left open for further developments as will be seen in the chapters dedicated to sufism. On the other hand, different groups claimed for themselves the capacity of being warathat al-anbiyà", the inheritors of the prophets, the depositaries and interpreters of the message of the prophets: the caliphs, the 'ulamà" or the saints, friends of God or awliyà". Although Wansbrough refused to speculate on the relationship between the development of doctrine and the development of the community,

32 S. Stroumsa, “The signs of Prophecy: the emergence and early development of a theme in Arabic theological Literature”, Harvard Theological Review, 78: 1–2 (1985) pp. 101–114. 33 Y. Friedmann, “Finality of Prophethood in Sunni Islam”, Israel Oriental Studies 7 (1986) pp. 117–215.

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it is clear that both were involved in the political and religious dispute over the succession to Mu˙ammad, epitomised in the tradition that originated when, two years before his death in 11/632, Mu˙ammad made his last pilgrimage to Mecca. On this occasion, he addressed a sermon to his followers that has been widely quoted over the centuries and in which he said, according to one version: “God has given two safeguards to the world: His Book [the Qur"àn] and the Sunna [example] of his Prophet.” According to another source Mu˙ammad said “God has given two safeguards to the World: His Book and the Family of His Prophet.” Both statements are apocryphal, in that they relate to positions adopted in the 9th century; but they epitomise the opposition between Sunnism and Shì'ism, two poles of authority for the faith between which Mahdism occupied an intermediate position Sunnism, seen by its followers as the orthodox form of Islam, developed as the majority form: only about ten percent of contemporary Muslims are Shì'ites or Khàrijites, and those areas of the Muslim West where this book is set have been Sunnite for centuries. Both Sunnism and Shì'ism together with Khàrijism, are different sets of answers to three fundamental questions about leadership of the community, law, and theology. These questions can be summarised as follows: firstly, to whom should believers turn for spiritual guidance and political leadership? Expressed in more Islamic terms, this question might be put like this: who should the Imàm of the community be, and how is he to be recognised and chosen? This is a question lying at the very heart of this book which, in fact, is about one way of answering it. The second question has to do with the Law: which are the norms to be followed by believers in their relations with God and with themselves? The third question is, how should believers approach or consider God and his plans for humanity? Disputes over the first of these questions, i.e. over the nature of the Imamate, led to the forming of diverse factions in the first Islamic century (the seventh of the Christian era), when Mu˙ammad’s death in 632 created the problem of his succession as community leader. Mu˙ammad’s relatives and closest friends improvised the formation of a new institution, the Caliphate (from the Arabic term khalìfat rasùl Allàh, vicar to God’s envoy). The first Caliphs were chosen from among the group of those who had been closest to the Prophet, but after the assassination of the third Caliph in 661, a civil war broke out between supporters of the idea that the Caliphate should be entrusted to members of the Umayyad family (a clan of Quraysh,

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the tribe of the Prophet) and those who favoured the son-in-law and cousin of the Prophet Mu˙ammad, 'Alì ibn Abì ˇàlib. The latter group received the name shì'at 'Alì or “party of 'Alì”. Another party which split off, or literally “came out” during this civil war period was the party of the Khàrijites, who held that the Caliph ought not to be a member of any particular lineage but should be chosen by the community itself as “the best of Muslims”. These shì'ite and Khàrijite “parties” arose from a cluster of political circumstances but each gradually developed its own corpus of beliefs. The origins of such beliefs in Islam go back to the very beginning and have generated a great deal of controversy. The current view however, is that the position now identified with Sunnism did not truly emerge until the 9th century. Even then, those who adopted the sunnite position on the Imamate were continually engaged in their own disputes over law and theology, disputes that are essential to an understanding of the early chapters of this book. Shì'ites have always held particularly intense hopes of the arrival of a restorer of justice and religion: Shì'a Islam evolved from a legitimist theory of authority of the descendents of 'Alì into a principle of salvation, turning into a fundamentally eschatological religion. By contrast with sunnism, belief in the coming of a Mahdì has been an essential article of faith in the shì'ite creed. The shì'ite Mahdì is ma 'ßùm, he who is protected from error and sin, a quality which according to sunnis is exclusive to prophets. Distinctly shì'ite is also the belief in a temporary absence or occultation of the Imàm ( ghayba) the Hidden Imàm, and his eventual return in glory, his parousia or Ωuhùr before the End of Time. Whereas Ba˙ìrà used the Danielic tradition and new forms of revelation to bring the figure of the Mahdì into apocalyptic literature, the Alids, for their part, produced an entire pseudo-epigraphical literature to introduce the belief in a private revelation given to 'Alì or to one of his own and subsequently transmitted by them to mankind. This produced, among other things, the works known as the “book of Jafr”. Ibn Khaldùn dedicates an entire chapter (no. 52) of his Muqaddima to the study of these predictions and in particular of the book of Jafr, recorded according to him by one of the zaydite chiefs or perhaps by Ja'far al-Sadìq (d. 148/765). The “Great Jafr” was attributed to 'Alì himself and it brought together a series of predictions of the triumphal arrival of the Mahdì in an allegorical and arcane manner.

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Like belief in the Mahdì, prophethood acquired very marked characteristics in Shì'ism. The Shì'ism of the first three Islamic centuries believes in the pre-existent entity of the Imàm, whose light, together with the Mu˙ammadan light came directly from the divine light before the creation of the world. The Imàm possesses supra-worldly knowledge and powers which make him infallible (ma'ßùm). He is the proof (˙ujja) of God for his people. In fact, we will have a major controversy to keep in mind, namely the conflict between the shì'ite idea of the infallible Imàm and the sunnite idea of the infallible Prophet. However apocalyptic the origins of Islam may have been, and however long it took for the main forms of Islam to develop, the theological corpus of what is today known as Sunnite Islam eventually came to employ the term Mahdì to denominate an eschatological figure who will arise to carry out a great social transformation and restore the pristine purity of early times by placing all human spheres under divine management. The epithet al-Qà"im (the one who arises) was at times used as its equivalent. The Mahdì must be a member of the ahl al-bayt, or family of the Prophet, and bear the Prophet’s name, Mu˙ammad ibn 'Abd Allàh. He will establish a realm of justice and rule all Muslims together until the descent of Jesus ('Ìsà), the Masih or Messiah of the Christian tradition whom Islam had incorporated into its own line of prophets; when together with Jesus the Mahdì will lead them to ultimate victory before the day of Final Judgement.34 He is thus both a king of this world and a harbinger of the Apocalypse. The rise of the Mahdì to power will be preceded by a period of lawlessness when both religion and natural order will be threatened. The protagonist of this dark age is a false messiah, a personage called al-Dajjàl, the “deceiver” or Antichrist, endowed with miraculous powers, who will arrive before the end of time and for a limited time (40 days to 40 years) will let tyranny and corruption rule the world. His appearance is one of the signs (with others, like the sun rising in the West) of the end of time. He will be vanquished by the Mahdì who will bring about universal conversion to Islam and the appearance of al-Amr, the divine will of God to rule the world.

34 G.S. Reynolds, “Jesus, the Qà"im and the End of the World”, Revista degli Studi Orientali LXXV (2001) pp. 55–86.

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Within this basic framework, two important variants were found in Sunnite Islam. On the one hand, there was the idea that rather than a unique Mahdì who would appear before the End of Time, history would throw up at different critical periods certain “Masters of the Hour” (ßà˙ib al-sà'a) who would save the community from temporary danger. Secondly, there was the idea that these Masters of the Hour would have their own delegates to prepare the way for the reception of their message. This opens up the possibility of cyclical periods of reform which link Mahdism to the tradition of the mujaddid, or renewer, and also to the notion of tajdìd al-dìn, the renewal of religion. Thus Mahdism often became associated with reforming and revivalist movements, and in practice it is not always easy to differentiate between the various kinds of leader: to know, for example, if a man described as a ßà˙ib al-sà'a is the master of a critical moment, or of the final hour, and thus different from the mujaddid of mainly activist and reformist connotations. In the chapters which follow, I will have to bear in mind the possibility that there are differences amongst “Mahdist” movements of a restorational, revivalist or regenerationist nature, i.e. between those led by a mujaddid-like Mahdì and those of a more apocalyptic character. The same basic framework is applicable also to Shì'ite Islam with the difference that the idea of the Mahdì is central rather than peripheral to a doctrine centred on the idea that the authority and power of the Prophet is vested in the sole person of the Imàm who is his direct descendant. Given the failure of the descendants to secure the Caliphate, the idea of a Mahdì was invoked both apocalyptically and in the millenarian sense. The Shì'ite Mahdì was commonly given the epithet Qà"im, the one who will rise and rule. It was in common use before the end of the Umayyad period and largely replaced the term Mahdì in the Imàmite tradition. He will be the lord of the sword and Jesus will pray behind him after his descent from heaven. He will force all Muslims to accept the shì'ite creed. In the doctrine of the Ismà'ìlites or Seveners (those who believe in the first seven Imàms), however, the presence of the Imàm was ensured by the Fà†imid dynasty, considered in this book (Chapter 2), whose ambition to govern, as Imàms and caliphs, over the whole of the Islamic world was paralleled by their claim to know the universal truths of revelation and reason. The propaganda of the Fà†imids was based on the initiates’ certainty of being the Imàms called by divine designation to exercise universal dominion and the temporal

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and spiritual management of the earth as well as feeling certain that they were the projection of divine light upon the world. The Ismà'ìlites believed in the superhuman nature of their Imàms, earthly incarnation of the universal Intellect, and this belief goes much further than the mere legitimist restoration of the lineage of the Prophet. Such certainty was coupled with the belief in cyclical periods in the evolution of the world, and in the conjunction of heavenly bodies indicating the end of an empire and the beginning of a new era. Astrology became a source of revelation35 and this is why it acquired such an important role, and why allusion is made in political propaganda to empires which grow old and whose end has come. Such conviction turned the struggle against established dynastic powers into a veritable religious obligation. Profound doctrinal conviction was related to the real ambition to conquer the world and establish a universal monarchy.36

III In both his eschatological and millenarian aspects, the Islamic Messiah embodies the aspirations of his followers for the restoration of the Faith as it was lived in Earliest Times by bringing divine, uncorrupted guidance to the whole of mankind, and installing a just social order free from all oppression which will precede the End of all Time. In other words, he arises within the context of belief in a mythical past which in turn itself acquires utopian and millenarian features. Change from one originary perfection can only be decay. Salvation takes the form of a return to that infinitely pure past, and is provided by a saviour who acts as a mediator between the human and the divine. In practice it has generally been associated with the creation of an ideal politico-religious community living within the social and legal framework of Islam. Such an ideal depends to a large extent on a leader being able to guarantee the formation of such a community on the strength of divine guidance, hidàya, the root of the term mahdì. 35

See Y. Marquet, “La révelation par l’astrologie selon Abù Ya'qùb as-Sijistànì et les Ikhwàn aß-Safà" ”, Studia Islamica 80 (1994) pp. 5–28; D. Cook, “Messianism and Astronomical events during the first four centuries of Islam” in M. GarcíaArenal (ed.), Mahdisme et millénarisme en Islam, REMMM, 2001, pp. 29–52. 36 M. Canard, “L’imperialisme des Fatimides et leur propagande”, included in his Miscellenea Orientalia, London, 1973, pp. 158–160.

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Not only, therefore, does the Mahdì seek to restore and revitalize religion, and thus to become the one through whom the redemption of the community of believers will be achieved. He has a political mission which in the Maghreb has given him the characteristics of a puritan reformer, and also a relationship to Sufism. As we will see, there can be no complete doctrine of sainthood which avoids a definition of political legitimacy. Millenarianism and an eschatological discourse became inherent in Maghrebian Sufism from the 12th century onwards. It is probably significant that it was also during this period that sufism became in the Maghreb a vehicle for the Islamisation of rural areas. The practice of precepts such as al-amr bi-l-ma'rùf (forbidding wrong and commanding right), known as the ˙isba, is closely associated with both ascetism and sufism and, above all, with the jihàd that the zàhid or ascetic must maintain, firstly with himself and with his human passions, and then with his immediate environment, in order to make that environment suitable for the religious norms he has imposed upon himself. An agent of divine grace, the saint is necessarily the instrument of rigour, in the form of strict adherence to the Law, and the acceptance of this role implies that he must mould the terrestrial sphere to the dictates of divine Wisdom. It is for this reason that the saint often becomes a censor and reformer of habits, bent on promoting the renewal and revitalization of the social aspects of religion and on condemning the corruption and inefficacy of political authorities. “Enlightened violence”, militancy and incorruptible moral radicalism are frequent elements in the practice of the ˙isba, which provides puritanical movements with a theoretical basis. In the medieval Maghreb, such aspects were inherent in sufi practice, despite the apparent contradiction of accommodating the fact of violent rejection of conformist attitudes within a general framework of extreme loyalty to the revitalized Tradition. Sufis make a spiritual use of apocalyptic terms such as jihàd and fitna as a fight designed to purify the believer from the evil of this world and prepare him for the world to come. In that apocalyptic tradition fitna is both the hardship the individual believer endures as a test and also the collective trials that the Muslims have to go through before the end of times (the Dajjàl is the harbinger of fitna) when the Amr or direct rule of God, will appear to all men. At the same time, reform and jihàd became the main legitimizing arguments of any dynastic power. Other terms used by sufis, such

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as the spiritual alienation which makes them consider themselves “strangers”, ghurabà", in a world dominated by corruption, or that of nùr, the concept of Light and Illumination, or al-Amr, Divine Authority or Will, formed a part of the theological vocabulary used by various political movements in their legitimising propaganda. The Mahdì constitutes a bridge between the past and the future, but also between the secular or political and the religious. The precise boundaries of these dichotomies are far from clear, but I will attempt to provide them with working definitions in the case of the Muslim Maghreb, because this book necessarily deals with the question of legitimacy of political power as much as it does with the subject of messianism. By secular power I mean the power of those who govern, which is based on military power but does not depend solely on it. It is the power to order society into hierarchies, to impose taxes, to defend itself and to defend the governed. Secular power is guided by principles of efficacy and will always seek to maintain itself over time. “Religious” authority I take to mean the authority to guide and order the lives of people according to the dictates of what is thought of as divine command. Such authority is always considered as in some way “above” secular power. It relies on the ability of those who exercise it to convince others that they have special access to divine authority and that they are acting as divine agents. Their power often derives from the fact that they are thought capable of bringing blessings or curses upon part or all of society. Religious authority can derive from the knowledge and ability to interpret holy and legal texts (as in the case of the 'ulamà"), or from the ability to gain access to the divine through miraculous acts (karàmàt) as in the case of the awliyà", the “friends of God”, or it can come from direct mandate and divine guidance as in the case of the Mahdì. As is well known (and as was also the case in the Christian world at least until the Enlightenment), Islamdom has been characterised by perpetual tension between the realities of “secular” power and those claiming to possess “religious” authority. Tensions arising in Islamic societies as a result of social difficulties and conflicts are often manifested in ambitions to assume the kind of religious authority which is over and above secular political power, or, as in the case of the Mahdì, in an effort to unify the two elements. Conflict and tension will always tend to exist between religious authorities and those who hold positions of political or secular power, but serious conflict amongst

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different religious groups is an almost equally important factor. Rivalries occur between groups which aspire to define and control different ideologized interpretations of the Tradition; these have political implications as such groups dispute their monopoly of Grace, or baraka. A Mahdì, for example, will claim to possess the charismatic authority required to break the existing norms, but he will always do so in the name of Tradition, since he seeks to revive a lost past. In this way the Mahdì’s “invented tradition”, to use Eric Hobsbawm’s term, will clash with the version of Tradition preached by groups like the 'ulamà" which see themselves as its guarantors. The issue has been extensively discussed in modern scholarship. According to Max Weber, there are two basic ways for power to legitimise itself in traditional or pre-modern societies: firstly, in terms of Tradition, which defines the parameters of power and the procedures for applying legal norms of an impersonal nature, and secondly, through the will of a sovereign supported by his subjects’ obedience, which is based on ties of personal loyalty. In addition, the leader may possess charismatic authority, with charisma being seen as “a particular quality of an individual personality by virtue of which he is set apart from ordinary men and treated and endowed with . . . exceptional powers”. Charismatic authority is characterized by informal organization, with a lower degree of institutionalization or discipline than that associated with traditional authority, operating from within a formal system of norms. Charismatic domination is characterized by obedience, not to rules or tradition, but to a person of imputed holiness, heroism or some other extraordinary quality. Whereas legal and traditional authority implies stable, continuing relationships, “pure” charisma is short-lived: “In its pure form charismatic authority may be said to exist only in the process of originating. It cannot remain stable, but becomes either traditionalized or rationalized or a combination of both.” This is Weber’s so-called “routinization of charisma” when after its initial success it serves to legitimate the institutionalised regime it has created. It is in this process that charisma can become hereditary. Weber’s ideas offer insights when brought to bear on Maghrebi historiographical texts, but as will be seen, the sources which I use often show traditional and charismatic varieties of power acting in a complementary, not an oppositional, way. Thus Clifford Geertz considers charismatic power, or baraka, to be the main leitmotif of Moroccan political life. But at the same time he shows that Moroccan

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political power as personified by the sultan unites two principles which are opposed to one another in the rest of the Muslim world: the principle that the Imàm is the Imàm because he possesses supernatural, i.e. charismatic, characteristics; and the principle that the Imàm is the Imàm because the qualified spokesmen of the community (the 'ulamà") accept him as such. The relationship between charisma and legalism in the history of the Moroccan state was viewed rather differently by Ernst Gellner, who claimed that Moroccan history before the 20th century had witnessed the periodic emergence of puritanical reformist movements which called for a return to the pristine Islam of the Qur"àn and the Sunna. These reformist movements had their origin in the famous and controversial dichotomy proposed by Gellner between the orthodox, puritanical, and scripturalist Islam of the cities and popular Islam, which bordered on the heterodox, anthropolatrous and ritualistic, and required the mediation of saints and religious figures. But by appealing across the social divide they provoked a series of revolutions that brought new dynasties to power before the pendulum swung back and the tribesmen returned to their popular Islam. For Abdellah Hammoudi, on the other hand, the dichotomy is not nearly so straightforward. At the heart of popular Islam is Sufism in the paradigmatic relationship between master and disciple. That in turn encapsulates the relationship between the Moroccan sultan and his people. The terror of his arms is inseparable from the divine grace by which he rules, so much so that one can be inferred from the other. Beneath his sanctified figure, the power at his command is symbolic of his legitimacy. However, in the manner of Geertz, the monopoly of control, in which grace and violence (and therefore fear) are indistinguishable, is not exercised freely or without consultation. The sovereign, who holds power, needs the opinions and advice of representatives of the population, notables, 'ulamà" and saints whose role as mediators between the people and the centres of power depends upon their position within society. All these ideas are suggestive, despite their disagreement. As the typologies of sociologists, however, they cannot be imposed by the historian upon the very materials from which they are derived even when, as Mohamed Kably has shown, the medieval chronicles offer their support. This is also the case when considering a number of the rebellious movements described in the first part of this book which could

26

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perhaps best be considered examples of what Linton has defined as “nativistic movements”. As explained in Linton’s studies of modern peoples faced with processes of European colonization, “nativistic movements” tend to be attempts organized by certain sectors of a society to preserve elements of a previous culture which thereby acquire some kind of symbolic value. “Nativistic” movements are very similar to “messianic” movements in that they usually come about when an individual assumes the role of prophet and is accepted by his people as such. According to Linton, this often happens at times when one culture becomes especially self-conscious as it is confronted by the imposed culture of a dominant group or force: “Nativistic movements tend to arise only when the members of the subject society find that their assumption of the culture of the dominant group is being effectively opposed by it or that it is not improving their social position. These movements are a response to frustration rather than hardship and would not arise if the higher group were willing to assimilate the older one.”37 Although Linton’s typology fails to take into account the sort of conflicts which arise from the existence of different ethnic groups within a subject society, it is perfectly possible to find examples of messianic movements which fit at least partially his description, i.e. those carried out in the name of what Arab sources call the Berber “false prophets” in the times of the Maghreb conversion to Islam. One might also include movements like that led by Ibn Óafßùn or those of the Cordoban Mozarabs. Such movements have obvious parallels in the kinds of process taking place in modern societies brought into contact with, or subjugated to, Western colonial powers, as will be seen in the chapter about Ibn Abì Ma˙allì or the Granadan Moriscos. In the last two chapters, the presence of Portuguese and Spaniards in the Maghreb is bitterly resented as is the Christian conquest of the Kingdom of Granada. As Linton points out, the tendency towards sacrifice and self-immolation are often outstanding characteristics of participants in such movements. Other concepts which looked promising in principle have raised their own methodological problems. One example is the concept of “collective memory”. The sources which I have used as the basis of this study, i.e. historical chronicles (ta"rìkh) and hagiographies (manàqib)

37

R. Linton, “Nativistic movements”, p. 231.

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are highly codified literary genres. Both genres record memory, but in accordance with their own norms of composition. In them, memory is structured, selected, and oriented in many important ways. The charismatic message, according to Weber, must be expressed in terms which are readily familiar and intelligible to the disciples who support the charismatic leader, so that charisma can be largely a matter of the reinterpretation of known facts and traditional ideas. It is certainly the case, as I will try to show in the chapters that follow, that the texts constituting what we might call the “Mahdist corpus”, in all its repertoire, are known and interiorized by the masses, and that well-codified rituals recur across the centuries and are even “staged” by people with no previous experience of the appearance of a Mahdì. A messianic cycle does not end with the disappearance of a messiah. However, it is difficult for me to see any real difference between the notions of “collective memory” and tradition, or even culture. In tradition, as in the “collective memory”, but above all in millenarian tradition, history is both present and absent, used and refused, invoked and revoked. History is used to support a movement and then repudiated in an attempt to bring it to an end. As Michel de Certeau has proposed, the past which returns to the present disturbs the structures of hierarchical order. In hagiography and accounts of miracles there is a repeated resort to the other world, from which the coup that will change the established order of things may, and must, come. Memory becomes an instrument for the transformation of present places.38 Maurice Halbwachs has insisted that even individual memory is structured through the social framework of memory (“les cadres sociaux de la mémoire”), and that collective memory is not a metaphor but a social reality transmitted and upheld by conscious efforts and by the group’s institutions, an idea which does not seem very distant from that of a voluntarily recreated tradition. There are different versions of this “invented” tradition, depending on the elites who elaborate and spread them. The question which I ask myself and find particularly interesting is the following: if we accept that they are social fictions, why is it that some fictions are so successful over time whilst others are not? Why do people believe these fictions?

38 Michel de Certeau, L’invention du quotidien. 1 Arts de faire, Paris, Gallimard, 1990, chap. VI, “Le temps des Histoires”, especially pp. 130–131.

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What is the context which permits the mahdist propaganda to be understood and accepted? As Carlo Ginzburg says: “In societies founded on oral tradition, the memory of the community involuntarily tends to mask and reabsorb changes. To the relative flexibility of material life there corresponds an accentuated immobility of the image of the past. Things have always been like this; the world is what it is. Only in periods of acute social change does an image emerge, generally a mythical one, of a different and better past—a model of perfection in the light of which the present appears to be a deterioration, a degeneration . . . The struggle to transform the social order then becomes a conscious attempt to return to this mythical past.”39 Ginzburg’s paragraph is more analytically operative for me, as a historian, than the anthropological theories mentioned above. In a sense, Ginzburg implies something which I would particularly like to emphasize, and that is the two ways of attending to and understanding the Tradition: one that we could describe as mere conservatism, i.e. the more or less spontaneous way of doing things as one believes they have always been done, or of believing things one thinks have always been believed, and another that is a conscious, reflexive and ideologized attempt to impose an invented or voluntarily recreated Tradition at a critical moment. My interest is therefore focused on the issue of the possible link between anthropological invariants and historical variations. I have attempted to order these historical variations chronologically: The first chapter describes “The Time of the Prophets”, people who claim to be prophets (or whom others accuse of such a claim) and use this claim to rebel against authority. It is the period of the installation of Islam and of the revolt against its mainly Arab establishment by people who were excluded from the benefits of the Islamic Empire. The fact that they had converted to Islam made them expect to share in its benefits. Different rebellions were carried out in the name of specific, possibly heterodox, forms of Islam in which prophethood seems to have played a fundamental role. Chapter 2 is about the rise of the Fà†imid dynasty and discusses the place of the Fà†imids in the general messianism of the Islamic world

39 C. Ginzburg, The Cheese and the Worms, Turin, Einaudi, 1976, Eng. trans. Johns Hopkins Univ. Press 1980, pp. 77–78.

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circa 900. Chapter 3 deals with al-Andalus (Muslim Spain) where rebels against power, such as 'Umar Ibn Óafßùn have messianic tones and striking similarities with the Fà†imid Mahdì. In the “Sectarian milieu” of Spain after the Muslim conquest, I deal here with the influence of Jewish and Christian messianism on Islam, and I trace the trajectory, on both sides of the Mediterranean, of beliefs such as the Last Emperor who will unify humanity under the same creed. Chapters 4 and 5 analyze the rise of Sufism and trace its contribution to Mahdism in the Maghreb mainly to the debate over community leadership with its ideas about prophethood. This presentation of the contribution of Sufism is organised around two key concepts in Maghrebian Sufism: grace and rigour. Chapter 4, “Rigour” centers on legalism and proceeds from a general discussion of the ˙isba to recount its development in the West becoming the basis for “enlightened violence”. It includes the rise of the Almoravid dynasty considered as a movement of reaction promoted by màlikite scholars against Shì 'ism. Chapter 5 deals with the concept of “Grace”, from a general discussion of the Imamate, through al-Ghazàlì’s doctrine of dhawq, to al-Suhrawardì followed by an account of the development of illuminationist Sufism in the West from Ibn Masarra to Ibn al-'Arabì. In conclusion to both chapters, I provide an account of Sufi figures who combined both grace and rigour in their attitude to authority. Chapter 6 is about the Mahdì Ibn Tùmart: in the first half of the chapter I try to reconstruct his career, in the second half his doctrine. In this way I place him in practice (i.e. politically) as the last and the greatest of the prophets of the Berbers and in principle (i.e. religiously) as the locus for all the different strands that have been discussed in the previous two chapters: rigour, grace, illuminationism. Chapter 7 is dedicated to the rebellious Mahdìs of the Almohad and post-Almohad periods who embody the failure of the Almohads both politically and doctrinally. Chapter 8 covers the 13th century, the rise of the shurafà" (people who claim to be descendants of the Prophet, members of the ahl al-bayt) as a hegemonic group in the Maghreb and the developments which make it convergent with Sufism; the Marìnid dynasty’s attempt to capitalize on this rise is described. Chapter 9 covers the arrival of the Sa'adian dynasty and its rise as a Mahdist movement uniting both sufism and sharìfism. Chapter 10 deals with A˙mad al-Manßùr (d. 1603), the most important Sa'adian sultan, who turned Mahdism into a kind of state doctrine and imperial legitimization, using it as a means of

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propaganda. Chapter 11 discusses the Moriscos (the last Muslims of Spain, forcibly converted to Christianity after the conquest of Granada), their apocalyptic and messianic beliefs. As in Chapter 3, I deal here with a Sectarian Milieu in which Messianism is used in a polemical way amongst religions in conflict. I show how apocalyptic and messianic ideas are used in common by the three religions (Chistianity, Judaism, Islam) to construct an ideology of exclusion. Chapter 12 is about Ibn Abì Ma˙allì, who rebelled against the Sa'adian dynasty in 1610 and is the last Maghrebi Mahdì to have taken power.

CHAPTER ONE

THE TIME OF THE PROPHETS. THE CONVERSION OF THE MAGHREB TO ISLAM

The “Age of Conversions” For a long time the traditional interpretation of Islamic history maintained that conversion to Islam took place on a massive scale during the great wave of lightning conquests that took place over the roughly 100 years following the Prophet Mu˙ammad’s death. However, since the 1960s, scholarly research centred on diverse aspects of the early Islamic world has provided the basis for a re-interpretation of the documentary sources. The result is a new consensus that this ‘age of conversions’, by the end of which the majority of the inhabitants of the territories making up the Muslim Empire had become Muslim, was somewhat longer than previously thought.1 What has been called ‘the age of conversions’ constitutes a period which we now believe encompassed the first three centuries of Islam, at the very least.2 In most areas, it appears that the rate of conversion to Islam showed its steepest growth not during the 1st/7th century, but rather in the late 3rd/9th century and all of the 4th/10th,3 and in some regions, such as al-Andalus, the process of conversion conti-nued into the beginning of the 6th/12th century.4 The new body of work on the ‘age of conversions’ was just one part of a great revisionist debate revolving around early Islam and in particular the shaping of what would later come to be recognised 1 This changing perspective can be seen from D.C. Dennet, Conversion and the poll tax in early Islam, Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1950, to R.W. Bulliet, Conversion to Islam in the Medieval Period: an essay in quantitative history, Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1979. 2 M.G. Morony, “The age of conversions: a re-assessment”, in M. Gervers and R.J. Bikhazi, Conversion and continuity. Indigenous Christian communities in Islamic lands, eighth to eighteenth centuries, Toronto, 1990, pp. 135–50. 3 M. Brett, “The spread of Islam in Egypt and North Africa”, in M. Brett (ed.), Northern Africa. Islam and Modernization, London, 1973, pp. 1–12; I. Lapidus, “The conversion of Egypt to Islam”, Israel Oriental Studies 2 (1972) pp. 248–62. 4 D. Wasserstein, The rise and fall of the Party Kings, Princeton, 1985, pp. 33–8.

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as sunnite Islam, a debate that has been mentioned in the Introduction. According to the new view, this formative period occupied the three centuries after the death of the Prophet, rather than just one. Naturally, this revisionist debate is not free of controversy, but Muslims and non-Muslims alike have observed that what Mu˙ammad’s followers experienced as ‘Islam’ during the actual lifetime of the Prophet and his Companions must have been quite different from the experience of being Muslim three centuries later, by which time most Muslims were the descendants of Christians (and to a much lesser extent Jews and Zoroastrians). This is because in its formative period Islam must inevitably have been affected by its assimilation of so many converts from other religions, in particular Christianity.5 The Christians of the Middle East and the Mediterranean were members of ancient communities with highly developed traditions of law, education and religious discourse. Over the centuries, Islam further developed its own traditions, and it is difficult to imagine that this process would not be affected by the assimilation of large masses of converts from these older communities. Somehow Islam had to accommodate and respond to the social and spiritual needs of these converts. Furthermore, the very nature of conversion itself must have been affected by this process of assimilation, given that Islamic dogma and law were as yet incompletely defined at this time and the concept of the ‘Believer’ was itself still in flux. The scholars who have addressed these issues have had to pose the question: At what point was a convert regarded as a Muslim and could legitimately regard himself as such? The answers to these questions varied by geographic region and according to the various stages in the evolving definition of Islam. However, the current consensus is that, at least during the earliest centuries of Islam, the first step in conversion consisted of a kind of ‘adherence’, expressed in changes in outward appearance and social behaviour, which allowed initial entry into the community of believers. Hence conversion had a gradual, progressive character that did not involve a sharp break with the past. Real religious conviction and familiarity with Islamic dogma and ritual were acquired only after the convert had been immersed in a community that was already regarded as Muslim. 5 D. Wasserstein, “Islamisation and the conversion of the Jews”, M. García-Arenal (ed.) Conversions islamiques. Identités religieuses en Islam méditerranéen, Paris, 2002, pp. 49–60.

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The appearance of sectarian movements such as the Zaydites, Ismà'ilites and Ibà∂ites also played an important role in the conversion process, since such sects showed considerably more proselytising zeal than did the armies of the initial Muslim conquerors, who were more concerned with the submission of the conquered populations to their new rulers than with their submission to a new God. Some of these sects, particularly the Khàrijites with their concept of salvation through community, practised a style of preaching that was apocalyptic or millenarianist in character and which proved eminently attractive to populations on the periphery of the new empire that were either non-Muslim or only superficially Islamicised. The reasons for conversion in the early years of Islam have also been the subject of intense debate. Some conversion seems to have been motivated by internal divisions and sectarian conflicts within the non-Muslim communities. The social restrictions, inferior legal status and heavy tax burden imposed by the Muslim rulers on their non-Muslim subjects undoubtedly also played a role.6 Many converts were attracted by the social prestige associated with belonging to the dominant elite. However, socially motivated conversion depended also—and perhaps necessarily first—on the existence of social contact between Muslims and non-Muslims. The greater the proportion of Muslims in the population, the steeper the conversion curve.7 The Islamization process required the physical presence of believers, the building of mosques and even the creation of a sense of local history, frequently by the creation of fa∂à"il traditions.8 If we accept the possibility that the Muslim armies may have been driven by a belief in the end of the world among other motivating factors,9 then the building of mosques and other permanent structures would not have been immediately promoted by the conquerors.10 Qur"àn 26:128–135 says “Do you build villas on every high place to amuse yourselves? And do you get for yourselves fine buildings in the hope

6

Lapidus, “The conversion of Egypt to Islam”, p. 260. Bulliet, Conversion to Islam in the Medieval Period. An essay in quantitative History, Cambridge, 1979, p. 31. 8 D. Cook, “Muslim Apocalyptic and Jihad”, JSAI 20 (1996) p. 80. 9 D. Cook, “Muslim Apocalyptic and Jihad”; F. Donner, “The sources of Islamic Conceptions of War” in J. Kelsay and J.T. Johnson (eds.), Just War and Jihad, New York, 1991, pp. 43–46. 10 M.J. Kister, “A booth like the booth of Moses. A study of an early ˙adìth”, BSOAS 25 (1962) pp. 150–155. 7

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of living therein (for ever)? Truly I fear for you the penalty of the Great Day ( yawm 'aΩìm)”. This chapter deals with Mahdism between the middle of the second/eighth century,—the beginning of Morocco’s political independence from the Eastern Empire—and the start of the fifth/eleventh century. A period clearly belonging to the “age of conversions”. I do not intend to outline a complete history of those centuries, but simply to point out references during this period to the existence of beliefs in a Mahdì or messianic prophet acting as community leader and place those figures in the context of the conversion process. Such references sometimes take the form of descriptions of movements of protest and revolt involving a leader who saw himself as a Mahdì, or was considered as such by his followers or detractors. At other times, they take the form of messianic or redemptionist arguments employed by those in power as a way of legitimising their own established interests. Thus, for example, the first main figure I will study is Idrìs b. 'Abd Allàh, who was descended from the Prophet Mu˙ammad through Mu˙ammad’s daughter Fà†ima and his grandson Óasan. Idrìs is generally considered in normative history books of Morocco to have been its first independent ruler and the first one to make use of the concept of the Mahdì. By laying claim to a lineage going back to Fà†ima he was also the first monarch to be described as “al-Fà†imì”, a term which, as we will see, came to be systematically used as a synonym for the word Mahdì. However, before considering Idrìs and other early Mahdìs, it is first necessary to examine some aspects of the background history of the Maghreb. I will focus in particular on what is known of the Berber populations both before and immediately after the period of the Arab conquest as a way of understanding subsequent developments.

