Religion and Society in Qajar Iran (Routledgecurzon Bips Persian Studies)

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RELIGION AND SOCIETY IN QAJAR IRAN

In recent years there has been increasing interest in the study of Qajar Iran, particularly with respect to religion during this period. With contributions from leading researchers in the ﬁeld of religion in nineteenth-century Iran, this book presents new insights into Qajar religious, political and cultural history. Key topics covered include:

· · · · · ·

the the the the the the

relationship between religion and the state importance of archival materials for the study of religion developments in Qajar religious thought position of religious minorities in Qajar Iran relationship between religion and Qajar culture centrality of Shiite hierarchy and the state.

Religion and Society in Qajar Iran brings together these important studies in one place for the ﬁrst time to provide a collection that will appeal to students, scholars and researchers of the history of Islam, Iran and the Middle East. Robert Gleave is Reader in Islamic Studies in the Department of Theology and Religious Studies, University of Bristol. His research interests include Shiism, Iranian history after 1500 and Islamic law. He is the co-editor of Islamic Law: Theory and Practice (1996) and the author of Inevitable Doubt: Two Theories of Shii Jurisprudence (2000).

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ROUTLEDGECURZON/BIPS PERSIAN STUDIES SERIES Editorial Board Professor C. E. Bosworth, Dr V. S. Curtis, Dr R. M. Gleave, Dr V. A. Martin In this series, RoutledgeCurzon in association with the British Institute of Persian Studies (BIPS) publishes scholarly books in the social sciences and humanities on Iran. Such works include: original research monographs; suitably revised theses; specially planned books deriving from conferences; specially commissioned, multi-authored research books and translations. 1 IRANIAN HISTORY AND POLITICS The Dialectic of State and Socity Homa Katouzian 2 THE MAKING OF MODERN IRAN State and Society under Riza Shah 1921–1941 Edited by Stephanie Cronin 3 REFORMERS AND REVOLUTIONARIES IN MODERN IRAN New Perspectives on the Iranian Left Edited by Stephanie Cronin 4 RELIGION AND SOCIETY IN QAJAR IRAN Edited by Robert Gleave

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RELIGION AND SOCIETY IN QAJAR IRAN Proceedings of the conference held on 4–6 September 2000 in Bristol and jointly organised by Bristol University (Department of Theology and Religious Studies), The British Institute of Persian Studies, The Iran Heritage Foundation, The Foreign and Commonwealth Ofﬁce and the University of Bristol Faculty of Arts.

Edited by Robert Gleave

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In memory of John (Yahya) Cooper, E. G. Browne Lecturer in Persian Studies, University of Cambridge (1947–98)

First published 2005 by RoutledgeCurzon 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada by RoutledgeCurzon 270 Madison Ave, New York, NY 10016 RoutledgeCurzon is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group Editorial matter and selection © 2005 Robert Gleave; individual chapters © the contributors This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2005. “To purchase your own copy of this or any of Taylor & Francis or Routledge’s collection of thousands of eBooks please go to www.eBookstore.tandf.co.uk.” All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data A catalog record for this book has been requested ISBN 0-203-33737-9 Master e-book ISBN ISBN 0–415–33814–X (Print Edition)

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CONTENTS

List of illustrations List of contributors Preface Note on transliteration, dates, names and abbreviations 1

Religion and society in Qajar Iran: an introduction

viii x xii xiv 1

ROBERT GLEAVE

PART I

Religion and the state in the Qajar period 2

Political ethic and public law in the early Qajar period

19

21

SAÏD AMIR ARJOMAND

3

Jihåd and the religious legitimacy of the early Qajar state

41

ROBERT GLEAVE

4

From Dår al-Sal†ana-yi I‚fahån to Dår al-khilåfa-yi ˝ihrån: continuity and change in the Safavid model of state–religious administration during the Qajars (1795–1895/1209–1313)

71

MANSUR SEFATGOL

5

Religious and state jurisdiction during NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh’s reign IRENE SCHNEIDER

v

84

CONTENTS

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PART II

Religious thought in the Qajar period 6

Being (wujd) and sanctity (wilåya): two poles of intellectual and mystical enquiry in Qajar Iran

111

113

SAJJAD RIZVI

7

Orthodoxy and heterodoxy in Twelver Shiism: Aªmad al-AªsÇ¥ on Fay∂ KÇshÇn¥ (the Risålat al-Ilmiyya)

127

TODD LAWSON

8

Anti-AkhbÇr¥ sentiments among the Qajar Ulamå : the case of Muªammad BÇqir al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ (d.1313/1895)

155

ANDREW J. NEWMAN

9

Heterodox intellectuals of the Iranian Constitutional Revolution

174

SOHRAB YAZDANI

PART III

Sources for the study of popular religion in Qajar Iran 10

Religion in public and private life: the case of YaghmÇ-yi Jandaq¥ (1781–1859)

193

195

ROXANE HAAG-HIGUCHI

11

Pious merchants: religious sentiments in wills and testaments

211

CHRISTOPH WERNER

12

The Vaqf and the religious patronage of Manchihr KhÇn Mutamad al-Dawlah

227

NOBUAKI KONDO

PART IV

Religious minorities and Western missionaries in Qajar Iran 13

Mujtahids and missionaries: Sh¥ ¥ responses to Christian polemics in the early Qajar period ABBAS AMANAT

vi

245

247

CONTENTS

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14

The Western missionaries in Azerbaijani society (1835–1914)

270

FLORENCE HELLOT

15

Jews of Iran in the Qajar period: persecution and perseverance

293

HAIDEH SAHIM

16

The evolution of charismatic authority in the BahÇ¥ faith (1863–1921)

311

JUAN R. I. COLE

17

The role of women in the Iranian BahÇ¥ community during the Qajar period

346

MOOJAN MOMEN

PART V

Religion and culture in Qajar Iran 18

Religious rituals, social identities and political relationships in Tehran under Qajar rule, 1850s–1920s

371

373

KAMRAN AGHAIE

19

The Exile Persian Press and the pro-constitutionalist Ulamå of the AtabÇt

393

PARDIS MINUCHEHR

20

Religion and medicine in Qajar Iran

401

HORMOZ EBRAHIMNEJAD

21

Some interpretations of religious and popular culture in Qajar tilework

429

JENNIFER SCARCE

Bibliography Index

449 474

vii

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ILLUSTRATIONS

Figures 13.1 13.2 13.3 13.4 17.1 17.2 17.3

21.1 21.2 21.3 21.4 21.5 21.6 21.7 21.8 21.9

Title page of the collection of treatises, written by Martyn and his adversaries, and published in 1824 Dedication page of the collection of treatises, written by Martyn and his adversaries, and published in 1824 Title page of Martyn’s Persian translation of the New Testament Opening page of the Gospel according to Luke in Martyn’s Persian translation of the New Testament FÇizih KhÇnum, seated in the centre of the group ˝Çyirih KhÇnum The National BÇhÇ¥ Women’s Committee, 1916. The lady to the left on the front row is Mun¥rih AyÇd¥, who founded a girls’ school in 1911 Tilemaker at work. Underglaze-painted tile. Sul†ÇnatÇbÇd Palace, north Tehran 1888 Scrolling foliage. Overglaze-painted tiles. Masjid-i ShÇh, Tehran 1808–13 Floral buta motifs. Overglaze-painted tiles. Masjid-i ShÇh, Semnan 1828 Inscription panel. Tile mosaic. Masjid-i SipahsÇlÇr, Tehran 1879–81 Arrangement of fruit and ﬂowers. Overglaze-painted tiles. Masjid-i SipahsÇlÇr, Tehran 1879–81 Ysuf and Zulaikha and the women of Memphis. Underglaze painted tile. Tehran c.1880–90 Ysuf and Zulaikha and the women of Memphis. Oil painting on canvas c.1870–80 Takya Dawlat, Tehran. Oil painting on canvas by KamÇl al-Mulk Detail of dastih procession. Overglaze-paint tiles. Takya Muavvin al-Mulk, Kermanshah c.1917 viii

259 260 264 265 354 355

360 433 433 434 435 436 438 440 442 445

ILLUSTRATIONS

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21.10 Achaemenid ruler in combat with a lion. Overglaze painted tile. Takya Muavvin al-Mulk, Kermanshah c.1917 21.11 Achaemenid ruler in combat with a lion. Knotted wool pile carpet. Kerman, early twentieth century 21.12 Sassanian investiture ceremony. Overglaze painted tile pediment. BÇgh-⁄ AﬁfÇbÇd, Shiraz, late nineteenth–early twentieth century

445 447

447

Tables 3.1 14.1 14.2 14.3 14.4

The positions on jihåd of four Qajar thinkers Pupils of the Presbyterian Mission schools in the Urumia region, 1870–1912 Schools and students in Urumia, 1912 Oroomia College course of study, 1912 Syriac manuscripts printed in Urumia, 1870–7

ix

66 273 275 275 281

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CONTRIBUTORS

Kamran Aghaie is Assistant Professor of Islamic and Iranian History, Department of Middle Eastern Studies, University of Texas at Austin. Abbas Amanat is Professor in the Department of History, Yale University. Saïd Amir Arjomand is Distinguished Service Professor of Sociology and Editor-in-Chief of Studies in Persianate Societies, State University of New York, Stony Brook. Juan R. I. Cole is Professor in the Department of History, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor. Hormoz Ebrahimnejad is a Research Fellow at the Wellcome Trust Centre for the History of Medicine, London. Robert Gleave is Reader in Islamic Studies at the University of Bristol. Roxane Haag-Higuchi is University Lecturer at the Department of Iranian Studies, University of Bamberg. Florence Hellot is a member of the UMR Monde Iranien team of CNRS. Nobuaki Kondo is Associate Professor at the Research Institute for Languages and Cultures of Asia and Africa, Tokyo University of Foreign Studies. Todd Lawson is Associate Professor in Islamic Thought, Department of Near and Middle Eastern Civilisations, University of Toronto. Pardis Minuchehr is Lecturer in Persian, University of Pennsylvania. Moojan Momen is an independent scholar based in Biggleswade, England. Andrew J. Newman is Senior Lecturer in Persian and Islamic Studies at the University of Edinburgh. Sajjad Rizvi is Research Fellow in Islamic Philosophy and Mysticism at the University of Bristol. x

CONTRIBUTORS

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Haideh Sahim is Executive Director, The International Society for Iranian Studies. Jennifer Scarce is Honorary Lecturer, School of Design, Duncan of Jordanstone College of Art and Design, University of Dundee. Irene Schneider is Professor of Islamic Studies at the University of Goettingen. Mansur Sefatgol is Assistant Professor in the Department of History, University of Tehran. Christoph Werner is Assistant Professor of Islamic Studies (the Iranian World) at the University of Freiburg. Sohrab Yazdani is Assistant Professor at the Teacher Training University, Tehran.

xi

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PREFACE

This collection of studies on religion and society in Qajar Iran arises from a ﬁve-year project, sponsored by the British Institute of Persian Studies. The project, unsurprisingly titled ‘Religion and Society in Qajar Iran’, had three main objectives: ﬁrst, to stimulate research into religion in Qajar Iran by offering research grants to scholars from Britain, Iran and elsewhere; second, to provide opportunities for the presentation of the results of this research at seminars, workshops and conferences; third, to collect and publish this research and make it available to the wider academic audience. Over the life of the project (from 1995 to 2000), a number of the scholars contributing to this volume gained grants to spend time in Iran, Britain, France, Belgium and the US in order to research speciﬁc aspects of Qajar religion. The researchers gathered ﬁrst in Oxford in 1998 for a day workshop. Some also attended the conference ‘The Qajar Epoch: Art, Culture and Architecture’ in London in September 1999. This latter conference, a joint enterprise between the Iran Heritage Foundation and the British Institute of Persian Studies, formed an important element of the project’s activities for that year. The proceedings of that conference (also to be published by RoutledgeCurzon) are best viewed as a sister volume to this collection.1 When research had progressed further the scholars in the project, together with other experts in the study of Qajar religion, gathered in Bristol in September 2000 for a three-day international conference. The present collection is, in the main, the proceedings of that conference. The collection includes two studies not presented at the conference. My own ‘JihÇd and the Religious Legitimacy of the Early Qajar State’ (Chapter 3) was the result of research sponsored by the project, and different elements of the paper were presented at the ﬁrst workshop in Oxford, and later seminars in Cambridge, Durham and New Haven. It was not sensible to present it in yet another forum, though it did seem appropriate to include it in the collection as part of the output of the project. Juan Cole’s contribution to the conference, entitled ‘Shaykh al-Ra¥s in Shiraz and Tehran: Prologue to the Constitutional Revolution’ is to be published elsewhere2 and he kindly provided a replacement paper (presented here in Chapter 16). The rest of the essays in this volume were presented in earlier forms at the conference in Bristol. xii

PREFACE

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There were also papers presented at the conference, which, for a number of reasons, were unable to be included here. These contributions broadened the coverage of the conference, in terms of both topic and discipline. They were: • • • • • •

Hossain Abadian: ‘Religion and Society in ÓÇj¥ ÅghÇ Sh¥rÇz¥’s Thought’ Majid Tafreshi: ‘Religion, Society and Socio-Cultural Changes in Khorasan, Persia (1905–25)’ Malcom Deboo: ‘Amelioration of Zoroastrian Inﬁdels in Qajar Iran’ Rasool Ja’farian: ‘Óajj Safarnåmihs of the Qajar Period’ Michael Zirinsky: ‘Presbyterian Missionaries in Iran: American Imperialists or Altruists?’ Robert Gleave and Mansur Sefatgol: ‘The Qajar AkhbÇr¥ School: A study of al-Fawå id al-Sh¥råziyya of Fatª Al¥ Zand’.

The last of these will be published, under the auspices of the project, with an edition and summary of the text by Fath Ali Zand (edited by myself and Mansur Sefatgol). The ‘Religion and Society in Qajar Iran’ project began life as an idea of John Gurney, John Cooper and myself back in 1995. The original emphasis on Qajar Tehran was broadened in 1998 to include more researchers, and a greater variety of subject areas. BIPS has provided generous support to the project, and the results are, in no small measure, due to the support of the Institute’s Research Committee. Apart from the scholars who have participated in the project and made research contributions, I would like to thank John Gurney, Vanessa Martin, Paul Luft and Farhad Hakimzadeh. They all contributed to the work of the project in various ways during its life. The 2000 Bristol conference was jointly funded by the British Institute of Persian Studies, the Iran Heritage Foundation, the University of Bristol Faculty of Arts Research Fund and the British Foreign and Commonwealth Ofﬁce. I gratefully acknowledge their support here. Finally, we record our gratitude for the life of John Cooper, a founder and an inspiration behind the project, who died in 1998. John was a remarkable man, with a fascinating and intricate life story. Persian Studies in the UK remains poorer for his loss, and it is to his memory that we dedicate this collection of papers. Robert Gleave Bristol, 2004

Notes 1 2

The proceedings are titled The Qajar Epoch: Art, Architecture and Culture and are being edited by Paul Luft and Shahriar Adle. Juan Cole ‘The Provincial Polities of Heresy and Reform in Qajar Iran: Shayleh al-Rais in Shiaz, 1895–1902’ Comparative Studies of South Asia, Africa and the Middle East 22.1–2 (2002–) pp. 119–26.

xiii

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NOTE ON TRANSLITERATION, DATES, NAMES AND ABBREVIATIONS

Editing a volume in which Arabic and Persian sources are used in nearly equal measure presents a problem of transliteration. Any system will fail to satisfy both Persianists and Arabists. The compromise worked out here is to use the system adopted by the Encyclopaedia of Islam (EI) with some adjustments. As is usual, j replaces dj, q replaces k., while the underline of dh, sh, etc. is eliminated. The EI system for the transliteration of Persian is also adopted, with the modiﬁcation of ch for ≤. The Persian i∂åfa is written as -i after consonants, -yi after vowels and after the Persian hå ending. The Persian hå ending is transliterated as ih throughout (hence khånih rather than khåna, nåmih rather than nåma). Whether or not to transliterate the hå ending in Arabic loan words (i.e. the persianised tå marb†a) as ih has been left to the contributors’ preferences. When it is not transliterated thus, it is represented by the simple a ending (and as at before a ªamzat al-wa‚l). If, after all this(!), a simple phonetic representation is thought to be necessary, alongside the transliterated word, it is given in brackets. Dates are given in hijr¥ qamar¥/m¥låd¥ (i.e. Muslim/Christian) form. Any hijr¥ shams¥ date is indicated by ‘sh’. When only one date is given, it is the m¥lad¥ date. When it is unclear whether a hijr¥ qamar¥ or m¥låd¥ date is meant, the former is indicated by AH. BahÇ¥ era dates are followed by BE. If place names have a Latinised form in common use, it is this which is used (e.g. Tehran rather than TihrÇn or ˝ihrÇn), except in a transliterated passage, and certain common proper nouns are not transliterated (e.g. Qajar rather than QÇjÇr). The following abbreviations for publications are used in the course of the volume: BSOAS Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies Encyclopaedia of Islam (ﬁrst edition) EI1 Encyclopaedia of Islam (second edition) EI2 Encyclopaedia of Islam (CD-ROM edition) EICD EIr Encyclopaedia Iranica IJMES International Journal of Middle East Studies MES Middle Eastern Studies xiv

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1 RELIGION AND SOCIETY IN QAJAR IRAN An introduction Robert Gleave

‘I agreed with a labourer,’ he said, ‘to dig in my garden a hole one yard square for eight k.ráns: he has dug a hole half a yard square. How much should I pay him?’ ‘Half the sum agreed upon of course,’ said the Mulla, ‘that is to say four k.ráns.’ After thinking for a while, however, he corrected himself: ‘two k.ráns is the sum which you legally owe him,’ he declared; and this decision he committed to writing and sealed with his seal. Then the enquirer demonstrated to him that the labour required to excavate a hole measuring half a yard in each direction was only an eighth part of that needed for the excavation of the one measuring a yard in each direction. This conclusion the cleric resisted as long as he could, but, being at length compelled to admit its justice, he got out of the difﬁculty by declaring that though mathematically the labourer could only claim one k.rán, his legal due was two k.ráns.1 E. G. Browne relates this story in his A Year amongst the Persians in order to demonstrate the ‘gross ignorance which sometimes characterises [a mullå’s] decisions’. The episode was related to Browne by one of his BÇb¥ associates in Kerman, and the question was designed ‘to expose this ignorance’ of the clergy. As it is related here, however, the jibe is unwarranted. A hole ‘half a yard in each direction’ is not half a yard square (it is half a yard cubed). The mullå, in the absence of a speciﬁcation of depth, assumes that the hole is dug to the same depth as the original request. This assumption is perfectly legitimate from a jurisprudential perspective.2 If this is the case, then the workman does indeed deserve one quarter of the original sum: eight k.råns of wages are fairly reduced to two k.råns. The enquirer’s remonstration contains a piece of information which was not included in the original request: that the hole is half a yard deep. It is too late though; the mullå, acting presumably as a judge or muft¥, has been presented with the case, given his response and sealed the reply. 1

ROBERT GLEAVE

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The mullå’s unwillingness to revisit the question is not mere stubbornness or pride. It is a recognition of a legal principle enshrined within the works of jurisprudence. If judges allow their decisions to be under permanent review and appeal when plaintiffs or defendants produce additional (allegedly relevant) evidence, then justice will never be administered. The ﬁnality of a judge’s decision and the lack of an appellate structure is one of the cornerstones of the justice system described by Muslim jurists in their works of law.3 Even the ability of a mujtahid to revisit his previous fatwås and re-perform his ijtihåd is debated. Generally speaking, a fatwå cannot be changed, but a new fatwå can be given in response to a new question with different particulars.4 Furthermore, by making the distinction between mathematical and legal claims, the mullå is demonstrating that the Shar¥ a does not always provide rules in an entirely rational and consistent manner. There may, at times, be perceived injustices, but the believer’s duty is to obey the law, not question it. The principle that the judge’s decision is ﬁnal may, at times, seem to lead to injustice (such as in this case), but there may be other regulations in force which the believer, with his limited comprehension of the ways of AllÇh, has not yet recognised.5 Furthermore, in Islamic law, many legal rights (such as rights to property or wages) come about when juridical procedure is correctly followed – they are not natural rights inhering in the individual. The workman is legally due an amount because of the legal process which culminated in the mullå’s judgement. Mathematical justice (or one might say, natural justice) does not ﬁgure in the equation. The Shar¥ a may be naturally just, but its justice is not based on this fact: its justice ﬂows from the Lawgiver himself. Some might see mere pedantry in the above exposition, and I would not want to over-labour the analysis. It does, however, seem to exemplify one of the issues in historical study. Browne used this anecdote to demonstrate the ignorance of the mullås. He could have used it to demonstrate the complexities of religious law. The intellectual system developed by the ulamå has a logic and is not merely a set of random rulings constructed from irrationalities and prejudice. Browne’s hasty, but entertaining, judgements on the role of the clerics in nineteenth-century Iran added spice to his journal, but they do not always illuminate the sophistication of the religious system (or systems) which operated in Iran during the Qajar period. Recognising both the instructive elements and the problematic nature of historical sources is one of the tasks facing anyone describing the role of religion in Qajar Iran. The essays collected in this volume reﬂect various responses to the challenge of sifting the comparatively plentiful sources available for the study of Qajar religion. The abundance of these sources, relative to previous periods of Iranian history, is not only due to the proximity of the period, or improvements in the bureaucratic organisation of Iranian society. Both factors play 2

RELIGION AND SOCIETY IN QAJAR IRAN

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their part, but there are others. The increased contact with foreigners and the imperial powers (Britain, British India, France and Russia to name the principal actors) is evident in archival collections outside of Iran, providing a rich vein of material for the researcher. The growing popularity of new technologies (the lithograph, the printing press, photography, etc.) during the Qajar period also results in ‘traces’ of aspects of social life generally, and religious life in particular, enabling analyses of the role of religion in elements of society which would otherwise be impossible. Finally, the plethora of religious movements and religious societies in Qajar Iran, the controversies they engendered and the gradual formation of state policies with respect to these groupings led to the production of relevant resources on an unprecedented scale (from the production of books to the production of tiles). In short, the fragmentation (or stratiﬁcation) of Qajar society along religious lines, and the increased possibilities for the diffusion of ideas in a variety of media, have resulted in a wealth of resources which present to the researcher, challenges of collection, selection and interpretation. The essays presented have arisen from research carried out by scholars sponsored by the ‘Religion and Society in Qajar Iran’ project, as well as those who attended the conference held in Bristol in September 2000 to mark the end of the project. They are best seen as a series of case studies examining aspects of the relationship between religion and society in the Qajar period. The nature of the project and the different research areas of the scholars involved precluded any systematic attempt at comprehensive coverage. Whilst these studies, in toto, represent only a partial account of Qajar religion, the coverage is broad, reﬂecting the multitude of subjects and research approaches which can be encompassed under the title of the collection. There are, I recognise, lacunae: there is limited coverage of the experiences of the various Suﬁ †ar¥qas during the Qajar period; the coverage concentrates on pre-constitutional manifestations of religion in public life; the link between tribal identity and religious practice is explored only tangentially; and there are religious minorities which remain unstudied in the essays presented here. Some of these topics were covered by papers not included in this volume, but presented at the conference.6 The fact that many areas of research into Qajar religion remain unexamined serves as a prompt for further research.

Religion and the state in the Qajar period The principal religious identity of the majority of Iranians, before, during and since the Qajar period, has consisted of a devotion (of varying intensity in different elements of the population) to Twelver (IthnÇ Ashar¥) Shiism. This was the legacy of the Safavid adoption of Twelver Shiism as the state religion, and the slow, but widespread adoption of this belief system by most of the population under Safavid control during the subsequent 3

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centuries.7 There are a number of issues which deserve attention in an examination of the relationship between Twelver Shiism and the state. First, there is the problematic legitimation of state activities by religious authorities. Assessments vary as to whether or not Twelver Sh¥ ¥ belief inevitably leads to a rejection of the religious legitimacy of any state in anticipation of the return of the hidden Imam.8 Different sources (biography, jurisprudence, political theory, chronicles, etc.) offer differing indications. Some religious scholars (the ulamå ) co-operated with the Qajar state, while others avoided any contact with it. Some wrote works in praise of the Shah, dedicating their endeavours to him, while others described his rule as simply a ‘loan’ from the Imam.9 This has been an area of dispute among academics and Sh¥ ¥ intellectuals, the implications of which reach beyond the Qajar period and include within their purview the ideological currents within the Islamic revolutionary movement of Iran in the late twentieth century. Second, there is the inﬂuence of religion on the workings of government, in particular the institutions connected with the judiciary in the Qajar period. The general picture is of a gradual secularisation of the law through the process termed ‘modernisation’.10 Under this umbrella term, a number of bureaucratic changes can be listed including ﬁnancial, judicial and military reforms. Of particular relevance to the subject of this volume was the dual system of religious (shar) and secular (urf ) courts, both of which were, theoretically, under the power of the Shah. He appointed judges from the ranks of the ulamå and from the ofﬁcials of local government, though the extent of royal control and the nature of the law administered in these courts has not yet been fully analysed. Furthermore, the emergence of a non-religious legal cadre in the Qajar period had momentous effects on relations between the ulamå – particularly low ranking clerics – and the state.11 Third, the Qajar period undoubtedly sees a growing independence of mind among the religious classes. The state in the early Qajar period manifests some similarities with the Safavid model in which inﬂuential members of the ulamå were incorporated into the state structure, holding ofﬁcial positions. The later Qajar period witnessed a number of ulamå -led movements which were openly oppositional to the state.12 This independence was, it has been claimed, the result of the ulamå ’s ﬁnancial independence, gained through the establishment of an efﬁcient system for the collection and retention of religious taxes (particularly khums and zakåt). Others have attributed this independence to a natural attitude of opposition among the Twelver Sh¥ ¥ clergy.13 They were, it is argued, an oppositional force, resistant to state control during the ghayba. While the academic debate relating to these, and other, issues, provide the primary focus of the chapters in the ﬁrst section of this collection, the topics are also touched upon in chapters appearing later in the volume. Saïd Amir Arjomand, who has written extensively on the relationship between religion and government in Shiism, presents an analysis of a number of tracts concerned with statecraft. In his chapter on ‘Political 4

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Ethic and Public Law in the Early Qajar Period’ (Chapter 2), he examines the development of a theory of dual powers. The king inherits the prophetic function of governance, while the preservation of religion (another prophetic function) devolves upon the ulamå . The emergence of this dual theory has its roots in the Safavid period, when some scholars began to marry the literary tradition of ‘political ethics’ with Sh¥ ¥ principles. In the Qajar period, particularly in the work of Sayyid Jafar Kashf¥ (d.1267/1850–1), this ‘theory of the two powers’ had its most accomplished manifestation. The writers selected by Arjomand are not only members of the ulamå class, and their works are not only juristic. The fact that lay members of Qajar society were writing works which might loosely be described as political theory is signiﬁcant. Intellectual discussion and the construction of a political ethos were no longer exclusively in the hands of the ulamå . Arjomand also links the various developments in politicojuridical theory with a dispute in AstarÇbÇd during the early nineteenth century. These ideas were, then, not merely theoretical elaborations of rareﬁed concepts. They impacted upon the power structures within early Qajar society. My own chapter, ‘Jihåd and the Religious Legitimacy of the Early Qajar State’ (Chapter 3) deals with similar issues. Arjomand intimates in his chapter that within works of jurisprudence there was still some residual tension between the rule of the Imam and the political reality of the day.14 My own study expands upon this observation with respect to the theory of jihåd in works of law (ﬁqh). Through analysing (and in some cases, re-analysing) the juristic pronouncements on jihåd during the early Qajar period (whether or not the ﬁrst Perso-Russian war was explicitly mentioned), I contend that the de jure illegitimacy of any rule other than that of the hidden Imam was not so easily erased from juristic discourse. When religious legitimacy was given to the Qajar state, it was limited and speciﬁc. The Qajar state was, for these jurists, indistinguishable in this respect from other states during the ghayba. The differences between my own and Arjomand’s conclusions are partly due to our differing selections of sources. While my focus is on works of fur al-ﬁqh, Arjomand broadens the study to cover works within the ‘mirror for princes’ genre (both by ulamå and laypeople). The differences also relate to the question of where a jurist’s ‘true’ opinions might be found – in his works of law, or in others works with different generic characteristics. From an historical perspective (rather than that of intellectual history), Mansur Sefatgol examines the religious ofﬁces of the Qajar state, and adds yet another perspective on the relationship between religion and the Qajar state. As Sefatgol argues in his ‘From Dår al-Sal†ana-yi I‚fahån to Dår al-khilåfa-yi ˝ihrån’ (Chapter 4), the existence of documents which outline the ofﬁcial religious positions of the Qajar state, demonstrate that the Qajars incorporated members of the ulamå into the state through state-appointed positions such as prayer leaders (imåm-i juma), judges 5

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(qu∂åt) and endowment administrators (‚adr). In many respects, the religious institution was not a radical break from the Safavid model. What is signiﬁcant, though, is that the ålims who held these positions were not always acclaimed as great scholars, demonstrating the predominance of religious knowledge over political power as a source of prestige among the Qajar clergy. In the period immediately preceding the Constitutional Revolution, the abundance of religious titles may actually have reduced, rather than enhanced, the state’s attempt to appear religiously legitimate. The ofﬁcial positions of the shaykh al-islåm and qå∂¥ in the Qajar period (both of whom had responsibility for the administration of justice) raise the question of the inﬂuence of the Shar¥ a upon the law. Descriptions of the judicial organisation during the Qajar period emphasise the dual system of religious and secular courts (shar and urf).15 The relative powers of these two systems, their jurisdiction and the personnel responsible for their operation are matters which have not, yet, come under detailed scrutiny by commentators. Irene Schneider begins this mammoth task with her chapter ‘Religious and State Jurisdiction during NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh’s Reign’ (Chapter 5). Her analysis of twenty-one petitions to the Shah reveals that the urf courts (taken to be ‘state jurisdiction’) gained increasing power over the religious courts, though the ‘division of labour’ is not always so clear cut. Furthermore, a plaintiff’s appeal to one court system did not seem to preclude an appeal to the other, and plaintiffs, to a greater or lesser extent, appear to have been wise to this opportunity. They used their ‘right’ to present cases to the Shah, utilising his judgements to overcome barriers presented at a local level. The above studies show the complex relationship between Shiism, the Sh¥ ¥ clergy and the Qajar state. The state, recognising the key role of the ulamå in society, had no option but to invite them into the administration of the state. However, the ulamå did not always wish to confer legitimacy on the state through this incorporation, and their responses, both political and literary, bear witness to a variety of attitudes to the Qajar state. What is clear is that as the state slowly ‘modernised’, the ulamå developed independent strategies to maintain their rank within society at large. This situation explains, in part at least, the participation of leading members of the ulamå in movements aimed at restricting state power in the late Qajar period.16

Religious thought in the Qajar period Aside from the developments in the relationship between religion and the Qajar state, there was also a series of developments in religious thought. Some, but not all, of these had political implications; they all, to varying degrees, impacted upon the hierarchical organisation of the religious classes. As with the question of state legitimacy, the ulamå cannot be portrayed as a homogenous group. Within their ranks, there were a variety 6

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of different (and often mutually antagonistic) groupings. Some of these, such as the AkhbÇr¥s and the philosophers, were present in pre-Qajar times, and challenged the intellectual hegemony of the jurists (fuqahå ). Others emerged during the Qajar period such as the Shaykhiyya and the BÇbiyya. Membership of these intellectual trends was multiple – a single scholar could combine the emphases of, say, the Shaykhiyya with falsafa (as can be seen in the works of Shaykh Aªmad al-AªsÇ¥ [d.1241/1826] himself). What is remarkable is the diversity of intellectual activity among the ulamå of the Qajar period, and their literary output bears witness to this fact. In both manuscript and lithograph form, the sources for the study of developments in theological, legal and philosophical thinking throughout the nineteenth century are, as mentioned earlier, extremely rich, and yet, very few studies of the trends, from the perspective of intellectual history, have been conducted. Qajar philosophy has been almost entirely ignored17; Shaykhism has often been studied as a mere precursor to Babism; the last ﬂourish of the AkhbÇr¥ movement is described in a few lines in encyclopaedia articles.18 Apart from the work of Corbin, developments in religious thought during the Qajar period have been limited to those with strictly political import. The four chapters in the second section of this collection demonstrate that theological, philosophical and sectarian ideas during this period must be understood not only in terms of their socio-political or hierocratic concerns (to use Arjomand’s Weberian terminology). Their strictly intellectual characteristics exemplify innovation with respect to previous models, as well as organic links with Safavid and pre-Safavid modes of thought. In ‘Being (wujd) and Sanctity (wilåya)’ (Chapter 6), Sajjad Rizvi examines the thought of three Qajar philosophers: Zuns¥ (d.1307/1889), Qumshih¥ (d.1306/1889) and SabzavÇr¥ (d.1279/1873). All of these scholars extended the tradition of philosophical thinking developed by the Safavid intellectual MullÇ ÍadrÇ (d.1050/1641), though the locus of their attention was not merely past scholarship. They also entered into criticisms of contemporary, quasi-philosophical schools, particularly the Shaykhiyya. In their philosophical discourse, Being (wujd) is identiﬁed as both multiple and uniﬁed. The multiplicity apparent in one’s experience of the diversity of existent beings is recognised as a hierarchy of different intensities of Being. Sanctity (wilåya) is the most intensive (and hierarchically speaking, the highest) of these, representing, ideally, the relationship of the Imam to God: a relationship all believers strive to achieve with respect to the Imam. Such philosophical contemplations may appear rareﬁed, but, as Rizvi points out, one element of the ulamå ’s response to the millenarian challenges of the Shaykhiyya and other less philosophically adept movements was to use ‘the same language of charismatic authority and divine manifestation’,19 but base it on principles which resonated with the Sh¥ ¥ philosophical tradition. The role of the Shaykhiyya as a competing school of metaphysics is taken up by Todd Lawson in his ‘Orthodoxy and Heterodoxy in Twelver Shiism’ 7

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(Chapter 7). Lawson’s analysis of the well-known treatise of Shaykh Aªmad al-AªsÇ¥, Sharª al-risåla f¥ ilm allåh (or Risålat al-ilmiyya), focuses on the Shaykh’s polemic against the Safavid philosopher Muªsin Fay∂ al-KÇshÇn¥ (d.1091/1680). KÇshÇn¥ stands ﬁrmly within the tradition of his father-inlaw and teacher, MullÇ ÍadrÇ. Shaykh Aªmad accused KÇshÇn¥ of violating the doctrinal principle that God cannot be comprehended by human intellect. By casting him in this light, Shaykh Aªmad presents himself as the true follower of the Imams, and KÇshÇn¥ as the deviant, heterodox philosopher. This attack on KÇshÇn¥ is also a defence of Shaykh Aªmad’s orthodoxy, and Lawson brings out the problematic nature of the concepts of heterodoxy and orthodoxy in any analysis of early Qajar religious thought. The matter is further complicated by KÇshÇn¥’s obvious inﬂuence on Shaykh¥, BÇb¥ and BahÇ¥ thought after Aªmad’s death. Issues of heterodoxy and orthodoxy also impinge on Andrew Newman’s study, ‘Anti-AkhbÇr¥ Sentiments among the Qajar Ulamå ’ (Chapter 8). Newman poses an interesting question: why, half a century after the death of (supposedly) the last AkhbÇr¥ thinker of note (M¥rzÇ Muªammad AkhbÇr¥ (d.1233/1818)), did late Qajar biographers dedicate so much effort to denouncing Akhbarism? It could no longer have been seen as a threat to U‚l¥ scholastic hegemony, and interest in it should have been purely historical. By concentrating on Muªammad BÇqir al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ (d.1313/1895), and his important biographical compendium Raw∂åt alJannåt, Newman traces the contours of KhwÇnsÇr¥’s anti-AkhbÇr¥ stance. Akhbarism is linked to other ‘heterodox’ Qajar movements (Shaykhism, Babism and certain ‘excessive’ Suﬁ movements) through the biographies of both pre-Qajar and Qajar scholars. In the second part of his chapter, Newman explains this vehemently ‘orthodox’ approach with reference to KhwÇnsÇr¥’s family history and the scholarly pedigree he inherited. Within his family there were intimate intellectual connections with the scholars responsible for the U‚l¥ revival and the assertion of clerical authority over rival charismatic claims. Sohrab Yazdani, in his ‘Heterodox Intellectuals of the Iranian Constitutional Revolution’ (Chapter 9), sets out to correct what he sees as a mistaken connection often made between BÇb¥ thought and the Constitutional Revolution. The link is made, he argues, in order to emphasise the radical nature of the Constitutional Revolution and its link with ‘heterodox’ rather than ‘orthodox’ modes of thinking. One reason for the connection proposed by Western commentators is that one of the main elements of the anti-constitutional polemic was the accusation of Azal¥ BÇb¥ connections among the Constitutionalists. In conclusion, Yazdani tries to rescue the Constitutional Revolution from over-association with Babism, and Babism from over-association with social reform. These four chapters, in different ways, stake claims for the importance of studying Sh¥ ¥ religious thought in the Qajar period in its own right. Many of the features of Qajar intellectual development can, then, be better 8

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understood as continuations of the Sh¥ ¥ scholarly tradition (be it juristic, theological or philosophical) and should not be reduced to social and political messages wrapped up in a religious garb.

Sources for the study of popular religion in Qajar Iran Popular religious expression has become one of the focuses of recent scholarship in the study of religious history. Since the clergy (in both an Islamic and Christian context) were the authors of a large proportion of the literary residue of medieval societies, accounts of the religiosity of laypeople – be they members of the court elite, merchants or less elevated elements of society – are problematic. Evidence for this reconstruction turns on artefacts of material culture or on the reduced literary output of the laity (usually in the form of records and documents used purely for bureaucratic and administrative purposes). As mentioned above, the increase in the number of sources of this type makes this approach more feasible for the Qajar period than the periods which preceded it. The growing complexity of the Qajar bureaucracy, coupled with modernisation during NÇ‚ir al-d¥n ShÇh’s reign,20 was naturally accompanied by an increase in the recording and preservation of documents. These sources (given the generic term asnåd in Iranian libraries) provide the researcher with a wealth of information about public life, and public religious sentiments in particular. With increased specialisation in bureaucratic skills came specialised education for bureaucrats, and, inevitably, an increased volume of archival sources on which researchers can draw. The three studies in this section utilise these sources in order to assess the role of religion among bureaucrats, merchants and court ofﬁcials. Non-elite expressions of religiosity are tackled brieﬂy in Part 5.21 Roxane Haag-Higuchi’s study of YaghmÇ (‘Religion in Public and Private Life: The Case of YaghmÇ-yi Jandaq¥’ (Chapter 10)) examines the letters of this middle-ranking secretary which were used as models for good bureaucratic practice. Haag-Higuchi, however, wishes to utilise them to measure the role of religion in the life of a member of the lay Qajar literati. Her conclusions include assessments of YaghmÇ’s attitudes towards Suﬁsm, esoteric sciences (such as dream interpretation) and the consumption of wine and opium to religious effect. From his biography, one ﬁnds YaghmÇ patronising åshra processions, and associating with jurists (such as Aªmad NarÇq¥ [d.1245/1829]), as well as nourishing ‘Suﬁ tendencies of the Dervish kind’.22 The strict lines of demarcation found in the works of the ulamå (faq¥h, ålim, dervish, Suﬁ, etc.) seem less important for a writer such as YaghmÇ: his religiosity appears to work along different lines to that which emerges from clerical writings. The idea of a religious culture in practice is explored by Christoph Werner in his ‘Pious Merchants: Religious Sentiments in Wills and Testaments’ (Chapter 11). Werner examines a number of wills preserved in the 9

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SÇzmÇn-i awqÇf in Tehran. These wills exhibit the religious sensibilities of Qajar merchants in Tabriz and provide a fascinating insight into the functioning of the Qajar bazaar system. Religion, and religious afﬁliation, among non-specialists is often expressed through the material dedication of funds for pious purposes, and this, rather than tracts of theology or law, is their religious legacy. The actors in this extract from Qajar religious history are rarely the subject of biographical record or scholarly treatise, since the intellectual elite considered their practices too mundane to warrant examination. Documents such as wills do, however, provide a deeper understanding of the manner in which religion impinged on everyday life among an inﬂuential class of society. Another source for the understanding of religious sentiments outside of the ulamå can be found in the institution of the vaqf or endowment. A vaqf consists of an endowment of money or property, made by an individual, for a particular religious cause. In theory, the income from the vaqf should be used for this religious purpose in perpetuity. Nabuaki Kondo examines one such vaqf from the Qajar period in his ‘The Vaqf and Religious Patronage of Manchihr KhÇn Mutamad al-Dawlah’ (Chapter 12). The career of this court eunuch and advisor to Fatª Al¥ ShÇh is of particular interest as it provides us with an insight into the politics of conversion in Qajar Iran. Manchihr KhÇn (d.1263/1847) was born a Christian but converted to Islam after his capture during the ﬁrst Russo-Iranian war. He rose to high ranks within the Qajar state, and his vaqf (consisting of the income from a number of villages) was to be used, in part, to sponsor mourning ceremonies for the Muªarram commemorations in a takya he built for the purpose in Tehran. Other beneﬁciaries were members of his own family (providing they had converted to Twelver Shiism) and poor sayyids (that is, descendents of the Prophet Muhammad). Through an examination of the vaqf document, the subsequent history of the vaqf and other examples of Manchihr KhÇn’s religious patronage, Kondo develops a reasonably comprehensive picture of the religious sentiments of a Qajar court luminary. The sources for the study of Qajar Shiism are not merely limited to the expositions of the ulamå , as these three studies demonstrate. A more complete picture of the role of religion in circles outside of the religious elite emerges from painstaking archival work and the detailed study of so-called profane literature. Through such studies an image of popular religion – that is religious sentiments of lay people (albeit those who have left a literary residue) – emerges which challenges any generalising tendencies found in descriptions of religion in Qajar Iran.

Religious minorities and Western missionaries in Qajar Iran Studies of the experiences of religious minorities in nineteenth-century Iran bring another perspective to the collection. While non-Muslim communities faced distinctive and diverse challenges under Qajar rule, there were 10

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also shared experiences. First, the main minority communities (Jewish, Christian, Zorastrian and BahÇ¥) viewed themselves as being part of wider religious groups, and, to a greater or lesser extent, utilised international contacts to put forward community grievances, and develop their community infrastructure.23 Second, all the communities faced neglect or ambivalence from the Qajar government, which rarely intervened in disputes within and between communities. This experience, which was not unique to the Qajar period, increased internal community cohesion in a Muslim-dominated environment.24 Third, minority communities faced some sanction from certain strata of the Sh¥ ¥ hierarchy. The level and ferocity of the sanction varied, depending on the status of the community concerned (the BahÇ¥ experience, for example, was different from that of Iranian Jews under Qajar rule) and the characters of the clergy involved, but all did face restrictive measures enacted either by the state under clergy pressure, or by rogue individuals outside of local and national control. Even approximate numbers of members of different religious minority groups during the Qajar period are difﬁcult to determine, and the size of communities ﬂuctuated throughout the reign. Many community members left Iran for educational, personal or political reasons, and the level of migration also ﬂuctuated throughout the reign (though it would appear that emigration rates increased signiﬁcantly in the later years of the Qajar period). Finally, the theological attitudes of the Shi’ite clergy to religious minorities varied enormously. When one compares the emergent BahÇ¥ community (which was awarded little or no ofﬁcial status) with the Christian communities, one cannot, in truth, detect an overall policy towards minority groups by either the ulamå or the state, and hence generalisations concerning their positions become problematic. The ﬁve chapters in this section explore both internal developments within the religious minority communities, as well as the ﬂuctuating fortunes of the community vis-à-vis the state and the ulamå. The increased diplomatic contact between Iran and the Imperial Powers brought with it increased intellectual contact. In particular the presence of missionaries within the borders of Iran posed particular problems for both indigenous religious communities and Muslim Iranian society. In his chapter on the British evangelist Henry Martyn (d.1812), entitled ‘Mujtahids and Missionaries: Sh¥ ¥ Responses to Christian Polemics in the Early Qajar Period’ (Chapter 13), Abbas Amanat presents a survey of both Martyn’s work in Iran, and the reaction he provoked from the Sh¥ ¥ clergy. Martyn’s brief stay in Iran, and his encounter between 1811 and 1812 with the ulamå of Shiraz, in particular, gave rise to a genre of anti-Christian (or more accurately, anti-Imperialist Christian) literature. Amanat argues that the polemics against Martyn show the ulamå honing their skills in argumentation against non-Muslim intellectual adversaries – skills which would become extremely useful during the sustained campaign against the BÇb¥s. 11

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On the other hand, the impact of some missionary activities on Iranian Christian communities was more practical than theological. Florence Hellot’s study, ‘Western Missionaries in Azerbaijani Society’ (Chapter 14), provides us with a catalogue of missionary activities which attempted to cater for both the welfare and spiritual needs of the community. The picture which emerges from Hellot’s analysis is that while missionary activity was not always well co-ordinated between the Western churches, it was generally welcomed by local communities. Obviously the Christian communities were initially more receptive, but the schools and hospitals provided by the various missionary organisations were also frequented by Muslims of various tribal and sectarian allegiances. Missionaries became key ﬁgures within local communities and took on mediating roles in community conﬂict, and, occasionally, adopted representative roles in clashes between the local government and the community. When our attention is shifted to the Jewish communities of Iran, similar patterns of contact with outside agencies, employing them as mediators or advocates with state ofﬁcials, are evident. Haideh Sahim’s study of the Jews of Hamadan (‘Jews of Iran in the Qajar Period: Persecution and Perseverance’ (Chapter 15)) demonstrates how the plight of a religious minority community could be publicised abroad through an international network of contacts, and some pressure (albeit not totally effective in this case) brought to bear upon the Qajar state. Sahim’s analysis also demonstrates that the Qajar state’s neglect (wilful or otherwise) of the circumstances of religious minorities allowed (at a local level) individuals (in this case MullÇ Abd AllÇh) to control local policy towards religious minorities and stir up intercommunity strife. MullÇ Abd AllÇh’s temporary, but devastating, success in this endeavour is demonstrated by his part in the attacks upon the Jewish communities of Hamadan during the 1890s and the inability of the Shah’s ofﬁcials to prevent the persecution of the Hamadani Jews. The BahÇ¥ community, developing as it did out of a ‘heterodox’ Sh¥ ¥ movement, is also an interesting case study of the experience of Qajar religious minorities. Juan Cole, in his chapter ‘The Evolution of Charismatic Authority in the BahÇ¥ Faith’ (Chapter 16), attempts to trace the theological and legal doctrines in early Baha’ism, and link them with the Islamic background to which they belong. The relative inﬂuence of Western, liberal modes of thought and Muslim dogma upon early BahÇ¥s is a topic on which Cole has written previously.25 Here Cole concentrates on the founding documents of Baha’ism, and examines the aura of Islamic theology and jurisprudence which penetrates these compositions. This analysis is carried out for the periods of leadership of both BahÇ AllÇh and Abd al-BahÇ, and the gradual de-Islamisation of the movement is apparent. Moojan Momen, in his study ‘The Role of Women in the Iranian BahÇ¥ Community during the Qajar Period’ (Chapter 17), conducts a sociohistorical study of the status of women within both the BahÇ¥ community 12

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and Iranian society as a whole. The BahÇ¥ movement inherited some of the doctrinal emphases of Babism with regard to the equal religious status of women. These were developed further within the BahÇ¥ movement, resulting in education and welfare programmes by the end of the Qajar period which had a signiﬁcant impact on the position of women generally in Iran. Particularly illuminating are the biographies of inﬂuential BahÇ¥ women in the late Qajar period, and the enactment of certain BahÇ¥ principles in the form of girls’ schools and ‘tentative’26 steps towards incorporating women into the administration of the BahÇ¥ community. The social activities of a minority group, the status of which was deeply problematic in Qajar Iran, provide one example of how external pressure did not always entail community underdevelopment and stagnation. The ﬁve chapters in this section all indicate that the doctrinal, social and historical developments of religious minorities in Qajar Iran were affected by a number of factors. The attitude of Muslim religious ofﬁcials, the interplay of local communities and outside (Western) inﬂuences, the rather chaotic and uncoordinated policy of the state with respect to religious minorities and the traditional values of Iranian society: all these contributed to the rich diversity of minority life during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.

Religion and culture in Qajar Iran Religion operated not only as an intellectual system or social identity. Its inﬂuence on various aspects of Qajar society was considerable. In this ﬁfth part of the collection, four chapters are presented, each of which explores the manner in which religious ideas and religious identity inﬂuenced different aspects of Qajar life (broadly deﬁned as Qajar culture). In ‘Religious Rituals, Social Identities and Political Relationships in Tehran under Qajar Rule’ (Chapter 18), Kamran Aghaie examines the link between the Muªarram commemorations, the construction of takyas, the staging of passion plays and political allegiances during the Qajar period. Through consulting the records of the 1869 census and comparing these with the known locations of religious buildings in Qajar Tehran, Aghaie builds up a picture of religious performance being patronised and enacted by a wide cross-section of the Tehran population. He also examines how these ceremonies were used by political ﬁgures (particularly NÇ‚ir al-d¥n ShÇh) to advance personal prestige in different quarters of the city. His conclusions are that the local (maªalla) identity of an individual was tied to the organisation of religious activities, and that this activities often acted as a mediator between the individual and the state. Ritual performance can also be seen as a mirror of state–community relationships as ‘patterns of ritual performance’27 reﬂect the emergence and eclipse of social relationships. 13

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Pardis Minuchehr examines the impact of religion on the new technology of newsprint. In her ‘The Exile Persian Press and the Pro-Constitutionalist Ulamå of the AtabÇt’ (Chapter 19), she traces the presentation of religious themes in Persian newspapers published outside Iran (Armenia, Ottoman Turkey, British India and elsewhere). The selection of stories, the level of coverage given to the statements of leading members of the ulamå class and the distribution of the newspapers inside Iran point towards a close relationship (or at least a conﬂuence of aims) between the religious elite and the reformists of the constitutionalist period. While the reformist agenda was mashr†a rather than mashra – that is, it was secular rather than religious in inspiration – the ulamå promoted mashr†a as a viable political alternative to despotic monarchy. One of the major channels for this promotion was the exile press. In ‘Religion and Medicine in Qajar Iran’ (Chapter 20), Hormoz Ebrahimnejad examines yet another element of life which was to undergo changes during the Qajar period. Medical practice in the later part of the nineteenth century was slowly modernised (or Westernised) as the ancient practice of Prophetic Medicine (†ibb al-nab¥) was on occasions mixed with, and at other times replaced by, European medical knowledge. The shift in sources of medical knowledge robbed certain traditional ªak¥ms of their established role as they were unable to make the necessary adjustment. Of particular interest is the document Saf¥nih-yi Nª (‘Noah’s Ark’) of Al¥ AstarÇbÇd¥ concerning the Tehran cholera outbreak of 1892. Ebrahimnejad presents a translation of the treatise in his appendix, and interprets the tract as a complaint against modern medicine which had failed to prevent the outbreak. Instead AstarÇbÇd¥ proposes a reviviﬁcation of the science of Prophetic Medicine and a return to traditional medical practices. Finally, Jennifer Scarce interprets religious (and Iranian imperial) iconography during the Qajar period. In her chapter (‘Some Interpretations of Religious and Popular Culture in Qajar Tilework’ (Chapter 21)), she describes the political background against which religious and national images were promoted through the sponsorship of tile reliefs. These factors combined with impressive craftsmanship to produce evocative reﬂections of popular religious culture, from the representations of the Quranic story of Ysuf and ZulaykÇ (a story regularly utilised in popular mystical exposition) to the Muªarram scenes which tell of a more distinctive Sh¥ ¥ identity. The use of tilework to promote pride in the imperial past of Iran is also instructive, given that it appeared in what would be considered the strictly religious setting of a takya. These four chapters present the inﬂuence of religion (in terms of ritual, symbolism, ideology and personnel) in sources other than those normally examined in the discipline of religious studies. Examining the use of media not normally associated with religious exposition (the press or tilework), or the presence of religion in cultural practice often ignored by commentators (medicine or ritual), enables the study of Qajar religion to be further 14

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expanded beyond the usual sources of dogmatic tracts and expositions of doctrine.

Conclusions Qajar Iran has been the subject of a number of recent studies, and has emerged as a legitimate subject of research in its own right.28 One reason for this renaissance is the growing interest in the implications of Western Imperialism for writing histories both of colonised countries and those which were not incorporated into European empires.29 Previously the Qajar dynasty had been viewed as the poor cousin of the Safavids. The Safavid period has been portrayed as the highpoint of pre-modern Iranian history. Safavid developments in scholastic learning, internal governance, external relations and artistic endeavour have given rise to the perception of Safavid Iran as an equal player with European powers of the period. By comparison, Qajar Iran is portrayed as a weak, malleable state which can (and should) fall prey to the superior might of the emerging European empires. In line with such a perspective, the Qajars were an unfortunate interlude between the high culture of the Safavids and the strong leadership of the ﬁrst Pahlavi monarch. The shift from a triumphalist, Euro-centric portrayal of the history of the nineteenth century to a recognition that Iranian society had a dynamic of its own is one process signalled by the essays collected in this volume. This said, the effects of British, Russian and French presence, in the region generally and within the borders of Iran speciﬁcally, wrought irreversible changes on Qajar life. Politically, socially, economically and religiously, Iranian society was fundamentally changed during the Qajar period and this was in no small measure due to increased contact with the political inﬂuence and social ideology of post-Enlightenment Europe. A number of the essays in this collection describe this process (often termed ‘modernisation’) in different areas of Iranian life (the legal system, political movements, inter-religious community relations, medicine). On the other hand, many of the transformations within Iranian intellectual discourse are better understood as internal developments, unprompted by external factors. The religious elements of the state structure (particularly in the early Qajar period), the so-called heterodox movements of Shaykhism, Babism and Baha’ism (and the polemic against them) and the functioning of socio-religious elements of mundane bureaucracy display little (or at least debateable) European inﬂuence. It is clear that the effects of contact with European military and political power, as well as European ‘enlightenment’ ideas were unevenly distributed both synchronically (through different elements of Qajar society) and diachronically (through the different phases of Qajar history). The transformations in Qajar religious life and thought, described in this collection of essays, were not 15

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immune to this patterning. While it is possible to say that many elements of religious life underwent a general process of ‘rationalisation’ during the Qajar period, the diversity of religious life and thought demonstrated in the studies presented here impedes any attempt at over-generalisation.

Notes 1 E. G. Browne A Year amongst the Persians (London, 1893) 507–8. 2 The principle is termed isti‚ªåb al-ªål (‘the continuation of the state’) and can be succinctly expressed, ‘if a state of affairs at one time is established, and there is no evidence that this state has changed when under consideration at a later point, the original state is assumed to have continued (isti‚ªåb)’. See Muªammad Ri∂Ç al-MuΩaffar U‚l al-ﬁqh, 4 vols (Najaf, 1967) IV, 275. 3 See J. Schacht Introduction to Islamic Law (Oxford, 1964) 189 and 196: ‘The k.å∂¥ cannot revoke his judgement once he has given it.’ Ulrich Rebstock has pointed out that there was a growing emphasis on appointing the right person, rather than rectifying the erroneous judgements of a qå∂¥ (See his ‘A qÇ∂¥’s errors’ Islamic Law and Society 6.1 (1999) 1–37. 4 See B. Weiss The Search for God’s Law (Utah, 1992) 723. 5 See R. Gleave ‘ImÇm¥ Sh¥ ¥ refutations of qiyå‚’ in B. Weiss (ed.) Studies in Islamic Legal Theory (Leiden, 2002) 267–93. 6 These contributions are listed on p. xvi above. 7 See the interesting contributions to the debate over the nature of Safavid Shiism by R. Savory ‘Orthodoxy and Aberrancy in IthnÇ ashar¥ Sh¥ ¥ Tradition’ in W. Hallaq and D. P. Little (eds) Islamic Studies presented to Charles J Adams (Leiden, 1991) 169–81 and D. Morgan ‘Re-thinking Safavid Shiism’ in L. Lewisohn and D. Morgan (eds) The Heritage of Suﬁsm, Volume III: classical persianate Suﬁsm: the safavid and mughal period (Oxford, 1999) 19–27. 8 See, for example, N. Calder ‘Accommodation and Revolution in Imami Shi’i Jurisprudence: Khumayni and the Classical Tradition’ MES 18.1 (1982) 2–20; A. K. S. Lambton State and Government in Medieval Islam (Oxford, 1981) and H. Algar Religion and State in Iran 1785–1906 (Berkeley, 1969). 9 See the reference to the work of KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç in A. K. S. Lambton ‘A Nineteenth Century View of Jihåd ’ Studia Islamica 32 (1970) 192. 10 On the modernisation process generally, see M. Ringer Education, Religion and the Discourse of Reform in Qajar Iran (Costa Mesa, 2001). 11 See, for example, H. Algar ‘Religious Forces in Eighteenth- and NineteenthCentury Iran’ in P. Avery et al. (eds) Cambridge History of Iran, Volume 7 (Cambridge, 1991) 705–31. 12 H. Algar ‘The Oppositional Role of the Ulamå in Twentieth Century Iran’ in N. Keddie (ed.) Scholars, Saints and Suﬁs (Los Angeles, 1972) 231–57. 13 For a critique of this position see W. Floor ‘The Revolutionary Character of the Iranian ulamå : Wishful Thinking or Reality?’ IJMES 12 (1980) 501–24. 14 See below, p. 21–40. 15 For scholarship to date on this issue, see the references on p. 107, n. 3 below. 16 On these, see N. Keddie Religion and Rebellion in Iran (London, 1966); V. Martin Islam and Modernism: The Iranian Revolution of 1906 (London, 1989); A. K. S. Lambton ‘The Persian ulamå and the Constitutional Revolution’ in Le Shiisme imamite (Paris, 1970) 245–69; A-H. Hairi Shi ism and Constitutionalism in Iran (Leiden, 1977). 17 Little work has been done on Qajar philosophy since the work of T. Izutzu and M. Mohaghegh (The Metaphysics of Sabzavari (New York, 1977)),

16

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18

19 20

21 22 23

24 25

26 27 28

29

H. Corbin (La philosophie irannienne islamique aux XVIIe et XVIIIe siécles (Paris, 1981)) and S. H. Nasr (‘The Metaphysics of Sadr al-din Shirazi and Islamic Philosophy in Qajar Iran’ in C. E. Bosworth and C. Hillenbrand (eds) Qajar Iran, Political, Social and Cultural Change, 1800–1925 (Edinburgh, 1983) 177–98). See, for example, E. Kohlberg ‘Ak.bÇr¥ya’ EIr I, 716–18 and W. Madelung ‘AkhbÇriyya’ EI2 Supplement 1–2, 56–7. The publication of Fatª Al¥ Zand’s al-Fawå id al-Sh¥råziyya (edited by myself and Mansur Sefatgol, and forming part of the ‘Religion and Society in Qajar Iran’ project), will hopefully contribute to our understanding of this area. See below, p. 115. See S. Bakhash Iran: Monarchy, Bureaucracy and Reform under the Qajars, 1858–1896 (London, 1978); R. Sheikholislami The Structure of Central Authority in Qajar Iran 1871–1896 (Atlanta, 1997) and A. Amanat The Pivot of the Universe (London, 1997). See, in particular, the contribution by Kamran Aghaie (Chapter 18). See below, p. 199. See, for example, the documents found in C. Chaqueri The Armenians of Iran (Harvard, 1998). The network of the Armenians in the Safavid period is described brieﬂy in E. Herzig ‘The Rise of the Julfa Merchants in the late Sixteenth Century’ in C. Melville (ed.) Safavid Persia (London, 1996) 305–22. For the status of religious minorities in Iran in the more recent past, see E. Sanasarian Religious Minorities in Iran (Cambridge, 2000). J. Cole ‘Iranian Millenarianism and Democratic Thought in the Nineteenth Century’ IJMES 24. (1992) 1–26 and his Modernity and the Millennium: The Genesis of the Baha’i Faith in the Nineteenth Century Middle East (New York, 1998). See below, p. 366. See below, p. 391. See, for example, Ringer, Education, Religion and the Discourse of Reform; E. Daniel (ed.) Society and Culture in Qajar Iran: Studies in Honor of Hafez Farmayan (Costa Mesa, 2002) and M. Ekhtiar Modern Science, Education and Reform in Qajar Iran (Richmond, 2000). The now standard work on writing history in post-colonial circumstances is R. Young White Mythologies: Writing History and the West (London, 1990).

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Part I RELIGION AND THE STATE IN THE QAJAR PERIOD

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2 POLITICAL ETHIC AND PUBLIC LAW IN THE EARLY QAJAR PERIOD Saïd Amir Arjomand

The early Qajar period (1785–1848) is important for the development of a distinct theory of the two powers which differed from late Safavid political thought in that it reﬂected a new constellation of hierocratic and temporal power. There is both continuity and change in this period. While there is continuity with the late Safavid treatment of political ethics and statecraft as a branch of practical philosophy, there is also a break with both traditions of Shiite jurisprudence and statecraft. This break is marked by the emergence, in the second quarter of the nineteenth century, of a new genre of critical political writing out of the statecraft literature which can be considered the beginning of modern political thought. The ﬁrst Qajar monarchs sought to relate themselves to the Safavids and to continue their tradition of Shiite monarchy from the very beginning. Before long, however, they turned for legitimation to the Shiite hierocracy whose power and independence had grown imperceptibly but tremendously during the intervening decades of civil strife.1 Some important Shiite jurists responded favourably, and Fatª Al¥ ShÇh showed his gratitude to the clerical support for the new dynasty with deference, stating, ‘our rulership is on behalf (bi-niyåbat) of the mujtahids of the Age’.2 It is therefore understandable that the critical studies of early Qajar political thought by Lambton3 and ÓÇir¥4 mainly concentrate on the Shiite jurists. Similarly, I presented an extensive summary of what I called ‘the theory of the two powers’, as found in the Tuªfat al-mulk, written by Sayyid Jafar Kashf¥ in 1818, as a consistently Shiite political theory because it removed the anomalous Safavid claim to be the descendants and lieutenants of the Immaculate Imams. Kashf¥’s theory reconciles the ethos of patrimonial kingship and the political ethic of Twelver Shiism. I argued that ‘because it adequately reﬂected the institutional division of authority between the state and the hierocracy, Kashf¥’s political theory can be taken to represent the uniﬁed normative order that governed the relations of authority in the Qajar body politic’.5 21

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However, as ÓÇir¥6 has pointed out in his fairly comprehensive survey, there is another important genre of political writing – works on statecraft and political ethic, typically but not exclusively by the bureaucratic class – which has not received adequate attention. In addition, Ådamiyyat and NÇtiq7 have drawn our attention to the appearance of yet a third genre: a new critical genre which grew out of the statecraft literature in the aftermath of Iran’s ﬁnal defeat in the Perso-Russian wars in 1244/1829.8 To these genres should be added quite a different source, which has not been studied systematically either – namely, the decrees of kings and governors. We can call these decrees ‘public law’ in the strict sense, with the proviso that in this period, public law became less ‘public’, as the Qajar rulers did not revive the Safavid practice of inscribing royal decrees in prominent public places for the communities affected by them to read. It should be pointed out, however, that in our period, as in the pre-modern era generally, the law is rarely codiﬁed and barely stands out from its ethico-normative context. The notion of ‘political ethic’, which refers to the content of the writings on statecraft and kingship that purported to regulate the political sphere, can therefore be seen as merging with this enforceable public law.

The Safavid background and the recovery of political philosophy During the important reign of AbbÇs II (1642–66), in line with the revival of philosophy by ‘The School of Isfahan’ and the integration of the rational (maql) sciences into the curriculum of the madrasas, practical philosophy (Óikmat-i amål¥) found a major statement by the Shaykh al-Islåm of Isfahan, MullÇ Muªammad BÇqir SabzavÇr¥ (d.1090/1679–80). The model treatise in practical philosophy was NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ˝s¥’s Akhlåq-i nå‚ir¥, which comprises the governance of the soul or ethics, governance of the household (tadb¥r-i manzil) or economics and political science (siyåsat-i mudun). Especially in the hands of ˝s¥’s imitators – most notably in DavvÇn¥’s Akhlåq-i jalål¥ – this tripartite Greek division of practical sciences was used as a frame to recast the material – aphorisms and stories – of the earlier works on statecraft in the form of advice to rulers.9 In his popular exposition of Shiite theology, Gawhar-i muråd, dedicated to AbbÇs II, Abd al-RazzÇq LÇhij¥ (d.1072/1661–2) followed FÇrÇb¥ and Ibn SinÇ in including rulership as a topic in the philosophical theory of prophecy,10 and appended a chapter on ethics. LÇhij¥, however, adopted the position of Ibn SinÇ’s contemporary, Abl-Óasan Åmir¥ N¥shÇpr¥, in differentiating prophecy and kingship.11 Within the framework of the philosophical theory of prophecy,12 LÇhij¥ divides the functions of prophecy into the maintenance of order and the guidance of mankind to salvation.13 He also divides the goals of practical philosophy into the study of common and invariable laws, atypically called ‘policy’ (siyåsat),14 and their implementation, which varies from time to time and society to society and is 22

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called ‘kingship and rulership’ (mulk va sal†anat). What is more important to note is that the functions of the prophet and the ruler were uniﬁed only in Prophet Muªammad and not in other prophets, who always needed kings.15 The effect of this rather original theorizing is the endorsement of what I have called the theory of the two powers. According to the theory of the two powers, God has chosen two classes among mankind for investment with authority: kings for the maintenance of order, and prophets for the guidance and salvation of humankind.16 This dualism is consistent with the logic of Shiism after the occultation of the Twelfth Imam, and Kashf¥ was to say so explicitly in the early nineteenth century. LÇhij¥, however, offered no explicit discussion of Shiism at this point. LÇhij¥’s contemporary, MullÇ Muªammad BÇqir SabzavÇr¥, who was the Shaykh al-Islåm of Isfahan under AbbÇs II, recognized the differentiation of ‘the ofﬁce (man‚ab) of prophecy’ and ‘the ofﬁce of rulership (sal†anat)’,17 and was explicit in his reconciliation of kingship with the Shiite theory of Imamate. In his massive and widely circulated treatise on political philosophy, Raw∂at al-anwår-i abbås¥,18 SabzavÇr¥ states that the Lawgiver is indeed the Prophet, and ‘the just ruler . . . is called Imam and God’s Caliph’. However, when the real (a‚l¥) Imam is in occultation, ‘the people inevitably need a king to live with justice and follow the custom and tradition (s¥rat va sunnat) of the real Imam’.19 Such a king is his royal patron, the King of Kings and Shadow of God, AbbÇs II.20 This justiﬁcation was in line with the Safavids’ coupling of their royal legitimacy with their charisma of lineage as the lieutenants and alleged descendants of the Immaculate Imams.21 A decree of appointment of a dårgha by ShÇh SultÇn-Óusayn is quite explicit in this respect: ‘As the perfect being of our fortunate majesty derives from the light of Prophecy and Authority (vilåyat), obeying [our] command is more incumbent upon the God-fearing than that of other kings of kings.’22 The massive vernacularization and popularization of Shiite beliefs by Muªammad BÇqir Majlis¥ in the last quarter of the seventeenth century included the justiﬁcation of kingship and just rule on the basis of the Shiite traditions,23 and a translation of Al¥’s covenant (ahd), or letter of instruction to MÇlik al-AshtÇr upon appointment as governor of Egypt. It is interesting that in a free Persian translation of the covenant, dedicated to one of the last Safavid grand viziers on the occasion of his visit to Mashhad, the theory of the two powers is plausibly read into a clause which is rendered as Al¥’s ‘command to propagate the ways of the just kings of the past and the following of the prophetic tradition’.24

Mirrors for princes and political philosophy From the very beginning of his reign (1785–96), ÅqÇ Muªammad KhÇn QÇjÇr turned to the mujtahids for help in consolidating his power. Around 1200/1787, M¥rzÇ Abl-QÇsim Qumm¥ (d.1231/1816) composed the 23

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Irshådnåmih25 for him, maintaining that ‘the rank of kingship is by divine decree’ and explaining the meaning of the term ‘shadow of God’. However, in line with the U‚l¥ doctrine of itihåd, Qumm¥’s statement of the theory of the two powers, transfers the fulﬁlment of the prophetic function to the hierocracy while stressing the mutual interdependence of the king and his ulamå : As God Most High has established kings for the protection of the world of men . . . the ulamå need them; and as He established the ulamå for the protection of the religion of men . . . the king and other than the king need them.26 Here, our mujtahid puts the ulamå as the guardians of the prophetic heritage in the place given to the Prophets in the more conventional formulations of the idea of the two powers in the statecraft literature. A more clearly traditional statement of the idea of duality – in fact, a reiteration of the medieval theory of the two powers – is offered by Fatª Al¥ ShÇh’s librarian, Muªammad Nad¥m BÇrfursh¥ (d.1241/1825): [God] has chosen two classes among mankind and given them the crown of sovereignty and the ring of superiority. The ﬁrst are the prophets . . . The second class consists of the rulers of the earth and the just kings . . . After the rank of prophecy, there shall be no position higher than kingship.27 M¥rzÇ-yi Qumm¥ remained on very good terms with ÅqÇ Muªammad KhÇn’s successor, Fatª Al¥ ShÇh, as well. But the latter also cultivated relations with other mujtahids, notably MullÇ Aªmad NarÇq¥ (d.1245/ 1829), whom he appointed the rector of the Royal Seminary (madrasa-yi sul†ån¥) in the city of Kashan. NarÇq¥ wrote a special manual of practical religious law for the monarch as his personal follower (muqallid) in 1225/1810.28 About the same time, NarÇq¥ expanded an Arabic text by his father into a long treatise on ethics, Miråj al-saåda (‘Mirror of Happiness’), and dedicated it to Fatª Al¥ ShÇh. The Miråj29 contains a discussion of tyranny (Ωulm) and justice (adålat) in which many of the maxims of statecraft are elaborated on the basis of traditions attributed mostly to Al¥ but also to the Prophet and some of the other Imams. NarÇq¥’s traditional idea of kingship is clearly expounded: The king is in the position of a shepherd whom the Creator of the world has appointed over the subjects (raiyyat) and required to protect them. If he is somewhat negligent in offering them protection and security, God will soon remove him as their shepherd and make him accountable in detail on the day of reckoning at the Resurrection: As for the king who protects the subject, let 24

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the land tax (kharåj) be as lawful to him as the wages of shepherding. If he is not the shepherd of the people, let whatever he eats of the tax on non-Muslims (jizya) be snake’s poison to him.30 Justice is the cornerstone of kingship. It is a glittering crown on the king’s head which raises him to the high ofﬁce (man‚ab) of being the Shadow of God . . . The rulers who make justice their slogan and rule with justice are appointed by the Possessor of Kingdom, Most High, to remove tyranny and guard the property and honour of the people of the world, and are distinguished from the rest of the creatures and given the honour of the title Shadow of God so that they would order the affairs concerning livelihood and salvation of God’s servants . . .31 To ensure that justice prevails throughout the realm, the king should have a spy system to report to him directly on the deeds and wrong doings of his governors and ofﬁcials.32 As the Prophet said, ‘An hour of just rule is better than seventy years of worship’, or in Al¥’s words, ‘the crown of kingship is its justice’.33 The practical implication of the idea is that the king is the foremost judiciary authority and should be fully accessible to all plaintiffs among his subjects: Plaint (taΩallum) of the subjects is the sign of the justice of the king. Attending to the ills of the people is a necessity for the rank of Shadow of God. The complaints of the seekers of justice is the halo (farr) of kingship.34 NarÇq¥ did not recover the late Safavid political science (siyåsat-i mudun).35 This was done, however, in two works commissioned independently by two sons of Fatª Al¥ ShÇh who were governors of Fars and Lorestan, respectively, and were completed in 1233/1818. Both these tracts, furthermore, sought to reconcile political philosophy with the Shiite theory of the Imamate. In the Manåhij al-sulk lil-salå†¥n wal-mulk, dedicated to the Prince-governor of Fars, Óusayn-Al¥ M¥rzÇ FarmÇnfarmÇ, the author, who belonged to the bureaucratic class, divides politics (siyåsat) into the virtuous and non-virtuous. In virtuous (få∂ila) politics, as prevailing under the present ShÇh and the Prince, the ruler seeks to improve and order the worldly and spiritual affairs of the subjects. This type of politics is called a ‘trust’ (amånat) and its ruler (‚åªib) is called Imam, if appointed by the Prophet, and ‘Deputy of the Imam’, if appointed by the Imam; and if appointed by the [Imam’s] Deputy . . . he will be a Deputy (nå ib) among the Deputies of the Prophet.36 25

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This statement is signiﬁcant in view of the fact that, according to U‚l¥ doctrine, the mujtahid and not the ruler is the ‘general vicegerent or deputy’ (nå ib åmm) of the Imam. The second treatise from the same year, 1233/1818, Tuªfat al-mulk, by the jurist Sayyid Jafar Kashf¥, is of much greater importance for its systematic extension of the Shiite theory of Imamate to cover kingship as ‘special vicegerency’ (niyåbat-i khå‚‚a) of the Hidden Imam, and has already been mentioned in this essay and elsewhere.37 It was a general compendium of knowledge, commissioned by the Prince-governor of Lorestan, Muªammad Taq¥ M¥rzÇ ÓusÇm al-Sal†ana and dedicated to the Shah, and included the theoretical statement on kingship in the chapter on political philosophy (siyåsat-i mudun), alongside a translation of the ‘Covenant of Al¥’. The covenant was addressed to MÇlik as the ﬁrst ‘special vicegerent’ in history and was thus the model for all subsequent Shiite rulers. In 1246/1831, Kashf¥ wrote a second treatise for his patron prince, M¥zån al-mulk va’l-†awå if va s¥rat al-mustaq¥m f¥ sulk al-khalå if. It was exclusively devoted to statecraft, and offered a complete political ethic. As in the earlier work, Kashf¥ shows himself to be a systematic thinker superior to other compilers of maxims and stories on statecraft, and presents a systematic picture of human society as a hierarchy of seven classes of mankind as God’s lieutenants (khulafå’ Allåh) on earth.38 Having cited the Prophetic tradition, ‘Obedience to God is through obedience to the ruler’ in the Preface,39 Kashf¥ begins the treatise with three chapters on justice where he adduces the well-known tradition (here attributed to the Sixth Imam): You are all shepherds and responsible for [your] subjects: the prince who is the shepherd of the people is responsible for his subjects: the man who is the shepherd of his family is responsible for them: and the wife who is the shepherd of the house is responsible to its members: and the slave who is the shepherd of the property is responsible for it. So you are all shepherds and all responsible for your subjects.40 This tradition serves as the basis for a personal system of authority under patrimonial monarchy to prevail in the hierarchy of the seven social classes. The seven classes are then all presented as lieutenants of God. Predictably, ‘the ﬁrst rank and the noblest of all is the class (†å ifa) of kings and rulers’. The second class consists of ‘the viziers and the lords of the pen’, and the ulamå appear as the third class, to be followed by ‘the companions of power and wealth’ as the fourth class. The ‘peasants and farmers’ are placed ﬁfth, and above the two urban classes of merchants and craftsmen. All these classes ‘are God’s lieutenants on earth in manifesting God’s lordship, justice and order, and the ordering of earthly beings and creatures in their mutual relations concerning religion, the world and the hereafter’.41 26

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One should not look for any sociological insight in the description of the seven classes of the hierarchy in the rest of the book. In sharp contrast to the traditional writings on statecraft, the military class as ‘the lords of the sword’ are not mentioned as a separate class and are not easily discernable as an element of the fourth. The bureaucratic class appears as the second class as personal councillors to the king, who is enjoined to heed their advice in observance of the principle of consultation (mashvarat). The viziers and ofﬁcials should in turn observe the principle of personal responsibility implicit in the above-cited tradition as patrimonial sub-shepherds in relation to the subjects. The last three classes are treated cursorily, and Kashf¥’s placement of the peasantry above the bourgeois classes demonstrates his indifference to the growing urban economy of the ﬁrst four decades of Qajar rule. Almost as many pages are devoted to the ulamå as to the kings. Furthermore, Kashf¥ begins the section on the religious class by explaining that its rank in the lieutenancy of God is above that of all other classes, but they are put in the third place in view of their practical capabilities, as the fruits of their knowledge are disseminated by the sword of rulership and through its administration.42 Furthermore, Kashf¥ enjoins obedience to the ulamå and grants them the power of intercession with God.43 The prominence given to the ethics of the ulamå thus reﬂects the growing power and independence of the hierocracy in the dual Qajar polity. The same growing clerical power, however, makes Kashf¥ apprehensive, and he adopts a severely critical perspective for judging the worldly ulamå who are said to be the ﬁrst to ﬁght the Lord of Time when he manifests himself.44 The M¥zån is very much a mirror for the prince-governor of Lorestan, and its main purpose is the exposition of the political ethic of patrimonial monarchy. God appointed David his lieutenant on earth (Q38.26), and the Prophet said: The ruler is the Shadow of God on His earth with whom every wronged person seeks refuge. For whoever rules with justice there is a reward, and gratitude becomes the subjects, and for whoever rules with oppression, a burden, and patience becomes the subjects until the [divine] command reaches them’.45 Therefore, ‘The king and the ruler is the lieutenant and Shadow of God Most High, and the rank of lieutenancy of shadow-hood means that . . . The ruler is the instrument and manifestation of God’s mercy and wrath.’46 The divine halo of kingship is diluted to the metaphor of a bird called Humå, through whom God casts his shadow on those elected for sovereignty: ‘Thou givest the Kingdom to whom Thou wilt and seizest away the Kingdom from whom Thou wilt’ (Q3.26). Kashf¥’s reconciliation of 27

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kingship with Prophecy and Imamate has a touch of originality. Kings are given exoteric (Ωåhir) rulership as ‘God’s lieutenant and manifestation of his mercy and wrath’ in this world. Some prophets (such as Elijah and Khi∂r) and mystics are given esoteric (bå†in) rulership only. A third group of kings (mulk), including Joseph, David, Moses and Muªammad, possess both exoteric and esoteric rulership. Furthermore, the two kinds of sovereignty can be found in different intermixtures in different persons. The exoteric sovereignty of the Seal of the Prophets and the twelve Immaculate Imams being less than the esoteric aspect.47 The Prince should therefore know ‘that kingship and rule over the world (jahåndår¥) are compatible with the rank of prophecy, and possession of the world and possession of the hereafter are not contradictory’.48 As for the rest, the content of the royal political ethic is fairly conventional, and it includes two maxims on the ‘circle of justice’ – rulership depends on the army, the army on wealth, wealth on the subjects and the subjects on justice.49 Another traditional work on statecraft and political philosophy, a tract ‘on civic rules and politics based on justice’, from the very end of our period should be mentioned, despite its rambling mediocrity, because it offers a clear statement of the conventional theory of the two powers. It was written for the Crown Prince, NÇ‚ir al-D¥n, on the eve of his succession in 1848, and appropriately entitled al-Tuªfat al-nå‚iriyya. Its author, Muªammad Óusayn DamÇvand¥, states hyperbolically that the main purpose of creation is the existence of a category of ‘perfect man’ consisting of two classes: First, the Prophets and Messengers . . . the other, the religionpromoting kings and justice-spreading rulers who are the shadow of the Creator and lieutenants of God . . . According to God’s words ‘We sent down iron, wherein is great wrath, and beneﬁts for the people’ (Q57.25), ‘Thou givest the Kingdom to whom Thou wilt and seizest away the Kingdom from whom Thou wilt’ (Q3.26), the existence of a dominant and [divinely] aided ruler is necessary for order of the divine system. Rulership is therefore considered second [only] to prophecy, and it is said that rulership and prophecy are two stones set on one ring. [Repeated in verse form] Imamate and governorship are twin-born . . . The saying of the Prophet and the ruler is one. Therefore, after Prophecy and Imamate (vilåyat), rulership is above the ranks of humankind.50 Furthermore, the delegation of royal authority to the viziers means that ‘the vizierate is also second [only] to the authority [of the Imams] (vilåyat)’.51 This is so because the justice of the king, and the security of the kingdom depends on a good vizier.52 The emphasis on the sword and the awe of rulership is common in the statecraft literature, where siyåsat 28

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in fact means punishment as much as policy. DamÇvand¥ reminds the young prince that justice requires the use of the ‘mace’ (gurz) and the ‘sword’ (t¥gh) of punishment.53 Last but not least, the conventional association of reason and statecraft54 is given a new twist in the light of the U‚l¥ doctrine of ijtihåd. ‘The ruler’s ijtihåd is through reason (khirad)’. It is therefore possible for the king to be the perfect mujtahid in statecraft, but impossible for the just mujtahid to be a perfect ruler. The ﬁnal uniﬁcation of ijtihåd and rulership in one person is among the signs of the manifestation of the Expected Imam.55

Developments in jurisprudence in relation to judiciary organization NarÇq¥ also wrote an innovative book in jurisprudence, the Awå id al-ayyåm,56 which is noted for ‘opening the chapter’ (fatª al-båb) in constituting the ‘authority of the jurist’ (vilåyat-i faq¥h) as an independent topic or rule (inwån) and was hailed by Khomeini as the prototype of his own innovative reading of juristic authority as ‘Islamic government’ (ªukmat-i islåm¥).57 This work should not be read anachronistically. Historically speaking, it clearly belongs to the development of the U‚l¥ movement for the enhancement of the juristic authority of the ulamå . NarÇq¥’s innovative argument reverses the earlier method of deducing the authority of the jurists from the traditions in terms of speciﬁc instances of the delegation of the Imam’s authority to carry out such functions as judging and leading the congregational prayer. He argued instead that the scope of juristic authority was the same as the authority of the Prophet and the Imams, except for the areas of worldly and spiritual life speciﬁcally excluded and for the ofﬁces and functions speciﬁcally delegated to others.58 NarÇq¥’s book on jurisprudence was inﬂuential, and was taken up by the sons of KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç who sought to expand the number of independent rules.59 The jurisprudential discussions in their teaching circle produced al-Anåw¥n (‘The Rules’) by Sayyid M¥r Abd al-FattÇª Óusayn¥ MarÇgh¥ (d.1250/1834–5), where NarÇq¥’s position on the authority of the jurist is disputed, mainly on the grounds that many duties are collective obligations (wåjib-i kifå ¥) for which no speciﬁc delegation or designation is necessary. MarÇgh¥ thus sees two components in juristic authority: ﬁrst, authority by speciﬁc designation, as with the ofﬁce of the judge and the explicator of the rules of the sacred law, and second, authority by default over non-autonomous individuals without legal guardians or for functions subject to the norms of the sacred law for which no one else is legally in charge.60 For this reason, the rule for ‘the authority of the hierocratic judge (wilåyat al-ªåkim al-shar¥)’ as authority by default is immediately followed by the rule for ‘the authority of the just among the believers (wilåya udl al-mumin¥n)’.61 The authority of the just believers is authority by default when a hierocratic judge is not available in the community. 29

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We have evidence that the discussion of juristic authority was not purely academic, and the distinction between the jurist and the just believers was incorporated into a common legal default formula. A deed of endowment in the city of Yazd dated ShavvÇl 1220/Dec. 1805–Jan. 1806 empowers ‘the fully-qualiﬁed mujtahid’ to appoint an administrator, should the line of descendants of the founder come to an end. And should there be no such jurist in Yazd, the power to appoint an administrator devolves upon ‘the learned and the just among the believers’.62 The jurists of the ﬁrst half of the nineteenth century varied greatly in deﬁning the scope of the authority of the jurist. Shaykh Muªammad Óasan Najaf¥, the author of Jawåhir al-Kalåm63 extended it to the political and military areas of life, while NarÇq¥’s student, Shaykh Murta∂Ç An‚Çr¥, ﬁrmly rejected any such extension and maintained that to provide the transfer of the general authority of the Prophet and the Imams to the jurist, ‘one must strip the tragacanth of its thorns (dnahu khar† al-qatåd; i.e., accomplish the impossible)’.64 As for NarÇq¥ himself, however, there can be no doubt that he did not include rulership within the scope of juristic authority. Not only did he maintain, as we have seen, that God had designated the kings for rulership (and it would therefore not devolve upon the ulamå ), but he entitled his book of edifying stories in verse ‘Tåqd¥s’ the legendary throne Khosrau II, Parviz, had inherited from Fereydun. NarÇq¥’s innovative book in jurisprudence was probably written during the ﬁrst Perso-Russian war (1805–13) which occasioned the solicitation, in 1223/1808, of the well-known series of fatwås by the leading mujtahids authorizing Fatª Al¥ ShÇh to wage jihåd against the Russian inﬁdels, and were published in two collections as the ‘lesser’ and the ‘greater’ Jihådiyya. Here, too, it makes more historical sense to see the rulings of the mujtahids as indicative of the consolidation of the juristic authority of the Shiite hierocracy rather than pretension to political rule or indication of illegitimacy of monarchy.65 The Arab Shaykh Jafar KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç (d.1227–8/1812 or 1813), the senior among the mujtahids had dedicated his magnum opus, Kashf al-Ghi†å (The Removal of the Cover) to Fatª Al¥ ShÇh. In it, he legitimated monarchy as necessary for the maintenance of order and considered obedience to the king incumbent as a ‘secondary rule’ or preparatory for the fulﬁlment of other religious duties.66 Nevertheless, some tension between hierocracy and monarchy as the two powers of the early Qajar polity was inevitable. Abl-QÇsim Qumm¥, in a work of jurisprudence written during the war, rules that the land tax extracted by ‘the tyrannical Shiite rulers’ is unlawful, ‘except with the authorization of the just mujtahid and for the purpose of promoting the common good such as [support for] the seminarians and prayer leaders and the like’, and he regrets the inability of any hierocratic judge to impose the land tax and spend it as speciﬁed by the sacred law.67 In a letter to Fatª Al¥ ShÇh written in 1815, the year before his death, he fulminates against those who are giving currency to the 30

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title ul al-amr (Q4:59) for the king. Only because of dire necessity and unavailability of the Immaculate Imam who is entitled to that appellation, ‘obedience to the just mujtahid’ for example, becomes obligatory (wåjib). ‘Obedience to the ruler of the Sh¥ a’, by contrast, becomes obligatory only as a means of defending the community and preventing the domination of the enemies.68 The development of the theory of ijtihåd in jurisprudence did not affect the king’s authority in matters of taxation in practice, Qumm¥’s contestation notwithstanding. Matters of taxation including exemptions, land grants and administration of military affairs, were dealt with in royal decrees and those of governors, of which a large number survive. Nor did the juristic theory challenge the judiciary authority of the king as the highest arbiter of the subjects’ appeal in all matters. As we have seen, this supreme judiciary authority was granted to the king in the political ethic of patrimonial monarchy which required him to be fully accessible to his subjects and to hear their appeals concerning wrongdoings in all areas of life, including the rulings of religious courts and the administration of endowments (awqåf). The Shah received a large number of individual and collective petitions, including many from the ulamå , and I have not come across any contestation of his right to do so in the works of jurisprudence.69 The king could decide an appeal himself, or refer it to the religious court of a mujtahid70 or the customary (rf¥) court of a governor.71 Endowments were in fact the frequent subject of petitions to the king, and usually involved the ulamå as administrators and beneﬁciaries. I will take one case of dispute over two villages in AstarÇbÇd constituted as an endowment as an illustration of the working of early Qajar judiciary organization and the intermeshing of royal and juristic authority within it. The case pitted Sayyid Fa∂l AllÇh, the mujtahid and prayer leader of AstarÇbÇd and his family, who were the beneﬁciaries of the endowment, against AbbÇs KhÇn, the governor (biglarbig [beglarbeg]) (and later against his heirs!).72 In 1834, Sayyid Fa∂l AllÇh complained to the Shah that, for the past few years, the governor had not been sending him the share of the harvest from the villages of M¥r Maªallah and AlÇkalÇtah for the endowed portion of those estates, which he had apparently ceded to the Crown Land administration. Fatª Al¥ Shah ordered the new governor to pay the arrears in kind73 but evidently to no avail, as AbbÇs KhÇn was soon reappointed governor. In May 1835, the mujtahids and his brothers took their case to the court of HÇjj Muªammad IbrÇh¥m, another mujtahid of AstarÇbÇd, and obtained an order for the possession of the M¥r Maªallah estate and another village, ChÇblÇn¥. The order was written and endorsed by Muªammad IbrÇh¥m’s son; it mentioned the recognition of the plaintiff’s claim by the earlier royal decree, and declared the continued holding of these estates by the governor, AbbÇs KhÇn, a usurpation.74 The religious court’s order was sent to the royal court (d¥vånkhånih), and Muªammad ShÇh issued two decrees ordering the governor to pay the arrears in kind (wheat) from the proceeds 31

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of these estates. The second order, dated JumÇdÇ 1251/September–October 1835, mentions the religious court order and dispatches an ofﬁcial along to see to the payment of arrears in kind to the plaintiffs.75 A decree by a new governor, dated Rab¥ II 1255/June–July 1839 orders the government ofﬁcials to leave the management of the estate to Sayyid Fa∂l AllÇh and his brothers.76 But the administration of the estates was not handed over to the clerical family and the mujtahid went to Tehran in person in September 1840 to submit a petition to the royal court. He obtained a favourable royal decree that was endorsed by the new governor who also, yet again, ordered the payment of arrears in kind.77 AbbÇs KhÇn, however, did not give up his claim to the estates, and managed to secure a writ for the suspension of Muªammad Shah’s order to deliver the proceeds to Sayyid Fa∂l AllÇh from the deputy-governor in 1260/1844. The suspension was to be for a month, but seems to have remained in effect for the next few years.78 In the summer of 1847, AbbÇs KhÇn petitioned the royal court, requesting that the case be referred to the court of MullÇ Muªammad Al¥ Ashraf¥; his request was granted by a decree issued from the royal court in Rab¥ II 1264/March 1848.79 Meanwhile, Sayyid Fa∂l AllÇh and his brothers had obtained another court order from a deceased mujtahid, MullÇ Ri∂Ç, which was endorsed anew in JumÇdÇ II 1264/May 1848 by another jurist who considered it ‘an obligatory divine shar¥ order’, and whoever opposes it, a sinner.80 However, a report is sent from AstarÇbÇd to the royal court that neither side to the dispute appeared before the speciﬁed shar¥ court81 It appears that the representative of Sayyid Fa∂l AllÇh and his brothers was too intimidated to appear before the court because AbbÇs KhÇn, who had once again been reappointed governor, had beaten and extorted the brother and close associates of a jurisconsult whose opinion he had not found to his liking.82 In 1859, Sayyid Fa∂l AllÇh’s family, now in possession of the estates, sent a letter to the local governor asking for a stipend in view of the insufﬁciency of the revenue from these.83 An undated letter shows, however, that AbbÇs KhÇn’s heirs later took possession of the disputed villages after obtaining an opinion from a different jurist, a certain MullÇ Muªammad Ri∂Ç.84 The case dragged on to the next decade. The Sayyids appear to have produced a different shar¥ court order from the deceased MllÇ Muªammad Ri∂Ç and had it endorsed in 1863 and yet again in 1868. The endorsement of ShavvÇl 1284/February 1868 is followed by another endorsed by three jurists who state that disobeying the shar¥ order of MullÇ Muªammad Ri∂Ç ‘is tantamount to disobeying the order of the Imam of the Age, may God expedite his appearance!’85 Our documentation breaks off after a generation and over a third of a century of unresolved legal struggle. In line with the U‚l¥ theory of ijtihåd, the shar¥ court orders present the rulings of the mujtahids as fully 32

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binding,86 and consider ignoring them sinful. This de jure authority stands in sharp contrast to the ineffectuality of the hierocratic judges in practice and their dependence for enforcement on the governors and the king. The importance of the ofﬁce of the qå∂¥ declined sharply in Iran after the establishment of Shiism by the Safavids87 and still further in the Zand period, making room for the emergence of the courts of the mujtahids. Nevertheless, the ofﬁce survived and the king had the prerogative of appointing the judges of the cities. In a decree sealed by Fatª Al¥ ShÇh in JumÇdÇ I 1250/September 1834, the month before his death, a certain M¥rzÇ Maªmd is appointed the qå∂¥ of AstarÇbÇd and put in charge of the supervision of all the endowments of the region, granting tax exemption to some speciﬁc endowments upon his request. The decree of appointment was solemnly read in the presence of the governor and ofﬁcials of AstarÇbÇd, who afﬁxed their signature or seal to the margin of the decree.88

Emergence of critical political writings In the year following the disastrous end of the Russo-Persian war, 1244/1829, we witness a curious break with the traditional statecraft literature by two established members of the bureaucratic class: M¥rzÇ Abl-QÇsim QÇim-MaqÇm FarÇhÇn¥, the vizier of AbbÇs M¥rzÇ, the Crown Prince and governor of the Province of Azerbaijan, which bore the brunt of the devastating war and defeat by Russia; and Rustam alÓukamÇ, an aged bureaucrat and historian who had often tried his hand at writing uncritically and conventionally on statecraft.89 There can be no doubt that the stimulus to this novel, critical political thinking, and the innovative style of writing in which it was conveyed, came from the ‘Russian intrusion into the guarded domain’ (rakhnih-yi Rs dar mulk-i maªrs)90 and from the barrels of the Russian ‘seventy-two pound cannons’.91 QÇim-MaqÇm put away the overly ornate and formalistic prose of the scribe, used in his introduction to the ‘greater’ Jihådiyya of 1818, for the simple, popular verse of the lampoonist and the future publicist to express his critical thoughts ‘on the threshold of modern times’.92 There are two points of contrast between his long poem of 1829, entitled Jalåyir-nåmih, and the older works in political ethic: (1) principled criticism of the other princes of the royal family, and implicitly, of the king, and (2) awareness of the plight of the Ottoman empire and Iran and the need of both decaying empires for ‘defensive modernization’, which required money in the treasury and ‘cannons and muskets’.93 Our second bureaucratic author, Rustam al-ÓukamÇ, can be said to have expanded QÇim-MaqÇm’s limited intra-dynastic political criticism somewhat by contrasting the Iranian and European forms of socio-political organization. He embarked on a mode of critical political writing which coupled a sense of decline in traditional Iranian statecraft with an awareness 33

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of the political organization and superiority of Western states. In a tract entitled Aªkåm (rules), he criticized the Shah for failing to ‘educate the subjects and the army through correct law and rational organization’.94 He wistfully looked at the Safavid-AfshÇr-Zand tradition of statecraft, advising the king to retrieve the ﬁscal and administrative books of the Safavid ˝ahmÇsp II, NÇdir and Kar¥m KhÇn, and at the same time enjoined him to look outside of the Persian tradition for political ideas: Read the Roman Law Know the European (farang¥) Custom!95 Some years later (in 1251/1834–5), in Qånn-i sal†anat (‘The Law of Monarchy’), he put forward an innovative project for political reform, recommending the creation of seven ministers for the central government and seven ofﬁcials in each province, corresponding to the seven planets which rule the sublunary world according to traditional political astrology, as well as the revival of the ﬁscal system of ˝ahmÇsp II and NÇdir ShÇh. He also suggested that the king should not only clarify the duties of each class in the social hierarchy but also determine its distinctive dress code. Although Rustam al-ÓukamÇ follows traditional statecraft in requiring the monarch to be pious, he sharply diverges from it by afﬁrming the expediency of religious freedom and tolerance as state policy. He also coupled the conventional recommendation of the use of spies to watch government ofﬁcials with a novel stress on the importance of publicizing royal decrees and administrative orders so that the law be known by all the subjects. Finally, he commended the good laws, rules and customs of the European states such as France, Austria and England.96 Rustam al-ÓukamÇ lived yet seven more years to extend his critical sight to the ulamå , and bemoan their outdated learning and disorderly judiciary organization, this time apparently without offering any constructive remedies.97 QÇim-MaqÇm never published the Jalåyir-nåmih, and it is not clear who read it, other than the Crown Prince for whose consolation it was composed. Rustam al-ÓukamÇ’s audience is not easy to identify either. The king may have been rhetorically addressed, but the tract was not for presentation to the king or any prince. With the next specimen of critical political writing by a disgruntled bureaucrat, however, ‘the public’ is clearly discernible as the intended audience. In 1260/1844, M¥rzÇ Mahd¥ NawwÇb, a discharged bureaucrat who belonged to a family of merchants, wrote an openly critical attack on the government for circulation among the reading public. Internal criticism of the bureaucracy may not have been all that uncommon, and M¥rzÇ Mahd¥ in fact mentions a critical memorandum written to the administrator of the endowments of the shrine of Mashhad by his former tutor, which was forwarded to Tehran and resulted in the author’s downfall.98 But writing critically for the public seems new. While rhetorically addressing his political tract to ‘my son’ in 34

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the opening verse, he tells the readers at the end that it was written so that ‘they would be admonished and read it to their children’. The title, ‘Constitution of the Posterity’ (Dastr al-aqåb) is said to have been suggested by a friend in view of this purpose, namely the admonishment of the subsequent generation.99 The Dastr al-aqåb begins as a scurrilous and gossipy attack on Muªammad ShÇh’s prime minister, ÓÇjj M¥rzÇ ÅqÇs¥, who is called the ‘Destroyer of the Notables’ (hådim al-anjåb). Other ‘new men’ in his entourage, notably M¥rzÇ Nab¥ KhÇn, the head of the royal court (am¥r d¥vån) and the ruler’s deputy in the MaΩÇlim, also come in for the occasional attack and ridicule.100 The author resents the rise of men of humble origins in government service, which is typical of the two revolutions (daw inqilåb) in the state he has witnessed at the time of succession of new monarchs.101 ÅqÇs¥ is scathed for his alleged claim to prophecy and for giving governmental power and beneﬁces to his compatriots from Yerevan whom he calls ‘immigrants’ on the Prophetic model.102 Nor is concrete criticism of the prime minister’s policies, such as the wasteful attempt to bring the artillery of the provinces to Tehran, lacking. The main targets of M¥rzÇ Mahd¥’s attack, however, are the prime minister’s dispossession of ofﬁce-holding notables and the conﬁscation of estates and land grants for his agricultural projects.103 Having vented his spleen against the expropriating centralizer and ‘Destroyer of the Notables’ in the ﬁrst half of the book, M¥rzÇ Mahd¥ offers the reader a mirror in statecraft. The body politic is the social hierarchy, with the ruler at its apex: ‘the ruler among the subjects is like the head to the body’.104 The picture of the social hierarchy is more realistic than Kashf¥’s a decade earlier, and ﬁts the Qajar society better. The ulamå are placed second in the social hierarchy, after the kings but above the viziers and governors (umarå ). The fourth class consists of the owners of estates and cultivators, and the ﬁfth, of the people of crafts and industries.105 Each class has its own normative code. The section on ‘the prerequisites of vizierate, ofﬁce-holding, and service of kings’ treats the arts and crafts needed by the members of the bureaucratic craft, including accounting and book-keeping, and reminds them that the rulers are the shadow of God on earth, equating the king’s command with that of God (chih farmån-i yazdån, chih farmån-i Shåh).106 It is followed by a section on ‘commerce and its prerequisites’.107 M¥rzÇ Mahd¥’s advice for the merchants includes precautions against predatory government, such as the following: ‘Do not leave any money with governmental authorities and ofﬁcials of the bureaucracy without a collateral.’108 There is, however, considerable divergence from the traditional model. The cursory conventional mention of ‘household management’ as a branch of political philosophy is replaced by a discussion of the political economy of Iran in some detail. Around the 1230s/1820s, Iran was ﬂooded by imports from England and other European countries which damaged textile 35

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crafts and greatly reduced state revenues109; royal drafts were traded at a drastic discount.110 We are given details of tax farming revenues,111 and of the growth of crafts and professions connected with the armaments industry.112 M¥rzÇ Mahd¥’s edifying stories are not primarily about princes, and include quite a few contemporaries. Their protagonists include not only ‘the free-spirited (åzådih) prince’, Shaykh Al¥ M¥rzÇ, governor of MalÇyer and TyserkÇn, who frequented a ‘son of learning’(dånish-zåda), but also ‘an old cleric of Kan, a baker, a confectioner and a high ofﬁcial who was the son of a vendor of forage and fodder (allåf)’.113 Furthermore, there is evidence of a public sphere of literate bureaucrats and afﬂuent individuals, lively with gossip and occasionally political discussions. Thus conversations are reported from quite a few named individuals, and we hear of ‘one of the landowners (mallåk¥n)’ who was suspected of talking in secret and in public (bi-anjuman),114 a comment reported from ‘those who go back and forth to London’,115 and of ‘a friend among the merchants who was my companion in private’.116 The emergence of critical political writings out of the statecraft tradition in the second quarter of the nineteenth century marks the transition to the era of reform that began with the new monarch, NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh, and a new prime minister, M¥rzÇ Taq¥ KhÇn Am¥r NiΩÇm, in 1848. Two of the earliest tracts submitted by the subjects in response to the new prime minister’s published call for reform proposals show some afﬁnity with the Dastr al-aqåb and the statecraft tradition that preceded it.117 These paid much attention to the political economy and the problems of craftsmen and merchants. Nevertheless, they are still very much written by subjects (rather than citizens). The shorter one reverberated an echo of the early Qajar statecraft by referring to the king as a ‘customary (urf¥) mujtahid’.118 The longer tract was written by a literate hatmaker, Muªammad Shaf¥ Qazv¥n¥, who was rewarded with a position as a secret reporter (khufya-niv¥s) in the domestic spy service – yet another important institution in traditional statecraft.

Notes 1

2 3 4 5

S. A. Arjomand ‘The Mujtahid of the Age and the Mullåbåsh¥: An Intermediate Stage in the Institutionalization of Religious Authority in Shiite Iran’ in S. A. Arjomand (ed.) Authority and Political Culture in Shi ism (Albany, 1988) 89–90. Cited in A. ÓÇir¥ Nakhust¥n ryår’¥hå-yi and¥shagårån-i Ûrån bå daw raviyayi tamaddun-i burjwas¥-yi Gharb¥ (Tehran, 1367sh/1988) 357. A. K. S. Lambton ‘Some New Trends in Islamic Political Thought in Late Eighteenth and Early Nineteenth Century Persia’ Studia Islamica 40 (1974), 114–18. ÓÇir¥, Nakhust¥n, ch. 8. S. A. Arjomand The Shadow of God and the Hidden Imam: Religion, Political Order and Societal Change in Shi ite Iran from the Beginning to l890 (Chicago, 1984).

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6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18

19 20 21

22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35

ÓÇir¥, Nakhust¥n, 351–62. F. Ådamiyyat and H. NÇ†iq Afkår-i ijtimå ¥ va siyås¥ va iqtisåd¥ dar åthåri muntashirnashudih-yi dawrån-i Qåjår (Tehran, 1356sh/1977) 27–32. Ådamiyyat and NÇ†iq also include the work of Kashf¥ in the section on ‘critical andarznåmihs’ (Ådamiyyat and NÇ†¥q, Afkår, 27–43). This, I think, is a mis-classiﬁcation. S. A. Arjomand ‘Perso-Indian Statecraft, Greek Political Science and the Muslim Idea of Government’ International Sociology 16.3 (2001) 455–730. Abd al-RazzÇq LÇhij¥ Gawhar-i Muråd (Tehran, 1377/1958) 255–60; H. M. ˝aba†abÇ¥ Zavål-i and¥shih-yi siyås¥ dar Irån (Tehran, 1373sh/1994) ch. 7. Arjomand, ‘Perso-Indian Statecraft’, 466. F. Rahman Prophecy in Islam. Philosophy and Orthodoxy (London, 1958). LÇhij¥, Gawhar, 293–4. The more typical term would have been nåms or shar¥ a†. LÇhij¥, Gawhar, 294–5; ˝aba†abÇ¥, Zavål, 272–3. S. A. Arjomand ‘Medieval Persianate Political Ethic’ Studies on Persianate Societies 1 (2003) 3–28. The two, however, were uniﬁed not only in the person of Muªammad, but also in Adam. (Muªammad BÇqir SabzavÇr¥ Raw∂at al-Anwår-i Abbås¥ (Tehran, 1377sh/1998) 449). In a good illustration of Orientalist bias for ‘Islamic’ explanations, the late Norman Calder (N. Calder ‘Legitimacy and Accommodation in Safavid Iran: the Juristic Theory of Muªammad BÇqir al-SabzavÇr¥ (d.1090/1679)’ Iran 25 (1987) 91–105) totally ignores this explicitly political treatise of nearly 900 printed pages and devotes an entire article to a few paragraphs of abstruse and tortuous legal reasoning, buried in another thick book on jurisprudence by SabzavÇr¥, just to prove the allegedly inescapable de jure illegitimacy of monarchy in Shiism. SabzavÇr¥, Raw∂a, 65–7. SabzavÇr¥, Raw∂a, 52. I have argued (Arjomand, Shadow of God) that this was somewhat inconsistent with the logic of Twelver Shiism and, after the disappearance of the Safavid dynastic vested interest in maintaining it, gave way to Kashf¥’s more consistently dualistic theory. M. Zab¥h¥ and M. Sutdah (eds) Az Åstårå tå Astaråbåd 7 vols (Tehran, 1976) VI, 504. Muªammad BÇqir Majlis¥ ‘The Fountainhead of Life (Extracts)’ in S. A. Arjomand (ed.) Authority and Political Culture in Shi ism (Albany, 1988) 284–304. Muªammad KÇΩim FÇ∂il Mashhad¥ Nizåmnåmih-yi ªukmat (Qum, n.d.) 216. It has wrongly been assumed that this tract was dedicated to Fatª Al¥ ShÇh (ÓÇir¥, Nakhust¥n, 324–5). ÓÇir¥, Nakhust¥n, 326. ÓÇir¥, Nakhust¥n, 355. MullÇ Aªmad NarÇq¥ Mathnaw¥-yi tåqd¥s (Tehran, 1362sh/1983) 15. MullÇ Aªmad NarÇq¥ Miråj al-saåda (Tehran, n.d.) 340–60. NarÇq¥, Miråj, 332. NarÇq¥, Miråj, 347–8. NarÇq¥, Miråj, 354. NarÇq¥, Miråj, 349, 352, 347–8. NarÇq¥, Miråj, 355. NarÇq¥ offered his own classiﬁcation of sciences instead of the Aristotelian one. He divides the sciences into the purely worldly ones and the three

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36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66

67 68 69 70 71

higher sciences which beneﬁt mankind in this and the other world: theology, ethics, and jurisprudence (NarÇq¥, Miråj, 60). ÓÇir¥, Nakhust¥n, 352. Arjomand, Shadow of God, 325–8. QurÇn 2.29; 6.165, 10.15 and 74, 27.64, 35.38, and 38.26 Sayyid Jafar DÇrÇb¥ Kashf¥ Mizån al-mulk va’l-tavå if va siråt al-mustaq¥m f¥ sulk al-khalå if (Qum, 1375sh/1996–7) 38. Kashf¥, M¥zån, 42–3. Kashf¥, M¥zån, 77. Kashf¥, M¥zån, 143. Kashf¥, M¥zån, 156–7. Kashf¥, M¥zån, 165. Kashf¥, M¥zån, 83. Kashf¥, M¥zån, 84. Kashf¥, M¥zån, 84–8. Kashf¥, M¥zån, 92. Kashf¥, M¥zån, 114–15. Na‚r al-D¥n Muªammad Óusayn DamÇvand¥ Tuªfat al-Nå‚iriyya (MS 2653, University of Tehran Central Library, Tehran) 33–5. DamÇvand¥, Tuªfa, 33–5. This is repeated on f. 62, as is the Quranic verse Q57.25 on the awe of rulership. DamÇvand¥, Tuªfa, 64. DamÇvand¥, Tuªfa, 40; cited in Ådamiyyat and NÇ†iq, Afkår, 14. Arjomand, ‘Perso-Indian Statecraft’. DamÇvand¥, Tuªfa, 35–6. Like the Miråj, this work appeared before 1228/1813, as NarÇq¥ lists it in his bibliography on that year (NarÇq¥, Tåqd¥s, 22–3). M. KadivÇr NaΩar¥yåhå-yi dawlat dar ﬁqh-i Sh¥ a (Tehran, 1377sh/1988) 17–26. NarÇq¥, Awå id, 187. Sayyid M¥r Abd al-FattÇª Husayn¥ MarÇgh¥ al-Anåw¥n, 2 vols (Qum, 1417/1996–7) I, 89 citing TunukÇbun¥, Qi‚a‚ al-ulamå (Tehran, n.d.) 183–4. MarÇgh¥ al-Anåw¥n II, 562–78. MarÇgh¥ al-Anåw¥n II, 580–6. I. AfshÇr Yådgårhå-yi Yazd, 2 vols (Tehran, 1354sh/1975) II, 185–7. AfshÇr, Yådgårhå, II, 395–7. Murta∂Ç An‚Çr¥, Makåsib: 153–5. Arjomand, Shadow of God, 224–5. Kashf al-Ghi†å , 394 as paraphrased by ÓÇir¥ (ÓÇir¥, Nakhust¥n, 331). ÓÇir¥’s reading of the published jihåd authorization by the Shaykh as a denial of the independent legitimacy of monarchy seems forced. He also cites an unpublished jihåd authorization which refers to the Shah as our servant (bandih) who ‘acknowledges his servitude’, and puts his son, the Crown Prince AbbÇs M¥rzÇ, under ‘our shadow and protection’ in this and the other world and assures the latter of ‘our intercession’ (ÓÇir¥, Nakhust¥n, 331). The supernatural rather than political nature of the Shaykh’s authority as implied by this statement should be noted. Cited in ÓÇir¥, Nakhust¥n, 327. Cited in ÓÇir¥, Nakhust¥n, 327–8. This contrasts with the occasional contestation of his categorical right to receive the land tax, of which one instance was mentioned above. Az Åstårå VI, 119, 166–8, 170. Az Åstårå VI, 120–1.

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72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110

The decrees and documents pertaining to this case have been published in a scattered fashion by Zab¥h¥ and Sutdah in volumes 6 and 7 of Az Åstårå tå Astaråbåd, and will be referred to as necessary in the text. Az Åstårå VI, 136–7. Az Åstårå VI, 213–16. The order is endorsed again two years later by a number of other clerics, as the case was evidently not settled. Az Åstårå VI, 142–4. Az Åstårå VI, 158. Az Åstårå VI, 160–4. Az Åstårå VII, 402–6, 423–4, 451, 474. Az Åstårå VII, 432–3. The same order is endorsed with the same formula three years later (Az Åstårå VI, 179). Az Åstårå VII, 399. Az Åstårå VII, 429–31; Az Åstårå VII, 434–47 also contains a sample of the correspondence between the local landlords and/or clerics and government ofﬁcials, including AbbÇs KhÇn himself. Az Åstårå VII, 413–14. Az Åstårå VII, 452. He may be the same person as the above-mentioned MullÇ Ri∂Ç. Az Åstårå VI, 224. This formulation is interesting with the hindsight of the famous injunction of the pro-Constitutionalist ulamå of Najaf in 1908 that opposing the Constitution was tantamount to disobeying the Hidden Imam. The clerical judges are describes as naf¥dh al-ªukm. Arjomand, Shadow of God, 127. Az Åstårå VI, 137–40. Rustam al-ÓukamÇ, Rustam al-tavår¥kh (Tehran, 1969); ÓÇir¥, Nakhust¥n, 353. QÇim-MaqÇm’s words cited in A. Amanat ‘“Russia Intrusion into the Guarded Domain”: Reﬂections of a Qajar Statesman on European Expansion’ Journal of the American Oriental Society 113.1 (1993) 38. Jalåyir-nåmih, 344; translated in Amanat, ‘Russia Intrusion’, 50. Amanat, ‘Russia Intrusion’, 55. Jalåyir-nåmih, 1065–6; translated in Amanat, ‘Russia Intrusion’, 50. Ådamiyyat and NÇ†iq, Afkår, 28. Cited in Ådamiyyat and NÇ†iq, Afkår, 31. Ådamiyyat and NÇ†iq, Afkår, 47–55. Ådamiyyat and NÇ†iq, Afkår, 55–7. M¥rzÇ Mahd¥ NawwÇb Dastr al-aqåb (Tehran, 1376sh/1997) 135–6. NawwÇb, Dastr, 27, 178–9. NawwÇb, Dastr, 55, 148–9. NawwÇb, Dastr, 38–40, 201. NawwÇb, Dastr, 58, 65, 103. All the estates thus recovered and developed became crown lands after the fall of ÅqÇs¥ (NawwÇb, Dastr, 200), and he most probably intended them as such. NawwÇb, Dastr, 119. NawwÇb, Dastr, 120–1. NawwÇb, Dastr, 143. NawwÇb, Dastr, 143. NawwÇb, Dastr, 164. NawwÇb, Dastr, 30. NawwÇb, Dastr, 80.

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111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118

NawwÇb, Dastr, 91, 149. NawwÇb, Dastr, 168–9. NawwÇb, Dastr, 150, 154, 157–9. NawwÇb, Dastr, 46. NawwÇb, Dastr, 107. NawwÇb, Dastr, 146. Muªammad Shaf¥ Qazv¥n¥ Qånn-i Qazv¥n¥ (Tehran, 1370sh/1991). Qazv¥n¥, Qånn, 141.

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3 JIHÅD AND THE RELIGIOUS LEGITIMACY OF THE EARLY QAJAR STATE Robert Gleave

A Twelver Sh¥ ¥ jurist’s doctrine of jihåd is regularly used as a measure of his views concerning the legitimacy of government during the occultation. Jihåd is one of a bundle of criteria employed for this purpose in descriptions of Sh¥ ¥ political theory. Other criteria include the legitimacy of collecting religious taxes (zakåt, khums and kharåj), conducting Friday prayer, holding government ofﬁce (particularly the post of qå∂¥) and implementing legal sanctions (ªudd).1 Academic commentators consider these areas of substantive law, discussions of which are found in works which bear the generic title ﬁqh (or fur al-ﬁqh), to be problematic for Twelver Sh¥ ¥ jurists. The reason for this problematic status relates to the fact that these elements of the Shar¥ a usually require a legitimate sanctioning authority. Twelver Sh¥ ¥s are committed to the theological doctrine that the only legitimate authority – that is, the only one appointed by God – is the hidden Imam. The legitimate authority which might render these activities legally unproblematic is exclusively found in the person of the Imam, and this theological position robs any existing political power of religio-legal legitimacy until the appearance of the Imam. Not only is the Imam’s legitimising authority absent, but the Imam himself cannot even act as a focus for opposition to this government, since he has hidden himself (ghayba), to reappear at a future time designated by God. The legal problem which links all these issues (namely jihåd, taxes, Friday prayer, judgeship and the implementation of ªudd) is, then, the perceived absence of a legitimising authority, through which the requirements of the law might be rendered legally valid. The solution, which has been charted by a number of commentators, was to postulate that the Imam delegated this authority to a certain section of the community (the scholarly class, the ulamå , the fuqahå ) prior to his occultation. This class can sanction the performance of the elements of the law listed above because the Imam (when present) decreed that this stratum of society acts in some (though certainly not all) respects with his authority. This theory took 41

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time to emerge and take centre stage in Sh¥ ¥ doctrine, and still today, the mechanics of ‘clerical’ authority are a matter of extensive dispute among Sh¥ ¥ thinkers.2 While the idea of the Imam’s delegation of authority to the scholarly class became an accepted (perhaps ‘canonical’) element of Sh¥ ¥ discussions, the nature and extent of that delegation are not the subjects of unanimous Sh¥ ¥ opinion. This chapter examines the opinions of the Sh¥ ¥ jurists of the early Qajar period concerning the subject of jihåd. The implications of these views for the legitimacy of early Qajar rule are also considered. In my conclusion I offer qualiﬁcations of the views of Arjomand that ‘no Shiite doctrine of the illegitimacy of government during the occultation can be found in the legal literature’3 of the early Qajar period, and Lambton’s assertion that the mujtahids, by giving an authorisation to the Qajar government to wage a jihåd, gave ‘validity, or at least temporary validity to the rule of a shah’.4 The reasoning behind these statements concerning the link between state legitimacy and the doctrine of jihåd is not always explicitly stated. Arjomand and Lambton appear to be arguing that if a particular government during the ghayba can wage a legitimate, legal (shar¥ ) jihåd, then that government is, in some sense, legitimate and legal. Hence, the standard Sh¥ ¥ doctrine that all governments other than the government of the Imam are illegitimate is compromised. However, reasoning such as this does not distinguish between the right to declare a jihåd, and the duty to lead it, and this distinction, as will become clear, is crucial for an evaluation of views of the religious legitimacy of the early Qajar state. The juristic thought processes described in this chapter place a premium on the fulﬁlment of the demands of the Shar¥ a by the individual Muslim, and generally view the state as a convenient tool through which that fulﬁlment might be effected. Whether this results in a general theory of religious state legitimacy is discussed in the conclusion. An examination of the doctrine of jihåd involves a detailed analysis of military activities permitted during the ghayba, that is, which of these can be termed jihåd, and under what conditions they are permitted. The works under consideration (that is, works of fur al-ﬁqh) contain elaborate (and repetitive) schemes of categorisation, reﬂecting a general feature of legal literature: to categorise a particular phenomenon is, in some sense, to gain knowledge of it. Thus, by presenting a typology of military actions which might (or might not) be classiﬁed as jihåd, a jurist is attempting to place such actions within the overall schema of the Shar¥ a, the ultimate authority of which comes from God. Furthermore, by delineating who might carry out, or lead, these actions, a jurist is authorising certain persons (a category which, for some jurists, includes the Shah himself) to enact a legal (shar¥) duty. In short, a Sh¥ ¥ theory of jihåd can act as an element of a broader theory of government during the ghayba. The conceptions of jihåd considered here are those proposed by four early Qajar jurists, namely: 42

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1

2

3

4

Al¥ b. Muªammad Al¥ al-˝abÇ†abÇ¥ (d.1231/1816),5 a jurist who spans the pre-Qajar and early Qajar periods, taught in the AtabÇt, and his most famous work, Riyå∂ al-maså il,6 was written before ÅqÇ Muªammad QÇjÇr’s rise to power in the 1780s and 1790s. The Riyå∂ is a commentary on the renowned legal breviary, al-Mukhta‚ar al-nåfi, by al-Muªaqqiq al-Óill¥ (d.676/1277). Commentary (sharª) on a previous work of ﬁqh was a common mode of presentation in classical Muslim jurisprudence. It served not only as a means of expressing one’s own views, but demonstrated the jurist’s assertion that he was part of (and hence not deviating from) a scholarly tradition. The Riyå∂, therefore, provides a useful summary of the Sh¥ ¥ position regarding jihåd on the eve of Qajar rule. M¥rzÇ Ab al-QÇsim b. Muªammad al-Qumm¥ (d.1231/1816), an Iranian jurist with close links to both ÅqÇ Muªammad QÇjÇr and Fatª Al¥ ShÇh, has been the subject of a number of studies to date,7 and his Jåmi al-shitåt8 is a hybrid work, mixing the style of a conservative work of ﬁqh with answers to questions (possibly fatåwå) posed by (real or imaginary) unnamed interlocutors. Shaykh Jafar b. Khi∂r KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç (d.1227/1812),9 an Iranian jurist who taught in the AtabÇt, has also been the subject of analyses by academic commentators.10 He is famously credited with proposing that the ﬁrst Perso-Russian War (1805–13) qualiﬁed as a jihåd. Part of the section on jihåd in his ﬁqh work Kashf al-Ghi†å 11 was translated by Lambton.12 I offer here a modiﬁcation of the conclusions reached by Lambton in that article. M¥rzÇ Muªammad b. Abd al-Nab¥ al-AkhbÇr¥ al-NaysÇbr¥ (d.1233/ 1818) was, as his name suggests, a follower of the AkhbÇr¥ school of jurisprudence.13 His relationship with the Qajar state, and his efforts in gaining the attention of Fatª Al¥ ShÇh, have been brieﬂy described by Algar.14 Here I concentrate on NaysÇbr¥’s legal exposition of jihåd, as presented in a risåla (treatise) found in the Central Library of the University of Tehran.15

As will become clear, while each author structures their discussion of jihåd in a similar manner (consisting of a deﬁnition of jihåd, a categorisation of military activity and a discussion of each category in discrete sections), their conclusions concerning the particular types of military action, and consequently the legality of particular types of government action, differ.

Al¥ b. Muªammad Al¥ al-˝aba†abå¥ In a manner common in works of ﬁqh, ˝abÇ†abÇ¥ opens his discussion with a series of deﬁnitions. Such deﬁnitions are obviously not value-neutral; they control the ensuing account of jihåd, forming a central element of the jurist’s argumentation. They therefore repay closer inspection. While 43

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purely lexical discussions of the root meaning of jihåd do not concern us here, the legal usages (sharan or f¥ l-shar) establish the possible, legitimate applications of the term jihåd. ˝abÇ†abÇ¥ distinguishes six situations in which the term jihåd might be employed. These are: 1 2 3 4 5

6

expending one’s effort, either in person (bil-nafs) or through one’s wealth (bil-mål) in a ﬁght (muªåraba) with the polytheists (mushrik¥n) expending one’s effort (in a similar fashion) in a ﬁght with those who have rebelled (båghiyy¥n) against the Imam16 expending one’s effort in proselytising the faith of Islam (ilÇm kalimat al-IslÇm wa iqÇma shiÇr al-¥mÇn) ﬁghting unbelievers (qitål al-kuffår) as part of a general duty of ‘enjoining what is correct’ (amr bil-marf) defending the Muslims from attacks by the unbelievers (kuffår) because they fear ‘the domination of the Muslims in their own lands, the capture of Muslim wealth and such like’ the struggle of one who has been taken prisoner by the polytheists and who is defending himself.17

These six possible applications of the terms jihåd are collapsed by ˝abÇ†abÇ¥ into four basic categories: A B C D

war with polytheists war with rebels spreading the religion of Islam (an amalgamation of 3 and 4 above) defensive action (an amalgamation of 5 and 6 above).

˝abÇ†abÇ¥ dismisses the third category (C) as a ‘digression’ (isti†råd), indicating that this possible application of the term jihåd is not to be discussed and that he considers any elaboration of it to be inappropriate. Furthermore ˝abÇ†abÇ¥ is not even convinced that the fourth category (D) can be considered a jihåd: Jihåd may be applied to one who defends the Muslims against the unbelievers . . . and included in this is the jihåd of the prisoner . . . but perhaps (or sometimes rubbamå) this category is mere defence (difå ) and not jihåd.18 While he is convinced that defensive action (for oneself or Muslim lands) is not only permitted but ‘the greatest of the supporting pillars of Islam’ (aΩam arkån al-Islåm), ˝abÇ†abÇ¥ considers it possible that it fails the technical criteria required for a jihåd. Rather it is an obligatory action, which falls into the more general category of actions ‘in the path of God’ (f¥ sab¥l allåh). What remains, then, under the technical deﬁnition of jihåd, is the war against the polytheists, and the war against the rebels. ‘The discussion here concerns the ﬁrst (A) and second (B) meanings of jihåd only.’19 44

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˝aba†abÇ¥, by restricting the legal usage of jihåd to these two types of ﬁghting, is thereby able to manipulate the content of Muªaqqiq’s al-Nåfi (on which the Riyå∂ is a commentary). The introductory, clariﬁcatory remarks on what is, and what is not, jihåd are inserted as a preamble to the subsequent commentary. Hence when Muªaqqiq uses the term jihåd, ˝abÇ†abÇ¥ restricts its meaning to offensive war with the unbelievers and rebels. The discussion progresses as consecutive phrases in al-Nåfi are analysed and explained. The text is, then, an atomised presentation of the doctrine. First, the collective nature of the duty to wage jihåd is discussed: while the duty falls on all Muslims fulﬁlling certain characteristics, if there are sufﬁcient persons ﬁghting the jihåd, the incumbency of the duty on others lapses. Second, ˝aba†abÇ¥ discusses the qualiﬁcations of those for whom jihåd is a duty: the list is unremarkable: adulthood, sanity, free status, male, sighted, physically able and strong. The debates between jurists about the precise deﬁnition of these terms are recorded with the care characteristic of the classical works of ﬁqh. These discussions are conducted without any overt attention to the presence or absence of the Imam. It is only in the third section that this pivotal issue is addressed, and ˝aba†abÇ¥’s conclusions deserve a full citation: Jihåd is only obligatory under the ﬁrst of the above deﬁnitions (A) on one who fulﬁls the conditions just enumerated when the just Imam is present who is sinless, or one who has been designated by him for this, that is, a speciﬁcally designated person (nå ib khå‚‚) who is delegated in the matter of jihåd, or something more general [than jihåd]. As for the general delegation that is given to a faq¥h, [jihåd] is not permitted for him, nor [can one perform jihåd] with him during the ghayba. I know of no dispute on this matter . . . Fighting without an Imam, whom it is obligatory to follow, is absolutely forbidden, in the same manner as carrion, blood or pig meat. There is also no raiding (ghazw) without a just Imam. Conversely ﬁghting a jihåd is obligatory when there is a just Imam. It is not sufﬁcient that the Imam be merely present, rather, he must call one to him.20 The above citation represents a restrictive reading of the phrase in Muªaqqiq’s al-Mukhta‚ar al-Nåfi, al-imåm aw man nasabahu (‘the Imam, or one designated by him’). The phrase is used at various locations in works of ImÇm¥ ﬁqh, and excuses the Imam from acting directly in a matter (such as the collection of zakåt) during his presence. The phrase, and its variants (such as, al-imåm aw nå ibuhu, ‘the Imam or his representative’), were sufﬁciently ambiguous to allow interpretive exploitation by later commentators. 45

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The restrictive reading of the phrase employed here by ˝abÇ†abÇ¥ indicates that the delegation to wage jihåd is ‘speciﬁc’; the Imam must have designated a speciﬁc individual to lead a particular jihåd. This designation was personal (applying to no other individual) and time-bound (applying to a speciﬁed jihåd). For ˝aba†abÇ¥, the phrase cannot, in this instance, be used to justify an extension of the delegation in terms of person (that is, applying to a class of people such as the jurists) or permanence (that is, relating to the period of the Imam’s absence as well as his presence). ˝aba†abÇ¥’s comments here indicate that he held the common (perhaps unanimous) view among ImÇm¥ jurists of his time and earlier: the duty to perform offensive jihåd against non-Muslims is lapsed (såqi†) during the ghayba because that duty is dependent upon the declaration of the Imam’s summons. The ghayba prevents that summons from being issued, and hence no jihåd of this type is permitted until the Imam’s return. It should also be noted that ˝aba†abÇ¥’s comments apply to the offensive jihåd against polytheists. Perhaps for reasons of convenience he does not explicitly examine the status of jihåd against rebels (bughåt), though he implies that this too is såqi†. The reasoning here is analogous to that employed in the case of jihåd with polytheists. For the category of bughåt to exist, the Imam must not only be present, but in power. Since neither of these conditions are met, this type of jihåd cannot, on purely logical grounds, take place. Regarding the so-called defensive jihåd, ˝abÇ†abÇ¥ is clearly not entirely comfortable describing it as jihåd. He prefers the distinct category of ‘defence’. Preventing oneself from being dominated by unbelievers is, ˝aba†abÇ¥ states, an obligatory duty for all Muslims, whether the Imam is present or absent. It is most unlikely, however, that it qualiﬁes as a jihåd (and the regulations concerning conduct during an offensive jihåd do not apply in defensive action). Ironically, this makes defensive ﬁghting easier to conduct as the individual is unfettered by the restrictive rules of jihåd conduct. However, it robs the defensive ﬁght of the emotive rallying call of jihåd. ˝aba†abÇ¥, in a manner characteristic of works of ﬁqh, leaves contemporary events unmentioned. His analysis is not applied to a speciﬁc time, but appears as a timeless attempt to elucidate the rules of the Shar¥ a. According to the lithograph colophon, he completed the Riyå∂ on 27 Íafar 1192 (27 March 1778),21 that is, before the establishment of Qajar rule. ˝abÇ†abÇ¥ himself lived until 1231/1816, well into the Qajar period. It is interesting to note that his fatwå of jihåd against the Russians is included in the Jihådiyya of QÇim-maqÇm. His son, the renowned jurist, MujÇhid, was also active after ˝aba†abÇ¥’s death in gathering support for a war against Russia. Perhaps ˝aba†abÇ¥ changed his mind when Iran was confronted with a military threat.22 Or, the more likely explanation in my opinion, ˝aba†abÇ¥ was aware of the demands of different legal 46

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genres, saying one thing in a work of ﬁqh, and holding another when prompted to give a fatwå for the shah and the general populace. This disjuncture becomes even clearer when one considers the views of ˝aba†abÇ¥’s younger contemporary, Ab al-QÇsim al-Qumm¥ (see below). In the Riyå∂ at least, he presents defensive action as an individual duty (requiring no declaration or permission by another), and remains silent on any state involvement in defensive military action. His uncertainty over classifying defensive action as jihåd, and his general position that jihåd of any type is not possible during the ghayba, was developed further in the early years of Qajar rule.

M¥rzå Ab al-Qåsim b. Muªammad al-Qumm¥ Qumm¥ is often portrayed as a defender of the religious legitimacy of Qajar rule. Lambton considers him to have believed that ‘kingship is Godgiven and its sanctions moral’.23 Arjomand argues that Qumm¥ ‘re-iterated the patrimonial theories of kingship’ though there were ‘important qualiﬁcations’.24 The most guarded assessment of Qumm¥, however, comes from Ha’iri, who concludes that ‘most of Qummi’s writings show that in theory he did not recognise Fath Ali Shah as a lawful legitimate ruler’.25 The varying assessments of Lambton, Arjomand and Ha’iri derive from the rather contradictory signals gained from a survey of Qumm¥’s extant writings. Lambton based her assessment on the Irshådnåmih, a mirror for princes, probably written for ÅqÇ Muªammad KhÇn QÇjÇr.26 Arjomand cites no source other than Lambton. Ha’iri utlises a wider range of sources: Qumm¥’s letters to Fatª Al¥ ShÇh, the (unpublished) Murshid al-awwåm, the Jåmi al-shitåt and the Irshådnåmih. The conﬂicting signals are rationalised by Ha’iri through an appeal to Qumm¥’s ‘principle of ‘mumashat’ (compromise); it is also possible that during the years he changed his opinion’.27 These explanations are, for me, unsatisfactory and result from a presumption that Qumm¥ must have advocated a uniﬁed, coherent opinion on the matter of governmental legitimacy across various works belonging to quite different genres of Muslim literature (mirrors, letters, fatwås and works of ﬁqh). I have indicated elsewhere that comparing a mirror with a work of ﬁqh is unlikely to result in a consistent picture of an author’s political theory.28 It is not merely that Qumm¥ had different audiences in mind when writing the Jåmi al-shitåt and the Irshådnåmih. This, in itself, would not explain the variance in opinion (though it certainly contributes to the differing styles adopted in these works). My contention is that the two works belong to quite different genres of writing, and a versatile writer like Qumm¥ was able to write in both traditions. The determining structural features, the canon of questions discussed and the character of the answers proffered within the literary traditions of ﬁqh and mirror works (nas¥ªat al-mulk) are such that any comparison between them is ultimately unenlightening. A work of ﬁqh draws primarily upon 47

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established legal scholarship, and the result is explicitly intertextual (witness ˝aba†abÇ¥’s commentary on Muªaqqiq’s al-Nåfi). Mirror works are written as advice compendia for rulers, and also follow established generic rules. Pre-modern writers did not sense the (peculiarly recent) demand for consistency across genres which (anachronistically) characterises the above-mentioned analyses of Lambton, Arjomand and Ha’iri. This is not an accusation of hypocrisy against Qumm¥, but a recognition of the powerful generic boundaries which exist in the Muslim literary tradition. When one examines Qumm¥’s Jåmi, it appears as a collection of questions and answers, arranged according to the standard ﬁqh pattern (with chapters on purity, prayer, fasting, etc.). The questions and answers are in either Arabic or Persian, and vary in length from one word (or a short dismissive sentence) to lengthy discussions in which the characteristic techniques of a work of ﬁqh (deﬁnition, categorisation and revelatory citations) are in evidence. The latter, more prolix, responses are almost always in Arabic. The impression one gains, then, is of an edited collection of fatåwå in which the mustaft¥s’ names have been excised and the responses organised to cover the same material as a work of ﬁqh. This impression is conﬁrmed by ÅqÇ Buzrg al-˝ihrÇn¥’s comment that the work was not conceived as a standard work of ﬁqh, but put together by ‘someone else’ from Qumm¥’s responses.29 The chapter on jihåd consists of forty such questions and answers.30 These are divided into two sections (comprising thirty-seven and three questions respectively). Both are given the title kitåb al-jihåd, having originally been separate volumes (called al-mujallad al-awwal and al-thån¥ in the marginalia). Rather confusingly, volume two is given ﬁrst.31 Two of the forty questions are posed and answered in Arabic, and these responses are by far the lengthiest. It seems clear to me that these two answers are not, in fact, answers to questions but are presented as such for purposes of stylistic conformity. They are, actually, two sections of a standard ﬁqh chapter on jihåd. Taking the Arabic questions and answers ﬁrst, they are phrased in an appropriately broad fashion: [4] What is the true meaning of jihåd? When is it used in the law (f¥l-shar)? In which circumstances does it require the permission of the Imam? Which type of jihåd does not require his permission? What is ribå†32 and what ruling applies to it during the ghayba? What does bay∂at al-islåm (‘the land of Islam’) mean according to the ulamå and the akhbår? Must we migrate in these times?33 [39] What is the situation regarding jizya during the ghayba? From whom does one collect it? Who is deserving of payment from it? How does one extract it from the dhimm¥s?34 48

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These (probably ﬁctitious) questions provide an opportunity for the editor to include all of what was, in all likelihood, a risåla on jihåd (or a chapter on jihåd from a more standard work of ﬁqh). This conclusion is further strengthened by a comparison of the subject matter covered in the Persian and Arabic sections. The former are replete with references to current conﬂicts (particularly the Perso-Russian war of 1805–13). The latter, in traditional ﬁqh style, aim to present the regulations of jihåd in a non-time speciﬁc manner. The responses which explicitly deal with the Perso-Russian war need to be placed within the context of Qumm¥’s general theory of jihåd and this is provided by the lengthy Arabic response. In the response to question 4 cited above, Qumm¥ outlines his theory of jihåd in some detail. After the customary lexical examination of the roots j-h-d in Arabic, he moves onto the legal deﬁnition of jihåd. He cites Karak¥’s35 Jåmi almaqå‚id as a ﬁrst prompt, in which jihåd in a legal sense means exhausting one’s effort and ability in ‘ﬁghting the unbelievers and those who behave in a similar manner in order to elevate the word of Islam’.36 Each element of this deﬁnition is subjected to the normal juristic analysis, for example, ‘those who behave in a similar manner’ are identiﬁed as ‘rebels (bughåt) such as the a‚ªåb al-Siff¥n and the a‚ªåb al-jamal’37 (a reference to the groups who rebelled against the caliphate of ImÇm Al¥). There is some dispute over whether this deﬁnition includes ‘controlling, by force, the kuffår communities within the lands of Islam’ or not, and the past jurist, al-Shah¥d al-ThÇn¥,38 is cited. Qumm¥’s own position is that while actions may be nominally described as jihåds, a true jihåd (jihåd ªaq¥q¥) refers only to the war against unbelievers or rebels in order to spread the word of Islam. Over time, he states, a number of other types of ﬁghting (qitål) have been called jihåd, but these are diverted (majåz) applications of the term.39 One such ‘diverted’ application is defensive ﬁghting (al-difå ). Qumm¥, then, divides the usages of the term jihåd into ‘true’ or literal (ªaq¥q¥) and diverted (majåz). Defensive ﬁghting is most deﬁnitely the latter. With regard to the former, Qumm¥ is quite clear that a ‘true’, or literal, employment of the term jihåd requires ‘the call of the just Imam or his nå ib (delegate)’ to have been issued before ﬁghting can legitimately commence. The true jihåd, then, requires the presence of the Imam or his nå ib. This nå ib must be speciﬁcally designated for the task by the Imam. A general designation is insufﬁcient: [During the occultation] ﬁghting with the unbelievers – which begins with their call to Islam – is not permitted, even on the orders of the faq¥h. While he is the general delegate (nå ib åmm) of the Imam in the ghayba, it is not permitted for him to give the order [to wage jihåd], and if he does so, he has sinned. Not one of the rulings related to jihåd apply to this action.40 49

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For Qumm¥, then, the true jihåd is irredeemably lapsed during the occultation of the Imam, and any attempt to reactivate it under the rubric of the general delegation of the Imam’s functions to the faq¥h is sinful (ithm). Qumm¥ repeats this position in his Persian answer to the ﬁfth question: [5] Question: In the Prophetic Shar¥ a, how many meanings does jihåd have, and how many types are there? Which jihåds require the Imam’s permission and which do not?41 In his answer Qumm¥ recognises four usages of the term jihåd: 1 2

3 4

a war with the unbelievers, be they polytheists or people of the book, conducted on the orders of the Prophet, the Imam or his nå ib a war with rebels against the Imam. Rebels are deﬁned as ‘those who have set out against the Imam of the Age’ (bar imåm-i zamån khurj kardand) a war against unbelievers who have attacked Islam, aiming to subjugate the Muslims ﬁghting to defend one’s life or property against enemies (Muslim or otherwise). Included in this type of jihåd is ﬁghting thieves, highwaymen or one’s captors.

Qumm¥ continues: The jihåd with the unbelievers, with the intention of calling them to Islam, or with the rebels – that is, a group of Muslims who have declared their opposition to the Imam of the age – is jihåd in its literal sense (jihåd-i ªaq¥q¥). The permission of the Imam is a prerequisite (shar†) for these [types of jihåd] . . . In the other categories [i.e. (3) and (4) above], the presence of the Imam is not a prerequisite. In short, categories (1) and (2) are lapsed during the ghayba, and cannot be waged even by a faq¥h. Categories (3) and (4) are not true jihåd, but are sometimes called jihåd (in a non-technical manner). These two latter categories do not require the Imam’s presence or permission, but do have auxiliary conditions: i ii

that the unbelievers are attacking the Muslims with the intention of subjecting the Muslims that the war is purely defensive in nature.

For both of these, however, ‘neither the permission of the Imam, nor the permission of the mujtahid-i jåmi al-sharå i† are preconditions’.42 The term mujtahid-i jåmi al-sharå i† (‘the jurist who fulﬁls the conditions’) refers to the jurist who has all the necessary qualiﬁcations to give 50

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authoritative fatwås.43 His permission is not, it seems, necessary to wage a defensive war. Qumm¥ appears to be advocating the view that defensive action is an individual obligation during the ghayba, and, in this sense, participating in such action – while not termed jihåd – is classiﬁed in the same category as general duties, such as prayer or fasting. For these latter duties, the permission of a mujtahid is not necessary. ‘However’, Qumm¥ continues: The issues and rulings attendant to these two types [of defensive action] must be known to be in accordance with the law, just as is the case for all other individual and social-legal duties (ibådåt va muåmalåt). Such issues must be known, and for that [knowledge] one should refer to a mujtahid. It is not that the mujtahid’s permission to ﬁght or defend is a prerequisite.44 Qumm¥’s position is, then, quite subtle. The Imam’s permission is not required for defensive action. All Muslims must carry out this duty, and the duty falls on each individually. However, an individual’s correct fulﬁlment of this duty requires guidance, and this comes in the form of taql¥d to a mujtahid (‘following the orders of’ or ‘imitation of’ a suitably qualiﬁed jurist).45 The mujtahid’s role here is, then, not as a legitimising representative of the Imam, but purely as a source of legal knowledge. While the mujtahid acts as the Imam’s representative in certain duties during the ghayba (such as the distribution of community taxes or the leading of Friday prayer), for defensive action he does not legitimise the action by being a representative of the Imam, but merely informs the believer when the conditions have been fulﬁlled, educating him in the manner in which it should be carried out: [11] Question: In these days of the ghayba of the Imam – concerning this category of ﬁghting and defence – is the speciﬁc permission of the mujtahid-i jåmi al-sharå i† a prerequisite or not? Answer: No, it is not a prerequisite.46 When asked whether or not the mujtahid may give permission for defensive action to be employed in particular circumstances, Qumm¥ answers, ‘in truth, this consultation with the mujtahid is to acquire knowledge of the conduct and the rulings related to this ﬁghting’.47 It is not for the purposes of permission (idhn). Qumm¥ does not pay any attention to the right to declare a jihåd, since the only person who has this right is the Imam. Neither the mujtahid nor the Shah can declare a jihåd; on the other hand, the individual Muslim, in consultation with the mujtahid, can act as part of a military effort to defend himself and the Muslims generally, and this military effort may be lead by the Shah. 51

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It is not true to say, however, that the mujtahid never acts as a representative of the Imam in Qumm¥’s elaboration of laws relating to defensive action. One area in which the mujtahid takes on the role of the Imam’s agent (rather than acting simply as a source of knowledge) relates to the use of the land tax (kharåj) to fund a defensive war. Kharåj was the subject of intense juristic debates among Sh¥ ¥ jurists.48 When the Imam is present, he controls the usufruct of the kharåj. When he is absent, as with other taxes, some considered it lapsed. Karak¥, the early Safavid jurist, was famous for his argument that the Safavid Shahs should use the kharåj collected in Iran, and some surmised from this that Karak¥ considered the Safavid state to be legitimate. Qumm¥ states that it is best to expend one’s own wealth in ﬁghting a defensive war. However, he recognises that additional ﬁnance will inevitably be necessary. The question is therefore posed: can kharåj (or rather that which the sul†ån claims to be kharåj) be accepted by the individual Sh¥ ¥ as wages in ﬁghting a defensive war? Qumm¥ declares that it depends upon the sul†ån. When the Prophet, the Imams or ‘those who stand in their place’ (qå im-i maqåm-i ¥shån)49 are in power, the use of kharåj is their prerogative, and its use in a defensive war is, of course, permitted, if it is deemed necessary. The phrase (qå im-i maqåm-i ¥shån) might be seen as referring to some sort of legitimate authority during the ghayba, but this is clearly not Qumm¥’s intention, because he contrasts this situation with the period of the absence of the Imam. During the ghayba, there are two types of sul†ån, both illegitimate (jå ir), but governed by different regulations. There is ‘the illegitimate Sunni sul†ån’ (sul†ån-i jå ir az mukhålif¥n) and ‘the illegitimate Sh¥ ¥ sul†ån’ (sul†ån-i jå ir az sh¥ ¥yån).50 The fact that both are (legally speaking) jå ir conﬁrms the view that, for Qumm¥, no state during the ghayba can attain de jure legitimacy. The illegitimate Sunni sul†ån collects what he calls kharåj and might use it in a war. The individual Sh¥ ¥ may receive payment from this so-called kharåj, because the war itself is an individual duty for each Muslim. In any case ‘the Sh¥ a have a right to the wealth’ (taken by the illegitimate Sunni sul†åns) because it was illegally taken from the people in the ﬁrst place.51 In the case of the illegitimate Sh¥ ¥ sul†ån, however, there is dispute among the ImÇm¥ jurists. Some say that, since the Sh¥ ¥ sul†ån is illegitimate in an identical manner to the Sunni sul†ån, the same rules apply. Others, such as Karak¥, argue that the kharåj has been collected after the permission of the judicially appointed agent (ªåkim-i shar) of the true owner of the kharåj (i.e. the Imam) is given. If this is the case, then the Sh¥ ¥ may still accept payment from this kharåj as wages in a defensive war, but for a different reason. He may do it on this occasion because the agent of the true owner of the kharåj (i.e. the Imam) has given permission for its use. The agent of the true owner is the mujtahid. Acknowledging the dispute, Qumm¥ states that ‘the preferred position is this: without the permission of the ªåkim-i shar, he [the Sh¥ ¥] may not accept [payment from the kharåj]’.52 52

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Some of the questions in the kitåb al-jihåd relate directly to contemporary events: [7] Question: In these times, when the dastardly sect of the Russians are coming to attack and capture the holy lands of Iran, and the rest of the lands of the Muslims . . . is it [actually] obligatory (våjib) and necessary to defend [the lands and the Muslims], or is it [merely] the overwhelming opinion of the Muslims [that we should defend them], or is it not [obligatory at all]? Answer: Anywhere the laws and regulations of Islam are threatened, or the persons or property of the Muslims are troubled, it is obligatory [to defend them]. However, the most accurate position . . . is that it is våjib-i kifå ¥ (a collective duty). Concerning any community which is near to them [the Russians], which does not have sufﬁcient [defence], it is obligatory on those who are nearest to them [to help] . . . If a sufﬁcient number is not achieved except through the whole society [joining the defence] then it is obligatory on all equally and individually.53 Here it is clear that the war with the Russians is not a jihåd, but obligatory defensive action against an unbelieving enemy. Participation in the war is a collective duty, which falls immediately on those living at the point of attack: [12] Question: After having established the rulings concerning the obligatory nature of this type of war . . . is ﬁghting and combat obligatory and necessary for all classes of Muslims or not? Answer: I have already said that this is not the case. It is obligatory on the nearest, and the nearest after that. The result is a moving line of obligation, taking in more or less of the population depending on the number of combatants needed to repel the attack. The obligation radiates out across the country from the point of attack, such that if the whole community is required, then it is obligatory on all Muslims individually. From this analysis one concludes that Qumm¥’s doctrine of jihåd offers no real legitimising sanction to Qajar rule. Leadership in the jihåd is reserved for the Imam, and all non-offensive types of ﬁghting are not ‘true jihåd’. Other forms of warfare are permitted (indeed, obligatory in certain circumstances), but protecting the state is not the real purpose of these defensive actions. Rather, the raison d’être of these operations is to protect the lives and properties of the Muslims. The state itself is not sacred, but merely the most convenient means whereby the Muslims, their families and their property might be protected. While the war with Russia may be legitimate, it is not a jihåd, and the Qajar state, under Qumm¥’s categorisation, 53

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remains jå ir. While Fatª Al¥ ShÇh may have been pleased to receive Qumm¥’s support for the war with Russia, he would not have gained much comfort from Qumm¥’s theory of jihåd.

