Routledge Handbook On Sufism

ROUTLEDGE HANDBOOK ON SUFISM
This is a chronological history of the Sufi tradition, divided into three sections, early, middle
and modern periods. The book comprises 35 independent chapters with easily identifiable
themes and/or geographical threads, all written by recognised experts in the field.
The volume outlines the origins and early developments of Sufism by assessing the forma-
tive thinkers and practitioners and investigating specific pietistic themes. The middle period
contains an examination of the emergence of the Sufi Orders and illustrates the diversity
of the tradition. This middle period also analyses the fate of Sufism during the time of the
Gunpowder Empires. Finally, the third period includes representative surveys of Sufism in
several countries, both in the West and in traditional “Islamic” regions.
This comprehensive and up-to-date collection of studies provides a guide to the Sufi
tradition. The Handbook is a valuable resource for students and researchers with an interest in
religion, Islamic Studies and Middle Eastern Studies.
Lloyd Ridgeon is reader in Islamic Studies at Glasgow University. His main research inter-
ests include Persianate Sufism and also Iranian history and modern Iranian culture. He has
published extensively on areas including javānmardī, and he is currently writing a book on
how the ḥijāb has been understood by modern Iranian seminarians.
. ( Taylor & Francis
Taylor & Francis Group
http://taylorandfrancis.com
ROUTLEDGE HANDBOOK
ON SUFISM
Edited by Lloyd Ridgeon

First published 2021
by Routledge
2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN
and by Routledge
52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017
Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business
© 2021 selection and editorial matter, Lloyd Ridgeon; individual
chapters, the contributors
The right of Lloyd Ridgeon to be identified as the author of the editorial
material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been
asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs
and Patents Act 1988.
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.
Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks
or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and
explanation without intent to infringe.
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
Names: Ridgeon, Lloyd V. J., editor.
Title: Routledge handbook on Sufism / edited by Llyod Ridgeon.
Description: New York: Routledge, 2020. | Includes bibliographical
references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020010674 | ISBN 9781138040120 (hardback) |
ISBN 9781315175348 (ebook) | ISBN 9781351706483 (adobe pdf ) |
ISBN 9781351706476 (epub) | ISBN 9781351706469 (mobi)
Subjects: LCSH: Sufism—History. | Mysticism—Islam—History.
Classification: LCC BP188.5 .R68 2020 | DDC 297.4—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020010674
ISBN: 978-1-138-04012-0 (hbk)

ISBN: 978-1-315-17534-8 (ebk)
Typeset in Bembo
by codeMantra
For my family, and Rusty, a faithful and loyal companion on the path.
CONTENTS
List of illustrations xi
List of contributors xiii
Transliteration xviii
Preface xix
PART ONE
The early period 1
4 Abū Yazīd al-Bisṭām ī and discussions about intoxicated Sufism 46

Annabel Keeler
6 ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt’s Qur’anic vision: from black words to white parchment 75

Mohammed Rustom
vii
Contents
8 Jalā l al-Dīn Rū m ī and his place in the history of Sufism 103

Ibrahim Gamard
10 Narrativizing early mystic and Sufi women: mechanisms of

gendering in Sufi hagiographies 132
Sara Abdel-Latif
11 Sufism and travelling 146

Arin Salamah-Qudsi
12 Sufism and Qur’ānic ethics 159

Atif Khalil
13 Love and beauty in Sufism 172

Joseph E. B. Lumbard
14 Sufism in classical Persian poetry 187

Ali-Asghar Seyed-Gohrab
PART TWO
The middle period 201
15 Sufi orders in the medieval period 203

Lloyd Ridgeon
16 The Bektaşiyya: the formative period, 1250–1516 217

Riza Yildirim
17 The Chishtiyya 233

Scott Kugle
18 The Qalandariyya: from the mosque to the ruin in poetry, place, and
practice 252
Katherine Pratt Ewing and Ilona Gerbakher
19 The Shādhiliyya: foundational teachings and practices 269

Lahouari Ramzi Taleb
viii
Contents
20 Sufism, tombs and convents 283

Thierry Zarcone
21 Clothing and investiture in medieval Sufism 316

Eyad Abuali
22 Sufism and Christian mysticism: the neoplatonic factor 330

Saeed Zarrabi-Zadeh
23 The Jewish-Sufi encounter in the Middle Ages 343

Elisha Russ-Fishbane
24 Sufism and the Hindu dharma 358

Thomas Dähnhardt
25 Sufism and the Safavids in Iran: a further challenge to “Decline” 370

Andrew J. Newman
26 The Mughals and Sufism 387

Kashshaf Ghani
27 Sufism in the Ottoman Empire 399

John J. Curry
28 The Qāḍīz ādelis and Sufism 418

Mustapha Sheikh
PART THREE
The modern period 433
29 Sufism in modern Turkey 435

Kim Shively
30 Sufism in the UK 449

Ron Geaves
31 Sufism and vernacular knowledge in Sindh 461

Michel Boivin
32 A Sufism for our time: the Egyptian society for spiritual and cultural research 474
Valerie J. Hoffman
33 Sufism in modern Morocco 487

Marta Dominguez Diaz
ix
Contents
34 Sufism in Senegal 501

John Glover
35 Sufism in North America 514

Juliane Hammer
Index 531
x
ILLUSTRATIONS
Figures

20.2 Marabut in a hut, North Africa, postcard, nineteenth century
(archives Th. Zarcone)286
20.3 Pilgrims at a saint grave in Xinjiang, circa 1930 (Swedish Riksarchivet
Samuel Fränne östturkestan Samling)287
20.4 Pilgrims at a saint grave in Xinjiang, circa 1930 (Swedish Riksarchivet
Samuel Fränne östturkestan Samling)287
20.5 Convent of A ḥ mad Jā m, Khur ā sān (photograph 2018, Th. Zarcone) 290
20.6 Banners and procession at a mausoleum in Northern Africa, postcard, end
of nineteenth century (archives Th. Zarcone)292
20.7 Gongbei, convent of the Chinese Qādiriyya order at Linxia, China
(photograph T. Zarcone)293
20.8 Drawing of the convent and mausoleum of Afāq Khwāja, Kashgar,
made in twentieth century (Häsän Abdurehim, Islam Binakarliq Saniti,
Ürümchi, 1989)293

20.10 A popular poster of Niz ā m al-Dī n and his convent, twentieth century
( J. W. Frembgen, The Friends of God. Sufi Saints in Islam, Popular Poster Art
from Pakistan, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006)298

20.12 The convent of Abū Madyan, Tlemcen, postcard, end of nineteenth
century (archives Th. Zarcone)300
20.13 Painting of the convent of Haji Bekt ā sh, Anatolia, nineteenth century
(museum of Hacıkekta ş)302
20.14 The convent of Mawlānā Jalā l al-Dī n Rū m ī at Konya, Turkey, postcard,
end of nineteenth century (archives Th. Zarcone)303
xi
Illustrations
20.15 The mother-convent of the Sanūsiyya order at Jaghbub, Libya

20.16 A symbolic composition representing the tomb of A ḥ mad
al-Rifā‘ ī, Ottoman Empire, nineteenth century
(private collection, Istanbul)305
20.17 Entrance of a marabout in North Africa with the walls decorated
by religious and Sufi symbols postcard, end of nineteenth century
34.1 Map of Senegal 504
Table
2.1 Sufi figure influences 26
xii
CONTRIBUTORS
Sara Abdel-Latif is a PhD Candidate at the University of Toronto. She specialises in

Gender and Asceticism in eleventh-century Nishapur. She has published articles on con-
structions of authority in Sufi Qur’ānic exegesis as well as early Sufi models of education.
Eyad Abuali is a postdoctoral researcher at Utrecht University. His work examines the
intellectual, cultural, and societal realties of medieval Sufism, with a focus on Kubrawī Sufi
thought and practice. His current research analyses the sensory history of Sufism in Iran,
Central Asia, and the Middle East.
Michel Boivin is director of the Centre of South Asian Studies (CNRS-EHESS) and re-
search director at CNRS (National Centre of Scientific Research). He teaches historical
anthropology of religions and visual arts at EHESS (School of Advanced Studies in Social
Sciences, Paris Research University). His latest book is entitled The Hindu Sufis of South Asia:
Partition, Shrine Culture and the Sindhis of India (2019).
John J. Curry is Associate Professor in the Department of History at the University of

Nevada, Las Vegas. He specialises in the history of the early modern Ottoman Empire,
Islamic Studies, and World History. He is the author of The Transformation of Muslim Mystical
Thought in the Ottoman Empire: The Rise of the Halveti Order, 1350–1650 (2010).
Thomas Dähnhardt is currently Associate Professor of Hindi and Urdu Language and
Literature in the Department of Asian and North African Studies at the Ca' Foscari Univer-
sity of Venice. He is the author of Change and Continuity in Indian Sufism (2007) and Roots of
Wisdom, Branches of Devotion. Plant Life in South Asian Traditions (2016).
Marta Dominguez Diaz is Senior Lecturer in Islamic Studies (Anthropology) at the Uni-
versity of St Gallen and senior researcher at the University of Vienna. Her research interests
include Modern Sufism (North African and European), ritual studies, and cultural identities
and ethnicity in North Africa. She has published a number of academic articles and is the
author of Women in Sufism: Female Religiosities in a Transnational Order (2015).
xiii
Contributors
Katherine Pratt Ewing is Professor of Religion at Columbia University specialising in

anthropological approaches to Islam. Her monographs include Arguing Sainthood: Modernity,
Psychoanalysis and Islam (Duke), and Stolen Honor: Stigmatizing Muslim Men in Berlin (Stanford).
Her current research in Mauritania, Morocco, and Senegal examines the effects of shifting
policies towards Sufism on local subjectivities and memories.
Ibrahim Gamard is an independent scholar of Rumi studies, known for his website (dar-
al-masnavi.org) and two publications: The Quatrains of Rumi (with Rawan Farhadi) (2008)
and Rumi and Islam (2004).
Ron Geaves holds a honorary visiting chair at the Centre for the Study of Islam in the UK
in Cardiff University. His main area of research is the religious life of British Muslims and he
is best known for his biography of Abdullah Quilliam, entitled Islam in Victorian Britain: The
Life and Times of Abdullah Quilliam (2017).
Ilona Gerbakher is a PhD student at Columbia University in New York. She is doing dis-
sertation research on Sufism as a spatial and bodily practice in Abbasid Baghdad.
Kashshaf Ghani is Assistant Professor of History at Nalanda University, Bihar, India. He

specialises on pre-modern South Asia covering the years 1000–1800 with a focus on the his-
tory of Sufism, its rituals and practices, interactions, and networks. He is currently finishing
a monograph from his PhD research tentatively titled In Quest for the Eternal: Sufi Rituals in
South Asian Islam 1200–1400.
John Glover is a professor of history at the University of Redlands in Southern California.

His research specialisation is in sub-Saharan African history with a focus on Islam in
Senegambia. He is the author of Sufism and Jihad in Modern Senegal (2007).
Juliane Hammer is associate professor of religious studies at the University of North

Carolina at Chapel Hill. She specializes in the study of gender and sexuality in Islam, race
and gender in US Muslim communities, contemporary Muslim thought, activism and prac-
tice, and Sufism. She is the author of several books including her latest, Peaceful Families:
American Muslim Efforts against Domestic Violence (2019); and the co-editor of the Cambridge
Companion to American Islam, and Muslim Women and Gender Justice
Carole Hillenbrand is Professor Emerita at Edinburgh University and Professorial Fellow

at St Andrews University. She is a specialist in Islamic history and al-Ghazali. Her best-
known publication is the book, The Crusades: Islamic Perspectives (1999). She was awarded
the King Faisal International Prize in Islamic Studies in 2005 (the highest prize in the Arab
world; she was the first non-Muslim and the first woman to receive it).
Valerie J. Hoffman is a professor of Islamic studies in the Department of Religion at the

University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. She is the author of Sufism, Mystics and Saints in
Modern Egypt (1995) and The Essentials of Ib āḍī Islam (2012).
Annabel Keeler is an Affiliated Researcher at the Faculty of Asian and Middle Studies,
University of Cambridge. She works in the field of Sufi exegesis as well as the formative
period of Islamic mysticism. Her published works include Sufi Hermeneutics: The Qur’ān
Commentary of Rashīd al-D īn Maybudī (2017).
xiv
Contributors
Atif Khalil is an Associate Professor in the Department of Religious at the University of

Lethbridge (Alberta, Canada), where he teaches courses on Sufism, comparative mysticism,
and Islamic philosophy and theology. He is the author of Repentance and the Return to God:
Tawba in Early Sufism (2019).
Scott Kugle serves as Professor in the Department of Middle Eastern and South Asian
Studies at Emory University in Atlanta, USA. His fields of expertise include Sufism, Islamic
society in South Asia, and issues of gender and sexuality. He is the author of seven books,
including Sufis and Saint’s Bodies: Corporeality and Sacred Power in Islam, (2007) and When Sun
Meets Moon: Eros, Ecstasy and Gender in Urdu Poetry (2016).
Joseph E. B. Lumbard is Associate Professor in the College of Islamic Studies at Hamad

bin Khalifa University. His scholarship contributes to the fields of Islamic Philosophical
Theology, Sufism, and Qur’ānic Studies. His books include A ḥmad al-Ghazālī, Remembrance,
and the Metaphysics of Love (2017). He also served as author, translator, and General Editor for
The Study Qur’ān.
Andrew J. Newman is Professor of Islamic Studies at the University of Edinburgh. His

main interest concerns the Safavids, and he has published widely on Shi‘ism, and also of
Sufism during the Safavid period. He is also the founder and moderator of the web-news site
“Shii News and Resources”.
Erik S. Ohlander is Professor of History and Religious Studies at Purdue University Fort
Wayne. A specialist in the history of Sufism, he has authored numerous studies concerning
the nature, form, and development of Sufi traditions in the medieval Islamic world and has
served as the editor of the Journal of Sufi Studies.
Gavin N. Picken is Professor of Islamic Studies at the College of Islamic Studies, Hamad
Bin Khalifa University, Qatar. His field of specialism and research focus is classical Islamic
literature in Arabic, as it relates to jurisprudence, theology, and Sufism. He is the author of
Spiritual Purification in Islam: The Life and Works of al-Muhasibi (2011).
Jawad Anwar Qureshi is assistant professor of Islamic texts at Zaytuna College. His re-
search areas relate to Qur'ānic studies, Sufi literature, and contemporary Islamic thought.
He is the author of “Ring Composition in Surat Yusuf (Q. 12)”, Journal of the International
Qur’anic Studies Association (2) 2018.
Harith Ramli is Lecturer in Theology and World Religion at the Faculty of Education,
Edge Hill University. His primary research area is the history of Sufism, looking especially
at how early Sufi writings can be seen in light of broader intellectual developments in the
Abbasid era. He received his doctorate in 2012 for his dissertation on the formation of Sufi
thought in the writings of the fourth/tenth century scholar, Abū Ṭālib al-Makkī.
Lloyd Ridgeon is Reader in Islamic Studies at the University of Glasgow. He is currently

writing a book on the hijab in modern Iran, although he usually conducts research on
Persian Sufism on which he has published extensively. His most recent work on Sufism is
Aw ḥad al-D īn Kirm ān ī and the Controversy of the Sufi Gaze (2017), which was the result of the
Annemarie Schimmel Fellowship in 2013 from the Institute of Ismaili Studies in London.
xv
Contributors
Elisha Russ-Fishbane is professor of Hebrew and Judaic Studies at New York University.
He specialises in the social, cultural, and religious history of the Jews of the medieval Islamic
world. He is the author of Judaism, Sufism, and the Pietists of Medieval Egypt (2015).
Mohammed Rustom is Associate Professor of Islamic studies at Carleton University. A

specialist in Sufism, Islamic philosophy, and Qur’ānic exegesis, he is the author of Inrushes of
the Spirit: The Mystical Theology of ʿAyn al-Qu ḍāt (SUNY, in press) for which he was awarded
The Institute of Ismaili Studies’ Annemarie Schimmel Fellowship in 2018.
Arin Salamah-Qudsi is a senior lecturer of Sufi and Islamic studies at the University of
Haifa. Her research focusses on Medieval Sufi literature and thought and Sufism and society
in early medieval Islam. She is the author of Bayna Sayr wa-Ṭayr (on the life and works of Abū
Ḥafṣ ʿUmar al-Suhrawardī) (2012) and Sufism and Early Islamic Piety: Personal and Communal
Dynamics (2018).
Ali-Asghar Seyed-Gohrab is Associate Professor of Persian at Leiden University. He has

authored, edited, and translated several books on Persian literature and culture, cinema, Su-
fism, and manuscript tradition. His latest publication is the edited volume The Layered Heart:
Essays on Persian Poetry (2019).
Mustapha Sheikh is lecturer in Islamic Studies and Co-Director of the Iqbal Centre at
the University of Leeds. He specialises in Islamic law and legal theory, Muslim reform-
ist thought, Critical Muslim Studies, and Islamic Finance. His major publications include
Ottoman Puritanism and Its Discontents (2016) and A Treasury of Ibn Taymiyyah (2017).
Kim Shively is professor of anthropology in the department of anthropology and sociology

at Kutztown University of Pennsylvania. She specialises in the study of secularisation and
the anthropology of religion in the Middle East, in particular in Turkey. She has published
many chapters and articles on religion in Turkey and is completing a book entitled Islam in
Modern Turkey.
Lahouari Ramzi Taleb is a PhD candidate in the Department of Near and Middle East-
ern Civilizations (University of Toronto). His area of specialty is North African Sufism
and Sufi Qur’ānic Exegesis. He is currently preparing a monograph on the Founders of the
Shādilliyya Order, entitled Orbiting the Sun of Truth: The Founders of the Sh ādilliyya.
Riza Yildirim’s research focuses on the history and religiosity of Qizilbash-Alevi, Bektashi,

and similar shariʿa-inattentive Muslim traditions in the region stretching from Iran to the
Balkans. He has published five books and several research papers on the history and religion
of Qizilbash-Alevis and Bektashis.
Thierry Zarcone (PhD, Habil.) is Senior Researcher (Directeur de Recherches) at the

National Centre for Scientific Research (Paris) based at the Ecole Pratique des hautes Etudes
(Sorbonne) and teaches at the Institute of Political Sciences of Aix-en-Provence. His area of
expertise is the history and anthropology of Sufism and saint veneration in the Turco-Persian
world. His most recent books are Le Cerf: Une Symbolique Chrétienne et Musulmane (2017), and
Abdelkader. La Franc-Maçonnerie, la France et l’Islam (2019).
xvi
Contributors
Saeed Zarrabi-Zadeh is assistant professor of Islamic Studies at the University of Erfurt,

Germany. His research interests include Sufism, comparative mysticism, mysticism and mo-
dernity, Muslims in the West, and Persian literature. His recent publications include Practical
Mysticism in Islam and Christianity (2016), and Sufism East and West (2019; co-edited with
Jamal Malik).
xvii
TRANSLITERATION
A volume such as the Routledge Handbook on Sufism presents a number of challenges, and
one of the most complicated concerns the attempt to present a consistent and intelligible
system of transliteration. The complexity of the problem is related to the sheer diversity of
languages used by the subjects of this book; Arabic, Persian, Ottoman Turkish, Modern
Turkish, Sindi, Urdu, and Wolof among others. An attempt has been made to adopt the
scholarly convention of using the IJMES system of transliteration, which allows scholars
to represent the phonetic specificities of some of the various languages mentioned above.
Where there is a difference to this, attention has been brought to the reader in the footnotes
of the specific chapter. The IJMES system also has a number of special words which do not
carry the usual diacritics and macrons, such as Qur’ān . In this volume, the number of special
words without diacritics and macrons has been limited. “Specialists” in the field will pick-up
on some of these; they are mostly names of dynasties or geographical locations. One last
point to note is that some contributors have preferred to maintain the Arabic “al”, prefaced
before names, for example, Ibn al-‘Arabī, while others have omitted the “al”.
xviii
PREFACE
Lloyd Ridgeon
In my undergraduate teaching at Glasgow University I always advise students about the

necessity of defining the terms of the question being posed. Occasionally, this presents some-
thing of a problem, especially if the term is vague, wide-ranging, and encompasses diverse
chronological and geographic manifestations. The definition of Sufism is a case in point.
There is no scholarly consensus as to when the movement began, a point made more com-
plex when it is pointed out that a nascent Sufi tradition may have existed in the time of the
Prophet Muḥammad’s community. Does this linkage with the Prophet mean that Sufism
is necessarily Islamic? For the vast majority of individuals who have defined themselves as
Sufi, this is indeed true, but there are always exceptions to the rule. Some manifestations
of Sufism in the contemporary West seem most reluctant to include positive remarks about
Muḥammad, or appear unenthusiastic about “normative” Islamic ritual,1 and the blurring
of religious traditions is also apparent in the East.2 And this is not just a modern phenome-
non, as during medieval times, the nature of correct practice and belief was a contentious
issue, one example being the existence of “Sufi” individuals who appeared to flout, or be
inattentive to shar ī‘a law. And just as the specificity of Islam as a necessary element in Sufism
might be problematic, so too is the more general and perennial claim that Sufism is “Islamic
mysticism”. This tendency has been criticised, as the term “mysticism” itself is contentious,
as for some it is empty of meaning.3 Attempts may also be made to define Sufism through its
ritual activity, since there are some that are usually associated with the movement (such as the
sam ā‘, or listening to poetry or music, sometimes accompanied with music), and which are
considered by certain observers to be “exotic” and to others “un-Islamic”. But such rituals
are neither a necessary nor sufficient ritual within the movement. Doctrine too cannot be
successfully used to delineate adequately the movement because the range of beliefs within
Sufism defies any simplistic categorisation. It seems, therefore, that it is easier to conceive of
Sufism in an apophatic manner, rather than offer a positive attempt to provide a water-tight
definition that encompasses all times, places, and situations.
A valid question to ask at this point is why even bother studying this particular undefin-
able tradition? Such queries may be answered from a number of perspectives, including at-
tempts to understand and appreciate the rich religious and cultural heritage of Sufism, which
xix
Preface
has been regarded as an intrinsic component of one of the most historically sophisticated ci-
vilisations in the pre-modern period. Sufi influence at this time was pervasive; it was not just
a matter of belief, but it included Sufi music, literature, festivals, ethics, and philosophy. In
addition, Sufi concerns were, and are, even felt in one’s physical appearance, encompassing
sartorial concerns and one’s hair. Many of these considerations remain significant for millions
of individuals around the world, especially in majority-Muslim countries, such as Pakistan,
Egypt, and Morocco where the appeal of the Sufi tradition remains incredibly high in a
supposedly secularising world. And this popularity is also evident in secular, non-majority
countries, such as India. Despite the attempts of “rationalist” interpretations of Islam, or of
other ideologies and perspectives, such as Western rationalism and positivism, authoritarian
forms of Islam including Wahhabi Islam, and twentieth-century secularising reformers such
as Kemal Ataturk (d. 1938) in Turkey, and the Pahlavi Shahs in Iran (1925–1979), the Sufi
tradition reflects very strong support. In some regions it is true that allegiance to the tradition
has decreased numerically, yet even in those areas where formal Sufi activity has been re-
stricted or has decreased, such as Iran, there remains a deep regard for the tradition of ‘irfān,
or gnostic speculation, where Sufi literature is read widely for entertainment and for edifying
purposes. Indeed, it is difficult to assess the degree of the Sufi contribution to the ethical
standards of modern Muslims, but an analysis has to consider if the tradition has contributed
to the nurturing of character traits such as modesty and compassion, as these are the kinds
of virtues that appear all too frequently in pre-modern Sufi literature, and are likely to have
been passed-down to in the present generations.
Sufism has also been enjoying renewed interest in the West, both academically and devo-
tionally, to the extent that some speak of a Sufi boom in Europe and America, assisted by the
increasing attention paid to all things “esoteric”.4 Interest in Sufism has been shown by the
likes of celebrities such as Madonna, Coldplay, and Bob Dylan,5 and Sufis including Rūmī
have been the focus of mainstream radio shows on the BBC such as the popular show In Our
Time, which devoted a programme to this thirteenth century Persian Sufi poet.6 In addi-
tion, the proliferation of academic and devotional journals on the topic testifies to this keen
regard,7 as does the provision of courses at universities across Europe and North America.
Academics of Sufism benefit from this interest, and publishers, of course are quick to take
advantage of this fortuitous state of affairs.
The present volume came about as a result of a conversation I was having with Joe
Whiting, acquisitions editor for Middle East, Islamic, and Jewish studies at Routledge. I was
aware that Routledge had initiated a “Handbook” series (and at present those which focus on
Islam include Early Islam, Islamic Philosophy, Political Islam, Christian-Muslim Relations,
and Muslim-Jewish Relations).8 Joe Whiting convinced me of the benefits of producing a
volume on Sufism that went further than a basic introduction or investigated in more detail
than the work that I had just finished editing, the Cambridge Companion to Sufism (2015),9
which is a book of some three hundred pages, composed of twelve chapters arranged on a
roughly chronological pattern. In retrospect, the Cambridge Companion to Sufism serves as
a kind of hors d’heuvre for the present volume, which is far more ambitious in its scale and
scope. I decided that a chronological perspective for the compilation of the volume was the
simplest approach to take. A thematic perspective volume was also a possibility, but the com-
plexity of combining themes with history, with developments, expansion and contraction
of Sufi sentiments, waxing and waning of various Sufi orders, all seemed fraught with diffi-
culty. The thematic approach is best exemplified in the two-volume work, edited by Seyyed
Hossein Nasr, Islamic Spirituality, which provides coverage of specific doctrinal themes in
Volume I and certain Sufi orders in Volume II.10 It focusses predominantly on the early and
xx
Preface
classical periods of Sufism, leaving Sufism in the years post 1500 in the wilderness. Other
works which have provided some degree of inspiration for the present volume include the
three-volume collection, largely under the direction of the late Leonard Lewisohn, which
looked at the Persian Sufi tradition.11 This excellent contribution mixed both historical and
thematic chapters, but the three volumes were indeed, largely structured on a chronological
basis. The difference between Lewisohn’s work and the Routledge Handbook of Sufism is
that the latter encompasses a wider geographical range, and indeed it includes a section of the
modern period that Lewisohn’s edited work did not seriously address. This deeper historical
perspective renders this collection of essays worthy of investigation, and it stretches beyond
the limited parameters of other recently published introductions to Sufism, even though
these serve as excellent primers.12
The choice of topics for the chapters was kindly left to me, as editor. I was able to ne-
gotiate a word-limit with Routledge who finally agreed that 300,000 words were suitable,
and this offered me far greater scope in covering topics of interest than the word count for
the Cambridge Companion. Even with 300,000 words choices still have to be made. I am
aware that some will point to specific Sufis, or Sufi orders, and ask why they have not been
included. The answer is that either there has been excellent coverage elsewhere, or the kinds
of message, or similar ideas that the Sufi, or the order, conveyed is contained in one of the
other chapters in this book. An obvious example of this concerns the absence of a separate
chapter on Ḥallāj (executed in 922 CE). However, this martyr par excellence of Sufism is
mentioned frequently in this volume, and in some cases extensively, in its various chapters.
Moreover, “ecstatic” Sufism is investigated by focussing upon Bāyazīd Basṭāmī (d. 874) an-
other early Sufi who is associated with a similar worldview. So, this volume does not provide
blanket coverage of Sufism, in the way that might be expected of an encyclopaedia. What it
does give to the reader is a series of chapters that enables them to assess the significance and
contributions that an individual Sufi or Sufi movement have made over the course of 1500
years or so of Sufi history.
As such, the volume suits a university course on Sufism, and it is also appropriate for an
interested reader who wishes to know more about this particular pietistic Islamic tradition.
The chapters may be read consecutively if the reader wishes to follow a chronological pat-
tern, or specific historical junctures may be identified and pursued, as the work has been
divided into three consecutive periods: the early, middle, and modern period. The early
period corresponds with the first textual references to what some have identified as a Sufi
movement (the second half of the ninth century) and concludes in the thirteenth century.
It focusses largely on individuals who are considered the most significant contributors to
the first few centuries of Sufi thinking, practice, and literary endeavour. There are also
several thematic articles in Part One that analyse important concepts that helped to pro-
mote a core set of Sufi principles, which were instrumental in establishing Sufism as a dis-
tinct and recognisable movement in society. Part Two, the middle period, picks up in the
thirteenth century when identifiable orders appear, and it continues into the period of the
Gunpowder Empires, and three important contributions examine how Sufism fared under
the newly centralising authorities from the sixteenth century onwards. The Third Part
focusses on the modern period, and roughly corresponds to the twentieth to twenty-first
centuries. (All dates are given in the common era, as I find both Hijr ī and Gregorian dates
clutter the text). Some chapters in the Third Part may be read in conjunction with a num-
ber of those in Part Two, especially where there is geographical continuity. But it also in-
cludes chapters that reflect the growing influence of Sufism in new geographical locations
where it had not been strong before.
xxi
Preface
The scholarship of the articles reveals the very different perspectives of the authors, and
the careful reader will be able to identify the particular persuasion of each contributor. It is a
truism that the author’s sympathies are reflected in his/her compositions, and this is nowhere
more evident than in books concerned with religion. Nevertheless, this is neither intended to
be a devotional book, nor is meant to present a “political” persuasion. The aim of this work
is to provide, as far as possible, a balanced academic picture of the phenomena of Sufism.
I have not attempted to be a prescriptive editor, as I have allowed each contributor a free
hand to express their own views. Only at the start of the project did I suggest to a few of the
contributors what their articles might include. The only time that I imposed anything upon
the contributors was when the article was too long. In fairness to all authors, the articles on
average are just over 8,000 words.
Lastly I would like to express my gratitude to all the contributors to this volume, who
endured nagging emails and somehow managed to meet pressing deadlines for drafts and
final versions with equanimity and good humour. I can only apologise for my shortcomings
as an editor, and I am painfully aware that the limitation of the average word count for each
chapter is inadequate to convey the deep significance of each individual and each historical
moment. The editor’s task is unforgiving, but I am pleased that deep and lasting friendships
have been maintained (and, I hope, commenced) over the course of this project. I would also
like to thank my family, as my wife and three children have given me sufficient time and
space to complete this project (and so many others over the years) without complaint. I find it
bemusing that even after twenty years they still allow me my research and “jollies” in distant
lands. In truth, I would much rather spend my time at home, engaged in banter with them
over the dinner table. Maybe the Sufis will offer some compensation!
Notes