The conversion of the Maghreb The Arabo-Islamic conquests of the first two centuries of the Hijra created an empire which stretched from the Atlantic Ocean to Central Asia. Byzantine Africa was conquered by the Arabs in a period of about fifty years (655–705), and became known as the province of Ifrìqiya, with its capital in Qayrawàn. Over the following five years, the Arabs advanced as far as Tangier and then crossed over into the Iberian Peninsula of the Visigoths, which was conquered between

the time of the prophets

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711 and 715 by troops under the command of ˇàriq ibn Ziyàd. The Atlas, Sùs, Dar'a, and Tafilelt regions remained outside the borders of the new Arabo-Islamic empire until at least the second half of the eighth century.11 Thus the Arab conquest was initially restricted to those territories which were within the limes of the old Roman Empire, i.e. the provinces of Mauritania Caesariensis and Tingitana, and expeditions to remoter regions like the Sùs were not undertaken until the decade of the 730s.12 The Arabs pursued very different policies in the territories which they conquered on either side of the Mediterranean: whereas in the Iberian Peninsula they forged alliances with groups of ruling Visigoths, their allies in North Africa were not representatives of Latin and Christian groups, but their Berber subjects, defined as “pagans” by their latest conquerors. We have already signalled the difference between the pace of the Arab military conquest, the jihàd conquest, and that of the process of Islamisation of the new territories, just as this second process should itself be distinguished from the process of elaboration of Islam which was happening at the same time. Islamisation was not simply a matter of religious conversion to a new faith, but a veritable reshaping of the pre-existing civilization under the new rubric of Islam. Nonetheless, very little is known about the Berbers before the start of this process. Mediterranean Christian converts in the period of Late Antiquity are known to have debated how much of their pagan past could be incorporated in the new religion, even focusing on the issue of how much of their past beliefs would have to be preserved for their existence to continue to make sense. For these converts, there could not be a Christian present if the pagan past were not incorporated and valued as part of their tradition. Within the Muslim world, groups like the Persians also maintained knowledge and awareness of their pre-Islamic past beyond the time of their conversion to Islam. However, no records of such debates have survived for equivalent processes in North Africa. 11 M. Brett, “The Islamisation of Morocco. From the Arabs to the Almoravids”, Morocco. The Journal of the Society for Moroccan Studies, London, II (1992) pp. 57–71. 12 Ibn 'Idhàrì, Al-Bayàn al-mughrib fì ikhtißàr akhbàr mulùk al-Andalus wa-l-Maghrib, French trans. E. Fagnan: Histoire de l’Afrique et de l’Espagne intitulée al-Bayano’l Mogrib, Algiers, 1901–1904, I, pp. 26 and 51–52. Vid. T. Lewicki, “Les origines de l’Islam dans les tribus berbères du Sahara occidental: Mùsà ibn Nußayr et 'Ubayd Allàh ibn al-Óab˙àb”, Studia Islamica 32 (1970) pp. 203–214.

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It seems acceptable to assume that the degree of Romanization and Christianization of the Berbers before the conquest must have had its influence on their subsequent adherence to Islam, but how or where this occurred is a controversial issue. There seem to have been wide differences among the Berbers, who ranged from urbandwelling, largely Romanized and Christianized groups to populations in which there had been significant resistance to assimilation during both the Roman and Byzantine periods, and where pagan practices had remained predominant. The distinction which Arab sources make between “Butr” and “Barànis” Berbers has traditionally been interpreted as relating to the extent of each group’s assimilation of Roman practices. Michael Brett, for example, points out that in the work of Ibn 'Abd al-Óakam, the term “Barànis” is generally reserved for North African populations which practised the Christian religion.13 The “Barànis” tribes, located within the Roman limes, would therefore have been the first to undergo the process of Islamisation.14 By contrast, Richard Bulliet believes that of the two groups the “Butr” would have felt the greatest loyalty to Christianity, given their way of life and their inclusion in Roman social and economic structures, which he links to the emergence of certain agricultural practices and techniques. Bulliet also claims that the Butr were strongly influenced by Jewish beliefs, and that those Butr who were Christians were Donatists.15 It is perhaps significant that Butr tribes were involved in the Khàrijite revolts of 740, discussed later in this chapter, and the Kàhina resistance to the Arab conquest. Historians have noted similarities between Khàrijite and Donatist doctrines and although a specific link between the Butr, the Donatists and the Khàrijites has yet to be proved, there is no doubt that such a link would explain a great deal.16 Mohammed Talbi has also postulated a correlation between the schismatic beliefs of new converts to Islam and their previous adherence to Manichaeism or other heterodox doctrines.17

13 M. Brett, “The Arab conquest and the rise of Islam in North Africa”, The Cambridge History of Africa, II, Cambridge, 1978. 14 E. Manzano, “Beréberes de al-Andalus: los factores de una evolución histórica”, Al-Qan†ara 11 (1990) pp. 397–428. 15 R. Bulliet, “Botr et Bèranes: hypothèses sur l’histoire des berbères”, Annales, ESC, 1 (1981) pp. 104–116. 16 Bulliet, “Botr et Bèranes”, pp. 113–114, considers, citing Ibn 'Abd al-Óakam, that there is sufficient evidence for this. 17 M. Talbi, “De l’I'tizal en Ifriqiya au IIIe/IXe siècle” and “La conversion des

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In conclusion, it can be seen that interpretation of the early years is far from simple, as indeed must be the case when the dichotomies used by Arab sources, such as Barànis/Butr, Íanhàja/Zanàta, or nomad/sedentary, are almost certainly fictitious, like all such clearcut antitheses. These dichotomies were the artificial creations of Arab conquerors who felt the need to classify in order to dominate the newly acquired territories, and too eager an acceptance of such distinctions has in the past facilitated the construction of unreliable hypotheses like that of so-called “Berber particularity” so dear to French colonial historiography.18 Muslim conquerors discriminated between “pagans” and what they called ahl al-kitàb, or “peoples of the book”, i.e. members of revealed religions (including zoroastrians). In North Africa, the term was used to describe both Christians and Jews. “People of the book” were able to adhere to the dhimma pact, which permitted them to continue practising their religion in exchange for the payment of certain taxes and the acceptance of a protective statute. This statute laid down a series of restrictions on full participation in the new society, and this meant that elite groups of Christians and Jews with previous experience of power were often among the first to convert to the new religion in order to preserve their social status. In some of those North African areas for which better records exist, such as Ifrìqiya (Tunisia), groups of ruling Christians seem to have preferred to emigrate to the northern Mediterranean.19 Small Christian redoubts are also known to have held out in North Africa until the early 12th century,20 and a considerable Jewish minority existed until contemporary times.

Berbères au Harigisme 'abadito-sufrite et la nouvelle carte politique au Maghreb au II/VIII siècle”, both in his Etudes d’histoire ifriqiyenne et de la civilisation musulmane médiévale, Tunis, 1982, pp. 379–419 and 13–80 respectively. 18 J. Wansbrough, “On recomposing the islamic history of North Africa”, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society 32 (1969) pp. 161–170, p. 169. 19 M. Talbi, “Le Christianisme maghrébin: de la conquête musulmane à sa disparition. Une tentative d’explication”, in M. Gervers and R. Bizaki, Conversion and Continuity. Indigenous Christian communities in Islamic lands. Eight to Eighteeth Centuries, Toronto, Ontario, 1990, pp. 313–354. 20 J. Cuocq, L’Eglise d’Afrique du Nord du II ème siècle au XII ème siècle, Paris, 1984, pp. 322 and ff., and M. de Epalza (“Falta de obispos y conversión al Islam entre los cristianos de al-Andalus”, Al-Qan†ara, 15 (1994) pp. 385–400) maintains that the lack of bishops was a fundamental factor in the formal conversion to islam of the Christian populations.

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The Berbers, however, converted to the religion of their conquerors en masse but I insist that what we can ascertain seems like submission to new rulers more than to a new God. The information concerning conversion in the Maghreb is scant. Although records for al-Andalus do not contain direct references to Christians converting to Islam until the mid-9th century, indirect references are made to the Muslim affiliations of leading Hispanic families, whose origin can be deduced from their names. In the Maghreb, the issue is complicated by the fact that not all Berbers were pagan, although Arabic sources yield very little information on such people, and because conversion did not always result in a name-change: there are references to Muslims bearing Berber names until the Late Middle Ages. To make matters even more difficult, we do not possess for the Maghreb the rich onomastic literature, in the form of bio-bibliographical dictionaries, which has proved to be so helpful in the reconstruction of the history of al-Andalus in its formative period. Very little is known, then, about this crucial phase of Islamisation of the Western territories of the Islamic Empire. One thing is nonetheless clear: it did not occur at the same speed as the process of Arabisation of these same areas, and here distinctions again have to be made between events in the Iberian peninsula and in North Africa. Berber, like Arabic, was in al-Andalus the language of the conquerors, but Arabic became predominant replacing other languages. In alAndalus, Arabic is known to have become the predominant written language by the 4th/10th century, and the main spoken language by the following century. Berber disappeared from al-Andalus as a spoken language very soon after the conquest, and subsequent emigrating waves of Berbers were arabised very rapidly.21 A totally different picture emerges in Morocco, where several Berber dialects have survived to the present day. For many years, the only Moroccan cities which were arabised were those which were occupied or founded by the Arabs, and the spread of Arabic was related to the establishment of commercial routes rather than the process of Islamisation. Indeed, before the arrival of the Ma'qil Arabs, a faction of the Banù Hilàl who were placed in rural areas by the Almohads in the 6th/12th

21 Vid. D. Wasserstein, “The language situation in al-Andalus” in M. Fierro and J. Samsó (eds.), The Formation of al-Andalus, II (The Formation of the Classical Islamic World, vol. 47), Variorum, Ashgate, 1998, pp. 3–35.

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century, Arabic speakers continued to live almost exclusively in the cities.22 Given that all available Arabic sources are city-based, very little material is therefore available for the study of non-citadine groups, and other disciplines, such as archaeology, have only recently started to yield further information.23 The spread and development of Islam in the Maghreb during the early centuries was described by writers who were foreigners in time and space (i.e. Eastern authors writing several centuries after the events) and these writers had no interest in taking into account the pre-Islamic traditions of a country faced with the challenge of a new faith. Their literature, written in Arabic and strictly from the converts’ point of view, is governed by the intellectual and cultural preoccupations of the new religion and civilization to which it gave rise, and these preoccupations often obscure historical reality more than they clarify it.24 The fact that such records are always written in Arabic also brings me to address the conceptual problem of the terminology to be used in this chapter: to give one example, when an Arabic source accuses a Berber enemy of acting as a nabì, or prophet, it is difficult to know exactly how that concept would have been understood by those who followed or supported the nabì in question. What virtues would they have attributed to him, and what might they have expected from a man described in such a way? As if all these difficulties in estimating the speed and depth of Islamisation were not enough, there is one additional difficulty to which I have already made reference in the Introduction. In the first Islamic centuries, the boundaries between theological tendencies remained blurred and, more importantly, a clearly defined “orthodox” body of dogma was yet to be defined. The traditional notion of the Muslim heresiographs, unchallenged for many years by modern scholars, that the different religious movements of later Islam were already well-defined by the early period is no longer accepted by the majority of specialists. As I have explained in the Introduction, even in the East the various strands which were finally woven into the fabric of 22 Peuplement et arabisation au Maghreb Occidental. Actes reunis et préparés par J. Aguadé, P. Cressier et A. Vicente, Madrid-Zaragoza, 1998. 23 M. García-Arenal and P. Cressier (eds.), La genesse de la ville islamique au Maghreb et al-Andalus médieval, Madrid, 1998. 24 M. Brett, “The Islamisation of Morocco”, pp. 57–58; R. Brunschvig, “Ibn Abdalhákam et la Conquête de l’Afrique du Nord par les Arabes”, Annales de l’Institut des Etudes Orientales IV (1942–7) pp. 108–155.

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Islamic doctrine in the 3rd/9th century have still not been satisfactorily isolated and understood. Theology and asceticism, kalàm and sufism, all emerged from the same milieu, and the terms which are used to describe this milieu and which will be used in the pages that follow (zuhhàd, mu'tazila, shì'ism) were very vaguely applied to a wide variety of attitudes and beliefs which took time to be clearly defined. It was only in a later period that these terms came to stand for more specific religious groups and movements.25 In addition, many of these early movements had some form of political participation and compromise, and some of them even identified fully with a political party. Such movements cannot be properly understood within the terms of an analysis that reduces them to the sphere of the kalàm. Religious movements, such as that of the mu'tazila, often contained political factions or forces operating alongside others which were completely apolitical. To sum up by paraphrasing the words of Wansbrough’s famous review of Talbi’s work,26 one cannot help doubting whether the history of the first Islamic centuries of the Maghreb can ever be written on the basis of the records available to us. Not only are such records written at several removes in time and even space, as I have argued. They also belong to a historiographical tradition which was far from neutral or profane in its treatment of what were considered sacred events in the history of the community of believers. Wansbrough has therefore suggested that the categories “sunnite” and “shì'ite” are anachronistic when applied in a retrospective fashion to this period. These categories were the product of an interpretation of Maghrebi history in 'Abbàsid and Eastern terms. They excluded all consideration of the period of elaboration of Islam, or of the process of Islamisation as it was then experienced in the Maghreb. Chroniclers used terms that were familiar to them to explain a process, that of the inclusion of the Maghreb in the 'Abbàsid empire, which was fraught with conflict.

25 For example see J. Van Ess, “Beginnings of Islamic Theology”, pp. 87 and ff.; S. Stroumsa, “The beginnings of the Mu'tazila reconsidered”, JSAI 13 (1990) pp. 265–293. 26 Wansbrough, “On recomposing the islamic history of North Africa”, pp. 161–170.

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The Revolt of the Berbers Throughout the first centuries, relations between Berber converts and their conquerors were difficult and unstable. In the 2nd/8th century, recently converted Berbers could at best aspire to the social status of second-class Muslims and this caused great resentment amongst the Berber population. Whenever Berber groups led revolts against the political authorities or in protest against Arab aristocratic dominance, their alleged apostasy was used as a pretext for charging tributes in the form of male and female slaves who were, in principle, Islamic converts.27 Male Berber slaves were employed in Arab armies as mawàlì or “clients” forming regiments of second-grade Muslims unentitled to an equal share of the spoils obtained.28 Such slaves were used as advance guards in military attacks, as when the Iberian Peninsula was conquered by Berbers under the mawlà ˇàriq ibn Ziyàd. Khàrijite missionaries entered the Maghreb from at least 95/714,29 and it was under the banner of Khàrijism that the Berber uprisings started. One of the most significant of all the Berber revolts was that which broke out in Tangier in 122/740 and eventually spread as far as Tripoli in Libya. The revolt was triggered by the new governor of the Maghreb, 'Ubayd Allàh b. al-Óab˙àb who, in 115/734, in order to supply slaves to the Eastern parts of the Muslim Empire, captured Berbers in the Sùs region in southern Morocco. His deputy in Tangier, who applied the same policies, was assassinated in 122/740 and the whole region rebelled under the leadership of Maysara, the chief of the Khàrijite Maghràwa tribe. Maysara occupied Tangier and was killed by his own men. The rebellion continued under Khàlid al-Zanàtì who led the tribes of Northern Morocco towards the Shaliff, routing the Arab armies on his way East. In 124/742 the governor of Qayrawàn managed to rout the rebel Berbers in two battles near the city which the Arab chronicles count among the

27 M. Brett, “The Arab conquest”, pp. 506–507. A similar process in al-Andalus is described in M. Fierro, “Cuatro preguntas en torno a Ibn Óafßùn”, Al-Qan†ara 21 (1995) pp. 221–257. 28 M. Talbi, Emirat Aghlabide, Paris, 1966, pp. 25–33. 29 M. Talbi, “La conversion des berbères au Harigisme Ibâdito-sufrite et la nouvelle carte politique du Maghreb au IIº/VIIIº siècle” in Etudes d’Histoire Ifriqiyenne et de la Civilisation Musulmane Médiévale 26 (1982) pp. 13–80, pp. 31 ff.

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most decisive in the history of Islam, equal in importance to the battle of Badr in which the Prophet defeated his Meccan opponents. But the rebellion was resumed in 137/755 and one year later the Warfajjùma tribe of southern Tunisia captured Qayrawàn. The Warfajjùma belonged to the Sufrite branch of Khàrijism, one of the most extremes, and outraged Muslims by the atrocities they commited in Qayrawàn, where they entered the mosque on horseback. In Tunisia, the Berber Khàrijites were routed in the North between 155–158/ 772–775, but remained strong in the extreme south of the country. To the West of Tunis the rebels remained in control. The Banù Yifrin and Maghìla tribes, both khàrijites, held Tlemcen, and two new centres of khàrijism were established by the middle of the 8th century: Sijilmàsa, a ßufrite centre which was to be ruled by the Midrar dynasty until the end of the 10th century, and Tàhart, capital of a 'Ibà∂i state ruled by the Rustumid dynasty until its invasion by the Fà†imids in 296/909. The fact that the Berber revolt was carried out under the banner of Khàrijism, proves the frustration of 8th-century Berbers and their interest in becoming full members of the governing community of believers, and in sharing or participating in the exercise of power. The revolt was one of the many movements linked to the issue of the legitimate succession of the Prophet Mu˙ammad as head of the community; indeed, it might be said that such movements played an important role in defining and elaborating the dogma which came to be known as “orthodox”, sunnite, over the course of the first Islamic centuries. The twin issues of the legitimacy of authority and the legality of the community’s political leadership were debated at length during the early decades. Although details of these debates cannot be given here,30 they can be summarised as revolving around two conflicting principles which will recur in the chapters that follow. On the one hand was the idea that the Imàm should hold his post by public consensus and consent, and be ratified by representatives of the community (usually, the 'ulamà"). Opposed to this was the notion that the Imàm should be chosen on the basis of kinship with the Prophet, i.e. by prophetic lineage. The first of these notions succeeded with the establishment of the Màliki school of law 30 See M. Sharon, “The development of the debate around the legitimacy of authority in Early Islam”, JSAI 5 (1984) pp. 121–141.

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by the jurist Sa˙nùn (d. 240/855) at Qayrawàn in the 9th century, when it became an aspect of the Law of God as defined and elaborated by the four schools of sunnite Islam. The second succeeded with the prestige of descent from the Prophet whose origins in the Maghreb may be traced to the arrival of Idrìs in the middle of the 8th century. However, both principles were still fluid, part of the controversy over the nature of the faith engendered by the large scale process of conversion. This produced on the one hand enormous expectation and on the other, equally widespread frustration when the conversion did not bring about the total integration of the converts into the Muslim community. Two anecdotes from the 10th century emphasize on the one hand the vital question of membership of the community and on the other, the equally vital question of leadership. Both belong to the màlikite sunnite tradition established by Sa˙nùn, and are directed at the opposite position represented at the time of writing by the shì'ite Fà†imids. In the first, Sa˙nùn visited a man on the verge of death who was full of fear and doubts about his own knowledge and observance of Islam. Sa˙nùn asked the man, “Do you believe in the prophets from the first to the last, in the revelation, in the final judgement, in paradise and in hell? Do you believe that the most eminent Imàms after the Prophet were Abù Bakr and 'Umar, that the Qur"àn is the word of God and is uncreated, that God sees everything on the day of judgement and that he is seated on his throne? Have you by any chance rebelled against the Imàm, though he be unjust, with a sword in your hand?” “No”, said the agonizing man, “I believe all of this”. “Then”, said Sa˙nùn, “you may die in peace.”31 In the second, two inhabitants of Qayrawàn, Abù l-'Abbàs and Abù Mu˙riz, were speaking of a third, who was black. Abù l-'Abbàs said, “If you could only see how he leads military expeditions, then you would see something admirable.” To this Abù Mu˙riz replied, “But he does not know God”, and turning to the black man, asked him “Is Mu˙ammad the Prophet an angel or a man?” The black man answered, “He is your master and mine”. “It is God who is 31 R.H. Idrìs, “Contribution à l’histoire de l’Ifrikiya. Tableau de la vie intelectuelle et administrative à Kairouan sous les Aglabites et les Fatimites (4 premiers siècles de l’Hégire) d’après le Riyàd En Nufùs de Abù Bakr al-Màlikì”, Revue de Études Islamiques, Cahiers I (1935) pp. 105–77, pp. 125–126.

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your master”, rectified Abù Mu˙riz.32 The black man had in fact used the formula applied to the Imàm in the alternative creed of the Fà†imids.33 Both anecdotes exemplify my thesis at the beginning of this chapter, that conversion in early Islam meant above all membership of the community of the faithful whose faith was certainly in God but more importantly in the representative of God. At the same time, like all profound and radical changes, this widescale process of conversion produced enormous expectations as well as anxiety, fear and disorientation. These expectations often turned to frustration when conversion did not bring with it the desired acceptance within the dominant culture. Sociologists and anthropologists have made it clear that millenarianism is often born out of the search for a tolerably coherent system of values, a new cultural identity and a regained sense of identity and self-respect. In the Iberian Peninsula and the Maghreb the initial Khàrijite reaction to conquest and inclusion in the Arab world was followed after the break-up of the Arab dominion by a whole series of initiatives that ranged from the acceptance of new messages from the East to the imitation of the Prophet and his example. It began with the Idrìsids, whose message of revolt on behalf of a descendant of the Prophet was at the opposite extreme from the Khàrijite call for the best believer, “were he a black Ethiop”.

Time of the Prophets: Idrìs and the Idrìsids The history of the Idrìsid dynasty is extremely difficult to ascertain since textbooks have turned it into the “inaugural story” of Morocco, with all the features and proportions of a founding myth. In this myth, the Idrìsids are seen as responsible for the Islamisation of Morocco and the legitimisers of a sacred Moroccan geography which dates its own origins from the moment of its conversion to Islam. The fact that the Idrìsids founded the city of Fez was to give them complete retrospective political primacy after the 14th century, when Marìnid historiographers began to project the capital’s contempo-

32 33

R.H. Idrìs, “Contribution à l’histoire de l’Ifrikiya”, p. 129. M. Brett, The Rise of the Fatimids, p. 105.

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rary splendours upon the past, and to find in Idrìsid protection a basis for their own political legitimacy.34 The 14th century also witnessed the gradual sacralisation of the figure of Idrìs, who became an inevitable reference in all hagiographical sources. From this point on there was to be no saint, founder of a †arìqa or establisher of a zàwiya who did not claim descent from the Idrìsids, and to this day every region of Morocco contains cities whose foundation is attributed to members of the dynasty. The workings of this process will be covered in my discussion of the period during which it occurred, i.e. after the rise to power of the Marìnids. Despite this subsequent emphasis on the importance of the Idrìsids, contemporary sources contain surprisingly little information on them.35 There are no complete histories of the dynasty, and only brief references in the works of Eastern and Andalusian geographers like al-Ya'qùbì or al-Bakrì. Isolated items of data can also be found in authors like al-ˇabarì. These records, though couched in the kind of doctrinally imprecise language to be expected in the second century of Islam, show that the Idrìsids were at first regarded (I would say correctly) as zaydite shì'ites. This is a view which disappears from later historiography, where they become the champions of the Sunna and the authors of Moroccan Islamisation. This interpretative shift clearly derived from an “ideological” and legitimizing use of history by the Idrìsids themselves, but it was also due to the way in which the perception of Shì'ism had altered since the 4th/10th century.36 Idrìs was the first pretender to the Moroccan throne to make use of the term Mahdì. The word had already been used in the East, although without all of the messianic connotations it was later to acquire. It was first used during the Second Civil War, after the death of Mu'àwiya, to describe the long-awaited sovereign who would restore Islam to its primitive purity. Of the Umayyad caliphs, Sulaymàn (96/715) seems to have been the first to present himself to his people as the Mahdì who would restore justice after the oppression exercised by his predecessors.37 The 'Abbàsid revolutionary movement 34

M. García-Arenal, E. Manzano, “Idrìssisme et villes idrìssides”, Studia Islamica 82 (1995) pp. 5–33. 35 Ismà'ìl al-'Arabì, Dawlat al-Adàrisa, Beirut, 1983, pp. 51 and ff. 36 As proposed by A. Laroui, L’histoire du Maroc. Un essai de synthèse, Paris, 1970, p. 99. 37 W. Madelung, art. “Mahdì” in EI 2.

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brought about the emergence, and received the full support, of messianic expectation. The black flags of the 'Abbàsids were raised in Khuràsàn in about 128/746, and this use of the black flag has been related to the messianic and eschatological prophecies and expectations which circulated among the discontented populations subject to Umayyad power, other rebels having used such flags before the 'Abbàsids.38 The 'Abbàsid caliphate in turn was forced to deal with messianic rebellions from the very beginning. A pro-Umayyad uprising occurred in Syria in 134/752, and figures within this movement started to preach the existence of a messianic figure from the old, deposed dynasty who would return to the world to establish the realm of justice on earth. During the same period, Mu˙ammad alNafs al-Zakiyya “of the Pure Soul”, who claimed descent from 'Alì, led a rebellious movement against the 'Abbàsid caliph Abù Ja'far alManßùr (145/762–63). Mu˙ammad proclaimed himself Mahdì in Jerusalem and when his movement met with failure there, repeated the attempt in Medina, where he was defeated and killed in 145/762. This is the beginning of the period described by Bernard Lewis as “The revolt of Islam”,39 which was characterised by a great variety of messianic beliefs. Such beliefs were made up of two different elements: on the one hand, there was expectation of the arrival of a second Mu˙ammad and on the other, the anticipation of a second 'Alì.40 In the case of Mu˙ammad al-Nafs al-Zakiyya, his revolt against the 'Abbàsids was not motivated, like that of the Khàrijites, by defiance of the principle that the caliph should descend from the Prophet, but rather by his belief that he had a better lineage than the 'Abbàsids. Al-Nafs al-Zakiyya was known as “al-Fà†imi” because, unlike the other 'Alids who constituted the Shì'a and also unlike the 'Abbàsids against whom he fought, he traced his lineage back to Fà†ima, the Prophet’s daughter, through al-Óasan, her elder son, and thus claimed the Caliphate by right of primogeniture. He was recognised as a Mahdì by his followers in Medina and he used the term to describe himself in a letter to the caliph al-Manßùr.41 D. Alexander, “The Black Flag of the 'Abbasids”, Gladius XX (2000) pp. 221–238. 39 B. Lewis, The Arabs in History, London, 1950, chap. 6. 40 M. Brett, The Rise of the Fatimids, pp. 127 and ff. 41 R. Traini, “La corrispondenza tra al-Manßùr e Mu˙ammad an-Nafs az-zakiyya”, Annali de l’Istituto Universitario Orientale di Napoli XIV (1964) pp. 773–798. 38

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The followers of al-Nafs al-Zakiyya were zaydites, i.e. they belonged to one of the branches of the Shì'a, whose doctrine, that the Caliphate belonged to the descendant of 'Alì who arose with the sword to claim it, had not made expectations of the appearance of a Mahdì a central part of its preaching. However, the heresiograph Abù 'Ìsà al-Warràq claimed that some zaydite groups expected al-Nafs alZakiyya to “return” and that significant Mahdist movements were carried out in his name,42 in particular that of the Zanj in Iraq (255– 270/869–883). The leader of this movement, 'Alì ibn Mu˙ammad, claimed to descend from Zayd, a grandson of al-Óusayn, and identified himself with the zaydite belief that the caliphate should belong to the descendant of 'Alì who was strong enough to take it over. This revolt seems to have been comparable to other, later movements which sought to return the privileges of Islam to those deprived of their right, as Muslims, to a share in the gains of conquest and the empire. Its leader was denounced by the 'Abbàsids as a “false prophet” who, from his new capital al-Mukhtàra, the Chosen City, proclaimed himself the Mahdì who had been sent to restore the world to its state of original justice. A hundred years earlier Idrìs had likewise established his new capital, or chosen city al-'Aliyya, the “city of 'Alì”. The leader’s complete name was Idrìs b. 'Abd Allàh b. Óasàn b. 'Alì b. Abì ˇàlib and he was a brother of al-Nafs al-Zakiyya. According to al-Ash'arì (d. 324/935),43 he reached the Maghreb before the Battle of Fakhkh, which took place in 169/786 and where Mu˙ammad’s followers were defeated by the 'Abbàsid caliph. The more generally-accepted version is that he fled to the Maghreb after defeat in the battle.44 Idrìs I’s odyssey is less well-known than that of the Fà†imid Mahdì 'Abd Allàh, known in sunnite sources as 'Ubayd Allàh and discussed in the next chapter, but it resembles it in many notable ways,45 so much that they read as a calque. It is also strikingly similar to the odyssey of 'Abd al-Ra˙màn I al-Dàkhil, the Umayyad who fled Damascus and took refuge in al-Andalus: there is clearly a well 42 For example, that of al-Óusayn al-'Iyànì in Yemen. Vid. Madelung, art. “Mahdì” in EI 2. 43 Al-Ash'arì, Maqàlàt al-islamiyyìn, Cairo, 1950, T.I. p. 145. 44 Ibn al-Athìr (d. 630/1233), Annales du Maghreb et de l’Espagne, trans. E. Fagnan, Argel, 1898, p. 133. See art. “Idrìs I” in EI 1, Eustache. 45 Al-Bakrì, Kitàb al-masàlik, 268, Ibn Khaldùn, Histoire des Berbères, II, p. 559, Ibn 'Idhàrì, Al-Bayàn al-mughrib, I pp. 72 and 218.

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established topos at work. Persecuted by the 'Abbàsids, Idrìs travelled to Egypt and from there, thanks to the protection of a shì'ite named Wà∂i˙ who was a ßà˙ib al-barìd (postmaster), he managed to reach the extreme Maghreb via the Zab, travelling in disguise and assisted by the freed slave Rashìd.46 In the Maghreb, Idrìs was taken in by a mu'tazilite, Is˙àq b. Mu˙ammad b. 'Abd al-Óamìd, who was the chief of the Berber Awràba tribe which was based in Walìla (Volubilis) and whose ideas he adopted, according to al-Bakrì.47 The Awràba proclaimed as their Imàm the man now known as the founder of the Idrìsid dynasty in Morocco in the year 172/789. The ancient city of Volubilis still exercised control over the old commercial routes, and the Idrìsids were subsequently to use the network to their own advantage.48 We know very little about how the Idrìsids saw themselves. Very little can be said about the titles that they used, the way they interpreted their own origins and the meaning of their dynasty, or about the nature of their aspirations to the Imamate. At the beginning of this chapter I said that the Idrìsids were the first to be called in the Maghreb by the surname al-fà†imì or al-fà†imiyyùn, a term that we will see becoming synonymous with Mahdì, long before the appearance of the Fà†imids, the Ismà'ìlite dynasty which governed Ifrìqiya from 297/909 and moved to Egypt after its conquest in 358/969. Before this dynasty, the terms al-fà†imì or al-fà†imiyyùn were used in a pejorative sense by the 'Abbàsids to refer to those alids who claimed the Imamate for the descendants of 'Alì and Fà†ima and their followers. Mu˙ammad al-Nafs al-Zakiyya, as we have seen, was known by that epithet, which was probably used by his enemies—we have no evidence, in spite of the insistence of his propaganda on the name of Fà†ima, that he wished to be known by this name.49 The same can be said of his brother Idrìs and his descendants. Several geographical sources from the 4th/10th century (al-Mas'ùdì, al-I߆akhrì, Ibn Óawqal) all refer to Idrìs or his descendants as “alFà†imi”.50 Al-Muqaddasì also wrote an interesting passage which

46

Al-Bakrì, Masàlik, p. 237/121. Al-Bakrì, Masàlik, p. 231/118. 48 García-Arenal and Manzano, “Idrissisme et villes idrissides”. 49 M. Fierro, “On al-Fà†imì and al-fà†imiyyùn”, Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 20 (1996) pp. 130–61. 50 M. Fierro, “On al-Fà†imì and al-fà†imiyyùn”, pp. 130–161. 47

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deserves to be considered in this context because it establishes a doctrinal link between the Idrìsids and the Fà†imids. In this passage alMuqaddasì says that the Fà†imids, who are Ismà'ìlites, agree with the mu'tazilites in many ußùl, which are also the basis of the doctrine of the Idrìsids in the Sùs. This fact makes the Idrìsids, according to al-Muqaddasì, close to the Qarma†ians.51 A later source, Ibn al-Kha†ìb (8th/14th century) continues to describe the Idrìsids as Fà†imids,52 whereas Leo Africanus, in the 16th century, describes Idrìs as a “schismatic rebel”. “Schismatic” would be a perfectly acceptable translation of any of the Arabic terms shì'ite, mu'tazilite or Khàrijite. Ibn Khaldùn53 writes that the Idrìsids of Morocco used the term Imàm to describe Idrìs I and his son and heir Idrìs II, stating that “such is the term used among the shì 'ites”. We do, however, have two contemporary sources: coins, and a Latin letter from Sicily. Coins are a good vehicle for legitimising and propaganda, and numismatic studies can say a great deal about the ideology of the rulers who minted them: an Idrìsid dirham has been conserved which was produced in the mint of ˇudgha in 790 and bears the name of 'Alì ibn Abì ˇàlib,54 in whose memory the city al-'Aliyya was named. As for Idrìs II, a coin dated 197/812 carries the inscription “Mu˙ammad is God’s envoy and the Mahdì is Idrìs b. Idrìs”.55 On the other hand, the Latin letter is a letter dated 11 November 813 informing that the patrician Gregory of Sicily had received an embassy of Muslims from the Maghreb, with whom he had concluded a ten-year truce. During negotiations with the Muslims, Gregory reproached them for recent violations of the peace in the form of attacks by pirates. The Muslim ambassadors replied that their sovereign had been a very young child when his father died and that his death had been followed by a period of anarchy for several years, but that authority had now been re-asserted. They would now be able to ensure that the pact was respected, so

51 Al-Muqaddasì, A˙san al-taqàsìm fì ma'rifat al-aqàlìm, ed. M.J. de Goeje, Leiden, Brill, 1906, p. 238; C. Pellat, Description de l’Occident musulman au IV/X siècle, Algiers, 1950, pp. 46–47. Apud Fierro, pp. 143–144. 52 Ibn al-Kha†ìb, Kitàb a'màl al-a'làm, trad. Rafaela Castrillo, Madrid, 1983, p. 115. 53 Ibn Khaldùn, Muqaddima, trans. Slane, Paris, 1862–1868, I, p. 453 54 T.S. Noonan, “When and how dirhams first reached Russia. A numismatic critique of the Pirenne theory”, Cahiers du Monde Russe et Soviétique XXI, 3–4 (1980) p. 453. 55 D. Eustache, Corpus des dihrams idrisites et contemporaines, Rabat, 1971–1971, p. 199.