Shaykh Jafar b. Khi∂r Kåshif al-Ghi†å KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç is usually cited as among the stalwart clerical supporters of Qajar rule.54 His sanction of the jihåd against the Russians is cited as evidence for this view. A portion of the kitåb al-jihåd of his inﬂuential work of ﬁqh, Kashf al-ghi†å, formed the basis for Lambton’s article ‘A nineteenth century view of Jihåd’.55 In her conclusions, Lambton views KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç as offering ‘validity, or temporary validity, to the rule of the Shah’.56 In what follows, I argue that this overstates his position.57 First, a glance at KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç’s legal position in areas outside of jihåd does not substantiate the view that he considered the rule of the Shah to be valid. An examination of the usual criteria (such as tax payment or Friday prayer) show KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç to be broadly in line with established Sh¥ ¥ positions. Zakåt is to be given to the fuqahå and not to the Shah.58 Friday prayer should not include a prayer for the Shah and must be led by a faq¥h.59 The result, in sum, is that while the government, in this case the Qajar government, is accepted as a fact of life, it is not accorded de jure legitimacy, nor does it have the sanction to fulﬁl the functions of the Imam. KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç begins his analysis of jihåd60 with a (by now) familiar section describing the different types of ﬁghting. His categorisation, however, differs from those considered previously. Jihåd can mean military action: i ii

to protect the land of Islam from the unbelievers to prevent ‘the accursed ones’ from taking control of the lives and welfare of Muslims iii to defend the Muslims from an attack by another Muslim sect which has joined forces with the unbelievers iv to free land which has been taken by a non-Muslim force and re-establish the ‘land of Islam’ v to convert the unbelievers to Islam and to capture lands for Islam.61 This typology represents a signiﬁcant departure from the generic norm presented by ˝abÇ†abÇ¥ (and, in less conventional format, by Qumm¥). Some (but not all) of KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç’s categories chime with those of earlier jurists. For example, the jihåd to expand Islam (v) is found in the accounts of both ˝abÇ†abÇ¥ and Qumm¥. For all these scholars, this offensive jihåd, the aim of which is to capture lands for Islam and gain converts, is only valid with the permission of the Imam or his nå ib, and has lapsed during the ghayba. However, unlike ˝abÇ†abÇ¥ and Qumm¥, KÇshif 54

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al-Ghi†Ç does not devote any space to discussing the exclusive designation of this offensive jihåd as the ‘true’ jihåd, or jihåd ‘in the true sense of the term’. Indeed, KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç appears to consider all ﬁve categories to be jihåds without caveats (such as the stipulation of majåz usage). Furthermore, some categories in the accounts of ˝abÇ†abÇ¥ and Qumm¥ are subjected to more detailed scrutiny by KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç. For example, the war of protection (or defensive jihåd) is, for KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç, divided into protection and defence of the land ((i) above) and the lives of Muslims ((ii) above). The war against rebels is omitted by KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç, and replaced with category (iii), which justiﬁes intra-Muslim warfare after a Muslim-inﬁdel alliance. The fourth category (that is, war to recapture land lost to unbelievers) is also absent from previous accounts. In the works of ˝abÇ†abÇ¥ and Qumm¥, it would appear that, while defence of Muslim land is permitted, land lost to unbelievers in battle cannot be recaptured by a military campaign, since this would constitute an offensive jihåd. KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç goes on to distinguish between the ﬁfth category and the rest.62 A number of the regulations and prerequisites required by the ﬁfth category of jihåd are not required by the others. In his description of these different types of jihåd, KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç utilises the distinction between the legitimate authority who can declare a jihåd and the appropriate person to lead the jihåd. Ideally, these two roles can be united in an individual (such as the Prophet or the Imam), but this is not a necessary prerequisite for all the types of jihåd delineated by KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç at the outset of the chapter. For example, the ﬁrst difference between category (v) and categories (i)–(iv) is as follows: It is a prerequisite for the last category of jihåd, that is the jihåd to gain converts for Islam, that the Imam be present, or there be a speciﬁcally designated person, not a generally designated person. This is not a condition for the other four categories of jihåd. In these circumstances, when the Imam is present . . . it is dependent on him rising up himself, or his delegate rising up. If he is present but this is not possible, or if he is absent, and there is someone from among the mujtahids standing in the place of his delegate in a general manner who is superior [to the other mujtahids], then it is preferable that the superior one [lead the jihåd]. If the mujtahids are too weak to rise up, then it is obligatory upon anyone who has the skills of politics and war, and can organise an army [to rise up]. When the command to rise up has been settled upon, then it is obligatory upon all the Muslims to obey him, just as they obey the mujtahids in the other areas of the law (aªkåm). Whoever disobeys him, it is as if he has disobeyed the Imam himself.63 KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç’s position outlined here at the start of the chapter differs, as we shall see, from his position as outlined later in the kitåb 55

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al-jihåd. His position here appears to be that the ideal person both to declare and lead any jihåd is the Imam. However, the Imam may be able to declare a jihåd, but not to lead it himself, and hence can designate a speciﬁc person for this purpose. These ideal circumstances apply to both offensive jihåds (category (v)) and defensive/reconquest jihåds (categories (i)–(iv)). This changes when the Imam is absent, or unable to declare the jihåd. Offensive jihåd is not legitimate unless speciﬁcally sanctioned by the Imam. Defensive/reconquest jihåd, however, can be legitimated by the best (af∂al) of the mujtahids. In doing this, the best of the mujtahids is performing the same function as one who has been speciﬁcally designated by the Imam when he was present. Ideally the mujtahids should lead the jihåd, but if this is not possible because of their weakness, then anyone who has the political and military acumen, and is able to raise an army, may lead the jihåd. It does not appear he need ask the mujtahids’ permission to do this, though he must know that the command to wage the jihåd has been ‘settled upon’ – a decision presumably taken by the mujtahid(s). The result is a list of preferences as to who might lead an offensive jihåd, and an expanded set of preferences as to who might lead a defensive/reconquest jihåd. In sum, an offensive jihåd should be led by the Imam, though as a second preference, it may be led by his delegate during the Imam’s presence. This order of preference also applies to a defensive/reconquest jihåd, but with the additional preferences that it be declared by the best of the mujtahids (and led by the mujtahids generally), or declared by the mujtahids generally and led by the person with the most appropriate military skills. The signiﬁcance of this order of preference becomes clear below. The other differences between the types of jihåd are an attempt by KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç to reduce the burdensome nature of the regulations associated with offensive jihåd. For example, while in an offensive jihåd the Muslims are not permitted to use stratagems and tricks to defeat the enemy, in a defensive/reconquest jihåd this is perfectly legitimate (lå bas). Similarly, the stipulations that a jihåd should only happen once in a year and not during the sacred months are dropped for the defensive/reconquest jihåd. In an offensive jihåd, the enemy must be called to accept Islam. This condition is not present in a defensive/reconquest jihåd. The result is that, in KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç’s view, military action of types (i)–(iv) can be declared and waged with fewer legal barriers than those associated with an offensive jihåd, and the latter is entirely impossible during the absence of the Imam. Furthermore, the person who authorizes a jihåd should ideally be the person who leads it, but the two functions can be separated, during both the presence and absence of the Imam. As with the previously discussed works of ﬁqh, the typology of jihåds proposed by KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç makes little mention of possible contemporary conﬂicts which might be classiﬁed according to his schema.64 Nor does he outline at this stage, in an unambiguous fashion, the qualities (or 56

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indeed the identity) of the person who should lead the jihåd during the ghayba when the mujtahids are too weak to do it themselves.65 Perhaps the most signiﬁcant element of KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç’s kitåb al-jihåd is a later section entitled ‘On the elucidation of the abilities of ‘a leader who is obeyed’ (ra¥s mu†å ), such as raising an army, partisans and followers, and what else is needed by that person.’ In this section KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç offers a slightly modiﬁed account of his earlier jihåd categorisation.66 He begins by distinguishing ‘war, killing and violence’ that require no leader. The examples given are self-defence (al-difå an al-nafs) and defence of one’s property. These are not technically jihåd. Other types of violence require a leader before they can become legitimate. These are of two types: offensive jihåd (aimed at gaining lands and converts to Islam) and defensive jihåd (the jihåd of reconquest is not mentioned here). For both these types of jihåd, the permission of a legitimate authority is required (hådhå al-qism yastad¥ ªu‚l al-idhn). The authority from which legitimacy might be gained, however, is itself dependent on the designation of God: The meaning of authority here is not true authority. Rather it means apparent (‚riyya) authority, which is a loan (åriya). No one can legitimately issue prohibitions and orders unless he has been designated to do so by the True Authority.67 These rather oblique words appear to establish the fact that all power and authority originate in God and only a person designated by God can declare a jihåd. Regarding the offensive jihåd, KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç is consistent with his earlier pronouncement (and with Sh¥ ¥ ﬁqh more generally) in declaring it invalid during the absence of the Imam. The general delegation to the fuqahå is not sufﬁcient for them to assume the right to declare an offensive jihåd (al-man‚ab al-khå‚‚ minhu dna al-man‚ab al-åmm). Regarding the defensive jihåd, matters are more complex. It too requires a legitimising authority, but this need not be the Imam himself, and its validity is not dependent on his presence: On these occasions, if there is an Imam present, then it is obligatory upon him [to wage the jihåd]. It is not permitted to insinuate that one has this authority, except with his [the Imam’s] declaration that there is a speciﬁc delegation for jihåd (man‚b al-khå‚‚ li-khu‚‚ al-jihåd), or there are other delegated tasks, such as judgeship (qa∂å), or the ability to give fatwås (iftå ) or lead prayer (imåma). It is obligatory for those subject to the law to obey such a person and listen to his words. If jihåd is not included in the functions delegated to him [by the Imam], then he is not permitted to insinuate that it is.68 57

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One recognises a list of preferential circumstances similar to those outlined at the start of the kitåb al-jihåd emerging here. The Imam should declare and lead the jihåd, but he can delegate the latter function to a particular person. Here, though, KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç inserts an additional category of legitimate authority during the Imam’s presence – those whom the Imam has allotted the position of judge, muft¥ or imåm for prayers. If, along with these designated tasks, the Imam includes the right to declare jihåd, then these persons too may declare a jihåd during the Imam’s presence. The absence of the Imam brings the mujtahids into the picture: As for when the Imam is not present, or is present but it is not possible to gain his permission, it is obligatory for the mujtahids to take up the matter.69 Here, once again, KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç stipulates that it is the duty of the mujtahids as a whole to ‘take up the matter’. However, if there is one mujtahid who is superior (af∂al) to the others, he must lead the jihåd or designate another to do so (this designated person need not be a mujtahid). Finally, if there are no mujtahids, or there are mujtahids but they have ‘strayed from the true path’,70 then ‘anyone possessing insight and skills in the organisation and knowledge of the methods of politics’ must rise up and take leadership of the jihåd. Once again a series of preferences emerges as to who should lead a defensive jihåd. They are (in descending order): 1 2 3 4 5 6 7

the Imam the one speciﬁcally designated by him during his presence those who have been given a more general delegation to perform qadå , iftå or imåma (for prayer), during his presence the best of the mujtahids during his absence one delegated by the best of the mujtahids during his absence. the mujtahid class as a whole during his absence one who has the political skills necessary to wage a defensive jihåd during his absence.

KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç then addresses the contemporary situation, saying that once the most appropriate person has been identiﬁed, it is ‘individually obligatory for him to ﬁght the evil sect of the Russians, and any other hostile enemy sects’. He has not, however, indicated which of the above possible leaders of the jihåd is appropriate in the current circumstances. He continues: Since seeking the permission of the mujtahids is, in terms of caution (iªtiyå†), the most appropriate course of action, and it is the most likely to bring about the satisfaction of the Lord of the 58

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Worlds, then I, if I be one of the people of ijtihåd, and one of those liable71 to adopt the agency of the Lords of the Age [the Imams], give permission to the Sul†Çn, son of the Sul†Çn, KhÇqÇn, son of KhÇqÇn, protected by the watchful eye of the Ever-providing Lord, Fatª Al¥ ShÇh . . . to take whatever is required to organise an army and troops and repel the people of unbelief . . . [He may take this] from land tax (kharåj) from the lands taken by Islam, and associated things, and zakåt on gold and silver, barley, wheat, dates and raisins and the three categories of livestock.72 Now, there are a number of signiﬁcant points to be made about this carefully worded passage. First, it is clear that the ﬁfth preference of leadership of a defensive jihåd is activated here, that is, the best of the mujtahids (which KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç appears to consider himself to be) can delegate someone (a non-mujtahid) to lead the jihåd. The best of the mujtahids cannot, for whatever reason, lead the jihåd himself (preference (4) above). Neither is KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç claiming that the mujtahids as a class have gone astray or are unable to lead the jihåd (preference (6) above). Furthermore, the appropriate political leader described in preference (7) should only take up the leadership of the jihåd when the mujtahids are unable to give him permission (clearly not the case here since KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç is actually giving permission to Fatª Al¥ ShÇh). Hence the situation described by KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç here is that the best of the mujtahids authorises a person to wage a defensive jihåd. Second, despite the honoriﬁc titles given to Fatª Al¥ ShÇh, it is clear that the only action the Shah is permitted to carry out, under the authorisation of KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç, is a defensive (and possibly reconquest) jihåd against the Russians. He may use funds from zakåt and kharåj for this purpose, but this does not confer general legitimacy on the Qajar state. Third, the Shah does not necessarily fulﬁl the criterion of having the political skills necessary to raise an army. These skills are speciﬁcally reserved for the one who should rise up when the mujtahids are absent or have ‘gone astray’ (KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç is not claiming that this has occurred). This counters Lambton’s suggestion that KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç is authorising a ‘properly qualiﬁed person’ to lead the jihåd.73 KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç is only asserting that he has designated Fatª Al¥ ShÇh as the person to carry out his order to wage a jihåd. The properly qualiﬁed person is only duty-bound to rise up if the mujtahids ‘have strayed’ or are unable to take up the matter themselves. Fourth, the Shah is permitted to utilise the income from zakåt and kharåj in this effort. The former should be in the hands of the fuqahå , whose task it is to distribute zakåt (as outlined by KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç in his kitåb al-zakåt).74 The Shah, one presumes, must request the funds from the fuqahå , rather than collect them directly from the population himself. With regard to kharåj, as mentioned earlier, the fuqahå may authorise 59

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the sul†ån to utilise this wealth, but the fuqahå , as agents for the hidden Imam, must ﬁrst permit him to use the Imam’s property in his absence. Finally, KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç’s words throughout the passage are marked by caution (iªtiyå†). Caution is a principle in ImÇm¥ ﬁqh used on occasions when the law is uncertain.75 This may be due to a silence on the part of the revelatory texts regarding a particular situation, or a lack of clarity in the wording of the text, or conﬂicting rulings between two texts. The rule of iªtiyå†, in simple terms, decrees that the Muslim should ensure that all actions, which may constitute elements of the law, should be performed in order to acquire certainty (yaq¥n) that the law has been fulﬁlled. KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç, like most U‚l¥ jurists, has accepted that there is a lack of certainty concerning the details of the Shar¥ a, and that the mujtahid’s ruling is ultimately his own opinion (Ωann). Asking the mujtahids for their permission to perform jihåd is the most cautious course of action. This ensures that the follower of the mujtahid (i.e. the muqallid) is able to fulﬁl the law as completely as possible bearing in mind the inevitable uncertainty concerning the content of the law. This humility regarding the law counters Lambton’s conclusions that the mujtahids were ‘arrogating to themselves the right to act in a defensive jihåd’.76 A more accurate portrayal would be that KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç recognises that as a mujtahid he is liable (qåbil) to declare the jihåd and authorise a person to lead it, in the same manner as a debtor is liable for a debt. KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç, then, maintains the traditional ImÇm¥ position that offensive jihåd is a duty which has lapsed during the ghayba. He departs from the traditional view, however, when he describes the ﬁght to reconquer lands taken by unbelievers as a type of jihåd. He also departs from the positions established by ˝abÇ†abÇ¥ and Qumm¥ as he does not distinguish between defensive and offensive military action – both are jihåds in the true sense of the word. This shift, however, should not cause one to think that his doctrine implies a donation of general validity upon the Qajar state. Read carefully, his legitimation of the defensive jihåd against the Russians is much less an endorsement of Qajar rule, and more a begrudging recognition that to fulﬁl the purposes of the Shar¥ a, it may be necessary to give temporary sanction to the Shah’s actions. Fatª Al¥ ShÇh may not have understood it in this manner, but KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç was a skilled jurist. He crafted his presentation carefully, to limit the amount of legitimacy he might give to Fatª Al¥ ShÇh. His carefully worded legitimation of military action against the Russians avoids the explicit recognition of Fatª Al¥ ShÇh as an appropriate leader. He is merely the one authorised by KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç. KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç also limits the authorisation to the jihåd itself and not to any other state activity. Finally, the revenue for the jihåd is either held by the fuqahå , or the decisions concerning its use reside with them. By implication, the Shah is required to request access to it. This does not add up to a comprehensive, or even partial, recognition of the de jure legitimacy of Qajar rule.77 60

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M¥rzå Muªammad b. Abd al-Nab¥ al-Akhbår¥ al-Naysåbr¥ My ﬁnal source concerning the theory of jihåd in early Qajar Shiism is NaysÇbr¥’s Risåla dar jihåd, found in a collection of short treatises by the same author. Written in simple Persian and generally devoid of legal argumentation, these treatises appear as a summation of the law for the novice student or interested layperson. Hence, from such a source, one can gather what NaysÇbr¥ thought, but cannot always assess his legal reasoning. The Risåla dar jihåd is divided into two principal sections on the jihåd-i a‚ghar (the lesser jihåd) and the jihåd-i akbar (the greater jihåd) respectively. One should note that while his contemporaries do not ignore the so-called spiritual, greater jihåd, they certainly do not consider a discussion of it to have a place in a work of ﬁqh. NaysÇbr¥, on the other hand, views the greater jihåd as an essential element of jihåd theory, and devotes to it a signiﬁcant section of his kitåb al-jihåd. The work, as a whole, is, in essence, a description of his typology of jihåd. Categories are divided into subcategories, which are subject to further subdivision and so on. This conforms to the general juristic practice of categorisation, and reﬂects the assumption mentioned earlier that to know something is, in a sense, to have categorised it within a systematic framework. In order to aid his discussion of jihåd-i a‚ghar, NaysÇbr¥ begins, in predictable manner, with a deﬁnition: jihåd-i a‚ghar: this is ﬁghting, defending or repelling by hand or tongue the enemies of religion, be they unbelievers (kuffår), hypocrites (munåﬁq¥n), innovators (mubtadi¥n) or any other opponents to the blessed way of the pure Imams.78 From this general deﬁnition, NaysÇbr¥ subdivides his subsequent discussion into two areas: ‘the lesser jihåd against the opponents of Islam, comprising of the different types of unbeliever’ and ‘the lesser jihåd against those who rebel against the Imam (bågh¥yån bar imåm), who abandon obedience to him.’ In this division, NaysÇbr¥ introduces a novel aspect to the presentation of jihåd. His contemporary commentators generally categorised different types of jihåd on the basis of their aims (defence, reconquest, proselytism). NaysÇbr¥’s categorising principle is solely based on the identity of the enemy, and this becomes a pivotal point in his discussion of which, if any, of these jihåds continues to be valid in the absence of the Imam. The jihåd against unbelievers is, he states, obligatory for free, sane and capable adult male Muslims. The obligation is collective (våjib-i kifå ¥). However, it is subject to a major condition: This is dependent [for its legitimacy] upon the permission of the sinless Imam (idhn-i imåm-i ma‚m), or the permission of the one who has been designated by the Imam (az †araf-i imåm).79 61

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It is clear that this person (man‚b) should be speciﬁcally designated by the Imam, because NaysÇbr¥ goes on to contrast this speciﬁc designation with general permission: However, in cases of defence (mudåfaa) when an enemy wishes to control the land of Islam, or one’s person, or a believing brother, or one’s family, a general permission has been obtained to kill, be killed and defend by whatever means.80 Here NaysÇbr¥’s scheme of presentation may be original, but his conclusions are broadly in line with established legal discourse. Defensive war against unbelievers is permitted without the Imam’s permission. For an offensive jihåd, the Imam’s permission is essential. There are subsidiary regulations concerning the permission to ﬂee in battle, which also alter according to the Imam’s presence or absence. However, the general permission is not channelled through a mujtahid, as it was in KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç’s presentation. The war with the unbelievers is, however, next divided into two further categories based on the two main types of unbelievers: the people of the book (Jews, Christians and Zoroastrians) and the polytheists. NaysÇbr¥ outlines speciﬁc rules concerning the sanctity of property and life, the payment of the poll tax and the timing of the war with the unbelievers. Although not stated explicitly these rules apply to the offensive war against the unbelievers when the Imam is present. As with KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç, it appears that the Imam’s absence permits only one type of jihåd (defensive), but the regulations concerning these defensive wars are less restrictive. The war against the rebels and innovators is presented in a separate section. The inclusion of innovators in this category introduces a theological aspect to the identity of the enemy. They are not merely rebels against the political authority of the Imam, but heterodox Muslims: They are a group who rise up against the just Imam. They disobey him, cause corruption in the land by calling people to false belief and such like.81 The legitimacy of a jihåd against this sort of enemy is described in a carefully worded passage: Jihåd against them is obligatory [1] in an individual manner when there is a general call to arms or a speciﬁc call by the Imam and [2] in a collective manner when there is no speciﬁc call and no general call to arms (naf¥r-i åmm).82 The phrase naf¥r-i åmm is used, but it is distinguished from the call of the Imam. This implies that a general call to arms may be made by 62

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someone other than the Imam. Whether it refers to a representative of the present Imam, or a political leader when the Imam is absent, is left uncertain. Now there are a number of reasons why NaysÇbr¥ expresses his position here with an uncharacteristic lack of clarity. First, his position is novel in ImÇm¥ ﬁqh. He is proposing that an offensive war against rebels and innovators may be permitted without the express permission of the Imam. Such a position represents a signiﬁcant advance on the established position that violence was only permitted in self-defence during the ghayba (whether this was termed jihåd was, as we have seen, a disputed point). Second, the phrase ‘those who rebel and innovate’ immediately brings to mind the Sunnis, who are viewed as having rejected the legitimate authority of the Imams. NaysÇbr¥ is not explicit, but his position would seems to allow the possibility of a legitimate offensive jihåd against the Ottomans. Third, NaysÇbr¥ was a member of the AkhbÇr¥ school, which by his time had been effectively ousted from power in the religious seminaries. The opacity with which he expresses his own position may reﬂect his own uncertain position within the religious hierarchy. Finally, as I have discussed elsewhere, the legitimacy of an offensive war against the Sunnis appears to have been a distinctively AkhbÇr¥ opinion. Furthermore, the AkhbÇr¥ school has been depicted as advocating a vehement rejection of any intellectual relationship between Sunnis and Twelver Shiites.83 NaysÇbr¥ makes yet another distinction among the rebels: there are those with a leader, and those who are leaderless. The legal regulations concerning jihåd against each of these groups also differ: The group who have a leader must be fought until they submit or are killed. Their wounded must be killed. Their military equipment is war booty (ghan¥ma).84 However, those ﬁghting in such a jihåd against rebels with a leader are not permitted to ‘plunder and pillage their homes and property before the appearance of the government of the qå im’ (Ωuhr-i dawlat-i qå im).85 From this it becomes clear that an offensive jihåd against rebels with a leader (a category into which the Ottomans would fall) is permitted before the return of the Imam, but it must operate under certain restrictions concerning the plunder and pillage of the rebels’ property. The group without a leader, whose motivation is simply extortion and greed, must also be fought until they submit or are killed. Those who ﬂee are caught and punished. Their wounded, however, are not killed, but taken prisoner. Their military equipment is counted as booty, but their property ‘which is in their homes, consisting of goods, women and children’ should be left as it is ‘until the appearance of the True Government’ (zamån-i Ωuhr-i dawlat-i ªaqq). Once again the implication is that such a war is permitted during the ghayba, but with certain restrictions which 63

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will be lifted on the return of the Imam. Of the two types of rebels, those who rebel out of greed present a lesser threat (their wounded are not killed, but taken prisoner). Those with a leader, who sets himself up as Imam, should be extinguished (though their property remains sacrosanct, since, as booty, it is the property of the Imam). The reasoning here, as in the risåla generally, is not expressed. However, those with a replacement leader appear as an ideological challenge to the authority of the Imam, and hence pose a greater threat than mere rufﬁan brigands. State legitimacy during the ghayba, under NaysÇbr¥’s theory, is once again highly qualiﬁed. Clearly, some sort of state is envisaged as necessary during the ghayba. This is implied by the distinction made by NaysÇbr¥ between a general ‘call to arms’ and the Imam’s explicit call to jihåd. The former has legal force, making participation in the jihåd individually, rather than collectively, obligatory. However, despite its necessity, there is no real acceptance of the state’s legitimacy. NaysÇbr¥ refers to the rule of the Imam as the true government (dawlat-i ªaqq), and makes no mention of the Qajar state. Neither does he make mention of the conﬂict with Russia, though we know he participated in the effort. In particular, he held a famous voodoo-like vigil in the shrine of ShÇh Abd al-AΩ¥m, to cause the death of the Russian general Tsitsianov.86 The defence of the lands of Islam against the attack of the ahl-i kitåb is valid during the ghayba for NaysÇbr¥, and like KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç, he does not shy away from calling this a defensive jihåd. The war with Russia would certainly ﬁt into this category. His legitimation of jihåd against the ‘rebels against the Imam’ during the ghayba is of interest because it appears to confer, in an albeit guarded manner, validity upon an offensive war against the Sunnis (‘those who have a leader’ who claims the rights of the Imam). How can there be rebels against the Imam when the Imam is absent? This is unclear from NaysÇbr¥’s work. It is possible that the phrase imåm-i ådil (the just Imam) refers not to the hidden Imam, but the leader of the Shiites during the ghayba.87 This interpretation would imply that NaysÇbr¥ confers a signiﬁcantly greater level of legitimacy on non-Imamic government than his contemporaries. On the other hand, the difference he assumes between a general call to arms, and the call of the Imam makes a clear distinction between the current government and that of the Imam. In sum, NaysÇbr¥’s Risåla dar jihåd represents a clear deviation from the theories of ˝aba†abÇ¥, Qumm¥ and KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç. In addition to the defensive jihåd, NaysÇbr¥ certainly confers legal (shar¥) legitimacy on a jihåd against non-Sh¥ ¥ rebels, whether that war be offensive or defensive. He may have been particularly concerned to encourage a war against the Sunnis. However, his phrasing and choice of words are vague. This is possibly intentional, such that no clear statement on Qajar legitimacy, or illegitimacy, or even temporary legitimacy, can be surmised. Part of the reason for this ambiguity undoubtedly lies in the novel position he is 64

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advocating in a deeply conservative literary tradition. His position as a minority AkhbÇr¥ in an U‚l¥-dominated milieu may also have played a part in his imprecise formulation of doctrine.

Conclusion It should by now be clear that the jurists analysed here gave extremely limited legitimacy to the early Qajar government through their doctrines of jihåd. Table 3.1 summarises their views. There was debate over what constituted a jihåd in its literal (ªaq¥q¥) sense, who could legitimately declare a jihåd and there was debate over whether or not the war with Russia could be described as a jihåd. When legitimacy was given to the efforts of Fatª Al¥ ShÇh against the Russians, it was grudging and restricted. For Qumm¥, the war effort was not a true jihåd, and while it may be justiﬁed, the Qajar state cannot derive legitimacy from his theory. The state was merely a means whereby the property and lives of the Muslims might be protected from inﬁdel incursions. This does not amount to a theory in which the state was considered religiously legitimate. Even the jurist who is considered to be an open advocate of the Qajar state, KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç, worded his theory of jihåd in such a manner that the level of approval given to Fatª Al¥ ShÇh was minimised. The de jure illegitimacy of any government during the ghayba was a deeply ingrained assumption in the Sh¥ ¥ legal tradition, and it was not until later in the Qajar period that major compromises were made. The maverick jurist NaysÇbr¥ phrased his theory in vague and imprecise terms, aware of his deviation from this deeply held principle. If he legitimised any offensive government-led military effort, it was against the Ottomans, not the Russians. This evidence demonstrates that Arjomand’s view that the early Qajar period saw an erosion of the jurists’ commitment to the illegitimacy of government is in need of revision. The jurists considered here held positions which either implied or explicitly maintained the de jure illegitimacy of government during the occultation. When de facto legitimacy was given, it concerned particular state campaigns and was given for reasons of expedience rather than principle. Even Lambton’s more qualiﬁed view that the mujtahids gave ‘temporary’ validity to the Qajar state overstates the position. Jihåd was viewed as one duty within the Shar¥ a which could best be fulﬁlled through state action. The other functions of the state (such as taxation, the judiciary and local governance) remained as (legally) illegitimate as they had done before the swell of ulamå support for the ﬁrst Russian war. None of the above conclusions deny the activities of these jurists in supporting the rule of Fatª Al¥ ShÇh. All had contact with the court of Fatª Al¥ ShÇh, and in other genres of literature offered more unambiguous support for the Shah. What the analysis does demonstrate is that while the tradition of Sh¥ ¥ ﬁqh was developing new schemes whereby individual 65

˝abå†abå ¥

(i) it is jihåd (ii) it is lasped during the ghayba (iii) it always requires the Imam’s permission

(i) it is probably not jihåd (ii) it is obligatory during the ghayba when required (iii) it does not require anyone’s permission

Military action

Offensive war to capture land or convert

Defensive action to protect self or Muslim lands and property

(i) it is not true jihåd (ii) it is obligatory during the ghayba when required (iii) it does not require anyone’s permission, but does require consultation with a mjitahid

(i) it is jihåd (ii) it is lasped during the ghayba (iii) it always requires the Imam’s permission

Qumm¥

Table 3.1 The positions on jihåd of four Qajar thinkers

(i) it is jihåd (ii) it is obligatory during the ghayba when required (iii) it requires the permission of the ‘best of the mujtahids’ (with other preferences)

(i) it is jihåd (ii) it is lapsed during the ghayba (iii) it always requires the Imam’s permission

Kåshif al-Ghi†å

(i) it is jihåd (ii) it is obligatory during the ghayba when required (iii) a general ‘call to arms’ [by the state?] is required

(i) it is jihåd (ii) it is lasped during the ghayba against unbelievers (iii) against unbelievers, it requires the Imam’s permission (iv) it is possibly not lapsed against rebels, and does not require the Imam’s permission

Naysåbr¥

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instances of military action might be categorised (and thereby analysed), these schemes had not yet progressed to the point where the state became a religiously-sanctioned entity worthy of protection in its own right.

Notes 1 The literature on this topic is ever expanding, with a ﬂurry of activity after the Iranian Revolution of 1979. In addition to the references below, see N. Calder ‘The Structure of Authority in ImÇm¥ Sh¥ ¥ Jurisprudence’ (unpublished PhD thesis: University of London, 1979); N. Calder ‘Zakat in ImÇm¥ Sh¥ ¥ Jurisprudence from the Tenth to the Sixteenth Century AD’ BSOAS 64.4 (1981) 468–80; N. Calder ‘Khums in ImÇm¥ Sh¥ ¥ Jurisprudence from the Tenth to the Sixteenth Century AD’ BSOAS 65.1 (1982) 39–47; A. K. S. Lambton State and Government in Medieval Islam (London, 1981) 219–88; A. Newman ‘The Development and Political Signiﬁcance of the Rationalist (U‚l¥) and the Traditionalist (AkhbÇr¥) Schools in ImÇm¥ Sh¥ ¥ History from the Third/Ninth to the Tenth/Sixteenth Century’ (unpublished PhD thesis: University of California Los Angeles, 1986); A. K. Moussavi Religious Authority in Sh¥ ¥te Islam (Kuala Lumpur, 1996); H. Modarressi Tabataba’i Kharåj in Islamic Law (London, 1983); A. Sachedina The Just Ruler In Sh¥ ¥te Islam (Oxford, 1988). On jihåd speciﬁcally, see E. Kohlberg ‘The Development of the ImÇm¥ Sh¥ ¥ Doctrine of jihåd ’ ZDMG 126.1 (1976) 64–86 and D. MacEoin ‘The Babi Concept of Holy War’ Religion 12.2 (1982) 93–130. 2 See S. Akhavi ‘Contending Discourses in Shii Law on the Doctrine of Wilayat al-faqih’ Iranian Studies 29 (1996) 229–68 and R. Gleave ‘Political Aspects of Modern Sh¥ ¥ Legal Discussions: Khumayn¥ and Khu¥ on ijtihåd and qa∂å ’ Mediterranean Politics 2.3 (2002) 9–116. 3 S. A. Arjomand The Shadow of God and the Hidden Imam (Chicago, 1984) 243. 4 A. K. S. Lambton ‘A Nineteenth Century View of Jihåd ’ Studia Islamica 32 (1970) 192. 5 ˝abÇ†abÇ¥ was a nephew and pupil of the great Muªammad BÇqir al-BihbahÇn¥ (d.1206/1791–2), and supposedly a teacher of Shaykh Aªmad al-AªsÇ¥ (d.1241/1826). See Muªammad Al¥ Mudarris Rayªånat al-adab, 8 vols in 4 (Tehran, 1374sh) III, 370. 6 Al¥ b. Muªammad al- ˝abÇ†abÇ¥ Riyå∂ al-maså il f¥ taªq¥q al-aªkåm bi ldalå il (Qum, 1404/1984). According to KhwÇnsÇr¥ (Muªammad BÇqir al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ Raw∂åt al-Jannåt, 8 vols Beirut, (1411/1991) IV, 383), the work is titled Riyå∂ al-maså il f¥ bayån al-aªkåm bi l-dalå il. The work, KhwansÇr¥ writes, was supposedly completed on 27 Íafar 1192 (27 March 1778). The colophon of the Riyå∂ conﬁrms this date (˝abÇ†abÇ¥, Riyå∂, 568). 7 See Arjomand, The Shadow of God, 222–4; A. Lambton ‘Some New Trends in Islamic Political Thought in Late Eighteenth and Early Nineteenth Century Persia’ Studia Islamica 34 (1974) 114–18 and A-H. Ha’iri ‘The Legitimacy of Early Qajar Rule as Viewed by the Shi’i Religious Leaders’ MES 24.3 (1988) 272–5. 8 M¥rzÇ Ab al-QÇsim b. Muªammad al-Qumm¥ Jåmi al-shitåt f¥ ajwibat alsuålåt (Tehran, 1982), described in ÅqÇ Buzrg al-˝ihrÇn¥ al-Dhar¥ a ilå ta‚ån¥f al-Sh¥ a, 25 vols (Qum, 1341sh) V, 59 no. 221. 9 According to KhwÇnsÇr¥ (Raw∂åt II, 201), he died at ‘the end of Rajab, 1227’, but according to ˝ihrÇn¥ (Dhar¥ a XVIII, 45), he died in 1228 (1813). 10 See Lambton, ‘Jihåd ’; Ha’iri, ‘Early Qajar Rule’, 275–7 and Arjomand, Shadow of God, 224–5.

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11 Shaykh Jafar b. Khi∂r KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç Kashf al-ghi†å an khaﬁyyåt mubhamåt al-Shar¥ a al-gharrå (Tehran, 1271AH). 12 Lambton, ‘Jihåd ’, 188–92. 13 On which, see R. Gleave Inevitable Doubt (Leiden, 2000). 14 See H. Algar, ‘Ak.bÇr¥’ EIr I, 716, and his Religion and State in Iran 1785–1906 (Berkeley, 1969) 64–6. 15 Muªammad b. Abd al-Nab¥ al-NaysÇbr¥ Risåla dar jihåd (MS 3341/8, University of Tehran Central Library, Tehran). For description of the manuscript see M. T. DÇnishpazhuh Fihrist-i nuskhahå-yi kha††¥-yi kitåbkhånih-yi markaz¥-yi Dånishgåh-i Tihrån jild-i yåzdihum (Tehran, 1968) 2330. 16 ˝abÇ†abÇ¥ initially joins these together in a general deﬁnition, but subsequently distinguishes between them (see ˝abÇ†abÇ¥, Riyå∂, 478). 17 ˝abÇ†abÇ¥, Riyå∂, 478. 18 ˝abÇ†abÇ¥, Riyå∂, 478. 19 ˝abÇ†abÇ¥, Riyå∂, 478. 20 ˝abÇ†abÇ¥, Riyå∂, 479. The text in italics is from al-Nåfi, the rest is ˝abÇ†abÇ¥’s commentary. 21 ˝abÇ†abÇ¥, Riyå∂, 568. 22 On which see, A. Amanat ‘ “Russian Intrusion into the Guarded Domain”: Reﬂections of a Qajar Statesman on European Expansion’ Journal of the American Oriental Society 113.1 (1993) 35–56. 23 Lambton, ‘Some New Trends’, 116. 24 Arjomand, The Shadow of God, 223. 25 Ha’iri, ‘Early Qajar Rule’, 275. 26 Edited and published by Óasan QÇ∂¥ ˝abÇ†abÇ¥ ‘IrshÇdnÇmih-yi M¥rzÇ-yi Qumm¥’ Nashriyyih-yi Dånishkadih-yi Adabiyyåt va Ulm-i Insån¥-yi Tabr¥z 20.3 (1968) 365–83. 27 Ha’iri, ‘Early Qajar Rule’, 275. 28 R. Gleave ‘Two Classical Sh¥ ¥ Theories of qa∂å ’’ in G. Hawting et al. (eds) Studies in Islamic and Middle Eastern Texts and Traditions (Oxford, 2000) 105. 29 ‘In it are answers in Arabic and Persian . . . someone else collected them into two sections: the ﬁrst on the principles of belief (al-aqå id) . . . and the second on legal rules (al-aªkåm al-ﬁqhiyya) arranged according to the books of ﬁqh . . . Muªammad Óasan b. Muªammad ÍÇliª al-Óusayn¥ al-Nurbakhsh¥ arranged it this way and though it was not correct, published it.’ ˝ihrÇn¥, Dhar¥ a V, 59–60. 30 Qumm¥, Jåmi , 79–96. 31 This, I presume, is an error, since the material dealt with in ‘volume 1’ would normally be placed after the material in ‘volume 2’ in a work of ﬁqh. 32 On the various usages of this term in Islamic jurisprudence, see J. Chabbi ‘RibÇ†’ EI2 VIII, 493–505. 33 Qumm¥, Jåmi , 80. 34 Qumm¥, Jåmi , 93. 35 Al¥ b. Óusayn al-Karak¥ (d.940/1534). 36 The citation is found in Al¥ b. Óusayn al-Karak¥ Jåmi al-maqå‚id, 14 vols (Qum, 1408AH) III, 365. 37 Qumm¥, Jåmi , 80. 38 Zayn al-D¥n b. Al¥ al-Åmil¥ (d.966/1559). In fact his various (and different) pronouncements on the deﬁnition of jihåd are cited from a number of his works of ﬁqh. 39 On the use of the terms in Sh¥ ¥ ﬁqh, see Gleave, Inevitable Doubt, 155–64 and 165–71. 40 Qumm¥, Jåmi , 81. 41 Qumm¥, Jåmi , 86.

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42 Qumm¥, Jåmi , 86. 43 On this term, see A. Newman ‘The Nature of the AkhbÇr¥/U‚l¥ Conﬂict in LateSafawid Iran. Part Two: The Conﬂict Reassessed’ BSOAS 55.1 (1992) 257–60. 44 Qumm¥, Jåmi , 86. 45 On taql¥d, see L. Clarke ‘The Sh¥ ¥ Construction of Taql¥d ’ Journal of Islamic Studies 12 (2001) 40–64. 46 Qumm¥, Jåmi , 88. 47 Qumm¥, Jåmi , 88. 48 See Tabataba’i, Kharåj, 153–81. 49 Qumm¥, Jåmi , 88. 50 Qumm¥, Jåmi , 89. 51 Qumm¥, Jåmi , 88. 52 Qumm¥, Jåmi , 88. 53 Qumm¥, Jåmi , 87. 54 Arjomand, The Shadow of God, 224–5; Sachedina, Just Ruler, 21–2; M. Momen An Introduction to Shi’i Islam (New Haven, 1985) 191 and 194. 55 Cited above in note 4. 56 Lambton, ‘Jihåd ’, 192. 57 Lambton has already modiﬁed her position, recognizing that her statement is ‘not correct as it stands’. See A. K. S. Lambton, Qajar Persia (London, 1987) xiv. 58 KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç, Kashf, 343. 59 KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç, Kashf, 250. 60 KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç, Kashf, 381–421. 61 KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç, Kashf, 381–2. 62 This list bears a striking resemblance to QÇim MaqÇm I’s list, found in his Risålå-yi jihådiyya, summarised in Kohlberg, ‘Jihåd ’, 82–6. 63 KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç, Kashf, 382. 64 There is an indication of who KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç has in mind in the opening paragraph of the kitåb al-jihåd when he glosses the enemy as ‘those who believe in the trinity and others who deny the truth that the great Creator is one, such as the Russian sect, may God curse them’. KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç, Kashf, 381. This is clearly a reference to Fatª Al¥ ShÇh’s war with the Russians. 65 Apart from the stipulations that he should have political and military skills, KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç also states that the jihåd to protect the dignity and blood of the Muslims should be led by a ‘leader who is obeyed’ (al-ra¥s al-mu†å ) during the ghayba. It is preferable that this leader ‘ask the permission of the mujtahid ’ (†alab al-idhn minhu lå). KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç, Kashf, 381. 66 This might indicate that this section was composed separately and inserted later – that is, the section translated by Lambton is, in fact, a fatwå which was incorporated into KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç’s ﬁqh work some time after the work was originally composed. 67 KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç, Kashf, 394. Lambton (‘Jihåd ’, 188) views malikiyya as meaning ‘kingship’ here, but I do not think that KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç is restricting himself merely to a system of monarchy – he is implying that all political power, whatever the system of government, is derived from God. 68 KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç, Kashf, 394. 69 KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç, Kashf, 394. 70 KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç does not, unfortunately, explain how this might be judged to have happened, but it seems likely that he is guarding against possible opposition to his subsequent assumption of the role of af∂al al-mujtahid¥n. 71 The term here is qåbil¥n, which Lambton translates as ‘claim’ (Lambton, ‘Jihåd ’, 189). This is perhaps a misreading on her part for qå il¥n, though my copy reads qåbil¥n quite clearly here. KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç is using the language of liability rather than ‘claiming’ something as a right.

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72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87

KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç, Kashf, 394. Lambton, ‘Jihåd ’, 192. KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç, Kashf, 349. See Gleave, Inevitable Doubt, 105–12. Lambton, ‘Jihåd ’, 192. I disagree here with Momen (Sh¥ ¥ Islam, 194) who states that KÇshif alGhi†Ç’s fatwå gave ‘some derived de jure legitimacy to the Qajar government’. NaysÇbr¥, Risåla, 1A.10–12. NaysÇbr¥, Risåla, 1A.14–15. NaysÇbr¥, Risåla, 1A.15–16. NaysÇbr¥, Risåla, 1B.21. NaysÇbr¥, Risåla, 1B.22 – 2A.1. On this see R. Gleave ‘Jihad, Khums and Legitimacy in Pre-Qajar Iran’ in R. Kasheﬁ (ed.), Proceedings: Association des Chercheurs Iraniens (Paris, 1998) 5–17. NaysÇbr¥, Risåla, 2B.3–5. NaysÇbr¥, Risåla, 2B.5–6. See, for example, H. Busse The History of Persia under Qåjår Rule (New York and London, 1972) 111–14 (he appears in the section on the year 1220/1805–6); Zayn al-Åbid¥n Sh¥rvÇn¥ Riyå∂ al-Siyåªa (Tehran, n.d.) 412–14. This is the assertion of Wilferd Madelung with respect to the use of the phrase al-imåm al-ådil in his ‘A treatise of the Shar¥f al-Murta∂Ç on the legality of working for the Government (masala f¥l-amal maal-sul†ån)’ BSOAS 43 (1980) 18–31, especially p. 30.

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4 FROM DÅR AL-SAL ˝ANA-YI IÍFAH ÅN TO DÅR AL-KHILÅFA-YI ˝IHR ÅN Continuity and change in the Safavid model of state–religious administration during the Qajars (1795–1895/1209–1313)1 Mansur Sefatgol

In his travelogue, Olivier, a French ofﬁcial in Iran during the early years of the Qajar dynasty, in a comparison with the Ottoman Empire, wrote that there is no state–religious organisation in Iran. He writes, ‘everybody who studies religious texts and law is an ålim . . . These ålims have no involvement with state ofﬁces. The only task they have is to go to the mosque for Friday prayer and other religious services, as well as interpreting QurÇn and ªad¥th.’2 It seems that this report, written during the early years of the reign of ÅqÇ Muªammad ShÇh QÇjÇr, contains only an element of truth when it states there was no state–religious administration during the period. It also shows that the information which Olivier received was limited. The main task of the present chapter is to clarify the structure and nature of the state–religious administration of the Qajar period to the reign of NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh, with particular reference to the inﬂuence of the Safavid model of religious administration. When the Safavid state was established, the structure of administration, inherited from the previous dynasty, was adopted without considerable alteration. Although, during the growth and subsequent establishment of the Safavid state, the structure experienced some change, especially in terms of the religious ofﬁces, these changes were the result of the new ‘religious’ policy the Safavid rulers adopted. The Shiism they proclaimed was, in part, an instrument of their ideological identity. In part also, it differentiated their state from its neighbours, namely the Ottomans, the Uzbeks and the Mughals. The Safavid period, especially during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, was a time in which the religious institution (and by this I mean 71

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the hierarchy and network commonly referred to as the ulamå ) of Iran became gradually institutionalised. The institutionalisation of the religious structure reached its zenith in the seventeenth century and led to the emergence of a new religious policy, which one can call ‘Safavism’. This Safavism was characterised in religious terms by the emergence of a new religious hierarchy, ﬁrmly rooted in Shiism. The ulamå , then, played a central role in the Safavism of the state. Since they had close relations with the state, and it, in turn, needed them for elements of its operation, the new class of Sh¥ ¥ ulamå constituted a signiﬁcant proportion of the administration.3 The religious institution, then, occupied a position of considerable power throughout the Safavid period, and was involved in all aspects of Iranian society. In effect, the Safavid state became the defender of Shiism, while at the same time, it used Shiism as a tool to legitimate their political and cultural claims. The succession of Safavid capitals (Tabriz, Qazvin and Isfahan) became the capitals of the ‘Sh¥ ¥ Sul†Çn’. Isfahan, in particular, was called Dår alSal†ana-yi Tashayyu (even though this implied a contradiction in juristic terms as the Imam’s government was the only government of the Sh¥ a), and the high-ranking ulamå formed a vital part of Safavid administration. The ulamå ’s co-operation with the Safavid state did not occur without debate, but this was not too disruptive since the leading ulamå , who represented the authoritative voices in this debate, had themselves a close relationship with the state. The Safavids supported the religious institution through ﬁnancial aid, and appointed members of the ulamå to the religious ofﬁces of the state. In return, the religious institution supported the political and religious goals of the state, and defended it against internal political and religious challenges. The relationship between the Safavids and the religious institution formed the model of a ‘religiously-administered’ state, which, as we shall see, inﬂuenced the dynasties that ruled Iran after the collapse of the Safavids in 1736, and continued to have inﬂuence until the Constitutional Revolution. From the collapse of the Safavid state to the establishment of the Qajars, the religious institution experienced a series of crises, the most important of which was the ulamå ’s problematic status under NÇdir ShÇh.4 Despite these crises, which affected the position of members of the religious institution, there is no evidence that the administrative functions of the ulamå experienced signiﬁcant change. The religious ofﬁces, which were a vital part of the state, survived and were operative even under NÇdir ShÇh. The Afsharid and Zand dynasties had their own state–religious administration, and they regularly appointed leading religious leaders to state religious ofﬁces, such as Íadr, Qå∂¥ or Mullåbåsh¥.5 During the period between the Safavids and the Qajars, then, although some of the ulamå had to migrate to the Atabåt6 and to India,7 and others left the cities for smaller towns and villages for a short time, the Safavid model of religious administration remained in force. Although its 72

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position and function were not identical with those of the previous period, as it was limited in its functions by the changes in religious policies of the Afshar and Zand dynasties, the religious institution played a major role in state administration. The religious institution in Iran, with its slightly reduced authority and power, was inherited by the Qajar dynasty, and thus, just as under the state structure of the Afshars and Zands, a vital part of the Qajar administrative structure came under the control of religious ﬁgures. However, it seems clear that when the Qajars came to power, they did not inherit the Safavid model of religious administration entirely, but instead inherited a structure that had experienced the events of the Safavid collapse and its aftermath. This structure had traces of the Safavid model, but it had been modiﬁed in the years after 1722. The network of contacts between the ulamå and the state was still active, and it continued to function under the Qajars. Furthermore, the Qajars were familiar with this structure since they were members of the Safavid Qizilbash,8 and when they became rulers of Iran, they tried to use the religious institution as a tool for their own religious and political goals. It is the nature of the ofﬁces of state, which formed the highest point of contact between the ulamå and the state, and its relationship to the Safavid model with which I am primarily concerned. Despite important studies of the religious structure of Iran during the Qajar period, there is no comprehensive study of the structure and functions of state–religious administration during this time. Such a lack of interest among scholars concerning what was, after all, the main structure of state–religious administration during the Qajar period needs an explanation. Research on the state–religious administration during the early Qajar period (that is, the religious ofﬁces of government, both national and local) has demonstrated a greater interest in study of the religious structure as a whole. There is, it seems, a preoccupation with the rationale for the activity of religious leaders in the social and political arena during this period. Most research has focused on the relationship between the state and the highest religious authorities of the time, and this is, perhaps, due to the importance of ulamå activity in subsequent political and social events, especially the Russo-Iranian wars, the Tobacco Regie and the Constitutional movement. The role of the ulamå in these events appears as a contrast to their role in the previous periods. Almost all the studies to date relate to the ulamå as a force independent of the state, and not to their involvement in its religious administrative activities. This latter, after all, was a major element of both central government in Tehran and local government in the provinces, and, furthermore, had strong Safavid characteristics. The religious structure as a whole was a product of the Safavid period and the Safavid model formed an important part of its operation. 73

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For a sounder analysis of the continuity and changes in the model of religious administrative involvement in the state, one can divide the Qajar period into two sections. In the ﬁrst (until the reign of NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh), the traditional structure of religious administration was in evidence. During the second period, namely from the rule of NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh to the end of the Qajar period, the main structure of the religious institution remained, but it witnessed signiﬁcant changes as a result of the reforms proposed by ministers during his reign. We must remember that the administrative branch of the religious institution was a vital part of the government. The question which forms the central part of my inquiry concerns the nature of this administrative model. To what extent was it based on the Safavid model, and how had it developed since the collapse of the Safavids? To answer this question, we must ﬁrst have a clear notion as to the nature of the Safavid model, the most important source being the administrative section of the Tadhkirat almulk.9 A comparison between the Tadhkirat al-mulk and Qajar ofﬁcial sources is, then, essential. According to the Tadhkirat al-mulk, there were ﬁve main ofﬁces of Safavid religious administration; the mullåbåsh¥, two ‚adrs (åmma and khå‚‚a), the Qå∂¥ of the DÇr al-Sal†ana-yi I‚fahÇn, the Shaykh al-Islåm of Isfahan, and the Qå∂¥ Askar or Army Judge.10 These ofﬁces belonged to leading members of the ulamå , and under them there were numerous ulamå who acted as a network throughout the Safavid realm, replicating the model, with some variation, at the local level. These ofﬁces represent the culmination of the Safavid religious administration, and had undergone considerable development during the Safavid period. How do these ofﬁces in the Safavid court of Dår al-Sal†ana-yi I‚fahån compare with those known to have been present in the Qajar court of the Dår al-Khilåfa-yi ˝ihrån? Unfortunately we do not have such a plethora of sources for this period, and there exists no authoritative manual similar to Tadhkirat al-mulk. The Qajars, it seems, had a strong desire to legitimise their rule in religious terms, and perhaps this explains why they chose the term Dår al-Khilåfa for their capital. The nature of this religious goal, and the ofﬁces present in the central government enable one to demonstrate this religious claim. Dår al-Khilåfa was clearly a religious term, though unfortunately the religious scholars during the Qajar period did not make it clear what this term actually implied.11 On the basis of two works, written in 1279AH and 1303AH, one can demonstrate that the role of the religious hierarchy, which worked in the service of the Qajar administration, was broadly based on that of the Safavid period. The most important source is a treatise entitled Risåla-yi tashkh¥‚ va tarq¥m-i alqåb, written in 1279AH.12 Although the main subject of this risåla was to distinguish those people who had received titles from the state from those who had not, the anonymous writer gives us a useful description of the main state religious ofﬁces. 74

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The other important source is ItimÇd al-Sal†ana Muªammad Óasan KhÇn’s work, al-Maåth¥r va al-åthår.13 The section on royal titles during the NÇ‚ir¥ period has, I think, some similarity with the Tadhkirat almulk, and it is worthy of note here that this section bears some resemblance to another work of ItimÇd al-Sal†ana, namely his appendix to the third volume of Tar¥kh-i muntaΩam-i Nå‚ir¥.14 Other Qajar sources have reports and evidence concerning the state religious ofﬁces. To begin with the Risåla-yi tashkh¥‚ va tarq¥m-i alqåb, although it is basically no more than a list of the Qajar titles, it is a most important source for the study of the religious administrative section of the Qajar state. Unfortunately, it does not include any detailed description of the duties of the holders of the titles. As in the Tadhkirat al-mulk, the ﬁrst group to be mentioned by the author of the Risåla is the ulamå .15 The writer divides the ulamå of Tehran into two groups: the ﬁrst are ulamå -i alåm va mujtahid¥n-i aΩΩåm va a‚ªåb-i duå kih mutakaffal-i laqab va kår¥ az dawlat n¥stand. That is, those ‘religious leaders, leading ulamå , great Mujtahids and those who pray (for the king) who have no ofﬁcial position’.16 The second are ‘Those who hold state religious ofﬁces (Ulamå ¥ kih az dawlat bi-shughl va laqab man‚band)’.17 The latter group is listed in more detail: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

Imåm juma Shaykh al-Islåm and the Qu∂åt NiΩåm al-Ulamå (who could be an ålim or a non-ålim)18 the Mullåbash¥ the Íadr of the Divånkhånih the Nå ib al-Íadr Kha†¥b-i dårbar¥ Mashåyikh va Mavål¥ va urafå (probably a reference to Suﬁs).

While it is unclear who is implied by the last category, the author does mention some of its constituent members including the custodians of the holy shrines, schools and mosques.19 ItimÇd al-Sal†ana, on the other hand, mentions 41 titles for the ulamå during NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh’s reign. These are found in chapter twelve of his al-Maåth¥r va al-åthår. Although ItimÇd al-Sal†ana wrote his work several years after the Risåla, there are similarities between the ofﬁces of the ulamå listed in the two works. Like the Risåla, ItimÇd al-Sal†ana divides the titles of religious leaders in to two groups (those who have and those who do not have state titles). The former are those who are appointed by the state to a speciﬁc ofﬁcial position. ItimÇd al-Sal†ana divides the titles of religious ofﬁces into a further two sub-groups: alqåb-i mutamaªªa∂a kih faqa† bar shan va itibår va sharf va iftikhår-i dalålat m¥kunad (honorary titles), and the second20 alqåb-i mu‚†alaªa kih az mashåghil va 75

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khadamåt va munå‚ibåt va darajåt kashf m¥namåyad (state religious administrative titles). The latter group is given as an extended list: 1 2 3 4 5 6

Imåm juma21 Kha†¥bbåsh¥ or Kha†¥b22 Shaykh al-Islåm23 Íadr of the D¥vankhånih24 Mullåbåsh¥25 NiΩåm al-Ulamå .26

In his Sålnåmih, ItimÇd al-Sal†ana mentions 15 ålims who were resident in Tehran, but, interestingly, he does not consider the NiΩåm al-Ulamå to be an ålim.27 At the end of his Tar¥kh-i muntaΩam-i nå‚ir¥, he again presents a list of the administrative positions in the Qajar state, and in this list he mentions the names of 18 ålims in Tehran, including members of the ofﬁcial ulamå . All of the ofﬁces mentioned here, then, formed the main structure of the administrative-religious group of the ulamå , during the reign of NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh, and possibly earlier. The ofﬁces were held locally (hence one ﬁnds references to the Íadr of Isfahan or Shiraz), but the ofﬁce holders in Tehran clearly had the most extensive inﬂuence on the court, and were often conceived of as holding a national position. From these sources, and other earlier Qajar chronicles and documents, we can study the development of these ofﬁces from the establishment of the Qajar state to the reign of NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh. What follows is a summary of the known holders of these ofﬁces and a description of their function in relation to that found in the Safavid model.

Imåm juma Unlike the author of Tadhkirat al-mulk, who begins with the ofﬁce of Mullåbåsh¥ (conceived of as the highest ofﬁce), ItimÇd al-Sal†ana and the author of the Risåla start with the ofﬁce of Imåm juma, signalling perhaps the increased importance of this post. Apparently this ofﬁce was hereditary.28 There were many famous religious families, both in the capital and the provinces who held this ofﬁce, passing the post on usually from father to son, but sometimes to a close relative.29 In Tehran, for example, the family of ÅqÇ M¥r Mahd¥ controlled the ofﬁce.30 According to some reports, successive Imåm jumas in the capital had tried to establish themselves as the main religious ﬁgure. The link between the Tehran Imåm juma and those in the provinces is demonstrated by the fact that when an Imåm juma outside of the capital died, the Imåm juma in Tehran immediately began the mourning ceremonies for him in the Royal Mosque.31 In the provinces, various religious families held control of the post. Traditionally, in Shiraz, for example, the descendants of Shaykh Abd al-Nab¥ Sh¥rÇz¥,32 who was Imåm juma during the reign of Kar¥m KhÇn 76

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Zand, were Imåm jumas.33 The NiΩåm al-Ulamå was clearly of lower prestige, as demonstrated by the NiΩåm of Tabriz in the NÇ‚ir¥ period. M¥rzÇ JavÇd Mujtahid of Tabriz, was so well thought of by the Qajar court that he received considerable wealth from the court and NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh appointed him as Imåm juma of Tabriz as a promotion.34 In Mashhad, the inﬂuential family of M¥rzÇ Askar¥ usually occupied the ofﬁce. In the early years of NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh’s reign, when Óasan KhÇn SÇlÇr rebelled against the state, the Imåm juma opposed him. The SÇlÇr was sufﬁciently concerned by this that he arrested him and conﬁscated some of his assets.35 When M¥rzÇ Askari died, his son M¥rzÇ HidÇyat AllÇh succeeded him by the order of the Shah.36 The Imåm juma in Tehran was usually a leading religious leader who had a close relationship with the royal family, not unlike the Íadr during the Safavid rule.37 We know of ÅqÇ M¥r Muªammad Mahd¥ who was Imåm juma during the reign of Fatª Al¥ ShÇh and famous for a book on the Imamate as well as a commentary on the Nahj al-balågha.38 Unfortunately, the sources contain limited information about the functions of this ofﬁce other than leading Friday prayers. It appears that sometimes the Imåm juma functioned as a qå∂¥, particularly to the courtiers and royal family. In the Central Library of Tehran University, for example, there are a number of documents belonging to the family of the Imåm juma of Tehran, entitled Daftar-i shariyyat-i imåm juma, which demonstrate his judicial role to the court.39

Shaykh al-Islåm The ofﬁce of Shaykh al-Islåm was also usually hereditary.40 Unlike the post of Imåm juma, the functions of which were disputed and, at times, the subject of controversy, especially during the Safavid period, the ofﬁce of Shaykh al-Islåm was well-established. When the state religious structure was developing in Tehran, a new cadre of religious leaders emerged. Among them was the family of Abd al-Kar¥m, who took charge of the ofﬁce of the Shaykh al-Islåm of the capital. In 1281/1864, when Abd alKar¥m died, his son, M¥rzÇ Aªmad, succeeded him in ofﬁce.41 Throughout the country, there were already many established families, members of which held the post of Shaykh al-Islåm. In Isfahan, for example, this ofﬁce belonged to the descendants of MullÇ Muªammad BÇqir SabzavÇr¥, the great ålim of the late Safavid period. They were known as Khåndånih-yi Shaykh al-Islåm and their prerogative to the post did not alter with the advent of the Qajars. During the Qajar period, seven of them were successive Shaykh al-Islåms in Isfahan.42 In Shiraz, there was also an established Shaykh al-Islåm family. FasÇ¥ mentions them as silsila-yi jal⁄la-yi shaykh al-Islåmiyya.43 According to him, they controlled many religious affairs of the city. We know of a number of established ﬁgures who were Shaykh al-Islåms in other cities. Up to the 77

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middle of the nineteenth century, M¥rzÇ Al¥ A‚ghar was Shaykh al-Islåm in Tabriz44; ÅqÇ M¥r VÇªid was appointed as Shaykh al-Islåm in Urumiya, and took over control of the religious affairs of the city together with those of Khy45; MullÇ Rª al-D¥n held the post in Nishapur46; in Astarabad, MullÇ Na‚r AllÇh was the Shaykh al-Islåm47; Zayn al-Åbid¥n of Ganjeh held the post in Ulkay Qarache Dagh.48 The role of the Shaykh al-Islåms was mainly to act as chief Judge, or qå∂¥, in the city, and perhaps this is the reason why the author of the Risala-yi tashkh¥‚ va tarq¥m mentions him along with the Qu∂åt. The Shaykh al-Islåm might also be involved in foreign affairs as in the case of ÅqÇ IbrÇh¥m, the Shaykh al-Islåm of Khy who was sent to congratulate the Ottoman Sul†Çn Mu‚†afÇ on his coronation in the NÇ‚ir¥ period.49 Sometimes the Shaykh al-Islåm, or his family, joined the state in suppressing a local revolt, as was the case in Zanjan in which the son of the Shaykh al-Islåm of Tarom was killed in the battle between the state forces and the rebels.50 These functions signify the considerable importance of the Shaykh al-Islåm, both locally and nationally, and their families were usually members of the local notable classes of the cities and had considerable wealth.51

Íadrs The ofﬁces of the Íadåråt constituted one of the main state religious ofﬁces in the Safavid period. During the period between the collapse of the Safavids and the rise of the Qajars, they continued to exist. M¥rzÇ Muªammad Al¥, for example, was the Íadr al-Mamålik of both the Afsharid and Zand dynasties. After his death, his son succeeded him.52 The Safavid manner of appointment of these ofﬁcials continued. In 1184AH, for example, Kar¥m KhÇn Zand, issued a farmån, conﬁrming the post of Íadr al-Mamålik, appointing M¥rzÇ Abd al-GhaffÇr¥ to oversee the religious affairs of Qazvin.53 During the early years of Qajar rule, one hears of M¥rzÇ Muªsin as Nå ib al-Íadr in Yazd,54 with M¥rzÇ Muªammad succeeding him. According to KhavÇr¥ Sh¥rÇz¥, KhÇnlÇr M¥rzÇ, son of AbbÇs M¥rzÇ, killed M¥rzÇ Muªammad, but there was no reaction from the state or other religious leaders, perhaps indicating a reduction in status of this post.55 Also during the ﬁrst half of the nineteenth century, M¥rzÇ Muªammad Al¥ was Íadr in Mashhad.56 We know less of the ofﬁce in the capital, especially during the early years of Qajar rule. However, there were at least two famous Íadrs of Tehran. The ﬁrst was M¥rzÇ Na‚r AllÇh Ardab¥l¥ who was appointed to the ofﬁce of Íadr al-Mamålik during the early years of the Muªammad ShÇh’s reign in 1259AH.57 It is worth noting that this Íadr was a NimatallÇh¥ dervish and his NimatallÇh¥ title was Nu‚ratal¥,58 possibly demonstrating that the appointment was not exclusively reserved for scholars of the traditional 78

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sciences. During the early years of NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh’s reign, when the soldiers in Tehran began to revolt, it soon became clear that Nu‚ratal¥ had encouraged them. Am¥r Kab¥r exiled him to Kermanshah where he died in 1272AH.59 The other well-known Íadr of Tehran during the Qajar period was M¥rzÇ Muªammad Óusayn. He belonged to the Mullåbåsh¥ family in Qazvin, and his father, M¥rzÇ Fa∂l AllÇh60 was Mullåbåsh¥ 61 in Qazvin. M¥rzÇ Muªammad Óusayn succeeded his father in ofﬁce and during the reign of Muªammad Shah, he was appointed to the post of Íadr al-Mamålik,62 then Íadr of Divånkhånih during the NÇ‚ir¥ period, demonstrating the possible movement between posts traditionally held by one family.63 In 1272AH, NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh appointed M¥rzÇ Muªammad Husayn as custodian of Imam Reza’s Holy Shrine, a post listed under Mashåyikh va Mavål¥ va Urafå in the Risåla. At the same time, he was minister of awqåf and waΩåif.64 It is worth mentioning that the titles of Íadr and Nå ib al-Íadr usually belonged to a religious leader who was a member of NimatallÇh¥ order, especially during the reign of Muªammad ShÇh. The NimatallÇh¥ ÅqÇ Zayn al-Åbid¥n of Shiraz, for example, was Nå ib al-Íadr 65 and Muªammad ShÇh gave him the title of Raªmat Al¥ ShÇh.66 Zayn al-Åbid¥n’s son was also Nå ib al-Íadr.67 The previously mentioned NimatallÇh¥, M¥rzÇ Na‚r AllÇh Ardab¥l¥, was Íadr al-Mamålik. Ganjav¥ says that the NimatallÇh¥, M¥rzÇ Raf¥ NiΩÇm al-UlamÇ of Tabriz, was ﬁrst Nå ib al-Íadr then Íadr alUlamå and ﬁnally NiΩåm al-Ulamå ,68 giving us some idea of the relative hierarchy of these posts. The functions of the Íadåråt ofﬁces during both the Safavid and Qajar periods were principally concerned with awqåf and judicial administration. The Íadrs also distributed the waΩåif – regular payment to the members of the religious institution from the state. Contrary to what was the case during the Safavid period, in which Íadrs were always sayyids, it seems that the ofﬁce in the Qajar period usually belonged to nonsayyids. Furthermore, there appears to have been only one Íadr or Íadr al-Mamålik at any one point in time during the Qajar period. When the awqåf and justice ministries were established, the ofﬁce was abolished.

Mullåbåshi The Mullåbåsh¥ was the highest state religious ofﬁce during the reigns of the last Safavid monarchs, and this continued into the early years of the ÅqÇ Muªammad ShÇh’s reign. MullÇ Muªammad Óusayn of MÇzandÇrÇn was the ﬁrst Mullåbåsh¥ of the Qajar state.69 Apparently after him, MullÇ Al¥ A‚ghar became Mullåbåsh¥70 and occupied the ofﬁce even into the reign of Fatª Al¥ ShÇh.71 When he became aged and ill, he requested the Shah to replace his son M¥rzÇ Al¥ to the ofﬁce, to which the Shah agreed. The Shah’s farmån on the appointment of M¥rzÇ Al¥ is preserved in the Central Library of the University of Tehran.72 79

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It appears to be the case that the ofﬁce of Mullåbåsh¥ was hereditary. Perhaps it functioned as an important ofﬁce of religious affairs until the reign of Muªammad Shah, but from this period onward, the Mullåbåsh¥ was merely a tutor to the royal family and others. M¥rzÇ Óasan of Tabriz was the tutor of Firz M¥rzÇ.73 M¥rzÇ Abd al-Raª¥m was the Mullåbåsh¥ of the Al¥ Qul¥ M¥rzÇ family. When he became involved in the movement against the Qajars in the early NÇ‚ir¥ period, Am¥r Kab¥r tried to arrest him,74 but he was protected by his employer Al¥ Qul¥ M¥rzÇ. It seems, though, that the Mullåbåsh¥ ceased to be a post of great political importance. Abd al-Kar¥m Mullåbåsh¥ of Tabriz is distinguished only by his book on Persian Grammer.75 I have already mentioned the Mullåbåsh¥ M¥rzÇ Fa∂l AllÇh of Qazvin. It was, therefore, a low ranking ofﬁce, but ItimÇd al-Sal†ana mentions it among the ofﬁcials in the Tehran royal administration as kårguzårån va amal¥jåt makh‚‚-i darbkhånih-yi Nå ib al-Sal†ana76 and there were other Mullåbåsh¥s in the Provinces.77 All of these ofﬁces had changed their form, or ceased to exist by the reign of NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh, particularly after the introduction of new ofﬁces and ministries during the NÇ‚ir¥ period. A comparison between the two periods, the Safavid and the Qajar, demonstrates that the structure of the state religious administration continued to be of great importance. The religious institution had a close and binding relationship with the Safavid state, and usually the most important and inﬂuential scholar, in academic terms, also held the highest position in the state structure (particularly in the capital and the major cities in the provinces). There was no real difference between this ålim and other leading members of the state. Changes in the religious structure however occurred both before and after the rise of the Qajars. There was, it appears, no highest religious ofﬁce in the Qajar administration, though the Shaykh al-Islåms and Imåm jumas appear as the most inﬂuential; but the holders of these posts were rarely ﬁgures of great religious authority, and it is this fact that provides us with the crucial difference between the Safavid and Qajar periods. Though the ulamå continued to have a close relationship with the state, and many of them held state religious ofﬁces, the major religious ﬁgures appear separate from the state in the early years of the Qajar period. This process of separation was continued through the reforms of the NÇ‚ir¥ period, and the subsequent Constitutional Revolution. The relationship between the religious hierarchy (rather than individual religious ﬁgures) and the state had changed entirely.

Notes 1 I wish to thank Dr Robert Gleave of Department of Theology and Religious Studies of the University of Bristol who kindly helped me to prepare this

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2 3 4

5

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12

13 14 15 16 17 18 19

chapter, and also, I would like to thank BIPS, who supported my research under the project ‘Religion and Society in Qajar Iran’. Olivier Safarnåmih-yi Oliviyyih (Muªammad Tahir M¥rzÇ (trans.); GhulÇmri∂Ç Varahram (ed.): Tehran 1371sh/1992) 169. For a new study on this subject see Mansur Sefatgol Sakhtar-i nahåd va andishih-yi d¥n¥ dar Ûrån-i a‚r-i Íafav¥ (Tehran, 1381sh/2002). See also Saïd Amir Arjomand, The Shadow of God and the Hidden Imam (Chicago, 1984). I have mentioned this situation in ‘The Question of Awqaf Under the Afsharids (1735–1803/1148–1218): Safavid Heritage and NÇdir ShÇh’s Measures’ Materiaux Pour l’histoire ‰conomique du Iran (Rika Gyselen and Maria Szuppe (eds): Paris, 1999) 209–32. Despite the fact that almost all studies on NÇdir ShÇh mention the ulamå viewing him as the enemy of religion, NÇdir ShÇh had a good relationship with the leading ulamå . His Mullåbåsh¥ was Al¥ Akbar KhurasÇn¥ and the leading ålim Na‚rallÇh ÓÇir¥ had close relations with NÇdir and in some cases, acted as his ambassador to the BÇb-i Ål¥, the Ottoman court and the holy sites of Mecca and Medina. See Mansur Sefatgol ‘DarÇmad¥ Bar Sakhtari D¥n¥-yi FarmÇnravÇ¥-yi Zand¥yÇn’ Fårs Shinåkht 1 (Spring 1378sh) 81–93. Hamid Algar Religion and State in Iran, 1785–1906. The Role of the Ulama in the Qajar Period (Ab al-QÇsim Sirr¥ (Persian trans.): Tehran, 1369sh) 60. Algar, Religion and State, 60; J. R. I. Cole Roots of North Indian Shiism in Iran and Iraq, Religion and State in Awadh, 1722–1859 (London, 1988). Faruk Sumer Naghsh-i Turkån-i Anatul¥ dar tashk¥l va tavs¥ ih-yi dawlat-i Íafav¥ (IªsÇn IshrÇq¥ and M. T. ImÇm¥ (trans.): Tehran 1371sh/1992) 119–21. Tadhkirat al-mulk, edited by Muªammad DÇbir Siyaq¥ and annotated by V. Minorsky; published as Såzimån-i Idåra-yi Óukmat-i Íafav¥ (Tehran 1363sh/ 1984). Såzimån-i Idåra-yi Óukmat-i Íafav¥, 2–3. Dår al-Khilåfa was the title of Tehran in this period according to the Qajar sources. See Abd AllÇh Mustawf¥ Sharª-i Zindigån¥-yi man yå tårikh-i siyås¥ ijtimå ¥-yi idår¥-yi Ûrån dar ahd-i qåjår, 3 vols (Tehran, 1371sh/1992) I, 31. According to a document published by Daneshpazhuh, Tehran became Dår alKhalafa in 1255/1839. See, M. T. Danishpazhuh Nashriyya-yi nuskhihhå-yi kha††¥ IV, 618. During the Safavid Period, Isfahan was Maghårih-yi sal†anat va khilåfat (‘The Residence of the Kingdom and Caliphate’); QÇ∂¥ Aªmad Qumm¥ Khulå‚at al-tavår¥kh, 2 vols (IªsÇn IshrÇq¥ (ed.): Tehran, 1363sh/1984) II, 890; Muªammad IbrÇh¥m Nu‚ayr¥ Dastr-i shåhriyårån (Muªammad NÇdir NÇ‚irimuqaddam (ed.): Tehran 1373/1994) 16, 18; Al¥ A‚ghÇr-i ShÇm¥m Ûrån dar sal†anat-i Qåjår (Tehran, 1372sh/1993) 341; ItimÇd al-Sal†ana Tår¥kh-i muntaΩam-i Nå‚ir¥, 3 vols (Muªammad IsmÇ¥l-i Ri∂vÇn¥ (ed.):Tehran, 1367sh/1988) III, 1898. ‘RisÇla-yi Tashkh¥‚ va Tarq¥m-i AlqÇb’ Farhang-i Ûrån Zam¥n 19 (1352sh/ 1974) 49–61. In this volume there is another unﬁnished risåla written by MaªmdkhÇn-i MÇlik al-ShuarÇ (ÍabÇ) entitled ‘Tart¥b-i AlqÇb’ (on pages 62–88). ItimÇd al-Sal†ana al-Maåth¥r va al-åthår (Iraj Afshar (ed.): Tehran 1363sh/ 1984). ItimÇd al-Sal†ana Tår¥kh-i muntaΩam-i Nå‚ir¥, III, 2095. ‘RisÇla-yi Tashkh¥‚’, 51. ‘RisÇla-yi Tashkh¥‚’, 51. ‘RisÇla-yi Tashkh¥‚’, 51. ‘RisÇla-yi Tashkh¥‚’, 52. ‘RisÇla-yi Tashkh¥‚’, 52. The holy shrine of Ha∂rat-i Abd al-AΩ¥m had a special administrative section during the Qajar Period.

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20 21 22 23 24 25 26

27 28 29 30 31 32

33

34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47

ItimÇd al-Sal†ana, al-Maåth¥r I, 310. ItimÇd al-Sal†ana, al-Maåth¥r I, 310. ItimÇd al-Sal†ana, al-Maåth¥r I, 313. ItimÇd al-Sal†ana, al-Maåth¥r I, 315. He mentions that there are ‘many’ Shaykh al-Islåms (bisyårand). When ItimÇd al-Sal†ana wrote his work, the Íadr of the Divånkhånih (probably the Court High Judge) was M¥rzÇ Muªammad Shaﬁ Qazv¥n¥. ItimÇd al-Sal†ana, al-Maåth¥r I, 315. ItimÇd al-Sal†ana, al-Maåth¥r I, 318. Also he refers to Mullåbåsh¥ as bisyårand. ItimÇd al-Sal†ana, al-Maåth¥r I, 319. At the time of the completion of ItimÇd al-Sal†ana’s work, the NiΩåm al-Ulamå of Dår al-Khilåfa-yi ˝ihrån was M¥rzÇ Muªammad KhÇn-i QÇjÇr. This demonstrates that there were NiΩåm al-Ulamå s without a clerical background. See Sålnamih-yi dawlat-i åliyya-yi Ûrån. This text was written in 1306/1888 and published as the appendix to the al-Maåth¥r va al-åthår (ItimÇd al-Sal†ana, al-Maåth¥r I, 375). ItimÇd al-Sal†ana Miråt al-Buldån, 3 vols (Tehran, 1367sh/1988) I, 948–9. See ItimÇd al-Sal†ana, al-Maåth¥r I, 192, where ItimÇd al-Sal†ana says that after the death of M¥rzÇ Ab al-QÇsim, the Imåm juma of Tehran, his son succeeded him in the post. ItimÇd al-Sal†ana, Miråt I, 948. See also Iti∂Çd al-Sal†ana Iksir al-Tavår¥kh (Jamsh¥d KiyÇnfÇr (ed.): Tehran 1370sh/1991) 603. Rznåmih-yi Ûrån, 85 (Thursday, 2 Safar 1289AH) 339; Rznåmih-yi Ûrån, 108 (14 JumÇdÇ al-ÁlÇ 1289AH) 432. Abd al-RazzÇq Bayg Dunbl¥ Tajrubåt al-aªrår va tasl¥yyåt al-abrår (Óasan QÇ∂¥ ˝aba†ÇbÇ¥ (ed.): Tabriz, 1359sh/1981) I, 186; Óasan FasÇ¥ Fårsnamih-yi Nå‚ir¥, 2 vols (Man‚r RastigÇr (ed.): Tehran 1360sh/1980) I, 985; Ab al-Óasan GhaffÇr¥ Gulshån-i Muråd (GhulÇmri∂Ç ˝aba†abÇ¥ Majd-zarr¥n (ed.): Tehran, 1369sh) 295; M¥rzÇ Muªammad KalantÇr Rznamih-yi M¥rzå Muªammad Kalåntar (AbbÇs IqbÇl Åsht¥yÇn¥ (ed.): Tehran, 1362sh/1983) 114. FasÇ¥ mentions the family of Shaykh Abd al-Nab¥ Sh¥rÇz¥ as silsila-yi-e jal¥la-yi imåm juma in Shiraz. See FasÇ¥, Fårsnåmih I, 985–90. For one of the members of this house see Muªammad Taq¥ Sipihr Nåsikh al-tavår¥kh, 2 vols (Jamsh¥d KiyÇnfÇr (ed.): Tehran, 1377sh/1998) III, 1279. ItimÇd al-Sal†ana, Tår¥kh-i muntaΩam III, 1923; Rznamih-yi Ûrån, 1 (Nos 1–208, National Library of Iran, Tehran) 5. Sipihr, Nåsikh al-tavår¥kh III, 1050–1. ItimÇd al-Sal†ana, Tår¥kh-i muntaΩam III, 1873. ItimÇd al-Sal†ana, al-Maåth¥r I, 192. Iti∂Çd al-Sal†ana, Iksir al-tavår¥kh, 603. See Daftar-i shariyyåt-i Imåm Juma (MS 9426–9435, University of Tehran Central Library, Tehran). FasÇ¥, Fårsnåmih II, 921–4. ItimÇd al-Sal†ana, Tår¥kh-i muntaΩam III, 1865. Muslih al-D¥n Mahdav¥ Khåndån-i Shaykh al-Islåm-I‚fahån (Isfahan, 1371sh/ 1992) 127–8. FasÇ¥, Fårsnåmih II, 921. Majma (MS 2523, University of Tehran Central Library, Tehran) 276. Abd al-Rash¥d AfshÇr Tårikh-i Afshår (M. RmyÇn and P. Shahryår (eds): Tabriz, (ed.): Tehran, 1345sh/1966) 300; ItimÇd al-Sal†ana, Tår¥kh-i muntaΩam III, 1187. NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh Rznamih-yi Safar-i Khurasån (ÛrÇj AfshÇr (ed.): Tehran, 1374sh/1995) 151–2. NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh, Rznåmih-yi safar, 408–9.

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48 Zayn al-Åbid¥n al-Íafav¥ al-Ganjav¥ Tuªfat al-albå f¥ tadhkirat al-liyyå va al-shurafå (MS 2513, University of Tehran Central Library, Tehran) 189. 49 ItimÇd al-Sal†ana, Tår¥kh-i muntaΩam III, 1487. 50 Muªammad Jafar Khrmuj¥ Óaqå iq al-Akhbår-i Nå‚ir¥ (Tehran, 1345sh) 71. 51 Rznamih-yi Ûrån, 44 (Nos 1–208, National Library of Iran, Tehran) 173. 52 Óusayn Mudarris¥ ˝aba†ÇbÇ¥ Barg¥ az Tår¥kh-i Qazv¥n (Qum, 1361sh/1982) 218; M. BÇmdÇd Sharª-i ªål-i rijål-i Ûrån, qarnhå-yi 12 va 13 va 14h, 6 vols (4th edn: Tehran, 1371sh) III, 458–9; Ab al-Óasan b Muªammad Am¥n GulistÇnih Mujmal al-Tavår¥kh (Tehran, 1356sh/1977) 423. See also Rznåmih-yi M¥rzå Muªammad Kalantar (n.p., n.d.) 82. 53 IªsÇn IshrÇq¥ ‘Muarrif¥-yi Chand Sanad-i TÇr¥kh¥’ Barras¥hå-yi Tår¥kh¥ 7.4 (1351sh) 114–15. 54 GhaffÇr¥, Gulshan-i Murad, 738; Muªammad Jafar b Muªammad Óusayn NÇin¥ Jam¥ a-yi Jafar¥ (ÛrÇj AfshÇr (ed.): Tehran 1353sh/1975) 442. 55 Fa∂lallÇh Óusayn¥ Sh¥rÇz¥ (KhÇvar¥) Tadhkira-yi Khåvar¥ (M¥r HÇshim Muªaddith (ed.): Zanjan, 1379sh/2000) 91. 56 Muªammad Taq¥ Nr¥ Ashraf al-tavår¥kh (MS 599, Malek Library, Tehran) 41B. 57 Iti∂Çd al-Sal†ana Iks¥r al-tavår¥kh, 440; ItimÇd al-Sal†ana, Miråt al-buldån I, 915. 58 A∂ud al-Dawla Sul†Çn Aªmad M¥rzÇ Tår¥kh-i A∂ud¥ (Abd al-Óusayn NavÇ¥ (ed.): Tehran, 1376sh/1997) 233. 59 Sipihr, Nåsikh al-tavår¥kh, III, 1279; According to Tår¥kh-i A∂ud¥ (A∂ud alDawla, Tår¥kh-i A∂ud¥, 254) he died in 1272AH, but Sipihr gives the date 1271/1854. 60 Aªmad Gulch¥n MaÇn¥ Tår¥kh-i tadhkirihhå-yi Fårs¥, 2 vols (Tehran 1350sh/ 1972) II, 768; Bamdad, Sharª-i ªål III, 94. 61 Maªammad Al¥ Gulr¥z M¥ndar yå båb al-jannåt, 2 vols (Tehran, 1337sh/ 1958) I, 327–8. 62 Maªmd Kay ‘Chand FarmÇn-i TÇr¥kh¥’ Barras¥hå-yi Tår¥kh¥ 5.5, 155–6; ˝aba†abÇ¥, Barg¥, 113. 63 ˝aba†abÇ¥, Barg¥, 113. 64 ˝aba†abÇ¥, Barg¥, 113. 65 FasÇ¥, Fårsnåmih II, 1115. 66 Muallim-i Óab¥babÇd¥, Makårim al-åthår (Tehran, n.d.) I, 327–8. 67 FasÇ¥, Fårsnåmih II, 1116. 68 Ganjav¥ Tuªfat al-albå (MS 2513, University of Tehran Central Library, Tehran) 79B–80B. 69 Muªammad Fatª AllÇh b. Muªammad Taq¥ Sarav¥ Tår¥kh-i Muªammad¥ (Aªsan al-tavår¥kh) (GhulÇmri∂Ç ˝aba†abÇ¥ Majd (ed.): Tehran, 1371sh/1992) 201; Arjomand, The Shadow of God, 229–30. 70 Ashraf al-tavår¥kh, 137B. 71 Iti∂Çd al-Sal†ana, Iksir al-tavår¥kh, 91. 72 Firmån (MS 2415, University of Tehran Central Library, Tehran) 190–1. 73 Ganjav¥, Tuªfat al-albå, 138B. 74 Sipihr, Nåsikh al-Tavår¥kh III, 1182. 75 ÅqÇ Buzurg ˝ihrÇn¥ al-Dhar¥ a ilå ta‚ån¥f al-Sh¥ a, 25 vols (Qum, 1341sh) VIII, 158. 76 ItimÇd al-Sal†ana, Tår¥kh-i muntaΩam III, 2097. 77 For instance, see, FasÇ¥, Fårsnåmih II, 936. He mentions them as the Mullåbåsh¥ family in Shiraz (see FasÇ¥, Fårsnåmih II, 1080–96).

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5 RELIGIOUS AND STATE JURISDICTION DURING N ÅÍIR AL-D ±N SH ÅH’S REIGN Irene Schneider

General remarks Compared to other parts of the Islamic world, especially the Ottoman Empire,1 little research has been done on the Iranian legal system in premodern times.2 One of the reasons might be that Iranian archives are not considered to be as rich a source as, for instance, Ottoman archives.3 Documentary materials about the legal system are not, however, as scarce as has so far been thought.4 This chapter is based on a sample of petitions (ar∂nåmihhå) which were submitted to NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh in the period 1301–3/1882–5 when presiding over the MaΩålim or court of complaints against injustices. It is the aim of this chapter to throw new light on the Qajar legal system on the basis of these documents. So far, the legal history of Iran especially under the Qajars has been reconstructed from literary sources such as chronicles, administrative manuals, biographies of important state ofﬁcials and reports of Europeans travelling or living in Persia. Accordingly, the legal system at the end of the nineteenth century has normally been characterised as a dual judicial system, a centralised jurisdiction and arbitrariness. A dual judicial system Religious or shar-courts presided over by the ulamå existed side by side with secular or urf-courts administered by government ofﬁcials. Lambton states a lack of a clear dividing line between the two jurisdictions.5 According to Floor and Algar there seems to have been a kind of division of labour between secular and religious jurisdiction: While the urf-courts dealt primarily with criminal law and offences against the state such as rebellion, embezzlement, theft and drunkenness, the shar-courts were mainly concerned with affairs of a civil nature, especially those of the personal status and commercial affairs.6 The shar-judges of a village or city often turned to leading ulamå or mujtahids because of their superior 84

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knowledge.7 The sentence of a mujtahid was, according to Lambton, irrevocable, except by that of a mujtahid of greater learning and sanctity.8 Shar-courts, however, for the most part lacked the ability to enforce their decisions: the enforcement of verdicts was in the hands of state ofﬁcials.9 Urf jurisdiction is said not to have relied on religious law (shar) but to have been arbitrary.10 There seems to have been an attempt in 1855 to abolish the legal force of contradictory juridical opinions, which was, however, abortive.11 A centralised jurisdiction From the middle of the nineteenth century, NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh and some of his ministers attempted to centralise the administration of justice. The aim was to extend the ﬁeld of urf¥ jurisdiction at the expense of shar¥ jurisdiction, while at the same time regulating the procedure of the urf¥ jurisdiction.12 In order to have some degree of inﬂuence over the sharcourts the Shah appointed a mullå in every principal town with the title of shaykh al-Islåm.13 More complicated cases seem to have been referred to him.14 The highest urf-court was the d¥vån-i shåh. Next in rank were the provincial governors, followed by the governors of smaller jurisdictions or towns.15 Under Muªammad ShÇh (r. 1834–48) a d¥vån-i adålat or court of justice was established.16 This d¥vån was reorganised by NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh’s chief minister, M¥rzÇ Taq¥ KhÇn Am¥r Kab¥r (in ofﬁce, 1848–51). His reforms aimed at improving the quality of both shar and urf-courts and to extend the control of the state over the courts.17 Lambton reports of attempts to assert the authority of the central d¥vån over the provincial courts. In 1858 an announcement was made that a department of justice (d¥vånkhånih-yi adliyya) would be set up in each province. Its decrees, if they concerned shar¥ matters, were to be referred to a mujtahid, and if they concerned urf¥ matters to the provincial governor. This attempt however was also abortive.18 Arbitrariness In practice the Qajar jurisdictional system – especially the urf jurisdiction – is described and characterised by ‘might before right’, arbitrariness, corruption and patronage. This is unanimously stated by Persian and European observers. According to Mustawf¥, people in civil cases ﬁrst tried to come to an agreement through the arbitration of the family heads and only after this had failed did they go to shar-courts. Mustawf¥ states that in civil cases there was no involvement of the state jurisdiction until the Constitutional Revolution (1906–11). Legal judgments of shar-courts were enforced by the governor only after he had received a nominal sum as an ‘enforcement fee’. In criminal cases the victim went to the sharjudge to obtain ﬁnancial compensation. With this judgment, he went to 85

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the governor. The governor would then summon the accused and if he succeeded in getting money from him he would keep it for himself. However, Mustawf¥ points to the fact that NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh was very strict in cases of murder and only rarely could the murderer escape the death penalty.19 Floor summarises the jurisdictional situation as follows: The lower classes did not have much bargaining power and had no access to the government. They could only turn to a group of inﬂuential brokers (wåsi†a) who were accessible to all and had access to all levels of government, namely the ulamå . . . Although the ulamå , through their role as social critics, served to blunt the oppression of the common people, they did not challenge the structure of society nor did they wish to reshape the norms of political life and the bases of the state.20 This view seems to ignore the institution of maΩålim existing in Qajar times. With this institution the subjects had theoretically the opportunity to turn directly to the Shah and to present him their grievances. The petitions used as a source in this chapter clearly show that the people had knowledge of their right, and did use it.

The institution of maΩålim in Qajar times The maΩålim (sg. maΩlama, lit. injustices) are by deﬁnition a prerogative of the ruler, that is, they reﬂect his all-embracing power to deal with the complaints of the subjects.21 Some research has been done on the maΩålim in Ottoman times on the basis of documents,22 whereas the maΩålim jurisdiction in Iran remains a neglected topic. There is only little, and at times contradictory, information on the institution of maΩålim during the Qajar period. Lambton states23 for the early Qajar rule that prior to the attempts at judicial reform in the reign of NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh it would seem that governors and other state ofﬁcials continued to decide cases much after the fashion of the earlier maΩålim courts. The decisions given by them were entirely arbitrary. Torture and ill-treatment of offenders was common, and, in the middle of the century became the subject of acrimonious exchanges between NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh and the British and Russian missions. After the unsuccessful attempt to introduce departments of justice (d¥vånkhånihhå-yi adliyya) in the provinces in 1858, and, perhaps because of this failure, a revival of the maΩålim took place in 1860.24 An announcement was made that the Shah would hold a maΩålim court every Sunday. A rescript (dastkha††) was issued which laid down procedure. Among others, the ﬁrst minister and the deputy ﬁrst minister had to be present and the latter was to record the answers given to the petitions. Petitioners 86

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were to come forward one by one or two by two. If the petitioners made a commotion when they assembled, they were to be punished. Only petitions for the regress of grievances would be received: petitions for an increase of pay, pensions, etc. would not be heard. Petitions from the provinces could be submitted in writing through the ofﬁcial provincial post (chåpår).25 It is not clear whether the institution of maΩålim existed after 1860 continuously or whether it was neglected periodically. Curzon mentions for the year 1864 the so-called sandqhå-yi adålat. These justice-boxes were set up once a month in the larger towns for the petitioners to deposit their letters of grievance. The boxes were sealed and were to be opened only in the presence of the Shah. As the governors wished to prevent people submitting petitions they ordered – according to Curzon – ‘a watch to be kept on those boxes; and the bastinado was freely administered to any indiscreet person dropping in a petition’. According to Curzon this was the reason why the boxes remained empty.26 Under Mush¥r al-Dawla, Minister of Justice (in ofﬁce, 1881 and 1889–92)27 and later Prime Minister, a Ministry of Justice was set up. One of its departments was the so called majlis-i maΩålim-i åmma.28 A majlis-i taΩålumåt is mentioned for 1890.29 Thus it seems that the institution of maΩålim existed – perhaps with interruptions and under different names and different institutional settings – from 1860 to 1890. The petitions that will be dealt with in this article date from the years 1301–3/1882–5 and conﬁrm the existence of this institution in this period.

The collection of maΩålim-petitions to the Shah Ådamiyyat and NÇ†iq have already mentioned the existence of this collection of petitions and even paraphrased some of them.30 They describe them as a collection of 2,016 petitions, stressing their importance as a source for social history. They did not state, however, where the originals are kept. Nezam-Maﬁ based her study on 1836 petitions from the Central Library of Tehran University, noting the existence of another collection in the Malek Library which she did not use.31 She gives a short overview of the geographical origin and the contents of the petitions. The collection this chapter is based upon is that analysed in Nezam-Maﬁ’s article.32 It is, as far as I could discover, at least partially identical with the collection analysed by Ådamiyyat and NÇ†iq. It comprises about 2,000 petitions on microﬁlm.33 The documents concerned are sometimes very short, consisting of only a few lines. Some are longer and contain more detailed accounts of the grievances. They are recorded in the register of the ofﬁce-clerks of the Shah and thus are summaries of the original petitions. This is stated on the top of some of the folios (khulå‚a-yi arå i∂-i mutaΩallim¥n-i vilåyåt-i maªrsa kih a‚l-i ån dar majlis-i taªq¥q-i maΩålim ∂ab† ast). There are no petitions 87

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from Tehran but only from the provinces, especially from the northern, north-western and north-eastern provinces. Most petitions are from villages and small towns. Very often it is stated that the petitions arrived by post or by telegram. Sometimes one can conclude from remarks in the petitions that an earlier petition had been presented to the Shah while he travelled through the country with his entourage. The handwriting seems to be of different hands, the script is shikastih and often extremely difﬁcult to read. There are standard formulae especially at the beginning (Place – name of the petitioner, e.g. Malåyir – åri∂ Askar Khån) and at the end (the request is that an order may be given . . . to fulﬁll the petitioner’s rights: istid å ån ast kih amr va muqarrar farmåyand . . . iªqåq-i ªaqq nimåyand). The contents of the petition itself may have been shortened by the clerks but were surely not changed. In most cases it is possible to reconstruct the underlying case. Furthermore, the petitions vary in expression and style and thus show individual features. The Shah is normally addressed with dignifying names as ‘Pivot of the Universe’ (qiblå-yi ålam) and ‘The One for Whom our Souls should be Sacriﬁced’ (rªunå ﬁdåhu). The summaries made by the clerks were presented to the Shah whose decisions are often to be found on the margin. They are usually very short, but, it seems, not in his handwriting. Some petitions do not carry a remark at all and some are crossed out. Between the petitions (ar∂nåmihhå) some reports, råprthå, can be found which contain the ﬁnal recapitulation of some of the cases obviously presented to the Shah before. These reports unfortunately do not correspond to cases reported in the petitions. The petitions reﬂect the wishes and requests of the rural inhabitants, peasants, small landlords or – in the case of little towns – of craftsmen, merchants – a class of society which normally is totally ignored in the historical sources such as chronicles or autobiographies of important statesmen. MÇward¥ (d. 1045) in his book of statecraft (al-Aªkåm al-sul†åniyya) names the following matters which come within the purview of the maΩålim: 1

2

3

Oppression of ofﬁcials against the subjects and their mistreatment of them, injustice committed by ofﬁcials in their ﬁscal duties. It may even lead to replacement. Enforcement of the decisions of qå∂¥s, which have failed due to their inability to enforce them; dealing with opponents and deciding between litigants. Care of public worship, such as mosque prayers, festivals, pilgrimages and campaigns against the shortcomings and infringements of regulations.34

Eight hundred years later, a comparison with the petitions to NÇ‚ir al-D¥n shows astonishing parallels: 45 per cent of the petitions refer to the ﬁrst 88

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point, namely to oppression by state ofﬁcials. The injustice of ofﬁcials in their ﬁscal duties – i.e. complaints against the high taxation rate – make up 11 per cent. Legal claims from among petitioners amount to about 25 per cent (i.e. 19 per cent civil law and 6 per cent criminal cases). For the Shah’s obligation to care for public worship not many examples can be found; they amount to about 1 per cent. In 11 per cent of the petitions, people turned to the Shah to ask simply for ﬁnancial support or for a job. This is a class of petitions which is not mentioned by MÇward¥. According to the dastkha†† quoted above, these petitions were not to be heard at the sessions in Tehran. Nevertheless they were sometimes answered positively. The rest of the petitions, about 7 per cent, deal with various other topics. The questions which will be considered in relation to the judicial system in nineteenth-century Iran are the following: 1

2

How can the judicial system of Qajar Iran as reﬂected in the petitions be described? The information gained from the petitions is to be compared to the above-mentioned general statements on the Qajar jurisdiction (see below). Furthermore, the perception of the judicial system as reﬂected in the petitions shall be considered, especially concerning the institution of maΩålim. The aim is to work out the underlying Justizphantasien as Dinges35 called it, that is, to outline the conception which the subjects had about the jurisdiction, especially the institution of maΩålim and the intention of the Shah when initiating the maΩålim sessions (see pp. 100–1 below).

The judicial system of Qajar Iran as reﬂected in the petitions As stated above, about 25 per cent of all petitions deal with legal topics (civil and criminal cases). To analyse the information on the legal system contained in the petitions it is necessary to ﬁnd out which cases – civil or criminal – were presented to the Shah and whether the petitioners turned to the Shah directly or after other courts (shar- or urf-courts) had been involved. Furthermore, the decisions of the Shah have to be examined.36 Civil cases Civil cases presented directly to the Shah About 19 per cent of all petitions deal with civil cases. In about 50 per cent of the civil cases petitioners seem to have directly addressed the Shah without having already turned to another jurisdictional institution, since no other instance is named and no previous judgment is mentioned in the petitions.37 89

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One example: In a very short petition, a seller of barley (petition I) claims that a high ofﬁcial, the am¥n-i d¥vån owes him money. In his comment, the Shah angrily asks this am¥n-i d¥vån why he does not pay his debt back to the people. A surprisingly high proportion (about a third) of these petitions are by women while the number of female petitioners who presented non-civil petitions to the Shah were relatively few. Of the petitions or reports in criminal cases, 24 per cent are by women. Another example (petition II): Óa∂rat-i Abd al-AΩ¥m ˝†¥ BÇj¥: Ten years ago I was the wife of the late M¥rzÇ Abd al-Maj¥d, son of M¥rzÇ Abd al-Raª¥m Rasht¥. I had a son from him who died four months after the death of my husband. According to the shar I am entitled to the property of M¥rzÇ Abd al-Maj¥d. M¥rzÇ JawÇd, his brother, does not give me my rights. I am asking for the enforcement of the rights, that an order may be given to summon him either to the ‚idårat-i uΩmå or to the d¥vånkhånih-yi adliyya and to enforce my rights. The answer of the Shah is short and consensual: The affair is delegated to the d¥vånkhånih-yi adliyya. The wording of the petition shows a considerable self-conﬁdence. The woman seems not only to know her rights, she also has clear ideas how and where the case should be considered, and wants her brother-in-law to be summoned to Tehran either to the Prime Minister’s seat or to the d¥vånkhånih-yi adliyya. Furthermore, she is quite sure about the result: she requests to have her rights enforced. In another petition (petition III) a woman from NahÇvand, called Sul†Çn, complains that after the death of her husband she was driven out of the house by her late husband’s second wife and deprived of nearly all her rights of inheritance. This petition is very different in style from the one quoted above, not self-conﬁdent, but humble and anxious. The woman presents her grievance stating that, without petitioning and without royal justice, she won’t get her rights (nam¥tavånam bidn-i ar∂ va ªimåyat-i adl-i humåyn¥ bi-ªaqq-i khdam birisam). She begs for the enforcement of her rights so that she and her daughter will not die from poverty. The Shah instructs the governor to act according to the shar. In another petition, the petitioner, named M¥rzÇ Óusayn from HamadÇn, has property in joint ownership with ÓÇjj¥ Al¥ A‚ghar (petition IV). Originally a petition to the Shah seems to have been sent and an order (of the Shah) had been given that the ra¥s-i d¥vån should divide up this property. This order was not followed because Al¥ A‚ghar had a powerful relative in the administration named Shar¥f al-Mulk38 who succeeded in continuously delaying the enforcement. After a second petition the Shah delegated the case to another ofﬁcial in the d¥vånkhånih, but again Shar¥f al-Mulk prevented the division of the property. This second ofﬁcial is 90

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quoted in the petition with the following statement: ‘Because ÓÇjj¥ Al¥ A‚ghar is a relative of Shar¥f al-Mulk I cannot give a just judgment (nam¥tavånam ªukm-i ådilåna namdih . . .)’. The Shah then referred the case to Izz al-Dawla – the governor – ordering him to enforce the rights without prejudice. Thus, twice an order of the Shah had been ignored, twice an ofﬁcial in the royal administration of jurisdiction prevented the enforcement of the order of the Shah in favour of his protégé. The Shah instead of reprimanding Shar¥f al-Mulk (compare, for example, this with petition I) referred the case ﬁrst to another ofﬁcial in the d¥vånkhånih and then back to the provincial governor. In the hierarchy of the state courts the provincial governor surely represents a lower level of jurisdiction than the d¥vånkhånih in Tehran. The decision of the Shah thus seems extremely evasive. He seems to be reluctant to act against Shar¥f al-Mulk. The system of patronage is, at least in this case, stronger than the state juristiction. Civil cases that had been presented to other jurisdictional institutions before being addressed to the Shah In the other half of the civil cases, the petitioners presented one or more legal judgments already given in their case. There are different variations: (a) in 28 per cent of the cases people presented a shar-judgment. For example: a petitioner from SimnÇn had already received a shar-judgment against his stepmother, whom he accused of having betrayed him, and his minor brother, in their rights of inheritance. Ignoring this judgment, the stepmother turned to the ra¥s-i tiligråf (petition V) who offered her protection.39 The shar-court having been involved, the petitioner saw no other way than to turn to the Shah directly to demand his rights. In this case, the Shah gives detailed orders and advises the governor to summon both parties. If a judgment had already been given, it should be enforced. If not, the litigants are to be brought to the ofﬁce of a sharjudge acceptable to both sides (ªåkim-i shar¥ mar∂¥ al-†arafayn). Thus, the Shah is careful to accept the existing judgment. Only in case no judgment existed, a shar-court had to be involved. The wording ‘mar∂¥ al†arafayn’ always refers to religious judges (ªukkåm-i shar). It is clearly a hint of the insecurity of the jurisdictionary system: the shar-judges seem not to have had the legal force to announce binding judgments without the prior consent of both parties. The case of a dispute around inheritance (petition VI) is interesting here. The heirs complained that the high ministers (wuzarå -i iΩåm who seem to have given the decision) had given a judgment against the petitioners without taking into consideration an important document, a letter of agreement (‚ulªnåmih). It turns out that the father of the petitioner had been to a shar-court before and signed a letter of agreement. JanÇb-i ÅqÇ (Mustawf¥ al-MamÇlik)40 was asked to take up the matter and he corrected the judgment on the basis of this ‚ulªnåmih. 91

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(b) Only rarely, in 7 per cent 41 of the petitions, did the petitioners present urf-judgments alone. Two sayyids from SimnÇn, for example, had problems with their lessee. They report that they had handed in a petition to the local or provincial government (petition VII). (c) In 64 per cent of the petitions,42 the petitioners presented multiple judgments, shar¥ va urf¥. This might mean one shar¥ and one urf¥, but also several shar¥ and several urf¥-judgments by different judges! Here the case of a petitioner who complained about a man who diverted his qanåt (petition VIII) is of interest. He could not cultivate his land. The petitioner states: I invested much money to obtain a shar-judgment of ÓÇjj¥ M¥rzÇ HÇd¥ and an urf-judgment of NavvÇb Izz al-Dawla. But they were not enforced. I have lost my capital . . . my home I pawned for 36 tmåns. Eleven persons I have to feed. HÇjj¥ Fa∂l AllÇh (the defendant) was brought to Tehran on the order of NÇib alSal†ana.43 If there be a royal judgment against him, I could perhaps get back my water which he took away. If not, it will be difﬁcult. As he is wealthy and I have become poor, it is not clear that I could win against him. NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh gave the order to write to Izz al-Dawla who was to ﬁnd a solution (qarår¥ dar åsdag¥-yi ¥n mard bidahand). He did not, however, as requested by the petitioner, give a judgment by himself. On the contrary: he referred the case back to the urf jurisdiction, i.e. Izz al-Dawla,44 who had previously given a judgment (which due to reasons not given in the petition could not be enforced). Thus the decision of the Shah was either thoughtless or rested on a strong belief that Izz al-Dawla would enforce the judgment now, having a royal order in the hand. Summary From both sections (above) it becomes sufﬁciently clear that neither a clear competence nor any appeal stage existed. The petitioners in civil cases either turned directly to the Shah or tried different jurisdictional institutions – shar¥ and urf¥ – before handing in a petition. Contrary to Mustawf¥’s account, according to which the inﬂuence of state jurisdiction in the ﬁeld of civil law was non-existent in pre-Constitutional times, state jurisdiction was involved in civil cases. The Shah had stated in petition V that if a prior judgment existed it should be enforced, if not the litigants should turn to a judge acceptable to both parties (mar∂¥ al-†arafayn). Thus he accepted the shar-judgment and/ or referred the case to the shar jurisdiction.45 However, the enforcement and reference to shar jurisdiction is under state control in this case. Without state control shar jurisdiction did not function – at least in this case. This 92

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can be corroborated by another case from ZanjÇn: After both parties had consented to a process the defendants, seeing that the judgment would be against them, went to Tehran to seek state jurisdiction (d¥vånkhånih-yi mubårak) and they succeeded in obtaining a favourable judgment (petition IX). Again state jurisdiction seems stronger. This might, however, also be a problem peculiar to our source: cases in which shar-judgments were given, accepted by both sides and enforced are of course not reﬂected in the petitions. On the other hand it can be clearly stated that people in many cases tried to obtain – after having received a shar-judgment – a judgment through a state jurisdiction thus presenting combined shar- and urf-judgments to the Shah when handing in a petition. Petitions were presented to the Shah – in 50 per cent of the civil cases – because judgments were not enforced. In all these cases the petitioners had experienced the hard reality of the jurisdictional system in Qajar Iran: having a legal verdict did not automatically mean the enforcement of this verdict. Enforcement of judgments always depended on the state. This is what Mustawf¥ had indicated. And to obtain an enforcement of a sharjudgment seems to have been difﬁcult, especially when the other party, in the mean time, had turned to state jurisdiction. It happened that orders of the Shah were not carried out (petition IV). Cases are reported where the Shah, having seen that his authority was undermined, acted more forcefully (petition I). However, the system of patronage could and did occasionally interfere with the maΩålim-system which was intended originally to secure justice for all subjects. It is not always possible to gain information on the patrons: in petition IV the patron is a relative. In another case the plaintiff complains that his brother – the defendant – is under the protection of some ‘men’ but does not name them (petition X). It is suspected that corruption played a role too. In petition VIII the petitioner stated that it was difﬁcult for him to obtain his rights because he was poor. Some patrons might have acted out of a feeling of moral or religious responsibility and charity. In a criminal case, a female petitioner, whose husband had been killed, had a mujtahid as patron who seems to have played this role every now and then with the aim to help the people of his village (petition XI). However, he failed against the powerful patrons of the murderers of the woman’s husband. The Shah instructed the governor to give her her right. Another reason for the non-enforcement of judgments was ‘might before right’. Thus one Sayyid Al¥ from AstarÇbÇd (petition XII) reports that two people tried to take away property which had been in possession of this family for generations. ÅqÇ Sayyid Al¥ showed them shar- and urf-documents, reporting that: because they saw (them) and could not say anything against them . . . they invited the brother of the petitioner . . . to their house. As soon as he entered, Sayyid IsmÇ¥l ÍabbÇgh beat him with a 93

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club and the others helped him. After three days and two nights the brother of the petitioner died of this beating. A petition was sent to the government of the province but the rights were not enforced. Thus the petitioner turned to the Shah. Another petitioner tells a story (petition XIII) of molestation because he was poor, the defendant did not leave him alone but bothered him all the time. Some major problems of the Qajar jurisdictional system concerned the non-existence of a stage of appeal and a laxity in the enforcing of judgments by the state. Litigants and parties had to try as many jurisdictional institutions as they could (or could afford). Enforcement of judgments by the state meant that the religious courts could not become a serious rival to the state jurisdictional system but ultimately depended on it for the enforcement of their judgments. This is, however, the picture the petitions reveal. We do not have extensive information on the functioning of the sharcourts in the late nineteenth century. Possibly there were shar-courts issuing legal verdicts which were enforced by state authorities. Furthermore we know that some powerful shar-judges even executed their judgments themselves. The example of the famous Isfahan judge Muªammad BÇqir al-Shaft¥ (1180–1260/1766–1844) is a case in point. He claimed for himself, i.e. for a shar-judge and mujtahid, the right to enforce his judgments not only theoretically, but practised it in civil and criminal matters.46 Criminal cases Approximately 6 per cent of the legal petitions deal with criminal cases. Criminal cases47 in the petitions under research comprise murder, homicide and injury, theft and robbery and one case of attempted suicide and vandalism. About 70 per cent of all criminal cases are contained in petitions, 30 per cent are known from råprthå. Thus cases were referred to the Shah not only by private litigants only, but also by ofﬁcials of the state. Contrary to civil cases, in almost all criminal cases state jurisdiction seems to have been involved. An example is petition XIV: Regarding the case of Lu†f Al¥ Bayk, who had murdered his brother: The answer (of the provincial governor) is that he has been arrested. After the investigation, the nearest relatives of the murdered person are entitled to retaliation. There will be an order. It is the duty of the government (takl¥f-i ªukmat) that whoever is accused of murder should be arrested and this has been done. [Note:] It is a royal judgment that a case like this has to be brought to an end as soon as possible. It has been ordered that the murderer should not remain in prison. This affair should be brought to an end according to the shar. 94

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Here the ﬁnding and arresting of a murderer is clearly deﬁned as the duty of the state. It seems that state ofﬁcials who had to deal with capital crimes had to report these cases to the Shah to inform him of their handling of the cases. What happened after these reports and after the arresting of the murderer – whether he was killed by the family of the murdered person or had to pay blood-money – was an affair of private claim.48 The answer in this example reveals an interest of the state in a fast settlement of the affair and the strict control by the state. There might, however, also be jurisdiction at shar-courts not only for the compensation (diya) but also for the murder itself. Thus ÓÇjj¥ ˝ahmÇsp, a member of the Balch tribe, residing near SabzavÇr claimed to know the two murderers of his son and was advised by the governor of SabzavÇr to have a shar-lawsuit (petition XV). Because the murder happened outside the village it was impossible for the ÓÇjj¥ to prove his accusation. The governor now demanded a 200 tmån ﬁne from ÓÇjj¥ ˝ahmÇsp for false accusation. The ÓÇjj¥ writes: I ask for an order to free me (of this demand). The burning pain for the loss of my son is enough for me. I cannot pay the ﬁne. The Shah responds that the governor of the province has to prevent the governor of SabzavÇr from acting like this and that he should ﬁnd out the truth. The case is notable because of the jurisdictional competence of the institutions. The state jurisdiction in the form of the local governor seems to have been involved immediately but the governor delegates it to a sharcourt. After a judgment was given the case was referred once again to the governor who now decided – as no guilt could be proved – to punish the ÓÇjj¥ with a ﬁne of 200 tmån. This reveals the extent of state control over the shar jurisdiction (cf. petition V for an example from the civil cases) but the shar court is the place where cases of homicide are heard. The accused ÓÇjj¥ turned to the Shah who gives the order to the governor of the province to reprimand the governor of SabzavÇr. The case in SabzavÇr would perhaps have remained in the hands of the local urfjudge, i.e. in the hands of the local governor, if the ÓÇjj¥ had not turned to the Shah. It reveals, however, a clear hierarchy of responsibility with regard to the enforcement of the judgments: the Shah advises the governor of the province to control the jurisdiction of the governor of the town – in this case of SabzavÇr. Cases concerning minorities seem to have been dealt with by state jurisdiction. Lambton had stated that disputes between local dhimm¥s and Muslims were still heard in the shar-courts in early Qajar times, but from about the middle of the century attempts were made to transfer such cases to the d¥vån.49 There is a report of the murder of an Armenian boy. As the murderers were not known the crown-prince MuΩaffar al-D¥n50 – had 95

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decided that the blood-money which amounted to 50 tmån should be taken from the surrounding villages (petition XVI). The decision given by the Crown Prince is based on Islamic law.51 The case is not taken to the d¥vån. State jurisdiction did not always function as it should. A female petitioner complained that her husband had been killed by l†¥s.52 In this case a bloodmoney of 100 tmån was ﬁxed. The governor kept consoling her without giving her the money because, as she stated furiously, the murderers ‘had connections to inﬂuential circles’. The woman was left alone with four children. Even the intercession of a mujtahid who always seems to have intervened on behalf of the subjects, was of no use (petition XI). In another case a man had been killed by a GhulÇm Man‚r. Two women, being the mother and wife of the murdered man, presented a petition. They had already sent some petitions by post and telegram but the murderer had not yet been found. Thus a decision was given by the Shah that the houses of the murderer should be given to the heirs of the deceased as blood-money. The ulamå however did not act because the wak¥l (deputy) of the murderer did not attend. The special agent who had been sent by the state to investigate the matter returned without achieving a result (petition XVII). The Shah ordered the enforcement of the old urf-judgment and stated angrily that it was not necessary to act according to the decisions of the mullås. This expresses his critique of the shar jurisdiction and his strong wish to rely on state jurisdiction. The competence of the special agent (mamr) just mentioned seems to have been restricted to the investigation of the case. He could not – as this example shows – interfere with the shar jurisdiction in this matter. The institution of bast (asylum) at special places like mosques, imåmzådihs, and also telegraph stations has already been mentioned in the context of civil cases (see petition V). Asylum played an import role in criminal cases, especially in cases of murder because sometimes murderers took bast to escape state prosecution and to negotiate with the family of the victim. Such a case is reported from G¥lÇn. A man named Nuqra while hunting in the forest unintentionally killed a boy (petition XVIII). The report runs as follows: The murderer sought asylum in the imåmzådih and there he stays under arrest. Questioned by the governor, the man declared that he did not intend to kill the boy. The riﬂe was his but someone took it from him and a shot was ﬁred. The report is of note because the murderer took asylum in an imåmzådih to escape arrest and state prosecution. However, it is stated that he actually stayed there under arrest. Thus the asylum itself became a prison. 96

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All reports of cases of murder, or of criminal cases, show a high degree of state control in criminal justice and a great interest of the Shah in state prosecution. As Mustawf¥ had stated, the Shah was very keen to control criminal cases, especially cases of murder. However this did not mean that the death penalty was administered automatically for the murderer, as Mustawf¥ would have it. The right, to choose between retaliation and blood-money belonged, according to shar, to the family of the murdered person. This is explicitly stated in petition XIV. Decisions of the Shah The petitioners ask either for justice (adåla), an end to injustice (Ωulm) or the enforcement of their rights (iªqåq-i ªaqq). If the petitioners already have a legal verdict, they ask for the enforcement of the verdict or for it to be referred to a particular jurisdiction or person. Only rarely petitioners want the Shah himself to decide the case (IV, VIII). Almost never did the Shah, by himself, decide a legal lawsuit brought before him (for an exception see petition XXI). Normally he restricted himself to referring the cases to other jurisdictional institutions or judges, thus keeping for himself the role of supervisor of the enforcement of the law, but not acting himself as a judge. There may be different reasons for this. Giving a verdict and deciding a case on the basis of a petition was surely against the rules of justice. It would therefore be interesting to know whether the Shah gave legal verdicts in his maΩålim-sessions in Tehran, when both parties were present. Furthermore, he might have felt unable to do so, not being trained as a judge. Similarly, Am¥r Kab¥r had at ﬁrst tried to sit in judgment of cases himself, but had soon realised that he lacked the proper legal knowledge to do so and delegated the matter to jurists.53 In cases where prior judgments existed, the Shah, like any Islamic ruler, did not have the right to alter the law administered in the shar-courts, according to constitutional law.54 This is shown clearly in the cases where he accepted existing shar-judgments and declared that they had to be executed (e.g. petition V). In most cases the Shah referred the lawsuits to the jurisdiction of the governor of the province, ie the urf or state jurisdiction,55 only rarely to the shar jurisdiction, especially to judges to whom the two parties had consented.56 However, this shar jurisdiction did not function independently but under the supervision of the state jurisdiction and the Shah. On the other hand, the Shah often explicitly advised the urf-judge to whom he referred the case to act according to the shar. He surely wanted to indicate that the shar was the basis of the legal system, and to avoid the impression that state jurisdiction was arbitrary. Arbitrariness is the most common criticism of the state jurisdictional system in Qajar Iran. But how could shar-law be enforced by government ofﬁcials who probably lacked the proper training as a jurist, just like their Shah? One could 97

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speculate that the advice that the governor should act according to shar simply meant that he should refer the cases to shar jurisdiction and control and enforce the judgments given afterwards (petitions XV, XX) just as the Shah himself referred the cases to other jurisdictional institutions or persons. Some other peculiarities can be detected: in the case of the insubordination of a state ofﬁcial, the Shah sometimes reacted very angrily (petition I). But he does not appear to have always succeeded in eliminating patronage (petition IV). In cases of petitions from women and minorities, the Shah seemed to have been very interested in ensuring a favourable judgment for these groups. In the case of a woman who was put under pressure by her creditor (petition XIX) he referred the case to the governor by advising him to act according to the shar, reminding him at the same time to practise tolerance and give the woman respite. Responding to two petitions of the Russian TÇjir BÇsh¥ in Hamadan (petitions XX and XXI) he even transgressed his normal procedure and instructed the governor how to decide the dispute: in favour of the TÇjir BÇsh¥. He reprimanded the governor for his harsh treatment of a foreigner.

Conclusion How can the jurisdictional system of Qajar Iran – as reﬂected in the petitions – be described, in comparison to the information given by other sources? Duality of the legal system The existence of a dual system of jurisdiction is conﬁrmed. Shar and urf jurisdiction, however, existed not side by side but their jurisdiction overlapped. In civil matters, and even more so, in criminal cases, a tendency could be detected to enforce state jurisdiction and/or to subordinate shar jurisdiction to the state jurisdiction. Floor has stated a practical division of labour between the two jurisdictions. The reality is more complicated. Civil cases were also presented to the state jurisdiction, and criminal cases were dealt with by shar-courts. Criminal cases were very often referred to civil courts by state authorities. There was no stage of appeal. Sometimes cases were presented to sharcourts, sometimes directly to the d¥vån-i adliyya. However, civil cases were not dealt with by the people themselves exclusively, nor were they presented only to the shar jurisdiction, as Mustawf¥ would have it. People equally seem to have turned to both systems of jurisdiction. As the shar jurisdiction could not guarantee the enforcement of legal verdicts given, the question arises, why did people not turn to urf jurisdiction immediately? The answer may be that in many cases judgments of the shar jurisdiction were enforced, but that this fact is obviously not reﬂected in 98

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the petitions. Another answer may be that despite its shortcomings, the shar jurisdiction was still seen as an alternative to the well-known problems of the state jurisdiction such as patronage and corruption. A remarkable characteristic of the Qajar jurisdiction as reﬂected in these petitions is the tendency to obtain as many judgments as possible from different courts (shar and urf-courts). The accumulation of judgments could be due to the fact that enforcement of judgments did not happen automatically. People desperately had to seek out different jurisdictions in the enforcement of their legal verdicts. In the end, for many of them, presenting a petition to the Shah seemed to be the last resort. By presenting him with different judgments from shar- and urf jurisdictions, they hoped to attract the attention of the Shah and to obtain an order for enforcement of the judgments. Centralisation As stated at the beginning of this chapter, criminal cases were dealt with by the state jurisdiction. This is corroborated by the petitions. In addition to this, delegation of criminal cases to shar-courts under the supervision of the state jurisdiction occurred. This points to the fact that the centralisation of the jurisdictional system was enforced. State supervision – not only for criminal cases but also for civil lawsuits – was the intention of Am¥r Kab¥r – but his efforts failed.57 The idea, however, was still alive at the end of the nineteenth century. It is also interesting to note that a rudimentary system of state prosecution seems to have existed. The state considered itself responsible for the prosecution of criminal matters. The keen interest of the Shah regarding information on criminal matters is evident. An important contribution to the centralisation of jurisdiction is, of course, the institution of the maΩålim itself: even when the Shah did not decide cases by himself, he referred them back to the relevant jurisdiction, thus exerting supervision and a strict control of the whole judicial system. Arbitrariness Arbitrariness, ‘might before right’ and corruption – as stated in the other sources – existed and are described in detail by the petitioners, the victims of these abuses. It is, however, not true that the subjects had no other way of reacting to this than turning to professional brokers; people could, and did, turn directly to the Shah – through the institution of maΩålim – to get their rights. The number of at least 2,000 petitions (only drawn from the northern provinces) in three years gives evidence to the fact that the institution of maΩålim was known and accepted by the subjects. But how much ‘bargaining power’ did people actually have? As only the petitions 99

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with the decisions of the Shah are preserved, there is no way of verifying whether the rulings given by the Shah were enforced. The reports, which mainly comprise of criminal cases, show the high degree of concern of the Shah. Other examples pointed to the negligence or even incompetence of the Shah.

Perception of the judicial system or Justizphantasien The perception, or even expectation, people attached to the jurisdiction and the institution of the maΩålim are to be compared to the intention and realization of the mazålim jurisdiction by the Shah. If the expectation of the people on the one side, and the results of the maΩålim jurisdiction on the other, were not in agreement, tensions were likely to arise. Perception of the jurisdiction In the petitions people not only made their requests, but when describing their cases, also reported their experience with the jurisdictional system. The cases which the petitioners report unveil the incompetence of the ofﬁcials and ineffectiveness of the whole judicial system. People mostly did not complain about this situation; they merely described it. This description stands in clear contrast to the often humble and mean formulae by which the Shah is praised in the petitions. Expectations regarding the maΩålim The more people experienced corruption and ineffectiveness of the jurisdiction – in shar¥- as well as urf¥-courts – the more hope they seemed to have invested in the maΩålim system, in particular in the person of the Shah. In the petitions the Shah is named with dignifying titles and often seen as the ultimate source of justice and the highest representative of the judicial system. While people learned that the Shah’s ofﬁcials, with whom they had to deal with every day, were corrupt and unjust, depriving them of their rights, the Shah – far away in his palace in Tehran – was idealised as a powerful guarantor of justice. As one female petitioner puts it: ‘Without the royal justice I will not get my rights’ (petition III). This idealisation of the Shah as a powerful and just ruler reﬂects the sorrow and grievance of the subjects in nineteenth-century Iran. The humble wording of some of the petitions, and the acknowledgment of the power and justice of the Shah might no doubt also have been used by the petitioners as a means of ﬂattering and glorifying the Shah. They reveal, however, that the people were not hopeless but actively demanded what they thought was their right.

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Realisation of the maΩålim system The Shah’s intention behind the maΩålim system is somewhat difﬁcult to discern. Behind the Shah’s obvious wish to strengthen state jurisdiction, there might have been a real interest in justice and care for his subjects, but also the selﬁsh wish to concentrate power in his hands and to control the administration himself.58 A certain interest in the control of his administration for the beneﬁt of his subjects can clearly be detected. He might have intended to strengthen a traditional Islamic institution of government, which is strongly connected to the idea of the justice of the ruler, as opposed to some of the Shah’s reform-minded ministers’ plans to modernise the jurisdictional and legislative system in Iran. It can be observed that – as far as we can see from the petitions and from information gained from historical sources – the Shah seems to have had maΩålim-sessions over a long period of time, and even organized the maΩålim system in the provinces, from where petitions were sent by mail or telegraph. He also showed a concern for the petitions of women and minorities. These points could speak in favour of a sense of justice by the Shah, and the wish to fulﬁl the expectations of his subjects. On the other hand, the Shah did not succeed in organising the MaΩålim as an efﬁcient institution of appeal. Many petitions were neglected, and even the Shah’s orders were ignored. These facts are realised by the petitioners and frankly stated in the petitions. They pose a counterweight to the idealised picture of the powerful and just ruler with dignifying titles. In many petitions a feeling of dismay can be detected. These unfulﬁlled hopes of the people who lived – according to the petitions as well as the historical sources – under miserable economic and social circumstances, gave rise to public anger in the end. In the Constitutional Revolution some twenty years later people went out into the streets to demand an adålatkhånih – a house of justice.59 The MaΩålim as the traditional institution for the enforcement of royal justice had thus become an anachronism. Annex of the petitions quoted in the text: Petition I Petitioner: ÓÇjj¥ Mahd¥, seller of barley. Case: Civil case. The petitioner had a claim of money against the am¥n-i d¥vån. Decision: Shah asked why the am¥n-i d¥vån does not pay. Petition II Place: Óa∂rat-i Abd al-AΩim (Tehran). Petitioner: ˝†¥ BÇj¥. Case: Civil case. She claimed the property of her deceased husband, which his brother had not given her. 101

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Demand: The brother of her late husband should be summoned either to the ‚idårat-i uΩmå or to the d¥vånkhånih-yi adliyya to enforce her rights. Decision: The Shah referred the case to the d¥vånkhånih. Petition III Place: NahÇvand. Petitioner: Sul†Çn, wife of the late ÓÇjj¥ M¥r Mumin. Case: Civil case. She was driven out of the house by her late husband’s second wife and deprived of nearly all her rights of inheritance. Demand: Without the help of royal justice she would not get her rights. She asked for the enforcement of her rights so that she and her daughter would not die in poverty. Decision: The Shah advised the governor to act according to the shar. Petition IV Place: HamadÇn. Date: Íafar 1302. Petitioner: M¥rzÇ Óusayn. Case: Civil case. The petitioner had joint ownership with ÓÇjj¥ Al¥ A‚ghar. After a petition sent by telegraph, there was an order (by the Shah) that M¥rzÇ Taq¥ KhÇn ra¥s-i d¥vånkhånih should divide up the property. He could not do so as Shar¥f al-Mulk prevented it. The case was referred to NavvÇb Óusayn Qul¥ M¥rzÇ. Again Shar¥f al-Mulk delayed the matter. The NawwÇb stated, that he could not give a just judgment because ÓÇjj¥ Al¥ A‚ghar is a relative of Shar¥f al-Mulk. Institution: Urf jurisdiction: M¥rzÇ Taq¥ KhÇn, ra¥s-i d¥vånkhånih; then the matter went to NavvÇb Óusayn Qul¥ M¥rzÇ. Demand: The ‘Great Justice’ (i.e. the Shah) should give a judgment which must be executed. Decision: The Shah gave the advice to write to Izz al-Dawla to enforce the rights without prejudice. Petition V Place: SimnÇn. Petitioner: ÓÇjj¥ Muªammad Ysuf Sangsar¥. Case: Civil case. He accused his stepmother of having betrayed him and his minor brother of their rights of inheritance. The woman had turned to the ra¥s-i til¥gråf who offered her protection. Institution: shar jurisdiction, the petitioner had a judgment. Demand: Enforcement of the rights. 102

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Decision: The governor is to summon both parties. If a judgment had been given already, it should be enforced. If not, the litigants are to be brought to the ofﬁce of a shar-judge acceptable to both sides. Petition/råprt VI Petitioner: Heirs of the late ÓÇjj¥ ah¥r al-Dawla. Case: Civil case. The NavvÇb Am¥d al-Dawla had sued them. The heirs complain that the ministers had not taken into consideration an important document and had given a judgment in favour of NavvÇb. JanÇb-i ÅqÇ was ordered to answer and answered that he had seen a ‚ulªnÇmih by ah¥r al-Dawla with the seal of ÅqÇ Sayyid IsmÇ¥l BihbihÇn¥ and ordered the enforcement of the judgment. Institution: Royal court. Decision: The Shah remarked: ‘very good’. Petition VII Place: SimnÇn. Petitioner: Two Sayyids. Case: Civil case. The Sayyids had problems with their lessee. Institution: They had handed in a petition to the local or provincial government but some M¥rzÇ BÇbÇ Bayk sided with the lessee. Decision: The Shah referred the case to Am¥n al-Sul†Çn. Petition VIII Place: HamadÇn. Case: Civil case. The defendant had diverted the water-channel, and now the plaintiff could not irrigate his property. He had invested much money to obtain shar- and urf-judgments. They were not enforced. He lost his capital, pledged his home and had 11 persons to feed. The defendant had been brought to Tehran by NÇib al-Sal†ana. Institution: shar¥ (judgment of ÓÇjj¥ M¥rzÇ HÇd¥) and urf¥ (judgment of NavvÇb Izz al-Dawla). Demand: Royal judgment against the defendant. If not, he might not get back his water as he is now poor and his opponent is rich. He wanted his water back and 50 tmÇn every year so that he and his family could survive. A copy of the judgment had been sent. Decision: The Shah gave the order to write to Izz al-Dawla who should ﬁnd a solution. Petition IX Place: ZanjÇn. Petitioner: M¥r Sayyid Jafar. 103

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Institution: Mostly urf-institutions. Case: Civil case. Different people had occupied his property. The petitioner had sent a petition to Muayyad al-Dawla who gave the order to go to a judge on whom both sides agreed. When the defendants saw that the decision would be against them, they turned to the d¥vånkhånih-yi mubårak and succeeded in getting a judgment in their favour. Am¥d al-Mulk, a state ofﬁcial, prohibited a new lawsuit and ordered, that the revenue of the property should be kept until the judgment is given. A mamr of the d¥vånkhånih now gave an order that the revenue should be taken and given to the defendants but they will waste it. Demand: The revenue should be given to the government, only after the judgment is pronounced it should be given to whom it then belongs. Decision: A letter to Am¥d al-Mulk should be written. Petition X Place: HamadÇn. Petitioner: M¥rzÇ Mahd¥. Case: Civil case. His brother had taken all his money, property and even pension. The petitioner had judgments from Am¥n al-Dawla and Majd al-Mulk. His brother has mighty patrons. Institution: Urf-judgments of Am¥n al-Dawla and Majd al-Mulk Demand: There should be an order, so that the petitioner could take what was his right. The petitioner had no power to come to Tehran. Decision: Izz al-Dawla should enforce the rights according to shar [crossed out]. The petitioner should come to Tehran. Petition XI Place: SadÇbÇd. Petitioner: Óam¥da, wife of IbrÇh¥m Qul¥ SadÇbÇd¥. Case: Criminal case. Her husband had been killed by l†¥s. Blood money of 100 tmån had been determined. SÇid al-Dawla kept delaying the payment because the murderers had connections to inﬂuential circles. The woman was alone with four children. Even the intervention of a mujtahid who always seems to have been concerned with the welfare of the subjects, was of no use. Institution: Urf-judgment by the governor. Demand: The implementation of the rights. Decision: The Shah tells SÇid al-Dawla to restore her rights. Petition XII Place: AstarÇbÇd. 104

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Petitioner: ÅqÇ Sayyid Al¥. Case: Civil case/criminal case. M¥r Al¥ Naq¥ and Sayyid ˝Çhir had tried to usurp a property belonging to the petitioner. As the petitioner had presented shar and urf- writings and a sale contract, they invited the brother of the petitioner to the house and beat him so hard that he died. SÇid al-Dawla is said to be able to conﬁrm this. A telegram was sent to NÇib alSal†ana. The answer came that the government should enforce the rights but this did not happen. Institution: For the civil case: shar- and urf-judgments. For the criminal case: SÇid al-Dawla/urf jurisdiction. Demand: The petitioner is asking revenge for the blood of his brother. Decision: A letter to the government (of the province) should be written. The rights have immediately to be enforced. Petition XIII Place: TuysirkÇn. Petitioner: ÓÇjj¥ Muªammad IsmÇ¥l. Case: Civil case. Legal claims by M¥rzÇ BÇqir on a property. There was a shar-process with a judge who was acceptable to both sides. The judgment was in favour of the petitioner, but the defendant did not stop bothering him. After his death, his son did the same. Institution: shar jurisdiction in Tehran with a judge who was acceptable to both sides. Demand:The property should remain with the government until a decision is given. Decision: NÇib al-Sal†ana should act in a way that the shar obligations are not violated. Petition/råprt XIV Case: Criminal case. Lu†f Al¥ Bayk had killed his brother and had been arrested. It is the duty of the state to arrest a murderer. Institution: Urf jurisdiction. Decision: It is stated that it is a well-known judgment and that the affair should be ended soon. Petition XV Place: SabzavÇr. Petitioner: ÓÇjj¥ ˝ahmÇsp, a member of the Balch tribe. Case: Criminal case. The ÓÇjj¥ had lost his son and claimed to know the two murderers. He was advised by the governor of SabzavÇr to have a shar-lawsuit. Because the murder happened 105

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outside the village it was impossible to prove the accusation. The governor demanded from ÓÇjj¥ ˝ahmÇsp a 200 tmån ﬁne for false accusation. Institution: Urf jurisdiction of the governor. Shar-judgment under the supervision of the governor. Demand: The petitioner cannot pay the 200 tmån ﬁne. Decision: The Shah responded that the governor of the province should prevent the governor of SabzavÇr from acting in this manner and that he should ﬁnd out the truth. Petition/råprt XVI Case: Criminal case. Murder of an Armenian boy. As the murderers were not known, the crownprince (Ha∂rat-i wal¥ ahd, i.e. MuΩaffar al-D¥n) had decided that the blood-money which amounted to 50 tmån should be exacted from the surrounding villages. Institution: Urf jurisdiction; the crown prince decides. Petition XVII Place: not mentioned. Date: not mentioned. Petitioners: Two women. Case: Criminal case. A man had been killed by GhulÇm Man‚r. Two women, being the mother and wife of the man, presented a petition. The murderer was known, but had not yet been found. Thus a decision had been given (by the Shah) that the houses of the murderer should be given to the heirs of the killed person. The ulamå however did not act because the wak¥l of the murderer had not been present. The special agent who had been sent by the state to investigate the matter returned without result. Institution: urf jurisdiction: the d¥vån. Then: shar jurisdiction. Decision: The Shah wanted the original judgment of the d¥vån to be enforced. According to him, it is not necessary to wait for the judgment of a mullå. Petition/råprt XVIII Place: G¥lÇn. Petitioner: Nuqra. Case: Criminal case. In G¥lÇn, a man named Nuqra while hunting in the forest unintentionally shot a boy and killed him. He then took bast in an imåmzådih. Decision: The responsible persons in the [provincial?] government should decide. 106

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Petition XIX Place: KÇshÇn. Petitioner: Daughter of the late ÅqÇ Sayyid HÇshim. Case: Civil case. The petitioner had inherited a house from her late husband. Now the creditor of her husband wanted to drive her out of the house. Demand: That the creditor should give her time, and act mildly to her so that she, with her children, will not become homeless. Decision: The governor of the province has to act according to the shar. The creditor has to get his rights, but he should exercise tolerance and give the petitioner time. Petition XX Place: HamadÇn. Petitioner: M¥rzÇ JawÇd TÇjir BÇsh¥ of Russia. Case: Civil case. The TÇjir BÇsh¥ stated that he had been the victim of a fraud. The defendant took refuge with M¥rzÇ HÇd¥. Demand: An order should be given that Shar¥f al-Mulk should investigate the matter. Decision: Shar¥f al-Mulk has to invite the TÇjir BÇsh¥ with his opponent and should bring the matter to a committee of educated merchants and landowners. One should give to him what belongs to him. Petition XXI Place: HamadÇn. Petitioner: M¥rzÇ JawÇd TÇjir BÇsh¥ of Russia. Case: Civil cases. The TÇjir BÇsh¥ complained of unjust treatment by the governor, stating complaints about several civil cases. Institution: The decision of the Shah had been given, but was ignored. Decision: A letter should be written to the governor Izz al-Dawla, stating that he should not behave like this with foreign subjects. He (i.e. the TÇjir BÇsh¥) should get his rights.

Notes 1 Compare the bibliography in C. V. Findley ‘Maªkama’ EI2 VI, 3–10. 2 See A. K. S. Lambton ‘Maªkama’ EI2 VI, 11–25. 3 See W. Floor ‘Change and Development in the Judicial System of Qajar Iran (1800–1925)’ in C. E. Bosworth and C. Hillenbrand (eds) Qajar Iran, Political, Social and Cultural Change, 1800–1925 (Edinburgh, 1983) 113–47. Floor states (p. 115) that neither court archives nor records were kept in Iran. 4 Hafez F. Farmayan ‘Observations on Sources for the Study of Nineteenth- and Twentieth-Century Iranian History’ IJMES 5 (1974) 32–49 (see 41ff.); R. Kauz ‘Travailler Dans Les Archives En Iran’ Studia Iranica 25 (1996) 253–9;

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5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32

33

A. Mahdavi ‘The Signiﬁcance of Private Archives for the Study of the Economic and Social History of Iran in the Late Qajar Period’ Iranian Studies 16 (1983) 243–78. Nezam-Maﬁ has recently published a history of Tehran mostly based on documentary sources: I. Nezam-Maﬁ Ûnjå ˝ihrån ast (Tehran, 1998). Lambton, ‘Maªkama’, 18. Floor, ‘Change’, 113; H. Algar Religion and State in Iran 1785–1906 (Berkeley, 1969) 13. Algar states, that the jurisdiction of the shar and the urf courts frequently overlapped. Floor, ‘Change’, 113. Lambton, ‘Maªkama’, 19. Algar, Religion and State, 13. Floor, ‘Change’, 116. Lambton, ‘Maªkama’, 20. Lambton, ‘Maªkama’, 20. Floor, ‘Change’, 113. Lambton, ‘Maªkama’, 19. Floor, ‘Change’, 114. Floor, ‘Change’, 118f. Floor, ‘Change’, 119f. Lambton, ‘Maªkama’, 20. Mustawf¥ Sharª-i zidigån¥-yi man, 2 vols (Tehran, 1966) I, 99. Floor, ‘Change’, 117. E. Tyan Histoire de l’organisation judiciaire en pays d’Islam (Leiden, 1960) 433ff. J. Nielsen ‘MaΩÇlim’ EI2 VI, 933ff. J. Nielsen Secular Justice in an Islamic State: MaΩålim under the Baªr¥ Mamlks 662/1264–789/1387 (Istanbul, 1985). H. G. Majer Das osmanische ‘Registerbuch der Beschwerden’ (Sikåyet Defteri) vom Jahre 1675 (Wien, 1984) I; which contains material very similar to that used here. Lambton, ‘Maªkama’, 18. Lambton, ‘Maªkama’, 20; Floor, ‘Change’, 121f. Lambton, ‘Maªkama’, 20. Curzon, quoted in Floor, ‘Change’, 122. S. Bakhash Iran: Monarchy, Bureaucracy and Reform under the Qajars, 1858–1896 (London, 1978) 385. I. Nezam-Maﬁ ‘The Council for the Investigation of Grievances: A Case Study of nineteenth century Iranian Social History’ Iranian Studies 22 (1989) 51–61, 51f. Nezam-Maﬁ, ‘Council’, 52. F. Ådamiyyat and H. NÇ†iq Afkår-i ijtimå ¥ va siyås¥ va iqti‚åd¥ dar åthår-i muntashir nashudih-yi dawrån-yi Qåjår (Tehran, 1977) 376ff.; see also Floor, ‘Change’, 122. Nezam-Maﬁ, ‘Council’, 52. I am grateful to Dr Nezam Maﬁ for her help, and for sharing with me the photographs of the petitions. In Summer 2001, however, I discovered the petitions on Microﬁlm 2929 in the Central Library of Tehran University. I am most grateful to the staff of the library, especially Mrs Asili and Mrs Harri, for arranging that I obtain a copy of the microﬁlm. The originals of the petitions seem to be lost. The transcription and paraphrasing of a part of these 2,000 was a major project of mine, completed in 2003 and to be published in 2005 with the title State, Society and Power Relations: A Study in the Late Nineteenth Century Petitioning System of Iran. This chapter comprises the results of a ﬁrst appraisal of a sample of petitions not identical with those examined in State, Society and Power Relations. Thus, results and especially percentages so far have to be considered as tentative.

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34 35 36 37 38 39

40 41

42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51

52 53 54 55

I am, however, convinced that I can already present interesting trends from a material of immense importance. MÇward¥ quoted in Nielsen, Secular Justice, 21f. M. Dinges ‘Michel Foucault, Justizphantasien und die Macht’ in A. Blauert and G. Schwerhoff (eds) Mit den Waffen der Justiz (Frankfurt a.M. 1993) 189ff. The petitions mentioned in the text are numbered as they occur. Dates are rarely given, places more often. There is a list of the petitions at the end of the chapter. It is, however, always possible that the petitioners concealed existing judgments. ItimÇd al-Sal†ana, al-Maåthir va al-åthår (Iraj Afshar (ed.): Tehran, 1363sh/ 1984) I, 395. He seems to have been the supervisor of the customs. Telegraph stations have been used as asylum just like mosques and other places: J. Calmard ‘Bast’ EIr III, 856–8. See p. 856: ‘Resort to telegraph stations was encouraged by the popular belief that the telegraph wires ended at the foot of the throne in Tehran’! The telegraph-ofﬁcer seems to have had a quasi-jurisdictional job in late Qajar jurisdiction. He is quite often named in the petitions as being responsible for the investigation in a case, for reporting the circumstances of a case or for enforcing a judgment. In this case, its juridical function is limited to giving the woman asylum so that the judgment of her stepson cannot be enforced. M. BÇmdÇd Sharª-i ªål-i rijål-i Ûrån, 6 vols (4th edn: Tehran, 1992) IV, 478. It is not certain whether petition X can be counted here. The petitioner states that he has judgments by high state ofﬁcials. He might have turned directly to them, or the Shah delegated the case to them. In this second case the petition would have been directly to the Shah. In 1 per cent of cases, the institutional history of the petitions is not clear. KamrÇn M¥rzÇ, son of NÇsir al-D¥n ShÇh: K. SulaymÇn¥ Alqåb-i rijål-i dawrayi Qåjåriyya (Tehran, 1379sh) 193. BamdÇd, Sharª II, 268–70. Brother of the Shah and governor of Hamadan 1883–5. However, in most cases the Shah referred the cases to state jurisdiction. See my article ‘Muªammad BÇqir aç-Çaft¥ von Isfahan (1180–1260/1766–1844) – Ein Beitrag zur Untersuchung der Jurisdiktion im QÇºÇrenreich’ Der Islam 79 (2002) 240–73. Criminal law is used in the sense of Islamic penal law, i.e. the ªudd and homicide, bodily harm and damage to property, i.e. the jinåyåt, J. Schacht An Introduction to Islamic Law (Oxford, 1982) 175ff. Schacht, Introduction, 181. Lambton, ‘Maªkama’, 20. Being governor of Azerbaijan, MuΩaffar al-D¥n ShÇh seems to have been responsible for this case. See A. Amanat Pivot of the Universe (London, 1997) 402. Schacht, Introduction, 184: according to Islamic law, if the killer is not known, the procedure of qasåma took place. The inhabitants of the quarter where the dead has been found must swear ﬁfty oaths that they have not killed him and do not know who has killed him. Then they have to pay the blood-money. See W. Floor ‘The Political Role of the Lutis in Iran’ in M. E. Bonine and N. Keddie (eds) Modern Iran, Dialectics of Continuity and Change (New York, 1981) 83–95. Floor, ‘Change’, 119. See Lambton, ‘Maªkama’, 19; I. Schneider ‘Die Merkmale der idealtypischen qå∂¥-Justiz – Kritische Anmerkungen zu Max Webers Kategorisierung der islamischen Rechtsprechung’ Der Islam 70 (1993) 145–59. For the petitions quoted in this chapter see petitions I, II, III, IV, VI, VII, VIII; IX, X, XI, XII, XIII, XIV, XV, XVI, XVII, XVIII, XIX, XXI.

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56 See petition V. 57 Floor, ‘Change’, 119. 58 A. Sheikholeslami The Structure of Central Authority in Qajar Iran 1871–96 (Atlanta, 1997) 69. 59 A. Amanat ‘Constitutional Revolution’ EIr VI, 163; V. Martin ‘Constitutional Revolution’ EIr VI, 177.

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Part II RELIGIOUS THOUGHT IN THE QAJAR PERIOD

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6 BEING (WUJÌD) AND SANCTITY ( WIL ÅYA) Two poles of intellectual and mystical enquiry in Qajar Iran1 Sajjad Rizvi

The Most High Truth is both manifest and hidden. The ‘hidden’ (al-bå†in) encompasses true unicity that belongs to the Absolute Unseen (al-ghayb al-mu†laq) . . . The manifest (al-Ωåhir) manifests multiplicity but is not confused with it . . . His perfection as the hidden and the manifest is the true Prophet (al-nab¥ al-ªaq¥q¥) and the eternal Pole (al-qu†b al-azal¥ al-abad¥), ﬁrstly and lastly, manifestly and hiddenly. This is the Muhammadan reality (al-ªaq¥qa almuªammadiyya) . . . Prophecy (al-nubuwwa) is a complete circle. Its completeness from the True One in its hidden aspect is the Wal¥, the beloved of God. So the hidden aspect of Prophecy is wilåya.2 In this brief chapter, I want to focus on a central nexus of Sh¥ ¥ philosophy, namely the mutual interpenetration of the themes of wujd (existence, being) and wilåya (sanctity, authority, friendship). Since an exhaustive examination of the topic would require a precise and detailed disclosure of the very heart of Sh¥ ¥ philosophy, I propose instead, to examine certain aspects exhibited in the textual production of three key philosopher-mystics of the Qajar period, and want to suggest some themes for research into nineteenth-century philosophy, more precisely ªikmat, in Iran. By ªikmat I mean a broad-ranging philosophical discipline concerned with the question and study of being. It is an investigation that reconciles discursive, intellectual and mystical means and modes of inquiry. In this intellectual discipline, one arrives at reality through a meditation upon the self. The question of being thus begins with the examination and experience of individual existence and of the intellect/soul’s most basic and a priori concepts. But ªikmat is neither an idealist endeavour nor does it collapse into solipsism. It is a trans-subjective experience of reality expressed in logical terms combining intellectual contemplation and discourse with mystical ‘tasting’ 113

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(dhawq). It is also seen as Prophetic philosophy, as founded upon revelation and as a ‘gloss’ upon the Qur’Çnic verse, He bestows ªikmat upon whom he wills and he unto whom ªikmat is given, he has truly received abundant good.3 And the Prophetic saying, Óikmat is incumbent upon you; verily the good resides in ªikmat.4 This ‘wisdom’ is clearly associated with prophetic wisdom and knowledge in the famous saying of the Prophet, I am the city of ªikmat and Al¥ is its gate.5 Thus the Prophet is regarded in this Iranian philosophical tradition as the font of ªikmat that is accessed through the embodiment of wilåya, the ﬁrst Sh¥ ¥ Imam Al¥.6 It is ‘wisdom’ that one acquires through the Imams since they are the ‘keys to wisdom’ (mafåt¥ª al-ªikma).7

Wujd and wilåya The focus of the chapter is the relationship between wujd and wilåya, between being and sanctity, between ousia and parousia (to be Corbinian).8 Wujd and wilåya lie at the heart of Sh¥ ¥ discourse and identity. The intuition of existence, of self, of God and that of the Imam are correlated cognitions that are a priori to the sound mind of the believer.9 Wilåya is both a function and a state of being that the Imams possess as representatives of God and a status to which their followers aspire. Some of the early Sh¥ ¥ ªad¥th collections refer to the primordial ‘pact’ (m¥thåq, ahd) mentioned in QurÇn 7.172 in which the Sh¥ a pledged themselves to the wilåya of the Imams.10 Wilåya11 in these collections is an authority, a loyalty and love, a charisma and an ability bestowed by God upon the Imams who are wulåt amr allåh.12 God Himself is al-Wal¥ and the wilåya of the Imams (and of their followers) ultimately refers to this divine name.13 The discussion of wilåya lies at the heart of the Sh¥ ¥ understanding of ontological hierarchy and cognition of how the divine and ‘being’ manifests itself in this world through the possessor of wilåya.14 This is most clearly articulated in the kitåb al-ªujja of al-Kulayn¥’s al-Kåf¥.15 In a world in which the Sh¥ a were politically marginalised and often persecuted, the expectation for ‘deliverance’ (faraj) through the parousia of the Imam was acutely felt. The question of being was not just one of personal existence but also of the result of the Imam’s ‘appearance’. He must exist for the world to exist since he is the manifestation of being. Just as Being qua God is both manifest and hidden, his ‘occultation’ (ghayba) must be followed by his manifestation 114

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(Ωuhr) which the faithful eagerly await. As long as existence persists, its manifestation in wilåya must persist too.16 Thus as a function of being, wilåya stands outside history and indeed deﬁnes it.17 Clearly, these concepts are not new to the Qajar period, but they are particularly salient to the period for two reasons. First, the nineteenth century witnessed a burst of millenarianism and the rise in discussions of wilåya. Chiliastic movements and religiously motivated social revolt focus on the nature of authority and speciﬁcally the authority of a charismatic individual who claims to manifest or represent divine being and authority.18 Thus the concerns of being and presence were critically felt. One notices the rise in the number of treatises written upon wilåya (establishing a genre). Coupled with the heightened need to address questions about self, God and Imam, the middle of the century was seen as the millennium of the occultation of the Imam and expectation of his imminent re-appearance was rife. The intellectual and religious classes needed to respond to the threat of millenarianism in the same language of charismatic authority and divine manifestation. Social turmoil coupled with a rise in the scholarly apparatus of millenarianism made discussions of wilåya and the Imam more acute and sensitive. The ulamå needed a philosophical rationalisation of their own authority and the monarchy needed support against social unrest. Second, the intellectual reaction to millenarianism was facilitated by the rise (or revival) of ªikmat. It was patronised by the dynasty; madrasas such as the MÇdar-i ShÇh and the SipahsÇlÇr were endowed speciﬁcally to teach ªikmat. Isfahan had become a centre for the study of philosophy at the end of the eighteenth century and the role of Al¥ Nr¥ (d.1830)19 in reviving the philosophical tradition of MullÇ ÍadrÇ (d.1641) was critical. Its rise is linked to new stable conditions in Isfahan, Qajar patronage at Tehran as part of their attempts at dynastic legitimisation and attempts to rise to the challenge of new learning from Europe in the form of the secular schools. This patronage was expressed through four channels: direct commissioning of philosophical works, provision of stipends to ‘court philosophers’, endowment of madrasas that specialised in the teaching of the rational and intellectual disciplines, and printing of key philosophical texts at the new presses associated with the court. Amanat20 argues that the rise of secular education and the increasing afﬁrmation of jurisprudence in the seminary led to an eclipse of traditional philosophy and its marginalisation to the academic periphery. However, the Shah patronised major philosophers such as MullÇ HÇd¥ SabzavÇr¥ (d.1873), Al¥ Zunz¥ (d.1889) and M¥rzÇ Ab al-QÇsim Jilvih (d.1896).21 Madrasas were founded in Tehran in the second half of the nineteenth century designed with signiﬁcant philosophical elements in the curriculum; even the secular DÇr al-Funn continued to teach ªikmat.22 Many of the late nineteenth-century lithographs of philosophical and theological texts were sponsored by it. The encroachment of ‘new learning’ had lead to rationalist nativist responses. The culmination of that rationalism was the ªikmat tradition. 115

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Authors and texts My textual evidence draws upon the work of the three most eminent philosophers of the Qajar period, all of whom had connections with court, wrote works for the Shah and in some cases taught members of the Qajar family. The ﬁrst of the triumvirate is Al¥ Mudarris Zunz¥ (d.1307/1889), the son of an Isfahani philosopher, Abd AllÇh Zunz¥.23 He migrated to Tehran on the request of Fatª Al¥ ShÇh and taught at two madrasas connected to the court: Madrasa-yi MÇdar-i ShÇh and SipahsÇlÇr. Being a ‘court philosopher’, he wrote works for the Shah, mostly importantly his later work Badåyi al-ªikma (‘Innovations of philosophy’) that attempted to defend traditional Islamic philosophy of the school of MullÇ ÍadrÇ against the ‘new learning’ of the Europeanising court. The second thinker is also an Isfahani philosopher who emigrated to Tehran, namely, Muªammad Ri∂Ç Qumshih¥ (d.1306/1889).24 Having studied and taught in Isfahan, he migrated to Tehran late in life and taught at request at the Madrasa-yi Íadr-i AΩam that was closely connected to the court. The third philosopher is perhaps the most famous Qajar philosopher, the ‘last great Islamic philosopher’,25 MullÇ HÇd¥ SabzavÇr¥ (d.1279/1873).26 After studying in Isfahan, he established his own school in his hometown and attracted students from throughout the Persianate world. He wrote his own school text, Sharª Ghurar al-farå id (‘Commentary on the White essence of Pearls’) popularly known as Sharª-i manΩma, a commentary on his own versiﬁed summa of philosophy, that continues to be studied as an introductory text in ªikmat. This trio of scholars constitute a coherent group to study because there are signiﬁcant commonalities among them. First, all of them were trained in Isfahan, the centre of the revival of philosophy, and they were responsible for the shift of Isfahan philosophy to Tehran as a royal-patronised intellectual discipline and to Sabzavar.27 They were all taught by scholars associated with MullÇ Al¥ Nr¥ (d.1830)28 who ﬁrst began to teach ÍadrÇ’s works in Isfahan. Second, they all wrote works for the Qajars and were beneﬁciaries of courtly patronage. SabzavÇr¥ wrote his magisterial commentary in 1867 on the Mathnav¥ of Rm¥ (d.1274), called Sharª-i asrår,29 for Sul†Çn MurÇd M¥rzÇ ÓusÇm al-Sal†ana, the Shah’s uncle and governor of KhurÇsÇn, and dedicated it to NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh. The following year, the Shah visited him in Sabzavar on his way to the visitation to the shrine of Imam Ri∂Ç at Mashhad and commissioned a work on ‘theoretical and practical philosophy’ in Persian.30 The resulting work, Asrår al-Óikam (‘Secrets of philosophy’) is an eloquent testimony to Persian literary achievement in philosophy, succinct and exquisitely illustrated by SabzavÇr¥’s own verses.31 Zunz¥ wrote Badåyi al-ªikam in response to the questions on philosophy posed to him by his student, the Qajar prince ImÇd al-Dawla. This text was an early and important attempt to defend and expound traditional 116

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Sadrian philosophy for an audience that was interested and increasingly inﬂuenced by new European learning. Third, all of them are bearers of the Sadrian tradition and have a role in establishing Sadrian philosophy as the hegemonic intellectual discipline of the madrasa. As such they were both inheritors and proponents of the Sadrian tradition. SabzavÇr¥ is especially important in this respect. As masters of the intellectual disciplines and guardians of that tradition, they often attacked rival metaphysics, sometimes in concert with the social needs of the court and other sectors of elite society. Thus, both Zunz¥ and SabzavÇr¥ were involved in controversies against the Shaykh¥s.32 Fourth, there are stylistic similarities in their work. Their language of composition is increasingly Persian and Arabo-Persian, by which I mean an actual mixture of Arabic and Persian syntax within a text and not just a preponderance of Arabic nouns and compounds (this is especially true of Zunz¥). This suggests the evolution of a new intellectual discourse, reaching out for a new literate audience informed by traditional Islamic discourse in Arabic but seeking a new medium to transmit ideas beyond their circle. The linguistic blend served this purpose. Fifth, all of them were important teachers of legal methodology and jurisprudence (u‚l al-ﬁqh) and their students include the most important ﬁgures of the nineteenth century in this ﬁeld such as Åkhnd-i KhurÇsÇn¥ (d.1911),33 Shaykh Murta∂Ç An‚Çr¥ (d.1864) and M¥rzÇ Óasan ÅshtiyÇn¥ who founded the discipline in its modern form. The major works of jurisprudence studied in the Sh¥ ¥ seminaries today date back to the nineteenth century and to these authors. Their mastery of philosophical discourse, of the critical interplay between words, meanings and reality had a profound inﬂuence especially upon the propaedeutic section in these texts on the philosophy of language and semantics (mabåªith al-alfåΩ). Sixth, their students comprise that generation which taught major contemporary (traditional) philosophers in Iran such as AllÇma ˝abÇ†abÇ¥ (d.1981) and ÅyatallÇh Khumayn¥ (d.1989). These critical ‘intermediating ﬁgures’ who taught those thinkers who shaped modern Islamic intellectual inquiry in Iran were mainly trained in Tehran in the late Qajar period and included JahÇng¥r KhÇn QashqÇ¥ (d.1946), M¥rzÇ HÇshim AshkivÇr¥ (d.1914),34 JavÇd Malak¥ Tabr¥z¥ (d.1924),35 Óusaynqul¥ HamadÇn¥ (d.1893),36 M¥rzÇ Óasan KirmÇnshÇh¥, Muªammad ShÇhÇbÇd¥ (d.1950),37 and Al¥ Akbar Yazd¥ (d.1926).38 Some of these ﬁgures were not just philosophers but well-known Suﬁ masters in Tehran, Qum and Kerbala. Seventh, they all have a certain relationship with Suﬁsm, whether an attachment to the major metaphysical works of the Suﬁ tradition of the school of Ibn Arab¥ or an active practice of Suﬁ rituals. Certainly, Nasr claims that all three were ‘Suﬁ initiates’ and given the popularity of Suﬁ practices especially among the literate and upper echelons of Qajar society, it is not unlikely.39 But the textual commitment is more apparent and 117

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they were all renowned teachers of the central texts of that Suﬁ school especially Sharª Fu‚‚ al-ªikam of Qay‚ar¥ (d.1350).40 Eighth, they were not heterodox. It is unfortunate that some scholars who work on the Safavid and Qajar periods regard ªikmat as some sort of oppositional discourse, as an arcane discipline that is subversive with respects to the Shar¥ a. Such a view cannot be sustained if one considers the role of ªikmat in the madrasa and the importance of the ﬁgures who taught and disseminated it.41 Finally, the central theme of their work is the relationship of wujd and wilåya. The development of a genre of texts on wilåya draws upon commentaries on the fa‚‚ on Seth in Ibn Arab¥’s Fu‚‚ al-Óikam (‘Ringsettings of wisdom’), a chapter that discusses wilåya as the expiration (nafath) of the ‘Breath of the Merciful’ (nafas al-raªmån).42 Wilåya as a Suﬁ concept pre-dates the school of Ibn Arab¥43; however, it is this school that locates it within not only a doctrine of spiritual hierarchy and order but also within an ontological hierarchy of moral and cosmic excellence. The Merciful One generates being through His merciful breath that is identical to the ªaq¥qa muªammadiyya (and the Imams in one khabar are divine mercy).44 The Imam is this breath and is the Perfect Man of the Akbarian tradition.45 He, as the embodiment of the Muhammadan reality, is a primordial entity and always must be, since true faith and true cognition (marifat) of God requires that the Transcendent God, the deus absconditus, be manifest to man through the Imam qua deus revelatus.46 Thus the Imam is a cosmic necessity and indeed the pole (qu†b) of existence. For the faithful believer, he is also the pole of the soul, the guidance and intuition within.47 SabzavÇr¥’s Hidåyat al-†ålib¥n (‘Guidance for the seekers’) and such works on imåma written in the period are not straightforward kalåm discussions on the imamate, but concerned with wilåya and the takw¥n¥ (cosmically authoritative) role of the Imam, that is his relationship with being.48 Their understanding of wilåya reconciles the Akbarian and the Sh¥ ¥ and draws upon the Sadrian synthesis.