xxii
Preface
xxiii
PART ONE
The early period

1
THE ORIGINS OF SUFISM
Lloyd Ridgeon
Introduction
For historians of early Sufism it is instructive that many of the Sufi Orders (sing. ṭarīqa / pl. ṭur ūq)
that appeared by the end of the thirteenth century traced their spiritual lineage (silsila) from
the prophet Muḥammad to the celebrated teacher and master Junayd of Baghdad (d. 910), to
demonstrate the authentic and legitimate nature of their teachings and practices. Junayd is rep-
resented as a major link for the Sufi Orders; he is often located at the pinnacle of a stem before
the various branches grew and subsequently developed in their own colourful, specific ways of
expressing devotion and piety.1 While there is sufficient primary material to demonstrate the
importance of Junayd for the doctrinal and practical proliferation of the movement that became
known as Sufism, it is unfortunate that its history prior to the era of “the peacock of the poor”
(ṭāw ūs al-fuqarā) as he is known, is less than clear. It does seem to be the case, however, that
there was more than a single stem from which the later Sufis derived inspiration. But because
the roots of what became recognised as the Sufi movement by the late ninth and early tenth
century in and around Baghdad are muddied and unclear, subsequent generations of Sufis from
the eleventh century onwards composed manuals that included sections that sought to illumi-
nate the opaque origins of the movement, thereby legitimising both rituals and teachings that
were disputed. A good example of the Sufis’ need to justify their worldview is found in Sulamī
(d. 1021), who claimed in the introduction to his Jawāmi‘ Ādāb al-Ṣūfiyya (“Collection of Sufi
Rules of Conduct”) that he wrote the work, so that those who criticise the Sufis could actually
know something about their way of life and customs.2 And Qushayr ī (d. 1072) despaired of the
state of Sufism in his own lifetime, due to the misappropriation of the tradition by charlatans,
who thereby instigated further opposition to Sufism. “One should not give their [the Sufis’]
opponents a cause to condemn them, since in this country, the suffering of this path at the
hands of its opponents and accusers has been particularly severe.”3
This introduction to the first section of this volume joins the search for Sufi origins.
There is no innovative theory in this chapter, rather, it simply seeks to question the ideas
and assumptions regarding the origins of the movement that have been offered by both Sufis
themselves and modern Western observers, revealing the preconceived notions and conclu-
sions held by many within these groups. As such, the chapter seeks to highlight the dangers
of accepting at face value these agenda-loaded theories, and it holds that the horizontal levels
3
Lloyd Ridgeon
in which individuals and movements are embedded at any historical moment disclose valu-
able details related to the development of Sufism. The vertical search for origins has been
entwined with all manner of deliberate deviations and obfuscations.
The chapter contains three main sections. First, the chapter commences by examining the
emic philological and historical explanations of the movement that were offered by Hujw īr ī,
writing in the eleventh century, who was one of the first Sufis to take up the “origins” argu-
ment. Hujw īr ī’s philological attempts are representative of one method to discover the origins
of the term, and other Sufis gave semantic definitions of the movement, linking it with the “pi-
ety” of previous generations and in some cases with individuals whose lifestyles and beliefs are
difficult to identify as “Sufi.” As such these associations reveal more about the Sufis of the time
than they do about the origins of the movement. The second section of the chapter traces etic
views of nineteenth-century Western scholars who embarked on a similar investigation of Sufi
roots, but for the purpose of demonstrating the derivative nature of Sufism, which suggested
its “inauthentic” quality. After the first awkward steps of these Orientalists (who have been
termed “externalists” – seeking to locate the origins of Sufism outside of the Islamic tradition,4
and who were steeped in the “Aryan” prejudices of the times), European scholars of the second
half of the twentieth century have tended to accept the Sufis’ claim that the movement was
fundamentally inspired by reflection upon Islamic sacred texts. Having sampled the “origins”
theories of both the early Sufis and later Western scholars, the third section turns to the ar-
guments offered to explain a possible shift from asceticism and renunciation to what has been
termed “mysticism.” Examples are given of the kinds of Qur’ānic verses that were suggestive
of a more intimate relationship between God and humans.
Sufi philological and historical explanations

In the eleventh century, the celebrated author of one of the most comprehensive Persian
manuals of Sufism, ‘Al ī Hujw ī r ī (d. 1071) reported an oft-cited maxim of Abū’l-Ḥasan
F ū shanja (d. 958–959) that “today Sufism is a name without a reality, but formerly it was a
reality without a name.”5 This saying holds many layers of significance. It may serve not only
as an implicit criticism of the charlatans who associated with the movement for various kinds
of benefits that could be accrued, but it also points into history when Sufism supposedly
enjoyed a utopian, golden period. The search for origins is frequently an attempt to capture
an ideal, when the “pristine” teachings were within reach. Of course the community of the
Prophet served as the ultimate “imagined ummah” for all Muslims, but with the sealing of
prophethood on Mu ḥammad’s death, the Sufis of Hujw ī r ī’s age looked to the next best mod-
els, that is, the succeeding generations, when the memory of a sacred society that enjoyed an
intimate communication with the Divine was still fresh in the memory. In order to capture
the essence of that early community Sufis had recourse to three main methods. The first fo-
cussed on a lexical analysis of the term Sufi itself, the name that had no reality, or meaning.
Sufis such as F ū shanja were well aware that it was a futile attempt to search the Qur’ān from
cover to cover, as the word “ṣū f ī” or “ta ṣawwuf ” (Sufism) does not appear in sacred scripture.
Hujw ī r ī’s Kashf al-Ma ḥjūb included a section in which he speculated on four possible reasons
why the term gained currency.6 The first reflected the similarity of the word Sufi (ṣūf ī ) with
the Arabic term for wool, or ṣūf, the connection being that the Sufis typically wore a gown or
garment made of wool,7 which as coarse and scratchy, leads to connections with asceticism,
and distinguished the cloak from the more expensive cotton or silk varieties.8 Hujw ī r ī’s sec-
ond reason connects the word “Sufism” to the idiom “first rank” (ṣaff-i awwal), which brings
to mind the believers hurrying to be in the first row of believers at congregational prayers.
4
The origins of Sufism
And then a connection is made with the a ṣḥāb-i Ṣuffa (or the People of the Veranda – those
who lived in close proximity to the Prophet – in his mosque – and were scrupulous and pious
in performing devotions). And Hujw ī r ī finally spoke of ṣafā, or purity, since the Sufis “have
purged their morals and conduct” from anything inappropriate.9
These emic discussions about the lexical origins of the word “Sufi” clearly reveal the
concerns of eleventh-century Sufis, and may not help us understand how the term was un-
derstood in the eight to ninth centuries. Later Sufis were conscious of this, and therefore a
second method to understand the term, a semantic investigation by ascetics and early Sufis,
focussed on the realities of their specific kinds of devotion. The sayings of early “Sufis”
foregrounded practice and ethics through edifying and pithy statements that could easily be
memorised.10 For example, Sahl al-Tustar ī (d. 896) said, “Sufism is to eat little, and to take
rest with God, and to flee from men.”11 And Sar ī Saqaṭī (the maternal uncle of Junayd, the
subject of Chapter 3) who died in 867 is reported by the aforementioned Qushayr ī as saying
the quickest path to Paradise was, “Don’t take anything from anyone, don’t seek anything
from anyone and don’t possess anything which you would give to anyone.”12 The third
method to identify the origins of Sufism was historical, and probably borrowed heavily
from the semantic investigations mentioned above, typified in the claim of Junayd that “We
derived Sufism not from disputation, but from hunger and abandonment of the world and
the breaking of familiar ties and the renunciation of what men account good.”13 Junayd’s
claim points to belief in a close connection between the Sufism of his time and certain de-
votional practices, such as renunciation and repentance (tawba),14 which was evident among
those pious individuals before the recognisable social movement that became Sufism. The
terms used for these renunciants were zuhh ād, nussāk and ‘ubbād.15 Later Sufis pointed out
that the first person to be called a “ṣū f ī” was one Abū Ḥā shim (d. 767–768) in Syria who
had a kh ānaqāh (convent).16 But later Sufi writers consistently made associations of such early
individuals with renunciation, fear of God and trust in God (tawakkul), and “they underwent
austerities, devoted extraordinary amounts of time to Qur’ānic recitation and prayer, and
generally cultivated a solemn attitude towards life.”17 Descriptions of anything “mystical,” a
term liberally applied by modern scholars to Sufism without much thought as to its mean-
ing, is notably absent. An associated ahistorical method was to link the pre-Islamic prophets
with the tradition, thus suggesting its perennial nature. In this respect it is worth recalling
Suhraward ī (d. 1234) who has the prophet Abraham claim that his community could not
bear the burden of the Sufi cloak.18
The difficulty of defining Sufism, either philologically or semantically, seems to have
been as difficult in Hujw ī r ī’s age as it has been for modern scholars. If the focus of analys-
ing Sufism is on the very first generation of Baghdadi Sufis, then it is difficult to determine
shared characteristics, except perhaps piety and devotion. But this is far too simplistic a defi-
nition, as it would be necessary to determine the extent of piety and devotion that would
have been necessary in order for an individual to be called a Sufi. The problem of defining
Sufism is neither solved by concentrating on specific ritual acts, such as the dhikr (or the rep-
etition of one of God’s names), which has been recognised as a familiar and distinctive Sufi
act of devotion. The problem with focussing on dhikr is that this was an act performed by
all pious Muslims, which implies that all pious Muslims were Sufis, and this does not seem
to have been the case. Perhaps Sufism of this early period was more characteristic of faith in
achieving “proximity to or mediation with God?”19 But how is it possible to determine be-
liefs, which are an interiorised element of personal faith? The attempt to discover the origin
of Sufism, or define Sufism, with recourse to Sufi texts raises more questions than answers.
In itself, this is not necessarily a negative outcome, as it is only with an inquisitive and
5
Lloyd Ridgeon
questioning mind that the sheer scope of the difficulty at hand becomes apparent, rendering
it possible to offer tentative solutions.
Clearly, there is still much to discover about the very early years leading up to the es-
tablishment of Sufism as the main representative of an interiorised and devotional form of
Islamic piety. For example, differences and similarities in stages of renunciation, or asceti-
cism, from a Qur’ānic or post-Mu ḥammad period to the beginning of the “Sufi” era need
to be explored. Variegation among early pietist, devotional and acetic individuals and groups
(such as those in Khur ā sān, including the Karr ā miyya and the Malā matiyya,20 and the var-
ious proto “Sufi” movements in Basra and Baghdad) provide ample scope for discussion, as
do the contexts in which all of these movements emerged. The early European quest for
Sufi origins focussed on external factors (such as non-Islamic philosophies or religious tra-
ditions); this quest seems to have been undertaken to demonstrate the inability of Muslims
to develop such a tradition independent of other civilisation. Although the weakness of
nineteenth-century European thesis of external origins has become evident to all, it would
be a mistake to reject possible influences and contributions from non-Islamic, pietist and
intellectual traditions that left a heavy imprint in the Near East. Christianity and monasti-
cism remained very strong in the region, as Melchert observes that reports of conversations
between Muslim ascetics and Christian hermits are numerous.21 (Indeed, the existence of
the so-called Pact of ‘Umar that listed the regulations by which non-Muslim groups could
co-exist in peace with Muslims is an indication of the numerical strength of non-Muslim
communities in the region).22 Of course, the discussion here is not one of Sufi “origins” but
of exchange of ideas and influence between other religious traditions and Islamic pietist move-
ments. Moreover, from 750 CE onwards the Islamic world was practically and intellectually
developing a range of different perspectives on how the community should be advanced.23
So, for example, the science of ḥad īth was developing with the compilation of voluminous
collections, with specific rules for approving or disapproving specific narrations; theological
debates raged in Baghdad, including disputes between rival Mu‘tazilite and Ash‘arite schools
on how to understand the anthropomorphic verses in the Qur’ān;24 philosophical arguments
(some of a Neo-Platonic tenor) raged about the nature of God, facilitated by the creation of
the Bayt al-Ḥikma, or the Grand Baghdad Library, the task of which was to translate Greek
texts into Arabic;25 Shi‘i ideas circulated around eminent individuals who were recognised
as Im ā ms;26 and the Sunni law-school were coalescing into recognisable entities. In other
words, various constituencies in the Islamic world were competing with each other in an
attempt to create space for their self-expression. It would have been only natural for a range
of ascetics, renunciants and other pious individuals to participate in this process, thereby
creating a place for themselves, where they would be free to engage in their own specific
forms of devotion.27 And of interest too is that ideas and/or representatives of these groups
enumerated above were to be appropriated soon afterwards into the ranks of the Sufis. These
included Ḥasan al-Ba ṣr ī (d. 728) the famous theologian and preacher,28 Ibr āh ī m Adham (d.
782) who abandoned his position as King of Balkh and took up a life of seclusion,29 Sufiyān
al-Thawr ī (d. 778) a great ḥad īth scholar, ‘Abdallāh ibn Mubārak (d. 797) who is known to
have engaged in jihad with non-Muslims on the frontier of the Islamic world (perhaps as a
form of renunciation),30 Fuḍ ayl ibn ‘Iyāḍ (d. 802) a thief who became an ascetic,31 Ibn Ḥanbal
(d. 855), the great scholar of ḥad īth,32 and Ja‘far al-Ṣādiq, who is known more commonly
as the sixth Shi‘i Im ā m (d. 765). It is easy to see why subsequent generations of scholars ad-
opted such diverse individuals as exemplars of early Sufism; renunciation, piety, asceticism
and Islamic scholarship of all varieties have remained essential components of the Sufi path
(except perhaps for the antinomian variety). While such individuals were clearly not “Sufi”
6
in the sense of ninth-century School of Baghdad, their inspiration and contribution to piety
was a heritage that the Sufis adopted with alacrity.
The modern Western search for the origins of Sufism

Definitions of words are obviously linked with the contexts in which the definers find
themselves, full of pre-suppositions, prejudices, ideals and judgements; objectivity is an
elusive goal for even the most discerning. As Karl Popper so succinctly observed, “We do
not know. We can only guess.”33 Whereas devotional concerns underpinned the attempts
to discover the origins of Sufism for adherents in the pre-modern Islamic world, Western
scholars in the modern period likewise have endeavoured to uncover the source of Sufism,
but for very different reasons. The nineteenth-century worldview was influenced by sev-
eral competing ideologies, including a muscular form of Christianity and racist ideas which
promoted the idea of the superiority of Western civilisation. One of most explicitly obvi-
ous examples of this was propounded by E. H. Palmer, a fellow of Oriental Studies at the
University of Cambridge, who observed that he planned a study to prove that Sufism de-
veloped from the “Primaeval Religion of the Aryan race.”34 Similar ideas were advocated
in the late n ineteenth century by the French philosopher Ernst Renan, whose a nti-Islamic
opinions should be considered in the wider perspective of his views on religion. For ex-
ample, he believed that Jesus “managed to purify himself of Jewish influence and emerge
an Aryan.”35 A different perspective was advanced by the Jewish Hungarian scholar Ignaz
Goldziher who proposed the idea, popular at the time, that Sufism emerged due to the
influence of external features, including Neo-platonism, Christianity, H induism and
Buddhism, rather than it being a development of ideas and beliefs inherent within Islam. 36
There were some, such as E. G. Browne (d. 1926) – (Sir Thomas Adams professor of Arabic
at Cambridge University) – whose views are complex and seemingly ambivalent. On the
one hand, he appeared to endorse the nineteenth- century views in statements that describe
the Islamification of Iran as “skin-deep” and
soon a host of heterodox sects born on Persian soil – Shi‘ites, Sufis, Isma‘ilis, philosophers –
arose to vindicate the claim of Aryan thought to be free, and to transform the reli-
gion forced on the nation by Arab steel into something which, though still wearing a
semblance of Islam, had a significance widely different from that which one may fairly
suppose was intended by the Arabian prophet.37
Yet Browne also claimed that there was “latent in the Muhammadan religion the germs
of the most thorough-going pantheism,” and that “there is no doubt that certain passages
in the Kur’an are susceptible to a certain degree of mystical interpretation.”38 Browne’s
latter sentiments were echoed by the American, Duncan B. MacDonald (d. 1943), who
taught at the Hartford Theological Seminary, and believed that “Like almost everything
else in Islam the seeds were already in the mind of Muhammad.”39 Browne’s British student,
R. A. Nicholson (d. 1945) who was to occupy the same academic position as his mentor,
made some advance on the preceding European thinkers, seemingly agreeing with the me-
dieval Sufi theorists, claiming that “the seeds of Sufiism are to be found in the powerful and
widely-spread ascetic tendencies which arose within Islam during the first century a.h.”40
However, he concluded that although early Sufism “was not independent of Christianity,”
and that “Greek philosophy” (Neo-Platonism and Gnosticism) contributed hugely in its
7
Lloyd Ridgeon
development, that an early Sufi, Bāyazīd Basṭā m ī,41 was influenced by Persian and Indian
1906 (see note 10),42 only later did the Sufis attempt to authenticate their beliefs with refer-
ence to Islamic scripture (Qur’ān and ḥad īth).43 The view that Muslims and Sufis were inca-
pable of developing their own form of spirituality, or piety and asceticism, from indigenous
roots was argued most notably by R. C. Zaehner, the Spalding Professor at Oxford Uni-
versity, who claimed in 1961 that Sufism was wholly derived from Christianity,44 and that
Bāyazīd Bisṭā m ī teacher bore the name al-Sind ī, which explains for the similarities between
Vedanta and Sufism. For Zaehner, Basṭā m ī played a central role in directing the future ori-
entation of the Sufi movement. Even more recently the Goldziher-Nicholson perspective has
been repeated, as Julian Baldick, in his 1989 composition Mystical Islam, stressed the external
influences in the development of Sufism.45 A much more cautious approach, however, has
been the norm, typified in the works of Nicholson’s student, A. J. Arberry (d. 1969) (who
also held the same Professorship at Cambridge) as he refused to be drawn into the debate
concerning origins. He simply stated that “mysticism is undoubtedly a universal constant,”
and that “its variations can be observed to be very clearly and characteristically shaped by the
several religious systems upon which they were based.”46
One of the impediments in tracing a chain of influence from the ninth- and tenth-
century Sufis of Baghdad back into history is the relative absence of texts, treatises, letters
and other forms of writing that can be identified as “Sufi scented.” One of the inspira-
tions for the Baghdad school of Sufism were the essays penned by Mu ḥā sibī (d. 857) (see
Chapter 2), which discussed both theological issues and the cultivation of piety and appro-
priate character traits. But before Mu ḥasibī scholars are left with very little to assist in the
endeavour to discover the roots of Sufism.47 An important contribution which departed from
the 19th European tendency to filter everything through a non-Islamic sieve was advanced
by the French Orientalist, Louis Massignon, in his 1922 survey “Essai sur les origines du
lexique technique de la mystique musulmane.” His analysis of the words that the early Sufis
and pietists employed caused him to conclude that “through constant recitation, meditation,
and practice, [the Qur’ān] is the source of Islamic mysticism, at its beginning and through-
out its growth”48 Different generations of pietists and Sufis have focussed on specific verses
and words of the Qur’ān, but the earliest representatives of Islamic ascetics and renunciants
focussed on themes such as fear of God, and reliance or trust upon God. The subsequent
era, which witnessed the emergence of the movement that named itself Sufi, surfacing from
Baghdad in the ninth century concentrated on verses that focussed on love, and the onto-
logical relationship between God and man. Massignon concluded that the message of Ḥallāj,
who was executed in 922, and became celebrated as a Sufi martyr for love, was built upon the
terminology, allegories and his predecessors’ rules for life, and that he was vilified because
he made public doctrines of a “mystical vocation that had sprung up throughout the first
centuries of Islam through mediated readings of the Qur’ān and the interiorization of a fer-
vent, humble ritual life.”49 But not all modern scholars have been as enamoured with Ḥallāj,
as Abun-Nasr has observed that he “paid with his life for preaching Sufi tenets in Baghdad
which blatantly breached the doctrinal limits of Islamic orthodoxy.”50
Impressive as Massignon’s scholarship is, Green suggests that it is also guilty of being too
vertical, and due attention needs to be paid to the horizontal contexts in which Sufis found
themselves. In particular he reminds us that,
the environment in which Muslims lived in such regions as Syria, Iraq and Egypt was
one in which they were outnumbered by Christians. More thoroughly Christianized
8
than even Western Europe at this time, the Middle East Fertile Crescent was a land-
scape of churches, monasteries and saintly shrines … Tombs of Christian saints and
prophets were recognised as Muslim pilgrimage centres; monasteries served Muslims as
wine-serving country clubs for poets and as libraries for literati; and Christian scholars
helped translate into Arabic the heritage of Graeco-Roman thought …51
Moreover, Green argues that the appearance of Sufism in Baghdad at the end of the ninth
century does not mean that it did not exist prior to this period, especially as we are dealing
with an oral culture, and it was a movement that may have been at pains to keep its doc-
trines and practices secret. The vertical model of asceticism/renunciation segueing almost
seamlessly into Sufism certainly demands to be questioned, and due consideration of the
horizontal contexts in conjunction with the vertical appears more likely to provide a realistic
depiction of how the tradition developed. The adoption by later Sufis of ascetics, renunciants
and scholars must be understood within the context of later historical dynamics of history,
society and politics. In addition, the renunciants’ choice of themes and words may reflect
inspiration from the Qur’ān, but this may not be exclusively so.
The “mystical” turn

Another of the largely unexplained topics related to the emergence of Sufism concerns the
emergence of “mysticism.” Some contrast the largely pietistic and renunciate nature of the
early movement which was transformed into a more fully blown form of what some call
“mysticism.”52 This perspective still needs to be fully explored as the claim that “asceti-
cism easily passes into mysticism” remains unconvincing.53 In 1996 Christopher Melchert
proposed that asceticism (or more specifically) self-mortification “at the individual level
conduces to the experiences of mystical states.” He proceeded to offer two social reasons
behind the change, but his discussion was unfortunately confined to a few lines. First, he
mentioned the increasing political power of soldiers which encouraged a turn towards
mysticism, as arbitrary political power assists mysticism, whereas the reverse, the check
on the concentration of political power aids asceticism. Second, Melchert considered the
development of institutions (he seems to mean the kh ānaq āh) for “religious specialists”
as conducive for mystical piety.54 A more detailed explanation for the turn to mysticism
was offered by Gerhard Böwering several years later who analysed the “radical and last-
ing” life-changing experiences of “direct encounter with God” of several mid- to late
eighth-century ascetics/renunciants. He observed that these individuals were “perceived
as men who saw themselves as an elite.” Moreover, “Seeing themselves as divinely chosen
people, as God’s Friends (awliyā’) and saints, the Sufis held their spiritual achievement to
be equal to the experience of the prophets and laid claims to a reciprocal relationship with
their Creator.”55 In other words, the kind of repentance (tawba) of this new group differed
from the past group who had considered their repentance as a form of fear of God alone,
which lay no obligations upon the Creator. This new form of tawba entailed a two-way
process: “They [the new ascetics/renunciants] discovered the foundations of their elec-
tion in tawba, their total and unconditional turning to God, a movement accepted and
rewarded by unequivocal divine self-revelation.”56 This explains why the very early Sufis
foregrounded an ontological intimacy, or similarity between man and God, which they
discovered in several Qur’ā nic verses (mentioned below). Typifying this special relation-
ship was the Qur’ā nic covenant, when God took mankind from Adam’s loins and asked
9
Lloyd Ridgeon
them if they testified to his Lordship, a verse which was seminal in the teachings of the very
early Sufis, including Sahl al-Tustar ī,57 Ḥallāj,58 and Junayd 59:
And [mention] when your Lord took from the children of Adam – from their loins –
their descendants and made them testify of themselves, [saying to them], ‘Am I not your
Lord?’ They said, ‘Yes, we have testified.’ [This] – lest you should say on the day of
Resurrection, ‘Indeed, we were of this unaware’ [Q. 7.172].
The Qur’ān as a “mystical” text