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long as the Muslims concerned were not from al-Andalus, which had its own government and against whom the Maghrebis were prepared to form an alliance with the Sicilians. These ambassadors must therefore have been sent by Idrìs II, who acceded to the throne as a new-born child. The passage of the letter which most interests me here is the following: “Pater istius Amiralmuminin qui nunc apud nos regnare videtur, defunctus est, et iste relictus est parvulus . . .”56 This is the only evidence we have that the Idrìsids officially used the title of amir al-mu"minìn—Idrìs II’s embassy clearly did so here in what seems to be a revindication of their Fà†imid legitimacy. Idrìs’ descendants did not, however, adopt the title of “caliph” (amir almu"minìn) and in the khu†ba they were called yà bn rasùl Allàh.57 That is to say, I have found no references in contemporary Arab sources to the Idrìsids making use of the title of “caliph”, although it is perhaps also worth mentioning the existence of some satirical verses about Idrìs II reproduced by al-Bakrì (writing circa 460/1068) which accused him of wanting to be a caliph (khalìfa).58 The Caliphate is inseparable from 'Alid claims and should certainly be considered part of the original revindication of Idrìs I, if not of Idrìs II after his majority, or of his descendants. The lack of contemporary data contrasts with the extraordinary cult of Idrìs II which occurred in later times, and will be considered further on in this book. This cult was closely associated with the city of Fez, “city of cities” whose foundation is attributed to Idrìs I. Idrìs built a first nucleus in about 172/789 which was completed by his son Idrìs II, who founded a city which he called al-'Aliyya (the city of 'Alì) in what is today the district of al-Qarawiyyìn.59 From the beginnings, however, we can see that the fledgling dynasty combined the concepts of descent from the Prophet and Mahdism, both of which were destined to be of immense importance in the religious and political history of the Maghreb. There is no doubt that these two notions, together with their foundation of Fez, provided the Idrìsids with very powerful legitimizing arguments. A fre56 Apud Talbi, Emirat Aghlabide, pp. 395–396 and n. 3. The complete text of the letter can be found in C. Cenni, Monumenta dominationes pontificiae, 2 vols, Rome, 1760–61, pp. 76–80. 57 Ibn Khordâdhbeh, Kitâb al-masâlik wa-l-mamâlik, ed. de Goeje, 2nd ed., Leiden, 1967, pp. 88–89. 58 Al-Bakrì, Masàlik, p. 239/122. 59 García-Arenal and Manzano, “Idrissisme et villes idrissides”, pp. 15 and ff.

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quently-cited prophetic tradition which is interpreted as referring to the ahl al-bayt says “Every bond of relationship and consanguinity (sabab wa-nasab) will be severed on the day of the Resurrection except mine”.60 This ˙adìth clearly reflects the attraction that the Berber tribes, in perpetual internal conflict between clans and unwilling to grant leadership to members of one clan to the detriment of others, may have felt towards choosing their leaders among members of the ahl al-bayt. But if we try to answer the question why the Awràba chose Idrìs or why they found his leadership legitimate—if, in other words, we want to know something about what sort of leadership it was—we cannot limit ourselves to supposing61 that there must have been a previous shì'ite da'wa or mission. To make such an interpretation would be to accept too literally what is described in the sources, which clearly resort to an explicative schema which later became recurrent, that of pointing to a heterodox da'wa to indicate a threat to the political order of the dàr al-islàm. In order to gain a more complete understanding, we must bear in mind the preceding and contemporary situation beginning with Mu'tazilism, the preaching that, we are led to believe, had won over the Awràba, the Berber who welcomed Idrìs.

Mu'tazilism Although the great Berber revolt of the mid-eighth century was Khàrijite in inspiration, giving rise to the first Berber states of the Muslim period, the frequent occurrence of the term mu'tazila in the sources points to the importance of this second strand of revolutionary preaching in the Maghreb. The problem is to explain its reception in the shadowy world of Islam in the Maghreb in the aftermath of the Khàrijite revolt. Ifrìqiya had been reclaimed for the empire by the 'Abbàsids, and the central Maghreb was held by the Khàrijite Ibn Rustam, while in Morocco we find not only khàrijites but mu'tazilites, occupants of a position which on the one hand resembled that of the khàrijites in its dislike of earthly authority but on the other is associated in the sources with Zaydism. Al-Ash'arì 60

Apud art. “Sharìf ” in EI 1. Talbi, Emirat Aghlabide; Laroui, Histoire du Maghreb. Un essai de synthèse, Rabat, 1977, p. 100. 61

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describes zaydism as intimately linked to mu'tazilism because of the relations between Wàßil b. 'A†à" and Zayd b. 'Alì. In the first half of the 2nd/8th century, Wàßil b. 'A†à", a disciple of Óasan al-Baßrì, founded what would grow to be one of the most important theological schools in all Islam, the mu'tazila. Very little is known of the origins and ideological content of the movement, whose doctrine was not fully developed until several decades later. In this first period, which was very different from the later period when the mu'tazila adopted mainly rationalistic theses, some mu'tazilites practised forms of extreme asceticism, and some were even prominent figures in the group known as ßùfiyyat al-Mu'tazila. The mu'tazilites belonging to this group coincided in several of their doctrinal beliefs with the khàrijites, and in particular with the Najdiyya Khàrijites, in that both believed in the dispensability of the Imamate. They did not want any political or religious authority to stand between themselves and God.62 References to their activities appear to be related to local autonomous movements, to processes of revolt against an unjust governor and to practice of the precept of “commanding right and forbidding wrong” (al-amr bi-l-ma'rùf wa-l-nahy 'an al-munkar).63 The ascetic and moralistic tendency in such movements is always of an extreme nature and it might well be that those mu'tazilites were not part of the theological sect of the same name: in the apocalyptic traditions a nonparticipant or seceder is called a mu'tazil, one who generally retreats to a desert place, far from a society which he has judged to be nonMuslim or not good enough religiously, which he must therefore abandon in order to live a life satisfactory to God.64 As far as the Islamic West is concerned, however, it is said that Wàßil sent missionaries who combined rhetoric and the practice of asceticism, in imitation of Wàßil himself, to all Islamic regions, and that they were particularly successful in the Maghreb.65 Many of them were merchants, and Ibn al-Faqìh and Ibn Khurdàdhbih wrote of their presence in Tangier and Tàhart.66 But in the 2nd/8th century 62 P. Crone, “A Statement by the Najdiyya Kharijites on the Dispensability of the Imamate”, Studia Islamica 88 (1998) pp. 55–76. 63 M. Cook, Commanding Right and Forbidding Wrong in Islamic Thought, Cambridge, 2000, pp. 196–197. 64 D. Cook, “Muslim Apocalyptic and Jihad”, pp. 80–81. 65 J. Van Ess, Une lecture à rebours de l’histoire du Mu'tazilisme, Paris, 1978, pp. 45–46. 66 Al-Bakrì, Masàlik, ed. de Goeje, Leiden, 1889, p. 88.

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both territories contained Berber groups, mostly Zanàta, who are referred to in the sources as “Wàßiliyya”, i.e. followers of the school of Wàßil ibn 'A†à".67 According to the chronicle of Abù Zakariyyà" al-Warghalànì (d. 471/1078) the “Wàßiliyya” of the Tàhart region fought bitter struggles against the Rustamids when the latter took control of the city.68 Meanwhile al-Ka'bì writes of “bearers of arms”, i.e. armed men, when he lists Wàßil’s followers in the extreme Maghreb. These were the tribes which were to welcome Idrìs.69 The first Berber regimes of the Muslim period were all khàrijite, or related to khàrijism. Once again, one has to point to the frequency with which the term mu'tazila is mentioned in the sources, which are nonetheless far from specific about what they mean when using the term. Nallino has shown the doctrinal concordances that existed between mu'tazilites (the theological sect) and khàrijites in matters such as belief in the createdness of the Qur"àn, or the metaphorical interpretation of anthropomorphist passages, and the coincidence of the previous existence of mu'tazilites in places, such as Tàhart, where khàrijite kingdoms were later established.70 Van Ess points to the great similarities that existed in particular between the Ibà∂ì current and the mu'tazila, to the extent that foreign observers concluded that there had been a complete symbiosis of the two.71 Another coincidence between khàrijism and mu'tazila seems to have resided in the ideals of extreme austerity and asceticism expected from Imàms of the community. Abù Zakariyyà" al-Warghalànì, for example, describes the extreme and repeated fasting, sleep deprivation, and constant use of prayer and recital of the Qur"àn practised by the chiefs of the Wàßiliyya groups of the Tàhart region.72 'Amr b. 'Ubayd, a brotherin-law of Wàßil, one of the first mu'tazilites and even more ascetic than Wàßil himself, was renowned for his night prayers, for wrapping

67 Al-Bakrì, Masàlik, p. 67. For the early influence of mu'tazilite dogma and not just of dissident politics, in North Africa, see C.A. Nallino, “Sull’origine del nome dei Mu'taziliti” in Raccolta di scritti editi e inediti, vol. II, Rome 1940, pp. 167–169. 68 “La Chronique” d’Abù Zakariyyà" al-Wargalànì”, trans. R. Le Tourneau, Revue Africaine 103–104 (1959–60) pp. 145–155. 69 Ka'bì, Maqàlàt al-islamiyyìn, apud J. Van Ess, Une lecture à rebours de l’histoire du Mu'tazilisme, p. 48. 70 C.A. Nallino, “Rapporti fra la dogmatica Mu'tazilita e quella degli Ibaditi dell’Africa settentrionale” in Raccolta di scritti editi e inediti, vol II, Rome, 1940, pp. 146–169. 71 Van Ess, Une lecture à rebours, Paris, 1984, p. 48 and refs. 72 Van Ess, Une lecture à rebours, pp. 147–148.

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himself in a woollen izàr in the sufi manner, for his opposition to the permission of music, and for formulating rules of moral conduct rather than theological principles. On the only occasion when the mu'tazilites revolted against 'Abbàsid power, after the death of 'Amr b. 'Ubayd, they did so in support of Ibràhìm b. 'Abd 'Allàh and Bashìr al-Ra˙˙àl, both militant sufis with a marked tendency towards social criticism who wrapped themselves in woollen cloths.73 After they were defeated, Bashìr’s sons fled to the Maghreb where they took refuge among the mu'tazilite tribes, a fact which in Van Ess’s opinion indicates that the Maghreb was the only region where mu'tazilism remained completely alive.74 The mu'tazilite school suffered under the 'Abbàsids from a ban on the practice of their social and political ideals and in particular on practising the precept of al-amr bi-l-ma'rùf wa-l-nahy 'an al-munkar, as it was interpreted by them.75 The mu'tazila seems to have provided, in the Muslim West, a series of ideological instruments which thereafter repeatedly underlie various movements of political and religious dissidence. Or conversely, it would be more accurate to say that Eastern writers tried to define trends and characteristics specific to the Maghreb by relating them to doctrinal terms which were familiar to them through widespread later use in the East.

Barghawà†a The Barghawà†a movement grew out of the great Khàrijite upheaval of the mid-8th century among the Maßmùda tribes of the Tàmesnà region, in the Atlantic plains of Morocco, where ˇarìf, a companion-in-arms of the famous Khàrijite rebel Maysara (leader of the great Berber rising which began in 122/740), founded in about 124/742 a kingdom which then evolved in a highly unusual way. It passed from the adoption of “heresy” as a catalyst for autonomous aspirations to the creation of what Arab sources, though very sparing in details, seek to define as an autonomous religion. Al-Bakrì attributes this change to Íàli˙, ˇarìf ’s son and successor.76 73

Van Ess, Une lecture à rebours, pp. 61–62. See Van Ess, Une lecture à rebours, p. 62 and ZDMG, 126 (1976) p. 50 and n. 48, p. 58 and n. 59. 75 Fa∂l al-i'tizàl, apud Van Ess, Une lecture à rebours, p. 64. 76 Al-Bakrì, Masàlik, p. 135/260–261. 74

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Íàli˙, who had distinguished himself by his knowledge and virtue, presented himself to the Berbers as a “prophet”, preached a new doctrine to them and provided them with a Berber version of the Qur"àn. He entrusted his son Ilyàs with the task of preserving and publishing his doctrine, and with taking up arms against those who did not accept it. Before leaving for the East, he promised his followers that he would return when the seventh king ascended to the throne, and declared that he was the Mahdì (al-Mahdì al-akbar) who would appear at the end of all time to fight against al-Dajjàl. He also said that Jesus, 'Ìsà ibn Maryam, would be amongst his followers and would let him lead his prayer. His name, in Berber, would be Wuryàwirà, which al-Bakrì translates as “he after whom there is nothing”.77 Íàli˙’s fame was built, above all, on the basis of his virtue and asceticism. He was seen as possessing the character of a prophet and, also that of a shì'ite ismà'ìlite-type Imàm 78 accompanied by signs which proved his proximity to the Prophet and which were highly charged with apparent eschatological significance, such as the fact that his death occurred exactly one hundred years after that of Mu˙ammad.79 Íàli˙’s tremendous prestige was exploited in particular by his grandson Yùnus (227–271/842–884), who in turn proclaimed his own prophethood (nubuwwa). Yùnus had travelled to the East, where he studied astrology and other sciences and was said to have attained a considerable level of knowledge.80 Yùnus made this journey in the company of other notable Maghrebis whose names are given by al-Bakrì, who specifies that three of them, including Yùnus, assumed the condition of prophets.81 In order to explain how Yùnus justified using such a term, sources tell us that he predicted several eclipses which his followers later witnessed, and made other predictions which were later fulfilled: “he made for them a divine word which he composed in their language (Berber) and through which he dictated his own wishes, taking into account their traditional convictions”.82 This reference to “their traditional convictions” must be taken as a clear allusion to pre-Islamic or syncretic beliefs.

77 78 79 80 81 82

Al-Bakrì, Masàlik, p. 136/261. Al-Bakrì, Masàlik, p. 135; Ibn 'Idhàrì, Bayàn I, pp. 57, 224–225. Al-Bakrì, Masàlik, p. 260/135. Ibn Óawqal, Íùrat al-ar∂, ed. M.J. de Goeje, Leiden, 1873, p. 873, 82/78. Al-Bakrì, Masàlik, p. 264/137. Ibn Óawqal, Íùrat al-ar∂.

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Yùnus’ successor, Abù Ghufayr, who continued Yùnus’ work, also declared himself a prophet (nabì ),83 and claimed to receive divine revelations, saying that the angels transmitted their orders and God’s prohibitions to him. It was even said that prophetic ability was transmitted through the lineage of the Banù ˇarìf and that the Barghawà†a believed in the nubuwwa of Íàli˙ and all of his descendants.84 Shì'ite but also Khàrijite influences seem apparent, given that Abù Ghufayr took the ideals of austerity and deprivation inherited from khàrijism to such an extreme that he was known to fast for five, seven or nine consecutive days,85 inviting his followers to practise austerity, renounce the world, and lead a simple and ascetic life.86 The Barghawà†a played an important political role until the arrival of the Almoravids.87

Al-Bajalì Unlike Idrìs I, al-Óasan b. 'Alì b. Warsand al-Bajalì was a Berber from the Sùs in southern Morocco who lived at the same time, or very shortly after, Yùnus, in the mid-ninth century. His followers were Berbers from the tribe of the Banù Lamàs and received the name of Bajaliyya.88 Ibn Óazm89 claims that their doctrine resembled that of the rawàfi∂ shì'ites, but that they believed that the Imamate should only be exercised by a descendant of al-Óasan.90 Al-Bajalì convinced the Maßàmida of the Sùs and their chief (ßà˙ib) A˙mad b. Idrìs b. Ya˙yà b. Idrìs b. 'Abd Allàh b. al-Óasan, according to Ibn Óazm, or Idrìs Abù l-Qàsim b. Mu˙ammad b. Ja'far b. 'Abd Allàh according to al-Bakrì—an Idrìsid at all events, and thus with an interest in claiming the Imamate for the descendants of al-Óasan. Ibn Óawqal, for Al-Bakrì, Masàlik, p. 138; Ibn Óawqal, Íùrat al-ar∂, p. 83/79. Al-Bakrì, Masàlik, p. 138. 85 Ibn Óawqal, Íùrat al-ar∂, p. 83/79. 86 For the religion of the Barghawà†a, see, apart from Talbi, A. Bel, La religion musulmane en Bérbérie: equisse d’histoire et sociologie religieuse, Paris, 1938, pp. 170 and ff.; G. Marcy, “Le Dieu des Abadites et des Bargwata”, Hespéris 22–23 (1936) pp. 33–56. 87 Sàlim, A.A., Min jadìd ˙awla Barghawà†a, haràtiqat al-Magrib fì-l-'aßr al-islàmì, Alexandria, 1993. 88 Al-Bakrì claims that al-Bajalì settled among the Banù Lamàs before Abù 'Abd Allàh al-Shì'ì arrived in Ifrìqiyya (280/893), Masàlik, p. 161. 89 Ibn Óazm, Kitàb al-fißal wa-l-milal wa-l-a˙wà" wa-l-ni˙al, Cairo, 1347 (1928–29), IV, p. 183. 90 Ibn Óazm, apud I. Friedlaendr, “The Heterodoxies of the Shiites in the Presentation of Ibn Hazm”, JAOS, xxvii (1907) pp. 54 and ff., 75. 83 84

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example, who is followed by al-Idrìsì,91 claims that the Bajaliyya were mùsàwì shì'ites, who believed that Mùsà b. Ja'far al-KàΩim, the seventh of the twelve Imàms of the Ithnà 'Ashariyya, was the hidden and awaited Imàm, i.e. the Mahdì. The Bajaliyya were associated with the Idrìsids, and this association seems to have survived the disintegration of the Idrìsid dynasty in the first half of the 4th/10th century. However, little is known of the Bajaliyya. Al-Bakrì 92 tells us that in their call to prayers they added to the phrase “I bear witness that Mu˙ammad is the envoy of God” others which said “I bear witness that Mu˙ammad is the best of men” and “Come to the excellent work, the family of Mu˙ammad is the best that there is among creatures”, together with the shì'ite formula ˙ayya 'alà khayri l-'amal, which also corresponds to the essentially khàrijite idea of imàmat al-Fà∂il. It should be borne in mind that according to sources from Ifrìqiya, followers of 'Abd Allàh al-Fà†imì added to the call to prayers the formula “Come to the best works”. Shì'ite authorities laid down the death penalty for those muezzins who refused to use this formula.93 The Bajaliyya had numerous followers in the Sùs and their kingdom was maintained until it was destroyed by the Almoravid Ibn Yàsìn. This seems to indicate that the Sùs must have been islamised, at least partly, under the influence of tendencies which historians have considered close to the Shì'a.94 Óà-Mìm The Barghawà†a were exceptional as a successful community established by their prophet that survived for two hundred years until they were wiped out by conquest. But the sources name a great number of figures considered prophets, fortune tellers or even wizards among the Berbers, whether they were more or less islamised Muslims or not. This undoubtedly reveals something about autocthonous beliefs

91

And by W. Madelung, who adopts this version in “Some notes on non-ismà'ìlì Shiism in the Maghrib”, Studia Islamica 44 (1976) pp. 87–97, p. 96. 92 Al-Bakrì, Masàlik, pp. 304–305/161. 93 Apud Idrìs, “Contribution à l’histoire de l’Ifrikiya”, p. 145. 94 W. al-Qadi, “Al-Shì'a al-bajaliyya fi-l-Magrib al-Aqßà”, Actes du premier Congres de la Civilisation du Maghreb, Tunis, 1979, p. 167.

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before the process of Islamisation95 as well as the blurring, characteristic to the world of Late Antiquity as interpreted by Peter Brown, between the “evil” and “good” supernatural power. It would be possible to cite a very long list of the so-called “false prophets” who followed, but I will limit myself here to the case of the Ghumàra, among whom, in the words of Ibn Khaldùn, “many prophets have arisen”.96 Lewicki describes four prophets among the Ghumàra,97 of whom the most outstanding is undoubtedly Óà-Mìm (d. 315/927–28), whose case in many ways parallels that of the Barghawà†a. Óà-Mìm, a self-proclaimed prophet (rasùl wa-nabì),98 preached a new religion which mixed Muslim doctrines with older local beliefs resembling those of Íàli˙ b. ˇarìf.99 As in the case of the Barghawà†a, religious dogma and precepts were gathered together in a Berber “Qur"àn”.100 In the cases of both Barghawà†a and ÓàMìm, sources refer to prescriptions and above all food prohibitions which seem to derive from old Berber beliefs.101 The “false prophet” Óà-Mìm was acompanied by his aunt, who was a sorceress (sà˙ira), as was his sister, a woman of great beauty from whom al-Bakrì says the Berbers asked for protection and assistance when making ready for military expeditions—a reminiscent figure in some ways of the famous Kàhina, the woman leader of the Berber resistance movement against the Islamic conquest. Óà-Mìm died in 315/927–28 fighting against the Maßmùdas of the Tangier litoral. The failure of Óà-Mìm’s mission did not prevent other prophets from arising among the Ghumàra. Ibn Khaldùn describes the attempt of one 'Àßim b. Jamìl al-Yazdajùmì, who also posed as a prophet and whose adventure remained in the memory of the Ghumàra until the historian’s own times. Another such prophetic figure occurred in

95 T. Lewicki, “Prophetes, devins et magiciens chez les Berberes medievaux”, Folia Orientalia VII (1965) pp. 3–27; H. Ferhat and H. Triki, “Faux prophetes et Mahdis dans le Maroc medieval”, Hespéris-Tamuda 26–27 (1988–89) pp. 7–23. 96 Ibn Khaldùn, Histoire des berbères et des dynasties musulmanes de l’Afrique seprentrinale, trans. Slane, Paris, 1925, II, p. 135 97 T. Lewicki, “Prophètes, devins et magiciens chez les berbères médiévaux”, pp. 10–12. 98 Al-Bakrì, Masàlik, p. 101. 99 For the doctrine preached by Óà-Mìm, see A. Bel, La religion musulmane en Bérbérie, pp. 175 and ff. 100 Al-Bakrì, Masàlik, p. 198/100. 101 T. Lewicki, “Survivances chez les Berbères médiévaux d’ère musulmane de cultes anciens et de croyances paiennes”, Folia Orientalia VIII (1966) pp. 33 and ff.

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Tlemcen: this was a muezzin who declared himself a Mahdì in about 831 and received widespread support. In order to avoid falling into the hands of the governor of Tlemcen, the Mahdì was forced to flee to al-Andalus, where he also gained adepts. He preached a new interpretation of the Qur"àn and a series of prohibitions of a magical nature which involved depilation, the cutting of hair and nails, and the wearing of adornments. He was crucified in 851.102 The movements described in this chapter can, then, be included in the plethora of millenaristic and apocalyptic movements which flourished on the peripheries of the 'Abbàsid empire after the death of al-Óasan, the grandson of the Prophet Mu˙ammad, in 268/874. Eastern sources, especially al-ˇabarì, contain similar accounts of contemporaray movements in the Middle East. Of particular interest are the parallels between Barghawà†a, Bajaliyya and the Qaràmi†a or Qarma†ians, whose origins go back to 278/891–2. The Qarma†ians also sought to create an alternative to existing Islamic power in the form of a society where believers would be able to benefit from the privileges of power which as Muslims they deserved, but from which they had been progressively excluded. They used a Mahdist discourse which incited followers to fight against the injustice and iniquity of the 'Abbàsid state.103 Al-ˇabarì relates that they had their own book of commandments, perhaps an imitation of the Qur"àn like that of the Barghawà†a, and a prophet by the name of al-Faraj ibn 'Uthmàn who led a life of piety and extreme asceticism and who “preached the religion of Christ, who is Jesus, who is the Logos, who is the Messiah (Mahdì) who is A˙mad ibn Mu˙ammad ibn al-Óanafiyya, who is Gabriel. He said that Christ appeared before him in human form and told him: “You are the preacher, and you are the proof; you are the she-camel, and you are the ass; you are the Holy Spirit and you are John the Baptist (Ya˙yà ibn Zakariyyà")”.104 The same source tells us that Ya˙yà ibn Zakariyyà", the Qarma†ian leader who appeared in Syria in 289, told his followers that “the she-camel (nàqa) which he rode was divinely ordered, and if they follow her wherever

Ibn 'Idhàrì, Al-Bayàn al-mughrib fì ikhtißàr akhbàr mulùk al-Andalus wa-l-Maghrib, French trans. E. Fagnan: Histoire de l’Afrique et de l’Espagne intitulée al-Bayano’l Mogrib, Algiers, 1901–1904, pp. 146–147. 103 M. Brett, The rise of the Fatimids, p. 71. 104 Al-ˇabarì, Ta"rìkh al-rusul wa-l-mulùk, vol. XXXVII, trans. P.M. Fields, Jacob Cassner (The 'Abbasids recover), New York, 1987, p. 173. 102

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she goes they will be victorious”. These quotations seem to be related to those of Isaiah in the Bible: “and behold I see a man riding on an ass and a man riding on a camel; and one of them came forward crying and said, Babylon is fallen, and all the graven images of her gods he hath broken on the ground”. The man on the camel must be identified with the Prophet Mu˙ammad, whose conquests in Mesopotamia had brought about the fall of Babylon. The man on the ass is Jesus, who rode one into Jerusalem. In early Islamic sources there are frequent references to traditions of an awaited prophet who would come riding on an ass. Some of these traditions associate Mu˙ammad with this prophet, but most of them speak of the year 100 of the Hijra as sanat al-˙imàr or sanat ßà˙ib al-˙imàr.105 Mu˙ammad al-Nafs al-Zakiyya himself appeared in Medina riding an ass.106 Sulayman Bashear claims that these beliefs were of an apocalyptic character and had been inherited from pre-Islamic materials with parallels in Judaism, and cites, among other sources, the apocalypse of Deutero-Zechariah, which probably dates from the Seleucid period and which promises Jerusalem the coming of its king of salvation “riding upon an ass and upon a colt of the foal of the ass”. In Matthew, this was presented as a fulfilment of the apocalypse of Zechariah.107 We will meet more “men upon asses” in later periods. Like the Barghawà†a, the Qarma†a introduced variations in prayer rituals and food prescriptions: they allowed the consumption of wine and of animals with tusks and talons.108 The movements which have been considered in this chapter fit in the process which for the East has been called “the revolt of Islam” with its messianic tinge. In the case of the Berbers we also know of the existence among them of an extremely ancient belief that “prophetic ability” was an attribute of kings, and pre-Islamic texts show how the Berbers associated the concept of “prophet” with that of political leader in the period before the Islamic conquest.109 A prophet is not the same as a Mahdì, but previous belief in the former would 105 S. Bashear, “Riding Beasts on Divine Missions”, Journal of Semitic Studies, XXXVI, 1 (1991), p. 50 and p. 68. 106 Bashear, “Riding Beasts”, pp. 73 and ff., where later examples are also given from the II and even the IV centuries of the Hijra. 107 Bashear, “Riding Beasts”, p. 37. 108 Al-ˇabarì, Ta "rìkh al-rusul wa-l-mulùk, vol. XXXVII, pp. 174–175. 109 Apud H.T. Norris, The Berbers in Arabic Literature, London, 1982, p. 96.

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have facilitated acceptance of the latter figure. In these early centuries, prophets were charismatic and providentialist figures who displayed the most radical forms—generally nourished on syncretism—of religious as well as political opposition. They were the product of processes of conversion and acculturation and of the full inclusion of the converts in a new Islamic society. The display of extreme asceticism seems to have been another important element in the make-up of those who aspired to head the community. Ascetic heroism was undoubtedly one of the sources of their charisma, as was the very strict fulfilment of religious duties. Ideas concerning the “revitalization” of religion also seem to have circulated from an early period. It should be said that as well as expressing disdain and fear of the Berbers, early Arabic sources also contain some attempts to ennoble them. One such reference can be found in the chronicle of Abù Zakariyyà" al-Warghalànì (d. 471/1078), who relates an anecdote attributed to 'Aisha, wife of the Prophet, according to which the Archangel Gabriel presented the Berber people to Mu˙ammad as the chosen people destined “to return life to the religion of God when it has died and to renew it and revitalize it when it is worn out”.110 This is a portrayal with which the Berbers themselves would have been perfectly content; nonetheless, this idea of the revitalization of religion was to become an important legitimizing argument of those who governed them.

110 Abù Zakariyyà" al-Warghalànì, French trans. R. Le Tourneau, Revue Africaine, pp. 103–104, p. 107.

CHAPTER TWO

THE RISE OF THE FÀˇIMID DYNASTY

The accounts given of the Fà†imids by extant sources are central, from a historical point of view, to the issues considered in this book. This is so, although the territory where they took power, Ifrìqiya (modern Tunisia) is in principle outside the geographical limits that I set in the Introduction. The Fà†imids are particularly important for an understanding of the way in which the Berbers sought inclusion in the Islamic world, and more specifically, to an appreciation of the character of the two great Berber movements, to be considered later, those of the Almoravids and the Almohads. The Fà†imid, Almoravid and Almohad movements, though opposed to one another, were to lead to the unification of the Maghreb under Islam and the creation of an Islamic state in the Muslim West. In this chapter I will refer briefly to the spectrum of Mahdist movements at the time of the Fà†imids in the Mashriq before concentrating on the one hand on Abù 'Abd Allàh and his preaching of revolution to the Kutàma and on the other on the Mahdì and his concept of government by the representative of God on earth. The background to these movements is the political and religious history of the first century of 'Abbàsid rule in the Middle East, in which the dispute over the succession to the power and authority of Mu˙ammad evolved towards the radically opposed positions of Sunnism and Shì'ism. It is an evolution represented for this purpose by the terms khalìfa (caliph) and imàm. Crone and Hinds have proposed, against traditional interpretations, that the caliphal title was first formulated as Khalìfat Allàh.1 This is the term which the early Muslim community adopted to solve the problem of the continuance of prophethood. It is a controversial suggestion but reasonable, from my point of view, as a working hypothesis. Khalìfat Allàh is also the title of the Mahdì in

1 P. Crone and M. Hinds, God’s Caliph. Religious and authority in the first centuries of islam, Cambridge, 1986.

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eschatological works.2 If one accepts that Islam began as a messianic movement,3 then caliphs in the sense of institutionalised heads of state cannot have existed until the messianic adventure had ended.4 Thus it would seem that the caliphate must have originated as a form of institutionalised redemption. This would certainly explain why it appears as a redemptive institution in Umayyad court poetry.5 By the time of al-Màwardì in the 11th century, however, the Caliph was the khalìfat rasùl Allàh. Traditionally regarded as the original title, it then designated a successor to the Prophet who ruled in accordance with the law as defined by the jurists, the scholarly body of the 'ulamà", who were the recognised authorities of Sunnite Islam. The change was announced in the middle of the ninth century when the 'Abbàsids abandoned the Mi˙na or “inquisition”, the attempt to compel the jurists to subscribe to the doctrine of the created Qur"àn. This was a doctrine of the Mu'tazila, by then a respectable theological movement patronised by Baghdad. Abandoned by the 'Abbàsids, it was adopted by their Shì'ite opponents, for whom the term Imàm came to designate the representative of God on earth with supreme authority for the law, but without the power that the Umayyads and 'Abbàsids had usurped. The Shì'a, who unlike the Idrìsids, who claimed descent from Óasan, looked to the line of Óusayn (d. 61/680) for their leaders, had split into two separate movements in 148/765 after the death of Ja'far al-Íadìq, the sixth Imàm after 'Alì. Ja'far’s oldest son was Ismà'ìl, who died before his father. On Ja'far’s death, therefore, most of the Shì'a recognised his younger son Mùsà alKàΩim (d. 183/799–800) as the Seventh Imàm. Mùsà’s line continued until the death of the Eleventh Imàm, Óasan al-'Askarì, in 260/874 without an apparent heir. His death plunged the Shì'ite community into confusion. His followers held that an infant son, Mu˙ammad, was the Twelfth Imàm who had vanished into concealment, first of all on earth and after 940 in heaven. There he has remained until the present day as the expected Mahdì who in the meantime is the Hidden Imàm who guarantees the Law of Islam for the Ithnà 'Ashariyya, the Twelvers or Imàmiyya, who today form

2 P. p. 16. 3 P. 4 P. 5 P.

Crone, M. Cook, Hagarism. The making of the Islamic world, Cambridge, 1977, Crone, M. Cook, Hagarism, chap. 1. Crone, M. Cook, Hagarism, chap. 1. Crone, M. Cook, Hagarism, Chap. 3, pp. 33 ff.