Being Being is mushakkak, that is to say it is predicated of its instances homonymously with respect to a focal sense. This means that there is a multiplicity of different entities all called ‘being’ which share a common overlapping sense of ‘being’. It signals both a doctrine of semantic and metaphysical variance. The reality of being is thus singular and yet multiple and differentiated because of the different grades and intensities within being. Thus, being is a single modulated reality. This doctrine of tashk¥k al-wujd (modulation of being), articulated by MullÇ ÍadrÇ in the seventeenth century, became the central hermeneutic of ªikmat. It was the critical medium for reconciling a Suﬁ claim of the oneness of being (waªdat 118

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al-wujd) and its monist vision of reality with a phenomenal experience of multiplicity that is a central feature of our quotidian life. What are the features of modulation? 1 2 3 4 5

It posits ‘monorealism’, that is that there is a single unitary reality in existence, waªdat al-wujd.49 But since our phenomenal experience of reality is multiple, it recognises multiplicity in unity.50 This process of diversity-in-unity occurs through degrees and levels of intensity within being.51 Thus being is one and many since it is the principle of unity and of differentiation through the process of modulation and intensiﬁcation.52 Within the hierarchy of being that is mushakkak, the most intense and highest grade of being is that of wilåya, the level of the Perfect Man who is the limit of man’s ascent to the One and the ‘face of God/being’ manifesting itself to man.53

The hermeneutic of modulation describes being as well as sanctity, the presence of being. We now turn to wilåya.

Wilåya once again Wilåya is the hermeneutic of being. It is the parousia of ousia and the way being qua the Truth or God manifests itself to man, meaning that this is the mode in which divine being, or being in that is the Ultimate Being, manifests itself to humanity.54 In SabzavÇr¥’s terms, it is the inner revelation of divine realities (kashf al-ªaqå iq al-ilåhiyya).55 It is the pivot of reality. Our Qajar philosophers focus on these central themes. First, like being in the Sadrian tradition, wilåya is a ﬂow that pervades all existence and also graded and modulated (mushakkak).56 Qumshih¥ describes wilåya as a sarayån, as a divine attribute (God is al-Wal¥)57 that pervades reality and comprehends it.58 The divine name is manifest by the Wal¥/Imam. He is the First and the Last,59 meaning the ﬁrst emanation and the last before the reversion to the One that reveals the dual facets of wilåya: facing creation as authority from God and facing God as existence’s hope and desire for the One.60 Wilåya is a modulated reality. Different degrees and divisions of wilåya are all connected and graded. Since being is graded and possesses levels and since being and manifestation are identical, then wilåya as the manifestation of being must also be modulated.61 Wilåya possesses different modalities, general and speciﬁc, absolute and delimited, each of which must have a seal who ultimately represents that degree.62 The doctrine of the seal of saints is central to the understanding of wilåya in the school of Ibn Arab¥. The Seal is the pole (qu†b) of the world and where ‘God’s gaze falls upon creation’.63 The multiplication of ‘seals’ in these Qajar 119

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works has a precedent in the work of Abd al-WahhÇb al-SharÇn¥ (d.1565).64 Thus not only Imams are awliyå . But the central wal¥, the qu†b around which reality and all existence revolves is the Imam. Mystics thus manifest wilåya and represent less intense and lower levels of wilåya and being.65 The Qu†b and ultimate Wal¥ is exclusively the Imam who is awaited (al-muntaΩar). The Wal¥ is the most intense level of being because he is the closest to God. In the preface to Badåyi al-Óikam,66 Zunz¥ makes it clear that the holder of the highest wilåya (wilåyat-i qu‚wå) and khilafåti kubrå is the Imam of the time, the twelfth Imam of the Sh¥ a ImÇmiyya. The use of these terms is signiﬁcant and a feature especially of works that survive from the nineteenth century and their debates about the nature of authority and the relationship of the Shah to that authority, as the shadow of the Imam and his representative on earth. This reality is most deserving of authority and the source of truth because of its closeness to the One which endows its with the power of its manifestation of the One. It is the most perfect manifestation of the divine. It is the truth that descends, with truth having been granted the totality of the ‘words’ (jawåmi al-kalim) and the most perfect ethical values (makårim al-akhlåq, hence being the source of value) and is also known as the ‘created truth through which creation comes about’ (al-ªaqq al-makhlq bihi) in the sense that it is the reason for existence.67 The Imam is also the manifestation of the Muhammadan reality. In his risåla on the ªaq¥qa muªammadiyya,68 Zunz¥ brings together tashk¥k and the concept of wilåya and the Perfect Man. The totality of existence is graded by intensities of perfection. There are four major divisions of being: imperfect, having perfection and imperfection, perfect, and supraperfect.69 Contingents strive towards higher degrees of perfection and seek guidance from it. The most perfect degree is that of the Perfect Man (al-insån al-kåmil) and the manifestation of the Muhammadan reality, that ﬁrst emanation from the One, and pillar of wilåya. Man’s quest for perfection, for realising unity (tawª¥d) demands that he pass through the Perfect Man, the Wal¥. It is in this sense that Zunz¥ understands the title of Imam Al¥ as imåm al-muwaªªid¥n.70 The intellect and the Muhammadan reality that is the ﬁrst emanation are truth and the standard of value in being. Being has value, and hence we have ethical values in this life because the perfect being qua God through the Muhammadan reality and the exercise of its wilåya bestows value to our world.71 The Wal¥/Imam manifests the Muhammadan reality that is a ﬂow and he is the last culmination of it, its historical end. Again to be Corbinian, he is the parousia that ushers in the eschaton of our epoché.72 Thus, the advent of the Imam as the ﬁnal manifestation of divine being, ushers in the Last Days of human history. The Muhammadan reality is the ﬁrst and the last as indicated in the famous Khu†bat al-bayån of Imam Al¥73 in the sense they are the ﬁrst to descend to existence as the ﬁrst creation and the last to return as the 120

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worlds fold up at the end of time, thus being the agents of the eschaton.74 It is in this sense that we might call this a philosophy with eschatological intent and millenarian expectation. Finally he wraps up the circle of being metaphor of the Muhammadan reality with recourse to the famous ªad¥th quds¥ of the hidden treasure.75 He guides existence back to the One and turns ‘hearts onto the journey towards the Truth’.76 The Perfect Man and the circle of wilåya is an all-comprehensive sphere, word and a ‘world’ in himself.77 This last feature of the Qajar doctrine of wilåya demonstrates the eschatological and soteriological nature of its philosophy. The mediation of the perfect man is critical. Corbin once wrote that the essential feature of Sh¥ ¥ philosophy was that it transformed a metaphysics of the act of being into a philosophy of presence, of the parousia of the Imam manifesting the perfect divine ousia.78 Such philosophy was oriented towards an expectation of the parousia of the Imam in this world, of his Ωuhr. The aim of this philosophy was to focus on a study of being and a practical preparation of being with a view to the Last Days, a ‘being-for-the-eschaton’. The inﬂuence of Heidegger’s concept of Sein-zum-Tod on this approach is clear.79 The desire for the eschaton and the other world is heightened more so because the doctrine of the modulation of being suggested that the being of the afterlife was more perfect and complete than being here in this world.80 The Imam makes that ‘being to come’ possible. But despite questions one might raise, it seems to be along the right tracks. Clearly, wujd and wilåya are central concerns of Sh¥ ¥ philosophy and ªikmat and this is deﬁnitely true of the nineteenth century when millenarian expectation was high one thousand years after the ﬁrst occultation of the Imam. Finally, I want to complete this brief chapter on this mystical theme by providing some qt al-qulb (‘nourishment for the hearts’) if you will, in the form of some verses of Rm¥,81 quoted by Zunz¥, Qumshih¥ and SabzavÇr¥ to illustrate their doctrine of wilåya. These verses represent the themes of wilåya of which I have spoken: modulation, process, comprehension, and the Wal¥ as the Perfect Man who manifests God/being to the rest of the cosmos. Wilåya always existed and always shall since being always was and always shall be and must be manifest. The ultimate exemplar and manifestation of this wilåya is Imam Al¥ and he is taken to represent it in this poem: As long as the form of the cosmos has existed, Al¥ was, As long as space and time has endured, Al¥ has been.82 Al¥ was that King, the Wal¥, that trustee (wa‚¥), The Sul†Çn of generosity and favour and muniﬁcence was Al¥. Adam and Seth and Enoch and Job all were, Even Jonah and Joseph and Hd were Al¥. Moses and Jesus and Khi∂r and Elijah were all, Even the Prophet ÍÇliª and David were Al¥. 121

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Of Jesus, the new-born who spoke in that state, His speech and eloquence were Al¥’s.83 That Adam who was the subject of the angels’ prostration was Al¥, In the Kaba of Muªammad the goal was Al¥. From ‘my ﬂesh is your ﬂesh’ (laªmak laªm¥)84 that you hear it is clear, That the friend who was the self of the Prophet (nafs-i nab¥) was Al¥.85 That high-ﬂying King who was on the Night Ascent (miråj), With Aªmad there was but one who was Al¥.86 This is not inﬁdelity, unbelief is not so,87 As long as there is existence, Al¥ is, as long as it was, Al¥ was.88

Notes 1 I would like to thank the participants of the conference at Bristol University in September 2000 whence this chapter originated as a brief pre-lunch paper for their comments. Anyone who knew him will immediately recognise the inﬂuence of my late supervisor John Cooper on this paper and my great intellectual debt to him. 2 D. Qay‚ar¥ Sharª Fu‚‚ al-ªikam bi-kshish-i Sayyid Jalål Åshtiyån¥ (Tehran, 1375sh) 145–6. 3 Al-QurÇn 2.269. 4 Alayka bi l-ªikmati fa-inna al-khayra f¥l-ªikma. Al-DÇrim¥ Sunan, muqaddima, 34 quoted in A. J. Wensinck Concordance et indices de la tradition musulmane, 8 vols (Leiden, 1936–69) I, 491. 5 Anå dårul-ªikmati wa al¥yyun båbuhå. Al-Tirmidh¥ Íaª¥ª, manåqib, 20 quoted in Wensinck, Concordance I, 491; for another version, see Al¥ al-Qumm¥ Tafs¥r, 2 vols (˝. al-JazÇir¥ (ed.): Qum, 1404AH) I, 68. Óikmat can thus also be seen as ‘imamology’ since one sense of the term recorded by Muªsin Fay∂ KÇshÇn¥ commenting on Q2.269 is marifat al-imåm. See KÇshÇn¥ Tafs¥r alÍåf¥, 5 vols (Ó. al-Alam¥ (ed.): Mashhad, 1979) I, 276. 6 On the notion of Prophetic and initiatic philosophy in Sh¥ ism, see H. Corbin Histoire de la philosophie Islamique (Paris, 1986) 25–33, 49–59; H. Corbin ‘De la philosophie prophétique en Islam Sh¥ ite’ Eranos Jahrbuch XXXI (1962) 49; Óusayn¥ ˝ihrÇn¥ Mihr-i tåbån: yådnåma va mu‚åbiªat-i tilm¥dh va Allåma-yi . . . ˝abå†abå ¥ (Mashhad, 1417AH) especially 305ff. 7 ÍaffÇr al-Qumm¥ Ba‚å ir al-darajåt (M. KchabÇgh¥ (ed.): Qum, 1404AH) 77. 8 H. Corbin En Islam Iranien, 4 vols (Paris, 1971–2) I, 35, 42, 47, 59: IV, 119, 304, 432. 9 Corbin, ‘De la philosophie prophétique’, 68. 10 ÍaffÇr al-Qumm¥ Ba‚å ir al-darajåt, 79–81, 90–2; A. al-Barq¥ Kitåb al-Maªåsin (J. Urmaw¥ (ed.): Tehran, 1370AH) 131–2; M. al-Kulayn¥ al-Kåf¥, 7 vols (A. GhaffÇr¥ (ed.): Tehran, 1377–9AH) III, 12ff. Cf. M. A. Amir-Moezzi The Divine Guide in Early Sh¥ ism (D. Streight (trans.): Albany, 1994) 29–36; A. Newman The Formative Period of Twelver Sh¥ ¥sm: Óad¥th as Discourse between Qum and Baghdad (Richmond, 2000) 54–5; Corbin, ‘De la philosophie prophétique’, 53, 91–2. 11 There is a minor controversy over the vocalisation: wilåya or walåya? M. Chodkiewicz, Seal of Saints: Prophethood and Sainthood in the Doctrine of Ibn Arab¥ (L. Sherrard (trans.): Cambridge, 1993) 21–2, suggests that the former denotes a function and the latter a ‘state of being’ but that in fact it is a singular concept with differing facets. Corbin, En Islam Iranien, III, 9–10,

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however, insists on a strict differentiation. For him, wilåya is authority in Sunni Suﬁsm and represents an ill-digested naturalisation of the Sh¥ ¥ concept of walåya. This seems odd especially since Chodkiewicz is correct when he says that most Arab Suﬁs say wilåya to denote authority, charisma and divine friendship (as indeed do most Sh¥ ¥s!). ÍaffÇr al-Qumm¥, Ba‚å ir al-darajåt, 81ff. The name occurs at Q2.257 and 45.19. ÍaffÇr al-Qumm¥, Ba‚å ir al-darajåt, 28ff, 94–101. Cf. Corbin, Histoire, 77–83; Corbin, En Islam Iranien I, 219ff. al-Kulayn¥, al-Kåf¥ I, 177ff. Cf. Newman, The Formative Period of Twelver Sh¥ ism, 119–37; Corbin, ‘De la philosophie prophétique’, 63ff. S. Ó. Åmul¥ Tafs¥r al-muª¥† al-aΩam wal-baªr al-khi∂am (Tehran, 1374sh) 267–9. Corbin, En Islam Iranien I, 30, 60–3 and IV, 444–8; cf. Chodkiewicz, Seal, 15. A. Amanat Resurrection and Renewal: The Making of the Babi Movement in Iran, 1844–1850 (Ithaca, 1989) 18–29, 48–105; M. Bayat Mysticism and Dissent: Socioreligious Thought in Qajar Iran (Syracuse, 1982) 26–35; D. MacEoin ‘Changes in Charismatic Authority in Qajar Sh¥ ism’ in C. E. Bosworth and C. Hillenbrand (eds) Qajar Iran (Edinburgh, 1983) 157, 164–9. M. Mudarris Tabr¥z¥ Rayªånat al-adab f¥ taråjim al-marf¥n, 8 vols in 4 (Tehran, 1374sh) IV, 249–50; M. Íadq¥ ‘SuhÇ’ Tår¥kh-i ªukamå va urafå yi mutaakhkhir¥n az Íadr al-Mutaallih¥n (Tehran, 1980) 33–7; M. B. KhwÇnsÇr¥ Raw∂åt al-Jannåt, 8 vols (Beirut, 1991) IV, 391–3; A. Qumm¥ alFawå id al-ra∂awiyya f¥ aªwål ulama madhhab al-Jafariyya (Tehran, 1980) 339–40. A. Amanat Pivot of the Universe: Nasir al-Din Shah Qajar and the Iranian Monarchy, 1831–1896 (London, 1997) 415–17. M. JarfÇdaqÇn¥ Ulamå -yi Sh¥ a az Kulayn¥ tå Khumayn¥ (Qum, 1364sh) 307; M. BÇmdÇd Sharª-i ªål-i rijål-i Ûrån, 6 vols (Tehran, 1357sh) I, 40–1; Abd al-Raf¥ Óaq¥qat Tår¥kh-i falsafa-yi Ûrån¥ (Tehran, 1372sh) 843–6; ÅqÇ Buzurg ˝ihrÇn¥ ˝abaqåt alåm al-Sh¥ a (Mashhad, 1372sh) I, 42–3. D. Menashri Education and the Making of Modern Iran (Ithaca, 1992) 56–7. M. Kashm¥r¥ Nujm al-samå , 2 vols (ÅyatullÇh Marash¥ Najaf¥ (ed.): Qum, 1396AH) I, 351–2; M. BÇmdÇd, Sharª-i ªål VI, 147–8; Tabr¥z¥, Rayªånat aladab II, 134–5; Óaq¥qat, Tår¥kh-i falsafa, 824–5; Corbin, Histoire, 480; J. A. de Gobineau Les philosophies et religions de l’Asie centrale (Paris, 1933) 100. BÇmdÇd, Sharª-i ªål VI, 235; M. M. ChahÇrdih¥ ‘TÇr¥kh-i falsafa-yi IslÇm: Muªammad Ri∂Ç Qumshih¥’ Vaª¥d 5 (1347sh) 753–7 and 798–802; Óaq¥qat, Tår¥kh-i falsafa, 825–7; ˝ihrÇn¥ ˝abaqåt II, 732–4; Corbin, Histoire, 480; Gobineau, Les philosophies, 98. E. G. Browne A Literary History of Persia, 4 vols (Cambridge, 1924) IV, 411. JarfÇdaqÇn¥, Ulamå -yi Sh¥ a, 268–70; BÇmdÇd, Sharª-i ªål V, 326–7; Óaq¥qat, Tår¥kh-i falsafa, 829–46; Ri∂Ç Qul¥ KhÇn ‘HidÇyat’ Tadhkira-yi riyå∂ al-årif¥n (Tehran, 1937) 417–20; Tabr¥z¥, Rayªånat al-adab II, 155–9; ‘SuhÇ’, Tår¥khi ªukamå , 113–42; Corbin, Histoire, 489–94; Gobineau, Les philosophies, 95–8, 101; E. G. Browne A Year amongst the Persians (London, 1893) 131–7; A. J. Newman ‘SabziwÇr¥’ EI2 VIII, 695; G. R. NizhÇd Óak¥m-i Sabzavår¥ (Tehran, 1371sh) 1–138; M. Óirz al-D¥n Maårif al-rijål f¥ taråjim al-ulamå wal-udabå , 3 vols (Qum, 1405AH) III, 220–3; S. Muªsin al-Am¥n al-Amil¥ AyÇn al-Sh¥ a, 11 vol (Beirut, 1406/1985) X, 234; ‘SuhÇ’, Tår¥kh-i ªukamå , 115–23; Tabr¥z¥, Rayªånat al-adab II, 156–8; ÅqÇ Buzrg ˝ihrÇn¥ al-Dhar¥ a ilå ta‚ån¥f al-Sh¥ a, 25 vols (Qum, 1341AH) XIII, 183.

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27 Gobineau, Les philosophies, 90–3. 28 JarfÇdaqÇn¥, Ulamå -yi Sh¥ a, 228–9. 29 Lithographed at the Qajar press in Tehran, 1283AH. See NizhÇd, Óak¥m-i Sabzavår¥, 157. The title bears a double meaning – both the commentary on the secrets of the Mathnav¥, and the commentary of ‘Asrår’ (the nom de plume of SabzavÇr¥) on it. The work was edited anew in 1995. For a recent study of the work, see John Cooper ‘Rm¥ and Óikmat: towards a Reading of SabziwÇr¥’s Commentary on the Mathnaw¥’ in L. Lewisohn (ed.) The Heritage of Suﬁsm: Classical Persian Suﬁsm from its Origins to Rumi (London, 1993) 409–33. 30 Amanat, Pivot of the Universe, 416. 31 NizhÇd, Óak¥m-i Sabzavår¥, 173. It was ﬁrst printed at the Qajar Press in Tehran in 1870 and has been reprinted numerous times with notes by major twentieth-century seminarian philosophers. 32 For example, SabzavÇr¥ wrote al-Muªåkamåt wal-muqåwamåt (Arbitrations and refutations) attacking Shaykh Aªmad al-AªsÇ¥ (d.1826) on issues of epistemology – see SabzavÇr¥ Raså il-i Óak¥m-i Sabzavår¥ (S. J. ÅshtiyÇn¥ (ed.): Tehran, 1376sh) 581–601. Zunz¥ was involved in disputations with the Shaykh¥ leader Kar¥m KhÇn KirmÇn¥ (d.1870). 33 Óirz al-D¥n, Maårif al-rijål III, 271–2; ‘A-H. Hairi ‘KhorÇsÇn¥’ EIr I, 732. 34 BÇmdÇd, Sharª-i ªål VI, 291. 35 JarfÇdaqÇn¥, Ulamå -yi Sh¥ a, 354–5; ˝ihrÇn¥, ˝abaqåt alåm al-Sh¥ a I, 329–30. 36 JarfÇdaqÇn¥, Ulamå -yi Sh¥ a, 295–6; Óirz al-D¥n, Maårif al-rijål I, 270; Tabr¥z¥, Rayªånat al-adab IV, 325; Qumm¥, al-Fawå id al-ra∂awiyya, 148; ˝ihrÇn¥, ˝abaqåt alåm al-Sh¥ a II, 274–8. 37 JarfÇdaqÇn¥, Ulamå -yi Sh¥ a, 393; ‘SuhÇ’, Tår¥kh-i ªukamå , 67. 38 B. Moin Khomeini: Life of the Ayatollah (London, 1999) 42–3; C. Bonaud L’Imam Khomeyni, un gnostique méconnu du XXè siècle (Beirut/Paris, 1997) 46. 39 S. H. Nasr ‘The metaphysics of Sadr al-Din Shirazi and Islamic philosophy in Qajar Iran’ in Bosworth and Hillenbrand (eds) Qajar Iran, 199. NizhÇd, Óak¥m-i Sabzavår¥, 82–3. 40 See especially ÅshtiyÇn¥’s lengthy introduction to Ibn Turka I‚fahÇn¥ Tamh¥d al-qawå id (S. J. ÅshtiyÇn¥ (ed.): Tehran, 1976). 41 On ªikmat as an oppositional discourse, see Amanat, Resurrection and Renewal, 15–17 and Bayat, Mysticism and Dissent, 28–35. 42 Ibn Arab¥ Fu‚‚ al-ªikam, 2 vols (A. Af¥f¥ (ed.): Beirut, 1980) I, 58–67; A. KÇshÇn¥ Sharª Fu‚‚ al-ªikam (Cairo, 1987) 33; Qay‚ar¥, Sharª Fu‚‚ alªikam, 413ff. 43 For example, Qushayr¥ (d.1074) al-Risåla al-Qushayriyya (Abd al-Óal¥m Maªmd (ed.): Cairo, n.d) 416–20 dedicates a chapter to it. 44 Quoted by HÇshim Ashkivar¥ Tal¥qa, in Qay‚ar¥, Sharª Fu‚‚ al-ªikam, 450. 45 Cf. Az¥z Nasaf¥ Kitåb al-insån al-kåmil (M. Molé (ed.): Tehran, 1378sh) 102–8, 184–8. 46 Cf. Corbin, Histoire, 100; Corbin ‘Face de Dieu et face de l’homme’ Eranos Jahrbuch 36 (1967) 167–8, 173–7. 47 Corbin, ‘Face de Dieu’, 197ff. 48 SabzavÇr¥, Raså il, 209–96. 49 Al¥ Zunz¥ Badåyi al-ªikam (A. VÇiz¥ (ed.): Tehran, 1376sh) 187–222; MullÇ ÍadrÇ al-Óikma al-mutaåliya f¥l-asfår al-aqliyya al-arbaa, 9 vols (R. Lu†f¥ et al. (eds); 3rd edn: Beirut, 1981) II, 322. Cf. S. J. ÅshtiyÇn¥ Hast¥ az naΩar-i falsafa va irfån (Tehran, 1980) 49–73. 50 Zunz¥, Badåyi , 223–36; MullÇ ÍadrÇ, Asfår I, 72–4. 51 MullÇ ÍadrÇ, Asfår VI, 277. Cf. ÅshtiyÇn¥, Hast¥, 167–97.

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52 MullÇ ÍadrÇ, Asfår I, 35 and 68. Cf. SabzavÇr¥, Raså il, 375–81; SabzavÇr¥ Sharª Ghurar al-Farå id marf bih Sharª ManΩma-yi ªikmat, qism umr åmma va jawhar va ara∂ (M. Mohaghegh and T. Izutsu (eds): Tehran, 1969) 49, 72–3. 53 MullÇ ÍadrÇ, Asfår V, 345–7. 54 MullÇ ÍadrÇ, Asfår VIII, 140. 55 SabzavÇr¥ Sharª al-asmå (N. Óab¥b¥ (ed.): Tehran, 1376sh) 552. 56 HÇshim Ashkivar¥, Tal¥qa, in Qay‚ar¥, Sharª Fu‚‚ al-ªikam, 450. Cf. MullÇ ÍadrÇ, Asfår I, 146, 381. 57 Al-QurÇn 2.257, 3.68 inter alia. 58 Qumshih¥ Risåla maw∂ al-khilåfa al-kubrå (MS 5561, SipahsÇlÇr Library, Tehran) 1A–2B; Muªammad Ri∂Ç Qumshih¥ Få ida tay¥n maw∂ al-khilåfa al-kubrå (MS 2239/2, University of Tehran Library, Tehran) 4A–4B. 59 MullÇ ÍadrÇ, Asfår VII, 33. 60 Qushayr¥, al-Risåla al-Qushayriyya, 416. 61 Zunz¥, Badåyi , 173–9, 183; cf. G. I. D¥nÇn¥ Maåd az d¥dgåh-i Óak¥m Mudarris Zunz¥ (Tehran, 1368sh) 240. 62 M. R. Qumshih¥ Dhayl Fa‚‚ Sh¥th¥-yi Fu‚‚ al-ªikam ba risåla-yi maw∂-yi khilåfat-i kubrå (SuhÇ (ed.): Qazvin, 1354sh) 1–2; Qumshih¥, Få ida tay¥n, 5A. It was ﬁrst articulated and discussed by al-Óak¥m al-Tirmidh¥ (d. c.905). See Corbin, Histoire, 274–6; B. Radtke and J. O’Kane The Concept of Sainthood in early Islamic Mysticism (Richmond, 1996) 8, 38–46; Chodkiewicz, Seal, 65–78. 63 Chodkiewicz, Seal, 58. 64 SharÇn¥ al-Yawåq¥t wal-jawåh¥r f¥ bayån aqå id al-akåbir (A. M. Al¥ (ed.): Beirut, 1998) 232–3; cf. Chodkiewicz, Seal, 135. 65 SabzavÇr¥, Sharª al-asmå , 626. 66 Zunz¥, Badåyi , xxvi–xxvii. 67 Zunz¥ Majma-yi mu‚annafåt-i Óak¥m Åqå Al¥ Zunz¥, 3 vols (M. Kad¥var (ed.): Tehran, 1378sh) III, 118. 68 Zunz¥, Majma-yi mu‚annafåt III, 109–23; cf. Bonaud, L’Imam Khomeyni, 470–9. On this concept in Ibn Arab¥, see Chodkiewicz, Seal, 60ff.; Corbin, En Islam Iranien I, 99–100 inter alia. 69 Zunz¥, Majma-yi mu‚annafåt III, 109. 70 Zunz¥, Majma-yi mu‚annafåt III, 110. 71 Zunz¥, Majma-yi mu‚annafåt III, 117. cf. SabzavÇr¥, Sharª-i manΩma, 43. 72 Corbin, ‘De la philosophie prophétique’, 51, 100–2. 73 For the text, see Åmul¥, Tafs¥r, 215–18; ÓÇﬁΩ Rajab Burs¥ Mashåriq anwår al-yaq¥n f¥ asrår Am¥r al-Mumin¥n (Beirut, 1978) 159–72 for similar utterances. Cf. M. A. Amir-Moezzi ‘Remarques sur la divinité de l’Imam’ Studia Iranica 25 (1996) 208–14; Corbin, Histoire, 83, 105–7. 74 Zunz¥, Majma-yi mu‚annafåt III, 121. 75 Zunz¥, Majma-yi mu‚annifåt III, 123. For the text, see Ibn Turka I‚fahÇn¥ Taªr¥r Tamh¥d al-qawå id (J. Åmul¥ (ed. and trans.): Tehran, 1372sh) 510–12. 76 SabzavÇr¥, Sharª al-asmå , 107. 77 Qumshih¥, Få ida tay¥n, 2A; Ibn Arab¥, Fu‚‚ I, 134ff.; Åmul¥, Tafs¥r, 195; cf. Chodkiewicz, Seal, 50–1, 87; W. Chittick The Self-Disclosure of God: Principles of Ibn Arab¥’s Cosmology (Albany, 1998) 14; MullÇ ÍadrÇ, Asfår VI, 296; Burs¥, Mashåriq, 23; Bonaud, L’Imam Khomeyni, 268–77. 78 Corbin, Histoire, 108–14. 79 Corbin began his career as a Heideggerian philosopher – see Corbin ‘De Heidegger à Sohravard¥’ in C. Jambet (ed.) Cahiers de l’Herne: Henry Corbin (Paris, 1981). For this concept of Dasein engrossed in its death, see M. Heidegger

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80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87

88

Being and Time: A Translation of Sein und Zeit (J. Stambaugh (trans.): Albany, 1996) 234–67, and M. Inwood Heidegger (Oxford, 1997) 67. D¥nÇn¥, Maåd, 150–2; cf. MullÇ ÍadrÇ, Asfår IX, 175. However, the poem is not found in any of his edited collections and might be a pseudo-attribution. The opening verse refers to the intimate connection between wujd (existence) and wilåya. These verses stress the continuity and differing manifestation of wilåya among the many prophets and messengers sent by God for man’s guidance. This verse refers to a well-known ªad¥th of the Prophet referring to Imam Al¥ as so close to him that he is the same ﬂesh and the same self. Nafs-i nab¥ (the self of the Prophet) refers to the common Sh¥ ¥ tafs¥r of Q3.61, the åyat al-mubåhila on the phrase anfusanå. See al-Óasan al-DaylÇm¥ Irshåd al-qulb (Beirut, 1978) 231 and Qumm¥, Tafs¥r I, 112. Sh¥ ¥ sources suggest that Al¥ was present on the mi råj with the Prophet. See DaylÇm¥, Irshåd, 233–4. The ﬁrst hemistich of the last verse attempts to refute a possible objection that such talk is heresy since it seems to place Al¥ at the godhead. But the point that Rm¥ (or whoever the poet might be) is making is that the continuity in existence is of Al¥ qua manifester of wilåya and not the historical Al¥. Qumshih¥, Dhayl Fa‚‚ Sh¥th¥, 11–12.

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7 ORTHODOXY AND HETERODOXY IN TWELVER SHI ISM Aªmad al-Aªså¥ on Fay∂ Kåshån¥ (the Risålat al-Ilmiyya) for Norman Calder Todd Lawson

Everyone translates what is transmitted to him into his own language, that is, he makes it into something of the same nature as his person. (Shaykh Aªmad al-AªsÇ¥)1

The polemical work by Aªmad al-AªsÇ¥2 known as the Risålat al-ilmiyya3 is a relatively long and at times repetitive expression of Sh¥ ¥ doctrine of much interest to the history of Qajar religious thought because it comprises numerous issues and themes that were bound to be refracted in various manifestations throughout the life of the dynasty. These themes and topics are joined in the service of a single idea, that the knowledge of God, or more precisely, God’s knowing, is identical with His essence and as such is completely beyond the ability of human beings to describe or discuss. Or, in the familiar phrase from medieval IsmÇ¥l¥ philosophical theology: God is beyond both being and nonbeing.4 Further, it is important to note that the polemic itself is directed against MullÇ Muªsin Fay∂ KÇshÇn¥ (d.1680). It has been suggested that AªsÇ¥’s preoccupation with this topic as a pretext for refuting the ideas of KÇshÇn¥ is a natural outcome of his exposure to a strong anti-Óikmat mood prevailing in the AtabÇt during the time that he spent there in study with various senior mujtahids.5 To the extent that this is true, it would tend to present AªsÇ¥ as an ultraorthodox Twelver Sh¥ ¥ – an unlikely identiﬁcation given the reputation he acquired in later Qajar theological circles, beginning with his excommunication (takﬁr) in 1824 (1239–40AH) by al-Shah¥d al-ThÇlith – ‘the Third Martyr’, MullÇ Muªammad Taq¥ BaraghÇn¥ (d.1264/1847),6 and perhaps culminating in his role as the intellectual and spiritual progenitor 127

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of not only the heretical BÇb¥ movement but also the later and in some respects even more scandalous BahÇ¥ movement.7 If the consolidation of the image of KÇshÇn¥ as champion of orthodoxy is partly a product of Qajar scholarship, then it may be asked to what degree this may have been an oblique response to AªsÇ¥’s vehement and notorious critique of him? And to the degree that it is, we have yet another example – however multiplex – of ‘heresy’ producing ‘orthodoxy’. Before turning directly to the Risåla, it will be useful to offer a few general words on the biographies of the two ‘antagonists’. MullÇ Muªammad ibn Murta∂Ç Muªsin Fay∂ al-KÇshÇn¥ (1597–1680) is well known as one of the pillars of post-Safavid Sh¥ ¥ religious culture. He produced a number of important books on Twelver doctrine and practice: the Sh¥ ¥ version of GhazÇl¥’s Iªyå known as the Maªajjat al-bay∂å (in eight volumes), the collection of ªad¥th (akhbår) known as al-Wåf¥ in (three volumes in folio); the Tafs¥r al-‚åf¥ 8 (in ﬁve volumes), and, further, he also produced a number of smaller works concerned with right belief, such as Ayn al-yaq¥n, the Óaqå iq and the Qurrat al-uyn, all of which more or less presented KÇshÇn¥ as an ‘orthodox’ Sh¥ ¥.9 In addition, Fay∂ KÇshÇn¥ was the most proliﬁc student of the great MullÇ ÍadrÇ, producing two important and inﬂuential works on Óikmat, the Kalimåt-i maknna and the U‚l almaårif. He was also the student of Sayyid MÇjid al-BaªrÇn¥, the avid Akhbari scholar.10 Al-KÇshÇn¥’s formation combined salient features of the AkhbÇr¥ approach11 to ﬁqh with the Sadrian approach to metaphysics and ontology. This latter also involved a further advance in the Sh¥ ¥ domestication of the thought of Ibn Arab¥, a process that may be seen to have begun as early as Maytham al-BaªrÇn¥ (d. c.1280).12 These elements, there can be no doubt, also combined with †ar¥qa-type Suﬁ inﬂuences, although he did not apparently commit himself to any particular order.13 Whatever the reality of MullÇ Muªsin’s true Suﬁ allegiances, he has become known in later scholarship as the ‘GhazÇl¥’ of post-Safavid Twelver Shiism.14 The author of the Risåla under discussion – the eponymous master of the Shaykhiyya, or the Kashﬁyya as its adherents preferred to be designated – was Shaykh Aªmad b. Zayn al-d¥n b. IbrÇh¥m b. Saqr b. IbrÇh¥m b. DÇghir al-AªsÇ¥. He was born in 1166/1753 in al-Mu†ayraf¥, a small village in Bahrain, apparently of pure Arab lineage. His family had been followers of the Sh¥ ¥ version of orthodoxy for ﬁve generations. From his early childhood, it was clear that Shaykh Aªmad was strongly predisposed to the study of religious texts and traditions. By the age of ﬁve, he could read the QurÇn. During the remainder of his primary education, he studied Arabic grammar and became exposed to the mystical and theosophical expressions of Ibn Arab¥ and the less well known Ibn Ab¥ Jumhr (d. after 906/1501), author of the Kitåb al-mujl¥.15 His teachers in his homeland included the Dhahab¥ Suﬁ, Qu†b al-D¥n Muªammad Sh¥rÇz¥ through whom he possibly gained his ﬁrst exposure to the work of Ibn Arab¥.16 In 1186/1772–3, Shaykh Aªmad left his home to pursue advanced religious studies in 128

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the AtabÇt shrine cities of KÇΩimayn, Najaf, and Karbala.17 In 1209/ 1794–5, he received his ﬁrst ijåza from the renowned scholar Sayyid Muªammad Mahdi ibn Murta∂Ç al-˝abÇ†abÇ¥ Baªr al-Ulm (d.1212/ 1797), and eventually six others from various recognised teachers.18 In 1793/1212, at the age of forty-six, Shaykh Aªmad took up residence in Basra, seeking refuge from the WahhÇb¥ attack on his native al-AªsÇ (al-ÓasÇ). From this time on, Shaykh Aªmad remained in either the region of AtabÇt or in Iran. He travelled widely and gained the respect of the Iranian religious and political elite. From 1222/1807 to 1229/1813, he lived mainly in Yazd. It was during this period that he was invited to visit the ruling Qajar monarch, Fatª Al¥ ShÇh (r.1212/1797–1250/1834). In 1129/1813 he moved from Yazd to Kermanshah where he lived until 1232/1816. At this time he went to Mecca on pilgrimage after which he returned to the AtabÇt. He eventually moved back to Kermanshah where he remained, except for a few visits to other Iranian centres, from 1234/1818 until he departed for another pilgrimage to Mecca. It was during this journey that Shaykh Aªmad died, not far from Mecca, in 1241/1826. He was buried in the Baq¥ cemetery in Medina.19 While he was highly regarded in many learned circles during his lifetime as the ‘Philosopher of the Age’ and leading commentator on the works of MullÇ ÍadrÇ, AªsÇ¥ more and more became the object of scorn as the Qajar period continued to unfold. In addition to the takf¥r of al-BaraghÇn¥, one of the more frequent disparagements of his work was that he was simply not equipped to understand the challenging philosophical theories of Óikmat, for if he had he certainly would not have designated the likes of ÍadrÇ and Fay∂ corrupters of religion.20 It would appear from everything we know of AªsÇ¥’s thought . . . and it is certainly not enough . . . that what others consider philosophical sophistication our author himself would view as irreligion, an abuse of the holy laws of intelligence. Certainly, this is the conclusion supported in the treatise at hand, the Risålat al-ilmiyya, the ‘Treatise on the Problem of God’s Knowing’. In contrast to the erroneous method commonly known as Óikmat, Shaykh Aªmad insists that he is teaching only the way of the sinless Imams, and this way is at the same time true philosophy or ªikma. The work was completed on 5 Rab¥ al-ThÇn¥ 1230 AH (Tuesday 17 March 1815) in Kermanshah, the city in which AªsÇ¥’s most important works were composed. But AªsÇ¥ had ﬁrst encountered the target of his commentary in the year 1228/1813 while travelling, probably from Yazd, through Isfahan on his way to AtabÇt to perform ziyåra.21 As an indication of the kind of response AªsÇ¥’s radical vision elicited, the illustrious MullÇ HÇd¥ SabzavÇr¥ (d.1878) who was for a short while in 1817 his student in Isfahan,22 would much later ﬁnd it necessary to compose a refutation of it.23 The Risåla was written in response to questions from M¥rzÇ BÇqir NawwÇb who is directly addressed throughout the text.24 Many of the 129

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themes and technical terms which would be explained and elaborated three years later in the Sharª al-fawå id are present here.25 The name of Muªsin Fay∂ is ﬁrst mentioned by AªsÇ¥ as ‘that well known gnostic’.26 And immediately he is stigmatised as a believer in waªdat al-wujd. Throughout the text, he is earnestly and energetically presented by Shaykh Aªmad as one who ‘works mischief (fasåd) in matters of religion’ and in one or two places even goes so far as to suggest inﬁdelity (kufr).27 Shaykh Aªmad’s intentions are clearly enunciated. He says that after perusing this essay by KÇshÇn¥: ‘I desired to explain its words – to distinguish between the bad and the good – in accordance with the madhhab of the Pure Imams, may God bless them all.’28 In the process, AªsÇ¥ identiﬁes in no uncertain terms, others whom he similarly indicts: Óasan al-Ba‚r¥, d.728 (pp. 175, 209) RÇbia al-Adawiyya, d.801 (p. 175), Ab Yaz¥d al-Bis†Çm¥, d.874 (p. 175) al-Ashar¥, d.935 (p. 209) al-FÇrÇb¥, d.950 (pp. 173 and 216), Ibn S¥nÇ, d.1047 (p. 216) al-GhazÇl¥, d.1111 (pp. 209, 223), Ibn Arab¥, d. 1240 (generally called ‘Mum¥t al-D¥n’ passim), Ibn A†Ç AllÇh, d.1309 (p. 175), Abd al-RazzÇq al-KÇshÇn¥, d.1335 (p. 177), Abd al-Karim al-J¥l¥29 (d. between 1408 and 1427) and his Kitåb Insån al-Kåmil (p. 162), and MullÇ ÍadrÇ, d.1640 (pp. 174 and 181). These ﬁgures and ‘their partisans’ (aªzåbuhum): ‘the Suﬁs’ (p. 176, p. 189 and passim), the Mutakallim¥n, and the Philosophers, represent for AªsÇ¥ the †ar¥qa bå†ila (‘the School of Falsehood’) and Atheists (mulªidn) (p. 162) because they either hold or inspired such ideas as waªdat al-wujd (pp. 152, 162, 235, 236 and passim) and bas¥† ªaq¥qa (p. 233 and passim). Those whom Shaykh Aªmad approves by name, apart from the Prophet, FÇ†ima and the Imams, those who teach the madhhab al-ma‚um¥n, (p. 151, cf. madhhab al-ªaqq, p. 253) are very few: al-˝abris¥ (d.1153), ‘the Universal Master (p. 247), al-˝si (p. 247) from whose Mi‚båª al-mutahajjad he quotes an excerpt from the long daily prayer ‘And all things other than You subsist by Your command.’30 It is important to ask here whether there may even have been some design on the part of AªsÇ¥ in selecting a culprit from virtually each successive century of Islamic history, perhaps as a kind of negative reﬂection of a very general and positive mujaddid¥ motif in the broader Islamic culture.31 Whatever the case, the listing of heroes and their foes connects our author to his community in a way recently identiﬁed as a sine qua non of Islamic orthodoxy.32 It also is quite clear from the ideas elaborated in this treatise, that for Shaykh Aªmad these ﬁgures and their erroneous ideas are not part of a history that is in the past, but one that is ‘under our feet’ and therefore present.33 AªsÇ¥’s critique of Falsafa is straighforward and instructive. To begin with, he insists that he is not against philosophy, but rather is an avid student of it. But this is the True Philosophy of the Imams, not the teachings of the so-called Falåsafa. He points out that there is a continuing argument between the philosophers – Óukamå – and the Traditionists on 130

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the deﬁnition of true philosophy – Óikmat. It is acknowledged that Óikmat originated from revelation starting with the prophet Seth and was passed on to Idr¥s and then from one philosopher to another, presumably in pure form, until it came to Plato. Here, the philosophers split into two groups. One group, the IshrÇq¥s, understand Plato in symbols and allusions, the other group is the Peripatetics and they study him from the outward meaning of his words. These latter imagine that they are walking in his footsteps. The ﬁrst of these was Aristotle, then his student al-FÇrÇb¥ and after him his student Ibn S¥nÇ. Another problem complicating the transmisison of philosophy from this time forward is the fact that it was in Greek and translated into Arabic, and in the process of translation many errors crept in. He then gives examples of the three types of mistakes made.34 His counsel to his interlocutor is: This is the reason you should take [current] Óikmat and align it with the Óikmat of the People of I‚ma. Then, the meaning will be sound. If you would make their words your guide, and become a divinely instructed follower, do not disregard their teaching by turning to the words of the Óukamå and the Mutakallimn and the people of Ta‚awwuf. Do only what They desire. It is not what the Suﬁs and the Óukamå want, contrary to what our author (Fay∂) would have us believe in his books.35 The polemical tone of the Risåla is of course one of its most striking features. The other is the reliance on the akhbår of the Prophet and his family. The major point being, for Shaykh Aªmad, that one can only say about God that which is stated in the QurÇn or in the ªad¥th. It happens, of course, that both he and KÇshÇn¥ rely on similar and in some cases identical traditions to make their respective points.36 The most prominent tradition, transmitted from the sixth Imam Jafar al-ÍÇdiq (d.765), is quoted several times throughout the Risåla. Its ﬁrst few lines are most important: Our Lord, mighty and glorious, was/is/will be ever a knower, and this knowing is his essence even though there be no object of knowledge. When an object of knowledge comes to exist, then this knowing falls upon it from it [i.e., his essence]. kåna rabbun azza wa jalla ålim wa al-ilmu dhåtuhu wa lå malm falammå wujida al-malm waqaa al-ilm minhu alå al-malm37 For Shaykh Aªmad, a recurrent, powerful metaphor and heuristic analogy of this particular doctrine of God’s knowledge is that of the sun. The sun, in relation to humanity, may certainly be thought ancient and preeternal (or sempiternal), serenely disengaged from and unencumbered by such worldly burdens and distractions as ‘time’ and ‘place’. The light of the 131

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sun, thus, has ever been radiating from its essence, even though there were no earth and no humanity upon which these rays might fall. This is exactly the way one should understand God’s knowing. God’s knowing is the same as his essence. Since this essence has always been (namely is azal¥), then God’s act of knowing has always been, even when38 there is no object of knowledge external to the divine essence upon which this knowledge might ‘fall’, to which it might ‘occur’ (waqaa). This IsmÇ¥l¥-esque analogy runs as follows: [The sun] is luminous in itself, even if nothing exists to reﬂect or receive this luminosity. If something exists, then its rays fall upon it, but if it does not exist [the sun] is still luminous. It is not possible to say that the sun has fallen (waqaa) from the fourth heaven to the earth. Rather, we say that the effects of the sun are manifest upon (waqaa) this material object. The meaning of wuq is the appearance (Ωuhr) of [the sun’s] effects which are its rays (ishråq) upon the earth. And its effects are [also] other than it. Its effects are its acting.39 Understand what I have said to you, that knowing can exist when there is no object of knowledge, like the parable of the sun which is luminous even if there is nothing for its light to fall upon (as is the case when it continues to exist at night but there is no luminosity because of the things between it and us). This is exactly like you who are hearing, even when there is no object of hearing or no one is speaking. Thus, to be hearing is your essence . . . This is why we say ‘you are hearing even when there is no sound’. But, we do not say that you hear [something] at a given moment when there is nothing for you to exercise your power of hearing over. It is the same for the sun when there is no material object to illumine. It is still the Master of Light, but it is illuminating nothing . . . Nonetheless, light is the essence of the sun and therefore one can only say that it shines . . . Brieﬂy, it is not permitted to qualify a thing by its operational reality (wuq) or its relationality (iqtirån), except when these things are in operation. Thus, the sun is only radiant upon a receiver of its radiance.40 According to AªsÇ¥, God is simply and completely unknowable. And while one doubts whether Fay∂ KÇshÇn¥ would actually disagree with this statement expressed thus, Shaykh Aªmad is rankled by several of KÇshÇn¥’s formulations which may be interpreted as violating the ever unknowable essence of God. From the very beginning of the treatise, AªsÇ¥ is dogged in his pursuance of KÇshÇn¥’s panentheism (or perhaps better, ‘theomonism’41), even to the extent of castigating him for citing the Qur’an in a corrupt fashion. KÇshÇn¥ opens his Risåla with the words: 132

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Praise be to God, the knower the wise, he from whose knowledge not even the weight of an atom is missing in all the heavens or in the earth. [Q34.3]42 And praise be upon Muhammad and the people of his house, the Pure Ones, those who inherited authority from each other in unbroken succession.43 What might otherwise appear to be a purely unexceptionable statement of belief in doxological form, is seized upon by AªsÇ¥ for the purpose of demonstrating, in no uncertain terms, the corrupt nature of the particular beliefs behind it. Because God’s knowing is the same as his inviolable essence, nothing at all can be said about ‘It’ apart from the assertion that ‘It’ exists, and even here one must be very careful how one uses the word ‘is’.44 The problem, according to AªsÇ¥ is whether Fay∂ understands this ‘falling upon the object of knowledge’ to be the actual essence or the divine acting.45 If he says ‘his essence’ then he is a kåﬁr (fain qåla dhåtuhu kafara). And if he says ‘his acting’ he negates everything else he has said. And if he says ‘nothing falls’ he gainsays the Imam, and gainsays the saying of God. Shaykh Aªmad says that the ostensive meaning of ‘knower’ is an attribute referring to essential knowledge, which is identical to his essence. In Fay∂’s quoting the verse, ‘nor fall from his knowledge the weight of an atom’, etc., if he means essential knowledge, he is wrong, because if that which is intended in the holy verse is essential knowing then those objects of its knowledge that are in heaven and earth would also be in it.46 This is unthinkable because there can be no connection between the divine timeless essence and the world of generation.47 There are only two possibilities: eternity (azal) or generation (ªadath): We hold [for the purpose of argument] that these objects of knowledge are: (1) the same as his essence without change, or (2) the same as his essence with change, or (3) other than his essence . . . It must be though that these objects of knowledge are in time (ªudth) and contingency (imkån) and there is no mediator between the necessary and the generated . . . The traditions prove this, and it is a correct position, since the objects of knowledge are other than his essence . . . We say: The knowledge of a thing must be commensurate with the object of that knowledge, or incommensurate, or connected to the object of knowledge, or not connected, or happening to it or not happening. It is either known or not known. If it is commensurate and you mean by this that the divine essential knowledge is commensurate with the object of knowledge, then you must also say that the divine essence conforms to you yourself . . . God be exalted above such a thing! 133

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If you say it is not in conformity, then you must say that there is no knowledge of it because it is not permitted that a knowledge be other than in conformity with the object of knowledge. For example, if the object of knowledge is long, then the knowledge is ‘long’ . . . And if you say ‘through wåqi’ then it is necessary that the divine essence ‘happen’ to you. And this is also absurd. The difﬁculty arises when there is a failure to recognise that there are in reality two types of knowing: God’s essential timeless knowing, and the pale mimesis of this referred to as man’s knowing. That it is so removed is indicated in several traditions, among the most interesting of which is the passage insisting that thinking is really a metaphor for something that has no real cognate or equivalent in the Divine instance.48 The ﬁrst type is ‘the knowledge that does not change’, as in the Imam’s statement: ‘His knowledge of a thing before its existence is as His knowledge of the same thing after its existence.’49 And while the MullÇ himself quotes such a tradition (whose plain meaning refutes his own position) . . . His understanding of ‘and knowledge was/is/will be his essence’ is along the lines of the waªdat al-wujd¥ Suﬁs, namely that ‘all created things’ are in and of the divine essence.50 On the other hand, AªsÇ¥ calls this knowing ilm råjiª al-wujd, or ilm imkån¥ – a potentially confusing designation. The second type, our author calls ilm akwån¥, or knowledge pertaining to the various existentiated things.51 In Western scholarship, it has become customary to yoke the grand intellectual topos of ‘hermeneutics’ with the Shaykhiyya, and while there is no doubt every good reason for this in many cases, one cannot help making the observation in the present context that it is clear that Shaykh Aªmad esteems himself as performing no act of interpretation at all in his reading of the QurÇn and the ªad¥th. He is simply learning and transmitting the pure unchanging meaning of these texts. One is struck, therefore, by the intensity of Shaykh Aªmad’s unwavering conﬁdence in his own ‘noninterpretation’ of the QurÇn and ªad¥th so crucial and basic to his argument. The source of this certitude is experiential: the ålam almithål, an interworld of dreams and visions with its own time and space, which is paradoxically more real than the world of ‘normal’ experience. The idea of an interworld, while certainly not new with Shaykh Aªmad, can be considered to have reached a theological and philosophical prominence (if not apotheosis) previously unknown in his writings.52 It was in this world that Shaykh Aªmad received his ability to understand directly from the Imams themselves. Therefore, his certitude that he understood the nature of God’s knowledge and knowing as perfectly as possible in 134

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this sub-lunar realm was utterly unshakeable, even though (or perhaps because) such certitude is based ultimately on the aporia of God’s absolute unknowable essence.53 Corbin translated ålam al-mithål by the Latin expression mundus imaginalis, emphasising that the realm in question must not be considered as merely imaginary – a ‘fantasy world’. Rather, the term denotes a realm which is accessible only by means of the God-given, sacred faculty of imagination: khayål. Khayål may be thought of as a true ‘sixth sense’, through which this world, ‘located’ between the world of sense perception and a purely spiritual world, may be encountered. As such, the distinction of the adjective ‘imaginal’ from ‘imaginary’ is most appropriate.54 We are not dealing here with irreality. The mundus imaginalis is a world of autonomous forms and images (moallaqa, ‘in suspense,’ that is, not inherent in a substratum like the color black in a black table, but ‘in suspense’ in the place of their appearance, in the imagination, for example, like an image ‘suspended’ in a mirror.) It is a perfectly real world preserving all the richness and diversity of the sensible world but in a spiritual state.55 For the Shaykh¥s, beginning with Shaykh Aªmad himself, the ålam almithål, sometimes referred to as HrqalyÇ, had pre-eminent importance as the abode of the hidden Imam, and as the place of bodily resurrection. The hidden Imam, residing in the ålam al-mithål, is accessible through the spiritual imagination of those members of the Sh¥ a who are capable of purifying their consciences to a degree that would allow the hidden Imam, or QÇim, to appear to (or: rise up from within) them (namely, the Perfect Sh¥ a).56 Shaykh Aªmad attributed a great deal to several visions he had experienced, beginning at quite an early age. In these visions, either the hidden Imam, or some other member of the ahl al-bayt would appear to him. During one such vision, the Imam bestowed upon Shaykh Aªmad twelve ijåzåt, one presumably from each of the Imams.57 By appealing to such experiences, Shaykh Aªmad made it clear that the only religious authority he would submit to would be the Imams themselves as opposed, say, to any marja al-taqlid of the U‚l¥s. This also implied that his own knowledge, thus derived directly from the Prophet and the Imåms, was qualitatively superior to that of others. Shaykh Aªmad was not the only personality to make much of such experiences. The phenomenon was common enough for those who experienced it to be designated by the term Uways¥.58 Shaykh Aªmad was not the only one to uphold the reality of the imaginal realm. Indeed, his opponent Fay∂ KÇshÇn¥ has written one of the clearest and most important discussions on the topic.59 Though both KÇshÇn¥ and AªsÇ¥ agree on the value of the ålam al-mithål, one assumes that there would be serious disagreements with regard to important details. 135

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AªsÇ¥ does not directly comment on Fay∂’s version here,60 and, of course, it would be very interesting to study more closely just how the two authors differed in their understanding of the topic. (For example, Fay∂ does not seem to speak of meetings with the Imam in his version of the mundus imaginalis.) It would be most instructive to know in which ways Shaykh Aªmad saw Fay∂ as ‘misunderstanding’ the ontological nature and function of the Imaginal Realm, even if it seems clear that they both would have to agree on certain of its eschatological qua cosmogonic functions. The ålam al-mithål is indispensable to Shaykh¥ eschatology, in which a corporeal resurrection is denied in favour of a complex recourse to this separate reality, where a resurrection of one’s spiritual or subtle (la†¥f) body, undergoes a process designated by such terminology as maåd and qiyåma. AªsÇ¥ was also a ‘scientist’ and we may assume that there is an emphasis here on the denial of the scientiﬁcally untenable bodily resurrection, which so many Muslim philosophers prior to Shaykh Aªmad also found impossible to believe.61 Shaykh Aªmad’s solution is in the form of a sufﬁciently detailed and therefore appealingly possible alternative: even the most hard-bitten sceptic could never completely deny the logical possibility of the totally spiritual process which Shaykh Aªmad propounded. AªsÇ¥ refers brieﬂy to the ålam al-mithål in the Risåla in discussing the descent of being as a result of the dynamic between the divine acting and the divinely-acted-upon (cf. fil/maf l mentioned above). Here absolute being is the acting and delimited being is the acted-upon.62 This is precisely the kind of discussion that betrays the strong attraction of AªsÇ¥ for the profoundly mystical and unitive visions sometimes associated with Ibn Arab¥ and his school, modulo of course certain confessional adjustments. It is doubtful that any otherwise benighted (according to AªsÇ¥) believer in waªdat al-wujd would or could but recognise their own views in the recent accurate characterization of AªsÇ¥’s ontology, namely: ‘As existence unfolds, the acts of becoming constitute the very acts of responding to, yielding to, and riding the ﬂow of existence.’63 But, in fact, there may be more proﬁt in comparing AªsÇ¥’s thought with that of AlÇ al-Dawla SimnÇn¥ (d.1336). Over thirty years ago, Landolt observed an intriguing similarity between the inﬂuential Iranian Suﬁ, and Aªmad al-AªsÇ¥: both heavily criticised waªdat al-wujd and sought to replace it with a dynamic view of the divine act (fil), even as both were accused of having misunderstood waªdat al-wujd in the ﬁrst place. In some ways, it is even more remarkable that both shared, as Landolt points out, similar views about a ‘subtle body’.64 It may be that AªsÇ¥ was directly inﬂuenced by SimnÇn¥ on these characteristic subjects, but so far, evidence of such an inﬂuence has not been encountered.65 Is it possible that both authors, one from the fourteenth the other from the nineteenth centuries were ultimately indebted to the IsmÇ¥l¥ tradition for their ontological views? It has recently been observed that ‘the ﬁgures who come closest to preﬁguring SimnÇn¥’s cosmological scheme are the 136

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IsmÇ’¥l¥ philosophers . . . as-SijistÇn¥ (d. between 386/996 and 393/1003) and . . . al-KirmÇn¥ (d.after 411/1020)’.66 SimnÇn¥’s distinctive attachment to the family of the Prophet67 may represent nothing more than tashayyu ªasan. But could it be that the same theological ‘fragrance’ that contributed so much to SimnÇn¥’s inﬂuential legacy and great popularity, contributed to AªsÇ¥’s fall from grace as the ‘philosopher of the age’? It was, after all the threat of IsmÇ¥l¥ Islam that was one of the most important formative factors in the birth and development of Twelver Shiism. Can there have been an inbuilt genetic resistance in Twelver theology to such stark apophaticism? Or is it more likely that the identical ‘morphology’ of the beliefs of the two men functioned in different ways in their respective milieux, namely to safeguard the utter transcendence of God who can only be ‘thought of’ in terms of a dynamic (yet aniconic) reality as distinct from an ontic reality: in SimnÇn¥’s case, from the Buddhists at the Il-khan court68; in AªsÇ¥’s case, from the Óikmat philosophers ÍadrÇ and KÇshÇn¥? This of course raises the question: what was the original ‘function’ of this same philosophy articulated by the classical IsmÇ¥l¥ thinkers? Here, it is of more than passing interest that it is possibly thanks to Muªsin Fay∂ that an important source-text of IsmÇ¥l¥ philosophical theology69 was rescued from oblivion. The Khu†bat al-†atanjiyya, which forms much of the lengthy chapter on ‘Sublimity’(uluwiyya) in his Kalimåt-i maknna,70 would become one of the more important objects of meditation for Sayyid KÇΩim Rasht¥, Shaykh Aªmad’s successor, and it would continue to enrich the thought and imagery of both the BÇb¥ and BahÇ¥ corpuses. Indeed, the version of this sermon most widely available has enjoyed countless reprintings in Twelver Sh¥ ¥ communities in Lebanon,71 though it tends to be dismissed as ghuluww by representatives of the learned classes.72 And, to add further to the complexity (or perhaps the impertinence) of applying the enduring and somewhat alien conceptual syzygy ‘orthodoxy/heterdoxy’ to the case of AªsÇ¥, it should be mentioned that the contemporary editor of the Risåla expends a certain amount of serious effort in an attempt to demonstrate that our author’s ideas are in perfect harmony with the teachings of the late Ayatollah Ruhullah Khomeini.73 The dialogue between AªsÇ¥ and KÇshÇn¥ is, of course, a dialogue completely controlled by our Qajar scholar, since KÇshÇn¥ is represented only by a text, and this text is mediated through the prism of AªsÇ¥’s concerns and goals. That AªsÇ¥’s general argument was severely condemned ﬁfty or so years later by the most celebrated post-ÍadrÇ philosopher, MullÇ HÇd¥ SabzavÇr¥ (d.1872), indicates that it touched an important nerve in the general body of Qajar Shiism, in both its philosophical and more purely religious modes.74 But, it is also true that as a result of AªsÇ¥’s critique of Fay∂ KÇshÇn¥ the latter becomes more U‚l¥, more ‘orthodox’. As our author says himself in response to one of KÇshÇn¥’s assertions that all of the divine attributes are existent in the essence: 137

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And he calls himself an AkhbÇr¥! – namely, one whose views accord perfectly with tradition, especially those traditions that are agreed upon (muttafaqa) and for which there is no contradictory tradition. But all of these are quite clear: the will and the purpose come from God as two generated things (ªad¥thatån) because they are active attributes. God does not have a pre-eternal will and purpose. Whoever claims that God, mighty and glorious, has always been willing and purposing is not an afﬁrmer of the divine unity (falaysa bi-muwaªªid).75 AªsÇ¥, as we know, was not the only one preoccupied with the identity of the true muwaªªid during the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. The WahhÇbi threat to Suﬁsm, ghuluww Shiism and philosophy of all kinds was not only a theological issue, but also a matter of life and death in some regions. The ironic development is, however, that in the process of Shaykh Aªmad’s argument against Fay∂ KÇshÇn¥ the Imams become God revealed, taking the place of the God of Fay∂ KÇshÇn¥. The real but starkly apophatic God is removed further from contemplation than one might have thought possible, unless of course one happens to be a classical IsmÇ¥l¥ philospher. One of the results of this elevation of the Imams, an elevation that automatically raises the divinity incommensurately higher, is that the answer to the question, ‘What does it mean to be human?’ becomes in some ways more interesting than it was before. The Imams, according to AªsÇ¥ – and IsmÇ¥l¥ thought – are neither human nor divine, but a different order of being, a separate and distinct species.76 The Perfect Man, in Shaykh¥ thought is not the Prophet, contrary to a traditional Suﬁ teaching rooted in the teachings of Ibn Arab¥77; nor is the idea represented by the Prophet and the Imams, contrary to the common Twelver Sh¥ ¥ adaption of this doctrine.78 Rather, for Shaykh Aªmad, the Perfect Man is the one who recognises the spiritual and ontological dignity of these ﬁgures. It is SalmÇn – not Muhammad – who represents the prototype here.79 For Shaykh Aªmad there is absolutely no doubt that KÇshÇn¥’s religious vision shares much in common with GhazÇl¥’s, but for AªsÇ¥, this is no commendation or point of honour. Though perhaps not a ‘card carrying’ kåﬁr, KÇshÇn¥ can hardly be seen as a continuer of the pure teachings of IthnÇ Ashar¥ Shiism. Not only is KÇshÇn¥ derided for continuing the Suﬁ-infected distortions of true religion propagated by his master MullÇ ÍadrÇ, he is also blamed for having ignored true philosophy, namely the teachings of the Imams. And, on the topic of God’s knowing, the true teachings of the Imams are as straightforward and clear as they are uncompromising. AªsÇ¥’s effort to rescue the unknowable God of Islam from the degeneracies of contamination through Islam’s unforgivable sin, shirk, may indeed be inspired by contemporary religious developments in Arabia. The 138

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terms of the argument are interchangeable, except, of course, that AªsÇ¥ was an avid ImÇm¥ Sh¥ ¥, and the WahhÇbiyya equally avid Sunni Muslims. But the temperament is strikingly similar, however much both AªsÇ¥ and Ibn Taymiyya (d.1328) might be horriﬁed to read this.80 The main object of their opprobrium was none other than waªdat al-wujd: existential monism, understood by them to violate the utterly transcendent essence (dhåt) of God. AªsÇ¥ quotes as follows against those who profess waªdat al-wujd: ‘It is rather as our Imam, the Commander of the Faithful, has said: “The created thing ends only in its likeness and the resort of the quest is only in its simulacrum. The road [to the essence] is forever blocked, and the search for it is eternally barred.”’ 81 The question, though, is would those who esteem themselves as professing waªdat al-wujd disagree with this ªad¥th? It should be remembered that Fay∂ KÇshÇn¥ is not the ﬁrst major Íafavid thinker to be pilloried by AªsÇ¥. MullÇ ÍadrÇ – KÇshÇn¥’s mentor and fatherin-law – was also the object of his purifying gaze. It was in connection with his critique of the Arshiyya, for example, that charges of AªsÇ¥’s lack of philosophical sophistication were perhaps ﬁrst voiced and recorded.82 It is obvious that his concern with KÇshÇn¥ is an essential part of his programme to purify the true faith from the deleterious effects of an excessive interest in a mysticism (yet he is profoundly mystical) gone overripe and a philosophy (yet he is an avid philosopher) badly construed. Shaykh Aªmad was held in high esteem by the clerical and the political communities of Iran: Fatª Al¥ ShÇh tried unsuccessfully to persuade al-AªsÇ¥ to live in Tehran nearer the court. And, the story is told of how the governor of Kermanshah felt so honoured by Shaykh Aªmad’s decision to visit his city that he travelled several miles out from Kermanshah for the sole purpose of greeting the famous scholar and escorting him into town. It may be that Shaykh Aªmad was so warmly welcomed by the political and religious leaders of Iran because his views offered a quasi-populist mystical interpretation of standard Twelver Shiism which served as a powerful alternative to what was becoming a disturbing interest in more purely Suﬁ doctrine, as propagated by the leaders of, for example, the NimatullÇh¥ order who in turn had very cordial relations with the Imams of the QÇsim¥-ShÇh¥ NizÇr¥ IsmÇ¥l¥ community.83 Shaykh Aªmad, as an accomplished and renowned Twelver mujtahid, would have served as an orthodox guarantor for the type of profoundly mystical religion so at home in Iran. As the creative force behind the distinctive Qajar era religious ramiﬁcations associated with the name of the Shaykhiyya, Aªmad al-AªsÇ¥ was partly responsible for a number of inﬂuential developments of the period. Included here are the several groups that continued to be identiﬁed from the outside as Shaykh¥. This was, in any case, a term of opprobrium used by opponents to evoke the spectre of the odious and dangerous Suﬁsm whose followers, according to the criticism, gave to a mere shaykh the kind of devotion and obedience properly owed to 139

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none apart from the Prophet and the Imams. The ‘Shaykh¥s’ – for obvious reasons – preferred to designate their madhhab by the name Kashﬁyya (‘Intuitionists’). Also included are the various developments associated with the activities of the BÇb, and his so-called Letters of the Living, most of whom had been students of Sayyid KÇΩim Rasht¥ (d.1844) the successor of AªsÇ¥.84 The remarkable interpretation of the role of FÇ†ima bint al-Nab¥ by the prodigiously talented niece of the above-mentioned al-ShÇhid al-ThÇlith, Zarr¥n TÇj, Qurrat al-Ayn or simply ˝Çhira, on the stage of Qajar religious history has left its indelible and inﬂuential traces.85 The Azal¥ and BahÇ¥ phenomena and the reactions and responses to these from both the clerical and bureaucratic cadres can be traced, without the slightest doubt, back to the work of AªsÇ¥. How well these later religious developments reﬂected the intentions of the leaders of the Shaykh¥ movement is another question, one irrelevant in the present context. What is not irrelevant is that the responses form something of a major motif in Qajar history (1794–1925/1209–1344). The assassination attempt on NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh by BÇb¥s, the alleged involvement of Azal¥s in his eventual assassination, the evolution of a separate and independent religion from BÇb¥, Óusayn Ali Nr¥, BahÇ allÇh, and so on.86 Afghani and Iqbal – two very different religious types – were also both impressed in their different ways by these developments.87 So, the inﬂuence of Shaykh Aªmad al-AªsÇ¥ overﬂowed the banks of what might otherwise be thought a rather parochial and arcane religious preoccupation to issue in a new religion and a challenge to Qajar religious thought.88 The distinguishing features of the Shaykh¥ school, as is the case with most Muslim religious groups, are related to the manner in which spiritual authority is to be deﬁned and mediated. The active controversy carried on by the partisans of the U‚l¥s and the AkhbÇr¥s is a case in point. The debate was based on the question of whether ijtihåd, ‘exerting individual effort to form an opinion’, rather than wholesale acceptance of the guidance contained in the preserved statements of the Prophet and the Imams (pl. akhbår), was the best way to resolve the questions of religion, which would of course include questions of law. Finally, the U‚l¥s, those in favor of ijtihåd, won the day and for the past two hundred years this basic attitude toward the written sources of the Islamic religion has held sway over most of the Sh¥ ¥ world. In the context of this debate, the teachings of Shaykh Aªmad offer something of a compromise, or reconciliation. He had grown up in one of the few bastions of the AkhbÇr¥ approach, and his synthesis may be seen, in part, as an elaboration of this method. Through propounding a doctrine of the nå†iq wåªid (a single authoritative voice) and the Perfect Sh¥ a, perhaps an echo of the Suﬁ idea of the Perfect Man (al-insån al-kåmil), Shaykh Aªmad was able, at least in theory, to circumvent the restrictions imposed by either of the two above methods and arrive at 140

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what he considered a much less fettered and more independent position vis-à-vis the reinterpretation of the raw material of the Islamic religion – the QurÇn and Sunna of the Prophet and the teachings of the Imams which were preserved in the akhbår.89 The freedom I am speaking of is exempliﬁed in Shaykh Aªmad’s response to those who charged him with relying upon strange and unsound ªad¥th to support his ideas. Shaykh Aªmad serenely responded that he could distinguish a sound ªad¥th from a weak one through its ‘fragrance’.90 Such a response is, in fact, an adamantine critique of taql¥d which is here not merely ‘imitation’ but ‘blind imitation’, in matters religious.91 However much AªsÇ¥ might have been stigmatised by his colleagues for his teachings about the ascension of the Prophet and resurrection of the body, and however much his own gothic and architectonic hypotheses – which betray a kind of philosophical horror vacui – might have scandalized his fellow believers, his criticism of Fay∂ KÇshÇn¥ on the problem of God’s knowledge may be thought to reﬂect faithfully a strong wariness – perhaps particularly among the Sh¥ a of the AtabÇt – about common interpretations of waªdat al-wujd that were seen as tainting the otherwise laudable – if not indispensable œuvre of Fay∂ KÇshÇn¥.92 He just may be cursing Fay∂ for his Suﬁsm and corrupt philosophy to a WahhÇb¥ audience (? back home). Why else would an otherwise devout Sh¥ ¥ such as AªsÇ¥ make bold to invoke the ijmå of the entire Muslim world against his opponent?93 KÇshÇn¥ and AªsÇ¥ appear to represent two ends of a spectrum: the one a ‘panentheist’ or waªdat wujd¥, the other ‘perfectly orthodox’. We are, of course, immediately suspicious of such a typology. As every one knows, Shaykh Aªmad was the heretic and Fay∂ KÇshÇn¥ the upholder of orthodoxy. It is doubtful – because of the implications of his staunch IsmÇ¥l¥-like theology – that AªsÇ¥ would have long remained the ‘philosopher of the age’ in Qajar times. The allergy to such permutations of ghuluww was simply too strong, even if it frequently circulated in the writings of both the orthodox KÇshÇn¥ and the heretic AªsÇ¥.94 It is almost as if the confession of waªdat al-wujd functions as an anti-IsmÇ¥l¥ shibboleth in this Twelver Sh¥’¥ context, even as its condemnation functions in this time and place as a philo-WahhÇb¥ shibboleth.95 Whatever the relationship of the form and contents of the Risåla might be to the Sitz im Leben, it is clear that it is also not only a product of its time and place. The discussions of the exact nature of God’s knowing are as old as Islamic theology and philosophy. It has been seen that Aªmad AªsÇ¥’s solution to the problem shares much in common with the teachings of the classical or medieval IsmÇ’¥l¥ philosophers and with the later ardent critic of Ibn Arab¥, the Sunn¥ Suﬁ, AlÇ al-Dawla SimnÇn¥. In this respect, the Risåla may be thought a typical example of early Qajar hybrid theological and philosophical discourse.96 141

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Notes 1 Aªmad al-AªsÇ¥, Sharª al-arshiyya quoted in Henry Corbin, translated as Spiritual Body and Celestial Earth (N. Pearson (trans.): Princeton, 1977) 211; originally published as Terre céleste et corps de résurrection: de l’Iran mazdéen à l’Iran Sh⁄ite (Paris, 1960). 2 Several articles by Cole (see note 4) explicate much of the Gedankenwelt and the actual thought of AªsÇ¥ who emerges as something of a mystic harbinger of humanism and individualism; this image could also be reﬂected in the work at hand. See below note 25, but see also A. Bausani Religion in Iran: from Zoroaster to Bahaullah (New York, 2000) 340–6, excerpted below, note 91: originally published as Persia religiosa da Zaratustra a Bahâullah (Milan, 1959). Henry Corbin En Islam iranien: Aspects spirituels et philosophiques, 4 vols (Paris 1971–2) I, 199–211 and IV, 205–300 (and passim throughout the entire work), his earlier L’École shaykhie en théologie sh⁄ite (Paris, 1961) together with other works such as Corbin, Spiritual Body represent the earliest sustained attempt by a Western scholar to understand the Shaykh¥ synthesis. Corbin’s contribution is invaluable and indispensable, if occasionally vaguely presentist. The most recent detailed general account – frequently expressing a valuable countervailing ‘BahÇ¥’ interpretation of texts and events – is Vahid Rafati ‘The Development of Shaykh¥ Thought in Sh¥ ¥ Islam’ (unpublished PhD thesis: University of California Los Angeles, 1979). The most recent sustained discussion of AªsÇ¥’s metaphysics is Idris Samawi Hamid ‘The Metaphysics and Cosmology of Process According to Shaykh Aªmad al-AªsÇ¥: Critical edition, Translation and Analysis of “Observations in Wisdom”’ (unpublished PhD thesis: State University of New York at Buffalo, 1998); Mohammed Ali Amir-Moezzi ‘Une absence remplie de présences. Herméneutiques de l’Occultation chez les Shaykhiyya (Aspects de l’Imamologie duodécimaine VII)’ BSOAS 64.1 (2001) 1–18 (translated into English in R. Brunner and W. Ende (eds) The Twelver Sh¥’a in Modern Times (Leiden, 2001) 38–57), is an illuminating exploration of some post-AªsÇ¥ imamological meditations in the Shaykh¥ school. The several works on the Shaykhıya by Denis M. MacEoin are invaluable, beginning with his groundbreaking Cambridge thesis, ‘From Shaykhism to Bâbism: A Study in Charismatic Renewal in Sh⁄⁄ Islam’ (unpublished PhD thesis: Cambridge University, 1979). Some of this material has appeared in more recent publications, all of which are highly recommended: Denis M. MacEoin ‘Shaykhism’ EI2 IX (1996) 403–5; Denis M. MacEoin ‘Cosmogony: In Shaikhism’, EIr VI, 326–8; Denis M. MacEoin ‘Orthodoxy and Heterodoxy in Nineteenth-Century Shi’ism: The Cases of Shaykhism and Babism’ Journal of the American Oriental Society 110.2 (1990) 323–9; Denis M. MacEoin ‘BaraghÇn¥, MollÇ Moªammad-Taq¥’ EIr III, 740; ‘AªsÇ¥, Shaikh Aªmad b. Zayn-al-D¥n’ EIr I, 674–9; ‘BÇlÇsar¥’ EIr, II, 583–5; ‘Shaykhism’, in L. P. Elwell-Sutton (ed.) Bibliographical Guide to Iran (Brighton and Totowa, 1983); and, ﬁnally, Denis M. MacEoin ‘Early Shaykh⁄ Reactions to the Bâb and His Claims’ in M. Momen, (ed.) Studies in Bâbª and Bahâ’ª History volume 1 (Los Angeles, 1982) 1–47; Abbas Amanat Resurrection and Renewal: the Making of the Babi Movement in Iran, 1844–1850 (Ithaca, 1989) 33–105, and Todd Lawson ‘The QurÇn Commentary of Sayyid Al¥ Muªammad Sh¥rÇz¥, the Bab’ (unpublished PhD thesis: McGill University, 1987) passim (forthcoming in revised form as Islamic Apocalyptic: the Literary Beginnings of the Babi Movement) offer various approaches and analyses of the general topic. In addition, see Saïd Amir Arjomand The Shadow of God and the Hidden Imam: Religion, Political Order and Societal Change in Shi’ite Iran from the Beginning to 1890 (Chicago, 1984) s.v. index ‘Shaykhism’;

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Mangol Bayat Mysticism and Dissent: Socioreligious Thought in Qajar Iran (Syracuse, 1982) 37–58. Although his scholarship is frequently disparaged (e.g. by Bausani, Religion, 340 and Corbin, Islam IV, 213), one should also mention the even earlier works of Nicolas on the Shaykh¥ school (see note 3). They are certainly not completely without value. 3 This work is most properly entitled Sharª risåla f¥ ¥lm allåh. Throughout this chapter it is referred to simply as Risåla reﬂecting the title of the most recent printed version in Muªammad Al¥ Isbir (ed.) al-Allåma al-jal¥l Aªmad bin Zayn al-D¥n al-Aªså ¥ f¥ då irat al-∂aw (Beirut, 1413/1993) 149–278 which is based on the lithograph found in Aªmad al-AªsÇ¥ Jawåmi al-kalim, 3 vols in 2 (Tabriz, 1856–59) I, 166–200. For a list of various manuscripts of this work see Moojan Momen The Works of Shaykh Aªmad al-Aªså’¥: a bibliography based upon Fihirist [sic] kutub Mashayikh ‘IΩm [sic] of Ab al-Qåsim Ibråh¥m¥ Kirmån¥ (Newcastle upon Tyne, 1991) 47 where its ofﬁcial title is Risåla f¥ Sharª Risålat al-Ilm. It has been partly translated in Alphonse L. M. Nicolas Essai sur le Chéïkhisme IV: La Science de Dieu (Paris, 1911) iii–li corresponding to Risåla, 150–70, minus a few omissions and with an addition or two. Nicolas typically gives no information about the text he used. Discussion illustrated with a few translated excerpts may also be found in Hamid, ‘Metaphysics and Cosmology’, 167–75 (cf. portions of Risåla, 205–8). In Muªammad Muªsin AghÇ Buzrg ˝ihrÇn¥ al-Dhar¥ a ilå ta‚ån¥f al-Sh¥ a, 25 vols (Qum, 1341sh) XIII, 287–8 it is listed as #1046 Sharª risålat al-ilm and said to have been completed in Kermanshah on the morning of Friday 8 of Rab¥ al-ThÇn¥, 1230AH. ˝ihrÇn¥, Dhar¥ a XV, 322 #2071 locates Fay∂’s original, relatively short work of ‘100 verses’ as Risåla f¥ ilm Allåh taålå, in the library of al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ and the library of Shaykh Al¥ KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç. Here the author of Dhar¥ a erroneously says that Shaykh Aªmad’s commentary on it is named al-Lubb. Unfortunately, I have not had access to the original of KÇshÇn¥’s Risåla and rely here on quotations from it found in the text of AªsÇ¥’s commentary. See also the commentary on Shaykh Aªmad’s treatise listed at ˝ihrÇn¥, Dhar¥ a II, 180 #667. 4 See, as one example from among many, the edition and translation of Na‚ir Khusraw’s (d. after 1072) Gushåyish wa Rahåyish: Faquir M. Hunzai Knowledge and Liberation: A Treatise in Philosophical Theology (London, 1998) 41–3. Although it has been mentioned and alluded to in several earlier studies of Shaykh¥ thought, the fascinating and important question of its exact relationship with classical IsmÇ¥l¥ theology remains to be fully studied and elucidated. See, in addition to Corbin’s observations referred to above, Wilferd Madelung ‘Aspects of IsmÇ¥l¥ Theology: The Prophetic Chain and the God beyond Being’ in S. H. Nasr (ed.) Ismå ¥l¥ Contributions to Islamic Culture (Tehran, 1398/1977) 51–65. It seems clear, at this stage, however, that there are several points of agreement, beyond the above-mentioned correspondence with regard to ontology. Amanat, Resurrection, 9, 12–13, 58, 83–4 has drawn attention to the socio-political role of crypto-IsmÇ¥l¥ communities in the rise and development of active Shaykhism and BÇbism. However, similarities between NÇ‚ir Khusraw’s Vajh-i d¥n and the Bab’s Qayym al-asmå (Amanat, Resurrection, 206) have been quite overstated. The Risåla under discussion would be an excellent candidate for a thorough comparison of a more purely philosophical and theological nature. It is not impossible that these IsmÇ¥l¥ resonances – which perhaps enhanced a perceived anti-government attitude discussed in Juan Ricardo Cole ‘Shaykh Ahmad al-Ahsa’i on the Sources of Religious Authority’ in Linda Walbridge (ed.) The Most Learned of the Sh¥’a (New York, 2001) 82–93, esp. 91 – together with the retrojected damage arising from various post-Shaykh¥ sectarian, heretical ideas and movements

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6

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8 9 10

that developed under the inﬂuence of Shaykh¥ thought (Hamid, ‘Metaphysics and Cosmology’, notes 5 and 7) are at least partly responsible for AªsÇ¥’s eventual and perhaps inevitable fall from grace. See also Cole’s other related articles: Juan Ricardo Cole ‘Casting Away the Self: The Mysticism of Shaykh Ahmad al-Ahsa’i’, in Rainer Brunner and Werner Ende (eds) The Twelver Shi’a in Modern Times (Leiden, 2001) 25–37; Juan Ricardo Cole ‘New Perspectives on Sayyid Jamal al-Din al-Afghani in Egypt’, in Rudi Matthee and Beth Baron (eds) Iran and Beyond: Essays in Middle Eastern History in Honor of Nikki R. Keddie (Costa Mesa, 2000) 13–34; and, Juan Ricardo Cole ‘The World as Text: Cosmologies of Shaykh Ahmad al-Ahsa’i’ Studia Islamica 80 (1994)145–63. Hamid, ‘Metaphysics and Cosmology’, 22, 30–31, bases this broad characterization on the views of the admittedly inﬂuential Ysuf al-BaªrÇn¥ (d.1772). See the conﬂicting evidence presented in Hamid, ‘Metaphysics and Cosmology’, 59 and the tantalizing comments at p. 37. He does not mention any speciﬁc sources however. Leonard Lewisohn ‘Suﬁsm and the School of I‚fahÇn: Ta‚awwuf and Irfån in Late Safavid Iran’ in L. Lewisohn (ed.) The Heritage of Suﬁsm, Volume III: Classical Persianate Suﬁsm: the Safavid and Mughal Period (Oxford, 1999) 63–134 (references here are to a typescript kindly provided by its author) 46ff., maintains just the opposite, that the major thrust of opinion on Fay∂ has been to downplay his interest in esoterica and other ‘extra-orthodox pursuits’ (like Óikmat), to produce a picture of him as the champion of Twelver orthodoxy. See also Seyyed Hossein Nasr in MullÇ Muªammad Muªsin Fay∂ al-KÇshÇn¥, U‚l al-maårif (J. D. AshtiyÇn¥ (ed.): Mashhad, 1353) 5–6 of the English ‘Preface’, who maintains KÇshÇn¥ has been misrepresented by the later Twelver scholastic tradition which saw him as having not continued the teaching of his master, MullÇ ÍadrÇ, but as having been solely concerned with ‘orthodox’ Shiism. Rafati, ‘Development of Shaykh¥ Thought’, 47 and Hamid, ‘Metaphysics and Cosmology’, 34. The general consensus in modern scholarship is that this takf¥r was the result of a personal animus on the part of BaraghÇn¥ who, as a matter of fact, would later be assassinated by either a militant BÇb¥ or BÇb¥ sympathizer (Amanat, Resurrection, 322). Note that his honoriﬁc places him ﬁrmly in the line of Twelver Sh¥ ¥ ‘orthodox’ martyrology. The ﬁrst Shah¥d was Shams al-D¥n al-Åmil¥ al-Jizz¥n¥ (d.1384), the second was Zayn al-D¥n ibn Al¥ al-Åmil¥ al-Juba¥ (d.1558). See also MacEoin, ‘BaraghÇn¥’. Hamid, ‘Metaphysics and Cosmology’, 52–5, is quite certain, building on the theories of Jorje Gracia, speciﬁcally his Texts: Ontological Status, Identity, Author, Audience (Albany, 1996) that AªsÇ¥ suffered a kind of retroactive condemnation as a result of the BÇb¥ and BahÇ¥ ‘audience’. He offers the hypothesis that if it had not been for the BÇb¥s and BahÇ¥s (? falsely) claiming a relationship to the teachings of the Shaykhiyya, AªsÇ¥ would still be esteemed by the majority of (? Iranian Sh¥ ¥) scholars as one of the greatest philosophers of his time. For a thoughtful and pertinent discussion of the complex relationship between orthodoxy and heterodoxy, particulary in relation to the Shaykhiyya vis-à-vis the later BahÇ¥ faith, see MacEoin ‘Orthodoxy’. Todd Lawson ‘AkhbÇr¥ Sh¥’¥ Approaches to tafs¥r’ in G. Hawting and A. Abdul-Kadir Shareef (eds) Approaches to the Qur’an (London, 1993) 173–210, esp. 180–7. See below, note 60, for these works by KÇshÇn¥. See the biographical sketch in Al¥ Óusayn al-JÇbir¥ al-Fikr al-salaf¥ ind alSh¥ a al-ithna ashar¥ (Beirut and Paris, 1977) 326–66. See also E. Kohlberg ‘Some Aspects of AkhbÇr¥ Thought’ in N. Levtzion and J. Voll (eds) Eighteenth

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16 17 18 19 20

21

Century Renewal and Reform in Islam (Syracuse, 1987) 133–60 for an important nuancing of KÇshÇn¥’s particular version of Akhbarism. The complex subject of KÇshÇn¥’s AkhbÇr¥ allegiance has been most recently broached in Robert Gleave ‘Two Classical Sh¥’¥ theories of qa∂å ’ in G. Hawting et al. (eds) Studies in Islamic and Middle Eastern Texts and Traditions in Memory of Norman Calder (Oxford, 2000) 105–20, Andrew J. Newman III ‘Fayd al-Kashani and the Rejection of the Clergy/State Alliance’ in L. Walbridge (ed.) The Most Learned of the Sh¥’a (New York, 2001) 34–52 and Todd Lawson ‘AkhbÇr¥’. The most recent detailed discussion of this is Ali Oraibi ‘Sh¥ ¥ Renaissance: A Case Study of the Theosophical School of Bahrain in the 7th/13th century’ (unpublished PhD thesis: McGill University, 1992). Lewisohn, ‘Suﬁsm’, 44–66 is the most thorough inquiry into the Suﬁsm of alKÇshÇn¥ available. See especially Lewishon, ‘Suﬁsm’, 48ff. for a discussion of KÇshÇn¥’s controversial Nrbakhsh¥ afﬁliation, and Fay∂’s reputation in court circles for being an authority on Suﬁsm and Óikmat, namely: sålik-i †ar¥qayn va mast-i nashå atayn. Lewisohn, ‘Suﬁsm’ (quoting Zarrinkb). See AªsÇ¥, Risåla, 226, where Shaykh Aªmad directly quotes Ibn Ab¥ Jumhr, speciﬁcally from his book al-Mujl¥, a ªad¥th on the authority of the Prophet: ‘All existents appeared from the bå of the basmala (Ωaharat al-mawjdåt min bå bismillåh al-raªmån al-raª¥m).’ AªsÇ¥ adds that this is a symbol (ramz) for the Preserved Tablet, al-lawª al-maªfΩ (cf. Q85.22). See Todd Lawson ‘Ebn Abi Jumhr’ EIr VII, 662–3 where this ªad¥th is discussed and Todd Lawson, ‘The Terms Remembrance (dhikr) and Gate (båb) in the Bab’s Commentary on the Sura of Joseph’, in M. Momen (ed.) Båbi and Bahå’Ó Studies in Honour of H.M. Balyuzi (Los Angeles, 1989) 56 where the inﬂuence of this tradition – via the Shaykhiyya – is noted in the BÇb’s commentary of QurÇn 12. See now, Sabine Schmidtke Theologie, Philosophie und Mystik im zwölferschiitischen Islam des 9./15. Jahrhundrets: die Gedankenwelten des Ibn Ab¥ ˜umhr al-Aªså ¥s (um 838/1434–35-nach 906/1501) (Leiden and Boston, 2000) 30–1, note 93, for references to other discussions of traces of Ibn Ab¥ Jumhr’s inﬂuence on Shaykh Aªmad in Chahardih¥, Corbin, Cole and Hamid. The similarities between several speciﬁc formulations in al-Mujl¥ to the language of the writings of both AªsÇ¥ and Rasht¥ are presented in Lawson, Qurån, 67, 118–20, 189–91, 205–6, 332. See also Rafati, ‘Development of shaykh¥ Thought’, 22 and 40. Rafati, ‘Development of Shaykh¥ Thought’, 40, although he could have become acquainted with him through the works of Ibn Ab¥ Jumhr. MacEoin, ‘Charismatic Renewal’, 58 citing Sayyid KÇΩim Rasht¥, Dal¥l almutaªayyar¥n (n.p. 1276/1859–60) 12. For the names of those who issued the several ijåzåt to Shaykh Aªmad see Rafati, ‘Development of Shaykh¥ Thought’, 41. See also the relevant chapters in Amanat Resurrection and MacEoin, ‘Charismatic Renewal’. Rafati, ‘Development of Shaykh¥ Thought’, 44–5. According to Amanat (Resurrection, 67), AªsÇ’¥’s departure from Iran and the AtabÇt was precipitated by the enmity of a growing number of high-ranking Sh¥’¥ ‘ulamå . See, for example, the remarks quoted from MullÇ Al¥ al-Nr¥ in Sayyid Muªsin al-Am¥n al-Óusayn¥ al-Åmil¥ Ayån al-Shi a, 11 vols (Beirut, 1406/1985) II, 591. Corbin’s brief response to such slanders is compelling, if not completely convincing (Corbin, Islam IV, 212–13). There may have been other reasons for this visit. AªsÇ’¥ says he ‘arrived in Isfahan, a city protected from current events, and met with its distinguished ulamå , may God protect them from the changes and chances of the world

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(nawå ib al-ªadathån)’. AªsÇ¥, Risåla, 150; AªsÇ¥, Jawåmi , 166. Cf. Nicolas, Essai, iv for an alternate reading. M. Mohaghegh and I. Izutsu The Metaphysics of Sabzavår¥ (New York, 1977) 14. The main part of this book is a translation of a portion of his Ghurar al-farå id known as the Sharª-i manΩma, with an Introduction by Izutsu, based on the philosopher’s work and his autobiography, from which comes the following comment: ‘[AªsÇ¥] was unrivalled in his ascetic ways, however his graces [? = fa∂å il = ‘intellectual gifts’ < ‘scholarship’] were not evident to the other scholars of Isfahan.’ For SabzavÇr¥’s refutation, see note 74. ‘M¥rzÇ Muªammad BÇqir ibn Muªammad al-LÇh¥j¥, resident of Isfahan and later Tehran. He had held the post of vaz¥r to Sultan Jafar KhÇn Zand and was held in high esteem by Fatª-Al¥ ShÇh who asked him to write a tafs¥r of the QurÇn in Persian in a manner that had not been done before. He wrote Tuhfat al-Khåqån. He also wrote a sharª of the Nahj al-Balågha in Persian for Fatª-Al¥ ShÇh. He died in in Tehran 1240.’ Momen, The Works, 45. The introductory exhortation to his questioner is most interesting. Among other things, he tells him (AªsÇ¥, Risåla, 151–2) that the Suﬁs, the Óukamå and the Theologian are not proofs (like the Imams), that they are not his Imams, and that he must imitate the Imams directly. Not, however, the way some do through ignorance and error. Rather, his questioner should practice taql¥d of the Imams with reason, so that he does not blindly follow. If the questioner protests that their words do not conform to reason, Shaykh Aªmad reponds: ‘I say to you, their words are a divine binding reality (ªaqq), and your reason is a divine binding reality (as long as you do not corrupt it with mirky knowledge) and the correcting principles are a divine binding reality because they are all of “the divine nature upon which He fashioned mankind (ﬁ†rat Allåh al-lat¥ fa†ara alnås alayhå)” [Q30.30]. So, I do not want you to practice “pure taql¥d” as some vainly imagine it should be practiced. Rather, read Their words as rational indications [of thought and action] through your own powers of understanding, completely detached from the understanding of others. If you understand my words, and act according to my directions you will ﬁnd that what I tell you is a useful tool for solving abstruse problems. By God, this is my teaching and that which should [? alone] represent me after I am gone (khal¥fat¥).’ Note the error in AªsÇ¥, Risåla, 152: al-maf‚d for AªsÇ¥, Jawåmi, 167 al-maq‚d. Though there seem to be some exceptions, namely his distinctive use of the term ‘duf atan’ (‘all at once’ ‘tout a coup’) to designate the simultaneity and unicity of one aspect of cosmogonic movement (see, e.g., AªsÇ¥, Risåla, 256–8; see also SabzavÇr¥’s critique of this mentioned below, note 74) while a companion technical term abadan †åriyyatan ‘perpetual freshness’ (AªsÇ¥, Risåla, 268) does occur in the later work (see Hamid, ‘Metaphysics and Cosmology’, 175). On daf’atan (sic) wåªidatan as a key technical term in classical IsmÇ¥l¥ philosophy, see Madelung, ‘Aspects’, 56–7. The essentially and deeply mystic view of time and creation issues from and is coordinated with a meditation of such ªad¥th as: kåna Allåh wa lå shay maahu; al-ån kamå kåna (frequently ascribed to the third Imam, Óusayn, but also ascribed to Junayd. See the discussion of this inﬂuential ªad¥th in Lawson, Qurån, 194–5): ‘God was originally alone, there was no other thing with Him; He is now as He was.’ Shaykh Aªmad offers a correction of ‘misinterpretations’ of this ªad¥th such as those found in KÇshÇn¥ (see the discussion of a slight variant in AªsÇ¥, Risåla, 189) which led the latter to what Shaykh Aªmad deems the pernicious doctrine of maiyya ‘pre-eternal withness’ another misunderstanding of the intentions of the Imams (AªsÇ¥, Risåla, 227). Intimately connected with Shaykh Aªmad’s theory of space and time is the highly distinctive, mystical and

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existentially challenging reading of Q7.172 that emerges from it (e.g. AªsÇ¥, Risåla, 214–15, 259, 264). This doctrine of the Covenant, which reﬂects the preoccupations of an original Shiism (Mohammed Ali Amir-Moezzi The Divine Guide in Early Shi’ism: The Sources of Esotericism in Islam (D. Streight (trans.): Albany, 1994) s.v. index ‘m¥thåq’, ﬁrst published as Le Guide divin dans le sh¥’ism originel (Paris, 1992)) deserves separate treatment. It seems clear that most, if not all, elements of AªsÇ¥’s thought revolve around it, no matter how apparently irrelevant to this theme any given element might otherwise appear. His teaching here emerges from the AkhbÇr¥ reading of the verse which sees it as having been corrupted from its original form in which God explicitly designates Al¥ as Guardian (wal¥) of the community. See Todd Lawson ‘A ‘New Testament’ for the Safavids’ a paper presented at the Safavid RoundTable, Edinburgh, 1998. This reading is supported throughout the text. Cf. AªsÇ¥, Risåla, 151: al-årif al-mutqin, and AªsÇ¥, Jawåmi , 166 al-årif al-muttaqan. AªsÇ¥, Risålå, 181; kufr: AªsÇ¥, Risåla, 274, 275 and 276 respectively. AªsÇ¥, Risåla, 151. Note that the Arabic: fa-aªbabtu an . . . evokes (and perhaps identiﬁes, however unwittingly, our author with) the voice in the famous ªad¥th quds¥: kuntu kanzan makhﬁyan. He is ridiculed by our author for his statement: ‘nothing in the East or the West budges even the distance of a ﬁnger-tip except through my might and power’. AªsÇ¥, Risåla, 162. wa kullu shayin siwåka qåma bi-amrika: AªsÇ¥, Risåla, 247; also noticed in Hamid, ‘Metaphysics and Cosmology’, 147. For evidence of a concern among the masters of the Shaykh¥ school with the theme of metaphysical (always with historical implications) symmetries of light and dark, good and evil, see Todd Lawson ‘Coincidentia Oppositorum in the QurÇn Commentary of the Bab: the terms ‘Point’ (nuq†a), ‘Pole’ (qu†b), ‘Center’ (markaz) and the Khu†bat al-tatanjiya’ Occasional Papers in Shaykhi, Babi and Baha’i Studies V.1 (January, 2001) and references. Available at www2. h-net.msu.edu/_bahai/bhpapers.htm. See also the brief but highly pertinent remarks in MacEoin, ‘Cosmogony’, 326b. Norman Calder ‘The Limits of Islamic Orthodoxy’ in F. Daftary (ed.) Intellectual Traditions in Islam (London, 2000) 76–8 where the example of the BÇb serves as a proof case for the general thesis that the orthodoxy of a generic work of Islamicate religious discourse (in this instance the genre is tafs¥r) depends upon the degree to which the historical scholarly experience of the community is acknowledged within it. This nineteen-page essay is itself a typically learned and profound contemplation of a controversial topic in Islamic studies – a choice example from the author’s prematurely diminished legacy to his own community. The phrase is Corbin’s (Islam I, xviii–xix). See also Amir-Moezzi, ‘Une absence’. AªsÇ¥’s discussion of time here (AªsÇ¥, Risåla, 211, 230, 240–2) is central to the problem of God’s knowledge, cosmogony, ontology and eschatology and adumbrates the more systematic treatment in his Sharª al-fawå’id; see the very useful discussion in Hamid, ‘Metaphysics and Cosmology’, 244–9, though the author neglects to make the connection that here again there is much that is suggestive of classical IsmÇ¥l¥ thought. Cf. e.g. Hunzai, Knowledge and Liberation, 30–4. See Corbin, Islam IV, 294–9 for a rich discussion of the temporal and spatial in AªsÇ¥ and its homologous relationship with certain classical IsmÇ¥l¥ ideas. See also Lawson, Qurån, 230–40. There is no space here to examine the topic fully. (See the comments above at notes 4 and 25.) While apparently uninterested in this speciﬁc problem, the recent study of the Shaykhiyya by Sayyid Muªammad Óasan Ål al-˝ÇlaghÇn¥ al-Shaykhiyya

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nashaatuhå wa ta†awwuruhå wa ma‚ådir diråsatuhå (Beirut, 1420/1999) 320–1 does notice ‘bå†in¥ fragrances’ emanating from the school. See also MacEoin, ‘Cosmogony’, 326b–327a. (1) Scholars inventing that which was not in the original teaching (istinbå†) because they were not infallible (lays bi-ma‚m¥n). In the same way doctors of law have erred in inventing erroneous laws for the Shar¥ a; (2) errors in translation, deriving from (a) a weak knowledge of Greek, or (b) the translators’ general ignorance; (3) a lack of ability in the art of translation. AªsÇ¥, Risåla, 172–4. AªsÇ¥, Risåla, 174. AªsÇ¥, Risåla, 271–2. AªsÇ¥, Risåla, 154. Cf. Muªammad BÇqir ibn Muªammad Taq¥ al-Majlis¥, Biªår al-anwår, 110 vols (Beirut, 1983) III, 21 (r.18, b. 1) and repeated at Majlis¥, Biªår LVII, 161 (r. 96, b.1) for the full ªad¥th, with a slightly different beginning related as follows from Ab Abd AllÇh (Jafar al-ÍÇdiq): I heard Ab Abd AllÇh say: ‘God, mighty and gloriﬁed, has always been our Lord and knowing his essence even though there be no object of knowledge and hearing his essence even though there be no thing to hear, and vision his essence even though there be no thing to see and power his essence though there be no object of power. When he generates (fa-lammå aªdatha) [all] created things (al-ashyå ), there is an object of knowledge, and so the act of his knowing happens to the object of knowing, and hearing to the heard and seeing to the seen and power to the maqdr.’ . . . I said: ‘So has God always been moving?’ . . . Then he said: ‘Exalted be God [above that]. Verily, motion is a quality of the created in actu.’ . . . I said: ‘So, has God always been speaking?’ . . . He said: ‘Verily speech is a quality of the created, it is not sempiternal (azaliyya). God was/is/will be [eternally in azaliyya] but not as a speaker.’

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See also AªsÇ¥, Risåla, 165, 273, 275, and passim. The tortured translation here reﬂects an attempt to account for AªsÇ¥’s complex and ornate theory of time and the place of what is normally called creation in it. AªsÇ¥, Risåla, pp. 211, 230, 241, 245–324 (see also above, notes 25 and 33). It should be observed here, that for all of his vast literary output, Shaykh Aªmad was no poet, unlike Fay∂. It is suggested that AªsÇ¥’s natural ‘poetic’ was expressed in his elaborate and ‘baroque’ theology and that it was of a nature that made it difﬁcult to appreciate the poetry of KÇshÇn¥’s theology. Such temporal ‘adverbs’ are especially difﬁcult to render in the context. AªsÇ¥, Risåla, 154, not translated in the corresponding place in Nicolas, Essai, xii. AªsÇ¥, Risåla, 156: wa kadhålika lå takna ma∂iyatan illå alå al-qåbil almusta∂¥’. It is not possible to know from the context whether or not our author is inﬂuenced in his language here by the Avicennan doctrine of existence ‘occuring’ to an essence. As in Oraibi, ‘Sh¥ ¥ Renaissance’. The verse from which this excerpt is quoted is replete with messianic and apocalyptic cues: ‘The Unbelievers say ‘Never to us will come The Hour!’ Say: ‘But most surely – by my Lord! – it will come upon you. By him who knows the unseen, from whom is not hidden the least little atom in the heavens or in the earth. Nor is there any thing less than that or greater but is in the record perspicacious.’

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43 AªsÇ¥, Risåla, 152. 44 See above, notes 4 and 32 and the references to IsmÇ¥l¥ theology. 45 For an invaluable discussion of fil/mafl in Shaykh Aªmad as delineated in his critique of the thought of MullÇ ÍadrÇ, see Henry Corbin Mollâ Sadrâ Shªrâzª (980/1572–1050/1640) Le Livre des Pénétrations métaphysiques (Kitâb al-Mashâ’ir) Texte arabe publié avec la version persane de Badª’olMolk M⁄rzâ ‘Emadoddawleh, traduction française et Annotations (Tehran and Paris, 1964), reprinted (Lagrasse, France, 1981) without the Arabic and Persian texts. The reference here is to the original edition (hereafter Pénétrations), s.v. index fil and maf l; Hamid, ‘Metaphysics and Cosmology’, 176–84 is useful. See also Lawson, Qurån, 118–20. 46 AªsÇ¥, Risåla, 152. 47 AªsÇ¥, Risåla, 153. 48 Based on a ªad¥th from al-BÇqir stating that thinking is a quality of creation ‘and God is not like that’ quoted AªsÇ¥, Risåla, 187. 49 AªsÇ¥, Risåla, 152. 50 AªsÇ¥, Risåla, 273. 51 AªsÇ¥, Risåla, 155; the distinctive terminology does not seem to be derived from Ibn Ab¥ Jumhr, (see Schmidtke, Theologie, Philosophie und Mystik, 37–114) or for that matter Ibn Maytham (see Oraibi, ‘Sh¥ ¥ Renaissance’). See Hamid, ‘Metaphysics and Cosmology’, 547–8 for a useful gloss. On the logical problems involved here, see the pertinent discussion of Na‚¥r al-D¥n al-˝‚¥’s commentary on a Risålat al-ilm by one of the teachers of the above-mentioned Maytham al-BaªrÇn¥, Ibn SaÇda (d.1274) in Oraibi, ‘Sh¥ ¥ Renaissance’, 36–8 and 64–73. This commentary, together with the original Risåla, is published as Sharh masalat al-ilm (Mashhad, 1966) which was unavailable to me. 52 For the history of the idea, see Henry Corbin ‘Mundus imaginalis or the Imaginary and the Imaginal’ Spring (1972) 1–19. (First published in French in the Cahiers internationaux de symbolisme 6 (1964) 3–26.); Henry Corbin ‘Dream, Imagination and Ålam al-MithÇl’ and Fazlur Rahman ‘The Visionary Dream in Islamic Spirituality’ both in G. von Grunebaum and R. Caillois (eds) The Dream and Human Society (Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1966) 381–408 and 410–19 respectively; and Corbin, Spiritual Body. Historical precedents are studied in John T. Walbridge III The Science of Mystic Lights: Qutb al-D¥n Sh¥råz¥ and the Illuminationist Tradition in Islamic Philosophy (Cambridge, MA, 1992) 126ff. is an important analysis of the idea in the work ShirÇz¥ (d.710/1311), whom the author describes as possibly the ﬁrst Islamic philosopher ‘to have made a determined effort to work out the philosophical implications of the concept’. 53 See, e.g., Henry Corbin Le Paradoxe du monothéisme (Paris, 1981); Corbin has elsewhere quoted Shaykh Aªmad’s own summation of the existential predicament as follows: C’est pourquoi, dit Shaykh Ahmad, c’est bien vers l’Essence inaccessible que l’homme se tourne, bien qu’à tout jamais il ne puisse la trouver; et cependant il ne cesse de la trouver, alors même qu’à tout jamais elle lui reste inaccessible. Corbin, Islam I, 194 54 Corbin, ‘Mundus Imaginalis’, 1–2. It is also referred to by Shaykh¥ authors and others as ‘the eighth clime’ outside and beyond the seven regions or climes of classical geography. See, e.g., AªsÇ¥, Risåla, 246 and Corbin, Spiritual Body, passim. 55 Corbin, ‘Visionary Dream’, 406–7.

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56 AªsÇ¥, Risåla, 246. The question remains open whether or not this private appearance, as discussed by the Shaykh¥s (especially in the earliest days, just prior to the Sh¥ ¥ millennium) was the only one to be expected by the Sh¥ a, or whether the masters of the Shaykh¥ school also hoped for an imaginal (as distinct from unreal) Ωuhr of such intensity that it entailed an actual advent of the Imam on the plane of history. This raises the vexed question of the doctrine of the Fourth Support (al-rukn al-råbi ). This term does not occur in the Risåla although it does occur in the last major work of Aªmad al-AhsÇ¥, AªsÇ¥, Jawåmi II, 304. For recent discussions see Amir-Moezzi, ‘Une absence’ passim; Ahmad Kazemi-Moussavi Religious Authority in Shiite Islam : from the Ofﬁce of Mufti to the Institution of Marja (Kuala Lumpur, 1996), s.v. index ‘rukn-i rÇbi’; Lawson, Qurån, passim. 57 MacEoin, ‘Orthodoxy’, 327 and Cole, ‘Sources’, 86–7. It may be useful to make the common-sense observation that such profound certitude is susceptible of being mistaken for arrogance and spiritual pride, a factor that might also have contributed to rejection. 58 Corbin, Islam IV, 221. The term implies ‘unlearned knowledge’ and derives from the name of an early Muslim, Uways al-Qaran¥, who never met the Prophet yet converted to Islam while living in Yemen. It may also apply to a Suﬁ who has no Shaykh, or an illiterate person with unusual knowledge. See now Julian Baldick Imaginary Muslims: The Uwaysi Suﬁs of Central Asia (New York, 1993) for a general discussion noteworthy for its complete avoidance of any Sh¥ ¥ subject-matter, although he does devote a paragraph to Corbin’s concern with the ålam al-mithål in the conclusion (Baldick, Imaginary, 222). 59 Corbin, Spiritual Body, 176–9 and 180–221. In light of the relentless castigation here of KÇshÇn¥ by AªsÇ¥ one is struck by the irony of Corbin’s linking them so closely in the same book. 60 MullÇ Muªammad Muªsin Fay∂ al-KÇshÇn¥ Kalimåt-i maknna min ulm ahl al-ªikma wa al-marifa (Tehran, 1383/1342sh/1963) 70–3 (translated in Corbin, Spiritual Body, 176–9). The Kalimåt-i maknna is the subject of recent scholarship: Rasl Jafariyan, D¥n va siyåsat dar dawrah-yi Íafav¥ (Qum, 1370sh/1991) ch. 10; Todd Lawson ‘The Hidden Words of Fayz KÇshÇn¥’ in M. Szuppe et al. (eds) Actes du 4e Colloque de la Societas Iranologica Europaea, Paris, septembre 1999 in vol. 2, Cahiers de Studia Islamica (Leuven, 2002) and Shigeru Kamada ‘Walåya in Fay∂ KÇshÇn¥’ in T. Lawson (ed.) Islamic Thought: Papers on Historiography, Suﬁsm and Philosophy in Honor of Hermann Landolt (forthcoming). KÇshÇn¥’s work is quoted and refuted several times here by AªsÇ¥: Risåla, 175–6, 181, 190, 216, 221, 248, 253. Other works of KÇshÇn¥, e.g. al-Wåf¥ and al-Íåf¥, are also frequently cited by AªsÇ¥ throughout the Risåla. 61 For references to his interest in natural science and experimentation, see Rafati, ‘Development of Shaykh¥ Thought’, 41–2 and references and Hamid, ‘Metaphysics and Cosmology’, 32. 62 AªsÇ¥, Risåla, 246. 63 Hamid, ‘Metaphysics and Cosmology’, 236. 64 Hermann Landolt ‘Der Briefwechsel zwischen KÇshÇn¥ und SimnÇn¥ ber Waªdat al-Wuºd’ Der Islam 50 (1973) 29–81, esp. 62–3. See also Hermann Landolt ‘Simnânî on Waªdat al-Wujûd’ in M. Mohaghegh and H. Landolt (eds) Collected Papers on Islamic Philosophy and Mysticism (Tehran, 1971) 91–114, esp. 109–10. In 1985 Josef van Ess (‘AlÇ-al-Dawla SemnÇn¥’ EIr I, 774b–77a) called attention to the importance of Landolt’s suggestive observation but, alas, to an apparently indifferent scholarly public. On the history of the criticism of Ibn Arab¥, see now Alexander D. Knysh Ibn Arabi in the Later Islamic Tradition : The Making of a Polemical Image in Medieval Islam

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(Albany, 1999). Unfortunately, Knysh seems here completely uninterested in the rich and important Sh¥ ¥ dimension of the topic. Even though the original sources are now better accessible than they were thirty years ago, no one it seems has taken up Landolt’s original suggestion to pursue a comparative study of SimnÇn¥ and the Shaykh¥s (Landolt, ‘Der Briefwechsel’, 63). Jamal J. Elias The Throne Carrier of God: the Life and Thought of ‘Alå ad-dawla as-Simnån¥ (Albany, 1995) 153–4. See also the similar speculation in Hermann Landolt’s recent review of Hunzai’s above-mentioned translation and edition of NÇ‚ir Khusraw’s Gushåyish in Bulletin critique des Annales islamologiques 16 Annales islamologiques 34 Institut français d’archéologie orientale (2000) 75. His veneration of the ahl al-kiswa, his spritual pedigree through the Imams from ‘Al¥ b. Ri∂Ç to the Prophet (skipping al-Hasan ibn ‘Al¥!), his citation of the Nahj al-balågha, certainly do not need to mean more than this. Cf. Hartwig Cordt Die sitzungen des Alå ad-dawla as-Simnån¥ (Zurich, 1977) 232–9. That one of his students was Shaykh Khal¥fa MÇzandarÇn¥, the founder of the radical Sh¥ ¥ SarbadÇr¥ movement may mean nothing in this context. See also Elias, Throne Carrier, 51–3. A focussed study on the question of SimnÇn¥’s real attitude to Shiism is perhaps needed. See the suggestive discussion in Joseph van Ess, ‘SemnÇn¥’, 75 and 76. An earlier and perhaps under-appreciated discussion is Marijan Molé ‘Les Kubrawiya entre sunnisme et shiisme aux huitième et neuvième siècles de l’Hegire’ Revue des ‰tudes islamiques 29 (1961) 61–142. van Ess, ‘SemnÇn¥’, 76. Cf. Muayyad f¥ al-D¥n al-Sh¥rÇz¥ Majålis al-muayyadiyya, 2 vols (M. GhÇlib (ed.): Beirut, 1974 and 1984) I, 170ff. See also the references to Lawson and Amir-Moezzi below, note 72. KÇshÇn¥, Kalimåt-maknna, 196–205. Note the editorial warnings (on p. 196) on the soundness of the traditions quoted by KÇshÇn¥. Rajab al-Burs¥ Mashåriq anwår al-yaq¥n f¥ asrår Am¥r al-Mumin¥n (Beirut, 1978). Todd Lawson ‘The Dawning Places of the Lights of Certainty in the Divine Secrets Connected with the Commander of the Faithful by Rajab Bursi’ in L. Lewisohn (ed.) The Heritage of Suﬁsm, Volume III, The Legacy of Mediaeval Persian Suﬁsm (Oxford, 1999 (ﬁrst published London, 1992)) 261–76. AmirMoezzi, ‘Divinité’, 194–6 and 206–16. See also Henry Corbin Rajab Borsi: Les Orients des Lumieres (Paris, 1995) and Henry Corbin Itineraire d’un Ensignment: Résumé des Conférences à l’Ecole Pratique des Hautes Etudes (Section des Sciences Religieuses) 1955–1979 (présentation par Ch. Jambet: Tehran, 1993) 104–4 and 111–8. For the inﬂuence of this sermon and Sayyid KÇΩim’s commentary on it in BÇb¥ and BahÇ¥ thought see Lawson, ‘Coincidentia Oppositorum’. AªsÇ¥, Risåla, 269. MullÇ HÇd¥ SabzavÇr¥ al-Muªåkamåt wa al-muqåwamåt: radd bar Sharª risålat al-Ilm Baªrayn¥ in Majm’a raså’il (J. D. AshtiyÇn¥ (ed.): Tehran 1360sh) 649–75. SabzavÇr¥’s disagreements with AªsÇ¥ are many and profound and there is no space here to outline his criticism fully. He disparages AªsÇi’s theory of time and motion, symbolised by the word ‘duf a’ (SabzavÇr¥, Muªåkamåt, 650) saying that it is at complete odds with the teaching of MullÇ Íadra, namely ªarakat-i jawhariyya. He indicates in several places that AªsÇ¥’s insistence on there being no connection whatever between the divine essence and everything else is wilful, tacitly accusing him of spiritual myopia (SabzavÇr¥, Muªåkamåt, 671 and 677). For it can correctly be said that God’s speech is of the divine essence (SabzavÇr¥, Muªåkamåt, 668). It is necessary to judge

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such matters according to perspective. Of course, there is truth to the assertion of the remoteness of the essence, but there is also truth to the assertion of its ‘accessibility’. It is important to look at such things with ‘two eyes’ (SabzavÇr¥, Muªåkamåt, 677) and not merely one. AªsÇ¥, Risåla, 206. Here AªsÇ¥ cites a tradition from Imam al-Ri∂Ç concerning the generation of al-iråda: ‘It is not knowing (ilm), God does not have a preexistent iråda that results in his following it. To God there is neither will nor purpose in a pre-existent state (qad¥ma). Nay, rather these are two generated things.’ Al-Ri∂Ç said: ‘The will and the purpose are attributes of the acts. Whoever imagines that God has always been purposing and willing is not a believer in the divine unity.’ Ab Abd AllÇh said, in answer to a related question: ‘A purposer can only exist when there is also an object of the purpose. God has ever been knowing and powerful, then he willed.’ Aªmad al-AªsÇ¥, Sharª al-fawå id, ch. 10 (Hamid edition). It is puzzling why this pivotal discussion receives such scant attention in this recent, and in many respects, very ﬁne study of this important work. E.g., Roger Arnaldez, ‘al-InsÇn al-KÇmil’, EI2 III, 1239. Corbin, Islam, s.v. index l’homme parfait. See also Todd Lawson ‘The Structure of Existence in the Bab’s Tafsir and the Perfect Man Motif’ in Studia Iranica: Cahiers 11: Recurrent Patterns in Iranian Religions from Mazdaism to Suﬁsm. Proceedings of the Round Table held in Bamberg (30th September – 4th October 1991) (Paris, 1992) 81–99. Cf. Mohammed Ali Amir-Moezzi ‘Aspects de l’Imamologie Duodécimaine I: Rémarques sur la Divinité de l’Imâm’ Studia Iranica 25 (1996) 193–216; AmirMoezzi Divine Guide, 29–59: Corbin, Islam IV, 279–83. Cf., incidentally, the continuation of this venerable IsmÇ¥l¥ topos in BahÇ¥ doctrine, Óusayn Al¥ Nr¥ BahÇullÇh Kitåb musta†åb-i ¥qån (Hofheim-Langenhain, 1980) 50–1 (originally published Cairo, 1934). English translation by Shoghi Effendi Rabbani The Kitåb-i-ªqån: The Book of Certitude (Wilmette, 1970) 65–6. But see BahÇullÇh, Ûqån, 77 (English translation, 103) for a somewhat surprising and apparently unequivocal attribution of humanity to the Prophet and Imams ‘the most perfect manifestations of divinity’. There is, of course, no mention of Ibn Taymiyya in the Risåla, although AªsÇ¥ mentions disparagingly one of the several subjects of the spiritual founder of the WahhÇbyya’s wrath, Ibn A†Ç AllÇh (mentioned above). On the dispute between Ibn A†a AllÇh and Ibn Taymiyya see Fritz Meier ‘The Cleanest about Predestination: A Bit of Ibn Taymiyya’ Essays on Islamic Piety and Mysticism (J. O’Kane with B. Radtke (trans.): Leiden, 1999) 318–19. AªsÇ¥, Risåla, 217. Incidentally, this happens to be a suggestive and felicitous Arabic paraphrase of the Greek idea contained in the word aporia (i.e. ‘path strewn with obstacles’). The observation is not meant to suggest any kinship, genetic or otherwise, between Shaykh Aªmad and certain contemporary trends in literary criticism and theory. See above, the reference to Ayån at note 20 above. For an extensive and invaluable study of this critique see Corbin, Pénétrations, s.v. index ‘Aªmad al-AªsÇ’¥ (Shaykh)’. For Corbin, the accusations against Shaykh Aªmad are beneath contempt. Corbin, Islam IV, 212–13. See Farhad Daftary The Ismå’¥l¥s: Their History and Doctrines (Cambridge, 1990) 502–7 and references for a discussion of the dynamics of this relationship and insights into the religious views of Fatª Ali ShÇh himself. See Aªmad al-AªsÇ¥ Risåla f¥ kayﬁyya al-sulk ilå Allåh (Beirut, 1414/1993) for distinctive interpretations of standard Suﬁ topics and practices such as dhikr, ‚aªåba, etc. Shaykh Aªmad’s popularity, as Cole, ‘Sources’, 91, has recently written, was due in large measure to his remarkable achievement: ‘preserving

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the warm heart’ of Shiism amidst a welter of competing scholasticisms. However, the existence of such works as MullÇ Muªammad Taq¥ al- Majlis¥ Risålah tashw¥q al-sålik¥n (n.p., n.d.) reminds us to be ever alert to precedents for AªsÇ¥’s synthesis. Peter Smith and Moojan Momen ‘The BÇb¥ Movement: A Mobilization Perspective’ in P. Smith (ed.) In Iran: Studies in Bâbª and Bahâ’ª History vol. 3 (Los Angeles, 1986) 33–93. Todd Lawson ‘The Authority of the Feminine and Fatima’s Place in an Early Work by the Bab’ in L. Walbridge (ed.) The Most Learned of the Sh¥a (New York, 2001) 94–127. See also Negar Mottahedeh ‘Ruptured Spaces and Effective Histories: The Unveiling of the Babi Poetess Qurrat al-’Ayn-Tahirih in the Gardens of Badasht’ Occasional Papers in Shaykhi, Babi and Baha’i Studies 2.2 (February, 1998), available at: www2.h-net.msu.edu/~bahai/bhpapers/vol2/ruptured.htm. Pace Corbin, Islam IV, 213. He just seems to protest too much the irrefutable historical and doctrinal connection with and derivation from Shaykhi teachings of the BÇb¥ and BahÇ¥ phenomena. Cf. e.g., the nearly phobic: ‘[I]ls ne peuvent absolument pas être considérés commes des ‘rejetons’ de l’école shaykhie . . . Quant au bâbisme et au bahâ’isme . . . se sont mis ipso facto hors du sh⁄’isme. Lorsque les bahâ’ªs afﬁrment leur admiration pour Shaykh Ahmad Ahsâ’i, on ne peut que les approuver. Mais lorsqu’ils le revendiquent comme leur ancêtre spirituel on ne peut que dénoncer cette prétention abusive.’ Perhaps Corbin was so adamant about this because of the post facto (i.e. post BahÇ¥) nature of much of the dismissal of Shaykhism by the ulamå of Iran who took seriously the claim of the BahÇ¥’s genetic relationship to the teachings of Shaykh Aªmad. Recently, this idea has been stressed again; see above note 7. It is a topic for further discussion; see MacEoin, ‘Orthodoxy’. Corbin seems to have never referred to an actual work of BÇb¥ or BahÇ¥ authorship in his numerous writings. It is one thing to deny that BÇb¥ and BahÇ¥ thought is an accurate reﬂection of the teachings of Shaykh Aªmad, it is quite another to presume to know more about the spiritual and intellectual genealogy of a family than the actual members of the family one is studying without providing convincing evidence. On the former see Bayat, Mysticism and Cole ‘New’. See, for example, the many works of refutation, published and unpublished, listed in ˝ihrÇn¥, Dhar¥ a. It may be that Shaykh Aªmad’s exposure to the ideas of the Dhahab¥ Suﬁ order is perhaps in part responsible for his elaboration of the idea of the Perfect Sh¥ a as suggested in Cole ‘Sources’. Much work remains to be done on the Suﬁsm of Shaykh Aªmad. See also MacEoin, ‘Charismatic Renewal’, 4–5. Corbin, Islam IV, 259. So vehement was his repudiation of taql¥d that several scholars have seen him as a democrat, hardly beyond the domain of ‘secular humanism’. Bausani, Religion, 340–44 offers an alternate characterization: Generally speaking, Shaikhism contains a stronger Shi’ite theological ‘impetus’ and is more purely ‘religious’ than philosophers such as Mullâ Sadrâ were. Iqbâl’s statement . . . that shaikh Ahmad was an enthusiastic reader of Mullâ Sadrâ’s works is based on a misunderstanding: the Shaikhªs studied Mullâ Sadrâ but did not always approve of what he said; in fact, on some points (for example questions concerning the knowledge of God) they returned to less philosophical and more religious positions . . . If the complex theological position of the Shaikhªs could be summed up in a few words I would say that it is based on two points, one deeply religious and the other with rational tendencies . . . to symbolic explanations (which sometimes go beyond the realistic symbolism

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of Sadrâ) to enter into a truly rationalist allegory of the miraculous aspect of traditional theological legends . . . Everything is easily resolved by transposing the historical reality of the facts of revelation onto metahistorical planes (Muhammad, ‘Al⁄, etc. = First Creature): it is here, and not in a humanistic rationalism, that the secret of Shaikh⁄ symbolism lies. AªsÇ¥, Risåla, 278. AªsÇ¥, Risåla, 191. A recent important discussion of ghuluww elements in KÇshÇn¥’s religiosity and intellectual culture is in Kathryn Babayan ‘Suﬁs, Dervishes and Mullas: The Controversies over Spiritual and Temporal Dominion in Seventeenth-Century Iran’ in C. Melville (ed.) Safavid Persia: The History and Politics of an Islamic Society (Cambridge, 1996) 117–38. See the explicit condemnation of IsmÇ’¥l¥s by none other than the inﬂuential formulator of ‘orthodox’ Sh¥’¥ waªdat al-wujd, Sayyid Óaydar Åmul¥ La Philosophie Shi ite: 1. Somme des doctrines ésoteriques (Jâmi al-asrâr) 2. Traité de la connaisance de l’être (2nd edn: Tehran, 1989) 47, 217, 221, 238, 388 (textes publiés avec une double introduction et un index par H. Corbin et O. Yahia, introduction traduit en persan par Seyyed Javâd ˝abâ†abâi, Centre de Publications Scientiﬁques et Culturelles et Institut Français de Recherche en Iran (vol. 16 of Bibliothèque Iranienne, dirigée par H. Corbin (1905–1978) ﬁrst published in 1968)). The main criticism is against their tendency to consider the ba†in (ie walåya, ie ‘Al¥) greater than the Ωåhir (i.e. nubuwwa, i.e. Muªammad). I am grateful to the British Institute of Persian Studies for a grant that enabled me to pursue research pertinent to this chapter.

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8 ANTI-AKHB ÅR± SENTIMENTS AMONG THE QAJAR ULAMÅ The case of Muªammad BÇqir al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ (d.1313/1895) Andrew J. Newman

My 1992 article on the AkhbÇr¥/U‚l¥ polemic noted that in his biographical work Raw∂åt al-jannåt Muªammad BÇqir al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ (d.1313/1895) abridged into 29 the original 40 points of disagreement between the two schools as listed by Abd AllÇh al-SamÇhij¥ (d.1135/1723) in his Munyat al-mumåris¥n.1 Reliance on al-KhwÇnsÇr¥’s abridgement, which omitted key details on the nature of the dispute in the late eleventh/seventeenth and early twelfth/eighteenth century, could only have left readers with the impression that the AkhbÇr¥/U‚l¥ dispute was an essentially esoteric debate over ﬁner points of jurisprudence with few, if any, implications for the broader, practical life of the community. The very few extant copies of al-SamÇhij¥’s original suggests it may not have been that widely available and that for too many the abridgement may have become the authoritative version.2 Conventional accounts of the AkhbÇr¥/U‚l¥ dispute highlight the series of attacks against the AkhbÇriyya by ÅqÇ Muªammad BÇqir al-BihbihÇn¥ (d.1205/1791), himself a ‘reformed’ AkhbÇr¥, and suggest that following the murder of M¥rzÇ Muªammad b. Abd al-Nab¥ al-NaysÇbr¥ in 1233/ 1818 ‘the AkhbÇriyya disappeared almost completely’.3 Such an account of the AkhbÇr¥ demise suggests little ostensible reason for al-KhwÇnsÇr¥, later in the same century, to have been so concerned with the polemic as to have given anything less than a completely accurate, i.e. unabridged, account of al-SamÇhij¥’s discussion of the key points of disagreement between the two schools prevailing nearly two centuries before. In fact, however, it is arguable that Akhbarism, so often seen as originating in the Safavid period, never attracted so much attention within Twelver Shiism, or generated so much enmity and rancour, as after the Safavid period, and most especially after the death of NaysÇbr¥.4 The present chapter suggests that al-KhwÇnsÇr¥’s concern with, and hostility towards, Akhbarism is also evident elsewhere in Raw∂åt al-jannåt 155

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and that the roots of this hostility may be traceable, at least in part, to al-KhwÇnsÇr¥’s hitherto unexplored association with a network of thirteenth/nineteenth-century clerics already well known in the sources as key opponents of Shaykhism and Babism and key proponents of the U‚l¥ revival in this period.

Al-Khwånsår¥ and pre-Qajar Akhbarism Perhaps the most important of all al-KhwÇnsÇr¥’s alterations to alSamÇhij¥’s original treatise was his complete excision of al-SamÇhij¥’s point 31. This point provided contemporaneous evidence of, and deﬁnition for, a moderate/radical division among AkhbÇr¥ scholars. Number 31 also demonstrates that the supposedly scholastic disagreement between and among AkhbÇr¥s and U‚l¥s in fact had roots in and implications for the alternate views between, and within, each faction on the nature of clerical authority in the community and the permitted scope of the relationship between that authority and the established political institution during the occultation. The essence of number 31 is its discussion and deﬁnition of three groups of scholars – the mujtahid, the mujtahid-muªaddith and the muªaddith, and the identiﬁcation of a distinct afﬁnity between the mujtahid and the mujtahid-muªaddith, an afﬁnity all the more clearly evident in al-SamÇhij¥’s use in number 31 of the term jåmi al-sharå i† (‘he who possesses the qualiﬁcations’) to refer to both; by this time al-sharå i† referred to expertise in the rationalist religious sciences and to the authority to undertake a variety of practical duties and responsibilities within the community on behalf of the absent Imam, including the exercise of ijtihåd.5 The muªaddith stood as the ‘ideal’ radical AkhbÇr¥. In this point al-SamÇhij¥ also identiﬁed as mujtahid-muªaddith such scholars as Muªammad Am¥n al-AstarÇbÇd¥ (d.1030/1640), considered the ‘founder’ of the AkhbÇr¥ movement by Ysuf al-BaªrÇn¥ (d.1186/1772) though not noted as such by Safawid-period sources,6 Muªsin Fay∂ al-KÇshÇn¥ (d.1090/1680) and MullÇ Muªammad ˝Çhir al-Sh¥rÇz¥ al-Qumm¥ (d.1098/1687).7 Al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ also excised al-SamÇhij¥’s reference in point 8 to the AkhbÇr¥s’ use of the famous ‘delegation’ tradition of Umar b. ÓanΩala – best-known in the Western sources as having been utilised by U‚l¥ clerics to bolster their own claim to the authority of the clergy during the occultation – to strengthen their own argument against clerical authority in the absence of the Imam.8 With al-KhwÇnsÇr¥’s omission of number 31, his nearly complete excision of all al-SamÇhij¥’s references to splits and disagreements among U‚l¥s,9 and his deletion of the reference to Ibn ÓanΩala’s tradition by the AkhbÇr¥s, al-KhwÇnsÇr¥’s was a picture of each madhhab and its discourse as monolithic in nature and of the AkhbÇr¥ polemic as without 156

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foundation in Sh¥ ¥ discourse and limited to addressing only the ﬁner points of Twelver jurisprudence. References to the complexity of the discourse, and the membership of the parties were thus excised, and al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ applied the epithet AkhbÇr¥ to a number of scholars judged as such only by post-Safawid scholars. In the process al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ reproduced the tone and much of the substance of al-BaªrÇn¥’s earlier Arabic language work, much as al-KhwÇnsÇr¥’s contemporary Muªammad b. SulaymÇn TunikÇbun¥ (d.1302/1884–5) did in his Qi‚å‚ al-ulamå. Both, for example, evaluated al-AstarÇbÇd¥ in similarly negative terms.10 Al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ suggested Muªammad Am¥n al-AstarÇbÇd¥ initially inclined to Usulism but then cited al-AstarÇbÇd¥’s own statement that his teacher M¥rzÇ Muªammad b. Al¥ al-AstarÇbÇd¥ (d.1028/1619) ordered his pupil to ‘revive’ Akhbarism, which led to his composition of the well-known al-Fawå id al-madaniyya.11 Al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ censured Muªammad Am¥n more generally for corrupting qawå id al-d¥n (the rules of the faith) and for accusing ‘our ulamå of lying’ which he termed a ‘major sin’. Al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ then noted that Fay∂ al-KashÇn¥ also approved of Akhbarism and that it was well-known that Fay∂’s ideas were inﬂuenced by those of al-GhazÇl¥ (d.505/1111). Al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ then quoted from al-Sihåm al-måriqa – written against singing in particular by Shaykh Al¥ b. Muªammad b. al-Óasan b. al-Shah¥d al-ThÇn¥ (d.1103/1691–2) in 1073/ 1662 and one of the many anti-Suﬁ tracts written in the second Safavid century – in which, al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ noted, the author denounced al-GhazÇl¥ and Ibn Arab¥ (d.638/1240). In the sections cited by al-KhwÇnsÇr¥, Shaykh Al¥ focused on those zanådiqa (heretics), in particular the proponents of waªdat al-wujd (the unity of existence), who had cursed ‘the ImÇm¥ ulamå ’, and referred to Fay∂ and his works. In another passage cited by al-KhwÇnsÇr¥, Shaykh Al¥ referred to Muªammad Am¥n al-AstarÇbÇd¥ himself and mentioned, among other criticisms of his character, abilities and followers, that Muªammad Am¥n had used opium while in Mecca.12 As for Fay∂, al-BaªrÇn¥ characterised him as an akhbår¥ ‚alb and said that his works, especially Saf¥nat al-najåt, contained ‘much slander’ against the mujtahids and were very nearly kufr owing to their associations with both Suﬁsm and philosophy.13 Al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ referred to al-BaªrÇn¥’s evaluation of al-KÇshÇn¥ and then fastened on the allegation of Suﬁ inclinations which had preoccupied him in his discussion of Fay∂ in the entry on Muªammad Am¥n. Ultimately al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ dismissed the Suﬁsm charges but still accounted al-KÇshÇn¥ an AkhbÇr¥, citing his essay on Friday prayer as further evidence.14 Lastly, al-SamÇhij¥ had classiﬁed ˝Çhir al-Qumm¥ as a mujtahidmuªaddith, as did some Safawid-period biographies. Neither al-BaªrÇn¥ or TanikÇbun¥ accorded ˝Çhir al-Qumm¥ an entry in their biographies, and it was al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ who ﬁrst called him an AkhbÇr¥.15 157

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Further examples of al-Khwånsår¥’s anti-Akhbår¥ tendencies It might be thought that the tone and substance of al-KhwÇnsÇr¥’s views on Akhbarism were not far out of line with his predecessor al-BaªrÇn¥ or his contemporary TanikÇbun¥. On the contrary, as an examination of additional entries in Raw∂åt al-jannåt suggests, al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ depicted Akhbarism as a monolithic, unnuanced discourse intrinsically linked with, and encouraging, heretical tendencies present with Shiism since its earliest days. Al-KhwÇnsÇr¥’s entry on Muªammad b. Aªmad b. Idr¥s al-Óill¥, known as Ibn Idr¥s (d.598/1202) was one such vehicle for al-KhwÇnsÇr¥’s discourse. Ibn Idr¥s was one of several scholars who rejected aspects of the legacy of Muªammad b. al-Óasan al-˝s¥ (d.460/1067) in favour of a return to the rationalism of al-Shar¥f al-Murta∂Ç (d.436/1044) who refused to rely on åªåd (not widely transmitted) traditions as a source of law. Al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ opened his entry on Ibn Idr¥s by citing al-BaªrÇn¥’s statement that Ibn Idr¥s was the ﬁrst to have questioned the contributions of al-˝s¥ and that Ibn Idr¥s himself was later criticised by both al-Muªaqqiq al-Óill¥ (d.676/1277) and al-AllÇma al-Óill¥ (d.726/1325). Al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ then cited al-BaªrÇn¥’s own criticism of their censure of Ibn Idr¥s, noting that even these critics of Ibn Idr¥s quoted from his works. Al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ also noted that in his Biªår al-anwår, Muªammad BÇqir al-Majlis¥ (d.1110/1699), son of Taq¥, quoted Ibn Idr¥s as did al-Óurr al-Åmil¥ in his traditions’ collection Waså il al-sh¥ a. Al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ then addressed the import of reference to the revealed texts, noting ﬁrst the difference between those scholars who trace ilm to the Imams’ traditions, even during the greater occultation and even if these were åªåd, and those AkhbÇr¥s who rely solely on all those traditions. Al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ quoted from an essay of al-Murta∂Ç which Ibn Idr¥s quoted in his magnum opus al-Sarå ir. Al-Murta∂Ç was addressing the bases of ilm and, in particular, calling attention to those who both relied on åªåd traditions and al-qiyås (analogy) and argued that al-aql did not deny recourse to either. Following the quotation Ibn Idr¥s stated that alMurta∂Ç had written that all the faithful, ancients and contemporaries, denied the legitimacy of recourse to both. Pursuant to his agenda of portraying AkhbÇr¥ discourse as unnuanced and monolithic, al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ then suggested that the crux of the difference between the AkhbÇr¥s and the mujtahids was their attitude toward åªåd traditions, and whether such a text could produce deﬁnitive ilm or was really speculative analogy on which there can be no reliance. Some AkhbÇr¥s, al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ argued, claim all the traditions in the four books, for example, can produce such knowledge, even though these are ‘of the ﬂimsiest of speculations . . . and analogies’. Al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ then cited Am¥n al-AstarÇbÇd¥’s statement in his al-Fawå id that the ancient AkhbÇr¥s were not guilty of relying solely on such traditions, 158

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as al-AllÇma al-Óill¥ charged. By way of rebutting al-AstarÇbÇd¥, alKhwÇnsÇr¥ then quoted a contemporary scholar, whom he did not name but called an AkhbÇr¥ and said he was a student of al-Majlis¥ and author of many treatises. In the section of his essay cited in the Raw∂åt the unnamed scholar quoted from al-AstarÇbÇd¥’s argument that there was no evidence to support the legitimacy of recourse to al-Ωann (speculation). The scholar then commented that AkhbÇr¥s and mujtahids agree that action may be taken on the basis of åªåd traditions if the tradition was taken from a reliable collection. Al-AstarÇbÇd¥ had claimed that such texts could produce al-ilm al-yaq¥n¥ (deﬁnitive knowledge). The unnamed scholar then said that al-AstarÇbÇd¥’s discussion did not support speculation, let alone deﬁnitive knowledge, if the tradition which was the basis of the deduction was deemed correct simply because the collection’s compiler attested to its being correct. ‘We’, wrote the unnamed scholar, ‘do not accept its being correct to mean that it is deﬁnitely traceable to the Imam. What exceeds speculation is not ﬁrm, even if the proof of khabar al-wåªid is deﬁnitive. There can be recourse only to what is deﬁnitive.’ The scholar continued that those Quranic verses and traditions which rejected action based on speculation referred to speculation based on false forged årå (opinions), i.e. those which contradict both the rational and textual evidence. They do not refer to speculation based on al-ªujja al-shariyya (legal proof). The scholar then noted that disagreement among scholars on the traditions was inevitable, and he cited the disagreement among al-thiqåt min al-Akhbåriyy¥n (trustworthy AkhbÇr¥s) over the tradition of Umar b. ÓanΩala – reference to which in al-SamÇhij¥’s original had been cut out by al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ in his abridgement – ‘even though the tradition, if it did not produce deﬁnitive knowledge, did not permit disagreement between AkhbÇr¥s’. Disputes between scholars are not ﬁtting since they could cause discord. Al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ then commented that he had discussed the different AkhbÇr¥ schools and their characteristics and views, along with the mujtahids, on various issues in the entries on Am¥n al-AstarÇbÇd¥ and alSamÇhij¥.16 Of course, as noted, his entry on al-AstarÇbÇd¥ included the abridgement of al-SamÇhij¥’s 40 points which both lacked the original’s references to precisely such nuanced differences between, and within, the two schools and outlined areas of agreement between the two exactly – as this unnamed scholar was suggesting – and instead portrayed each madhhab as uniformly, and rigidly, doctrinal, and the AkhbÇr¥ madhhab in particular as lacking foundation in Sh¥ ¥ discourse. Al-KhwÇnsÇr¥’s entry on al-SamÇhij¥ presented a similar view of the conﬂict. Of particular interest here is al-KhwÇnsÇr¥’s quotation from an essay on the differences between AkhbÇr¥s and U‚l¥s written by alSamÇhij¥’s teacher, Shaykh SulaymÇn b. Abd AllÇh al-BaªrÇn¥ (d.1121/ 1709), in which excerpt the author was recounting differences between the two on matters involving recourse to the traditions alone. After this 159

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citation, al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ commented that Shaykh SulaymÇn’s description of the conﬂict was not like that of his student al-SamÇhij¥ who gave vent to his AkhbÇr¥ prejudices. Al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ then cited some of al-SamÇhij¥’s poetry and suggested that if he had quoted more it would be clear that the key ﬁgures in the revival of the AkhbÇr¥ silsila were the three mentioned in this bit of poetry – Muªammad Am¥n, al-Óurr al-Åmil¥ and Fay∂ al-KÇshÇn¥.17 In other entries al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ argued Akhbarism had roots deep within Sh¥ ¥ history. Thus, al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ described Rajab al-Burs¥ (d.843/1411), author of Mashåriq al-Anwår on Imam Al¥, as an associate of both ghåliyn (extremists) and the mufawwi∂a,18 and as an opponent of the fuqahå and the mujtahids and a supporter of Kha††åbiyya19 who did not rely on the Imams but based his madhhab upon ‘corrupt, whimsical interpretations’. These sorts of tendencies ﬁrst came into prominence, al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ stated, early in Sh¥ ¥ history, from the time of the appearance of the tafs¥r of FurÇt b. IbrÇh¥m al-Kf¥ (d.300/912), or even the time of the two Juf¥s, Mufa∂∂al b. Umar (d. before 179/795) and JÇbir b. Yaz¥d. It is visible, al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ continued, in Ba‚åir al-darajåt of Muªammad b. al-Óasan, al-ÍaffÇr al-Qumm¥ (d.290/902–3), Majålis al-shaykh, Kashf al-ghumma of Al¥ b. ÛsÇ al-Irbil¥ (d.692/1292–3 or 693/1293–4), al-Kharå ij of Sa¥d al-RawÇnd¥ (d.573/1178), the Fa∂åil of al-ShÇdhÇn b. Jibra¥l al-Qumm¥, a contemporary of Ibn Idr¥s, works of the latter’s son, other Arabic- and Persian-language works of manåqib and fa∂åil and exegetical works of the murtafi¥n (exaggerators) and of the AkhbÇr¥s; he did not identify any of the latter body of material. The ﬁrst of those who talked this way, according to al-KhwÇnsÇr¥, was Ab al-Óusayn al-Ba†r¥q al-Óill¥ al-Asad¥, known as Ibn al-Ba†r¥q (d.600/ 1203–4 or 606/1209–10). There was also al-Sayyid al-RÇ∂¥ (d.406/1015), brother of al-Murta∂Ç, and Ra∂¥ al-D¥n b. ˝Çws (d.664/1266) and some scholars based in Baªrayn and Qum. Anyone who came into contact with these ideas took up singing and dancing and attacked the Sh¥ ¥ fuqahå .20 Finally, said al-KhwÇnsÇr¥, it was the turn of al-Burs¥. His writings were such that his followers were dubbed al-Kåshiﬁyya, owing to their claim that they could discern hidden secrets. These were called the Shaykh¥s – or, in Persian, the pushtsarriya – owing to their connection to Shaykh Aªmad b. Zayn al-D¥n al-AªsÇ’¥ (d.1241–2/1826),21 since they followed his manner of prayer in Karbala instead of that prescribed by the fuqahå .22 These, al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ continued, weakened the faith and the law and the links of the ulamå by which the latter laid claim to the special leadership of the Hidden Imam himself. Al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ referred to a number of commentaries on al-Burs¥’s famous Mashåriq al-anwår, citing one written by one MullÇ Óasan al-SabzawÇr¥, a resident of Mashhad, at the behest of the Safavid shah SulaymÇn (reg. 1077–1105/1666–94), which contains a study, and refutation, of the secrets of numbers and letters which, he said, was at the heart of this movement. 160

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Al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ ends the entry noting that he has not been able to discover any biographical details on this man, but that he is buried near Isfahan.23 To be sure, the credibility of such early ﬁgures as the Juf¥s had been questioned generations before.24 But, although recent study has pointed to the distinctly gnostic dimensions of al-Burs¥’s Mashåriq,25 the Safawidperiod verdict on al-Burs¥, if critical, had not equalled that of al-KhwÇnsÇr¥. To be sure, as noted by al-KhwÇnsÇr¥, al-Óurr al-Åmil¥ called attention to the ifrå† (immoderation) and ‘perhaps . . . ghuluww (extremism)’ in al-Burs¥’s work. In his biography Abd AllÇh Afand¥, also referred to by alKhwÇnsÇr¥, called al-Burs¥ a ‘faq¥h, muªaddith, Suﬁ’. Afand¥ noted al-Burs¥’s interests in letters and numbers, quoted al-Óurr al-Åmil¥’s entry, quoted at length the critical comments of MullÇ Óasan al-SabzawÇr¥, to which al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ would only refer, and cited his own teacher, al-Majlis¥, in his Biªår al-anwår as saying he did not rely on what al-Burs¥ alone transmitted owing to what might be error and exaggeration. None of these biographers denounced al-Burs¥ in such sweeping terms or made such connections between al-Burs¥ and problematic areas of Sh¥ ¥ discourse as al-KhwÇnsÇr¥, however. Indeed, al-KhwÇnsÇr¥’s contemporary TanikÇbun¥ included no entry on al-Burs¥ at all in Qi‚a‚ al-ulamå.26 Other scholars criticised by al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ were not adjudged as ‘problematic’ at all by the Safawid-period biographers. Ibn Ba†r¥q, for example, was called ‘trustworthy’ by al-Óurr al-Åmil¥. Afand¥, who cited al-Óurr al-Åmil¥’s entry on Ibn al-Ba†r¥q in his own, raised no objections to Ibn al-Ba†r¥q’s legacy; indeed, he noted his teacher BÇqir al-Majlis¥’s reliance on his corpus.27 Al-ÍaffÇr al-Qumm¥, who received no separate notice by al-KhwÇnsÇr¥, al-Óurr al-Åmil¥ or Afand¥, was, in fact, praised elsewhere by both al-Óurr al-Åmil¥ and al-Majlis¥.28 Safawid-period works had not called al-Irbil¥’s legacy into question and, curiously, al-KhwÇnsÇr¥’s entry on al-Irbil¥ contains no denunciations whatsoever of the author or the work in question, let alone any suggestion that his Kashf played a part in the later rise of Akhbarism or Shaykhism, or that it or any other of his several works contained any extremism.29 Similarly, al-KhwÇnsÇr¥’s entry on al-RawÇnd¥ referred to the biographies of al-RawÇnd¥ in the Safawid-period by al-Óurr al-Åmil¥ and Afand¥. The former, in fact, had called al-RawÇnd¥ a faq¥h and ‘trustworthy’ and mentioned no ‘issues’. Afand¥ called him ‘trustworthy’ but mentioned, almost in passing, that al-Kharå ij contained exaggerated traditions (aªåd¥th al-irtifå ). Nevertheless, neither Ysuf al-BaªrÇn¥ nor al-KhwÇnsÇr¥’s contemporary TanikÇbun¥ denounced al-Kharå’ij in such terms or drew any links between any earlier ‘extremist’ discourse and more contemporary manifestations of the same.30 Finally, in his entry on al-ShÇdhÇn, al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ noted that Fa∂åil contained some rare traditions on the Imams’ miracles, that Muªammad Am¥n al-AstarÇbÇd¥ had cited from this work and that al-ShÇdhÇn narrated traditions via JÇbir b. Yaz¥d al-Juf¥. Al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ also noted, however, 161

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that Muªammad b. Makk¥, al-Shah¥d al-Awwal (d.786/1384) had praised al-ShÇdhÇn, that al-Majlis¥’s Biªår included citations from Fa∂åil and that al-Óurr al-Åmil¥ had called him a faq¥h.31

Muªammad Båqir al-Khwånsår¥: a family history Clearly al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ envisioned a link between Akhbarism, Shaykhism, BÇbism, Suﬁsm and certain extremist tendencies present within Twelver Shiism from its very earliest history. In this al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ himself seems slightly out of step with both his contemporary TanikÇbun¥ and, certainly, Safawid and immediately post-Safawid Twelver biographers. However, if viewed as less unique than historically contingent, alKhwÇnsÇr¥’s discourse reveal as much about his own circumstances as the ﬁgures who populate his biography. Indeed, the association of al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ and his family with certain speciﬁc thirteenth/nineteenth-century networks of scholars with quite particular spiritual concerns repays attention when considering an explanation for al-KhwÇnsÇr¥’s approach to Akhbarism. Of al-KhwÇnsÇr¥’s immediate forebears his grandfather M¥r Kab¥r, Óajj M¥r Ab al-QÇsim Jafar al-Msaw¥, was born in Isfahan in 1090/1679–80 and died in 1158/1745–6 in Gulpayigan, aged 68. M¥r Kab¥r studied with BÇqir al-Majlis¥, ÅqÇ JamÇl al-Din Muªammad al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ (d.1122/ 1710–11) and ÅqÇ Óusayn LunbÇn¥ (d.1129/1716–17), and himself lived in Isfahan until the Afghan invasion. Thereupon, M¥r Kab¥r and his family decamped, not to the shrine cities as some others,32 but to KhwÇnsÇr and GulpÇyigÇn, near Isfahan. Thus the family nisba is as much al-I‚fahÇn¥ as al-KhwÇnsÇr¥,33 and from M¥r Kab¥r descended those later scholars who bore the nisba al-KhwÇnsÇr¥. ÓÇjj M¥rzÇ Zayn al-Åbid¥n, the father of the author of the Raw∂åt al-Jannåt, was born in KhwÇnsÇr in 1190/1776–7, or 1192/1778–9, some four decades after the death of his own grandfather M¥r Kab¥r. In KhwÇnsÇr M¥rzÇ Zayn al-Åbid¥n studied with his father, Sayyid Ab al-QÇsim (1163/1749–50 – 1240/1824–5). The latter, the grandfather of the Raw∂åt’s author, had received an ijåza from Muªammad Mahd¥ b. Murta∂Ç al-˝abÇtabÇ¥, Baªr al-Ulm (d.1212/ 1797), during the latter’s stopover in Isfahan on the way to Mashhad. Baªr al-Ulm was a descendant through marriage of Taq¥ al-Majlis¥, and was the ﬁrst to be recognised as successor to his teacher al-BihbihÇn¥ in the shrine cities. M¥rzÇ Zayn al-Åbid¥n also studied with M¥rzÇ Muªammad Mahd¥ b. Ab al-QÇsim al-Msaw¥ al-ShahristÇn¥, a disciple of al-BihbihÇn¥ who lived in ÓÇir, had studied with and retained an interest in the teachings of Ysuf al-BaªrÇn¥ and shared leadership of the Karbala community following al-BihbihÇn¥’s death in 1205/1791. Sayyid Ab al-QÇsim also studied with M¥r Sayyid Al¥ al-˝abÇtabÇ’¥ (d.1231/1815–16), whose family was Isfahani in origin, who was himself a son-in-law of BihbihÇn¥, shared the post-BihbihÇn¥ leadership in Karbala with al-ShahristÇn¥ and assumed 162

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full leadership in Karbala at al-ShahristÇn¥’s death. M¥r Sayyid Al¥ was recognised as the chief mujtahid in the shrine cities at the death of KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç (on whom see below). At M¥r Sayyid Al¥’s death his son Sayyid Muªammad (d.1242/1827) returned to Karbala from Isfahan, from whence the family originated and where he had been an authority in u‚l. Sayyid Ab al-QÇsim died in Isfahan in 1240/1824–5, according to his grandson the author of the Raw∂åt. Sayyid Ab al-QÇsim’s son, ÓÇjj M¥rzÇ Zayn al-Åbid¥n, the father of the Raw∂åt’s author, is said to have been the ﬁrst family member to return to settle in Isfahan, having journeyed to the Iraqi shrine cities at the age of twenty, i.e. c.1210/1795–6, and thence to Isfahan, where he died in 1275/1858–9.34 ÓÇjj M¥rzÇ Zayn al-Åbid¥n received ijåzåt from such ﬁgures as Sayyid Íadr al-D¥n Muªammad b. ÍÇliª al-Msaw¥ al-Åmil¥ (d.1264/1847–8), ÓÇjj Muªammad IbrÇh¥m b. Muªammad Óasan al-KalbÇs¥, or al-KarbÇs¥, (d.1261/1844–5) and Sayyid Muªammad BÇqir b. Muªammad Naq¥ al-Msaw¥ al-Shaft¥ (d.1260/ 1844).35 Of these, Sayyid Íadr al-D¥n, originally from the Jabal Åmil region of the Lebanon, was related through his mother to al-Shah¥d al-ThÇn¥, Zayn alD¥n b. Al¥ (d.965/1559) through the latter’s son. Born in 1193/1779 Sayyid Muªammad came to Baghdad and the Kazimayn with his father when he was about four years old, i.e. c.1197/1782. There he studied with, and married a daughter of, Shaykh Jafar al-Najaf¥, KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç (d.1228/ 1813), a prominent opponent of Akhbarism and a disciple of al-BihbihÇn¥. KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç had studied under Baªr al-Ulm, who also taught alKhwÇnsÇr¥’s grandfather Sayyid Ab al-QÇsim. Sayyid Íadr al-D¥n himself also studied with Baªr al-Ulm and M¥r Sayyid Al¥ al-˝abÇ†abÇ¥, the sonin-law of al-BihbihÇn¥ who taught Sayyid Ab al-QÇsim, al-KhwÇnsÇr¥’s grandfather. Thereafter Sayyid Íadr al-D¥n journeyed to Isfahan, and there enjoyed the material and spiritual support of Sayyid Muªammad BÇqir al-Shaft¥, another of Zayn al-Åbid¥n’s teachers; al-Shaft¥ gave Sayyid Íadr al-D¥n several empty houses, for example. In 1262/1845 Sayyid Íadr al-D¥n left Isfahan and returned to the Kazimayn, dying in Najaf one or two years later. The best-known of Sayyid Íadr al-D¥n’s many sons was Sayyid Muªammad, known as ÅqÇ Mujtahid (d.1274/1857–8), who married a daughter of al-Shaft¥. Another son, Ab Jafar (d.1324/1906–7), married the daughter of the eldest son of al-Shaft¥ and a daughter of Sayyid Íadr al-D¥n married the younger brother of the Raw∂åt’s author, Muªammad HÇshim (d.1318/1900–1), creating an alliance between the KhwÇnsÇr¥ family and these other two important clerical families.36 Another of Zayn al-Åbid¥n’s teachers was ÓÇjj Muªammad IbrÇh¥m al-KalbÇs¥, or al-KarbÇs¥, born in Isfahan in 1180/1766–7. Shortly thereafter he and his father decamped to Karbas, in Khurasan, near Herat; since his father died in Isfahan in 1190/1776–7, they must have returned to the city from Khurasan after a few years. Eventually the son moved 163

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to the shrine cities where he studied with Baªr al-Ulm, KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç, M¥r Sayyid Al¥ al-˝abÇ†abÇ¥ as well as, in Karbala, the latter’s fatherin-law al-BihbihÇn¥; based on his study with the latter, al-KalbÇs¥ must have been in the shrines before the age of 25. Al-KalbÇs¥ himself said he did not have ijåzåt from either Baªr al-Ulm or al-BihbihÇn¥ but added that both would have given them if he had asked. Al-KalbÇs¥ did receive ijåzåt from KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç and Shaykh Aªmad al-AªsÇ¥, founder of the Shaykh¥ school. Al-KalbÇs¥ then returned to Iran where he studied with M¥rzÇ Ab alQÇsim al-G¥lÇn¥ al-Qumm¥ (d.1231/1816), a student of al-BihbihÇn¥. Although al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ mentions that al-KalbÇs¥ went to Qum, in Isfahan he also taught, and was Friday prayer leader, at Masjid-i ÓÇkim. TanikÇbun¥ also studied with al-KalbÇs¥ and one of al-KalbÇs¥’s daughters married a student of al-ShahshahÇn¥, himself a student of al-KalbÇs¥.37 Sayyid Muªammad BÇqir b. Muªammad Naq¥ al-Msaw¥ al-Shaft¥ was born in Rasht in 1180/1766–7 and left for the shrines in 1197/1782–3 where he studied with Baªr al-Ulm, al-BihbihÇn¥, KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç and Shaykh Muªammad Óasan b. Muªammad BÇqir al-Najaf¥ (d.1266/ 1850), author of Jawåhir al-Kalåm. He also studied with Sayyid Muªsin b. al-Óasan al-KÇΩimayn¥, with whom al-KalbÇs¥, Sayyid Íadr al-D¥n Muªammad and Shaykh Muªammad Taq¥ – all also teachers of the Raw∂åt’s author – also studied. He received ijåzåt from KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç and M¥r Sayyid Al¥ al-˝abÇ†abÇ’¥. After some eight years in the shrines, al-Shaft¥ journeyed to Qum where he spent some six months with, and received an ijåza from, M¥rzÇ Ab al-QÇsim al-Qumm¥, the student of al-BihbihÇn¥ who taught al-KalbÇs¥. Around 1216/1801–2 or 1217/1802–3 al-Shaft¥ came to Isfahan. In 1245/1829–30 he built a great mosque in Bayabad, in Isfahan, with rooms for students and schools. Fatª Al¥ ShÇh (r. 1212–50/1797–1834) visited the building at one point. Al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ noted that parts of the country mourned for a year after al-Shaft¥’s death in 1260/1844. Al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ noted the great ‘cordiality in faith’ between al-KalbÇs¥ and al-Shaft¥. A son of al-KalbÇs¥ married a daughter of al-Shaft¥ and upon hearing of al-Shaft¥’s death al-KalbÇs¥ fainted and lived but one more year. Despite less friendly relations between al-Shaft¥ and Sayyid Íadr al-D¥n, another of al-KhwÇnsÇr¥’s teachers, al-Shaft¥, as noted, ceded several houses to the latter and a son of Sayyid Íadr al-D¥n married a daughter of al-Shaft¥.38 Al-Shaft¥’s works included a commentary on Sharå i al-Islåm of alMuªaqqiq al-Óill¥ (d.676/1277), entitled Ma†åli al-Anwår, an essay arguing for the necessity of the implementation of the al-ªudd (the judicial punishments) during the occultation by the mujtahid and a series of twenty essays on key ﬁgures of import in early Twelver history, many of whom had ﬁgured in the isnåd of the traditions of al-ÍaffÇr’s Ba‚åir al-Darajåt and al-Kåf¥, compiled by Muªammad b. Yaqb al-Kulayn¥ (d.329/941), 164

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but who were deemed problematic by such scholars as Aªmad b. Al¥ alNajjÇsh¥ (d.450/1058–9), Muªammad b. al-Óasan al-˝s¥ and Aªmad b. Ubay∂allÇh, Ibn al-Gha∂Çir¥ (early ﬁfth/eleventh century).39

The Raw∂åt’s author between Isfahan and Iraq Muªammad BÇqir b. ÓÇjj M¥rzÇ Zayn al-Åbid¥n, author of Raw∂åt, who says he was born in KhwÇnsÇr40 in 1226/1811–12, is reported to have accompanied his father to Isfahan. Muªammad BÇqir studied there under Sayyid Íadr al-D¥n Muªammad al-Åmil¥, al-KalbÇs¥ and al-Shaft¥, all of whom had also taught al-KhwÇnsÇr¥’s father and were connected by marriage with each other and, after Sayyid Íadr al-D¥n’s daughter married al-KhwÇnsÇr¥’s brother Muªammad HÇshim, with al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ himself. Al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ himself waxed particularly eloquent about Sayyid Íadr al-D¥n and their relationship and the importance of the sayyid’s encouragement of his work.41 Raw∂åt’s author also studied with Shaykh Muªammad Taq¥ al-RÇz¥ al-I‚fahÇn¥ (d.1248/1832–3), M¥r Sayyid Muªammad b. Abd al-‚amad al-Óusayn¥ al-I‚fahÇn¥ al-ShÇhshÇhÇn¥, or al-ShahshahÇn¥, (d.1287/1870–1) and ÅqÇ M¥r Sayyid Óasan al-Óusayn¥ al-I‚fahÇn¥ (d.1273/1856–7); the latter’s ijåza attested to the qualiﬁcations of the Raw∂åt’s author to exercise ijtihåd. Of these Isfahan-based scholars with whom al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ studied, most probably prior to his departure for the Iraqi shrine cities in 1253/1837–8, Shaykh Muªammad Taq¥ was the son of a Tehrani Ustajlu tribal leader. His mother was the daughter of a Kirmanshah tribal khan and the sister of ÅqÇ Muªammad Al¥ KirmÇnshÇh¥, the eldest son of al-BihbihÇn¥. Other family marriages solidiﬁed the connection between the I‚fahÇn¥ and Kirmanshah¥ families. At an early age Shaykh Muªammad went with his father to the shrine cities. In Karbala, he studied with alBihbihÇn¥ and M¥r Sayyid Al¥ al-˝abÇ†abÇ¥, al-BihbihÇn¥’s son-in-law. In Najaf, he studied with Baªr al-Ulm and, at the latter’s death, with Baªr al-Ulm’s student KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç, from whom he received an ijåza. Like Sayyid Íadr al-D¥n Muªammad, another of al-KhwÇnsÇr¥’s teachers, Shaykh Muªammad married one of KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç’s daughters, herself a scholar of some repute. Around 1220/1805–6, or perhaps as early as 1216/1801–2, Shaykh Muªammad came to Iran. Journeying to Mashhad he stayed some six months at the house of MullÇ Muªammad Taq¥ al-BaraghÇn¥ (d.1264/ 1847–8), al-Shah¥d al-ThÇlith, who pronounced takf¥r on Shaykh Aªmad al-AªsÇ¥.42 Shaykh Muªammad journeyed to Yazd and then Isfahan where he came to lead the Friday Prayer, ﬁrst in the Ilch¥ mosque for a time and then at the Shah mosque; as such he was the founder of the MasjidshÇh¥ family in the city. He lived a parsimonious life until, toward the end of his life Fatª Al¥ ShÇh, at Am¥n al-Dawla’s behest, gave him a village as tuyl. At one point he was responsible for the teaching of 165

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ﬁqh and u‚l in Isfahan. Shaykh Muªammad died in 1248/1832–3 in Isfahan, and al-Shaft¥ was among those who read the prayers. According to al-KhwÇnsÇr¥, who was much impressed with Shaykh Muªammad, more than 300 students, including al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ himself, used to attend his lectures in Isfahan’s Shah Mosque. Shaykh Muªammad had a vehemently anti-Shaykh¥ brother, Muªammad Óusayn, who lived in ÓÇ’ir, and a son who studied with Murta∂Ç al-An‚Çr¥ (d.1281/1864) and later married into the family of Sayyid Íadr al-D¥n Muªammad al-Åmil¥, the teacher of both the Raw∂åt’s author and his father.43 M¥r Sayyid Muªammad al-ShÇhshÇhÇn¥, or al-ShahshahÇn¥, the nisba deriving from the quarter of Isfahan in which he lived, also taught alKhwÇnsÇr¥ in Isfahan. Al-KhwÇnsÇr¥, who gave M¥r Sayyid Muªammad no separate entry in the Raw∂åt, describes his teacher as ‘rå ¥s al-tadr¥s walfatwå in Isfahan at this time’. Al-ShahshahÇn¥ was a student of al-KalbÇs¥, who taught both the Raw∂åt’s author and the latter’s father, as well as Sayyid Muªammad b. M¥r Sayyid Al¥ al-˝abÇ†abÇ’¥; the latter’s father, M¥r Sayyid Al¥, had taught Sayyid Abu’l-QÇsim, the grandfather of Raw∂åt’s author. M¥r Sayyid Muªammad was imam at the Dh al-FiqÇr mosque.44 ÅqÇ M¥r Sayyid Óasan al-I‚fahÇn¥, known as Sayyid Óasan al-Mudarris, was born in 1208/1793–4, studied with a number of Isfahani scholars and then travelled to the shrine cities. There he studied with Muªammad Óasan al-Najaf¥, al-KalbÇs¥ and Muªammad Shar¥f b. al-Óasan Al¥ alMÇzandarÇn¥, known as Shar¥f al-UlamÇ (d.1245/1829–30), a pupil of M¥r Sayyid Al¥ al-˝abÇ†abÇ¥ who became chief teacher in Karbala at the death of the latter’s son and who taught Sayyid IbrÇh¥m b. Muªammad BÇqir alMsaw¥ al-Qazv¥n¥ (d.1261/1845). M¥r Sayyid Óasan returned to Isfahan where he studied with Shaykh Muªammad Taq¥, whose mother was a daughter of al-BihbihÇn¥, who studied with Baªr al-Ulm and KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç, married a daughter of the latter and taught both al-KhwÇnsÇr¥’s father and al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ himself. M¥r Sayyid Óasan also taught alKhwÇnsÇr¥’s younger brother Muªammad HÇshim, son-in-law of Sayyid Íadr al-D¥n Muªammad, who had taught both al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ and his father. M¥r Sayyid Óasan followed Shaykh Muªammad Taq¥ in being responsible for the teaching of ﬁqh and u‚l in Isfahan.45

Summary and conclusion Thus, by the time al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ left for the shrine cities, around 1253/1837–8, he was well-connected, indirectly and directly, to the very most important clerical networks of the period. Through his grandfather, al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ was associated with such key disciples of al-BihbihÇn¥ as Baªr al-Ulm, al-ShahristÇn¥ and M¥r Sayyid Al¥ al-˝abÇtabÇ¥, all well known in the secondary sources as key ﬁgures in the shrine cities’ hierarchies.46 Through his father al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ enjoyed associations with such ﬁgures as 166

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Sayyid Íadr al-D¥n Muªammad al-Åmili, al-KalbÇs¥ and al-Shaft¥, all key ﬁgures in Isfahan’s clerical hierarchy even before al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ himself studied with them but with links, also, to the same Iraq-based clerical followers of al-BihbihÇn¥. Al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ was also directly connected with the latter scholars, both by virtue of his own study with them and by his younger brother’s marriage to a daughter of Sayyid Íadr al-D¥n. These and others of al-KhwÇnsÇr¥’s teachers, including such prominent Isfahanis as Shaykh Muªammad Taq¥ al-I‚fahÇn¥, al-ShÇhshÇhÇn¥ and Sayyid Óasan al-Mudarris, were linked by study and marriage both to each other and such Iraq-based scholars as Muªammad Óasan al-Najaf¥ and KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç.47 Other links existed between al-KhwÇnsÇr¥’s teachers and al-Shah¥d al-ThÇlith. During his sojourn in the shrine cities, al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ studied with Muªammad b. Al¥ b. Jafar, who also attested to his abilities in ijtihåd, Shaykh QÇsim b. Muªammad al-Najaf¥ and Muªammad IbrÇh¥m alKarbalÇ¥, both of whom gave him an ijåza,48 and, according to two other sources, Sayyid IbrÇh¥m b. Muªammad BÇqir al-Msaw¥ al-Qazv¥n¥, the leading mujtahid in Karbala, and Shaykh Muªammad Óasan al-Najaf¥; the latter had also taught al-Shaft¥, to whom al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ became related by marriage.49 With such connections, al-KhwÇnsÇr¥’s association with the next generation of key clerics in Iran and the shrines was also established, even as he was an eyewitness to the struggles against heterodoxy and other events in Iraq. KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç, like his teacher al-BihbihÇn¥, was a prominent opponent of Akhbarism with close links to Fatª Al¥ ShÇh, to whom he addressed an essay on Akhbarism. Al-Shah¥d al-ThÇlith pronounced against Shaykh Aªmad al-AªsÇ¥, whose death preceded by some ten years alKhwÇnsÇr¥’s departure for Iraq. Sayyid IbrÇh¥m al-Qazv¥n¥ struggled against Shaykhism, the rise of which generated sharp division within the Sh¥ ¥ community in the shrine cities, especially in Karbala. Cole and Momen have suggested that these divisions played a prominent role in the 1257/1842 Ottoman invasion of the city, which al-KhwÇnsÇr¥, then in Iraq for some four years, certainly witnessed. Al-Qazv¥n¥ played an important role in this invasion, and the practice of Shiism itself suffered greatly during it. Al-Shaft¥, with whom al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ had studied, in vain lobbied the Iranian ruler Muªammad ShÇh to attack the Ottomans. Al-Najaf¥ denounced the claim of the Shirazi Sayyid Al¥ Muªammad to be the returned Imam, apparently fulﬁlling the millenarian expectations centring on 1260/1844, the year of al-Shaft¥’s death. That claim in turn generated a series of clashes between BÇb¥s, U‚l¥s and the state in Iran between 1265–6/1848 and 1269–70/1852.50 Al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ was also certainly aware of the importance of the ‘Indian money’ in this period and the implication of the Shaykh¥/U‚l¥ clash as it related to control over that money. Al-ShahristÇn¥, who taught al-KhwÇnsÇr¥’s grandfather, retained an interest in Ysuf al-BaªrÇn¥’s 167

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teachings and shared leadership of the Karbala community following alBihbihÇn¥’s death in 1205/1791, was the recipient of the ‘Indian money’. M¥r Sayyid Al¥ al-˝abÇtabÇ¥, who taught al-KhwÇnsÇr¥’s grandfather, Sayyid Íadr al-D¥n Muªammad, al-KalbÇs¥ and al-Shaft¥ – all three teachers of al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ and his father – and Shaykh Muªammad Taq¥ al-I‚fahÇn¥ and al-ShahshahÇn¥ – both teachers of al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ – assumed full leadership in Karbala at al-ShahristÇn¥’s death and was recognised as the chief mujtahid in the shrine cities at the death of KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç, had spent time in India and was also the recipient of these monies. Al-KhwÇnsÇr¥’s teacher al-Qazv¥n¥ took over control of this money in Karbala after this control had been held by the Shaykh¥ leader Sayyid KÇΩim al-Rasht¥ in the 1240s–50s/1830s. In Najaf, Muªammad Óasan al-Najaf¥, who may have taught al-KhwÇnsÇr¥, also had some authority over these funds.51 Lastly, the network of scholars with whom al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ was linked are well known to have been involved in the effort to (re-)assert the authority of the senior clerics over both the jurisprudential and practical affairs of the community as the representatives of the Hidden Imam during his absence in the face of the AkhbÇr¥/Shaykh¥/BÇb¥ challenge of this period. KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç, for example, further reﬁned the concept of niyåba åmma – the notion of the senior cleric as the ‘general deputy’ of the Hidden Imam – and the notion of a single mujtahid with paramount authority among the ulamå . Al-Shaft¥ argued that the mujtahid should exercise al-ªudd during the Imam’s absence. In their elaborations on matters of both jurisprudence and clerical authority these and such others of al-BihbihÇn¥’s students as M¥r Sayyid Al¥ al-˝abÇ†abÇ¥ and Muªammad Óasan al-Najaf¥ – of whom al-Shaft¥ and al-˝abÇ†abÇ¥, if not also al-Najaf¥, taught al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ – laid the foundation for the concept of marja al-taql¥d (the supreme exemplar) by Shaykh Murta∂Ç al-An‚Çr¥.52 The Raw∂åt’s author had three other brothers, and, following his return from the shrine cities to Isfahan all four lived near each other in the same district in Isfahan, as a result of which they gradually assumed the nisba ChahÇr S¥, or ChahÇrsq¥, for this district, dropping the nisba al-KhwÇnsÇr¥. According to Sayyid Muªammad Al¥ al-Ru∂∂Çt¥, the four spent much time with each other and collaborated in the compiling of information for, and the writing of, Raw∂åt al-Jannåt. As already noted M¥rzÇ Sayyid Muªammad HÇshim, the youngest of the brothers, later known as Mujtahid ChahÇrsq¥, married the daughter of Sayyid Íadr al-D¥n Muªammad al-Åmil¥, with whom he, his brother Muªammad BÇqir and their father had studied. Muªammad HÇshim also studied with Murta∂Ç alAn‚Çr¥, and among his own students was Óajj M¥rzÇ Óasan, or Óusayn, b. Muªammad al-Nr¥ (d.1320/1902), author of the well-known biographical work Mustadrak al-Waså il.53 Raw∂åt al-Jannåt itself ﬁrst appeared in a lithograph edition in 1306–7/ 1888–9 some six or seven years before al-KhwÇnsÇr¥’s death in 1313/1895. The work reﬂects the perception of clerical authority which would become 168

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evident soon in the 1309–11/1891–2 tobacco revolt and TanikÇbun¥, author of Qi‚å‚ al-Ulamå, had died in 1302/1884–5, some years before the Raw∂åt’s appearance. It is not yet immediately clear why al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ retained his hostility toward Akhbarism so late in life, decades after he departed Isfahan for Iraq. It is clear, however, that from early in his life al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ was increasingly closely associated with Iran- and Iraq-based networks of clerics well known as having been actively engaged in defending the faith against heterodoxy and which, as part of these struggles, sought to advance Sh¥ ¥ material interests generally, to protect and expand the authority of the fuqahå and, given al-Shaft¥’s interests in particular, to actively engage aspects and key personalities of earlier Sh¥ ¥ history.54 Raw∂åt al-Jannåt clearly gave voice to a newly-perceived link between the contemporary and earlier manifestations of this heterodoxy: widely varying and disparate traditions were understood, and portrayed, as aspects of a single, uniﬁed, unbroken and monolithic tradition within the faith which had surfaced yet again to threaten the very existence of the community.