Massignon was aware of the difficulty that many non-Muslims had in perceiving the Qur’ān
as the inspiration behind the Sufi movement. He said, “Europeans unfamiliar with Semitic
concision, with the brief lightning flashes of Psalms for example, communally suppose that
the Qur’ān has no mystical tendencies.”60 Those verses that the Sufis would frequently cite
have included Q. 2.115, which is read as an indication of God’s pervasiveness throughout the
various realms of existence: “To God belongs the east and west. Wherever you turn your head there
is the face of God.” There are several reasons offered for non-mystical understandings, and the
historical background to this verse points to the conflict and turmoil Mu ḥammad faced on
the change of direction of prayer (qibla) from Jerusalem to Mecca.61 Sufis were to interiorise
this verse, preferring to foreground an interpretation that presented God as intimately close
to the believer. Chapter 53 of the Qur’ān is also significant because it narrates an episode
when Mu ḥammad received revelation (from Gabriel according to most Muslim accounts,
although some “dissenters” hold that the event was an encounter between Mu ḥammad and
God).62 The same chapter alludes to the so-called “Night Journey” and the ascent (mi‘rāj)
was pivotal for later Sufis, serving as a kind of blueprint for the encounter of the individual
with God.
Among the verses that led to speculation on the God-man relationship with regard to in-
timacy/similarity, perhaps the most celebrated are those mentioned below. Q. 5.26–27 states,
“All that dwells upon the earth is annihilated, yet still subsides the Face of your Lord, majestic, splen-
did.” From this verse, according to Hujw ī r ī, the earliest individual to develop the concepts
of annihilation ( fan ā’) and subsistence (baqā’) was al-Kharr āz (d. 899) and subsequent Sufis
came to speculate on the nature of existence, and the possibility of escaping from everything
that causes a separation between God and the creation, thus rendering a possible encounter
with God, even before the resurrection. Yet herein lay the ontological problem; on achieving
fan ā’, who, or what, remained in the state of baqā’? Was it the individual, or was it God? And
in what way was it even possible to talk of the individual before the majesty of God, who
alone possesses real existence? It is easy to see why the complexity of ontological questions
proliferated among Sufis in succeeding generations. Once the “mystical” dimension of Islam
became more pronounced (after the early period of Sufism), this kind of verse in the Qur’ān
inspired much discussion.63 The early period which witnessed the emergence of schools of
“Sufism” in Baghdad and Basra also had individuals contemplate ontological issues based
on verses such as 50.16 “We indeed created man; and We know what his soul whispers within him,
and We are nearer to him than the jugular vein.” Sahl al-Tustar ī of the Basran school presented
an interpretation of such verses.64 At a similar time Bāyazīd Bisṭā m ī (d. 875) was reported
to have made the ecstatic utterance “Glory be to me,” which was taken as an inappropriate
meditation on the Q. 21.22 and 17.43 “Glory be to God!” Ecstatic utterances (sha ṭḥ) became a
feature within Sufism from the time of Bisṭā m ī and Ḥallāj, and they should not be associated
10
with the renunciants and ascetics. The love-inspired Sufis justified their perspective with
such verses as Q. 5.54: “God will assuredly bring a people He loves, and who love Him, humble to-
wards the believers, disdainful towards the unbelievers, men who struggle in the path of God, not fearing
the reproach of any reproacher.” This verse was particularly important because of the misgivings
of those unsympathetic to the early Sufis, in particular, Ghulā m Khal ī l, the populist preacher
in Baghdad (who is discussed by Harith Ramli in the present volume) who accused the city’s
nascent Sufi community of loving God rather than fearing him. But love became one of the
defining concepts of Sufism, typified in the figure of Rābi‘a al-‘Adawiyya (d. 801) who is
famously reported by later Sufi scholars to have said that she worshipped God not because
she feared his fire or because she desired his Paradise. Her worship for God was due to her
love and longing for him.65 But by the time of Ghulam Khalil’s inquisition in 877–878 it
was already too late to prevent the growth and development of a love-based devotionalism.
This is not to say that asceticism and renunciation died or faded away, as forms of such pi-
ety remained important components of Sufi activity, and other kinds of devotional Islamic
lifestyles.
This introduction scratches only the surface of a period of Sufism about which very little
is known, partly due to the paucity of sources. Much more research is required on issues such
as similar movements outside of Arab areas, including those originally based in Khur ā sān,
namely, the Malā matiyya and the Karr ā miyya,66 the role and participation of women during
this period,67 the influence of Shi‘ism,68 the relationships with the Sunni schools of Law, and
the various psychological conflicts, diverse personalities and relationships that existed among
the early Sufis. It does seem clear that what is commonly regarded as Sufism was an umbrella
term for an incredibly wide and complex pious movement, seeking an interiorised under-
standing of Islam that brought the Divine intimately close to the believers.
Despite serving as a brief introduction, this chapter provides a springboard that en-
ables readers to proceed with subsequent chapters that investigate the great early thinkers
(Mu ḥā sibī, Junayd and Bisṭā m ī), and those of the classical period (Ghaz ā l ī, ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt, Ibn
‘Arabī and Rū m ī), when Sufism mushroomed and became widespread and popular through-
out the Islamic world among all sectors of society. The choice of these individuals is not arbi-
trary. Mu ḥā sibī, Junayd and Bisṭā m ī were three of the most influential pietists and “Sufis” of
the eighth/ninth century but for very different reasons, as should become clear from reading
the next three chapters. Subsequently the focus is on the towering figure of Ghaz ā l ī whose
works, whether philosophical or ethical, are generally infused with an interiorised under-
standing of Islam. His attempt to create space for a Sufism within the lives of the believers
is evident within both his four-volume magum opus, I ḥyā ‘ū lū m al- ḍī n (“The Revival of the
Islamic Sciences”) and also in his lesser studied Persian works, and it is evident in his practical
adoption of Sufism, which led to him abandoning the most prestigious teaching position in
the Islamic world. Yet his version of Sufism does not reach the same flights of ecstatic plea-
sure that are contained in the writings of the subsequent three individuals: ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt,
Ibn ‘Arabī and Rū m ī who are perhaps three of the most enjoyable Sufi authors to read. ‘Ayn
al-Quḍāt has a certain style and intimacy of writing that leaves the reader believing that the
message is directed specifically at him or her, having been whispered gently into the ear. It
is difficult to put ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt’s works down, especially his Persian masterpiece Tamhīdāt.
And indeed, the chapter on ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt in this book is indicative of the Sufis’ concern to
base their worldviews on the Qur’ān. For very different reasons Ibn ‘Arabī is a master who
bewilders his readership with the sheer breadth of his knowledge of Islamic sciences, and
the ability to breath new meanings into them. And William Chittick observes that his work
reflects “a vast synthesis of the basic fields of learning, including Quran, Hadith, language,
11
Lloyd Ridgeon
law, psychology, cosmology, theology, philosophy, and metaphysics.”69 He is not an easy

read, but his influence upon Sufism in particular and Islamic sciences in general cannot be
overestimated, typified by an attempt to ban his works in Egypt in 1979.70 And likewise, the
teachings of Rū m ī are considered by Muslims to be grounded in the Qur’ān, as the well-
known verse says, “The Mathnaw ī of Mawlānā (Rū m ī) is the Qur’ān in Persian. How can I
describe him? He is not a prophet but he has a book!”
The subsequent chapters of the first section examine specific themes that were significant
for early Sufism (and indeed, for the later period too). For example, the chapter on “Early
Sufism and its Opponents” illustrates the kinds of difficulties faced by the movement and
why the search for legitimation in its origins became crucial. Linked to this is the chapter on
gender, more specifically female participation. The early Islamic community arguably had
debates about roles for women, and Sufis were also engaged in this conversation. Examining
the manuals from the classical period demonstrates why and how women could either be
included or excluded from the tradition, a feature that continues in some Islamic communi-
ties today. The subsequent three chapters on travelling, Qur’ānic ethics, and love and divine
beauty help to explain how Sufism was propagated and was able to expand throughout the
Islamic world by the end of the thirteenth century, a period that witnessed the blossoming
and flowering of the movement in ritual, theoretical and literary ways, and enjoyed wide-
spread popularity.
Notes

12
13
Lloyd Ridgeon
14
15
Lloyd Ridgeon
concept of the pre-existent column of light. In the Sufi tradition this dates back to at least the era of
Sahl-i Tustar ī (d. 896). See his commentary of Q. 7.172 (Tafsīr Tustar ī, p. 77). In the Shi‘i tradition,
the column of light appears in traditions recorded by Kulayni (d. 941). See S Husain Mohammad
Jafri, “The Early Development of Legitimist Shi‘ism with Special Reference to the Role of the
Imam Ja‘far al-Saqiq,” PhD University of London (1966), p. 277.
69 William Chittick, “The Anthropology of Compassion,” Journal of the Muhyiddin Ibn 'Arabi Society
48, (2010), http://www.ibnarabisociety.org/articles/anthropology-of-compassion.html (accessed
02 July 2019).
70 The New York Times, “Egyptians Furious about a Ban on 12th-Century Mystic’s Work,” March 15,
1979.
16
2
AL-ḤĀRITH AL-MUḤĀSIBĪ AND
SPIRITUAL PURIFICATION
BETWEEN ASCETICISM AND
MYSTICISM
Gavin N. Picken
From the perspective of Sufi Studies, Baghdad in the eighth to ninth centuries has remained
a period of considerable research interest in recent years. Authors continue to consider the
transition from asceticism to mysticism during the period, the numerous mystical and spir-
itual figures who lived in Baghdad and the prospective “schools”, which they may have
founded or been a part of. Therefore, this chapter attempts to shed light on the contribution
that al-Ḥārith b. Asad al-Mu ḥā sibī (d. 857) may have played at this critical historical juncture
for the development of Sufism by situating him in this critical milieu.
“Master of the wayfarers”1: the life and works of al-Muḥāsibī

As with many figures of Islamic history, the life of al-Ḥārith al-Mu ḥā sibī remains somewhat
enigmatic; we are challenged to search through a plethora of historical, biographical and
bibliographical works to find what are little more than hagiographical anecdotes. The histo-
ricity of such entries will always remain an anathema to authenticity for some and perhaps
exploring the hagiographical function of these references may prove more fruitful. Never-
theless, a rudimentary sketch of al-Mu ḥā sibī’s life can be attempted, with some imaginative
thinking and considerable patience. We can say with some certainty that al-Mu ḥā sibī was
born in the latter half of the eighth century in Basra, to a family of Arab settlers, indicated by
his familial affiliation of “al-ʿAnazī”.2 Evidently, he was not recognised by this familial affil-
iation but rather by the descriptor “al-Mu ḥā sibī”, related to his scrupulous self-examination
and introspective appraisal.3 Al-Mu ḥā sibī’s early life is particularly vague but the anecdotes
regarding him present a young boy inclined to pietistic scrupulosity (waraʿ ) and admonition
of his elders for their unbecoming behaviour.4 Such reports seem to act as precursors, indi-
cating that the young al-Mu ḥā sibī was destined for the spiritual path that he adopted in later
life and at the same time, perhaps suggest that he was an heir to the considerable ascetical
tradition that is associated with the early history of Basra,5 exemplified by the personality of
al-Ḥasan al-Ba ṣr ī (728).6
If al-Mu ḥā sibī did indeed imbibe the renunciant atmosphere of Basra, it would not be the
only geographical location that would influence him, as he moved – at an age undetermined –
to Baghdad, the newly built capital and cultural centre of the ʿAbbasid caliphate. If al-
Mu ḥā sibī’s family were not wealthy in Basra, judging by the reports of his considerable
17
Gavin N. Picken
inheritance, it would seem that they certainly found their fortune in Baghdad.7 In spite of
this apparent affluence, perhaps indicative too of a sound education, al-Mu ḥā sibī continues
to display the tendency towards an exacting scrupulosity nurtured his youth by rejecting his
legitimate right to inheritance based on a theological anomaly in his father’s faith.8
Al-Mu ḥā sibī’s apparent scrupulousness was tempered, however, with a solid background
in the Islamic sciences of his day and although Islamic learning was at a nascent stage, he
was situated in an environment that was not only an intellectual crucible but also boasted a
plethora of influential scholars.9 From this perspective, al-Mu ḥā sibī’s teachers included the
renowned ḥadīth master Yazīd b. Hār ū n (d. 821), the distinguished linguist and theologian
al-Qā sim b. ʿAbd al-Sallā m (d. 839), and although al-Mu ḥā sibī did not study directly with
Imam al-Shā fiʿī (d. 820), he is considered from the first generation of students who followed
al-Shā fiʿī’s principles.10
Al-Mu ḥā sibī put this compendium of learning to good use, and according to al-Subk ī,
wrote over 200 different texts.11 If this were true, then we are unfortunate as only 29 works
remain extant, with 18 being published and 11 remaining in manuscript.12 In some of these
works the effect of his time and milieu are evident upon al-Mu ḥā sibī, as he addresses issues
related to the nature of the intellect and the content and interpretation the Qurʾān, namely,
Kit āb M āhiyat/ M āʾ iyat al-ʿAql, Kit āb al-ʿIlm and Kit āb Fahm al-Qur’ān.13 These works address
the controversies of the Muʿtazilites and the associated miḥna,14 and provided expositions of
the traditional Sunni theological epistemology and reasoning, as al-Mu ḥā sibī understood it.
Consequently, he was situated within a nascent group of theologians, which included Ibn
Kullāb (d. c. 854–855) and al-Qalānisī (lived in the second half of the ninth century), who
are often seen to be the precursors of Sunni kal ām argumentation epitomised by the later
Ashʿarite school.15
The bulk of al-Mu ḥā sibī’s writings, however, concern an innovative and intuitive dis-
cussion of the human soul (nafs), its nature and the necessity of its discipline. These works
range from short treatises to significant volumes that indicate both a genesis of thinking and
a programmed form of writing, based on the needs of a particular audience.16 The more
significant works of al-Mu ḥā sibī’s authorship that fit this general typology include: Kit āb al-
Riʿāya li Ḥuqūq All āh (“The Book Concerning the Observance of the Rights of God”), Kit āb
al-Na ṣāʾ ih (“The Book of Counsels”), Kit āb Sharḥ al-Maʿrifa wa Badhl al-Na ṣīḥa (“The Book
Concerning the Exposition of Knowing and the Provision of Counsel”) and Kit āb Masāʾ il
fi ’l-Qul ūb wa ’l-Jaw āriḥ (“The Book of Matters Concerning the Heart and the Limbs”).17 In
addition, one of al-Mu ḥā sibī’s works – al-Qa ṣd wa ’l-Rujūʿ il ā All āh (“Wayfaring to God and
the Return to Him”) – displays a question-answer format between teacher and student that
would become a leitmotif in certain genres of later Sufi literature; such “conversations” seem
to have actually taken place and they articulate a singular function – spiritual instruction and
counsel.18 An unusual pedagogical method is also found in al-Mu ḥā sibī’s Kit āb al-Tawahhum,
which at first glance appears to be an eschatological treatise charting the journey of the hu-
man soul into the Hereafter; although this assessment is certainly valid, one cannot overlook
the emotive and psychologically challenging narrative discourse that is presented and that is
evidently intended to facilitate a change in mental and spiritual state.19 Thus, in al-Mu ḥā sibī
we have an author who provides a novel, unique and influential style and content, who also
competes competently with other writers of his era in the sheer volume of his production.
Given the considerable contribution that al-Mu ḥā sibī made and the “communicative”
structure of some of his works, it should be little surprise that he had a number of students,
who studied his discourses with him and benefitted from his pastoral approach. Indeed,
when examining the historical and biographical references we find that al-Mu ḥā sibī was
18
al-Ḥārith al-Muḥāsibī
associated with significant personalities such as Abū ’l-Ḥusayn al-Nū r ī (d. 907) and Abū ’l-
ʿAbbā s al-Ṭū sī (d. 910) among many others.20 By far the most significant of these interactions,
however, appears to be with Abū ’l-Qā sim al-Junayd (d. 910), who is considered the epitome
of the “sober” expression of mysticism that evolved in Baghdad, and was known by the lau-
datory epithets of “the ‘peacock’ of the impoverished” (ṭāw ūs al-fuqarāʾ ), “master of masters”
(shaykh al-mash āyikh) and “noble of the community” (sayyid al- ṭāʾ ifa).21 Thus, al-Mu ḥā sibī not
only was trained by some of the leading scholarly figures of his day but also contributed to
the formation of some of the leading spiritual luminaries in Baghdad, who would go on to
enjoy their very own considerable reputations.
Al-Mu ḥā sibī’s prowess as an author, mentor and spiritual influencer was not without its
setbacks, however, and he found himself courting considerable controversy in the tendentious
atmosphere created by Muʿtazilite dominance and the consequent miḥna. Unfortunately, for
al-Mu ḥā sibī his detractor was none other than Imam A ḥ mad b. Ḥanbal, who is said to have
taken particular offence to some of al-Mu ḥā sibī’s teachings. The exact nature of the dispute
remains somewhat ambiguous but Ibn Ḥanbal’s apparent censure of al-Mu ḥā sibī appears to
have been related to his use of dialectical kal ām-style argumentation when attempting to
answer Muʿtazilite theological anomalies. This was an approach that was deemed abhorrent
by Ibn Ḥanbal but it would be normalised by the Ashʿarites and Mātur īdites in later history.
Nevertheless, even though it could be argued that a response to the onslaught of Muʿtazilite
rationalism was necessary, Ibn Ḥanbal found engaging these theologians by employing their
own methods to be objectionable. As a consequence of the fanaticism of some of Ibn Ḥanbal’s
followers, al-Mu ḥā sibī was forced into temporary exile in Kufa and ultimately, when he died
only four people attended his funeral ceremony.22
Whither Zuhd? The perceived transition from

asceticism to mysticism
It is well established that an ascetical trend ‒ commonly referred to as zuhd ‒ characterised
the formative period of Islam and that this may be observed in the post-Prophetic period,
with individuals situated in the Companion generation such as Abū Mū sā [ʿAbd Allāh b.
Qays] al-Ashʿar ī (d. 665), Abū Dharr al-Ghifār ī (d. 652 or 653), Hudhayfa b. al-Yam ān
(d. 657) and ʿImr ān al-Khuz āʿī (d. 672).23 This ascetical purview continued to grow expo-
nentially and was represented in several cities of the Islamicate world such as Basra, Kufa and
Medina and was constituted by numerous advocates.24 Later figures, who loomed large in
this context due to their considerable influence, would include such luminaries as Ibrāh ī m b.
Adham (d. 777),25 ʿAbd Allāh b. al-Mubārak (d. 797)26 and Fuḍ ayl b. ʿIyāḍ (d. 803).27
It is noteworthy, however, that during the formative period, in addition to the conven-
tionally used term zuhh ād as practitioners of zuhd, multiple other terminologies were em-
ployed to reference the renunciant tendency in society such as: “ascetics” (nussāk) due to their
austere lifestyles; “reciters” (qurrāʾ ) due to their emphasis on the instruction of the Qurʾān;
“worshippers” (ʿubbād) due to their strict adherence to their devotions; “preachers” (qu ṣṣāṣ)
due to the delivery of emotive sermons and “weepers” (bakk āʾūn) due to their shedding of
tears when moved by eloquent speech, or the remembrance of death and the hereafter.28
Kinberg has observed that, in addition to notions of asceticism, renunciation and absti-
nence, the semantic range of zuhd also included its orbit notions such as “contentment” (ri ḍāʾ ),
“absolute trust in God” (tawakkul), “having realistic hopes” (qi ṣr al-amal), “worldly absti-
nence” (al-zuhd f ī ’l-dunyā) and “scrupulosity” (waraʿ ).29 Additionally, Gobillot adds to this a
number of spiritual concepts and practices have also been associated with the term zuhd, such
19
Gavin N. Picken
as: “satisfaction with one’s provision” (qan āʿa); “isolation” (ʿuzla); “self-effacement” (khum ūl);
“opposing the lower soul and its desires” (mukh ālafat al-nafs wa ’l-haw āʾ ); “the urgency to act
before the onset of death” (al-mubādara li ’l-ʿamal qabla bul ūgh al-ajal); “to expend effort in acts
of obedience” (al-ijtih ād fi ’l- ṭāʿa); “maintaining a state of servitude” (mul āzamat al-ʿub ūdiyya);
“divine cognizance” (taqw ā) and “poverty” ( faqr).30
Not only did zuhd imply several spiritual theoretical and practical praxes but also in-
cluded several different and competing attitudes. To illustrate the distinction between these
devotional styles we may refer to three statements on the subject to elaborate the variant
perspective that were prevalent. Demonstrating a rigorous physical renunciation and obviat-
ing of worldly desire, Ruwaym b. A ḥ mad (d. 915) stated: “Asceticism (zuhd) is to deny the
soul (al-nafs) its portion of everything in the world”.31 Indicating a combination of physical
and spiritual discipline, al-Junayd was asked what asceticism (zuhd) was, to which he replied:
“To remove your hand from possession in the worldly life and to eradicate greed from your
heart”.32 Signifying a spiritual asceticism of the heart, Sufyān al-Thawr ī (d. 778) stated that:
“Worldly abstinence (al-zuhd f ī ’l-dunyā) is having realistic hopes (qi ṣr al-amal) and it is not
related to eating coarse food or wearing a cloak”.33
One of the key questions facing research in Sufi studies concerns when and how mystical
experience began to be expressed in the formative period of Islam? More specifically, how did
Islam’s several, early renunciant and ascetical traditions transform [if they did at all] into a fully
fledged mystical movement? Melchert has attempted to answer this question and asserts that
the change occurred around the mid-third/ninth century and that this was manifested with
the figure of Dhu ’l-Nūn al-Miṣr ī (d. 860).34 In reaching his conclusion Melchert has relied on
definitions of asceticism and mysticism provided by Max Weber (d. 1920) and developed by
Tillich and Mueller.35 However, as Zargar [referring to Adair-Toteff ] has noted such defini-
tions were formulated in the context of Western Christianity and the rise of capitalism:
Weber saw the ascetic impulse in opposition to the mystical impulse. The ascetic focused
on the world outside of the self, and on being an active vehicle of God’s influence. The
mystic, to the contrary, focused on the world within, and on being a passive receptacle
for God’s influence as opposed to influences of the outer world.36
It is noteworthy here that these conceptualisations of “ascetics” and mystics” do not fit very com-
fortably with several figures of early Sufism. Moreover, one can assert quite confidently, that they
certainly do not fit in reference to al-Muḥāsibī, as he was focussed on “the world of the self” in
his discourses on spiritual purification and equally, acted as “an active vehicle of God’s influence”,
in his writings on the theological controversies of the day. Furthermore, there is considerable ev-
idence to suggest that change occurs well before Dhu ’l-Nūn al-Miṣrī with figures such as Rābiʿa
al-ʿAdawiyya (d. 801),37 and Shaqīq al-Balkhī (d. 810)38 among others.39
Indeed, the transition from asceticism to mysticism remains somewhat of a moot point,
given that mere texts are our informant and that the personalities of that time tended towards
caution while expressing their experiences during this era. In addition, a dedicated set of
definitive criteria remains elusive regarding the type of experiences that are being expressed
and thus, this vexing question remains unanswered.
In contrast Green, in his Sufism: A Global History, instead of adopting a “vertical” ap-
proach indicating an attempt to unearth the foundations of a tradition via cause and trans-
mission, advocates the use of a “horizontal” treatment of historical figures,40 implying the
necessity of situating of Sufis in their own time and context:
20
Following the later biographies written by Sufis themselves, historians have tradition-
ally taken the zuhh ād to be “Sufis in waiting.” But by putting the ascetics into the cir-
cumstances of their own time, we can see how they served very different purposes and
sought very different goals from the Sufis who emerged in later centuries.41
Moreover, he highlights the manifest problems of making a distinct developmental link

between asceticism and Sufism:
In recent decades, closer investigation into the discussions that surrounded early Muslim
“asceticism” (zuhd) has cast serious doubt on this notion of a seamless flow between
zāhid “ascetics” and the sufi “mystic” by showing the degree to which self-mortification,
seclusion and above all celibacy were denounced as deviations from sunna or Prophetic
Example.42
Evidently, Green challenges the notion of a “natural” and “organic” genesis between
the early renunciant tradition and the appearance of a mystical expression at a chrono-
logically later date. Although a valid point, one may make the same assertion between
al-Mu ḥā sibī ’s ascetical spirituality and introspective morality and the mystics of Baghdad,
with their fan āʾ/baq āʾ dichotomy, who are considered the constituent elements of the
“Baghdad School”.
By attempting to examine the unique roles that such figures played in their individual
societies Green suggests that:
… what becomes clear by looking at these figures in their own troubled times is that the
Muslim ascetics of the eighth century were not only more complicated figures than the
teleological role of the “proto-mystic” would make them; they were also plainly distinct
figures with quite different social roles and moral agendas from the people who from the
mid-ninth century would be called Sufis in the more peaceable cities of Iraq rather than
the frontiers of Syria or Central Asia.43
Despite Green referring to the ascetical traditions outside of Iraq and their lack of congru-
ence with the later ʿAbbā sid urban centres, one could posit that al-Mu ḥā sibī also perhaps had
his own “social role and moral agenda” that was very different from his peer group and that
made him more than the mere “teleological role of the ‘proto-mystic’”, even though that he
actually occupied a peaceable city of Iraq.
Strange bedfellows: al-Muḥāsibī and

the “Baghdad School”
Given al-Mu ḥā sibī’s spiritual proclivities and his prolonged residence in Baghdad, it is little
surprise that he has also been associated with the notion of “the Baghdad School of Su-
fism”.44 It is far more ambiguous, however, as to what is meant by a “school” in this context.
Although this notion is evidently linked to typology of mystical expression in the ʿAbbā sid
capital, the term “school” is clearly used in a non-rigorous manner, since there is no partic-
ular curriculum being studied, or even a certain number of consistent beliefs and practices
being expressed.45 Rather, we seem to be presented with a nascent teaching that had certain
trends in a particular locale, in this case Baghdad.46 When reviewing the forms of mystical
21
Gavin N. Picken
articulation that were prevalent in Baghdad in the ninth to tenth centuries, a number of
salient features can be identified, which are described below:
Sobriety (al-ṣaḥw) versus intoxication (al-sukr)

The “Baghdad School of Sufism” in fact, is related to two mystical tendencies that existed in
the city, namely, the seemingly paradoxical articulation of sobriety (al- ṣa ḥw) and intoxication
(al-sukr). Intoxication alludes to the state of being the mystic experiences when encounter-
ing a divine manifestation, resulting in a sense of elation, perplexity and bewilderment that
mimics inebriation and hence, was referred to as “intoxication”. In these circumstances,
the mystic loses all sense of self, and being situated in the world and consequently, when at-
tempting to articulate the experience, often use seemingly blasphemous “ecstatic utterances”
(sha ṭa ḥāt) that often assume the divine voice.47 This trend precedes the “Baghdad School”
with the Persian Sufi figure Abū Yazīd al-Bisṭā m ī (d. 848 or 875) famed for his statement:
“Glory be to me, how great am I!”, which was a phrase that was conventionally solely asso-
ciated with God. Although there were several ecstatic mystics in Baghdad, the most famous
without any doubt was al-Ḥusayn b. Man ṣū r al-Ḥallāj (d. 309/922), equally famed for his
statement: “I am the Truth (al-Ḥaqq)”, al-Ḥaqq being one of the divine names associated ex-
clusively with God.48
Often juxtaposed with this tendency was the “school” of sobriety that shunned the ec-
static utterances of the intoxicated mystics, preferring a more normative expression of their
experiences and maintenance of outward normality, regardless of the inner condition. This
articulation was deemed to be superior, as it not only resembled the state of the Prophet but
was preferable to intoxication, since this was seen as an immature stage of the mystic’s develop-
ment. The most significant figure associated with this conceptualisation was without any doubt
al-Junayd, who was renowned for not only his technical knowledge of the outward, legalistic
aspects of Islam but also, his careful and often enigmatic expression of his mystical teachings.49
The convenience of this overtly paradoxical articulation of Baghdad’s mystical denizens
has been questioned by Mojaddedi, who contends that the apparent dichotomy of intoxica-
tion and sobriety being distinct “schools” in Baghdad with specific memberships is a later
construction. Mojaddedi notes that these terminologies are well sourced in classical texts but
when discussed, do not display a sense of belonging to a particular expression of Sufism or a
group of specific individuals.50 Mojaddedi posits that the first author to suggest an affiliation
and trend in Sufism was al-Hujw ī r ī in his Kashf al-Ma ḥjūb, being written around two centu-
ries after al-Junayd and al-Ḥallāj were in Baghdad.51 Although Mojaddedi’s argument is well
evidenced, one cannot help but note that his study makes no attempt to integrate other key
and essential terms to this discussion that indicate cognate and semantic equivalence, such
as “annihilation [in the divine]” (al-fan āʾ [ fi ’All āh]) and “subsistence [through the divine]”
(al-baqāʾ [bi ’All āh].52
The Fanāʾ/Baqāʾ dichotomy

Of the most complex and yet important notions associated with the “Baghdad School” was
another seemingly paradoxical expression of mystical experience, that of “annihilation” ( fanāʾ)
and “subsistence” baqāʾ, which were intrinsically related to the bipolar conceptions of sobriety
and intoxication.53 Al-Junayd’s primary objective was to ultimately achieve full realisation of
divine unicity or tawḥīd as Karamustafa explains: “Junayd thought that when the human indi-
vidual approached God with his customary sense of being a self-contained, separate entity, it
22
proved impossible for him to affirm God’s unity since his own self-consciousness imprisoned
him in himself ”.54 Thus, he proposed a state of fanāʾ, a term that linguistically indicates a se-
mantic range including: “passing away”, “cessation of being”, “annihilation”, “termination”,
“extinction”, “non-being”, “nonexistence”, and “nonentity”. In addition, it may also indicate
the more technical connotation of: “extinction of individual consciousness”, “recedence of the
ego”, and “obliteration of the self ”.55 Izutsu describes the concept as: “The total nullification of
the ego-consciousness, when there remains only the absolute Unity of Reality in its purity as
an absolute Awareness prior to its bifurcation into subject and object”.56
Yet this is only “half ” the story since baqā’ succeeds fan āʾ as a perfected mystical state as
Bowering points out:
As a correlative pair of notions, in which fan āʾ logically precedes baqāʾ, it is applied to

two levels of meaning, the passing away of human consciousness in the divine and the
obliteration of imperfect qualities of the soul by substitution of new, divinely bestowed
attributes.57
The complexity of these two conceptual constructs and their interrelationship is illustrated in
the variety of views that have been articulated. Sells, seemingly following Abdel-Kader, sug-
gests that there are three grades of fan āʾ as manifested in al-Junayd’s theoretical elaboration:
1 “passing away from one’s attributes through the effort of constantly opposing one’s ego
self (nafs);
2 passing away from one’s sense of accomplishment, that is, passing away from ‘ones share
of the sweet deserts and pleasures of obedience’; and
3 passing away from the reality ‘of your ecstasies as the sign of the real overpowers you’”.58
In addition, Bowering asserts that this is not the ultimate stage of annihilation suggesting:
“In its perfect form, the experience of fan āʾ and baqāʾ is understood in Sufism as al-fan āʾ ʿan
al-nafs [‘to be oblivious to the soul’] and al-baqāʾ beʾ ll āh [‘to subsist through God’], and ul-
timately as al-fan āʾ feʾ ll āh [“annihilation in God”] but not as al-fan āʾ ʿan All āh [‘annihilation
away from God’]”.59 Mojaddedi suggests yet another final state of fan āʾ: “In absolute annihi-
lation, which is sometimes termed ‘annihilation from annihilation’ ( fan āʾ ʿan al-fan āʾ), one
loses even the awareness of one’s own annihilation as well as of all other psychological states,
since no trace of self-consciousness can remain”.60
One of the major benefits of the baqāʾ that follows fan āʾ is that it creates the possibility
of a new noetic experience: “This state paradoxically opens up the horizons of Knowledge,
for man can only have access to divine realities when his ego no longer interposes itself in
his contemplation, that is to say when divine Being shows through him”.61 Al-Junayd sug-
gests that this is possible because of the “return to an origin” (bidāya), as alluded to in the
primordial covenant,62 so that we ultimately partake in the living essence of God, surviving
through Him:
The living being is he who bases his life so completely on the life of his Creator, not on
the survival of his corporeal form (haykal), that the reality of his life is his death, which
is the way to the level of primordial Life (ḥayāt a ṣliyya).63
The complexity of al-Junayd’s doctrine of fanā’ and baqā’ even caused some of his own
circle of associates to fall into error,64 but nevertheless, as Abdel-Kader observes: “Rightly
23
Gavin N. Picken
understood and fully comprehended, al-Junayd is a sound and lucid guide to ṣū fism. His
teaching on Taw ḥīd is basic, and is echoed in the doctrine of most ṣū fi orders right up to
modern times”.65
The doctrine of the primordial covenant (al-mīthāq)66