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the majority of Shì'ites, notably in Iran. For them, the presence of the Imàm is metaphysical; he is the ˙ujja or proof of God and the qu†b or axis upon which the world spins, but will not assume the Caliphate or government of the community until the end of time.6 But the Seveners, now known as Ismà'ìlites, who believed in the Imamate of Ismà'ìl and his son Mu˙ammad, continued to believe in the presence of the Imàm in this world, the Imamate having passed continuously from father to son in satr or hiding until one should arise as the Mahdì to claim the Caliphate from the usurpers. The expectation of his appearance in the immediate future lay behind the revolts which broke out in the last quarter of the ninth century. The most important of these revolts was that of the Zanj, mentioned in Chapter 1, which almost brought the 'Abbàsid empire to an end. The Zanj revolt7 was shì'ite (its leader considered himself a descendant of 'Alì) and it was Mahdist because it proclaimed the restoration of the realm of justice on earth. These movements revolved around the coming of an increasingly mysterious and supernatural figure, an eschatological figure who was a second Mu˙ammad destined to complete the history of the world. Associated with the idea of a Mahdì with such characteristics, the tradition of revolt against 'Abbàsid power entered a new phase. Set apart from the juridical tradition of the scholars and opposed to the caliphal regime of the 'Abbàsids, those who prophesied an end to the time of iniquity and the start of an era of peace and plenty also promised a radical transformation of the faith.8 The other great revolt of the final decades of the ninth century was that of the Qarma†ians, who took political control of the eastern part of the Arabian Peninsula, from where they launched campaigns against the caliphate for more than a century without ever quite succeeding in conquering either Iraq or Syria. Both the Zanj and the Qarma†ians were eclipsed by the movement that brought the Fà†imids to power. This is the movement known today as Ismà'ìlism in which the believers in the Imamate of Ismà'ìl and his son Mu˙ammad are said to have formed a secret organization whose dà'i (plural du'àt) mis6 A.A. Sachedina, Islamic Messianism. The Idea of the Mahdi in Twelver Shi"ism, New York, 1981, pp. 17 ff. 7 A. Popovic, La révolte des esclaves en Iraq au III/IX siècle, Paris, 1976. The main source is al-ˇabarì, Annales, vols. XXXVI–VIII. 8 M. Brett, The Rise of the Fatimids. The world of the Mediterranean and the Middle East in the Tenth Century CE. Leiden, 2001, chap. 3.

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sionaries or propagandists were sent to various parts of the world, in particular to the Yemen. From there one missionary, known as the dà'i Abù 'Abd Allàh al-Ían'ànì [i.e. from the city of Ían'à" inYemen] al-Shì'ì went to Ifrìqiya, the North African province that the 'Abbàsids had recovered for their empire, and which was now ruled in their name by the Aghlabids. Preaching the coming of the Mahdì, Abù 'Abd Allàh al-Ían'ànì roused the Kutàma Berbers of Eastern Algeria to revolt and after the overthrow of the Aghlabids, proclaimed the Fà†imid Mahdì 'Abdallàh, the founder of the Fà†imid dynasty. The revolt of the Kutàma is in line with the previous Berber risings discussed in the last chapter, which reveal the susceptibility of Berber tribal society to Islamic prophethood, irrespective of doctrine. The Kutàma were not khàrijites, but Muslims who had not participated in controversies of the faith or in those which had led to the elaboration of the sharì'a. More important than knowledge of Islam was the example that Islam itself had provided in the shape of the Arabs, who had conquered the world on the strength of their faith in God and his Prophet.9 An example to be imitated: with the force of God, his Book and his Prophet, the message of Islam had turned the Arabs into a community of believers and had turned that community of believers into a conquering army. Emulation of the Arabs as a “chosen people” is patent in the khàrijite revolts. The “false prophets” we have seen in the previous chapter also emulated the Arabs in the practice of their faith, and such imitators of Mu˙ammad created their own communities with their own Berber Qur"àns. The Kutàma were no exception: the message of the dà'i was a doctrinal variant of khàrijism, but it fulfilled expectations of a realm in this world and the next. It also had the extreme moral rigour and the eschatological connotations associated with khàrijite movements. The tribe of the Kutàma was another Berber people willing to turn itself into God’s chosen people, in accordance with its model and in revolt against official representatives of the state regime. To quote Wansbrough, “That the propaganda in this particular case should have been Ismà'ìlì is historically but not phenomenologically relevant”.10 But it is highly relevant to the subject of Mahdism and its 9

M. Brett, The Rise of the Fatimids, p. 85. Wansbrough, “On recomposing the Islamic history of North Africa”, p. 168; Brett, The Rise of the Fatimids, p. 86. 10

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development in the Maghreb. In that respect it is also highly problematic, illustrating the confusion within messianism between the apocalyptic and eschatological on the one hand, and the ideal of an earthly kingdom on the other. It does so within the messianic tradition of Islam where these opposing concepts are variously represented by the figures of Mu˙ammad and 'Alì. The problem is raised by Michael Brett in his recent account of the origins of the Fà†imid dynasty.11 In it Brett analyses the period immediately after the disintegration of the 'Abbàsid empire in the 4th/10th century in terms, not of dissolution and division, but of unique and unitary definition. According to Brett, this period should be seen as one in which different Islamic tendencies “coalesced”, to use his term, after previously emerging and existing separately, rather than as branching out of one common trunk. These tendencies are seen as different strands which come to be woven together. Brett rejects the conspiracy theory based on sources written after the Fà†imid dynasty took power which proposes that one original and unique movement later split into different groups, showing that the kind of evidence given by the sources takes the form of a mass of millenarianisms retrospectively united by the propaganda of one great dynasty. The Mahdì 'Abd Allàh (and not “'Ubayd Allàh”, as he is described by his sunnite adversaries) is seen as having appropriated an apocalyptic movement with vague expectations of the appearance of a messiah. This movement had developed at some time after the death of al-Óasan in 260/874 and flourished, like others, on the borders of the 'Abbàsid empire. Brett also claims that the dà'i Abù 'Abd Allàh knew nothing of the Mahdì or of his intentions until he met him in Sijilmàsa.12 The movement of the dà'i himself was taken over by a completely different one, that of the Mahdì, which would explain the way in which the latter had to rid himself of the former. In this view, the later account was re-elaborated around the mythical figures of this type of movement: the herald inspired by God to find or designate the one who will bring about redemption (the messiah)— figures like Moses or Joseph, John the Baptist or Jesus Christ. It is a theme as old as the very beginnings of messianism in the Jewish tradition, that of the predecessor who prepares a realm by choosing, through divine inspiration, a successor among strangers. 11 12

M. Brett, The Rise of the Fatimids. M. Brett, The Rise of the Fatimids, p. 108.

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In support of his argument, Brett draws attention to the letters written in about 915 by the Mahdì 'Abd Allàh to his followers in Yemen. These letters use clearly defined messianic titles and Mahdist claims which are very different from those employed by previous apocalyptic and prophetic movements in North Africa. In them, 'Abd Allàh creates his own version of the faith, referring specifically to the sacred history of the community since its creation by Mu˙ammad. At the centre of this history is the holy family of the Prophet, back to which 'Abd Allàh traced his own origins. His main argument was thus genealogical, and his intention was that the author of his letters should be clearly identified as the sole heir to the power and the authority of the Prophet. His mission was not apocalyptical, but one which sought to unite the Imamate and the caliphate in a legitimist revindication based on genealogical claims. The contrast between the preaching of Abù 'Abd Allàh on behalf of some glorious revelation and the message of obedience proclaimed by 'Abd Allàh is one that should be emphasized with reference to the fundamental ambiguity of Mahdism itself: this world versus the next; divine or human; antinomianism versus law. Most Fà†imid sources were written during the reign of al-Mu'izz (953–975), the fourth imàm-caliph, and were influenced by the creed which was being developed in that period and which has survived to the present day under the name of Ismà'ìlism. In these sources, the events of the dynasty, dawla, which had been Fà†imid from its first appearance until the mid-10th century, are converted into the sacred history of a divine mission, da'wa, which culminates in alMu'izz’s entry in Egypt. Thus these sources, Brett suggests, record the construction of a creed based on past events and present practices at a time when the dynasty was seeking to achieve dominance throughout the Islamic world. Al-Mu'izz’s propaganda was directed at shì'ite believers in the Seven Imams, a category to which the Fà†imids themselves belonged, not because their predecessors had been the founders of the sect, but because they had decided to exploit for their own benefit existing expectations of a seventh and last prophet who was expected to emerge in the Maghreb. I intend to concentrate here on events that I have mentioned as they are described in two major sources. The first is Iftità˙ al-da'wa wa-ibtidà" al-dawla by the qà∂ì al-Nu'màn,13 a shì'ite author who was 13

I have used the Farhat Dachraoui edition, Tunis, 1975.

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not alive at the time of the events he described, but wrote in the mid-4th/10th century, and very much from the point of view of the dynasty which arose out of them. The second source is the Bayàn al-mughrib by Ibn 'Idhàrì, a sunnite Moroccan author who lived in the second half of the 7th/13th century.14 The qà∂ì al-Nu'màn describes how the Fà†imid revolution was carried out by the dà'i Abù 'Abd Allàh in an area extending from Yemen to Raqqàda in Tunisia, the city-palace of the Aghlabid dynasty whose end he brought about. This story is secondary by comparison with that of the Mahdì, whose journey from Salàmiyya to Sijilmàsa in south-east Morocco culminated in his meeting with the dà'i and his victorious entry into the city of Qayrawàn. The qà∂ì al-Nu'màn thus separates the story of the revolution from that of the Mahdì. The uniting link between the two journeys of the dà'i and the Mahdì is to be found in their starting-point in Yemen, a region which together with Ba˙rayn (the very large region of Eastern Arabia to be distinguished from modern Ba˙rain) had a history of involvement in shì'ite conspiracy in favour of the Hidden Imàm. The first part of the qà∂ì al-Nu'màn’s book is thus taken up by the dà'i Abù 'Abd Allàh’s mission after he was sent from Yemen to the tribes of the mountains of Eastern Algeria. In principle these tribes were similar to those of the mountains of Yemen, although the Yemen tribes lived on the edge of the Islamic empire whereas the Berber tribes, as we have seen, had been integrated within it. Islam justified the existence of the state at the same time that it supplied the ideological tools to rebel against the oppression it exerted. The dà'i, whose full name was Abù 'Abd Allàh Óusayn ibn A˙mad ibn Mu˙ammad ibn Zakariyyà", had been a sufi according to some sources.15 Ibn Khaldùn claimed that he had been a mu˙tasib who carried out the command to forbid wrong and command right. In the 3rd/9th century, sufism was a militant rather than mystical movement. The sufis who invoked the ˙isba in Alexandria in 201/816 to revoke the governor were puritan activists.16 I will return to this issue in chapter 4, which discusses how the puritanically zealous censor becomes the prophetic agent of the great event. 14 I have used the Levi-Provençal edition and the French translation by E. Fagnan, Histoire de l’Afrique et de l’Espagne, Algiers, 1901. 15 Sìrat Ja'far, pp. 121–22, trans. p. 206. 16 Al-Kindì, Governors and Judges of Egypt or kitab el ‘Umara’ (el wulah) wa kitab el Qudah of el Kindi: together with an appendix derived mostly from raf el isr by Ibn Hajar, ed. Rhuvon Guest, Leiden, Brill, 1912, p. 162.

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Abù 'Abd Allàh and his brother, also a dà'i, met a group of Kutàma pilgrims in the Holy Places of Mecca and Medina and accepted their invitation to return with them to their land to teach them Islamic doctrine and palliate their ignorance. This was the familiar story, of which we will see further examples, of the holy man who accepts an invitation from ignorant inhabitants of a remote part of Islamdom to instruct them in the faith. Neither was it the first such example: 'Abd al-Ra˙màn ibn Rustum, founder of the Ibà∂ite khàrijite kingdom of Tàhart mentioned above, travelled there at the request of local tribes in order to instruct them in the Law, after meeting some members on the pilgrimage route. Abù 'Abd Allàh, before departing with the Kutàma, was able to inform himself about who they were and how their tribe lived. The qà∂ì al-Nu'màn includes the following dialogue in his description of these conversations: “Are you a single tribe (qàbil )?” “No, the name Kutàma is applied to all of us but we are divided into different tribes, qabà"il, clans, afhadh and families, buyùtàt.” “Do you help each other?” “No, there is not much co-operation among us.” “Are you unified?” “No, we fight each other, then we become reconciled. After the battle, we make peace with some while we make war with others, such is our custom.” “And if an enemy from outside attacks you, are you united?” “No one has ever dared attack us.” “Why?” “Because of our great number and the forbidding nature of our terrain.”

The Kutàma also explained the importance of their cavalry forces and the abundance of their arms. The questioning moved on to focus on how the tribes were governed and who they obeyed: “Each of us is his own master. There are also dignitaries (akàbir) among us, in each tribe. We also have among us people with knowledge and teachers (mu'allimùn) whom we ask for opinions on religious matters and whom we ask to arbitrate when lawsuits arise among us. Whoever is found guilty submits to this judgment of his own accord; if he deviates from this behaviour the council ( jamà'a) rises against him; as for tithes and other legal taxes . . . we give them directly to the poor.”17 17 Al-Qà∂ì al-Nu'màn, Iftità˙ al-da'wa wa-ibtidà" al-dawla, ed. Dachraoui, Tunis, 1975, pp. 37–38.

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It would be difficult to imagine a more precise description of what anthropologists call a segmentary tribal system.18 The information gleaned from this round of questioning seems to have struck the dà'i as ideal—he may have been particularly impressed by news of the great distance between the tribes and the cities under governmental control, as well as that of the differences among them or information about how widely diffused power was. He left to settle among them as a mu'allim, although his real intention was to preach to them about the arrival of the Mahdì. The history of the dà'i’s rise to power among the Kutàma is portrayed in the Iftità˙ as resembling that of Mu˙ammad in Mecca and Medina. His followers, the awliyà", resembled the salaf in their virtue,19 and his stronghold in Tàzrùt became a dàr al-Hijra to which his faithful followers were able to retire. Continuing the analogy with Mu˙ammad, the Iftità˙ compares those who responded to the call of the dà'i with those who made their pact with the Prophet, saying “Give us what is good in this world and the next” (Qur"àn II: 20).20 This reply, or pact, represented a commitment to a community of believers who would have to live in strict accordance with the Revelation, expelling all those who did not abide by it, not only from the community, but from all kinship and clan ties. In the Mahdist propaganda he used to convince the tribes to join him, the dà'i Abù 'Abd Allàh also referred to the well-known words of the tradition, “Islam began as a stranger and will be a stranger again as it was in the first times”. The qà∂ì al-Nu'màn explained what the Prophet meant by these words: that a time would come when the Law would fall into oblivion and the Sunna be replaced by norms which would violate divine order. In that time of iniquity God would send one of the descendants of the Prophet to restore true religion and suppress the customs which are contrary to God’s Law. The Prophet Mu˙ammad and his descendant the Mahdì, both predestined by God, are the only ones who will guarantee the integrity of divine law, which cannot be protected from corruption and oblivion other than by Mu˙ammad and his family.

18 Such as that described by E. Gellner in Saint of the Atlas. See the commentaries on this and other passages in Madeleine de Gogorza Fletcher, “The anthropological context of Almohad history”, Hespéris-Tamuda XXVI–XXVII (1988–89) pp. 25–51. 19 Al-Qà∂ì al-Nu'màn, Iftità˙, pp. 129–130. 20 Al-Qà∂ì al-Nu'màn, Iftità˙, pp. 117–118.

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All the Kutàma tribes are described as entering the da'wa with the exception of a few individuals living on the outskirts of cities. Such people were tolerated as “hypocrites” (munàfiqùn),21 just as the hypocrites of Medina were tolerated by the Prophet Mu˙ammad. The exemplary conduct of the dà'i, with its foundation in extreme severity and moral rigour, regenerated Berber Kutàma society by means of a strict observance of religious law and an even more extreme ethical severity.22 Under the guidance of the dà'i, Berber society identified itself with the Muslim community under the guidance of the Prophet.23 In this way the Kutàma returned to the original virtues of the original community to receive the call of the messenger of the Mahdì, with the aim of restoring pristine purity. Their conversion into one sole family under the authority of the dà'i was the starting-point for the imposition of a new supra-tribal order. The different clans of the Kutàma came together to form an army divided into seven sections or regiments (aßba' ) commanded by a muqaddam appointed by Abù 'Abd Allàh. Du'àt (the plural of dà'i ) were also placed in charge of each district. Muqaddams and du'àt made up the governing class of the mashàyikh in charge of community affairs, especially the collection of taxes, which included a portion for the Imàm which was set aside in expectation of the Mahdì’s arrival.24 The Bayàn also relates the meeting of the Kutàma with the dà'i at Mecca and describes how he travelled with them to Qayrawàn. After arriving, he gathered information about Berber tribes and was able to confirm that the Kutàma were the most numerous, as well as being the group which lived furthest away from the reach of the sultan’s authority.25 The dà'i rode into their territory on a white mule. When he came to one of the towns inhabited by the tribes and passed before a mosque, the Imàm, who was also a children’s schoolteacher, stared at him for a long time and claimed to recognise him as the person whose coming had been predicted by an ancient Kutàma soothsayer known as Faylaq: a man travelling from 21

Al-Qà∂ì al-Nu'màn, Iftità˙, p. 117. Al-Qà∂ì al-Nu'màn, Iftità˙, pp. 118–120. 23 Al-Qà∂ì al-Nu'màn, Iftità˙, p. 129. 24 Al-Qà∂ì al-Nu'màn, Iftità˙, pp. 124–125. 25 Ibn 'Idhàrì, Al-Bayàn al-mughrib fì ikhtißàr akhbàr mulùk al-Andalus wa-l-Maghrib, French trans. E. Fagnan: Histoire de l’Afrique et de l’Espagne intitulée al-Bayano ’l Mogrib, Algiers, 1901–1904, p. 166. 22

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the East on a white mule who would bring with him true and definitive war. This prediction benefitted Abù 'Abd Allàh, who in turn spoke to the Kutàma of augurs which forecast that they would save the family of 'Alì by sustaining and supporting with their blood the candidate for the Imamate who belonged to that family. This Imàm “will carry out the conquest of the whole world for you and you will be doubly repaid with the obtention of goods in this world and the next.”26 He also spoke to them, allegedly in their language, of the signs that the infallible Imàm from the family of 'Alì would bring with him. This is important because it relates to an issue on which Ibn 'Idhàrì’s version diverges from that of the qà∂ì al-Nu'màn: the dà'i’s eventual fall into disgrace. According to Ibn 'Idhàrì, in 298/910, Abù 'Abd Allàh al-Shì'ì at one time gathered together all the major Kutàma leaders and explained to them his doubts about 'Abd Allàh, saying that “his actions do not at all resemble those of the Mahdì in whose name I have preached and I fear that I have made a mistake in this respect just as Abraham was mistaken when he believed he had seen his lord in the first star whose light penetrated the darkness of the night. We must look on his person for the signs which the Mahdì must bear and which are known by the head of the shurafà". One of these signs is that he should bear written between his shoulderplates the words “Mahdì sent by God” in the same manner that Mu˙ammad bore the sign of prophethood, and he should also be capable of performing miracles”. All this was to occur later. Initially, the Kutàma were organised into a new order under the guidance of the dà'i and threw themselves into the conquest of the Aghlabid kingdom. The campaign began with the capture of the citadel of Mìla in 289/902 and ended with the flight of the Aghlabids in 296/909.27 After conquering Qayrawàn, Abù 'Abd Allàh left for Sijilmàsa in 296/909, following the Western route through ˇubna as far as Tàhart, the capital of the Ibà∂ite (Khàrijite) kingdom of the Rustumids. The last member of Ibn Rustum’s dynasty was executed and the capital of Maghreb khàrijism was converted to the new revolutionary movement. The dà'i came shortly afterwards to Sijilmàsa, another khàrijite city, in this case a sufrite one in the hands of the dynasty

26 27

Ibn 'Idhàrì, Al-Bayàn al-mughrib, p. 168. For a detailed account of these events, see Talbi, Emirat Aglabide, pp. 653 and ff.

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of the Banù Midràr. The governor of the city, al-Yasa' ibn Midràr, offered little resistance and the city was soon looted, al-Yasa' himself fleeing for his life. The Mahdì was then discovered, recognised and presented to the army by the dà'i as mawlànà wa-mawlakum, ayyuhà l-mu"minùn, “Our lord and your lord, oh believers”. In Sijilmàsa, the ceremony of the bay'a or oath of allegiance to the caliph, supreme head of the community of believers, was carried out. This pledge was also a pact which established the Kutàma, with the successor to the Prophet as amìr al-mu"minìn. They entered his kingdom as the chosen people, and their recognition as such inaugurated that kingdom. 'Abd Allàh was again proclaimed caliph shortly afterwards, when he entered Raqqàda, the capital of Ifrìqiya. He in turn founded his own dàr al-hijra, or capital-fortress and ideal city which received the name al-Mahdiyya, the city of the Mahdì. According to Brett,28 the choice of Ifrìqiya as the Mahdì’s base indicates the presence of divisions within the movement and reveals to what extent these divisions were the product of ignorance and the absence of a centralised head. In this view, Abù 'Abd Allàh knew nothing of the Mahdì’s intentions until he met him for the first time in Sijilmàsa. His own movement was taken over and absorbed by another very different one. In the Iftità˙, the death of the dà'i, ordered by 'Abd Allàh in 298/911, is the final act of the revolution and the last episode to be narrated in any detail. It is presented as the fall into disgrace of a servant who had been loyal up to that point but had now been corrupted by ambition. This fall began with the resentment of the Kutàma shaykhs who were forced to give the Mahdì the portion of the booty which they had saved in his name. The corruptor of the Kutàma is named as Abù Zakì, who was left in charge of the government of Qayrawàn during the dà'i’s expedition to Sijilmàsa and took such a liking to the wielding of power that he ended, according to the Iftità˙, by casting doubt upon the authenticity of the Mahdì discovered by Abù 'Abd Allàh. The shaykh of the Msalta clan, Hàrùn ibn Yùnus al-Arbàbì, even asked for proof of the Mahdì’s identity and paid for this insolence with his life.29 As I have said, the version of events contained in Ibn 'Idhàrì’s Bayàn al-Mughrib is, however,

28 29

M. Brett, The Rise of the Fatimids, p. 108. M. Brett, The Rise of the Fatimids, p. 109.

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somewhat different: it is Abù 'Abd Allàh himself who requests proof of the Mahdì’s authenticity.30 Both authors describe as a consequence of the execution of the dà'i the Kutàma revolt in Kabylia which was carried out in the name of the new pretender, a boy of obscure origin known as Kàdù ibn Mu'àrik, who received a new revelation and was declared a prophet by the Kutàma tribe. Kàdù recorded new dogmatic and religious precepts in a book for the Kutàma, and he came to dominate a large area of Algeria for several years. It appears that every kind of sexual licence was permitted in his name. Kadu’s revolt was eventually defeated, with some difficulty, by the son of the Mahdì, Abù l-Qàsim Mu˙ammad ibn 'Abd Allàh. This son and successor to the Mahdì fulfilled the prediction that the Mahdì was to have the same name as the Prophet. He ascended to the throne in 322/934 with the eschatological epithet al-Qà"im bi 'amr Allàh, synonymous with the word Mahdì. Almost immediately afterwards, another Berber revolution was to place the existence of the dynasty in grave danger, and on this occasion the movement was carried out in the name of the most extreme form of khàrijism. Towards the end of the decade of the 930s, a Zanàta Berber by the name of Abù Yazìd Makhlad ibn Kaydàd alZanàtì, ßà˙ib al-˙imàr or Lord of the Donkey, started his preaching in Algeria. Abù Yazìd was the son of an Ibà∂ite merchant and a Sudanese slave, and came to be known also as al-Óabashì al-Aswad, or Black Ethiop. Most khàrijites believed that the Imàm should be the best of Muslims without taking his origins into account, even if he were “an Ethiopian slave”, and furthermore the appellative ˙abashì often carries apocalyptic connotations in the Islamic Tradition.31 Originally a teacher of the Qur"àn to children, Abù Yazìd started to take his neighbours to task for their actions, commanding right and forbidding wrong, and also to confront the collectors of taxes. Abù Yazìd had a mole on his shoulder, as well as other signs which marked him out as predestined for a prophetic mission. Lame, advanced in years, dressed in rags and riding upon a donkey, he was always accompanied by his blind old teacher, and began to preach the extremest forms of khàrijism. He was able to gather, among the Zanàta tribes of the Aures, a mountain range in Eastern

30 31

Ibn 'Idhàrì, Al-Bayàn al-mughrib, pp. 161–165. See Wensick art. “Óabasha” in EI 2.

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Algeria, a growing horde of followers as he advanced towards the Western borders of the Fà†imid empire.32 In 944, leaving behind him a trail of destruction wherever he went, Abù Yazìd conquered the city of Qayrawàn, and put the Fà†imid governor to death. He had coins minted in his name and proclaimed himself shaykh al-mu"minìn. In 333/945 he laid siege to the city of al-Mahdiyya itself, home to the caliph al-Qà"im, but failed in his attempt to take control of it. One year later, Ismà'ìl, son and successor of al-Qà"im, led his army towards Qayrawàn, brandishing the fabulous sword of his ancestor 'Alì, Dhù l-Faqàr. He was able to force Abù Yazìd to retire once more to the mountains from whence he had departed. Ismà'ìl pursued him, but did not defeat and capture him until 947. Abù Yazìd’s corpse was then skinned and the skin stuffed with cotton or straw and displayed by his victor Ismà'ìl after his return to Qayrawàn and al-Mahdiyya. In Fà†imid sources, the rebel Abù Yazìd assumes the apocalyptic role of al-Dajjàl, the “Antichrist” whose coming was foreordained by God and whose defeat would open the way for the final triumph of the Imàm as head of the Muslim community. Ismà'ìl, grandson of the Mahdì 'Abd Allàh and son of Mu˙ammad al-Qà"im, thus makes a glorious appearance as the son of God’s Messenger in the messianic role of Mahdì inherited from his grandfather and father, and which would be passed on to his heirs until the end of all time. It was only after defeating al-Dajjàl that Ismà'ìl took up the Imamate and caliphate under the epithet “al-Manßùr”, the victor over Abù Yazìd.33 One of the merits of Brett’s study of the Fà†imids, already mentioned on several occasions, lies in the way that he demonstrates that the Kutàma revolution was the first of three great revolutions to transform the social and political scene in the Maghreb, the second being that of the Almoravids and the third that of the Almohads. The turn to local Berber kingdoms which had marked the end of the Classical period in North Africa had been brusquely interrupted by the Arab conquest which re-established the old Roman pattern of domination of autochtonous tribal peoples by foreign conquerors. This pattern was modified, but not abolished, by the khàrijite revolt of the Berbers in the 2nd/8th century which gave rise to city-states 32 A detailed account of events and available sources in R. Le Tourneau, “La révolte d’Abu Yazid au Xème siècle”, Les Cahiers de Tunisie 2 (1953) pp. 103–125. 33 See M. Brett, The Rise of the Fatimids, chap. VII.

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like Tàhart or Sijilmàsa, but did not affect the principle of foreign dominance. The defeat of the Aghlabids, pillars of Arab supremacy, by the Kutàma revolt led to nothing less than the arrival of a new dynasty which also originated in the Middle East. But Arab supremacy had ended, and the Berber tribes had left the periphery to place themselves at the very centre of the political stage. The Fà†imid revolution was the first great step towards the conquest of the entire Maghreb by Berber tribal armies which in turn would produce the government of North Africa by dynasties of a Berber origin. The energies of a tribal society were thus unleashed to begin an era of “state-building” in the name of Islam.

CHAPTER THREE

BERBER PROPHETS AND MESSIANIC REBELS IN MUSLIM SPAIN

Events in North Africa before the rise of the Fà†imids are only one half of the story of the Muslim West. They were paralleled by comparable developments in Muslim Spain leading up to the rivalry in the tenth century between the Fà†imid and Umayyad Caliphates that set the scene for the future. The Muslim invasion of the Iberian pensinsula was in many ways the logical and necessary extension of the conquest of North Africa. Like some other Muslim conquests, the invasion of Spain seems to have been undertaken on local initiative without the approval of the authorities, in this case the governor of Qayrawàn Mùsà b. Nußayr or the caliph al-Walìd in Damascus. The mainly Berber army of ˇàriq b. Ziyàd, governor of Tangier, crossed the Straits of Gibraltar in 711 and enjoyed a spectacular success which attracted the attention of his superior in Qayrawàn, Mùsà b. Nußayr, who followed him the next year with an army which was mainly composed of Arabs. The conquests and the subsequent progress of Islamisation and Arabisation produced the apocalyptic side-effects which are the subject of this chapter. The establishment of Muslim power seems to have occurred in two stages.1 The first was the take-over of the main cities and the fertile lands of the South and East, in some cases with the assistance or agreement of members of the Visigothic nobility. In the second phase the North-East was conquered, and peace agreements were made with the Visigothic lords of the Ebro valley. However, for almost a century, it was the main cities and lines of communication which were secured and conversion to Islam was limited. The beginning of the rule of 'Abd al-'Azìz ibn Mùsà b. Nußayr in 95/714 , son of the conqueror of al-Andalus, marks what is known

1 For a survey of the political history of al-Andalus, see H. Kennedy, Muslim Spain and Portugal. A political history of al-Andalus. London-New York, 1996.

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as the period of Dependent Governors, those who were not independent of the Umayyad Caliphate in Damascus, but appointed by the governors of Egypt or Ifrìqiya. Most of those governors only lasted for a very short time, because it was feared that they would gain too much power and become independent in a province which was so far from the centre of the empire. This period of the Dependent Governors, lasting about forty years up to the fall of the Umayyad state in Damascus (131/750) and the establishment of the emirate of 'Abd al-Ra˙màn al-Dàkhil, was a period characterised by dissension and civil wars, not only between Arabs, Berbers and HispanoRoman local populations, but also between different factions and families within these groups. The Berber revolts which broke out in North Africa against Arab rule, considered in chapter 1, also reached al-Andalus in 741. The then governor of al-Andalus, 'Abd al-Malik b. al-Qa†an al-Fihrì sought the help of a Syrian army which was able to inflict successive defeats on the Berbers, after which it proclaimed their leader Balj b. Bishr as governor of al-Andalus (741–43). These events profoundly changed the political character of al-Andalus, increasing substantially the Arab (especially Syrian) element in the population. Many of these Syrians were clients (mawàlì) or had long-standing loyalties to the Umayyad family. By 757 the Muslim presence in al-Andalus had clearly become permanent. Local resistance had disappeared, a new generation of Arab and Berbers born in al-Andalus was growing up, and converts were beginning to be made amongst the indigenous population. But the new conquerors had failed to develop a viable political system: that would be the achievement of the Umayyad 'Abd al-Ra˙màn I al-Dàkhil (138/756–172/788). From 747 to 750 the 'Abbàsid revolution in the East put an end to the rule of the Muslim world by the Umayyads and its Syrian military supporters. Most of the members of the ruling family were executed, but a few managed to escape. One of those was 'Abd alRa˙màn b. Mu'àwiya, who accompanied by a few mawàlì fled to North Africa to seek refuge amongst his mother’s relations, the Berbers of the Nafza tribe. In 755 he crossed to al-Andalus where he was able to recruit an army of Umayyad mawàlì with whom he marched to Cordoba. In its mosque he was proclaimed amìr in 756. He undertook the organisation of the state and its administration. After the first year, he put an end to the practice of aknowledging the names

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of the 'Abbàsid caliphs during the Friday prayers and therefore alAndalus ceased to form part of a wider Muslim empire. He ruled for the next 33 years as someone who acknowledged no temporal superior and managed to establish in al-Andalus an independant Umayyad dynastic power. The period of the Emirate in the hands of Umayyad descendants lasted until 316/929 in which 'Abd alRa˙màn III proclaimed himself Caliph. In the second half of the ninth century, a social and political crisis enveloped the Emirate in the form of dissidence and rebellion against the amirs, but also civil war among different parties. This crisis, known as the Fitna, almost led to the complete collapse of the Emirate. The root of the problem seems to have lain in the increasing rate of conversion to Islam. On the one hand, these new converts sought to play a full role in the politics of al-Andalus as full members of the Muslim community. In doing so, they entered into conflict with established elites, mainly Arabs and Ummayad mawàlì. On the other, mass conversion undermined the fiscal basis of the Umayyad state and was the cause of administrative and military weakness. Mass conversion also provoked active reaction among the Christian population of al-Andalus, especially among its ecclesiastical elites. However, the Ummayyad emirate also had another challenge to face. On the northern side of the religious frontier, the Christian communities of territories not occupied by the Muslims had been consolidating into political units. The most important of these units was the kingdom of Asturias, an area where neither Romans nor Visigoths had been able to exercise much power. Alfonso I (739–57) was able to take advantage of political troubles in al-Andalus from 741 to establish his power in Galicia and to raid the lands of the Duero valley to the south. During the long reign of his son Alfonso II (791–842) important ideological developments took place, since this king set about restoring the institutions of the Visigoth monarchy, and proclaimed himself the inheritor of the Visigothic kings, with the implication that he was entitled to reconquer the lands of his predecessors. The troubles of the Emirate during the second half of the ninth century gave Alfonso III (866–910) the opportunity to extend the limits of the Asturian kingdoms into the plains of the northern meseta, including Zamora. The capital was transferred from Oviedo, in Asturias, to Leon after 910. These Christian kingdoms produced their own historiography, a complementary and very

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important source for our knowledge of what was happening in alAndalus. In fact, the information we possess for the first centuries of the history of al-Andalus is far richer than that which we have for the Maghreb, and includes a entire series of predictions and apocalyptic beliefs partly related to the fact of the Islamic conquest. I will thus begin by examining these predictions and considering their relation to Islamic eschatological and apocalyptic beliefs, as well as their precedents in Late Antiquity, as were described in the Introduction, before analysing those rebels against established power similar to the “false prophets” who have already been considered, or who were named al-fà†imiyyùn like the Idrìsids. Early apocalyptic Muslim materials are concerned mainly with the wars against Byzantium. The 7th and early 8th centuries saw the wide diffusion of Muslim eschatological speculations related to the taking of Constantinople and the continuous Byzantine military campaigns to reconquer Syria. At the same time, early Muslim sources for the conquest of Syria are often motivated by the later need to produce a pattern of sacred history mixed with sectarian and local tendencies.2 In the Iberian Peninsula there was a state of confrontation of Christian with Muslims which paralleled the situation in Syria. The literary genre of fa∂à"il, or local merits, transmits traditions designed to show the religious benefit of living in a territory closely contested by the Christians both in Syria and in al-Andalus. Syria was also the land in which many of the apocalyptic battles were to be fought. Not all the apocalyptic traditions of these lands in which jihàd was permanent felt that continual victory was important, but at the same time it was felt that defeat could sometimes bring the Muslim community closer to God. Nevertheless, amongst Muslims, traditions had already circulated in the 2nd/8th century predicting that their settlement in the Iberian Peninsula would be transitory and was destined to end tragically.3 Al-Andalus had also played a leading role in Muslim eschatological literature since there were traditions that

2 S. Bashear, “Apocalyptic and other materials on early Muslim. Byzantine wars: a review of the Arab sources”, JRASI 2 (1991) p. 199. 3 M. Fierro, “Le mahdì Ibn Tùmart et al-Andalus: l’élaboration de la légitimité almohade”, in M. García-Arenal (ed.), Millénarisme et Mahdisme, REMMM 91–94 (2000) pp. 107–124, p. 48.