Notes 1 See A. Newman ‘The Nature of the AkhbÇr¥/U‚l¥ Dispute in Late-Safawid Iran. Part One: Abd AllÇh al-SamÇhij¥’s “Munyat al-MumÇris¥n”’ BSOAS 55.1 (1992) 22–51 and A. Newman ‘The Nature of the AkhbÇr¥/U‚l¥ in LateSafawid Iran. Part Two: The Conﬂict Reassessed’ BSOAS 55.1 (1992) 250–61, containing an edited version of al-SamÇhij¥’s Arabic original together with a translation and commentary. 2 My edition of the text used the two extant copies known at the time. For a listing of Western-language articles published from 1958 to 1985 on the AkhbÇr¥ dispute, all based on the abridgement, see Newman, ‘The Nature . . . Part One’, 23 n.4. On the key points of the original omitted in the abridgement, see ‘The Nature . . . Part Two’, 253f. R. M. Gleave, in his ‘AkhbÇr¥ Sh¥ ¥ U‚l al-Fiqh and the Juristic Theory of Ysuf b. Aªmad al-BaªrÇn¥’ in R. Gleave and E. Kermeli (eds) Islamic Law, Theory and Practice (London, 1997) summarises (24–5) the disagreements within Western-language scholarship on the origins of the AkhbÇr¥ madhhab. 3 See, for example, H. Algar Religion and State in Iran, 1785–1906 (Berkeley, 1969) 33–6; J. R. I. Cole Roots of North Indian Sh¥ ism in Iran and Iraq (Berkeley and London, 1988) 31–5; Meir Litvak Shi i Scholars of NineteenthCentury Iraq (Cambridge, 1998) 14–15, 22. 4 That AkhbÇrism generated relatively less concern in the Safawid period itself, see Newman, ‘The Nature . . . Part Two’, 251–3 and my subsequent articles, cited below in note 7. 5 On these duties and responsibilities see Newman, ‘The Nature . . . Part Two’, 257–60. 6 Ysuf al-BaªrÇn¥ Luluat al-Baªrayn (Najaf, 1969) 117–19. On contemporary sources, see ‘The Nature . . . Part Two’, 252–3. 7 For the full list of these scholars, see Newman, ‘The Nature . . . Part One’, 49 n.11. On the distinctly mujtahid-muªaddith tendencies of both al-Qumm¥ and Fay∂ al-KÇshÇn¥, see A. Newman ‘Suﬁsm and Anti-Suﬁsm in Safavid Iran: The Authorship of the Óad¥qat al-Sh¥ a Revisited’ Iran 37 (1999) 95–108;

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A. Newman ‘Clerical Perceptions of Suﬁ Practices in Late Seventeenth-Century Persia: Arguments Over the Permissibility of Singing (GhinÇ)’ in L. Lewisohn and D. Morgan (eds) The Heritage of Suﬁsm, Vol. III: Late Classical Persianate Suﬁsm: the Safavid and Mughal Period (Oxford, 1999) 135–64; A. Newman ‘Fay∂ al-KÇshÇn¥ and the Rejection of the Clergy/State Alliance: Friday Prayer as Politics in the Safavid Period’ in L. Walbridge (ed.) The Most Learned of the Sh¥ a (New York, 2001). On this tradition, see Newman, ‘The Nature . . . Part Two’, 255. See Newman, ‘The Nature . . . Part Two’, 255–6. See Muªammad b. SulaymÇn TunukÇbun¥ Qi‚å‚ al-ulamå (Tehran, n.d) 321–2, on Muªammad Am¥n, quoting al-BaªrÇn¥ verbatim, as usual without attribution. See al-BaªrÇn¥, Lulua, 117–19. Al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ Raw∂åt al-Jannåt, 8 vols (M. T. al-Kashf¥ and A. IsmÇ¥liyÇn (eds): Tehran-Qum, 1390–2sh) I, 121–2. This notice received much attention from later Western scholars, though Safavid-period biographical sources attributed no AkhbÇr¥ tendencies to M¥rzÇ Muªammad or Muªammad Am¥n; see Newman, ‘The Nature . . . Part Two’, 253 n.10, n.11. KhwÇnsÇr¥, Raw∂åt I, 132–6. See Newman, ‘Clerical Perceptions’, 148f. Here too (Raw∂åt I, 137) al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ identiﬁed as AkhbÇris others whom alSamÇhij¥ had earlier identiﬁed as mujtahid-muªaddith, including Abd AllÇh al-Tn¥ (d.1071/1660–1) and Muªammad b. al-Óasan al-Óurr al-Åmil¥ (d.1104/1693). He also counted as an AkhbÇr¥ Muªammad Taq¥ al-Majlis¥ (d.1070/1659–60), citing only al-Majlis¥’s comments on Muªammad Am¥n in his Persian-language commentary on al-Shaykh al-Íadq’s al-Faq¥h. Taq¥ alMajlis¥, although often accounted as such in the Western-language secondary sources, was not judged as such by al-SamÇhij¥. Al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ does not make the same charge in his biographical entry on al-Majlis¥ (Raw∂åt I, 118f.). BaªrÇn¥, Lulua, 121. Cf. TanikÇbun¥, Qi‚å‚, 322–3. KhwÇnsÇr¥, Raw∂åt VI, 79–103, esp. 94–9. On Friday prayer, see my ‘Fay∂ al-KÇshÇn¥’. KhwÇnsÇr¥, Raw∂åt IV, 143–6. On al-Qumm¥ see the sources cited in note 7, above. Cf. Cole, ‘Roots’, 21–2, who, citing al-KhwÇnsÇr¥, called attention to al-Qumm¥’s AkhbÇr¥ tendencies. KhwÇnsÇr¥, Raw∂åt VI, 274–90, esp. 279–83, 287–8. Al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ ends the entry by recounting some of the problematic fatwås attributed to Ibn Idr¥s, in some of which he followed al-Murta∂Ç, and by discussing the meaning of ‘al-Óill¥’. KhwÇnsÇr¥, Raw∂åt IV, 247–55, wherein 247–9 are citing al-BaªrÇn¥ (Lulua, 96–103). The excerpt from Shaykh SulaymÇn’s essay is found on 250–1. The Mufawwi∂a believed Allah had endowed the Prophet and the Imams with authority equal to his own and allowed them to legislate and abrogate the law as they wished. Some believed also that if the Prophet and Imams were not themselves divine they were created by Allah from a substance different to that of the rest of humanity. See H. Modarressi Crisis and Consolidation in the Formative Period of Shi ite Islam (Princeton, 1993) 21–31. See W. Madelung ‘Kha††Çbiyya’ EI2 IV, 1132–3. On the legacy of singing and Twelver Shiism, see Newman, ‘Clerical Perceptions’, cited above in note 8. Al-KhwÇnsÇr¥’s short entry on al-AªsÇ¥ (d. c.1242/1826) (KhwÇnsÇr¥, Raw∂åt I, 88–94) was curiously invective-free and free, also, of any great discussion of the substance of al-AªsÇ¥’s beliefs. By contrast, the discussion of Shaykh Aªmad’s life, his beliefs and his disagreements with the fuqahå in the contemporary Qi‚a‚ al-Ulamå (TunukÇbun¥, Qi‚a‚, 47f.) was more detailed and

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nuanced and not without judgements (on the BÇb¥s and the Shaykh¥s in particular, see TunukÇbun¥, Qi‚a‚, 59f.). Shaykh Aªmad prayed below the head of ImÇm Husayn’ tomb, not above (bålåsar) as the rest of the Sh¥ a did. See D. M. MacEoin ‘BÇlÇsar¥’ EIr III, 583–5. KhwÇnsÇr¥, Raw∂åt III, 337–45. In fact, unnoted by al-KhwÇnsÇr¥, a summary of al-SabzawÇr¥’s essay can be found in the well-known biographical compendium Riyå∂ al-Ulamå of Abd AllÇh Afand¥, a student of al-Majlis¥. See his Riyå∂ al-Ulamå , 7 vols (Qum, 1401AH) II 308. On Mufa∂∂al see Madelung, ‘Kha††Çbiyya’ and A. Newman The Formative Period of Twelver Shi ism (Richmond, 2000) s.v. B. Todd Lawson ‘The Dawning Places of the Lights of Certainty in the Divine Secrets Connected with the Commander of the Faithful by Rajab Burs¥ (d.1411)’ in L. Lewisohn (ed.) The Heritage of Suﬁsm, Volume II, The Legacy of Medieval Persian Suﬁsm (Oxford, 1991) 261–76. Afand¥, Riyå∂ II, 304–10; al-Óurr al-Åmil¥ Amal al-Åmal, 2 vols (A. alÓusayn¥ (ed.): Baghdad, 1965) II, 117–18, as cited in KhwÇnsÇr¥, Raw∂åt III, 338–40. See also Lawson, ‘Dawning Places’, 264–5. Åmil¥, Amal II, 345; Afand¥, Riyå∂ V, 354–9, esp. 355 and 359. On al-ÍaffÇr, see Newman, The Formative Period, esp. 67f and 86 n.3; alKhwÇnsÇr¥, Raw∂åt I, 124, II, 293, IV, 8. Al-Majlis¥ called him ‘a trustworthy ImÇm¥’. See Muªammad BÇqir al-Majlis¥ Al-Waj¥za f¥ ilm al-rijål (Beirut, 1410/1995) 298. KhwÇnsÇr¥, Raw∂åt IV, 341–4. See also al-KhwÇnsÇr¥’s references to al-Irbil¥ in al-Majlis¥’s Biªår, KhwÇnsÇr¥, Raw∂åt VI, 5 and VIII, 245–8. Al-Óurr alÅmil¥ (Åmil¥, Amal II, 195–8) called him ‘trustworthy’. Afand¥ (Riyå∂ IV, 166–74) cited his teacher al-Majlis¥’s note of al-Irbil¥ as ‘trustworthy’ and noted that Shaykh Al¥ al-Karak¥ (d.940/1534) narrated the Kashf. See also R. JafariyÇn’s recent Al¥ b. Ûså Irbil¥ va Kashf al-Ghumma (Mashhad, 1373sh). KhwÇnsÇr¥, Raw∂åt IV, 5–9, esp. 8. See also Åmil¥, Amal II, 125–7; Afand¥, Riyå∂ II, 419–37; al-BaªrÇn¥, Lulua, 304–6; TunukÇbun¥, Qi‚å‚, 434. KhwÇnsÇr¥, Raw∂åt IV, 23–6. Al-Óurr al-Åmil¥ (Amal II, 130) called him jal¥l al-qadr (‘of great ability’) and cast no aspersions on any aspect of his work. In his rijål work al-Majlis¥ (Al-Waj¥za, 225) simply noted al-Óurr al-Åmil¥’s classiﬁcation of al-ShÇdhÇn as trustworthy and al-Majlis¥’s student Afand¥ (Riyå∂ III, 5–6) called al-ShÇdhÇn ‘trustworthy’. See J. Cole ‘Shii Clerics in Iraq and Iran, 1722–1780: The Akhbari-Usuli Conﬂict Reconsidered’, Iranian Studies 18.1 (Winter, 1985) 3–34. On this and other family issues, my thanks to Sayyid Muªammad Al¥ alRu∂∂Çt¥, the last surviving clerical member of the family, with whom I spoke in Isfahan in 2000, and to Mr Rasl JafariyÇn for his good ofﬁces in arranging this meeting. See also the former’s D Guftår (Qum, 1378sh) esp. 96–7. KhwÇnsÇr¥, Raw∂åt II, 105–6; al-Ru∂∂Çt¥, D guftår, 104. See also S. Muªammad BÇqir KitÇb¥ Rijål-i I‚fahån (Isfahan, 1375sh) 128–9; A. K. I‚fahÇn¥ Tadhkirat al-qubr (N. B. BidÇhand (ed.): Qum, 1371sh) 46–7. See also alKhwÇnsÇr¥, Raw∂åt IV, 399–406; KitÇb¥, Rijål, 90–3. On Baªr al-Ulm, see al-KhwÇnsÇr¥, Raw∂åt VII, 203f. KhwÇnsÇr¥, Raw∂åt II 107–9; KitÇb¥, Rijål, 128–9. KhwÇnsÇr¥, Raw∂åt IV, 126–9; KitÇb¥, Rijål, 119–22. The Raw∂åt’s author being born in 1226/1811, he must have studied with Sayyid Íadr al-D¥n when the former was 27 or younger, since al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ left Isfahan in 1253/1837–8 and the former left Isfahan in 1262/1845. On KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç, see also KhwÇnsÇr¥, Raw∂åt II, 200–6; TunukÇbun¥, Qi‚a‚, 183–98, and the discussion on pp. 165–6.

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37 KhwÇnsÇr¥, Raw∂åt I, vÇv, 34–7, and II, 105–10; KitÇb¥, Rijål, 146, 112–18, 84, 86, 169–70; TunukÇbun¥, Qi‚a‚, 117–22, esp. 118, 121. 38 Al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ does not mention that he was taught by al-Shaft¥ is his autobiographical entry (KhwÇnsÇr¥, Raw∂åt II, 105–10), but he does in his entry on al-Shafti himself (Raw∂åt II, 99–104, AD 100). See also KhwÇnsÇr¥, Raw∂åt I, 36 and KitÇb¥, Rijål, 126; 100–11, 150–1; TunukÇbun¥, Qi‚a‚, 135–68. Since al-Shaft¥ died in 1260/1844 and had spent some years in the shrine cities, al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ probably studied with him before his own departure for Iraq in 1253/1837–8. For a list of al-Shaft¥’s more famous students, see KitÇb¥, Rijål, 110. 39 For a list of these essays, see KhwÇnsÇr¥, Raw∂åt II, 102; KitÇb¥, Rijål, 108; ÅqÇ Buzrg Muªammad Muªsin al-˝ihrÇn¥, al-Dhar¥ a ilå ta‚ån¥f al-Sh¥ a, 25 vols (Qum, 1341sh) X, 98, 246. Among those earlier ﬁgures who attracted al-Shaft¥’s attention were Muªammad b. SinÇn, Sahl b. ZiyÇd, Aªmad b. Muªammad al-Barq¥ and ÅbÇn b. UthmÇn, on whom see Newman, The Formative Period. 40 Cf. KitÇb¥, Rijål, 145, suggesting he was born in Isfahan, citing the Raw∂åt itself. 41 See the sources cited beginning in note 35 above. Al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ (Raw∂åt I, 34–7) does not mention his having studied with al-KalbÇs¥ in his entry on the latter. 42 Al-Shah¥d’s entry in Qi‚a‚ al-ulamå was the longest of all the entries therein, encompassing an entry on al-AªsÇ’¥ and a ﬁerce denunciation by al-Shah¥d’s student TunikÇbun¥ of four groups of Shaykh¥s including and especially, the BÇb¥s. See TunikÇbun¥, Qi‚a‚, 19–58; R. M. Gleave ‘Biography and Hagiography in TanikÇbun¥’s Qi‚å‚ al-Ulamå’ in C. Melville (ed.) Proceedings of the Third European Conference on Iranian Studies, Part 2, Mediaeval and Modern Persian Studies (Wiesbaden, 1999) 244. 43 KhwÇnsÇr¥, Raw∂åt II, 123–7; TunikÇbun¥, Qi‚a‚, 117; KitÇb¥, Rijål, 95–9; Muªsin al-Am¥n Ayån al-Sh¥ a, 10 vols (Beirut, 1406/1985) V, 211. Given Shaykh Muªammad’s death date of 1248/1832–3, al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ probably attended Shaykh Muªammad’s lectures when he was younger than 22; see also the previous note. 44 KhwÇnsÇr¥, Raw∂åt II, 106–7; KitÇb¥, Rijål, 133–4; I‚fahÇn¥, Tadhkirat, 28–9. 45 KhwÇnsÇr¥, Raw∂åt II, 107, 307–8; al-˝ihrÇn¥, Dhar¥ a V, 247–8; al-Am¥n Ayån V, 211. On Shar¥f al-UlamÇ, see al-Am¥n, Ayån IX, 364; Litvak, Shi i Scholars, 51, 61–2, 117. 46 On Baªr al-Ulm, see Litvak, Shi i Scholars, 46f.; on al-ShahristÇn¥, see Litvak, Shi i Scholars, 32, 49–50, 95–7, 99–102. On al-˝abÇtabÇ¥, see Litvak, Shi i Scholars, 50; A. Amanat ‘In Between the Madrasa and the Marketplace: The Designation of Clerical Leadership in Modern Shiism’ in S. A. Arjomand (ed.) Authority and Political Culture in Shi ism (Albany, 1988) 104. 47 On al-Shaft¥, see Hamid Dabashi ‘Lives of Prominent Nineteenth-Century UlamÇ from TunikÇbun¥’s Qi‚a‚ al-ulamå’ in Arjomand (ed.), Authority, 308–18; Juan R. I. Cole ‘Indian Money’ and the Shi’i Shrine Cities of Iraq 1786–1850’ MES 22.4 (1986) 461–80, 474; Amanat, ‘In Between’, 107. On al-KalbÇs¥, see Amanat, ‘In Between’, 106f. On al-BihbihÇn¥’s anti-AkhbÇrism, see also KhwÇnsÇr¥, Raw∂åt II, 94–5. 48 KhwÇnsÇr¥, Raw∂åt II, 105–8; KitÇb¥, Rijål, 144–51. On the time in Najaf, see KitÇb¥, Rijål, 126; al-Kashf¥’s preface in Raw∂åt I, ‘vav’. 49 See KitÇb¥, Rijål, 146, and, on al-Najaf¥, al-Kashf¥’s preface to Raw∂åt I, ‘vav’. Al-KhwÇnsÇr¥’s notice on al-Najaf¥ (KhwÇnsÇr¥, Raw∂åt II, 304–6), however, includes no mention of this relationship where TunikÇbun¥’s entry (Qi‚a‚, 103) mentions he studied with al-Najaf¥ within four lines of its beginning. In Raw∂at’s entry on al-Qazv¥n¥ (KhwÇnsÇr¥, Raw∂åt I, 38–42) al-KhwÇnsÇr¥ mentions he met and later corresponded with al-Qazv¥n¥, but does not mention

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50 51

52

53 54

receiving an ijåza. TunikÇbun¥’s ﬁrst entry is on al-Qazv¥n¥ and includes a copy of the ijåza he received (KhwÇnsÇr¥, Raw∂åt I, 4–19). Comparison of the respective entries on al-Qazv¥n¥ corroborates Gleave’s suggestion (Gleave, ‘Biography and Hagiography’, 244) that TunukÇbun¥’s is the more full of vignettes and personal recollections. On al-Najaf¥, see also Litvak, Shi i Scholars, 64f. Dabashi (‘Lives’, 318–24) has translated portions of TunukÇbun¥’s entry on Sayyid IbrÇh¥m al-Qazv¥n¥. See J. Cole and M. Momen ‘Maﬁa, Mob and Shiism in Iraq: The Rebellion of Ottoman Karbala in 1824–1843’ Past and Present 112 (August, 1986) 112–43, esp. 130f.; Litvak, Shi i Scholars, 145. On the ‘Indian money’, which M¥r Sayyid Al¥ controlled, see Cole, ‘Indian Money’, 461–80, esp. 468–75; Litvak, Shi i Scholars, 61f., 64f.; Meir Litvak ‘A Failed Manipulation: The British. The Oudh Bequest and the Shii Ulama of Najaf and Karbala’ British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 27.1 (2000) 69–89. Litvak, Shi i Scholars, 32, 46f.; Amanat, ‘In Between’, 103–4. On al-An‚Çr¥, see, especially, J. R. Cole ‘Imami Jurisprudence and the Role of the Ulama: Mortaza Ansari on Emulating the Supreme Exemplar’ in N. Keddie (ed.) Religion and Politics in Iran (New Haven, 1983) 33–46. The Raw∂åt includes no entry on al-An‚Çr¥ and that of TanikÇbun¥’s Qi‚å‚ is but a paragraph (TunukÇbun¥, Qi‚a‚, 106–7). Ru∂∂Çt¥, D Guftår, 105–8; KitÇb¥, Rijål, 150, 162–7. On these networks see the works of Cole, Amanat and Litvak, cited above. Newman, The Formative Period and other works on Safawid-period scholars, listed above, point to such networks in other periods of Sh¥ ¥ history.

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9 HETERODOX INTELLECTUALS OF THE IRANIAN CONSTITUTIONAL REVOLUTION Sohrab Yazdani

The impact of Azal¥ intellectuals upon the Iranian Constitutional Revolution is a controversial issue. The surveys of Iranian historians, for the most part, remain silent on their actual inﬂuence upon the development of the Revolution. However, some recent studies have emphasized their role in radicalizing the constitutional movement and furnishing it with the idea of modernity. The present chapter proposes to evaluate the historical studies and the validity of such claims, by focusing on three major BÇb¥-Azal¥ texts. The aim is to assess the extent of their association with modern European social and political ideas and their possible inﬂuence upon the discourse of the constitutional era. The term ‘heterodox intellectuals’ refers to a group of political activists, preachers and journalists who were considered by their contemporaries to be Azal¥ sympathizers. The Azal¥s were the followers of a dissident sect whose origins are traced back to Babism. In short, a few years after the execution of Sayyid Muªammad Al¥ Sh¥rÇz¥, the BÇb, in 1850, his followers split into two main factions. The majority gathered around M¥rzÇ Óusayn Al¥ BahÇ allÇh, and came to be known as the BahÇ¥s. The minority that remained loyal to the original BÇb¥ doctrine, considered M¥rzÇ YaªyÇ Subª-i Azal as the legitimate successor to the BÇb. This group was usually referred to as the Azal¥s. It remained an extremely small group. According to estimates, from an Iranian population which amounted to 10 million, the Azal¥s were not more than two to four thousand.1 If we divide them according to their distribution in the country, age, sex and literacy, we discover that only a few could potentially participate in the revolutionary upheaval. Therefore, one may ask, what is the signiﬁcance of studying such a numerically negligible group at all? At least three answers can be given to that question. First, an essential conﬂict existed between Iranian socio-religious institutions and the dissidents. The Azal¥ intellectuals belonged to a weak 174

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stratum of society. Therefore, they tended to support a radical movement, which aimed to destroy the existing political order and introducing more tolerant social relations. Second, the intellectuals who were labelled as Azal¥s were also known as the most active revolutionary agitators who largely contributed to the dissemination of ideas such legality, liberty and progress among the urban masses. In this way, their inﬂuence on the course of the Revolution was much larger than their actual size. Finally, it is important to note that a new school of historiography has developed in recent years, especially in the wake of the Iranian 1979 Revolution, with the aim of producing a new version of the Constitutional Revolution. It considers the Azal¥ faith as furnishing a fertile ground for the growth of European modern ideas, be it liberalism or socialism, in Iran. Therefore, this school undertakes the task of revising the conventional history of the Constitution, which has paid no, or little, attention to the Azal¥s. Nikki Keddie and Mangol Bayat, who could be recognized as adherents to this school, have attempted to prove their points by examining BÇb¥ doctrine. Keddie believes that the BÇb suggested two ‘modern’ notions. First, there is the ‘Protestant’ one, which claims that the ulamå (Muslim clergy) and interpreters have misunderstood the original message of Muªammad.2 Second, ‘the idea of progress’ according to which mankind progresses in maturity and understanding and, therefore, is apt to receive a new message in accord with its level of maturity.3 Keddie argues that the BÇb brought space for new ideas, because he reopened the cycle of prophets and cast doubt on orthodoxy, and also because he tended to interpret the other-worldly elements of Islam in this-worldly terms.4 Bayat’s primary evaluation of the political aspect of BÇb¥ doctrine is not particularly positive. Babism, she argues, ‘by no means constituted a modern liberal movement with democratic ideas’.5 Bayat also recognizes the fact that notions of economic equality, or communal ownership of property, could not be found in the BÇb’s writings. The BÇb¥ leaders, however, proclaimed such commandments reported from the gathering of Badasht, and accordingly adopted such programmes during the subsequent revolts.6 Thereafter, Keddie and Bayat attempt to outline the main reasons for the transition which occurred among the Azal¥s, turning their attention from the religious to the political domain. Keddie argues that the rapid pace of both political and ideological change, arising from foreign pressure, convinced many intellectuals that their ﬁrst priority was to save the country. This conviction, more than anything else, could account for the procession from religious dispute to political ideology. The Azal¥ intellectuals, too, increasingly departed from the ‘Protestantism’ of Babism and adopted secular views. More relevant to this study, as Keddie says, they accepted nineteenth-century European ‘freethinking’. At the threshold of the Constitutional Revolution, they had succeeded in developing clear notions of political and economic reforms, far exceeding those of the BÇb.7 175

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According to Bayat, after the execution of the BÇb, a segment of his followers remained loyal to his doctrine, to the idea of an Iranian nationality, and also had an interest in socio-political issues, gathered around Subª-i Azal. They, like the BahÇ¥s, were increasingly inﬂuenced by modern European thought while in exile in the Ottoman Empire. They adopted some aspects of Western ideas and favoured Western-inspired social reforms.8 They, therefore, strongly supported the idea of a national political revolution in Iran, and not religious reform.9 As the above sketch suggests, both Keddie and Bayat try to construct their historical version on two bases: ﬁrst, an analysis of some BÇb¥ texts, and second, a study of the Azal¥s’ political development. More recent studies accept the validity of this version with no qualiﬁcation. Basing their theories on similar assumptions, they draw additional conclusions. Two examples can be cited. Sorour Soroudi, while introducing M¥rzÇ JahÇng¥r Sh¥rÇz¥, a cofounder of the weekly newspaper Ír-i Isråf¥l, asserts that his socio-political ideas had emanated from two sources: ﬁrst, his Azal¥ conviction which, according to Soroudi, contained certain socioeconomic convictions, and second, a socialist outlook which sprang from his afﬁliation with the small, but radical, underground Ijtimå iyyn-i åmmiyyn (‘Social Democrat Party’).10 Janet Afary believes that Iranian historians and intellectuals have displayed a prejudice against the Azal¥s and are reluctant to credit them with an important political and ideological impact upon the Constitutional Revolution.11 She argues that religious dissidents, especially Azal¥s, significantly inﬂuenced Iranian pre-revolutionary society. They held secular and modernist views, but camouﬂaged them, and along with other freethinkers created ‘a broad nationalist coalition with wide public appeal that called for limits on the authority of the Shah’.12 They continued the tactic of expressing their progressive ideas under the guise of traditional religious beliefs during the course of the Revolution.13 In spite of this tactic, they held speciﬁc socio-political views. According to Afary, the Azal¥ activists – such as Malik al-Mutakallim¥n, Sayyid JamÇl al-D¥n VÇiΩ and M¥rzÇ JahÇng¥r Sh¥rÇz¥ – supported radical economic and social change and, in this respect, they were indistinguishable from other socialists of the time.14 Afary sums up her views of the mainstream ideological trends of the revolutionary epoch: ‘The Constitutional Revolution was predominately inﬂuenced by three modern ideologies: Western liberalism, the BÇb¥ movement . . . and social democracy’.15 We may conclude at this point that the historiography of Keddie and Bayat has found a broader arena than its original version. The Azal¥ belief is not, as they had argued, a religious outlook which due to socio-political circumstances, came to adopt certain modern ideas. It is now considered a coherent ideology, modern and progressive in itself. It not only favoured a radical reformist movement in Iran, but also showed certain similarities with the main trends of European socialist thought. 176

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I do not intend to cast doubt on the validity of these claims. However, in my judgment, the historians who uphold such assumptions exhibit a fundamental methodological slip. They consider a number of constitutionalist intellectuals as Azal¥s, and also emphasize their revolutionary characteristics. These historians do not suggest that heterodox intellectuals broke with the Azal¥ faith and, thereafter, embraced modern European thought. They, instead, maintain that Azal¥ intellectuals were, at the same time, Azal¥, nationalist, freethinking and socialist. Such a claim cannot easily be refuted. Yet, the historian who propounds this hypothesis, should prove it through either, or both, of the following methods: (1) by producing sufﬁcient documents to prove the Azal¥ connection of heterodox intellectuals, or (2) by establishing a logical link between the religious Azal¥ thought and the secular ideas of nationalism, the Enlightenment and socialism. It seems to me that neither of these procedures is properly followed by the historians of the new school. The present chapter attempts to evaluate the validity of these historical theories by reading three major BÇb¥-Azal¥ texts, and then comparing their tenets with the ideas which the most famous heterodox intellectuals propagated during the Constitutional Revolution. The texts are the Bayån, Kitåb-i Nuq†at al-kåf and Hasht bihisht. The Persian Bayån is the main BÇb¥ holy book and the BÇb’s most important writing. It is, in the main, devoted to conﬁrming the legitimacy of the BÇb’s manifestation and that of the prophet who would subsequently succeed him. Its social aspects are negligible. Nevertheless, the Bayån contains a number of commandments, which can be said to be libertarian in ethos. It strictly forbids the killing of any human soul16; it prohibits the censorship of books and letters17; it permits, although in a very limited way, dialogue between men and women on religious subjects.18 The Bayån lays stress on the virtue of commercial activity. Therefore, it sanctions the current rate of interest,19 and allows BÇb¥s to travel only for three purposes: pilgrimage, nu‚rat-i nafs¥ (personal triumph) and commerce.20 The Bayån also permits the BÇb¥s to engage in transactions with the followers of other religions.21 Certain commandments of the book could be said to accord with basic precepts of the emergent nationalist discourse in Iran in the mid-nineteenth century. For instance, it tells us that the Bayt Allåh (the house of God) is in Shiraz, the birthplace of the BÇb, and that the ﬁrst day of Farvardin, i.e. the ﬁrst day of the Iranian New Year, is the yawm Allåh (God’s day).22 However, other commandments in the Bayån could be considered as antirational and in conﬂict with the exigencies of modern thought. Here, few examples can be cited. The Bayån forbids the BÇb¥s from learning any scientiﬁc discipline which does not accord with the precepts of the BÇb¥ faith.23 Those books which do not comply with the mainstream of the BÇb¥ faith must be destroyed.24 All the property of non-BÇb¥s is ªaråm (forbidden) to BÇb¥s, and they enjoy the right to expropriate the property of others.25 177

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The second text, Nuq†at al-kåf, compiled by ÓÇjj¥ M¥rzÇ JÇn¥ KÇshÇn¥, is a valuable ﬁrst-hand source of information on early BÇb¥ history, which culminated in the uprisings of 1848–53. During those revolts, the reformist mould of the BÇb¥ religious movement melted away and the new faith assumed certain socio-political features. It has been claimed by some historians that during the uprisings, redistribution of property, and even women, occurred among the rebellious BÇb¥s.26 Let us see how JÇn¥ describes those events. JÇn¥’s narrative of the early revolts is particularly relevant to our discussion since he, himself, a radical BÇb¥, supposedly supported radical socio-economic change in Iran. He renounced private property and welcomed the abolition of taxes.27 The main arguments of JÇn¥’s book, however, show no trace of any socio-economic radicalism. Nuq†at al-kåf is primarily an orthodox historiography, which narrates the life, passion and martyrdom of the BÇb, and BÇb¥ saints. The author conceives of the BÇb¥ uprisings as a religious jihåd (holy war), aimed at establishing a new social order in Iran, ruled by the BÇb¥ saints. One of his main aims is to purify the BÇb¥ movement from any stigma of ibåªa (‘removial of religious impositions’). JÇn¥ remains ambiguous on the events of the Badasht gathering. In Badasht, a village near Shahrd at the Khurasan border, a number of BÇb¥ leaders assembled in June 1848. It was at this meeting that some non-Islamic aspects of the new creed were revealed to common BÇb¥s. Islam was declared abrogated and the QurÇn invalid. The BÇb was announced as the new prophet. Two of the BÇb¥ leaders, Qurrat al-Ayn, a young intelligent woman from a family of AkhbÇr¥ mujtahids, and MullÇ Muªammad Al¥ BÇrfursh¥, exercised extensive inﬂuence upon the conference. They both held radical views, and their non-conventional acts and speeches went beyond the limits of their religious milieu. Their behaviour gave opposing forces material with which to portray the gathering as a sinful festival of inﬁdels.28 JÇn¥ refrains from passing any judgment on those leaders or other related subjects. Although he makes his stance clear by stating that within the camp of MullÇ Óusayn Bushr¥, another BÇb¥ leader, ‘nothing similar to Badasht became common. On the contrary, he [Bushr¥] announced: “I shall sentence the Badasht¥s to ªadd (ﬂogging)”’.29 The author touches upon the question of property ownership in relation to his religious outlook. For instance, he cites Bushr¥’s words to the rebellious BÇb¥s: ‘O my companions . . . there is no way for us but martyrdom. Anyone who has joined us with worldly greed, should leave before falling in the trap’.30 In other words, the aim of jihåd was martyrdom, not earthly gains. During the BÇb¥ revolt in the Shaykh ˝abars¥ fort, Bushr¥ gathered his followers’ properties together and announced: ‘All your properties are but one’. JÇn¥ paraphrases Bushr¥’s declaration in this manner: ‘He meant that the property was mulk Allåh (“God’s property”), and jåmian alå ªadd sawå (“all equally”) should beneﬁt from it in order to forget their 178

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differences and discord. From then on, the BÇb¥s circled around and ate together’.31 Thereafter, JÇn¥ concludes: ‘Poverty and grief evaporated from their midst.’32 Yet, in spite of adopting such measures, an egalitarian society did not emerge in the Shaykh ˝abars¥ fort. It remained a hierarchical, elitist society. The BÇb¥ leaders, and probably their close associates, lived in more comfortable conditions than the common BÇb¥s. MullÇ Muªammad Al¥ BÇrfursh¥, who was one of the two leaders of the revolt and its sole leader after the death of Bushr¥, allocated to himself all the precious commodities, clothes and horses. JÇn¥ considers BÇrfursh¥’s practice as a sign of God’s victory.33 He nowhere lays stress on the egalitarian aspect of the BÇb¥ revolts. On some occasions, he even neglects these aspects of early BÇb¥ history. For example, we learn from other sources that during the ZanjÇn uprising, MullÇ Muªammad Al¥ ZanjÇn¥ ordered the BÇb¥s to consider themselves as one family and as the members of one household. They had to divide between themselves everything, ‘from food to clothing’.34 But Nuq†at al-kåf does not refer to such an occurrence while recounting the ZanjÇn uprising. In fact, JÇn¥ asserts that all the earthly possessions belong to the BÇb. All men are his servants, all women his maids. The BÇb gives to anyone he wishes, and receives from whomever he wants. Like a master, he even has the power to change wives and husbands.35 Therefore, as Momen correctly observes,36 the community of property took place under extreme hardship inﬂicted upon the BÇb¥s and cannot be conceived as normal policy. The outlook and aims of common BÇb¥s during the revolts are not clear to us. Some contemporary European observers considered them as a group imbued with extremist ideologies, such as ‘socialism and communism’ or ‘the ideas of Mazdakite dervishes’, whose main aim was to abolish private ownership and redistribute wealth.37 These claims cannot be accepted with certainty. Even if such ideas existed among the early BÇb¥s, they did not ﬁnd their way into JÇn¥’s historical narrative. He did not, then, pass on the idea of communal property, or the redistribution of wealth, to the next generation of the BÇb¥s. Lastly, we turn to Hasht bihisht, a book which attempts to construct an exhaustive philosophy of the BÇb¥ religion. The exact identity of its author remains uncertain. M¥rzÇ ÅqÇ KhÇn K¥rmÇn¥ and Shaykh Aªmad Rª¥ are both named in this connection.38 Although Hasht bihisht emphasizes the universalistic nature of the BÇb¥ religion, it nevertheless gloriﬁes the Iranian national identity. For example, it considers the BÇb the same as ShÇh Bahram D¥n-awÇr, who according to the prophecy of Iranian wisemen was expected to appear in Fars, the birthplace of the BÇb, and revive the religion of Iranians’ ancestors.39 Or, it asserts that along with native tongues, Farsi, mixed with Arabic words, should become the universal language, because it is the language of heaven.40 179

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The author is concerned with certain ‘modern’ notions. He pays attention to the concept of freedom. He believes that freedom is rooted in human rights and does not allow anybody to intervene in another persons’ affairs. He maintains that freedom of ideas and behaviour are the prerequisites for the spread of the real belief, law and justice. However, in his view, freedom is not a secular or unlimited concept. It is equivalent to ‘paving the road to God’, rather than permission to perform forbidden acts or to cast doubt on religious certainty.41 The author is also concerned with the question of the formation of the state in society. This section deserves attention, because it has obviously been written under the inﬂuence of modern European thought. Hasht bihisht tells us that human societies pass through the stages of savagery, tribalism and agriculture. The development of civilization necessitates the establishment of law, government and culture. The state is brought into existence in order to comply with those demands. The author pays attention to the principle of the balance. He observes that, in the new style of government, a unique set of law rules over all the subjects; the government watches over laws, while the nation controls the government. According to him, this is the most advanced form of political rule and can only be found in Europe.42 The author, it appears, borrows his mode of analysis from the ideas of ‘social contract’ philosophers. Hasht bihisht categorizes different types of government. The legitimacy of despotic rule is rejected, because it leads to lawlessness, making the people humble and mean, and depriving them of their human rights. This type of government is bound to be toppled, either by foreign invasion or revolution. A republican form of government is likewise unacceptable. The reason being that it changes the balance of power in favour of the people and, therefore, inhibits the establishment of real justice. The republic eventually leads to the moral corruption of the people and to the break-up of society.43 Finally, the author introduces his ideal type of the government: political rule should be vested in those ‘who are endowed with aql-i dhåt¥ (innate wisdom), and who own nr-i mustakf¥ (complete light), rª-i ilåhiyya (Holy Spirit) and quvvå -yi qudsiyya (celestial power). They are immune from wrong doing, error, carelessness, oblivion or blunder’. They ‘combine quvvå -yi nubuvvat (prophetical power) with quvvå -yi ªikmat (philosophical power)’, and they ‘possess vilåyat-i mu†laq-i kulliyya (total guardianship on general affairs)’.44 Yet, this government does not establish an unlimited tyrannical rule. In this political system, the government and the nation balance each other; the ruler is ma‚m (immaculate) and issues commandments in accordance with his rights. He grants to ashkhå‚i mujarrab al-a†råf (the experts) and to a kungarå-yi kinkåsh (consultative assembly) the power to run the aªkåm-i khu‚‚¥-yi juziyya (the private domains) of the people.45 180

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The author raises the question of women, a subject which was rarely touched upon at that time. He considers women equal to men in legal and political rights, education and inheritance. He says that the unveiling of women should become obligatory.46 Later on, however, it becomes apparent that he does not extend the meaning of equality to include all the aspects of social life. He, following the commandments of the Bayån, embarks on a lengthy exposition to prove that women should not go on a pilgrimage, and they should trade only at nights.47 Moreover, he explicitly defends men’s right of polygamy.48 How does Hasht bihisht appraise European civilization? The author admires European industrial development and foresees its extensive technical achievements in the future. At the same time, he is extremely sceptical of European governments, society and social relations, which, according to him, are militaristic and aggressive in nature. He says that oppression, indecency, brutality and meanness are dominant in Europe.49 The philosophers – namely, Voltaire and Rousseau – are particular targets of his criticism, for they led the people to sacrilegious belief and sowed the seeds of sedition in society. He accuses the philosophers of committing the crime of ‘uprooting’ from the peoples’ minds the love of nation, humanism and obedience to the kings’ rules. They instead invited the common people to cry out for ‘freedom, independence, equal rights, ibåªa and ishtiråk (common living)’.50 The author also attacks ‘the Nihilists, Freemasons, Socialists, Radicals and Anarchists, who threw French society into turmoil and revolution’.51 He concludes that all egalitarian movements have been the main cause of society’s destruction. He pays particular attention to the collapse of the Sassanids, whose downfall, he claims, was due to the emergence of the Mazdakites, a movement, which, like a ‘fatal disease’, led Iranians to corruption and distress, and eventually annihilated ‘that great nation’.52 While the author views the philosophers as dangerous, and considers libertarian and egalitarian movements as a disease, he praises commercial activity. According to him, commerce attains such an importance in the BÇb¥ religion that ‘every explicit commandment or severe prohibition is changed when faced the exigencies of commerce’. Hasht bihisht cites a few verses from the Bayån, concluding that they suggest the ‘holiness’ of commerce.53 At this point we are familiar with certain aspects of BÇb¥-Azal¥ thought. We may now turn to the heterodox intellectuals of the Constitutional Revolution. Different sources name some of these intellectuals as Azal¥s, the most famous of them being Óajj M¥rzÇ YaªyÇ DawlatÇbÇd¥, Malik al-Mutakallim¥n, Sayyid JamÇl VÇiΩ I‚fahÇn¥ and M¥rzÇ JahÇng¥r Sh¥rÇz¥. There is some evidence which indicates DawlatÇbÇd¥’s Azal¥ background. Kasrav¥ tells us that DawlatÇbÇd¥’s father, M¥rzÇ HÇd¥, was Subª-i Azal’s representative and the leader of the Azal¥ community in Iran.54 There is also a passage in the letter, which was sent to E. G. Browne after the 181

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death of Subª-i Azal. The passage refers to M¥rzÇ YaªyÇ DawlatÇbÇd¥ as a possible successor to Subª-i Azal.55 These pieces of evidence have led some historians to name DawlatÇbÇd¥ as the heir to Subª-i Azal, though he died prematurely.56 When we turn to DawlatÇbÇd¥’s autobiography, Óayåt-i Yaªyå (The Life of YaªyÇ), we can discern the author’s sociopolitical ideas. The book portrays him as a secular nationalist who is strongly inﬂuenced by modern European thought. DawlatÇbÇd¥ is severely critical of the ulamå . His criticism applies to almost all the echelons of the ulamå , from the marja-i taql¥d (leading mujtahid), to those who practise law, down to the common preachers. He says that they are either motivated by personal ambition and material gain, or are illiterate and superstitious.57 With this sceptical view, DawlatÇbÇd¥ describes the course of the Constitutional Revolution. He states that the ulamå who supported Ayn al-Dawla were those who had beneﬁted from proﬁtable positions during his premiership. Yet, another section of the ulamå who were close to the deposed premier, Am¥n al-Sul†Çn, joined the movement against Ayn alDawla, the movement which led to the public demand for the establishment of a constitutional monarchy in Iran.58 The author maintains that there was no essential difference between the anti-constitutionalist Shaykh Fa∂l AllÇh Nr¥ and the constitutionalist Sayyid Abd AllÇh BihbihÇn¥.59 The latter was remarkably lavish and lived like his protector, Am¥n al-Sul†Çn, who was notorious for his excessive way of life.60 Sayyid Muªammad ˝abÇ†abÇ¥, another leading constitutionalist mujtahid, was an exceptional personality among the ulamå , since he openly favoured liberal ideas.61 But even ˝abÇ†abÇ¥ did not refrain from collecting madåkhil (material earnings), as long as they did not come from illicit sources.62 Yet DawlatÇbÇd¥’s criticism of the ulamå goes deeper than personal attacks. He characterizes the ulamå as a social group opposed to modern civilization. He recounts his own bitter experience in the pre-constitution era, when he encountered the ulamå ’s opposition to his attempt to establish new schools in the country.63 During the constitutional period, the ulamå did their best to bar the election of modernist intellectuals to the majlis (legislative assembly), because these elements, although they might have been real Muslims, did not obey the ulamå , and had no belief in superstitions.64 The ulamå did not whole-heartedly support the constitutional government, since the functioning of a legislative body would not only conﬁne the authority of the Shah and the cabinet, but also would reduce the ulamå ’s hitherto unlimited social inﬂuence.65 DawlatÇbÇd¥ reaches the conclusion that freedom-loving intellectuals should only co-operate with the ulamå up to a certain point, in order to advance their own socio-political aims.66 As can be deduced from Óayåt-i Yaªyå, DawlatÇbÇd¥ was inclined to work closely with the radical wing of the constitutionalists, particularly during the turbulent days of the ﬁrst majlis.67 However, he was not a 182

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revolutionary thinker. He remained, more than anything else, a prototype reformist intellectual of the time. His objective was to lead Iranian society to the new world and modern civilization that was established in Europe.68 He believed that only those who were inspired by European progress could introduce new sciences to Iranian society and instigate its further development.69 Europe, according to him, was the source of light, while countries like Iran were the abode of darkness and backwardness. He says that Iranian intellectuals had noticed the light from afar and wished to open a window towards it.70 DawlatÇbÇd¥ devoted his life to setting up new European-type schools and propagating modernism. At the political level, he struggled to establish a constitutional regime in Iran. His autobiography illuminates all those points. However, it is not out of line with the mainstream intellectual trends of the time, and cannot automatically be attributed to an Azal¥ outlook. Sayyid JamÇl VÇiΩ I‚fahÇn¥ and M¥rzÇ Na‚r AllÇh Bihisht¥ Malik alMutakallim¥n were both common preachers and immensely popular among lay people. They broke with traditional modes of preaching and spoke to the commoners in simple language. In this way, the two preachers extensively contributed to the dissemination of constitutionalist ideas and the concepts of human rights, patriotism, equality and socio-economic reforms among the illiterate. Sayyid JamÇl and Malik al-Mutakallim¥n also compiled a pamphlet together, entitled Ruyå-yi ‚ad¥q¥ (‘A Truthful Dream’), a few years before the revolution. In the pamphlet, they describe judgment day, when some of Isfahan’s mujtahids and government ofﬁcials are called to account for their behaviour. Through this ﬁctional story, the authors strongly criticize Iranian despotism and the ulamå who are materialistically oriented. The story shows that both groups oppress the people, spread ignorance and poverty and inhibit social progress. However, it becomes clear that the authors hold the ulamå mainly responsible for the existing state of affairs. The story is meant to prove that some inﬂuential ulamå are corrupt and ignorant; they distort Islamic law and principles, and oppose any reformist measure.71 Therefore, not surprisingly, the majority of those who are doomed to be punished in the depth of hell are from the different strata of the ulamå .72 During the days of the revolution, the two preachers obviously could not attack the clerical establishment so explicitly. They, instead, more often discussed political matters in their sermons. Regrettably, most of Malik al-Mutakallim¥n’s speeches are not properly recorded.73 Yet we have access to Sayyid JamÇl’s main speeches, which to some extent illuminate his ideas.74 He departs from the traditional method of preaching and adopts a model which suits his object of politicizing the ‘common folk’. Nevertheless, he wavers between two different worldviews. On the one hand, he wants to preserve the respectability of his profession. 183

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Therefore, he constructs his arguments within an Islamic-Quranic framework. On the other hand, he attempts to acquaint his audience with modern concepts. Sayyid JamÇl argues that the welfare of the country, as well as eternal deliverance, is based on four pillars, namely: equality, security, freedom and imtiyåz-i fa∂l¥ (privilege according to competence).75 He wraps these concepts in an Islamic garb. Thus, according to him, equality means enforcing ªudd-i khudå (‘God’s prescribed penalties’) equally on all,76 which is tantamount to the meaning of adl (justice).77 He says that the concept of freedom covers the spheres of personal life, speech, writing, voting, electing representatives and setting up associations.78 But these, too, are interpreted according to the Islamic commandments. Therefore, freedom of speech is nothing but amr bi-marf va nahy az munkar (‘the command to enjoin good and prohibit evil’).79 Sayyid JamÇl, however, applies that commandment to political matters, saying that anyone who oppresses the people should be openly condemned, whether he is a military commander or a minister or a prince.80 Sayyid JamÇl also preached against religious fanaticism and invited his fellow-countrymen to show more tolerance toward ethno-religious minorities such as the Jews, Armenians and Zoroastrians.81 In certain aspects, Sayyid JamÇl crosses the boundaries of religious orthodoxy and appears as a secular freethinker. He, similar to many Iranian nationalists of the time, displays a great affection for the Zoroastrians and calls them ‘the true Iranians’.82 More importantly, he states that all humans, irrespective of their social status or religious beliefs, enjoy human rights.83 In another speech, he refers to men’s right of polygamy with disgust.84 Sayyid JamÇl argues in a similar vein when referring to European civilization. He admires Europe for its material achievements and tells his audience that Europeans have reached the highest degree of perfection in almost all the aspects of their socio-economic life.85 He declares (though it would appear only tactically) that Iranian constitutionalists do not intend to run the country on the basis of European laws, since the world’s best laws are available in the QurÇn. However, as he says, there are certain things that should be learned from the Europeans. These include the adoption of different ministries and the taxation system, because these institutions are organized in European countries for the purpose of preventing discrimination.86 Therefore, to him, Europe constitutes the most suitable pattern of socio-political development. For this reason, Sayyid JamÇl encourages Iranians to send their children to the ‘new schools’ in order to learn modern sciences.87 Another point which deserves attention is the nature of Sayyid JamÇl’s egalitarian views. We know from different sources that he was connected to the small underground Ijtimå iyyn-i åmmiyyån (the Social Democrat Party).88 Although purely socialist views do not appear in Sayyid JamÇl’s 184

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sermons, one can detect his sympathy with the oppressed segments of society. He attacks the system of tuyl (ﬁef) landholding, because it deprives the peasant from all the rights of ownership, even over his own life and family.89 Sayyid JamÇl condemns the polarization of Iranian society in which the rich live in afﬂuence and pleasure, while the poor live in distress and agony. As he says, this deplorable condition is maintained only by means of oppression.90 M¥rzÇ JahÇng¥r Sh¥rÇz¥ was probably the most ‘typical’ heterodox intellectual of the constitution period. The burden of publishing the radical weekly newspaper Ír-i Isråf¥l fell mainly upon him. It is not clear which articles were written by M¥rzÇ JahÇng¥r. Nevertheless, it is possible to say that Ír-i Isråf¥l propagated a relatively unanimous programme, and that it was the joint product of the editors. Therefore, it is possible to assess M¥rzÇ JahÇng¥r’s thought by analyzing the newspaper’s main articles. Ír-i Isråf¥l was strongly inﬂuenced by the European Enlightenment, democratic thought and socialism. However, it never hesitated to emphasize its obedience to ‘Islamic commands’. The newspaper drew a distinction between two contradictory types of interpreting Islamic commands: a distorted one which was forged by the ulamå-yi s (corrupt clerics); and a progressive kind which furnished a source of education and improvement for mankind, without inhibiting them from moving towards the zenith of perfection.91 Yet, as the Constitutional Revolution progressed, it became increasingly difﬁcult to maintain the distinction between these two interpretations. A few examples demonstrate this point. In an article entitled ‘uhr-i jad¥d’ (‘the new revelation’), the newspaper criticized Iranian social culture with the following words: ‘It is only in Iran that a Nuq†a-yi lå [“the highest point” – a reference to the BÇb], Jamål-i qidam [a reference to BahÇ allÇh], Subª-i azal and Rukn-i råbi [“the fourth pillar”, a reference the Shaykh Aªmad al-AhsÇ¥] can emerge, and a new prophet, a new imam or a new God are produced every hour.’92 In another article, the newspaper ridicules old-fashioned and anti-scientiﬁc thought: scientiﬁc facts are eternally and invariably established. Our imagination or wishful thinking does not alter the scientiﬁc knowledge.93 ‘Editorial 12’ articulates two concepts: human progress and human liberty. The author considers there to be no barrier on the road to human perfection, and this unlimited progress could be realized only if mankind is liberated from all kinds of social servitude and its freedom is guaranteed.94 The emphasis on egalitarian ideas can also be observed in many reports and articles in Ír-i Isråf¥l. The newspaper, in its ﬁrst issue, announced its aim to be ‘the support of the peasants, the defenceless, poor and oppressed people’.95 An extended article, which appears in Ír-i Isråf¥l, Nos. 17–30, attempts to analyse the agrarian question in Iran. Al¥ Akbar DihkhudÇ, the paper’s chief-editor, is usually credited with this article. However, such an attribution cannot be established with certainty. In fact, the signature A.A.D. (an abbreviation for Al¥ Akbar DihkhudÇ) appears 185

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only in three parts of the article. Even if we give total credit to DihkhudÇ for writing the article, it would not be wrong to assume that the central idea of the article was shared by both DihkhudÇ and M¥rzÇ JahÇng¥r, as they both exercised editorial control over the paper. The article considers Iranian landownership as feudal in nature, and holds it responsible for the backwardness of the country. The author asserts that as long as this mode of agriculture controls the economy, and a narrow stratum of society own land while the great majority of the people are raiyyat (dependent cultivators), it will be impossible to establish a constitutional regime in Iran, or to consolidate the various types of freedoms in the country.96 The author concludes that the best remedy for Iranian society is the redistribution of land among the labouring peasants.97 Ír-i Isråf¥l is rare among constitutionalist sources, in that it touches upon the agrarian question in Iran and propounds the idea of land redistribution. The article, however, goes beyond that proposal. It criticizes European civilization from an egalitarian perspective. That civilization, the article maintains, has developed on the premises of political freedom and intellectual tolerance, yet, it has led to the domination of the rich and tutelage of the poor.98 An unprecedented degree of wealth and political power is accumulated at one end of society, while the poor and deprived live at the other end. This condition is ‘the cause of all the world’s defects and desolation’.99 The author argues that poverty is a phenomenon which contradicts the logic of creation. His declared aim is to demolish this state of affairs and re-establish the rightful order of the world. According to the article, the new order should be established on socialist principles. Iranians, for two basic reasons, are able to reach that goal before others: ﬁrst, Islam conforms to the tenets of socialism more than any religion; second, there are very few capitalists in Iran and, therefore, capitalism is weak in the country. If Iranian society reaches the advanced stage of capitalism, enormous capital will be concentrated in a few hands, and the Iranians will lose this historic opportunity.100 The article ﬁnally states its central thesis: before capitalism ﬁnds the opportunity to grow in Iran, it should be circumvented. The editors of Ír-i Isråf¥l considered land redistribution among the toiling peasants as essential, for through such a programme the development of capitalism in Iran can be halted. This, then, is taken to mean that Iran could bypass capitalism and establish its own socialist system.101 At this point, we are familiar with the two sets of ideas. One set is found in the BÇb¥-Azal¥ texts; the other was produced by a number of constitutionalist intellectuals who are considered Azal¥s. The three texts, which combine the ﬁrst set, exhibit some internal dissimilarity. The Bayån is a book composed in an ascetic mystical language, which makes the real meaning of the book obscure. Nuq†at al-kåf is a historical piece of work, which possibly imitates the narrative method of the New Testament gospels. Hasht bihisht certainly shows a more modernist outlook than the 186

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other two. It employs new scientiﬁc knowledge and modern philosophical views in order to strengthen its reasoning. All these three texts, however, are primarily religious texts. They touch upon socio-economic topics only marginally. Their objective is not the establishment of social equality and they do not address the central economic issue of Iranian society (i.e. the system of landholding, and the social relations which emanated from it). They do not provide any precept for the improvement of the status of the Iranian peasantry, or any other oppressed and inferior section of society. They certainly pay attention to the condition of women, but they do not consider women equal to men. They encourage the learning of new sciences, provided these comply with the content of the Bayån. They, explicitly or implicitly, condemn the ideas of the Enlightenment or any element of freethinking. The religious outlook dominates these texts. Their logic is constructed on the belief in divine revelation. Therefore, any sign of disobedience to religious commandments, or even questioning their validity, is considered as blasphemy and apostasy. The killing of blasphemers is sanctioned and the expropriation of their property permitted. Concepts of freedom and justice are explained in religious terms and accepted within this framework. The ideal type of government is only conceived to be the religious rule of the BÇb¥-Azal¥ saints. The second set of ideas, directly or indirectly, stems from modern European thought. It recognizes the human being as an entity in itself, bequeathed with natural rights and unlimited freedom, restricted only by human rights of others. It asserts that human society is in a process of permanent progress, and it recommends learning modern sciences, for they are necessary for the liberation of mankind. Such thinkers did not consider any branch of the sciences forbidden. This outlook recognizes the secular nation-state, formed on the basis of the people’s rights and their will, as the only legitimate government. It does not tolerate social inequality and aims at establishing a new society, which can provide equality and justice for its citizens, a society that the newspaper Ír-i Isråf¥l declares to have socialist characteristics. If we compare these two sets of ideas, a question inevitably arises: What were the elements, inherent in the ﬁrst set, which could have possibly nourished the intellectual development of the second set? We know that there was no commandment in the BÇb¥-Azal¥ texts sanctioning communal property or recommending redistribution of wealth. We also know that socio-economic demands did not explicitly arise in the BÇb¥ revolts. Therefore, how can a historian of the Constitutional Revolution assert with certainty that M¥rzÇ JahÇng¥r’s socialist thought or Sayyid JamÇl’s egalitarian views had deep roots in their Azal¥ belief? Or how can anybody indisputably establish a direct link between the Azal¥ belief in the kingdom of saints and the idea of democratic constitutionalism, so vehemently cherished by heterodox intellectuals? 187

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We cannot provide satisfactory answers to these questions, because a religious creed is a complex phenomenon and subject to various, and occasionally contradictory, interpretations. Nevertheless, the argument, which has developed in this chapter, suggests that the BÇb¥-Azal¥ texts are fundamentally different from the socio-political views contained in the discourse of the heterodox texts. They relate to two entirely different worldviews. Moreover, the BÇb¥-Azal¥ texts do not supply sufﬁcient material to transform a group of intellectuals from a religious to a modern, secular and egalitarian understanding of the world. If this assertion is taken as valid, then how are we going to explain the ideological inclination of heterodox intellectuals during the constitutional period? The following points can form a tentative conclusion: 1

With the notable exception of YaªyÇ DawlatÇbÇd¥, there is no evidence that other heterodox intellectuals were in fact Azal¥s. Historians who emphasize the Azal¥ origin of that group, have so far based their judgment on anti-constitutionalist rumours which developed during the early period of the constitution, and not on ﬁrm historical evidence. If we assume, for the sake of the argument, that some intellectuals like DawlatÇbÇd¥ were indeed Azal¥s because they were brought up in Azal¥ families, a careful consideration of their discourse suggests that they may have in fact left their faith rather quickly. They, most probably, broke with the Azal¥ faith and, instead, accepted the ideas of the Enlightenment, modernism and socialism. This can be proven in the case of M¥rzÇ JahÇng¥r and Sayyid JamÇl in particular. When they reached this point, they can no longer be considered Azal¥s. They became freethinking intellectuals whose general socio-political views did not substantially differ from those of other Iranian intellectuals who had embraced modern ideas. While their religious beliefs cannot be characterized with any certainty, there seems to be no reason to consider the Azal¥ faith as a methodological substitute for evaluating the intellectual formation of the Constitutional Revolution in Iran. Laying stress on their Azal¥ background only adds confusion to the existing difﬁculty which has inhibited us from developing a comprehensive analysis of the period.

2

3

Notes 1

2 3

The estimation of the Iranian population is made by J. Bharier ‘The Growth of Towns and Villages in Iran, 1900–66’ MES 8.1 (Jan. 1972) 55, Table 3. For an estimation of the number of Azal¥s see J. R. I. Cole ‘Iranian Millenarianism and Democratic Thought in the Nineteenth Century’ IJMES 24.1 (Feb. 1992) 2. N. R. Keddie ‘Religion and Irreligioun in Early Iranian Nationalism’ Comparative Studies in Society and History 4 (1962) 271. Keddie, ‘Religion’, 271–2.

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4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26

27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44

Keddie, ‘Religion’, 272. M. Bayat Iran’s First Revolution, Shiism and the Constitutional Revolution of 1905–1909 (New York and Oxford, 1991) 53. M. Bayat Mysticism and Dissent: Socioreligious Thought in Qajar Iran (Syracuse, 1982) 116. Keddie, ‘Religion’, 272–4. Bayat, Mysticism, 130–1. Bayat, Iran, 54. S. Sorudi ‘Sur-e Esraﬁl, 1907–08: Social and Political Ideology’ MES 24 (Apr. 1988) 231. J. Afary The Iranian Constitutional Revolution, 1906–1911 (New York, 1996) 44–5. Afary, Iranian Constitutional Revolution, 4. Afary, Iranian Constitutional Revolution, 23. Afary, Iranian Constitutional Revolution, 76. J. Afary ‘Steering between Scylla and Charybdis: Shifting Gender Roles in Twentieth Century Iran’ NWSA Journal 8.1 (Spring 1996) 30. The BÇb Bayån-i Fårs¥ (Tehran, n.d.) 117–18. The BÇb, Bayån, 237. The BÇb, Bayån, 291. The BÇb, Bayån, 181. The BÇb, Bayån, 234. The BÇb, Bayån, 263. The BÇb, Bayån, 141–2, 228–9. The BÇb, Bayån, 130. The BÇb, Bayån, 199. The BÇb, Bayån, 157. M. T. LisÇn al-Mulk Sipihr Nåsikh al-tavår¥kh, 4 vols (Tehran, 1353sh) III, 239, 286–7; M¥rzÇ Mahd¥ KhÇn Za¥m al-Dawla Miftaª-i båb al-abvåb yå tar¥kh-i Båb va Bahå (Shaykh Óasan Far¥d-i GulpÇygÇn¥ (trans.); third edition: Tehran, 1328sh/1968) 118–19 (originally published in Arabic in Cairo in 1321/1903–4). M. Momen ‘The Social Basis of the BÇb¥ Upheaval in Iran (1848–53): A Preliminary Analysis’ JMES 15. 2 (May 1983) 180. Sipihr, Nåsikh III, 239; Za¥m al-Dawla, Miftaª, 118–19. JÇn¥ KÇshÇn¥ Kitåb-i nuq†at al-kåf (Leiden, 1910) 154. KÇshÇn¥, Nuq†at al-kåf, 155. KÇshÇn¥, Nuq†at al-kåf, 159. KÇshÇn¥, Nuq†at al-kåf, 160. KÇshÇn¥, Nuq†at al-kåf, 177. E. G. Browne ‘Personal Reminiscences of the BÇb¥ Insurrection at Zanjan in 1850’ Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society 29 (1897) 793. KÇshÇn¥, Nuq†at al-kåf, 150–2. Momen, ‘Social Basis of the BÇb¥ Upheaval’, 178. H. NÇ†iq Kårnåmih va zamån¥-yi M¥rza Ri∂å Kirmån¥ (Bonn, 1363sh and Paris, 1375sh) 57. E. G. Browne, ‘Introduction’, in Jani, Nuq†at al-kåf, lat, n.4; F. Ådamiyyat And¥shihhå-yi M¥rza Åqå Khån Kirmån¥ (Tehran, 1346sh) 134. Anon. Hasht bihisht (n.p., n.d.) 248. Anon., Hasht bihisht, 140. Anon., Hasht bihisht, 69. Anon., Hasht bihisht, 129–30. Anon., Hasht bihisht, 161–3. Anon., Hasht bihisht, 153, 163, 166.

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45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73

74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90

Anon., Hasht bihisht, 163–4. Anon., Hasht bihisht, 122. Anon., Hasht bihisht, 122. Anon., Hasht bihisht, 188. Anon., Hasht bihisht, 128, 146–7, 168, 171. Anon., Hasht bihisht, 150–1. Anon., Hasht bihisht, 151. Anon., Hasht bihisht, 148. Anon., Hasht bihisht, 191–2. A. Kasrav¥ Bahå igår¥ (Tehran, n.d.) 62. E. G. Brown Materials for the Study of the Båb¥ Religion (Cambridge, 1961) 312. Bayat, Mysticism, 180. Y. DawlatÇbÇd¥ Óayåt-i Yaªyå, 4 vols (Tehran, 1361sh) I, 25–7, 51, 54. DawlatÇbÇd¥, Óayåt II, 3. DawlatÇbÇd¥, Óayåt II, 184–5. DawlatÇbÇd¥, Óayåt II, 220. DawlatÇbÇd¥, Óayåt II, 9. DawlatÇbÇd¥, Óayåt II, 221. DawlatÇbÇd¥, Óayåt II, 19. DawlatÇbÇd¥, Óayåt II, 86. DawlatÇbÇd¥, Óayåt II, 82. DawlatÇbÇd¥, Óayåt II, 47. DawlatÇbÇd¥, Óayåt II, 156. DawlatÇbÇd¥, Óayåt I, 105. DawlatÇbÇd¥, Óayåt I, 57. DawlatÇbÇd¥, Óayåt I, 178. Sayyid JamÇl al-D¥n VÇiΩ I‚fahÇn¥ Ruyå-yi ‚ådiqi (Tehran, 1363sh) 29, 32–3, 34. Sayyid JamÇl, Ruyå, 44. Some of Malik al-Mutakallim¥n’s speeches are reproduced in M. MÇlikzÇdih Zindigån¥-yi Malik al-Mutakallimån (Tehran, 1325sh) and Tar¥kh-i Inqilåb-i Mashru†iyyat-i Ûrån, 7 vols (Tehran, 1363sh). However, MÇlikzÇdih arbitrarily distorts the speeches and by doing so, makes his own books unreliable. A relatively comprehensive collection of Sayyid JamÇl’s sermons can be found in I. YaghmÇ¥ Shah¥d-i råh-i åzåd¥ Sayyid Jamål Vå iΩ iI‚fahån¥ (Tehran, 1357sh). YaghmÇ¥, Shah¥d, 98–9. YaghmÇ¥, Shah¥d, 99, 103. YaghmÇ¥, Shah¥d, 104. YaghmÇ¥, Shah¥d, 130–1. YaghmÇ¥, Shah¥d, 134–5. YaghmÇ¥, Shah¥d, 138. YaghmÇ¥, Shah¥d, 142, 215, 235. YaghmÇ¥, Shah¥d, 193. YaghmÇ¥, Shah¥d, 163. YaghmÇ¥, Shah¥d, 272. YaghmÇ¥, Shah¥d, 101. YaghmÇ¥, Shah¥d, 102. YaghmÇ¥, Shah¥d, 116–17, 245. Anon. (A. Iqbal) ‘QÇtil-i Óaq¥q¥-yi M¥rza Al¥ A‚ghar KhÇn AtÇbÇk’ Yådigår 3.4 (Azar 1325sh) 40. YaghmÇ¥, Shah¥d, 113–14. YaghmÇ¥, Shah¥d, 254.

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Anon., ‘AfsÇnih-yi khabrubÇ yÇ dastÇn-i b¥-a‚l’ Ír-i Isråf¥l 1.5 (15 JumÇdÇ al-lÇ 1325AH) 4. 92 Anon., ‘uhr-i jad¥d’ Ír-i Isråf¥l, 1.4 (8 JumÇdÇ al-lÇ 1325AH) 6–7. 93 Anon., Ír-i Isråf¥l, 1.7–8 (21 JumÇdÇ al-Çkhira 1325AH) 1. 94 Anon., Ír-i Isråf¥l, 1.12 (26 Rajab 1325AH) 1–2. 95 Anon., Ír-i Isråf¥l, 1.1 (17 Rab¥ al-Çkhar 1325AH) 1. 96 Anon., Ír-i Isråf¥l, 1.18 (21 ShavvÇl 1325AH) 1. 97 Anon., Ír-i Isråf¥l, 1.18 (21 ShavvÇl 1325AH) 2. 98 Anon., Ír-i Isråf¥l, 1.29 (12 Rab¥ al-Çkhar 1326AH) 2. 99 Anon., Ír-i Isråf¥l, 1.29 (12 Rab¥ al-Çkhar 1326AH) 2. 100 Anon., Ír-i Isråf¥l, 1.29 (12 Rab¥ al-Çkhar 1326AH) 2. 101 Anon., Ír-i Isråf¥l, 1.29 (12 Rab¥ al-Çkhar 1326AH) 2. 91

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Part III SOURCES FOR THE STUDY OF POPULAR RELIGION IN QAJAR IRAN

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10 RELIGION IN PUBLIC AND PRIVATE LIFE The case of YaghmÇ-yi Jandaq¥ (1781–1859) Roxane Haag-Higuchi

The ﬁrst half of the nineteenth century – and even the eighteenth century after the fall of the Safavids – may be regarded as a period of multifold religious activity in Iran including the restructuring of the religious establishment, the emergence of millenarian movements and charismatic leaders and the development of various forms of formal and popular religiosity. Studies of religion in nineteenth-century Iran concentrate on the dichotomies of religion and state, of orthodoxy and dissident movements, and they often have a slight teleological drift towards the political upheavals in the later Qajar period.1 Besides these intellectual aspects of religiosity, popular forms of piety such as pilgrimage, passion plays or åshrå-processions are comparatively well documented for the Qajar period. But it is still difﬁcult to assess religious tendencies in terms of religious practice in everyday life. Little can be said about how people responded to the formal requirements of religion or if any unofﬁcial or popular ranking existed concerning the importance of speciﬁc requirements. The same can be said of Suﬁsm or Suﬁ tendencies. Apart from the formal afﬁliations of the NimatallÇh¥s, the Dhahabiyya and, later in the nineteenth century, the KhÇksÇrs, it is difﬁcult to prove the extent to which elements from a mystical outlook on life had infected people’s minds, in what way they inﬂuenced daily life and to what extent they coined the public posture of religiosity. In this chapter, we will discuss to what extent the narrative sources supply information to answer these questions in the case of Raª¥m Ab al-Óasan YaghmÇ-yi Jandaq¥ (1781–1859), a poet, landowner, and secretary of the middle-rank administration. His case may be special because it is better documented than others of his period and social category. YaghmÇ is referred to in the main contemporary and later bio-bibliographical anthologies (tadhkiras) of the nineteenth century. He is mentioned in FÇ∂il KhÇn Garrs¥’s early Anjuman-i khåqån (written 1234/1818–19), in NavvÇb Sh¥rÇz¥’s Tadhk¥ra-yi dilgushå (written 1237/1821), Maªmd M¥rzÇ QÇjÇr’s Saf¥nat al-Maªmd (written 195

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1240/1824), D¥wÇn-Baygi (D¥vÇn-Bïg¥) Sh¥rÇz¥’s Óad¥qat al-shuarå, which covers the years 1200–1310/1786–1892, and Ri∂Ç Qul¥ KhÇn HidÇyat’s Majma al-fu‚aªå. These entries, however, contain little biographical material and mostly consist of anecdotes and citations. They are complemented by biographical articles about YaghmÇ in the twentieth century. The ﬁrst one was written by YaghmÇ’s great-grandson, the eminent scholar Óab¥b YaghmÇ¥ and published in the journal Armaghån in 1924.2 The most recent and comprehensive biography is included in the introduction to the edition of the poet’s collected works by Al¥ Ål-DÇd,3 who is also a descendant of YaghmÇ’s extended family. In the YaghmÇ¥ family and beginning with YaghmÇ, one can trace the transition from traditional literati to modern scholars through successive generations. This may have inﬂuenced the quantity of original material preserved. The scholars kept the memory of their famous ancestor alive and delivered it to further research. The modern biographies apparently draw on family archives, traditions and stories handed down within the family. In addition to the entries in the tadhkiras, a large amount of YaghmÇ’s letters have survived. Whereas a friend of YaghmÇ started quite early to collect the available writings of the poet (see below), his modern editor added letters from public and private archives. These add up to an unusually large amount of private letters to be exploited as biographical sources. For the purpose of this chapter, I will mainly draw on the tadhkiras and the letters published in YaghmÇ’s collected works4 to examine his religious personality. After a biographical synopsis, and as a ﬁrst step, I shall examine what the tadhkiras tell us about YaghmÇ’s religious inclinations. To deal with letters as a primary source requires a thorough examination of the genre of correspondence. Therefore, before exploring the material itself, it is necessary to discuss the conditions determining the manner in which to handle such correspondence as sources of factual information. The main questions of this chapter will be whether the sources portray a consistent picture of YaghmÇ’s religious posture, and whether the letters communicate a deeper insight into the role religion played in an individual’s life and the way he ‘lived religion’.

Yaghmå-yi Jandaq¥ – a biographical synopsis Raª¥m Ab al-Óasan YaghmÇ-yi Jandaq¥ originated from a rural family in Khr near Jandaq (on the rim of the Dasht-i kav¥r to the north of Yazd). His early youth coincided with the troublesome period of the Qajar rise to power. The story of how Raª¥m was discovered as a literary talent is legend. When the then governor of Jandaq and BiyÇbÇnak, Am¥r Isma¥l KhÇn Arab Åmir¥,5 came to Khr with large entourage, he met the boy and asked him where he came from. Raª¥m answers with an extempore poem: må mardumak-i Khr-¥m

az aql va adab dr-¥m6 196

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Isma¥l KhÇn took the gifted and eloquent boy with him to have him educated. According to the biography written by Óab¥b YaghmÇ¥, his education started at the age of seven and took seven years.7 In 1801, his patron Isma¥l KhÇn, who had nourished expansionist ideas, was defeated by the Qajar army. Raª¥m, who now bore the penname Majnn, entered the service of the new governor of Semnan and Damghan, Dh al-FiqÇr KhÇn,8 where he fell victim to an intrigue. As a result of a forged letter offensive to the governor, Dh al-FiqÇr KhÇn had him bastinadoed and thrown into jail, and his properties conﬁscated. Subsequently, he chose the penname of YaghmÇ (meaning prey or plunder), which also evokes literary associations: the term yaghmå is used in classical love poetry in the context of the beautiful, but cruel Turk. Later, YaghmÇ was rehabilitated and held various positions as secretary of the middle rank administration. He owned considerable estates in the central area of Jandaq and BiyÇbÇnak and spent most of his professional life in Kashan and Semnan. The biographical sketches of YaghmÇ differ on some points. For his time in Kashan, the twentieth-century biographies, probably based on the biographical article by Óab¥b YaghmÇ¥, maintain that YaghmÇ held the vizirate.9 Older sources suggest that he was employed as scribe and secretary at the fatwå-court of MullÇ Aªmad NarÇq¥.10 He had to quit his post in Kashan because of a scandal that will be described below. Unfortunately, even the biography in the modern edition does not indicate precise years, and it is difﬁcult to determine the dates of the different periods in YaghmÇ’s life. At an older age, he returned to Khr and lived in seclusion. YaghmÇ had four sons and three daughters. A large part of his private letters are directed to his sons IsmÇ¥l Hunar, Aªmad ÍafÇ¥, IbrÇh¥m DastÇn and Muªammad Kha†ar. For the purpose of this chapter, we need not go deeper into the details of YaghmÇ’s biography. The date of his death has been precisely transmitted in a chronogram composed by his eldest son Isma¥l Hunar (6 Rab¥ II 1276/12 November 1859).11 In literary contexts, YaghmÇ became mainly known for two types of poems: (1) satirical poems with rather obscene wording, the most famous of which is the ‘SardÇriyya’; (2) strophic marthiyya-poetry or elegies for the occasion of åshrå. Rypka presents him as a social rebel, a voice of the people and calls him ‘one of the most important poets of the ﬁrst half of the nineteenth century’.12 Both Browne and Rypka propose that his marthiyya-poems were a model for the revolutionary songs of the constitutional period of 1905–6.13

Yaghmå’s religiosity in tadhkiras and biographies YaghmÇ’s concern with religious matters was multifold, and of course the private and public, the professional, the legal and economic aspects cannot be neatly differentiated. He had connections with prominent and less 197

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prominent religious functionaries both as a member of the administration and as a private person. Writing elegies for the occasion of åshrå (nawªihyi s¥nih-zan¥) was a further ﬁeld of contact with religion on the professional level. Moreover, he set up a pious foundation part of whose proﬁts were used for taz¥ya-ceremonies, which was quite a common procedure in Qajar Iran.14 The most frequent reference to YaghmÇ’s religiosity in the biographical texts is a hint about his Suﬁ behaviour. It is difﬁcult to assess ﬁgures about the number of Suﬁ afﬁliations or people with mystical tendencies in the ﬁrst half of the nineteenth century. Sir John Malcolm cites contemporary sources referring to their estimated numbers and states the difﬁculties of properly deﬁning a Suﬁ: Some of those who pretend to knowledge upon this subject estimate the numbers of the Soofees in Persia at between two and three hundred thousand persons: but it is impossible that they can have any means for forming such a calculation; and they probably include in this number, not only those who believe in the visionary doctrines of this sect, but those, whose faith in the efﬁciency of the forms and usages of the established religion has been shaken by the tenets of the Soofee teachers.15 YaghmÇ’s Suﬁ tendencies were mentioned in contemporary and later Qajar tadhkiras. D¥vÇn Bïg¥ Sh¥rÇz¥ refers to Aªmad Bïg AfshÇr Gurj¥, the author of in the Tadhkira-yi akhtar, who claims to have personally met YaghmÇ and who points to his ‘sincere nature and Suﬁ disposition: He is walking on the path of the lover and taking the course of a mystic traveller (såf¥mashrab va ‚f¥-manish åshiq-maslak va sålik-ravish)’.16 The six lines Ri∂Ç Qul¥ KhÇn HidÇyat devotes to YaghmÇ’s life before quoting from his poetry, include the statement that ‘he was a friend and converser to powerful men, princes and Suﬁs’. YaghmÇ’s later biographers from the twentieth century propose a step-by-step development from Suﬁc tendencies in his youth to his afﬁliation to the Shaykh¥ (Kar¥m KhÇn¥) school from his middle age onwards.17 Óab¥b YaghmÇ¥, in his above-mentioned biography from 1924, suggests a murshid-mur¥d relationship between YaghmÇ and ÓÇjj M¥rzÇ ÅqÇs¥, grand vizier of Muªammad ShÇh between 1835 and 1848 (Yaghmå-rå bimuråd¥ va murshid¥ mutaqid gard¥dih).18 But YaghmÇ’s relation to the then powerful prime minister must have been ambivalent, because he made up a well-known, not very ﬂattering quatrain cited by E. G. Browne: The HÇj¥ did not leave a single dirham in the domains of the king; Everything, small or great, he expended on k.anåts or guns – k.anåts which conveyed no water to the ﬁelds of his friends, And guns which inﬂicted no injury on his enemies.19 198

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YaghmÇ himself is said to have been wandering around as a dervish for an unspeciﬁed period, after he had fallen victim to the above-mentioned intrigue and lost his posts and his fortune.20 We do not have any allusion to the fact that he adhered to a speciﬁc Suﬁ order. His Suﬁ tendencies are rather presented in terms of the way he dressed, his outward appearance and his behaviour which must have shown that he did not pay heed to social norms and limitations. The Qajar prince Maªmd M¥rzÇ in his tadhkira, Saf¥nat al-Maªmd, relates that when YaghmÇ came to his audience, ‘he wore a dirty cloth of fur’.21 Among YaghmÇ’s acquaintances within the circles of religious scholars and jurists, most prominent was MullÇ Aªmad NarÇq¥ (1771–1829, son of the faq¥h MullÇ Mahd¥ NarÇq¥). The eminent ålim had studied at Najaf under Sayyid Mahd¥ Baªr al-Ulm, before he returned to Iran and settled in Kashan.22 MullÇ Aªmad NarÇq¥ showed considerable activities in the political and public spheres. He was one of the ulamå who issued fatwås in favour of jihåd against Russia in 1825.23 According to Algar, he stood up against the tyrannical governor of Kashan, forced him to leave his post and defended the action in view of Fatª Al¥ ShÇh’s wrath.24 None of these political issues, however, is mentioned in connection with YaghmÇ. BÇmdÇd attributes mystical inclinations to MullÇ Aªmad (‘janbih-yi irfån¥ dårad’),25 and one might suppose that Suﬁsm was a ﬁeld of common interests between the two. But this point is not made explicit in the sources. BÇmdÇd describes MullÇ Aªmad’s contacts with YaghmÇ in the realm of literature: He mentions an encounter between MullÇ Aªmad and YaghmÇ in a literary meeting, where MullÇ Aªmad rhymed an extempore quatrain and asked for YaghmÇ’s approval. The scene clearly shows YaghmÇ as superior to this religious jurist, although in the professional and every-day spheres, YaghmÇ was subordinated to him. The ties between them proved to be of vital importance for YaghmÇ when he got into trouble with other, less benevolent religious authorities. An oftquoted incidence bearing witness to the fact that YaghmÇ transgressed social and shar¥ limitations, relates to the period when he lived in Kashan and to his friendship with MullÇ Aªmad NarÇq¥: YaghmÇ was caught in ﬂagranti sitting with a bottle of wine, and the ImÇm-juma of Kashan publicly accused him of having drunk alcohol. It took a juridical trick of MullÇ Aªmad NarÇq¥ to save him from severe punishment.26 Although MullÇ Aªmad could protect him from the most serious consequences, YaghmÇ had to quit his post and leave Kashan. Based on the evidence in the biographical sources, we can suggest that YaghmÇ nourished Suﬁ tendencies of the dervish kind, which by means of an expressive life-style denies worldly desire, human society and formal religious requirements.27 This idea is partly supported and partly rejected by textual evidence in the letters. The question whether letters offer a deeper or more intimate insight into a person’s religious attitude leads to the more basic problem outlined above: do letters reveal more of people’s 199

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private life and personal motivations than other narrative sources? This complex needs to be discussed within the framework of correspondence as a literary genre.

Correspondence as a literary genre Letters are sometimes said to be extraordinary sources to inform us about the hidden aspects of history or, in academic terminology, the history of mentalities. For example, the editor’s introduction to the letters of the twelfth-century poet KhÇqÇn¥ claims: There are many details in the Munshaåt-i Khåqån¥ that will withdraw the veil from the concealed points of that period. Those who take a close look will beneﬁt from its information in terms of social atmosphere, manners, customs and beliefs, and the psychological particularities of the people; and the meticulous researcher will discover a path which leads into the unknown nooks of Iranian history in those days.28 Letters by different authors were collected, preserved and published for various reasons. Letters of scholars and Suﬁs served both as a forum to discuss a vast range of themes – from theoretical questions to the interpretation of dreams – and to establish and present social relations and hierarchies.29 YaghmÇ, however, though mystical tendencies were ascribed to him in his young age, was part of a different social group, and his letters are to be placed into a different category of texts. Letters of secretaries and poets were mostly collected for reasons of style, in order to serve as specimens for a perfect epistolary form. Secretaries and poets shared the requirements of mastering rhetorical devices and techniques, and both professions were quite frequently combined in one person.30 Specimens from the chancelleries were collected in inshå compendia, while letters ascribed to poets or prominent functionaries in the administration were published under the authors’ names. The problems of using them as historical sources obviously stem from the very reason they were collected: they served as models in terms of form and structure. They constructed a functional mould to be ﬁlled with other contents as well. However, the question remains whether so-called ‘private letters’ can serve as biographical sources for a more detailed (and more direct) insight into how the correspondents lived, what they thought or felt. We must not ignore the fact that these collections were published in contemporary or later – but still historical – editions. The correspondence which has been preserved in compendia originates from people who were professionally involved in writing. Writing – and letter writing – was part of the professional (the public) side of their personalities.31 The private letters included in works of inshå -literature deal with themes like ‘eulogy, congratulation, 200

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condolence, gratitude, remembrance, etc. They are addressed to members of the family, friends or acquaintances’.32 The thus established ‘privacy’ is linked to the addressees, the enumerated categories of content consist of situations where privacy goes public per deﬁnitionem. Poets’ or statesmen’s correspondence published under individual names does not necessarily follow the classiﬁcation of inshå quoted above. But in the process of being published it undergoes some conspicuous changes: most of the letters are stripped of the dates of their actual composition, sometimes the addressees are presented anonymously (‘To a friend’), and the particular pieces are given headlines. By the removal of the dating, the letters are detached from their speciﬁc historical context, and the anonymisation cuts the dialogic bonds between two individuals. The headlines add another characteristic that mark a public text. Moreover, these compendia hardly ever contain any ‘correspondence’ in the sense of an exchange of letters or an interrelated and consistent discussion of thematical issues (this does not hold true for Suﬁ and scholarly letters). So we have several clues that hint at the predominantly public character of letters in Iran, at least up the nineteenth century. In the preface to his own collection of correspondence, the governor and man of letters FarhÇd M¥rzÇ (1818–88) reveals what he himself regarded as his only motivation and intention in publishing his letters: it is a language-orientated interest to demonstrate ‘pure Persian’ (pårs¥-yi sarih), which is ‘not polluted by Arabic words’.33 The same motivation holds true, for example, for another Qajar prince, the historian JalÇl al-D¥n M¥rzÇ who introduced consequently both ‘pure Persian’ and stylistic simpliﬁcation into historiography.34 The point of writing ‘pure Persian’ was a widespread discourse among Iranian literati of the nineteenth century. It is linked to the ‘båz-gasht’movement (‘return’ to the pure and comprehensible language of the ‘classical’ period), a term coined by the poet and literary critic Malik alShuarÇ BahÇr (1880–1951). BahÇr established QÇim-maqÇm’s letters as outstanding examples for language reform in prose, and consequently as the starting point of modern Persian literature.35 YaghmÇ was also interested in these linguistic experiments, and he particularly advised his eldest son Isma¥l Hunar to follow the new exigencies in style and vocabulary. In nineteenth-century Iran, this aspect enhances the longstanding selfreferential, language- and style-centred discourse of letter writing in Persian and substantiates the argument that letters are utterances with basically public intentions. The case of YaghmÇ is better documented than others in respect to the history of the publication of his writings. Several biographical sources agree on the point that he refused to have his writings published. For example, in the Tadhkira-yi dilgushå, it states, ‘He does not believe in having his poems collected (mutaqid-i tadv¥n-i ashår-i khd n¥st)’.36 The Qajar prince Sul†Çn Muªammad ‘Sayf al-Dawla’, YaghmÇ’s younger friend 201

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and literary adept, shares this view in a letter to Isma¥l Hunar: ‘In his whole life, he showed no interest in having his poems collected and arranged . . . Therefore a lot of what he wrote and composed has been lost.’37 YaghmÇ himself complains about the industrious collector of his works during his own lifetime, a certain ÓÇjj¥ Muªammad IsmÇ¥l ˝ihrÇn¥, who assembled both genuine and fake pieces under YaghmÇ’s name.38 ˝ihrÇn¥’s collection was published as YaghmÇ’s Kulliyåt in a lithograph edition of 1283/1866, only seven years after YaghmÇ’s death, by Al¥qul¥ M¥rzÇ Iti∂Çd al-Sal†ana, the minister of science, industry and trade. Complaining about ˝ihrÇn¥’s activities, YaghmÇ speaks mostly about poems and only once about the nigårish-i pårs¥, which means the abovementioned experimental correspondence in ‘pure Persian’. YaghmÇ knew that ˝ihrÇn¥ collected both poems and prose (i.e. letters). Still, he never complains about conﬁdential contents being dragged into the public domain, or about personal views of others being published under his name. He conﬁnes his lamentations to the humiliation and embarrassment he feels about fake and ‘ridiculous, foolish and immature’ pieces that are ascribed to him. His only concern seems to be his professional fame and language competence, which make us suppose again that the ‘privacy’ of ‘private letters’ may be a constructed one, and that these letters were conceived as virtually public and to a great extent formalised. This we should bear in mind when we discuss which religious topics the letters relate to. We will also have to deal with the question of authenticity in the case of the ﬁrst sample quoted below.

Letters on Suﬁsm, drugs and dreams There are no samples in the collection that discuss religion in terms of theological questions. The letters cited below deal with religion only in the sense of its ‘civil’ and social aspects and, in the case of the dream letters, with an accepted manifestation of lay piety. The ﬁrst letter39 is addressed to YaghmÇ’s brother-in-law, M¥rzÇ Fatª Al¥ MullÇbÇsh¥, and deals with Suﬁsm proper (no. 1, 7–9). The second one is directed to his eldest son Isma¥l Hunar (no. 153, 169–71) and discusses opium- and wine-consumption, a subject that cannot be discussed without religious references, and which is also linked to Suﬁsm. The letters on dreams have anonymous addressees. The letter on Suﬁsm – like most letters in the collection – is not dated. It is the ﬁrst piece (in the following: letter no. 1) within the Kulliyåt edition of 1283/1866, but it is said not to be authentic. In a declaration about the false pieces in the collection, Isma¥l Hunar (1225–88/1810–71) claims this letter as his own composition: ‘for example the combined letter [nåmih-yi murakkab, by which he means a letter that combines Persian and Arabic vocabulary] in the beginning of this volume is one of my writings throughout (yak¥ az nigåshtihhå-yi saråsar¥-yi ¥n bandih-yi aqall ast).’ 40 202

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But does this claim necessarily refer to the letter in terms of composition and content? To answer this question, it is necessary to look at some more clues, both in the above declaration and in the letter in question. The declaration was supposedly written in the year 1286/1869–70 or shortly after, for in a writing combined and synchronous with this declaration, mention is made of YaghmÇ’s death (1276AH) ‘ten years ago’.41 In the declaration, Isma¥l Hunar also indicates the approximate period when letter no. 1 was originally written: ‘I wrote it to my uncle thirty years ago on the subject of giving up seclusion and isolation.’42 On the other hand, when the subject of Suﬁ inclinations is brought up in letter no. 1, it again refers to a bygone period: ‘We [the author and the addressee] went through all that [the Suﬁ practice] more than forty years ago’ (7). If we link both statements to YaghmÇ’s son Isma¥l Hunar, they add up to seventy years, an age that Isma¥l Hunar unfortunately never reached. Moreover, in the letter, another son of YaghmÇ is mentioned as farzand¥ Aªmad (9) – the abstractum farzand¥ (‘sonship’) occurring generally in the letters when YaghmÇ speaks of his sons. So we can conclude that Hunar’s claim of authorship can only refer to rhetorics and stylistics and that the content makes much more sense when connected to YaghmÇ himself. There are several hints in the correspondence that YaghmÇ trained his sons in diplomatic stylistics and used to make them write letters for him. Consequently, it is not far-fetched to assume that Hunar ‘wrote’ the letter in terms of formulating certain contents predetermined by his father. If we accept this splitting of authorship, we consequently have to be careful not to interpret the text line by line as an individual utterance which provides deep insights into a person’s religious feelings. We should rather consider it to be a literary text from the middle of the nineteenth century which presents generally accepted views on Suﬁsm, but which, nevertheless, enhances the general passages by speciﬁc data and personal experiences. If we follow Hunar’s calculation, the letter must have been written around 1256/1840. By this time the issue of ta‚avvuf was not restricted to YaghmÇ alone but had become a family problem: the above-mentioned M¥rzÇ Fatª Al¥ MullÇbÇsh¥, the brother of YaghmÇ’s ﬁrst wife and son of ÅqÇ Muªammad KirmÇnshÇh¥, adhered to Suﬁsm and inﬂuenced YaghmÇ’s second son Aªmad ÍafÇ¥ in the direction of his own convictions.43 The letter opens with a thoroughly formulated entrance phrase: ‘May the lamp of guidance be ahead of MullÇbÇsh¥, the light of the eye, and may he walk on the street of the lawful religion (nr-i chashm¥ Mullåbåsh¥-rå chirågh-i hidåyat dar p¥sh båd va sulk-i shåri-i shar¥ at-k¥sh)’ (7). He then refers to the addressee’s father, who had been a prominent Suﬁ and YaghmÇ’s Suﬁ guide in Jandaq. A further passage in the letter is devoted to various mystical practices that prove that the sender and the addressee had once dealt seriously with Suﬁsm: 203

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We studied the Gnostic truths (ªaqåyiq-i irfån) and the details of sure knowledge (daqåyiq-i ¥qån), we wept and cried over the Masnavi . . . We fasted and fought for the perfection of our [lower] souls (nafs). We spent the nights in devotion and the days in hunger. (7) The letter, which in the beginning seems favourable to Suﬁsm, reaches a turning point with the above-mentioned biographical hint: ‘We went through all that more than forty years ago . . . then we returned, fatigued and deceived’ (7). The following eleven lines consist of a rhetorically phrased, internally rhyming enumeration of the detriments of Suﬁsm: These immature . . . qalandar-plays . . . what is their result? Nothing but destruction and infamy, vexation of friends and compliance to the enemies’ wishes, reproach and odiousness, curse and imprecation. The [daily] bread is squandered and the reputation destroyed. It is the ruin of all proﬁt and capital, a rebuff of companions and neighbours . . . (7) The attack on Suﬁsm is particularly directed towards the unfavourable economic consequences and the repudiation of the Suﬁ way of life within society. Some interspersed phrases touch the spiritual aspects of Suﬁsm, denying them at the same time, e.g. ‘[You will be] overcome by passion and [worldly] desire (maghlb-i nafs-u havå shudan)’; or they combine concrete and metaphysical aspects, e.g. ‘[You will] become an outcast among the people and before God (råndih-yi khalq-u khudå gashtan) . . . both your clothes and your soul [will become] ﬁlthy (kisåfat-i jåmih va jån)’ (7f.). But the bulk of the arguments have a social colouring and refer to material welfare, social reputation and prestige. After the general passage, the letter again brings up the speciﬁc case of the addressee’s father and the sender: ‘Ta‚avvuf destroyed your father who had occupied a leading position and disposed of wealth and authority, and the disgrace of this irfån made me roam about in Iran as a homeless vagrant’ (8). Referring to mysticism, the terms tasavvuf, irfån, darv¥sh¥ and qalandar¥ are indiscriminately used. The only alternative to the aberration of Suﬁsm, and the realm of salvation for ‘common and immature people like you and me’ is ‘the enclosure of the lawful religion (ªi‚år-i shar¥ at)’ (9). With a clear bias towards the social consequences for the Suﬁ, the letter rhetorically moves from the general to the speciﬁc, from social to private affairs. Towards the end, it comes to what seems to me YaghmÇ’s main interest and concern: the addressee should stop leading YaghmÇ’s second son, Aªmad ÍafÇ¥, astray. Aªmad ÍafÇ¥ was YaghmÇ’s favourite son and his trustee in questions of the family property. This is why qalandar¥Suﬁsm threatened the material basis of YaghmÇ’s family, and this is why 204

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he consequently deals with Suﬁsm with what might be called a quite ‘down-to-earth’ argumentation. Among QÇim-maqÇm’s letters, there is a short note to his son where he also mentions the dervish way of living as a negative model. He admonishes his son not to behave like a dervish but to lead a responsible life.44 It is a short, abstract piece and in this respect not comparable to the letter in YaghmÇ’s collection, but it suggests that the ‘dervish’ motif existed in various family contexts as a social and behavioural rather than a religious topic. Another matter discussed in some of YaghmÇ’s letters is the question of opium and wine consumption. The most detailed mention of opium is made in a letter to his ﬁrst son, Isma¥l Hunar, (no. 153, 169–71) where he urgently advises him to give up and avoid the drug. Several arguments about the dangers of opium recall the line of argumentation in the case of Suﬁsm. Again, he warns of loss of property and pending disgrace in society. Drug consumers in general withdraw from the world, avoid company and remain isolated from their families and friends. In addition to the social argument, he brings up the detriments for the user’s health: opium makes the character become hot and the face turn yellow, man does not feel the need to eat or sleep, hands and feet will start trembling, and breast and throat will be torn apart (170). But YaghmÇ not only advises his son to abstain from opium consumption, but proposes a strategy for withdrawal which is situated outside of the above mentioned ‘enclosure of the lawful religion’. In case his son ‘needs a stimulating medicine’, he recommends wine instead: ‘Obtain . . . wine . . . from Fars or Kerman, make yourself little by little familiar with this [wine] and shy away from that [opium], increase the consumption of this and reduce the use of that’ (170). YaghmÇ cannot ignore the shar¥ a-argument, which stands against his recommendation, so he immediately argues that though God has sent regulations concerning wine and the abstinence from its consumption, God has also ordered to maintain body and soul in good condition (pås-i tan va nigahdåsht-i jån-rå n¥z sifårish namd) (170). He does not quote any Quranic verse in order to corroborate his argument. In terms of regulations restrictive to drinking wine, he rather generally refers to what God has revealed through His Prophet in the ‘Heavenly Edict’ (bårnåmih-yi åsmån¥). What he has in mind among the diverging statements on wine in the QurÇn cannot be Q5.92, which is the basis of the prohibition of wine (‘Oh true believers! Surely wine and gambling and stone pillars and divining arrows, are an abomination of the work of Satan; therefore avoid them, that ye may prosper’). Rather, he may have thought of Q4.46: ‘O true Believers! Come not to prayers when ye are drunk, until ye understand what ye say.’ 45 Consequently, YaghmÇ lists regulations restrictive to wine consumption and directives which relate to the adequate measure as well as the right time and place for drinking. For example: 205

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Do not drink when you have got work to do or loads to carry . . . Do not drink in an open assembly where both friends and strangers can pass by or go in . . . Do not drink so much that you get completely drunk, that you cannot tell the difference between high and low, sweet and bitter, that you do not know what you did and what you said, where you set your feet and by whose side you slept. (171) The consumption of drugs must have been fairly well tolerated in Qajar Iran, as long as it was not shown in public. Numerous European travellers and residents refer to drug (mostly opium) consumption and wine-drinking carousals.46 Moreover, drugs were often related to Suﬁsm. Fritz Meier states with respect to Suﬁs of the seventh/thirteenth century onward that they ‘had integrated the consumption of wine and hashish (bang) into their teaching system and referred to it as the “mount of the mystic path” ’.47 Mystical authors who would not defend drugs or any trespassing of shar¥ a regulations theoretically, would, in practice, still ﬁnd excuses for Suﬁs who did not observe the rules, specially in cases of drug consumption.48 The wine passages in the letter quoted above bear witness to a relaxed attitude towards wine and a clearly social and health-oriented discussion of the main drugs available and consumed in his time. Hence, YaghmÇ-yi Jandaq¥ who in one letter strongly advocates ‘the enclosure of the lawful religion’, in another letter does not keep to its strict stipulations. One might interpret these differences as an individual development of an earlier and later state of mind. The lack of precise dating of the letters, though, gives us the chance to avoid linear, chronological lines of argumentation. Instead, we should stress the fact that in these texts there was room for different, sometimes contradictory, views and opinions not only in chronological sequences, but also synchronically according to the exigencies of the situation. Two letters in the collection relate dreams with religious content (nos. 39 and 171): neither of them has the name of the addressee. Both dreams focus on salvation and safety from satanic seduction. Letter no. 39 (61f.) describes a dream-vision of purgatory: YaghmÇ sees a vast plain set on ﬁre, where people, dressed in the manner of the dead, are rolling on the ground, ‘with silent lips and crying hearts’. There are breaches of burnt earth, which run through the ﬁre plain. A person approaches YaghmÇ and explains to him that the only means to extinguish the ﬁre is to breath on it, praising the pure soul of the Prophet. When the dreamer starts to walk through the ﬁre, planning to extinguish it all by praising the Prophet, that person prevents him from doing so and blames him for being deceitful. The ﬁre has not been set by God, but by men themselves, by their immature and undue behaviour. Fire is a current motif in the Islamic inventory of dreams. Annemarie Schimmel cites a dream where ﬁre is sent to earth as God’s warning for man’s sinfulness.49 206

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The dream in letter no. 171 (187–91) revolves around a conversation with the devil. The devil is called Ahr¥man. Ahr¥man promises YaghmÇ to answer his questions with utmost sincerity. He warns him to keep away from the corruptions of the world, because this is the only way not to be led astray. When YaghmÇ asks him if it is true that he has no hold upon those who follow Imam Al¥, Ahr¥man starts trembling with awe, and agrees. During their conversation, hosts of boys and girls appear, ‘children’ of the devil, who rob people of their faith and religion. Each of them is bearing a backpack. YaghmÇ wants to see what is in these bags, and the devil shows him a preciously adorned mirror, which is black with smoke and rust. The mirror represents religion and faith; it lifts the veil of outward appearance and shows what is real. It is difﬁcult to tell from the evidence of this letter alone, whether there are other than Islamic concepts in this dream. The fact that the followers of Al¥ are spared from the devil and his children’s robbery is emphasised several times. The use of the name Ahr¥man for the devil refers more to YaghmÇ’s language programme than to Zoroastrian inﬂuence. Dreams and visions are an integral part of Iranian and Islamic culture, as is to be witnessed in the extensive literature on the categorisation and interpretation of dreams. To tell dreams in letters and ask for interpretation was part of the Suﬁ adept’s education.50 The veil that hides the true being, asceticism and renunciation of worldly affairs, the polluted mirror may be understood as reminiscent of mystical themes. However, since a pervading mystic idea cannot be discerned and the items mentioned above appear rather isolated, I would rather consider them as basic motifs of general piety.

Conclusion Although YaghmÇ’s ‘private’ letters supply some detailed and illustrative biographical information, they are best considered as thoroughly structured texts that strictly follow stylistic and rhetorical rules. They are related to an autobiographical and factual background which can sometimes be reconstructed, but they must not be considered as a type of sources that uncovers conﬁdential, let alone intimate, confessions. In terms of YaghmÇ’s religiosity, for example, the letters suggest a more conservative personality than the tadhkiras. While the anthologies ascribe Suﬁ inclinations to him, this point is rejected in the letters and only admitted as an aberration when he was young. Within the letters, the image of YaghmÇ’s religious personality is not consistent: while one letter argues against Suﬁsm (especially because of its detrimental inﬂuence on young people) and calls for observance of the shar¥ a, another letter abandons the strict position of religious regulations and suggests the consumption of wine instead of opium. The dream letters again display religiosity in the framework of orthodoxy. But in spite of these divergences, the letters never transgress 207

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the limits of what is generally accepted in society. Even the letter on drugs may be regarded as an expression of eccentric, but generally tolerated, behaviour. If we reconsider our initial question (whether letters communicate a deeper insight into an individual’s religious attitude and motivation) we might be disappointed by these results. YaghmÇ’s letters do not provide explicit, reliable statements about religious life in the Qajar period. However they give useful information concerning conventional laic discourse on religious matters in Qajar society. Contrary to the type of letters written by scholars or Suﬁs, YaghmÇ’s writings do not discuss theoretical problems of legal, philosophical or mystical topics. They indicate a religious attitude which draws both on the legal type of religion and on Suﬁsm. They testify to an intellectual position which remains blurred, coloured by Suﬁsm but void of any institutional commitment to the exclusive circles of Suﬁ orders. Oscillating religious postures may have been widespread in the Qajar society – at least among intellectuals. Letters can supply valuable clues in an analysis of issues relating to the history of popular thinking, provided that we observe the limits set by the dominant requirements of the literary genre.

Notes 1 H. Algar Religion and State in Iran, 1785–1906. The Role of the Ulama in the Qajar Period (2nd edn, 1980: Berkeley, 1969); H. Algar ‘Religious Forces in Eighteenth- and Nineteenth-Century Iran’ in P. Avery et. al. (eds) The Cambridge History of Iran, Volume 7 (Cambridge, 1991) 705–31; M. Bayat Mysticism and Dissent: Socioreligious Thought in Qajar Iran (Syracuse, 1982). 2 Ó. YaghmÇ¥ ‘Sharª-i ªÇl-i marªm YaghmÇ’ Armaghån 5 (1924) 485–501 and 636–42. 3 YaghmÇ-yi Jandaq¥ Majma-yi åthår-i Yaghmå-yi Jandaq¥, 2 vols: I Ghazaliyåt, mathnav¥, maråth¥, sardåriyya (Al¥ Ål-DÇ’d (ed.); 1st edn: Tehran, 1357sh; 2nd edn: Tehran, 1367sh). 4 YaghmÇ-yi Jandaq¥ Majma-yi åthår-i Yaghmå-yi Jandaq¥, 2 vols: II: Makåt¥b va munshaåt (Al¥ Ål-DÇ’d (ed.): Tehran, 1362sh). 5 Ri∂Ç Qul¥ KhÇn HidÇyat Mulªaqåt-i tår¥kh¥ Raw∂at al-‚afå-yi Nå‚ir¥, 3 vols (Continuation of M¥r KhwÇnd’s Raw∂at al-‚afå: Tehran, 1339sh) IX, 210. 6 Ó. YaghmÇ’¥, ‘Sharª-i ªÇl’, 486. 7 Ó. YaghmÇ’¥, ‘Sharª-i ªÇl’, 486. 8 M. BÇmdÇd Sharª-i ªål-i rijål-i Ûrån, qarnhå-yi 12 va 13 va 14h, 6 vols (4th edn: Tehran, 1371sh) I, 503f. 9 Ó. YaghmÇ’¥, ‘Sharª-i ªÇl’, 488; YaghmÇ-yi Jandaq¥, Majma I, 29. 10 Aªmad D¥vÇn-B™g¥ Sh¥rÇz¥ Óad¥qat al-shuarå , 3 vols (Abd al-Óusain NavÇ’¥ (ed.): Tehran, 1364sh; 1365sh; 1366sh) 2121f. 11 D¥vÇn-B™g¥ Sh¥rÇz¥, Óad¥qat al-shuarå , 488f. 12 J. Rypka History of Iranian Literature (Dordrecht, 1968) 333. 13 E. G. Browne A Literary History of Persia, 4 vols (reprinted Cambridge, 1902–24; Cambridge, 1976–8) 339f.; Rypka, History, 333f. 14 T. Yamagishi ‘The Yaghma Family and the Mourning Ceremonies’ The Journal of Sophia Asian Studies 16 (1998) 11f.; more generally J. Calmard ‘Le mécénat des représentations de ta’ziye. II. Les débuts du règne de Nâseroddin Châh’ Le Monde Iranien et l’Islam 4 (1976–7) 133–62.

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15 J. Malcolm History of Persia, 2 vols (London, 1815) I, 423, cited in R. Gramlich Die schiitischen Derwischorden Persiens, 3 vols (Wiesbaden, 1965/1976/1981) I, 91. 16 D¥vÇn-B™g¥ Sh¥rÇz¥, Óad¥qat al-shuarå III, 2125. 17 I. YaghmÇ’¥ ‘M¥rzÇ Ab l-Óasan YaghmÇ. ShÇir¥ buzurg wa ÇzÇd¥-and¥sh’ in Gh.-Ó. Ysuf¥ et al. (eds) Yådgårnåmih-yi Óab¥b Yaghmå ¥ (Tehran, 2536 1356sh) 398; YaghmÇ-yi Jandaq¥, Majma I, 24. 18 Ó. YaghmÇ¥, ‘Sharª-i ªÇl’, 487; also in Y. Åryanpr Az Íabå tå N¥må (5th edn: Tehran, 1357sh) 110f. 19 Browne’s translation is decent, cf. the last line in Persian original: Na-guzasht dar mulk-i shåh Óåj¥ diram¥/kard kharj-i qanåt-u tp har b¥sh-u kam¥/na mazra-i dst-rå az ån qanåt nam¥/na khåya-yi dushman-rå az ån tp gham¥ (my transliteration) E. G. Browne A Year amongst the Persians (3rd edn: London, 1950) 127, cited in H. Javadi Satire in Persian Literature (London, 1988) 103. 20 H. YaghmÇ¥, ‘Sharª-i ªÇl’, 487. 21 Maªmd M¥rzÇ QÇjÇr Saf¥nat al-Maªmd, 2 vols (A. R. KhayyÇmpr (ed.): Tabriz, 1346sh) 264. 22 Dabashi calls him an ‘activist-jurisconsult’ and analyses his concept of vilåyati faq¥h. A short bio-bibliographical summary can be found in H. Dabashi ‘Early Propagation of Vilayat-i Faqih and Mulla Ahmad Naraqi’ in S. H. Nasr et al. (eds) Expectation of the Millennium. Shi ism in History (Albany, 1989) 292f. 23 Algar, Religion and State in Iran, 79; BÇmdÇd, Sharª-i ªål VI, 20. 24 Algar, Religion and State in Iran, 57. 25 BÇmdÇd, Sharh-i ªål VI, 21. 26 D¥vÇn-B™g¥ Sh¥rÇz¥, Óad¥qat al-shuarå III, 2121. 27 One might conceive the fact that in his letters, YaghmÇ often refers to himself as ‘¥n khåksår’ as an argument in support of this interpretation. In the period in question, khåksår was a collective name rather than an organised afﬁliation, and was associated with the idea of the wandering dervish and the qalandar (cf. Gramlich, Schiitische Derwischorden I, 70 and 74). YaghmÇ might have played with this association, but he rather used ¥n khåksår only as synonym for expressions like ¥n ªaq¥r or bandih for ‘I’. 28 KhÇqÇn¥ Sh¥rvÇn¥, Munsha’åt-i Khånqån¥ (M. Rawshan (ed.): Tehran, 1349sh) Introduction, alif. 29 Cf. for an exchange of letters on particular topics: H. Landolt ‘Der Briefwechsel zwischen KÇshÇn¥ und SimnÇn¥ über Waªdat al-Wuºd’ Der Islam 50 (1973) 29–81; for letters as part of the training of the adepts, see F. Meier ‘Ein Briefwechsel zwischen Çaraf ud-dîn-i Bal∆î und Maºd ud-dîn-i Bagdâdî’ in S. H. Nasr (ed.) Mélanges offerts à Henry Corbin (Teheran, 1977) 324; for the public establishment of a murshid-mur¥d relation with political implications in the late eighteenth/early nineteenth-century Central Asia, see A. von Kügelgen ‘Suﬁmeister und Herrscher im Zwiegespräch: die Schreiben des Fa∂l Aªmad aus Peschawar an Am¥r Óaydar in Buchara’ in A. von Kügelgen et al. (eds) Muslim Culture in Russia and Central Asia. Vol. 3: Arabic, Persian and Turkic Manuscripts (15th–19th Centuries) (Berlin, 2000) 219–351 and Landolt, ‘Briefwechsel’, 221f. 30 For QÇ’im-maqÇm’s poetry cf. A. Amanat ‘ “Russian Intrusion into the Guarded Domain”: Reﬂections of a Qajar Statesman on European Expansion’ Journal of the American Oriental Society 113.1 (1993) 35–56; Meier discusses the point already for the poetess Mahsat¥ (c. sixth/twelfth century) in F. Meier Die schöne Mahsat¥ (Stuttgart, 1963) 91; further examples cf. F. MujtabÇ¥ ‘Correspondence II. in Islamic Persia’ EIr VI, 290.

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31 In the European context, this question is discussed by E-B. Körber ‘Der soziale Ort des Briefs im 16. Jahrhundert’ in H. Wenzel (ed.) Gespräche – Boten – Briefe. Körpergedächtnis und Schriftgedächtnis im Mittelalter (Berlin, 1997) 251–3. 32 H. R. Roemer ‘InshÇ’ in EI2 III, 1241. 33 FarhÇd M¥rzÇ ‘Mutamad ad-Daula’ Munsha’åt-i Farhåd M¥rzå (GhulÇmri∂Ç ˝abÇ†abÇ¥ Majd (ed.): Tehran, 1369sh) 10. 34 Cf. A. Amanat ‘Pr-i KhÇqÇn va and¥shih-yi bÇz-yÇb¥-yi tÇr¥kh-i mill¥-yi ÛrÇn: JalÇl al-D¥n M¥rzÇ va NÇma-yi KhusravÇn’ Iran Nameh 17/1 (winter 1999) 5–54. I would like to thank Professor Amanat for drawing my attention to this interesting contemporary of YaghmÇ. 35 M. T. ‘Malik al-shuarÇ’ BahÇr Sabk-shinås¥. Tår¥kh-i ta†avvur-i nathr-i Fårs¥, 3 vols (1st edn 1331sh; 3rd edn: Tehran, 1349sh) III, 265f.; W. R. Hanaway ‘BÇzgaçt-e adab¥’ EIr III, 58–60; J. P. Luft ‘The ‘Bazgasht’ movement: ‘restauration’ or rescue of classical Persian literature’ British Society for Middle Eastern Studies Bulletin (1989) 451–3. 36 Al¥ Akbar NavvÇb Sh¥rÇz¥ ‘Bismil’ Tadhk¥ra-i dilgushå (M. R. FasÇ¥ (ed.): Shiraz, 1371sh) 343. 37 I. YaghmÇ¥, ‘YaghmÇ’, 409f. 38 Cf. YaghmÇ, Majma II, 302 (letter no. 283). 39 All quotations from the letters and references given in the text refer to YaghmÇ, Majma II. 40 A. Gulch¥n-i MaÇn¥ ‘Sul†Çn QÇjÇr va YaghmÇ-yi Jandaq¥’ Yaghmå 17.10 (1343sh) 477 and YaghmÇ, Majma I, Introduction, 45. 41 Cf. YaghmÇ, Majma I, Introduction, 47. 42 YaghmÇ, Majma I, Introduction, 47. 43 YaghmÇ, Majma II, 364. 44 M¥rzÇ Ab al-QÇsim QÇim-maqÇm FarÇhÇn¥ Munsha’åt-i Qå’im-maqåm-i Faråhån¥ (Sayyid Badr al-D¥n YaghmÇ¥ (ed.): Tehran, 1366sh) 149. 45 Cf. A. J. Wensinck ‘Khamr – Juridical Aspects’ EI2 IV, 994b. 46 E.g. J. E. Polak Persien, das Land und seine Bewohner. Ethnographische Schilderungen, 2 parts in 1 vol. (Leipzig, 1865; sept. Hildesheim/New York, 1976) II, 131 on ‘Trinkgelage’; R. G. Watson A History of Persia from the Beginnning of the Nineteenth Century to the Year 1858 (London, 1866; sept. Tehran, 1976) 34, also on wine: ‘Wines are valued for their intoxicating qualities and not at all for their ﬂavour . . .’; or J. B. Fraser Travels and Adventures in the Persian Provinces on the Southern Banks of the Caspian Sea (London, 1826) 53, on his opium eating host. 47 ‘Schon in der ersten hälfte des 7./13. jh. hatten ‚ﬁyya den wein- und bangkonsum so in ihr lehrsystem eingebaut, dass sie ihn als ‘reittier des (mystischen) pfades und elixier des seins der männer’ ausgaben und ihm offenbar in dem glauben zusprachen, innerlich dadurch weiterzukommen’. F. Meier Ab Sa¥d-i Ab l-·ayr (357–440/967–1049). Wirklichkeit und Legende (Leiden, 1976) 268. 48 Cf. Gramlich, Schiitische Derwischorden II, 112. 49 A. Schimmel Die Träume des Kalifen (Munchen, 1998), 73. 50 Meier, ‘Briefwechsel’, 324; Schimmel Die Träume, 178–97.

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11 PIOUS MERCHANTS Religious sentiments in wills and testaments Christoph Werner

Merchants in the Qajar period are a social group that it is hard to pin down. They emerge together with the Shiite clergy as the victors of the fundamental transformations in nineteenth-century Iranian society, and their close connection and interaction with the ulamå is represented in the regularly adduced alliance between the bazaar and the clergy. But in fact, the anonymity of the bazaar constitutes a black box that hides, rather than elucidates, the identiﬁcation of single personalities, whereas leading members of the ulamå in comparison turn out to be easily distinguishable individuals carrying concrete names and faces. Wealthy wholesale merchants (tujjår) clearly belonged to the Qajar elites and were also considered by their contemporaries as ayån or notables.1 Through family relations, marriages, and common proprietorial and economical interests they were closely intertwined with other prominent notable groups from the administrative and clerical ﬁeld. What distinguishes merchants primarily from other notables is their absence from most of our sources. While Western material provides in general a good and reliable picture of advantageous trade routes, estimates of imported and exported goods, or details of customs duties and the like, it is usually silent on the local protagonists of trade, namely the Persian merchants who despite the growing European involvement would still have operated and controlled most of the trade running through the bazaars – with the single exception of those who operated under foreign protection or who were directly involved in political affairs. Even if we ﬁnd references to inﬂuential merchants in Persian archival documents, we frequently lack the narrative sources to place them into a wider framework. While rijål-works provide information on high-ranking clerics, biographical anthologies (tadhkiras) yield data on poetically inclined bureaucrats, and local histories can contribute to the understanding of tribal aristocratic elites, it becomes very difﬁcult to construct genealogies or even to gain basic biographical facts on merchants. In 211

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practice, we are therefore often left with mere names, without further knowledge of the merchants’ family background, their social networks, or their precise economic activities and standing in local societies. It also appears that while other notables deemed it worthwhile, conceivably in order to uphold their status, to leave written traces of their lives to posterity, merchants rarely saw reward in such endeavours. They also tended to exercise their undoubted existing political inﬂuence more discreetly and to avoid both open association with state authorities and any form of public exposure. Among the rare Persian primary sources where we can encounter merchants more regularly as individuals are vaqf-deeds and – what I want to focus on here – the testaments, wills or legacies (va‚¥yatnåmih), which they left behind. A closer look at some testaments from merchants resident in Tabriz during the second half of the nineteenth century should allow a fresh and quite different view of Qajar merchants. It might present an idea of what was of ﬁnal importance to them, as well as elucidate certain points of the socio-economic background of religion and the ﬁnancial bases of both the religious establishment and the expanding religious service-industry. With the examination of ﬁnal wills, I intend to bring together aspects of both religious culture in practice and of the monetary affairs behind it, as expressed by the merchants’ apparent commercial concern for their afterlife. Among the important questions in this regard is whether these testaments actually give us access to merchant mentalities – in particular, if we can read them as an expression of their individual piety and of religious sentiments. In addition, I would like to examine the legal form in which these often-diverse perspectives are executed and discuss testaments as an example of the increasing ﬂexibility and ﬂuidity of juridical categories in applied Islamic law of the Qajar period. The introduction of a special indigenous source category for the social history of late Qajar Iran might be regarded as a supplementary outcome of this approach, and I will begin with a general introduction of the genre to which the va‚¥yatnåmihs under discussion belong. This will be followed by a detailed presentation and comparison of three speciﬁc testaments and their stipulations – the text of the shortest among them is included with a translation. The concluding analysis will focus on the close correspondence between the – more recognised and traditional – institution of vaqf and the legal form of a va‚¥ya.

The legal concept of va‚¥ ya The testaments I am dealing with in this contribution are straightforward declarations of exactly deﬁned ﬁnancial and economic intentions. They follow relatively strict formal guidelines and avoid any superﬁcial narrative. In short, they are rather simple legal deeds, drawn up and sealed by a jurist, of the testator’s trust, that in their outward form are very similar 212

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to other civil contracts and unilateral legal assertions. And it is precisely their rigorously formal character that does not necessarily match the popular notion of what constitutes a will (i.e. who gets the house, the silver cutlery, etc.). In this respect, our testaments should be carefully distinguished from a wide variety of other writings that are also termed va‚¥yatnåmih. Many of them are of an epistolary kind, addressing either descendants, relatives, members of the household, or followers and pupils not through legal categories, but by means of personal admonishments. Such wills might include detailed orders regarding the management of a household, perhaps similar to the detailed letter by Mu‚†afÇ KhÇn edited by Homa Nateq and translated by John Gurney.2 Or, they might stand in the large tradition of Perso-Islamic andarz (‘counsel’ or ‘wisdom’) literature and thus represent political or didactic testaments that are coupled with wider ethical maxims and moral exhortations, whether written by kings and statesmen, or other individuals. The testament of Am¥n al-¤arb for example, as translated by Shireen Mahdavi, can be subsumed as well under this epistolary category, as can texts by YaghmÇ-yi Jandaq¥.3 Such epistolary writings, however, lack a pre-deﬁned structure and have no direct legal footing and effect, quite contrary to our testaments. In handbooks of Islamic Law, va‚¥ya constitutes a separate legal category, often placed rather in the vicinity of other contractual forms than in direct connection with inheritance rules. In theory, a va‚¥ya incorporates two independent and separate acts by the testator (called the m‚¥): One is the designation of an executor of the testament (the va‚¥), who is quite often a close relative and whose main function is the partition of the estate and to carry out or supervise any further ordinances. The other is the avowal of concrete legacies (pl. va‚åyå ), as ‘gifts’ for speciﬁc individuals, to fund certain religious services or in favour of acts of welfare and charity. It is important to remember that such a legacy constitutes a concrete right in itself, not merely a claim against the heirs. Equally crucial is the restriction of possible legacies to one-third of the total estate (the thulth), unless the legal heirs give their consent to enlarge it. It is thus not allowed to disinherit children completely in favour of, let us say, a beloved nephew. That outstanding debts and obligations of the testator are deducted from the total of the estate before this third is determined also plays a major role in our later examples.4 Other va‚¥yatnåmihs, for example some of those included in B¥gd¥l¥’s collection of family documents, might constitute semi-legal deeds without necessarily following the above deﬁnition and come very close to the conventional idea of a will. Thus, one starts with an explanation of the testament’s purpose as preventing possibly ensuing quarrels and providing material support for yet unmarried daughters, before allotting properties, one by one, to the descendants in the judicial form of separate contractual declarations. Another testator addresses the heirs in a quite emotional 213

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way (‘I am now bedridden, . . .’), before continuing with an urgent plea to follow up the issue of a village lost through intrigue and deceit. People were often aware that their testaments were not actually legal, as in the case of a man who states that since he has no sons he intends to make over all his property to his son-in-law and admits explicitly that his testament is not really shar¥.5

Three testaments by Tabr¥z¥ merchants The three va‚¥yatnåmihs I want to discuss in more detail were all made by merchants resident in Tabriz during the second half of the nineteenth century: the testament by ÓÇjj¥ M¥rzÇ JabbÇr Tabr¥z¥, known as HallÇj from 1275/1858, one by ÓÇjj¥ Muªammad Al¥ from 1285/1868, and one by Mashhad¥ Muªammad Ri∂Ç BÇghbÇnbÇsh¥ from 1292/1875. Apart from M¥rzÇ JabbÇr, whose name appears in a contemporary list of prominent Tabr¥z¥ merchants, none of these individuals could be identiﬁed independently in other sources – so we have no further information about any of them. All testaments survived as handwritten transcripts that were made at the beginning of the century for the Vizårat-i maårif va ‚anåyi va awqåf and are nowadays kept at the Såzmån-i awqåf in Tehran.6 I came across these and other va‚¥yatnåmihs rather by chance, while looking primarily for vaqf-documents of that period, but it is obvious that quite a large number of them survived and are still on ﬁle. I chose the three examples primarily for the concise and clear manner in which they were composed. That nearly all testaments I found were made by merchants might of course be accidental, but the important question promptly comes to mind whether merchants tended more than members of any other social elite groups to record legal wills? Their deep involvement in public welfare and their position as solid pillars of Qajar religious life might be one reason. The different composition of their properties – being less dependent on state revenues, carrying more cash and commercial assets, and having a different ratio of ownership in real-estate versus landed property – might play a role, as well as a stronger inclination towards meticulous book-keeping and consequent management of their ﬁnancial affairs. There are of course examples of testaments from other social groups, although prior to a more systematic survey, I would suggest a clear tendency within other elites to prefer the option of a pure vaqfdeed. The same, by the way, seems to be true for women who appear frequently as founders of endowments, but rarely as authors of testaments. The basic legal deﬁnition of va‚¥ya, as given above, already outlines the formal structure of our deeds. On the outset of the documents, that in all our examples begin without any kind of rhetorical decoration, stands the designation of the executor, the va‚¥. More elaborate testaments exist of course that would already introduce in a subtle manner the themes of subsequent legacies or allude to the desirability of providing for the afterlife: 214

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‘It is necessary, yet even obligatory, for every living being to contemplate about the beyond’, writes a certain ÓÇjj¥ Mahd¥khÇn.7 They would also feature ornamental quotations from QurÇn and ªad¥th: popular is Q2.180 ‘If death approaches one of you . . .’. The absence of such eloquent introductions in our cases, however, is congruent with the business-like style of the documents and probably reﬂects the social and educational status of the merchants ordering them. To commission a nice introduction would probably have turned out more expensive and would also have required a certain literary ambition. A second block names the outstanding obligations of the testator and other declarations, before the third and largest segment, which lists in detail the concrete legacies, made for individuals, funerals and various activities. In none of our examples any explicit reference to procedural aspects is given, such as who of the heirs was present, received a copy of the deed or was informed of its contents. We can assume, however, that a copy would have remained with the endorsing jurist for any later examination.

The va‚¥ In the following case studies, I will employ the most compact and straightforward va‚¥ya, which is the one by Mashhad¥ BÇghbÇnbÇsh¥, as a standard of comparison (compare the complete text of this testament as added in an appendix to this chapter). The nomination of sons or other close relatives as executors was common in order to avoid later conﬂicts with remaining heirs.8 BÇghbÇnbÇsh¥ names his eldest son as the executor of his will who is to be supervised by a certain ÓÇjj¥ Óasan ÍarrÇf, perhaps a close friend or business-partner. ÓÇjj¥ JabbÇr also designates his oldest son, and only ÓÇjj¥ Muªammad Al¥ who obviously had no descendants of his own, names the two sons of an already deceased friend or remote relative. Other children, sometimes also daughters, are regularly included as supervisors (nåΩir), partly assisted by a mullå who would act as an additional agent to oversee the proceedings. As a member of the lower ulamå he would probably also have acted as a direct link to those offering the later on recorded religious services.

Khums and mål-i imåm Following the nomination of a va‚¥, all deeds give instructions on the payment of khums and mål-i imåm, the religiously ordained taxes that in the Qajar period were collected and disbursed through the ulamå , as well as the fulﬁlment of other obligations that were not to be deducted from the ‘one-third’ reserved for legacies proper. In some testaments there is a certain confusion whether khums should be deducted from the total of the estate or from the thulth, and we can then ﬁnd separate designations in both parts of the respective wills. 215

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Khums was due on all commercial activity and amounted in theory to one ﬁfth of the proﬁts. The reason why we ﬁnd large sums reserved for it in testaments is that its payment could be deferred without clear limits, which was especially important for merchants who were thus able to balance proﬁts and losses over a longer stretch of time. The religious obligation to pay was consequently often fulﬁlled with the donation of a generously calculated lump sum after one’s death. One also has to keep in mind that the ulamå were not able to enforce payments through direct force, nor were they able to draw up estimates of due taxes and thus had to rely on moral and social pressure. Only in the testament of ÓÇjj¥ Muªammad Al¥ are the executors explicitly asked to check the books on the amount of khums already paid. The sums reserved for this category are huge and should be seen in relation to other amounts mentioned later on: BÇghbÇnbÇsh¥ records 1,000 tmån, ÓÇjj¥ Muªammad Al¥ 700 plus an additional 500 tmån from the ‘one-third’, and ÓÇjj¥ JabbÇr also admits his obligation to pay 1,000 tmån, in a later addition raising it even to 1,500 tmån. It is very difﬁcult to convert these abstract sums in a meaningful way into another currency or to give a concrete idea of their purchasing power. Following Walther Hinz, we can calculate the value of the tmån around this time at about 10 ‘Goldmark’, which if transformed into present day market rates for gold would make 1,000 tmån easily more than 35,000 Euro.9 If we attempt to set daily consumption prices, i.e. for bread or meat, as a means of comparison we get even higher results. The same is true for real estate prices of the time: a thousand tmån would have bought a nice house in Tabriz at that time, or substantial land holdings in the area. The irregular payment of such large sums – instead of a steady and calculable cash ﬂow – must have considerably inﬂuenced the organisational and ﬁnancial structure of the clerical establishment of the NÇ‚ir¥ period. This is particularly true if one realises that deaths might have peaked at times of epidemics, while stagnating in other years, whereas ﬁxed costs for the upkeep of buildings, employees, religious ceremonies, or student grants would have remained stable. This in turn necessitated long-term ﬁnancial planning for leading ulamå , including clear strategies of distribution and investment. Only BÇghbÇnbÇsh¥ names the actual recipient of khums as the well-known leader of the Shaykh¥-community of Tabriz ÓÇjj¥ M¥rzÇ Muªammad Shaf¥ Thiqat al-IslÇm who, together with his son, had also issued and endorsed this va‚¥yatnåmih. This is the only case where a clear connection to one speciﬁc leading cleric is documented in one of our testaments.

Further non-legatory provisions Other stipulations that do not yet constitute legacies (va‚åyå ) proper are the fulﬁlment of other obligations, such as open debts mentioned by 216

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BÇghbÇnbÇsh¥ and Muªammad Al¥, and the establishment of foundations (awqåf), a point I will take up later on in more detail. In a wider sense, also the remittal of dowries, the technical term used is ªaqq al-‚adåq, by Muªammad Al¥ to his two wives with 30 and 32 tmån respectively are considered debts, in the same way as ÓÇjj¥ JabbÇr declares himself obliged to bestow 150 tmån on his spouse. BÇghbÇnbÇsh¥ does not provide any concrete sum for his wife, but states that all movable small objects of the house should be considered her property. Care for surviving wives can be encountered frequently, also independent of dowry payments, and might include the simple afﬁrmation of continuing housing rights after the testator’s death.10 Whether the payment of money under the title of radd-i maΩålim to the poor should be considered as debt or as legacy seems to have been legally disputed. ÓÇjj¥ JabbÇr includes it with the amount of 500 tmån under the former, while ÓÇjj¥ Muªammad Al¥ includes it as legacy with 220 tmån, distinguishing between poor recipients in his place of origin and the poor of Tabriz. The understanding of radd-i maΩålim, literally ‘rejection of unjust deeds’, is not clearly deﬁned. In its basic meaning it refers to the remittal of debts of which the original owner is not known anymore or the fulﬁlment of other ﬁnancial obligations that for some reason became impossible.11 However, the large sums reserved in this regard – indeed few merchants can be imagined to have had so many debts of unknown origin – suggest that these payments included a general quest for absolution for wealth acquired with partly illicit means. Money reserved for radd-i maΩålim might then be understood as a kind of indulgence-payments.

Va‚åyå – Legacies Mashhad¥ BÇghbÇnbÇsh¥ is more transparent than the other testators in the way he separates legacies from other provisions, starting out with the unmistakable declaration of va‚¥yat namd (‘he made a will’) and a clear estimate of the thulth at 3,000 tmån which, as he states, should turn out to be equivalent to his real-estate property in Tehran. This actually allows us to estimate the total worth of his estate at a minimum of roughly 10,000 tmån. Quite contrary to this, Muªammad Al¥ seems to have been much less certain about his assets. He orders the executors ﬁrst to deﬁne the exact size of the thulth that should be taken primarily from capital invested in trade (mål al-tijåra). Only if this should prove insufﬁcient, real-estate property should be included in its calculation. ÓÇjj¥ JabbÇr in turn merely reserves the limited amount of 550 tmån, probably much less than the possible thulth, for speciﬁc expenditures and legacies.