One of the key ideas in the original teaching of al-Junayd was the notion of “primordial
covenant” (al-mīth āq) derived from the Qurʾānic verse:
And when your Lord extracted the offspring of humanity from their loins and brought
them to bear witness against themselves [by asking]: “Am I not your Lord?” They re-
plied: “Indeed, we bear witness.” So that you cannot claim on the Day of Resurrection:
“Indeed, we were unaware of this”.67
The verse appears to refer to a moment in pre-eternity where all souls were gathered and
presented with a rhetorical interrogation, to which the souls replied in the affirmative, in-
dicating their commitment to divine authority, only to be forgotten in the turmoil of en-
tering the physical realm and by necessity, requiring the reminder of periodic revelation.68
This was further elaborated by al-Junayd in his Kit āb al-M īth āq to suggest that in this event
the soul was exposed for the very first time to direct manifestation of divine and in suitable
awe and reverence, admitted its submission to the sublime magnificence of God. Thus, the
primary objective of the Sufi was to return to this primordial state and realise his/her true
position vis-à-vis God – one of absolute annihilation due to be confronted by ultimate di-
vine majesty.69
It is evident from the discussion above that Baghdad in no way evinced a singular co-
herent teaching and in fact displayed considerable doctrinal variety. Moreover, al-Junayd
had disputes with other members of the “school” on issues related to scrupulosity; in this
respect he parted company with both ʿAmr b. ʿUthm ān al-Makk ī (d. c. 903) and Ruwaym
b. A ḥ mad (d. 915) due to them taking up positions in the official state judiciary.70 Addition-
ally, three associates of al-Junayd, namely, al-Nur ī (d. 907), al-Shibl ī (d. 946) and Sumnū n
(d. 810) were renowned for their ecstatic, and unpredictable behaviour that not only was at
odds with al-Junayd’s sobriety but also lead them to raise the ire of the authorities, due in
part to their expressions of profane erotic mystical poetry.71 It is little surprise then that of
all the individuals he associated with, al-Junayd selected Abū Mu ḥammad A ḥ mad al-Jurayr ī
(d. 924) as his successor, due to his stable personality and reliable spiritual state, which was a
decision that would help the Sufi community around him survive the turbulence created by
the execution of al-Ḥallāj.72
Conclusion
Al-Mu ḥā sibī’s conception of “purifying the soul” has to be studied elsewhere and appears to
be grounded in the essential concepts provided by the Qurʾān.73 Al-Mu ḥā sibī’s primary focus
is on the lowly, egotistical soul, prone to evil (al-nafs al-amm āra bi’l-sūʾ ) and he emphasises the
necessity of controlling its appetites (shahaw āt) and desires (ahw āʾ ) and eliminating its nega-
tive character traits.74 More specifically, al-Mu ḥā sibī proposes four primary features to purify
the soul, namely: intimate knowledge of the soul (maʿrifat al-nafs); the continual observance
of God (al-murāqaba); combating or struggling against the soul (mujāhadat al-nafs); and most
importantly, a method of intricate, precise and introspective examination and taking the soul
24
account (muḥāsabat al-nafs).75 Consequently, it would not be an exaggeration to suggest that

al-Mu ḥā sibī was a committed exponent of the celebrated notion of the “greater jihad”, i.e.
the necessity of unrelenting struggle against one’s own soul.76
It seems well established that asceticism and worldly renunciation, generally indicated by
the umbrella term zuhd, were common in the formative period of Islam and as seen earlier in
this chapter, many variant trends and regional expressions can be determined. Al-Mu ḥā sibī
was born in Basra, which was considered to be one of the major centres of ascetical devel-
opment, and at the same time seems to have lived a frugal life punctuated by considerable
self-mortification, even after leaving the city.77 Nevertheless, when considering his teaching
regarding spiritual purification, we can assert – with some confidence – that his articula-
tion of this critical concept was much more advanced than the prior codifications of zuhd,
which principally relied on the collection of narrations from significant historical personages
related to this pietistic behaviour.78 Thus, al-Mu ḥā sibī moved on from the punitive control
of natural physical inclinations to develop a sophisticated and erudite regime of spiritual
discipline that aimed at evacuating the soul of its negative character traits and training it to
be compliant and sincere in its worship of God. Thus, in many ways al-Mu ḥā sibī’s teaching
can be seen to be a spiritual genesis that supersedes the prevalence of zuhd in the formative
period and perhaps contributes to the later developments of Sufism in Baghdad and beyond.
Many Sufi figures from the formative period continue to be studied and such research has
produced numerous biographical and bibliographical insights. What remains more obscure,
however, is the exact relationship between these figures and the qualitative degree to which
they influenced one another. Taking this into consideration, it is extremely difficult to speak
of “schools” so categorically as has been the norm and indeed, the circles of Sufi influence in
medieval Baghdad remain somewhat enigmatic. A good case in question is the relationship
between two major figures of the “Baghdad School” – al-Ḥārith al-Mu ḥā sibī and Abū ’l-
Qā sim al-Junayd; although their interactions are well attested, the exact influence of al-
Mu ḥā sibī on al-Junayd remains perplexing,79 especially given the later writings attributed
to al-Junayd, which seem to exhibit what we may refer as a “transcendent taw ḥīd”, premised
on the notions of intoxication (al-sukr) and sobriety (al- ṣa ḥw), “annihilation” (al-fan āʾ ) and
“subsistence” (al-baqāʾ ) and “primordial covenant” (al-mīth āq), rather than the spiritual self-
discipline of the egotistical soul that was the leitmotif of al-Mu ḥā sibī’s thought.
In fact, reflecting upon the sources we can see that even though al-Mu ḥā sibī had some in-
fluence on al-Junayd – especially in his youth – it was his maternal uncle Sar ī al-Saqaṭī, who
appears to have been the main stimulus for the flourishing of al-Junayd’s mystical talents. It
is also noteworthy that of the various figures mentioned in connection with the “Baghdad
School”, we find that al-Mu ḥā sibī is only associated with a small number of them and a
unifying factor that is much more consistent is that vast majority of the main figures were
students or associates of either al-Saqaṭī or his nephew, al-Junayd80:
In addition, it is al-Saqaṭī’s teaching that appears to be the most significant in determin-
ing the characteristics of the “Baghdadi School” as a substantial development of the primary
ascetical practices of those who came before him, such as Maʿr ū f al-Karkh ī (d. 815) and Bishr
al-Ḥā f ī [“the barefoot”] (d. 842) as Knysh has noted:
In a sense, Sar ī’s religions [sic.] attitude marks a departure from the traditional asceticism
of Ba ṣra and Kū fa. Although he built his preaching upon basically the same assumptions
as his predecessors, the accents he placed on various strands of the old ascetic tradi-
tion constitute his distinct contribution to its growth and sophistication. Moreover, his
teaching reflects his internal evolution from a conventional ascetic, preoccupied with
25
Gavin N. Picken
Table 2.1 Sufi figure influences
al-Muḥāsibī (d. 857) al-Saqaṭī (d. 867) al-Junayd (d. 910)
al-Junayd (d. 910) Abū Saʿīd al-Kharr ā z (d. c. 899) ʿAmr b. ʿUthmā n al-Makkī (d. 903)
Abū ’l-Ḥusayn al-Nūrī (d. Abū ’l-Ḥusayn al-Nū r ī (d. 907) Ruwaym b. A ḥ mad (d. 915)
907)
Sumnū n al-Mu ḥ ibb (d. 910) Abū ’l-Ḥusayn al-Nū r ī (d. 907)
al-Junayd (d. 910) al-Ḥallāj (d. 922)
Aḥmad al-Jurayr ī (d. 924)
Abū Bakr al-Wā siṭ ī (d. 932)
Abū Bakr al-Shiblī (d. 946)
Abū ʿAl ī al-Rudhbā r ī (d. 934)
Jaʿfar al-Khuld ī (d. 959)
avoidance of sin and meticulous compliance with the religious and social conventions of
the age, to a fully-fledged mystic immersed in the contemplation of God and, therefore,
totally oblivious to the world around him.81
Likewise, Abdel-Kader observes:
We may regard as-Saqaṭī as the founder of the Ṣū f ī School of Baghd ād. This school
differed from contemporary Ṣū f ī schools in Syria and Khorasan. The Baghd ād school’s
main topic was Unification, Tawḥīd, and it developed the “knowledge” of Unification.
The school is distinguished by its symbolic expressions and by its discussions on the
mystic state and station of the Ṣū f ī. The members of the school are, therefore, called
“The Masters of Unification,” Arbāb al-Taw ḥīd, like al-Junayd, an-Nū r ī and ash-Shibl ī.82
Indeed, this theme is reiterated centuries later where the same two men regularly men-
tion in the primary stages of the earliest initiatic chains of Sufism (sanad/silsila),83 whereas
al-Mu ḥā sibī is completely absent.84 Consequently, one could suggest that the “Baghdad
School”, and the later articulations of “sober” Sufism that are associated with it, began with
Sar ī al-Saqaṭī and came to fruition with al-Junayd. Thus, the significance and influence of
al-Junayd would be felt for centuries to come as a representative of the “sober” mystical ar-
ticulation. This is evinced in Ibn ʿĀ shir’s (d. 1631) didactic poem al-Murshid al-Muʿīn (“The
Helpful Guide”) where, at the beginning of the poem, he mentions that it was composed to
elaborate the principles of religion: “On the basis of al-Ashʿar ī’s theology, Mā lik’s jurispru-
dence and al-Junayd’s path of wayfaring”.85
Even though the status and relationship of the early ascetics, spiritual mentors and gen-
uine mystics still require considerable qualitative analysis, one cannot deny the significance
of their contribution:
Whether taken as entire books or as their constitutive elements by way of a legitimate

and wide-ranging terminology, the textual output of the early Sufis of Baghdad created
one of the crucial resources with which later generations of Sufis would construct a “tra-
dition,” which is to say a body of beliefs and practices that draws legitimacy and prestige
from its relationship to a venerated past.86
26
In this context it would seem that al-Mu ḥāsibī may be considered somewhat of a peripheral
figure compared to the contribution of luminaries like al-Saqaṭī and al-Junayd but nevertheless,
his contribution was duly noted, celebrated and codified by a number of later authors, who
considered him an archetypal ancestor and “Master of the Wayfarers” (Ustadh al-Sāʾ ir īn).87
Notes

27
Gavin N. Picken
28
29
Gavin N. Picken
30
31
3
AL-JUNAYD AL-BAGHDĀDĪ
Chief of the Sect
Erik S. Ohlander
Introduction
Often referred to within the Sufi tradition by the honorifics sayyid al- ṭāʾ ifa (“chief of the
sect”), ṭāʾus al-fuqarāʾ (“peacock of the dervishes”), and shaykh al-mash āyikh (“master of
masters”), with the possible exception of the great seventh/thirteenth-century Andalusian
mystic Ibn ʿArabī (d. 638/1240), there is scarcely a figure within the collective annals of
Sufi history whose image looms as large as that of al-Junayd al-Baghd ād ī (d. 298/910). Fre-
quently presented as an emblematic representative of the orthodox and “sober” (ṣa ḥw)—as
opposed to the antinomian and “drunken” (sukr)—trend within Sufism, Junayd also figures
as a key link in the initiatic lineages (silsila; pl. sal āsil) of numerous Sufi orders ( ṭuruq; sing.
ṭar īqa).1 Moreover, the decidedly robust resonance of a distinctly definable repertoire of spe-
cifically “Junaydian” articulations of key Sufi doctrines, metaphysical and epistemological
concepts, technical expressions, and poetic conventions runs as a thread throughout much
of the literature produced by Sufis in later periods. Claiming a name that is just as present in
pre-modern Sufi hagiographical and related literatures as in modern representatives of the
same, the figure of Junayd has rightfully been given as prominent a place within Western
scholarly treatments of Sufism as well.2 In short, it is no understatement to assert that any
enumeration of the most seminal figures within the history of Sufism would not be complete
without the inclusion of Junayd.
The Ṣūfiyya of Baghdad

When viewed from a vantage point which limits itself to the central lands of Islamdom up
through the end of the first quarter of the fourth/tenth century, the relationship of Junayd
to the history of what eventually came to be referred to as Sufism does not present itself as
neatly, nor as clearly, as the later Sufi tradition might lead one to believe. This is to be ex-
pected, for not only does this period represent a time of considerable flux in the development
of Sufi ideas, practices, and institutions but also our knowledge of its contours, a few instances
aside, are largely the result of the programmatic narratives of later Sufi apologists, narratives
which have only recently begun to be seriously evaluated by scholars.3 What such evalua-
tions have shown is that the tradition which is typically referred to as “Sufism” (ta ṣawwuf )
32
al-Junayd al-Baghdādī
was, in broad sweep, the result of a relatively protracted process of struggle and contestation,
and eventual reconciliation and synthesis, between a number of pietist, renunciant, mystical,
and theosophical movements associated with various regional centers of the Muslim world in
the latter part of what the late American historian of Islam Marshall G.S. Hodgson referred
to as the High Caliphal Period (692–945 CE). Whereas the later Sufi tradition, and to a cer-
tain extent a fair amount of foundational Western scholarship on the subject, has tended to
present decidedly teleological accounts of the origins and development of Sufism, the actual
processes leading to the emergence of the tradition, which has never been characterized by
complete univocality in any case, was very much one of winnowing. It should be noted
that in this, the history of Sufism is really no different from the other self-reflexive Islamic
religious sciences which emerged in the same historical crucible. What the later Islamic
tradition came to consider jurisprudence ( fiqh) and dogmatic theology (kal ām), for example,
were both results of protracted processes of winnowing in which a plethora of competing
orientations either disappeared or became part of later syntheses. Sufism was no different.
Among the most historically consequential of the movements ( ṭāʾ ifa; pl. ṭaw āʾ if ) which
would contribute to shaping the Sufi tradition as it would come to emerge over the course
of the Earlier Middle Period (945–1258 CE) was a distinct regional movement that would,
interestingly enough, also go on lend it its name: the Ṣū fiyya (“Sufis”) of Baghdad. One of a
number of competing religious movements populating the diverse sectarian landscape of the
central and eastern Islamic lands during the waning days of Abbasid absolutism, in contradis-
tinction to other mystico-ascetic trends of the age, in particular the renunciant movements
of the Karr ā miyya and Malā matiyya of the northeastern Persian province of Khur ā sān and
the mystico-ascetic movement of the Sā limiyya of Basra, the Ṣū fiyya championed a style of
religious thought and mildly ascetic praxis in which theosophical speculation and mystical
experience were accorded great prominence. The genesis of the Ṣū fiyya as a distinct group is
typically associated with a particular confluence of the teachings and practices of a number
of regional renunciant and mystico-theosophical traditions among a number of creative reli-
gious personalities active mainly in the bustling cosmopolitan milieu of Abbasid Baghdad in
the mid-third/ninth century. Among these personalities, none is more striking than Junayd’s
maternal uncle and teacher, Abū’l-Ḥasan Sar ī b. al-Mughallis al-Saqaṭī (d. 867). A relatively
successful merchant from the Karkh quarter of Baghdad, Sar ī al-Saqaṭī renounced his busi-
ness dealings to embrace a life of piety and asceticism after having an encounter with the
local renunciant and preacher Ma‘r ū f al-Karkh ī (d. 815). Traveling for a time (including a
stint fighting on the Arabo-Byzantine frontier), Sar ī al-Saqaṭī eventually set himself up as
a teacher in Baghdad, drawing considerable interest from local and visiting students alike.
Although deeply influenced by the dower Kufan and Basran-styles of ascetical piety cham-
pioned by Ma‘r ū f al-Karkh ī, the traditionalist stance of the well-traveled Iranian émigré
renunciant Bishr b. al-Ḥārith al-Ḥā f ī (d. 842) and the unforgiving world-renouncing piety of
contemporary warrior-ascetics in the tradition of Abū Isḥāq Ibr āh ī m b. Adham (d. 777–778)
and Abū ‘Abd al-Ra ḥ m ān ‘Abd Allāh b. al-Mubārak (d. 797), Sar ī al-Saqaṭī’s teachings dis-
play what Knysh has characterized as an “innovative refinement of the ascetic tradition,”4 a
refinement which rejected the simple dichotomy between fear of God’s judgment (khawf )
and hope in his mercy (rajāʾ ) as the ground of true piety and replaced it with a singular focus
on an experiential love of God so intense and all-consuming that both fear and hope were
seen as nothing but ephemeral psycho-spiritual states to overcome.
While not the only exemplary member of the Ṣū fiyya of Baghdad of the generation fol-
lowing that of Sar ī al-Saqaṭī, none better exemplifies the fully fledged assurance of the move-
ment than his nephew Abū’l-Qā sim b. Mu ḥammad b. al-Junayd al-Khazz āz al-Baghd ād ī.
33
Erik S. Ohlander
Born in the city of Baghdad into a mercantile family, like his uncle Junayd received a thor-
ough education in the religious sciences and studied jurisprudence under the tutelage of,
among others, the famous legal scholar Abū Thawr (d. 855), by the age of 20 coming to
issue legal opinions ( fatwas) on matters of Islamic law.5 Setting himself up as a silk dealer in
one of Baghdad’s markets, Junayd would remain in the city for the rest of his life, apparently
leaving only once in order to perform the pilgrimage to Mecca.6 Wholeheartedly embracing
the teachings of Sar ī al-Saqaṭī and deeply influenced by, among others, the controversial
ascetic, moralist and psychologist from Basra who had settled in Baghdad, al-Ḥārith b. Asad
al-Mu ḥā sibī (d. 857), Junayd would eventually succeed his uncle as leader of the Ṣū fiyya of
the city, taking on the roles of teacher to aspiring mystics, communal leader, and public
representative of the Ṣū fiyya to outsiders. On this latter point, by all accounts Junayd lent a
singularly consequential energy to a process which would eventually bring the Ṣū fiyya of
Baghdad into a position of prominence among other regional renunciant and mystical move-
ments associated with the key urban centers of the Abbasid state, and it seems clear that by
the time of the death of Sar ī al-Saqaṭī and the solidification of the reputation of his nephew
the Ṣū fiyya of Baghdad constituted a movement possessing a strong intra-communal, if not
intercommunal, identity. Moreover, as a popular teacher in his own right Junayd would go
on to disseminate a decisive synthesis of the ascetical and mystical currents championed by
his uncle to a great number of his own associates and disciples, an influential group in their
own right which includes such luminaries as Abū Sa‘ īd A ḥ mad al-Kharr āz (d. ca. 890–891
or ca. 899), Abū Ḥamza al-Khur ā sān ī (d. between 903 and 911), ‘Amr b. ‘Uthmān al-Makk ī
(d. 903 or 909), Abū’l-Ḥusayn al-Nū r ī (d. 907), Ruwaym b. A ḥ mad (d. 915), Abū Bakr
al-Shibl ī (d. 946), Abū Mu ḥammad al-Jurayr ī (d. 924), Abū ‘Al ī al-Rūdhbār ī (d. 934), and
Ja‘far al-Khuld ī (d. 959), to name but a few.7
Rooted in a distinctive set of religious ideas, practices, and social arrangements, this
identity was strong and stable enough that it elicited moments of open, sometimes violent,
contestation between the Ṣū fiyya and other religious movements of the time, including the
infamous inquisition (miḥna) of 877–878 in which a popular Ḥanbalite ascetic and preacher
from Basra, Ghulā m Khal ī l (d. 888), “procured the indictment of 70-odd Sufis for allegedly
saying they no longer feared God but, rather, loved him”8 and thus were guilty of heresy
(zandaqa).9 While the inquisition forced a number of affiliates of the Ṣū fiyya—such as the
aforementioned Kharr āz, Ruwaym b. A ḥ mad, and Nū r ī—to flee the city in fear of their
lives, Junayd himself escaped arrest through an act of dissimulation, protesting that he was
but a simple jurist. Such persecutions, and the resulting exodus of affiliates of the Ṣū fiyya
from the city likely contributed to those processes that provided a solid footing for the devel-
opment of the decidedly wider, transregional articulation of Sufism that took place over the
course of the Earlier Middle Period (Kharr āz ended up settling in for a time in Transoxiana
before moving on to Egypt, for example).10 While what would later come to emerge as Su-
fism was rooted in the intersection and synthesis of a number of ascetical, mystical, pietist,
and theosophical trends of varied geographic origin, the centrality of the Ṣū fiyya to this pro-
cess is at least partially evinced in the aforementioned onomastic reality wherein a relatively
discrete socio-religious movement emerging in third/ninth-century Baghdad would play a
critical enough role to lend its self-applied corporate nomen to the tradition as a whole.
While it should not be imagined that what came to emerge as Sufism was solely a result of
the activities of this group, or any one figure associated with it ( Junayd included), in dissem-
inating their teachings from a city-node center as singularly significant as Abbasid Baghdad,
the Ṣū fiyya found themselves in a rather enviable position vis-à-vis similar groups active
in other locales. As is well known the Abbasid authorities programmatically arranged the
34
transregional road system which linked the provinces of the empire in such a way so to make
Baghdad a radial nexus for all major trunk roads. As a central node on the great Khur ā sān
road, for example, many of those coming from the northeastern parts of the Islamic world
inevitably passed through Baghdad, this as much for those intending to make their way to
the Hejaz for pilgrimage as for those intending to make their way to Syria or points further
west for trade, study, or other purposes. As a result of caliphal largesse, the dense cosmopol-
itan culture and efflorescence of religious learning which had obtained in Baghdad by the
mid-third/ninth century went largely unrivaled in provincial centers. If nothing else, by
simple fact of geography the Ṣū fiyya of Baghdad were ideally located to extend and perpetu-
ate their influence, for in finding themselves at both the center and crossroads of the Abode
of Islam meant that they also found themselves in a place where functioning as a recipient
was as easy as functioning as a disseminator. Moreover, the symbolical authority of Baghdad
itself, housing as it did the seat of the caliphate alongside its reputation as a preeminent cen-
ter of religious learning certainly must have lent the Ṣū fiyya of Junayd’s era a certain added
cachet.11 Beyond the gift of their nomen, it does not seem unreasonable to propose that such
geo-social positing is reflected in other elements of the later Sufi tradition as well, such as
the placement of Junayd, the paragonic representative of the Ṣū fiyya of Baghdad, in a central
position within the very initiatic lineages through which many later Sufi masters staked their
claims to authority in the first place.
The teachings of Junayd

Couched in an often obscure and deliberately recondite and elusive style, the textual basis for
the teachings of Junayd is rather thin, comprised in its totality of a handful of short epistles
and opuscles, along with fragments from other compositions quoted by other authors and
the citation of his logia in hagiographical and similar sources.12 As for the opacity of Junayd’s
literary style, based on what we know of his biography and those of his companions among
the Ṣū fiyya of Baghdad it would not seem unjustified for Junayd to have taken precautions to
obscure the content of his discourses lest it be misunderstood by the uninitiated. He hints at
this very thing in a letter to a well-known associate of the aforementioned controversial Sufi
teacher and author Kharr āz, Abū Ya‘qūb Yū suf b. al-Ḥusayn al-Rāzī (d. 916–917), writing:
Now I began my letter to you with a view to establishing our closer contact, seeking
your attention and your good graces and hoping that it would cause you to write back
to me…None the less, my brother—may you be guided on the right path!—there is just
one minor point I should like to raise. It is one which I had first to learn myself and
which I now venture to pass on to you in the hope that you too will add to it and in
your turn teach it to me…My brother, be cautious with your fellow men and be sure you
understand your contemporaries. This is a primary consideration. Further, speak only
after you are sure that you know your listeners.13
While decidedly abstruse in and of themselves, when read within the context of the tradi-
tion within which Junayd was operating the lucidity of his thinking is strikingly clear. In
short, as presented within these compositions Junayd’s teachings oscillate around four central
framing concepts, each of which are elaborations of core themes and ideas Junayd inherited
from the teachings of his own teachers and which, in turn, would come to have a profound
resonance within the developing Sufi tradition. First there is the notion of the “primordial
covenant” (mīth āq), a mythic narrative of origin and return derived from scripture that serves
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Erik S. Ohlander
to both justify and calculate the trajectory of the mystical path. Second, there is the concept
of the “passing away” or “annihilation” ( fan āʾ ) of the individuated attributes of the mystic
in the all-embracing unity of the divine ipseity along with his succeeding “abiding” or
“subsistence” in that unity (baqāʾ ), a pinnacle experience that mimetically recapitulates the
pre-eternal drama of the primordial covenant in the mystic’s individual experience.14 Third,
there are the interior dynamics of what Junayd refers to as the “trial” (bal āʾ ) experienced by
the mystic in the context of post-pinnacle experience, in particular the anguished yet bitter-
sweet experience of involuntary separation from God after having achieved union with him.
Finally, there is Junayd’s doctrine of “sobriety” (ṣa ḥw), namely, the notion that the mystic’s
loss of individuated identity in the all-embracing divine ipseity can neither excuse nor justify
irrational, antinomian, libertine, or otherwise irreligious or anti-social behavior.
The primordial covenant (mīthāq)

In terms of Junayd’s articulation of the notion of the primordial covenant as it comes to bear
on the mystical path, the central idea is that it is the shared purpose of the spiritually elect to
not only recognize, but also come to experience, the metaphysical realities of their origins
(bidāya) in the divine and their inevitable return (rujū‘) to it. Referencing the Qur’ānic epi-
sode referred to by commentators as the “day of the primordial covenant” (yawm al-mīth āq)
or the “day of ‘Am I not [your Lord]’” (yawm alastu [bi-rabbikum])15, in a short treatise referred
to by the copyist of the manuscript as the Kit āb al-mīth āq (Book of the Covenant) Junayd
asserts that,
[n]ow God has the elect among His worshippers and the chosen of those whom He has
created. These are those whom He has chosen to be His saints and to be the recipients
of His graciousness. He has thereby separated them from the mass of mankind unto
Himself. But he has made their bodies to be of this world, their spirits of the nature of
light, their apperception of the nature of spirit…In (their) timeless existence before Him
and in (their) state of unity with Him, it is He who had granted them their being. When
He called them and they answered quickly, their answer was a gracious and generous
gift from Him, it was His answer on their behalf when he granted them their being…He
gave them knowledge of Him when they were only concepts which He had conceived.
He then wished it, and made them like seeds which He transformed at His will into
human seeds and put them in the reins of Adam…
Now God, in recognizing their existence, comprehending them and seeing them,
created them for the first time in a state of spiritual abstraction. Those who existed in
the timeless existence are those who exist in the world which we know who are capable
of abstraction from it and can abide with God. When they are completely imbued with
the divine qualities, freed from the shackles of time, and have something of the nature of
eternity, all these qualities dominate them when God desires their abstraction from this
world so that they can abide with Him in the next, and He can instruct them to know
His unseen, and so that he [sic] can show them the hidden corners of His knowledge and
can grant them union with Him.16,17
In expounding upon this narrative, Junayd presents the idea that while originally constituted
by God as divine concepts, the human reality as experienced in a conventional sense is for
all intents and purposes primarily defined through an individuated, embodied experience.
As such, it is only in working through the implications of one’s corporeal, and temporal,
36
existentialization that a return back to one’s primordial, and atemporal, state of being is
made possible. In essence, just as all created things must ultimately affirm and return to their
source, so too must the spirits of the elect “rejoin” ( jam‘) the reality that created and then
“separated” (tafr īq) them from it in the first place. Ultimately, this return comes in a moment
of annihilation, a reversal of the moment of (pre-corporal) individuation that is effected in
such a way that through transcending (or escaping from) temporal existence by way of the
stripping away of all created attributes the mystic undergoes a timeless re-origination that
reenacts, and reaffirms, his primordial origination and, in doing so, reasserts his original,
unspoiled affirmation of the absolute unity (taw ḥīd) of the Godhead. As Junayd writes in one
of his opuscles concerning the matter:
The emblem of that affirmation of unity is the return of the lastness of the godservant to
his firstness, that he might be as he was when he was before he was.
The proof of that is the saying of Allah Almighty (7:171): “When your lord took
from the sons of Adam, from their loins, their progeny, and made them witness over
themselves: Am I not your lord? They said: Yes, indeed.’”
Who was he and how was he before he was? Did any respond but the pure, sweet,
sanctified spirits?—with the performance of all-infusive power and all-perfected will.
Now he was as he was before he was. This is the furthest realization of the affirmation
of unity (taw ḥīd) by the affirmer of unity (al-muwa ḥḥid) in regard to the one (al-w āḥid)—
with the disappearance of “he.”18
Annihilation (fanāʾ) and subsistence (baqāʾ)