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Constantinople would be conquered from it.4 Extant accounts of the Muslim conquest of al-Andalus are full of mythical and legendary elements:5 most of these accounts were not produced in al-Andalus itself but derived from Eastern and especially Egyptian motifs and were a response to the need to elaborate a comprehensible version of sacred history.6 One of these legends, which nevertheless does not figure in the oldest texts, claims that the conqueror ˇàriq had a hairy mole on his left shoulderplate, just like the prophet Mu˙ammad himself. This physical manifestation of prophetic ability contributed to the mythologisation of the figure of ˇàriq and served to project one of the founding paradigms of Islam upon the conquest of alAndalus. It should be remembered that it was the Christian monk Ba˙ìrà, mentioned in the Introduction, who found the sign that he expected on the child Mu˙ammad’s back after reading about it in ancient texts describing the awaited Prophet. We will meet later with further instances in which this kind of birthmark was associated with prophetic ability. The mark became a theophanic sign, i.e. the manifestation of a hidden and transcendent agenda, proof of a vocation, the legitimisation of a specific and heroic destiny.7 All of the aforementioned material constitutes a fairly coherent set of representations and beliefs which would come to fix themselves deep within the collective memory, judging by the lengthy duration of some of the motifs, as I will try to show. In practice, such beliefs were placed in circulation by a series of figures who led uprisings in al-Andalus during these first two centuries of Islam. The Iberian Peninsula, like Syria, was an area where diverse eschatological traditions were woven together. There was, in Iberia, a confluence of apocalyptic ideas coming from the North, many of them from Byzantium, and others coming from the Middle East through Muslim territories. The 8th and 9th centuries of the Christian era were times of a strong apocalyptic and messianic sentiment for all the communities inhabiting Iberia, whether Christian, Jewish or

4 M. Canard, “Les expéditions des Arabes contre Constantinople dans l’histoire et la legende”, Journal Asiatique CCVIII (1926) pp. 61–121. 5 See J. Hernández Juberías, La Península imaginaria. Mitos y leyendas sobre al-Andalus, Madrid: CSIC, 1996. 6 M. 'A. Makki, “Egipto y los orígenes de la historiografía arabigo-española”, Revista del Instituto Egipcio de Estudios Islámicos 5 (1957) pp. 157–248. 7 F. Delpech, “Du heros marqué au signe du Prophète: esquisse pour l’archéologie d’un motif chevaleresque”, Bulletin Hispanique 92 (1990) pp. 237–257.

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Muslim.8 The apocalyptic interpretation of history (i.e. the belief that history has a set duration and an end which can be determined by the interpretation of previous signs) was found throughout the Latin West from the start of the Middle Ages9 and the eschatological currents of belief which reached the Iberian Peninsula were also to be found in Italy and France, from the 6th century on.10 For the 7thcentury St. Isidore of Seville, for example, the conversion of the Visigoths, heirs of the Romans, to the Christian faith, was a sign that the Sixth Age was close at hand. But in Iberia, religious confrontation favoured the creation of an apocalyptic atmosphere and the messianic expectations of one religion contributed to the setting in motion of those of the other two. The fact that the Jewish Messiah is interpreted by Christians and Muslims as the Antichrist or the Dajjàl, or the key role of Jesus in Christian and Muslim apocalyptics, helps the fact that eschatological beliefs were easily interchangeable between communities of different religions.11 Amongst Hispanic Christians of the 8th century, a deep spiritual convulsion raised the eschatological tension to unprecedented levels of anxiety about the future. The apparently imminent end of the Byzantine Empire and the Muslim conquest of the Iberian Peninsula seemed to augur the final days of Christendom. Muslim assaults on Constantinople were transformed into apocalyptic material by Christians and Muslims alike.12 Islamic tradition announced that the End of all Time would not arrive until Islam had spread to the territory of the Rùm (the name used by Arab sources to describe the Byzantines, but also the Christians of Iberia) and Constantinople or, in a later tradition, until Rome itself had been conquered.13 This conquest was an indispensable condition for wiping error from the face of the 8

J. Gil, “Judíos y cristianos en Hispania (siglos VIII y IX)”, Hispania Sacra XXXI (1978–79) pp. 9–80. 9 M. Reeves, “The Development of Apocalyptic Thought: Medieval Attitudes”, The Prophetic Sense of History in Medieval and Renaissance Europe, Ashgate, Variorum, 1999, Chap. 1, pp. 40–72. 10 A. Rucqoui, “Medida y fin de los tiempos. Mesianismo y milenarismo en la Edad Media” in En pos del Milenio, Salamanca, 1999, pp. 13–41. 11 J. Tolan, “Réactions chrétiennes aux conquêtes musulmanes. Etude comparée des auteurs chrétiens de Syrie et d’Espagne”, Cahiers de Civilisation Médiévale 176 (2001) pp. 349 and ff. 12 S. Bashear, “Apocalyptic and other materials on early Muslim-Byzantine wars: a review of the Arab sources”, JRAS 1/2 (1991) pp. 173–208. 13 A. Abel, “Un ˙àdiΔ sur la prise de Rome dans la tradition eschatologique del’Islam”, Arabica V (1958) pp. 1–14.

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earth and eliminating impiety and injustice. Apocalyptic texts describe the Pope in Rome as being to the Christians what the caliph was to Muslims.14 On the Iberian Christian side, the Crónica Profética (883) reflected beliefs in the imminence of the end of the world, preceded by a final war between Christendom and Islam. This chronicle constitutes an apocalypse which was specifically tailored to meet the conditions of Hispania and the circumstances of the Asturian kingdom. Much the same can be said of the Crónica Albeldense of 880.15 It was within this febrile world, profoundly disturbed by apocalyptic forecasts, that the Leonese imperial idea emerged: the Christian king Alfonso III of Leon, seeing that the end of the world was expected in the year 900, regarded himself as the emperor of the last days, an idea which had been spread, as we have seen in the Introduction, by Byzantine apocalyptic texts.16 Byzantine influence on the Asturian-Leonese kingdom and the Pyrenaic countries was just as strong as it ever was on the kingdom of Cordoba.17 The Jews for their part, interpreting the prophecies of Daniel, expected the arrival of the Messiah in 868.18 Juan Gil has suggested that the Jewish apocalyptic movement, so intense in the second half of the 9th century, was a powerful influence on Jews and Christians in the Iberian peninsula. The persecution of Jews which took place during these years in the Byzantine territories served to encourage the further development of such beliefs. The same Jewish prophecies also predicted the end of Muslim domination, making them popular among the Mozarabs or Arabized Christians of Cordoba. These messianic expectations are likely to have contributed to the climate of religious exaltation produced by the movement of voluntary martyrs in 850 among the Christian communities of al-Andalus, which were undoubtedly propelled by social causes and, in particular by the decision of the amir Mu˙ammad to forgo the employment of

A. Abel, “Un ˙àdiΔ sur la prise de Rome”, p. 10. J. Gil, “Judíos y cristianos en Hispania”, p. 63. 16 P. Alexander, “The Medieval Legend of the Last Roman Emperor and its Messianic Origin”, Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes, XLI (1978) pp. 1–15. 17 A. Rucqoui, “El fin del milenarismo en la España de los siglos X y XI” in Milenarismos y milenaristas en la Europa medieval, Nájera, 1999, pp. 281–304; E. LeviProvençal, “Un échange d’ambassades entre Cordue et Byzance au IX siècle”, Byzantion XII (1937) pp. 1–24. 18 J. Gil, “Judíos y cristianos en Hispania”, p. 49. 14 15

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Christians in state administration unless they agreed to convert to Islam.19 Both Eulogio and Alvarus of Cordoba, two distinguished Mozarabic clerics and polemicists, saw Mu˙ammad as the precursor of the Antichrist and Islamic domination as preparation for the End. Alvarus calculated that Islamic domination would last for 245 years, making it likely that the End was then very close. He also noted with satisfaction that Mu˙ammad had died in 666, the number of the Beast in the Apocalypse.20 This information on al-Andalus leads us to ask ourselves a number of questions which cannot be answered at the current stage of our knowledge. One such question is whether Maghrebian Jews of the 9th century might also have been affected by apocalyptic predictions, and whether this would have had any influence on their Muslim neighbours, as may have been the case in al-Andalus and in other parts of the contemporary Islamic world.21 But the fact is we do not even know whether these Jewish communities had sufficient demographic or social entity to exert any sort of influence. Odd, vague items of news exist concerning Judaism in North Africa before the conquest, but most of them seem to resemble legends or “myths of origin” and are difficult to use as historical evidence.22 We also know very little about the situation of Christians in North Africa. In the Maghreb there seems to have been no religious polemic of the kind that was common in al-Andalus and also in Syria,23 and which constantly recurred to prophetic and eschatological arguments, particularly in Christian literature, thus contributing to the creation of a particular social and religious climate. Neither are there any reports of apocalyptic literature in the Maghreb, although the region does feature in several Middle Eastern eschatological traditions. For instance, there is plenty of evidence to suggest that the great Berber 19

K.B. Wolf, Christian Martyrs in Muslim Spain, Cambridge, 1988. M. Reeves, “The Development of Apocalyptic Thought: Medieval Attitudes”, The Prophetic Sense of History in Medieval and Renaissance Europe, Ashgate, Variorum, 1999, p. 44. 21 J. Starr, “Le mouvement messianique au début du VIII siècle”, Revue des Etudes Juives II (1937) pp. 81–92. 22 N. Slousch, “Etudes sur l’histoire des Juifs au Maroc”, Archives Marocaines IV (1905) pp. 345–411; M. Simon, “Le judaisme berbère dans l’Afrique ancienne”, Revue d’Histoire et de Philosophie Religieuse XXVI (1946) pp. 105–145. 23 I follow M. Talbi in Gervers and Bikhazi, Conversion and continuity. Indigenous Christian communities in Islamic Lands. Eight to Eighteenth centuries, Ontario, 1990, pp. 313–51. 20

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revolt of 123/740 may have inspired a fear which was translated into this kind of literature. Nu'aym b. Óammàd, in his Kitàb al-fitan, cites many Syrian and Egyptian traditions which predicted the fitna of the Berbers and the proclamation of 'Abd al-Ra˙màn, master of the Maghreb (ßà˙ib Maghrib), as amìr al-mu"minìn from the pulpits of Egypt. In the prophecies which circulated after the Umayyad caliphate of the East, the coming of a rebel army from the Maghreb, carrying yellow flags, became a recurrent element.24 Ibn Óabìb (d. 238/853), the first historian of al-Andalus, wrote a work (the Kitàb al-ta"rìkh, or Book of History)25 which bore certain similarities with the Syrian apocalypsis of the Pseudo-Methodius in that it was a history of the world from its creation, from Adam to Mu˙ammad, followed by the history of the caliphs and ˇàriq’s victory in al-Andalus. In the opening description of his work Ibn Óabìb wrote: “Later I will mention those who have governed it [al-Andalus] until today and who will govern it until it is destroyed, as also what will happen from the time of its destruction until the arrival of the Hour, with the traditions and signs of the End of all Time.”26 He went on to describe traditions which predicted the “turns” or “cycles” (dawla) of the Umayyads and Fà†imids, which would come to an end with the appearance of a fà†imì: “[after the turn of the Umayyads] the caliphate of the descendants of al-'Abbàs will disappear and it will pass to the sons of Abù ˇàlib where it will stay until the Dajjàl appears and the immigrant (dàkhil ) of the tribe of Quraysh of the descendants of Fà†ima enters al-Andalus.”27 Or again: “In the times of this Fà†imì, Constantinople will be conquered and the Christians of Cordoba and their region will be slaughtered by him so that not a single Christian will be left.”28 Although there do not appear to be any traditions associating the figure of 'Abd al-Ra˙màn I al-Dàkhil, the founder of the Umayyad emirate of al-Andalus, with that of the Mahdì, premonitory legends concerning his arrival in the Peninsula do nonetheless abound in an eschatological context. One of these eschatological traditions states

24

W. Madelung, “The Sufyani between tradition and history”, Studia Islamica 63 (1986) pp. 13–14 and 28. 25 I have used the edition and study by Jorge Aguadé, Madrid, 1991. 26 Apud Aguadé ed., Ibn Óabìb, Kitàb al-ta"rìkh, p. 89. 27 Ibn Óabìb, Kitàb al-ta"rìkh, ed. Aguadé, p. 89. 28 Ibn Óabìb, Kitàb al-ta"rìkh, ed. Aguadé, p. 90.

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that the government of the Umayyads will last until the appearance of al-Dajjàl.29 Ibn Óabìb believed, and wrote, that his times were those of the End (àkhir al-zamàn), just like a number of contemporary Eastern traditionists, such as Nu'aym b. Óammàd, who records ˙adìths concerning the appearance of the Mahdì in the year 200 of the Hijra. Mu˙ammad b. Wa∂∂à˙, the famous Andalusi traditionist, and a disciple of Ibn Óabìb, also seems to have believed in the proximity of the Final Hour,30 as did al-Maghàmì, another of Ibn Óabìb’s disciples: for both of them the age of the emir 'Abd Allàh (275–300/ 888–912), when Umayyad power seemed to have come to an end, could be interpreted in such a way.31 The belief is reflected in the Crónica Profética of the Northern Christians, mentioned above: “The Sarracens themselves believe that their end is nigh because of certain prodigies and signs in the stars.”32 As has been said, in the second half of the 9th century, al-Andalus was disrupted by a series of successive revolts during a period which is known as the Fitna. Fitna is also a term very frequently found in apocalyptic traditions referring to the collective trials and tribulations that the Muslim community has to go through before reaching the end of times. Ibn Óafßùn The leader of the best-known of these revolts was the muwallad 33 rebel 'Umar b. Óafßùn, who came close to ending the Umayyad emirate. Traditionally, historians have tended to see this warlord as the leader of a native Hispanic nationalist movement opposed to the AraboMuslim invader. If this had been the case, Arab domination of the Peninsula might have come to an end in the 9th century, squeezed by a “giant pair of pincers” (between the supposed nationalists of 29 M. Marín, “'Ilm al-nu[ùm e 'ilm al-˙idthàn en al-Andalus” in Actas del XII Congreso de la U.E.A.I. (Málaga, 1984), Madrid, 1986, pp. 509–35, pp. 517–519. 30 Study in edition of Ibn Wa∂∂à˙ (Kitàb al-bida', ed., trans. and estudy by M. Fierro, Madrid, 1988) p. 99. 31 For more on this, see details in Fierro, “Mahdisme et eschatologie en alAndalus” in A. Kaddouri (ed.), Mahdisme, crise et changement dans l’histoire du Maroc, Rabat, 1994, pp. 47–69; Aguadé ed., Ibn Óabìb, Kitàb al-ta"rìkh; Marín, “'Ilm alnu[ùm”. 32 Apud Gil, “Judíos y cristianos en Hispania”, p. 70. 33 A muwallad or “muladí” was a Muslim of Hispano-Roman origin.

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the South and the Christians of the North), as the Crónica Profética had joyfully predicted. In fact, Ibn Óafßùn and other rebels (e.g. Ibn Marwàn) recruited their troops from the autochtonous peasants impoverished by a run of bad harvests, plague, and an unbearable tax burden.34 Ibn Óafßùn’s most recent historian, Manuel Acién,35 interprets the Fitna as a critical period of transition caused by the violent reaction of the old feudal Visigoth aristocracy (to which Acién believes Ibn Óafßùn belonged)36 to the dismantling of their power after the end of a period characterised by a policy of pact-making. According to Acién, the high clergy of the Mozarabs should also be considered part of this Visigothic feudal aristocracy, so that the Mozarab martyrs of Cordoba, mentioned above, ought to be included in the list of rebellious movements. The new age, i.e. the end of the period still governed by the pacts made at the time of the conquest, was in this view motivated above all by the administrative reforms and fiscal measures of 'Abd al-Ra˙màn II and by the unstoppable urban growth of al-Andalus. Personally, I am more convinced by Maribel Fierro’s argument37 that Ibn Óafßùn was a muwallad rebel, i.e. an acculturated convert to Islam who had not been integrated in the system through ties of walà", at a time when the processes of conversion and arabisation were seeking to complete the previous phase of Arab predominance. This would link Ibn Óafßùn’s movement with those occurring in the Maghreb mentioned in the first chapter, and which can be considered manifestations of the frustration felt by new Muslims unable to enjoy the benefits brought about by the new Arab empire, i.e. a product of the “age of conversions”. Comparisons with his strict contemporary the dà'i Abù 'Abd Allàh seem especially appropiate: both were leaders of an apocalyptic movement of rebellion against Arab power, though one, Ibn Óafßùn failed to take power, while the other, Abù 'Abd Allàh handed it to the Fà†imid Mahdì and was put to death by him. A legend grew up around the

34

J. Gil, “Judíos y cristianos en Hispania”, p. 75. M. Acién, Entre el feudalismo y el Islam. 'Umar b. Óafßùn en los historiadores, en las fuentes y en la historia, Jaén, 1994. 36 Acién bases this assumption on his genealogy, which D. Wasserstein has since argued convincingly to be false, “Inventing tradition and constructing identity: the genealogy of 'Umar Ibn Óafßùn between Christianity and Islam”, Al-Qan†ara 23 (2002) pp. 269–297. 37 M. Fierro, “Cuatro preguntas en torno a Ibn Óafßùn”, Al-Qan†ara 16 (1995) pp. 221–57. 35

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figure of Ibn Óafßùn which fits the general messianic expectations of the age, and which seems to indicate that Ibn Óafßùn intended to be a religious leader as well as a political one: “anà rabbu-kum ala'là”, as Ibn Óafßùn said to his followers.38 This, at least, is the accusation made by his enemies, since this phrase reproduces the words of the Pharaoh in the Qur"àn, where the Pharaoh sought to replace God, rabb being the first name given by the Qur"àn for the Creator.39 Such accusations have much in common with Arab attacks against the “false prophets”, as well as with the accusation of the Fà†imid Mahdì 'Abd Allàh against the dà'i. Ibn Óafßùn made use of predictions and prophecies in his favour40 and although he never proclaimed himself a Mahdì, his providentialist and redemptionist characteristics were fairly plain. He came so close to bringing Umayyad power to an end that the Fitna was seen as a sign of the End of Times. When 'Abd al-Ra˙màn III finally conquered Bobastro, Ibn Óafßùn’s stronghold, he strengthened its fortifications “so that it would serve as a refuge for him and his family, because of a certain prediction that there was to be an uprising in al-Andalus whose leaders would wage crude war on its inhabitants, laying waste to whole regions, slaughtering men and capturing women and children, so that the only people who would be saved were those who remained within their forts or fled by sea. This fateful occurrence would be the precursor of the Great Catastrophe, during which there was to be no possible solution.”41 This is exactly the kind of description given by the Iftità˙ of the foundation and fortification of Mahdiyya as a refuge for the Fà†imid dynasty. Al-Qà∂ì al-Nu'màn describes 'Abd Allàh al Mahdì using traditions which prophesied that al-Dajjàl (in his case, it was to be Abù Yazìd, to whom the so called prophecy refers post-eventum)42 could never enter it. Other figures who led uprisings in al-Andalus during these first two centuries of Islam have to be placed in relation with the Idrìsid dynasty. Ibn Óayyàn, Al-Muqtabis III, ed. M.M. Antuña, Paris, 1937, p. 118. J. Chelhod, “Note sur l’emploie du mot rabb dans le Coran”, Arabica V (1958) pp. 159–167. 40 Ibn al-Qù†iyya, Ta"rìkh iftità˙ al-Andalus, Spanish trans. J. Ribera, Madrid, 1926, pp. 91/76. 41 Akhbàr majmù'a, ed. and trans. E. Lafuente Alcántara, Madrid, 1867, p. 134. 42 Iftità˙, ed. Dachraoui, pp. 327–328. 38 39

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Shaqyà Shaqyà b. 'Abd al-Wà˙id was a Berber from the tribe of the Miknàsa who was apparently from the Western area of the Iberian Peninsula and seems to have been a mu'allim kuttàb, or schoolteacher. His revolt against the Umayyad 'Abd al-Ra˙màn I lasted from 151/768 until 160/777 in an area which extended from Merida to Santaver. His followers were mainly Berbers. Sources describe Shaqyà as “al-Fà†imì” and record that he claimed to be a descendant of the Prophet’s daughter, through Óusayn according to some sources and through al-Óasan according to others. 43 He also changed his name to Mu˙ammad b. 'Abd Allàh. Shaqyà took advantage of the shì'ite propaganda initiated after the death of Mu˙ammad b. 'Abd Allàh al-Nafs al-Zakiyya and tried to present himself as one of his descendants. Shaqyà’s case, like that of Idrìs, shows that Zaydist propaganda had reached the Berbers, creating an atmosphere which was favourable to the reception as Imams of figures descending from alNafs al-Zakiyya, or claiming such descent. It is interesting to note the references in the sources, frequent for this kind of figure, to the fact that he always travelled on an ass. Amongst such figures, we will also see several further examples of schoolteachers. It is possible that the term mu'allim has been misunderstood or mistranslated and refers to another kind of magisterial activity. In addition, there was another figure who made political use of his alleged descendance from Fà†ima during the Umayyad period. In 333/944 an unnamed man emerged in Lisbon alleging to be a prophet and claimed for himself a genealogy which went back to 'Abd al-Mu††alib, the Prophet’s uncle. Sources provide no information on his origins or that of his followers, upon whom he imposed a number of new laws and regulations.44

Ibn al-Qi†† In the late 3rd/9th century a strange and almost unknown ascete by the name of Abù 'Alì al-Sarràj was employed as a messenger between 43 M. Fierro, La heterodoxia en al-Andalus durante el periodo Omeya, Madrid, 1987, pp. 28–30. 44 Fierro, La heterodoxia en al-Andalus, pp. 128–9.

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'Umar b. Óafßùn, the famous muwallad rebel mentioned above, and the Banù Qasì. The man is described as wearing a woollen cloak and riding an ass. The Banu Qasì were an important mawàlì family which, although loyal to the Umayyads, ruled with almost total autonomy the region of the Northern frontier with the Christians, in Aragon. Al-Sarràj travelled throughout al-Andalus serving the interests of 'Umar b. Óafßùn, whose eschatological characteristics I have described, and in his later preaching, mainly among Berber populations, he announced the imminent appearance of the Mahdì and advocated jihàd against Christians. Al-Sarràj seems to have instigated the uprising which was organised by Ibn al-Qi††,45 a member of the Umayyad family who in 288/900 revolted against his powerful relative, the emir 'Abd Allàh. Ibn al-Qi†† left Cordoba and managed to obtain the support of the Berber tribes of central alAndalus as a result of the reputation he had gained from making successful predictions of future events. His preaching was based on practice of the zuhd, or ascetism, a call to wage jihàd against Christians and the ˙isba, the exercise of which constituted the “censorship of customs” embodied in the precept of al-amr bi-l-ma'rùf wa-l-nahy 'an al-munkar (to command right and forbid wrong). Ibn al-Qi†† also rode a horse which was considered to have special qualities. Once he had become an established prophet and his supporters had attributed to him the ability to perform miracles, he was able to present himself to his followers as a Mahdì. Ibn al-Qi††, in his capacity as a Mahdì, seems to have preached the proximity of the Final Hour. After performing a miracle which consisted of obtaining water from some dry branches, he is said to have claimed: “This is one of the charismas which God has granted me; I will show you more in due time, if God delays the moment (in akhara Allàh al-mudda)”.46 However, his attempt to conquer Zamora ended in failure and, abandoned by his own followers, he died in battle with the Christians. The figure of Abù 'Alì al-Sarràj is usually interpreted, like that of his contemporary Abù 'Abd Allàh al-Shì'ì, in terms of an ismà'ìlite propaganda whose aim was to contribute to the weakening of the Umayyad emirate by encouraging further revolts. The ismà'ìlites sent two dà'is to al-Andalus who were reported to have made contact

45 46

Fierro, La heterodoxia en al-Andalus, pp. 106 and ff. Fierro, La heterodoxia en al-Andalus, p. 111.

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with al-qà"im 'alà Banì Umayya, i.e. Ibn Óafßùn.47 One can see in Ibn al-Qi††’s revolt a movement of shì'ite inspiration, although it is difficult to reconcile this interpretation with the fact that Ibn al-Qi†† was an Umayyad. What it does reveal is the susceptibility of the Berbers of al-Andalus, no less than the followers of Ibn Óafßùn, to the promise of Mahdist revolution, shì'ite or otherwise. On that score, they were comparable to the Kutàma, whose successful rising on behalf of the Fà†imid Mahdì has already been discussed.

Abù Rakwa A century later Abù Rakwa is a further example of the apocalyptic tradition in al-Andalus (rakwa is the leather water-jug which was part of the attire of wandering ascetes) who preached on the one hand the censorship of customs and the jihàd on the other. Like Ibn alQi††, he is said to have been a member of the Umayyad family. Ibn al-Athìr relates that Abù Rakwa left al-Andalus when he was above the age of twenty, apparently fleeing Almanzor’s persecution of relatives of Hishàm II who might aspire to take the caliphate from him. Abù Rakwa lived for some time in Egypt, where he devoted himself to the study of the ˙adìth, performed the pilgrimage, and eventually settled in the province of Barqa in Cirenaica among the Banù Qurra (a tribe of the Banù Hilàl) as a schoolteacher, another mu'allim to be counted in the list. Thus far, his career was therefore very similar to that of the dà'i Abù 'Abd Allàh, even down to the circumstances in which he settled in the community towards whom his preaching as a mu'allim was directed, i.e. by invitation of the ignorant tribes wishing to be properly instructed. Among the Banù Qurra, Abù Rakwa revealed himself to be a very pious ascete who carried out all religious precepts very scrupulously. He later presented himself as a reformer of customs, preaching the al-amr bi-l-ma'rùf. His next step was to explain to the Banù Qurra, amongst whom he had now gained great prestige, that he was in fact the Umayyad Imàm whose arrival had been predicted by the treatises of eschatology,

47 W. Madelung and P. Walker, The advent of the Fatimids: a contemporary Shi’i Witness, London, 2000, pp. 63–64 and P. Walker, “The identity of one of the ismà'ìlì dà'is sent by the Fatimids to Ibn Óafßùn”, Al-Qan†ara 21 (2000) pp. 387–388.

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which forecast that he was to reign in Egypt and kill the tyrants. He told them that the time for action had come, and promised them victory, saying that he was the qà"im and the awaited Imàm, i.e. the Mahdì. As such he roused both the Banù Qurra and the Zanàta Berbers of the region to invade Egypt to overthrow the Fà†imid Caliph al-Óàkim, in 395/1004–5. The regime was badly shaken but Abù Rakwa was finally defeated, captured and humiliatingly put to death by a chimpanzee.48

The Umayyad Caliphate The leaders of the movements described so far combined prophetic characteristics with ascetic ones. They were “teachers”. From the little information that we possess about doctrinal content, they all seem to have preached in favour of a life of extreme austerity and the scrupulous observance of religion. Several of them (Shaqyà, al-Sarràq, Ibn al-Qi††), in addition to wearing woollen cloaks and sandals, rode asses. Their appearance coincides with the emergence and development of ascetism in al-Andalus.49 As in the Middle East, extreme ascetism, withdrawal to the desert and the rejection of “civilization” seemed to induce their apocalyptic tendencies. There was a parallel contemporary tendency in the Christian West, as was reflected in the eschatological literature. Reeves proposes that one of the unchanging themes in that literature is that of the hermit who is sought out among the rocks under divine guidance to be made supreme leader of the renovatio mundi. This is a theme which goes back to the Oracles of Leo mentioned in the Introduction. In the Oracles, when a pope has to be elected, God’s voice directs men to the rocky retreat from which the emaciated penitent is brought forth to become the ideal pope. Popular prophecy is seen in this theme as a means of bringing an ideal nearer, and divine intervention as a method of revolutionising an institution whose authority cannot be impugned. The exaltations of the hermit amid the rocks are a medieval

48 J. Aguadé, “Abù Rakwa”, Actas del IV Coloquio Hispano-Tunecino (Palma de Mallorca, 1979), Madrid, 1983, pp. 9–27. 49 M. Marín, “The early development of zuhd in al-Andalus”, in F. De Jong (ed.), Shi’a Islam, Sects and Sufism. Historical dimensions, religious practice and methodological considerations, Utrecht, 1992, pp. 83–94.

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expression of the Magnificat theme and a striking affirmation of the belief that spiritual revolution must inevitably take place.50 But whilst apocalyptic ideals were used to oppose an authority which could not be impugned, the authorities themselves also made use of eschatological and messianic arguments to reinforce their own legitimacy. The 'Abbàsid caliphs of Baghdad resorted to legitimizing arguments of an eschatological order by calling themselves “Imams of the right guide” (al-hudà) and by using epithets like al-hàdì, or almahdì, “regnal titles with a strong redemptive overtone”.51 The caliph al-Manßùr was a Mahdì and qà"im, like his son al- Mahdì, and Hàrùn was known as rashìd wa-mahdì.52 Rivalry grew in the Maghreb between the Fà†imids and Umayyads of al-Andalus. In this competition for the caliphate, the Idrìsids became secondary figures enjoying occasional alliances with both sides and tried to defend their family dominions against the other two powers without officially staking their claim to universal domination of the umma. On the other hand, 'Abd al-Ra˙màn III, the Umayyad from al-Andalus who was proclaimed emir in 300/912 as successor to his grandfather the emir 'Abd Allàh, departed from his predecessors’ policies by proclaiming himself caliph in 319/929, at a time when all domestic revolts had been successfully crushed.53 This measure was dictated, amongst other reasons, by the need to counteract the propaganda of the Fà†imid caliphate established in Ifrìqiya since 297/909. With the assumption of the titles of caliph (khalìfa) and commander of the faithful (amìr al mu’minìn) and of the laqab “he who fights victoriously for the religion of God” (al-Nàßir lidìn Allàh), 'Abd al-Ra˙màn made it clear that he intended to reconstitute Umayyad dynastic legitimacy, faced by the double threat of the 'Abbàsids to the East and the Fà†imids in the Maghreb. In addition, 'Abd al-Ra˙màn adopted other laqabs such as that of al-qà"im 50 M. Reeves, “The Development of Apocalyptic Thought: Medieval Attitudes”, The Prophetic Sense of History in Medieval and Renaissance Europe, Ashgate, Variorum, 1999,VI, p. 131. 51 P. Crone and M. Hinds, God’s caliph. Religious authority in the first centuries of Islam, Cambridge, 1986, pp. 80 and ff. 52 A.A. al-Duri, “Al-Fikra al-mahdiyya bayna al-da'wa al-abbàsiyya wa-l-'aßr al'abbàsì al-awwal”, Studia Arabica et Islamica: Festschrift for Ihsan Abbas on his sixtieth birthday, ed. W. al-Qà∂ì, Beirut, 1981, p. 130. 53 I base my discussion of these events on the article by M. Fierro, “Sobre la adopción del título califal por 'Abd al-Ra˙màn III”, Sharq al-Andalus 6 (1989) pp. 33–42.