Funerals What one would imagine to come ﬁrst in a testament are instructions for the funeral, and indeed we ﬁnd them in all of our exemplary testaments, 217

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although not necessarily at the beginning. BÇghbÇnbÇsh¥ summarily destines 100 tmån for both funeral – which appears here simply as taz¥ya va khatm – and the transport of the corpse to Najaf. A second position is reserved for the travel costs of his children and their mother to accompany the deceased to his ﬁnal resting place, that with 200 tmån is estimated considerably higher. Other testaments rather distinguish between the immediate funeral ceremonies after the death of the testator, and the sometimes much later effected burial at the AtabÇt or other places.12 Most detailed is the prescription given by ÓÇjj¥ JabbÇr:

· ·

costs and expenditures of furnishing the funeral, shrouding the corpse, and three days of mourning, including the ceremony on the fortieth day: 60 tmån; costs of sending the corpse to Najaf, the digging of a stone grave, the furnishing of the grave, the transport of the corpse accompanied by the testator’s children, the circumambulation of the corpse around the sacred tombs, recitations of one section of the Qurån every day on the way to Najaf, distribution of adequate alms in Najaf: 100 tmån.

Similar instructions, though less detailed, are given by ÓÇjj¥ Muªammad Al¥, who reserves 55 tmån for the funeral and no speciﬁed sum for the transport of the body. We know from travelogues about the long and arduous caravan transports of corpses to the AtabÇt, but it is in these va‚¥yatnåmihs where we see who ordered these transports, which rituals accompanied transport and burial, and what exact costs were connected with it.

Religious services Not directly linked to the funeral proper, but also destined to procure a good outlook for the deceased testator’s afterlife are numerous religious services to be performed directly or indirectly in favour of the defunct. In the case of Mashhad¥ BÇghbÇnbÇsh¥, these comprise ﬁrst supererogatory prayers and fasting, whose religious reward would be counted directly to his beneﬁt. The price for ‚awm va ‚alåt (‘fasting and prayer’) was clearly a ﬁxed and generally recognised unit that was calculated on a yearly basis with two tmån a year. BÇghbÇnbÇsh¥ stipulates the period of ﬁfty years, ÓÇjj¥ JabbÇr of sixty-seven years, adding a separate amount for prayers to prevent earthquakes and eclipses. ÓÇjj¥ Muªammad Al¥ omits to name a clearly deﬁned period, but ordains similar services also for a deceased sister and his ancestors. Another important segment of religious services demanded are pilgrimages by proxy (ªajj-i badal/ªajj bil-niyåba), or the hiring of permanent agents or representatives at major Shiite shrines. To contract a pilgrimage to Mecca to be performed by somebody else, even after one’s death, was 218

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seen as an adequate fulﬁlment of the shar¥ obligation, if for whatever reason, i.e. sickness, one was unable to perform the ªajj oneself. Shiite law permits direct payment to the one performing the pilgrimage, contrary to rulings of other schools of law which exclude ﬁnancial motives on the side of the proxy. Precise regulations on the conditions of such a contracted pilgrimage can be found in the Shiite handbooks of law, at least from the Safavid period onwards.13 Prices also appear to have existed at a ﬁxed market rate of 100–150 tmån, although no information on the kind of people who accomplished these journeys and their precise contracts are provided.14 BÇghbÇnbÇsh¥ only prescribes a normal ªajj and reserves the amount of 150 tmån for it. It is interesting to note that pilgrimages were also contracted by people who, at least if deduced from their address as ÓÇjj¥, had already been to Mecca. Thus we ﬁnd sums for pilgrimages also mentioned in the testaments of ÓÇjj¥ JabbÇr and ÓÇjj¥ Muªammad Al¥. The former adds furthermore a pilgrimage to Mashhad and Qum, as well as to all major shrines of the Atabåt (for 25 tmån each), while the latter orders a pilgrimage not only for himself, but also one in favour of his late father.

Legacies for individuals and charities Real legacies in favour of speciﬁc individuals appear mixed in between the above instructions. Their intent is primarily to support relatives who would not receive adequate amounts from the normal partition of the estate. Thus BÇghbÇnbÇsh¥ leaves 100 tmån to a niece and 50 tmån to a certain ÅqÇ Óusayn whose relation to the testator is not clear. ÓÇjj¥ Muªammad Al¥ leaves 20 tmån for each of his – presumably younger – three brothers and sisters. Interesting to note in this case is that both brothers and sisters, contrary to common inheritance rules, receive equal shares. However, if compared with the sums reserved for religious taxes or charitable acts, all these individual ‘gifts’ turn out to be rather meagre. Quite common is also the allotment of large sums for acts of charity and welfare or for religious services of which the merit (thavåb) would of course go to the deceased, although they are not directly related to him as an individual as in the case of prayers or contracted pilgrimages. Mashhad¥ BÇghbÇnbÇsh¥ destines a sum of 800 tmån for charities and welfare (iªsån va birr). ÓÇjj¥ Muªammad Al¥ devotes money on quite a number of charitable activities for the public, among them yearly 58 tmån for taz¥ya-activities, 30 tmån to buy books on ﬁqh and ªad¥th for students of religion (†ullåb), and a sum of 500 tmån for acts of charity to be spent as his executors deem most appropriate.

Testaments and vaqf – a symbiosis In these general provisions for welfare and public beneﬁcence the testaments come closest to the institution of vaqf. What I left out in the presentation 219

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of the above testaments is indeed the close symbiosis and mutual connection between the legal form of va‚¥ya and ‘pious endowments’. All our testaments include an endowment in one way or the other.15 Once again, the testament by Mashhad¥ BÇghbÇnbÇsh¥ is the most transparent: he simply incorporates a formal acknowledgement (iqrår) of a separately recorded vaqf in the testament. This separate vaqf over parts of a village near MarÇghih names the Sayyid al-ShuhadÇ, i.e. Imam Óusayn, as the sole beneﬁciary of the vaqf and thus constitutes a typical Qajar taz¥ya-vaqf. Things become more complicated in the case of ÓÇjj¥ Muªammad Al¥, where the establishment of an endowment is completely integrated in the va‚¥yatnåmih and not recorded anymore in a separate document. It is inserted after the stipulations concerning the payment of khums and the legacies taken from the ‘one-third’. Still, the formal demands of a vaqf are all fulﬁlled when four shops in the bazaar of Tabriz are transformed into a vaqf in favour of the poor (fuqarå ). This adherence to legal formalities – at least to what constitutes a correct vaqf – is completely evaded by ÓÇjj¥ JabbÇr. He orders the executors of his will to guard in perpetuity a number of real-estate objects in his possession. The revenue derived from them should be disbursed for charities and welfare as deemed appropriate by the executors. They were also free to nominate another person as the legal administrator of this foundation, although ÓÇjj¥ JabbÇr preferred this task to be accomplished by one of his descendants. So far all aspects of a ‘normal’ vaqf are covered. A number of clearly deﬁned objects that yield a regular usufruct are to be preserved for eternity. Their income is to be used for charitable activities, thus constituting a public foundation, and the administrator of the foundation should be chosen from the descendants of the founder, and although he is not called mutavall¥, his functions are indisputably the same. However, there is one particular stipulation that hints at the reasons for choosing this particular legal construction, instead of establishing a standard vaqf. ÓÇjj¥ JabbÇr states explicitly that the descendants and executors of the will are authorised to sell, exchange and substitute some of the properties in case of need, as long as they do not act contrary to his overall intentions. This is an option that is only admitted by way of exception for a normal vaqf and allows the descendants a much larger ﬂexibility in operating the donated properties. In addition, such a foundation does not comprise any actual transfer of ownership. Although the question of who ﬁnally owns vaqf-properties is an issue of controversy among jurists – whether God, the community of believers, or if they are simply removed from the deﬁnition of ownership – there can be no doubt that with the creation of a vaqf actual proprietorship is terminated. In the case of a testamentary legacy, on the other hand, ownership clearly continues. Quite often such pseudo-vaqfs were later on simply treated as ‘normal’ vaqfs, or they were later on ‘legalised’ and also formally transformed into 220

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correct vaqfs. An example for the latter process can be observed in a case outside our three examples, namely that of a certain ÓÇjj¥ AbbÇs. In a Shar¥ a-court protocol that outlines the proceedings surrounding his testament, the descendants declare that ÓÇjj¥ AbbÇs had always displayed an obvious liking for raw∂a and taz¥ya during his lifetime. Therefore four shops and part of a ªammåm (bath-house) were kept after his death ‘as if they were vaqf’’ (bih rasm-i vaqf ) and thus remained in the possession of this unofﬁcial foundation (muddat¥ dar ta‚arruf-i vaqf . . .) which was controlled by ÓÇjj¥ AbbÇs’s testamentory executor. Soon, however, conﬂicts between the executor and the other heirs occurred and thus a number of them decided to transform the pseudo-vaqf now into a legally correct endowment.16 The close symbiosis between vaqfs and testaments as shown by the fact that one could incorporate complete vaqfs into testaments, or alternatively use a testament to establish a semi-ofﬁcial foundation, should be seen as sign of the ﬂuidity of legal concepts and contractual forms that in my view are decisive for the understanding of late Qajar society.

Conclusion I realise that there has been much talk of money, sums and obligations paid, unpaid or deferred. If I created the impression that everything comes down to money in the end, this is not exactly what I intended. But institutionalised religion, after all, is never free from mundane material concerns, as I hope to have demonstrated convincingly through the analysis of the above wills. In the testaments of the merchants from Tabriz considered here, there are, if any, very few traits of individual beliefs, convictions, or personal devotion. We recognised Mashhad¥ BÇghbÇnbÇsh¥ as an adherent of the Tabr¥z¥ Shaykh¥ community, and saw that some preferred to donate money to the poor, whereas others supported Shiite mourning rituals. Whether our merchants were ‘pious’ in a narrow sense, whether, for example, they were more or less devoted to religious duties than other social elite groups is difﬁcult to decide. To employ testaments as a one-to-one representation of merchant mentalities becomes especially cumbersome in our examples which turned out to display an extremely sober and matter-offact style. While this tone might go well with the image of people dedicated to daily down-to-earth business affairs, we should be well aware that the deliberate calculation of investments for proﬁts in the afterlife that appears at ﬁrst as a typical mercantile attitude, is to a not-insigniﬁcant degree shaped by the legal formulary of the testaments. And the ones controlling, issuing and endorsing the legal writing of these documents were not merchants, but, once again, the ulamå . Still, what our testaments prove persuasively is the degree to which merchants of the late Qajar period were integrated into the economic 221

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Appendix: The Testament by Muªammad Ri∂å Båghbånbåsh⁄

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system that supported Iranian Shiite Islam. Testaments show the huge amounts of khums that were paid to the clerical establishment and in what form this was done. As benefactors, whether through traditional vaqfs, testamentary endowments or a variety of straight legacies, merchants funded, in an extensive manner, social welfare and taz¥ya-rituals. Finally, with their meticulous and detailed concern for their own afterlife, Qajar merchants provided for the existence of a widespread religious serviceindustry. This includes not only the funeral services that connected every major Iranian city with the graveyards of Najaf and offered the necessary logistics of transport and travel for accompanying family members, but also people taking over assignments for yearlong prayers and fasting, as well as for the performance of pilgrimages. What only testaments can show us, is that ﬁxed market prices existed for these services and to what they amounted. Thus va‚¥yatnåmihs constitute an important source genre for both the socio-economic and religious history of late nineteenth-century Iran – and as I tried to show in the case of the symbiosis of vaqf and va‚¥ya – for the change in the nature of legal transactions in the NÇ‚ir¥ period.

Translation The honourable Mashhad¥ Muªammad Ri∂Ç BÇghbÇnbÇsh¥ designated his eldest son ÅqÇ Muªammad BÇqir as his legal testamentary executor and empowered agent. Under the supervision of ÓÇjj¥ Óasan ÍarrÇf, son of the late ÓÇjj¥ Raª¥m, he shall execute the stipulations and legacies of the above-named after he will have passed away. First, his conﬁrmed debts shall be paid and 1,000 current tmån from the total of the estate shall be given to the excellent Thiqat al-IslÇm ÓÇjj¥ M¥rzÇ Muªammad ShÇﬁ ÅqÇ under the title of mal-i imåm and khums. He also acknowledges that one third of the village ÍaghÇyish from the vicinity of MarÇghih is vaqf to the beneﬁt of the Sayyid al-ShuhadÇ; its revenue shall be spent every year for his taz¥ya. Clothes and small articles from the chest, as much as they may be, are the property of the executor’s mother. He made a legacy to the effect that 3,000 tmån should be considered the one-third (thulth), consisting of the house, garden, and household articles in Tehran. ÅqÇ Muªammad BÇqir and his brother ÅqÇ Al¥ Akbar shall be given 1,500 in equal parts. The remaining 1,500 tmån should be spent according to the detailed list below under supervision of the above-mentioned.

· ·

Fasting and prayers (‚awm va ‚alavåt) for ﬁfty years: 100 tmån. Agency (niyåbat) for the ªajj by anybody nominated by the executor: 150 tmån. 224

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· · · · ·

Costs for one of the children and their mother to accompany the corpse: 200 tmån. Expenditures of the funeral and the transport of the corpse to Najaf: 100 tmån. To ZahrÇ Bigum KhÇnum, niece of the testator and daughter of Mashhad¥ Al¥: 100 tmån. To ÅqÇ Óusayn, son of the late Mashhad¥ Óasan: 50 tmån. To be spent on other charitable acts (vujh-i birr va iªsÇn): 800 tmÇn.

‘If anyone changes the bequest after hearing it, the guilt shall be on those who make the change’ (Q2.181). This took place on the 12th Dh¥ qada of the ‘Year of the Pig’ 1292.

Notes 1 As in many other instances of terminology, it seems to me that the understanding of ‘ayån’ became much more relaxed towards the later NÇ‚ir¥ period. Thus NÇdir M¥rzÇ Tår¥kh va jughråf¥-yi dår al-sal†anih-yi Tabr¥z (GhulÇmri∂Ç ˝abÇ†abÇ¥-Majd (ed.): Tabriz, 1373sh) 47, 81, 85, 334 uses it quite interchangeably with akåbir and buzurgån, sometimes mentioning tujjår/båzårgånån separately, and sometimes including them. Ad¥b al-Mulk Muqaddam MarÇgha¥ Dåfi al-ghurr (yå rznåmih-i safar-i Ådharbåyjån) (Ûraj AfshÇr (ed.): Tehran, 1349sh) 288–90, a Persian travelogue from the early years of NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh’s reign, includes a list of merchants under the heading of ‘Asåm¥-yi tujjår va ayån-i shahr’. This list also includes the name of M¥rzÇ JabbÇr, the author of one of our testaments. For an overview on wholesale merchants in Qajar Iran see Willem M. Floor ‘The Merchants (tujjår) in QÇjÇr Iran’ ZDMG 126 (1976) 101–35 and the introductory parts of Shireen Mahdavi For God, Mammon, and Country. A Nineteenth Century Persian Merchant, Haj Muªammad Hassan Amin al-Zarb (1834–1898) (Boulder, 1999). A good case study is Kamran Ekbal ‘Der politische Einﬂuß des persischen Kaufmannstandes in der frühen Kadscharenzeit, dargestellt am Beispiel von ÓÇºº¥ ˜al¥l KhÇn Qazw¥n¥ Maliku’t-TuººÇr’ Der Islam 57 (1980) 9–35. 2 John D. Gurney ‘A Qajar Household and its Estates’ Iranian Studies 16 (1983) 137–76. 3 Mahdavi, God, Mammon, and Country, 187–93 (Appendix B). YaghmÇ-yi Jandaq¥ Majma-yi åthår-i Yaghmå-yi Jandaq¥. 2: Makåt¥b va munshaåt (Al¥ Ål-i DÇd (ed.): Tehran, 1362sh) letters no. 297 and 298, 313–14, and no. 316, 328–30 (my thanks to Roxane Haag-Higuchi for this reference). 4 Joseph Schacht Introduction to Islamic Law (Oxford, 1964) 173f. In a Shiite context see for example, Muªammad b. Óusayn BahÇ al-D¥n al-Åmil¥ Jåmi i Abbås¥: Yak dawrih-yi ﬁqh-i Fårs¥, with marginal notes by ShihÇb al-D¥n Marash¥-Najaf¥ (Tehran, 1985) 379–84, or Amédée Querry Droit Musulman: Recueil de lois concernant les musulmans schyites, 2 vols (Paris, 1871–2) 610–38 as the translation of Óill¥’s Sharå i al-islåm. The discussion in all these works remains however on a purely theoretical level. 5 All examples from GhulÇmªusayn B¥gdil¥ Tår¥kh-i B¥gdil¥: Madårik va asnåd (Tehran, 1367sh). In order of quotation: testament 1 (dated 15 Muªarram 1325) 969–74, testament 3 (dated 17 Dh¥ ªijja 1252) 977f, testament 4 (dated 2 Rab¥ I 1326) 979f.

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6 The details of the three testaments are as follows: i

ii iii

Testament by HÇjji JabbÇr, tåjir-i tabr¥z¥, known as HallÇj, dated 2 Íafar 1275 (11 September 1858), call-number in the Såzmån-i awqåf va khayr¥ya in Tehran: 53-T ‘Tabr¥z¥ ÓÇjj¥ JabbÇr’. The transcript includes a later ªukm dated 3 Muªarram 1336 (19 October 1917). The edited Persian text of this testament with a translation is included in Christoph Werner An Iranian Town in Transition: A Social and Economic History of the Elites of Tabriz, 1747–1848 (Wiesbaden, 2000), 363–7. Testament by ÓÇjj¥ Muªammad Al¥, tåjir-i Tabr¥z¥, dated 19 Rajab 1285 (5 November 1868), call-number in the Såzmån-i awqåf va khayr¥ya in Tehran: 118-Ó ‘ÓÇjj Muªammad Al¥’. Mashhad¥ Muªammad Ri∂Ç BÇghbÇnbÇsh¥, dated 12 Dh¥ qada tangz yil 1292 (10 December 1875), Såzmån-i awqåf va khayr¥ya: included in a manuscript ledger of vaqfs from Azerbaijan, 743f.

7 B¥gdil¥, Tår¥kh-i B¥gdil¥, 979. As an example for a much more intricate testament that includes Quranic quotations and numerous stylistic ornament see the one included in Sebastian Beck Neupersische Konversationsgrammatik (Heidelberg, 1914) 299f. 8 There are also cases where spouses would be named as testamentary executors, see B¥gdil¥, Tår¥kh-i B¥gdil¥, 975, where a certain Abd al-Rash¥d names the mother of his oldest/preferred son as va‚¥. 9 These remarks are only intended to offer a very rough idea about the amounts mentioned, they cannot replace a clearly needed independent study on the development of prices based on indigenous Persian source material. Note that all testaments discussed here record price levels before the massive inﬂation of the 1880s. Walter Hinz Islamische Währungen des 11. bis 19. Jahrhunderts umgerechnet in Gold. Ein Beitrag zur islamischen Wirtschaftsgeschichte (Wiesbaden, 1991) 86–9. Tables on prices and Sterling exchange rates compiled from European sources in Charles Issawi The Economic History of Iran: 1800–1914 (Chicago, 1971) 335–43, according to his tables, one tmån would have bought at least 20 kg of meat in our period, making it feasible to conceive one tmån as equivalent to at least 50 Euro. 10 B¥gdil¥, Tår¥kh-i B¥gdil¥, 980. 11 See Al¥ Akbar DihkhudÇ Lughatnåmih, 14 vols (Tehran, 1994) VII, cf. ‘radd-i maΩålim’. 12 Alternatives to the AtabÇt were of course the shrines in Mashhad or Qum (as in the testament by Abd al-Rash¥d in B¥gdil¥, Tår¥kh-i B¥gdil¥, 976). 13 BahÇ al-D¥n al-Åmil¥, Jåmi -i abbås¥, 134–6: Óajj-i niyåbat. 14 This practice does still exist, a US-based travel agency offers pilgrimages by proxy for $600, see www.hudaatravel.com/Service/hajj/package/badal/. 15 The impression that every testament must necessarily include an endowment is of course not tenable. The origin of the material, here the archives of the Såzmån-i awqåf, leads to a pre-selection of certain testaments and the exclusion of others. 16 Document kept in the Såzmån-i awqåf in Tehran, call-number ‘309-ayn, AbbÇs, ÓÇjj¥’, dated 6 Rab¥ II 1270AH, later transcript of the court-protocol from the Vizårat-i maårif. Another, much more complicated example for the close interaction between vaqf and testamentary legacies can be seen in the attempt by M¥rzÇ Muªammad Mahd¥ QÇ∂¥ to revive a much earlier foundation, JamÇl TurÇb¥-˝abÇ†abÇ¥ Nasabnåmih-yi shåkha¥ az ˝åbå†abå ¥hå-yi Tabr¥z (Tabriz, 1376sh) 51–3.

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12 THE VAQF AND THE RELIGIOUS PATRONAGE OF MANÌCHIHR KHÅN MUTAMAD AL-DAWLAH Nobuaki Kondo Introduction As with other Muslim societies in history, Qajar society was not religiously homogeneous. It was made up of various religious minorities, and also converts to Islam. Even at the Qajar court, there were some powerful elite converts, like Manchihr KhÇn and Khusraw KhÇn during the reigns of Fatª Al¥ ShÇh and Muªammad ShÇh. Though the role and status of convert and slave elites has been one of the most attractive issues in Islamic history, and over the past few decades a considerable amount of research have been done on them,1 little research has appeared to date dealing with these issues in Qajar society. On the other hand, few attempts have been made so far to study the religious patronage of the Qajar court elite, despite growing attention on Sh¥ ¥ Islam after the Islamic Revolution.2 In particular, the study of Qajar vaqf had been totally neglected until recently.3 The purpose of this study is to analyse the religious patronage of Manchihr KhÇn Mutamad al-Dawla, a convert from Christianity to Islam and one of the most important political ﬁgures in Iran during the ﬁrst half of the nineteenth century, examining his vaqf endowment and his socio-religious identity. He is well known in the West as the protector of BÇb, the founder of Babism; but this is only a brief episode in his life; his whole career and religious patronage have never been fully discussed.4 This study will show how he climbed to the top of courtier society, what kind of religious causes he patronised, and why he did so as a convert living in Qajar society. Fortunately, there are some useful sources on Manchihr KhÇn, including a vaqf deed and other Persian documents. The most important narrative source is Madå iª al-mutamadiyya, a tadhkira or anthology made up of poems dedicated to Manchihr KhÇn, which includes his biography.5 Another important source is an Armenian biographical dictionary which E. J. Harden translated and introduced.6 Some Western sources are also available. 227

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Political career Though Manchihr KhÇn is always mentioned in the same breath with the nisba ‘Gurj¥’ (Georgian), and Layard, who met him personally, describes him as a Georgian purchased as a slave,7 there is no doubt that he was an Armenian from Tbilisi. His ancestors were Armenian notables, who migrated from Armenia to Georgia in the seventeenth century and served the Georgian monarchy as ofﬁcial translators.8 Originally his family name was Mamkiniyan, but after the migration adopted Inikulb or Enikolopiant, which means ‘box of languages’ in Georgian and attests to the family’s linguistic abilities.9 In some Persian sources, his origin is more highly estimated: his ancestors being vaz¥rs of Georgian vice-kings under the Safavids.10 However, this account should be understood as ﬁctional, composed to add prestige to Manchihr KhÇn. The Madå iª tells another interesting story – he was a descendant of An Sh¥rvÇn (Khusraw I), the Sasanian king.11 The author of Madå iª tries, thereby, to link him with the Iranian monarchy and the just ruler. It must have been too difﬁcult for the author to link Manchihr KhÇn with the prophet Muªammad, or any other Islamic saints. Chongur Enikolopiant (later Manchihr KhÇn) was captured by the Iranian army in 1804 in the midst of the ﬁrst Russo-Iranian War.12 After he was brought to Iran, and castrated by the order of Fatª Al¥ ShÇh, he converted to Islam and began serving the court as a eunuch. After a while he was appointed chief eunuch (¥ch-åqås¥-båsh¥) and became an intimate advisor to the Shah.13 At ﬁrst his Persian name was JÇnsz, meaning ‘soul inﬂaming’, but after his promotion, the Shah granted him the nobler Iranian name ‘Manchihr’ (the name of a king of the PishdÇt¥ dynasty), and then bestowed on him the title of khån.14 Though the Madå iª does not mention it, it is likely that he held the status of slave, since most of the Persian chronicles call him ghulåm.15 However, another source describes him as one of ‘the servants possessed by the late king (i.e. Fatª Al¥ ShÇh)’ (bandagån-i mamlk-i khåqån-i ill¥y¥n åshyån), and sees him as representing ‘the proof of education conducted by an intelligent king.’16 We can assume that his early career was quite similar to that of any slave elite member in the medieval Middle East. In the translation of a bond received from him dated in 1822, he is called ‘Manoochehr Khan, Fatteh Ali Shahee’,17 and this nisba ‘Fatª Al¥ ShÇh¥’ conﬁrms the fact that he was the slave of Fatª Al¥ ShÇh. His status as slave would have serious consequences after his death, as we will see below. As chief eunuch his duty was to command more than ﬁve hundred eunuchs, who consisted of Georgians, Turks, Kurds, both white and black, guarding the royal harem.18 He administrated the gates of the royal palace, and no prince or princess could pass through the gates without his permission.19 He would carry a water bowl for hand-washing and a pot of drinking water to the royal harem at lunch and dinner every day, and 228

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would always accompany the Shah when he left the palace. He sometimes played games with the princes in the harem. The Shah called him ‘my partner’ (shar¥k).20 When the grand vizier M¥rzÇ Shaf¥ became old and could no longer perform his duties, Manchihr KhÇn took on these responsibilities.21 He was granted the title Mutamad al-Dawla (‘Trustee of the State’) in 1245/1829.22 As shown by this title, the intimate trust of the Shah was the main factor in his promotion at court. Manchihr KhÇn was also very close to Muªammad ShÇh. Before Muªammad ShÇh’s accession to the throne, Manchihr KhÇn was one of the court elite who backed him to be crown prince.23 When Fatª Al¥ ShÇh nominated him as his successor, it was Manchihr KhÇn who went to inform the other princes.24 He also displayed economic skills in the harem. He founded a company with his colleagues to purchase jewellery at reasonable prices for the ladies in the royal harem. This company was, until its dissolution in 1819, very successful. Manchihr KhÇn would lend the proﬁts from the business to courtiers for the purpose of buying gifts to present to the Shah in the hope of obtaining ofﬁcial posts in the provinces. Gradually he came to be considered as the representative of the provincial governors in Tehran.25 We have a translation of a bond of 48,565 tmån from Manchihr KhÇn to Elias Antoon, the chief merchant of Baghdad dated 1822.26 We have no idea what Manchihr KhÇn bought from the merchant, but the instrument shows that it was a large purchase. He invested the proﬁts from his business endeavours in both urban and rural estates, and became one of the richest men in the empire. Manchihr KhÇn also played an important role in Iranian diplomacy. At the time of the peace treaty negotiations at Turkmanchay, he advised Fatª Al¥ ShÇh not to appoint native Persian ofﬁcials to the ﬁrst delegation. The Shah sent a decree to AbbÇs M¥rzÇ, and the latter appointed B¥zhÇn KhÇn, a convert, who produced excellent results.27 Moreover, Manchihr KhÇn was the one who prepared and carried the war-loss indemnity for the Russians to Turkmanchay village, and attended the peace treaty negotiations held there in 1828.28 The following year he negotiated with Griboedov, the Russian envoy, over the problem of M¥rzÇ Yaqb, an Armenian eunuch who wanted to return to his homeland.29 When mobs in Tehran were getting ready to attack Griboedov, Manchihr KhÇn sent his nephew to alarm the envoy and advised him to leave Iran immediately.30 It is quite natural that he should have had an advantage over others in negotiating with the Russians due to his origin. As QÇim-maqÇm wrote in a letter, ‘It is good that the chief eunuch of the royal department is Manchihr KhÇn. He has credible knowledge about everything, and he knows the affairs of the Russians well.’31 The striking fact is that he still kept the connection with his homeland even after he began his career at the Qajar court. Though Manchihr KhÇn’s mother and some relatives migrated from Georgia to Iran under 229

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his protection, his brother, a Lieutenant Enakolopov, remained in Tbilisi and served at Russian headquarters as an ofﬁcial translator in the tradition of his ancestors.32 According to Persian sources, the governor-general of Transcaucasia sent an envoy to Iran in 1832, whose name was M¥rzÇ EbrÇh¥m, and who was the Christian brother of Manchihr KhÇn.33 No doubt he was that same Lieutenant Enakolopov. He was received by Manchihr KhÇn and stayed at his house in Tehran. It is quite reasonable to assume that his Caucasian connections must have fortiﬁed his position in Qajar courtier society, since Russian affairs were critical to the Qajar government at the time. On the other hand, according to a Russian military report, his origin and the activities of his brother may have raised some doubts at court about his loyalty at the time of the Second Russo-Iranian War. The report said that the war was not turning out to be proﬁtable for him, and this was the reason he desired peace with Russia.34 Another aspect of Manchihr KhÇn’s career was his appointment as a local administrator. He was ﬁrst appointed as vaz¥r to YaªyÇ M¥rzÇ, the governor of Gilan from 182435 to 1835. Since the governor was too young to rule the province, Manchihr KhÇn functioned as its de facto acting governor.36 Gilan had close relations with Russia via the Caspian Sea, and encountered some commercial problems especially after the Treaty of Turkmanchay. Manchihr KhÇn dealt with these problems and negotiated with the Russian Consuls,37 his origin once again proving to be an advantage. In the midst of the civil war after the death of Fatª Al¥ ShÇh, Manchihr KhÇn left Gilan with an army and money to support Muªammad ShÇh.38 Just after reaching Tehran from Tabriz, Muªammad ShÇh ordered him to go to Fars and subdue Óusayn Al¥ M¥rzÇ, his uncle and contender of the throne.39 Military campaigns were Manchihr KhÇn’s major contribution to the state during Muªammad ShÇh’s reign. After capturing Óusayn Al¥ M¥rzÇ, he stayed on as vaz¥r in Fars for two years. During that time he arrested local notables, such as the QashqÇ¥ ÛlkhÇn and the FasÇ¥ family in Shiraz, in order to keep the peace in the province.40 He campaigned against MamasÇn¥ chief, Val¥ KhÇn, and succeeded in capturing him.41 In 1836, he was appointed governor-general of Kermamshah and Khuzestan, important provinces on the border with the Ottomans. As soon as he arrived there, he subdued rebellious Kurdish tribes, such as the Kalhur and GrÇn.42 Finally in 1839 he became the governor of Isfahan and Ahvaz. He punished l†¥s who committed all sorts of excesses severely, and returned the city of Isfahan to tranquillity. His military campaign continued against the BakhtiyÇr¥s and Kabs, two large tribal groups in southwest Iran. He conquered Muªammara and captured Muªammad Taq¥ KhÇn BakhtiyÇr¥.43 He held the governorship until his death in 1847. 230

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Manchihr KhÇn indeed had a brilliant career as an able eunuch, talented diplomat and strong military governor. He contributed to solving such problems confronting the Qajar government as affairs with Russia, succession to the throne, and instability in the provinces. In this sense it can be asserted that he greatly contributed to the survival of the Qajar monarchy,44 a role which lifted him to the top of Qajar courtier society.

Religious patronage When discussing converts to Islam, doubts will always rise as if they are sincere believers or pretenders who converted under some kind of pressure or for the sake of convenience. Since this is very difﬁcult to ascertain, we will have to be satisﬁed with describing Manchihr KhÇn’s religious patronage and showing some examples of it. First, however, let us consider the religious environment of the Qajar court. What is interesting here is that in those days, Christians seem to have been able to serve the court without mandatory conversion to Islam. The gravestone of Manchihr’s nephew, Rustam KhÇn, who died in 1842, is located in the cemetery of the Armenian Church in New Jolfa, Isfahan, indicating his Christian identity.45 Another nephew, SulaymÇn KhÇn SahhÇm al-mulk, who also served at the Qajar court and died in 1852, was buried in the cemetery of the Armenian Church near the Qazvin Gate of Tehran. His mourning ceremony was held there at the expense of NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh.46 We must assume that they did not convert to Islam, and that the Shah was tolerant towards their religious persuasions. They might have entered Iran as freemen, so their situation may have been different from that of Manchihr KhÇn, who was brought to Iran as a slave, but at least we must recognize the existence of religious tolerance at the Qajar court and assume that Manchihr KhÇn could have displayed a pro-Christian attitude if he had wanted. However, we cannot trace such an attitude and, according to an Armenian source, he did not show any special favour to New Jolfa Armenians, even when he was governor of Isfahan.47 While it is difﬁcult to ascertain his true attitude toward Islam as a religious conviction, his patronage of Islam is very clear. Of this, there are many examples. The Madå iª contains the description of his pious acts (åthår-i khayråt). He built and repaired many religious buildings, built a mosque in Kermanshah,48 rebuilt the Shrine of Sayyid Muªammad KiyÇ KhÇr in Shushtar, and repaired and gilded a shrine called ImÇmzÇdih-i Abd AllÇh.49 He built an inn attached to ImÇmzÇdih-i HÇshim in Rasht, and opened and paved the road from the city to the Shrine.50 Some his construction projects and repairs of religious buildings were done by the order of the Qajar Shahs. In 1231/1815–16 he repaired the ShÇhzÇdih Aªmad shrine in Qum by the order of Fatª Al¥ ShÇh.51 When he was the governor of Kermanshah, Muªammad ShÇh sent him gold and ordered him to repair and gild the shrine of KÇΩimayn.52 He constructed 231

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the large south porch (ayvån) of the famous Masjid-i ShÇh in Isfahan by the order of the Shah.53 Another example is the donation of three pairs of doors to the mausoleum of Fatª Al¥ ShÇh located at Óa∂rat-i Ma‚ma Shrine in Qum.54 This may show not only his affection to his former master, but also his respect for the shrine. His own mausoleum, which was attached to the mausoleum of Muªammad ShÇh, was built by his Christian nephew, M¥rzÇ DÇd KhÇn, also in the courtyard of the shrine.55 Here we discover that he died and was buried as a Sh¥ ¥ Muslim. Also in Tehran, Manchihr KhÇn founded two important facilities in the Bazaar quarter (maªalla).56 One was a takya for the mourning ceremony for ImÇm Óusayn, located near the Arg (citadel), for which he established a vaqf (on this, see below). The other was a printing house (chåpkhånih) established before 1826, the ﬁrst in Tehran and the second in Iran, operated by M¥rzÇ Zayn al-Åbid¥n Tabr¥z¥, an engineer. Manchihr KhÇn invested twenty thousand tmån in this project. More than eight thousand copies of the QurÇn and Óad¥th were printed there, then distributed all over Iran to be sold by merchants.57 This indicates that Manchihr KhÇn supported Islamic publishing that made use of a new technology. Manchihr KhÇn seems to have maintained good relations with religious scholars. The Madå iª, his ofﬁcial biography, repeatedly mentions his respect for the ulamå and the fu∂alå as well as poets and writers.58 He accepted the mediation of religious scholars when he subdued the Kurdish tribal groups in Kermanshah.59 Of course, the author of Madå iª describes such conduct as one of his virtues, but there is, at least, no evidence he had strained relations with Islamic authorities. His two qanåt transactions in the northern suburb of Tehran were recognized and authorized by Muªammad Mahd¥ ImÇm Juma of Tehran, and his nephew, M¥rzÇ Ab al-QÇsim, both inﬂuential ulamå in Tehran.60 As we will see, his vaqf deed was certiﬁed by Muªammad BÇqir Shaft¥, the most inﬂuential religious ﬁgure in Iran at that time. We do not see in his activities an attitude towards Islamic authorities which differs from that of any other Qajar courtiers. If there is an element of the convert in his character, it may be that he was, what might be called ‘liberal’ concerning religion. In 1846, when he was the governor of Isfahan, he received two European Christian missionaries very kindly and talked with them about religious matters, so diligently that they wanted to move to their headquarters to Isfahan.61 If this is an indication of such liberalism, we may also understand the background to his protection of the BÇb more easily.

Vaqfs We know about two vaqfs, or religious endowments, established by Manchihr KhÇn: one is a vaqf for the KÇΩimayn Shrine near Baghdad, for which we do not have detail information62; the other his vaqf for his 232

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takya and his family established in Rab¥ I 1260/March–April 1844. A transcription of the vaqf deed, dated 1921, is preserved at the archives of the Tehran branch of the Vaqf Organization, but has yet to be introduced into modern research literature.63 Since it is a later transcription of the original, we need to take care in using it.64 The deed is 219 lines long, including the legal commentaries (sijilla) of ulamå . It is written on the stationery of the Ministry of Sciences, Vaqfs and Fine Arts (Vizårat-i Maålif va Awqåf va ‚anåyi-i MustaΩfara). The introduction to the deed starts from line 52, and the main text starts from line 112. The main text begins by explaining the reason for drawing up the deed. It seems that Manchihr KhÇn had already established the vaqf and donated villages and mazraihs during the reign of Fatª Al¥ ShÇh, but the deed contained some mistakes, and the vaqf contract was declared invalid. Therefore, the deed was to be prepared once again and authorized by ÓÇjj¥ Sayyid Muªammad BÇqir Shaft¥,65 when Manchihr KhÇn held governorships over the vast area from Isfahan to the border of Basra. It is clear that the deed was drawn up in Isfahan,66 despite the fact that the takya and all the donated property were located in Tehran and its surroundings. The vaqf property consisted of four villages and four mazraihs as listed below: 1 2 3

4

KhÇnluq village67 in PashÇpyih district and three mazraih called Mazraih, Vars¥ and Nach¥r68 attached to it. Kulayn village69 in PashÇpyih district with a water share of Karaj River and Åb-i SiyÇh. An eleven-thirteenths share of Maq‚dÇbÇd village70 and an elevenfourteenths water share of Åb-i Muttaka and QanÇt-i Kchik in GhÇr district. F¥rzÇbÇd village71 in GhÇr and mazraih of Munajjim attached to it.

All the villages and mazraihs, except Maq‚dÇbÇd, were endowed as a whole, including such attached items as water shares, water mills, wild ﬁelds and public baths. The reason why the whole of Maq‚dÇbÇd village was not endowed becomes clear in another vaqf deed kept in the archive: the rest of the village had become the vaqf property for Madrasa-yi Óak¥m in Tehran at that time.72 The benefactors of the vaqf were (1) Imam Óusayn, (2) indigent sayyids and students living in Tehran, and (3) Manchihr KhÇn’s relatives who had converted to Islam and Twelver Shiism and still espoused those beliefs. After paying for taxes and maintenance of the endowed properties, the income from the vaqf properties was to be divided as below: For the vaqf-administrator (mutavval¥) For the vaqf overseer (nåΩir) 233

8 per cent 2 per cent

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For mourning ceremonies for Imam Óusayn held in Muªarram and Íafar at the takya built by him in Tehran For poor sayyids and students living in Tehran For the son of Manchihr KhÇn’s brother, M¥rzÇ Gurg¥n KhÇn73 and his descendants, and other paternal relatives who accept Sh¥ ¥ Islam For Muªammad QÇsim KhÇn, Al¥ Akbar KhÇn, Al¥ A‚ghar KhÇn, AbbÇs KhÇn and their three sisters, who were children of the late IsfandiyÇr KhÇn, maternal uncle of Manchihr KhÇn, and their descendants and other maternal relatives who accept Sh¥ ¥ Islam

10 per cent 20 per cent

40 per cent

20 per cent

If there are no Muslim relatives, their shares, totalling 60 per cent of expenditures, were to be spent on poor sayyids in Najaf. The ﬁrst vaqfadministrator was to be Manchihr KhÇn himself, and since he was a eunuch and had no direct descendants, he would be succeeded by the most pious and fair member of his paternal male relatives. If there were no paternal Muslim male relative, the administrator was to be chosen from among his maternal Muslim male relatives, and if there were no male relative, it was to be chosen from among his female relatives. If none of his relatives and descendants were left, the most learned and pious religious scholar (ålim) was to be the administrator. The vaqf overseer, who was required to be a pious scholar in Tehran, would check the vaqf accounts once a year. As to the motivation behind the vaqf, of course Manchihr KhÇn must have had a religious motive as a Sh¥ ¥ Muslim, since he desired that the mourning ceremony for Imam Óusayn be held at his takya during months of Muªarram and Íafar, as was done in most of the vaqfs under the Qajars. The support for poor sayyids and students is also often found in other vaqf-deeds from that period. However, we cannot help noticing that most of the proceeds, 68 per cent of the total income of the vaqf, was to be put in the hands of his relatives as beneﬁciaries and vaqf-administrators. For this reason we can consider the main motivation behind the vaqf to be his family, thus the term ‘family vaqf’ (vaqf-i ahl¥). Family vaqfs were no doubt popular under the Qajars, but most of them were small: one village, or one shop, for example. We can suppose that there was a general tendency for the scale of the vaqf property to match the donor’s social status, and the larger the scale and higher the social position of the donor was, the less important the element of a family vaqf would be.74 But in the case of this vaqf, though the scale was comparatively large, it had an important family vaqf element. We can say that this is one of the major characteristics of Manchihr KhÇn’s vaqf. Generally, family vaqfs have been used as two legal means: one was to protect the property from unscrupulous rulers; the other evading the 234

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Islamic law of inheritance, to exclude someone from the inheritance, or avoid fragmentation of the property.75 It is probable that Manchihr KhÇn tried to protect his property from conﬁscation by the Shah, because he and his family were of foreign origin, and their position must have been weak in Iranian society. Though Manchihr KhÇn endowed only a small part of his huge property as vaqf, it would be a minimum guarantee for his Muslim relatives living in Iran. However, it is difﬁcult to suppose that he intended to avoid the application of law of inheritance, like other family vaqfs. First, we saw that he excluded such Christian relatives as SulaymÇn KhÇn and M¥rzÇ DÇd KhÇn as beneﬁciaries of the vaqf, but according to the law of inheritance they could not inherit the property of Sh¥ ¥ Muslims.76 On the contrary, Jafar¥ law stipulates that one can endow, as a vaqf, one’s property on behalf of dhimm¥ such as Christians.77 Manchihr KhÇn could have kept a share for Christian relatives, but he chose not to do so. Secondly, the share of the vaqf income would be divided and fragmented, even if the property itself would never be divided. Compared with the Sh¥ ¥ law of inheritance, there are two important points in the conditions surrounding the vaqf. First, Manchihr KhÇn kept the share of his maternal cousin, who belonged to the third category and did not have the right of inheritance if anyone of the ﬁrst and second categories were alive.78 Moreover, other paternal and maternal Muslim Sh¥ ¥ relatives, who were excluded by the law of inheritance, were also included as beneﬁciaries. Secondly, he permitted new converted relatives to become beneﬁciaries at the time of conversion, whereas the law of inheritance did not permit it after the inheritance of property.79 In short, Manchihr KhÇn wanted to distribute the vaqf income to more relatives than the law of inheritance stipulated. Naturally, in this case the income of each beneﬁciary would be less than that of a usual inheritance share, the opposite result of most family vaqfs. So why did he establish such a vaqf? It is possible to suppose that through this vaqf he was encouraging his relatives to convert to Islam. The distribution of the vaqf income may have been a reward for their conversion. Of course, encouragement to converts is a good deed for Muslims, but we can also see a reﬂection of his position in Iranian society. Though he had foreign origins and was a convert, he climbed to the top of Qajar courtier society through personal ability and close relationships with the Shahs. As already pointed out, Christians could serve the Qajar court without any difﬁculty, but Manchihr KhÇn’s position was so high that he must have been cautious not to attract any suspicion concerning his loyalty to the Shah arising from his origin and his relationship with his homeland. At least, he no doubt knew the merits of being a Muslim in Iran. This is possibly the reason why he encouraged his relatives to convert, and supported any Muslim relative through the vaqf. 235

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Changes in the vaqf property Of course in theory, vaqfs must be perpetual and must never be changed; but recent studies show that vaqfs could be altered in the course of time.80 Therefore, after analysing the content and motives of the vaqf, it is also necessary to research the destiny of the vaqf; that is, whether the aim of the donor was achieved or not. As seen in vaqf deeds, a transcript of the deed often contains later conﬁrmations by an ulamå . In the case of Manchihr KhÇn’s deed, there is one conﬁrmation dated 1286/1869,81 and two others are dated 1315/1898.82 One of them is signed by the famous mujtahid Shaykh Fa∂l AllÇh Nr¥ in the following manner: This vaqf deed, which was arranged with pens and seals of such pillars of society and jurists of the city of the Sul†Çn, Isfahan, as the late Óujjat al-IslÇm ÓÇjj¥ Sayyid Asad AllÇh, is perfectly valid. It must be obeyed, and violating it is unlawful.83 By reading only the deed, one would never imagine the vaqf could experience any changes. However, we do have evidence about such changes occurring. To begin with, there a list of the conﬁscated property held by Manchihr KhÇn, which is contained in a larger list of khåli‚ih (crown property) during NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh’s reign.84 After Manchihr KhÇn’s death on 5 Rab¥ I 1263/21 February 1847, the government tried to conﬁscate his property. The Qajar government sought a fatwå from an ålim that could afﬁrm the conﬁscation of a slave’s property by his master after the slave’s death.85 According to Murrey: On his death his property, which was very considerable was claimed by the Persian Crown on the ground of his having been a slave, but that plea was controverted by a Persian named Daood Khan, a Russian subject who claimed under a will made in his favour by the deceased Moatamid ed Dowlah, and who pleaded that according to Treaty, Russian prisoners taken in war by Persia could not be made slaves. This dispute has been going for years.86 Here we understand that because of his origin and status Manchihr KhÇn’s property was subject to conﬁscation, and that his heir, M¥rzÇ Dad KhÇn, tried to defend the property using the Treaty of Turkmanchay. M¥rzÇ Dad KhÇn, the above-mentioned constructor of Manchihr KhÇn’s mausoleum, was the son of Manchihr KhÇn’s sister and a Christian. According to petitions Maryam KhÇnum, the daughter of M¥rzÇ Dad KhÇn, lodged to the Cabinet in 1913 and 1917,87 Manchihr KhÇn transferred his property to M¥rzÇ Dad KhÇn through legal intiqål-nåmihs, before his death. M¥rzÇ Dad KhÇn once took possession of the property, 236

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but after his death, the government conﬁscated all of the property.88 Maryam KhÇnum and other heirs, both Muslims and Christians, both Iranian subjects and Russian, tried to get the property back. Maryam KhÇnum claimed she asked a favour of the Iranian Government because she converted to Islam and became an Iranian subject, while Russian heirs used diplomatic measures to obtain the property. As the result of conﬁscation, Manchihr KhÇn’s property was listed in the part of ‘khåli‚ih-i ∂ab†¥’, property conﬁscated by NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh, of the larger list of the khåli‚ih. The list is divided into four sections, classiﬁed according to province – Gilan, Tehran, Fars and Isfahan – but the latter two sections are blank.89 The property in Gilan, the ﬁrst province that Manchihr KhÇn ruled over as deputy to the governor, YaªyÇ M¥rzÇ, from 1824 to 1835, consists of fourteen villages in Rasht, one public bath and sixteen shops in Anzali, and the whole district of LuvÇm, except some villages owned by subjects.90 However, our main concern here is his property in Tehran, the eight villages listed below: DawlatÇbÇd-i ShahriyÇr, KhÇnluq, Kulayn, KinÇr-i gird, QarÇ-ÇqÇj, Manchihr¥yih MaªmdÇbÇd, F¥rzÇbÇd, AkbarÇbÇd attached to F¥rzÇbÇd.91 Surprisingly, three of the vaqf villages – KhÇnluq, Kulayn and F¥rzÇbÇd – are included among the conﬁscated property. Were they actually conﬁscated even if there is no mention of them in the vaqf deed? The question here concerns the validity of legal deeds to secure personal rights. Concerning the private property of Manchihr KhÇn, Maryam KhÇnum wrote: According to existing legal deeds, these estates number more than one hundred and are located in Tehran, Gilan, Isfahan and other areas. Legal deeds of shops and caravansarais in Tehran are also in our hands. We do not understand under what pretext they have occupied these estates.92 This shows that after the conﬁscation, Maryam KhÇnum held the deeds, and they were still valid from a legal point of view. It is possible to assume the same situation: after the vaqf contract was drawn up in Isfahan, the deed had to be kept in the hands of the beneﬁciaries. It would be valid from a legal point of view, and scholars continued to conﬁrm its validity until 1898. On the other hand, it was ﬁscal ofﬁcers of the government in Tehran who conﬁscated the property and compiled the khåli‚ih list. There is a possibility that they may not have been able to refer to the vaqf deed and its transcript at the time. The principal factor underlying the problems we are encountering is not only the chaotic situation of the Qajar administration in general, but also the lack of any system for registering vaqf deeds with the government.93 237

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It has been said that one of the motives behind establishing vaqfs was to avoid the conﬁscation of their property; but in the case of the Qajar government, vaqf property seems not to have been exempt from conﬁscation. However, we must not ignore the point that the government did not conﬁscate all of Manchihr KhÇn’s vaqf property. Since the list is simple and very concise, we suppose that the vaqf mazraihs and water shares may have been included among the conﬁscated property in addition to villages, though they are not mentioned in the list. However, it is obvious that the village of Maq‚dÇbÇd in GhÇr was never conﬁscated. The reason must be sought in the fact that the other part of the village was endowed on behalf of Madrasa-yi Óak¥m. In other words, the government conﬁscated only the vaqf property of Manchihr KhÇn, and did not touch other vaqf properties. Here we understand that the conﬁscation was done in a deliberate manner.94 The second piece of evidence showing changes in Manchihr KhÇn’s vaqf may be found in building surveys of the city of Tehran. As mentioned above, according to the vaqf deed there was no vaqf property in Tehran city. This fact is conﬁrmed by the building survey of 1269/1853, which mentions Manchihr KhÇn’s mansion (imårat) with a bath and a stable located in the Arg quarter, and thirty-eight shops, including a bakery, grocery store, roasted liver shop, and mending shop in the Bazaar quarter. These facts reveal that Manchihr KhÇn had invested in small amounts property in Tehran. More important is that among the shops, thirty-three were transferred to the Shah, and no estate was listed as vaqf property.95 However, in the building survey of 1317/1899–1900, we ﬁnd the small bazaar (båzårchih) of Manchihr KhÇn as vaqf property on behalf of the takya.96 It is impossible to think that Manchihr KhÇn endowed the small bazaar through another missing deed, because the survey of 1269/1853 denies it. One possible hypothesis is that someone who took possession of the small bazaar endowed it on behalf of the takya between 1269/1853 and 1317/1899–1900. However, the content of the list of vaqf property of the Vaqf Organization, which is introduced by Óusayn¥ BulÇgh¥, sheds doubt on such a hypothesis, for the takya has three vaqf shops endowed by Manchihr KhÇn in 1260/1844–5, the same year as the vaqf deed.97 Though the numbers of the shops are very different, they must be remnants of the small bazaar mentioned in the survey of 1899–1900. In other words, the Vaqf Organization considered these shops as the vaqf property of Manchihr KhÇn endowed in 1844–5, while they appeared ﬁrst in 1899–1900. Furthermore, the only vaqf deed the Organization has in its possession is that which was registered and preserved in 1919, and has been analysed in this chapter. Considering these questions, probably the most reasonable hypothesis is that even after the conﬁscation of the vaqf property, the Shah wanted to support the takya, and exchanged the vaqf property from rural villages 238

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to urban estates, in some legal transaction. The deed was registered because it was valid, and recorded the origin of the vaqf of Manchihr KhÇn, even if the vaqf property was drastically changed. This fact may show the changeable character of vaqfs under the Qajars. In any case, the takya continued to be used and supported by the vaqf. It is doubtful that after the conﬁscation, the vaqf continued to fulﬁl its main aims, supporting Muslim family members and encouraging the conversion of Christian ones. However, it continued to support takya, and the mourning ceremony of Imam Óusayn,98 like other vaqfs under the Qajars.

Conclusion Converts from Christianity must have been few and far between in Qajar society. In spite of the fact that one such convert, Manchihr KhÇn, succeeded in climbing to the top of that society, his success was the result of close relations with the Shahs, his diplomatic skills with the Russians and his administrative and military abilities. As discussed above, though he was a Caucasian convert from Christianity, Manchihr KhÇn extensively patronized Islamic religious institutions. As far as we know, he built and repaired a Mosque, a takya and many shrines. He established vaqfs. His printing house printed a considerable number of religious books. He respected religious scholars, and asked them to contract deeds. At least outwardly, he showed his devotion to Islam like other Qajar courtiers. The characteristic feature of his religious patronage must be the stipulations of his vaqf. The vaqf supported his takya and mourning ceremonies for Imam Óusayn like many other vaqfs in Qajar Iran, but 68 per cent of the income was to go to his Muslim relatives. Though he could have included his Christian relatives as vaqf beneﬁciaries, he nevertheless excluded them. On the other hand, he added collateral Muslim relatives and future converts to the list of beneﬁciaries, who would have been excluded by law of inheritance. The aim of the vaqf was, ﬁrst and foremost, to support his Muslim relatives and ensure that the property remained in their hands, and then to encourage his Christian relatives to convert to Sh¥ ¥ Islam. We can say that his situation in Qajar society is well reﬂected in these facts. Since he was of foreign origin and had relatives in Georgia (annexed to Russia, a powerful neighbour of Iran), he had to be skilful and clever in order to maintain his high position in Qajar courtier society. He climbed to the top of courtier society by use of intimate relations with the Shahs and his own skills in diplomacy, administration and military campaigns. He did not have many local or tribal connections, like other Qajar court elites, and he must have been sensitive to his unstable position. For this reason he established such a vaqf; he no doubt knew well the merits of living as a Muslim in Iranian society, and thus constantly tried to manifest his devotion to Sh¥ ¥ Islam. 239

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In spite of his efforts, the government conﬁscated most of the vaqf property as well as his private property. Though various ålims conﬁrmed the rights of vaqf beneﬁciaries, the property seems to have never been returned to their hands. But it would be hasty to conclude that the legal validity of vaqf deeds was not highly regarded in Qajar society. The vaqf acquired urban properties instead of the original rural properties, and continued to support at least the takya and the mourning ceremony for Imam Óusayn. More case studies in the future will better reveal the actual situation of vaqfs under the Qajars.

Notes 1 A recent study is M. Miura and J. E. Philips Slave Elites in the Middle East and Africa; A Comparative Study (London and New York, 2000), though no chapter on Iran has been included. 2 The exception is J. Calmard ‘Le mécénat des représentation de taziye I-II’ Le monde iranien et l’Islam 2 (1974) 73–126, 4 (1976–7) 133–62, which deals with the patronage of Shahs and ÓÇjj¥ M¥rzÇ ÅqÇs¥. 3 Recent studies include Ch. Werner An Iranian Town in Transition: A Social and Economic History of the Elites of Tabriz, 1747–1848 (Wiesbaden, 2000) ch. 3; M. IttiªÇd¥yih Ûnjå Tihrån ast: Majmih-i maqålåt¥ dar bårih-yi Tihrån 1269–1344H.Q. (Tehran, 1377sh) ch. 9; N. Kondo ‘The Socioeconomic Background of Khans of Yazd: An Analysis of their Public Building and Vaqf Endowments’ in R. Gyselen and M. Szuppe (eds) Matériaux pour l’histoire économique du monde iranien (Paris, 1999) 249–66. 4 A short modern biography appears in M. BÇmdÇd Sharª-i ªal-i rijål-i Ûrån, 6 vols (Tehran, 1363sh) IV, 159–63; M. Momen (ed.) The Båb⁄ and Bahå’⁄ Religions, 1844–1944 (Oxford, 1981) 167–9. 5 Muªammad Al¥ BahÇr I‚fahÇn¥ Madå iª al-mutamadiyya (MS Or. 4512, British Library, London). This is an enlarged version of the work, including a description about his death. The original version is MS Or. 4511 and its folios 36B–38A are slightly different from the counterpart, folios 31A–35B of Or. 4512. 6 E. J. Harden (ed.) The Murder of Griboedov: New Materials (Birmingham, 1979) 79–83. It is based on G. Shermazanian Niuter Azgayin Patoutian Hamar (Rostov-on-Don, 1890). 7 A. Layard Early Adventures in Persia, Susiana, and Babylonia (London, 1894) 116. 8 ‘Enikoloyanner’ Armyanskaya sovetskaya entzikropedia (Erevan, 1977) III, 513. I would like to thank Professor Seiichi Kitagawa for this reference. 9 ‘Enikoloyanner’ Armyanskaya; BahÇr, Madå iª, 8A. 10 BahÇr, Madå iª, 9A; M¥rzÇ Fa∂l-ullÇh KhÇvar¥ Sh¥rÇz¥ Tår¥kh-i Dh al-Qarnayn (MS Or. 3527, British Library, London) 226a. 11 BahÇr, Madå iª, 9A. 12 BahÇr, Madå iª, 4A; Harden, Murder, 79. BÇmdÇd says he was captured at the time of ÅqÇ Muªammad KhÇn’s conquest of Tbilisi, but he does not cite any reference. BÇmdÇd, Sharª-i ªål IV, 159. 13 According to BahÇr, Madå iª, 4B, he received the ofﬁce (man‚ab) of akha‚‚ al-khavå‚¥ and the title (laqab) of ¥ch-åqås¥-båsh¥. He was the second and the last ¥ch-åqås¥-båsh¥ of Fatª Al¥ ShÇh. See FarhÇd M¥rzÇ Zanb¥l (2nd edn: Tehran, 1367sh) 125. 14 BahÇr, Madå iª, 5A.

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15 KhÇvar¥, Dh al-Qarnayn, 226A; Ri∂Ç Qul¥ KhÇn HidÇyat Raw∂at al-‚afå-yi Nå‚ir¥, 10 vols (Tehran, 1339sh) IX, 629; M¥rzÇ Muªammad Taq¥ Sipihr Nåsikh al-tavår¥kh, 4 vols (M. B. Bihbd¥ (ed.): Tehran, 1353sh) I, 348. 16 M¥rzÇ Mahd¥ NavvÇb ˝ihrÇn¥ Dastr al-aqåb (S. A. Ål-i DÇd (ed.): Tehran, 1376sh) 66. 17 ‘Translation of Certiﬁed Copy of a Bond from Manoochehr Khan, Governor of Ispahan to Elias Antoon’ attached to Great Britain FO 60/209 No. 69 Murrey to Clarendon, 8 August 1856. 18 HidÇyat, Raw∂at X, 105. 19 BahÇr, Madå iª, 4B–5A. 20 Sul†Çn Aªmad M¥rzÇ A∂ud al-Dawla Tår¥kh-i A∂ud¥ (Abd al-Óusayn NavÇ¥ (ed.): Tehran, 1375sh/1997) 45–6. 21 Harden, Murder, 79–80. 22 The text of farmån is contained in M¥rzÇ Muªammad NÇ¥n¥ Furgh Saf¥nat al-Faråm¥n (M. Gulbun (ed.): Khorramabad, 1377sh) 213–14. 23 Sipihr, Nåsikh II, 128. Other members are AllÇh YÇr KhÇn Å‚if al-Dawla and GhulÇm Óusayn KhÇn SipahdÇr. 24 Sipihr, Nåsikh II, 129; HidÇyat, Raw∂at X, 82–3. 25 Harden (ed.), Murder, 86. 26 ‘A Bond’. Since the bond was inherited by Lady Shiel, the merchant’s wife, who tried to cash it through diplomatic channels, it was ﬁled by the British Consulate. 27 Harden (ed.), Murder, 81. 28 M¥rzÇ Masd An‚Çr¥ ‘TÇr¥kh-i aªvÇl-i AbbÇs M¥rzÇ NÇyib al-Sal†ana’ published in M¥rzÇ Mu‚†afÇ AfshÇr, Safar-nåmih-yi Khusraw M¥rzå (M. Golbon (ed.): Tehran, 1349sh) 85, 87; Harden (ed.), Murder, 81. 29 ‘Narrative of the Proceedings of the Russian Mission’ Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine 28 (1830) 504–5; Harden (ed.), Murder, 88; J. QÇim-maqÇm¥ (ed.) Nåmihhå-yi Paråkandih-i Qå im-maqåm-i Faråhån¥, 2 vols (Tehran. 2537 [1359sh]) II, 9. 30 ‘Narrative’ 508; Harden (ed.), Murder, 89; QÇim-maqÇm¥, Nåmihhå II, 79. 31 Letter to M¥rzÇ MsÇ KhÇn, Rajab 1242AH, in QÇim-maqÇm¥, Nåmihhå II, 46. 32 A. S. Griboedov Polnoe Sobranie Sochinenij (St Petersburg, 1911 (rep. Hirdesheim, 1977)) 250; ‘Memorandum of V. D. Vol’khovckii, December 19th, 1827’ reprinted in Ts. P. Agayan (ed.) Prisoedineniye Vostochnoj Armenii k Rossii: sbornik dokymentov, 2 vols (Moscow, 1984) II, 429. 33 HidÇyat, Raw∂at X, 46; Sipihr, Nåsikh II, 112. 34 Memorandum of Vol’khovckii in Agayan (ed.), Prisoedineniye II, 430. 35 This date is based on KhÇvar¥, Dh al-Qarnayn, 226A. He reached Rasht in Rab¥ 1240/1824 (BahÇr, Madå iª, 10A). 36 FarhÇd M¥rzÇ, Zanb¥l, 128. 37 See F. QÇ∂¥hÇ (ed.) Asnåd¥ az ravand-i ijrå-yi muåhdih-i Turkmånchåy (Tehran, 1374sh) 184, 194–5; H. G. Kukanova (ed.) Russko-iranskaya Torgovlya 30–50e Gody XIX veka: sbornik dokymentov (Moscow, 1984) 59, 73. 38 Al¥ Qul¥ M¥rzÇ Iti∂Çd al-Sal†ana Iks¥r al-Tavår¥kh (J. KiyÇnfar (ed.): Tehran, 1370sh) 426–7; HidÇyat, Raw∂at X, 147. 39 Iti∂Çd al-Sal†ana, Iks¥r, 430; BahÇr, Madå iª, 11B–12B. 40 BahÇr, Madå iª, 12B; ÓÇjj¥ M¥rzÇ Óasan Óusayn¥ FasÇ¥ Fårsnåmih-yi Nå‚ir¥ (Man‚r RastigÇr FasÇ¥ (ed.): Tehran, 1367sh) 768. 41 BahÇr, Madå iª, 12B–13B; Iti∂Çd al-Sal†ana, Iks¥r, 435. 42 BahÇr, Madå iª, 14B–15A; Sipihr, Nåsikh II, 256. 43 Concerning his campaign against the BakhtiyÇr¥s, see G. R. Garthwaite Khans and Shahs: A Documentary Analysis of the Bakhtiyari in Iran (Cambridge, 1983) 66–71.

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44 G. Hambly ‘Iran during the Reigns of Fatª Al¥ Shah and Muªammad Shah’ in P. Avery et al. (eds) Cambridge History of Iran, Volume 7 (Cambridge, 1991) 152. 45 L. Hunarfar Ganj¥nih-i åthår-i tår¥kh¥-i I‚fahån (Tehran, 1350sh) 518. According to this source, the inscription is ‘Rustam KhÇn SVQMN In¥kulupiyÇn’. 46 Ruznåmih-yi vaqåyi -i ittifåq¥yih 105 (24 Rab¥ I 1269AH, rep. 1373–4sh) 3. It is strange that Layard, who met him personally, describes him as a Georgian Christian as well as an Armenian. See Layard, Early Adventures, 259, 282. 47 Harooth DerHovhanian Tår¥kh-i Julfå-yi I‚fahån (L. Minassian and M. A. Msav¥ Faraydan¥ (trans.): Isfahan, 1379sh) 340. 48 BahÇr, Madå iª, 15A. 49 BahÇr, Madå iª, 30A. 50 BahÇr, Madå iª, 11A. 51 Ó. Mudarris¥ ˝abÇ†abÇ¥ Turbat-i påkån, 2 vols (Qum, 2535 [1357sh]) II, 84–6. 52 BahÇr, Madå iª, 15A; Sipihr, Nåsikh II, 256. 53 The text of the inscription dated 1261AH is published in Hunarfar, Ganj¥nih, 360. 54 The text of the inscriptions dated 1257 is published in Mudarris¥ ˝abÇ†abÇ¥, Turbat I, 82–5; M. Sutdih Kitåbihhå-ye ªaram-e mu††ahar-i ªa∂rat-i Ma‚ma va ªaΩ¥rihhå-yi a†råf-i ån (Qum, 1375sh) 55–7. 55 Mudarris¥ ˝abÇ†abÇy¥, Turbat I, 92–3; Sutdih, Kitåbihhå, 51–4. The inscriptions were dated 1264AH. 56 S. SadvandiyÇn and M. IttiªÇd¥yih (eds) Åmår-i Dår al-Khilåﬁh-i ˝ihrån (Tehran, 1368sh) 172, 174. 57 Abd al-RazzÇq Maftn Dunbul¥ Maåthir-i sul†åniyya (Tehran, 1351sh) 393; Ó. Maªbb¥ ArdakÇn¥ Tår¥kh-i Muassisåt-i Tamaddun¥-i Jad¥d dar Ûrån, 3 vols (Tehran, 1353sh) I, 214. 58 For example, BahÇr, Madå iª, 10A, 14A, 16B, 30B. 59 BahÇr, Madå iª, 5A. 60 Two deeds of these transactions are available: one concerns the presentation of two qanåts from Óasan Al¥ M¥rzÇ to Manchihr KhÇn, dated 1240/1824. The original is kept in the GulistÇn museum. The other is a settlement between Manchihr KhÇn and Muªammad Óasan KhÇn ÛravÇn¥, dated 1259/1843, in which the former transferred a qanåt to the latter. The text and facsimile of the deed is contained in J. QÇim-maqÇm¥ ‘Sanad¥ dar bÇrih-i TÇr¥kh-i TihrÇn’ Barras¥hå-yi Tår¥kh¥ 5.1 (1349sh) 136–8, 141. 61 Momen, Religions, 168–9. 62 Only Madå iª mentions it without reference to the kinds of endowment, and their purposes. BahÇr, Madå iª, 15B. 63 Vaqf Organization, Central Archive. Tehran Province, File No. 676, ‘Takya-yi Manchihr KhÇn’. I wish to express my gratitude to the authorities of the Vaqf Organization for permitting my research in 1998 and 2000. About this archive, see I. Shaykh al-ÓukamÇ¥ ‘AsnÇd-i vaqf-i ustÇn-i TihrÇn dar bÇygÇn¥-i markaz¥-i SÇzmÇn-i AwqÇf va Umr-i Khayriyyih’ M¥råth-i Jåv¥dån 28 (1378sh) 141–67, and forthcoming catalogues by U. Ri∂Ç¥. 64 For example, the name of Manchihr KhÇn appears in the last line, mentioned as ‘in margin’, but it should be inserted in line 78 before the eulogistic poem about him. The name of Muªammad ShÇh also should be inserted in line 116 instead of line 218. 65 On Shaft¥, see H. Algar Religion and State in Iran (Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1966) 60–3, 108–14.

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66 The commentary of Shaykh Fa∂l allÇh Nr¥ in lines 40–4 of the deed. 67 KhÇnlq. 51° 20′ E, 35° 20′ N. 41 km southwest of Rey. The locations of villages are based on M. Ó. Papul¥-Yazd¥ Farhang-i åbåd¥hå va makånhå-yi madhhab¥-i kishvar (Tehran, 1367sh) and SÇzmÇn-i JughrÇﬁyÇy¥-i Kishvar Farhang-i jughråﬁyå ¥-yi kishvar, 10 vols (Tehran, 2535 [1357sh]) I. 68 The vocalization is unclear here. 69 51°18′ E 35°23′ N. 38 km southwest of Rey. 70 51°22′ E 35°32′ N. 9 km southwest of Rey. 71 51°29′ E 35°33′ N. 6 km southeast of Rey. 72 Vaqf Organization, Central Archive. Tehran Province, File No. 479. ‘BahÇ alD¥n Muªammad ˝ÇliqÇn¥’. According to the deed dated 1131/1719, the vaqf share of the madrasa as one-fourteenth does not coincide with the deed of Manchihr KhÇn. In the deed the madrasa called ‘Madrasa-yi Óak¥m Sa¥d KhÇn’ and located in UdlÇjÇn quarter of Tehran city. The building survey of 1852–3 does not mention it as a madrasa, but as Masjid-i Óak¥m. 73 The son of Manchihr KhÇn’s brother. After the death of Manchihr KhÇn, he presented one hundred tmån to the Shah and became the governor of Isfahan. See Sipihr, Nåsikh III, 109. 74 In spite of the case of Ottoman vaqfs, the article below clearly shows such a tendency. K. Hayashi ‘The Vakıf Institution in 16th-Century Istanbul’ The Memoirs of the Research Department of Tokyo Bunko 50 (1992) 93–113. 75 W. Heffening ‘Wakf’ EI1 IV, 1000. 76 Muªaqqiq Óill¥ Sharå i al-Islåm (Ab al-QÇsim Yazd¥ (trans.); Muªammad Taq¥ DÇnishpazhh (ed.): Tehran. 1374sh) 1441–2; L. Bakhtiyar Encyclopedia of Islamic Law (Chicago, 1996) 290. 77 Óill¥, Sharå i , 347; Bakhtiyar, Encyclopedia, 260. 78 Óill¥, Sharå i , 1435; Bakhtiyar, Encyclopedia, 299. 79 Óill¥, Sharå i , 1444–5; Bakhtiyar, Encyclopedia, 290. 80 For example, see M. Sefatgol ‘The Question of AwqÇf under the Afsharids (1735–1803/1148–1218): Safavid Heritage and Nadir Shah’s Measures’ in Gyselen and Szuppe (eds), Matériaux, 209–32; Ch. Werner ‘A Safavid Vaqf in Qajar Times: The Çh¥r¥ya in Tabriz’ in Gyselen and Szuppe (eds), Matériaux, 233–48. See also ‘The Waqf of Ustad Abbas: Rewrites of the Deeds in Qajar Tehran’ in N. Kondo (ed.) Persian Documents: Social History of Iran and Turan in the 15th–19th Centuries (London, 2003) 106–28. 81 Lines 216–17. The seal is ‘Abduhu al-rÇj¥ Sayyid Muhammad ibn BÇqir alMsav¥’. 82 Lines 17–19, 40–4. 83 Lines 40–4. Four other seals of ulamå were attached to it. ÓÇjj¥ Sayyid Asad AllÇh was the son of Sayyid Muªammad BÇqir Shaft¥. 84 Kitåbchih-yi dihåt va mawqfåt va amlåk-i D¥vån-i Alå (MS 7868, Åyatallah Marash¥ Najaf¥ Public Library, Qum) 468. This source also is known as the Raqabåt-i Nå‚ir¥. See W. Floor A Fiscal History of Iran in the Safavid and Qajar Periods 1500–1925 (New York, 1998) 337–8. Ó. Mudarris¥ ˝abÇ†abÇ¥ introduced the same type of document dated 1299AH in the library without reference number, and edited and published part of it concerning Qum. See his ‘KitÇbchih-yi ∂abt-i MawqfÇt va KhÇli‚ijÇt-i Kishvar dar DawrÇn-i NÇ‚ir¥’ Råhnamå-yi Kitåb 18/4–6 (1354sh) 435–42; ˝abÇ†abÇ¥, Turbat I, 379–80. However, this is a different document which is preserved in microﬁlm in the University of Tehran, Central Library (Microﬁlm 4819), and lacks the part about the conﬁscated property of Manchihr KhÇn. 85 ÓÇjj¥ M¥rzÇ Óasan KhÇn JÇbir¥ An‚Çr¥ Tår¥kh-i I‚fahån va Ray va hamih-yi Jahån (n.p., 1321sh) 260. One scholar objected to this practice, claiming that

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86 87

88

89

90 91 92 93 94

95 96 97 98

once the slave was castrated and became a eunuch, he was no longer a slave, so the conﬁscation of his property by the Shah was illegal. The same rhetoric about the conﬁscation would be used under the Ottomans. F. Müge Göçek ‘Mu‚Çdara 3. In Ottoman Empire’ in EI2 VII, 653. Great Britain FO 60/209 No. 69. Murrey to Clarendon, 8 August 1856. The original of the petitions were found in the Institute for Iranian Contemporary Historical Studies, Tehran, No. 4/744. ‘Maryam KhÇnum to the Cabinet of Prime Minister’ 13 Sara†Çn 1331AH; No. Nn-52832, ‘Maryam KhÇnum to the Cabinet of Ministers’ 21st June 1917. The transcript of the former also is preserved in National Archive of Iran, under the reference number 240–37/24/3. The description does not coincide with BÇb¥ sources, which claimed that Manchihr KhÇn gave all the property to the BÇb. ÓÇjj¥ M¥rzÇ JÇn¥ KÇshÇn¥ Kitåb-i nuq†at al-kåf (E. G. Browne (ed.): Leiden, 1910) 119. There is no other source which supports the BÇb¥ claim. It is strange that no items are mentioned as having been conﬁscated from Fars and Isfahan. Provinces as Khuzestan and Kermanshah, over which he also held governorships, are not mentioned, either. Therefore, we are obliged to consider the list incomplete. Kitåbchih, 468. Kitåbchih, 468. It does not contain any information on his urban estates in Tehran, which is mentioned in the building survey of the city. Institute for Iranian Contemporary Historical Studies, No. 4/744. This must be important when comparing Iran with the Ottoman case, but is beyond the scope of this chapter. Iwatake points out that the Qajars observed the stipulation of the vaqf of Am¥r ChaqmÇq in Yazd more than the Safavids did. See A. Iwatake ‘The Continuity of Waqf in Iran: A Case of Am¥r ChaqmÇq’s in Yazd’ Isramu Sekai 42 (1993) 1–19 (in Japanese). SadvandiyÇn and IttiªÇd¥yih (eds), Åmår, 44, 181–2 (IttiªÇd¥yih counted the number of Manchihr KhÇn’s shops incorrectly, IttiªÇd¥yih, Ûnjå, 180). SadvandiyÇn and IttiªÇd¥yih (eds), Åmår, 508. S. A. Óusayn¥ BulÇgh¥ Tår¥kh-i Tihrån: Qismat-i gharb¥ va mu∂åfåt (Qum, 1350sh) 79. The takya building still remains today, but is now used as a warehouse. They say that ﬂowers were planted in it during the Pahlav¥ period. According to Óusayn¥ BulÇgh¥, it was a coffee shop in the 1970s, but I could not conﬁrm this. Óusayn¥ BulÇgh¥, Tår¥kh, 79.

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Part IV RELIGIOUS MINORITIES AND WESTERN MISSIONARIES IN QAJAR IRAN

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13 MUJTAHIDS AND MISSIONARIES Sh¥ ¥ responses to Christian polemics in the early Qajar period Abbas Amanat

Among the precious few cultural encounters between the Iranians and the Europeans in the early part of the nineteenth century, none perhaps is as remarkable, and so far under-studied, as the Christian–Muslim controversies which were instigated by the young and ﬁery English evangelical preacher and proto-Orientalist, Henry Martyn (1781–1812). During his relatively short stay in Iran between 1811 and 1812, mostly in Shiraz, he became something of a celebrity and a formidable theological challenge to the Sh¥ ¥ ulamå , and in turn, to the Qajar state. While in Iran he also entirely revised his new translation of the New Testament with the help of the Persian calligrapher and poet Sayyid Al¥ NawwÇb Sh¥rÇz¥, and it was published shortly afterwards in St Petersburg and in Calcutta. He also wrote a number of polemical tracts refuting Islam, and engaged in a disputation with a mujtahid of the city, a disputation which resonated in the Iranian clerical circles then and later. As his poor health deteriorated – he was suffering from tuberculoses – he headed back to England but died on the way in the Armenian town of Tukat in Eastern Anatolia in 1812. Almost a martyr for the Church Missionary Society which had initially sent him off to India, he was portrayed as a champion of evangelical Christianity who spread the ‘Good Word’ among the Hindu and Muslim ‘heathens’ in India. More importantly, he ‘prevailed’ over the Muslim divines in Iran and earned their grudging respect. Nearly two centuries after his death this episode deserves to be revisited not so much because it throws more light on the largely futile Christian missionary endeavours among the Muslims (an exhausted and altogether uninspiring topic), but because of the cultural make-up of Martyn and his Sh¥ ¥ interlocutors, and the context in which his refutations and the Sh¥ ¥ rejoinders were produced. The untapped wealth of available material make this case an anomaly in an otherwise poorly documented area of Qajar cross-cultural 247

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encounters. Martyn’s journal and correspondence reveals some details, especially about the intellectual life of Shiraz. The refutations produced by the Sh¥ ¥ scholars then and later in response to Martyn’s polemics engendered a new theological genre known as radd-i padr¥ (refuting the padre, as Martyn and other missionaries were known to the Persians). This had predictable pitfalls but also innovative strategies which help us better understand their perceptions of Islam vis-à-vis the all-encompassing presence of Christian Europe. Equally important, the dissemination of the printed Persian New Testament left an enduring (though not so apparent) mark on the Iranian cultural consciousness, one of the earliest examples of Western print culture to impact Iran.

An evangelical preacher abroad Henry Martyn was a curious mix of scholarship and evangelical zeal, the ‘right stuff’ for the task to which he was recruited jointly by the newly established Church Missionary Society and the East India Company. Son of a parish clerk with puritanical persuasions, he was brought up in the austere household in Cornwall countryside before entering Cambridge where he studied Mathematics but also excelled in languages. He learned Greek, Latin and Hebrew, and shortly after graduation, in preparation for his translation and missionary tasks, Arabic, Persian, Bengali and Urdu (though judging by his many linguistic inaccuracies, he never really mastered Persian). At the time Cambridge was a fertile ground for recruiting missionaries, often from among country folk who felt out of place in the increasingly agnostic environment of the university. Martyn fell under the spell of the Reverend Charles Simeon, the vicar of Holy Trinity, Cambridge and a leader of the Evangelical Movement, who was one of the founders of the Church Missionary Society. Founded in 1799, the Society grew rapidly during the ﬁrst decade of its inception, quadrupling its budget between 1803 and 1806, to serve as the proselytizing arm of British colonial advances in India, Southern Africa, and the West Indies and with a millennial zeal ﬁtting to its task. To encourage missionary activities abroad, Simeon was soliciting active support from inﬂuential quarters in England including Charles Grant, the chairman of the Board of Control of the East India Company. After four unhappy years as a tutor at St John’s, Martyn was ordained as a priest and ﬁrst assigned to a village in Cambridgeshire. His hellﬁre rhetoric however soon proved to be too intense for the parishioners. Even when he was employed as the chaplain of the East India Company and dispatched to Bombay in 1805, neither his mentor, Simeon, nor his employer, Grant, nor his admirers, believed that his overzealous sermons would bode well with the British ofﬁcials in India. His anti-alcohol preaching to the English sailors during his crossing to India, which almost caused a riot aboard, proved the point. Yet it was hoped that his missionary 248

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labour among the ‘natives’, and his translation of the New Testament into Persian, then still the lingua franca of India, might give weight to the Christianization of the subcontinent and hence its cultural assimilation. Ambitions such as this were at variance with the East India Company’s ofﬁcial policy of religious non-interference. Yet years of residence in India (1805–11), ﬁrst in Calcutta and then in newly annexed frontiers of Patna and Cawnpore, proved the futility and the hazards of his aggressive approach in the face of Hindu and Muslim hostility and indeference. ‘Here every man I meet is an enemy’, he wrote. A Brahman or a shrewd Muslim secretary, Martyn entered in his diary, ‘being an enemy of God . . . is [also] an enemy to me. But he is an enemy too because I am an Englishman.’ The ‘four-faced devil’, he was convinced, was none but ‘the heathen [by whom he meant Hindus], the Mohammedans, the Papists, and the inﬁdels’.1 It is a small wonder that the printing of some of his tracts stirred up a riot in India and in turn precipitated his departure.2 Failing health only added to Martyn’s frustration. He took the advice of friends and missionary colleagues to visit Iran in the hope of recovery but also to revise his obviously less-than-adequate translation of the New Testament. The governor of Bombay, Sir James McKintosh, had told him that ‘in order that the Gospel might spread over the world . . . the Oriental world [must be] made Greek by the successors of Alexander in order to make way for the religion of Christ’.3 Major General John Malcolm, who had just returned from Iran, had more prudent advice however. When in Bombay he warned Martyn about the hazards of ‘preaching to the Persians or of entering into any theological controversies’. He admired Martyn nonetheless for his Arabic as being ‘superior to any Englishman in India’ and his ‘constant cheerfulness’. In his letter of introduction to Sir Gore Ouseley, the British Ambassador Extraordinary, then on his way from London to the Persian capital, Malcolm remarked ‘I told him I thought you would require him to act with great caution and not allow his zeal to run away with him. He declared he will not, and I must believe him.’4 Martyn, on the other hand, must have had his own apprehensions. Malcolm had asked him to make some enquiries while in Iran on matters unspeciﬁed by Martyn but presumably for the compilation of Malcolm’s famous History of Persia. In a half-serious tone Martyn noted: ‘perhaps I shall be taken up and hanged as a spy’.5 Malcolm’s concern about Martyn’s possible activities in Iran reﬂected British apprehensions. Both the Government of India and the Foreign Ofﬁce were reluctant to allow missionary activities in Iran at a delicate time when any improper move could jeopardize the recently resumed relations between the two countries. Indeed, whether because of coincidence or design, Martyn’s visit to Iran acquired a sensitive political dimension. By May 1811, when he arrived in Bushihr, the British envoy Sir Harford Jones (resident 1809–11) and John Malcolm from East India Company (who arrived on his second visit in 1810) had just managed to secure 249

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the conﬁdence of the Persian government. Britain replaced discredited Napoleonic France (represented by the Gardane mission) as Iran’s reliable ally in the war against Russia. Contrary to France’s initial anti-Russian ambitions, the British policy was largely to act as a mediator rather than to assist Iran in the ﬁrst round of the Russo-Persian wars (1805–13). This policy ultimately aimed at securing the defence of British India against France; hence the dispatch of Sir Gore Ouseley and his mission to Iran (1811–14). As it turned out, Martyn’s presence strengthened the hand of the astute English aristocrat to pressurise indirectly the Iranian authorities to comply with the British position.

Facing the Mujtahids During his eleven-month stay in Shiraz (June 1811–May 1812) Martyn primarily engaged in the revision of his Persian translation of the New Testament but also in private discussion and public debates with the city’s religious elite. Some of these encounters were more frustrating for Martyn than those he experienced in India. Many pages of his journal, and much of his correspondence, are ﬁlled with disparaging remarks about the ‘immoral Persians’. One almost senses his tortured evangelical mind having great difﬁculty coming to terms with the bon vivant Shirazi lifestyle. He wondered that with such degenerated ‘moral state in Persia . . . how is it that their nation is not blotted out from under heaven’.6 He began to deliver ‘the message of the Christ’ to ‘devilish Mohammedans’ but soon was ‘completely disgusted with the land of Fars and with the men thereof’ because he ‘lost hopes in ever convincing Muhammedans by argument’.7 Oddly enough, however, despite his disillusionment, Martyn was able to discern among the same Persians a ‘far more unprejudiced and inquisitive people than the Indians, and not standing quite so much in awe of the Englishman, as their timid natives of Hindoostan’.8 The grudging compliment to the Persians, made at the expense of insulting the neighbouring Indians, was rooted in Martyn’s experience both with the deﬁantly Sh¥ ¥ ulamå and with latitudinarians among the Suﬁs and others on the fringes of the Shiraz intelligentsia. One of the earliest Europeans appearing on the Persian horizon, Martyn was received with curiosity, even amusement, for his charm and his linguistic abilities. To them the padr¥-yi farang¥ was a ‘man of God’ (mard-i khudå) who, unlike European diplomats, soldiers and merchants, was interested in debates and disputes about familiar issues of religion – however daring and even offensive his style might have been. Even if to the urban elite he was an overzealous polemicist, he could be cautiously challenged, even with a certain scepticism or candour. Or he could be questioned as a source of information to satisfy their growing thirst for things European or even to conﬁrm their agnostic doubts about their own religion. Whatever 250

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was the case, he was also an enigma revealing Persian fears of European imperial intentions toward their country. He confessed that: The prevailing opinion concerning me is that I have repaired in Shiraz in order to become a Mussulman. Others, more sagacious, say that I shall bring from India some (5000) or more under pretence of making them Mussulmans, but, in reality, to seize the place. They do not seem to have thought of my wish, to have them converted to my religion; they have been so long accustomed to remain without proselytes to their own.9 Such xenophobic speculations, childish though they may sound (if, indeed, we believe the accuracy of Martyn’s statement), are more understandable if one notes the stressed frontiers of the not-so-well ‘Guarded Domains of Persia’ both against the Russians in the north and against the rapid expansion of British India in the southeast. From the Persian perspective, Martyn’s polemics themselves provided convincing proof of British ambitions. His challenge touched the very religious integrity of Qajar Iran which, as a Sh¥ ¥ society, was even more conscious of its exclusive identity than the neighbouring multi-confessional India or Ottoman Empire. But, oddly enough, Iran proved to be more responsive to Martyn’s challenge than both its neighbours, perhaps because of the deep chasms and religio-moral crisis that existed within Iran’s seemingly unanimous Sh¥ ¥ identity. While in Shiraz, through his host, Jafar KhÇn NawwÇb (originally of the Indian family of NawwÇbs of Moseliputam) and one of Malcom’s contacts, Martyn ﬁrst met some of the students of the chief Mujtahid of the city, M¥rza IbrÇh¥m FasÇ¥. Finding it difﬁcult to give up his evangelical missionary habits, Martyn did not miss the opportunity to enter into familiar debates about the validity of Islam and of Muªammad’s prophecy. It was as a result of these preliminary discussions with members of the NawwÇb family that he was invited a number of times to meet with FasÇ¥ himself. The outcome of these interviews was the exchange of four polemical tracts, the ﬁrst of which was written in Arabic by FasÇ¥ in response to Martyn’s verbal objections. Martyn countered FasÇ¥’s risåla with two of his own in Persian, spelling out his refutation of Islam and speciﬁcally the QurÇn. The third tract by Martyn, again in Persian, highlighted the points of convergence and divergence between Christianity and Suﬁsm and was the outcome of long hours of debates with a number of mystics and philosophers in Shiraz. Martyn’s engagement in these debates was not spontaneous. On his way to Iran, he had already collected a number of anti-Islamic polemics then in circulation in Europe. They were mostly based on earlier polemics from the Renaissance and of the early Middle Ages.10 In Bombay he had even produced an Arabic tract for the beneﬁt of his friend and colleague, 251

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a Jewish convert, Joseph Sabastiani, in order for it to be incorporated into his new Arabic translation of the New Testament. Sabastiani, known as Yusif Padri, himself had engaged in polemical debates in Isfahan shortly before Martyn’s arrival. The questions and answers in the exchange between FasÇ¥ and Martyn betray a distinctly scholastic ﬂavour borrowed from the medieval Christian and Muslim polemical repository. Yet if objections were familiar, and even redundant, the response strategy was new. This makes the exchanges, and the literature produced around them, particularly valuable. M¥rzÇ IbrÇh¥m FasÇ¥, an U‚l¥ jurist of great inﬂuence in the Fars province, had studied in Najaf under such prominent scholars as Sayyid Al¥ ˝aba†abÇ¥. He did not, however, share with U‚l¥s their habitual hatred for philosophy (ªikmat), and being from Shiraz, almost by default, had some leanings toward MullÇ ÍadrÇ’s theosophical school. In the ﬁrst decades of the nineteenth century, Shiraz was not yet entirely conquered by the U‚l¥ jurists, and mujtahids such as FasÇ¥ were facing lively competition from the NimatallÇh¥ and Dhahab¥ Suﬁs, not to mention the closet agnostics. FasÇ¥’s interest in ªikmat, moreover, was complemented with a spirit of toleration which contrasted not only with Martyn’s zeal, but also with the haughtiness of many of FasÇ¥’s U‚l¥ colleagues.11 At the beginning of his risåla FasÇ¥ noted: Since a certain Christian priest has requested me to set down the proofs upon which I rely respecting the mission of our Prophet Muªammad after Christ, upon our Prophet and him be peace, it became my wish to write the following pages, hoping they may be of advantage to him, or to others who are in quest of the truth: and should he think proper to reply, it is hoped he will refrain from a mere strife about words, which is at best but the offspring of folly: ‘for God directs whom he pleaseth into the right way’. And may he grant to both him and us a disposition to justice, as well as an aversion to prejudice and mere dispute.12 FasÇ¥’s Arabic risåla, in contrast to the author’s oral philosophical discourse with Martyn, was produced in the conventional scholastic fashion on the theme of ‘speciﬁc prophecy’ (nubuwwa khå‚‚a) and carried all the signs of theological tedium associated with such literature. As opposed to ‘general prophecy’ (nubuwwa åmma) which argued the beneﬁts and proofs of divine prophecy as a whole, ‘speciﬁc prophecy’ argued the veracity of Muªammad as the prophet of Islam and offered proofs (ªujaj) and demonstrations (bayyina) in support of his divine mission. Theologically this debate fell under the principle of ‘prophecy’ (nubuwwa), one of the fundamental articles of the Muslim faith, and as an adjunct also argued Muªammad’s superior status as the ‘seal of the prophets’ (khåtam al-anbiyå). Such doctrine had interested theologians at times in 252

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the Islamic past when there were challenges to Muªammad’s prophetic authenticity or his ﬁnality from within the community by religious subversives, or from the outside. The cross-confessional debates of the Umayyad and the early Abbasid periods, and disputations in Islamic Spain, set the tone for much of the vast polemical literature on the subject, and governed the scholastic strategies in response to Christian, Jewish and Zoroastrian refuters of Islam.13 To the early nineteenth-century Sh¥ ¥ mujtahids of Iran, FasÇ¥ among them, these debates, and the polemics produced about them, were merely academic. Having been preoccupied most of the time with the study of jurisprudence (ﬁqh) and the ‘roots of jurisprudence’ (u‚l al-ﬁqh), the mujtahids’ familiarity with theological points such as the doctrine of ‘speciﬁc prophecy’ was a scholastic rudiment often to demonstrate their scholarly ecumenicity (jåmiiyya). Even though at least since the seventeenth century there had been new challenges to the Iranian ulamå , most notably from the Portuguese Jesuits based in Goa, by the nineteenth century these memories had largely faded in the isolating world of legalistic scrutiny of the Qajar period. The most signiﬁcant Safavid response to the Jesuit challenge was the Persian al-Lawåmi al-rabbåniyya ﬁ radd al-shubha al-Na‚råniyya by Aªmad b. Zayn al-Çbid¥n Alaw¥ Åmil¥, a learned descendant of Karak¥. This work was barely known to the nineteenth-century Iranian ulamå .14 Indeed, before the arrival of Martyn and Sabastiani there was little incentive for the Sh¥ ¥ ulamå to engage in anti-Christian polemical debates even though they produced a large body of anti-Suﬁ, anti-Jewish, and later anti-BÇb¥ and anti-BahÇ¥ refutations. Even the threat of Russian intrusion during and after the ﬁrst round of Russo-Persian wars (1805–13), which led to the compilation of a series of Jihådiyyas by the leading mujtahids of the time at the request of the Qajar state and under the auspicious of M¥rzÇ Buzurg FarÇhÇn¥ QÇim-MaqÇm I, triggered little, if any, anxiety or urgency to try to prove the status of Islam as a superior religion.15 For the Sh¥ ¥ society, at least on the surface and within the parameters of the ofﬁcial theology, the question of ‘speciﬁc prophecy’ of Muªammad was a given fact, unchallenged and un-challengeable. From the ofﬁcial standpoint of the Sh¥ ¥ ulamå , there were other urgent threats to be dealt with, challenges which deﬁned more clearly the boundaries of formal Shiism, ranging from deﬁance toward Sunnism to the more familiar adversity toward Suﬁsm. On the surface none of these ‘heresies’, as the non-shar¥ currents were labelled, manifestly questioned the doctrine of ‘speciﬁc prophecy’, not at least before the emergence of the BÇb¥ movement in the middle of the century. FasÇ¥’s risåla, and his mode of argument against Martyn, thus revisited some neglected areas of Sh¥ ¥ theology. Hence, it mirrored the Sh¥ ¥ mujtahids’ obvious weaknesses in debating anything beyond the mundane points of jurisprudence. The risåla addressed to Martyn primarily relied on 253

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the Islamic deﬁnition of miracle (ijåz, mujiza), as proof of prophetic authenticity, in contradistinction to ‘extraordinary feats’ (kharq ådat) and to magic (siªr). The differentiation was necessary in order to argue that Quranic eloquence (ﬁsåªa) was Muªammad’s greatest miracle. In this regard, remarkably, FasÇ¥ emphasized the relativity of prophetic miracles and qualiﬁed them according to their time and location. Muªammad’s miracle, he argued, could only happen among the Arabs who could appreciate his eloquence. Yet despite such an assertion, he urged his reader to consider Muªammad’s miracle as perfect and thus timeless. In contrast to the miracles of the past prophets, FasÇ¥ wrote, Muªammad’s was not based on ephemeral impressions (ªissiyyåt) but on rational discernments (idråkåt aqlåniyya) as recorded in the text of the QurÇn. Other miracles attributed to Muªammad on the basis of a single or even frequent reporting (tawåtur), he believed, could only be viewed favourably if collaterally conﬁrming the miracle of the QurÇn. ‘If you would examine this question for yourself, turn to the illustrious QurÇn, there you will ﬁnd his miraculous powers so established as to remain unimpaired until the Day of Resurrection.’16 Martyn’s ﬁrst Persian responses to FasÇ¥ was systematic in argument, yet decidedly less tolerant in tone and approach. He disputed not only relativity of time and circumstances as criteria for miracles, but doubted the very Islamic notion of Quranic eloquence (ﬁsåªa) as proof of Muªammad’s divine mission. Instead he defended frequent reporting (tawåtur) as a legitimate method for accepting Christ’s miracles, as reported in the Gospels.17 This no doubt was a reaction to a criticism implicit in FasÇ¥’s argument that unlike the QurÇn, which was a ‘revealed’ text, the Gospels were merely reports about Christ and could not be relied upon without corroborating textual evidence. As in other instances, here the Sh¥ ¥ critical assessment of the Bible was closer to modern biblical studies, then in its inception in Europe, than was Martyn’s evangelical proclivity, even though he was equipped with a Cambridge degree in mathematics. In his successive tract, the second in Persian, Martyn’s tone is distinctly poignant and irritated, an indication perhaps, as his journal reveals, of a change in the digniﬁed mood of the earlier discourses. He began his tract by dwelling on the familiar polemical charges against Islam’s historical advances by sword, coercion and booty, and Muªammad’s fashioning of Islamic doctrine based on his own ‘selﬁsh desires’ (khwåhish-i nafsån¥). As an example Martyn resorted to the charge of Muªammad’s unbridled urge for women (complete with the story of Mariyya, the Copt) which he argued was the ground for allowing polygamy in Islam. Yet the crux of his attack was on the QurÇn itself, which he characterized as a humanlymanufactured text devoid of eloquence, unsystematic, repetitious, contradictory, and brimming with platitudes, historical errors and plagiarized biblical stories. Moreover, he denounced Muslim criteria for Quranic eloquence as self-serving and intentional, and argued that its presumed unmatchable quality is nothing but an age-old Muslim illusion.18 254

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Context, controversy and subtext So far as the content was concerned, almost nothing new is to be found in the above exchange, neither in Martyn’s attacks nor FasÇ¥’s response. Few exceptions aside, it could have taken place centuries earlier in Baghdad or al-Andalus or Damascus. Yet what made the debate signiﬁcant, and controversial, was not so much the text as the context. Martyn represented a European movement of religious awakening reacting to the unsettling forces of industrialization and enlivened by the new possibilities in frontiers of an expanding colonial empire. FasÇ¥, and a host of his Iranian co-religionists, who then and later tried to refute Martyn, represented a religio-national community, at least on the surface conﬁdent of its own identity, even complacent of its place in the world and not yet fully aware of the torrents of Western military, diplomatic and eventually cultural intrusions which were soon to arrive. Almost immediately following the Martyn–FasÇ¥ exchange, whether because of Martyn’s own claim that he had ‘prevailed’ over the mujtahid, or more likely because of the anti-U‚l¥ sentiments in the city which wished to see FasÇ¥ subdued, there was a sense of religio-cultural anxiety. A call for responding to the Christian polemicist soon spread beyond Shiraz and led to the production of a number of refutations aimed at addressing Martyn’s objections more comprehensively and from angles different to those of FasÇ¥. One of the earliest was by another Shirazi mujtahid, M¥rzÇ Al¥ Akbar Mudarris Sh¥raz¥ (with the pen-name Bismil) of the NawwÇb family (and presumably a relative of FasÇ¥) and entitled Nr al-hidåya f¥ ithbåt al-risåla (‘The Guiding Light in Proof of [Muªammad’s] Mission’).19 Written as a catechism in response to Martyn while he was still residing in Shiraz, M¥rzÇ Al¥ Akbar ﬁrst resorted to the predictable logical tedium of tawåtur (frequent reports) to validate, in contrast to FasÇ¥, the nontextual miracles of the Prophet. Relying on such works as Majlis¥’s Óayåt al-qulb, the author offered an amusing litany of popular Sh¥ ¥ beliefs about Muªammad’s, and the Imams’ miracles ranging from the betterknown story of splitting the moon (shaqq al-qamar) to the more grotesque account of a half-eaten broiled chicken whose testimony to the Prophet’s veracity was denied by Ab Jahl. The Prophet eventually restores the consumed half of the loquacious chicken and transforms it into a heavenly bird. Even more than FasÇ¥’s solemn, concise, and yet scholastic, high ground, M¥rzÇ Al¥ Akbar’s hurried and innocuously mundane rejoinder was a visible embarrassment to the leading ulamå and the government authorities. The government in particular viewed such inadequacies as a scandal for the clerical establishment that might serve as an incentive for public conversion to the religion of the Europeans. Immediate efforts to commission comprehensive rejoinders were a proof of such concerns. At least seven major responses were produced over the next ﬁve years, reﬂecting a wide spectrum of theological approaches. With 255

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few exceptions, however, they did not substantively add to the already recognized Sh¥ ¥ theological positions. By the end of the Fatª Al¥ ShÇh era (that is, by 1834), there were at least twenty-eight ‘refutations of the padre’ by Sh¥ ¥ jurists, philosophers, Suﬁ scholars and lay writers. The earliest, and in many way the most signiﬁcant, were commissioned by the Qajar state and patronized by the inﬂuential M¥rzÇ Buzurg QÇim-MaqÇm FarÇhÇn¥ (father of M¥rzÇ Ab al-QÇsim), minister to the crown prince AbbÇs M¥rzÇ in Azarbaijan. Written by the Suﬁ scholar, MullÇ Muªammad Ri∂Ç HamadÇn¥, and entitled Irshåd al-mu∂ill¥n (‘Guide to the Erroneous’), it was completed in 1227/1812 while Martyn was still in Iran. HamadÇn¥ also produced at least two other related works before 1815. Simultaneously, another important NimatallÇh¥ Suﬁ from Isfahan, Zayn al-Åbid¥n Óusayn Al¥ ShÇh, produced a rejoinder in response both to Martyn and to Joseph Sabastiani. More than a year later M¥rzÇ Ab al-QÇsim Qumm¥ (better known as M¥rzÇ-yi Qumm¥), the inﬂuential U‚l¥ jurist, produced his ﬁqhorientated Radd-i Padr¥ at the request of the Shah. This work remained incomplete. Shortly after, in 1230/1814 the contentious scholar, M¥rzÇ Muªammad AkhbÇr¥, also wrote his Åyinih-yi Abbås¥ (or Amål¥ Abbås¥) at the request of AbbÇs M¥rzÇ (and possibly in competition with his U‚l¥ rivals such as M¥rzÇ Ab al-QÇsim Qumm¥). The teacher of philosophy in Isfahan, MullÇ Al¥ Nr¥, felt enough urgency to temporarily suspend his teaching circle and devote his time writing his Óujjat al-Islåm (‘The Proof of Islam’) in 1232/1816 in response to missionary attacks and more specifically to Joseph Sabastiani. A year later, in 1233/1817 the inﬂuential jurist and theologian, MullÇ Ahmad NarÇq¥, produced his voluminous Sayf alumma va burhån al-milla (‘The Sword of the Community and Proof of the Nation’), the only of the early rejoinders to be published 33 years later in 1267/1850 in Iran. A number of Najaf jurists, among them Sayyid Muªammad KarbalÇ¥, better-known as MujÇhid, also produced antimissionary polemics though not directly against Martyn.20 Moreover, M¥rzÇ Buzurg QÇim-MaqÇm FarÇhÇn¥ himself produced a rejoinder, summarizing other responses, just as he had earlier produced a similar jihådiyya compendium in 1805.21 By the middle of the century, ‘refutations of the padre’, now a genre of polemics, were commonplace. Even the eccentric historian, M¥rzÇ Muªammad HÇshim Åsaf, better known as Rustam al-ÓukamÇ, produced a ‘radd-i padr¥’.22 Though much of this literature was a reworking of medieval arguments, at least in three salient points there were breakthroughs in the polemical discourse. First, was a new strategy in u‚l al-ﬁqh devised by Sh¥ ¥ jurists in questioning the prophethood (nubuwwa) of Jesus, that came to be known as ‘scriptural argumentation’ (iªtijåj kitåb¥). Second, and perhaps the most remarkable, was an emphasis mostly among the Suﬁ writers on the evolutionary (takw¥n¥) nature of prophethood as a proof of Islam’s validity. Third, was a more thorough reading of the Bible, both the Hebrew Bible and the New Testament, by Sh¥ ¥ scholars not only in search of 256

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prophecies for Muªammad’s revelation, but to highlight what they considered as discrepancies, contradictions, corruption and distortions (taªr¥f ) in the Christian holy scriptures. In all there was a certain rhetorical robustness in the literature, different from the tedium of the juristic and theological texts, but still barely crossing the permitted boundaries of Islamic orthodoxy. From the methodological point of view, the ‘scriptural argumentation’, ﬁrst set forth by M¥rzÇ-yi Qumm¥, gave the Muslim scholars the necessary logical tool to question the legitimacy of Christ’s prophecy and engage in a wider biblical criticism in defence of their positions. In what might be called a ‘phenomenological’ approach, Qumm¥ argued that since the ‘evidence’ (or ‘validity’, i.e. ªujjiyyat) of the QurÇn is denied by Christians, it is logically impossible for them to expect Muslims to believe in the past prophets, including Jesus, on the basis of the Quranic evidence. This, he proposed, was implied in Martyn’s refutations. Relying on the Quranic advice (Q16.125, ‘Dsipute with them in the better way’), Qumm¥ resorts to the ‘the best method of disputation’ (†ar¥q-i mujådila bar wajh-i aªsån). He thus virtually set aside the ‘transmitted proof’ (ªujjiyyat-i naql¥) based on the Quranic evidence in favour of the ‘sound evidence of reason’ (ªujjiyyat-i aql-i qa†¥). As a good U‚l¥, he then relies on the principle of ‘preferential reasoning’ (istiªbåb) to set forth a complex argument against the ‘continuity’ (istimrår) of Jesus’ ‘absolute prophecy’ (nubuwwati mu†laqa). Even if the ‘very prophecy’ of Jesus, what Qumm¥ deﬁnes as ‘mu†laq-i nubuwwat’, is accepted by the Muslims as an assumption (or supposition, i.e. Ωann), based on ‘preferential deduction’, it is impossible to prove it unconditionally (bilå qayd) based on the available textual evidence. But prophecy, Qumm¥ argued, being one of the articles of the faith required certainty (qa†) and not mere assumption (Ωann). Despite some scholastic acrobatics, implicit in this argument was a sense of relativity, which though it did not deny Jesus’ prophethood, subjected it to the condition of time and circumstance. Yet Qumm¥ was careful not to extend this argument too far, for he must have been aware of its application to the Islamic doctrine of Muªammad’s ‘ﬁnality’ (khåtamiyyat). The rest of Qumm¥’s incomplete risåla employed familiar attacks on the Trinity and other Christian doctrines long-disputed by Muslim polemists and, inevitably, fell into all the familiar scholastic pitfalls which for centuries characterized such works.23 Whether explicit or, more often, implicit, the ‘scriptural argumentation’ was evident in most later Sh¥ ¥ rejoinders. MullÇ Aªmad NarÇq¥’s Sayf al-umma offered a perfect example. ‘The Muslim’s confession of Jesus’ miracles’, he argues, ‘rests on the prophecy of the seal of the Prophets (i.e. Muªammad)’. He argued that not only the ‘transmitted’ (naql¥) evidence of the QurÇn but the evidence of reason (aql) dictate that the advent of the prophets should follow a certain rational ‘order’ (tart¥b) whereby every new revelation abrogates (naskh) the ‘rules and law’ (aªkåm va shar¥ at) of the 257

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previous prophet. NarÇq¥’s mystical (irfån¥) proclivities are more evident in his articulation of the notion of prophetic progression. Here he resorts to the doctrine of ‘divine favour’ to argue that since mankind is social by nature (madan¥ al-†ab), God invariably favours it by sending prophets for its guidance. They are endowed with three preconditions of divine inspiration, leadership and an abiding shar¥ a.24 Further, NarÇq¥’s U‚l¥ training leads him to an extensive reassessment of the New Testament in which he widely relies on the Hebrew Bible to refute Christian orthodox doctrines of the Trinity, Christ’s miracles and to demonstrate textual distortions in Christ’s message by his disciples (and in particular Paul). In this endeavour NarÇq¥, who was residing in Kashan, readily beneﬁted from the help of the rabbis of the city’s Jewish community in frequently quoting Old Testament passages in Hebrew in support of his points. Yet, throughout, he offers a larger than usual share of anti-Jewish scorns and abuses presumably to protect himself against charges of collaboration with the Jews, especially when he dwells on the Jewish messianic prophecies regarding the advent of the Messiah (Måshiyya). Without hesitation NarÇq¥ recognizes the subject of these prophecies as no other person than Aªmad, the name by which Islamic theology detects Muªammad in the Bible.25 He must also have had access to European anti-Catholic polemics. In several instances he quotes passages in Latin (transcribed in Persian) in order to demonstrate, predictably, distortions (taªr¥fåt) in Christ’s original prophecy about the advent of Muªammad. Before NarÇq¥, and arguably a more articulate response, was that produced by MullÇ Muªammad Ri∂Ç HamadÇn¥. He was the author of the 1812 Irshåd al-mu∂ill¥n (the abridged translation of which is the core of Lee’s Controversial Tracts, and is, perhaps, the ﬁrst work by any living Iranian to be translated into a European language (Figure 13.1)).26 He employed the same doctrine of divine grace, or the ‘principle of favour’ (qå ida-yi lu†f), to argue the continuous need for prophetic revelations and, in turn, for Muªammad’s prophecy. A NimatallÇh¥ Suﬁ originally from Hamadan with the †ar¥qa name of Kawthar Al¥ ShÇh, he was a disciple of the martyr Suﬁ saint Nr Al¥ ShÇh and later a leading scholar in the Tabriz circle patronized by AbbÇs M¥rzÇ and his minister, M¥rzÇ Buzrg FarÇhÇn¥. HamadÇn¥ is speciﬁc on the necessity for humankind not only for the prophets but for their vicegerents (va‚¥-yi nab¥). ‘He is considered as one of those means by which the divine intentions may be accomplished . . . And the divine intentions are that men may advance towards perfection by the cultivation of every virtue, both practical and theoretical (material and intellectual) and avoid the extremes on both grounds.’ Unmistakably Sh¥ ¥-Suﬁ in his outlook, HamadÇn¥’s almost Mutazilite regard for God’s obligation to guide humankind no doubt is a variation on both themes of Imamate in Shiism and wilåyat of the Perfect Man (insån-i kåmil) in Suﬁsm.27 Such a leader, HamadÇn¥ argues, ‘who has in his power either to execute or dispense with the divine counsels, without the danger of 258

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Figure 13.1 Title page of the collection of treatises, written by Martyn and his adversaries, and published in 1824

mistake, is in the language of theologians termed a prophet, or his vicegerent’. From the days of Adam to those of Muªammad, ‘the necessity of such an instructor must, in the process of time, have become more and more apparent because those whose religious habits were in daily exercise, would necessarily become more and more prepared for further information’. This progression (takw¥n) of divine revelation for the perfection of humankind comes out even more clearly, though, when he underlines the historical relativity of prophecy. When the time of his [i.e. any prophet’s] departure shall have arrived, another charged with the same commission of mercy, may supply his place. In this case, should the circumstances of the times be such as not to call for the abrogation of existing laws, the vicegerent of the prophet would sufﬁce, but should there be otherwise, one charged with powers sufﬁcient for that purpose, should become necessary. 259

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Figure 13.2 Dedication page of the collection of treatises, written by Martyn and his adversaries, and published in 1824

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Arriving at such conclusions, namely the necessity for renewal of revelation, HamadÇn¥ recommends recourse to ‘reasoning faculty’ (istidåd aqliyya), a course which convinces him of the absurdity of the Sunni practice of following the founders of the four legal Schools (madhhabs). A natural conclusion of the theses on the necessity of continuous prophetic guidance brings HamadÇn¥ dangerously close to disregarding the ﬁnality of Muªammad and the eternal perfection of Islamic revelation for all humankind at all times, the standard doctrine of Islamic orthodoxy. He wisely avoids the debate, as did many speculative Suﬁs and philosophers before him, yet as a Sh¥ ¥ he can not avoid addressing the issue of the Hidden Imam. Why, he asks rhetorically, should the ‘Lord of the Cause’ (‚åªib al-amr), who is in occultation (ghayba) and inaccessible, be thus considered as an effective source of guidance for humankind, as the Sh¥ ¥s believe? Here his answer relies on all the pedestrian solutions to the lasting Sh¥ ¥ problem of the Occultation. As a last resort, he considers the people rather than the Hidden Imam responsible for the Imam’s Occultation since people lacked, and still lack, the capacity to beneﬁt from God’s grace.28 The weakness of such a position is not so apparent to HamadÇn¥, no doubt because, in the absence of the Imam, he resorts to the Suﬁ doctrine of wilåya as the living proof of God’s grace. Yet, understandably in an ofﬁcial refutation of a Christian missionary, he does not venture to advocate anything more explicit than a wa‚¥. The theological impasse and fear of contradicting the doctrine of the ﬁnality of Muªammad is also evident here. Underneath the ornate surface of sound reasoning, there existed in the literature a sense of anxiety and, at times, even desperation. Judging by Martyn’s Journal, even a high dose of scepticism can be sensed, especially among those in Shiraz who conversed with Martyn rather than responding to him in writing. Even though we should allow room for Martyn’s exaggerations, biases and unfamiliarity with Islamic philosophical and mystical debates, there still exists enough evidence to convince the reader of the depth of such an anti-orthodox discourse. That is why, in contrast to the mujtahids and theologians, Martyn ﬁnds a certain afﬁnity in his dialogue with the Suﬁs which is well apparent in his third tract, essentially written in response to their doctrinal objections. Some of the Suﬁ leaders who conversed with Martyn, among them M¥rzÇ BÇbÇ, a leader of the Dhahab¥ order, and the celebrated M¥rzÇ Ab alQÇsim known as Sukt, a NimatallÇh¥ with heterodox views, interpreted Christianity, and particularly the doctrine of the Trinity, in the light of the Íf¥ belief in the ‘unity of being’ (waªdat-i wujd). Within such a framework, they claimed that the differences between God and man, and in effect between prophets and the rest of the humankind, are a matter of relative perfection. Moreover, Sukt even seems to imply that organized religions, and the Islamic Shar¥ a in particular, are of no eternal validity. When it 261

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came to Martyn’s aide and co-translator of the New Testament into Persian, Sayyid Al¥ NawwÇb Sh¥raz¥, a poet (and calligrapher) with the pen name NiyÇz, such scepticism turned into agnosticism, even ‘contempt for revelations’, and criticism of organized religions and their representatives. One can even speculate that Martyn’s whole engagement with the mujtahids of Shiraz was ﬁrst instigated by M¥r Sayyid Al¥, a relative and former student of FasÇ¥. ‘Persians’, Sayyid Al¥ conﬁded to Martyn, are ‘very far from thinking the eloquence of the Koran [as] miraculous, however the Arabs might think’. Instead, he thought merits should be given to prophets for their ‘example and instructions’. Suﬁs, Martyn regrets to admit, ‘delighted in everything Christian, except in being exclusive’.29 Martyn was further impressed with the Persians’ enthusiasm and curiosity to know not only about the New Testament and the message of Christ, but about contemporary European philosophy, mathematics, physics and astronomy. The latter subject, predictably, caused some bewilderment among his audience when Martyn draw diagrams to demonstrate the Copernican system of planetary motions. Yet Martyn’s own attraction to exact sciences carried much mystical and messianic undertone. His mixed bag of Newtonian mathematics, which he picked up in Cambridge, and evangelical millennialism convinced him of an imminent Second Coming. Martyn found in his messianism a curious afﬁnity with his Persian audience. In particular he shared with them preoccupation with numerology and science of letters. He even makes a passing reference to an unnamed scholar in Yazd who ‘has fallen into the same way of thinking as myself about letters, and professes to have found out all the arts and sciences from them. I should be glad to compare notes with him.’ One is tempted to think that this is a tantalizing reference to the theologian, philosopher and practitioner of numerology, Shaykh Aªmad AªsÇ¥, the founder of the Shaykh¥ school, who at the time was residing in Yazd.30 Conversing with the ShirÇz¥ literati, and amusing them, made Martyn the talk of the town. It is not surprising therefore that the state authorities and the mujtahid establishment began to sense a potential threat in Martyn and his activities which if left unchecked could trigger irreligiosity and dissent. No doubt the Sh¥ ¥ rejoinders, more than addressing the English missionary, were aimed at saving the believers who if left to themselves could be lured by the scepticism of a small but inﬂuential minority of indigenous dissenters who had resisted the hegemony of the U‚l¥ ulamå and their allies. The Qajar authorities seem to have realized that though the Martyn phenomenon may have been effective in deﬂating the mujtahids’ egos, it may also be potentially damaging to the Qajar prestige. Martyn no doubt was conscious of the fact that he was protected by the British envoy and that political circumstances especially favoured the ascendancy of his country. This must have been an important factor, not only in his daring 262

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criticism of Islam, but in his endeavour to translate and publish the New Testament. Sir Gore Ouseley, the British minister extraordinary to the Persian court, and his brother, William, were both Persianists of some repute. On a number of occasions Gore Ouseley, and the secretary of his mission, the celebrated James Morrier, met with Martyn in Shiraz and again in Tabriz and invariably Martyn beneﬁted from their moral support. While in Shiraz he completely revised his Persian translation from the original Greek with the help of M¥rzÇ Sayyid Al¥ Sh¥raz¥. His co-translator was largely responsible for the style and choice of Persian equivalents. Martyn tells us that in the process of revision Sayyid Al¥ consciously tried to follow the simple Persian style favoured by the literary circle patronized by Fatª Al¥ ShÇh. This no doubt is a reference to the ‘royal society’ (Anjuman-i Khåqån) whose members were responsible for the development of the ‘new style’ based on the Persian poetry of the so-called school of Khurasan of the tenth century. Despite obvious shortcomings, the appearance of the Persian translation of the New Testament was a turning point in Iran’s religious and literary scene. It is important to note that the new translation for the ﬁrst time made available an alternative scripture to the QurÇn. The widely accessible and easily comprehensible Persian translation by Martyn and Sh¥rÇz¥ appeared at the time when the Arabic QurÇn was largely outside the reach of average Persians and even rarely studied by the ulamå as part of their madrasa curriculum. In 1815, less than three years after Martyn’s death, a lavish edition of his translation appeared in St Petersburg under the supervision of Sir Gore Ouseley. In 1813 on his way back from Iran he stayed in the Russian capital to mediate the conclusion of the Gulistan peace treaty between Russia and Iran. It is probable that availability of the Arabic/Persian typeface in St Petersburg encouraged the British envoy to arrange for this edition for immediate dissemination. It is also likely that the Russian authorities found in Martyn’s direct translation from Greek into Persian an afﬁnity with Russia’s Greek Orthodox creed.31 A year later, M¥r Sayyid Al¥, who may have secretly converted to Christianity, went to India (perhaps with the support of the Church Missionary Society) and helped publish in 1816 another edition of the Paymån-i jad¥d-i khudåvand va rahånand-yi ma Ûså Ma‚¥ª (‘The New Testament of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ’) in Calcutta in nastal¥q typeface (Figure 13.3). His efforts as the assistant to Martyn were acknowledged in the title page. Copies of this and later editions, printed in a typeface familiar to the Persian eye (Figure 13.4), were published in London by the British and Foreign Bible Society. They were widely distributed in Iran and India throughout the nineteenth century. By 1837 it had reached the fourth edition.32 The publication of the Persian translation in St Petersburg came at a time when Ouseley was in the Russian capital mediating a peace treaty between Iran and Russia at the close of the ﬁrst round of the RussoPersian wars. While in Iran, the envoy no doubt had used his newly-gained 263

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Figure 13.3 Title page of Martyn’s Persian translation of the New Testament

inﬂuence with Fatª Al¥ ShÇh to seek permission for the distribution of Martyn’s polemical tracts and his translation of the New Testament. It is not hard to gauge the reaction of Fatª Al¥ ShÇh and his ministers. They must have shuddered at the prospects of any such publication. When presented with Martyn’s refutation tracts, the Shah reportedly had said ﬁrst ‘the Farangis’ government and army, and now some of their Mullahs [have] come to the East’, a sobering, and perhaps truncated, remark reﬂective of the Qajars’ growing fear of European domination. Indeed it was the prospects for the printing of the Persian tracts and their widespread dissemination in Iran that persuaded the Shah to order M¥rzÇ Buzurg urgently to ‘prepare an answer’ to them. This in turn explains the palpable sense of anxiety in the above-mentioned rejoinders by the Sh¥ ¥ scholars.33 At the same time the Shah also issued a farmån in 1229/1814, at the request of his ‘dear friend, the worthy and respectable Sir Gore Ouseley’, acknowledging the receipt of a manuscript copy of the new translation of the New Testament. The farmån further stated that the Shah has read the entire text in the company of his attendants and found it a ‘source 264

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Figure 13.4 Opening page of the Gospel according to Luke in Martyn’s Persian translation of the New Testament

of satisfaction’ to his ‘enlightened mind’.34 Though the farmån did not refer to the publication of the New Testament, it is not impossible that Ouseley and later the Bible Society used this decree as an authorization for distributing the printed edition. By 1815, the post-mortem impact of Martyn’s challenge must have been truly felt. In his preface to MullÇ Ri∂Ç HamadÇn¥’s second refutation to Martyn, called Miftåª al-nubuwwa (‘The Key to Prophecy’), M¥rzÇ Ab al-QÇsim FarÇhÇn¥, son of M¥rzÇ Buzurg and the celebrated Qajar statesman and literary ﬁgure, is explicit in his condemnation of the ulamå and praise for HamadÇn¥, his Suﬁ guide. The new work, which was a supplement to the earlier Irshåd al-mu∂ill¥n, was compiled in 1232/1815. QÇim-MaqÇm asserted that HamadÇn¥’s work, through ‘envoys of the Christian nation’, has reached Europe and ‘like fear of majestic splendour has spread in all quarters of the land of inﬁdelity, shaken the pillars of idolatry and antagonism, and demonstrated the incapacity of Christian scholars to criticize or refute it’. Yet such claims sounded more like empty boasts by a master of wordplay to indulge his own Persian readership at a time when Iran was defeated in war and tricked in peace.35 By 1828 265

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when QÇim-MaqÇm wrote his famous letter to the ulamå of Tabriz, presumably on behalf of AbbÇs M¥rzÇ, accusing them of worthlessness and betrayal, he twice alluded to the mujtahids’ incompetence to respond to European padres, a clear reference to the inefﬁcacy of many rejoinders produced by the ulamå .36 By the way of conclusion, two observations may be made corresponding to the above criticism. First, facing the challenge of a Christian missionary (with obvious Orientalist proclivities), the Sh¥ ¥ writers of the early nineteenth-century Iran were willing partners to polemic debates. They counter-argued Martyn’s refutation with a few of their own. Their strategies were, at times, novel, and were coupled with an agile rhetoric. Martyn’s challenge was within their theological sphere and something to which they could relate. Yet their responses were almost entirely oblivious to the political realities of Iran. They seem to have been utterly uninterested in, and most likely unaware, of, the context in which Martyn presented his challenge. Viewing him as no more than an exotic European phenomenon, they failed to see him as a representative of a pervasive culture with potent modern tools. Most effectively, Martyn’s publication of the New Testament demonstrated the advantage his printed words held over his Sh¥ ¥ opponents in narrating to a wider Persian audience. The fascinating story of the life and death of Christ until then was barely known to the Iranians beyond the Quranic references and Islamic apocryphal texts. By 1817, when NarÇq¥ wrote his Sayf al-umma, he did not seem to have even a word for ‘printing’. Instead of the Perso-Indian verb chåp kardan he used qålib zadan (presumably from wood block printing on fabric). He could only urge the Muslims, especially the ‘adventurous, the youth, and the people of the passion and desire’ to be prohibited from learning the behaviour of the Christians ‘for those [Muslims] who follow their desires and whose sense of religiosity is not strong, will be inclined to follow such habits’.37 Second, in the Sh¥ ¥ responses to Martyn, especially the non-clerical ones, there was a nascent inclination to view consecutive prophetic revelations as renewable sacred phenomena conﬁned to their time and place. Such historical relativism, embedded in Sh¥ ¥ sense of historical time, could potentially question the applicability of Islam for all ages and of Muªammad as the Seal of the Prophets. Though not new in Suﬁ circles, the exposure to Christian polemics at the time of political crisis could raise in the mind of the Muslims, and Sh¥ ¥s in particular, not only an urge for a messianic (or more correctly Mahdistic) manifestation, but also for the occurrence of a prophetic renewal. One can almost detect in such responses the intellectual origins of the BÇb¥ doctrine, and later the BahÇ¥ message of progressive revelation. It is not a sheer accident perhaps that the BÇb¥ movement, with its indigenous message of progression, should ﬁrst originate in Shiraz. Despite these tantalizing traits, however, the doctrinal impasse evident in the Sh¥ ¥ rejoinders, points at the acute failure 266

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of scholastic Shiism and the U‚l¥ establishment to modernize itself for the remainder of the nineteenth century, and perhaps up to the time of the Islamic Revolution. After all, ÅyatallÇh Khumayn¥’s ideology of wilåyat-i faq¥h is rooted in NarÇq¥’s concept of the jurists’ wilåyat, itself perhaps an answer to the impasse of prophetic leadership articulated in his response to Martyn.

Notes 1 D. Bently-Tylor My Love Must Wait, the Story of Henry Martyn (London, 1975) 73, 53, 97 citing Martyn’s Journal. 2 N. Daniel Islam, Europe and Empire (Edinburgh, 1966) 255–6, 263, 501. 3 S. Wilberforce Journal and Letters of Reverend Henry Martyn, 2 vols (London, 1837) I, 310. 4 Bently, My Love, 118. 5 Wilberforce, Journal II, 347. 6 Wilberforce, Journal II, 717. 7 Wilberforce, Journal II, 357, 371. 8 Wilberforce, Journal II, 724. 9 Wilberforce, Journal II, 724–5. 10 Earlier he had read anti-Islamic polemics by a certain Lord Valentia while writing his own Arabic tracts in Bombay: J. Sargent A Memoir of the Reverent Henry Martyn (5th edn: London, 1844) 309, 314. 11 For M¥rzÇ IbrÇh¥m FasÇ¥ (1173–1255/1759–1839) see, for example, Óasan FasÇ¥ Fårs-nåmih-yi Nå‚ir¥ (2nd edn M. RastigÇr-FasÇ¥ (ed.): Tehran, 1367sh/ 1989) II, 927–9 which offers some details about his juristic career and his altercations with the government of Fars. None of the Persian biographical dictionaries, so far as I know, makes any reference to FasÇ¥’s exchanges with Martyn. 12 M¥rzÇ IbrÇh¥m FasÇ¥ Risåla (MS. Persian 1826 (Bodl. Or. 765), Bodleian Library, Oxford) folios 1–2; trans. in S. Lee Controversial Tracks on Christianity and Mohammedanism (Cambridge, 1824) 1–2. 13 For a bibliography of mostly medieval Islamic polemics see M. Steinschneider Polemische und Apolgetische Literatur in Arabischer Sprache, Zwischen Muslimen, Christian und Juden (Leipzig, 1877) which does not make any reference to the literature resulted from the Martyn controversy. 14 Alaw¥ was commissioned by AbbÇs I to respond to refutations by Heionuymo Xavier just before the Safavid expulsion of the Portuguese from the Island of Hormuz in 1622. Alaw¥’s rejoinder, needless to say, was an excellent piece of propaganda, needed by the canny Shah AbbÇs to fortify his military action with a religious justiﬁcation. For this work, its author and the exchanges with Jesuits see S. Lee, Controversial Tracks, v–cxiii; E. G. Browne A Catalogue of the Persian Manuscripts in the Library of the University of Cambridge (Cambridge, 1896) 12. Only one manuscript copy of this work appears in the Iranian collections (M. A. Raw∂at¥ Fihrist-i Nuskhihhå-yi Kha††¥-i Kitåbkhånihhå-yi I‚fahån (Isfahan, n.d.) I, 169. See also Sayyid Aªmad Alaw¥ Åmil¥ Mi‚qal-i ‚afå dar tajl¥ya-yi å ¥nih-yi ªaqqnamå (Ó. NÇj¥ I‚fahÇn¥ (ed.): Qumm, 1415AH/1373sh) 15 See J¥hådiyya (Tehran, 1234/1819; 2nd edn J. QÇim-MaqÇm¥ (ed.): Tehran, 1353sh/1974). For the circumstances leading to its production and publication see A. Amanat ‘ “Russian Intrusion into the Guarded Domain”: Reﬂections of a Qajar Statesman on European Expansion’ Journal of the American Oriental Society 113.1 (1993) 35–56.

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16 FasÇ¥, Risåla, 38/23; trans. Lee, Controversial Tracks, 38. 17 Martyn Risåla (I) (MS Persian 1826, Bodleian Library, Oxford) 24–47; trans. in Lee, Controversial Tracts, 80–101. 18 Martyn Risåla (II) (MS Persian 1826, Bodleian Library, Oxford) 48–59A; trans. in Lee, Controversial Tracts, 102–23. 19 MS. Add. 3231, Cambridge Central Library, Cambridge (see Browne, Handlist of Persian Manuscripts, 415). Excerpts of the original and partial translation in Lee, Controversial Tracts, Appendix A, 40–69. 20 Earlier in 1215/1800 in his general anti-Jewish and anti-Christian polemic Rådd shubahåt al-kuffår (‘Refuting the Inﬁdels’ Illusions’) ÅqÇ Muªammad Al¥ BihbahÇn¥ (son of ÅqÇ Muªammad BÇqir Waª¥d), with the infamous title of ‚f¥-kush (killer of the Suﬁs) was produced at the request of Fatª Al¥ ShÇh. This text has been published: ÅqÇ Muªammad Al¥ BihbahÇn¥, Rådd shubahåt al-kuffår (M. RajÇ¥ (ed.): Qumm, 1413/1991). It also addressed Christian attacks though without reference to any European missionary. 21 Shortly after, his other compilation jihådiyya, which was a collection of a number of works by mujtahids was published in Tabriz in 1819. 22 Entitled Padr¥-nåmih, it consists of about 250 verses. Rustam al-HukamÇ lists it in the inventory of his own works that appears as an appendix to a manuscript copy of his Pand-nåmih. In the same inventory he also lists a digest he prepared of treaties about the veracity of Judaism, Christianity and Islam and of the Sh¥ ¥ Imams that he compiled for Muªammad ShÇh and ÓÇjj¥ M¥rzÇ AqÇs¥. These treaties were originally written by M¥rzÇ Muªammad Al¥ Darband¥, Rustam al-HukamÇ’s teacher, and were presented to the Russian emperor Nicholas I and his minister for the education of Russian royal princes. 23 M¥rzÇ Ab al-QÇsim Qumm¥ Risåla dar Radd-i Padr¥ (MS, AyatallÇh Marashi Public Library, Qumm) (no reference is available for this work); for excerpts see Ó. Mudarris¥ ˝aba†abÇ¥ (ed.) ‘RisÇla dar radd-i Henry Martyn’ Vaª¥d X (1351sh/1972) 1223–37. I am also indebted to Dr Hossein Modarrisi for sharing notes with me on the subject of Sh¥ ¥ responses to Martyn and for his valuable references to lesser-known accounts which he has assiduously gleaned from various collections. In a more extensive version of this study I am hoping to make a wider use of some of the material which he ﬁrst brought to my attention. 24 Aªmad ibn Mahd¥ NarÇq¥ Sayf al-umma wa burhån al-milla dar radd-i Pådr¥yi Na‚rån¥ (Tabriz?, 1267AH/1851) 41–68. 25 NarÇq¥, Sayf al-umma, 85–120. See also Muªammad TunikÇbun¥ Qi‚a‚ alulamå (Tehran, n.d.) 129–30 on NarÇq¥’s invitation to ten Jewish rabbis and his use of the library of a certain rabbi, MullÇ Msha (Moses), in compiling his work. 26 Lee’s edition of the Controversial Tracts included a long preface with remarks on earlier controversies of the Safavid period, translation of tracts by IbrÇh¥m FasÇ¥, Martyn, ÅqÇ Al¥ Akbar Sh¥raz¥, a full translation of HamadÇn¥’s work and Lee’s own rejoinder to HamadÇn¥. He dedicated his book to the Earl of Liverpool ‘as a public acknowledgement of one hundred pound per annum made from his Majesty’s Treasury for the purpose of enabling the Arabic professor of this University (i.e. Cambridge) to deliver a public course of Arabic and Hebrew lectures . . .’ (Figure 13.2). 27 It is not a coincidence perhaps that at the same time period, the Sh¥ ¥ philosopher and the founder of the Shaykh¥ school, Shaykh Aªmad AªsÇ¥, was advocating his doctrine of the Perfect Sh¥ a (al-sh¥ a al-kåmil). 28 Muªammad Ri∂Ç HamadÇn¥ Irshåd al-Mu∂∂illin (MS, Minasian Collection, Wadham Library, Oxford), dated 1254 (no manuscript number is available

268

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29

30

31

32 33 34 35 36 37

for this work), Introduction and ﬁrst misbåª, 1–20; abridged (and inaccurate) trans. in Lee, Controversial Tracts, 161–91. Martyn, Journal, 374–5; cf. Memoir, 332. For M¥r Sayyid Al¥ FasÇ¥’s biography see FasÇ¥, Fårsnåmih II, 1104–8 which praises him as a master calligrapher and a physician and cites specimens of his poetry. It acknowledges his two-year stay in India around 1815 but does not refer to the translation of the New Testament. He died in 1263/1847 in Shiraz. Martyn, Journal, 358–87. AªsÇ¥ resided in Yazd between 1808 and 1813. According to his son during this period ‘the cause of his reverence was disseminated in towns and publicized in provinces’. Shaykh Abd AllÇh AªsÇ¥ Sharª-i Aªwål-i . . . Shaykh Aªmad ibn Zayn al-D¥n Aªså ¥ (Muhammad Tahir Kirmani (trans.); 2nd edn: Kirman, 1387sh) 28–9. See also A. Amanat Resurrection and Renewal: The Making of the Babi Movement in Iran, 1844–1850 (Ithaca, 1989) 275. The Latin title page reads: Novum Testamentum Dominiet Solvatoris Nostri Jesu Christi E Craeca in Persicam Linguam a viro reverendo Henrico Martyno (Petropoli, 1815). The Persian title page reads: Paymån-i tåzih-yi khudåvand va rahånandih-yi må Ûså Mas¥ª kih af∂al al-fu∂alå Henry Martyn-i Ingil¥s¥ az zabån-i Ynån¥ bi Fårs¥ dar dår al-ilm-i Sh¥råz tarjama nimdih ast. ˝aba f¥ sana mas¥ªiyya 1815. The Bodleian copy (N.T. Pers. d.1) presumably belonged to Gore Ouseley. An inquiry into the literary style and translation techniques of this work and its impact on the Persian of the Qajar period requires a separate study. Martyn, Journal (1st edn), 759–60. The English translation of Fatª Al¥ ShÇh’s farmån appears in G. Fowler Three Years in Persia (London, 1841) 126–7. Ab’l-QÇsim QÇim-MaqÇm Munshaåt (Tehran, 1366sh/1863) 134–8. QÇim-MaqÇm, Munshaåt, 281–90. For further details see Amanat, ‘Russian Intrusion’. NarÇq¥, Sayf al-umma, 321.

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14 THE WESTERN MISSIONARIES IN AZERBAIJANI SOCIETY (1835–1914) Florence Hellot

A very important historical event occurred in 1918 and 1919 to the west of the Urumia lake, Azerbaijan. Starting with violent inter-religious conﬂict, it developed into the exodus of Christian Persians from the Urumia region, ﬁrst to Hamadan, and later to Baquba. Even today, some contend that the tensions between Muslims and Christians in Urumia provide the correct explanation for this exodus. Others argue that its origins lie with the Kurdish population of the area. Such opinions look too simple now, as they assume that Persians, Kurds, Muslims and Christians were homogeneous groups at the time, clearly differentiated from each other. They ignore the surprising internal diversity of each group, and the role actually played inside of the groups by individuals and smaller associations of individuals. Observing large communities over long periods of time allows one to place their particular history in perspective of world history, but bears the risks of ignoring the particularities of human relationships and events. For this reason, it is imperative that the researcher returns to the Urumia region and scrutinises the human relationships of the time in order to try to express, as the French philosopher Paul Ricoeur1 said, ‘fairness with respect to the competing demands of injured memories’. Consequently, in this chapter, I call on direct testimonies, consonant with the methodology espoused by Carlo Guinzburg,2 the well-known historian and supporter of so-called ‘micro-history’, in his text Just one witness.

The sources The testimonies analysed here focus on the intensity of human intercourse from the end of the nineteenth century, until violent events unfolded themselves during the First World War. Among the written documents stored in the archives of the American Presbyterian and French Lazarist missionaries, I have especially made use of original letters, in place of 270

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reports and memoranda which can be considered to have been written for boards and committees of inspectors, and hence would have their own particular orientation. From this perspective, the personal reports of American missionaries in Urumia are very valuable: on the one hand they were written every year for 85 years from 1835, and such a body of letters provides material worthy of research in itself; on the other hand, the missionaries were numerous in Urumia, and their testimonies may be compared and contrasted. Furthermore, the personal letters of Lazarist missionaries are available from 1840 to July 1918. Some of the wires sent to the Iranian Home Ofﬁce and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs (published by Kavih BayÇt3) soon after the event, as well as the report of the inquiry performed in Tabriz by the Iranian Minister of Foreign Affairs give yet more information. In this investigation, the witnesses quoted are Muslims, Christians or Jews. In addition, the archives of the French Ministry of Foreign Affairs (stored in Paris and Nantes) and the different reports or books such as those from the Russian Consul, Basile Nikitine,4 the Lazarist Aristide Chatelet5 and J. F. Coakley6 provide further detail. However, the French consuls were in Tabriz, not in Urumia; Basile Nikitine and Aristide Chatelet wrote thirty years after the events; and the Episcopalian English missionaries came to Urumia not less than ﬁfty years after the Presbyterian missionaries, and left at the beginning of the First World War. The accounts from other witnesses, as reported by A. Kasravi,7 V. Chlovsky8 or by Dr Caujole9 are often a ‘re-building’ of the history of the exodus, rather than independent enquiries into its nature. Persian society in the early twentieth century faced the mashr†iyyat – the Constitutional Revolution – from 1906 to 1911, then Turkish (1906– 12) and Russian (1911–17) military occupations, and ﬁnally the conﬂict of the First World War. Qajar power was quite weak, as Michael Zirinsky has emphasised: the Urumia region, being a border region, with its inhabitants, was left to itself. The economy was based on agriculture and power lay in the hands of the landowners, as well as those who controlled the water supply, most of whom were Afshars or Kurds. The taxes were levied on the villages which were in the hands of these ﬁgures. Whether villages were Christian, Muslim or mixed, the villagers felt Persian, though the most common language in use was Azeri Turkish. Both Muslim and Christian villages were represented by ‘white beards’ (r¥sh sif¥d) or by a KitkhudÇ or MÇlik. The settling of Methodist, Lazarist, Episcopalian and Orthodox missionaries in the west of Persian Azerbaijan, in the middle of the multi-ethnic microcosm of Urumia, could not leave these communities untouched. Christian Persians were directly concerned, as were non-Christians, for the missions were the source of Western cultural inﬂuence in the region. The missions changed the equilibrium of Urumia’s society completely. In this chapter, I ask whether the roots of the violence of the First World War in Urumia can be found in the introduction of these missions. 271

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Literacy instruction of Christians and its consequences for the local language The large number of schools Due to their number, and their longevity, the schools opened by the missionaries made rapid societal development possible to the west of Lake Urumia. The Methodist, and then the Lazarist, schools were ﬁrst opened before 1840. Schools were later founded, ﬁrst in the area around Urumia and in the SalmÇs region, and later still in the Kurdish mountains. The ﬁgures given by the American and the French missions give an informative picture of the total number of children receiving schooling. The schools opened by the Episcopalian missionaries, after 1885, and those opened by the Russian Orthodox priests after 1900, mainly took in children from the Presbyterian or Lazarist schools. A letter in the Presbyterian archives, dated 30 January 1880 reports: When Dr Perkins began his mission and labour in Oroomia in 1835, his ﬁrst effort was a school in a basement room. As there were no books, the lessons were written on cards and hung on the walls. The scholars were a select company of Nestorian boys or young ecclesiastics. In 1845 Mr Stoddard (of blessed memory) took charge of this school and the site was removed to Mount Seir. Mr Stoddard, after 14 years service, left the charge to his associate and successor Mr Cochran, who, from 1847 to 1871, made this school eminently his life work. Under these two men, about 120 young Nestorians were trained for four or more years and others for a shorter time . . . After the death of Mr Cochran, the school was closed for three years and then reopened under the care of Mr Oldfather in the city of Oroomia. But it had no suitable building. A new site near the city of Oroomia was purchased and new buildings erected in 1879 through the gifts of Christian women from the Women’s Missionary Societies of Philadelphia and Chicago in America.10 These new buildings were an answer to the increasing number of pupils, as can be seen from Table 14.1. The number of Chaldean pupils of Lazarist missionaries increased also, but the number of Chaldean Persian pupils was, on average, less than that of Nestorian Persian pupils. A report dated 2 August 1879, describes the Lazarist activities: In Khosrowa, the missionaries managed a seminar aimed at training Chaldean priests (about 25) and an external school for about ﬁfty village children . . . In the SalmÇs region, 5 other villages have a boys’ school with a score of pupils each. The Filles de la 272

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Charité have the following in Khosrowa: an orphanage that is a normal school for girls (18) intending to become school teachers in the villages, an external school for girls (from 140 to 150), and a home for boys (120 to 130) . . . In Urumia we have an external boys school for the entire duration of the school year. The teaching there is in Chaldean, as it is in all of our other schools, but there is also a small French class. The Filles de la Charité have two girls’ schools, one internal school (30 girls) that trains teachers, and one external school (20 to 25 students) . . . We have 35 schools in the villages, making 500 children.11 In 1913, Chatelet, a Lazarist missionary, gave new ﬁgures: ‘We have 374 pupils in 3 schools and one ‘asile’ for very young children in the city of Urumia, and 933 pupils in 48 schools in the villages around Urumia.’12 In spite of the missionaries’ efforts, their teaching activities, by the outbreak of the First World War, did not affect the majority of the 30,000 Chaldeans and Nestorians in Iran. The literacy rate remained low. During the inquiry into the events of 1918 and 1919 in Urumia, it is reported, for example, that ten women from among ﬁfty-two Christian witnesses still signed by using a thumbprint. Two-tier education In addition, the education given by the missionaries varied from place to place: that offered in the ‘peripheral’ schools of the villages, and that found in the ‘central’ schools in Urumia and Khosrowabad differed significantly. That duality characterised the network of Presbyterian, as well as the Lazarist, schools. In 1870 and in 1912 (the years for which we have accurate ﬁgures), the village schools (outstations) had more pupils than the ‘urban’ schools in Urumia or in Khosrowa. This difference is not surprising, and is not shocking in a country where the population was predominantly rural. However, the period for which the rural schools were open was short, Table 14.1 Pupils of the Presbyterian Mission schools in the Urumia region, 1870–1912 City and villages of Urumia Oroomia College and Mount Seir Outstations around Urumia Total under instruction

1870

1871

1874

49

105

62

40

829

760

773

878

865

835

273

1875

1877

1880

1912

152

100

461

902

1,025

1,719

2,374

1,177

1,177

1,819

2,835

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and did not exceed the period of the stoppage of agricultural work in the winter (namely four or ﬁve months). It was deemed necessary to deal with the ‘most urgent’ matter in the schools, and the main objective was to provide the basis for religion. ‘The mere evangelistic work can be done by native evangelists better than by us’, Shedd, the Presbyterian missionary, wrote in 1871.13 The extent to which literacy levels increased came in ﬁts and starts, mainly, by means of neo-Syriac, through the intermediary of ‘teachers or preachers’. These did not necessarily belong to the clergy of the Chaldean Church or of the Syrian Church of the West, and women were well represented in the cadre. The extent to which education, given by these Nestorians and Chaldeans, trained and sent by the missionaries, was in line with their traditions, or in compliance with the missionaries’ traditions, depended on the individuals involved. What is clear is that the awareness of belonging to a Syriac Church was an addition to, or even replaced, an awareness of belonging to the broader Syriac community. In the central schools in Urumia or Khosrowabad, the missionaries had better control of the curriculum, though they too, aided by adults, recruited locally. The principal elements were the same in the various missions: in ‘central’ schools set up in Urumia and Khosrowabad, the program was comprehensive and diverse (languages, mathematics, geography, sciences, religious instruction, theology, medical instruction) and various sections were opened to accommodate the different local languages. Two texts from 1912 make it possible to determine the extent to which education respected linguistic divisions. The ﬁrst is a report drawn up by three American missionaries for the Presbyterian Church, the results of which are shown in Table 14.2. The issue of nationality, as it appears in the text is sometimes confused with language, sometimes with religion. This mêlée replicates the society of Urumia before World War I. The second text shows the important position won by the English language in the studies organised by the Methodist and then by the Presbyterian missionaries, from a report in the Presbyterian archives (see Table 14.3). Such a curriculum favoured languages: though all children were Persian, the terminology utilised here already divided the children by language: Syriac, Armenian, Hebrew or Persian. Furthermore, to be accepted in the American mission schools, ‘a good reading knowledge of Turkish’ was required from the Persian children and ‘a beginning of Persian and Turkish’ from Syriac children. Knowing the Turkish language was essential, as was knowing the language of the missionaries (English, French or Russian). One ﬁnds that the Persian language, seldom taught, was not a unifying factor, and the independent elements of Syriac or Armenian were reinforced in the curriculum. These schools were following contemporary trends in education. They produced graduates who were emerging as the elite through Western methods of education. This educated elite was quite different from the traditional elites of måliks, kitkhudås and r¥sh sif¥ds.14 274

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Table 14.2 Schools and students in Urumia, 1912 Number of parochial schools of the Plain and of the Mountain Number of Jewish Girls Schools in City Number of Higher Schools in City

49 and 49 1 3

All of these three Higher Schools were boarding schools, one of them including a theological department and a medical department.

Girls Students in parochial schools of the Plain Students in parochial schools of the mountain Students in the Jewish School Students in the Fiske Seminary Students in the Higher School of the City Total Grand total

610 180 37 181 1,008

Boys 808 776 243 1,827 2,835

Of these 2,835, 178 were boarding pupils and 2,657 were day pupils. According to nationalities, they comprised Syrians (2,569), Muslims (199), Kurds (10), Jews (49), Armenians (7) and Americans (1). The total number of teachers was 123.15

Table 14.3 Oroomia College course of study, 1912 Language

[Course work]

Syriac Persian Turkish Russian English

1 year: grammar, spelling and composition: 3 years: reading, writing, grammar and Persian History 3 years: reading, writing, grammar 3 years: reading, grammar and writing 3 years: language work, reading, grammar, conversation and writing

OR Persian Arabic Turkish French or Russian English Mathematics

Geography Physiology Agriculture Bible and Morals

2 1 1 3

years: language and composition, conversation year: grammar year: grammar and composition years: reading, writing, conversation

3 years: reading, writing, conversation Arithmetic: 1 year in Syriac or Persian, 1 year in English (Wentworth’s Practical and West’s). Algebra: 1 year in English (Wentworth’s First Steps) Book-keeping: 1 year in English (Gay’s Single Entry) 1 year: in English (Frye’s First Steps, and also, in the English course, Geography readers on Asia, Europe, Africa, America) 1 year: Blaisdell in English 1 year: Burkitt and Stevens Throughout the course, either in addition to the above or the time taken. To be deducted from the times given above

The Advanced (or College) Course has not been completely organised but the amount of work in each year would be as above (36 weeks of 20 periods each), and the lessons taught are language work in Persian, English, Russian and French, general history (in English), Physics (in English), Ethics (in English), Bookkeeping (in English), Geometry (in English), Bible.16

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Revitalisation of the languages in Azerbaijan The multi-lingualism of Azerbaijan The province of Azerbaijan, which the Araks separated from Russia, was an integral part of Persia. However, Persian was not its principal tongue. The multiplicity of languages that were spoken in the area in addition to Persian, bore witness to the past peoples who had crossed the region or had settled there. Azerbaijani multi-lingualism had previously been an advantage. Before the nineteenth century, it had enabled contact, and intensiﬁed exchange with three cultural areas: Iran, Turkey and Russia. In the nineteenth century, that balance was affected, as elsewhere, by the rise of the nationalist movement, in which language became a basis for national identity. Initially, Persian Azerbaijan was not affected by these developments extensively. In the second half of the century, however, the afﬁrmation and renewal of certain minority languages was so marked that it threatened the traditional balance. The advanced literacy of the Armenian, Nestorian and Chaldean groups, for example, had two consequences: on one hand, it strengthened community links, and on the other hand, it made the members more receptive to European languages and ideas. This reception of European ideas was not exceptional in Iran. The government was sending students to Europe every year, and had opened ‘European-style’ schools. However, in the delicate atmosphere of Azerbaijani multi-lingualism this was potentially dangerous. Some groups developed an increased awareness of membership of the Persian nation, while others developed an independence of spirit which has previously been lacking. In Persian Azerbaijan, the languages that were spoken belonged to three major linguistic families. First, the Altaic group (including Azeri Turkish) was widespread in Azerbaijan and in the Caucasus. Second, the IndoEuropean group (represented by Armenian, Persian and Kurdish) was in evidence, though less so. Finally, the Semitic languages were used, with Syriac and Hebrew used by the appropriate minority communities. These cultural divisions were combined with social divisions. Persian was the language of the notables, whether civil or religious, of the big land-owners and of the authorities. Azeri Turkish played the role of a common language, indispensable in trade. As it is reported in a Presbyterian report of 1872, ‘Turkish is spoken by Moslems and by Christians, since it is the language of trade’.17 Finally, there were minority languages, such as Kurdish, Armenian, Hebrew and Syriac. The Turkish used in Persian Azerbaijan differed from the Turkish of Baku, and was very different from the Osmanli Turkish of the Ottoman Empire. The Armenian and Syriac dialects spoken west of Lake Urumia bore traces of the Armenian and Syriac dialects spoken in the Kurdish mountains, in the Hakkari, or in Mosul and Van. These dialects enriched each other and expressions proper to the regions 276

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of the Tigris and of the Euphrates were incorporated. It seems that it was difﬁcult for Iraqi Nestorians and Chaldeans to understand their Persian co-religionists. However, the literature of those languages served as a common reference, although the texts (mostly religious in character) were accessible only to a tiny minority. The linguistic renewal Under these circumstances, the linguistic initiatives of the foreign missionaries were far from neutral. In the nineteenth century, the missionaries had three goals: ﬁrst, to renew and simplify the languages spoken by the Christian minorities; second, translate the largest possible number of Christian texts into Turkish or Persian; and third, add their own language to the diversity of the existing ones. The most impressive success was vis-à-vis the Syriac-speaking Christians, Nestorians and Chaldeans. At the time of the missionaries’ arrival, the literature was mainly used in religious or liturgical works. It did not much affect children, as the texts were intended mainly for liturgical use. Moreover the Syriac language spoken to the west of Lake Urumia, often termed ‘Oriental Syriac’, differed from one valley to another. These differences were the result of migration prior to settlement. In 1835, the only books were in ancient Syriac, not the spoken language. The American missionaries ﬁrst, then later the French, English, and ﬁnally the Russian missionaries aimed to reduce the gap between the spoken and literary language. They encouraged the collection of manuscripts written in ancient Syriac, met the patriarchs, and gathered together old works. Paul Bejån, for example, a native of Khosrowa (or Khosrowabad), not far from SalmÇs, began an extensive survey of manuscripts kept in the European libraries, particularly in Rome, Paris, Cologne and Leipzig. His work, before the publication of a Chaldean breviary in 1884, was a model for future work in the area: he aimed to resurrect the forgotten Syriac texts, ‘remove their errors’,18 put them into ‘modern Syriac’, and have them printed to facilitate their wider distribution in the Syriac Church of the East and in the Chaldean Church. In a letter to the Director of the Écoles d’Orient, probably from 1883, he wrote: The Chaldean breviary, which is one of the most important monuments of Christian antiquity, has never yet been printed, except for the Psalter and the diurnal. Hence its publication will have a considerable effect both from the religious viewpoint and from the historical and philological standpoints . . . All we have left is old manuscripts that are tending to disappear, and copying them would be a colossal task, demanding years. Hence this book has become very rare . . . The Chaldean priests can recite the Divine Ofﬁce only when they have the good luck of being near churches 277

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that have a breviary. Many Christians are deprived of that treasure. Generally speaking, the missionaries who came from Europe can learn almost exclusively the vernacular languages, in order to carry on their apostolic ministry. This means that they cannot work on an edition of the Chaldean breviary. As for me, born in Persia, knowing my country’s sacred language and liturgy, I would like to devote my life to this work . . . After many efforts and sacriﬁces, I was able to obtain a complete copy of all of the parts of that breviary. I noted that neither the National Library in Paris, nor the one in London, (even though they had six times as many Syriac and Chaldean manuscripts [as in our libraries]) and ﬁnally not even the ones in Rome, had this treasure in toto, as it came into my hands.19 Paul BejÇn was aware of working for the ‘Chaldean nation’, as he called it: The Chaldean priests have the holy habit of singing the Divine Ofﬁce morning and evening, if there are two of them in the same parish, and often even if the priest is alone with a cantor . . . This publication will serve as a basis for uniformity of prayer among our Chaldean Christians in Persia and in Turkey. It will be a real link between the entire nation and the centre of Catholic unity. He was joined in this by Mar Shamina, the Chaldean Bishop of Sina, in Persian Kurdistan: ‘It is for your own nation that you are making so many efforts. You are our glory and the honour of the Chaldean nation.’20 The approaches followed by Paul BejÇn, a Chaldean Persian who became a Lazarist priest, and Mar Shamina, the Chaldean bishop from the Ottoman Empire, can, however, be compared. BejÇn argued that ‘having fallen for centuries previously into the Nestorians’ hands, the Chaldean breviary had deteriorated in many parts, and it is important to restore the text to its original purity’. Mar Shamina, on the other hand, bore witness to a broader view of unity: We have just heard about your zeal in seeing to the printing of the breviary of the Chaldeans, our ancestors. Our ancient doctors were careful in composing it, and you have inherited their zeal by taking up the painful task of publishing it. Hence take care to publish a good ofﬁce without introducing any changes, so that our Nestorian brothers are not annoyed. And we hope to receive some very great advantages from this ofﬁce. At this point, the Lazarist missionaries multiplied their initiatives. Six years previously they had undertaken a bi-lingual edition of the New Testament, in old Syriac and modern Syriac. In 1885 they used neo-Syriac alone to 278

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publish a Syllabary. Among many other works, they printed a new catechism in 1893, which was intended for the Chaldeans of Sina and was written in the Sina language, a dialect close to the Syriac spoken in Ardabil. The American missionaries went farther and boasted of having developed a new language. Stocking wrote in 1882 that ‘The Nestorians of Persia speak Turkish. The mission wrote a language for them.’ The missionaries sent manuscripts to Urumia and rewrote them in neo-Syriac. Shedd reports, ‘Now we have a good library accommodated to educated Nestorians, it is desirable for an effort to be made to collect the books in ancient Syriac, which are becoming more expensive every year’.21 Conversely, they translated the Syrian text of the Pshitta22 into the vernacular in 1881, thereby make it more accessible. Hence, to reach and evangelise the largest possible number of people, they became experts on languages, emphasising learning them and making them a living phenomenon. The situation analysed by American missionary Wilson is vibrant testimony to this: The differences in the dialects of the Turkish language present a considerable obstacle to the rapid laying of the foundations of the mission among the Turkish speaking races . . . The most cultivated, copious and polished dialect of the Turkish is the Osmanli. It has well-developed literature, the entire Bible in Ali Bey’s version and in Dr Schoufﬂer’s . . . In Russian we have the New Testament and in some dialects, portions of the Old Testament in the Kazan, the Kirghese, the Orenberg, the Karass or Astrakhan and the Irano-Caucasian dialects for the various tribes of Tartar Turks in Siberia . . . Of these the most interesting for us is the TransCaucasian version because it comes nearer than any other to the language of Azerbaijan. The New Testament was published in 1878 and has been used by us to a great extent in our work and numerous copies have been sold to the Musulmans of our ﬁeld. Owing however to differences of idiom, spelling and diction, its meaning is not clearly and easily comprehended by the people of this province and hence we cannot regard it as satisfactory. New Azerbaïjan Version: some years ago the Gospel of John translated by Dr Van Norden into the Azerbaïjan dialect was published [this was published in 1872]. This has been revised by Mr Labaree and in the midst of much other work, the remaining Gospels together with the Psalms have been prepared by him and, having been reviewed at Tabreez, are strictly conformed to the Vernacular . . . The Bible in Trans-caucasian is completed . . . The translator, Rev. Abraham Ameerkhaniantz, has done great work in preparing the Bible for the people at the Caucasus, besides a revision of the New Testament and Psalms in the Ararat Armenian. He is about ﬁnishing the laborious task of translating the whole Bible in 279

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Turkish. The Turkish speaking population of the Caucasus and Persia are separated only by the Aras and it is highly desirable that the slight differences of orthography and diction should not be compromised.23 While grammars and dictionaries were coming off the printing presses, laying down new standards for languages, a wave of increased multilingualism and translations swept over Urumia: the Old and the New Testaments were translated into Persian (1877), the Psalms into Azeri Turkish (1881) and courses in Persian were given at an Urumia school by MullÇ Muªammad KÇΩim in 1881. The most accomplished polyglot seems to have been the Deacon Yonan, from AdÇ, who died on 2 December 1880, after having spent forty-ﬁve years with the American missionaries, being ﬂuent in Persian, English, Armenian, Turkish, Hebrew and Syriac.24 The printing ofﬁces The four missions’ printing shops aided in the reinforcement of this linguistic renaissance: for example, the number of ancient Syriac manuscripts copied (or more precisely printed) in neo-Syriac are reﬂected in the reported ﬁgures from American missionaries (Table 14.4). In 1876, the number of pages which had been printed in Syriac since 1835 on the one press of the American mission was 21 million. In a 1877 report, it was stated that the ‘press has been running continually. Aside from the monthly paper The Rays of Light (the circulation of which has been about 450 copies) there have been printed lesson papers for the schools.’25 Bishops, such as Urumia’s Chaldean bishop Mar Thomas Audo at the beginning of the twentieth century, supported the press’s activities because it helped to revive liturgy. However, it fuelled the hopes of all of those who, besides the language, cared about community identity.