Referring to, or otherwise referencing, the well-known ḥadīth qudsī regarding supererog-
atory acts of worship (naw āfil) “Whoever shows enmity to a friend of Mine, I shall be at
war with him…”19 in which the volition towards, and the effectuation and articulation of,
a devoted worshipper’s actions are described as being transferred from the worshipper to
God himself, Junayd describes the nature of the affirmation of absolute unity through fan āʾ
as a sort of dissolution or denudation of the mystic’s self-consciousness in the all-embracing
divine ipseity. Just as in the pre-eternal state existing prior to creation, there is no room for
two individuated identities—worshipper and worshipped, lord and servant, I and thou—but
rather only room for a singular actor in whom only uncreated attributes may abide, namely,
those of God. In terms of the moment of fan āʾ itself, Junayd makes it clear that its effectu-
ation is neither a singular nor a unified experience. Rather, it is a progressive, dialectical
process characterized by the continual stripping away of those created attributes alienating
the spirit from its source, a winnowing down of the mystic’s very sense of his temporally,
corporeally, and psychologically individuated identity until all that remains is the spirit in its
bare essence. Thus, annihilation in the divine ipseity is a gradated affair, beginning with the
mystic passing through a succession of qualitatively distinct actualizations of fan āʾ before be-
ing ensconced in a station of “abiding” or “subsistence” (baqāʾ ) in the divine reality (ḥaqīqa).
As expressed in one of his discourses on the matter, the first type of fan āʾ is concerned
with the annihilation of the innate dispositions, attitudes, and qualities that estrange the as-
piring mystic from reaching his goal, the second type is concerned with the annihilation of
attachments to external things through the passing away of motivations to obtain them, and
the third type the annihilation of individuated existence such that the individual’s corporeal
being remains but the individual’s self does not.20 In a way similar to the ḥadīth qudsī cited
earlier, in moving through these gradations of fan āʾ the seeker progressively moves from an
37
Erik S. Ohlander
active to a passive posture vis-à-vis the divine, finally overcoming the existential alienation
from the true source of his being only when succumbing to its all-embracing reality. As
Junayd explains in his Kit āb al-fan āʾ (Book of Annihilation):
But as for the select and the select of the select, who become alien through the strangeness
of their conditions—presence for them is loss, and enjoyment of the witnessing is struggle,
because they have been effaced from every trace and every signification that they find
in themselves or that they witness on their own. [The real] has subjugated them, effaced
them, annihilated them from their own attributes, so that it is the real that works through
them, on them, and for them in everything they experience; it is the real which confirms
such exigencies in-and-upon them through the form of its completion and perfection.21
As A.J. Arberry cogently reminds us, however, for Junayd this “passing away from self ”
was not understood to mean that “the mystic does not cease to exist, in the true sense of
existence, as an individual; rather his individuality, which is an inalienable gift from God,
is perfected, transmuted and eternalized through God and in God.”22 In the short discourse
(masʾala) on the three types of fan āʾ considered here, Junayd makes this point clear in his dis-
cussion of the final, third, type of fan āʾ:
The third passing away is the passing away of yourself from the vision of the reality:
passing away from your ecstasies (maw ājīd) as the sign of the real overpowers you. At
that moment you both pass away and abide, and are found truly existent in your passing
away; through the found existence (wujūd) of your other; upon the abiding of your trace
in the disappearance of your name.23
For Junayd, it is clear that as a homecoming, a return to the source, baqāʾ is a necessary out-
come of the experience of fan āʾ, it being that God “grants perfection to their fan āʾ by grant-
ing them the state of baqāʾ.”24 As made clear in the witnessing that occurred in the context of
the primordial covenant—in which God’s lordship is recognized by the preexistent spirits of
humankind—the mystic, now transformed, must nevertheless return to the created world,
not for the least so as to be able to discharge the religious duties required by God in the di-
vine law, something which is, of course, understood to stand until the Day of Judgement, as
well as, Junayd notes, he must also return in order to serve as a guide for others:
He is himself, after he has not been truly himself. He is existent in himself and existent
in God after having been existent in God and non-existent in himself. This is because he
has left the drunkenness of God’s overwhelming and come to the clarity of sobriety, and
contemplation is once more restored to him, so that he can put everything in its right place
and assess it correctly. Once more he assumes his individual attributes, after Fanāʾ his per-
sonal qualities persist in him and his actions in this world, when he has reached the zenith
of spiritual achievement vouchsafed by God, he becomes a pattern for his fellow men.25
Trial (balāʾ)
Even though serving as the “instruments whereby [God] instructs the ignorant, reminds
the negligent, [and] guides the seeker aright”26 reaching the state of fan āʾ, and following
that the state of baqāʾ, does not come without its share of afflictions and tribulations for the
38
“knowers” (‘ārif ūn). Given the eschatological realities described in revelation, an abiding
communion with the divine is possible only following the events of the Day of Judgement
and the ushering in of eternity following its resolution. Accordingly, the third of the four
framing concepts around which Junayd’s teachings oscillate is that of the mystic’s experience
of “trial” (bal āʾ ) following his achievement of the pinnacle experience of fan āʾ and baqāʾ. This
is because although transformed by the experience and thenceforth abiding in the divine
reality, in re-assuming an individuated existence God must necessarily remain apart and
veiled from him.
Transformed by baqāʾ into lovers of a now absent beloved, those who have arrived be-
come, to use Junayd’s phrase, the “folk of trial” (ahl al-bal āʾ ), an elect group marked by their
shared pangs of yearning brought about by the persistent spiritual pain of separation. As
described by Junayd in his aforementioned Kit āb al-fan āʾ, the experience of trial for those
who have reached the pinnacle of the mystic’s quest may appear paradoxical at first, with his
imaginary interlocutor in the text posing questions such as “how can presence be the cause
of loss?” and “how can the enjoyment of witnessing become absolute struggle?” In address-
ing such apparent paradoxes, Junayd replies that due to the annihilation of their attributes in
the state of fan āʾ the experience of presence or witnessing are necessarily effected through
the divine reality such that both “presence” and “witnessing” can only be experienced from
a position of absence (of the self ), in the same manner that the aforementioned ḥadīth qudsī
posits that for the devoted worshipper God becomes “his hearing with which he hears,
his seeing with which he sees, his hand with which he strikes, and his foot with which he
walks.” Once ensconced in the state of baqāʾ, however, the mystic is left with but allusive
impressions of these experiences, impressions that cannot be wholly or fully recollected
through the faculties of the created self, even as reconstituted in a transmuted form following
the pinnacle experience itself.
Tormented, continually pensive regarding the potential of being visited by the divine
ruse (makr), and besieged with a seemingly insatiable appetite to suffer the aftereffects of what
often turn out to be but fleeting encounters with the object of their desires, these folk of trial
nonetheless persevere in hope of an eventual resolution to their situation. Fortunately, such
a resolution, effected by a certain perspectival transformation, is indeed possible according
to Junayd:
They see the measures of gazes from him in the immediacy of their waking. Their per-
ishing drowns as his abiding flows out of them in the harshness of their trial, until the
trial delights them and their abiding becomes their intimate companion in him—when
they seem near to denying them, when he produces the sting. Exhaustion does not di-
vert them from bearing it. Fullness does not sate them. These are the champions—in
which came over them when he gave them the secret. They abide in his overwhelming
power, awaiting his command—the command of Allah be done.27
While an attitude of resignation to the inscrutability of the divine reality may not seem to be
the kind of optimistic resolution one might initially expect given the hopeful nature of the
mythos framing Junayd’s elaboration of the architecture of the mystical path, it is important
to keep in mind that as a mainline Sunni religious scholar he certainly viewed the matter
within the context of Qur’ānic and prophetic eschatological dogmas. As such, the possibility
of a perpetual beatific vision is reserved for the Hereafter, with a glimpse being made avail-
able in the here-and-now for the elect of the elect.
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Erik S. Ohlander
Sobriety (ṣaḥw)
As stated in the introduction to this overview, Junayd is frequently presented as an emblem-
atic representative of the orthodox and “sober” (ṣa ḥw)—as opposed to the antinomian and
“drunken” (sukr)—trend within Sufism. This image solidified at a fairly early date, and by
the time of the Sufi apologist ‘Al ī b. ‘Uthm ān al-Jullābī al-Hujw ī r ī (d. ca. 465/1072–1073)
appears to have become a fairly widespread view. As Hujw ī r ī remarked in his Sufi manual,
the Kashf al-ma ḥjūb:
Junayd and his followers prefer sobriety to intoxication. They say that intoxication is
evil, because it involves the disturbance of one’s normal state and loss of sanity and
self-control, and inasmuch as the principle of all things is sought either by way of an-
nihilation or subsistence, or of effacement or affirmation, the principle of verification
cannot be attained unless the seeker is sane.28
Over a century later, in his hagiographical compendium of celebrated Sufis, the Memo-
rial of God’s Friends (Taẕkirat al-awliyā), the acclaimed Persian Sufi poet Far īd al-Dī n ‘Aṭṭār
(d. ca. 1230) echoes Hujw ī r ī,29 remarking that “Most of the sheikhs of Baghdad, in his age
and afterward, held his teachings. His way was the way of sobriety, in contrast to the Tay-
furians, who are the followers of Bāyazid.”30 Indeed, as can be seen in Junayd’s commentary
on Abū Yazīd al-Bisṭā m ī’s (d. 848 or 875) ecstatic elocutions (sha ṭa ḥāt) partially preserved
in the Kit āb al-luma‘ of Abū Na ṣr al-Sarr āj (d. 988), his preference for the state of sobriety
over that of the state of mystical intoxication is clear.31 As noted by Knysh, in the context
of his teaching mission among the Ṣū fiyya Junayd eschewed the types of extravagances of
language associated with intoxicated mystics such as Bisṭā m ī and Ḥallāj, and in his public
life he demonstrated a careful and circumspect conformism, explicitly advising his disciples
against challenging civil and religious authorities while viewing political and social activism
as “a sign of spiritual and intellectual immaturity and an attempt to rebel against the divine
order.”32 In the prosopographical and related literature, there are numerous instances in
which Junayd is presented as objecting to, or otherwise rebuffing, the excesses of the more
intoxicated mystics among his contemporaries. Some of the most poignant of such vignettes
come in the juxtaposition of Junayd to Manṣū r al-Ḥallāj, the controversial teacher, thauma-
turge, mystic, and champion of the view that mystical intoxication was superior to sobriety.
A onetime associate of Junayd and other members of the Ṣū fiyya of Baghdad who came to be
repudiated by them for publicizing his mystical experiences, after nearly a decade of house
arrest and an ostentatious public trial, Ḥallāj was brutally put to death in Baghdad in 922
on charges of heresy, being accused, among other things, of advocating for the substitution
of the ritual duty of the pilgrimage to Mecca with a pilgrimage to a replica of the Kacba he
had constructed in the courtyard of his house in Baghdad.33 A typical example of this juxta-
position can be found in the aforementioned Kashf al-ma ḥjūb of Hujw ī r ī (who, it should be
noted, declared himself to be in agreement with Junayd’s view regarding the superiority of
sobriety to intoxication):
I have read in the Anecdotes that when Ḥusayn b. Man ṣúr (al-Ḥalláj) in his rapture
broke off relations with ‘Amr b. ‘Uthmán (al-Makkí) and came to Junayd, Junayd asked
him for what purpose he had come to him. Ḥusayn said: “For the purpose of associating
with the Shaykh.” Junayd replied: “I do not associate with madmen. Association de-
mands sanity; if that is wanting, the result is such behaviour as yours in regard to Sahl b.
40
‘Abdalláh Tustarí and ‘Amr.” Ḥusayn said: “O Shaykh, sobriety and intoxication are two
attributes of Man, and Man is veiled from his Lord until his attributes are annihilated.”
“O son of Manṣúr,” said Junayd, “you are in error concerning sobriety and intoxication.
The former denotes soundness of one’s spiritual state in relation to God, while the latter
denotes excess of longing and extremity of love, and neither of them can be acquired by
human effort. O son of Manṣúr, in your words I see much foolishness and nonsense.”34
This ethos runs as a thread throughout Junayd’s writings as well as the logia attributed to
him, in which he makes it clear numerous times that the communal duties enjoined by God
upon those who have arrived to serve as teachers and exemplars to aspirants yet to arrive
at the pinnacle experience of fan āʾ and baqāʾ can only be carried out effectively in a state of
sobriety. Thus, in one of his discourses concerning the question of the experience of the elect
after having reached fan āʾ and baqāʾ he states:
God desires to return his worshipper to the community and does so, making clear the
evidence of His grace to him, so that the lights of His gifts in the return of his individual
characteristics scintillate and attract the community to him who appreciate him.35
Similarly, the same sentiment is expressed in an unusually long letter written by Junayd to
the aforementioned ‘Amr b. ‘Uthm ān al-Makk ī:
God has made them unfurled flags of truth, lighthouses erected for guidance, made up
paths for humanity. These are indeed the scholars among the Muslims, the truly trusting
among the faithful, the noblest of those who are pious. They are those who guide in the
crises of religion, and theirs is the light which leads in the darkness of ignorance, the
brilliance of their knowledge shines through darkness. God has made them the symbol
of His mercy for His creatures, and a blessing for those of humanity who so choose.36
This communally focused ethic of living a dual life, partially within the divine reality and
partially within the community, is one which would come to have a profound resonance in
later developments of the Sufi tradition, in particular in relation to the shari‘a-minded Sufi
confraternities that began to emerge towards the end of the Abbasid period. As I have noted
elsewhere, with the emergence of the institution of the master-disciple relationship within
an increasingly formalized system of organization and practice among Sufi communities in
the three to four centuries following the era of Junayd came a foregrounding of the notion
that it was Sufis, and in particular the recognized masters among them, who were the true
“heirs to the prophets” (wurrāth al-anbiyāʾ ), and thus those who envisioned themselves as
responsible for safeguarding and perpetuating the Mu ḥammadan dispensation until the end
of days.37 It is not surprising that the most vocal advocates of this view where those who
overtly claimed their adherence to the Junaydi tradition, both in their treatment of his image
in their own writings as well as in the prominent position given to him within their own
initiatic lineages.38
Conclusion
A prominent teacher whose influence reached far beyond Baghdad even during his lifetime,
al-Junayd al-Baghd ād ī was as significant a figure in his own age as he was in relation to
the elaboration of the Sufi tradition over the course of the Earlier Middle Period. While
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Erik S. Ohlander
programmatically abstruse so as to guard against inadvertently divulging mystical truths to

the uninitiated, Junayd’s exposition of the mystical life in Islam and the attendant technical
terminology he used to describe it would come to be profoundly influential in the develop-
ment of Sufi metaphysics, epistemology, and mystical theory over the period to follow. His
teachings would be carried forward by a long list of energetic students and disciples who,
together with Junayd himself, are typically seen as representing the high-water mark of the
creative florescence of the Ṣū fiyya of Baghdad.
Notes
1 On the nature and characteristics of what has been referred to as the “Junayd ī tradition” as
paradigmatic, or at least strongly emblematic, of the “sober,” shari‘a-minded orientation
within classical and medieval Sufism see E. S. Ohlander, Sufism in an Age of Transition: ʿUmar
al-Suhraward ī and the Rise of the Islamic Mystical Brotherhoods (Leiden: Brill, 2008), p. 344 s.v.
al-Junayd al-Baghd ā d ī, and on the centrality of his position within the silsilas of later Sufi broth-
erhoods see A. Popovic and G. Veinstein eds., Les voies d’Allah: les orders mystiques dans l’Islam des
origins à aujourd’hui (Paris: Fayard. 1996), p. 685 s.v. Djunayd; J.S. Trimingham, The Sufi Orders
in Islam (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1971), pp. 12–13, 324 s.vv. Junaid, Abu ’l-Qasim, and
Junaid ī school of mysticism).
2 This is well evinced in the presentations and discussions of Junayd found in the sources con-
sulted and utilized in the course of preparing this overview. In terms of the relevant primary
sources in Arabic and Persian, the classical and medieval Sufi handbooks and hagiographical
compendia invariably contain material concerning Junayd, as do most of the standard Arabic
and Persian biographical dictionaries covering the period (see A. Maz īd ī, al-Im ām al-Junayd,
sayyid al- ṭāʾ ifatayn (Beirut: D ā r al-Kutub al-‘Ilmiyya, 2006), pp. 127–304 for citations of a wide
range of Arabic sources containing, in particular, his logia). As for discussions of Junayd and his
teachings in the secondary scholarly literature, the following have proven particularly useful: A.
Karamustafa, Sufism: The Formative Period (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California
Press, 2007), pp. 15–18; Maz īd ī, al-Im ām al-Junayd, pp. 3–9; A. Knysh, Islamic Mysticism: A Short
History (Leiden: Brill, 2000), pp. 52–56; L. Massignon, Essay on the Origins of the Technical Lan-
guage of Islamic Mysticism, trans. B. Clark (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1997),
pp. 205–209; R. Deladrièr, Junayd: Enseignement spirituel: traités, lettres, oraisons et sentences (Paris:
Sinbad, 1983), pp. 13–39; A. H. Abdel-Kader, The Life, Personality and Writings of al-Junayd: A
Study of a Third/Ninth Century Mystic with an Edition and Translation of His Writings (London:
Luzac & Company Ltd., 1976), pp. 1–63; A. J. Arberry, “al-Djunayd,”
The Encyclopedia of Islam,
New Edition (Leiden: E.J.Brill, 1960–1965), 2:598; and idem, Sufism: An Account of the Mystics of
Islam (London: George Allen & Unwin Ltd., 1950).
3 The contributions by C. Melchert, “Origins and Early Sufism,” The Cambridge Companion to
Sufism, ed. Lloyd Ridgeon (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), pp. 3–23; Karamus-
tafa, Sufism, pp. 1–82; Knysh, Islamic Mysticism, pp. 5–115 are illustrative of such efforts. On the
historical contours of the process in general, the reading articulated earlier by J. Chabbi is founda-
tional: “Reflections sur le soufisme iranien primitive,” Journal Asiatique 266.1–2 (1977), pp. 37–55
and “Remarques sur le développement historique des mouvements ascétiques et mystique au
Khurasan, IIIe/IXe siècle—IVe/Xe siècle,” Studia Islamica 46 (1978), pp. 5–71.
4 Kynsh, Islamic Mysticism, p. 52.
5 Qushayr ī. Al-Qushayri’s Epistlem on Sufism, trans. A. Knysh (Reading: Garnet, 2007), p. 43.
6 Karamustafa, Sufism, p. 15.
7 Knysh, Islamic Mysticism, p. 56.
8 Melchert, “Origins and Early Sufism,” p. 6.
9 In a manner strikingly similar to the trumped up allegations of sexual improprieties instigating the
well-known episode of the inquisition against the Bacchic Mysteries in Rome in 186 BCE (which
resulted in a decree issued by the Roman Senate that placed strict controls over the activities of the
cult as well as severely limited the activities of its membership and their associated cultic centers),
it appears that the episode of Ghulā m Khal ī l was rooted in equally trumped up allegations of li-
centious behavior among the Ṣū fiyya of Baghdad. Ernst notes that
42
the story has it that Ghulam Khalil was said to have been inspired to bring charges against
the Sufis by a woman who had fallen in love with the Sufi Sumnun al-Muhibb but had been
repulsed by him. Knowing of Ghulam Khalil’s antipathy to the Sufis, she went to him and
informed against the Sufis, claiming that she had participated in orgies with them

some of the Sufi émigrés from the Abbasid capital were instrumental in carrying its teachings
to Egypt, Arabia, Persia and Transoxiana, where they laid the groundwork for the eventual
triumph of al-Junayd’s version of Sufism over regional ascetic and mystical movements.
Islamic Mysticism, p. 66.

the process through which the earlier term ṣūf ī became the preferred name for Baghdad mys-
tics remains obscure … one can speculate that the term ṣūf ī had a certain ‘avant-garde’ or
‘cutting-edge’ resonance among both renunciants and others, and that this ‘hip’ quality facili-
tated its application to the new movement.
Sufism, p. 7.

Junayd knew very well that mystical experience and thought cannot be rationalized and that it
is dangerous to speak openly about the deepest mysteries of faith in the presence of the unini-
tiated… Junayd, therefore, refined the art of speaking in ishārāt, subtle allusion to the truth—a
trend, attributed first to Kharrāz, that became characteristic of later Sufi writings.

As a correlative pair of notions, in which fan āʾ logically precedes baqāʾ, it is applied to two
levels of meaning, the passing away of human consciousness in the divine and the obliteration
of imperfect qualities of the soul by substitution of new, divinely bestowed attributes. Of the
two terms, fan āʾ is the more significant concept in Sufi writings and occasionally implies con-
notations expressed by its counterpart.
43
Erik S. Ohlander
Allah the Almighty has said: ‘Whoever shows enmity to a friend of Mine, I shall be at war
with him. My servant does not draw near to Me with anything more loved by Me than the
religious duties I have imposed upon him, and My servant continues to draw near to Me with
supererogatory works so that I shall love him. When I love him I am his hearing with which he
hears, his seeing with which he sees, his hand with which he strikes, and his foot with which
he walks. Were he to ask [something] of Me, I would surely give it to him; and were he to ask
Me for refuge, I would surely grant him it.
EzzeddinIbrahim and Denys Johnson-Davies, An-Nawaw ī’s Forth Hadith: An Anthology of the Say-
ings of the Prophet Muhammad (Cambridge: The Islamic Texts Society, 1997), p. 118.

44
noted that Massignon, Essay on the Origins of the Technical Language of Islamic Mysticism, pp. 206–209,
presents a reading of the doctrinal relationship between Junayd and Ḥallāj which differs from that
sketched above.

45
4
ABŪ YAZĪD AL-BISṬĀMĪ
AND DISCUSSIONS ABOUT
INTOXICATED SUFISM
Annabel Keeler
Introduction
The eleventh-century Sufi ‘Al ī Hujw ī r ī famously categorised Abū Yazīd al-Bisṭā m ī (d. 874)
and his followers as proponents of the way of intoxication (sukr) in Sufism. This designation
of Abū Yazīd (to whom I shall henceforth refer by his popular name of Bāyazīd)1 as an in-
toxicated mystic, in contrast to Abū’l-Qā sim al-Junayd (d. 910), who was said to advocate
a path of sobriety (ṣa ḥw), certainly influenced modern scholarship in the field of Islamic
mysticism. However, this study will argue that the view of Bāyazīd taken by Sufis in the
centuries following his death was far more multi-faceted. It will show how intoxication only
later became associated with Bāyazīd from the twelfth century on, when he was adopted as
a model in the mystical path of love. The study will further show how Bāyazīd’s controver-
sial utterances or “paradoxes” (sha ṭḥiyyāt) were explained in different ways, only later being
interpreted as resulting from intoxication with the wine of love.
Hujwīrī and other Sufi authors on Bāyazīd

In his Persian treatise on Sufism, the Kashf al-ma ḥjūb (“Uncovering that which is Veiled”),
Hujw ī r ī (d. bet. 1073 and 1077) cites the following anecdote about Bāyazīd:
It is related that Ya ḥyā b. Muʿādh wrote to Abū Yazīd: “What do you say of one who
drinks a single drop from the ocean of love and becomes intoxicated?” Bāyazīd wrote in
reply: “What do you say of one who, if all the oceans in the world were filled with the
wine of love, would drink them all and still cry out from thirst”.2
Hujw ī r ī was not the first to cite this anecdote; it is to be found in the biography of Bāyazīd
written by Abū Nu‘aym al-Iṣfa ḥān ī (d. 1038), as well as in the collection of sayings of and
anecdotes about Bāyazīd composed in the eleventh century by Mu ḥammad b. ‘Al ī al-Sahlag ī
(d. 1084).3 The gist of these Arabic versions of the anecdote is the same, but there is a sig-
nificant difference in the words of Bāyazīd with which the anecdote ends. Iṣfahān ī’s version
reads: “There is one who has drunk the oceans of heaven and earth and is still not satisfied;
46
Abū Yazīd al-Bisṭāmī
his tongue is hanging out from thirst, and he is crying, ‘Is there any more?’”4 Notable in this
version is Bāyazīd’s use of the phrase “Is there any more? (hal min mazīd)?”, words which
would have been familiar to those who had heard it from the Qurʾān, where these exact
words are said by the Hellfire, indicating its insatiable appetite for more fuel (Q.50:30). This
is typical of Bāyazīd’s rhetoric, which often presents ideas or images in a paradoxical, if not
shocking manner – this is perhaps why Hujw ī r ī chose a different wording. However, our
concern here is not with the wording Hujw ī r ī has used, but with his particular interpretation
of the anecdote.
Hujw ī r ī’s work, like the Risāla (“The Epistle on Sufism”) of his near contemporary
Abū’l-Qā sim al-Qushayr ī (d. 1072),5 combined biographical sections on well-known mystics
with chapters dealing with doctrines and aspects of theory and practice that were of concern
to Sufis. Because of this, such works have been referred to as “manuals”; or “handbooks of
Sufism”.6 However, as Javid Mojaddedi has noted in his study of Sufi biographical literature,
Hujw ī r ī was innovative in having introduced a series of chapters on “groups” ( firaq) and
“schools” (madh āhib) that were present in the Sufism of his time, and the particular doctrines
that they followed.7 Hujw ī r ī regarded ten of these groups as acceptable (maqb ūl) while two,
namely, the Hul ūliyya who were said to believe in the heresy of incarnation, and Ḥall ājiyya
whom he saw as false followers of Ḥallāj, were disapproved (mard ūd). Among the ten ac-
ceptable groups were Sufis whom he calls the Ṭayf ūriyya, so-called because they were the
followers of Abū Yazīd b. Abī Ṭayf ū r. He defines this group as being characterised by their
predilection for rapture (ghalabat) and intoxication (sukr), and he contrasts this approach with
that of the so-called Junaydiyya, followers of Junayd, who advocated the path of sobriety
(ṣa ḥw). It is in this context that our author discusses the relative virtues of intoxication and
sobriety, and it is here that he cites the anecdote about the correspondence between Ya ḥyā
b. Mu‘ādh and Bāyazīd.
Mojaddedi notes that other Sufi treatises discuss the spiritual implications of intoxication
(sukr) and sobriety (sa ḥw) but without any reference to either Bāyazīd or Junayd.8 Hujw ī ri has
cited this anecdote, in Mojaddedi’s view almost disingenuously, in support of his claim that
Bāyazīd was a mystic of intoxication.9 Moreover, Hujw ī ri claims to have reversed the usual
interpretation of this anecdote, whereby Ya ḥyā b. Mu‘ādh was the intoxicated one because
he could not tolerate more than a drop before becoming drunk, whereas Bāyazīd, who
could drink all the oceans of the world and still thirst for more, was the more sober of the
two. According to Hujw ī r ī’s interpretation, it was on the contrary Bāyazīd’s insatiable thirst
for the wine of love that qualified him as the more intoxicated of the two mystics. Hujw ī r ī
does not name the source of the earlier interpretation, though in any case, it is arguable that
neither interpretation grasped the full significance of the anecdote; this was to wait for the
later proponents of love mysticism, as we shall see.
Mojaddedi suggests that Hujw ī r ī’s understanding of Bāyazīd and Junayd and his associ-
ating the former with intoxication and the latter with sobriety may have shaped later dis-
cussions of these two mystics both in thematic Sufi works and later biographical traditions.10
This may be true of several modern historical studies of Sufism,11 but remains unsubstanti-
ated with regard to Sufi works composed in the period that followed Hujw ī r ī, for it seems
that the appreciation of Bāyazīd in later Sufi sources was much more multi-faceted. In fact,
it could be said that one of the remarkable phenomena about the figure of Bāyazīd is that he
was taken as a model and used as a “rallying point”, as it were, by later mystics who were of
quite different “schools” or approaches to the spiritual path. For example, Rū m ī, who in his
Mathnaw ī cites Bāyazīd more than he does any other early figure in the history of Islamic
47
Annabel Keeler
mysticism, sees him as an exemplar in several different ways, but above all as an uncompro-
mising ecstatic in the path of love.12 Ibn ‘Arabī, who also cites Bāyazīd a great deal through-
out his writings, admires him both as a “man without attributes”,13 and as a pioneer in the
Way of Blame (mal āmatiyya).14 The philosopher/mystic Shihāb al-Dī n Ya ḥyā Suhraward ī (d.
1191) praises him as one of the true sages.15
These authors were no doubt drawing inspiration from sayings and anecdotes that they
found in a range of earlier Sufi literature as well as in the oral tradition, for there are no
written works ascribed to Bāyazīd, and information about his life is sketchy. It is said that
his grandfather Sur ū shān was a Zoroastrian who converted to Islam, that his parents were
pious Muslims, and that he was born in the north-eastern Iranian town of Basṭā m. It was
here that he spent most of his life, apart from between one and three pilgrimages (according
to different sources), and a period of exile of seven years.16 In addition to this information,
most Sufi biographies of Bāyazīd present only a handful of sayings and anecdotes, the scope
of material being limited by the priorities and interests of their authors.17
However, a much wider range of sayings ascribed to Bāyazīd appears in discussions of the-
oretical and practical topics in most works of Sufism. For example, in his Kitāb al-Luma‘, Abū
Na ṣr al-Sarr āj (d. 988) cites Bāyazīd’s words on the mystic (‘ārif ), on gnosis (ma‘rifa), on rev-
erence for the Prophet, and on various aspects of propriety, demeanour or conduct (adab),18
as well as some of his sha ṭḥiyyāt.19 Kalabādh ī (d. 990s) quotes Bāyazīd’s definition of Sufis as
“Children in the lap of God”.20 Abū Sa‘d Kharg ū sh ī (d. 1015 or 1016) cites several sayings of
Bāyazīd about the meaning of Sufism (ta ṣawwuf ), on gnosis (ma‘rifa) and the mystic (‘ārif ).21
He also cites Bāyazīd on subjects such as complete trust in God (tawakkul), worship (‘ibāda),
remembrance of God (dhikr) and humility (taw āḍu‘), among others. In his Risāla, Qushayr ī
cites Bāyazīd on many aspects of Sufism, including: spiritual striving (mujāhada), spiritual
retreat and seclusion (khalwa wa-‘uzla), awareness of God (taqw ā), contentment (qan ā‘a), ser-
vanthood (‘ub ūdiyya), gnosis (ma‘rifa) and the miracles or charismatic gifts of the friends of
God (karām āt al-awliyāʾ ).
From the above, we can see some of the ways in which Bāyaz īd, along with several
other early Sufis, was invoked as an exemplar and source of knowledge for different aspects
of Sufi knowledge and practice. But while these citations help to illustrate and illuminate
the topics that are being discussed in these works, they do not build a picture of B āyaz īd
himself. The fullest account of B āyaz īd is to be found in Sahlag ī ’s Kit āb al-N ūr, alluded to
above. Sahlag ī states that he composed the work in order to distinguish between Abū Yaz īd
b. Ṭayf ū r, whom he names as “Abū Yaz īd the Great”, and others with the name Abū Yaz īd.
The Kit āb al-N ūr contains numerous items of information about B āyaz īd, comprising say-
ings and anecdotes, many of which are preceded by an isn ād or chain of transmission.
Despite the presence of such isn āds, there is little doubt that some of the material is apoc-
ryphal; it has to be remembered that the work was compiled some 200 years after Bāyaz īd’s
death, and moreover, that most of the original sayings would have been in B āyaz īd’s native
language of Persian and were subsequently translated into Arabic. Nonetheless, the Kit āb
al-N ūr remains the most comprehensive source on B āyaz īd. Apart from the first part of
Sahlag ī ’s book, which provides some background about B āyaz īd’s family and a brief ac-
count of his life and his disciples, the Kit āb al-N ūr does not follow any thematic structure;
nor are the sayings and anecdotes arranged according to the isn āds, though a few sayings
transmitted from the same source may be grouped together. Sahlag ī has, however, placed
most of the longer passages in which B āyaz īd describes his so-called mi‘rāj or spiritual as-
cension, towards the end of the book.
48
The great number of statements and anecdotes that are included in the Kitāb al-N ūr in-
cludes the following types:

a Descriptions of protracted struggles with his nafs or lower self, as when he states, for
example:
I immersed myself in the sea of good works for 40 years, and then I saw tied
around myself a zunn ār.22
b Statements that indicate a sudden spiritual transformation, for example:
“When he was asked, ‘How did you attain what you have attained?’ He replied, ‘I
shed my nafs as a snake sheds its skin, then I looked at myself, and there! I was He.’”23
c Ecstatic outpourings of his highest mystical states, often recorded in an abstruse
language, which will be discussed below. These include descriptions of his so-
called Mi‘rāj.24