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bi-llàh, a very similar laqab to that which had first been used by the second Fà†imid caliph, and also by the rebel Abù Rakwa. The term al-qà"im has strong messianic connotations to the extent that it often replaces the word Mahdì. It was a central concept in Fà†imid doctrine, and central also to their propaganda.54 'Abd al-Ra˙màn’s use of this epithet should be understood in the context of the great rivalry for the caliphate and the Andalusian sovereign’s need to neutralize Fà†imid propaganda, even going so far as to adopt some of its own terms. In direct opposition to the al-qà"im bi-amr Allàh awaited by the shì'ites, the sunnites of al-Andalus proposed a qà"im bi-llàh in the person of 'Abd al-Ra˙màn. His 10th-century descendant, Mu˙ammad II, had coins minted with the title al-Imàm Mu˙ammad, amìr al-mu’minìn al-Mahdì bi-llàh.55 Andalusian monarchs were greatly distanced from the Fà†imids in doctrinal terms. Their use of similar propagandistic tactics derived from their providentialism and the need for a counterbalancing answer to Fà†imid propaganda rather than coming from deep conviction or the desire to propagate an ideology which was always careful to distance itself from that of its rivals in Ifrìqiya. In sunnite Islam, the change of century was an event with eschatological resonances and was associated with the appearance of a renewer or revitalizer (mujaddid ) of religion. 'Abd al-Ra˙màn III had gained power at the beginning of the 4th century of the Hijra, and he seems to have made deliberate self-interested use of the circumstance of the new century and its related beliefs. In a letter to his North African allies recorded by Ibn Óayyàn, he defends the legitimacy of his right to exercise power in the East and his willingness to recover what was taken from his predecessors there, which was “for them a right and for him a legacy”, “hoping further that divine generosity would place in his hand the renewal ( yujaddid ) of the faith with his government, the death of heresies with his right behaviour, and the protection of the House of God whose holiness has been violated, whose territory sacked, people defeated and rites interrupted”.56 This is a reference to the sacking of Mecca in 317/929 by the Qarma†a, who carried away the Black Stone to the great consternation of the Islamic world. 'Abd al-Ra˙màn took advantage 54

See W. Madelung, art. “Mahdì” in EI 2. Dated 398, 399 and 400. See G.C. Miles, The Coinage of the Umayyads of Spain, New York, 1950, I, p. 77. 56 Ibn Óayyàn, Al-Muqtabis V. Spanish trans. M.J. Viguera and F. Corriente, Crónica del califa 'Abderra˙màn III an-Nàßir entre los años 912 y 942, Zaragoza, 1981, p. 231. 55

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of the scandal created by this profanation to insist on the decadence of the 'Abbàsid caliphate and its inability to defend the Sunna and Islamic territory, but his words could also be made to apply to the Fà†imids, whose movement, according to its sunnite opponents, derived from that of the Qarma†a. They might even apply to the Idrìsids, given that, as we saw in chapter 1, at least one source points to similarities of doctrine between them and the Qarma†ians. In defence of his right to be caliph, 'Abd al-Ra˙màn alluded to the legacy (mìràth) of his predecessors, and to his ability to defend efficiently the community of believers and to renew the faith. He even cites traditions (riwàyàt, àthàr) which were favourable to him or which could be interpreted as presenting him as their protagonist.57 Unfortunately, none of these traditions are reproduced by Ibn Óayyàn, but it is clear from the documents which he does quote that apart from speaking of his inheritance and of the defense of religion,58 'Abd al-Ra˙màn also used eschatological terminology and literature as a means of legitimising his power and his claim on the caliphate over all the Islamic umma. He promoted the idea that he, and not the Idrìsids, represented the best defence of religion against heretics and infidels. He spoke of defence of the Sunna and the imposition of màlikism as part of a legitimising arsenal of ideas used on his North African allies to counterbalance the Idrìsids and the Fà†imids. In this way, in reaction to the revolutionary Mahdist current that had threatened the very existence of the Umayyad emirate of Cordoba, 'Abd al-Ra˙màn III made his own counter claim to Mahdist authority on behalf of himself and his dynasty. If the Mahdist agitation of his opponents has to be seen in the wider context of the “revolt of Islam” as described in the first chapter, his assumption of the Caliphate has to be seen in the context of the success of revolutionary Mahdism in North Africa, in the shape of the Idrìsid dynasty and especially of the Fà†imids. The extent to which the Fà†imid revolution was crucial can be seen in the literary calques we have been mentioning in the sources, which are nonetheless difficult to interpret. The stories of Abù 'Abd Allàh al-Shì'ì and of the Mahdì 'Abd Allàh, together with the foundation of al-Mahdiyya created a literary paradigm of successful revolution that came to pervade the claims of their opponents. 57

Ibn Hayyan, Al-Muqtabis V, p. 230. M. de Epalza, “Problemas y reflexiones sobre el califato en al-Andalus”, RIEEI XXI (1981–82) pp. 59–73, puts forward the theme of “efficient defence” of Islam as the main element in the legitimization of the caliphate in al-Andalus. 58

CHAPTER FOUR

THE CONTRIBUTION OF LEGALISM TO MAHDISM: RIGOUR, CENSORSHIP, VIOLENCE

Throughout the period with which I will now be concerned, from the ending of the Mahdist Fà†imid Caliphate and the Umayyad Caliphate to the overthrow of the Almoravids (c. 1000 to 1150), two opposed though inter-related tendencies stand out, and each of them was represented by a different “type” of central figure. One type which recurred frequently was the faqìh or jurist, often also a zàhid, a deeply moralistic man of ascetic and austere religion who was strict in his observance and interpretation of the Law. The faqìh’s public activity tended to be restricted to the reformation of customs and the revitalisation of Tradition. The second “type” of figure was associated with a sufism whose doctrines regarding the themes relevant to us here (essentially, prophetology and the nature of the Imàm) had much in common with early shì'ism. This type was what I will call “the prophetic saint”, the walì who claims closeness to God and his Prophet through divine inspirations (ilhàmàt), and quasi-prophetic conversations with God (mukàlamàt). While Sufism was more closely aligned with Mahdism, it was the activism of the faqìh which brought about the next great mahdist overturn in the Maghreb, that of the Almohads in the 6th/12th century. In the interval, this activism had given rise to the Almoravids and their empire, that prepared the way for the Almohad synthesis of these two opposites, the Mahdism of the Fà†imids and the legalism of the Almoravids. In this chapter, therefore, I will concentrate on the first tendency and the first type, the rigourism of the jurist. This chapter will be dedicated to a notion which pervades the actions of many holy men: the practice of the ˙isba or the precept of commanding right and forbidding wrong.

“Commanding Right and Forbidding Wrong” The practice of the Quranic precept of “commanding right and forbidding wrong” (al-amr bi-l-ma'rùf wa-l-nahy 'an al-munkar) is essential

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to an understanding of certain aspects of the implantation and development of sufism in the Maghreb. The precept is mentioned in several Quranic verses and constitutes an important element in the moral ethics and political activity of classical Islam. In a call to the unity of believers, God directs himself to them as follows: “Let there be one community of you (wa-l-takun minkum ummatun) calling to good and commanding right and forbidding wrong (wa-yamurùna bi-l-ma'rùfi wa-yanhawna 'ani l-munkar): those are the prosperers” (Qur"àn 3: 104). This precept thus formulated, i.e. uniting the order to forbid wrong and command right, appears in another seven Quranic verses, lending it a particular significance in Islamic ethical thought.1 Although the precept seems to provide the community with charismatic characteristics and redemptive capacity, it rarely appears with eschatological connotations, although there are some very early exceptions: the companion of the Prophet Ibn Mas'ad (d. 32/652) forecasts that the Hour will come when mankind is at its worst, at a time when wrong is not forbidden and right is not commanded. When believers no longer follow the precept, in other words, thus provoking divine wrath. Another companion, 'Abd Allàh ibn 'Umar (d. 73/693) held that the eschatological beast which God will cause to rise from the earth (Qur"àn 27: 82) will emerge when people have ceased to practise the prohibition of wrong.2 In Imàmite or twelver shì'ite tradition, a connection is occasionally made between the Imamate and forbiddding wrong and commanding right. For example, al-Bàqir wrote that the world would not end until God sent a member of the family of the Prophet to take action against all wrong that he found: là yarà munkaran illà ankarahu. The implication is, perhaps, that it will not be possible to right wrongs until that moment has arrived. Another tradition is attributed to the Prophet himself on the day of Ghadìr Khumm. Mu˙ammad urged believers to practise the precept of forbidding wrong and commanding right, and he ended by claiming that this precept could not be carried out without the presence of the infallible Imàm (illà ma'a Imàm ma'ßùm).3

1 This precept was recently the subject of a monumental work by Michael Cook, Commanding Right and Forbidding Wrong in Islamic Thought, Cambridge, 2000. 2 M. Cook, Commanding Right and Forbidding Wrong, p. 40. 3 M. Cook, Commanding Right and Forbidding Wrong, p. 260.

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From a very early period we have seen that appeals to the precept of al-amr bi-l-ma'rùf were frequently made in the general context of some sort of confrontation with those in power. I have already mentioned the case of the ascete Ibn al-Qi†† who, according to Ibn Óayyàn, was intensely devoted to commanding right and forbidding wrong.4 A very similar case was that of Abù Rakwa, also mentioned in Chapter 3. In the Maghreb, the earliest mention I have found of the individual practice of the ˙isba precept is that referring to Abù 'Imràn al-Fàsì (d. 430/1038), the Màliki jurist from Qayrawàn whom Ya˙yà b. Ibràhìm and the Lamtùna notables asked to accompany them and act as their teacher.5 Wajjàj ibn Zalù, in the origins of the Almoravid movement, was also an active mu˙tasib in whom ascetism and the practise of the ˙isba were associated with the performance of miracles.

The Rise of the Almoravids Abù 'Imràn al-Fàsì’s importance for the rise of the Almoravids lies not only in his militant practice of the ˙isba. Through him the Almoravids were connected to the main opposition to the Fà†imids in Ifrìqiya, that which was posed by the body of Màliki jurists and scholars of Qayrawàn, who were in continual conflict with the shì'ite authorities and often suffered direct repression from them. The most rigorous form of Màlikism was responsible for the next Berber movement, that of the Almoravids or al-Muràbi†ùn. From about the year 400/1050, the Lamtùna and Ghudàla tribes at the edge of the Sahara desert started to practise holy war under the guidance of their prophet 'Abd Allàh Ibn Yàsìn. According to the main narrative of Almoravid history,6 Ya˙yà b. Ibràhìm, chief of the Ghudàla tribe living on the fringes of the Sahara, went on pilgrimage to Mecca in 427/1036.7 During his return journey he stopped in Qayrawàn where he realised how deficient was the knowledge of Islam in his native land. He then asked the màlikite

4

Al-Muqtabis, ed. M.M. Antuña, p. 133. See infra. 6 Al-Bakrì, Kitàb al-masàlik, p. 165/71. 7 Ibn Abì Zar', Raw∂ al-qir†às. Histoire des souverains du Maghreb (Espagne et Maroc) et annales de la ville de Fès, ed. and trans. A. Beaumier, Paris, 1860, p. 77/237. 5

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jurist Abù 'Imràn al-Fàsì (shortly before the jurist’s death in 430/1039), to name one of his disciples who could accompany him. No one in Qayrawàn wanted to undertake this trip and so Abù 'Imràn directed Ya˙yà b. Ibràhìm to his former disciple Wajjàj b. Zalù who lived in a ribà† in the Sùs, in Southern Morocco. Wajjàj chose among his own disciples one called 'Abd Allàh ibn 'Abd Allàh ibn Yàsìn, whom he considered the most suitable due to the fact that he was the son of a woman of the Jazùla tribe, also from the edge of the desert. Abù 'Imràn was one of a group of eminent Màliki scholars from Qayrawàn who in 441/1049 persuaded the Zirid governors of Ifrìqiya to abandon their vassalage to the Fà†imids, then based in Cairo, and to give allegiance to the 'Abbàsids of Baghdad instead.8 He and his disciples Wajjàj and Ibn Yàsìn represented the tradition of militancy of the Màliki school in Ifrìqiya that was the result of a long struggle for survival under the Fà†imids. Many of these Màliki fuqahà" combined the study of the Law with the practice of zuhd, ascetism. They were trained in ribà†s which had already ceased to function as military outposts to became centres of retirement and devotion dedicated to the propagation of sunnite Islam. The muràbi†ùn were militant, imbued with a mission, dedicated to jihàd. Abù 'Imràn al-Fàsì,9 was one of these rigourists, and militant fuqahà"; he practised the ˙isba i.e, he “commanded right and forbade wrong”. He was a native of Fez, who settled in Qayrawàn and was held in great esteem both by the sufis and by the fuqahà" of the extreme Maghreb in the 12th and 13th centuries.10 Ibn al-A˙mar recorded that Abù 'Imràn had been forced to leave the city of Fez, where he was born, because he “commanded right and forbade wrong and for this reason was expelled from there [Fez] by the tyrants (al-†ughàt) who governed it in name of the Magràwa”.11 In Qayrawàn, Abù 'Imràn led the group of Màliki jurists who fought to re-establish Màlikism in a province which still depended on the Fà†imid dynasty. He was chosen by

8 R.H. Idrìs “Une des phases de la lutte du malékisme contre le shi’isme sous les Zirides”, Les Cahiers de Tunisie 4 (1956) pp. 508–17. 9 See R.H. Idrìs, “Deux juristes kairouanais de l’époque ziride: Ibn Abì Zaid et al-Qabìsì (X–XI siècle)”, Annales de l’Institut de Études Orientales 12 (1954) pp. 122–98, pp. 30–60. 10 See al-Tàdilì, Al-Tashawwuf ilà rijàl al-taßawwuf, ed. A. Toufiq, Rabat, 1984, nos. 4, 5 and 6. 11 Ibn al-A˙mar, Buyùtàt Fàs al-kubrà, Rabat, 1972, p. 44.

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Ya˙yà b. Ibràhìm and the Lamtùna notables to accompany them and act as their teacher in Qayrawàn after he returned from his pilgrimage to Mecca. According to Ibn al-A˙mar again, the Lamtùna chose Abù 'Imràn because they had heard in Morocco of the circumstances of his expulsion from Fez, where he had condemned the injustice and tyranny of the city’s governors.12 Approached by Ya˙yà b. Ibràhìm, Abù 'Imràn subjected him to a round of close questioning about his country and its inhabitants, much as the dà'i Abù 'Abd Allàh had done with representatives of the Kutàma tribe. Like the Kutàma, the Lamtùna tribes (of whom the Ghudàla) lived at some distance from the governing powers, and like them they did not consent to any authority other than that of the notables of their own tribe. Abù Imràn was told of the conditions of spiritual penury in which the Lamtùna then lived: “He realised that they knew nothing, that they were ignorant of the Qur"àn and the Sunna, but that they were avid to learn, full of good intentions, firm in their religious convictions and in their faith”.13 He therefore proposed to them: “Why not study divine law from its true point of view? Why not command right and forbid wrong?”14 As we have seen, Abù 'Imràn sent Ya˙yà b. Ibràhìm to one of his disciples, Wajjàj b. Zalù al-Lam†ì, who lived in a ribà† in the Sùs called Dàr al-muràbi†ìn. Wajjàj had also been a disciple of the shaykh Abù Mu˙ammad b. Tìsyìt of Aghmàt and belonged to the group of his followers who waged war on the Barghawà†a.15 The Maßmùda travelled to visit Wajjàj in his ribà† in search of enlightenment, but also to ask him to intercede at times of scarcity and drought, for as a saint Wajjàj was considered capable of making rain fall. Wajjàj himself designated 'Abd Allàh ibn Yàsìn to accompany the Lamtùna to the desert. These events constitute the very beginnings of the Almoravid movement. Arab chronicles describe Ibn Yàsìn’s arrival in Íanhàja territory commanding right and forbidding wrong, and forcing its people to follow religious legislation which differed from their previous customs. Ibn Abì Zar' described how local populations were instructed to command right and forbid wrong, and how these populations, seeing the severity with which Ibn Yàsìn insisted on a change in 12 13 14 15

Ibn al-A˙mar, Buyùtàt Fàs al-kubrà, p. 45. Ibn Abì Zar', Raw∂ al-qir†às. Al-Bakrì, Kitàb al-masàlik, p. 311/165. Al-Tàdilì, Al-Tashawwuf, no. 5.

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their habits, soon distanced themselves from him and began to detest him as a bothersome figure.16 This animosity seems to have led Ibn Yàsìn and his followers to undertake a hijra and withdraw to an island of the Niger, where they devoted themselves to the study of religion and the practice of piety.17 Ibn Yàsìn combined the qualities of zuhd and fiqh. His piety and asceticism were associated with the performance of miracles, some of which were described by al-Bakrì as “proofs of Ibn Yàsìn’s sainthood which were related by his followers without the slightest sign of doubt”.18 His prestige and that of his murabi†ùn spread rapidly, and large numbers of followers travelled to join him. Written records, and especially the work of Ibn Abì Zar',19 clearly show that for Ibn Yàsìn the processes of reclamation, reconversion and purification constituted a preparatory stage for subsequent military campaigns. In other words, one sees that the jihàd against oneself and one’s carnal desires which was considered fitting for a zàhid was always a potential jihàd, first against a non-supportive environment and then against the infidel. These stages of the jihàd were enshrined in the practice of the ˙isba, i.e. the militant attempt to reform one’s surroundings according to a puritanical interpretation of the Law. Óisba and jihàd became permanently entwined concepts. In his efforts to command right and forbid wrong, Ibn Yàsìn created his own community and made of it an army for the waging of war on unbelievers and heretics (like the Barghawà†a) to the north and south of the Sahara. These wars led to the creation of a territorial base and the foundation of a state by means of which the conquered lands and peoples could be governed. In practice, then, Ibn Yàsìn’s insistence on “commanding right and forbidding wrong” began with the formation of his own community and led on to the establishment of a government, or sul†a. There are of course many differences between the manner in which Almoravid power first emerged and subsequent developments 16 Ibn Abì Zar', Raw∂ al-qir†às, p. 169. Similar news in Ibn Khaldùn, Berbéres, Slane, vol. II, pp. 68 and ff. 17 N. Levtzion, “'Abd Allàh b. Yàsìn and the Almoravids”, in J.R. Willis (ed.), Studies in West African Islamic History, London, 1979, vol. I, pp. 78–112; F. P. de Moraes Faria, “The Almoravids, some questions concerning the character of the movement during its period of closest contact with the Western Sudan”, Bulletin de l’Institut Fondamental de l’Afrique Noire 29 (1967) pp. 794–878. 18 Al-Bakrì, Kitàb al-masàlik, p. 168–9/63. 19 Ibn Abì Zar', Raw∂ al-qir†às, pp. 172 and ff.

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in the same dynasty. What needs to be highlighted is the fact that during this first period there was, at least in theory, a double leadership shared between Ya˙yà b. Ibràhìm, the temporal authority in charge of military affairs, and Ibn Yàsìn, the authority in the interpretation of the Law. Ibn Abì Zar' wrote that “Ibn Yàsìn, after gathering together the notables from among the Íanhàja, gave them as an emir Ya˙yà al-Lamtùnì, to whom he granted general command. But in fact it was he who was the emir because it was he who gave the orders and who forbade ( ya"muru wa-yanhà), he who gave and he who received; in other words, Ya˙yà was no more than the lord of war, the general of the troops, and the faqìh Ibn Yàsìn the lord of religion and the law, and the collector of the taxes and the zakat.”20 Ibn Yàsìn never sought to become a Mahdì, since he headed a counter-revolution against the shì'ites, but to be the prophet of the Law, perhaps embodying the words of the Quranic sùra which bear his name, the Sùra Yà" Sìn: “By the Qur"àn that prescribes and ordains, you are one of those who are sent on a straight road, a revelation of the Mighty, the Merciful, to warn a people whose fathers were not warned, and hence are heedless and unaware.” Ibn Yàsìn also made the same call that the dà'i had made to the Kutàma, inviting a tribal people on the verges of the Islamic world to form a community that would fight for the Faith under the guidance of a religious leader. On this occasion it was a revolt against the shì'ite doctrine of the Imàm represented by the Fà†imids of Ifrìqiya, a revolt which had been brought into being by the Màliki jurists of Qayrawàn.21 The Almoravids unified the Muslim West under their rule in about half a century. They had little difficulty in occupying Southern Morocco where they established their capital, Marrakech, in 1070 and from where they conquered Fez. In 475/1082 their rule extended as far as Algiers. By then, the Muslim kingdoms in al-Andalus (the Mulùk al-ˇawà"if ) which had appeared after the collapse of the Umayyad caliphate of Cordoba were calling for the Almoravid armies to help them against the rising power of the Christian North. The determining factor was the Christian conquest of Toledo in 478/1085. The acceptance and support of the powerful màlikite faqìh-s of al20

Ibn Abì Zar', Raw∂ al-qir†às, p. 21. Relations between the Màliki jurists and the Almoravids are analysed in detail by A. Launois, “Influence des docteurs malékites sur le monayyage ziride de type sunnite et sur celui des Almoravides”, Arabica XI (1964) pp. 127–150. 21

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Andalus was a main factor in the success of the Almoravid conquest of the region and would have its bearing on the ideological strategies of its rulers. Even at the peak of their power they never assumed caliphal titles. The Almoravid rulers called themselves amìr al-muslimìn, a title which they were the first to use, and gave allegiance to the 'Abbàsid caliph in Baghdad. The Almoravids did not wish to arrogate themselves the title of Caliph, as the Fà†imids had done, so they established a kind of sub-caliphate with a title of their own later to be born by other independent kingdoms. The Qà∂ì 'Iyà∂ The Qà∂ì 'Iyà∂ is one of the best known figures in Western màlikism, and his life coincides almost exactly with the period of government of the Almoravid dynasty with which he was so closely linked. 'Iyà∂ was an archetypal Almoravid faqìh: strictly orthodox and rigorous in his following of the màliki madhhab, implacable in his application of the law, and a renowned enemy of the sufis. Born in Ceuta, the Qà∂ì 'Iyà∂ completed his studies in his home city before leaving for al-Andalus, where he was taught by opponents of al-Ghazàlì’s work and by a number of the Andalusian masters, particularly Abù 'Alì al-Íadafì.22 'Iyà∂ was a disciple of Ibn Óamdìn (the andalusi judge who decreed the burning of al-Ghazàlì’s books), and also of the qà∂ì Abù Bakr ibn al-'Arabì, and he received the ijàza of al-ˇur†ùshì and of al-Màzarì, a Tunisian master who had written a work refuting al-Ghazàlì’s ideas.23 As qà∂ì of Ceuta from 1121 to 1136, 'Iyà∂ was renowned for his strict application of justice. In 1136, he was appointed qà∂ì of Granada but was removed from the post a few months later by the Almoravid sultan 'Alì b. Yùsuf at the request of Tàshufìn, the Almoravid prince who was governor of Granada. Arab sources state that Tàshufìn was highly displeased with 'Iyà∂ because of the severity of his application of the law, and that 'Iyà∂ had gone so far as to preach against 22 Al-Qà∂ì 'Iyà∂, Al-Gunya. Fihris shuyùkh al-qà∂ì 'Iyà∂, ed. M. Jarrar, Beirut, 1402/1982, pp. 62–65. 23 R.H. Idrìs, “L’école màlikite de Mahdia: l’imàm al-Màzarì (536/1141)”, Études d’Orientalisme dédiées à la mémoire de Lévi-Provençal, Paris, 1962, pp. 153–63.

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figures close to the sovereign himself.24 Hanna Kassis nevertheless holds the view that the difficulties in Granada were due to religious differences with Tàshufìn, who had contacts in sufi circles.25 In my opinion, it is very likely that political motives were overridingly important: sovereigns always had good reasons for mistrusting those who insisted on a strict fulfilment of the law, given that such an insistence was often a way of defying the sovereign’s authority. Sovereign rulers were wary of the symptomatic appearance of any announced intention to reform customs. In addition, 'Iyà∂ enjoyed immense popularity in Granada, where he was received on the occasion of his appointment “with such jubilation the like of which was not shown to any ruling prince”.26 A qà∂ì was the symbol of central authority and state power, and in al-Andalus, qà∂ìs frequently assumed the government of their community, i.e. they occupied the post of the Imàm.27 Only a few years later, a qà∂ì was to assume power in Cordoba, which had recently risen against the Almoravids: after a series of disturbances and riots in Cordoba against the appointment of various judges, 'Alì b. Yùsuf b. Tàshufìn allowed the ahl Qur†uba (the people of Cordoba) to choose its own judge in 536/1141. The city chose Ibn Óamdìn and in 529/1144, when Cordoba again revolted against the Almoravids, Ibn Óamdìn was proclaimed governor and took the title of amìr al-muslimìn. His period of government lasted eleven months.28 Qà∂ìs, therefore, were in al-Andalus at this moment a very plausible option as political rulers and potentially dangerous to sultans. 'Iyà∂ was relieved of his post in Granada, and was not able to occupy any other position until the death of Tàshufìn, at which point he was appointed qà∂ì of Ceuta, where he continued to be judge and governor during the collapse of the Almoravid empire. The Almohads upheld him in his post as judge after conquering the city in 1145, taking note of the fact that 'Iyà∂ had urged the population to be loyal to the Almohads before going into battle. However, the following year 'Iyà∂ headed a revolt of the city against the Especially al-Maqqarì, Azhàr al-riyà∂ fì akhbàr 'Iyà∂, Rabat, 1978–80, III, p. 11. H. Kassis, “Iyà∂’s doctrinal views and their impact on the Maghreb”, The Maghreb Review 13 (1988) pp. 49–56. 26 Al-Maqqarì, Azhàr al-riyà∂, vol. 3, p. 11. 27 See M. Fierro, “The qà∂ì as ruler”, in Saber religioso y poder político en el Islam, Madrid, 1994, pp. 71–116. 28 Fierro, “The qà∂ì as ruler”, pp. 90–92. 24

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Almohads during which the Almohad walì (governor) was killed by the populace. 'Abd al-Mu’min reconquered the city, demolished its walls and sent 'Iyà∂ into exile, where he died a year later. The Óisba in Sufism and Mahdism The Qà∂ì 'Iyà∂, however, was subsequently much more famous for a work of a very different kind, one that aligns him, paradoxically, with a current of thought in strong opposition to the Almoravids. This was the Kitàb al-Shifà", an exaltation of the life and persona of the Prophet Mu˙ammad, a model for all Muslims to follow and imitate, which as such can be included in the literary genre of shamà"il and dalà"il, long established in the East.29 The book was not the genesis of veneration for the figure of Mu˙ammad and did not have an influence on the creation of this cult, but it certainly did affect its dimensions and later development. The Shifà" achieved unprecedented popularity, on the one hand as a text of the curriculum of students in the madrasas of the Marìnids and later periods, and on the other as required reading for the murìd, the sufi novice. In both cases it took its place alongside the I˙yà" ‘ulùm al-dìn of the great Eastern master al-Ghazàlì, who developed the doctrine of Mu˙ammad as the Perfect Man. Al-Ghazàlì’s doctrine of Mu˙ammad was part of a theology that not only led the Almoravids to order his books to be burnt, but was the inspiration of Ibn Tùmart, the Mahdì of the Almohads by whom the Almoravids were overthrown. Kassis is of the opinion that the Kitàb al-Shifà" was an ineffectual attempt to challenge the Almohads on their own ground. Be that as it may, it is a reminder that the ˙isba was not the exclusive preserve of the Màliki fuqahà" and their Almoravid champions. It entered into Sufism of which al-Ghazàlì was a leading exponent, where it was associated with ideas of divine enlightment and inspiration that took Mahdism forward into a new period of development. At this point I will limit myself to showing how the ˙isba, in association with Sufism, entered into the opposition to the Almoravids. In principle, there was no clear link between sufism and the precept of forbidding wrong. The precept does not occupy a prominent 29 A. Schimmel, And Muhammad is his Messenger. The veneration of the Prophet in Islamic Piety, Chapel Hill and London, 1985, p. 32 and ff.

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place in the Eastern sufi treatises which started to appear from the end of the 3rd/9th century. When it is mentioned, it usually seems to involve a hazard for the sufi, which is that of casting him in a leading role and causing him to occupy himself excessively with worldly affairs and acquire a role in society which makes him arrogant or takes him into positions of excessive pre-eminence. One exception worth mentioning is al-Tustarì (d. 283/896), who promoted the idea of a religious leader designated by God whose functions were, among others, to forbid wrong and command right.30 The development of this precept in the Extreme West in conjunction with sufism is a significant factor which deserves to be highlighted. In the wake of the far-reaching mystical developments in al-Andalus in the second half of the 4th/10th century, the practice of al-amr bil-ma'rùf became inextricably associated with asceticism or zuhd. The zàhid who had come to be regarded as such did not limit himself to scrupulous personal fulfilment of the norms and rites associated with a rigorous following of Islam. He needed to be surrounded by others who did the same. All such figures, with the exception of those who opted for withdrawal from and abandonment of the world, were expected to practise the censorship of customs in their family and social environment: early biographical dictionaries for al-Andalus provide details of several ascetes who became staunch advocates of this precept.31 The precept had been practised since long before the 12th century, but it was at this time when al-amr bi-l-ma'rùf acquired greater significance, mainly through the influence of al-Ghazàlì’s work I˙yà" 'ulùm al-dìn and those who helped to publicise it. The beginning of the 6th/12th century saw the arrival in the Maghreb of a work recently written in the East by one of the most respected contemporary doctors, the outstanding theologian, jurist, mystic and religious reformer Abù Óàmid al-Ghazàlì (d. 505/1111). Al-Ghazàlì’s work, I˙yà" 'ulùm al-dìn, was a summa of ethical dissertations originally aimed at reforming customs which sought to revive religious sciences.This work served to catalyze an entire series of factors in the Muslim West which converged to give sufism a new political relevance. Of basic importance to this process was the Ghazalian doctrine of al-amr bi-l-ma'rùf wa-lSee M. Cook, Commanding Right and Forbidding Wrong, pp. 460 and ff. For several specific cases, see M. Marin, “Zuhhàd de al-Andalus (390/912–420/ 1029)”, Al-Qan†ara 12 (1991) pp. 439–69. 30 31

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nahy 'an al-munkar, perhaps the one factor most easily detected as lying behind the sudden turn of Maghreb sufism towards active participation in political life. Al-Ghazàlì’s work laid out a theoretical development of the idea of commanding right and forbidding wrong without precedent in Màlikism, and turned it into a fundamental pillar of religious interpretation. Al-Ghazàlì devoted Chapter 2 of his I˙yà" to the principle of the ˙isba, which also occupies a central place throughout the rest of the book.32 Al- Ghazàlì ranked those who practise al-amr bi-l-ma'rùf with martyrs in holy wars, and he made the practice a duty of all Muslims. He was particularly insistent on the need to rebuke the sovereign, i.e. on the individual duty of the good Muslim to criticise the behaviour of his sultan when he deserved it, even when he was obliged to pay for this action with his life, in which case he would die as a martyr. Furthermore, and I take this to be a fundamental point, al-Ghazàlì differs, though cautiously, from the màlikite doctors who had preceded him in not considering the Imàm’s authorisation indispensable in those cases where, in order to command right and forbid wrong, it is necessary to resort to coercive force. Al-Ghazàlì finishes his chapter on the ˙isba with an epigraph devoted to the issue: if the censor cannot exercise censorship himself and has to resort to people who will assist him with the force of their arms, the authorisation of the Imàm then becomes necessary for this action to be considered legitimate. But he adds that as it is allowed to particular mujàhids to get together and fight the Infidels, it is also allowed for particular mu˙tasibs to fight against corrupted people.“Whoever is able to reject a reprehensible action can do it by his hand, by his weapons, by his life and by those who help him”.33 As doctrinal speculation, this is nothing new. It should be noted that the mu'tazilites, the khàrijites and the zaydites, all considered it legitimate to resort to violence in order to implement al-amr bi-l-ma'rùf. We have already seen how, before al-Ghazàlì, rebels against established power had invoked the name of the ˙isba. Ibn Óazm (d. 456/1064) went so far

32

See H. Laoust, La politique de Gazali, Paris, 1970, pp. 128–130, whose interpretation is contradicted by the text by al-Ghazàlì from which I quote next. 33 Al-Ghazàlì, I˙yà" 'ulùm al-dìn, ed. 'Izz al-dìn al-Sayrawàn, 3rd ed., Beirut, [s.a.], pp. 304 and ff. See L. Bercher, “L’obligation d’ordonner le bien et interdire le mal selon al-Gazzali (pages de théologie musulmane). Traduction du Kitàb al-amr bi-lma'rùf wa-n-nahy 'ani l-munkar”, IBLA 18 (1959) pp. 53–91, especially pp. 320–321.

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as to regard the practice of al-amr bi-l-ma'rùf as the principle which justified the people’s right to insurrection against a tyrannical or unjust prince.34 However, the effects of taking such a position in a work of the influence of the I˙yà" should not be under-estimated, especially when taken in conjunction with the sufism to which alamr bi-l-ma'rùf had become so dear. Al-amr bi-l-ma'rùf provided an anchorage for something inherent to sufi mentality in the pre-modern period: the violent rejection of any kind of conformism, together with a steadfast faithfulness to the living tradition. These two apparently contradictory elements found their theoretical basis in the ˙isba thus formulated, and this allowed them to be related to the work of moral apocalyptists. The precept became as attractive to political reformers as it was to mystics, and the two categories overlapped with increasing frequency from this time on.