The controversial results of the missionaries’ action The shift in Azerbaijan from four to six churches Before the missionaries’ arrival, the Christians of Azerbaijan were divided among four churches. The Eastern Syrian (Nestorian) Church was the oldest, present in the area since Sassanid period. After many vicissitudes, it withdrew to either side of the Kurdish mountains, and its patriarch, Mar Shimun, resided in Qochanes, in the Ottoman Hakkari. In Persia, its centre was in Urumia. In the ﬁfteenth century, a dispute over the election of the patriarch caused a scission and gave rise to the Chaldean Church, united with the Church of Rome, present mainly in the SalmÇs valley. The two Armenian churches had evolved in a similar manner: the ﬁrst one 280

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Table 14.4 Syriac manuscripts printed in Urumia, 1870–7 Year

Printed volumes

Printed tracts

Printed pages

18701 1874 18752 18773

700 0 2,400 0

600 5,280 5,400 7,000

235,000 425,240 193,900 117,850

Notes: 1 At this point the press had 6 Syriac fonts. 2 At this point there were 12 fonts: 8 Syriac, 4 Turkish. 3 At this stage, there were 13 fonts: 11 Syriac, 2 Persian.

traces its roots to the sixth century, the second one separated from it and united with the Church of Rome. The Armenians were more numerous in SalmÇs and Khy than in Urumia. In 1900, two churches were added to these four: an Evangelical Church (resulting from a new scission in the Eastern Syrian Church), and an Orthodox Church (afﬁliated with the Russian Orthodox Church). This diversity of Christian rites, at the start of the twentieth century, might appear to be a measure of the missionaries’ success, or it might be seen as an indication of the religious tolerance of the Persian authorities. However, the division was a sign of the serious divisions within the Syriac-speaking population. The churches built at that time clearly display these disparities and divisions. The ‘brain drain’ The complaints made by certain missionaries make it possible to detect the ﬁrst manifestations of a ‘brain drain’, particularly among the Syriac Christians competent in English, and part of the English or American missions. In the 1870s, a disillusioned missionary indicated: ‘The more enlightened and evangelised they become, the stronger will their propensity grows to migrate.’26 In 1882, J. H. Shedd expresses his concern over the emigration of Nestorians: Ishaak and Yohanan, two young Nestorians who have worked with us during several years, left for America: they are proﬁcient in English and Oriental languages. It is a mistake that these men go to America to prepare for the work in Persia . . . It is a disease which will soon run its course and work its own cure. Some of these ‘Christian emigrants’ would come back to Urumia as doctors (like Dr Youanan or Dr Jessie M. Yonan), lawyers or teachers (like Kasha Yosif Benjamin or Y. M. Neesan). Even the bishop, Mar Yohanan, who died in 1874, had gone to the United States. 281

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The increasing marginalisation of the Christian communities within Persian society, on the bases of the Syriac language and the Christian religion The renaissance of the Syriac language was a double-edged sword. One of the American missionaries emphasised this in 1872: ‘The Nestorians of Persia speak Turkish. The mission has created a new language [neo-Syriac] for them. It would have been better if it had been Persian.’ After World War I, the Roman Catholic Church made the same criticism of the Lazarists in Persia. Ironically, the Persian authorities themselves encouraged the printing of works in Syriac, so as to avoid potential evangelism in Persian. A report in the Presbyterian archives from 1872 states: ‘The serparast27 asked the mission for a bond that books and tracts are not to be made or circulated in languages other than Syriac.’28 Hence Christian writings were tolerated in Persia as long as they were written in Armenian or in Syriac, but not in Persian. This mistrust of the Christian liturgical languages was aimed at reducing potential conversions. The repeated interventions of the local or governmental authorities lead one to suppose that the real situation was different. In 1842, a Royal Farmån was issued, prohibiting Christian proselytism, but in 1881 and 1882 orders were issued to put an end to the missionaries’ work among the Muslims: ‘Complaint from the Persian Foreign Ofﬁce’s agent: missionaries are engaged in preaching and teaching among Musulmans, endeavouring to induce them to renounce Islamism.’29 The teaching given in the Urumia missionary schools was offered to all – Muslims, Christians and Jews. The American, French and English missionaries boasted that sections of the school were open to Muslim students, even though it was separated from the other sections by a wall. The teaching was in the Persian language. Before 1910, the son of Governor Muhtasham al-Sal†ana attended the Lazarist schools, and the sons of Governor IjlÇl al-Mulk attended the American schools. While only conversions from Judaism to Christianity (or vice versa) were permitted, the conversion to Christianity of certain Muslims was undoubtedly facilitated by the schools. The weakness of the power structure permitted these exceptions. In 1879, Shedd wrote: One of our colporteurs last winter sold the Scriptures to [one of] the daughter[s] of the Shah, the wife of a Prince governor in Sina, a provincial capital. He was received at her palace with favour and the way was opened for sales or religious conversations everywhere. This could not easily have occurred under a strict police system. So with our loose authority of feudalism, misrule and often no rule . . . we have the offset of considerable religious liberty.30 282

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Lastly, the constitutional laws of 1906–7, that instituted electoral colleges for non-Muslim Persians, conﬁrmed the double marginalisation of the Christians. The divisions between Nestorians The missionaries’ teaching resulted in divisions within the Nestorian tribal community. It was no longer a question of patriarchal anger (as had occurred in the 1840s over the Methodists’ books), but rather involved the opposition to the patriarch Mar Shimun in 1881. It was lead by two of his cousins who had studied in the American schools of Urumia. Another, better-known case involved ÅqÇ Petros, who came from the Baz Nestorian tribe. A student of the American missionaries in Urumia, ÅqÇ Petros spent some time in the United States. On his return, he was Turkish Vice-consul in Urumia, then went to Russia, and (at last) in 1918, successfully assumed leadership of the tribes and of Nestorian and Chaldeans (then called Assyrians) resulting in further community division. The ‘civil’ jobs created by the missionaries’ teaching After some thirty-ﬁve years of missionary teaching, there was a persistent dichotomy between the mass of young people responsible for religious functions, and a minority able to obtain secular employment. In 1880, Shed wrote: 120 graduates were trained for four or more years. Of these 120, 3 died, 1 is at the head of his people, 2 are physicians, several are artisans, printers or teachers among their people, 3 are translators, nearly 70 are preachers (10 of whom have died at their post) from the Tigris to the Centre of Persia, from Bagdad to Russia and 2 among the Jews. Several are working for Persian Moslems, one is working among the Malakas of Russia, 5 are pastors.31 The missionaries clearly acted as an extension of the new Syriac Church. While they deplored the economic and social cumbersomeness that maintained the rayat – both Muslim and Christian peasants – in poverty, they did not envisage any structural change. The widespread emigration of graduates to Russia indicates the failure of their activities aimed at training the population for civil renewal. The annual exodus of the Christian ‘rayat’, to Russia The exodus of Christians to Russia was a particular concern of the missionaries and the patriarchs. It weakened the community and consisted of 283

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men, employed in Tiﬂis or Vladicaucase as labourers, masons or watercarriers. The Persian administration, beneﬁting from the migration, did not oppose it. A report from the French archives reads: Every year, especially at the harvest time, the Christians from the districts of Urumia and SalmÇs go to Russia . . . There are about 7,000 of them. The Persian administration beneﬁts from this: ﬁrst of all, any person who leaves his district to go to the other bank of the Araks must have a passport, which costs two silver roubles. To cross the Araks they have to pay a fee of 50 kopecks. The group’s return is subject to a fee of two to three silver roubles for 40 or 50 persons . . . This fee varies from two to twelve roubles depending on whether the individual has a passport showing that his stay in Russia was of a certain length, and creates a presumption that his savings may be of a certain amount . . . Recently 170 Christians came back from Russia, and after having crossed the Araks they were attacked . . . These villagers sent a petition to Crown Prince Mozaffar al-Din, who appeared to be affected and ordered the return of the amounts. Iqbal al-Dowla showed his solicitude and took an interest in those poor people, the largest number of whom belong to villages in the environs of Urumia and Salmås, which he owns . . . Immigration is growing to the beneﬁt of Russia.32 And in 1881 Shedd described the insidious process of Nestorians emigrating to the Caucasus: The great misery of the past few years, resulting from the war between Russia and Turkey, then from the famine and from the Kurdish invasion and from constantly increased oppressions by Turkish or Persian landowners, have been demoralizing in the extreme. Here in Oroomia the masses of the men fail to support their families by any industry and hence go every year in crowds to Russia. Some villagers are masons, some carpenters, some painters, some hamals and street labourers and water carriers and brick makers in Tiﬂis and Vladiskafkas. Many are harvesters and also hundreds are beggars, professional mendicants or tramps, who travel Russia calling themselves Greek and break every law of God . . . The Nestorians in Vladiskafkas are a shifting city of 200 or so mostly young men who are drawers of water or makers of bricks. One only of them has become a Russian subject, but four or ﬁve of them have their families and have married natives of the place. The colony of ﬁxed residents is likely slowly to increase. This place is the door into Russia from the South. Kasha Yosef reports that recently two of the bishops of Oroomia passed 284

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through on their way to Saint-Petersburgh. All the bishops of the Persian Nestorians are away in Russia begging, though ostensibly to secure civil aid from the Russian government.33 The scope of schooling provided by the missionaries west of Lake Urumia had clearly destablised the community. The difﬁculties resulted from contradictions between society’s development and the conservatism of the existent social structure. The Christian Persians of Azerbaijan, men and women, ecclesiastics and lay persons, were out of phase with the rest of the population. The missionaries, for their part, seemed to be assimilated into the notable class.

The missionaries’ adaptation to the Azerbaijani way of life The importance of socialising in the evangelical process The missionaries soon understood that the social context in which they found themselves was dominated by orality. While developing a written pedagogy, they adapted to the dominance of orality and discerned its positive aspects. First of all, the practice of sermons and talks was used to unite the people. The Lazarist missionaries and the Chaldean priests and bishops used to preach in Turkish or Syriac, mainly in the churches (be they mission churches or Chaldean churches) or in meeanas (stables). Their audience was, in the main, made up of Christian Chaldeans. The Protestant missionaries used to read and comment on the Bible. Such practice brought them closer to the East Syrian Church faithful, who used to come together for reading their Sunhadi. The Protestant missionaries were, in addition, keen to establish links with the local population, be they Persian and Kurd. To reach the rayat group, there were schools (already mentioned), but also the ‘door to door’ proselytisers, chosen from the Christian community and paid. They used to pass from one village to another, set up their stall in public places, and display and sell pictures, leaﬂets, the Rays of Light newspaper and Bibles. One missionary, Allen, was a specialist in ‘trips’ around Urumia or Sawj BulÇq. Among his accounts of these trips is the following passage: I sat in the coffee house near Gulpashan with about a dozen men of all types: donkey drivers, muleteers, travellers, opium smokers, petty thieves, dervishes, farmers and loafers. There is always an opening by which one can begin his message . . . The opium smokers laid aside their pipes to listen and join in the discussion. This time it was the question of catching a thief who had been operating in the neighbourhood. After it has been discussed for some time, they looked to me and my companion for our 285

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comments: ‘The world is full of men who have broken the laws of the land and the laws of God’. My companion presented Christ as our only hope. An old white beard sitting crossed legged and playing with his glass of black tea cooled by his side said: ‘Sahib, I am an old man, my days are nearly done. I shall die as I have lived . . . Now tell us how we can get this better way to speak of for I believe what you say is true.’34 This dialogue which mixes spiritual and materialistic considerations is of interest because of its context. The chaykhånih was a communal meeting place, particularly for the ‘white beards’ (r¥sh sif¥d) who acted as intermediaries in the Persian society between village communities and local and central government. Such a popular form of proselytising avoided the wrath of the mullås, who would rarely frequent such places. It must be noted that such local suspicion of evangelists was not uniform: Kurdish Sayyids used to welcome Christians and missionaries. It is even reported that mullås visited missionaries, and left with a Bible. Issues debated between the mullås and the missionaries included Jesus’ death, the Christian dogma of the Trinity and the divine nature of Jesus. The incomplete ‘protection’ offered by the missionaries It is possible to compare the ‘protection’ offered by foreigners in Persia with the Persian ‘system of protection’. Individuals in Persia were identiﬁed by their religion, parentage, village or locale, as well as their dependency on a family, an owner, a leader. In Urumia, the rayat was under the protection of the landowner of his village. The missionaries’ activities had helped the development of individual behaviour, but had not abolished the strength of these identities. The Kårguzår and the Sirparast, assisting the Governor to take care of foreigners and handle the conﬂicts between Christians respectively, further consolidated the system. Missionaries tried to ingratiate themselves with the population by offering them their protection, or rather the protection of their home country. Since the seventeenth century, the French kings had demanded that Persian rulers protect the Catholics of Persia. The protection of Catholics was one of the stated objectives of French policy in Persia during the nineteenth century. In a similar way the protection of non-Catholic Christians became a leitmotiv for Russian policy in Persia. Great Britain and then the United States were most attentive to the Nestorian Christians. Through the missionaries, the Christians saw that they could beneﬁt from the ‘protection’ offered by the English, Americans, French or Russians, though they did not have a clear idea as to what this protection entailed. Great Britain, France and the United States were viewed as distant from Azerbaijan, and their Consuls were not in Urumia, but in Tabriz. The rumours caused by the inexorable pressure exerted by Russia on Persia 286

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were both threatening to some, and provided hope of rescue and refuge for others. One of the clauses of the Treaty of Turkmanchay, signed in 1828 between Persia and Russia, facilitated the emigration of Persians of the Christian religion to Russia. Entire Armenian villages were thus emptied of their inhabitants under the reign of Muªammad ShÇh, and emigration continued into the late nineteenth century. In addition to poverty, arbitrary and discriminatory decisions on the part of the Qajar State bureaucracy threw the middle-class Christian Persians into the arms of the Russians. An example of this concerns the levy on young Christian musicians of Urumia ordered by NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh in 1871. The levy caused the departure, en masse, to Tiﬂis of young people (‘boys aged 12 to 15, with the best physiques, and then from 20 to 25 years’35). According to the Lazarist Cluzel, the Persian Consul in Tiﬂis himself expressed emotion at meeting them in the Tiﬂis street: Nestorians and Armenians are excited by the levy of 80 young lads about 15 years of age as musicians for the army in the capital. The enrolment of such tender youth with a view to dragging them from their weeping mothers and subjecting them to all the indignities and vices of a mohammedan army seems the last weight that breaks the camel’s back. The whole people are around as we have never before seen there. They have petitioned to the Shah and abroad. Several hundred have ﬂed to Russia and, as we are informed, have become Russian subjects.36 In 1882, following secret negotiations between Persia and Russia, another missionary, Wilson, denounced the Russian pressure on Christian communities: ‘Many Nestorians are inclined to look to Russia as the only escape to oppression of Persians and ravages of Koords. Russia, already her shadow is upon us.’37 Two events would make this shadow grow over Azerbaijan: the English–Russian agreement of 1907 and the French government’s decision of 1910 not to hinder the Russian policy in Persia. France was to do its utmost to bring together Russia and Great Britain in a triple alliance. For this reason, the so-called ‘French protégés’ of Urumia felt more dependent on Russian authorities in Persia. The status of a ‘protégé’ was clearly different from the status of one under Persian protection, for it was linked to the vagaries of European policies in Persia. The missionaries as new notables Finally, because of their religious, medical or teaching activities, and their being foreigners, the missionaries in Urumia belonged to a class of notables. They met with local leaders, and members of the AfshÇr families of Urumia, for example, used to go to Europe and to learn European 287

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languages. Through the Caucasus, some Persians were also in touch with Russian socialists. Some such socialists printed the Faryåd newspaper which was critical of the authorities, others, in Urumia, established an anjuman in 1907. They did not give up their ideas in 1912 when the Russians arrived. However, the revolutionary groups were not homogenous. They looked to use the missionaries’ presence in order to contact foreign powers. They regularly visited the missions during festival time, and they used such occasions to put forward their requests. J. H. Shedd describes the end of the school year in 1881: The College year closed July 1st with a public examination of all the classes. Among the guests present were the Governor of Oroomia accompanied by several of the other leading men of the city ofﬁcers of the army from Shahschevan and Hamadan and Capt Wagner of the Austrian corps of ofﬁcers.38 This contact continued into the twentieth century. When the missionary Pittman went to Maku in 1913, he called on the KhÇns and was asked to establish a school ‘in which Persian, Arabian, Russian and French should be taught’.39 At times, the use of the missionary schools as centres for social gathering led to the suspicion of the authorities. As Shedd wrote in 1889: The interference by the government has given us a good deal of anxiety. For a great many years the government has not shown so much suspicion in regard to missionary work as this year. The governor here is individually very friendly and seems kindly disposed to our work, but the Tabreez authorities are apparently unfriendly to all foreign inﬂuence.40 However, the solidarity between the notables in Urumia, both Persian and foreign, was maintained even during the community tensions of 1918 and 1919. Development of medicine as the main factor of uniﬁcation Christian missions have traditionally been linked to the provision of medical facilities. In Urumia, American missionaries were the ﬁrst to open a dispensary. The French ‘Soeurs de la Charité’ arrived in 1856 in Azerbaijan. The English ‘Sisters of Bethany’, present in Urumia since 1890, also opened a dispensary. They were not only nursing the women of Urumia, but also engaged in religious activities. The Muslims of west Persia were well aware of the link between medical and religious activities. Shedd noted in June 1913 that he ‘spent a night as a guest of a Kurdish Seyyed, a man who has a great reputation for sanctity and for asceticism. He lives in a beautiful 288

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place near the head of the Zab. Here the sick come for healing and seekers come for religious guidance.’41 In the same way, the sick, whatever their religion, visited the doctor-missionaries when they were passing through villages. In Urumia city itself, Muslims were more reluctant to use missionary dispensaries, hence provision was more heavily used by Christians. There was, however, some competition between the missions. At the end of the nineteenth century, the Sisters of Bethany were reluctant to send sick people to the American Mission Hospital in Urumia, ‘to avoid ﬁnancing the propaganda of American missionaries’. The founder of the American Mission Hospital was Dr Joseph Plumb Cochran, a leading light in the Presbyterian missionary activity in Urumia. In a pamphlet dedicated to describing his work, it is recorded: Joseph Plumb Cochran was born in Persia in 1855. He was sent to America for his education, ﬁrst at Buffalo, then at Yale University Medical School, and later at the College of Physicians and Surgeons, New York City. He sailed for the land of his birth and his life work in 1878. Dr Cochran early in his work saw the necessity of a hospital and it was largely through his personal efforts that the Wesminster Hospital, with the annex for women and the afﬁliated dispensaries were built.42 He died in Urumia in 1905. Dr Packard, who was heading the hospital before and during World War I, continued Cochran’s work, turning the hospital into a training centre and a medical research centre. The Westminster Hospital, so called because it was supported by the Westminster Presbyterian Church in Buffalo, was two miles from Urumia. In 1919, Dr H. P. Packard wrote: For 83 years there has been medical work in the city of Urumia: at ﬁrst a dispensary, trips to villages and long tours on which thousands were treated. Forty years ago under the wise and careful direction of Dr Cochran the ﬁrst hospital building was erected. Two further additions to the hospital were made during the time of Dr Cochran, the Howard Annex for women and the Lyman Memorial which provided a new operating room and additional four-bed ward. After his death the Memorial made accommodation for 28 patients more besides providing a new operating suite for abdominal surgery.43 Patients were admitted irrespective of religious afﬁliation. Dr Daniel furnishes the following statistics for the year ending 1 July 1914: dispensary patients: 1321, Hospital cases: 42, Visits to sick: 264, operations cataract: 7, stone: 2, amputation: 1, haemorrhoids: 2, 289

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skin transplantation: 1 Total: 13. This hospital was open only to patients who boarded themselves.44 Urumia’s leading citizens themselves did not hesitate to call upon American doctors, though it is reported that they preferred home visits. The other effect of American missionary activity (especially that of Cochran, Packard and Ellis) was the training of local doctors and nurses in the Westminster Hospital. Five or six students per year, mostly Christian, studied for four years. Some went on to further training in the United States. Most returned to practise medicine in Urumia and its surroundings. Finally, the American medical work resulted in a series of scientiﬁc surveys of epidemics. This research, in a small laboratory of Westminster Hospital, contributed to the development of a new vaccine against typhoid fever. The research was mainly performed by women missionaries, such as Dr Laura Muller in Urumia, and by Dr Dodd in SalmÇs. The social outcomes of all these initiatives were numerous. On the one hand, the Urumia Governor, prompted by the missionary work, established a Board of Health in 1913. On the other hand, Dr Cochran before 1880, and Dr Packard after him, succeeded in gaining the trust of Kurdish leaders and high-ranking Azerbaijani notables. They acted as intermediaries between the Persian authorities and Kurdish chiefs in Urumia in 1880, and again in Goeg Tapa in 1915.

Conclusion The American and French missionaries who were present in Azerbaijan for a period of more than eighty years obviously affected the development of Urumia society. However, it is not clear whether missionaries divided, or uniﬁed, the Christian community. The growth of school attendance among the Persian Syriac minority and the modernisation of the Syriac language allowed individuals, outside the clerical hierarchy, to aspire to a new identity. Considered as foreigners by the Persian Muslim majority, the missionaries succeeded in establishing themselves as doctors and negotiators in times of crisis. While the local Christian clerics began losing inﬂuence, a new ‘horizontal’ solidarity appeared between Muslim, Christian and Jewish notables. The mutual respect of the wide diversity of communities in evidence at the time of the Constitutional Revolution did not, however, survive into the period of the First World War. The ‘vertical’ solidarity, between landowners and their peasants, eventually reemerged as dominant. A careful reading of documents of 1915, 1918 and 1919 does not show reciprocal and systematic rejection between Muslims and Christian Persians, but in the multi-lingual and multi-religious society of Urumia, individual development was impeded by the tenacity and the inertia of traditional Persian society. 290

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Notes 1 P. Ricoeur ‘L’écriture de l’histoire et la représentation du passé’ Le Monde, 15 June 2000. 2 P. Ricoeur, ‘L’écriture’. 3 Kavih BayÇt Ûrån va Jang-e Jahån-i Avval, asnåd-i vizårat-i dåkhila (Tehran, 1369sh). Raªmat AllÇh KhÇn Mutamad al-WizÇra Urmiya dar muªåriba ålamsz (Tehran, 1379sh) and Muªammad ÍÇdiq MirzÇ Muizz al-Dawla Irshåd va mukåtibåt (Tehran, 1380sh) were published too late to be included in this analysis. 4 B. Nikitine La Perse que j’ai connue (typewriting specimen, 1941). 5 A. Chatelet ‘The lazarist mission in Persia’ Revue de l’Histoire des Missions 1933. 6 J. F. Coakley The Church of the East and the Church of England (Oxford, 1992). 7 A. Kasrav¥ Tår¥kh-i h¥jdih sålih-yi Adhårbayjån (Tehran, 1340sh). 8 V. Chklovsky Voyage sentimental (Paris, 1926). 9 P. Caujole Les tribulations d’une Ambulance française en Perse (Paris, 1922). 10 J. H. Shedd Letter dated January 30th 1880 (Presbyterian Archives, Iran) vol. 2. 11 L. Bray ‘Urmia August 2nd 1876’ Bulletin de l’Oeuvre des Ecoles d’Orient 9 (1876). 12 A. Chatelet Annales de la Congrégation de la Mission 88. See also the paper by Michael Zirinsky ‘Missionaries, Education and Social Change in Iran, 1834–1941’ presented at the Middle East Studies Association, November 1996, and HumÇ NÇ†iq’s book, Kårnåmih-yi farhang¥-i farang¥ dar Ûrån (Paris, 1375sh/1996). 13 J. H. Shedd Letter dated June 6th 1871 (Presbyterian Archives, Iran) vol. 1. 14 The målik and kitkhudå were similar to landlords. The r¥sh sif¥d (or ‘white beards’) were the notables and village elders. They were responsible for the actions of the inhabitants. 15 Report of Educational Committee, Urmia, September 18th 1912 (Presbyterian Archives, RG) 91–4. 16 Report of October 2nd 1912 (Presbyterian Archives, RG) 91–5. 17 Report of Urumia, December 30th 1872 (Presbyterian Archives, Iran) vol. 1. 18 The ‘errors’ were interpretations not in line with Catholic doctrine. 19 Letter from BejÇn to the Director of the Oeuvre des Ecoles d’Orient, undated Bulletin de l’Oeuvre des Ecoles d’Orient 12 (1883). 20 Letter of Sina, Matthieu-Paul Shamina bishop of Sina to BejÇn, 1884 Bulletin de l’Oeuvre des Ecoles d’Orient 12 (1884). 21 J. H. Shedd Report of July 24th 1882 (Presbyterian Archives, Iran) vol. 2. 22 The Old Testament, translated into Syriac language in the second century. 23 Monthly Letter April 1882 (Presbyterian Archives, Iran) vol. 2. 24 J. H. Shedd Report of Urmia, January 1881 (Presbyterian Archives, Iran) vol. 2. 25 Report of 1877, Urmia (Presbyterian Archives, Iran) vol. 1. 26 (Presbyterian Archives, Iran) vol. 2. 27 The serparast was a Persian who was appointed by the Persian authorities to act as mediator between the Christian communities and the governors. 28 Report of Urmia, March 1st 1872 (Presbyterian Archives, Iran) vol. 1. 29 Report of Tabreez, January 7th 1881, British Consul (Presbyterian Archives, Iran) vol. 2. 30 J. H. Shedd Letter dated December 10th 1879 (Presbyterian Archives, Iran) vol. 2. 31 J. H. Shedd Letter dated January 30th 1880 (Presbyterian Archives, Iran) vol. 2. 32 Emerat, 29 November 1879 (French Foreign Ofﬁce, CPC, Tauris) vol. 2.

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33 J. H. Shedd Letter dated December 20th 1881 (Presbyterian Archives, Iran) vol. 2. 34 Allen Personal Report 1915–1916 (Presbyterian Archives, RG) 91–4. 35 A. Cluzel ‘Urmia November 4th 1872’ Annales de la Congrégation de la Mission 37 (1872). 36 Cochran Report of Mount Seir, July/August 1871 (Presbyterian Archives, Iran) vol. 1. 37 S. G. Wilson Report of September 6th 1882 (Presbyterian Archives, Iran) vol. 2. 38 J. H. Shedd Letter dated December 20th 1881 (Presbyterian Archives, Iran) vol. 2. 39 P. R. C. R. Pittman Tabreez (Presbyterian Archives, RG) 1919. 40 J. H. Shedd Report of February 8th 1889 (Presbyterian Archives, Iran) vol. 6. 41 Dr W. Shedd Report of June 1913 (Presbyterian Archives, RG) 91–5. 42 Persia’s beloved physician, Leaﬂet for Sunday Schools and Young People’s Societies (Presbyterian Archives, Iran). 43 Letter of Dr Packard, 1919 (Presbyterian Archives, RG) 91–7. 44 Report of Dr Daniel, 1914 (Presbyterian Archives, RG) 91–4.

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15 JEWS OF IRAN IN THE QAJAR PERIOD Persecution and perseverance Haideh Sahim

With the imposition of Sh¥ ¥ Islam in Iran in the sixteenth century, the plight of the minorities, especially the Jews, took a turn for the worse. While Jews had lived in Iran for over 2,700 years, shared in her history and given her queens, two great viziers and numerous poets, they were now targets of persecution and forced conversion. By the late eighteenth century, during the early Qajar period, they had become a demoralised and predominantly poor group. The Qajar kings and government ofﬁcials were usually oblivious to the plight of the minorities, leaving them at the mercy of local governments or authorities. Jews were typically harassed at tax time in order to extract funds beyond the jizya; some merchants sought to eliminate Jewish rivals by falsely accusing them and running up unpaid debts; at times, minor members of the clergy incited sentiments against Jews to increase their own following.1 The major mujtahids, it must be noted, were rarely directly involved in persecutions and occasionally would rescue the victims and intervene to quiet the frenzy of the mob which attacked them. However, among these mujtahids, true protectors of the minorities were still quite rare. In this atmosphere, the new BÇb¥ and BahÇ¥ converts and the Jews were often the targets of harsh treatment by the Muslims. While the mullås were the culprits and the government turned a blind eye to most incidents, the principal protectors, if any, were foreigners. In the following pages I shall present an example which illustrates the failure of the Qajar Shahs and their governments to protect their subjects, and their abuse by members of the clerical class. In the early 1890s, the issue of the Tobacco Concession rocked Iran and challenged the power of NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh to grant economic privileges to foreigners. The role of the clergy in stirring popular opinion against this concession had given them new and added prestige and power, and, it seems, raised their level of respect in the population in general. In this atmosphere, it became easier for the minor clergy to instigate a small 293

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riot or uprising and to obtain fame, and at times fortune, through this means. Non-Muslims were easy targets and the Jews were the smallest and most defenceless of the religious minorities in Iran. The Armenians and other Christians fared comparatively well, since representatives of European countries strongly protected their Christian brethren. Though the Zoroastrians had also been severely persecuted in the past, at this time, because of their concentration in areas of British inﬂuence and because of the inﬂuence of the Parsees under the British Raj, they enjoyed some protection as well. By the last decade of the nineteenth century, however, persecution of the Jews was quite common, although its degree depended on the local authority, the power of sympathetic clergy or the severity of the accusation. With no reliable domestic sympathisers and no foreign protectors, the Jews were indeed quite vulnerable. While some major Iranian cities were convulsed with the Tobacco Rebellion, in Hamadan another event, though of lesser political magnitude, was taking place, an event that is known in Iranian Jewish history as ‘the Tumult of Åkhnd MullÇ Abd AllÇh’. This event left such an impression on the psyche of the Jews of Hamadan that later generations talk of it with the passion of eyewitnesses. An examination of this event sheds light on the situation of the Jews in nineteenth-century Iran and their relations with those in power at the national and local level, especially the clergy. As far as Jews were concerned, Hamadan was in many ways unique. It was the only city in Iran where Jews were not conﬁned to a special quarter or maªalla. In the early part of the century it had the largest Jewish community in Iran, and by the end of the nineteenth century this population was second only to that of Tehran.2 Also in Hamadan, the Jews were active in the bazaar, and by the turn of the century they controlled the imported textile trade of Iran.3 Consequently, there were a number of wealthy Jewish merchants there. However, in spite of the business relationships, or maybe because of them, occasional conﬂicts and incidents of persecution could not be prevented. On 24 September 1892, news arrived in London via Baghdad that a clergyman named Åkhnd MullÇ Abd AllÇh had ordered the massacre of the Jews of Hamadan and the pillage of their property. The immediate intervention of coreligionists in London and Paris was requested.4 The details soon became clear: a mob had attacked the Jewish community of Hamadan, demanding their death or conversion. The Jews barricaded themselves in their houses.5 Who or what had instigated this? Sources are not clear. Óab¥b Liv¥ writes that earlier that year, a Jewish girl in Hamadan was kidnapped by Muslims, forcefully converted and married to a Muslim by Åkhnd MullÇ Abd AllÇh, who had recently come to that city. Her family complained to the governor, JahÇnsz KhÇn M¥rzÇ,6 who summoned the girl and questioned the perpetrators. Although he apologised to the girl’s family, their 294

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attempts to obtain her return were unsuccessful. It was at this point that the MullÇ instigated the attack.7 To understand the incident better, an understanding of the principal perpetrator is necessary. Abd AllÇh Burjird¥, better known as Åkhnd MullÇ Abd AllÇh HamadÇn¥, was the son of MullÇ Muªammad Burjird¥, known as Muqaddas. He resided in Karbala and Najaf for four or ﬁve years, but reputedly learned only to recite the QurÇn well.8 His lack of knowledge is conﬁrmed in a comment written by the translator of his letter at the British Embassy, who laments that the original was ‘most illegible and almost untranslatable’.9 He developed a holier and more pious appearance than his father and, thus, appealed to the masses. Sidney Churchill, a member of the British Embassy staff, wrote that the MullÇ played all manner of tricks on the ignorant people to make them believe he was ‘specially favoured of God’. During his frenzied exhortations from the pulpit, he would swoon and the people imagined he was in communication with the Almighty.10 His main activity was to curse BÇb¥s, Suf¥s and Shaykh¥s, all of whom he considered najis (ritually unclean), and, to gain attention, he instigated attacks on the Shaykh¥s, BÇb¥s and Jews.11 Muªammad Kar¥m KirmÇn¥ believed his move from the AtabÇt to Hamadan to be part of a plot against the Shaykh¥s planned by their enemies.12 The Åkhund’s ﬁrst act after his arrival in Hamadan was to go to the mosque with a group of merchants, shopkeepers, rufﬁans and hooligans and order the stone fountain which was used by the Shaykh¥s, among others, to be ritually cleaned. Some layabout sayyids, rufﬁans and merchants who had affected an appearance of religiosity gathered around him. Some followed him in the hope of getting their hands on other people’s property and some to protect their own families and properties. After his initial attacks on the Shaykh¥s, MullÇ Abd AllÇh turned against the Jews. He told his group to round up the Jews and make them wear a patch. The mob attacked their houses and shops and told the Jews that their release could only come by their death or conversion.13 They extorted money from rich Jews before they let them go. The poor ones, who could not pay, were taken to the MullÇ, beaten up and forced to wear a red patch on the front of their coats.14 After the initial attack, some thirty Jewish men rushed to the telegraph ofﬁce to take refuge and send a telegram to the capital asking for the intervention of the British and Ottoman governments.15 In the telegram addressed to the British Ambassador dated 22 September 1892, they wrote, ‘whatever petition we have presented to his Majesty, has gone unanswered. Therefore, we are pleading to you to present our plea to His Majesty. The transgressions of MullÇ Abd AllÇh are annihilating this people . . . He has given the order for our death. We do not dare come out of the house.’16 These men were attacked by a mob, who dragged them to the MullÇ’s house, where 24 of them were converted by force.17 295

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It is interesting to note the role of the telegraph here. Before its introduction in the 1860s, communication was time-consuming and it could take weeks, and sometimes months, to send a letter and get a response. By the time of the tobacco revolt, the telegraph had become an important factor in the political life of the nation. For the suppressed minorities, it became an important tool in their ﬁght for survival. During the MullÇ Abd AllÇh tumult, for the ﬁrst time, the Hamadani Jews managed to inform their coreligionists outside Iran of their plight. Meanwhile, from Hamadan telegrams were sent directly to the Shah and to the British and Ottoman ambassadors. It is only after the spread of the telegraph that news of Iranian Jews regularly came to the attention of European Jewry, and they took an active role in supporting them. The Anglo-Jewish Association in London and the Alliance Israélite Universelle in Paris used their connections and immediately intervened. Sir Frank Lascelles, the British Minister in Tehran, was told by London to take whatever action appeared most appropriate.18 Lascelles at times took strong measures. In a telegram sent some time later, he stated that if the Shah allowed the mullås to take the government out of his (the Shah’s) hands he would suffer worse consequences and his action would affect the impression of the Imperial Bank.19 The French ambassador, M. de Balloy, was also given similar instructions at this time, even though the French government had in the past refused to intervene.20 Meanwhile, encouraged by the Åkhnd, the local Muslims in Hamadan sent a counter complaint, protesting against the conduct of the Jews, accusing them of ‘destroying modesty’ among the Muslims. They claimed that Jewish parties were not considered complete without Muslim dancers, that the Jews got drunk and stopped Muslims on the streets and made them dance. They protested that the Jews were not distinguishable in their clothing and they did not abide by the rule set by the clergy to wear distinctive clothing or a patch. They also stated that the cable sent by the Jews was full of falsehoods and they had never been attacked physically or verbally. On the margin of this document, however, the comment of the Shah can be found: ‘It is the writing of MullÇ Abd AllÇh himself. Censure him so that he does not take such liberties again.’21 Strict and threatening orders were sent to the MullÇ to put an end to the persecution or be prepared to meet with severe consequences.22 What happened in the next few weeks is a story of intrigues, local politics and the complex relationship between the various characters of the story. Soon after the disturbances started, Sayf al-Dawla,23 the governor of Hamadan, who was not able to suppress the riot, was recalled to Tehran and replaced by JahÇnsz KhÇn M¥rzÇ. The arrival of the new governor, however, was delayed because of the disturbances. In the absence of the new governor, the attacks on Jewish houses and shops intensiﬁed.24 KirmÇn¥ also argued that in the presence of a stronger government, the 296

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MullÇ would have been dealt with immediately.25 Eventually MullÇ Abd AllÇh drafted restrictive rules and regulations (the number of which varies in different sources) and imposed them on the Jews. Finally a dozen or so rules were negotiated,26 among which were: Jewish men should wear a red patch on their coat breasts; women should wear red or khaki veils; Jews should not ride horses; Jews should not come out on rainy days, lest they deﬁle Muslims; Jews should wear their hair in a certain way; Jews should not wear certain kinds clothing; Jews should not build tall houses. Jews in Hamadan attempted to resist these rules, in particular the rules concerning the red patch. Before his departure for Tehran, Sayf al-Dawla had decided to calm the mob at the expense of the Jews, so he informed them that they had to comply.27 While MullÇ Abd AllÇh had many followers, there were, it seems, a signiﬁcant group of people in various positions who were opposed to his actions. One of the dignitaries of Hamadan remonstrated with the MullÇ, arguing it was against the Shar¥ a, to cause such havoc in communities who pay jizya and are ‘dhimma’ (under the protection) of Islam. If the MullÇ was really concerned about the Jews, he argued, the MullÇ should have written to the government, explaining how the Jews had transgressed, and asked the government to deal with them before they caused chaos and corruption. The government would then have sent someone who would afﬁx a patch on the Jews. The MullÇ’s arrogant response was that the government should ﬁrst get permission from him and then rule.28 At the centre of this controversy was the ‘Jewish patch’. The Jews were particularly resistant to wearing the patch and distinguishing clothing (since they had for centuries adapted local clothing and were usually indistinguishable in appearance from local Muslims) and did all they could to avoid it. The tradition of enforcing distinguishing clothing or wearing a patch has a long history. It was ﬁrst imposed by Caliph Umar in the early seventh century on Jews and Christians and reached its peak during the reign of Caliph al-Óak¥m in the early tenth century with humiliating and restrictive rules. Later, there is little indication that Christians in Iran continued to wear the patch. References in medieval Persian texts to a yellow ‘Jewish patch’ or yahdåna, also called asal¥ (honey-coloured), indicate that such a regulation continued to be imposed on the Jews from time to time.29 Surprisingly, while the unrest supposedly arose because the MullÇ was worried about the Muslims being deﬁled by those he considered to be unclean or najis unbelievers, there is no indication that these rules were ever imposed on other minorities. It is true that at that time Armenians, Assyrians and Zoroastrians wore clothing that was particular to them and they were thus easily distinguishable from the general public, while Jews usually dressed as the Muslims did. However, if Åkhnd MullÇ Abd AllÇh’s intention was merely to separate the Jews from the Muslims, the 297

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patch would have sufﬁced and there would have been no need for other restrictive rules. The fact that the MullÇ imposed his rules only on the Jews indicates strong anti-Jewish prejudices on his part. Anti-Jewish sentiments existed in the general population, but it is not known how much they were inﬂuenced by religious issues (such as ritual purity), as argued by the likes of MullÇ Abd AllÇh. There are indications that the authorities were well aware that MullÇ Abd AllÇh’s actions were directed only against the Jews and were never meant for any of the other religious minorities.30 As the persecution continued, pressure from foreign governments mounted on the Persian government and the Shah. NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh had recently returned from his third trip to Europe. KirmÇn¥ considers the frequent absence of the Shah from the capital as one of the main reasons for the Hamadan unrest.31 In fact, NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh spent more time out of the capital or travelling than in Tehran.32 During his European trips, the representatives of European Jewish organisations made a point of bringing the problems of the Iranian Jews to NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh’s attention at every opportunity, and, taking advantage of the Shah’s seemingly positive impression of the achievements of the Jews of Europe, they implied that if the Shah protected his Jewish subjects, they too could achieve the same prosperity.33 In his meetings with the Jewish representatives in Europe and with Sir Frank Lascelles, the British Minister, the Shah frequently emphasised that all his subjects were equal and he would protect them all.34 Though the Shah’s expression of concern for the minorities may have been genuine, it could also be interpreted as resulting from his concern for his reputation among the British and other foreign powers. An article in The Times (London) of 10 November 1892, in which it was said that the clergy had gained much power in Iran and the Shah had almost lost control, upset the monarch greatly. It may be that these criticisms prompted the Shah to take more forceful action toward the riots in Hamadan. Orders were sent to the governor of Hamadan to maintain peace and to arrest MullÇ Abd AllÇh and send him to Tehran. Initially, after the Shaykh¥s had complained, the MullÇ was ordered to leave Hamadan. However, his followers begged for clemency and the authorities did not act on the issue.35 By late September 1892 (after the attacks against the Jews of Hamadan had started), half a regiment (fawj) of troops in the area were sent to Hamadan to maintain order. During this period, all the military forces around the town were under the command of local tribal chieftains. It seems that JahÇnsz M¥rzÇ, the new governor, had snubbed the local khans on an unrelated matter and thus angered them. They, in return, plotted to deliberately delay gathering their forces together when the governor needed them.36 In lieu of the expected group of soldiers, an inadequate force of two horsemen was sent to remove the MullÇ from the town.37 298

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When his supporters were alerted to the MullÇ’s impending departure, they seized him and brought him back in what appears to have been a pre-arranged operation. The next day the bazaar closed and the governor’s house was pillaged and demolished, but JahÇnsz M¥rzÇ himself escaped. The restraint in attacking the khans and the apathy of the troops indicate that they were interested only in instigating an uprising against the governor.38 Chaos ensued to such a degree that some of the MullÇ’s own followers started cursing him for the instability that he had created.39 Further attacks on town dignitaries were halted through the efforts of the Imåm Juma, ÅqÇ M¥r Muªammad BÇqir.40 However, the Jews did not fare so well. MullÇ Abd AllÇh sent for the chief rabbi of Hamadan, telling him that only he, the MullÇ, had the power to protect them, and proceeded to put pressure on the rabbi to persuade the Jews to send a telegram to the Shah, explaining how well MullÇ Abd AllÇh was protecting them and expressing their gratitude.41 Mobs appeared on the streets once again, demanding that the Jews be converted or be killed. The MullÇ next prohibited the sale of food to the Jews. Fortunately, this was soon revoked through an intervention by the Ottoman Consul. Even the Chief of Police was not immune. A mob attacked his house, objecting to his helping the Jews. He was forced to apologise for his actions and to kiss the feet of MullÇ Abd AllÇh.42 Jewish organisations abroad expressed their fear that such incidents might spread to other areas of Iran.43 Their fears were warranted, as unrest ﬂared up in Yazd and Shiraz, directed against Jews and Zoroastrians. Within a short time rules similar to those of MullÇ Abd AllÇh were imposed in Tehran, Isfahan, Shiraz and other cities. The Prime Minister, Am¥n al-Sul†Çn,44 kept reassuring the British and French ambassadors that there was no reason to be apprehensive and he insisted that wearing a patch beneﬁted the Jews, and they should abide by it.45 The news of the riots in Hamadan created much debate in Tehran, whose clergy expressed strong criticism of MullÇ Abd AllÇh’s actions. A telegram, signed by 19 of the ulamå of Hamadan, including the Imåm Juma, begged the Shah not to punish the people of Hamadan because of the acts of ‘certain ignorant individuals’ who had rebelled against the Shah, and were well-deserving of punishment. They begged that the people of Hamadan be spared and the guilty punished later.46 M¥rzÇ Óasan ÅshtiyÇn¥,47 a prominent mujtahid in Tehran, also sent a cable begging the Prime Minister to intercede with the Shah to pardon the people of Hamadan.48 NÇ‚ir al-D¥n Shah, angered by the riots in Hamadan, ordered that troops be readied to be sent there to put down the riot and bring the MullÇ to Tehran. While the Shah was aware of the consequences of his action – in effect he was declaring war on the clergy – he was determined to show that the clergy were not to interfere with his administration of the government.49 Åkhnd MullÇ Abd AllÇh must have felt the pressure and the anger of the Shah. On 15 December he sent him a letter, protesting his innocence 299

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and attempting to ingratiate himself: ‘As your majesty is the Shadow of God, the people expect to be pardoned.’ His tone, however, is sometimes impudent, particularly when he states: ‘This sovereignty will not exist forever. God has not enslaved his people to the kings.’ Yet it is obvious that he was also trying to absolve himself of having ignored the command of the Shah and indirectly put the blame on the khans.50 Forced to take action, the Shah moved his troops to a camp outside of Tehran. He then notiﬁed the ulamå that he would recall the troops on two conditions: ﬁrst, Åkhnd MullÇ Abd AllÇh must proceed to Tehran or any part of Persia other than Hamadan immediately; and second, the ulamå and people of Hamadan should escort the governor back to that city, with appropriate honour and respect, and beg him to intercede with His Majesty on their behalf. Failing these conditions being met, the Shah would direct the expedition to restore order.51 The army in question, which was camping outside Tehran, was quite inadequate for the purpose as far as armaments were concerned and it is not known how they would have fared or whether the Shah was aware of its capabilities.52 By 24 December, MullÇ Abd AllÇh had once more made preparations to leave Hamadan. Instructions were given that he should not be allowed to remain in any city near Hamadan. Again mobs prevented his expulsion and the ensuing confrontation with the troops caused four deaths. The MullÇ was eventually forced to leave in the middle of the night. Soon afterwards the khans, whose lack of action had exacerbated the riots, were called to Tehran and were dealt with. ‘A∂ud al-Dawla53 was sent to Hamadan and peace was ﬁnally achieved.54 In early February, persecution was renewed. When the British Minister complained, the Shah stated that as far as he was concerned the issue was settled. However, the Shah would give strict orders that no one in the country should be persecuted on account of his religion.55 A formal order to protect people of all religions was probably was unprecedented for Iran, even though it is not certain whether the Shah actually issued such an order. The Prime Minister still insisted that it was in the interest of the Jews to continue to wear distinctive clothing. There even seems to have been some sympathy for the MullÇ in Tehran. ItimÇd al-Sal†ana,56 for example, who saw him in the Shah’s presence, described him as ‘a very holy old man’.57 As the persecution continued in the following months, more pressure was exerted on the Shah by the British. In April, during his audience with NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh, Lascelles stressed the bad impression continued persecution of Iranian Jews would have in England. He stated, ‘It was a short sighted policy on the part of the Persian Government to indispose the inﬂuential Jewish Association in Europe at a moment when Persia was seeking to establish her ﬁnancial credit.’58 A contributing factor to the disturbances was the fact that the governor had taken up residence in Sheverin, a village near Hamadan. Because of 300

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the riots, he had not yet arrived in Hamadan. Only with the intervention of M¥rzÇ Óasan ÅshtiyÇn¥, who sent an invitation to the MullÇ to go to Tehran, was it possible to persuade him to leave peacefully.59 In fact, when he was called to Tehran, MullÇ Abd AllÇh sought to incite yet another riot, but the khans of Hamadan, who at this point were unwilling to further support the MullÇ, informed him in no uncertain terms that those who elevated him to the pulpit could bring him down, and it would be best if he went quietly by himself, which he did.60 One Abd al-Maj¥d (probably ÅqÇ Sayyid ‘Abd al-Maj¥d Garrs¥), who had collaborated with MullÇ Abd AllÇh, continued persecution of the Jews after the latter’s departure and the wearing of the patch continued to be enforced in Hamadan.61 By June the city was not yet calm. A report from the governor of Hamadan to the Prime Minister around this time indicates that the current unrest among the people was due to their desire to see MullÇ Abd AllÇh return to Hamadan. They had even appealed to M¥rzÇ Óasan Sh¥rÇz¥,62 a grand Ayatollah who resided in the AtabÇt, to help them in this matter. M¥rzÇ Óasan replied that the people had no right to request the presence of any particular mullå and declined to interfere.63 MullÇ Abd AllÇh did, however, return to Hamadan some four years later. This time he restarted his attacks more harshly on the Shaykh¥s. The persecution of the Jews never really ended, though the frenzy subsided and they continued to wear the patch if forced. MullÇ Abd AllÇh became a recluse in his last years and, when he died in September 1900, his body was taken to the AtabÇt for burial. The ironic result of these persecutions was that they failed to achieve the one thing that MullÇ Abd AllÇh had claimed to be his intention: the conversion of the Jews of Hamadan to Islam. Indeed, as pressures mounted there, Jews eventually turned to the BÇb¥/BahÇ¥s and Christians for help and relief. The warm approach of the BÇb¥/BahÇ¥s, most of whom were of Muslim background, and their call for equality, certainly had much appeal to the Jews. At the same time, a number of Jews were affected by the preaching of the American missionaries and converted to Christianity. Though some of the converts of both groups returned to Judaism, Hamadan had a signiﬁcant number of Jewish converts to these two religions.64 Despite the many stories of persecution that exist from the second half of the nineteenth century, compared to the previous periods, the position of the Jews during the NÇ‚ir¥ period improved. The Shah’s efforts, however limited, to curtail the power of the clergy, his concern for his reputation abroad and his eagerness to suppress even minor riots and uprisings, both in Tehran and the provinces, all worked to the beneﬁt of the minorities. The achievements of the Jews of Europe and the implication that they could attain similar progress in Iran may also have left a positive impression. The ability of the Jews, at this time, to make their plight known to, if not the world, then to those who were in a position to aid them, was 301

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certainly instrumental in the small amount of relief that came their way. It is signiﬁcant that the population of the Jews of Iran rose from 25,000 to about 45,000 during the half-century reign of NÇsir al-D¥n ShÇh.65 To the misfortune of the Iranian Jews, MullÇ Abd AllÇh became a role model for other åkhnds seeking fame. Persecution in other cities rose. In Isfahan, M¥rzÇ Muªammad Taq¥, known as ÅqÇ Najaf¥, began harassing the Jews of Isfahan, preventing Jewish fabric sellers from working in the city. In Lar and Shiraz, one MullÇ Abd al-Óusayn ordered the Jews to wear patches. In Kermanshah, some Jews were killed. Unrest against the Jews seemed to have spread to other cities as well.66 Less than ﬁve years after the MullÇ Abd AllÇh incident in Hamadan, a similar case occurred in Tehran led by one Sayyid RayªÇn AllÇh DÇrÇb¥. On 16 May 1897, Sayyid RayªÇn AllÇh,67 taking advantage of the weakness of the government of the newly-enthroned MuΩaffar al-D¥n ShÇh, issued a fatwå stating that the Jews must wear a red patch and cut their hair in a particular way to differentiate themselves from the Muslims. Until that day the Jews of the provinces had been envious of the situation in Tehran and its relative tranquillity for the minorities.68 The Tehrani Jews, however, were not willing to give up their relative freedom and the anonymity of dress they had enjoyed. They protested to the Prime Minister and the Shah. The initial response of the Shah, who favoured the clergy and was greatly inﬂuenced by them,69 was a refusal to intervene on the grounds that this was a religious matter and the government could not interfere.70 Sayyid RayªÇn AllÇh ordered his disciples to attack the Jewish quarter, force the Jews to put on the patch and to cut their hair by force.71 Posters were put up all over the city inviting the Muslims to kill the Jews. The British Minister sent a group of uniformed soldiers to protect the Jews, as did the government. The fear of attack was so serious that the Jews did not leave their houses for a week, depending on a few sympathetic Muslims for provisions.72 M¥rzÇ Óasan ÅshtiyÇn¥ tried to convince RayªÇn AllÇh to end the persecution, but was unsuccessful. Neither the weak government, nor the Shah himself, could stop the persecution. RayªÇn AllÇh also decreed that the Jews were forbidden to wear socks, should not come out on rainy days (lest they deﬁle the Muslims), should cut their hair in the prescribed manner, should have houses lower than those of the Muslims and that their women should wear trousers with legs of two different colours. These rules were similar to those imposed by Åkhnd MullÇ Abd AllÇh.73 Once more, the Jewish Iranians petitioned ÅshtiyÇn¥ for help. RayªÇn AllÇh, on hearing of this, sent an insulting response to the mujtahid. For many years, the Central Committee of the Alliance Israélite Universelle had tried to improve the condition of the Iranian Jews by using its inﬂuence in France and England to open schools in Iran. On this occasion, the Committee sent a letter to the French Minister of Foreign Affairs, requesting intervention.74 302

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A month later, on 14 June, the Shah issued an edict decreeing that all his subjects ‘live in peace’, Muslims should end their persecution of Jews, should not create distinguishing signs between the Muslims and non-Muslims and should expect harsh punishment if found harassing nonMuslims. All government institutions were to enforce this edict.75 This decree was very important as it implied an equality of Muslims and nonMuslims. During the Constitutional Movement, the subject of the equality of citizenship of various Iranian groups was one of the most ﬁercely debated issues. Finally Am¥n al-Dawla76 threatened to exile RayªÇn AllÇh. The Sayyid’s followers started a march and once more the government sent a small troop to guard the Jewish maªalla. The ordeal was only concluded when the Jews paid a substantial amount of money to the Sayyid.77 Bribery was a common practice in such incidents and many such disturbances and persecutions were intended to extort money. The role of the British in the RayhÇn AllÇh event is not clear. HumÇ NÇ†iq mentions that the British Minister promised that he would help the Jews only after the event, when the government had already rescued them.78 Indeed, documents relating to this event are almost non-existent in the British diplomatic records, while there are hundreds of documents relevant to the MullÇ Abd AllÇh incident. Less than two years after this, once again anti-Jewish sentiments emerged. Complaining that the Jewish fabric sellers in Tehran were selling their goods at a lower price and thus taking their proﬁts, the Muslim merchants closed the bazaar and anti-Jewish disturbances broke out.79 This case has some similarity with an earlier incident in Isfahan, where Shaykh Muªammad Taq¥, known as ÅqÇ Najaf¥, issued a decree preventing Jewish pedlars from working in that city on the pretext that Jewish pedlars went to Muslim houses and corrupted their women. The real reason was that Jewish fabric pedlars, by selling their goods cheaply, competed with the Muslim shopkeepers.80 Pressure was once again put on Tehrani Jews by demanding that they wear the patch or distinguishable clothing. According to reports, the minister (who is not named) supported the shopkeepers.81 The newly arrived Joseph Cazès, the head of the ﬁrst Alliance Israélite school in Tehran, emphatically refused the request, informing the governor that the Jews would not accept any humiliating clothing and every person was free to choose how he dressed. A report of his conversation is found in the Bulletin mensuel of the Alliance Israélite Universelle. According to the existing report, the governor indicated that he did not want to enforce the regulations, but, he claimed, it would calm the fanatics. Cazès replied that they, too, wanted the tensions to subside, but this was a compromise that they could not accept. Cazès’s riposte bore fruit and his request was taken seriously. It is clear that the status of Cazès as a foreigner and the Alliance as a foreign organisation gave their demands added force. A few days later, an inﬂuential clergyman issued a fatwå in 303

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favour of the Jews and matters calmed down.82 The issue of the patch, however, was not settled until Cazès ﬁnally convinced RayªÇn AllÇh and the Iranian authorities to substitute a pin with the Alliance logo for the patch.83 Once the patch was gone, its use as a distinguishing feature of Iranian Jews died out. In Hamadan, too, by carrying out the same practice when the Alliance school was opened there in 1900, the patch was removed and forgotten. While anti-Semitism in Iran was not usually initiated by the Shah or high authorities, the local governors or ofﬁcials, were often, if not instigators of harassment, the beneﬁciaries of the resulting extortions. Often, if the harassment did not entail a riot or citywide disturbance that could challenge their authority, the ofﬁcials would turn a blind eye and permit the issue be resolved at lower levels. This allowed some petty clergy to be successful in their actions. In general, the more powerful the local government, the more protected were the minorities. Examples of this include the high mujtahids, who often came to the rescue of the minorities, as did ÅshtiyÇn¥ and the Imåm Juma of Hamadan. However, lesser mullås and åkhnds were often – though not always – the instigators of anti-Semitic disturbances. The Alliance Israélite Universelle Bulletin reports that ‘even a darvish in a coffee house . . . could arouse groups against the Jews’.84 The disappearance of a child, even for a few hours, could be an excuse for anti-Jewish harassment.85 Even as late as 1922, preposterous pretexts could be found and used against the Jews. For example, the custodian of a Jewish school in Tehran stopped a donkey belonging to a mujtahid, Shaykh Abd al-Nab¥ Nur¥, to prevent harming passing children. The groom was angered that he and the donkey of the mujtahid had been stopped and thus insulted. He complained to his master, who also considered this a great affront and ordered the shops closed, so that the Jews could be dealt with. Mobs rushed to the street with sticks and clubs to kill the Jews.86 If the entire quarter was not looted or if all Jewish homes were not robbed, it was because a large bribe – a ‘gift’ or p¥shkash – was given to the instigator or some authority to stop the attack. In reviewing the incidents of Jewish persecution in Iran, particularly during the late Qajar period, it becomes evident that severe punishment, if not total annihilation of the Jewish community, was often sought for what are presented as transgressions of, or disrespect to, Islam. In other cases, the excuse is to enlighten or convert ‘inﬁdel’ Jews to Islam. While studying the cases presented here, one notices that in the example of MullÇ Abd AllÇh, the real reason for the persecution has been obscured, indicating its actual insigniﬁcance. While the MullÇ’s claimed reasons for his animosity against those branded ‘inﬁdels’ or ‘non-Muslims’ was to keep them separated from the Muslim community, in the end his attention was focussed not on all ‘inﬁdel groups’ (Íf¥s, Shaykh¥s, BÇb¥s and BahÇ¥s), but only on Jews. In the case of RayhÇn AllÇh in Tehran, while Jews in 304

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that city lived in separate quarters, such a strong fear of ‘contamination’ and the necessity of separation seems unjustiﬁed, particularly considering the fact that the capital had a large number of Armenians and BÇb¥s, as well as foreign (and hence najis) inﬁdels. The same can be said of Abd al-Óusayn in Fars and ÅqÇ Najaf¥ in Isfahan. In these cases, the motives of anti-Semitism are very clear. In fact one can establish a pattern of causes and instigators. First, there was harassment instigated by the authorities and administrators, which was seasonal and usually happened at tax time, when the Jews had collected jizya, or poll-tax for the government. An administrator would accuse the Jews of some wrongdoing and would incite a mob. The riot would be defused by the payment of a large sum. An example of this occurred around the turn of the century. The Jews of Burujird were assessed a jizya of 24 tmåns, but the collectors, through threat of force, extorted 50 tmåns from them.87 Second, harassment by petty merchants or store owners, who either saw Jews as a threat or did not want to or could not return money borrowed from them. The events of 1900 in Tehran, mentioned above, concerning Jewish fabric sellers, and a similar event in Isfahan which ended with the Jewish peddlers being barred from the city by ÅqÇ Najaf¥, are two good examples. Third, was the group of minor clergy and religious students, who, to gain notoriety, would attack the Jews from the pulpits, inciting others to harass them. This occurred in spite of the orders of the high mujtahids to the contrary. The mullås had to depend on mobs of hooligans attracted by the prospect of plunder.88 It was said that to become famous, all a mullå needed to do was to issue a fatwå against the Jews. The well-documented cases of MullÇ Abd AllÇh and Sayyid RayªÇn AllÇh fall into this category, and show how Jews were usually singled out. To be sure, the failure of government authorities to uphold the rights of all its citizens allowed the likes of MullÇ Abd AllÇh, Sayyid RayªÇn AllÇh and ÅqÇ Najaf¥ to become arrogant enough to challenge and defy the government.89 In the absence of strong central or local government, and while the Shah and his ofﬁcials were more concerned about their own revenue than the welfare of their subjects, there were few people in the country to whom the victims of injustice could appeal. Such appeals for safety always entailed bribes. While some Jews had the means to buy justice, many could not and fell victim to harsh abuse. Factional disagreements, lack of authority on the part of the administrator or dignitaries and disinterest always worked against the minorities. We see that MullÇ Abd AllÇh did not heed the objection of the other mujtahids in Hamadan (see above for the telegram of the mujtahids), that Am¥n al-Sul†Çn failed to see the signiﬁcance of the patch, and MuΩaffar al-D¥n ShÇh, in a typical show of weakness, refused to overrule the order of Sayyid RayªÇn AllÇh. 305

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It is a stain on Iranian history that appeals for justice by its citizens had to be sent to foreign embassies – and this was not unique to the minorities. The many incidents of bast in the British or Russian embassies and records of telegrams and appeals from ordinary people seeking justice for even minor problems show the sorry state of justice in Iran. It is thus not surprising that at the outset of the riots in Hamadan, people sent telegrams to the British Legation when no response was received from their own government.90 This is a clear indication that, until the Alliance Israélite Universelle sent its representatives to Iran, Jews had no serious protector. It was not until the time of Ri∂Ç ShÇh that the situation improved signiﬁcantly. The centralisation of the government and the strong-arm rule of the Shah, though often criticised, had the beneﬁt of preventing arbitrary rulings and decisions on the part of the clergy, curtailing their almost unlimited power. The events of Åkhnd MullÇ Abd AllÇh and Sayyid RayªÇn AllÇh recounted here are fairly well-documented, in contrast to similar events in earlier periods, of which we know little. They demonstrate well that in a country where rule was autocratic and power arbitrary, but the ruler was not always strong or present, religious minorities often bore the brunt of popular anger.

Notes 1 C. J. Wills Persia As It Is: Being Sketches of Modern Persian Life and Character (London, 1887) 229–30. 2 Population ﬁgures for this period are usually estimates which vary depending on the source. However, they all agree that the Jewish population of Hamadan was either equal to that of Tehran or, at least, the second largest in Iran: (Óab¥b Liv¥ Tår¥kh-i Yahd-i Ûrån, 3 vols (reprint of Tehran, 1960: Beverly Hills, 1984) III, passim). ItimÇd al-Sal†ana mentions the Jewish population of Hamadan as large, around 5,000–6,000 (Muªammad-Óasan KhÇn ItimÇd alSal†ana Rznåmih-yi khå†irat-i Itimåd al-Sal†ana (Ûraj AfshÇr (ed): Tehran, 1350sh/1971) 843). French sources mention 3,000 (HumÇ NÇ†iq ‘TÇr¥khchihyi ÅliyÇns-i IsrÇ¥l¥ dar ÛrÇn’ Yahdiyån-i Ûrån¥ dar tår¥kh-i muå‚ir (Beverly Hills, 1984) II, 93. 3 Charles Issawi The Economic History of Iran: 1800–1914 (Chicago, 1971) 62. 4 Adler to Rabbi Emannuel, Foreign Ofﬁce Records, FO 60/536, No. 225, 4 September 1892. 5 Liv¥ states that this event started on the eve of Yom Kippur, the holiest of Jewish holidays and a time of fasting. However, Yom Kippur that year fell on 1 October, a week later. Interviews with Hamadanis show that there was indeed an attack on that day, which forced the Jews to barricade themselves in their houses, thus preventing them from performing the ceremony as usual. It may be that the attacks came in several waves. It is also possible that they barricaded themselves in their houses for the entire week, which was not unprecedented. 6 JahÇnsz KhÇn M¥rzÇ Am¥r NyÇn, the ﬁfty-ﬁrst son of Fatª Al¥ ShÇh, replaced Muªammad M¥rzÇ Sayf al-Dawla as the governor of Hamadan in 1892. His appointment did not last long and a year later he was replaced by Sul†Çn

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7

8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23

24 25 26

27 28 29 30 31 32

M¥rzÇ A∂ud al-Dawla (Mahd¥ BÇmdÇd Sharª-i ªål-i rijål-i Ûrån dar qarnha-yi 12 va 13 va 14 hijr⁄ 6 vols (Tehran, 1371sh/1992) V, 54–5). Liv¥, Tår¥kh-i Yahd III, 757. This event could not have been the spark that set the riots off. JahÇnsz M¥rzÇ was appointed governor after Sayf al-Dawla, in whose time the riots started. It is possible that the kidnapping took place some time during the unrest. This kidnapping is not mentioned in other sources. However, such abductions, forced conversions and marriages of Jewish girls to Muslims were not uncommon in the area. My interviews with Hamadanis revealed that as late as the second decade of the twentieth century young Jewish girls were constantly warned to be watchful of possible abductors. If such actions were not rare, it seems unlikely that this particular incident would create such a tumult. BÇmdÇd, Sharª-i ªål VI, 145. Telegram of MullÇ Abd AllÇh to the Shah, FO 248/553, 15 Dec. 1892. Sidney Churchill’s report of ‘Hamadan Riots’, FO 60/532, No. 196, 21 Dec. 1892. BÇmdÇd, Sharª-i ªål VI, 146. Muªammad Kar¥m KirmÇn¥ Tår¥kh-i ‘ibrat liman i tabar (n.p., n.d.) 22. KirmÇn¥, Tår¥kh, 28. KirmÇn¥, Tår¥kh, 29. KirmÇn¥, Tår¥kh, 29 and Liv¥, Tår¥kh-i Yahd III, 758. Telegram of Jews of Hamadan to the British Minister, FO 248/553, 29 Íafar, 1310. FO 248/553 (no date) is a list in Persian of 12 rules imposed by MullÇ Abd AllÇh. At the bottom it is written that 24 men who had converted by force would like to return to their original religion. Telegram No. 55, dated 25 Sept., referred to in a communiqué of the Foreign Ofﬁce to Rabbi Emanuel, FO 60/536, No. 227, 25 Sept. 1892. Telegram from Lascelles, FO 60/533, No. 1, 5 Jan. 1892 (probably a mistake and should read 1893). The Shah was trying to get a loan to pay the penalty for cancelling the Régie concession. HumÇ NÇ†iq Kårnåmih-yi farhang¥-yi farang¥ dar Ûrån (Paris, 1375sh/1996) 119. Telegram from the people of Hamadan to the Shah through Am¥n al-Sul†Çn, FO 60/553, Rab¥ I, 1310 (23 September 1892). Telegram from Sir Frank Lascelles to the Earl of Rosebery, FO 60/533, No. 140, 27 Sept. 1892. Sul†Çn Muªammad M¥rzÇ Sayf al-Dawla, son of ‘A∂ud al-Dawla, was the governor and head of the army of Hamadan. He was known as ÅqÇ-yi DÇmÇd because he was the son-in-law of SipahsÇlÇr AΩam (BÇmdÇd, Sharª-i ªål II, 99–102). KirmÇn¥, Tår¥kh, 28. KirmÇn¥, Tår¥kh, 22–3. The number of these rules vary according to the source. The Alliance Israélite Universelle documents mention 22 rules, which according to Liv¥ were later reduced to 19 (Liv¥, Tår¥kh-i Yahd III, 758). But a Persian document in the Foreign Ofﬁce Records has only 12 listed (FO 248/553, undated). Liv¥, Tår¥kh-i Yahd III, 758. KirmÇn¥, Tår¥kh, 30–1. Haideh Sahim ‘Clothing and Makeup’ in Houman Sarshar (ed.) Esther’s Children: A Portrait of Iranian Jews (Los Angeles, 2002) 177–8. IbrÇh¥m ÍafÇ¥ Panjåh nåmih-yi tår¥kh¥ (Tehran, 2535 (1355sh/1976)) 85. KirmÇn¥, Tår¥kh, 24. ItimÇd al-Sal†ana, Rznåmih, passim.

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33 Liv¥, Tår¥kh-i Yahd III, 707–21, 735, 737–8. 34 Telegram of Lascelles, FO 60/544, No. 7, 4 Feb. 1893 and Liv¥, Tår¥kh-i Yahd III, 710. 35 KirmÇn¥, Tår¥kh, 24–5. 36 Churchill’s report, FO 60/532, No. 196, 21 Dec. 1892. Liv¥, quoting the memoirs of Kuhan-Íidq, mentions that JahÇnsz M¥rzÇ had a grudge against the Jews and severly punished some upon his arrival in Hamadan, just before his death (Liv¥, Tår¥kh-i Yahd III, 664). This story does not seem plausible since the Prince in fact died much later (1318/1900) in Shahrd (BÇmdÇd, Sharª-i ªål V, 55). 37 KirmÇn¥, Tår¥kh, 26–8. 38 Churchill’s report, FO 60/532, No. 196, 21 Dec. 1892. 39 KirmÇn¥, Tår¥kh, 33. 40 Churchill’s report, FO 60/532, No. 196, 21 Dec. 1892. 41 Churchill’s report, FO 60/532, No. 196, 21 Dec. 1892. 42 Liv¥, Tår¥kh-i Yahd III, 758. 43 Alliance Israélite Universelle, Bulletin Mensuel, 18 (1892) 48, quoted in Liv¥, Tår¥kh-i Yahd III, 759. 44 M¥rzÇ Al¥-A‚ghar KhÇn Am¥n al-Sul†Çn AtÇbak-i AΩam was Prime Minister to NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh, MuΩaffar al-D¥n ShÇh and Muªammad Al¥ ShÇh. At the age of twenty-four he inherited his father’s appointments, including the Ministry of Court, and was then given the title Am¥n al-Sul†Çn. He was not particularly well-educated; however, in spite of his inefﬁciency in running the country, he stayed in power for a long time because of his closeness to the Shah. He was criticised for being too pro-British. He was assassinated at the age of ﬁfty (BÇmdÇd, Sharª-i ªål II, 387–425). 45 Liv¥, Tår¥kh-i Yahd III, 760. Somehow the signiﬁcance of the patch seems to have eluded many people in positions of power. To them, it seems, the patch was no more than an item of clothing that one disliked. 46 ‘Ulamå of Hamadan to the Shah, FO 248/553, 15 Dec. 1892. 47 ÓÇj M¥rzÇ Óasan ÅshtiyÇn¥ was one of the three major mujtahids involved in the revolt over the Tobacco Concession. (BÇmdÇd, Sharª-i ªål I, 316–17). 48 Churchill’s report on ‘Hamadan Riot’, FO 248/553, 15 Dec. 1892. 49 Churchill’s report on ‘Hamadan Riot’, FO 248/553, 15 Dec. 1892. 50 MullÇ Abd AllÇh to the Shah, FO 248/553, 15 Dec. 1892. 51 Churchill’s report, FO 248/553, 15 Dec. 1892. 52 ItimÇd al-Sal†ana, Rznåmih, 844. 53 Sul†Çn Aªmad M¥rzÇ A∂ud al-Dawla was the forty-eighth son of Fatª Al¥ ShÇh and father of Sayf al-Dawla. He was twice the governor of Hamadan and died in 1318/1899–1900 (BÇmdÇd, Sharª-i ªål II, 73–4). 54 KirmÇn¥, Tår¥kh, 34–5. 55 Lascelles to the Earl of Rosebery, FO 60/542, No. 21, 6 Feb. 1893. 56 Muªammad Óasan KhÇn ItimÇd al-Sal†ana, the son of ÓÇj Al¥ KhÇn MarÇghih¥, the Chamberlain of NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh, was among the students of the ﬁrst class at the DÇr al-Funn. He spent his entire life in government positions. His last post was director of the Translation House and personal translator of the Shah. His journal Rznåmih-yi Khå†iråt-i Itimåd al-Sal†ana is an excellent mirror of the Qajar court (BÇmdÇd, Sharª-i ªål III, 330–48). 57 ItimÇd al-Sal†ana, Rznåmih, 852. 58 Lascelles to the Earl of Rosebery, FO 60/542, No. 6, 22 April 1893. 59 GhulÇm-Óusayn Qaraguzl Az Hagmatånih tå Hamadån: Qad¥m¥tar¥n shahr-i må (Tehran, 1373sh/1994) 432. None of the sources mention the date of the MullÇ’s departure for Tehran. But Itimad al-Sal†ana mentions that on 16 March

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63 64

65 66 67

68 69

70 71 72 73 74 75 76

77 78 79 80

81 82

1893 he saw Åkhnd MullÇ ‘Abd AllÇh in the presence of the Shah (ItimÇd al-Sal†ana, Rznåmih, 852). If so, the unrest continued in the absence of the MullÇ, possibly with his intervention from Tehran. KirmÇn¥, Tår¥kh, 34. Liv¥, Tår¥kh-i Yahd III, 752–3. ÓÇj M¥rzÇ Óasan or M¥rzÇ Muªammad Óasan Sh¥rÇz¥, known as M¥rzÇ-yi Sh¥rÇz¥, was another one of the three major mujtahids involved in the tobacco rebellion. He was the one who allegedly issued a fatwå banning the usage of tobacco (BÇmdÇd, Sharª-i ªål I, 335–9). Lascelles to the Earl of Rosebery, FO 60/543, No. 111, 23 June 1893. Liv¥, Tår¥kh-i Yahd III, 761–2. It is interesting to note that of the 30 people who originally took refuge in the telegraph ofﬁce and were forcibly converted to Islam, four later became BahÇ¥s and two became Christian and the rest returned to Judaism. Of the latter group, one brother later became BahÇ¥ and another Christian. Families with members of two, three or even four religions were not uncommon. Liv¥, Tår¥kh-i Yahd III, 765. Though there probably is some accuracy in the claim, I could not verify the ﬁgures. Liv¥, Tår¥kh-i Yahd III, 773, 788–9. Born just before the death of his father, RayªÇn AllÇh was the son of Sayyid Jafar Kashf¥ DÇrÇb¥ from Burujird and the brother of Sayyid YaªyÇ DÇrÇb¥, one of the heads of the BÇb¥ movement. About mid-life, RayªÇn AllÇh left Burujird for Tehran, where he gained some following and eventually became one of the famous ‘ulamå of Tehran (Muªammad Al¥ Mudarris Rayªånat al-adab, 8 vols in 4 (Tehran, 1374sh) III, 336–7 and BÇmdÇd, Sharª-i ªål II, 44). Alliance Israélite Universelle Bulletin mensuel 1 (January 1897) 70–3. MuΩaffar al-D¥n ShÇh is portrayed as weak, not particularly intelligent, very superstitious and religious. Others have called him kind, sickly and depressed. It is reported that his belief in one Bahraini clergyman was such that at times of thunder, of which he was terribly afraid, he would hide under the clergyman’s abå (BÇmdÇd, Sharª-i ªål IV, 120–35). Liv¥, Tår¥kh-i Yahd III, 775. Alliance Israélite Universelle Bulletin mensuel 1 (January 1897) 70–3. Alliance Israélite Universelle Bulletin mensuel 11 (November 1898) 195. NÇ†iq, ‘TÇr¥khchih’, 104–5. Alliance Israélite Universelle Bulletin mensuel 1 (January 1897) 70–3. NÇ†iq, ‘TÇr¥khchih’, 105. ÓÇj M¥rzÇ ‘Al¥ KhÇn Am¥n al-Dawla started working in the Ofﬁce of Correspondence of the court at an early age and soon became part of the entourage of NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh. He was given the position of his father-in-law after the latter’s death. He was Prime Minister from 1314 to 1316AH (BÇmdÇd, Sharª-i ªål II, 354–66). NÇ†iq, ‘TÇr¥khchih’, 105. NÇ†iq, ‘TÇr¥khchih’, 105. Alliance Israélite Universelle Bulletin mensuel 6 (June 1899) 85–7. ZhÇnit Åfar¥, ‘InqilÇb-i Mashr†a: Nakhust¥n gÇm barÇ-yi mubÇrizih bÇ yahd¥sit¥z¥ dar ÛrÇn-i qarn-i b¥stum’ Yahdiyån-i Ûrån¥ dar tår¥kh-i muå‚ir (Beverly Hills, 1997) II, 44. Amnn Nit‚ir Tår¥kh-i Yahd dar a‚r-i jad¥d (Jersualem, 1998) 250–1. Alliance Israélite Universelle Bulletin mensuel 6 (June 1899) 87. Alliance Israélite Universelle Bulletin mensuel 11 (November 1899) 182. I have not been able to identify this person, but it may very well have been ÅshtiyÇn¥, since in the past he had been sympathetic to the Jews and was of high enough status to render RayªÇn AllÇh’s actions ineffective.

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83 Liv¥, Tår¥kh-i Yahd III, 781. 84 Alliance Israélite Universelle Bulletin mensuel 12 (Dec. 1900) 211. 85 There is a common belief among the Muslims that Jews make the Passover matzah with a few drops of the blood of a sayyid child. Blood libels entered Persian culture during the Safavid period, most probably due to Christian inﬂuence on Safavid rulers. 86 Liv¥, Tår¥kh-i Yahd III, 941. 87 Liv¥, Tår¥kh-i Yahd III, 741. 88 Memorandum by Henry Cadogan, attached to the Memorandum of Lascelles, FO 60/543, 14 June 1893. 89 M¥rzÇ ‘Al¥ KhÇn Am¥n al-Dawla Khå†iråt-i siyås¥-yi M¥rzå ‘Al¥ Khån-i Am¥n al-Dawla (ÓÇﬁΩ FarmÇnfarmÇ¥an (ed): Tehran, 1341sh/1962) 151–2, 167. 90 Telegram of Jews of Hamadan to the British Minister, FO 248/553, 29 Íafar 1310 (22 Sept. 1892).

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16 THE EVOLUTION OF CHARISMATIC AUTHORITY IN THE BAH Å ± FAITH (1863–1921) Juan R. I. Cole

Weber’s sociology of religion is populated by diverse actors with distinct sources of charismatic authority – the prophet, the priest, the successor, the lineage, the religious bureaucrat, the church and the sectarian congregation. The thesis of the present study is that the prophet-founder of the BahÇ¥ faith, BahÇallÇh (1817–92), designed his religion to incorporate a number of different contemporaneous centres of authority. The puzzle that needs explanation, however, is that for all practical purposes most of these charismatic actors ultimately lapsed or were contained or excluded. Even during those periods when it was possible for them to co-exist harmoniously, they seldom did. What historical developments and causes can be adduced to explain how the will of the Prophet was thwarted? A number of scholars, beginning with Peter Berger and extending to Peter Smith, Denis MacEoin and Saïd Amir Arjomand, have pointed to the usefulness in the study of Qajar Iranian religious institutions of Max Weber’s conception of charisma.1 This idea has been shown to have at least two roots. One lies in Protestant theories of the early Christian church, which saw it as spontaneous and centred on diverse gifts within the community, as opposed to being bureaucratic in nature.2 The other lies in nineteenth-century British anthropological speculations about mana, the supernatural power ascribed by Melanesians to some persons, places or things. But Weber was interested in the phenomenon as it related to authority (the likelihood that a command will be obeyed), and saw it as a revolutionary force. Weber wrote that ‘the power of charisma rests upon the belief in revelation and heroes, upon the conviction that certain manifestations – whether they be of a religious, ethical, artistic, scientiﬁc, political or other kind – are important and valuable; it rests upon “heroism” of an ascetic, military, judicial, magical or whichever kind’.3 That is, the charisma imputed to a person or group or institution is important in so far as it helps explain why they are given new authority by followers. It has been argued that leaders do not so much have charisma 311

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as have it bestowed on them by the faith of their adherents, who do so because these leaders give the inarticulate or oppressed a voice.4 Wallace has made a distinction between those who invest a person or object with high-intensity charisma, and those who impute only low-intensity charisma to it. He writes, ‘Charisma responses at their highest levels of intensity . . . are altogether abnormal (exceptional) and not easily regulated.’ He suggests that contention between groups can be engendered when some impute high-intensity charisma to objects that are for others more traditional or mundane.5 Moreover, since charisma is a power and basis for authority that is imputed to leaders by a group, adherents’ conviction that these possess charisma can be spread to others, given human beings’ suggestibility.6 I believe that the spontaneity, abnormality and unregulated character of high-intensity charisma, and the refusal of some in the group to grant it, may help explain some key institutional developments in the BahÇ¥ faith. As a historian, I am wary, however, of seeing charisma only in ideal terms. I want to ask what its material consequences are. What sorts of resources does it translate into, and how? At the time of this writing, the history of the BahÇ¥ faith stretches back a little less than a century and a half. Even if we put aside its origins in recondite social and theological movements of Iranian Shiite Islam, such as the esoteric Shaykh¥ school and millennialist Babism, the development of its central institutions has been extremely complex. Despite the movement’s age and worldwide reach, Berger and Smith are the only ones to have attempted a detailed treatment from the point of view of historical sociology. Their achievements are impressive, but they focused on a handful of ‘motifs’ in the religion’s development. Moreover, they were hampered by not having access to the Arabic and Persian primary sources or training in Islamic law, so that many nuances remained unexplored. My purpose here is to examine in more detail the evolution of institutions and centres of power and charisma in the early BahÇ¥ faith (1863–1921). An examination of competition for charismatic authority by diverse power centres, along with a consideration of key textual primary sources in the light of their background in Islamic jurisprudence, will shed signiﬁcant new light on the history of institutional authority in the religion and the way successive leaders conceived of it. We will also give some consideration to how these ideas were received among followers.

Bahåallåh BahÇallÇh was born M¥rzÇ Óusayn Al¥ Nr¥ in 1817 in Tehran, the son of a high Iranian government ofﬁcial. He joined the millenarian BÇb¥ movement in 1844. When it was suppressed by the Qajar state and the Shiite clergy he was branded a heretic.7 In 1850 the leader of the movement, Al¥ Muªammad Sh¥rÇz¥, the ‘BÇb’, was executed, and as a result in 1852, a cabal of disgruntled BÇb¥s in the capital made an unsuccessful attempt to 312

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assassinate the Shah. Although later exonerated, BahÇallÇh was arrested in connection with the plot and imprisoned brieﬂy, then exiled to Baghdad in the Ottoman Empire. There, in 1863, because of a series of mystical revelatory experiences, he declared himself the promised one predicted by the BÇb. The Ottomans brought him to Istanbul and then Edirne, and he stayed in the latter city until 1868. In the Edirne period, he came into conﬂict with his younger half-brother M¥rzÇ YaªyÇ Subª-i Azal, who was widely recognized as the BÇb’s vicar and who rejected BahÇallÇh’s claim to be a new theophany. BahÇallÇh’s popularity grew so great among the BÇb¥s that he quickly eclipsed his rival, and most BÇb¥s became BahÇ¥s. BahÇallÇh was then exiled to Akka in Ottoman Syria, in the environs of which he lived until his death in 1892. He was considered a heretic by the Muslim powers of his day, and the new religion he created was obnoxious to many Muslims, who believed that theirs was the ﬁnal religion. He taught values of universal love, world unity, the unity of the religions, an improvement of the position of women and an end to war.8 BahÇallÇh began writing his key work of scripture, the Most Holy Book, late in his Edirne period, then continued its compilation in Akka, ﬁnishing all but the last verse by 1873.9 He mentions seven sources of authority in his religious community in his Most Holy Book and its supplements. The ﬁrst is his own person, as a prophet. The second is his writings. The third is his eldest son, AbbÇs, later known as Abd al-BahÇ, who was to be succeeded by BahÇallÇh’s second son (from a different wife), Muªammad Al¥. The fourth is the collectivity of his children, or the aghsån, who had status honour even though their institutional authority was limited. The ﬁfth (with regard to some principles) is ‘the people’ and their representatives, the parliaments of the world. The sixth is the learned (ulamå ) of his community. The seventh is the House of Justice (a consultative, parliamentary body at the apex of the religion). These various sources of authority are given different tasks and spheres, and none is seen as having authority over all matters within the religion. Given that we know that the Most Holy Book was written over several years, growing gradually, we should be able to trace the stages by which these various sources of authority were added. Then we can ask how he envisaged them functioning together to provide his new religion with ﬁrm institutional unity and continuity. BahÇallÇh makes clear the initial hierarchy of authority early the Most Holy Book: ‘Should differences arise among you over any matter, refer it to God while the sun still shines above the horizon of this heaven and, when it has set, refer to what has been sent down by Him. This, verily, is sufﬁcient unto the peoples of the world.’10 BahÇallÇh was, at ﬁrst, conﬁdent that his person (the ‘sun’ or the voice of God) and his revealed writings were sufﬁcient for the believers with regard to issues in hermeneutics or scriptural interpretation. After his death, his verses should be consulted. BahÇallÇh thus ﬁts Weber’s deﬁnition of a prophet as ‘a purely individual 313

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bearer of charisma who by virtue of his mission proclaims a religious doctrine or divine commandment’.11 BahÇallÇh was not from the ‘priestly’ stratum of the Shiite ulamå or clergy who had their charisma by virtue of their ofﬁce, but from the class of high government ofﬁcials, and his only claim to religious authority was his personal gifts (his ‘revelation’). The living prophet was the spiritual centre of the religion but also its administrative core, with his own small bureaucracy in Akka. He was supported not only by an Ottoman stipend but also by contributions from the believers in Iran. In Islam, a religious tax of one-ﬁfth (khums) on some sorts of proﬁt had been levied on believers. It largely lapsed in Sunnism, but Shiites tended to pay it to the leading Shiite jurist, and it was especially devoted to the Sayyids or putative descendants of the Prophet. BahÇallÇh ordained a very similar 19 per cent on net proﬁts of a certain amount, called the ‘right of God’ (ªuqq Allåh), which was paid to the prophet and his successors.12 This tying of wealth to charisma was to be crucial for the fortunes of the religion. Initially, BahÇallÇh does not appear to have envisaged a special role for his sons, even though the BÇb¥ and BahÇ¥ communities in Iran did. By the early to mid-1860s, some among those BÇb¥s in Qazvin who had a special attachment to BahÇallÇh also had developed a cult of his son M¥rzÇ Muªammad Al¥. The BahÇ¥ historian Mihd¥ Dahaj¥ referred to this belief as ghuluww or theological extremism, and in Shiism, ghuluww most often involves imputing divinity to someone. When one, ÓÇjj¥ Muªammad IbrÇh¥m Qazv¥n¥, wrote to BahÇallÇh inquiring after Muªammad Al¥’s station, BahÇallÇh replied: As for what you asked concerning my son, know that my sons are to follow the laws of God and not transgress what was issued in the Bayån, the book of God, the help in peril, the self-subsisting. They are to command themselves and the selves of the servants to perform good, and forbid the commission of evil, and bear witness to what God has testiﬁed to in his irrevocable and unassailable verses. They are to believe in him whom God shall make manifest on the day when he shall make an accounting of the eras of the ancients and the moderns . . . They are not to differ with regard to the cause of God nor depart from his law, the written, the preordained. Therefore, know that they are leaves and fruits of the tree of monotheism.13 This letter, Dahaj¥ says, was written before BahÇallÇh’s open proclamation of his messianic claims (which seems to have occurred around the winter of 1865–6). Not only were some BÇb¥s at that point already choosing sides between Subª-i Azal and BahÇallÇh, but some were even already imputing special charisma to one of BahÇallÇh’s sons. 314

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Even after his proclamation and the beginning of the Most Holy Book in Edirne, however, BahÇallÇh initially conﬁned authority to himself and his verses. By paragraph 42, however, he was acknowledging an institutional role for his sons. With regard to pious endowments (awqåf ), he wrote, ‘Endowments dedicated to charity revert to God, the Revealer of Signs. None has the right to dispose of them without leave from him who is the dawning-place of revelation. After Him, this authority shall pass to the Aghsån, and after them to the House of Justice – should it be established in the world by then.’14 As in Muslim society, BahÇallÇh expected BahÇ¥s to support religious and charitable institutions by endowing property for these purposes. Thus, religious ediﬁces were often supported by a grant (waqf ) of land, the agricultural proﬁts of which went to their upkeep. Supervisors were speciﬁed in the endowment deed, or appointed by the state.15 Should any dispute arise about the purposes to which their proceeds could be put or about the appointment of a supervisor, BahÇallÇh early on vested authority to decide it in himself. He envisaged that after his death, his children would, as a collectivity, exercise this ultimate authority over BahÇ¥ endowments. BahÇallÇh styled himself a tree or a root metaphorically, and so his son was a branch (sing. ghusn, pl. aghsån), and his daughter was a leaf (waraqa). He clearly was talking of his own sons and not of grandsons or more distant descendants, since otherwise his diction would make no sense. A line of aghsån could go on indeﬁnitely, and there would be no expectation that it would end shortly after the House of Justice was established. BahÇallÇh envisaged that, by the time his last son was dead, the ‘House of Justice’ or collective vicar that he also called for would have been established. BahÇallÇh spoke of the House of Justice at two levels. At the level of local communities, nine or more individuals were to ‘gather together’ as a sort of steering committee called the bayt al-adl (House of Justice). But somewhat confusingly, he also spoke of the House of Justice as a central institution at the international level.16 It is the latter, international House of Justice that would have ultimate responsibility for BahÇ¥ endowments. BahÇallÇh saw the institutional authority vested in his children as temporary, until such time as an over-arching House of Justice could be set up. He reinforces this impression by writing, ‘God has bidden you to show forth kindliness towards my kindred, but he has granted them no right to the property of others.’17 Here he was reacting against the Shiite Muslim practice of according a special place to Sayyids or the putative descendants of the Prophet Muªammad, including awarding them a portion of religious alms and taxes. Arjomand imputes to them a ‘charisma of lineage’.18 BahÇallÇh said that in his religion, claims on money and authority were vested in institutions in the long run, not in his relatives. The aghsån were a small kin-based status group, but they may be seen as the potential precursors of a sacred caste, as with Sayyids. 315

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They potentially had great charisma as a group, but BahÇallÇh, committed to a democratic and egalitarian vision, was concerned to curtail it in favour of other forces. BahÇallÇh found that he was able to exercise authority back in Iran by means of those converts from Shiism with a seminary training and knowledge of Arabic and Islamics, who were known as ‘the learned’ (ulamå ) or as the ‘missionaries’ (muballighn). A loyal corps of such individuals formed around him. They proved invaluable in helping convince Iranians to become BahÇ¥s. Some also acted as couriers, bringing BahÇallÇh’s letters or ‘tablets’ to Iranian communities. They included Muªammad ‘Nab¥l-i Azam’ Zarand¥, Muqaddas KhurasÇn¥, Muªammad ‘Nab¥l-i Akbar’ QÇin¥, ÅqÇ JamÇl Burjird¥, and many others. He addressed the more prominent as the ‘names of God’, bestowing on them an almost theophanic aura. Thus, in dozens of BahÇallÇh’s tablets, Burjird¥ was called ‘Ism AllÇh al-jamÇl’ (the name of God, the beautiful). He was deeply esteemed by the BahÇ¥s, and was given the honour of being allowed to reside at Akka for months at a time, associating with BahÇallÇh.19 In the 1880s, after the ranks of the ulamå had swelled, they gained enormous respect in the community. Since Iranians from a Shiite background were used to vesting religious leadership in such learned individuals (the forerunners of today’s ayatollahs), who were prized for their eloquence and powers of persuasion, it was natural for BahÇ¥s to now turn to BahÇ¥ ulamå . BahÇallÇh encouraged this development in the Most Holy Book: Happy are you, the learned ones in BahÇ. By the Lord! You are the billows of the most mighty ocean, the stars of the ﬁrmament of glory, the standards of triumph waving betwixt earth and heaven. You are the manifestations of steadfastness amidst men and the daysprings of divine utterance to all that dwell on earth. Well is it with him that turns unto you, and woe unto those who oppose you.20 Here, those believers are commended who ‘advance toward’ (aqbala ilå) the BahÇ¥ learned class, and those who oppose them (al-muri∂n) are condemned. BahÇallÇh clearly intended an Islamic-style ulamå corps to exercise substantial authority in the BahÇ¥ community, as it practically did in his lifetime. The converts from among the seminary-trained were well qualiﬁed to interpret the Arabic scriptures to the Iranian laity. Elsewhere BahÇallÇh wrote of members of the religious learned class who accepted his religion, that such a one is like the ‘eye’ of the world and says, ‘well is it with them who obey him’. He adds of such a believing BahÇ¥ cleric or divine, that his ‘blessedness’ is ‘great’ and that ‘He, in truth, is numbered with the learned.’ He gives a BahÇ¥ member of the learned stratum a remarkably high status, saying: 316

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The inmates of Paradise seek the blessing of his breath, and his lamp sheds its radiance over all who are in heaven and on earth. He, verily, is numbered with the inheritors of the Prophets. He that beholds him hath, verily, beheld the True One, and he that turns towards him has, verily, turned towards God, the Almighty, the All-Wise.21 The BahÇ¥ ulamå are thus ‘the inheritors of the Prophets’ (warathat alanbiyå ), a phrase also applied by some Muslim thinkers to the ulamå .22 They are even in a sense paths to God himself. As Smith notes, ‘In Iran at this time leading BahÇ¥ teachers (muballighs), often from clerical backgrounds (retaining the title mullå) while exercising an authority over the rank and ﬁle, were very deﬁnitely under the authority of Akka and much “closer” to the mass of their co-religionists than had been their BÇb¥ predecessors.’23 The BahÇ¥ ulamå also were suited to some speciﬁc institutional roles, such as the religious court judges (qå∂¥) that BahÇallÇh envisaged. Toward the end of his life, BahÇallÇh spoke of four of the BahÇ¥ ulamå as ‘hands of the cause of God’, though the phrase was at that time a mere honoriﬁc and it seems unlikely that he meant to create an institution.24 Weber might have called the ulamå ‘priests’, but in Islamicate religions, as in Judaism, this word is not apt. The ulamå were simply learned men. They might recite the prayer for the dead at funerals and teach informal classes on scripture. They had their own charisma, derived not from their lineage (as with the aghsån) or from personal gifts (as with the prophet) but from their long study and technical mastery of the languages of revelation and their understanding of the ethical and theological implications of the sacred texts.25 Whereas the Shiite ulamå put their charisma of ofﬁce to use in opposing BahÇallÇh’s prophetic charisma, the BahÇ¥ ulamå were willing to subordinate themselves to him and to put their scholastic and ethical talents at the disposal of his religion. Since BahÇallÇh’s religion had a strong emphasis on promoting world civilization, there are some areas in which authority over implementation of his principles actually lay, not with BahÇ¥ authorities, but with the people and their representatives. He was committed to a separation of religion and state, and renounced any theocratic claims on the civil government by himself or his religion, saying he only desired the hearts of men. He had commended Queen Victoria for placing ‘the reins of authority’ in the ‘hands of the people’ in his apostrophe to her of about 1869 (probably a reference to the Reform Act of 1867, which greatly expanded the franchise).26 In the Most Holy Book he addressed Tehran, saying ‘before long will the state of affairs within you be changed, and the reins of power fall into the hands of the people’.27 He laid the duty to promote some of the social reforms he championed on the world’s parliaments. He wrote, near the end of the Most Holy Book, ‘O members of parliaments 317

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throughout the world! Select a single language for the use of all on earth . . . this will be the cause of unity, could you but comprehend it, and the greatest instrument for promoting harmony and civilization (tamaddun).’28 In so doing, BahÇallÇh recognized that some of his principles and laws, having a social character, could only be implemented by civil legislatures, and relinquished authority over such implementation to the people and their representatives. He held that BahÇ¥ institutions had a stronger and more speciﬁc duty to work for such legislation. Even with regard to religious wisdom, he recognized a certain charisma residing in the body of the believers. He wrote to a questioner that he should cleanse himself of misconceptions ‘so that you yourself will be able to give solid and perfect answers to the questions you posed’, for ‘in this most great dispensation all must manifest the branches of learning and wise aphorisms’. For all things in these days of revelation ‘bear to the extent of their own abilities the divine emanations (fuy∂åt-i rabbåniyyih)’.29 BahÇallÇh thus made all believers potentially bearers of divine inspiration to the extent that they could learn to answer their own spiritual questions, though he exalted scriptural knowledge above all. Still, there is something almost redolent of Emerson’s Transcendentalism in this passage. BahÇallÇh’s prophetic charisma was, then, remarkably lacking in jealousy, and he was willing to coexist with the charisma of democratic institutions and the people they represented.30 He even presented an egalitarian vision of popular sovereignty with regard to civil governance, which extended to respect for the spiritual answers ordinary believers were able to offer. Let us turn now to issues in the succession to the prophet. Over time, BahÇallÇh appears to have reconsidered his initial conviction that his revealed scripture would be sufﬁcient as a bonding agent for his community after his death. The ambiguity of the written word was borne in on him by the questions and disputes that his verses often provoked back in the Iranian BahÇ¥ community, from which he was cut off by hundreds of miles. Moreover, any assurance he had about his own long-term survival was withdrawn by the Ottoman state when it abruptly announced in spring of 1868 that he would be exiled to the fortress in the pestilential Levantine port city of Akka. In addition, Abd al-BahÇ took a leading role as intermediary between his father and the outside world while they were in the fortress and upon their release into the city in 1870, demonstrating his leadership abilities. By 1870 he was 26, and by the time the Most Holy Book was completed in 1873 he was 29, old enough to assume heavy responsibilities. Some responsibilities also were given over time, as well, to M¥rzÇ Muªammad Al¥, BahÇallÇh’s second son, from a different wife. We therefore see that later in the Most Holy Book, as it grew in (presumably) the early Akka period, BahÇallÇh went beyond his earlier emphasis on his person and his writings. In paragraph 121 he wrote, ‘When the ocean of my presence has ebbed and the book of my revelation is ended, turn your faces toward him whom God purposed, who has branched from 318

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this Ancient Root.’31 This emphasis on a living successor is expanded in paragraph 174: ‘O people of the world! When the mystic dove will have winged its ﬂight from its sanctuary of praise and sought its far-off goal, its hidden habitation, refer whatsoever you understand not in the Book to him who has branched from this mighty stock.’ This second, later passage is more explicit about the function of his successor as an expounder of the meaning of BahÇallÇh’s writings. Clearly, BahÇallÇh (‘the mystic dove’) was appointing one of his sons as the one to whom BahÇ¥s should ‘turn’ after his death. The institution of a living individual successor, perhaps analogous to the imam in Shiite Islam or the sajjåda-nish¥n in Suﬁsm, which was missing from the ﬁrst half of the Most Holy Book, is thus speciﬁed in the second half. If we take a ‘strict constructionist’ approach to these passages, his successor had the narrow, speciﬁc function of interpretation of what was obscure. There is no suggestion that the interpreter could in any way abrogate any of BahÇallÇh’s verses, or legislate on his own account, and institutional authority such as supervision of pious endowments had been reserved to the entire collectivity of BahÇallÇh’s sons. The Most Holy Book was not clear about which of BahÇallÇh’s sons was being pointed to as the authorized interpreter of scripture. The system of the inheritance of authority prevalent in the Middle East after the Turkic and Mongol inﬂux of the medieval period allowed it to pass to any close male relative of the previous incumbent. Thus, a ruler could be succeeded by a brother, uncle or by any of his sons. This system, common in Central Asia, had the advantage of allowing the most capable senior male in the immediate family of the clan leader to become the new ruler and shunt aside a weak or incompetent heir apparent. It had the disadvantage, however, of ensuring that the death of a leader initiated a free-for-all among his sons, and often among his brothers and cousins, from which the new ruler would emerge. Such wars of succession had often blighted Ottoman, Mughal, Safavid and Qajar history. A reader of the Most Holy Book in the Middle East when it was released in the mid1870s would not have been able to be sure of the identity of the ‘branch’. BahÇallÇh greatly praised his eldest son, AbbÇs.32 In his will and testament, presumably of the late 1880s but not read publicly until his death in 1892, he explicitly anointed AbbÇs, known as the ‘most great branch’ and later as Abd al-BahÇ, as his successor. He wrote, ‘The Will of the divine testator is this: It is incumbent upon the Aghsån, the Afnån and my kindred to turn, one and all, their faces towards the Most Mighty Branch.’33 (The Afnån are the descendants of the BÇb, the prophet taken by BahÇ¥s as their precursor.) BahÇallÇh refers back to the verse of the Most Holy Book, revealing that Abd al-BahÇ was the referent. He goes on to say that ‘God has ordained the station of the Greater Branch [Muªammad-Al¥] to be beneath that of the Most Great Branch [Abd al-BahÇ] . . . We have chosen “the Greater” after ‘the Most Great . . .’34 319

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That is, BahÇallÇh made it clear in his will that Abd al-BahÇ (d.1921) would be his immediate successor, followed by Muªammad Al¥, who could be expected to outlive his older brother (in fact he died in 1938). He repeated his injunction that his descendants, the aghsån, had no claim on the property of the people. But he did ask his followers to show respect for them, as well as for the family of the BÇb (the ‘Afnån’ or ‘twigs’) and members of BahÇallÇh’s household. He thus seems to separate out honour and authority. Among individual family members, only Abd al-BahÇ had interpretive authority after BahÇallÇh’s death. After his passing it would be exercised by his younger brother, Muªammad Al¥. In these various ‘constitutional’ documents, BahÇallÇh was somewhat vague about the nature of the authority he was passing on to Abd al-BahÇ, and this vagueness led to disputes later on. Still, his charisma would be over-determined, deriving from several sources. He had the charisma of designation by the Prophet, as well as the charisma of lineage as the Prophet’s son.35 In addition, he would enjoy the charisma of ofﬁce as the ﬁrst incumbent in the position of authoritative interpreter.36 BahÇallÇh expected that by the time the last of his own sons had died, an international House of Justice would have been established. Its purview would be law and administration. In the Muslim seminary syllabus, religious law consisted of three branches. The ﬁrst was ritual and ethical law (ibådåt). The second was laws governing commerce and other contractual interactions among believers (muåmalåt). The third consisted of those regulations (al-siyåsa al-shariyya) made by governing authorities to cover areas that were not explicitly addressed by scripture. BahÇallÇh wrote in the Eighth Effulgence (Ishråqåt) in the mid-1880s: This passage from the most high pen, which is being written at this moment, is considered part of the Most Holy Book. The affairs of this religious community (millat) are dependent on the men of the divine House of Justice. They are the trusted ones of God among his servants and the dawning-places of the cause in his lands . . . Because every day a new matter arises and at every moment some wisdom is required, therefore affairs have been remanded to the House of Justice so that they might implement whatever is beneﬁcial [ma‚laªat] at that time. Those souls who arise to serve the cause for the sake of God are recipients of invisible, divine inspiration. Obedience is incumbent upon all. All administrative regulations [umr-i siyåsiyya] are the purview of the House of Justice. Religious duties (ibådåt) are to be fulﬁlled in accordance with what was revealed in the book.37 In Islamic jurisprudence, ma‚laªat or social beneﬁt was a principle that allowed jurists to admit any legal practice or regulation that beneﬁted the Muslim community, even if it was not explicitly discussed in scripture, as 320

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long as it did not actively contradict the sacred law. BahÇallÇh was here saying that the making of such beneﬁcial regulations for the BahÇ¥ millet (religious community) is the purview of the House of Justice. He made clear that he was speaking of the branches of jurisprudence by insisting that the House of Justice has no authority to change, abrogate or limit scriptural injunctions, which fall under the rubric of ‘religious duties’ (ibådåt). In Islamic law, ibådåt were considered to be those laws affecting what human beings owe to God. They encompassed not only rituals like prayer and fasting, but also pilgrimage and in some accounts even marriage, oath-taking and funerals. They are therefore not really just ‘matters of worship’ but all the revealed laws in scripture that involve human beings in a pious relationship with God. These, the House of Justice could not touch.38 BahÇallÇh did not award the House of Justice any authority to decide the meaning of verses that had remained unclear to the community, a function already assigned serially to his sons. The House of Justice was to be a purely regulatory institution that issued ordinances addressing new situations or practices that arose after, and were not addressed by, the scriptures themselves. Its authority was supposed to be rational-legal in nature, and it possessed only the charisma of ofﬁce, not the personal charisma of the Prophet. The relationship of the seven sources of authority described by BahÇallÇh was not entirely clear. For as long as he lived, he was the ﬁnal court of appeal in any disputes that arose. But after his death, the other six principles could easily come into conﬂict. What if the interpreter disagreed with the House of Justice about whether a verse of scripture allowed the latter to pass a new regulation on some issue? What if the son serving as interpreter differed with his brothers among the aghsån about some issue in endowment administration? What if the BahÇ¥ ulamå disagreed with or came into conﬂict with the houses of justice, or with the authorized interpreter? The same sort of language was used of all these. Believers should ‘turn to’ the interpreter, should ‘obey’ the House of Justice, and should refrain from ‘opposing’ the ulamå . One could also imagine conﬂicts between the civil parliaments, commanded to implement some BahÇ¥ principles, and the religious houses of justice. Again, BahÇallÇh had required obedience to both civil governments and his religious institutions. To be fair, there are enough statements in his writings that civil government must always be deferred to, that we may conclude he would have wanted the houses of justice to bow to civil law under most circumstances. His proliferation of sources of authority might hold the promise of forestalling despotism, as his great-grandson Shoghi Effendi seems to have argued. The speciﬁc spheres of authority awarded to the interpreter, the House of Justice, the ulamå , and the common people and their representatives implied a separation of powers and a variety of power centres. Nor can the normative force of his scriptural commands be discounted, as a ﬁfth, ‘constitutional’, source of authority conditioning 321

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and constraining the others. Still, he never explicitly laid out a hierarchy of authority that would regulate the inevitable competition among different sorts of charismatic authority. Virtually all of the conﬂicts I just mentioned as hypotheticals actually broke out after BahÇallÇh’s death, and even in his own lifetime there were harbingers of discord. For instance, when in 1878 some elders of the Tehran BahÇ¥ community decided to act on the instruction of the Most Holy Book and establish a local House of Justice, they were opposed in this by the great BahÇ¥ religious scholar ÅqÇ JamÇl Burjird¥. He is said to have argued that it was not yet the time for such institutions to be set up. When offered a seat on it, he declined, saying he could only accept if he was made chairman and each of his votes was worth six of the other members. He would have been the only member of the BahÇ¥ ulamå on the body, which was dominated by merchants and other lay leaders, and found it difﬁcult to be reduced to merely one of nine equal administrators. The prevailing school of Shiite Islam held that lay believers were required to offer blind obedience or taql¥d to trained jurisprudents such as Burjird¥, and they were used to a great deal of deference from those lacking their specialized training. BahÇallÇh himself condemned the practice of blind obedience and put great stock in democratic consultation, which would appear to give the greater authority to the House of Justice. Yet he had commanded that BahÇ¥s ‘advance toward’ and not oppose the learned. He intervened in this crisis to ask Burjird¥ to go to Mosul in what is now Iraq, to spread the religion there, thus removing him from Tehran and allowing the House of Justice to be established without making anyone lose face.39 In some senses, this action did favour the House of Justice over the ulamå , or at least refuted the suggestion that it was too soon to set up such an institution or that its members might be overruled by the seminary-educated. The charisma of the local assembly or House of Justice, based on election and focused on administration, conﬂicted with the ‘priestly’ charisma of the BahÇ¥ learned. The legitimacy of the bourgeois lay leadership was rooted in membership of a divinely-created council, whereas that of the ulamå derived from their technical training and reasoning abilities. There appears to have been no explicit statement of principle that might settle or forestall such conﬂicts in the future. BahÇallÇh left the scene in May 1892, leaving his son Abd al-BahÇ in charge of his new religion.

Abd al-Bahå In his earlier writings, Abd al-BahÇ was particularly interested in the relationship of religious institutions to the civil state. In his Secret of Divine Civilization, written in 1875, he considered the civil state and argued for reforms in the government (ªukmat) or ‘executive force’. He expressed the hope that the Iranian cabinet would be characterized by i‚mat, a word 322

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that in Shiism meant something like ‘infallibility’, but which here seems to mean ‘protected by God from error’.40 He wanted to add to the government a civil legislature elected by the will of the people.41 He also argued that the learned (the clergy but also modern intellectuals) were responsible for jurisprudence (tashr¥ ) concerning the revealed law, constituting the ‘jurisprudential faculty’ (quviyyih-yi tashr¥ iyyih) for society. He said that they should form a ‘Council on Learning’ (Marzieh Gail’s translation suggests that he was talking here about a civil parliament, or the legislative branch, but this is an error rooted in linguistic anachronism, as Sen McGlinn has demonstrated; tashr¥ later came to mean civil legislation, which misled her).42 Abd al-BahÇ complained about the Shiite judiciary, consisting of ulamå who served as jurists, who gave rulings based on their individual, idiosyncratic legal reasoning, and who often contradicted one another. In nineteenth-century Iran, as in the Muslim world more generally, the courts were religious in nature, and the civil state appointed ulamå to serve as judges or qå∂¥s. Unlike Anglo-Saxon law, Shiite Islamic law gave little place to the notion of precedent, and it was not codiﬁed. Thus, if plaintiffs or defendants did not like a ruling, they could take it to another clerical jurisprudent in hopes of achieving a different result. In Shiite jurisprudence, it was even possible for the same judge to rethink his legal reasoning and reverse himself. Abd alBahÇ lamented that under these circumstances few court cases achieved a deﬁnitive result, with bad consequences for society. He said that the ulamå and experts in Islamic law should take the lead in ﬁnding a way to reform procedure.43 In the Ottoman empire, a similar council codiﬁed Sunni law into the Mecelle, in force 1869–1926, and this is probably the model for Abd al-BahÇ’s suggestion.44 Abd al-BahÇ was clearer about the relationship of the civil state to religious institutions in his ﬁrst major work to be published after BahÇallÇh’s death, his Treatise on Leadership.45 There he explained that leadership is of two sorts, worldly and spiritual. Spiritual leaders ‘have no relationship to corporeal concerns, affairs of political leadership, or worldly matters’. He added, ‘These latter souls have nothing to do with affairs of civil leadership, nor do they seek to interfere in them. Thus, in this most great cycle of the maturity and adulthood of the world, this matter has been put into the text of the divine Book as one might put lead into the structure of a building.’ He was emphatic that the ‘function of the religious leaders’ is only to attend to spiritual matters, and that whenever such leaders have ‘intervened in the world of political leadership’, it has resulted in disaster. He also saw law as of two sorts, revealed and civil. Civil law, as in Europe, is constantly being altered and repealed and remains imperfect. Revealed law reﬂects the will of God. They co-exist like ‘two radiant stars’, one illuminating the spirit and the other the earth. Both are necessary, and ‘disregard for the one is a betrayal of the other’. In the Muslim 323

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world, religious law drawn from the QurÇn and the sayings of the Prophet formed the basis for most personal status law and even some criminal and commercial law. Civil law was often derived from custom or from government regulation or royal decree. In the nineteenth-century Middle East, even religious law was administered by the state, which appointed religious judges, as noted above. Abd al-BahÇ thus remarked that revealed law ‘requires an agency that will implement it’, and identiﬁes this patron as ‘the ediﬁce of the state’. Ofﬁcials of the civil state were thus expected to facilitate the implementation of religious law, and religious authorities are expected to relinquish any political role in return. ‘These souls are the authorities in establishing the purport of divine laws, not with regard to their implementation.’ This mutual dependency creates a situation in which lay political leaders might need to be instructed as to the meaning of revealed law so that they can ensure it is applied correctly. This is the only sort of role that the religious leaders can legitimately perform with regard to the civil government: whenever the government questions them about the exigencies of the revealed law and the reality of the divine ordinances affecting both general and speciﬁc issues, they must communicate the conclusions to which their jurisprudential reasoning has led them about the commands of God, and that which is in accord with the revealed law. They are not to volunteer such information, but should respond if the state requests it. In a key letter written around 1899, Abd al-BahÇ explained in greater detail the functioning of BahÇ¥ religious law.46 He responded to an inquirer who appears to have been concerned about the notion of putting the House of Justice ‘in charge of important ordinances’. The implication is that the questioner feared that this step would lead to an oppressive theocracy. Abd al-BahÇ again insisted, as he had in the Treatise on Leadership, that the BahÇ¥ ‘cycle’ was ‘solely spiritual’ and ‘has no connection at all to physical, temporal [mulk¥] or worldly [nåst¥] matters’. He compared it in this regard to Christianity. His questioner was no doubt aware of the stereotype about Christianity being compatible with a separation of religion and state, unlike Islam, and Abd al-BahÇ was eager to associate the BahÇ¥ faith with the former. He did, however, allow a comparison with Islam, in so far as its adherents based their law on the revealed commandments of the QurÇn. He explained that punishments for infractions in Islamic law were of two sorts. The ﬁrst, ªadd, consists of those punishments explicitly stated in the text of scripture (scholars have pointed out that these are few indeed, and Abd al-BahÇ concurs that only a thousandth part of Islamic law is explicit in the QurÇn). The second were derived from general principles stated in the scripture, by jurisprudents. 324

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In his History of Islamic Law, Coulson notes of criminal law that aside from homicide, ‘the doctrine was largely conﬁned to the exposition of six speciﬁc offences’. These were illicit sex, slander about the latter, theft, wine bibbing, armed robbery and apostasy. In these, ‘the notion of man’s obligations towards God predominated and . . . because God himself had “deﬁned” the punishments therefore, were known as the ªadd (pl. ªudd) offences’.47 Clearly, six or seven laws derived from scripture, the ªudd, were insufﬁcient to the needs of medieval Muslim government. Coulson notes that the jurists from the eleventh century therefore put in the hands of the ruler the authority to ‘take such steps as he saw ﬁt to implement and supplement the principles established by the religious law. This system of government was known as “government in accordance with the revealed law” (siyåsa shariyyah).’48 It might better be translated as ‘administrative policy that is in accord with the revealed law’. That is, medieval Muslim jurists saw only revealed law as law, whereas what governments or other community authorities decreed was mere regulations, which were licit only if they did not contradict revealed law or its basic principles. Coulson adds that the sovereign had the authority to determine what behaviour constituted an offence and to set the punishment for it. ‘Such discretionary punishment is known as taz¥r or “deterrence”, since its purpose is to “deter” the offender himself or others from similar conduct.’49 Abd al-BahÇ observed that this system was the ‘pivot’ of ‘administrative law’ (siyåsat) in Islam. He also referred to taz¥r (he explicitly employs this term) or derived law in the BahÇ¥ faith as ‘personal status’ or ‘civil’ (madan¥) law. He gave as an example the law of marriage, which is explicitly prescribed in the BahÇ¥ scriptures. He noted, however, that not all its conditions are treated in the Most Holy Book, for instance the issue of whether marriage to cousins is permitted (it is in Islam but not in Christianity). He pointed out that in Christianity, as well, the scripture is silent on this matter, but early Christian councils forbade cousin marriage. The House of Justice thus has the authority to derive (istinbå†) religious law from scriptural principles in areas not explicitly treated by the sacred text itself. Istinbå† (discovery, extraction, derivation) is the term favoured by early Shiite authorities for the process whereby effort is applied to derive the law from the sources (scripture, sayings of the prophet, consensus of jurists and reason). It is also often called ijtihåd (literally, ‘effort’) and its practitioners ‘mujtahids’ or jurisprudents. Some early Shiite thinkers disliked the word ijtihåd, however, because they associated it with undisciplined opinion (ray). They insisted that the task was simply to ﬁnd out (istinbå†) what the law was in any particular case.50 In Sunni Islam, the same process was usually referred to as iftå or the issuing of a legal ruling after engaging in jurisprudential reasoning. Jurists engaged in two distinct forms of jurisprudence, advisory and practical. Advisory rulings (fatwås) were issued by muft¥s or mujtahids and tended to include the jurist’s reasoning and explicit citation of sources, and often 325

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they had a private or unenforceable character, as considered advice.51 As noted above, practical rulings were issued by qå∂¥s appointed as court judges by the state, and their decrees had the force of law and the backing of state enforcement.52 This authority to engage in jurisprudential reasoning so as to ﬁnd the law, Abd al-BahÇ notes, was enjoyed in Shiite Islam by individual clerical jurisprudents, but this qå∂¥ justice suffered from inconsistencies. Islamic law had little sense of precedent, being a jurist’s law, and the jurisprudent was bound to go where his sources, reasoning and conscience took him. On big issues he was often bound by the consensus of the great jurists, but there were many issues on which there was legitimate disagreement and there were novel issues not clearly covered by consensus. Thus, the ruling of one judge in nineteenth-century Iran might differ greatly from a ruling on the same issue by another judge in another place. Similar differences existed among the BahÇ¥ ulamå to whom most local communities looked to resolve local issues. The House of Justice, in contrast, was in a position to ensure the implementation of a uniform religious code. It also would have the prerogative of repealing its own regulations or reversing its earlier judgments. In this way, Abd al-BahÇ asserted, BahÇ¥ law can remain up to date and appropriate to the times in a way impossible for previous systems of revealed law such as Judaism and Islam. This passage further clariﬁes the meaning of BahÇallÇh’s statements in the Eighth Effulgence, where he put the House of Justice in charge of umr-i siyåsiyya for his millet, but said they could not alter ibådåt (revealed duties). Abd al-BahÇ made it clear that here siyåsat means religious administrative law, including punishments for infractions not mentioned in scripture. It is also clear that while he considered religious law and secular law as separate and distinct, he did see some areas of overlap, as with ‘civil’ personal status laws such as those concerning marriage. In the Ottoman state of his own time, and in contemporary Middle Eastern states, it was common for the civil government to recognize religious communities as corporate bodies and to relinquish to the religious authorities jurisdiction over those parts of personal status law that were distinctive in that tradition. In Lebanon, Muslim qå∂¥s were appointed by the government to preside over second and third marriages for Muslim men whereas Christian priests recognized for this purpose by the state enforced monogamy and other aspects of canon law on Maronite Catholics, a recognized millet.53 Abd al-BahÇ expected a similar situation to obtain with regard to the BahÇ¥ community, with the civil government recognizing BahÇ¥ personal status law. This passage also clearly subordinates the BahÇ¥ ulamå , many of whom acted as informal judicial authorities for local BahÇ¥ communities, to the houses of justice. In his Will and Testament, written in parts between 1901 and 1908, Abd al-BahÇ repeated much of what he said in the 1899 letter and elaborated some points.54 He explained that the ‘general’ (umm¥) House of 326

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Justice should be elected from east and west in accordance with Western electoral norms, such as prevailed in England.55 Elsewhere in the same document, he created the institution of the ‘secondary’ houses of justice (we would now say ‘national spiritual assemblies’), and said that they should elect the ‘general’ House of Justice.56 There appears to be a contradiction between the passage suggesting direct election of the members, just as members of parliament stand for election, and that which envisages indirect election by the national houses of justice. The ‘general’ House of Justice would have the authority to ‘derive laws concerning mutual obligations [muåmalåt] that are not stated explicitly in scripture and also to abrogate such ordinances’.57 They were to meet in a single gathering and confer regarding legal matters that were the subjects of dispute, or were obscure, along with matters not explicitly covered by scripture. Their regulations would have the same authority, and be as incumbent on believers, as revealed law. Implicitly comparing this body to the position of the chief Shiite cleric, he called it the marja of all affairs. In Shiite Islam, the most learned and upright clerical jurisprudent in each era gained recognition from the laity as a source of authority who had to be obeyed and emulated (taql¥d). Such a leading cleric was called a ‘source’ for ‘emulation’ or marja al-taql¥d.58 Applying the term to the House of Justice underlines its position as the ultimate juridical authority in the BahÇ¥ religion.59 He was at pains to insist, as he had in earlier works, that the civil government remained the centre of executive power (including, as we have seen, civil legislation), and that the BahÇ¥ House of Justice only had authority over religious jurisprudence and regulations.60 As in his other works, he instructed the BahÇ¥s as a religious community with a set of religious institutions not to intervene in matters of secular politics ‘without permission’.61 This phrase recalls the passage in the Treatise on Leadership where he says religious leaders should refrain from interfering in governmental affairs unless the state actively inquired from them the purport of religious laws (e.g. those affecting personal status). On the other hand, he did hope that the civil government would be a supporter (mu¥n) of religious law, just as religious legislation should support the government.62 BahÇallÇh’s somewhat vague instruction that when the believers disagreed about the meaning of his verses, they should ‘turn to’ Abd alBahÇ, and then after his death to Muªammad Al¥, had left unanswered a number of questions. If Muªammad Al¥ knew the real meaning of BahÇallÇh’s verses after Abd al-BahÇ’s death, did he not know them before? What if he disagreed with Abd al-BahÇ during the latter’s lifetime? Who could adjudicate a dispute between these two? The full story of the dispute that developed between the brothers has not been reconstructed by scholars. The most extensive secondary account published in English is very partisan, somewhat hazy, and not well documented.63 The second son was not without honour, and we have already seen that some BahÇ¥s in Iran developed a cult of personality around him. He had been 327

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entrusted by BahÇallÇh with the important task of carrying the Most Holy Book and other works of scripture to Bombay in about 1889, so that they could be printed by the Afnån merchant clan that had an outpost there. BahÇallÇh wrote of M¥rzÇ Muªammad Al¥ on that occasion, ‘The greater branch set out a little while before to implement this plan. We beseech God to aid him in helping His cause and exalting His word and His servants, and to enable him to cleanse hearts and purify souls.’64 He was held in high regard by many BahÇ¥s, and some bowed to him when they came into his presence. M¥rzÇ Muªammad Al¥ saw his older halfbrother, Abd al-BahÇ, as merely a ﬁrst among equals among BahÇallÇh’s children, and would not admit that he received inspiration from God. His partisans charged that Abd al-BahÇ claimed to be a prophet in his own right, and in response quoted the Most Holy Book to the effect that ‘whoso lays claim to a revelation direct from God before the expiration of a full thousand years is assuredly a lying impostor’.65 M¥rzÇ Muªammad Al¥ and the other brothers also took the verse in the Most Holy Book about the collectivity of the aghsån being in charge of pious endowments as a signal that they should make joint decisions about money and administration.66 In Iran, as well, the great BahÇ¥ scholar ÅqÇ JamÇl Burjird¥ (d.1907) initially insisted that the verses of scripture were sufﬁcient as a leader. On hearing of BahÇallÇh’s death he had hastened to Akka and met with both Abd al-BahÇ and his half-brothers. His critics claim that he pressed his policies while there, but received no encouragement from Abd al-BahÇ, and so he met repeatedly with M¥rzÇ Muªammad Al¥ and his brothers, becoming fast friends with them. He then returned to Tehran.67 Abd al-BahÇ’s partisans among the powerful BahÇ¥ ulamå corps included MullÇ Al¥ Akbar Shahm¥rzÇd¥, Muªammad Taq¥ Ibn Abhar and Al¥ Muªammad VarqÇ. They, too, visited Abd al-BahÇ in 1892, and returned to the capital. It was decided that they should form a consultative body termed the ‘Council of the Hands of the Cause’ in Tehran, and they sought to bring Burjird¥ over by including him on it. This committee was probably intended to revive the Tehran local spiritual assembly or House of Justice. It is said that they bent over backward to make Burjird¥ happy, appointing him its chairman and counting his vote as worth two of everyone else’s. Burjird¥ developed a feud with Ibn Abhar, however, attacking him at a gathering, after which his followers also calumniated his rival. As a result, the BahÇ¥ notables stopped talking to him for a while in public, though some visited him privately. An attempt was made at reconciliation, which involved Ibn Abhar forgiving the earlier attacks, and Burjird¥ had permission to attend the Naw Rz celebrations (probably of 1893 or 1894). Large numbers of ordinary BahÇ¥s came there, just in order to see him. He was very popular throughout northern Iran at the time. He does not, however, appear to have accepted what he saw as the excessive adoration others bestowed on Abd al-BahÇ.68 328

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Abd al-BahÇ saw himself not as the ﬁrst among equals subject to joint decision-making about administrative matters but as the independent head of the religion to whom all BahÇ¥s owed obedience, including his own brothers. Rather than simply being a court of last instance on the interpretation of disputed scripture verses, he saw himself as recipient of divine inspiration (ilhåm) in his own right. It should be stressed, however, that Abd al-BahÇ, did not in fact claim ‘revelation’ (waªy). In Islamic thought, only prophets received revelations, but Suﬁ mystics and other holy men were frequently thought to receive inspiration. His detractors asserted that he claimed to be ‘sinless’ or ‘infallible’ (ma‚m), in contravention of BahÇallÇh’s own statement that only the prophet was characterized by such sinlessness.69 In fact, Abd al-BahÇ orally denied being personally sinless, saying ‘I do not make a claim of infallibility (ma‚miyyat). I am the ﬁrst of sinners (avval-i gunåhkår). But the Blessed Beauty favoured me with a gift (mawhibat¥). Whatever I say, it is that (har chih bigyam, hamån ast).’70 Elsewhere, however, he did claim ‘conferred’ sinlessness by virtue of his appointment as the interpreter of the verses.71 While M¥rzÇ Muªammad Al¥ and his partisans dwelt on what they saw as illicit claims to infallibility on Abd al-BahÇ’s part, the naked ambition of M¥rzÇ Muªammad Al¥ himself to replace his elder brother prematurely, for all the world like a Turco-Mongol prince in waiting, cannot be ignored. One of his own full brothers, who defected brieﬂy to Abd al-BahÇ, accused M¥rzÇ Muªammad Al¥ of attempting to tamper with one of BahÇallÇh’s letters so as to weaken his brother’s claims to authority, of intriguing with the Ottoman authorities against Abd al-BahÇ, and of being consumed by jealousy.72 The northwestern province of Azerbaijan in Iran was a major arena for the unfolding conﬂict.73 There, in 1895–6, Burjird¥ made two inﬂuential converts to his minimalist view of Abd al-BahÇ’s authority, M¥rzÇ Khal¥l Kh¥ and a M¥rzÇ Jal¥l. The Tabriz local assembly (maªﬁl-i rawªån¥ – at that time probably just a group of community elders) discovered his activities and severely threatened him. He wrote to Abd al-BahÇ, saying he had been wronged, and asking for monetary support so that he could continue his missionary journeys. Abd al-BahÇ wrote him a letter to show the local BahÇ¥s, saying that whatever monetary support they gave him would be accounted part of their contribution to their BahÇ¥ religious taxes (ªuqq Allåh). Burjird¥ became popular among the BahÇ¥s of Azerbaijan after that, but then returned to Tehran. M¥rzÇ Jal¥l continued to preach minimalism in the succession. In 1314/1896–7, a letter came from M¥rzÇ Muªammad Al¥ to a number of Azerbaijani BahÇ¥s, including M¥rzÇ Khal¥l Kh¥ of Tabriz. He, an assistant to local American Christian missionaries, was convinced by the arguments of Abd al-BahÇ’s brothers and became an ally of M¥rzÇ Jal¥l. M¥rzÇ Khal¥l sent out letters claiming that all the BahÇ¥s in Tabriz were ‘unitarians’ (leaning towards M¥rzÇ Muªammad Al¥) and only four were strong partisans of Abd al-BahÇ. 329

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This assertion seems a gross exaggeration, however. At Abd al-BahÇ’s request the BahÇ¥ scholar Muªammad Taq¥ Ibn Abhar came to Tabriz to support his cause. At that time, M¥rzÇ Jal¥l was not being shunned, and was being supported by the BahÇ¥ Aªmadaf merchant clan. Ibn Abhar conferred behind the scenes with BahÇ¥ notables, depicting M¥rzÇ Jal¥l as a schismatic, and the Aªmadafs, with whom he was staying, conspired to keep him from going out and counter-acting these initiatives. Ibn Abhar then called a meeting at the house of Colonel Sh¥rzÇd KhÇn where he appeared to speak for tolerance: Without any doubt, by the text of the Most Holy Book, we must turn to the Most Great Branch [Abd al-BahÇ]. Some imagine and even say that the meaning of ‘turn to’ is to look to him for the management of affairs, not as the holder of a spiritual station. We say that since none of us differ about the Most Holy Book or BahÇallÇh’s Book of My Will or the basic phrase, ‘turn to’, it is more appropriate for us to tolerate differences in the levels of spiritual insight among individual believers, and to leave the judgment of consciences to God. We must lay upon ourselves the duty and responsibility to avoid disputes and strife in the cause of God.74 On hearing this speech, which he apparently thought both condescending and wrong-headed, M¥rzÇ Jal¥l let some words escape his lips, complaining that ÅqÇ JamÇl Burjird¥ had sacriﬁced a great deal for the faith but was not being showed respect by the BahÇ¥s in Tehran (a jab at Ibn Abhar). At a subsequent meeting, Ibn Abhar read some of the verses from BahÇallÇh’s writings that bestowed authority on Abd al-BahÇ, and interpreted them in maximalist fashion. He asked if any other interpretation were possible. An attendee, Åkhund MullÇ Val¥ AllÇh MarÇghih¥, agreed that none was. M¥rzÇ Jal¥l lost his temper and accused the BahÇ¥ mullå of a kind of prophetic polytheism, of joining partners with BahÇallÇh. Muªammad Al¥ Aªmadaf, the merchant, told Jal¥l off, saying he had no right to talk to MarÇghih¥ that way. After this meeting, the other BahÇ¥s studiously shunned M¥rzÇ Jal¥l. Abd al-BahÇ sent a number of further emissaries to Azerbaijan in the aftermath, including Sayyid Mihd¥ Dahaj¥ (then still a supporter), Maªmd ZarqÇn¥ and Óaydar Al¥ I‚fahÇn¥. The latter even brought M¥rzÇ Khal¥l Kh¥ back into the fold. As a result of these missionary journeys, almost all of Azerbaijan went over to Abd al-BahÇ, and M¥rzÇ Jal¥l and his handful of supporters were isolated, only occasionally making their presence known in Tabriz and MarÇghih. This episode is extremely revealing about the terms of the debate over Abd al-BahÇ’s position, which appears to have centred on whether he should be invested with high-intensity, unregulated charisma or only with a pale charisma of ofﬁce that would 330

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leave BahÇallÇh and his verses supreme. For some BahÇ¥ ulamå , such as Burjird¥, the attraction of exalting scripture was that they had the conceptual and linguistic tools to speak for it to the rest of the BahÇ¥s, whereas a living, charismatic leader such as Abd al-BahÇ could be invoked by everyone. The anecdote is also suggestive for the way charisma translated easily into money. A mere letter of approval opened BahÇ¥s’ money pouches to Burjird¥, but that muniﬁcence could also obviously be cut off rather easily. Ibn Abhar’s attention to winning the Aªmadaf merchant clan away from the Muªammad Al¥ faction, and the way they could use their patronage to immobilize or marginalize M¥rzÇ Jal¥l, suggests the centrality of the BahÇ¥ bourgeoisie in the succession dispute. As can be seen, Abd al-BahÇ vigorously reacted to the challenge to his authority mounted by his half-brothers. In the late 1890s he cut them off from funds coming in as donations from the BahÇ¥s, effectively abrogating the stipulation in the Most Holy Book that the aghsån jointly administer proceeds of pious endowments.75 On hearing of the open division among the brothers, ÅqÇ JamÇl Burjird¥ set out for Akka in hopes of being able to use his good ofﬁces to settle their differences. When he got to Qazvin, however, he found a message from Abd al-BahÇ waiting there for him, ordering him to return to Tehran and stay there. He reluctantly obeyed, but this slap in the face rankled. He and a handful of other BahÇ¥ ulamå gradually threw in with Muªammad Al¥, as the latter challenged his elder brother’s position.76 In Akka, Muªammad Al¥ was joined by M¥rzÇ JavÇd Qazv¥n¥ and ÅqÇ JÇn KÇshÇn¥, both of whom had served as scribes for the writing of BahÇallÇh’s scripture. The brothers seized control of BahÇallÇh’s mansion at Bahj¥ near Akka, as well as taking possession of large numbers of BahÇallÇh’s letters and tablets. The schism spilled over even to the United States, where a small BahÇ¥ community had been founded by a Syro-Lebanese convert, IbrÇh¥m Kheirallah. Kheirallah taught his American converts to adore Abd al-BahÇ, and some came on pilgrimage to see him beginning in 1898. Kheirallah, however, broke with Abd al-BahÇ as a result of disagreements with him. He went over to Muªammad Al¥. Astonishingly, the majority of the some 2,000 US BahÇ¥s remained loyal to Abd al-BahÇ rather than following the man who brought them into the religion. Substantial numbers did initially follow Kheirallah, though many simply left after a while in dismay at all the contention.77 Abd al-BahÇ seems to have been urged by some zealous supporters to declare his opponents non-BahÇ¥s, but he declined. ‘In the religion of God,’ he asserted, ‘there is no practice of declaring believers to be morally corrupt (tafs¥q) or of declaring them not believers (takf¥r), nor is debasing or showing contempt for others permitted.’78 In Islam, the ulamå declared suspect Muslims to have departed from the faith for reasons of moral lapses or incorrect doctrine. In medieval legal theory, Muslims found to be actually inﬁdels were open to having their lives and property taken by 331

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others without fear of legal reprisal. This practice was distasteful to BahÇ¥s for many reasons. For one, they were often victims of it at the hands of the Muslim clergy. For another, it offended against the ideals of unity, tolerance and freedom of conscience for which many BahÇ¥s felt their religion stood. Abd al-BahÇ’s partisans organized the systematic shunning of Muªammad Al¥ and his followers by the BahÇ¥s loyal to himself. Systematic shunning involved not only cutting his partisans off without a word, but also cutting off anyone who refused to shun or condemn them. Where different loyalties developed in the same family, even a BahÇ¥ who supported Abd al-BahÇ would be shunned by the latter’s supporters if he remained in contact with a brother or parents who supported Muªammad Al¥.79 ÅqÇ JamÇl Burjird¥, once idolized by the Iranian BahÇ¥s, was cut off by virtually all BahÇ¥s until his death in 1907. This strategy had several advantages. It deprived the Muªammad Al¥ group of any opportunity to convert the mainstream BahÇ¥s to their point of view, since they could not gain a hearing. It also made the idea that any BahÇ¥s would continue to send monetary contributions to the aghsån out of question. Henceforth, all the substantial monetary resources of the adherents ﬂowed straight to Abd al-BahÇ, giving him the wherewithal to reward the faithful and combat the lukewarm (as well as the ability to send Iranian muballighs to the US to ﬁrm up the loyalty of that community). The complete refusal to dialogue removed any need to produce extensive refutations of Muªammad Al¥’s critiques. Shunning was also a peaceful response involving no violence, and the BahÇ¥ faith stood for peace (shunning is often employed by peace churches such as the Amish). Weber asserted that excommunication tended to have the effect of social boycott in churches generally.80 There is a real difference between simple excommunication and systematic shunning of the sort described here, however, in so far as third parties in contact with the excommunicated are also shunned. The latter is somewhat rare, practised nowadays only by groups such as the Jehovah’s Witnesses, some branches of Ismailism, the Amish, Scientologists, Bruderhof and other highly authoritarian ‘charismatic communities’. The strategy had disadvantages, as well. Shunning, no less than declarations that believers were inﬁdels, promoted intolerance and reiﬁed the schism. Abd al-BahÇ’s detractors pointed out that it is difﬁcult to see how the BahÇ¥ religion could stand for the unity of humankind if there were some humans its adherents were willing completely to cut off and subject to vitriol (which they did, whatever Abd al-BahÇ said about avoiding it). There is something ruthless about a willingness to coerce innocent third parties or disrupt private relationships via the exercise of corporate solidarity, including an economic boycott. Dahaj¥ pointed out that the practice actually appears to contradict BahÇallÇh’s central teachings. In Shiite law, non-Shiites were often considered ritually polluted (najis). Shiites would not drink from the same cup as an unbeliever, and 332

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even shaking the sweaty hands of one would necessitate the repetition of ablutions. BahÇallÇh had explicitly forbidden this practice of considering persons of other beliefs to be ritually unclean, and he saw this insistence that all human beings are pure as one of his key principles. He wrote in the Most Holy Book, ‘God has . . . abolished the concept of ‘uncleanness’, whereby divers things and peoples have been held to be impure . . . Consort then with the followers of all religions.’81 Although one might theoretically shun a group without considering them ritually impure, in fact there is little difference between the two practices. Later BahÇ¥ language about ‘covenant breakers’ as ‘infected’ with a ‘spiritual disease’ that was ‘contagious’ seems to let ritual pollution in through the back door. Dahaj¥ complained that BahÇ¥s were permitted to associate with inﬁdels and criminals, even convicted murderers, but not with those who denied Abd al-BahÇ’s infallibility.82 In addition, BahÇallÇh himself had denounced the Azal¥ BÇb¥ leader HÇd¥ DawlatÇbÇd¥ of Isfahan for instructing his followers to shun BahÇ¥s. He wrote, ‘People of the Bayån! You have been forbidden to contact the loved ones of God. Why has this ban been imposed and for what purpose?’83 BahÇallÇh believed that true discourse (bayån) would always win out, and although he counselled against close association with the ungodly he never developed a system of shunning. Once, one of his partisans confessed that before BahÇallÇh and Azal separated, he had promised to take some of Azal’s writings to Iran for him. BahÇallÇh insisted that he make good on his pledge.84 In contrast, it is difﬁcult to imagine Abd al-BahÇ instructing a BahÇ¥ to deliver letters from Muªammad Al¥ to Iran. It is difﬁcult to see how, if BahÇallÇh actually believed in systematic shunning, his upbraiding of HÇd¥ DawlatÇbÇd¥ and the Azal¥s was not hypocritical. Given his own personal charisma as well as his charisma of delegation, Abd al-BahÇ seems early on to have gained the loyalty of the vast majority of BahÇ¥s, so that shunning was probably unnecessary as a tactic. The cost, on the other hand, was enormous. Once established, shunning became a tool for later leaders with implications far beyond the Muªammad Al¥ schism, and was used to control and manipulate adherents with regard to issues of personal conscience and even sometimes choice of place of residence! A suspicion of non-conformity, a demand for blind obedience, and a concern with being constantly ‘ﬁrm in the covenant’ came to characterize important elements of the community over time.85 These High Modernist themes, so common in its contemporaries among mass movements, signalled the religion’s entry into its twentieth-century phase.86 In his Will and Testament, Abd al-BahÇ declared that, as a result of his deviations, Muªammad Al¥’s position was invalidated (såqi†).87 That is, his joint authority over BahÇ¥ endowments and his prospects for succeeding to the position of interpreter of scripture, were ended. In Islamic law, institutions or practices were considered ‘lapsed’ or ‘invalidated’ when 333

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the conditions for their implementation could no longer be met. Thus, in Shiism it was believed that the descendants of the Prophet, called Imams, had the authority to collect religious taxes. When the Twelfth Imam disappeared and the line ended, some among the Shiite clergy declared that the obligation to pay these taxes had lapsed (i.e. was såqi†).88 Partisans of Muªammad Al¥ maintained that BahÇallÇh’s revealed instructions that Muªammad Al¥ should help administer endowments and should succeed his brother as interpreter could not be altered or abrogated under any circumstances. Abd al-BahÇ was careful to say that this invalidation of Muªammad Al¥’s position was required ‘by the decisive divine text’. He implied that it is a simple deduction from the divine word, given his halfbrother’s behaviour (BahÇallÇh had warned Muªammad Al¥ against any ‘deviation’ (inªiråf) even for a moment). Since Abd al-BahÇ was the authorized interpreter of scripture, he was on ﬁrmer ground in saying that the revealed verses required that Muªammad Al¥ be deposed than if he simply issued such a dictum. The charisma of lineage in the family of BahÇallÇh made members potential rivals to the interpreter, and tempted them to oppose him. Abd al-BahÇ began the process of destroying that rival charisma, even if it meant in essence abrogating a provision of the Most Holy Book. As for his self-understanding, Abd al-BahÇ spoke of himself as the ‘expounder’ or ‘interpreter’ (mubayyin) of BahÇallÇh’s writings. This word differed from the one used for normal QurÇn exegesis by scholars, tafs¥r. It literally meant to ‘clarify’ and appears to be a new BahÇ¥ technical term, though it may be grounded in the Islamic legal concept of the bayyina, or incontrovertible proof, especially rooted in oral testimony.89 His thinking about these matters is revealed especially in the talks he gave in the US and Europe during his speaking tour of 1911–13. A key passage is from the travel diary of Maªmd ZarqÇn¥: Palo Alto, California, 9 October 1912: Before Abd al-BahÇ left Palo Alto, a group again had the honor of gathering in the most holy court. Among his blessed utterances was an explanation of religious conﬂicts, especially those of the Christians. ‘Some said Christ was God, and some said he was the Word, while others called him a prophet. Because of these differences, conﬂicts arose among them, such that in the community there was enmity instead of spirituality, and estrangement rather than unity. But BahÇallÇh has closed the door on such differences. By arranging for interpretation to be carried out by an authoritative interpreter [mubayyin] of the Book, by establishing the Universal House of Justice – or in other words the Parliament of the [BahÇ¥] community – and by commanding that there be no interference in beliefs or conscience, he blocked such breaches from occurring. He even said that if two persons discussing some matter 334

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develop a dispute, such that it leads to a polarization, both are wrong and discredited.90 This passage contains what appear to be contradictory arguments. His American audience wanted to know how the bloody schisms of early Christianity would be avoided in the new BahÇ¥ religion. Many inquirers at that time were inﬂuenced by secular denunciations of religion as superstitious and a source of factional ﬁghting. Abd al-BahÇ gives four reasons for which the BahÇ¥ religion could avoid burnings at the stake or crusades against heretics. The ﬁrst is that BahÇallÇh had explicitly appointed an authorized interpreter who was empowered to settle differences of opinion in the community about the meaning of scripture. The second is that he had urged the establishment of a democratic, parliamentary body, the House of Justice. By likening the House of Justice to a parliament, it seems to me, he was implying that just as liberal democratic political regimes are able to manage civil and political conﬂicts without violence or coercion, so the governing structure of the BahÇ¥ religion had a democratic element that could rework conﬂicts into larger compromises and retain legitimacy. The third is that the BahÇ¥ faith is not a credal religion (just as, for the most part, Islam is not). It is not orthodox (insisting on right dogma) but orthoprax (insisting on right action). Not what one believes in one’s conscience matters, but how one actually behaves. Thus, BahÇ¥ institutions should not persecute adherents on the basis of their beliefs or conscience. Finally, he pointed to the practice he had commanded, of avoidance of fractious argumentation or feuds in the community. He had said that BahÇ¥s should, instead of feuding with one another over differences of opinion, seek to resolve them by submitting the case to the authorized interpreter (mubayyin).91 What did he mean by the notion that a religion’s institutions should not interfere in ‘beliefs and conscience?’ He told a congregation in Brooklyn on 16 June 1912 concerning ‘the world of religion’, that ‘when freedom of conscience, liberty of thought and right of speech prevail – that is to say, when every man according to his own idealization may give expression to his beliefs – development and growth are inevitable’.92 In a later talk, in Budapest on 7 April 1913, he expanded on the theme of the sanctity of the individual conscience. He disagreed with the Mill (‘European’) tradition of thinking about liberty, saying that it simply was not the case that one could do as one pleased as long as it did not harm another. He said: In the religion of God there is freedom of thought, for no one can rule over the conscience save God. But [freedom of thought] exists only to the extent that it is not expressed in terms that depart from politeness. In the religion of God there is no freedom of deeds. No one can transgress the divine law, even if in so doing 335

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he harms no one. For by the divine law is intended the training of oneself and others . . . As for freedom of thought, it must not transgress the bounds of politeness.93 How one could have freedom of conscience (vujdån, ∂am¥r) in a system where there was an ofﬁcial interpreter of scripture is not entirely clear. Nor is it clear how freedom of conscience squares with a duty to avoid ‘impolite’ exchanges. We know, however, of no one punished by Abd alBahÇ for doctrinal heresy. Those he had shunned were either active schismatics who rejected his leadership altogether, or criminals who embezzled from the BahÇ¥s. The US BahÇ¥ leadership did cast out those in Chicago with ‘Metaphysical’ beliefs, including reincarnation, during World War I when they were out of contact with Abd al-BahÇ, but there is no evidence he approved of their action.94 Perhaps the answer lies in an Islamic model of discourse. Dogma was on the whole less important in Islam than in Christianity, and believers were held together by the revealed law (Shar¥ a) and the rituals they performed together, despite a great diversity of actual theological belief. One does not wish to exaggerate this distinction, since Muslims were cast out of their communities and punished for heresy and there were occasional inquisitions. But the difference with Christianity does exist. Even Abd al-BahÇ was welcomed in Akka’s Sunni mosque, where he prayed with the Muslims every Friday. This sort of model emphasizing orthopraxy over orthodoxy appears to have been in Abd al-BahÇ’s mind. That powerful American BahÇ¥s such as the architect Mason Remey were so willing to employ shunning to maintain what they thought of as doctrinal purity, however, boded ill for Abd al-BahÇ’s hopes that the BahÇ¥ faith could avoid the pitfalls of early Christianity. In his Will and Testament, Abd al-BahÇ not only elaborated on his position as interpreter of scripture, but attempted to institutionalize it. He secretly appointed his grandson, Shoghi Effendi (Shawq¥ RabbÇn¥, 1897–1957) to be his successor as the interpreter of the divine verses (mubayyin-i åyåt Allåh) and named him the ‘guardian’ (wal¥) of the cause of God. The terminology is reminiscent of Shiite Islam’s belief that the Prophet Muªammad should be succeeded by his descendants (the Imams) through his daughter FÇ†ima, who had the authority to reveal the inner meanings of QurÇn verses. They, too, were called ‘wal¥ amr Allåh’ or ‘guardian of the cause of God’. He instructed that the descendants of BahÇallÇh, those of the BÇb, and the hands of the cause all ‘turn to’ him after Abd al-BahÇ’s death.95 In turn, his ﬁrst-born would succeed him, and the ﬁrst-born of each following generation in his line. BahÇallÇh had not made explicit what would happen to the position of authorized interpreter after Muªammad Al¥’s death, and Abd al-BahÇ attempted (unsuccessfully) to settle this issue. Abd al-BahÇ wrote, ‘It is incumbent upon the guardian of the cause of God to appoint in his own life-time him that shall become his successor, 336

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that differences may not arise after his passing.’96 The preference would go to his ﬁrst-born son, but if he lacked the ‘spiritual substance’ of his father, then another ‘branch’ (ghu‚n) should be chosen. That is, in accordance with the Turco-Mongol tradition, all leading males in the ruling line in any generation were eligible to succeed. We have already seen the jockeying for position and competition for power this system provoked in Abd al-BahÇ’s brothers, and that it was enshrined in the Will and Testament did not bode well for the future. The guardian was instructed to appoint a corps of ‘hands of the cause of God’, who were to ‘diffuse the Divine Fragrances, to edify the souls of men, to promote learning, to improve the character of all men and to be, at all times and under all conditions, sanctiﬁed and detached from earthly things’.97 These ‘hands of the cause’ in turn were to elect nine of their number to assist the guardian. This body of nine hands, in turn, would conﬁrm or oppose the nominee to be the new guardian. Abd al-BahÇ resolved the question of the relationship of the guardian to the universal House of Justice by making him the permanent chairman of that body and member for life. The guardian also has the authority to remove from the House of Justice any member who commits ‘a sin, injurious to the common weal’.98 This action would provoke a by-election. Ironically, this elaborate structure of a Guardian and the Hands was to lapse after 1957 because Shoghi Effendi had no eligible heirs. Another alternative power centre disappeared. Because he had been challenged concerning his own authority by his brothers, Abd al-BahÇ was particularly concerned about the possibility of schism and so was emphatic that none should challenge the authority of the House of Justice or ﬁnd a way to interpret his instructions in some esoteric manner that might lead to schism. After instructing the believers to accept the authority of the guardian and the House of Justice, he wrote: God forbid that anyone should interpret this instruction ﬁguratively (taw¥l) or that – as happened after the ascension of BahÇallÇh – every covenant breaker and faithless one should make a pretext to raise the banner of revolt, give an idiosyncratic legal ruling (ray), and open the door to the founding of a new school of law (båb al-ijtihåd).99 In the context of the Islamic legal tradition and its technical terms, Abd al-BahÇ was insisting that the new structure he had created in the Will and Testament could not be legitimately challenged. That is, none of the aghsån should repeat the performance of M¥rzÇ Muªammad Al¥, in refusing to accept a guardian or rejecting the legitimacy of the universal House of Justice. The word ijtihåd has a number of meanings, one of which, as we saw above, is ﬁnding or deriving the law for a particular case. But the word has other connotations, as well. In Sunni Muslim jurisprudence, some matters were thought to have been decided by the 337

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early founders of legal schools such as MÇlik and al-ShÇﬁ¥. Their founding of a school (madhhab) of jurisprudence was considered to be a special form of ijtihåd. In Sunnism in the medieval period, Sunni thinkers considered the ‘door’ of this sort of ijtihåd, that is, founding a new legal rite on novel principles, to be closed. Many observers, including Western experts in Islamic jurisprudence such as Joseph Schacht and N. Coulson, misunderstood the ‘closing of the door of ijtihåd’ to deny the legitimacy of reasoned jurisprudence among Sunnis, but this is not what was meant by the term. Jurisprudents, especially ShÇﬁ¥s, were recognized to engage in ijtihåd in the sense of reasoning about the law – more often referred to as the issuing of fatwås – but they were bound by the founders of their schools. The closing of the door of ijtihåd meant that it was forbidden to a jurisprudent to attempt to found a new legal rite or basic jurisprudential school of thought.100 Within ijtihåd or legal reasoning, early judicial activists had advocated the controversial practice of issuing idiosyncratic legal rulings (ray), based on little more than the opinion of the jurist. Coulson notes, ‘Although ash-ShÇﬁ¥’s predecessors were well acquainted with analogical reasoning, they had also employed more arbitrary forms of reasoning called ray (‘juristic speculation’) . . . This inevitably produced a variety of doctrines.’101 Most jurisprudents forbade ray after the classical period, insisting on adherence to the framework laid down by the founder of one’s legal rite (madhhab) and use of ‘strictly regulated analogical reasoning’.102 In this brief passage at the very end of the Will and Testament, Abd al-BahÇ implicitly likens himself to the founders of the major legal schools, such as al-ShÇﬁ¥. He forbade the BahÇ¥s – and particularly the descendants of the BÇb and BahÇallÇh and the Hands of the Cause – from departing in any way from the basic framework of authority he had laid down. We know that Abd al-BahÇ had long seen a resemblance between the BahÇ¥ faith and the ShÇﬁ¥ school of Sunni Islam, and these passages may indicate one basis for this conviction.103 He compared such a rebellion to opening the door of ijtihåd (i.e. creating a new school of jurisprudence different from that founded by Abd al-BahÇ) and giving idiosyncratic legal rulings. Later folk BahÇ¥ tradition saw these passages as outlawing conscientious personal opinion in the BahÇ¥ faith, especially since the young Shoghi Effendi, who lacked a seminary education and early on seemed not to recognize jurisprudential technical terms for what they were, translated the phrase untechnically as ‘to none is given the right to put forth his own opinion’.104 A reasoned analysis of Abd al-BahÇ’s argument, however, reveals him to be saying something rather less Draconian. The word ‘ray’ came into modern Persian as the word for ‘opinion’ in the contemporary sense, but the jurisprudential terms being used shows that ‘judicial speculation’ is the correct translation. Abd al-BahÇ did not in fact forbid ijtihåd or individual legal rulings per se. The BahÇ¥ ulamå rendered such opinions frequently during his lifetime, often with his blessing. He forbade only challenges to 338

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the structure of authority that he had erected. What is forbidden here is not giving an individual opinion about the law or even conscientious disagreement with religious authorities but rather the equivalent of sedition – claiming to be the leader of the religion when one is not or declaring the guardian and House of Justice illegitimate in some basic way. To forbid anyone to put forth his own opinion altogether would be not only impractical but contrary to the numerous instructions Abd al-BahÇ gave that freedom of conscience should be respected by the BahÇ¥ ecclesiastical institutions. BahÇallÇh had recognized seven sources of authority and had not often seemed to integrate them into a formal hierarchy (save for his own unmatched position as Prophet). By 1908 a much clearer line of authority had emerged, centred on the interpreter. Two of the seven sources were not in play at this point, with one having passed on and the other not yet having arrived. BahÇallÇh himself had been dead for 15 years. The House of Justice still had not been elected, nor would it be until 1963. There was one clear casualty among the ﬁve sources that remained. BahÇallÇh’s sons had been cut off from any ability to administer pious endowments, by order of Abd al-BahÇ, as a result of their ambitious revolt against his authority. The competing charisma of the clan of BahÇallÇh had thus been greatly weakened. The autonomy of BahÇallÇh’s writings as a source of authority in their own right was somewhat limited by the hegemonic position of the authorized interpreter, who was considered divinely inspired. Far from simply adjudicating disputes over the meaning of scripture, he had emerged as a high-intensity charismatic ﬁgure in his own right. The charisma of the community and its gifted individuals paled before his own and, indeed, could only be maintained so long as it was ﬁrmly subordinated to him. Still, Abd al-BahÇ continued to respect individual conscience and individual contributions that acknowledged his authority, and in his talks in the US he often spoke with fervent admiration of rights, liberty and parliamentary democracy. The BahÇ¥ ‘spiritual assemblies’ in a few cities such as Tehran and Tabriz were not really representative bodies but rather councils of elders. Still, their authority was rooted in popular consensus, and they played an important role in backing Abd al-BahÇ in his contest with his brothers. The authority of the BahÇ¥ ulamå had been both circumscribed and enhanced. Abd al-BahÇ had made it clear through his ability to marginalize minimalist clerics such as ÅqÇ JamÇl that they could only maintain their popularity and access to community support (both moral and ﬁnancial) if they partook vicariously of his charisma. Where they showed too much independence, they could be successfully cut off. In his ‘constitutional’ writings on the place of the clerical jurisprudents in BahÇ¥ society, he ﬁrmly subordinated them to the houses of justice (then called spiritual assemblies). In practice, however, there were few such bodies in Iran, and most communities were led informally by a combination of ulamå and other notables such as merchants and ofﬁcials. Moreover, Abd al-BahÇ 339

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relied heavily on loyal ulamå to combat the disloyal ones, creating men such as M¥rzÇ Ab al-Fa∂l GulpaygÇn¥, a former seminary teacher, as respected heroes in the community. The loyalty to him demonstrated by the vast majority of the BahÇ¥ ulamå was indubitably one reason for his victory. To the extent that the new institution of the Hands of the Cause was drawn from them, their position was normalized to some extent, but there was no guarantee that the ulamå would necessarily continue to dominate it, nor in the event did they. Because conversions from Shiism tapered off; because BahÇ¥ families became marked as such and so ineligible to attend Muslim seminaries; and because subsequent leaders banned the ulamå from receiving community ﬁnancial support – this social stratum largely died off in the 1930s and after. This process contributed further to the centralization of authority. The dispute over the succession to BahÇallÇh demonstrated the instability of the system of authority he created. No one was satisﬁed with only a morsel of charisma. M¥rzÇ Muªammad Al¥ and the other aghsån attempted to stage a palace coup by parlaying their limited charisma of genealogy into a power base in its own right. They could increase their authority only by proposing a minimalist deﬁnition of Abd al-BahÇ’s own. In so doing they introduced a dire schism into the BahÇ¥ community and pushed it toward coercive measures like shunning. Their failure led to an abrogation of their authority altogether, regardless of what the Most Holy Book had said, and so inevitably weakened the authority of scripture alone. Some of the BahÇ¥ ulamå , as well, were unwilling to continue to labour under the shadow of the overwhelming and unregulated charisma of the interpreter in Akka, and later Haifa. ÅqÇ JamÇl and other dissenting BahÇ¥ ulamå attempted to make their prestige and scholastic learning an independent source of authority, but found themselves blocked. These spiritual vendors were operating in a buyers’ market, and the buyers had a strong idea of what they wanted. The BÇb¥ community out of which the BahÇ¥ faith mainly grew in the Middle East was made up of persons desperately unhappy with the status quo, whether for economic, political or religious reasons. They wanted an entirely new world order, a radical change that should fall from heaven. Neither Iranian traditions, which they saw as mired in unjust conventionality and social and economic stagnation, nor modernity, which they saw as God-denying and soulless, satisﬁed them. In particular, mere bureaucracy did not interest them. They wanted the heroic and culturally disruptive. ÅqÇ JamÇl Burjird¥’s pitiful attempt to convince them that it was enough to have scripture and ulamå was forcefully rejected, so that he died alone. There was already plenty of that combination in Iran, and the BahÇ¥s were ﬂeeing it. He was an advocate of low-intensity charisma, and found no buyers for his wares. Ibn Abhar’s speech in Tabriz demolished the idea that Abd al-BahÇ should be a mere ‘manager of affairs’. In Abd al-BahÇ, the BahÇ¥s found, in contrast, a living guru who was inspired by God, who knew mysteries 340

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and prophecies, and who could shape the community from a distance with his overﬂowing charisma. They gave him a position somewhat reminiscent of that the Isma¥l¥s bestowed on the Agha Khans, the Kermani Shaykh¥s on their leaders, and the NimatallÇh¥ Suﬁs on their p¥rs. The marginalized BahÇ¥s, heretics despised in Shiite Iran, invested their new head with revolutionary hopes, and looked to him as their exemplary spiritual guide. The conﬂict between the advocates of high-intensity charisma and the partisans of low intensity also played out in a social ﬁeld of status and wealth. The Aªmadaf and other BahÇ¥ merchant clans, in throwing their considerable weight behind Abd al-BahÇ, made monetary patronage available to his partisans and denied it to his opponents. They could virtually imprison their hapless guest, M¥rzÇ Jal¥l, and could leave him homeless and without resources when he deﬁed their embracing of Abd al-BahÇ. The Afnån merchant clan in Shiraz, and the BÇqirafs in Qazvin, played similar roles. That a majority of BahÇ¥s accepted Abd al-BahÇ’s delegation, as well as his considerable personal charisma, created vast funding for his cause. His mere letter to Burjird¥ designating contributions to him as a fulﬁlment of the duty to pay religious taxes enabled the BahÇ¥ scholar to acquire the money to extend his networks and gain prestige from his missionary journeys. The subsequent denial to Burjird¥ of that funding left the cleric high and dry. Just as Shiites sent very substantial contributions to their supreme exemplar (marja-i taql¥d) in the shrine cities of what is now Iraq, so BahÇ¥s sent their donations to Abd al-BahÇ. The American breakthrough brought in some fairly wealthy converts, including Phoebe Hearst of the Hearst newspaper dynasty, and although records of their donations have not been investigated these may have been substantial. Even small amounts in dollars would have gone a long way in the Middle East. When Abd al-BahÇ cut his brothers off from access to that funding, he denied them the further resources to oppose him. Their movement rapidly dwindled to the status of a tiny sect. By M¥rzÇ Muªammad Al¥’s death in 1937 they had been reduced to a mere clan religion of most of the remaining aghsån, who gradually became little more than ordinary Israelis and Lebanese. That Abd al-BahÇ came to control the central funding of the BahÇ¥ religion was another way in which authority was centralized. Individual BahÇ¥s never had the resources, whether monetary capital or cultural capital, to maintain independence from the centre. Even clerics such as ÅqÇ JamÇl, despite their substantial cultural capital, could hardly compete either with the overwhelming charisma of the ofﬁcial interpreter or with the large sums forwarded by the BahÇ¥ merchant clans to Abd al-BahÇ in Akka. The practice of shunning even more effectively cut Burjird¥ and other minimalists off from community support, preventing them from being free riders. Yet the funding came into the centre only because of the faith believers put in their leader. Charisma and ﬁnancial 341

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resources were fungible, reinforcing one another inexorably, and simplifying out the authority structure of the religion in favour of centralization and stricter hierarchy.