8 Anecdotes showing his scrupulous concern with that which is permissible (ḥal āl),32 his
powerful sense of awe and reverence towards God 33 and his sometimes extreme respect
for the rights and property of others.34

This list is not exhaustive; it is merely intended to give an impression of the range of sayings
and anecdotes that are included in Sahlag ī’s compilation. It is striking, though, that Sahlag ī
does not stress intoxication, nor does he mention the Ṭayf ū riyyān. In the discussion that fol-
lows, I shall attempt to show how intoxication does come to be associated with Bāyazīd by
certain later Sufis, though not in the way portrayed by Hujwir ī. But first, we should see how
intoxication came to be used as an explanation or excuse for the utterance of the sha ṭḥiyyāt.
49
Annabel Keeler
Intoxication and the Shaṭḥiyyāt

Among the forms of speech attributed to certain mystics is that which is termed sha ṭḥiyyāt
(sing. sha ṭḥ), the shocking expressions, often translated as “ecstatic utterances”, and rendered
by some French scholars as “paradoxes”.40 Sarr āj, who is probably the first Sufi author to have
written on the subject, defines the sha ṭḥ as
a strange-seeming expression describing an ecstasy (wajd) that overflows because of its

power, and creates commotion by the strength of its ebullience and overpowering qual-
ity…When the aspirant is overwhelmed by this ecstasy he may express it by a phrase that
is strange or difficult for the hearer.41
Other mystics, such as Abū Bakr al-Shibl ī (d. 946) and Manṣū r b. Ḥusayn al-Ḥallāj (d. 922),
were known for their controversial sayings, the latter, famously for his “I am the Absolute
Truth” (An ā’-l- ḥaqq). However, the greater part of the chapters that Sarr āj has devoted to
the subject of sha ṭḥiyyāt is centred on his discussion of sayings quoted from Bāyazīd. Sarr āj
begins with three passages, which he has drawn from a commentary composed by Junayd on
certain sayings of Bāyazīd, only a small part of which was available to him. He quotes these
sayings, along with Junayd’s commentary, and then adds his own, respectfully stating that he
does not feel that Junayd’s explanation is sufficient to counter detractors. The first of these
sayings reads as follows:
Once He took me up and placed me before Him, and said to me, “O Abū Yazīd! My
creation would like to see you.” I said, “Adorn me with Your unity and clothe me with
Your ‘I’ness, and take me up into Your oneness, so that when Your creation sees me they
will say, ‘We have seen you’, and You will be that, and I will not be there”.
In his commentary, Junayd expresses the view that this is the statement of one who has come
near to the Real, but not yet reached it, and more specifically, one who has not yet been
“clothed with the realities of isolation [for God] (tafr īd) in the completeness of the true real-
isation of oneness (taw ḥīd)”. Sarr āj does not agree with this interpretation; rather, he first de-
scribes Bāyazīd’s words as a form of intimate communication [with God] (mun ājāt), and then
adds that his prayer for God to adorn him with His unity, clothe him with His ‘I’ness and
take him up into His oneness, are descriptions of his annihilation ( fan āʾ ), his annihilation
from annihilation ( fan āʾal-fan āʾ ), and the taking over of his self by the Real in unity.42 And
Sarr āj then cites the ḥadīth qudsī on supererogatory worship (naw āfil), which is often cited to
explain the phenomenon of sha ṭḥ:
My servant continues to draw near to Me with supererogatory works so that I shall love
him. When I love him I am his hearing with which he hears, his seeing with which he
sees, his hand with which he grasps and his foot with which he walks.43
Sarr āj adds further clarification to a second and third of the sayings commented on by Junayd
where again, the idea of annihilation from self, and annihilation from annihilation is men-
tioned. He also states that Bāyazīd’s language is typical of those who are “ecstatic and love-
lost” (w ājid ūn wa-mustahtir ūn), and of one whose heart is overcome such that he depicts all
his conditions with the attributes of the beloved, citing as an example Majnū n calling every-
thing he sees “Laylā”.44
50
A further chapter in Sarr āj’s Luma‘ discusses other controversial sayings of Bāyazīd, be-
ginning with his famous subḥān ī (Glory be to me!), for which Bāyazīd had been condemned
by Ibn Sā lim for unbelief (kufr). Interestingly, Sarr āj’s approach here is to warn Ibn Sā lim of
the danger of accusing a figure renowned for his piety of unbelief, and then to state that he
himself had visited Basṭā m, and spoken to the followers of Bāyazīd who assured him that no
such words were ever spoken by him.45
Sarr āj appears to be the only Sufi to have denied that Bāyazīd spoke these words, and his
claim certainly does not accord with Sahlag ī’s Kit āb al-N ūr, where the saying appears, with
isn ād, more than once.46 At the very end of his work, Sahlag ī offers his own explanation for
Bāyazīd’s utterance of the words subḥān ī and again, attributes them to his being in a state of
fan āʾ.47 Hujw ī r ī cites this same saying of Bāyazīd, not in his discussion of annihilation from
self ( fan āʾ ) and subsistence in God (baqāʾ), but rather, where he explains two other Sufi tech-
nical terms, those of union ( jam‘) and separation (tafriqat), and to give further endorsement to
his argument, he precedes his citation of Bāyazīd’s subḥān ī with the ḥadīth of supererogatory
prayers quoted above.48
Another early Sufi author who discussed the sha ṭḥiyyāt is Abū’l-Ḥ asan ‘Al ī b. al-Ḥ asan
al-S ī rjā n ī (d. ca. 1077). He devoted the final chapter of his comprehensive work on Sufism,
the Kit āb al-Bayāḍ wa’l-saw ād, to the subject.49 He derives one definition of the term and
Junayd’s discussion of one of B āyaz īd’s sayings from Sarr āj’s Luma‘, but he also includes
comments by several other mystics on other controversial sayings of B āyaz īd. Among these
sayings is his statement, “I cast off my nafs as a snake sheds its skin from its body, and then
I looked, and there, I was He!” S ī rjā n ī cites one comment on this saying by Band ā r b. al-
Ḥusayn (d. 964) who condemns B āyaz īd for associating [other] with God (shirk), adding
that he would have been correct had he said “He was He”.50 However, S ī rjā n ī also cites
a comment on the same saying by Mu ḥ ammad Ibn Khaf ī f (d. 981 or 982), according to
which:
When Abū Yazīd cast off his nafs, God annihilated him from seeing his identity (afn āhu‘an
r ūʾyat huwiyyatihi), so He stripped him of his individual existence. Thus his speech was
with the tongue of God.51
S ī rjān ī cites several comments on Bāyazīd’s subḥān ī, including one of Ḥallāj, who states: “He
[Abū Yazīd] was a witnesser who saw Him in the very depths of His reality (kunh ma‘n āhu),
for the one who is connected to His attributes does not see any other than Him”.52 Another
comment is cited from “one of the [spiritually] poor (fuqar āʾ)”:
Through God, Abū Yazīd contemplated the remembrance of God, and thereby became
absent (gh āba) from his phenomenal existence and his attributes and said, “Glory be to
me! How great is my majesty! – since I am praised (mamd ūḥ) in my remembrance, pro-
tected [having] no water or clay.”53
As can be seen from the above comments, Bāyazīd’s sha ṭḥiyyāt are variously attributed to his
being in a state of annihilation from self ( fan āʾ ), union ( jam‘), absence [from self ] (ghayba),
being lost in love for the Beloved, but they are not associated with intoxication, at least
during this earlier period.
Interestingly, however, intoxication appears to be associated quite freely with a prophet
in this early period. A case in point is the story of Moses at Mount Sinai. For example, in
Hujw ī r ī’s discussion of intoxication and sobriety that was discussed above, he states that
51
Annabel Keeler
Moses was intoxicated because he could not endure the manifestation of the divine theoph-
any [upon the mountain], and fainted (Q.VII, 143), whereas the Prophet Mu ḥammad was
sober, because he beheld the same glory continuously, with ever-increasing consciousness,
all the way from Mecca, until he stood at the space of two bow-lengths from the divine
presence (Q.53:9).54
In a different way, Qushayr ī also imputes a state of intoxication to Moses when, in his
mystical commentary on the Qurʾān, the La ṭāʾ if al-ish ārāt, he comments on Q.7:143, which
relates the story of the theophany to Moses on Mount Sinai. The Qurʾānic account reads as
follows:
When Moses came at the time We appointed, and his Lord spoke to him, he said, “Lord, show
Yourself to me. Let me see You!” He said, “You shall not see me, but look at the mountain; if it
remains standing firm then you will see Me.” When his Lord revealed Himself to the mountain,
He made it crumble. Moses fell down unconscious. When he recovered, he said, “Glory be to You!
To You I turn in repentence! I am the first to believe” (Q.7: 143)
Here, Qushayr ī is concerned not with Moses’ swooning, but with his request to see God,
which he treats as a form of uncontrolled, ecstatic speech, or sha ṭḥ – though he does not use
this term. He begins his interpretation of this verse by indicating Moses’ state of longing and
love, but also of annihilation from self:
Moses came the way of those who are full of desire, the way of those who are madly in
love. Moses came, and there was nothing left to Moses of Moses.
Qushayr ī then presents another explanation for Moses’ request: it was due to the over-
whelming of ecstasy (ghalabāt al-wajd) that he experienced at hearing God’s speech, such that
he could not control himself and was made to utter the words, “Let me see You…”. Finally,
Qushayr ī introduces intoxication as the cause of Moses’ utterance:
When he heard God’s speech, Moses became utterly intoxicated (bi-‘ayn al-sukr) so he
uttered what he uttered. And the drunkard (sukrān) will not be taken to account for
what he says. Don’t you see that in the text of the Book, Moses is not reprimanded for
a single word?55
In spite of Qushayr ī’s claim that the “drunkard will not be taken to account for his speech”,
it is interesting that eleventh-century Sufis felt it safer to adduce the state of annihilation
( fan āʾ ), union, or absence (ghayba) from self as reasons for Bāyazīd’s shocking statements,
rather than intoxication. Yet they had no qualms about attributing intoxication to the
prophet Moses. This may be because, as can be seen in Qushayr ī’s interpretation, Moses is
also associated with an intense love and longing for God, or because as a prophet he would
be beyond reproach.
We shall see that not long after Qushayr ī, proponents of love mysticism were attributing
the sha ṭḥiyyāt of Sufis to the intoxication of love and longing, and were adopting Bāyazīd as
a model of one who is uncompromising in pursuit of the path of love. For these Sufis, the
last words of Bāyazīd’s message to Ya ḥyā b. Mu‘ādh, “Is there any more (hal min mazīd)?”
became emblematic. Indeed, in later Persian Sufi literature we find Bāyazīd’s words hal min
mazīd cited as well his famous subḥān ī.56
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Bāyazīd, love and intoxication

The biographies of Bāyazīd in eleventh-century Sufi manuals and ṭabaqāt literature do not par-
ticularly associate him with love, though he is cited in discussions of love (maḥabba) and long-
ing (shawq) in the schematic sections of some early Sufi works. These sayings vary from those
which are non-controversial, such as Bayazīd’s statement, “Love means considering much from
yourself as little and a little from your Beloved as much”,57 or “The lover of God has no desire
for this world of the next; all he wants from his Lord is his Lord”;58 to those which are more
challenging, such as: “God has servants who, were they to be veiled from Him in this world or
the next, would apostasize”,59 or “Whoever is killed by love (maḥabba), their bloodwit ( fidya)
will be the vision of Him; whoever is killed by passionate love (‘ishq), their bloodwit will be
intimate companionship with Him (munādama)”.60 It is noteworthy that in this last statement,
the word ‘ishq is used. This word, and others deriving from the Arabic root ‘-sh-q, meaning
passionate or intense love, was usually applied to love between human beings, and considered
unsuitable in relation to God. Acceptable words for God’s love for human beings and their love
for Him were those derived from the root ḥubb, as in Q.5:55.61
This and other such statements of Bāyazīd suggest that he may have been the first mystic to
have employed the word ‘ishq for the love of God. A generation later, Abū’l-Ḥusayn al-Nūr ī
(d. 295/907–908) famously claimed, “I love God passionately (a‘shuqu’Llāh) and He loves me
passionately (ya‘shuqunī )”. In defence of his statement, Nūr ī explained that the passionate lover
(‘āshiq) remains apart [from his beloved] while the lover (muḥibb) enjoys his love.62
Sahlagī includes quite a number of sayings in the name of Bāyazīd relating to love, several of
which involve use of the word ‘ishq, or in other ways contain powerful rhetoric. For example:
The torrent of His love (‘ishq)63 came and that water drowned all other [than Him], and
the One remained eternally.64
Another example is his ecstatic outburst:
His affection, my affection (wudduhu, wuddī ), His love, my love (‘ishquhu, ‘ishqī ).65
Or, the following:
The perfection in the mystic (‘ārif ) is in their being completely consumed (lit. burnt,
(iḥtirāq) in the love of their Lord.66
We also find Bāyazīd’s relationship of love with God indicated in intimate communings
within his accounts of his mystical experiences, as when God says to him:
O my dear (‘azīzī )! This is the carpet of My love (bisāṭ ‘ishqī ), come and be upon it.67
Another example is a variant of the shatḥ cited by Sarr āj and discussed above:
… so He stood me up, and adorned me and raised me up, and said, “Go out to My
creatures.” Then I took one step from Him towards [His] creatures, and at the second
step I fainted, and a voice cried out, “Leave My beloved (ḥabībī ), for he cannot bear to
be without Me!”68
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Sahlag ī also includes the anecdote about the correspondence between Ya ḥyā b Mu‘ādh and
Bāyazīd, but as noted above, he does not usually place the reports in his book in any themed
context, and he rarely comments on them. However, Qushayr ī does imply an interpretation
of the same anecdote when he cites it in his chapter on love (ma ḥabba).69 Since this chapter of
the Risāla is all about love, the implication of including the anecdote here would be that the
love and longing of the lover for God can never be quenched or satisfied. A few lines down,
Qushayr ī cites the anonymous statement, “Love is an intoxication, whose possessor will not
get sober until he witnesses his beloved”; but adds, “As for the intoxication that happens
during the witnessing, it eludes any description”, and Qushayr ī follows this statement with
the couplet:
The circling of the cup [of wine] made my companions drunk,

Whilst I was intoxicated with the one who passed it around.70
The anonymous comment of Qushayr ī and accompanying couplet (which may well be the
appropriation of a secular verse) appear to anticipate the themes and language of love mysti-
cism, though it needs to be borne in mind that Qushayr ī has placed this idea alongside many
other views on the love of God. Nonetheless, taken alongside his interpretation of Moses at
Mount Sinai, one has the impression that Qushayr ī was to some extent sympathetic towards,
if not influenced by, the emerging doctrines of love mysticism.
The wine of love, hal min mazīd, and Bāyazīd’s

adoption as a love mystic
In Hujw ī r ī’s discussion of intoxication and sobriety, having cited the anecdote of Ya ḥyā
b. Mu‘ādh’s correspondence with Bāyazīd, he explains that there are two kinds of intoxi-
cation: one is with the wine of affection (sharāb-i mawaddat), and the other is with the cup
of love (kaʾs-i ma ḥabbat). He sees that the former is caused (or flawed, ma‘l ūl), since it arises
from seeing the benefit (ni‘mat), while the latter has no cause (or is flawless bī ‘illat), since it
arises from seeing the Benefactor (mun‘im). He further explains that he who sees the ben-
efit sees through, or by means of, himself and therefore sees himself, but he who sees the
Benefactor sees though Him and therefore does not see himself, so that, although he is in-
toxicated, his intoxication is sobriety.71 On this basis, and in view of his other discussions of
Bāyazīd’s station, it appears that Hujw ī r ī understands him to be in the higher, “sober” form
of intoxication.
However, the view both of the wine (or cup) of love and of intoxication presented here by
Hujw ī r ī is quite different from that expressed by the proponents of love mysticism. For them,
love, variously defined as ‘ishq, ḥubb, ma ḥabba or in Persian d ūst ī, is the divinely ordained
means of connection between God and human beings – for A ḥ mad Ghaz ā l ī (d. 1126), the
younger brother of Abū Ḥā mid al-Ghazal ī (d. 1111), God is love;72 and intoxication might
be described as the bewilderment experienced in contemplating God, and in moments of
union with Him.73
The literature of love mysticism in the Persian language began to flower in the early
twelfth century. It is beautifully exemplified in the mystical sections of the Kashf al-asrār wa
‘uddat al-abrār (“Unveiling of Secrets and Provision of the Righteous”), a voluminous com-
mentary on the Qurʾān composed, largely in Persian, by Rash īd al-Dī n Maybud ī (fl.1126).74
Maybud ī cites sayings and stories of Bāyazīd several times in his commentary, but in ad-
dition, he also clearly alludes to him in several instances without mentioning his name,
54
when he quotes the words hal min mazīd (Is there any more?). These citations indicate that
Maybud ī has fully adopted Bāyazīd as proponent of love mysticism. One example is his mys-
tical commentary on Q.7:172, which describes the Covenant which God takes from all the
descendants of Adam, known as the Covenant of Alast (Alastu being Arabic for “Am I not?”).
Having drawn the seeds of all the descendants of Adam from his loins, God asks them to
attest, “Am I not your Lord?” And they reply, “Yea we testify”. Maybud ī begins his commentary
on this verse by explaining that this verse is an allusion to “the beginning of the states of
lovers, and the binding of the pact and Covenant of love with them, that first day when God
was present and reality attained”. As his commentary continues, he quotes the verse “[…]
Remind them of the days of God” (Q.14:5), which he glosses in the following manner:
The command came “O master [Mu ḥammad]! Remind those servants of Mine who
have forgotten Our pact and become busy with otherness. Remind them of that day
when their pure spirits tied the covenant of love with Me, when We placed the collyr-
ium of “Am I not your Lord?” on the eye of their longing. – O needful servant of God!
Remember that day when the spirits and bodies of lovers drank the wine of affection
from the cup of love (‘ishq) at the assembly of intimacy. The angels of highest heaven
said, “See now, how high these people are aiming! We have never even sipped this wine,
nor even been given a drop of it, but the clamour of these beggars calling ‘Is there any
more (hal min mazīd)?’ has reached the Capella””.
Of that wine which is not forbidden in our religion
You will not find our lips dry until the end of time.75
Although this passage is full of metaphors of the wine of love, there is no mention of intox-
ication, for this is all about the unquenchable thirst for more, as encapsulated by Bāyazīd’s
hal min mazīd. It is a longing that can never be satisfied. Maybud ī explains that even when
the lovers of God are granted the vision of their majestic Lord in Paradise, their longing will
not be reduced one iota:
In the liver of a fish there is a thirst which will never be assuaged by one jot, even if
you were to assemble for it all the oceans of the world. Today they are in the fount of
longing; tomorrow in the fount of direct vision (‘iyān), too, they will be in the ardour
of longing.76
An essential part of the way of love is of suffering. The pain and anguish which the lover
endures in separation from the Beloved are understood as a purifying fire, which cleanses
him or her of all other than God. We saw that Sahlag ī quotes Bāyazīd as having said, “The
perfection in the mystic (‘ārif ) is in their being completely consumed (or burnt, iḥtirāq) in the
love of their Lord”.77
Those who follow the path of love are expected to “man-up”, to show “manliness” and
embrace love’s suffering with courage. In one instance, Maybud ī alludes to Bāyazīd, though
without mentioning his name when he again quotes his hal min mazīd. He begins by stating
that once a person sets foot in the realm of love (‘ishq) they will endure all kinds of suffering
and torment, and then exhorts his audience, “O noble one ( javānmard, lit. young man)! If you
are a true man and a faithful lover, you will cry out, ‘Is there any more (hal min mazīd)?’…”,
that is, “is there any more suffering?” 78 In another context, Maybud ī contrasts the suffering
of this world, which is like a prison, with the afterlife, where treasuries of the Unseen will be
unveiled, and adds, “The dervish is given a vast capacity, so that glass upon glass – no, ocean
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Annabel Keeler
upon ocean, of the wine of vision are poured out for him. He drinks and [still] cries out, ‘Is
there any more?”’ 79 Though his name is not mentioned here, both the image of oceans being
consumed, and the words hal min mazīd are clear references to Bāyazīd.
Numerous sayings cited by Sahlag ī and other earlier sources describe Bāyazīd’s alternating
between states of bravado and boldness, on the one hand, and of self-criticism and imposing
extreme hardship on his nafs, on the other.80 Maybud ī recreates these two sides of Bāyazīd,
when he attributes to him this imaginary autobiographical account, which is clothed in the
language of love, and includes the ḥad īth qudsī “Anā jal īsun man dhakaran ī:
Once I was intoxicated by the wine of love in the solitude of “I am the intimate com-
panion of the one who makes remembrance of Me”. I became overbold, and from that
impertinence (bust ākhī ) I [had to] suffer the burden of many trials, and drink many a
drop of affliction. I said, “O God! Your stream is flowing, how long this thirst? What is
this thirst, when I can see cups arriving one after another.”
“O most precious of the two worlds! Sometimes You are hidden and sometimes
manifest. My heart is perplexed and my soul going mad. How long will this concealing
and revealing go on? Tell me when will the unending revealing be?”81
What is being described here is a particular kind of affliction and intoxication; it is the intox-
icated state of bewilderment or perplexity (ḥayrat) experienced at moments of union or un-
veiling. The intimate prayer (mun ājāt) in the second paragraph of this citation is actually by
Khwāja ‘Abd Allāh Anṣār ī (d. 1089) and is quoted by Maybud ī elsewhere in Anṣār ī’s name.82
The incorporation of words of Anṣār ī as if they were said by Bāyazīd is an indication of
the extent to which he was wholly appropriated by Maybud ī as a model of the love mystic –
among other reasons, for his insatiable longing for God, his embracing of suffering, and his
experience of the intoxication of bewilderment. Although the last anecdote cited here is evi-
dently apocryphal, nonetheless, as stated above, the alternation of boldness and self-criticism
in Bāyazīd echoes material in Sahlag ī’s Kit āb al-N ūr, as does the state of bewilderment, which
is demonstrated in the following saying cited by Sahlag ī:
When they drink from the cup of His love they fall into the sea of intimacy with Him
and delight in the ease of intimate communing with Him. When they know Him with
true gnosis, they become bewildered at His majesty.83
Shatḥ and the intoxication of love

A ḥ mad Sam‘ān ī (d. 1148) was a near contemporary of Maybud ī who wrote a commentary
on the ninety-nine names of God entitled Rawḥ al-arw āḥ. Like Maybud ī, Sam‘ān ī was im-
mersed in the doctrines of love mysticism and developed a rich, poetic style of prose – indeed
Maybud ī drew a number of passages from Sam‘ān ī’s work. In Sam‘ān ī’s commentary on the
divine name al-‘Alīm (the All-knowing), he refers to the Covenant of Alast (discussed above),
describing the situation of the seed of the descendants of Adam who were drawn from his
loins, when they were “untroubled by attachments and unhampered by the policeman of
hinderences”. At that moment they were:
drunk, abased and indigent with the wine of alast. When they became drunk with
that wine, they were as atoms of sunlight and when, hastened by a ray of [divine]
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munificence, they set foot on the carpet of existence, they became overjoyed, and out of
complete intoxication and negation of their existence, kept uttering cries of love (‘ishq)
on the plain [that manifested their] qualities of veracity (ṣidq), [such as], Let me see You!
(Q.7:143) or Show me how You bring the dead to life! (Q.2:260).84
It is in this context that Sam‘ān ī introduces both Bāyazīd and Ḥallāj: “That distracted one
(sh ūrida) of Basṭā m said ‘Glory be to me!’ and that crazed one (dīw āna) of Iraq said ‘I am the
Absolute Truth…’”.85 Effectively, Sam‘ān ī has here linked the sha ṭḥiyyāt of Bāyazīd and Ḥallāj
to sayings of the prophets Moses and Abraham, showing all their utterances as having been
induced by intoxication with the wine of love, combined with a complete denial of their
own existences. He is therefore showing intoxication (sukr) to be concomitant with annihi-
lation from self ( fan āʾ ).
Sam‘ān ī’s purpose in citing Bāyazīd and Ḥallāj does not appear to be apologetic; rather he
is showing these two as models of sincerity or veracity (ṣidq) in the way of love. However,
almost a century later, the Shirazi Sufi, Rū zbihān Baql ī, who had developed his own meta-
physical doctrines of love,86 felt the need to write a book which would defend and explain
the sha ṭḥiyyāt of mystics. His Sharḥ sha ṭḥiyyāt, based on an earlier Arabic work entitled Man ṭiq
al-asrār, is mainly focussed on sayings of Ḥallāj, to whom Rū zbihān devotes a whole chapter.
But some 25 sayings of Bāyazīd are also explained.
In Chapter 3 of the Sharḥ-i Sha ṭḥiyyāt, Rū zbihān sets out his reasons for writing the work,
drawing attention to the persecution of the Sufis. He states that having studied works of the
masters of gnosis, he realised that understanding their knowledge was difficult, especially the
language of the “people of intoxication” who were “drowned in oneness in the depths of
the ocean of eternity”.87 And shortly afterwards he refers to them as “those intoxicated ones
(mast ān) who spoke, and whom [only] other intoxicated ones could hear”.88 More specifically
in Chapter 3, he condemns those who have actually persecuted these Sufis, largely due to
their ignorance and jealousy.
In his comments on the sha ṭḥiyyāt of Bāyazīd, we find that on occasions Rū zbihān ex-
plains them, like Sufis before him, as arising from a state of annihilation from self ( fan āʾ ).89
However, sometimes, he may attribute the sayings to passionate love (cishq),90 sometimes to
intoxication,91 and sometimes to both.92 In this first example, Rū zbihān is commenting on
an anecdote which tells of Bāyazīd successfully driving away a crowd of admirers by reciting
the words I am your Lord most high (Q.79:24).
Rū zbihān begins by explaining this as an act of the “People of Blame” (mal āmatiyyān), by
which he is implying those who attract blame to themselves for spiritual reasons, in this case
Bāyazīd’s desire to stop people adulating him, which was veiling them from God. However,
Rū zbihān soon explains Bāyazīd’s utterance of these words in another way:
It is possible that at that moment he had a vision of unification (ittiḥād); [thus] he became
the tree [i.e. burning bush] of Moses, so that God spoke with his tongue.
Then he exhorts his audience:
Recite Verily I am God! For the body and soul of Adam is not less than the bush of Moses.
Whoever had the light of grandeur (kibriyāʾ) lit in his heart, [will find] that from his soul
that miracle (its miracle) will burnish the dark night of his nature. The love-lost nightingale
(andalīb-i gum gashta dar ‘ishq), [comes] near to the bride of eternity, and from a branch of the
rose-bush of union sings a pre-eternal note of the song of “Glory be to me! (subḥānī )…”93
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Annabel Keeler
Here, clearly the explanation is centred on Bāyazīd’s experience of intense love, though there
is to begin with an indication of his annihilation from self, as he becomes the burning bush
through which God Himself speaks. In this second example, Rū zbihān is commenting on
another well-known saying of Bāyazīd:
One day, in a state of drunkenness (mast ī ), Bāyazid said “I shall pitch my tent opposite
the Throne”. This is the speech of exuberance (inbisāṭ) upon finding the sweetness of
union, the effect of unification (ittiḥād), an aggrandisement of the soul at the contem-
plation of pre-eternity, an intoxication at the beauty of eternity. The claim to lordship
(rub ūbiyyat) arises from that intoxication…94
Through Sufi authors such as Maybud ī, Sam‘ān ī and Rū zbihān Baql ī and through the biog-
raphy of Far īd al-Dī n ‘Aṭṭār (d. ca. 1230),95 Bāyazīd became established as an intoxicated love
mystic, and his controversial utterances (sha ṭḥiyyāt) were now freely explained (and in the
case of Rū zbihān defended) not only as arising from the annihilation from self, but also from
intoxication or drunkenness with the wine of love. We find this later exemplified in Rū m ī’s
Mathnawi-yi ma‘naw ī. The most extended story about Bāyazīd in the Mathnaw ī relates to two
or three of his most famous sha ṭḥiyyāt. Rū m ī begins by comparing Bāyazīd’s forbearance
(ḥilm) towards his disciples with that of Prophet towards his companions, stating:
Their forbearance is like a choice fine wine