The reception of al-Ghazàlì in the Western Maghreb The prohibition in Fez of al-Ghazàlì’s I˙yà" is recorded in one of the oldest Maghribian hagiographical compendia, Al-Tashawwuf ilà rijàl al-taßawwuf written by al-Tàdilì, which takes the form of a biographical dictionary of Moroccan sufis between the 5th and 8th centuries of the Hijra.35 The compendium also mentions the devotion which al-Ghazàlì’s work inspired in the sufis who studied it. One such sufi was Ibn al-Na˙wì, who after the decree against al-Ghazàlì took up his defence by writing to the sultan.36 Al-Na˙wì was one of many scholars who copied out the I˙yà" and read one of its chapters every day until they had learnt it by memory.37 Al-Na˙wì was given to frequent recital of the prayer which al-Ghazàlì had included in his chapter on the precept of “commanding right and forbidding wrong”. When Abù Mu˙ammad 'Abd Allàh al-Malìjì learned that the jurists of Marrakech had ordered all copies of the I˙yà" to be burned, he started praying for the death of one of them every day, 34 Ibn Óazm, Kitàb al-fißal wa-l-milal wa-l-a˙wà" wa-l-ni˙al, Cairo, 1347/(1928–9), IV, pp. 171 and ff.; E. Tyan, Histoire de l’organisation judiciaire en pays d’Islam, Lyon, 1943, vol. II, p. 439. 35 Al-Tàdilì, Al-Tashawwuf. 36 Al-Tàdilì, Al-Tashawwuf, no. 9. 37 This was also the custom of 'Abd al-Salàm al-Tùnusì and Mu˙ammad alÓawwàrì, for whom see al-Tàdilì, no. 56.

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and it goes without saying that the jurists all died as a result.38 Other miraculous stories record the rejection of the Almoravids by the awliyà": Abù Zakariyyà" al-Jaràwì was visited in his refuge in the mountains of Tàdla by the Almoravid sultan and his entourage, who were en route from Marrakech to Oran. The travellers were veiled, making it impossible for the saint to see that the sultan was among them, but al-Jaràwì nonetheless recognised the sultan by miraculous means, cursed him and prophesied the imminent end of his dynasty.39 Hagiographical sources also point to the presence in Fez from the Almoravid period of an important sufi community opposed to the authorities’ ban on al-Ghazàlì’s work.40 One of these sufi masters, 'Alì b. Óirzihim,41 defied the public order forbidding the burial of another sufi master, Ibn Barrajàn, after his execution—Ibn Óirzihim recovered the corpse from the waste-heap where it had been thrown and organised the funeral honours.42 Ibn Barrajàn and Ibn Óirzihim will be considered in the next chapter, but here we need to point that 'Alì Ibn Óirzihim is known to have devoted a part of each year to reading al-Ghazàlì’s I˙yà". After years of study, however, he decided that there were parts of it with which he did not agree and that he would have to give it up. He then received a punishment in his dreams which convinced him that the entire work was good and written in accordance with the Qur"àn and the Sunna.43 He therefore played a major role in disseminating the work of al-Ghazàlì, making his students study it and ordering them to copy the whole text of the I˙yà" every year. It is also said that a young man came to Ibn Óirzihim and asked him to interpret a dream in which he saw a candle casting a bright light on the Qarawiyìn side of Fez, another over the al-Andalus side, the first light being the stronger. Ibn Óirzihim interpreted the dream saying “I am the candle (i.e. the light) you saw on the Qarawiyìn side”.44 Íàli˙ b. Óirzihim, who had been a disciple of al-Ghazàlì in the East, was the uncle of 'Alì Óirzihim, in turn a disciple of Abù Bakr 38

Al-Tàdilì, Al-Tashawwuf, no. 33. Al-Tàdilì, Al-Tashawwuf, no. 26. 40 According to a new manuscript containing 80 biographies, written by Mu˙ammad b. Qàßim al-Tamìmì (d. 604/1207), and analysed by M. Bencherifa in “Óawla Kitàb al-Mustafàd”, Da'wat al-Óaqq 259 (1986) pp. 26–30. 41 Al-Tàdilì, Al-Tashawwuf, no. 51. 42 Ibn Qunfudh, Uns al-faqìr, ed. M. al-Fàsì y A. Favre, Rabat, 1965, pp. 147–153. 43 Al-Tàdilì, Al-Tashawwuf, no. 51. 44 Al-Tàdilì, Al-Tashawwuf, no. 55, pp. 133–134. 39

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Ibn al-'Arabì (the qà∂ì, and not to be confused with Mu˙yì l-dìn Ibn al-'Arabì), an extremely significant figure in the history of Maghreb sufism. Information about persecution or repression of scholars who were disciples or followers of al-Ghazàlì is not explicit (by contrast with other sources) in hagiographical compendia of biographies (manàqib) or in biographical dictionaries of 'ulamà". We find references to alGhazàlì like the ones I have mentioned, in a context of dissent or rebuke of political power. Nevertheless there are some telling silences, such as important scholars who were known disciples of al-Ghazàlì not being included in a dictionary where one would expect them to be (because they were a master of the author, for example). Other unexplained episodes in the lives of scholars who were followers of al-Ghazàlì also occur, such as abnormally short periods in the post of qà∂ì.45 Al-Ghazàlì’s influence, so strongly evident in the mission of Ibn Tùmart, seems to have been an important factor in a series of events which created a climate of religious controversy and dissent against the Almoravid authorities. These events were tinged by an intense moralistic and puritanistic activism. Let us therefore step back a little, in order to retrace the arrival and acceptance of al-Ghazàlì’s doctrinal beliefs.

Qà∂ì Abù Bakr Ibn al-'Arabì and al-ˇur†ùshì It is generally accepted that the man responsible for introducing the works of al-Ghazàlì to al-Andalus was the famous qà∂ì of Seville from 528/1134, Abù Bakr Ibn al-'Arabì.46 Ibn al-'Arabì was not a sufi as such. He belonged to an extended group of fuqahà", who gave themselves up to a life of retirement and austerity, and dedicated themselves to asceticism. Ibn al-'Arabì’s work as a qà∂ì was characterised by his severity (sarama) and his firmness and constancy in the 45 D. Serrano, “Los Almorávides y la teología a“'arí” in C. de la Puente, Identidades marginales, Madrid: CSIC, 2003, pp. 481–82. 46 The qà∂ì Ibn al-'Arabì is such a well-known figure that I do not consider it necessary to give further biographical details, which can be found in V. Lagardère, “La haute judicature à l’époque almoravide en al-Andalus”, Al-Qan†ara 7 (1986) pp. 135–228, pp. 195 and ff.; M.J. Viguera, “Las cartas de al-Gazàlì y al-ˇur†ù“ì al soberano almorávid Yùsuf b. Tà“ufìn”, Al-Andalus 42 (1972) pp. 341–373.

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practice of al-amr bi-l-ma'rùf. He forged for himself the image of a man who inspired fear in his oppressors but was himself unafraid of those in power.47 Among the anecdotes that are told of him, there is one that portrays him condemning a flute-player to have holes pierced in his cheeks.48 Ibn al-'Arabì had made a journey to the East with his father, an important figure in the ˇà"ifa kingdom of Seville. Father and son are known to have started their journey in 484/1091. María Jesús Viguera has shown that they made this journey out of fear of the new sovereign, the Almoravid Yùsuf ibn Tàshufìn: after the death of his father in the East, Ibn al-'Arabì went to great lengths to gain possession of letters written by alGhazàlì and al-ˇur†ùshì which defended the legitimacy of Almoravid power before returning to the Iberian peninsula.49 These documents may have helped him to obtain the post of qà∂ì, or judge, but they must have worked against him after the years 500–510, when public burnings of al-Ghazàlì’s writings took place. Ibn ˇumlùs of Alcira (d. 620/1223) later described the persecution of Ibn al-'Arabì as follows: “This edict [to burn al-Ghazàlì’s books] was read in the pulpits and the situation which was created was extremely hateful because all who possessed one of these books were subjected to an inquisition and everyone feared that he would be accused of reading or acquiring one of them, and the punishments could not have been more grave. The most famous of those persecuted in this public commotion was Abù Bakr ibn al-'Arabì whom the aroused passion of the jurists almost destroyed. Not much time had passed after this when the Imàm the Mahdì [Ibn Tùmart] arrived, who clarified the questions which disturbed people and invited them to study the books of al-Ghazàlì, making them see that his doctrines were in agreement with his own.”50 During his journey to the East, Ibn al-'Arabì became a disciple of al-ˇur†ùshì and of al-Ghazàlì himself, and he took it upon himself to introduce al-Ghazàlì’s ideas to al-Andalus. Together with Abù 'Alì al-Íadafì (d. 514/1120) Ibn al-'Arabì was likewise responsible for promoting in the Islamic West a genre which had been developing Maqqarì, Naf˙ al-†ìb min gußn al-Andalus al-ra†ìb, ed. I. 'Abbàs, Beirut, 1968, vol. II, pp. 29–30; Azhàr al-riyà∂ fì akhbàr 'Iyàd, Rabat, 1978–80, vol. III, p. 64. 48 V. Lagardère, “La haute judicature à l’époque almoravide en al-Andalus”, p. 207. 49 M.J. Viguera, “Las cartas de al-Gazàlì”, pp. 341–373. 50 Apud M. Fletcher, “Ibn Tùmart’s teachers”, p. 315. 47

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in the East for more than a century, that of the “prayer for the Prophet”, which was encouraged and boosted by the special devotion now directed towards the figure of Mu˙ammad.51 In his work A˙kàm al-Qur"àn Ibn al-'Arabì cites, as had as his master al-ˇur†ùshì,52 the ˙adìth “bada"a l-islàm gharìban” (Islam began as a stranger), to which I alluded in previous chapters. Ibn al-'Arabì mentions it when explaining Qur"àn 5:105: “Believers you are accountable for none but yourselves; he that goes astray cannot harm you if you are on the right path”. He related this in turn to the precept of commanding right and forbidding wrong, which for Ibn al-'Arabì was the duty of every Muslim. Abù Bakr al-ˇur†ùshì, Ibn al-'Arabì’s other master in the East, was a leading intellectual figure in Màlikì law, but also a renowned authority in asceticism, mysticism, and the censorship of customs. Born in al-Andalus in 451/1059, he travelled in 476/1083 to the Middle East, where he remained until his death in Alexandria in 520/1126.53 Alexandria was at that time a border zone and a ribà†, and therefore a centre of attraction for ascetes and mystics. In later periods it was visited by Abù Madyan (d. 594/1197), who in turn received al-ˇur†ùshì’s khirqa or sufi robes. Al-Shàdhilì (d. 656/1258) also settled in the city. In Alexandria, al-ˇur†ùshì lived as an ascete and practised the censorship of customs, and this, together with the growing number of his followers and disciples, provoked first the mistrust and then the enmity of the political authorities. Al-ˇur†ùshì explicitly deals with the principle of al-amr bi-l-ma'rùf in two of his most important works, the Siràj al-mulùk54 and, above all, the Kitàb al-˙awàdith wa-l-bida'.55 He expressly states that he had personal dealings with al-Ghazàlì, and there seems to be no doubt that he was at first attracted by al-Ghazàlì’s mystical doctrines. Later, however, after using and quoting from the I˙yà", al-ˇur†ùshì came to consider it hazardous to “orthodoxy”. It was at this time that he wrote his works of mu'àrada, which represented an emulation rather 51 C. de la Puente, “Vivre et mourir pour Dieu, oeuvre et héritage d’Abù 'Alì al-Íadafì”, Studia Islamica 88 (1998) pp. 77–102. 52 See M. Fierro, “Spiritual alienation”, pp. 243 and ff. 53 All details given here on al-ˇur†ùshì are taken from M. Fierro’s introductory study to her translation of the Kitàb al-˙awàdiΔ wa-l-bida' (El libro de las novedades y las innovaciones), Madrid, 1993. 54 For a Spanish translation, see M. Alarcón, Lámpara de los príncipes, Madrid, 1930, Chap. II and p. XXVIII. 55 See Fierro, introductory study to Kitàb al-˙awàdiΔ wa-l-bida'.

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than a refutation of al-Ghazàlì’s doctrines, and which were to contribute to the spread of al-Ghazàlì’s influence. His Siràj al-mulùk is, for instance, an imitation and emulation of al-Ghazàlì’s Al-Tibr al-masbùk. A similar path of initial attraction followed by eventual rejection and condemnation of certain sufi practices seems to have been taken by Ibn al-'Arabì, a disciple of both al-ˇur†ùshì and al-Ghazàlì himself. Before his death in Fez in 543/1148, al-'Arabì had passed on the khirqa which he had received from the hands of al-Ghazàlì to Abù Ya'zà (d. 572/1177) and to 'Alì b. Óirzihim, the scholar who took responsibilty for Ibn Barrajàn’s burial.56 When Ibn Qunfudh formulated the mystical isnàd of one of the disciples of Abù Madyan, that of the shaykh Bilàl, he wrote as follows: “The khirqa was placed upon me by Abù Madyan. He said: it was placed upon me by Abù l-Óasan b. Óirzihim. He said: it was placed upon me by the qà∂ì Abù Bakr b. al-'Arabì. He said: it was placed upon me by Abù Óàmid al-Ghazàlì . . .”57 Ibn al-'Arabì was the link, in other words, between al-Ghazàlì and the great sufi master Abù Madyan. All the hagiographical sources coincide in highlighting Abù Madyan’s habit of reading al-Ghazàlì’s I˙yà" 58 and his role in spreading al-Ghazàlì’s doctrines is widely recognised.59 Like others before him, Abù Madyan was unable, or unwilling, to avoid clashes with the political authorities: at one point a group of fuqahà" went to the sultan Ya'qùb al-Manßùr and denouced Abù Madyan, saying that he was a danger to the dynasty (dawla) because the shaykh resembled the al-Imàm al-Mahdì and had numerous followers in every city. These words are known to have made a deep impression on the sultan and to have troubled him greatly.60 The sources also record a prophecy: “At the end of time a man will appear by the name of Shu'ayb [Abù Madyan’s own name] whose knowledge and virtue will be infinite. It is Abù Madyan who is meant by these words.”61

56 A. Bel, “Le sufisme en Occident musulman au XII et au XIII siècle”, AIEO I (1934–35) p. 146. 57 Ibn Qunfudh, Uns al-faqìr, ed. M. al-Fàsì y A. Favre, Rabat, 1965, p. 93. 58 See, for example, Ibn Maryam, El Boustan, trans. F. Provenzali, Argel, 1910, p. 116. 59 V. Cornell, The way of Abù Madyan: Doctrinal and Poetic Works of Abù Madyan Shu'ayb ibn al-Óusayn al-Anßàrì (circa 500/1115–594/1198), Cambridge, 1996. 60 Ibn Maryam, El Boustan, trans. F. Provenzali, p. 123. 61 Ibn Maryam, El Boustan, trans. F. Provenzali, p. 122.

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The messianic aura was thus present, as was the preoccupation of the authorities concerning the possible political threat which these religious figures represented. It is clear that in this period, the boundaries between sufism, the reform of customs, millenarianism and messianism were very loosely defined. Although the qà∂ì Ibn al-'Arabì was responsible for introducing and spreading the works of al-Ghazàlì, he disagreed with a number of al-Ghazàlì’s ideas—like the Qà∂ì 'Iyà∂, he was most strongly opposed to those which were closest to sufism.62 In Ibn al-'Arabì’s view, the author of the I˙yà" defended a brand of sufism which was very close to the positions associated with the “illuminationist” school which will be considered in the next chapter. Ibn al-'Arabì described followers of this school as ghulàt or extremists, and claimed that they were also influenced by the kind of Quranic exegesis practised by the Bà†inites. Ibn al-'Arabì disagreed with the position which alGhazàlì had taken over the notion of ma'rifa. In the I˙yà", al-Ghazàlì defends the superiority of the awliyà" over the 'ulamà", a position which for Ibn al-'Arabì and other contemporary jurists63 was clearly indefensible. Like his contemporary and disciple the qà∂ì 'Iyà∂, the qà∂ì Ibn al-'Arabì made no attempt to hide his misgivings about the Almohads, giving his criticism of al-Ghazàlì a political dimension. For Ibn al'Arabì, certain aspects of Ibn Tùmart’s doctrine, such as the idea of the Mahdì and his infallibility ('ißma) could be seen as dangerously identifiable with ideas which had been spread by ismà'ìlite propagandists. He believed that the religious programme of the Almohads was based to a large extent on the tradition of Bà†inite exegesis and on principles of extreme sufism which directly affected the concept of the Imàm and the leadership of the umma, principles that he considered had been strengthened by the work of al-Ghazàlì. The nature of these controversies will become apparent in the following chapter. The work of scholars of the Almoravid period on this principle continues to be relevant in Almohad times. Ibn al-'Arabì’s A˙kàm together with the commentary of Ibn 'A†iyya (d. 541/1147) Al-Mu˙arrar al-wàjiz are the models followed by Mu˙ammad b. A˙mad al-Qur†ubì 62 'Abd al-Majìd Al-Íaghìr, “Al-bu'd al-siyàsì fì naqd al-qà∂ì Ibn al-'Arabì litaßawwuf al-Ghazàlì”, in Abù Óàmid al-Ghazàlì. Diràsàt fì fikri-hi wa-'aßri-hi wa-tà"thìrihi, Rabat, 1988, pp. 173–193. 63 Such as Abù l-Walìd Ibn Rushd (d. 520/1126) Fatàwà, III, pp. 1624–29.

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(d. 671/1272–3): in his own tafsìr or commentary on the Qur"àn, al-Qur†ubì includes a long chapter on the precept of commanding right and forbidding wrong. According to him, the precept, together with prayer, are the two main duties of the believer and he praises the courage of those who practise the ˙isba even endangering their lives. Like Ibn al-'Arabì, he recommends this form of voluntary martyrdom.64 In the Almohad and post-Almohad periods, references to al-amr bi-l-ma'rùf throughout the Islamic West frequently appear in some sort of relation to sufist ideas. I will cite some of these references as examples and as a way of showing the kind of information that exists. The sufi Ibn 'Ubayd Yas al-Nafzì (d. 659/1261), from Granada, criticised the degradation of customs and abandonment of the jihàd in his work Nuzhat al-albàb.65 A similar denunciation of the degradation of customs (al-munkar) is made by Ibn Qunfudh when writing about Abù 'Alì al-Raghràghì from Fez.66 Another sufi from Granada, al-ˇabbàq, author of a work on the †arìqa of the Banù Sìd Bùna, founded by Abù A˙mad Ja'far (d. 624/1227), disciple of Abù Madyan, speaks of the theoretical importance of the precept of al-amr bi-l-ma'rùf in his spiritual method.67 More clearly relevant from a political point of view are cases like that of Sa'àda (d. 705/1305), who founded a zàwiya close to Biskra (Zab) and organised a reformist movement. He preached al-amr bi-l-ma'rùf and led his followers in an uprising against the Banù Muznì, the local dynasty.68 A similar case is that of Ya'qùb b. 'Abd Allàh al-Khàqànì al-Fàsì who, seeing the reigning depravation in Fez as a consequence of the fitna of 817, started to preach al-amr bi-l-ma'rùf and gathered such a large group of followers that he was captured and executed by the governor of the city.69 64 M. Penelas, “El precepto de al-Amr bi-l-ma'rùf wa-l-nahy 'an al-munkar en el Tafsìr de al-Qur†ubì” in P. Cressier, M. Fierro, L. Molina (eds.), Los Almohades. Problemas y perspectivas, Madrid, 2006 (forthcoming). 65 M. Bencherifa, Min a'làm al-taßawwuf bi-l-Andalus fì-l-qarn al-sàbi' fì l-nah∂a wal-taràkum, Casablanca, 1986, p. 236. 66 Ibn Qunfudh, Uns al-faqìr, p. 79. 67 M. Miftah, “Al-khi†àb al-ßùfì wa-l-ta∂àmun. Namùdhaj min al-'ußùr al-wus†à”, Majallat Kulliyat al-Àdàb wa-l-'Ulùm al-Insàniyya bi-Ribà†, 14 (1988) p. 62. 68 Ibn Khaldùn, Berbères, I, pp. 81–84 and III, pp. 131–132; M. Brett, “Ibn Khaldùn and the dynastic approach to local history: the case of Biskra”, Al-Qan†ara 12 (1991) pp. 165–67. 69 Al-Sakhàwì, Al-Daw" al-làmi', ed. Maktabat al-Hayat, Beirut [s.s.], vol. X, p. 1112.

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The precept of the ˙isba became a perfectly natural element in hagiographical compendiums after this period of the 12th and 13th centuries. The Maqßad by al-Bàdisì, a compendium of biographies of saints from the Rìf who lived between the 5th/12th century and the 6th/13th, written in 711/1311–12, contains a long introduction in which al-Bàdisì creates his own typology of the holy figures described, dividing them into three types. Firstly, there are those who live among men and have a job or occupation and are able to make a living from it, without need or cares. Their lives are a model of conduct, but they are not detected and do not gain recognition as saints in the communities where they live. They are zealous and strict observers of the sunna and assiduously practise al-amr bi-l-ma'rùf.70 The second group is that of men who live alone and withdrawn from the world, or who do not have a fixed place of abode and travel from one place to another living off the alms they beg, though always within inhabited areas. The third category is that of the saint who abandons the society of men and takes solitary refuge in nature. In perfect communion with it, he becomes like a wild animal, and wild animals themselves seek his company and obey him. Having made these distinctions, al-Bàdisì makes no further mention in the individual biographies of specific instances of the practice of the ˙isba, ever-present in later compendiums, and especially in the Daw˙at al-nàshir by Ibn 'Askar (d. 986/1578), discussed later in this book. He makes mention, on the other hand, of numerous sufi shaykhs who claim a sharìfian lineage. The first mentions of this claim date from centuries back: by the middle of the 6th/11th century, the Ribà† ˇìt-n-Fi†r had come into existence on the coast of Dukkàla. The Ribà† had been founded by the Banù Amghàr, muràbi†s from the Middle East who were descended from Fà†ima through Óusayn.71 In about 475/1083, the shaykh of this Ribà† was Mu˙ammad b. Is˙àq Amghàr, widely recognised as one of the most outstanding religious figures in the Maghreb. Amghàr’s son and successor, Abù 'Abd Allàh Amghàr (d. circa 550/1152) made contact with his great sufi contemporaries, such as Abù Ya'zà and Abù Mu˙ammad Íàli˙, the founder of the ribà† of Íafì. The qà∂ì Abù Bakr Ibn al-'Arabì (who wrote for him the work 70 Al-Maqßad al-sharìf wa-l-manzi' al-la†ìf fì-l-ta 'rìf bi-ßula˙à" al-Rìf, ed. S. A'rab, Rabat, 1982. This introduction is not included in Colin’s translation. 71 V.J. Cornell, “Ribà† Tì†-n-Fi†r and the origins of Moroccan Maraboutism”, Islamic Studies 27 (1988) pp. 23–36.

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entitled Siràj al-muhtadìn fì àdàb al-ßàli˙ìn) and the qà∂ì 'Iyà∂ also came into contact with him. These first ribà†-s played an essential role in the diffusion of sufi ideas in the rural areas of Morocco and, more generally, in the process of islamisation of the territory. Another founding figure of Maghreb sufism was 'Abd al-Salàm Ibn Mashìsh, who came from the Jebel 'Alam region in northern Morocco inhabited by the Ghumàra and where, according to Ibn Khaldùn, “many prophets have shown themselves”. He lived between the 6th and 7th (12th and 13th) centuries and was the first leading sufi to boast of a sharìfian lineage through one of the sons of Idrìs. His preaching and activism brought him into conflict with the authorities, and he was executed by the Almohad governor of Ceuta in 625/1227–8.72 A spiritual disciple of Abù Madyan and Ibn Óirzihim, “the pole of the West”, Ibn Mashìsh was in turn the master of al-Shàdhilì (d. 656/1258) from Ghumàra, who founded the main Maghreb †arìqa, and through whom the Ghazalian influence was perpetuated: hagiographical sources record that the two pillars of alShàdhilì’s teaching were al-Ghazàlì’s I˙yà" and the Kitàb al-Shifà" by the Qà∂ì 'Iyà∂.73 Al-Shàdhilì also became the object of the same kinds of accusations as his masters Ibn Mashìsh and Abù Madyan before him. He was denounced by the qà∂ì of Tunis, one Abù l-Qàsim Ibn Barra, who told the sultan that “he claims to be a sharìf, gathers great crowds, claims to be the Fà†imì and perturbs your country”.74

72 For the different versions of his death, see Zakia Zouanat, Ibn Mashish, maître d’al-Shadhili, Rabat, 1998, pp. 34 and ff. 73 Al-Mannùnì, M., Waraqàt 'an l-˙adàra al-magribìyya fì l-'aßr al-Marìnì, Rabat, 1979, p. 335. 74 Al-Íabbàg, Kitàb durrat al-asràr, 1309; Nueva York, 1993 and Casablanca, 1993, p. 10.

CHAPTER FIVE

THE CONTRIBUTION OF SUFISM TO MAHDISM: PROPHETHOOD AND GRACE

During the 5th/11th century the introduction of new Islamic disciplines produced an important religious renewal in al-Andalus. Of particular relevance was the science of ußùl al-fiqh (“sources of jurisprudence”), which brought with it the introduction and study of the ˙adìth and, in general, interest in the direct access of scholars to the original sacred texts. These new disciplines were intimately related to the rise of sufism.1 In Morocco sufism spread between the late 11th and the early 12th century, mainly as a result of the work of masters from al-Andalus and Zìrid Ifrìqiya—especially the disciples of Abù 'Imràn al-Fàsì2— and it found particularly fertile territory in those areas where asceticism had flourished in the previous century.3 Its spread coincided in the Maghreb with an increased attention not only to the study of the sources of law (ußùl al-fiqh) but to the kalàm or logical theology of al-Ash'arì (d. 324/935), a discipline which had also began in Zìrid Ifrìqiya. Abù-l-Óasan 'Alì al-Ash'arì was a renowned scholar who publicly abjured mu'tazilism halfway through his career and spent the rest of his life in opposition to the ideas of his former colleagues, whilst also coming to a skilful compromise between the ideas of the Sunna and the mu'tazilites. In other words, Western sufism appears to have been stimulated by the introduction of new Islamic sciences and their gradual convergence. Ash'arites and sufis proposed identical responses to a whole series of important issues such as the reality of the vision of God in the world to come.4 1 V. Cornell, Realm of the Saint. Power and authority in Moroccan Sufism, Austin: University of Texas Press, 1998, pp. 15 and ff. 2 The malikite faqìh, mentioned in chapter 4, who guided Ya˙yà b. Ibràhìm alLamtùnì to his disciple Wajjàj ibn Zalù, in the origins of the Almoravid movement. 3 See M. Marín, “Zuhhàd de al-Andalus (390/912–420/1029)”, Al-Qan†ara 12 (1991) pp. 439–469. A quick glance at al-Tàdilì’s hagiographical compendium is enough to see the large number of sufis who came from al-Andalus. 4 T. Nagel, Die Festung des Glubens. Triumph und Scheitern des Islamischen Rationalismus in 11 Jahrhundert, Munich, pp. 299 and f. Cfr. M. Fierro “Spiritual alienation and political activism” pp. 243 and 247.

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Ash'arite doctrine was laid out in a Risàla written by the wellknown jurist al-Qàbisì (d. 403/1012).5 Al-Qàbisì’s famous disciple, the above mentioned Abù 'Imràn al-Fàsì, studied in Baghdad with the most prominent contemporary exponent of ash'arism, al-Baqillànì, whose teachings he in turn passed on in Qayrawàn to disciples from Fez and Ceuta.6 This parallel development of sufism and ash'arism in the Muslim West was probably significant for the success in the Maghreb of al-Ghazàlì’s work and that of the Almohad movement. As has been said in the previous chapter, the beginning of the 6th/12th century saw the arrival in the Maghreb of a work recently written in the East by one of the most respected contemporary doctors, the outstanding theologian, jurist, mystic and religious reformer Abù Óàmid al-Ghazàlì (d. 505/1111). Al-Ghazàlì’s work, I˙yà" 'ulùm al-dìn, was a summa of ethical dissertations originally aimed at reforming customs which sought to revive religious sciences. We have already seen its part dedicated to the precept of commanding right and forbidding wrong. But in a more general approach, al-Ghazàlì advocated a return to the Qur"àn and Mu˙ammad as the source of understanding. Although his was a highly intellectual programme that was not specifically sufi, al-Ghazàlì himself turned to Sufism as a form of meditation on the mystery of Revelation. His ideas therefore provided a unifying structure for sufi currents across the Muslim West, and became a crucially important stimulus to sufism. The I˙yà" was received with an attitude bordering on indifference throughout most of the Islamic world, including Ifrìqiya. It was only in al-Andalus and the extreme Maghreb, i.e. in Almoravid territory, that it provoked a veritable storm of controversy. Violently contested by Almoravid authorities such as the sultan 'Alì b. Tàshufìn, the works of al-Ghazàlì were banned, burnt in public and denied entry into places of worship and even private libraries. Al-Ghazàlì’s work contained criticism of the activity of the traditionalist faqìh-s, who were devoted to the furù' or branches of the Law to the exclusion of the original sources and in particular the Qur"àn, and whom it portrayed as incapable of interpreting them rationally. Al-Ghazàlì

5 R.H. Idrìs, “Deux juristes kairouanais de l’époque zìrìde: Ibn Abì Zaid et alQàbisì (X–XI siècle)”, AIEO 12 (1954) pp. 122–98. 6 R.H. Idrìs, “Essai sur la difusion de l’a“'arisme en Ifrìqiya”, Les Cahiers de Tunisie 1 (1953) pp. 126–40; J.M. Forneas, “Al-Tam˙ìd de al-Baqillànì y su transmisión en al-Andalus” MEAH 27–28 (1977–79) pp. 433–440 and “De la transmisión de algunas obras de tendencia a“'arí en al-Andalus”, Awràq 1 (1978) pp. 4–11.

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wrote that a renewal of religious sciences would have to be carried out in defiance of such traditionalists. The assumption is generally made that reactions to the Almoravid decree of prohibition and public burning of al-Ghazàlì’s works demonstrated the mainly sufi opposition to the Almoravids and opened up a considerable fissure in the Western Maghreb,7 but those are notions which need to be nuanced. We have seen in the case of Abù Bakr Ibn 'Arabì and 'Iyà∂ that not all the màlikite fuqahà" opposed al-Ghazàlì, and that the issues revolved around specific areas of conflict between jurists and mystics. In the same way al-Ghazàlì is a crucial figure in contrast with the Almoravids and in connection with the Almohads if we follow the Almohad and post-Almohad sources. For example, the Almohad historian 'Abd al-Wà˙id al-Marràkushì describes in his chronicle AlMu'jib fì talkhìß akhbàr al-Maghrib the burning of al-Ghazàlì’s works in the same paragraph in which he speaks of Almoravid opposition to kalàm.8 Recent studies, however, have shown that dogmatic theology was not the object of censorship by the Almoravid authorities, though part of the 'ulamà" were reticent or suspicious of it.9 Moreover, while al-Marràkushì, and other sources, imply that new Islamic disciplines, sufism and al-Ghazàlì formed a bundle which roused the enmity of the Almoravid fuqahà", not all ash'arites nor all awliyà" were followers of al-Ghazàlì. Nevertheless, the impact al-Ghazàlì had in alAndalus and the Western Maghreb underlines the whole of the previous and the present chapters. Certainly I do not intend to present here a survey of sufism in al-Andalus and the Maghreb. As in Chapter 4, I will examine the period of the 11th and 12th centuries, focusing on how two closely related phenomena, the rise of sufism and a widespread growth in veneration for the figure of the Prophet relate, in the Islamic West, to prevailing ideas about how to choose the legitimate guide or head of the community. I will follow the development of these ideas to post-Almohad times. A gnostic sense promoted by sufism that an enlightened elite had access through special knowledge to universal secrets impinged on M. Kably, “Ramz al-Ihyà" fì-l-Maghrib”, in Muràja'àt ˙awla al-mujtama' wa-l-sul†a, Rabat, 1986, pp. 21–51. 8 Al-Marràkushì, Kitàb al-Mu'jib fì talkhìß akhbàr al-Maghrib, ed. R. Dozy, Amsterdam, 1968, pp. 122–124. 9 D. Serrano, “Los Almorávides y la teología a“'arí” in C. de la Puente, Identidades marginales, Madrid: CSIC, 2003, pp. 461–516. 7

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the essence of monotheistic prophecy and revelation. By being intimate with divine will the “prophetic saint” was also able to convey its nature to other believers, and was thus potentially the best man to become the right guide for the community. These attestations of divine favour attained their highest, paradigmatic rank in the figure of the Axis of the Age, the qu†b al-zamàn or “pole” of each era. The qu†b is the virtual axis of spiritual energy. A close structural relationship existed between the concept of the qu†b in his role as the highest spiritual guide for believers, and that of the Imàm in the Shì'a.10 Veneration for the Imàm and the qu†b was common to sufism and the Shì'a, which is one of the reasons why Ibn Khaldùn, in his Muqaddima, considered that certain forms of sufism ought to be rejected. For the Shì'a, he who dies without knowing the Imàm of his time dies as an infidel. A moderate sufi such as Jalaluddìn Rùmì wrote that “He who does not know the true shaykh—the Perfect Man, the qu†b of his time—is a kàfir, an infidel.”11 And as we will see further on, there is a close relationship between qu†b and Mahdì. All these concepts entered into the rise of Sufism in the Islamic West as a set of beliefs and practices which were related or fed directly into the idea of the Mahdì reinforced by the doctrine of the ˙isba discussed in the previous chapter. Although the jurist and the saint were in principle antagonistic, during this period they sometimes coincided in the same person and their doctrines and attitudes increasingly overlapped. Both types had apocalyptic characteristics which derived from their moral rigourism (often moral outrage) and imitation of the Prophet’s example. The contest between them was for religious and worldly authority. What was at stake, ultimately, was the question of how to define the legitimate Imàm. In the controversy, doctrinal works and points of view associated with these two opposed “types” showed a gradual tendency to converge, despite the fact that the figures in question polemicised with, or even fought against, one another during their own lifetimes. Examination of the most significant sufi figures of the period reveals that the controversy took place at the very highest level of doctrine, in works written by and for men in the most elevated intellectual and spiritual echelons. The success of political movements carried out in their name, however, demonstrates that there was no clear 10 11

A. Schimmel, Mystical dimensions of Islam, Chapel Hill, 1975, p. 200. Apud Schimmel, Mystical dimensions of Islam, ibid.

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boundary between ideas to which in theory only the elite had access, and those of the popular classes, who seem to have been highly receptive to the new doctrines. Indeed, the direction of influence sometimes seems to have been from bottom to top rather than vice versa, and popular expectations and anxieties as reflected in ancestral beliefs provoked or stimulated some of the doctrinal elaboration carried out by elite groups. Sufi beliefs became so widespread and attractive that even non-Muslims felt the force of their persuasive power, as I will show further on. I will start by summarising ideas about prophetic illumination before the 11th and 12th centuries in order to sketch the background to those notions which were to acquire such significance in this period.