Notes 1

2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

11 12

13

Peter Berger ‘From Sect to Church: A Sociological Interpretation of the BahÇ¥ Movement’ (unpublished PhD thesis: New School for Social Research, 1954); Peter Berger ‘Motif messianique et processus social dans le Bahaisme’ Archives de Sociologie des Religions 4 (1957) 93–107; Peter Smith ‘“Motif” Research: Peter Berger and the BahÇ¥ Faith’ Religion 8 (1978) 210–34 (abridged version of a paper later published as Peter Smith ‘The Routinization of Charisma? Some Comments on “Motif Messianique et Processus Social dans le Bahaisme”’ Occasional Papers in Shaykhi, Båb¥ and Bahå¥ Studies 2.6 (November 1998), online at www2.h-net.msu.edu/~bahai/bhpapers/vol2/ motif.htm); D. M. MacEoin ‘Changes in Charismatic Authority in Qajar Shiism’ in C. E. Bosworth and C. Hillenbrand (eds) Qajar Iran: Political, Social and Cultural Change, 1800–1925 (Edinburgh, 1983) 148–76; Peter Smith The Båb¥ and Bahå¥ Religions (Cambridge, 1987); Saïd Amir Arjomand The Turban for the Crown : the Islamic Revolution in Iran (New York, 1988). Martin Riesebrodt ‘Charisma in Max Weber’s Sociology of Religion’ Religion 29 (1999) 1–14. Max Weber Economy and Society, 2 vols (Berkeley, 1978) II, 1116. William Sims Bainbridge The Sociology of Religious Movements (London, 1997) 220–1. Walter L. Wallace A Weberian Theory of Human Society: Structure and Evolution (New Brunswick, 1994) 125–6. Wallace, A Weberian Theory, 137. Abbas Amanat Resurrection and Renewal: The Making of the Båb¥ Movement in Iran, 1844–1850 (Ithaca, 1989). Juan R. I. Cole Modernity and the Millennium: The Genesis of the Bahå ¥ Faith in the Nineteenth Century Middle East (New York, 1998). Kamran Ekbal ‘TÇr¥kh-i nuzl wa nigÇrish-i KitÇb-i-Aqdas’ Pazhuhishnåmih 1.2 (1997). BahÇallÇh al-Kitab al-Aqdas (Haifa, 1992) para. 53; Eng. trans. BahÇallÇh The Most Holy Book (Haifa, 1995) para. 53. I have removed the odd faux Jacobean grammar characteristic of the ofﬁcial translations and sometimes preferred a literal rendering, but retained the basic wording. Since the paragraph numbering is the same in both, this work is hereafter cited simply as al-Aqdas. For the Arabic text online see www2.h-net.msu.edu/~bahai/are print/vol1/aqdas/aqd.htm. Weber, Economy and Society I, 439–40. BahÇallÇh, al-Aqdas, K97. For khums in Shiism see Norman Calder ‘Khums in Imami Shii Jurisprudence from the Tenth to the Sixteenth Century AD.’ BSOAS 65.1 (1982) 39–47 and Devin J. Stewart Islamic Legal Orthodoxy: Twelver Shiite Responses to the Sunni Legal System (Salt Lake City, 1998) 236–7. BahÇallÇh/Muªammad IbrÇh¥m Qazv¥n¥, c. early to mid-1860s, quoted in Sayyid Mihd¥ Dahaj¥, Risålih (East Lansing, 2000) 255, online at www2.hnet.msu.edu/~bahai/arabic/vol4/Dahaji/Dahaji.htm (facsimile of British Manuscript Project, MS No. 1321(5), University of Michigan and in turn of MS F (57) 9 in the Browne Collection, Cambridge University Library). The Bayån is the Bab’s book of laws.

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14 15

16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40

41 42 43 44 45

BahÇallÇh, al-Aqdas, para. 42. A. K. S. Lambton ‘Land Tenure and Revenue Administration in the Nineteenth Century’ in Peter Avery et al. (eds) Cambridge History of Iran, Volume 7 (Cambridge, 1991) 486–8; Mu‚†afÇ Sal¥m¥far Nigåh¥ bih vaqf va åthår-i iqti‚åd¥-ijtimå ¥-yi ån (Mashhad, 1370sh/1991). Cole, Modernity and the Millennium, 95–7. BahÇallÇh, al-Aqdas, para. 61. S. A. Arjomand, The Shadow of God and the Hidden Imam (Chicago, 1984) 125–6; for hereditary charisma, see Weber, Economy and Society I, 248. Dahaj¥, Risalih, 195–6. BahÇallÇh, al-Aqdas, para. 175. All these quotes are from BahÇallÇh The Proclamation of Bahå allåh (Haifa, 1967) 79–80, which unfortunately does not give a citation for the Arabic or Persian original. Stewart, Islamic Legal Orthodoxy, 216–17. Smith ‘The Routinization of Charisma?’; see also Sen McGlinn ‘A Theology of the State from the BahÇ¥ Teachings’ Journal of Church and State 41 (1999) 697–724, this point on p. 704. Berger, ‘From Sect to Church’, 171; H. M. Balyuzi Eminent Bahå ¥s in the Time of Bahå ullåh (Oxford, 1985) 173. Weber, Economy and Society I, 425. Cole, Modernity and the Millennium, ch. 1; McGlinn, ‘A Theology of the State’. BahÇallÇh, al-Aqdas, para. 93. BahÇallÇh, al-Aqdas, para. 189. BahÇallÇh Iqtidåråt (Tehran, n.d.) 100. Weber, Economy and Society II, 167. BahÇallÇh, al-Aqdas, para. 121. BahÇallÇh Tablets of Bahå allåh Revealed after the Kitab-i Aqdas (Wilmette, 1988) 227. BahÇallÇh, Tablets, 221. BahÇallÇh, Tablets, 222. Weber, Economy and Society I, 247–8. Weber, Economy and Society II, 1139–41. BahÇallÇh Majmih¥ az Alvåª-i Jamål-i Aqdas-i Abªa kih bad az Kitåb-i Aqdas naz¥l shudih (Hofheim-Langenhain, 1980) 75–6; the ofﬁcial English translation is untechnical and in some instances simply wrong. G. H. Bousquet ‘IbÇdÇt’ EICD. Cole, Modernity and the Millennium, 92–3. Abd al-BahÇ Risålih-yi Madaniyyih (Hofheim-Langenhain, 1984) 22 (available at www2.h-net.msu.edu/~bahai/areprint/ab/M-R/R/madan/madani.htm); Abd al-BahÇ Secret of Divine Civilization (Wilmette, 1970) 16–17 (this untechnical translation is often not very helpful for such points). Abd al-BahÇ, Risålih-yi Madaniyyih, 29–31; Abd al-BahÇ, Secret of Divine Civilization, 23–4. Sen McGlinn ‘Review of Juan R. I. Cole’s Modernity and the Millennium’ H-Net (July 1998) at www2.h-net.msu.edu/reviews/showrev.cgi?path=17941 900618943. Abd al-BahÇ, Risålih-yi Madaniyyih, 44–6; Secret of Divine Civilization, 37–8. Carter Findley ‘Medjelle’ EICD. Juan R. I. Cole ‘Abdu’l-Baha’s “Treatise on Leadership”: Text, Translation, Commentary’ Translations in Shaykhi, Båb¥ and Bahå ¥ Texts 2.2 (1998) online at www2.h-net.msu.edu/~bahai/trans/vol2/absiyasi.htm.

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46

47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58

59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72

Juan R. I. Cole ‘Abdu’l-Baha on the House of Justice and BahÇ¥ Jurisprudence: Text, Translation, Commentary’ Translations of Shaykhi, Båb¥ and Bahå ¥ Texts 5.1 (2001) at www2.h-net.msu.edu/~bahai/trans/vol5/tazir/ tazir.htm; Persian text from Abd al-BahÇ, Majmih-yi Makåt¥b (INBA Private Printing Volume 59: Tehran, 1978); digitally reprinted (East Lansing, Mi, 2000) 275–80, available at: www2.h-net.msu.edu/~bahai/areprint/ab/ G-L/I/59inba/inba59.htm. N. J. Coulson A History of Islamic Law (Edinburgh, 1964) 124; cf. B. Carra de Vaux and J. Schacht ‘Hadd’ EICD. Coulson, History of Islamic Law, 129. Coulson, History of Islamic Law, 132–3. Stewart, Islamic Legal Orthodoxy, 226–8. E. Tyan and J. R. Walsh ‘FatwÇ’ EICD. E. Tyan and Gy. Kaldi Nagy ‘KÇd¥’ EICD. M. O. H. Ursinus ‘Millet’ EICD. H. M. Balyuzi Abd al-Bahå , the Centre of the Covenant (Oxford, 1987) 484–93 for a traditionalist mid-twentieth-century BahÇ¥ understanding of the document by a ‘hand of the cause’. Abd al-BahÇ Alvåª-i Vasåya (Karachi, 1960) 21. Abd al-BahÇ, Vasåya, 15. Abd al-BahÇ, Vasåya, 21. Anne K. S. Lambton ‘A Reconsideration of the Position of the Marja alTaql¥d and the Religious Institution’ Studia Islamica 20 (1964) 115–35; Juan R. I. Cole ‘Imami Jurisprudence and the Role of the Ulama: Mortaza Ansari on Emulating the Supreme Exemplar’ in Nikki R. Keddie (ed.) Religion and Politics in Iran (New Haven, 1983) 33–46; Juan Cole Roots of North Indian Shi ism in Iran and Iraq (Berkeley, 1988); Abbas Amanat ‘In Between the Madrasa and the Market Place: The Designation of Clerical Leadership in Modern Shiism’ in Saïd Amir Arjomand (ed.) Authority and Political Culture in Shi ism (Albany, 1988) 98–132; Meir Litvak Shi i Scholars of Nineteenth-Century Iraq (Cambridge, 1998) passim; Jean Calmard ‘Mardja-i Taklid’ EICD. Abd al-BahÇ, Vasåya, 15. Abd al-BahÇ, Vasåya, 16. Abd al-BahÇ, Vasåya, 17. Abd al-BahÇ, Vasåya, 16. Balyuzi, Abd al-Baha, 50–61. BahÇallÇh, Iqtidåråt, 18. M¥rzÇ JavÇd Qazv¥n¥ ‘Historical Epitome’ in E. G. Browne (ed.) Materials for the Study of the Båb¥ Religion (Cambridge, 1961) 76ff. Arabic text online at www2.h-net.msu.edu/~bahai/arabic/vol4/qazvini/qazvini.htm. M¥rzÇ Muªammad Al¥ Nr¥ Ityån al-dal¥l (Cairo, 1900). Asad AllÇh Fa∂¥l MazandarÇn¥ Tår¥kh-i Ωuhr al-ªaqq VI (East Lansing, 1998) 311, available online at www2.h-net.msu.edu/~bahai/index/diglib/ mazand1.htm. MazandarÇn¥, Tår¥kh VI, 312; another view is that of H. M. Balyuzi, Eminent Bahå ¥s, 175–6. Dahaj¥, Risålih, 203. Ynis Afrukhtih Khå†iråt-i Nu Såli (Los Angeles, 1998) 521. Abd al-BahÇ Mufåwa∂åt (New Delhi, 1983) 121–4; trans. Abd al-BahÇ Some Answered Questions (Wilmette, 1981) 171–4. Bad¥ AllÇh Nr¥ Badi ullah’s Epistle to the Bahå ¥ World (Ameen Fareed (trans.): Chicago, 1907). Online at bahai-library.org/histories/badiullah.html.

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73 74 75 76 77

78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104

The following account is from Asad AllÇh FÇ∂¥l MÇzandarÇn¥ Tår¥kh-i Ωuh≠r al-ªaqq, VIII.1 (Tehran 1972) 67–73. Muªammad Taq¥ Ibn Abhar in MazandarÇn¥, Tår¥kh-i Ωuh≠r al-ªaqqVIII.1, 70–1. Qazv¥n¥, ‘Epitome’, 84–5. MazandarÇn¥, Tår¥kh-i Ωuh≠r al-ªaqq VI, 313–18. Richard Hollinger ‘Ibrahim George Kheiralla and the BahÇ¥ faith in America’ in Juan Cole and Moojan Momen (eds) From Iran East and West: Studies in Båb¥ and Bahå ¥ History Volume 2 (Los Angeles, 1984) 95–133; Robert H. Stockman The Bahå ¥ Faith in America: Origins 1892–1900, Volume 1 (Wilmette, 1985) ch.12. Abd al-BahÇ, Majmih-yi Makåtib, 59:340. Qazv¥n¥, ‘Epitome’, 80. Weber, Economy and Society II, 1165. BahÇallÇh, al-Aqdas, para. 75. Dahaj¥, Risålih, 203. BahÇallÇh, Majmih¥ az Alvåª, 23; trans. BahÇallÇh, Tablets, 43. Muªammad Al¥ SalmÇn¥ Sharª-i Óål (East Lansing, 1997) 39 at www2.hnet.msu.edu/~bahai/bharab.htm; trans. Marzieh Gail My Memories of Bahå allåh (Los Angeles, 1982) 102. Smith, Båb¥ and Bahå ¥ Religions, 110–11. James C. Scott Seeing like a State (New Haven, 1998). Abd al-BahÇ, Vasåya, 9. Arjomand, Shadow of God, 141. See R. Brunschvig ‘Bayyinna’ EICD. Mahmud Zarqana Kitåb-i Badåyi al-åthår, 2 vols (Hofheim-Langenhain, 1982) I, 294. A less technical translation is Mahmud Zarqani Mahmud’s Diary (Mohi Sobhani with S. Macias (trans.): Oxford, 1998) 312. Abd al-BahÇ, Makåtib, 3:33–4; Abd al-BahÇ Tablets of the Divine Plan (Wilmette, 1971) 21–2. Abd al-BahÇ Promulgation of Universal Peace (Wilmette, 1982) 197. Abd al-BahÇ in Abd al-Ham¥d IshrÇq-KhÇvar¥ (ed.) Må idih-yi åsmån¥, 9 vols (Tehran, 1973) V, 17–18. Peter Smith ‘The American BahÇ¥ Community, 1894–1917: A Preliminary Survey’ in Moojan Momen (ed.) Studies in Båb¥ and Bahå ¥ History (Los Angeles, 1982) I, 184–94. Abd al-BahÇ, Vasåya, 11–12. Abd al-BahÇ, Vasåya, 12. Abd al-BahÇ, Vasåya, 14. Abd al-BahÇ, Vasåya, 16. Abd al-BahÇ, Vasåya, 28. Stewart, Islamic Legal Orthodoxy, 226–9, 235. Abd al-BahÇ, Vasåya, 60. Abd al-BahÇ, Vasåya, 60. Necati Alkan ‘Bereketzade Ismail Hakki Yad-i Mazi (Istanbul, 1915) 105–120’ Translations of Shaykhi, Båb¥ and Bahå ¥ Texts 4.8 (November, 2000) at www2.h-net.msu.edu/~bahai/trans/vol4/yadimazi.htm. Abd al-BahÇ Will and Testament of Abd al-Bahå (Wilmette, 1944 (1922)) 25–6. For a later fundamentalist Western BahÇ¥ point of view, see David Hoffman A Commentary on the Will and Testament of Abd al-Bahå (Oxford, 1982).

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17 THE ROLE OF WOMEN IN THE IRANIAN BAH Å± COMMUNITY DURING THE QAJAR PERIOD 1 Moojan Momen

The late Qajar period that saw the establishment of the BahÇ¥ community in Iran also saw the beginnings of a change in the social role of women in Iranian society. The ﬁrst inkling of this was the BÇb¥ heroine, ˝Çhirih (Qurrat al-Ayn, 1817–50), who set an example of leadership and independent action that became a model for Iranian women generally.2 After her, there was something of an intermission until the last decade of the nineteenth century. During the protests associated with the Tobacco Regie (1891–2), women played an important part, forcing shops to close and even confronting the Prince Governor of Tehran, KÇmrÇn M¥rzÇ.3 One of the ﬁrst publications voicing women’s dissatisfaction with the status quo was B¥b¥ KhÇnum AstarÇbÇd¥’s book, Maåyib al-rijål (‘The Vices of Men’, written in 1896).4 During the Constitutional Revolution of 1905–6, many informal women’s meeting were turned into formal secret societies where reform was discussed.5 But when the Constitution was eventually established, women were ignored in it. They were not given the vote or any real amelioration of their social position. Many women now turned their attention to education, and the following decade saw the establishment of many girls’ schools. Within the BahÇ¥ community, there was also a gradual rise in the attention given to women’s issues during the last decades of the Qajar dynasty. For BahÇ¥ women also, ˝Çhirih marked the beginning of this process. The dramatic events of the BÇb¥ upheavals of 1848–53, however, shattered and decimated the BÇb¥ community. After this, the BÇb¥s continued a concealed existence as a persecuted community. Gradually, under the leadership of BahÇallÇh and now calling themselves BahÇ¥s, the community emerged in the 1860s and 1870s reorganised and reinvigorated. The religion itself envisaged from the outset a greater social role for women. This chapter examines the extent to which it proved possible for this to be realised within the community. The dearth of evidence makes it difﬁcult to examine the role of the average woman within the BahÇ¥ community. 346

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There are accounts, however, of a number of prominent BahÇ¥ women. This chapter will analyse the accounts of these women in different social situations in a geographical spread throughout Iran: among the nobility and high government ofﬁcials, in the families of the ulamå , in urban centres and in the villages. From the picture thus created, we can obtain some glimpses of the way that the BahÇ¥ community saw the role of women, the extent to which it was able to allow a greater social role for them, and the response to this among the wider Iranian population. This chapter will not deal with the role of BahÇ¥ women in the family. The provisions of the BahÇ¥ law imposing monogamy were gradually enforced during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The discouragement of divorce, the prohibition on concubinage and temporary marriage, the promotion of consultation as a means of family decision making, and the positive messages about the girl child and her education must all have caused great changes in the family life of those who became BahÇ¥s. Indeed it could be argued that these changes in family life were the basis for changes in the social role of women. This chapter will, however, concentrate on what we can learn of the role of these women in the BahÇ¥ community.

Scriptural basis The basis of any change that the BÇb¥ and BahÇ¥ community brought about in the station and role of women was the teachings of the BÇb, BahÇallÇh and Abd al-BahÇ. In so far as the BÇb¥ and BahÇ¥ religions are ‘religions of the book’, then these teachings are based on what is found in the writings of these three ﬁgures. The BÇb did not write a great deal on the status and role of women. He did however make a few signiﬁcant changes in the social laws applying to women in his main book, the Bayån. In this book, he forbade temporary marriage,6 restricted the number of wives that a man may have to two7 and allowed men and women BÇb¥s to mix socially and speak to one another to a limited extent.8 Perhaps equally signiﬁcant was the fact that the BÇb chose a woman, ˝Çhirih, to be one of his leading group of disciples, the ‘Letters of the Living’, and supported her in a reply that he wrote to some who questioned her actions. BahÇallÇh’s writings include a number of statements about the position of women. He writes that God has ‘lifted distinctions from between his servants and handmaidens’ such that he has ‘conferred upon all a station and rank on the same plane’.9 In particular, he states that those women who have become believers are accounted as men.10 By abolishing slavery, he also abolished all forms of concubinage. He left the number of wives that a man may marry at two, while recommending monogamy.11 Abd al-BahÇ made the promotion of the social role of women one of the key BahÇ¥ teachings that he emphasised both in the East and the West. He wrote that the world of humanity cannot progress as it should 347

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while women are oppressed, uneducated and denied opportunities.12 In what he wrote to the Iranian BahÇ¥ community, he encouraged the BahÇ¥ women to take an active role in the community, to teach the BahÇ¥ faith to others and to educate themselves.13 He stressed the importance of education and laid great emphasis on the education of girls in particular.14 He interpreted BahÇallÇh’s laws concerning marriage so as to allow a man only one wife and made this binding on the BahÇ¥ community.15

European accounts Iranian accounts of the BahÇ¥s from the nineteenth century are usually antagonistic and interpret the greater freedom given to women in the BahÇ¥ community as a sign of immorality. For example, Comte de Gobineau, who was at the French Legation in Tehran from 1855 to 1858 and was Minister there from 1862 to 1863, reports that he heard such accusations from his Iranian Muslim contacts: ‘The Musulmans, however, accuse the BÇb¥s of having secret love-feasts, where the lights are dimmed and all manner of promiscuity allowed.’16 Some Europeans residents were, however, able to reach a more informed view from personal contacts with the BahÇ¥ community. Dr Cormick was an Anglo-Irish physician who lived most of his life in Iran and died there in 1877. He wrote, for example: ‘Most assuredly the Musulman fanaticism does not exist in [the BahÇ¥ religion17], as applied to Christians, nor is there that restraint of females that now exists.’18 Slightly more indirect information comes from Aleksander Jablonowski, a well-known Polish historian and ethnographer who died in 1913. In 1870, he encountered the BahÇ¥s in Baghdad who were a mixture of Iranians and Arabs. In two articles, one written for a popular women’s magazine, Bluscz, in 1871 and the other for the foremost Polish newspaper, Gazeta Polska, in 1875, Jablonowski gave an account of the BÇb¥ and BahÇ¥ movement. He refers frequently in these articles to the improved status of women among the BahÇ¥s referring to the movement as ‘an important transformation’ and as ‘something that gives to the station of women a certain progress that cannot be taken lightly’.19 Thus, from as early as the 1870s, when the BahÇ¥ community as such had only just come into existence, having been reformed by BahÇallÇh from what remained of the BÇb¥ community after the persecutions, we have evidence that the BahÇ¥ community was attempting to advance the position of women socially. From a few decades later, we have the account of the Revd Isaac Adams, an Iranian who converted from Nestorian Christianity to Protestantism. In the course of a hostile account of the BahÇ¥ faith published in his book of 1900, he nevertheless states: [BahÇallÇh] taught the equality of both sexes and paid homage to woman. He showed that it was against the law of God to 348

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marry more than one woman or to keep concubines. Further, it is against the law of society and the happiness of women for man to have more than one wife. The law of divorce, which is common among Mohammedans, was not practiced by the new sect. The place of women among them is the same as among Christians.20 Lastly, from a somewhat later period, we have evidence from a number of Western BahÇ¥s who travelled to Iran and met with, or even in some cases lived among, the BahÇ¥ community there. Charles Mason Remey, a prominent American BahÇ¥, travelled to Iran in 1908. He arrived just at the time of Muªammad Al¥ ShÇh’s coup d’état which drove out the constitutionalists. In his account of the BahÇ¥ community, Remey writes: In Persia . . . the conventions of society demand the seclusion of women. Through the inﬂuence of the Bahai teachings, we found our people to be quite rid of that mental attitude so generally held in the Orient – that woman is in every way man’s inferior and should be his slave. The Bahais in Persia are doing all in their power for the education and training of women.21 One of the main subjects of interest to the Western BahÇ¥s was that of the veiling of women, this being the predominant image of Eastern women for Westerners in that time. Dr Susan Moody, an American BahÇ¥ physician who lived in the BahÇ¥ community of Tehran for many years, running a clinic, sent in January 1910, a photograph of a group of unveiled BahÇ¥ women to the BahÇ¥s of the United States, saying: ‘I think I mentioned that this is an important event in their lives; they have thrown down one rule, for once, that is, to show their faces to the world.’22 Similarly, Remey describes a meeting that he attended in Tehran in 1908, at the home of ˝Çyirih KhÇnum: After the chanting of tablets, my companion and I were asked to tell the ladies in the next room something about their sisters in the West, which we did to the best of our ability, he speaking in Persian while my words were translated and spoken through the curtain to the listeners on the other side. Our hostess, it seemed, had hoped that the women in the next room would on that day follow her example and unveil. As we spoke of the freedom and independence and higher education of woman in the West, the khanum became more and more enthusiastic until, ﬁnally, she went toward the doorway and drawing the curtain began speaking very earnestly to the people in the next room. I could not understand her words but so stirring was the tone of her voice that I caught the spirit of what she was saying. She was calling to her sisters to come forth and lift their veils, saying that it was a rare 349

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opportunity to do so then, since we from the West were there, who were accustomed to seeing women’s faces. At the expiration of several minutes her words had the desired effect, for the women arose and drawing aside their veils with one accord, entered the room.23 The issue of unveiling was, however, somewhat side-tracked in the Iranian BahÇ¥ community after Abd al-BahÇ and later Shoghi Effendi advised that the community should act with prudence over this matter and not draw upon itself criticism from the ignorant. Instead, the BahÇ¥ community poured its energies into the education of girls. This increasingly became an important aspect of BahÇ¥ community life. Small traditional one-teacher schools, maktabs, had existed in towns and villages from as early as the 1880s. Pastor Christian Közle, a German missionary in Urumia who died in 1895, writes that: ‘The BÇb¥s set great store by the education of the children, as much for the girls as for the boys.’24 From the ﬁrst decade of the twentieth century, however, more attention and resources were devoted to this enterprise. Eventually, BahÇ¥ girls’ schools were established in many of the other major cities of Iran as well as in those towns and villages where there was a large BahÇ¥ population. Several Westerners, both BahÇ¥s and non-BahÇ¥s, visited these schools and have left their impressions of them.25 We also have some evidence from European accounts of the selfperception of the BahÇ¥s in relation to the issue of the status of women. When E. G. Browne ﬁrst met the BahÇ¥s in Isfahan in 1888, one of them said to him: With you Christians especially we have sympathy . . . the ordinances enjoined upon us are in many respects like those which you follow. We are recommended to take to ourselves only one wife, to treat our families with tenderness and gentleness . . . Further we believe that women ought to be allowed to mix more freely with men, and should not be compelled to wear the veil. At present, fear of the Muhammadans compels us to act as they do in these matters.26

Individual biographies While it is certainly the case that the Iranian BahÇ¥ community in Qajar times was dominated and controlled by men, it is clear from the above quotations from European sources that the community was also making an effort to educate girls, to elevate the status of women and to increase their social role. Although a number of individual biographies cannot give us a complete picture of the perceptions and status of women in the Iranian BahÇ¥ community in Qajar times, nevertheless they can give some 350

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indications of the range of roles available to women, and the limits that were imposed upon them. These biographies give some idea of the extent that women were able to function, gain social prominence and play leadership roles within an authority structure dominated by men. The six women upon whom we will concentrate in this chapter include women from urban and village backgrounds, from elite court social backgrounds, from families of the ulamå , and from village society, and from a variety of geographical settings, Mazandaran, Khurasan, Tehran and Isfahan: one who was a member of one of the most important family of ulamå in Isfahan and was active in the BahÇ¥ community; one who was a part of an elite Tehran family of high government ofﬁcials and who used her connections at this level to assist the BahÇ¥s at times of persecution; two others who were part of Tehran court and administrative circles; one who was the wife of a leading BahÇ¥ in a village community in Mazandaran and took over the leadership role of her husband when he was executed as a BahÇ¥; and one had what might be termed an iconic role as the sister of the ﬁrst person to believe in the BÇb, but who in her own right organised and led the BahÇ¥ community in a Khurasan village. They are not, however, as indicated above, representative of rank-and-ﬁle BahÇ¥s. They belonged to the emerging Iranian middle classes – they were the wives and daughters of ulamå , merchants and government functionaries. Associated as they were with men of power and inﬂuence, it would, of course, have been easier for these women to cross boundaries and break taboos, and in turn for them to set new boundaries of acceptable behaviour for women lower in the social scale. It should not be forgotten, however, that for these women to be successful in their efforts required also an atmosphere that made the changes that they were promoting possible and acceptable; it required thus a change also in the women of lower social rank and in the men of the BahÇ¥ community. Shams al-¤uªå Bilq¥s or Khrsh¥d Bigum, who was given the title Shams al-¤uªÇ by BahÇallÇh, was the cousin on her father’s side of MullÇ Muªammad BÇqir, the leading mujtahid of Isfahan and a major persecutor of the BahÇ¥s. She was orphaned as a child and was raised in the home of the mujtahid. MullÇ Muªammad BÇqir was related by marriage to and had close dealings with the Nahr¥s, a family of merchants who looked after the ﬁnancial affairs of several of the leading ulamå of Isfahan. As a result of this, Shams al-¤uªÇ was married to one of the Nahr¥ brothers, M¥rzÇ HÇd¥. Both M¥rzÇ HÇd¥ and Khrsh¥d Bigum were Shaykh¥s and they moved to Karbala to attend the classes of the Shaykh¥ leader, Sayyid KÇΩim Rasht¥. When the BÇb advanced his claims, they accepted immediately and Shams al-¤uªÇ became one of a circle of prominent BÇb¥ women who gathered around ˝Çhirih and the widow of Sayyid KÇΩim in Karbala. Shams 351

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al-¤uªÇ accompanied ˝Çhirih to Baghdad, during her conﬁnement in the house of Sayyid Maªmd al-Åls¥, the famous mufti of Baghdad, and her expulsion to Iran. Shams al-¤uªÇ then returned to Isfahan. Despite her close links with the family of the leading mujtahid of Isfahan, Shams al-¤uªÇ began to teach the new religion enthusiastically. She continued to do this despite the fact that her husband became one of the BÇb¥ martyrs after the conference of Badasht in 1848 and even after her sonin-law, M¥rzÇ Muªammad Óasan, was executed in Isfahan in 1879 for being a BahÇ¥. She became well-known throughout Isfahan as a BahÇ¥ and was even known as the ‘FÇ†imih of the BahÇ¥s’ or as ‘FÇ†imih, the BahÇ¥s’ Lady of Light’ in reference to the Prophet Muªammad’s daughter. On one occasion she was arrested and beaten unconscious by ill alSul†Çn, governor of Isfahan, and was only saved from death by the intervention of her brother. Because of her notoriety, her brother was eventually forced to transfer their residence to Mashhad. Here too Shams al-¤uªÇ taught the BahÇ¥ faith and rallied the BahÇ¥ women until it evoked such an uproar that her brother was forced to return with her to Isfahan. Here her life and that of her daughter’s family were in such danger that BahÇallÇh instructed them in 1885–6 to leave Isfahan and come to Akka, where she died in the 1890s.27 Få izih Khånum FÇ†imih Sul†Çn Bigum, was known as Gul-i-Surkh Bigum and ÅqÇzÇdih KhÇnum and was given the title FÇizih KhÇnum by Abd al-BahÇ. She was born in Isfahan to a family of ulamå in about 1271/1854. While she was still young, she was married to her cousin ÅqÇ Sayyid ÍÇdiq NaqqÇsh, who was living in Tehran, and so she moved there. Her brother who was living in Tehran was already a BahÇ¥ and she became a BahÇ¥ through him. Her husband, however, remained staunchly opposed to the new religion for many years and even beat her on account of it. Eventually however, he was won over and converted to the BahÇ¥ faith. They both visited Abd al-BahÇ in 1314/1896. From this point onwards, FÇizih KhÇnum became an active teacher of the BahÇ¥ faith, travelling to Kashan, Isfahan and Najafabad. She converted many men and women, and even debated unveiled with a mullå in a village near Kashan in 1916. She was active in assisting those BahÇ¥s who were imprisoned in Tehran, arranging food for them and submitting petitions on their behalf. On a few occasions she was arrested, interrogated and even beaten because of her BahÇ¥ activities. Increasingly as the years went by, FÇizih KhÇnum’s main area of concern became the education of and the raising of the status of women in the BahÇ¥ community. She promoted the discarding of the veil at mixed BahÇ¥ meetings; she began classes for the BahÇ¥ education of women in Tehran. When, on a trip to Kashan in 1916, she found that the BahÇ¥s there had started a school for boys but not for girls, she persuaded the Kashan BahÇ¥s to set up a girls’ 352

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school and she taught there until a replacement teacher could be found. She was in Rasht in May 1920 when the Bolshevik forces landed and took over the town. She acted as the leader of the BahÇ¥ community there in difﬁcult negotiations with the Bolshevik leader. She died at the age of 73 in 1927, in Tehran (see Figure 17.1).28

˝åyirih Khånum I‚mat KhÇnum was a poet and took the pen name of ˝Çyirih or ˝Çyir or ˝Çirih. She was born in Tehran in either 1278/1861 or 1282/1865, the daughter of M¥rzÇ IsmÇ¥l KhÇn ÅshtiyÇn¥ who was a ﬁnancial controller (mustawf¥) in the army and Óab¥ba KhÇnum, who was a secretary in the Shah’s private quarters. When ˝Çyirih was seven years old, her father died and she was then raised in the house of her maternal grandfather, M¥rzÇ Abd al-Kar¥m KhÇn I‚fahÇn¥, known as Óak¥m S¥mÇ. He also died two years later and it was left to ˝Çyirih’s mother to raise her and her brother by herself. They lived with their mother’s brother in the F¥rzih Palace and whenever the Shah was visiting, ˝Çyirih spoke to him with a boldness that surprised him. At the age of thirteen she was married to Mihr Al¥ KhÇn, the deputy commander of the imperial body guard. Her husband was a violent and cruel man and inﬂicted much physical and mental cruelty upon ˝Çyirih. After a time, ˝Çyirih’s maternal uncle Ab al-BarakÇt came to live with them. He secretly converted ˝Çyirih to the BahÇ¥ faith. When her new allegiance became known, her husband’s cruelties were redoubled and he beat her frequently, once leaving her bloody and with torn clothes on their snow-covered roof overnight. On one occasion he bricked her up behind a wall for several days with only very minimal breathing holes; on another he placed a smoking brazier in her room and almost suffocated her. After seventeen years of such a marriage, her husband died, leaving her free and with a sufﬁcient income. She started her new life by completing her education. Then she began a social life dedicated to raising the social status of women and propagating the BahÇ¥ faith. Because of her social status and connections, she was able to invite many of the ladies of inﬂuential families to her home and speak to them about her views. She also began to correspond with newspapers such as Ûrån-i naw and with the BahÇ¥s of America. She supported attempts to start a girls’ school and also the unveiling of women (see the account of a meeting in her house by Remey above). She was one of the ﬁrst women in Iran to begin wearing clothes in the Western style (see Figure 17.2). She died in 1911.29 Få†imih-Sul†ån She was the daughter of Muªrim Beg, a military commander. At the age of thirteen she was married to ÓÇj¥ Faraj, the son of another military 353

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Figure 17.1 FÇizih KhÇnum, seated in the centre of the group

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Figure 17.2 ˝Çyirih KhÇnum

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commander (sarhang) Abd AllÇh KhÇn. Her new husband had, however, secretly converted to the BahÇ¥ faith. He had been much affected when, at the age of ﬁfteen, he heard his father’s account of the bravery of the BÇb¥ martyrs. He had left home at the age of twenty-ﬁve and eventually become a BahÇ¥ in Baghdad and visited BahÇallÇh in Akka. When he married FÇ†imih-Sul†Çn, he put a BahÇ¥ lady in charge of her education and this lady converted FÇ†imih-Sul†Çn. Being from military families, their home was in the government part of Tehran, near the prison and the government telegraph ofﬁce, with one door opening onto the royal park of the MaydÇn-i Arg. ÓÇj¥ Faraj was a cousin and p¥shkår (steward) of Al¥ A‚ghar KhÇn, Am¥n al-Sul†Çn, the Prime Minister, and hence at the heart of government affairs. When in 1883, MullÇ Al¥ JÇn MÇhfurzak¥ (the husband of Alaviyyih KhÇnum, see below) was executed, FÇ†imihSul†Çn contacted two of the BahÇ¥ women and gave them her own jewellery to go and obtain the body and bury it. When a prominent BahÇ¥, Ibn Abhar, was in prison in Tehran in 1891–4, far from his family, FÇ†imihSul†Çn pretended to be his sister and arranged with several of the other BahÇ¥ women to take him food and other necessities every day. Having been unable to present a petition to NÇib al-Sal†ana, the governor of Tehran, by conventional means, she stood in front of his carriage and forced it to stop so that she could speak to him about Ibn Abhar. NÇib al-Sal†ana said his release could be arranged for 1,000 tmåns, but Abd al-BahÇ forbade the BahÇ¥s to allow this extortion, saying it would only encourage more arrests. Eventually, prevented by the Shah’s attendants from presenting a petition, FÇ†imih-Sul†Çn decided to throw herself under the carriage of NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh. When the Shah asked her why she had done such a dangerous thing, she presented Ibn Abhar’s case. She assisted many of the other BahÇ¥ prisoners such as MullÇ Muªammad Ri∂Ç Yazd¥ in 1896–7, and VarqÇ and RªallÇh in 1896 by bringing them food and medical supplies and was thus the ﬁrst to hear when they were executed or had died.30 Alaviyyih Khånum ( Uluviyyih Khånum) Alaviyyih KhÇnum was given the name Óam¥dih at her birth in about 1272/1855–6 but was called Alaviyyih on account of her descent from the Imam Al¥. Her father, ÅqÇ M¥rzÇ ÅqÇ JÇn, was kad-khudå (chief) of the village of MÇhfurzak in Mazandaran and her mother was named Khursh¥d. At about the age of sixteen in 1288/1871, she married her cousin, MullÇ Al¥ JÇn. Her father had arranged for his orphaned nephew to receive a religious education in BÇrfursh and SÇr¥, had then installed him as the religious leader in MÇhfurzak, and as his dying wish had asked that he marry Alaviyyih. While in Barfurush, however, MullÇ Al¥ JÇn had converted to the BahÇ¥ faith and after his marriage, he began to teach the faith to his wife and all of their family. So greatly respected 356

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and loved was MullÇ Al¥ JÇn that all of his family and most of the village eventually became BahÇ¥s. MullÇ Al¥ JÇn and Alaviyyih then began to try to develop the social and spiritual life of the village. Apart from organising prayers and religious classes, they set up two schools, one for boys and one for girls; they organised a buying and selling co-operative so that the people of the village could obtain better prices for the agricultural and other products that they produced; they arranged for some of the people to learn crafts so as to make the village more self-sufﬁcient; and they also purchased cotton which the people of the village would clean and card and sell direct to Russian and Armenian merchants who exported it to Russia. Unfortunately news of the advances being made in the village reached the ulamå . They sent misleading reports to the government with the result that in 1883, MullÇ Al¥ JÇn, Alaviyyih and several others were arrested and the village looted. MullÇ Al¥ JÇn was sent to Tehran, were he was publicly executed a few months later. Far from allowing the death of her husband (and shortly afterwards, that of both of her children) deter her, Alaviyyih KhÇnum, at the age of 28, took her husband’s place as the leader of the BahÇ¥ community and of the village and continued with the reforms that they had made, concentrating especially on children’s education. From about 1886, she also began to travel, at ﬁrst within Mazandaran, but Abd al-BahÇ encouraged her to travel further aﬁeld and in 1901 she undertook a trip to Khurasan and Askhabad. In 1903, while travelling between Khurasan and Yazd, she narrowly escaped death at the hands of a mob who had learned of the persecutions that were going on in Yazd and that they had in their caravan a number of BahÇ¥s.31 She went on from there to ÅbÇdih and also lived in Tehran for a time. She spent some of 1910 in Rasht. Everywhere that she went, her main concerns were to propagate the BahÇ¥ faith and to advance the social position of women in the BahÇ¥ community. She died in 1921.32 Varaqat al-Firdaws B¥b¥ Kchik was given the title Varaqat al-Firdaws by BahÇallÇh. She was born in the village of Bushryih in Khurasan in about 1815, the third child of MullÇ Abd AllÇh SabbÇgh and the sister of MullÇ Óusayn Bushr¥, the ﬁrst disciple of the BÇb. In 1831, after the death of MullÇ SabbÇgh, the family moved to Karbala. Here Varaqat al-Firdaws, her mother and her brothers studied at the classes of the Shaykh¥ leader Sayyid KÇΩim, the women listening from behind a curtain. In Karbala, Varaqat al-Firdaws married Shaykh Ab TurÇb IshtihÇrd¥ and the whole family, including her husband became BÇb¥s in 1844. Varaqat al-Firdaws and her mother joined the prominent circle of women gathered around ˝Çhirih in Karbala. They accompanied ˝Çhirih when she was expelled from Karbala to Baghdad and later as she was deported to Iran and travelled to Qazvin by stages. After 357

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this, Varaqat al-Firdaws and her mother went to join MullÇ Óusayn in Mashhad which had become a major centre for the propagation of the BÇb¥ movement. After her brother had been killed at the siege of Shaykh ˝abars¥, Varaqat al-Firdaws retired to Bushryih. Here she became the centre of another remarkable circle of women. Among these was B¥b¥ RªÇniyyih, whose BahÇ¥ activities reached the ears of NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh, who urged ImÇd al-Mulk, the governor of the area, to have her killed. But the latter was secretly a BahÇ¥ and managed to divert the King’s attention away from this question.33 Another was Umm al-Dhab¥ª, the daughter of a mujtahid of Bushryih, who was very learned and converted many.34 Another was the wife of MullÇ GhulÇm-Ri∂Ç HarÇt¥ of Shahrud who in turn converted her husband.35 Many of the BahÇ¥ travelling teachers (see below) would stay at Varaqat al-Firdaws’s house while they were in Bushryih. For as long as ImÇd al-Mulk was governor of the Tabas area, Varaqat al-Firdaws was protected and able to continue her activities. During periods when he was dismissed, she was persecuted and on one occasion the mob looted and destroyed the family home. Then she, her younger sister and her family, had to stay in a deserted village without adequate provisions for three months. When ImÇd al-Mulk died in early 1902, Varaqat al-Firdaws was subjected to renewed persecution to the point that she decided to emigrate to Ashkhabad. She died on 5 November 1902, ﬁve days after her arrival in Ashkhabad.36

Concerns of the Bahå¥ women From the above biographical material, it is possible to derive some information about the concerns of the women of the BahÇ¥ community in Qajar Iran. Some of these are identical to the concerns of the men, albeit often with a different emphasis; some are distinct to the women themselves. Propagation Most BahÇ¥s in Iran in the Qajar period were to some extent concerned with the propagation of the BahÇ¥ movement. This is partly a result of the repeated references in the writings of BahÇallÇh to the importance of teaching or propagating the BahÇ¥ faith (tabl¥gh) and partly the result of the ethos that had existed within the community since the BÇb¥ period – the ethos of being willing to make sacriﬁces and take risks for the sake of the religion. Among the men, the pattern appeared to be that all members of the community of whatever social rank or occupation would, in the course of their day-to-day contacts with others, seek out those who appeared more open-minded and responsive to the hints and suggestions that they would put into their conversation. They would then take aside such people and speak to them a little about the BahÇ¥ faith, just saying a few words to the effect that a new message had come from God. If there 358

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was any indication of interest, such people were then invited to a meeting where a more learned member of the community would speak to them in greater detail. Such a learned member of the community became known as a ‘teacher’ or ‘propagator’ (muballigh). In the larger towns there would be a number of such individuals resident, but it also became the practice in the BahÇ¥ community for such individuals to travel from place to place. Among the women, the pattern was much the same. It was the custom for women to visit each other in their homes. The BahÇ¥ women began to hold small meetings of no more than half a dozen people to which they would invite one or two women who were not BahÇ¥s. Here one of the more learned or eloquent of the women would speak and answer questions. As with the men, a number of the women, such as Alaviyyih KhÇnum, became itinerant propagators of the BahÇ¥ faith. Because the networks among the women were sometimes different to those among the men, it would not infrequently happen that a woman would become a BahÇ¥ while her husband was still a Muslim. In some such cases, the woman would keep her new allegiance secret; some would keep their faith secret from their husbands but try to teach it to their children. In other cases, the women would try to teach the religion to their husbands with varying results. As can be seen from the above biographies, some women succeeded in converting their husbands, some evoked hostility and even persecution at the hands of their husbands, and some came to an accommodation with them. Another tactic was for a woman to ask a male BahÇ¥ to approach her husband and speak to him about the religion. Education Traditional schools (maktabs) had always provided Iranians with a grounding in religion and Persian literature, but the ﬁrst decade of the twentieth century saw a great expansion in the number of modern schools in Iran. A start had been made in boys’ schools during the nineteenth century but these were very limited in number. Modern girls’ schools had also been run by Christian missionaries in Iran during the nineteenth century, but these were only open to Christians at ﬁrst. Although Zoroastrians and Jews were later also admitted, the majority of Iranian girls could not attend these schools. Then in the opening decade of the twentieth century, especially after the Constitutional Revolution, there was a great expansion of modern girls’ schools. A small school for boys had been operated by BahÇ¥s in the Sar Qabr ÅqÇ district of Tehran since about 1315–16 (c.1897) with the name ‘Maktab-i M¥rzÇ ÅqÇ BÇbÇ Muallim’,37 in the format of a traditional maktab. Then in 1903, it was relocated and transformed into a school run on Western educational lines and was renamed the Tarbiyat School. Girls’ 359

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schooling in Tehran began in much the same way with small informal institutions from perhaps as early as about 1899. On either 1 or 2 May 1911, a formal girls’ school was established with 30 students and called the Tarbiyat School for Girls.38 Earlier that same year a primary school for girls was started in Tehran by a BahÇ¥, Mun¥rih AyÇd¥ (see Figure 17.3), as an individual private initiative. In the villages, small BahÇ¥ maktabs were operating from even earlier. In MÇhfurzak, as indicated above, the village had both a boys’ and a girls’ school from perhaps as early as the late 1870s. In Arab-Khayl, another Mazandaran village, the school was started much later in 1912 but was unusual in that there was a single school and boys and girls were taught in mixed classes.39 From the ﬁrst, these schools were not restricted to BahÇ¥s only and, in cities such as Tehran, many of the daughters of high-ranking families attended. In 1909, the Persian-American Educational Society was formed among the American BahÇ¥s with the express intention of assisting the BahÇ¥ schools in Iran. In 1911, Qudsiyyih Ashraf became the ﬁrst Iranian woman to travel to the West under the auspices of that society in order to complete her education. One of major concerns of BahÇ¥ women appears to have been to educate themselves and then to educate the BahÇ¥ children, especially the girls. We ﬁnd a recurrent pattern that women, such as ˝Çyirih KhÇnum, made

Figure 17.3 The National BÇhÇ¥ Women’s Committee, 1916. The lady to the left on the front row is Mun¥rih AyÇd¥, who founded a girls’ school in 1911

360

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it a priority to educate themselves as soon as they were able after becoming BahÇ¥s. We then ﬁnd several of them making the education of children and particularly the education of girls a high priority in their BahÇ¥ activities. An interesting biographical example is that of ÓÇjiyyih B¥b¥ ÍughrÇ of Yazd. Having been widowed at an early age without children, she persuaded her relatives to allow her to go to Tehran where she lived with a BahÇ¥ family and attended school. When she had graduated from school, she returned to Yazd where she set up, with support from the BahÇ¥ community, a small BahÇ¥ school for girls.40 This special concern for teaching and learning was rooted to a certain extent in the BahÇ¥ scriptures, where education is given great importance. BahÇallÇh, for example, wrote: ‘We prescribe unto all men that which will lead to the exaltation of the Word of God among his servants, and likewise, to the advancement of the world of being and the uplift of souls. To this end, the greatest means is education of the child. To this must each and all hold fast.’41 Similarly Abd al-BahÇ wrote: ‘Every child is potentially the light of the world – and at the same time its darkness; wherefore must the question of education be accounted as of primary importance.’42 Abd al-BahÇ also emphasised, in letters written to the BahÇ¥s of Iran, the importance of educating girls. He wrote, for example, to the BahÇ¥s of Hamadan: ‘The school for girls taketh precedence over the school for boys, for it is incumbent upon the girls of this glorious era to be fully versed in the various branches of knowledge, in sciences and the arts and all the wonders of this pre-eminent time.’43 Although the BahÇ¥ men took notice of Abd al-BahÇ’s repeated instructions to pay particular attention to the education of girls, it frequently required action on the part of the women before substantial movement occurred in this regard. In Tehran, the BahÇ¥ boys’ school was established in 1903, but it required ﬁrm pressure, led by such persons as ˝Çyirih KhÇnum and FÇizih KhÇnum, as well as the American BahÇ¥s Miss Lilian Kappes and Dr Susan Moody, to bring the girls’ school into being in 1911. We have also recorded above that it was pressure from FÇizih KhÇnum that resulted in a girls’ school being added to the BahÇ¥ boys’ school in Kashan. A second aspect to education was BahÇ¥ religious education classes. Among the men, the BahÇ¥ communities had set up classes, for both children and adults, at which such subjects as comparative religion, ethics, BahÇ¥ history and teachings and proofs of the BahÇ¥ faith were taught. Women such as FÇizih KhÇnum and ˝Çyirih KhÇnum made it their mission to set up similar classes for girls and women.44 The social advancement of women One major concern of the BahÇ¥ women was to advance the social role and status of women, in both the BahÇ¥ community and Iranian society 361

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in general. Part of their efforts in this regard was, of course, their activities with regard to educating girls as described above. Another concern was to abolish the social segregation of women so that the voices of women could be heard when the BahÇ¥ community was consulting and discussing its affairs. Allied with this was a desire to abolish the practice of veiling. The quotation from Remey cited above shows that efforts towards abolishing the veil and increasing social interactions between men and women were being made by such women as FÇizih KhÇnum in the early years of the twentieth century. Some such as ˝Çyirih KhÇnum also took these efforts into the general population of Iran – writing letters to liberal journals and talking about such matters among the higher echelons of Tehran society. It must have been difﬁcult for Iranian women in the nineteenth century to have a vision of what sort of progress it was possible for them to make, what social roles it was possible for them to ﬁll. Thus, a major role in the social advancement of BahÇ¥ women was played by a group of Western BahÇ¥ women who moved to Iran to assist the Iranian BahÇ¥s with their social development. They were single women with professions such as medicine, nursing and teaching. They gave the Iranian women, especially the BahÇ¥ women, a vision of what was possible; that women could mix freely with men socially without disastrous consequences for the morals of society, that women could be as learned, even more learned, than men, and that it was possible for women to relate to men on equal terms.45 Eventually, the BahÇ¥s became so well-known for promoting such issues as the advancement of women that the conservative enemies of social progress began to label anyone who promoted these issues as BahÇ¥s. When the Constitutionalists were besieged in Tabriz in 1908–9, for example, the Royalists told their forces that all of the Constitutionalists were ‘BÇb¥s’ and so it was their religious duty to kill them.46

Roles of the Bahå¥ women It is possible through a consideration of material here presented to discern a number of roles that women could play in the BahÇ¥ community of Qajar Iran. Leadership roles Iran was and still is a strongly patriarchal society, where women usually have no say and their views are not heard, except in the family setting. With many BahÇ¥ men being killed in various episodes of persecution, it was not unusual to ﬁnd women stepping in as head of the family. Varaqat al-Firdaws, for example, appears to have acted as head of family of MullÇ Óusayn Bushr¥ after her brothers were killed. 362

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One can also see that, under certain circumstances, it was possible for women to take on a leadership role in the BahÇ¥ community. Usually this occurred when a prominent BahÇ¥ leader died and he had an educated, socially active wife. Thus when MullÇ Al¥ was executed, his wife Alaviyyih KhÇnum, who had shared in his leadership of the MÇhfurzak BahÇ¥ community, took over as sole leader of that community and directed their social affairs. This was not an isolated occurrence, however. When MullÇ Jafar, the leading BahÇ¥ of Jasb, near Qumm, died, his wife MullÇ FÇ†imih, who, as her name indicates, was an educated woman, assumed leadership of the community together with her brothers. It is interesting to see also that even in an urban BahÇ¥ community, such as that of Rasht, FÇizih KhÇnum acted as the leader of the BahÇ¥ community in negotiations with the Bolshevik leader in 1920. Roles of scholarship and learning Associated with the leadership role that some women took on was that of scholarship and learning, especially in the village and small town setting. In the two village examples cited previously, MÇhfurzak and Jasb, women were able to step into leadership roles possibly because they were the most educated person in the village. In larger towns and cities, however, learning was not necessarily linked to a leadership role for women, although it often was for men. Learned and educated women such as Shams al-¤uªÇ and ˝Çyirih KhÇnum were highly respected in the community without acquiring any leadership functions. They seem to have put their education to use mainly in the ﬁeld of the propagation of the BahÇ¥ faith to other women. They would be the key speaker at meetings to which interested women were brought with a view to converting them to the BahÇ¥ faith. There are several other instances of such women: Bigum Kchik KhÇnum, the maternal aunt of HÇjj¥ M¥rzÇ JÇn¥, met the BÇb when he was in Kashan and became so well-known for her activities as a muballigha (propagator of the BahÇ¥ faith) of the BahÇ¥ faith that she was forced to leave Kashan47; her daughter M¥rzÇ BÇj¥ KÇshÇniyyih was even more well-known as a muballigha, both in Kashan and later in Tehran.48 In later years, these educated women also worked for the setting up of BahÇ¥ schools for girls. We have noted above several examples of this. Another example would be M¥rzÇ BÇj¥ KÇshÇniyyih who replaced FÇizih KhÇnum as the ﬁrst permanent teacher at the BahÇ¥ school for girls in Kashan. One factor that this study highlights is the importance of circles of learned women. In the lives of the six women that we have looked at in detail in this chapter, two of them, Shams al-¤uªÇ and Varaqat al-Firdaws, were converted as a result of their participation in the circle led by ˝Çhirih in Karbala during the BÇb¥ period. ˝Çhirih herself went on to form another circle in her home-town of Qazvin, in which Varaqat al-Firdaws participated 363

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and which included four women of the FarhÇd¥ family and several other learned women.49 Varaqat al-Firdaws went on to become the centre of an important circle of women in Bushryih in the last decades of the nineteenth century. In Tehran also, the links of the BahÇ¥ women went back to the time that ˝Çhirih was imprisoned in Tehran. At this time, she converted several women including a Qajar princess, a granddaughter of Fatª Al¥ ShÇh, Shams-i JahÇn KhÇnum, who used the pen name Fitnih. The next generation of women included Umm al-AwliyÇ (see below, p. 365). Among those whose biographies are given above, two, FÇizih KhÇnum and ˝Çyirih KhÇnum, participated in a circle of women in Tehran that formed in the ﬁrst decade of the twentieth century and was concerned with the promotion of a greater social role for women and the setting up of the girls’ school in Tehran; it included such women as Mun¥rih AyÇd¥ and two American women Dr Susan Moody and Lilian Kappes. These circles of BahÇ’¥ women paralleled developments among certain groups of educated Iranian women who formed themselves into societies dedicated to the elevation of the status of women.50 Networks of women also played other important roles. We have noted that Umm al-AwliyÇ created a network of BahÇ¥ women concerned with the assistance of BahÇ¥ prisoners. Conversions to the BahÇ¥ faith also often occurred through these networks of women. BahÇ¥ women in each city would talk to others in their social network about the BahÇ¥ faith, and those interested would be taken to meetings at which a learned BahÇ¥ woman would speak and answer questions. Family networks of women were also important in the conversion process and also, of course, for maintaining the faith of the next generation. Conversions of Jews to the BahÇ¥ faith in Kashan, for example, sometimes occurred through family networks of women, while the men remained Jews.51 Symbolic/iconic roles There were a small number of women who, because of their close association with major ﬁgures in the history of the BahÇ¥ faith, especially ﬁgures who had been martyred, came to hold a symbolic, almost iconic, role for the BahÇ¥ community of Iran. The BÇb¥ heroine ˝Çhirih is the foremost example of such an iconic role for the BahÇ¥ women of Qajar Iran, as, it could be said, she was for the women’s movement of Iran generally. The best example of a living iconic role for the late nineteenth century was Khad¥jih Bigum, the wife of the BÇb. Following her husband’s execution, she lived on in Shiraz and became a follower of BahÇallÇh. She lived in semi-seclusion but BahÇ¥ women visitors to Shiraz often met with her by appointment. One such meeting was with Mun¥rih KhÇnum, who was to become the wife of Abd al-BahÇ. Her description of her meeting with Khad¥jih Begum as she passed through Shiraz on her way to Akka, highlights the iconic role that Khad¥jih Begum played: ‘The next 364

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morning the wife of the Bab . . . came to bid us welcome. She seemed like the Virgin Mary or FÇ†imih ZahrÇ.’52 A similar iconic role was played by Varaqat al-Firdaws as sister of the ﬁrst person to believe in the Bab, MullÇ Óusayn. UstÇd Al¥ Akbar BannÇ, the author of a BahÇ¥ history of Ashkhabad, refers to her as ‘Ha∂rat-i Varaqat al-Firdaws’, a designation that he does not apply to any of the other distinguished BahÇ¥s who came to Ashkhabad and whom he mentions in the text.53 Organisational and intervention roles Because of the low status of women, it was frequently possible for the women of the BahÇ¥ community to do things that were impossible for the men. Thus when BahÇ¥ men were arrested and held in prison, the women would organise the delivery of food for them and would arrange for petitions to be presented on their behalf. Very important in this role was HawwÇ, who was named Umm al-Awliya by BahÇallÇh, and her family.54 She was married to ÓÇj¥ M¥rzÇ Muªammad A††Çr, an important BahÇ¥ merchant. Her son ÓÇj¥ Muªammad Raª¥m was married to the daughter of ÓÇj¥ Raª¥m KhÇn, the farråsh gha∂ab (royal executioner) of NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh. ÓÇj¥ Raª¥m Khan’s function was to carry out any sentences imposed by the Shah. Although he was a strict Muslim, he was also protective of the BahÇ¥ community. Whenever he was given a list of BahÇ¥s to arrest, he would secretly warn his daughter’s family ﬁrst to ensure that those BahÇ¥s were hidden. Then he would appear at their houses with his team of farråshs (footmen) and m¥r-gha∂åbs (executioners) and make a great show of his anger at ﬁnding them gone. During the great famine of 1288/1871, the government distributed bread from a number of bakeries in Tehran. The BahÇ¥s were not given any of these rations. ÓÇj¥ Raª¥m Khan was given the task of distributing this food and recruited his son-in-law to assist. A large quantity of bread was delivered to his son-in-law’s house each day. Umm al-AwliyÇ organised those BahÇ¥ families who were not able to obtain any food to come at night to the house and she would distribute whatever food she had, frequently even giving her own rations away. In 1300/1882–3, while Raª¥m Khan was away, a large number of BahÇ¥s were arrested and held in prison for over a year. Umm al-AwliyÇ pretended to be the sister of one of the prisoners and so was able to bring them food. One day she heard that Sayyid ÍÇdiq ˝abÇ†abÇ ¥, the leading mujtahid of Tehran, had called an assembly of ulamå to determine the fate of the BahÇ¥ prisoners. Umm al-AwliyÇ led a delegation of the BahÇ¥ women to the house of the mujtahid to plead on behalf of the imprisoned BahÇ¥s.55 Similarly, as described above, when Ibn Abhar was in prison in Tehran, FÇ†imih-Sul†Çn pretended to be his sister in order to be able to take food to him and presented a petition to the Shah pleading his case. 365

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Thus, in periods of persecution, the BahÇ¥ women were able to use the anonymity of the veil and the low status accorded to them in Iranian society to organise the community and support imprisoned BahÇ¥s. They were thus able to perform tasks that it would have been dangerous and probably impossible for the men to perform. During the time that the persecutions abated, the women continued to involve themselves in organisation but it was then mainly the organisation of the BahÇ¥ women. Towards the end of the Qajar era, the organisation of BahÇ¥s in general, and of BahÇ¥ women in particular, developed. A BahÇ¥ women’s committee (see Figure 17.3) was formed in 1909 under the auspices of the Central Assembly, and this began to encourage the formation of local women’s committees, that were also called BahÇ¥ women’s assemblies. These committees then promoted a further development of women’s activities in each town. Women gained the right to vote in BahÇ¥ elections in 1923. It was, however, to be the early 1950s before women were elected onto the main local and national administrative assemblies.

Conclusion Taking the BahÇ¥ community as it emerged from its BÇb¥ forebears in the early 1870s until the end of the Qajar era in 1925, one can see a slow evolution. At the beginning of this period, there was only a theoretical position, a statement of intent in the BÇb¥ and BahÇ¥ scriptures to improve the position of women and to give them a greater social role. In practice, however, the social position of BahÇ¥ women was probably little different from that of the other women of Iran. During the Qajar era, however, there was a gradually escalating effort to improve the social status of women and to increase their involvement in BahÇ¥ community life. The greatest efforts were made in the area of education, where girls’ schools were established in most places where there were appreciable numbers of BahÇ¥s. Progress in other areas such as removing the veil and the involvement of BahÇ¥ women in the administration of the BahÇ¥ community was slower, partly due to the outside pressures on the BahÇ¥ community. Even here, however, some tentative progress was made with mixed-sex meetings in the home of BahÇ¥s and some beginnings to women’s organisations within the BahÇ¥ community. The foundations laid during the Qajar period were eventually to bear fruit. In 1973, for example, the BahÇ¥ community was able to claim 100 per cent literacy rate among women under forty years of age.56 This at a time when the literacy rate for women under 40 in Iran was 44 per cent.57 By the 1950s, women were being elected to local and national BahÇ¥ administrative bodies.58 The successes should not be exaggerated. At the end of the Qajar era, the BahÇ¥ community was still a patriarchal society dominated and run by men, but sufﬁcient groundwork had been laid to allow women the 366

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education and social skills necessary to begin to play a much larger role over the following decades.

Notes 1 This chapter has beneﬁted from the valuable suggestions resulting from discussion of it on the Bridges e-mail list. Among those contributing to the discussion were: Dr Susan Maneck, Siyamak Zabihi, Dr Loni Bramson, Dr Richard Hollinger, Ismael Velasco, Daniel Grolin, Dr Iraj Ayman, Terry Culhane, Aaron Sealy, Dr Ahang Rabbani and Cyrus Agahi. 2 No substantial scholarly biography of ˝Çhirih has been written. Useful biographical accounts include: (Muªammad Zarand¥) Nab¥l The DawnBreakers: Nab¥l’s Narrative of the Early Days of the Bahå’¥ Revelation (Shoghi Effendi (ed. and trans.): Wilmette Ill., 1970) 81–4, 269–87, 293–300, 621–9; F. MÇzandarÇn¥ uhr al-ªaqq (Tehran, n.d.) III, 310–69; A. Amanat Resurrection and Renewal: The Making of the Babi Movement in Iran, 1844–1850 (Ithaca, 1989) 295–331; and S. Maneck ‘˝Çhirih: A Religious Paradigm of Womanhood’ The Journal of Bahå’¥ Studies 2.2 (1989) 35–48. On the impact made by ˝Çhirih, see F. Milani Veils and Words: The Emerging Voices of Iranian Women Writers (London, 1992) 77–99; Negar Mottahedeh ‘The Mutilated Body of the Modern Nation: Qurrat al-Ayn Tahirah’s Unveiling and the Iranian Massacre of the Babis’ Comparative Studies of South Asia, Africa and the Middle East 18.2 (1998) 38–50. A bibliography of the literature on ˝Çhirih in oriental languages can be found in Khshih-hå ¥ az Kharman-i Hunar va Adab 3 (1992) 135–42, which lists 180 works; and a bibliography in Western language items in Khshih-hå ¥ az Kharman-i Hunar va Adab 4 (1993) 205–22, which lists 206 works. These works range from passing references to whole books. 3 P. Paidar Women and the Political Process in Twentieth Century Iran (Cambridge, 1995) 50–1. 4 Bibi Khanum Astarabadi Maåyib al-Rijål: Vices of Men (A. Najmabadi (ed.): Chicago, 1992). 5 P. Paidar, Women and the Political Process, 52. 6 The Bab Bayån-i fårs¥ (Tehran, n.d.) 6:7 (references given as våªid:båb). On the laws and writings of the BÇb relating to women, see M. AfnÇn ‘MaqÇmi zan dar ÇthÇr-i Ha∂rat-i Nuq†ih-yi ÁlÇ’ Khshih-hå az Kharman-i Adab va Hunar 6 (1995) 207–26. 7 The Bab, Bayån, 8:15. 8 The Bab, Bayån, 8:10. 9 ‘Compilation of BahÇ¥ texts on women’ in Research Department of the Universal House of Justice (compiled) Compilation of Compilations, 2 vols (Victoria, Australia, 1991) II, 357: no. 2093. See also 358: no. 2094, and 379: no. 2145. 10 ‘Compilation of BahÇ¥ texts on women’ in Research Department, Compilation of Compilations, II, 359: no. 2098. 11 BahÇallÇh Kitåb-i Aqdas (Haifa, 1992) para. 63. 12 Abd al-BahÇ Selections from the Writings of Abdu’l-Bahå (Haifa, 1978) 302. 13 ‘Compilation of BahÇ¥ texts on women’ in Research Department, Compilation of Compilations II, 391: no. 2117; 395: no. 2187. 14 See the letter to the BahÇ¥s of Hamadan quoted later in this chapter. 15 See BahÇallÇh, Kitåb-i Aqdas, 205–6. 16 J. A. de Gobineau Les religions et philosphies dans l’Asie centrale (10th edn: Paris, 1957) 313; translated in M. Momen (ed.) The Babi and Bahå ¥ Religions, 1844–1944: Some Contemporary Western Accounts (Oxford, 1981) 22.

367

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17 Although Cormick writes of the BÇb’s religion here, it is almost certain that he was referring to the BahÇ¥ community as it developed in later years. There was no time for the development of any characteristics of a BÇb¥ community in the short period in which this religion was active before its suppression in 1850–53. After that, it was BahÇ¥ communities that grew and which Dr Cormick would have been in contact with in Tabriz where he lived. These were however still called BÇb¥ communities by most outsiders. 18 E. G. Browne Materials for the Study of the Babi Religion (Cambridge, 1961) 262. 19 The two articles were ‘Obeczny postep w stanowisko kobiety na muzulmanskim wschodzie’ (‘Present Progress in the Status of Women in the Muslim East’) Bluscz 7.12, 7.13, 7.15, 7.16, 7.17, 7.31 (March 1871) and ‘Babyzm: Spoleczno – religijny ruch w Persyi. Nowe stanowisko kobiety’ (‘Babism: Socioreligious Movement in Persia. New Position of Women’) Gazeta Polsksa 222, 223, 225, 226 (27, 28, 30 September and 1 October 1875). Both articles were published in vol. 6 of Jablonowski’s collected works, Pisma Aleksandra Jablonowskiego (Warsaw, 1912). This quotation is on p. 363. Information and translation taken from an unpublished article by Jan Jasion ‘Aleksander Walerian Jablonowski and the Introduction of the of the BahÇ¥ Revelation into Poland’. 20 I. Adams Persia by a Persian (n.p., 1900) 466. 21 Charles Mason Remey Observations of a Bahai Traveller (2nd edn: Washington, 1914) 103. 22 Letter from Moody to Russell, Chase papers, National BahÇ¥ Archives, Wilmette, cited in R. J. Armstrong-Ingram ‘American BahÇ¥ Women and the Education of Girls in Tehran, 1909–1934’ in Peter Smith (ed.) In Iran, Studies in Babi and Bahå ¥ History (Los Angeles, 1986) III, 186. 23 Remey, Observations of a Bahai Traveller, 107–8. Also in A. Najmabadi ‘˝Çyirih’ Nimeye Digar 2.3 (Winter 1997) 179–80. 24 Account translated from F. C. Andreas Die Babis in Persien (Leipzig, 1896) 67–8 in M. Momen ‘Early Relations between Christian Missionaries and the Babi and BahÇ¥ Communities’ in M. Momen (ed.) Studies in Babi and Bahå ¥ History I, 74. 25 For a non-BahÇ¥ Westerner’s view of the BahÇ¥ girls schools, albeit one that is outside of the period that we are discussing, see the account by MerritHawkes of her visit to two schools in Yazd and one in Kirman in 1933; O. A. Merrit-Hawkes Persia: Romance and Reality (London, 1935) 144–5, 152–3. Accounts by BahÇ¥s of the founding and development of the Tarbiyat School for Girls can be found in issues of Star of the West 2.18 (Feb. 1912) 12–13 (report by Lillian Kappes); 4.7 (July 1913) 114 (Dr Susan Moody). 26 E. G. Browne Year amongst the Persians (Cambridge, 1893) 236–7, cited in M. Momen (ed.) Selections from the Writings of E. G. Browne on the Babi and Bahå ¥ Religions (Oxford, 1987) 34–5; see note on p. 23 that identiﬁes the speaker of these words as JavÇd ÅqÇ or M¥rzÇ JavÇd, a relative of the famous BahÇ¥ calligrapher, Mishk¥n Qalam. 27 Abdu’l-BahÇ Memorials of the Faithful (Wilmette, 1971) 175–85; MÇzandarÇn¥ uhr al-ªaqq III, 97–9 and VI, 142–4. F. Arbab Akhtarån-i tabån, 2 vols (3rd printing: Delhi, 1999) I, 68–72. 28 MÇzandarÇn¥ uhr al-ªaqq (Tehran, 131BE/1974) VIIIa 486–90; Untitled treatise and autobiographical account by FÇizih KhÇnum, photocopy of MSS in Afnan Library, London; Arbab, Akhtarån-i tåbån, I, 229–37. 29 MÇzandarÇn¥, uhur al-ªaqq VI, 457–64; VIIIa, 451–62; these and other source materials are all reprinted in Afsaneh Najmabadi, ‘˝Çyirih’, 146–95; Arbab, Akhtarån-i tåbån, I, 238–44.

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30 MÇzandarÇn¥, uhur al-ªaqq VI, 444–51. 31 Momen, The Babi and Bahå ¥ Religions, 396. 32 MÇzandarÇn¥, uhr al-ªaqq VI, 979–84; VIIIb (Tehran 132BE /1975) 814–17. ÓÇj¥ M¥rzÇ Óaydar Al¥, manuscript biography of M¥rzÇ Ab al-Fa∂l GulpaygÇn¥, pp. 267–77; A. AlaviyÇn Barg¥ az daftar-i zindig¥-yi buzurg (Montreal, 1991) 60–3; Arbab, Akhtarån-i tabån I, 141–5. 33 MÇzandarÇn¥, uhr al-ªaqq VI, 65. 34 MÇzandarÇn¥, uhr al-ªaqq VI, 61–2. 35 MÇzandarÇn¥, uhr al-ªaqq VI, 318. 36 Hasan FuÇd¥ Bushr¥ ManåΩir-i tår¥kh¥-yi nih∂at-i amr-i Bahå ¥ dar Khuråsån (photocopy ms. in Afnan Library) 22–5, 389–91; MÇzandarÇn¥, uhr al-ªaqq III, 144; VI, 63; VIIIa, 207. UstÇd Al¥ Akbar BannÇ Tår¥kh-i Ishqåbåd (photocopy manuscript in Afnan Library), 388–9; ArbÇb, Akhtarån-i tåbån I, 47–51. 37 AbbÇs ThÇbit Tår¥khchih-yi Madrasih-yi Tarb¥yat-i Ban¥n (New Delhi, 1997) 34–5. 38 ThÇbit, Tår¥khchih, 40, quoting a memoire by Dr A†Ç AllÇh BakhshÇyish. See also Armstrong-Ingram, ‘American BahÇ’¥ Women’, 188. 39 H. RastigÇr ‘MadÇris-i BahÇ¥-yi MÇzandarÇn’ Payåm-i Bahå’¥ 154 (Nov. 1992) 37. 40 Merrit-Hawkes, Persia: Romance and Reality, 144–5. 41 BahÇallÇh cited in ‘BahÇ’¥ Education’ in Research Department, Compilation of Compilations I, 246: no. 557. 42 Abd al-BahÇ, Selections from the Writings of Abdu’l-Bahå, 130–1. 43 Abdu’l-BahÇ in ‘BahÇ’¥ Education’ in Research Department, Compilation of Compilations I, 246: no. 557 and I, 284: no. 631. 44 See S. RÇstÇn¥ Sayyid Óasan-i Muallim va tår¥khchih-yi dars-i akhlåq (Hofheim, 2000) especially pp. 45–9. 45 On these American BahÇ¥ women, see Armstrong-Ingram, ‘American BahÇ’¥ Women’, 180–210. 46 Momen, The Båb¥ and Bahå’¥ Religions, 368. 47 MÇzandarÇn¥, uhr al-ªaqq VI, 672. 48 MÇzandarÇn¥, uhr al-ªaqq VI, 672. 49 This group is described in KÇΩim b. Muªammad Samandar Tår¥kh-i Samandar (Tehran, 131BE /1974) 368–70. 50 See note 5 above. 51 Unpublished research by Anthony Lee, personal correspondence. 52 Mun¥rih KhÇnum Mun¥rih Khånum: Memoirs and Letters (Sammireh Anwar Smith (trans.): Los Angeles, 1986) 28. 53 UstÇd Al¥ Akbar BannÇ, Tår¥kh-i Ishqåbåd, 388. He refers to her death thus: ‘the bird of her soul arose from this ephemeral dust-heap and ascended to the realm of eternity and reposed itself upon the branches of the heavenly tree (˝bå)’ (p. 389). 54 See Arbab, Akhtarån-i tåbån, 99–102. 55 MÇzandarÇn¥, uhr al-ªaqq VI, 405–11. 56 The Bahå ¥ World 15 (1968–73: Haifa, 1976) 248. 57 Calculated from ﬁgures given for 6–39-year-olds in the 1355 (1976) Census in Sålnåmih åmår¥ Kishvar Sål-i 1359 (2nd printing: Tehran, 1362sh) 108. The same ﬁgures can be found in Iran Statistical Year-Book 1377, March 1998–March 1999 (Tehran, 2000) 601. 58 The Bahå ¥ World 12: (1950–54: Wilmette, 1956) 65.

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Part V RELIGION AND CULTURE IN QAJAR IRAN

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18 RELIGIOUS RITUALS, SOCIAL IDENTITIES AND POLITICAL RELATIONSHIPS IN TEHRAN UNDER QAJAR RULE, 1850s–1920s Kamran Aghaie

The political uses of Karbala symbols, rituals, and simple mourning practices date almost as far back as the Battle of Karbala itself (680).1 However, the more elaborate Sh¥ ¥ ritual, commonly referred to as the ‘Muªarram procession’, did not develop until the tenth century. The earliest reliable account of the performance of public mourning rituals which in any way resemble what we now call Muªarram processions (especially with a political connotation) concerns an event which took place in 963 during the reign of Muizz al-Dawla, the Buyid ruler of southern Iran and Iraq. The Buyid rulers, who were themselves Sh¥ ¥s, promoted this practice partly in order to enhance their religious legitimacy and to strengthen the sense of Sh¥ ¥ identity in and around Baghdad. It should be noted, however, that during this period popular sentiment for the family of the Prophet was not restricted exclusively to the Sh¥ ¥s. The famous fourteenth-century Arab historian, Ibn Kath¥r states that: On the tenth of Muªarram of this year [AH 352], Muizz al-Dawla Ibn Buwayh, may God disgrace him, ordered that the markets be closed, and that the women should wear coarse woolen hair-cloth, and that they should go into the markets with their faces uncovered/unveiled and their hair dishevelled, beating their faces and wailing over Hussein Ibn Abi Talib. The people of the Sunna could not prevent this spectacle because of the Shia’s large numbers and their increasing power (zuhur), and because the sultan was on their side.2 During the following centuries historians continued to record the details of the Battle of Karbala in historical texts; and popular commemorative elegies, and mourning processions were common throughout the Muslim 373

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world. For example, ÍÇªib Ibn AbbÇd, a famous poet of the Buyid era, wrote many elegies for the ahl al-bayt: The blood of the friends of the prophet Muhammad is ﬂowing; Our tears rain plentifully. Let there be inﬁnite curses and blame upon his enemies in the past and the future. Distress yourselves about what befell the children. Now listen to the story of the martyrdom and how they deprived Hussein of water; and when he was ﬁghting on the plain of Kerbela how they behaved meanly and unjustly. They cut off the head of a descendant of the prophet in that ﬁery land! But the Imam lives, his foot in the stirrup and mounted upon his horse! He will not be killed! Then the sinners and the merciless attacked the Prophet’s Family. Fly to salvation while there is still the chance, hurry! Shemr the bastard of Ibn al-Baghi struck his sword on the ground while laughing. This is a kindness to the prophet and is pleasing! Then the soldiers of the Banu Hind moved out with the heads of the descendants of the Chosen Prophet ﬁxed to the points of their lances. The angels in heaven bewailed their deaths and have wept so copiously that water was ﬂowing from the leaves of the trees and plants. Then you must weep for a while; for after this tragedy of Taff, laughter is unlawful.3 A major development in Sh¥ ¥ rituals occurred with the establishment of the Safavid state in 1501 in a territory largely encompassing the modern state of Iran. The Safavids were originally a Suﬁ order, but the founder of the dynasty, Shah IsmÇ¥l, decreed that the ofﬁcial state religion would be orthodox ithnå ashar¥ Shiism. Sh¥ ¥ symbols and rituals were very important for the self-deﬁnition of the Safavid dynasty. They made fairly liberal use of Sh¥ ¥ symbols and rituals (such as the Muªarram procession) to promote their legitimacy vis-à-vis their Sunni rivals to the East (the Uzbegs) and the West (the Ottomans). They also used these rituals as a means for shaping, inﬂuencing, or controlling society.4 Sh¥ ¥ rituals took on new meanings and new forms during the Safavid era. The fact that the rulers were themselves Sh¥ ¥s meant that public rituals could be performed without any regard for Sunni attitudes toward these rituals. Sh¥ ¥s could express publicly their sense of community identity and their negative sentiments toward Sunnis. For example, they could openly condemn with impunity the ﬁrst three caliphs, Ab Bakr, Umar and UthmÇn. While earlier rituals had been performed within a society in which the Sunnis made up the majority, the Safavid period created a new environment that was relatively isolated from Sunnis. This also meant that the Sunni ‘other’ was now more of a symbolic reality than a practical reality, because very few Iranians remained Sunni in the centuries to follow. Because of the large numbers of Sh¥ ¥s living under Safavid rule, 374

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rituals became more elaborate and the demand for talented authors of elegies dramatically increased. One of the most signiﬁcant developments in the sixteenth century was the emergence of a new practice called raw∂a khån¥, a ritual sermon recounting and mourning the tragedy of Karbala. The primary catalyst in the creation of this ritual was the appearance of Óusayn VÇiΩ KÇshif¥’s 1502 composition entitled Raw∂at al-shuhadå (‘The Garden of Martyrs’). KÇshif¥’s text was a synthesis of a long line of historical accounts of Karbala by religious scholars. He drew material from such famous texts as Sa¥d al-D¥n’s Raw∂at al-Islåm (‘The Garden of Islam’), and alKhwÇrazm¥’s Maqtal nr al-aimma (‘The Site of the Murder of the Light of the Imams’). Raw∂at al-shuhadå became one of the main sources for a series of ‘Karbala narratives’, and is one of the most often quoted sources in later narratives and histories retelling the story of the battle and its aftermath. Excerpts from KÇshif¥’s work also served as the basis for scripts which were used in the raw∂a khån¥, which eventually became one of the primary rituals of Sh¥ ¥s around the world, and which bears the same name as KÇshif¥’s book. The raw∂a khån¥ is a ritual in which a sermon is given based on a text like Raw∂at al-shuhadå , with a great deal of improvisation on the part of a specially trained speaker. The objective of the speaker is to move the audience to tears through his recitation of the tragic details of the Battle of Karbala.5 This type of mourning ritual has been viewed by Sh¥ ¥s as a means of achieving salvation. This belief is illustrated by the oftenrepeated quotation, ‘Anyone who cries for Óusayn or causes someone to cry for Óusayn shall go directly to paradise.’6 By the Qajar period (1796–1925) the raw∂a khån¥ had evolved into a much more elaborate ritual called shab¥h khån¥ or taz¥ya khån¥. The taz¥ya, an elaborate theatrical performance of the Karbala story based on the same narratives used in the raw∂a khån¥, involved a large cast of professional and amateur actors, a director, a staging area, costumes and props. This ritual reached its greatest level of popularity during the late Qajar period, after which it slowly declined until it was almost completely abandoned in the large cities in the 1930s and 1940s. However, taz¥yas have continued to exist in Iran on a smaller scale throughout the twentieth century, especially in rural areas.7 Because of the grand scale of the urban taz¥ya, it serves as one of the best examples of patronage of Sh¥ ¥ rituals by the state and by the wealthy elite. Its fortunes have been greatly affected over the years by changes in both state policies and elite culture. The taz¥yas declined in the twentieth century in part because they were banned by Reza Shah and in part because Iranian elites became less interested in sponsoring such ritual events. HumÇyun¥ points to this modern trend. After arguing that taz¥ya had deep roots in popular culture, he argues that the decline of taz¥ya in the twentieth century was caused by a process according to which the 375

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elites co-opted these rituals and used them for their own purposes. While their patronage initially contributed to the advancement of the rituals’ performances, when they abandoned them in the twentieth century the taz¥ya went into decline.8 This combination of Reza Shah’s ban on such rituals and the decline in elite patronage also resulted in a relative ‘ruralization’ affect. Many troops, which had become much smaller, moved to rural areas, and performed on a much smaller scale than the grand urban taz¥ya’s of the Qajar period.9 Scholars of literature and drama attempted to revive this theatrical tradition in the 1970s, and again in the 1980s and 1990s. Since 1979, the Ministry of Culture of the Islamic Republic has also tried to preserve this tradition by televising performances, and by establishing cultural preservation centres that regularly sponsor taz¥yas. However, these governmental and scholarly efforts have been focused more strongly upon the preservation of taz¥yas as cultural artefacts than upon promotion of a living tradition that has broad appeal and popular participation. Unlike the Qajar period, which was the heyday of the taz¥ya ritual, the dominant public rituals since the 1930s have been the Muªarram procession, and the raw∂a khån¥. Let us turn our attention now to Tehran under Qajar rule. Like the Safavids before them, the Qajars used Sh¥ ¥ religious symbols and rituals to promote their legitimacy. This included serving as patrons of Sh¥ ¥ rituals, most notably both the raw∂a khån¥ (the ritualised sermon) and the public Muªarram processions. But unlike the Safavids, the Qajars were also enthusiastic supporters of the taz¥ya. As a result of this highlevel of patronage, large tak¥yas (amphitheatres) were built during this period in most major cities and towns for the performance of taz¥yas. Additionally, those professionals whose job it was to act out the narrative of Karbala on-stage or in an open area were ﬁnancially supported by the court, wealthy elites, guilds and a variety of community associations centred around neighbourhoods or other social institutions. The Qajar elites occupied the top-ranking position in a hierarchy of patrons that extended downward to the lowest strata of society. In this way, these rituals served to strengthen the bonds of loyalty between the state and its subjects, thus ensuring for the Qajar elites a certain degree of religious and political legitimacy. However, there were limits to the degree of religious legitimacy to which the Qajars could lay claim. It has been argued that according to nineteenth-century ithnå ashar¥ Shiism, no ruler was considered to be ‘truly’ legitimate except for the Twelfth Imam, who was believed to be living in occultation. Nevertheless, the ulamå did not always challenge the temporal authority of the Qajar rulers. While the ulamå did not necessarily endorse the legitimacy of these rulers, they generally accepted their rule as a practical necessity. Furthermore, the ulamå often tacitly endorsed the religious mandate of the Qajars. Saïd Amir Arjomand paraphrases an eminent nineteenthcentury mujtahid (a religious scholar whose religious rulings are given the 376

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highest degree of authority), M¥rzÇ Ab al-QÇsim Qumm¥ (d. 1817/1818), who described the inherent congruence between political and religious authority in the following way: God has made the king His Lieutenant (jånish¥n) on earth (not the jånish¥n of the Hidden Imam, as the Safavids had claimed to be) . . . The king’s rule is a trial; he is not absolved from performing his ethical duties by virtue of being king, and will be punished by God for all evil doing . . . [Qumm¥ stresses] the interdependence of kingship and religion . . . Kings were needed for the preservation of order, the ulamå for the protection of religion.10 The ulamå had ambivalent attitudes toward both the rulers and Sh¥ ¥ rituals. The ulamå did not always ofﬁcially endorse these rituals (particularly taz¥yas). While some ulamå opposed virtually all forms of ritual performance, singing, or cross-dressing, others were more ambivalent. Shah¥d¥ and BulukbÇsh¥ argue that many ulamå acknowledged the important, social, political and religious merits of these performances assuming that they were ﬁrst purged of the most objectionable practices.11 Some ulamå viewed them as popular innovations that were not based on proper religious foundations either in the QurÇn, or in the documented example set by the Prophet and the Imams. However, within Qajar controlled territories, ulamå did not designate such rituals religiously forbidden. The main issues raised by most critics were that acting on stage representing other people (particularly women) is a religiously forbidden practice, and that Islam forbids hurting or injuring oneself as many did while participating in the popular processions. But, there has not been unanimity of opinion among the ulamå . M¥rzÇ Ab al-QÇsim Qumm¥ discussed the lawfulness of shab¥h khån¥ and taz¥ya (re-enactments of the events of Karbala) in his highly inﬂuential work on Sh¥ ¥ law, Jåmi al-shitåt (published in 1818–19): Question: Is it lawful on the days of Ashura to play the roles of the Imam or the enemies of the Family of the Prophet in order to induce the people to weeping? Is it lawful that men wearing the clothing of the Family of the Prophet or others should play their roles for the same purpose, or is it not? Answer: . . .We say that there is no reason to prohibit the representations of the Innocent and Pure One and the generality of the excellence of weeping, causing weeping, and pretending to weep for the Lord of Martyrs and his followers . . . However, [as to] the representation of the enemies of the Family of the Prophet: There is no proof for the view that it is prohibited as might be imagined . . . . 377

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In 1903–4, a prominent scholar, Sayyid Al¥ Yazd¥, paraphrased the remainder of Qumm¥’s ruling: Fadel Qumm¥ says: dressing up as women is forbidden if the impersonation is done for a private purpose in order to appear as a woman and of their sex. It is evident that the custom in the plays [taz¥yas] is not of this kind and it is plain that a man playing Zainab Khatun, for example, is not dressed as a woman simply for the purpose of appearing as a woman; rather his intention is to portray her form and ﬁgure in order to induce weeping [for the family of the Prophet Muªammad].12 Other respected scholars disagreed with Qumm¥’s view, especially outside Iran, and later in the twentieth century. For example, the opinion of HÇir¥ Yazd¥ (1897–1976), grand åyatallåh and marja al-taql¥d (the highest clerical rank in Shiism), on this matter was that taz¥ya and shab¥h khån¥ were not permissible. Many ulamå attended these rituals, but the elite members of the ulamå attended the more controversial rituals less often, while the lower ranks attended them more often. Many ulamå participated in their own variants of the raw∂a khån¥ ritual in which they abstained from what they considered to be more objectionable practices like theatrical performances, striking one’s body with metal chains, piercing the body with sharp hooks, or striking one’s head with a sword. Sven Hedin, a Western resident in a smaller city at the turn of the century, reports that his town had two takyas: One is that of the Mollahs or priests; it is more digniﬁed and religiously orthodox, and is more conﬁned to the recitation and intoning of sacred legends, without any tamashah or theatrical plays. The day is commenced at the mollahs’ tekkieh and is continued in ours, which belongs to the hokumet or government; that is under the supervision of Emad-ul-Mulk.13 These theological disputes about the legitimacy of the Qajars and the legality of certain ritual practices are important as examples of elite attitudes. They also constituted law. However, they did not necessarily represent attitudes of Iranians from the middle and lower strata of society. This was true even when religious authorities debated very practical aspects of temporal rule, such as a particular Shah’s sense of justice or overall effectiveness as a leader. What is of primary importance here is the extent to which the Qajars used speciﬁcally Sh¥ ¥ concepts and practices in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries to legitimise their rule on a broader, more popular level. By studying patterns of ritual patronage by both the state and elites who were not actually ruling, it will be possible to analyse political and 378

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social dynamics on a broader societal level. Studying the patterns of participation by the masses of average Iranians in these rituals allows for a more inclusive approach to understanding the importance of these rituals in Iranian society during the period under study. The main concerns here are the various uses of Karbala symbols and rituals in promoting the religious legitimacy of both Qajar rulers and other elites under their rule in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The Qajars were fairly aggressive in representing themselves as patrons of Muªarram rituals. Not only did they attend public mourning rituals such as the raw∂a khån¥, taz¥ya and shab¥h khån¥, but they were also avid ﬁnancial supporters of such ritual observances. The wealthy elites in the capital and in the provinces generally behaved in a similar manner. Patronage of this sort was one of the more important means utilised by individuals and groups in Qajar society to raise their social status. Hence, wealthy individuals and organisations often competed for prestige by sponsoring elaborate rituals attended by their clients and associates, but such ﬁnancial support was not restricted to the elites. People from all segments of society contributed in their own way, either ﬁnancially or by donating their possessions or services. Consequently, every ritual became a massive cooperative project in which a variety of social relationships, such as those between elites and their various subordinates, were expressed and strengthened. Basic economic factors ensured the central importance of wealthy patrons within the cooperative venture of organising rituals. The expenses associated simply with feeding the spectators at such ritual events could be enormous. Many European visitors to Iran were impressed by the lavish provisions. ‘The crowds are often regaled with sherbets by the personage at whose cost the tazzia is given, also pipes, and even coffee; and the amount expended in pipes, coffee tea, etc., for the numerous guests is very considerable indeed.’14 Eugene Aubin, the French ambassador to Iran in 1907, estimates that the annual cost to the Shah of ﬁnancially supporting the taz¥ya performances held in NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh’s Takya Dawlat to be 30,000 tmåns.15 Another account estimated the cost of even a small taz¥ya for the ruler to be 1,500 tmåns.16 The takya itself could also be extremely expensive to build. For example, the cost of the construction of the Takya Dawlat by NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh has been estimated at between 150,000 and 300,000 tmåns.17 Just as the rituals were dependent upon the patronage of wealthy elites, many lower and middle strata individuals and groups were often similarly dependent upon members or families from among the elites. Thus, patterns of status within rituals often reﬂected both realities and ideals within broader society. The high degree of patronage was critically important to the development of taz¥ya rituals because of the high costs involved in paying for equipment and costumes, providing a site for the performances, and hiring professional actors and raw∂a khåns (who would deliver these specialised 379

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performances and sermons). While many people participated without pay in Muªarram rituals, there were usually professionals to be hired, especially for the most elaborate ritual of all, the taz¥ya (the theatrical performance). These actors, who often came from families with a long history in the profession were hired by the patron of the taz¥ya, which might be the Shah, a governor, another wealthy individual, or an organisation like a guild.18 One particularly elaborate account describes how a talented young actor could achieve a great deal of wealth and fame by pursuing this profession, thus becoming ‘a star’: The Mirza told me that he [the young actor] came from Ispahan, where the people are most graceful and animated. He had begun by being trained when quite small by his father, the chief of a company of dancers, who wished to make of him a singing dancer. His voice was so melodious, and his elocution so perfect, that he abandoned the profane profession for the sacred art, and came to Teheran, where he obtained large salaries – he was supposed to be paid four hundred tomans for the representations of the ﬁrst ten days of Moharrem. This constitutes afﬂuence for a Persian of the lower class, who live on a pound a month handsomely. During the remainder of the year he led a life of a man of means, singing only from time to time at the houses of grandees . . . Like every self-respecting star, he was capricious, exigeant, and disagreeable, and was a thorn in the side of his director and his colleagues.19 While taz¥ya performances were not exactly the most common ritual events in Qajar Iran, they were closely related to other simpler rituals that were performed on a more popular level in society. Taz¥ya performances, therefore, serve as a good indicator of a comprehensive set of symbols and rituals that helped to connect the state and wealthy elites to lower and middle strata social groups. Taz¥ya performances were based on scripts composed from historical accounts of the Battle of Karbala embellished with tragically graphic detail. While variants of the taz¥ya rituals were also performed in popular processions, in which case they were usually referred to by the more general term shab¥h khån¥, they were best suited to being performed in a takya, which was dedicated almost exclusively to this purpose. Because of the resources available to the court, the Shah was the greatest patron of all. The most elaborate example of court patronage of Sh¥ ¥ rituals was the Takya Dawlat, which was completed in 1873 by the order of NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh following his trip to Europe. This takya was built on a very grand scale. Nevertheless, it was in most ways a typical takya. It consisted of a large circular amphitheatre with several entrances surrounding a large open area; a tent was used as a roof. Its primary purpose was to 380

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provide a staging area for the most elaborate taz¥ya performances. The status of the Shah and his high ofﬁcials was enhanced by his patronage of taz¥yas. Many European residents in Iran attested to the fact that ‘the shah and most of his grandees have their own private tekkyehs, which are ﬁtted up with considerable splendour’.20 In Tehran the Shah built a large takya which could hold several thousand people.21 There are many accounts of the taz¥ya performances of the Takya Dawlat by both foreign diplomats stationed in or visiting Tehran and local inhabitants of Tehran. The accounts of Western visitors to Tehran are very useful to historians because they provide clues to patterns of participation and reinforcement of social status in Tehran during this period. Lady Sheil, a European traveller, resident in Tehran from 1849, gives a brief account of the taz¥ya performance in the Takya Dawlat in 1856: The Shah’s box was at the top, facing the performers; on his right were the boxes of his uncles, the prime minister, the English minister as senior, the Russian minister, &c. On his left were the boxes of his mother . . . and his wives; then that of the prime minister’s wife, then mine, and next the Russian minister’s wife . . . Part of the pit was appropriated for women of humble condition, who were in great numbers, all however carefully veiled, and all seating on the bare ground. Before the curtain drew up, it was ludicrous to witness the contention among these dames for places, which was not always limited to cries and execrations. They often proceed to blows, striking each other heartily on the head with the iron heel of their slippers, dexterously snatched off the foot for the purpose; and, worse still, tearing off each other’s veils; several ferrashes were present to keep the peace, armed with long sticks, with which they unmercifully belaboured these pugnacious devotees. It would be tedious to describe a drama of ten days’ duration. Everything was done to make the scene as real as possible. Hoossein, his family, and attendants, were in the costume of the time. They make their appearance, traveling to Cufa, in the desert of Kerbella. Camels, led horses caparisoned, kejawas, are conducted round the platform; trumpets, kettledrums resound far and near. Yazeed’s army appears, his general makes a speech, Imam Hoossein laments his pathetic fate; he then goes out to ﬁght, and returns, himself and his horse covered with arrows. The scene proceeds; they are cut off from the Euphrates; more lamentations over their impending fate, more ﬁghting. The ﬁerce Shimr and his cavaliers, all in mail, come forward, mounted on their war-horses; Shimr makes speeches in character; 381

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Imam Hoossein replies with dignity and with grief for the distress of his family. His young sons Ali Akbar and Ali Asghar go out to ﬁght, and are brought back dead. Sekkeena and Rookheeya, his little daughters, are slain amid the loud and unfeigned weeping of the audience. The angel Gabriel descends from the skies, attended by his ministering angels, all radiant in spangled wings, and deprecates the hard lot of the prophet’s offspring; the King of the Gins, or Genii, with his army, appears, and follows the angelic example. Moses, Jesus Christ, and Mahoomed, revisit the earth, and are stricken with the general contagion of grief. At length Shimr does his work, amidst a universal outburst of sorrow and indignation; and next day, the tenth, the interment of Imam Hoossein and his family takes place at Kerbella. It is a sight in no small degree curious to witness an assemblage of several thousand persons plunged in deep sorrow, giving vent to their grief in a style of school boys and girls . . . The events are indeed affecting, and many of the parts are acted with great spirit and judgment.22 The status of the Shah and his associates was reinforced by the seating plan of the takya. The Takya Dawlat had three ﬂoors with the Shah himself occupying a central box on the top ﬂoor. Since seating was determined by status, seating reinforced status in a very public way. Many accounts describe how the processions saluted the Shah (or the governor if it was being performed elsewhere) after which they either left or stayed to perform in the taz¥ya. While it was considered far too demeaning for the Shah and his family to participate in the actual processions, sometimes a similar effect was created by having the servants of the Shah lead the procession.23 Lady Sheil’s account also serves as a rare example of how Iranian women participated in public life. She describes how women attended these events in large numbers. Many similar accounts claim that women were often in the majority. Wealthy women were kept separate and out of sight, while poorer women sat in the ‘common’ area. Seclusion has generally been one of the primary signs of wealth in most Muslim societies, and taz¥ya performances were no exception to the rule. Wealthy women also reinforced their social standing in a more direct way by being very generous supporters of such rituals themselves. One of the better known female patrons of such performances was NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh’s sister Izzat al-Dawla, who regularly sponsored very elaborate taz¥yas in her home in Sarcheshme.24 Women were very generous supporters of such rituals as women’s majålis and sufrihs (ritual dinners), as well as raw∂akhån¥s and taz¥yas. According to Shah¥d¥ and BulukbÇsh¥’s research, women’s taz¥yas started during the reign of Fatª Al¥ ShÇh. They were started by some women in his family. 382

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These performances lasted until the end of the Qajar period. Women-only rituals were regularly held in private homes, and even in the Takya Dawlat.25 A typical example was a women’s raw∂akhån¥ that was held in Ri∂Ç Qul¥ KhÇn’s house in Tehran on the ﬁfth of Muªarram of 1886. In Safar of the same year, the wife of Muªammad Óusayn JavÇhir¥ sponsored a taz¥ya in the takya of MilkÇbÇd.26 Other examples of women patrons include Qamar al-Sal†ana, the wife of M¥rzÇ Muªammad KhÇn SipÇhsalÇr, the notable Az¥z al-Sal†ana, and at least one of the daughters of Fatª Al¥ ShÇh.27 The inﬂuence of the rituals was not directed exclusively toward the local Iranian population. By sponsoring taz¥ya performances the Shah also displayed his power and glory to foreign diplomats who were usually invited to attend. While the presence of non-Muslims at these performances may have been somewhat controversial from the perspective of many ulamå , the Qajars considered it to be good diplomacy. This attitude progressively changed as the government came increasingly under attack in the latter half of the nineteenth century and the early twentieth century from both the ulamå and other members of elite society. According to a royal edict issued in 1855, Westerners were ofﬁcially excluded from attending Muªarram performances, although many of them continued to attend them in private homes. Others managed to attend the performances such as those of the Takya Dawlat by wearing disguises.28 It was not until this time that a combination of factors including rising political hostility toward Western imperial powers became a major consideration in this debate. Some Iranians, notably the merchants and their close associates the ulamå , were becoming increasingly hostile to the economic inﬂuence of Western imperialist nations. Concessions to the British throughout the nineteenth century put Iranian merchants at a competitive disadvantage. A concession giving a complete monopoly over the tobacco trade in Iran was granted to a British subject in 1890. Many Iranians made a proﬁt from producing, selling or transporting tobacco, and even more spent their income on tobacco products. In the spring of 1891, mass protests broke out across Iran, and by the fall of 1891, a nationwide boycott of tobacco was in place. As a result of this opposition and pressure from Russia, the Shah was forced to cancel the concession by the spring of 1892. Many segments of the Iranian population took part in these protests, most notably, the bazaar merchants and some ulamå . This growing hostility toward Westerners was one of the reasons they were no longer invited to attend Muªarram rituals. Muªarram rituals were no longer used as an important strategy for promoting a positive image of Iran among foreign diplomats. Government concerns about rising discontent on the part of Iranian merchants were not the only factor in the progressive exclusion of Westerners from Muªarram rituals. Many of the new modernising elites, 383

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who considered taz¥ya and other Muªarram rituals to be a ‘backward’ and ‘lower class’ affair were not anxious to have Westerners view the ‘Iranian nation’ portrayed in such a manner. This is the beginning of a general trend that did not gain full force until the Pahlavi era, according to which many elite intellectuals became more and more disassociated from religious rituals. The famous Iranian intellectual and historian Aªmad Kasrav¥ (d.1946), for example, was very hostile to Sh¥ ¥ rituals. In his 1943 publication Sh¥ agar¥ he describes how following the Constitutional Revolution which began in 1905, groups which he identiﬁes as, the enemies of freedom, comprised mostly of professional religious mourners, clerics and their followers, who were disappointed after much resistance and ﬁghting and began to despair . . . The clerics and professional religious mourners and many of the people were moved and began to ﬁght the liberals who were trying to eliminate religious mourning ceremonies . . . They gathered, performed religious mourning ceremonies, fabricated lies and attacked the constitutional movement.29 While Kasrav¥’s account is a good example of this emerging trend, he himself is an even better example of a more mature phase in this general trend, which more properly belongs to the Pahlavi era. He, like others in the educated elite, was hostile to all forms of Muªarram ceremonies, considering them backward, barbaric and unpatriotic. This trend marks the beginning of a shift in discourse among some intellectuals, most of whom were either educated in the West or were heavily inﬂuenced by Western ideas. The newly emerging nationalist discourse promoted by these new elites gained greater acceptance during the Pahlavi era, as Islamic referents were almost completely abandoned by the state and many members of the new modernising elites. There was no place for Sh¥ ¥ symbols and rituals within this new discourse. This negative attitude toward ‘traditional’ social practices combined with the economic and political criticisms of the rising inﬂuence of imperialist powers in Iran discouraged the Qajar rulers from inviting foreign diplomats to Sh¥ ¥ rituals. There were many other ways in which social status and social bonds were reinforced by the Qajar state. Patron–client relationships were strengthened through the reversal of patronage patterns. A common practice was for the patron to ask other participants to make ﬁnancial contributions. This was generally limited to the patron’s immediate subordinates. This practice allowed other sub-elites present at the ritual to be distinguished from regular participants, who were accorded lower status. It also allowed them to share in the praise lavished on the Shah or the patron. Dorothy De Warzee, a Western observer of the royal taz¥ya performance states that ‘The Shah nominally pays the expenses, but the strain on his purse cannot have been very great, as when he attended the performance, 384

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he visited the important merchants present, who each made him a contribution.’30 There are many similar accounts of the public act of soliciting donations during the rituals themselves, which suggests a method by which status and social bonds were reinforced during these rituals. In the case of the Shah, the act of reversing the patterns of patronage during the performance allowed for a strengthening of relations between the Shah and his immediate subordinates, such as wealthy landowners, merchants and government ofﬁcials. Participants from many different levels of society contributed in their own way, but status was proportional to the participant’s ability to contribute. The status of the Shah or the patron was also promoted in more direct ways. The performers usually prayed for the patron following a prayer for Óusayn and his descendants. Heinrich Brugsch, the German ambassador to Iran, described how ‘after praising the family of the prophet and the Prince of Martyrs he [the giver of the sermon] said a prayer [duå] for NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh and for Iran’.31 This pattern was duplicated in other rituals such as performances and competitions in the zrkhånih (buildings devoted to traditional Iranian wrestling and acrobatics), in which the competitors interrupted their competition and athletic performance to shout out praises to the generous sponsors attending the event. It is clear that the Shah used these rituals in several ways to promote his legitimacy and his social bonds with his subjects. These patterns of patronage were not limited to the court or the Shah. The pattern of court patronage was also not restricted to Tehran. The Shah’s appointed representatives in the provinces duplicated this pattern of patronage, extending all the way to small towns and villages in far off provinces.32 Nor was this patronage pattern restricted only to state ofﬁcials. Wills, an English medical ofﬁcer stationed in Shiraz states that ‘Almost all of the wealthy did some public act or other in the Mohurrim . . . [the taz¥ya] was given by the Zil-is-Sultan, the Governor, in the garden of his place, on a very large scale indeed, and in a smaller way by the Muschir and the Kawam and others.’33 He goes on to describe how government troops were used to assist professionals in erecting the large tent used for the occasion.34 Government ofﬁcials, elites, and non-elites all made contributions. This provided a sense of common purpose among elites and non-elites. There are many accounts of people from all classes contributing to these ritual performances: They are performed in the courtyards of the houses of the rich, who consider it a meritorious act to lend them for the purpose without charge . . . The neighbours as a meritorious act had lent all their pictures, carpets, curtains, mirrors, lusteres, and lamps to ornament the Tekieh. Even the poor had participated in these offerings, by lending small things without value.35 385

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It was usually the poor who volunteered to serve and prepare food or to play the roles of ‘extras’ in the performances. They were often joined by the children of elites who were offered for service by their parents. Many accounts attest to the high regard many people, especially the poor, had for this practice. By having their children serve food and drinks to the poor, elite families could perform an act of humility without risking humiliation, as they would if they were to serve the poor themselves (as adults). Another important example of using Muªarram rituals for reinforcing the authority of the state was the practice of allowing the populace to request of the governor that a prisoner be released. ‘Every band has the right to ask the governor for the freedom of some one prisoner, and these requests are always granted, no matter what the crime of the imprisoned.’36 This practice allowed an opportunity for benevolence on the part of the ruler and his local representatives. While it would be a mistake to take accounts like this one entirely at face value, they do nevertheless indicate a cultural or social ideal which had currency in late nineteenthcentury Iran (in this case, in Urumia, Azerbaijan). Ella Sykes gives a similar account of a Muªarram procession in the south-western city of Ahvaz.37 Let us now shift the focus away from the court, Qajar elites and rural government. Many of the patterns of court patronage of Muªarram rituals were reﬂected not only in rural government, but also in other sectors of society in both Tehran and the provinces. Tehran provides an excellent example of the patterns of ritual patronage and participation on a broader societal level. In Tehran, the Takya Dawlat is a rather dramatic example of the court’s use of Muªarram rituals to enhance its religious legitimacy. However, it would not be as historically signiﬁcant if it were the exception to the rule rather than being representative of more ‘typical’ takyas in Qajar society. While some members of the population attended the performances at the Takya Dawlat, it would be a mistake to assume that all segments of society were highly represented in these performances. According to some accounts the Takya Dawlat was capable of seating as many as 20,000 spectators. This is a very large number for a city with a population of approximately 147,000, but it still does not represent the entire population.38 Muªarram rituals were among the largest and most heavily attended public events at all levels of society. According to ofﬁcial surveys of Tehran conducted by Qajar ofﬁcials, there were a total of 54 takyas in Tehran in 1852 and 43 in 1899.39 This is a remarkable number considering the fact that this survey included only permanent takyas which were by no means the only sites devoted to ritual performances. Public processions (sometimes including the mobile variant of the taz¥ya referred to by the more general term shab¥h khån¥) were conducted in the public streets and alleys. Taz¥yas and raw∂a khån¥s were very often performed in homes, under temporary tents in the streets, and sometimes simply in open spaces in allies. Comparing the number of masjids and madrasas (mosques and 386

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Islamic colleges) to the number of takyas is another indication of the broad appeal of these rituals. In 1852 there were 54 registered takyas and 121 madrasas/masjids, while in 1899 there were 43 registered takyas and 85 madrasas/masjids. Hence, there was roughly one takya for every two masjids/madrasas during the last half of the nineteenth century. These numbers include all the maªallas of Tehran. These ﬁgures indicate that these rituals were among the most important public events in Qajar society. More importantly, they were attended by extremely diverse segments of society. In order to understand the functions of Muªarram rituals in Tehran it is ﬁrst important to understand how Tehran functioned as a social space in the latter half of the nineteenth century. In the centre of the city was the royal quarter (Arg or Dawlat) containing the citadel, where the military personnel and court ofﬁcials were concentrated. Immediately south was the bazaar quarter (Båzår). To the east were two residential quarters (ÁdlÇjÇn, and ChÇlmaydÇn), and to the west was another residential quarter (Sangalaj). The bazaar was the centre of most commercial and social activities while the royal quarter was the centre of court politics, and these two quarters were very closely interrelated. Unlike the later twentieth century, the bazaar quarter was the centre of urban life in Qajar society. Despite the primacy of the Bazaar quarter as the centre of social and cultural activities, and the royal quarter as the centre of political activities, religious life was not restricted to the bazaar or the royal quarter. The distribution of takyas in Tehran, according to the 1852 survey, were 17 in the bazaar quarter, 3 in the royal quarter (citadel), 12 and 10 respectively in the eastern quarters of ÁdlÇjÇn and ChÇlmaydÇn, and ﬁnally, 12 in the western quarter of Sangalaj. It is clear from these numbers that takyas were very widely distributed throughout the city, including all sorts of quarters and neighbourhoods. If we compare these numbers to the distribution of houses and stores we see that in the three residential quarters to the east and west there was roughly a two-to-one ratio of houses to stores, while in the bazaar and royal quarters the ratio was roughly one-to-one. The bazaar was the second least populous quarter (except for the royal quarter), yet it had the largest number of both takyas and masjids/madrasas (17 and 35 respectively). Hence, while takyas were broadly distributed in Tehran, the bazaar was the centre of both commerce and religious activities. Muªarram rituals were not restricted to upper class elites or to wealthier neighbourhoods. It is particularly instructive to compare the two eastern residential maªallas of ÁdlÇjÇn and ChÇlmaydÇn. According to the 1869 census, they both had roughly the same population size (34,000–36,000). However, ÁdlÇjÇn had the largest concentration of Qajar residences (1,268 Qajars; approximately 2/3 of the city’s total), while ChÇlmaydÇn had only 358 Qajars (approximately 1/6 of the city’s total). Furthermore, the vast 387

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majority of ÁdlÇjÇn’s population owned their own homes (roughly 80 per cent, while only 20 per cent rented), as compared to less than half of ChÇlmaydÇn’s population being homeowners. Thus, while ChÇlmaydÇn had a larger percentage of less prosperous residents, it still contained 10 takyas.40 ÁdlÇjÇn, which contained the largest concentration of Qajars, and the wealthiest and most powerful elites in the city, had only 12 takyas. It seems clear that ritual performances constituted a broad-based social phenomenon involving both the rich and the poor. Before continuing it is important to understand how these takyas were established, funded, and run. Religious institutions were usually self-sustaining, but they also required a great deal of ongoing supervision. They also needed to be recognised by the state in order to function efﬁciently. Many takyas were endowments established by court ofﬁcials or other wealthy individuals and families often remaining in use long after their deaths (for example, Mutamid al-Dawla, ÅqÇ Bahram KhÇjih, HÇj¥ Muªammad Jafar KhabbÇz, M¥rzÇ ÅghÇs¥ and the Khalaj family). All of these families were associated with the Qajar elites. The takya was often endowed with several stores, the proﬁts from which would help to defray the cost of maintaining the takya. According to the 1899 survey, there are many examples of such stores in the bazaar. Three stores were registered as belonging to the waqf (pious endowment) of the Takya-yi Khalajhå. Three more are listed under Takya-yi Abbåsåbåd, two for Takya-yi Haft Tan, two for the Takya-yi Zargarhå, and ﬁve stores for the Takya-yi Khisht¥. Other takyas were supported by economic and social associations based on ethnicity or regional afﬁliations (Arabs, Turks, Afghans, Caucasians, Kirmanis, Qummis), occupation (goldsmiths, muleteers, cloth dealers, bread bakers), or location (Darb-i Óammåm, Darb-i Masjid-i Óaw∂, Zambrak Khånih). The next important questions which need to be addressed are: who were the patrons of the takyas spread out across the city, who participated in rituals performed in various quarters, and what sorts of community institutions and identities were associated with them? The answers to these questions will shed light on how a wide variety of identities and social bonds were expressed and reinforced through these ritual performances. The convergence of identities with quarter and neighbourhood identities was very important in determining who participated in ritual performances. Among the most important neighbourhood afﬁliations were ethnic and regional identities. The ethnic and regional groups and groups with nonTehrani afﬁliations tended to converge in particular neighbourhoods and build takyas there. For example, the Arab quarter in the northeastern region of the city just outside the citadel walls contained a large percentage of the Arab population which necessitated the construction of the Takyayi Arabhå within the quarter. There was also another Arab takya just inside the southeastern Abd al-AΩ¥m gate. Similarly, the Qummis had a 388

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takya in the southwestern Qummi quarter. The Kirmanis had a takya in the Kirmani quarter. The Takya-yi Afshårhå was located in the Afshår (Afghan) quarter in the east of the city. The bazaar contained the Caucasian takya (Takya-yi Qafqåz¥hå). The Azerbaijanis were also concentrated in the bazaar (9,485 or approximately 2/3 of the city’s Azerbaijani population were registered as living in the bazaar quarter). Many of these non-Tehrani takyas were located in the western maªalla of Sangalaj. This quarter was one of the fastest growing maªallas in the second half of the nineteenth century. It was therefore the site of immigration of many nonTehranis (25,248 non-Tehranis as compared to only 1,884 Tehranis living in Sangalaj). Corporatist associations were also very important as a basis for various urban identities. Occupations and craft guilds (a‚nåf) provided a sense of community identity through ritual patronage, the goldsmiths’ guild (zargarhå) being one of the more famous institutional patrons. They had a well-endowed takya in the bazaar, as did the muleteers’ guild (qåtirch¥hå) in the south of the bazaar. Since the bazaar itself was organised according to specialisation, any sub-set of the bazaar, called a båzårchih (minibazaar) could serve as the locus for a takya. Occupational afﬁliations, therefore, served as a very important basis of urban identity during this period. There were a wide variety of societal afﬁliations that served as focal points for neighbourhood identities. Personal relationships, family ties, and patron–client relationships were very important bases of urban identities. Many takyas were associated with speciﬁc individuals and their families (such as ÅqÇ Bahram KhÇjih or the Khalaj family). Major buildings or sites, such as the Masjid-i Óaw∂ also served as the focal points for neighbourhoods. These neighbourhoods almost always contained takyas for ritual performances. Planning and ﬁnancing Muªarram rituals was carried out by a variety of social groups, which in turn reinforced a sense of cohesion among its members. When they performed rituals they acted out various forms of neighbourhood identity. Similarly, if a wealthy patron was the primary supporter of such rituals, the bonds between that individual and his or her family on the one hand, and the rest of the participants from the neighbourhood on the other, were strengthened and reinforced. While there was tremendous similarity in the ritual practices of these different groups, in some cases distinctive practices or dress were associated with speciﬁc groups. However, in most cases, they were not deﬁning the basic characteristics of their group as much as they were reinforcing the cohesion and sense of community within an already existing social group. It should also be pointed out that there were also many sub-categories of these identities, which were usually expressed through Muªarram processions rather than taz¥yas. While the taz¥yas were very important as large social events, the most common form of ritual performance was the Muªarram procession. There 389

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were many more processions (dastih) than there were takyas because they were far cheaper to maintain. Organisations and community associations that could not afford to build and maintain a takya still organised processions. A procession did not require a permanent takya and thus they could meet in a temporary takya, such as someone’s home or a tent in an alley and then travel around the neighbourhood and into other neighbourhoods.41 Additionally, each takya usually had a corresponding procession that moved through the streets and visited other takyas before returning to their own quarter. Processions did not require large numbers of professional actors, nor did they require much in the way of expensive costumes or equipment. So while there may have been only one Qummi takya in a given city, there were likely to be many Qummi processions in different neighbourhoods. Similar to the large takyas, there was a strong sense of community identity associated with these less permanent ritual practices. Since these processions were essentially mobile, a sense of community identity could be reinforced by visiting other quarters in processions. While community identities were more ﬂuid and dynamic, they could also be quite rigid and exclusive at times. The practice of neighbourhood processions visiting each other could reinforce amicable relations between two different groups. They also had the potential to promote hostilities and rivalries between these groups. There are many accounts of violence breaking out between processions from different quarters. Both the government and the procession organisers tried very hard to plan the path of the procession well in advance in order to avoid two processions accidentally crossing each other’s paths, because in the heat of the ritual performance ﬁghts could sometimes break out between members of two different processions. There are also other accounts of rival groups deliberately confronting or challenging each other when travelling in processions.42 The above analysis demonstrates how the Qajars were able to promote their religious and political legitimacy through patronage of both public and private Sh¥ ¥ rituals, thus maintaining and strengthening their relationships with their subjects at various levels in society. They were not exactly maintaining ‘public’ support in the same sense that modern nationalist governments try to construct a national citizenry, while at the same time promoting nationalistic loyalty to the state. However, it can be reasonably concluded that these rituals served as a means for legitimising various power relationships within Qajar society, including, but not limited to the ruling elite. While the Qajar elites were at the top of the hierarchy of patrons, they were not the only beneﬁciaries of this system of patronage. The Qajar state was built on relationships of mediation. Taxation and the enforcement of commercial regulations, for example, were greatly facilitated by the state’s reliance on such associations as guilds. Various community relationships were strengthened within a broader system that allowed for relatively diverse identities and loyalties. Loyalty to one’s guild or one’s 390

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ethnic group was not necessarily problematic in maintaining a relationship with the state or with other local elites. These were not absolute categories of identity, but rather they were ﬂuid and overlapping identities based largely on existing social, political and economic relationships, which manifested themselves in ritual form. Economic and political changes in Iran, along with new identities like nationalism helped to transform these social relationships. As these relationships changed over time so did the patterns of ritual performance.

Notes 1 According to Sh¥ ¥, and other, sources the Prophet Muªammad’s grandson Óusayn, along with 72 family members and close associates were killed by the troops of the Umayyad caliph Yaz¥d in the desert of Karbala. They have been considered martyrs by Sh¥ ¥s ever since. 2 Ibn Kath¥r, al-Bidåya wa al-nihåya (Cairo, 1358AH) XI, 243. This translation is from Michel M. Mazzaoui ‘Sh¥ ¥sm and ÅshrÇ in South Lebanon’ in Peter J. Chelkowski (ed.) Taz¥ya: Ritual and Drama in Iran (New York, 1979) 231. 3 From Abu Bakr al-KhwÇrazm¥’s Maqtal al-Óusayn. This translation is from Mayel Baktash ‘Taziyeh and its Philosophy’ in Chelkowski (ed.), Taz¥ya, 97. 4 For a detailed discussion of Sh¥ ¥ rituals during their early formative period, see Jean Calmard ‘Le culte de l’Imam Husayn. Etudes sur la commémoration du Drame de Karbala dans l’Iran pré-safavide’ (unpublished dissertation, University of Paris III, 1975). 5 Raw∂a khåns were usually men, although sometimes, female orators gave the sermon in private raw∂a khån¥s attended exclusively by women. 6 Jean Calmard ‘Le Patronage des Taziyeh: Elements pour une Etude Globale’ in Chelkowski (ed.), Taz¥ya, 122. 7 Shah¥d¥ and BulukbÇsh¥ provide a detailed chronology of the growth in Taziya performances during the successive reigns of the Qajar shahs. See InÇyatallÇh Shah¥d¥ and Al¥ BulukbÇsh¥ Pazhuhish¥ dar taz¥ya va taz¥ya khån¥ az åghåz tå payån-i dawra-i Qåjår dar Tihrån (Tehran, 1979). 8 ÍÇdiq HumÇyn¥ Taz¥ya dar Ûrån (Shirazi, 1989) 143–6. 9 Shah¥d¥ and BulukbÇsh¥, Pazhuhish¥, 116–17. 10 Saïd Amir Arjomand The Shadow of God and the Hidden Imam (Chicago, 1984) 223. 11 For a discussion of divers views of proponents and opponents of the taz¥ya ritual, see Shah¥d¥ and BulukbÇsh¥, Pazhuhish¥, 120–3. 12 Baktash ‘Taziyeh and its Philosophy’ in Chelkowski (ed.), Taz¥ya, 107–9. 13 Sven Hedin Overland to India, 2 vols (London, 1910) II, 48. 14 Charles James Wills In the Land of the Lion and Sun or Modern Persia (London, 1883) 283. 15 See Eugene Aubin La Perse d’aujourd’hui – Iran. Mesopotamie – avec une carte en couleur hors texte (Paris, 1908). 16 Shah¥d¥ and BulukbÇsh¥, Pazhuhish¥, 112. 17 Farrokh Ghaffary ‘Theatrical Buildings and Performances in Tehran’ in Nikki R. Keddie (ed.) Qajar Iran and the Rise of Reza Khan 1796–1925 (Costa Mesa, 1999) 97. 18 Ghaffary, ‘Theatrical Buildings and Performances’, 282. 19 Eustache de Lorey and Douglas Sladen Queer Things about Persia (London, 1907) 286–7.

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20 Augustus H. Mounsey A Journey Through the Caucasus and the Interior of Persia (London, 1872). 21 Lady Sheil Glimpses of Life and Manners in Persia (London, 1856) 127–8. 22 Sheil, Glimpses, 127. 23 For a full account see ch. 13 of Samuel G. W. Benjamin Persia and the Persians (Boston, 1887). 24 NÇ‚ir Najm¥ Tihrån-i ahd-i Nå‚ir¥ (Tehran, 1988) 265. 25 Shah¥d¥ and BulukbÇsh¥, Pazhuhish¥, 110 and 204. 26 Ri∂Ç¥ An¥sa Shaykh and Shahla ÅzÇr¥ (eds) Guzårishhå-yi nazm¥yå-yi maªallati Tihrån (Tehran, 1998) 213 and 248, respectively. 27 Shah¥d¥ and BulukbÇsh¥, Pazhuhish¥, 110. 28 Jean Calmard ‘Muªarram Ceremonies and Diplomacy (A preliminary study)’ in C. E. Bosworth and C. Hillenbrand (eds) Qajar Iran: Political, Social and Cultural Change, 1800–1925 (Edinburgh, 1983). 29 Aªmad Kasrav¥ Sh¥ agår¥. (Tehran, 1943). Translated by M. R. Ghanoonparvar in M. R. Ghanoonparvar On Islam and Sh¥ ¥sm (Costa Mesa, 1990) 178. 30 Dorothy de Warzee Peeps into Persia (London, 1913) 82. 31 See Heinrich Brugsch’s account in Safar¥ beh darbår-i sul†ån-i ‚åªibqirån 1858–1861 (Tehran, 1988) 227. 32 Sven Hedin reports that ‘even in such an insigniﬁcant place as Chahardeh there is a tekkieh’. Hedin, Overland II, 41. 33 Wills, In the Land, 279. 34 Wills, In the Land, 280. 35 De Lorey and Sladen, Queer Things about Persia, 282. 36 Samuel K. Nweeya Persia: The Land of the Magi, or Home of the Wise Men (n.p., 1904) 105. 37 Ella Sykes Persia and its People (London, 1910) 153. 38 This is based on the ﬁgures registered in the ofﬁcial census of Tehran conducted by city ofﬁcials in 1869 that included those living outside the city walls, but not military personnel. S. Sadvand¥yÇn and M. IttiªÇd¥yeh (NiΩÇm-MÇf¥) (eds) Åmår-i Dår al-Khilåﬁh-yi ˝ihrån: asnåd¥ az tar¥kh-i ijtimå ¥-yi ˝ihrån dar a‚ri Qåjår (Tehran, 1989) 345. We will use this population ﬁgure as an average for the last half of the nineteenth century, despite the fact that Tehran was growing very rapidly throughout this period. It has been estimated that Tehran’s population grew from as little as 60,000 in the early nineteenth century to as high as 250,000 at the beginning of the twentieth century (H. Bahrambeygui Tehran: An Urban Analysis (Tehran, 1977) 19, 23). 39 Sadvand¥yÇn and IttiªÇd¥yeh (eds), Åmår-i Dår al-Khilåﬁh. 40 The data on takyas is from 1852, while the population ﬁgures are from the 1869 census. Sadvand¥yÇn and IttiªÇd¥yeh (eds), Åmår-i Dar al-Khilåﬁh. 41 For a general account of processions see Nweeya, Persia, 103–7. 42 Sykes, Persia, 150.

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19 THE EXILE PERSIAN PRESS AND THE PRO-CONSTITUTIONALIST ULAMÅ OF THE ATABÅT Pardis Minuchehr ‘To erect constitutionalism for the sake of the ithnå ashar¥ doctrine, which secures the maintenance of religion, is considered to be equivalent to jihåd in the company of Imåm al-zamån.’1 These words appear in the 1909 fatwå of the prominent triumvirate pro-constitutionalist ulamå of Najaf and Karbala. ÓÇjj¥ M¥rzÇ Óusayn, the son of Khal¥l ˝ihrÇn¥, Åkhnd MullÇ Muªammad KÇΩim KhurÇsÇn¥ and Shaykh Abd AllÇh MÇzandarÇn¥ were the principal ulamå supporting the idea of constitutionalist rule in Iran. All three of the above-mentioned ulamå , who resided in the AtabÇt, were prominent U‚l¥ scholars. ÓÇjj¥ M¥rzÇ Muªammad Óusayn, who studied with the famous M¥rzÇ-yi Sh¥rÇz¥ (the mastermind of the tobacco revolt in Iran), had gained a reputation for the introduction of political matters in Sh¥ ¥ theological schools. He passed away during the period known as lesser despotism, istibdåd-i ‚agh¥r (despite reaching the great age of 106, some suspected foul play at his deathbed, claiming that he had not died of natural causes but was murdered for his political activism). In Najaf, Åkhnd MullÇ Muªammad KÇΩim KhurasÇn¥, titled as Íåªib al-Kifåya (‘Master of the Kifåya’) for his famous U‚l¥ book called Kifåyat al-U‚l, had attracted many students to his class sessions from all over the Sh¥ ¥ world.2 The third and youngest of the triumvirate ulamå , Shaykh Abd AllÇh MÇzandarÇn¥, a disciple of M¥rzÇ Óab¥b AllÇh Rasht¥, was also a prominent ImÇm¥ scholar who had a very strong position with regard to matters political.3 The fatwås and other statements issued by these three scholars found their way into the Persian exile press published in Istanbul, Cairo and Calcutta, as well as Yverdon. The resistance movement opposing absolutist rule in Iran, objecting to the closing down of the new parliamentarian system, found support, as well as legitimacy, in the edicts of these ulamå . As mentioned earlier, the edicts issued by the three ulamå called for a jihåd to establish a constitution and to protect ithnå ashar¥ (Twelve Imam) doctrine. They also emphasised that in order to do so as effectively as 393

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possible, the revolutionaries needed to be united. Along with the militant revolutionaries ﬁghting in Iran against domestic and foreign tyranny, the Persian exile press used these religious edicts to call for unity among Iranians and advance their own political objectives. By equating the supporters of Muªammad Al¥ ShÇh’s monarchy to those who obeyed Yaz¥d b. MuÇwiya in his battle with the martyred Imam Óusayn, the ulamå bestowed a moral and religious character upon an otherwise predominantly political affair. This interpretation contextualised contemporary political issues within an emotionally charged episode in early Islamic history, thereby striking a chord with the religious sentiments of the masses. Most Sh¥ ¥, brought up with the traditional account of early Islamic history, had heard about the tragic ambush and death of Imam Óusayn, his family and followers, that took place in the plain of Karbala in 680CE. This historic episode, re-cast every year by the Sh¥ a on the tenth day of Muªarram, evokes emotions of hatred against the atrocities and cruelty of Shimr and Yaz¥d b. MuÇwiya. By comparing events in Tabriz, both during its civil strife and later during the Russian occupation of the north-western part of Iran with the episode in early Islamic history, the ulamå attempted to use this analogy to incite religious sentiment around the constitutionalist cause. This would, in turn, cause the masses to rise up and ﬁght as in a jihåd against the Cossack army and the despotism of the Qajar monarchy, as well as to oppose the Russian forces occupying Iranian territories. The ulamå relied heavily on these popular episodes in early Islamic history in order to incite the ghayrat, the religious and national patriotism of the masses, a tool that enabled them to exert direct political inﬂuence. However, the success of the ulamå ’s message depended on the more modern medium of the newly introduced Persian mass press. It was through this modern medium that their edicts and other political and religious statements were disseminated. With the sudden surge of newspapers inside the domains of Persia, which coincided with the revolutionary movement of constitutionalism (1905–8), the culture of reading newspapers became an inﬂuential means of informing and illuminating the masses, and at times inciting people against social and political injustice. Even though the population was predominantly illiterate, connecting with a larger public outside the traditional means of public communication had become possible through the ‘out-loud reading’ of newspapers and the oral spread of its contents. By using this modern medium to convey their ideas to a larger public, the pro-constitutionalist ulamå of the AtabÇt utilised a novel and modern phenomenon to communicate their teachings and ideological perspectives to a wider public. The political impact and objective of the ulamå ’s ideas expressed in the exile Persian press, however, were inextricably linked to the ideology of the predominantly Western-inﬂuenced intellectuals who edited and owned the periodicals. The publication of the statements written by similar-minded clerics, especially those residing 394

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in the most holy sites of Sh¥ ¥ Islam, not only legitimised the revolutionary discourse within an Islamic framework, but more than anything else empowered the non-clerical intellectuals to advance their own ideas. These novel ideas were sometimes at odds with the traditional religious views of clerics, and hence journalists had to be careful not to be branded as heretics, or accused of instituting bida (innovation, a common method of dismissing those who were most often associated with Western ideas). After the bombardment of the majlis, many of the journalists and proconstitutionalist intellectuals and clerics ﬂed the Qajar-ruled territories, fearing persecution. After the military interference with, and takeover of, the majlis by Colonel Liakhov, the commander of the Russian Cossack brigade in Tehran, and the execution of many revolutionaries in Iran, the three previously mentioned pro-constitutionalist ulamå began their most ﬁerce ideological resistance to what they called the ‘tyranny of monarchy’, condemning the military grip of the Russian Cossack brigade in Iran. They supported the civilian struggle against Muªammad Al¥’s rule, both ﬁnancially and ideologically, advocating the return of constitutional rule in Iran. The ulamå ’s outrage at the chaotic political circumstances that occurred inside Iranian territories brought them to the point of mobilising the †ullåb (theological students) as a militant force against both domestic and foreign tyranny in Persian provinces. The telegrams of the AtabÇt ulamå were sent to several Iranian groups inside and outside Iran, but published mainly in the exile press in Istanbul, Cairo, Yverdon and Calcutta. The publication of the ulamå ’s fatwås constituted one of the main columns of the exile press. In particular, the publication of these fatwås in Ír-i Isråf¥l, a Western-style newspaper, founded upon the French revolutionary idea of égalité, liberté and fraternité, raises the interesting issue about its role in questioning the compatibility of Islam with modern Western political concepts. Ír-i Isråf¥l was ﬁrst published in Tehran under the leadership of M¥rzÇ JahÇng¥r Sh¥rÇz¥ and M¥rzÇ QÇsim KhÇn (Ír-i IsrÇf¥l). Later on, Al¥ Akbar DihkhudÇ joined the working team and became its editor and a columnist, famous for his satirical writings. In its ﬁrst year, the Tehran-published paper became a success among the public, but because of its harsh criticism of the ruling class, it was banned several times. M¥rzÇ JahÇng¥r Sh¥rÇz¥ became the ﬁrst to experience a censorship-trial in Iran, and likewise, branded as an Azal¥ BÇb¥, became one of the ﬁrst to be prosecuted for his seditious writings. He was executed after the closing down of the majlis for his pro-constitutionalist activities. M¥rzÇ JahÇng¥r KhÇn’s untimely death, and the persecution of other reform-minded individuals, enraged DihkhudÇ and his colleagues to such an extent that they vowed to continue the publication of the newspaper from outside Iran, with the main objective of exacting revenge on the Qajar autocracy, and creating a political centre to maintain the programme of the early revolutionaries. 395

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The prime enemy of the Yverdon-published Íur-i Isråf¥l, as identiﬁed clearly and bluntly in its ﬁrst issue, was no other than the Shah himself. In the ﬁrst article, Íur-i Isråf¥l referred to the Shah as ‘this era’s Changiz’ (Ghengis), a ﬁgure popularly depicted as a blood-thirsty ruler whose atrocities in the thirteenth century ruined the high culture of Persia. From early on, Ír-i Isråf¥l questioned the nature of monarchy, and refuted its unquestionable character, advocating a re-evaluation of the entire institution of monarchy and what it entailed, and at the same time legitimising it with religious arguments. Alongside these intellectual argumentations, Ír-i Isråf¥l also published the statements issued by the three members of the ulamå in Najaf and Karbala condemning Muªammad Al¥’s measures, further giving religious legitimacy to the exile press. At the core of Ír-i Isråf¥l’s arguments concerning the indispensibility of constitutionalism lay the contentious issue of whether shar (the body of Islamic laws) could also be applied to all civil (urf) issues. As the subject of many heated debates in the ﬁrst majlis, the urf/shar debate created the main division among the early members of the majlis. This early rift divided those who believed in an external advisory committee of ulamå , commonly known as ‘mashra-seekers’ and led by Shaykh Fa∂l AllÇh Nr¥, against those termed the ‘mashr†a-seekers’ led by the two leading ulamå of Tehran, Sayyid Muªammad ˝abÇ†abÇ¥ and Sayyid Abd AllÇh BihbihÇn¥. The ﬁrst draft, which neglected to mention the formation of an external advisory committee of ulamå overseeing the laws and bills drafted by the majlis, enraged Shaykh Fa∂lallÇh Nr¥ to such an extent that he left the majlis and sat in protest in the shrine of Shah Abd al-AΩ¥m, a short distance from Tehran. This central event, which initiated the major theological division over the meaning of mashr†a in the early constitutional period, became a central point of contention for Iranians. By publishing one of the sermons of Shaykh Abd AllÇh MÇzandarÇn¥, Ír-i Isråf¥l demonstrated how one of the leading ulamå preached that civil affairs can not become mashra, attacking Nr¥’s assumptions in a blunt manner. MÇzandarÇn¥ says, ‘Tell that idiot who claims we need a mashra constitution “Thou, the embodiment of an ox! Can taxation be mashra? Are customs mashra? Are other governmental affairs?” The beneﬁt of constitutionalism lies in the fact that it reduces and moderates tyranny.’4 While directly attacking Nr¥’s assumptions, MÇzandarÇn¥ suggests that civil issues cannot be solved with laws that the shar offers. He does this by drawing a clear boundary between the body of Islamic laws and that which civil law permits or prohibits. This argument aimed to de-legitimise Nr¥’s denial of the existence of any such boundary. However, in a predominantly religious society where the ulamå had direct, as well as indirect, inﬂuence upon the political process (as seen in the tobacco revolt and early constitutional history), Ír-i Isråf¥l aimed to achieve a political legitimacy by publishing the statements and fatwås of the three constitutional ulamå of the AtabÇt. 396

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In the same way, the Istanbul-published Shams, and later Sursh, edited by DihkhudÇ, reﬂected the pro-constitutionalist views of the AtabÇt ulamå . At the beginning of the ‘lesser despotism’, Shams had operated as a newspaper representing the ideas of the Anjuman-i Saådat-i Ûråniyån in Istanbul, publishing the telegrams and religious edicts issued in the AtabÇt. It is through Shams that we are aware, for example, that these religious edicts had a signiﬁcant impact upon the revolutionaries in Iran. For example, it was recorded that even the famous revolutionary of Tabriz, SattÇr KhÇn, had reiterated several times that he was merely executing the orders of the ulamå of Najaf and Karbala in his ﬁght against the Qajar despotism.5 In the reports in Shams, the relationship between the constitutionalists, the ulamå and the public is described so as to give the impression of a unity and accord between the revolutionary forces that later were to conquer Tehran and oust Muªammad Al¥ ShÇh. Shams also reported about events inside Iran, and presents the fatwås of the AtabÇt ulamå as being a determining factor on the character of the uprisings inside Iran. For example, one of the incidents reported in Shams from Mashhad demonstrates the relationship between the ulamå and the revolutionary movement.6 In November 1908, when Mashhadi merchants received the edicts from Najaf and Karbala, the bazaar shut down in response, and merchants and businesses stopped all work. It was the condition of their ‘distressed brethren’ in Tabriz, ‘starving’ during their conﬂict with governmental forces in Azerbaijan, which prompted the protest. The Mashhadis planned to pack and march to Tehran, protesting against plight of the Tabrizis. As recorded in Shams, the protesting groups organised an occupation of the shrine of the eighth Imam, Ri∂a in Mashhad, which gradually developed into a major resistance movement inside the holy area of the Sh¥ ¥ shrine. One of the groups taking part in the occupation, the Himmat anjuman, had previously had radical anti-monarchist tendencies, but they too set up a tent alongside other constitutionalists, hanging up slogans such as ‘Long live the ulamå of Najaf, long live constitutionalism’, and ‘Death to despotism’.7 These demonstrations went on into their fourth day, and so enraged the government in Tehran that they persuaded the then Prime Minister, Mush¥r al-Sal†ana to order the governor of Khurasan, Rukn alDawla, to disperse any ‘seditious individuals’. He ordered the positioning of cannons, cavalry and soldiers around the shrine and the adjacent Gawhar ShÇd mosque, using coercive means to end the protest. The war minister, Am¥r BahÇdur, also commanded the governor to shell the area immediately, to disperse protestors coercively, and, if necessary force some of the ‘corrupt, seditious ones’ in front of the cannons in order that they be an example for others.8 Shams and Cairo’s Chihrihnamå published articles about the attack, intending thereby to demonstrate the Qajars’ lack of respect for religion and the ulamå . The articles indicated that the Shah and his government can not, therefore, be regarded as legitimate 397

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rulers of a Muslim community. By disregarding the ulamå ’s fatwås, the article argued, the Qajar government had displayed hostility towards the ulamå of the holy AtabÇt. The civil war in Tabriz had caused great outrage among the ulamå in Iraq and it is only from articles published in Shams that we know of the effect the news of the massacres in the city had upon the ulamå and their students. For example, it is reported that after reading the telegram written by their ‘Iranian bretheren residing in the Caucasus’ describing the horrifying situation of the Tabrizis, ﬁve hundred students wept openly during Åkhnd KhurasÇn¥’s class.9 The Qajar government did not disregard the ulamå ’s role in the uprisings of 1908–9. On the contrary, it tried hard at times to appease them through various means (such as bribery or letters justifying the Shah’s stance on constitutionalism). One such letter, written by the Shah to the ulamå , found its way onto the desk of DihkhudÇ, Ír-i Isråf¥l’s editor. He published it in his most celebrated column Charand Parand in which he portrayed the social and political conditions of Iran in high, satirical prose. DihkhudÇ revealed the content of the Shah’s letter in an article entitled ‘The Word of Kings is the King of Words’, metaphorically meaning ‘just big, empty talk’ (Kalåm al-mulk, mulk al-kalåm).10 In an introduction to the letter, referring to the title of the column, the author claims that such a letter is more nonsense (charand parand) than anything he has ever written, and hence it is appropriate to publish it here. The publication of this letter aimed to highlight the absurdity of the Shah’s relationship with the ulamå , a relationship that had grown more strained during his short rule. Shortly after the death of his father, MuΩaffar al-D¥n ShÇh, Muªammad Al¥ had received an andarznåmih (‘advice letter’) from Åkhnd KhurÇsÇn¥ in Najaf, reﬂecting the ‘Mirrors for Princes’ genre. In this andarznåmih Åkhnd KhurÇsÇn¥ outlines ten points of ‘advice against absolutist rule’,11 points which the Shah deﬁed during his rule. In his letter the Shah suggested that, in reality, it was the constitutionalists whose actions had led to the chaos in Iranian territories, an accusation which raised no sympathy, neither from the ulamå nor other pro-constitutionalist intellectuals. Ír-i Isråf¥l took advantage of this letter’s content, publishing it to discredit the Shah. The paper thereby demonstrated that the Shah’s pledges to preserve the constitution were never meant seriously, proving that his promises, including his apparent reverence for the ulamå , had no basis. The paper clearly intended to demonstrate the Shah’s disrespectful attitude towards religion, in order to legitimise its own anti-monarchical stance. In the introduction to his Charand Parand section, DihkudÇ wrote: I always told myself that we humans need a Shah to tell us, for example, that if we ﬁght with Russia, he will protect eighteen 398

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Caucasian cities and the Russians will not be able to occupy them. When we have children, he will provide free public schools so that our children will not be raised as illiterates and ignoramuses. Once we have a majlis, he will swear on the QurÇn three times, adding his mother’s chastity as collateral, that he will try to preserve the majlis. Yes, we need a king to do such deeds. But I was amazed [to ﬁnd out] that ‘the word of the kings is the king of words’ (kalåm al-mulk mulk al-kalåm).12 Ír-i Isråf¥l criticises a century of Qajar rule, going back to Fatª Al¥ ShÇh’s surrender to the Russians in the Turkmanchay and the Gulistan treaties,13 as well as the social problems of illiteracy in Iran. At the end of the paragraph, the author produces the play on words to attack Muªammad Al¥ ShÇh’s credibility and the validity of his promises during his short reign. In his elaborate and convoluted letter to the ulamå , the Shah took informing the ulamå of ‘the truth’ of affairs in the country as his task, believing that the information received by the ulamå was deﬁcient. Their sources were obviously ‘foreign conspirators’, or the ‘internal munåﬁq¥n (hypocrites)’, he says. In rather confusing prose, Muªammad Al¥ justiﬁes himself and his outright hatred for constitutional rule, by claiming that ‘everybody from every rank in Iran hates the name of mashr†a’.14 For the ﬁrst time in a written document, Muªammad Al¥ openly expressed his anticonstitutionalist stance and claimed constitutionalist rule to be the ‘bidat of the Mazdakites’. With this claim, Muªammad Al¥ hoped to obtain the support of the ulamå , who considered both bidat (innovation) and Mazdakism as theologically unacceptable in Islamic doctrine. Legitimising his campaign against mashr†a, in the midst of the civil strife occurring in Iran, he claimed, ‘Today, Iran is in perfect order and its subjects are in total comfort.’ The Shah’s recourse to lies and deception in order to gain the sympathy of the ulamå became the subject of Dihkhuda’s satirical composition in exile. In conclusion, it is evident that the exile Persian press of the constitutional revolution used the fatwås and sermons of the ulamå to achieve its own aims in the constitutionalist conﬂict. It sought the return of constitutionalist rule with a consultative national majlis as well as the overthrow of Muªammad Al¥’s absolutist rule. This secular agenda was given a religious aura by their reporting of the latest pronouncements from the AtabÇt. This restoration of constitutionalism, they argued, would mean the elimination of chaos and anarchy in the ‘guarded domains of Persia’. At this historical juncture, the aims of the non-clerical intellectuals coincided with those of some of the most powerful religious scholars of the time – both were in favour of reforms in Iran. Such reforms did not necessarily put shar and mashra rule as a priority, but stood for a more de-centralised government with civil laws at its centre. 399

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Notes 1 Chihrinamå (Cairo) 61 (14 November 1908) 3. 2 A. Hairi, ‘Åkhnd MollÇ Moªammad-KÇΩem KhorÇsÇn¥’, EIr I, 732. 3 Hriyya Sa¥d¥ ‘Naqsh-i ulamÇ-yi mashr†a-khÇh-i Najaf dar nih∂at-i mashr†iyyat-i ÛrÇn az ÇghÇz tÇ fatª-i ˝ihrÇn’ (unpublished MA dissertation: Tehran University, 1370sh/1991). 4 Ír-i Isråf¥l (Yverdon) 1 (6 February 1909) 7. 5 Shams (Istanbul) 14 (28 November 1908) 12. 6 Shams (Istanbul) 16 (12 December 1908) 6. 7 Chihrinamå (Cairo) 6.3 (21 February 1909) 3–4. 8 Shams (Istanbul) 6 (25 September 1908) 1; Shams (Istanbul) 15 (5 December 1908) 6. 9 Ír-i Isråf¥l (Yverdon) 1 (23 January 1909) 8. 10 Ír-i Isråf¥l (Yverdon) 1 (23 January 1909) 8. 11 Abd al-Óusayn Maj¥d KafÇ¥ Marg¥ dar nr: Zindig¥nåmih-yi Åkhund Khurasån¥, Íåªib al-Kifåya (Tehran, 1359sh/1980) 176–82. 12 Ír-i Isråf¥l (Yverdon) 1 (23 January 1909) 8. 13 The treaty of Gulistan was signed in 1812, when the Iranian Qajar monarch Fatª Al¥ ShÇh renounced sovereignty over the Khanates of Qarabagh, Baku, Sheki, Shirvan, Kuba and Derbent. As a result of the later treaty of Turkmanchay in 1823, the Shah was forced to cede to Russia the khanates of Erivan and Nakhichevan and the area of Ordubad in Caucasia. 14 Ír-i Isråf¥l (Yverdon) 1 (23 January 1909) 8.