Subtly and gradually it goes to your head.96
I have discussed the story in full elsewhere, but here it is simply worth mentioning that the
whole narration is full of allusions to wine and drunkenness, as, for example:
That venerable one of spiritual poverty, Bāyazīd,

Came [to his disciples] saying “See now, I am God!”
In a drunken manner that master of [mystic] sciences said quite plainly,
“Hey! There is no God but me so worship me”.97
And in the following, where the effects of actual wine are shown to be far less powerful than
the light God, which brings about annihilation from self:
If wine is thus able to stir up trouble and commotion

Does not the light of God have such virtue and power?
For it can empty you completely of your self
So that you are laid low and He speaks the exalted words.98
Conclusion
If we examine the chapter of Hujw ī r ī’s Kashf al-ma ḥjūb that deals with different groups in
Sufism, we can see that in some cases, he has taken just one aspect of a Sufi’s teachings, or
even one anecdote about his life, and used this as the basis for developing a discussion on a
subject or a series of subjects. For example, his observation that Mu ḥā sibī (d. 857) regarded
satisfaction (ri ḍā) as a state rather than a station provides him with the context for an ex-
planation of the difference between a state (ḥāl) and a station (maqām). An anecdote about
Abū’l-Ḥusayn Nū r ī brings him to a discussion of “atruism” or preference (īth ār), which he
58
links to this mystic. Thus I believe we should see these sections of Hujw ī r ī’s work as a device
that enabled him to introduce a number of new topics that he wanted to expound for the
benefit of his audience, rather than necessarily being a reliable representation of the teachings
of particular mystics and their disciples. The same seems to hold true for Hujw ī r ī’s associ-
ation of intoxication with Bāyazīd and his followers, in contradistinction to the sobriety of
Junayd and his “school”; this provided him with a context in which to discuss the relative
virtues of intoxication and sobriety. Perhaps this contrast seemed to him to be in keeping
with Junayd’s critiques of some of Bāyazīd’s sayings, as reported by Sarr āj.
Hujw ī r ī’s characterisation of Bāyazīd as an intoxicated mystic does not convey the breadth
and multi-faceted nature of the spiritual persona of Bāyazīd as it was portrayed through the
numerous sayings and anecdotes preserved in Sahlag ī’s Kit āb al-N ūr and other Sufi works.
The scope of material in these sources meant that Bāyazīd could later be adopted as a model
by mystics with quite different approaches to the mystical path. Ironically, Hujw ī r ī may have
anticipated Bāyazīd’s designation as an intoxicated mystic by proponents of love mysticism
from the twelfth century onwards; however, he did not envisage the kind of intoxication
with the wine of love that was understood by them, one that involved an unquenchable
longing for God, suffering, annihilation in the Beloved and bewilderment, all of which were
embraced for them by the figure of Bāyazīd.
Notes

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Annabel Keeler
Ibn cArabī probably quotes Abū Yaz īd more than any other Sufi. See William C. Chittick, The Sufi
Path of Knowledge (Albany: SUNY, 1989), p. 387, n. 8.
14 Ibn cArabī Fut ūḥāt al-Makkiyya, al-Fut ūḥāt al-Makkiyya (Bū lāq, 1329/1911), vol. 2, p. 40.
15 Shihāb al-D ī n Ya ḥyā al-Suhraward ī, Kit āb al-Mash āric wa-l-mu ṭāhirāt, in Majmūca-yi āth ār-i fārsī-yi
Shaykh-i Ishrāq, eds. Seyyid Hossein Nasr and Henri Corbin, Œuvres philosophiques et mystiques, vol.
I (Tehran: Bibliotèques Iranienne, 1970), pp. 502–503.
16 For a short biography of Bāyaz īd, see Gerhard Böwering, “Besṭā m ī, B āyaz īd”, Encyclopaedia Iranica,
ed. Ehsan Yarshater (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, Mazda, Encyclopaedia Iranica Foun-
dation, 1982), vol. 1, fasc. 4, pp. 183–186. For further sources on Bāyaz īd see the bibliography to
Böwering’s article, and my “Wisdom in Controversy: Paradox and the Paradoxical in Sayings of
Abū Yaz īd al-Bisṭā m ī (d. 234/848 or 261/875)”, JSS, vol. 7 (2018), pp. 1–26.
17 On this matter see Mojaddedi, Biographical Tradition, pp. 122–124, 147 and 181.
18 Abū Na ṣr al-Sarr āj, Kit āb al-Lumac f īl-ta ṣawwuf, ed. with a synopsis in English by Reynold A.
Nicholson, Gibb Memorial Series 22 (London, Leyden: Luzac & Co., E.J. Brill, 1914), pp. 36, 92,
104, 188, 201 and 210.
19 These will be discussed below.
20 Kalābādh ī, Kit āb al-tacarruf f ī madhhab ahl al-ta ṣawwuf, ed. A.J. Arberry (Reprint, London:
Alwarraq, 2010), p. 122; English translation, A.J. Arberry as Doctrine of the Sufis (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1935), p. 90.
21 Abū Sacd cAbd al-Malik al-Kharg ū sh ī (Khark ū sh ī), Tahdh īb al-asrār f ī u ṣūl al-ta ṣawwuf, ed. Sayyid
Mu ḥ ammad cAl ī (Beirut: Dar al-Kutub al- cIlmiyya, 2006), pp. 13–14, 30–34.
22 Zunn ār being the girdle worn by non-Muslims. But in Sufi literature the word comes to symbolise
polytheism (shirk), or remaining in a state of duality. Kit āb al-N ūr, p. 117. For other examples see
Kit āb al-N ūr, pp. 74, 131,133 and 144.
23 Kit āb al-N ūr, pp. 72, 117–118.
24 Kit āb al-N ūr, pp. 115–116, 119, 122–123, 138–141.
25 Kit āb al-N ūr, pp. 123–124, 126, 136.
26 Kit āb al-N ūr, p. 89.
27 Kit āb al-N ūr, pp. 86–87.
28 Kit āb al-N ūr, pp. 72, 77, 130–132.
29 For example, in the passages describing his so-called micrāj, but also elsewhere, as in Kit āb al-N ūr,
pp. 115, 122.
30 For example, Kit āb al-N ūr, p. 78.
31 Kit āb al-N ūr, pp. 71, 90–91.
32 Kit āb al-N ūr, pp. 71, 143.
33 Kit āb al-N ūr, pp. 81, 110, 126.
34 Kit āb al-N ūr, pp. 93, 117.
35 Kit āb al-N ūr, pp. 80, 103.
36 Kit āb al-N ūr, pp. 114.
37 Kit āb al-N ūr, pp. 78, 111, 147.
38 Kit āb al-N ūr, p. 67. On this kind of rhetoric in sayings of Bāyaz īd see my “Wisdom in Contro-
versy”, pp. 3, 19, 24 and 25.
39 Kit āb al-N ūr, pp. 55, 111, 133 and 136.
40 On definitions and translations of the term sha ṭḥ, see my “Wisdom in Controversy,” pp. 19–26.
41 Kit āb al-Luma‘, p. 346; trans. Carl Ernst, Words of Ecstasy (Albany: SUNY, 1985), p. 12.
42 What is meant by fan āʾal-fan āʾ (annihilation from annihilation) is probably the highest degree of
fan āʾ. In his Risāla, Qushayr ī explains:
The first annihilation is annihilation from one’s self and and one’s attributes through annihi-
lation in the attributes of God (bi-fan āʾihi f ī ṣif āt al-Ḥaqq); then comes annihilation from from
the attributes of God through annihilation in the contemplation of God (bi-shuhūdihi al-Ḥaqq);
Then one is annihilated from the vision of one’s own annihilation ‘an shuh ūd fan āʾihi) by being
subsumed in the existence of God Himself (istiḥl ākihi f ī wujūd al-Ḥaqq).
Qushayr ī, Risala, p. 174; trans. Knysh, p. 91. In his Man āzil al-sāʾ ir īn, ed. Serge de Beaurecueuil
(Cairo: Institut Français d’Archéologie Orientale), pp. 1962, 104, cAbd Allā h An ṣā r ī (d. 1089)
likewise shows the highest (in his system, the third) level of annihilation to be annihilation from
60
witnessing one’s annihilation ( fan āʾ‘an shuh ūd al-fan āʾ ), and commenting on this definition, cAbd
al-Razz āq al-K ā shā n ī (d. 1329) adds that this is fan āʾ al-fan āʾ. See ‘Abd al-Razz āq al-K ā shā n ī, Sharḥ
man āzil al-sāʾ ir īn, ed. Mu ḥ sin B īd ā rfar (Qom: Intishā r āt-i B īd ā r, 1993), p. 578.
43 Bukhā r ī, Sa ḥīḥ, Kit āb al-Riqāq (“Book of Tenderness [of Heart]”), Ch. 38, on humility.
44 Al-Luma‘, p. 386.
45 Al-Luma‘, p. 391.
46 Kit āb al-N ūr, pp. 78, 111, 147.
48 Kashf al-ma ḥjūb, p. 375; trans. Nicholson, p. 254.
49 Abū’l-Ḥasan ‘Al ī b. al-Ḥasan al-S ī rjā n ī, Kit āb al-Bayāḍ wa’l-saw ād, eds. Mohsen Pourmokhtar and
Nasrollah Pourjavady (Tehran: Iranian Institute of Philosophy and Free University of Berlin,
2011), p. 357ff; eds. Bilal Orfali and Nada Saab and published as Sufism Black and White: A Critical
Edition of Kit āb al-Bayāḍ wa-l-Saw ād by Ab ū l-Ḥasan al-S īrjān ī (d. ca. 470/1077) (Leiden: Brill, 2012),
p. 405ff.
50 Kit āb al-Bayāḍ, p. 359.
53 In other words, my identity as human being has been removed from me. Kit āb al-Bayāḍ, p. 357.
54 Kashf al-ma ḥjūb, p. 281; trans. Nicholson, p. 186. The same examples relating to Moses and
Mu ḥ ammad are cited when contrasting the states of tamk īn and talw īn are discussed.
55 La ṭāʾ if al-ish ārāt, ed. Ibr ā h ī m Basy ū n ī (Cairo: Dā r al-K ātib al-‘Arabī), vol. 1, pp. 564–565.
56 For example, Jal ā l al-D ī n Rū m ī, D īw ān-i Shams, ghazal no. 2781 and tarjīc āt, no. 42; Far īd al-D ī n
‘Aṭṭā r, Mu ṣībatn āma, part 4; and Majd al-D ī n Sanāʾī, D īw ān, ghazal n. 115, 138, 167.
57 Hujw ī r ī, Kashf al-ma ḥjūb, p. 456, trans. Nicholson, p. 311; Kharg ū sh ī, Tahdh īb al-asrār, p. 40.
58 Tahdh īb al-asrār, p. 44.
59 Tahdh īb al-asrār, p. 68. For a variant of this saying, see Sahlag ī, Kit āb al-N ūr, p. 110; Abū Nu‘aym,
Ḥilyat al-awliyāʾ, p. 34.
61 See, for example, the discussion of the word ‘ishq in Qushayr ī’s Risāla, p. 539, trans. Knysh,
pp. 328–329; Hujw ī r ī, Kashf al-ma ḥjūb, pp. 454–455; trans. Nicholson, p. 310.
62 A. J. Arberry, Pages from the Kit āb al-Lumac (London: Luzac, 1947), p. 5. For more on this state-
ment, see Karamustafa, Formative Period, p. 32, n. 46.
63 The word ‘ishq strictly means “passionate”. “intense” or even “extreme” love, but since in love
mysticism this word became interchangeable with that of ḥubb or ma ḥabba and, in Persian, d ūst ī to
mean love, I shall render it simply as “love”.
69 Risāla, p. 543; trans. Knysh, pp. 331–332. Unlike Hujw ī r ī, Qushayr ī does not shy away from using
B āyaz īd’s words “Hal min mazīd”.
70 Risāla, p. 544; trans. Knysh, p. 332.
71 Kashf al-ma ḥjūb, p. 273; trans. Nicholson, p. 187.
72 See, for example, A ḥ mad Ghaz ā l ī, (or Ghazz ā l ī) Saw āniḥ ed. Nasrollah Pourjavady (Tehran:
Intishā r āt-i Bunyād-i Farhang-i Ī r ā n, 1980) Chapters 4, sections 1, 10, 33 and 58; trans., N. Pour-
javady, as Saw āniḥ. Inspirations from the World of Pure Spirits (London: Kegan Paul International,
1986), ed.’s introduction, p. 4.
73 See the definition of sukr given by Pourjavady in the glossary to his translation of Saw āniḥ, p. 121.
74 On Maybud ī’s Kashf al-asrār, see my Sufi Hermeneutics: The Qurʾan Commentary of Rash īd al-D īn
Maybud ī, 2nd edition (Oxford: Oxford University Press with the Institute of Ismaili Studies,
2017).
75 Kashf, III, pp. 793–794. This bayt is taken from A ḥ mad Ghaz ā li’s Saw āniḥ, ed. Pourjavady, ch. 1,
3; trans. Pourjavady, p. 17.
76 Kashf al-asrār, VII, p. 53, VIII, p. 530. This teaching is at odds, therefore, with both Hujw ī r ī’s view
and that expressed in the anonymous comment cited by Qushayr ī and quoted above.
77 Kashf al-asrār, VII, p. 81.
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5
AL-GHAZĀLĪ
In praise of Sufism
Carole Hillenbrand
Introduction
Al-Ghaz ā l ī was a true intellectual colossus. Indeed, he may be regarded as the major Muslim
intellectual of the Middle Ages. He belongs with Augustine and Aquinas. Like Augustine,
he wrote a riveting spiritual autobiography; like Aquinas, he mastered a huge body of book
knowledge, and wrote at least 50 books; like both of them, he spent many years living the
ascetic life. Over the centuries generations of scholars have made extravagant claims for him,
likening him also to Pascal and Descartes.
A brief biography of Abū Ḥāmid Muḥammad al-Ghazālī

Al-Ghaz ā l ī was born in 1058 in Tus in eastern Iran. At an early age he and his brother A ḥ-
mad, himself to become a Sufi poet of distinction, are said to have been orphaned. They
had a guardian, a Sufi called al-Fārmadh ī. As is evident from these skeletal facts, there is
very little that we know for certain about these crucial early years – but it requires very little
imagination to realise that he was subjected to significant trauma at a very young age. What
we do know is that he and his brother learnt at an early age about Sufism. We may speculate
that Sufism was a precious source of comfort to the two boys.
Between 1077 and 1085 al-Ghaz ā l ī studied with the most celebrated theologian of the
eastern Islamic world, al-Juwayn ī, who was based at Nishapur in eastern Iran. He taught
al-Ghaz ā l ī the rational sciences, Shafi‘ite law, theology and logic. Al-Ghaz ā l ī’s studies with
al-Juwayn ī continued until his master died. It is probable that he quickly proved himself to
be a prodigy and even eclipsed his master. He must have attracted notice in the highest cir-
cles even at this early age, for before he was 30 he had also acquired a very powerful mentor,
Ni ẓā m al-Mulk, the vizier of the supreme ruler, the Turkish Seljuq sultan Malikshāh. Ni ẓā m
al-Mulk was, like al-Ghaz ā l ī, from Tus and this might have helped to forge a bond between
them. At the remarkably young age of 33, al-Ghaz ā l ī was appointed to a most prestigious
job, as head of the Ni ẓā miyya madrasa, the most famous theological legal college in Baghdad,
which was then the capital of the entire Islamic world. Here was a Persian taking the top job
in the Arab metropolis of Baghdad. It was like being both Archbishop of Canterbury and
Regius Professor of Law at Oxford. In matters intellectual, he was the man of the moment.
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Carole Hillenbrand
His range was astonishing – he wrote on philosophy, ethics, theology and statecraft, on law
and political thought. In short, he was a polymath. He moved with consummate ease be-
tween the Arabic-speaking court of the caliph and the Persian-speaking court of the sultan.
Four years of this high-profile life led to what would now be called a “mid-life crisis”. In
1095 he left Baghdad and for a long period, possibly as long as ten years, he wandered as an
ascetic Sufi, visiting the holy cities of Jerusalem, Mecca and Medina. He meditated in the
Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem, he spent two years in the minaret of the Great Mosque of
Damascus and he made the pilgrimage to Mecca.
He finally returned home to Tus and lived in seclusion with a circle of Sufi disciples. And
then, all of a sudden, the world of high politics seemed to beckon him back again – but this
time not to Baghdad. Instead, he was invited to Nishapur by the Seljuq Sultan Sanjar to take
on an important teaching post but he stayed there for only two or three years. Thereafter,
he went back to his birthplace, Tus, where he remained almost continuously until his death,
at 53, in 1111. There he lived a retired life, staying – it seems – in a kh ānaqāh which he had
founded, teaching disciples and meditating. Moreover, he wrote important books there,
completing his last work in the month of his death.
Al-Ghazālī ’s spiritual journey

In his spiritual “autobiography”, the Munqidh min al-ḍal āl (The deliverer from error) there is a
very moving account of al-Ghaz ā l ī’s personal crisis in Baghdad in 1095. This mature work
was written in Nishapur between 1106 and 1107 and it looks back at his time in Baghdad and
thereafter.1 Al- Ghaz ā l ī himself says that he wrote the book when he was in his fifties and
around the time he returned to teaching.2
In this book, having finished his examination of three religious sciences – philosophy,
theology and Ism ā‘ ī l ī Shi‘ite doctrines – al-Ghaz ā l ī says that he has now turned to the study
of Sufism. In this moving analysis of his personal crisis, he finds the solution in the way of the
Sufis. He says that for him knowledge of it has been easier than action. He has read classical
Sufi books and learnt what can be learnt by study and listening. But that is not enough; the
essence of Sufism can only be acquired by “tasting” (dhawq), experiencing mystical states
and a change of personal attributes. He writes that the Sufi path aims at removing personal
defects from the soul and at purifying a person’s heart so that it ends up being adorned only
with the name of God.3 He makes an analogy between knowing intellectually the definition of
something (such as sobriety/intoxication or health/illness) and actually experiencing intox-
ication or illness personally. The same applies to Sufism.
He has learnt for certain that Sufis are not pedlars of words; they are possessor of mystical
states. By studying both the religious and rational sciences he has acquired an unshakable
faith in God, prophetic revelation and the Last Judgement. These three principles have be-
come implanted in his soul, not by specific written proof but by other factors too numerous
to list. But he has realised that he must flee all human attachments and ambitions and turn
to God wholeheartedly if he can hope for happiness in the afterlife: “I saw clearly too that I
could not hope for eternal happiness except by fearing God, removing my passions – that is
to say, breaking the attachments of my heart with the world”.4 He goes on to praise the Sufi
path: “Their conduct is perfect, their path is straight, their character virtuous”.5
He has scrutinised his lifestyle and realised that he is entangled in attachments on all sides.
He has also examined his activities – the best of which is his teaching – and he finds them
useless for the way to the afterlife. He has examined his motivation for teaching and found
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Al-Ghazālī
it to be not directed towards God but towards the acquiring of fame and reputation. He re-
cords that he remained hesitating for a while, unable to decide whether to leave Baghdad or
to stay.6 He vacillated: “I would put one foot forward, and the other backward”. Ambition
pushed him towards remaining there; the call of faith urged him to leave. Satan would tempt
him to stay in Baghdad, pointing out to him the dangers of leaving.
In July 1095, after six months of vacillation, the matter passed from choice to compulsion.
He fell into a deep depression. He found that he could not digest food or drink. In the middle
of a lecture he could not speak; as he says: “God put a lock on my tongue”. He felt himself to
be “on the edge of a crumbling bank”. He would be consigned to the Fire if he did not put
his situation right. On a personal level, this great intellectual had clearly realised that he must
flee all human attachments and ambitions and turn to God if he could hope for happiness
in the afterlife. For someone who has reached the very top of the tree in worldly terms, this
is a life-changing insight. The doctors could not cure him of the malady that afflicted him.
Sensing his powerlessness, al-Ghaz ā l ī sought refuge with God, who answered his prayer and
made it easy for him to leave his fame, money, relatives, children and friends. While secretly
planning to travel to Damascus, al-Ghaz ā l ī pretended publicly to be going to Mecca, out of
fear that the caliph and his advisers would find out about his decision to go to Damascus. He
left Baghdad, having resolved never to go back there again.
Al-Ghaz ā l ī stayed in Damascus for nearly two years, spending his time in solitude, retreat,
spiritual discipline, and purifying his heart. He stayed for a while in the Damascus mosque,
passing the day in the minaret with the door closed. From there he went to Jerusalem, visit-
ing the Dome of the Rock every day and shutting himself inside it. After having visited (the
tomb) of the Friend (i.e. Abraham) in Hebron, he then decided to go on the Pilgrimage and
to seek help from the blessings of Mecca and Medina and visiting (the tomb) of the Prophet
of God. Thereafter he felt called to return to his homeland to attend to his family affairs,
despite his reluctance to leave his life of solitude. Worldly preoccupations then tended to
obstruct his pursuit of the mystical path. Nevertheless, the mystical state was achieved, but
only intermittently.7 He remained in this situation for around ten years, in the course of
which innumerable and inexplicable things were revealed to him. But he will say this much:
it is the Sufis who are especially on the path of God. Their way is the best one. He goes even
further in his praise of them:
Indeed, were one to combine the insight of the intellectuals, the wisdom of the wise,
and the lore of the scholars versed in the mysteries of revelation in order to change a
single item of Sufi conduct and ethic and to replace it with something better, no way
would be found! For all their motions and quiescences, exterior and interior, are learned
from the light of the niche of prophecy. And beyond the light of prophecy there is no
light on earth from which illumination can be obtained.8
Two medieval scholars have left biographical accounts of al-Ghaz ā l ī; ‘Abd al-Ghā fir al-Fārisī
(d. 529/1134–1135), whose evidence is the earliest extant biography of al-Ghaz ā l ī, and al-
Subk ī (d. 771/1369). Al-Fārisī writes most favourably of al-Ghaz ā l ī:9
After studying the subtle sciences and applying himself to the books written about them,
he was overwhelmed and followed the path of asceticism and godliness, and he gave up
his entourage and cast away the rank he had attained to devote himself to the causes of
piety and the provisions for the Afterlife.
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Al-Fārisī adds more positive comments about al-Ghaz ā l ī once he was back in Nishapur and
Tus:
I often visited him and I did not find in him what I had formerly been familiar with in his
regard, namely maliciousness and making people uneasy and regarding them disdain-
fully…. He had become the exact opposite and had been cleansed of those impurities.10
Al-Subki also has laudatory comments to make about al-Ghaz ā l ī:
His heart enclosed a piety and a solitude in which his chosen companion was none other
than obedience to God... He left the world behind him and devoted himself to God,
dealing (only) with Him privately and publicly.11
Al-Ghazālī’s writings on Sufism

When writing about Sufism, al-Ghaz ā l ī draws on the concepts and symbols used by his
predecessors, including Ḥa ṣan al-Ba ṣr ī (d. 728) and al-Qushayr ī (d. 1074). He is especially
influenced by two important Sufis, al-Mu ḥā sibī (d. 837) and al-Makk ī (d. 996). The name
al-Mu ḥā sibī is concerned with self-discipline (muḥāṣaba means self-examination) and this
term describes very well the nature of his writing with its emphasis on the examination of
one’s conscience.12 Al-Ghaz ā l ī actually acknowledges his debt to al-Mu ḥā sibī; indeed he says
at one point in the Munqidh that he has copied sentences word for word from a passage in
the work Kit āb al-na ṣā’iḥ of al-Mu ḥā sibī.13 It is quite likely that the autobiographical intro-
duction to this book of al- Mu ḥā sibī may well have influenced al-Ghaz ā l ī when he came to
write the Munqidh. Al- Mu ḥā sibī writes: “With all my heart I sought the path of salvation”.14
Another important source for al-Ghaz ā l ī was the work of al-Makk ī (d. 996), who composed
a work called Q ūt al-qul ūb (The food of hearts) in which he wrote about Islamic ritual practices
from a mystical standpoint, laying emphasis on the three major doctrines of ṣabr (patience),
ma ḥabba (love) and ma‘rifa (gnosis).15
Al-Ghaz ā l ī’s admiration for the Sufi way is summed up in moving terms in the Munqidh:
I learnt with certainty that it is above all the mystics who walk on the road of God; their
life is the best life, their method the soundest method, their character the purest character.16
It became clear to me, however, that what is most distinctive of mysticism is some-
thing which cannot be apprehended by study, but only by immediate experience (dhawq –
literally “tasting”), by ecstasy and by a moral change. 17
Al-Ghaz ā l ī strives for a Sufism based on sober piety, a mingling of the teachings of Islamic
law and the profound inner spirituality of the Sufis. There should be a natural harmony be-
tween Sufism and the Law.
In addition to his famous so-called spiritual autobiography, the Munqidh, there are many
other writings of al-Ghaz ā l ī; they number at least 60. A good number of these are short
treatises, such as the Mishkat al-anw ār 18, Al-Qisṭās al-mustaqīm,19 and Al-Arba‘ īn f ī u ṣūl al-dīn.20
Whatever their length, al-Ghaz ā l ī’s books emphasise the importance of Sunni Islam and
the shar ī‘a, while often highlighting the overarching mystical dimension of the Sufi path.
Clearly, then, he is seeking to unite the path of orthodoxy with that of Sufism; he does not
see one as excluding the other.
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Al-Ghazālī
The following discussion about al-Ghaz ā l ī’s thoughts on Sufism will focus only on two
major books of his, the massive Revivification of the Sciences of Religion (I ḥyā’ ‘ul ūm al-dīn)
which is written in Arabic and the Alchemy of Happiness (K īmīyā-yi sa’ādat) in Persian.
To turn first to the I ḥyā’. This is undoubtedly al-Ghaz ā l ī’s longest, most impressive and
grandiose work. Arberry calls it “in many ways the greatest religious book composed by a
Muslim”.21 It is constructed as a book of jurisprudence. Nevertheless – and this is a remark-
able feat – it is permeated with the mystical dimension. He constantly stresses the role of the
heart; this is no dry, legalistic treatise. It offers a Muslim theory of knowledge, followed by
detailed guidance on matters of faith, ritual, daily life, virtue and vices, and the mystical ex-
perience of God. The I ḥyā’ consists of four sections – ‘ibādāt (cult obligations to God), ‘ad āt
(customs), ‘ajā’ib al-qalb (wonders of the heart) and munjiyāt (religious virtues); each of these
is divided into ten chapters.
The ‘ajā’ib al-qalb section is focussed on Sufi symbolism. Al-Ghaz ā l ī describes the heart
as follows: “It is a subtle tenuous substance of an ethereal spiritual sort, which is connected
with the physical heart. This heart is the part of man which perceives and knows and
experiences”.22
For al-Ghaz ā l ī, it is the heart that equips man for knowledge of God. In this context, the
heart is an organ through which the human being may gaze upon the beauty of the Divine
Presence; this is the culmination of happiness.
In the I ḥyā’ al-Ghaz ā l ī explains the difference between the way in which the Sufis dis-
cover the truth and how those who use reasoning and the process of learning attempt to do
so. This is a very important and moving description:
Know that the preference of the men of ta ṣawwuf (the Sufis) is for inspirational rather
than for instructional cognitions. Hence they are not intent on the study of a science and
the acquisition of what authors have written and the investigation of the teachings and
proofs set forth. Rather they affirm that the (right) way is to give preference to spiritual
combat and eradicating blameworthy qualities and cutting off all attachments (to human
beings) and applying oneself with utmost ardour to God Most High…When God takes
charge of the heart’s affairs His mercy floods it and His light shines in it and man’s heart
is dilated and there is disclosed to him the mystery of the Kingdom and there is lifted
from the face of his heart by the favour of the (Divine) mercy the veil concealing God’s
glory and there gleams in it the realities of the divine things.23
If this advice is followed, the disciple will experience the wonders of proximity to God. The
Sufi path, he says, aims at removing personal defects from the soul and purifying a person’s
heart until it is adorned only with the name of God. The Sufi strives to “see” God with the
“inner eye”, the “eye of the heart”. There are several terms in Arabic which refer to the
human organ used symbolically for spiritual communication with God – heart (qalb), spirit
(r ūḥ), secret (sirr) and jewel ( jawhar). The Sufi tries to remove “obstacles” (i.e. earthly desires)
on the path to God. Another metaphor to help explain this is that Sufism involves tasting.
Just one single aspect of the conduct and morals of the Sufis cannot be surpassed by the total
accumulated intellect of the intellectuals, the wisdom of the wise and the knowledge of the
‘ulama’ who are experts in the secrets of revelation.
Al-Ghaz ā l ī attempts to describe the Sufi way. He says it begins with purifying the heart
and then with its being totally absorbed in the remembrance (dhikr) of God. The final stage
is being completely lost in God. Yet this final stage is really only the beginning, as the hall
(of a house) is only the entry to it.
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Carole Hillenbrand
Revelations and visions are possible from the very beginning of the Sufi path. Then later,
levels of revelation are achieved which are beyond the power of speech to explain:
Then one retires alone … and confines oneself to the religious duties and rituals. One
sits with heart empty and attention concentrated … And after one sits down in seclusion
one unceasingly says with the tongue “Allah, Allah” without interruption concom-
itantly with the presence of the heart until one reaches a state in which he gives up
moving his tongue and see it as though it were flowing on his tongue.24
This is an eloquent and sensitive attempt by al-Ghaz ā l ī to describe the way in which Sufis
carry out the practice of dhikr (remembrance [of God]). The culmination of this deep contem-
plative process will be that gleams of light will shine in the believer’s heart. According to
Seyyed Hossein Nasr, a practising Sufi himself, dhikr is the “primary spiritual technique of
Sufism, through which man returns to God”; it is “prayer unified with the rhythm of life it-
self ”.25 Dhikr involves remembrance, the constant repetition of the name Allah, accompanied
by rhythmic, controlled breathing.
Al-Ghazālī’s writings in Persian