Prophethood, divine light and infallibility Discussion of the issue of prophethood was common in the Islamic world from the beginning of the kalàm or scholastic theology. Numerous works, bearing titles like “Signs of prophecy” (A'làm al-nubuwwa) or “Establishing prophecy” (Ithbàt al-nubuwwa), sought to establish, on the one hand, the human need for prophets, and on the other, a list of characteristics which demonstrated the superiority of the Prophet Mu˙ammad over all others.12 Even when belief in the end of the prophecy (khatm al-nubuwwa) came to be established, doors were left open for the communication of men with God. One of these was the belief that the will of God could be revealed in dreams.13 Another was the distinction between rasùl and nabì to which I have already referred.14 Al-Farrà", for example, writes that “the messenger is a prophet entrusted with a mission, whereas a prophet is a person who is spoken to but does not have a mission” ( fa-l-rasùl al-nabì al-mursal wa-l-nabì al-mu˙addath alladhì làm yursal ). This distinction created an affinity between prophets and the mu˙addathùn.15 Although prophethood had come to a definitive end 12 S. Stroumsa, “The signs of Prophecy: the emergence and early development of a theme in Arabic theological Literature”, Harvard Theological Review 78: 1–2 (1985) pp. 101–114. 13 L. Kinberg, “Interaction between this world and the Afterworld in the Early Islamic Tradition”, Oriens 29–30 (1986) pp. 285–308. 14 See the “Introduction”. 15 Friedmann, “Finality of prophethood in Sunni Islam”, Israel Oriental Studies 7 (1986) pp. 117–215, p. 202.

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with Mu˙ammad, some prophetic tasks could be carried out by those who were not prophets but whose wisdom or spiritual significance qualified them to lead the community in the period after Prophethood. The issue of how to identify such people led to great differences and had significant political implications. Within the sunnite tradition, one often finds the idea that the 'ulamà" were the inheritors of prophethood (al-'ulamà" warathat al-anbiyà"). Given the very high status accorded to prophethood in the Islamic world-view, the tradition also exalts certain religious achievements or kinds of behaviour which, it claimed, resembled prophethood. Some sufis claimed to have reached prophetic perfection by means of an extreme imitation of Mu˙ammad’s example. Veneration for the Prophet and interest in learning about the slightest details of his life had existed since early Islam, but tended to increase with the passing of time. There was a proliferation of the genre known as dalà"il al-nubuwwa (“Proofs of the prophecy”), which explained the physical and moral qualities of the Prophet, and defined his unique position and quality of “being protected from error or sin” ('ißma).16 In shì'ite terms, the quality of ma'ßùm, of being preserved from error or sin, was unique to the Imàm, so that every age should have its Imàm ma'ßùm. The Sunna held it to be a quality and proof of prophethood which was lacking in the Imàm. Another proof of prophethood was the ability to perform miracles (mu'jizàt). Prophets were the only individuals whom God might allow to bring about extraordinary phenomena, although saints (awliyà") could receive a divine favour granting them the ability to perform karàmàt or prodigies as a means of proving their “states” (a˙wàl ) or “stations” (maqàmàt). The question of the 'ißma of the Prophet constitutes a very important chapter in the history of Islamic prophetology.17 In Islam, sin is error and above all disobedience, and as Ibn Óazm wrote in the 11th century, “If disobedience were possible in the prophets it would be permitted to us all as well, since we have been asked to imitate their actions, and thus we would not know whether our faith were all error and infidelity and perhaps everything that the Prophet did, disobedience.”18 The kind of absolute obedience due to the Prophet only makes sense if Mu˙ammad was free of all faults and could be 16 See A. Schimmel, And Muhammad is his Messenger, Chapel Hill and London, 1985, pp. 32 and ff. 17 A. Schimmel, And Muhammad is his Messenger, pp. 56 and ff. 18 Ibn Óazm, Kitàb al-fißal wa-l-milal wa-l-a˙wà" wa-l-ni˙al, Cairo, 1347/(1928–9) pp. 4, 29, apud Schimmel, And Muhammad is his Messenger, p. 59.

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considered an immaculate model even in the most insignificant details of his life. The concept of 'ißma was thus closely linked to that of “imitatio Mu˙ammadi” or imitation of the Prophet, which has a long history in Islam but received an extraordinary boost from sufism. It became fully evident in the writings of the first mystics, as in the well-known and much-imitated Kitàb al-lumà' by the Iranian sufi al-Sarràj, who died towards the end of the 10th century.19 Al-Sarràj’s book includes a chapter on imitation of the Prophet, the uswa ˙asana or perfect example and archetype of all mankind whom sufis should imitate in every way possible and even in the slightest details, so that their natures adapted themselves as much as possible to Mu˙ammad’s example.20 Mu˙ammad is generally seen as superior to all the prophets, and is occasionally even represented as pre-dating Adam and his prophethood. However, not all Muslim theologians agree on the pre-existence of Mu˙ammad, and the controversy led to the adoption of an apparently neutral title for the primordial entity of Mu˙ammad, al-˙aqìqa al-mu˙ammadiyya, only used by those who believed in his pre-existence. This expression, “the Mu˙ammadan reality”, appears in records of debates over al-insàn al-kàmil, i.e. the perfect man, the archetype of the universe and mankind which is identified with Mu˙ammad. In these debates, frequent allusion is made to the Quranic verse of the Light (24:35), to the inaccessible mystery of divine light which is manifested in the Radiant Prophet, and to the nùr mu˙ammadì, a luminous metaphor which has constituted one of the central themes of mystical Islamic prophetology since the 9th century.21 It was the Iraqi sufi al-Tustarì (d. 283/896) who first formulated his entire vision in terms of the nùr mu˙ammadì, in pre-eternity a luminous mass of primordial adoration in the presence of God taking the form of a transparent column of divine Light, and which made Mu˙ammad God’s first creation.22 Al-Tustarì, one of the masters most often cited 19 C. Melchert, “The Transition from Asceticism to Mysticism at the Middle of the Ninth Century C.E.”, Studia Islamica 83 (1996) pp. 51–70. 20 Al-Sarràj, The Kitàb al-Luma' fi-l-taßawwuf, ed. R.A. Nicholson, Leiden, 1914; “Kitàb al-uswa wa-l-iqtidà" bi-Rasùl Allàh”, pp. 93–95. 21 For general coverage of this theme, see A. Schimmel, And Muhammad is his Messenger, pp. 123–126. 22 G. Bowering, “The Prophet of Islam: the First and the Last Prophet”, in The Message of the Prophet, Islamabad, 1979, pp. 48–60.

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by Ibn 'Arabì, recorded that he had been told by al-Kha∂ir that “God has created the Light of Mu˙ammad from his Light. This Light will remain before God for 100,000 years.”23 This Light, which in the words of Ibn 'Arabì is “like the seed (bidhr) of the human race” is also identified with the sperm substance of Mu˙ammad’s predecessors, making it possible to consider these predecessors true Muslims and even prophets.24 Shì'ites believe that the Light could be passed on to Mu˙ammad’s heirs, to 'Alì and his family. In an often quoted shì'ite tradition Mu˙ammad is said to have told 'Alì: “I and 'Alì are of a single light (nùr) and your flesh (la˙m) is my flesh and your body ( jism) is my body”, a tradition which has been used to confirm belief in the unity of being.25 But even sunnite Islam clearly implies a belief in prophethood, or the prophetic ability of Ibràhìm, the son of Mu˙ammad who died in infancy and of whom traditions claim that he would have been a prophet had he lived.26 Maghreb hagiographical compendiums record Mu˙ammad’s plea to God for an heir and descendant (Q. 19–3,5), which al-Tàdilì (d. 628/ 1231) glosses as “concede to me a son-prophet who will inherit prophetic ability from me.”27 One of the main features of early shì'ite doctrine was the cosmological status of the Imàm, a pre-existent entity and light which together with the Mu˙ammadan light came directly from divine light before the creation of the world. Mu˙ammad and the Imàms constituted the first creation of God, the first to adore him.28 After the creation of the world, God made a pact with his creatures according to which they would all obey Mu˙ammad and the Twelve Imàms. The world can never be without an Imàm, and when the Twelfth Imàm concealed himself to avoid his enemies, his life was miraculously prolonged until he was to make his appearance, just before the Day of Final Judgement. This makes identification of the Imàm with the Mahdì an explicit feature of Twelver shì'ism. For the

23 M. Chodkiewicz, Le Sceau des Saints. Prophétie et saintété dans la doctrine d’Ibn Arabì, Paris, 1986, p. 86. 24 See U. Rubin, “Pre-existence and light; aspects of the concept of Nùr Mu˙ammad”, Israel Oriental Studies 5 (1975) pp. 62–119. 25 K. Babayan, Mystics, Monarchs and Messiahs. Cambrige, Mss. 2002, p. 68. 26 Friedmann, “Finality of prophethhod”, p. 188. 27 Al-Tàdilì, Al-Tashawwuf ilà rijàl al-taßawwuf, p. 54. 28 M. Amir-Moezzi, The Divine Light in Early Shi"ism: the sources of Esotericism in Islam (translated from French), Albany, 1994.

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Seveners, the representatives of God were the Imàms and caliphs of the Fà†imid dynasty with their claim to know the universal truths of revelation and reason which justified their ambition to reign over the entire Islamic world. The Imàm’s unique position was based on these early shì'ite notions which imply two basic ideas: that the Imàm was the Prophet’s sucessor by divine designation and that he had a series of personal qualities, the most important of which was the possession of 'ilm, knowledge. The Imàm’s knowledge was essentially derived from four possible sources, all of them barred to ordinary mortals: transmission from the previous Imàm, knowledge acquired by hereditary means, knowledge acquired from books known only to Imàms, and knowledge acquired by contact with an angel. This last means of transmission was known as ilhàm or inspiration and its receiver was termed mufahham or mu˙addath. Unlike the prophets, an Imàm did not actually see the divine messenger, but heard his voice in a dream.29 We are therefore faced with a major controversy, namely the conflict between the shì'ite idea of the infallible Imàm and the sunnite idea of the infallible Prophet which culminates in the work of al-Ghazàlì.30 Sunnite theologians found it hard to refute the doctrine of the necessity of the Imàm, and the illuminationist doctrine of Mu˙ammad as the Perfect Man had to be brought to the centre of sunnite doctrine in the general process which Maribel Fierro has called “the Sunnisation of Shì'ism” in which al-Ghazàlì is of such major importance.

Al-Ghazàlì and the Light One of the arguments sustained by the opponents of the works of al-Ghazàlì in al-Andalus and the Maghreb is that he defended a branch of sufism which was very close to the positions associated with the Illuminationist (ishraqì) school and its theory of light. Its

29

E. Kohlberg, “Imam and Community in the Pre-Gayba Period” in Said Amir Arjomand (ed.), Authority and political culture in shi'ism, Albany: State University of New York, 1988, pp. 25–53, 25–27. 30 M. Brett, “The Lamp of the Almohads. Illumination as a political idea in twelfth century Morocco” in Ibn Khaldùn and the Medieval Maghrib, London, 1998, VI, pp. 4–7.

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supreme exponent, some two generations after al-Ghazàlì, was the sufi Shihàb al-Dìn al-Suhrawardì (d. 587/ 1191). The Philosophy of Illumination as described in al-Suhrawardì’s works comprises three stages in the acquisition of knowledge, followed by a fourth which describes the experience. The first stage is marked by preparatory activity. The second is the stage of illumination in which the philosopher attains visions of a “Divine Light” (al-nùr al-ilahi). The third is characterised by the acquisition of unlimited knowledge. The fourth is the written form of the visionary experience. The first stage implies a period of extreme ascesis and mystical initiation, but with the important proviso that al-Suhrawardì believes that a portion of the “light of God” resides within the philosopher, in his intuitive powers. The first stage leads to the second, in which divine light penetrates the human being. This light takes the form of a series of apocalyptic lights, al-anwàr al-sàni˙a, through which comes the knowledge which is at the heart of true knowledge, al-'ulùm al˙aqìqiyya. The end of all these phases leads to a state of union when the subject possessing wisdom enters into the realms of power ( jabarùt) and of the divine (Lahùt), and the human being attains the reality of things, converting himself into the subject who knows and creates (al-mawdu" al-mudrik al-khallaq).31 The similarity lays in al-Ghazàlì notion of ma'rìfa, or “gnosis”. For al-Ghazàlì, ma'rìfa was the result of the shining of the light of God into men’s hearts, and men did not accede to knowledge through reason but by means of a polished heart (al-qalb al-saqil ) in which truth was revealed. This meant that science ('ilm) was obtained through good actions, and al-Ghazàlì recommended the practice of absolute asceticism and renunciation of the world. In the I˙yà", he defends the superiority of the awliyyà" over the 'ulamà", a position which for the andalusi jurists32 was clearly indefensible. Al-Ghazàlì’s positions on sufism are nevertheless nuanced, for although he wrote that mystics believed that men should dominate their passions, eliminate their condemnable qualities and practise asceticism to purify their hearts and be able to receive directly the highest knowledge of God, he also stated that for most men the

31 Hossein Ziai, “Shihab al-Din Suhrawardi: founder of the Illuminationist school”, chapter 28 of the History of Islamic Philosophy, ed. Seyyed Hossein Nasr and Oliver Leaman, London and New York: Routledge, 1996. 32 Such as Abù l-Walìd Ibn Rushd (d. 520/1126) Fatàwà, ed. al-Mukhtàr alˇàhir al-Talìlì, Beirut, 1987, vol. III, pp. 1624–1629.

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best path to knowledge of God was undoubtedly that of science and the intellect.33 At the same time al-Ghazàlì distanced himself from the ismà'ilite doctrine of the Imamate which he refuted in a work whose aim was to delegitimise the Fà†imid dynasty, entitled Al-Munqidh min al-∂alàl. In this work, al-Ghazàlì opposed the ismà'ìlite shì'ite doctrine of the Imàm, and in particular what was known by the name of ta'lìm, “authoritative instruction” of believers by the Imàm, the supreme authority. But how was this authority to be recognised? If the Imàm is concealed and can only be recognised because someone or something marks him out, he ceases to be absolutely supreme, for his supremacy resides in the Sign or in the last instance depends on the person who has received instruction and makes judgement on the veracity of the Proof. Such a paradox can only be resolved if the Imàm is self-evident, like the sun before one’s eyes.34 Al-Ghazàlì concedes the need for an infallible instructor and the supremacy of immediate recognition, which al-Ghazàlì calls dhawq, comparing it to dreams. Dhawq denotes the direct quality of the mystic experience, his noetic intuition and insight. He found the difference with the ismà'ìlites in the instructor, who was not the Imàm but the Prophet Mu˙ammad himself, the Light of the World, but who did not need a successor to perpetuate his message, his Writings, which are self-evident and constitute infallible instruction. It is thus not necessary to do anything other than rigorously follow Mu˙ammad’s precepts and the devotions which are bound to lead to the experience of God. Thus, from the point of view of the scholars of the Law, al-Ghazàlì’s insistence on the fact that the Qur"àn and the ˙adìth were the only reliable sources represented a return to the study of ußùl al-fiqh in preference to the science which sustained their professional status, that of furù' al-fiqh or branches of law. Al-Ghazàlì attacked any intervention between the believer and the Revelation and this represented a clear threat to the principles and profession of the fuqahà".35 But his insistence on the claim that experience of God could be achieved by imitating the example of the Prophet and the strict following of his teachings and the devotions dictated to believers, brought his

33 B. Abrahamov, “Al-Ghazàlì’s supreme way to know God”, Studia Islamica 77 (1993) pp. 141–167. 34 M.G.S. Hodgson, The Order of the Assassins, The Hague, 1955, pp. 54–61. 35 M. Brett, Ibn Khaldùn and the Medieval Maghrib, London, 1998, VI, pp. 5–6.

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work closer to those who were dedicated to the knowledge and cult of the figure of Mu˙ammad, eventually making his work converge with that of the Qà∂ì 'Iyà∂. The abundance of Ghazalian material in defence of mystic experience caused his rejection by the andalusi fuqahà", for whom alGhazàlì’s self-appointed role as a “revivifier of religion” challenged the whole basis of their jurisprudence. The claim was put forward in his work Al-Munqidh min al-Îalàl, in which al-Ghazàlì describes his conversion to sufism and his withdrawal from the world, as also his later decision to take up worldly affairs again. Al-Ghazàlì cites several Quranic verses in which mention is made of other divine envoys who had been ignored by the people and had patiently to bear aggression and lack of understanding. Immediately after this, alGhazàlì writes that at one time he consulted other sufis, who recommended him to leave the zàwiya and return to the world, “to which it was necessary to add the numerous and repeated dreams of devout people who testified that that move would be the beginning of good guidance which God had decreed for the opening of that new century. In this way it was firmly decided that he (al-Ghazàlì) would have to return, and optimism predominated as a result of these testimonies, for God had promised to revivify his religion at the opening of the new century”.36 This passage suggests that alGhazàlì thought of himself as the renewer and dispenser of “right guidance” for the 6th century of the Hijra which was about to begin.

Al-Andalus In al-Andalus, the idea of Mu˙ammad’s pre-existence, and therefore of the nùr mu˙ammadì, must have appeared quite early, and it spread sufficiently for the Mozarabs (the arabized Christians) to be familiar with it. In his Memoriale Sanctorum, Eulogio of Cordoba records a belief in the revelation of Mu˙ammad’s name to Adam when Adam was still in Paradise; Eulogio attributes the account to an anonymous Muslim interlocutor with whom he proceeds to polemicise.37 Eulogio’s 36 Algacel, Confesiones (Munqidh min al-∂alàl = El Salvador del error), Spanish trans. by E. Tornero, Madrid, 1989, pp. 98–99. 37 C. Aillet, “Un élément emprunté à la tradition musulmane dans l’ouevre d’Euloge: le nom de Mahomet révelé à Adam au Paradis”, (forthcoming).

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fictitious interlocutor claims that before Adam’s creation, Mu˙ammad’s name was inscribed high in the sky, in the form of a ball of luminous clarity. Adam looked upon this ball and asked God what that light was in the centre of the universe that shone more brightly than any other. God replied, “It is the true prophet who will come to the world proceeding from your lineage. He will be called Mahomad, the same name that you see shining with amazement, the name whose merits have allowed you to survive, creature.”38 Some of the sufi masters professing extreme asceticism thought that the purified soul could receive the light of divine knowledge. In this sense, and in the general history of sufism in al-Andalus, a fundamental role seems to have been played by the doctrines of Ibn Masarra. His influence appears to have been highly significant, although it has to be said that part of his work is still unknown to us and what is known about his ideas is clouded in imprecision. This entire question is complicated further by the process in which diverse doctrines were later labelled with the accusatory denomination of masarrì.39

Ibn Masarra Mu˙ammad b. 'Abd Allàh b. Masarra was born in Cordoba in 269/ 883 and died in his hermitage in the mountains near this town, where he had retired, in 319/931. Ibn Masarra’s father, 'Abd Allàh, is said by Ibn Óayyàn and Ibn al-Fara∂ì to have professed mu'tazilism.40 The young Ibn Masarra became a disciple of his father and received both theological teaching and ascetic training from him. Ibn Masarra taught a doctrine of divine justice and the irrevocable allotment of rewards and punishments in a future life, thus denying a role to forgiveness and intercession. This teaching was clearly close to the kind of doctrine which came to be associated with “mu'tazilism”, although this term is often used as a blanket term to cover everything not fitting within the strict bounds of màlikism, making it extremely 38 Eulogio de Cordoba, Memoriale Sanctorum, ed. A. Ruiz, pp. 88–90, apud C. Aillet, “Un élément emprunté à la tradition musulmane”. 39 See Fierro, Heterodoxia, pp. 132–140. “Bà†inism in al-Andalus. Maslama b. Qàsim al-Qur†ubì (d. 353/964), author of the Rutbat al-Óakìm and the Ghàyat alÓakìm (Picatrix)”, Studia Islamica 84 (1996) pp. 87–112, p. 105. 40 According to al-Fara∂ì, Kitàb ta"rìkh 'ulamà" al-Andalus and Ibn Óayyàn, Muqtabis V, ed. P. Chalmeta, Madrid, 1979, pp. 20–24.

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difficult to arrive at an understanding of its true content.41 Ibn Masarra was accused of being a bà†inite, one of those who defended an exegesis of the sacred texts based not on their literal sense (zàhir) but on their symbollic-allegorical meaning (bà†in). The mu'tazilites adopt metaphorical methods for the exegesis and their system differed from, or even opposed the system of the bà†inites, but both were identified at times by the sunnite 'ulamà" with the ismà'ìlite Shì'a. Ibn Masarra was influenced by the mystics Sahl al-Tustarì, Dhù l-Nùn al-Mißrì and Abù Ya'qùb al-Nahrajurì, and became a mystical philosopher who taught his doctrines to his disciples in secret.42 Sa'ìd al-Andalusì, in his ˇabaqàt al-'umàm, connects Ibn Masarra’s thought with that of pseudo-Empedocles, whose philosophy is at the core of his thinking. Devotion to the philosophy of pseudo-Empedocles may be the reason why he was suspected of zandaqa.43 The caliph 'Abd al-Ra˙màn al-Nàßir condemned Ibn Masarra’s beliefs and decreed his persecution, ordering all Masarrites to be sought out and captured.44 One essential argument in the theology of Ibn Masarra was attributed to pseudo-Empedocles: “He was the first to apprehend the union between the meanings of the attributes of God: all led to a unique reality”.45 Like pseudo-Empedocles, Ibn Masarra claimed that the mind which inquires into philosophy is illuminated by it with a divine light. It contains a mystic conception of the truth and comes to the aid of whoever seeks to acquire it. Ibn Masarra taught that the soul can, after a series of disciplines and mortifications, reach the goal of purity, becoming at that moment comparable in perfection to the soul of the Prophet.46 This idea of equality of perfection was upheld by Ibn Masarra in an explicit and inflexible fashion. Ibn Óazm claimed to have heard disciples of Ibn Masarra attribute to their master the idea of “the possibility of men acquiring the gift of prophethood, in

41 E. Tornero, “Nota sobre el pensamiento de Abenmasarra”, Al-Qan†ara 6 (1985) pp. 503–506. 42 M., 236/49, Fierro, “Bà†inism in al-Andalus”, p. 104. 43 De Smet, Pseudo-Empedocles, Cf. Art. “Ibn Masarra” by R. Arnaldez, EI 2. 44 Ibn Óayyàn, Al-Muqtabis, V, p. 20. M. Cruz Hernández, “La persecución antimasarrí durante el reinado de 'Abd al-Ra˙màn al-Nàßir según Ibn Óayyàn”, AlQan†ara 2 (1981) pp. 51–76. 45 Al-Qif†ì, Inbàh al-ruwàt 'alà anbàh al-nu˙àt, ed. Mu˙ammad Abù l-Fa∂l Ibràhìm, Cairo, 1950–1955, 2 vol., p. 16; Apud art. “Ibn Masarra” by R. Arnaldez, EI 2. 46 Apud M. Asín Palacios, Ibn Masarra y su escuela. Orígenes de la filosofía hispanomusulmana, (1914), included in his Obras Escogidas, vol. I, Madrid, 1946, pp. 109 and ff.

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the sense that whoever reaches the goal of purification and spiritual cleanliness of the soul is certain to obtain his prophethood, which is not, therefore, a special gift granted freely by God to whomsoever he pleases”.47 Ibn Óazm writes in a generally polemical tone and his statements about his opponents need to be treated with particular caution. But such ideas about the possible “continuation of prophethood” through those who had reached sainthood by undergoing a previous process of purification would have been taken very seriously indeed. Similar ideas had certainly been defended by the mu'tazilites and the bà†inites (those who seek the inward meaning behind the literal wording of sacred texts), to whom Ibn Masarra is indebted48 for the idea that the Mahdì can complete or continue prophethood.49 Ibn Masarra’s doctrine on this point and others was in fact so close to that of the bà†inites that his disciples were known as ràfi∂ìs, i.e. shì'ites (more specifically, ismà'ìlites).50 Al-ˇalamankì (d. 429/1037), who had undertaken the spiritual renewal of Islam in a similar fashion to al-Ghazàlì in a later period, wrote a refutation of Ibn Masarra and the bà†inites, Radd 'alà l-bà†iniyya, in which he accused Ibn Masarra of claiming to be a prophet. He wrote that “Ibn Masarra described himself as a prophet and claimed to have received a revelation, convincing himself that it came from God”.51 In fact, it seems appropriate to describe Ibn Masarra as a bà†inite in the general sense of one who was interested in the esoteric interpretation of holy texts, but also in the sense which links him with sufism, philosophy, and ismà'ìlism.

Ibn Óazm, Fisàl, IV, p. 199. M. Asín Palacios, Ibn Masarra y su escuela, p. 110. 49 Unlike Asín Palacios, Kamal Ibràhìm Ja'far believes that it is difficult to classify Ibn Masarra as a bà†inite, though not as a mu'tazilite. See “Min mu"allafàt Ibn Masarra al-mafqùda”, Majallat Kulliyat al-Tarbiyya III (1972) pp. 27–63. More convincing, it seems to me, is the position taken by E. Tornero, who highlights the bà†inite and neo-Platonic elements in Ibn Masarra’s work, in E. Tornero, “Noticia sobre la publicación de obras inéditas de Ibn Masarra”, Al-Qan†ara 14 (1993) pp. 46–64. 50 M. Fierro, “Los màlikíes de al-Andalus y los dos árbitros: al-Óakamàn”, AlQan†ara 6 (1985) pp. 80–102, p. 92. 51 M. Fierro, “The polemic about the Karàmàt al-awliyà" and the development of Sufism in al-Andalus (Fourt/Tenth-Five/Eleventh centuries)”, BSOAS 55, part. 2 (1992) p. 247 and n. 103; and “El proceso contra Abù 'Umar al-Talamankì a través de su vida y de su obra”, Sharq al-Andalus 9 (1992) p. 113. 47 48

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A century after the death of Ibn Masarra, in the late 4th century of the Hijra, a man appeared by the name of Ismà'ìl b. 'Abd Allàh al-Ru'aynì. The only news we have of him comes to us through his contemporary Ibn Óazm. In the first years of the 5th century of the Hijra, Ismà'ìl lived in Pechina, close to Almeria, where he isolated himself from the world and devoted himself to exercises of spiritual combat and constant fasting and praying. Ismà'ìl and his relatives all followed the ideas of Ibn Masarra, and Ibn Óazm claims that his sons were also mu'tazilites. Ibn Óazm recorded the belief of Ismà'ìl’s adepts that “he knew the language of birds and was able to forecast future events, making prophecies which were later fulfilled to the letter”. His followers began to treat him not only as a shaykh but “as an Imàm to whom spiritual and temporal obedience were compulsory for all Muslims, and to whom zaqa must be paid”.52 Abù 'Umar al-ˇalamankì himself was an Andalusian polymath who travelled to the Middle East and attained a level of great knowledge of the Qur"àn and the ˙adìth, and was partly responsible for introducing the discipline of ußùl al-fiqh in al-Andalus. He settled in Cordoba, where he devoted himself to teaching the ˙adìth and commanding right and forbidding wrong (aqra"a l-nàs bi-ha mu˙tasiban). He was one of the most influential masters of the 5th/11th century. However, al-ˇalamankì’s intellectual activities, directed towards the renewal of peninsular Islam through the introduction of new disciplines, aroused the enmity of the 'ulamà" and led him eventually to be placed on trial.53 One of the charges made against him was that he had defended the existence of miracles as performed by saints, something which his opponents claimed was detrimental to the figure of the Prophet. He was also accused of moral and activist rigourism and may have proposed himself as Imàm. A group of followers ( jamà'a) gathered around al-ˇalamankì, and he was regarded as their spiritual leader (awwal al-jamà'a). Fierro has thus proposed that alˇalamankì’s movement set a precedent for the route later to be taken by Ibn Barrajàn and Ibn Qasì, whom I will discuss later.

52 Ibn Óazm apud Asín, “Ibn Masarra y su escuela: orígenes de la filosofía hispano-musulmana” in Obras Escogidas, Madrid, 1946, I, 1–126, pp. 122–128. 53 M. Fierro, “El proceso contra Abù 'Umar al-Talamankì”.

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chapter five Controversy and dissidence in the Almoravid period

Several decades ago, Asín Palacios wrote a pioneering study of the fate of the ideas of Ibn Masarra, whose most illustrious heir was Muhyì l-Dìn Ibn al-'Arabì through the murìdùn movement of Ibn Qasì and Ibn al-'Arìf. Asín Palacios considered all of these figures closely related to one another, and claimed that what he termed the “school of Almeria” was headed by Ibn al-'Arìf.54 In fact, on closer examination the members of this alleged “school” turn out to have been very different from one another, and a disciple-master relationship between the other members and Ibn al-'Arìf is not at all easy to demonstrate.55 What united them, above all, was the suspicion that they aroused among the political authorities and the fact that some of them had monistic beliefs. A little before the year 536/1141, the Almoravid sultan 'Alì ibn Yùsuf b. Tàshufìn sent an order to his agents in Seville and Almeria to arrest and send to Marrakech the leading sufi masters Mu˙ammad al-Màyurqì, Ibn al-'Arìf and Ibn Barrajàn, who had been denounced by the fuqahà" of al-Andalus. This was the same sultan who had banned the works of al-Ghazàlì and had ordered that whichever copies of it were found should be burnt. Al-Màyurqì managed to escape, but the other two masters were captured and died in obscure circumstances immediately after their arrival in Marrakech (536/1141). Ibn al-'Arìf was probably poisoned by order of the sultan. Ibn Barrajàn died in prison, and the sultan refused permission for him to be buried. Both were followers of the doctrine of al-Ghazàlì, and Ibn Barrajàn was accused of encouraging revolt against the Almoravids: he had claimed to be an Imàm and had been given the bay'a by some 130 towns and villages. He had also been accused of being a bà†inite because of the exegesis he practised in his interpretation of the Qur"àn.56 Ibn al-'Arìf had been educated in Almeria, then one of the leading centres of Andalusian sufism, where he forged an important reputation for himself by leading an exemplary life, devoted to ascesis

54

M. Asín Palacios, “Ibn Masarra y su escuela”. Against the idea of a “school of Almeria”, see C. Addas, “Andalusi mysticism and the rise of Ibn 'Arabì”. 56 D. Grill, “La ‘lecture supérieure’ du Coran selon Ibn Barrajàn”, Arabica XLVII (2002) pp. 510–522. 55

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and meditation, and surrounded by numerous disciples. Ibn al-Kha†ìb wrote that Ibn al-'Arìf was nazìruhu fi l-khulla with respect to Ibn Barrajàn, i.e. his equal in their friendship with God.57 However, the fragments of his correspondence found and published by Paul Nwiya show that Ibn al-'Arìf addressed himself to Ibn Barrajàn in terms appropriate for a disciple writing to a master. Three fragments of letters written by Ibn al-'Arìf to Ibn Barrajàn have survived, and they show the influence of Ibn Masarra.58 In them, Ibn al-'Arìf addresses his master as his shaykh, Imàm and kabìrì. Not only does he call him an imàm, but he invokes God, pleading with him: “Make of him the Imàm of those who guide the ways for the soul’s purification and of those who determine the path to salvation; bless him and bless through him others as with the blessing which starts in Mu˙ammad and finishes with him”.59 The influence of Eastern ideas on Ibn al-'Arìf has been emphasized by scholars: his work Ma˙àsin al-Majàlis owes much to the famous Eastern sufi text, Manàzil al-Sà"irìn by the Herat shaykh 'Abd Allàh al-Anßàrì (d. 481/1089).60 The originality of the Ma˙àsin lies less in its doctrine as such than in the esoteric orientation of its argument. Ibn al-'Arìf ’s work was not written for the mass of those who aspired to mystical perfection so much as for those who had already achieved union and enjoyed gnosis. This “aristocratic” attitude is adopted as an exclusive criterion throughout Ibn al-'Arìf ’s Ma˙àsin.61 In other words, Ibn al-'Arìf ’s work is not written for ordinary mortals, and al-Ghazàlì is not the only Eastern influence on Western sufism. Both Ibn Barrajàn and Ibn al-'Arìf were also clearly affected by the ideas of Ibn Masarra, the most influential figure in Andalusian sufism until the arrival of al-Ghazàlì.62 Oposition to the Màliki fuqahà" came into the open in al-Andalus with the rising of Ibn Qasì, who took advantage of the campaign of the Almohads against the Almoravids in Morocco to head the sufi movement of the Murìdùn. 57

Ibn al-Kha†ìb, Kitàb a'màl al-a'làm, ed. Levi-Provençal, Rabat, 1934, p. 286. P. Nwyia, “Note sur quelques fragments inédits de la correspondence d’Ibn al-'Arìf avec Ibn Barrajàn”, Hespéris, XLIII (1956) pp. 217–221. 59 Apud P. Nwyia, “Note sur quelques fragments inédits”, p. 220. 60 B. Halff, “Le Ma˙àsin al-Ma