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20 RELIGION AND MEDICINE IN QAJAR IRAN 1 Hormoz Ebrahimnejad

In Islamic medicine, the link between religion and medicine is explicit in the very word †ibb, which means healing, treating, sorcery, magic or enchanting. This term derives from the root †bb with two forms of vocalisation: 1-†abb is one who is learned about any matter, hence †ab¥b is a skilled person in every science or craft, including medicine; 2-†ibb is the practice of medicine.2 With regard to the ﬁrst meaning, much was assigned to supernatural skills in medical treatments but also in various other matters such as the use of talismans for changing stones into gold, a craft which was called k¥m¥yå (or alchemy). According to an anonymous Persian author, the †ab¥b or physician is a person who calms and reassures the mind of a patient.3 For Muªammad HÇd¥ Aq¥l¥, writing in the eighteenth century, †ibb meant enchanting and skilfulness in sciences and techniques in general, and in the jargon of physicians, it consisted of a knowledge of the human body in health and illness.4 In a manuscript dated to the early nineteenth century in India, but copied from a medieval source, the eighth branch of science (fann) is ªikmat, which is divided into theoretical (naΩar¥) and practical (amal¥). The theoretical ªikmat is subdivided in three: divinity, which is superior science, mathematics, which is medium science and natural science, which is inferior science.5 The supernatural dimension also dominated medical knowledge in Iran before Islam. After being imprisoned by GoshtÇsp-ShÇh in Balkh,6 at the instigation of his enemies, Zoroaster (c.650–550 BC)7 was released only when he succeeded in healing, by magic and prayer, the beloved black horse of GoshtÇsp-ShÇh which had fallen ill.8 In a passage of the Vend¥dåd, one of the surviving texts of the Zandavestå, three sorts of medicine were distinguished: medicine by the knife (surgery), medicine by herbs, and medicine by divine words; and the best medicine was, according to the Vend¥dåd, healing by divine words.9 The Zoroastrian clerics were called magis or mogh, which means magicians. They counted among them medical magis who treated illness by drugs or surgery and priestly magis who were considered more able since they could heal without the intervention of drugs or the knife.10 401

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All of these divisions, at different periods of history, constituted the theoretical foundations of the relationship between religion and medicine, and, in turn, the close association of the religious establishment and medical practice.11 The involvement of the religious class in the medical profession in Iran was similar to that in medieval Europe,12 but the relation between the practice of medicine and the religious establishment was not institutionalised, as it was in Europe.13 The loose relationship between the ulamå and medical practice is better illustrated in the history of hospitals in the Islamic countries. Unlike European countries, where many hospices were constructed and maintained by the Church, in Iran hospitals belonged to the secular power. Nonetheless, as in any other traditional society, medieval Persian medicine was characterised by its supernatural or religious dimension. Towards the end of the nineteenth century in Iran, however, the relationship between religion and medicine grew weaker in the sense that medicine became increasingly an independent corpus of knowledge devoid of supernatural connotations. This dissociation can be seen at both theoretical and institutional levels, as it was epitomised in the case of Buqråt al-ªukamå . In 1903, Mihd¥ Malik-Af∂al¥,14 a cleric-doctor, who had studied religious science with AyatallÇh Burjird¥15 and medicine with HÇjj M¥rzÇ Muªammad BÇqir in Isfahan, went to Tehran to study modern medicine at the Department of Medicine at the polytechnic school of DÇr al-Funn, established in 1851. While studying at the medical school, he practised traditional medicine in order to earn his living. In 1907, he took his honours degree and received the modern title of Doctor and the honoriﬁc Buqråt al-ªukamå (‘the Hippocrates of physicians’).16 In the same year, at the climax of the constitutionalist movement, he left Tehran and went to Nishapur in eastern Iran where he practised medicine until his death in 1965. In a manuscript, dated 1942, he focused on the damaging effects of the consumption of meat and alcohol. In the ﬁrst chapter, referring to contemporary European scientists and physiologists, he provided a medical analysis to show that the consumption of meat by human beings was harmful and caused premature death.17 In the second chapter, by referring both to modern medicine and traditions from the Prophet and the Imams, he highlights the toxicity of alcohol.18 Echoing both modern and traditional knowledge, Buqråt al-ªukamå did not oppose bloodletting and cupping, which he considered useful for eliminating spoiled blood, but he opposed the unhygienic instruments used for these practices.19 Buqråt al-ªukamå is only one among many others who, sharing both traditional and modern medical training, either held simultaneously medical and religious careers, or, instead of continuing with their clerical positions, left their cloak and opted for the study of modern medicine. Another example is that of Dr Nu‚ratallÇh KÇΩim¥, born in 1908, who chose to pursue medicine instead of becoming a mullå, as he had anticipated doing.20 402

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How can we explain this change occurring in the second part of the nineteenth century while at the same time the inﬂuence of the religious establishment was growing in political and social spheres?21 Was it merely the impact of the introduction of modern medicine, which became increasingly fashionable among the elite? Was it a result of the current political movement led by scholars or politicians, such as Sayyid JamÇl al-D¥n AfghÇn¥22 in Iran and Muªammad Abdh in Egypt, who saw the solution to the backwardness of the Islamic countries in the adoption of Western science and technology while consolidating social and political order by the reviviﬁcation of the Caliphate?23 Or was it due to the budding interest and conﬁdence in the efﬁciency of anatomical-clinical medicine versus humoral medicine? Through a theoretical and historical survey of the relationship between religion and medicine in Iran, I will argue in this chapter that the change in this relationship was the result of the institutional and theoretical modernisation of medicine, as well as the evolution of the socio-political role of the Shiite establishment. What is known as ‘Islamic medicine’ was not drawn from the QurÇn, since the QurÇn provides no speciﬁc section on medical knowledge (though it does include remarks of a very general nature dispersed in different verses). Islamic medicine, in the classic sense, was in fact founded in the school of translators, called the ‘House of Science’, established in Baghdad under the Caliph Mamn (813–17). Christian translators, such as Óunayn b. IsªÇq, translated Galen and Hippocrates into Arabic. These basic texts were further elaborated through several centuries of Islamic expansion in non-Islamic countries. The medical literature attributed to the Prophet or to the Imams was in fact a mixture of folk medicine, astrology, aphrodisiac lore, tropical dietetics and personal hygiene, varnished with Galenic concepts and terminology. Under the ﬁrst Caliphs, Ab Bakr, Umar, UthmÇn and ‘Al¥, who reigned for about 30 years after the death of the Prophet (632), the primitive and nomadic culture of the Arabian desert still prevailed. But with the consolidation of the Caliphate under the Ummayads (661–750) and then the Abbasids (750–1250), it became essential to incorporate the political system as well as the sciences of the conquered countries. To this end, theoretical and institutional instruments, which we will discuss in the following sections, were devised. But the original Quranic creed, mainly established during the ﬁrst period of the rise of Islam, did not recognise the human understanding of the body as a corpus of medical knowledge in its own right. This creed, which was deeply embedded in Islamic culture, was later enshrined in classical Islamic medicine: ‘All human medicine is made subservient to the tenets of religion and to the world of nature which reﬂects directly the wisdom of the Creator who is also the Supreme Curer, one of his names being al-ShÇf¥ (curer).’24 The subordination of human intellect to the tenets of religion left a profound mark on the history of Greco-Islamic medicine, which will be examined in the following sections. 403

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Theoretical foundations of the religio-medical relationship The intellectual link between religion and medicine was of two kinds. The ﬁrst one was related to the fact that the human intellect believed in supernatural causes, which covered magic, astrology and religion. The second form of the relationship between religion and medicine in Iran was elaborated with the aim of assimilating Aristotelian and Galenic theories within Islamic religion. The Persian or Arabic sources for this study consist of a wide range of religious texts in which medicine and religion overlap at different levels. Almost all medical books refer, to some extent, to faith healing and all treatises on prayers claim somehow to have healing effect. Some prayers (adiya) were written with the intent of curing different kinds of diseases (for instance, prayers for preserving the body against, or for curing, cholera, or prayers for curing leprosy). Prayers were to be recited; ‘while putting some dust of a saint’s tomb on the eyes, then eating it with water cured any kind of diseases’.25 As the nineteenth-century physician, SÇvij¥, put it in his treatise, the majority of the adiya had a curing effect for all kinds of diseases.26 Some books on pharmacopoeia mixed pharmacy and magic. For example the author of a treatise proposed a recipe to prepare different drugs used in an ordinary pharmacopoeia but these drugs were to be taken at speciﬁc astrological hours and on speciﬁc days of the week. Alternatively, while taking it, the patient should recite such and such a verse or prayer.27 The underlying theory of this connection between religion, astrology and medicine is that the object of medical knowledge, the body, was a reﬂection of the universe; each organ was related to one of the twelve planets (or astrological houses) embodying the four temperaments (heat, cold, dryness, dampness) according to the four seasons of the year.28 In the eighteenth century, Aq¥l¥ assumed that a drug was a substance from one of the three kingdoms (mineral, animal, vegetal) and each of these kingdoms was subject to the inﬂuence of the seven planets. Therefore, he argued, the medical properties of drugs depended on the temperaments of the planets. Likewise, as Pingree put it, the prognosis of the course of the disease, according to Iatromathematics (‘medical mathmatics’ one of the branches of Islamic Astrology), depended on the motion, phases and contacts of the moon.29 The bare bones of traditional, Islamic medicine consisted of the cosmology according to which arkån (pillars) of the universe and the human body alike, had fours states of water, earth, air and ﬁre. These together with their hot and cold qualities, constituted the humoral physiology of the body. Diseases were caused when an imbalance occurred in the proportion of these elements. All these theoretical devices were involved in medico-religious discourse. The hygienic codes usually conveyed a strong religious or magical character so that for believers, they were considered as prayers. Although they 404

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were usually observed for their medical efﬁcacy, they sometimes had entirely religious or magical explanations. Rubbing the skin in the bath was useful because by eliminating dirt, Satan ran away from the body.30 As hot mineral springs took their source from Hell, not only did they have no healing effect, but they also were harmful to the body.31 Conversely, sin was understood as a symbol of dirt while prayer was conceived as a cleanser, hence the religious connotation of ghusl or bathing.32 The questions of somatic and psychic diseases, or natural and supernatural causes of disease and healing, were discussed at different levels in both religious and medical texts. Although medical sources examine mainly natural and physical treatment, and prayer books propose supernatural treatment for somatic diseases, in both sources, healing had a religious or divine origin because diseases were caused by God and could not be known by doctors. Hence, the ªad¥th of the ﬁfth ImÇm of the Shiites, Muªammad BÇqir (677–732), claimed that if the suras ªamd (Q1) and qul huwa allåh (Q112) had no effect on disease, nothing else and nobody could cure it.33 The author of Miftåª al-shifå quoted the Prophet as saying that ‘if one does not ask healing from the QurÇn, one never recovers from illness’.34 Another ªad¥th from the Prophet states that the Angel Gabriel taught him a prayer, recitation of which seventy times while blowing on water collected from the April rains35 dispensed with the need for any doctor and eliminated any diseases in organs, veins and bones. It even deleted all diseases recorded in the eternal table (Lawª-i maªfΩ).36 Therefore, according to the prayer books, the effects of divine or supernatural healing were taken for granted. How then did Islamic medicoreligious discourse explain the many cases where sick believers died despite their prayers? The answer was that the person who prays must truly believe, in which case his prayer would certainly be accepted. Also, the curative power of prayers could be either apparent or invisible. In some cases sick people were fully conscious of the efﬁcacy of the magic cure. In others, however, when the illness was not apparently cured, it was because the sick were not aware of the healing result, which for some reason remained concealed to them.37 This illustrates how medico-religious discourse regulated the social order. In addition to this religious or magical understanding, there were also two contradictory interpretations of cure by prayer. According to one, which can be considered as the forerunner of modern psychiatry (or possibly modern psychoneuroimmunology), the physician, through the mental process and relying on the patient’s belief, tried to cure the illness. There are many references to this method in traditional medicine. In the eleventh century, Avicenna had recognised a direct relation between bodily illness and psychic problems.38 This method was widespread to such an extent that Ibn Qayyim al-Jawz¥ (d.751/1350), for instance, thought that the knowledge of the heart and spirits was a good basis for physical 405

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treatment and that the one who ‘has no such knowledge, even if he is skilful in the treatment of the constitution and the states of the physical body, is only half a physician’.39 Such theories are, or could provide, rational explanation for magical or religious treatment of diseases.40 SÇvij¥, for example, discussing the psychic causes of diseases, maintained that the movements of spirits, breath or psychic faculties, are outward and/or inward and in both cases are either sudden or progressive. If, for instance, the inward movement is swift, it produces fear and panic and if it is slow, it results in depression. At the time of an epidemic, as the majority of people are frightened, the spirits enter the body swiftly and because of the speedy movement, the outer body becomes cold and the inner body gets hot and produces boiling phlegm in the heart. Therefore, when cholera spreads out, those who are psychically weak are predisposed to it. Consequently, a basic treatment for those stricken by cholera is the psychic treatment to which this author devotes 11 pages of his Dastr al-a†ibbå for the treatment of cholera.41 Another religiously committed doctor alleged that fear was the cause of cholera and advised his patients to resort to religion in order to overcome their fear.42 In all these cases, supernatural or spiritual treatments were employed by traditional doctors to cure physical diseases. In Shiite Islam, the cult of saints, as in Medieval Europe, prevailed. Even today, in many Iranian villages and towns there are shrines of the Imamzådihs (male or female descendants of one of the twelve Imams of the Shiites), which are believed to possess miraculous powers. These Imamzådihs possess different degrees of healing power (according to the level of their kinship with the main Imams) for incurable diseases and still today constitute for many people the last resort when all medical treatment has failed. It is highly revealing that this healing function of the saints was indirectly brought into question by one of the traditional, though modern-minded, doctors in the second part of the nineteenth century who wrote a treatise on the establishment of the modern hospital. Although this author refers frequently to religious ethics as providing moral criteria for professional doctors, he assigned the healing effect not to the shrines but to the hospital. In a conceivably parabolic expression, this anonymous author maintains that the hospital was the place where the prayers (for curing diseases) were received favourably (maªall-i ¥jåbat-i duå). By this sentence he implied that the curing place was the hospital and not the shrines of the Imams or Imamzådihs. Then he provides a rational line of reasoning to explain why, how and in which spiritual condition, a prayer is granted. His argument can be summarised as follows: At the time of illness, the temperament is corrupted and the unity or harmony between soul and body is lost. Soul, which at the time of health was plunged in material pleasure, now puts an end to its attachment to the corrupted matter and increases its connection to the spiritual and incorporeal beings. If, in this state of purity, the sick person prays, his wishes will come true. The prayers of the sick, in the words of our author, 406

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are said for the benediction of those who constructed the hospital (in this case, the state), but what the author left unsaid is that the sick pray also for their own cure. In other places, he complained that almsgiving was wasted during the feast of sacriﬁce, when it should go to the hospital for the beneﬁt of the sick.43 What is noteworthy here is that the author presents an entirely rational perception of the health–faith relationship, which has been understood in purely magical terms for many centuries. This illustrates the budding intellectual process of the separation between religion and medicine. The second form of intellectual link between religion and medicine was introduced by Islamic scholars in order to reconcile religion with secular or non-Islamic sciences. As the QurÇn covered every aspect of knowledge according to Islamic teaching, there was no need for the sciences. This idea took shape during the early stage of Islam, in the ﬁrst century of Hijra (beginning in 622), under a political system originated the Arabian peninsula and the Fertile Crescent. However, as I mentioned earlier, under the Ummayads and Abbasids, a more cosmopolitan culture prevailed. In fact the ‘Abbasids copied the court of the Sassanids in Iran, overthrown by Islam, and borrowed elements of Byzantine civilisation. Under these new conditions, which framed the development of the sciences and arts within the heterogeneous parts of the vast Islamic lands, the cultural selfsufﬁciency of the Bedouins based only on the QurÇn operate no longer. In order to remove this obstacle and acquire legitimacy for all branches of human knowledge within the Islamic community, the sciences were divided into the ulm-i avå il (pre-Islamic sciences) such as philosophy, mathematics, medicine, music and so forth and the ulm-i avåkhir (Islamic sciences) like ªad¥th, Shar¥ a (both religious law and jurisprudence), commentary on the QurÇn and theology.44 This philosophical or doctrinal recognition of the pre-Islamic sciences was largely underpinned by historical and socio-political experiences: even before Islam, the Middle East was the cross-roads for the circulation and transfer of knowledge between Eastern and Western countries. Embassies, missionaries, refugees, war prisoners and merchants or travellers all contributed to the passage of texts and knowledge.45 The Muslim recognition of pre-Islamic religions (Zoroastrianism, Judaism and Christianity), as monotheistic religions and belonging to the same spiritual afﬁliations also helped to legitimise knowledge derived from these non-Islamic societies. The division of the sciences into pre- and post-Islamic categories was spontaneously integrated into, and supported by, the medico-religious discourse. But at the same time, this implied that medicine was a secular and non-Islamic science, providing a pretext for, if not a hostile, then at least an ambiguous attitude towards avå il sciences. Thus Abu ÓÇmid GhazÇl¥ (d.1111) declared that the study of science was to be shunned ‘because it leads to a loss of belief in the origin of the world and in the Creator’.46 Such doctrines gave rise from time to time to the indictment 407

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of apostasy or atheism being made against philosophers or physicians like Avicenna. How, then, could medicine be admitted as knowledge and be learned by the believers? The construction of a medico-religious discourse contributed to this reconciliation. Different aphorisms established an analogy between hell and disease or between paradise and health. As religion helped believers to avoid hell and approach paradise, so medicine could eliminate disease and preserve health. An anonymous author asserted ‘people were saved from hell thanks to the science of Shar¥ a and from diseases by using the science of medicine’.47 This discourse also included the association of religion and medicine by integrating religious sciences into the medical curriculum. For example, the ﬁrst of the ten moral and scientiﬁc qualities required for a physician was, according to Aq¥l¥, the science of jurisprudence and ªad¥th.48 Alternatively this was achieved by incorporating medical knowledge into religion through the production of literature such as ˝ibb al-nab¥ (‘Medicine of the Prophet’), ˝¥bb al-aimma (‘Medicine of the Imams’), Risålih-yi dhahabiyya (‘The Book of Gold’),49 Zåd al-musåﬁr¥n (‘Provisions for the Travellers’) or Kitåb-i inqilåb-i rª (‘Revolution of spirits in the body’),50 where humoral medicine was associated with certain religious precepts. At best, the sayings of the Prophet and the Imams were explained by humoral theories. Ibn Qayyim, for instance, justiﬁed the ªad¥th of the Prophet with regard to fever, by referring to Galen and RÇz¥.51 In another place, he comments on different and contradictory ªad¥ths of the Prophet and dismisses as unsound and unconﬁrmed those which indicate Muªammad did not believe in contagion.52 At worst, humoral theories were attributed straight to the Prophets and the saints. Sayf al-D¥n Al¥ AstarÇbÇd¥ (whose date of death is not known, and on whom, see the Appendix to this chapter), in reaction to the introduction of the theories of modern medicine in nineteenth-century Iran, admonished the doctors who did not differentiate between bilious, phlegmatic, melancholic and sanguine temperaments and held that the writings of physicians such as Shaykh al-Ra¥s (Avicenna) were inspired by these humoral principles of medicine which were founded by the Prophet Idr¥s, conveyed by other prophets and perfected by Muªammad.53 The ªad¥th ‘al-ilm ilmån ilm al-abdån wa ilm al-adyån’ (‘science is twofold: science of body and science of religion’), attributed to the Prophet, was interpreted differently according to the religious or scientiﬁc penchant of doctors. Usually it was forwarded as proof that clerics were entitled to medical knowledge. For some, the fact that in this ªad¥th, the term badan (body) comes before the term d¥n (religion), indicated that the Prophet gave more importance to medical knowledge than to religious science and that he privileged the doctors over the clerics.54 The practice of extending Islamic science to non-Islamic science, or local to foreign sciences, continued into the modern period in Iran, with the introduction of European sciences in the second half of the nineteenth century. The Iranian intellectuals, caught between modern science and 408

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traditional education, endeavoured to bring them together. This trend was obvious especially in the ﬁelds of social science and medicine. In hard sciences such as physics, mathematics and, to some extent, astronomy, the association between modernity and tradition did not occur as much as in medicine. One can discern this difference by comparing manuals of medicine with those of physics, mathematics or astronomy produced for the curriculum of the DÇr al-Funn, the polytechnic school established in the middle of the nineteenth century.55 In medicine, however, this pattern of association did not survive because it increasingly based itself on microbiology, while in the humanities modern sociology and anthropology were used to provide religious ideas with rational or ‘scientiﬁc’ explanations.

Institutional device After the conquest of non-Arab countries, sciences that had been developed in these civilisations were translated into Arabic from Greek, Syriac, Pahlavi Persian or Sanskrit.56 As enumerated in the Nafå is al-funun (‘the Epitome of Sciences’) of Åmul¥ (d.1307), the curriculum of (Islamic) scholars, covered all ‘sciences’, including religion, mathematics, natural sciences, geometry, medicine, music, astronomy, history, literature, grammar, science of the interpretation of the QurÇn, magic, arithmomancy or divination by means of numbers (jafr).57 The institutional relationship between religion and medicine, which was mainly based on the control of education by clerics, played the major role in Islamising the avå il sciences. Practice of medicine by clerics was not rare in Iran. When a mullå of low education could not provide a proper medical treatment, he was still conceived reliable enough to write a speciﬁc prayer (duå) for healing the illness. It is therefore not surprising to see that medical books were sometimes recommended to students of religion. In a note on the front page of the nineteenth-century Persian manuscript of the anonymous Zubdat qavån¥n al-alåj (‘Compendium of the rules of treatment’), the owner dedicated and recommended it to the students of religious sciences (†alabih-yi ulm-i d¥niyyih).58 Conversely, those who specialised in non-religious sciences also had to study religious sciences, as did the doctor-to-be M¥rzÇ Al¥, the translator of Grisoll’s books in the second part of the nineteenth century. The association of natural sciences, astrology and religion in the curriculum was not only due to the Aristotelian worldview.59 Religion provided scholars with a moral and cultural framework within which they could implement or apply their knowledge in social and professional life. This mainly operated through Islamic jurisprudence (ﬁqh), which was studied by all students, including medical students. Fiqh dealt not only with religious questions but also and more importantly with social, economic and political life. As a result of the Islamisation of education, any reform in this ﬁeld had to take into account its intellectual resources or even to make use of 409

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them especially in the absence of a colonial power that could replace these resources by its own, as happened in some other Islamic countries in the nineteenth century.

Theoretical and institutional reforms in medicine Reform in medical institutions started in Iran later than in other countries such as India, the Ottoman Empire, Tunisia and Egypt.60 While India and some Middle Eastern countries had, during the eighteenth century, a continuous relationship with Europe, Iran, being in the throes of civil war, remained isolated from the network of economic and diplomatic connections with European countries. Correspondingly, acquaintance with modern sciences in Iran began systematically only with the establishment of the central power of the Qajars at the closing years of the eighteenth century. Moreover, the path of reform, throughout the Qajar period (1797–1925) was quite erratic especially in the ﬁrst part of the nineteenth century. No particular institution was set up for implementing modernisation. The total number of students sent abroad to study Western science was fewer than 10 during the ﬁrst part of the nineteenth century, compared to Egypt where as many as 104 students were sent to Europe from 1826 to 1833.61 The encounter with Western medicine occurred mainly through the presence of a few European physicians in Iran, as well as through occasional translations of European medicine into Persian. AbbÇs M¥rzÇ (1789–1833), the heir apparent of the Qajar throne and governor of Azarbayjan, endeavoured to introduce modern sciences, not least because he attributed his defeat in the war against the Russians to the lack of a modern army and the small population of the country brought about by high mortality. He asked his personal physician, the British doctor John Cormick, to introduce vaccination against smallpox. The children in some villages within his jurisdiction were vaccinated but this was not attempted nationwide. Although AbbÇs M¥rzÇ played a key role in the introduction of modern medicine, he had no speciﬁc agenda for reform and was never willing to give the task of modernisation to a European expert, as did, for instance, Muªammad Al¥ PÇshÇ in Egypt. In an ad hoc manner, however, some important medical texts were translated into Persian during the ﬁrst part of the nineteenth century. Works of Paracelsus (1493–1542) were translated at least three times in three different versions – once, in 1810, and from an Arabic translation, by an anonymous author who entitled it ˝ibb-i jad¥d-i k¥m¥yå ¥ (‘Modern Medicine based on Chemistry’)62; and on another occasion, probably in the 1820s, by Abd al-Íabr Khu¥ who entitled his translation Murakkabåt-i jawhariyyih (‘Compound Medicine based on Essence’). In his introduction, Khu¥ explained the efﬁcacy of chemical drugs and criticised the harmful effects of herbal medicine. This author wrote also, in 1827, Risålih-yi åbilih-kb¥ (‘Treatise on vaccination’),63 which was in fact a free translation 410

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of Dr Cormick’s book Smallpox Inoculation and the Need for its Universal Use. A third translation of Paracelsus, to our knowledge, was made in 1836 by Muªammad Al¥ (FÇn¥) b. MullÇ Iskandar ShirvÇn¥, which was entitled K¥m¥yå -i shafå (‘Chemistry for Healing).64 The translation of Paracelsus was by no means a mere coincidence. Paracelsian iatrochemistry in Europe, already overshadowed by medicine based on anatomy in the seventeenth century, was entirely refuted by the nineteenth century.65 Any European doctor in nineteenth-century Iran who tried to introduce modern medicine, recommended Paracelsus to his Iranian students. This indicates, ﬁrst of all, that Western medicine was going to be assimilated by traditional doctors according to their own understanding, and secondly, that through the ideas of Paracelsus, some traditional doctors began questioning the very foundations of humoral theories. At the same time, medications were based on the essence (jawhar) of the simple or component, imported, herbal drugs. These new drugs threatened the market of local drugs partly thanks to their relative effectiveness and partly because the Europeans, who possessed dispensaries or practised medicine in Iran, distributed them free of charge in order to ingratiate themselves, and promote their cause. For instance, Dr Collins, a British ophthalmologist, visiting Iran in 1895–6, informs us that the British telegraph ofﬁcial, Sergeant Glover, who was responsible for the telegraph station in AbÇdih in southern Iran, had opened a dispensary, which contained over 300 different drugs and gained a local reputation for his skill in the extraction of teeth.66 M¥rzÇ Muªammad Taq¥ Sh¥rÇz¥ (d. c.1873) wrote an essay against the introduction of Western drugs and the permission of their use in the market, which he entitled Risålih-yi jawhariyyih (‘Treatise on [against] essences’). Later on, one of his pupils, AstarÇbÇd¥, argued in his treatise on cholera that the essence of drugs, introduced by the Europeans, were harmful to the body for two reasons: ‘First of all because they were altered through their transformation from their natural state to their essence; secondly because they were produced in a climate different from that of Iran and consequently they did not ﬁt the temperaments of the local population.’67 Yet, both Sh¥rÇz¥, a high-ranking court doctor, and AstarÇbÇd¥, a mullå-doctor of a lesser importance, were in contact with the moderneducated doctors, either Iranians or Europeans. Sh¥rÇz¥, together with the French physician, Dr Tholozan, participated in the Health Councils which had been established by order of the Shah at the onset of the 1860 cholera epidemic.68 The traditional doctors, however, reacted to new drugs with a practical attitude perhaps because the new drugs continued ﬂowing into the country anyway, together with other items of consumption from Europe. It is thus not surprising to see that, for instance, both Sh¥rÇz¥ and AstarÇbÇd¥ recommended some European drugs such as Epsom salts (namak-i farang¥), effervescent powder69 and quinine.70 It seems, therefore, that the importation of new drugs from Europe or even their fabrication 411

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in Iran, threatened the local doctors and pharmacists more from an economic and institutional point of view than from an ideological and theoretical perspective. When, at the end of the century, the German Schwerin, head of the Pharmacy Department of the DÇr al-Funn, opened a retail pharmacy in Tehran, he encountered violent public opposition71 because modern apothecaries were usually limited to catering to the needs of European customers or a few educated Iranians. On the other hand, the traditional apothecaries (a††år¥) remained strong and prosperous throughout the nineteenth century. This inﬂuence was such that still in 1939, when Charles Oberlin, dean of the Faculty of Medicine in the newly established Tehran University, created the chair of pharmacy, the curriculum included Galenic pharmacology, chemical pharmacology, simple herbal drugs, organic chemistry and biochemistry.72 In the middle of the nineteenth century, institutional reforms were initiated by M¥rzÇ Taq¥ KhÇn Am¥r Kab¥r, the reforming prime minister of NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh (r.1848–96), through the creation of a modern school of DÇr al-Funn and a military hospital.73 In Qajar Iran, the modernisation had a speciﬁc pattern. It did not mean simply the introduction of European methods and sciences. In its ﬁrst stages, the modernisation was characterised more by institutional and organisational aspects than by conveying new ideas. In this sense, it was also aimed at the revival of traditional sciences, which had fallen into abeyance. As Dr M¥rzÇ Al¥ mentioned explicitly, Prince Iti∂Çd al-Sal†ana, the (modern-minded) minister of science, had promoted (iªyå , restored) both ancient and modern sciences.74 Prince Iti∂Çd al-Sal†ana75 himself was an erudite man who wrote several books, including one on astrology where he refuted the principles of the old astrology and described as superstition the custom of consulting the stars before undertaking a work. Yet Iti∂Çd al-Sal†ana elaborated his argument against astrology in an elevated style, by referring to both traditional and modern sciences.76 In his book on the ‘Principles of Physics’, Al¥-KhÇn, professor of artillery at DÇr al-Funn, pointed out that NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh was the propagator of modern and ancient sciences.77 The combination of modern and traditional is to be seen in almost all scientiﬁc texts of this period in Iran. This intellectual process was sustained by a political power that planned to create a new regime of education in order to bring it under state control. Accordingly, the establishment of a modern school meant the introduction of modern sciences as well as the reorganisation of traditional education. We do not have enough information about the schools for adults. It seems that, except for perhaps a few universities in the Islamic world, higher education was only available through private tutorials, and students attended their teacher’s lecture at his home. With the exception of those who were self-educated, the private tutorial belonged only to the richest, who could pay a professor. The reorganisation or the revival of traditional sciences in the nineteenth century would therefore entail the creation of schools or universities where 412

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traditional education was public. This experience of reorganisation or renovation of traditional education is reminiscent of the transformation of techniques of disciplining scientiﬁc practitioners, which constituted the major characteristic of what was called by some scholars the second scientiﬁc revolution in Europe.78 To the extent that modernisation implied promotion of the sciences, both modern European and traditional Iranian, the traditional doctors were called to take part in it. They were invited to publish their ideas about epidemics and to put together new prophylactic measures against them. In 1853, at the outbreak of cholera, Mahmd-KhÇn KalÇntar, the mayor of Tehran, ordered the physicians to write treatises on the prevention and cure of the disease.79 The above-mentioned anonymous doctor who wrote a manifesto on public hospitals, advocated the creation of a hospital where doctors would acquire clinical experience, but advised students of medicine to read traditional books like the Canon of Avicenna or the Kåmil al-sanå a of Majs¥.80 The combination as well as the parallel practice of traditional and modern medicine in nineteenth-century Iran both illustrated and framed the process of institutional and intellectual transition of traditional medicine. Unlike North African countries and India, the revival or reorganisation of traditional medicine in Qajar Iran was not a political reaction against European inﬂuence. This was mainly due to the fact that the introduction of modern science in nineteenth-century Iran was not identiﬁed or associated with colonial power. Iranians encountered modern medicine as neutral knowledge rather than as an instrument of colonial domination. This fact had an instrumental effect on the integration of modern medicine by traditional physicians in Iran.

Split between medical institution and religious establishment As we have seen, in medieval Iran up to the end of the nineteenth century, the educational system was based on the holistic nature of knowledge and science. Within such a system, most educated people, clerics or laymen, studied medicine alongside other branches of scholastic science. Fakhr alD¥n RÇz¥ (d.1209), theologian, philosopher and physician, epitomises this trend of education.81 The division of sciences into pre-Islamic and Islamic was not a discriminative measure and did not aim at the excommunication of the non-Islamic sciences but at their assimilation and legitimisation. Such an understanding of sciences still prevailed when modern disciplines were ﬁrst introduced in the nineteenth century. The reaction of the scholars of this period toward modern medicine was therefore similar to the attitude of their fathers toward avå il sciences in medieval times. From the beginning to the end of the nineteenth century, we ﬁnd this scientiﬁc interest illustrated in the translation of Aristotle (on hot and cold in animals) in 1801, Paracelsus (on spirits and essence) in the 1810s, Cormick 413

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(on vaccination) in the 1820s, and Grisoll, Polak, Tholozan and other modern physicians (on anatomical-pathological medicine) in the 1880s and later. The fact that the introduction of all these works was undertaken by traditional physicians led to the reﬁnement of traditional medical knowledge. Accordingly, a process similar to the development of modern medicine in Europe occurred in nineteenth-century Iran. Concurrently, there was a process of secularisation of science, which kept the connection of religion and medicine quite loose. This process was twofold: Despite the effort of reconciliation of avå il sciences with Islam, the religious orthodoxy, which had developed at different periods of Iranian history (for example Shiite orthodoxy under the Safavids), created or fuelled the hostility of the religious establishment against men of science. The second factor of secularisation was the patronage of doctors by secular powers, which further loosened the control of the ulamå over medicine. However, the primitive Quranic tenet that did not recognise the human intellect as a source of knowledge and the persistence of magico-religious medicine throughout the centuries meant the continuous interference of God and of supernatural forces in nature. Physicians therefore failed to focus on the force of nature at the cost of supernatural explanation. Several centuries of effort of Islamic scholars to reconcile the avå il science with religion occurred under the ideological pressure of Islam, toughened from time to time by political factors. Secular knowledge was therefore held in check by religion. Discussing the origin of medical knowledge, Muªammad Óusayn b. Muªammad HÇd¥ Aq¥l¥, the most important authority in eighteenth-century Iran, mentioned two major schools: the ﬁrst one believed in the God-inspired knowledge (ilhåmiyya); Hippocrates, Galen and other Greek poets, according to him, were the followers of this school. The second one thought that medical knowledge was, like other sciences, based on human intellect and they were called deductivists (istinbå†iyya); the followers of this latter school, like Pythagoras, acquired their science from experience. Aq¥l¥, citing the QurÇn verses: wa ‘allama ådam al-asmå kullahå thumma araahum alå al-malå ikåt (‘God taught all names to Adam, then showed his creatures to the angels’, Q2.31), commented that the human being is not able to understand medical science without being inspired by God.82 Such a genealogy of medical knowledge was not only a legitimisation of medicine as pre-Islamic science, but also, and more signiﬁcantly, it constituted a part of a scientiﬁc discourse which had included mythology, astrology, magic and religion since the pre-Islamic period. As long as medicine based its aetiology on the atmosphere and on the planets, it was conceivably in harmony with religion. Once medicine began to focus on the inner body, it disconnected the object of its study from the heavenly conceived universe. Using anatomy to acquire the secrets of the body, once known only by God was sacrilege, and hence could not be endorsed 414

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by religion. Consequently, by the nineteenth century, the medieval system, which was challenged by new social and political conditions as well as by the introduction of new theories of disease, could not operate as before. However, due to its Galenic background, traditional medicine in nineteenth-century Iran was not in clear-cut opposition to modern medicine; at different levels it shared some of the concepts of modern science, not least because modern science itself developed as a natural evolution out of Hippocratism and neo-Hippocratism. Even in the Saf¥nih-yi nª (‘Noah’s Ark’), a treatise on the 1892 epidemic, and characterised by its antagonism to modern medicine, one ﬁnds AstarÇbÇd¥ incorporating elements of the new science.83 The contradictory elements or arguments of the treatises of Kan¥84 or AstarÇbÇd¥ (in Saf¥nih-yi nª) show that the theoretical or practical incoherence of traditional medicine in the nineteenth century was revealed as a result of contact with modern medicine. AstarÇbÇd¥, for example, criticised European medicine and drugs such as quinine because they were responsible, according to him, for new diseases85; but in the following lines he prescribed quinine for the treatment of cholera.86 Obviously AstarÇbÇd¥ did not oppose the use of locally fabricated quinine; he was against the quinine imported from Europe. In the 1 May 1887 issue of the journal Echo de Perse, published every fortnight from 1884 onwards, the quinine of Pelletier, Delondre and Levaillant was advertised as the best quinine.87 At another point, AstarÇbÇd¥ used modern terminology, such as f¥sulujiyå (physiology) for the preservation of health and atulujiyå (pathology) for the prevention of illness.88 Here was the temptation of carrying concepts of modern science into traditional medicine in an effort to understand the former – which the author termed ‘ilm-i mutakafﬁl’89 – and reinforcing and varnishing the latter. AstarÇbÇd¥ believed that the cause of epidemics was sin, and cholera was a punishment ordained by God. This implied that once epidemics occurred, the believer’s religious duty was to submit to God’s will. Accordingly, he divided his treatise in two chapters, the ﬁrst one, duå (prayer), provided the patients with special prayers that protected them against epidemic diseases. The other chapter was davå, medication, subdivided in two chapters: preservation (ªifΩ) of health and cure (raf) of disease. To the extent that this last chapter implied that by curing disease the doctor intervened in God’s will, it was in contradiction with the ﬁrst chapter, duå. This reveals the internalisation, by traditional medicine, of the conﬂict between faith and science. The title Saf¥nih-yi nª for a medical treatise is also signiﬁcant. By this title AstarÇbÇd¥ insinuated that his treatise resembled the Old Testament vessel of Noah, able to preserve the human being from the deluge of cholera which modern medicine had failed to prevent. In this treatise, AstarÇbÇd¥ contends that the solution to the unprecedented epidemics in Iran is to fully revive the medicine of the Prophet and abandon modern theories. This position indicates the choice of a mullå-doctor for religion, 415

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while the career of Buqråt al-ªukamå , described at the beginning of this article, illustrates the option of another mullå-doctor for medicine. In both cases there was no all-encompassing dissociation between medicine and religion but rather a conspicuous inclination towards one or the other, and this process gradually ended in the institutional separation of religion and medicine in the following decades. The development of the Shiite establishment in nineteenth-century Iran produced favourable ground for the process of separation. In the nineteenth century the power of the Shiite mullås increased. This was due to two historical factors. First, after the downfall of the Safavid dynasty, which claimed religious legitimacy and controlled the waqf (religious endowments), the Shiite mullås acquired both religious legitimacy and the waqf.90 Second, the civil wars in the eighteenth century further weakened the state power and provided the religious establishment with more opportunity to increase its autonomy. In nineteenth-century Iran, alongside the control of the religious endowments, the alliance of the mullås with the bazaar, the budding commercial bourgeoisie, further enhanced their ﬁnancial independence. The mullås strengthened their power throughout the nineteenth century to the extent that, despite the consolidation of the Qajar state, they allowed themselves to intrude in political affairs. Another factor during the nineteenth century that increased clerical power was the fact that, in the absence of any lay institution, it was the only force able to organise popular movements (such as the tobacco boycott) and, especially in the second part of the century, it became the main opposition to the authority of the state.91 When modern medicine was ﬁrst introduced in the early nineteenth century, there were criticisms and sporadic hostility to it, but the religious establishment did not and could not ban its study and practice. Because the Shiite mullås had no institutional cohesion or hierarchy similar to what was experienced in the medieval European church, they presented different readings of the QurÇn and its application to social life. In this intellectual and organisational context, modern medicine enjoyed the implicit recognition of the Shiite establishment. This recognition, which became more explicit during the twentieth century, is illustrated in a recent fatvå (religious injunction) issued by AyatallÇh ÍÇni¥, allowing abortion (although it is outlawed in Islam) not only when the mother’s health is in danger but also when the family cannot afford another choice or when there is overpopulation.92 Even the Guardian Council, the Islamic Republic’s constitutional oversight body, which is dominated by conservative mullås, has recently pronounced an edict allowing organ transplants from dead or brain-dead people.93 Modern medicine is allowed to be practised according to its scientiﬁc value, free from religious criteria. This is illustrated in the policy of the Islamic Republic to revive traditional medicine94: it can be practised but only by doctors who have graduated from medical faculties where they have studied modern medicine. 416

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The separation of religion and medicine towards the end of the nineteenth century was due to the evolution of the same factors that characterised and determined their relationship. As we have described, this relationship occurred theoretically and institutionally. In classical schools (madrasas), medicine was one of the general courses among grammar, mathematics and religion. Even at the higher level studied by professional physicians it was still infused with supernatural concepts and elements of folk medicine. Concurrently, humoral theories were vulgarised through popular literature and culinary arts as well as religious education. After the creation of the DÇr al-Funn and the introduction of modern sciences, medicine became a learned discipline and increasingly devoid of spiritual elements. Likewise, due to the specialisation of sciences, the religious classes could not accommodate it. With the institutional reforms and the professionalisation of medicine, the clerics who practised it had to choose whether to serve the secular state or to remain within the clerical establishment. The imposing social and professional label of ‘doctor’, acquired by those who had gone through a long period of specialised studies in modern schools, was the most important factor in excluding others, including the mullås, from the practice of medicine. Cyril Elgood puts it thus: ‘the Shaykhs and the native hakims could no longer attract pupils to whom they could impart their empirical and practical experience’.95 In addition to these historical factors of an institutional nature, one should bear in mind that nineteenth-century Iran was gradually moving away from its medieval traditions, where medical practice was principally based on faith, towards a society in which medicine relied increasingly on reason. This evolution, shared at different levels by different countries, was fundamental in the separation between religion and science.

Appendix An excerpt from the Noah’s Ark (Saf¥nih-yi nª) of Sayf al-d¥n Al¥ b. Muªammad-Jafar AstarÇbÇd¥ In the Name of God, the Clement and the Merciful . . . I, Sayf al-d¥n ‘Al¥ b. Muªammad Jafar AstarÇbÇd¥, write for the community of believers that in Rajab and ShabÇn of the year 1262 [July–August 1846] towards the end of the reign of Sultan Muªammad ShÇh QÇjÇr [r.1834–1848] . . . a severe cholera broke out in Tehran. My deceased father in DizÇsh¥b of Shim¥rÇn,96 was affected by the disease and had lost his appetite,97 [in spite of this, he survived and] the news of his health was known via his relatives.98 Even the prince of Herat,99 JalÇl al-D¥n M¥rzÇ, sent a message that ‘we [in his palace] are about one hundred; if we are 417

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preserved against cholera we would convert to Shiism’. [My father] replied that ‘you could come and stay in our vicinity’. [They did] and all remained safe from the cholera and subsequently they converted to Shiism. That is because those were religious times, and common people and nobles alike observed the roots and branches of the religion and obeyed him [my father]. [However,] epidemics intensiﬁed, particularly in DizÇsh¥b and generally in other cities and villages to such an extent that within one day, thirty two people died in DizÇsh¥b, and AllÇh-vird¥-Bayg, the muhrdår (keeper of the seals), ﬂed but died en route. The late Shah also ﬂed to AmÇsar.100 Consequently, my father, out of compassion, took me [around the village] and we cited two åyat al-kurs¥ [Q2.255] and three (other) verses (such as) rabbanå akshaf ‘annå l-’aΩåb innå mu’minn [Q44.12].101 From that time to this year, the 10th of Muªarram 1310 [4 August 1892], cholera broke out102 several times in Tehran and in its outskirts, with the exception of DizÇsh¥b. [This was because] the people had stopped practising the principles of the religion for many years and the true followers of the Prophet had therefore considerably diminished. This humble [servant] strove excessively and in different ways [to promote the religion] but I did not see or hear other than disbelief and objection [to the religion]. When this year news of the spread of cholera in Khurasan103 reached us, some dear friend asked me about the possible magic cure in DizÇsh¥b.104 I replied that it seemed that it was unlikely. In fact, after two or three months [of Khurasan’s epidemic] the outbreak of cholera in DizÇsh¥b was actually greater than in other villages. [But again] I saw an unusual stubbornness to such an extent that I heard one day that eleven cadavers lay in the street stinking and no one had cared to collect them! The people asked me to take them to the public prayer. I retorted that prayer is repenting and obeying the principles of religion. Gradually they came out of their houses in the name of prayer, but in other respects, they were very stubborn. I admonished them for having been obstinate against God’s will: in this world you can give up105 but what will you do in the other world? By this and other admonitions, I gathered some people and appointed them to work. I saw that groceries and drugstores were shut. And even the baker had given up and closed his bakery. I called the governor outside his home under the pretext of prayer. His Excellency LuqmÇn al-Mulk who is the chief physician of the state had become a hermit and received no one. The Jewish doctor had ﬂed to DizÇsh¥b. The governor took from him a written engagement that if he would not treat people, he should leave the village. He therefore bound himself to work, 418

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but what can one person alone do? Moreover one did not have conﬁdence in his treatment, although it became evident later on that he performed a good job! At this juncture, the Prince Z¥yÇ al-D¥n M¥rzÇ arrived and pleaded for the treatment of his contaminated son, saying that [the chief physician] LuqmÇn al-Mulk had disappeared. I decided to write a letter to him explaining that ‘our doctors do not differentiate between bilious, phlegmatic, melancholic and sanguine temperaments which kill the people. You are the chief physician of the state. Sul†Çn al-ÓukamÇ106 ﬂed, one does not know where, and his work is now your responsibility, otherwise appoint M¥rzÇ Asad AllÇh KÇsh¥ or M¥rzÇ Abd al-Kar¥m107 to the affairs of DizÇsh¥b.’ As I knew that he would not allow the courier entrance, I took the letter to him myself and I managed to get into his house. There, I found the governor’s108 messenger coming to take him to the governors’ house to treat his son. I therefore went to the governor’s house under the pretext of visiting his sick son. While I was doing my prayers there, LuqmÇn al-Mulk arrived. I told him, ‘You do not appreciate the merit of your medicine. Observe the history of the ÓaramÇn dome109: this knowledge [medicine] is the heritage of Idr¥s and all other Prophets used it until the last Prophet Muªammad who perfected it. The ˝ibb al-nab¥, the ˝ibb al-aimma and the ˝ibb al-Ri∂å are all available and in fact the sources of physicians such as Ibn SinÇ were the right Traditions of the Prophets. Otherwise no reasonable person would risk his life by taking drugs without having any knowledge about them.’110 He agreed! I said that the Europeans reﬁned tabåsh¥r (sugar of bamboo) and extracted its essence. Even if this essence is of the natural bamboo, ﬁrst of all an altered material . . . is not the same as a natural one and another godly-inspired Prophet would be needed to teach about its quality. Secondly, supposing that the Europeans perfected their experimentation, that they completely understood the beneﬁts and detriments of these essences, and that they had no prejudice in fabricating these essences [for the beneﬁt of foreign countries], comparing the climate and the temperaments111 of Europe to those of Iran is a foolish act which results, according to experience and tradition, from committing sin which blackens and spoils reason. Human beings do not usually understand what is unknown to them or the hidden knowledge of others . . .112 From the viewpoint of this humble servant, most of the diseases occurred in Iran, such as erratic forms of ague,113 result from consuming quinine, Epsom salts114 and effervescent powder.115 419

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His Excellency LuqmÇn al-Mulk entirely approved of what I said in the presence of the governor. It was consequently resolved that two doctors, namely M¥rzÇ Asad AllÇh KÇsh¥ and M¥rzÇ Abd alKar¥m should go immediately to DizÇsh¥b. I insisted that he [LuqmÇn al-Mulk] should visit the son of the Prince iyÇ al-D¥n M¥rzÇ. He said that he would go to and from the Imåm-juma’s116 house. We waited until afternoon but he did not arrive and the son of the Prince died. I sent messengers after him but no one knew where he was. Eventually I went myself to his house and I was told that he had left there for the city [Tehran] and that tomorrow two doctors would come. The next day [however] some young villagers died because of lack of a doctor. Again I went and they told me that he would be back tonight, and he was. The next day, early morning, I went again and I found the door locked, implying that the members of the house were all dead! We therefore resorted again to the Jewish doctor until the epidemic was over and [NÇ‚ir al-D¥n] Shah returned.117 One day, while I was going to the ﬁeld, I came across Majd alDawla118 who took me to see his stable and there I saw His Excellency LuqmÇn al-Mulk alive [hidden in the stable]! He asked Majd al-Dawla insistently whether he handed his report to the Shah. After we left there, I asked [Majd al-Dawla] which report [the doctor was talking about]? It became clear that [the chief physician] LuqmÇn al-Mulk had written to the Shah that during the epidemic he had appointed doctors in every village and town [and urged them] to visit every house; that he had dispensed a considerable amount of drugs to people free of charge. He had written that he had investigated the operation to the detriment of his own comfort and that he had asked people to pray for the blessed life of His Majesty. [In the report] he had mentioned a certain M¥rzÇ Abd AllÇh as a doctor of DizÇsh¥b. I enquired about such a person but did not ﬁnd any person named Abd AllÇh in DizÇsh¥b, save one of the subjects whose name was ÓÇj¥ AbdallÇh who had emigrated many years ago from Iran to the Ottoman empire and if he is still alive, he must be living now in the AtabÇt. The other one was Abd AllÇh the governor119 who had ﬂed at the beginning of the epidemics and died in UshÇn.120 I was surprised that they could lie to the Shah! It has become certain nowadays that if one says something against what they [the nobles] say or do, it does not reach the Shah. These doctors receive a considerable salary and do not need the toil of treating patients; they therefore disappear [at a time of epidemic] and [in this way] medical science will eventually disappear. And historians will write 420

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about this here and there and this fortune (!) will be named as the history of the decay of perfection . . . I was told that whatever I said would never reach the Shah’s ears. It is a pity that God offered such a clement king to this irreligious epoch. I cannot tell this to anyone except to the King himself. As he is not like the ancient kings who appear in disguise, so that the people could complain to him directly. As it was an irremediable disease that occurred in this country, I wrote a treatise, entitled Saf¥nih-yi nª (‘Ark of Noah’) on eliminating cholera and plague, divided into two chapters: medicine (davå) and prayer (duå). Introduction: No one, either from Islam or from other religions, can deny that the main cause of the calamities such as plague and cholera is sin . . . Chapter I: on drugs for the treatment of cholera and plague. Although this humble servant studied medicine during my childhood with grand masters such as my father and HÇjj M¥rzÇ MsÇ121 and then after maturity with HÇjj M¥rzÇ Khal¥l in Najaf and ÓÇjj ÅqÇ BÇbÇ122 in KarbalÇ, I did not practise medicine123 and have no knowledge of pharmacy and diseases.124 But, since in the years of the 12(80s) [c.1865–75], a severe cholera occurred in KarbalÇ to such an extent that 700 persons died each day and I became ill out of fear and panic, in order to prevent the contamination (fåsid) I went every day to the medical room of the late M¥rzÇ Muªammad GulpÇygÇn¥125 in the holy shrine. I saw twice most of the cadavers, when they were brought in and when transported out of the shrine. I also accompanied him whenever he went to treat, especially [when he treated] the pilgrims and strangers and assumed the duty of nurse. He was so skilled that no sick person left his room without being cured! Therefore, I necessarily acquired some experience, which I collected in my Muntakhibåt [‘Selected works’]. The purpose of this treatise is twofold: the ﬁrst chapter is on daf , the prevention of epidemics, in other words, the conservation of health which, in ilm-i mutakafﬁl (modern science), is termed f¥sulujiyå (physiology). First of all, one should leave the area contaminated by choleric water and weather (åb-u-havå-yi vabå ¥) and move to places provided with clean weather and water. Otherwise one should cool the air [of one’s house in the contaminated area] by sprinkling water on the ground, walls and ceiling and prepare aromatic 421

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plants like mint, pennyroyal, and fruits such as water melon, cucumber, coriander, apple, quince, pear, julap, vinegar, Egyptian willow126 and camphor. One should clean the sitting area and even the entire house . . . The second chapter is on raf (treatment) of cholera which in modern science is named atulujiyå (pathology). When the weather is ﬁlled with the poison of cholera, the persons of weak temperaments are affected. Because of their decayed humours, they are predisposed to the putrefaction. When the symptoms such as indigestion, grumbling of the stomach, ﬂatulence, anxiety and sleeplessness, appear, the doctor should prescribe tiryåq al-afå ¥127 and the pill of Ibn S¥nÇ . . .

Notes 1

2 3 4 5 6 7

8 9 10 11

An earlier version of this chapter was published as H. Ebrahimnejad, ‘Religion and Medicine in Iran: from Relationship to Dissociation’ History of Science 11 (2002) 113–23. I wish to acknowledge support of The British Institute of Persian Studies for my preliminary research in Iran during June 2000 and the help of Robert Gleave with this project. I also thank Behzad Ebrahimnejad for facilitating my access to the manuscript Saf¥nih-yi nª. While writing this chapter I enjoyed the generous facilities of the Wellcome Trust Centre for the History of Medicine at UCL. The third form of vocalization is †ubb (the name of a place). Ibn Qayyim al-Jawz¥ Medicine of the Prophet (Penelope Johnstone (ed.): Cambridge, 1998) 104–5. Anonymous Risålih dar ˝ibb (MS 2428, Library of Vaz¥r¥, Yazd) undated. Muªammad Óusayn b. Muªammad HÇd¥ al-’Aq¥l¥ al-Alav¥, Khulåsat alªikmat (Bombay, 1261/1845) 1–2, written in Persian in 1782. Anonymous, Fihrist-i rashaªåt al-funn (MS Π.H.C 529, dated 1227/1812, National Library, St Petersburg). Presently in Northern Afghanistan. On the time of Zoroaster see, Jalih AmzigÇr and Aªmad Tafa∂∂ul¥ Urtrih-yi Zindig¥-yi Zartsht (Tehran, 1370sh/1991) and A. Sh. Shahbazi ‘Recent speculations on the traditional date of Zoroaster’ Studia Iranica 31.1 (2002) 7–45. Zartusht-i BahrÇm, Zaråtusht-Nåmih (MS Π.H.C 11, National Library, St Petersburg) 149–53. James Darmesteter Le Zend Avesta cited by Abbas Naﬁcy La Médecine en Perse, des origines à nos jours (Paris, 1933) 13. See also Horst Fichtner Die medizin im Avesta (Leipzig, 1924). Fielding H. Garrison ‘Persian medicine and medicine in Persia’ Bulletin of the Institute of the History of Medicine 1.4 (May 1933) 144. The question of whether theoretical or institutional factors underlay the religio-medical relationship, lies out of the scope of this study. This question, with regard to medical reform in Iran has been addressed in my article, H. Ebrahimnejad ‘Theory and Practice in Nineteenth Century Persian Medicine: Intellectual and Institutional Reforms’ History of Science 13 (2000) 171–8.

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12 13 14

15

16

17

18

19 20 21 22

See Danielle Jacquart Le Milieu médical en France du XIIe au XVe siècle (Droze, Genève, Paris, 1981). Joseph Ziegler Medicine and Religion c.1300: The Case of Arnau de Vilanova (Oxford, 1998) Introduction. He was born in 1879 in ArdakÇn, near Yazd, into a clerical family. The Malik-Af∂al¥ family (now BuqrÇ† – Hippocrates) are relatives of the President of Iran, Muªammad KhÇtam¥. I am indebted to Mr NiΩÇm al-D¥n BuqrÇ†, the son of Dr BuqrÇ† al-ÓukamÇ, for this information as well as for providing a copy of his father’s manuscript. HÇjj ÅqÇ Husayn ˝abÇ†abÇ¥ (1875–1960) of the ˝aba†abÇ¥ family, was born in Burjird. After his elementary studies, he went to Isfahan to learn ﬁqh (religious jurisprudence) and philosophy. He later became the preeminent marja‘-i taql¥d (or ‘the source of imitation’), the ﬁrst religious authority of Sh¥ ¥ Law and lived in Qum. In addition to his books on religious sciences and logic, he also wrote a treatise on purgatives for the sick (Munzajåt-i mar¥∂). Cf. Al¥ Akbar DihkhudÇ Lughatnåmih, 14 vols (Tehran, 1998) III, 4656. The honoriﬁc titles were attributed by the princes or the state to highranking doctors before the reform of medical institutions in Iran. Usually these titles, such as Malik al-a†ibbå (‘prince of the physicians’), Itimåd ala†ibbå (‘conﬁdant of physicians’), Sayf al-a†ibbå (‘sword of physicians’), Sul†ån al-ªukamå (‘sovereign of doctors’) and Íiªªat al-dawla (‘health of the state’) indicated ofﬁcial recognition by the state. Such titles established differentiation between ofﬁcial and non-ofﬁcial, genuine and quack doctors. On this subject, see my paper ‘Medicine and politics in QÇjÇr Iran’ presented at the Fourth European Conference on Iranian Studies, Paris, 6–10 September 1999. This manuscript is untitled. Conceivably this anti-carnivorist argument of BuqrÇ† al-ÓukamÇ could have some origin in Zoroastrian philosophy. Yazd, Central Iran, and Kerman are two regions in Iran where the Zoroastrians are still concentrated and still have their temples. For some indications on the vegetarian philosophy of Zoroastrianism, see Laurence Ossipow La Cuisine du corps et de l’âme (Paris, 1997) 37ff. The Library of Dr BuqrÇ† al-ÓukamÇ contained 330 volumes of Arabic and Persian manuscripts and was bequeathed, according to his will, to the Library of AstÇn-i Quds (Mashhad). These were also 42 volumes of French printed books, including: Guide-Formulaire de Thérapeutique by V. Herzen (Paris, n.d.); Therapeutique clinique, by H. Huchard (Paris, 1909), Les Agents physicques usuels, climato-thérapie, Hydrothérapie by A. Martinet and A. Mougeot (Paris, 1909). These books have been donated by NiΩÇm al-D¥n BuqrÇ†, his son, to the Open University of Nishapur. According to NiΩÇm al-D¥n BuqrÇ†, interviewed in June 1999, Nishapur. Muªammad Mihdi Muvaªªid¥ Zindig¥nåmih-yi mashåh¥r-i rijål-i pizishk¥yi muå‚ir-i Ûrån (Tehran, 1371sh) 36–7. Also see Muªammad Taq¥ M¥r, Pizishkån-i nåm¥-yi Fårs (2nd edn: ShirÇz, 1363sh/1984). About this question see below, note 91. Sayyid JamÇl al-D¥n AsadÇbÇd¥, nicknamed AfghÇni, was an Iranian born in AsadÇbÇd, near Hamadan. For political reasons, particularly for avoiding the persecution of the Qajar regime he had asked for Afghan nationality, and chosen an Afghan name, since at that time Afghanistan was under the protection of Great Britain. For the biography of AfghÇn¥, cf. Homa Nategh, Seyyed Jamålod-D¥n Asadåbådi, dit Afghåni (Paris, 1971). See also Nikki Keddie Sayyed Jamal ad-D¥n ‘al-Afghani’: A Political Biography (Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1972).

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23

24 25

26 27 28 29 30 31 32

33 34

35 36 37 38 39 40

41 42 43 44

For this question cf. Sami Zubaida Islam, The People and The State: Political Ideas and Movements in the Middle East (London and New York, 1993). See also A. Hourani Arabic Thought in the Liberal Age 1798–1939 (Oxford, 1982). Jawz¥, Medicine of the Prophet, preface by Seyyed Hossein Nasr, xix. See, for example, an anonymous treatise, annexed to the book written by Fakhr al-ÓukamÇ va Zubdat al-A†ibbÇ ÓÇjj¥ M¥rzÇ MsÇ SÇvij¥ Dastr ala†ibbå f¥ alåj al-vabå, (Tehran, 1269/1852–3) 1–3. It seems that this annex is the second part of the SÇvij¥’s book. SÇvij¥, Ad iya, 1–3. Anonymous, Treatise on pharmacopoeia (MS Π.H.C. 417, National Library, St Petersburg) 43–55. Anonymous treatise on medicine, entitled in the catalogue as Kitåb-i †ibb (Library of the Oriental Institute, St Petersburg) 10–11. D. Pingree ‘Astrology and Astronomy in Iran’ EIr II, 870. Aytham Kar¥m, Risålih-yi dallåkiyyih (MS Π.H.C. 434, National Library, St Petersburg) 23B. Copy dated 1690/1873. Aytham Kar¥m, Risålih-yi dallåkiyyih, 7B. Muªammad b. Majlis¥ I‚fahÇn¥ Óad¥qat al-muttaq¥n (MS Persian, Wellcome Trust Library, London). This manuscript is dated in the eighteenth century. The date of writing is not mentioned but in the ﬁrst folio there is a note saying: ‘this book was in the hands of Muªammad ‘Al¥ in the year of 1146 [/1734]’. SÇvij¥, Ad iya. In SÇvij¥, Ad iya, the Miftåª al-shafå referred to by SÇvij¥ is probably the same as that written by M¥rzÇ Muªammad KÇΩim b. Muªammad SÇib, copied in 1265/1848, as the contents are very similar to the Zåd al-Musåﬁr¥n genre and the author is described as AΩam al-UlamÇ. The rain that falls in N¥sån, the ﬁrst month of the Hebrew calendar corresponding to around April. SÇvij¥, Ad iya. Anonymous Treatise on ad iya (MS Persian A.159, Library of the Oriental Institute, St Petersburg) 1. M. NajmÇbÇd¥, Tår¥kh-i †ibb dar Ûrån (Tehran, 1399/1987) 593. Jawz¥, Medicine of the Prophet, 108–9. This rational interpretation of the soul-body relation, or the association of science and religion or rational and irrational thought, is quite similar to that of eighteenth-century England, where, in the case of an amateur doctor, William Dyer of Bristol, treatment by electricity was based on the idea that ﬁre was the moving force of the universe. ‘Electrical healing revived the animal spirits and removed the obstructions to the vital life, in a process which clearly paralleled the spiritual awakening of the individual by grace.’ See Jonathan Barry ‘Piety and the Patient: Medicine and Religion in 18C Bristol’ in Roy Porter (ed.) Patients and Practitioners: Lay Perceptions of Medicine in pre-Industrial Society (Cambridge, 1985) 145–76. SÇvij¥ Dastr 22–32. Sayf al-D¥n Al¥ AstarÇbÇd¥ Saf¥nih-yi Nª (Personal Copy, dated c.1892) 5–7. Anonymous Persian manuscript, whose catalogue title is Risålih dar khu‚‚-i tas¥s-i mar¥∂-khånih (MS 550, Majlis Library, Tehran) 10 and 28–9. AllÇma Shams al-D¥n Muªammad b. Mahmd-i Åmul¥ Nafå is al-Funun f¥ arå is al-uyn, 3 vols (ÓÇjj M¥rzÇ Abd al-Óasan Shi’rÇn¥ (ed.): Tehran, 1337sh/1958) I, 16ff. See also the Fihrist-i rashaªåt, note 5 above.

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45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52

53 54 55

56 57 58 59

60

A useful recent work on this subject is: Scott L. Montgomery Science in Translation: Movements of Knowledge, through Culture and Time (Chicago, 2000). Cyril Elgood A Medical History of Persia and the Eastern Caliphate (London, 1979) 352. Kitåb-i †ibb, 10–11. Muªammad Óusayn b. Muªammad HÇd¥ Aq¥l¥ Khulå‚at al-Óikmat (Bombay, 1261/1845) 6. This book, attributed to ImÇm Ri∂Ç, the eighth ImÇm of the Shiites, was allegedly written in 832. Kitåb-i inqilåb al-rª f¥l-badan va qarår al-mavå∂i (MS B837, Library of Oriental Institute, St Petersburg). This copy is dated 996/1588. Jawz¥, Medicine of the Prophet, 19–20. Jawz¥, Medicine of the Prophet, 113–16. For a case study of contagion in Islam see Lawrence I. Conrad ‘A Ninth-Century Muslim Scholar’s Discussion of Contagion’ in Lawrence I. Conrad and Dominik Wujastyk (eds) Contagion: Perspectives from Pre-Modern Societies (Ashgate, 2000) 163–77. AstarÇbÇd¥, Saf¥nih-yi Nª, 2–3; see also the appendix to this chapter. Ab Z¥n KahhÇl Sharå i†-i Jarråª¥ (MS 61(I), Library of UCLA, Los Angeles) 2. This copy is dated 1855. See, for example, Javåhir al-hikmat-i Nå‚ir¥ (a translation of Dr Tholozan’s lectures) and Javåhir al-tashr¥ª (Tehran, 1889), written by Dr M¥rzÇ ‘Al¥ who was educated at the Paris Medical Faculty and was professor of medicine at the DÇr al-Funn. Concerning medicine more generally, see U‚l-i ilm-i f¥z¥k (Tehran, 1295/1878) written by Al¥ KhÇn, professor of artillery and physics at that DÇr al-Funn, Tehran. Prince ‘Al¥qul¥ M¥rzÇ Kitåb-i mustatåb-i falak al-saåda (Tehran, 1278/1861) was written refuting the practice of astrology. Scott L. Montgomery, Science in Translation and Franz Rosenthal The Classical Heritage in Islam (London, 1975). Åmul¥, Nafå is al-funn f¥ ‘aråyis al-’uyn I, 14–21. Zubdat al-qavån¥n al-alåj (MS 21, Library of UCLA, Los Angeles). This copy is dated 1228/1813. For the association between Islamic cosmology, the Aristotelian theory of four elements (ﬁre, water, earth and air) and Ptolemy’s conception of concentric spheres, see Seyyed Hossein Nasr An Introduction to Islamic Cosmological Doctrines (Cambridge, 1964). Aristotle’s inﬂuence was not only through classical Muslim scholars such as Avicenna. He was also studied in Greek, as in the case of A‚ghar Óusayn b. GhulÇm Ghawth who translated into Persian in 1801 a treatise of Aristotle in question and answer form, entitled Risålih-yi måbål. He worked from a comparative study of an original book in Greek and its Arabic translation. (see A‚ghar Óusayn b. GhulÇm Ghawth, Risålih-yi måbål (MS Persian 121 (E), Wellcome Trust Library, London). See Nancy E. Gallagher Medicine and Power in Tunisia, 1780–1900 (Cambridge, 1983); Naguib Bey Mahfuz The History of Medical Education in Egypt (Cairo, 1935); Sonbol Amira El Azhary ‘The Creation of a Medical Profession in Egypt during the Nineteenth Century: A Study in Modernisation’ (unpublished PhD dissertation, Georgetown University, 1981); Anne-Marie Moulin ‘L’hygiène dans la ville: la médecine ottomane à l’heure pastorienne (1887–1908)’ in P. Dumont and F. Georgeon (eds) Villes ottomanes à la ﬁn de l’empire (Paris, 1991) 186–209; Anne-Marie Moulin ‘Révolutions médicales et révolutions politiques en Egypte (1865–1917)’ Revue de l’Occident Musulman et de la Méditerranée 52 (1989) 111–23.

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61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75

76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91

Naguib Bey Mahfuz, Medical Education, 24. Anonymous, ˝ibb-i jad¥d-i k¥miyå ¥ (MS C 1612, Library of the Oriental Institute, St Petersburg). Translated from an Arabic text written by SÇlih b. Na‚rallÇh al-Óalab¥ in 1669. Abd al-Íabr Kh¥ Tal¥mnåmih yå Risålih-yi åbilih-kb¥ (Tabriz, 1245 /1829). Muªammad Al¥ FÇn¥ b. MullÇ Iskandar ShirvÇn¥ K¥miyå’-i shafå (MS Persian 65, Library of UCLA, Los Angeles). This copy is dated 1252/1836. Roy Porter The Greatest Beneﬁt to Mankind: A Medical History of Humanity from Antiquity to the Present (London, 1997) 210–11. E. Treacher Collins In the Kingdom of the Shah (London, 1896) 109. See also pp.162 and 276. AstarÇbÇd¥, Saf¥nih-yi Nª, 3. Muªammad RÇz¥ Kan¥ Fakhr al-A†ibbÇ Miftåª al-amån (MS Persian 1279/1863, National Library, Tehran) 3. This copy is dated 1279/1862–3. jsh-i sh¥r¥n or bicarbonate of sodium (NaHCO3). AstarÇbÇd¥, Saf¥nih-yi Nª, 7. SÇdeq SajjÇd¥ ‘Drugs’ EIr VII, 559. SajjÇd¥, ‘Drugs’, 560. See above, note 55. Dr M¥rzÇ Al¥ HamadÇn¥, Preface to the Persian translation of Grisolle Traité des maladies nerveuses (Tehran, 1297/1880) 4 mentioning amrå∂-i asabån¥ (nervous diseases). Prince ‘Al¥quli-KhÇn Iti∂Çd al-Sal†ana (1819–81) was appointed head of the DÇr al-Funn in 1858 and a year later nominated as minister of sciences. The ﬁrst and the largest group of students (42) was sent to Paris under his auspices as soon as he became head of the DÇr al-Funn. He took over responsibility for the Telegraph and the Printing-House (chåp-khånih), and published several journals (see M. BÇmdÇd Sharª-i ªål-i rijål-i Ûrån, qarnhå-yi 12 va 13 va 14h, 6 vols (Tehran, 1357–71sh) III, 442–8). Iti∂Çd al-Sal†ana Kitåb-i mustatåb-i falak al-saåda (Tehran, 1862). Al¥ KhÇn U‚l, Introduction. Jan Golinski Making Natural Knowledge: Constructivism and the History of Science (Cambridge, 1998) 69. ÅqÇ M¥rzÇ Muªammad ˝ihrÇn¥ Untitled treatise on cholera (Tehran, 1269/1853). A manuscript of this text (undated, but clearly written in the early 1850s) is held in the Majlis Library, Tehran consisting of 81 pages. Elgood, A Medical History of Persia, 219–20. Muªammad Óusayn Alav¥ Kulå‚at al-Óikmat (Bombay, 1921). See the translation of the introduction in the appendix of this chapter. Muªammad RÇz¥ Kan¥, Miftåª al-amån. AstarÇbÇd¥, Saf¥nih-yi Nª, 6. AstarÇbÇd¥, Saf¥nih-yi Nª, 13. Echo de Perse, Journal politique, littéraire et commercial, 3 (1 Mai 1887). (‘La meilleure QUININE est la Quinine des trois cachets de Pellier, Delondre et Levaillant. Dépôt à Téhéran, avenue de Lalézar, chez Mr. Le Dr. Morel.’) AstarÇbÇd¥, Saf¥nih-yi Nª, 15–16. AstarÇbÇd¥, Saf¥nih-yi Nª, 6, 8. S. A. Arjomand The Shadow of God and the Hidden Imam: Religion, Political Order and Societal Change in Shi ite Iran from the Beginning to 1890 (Chicago, 1984). On the growing political power of the Shiite clerics in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries see Hamid Algar Religion and the State in Iran:

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92 93

94

95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102

103 104 105

106

107 108

1785–1906 (Berkeley, 1969); Hamid Algar ‘The Oppositional Role of the Ulama in Twentieth-Century Iran’ in N. R. Keddie (ed.) Scholars, Saints and Suﬁs (Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1972) 231–57; Saïd Amir Arjomand The Turban for the Crown: The Islamic Revolution in Iran (Oxford, 1988). Los Angeles Times, 29 December 2000, article by Robin Wright. Reuters, Monday, 11 December 2000. The news was published ﬁrst in several newspapers in Iran one week earlier. The parliament had approved organ transplants in April 2000 but the law had to be endorsed by the Guardian Council before it could take effect. The Guardian Council (shråyi nigahbån) is appointed by the ‘supreme guide’. After the anti-Pahlavi movement led to the establishment of theocratic power in Iran in 1979, a series of conferences was organised where the beneﬁts of the ‘forgotten’ traditional medicine were discussed and the proceedings were published as Majm‘a-yi maqålåt-i †ibb-i sunnat¥ dar Ûrån (Tehran, 1982). Dr VelÇyati, a paediatrician and the minister of foreign affairs, assisted by historians of medicine such as NajmÇbÇd¥, has edited some sources of traditional medicine such Khufﬁh-yi Alå ¥, a summary of the Dhakh¥ra-yi Khårazmshåh¥ of GurgÇn¥. Elgood A Medical History of Persia, 536. North of Tehran in the skirt of the Alborz mountains. The lack or the diminution of appetite, as the author mentions later in his work (p. 8), was considered as one of the symptoms of cholera. By this sentence the author implied that his father, who was a ‘true believer’, remained safe thanks to his spiritual might. This is qualiﬁed in the following lines by the author as afsn (charm, magic). Herat was the major western city of Afghanistan, whence the cholera reached Iran. The Herat princes were usually allies of Shah in Iran, as it was considered a part of the province of Khorasan. About 20 miles north of Tehran in the mountain (see Elgood, A Medical History of Persia, 494). These verses were worn or recited to prevent diseases or to ward off dangers. The handwriting can be read both as ‘vabå uftåd ’ (cholera broke up) and as ‘vabå bar uftåd ’ (cholera disappeared). In the second case, it means that epidemics disappeared in Tehran except in DizÇsh¥b, because people did not practise their religion as they should. But this cannot be accurate as cholera appeared several times in Tehran between 1847 and 1892. The eastern province of Iran. Cholera, in that year, was transmitted to Iran through Afghanistan. Afs¥n-i Dizåsh¥b, alluding to his father’s spiritual force which had saved him from the cholera of 1847. Az jån guzasht¥d (lit. to give, or to risk, your life). The idea is that in this world one can do everything even give one’s life, and by this escape the calamity of cholera. In the next world, however, there is no death and no escape. ‘Sultan of the Physicians’ was the title of one of the court doctors. According to the ItimÇd al-Sal†ana (al-Math¥r va al-åthår (Tehran, 1888) 186–7) he was professor of traditional medicine at the DÇr al-funn and head of the court doctors. Two doctors. It is not clear from the text to the governor of which place the author is referring. It seems however, that this governor is not the governor of the village of DizÇsh¥b. He is probably Majd al-Dawla about whom he talks later. He could have been the governor of Tehran even if he merely carried the title, as the Qajars frequently created and sold ofﬁces.

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109 Gunbad-i ªaramån. Gunbad means dome and ªaramån, or ªiramån, means two ªirams (pyramids). Among the pyramids in Egypt, two are said to have been built by Idr¥s (or according to some, Hermes, the prophet from Greece or Egypt who preached the sciences) in order to protect the sciences from deluge, tornado or storm (see DihkhudÇ Lughatnåmih I, 1571–3 and XV, 23540). 110 This means that it is impossible for modern medicine to understand the nature and the temperaments of drugs. 111 åb-u-havå va amzijih-yi farangistån. 112 Here the author means that the Europeans were unable to understand the indigenous medical knowledge, qualiﬁed as ‘hidden knowledge’, and their drugs were ineffective because of differences in the climate between Iran and Europe. 113 This word can be read ‘nubihå-yi ghala†’ (wrong, irregular or erratic fevers) or maybe ‘nubih-yi ghib’ (tiers fever). 114 davå-yi farangi (European drug). 115 All these medicines were imported from the West or were fabricated by the Europeans in Iran. 116 Leader of the Friday congregational prayer. 117 At the outset of the epidemic, NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh, like other nobles, ﬂed the capital. 118 One of the court employees. 119 This governor is probably the mayor of DizÇsh¥b. 120 UshÇn (-Tappih) was one of the nobility’s favourite places for summer residence in the foothills of the Alborz mountains, north of Tehran. 121 Probably ÓÇj¥ M¥rzÇ MsÇ SÇvij¥ who wrote a treatise entitled Dastr ala†ibbå f¥ ilåj al-vabå va al-tå n. This book contained two parts: the ﬁrst part was on the treatment of cholera by medicine and the second on the treatment by prayers. 122 M¥rzÇ Muªammad Taq¥ Sh¥rÇz¥, the author of several treatises on medicine especially on cholera, plague and the differences between cholera and cholerin. See Hormoz Ebrahimnejad ‘Un traité d’épidémiologie de la médecine traditionnelle persane: Mofarraq ol-heyΩe va’l-vabå de M¥rzÇ Muªammad-Taqi Sh¥rÇz¥ (c.1800–1873)’ Studia Iranica 27 (1998) 83–107. 123 I remained a †ab¥b (doctor) but did not treat anyone. 124 This is the usual manner in which the Persian doctors introduced themselves in their books. 125 Apparently one of the Iranian religious dignitaries with medical knowledge in Iraq. 126 A fragrant shrub. 127 This tiryåq was created as a substitute for European tiryåq (tiryåq-i farang¥ ) (mentioned in the manuscript, p. 6).

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21 SOME INTERPRETATIONS OF RELIGIOUS AND POPULAR CULTURE IN QAJAR TILEWORK Jennifer Scarce

The Qajar period (1785–1925) has traditionally been regarded as a steady and inevitable decline from Safavid brilliance to political and economic stagnation matched by mediocrity of intellectual and artistic expression. Such simplistic gloom has, however, been much brightened through a more detailed and objective analysis of Qajar history, and increasingly now of the contemporary religious and cultural environment. The results indicate a more positive and even dynamic situation where internal conservatism is countered by the pressures of externally generated change. After the turmoil of the eighteenth century, the Qajars, particularly during the long reigns of Fatª Al¥ ShÇh (1797–1834) and his greatgrandson NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh (1848–96) enjoyed a period of relatively stable rule. This occurred despite the loss of Georgia, the Caucasus and north Azerbaijan to the Russians (ratiﬁed by the Treaties of Gulestan in 1813 and Turkomanchai in 1828) and the recurring disputes concerning Herat and Sistan from the 1830s to the 1860s which reduced Iran to its present boundaries by the late nineteenth century. Within this still impressively large territory both rulers aimed to maintain peace and control through a network of provincial governorships distributed among members of the extensive Qajar family, combined with attempts at administrative, military and economic reform.1 Inseparable from these internal affairs was the need to come to terms with the accelerating intrusion of Western powers, especially Britain, France and Russia, who were interested in Iran both for its strategic value and as an export market for their manufactured goods. Contacts which had begun with the missions of envoys of the East India Company and Napoleon to the court of Fatª Al¥ ShÇh developed into a regular trafﬁc of diplomats, soldiers, merchants, technicians, missionaries, archaeologists and travellers who collectively drew Iran into international politics. The many travel accounts, ofﬁcial reports, paintings, sketches, maps and later photographs in which these Europeans recorded their visits are still invaluable source materials which supplement 429

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the Persian-language chronicles, gazetteers, diaries and census returns whose revised editions are now contributing to a fresh assessment of the Qajar period.2 The impact of what may be conveniently described as the dual Qajar experience of continuing tradition and external inﬂuences on religious and cultural life is seen at various levels which reﬂect both ofﬁcial and popular interpretations. It was an essential feature of Qajar domestic policy to maintain good relationships with the powerful ulamå – the religious establishment who were responsible for most educational, legal and charitable work. ÅqÇ Muªammad QÇjÇr (r.1786–97) had made great efforts to cultivate such relationships; he fully supported the ulamå with grants and endowments and was himself pious, zealously observing prayer and pilgrimage rituals. Fatª Al¥ ShÇh and NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh continued these relationships, which often involved a long and cautious process of consultation and conciliation. Religious scholarship ﬂourished with the publication of reference works such as directories of the ulamå establishment, biographies of eminent Sh¥ ¥ clerics, manuals of jurisprudence and commentaries on the QurÇn. Parallel with these links with the orthodox establishment, there existed equally important alternative practices which reveal both an interface between ofﬁcial and popular religion and the vitality of Iranian visual culture. The most striking evidence of this alternative development is seen in the surviving monuments and artefacts which employed the considerable resources of Iranian arts and crafts. Iran has a distinguished and securely based tradition of colourful decorative and pictorial art, inherited from its Achaemenid and Sassanian past which continued, and indeed ﬂourished, after the arrival of Islam in the seventh century. This tradition offered an ideal repertoire for the development of a vigorous popular religious and narrative art in a wide range of media – book illustration, polychrome tilework, sculptured relief, carved and moulded stucco, painted lacquer, knotted pile carpets, painted, printed and embroidered textiles. While it may well be argued that the import during the nineteenth century of cheap manufactured goods from Europe threatened local production, enough has survived to modify this view. It is also now clear that the inﬂuence of Europe, far from stultifying Iranian arts and crafts, in fact stimulated them by the introduction of new techniques and sources of inspiration which gave the Iranian craftsmen more choice. Two of the most signiﬁcant technical innovations were the processes of photography and lithography, which were to have a lasting effect on Qajar iconography as they enabled images to be produced quickly and cheaply in multiple copies which could be widely circulated. Both were taught at the DÇr al-Funn college in Tehran which was founded in 1852 to teach European languages and technical subjects. Photography is now known to have been introduced into Iran sometime during the 1840s; certainly Fatª Al¥ ShÇh’s son Malik QÇsim M¥rzÇ (1807–62) in Azerbaijan, who 430

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was interested in European science and technology, and the Frenchman Jules Richard in Tehran were taking daguerreotypes in the mid-1840s. The ﬁrst ruler to be actively interested in photography, however, was NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh’s father Muªammad ShÇh (1834–48). Correspondence between Russia and the Iranian court in 1842 shows that he welcomed Russian photographers, requested Russian experts to train Iranians, and also placed an order for ﬁve hundred silver plates and the chemicals for developing them. It is signiﬁcant that they were introduced through Tabriz, which had long been a centre for the transmission of European science and literature. NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh was to continue his father’s passion for photography3 and built up a considerable collection of both his own work and that of court photographers. Printing had similarly arrived in Iran through Tabriz where a printing press was installed in 1812. This was not successful, as Arabo-Persian letters did not adapt well to movable type. The more ﬂexible technique of lithography where words and drawings were etched on a prepared stone from which an unlimited number of prints could be taken proved more suitable for the reproduction of Persian-language texts and illustrations, and eventually threatened to eclipse handwritten manuscripts. The technique rapidly became popular after the earliest lithographed books illustrated with simple drawings were printed in the 1840s. Editions of the great classics of Persian literature were produced – ﬁve editions of Firdaws¥’s Shåhnåmih, ten editions of NiΩÇm¥’s Khamsa, collections of popular religious texts, histories of Iran, state-sponsored newspapers, etc. which were circulated among an increasingly demanding public.4 Photography and lithography were frequently linked, as many photographs were used as sources of book illustration. Lithography could reproduce the black and white shading of photography with hatching and stippling. Apart from technical innovation the direct import of objects from Europe contributed to the repertoire of Qajar iconography. Ceramics, for example, from the factories of Britain, France and Germany decorated with fullblown ﬂoral bouquets inspired many of the designs of Qajar tilework. Prints and watercolour paintings of European buildings, landscapes and beautiful women were either copied or inserted directly into the decoration of palace and home interiors. Their conventions of perspective and volume as much as the treatment of light and shade in photography also offered new choices to Qajar artists and craftsmen. While new techniques and fresh sources of inspiration were introduced in the early nineteenth century they ﬂourished during the reign of NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh. He himself was receptive to external inﬂuences. He had spent much of his childhood and adolescence in Tabriz, the main point of entry for European ideas, as governor of Azerbaijan, a post which he held as Heir Apparent. His education embraced both the orthodox curriculum of Islamic religious instruction with Persian and Arabic literature and also a study of French and European history and geography. His patronage 431

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of photography was matched by his passion for grand architectural schemes such as his reconstruction of Tehran and the Gulestan Palace between 1868 and 1892. Three journeys to Europe in 1873, 1878 and 1889 – he was the ﬁrst Shah of Iran to do this – exposed him at ﬁrst hand to Western society and culture which he recorded in his diaries.5 He was, however, obliged to be cautious in his relations with the conservative ulamå who disapproved of these symbols of secular modernity. He scrupulously avoided any interference in their traditional areas of responsibility and in fact encouraged only limited educational and judicial reform. In this it is interesting to see how Qajar society managed to combine tradition and innovation so successfully through the arts and crafts. The use of polychrome tilework was one of the most successful methods of visual interpretation of religious and popular narrative themes to the public. Mosaic and glazed tiles are colourful, durable and versatile; they can be used equally to decorate small and large surfaces as friezes and panels of delicate ﬂoral motifs or as grand narrative schemes equally at home in private and public spaces. Tilework had long been an essential feature of architectural decoration in Iran, ranging from the rich treatment of geometrical and foliate motifs and calligraphy in the mosaics of mosques and shrines of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries to the ﬂuent grace of the foliage and ﬂowers and medallions of the overglaze-painted tiles which adorned the monuments of seventeenth-century Isfahan. After a period of decline in production during the eighteenth century there was a remarkable revival of tilework decoration during the Qajar period where craftsmen continued the traditional techniques of mosaic, overglaze and underglaze-painting, experimented with new treatments and themes and introduced a range of bright colours – yellows, greens, pinks and purples – to the standard turquoise, blue and white (Figure 21.1). Their achievement is a tribute to the vitality of Iranian tile manufacture.6 Although tilework was to become the ideal medium for the pictorial interpretation of aspects of religion, it did provide a visual link with the establishment as it was used in the structures which were built during the Qajar period by both the Shahs and prominent courtiers and ofﬁcials to transform Tehran into a suitable capital and to improve major provincial towns. In addition to the construction of palaces which served both as royal residences and administrative centres, bazaars and thoroughfares all within a ring of defensive walls, it was also necessary to cater for religious needs and to demonstrate, publicly, piety and charity through sponsorship of mosques and madrasas, and repairs and additions to important Sh¥ ¥ sanctuaries. Even in these orthodox buildings there is some evidence of innovation in the tilework decoration. The Masjid-i ShÇh built by Fatª Al¥ ShÇh in Tehran between 1808 and 1813 according to the classic open court plan is decorated with overglaze-painted tiles in a continuous design of spiralling foliage (Figure 21.2). This is well within the accepted rules of mosque decoration but the delicate colour scheme dominated by pinks 432

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Figure 21.1 Tilemaker at work. Underglaze-painted tile. Sul†ÇnatÇbÇd Palace, north Tehran 1888

Figure 21.2 Scrolling foliage. Overglaze-painted tile. Masjid-i ShÇh, Tehran 1808–13

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and purples on a white ground is a distinctive feature of early nineteenthcentury décor. The Masjid-i ShÇh of Semnan built in 1828, while outwardly an elegant version of the open court plan introduced new themes into its overglaze-painted tilework decoration which is conﬁned to friezes running around the walls and a series of panels framing the miªråb. Here they include narrow rectangular panels tiled with repeated ﬂoral cone motifs – buta, in light blues and pinks reserved against a bright yellow ground (Figure 21.3). As the buta is a favourite motif used in woven and embroidered textiles such as the shawls of Kashmir and Kerman, the tilework is simulating the effect of a textile curtain. The tilework of mosques and madrasas built during NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh’s reign pushed the boundaries of canonically acceptable decoration further into treatments which are both strikingly formalised and naturalistic. The great mosque and madrasa built between 1879 and 1881 by two of the Shah’s ministers, M¥rzÇ Óasan KhÇn, Íadr-i AΩam and his brother M¥rzÇ YaªyÇ KhÇn, Mush¥r al-Dawla, illustrate this phase. Mosaic tilework was used for pious inscriptions – the names of AllÇh and Muªammad – inscribed within boldly shaped medallions (Figure 21.4) while the traditional spiralling foliage has been replaced by ﬂorid panels of fruits and ﬂowers (Figure 21.5) painted in a rich palette of overglaze colours in a naturalistic style reminiscent of the products of contemporary European ceramic factories such as Spode, Coalport and Sèvres. Iconographic convention has been observed yet reinterpreted.

Figure 21.3 Floral buta motifs. Overglaze-painted tiles. Masjid-i ShÇh, Semnan 1828

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Figure 21.4 Inscription panel. Tile mosaic. Masjid-i SipahsÇlÇr, Tehran 1879–81

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Figure 21.5 Arrangement of fruit and ﬂowers. Overglaze-painted tiles. Masjid-i SipahsÇlÇr, Tehran 1879–81

Opportunities for exploiting the full potential of tilework as a means of transmitting pious messages were found in the practices of private devotion and popular religious ritual. Here representation of images and story-telling are possible. One of the most successful themes of religious art during the Qajar period was the story of Yusuf and Zulaikha, which is well known in both Judaeo-Christian and Islamic traditions. Joseph and the wife of Potiphar of the Old Testament7 were transformed into Yusuf and Zulaikha in Muslim tradition.8 The Old Testament account is factual but the Qur’an develops the character of Zulaikha. The story’s emotional and narrative appeal was also celebrated in the verse epics of Persian and Turkish literature. Here the most complete, famous and deﬁnitive version was that of the Persian poet JÇm¥ (1414–92) who presented the theme as both a tragic romance and a Suﬁ allegory of divine love. JÇm¥’s Ysuf u Zulaykha soon became popular as a source of artistic inspiration in media such as lavishly illustrated manuscript editions, and painted lacquer objects from the sixteenth century onwards. The poem also offered ideal subjects for interpretation in tilework – clearly deﬁned episodes with a strong narrative content which were already familiar to Iranians.9 Technically the depiction of individual pictorial scenes was well within the competence of Qajar tilemakers. In orthodox religious terms the theme of Yusuf and Zulaikha was acceptable as its Quranic credentials were impeccable; 436

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it was one of the few narrative episodes in the QurÇn in contrast to the Old Testament, which is such a rich source of religious imagery. JÇm¥’s status as a scholar and Suﬁ together with the symbolic content of the theme endorsed its acceptance to those who preferred a less formal approach to religion. Sh¥ ¥ belief also justiﬁes representation by arguing that calligraphy and ﬁgural painting have equal and valid status. In this context stories of Yusuf and Zulaikha were particularly suitable as a focus for private piety and as such are found in the tilework decoration fashionable in wealthy households. By extending the city to the north, NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh’s reconstruction of Tehran, begun in 1867, had enclosed an area four times the size of Fatª Al¥ ShÇh’s capital within new walls. The northern suburbs developed into residential areas where discreet entrances of houses opened into spacious courtyards surrounded by rooms and service quarters. Within these interiors there was plenty of surface for tilework decoration. Pediments and vertical panels decorated the facades of the courtyard, continuous friezes ran around the walls of rooms and deep porches, while in interiors inﬂuenced by European taste, tiled borders and mantelpieces enclosed ﬁreplaces. It is feasible that tiles decorated with religious and literary themes were allocated to interior reception rooms where they created an agreeable environment of piety and literary culture, effortlessly combined in the story of Yusuf and Zulaikha. A favourite episode was the presentation of Yusuf by Zulaikha to the women of Memphis at a party which she has organised for them. They are so astonished at Yusuf’s beauty that they cut their hands instead of the oranges which are set before them. The scene allows for many variations in presentation stressing the narrative tension, worldly display and spirituality. The central tile from a horizontal panel of ﬁve tiles (Figure 21.6) shows one such interpretation. It is additionally signiﬁcant because it was made between 1880 and 1890 using the technique of underglaze-painting which, although used continuously in ceramic decoration since the ninth century, had not been exploited effectively in tilework until the late nineteenth century, when it was mainly used in the many new buildings under construction in Tehran. Distinguishing features of the technique are the use of a dense white ceramic fabric and a range of colours – blue, turquoise, olive green, rose pink, purple and yellow – applied in opaque layers or as clear washes and sealed with a transparent colourless glaze. Black was used for outlines and shaded and stippled detail. The possibilities of this technique are obvious – naturalistic treatment and handling of light and shade which owed much to the inﬂuence of contemporary photography and lithography and a relatively understated and intimate style.10 The tile illustrates how these features can be adapted to suit the subject. The composition is symmetrical and static with two rows of women extending beyond Yusuf and Zulaikha for the width of the complete frieze all reserved against a plain ground. There is some attempt to create perspective and a naturally 437

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Figure 21.6 Ysuf and Zulaikha and the women of Memphis. Underglaze painted tile. Tehran c.1880–90 (Ashmolean Museum Oxford reg. No. X3135 B)

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varied interaction between the women. As the only male ﬁgure, Yusuf dominates the scene where he is deﬁned as a handsome young man dressed in the robes and turban of a Qajar prince and framed in a plain circular halo to identify his sanctity. Zulaikha, seated opposite him, is also richly dressed and bejewelled. One of the most intriguing features of this interpretation is its archaism as all the ﬁgures are dressed in the fashions of Fatª Al¥ ShÇh’s reign which are highlighted by the technique of underglaze-painting. Light washes of colour – turquoise, green, yellow and purple – which have overlapped and blurred during ﬁring represent the texture of shot silks. The distinctive use of black line both outlines and deﬁnes garments and paints ﬂowers, repeated lattices, dots and stripes to simulate the appearance of quilted, brocaded, printed and embroidered fabrics. There is no attempt to employ the techniques of shading and hatching to indicate movement and volume as here they would distract from the impact of the scene. It is enlightening to compare the tilework treatment of Yusuf and Zulaikha where the requirements of interior decoration had to complement religious and literary iconography with versions in other media (Figure 21.7). Here the same theme of Zulaikha presenting Yusuf to the women of Memphis is the subject of a large oil painting dated to c.1870–80. This technique, which in the early nineteenth century had been exclusively reserved for portraits of Fatª Al¥ ShÇh and his court and grandiose historical compositions to decorate their palaces, was, by the reign of NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh, being used for a wider range of subject matter including middle-class interiors. Yusuf, while still the dominant ﬁgure identiﬁable by the rays of his halo, stands at the side rather than at the centre of the composition. The women all grouped informally to the right and behind him wear a range of contemporary dress. The scene takes place within a reception room whose windows open on to the court of a comfortable middle-class home. Details of interior furnishing have been carefully and accurately painted such as the zigzag blue and white ﬂoor tiles partially concealed by the felt cover on which Yusuf is standing.11 The painting can be interpreted in several ways. It indeed depicts the presentation of Yusuf to Zulaikha’s friends, but close examination reveals that the main attention is directed towards him and his female audience. Zulaikha is not speciﬁcally identiﬁed. Is it possible that the painting also represents a raw∂akhån¥ recital of the martyrdom of Óusayn, the third Imam? The raw∂akhån¥ became a popular form of religious ritual during the Qajar period and could take place either in a hall reserved for this purpose, in rooms attached to the local mosque or shrine or in private houses. It was an act of both piety and charity for a wealthy family to sponsor a raw∂akhån¥ for the neighbourhood. The availability of the text through cheap lithographed editions was signiﬁcant in publicising this ritual. 439

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Figure 21.7 Ysuf and Zulaikha and the women of Memphis. Oil painting on canvas c.1870–80

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The raw∂akhån¥ may be compared with the taz¥ya, a more overtly spectacular form of public religious practice which is certainly linked to theatrical entertainment. Here the tragic events of the martyrdom of the Imam Óusayn at Karbala are commemorated annually during the month of Muªarram in a sequence of processions and dramatic performances. Communities supported the taz¥ya by, for example, sponsoring individual performances, contributing towards the costs of props, pledging endowments. While these rituals do not require a permanent setting and can take place in the streets and open spaces of towns and villages, their potential for spectacular effects make them ideal theatrical subjects. During the Qajar period, especially during the reign of NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh, the taz¥ya thrived so much that permanent structures – takya – were built for these performances which were a dazzling display of piety and pageantry. From about 1860 onwards about ﬁfty takyas were built in Tehran. Here the most conspicuous and sumptuous was the Takya Dawlat (Figure 21.8) commissioned by NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh in 1873 after his return from Europe where he had been much impressed by the Albert Hall in London after attending a concert there.12 The Takya Dawlat has long since disappeared but contemporary accounts and paintings reveal a spectacular construction with a circular stage surrounded by an orchestra pit and three ascending galleries of boxes and covered by a canvas awning stretched over a ribbed tent-like roof. When full the takya could easily accommodate 20,000 spectators. Professional troupes sponsored by the Shah, his court and local dignitaries performed in the Takya Dawlat. NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh, himself apart from a genuine love of the theatre, valued the taz¥ya as a powerful, highly visible instrument of propaganda which he could use to demonstrate his pious devotion to Shiism in public. Attendance at the Takya Dawlat also became a fashionable activity. European ambassadors were invited and women of the Qajar court and their entourages took screened boxes where they could discreetly enjoy the performance and compete with each other in displays of dress and jewellery. The evolution of the taz¥ya into a well-established form of religious theatre encouraged the production of scenery which in turn led to the use of lavish tilework decoration. One of the most popular recitals of the Karbala events was given by professional storytellers who travelled around towns and villages using as an essential background a canvas screen painted with the most harrowing scenes of the tragedy. Such paintings then became used in the takya, initially as decorative wall hangings and then as essential scenery. The Takya Dawlat certainly used them to emphasise the splendour of the performance.13 The compositions in these paintings were schematic, full of larger-than-life-sized ﬁgures boldly depicted and brightly coloured – all features which would appeal to a mass audience. They were ideal subject matter for transmission in the more durable medium of overglaze-painted tilework, which could create 441

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Figure 21.8 Takya Dawlat, Tehran. Oil painting on canvas by KamÇl al-Mulk (collection of Gulestan Palace, Tehran)

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the same dramatic impact through its range of bright colours on a white ground. An outstanding example of the substitution of tilework for painting is seen in the takya built by Óasan KhÇn Mu¥n¥ MuÇvvin al-Mulk in Kermanshah.14 Following the precedent set by NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh and his court, takyas were built in major provincial towns in forms ranging from modest halls to substantial, lavishly decorated constructions through which a wealthy patron could publicly display his religious zeal and charity. Óasan KhÇn established a vaqf endowment for the building, decoration, continued maintainance and use of his takya donating revenues from successful business enterprises – two hammams, shops and shares of income from land rents, a stable and warehouses. The takya was built late in the Qajar period, begun between 1890 and 1900 and completely restored between 1917 and 1920; work on the tiling continued until 1925. The plan was based on that of a spacious traditional house with a domed building between two open courts. The entire structure is decorated with ﬂamboyant tilework in an amazing range of subjects including many scenes selected from the Karbala martyrdom narrative. The achievement of such a major task reveals some interesting facts about the conditions and working practices of the tile industry at the end of the nineteenth century. The vaqf documents name Óasan ˝ihrÇn¥ as the master craftsman who came with four assistants from Tehran to undertake the work. After constructing kilns near the site they worked on the project for several years. Does this indicate that there were no qualiﬁed local tilemakers, that Óasan KhÇn could afford the best which for him were masters from Tehran rather than from Shiraz or Isfahan which were certainly nearer and could have also supplied craftsmen? Tehran as the capital was certainly the centre of progress in taz¥ya production and of the tile industry. It is highly possible that Tehran’s tilemakers had access to a wide choice of designs including those which could be used equally for painted scenery and tile panels. By the nineteenth century there were also plenty of coloured lithographed prints of Sh¥ ¥ martyrology as source material. Despite the distances which had to be travelled on slow journeys over poor roads and mountain passes, craftsmen were mobile and prepared to go in search of what eventually was a long contract and then make use of local sources of clay, glaze ingredients and colouring pigments. The results of the years of work in Kermanshah are highly colourful, conﬁdent and ﬂuent – fulﬁlling the patron’s wish to have a permanent taz¥ya set in his takya. The taz¥ya rituals are depicted in a series of large rectangular panels each occupying a wall of the main court. The format and treatment of each theme closely follows those of contemporary popular paintings.15 Characters are identiﬁed by names written in medallions and rows of inscriptions. The presence of furniture and other props shows the inﬂuence of the theatrical production techniques which had transformed taz¥ya 443

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performances in Tehran. Choice of subject concentrated on the most familiar episodes of the Karbala tragedy, such as the presentation of the surviving members of Óusayn’s family to the Caliph Yaz¥d at his court in Damascus. A scene, however, which well illustrates both the tilework techniques and the relationship between the taz¥ya and the Muªarram rituals is a panel depicting the dastih – the procession of mourners (Figure 21.9). The main participants here are half-naked male penitents who scourge and mutilate themselves, cutting their foreheads with swords as they chant in lamentation for Óusayn’s death. The detail here shows that the tilemakers have interpreted the scene in a vigorous impressionistic manner to create the maximum effect on the spectators. The penitents are painted in stark black outline against a white ground while blood streams from their wounds in stylised waves of deep crimson. Above them, and containing them, is a line of musicians playing kettledrums, a substitute for the riders in elaborate costumes and armours mounted on horses and camels who traditionally accompanied the procession. Apart from its extraordinary record of the Muªarram procession and the taz¥ya, the tilework of the takya in Kermanshah treats themes beyond the scope of devotional iconography by moving into Iran’s pre-Islamic past. On one wall are three large panels of a series of tiles painted in combinations of white, blue and black, white, green and black or simply black on a white ground, representing scenes from Achaemenid and Sassanian monuments located in the provinces of FÇrs and Kermanshah – B¥sitn, Naqsh-i Rustam, Persepolis, B¥shÇpr, TÇq-i BustÇn – all neatly identiﬁed by inscriptions (Figure 21.10). Though somewhat unusual to ﬁnd such a juxtaposition in a religious building, it is not surprising. During the nineteenth century there was an active revival of interest in these periods. Memories of them had continued through the centuries of Islam, as the impressive Achaemenid remains at Persepolis (Takht-i Jamsh¥d, sixth and ﬁfth centuries BC) and Naqsh-i Rustam (ﬁfth century BC) were still standing and had been much visited by both European and Muslim travellers, while the Sassanians had survived through their presence in Firdausi’s great epic of the Shåhnåmih and their remarkable rock reliefs glorifying their achievements. Sassanian institutions and traditions had also inﬂuenced early Islamic administration, and had enriched art and architecture both in form and design. Fatª Al¥ ShÇh encouraged the concept of Iranian kingship which these pre-Islamic dynasties represented, commissioning Fatª Al¥ KhÇn ÍabÇ, his court poet, to compose a great epic, the Shåhanshåhnåmih modelled on Firdausi’s Shåhnåmih, celebrating his courage, wisdom and triumphs. He and his sons are also recorded in large rock reliefs at Rayy and TÇq-i BustÇn, the latter immediately and deliberately adjacent to the reliefs of the Sassanian ruler Khusraw Parv¥z (591–628). NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh continued this interest in Iran’s past, both as a support to his own position 444

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Figure 21.9 Detail of dastih procession. Overglaze painted tiles. Takya Muavvin al-Mulk, Kermanshah c.1917

Figure 21.10 Achaemenid ruler in combat with a lion. Overglaze painted tile. Takya Muavvin al-Mulk, Kermanshah c.1917

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as ruler, and in his role as patron of art and literature. During his reign the techniques of photography and lithography contributed to the dissemination of a more scientiﬁc approach to the past. The photographs taken to record archaeological and historical sites were reproduced as illustrations to lithographed texts of topographical surveys and gazetteers, especially those concerning FÇrs province. During the 1870s Mutamid alDawla, FarhÇd M¥rzÇ, uncle of NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh and governor of FÇrs hired workmen to clear the Hall of the Hundred Columns at Persepolis of accumulated debris. Fursa† Óusayn¥ Sh¥rÇz¥ was commissioned by an Englishman to survey the monuments of FÇrs and completed the task under the patronage of the Iranian government. His results were published in Åthår-i Ajam16 between 1894 and 1897, and has ﬁfty illustrations from drawings which he made on site. This was to become one of the most important and widely used sources of popular imagery in decorative arts of the late Qajar period. They were certainly copied by the tilemakers at the Takya in Kermanshah.17 The example here (Figure 21.10) depicts one of the most widely copied images – an Achaemenid ruler in combat with a lion; the original is carved on the great entrance gate of Xerxes at Persepolis and also on the door jambs of some of the palaces there. The treatment of the ﬁgures moulded in white relief against a plain blue ground and painted in ﬁnely hatched and stippled black lines indicates the lithographic source. The same motif is found in other media such as carved stone friezes in the house interiors of Shiraz,18 block printed textiles and knotted pile carpets (Figure 21.11). The example here, which was probably woven in Kerman at the beginning of the twentieth century, is a meticulously detailed transmission of the original source into ﬁnely knotted wool. It also shows how the function of a carpet can change from that of a cover which was laid on the ﬂoor to a vertically orientated picture within a frame of traditional border motifs which is designed to be hung on a wall. New imagery has inﬂuenced interior decoration. The publication of lithographed texts also encouraged the dissemination of Sassanian-inspired iconography which again is seen in the Takya. In addition to the taz¥ya and Achaemenid themes there are tilework copies of idealised portraits of Sassanian rulers from the illustrations to a late Qajar history of Iran – Kitåb-i tar¥kh-i mujam written by Íadr MuaΩΩam AtÇbik-i Azam M¥rzÇ Al¥ A‚ghar KhÇn in 1900. Sassanian decoration in Shiraz is exuberant and colourful as seen in a pediment tiled with an investiture scene inspired by original rock reliefs at Naqsh-i Rustam and B¥shapr (Figure 21.12) added to the pavilion in BÇgh-¥ Af¥fÇbÇd garden begun by M¥rzÇ Al¥ Muªammad KhÇn, QavÇm al-Mulk, in 1867. Collectively these images present a remarkable visual record of popular religious belief and nostalgia for Iran’s distinguished past which found its ideal expression in the vigorous revival of tilework during the Qajar period. 446

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Figure 21.11 Achaemenid ruler in combat with a lion. Knotted wool pile carpet. Kerman, early twentieth century

Figure 21.12 Sassanian investiture ceremony. Overglaze painted tile pediment. BÇgh-¥ AﬁfÇbÇd, Shiraz, late nineteenth–early twentieth century

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Notes 1 See A. Amanat Pivot of the Universe: Nasir al-Din Shah Qajar and the Iranian Monarchy 1851–1896 (London, 1997) Chapter 9, 351–8 for a review of NÇ‚ir al-D¥n’s constitutional experiments. 2 See J. Gurney ‘Rewriting the Social History of late Qajar Iran’ Pembroke Papers 1 (1990) 43–57 for an account of these Persian sources. 3 See I. Afshar ‘Some remarks on the early history of photography in Iran’ in C. E. Bosworth and C. Hillenbrand (eds) Qajar Iran, Political Social and Cultural Change, 1800–1925 (Edinburgh 1983) 275–6 for a list of NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh’s photograph collection. See aso C. Adle ‘Daguerrotype’ EIr VI, 577–8. 4 B. W. Robinson ‘The Tehran Nizami of 1848 and other Qajar lithographed books’ in J. Scarce (ed.) Islam in the Balkans; Persian Art and Culture of the 18th and 19th centuries (Edinburgh 1979) 61–74. 5 Nasiruddin Shah The Diary of H. M. the Shah of Persia (translated by J.W. Redhouse London 1874). A diary kept by his Majesty the Shah of Persia during his journey to Europe in 1878 (A. Houtoum-Schindler and L. de Norman (trans.): London, 1879). The diary of his journey of 1889 has not yet been translated into English. 6 J. Scarce ‘Function and Decoration in Qajar Tilework’ in Scarce, Islam in the Balkans, 75–86. 7 Genesis 37.36; 39.1–20. 8 See, in particular, Qurån, 12. 9 J. Scarce ‘Yusuf and Zulaikha – Tilework Images of Passion’ in J. W. Allan (ed.) Islamic Art in the Ashmolean Museum (Oxford, 1995) II, 83–4. 10 J. Scarce ‘Ali Mohammad Isfahani tilemaker of Tehran’ in Oriental Art (New Series) 22.3 (1976) 278–88. 11 Floors of the porches and corridors within the courtyard of the Nerangistan, the Qavam house at Shiraz, built c.1880, are covered with tiles in this design. 12 Nasiruddin Shah, Diary 1873, 164–6. 13 P. Chelkowski ‘Popular Arts, Patronage and Piety’ in L. S. Diba (ed.) Royal Persian Painting: The Qajar Epoch 1785–1925 (London, 1998) 94. 14 S. R. Peterson ‘Painted tiles at the Takieh Mu’avin ul-Mulk (Kirmanshah)’ in Akten des VII Internationalen Kongresses für Iranische Kunst und Archaologie Munchen 7–10 September 1976 (Berlin, 1979) 618–28. 15 Chelkowski, ‘Popular Arts’, 97. 16 Fursa† Óusayn¥ Sh¥rÇz¥ Åthår-i Ajam (Bombay, 1312–14/1894–7). 17 Peterson, ‘Painted tiles’, 624–5. 18 For example, the Nerangistan in Shiraz.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY

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473

1111 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 1011 1 2 3111 4 5 6 7 8 9 20111 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 30111 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 40111 1 2 3 44 45111

INDEX

Index of names In constructing this index, the Arabic deﬁnite article (al-) has been omitted from names. Well-known persons are arranged according to their most common name with their titles (such as sayyid, shaykh) in parentheses; lesser-known persons are arranged as they appear in the text; European names are arranged surname, ﬁrst name. Please note that, while both ÅqÇ and ÅghÇ are used in the source texts, for the sake of consistency ÅqÇ has been used throughout here. AbbÇs II (Safavid ShÇh) 22, 23 Abbas KhÇn 31–2 AbbÇs M¥rzÇ 229, 256, 258, 266, 410 Abd al-AΩ¥m Tt¥ BÇj¥ 90 Abd al-BahÇ 12, 313, 318, 319, 320, 322–42, 347, 350, 355, 358, 359 Abd al-Kar¥m MullÇ BÇsh¥ 80 Abd al-Nab¥ Sh¥rÇz¥ 76 Abdh, Muªammad 403 Ab Bakr (Caliph) 403 Ab al-Barakat 353 Ab TurÇb IshtihÇrd¥ 355 Adam (Prophet) 259 AdamiyyÇt, F. 22, 87 Adu∂ al-Dawla 300 Afand¥, Abd AllÇh 161 Afary, Janet 176 AfghÇn¥, Jamal al-d¥n 140, 403, 423 Aghaie, Kamran 13 Aªmad ÍafÇ¥ 197, 203, 204 Aªmadaf, Muªammad Al¥ 330 Ahr¥man 207 AªsÇ¥, Aªmad (Shaykh) 7, 8, 127–54, 160, 164, 165, 167, 170 n.21, 185, 262 AªsÇ¥, Ibn Ab¥ Jumhr 128 AkhbÇr¥, M¥rzÇ Muªammad 8, 43, 61–5, 66, 155, 256 Alaviyyih KhÇnum 354–5, 357, 360 Algar, Hamid 84, 199

Al¥ (Imam) 26, 114, 120, 121–2, 207, 403 Al¥ Akbar BannÇ 365 Al¥ Ål DÇd 196 Al¥ A‚ghar KhÇn Íadr-i Muazzam 446 Al¥ M¥rzÇ 36 AllÇma al-Óill¥ 158, 159 Åls¥, Maªmd (Sayyid) 352 Amanat, AbbÇs 11, 115 Åmil¥, Aªmad b. Zayn al-Åbid¥n 253, 267 n.14 Am¥n al-¤arb 213 Am¥n NiΩÇm, M¥rzÇ Taq¥ KhÇn 36 Am¥n al-Sul†Çn 182, 299, 303, 305 Am¥r BahÇdur 398 Am¥r IsmÇ¥l KhÇn Arab Åmir¥ 196, 197 Am¥r Kab¥r, Muªammad Taq¥ KhÇn 79, 80, 85, 97, 99, 412 Åmul¥, Muªammad b. Mahmd 409 An‚Çr¥, Murta∂Ç (Shaykh) 30, 117, 168 Antoon, Elias 229 ÅqÇ Al¥ Akbar 224 ÅqÇ Bahram KhÇjih 388 ÅqÇ Óusayn 219, 225 ÅqÇ M¥r Muªammad BÇqir 299 ÅqÇ M¥r Muªammad Mahd¥ 76, 77 ÅqÇ M¥r Vaª¥d 78 ÅqÇ M¥rzÇ ÅqÇ JÇn 354

474

INDEX

1111 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 1011 1 2 3111 4 5 6 7 8 9 20111 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 30111 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 40111 1 2 3 44 45111

ÅqÇ Muªammad BÇqir 224 ÅqÇ Muªammad KirmÇnshÇh¥ 203 ÅqÇ Muªammad Taq¥ Najaf¥ 302, 303, 305 ÅqÇ Petros 283 ÅqÇ Zayn al-Åbid¥n Sh¥rÇz¥ 79 ÅqÇs¥ (also ÅghÇs¥), ÓÇjj M¥rzÇ 35, 198, 388 Aq¥l¥, (Muªammad Óusayn b.) Muªammad 401, 404, 408, 414 Aristotle 413 Arjomand, Saïd Amir 4–5, 47, 65, 311, 315, 376 Ashar¥, Ab al-Óasan 130 AshkivÇr¥, M¥rzÇ HÇshim 117 Ashraf¥, Muªammad Al¥ 32 ÅshtiyÇn¥, M¥rzÇ Óasan 117, 299, 300, 302, 304 Askar¥, M¥rzÇ 77 AstarÇbÇd¥, Al¥ (Sayf al-d¥n) 14, 408, 411, 415–16, 417–22 AstarÇbÇd¥, B¥b¥ KhÇnum 346 AstarÇbÇd¥, Muªammad b. Al¥ 157 AstarÇbÇd¥, Muªammad Am¥n 156, 157, 158, 159, 160, 161 A††Çr, Muªammad (ÓÇjj¥ M¥rzÇ) 365 Aubin, Eugene 379 Audo, Thomas (Mar) 280 Ayn al-Dawla 182 Az¥z al-Sal†ana 383

BejÇn, Paul 277, 278 Benjamin, Kasha Yosif 281 Berger, Peter 311, 312 B¥b¥ RuªÇniyyih 346 B¥gum Kchik KhÇnum 363 BihbihÇn¥, Abd AllÇh (Sayyid) 182, 396 BihbihÇn¥, Muªammad (ÅqÇ) 165 BihbihÇn¥, Muªammad BÇqir 155, 162, 164, 166 B¥zhÇn KhÇn 229 Browne, Edward Granville 1, 2, 181, 197, 198, 350 Brugsch, Heinrich 385 BulkbÇsh¥, Al¥ 377, 382 Burs¥, Rajab 160, 161 Burjird¥, JamÇl (ÅqÇ) 316, 322, 328, 329, 331, 332, 339, 340, 341, 402 Bushr¥, MullÇ Óusayn 178, 179, 355, 356, 362, 365

BÇb (The), Muªammad Al¥ Sh¥raz¥ 138, 174, 175, 176, 177–81, 185, 313, 319, 336, 338, 347, 351, 357, 363, 364 BahÇallÇh 12, 140, 174, 327, 328, 331, 332, 333, 334, 335, 339, 346, 347, 348, 352, 354, 356, 358, 365 BahÇr, Malik al-ShuarÇ 201 Baªr al-Ulm Muªammad Mahd¥ 129, 162, 163, 164, 166, 167, 168, 199 BaªrÇn¥, MÇjid 128 BaªrÇn¥, SulaymÇn b. Abd AllÇh 159, 160 BaªrÇn¥, Ysuf b. Aªmad 156, 157, 161, 162, 168 de Balloy, M. 296 BÇmdÇd, Mihd¥ 199 BaraghÇn¥, Muªammad Taq¥ 127, 165 BÇrfursh¥, Muªammad Al¥ Nad¥m 24, 178, 179 Ba‚r¥, Óasan 130 BayÇt, KÇvih 271 Bayat, Mangol 175, 176

DamÇvand¥, Muªammad Óusayn 28–9 DÇrÇb¥, RayªÇn AllÇh (Sayyid) 302, 303, 304, 305, 306 David (Prophet) 27 DavvÇn¥, JalÇl al-d¥n 22 DawlatÇbÇd¥, M¥rzÇ HÇd¥ YaªyÇ 118, 181–3, 333 Dh al-FiqÇr KhÇn 197 DihkhudÇ, Al¥ Akbar 185, 186, 395, 397, 398, 399

Calder, Norman 37 n.18 Cazèz, Joseph 303, 304 Chatelet, Aristide 271, 273 Cochran, Joseph Plumb 289, 290 Cole, Juan R. I. 12 Cooper, John (YaªyÇ) xvi Corbin, Henri 114, 120, 121, 125 n.79, 135 Curzon, Lord 87

Ebrahimnejad, Hormoz 14 Elgood, Cyril 417 Elijah (Prophet) 28 Emerson, Ralph Waldo 318 Ettehadieh Nezam-Maﬁ, Mansoureh 87 Fa∂l AllÇh (Sayyid) 31–2 FÇizih KhÇnum 352, 359, 360 FÇrÇb¥, Ab Na‚r Muªammad 22, 130, 131

475

INDEX

1111 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 1011 1 2 3111 4 5 6 7 8 9 20111 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 30111 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 40111 1 2 3 44 45111

Farhad M¥rzÇ 201 FarmÇnfarmÇ, Husayn-Al¥ M¥rzÇ 25 FasÇ¥, M¥rzÇ IbrÇh¥m 251–5, 262, 267 n.11 Fatª Al¥ ShÇh QÇjÇr 21, 24, 25, 30, 33, 43, 54, 59, 60, 65, 77, 79, 116, 129, 139, 164, 165, 199, 227, 228, 230, 256, 263, 264, 364, 382, 383, 399, 400 n.13, 429, 430, 439, 444 FÇ†ima bt. Muªammad 130, 352 FÇ†imih-Sul†Çn 353, 356, 365 Firdaws¥ 431, 444 Floor, Willem 84, 86, 98 Fursat, Óusayn¥ Sh¥rÇz¥ 446 Gail, Marzieh 323 Galen 408 Gardanne (General) 250 Gharrus¥, Abd al-Maj¥d 301 Gharrs¥, FÇ∂il KhÇn 195 GhazÇl¥, Ab HÇmid 128, 130, 138, 157, 407 GhulÇm Man‚r 96 Gobineau (Comte de) 348 Griboedov 229 Guinzburg, Carlo 270 GulpaygÇn¥, M¥rzÇ Ab al-Fa∂l 340 Gurj¥, Aªmad Bayg AfshÇr 198 Haag-Higuchi, Roxane 9 Óab¥ba KhÇnum 353 ÓÇir¥, Abd al-HÇd¥ 21, 22, 38 n.66, 47 Óajj Al¥ A‚ghar 90, 91 ÓÇjj M¥rzÇ Muªammad BÇqir 402 ÓÇjj Muªammad IbrÇh¥m 31 ÓÇjj Muªammad IsmÇ¥l ˝ihrÇn¥ 202 ÓÇjj¥ AbbÇs 221 ÓÇjj¥ Fa∂l AllÇh 92 ÓÇjj¥ Faraj 353, 356 ÓÇjj¥ Óasan ÍarrÇf 215, 224 ÓÇjj¥ Mahd¥ KhÇn 215 ÓÇjj¥ M¥rzÇ JabbÇr Tabr¥z¥ 214, 215–17 ÓÇjj¥ Muªammad Jafar KhabbÇz 388 ÓÇjj¥ Muªammad Raª¥m 362 ÓÇjj¥ Raª¥m KhÇn 365 ÓÇjj¥ ˝ahmasp 95 ÓÇjjiyyih B¥b¥ ÍughrÇ 358 Óak¥m (AbbÇsid Caliph) 297 Óak¥m S¥mÇ, M¥rÇ Abd al-Kar¥m I‚fahÇn¥ 353 HamadÇn¥, Óusaynqul¥ 117 HamadÇn¥, MullÇ Muªammad Ri∂Ç 256, 258–61, 265

HarÇt¥, MullÇ GhulÇm-Ri∂Ç 356 Harden, E.J. 227 Óasan KhÇn SÇlÇr 77 Óasan ˝ihrÇn¥ 443 Hearst, Phoebe 341 Hedin, Sven 378 Heidegger, Martin 121 Hellot, Florence 12 HidÇyat Ri∂Ç Qul¥ KhÇn 196, 197 Hinz, Walther 216 HumÇyn¥, ÍÇdiq 375 Óunayn b. IshÇq 403 Óurr al-Åmil¥, Muªammad b. al-Óasan 158, 160, 161, 162 ÓusÇm al-Sal†ana, Sul†Çn Mur¥d M¥rzÇ 116 Óusayn (Imam) 220, 375–92, 394, 439, 440, 444 Óusayn Al¥ M¥rzÇ 230 Ibn Abhar, Muªammad Taq¥ 328, 330, 331, 340, 356, 365 Ibn (al-)Arab¥, 128, 130, 138, 157 Ibn A†Ç AllÇh 130 Ibn al-Ba†r¥q 160, 161 Ibn al-GhadÇir¥, Aªmad 165 Ibn Idr¥s, Muªammad b. Aªmad 158, 160 Ibn Kath¥r, IsmÇ¥l 373 Ibn S¥nÇ, Ab Al¥ (Avicenna) 22, 130, 131, 408, 413 Ibn ˝Çws, Ra∂¥ al-d¥n 160 Ibn Taymiyya, Taq¥ al-d¥n Aªmad 139 IbrÇh¥m DastÇn 197 Idr¥s (Prophet) 408 IjlÇl al-Mulk 282 ImÇd al-Dawla 116 ImÇd al-Mulk 356, 378 Iqbal, Muªammad 140 Irbil¥, Al¥ b. ÏsÇ 160, 161 I‚fahÇn¥, Óaydar Al¥ 330 I‚fahÇn¥, Muªmmad Taq¥ 165 IsmÇ¥l Hunar 197, 201, 202, 203, 205 Iti∂Çd al-Sal†ana, Al¥qul¥ M¥rzÇ 202, 412 ItimÇd al-Sal†ana 75, 76, 80, 300 Izz al-Dawla 91, 92 Izzat al-Dawla (sister of NÇ‚ir al-D¥n ShÇh) 382 JÇbir b. Yaz¥d 160, 161 Jablonowski, Aleksander 348, 368 n.19 Jafar al-ÍÇdiq (Imam) 131 Jafar KhÇn NawwÇb 251

476

INDEX

1111 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 1011 1 2 3111 4 5 6 7 8 9 20111 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 30111 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 40111 1 2 3 44 45111

JahÇnsz KhÇn M¥rzÇ 294, 296, 298, 299 JalÇl al-D¥n M¥rzÇ 201 JÇm¥, MawlÇnÇ Nr al-D¥n 435 JavÇhir¥, Muªammad Óusayn 383 Jawz¥, Ibn Qayyim 405, 408 Jesus (Prophet) 257, 556 J¥l¥, Abd al-Kar¥m 130 Jilvih, M¥rzÇ Ab al-QÇsim 115 Jones, Sir Harford 249

KirmÇn¥, Muªammad Kar¥m 179, 295, 296, 298 Kondo, Nabuaki 10 Kuf¥, FurÇt b. IbrÇh¥m 160 Kulayn¥, Muªammad b. Yaqb 114, 164–5

KalÇntar, Maªmd KhÇn 413 KalbÇs¥ (also KarbÇs¥) Muªammad IbrÇh¥m b. Muªammad Óasan 163–4, 165, 166, 167, 168 KÇmrÇn M¥rzÇ 346 Kan¥, Muªammad RÇz¥ 415 Kappes, Lilian 361, 364 Karak¥, Al¥ (Shaykh, Muªaqqiq II) 49, 52, 253 Kar¥m KhÇn Zand 34, 76, 78 KÇshÇn¥, Abd al-RazzÇq 130 KÇshÇn¥, M¥rzÇ (ÅqÇ) JÇn(¥) 178–9, 331 KÇshÇn¥, (MullÇ) Muªsin Fay∂ 8, 127–54, 156, 160 Kashf¥, (Sayyid) Jafar 5, 21, 26–9 KÇshif al-Ghi†Ç, (Shaykh) Jafar 30, 43, 54–60, 62, 64, 65, 66, 163, 164, 168 KÇshif¥, Óusayn VÇiΩ 375 Kasrav¥, Aªmad 181, 271, 384 KÇΩim¥, (Dr) Nu‚rat AllÇh 462 Keddie, Nikki 175 Khad¥jih Begum 364–5 KhÇqÇn¥ 200 Kheirallah, IbrÇh¥m 331 Khi∂r (Prophet) 28 Khomeini (or Khumayn¥), AyatallÇh RuªallÇh 29, 117, 137, 267 Khu¥, Abd al-Íabr 410 Khu¥, M¥rzÇ Khal¥l 329, 330 KhurasÇn¥, Åkhund MullÇ Muªammad KÇΩim 117, 393, 398 KhurasÇn¥, Muqaddas 316 Khusraw II Parv¥z (Sasanid Shah) 30 Khusraw KhÇn 227 KhwÇnsÇr¥, JamÇl al-D¥n 162 KhwÇnsÇr¥, M¥rzÇ Zayn al-Åbid¥n 162 KhwÇnsÇr¥, Muªammad BÇqir 8, 155–73 Khwarazm¥, ÍÇªib al-Maqtal 375 KirmÇnshÇh¥, M¥rzÇ Óasan 117 KirmÇn¥, Óam¥d al-D¥n 137

LÇhij¥, Abd al-RazzÇq 22, 23 Lambton, A. K. S. 21, 43, 47, 54, 60, 65, 69 n.67, 69 n.71, 84, 85, 86, 95 Landolt, Herman 136–7 Lascelles, Frank (Sir) 296, 298, 300 Lawson, Todd 7–8 Lee, S. 258, 268 n.26 Liakhov, Colonel 395 LunbÇn¥, ÅqÇ Óusayn 162 MacEoin, Denis 311 Madelung, Wilferd 70 n.87 Mahdavi, Shireen 213 Mahd¥ (Imam Muªammad) 261 MÇhfurzak¥, Mulla Al¥ JÇn 356, 357 Maªmd M¥rzÇ QÇjÇr 195, 199 Majlis¥, Muªammad BÇqir 23, 158, 161, 162, 255 Majlis¥, Muªammad Taq¥ 162 Malcolm, John (Sir) 198, 249 Malik al-Mutakallim¥n, M¥rzÇ Na‚r AllÇh Bihisht¥ 176, 181, 183, 190 n.73 Malik QÇsim M¥rzÇ 430 Mamn (AbbÇsid Caliph) 403 Manchihr KhÇn 10, 227–45 MarÇgh¥, Abd al-FattÇª Óusayn¥ 29 MarÇghih¥, Muªammad Val¥ AllÇh 330 Martyn, Henry 11, 247–69 MÇward¥, Al¥ b. Muªammad 88, 89 MÇzandarÇn¥, Abd AllÇh (Shaykh) 393, 396 McGlinn, Sen 323 McKintosh, James (Sir) 249 Meier, Fritz 206 Mihd¥ DahÇj¥ 314, 330, 332 Mihd¥ Malik Af∂al¥ 402 Mihr Al¥ KhÇn 353 Minuchehr, Pardis 14 M¥r Sayyid Al¥ 262 M¥rzÇ Abd al-GhaffÇr¥ 78 M¥rzÇ Abd al-Maj¥d 90 M¥rzÇ Abd al-Raª¥m Rasht¥ 90 M¥rzÇ Al¥ (Dr) 412 M¥rzÇ Al¥ (Muªammad) 78 M¥rzÇ Al¥ A‚ghar 78

477

INDEX

1111 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 1011 1 2 3111 4 5 6 7 8 9 20111 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 30111 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 40111 1 2 3 44 45111

M¥rzÇ BÇj¥ KÇshÇniyyih 363 M¥rzÇ BÇqir NawwÇb 129 M¥rzÇ Fa∂l AllÇh Qazv¥n¥ 79, 80 M¥rzÇ Fatª Al¥ MullÇ BÇsh¥ 202, 203 M¥rzÇ Óasan 80 M¥rzÇ Óasan KhÇn (Íadr-i AΩam) 434 M¥rzÇ Óusayn HamadÇn¥ 90 M¥rzÇ IsmÇ¥l KhÇn ÅshtiyÇn¥ 353 M¥rzÇ Jal¥l 329, 330, 331, 341 M¥rzÇ JavÇd Qazv¥n¥ 331 M¥rzÇ JawÇd Rasht¥ 90 M¥rzÇ Mahd¥ NawwÇb 34, 36 M¥rzÇ Muªammad Al¥ 318, 319, 320, 327, 328, 331, 332, 333, 336, 341 M¥rzÇ Muªammad Óasan BahÇ¥ 352 M¥rzÇ Muªammad Óusayn 78 M¥rzÇ Muªammad Shaf¥ Thiqat alIslÇm 216 M¥rzÇ Muªsin 78 M¥rzÇ Nab¥ KhÇn 35 M¥rzÇ Na‚r AllÇh Ardab¥l¥ 78 M¥rzÇ QÇsim KhÇn (Ír-i IsrÇf¥l) 395 M¥rzÇ Raf¥ NiΩÇm al-UlamÇ 79 M¥rzÇ YaªyÇ KhÇn 434 Momen, Moojan 12, 70 n.77, 179 Moody, Susan 349, 361, 364 Morrier, James 263 Moses (Prophet) 28 Muavin al-Mulk, Óasan KhÇn 443 Muizz al-Dawla (Buyid Am¥r) 373 Mufa∂∂al b. Umar 160 Muªammad (Prophet) 23, 25, 28, 30, 114, 118, 130, 133, 138, 141, 205, 206, 228, 252, 253, 255, 257, 258, 259, 261, 266, 315, 321, 352, 374, 408, 403, 405, 434 Muªammad Al¥ PÇshÇ 410 Muªammad Al¥ ShÇh QÇjÇr 349, 394, 395, 396, 397, 399, 431 Muªammad BÇqir (Imam) 405 Muªammad KhÇn QÇjÇr (ÅghÇ) 23, 43, 47, 71, 230 Muªammad Kha†ar 197 Muªammad Ri∂Ç Mashhad¥ BÇghbÇnbÇsh¥ 214, 215–25 Muªammad ShÇh QÇjÇr 35, 79, 80, 85, 198, 227, 229, 230, 287 Muªammad Taq¥ KhÇn BakhtiyÇr¥ 230 Muªaqqiq al-Óill¥, Najm al-D¥n Jafar 43, 45, 48, 158, 164 Muhtasham al-Sal†ana 282 MujÇhid, Muªammad KarbalÇ¥ (Sayyid) 24, 46, 256

Mujtahid, M¥rzÇ JavÇd 77 MullÇ Abd al-Óusayn 302, 305 MullÇ Abd AllÇh 12, 294–306 MullÇ Abd AllÇh HamadÇn¥ 292 MullÇ FÇ†imih 360 MullÇ Jafar 360 MullÇ Muªammad KÇΩim 280 MullÇ Muªammad Ri∂Ç 32 MullÇ Ri∂Ç 32 MullÇ Rª al-D¥n 78 MullÇ ÍadrÇ 115, 116, 118, 128, 129, 130, 137, 138, 139, 252 Mun¥rih AyÇd¥ 360, 364 Murta∂Ç, al-Shar¥f Al¥ b. al-Óusayn 158 Msaw¥, Jafar 162 Mush¥r al-Dawla 87, 397 Mustawf¥, Abd AllÇh 85, 86, 97, 98 Mustawf¥ al-MamÇlik 91 Mutamid al-Dawla, FarhÇd M¥rzÇ 446 MuΩaffar al-D¥n ShÇh QÇjÇr 95, 284, 302, 305, 398 NÇdir ShÇh 34, 72, 81 n.5 Nahr¥, M¥rzÇ HÇd¥ 351 Najaf¥, Muªammad Óasan 30, 164, 166 NajjÇsh¥, Aªmad b. Al¥ 165 Napoleon Bonaparte 429 NaqqÇsh, ÅqÇ ÍÇdiq (Sayyid) 352 NarÇq¥, ÓÇjj¥ MullÇ Aªmad 9, 24, 29, 37 n.35, 197, 199, 256, 257–8, 266, 267 NÇsir al-D¥n ShÇh QÇjÇr 6, 9, 13, 28, 36, 71, 74, 75, 76, 79, 84–107, 116, 140, 236, 287, 293, 298, 299, 300, 302, 352, 354, 356, 379, 380, 385, 412, 429, 430, 431, 434, 437, 441, 443, 444, 446 Nasr, Sayyed Husayn 117 NÇ†iq, HumÇ 22, 87, 213, 303 Neeson, Y. M. 281 Newman, Andrew 8 Nikiline, Basile 271 N¥shÇpr¥ Ab al-Óasan Åmir¥ 22 NiΩÇm¥, JamÇl al-D¥n 431 Nr Al¥ ShÇh 258 Nr¥, Abd al-Nab¥ 304 Nr¥, Al¥ 115, 116 Nr¥, Fa∂l AllÇh (Shaykh) 182, 236, 396 Oberlin, Charles 412 Olivier, G. A. 71

478

INDEX

1111 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 1011 1 2 3111 4 5 6 7 8 9 20111 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 30111 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 40111 1 2 3 44 45111

Ouseley, Gore (Sir) 249, 250, 263, 264 Ouseley, William 263

Rustam al-ÓukamÇ 33–4, 256 Rypka, Jan 197

Packard, H. P. 289, 290 Paracelsus 410, 411, 413 Pinigree, D. 404

ÍabÇ, Fatª Al¥ KhÇn 444 Sabastiani, Joseph 252, 256 SabbÇgh, MullÇ Abd AllÇh 355 SabzavÇr¥, MullÇ HÇd¥ 115, 116, 117, 118, 121, 129, 137, 151 n.74 SabzavÇr¥, MullÇ Óasan 160, 161 SabzawÇr¥, MullÇ Muªammad BÇqir 22, 23, 77 SaffÇr, Muªammad b. al-Óasan 160, 161 ÍÇªib Ibn AbbÇd 374 Sahim, Haideh 12 Sa¥d al-D¥n (Íaªib al-Rawda) 375 Salman al-FÇris¥ (-i FÇrs¥) 138 SamÇhij¥, Abdallah b. ÍÇliª 155, 156, 157, 159–60 SÇni¥, ÅyatallÇh 416 Satan 205 SattÇr KhÇn 397 SÇvij¥, M¥rzÇ MsÇ 404, 405 Sayf al-Dawla, Sul†Çn Muªammad 201, 296, 297 Schimmel, Annemarie 206 Schneider, Irene 6 Sayyid Al¥ AstarÇbÇd¥ 93–4 Sayyid IsmÇ¥l SabbÇgh 93 Sefatgol, Mansur 5–6 Shaft¥, MullÇ Muªammad BÇqir 94, 163, 164–5, 166, 167, 168, 232, 351 ShÇhÇbÇd¥, Muªammad 117 Shah¥d I, Muªammad b. Makk¥ 162 Shah¥d II, Zayn al-D¥n b. Al¥ 49, 163 Shah¥d¥, Al¥ b. Muªammad (Shaykh) 157 Shahidi, Inayatallah 377, 382 ShÇh IsmÇ¥l (Safavid Shah) 374 ShÇhm¥rzÇd¥, Al¥ Akbar 328 ShahristÇn¥, Muªammad Mahd¥ b. Ab al-QÇsim 162 ShÇhshÇhÇn¥, Muªammad (Sayyid) 166, 167, 168 Shamina (Mar) 278 Shams al-¤uªÇ, Khrsh¥d Bigum 351–2, 360, 363 Shams-i JahÇn KhÇnum 364 SharÇn¥, Ab al-WahhÇb 120 Shar¥f al-Mulk 90, 91 Shedd, J. H. 281, 282, 284, 288 Sheil, Lady Justin 381–2

Qadsiyyih Ashraf 358 QÇim-maqÇm (the elder), ÏsÇ 229, 258, 265 QÇim-maqÇm (the younger), M¥rzÇ Ab al-QÇsim 33–4, 46, 201, 205, 253, 265 QÇin¥, Muªammad 316 Qamar al-Sal†ana (wife of M¥rzÇ Muªammad KhÇn SipÇhsÇlÇr) 383 QashqÇ¥, JahÇng¥r KhÇn 117 QavÇm al-Mulk, M¥rzÇ Al¥ Muªammad KhÇn 446 Qazv¥n¥, IbrÇh¥m 167 Qazv¥n¥, Muªammad IbrÇh¥m 314 Qazv¥n¥, Muªammad Shaf¥ 36 Qumm¥, M¥rzÇ Ab al-QÇsim 23–4, 30, 43, 47–54, 60, 64, 65, 66, 164, 256–7, 377–8 Qumm¥, Muªammad ˝Çhir 156, 157 Qumm¥, ShÇdhÇn b. JibrÇ¥l 160, 161, 162 Qumshih¥, Muªammad Ri∂Ç 7, 116, 121 Qurrat al-Ayn, ˝Çªirih 140, 178, 346, 351, 352, 355, 363, 364 Ra∂¥, al-Sayyid Ab al-Óasan 160 Rasht¥, KÇΩim (Sayyid) 137, 140, 351, 361 Rasht¥, MirzÇ Óab¥b AllÇh 393 RawÇnd¥, Sa¥d 160, 161 RÇz¥ (Rhazes) 408 RÇz¥, Fakhr al-D¥n 413 Remey, Charles Mason 336, 349, 353, 362 Richard, Jules 431 Ricoeur, Paul 270 Ri∂Ç (Imam) 116, 397 Ri∂Ç Qul¥ KhÇn 383 Ri∂Ç (Reza) ShÇh 306, 375, 376 Rizvi, Sajjad 7 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques 181 Ru∂∂Çt¥, Muªammad Al¥ (Sayyid) 168 Rª AllÇh BahÇ¥ 354 Rª¥, Aªmad (Shaykh) 179 Rukn al-Dawla 397 Rm¥, JalÇl al-D¥n 116, 121, 126 n.87

479

INDEX

1111 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 1011 1 2 3111 4 5 6 7 8 9 20111 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 30111 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 40111 1 2 3 44 45111

Shimr 394 Shimun (Mar) 280, 283 Sh¥rÇz¥, Al¥ NawwÇb ‘NiyÇz’ (Sayyid) 195, 247, 262, 263 Sh¥rÇz¥, DiwÇn-Bayg¥ 196, 198 Sh¥rÇz¥, M¥rzÇ Al¥ Akbar Mudarris 255 Sh¥rÇz¥, M¥rzÇ Óasan 301, 393 Sh¥rÇz¥, M¥rzÇ JahÇng¥r 176, 181, 185–6, 187, 188, 395 Sh¥rÇz¥, M¥rzÇ Muªammad Taq¥ 411 Sh¥rÇz¥, Qu†b al-D¥n Muªammad 128 Sh¥rvÇn¥, Muªammad Al¥ (Fan¥) 411 Sh¥rzÇd KhÇn, Colonel 330 Shoghi Effendi 321, 336, 337, 338, 350 SijistÇn¥, Ab SulaymÇn 137 Simeon, Charles 248 SimnÇn¥, AlÇ al-Dawla 136, 141 Smith, Peter 311, 312, 317 Soroudi, Sorour 176 Subª-i Azal, M¥rzÇ YaªyÇ 174, 176, 181, 182, 185, 313, 314, 333 Sukt, M¥rzÇ Ab al-QÇsim 261–2 Sykes, Ella 386

Umar (Caliph) 297, 403 Umm al-AwliyÇ 364, 365 Umm al-Dhab¥ª 356 UthmÇn (Caliph) 403 VÇiΩ, JamÇl al-D¥n I‚fahÇn¥ (Sayyid) 176, 181, 183–5, 187, 188 Varaqat al-Firdaws B¥b¥ Kchik 357–8, 362, 363, 364, 365 Varqa, Muªammad Al¥ 354 Victoria (British Queen) 317 Voltaire (François Marie Arouet) 181 Wallace, Walter 312 de Warzee, Dorothy 384–5 Weber, Max 312, 313, 332 Werner, Christoph 9 Wills, Charles 385

˝abÇ†abÇ¥, Al¥ (Sayyid) 43–7, 48, 54, 55, 60, 64, 65, 66, 162, 163, 165, 166, 167, 168, 252 ˝abÇ†abÇ¥, AllÇma 117 ˝abÇ†abÇ¥, Mahmd (Sayyid) 182, 396 ˝abÇ†abÇ¥, ÍÇdiq (Sayyid) 365 ˝abris¥, al-Fa∂l b. Óasan 130 Tabr¥z¥, Óasan (Sayyid) 397 Tabr¥z¥, JavÇd Mahd¥ 117 ˝ahmÇsp II (Safavid Shah) 34 TÇjir BÇsh¥ 98 ˝Çyirih KhÇnum 349–50, 353, 358, 359, 360, 361 ˝ihrÇn¥, ÅqÇ Buzrg 48 ˝ihrÇn¥, ÓÇjj¥ M¥rzÇ Muªammad Óusayn 393 TunikÇbun¥, Muªammad b. SulaymÇn 157 ˝s¥, Muªammad b. al-Óasan 158, 160 ˝s¥, NÇsir al-D¥n 22, 130

Yaghma¥, Óab¥b 196, 197, 198 YaghmÇ-yi Jandaq¥, Raª¥m Ab alÓasan 9, 195–210, 213 Yaªya M¥rzÇ 230 Yazdani, Sohrab 8 Yazd¥, Al¥ Akbar 117, 378 Yazd¥, ÅyatallÇh ÓÇir¥ 378 Yazd¥, MullÇ Muªammad Ri∂Ç 354 Yaz¥d b. MuÇwiya 394 Yohanan (Mar) 281 Yonan (Deacon) 280 Yonan, Jessie M. (Dr) 281 Ysuf (Prophet Joseph) 14, 28, 436, 437, 438, 439 ZahrÇ B¥gum KhÇnum 225 ZanjÇn¥, MullÇ Muªammad Al¥ 179 Zarand¥, Nab¥l 316 ZarqÇn¥, Maªmd 330, 334 Zayn al-Åbid¥n Ganj¥ 78 ill al-Sul†Çn 352 Zirinsky, Michael 271 Zoroaster 401 Zulaikha (Potiphar’s wife) 14, 436, 437, 438, 439 Zunz¥, Al¥ 7, 115, 116, 117, 120, 121

480

INDEX

1111 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 1011 1 2 3111 4 5 6 7 8 9 20111 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 30111 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 40111 1 2 3 44 45111

Index of religious terms and groups Terms are ordered according to Arabic spelling with Persian spelling, linked terms and plurals in parenthesis. adÇla(t) 24 AkhbÇr¥s and Akhbarism 7, 8, 43, 63, 65, 138, 140, 155–73 Çlam al-mithÇl 135, 136 Azal¥ BÇb¥s 8, 140, 174–91, 313, 333, 395 BÇb¥s and Babism 1, 7, 8, 11, 15, 117–18, 128, 137, 140, 167, 175, 253, 266, 293, 295, 301, 304, 312, 313, 317, 346, 350, 351, 354, 361, 368 n.17 BahÇ¥s and Bahaism 8, 11, 12, 13, 15, 176, 185, 260, 293, 301, 304, 312–42, 346–69 bast 96 bid a(t) 395, 399 Buddhists and Buddhism 137

jÇir/jawr 52, 54 Jews and Judaism 11, 12, 62, 184, 258, 282, 283, 293, 308, 407 jihÇd 30, 41–70, 393, 394 jizya 25, 62, 293, 297, 305

Christians and Christianity 11, 62, 247–69, 270–92, 297, 301, 324, 335, 336, 407 Dhahab¥ (Suﬁ Order) 128, 252, 261 dhimmi (ahl al-dhimma) 235, 297 d¥vÇn (d¥vÇnkhÇnih, d¥vÇn-i ShÇh, d¥vÇn-i adÇlat) 85, 90, 96 duÇ (pl. ad iya) 404, 409, 415

khÇli‚a (khÇli‚ih) 236, 237 kharÇj 25, 52, 59 khums 41, 215–16, 220, 314

falsafa 130 farmÇn 78, 264, 265, 282 fatwÇ 2, 43, 46, 47, 48, 51, 57, 69 n.66, 197, 200, 302, 303, 305, 325, 338, 393, 397, 398, 399, 416 (see also muft¥) ﬁqh (fur and u‚l al-ﬁqh) 5, 41, 42, 46, 47, 48, 49, 57, 61, 65, 117, 166, 219, 253, 256, 409 ghayba 41, 42, 45, 46, 49, 51, 52, 54, 60, 63, 64, 65, 114, 261 ªajj al-badal (ªajj-i badal) 218, 224 ªaq¥q¥ 49, 50, 65 ªikma(t) 113–14, 115, 118, 127, 128, 131, 137, 252, 401 Hindus and Hinduism 249 ªudd 41, 168

ibÇda(t) 320–1, 326 iªtiyÇ† 58, 60 ijmÇ 141 ijtihÇd 24, 29, 31, 32, 140, 156, 325, 337–8 al-imÇm al-Çdil (imÇm-i Çdil) 64, 70 n.87 imÇm al-juma (imÇm-i juma, imÇmjuma) 5, 76–7, 199, 299, 304 al-insÇn al-kÇmil (insan-i kÇmil) 120, 140 inshÇ 200 irfÇn 204 i‚ma(t) 322 IsmÇ¥l¥s and Ismailism 136, 137, 138, 139, 141, 332 istisªÇb al-ªÇl 16 n.2

majÇz 49, 55 marja al-taql¥d (marja-i taql¥d) 182, 327, 341, 378 mashra 396, 400 (see also shar) mashr†a 396, 399 mashwara(t) 27 ma‚laªa 320 marthiyya 197 maΩÇlim 35, 84–110 muÇmalÇt 320–1, 327 muft¥ 1, 352 mujtahid and mujtahids 21, 29, 30, 32, 36, 50, 52, 55–9, 62, 65, 84, 93, 94, 96, 127, 139, 156, 157, 159, 168, 183, 247, 252, 253, 261, 262, 293, 299, 302, 304, 305, 325, 351, 352, 356, 365, 376 al-mujtahid al-jÇmi al-sharÇi† (mujtahid-i jÇmi-i sharayi†) 30, 50, 51, 156

481

INDEX

1111 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 1011 1 2 3111 4 5 6 7 8 9 20111 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 30111 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 40111 1 2 3 44 45111

mullÇ and mullÇs 1, 2, 215, 286, 293, 296, 301, 304, 305, 317, 378, 402, 415–16, 417 mullÇbÇsh¥ 72, 75, 76, 79–80 muqallid 24, 60

tadhkira 195–6, 198, 199, 207, 212 taªr¥f 257, 258 takya (also tak¥ya) 376–91, 441, 443, 444, 446 taql¥d 51, 141, 322, 327 tawÇtur 254, 255 taz¥r 325 taz¥ya 198, 218, 219, 224, 375–91, 441, 443 †ibb (also †ibb al-nab¥) 14, 401–28 tujjÇr 211–26

nÇib (al-nÇib al-Çmm, al-nÇib al-khÇss and niyÇba) 21, 25, 26, 45, 49, 50, 54 najis 295, 297, 305, 332 NimatallÇh¥ (Suﬁ order) 78, 79, 139, 252, 256, 258, 261, 341 nubwa 252, 256

urf 4, 6, 31, 36, 84, 85, 89, 92, 93, 95, 96, 97, 98–9, 100, 396 U‚l¥s and Usulism 24, 26, 29, 32, 135, 137, 159–73, 252, 255, 256, 257, 258, 267, 393

qÇ∂¥ (pl. qudÇt) 6, 41, 72, 74, 75, 78, 88, 317, 323, 326 QizilbÇsh 73 raw∂ÇkhÇn¥ 375, 376–91, 439, 441 raya(t) 283–4 ‚adr 6, 72, 74, 75, 76, 78–9 ‚alÇt 218, 224 sÇqi† 333–4 ‚awm 218, 224 shar (shar¥ ) 4, 6, 32, 84, 85, 89, 91, 92, 93, 94, 95, 97, 98–9, 100, 199, 219, 396, 400 shaykh al-islÇm 6, 74, 75, 77–8, 80, 85 Shaykh¥s and Shaykhism 7, 8, 15, 117, 134, 135, 139, 140, 142 n.2, 150 n.56, 166, 167, 198, 216, 221, 243, 262, 295, 304 siªr 254 siyÇsa(t) 22, 25, 26, 28, 320, 325 Suﬁs and Suﬁsm 128, 131, 134, 135, 157, 198, 199, 200, 202, 203, 204, 205, 206, 207, 208, 251, 252, 256, 266, 295, 304, 329, 341, 437 sul†Çn/sal†ana(t) 23, 52, 60

waªdat al-wujd (vaªdat-i vujd) 119, 130, 134, 136, 139, 141, 157, 261 WahhÇb¥s and Wahhabism 129, 138, 139, 141 wÇjib (and al-wÇjib al-kifÇ ¥ ) 31 waqf (vaqf, pl. awqÇf)10, 31, 79, 212, 214, 217, 220–2, 224, 227–44, 315, 388, 416, 443 wa‚iyya (vas¥ya, va‚¥ and va‚iyatnamih) 211–26 wilaya (vilÇyat) 28, 29, 113–21, 122 n.11, 258, 267 wilÇyat al-faq¥h (vilÇyat-i faq¥h) 29, 267 zakÇt 41, 54, 59 Ωann 60, 159, 257 Zoroastrians and Zoroastrianism 11, 62, 184, 207, 297, 401, 407 Ωulm 24, 97

482

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