It was perhaps inevitable that most of al-Ghaz ā l ī’s writing is in Arabic, since that ensured its
wide dissemination throughout the Muslim world, from Spain to Central Asia. But he also
composed several works in Persian. It is highly likely that it was after his journeys in Syria
and the Holy Land and his return to eastern Iran that he began writing works in his native
language. Once home in Iran, he nevertheless continued to compose major books in Arabic,
and above all the Munqidh and his legal masterpiece, the Kit āb al-mu ṣṭasfā.26
A fundamental problem in studies of al-Ghaz ā l ī is that most scholars in this field have
focussed on the works in Arabic that account for most of his literary output. Fair enough.
But a good many of them do not know Persian, and so his Persian works have been unfairly
neglected or – worse still – misunderstood and undervalued.
The K īmīyā-yi sa‘ādat (The Alchemy of Happiness – an allusive and challenging title) is his
longest extant work in Persian.27 This still relatively little-known book of al-Ghaz ā l ī, writ-
ten in Persian, has been described as a summary of his Arabic magnum opus, the I ḥyā’. This is
partly true. However, the K īmīyā is much more than this. It is replete with many beautifully
expressed and valuable insights into the Sufi path; these reflections, which are often lengthy,
are not to be found in the I ḥyā’. It is a masterpiece of Persian religious literature. This seems
to be al-Ghaz ā l ī’s first work in Persian. It was written for those living in areas where Persian
was the language of the majority – Iran, Central Asia, Afghanistan and Northern India. The
work was probably completed between 1102 and 1106 after al-Ghaz ā l ī had finished the I ḥyā’.
It is addressed to a new audience. It is written in a simple style at a time when Persian was
enjoying a renaissance as a cultural language in the eastern Islamic world. Al-Ghaz ā l ī tells
his readers that he wishes to explain his message in understandable, accessible words.
The work comprises 40 books. These are divided into four quarters, each containing ten
books. To distance the K īmīyā from the I ḥyā’ and to reinforce the new emphasis and inde-
pendent nature of the K īmīyā, al-Ghaz ā l ī gives this latter work a new title. As in other me-
dieval cultures, the “science” or pseudo-science of alchemy presented writers with a potent
set of images. Alchemists believed that metals formed a hierarchy of increasing purity until
one attained the mystical perfection of gold. The transformation of base metals, which were
imperfect, into gold can serve as an evocative symbol of humanity’s spiritual regeneration
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Al-Ghazālī
through travelling along the Sufi path. Al-Ghaz ā l ī was no stranger to these symbols. Indeed,
it is very likely that his brother A ḥ mad al-Ghaz ā l ī, as a well-known Sufi, exerted an import-
ant influence on him throughout his life.
Al-Ghaz ā l ī is positive in his analysis of why and how human beings have been created; he
writes that, although their bodies are made of clay and are lowly, the essence of their spirit is
sublime and godly. Initially their substance is mixed and “contaminated with beastly, ferine
and devilish qualities”,28 but when they are placed in the crucible of conflict they are cleansed
of this pollution and contamination and they become worthy of proximity to the threshold
of God. Human beings should rid themselves of the grip of lust and anger. At that point they
become worthy to contemplate the beauty of the Divine Presence. Al-Ghaz ā l ī’s spiritual
crisis is a paradigm for all Muslims seeking experiential knowledge of God.
Alchemical imagery is expressed in the introduction to the K īmīyā:
Just as that alchemy that transforms copper and bronze to the purity and beauty of pure
gold is difficult and not known by everyone; so too the alchemy that will transform
the essence of man from his baseness and bestiality to the purity and preciousness of
the angelic state, in order to achieve eternal happiness, is also difficult to find and not
known by all.29
The opening part of the K īm īyā is especially important, for here al-Ghaz ā l ī bares his heart
and defines what he regards as true Muslim spirituality. This prelude is written in praise
of God, who has created the heavens and the earth; it is addressed especially to those who
seek knowledge of Him as they move along the Sufi path in their striving towards prox-
imity with Him:
Abundant gratitude and thanks, in the number of the stars in the sky, the droplets of
the rain, the leaves of the trees, the grains of sand in the desert and the particles of the
earth and the sky, to that God Whose attribute is Oneness and Whose special nature
is Majesty and Grandeur, Greatness and Superiority, and Glory and Goodness. No one
other than He may penetrate the true reality of His knowledge.30
Addressing the Sufis specifically, al-Ghaz ā l ī stresses that “the ultimate end of the journey of
the wayfarers and disciples in their search for proximity to His awesome beauty is astonish-
ment”.31 This prelude in the K īmīyā which is devoted to extolling the glory and splendour of
God reaches a magnificent climax in the following words:
Let no-one reflect upon the Nature and the What of the vastness of His essence! Let no
heart neglect for one moment the wonders of His creation and (question) the nature and
origin of His existence, so that one necessarily recognizes that all are signs of His power
and the lights of His grandeur. All these are the inventions and marvels of His wisdom.
All are the rays of the beauty of His presence.32
Certain symbols recur often in the K īmīyā. First among them is the image of the heart.
Al-Ghaz ā l ī believes that faith has its outward and inner aspects, both of which are necessary
and interdependent to achieve balance; the inner aspects he calls “the activities of hearts”.
Faith based on inner certainty, attained through “unveiling”, is better than faith based on
tradition and reason. It is the “heart”, a delicate transcendental entity, that equips humanity
for knowledge of God. In this context, the “heart”, as al-Ghaz ā l ī says, is not the organ of
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Carole Hillenbrand
flesh, situated on the left side of the chest. It is an organ through which human beings may
gaze upon the beauty of the Divine Presence; this is the culmination of their happiness: “It is
the heart which knows God, which draws near to God, which strives for God, which speeds
towards God and which discloses what is in and with God”.33
Like other Sufi writers al-Ghaz ā l ī used the symbol of the mirror, which in medieval times
was often made of metal. The heart is usually dirty, rusty and soiled with sin and human
passions. It must be cleansed of the rust (of this material world) and polished to become the
receptacle for knowledge of God.
As in the I ḥyā’, al-Ghaz ā l ī emphasises in the K īmīyā the symbolism of the heart as a mir-
ror. He writes as follows:
The actions from which bad qualities come are called disobedience, and those from
which good qualities come are called obedience... The heart is just like a shining mirror.
The ugly qualities are like smoke and darkness which on entering it (the heart) darken
it, so that tomorrow it cannot see the Divine Presence and it becomes veiled from it.
The good qualities are like a light which on entering the heart polishes it clear from the
darkness of rebellion.34
The role of music is also stressed in the K īmīyā. Al-Ghaz ā l ī believes that music is in some way
able to affect man’s inner being, the jewel of the heart. He writes in the K īmīyā:
The heart of man has been so constituted by the Almighty that, like a flint, it contains
a hidden fire which is evoked by music and harmony, and renders man beside himself
with ecstasy. These harmonies are echoes of that higher world of beauty which we call
the world of the spirits. 35
Al-Ghazālī wrote a number of other works in Persian after his return home to Eastern Iran.
They are much shorter than the Kīmīyā and are heavily dependent on the ideas found in that
great work. They are nevertheless worthy of mention, since they demonstrate al-Ghazālī’s wish
to express his views regularly in public to guide the faithful along the right path. These works
are homiletic in tone and they are addressed to sultans, governors, military commanders as well
as to his own Sufi disciples. The principal theme of these shorter works in Persian is the absolute
necessity of upholding the shar ī’a. Islamic law and stable government are inextricably linked.
One such work of al-Ghaz ā l ī in Persian attacks those Sufis who dispense with the Law;
it is called the Ḥam āqat-i ahl-i Ibāḥiyya (The folly of the Ib āḥiyya). For Sufis the Qur’ān and the
ḥad īth are believed to contain a b āṭin, a secret spiritual meaning. Some Sufis felt that follow-
ing the bāṭin allowed them to dispense with observance of the precepts of the shar ī‘a. Within
the spectrum of Sufism, there were those like al-Ghaz ā l ī who still upheld the importance
of following the shar ī‘a and who attacked all those who accepted any sort of antinomianism
(ibāḥa). Al-Ghaz ā l ī vehemently attacks this lawless group:
As for these free-thinkers (Ibāḥatiyy ūn) and these useless wearers of tall hats (mutawaqqan), 36
who have appeared nowadays … who have got hold of a few fraudulent phrases from
the incoherent speech of the Sufis… they deserve to be put to death. They are utterly
devilish people and enemies of God and the Messenger.37
Given the earthly and escatalogical dangers of straying from the “straight path” it is clear
that al-Ghazālī sees the need to write about the importance of “true Sufism”, that which is
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Al-Ghazālī
conducted within the framework of the shar ī’a. It should be noted that just because al-Ghazālī
spoke a great deal about Sufism, this does not mean that he ceased to be a jurist. As late as 1109
he wrote an impressive work, a masterpiece of jurisprudence, the Kitāb al-muṣṭasfā.38
Al-Ghaz ā l ī explicitly states that he wishes the K īmīyā to have wide circulation and to be
understood with ease:
We shall withhold our pen from lengthy, obscure expressions and subtle, difficult mean-
ings, so that it (the book) may be understood … This aim of this book is people at large
(‘awamm-i khalq) who have asked for this subject (to be explained to them) in Persian,
and beyond the limit of whose understanding the discussion will not pass.39
It would be naïve to assume that al-Ghaz ā l ī really does mean the “common people” in this
context. It is much more likely that he is referring here to the Persian-speaking urban elites
in Khurasan, as well as their Turkish overlords who were more likely to know Persian rather
than Arabic. And of course the K īmīyā is also directed to his disciples. The style of the
K īmīyā is typical of the Persian prose produced in Khurasan in the fifth/eleventh century and
the early sixth/twelfth century. It is beautiful, pellucid language.40
Concluding remarks
Mysticism in Islam – for that is what Sufism is – existed from the earliest period. At times
it encountered difficulties, hostility and persecution. Certain figures within Sufism were
perceived to have gone too far in their ecstatic utterances and were condemned, such as
al-Ḥallāj, who was executed in 922, accused of claiming that he was God. However, many
of the greatest Muslim thinkers were indeed followers or admirers of Sufism. Above all, it
was the Sufis who served as the major emotional focus for ordinary people, those unable to
understand the legal and theological intricacies of religious debates.
According to al-Ghaz ā l ī, Sufism should be seen not as an alternative to, but as a comple-
ment to, or completion of, Islamic worship. In the opinion of al-Ghaz ā l ī – a man who was
an absolute master of the written word in both Arabic and Persian – Sufis are not pedlars
of words; they have experienced mystical states which are beyond words. And al-Ghaz ā l ī’s
practice of holding his tongue about the details of Sufi closeness to God is not surprising. It is
integral to the entire Sufi tradition, and also fits in with the millennial practice of Christian
mystics.
Sufism is more a way of life than a school of thought. Sufis emphasised the importance
of asceticism, sincere piety, self-purification, genuine love of God. They believed that every
single person was capable of some direct experience of God. Everything the Sufis do is learnt
from the light of the niche of prophethood. It is only from that niche that enlightenment can
be found on the face of this earth.
Al-Ghaz ā l ī was, above all, a Sunni Muslim through and through. He regards the
religio-legal role of the Sunni caliphate in the lands of Islam as an absolute necessity, seeing it
as a sure foundation for the stability and health of the whole community. He cannot, he will
not, contemplate the idea of there being no Sunni caliph – that way lies disaster. A lthough he
is a great supporter of mysticism – remember his early exposure to its doctrines – Sufi prac-
tice must, in his view, remain within the safe framework of Sunni Islam. It cannot replace
Islamic law, the shar ī‘a. It can only complement and perfect it.
To what extent can it be said that al-Ghaz ā l ī himself was a practising Sufi? Al-Ghaz ā l ī
has certainly had a few opponents in the academic world. A relatively recent attack on him
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Carole Hillenbrand
was made by Julian Baldick in his book, Mystical Islam, published in 1989. He writes that
al-Ghaz ā l ī “has received a vast amount of attention in the West, which he hardly deserves
since his work has neither the spirituality nor the philosophical rigour with which it has been
credited”.41
However, while there may be some doubt as to whether al-Ghaz ā l ī himself actually ex-
perienced the mystical dimensions of Sufism which he describes so eloquently in the I ḥyā’,
the Munqidh, the K īmīyā and other lesser-known works of his, it is abundantly clear that he
thought that the Sufi path was the right one for Muslims to follow, provided, as already men-
tioned, that it was situated within the bounds of Islamic law (the shar ī‘a). In particular, while
his spiritual “autobiography” has a definite didactic purpose, its tone is eloquent, persuasive
and moving. As Knysh shrewdly writes:
In al-Ghaz ā l ī’s view, together with a meticulous observance of the ordinary rules and
routines of Muslim piety, Sufi moral and spiritual discipline is essential in leading the
believer to religious truth, intellectual serenity and, eventually, to salvation.42
According to al-Ghaz ā l ī, all Muslims, in short, should observe the outward signs of the faith.
Yet al-Ghaz ā l ī is well aware that this is not sufficient without the direct, ecstatic contempla-
tion of God in the divinely illuminated heart – the inner fire of Sufism. Al-Ghazā l ī believes
that faith has its outward and inner aspects, both of which are necessary and interdependent
to achieve balance; he calls the inner aspects “the activities of hearts”. Faith based on inner
certainty, attained through “unveiling”, is better than faith based on tradition and reason.
So, like al-Makk ī and other scholars before him, al-Ghaz ā l ī examines the five pillars of Islam
and tries to invest them with inner significance.
A major milestone in the history of Sufism came with the career of al-Ghaz ā l ī, who is
probably the most famous scholar in classical Islam. Even today, he is much respected not
only in the Arab world and in his homeland of Iran, but also in the Indian subcontinent,
Malaysia and Indonesia. His engagement with Sufism is significant not because his ideas are
especially new – for they are not – but because he is able to present them in a systematic,
structured and eloquent way. For al-Ghaz ā l ī, the Sufi path towards true knowledge should
not imply a divorce from the shar ī‘a, the well-trodden path of the revealed law of Islam.
Indeed, a scrupulous observance of outward religious practices is a necessary part of inner
piety. He underlines this point in his long masterpiece, the I ḥyā’, The Revivification of the
Religious Sciences, where he explains that Sufism is not an alternative to formal Islam, but a
completion of it. The Revivification is directed not just at the majority of Muslims; it is also
addressed to certain groups of Sufis, who had dared to express the opinion that Islamic law
could be ignored. Al-Ghaz ā l ī’s passionately positive advocacy for the Sufi way formed the
culmination of the work of his predecessors al-Mu ḥā sibī and al-Makk ī, and he helped to
integrate a moderate form of Sufism into Islam.
In retrospect, much of his importance seems to lie in the fact that his Sufism was embed-
ded in the shar ī‘a, the wide path for all Muslims to follow, rather than in the tariqa, the nar-
row and often controversial path trodden by Sufi adepts. So his teaching is fully integrated
into the life of the Muslim community. It does not require prodigies of self-denial, but it
does require living in the presence of God, and it shows very pragmatically how that can
be done. So his teaching not only challenges the believer but also provides abundant hope.
Nearly all the attention devoted to al-Ghaz ā l ī in Western scholarship has been paid, not
surprisingly perhaps, to his numerous works in Arabic. These do, indeed, form the over-
whelming majority of al-Ghaz ā l ī’s oeuvre. It is important, however, to note that al-Ghaz ā l ī
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Al-Ghazālī
was a Persian who also composed works in his native tongue and these have been largely
neglected by all but a few scholars – although all seem to accept en passant that al-Ghaz ā l ī did
write in Persian too. A symptom of this neglect is that for a long time now a body of scholars
have alleged that the K īmīyā is merely a Persian summary of the I ḥyā’. Thanks to frequent
repetition, this assertion has become deeply entrenched, so much so that the K īmīyā is rarely,
or more often, never, consulted by those who are specialists on al-Ghaz ā l ī and who on the
whole until recently have not even bothered to learn Persian. It is high time for this situation
to be recognised so that al-Ghaz ā l ī’s work and his spiritual evolution can be assessed in their
full context.
For al-Ghaz ā l ī Sufism is the path of choice towards true knowledge, gnosis (ma‘r īfa). In
one of his surviving letters he writes: “Gnosis or ma‘r īfa is a knowledge given in ecstasy to
saints who behold God with their hearts”.43 He does not believe that the truth lies either
with theology or with philosophy, let alone with the charismatic authoritarianism of the new
Shi‘ite missionary teaching of Ḥasān-i Ṣabbāḥ, the Ni ẓār ī Ism ā‘ ī l ī in Alamut. Al-Ghaz ā l ī is
also irrevocably opposed to extreme forms of Sufism, such as those antinomian tendencies
which dispense with adherence to God’s Revealed Law, the shar ī‘a. For al-Ghaz ā l ī, the
Sufi path towards true knowledge should not imply a divorce from that well-trodden path.
Indeed, it is worth repeating that in his view, scrupulous observance of outward religious
practices is a prerequisite of inner piety.
Al-Ghaz ā l ī examines the five pillars of Islam and tries to invest them with inner signif-
icance. It is the “heart”, that elusive entity, which equips man for knowledge of God. Like
others who attempted to theorise Sufi doctrine, al-Ghaz ā l ī feels that the heart is the entity
which allows the human being to progress along the path of spiritual exercises which leads
to greater proximity to God. For al-Ghaz ā l ī Sufism should not be an alternative to the usual
formal rituals of Islam but a completion of them. He is passionate about Sufism – that is clear
enough – but he is equally passionate about the law and its abiding importance. And so, in
the last decade of his life the two most formative influences in his early years came together
and found expression in his native tongue. The K īmīyā is a lasting monument to Sufism, to
the law, and its author’s commitment to the public good. And for that reason al-Ghazā l ī’s
moral stature has remained undimmed across the centuries.
Notes

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Carole Hillenbrand
Universitat Bonn, 1961), p. 3; Arthur J. Arberry, Sufism; An account of the mystics of Islam (London:
George Allen, 1963), 47.
13 Jabre, Al-Ghazali, p. 35; Arberry, Sufism, p. 47; Van Ess, Die Gedankenwelt, p. 3; Smith, “A fore-
runner of Ghazali”, p. 35.
14 Arberry, Sufism, p. 47.
15 Saeko Yazaki, Islamic mysticism and Abu Talib al-Makki: The role of the heart (Abingdon: Routledge,
2013).
16 Watt, Faith and practice, p. 24.
17 Ibid., p. 22.
18 Mishkat al-anwar, tr. David Buchman as The Niche of Lights (Utah: Brigham Young University,
1998).
19 Al-Qisṭās al-mustaqīm, ed. V. Chelhot (Damascus: Bulletin d’Études orientales, X, 1958).
20 Al-Arba‘ īn f ī u ṣūl al-d īn, ed. M.M. Jabir (Cairo: n.p., 1964).
21 Arberry, Sufism, p. 79.
22 Al-Ghazali. Wonders of the heart, tr. Walter James Skellie (Kuala Lumpur: n.p., 2007), p. 6.
23 McCarthy, Freedom and fulfillment, p. 379.
24 McCarthy, Freedom and fulfillment, p. 380.
25 Seyyed Hossein Nasr, Ideals and Realities of Islam (Boston: QABC International Group Inc. 1966),
p. 142.
26 Al-Ghazali, Al-Mu ṣṭasfā min ‘ilm al-u ṣūl (Beirut, 1904–1907).
27 Ed. H. Khadivjam, Tehran, 1341/1976. H. Ritter, Al-Ghasali: Das Elixir de Glückseligkeit (Munich:
Eugen Diederichs, 1929). Alexei A. Khismatulin, The Kimiya-yi Sa‘adat (‘Elixir schast’ya’). Part 1:
Rukn 2 (St Petersburg: Peterburgskoe Vostokovedenie, 2002); Part 2: Rukn 2 (St Petersburg:
Peterburgskoe Vostokovedenie, 2007). Al-Ghazali, The alchemy of happiness (Kimyâyi Sa‘âdat), tr.
H. A. Homes (Albany: Munsell, 1873). Al-Ghazali, The alchemy of happiness, tr. Claude Field, re-
vised and annotated by Elton L. Daniel (London: M. E. Sharpe, 1991).
28 Kimiya, ed. Khadivjam, vol. 1, 4.
29 Al-Ghazzali, Alchemy of Happiness, tr. Jay R. Crook (Chicago: Kazi Publications, 2005), pp. 2–3.
30 Ibid., p. 1.
31 Ibid.
32 Ibid., pp. 1–2.
33 McCarthy, Freedom and fulfilment, p. 363.
34 Khadivjam (ed), K īm īyā-yi sa‘ādat, p. 25.
35 Field (trans), The Alchemy of Happiness, p. 57.
36 Reinhard Dozy, Supplément aux dictionnaires arabes (Beirut: Libraire du Liban, 1968), vol. 2, p. 71.
37 Kimiya, ed. Khadivjam, vol. 1, p. 38. Munqidh, tr. McCarthy, pp. 103–104, 108 and footnote 230.
Otto Pretzl, Die Streitschrift des Ghazali gegen die Ibahija (Munich: Sitzungsberichte der Bayerischen
Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1933).
38 Al-Ghazali, Al-Mu ṣṭasfā min ‘ilm al-u ṣūl (Baghdad: Maktabat al-Muthanna, 1970).
39 Kimiya, ed. Khadivjam, vol. 1, p. 9.
40 J. Van Ess, “Quelques remarques sur le Munqidh min ad-dalâl” in Ghâzâlī. La raison et le miracle,
editor unidentified, Table Ronde Unesco, 9–10 décembre 1985 (Paris: Éditions Maisonneuve et
Larose, 1987), pp. 59–60.
41 Julian Baldick, Mystical Islam (London: New York University Press, 1989), pp. 65–66.
42 Alexander Knysh, Islamic Mysticism. A short history (Leiden: Brill, 2000), p. 144.
43 Abdul Qayyum, Letters of al-Ghazali (Lahore: Islamic Publications Ltd., 1982), p. 182.
74
6
‘AYN AL-QUḌĀT’S QUR’ANIC
VISION
From black words to white parchment*
Mohammed Rustom
Introduction
‘Ayn al-Quḍāt Hamadānī (d. 1131) was a mystic, philosopher, theologian, and judge who
was born in the western Iranian city of Hamadan. He was the student of A ḥ mad al-Ghazālī
(d. 1126),1 the brother of Abū Ḥāmid al-Ghazālī (d. 1111), and is best known as a maverick-like
figure who was put to death by the Seljuq government at the tender age of 34, ostensibly on
charges of “heresy”.2 Looking beyond the causes surrounding his state-sponsored execution
and to his writings, ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt emerges as a first-rate thinker who was thoroughly con-
versant in the Islamic intellectual sciences, along with Arabic and Persian poetry. One of ‘Ayn
al-Quḍāt’s greatest achievements was the original manner in which he tied the seemingly
disparate traditions of Islamic mysticism, philosophy, and theology together into a unified
perspective—a perspective that would, in one way or another, come to inform the work of
some of the greatest figures of post-classical Islamic civilization.3 For all of ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt’s
importance, there is relatively little scholarship on him that is entirely reliable, and there are
indeed major features of his thought which have not been examined at all, or at least not in
great detail. His engagement with the Qur’ān is one glaring example.4 Therefore, what is to
follow is an attempt to outline the main features of ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt’s profound Qur’ānic vision.
Vastness and worthiness

It should be noted that ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt is not concerned with such questions as the Qur’ān’s
various linguistic senses and its occasions of revelation, even though he was deeply learned
in all of the Qur’ānic sciences. For ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt, the Qur’ān as the Word of God penetrates
the planes of time and space, and hence accounts for all of reality. The Qur’ān in its true
nature therefore transcends the physical Arabic text in which it is written. What, then, is the
Qur’ān, and how can it be known? The judge of Hamad ān has a great deal to say in answer
to these and related questions.
From one perspective, ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt equates the Qur’ān itself with Paradise, however
far off this may seem to most people: “Paradise is the Qur’ān, but you are unaware!”5 From
another perspective, he likens the Qur’ān to a rope, in keeping with a well-known ḥadīth
* Research for this chapter was made possible by the NYU Abu Dhabi Institute, where I served as Senior
Humanities Research Fellow in the autumn of 2017.
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Mohammed Rustom
which states that the Qur’ān is a rope which extends from heaven to earth.6 This rope allows
the one who grasps it to be pulled into the very presence of God: “Alas! The Qur’ān is a rope
that pulls the seeker until he is made to reach the Sought”.7
As that which leads people back to God, the Qur’ān in theory supplies all of the provisions
that people need for their homeward journey. With this in mind, ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt introduces
a creative play on the Persian word bas, meaning “enough”. If we combine the first letter of
the Qur’ān, i.e. the bāʾ of the basmala (Q. 1:1) with the final letter of the Qur’ān, i.e. the sīn
in n ās (Q. 114:6), we get the word bas. Thus, what is between the bāʾ and the sīn, namely,
the entire Qur’ān, is “enough” (bas) for the one seeking God.8 Incidentally, this same idea
is expressed by the famous Persian poet Sanāʾī (d. 1131),9 ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt’s contemporary and
someone upon whose poetry he heavily relied.10
Since the Qur’ān is enough for the believer, it explains all things, and indeed contains all
things: “By my life! All is explained in the Majestic Qur’ān—nor is there anything moist or dry,
but that it is in a clear Book (Q. 6:59). But, where have you seen the Qur’ān?”;11 “Whatever is,
was, and will be, all of it is in the Qur’ān”.12 It will be noted that in the first of the two texts
just cited ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt asks “where” one “sees” the Qur’ān. This is an important concept
which we will have the opportunity to address momentarily. At this stage it is sufficient to
keep in mind that wherever the Qur’ān is to be seen in order to gain access to its secrets, ‘Ayn
al-Quḍāt was convinced that he had access to that unique vantage point. This explains why
he says in no uncertain terms: “The Qur’ān is so vast that whatever I want, I find it in the
Qur’ān. O chevalier! The Qur’ān is majestic: We have indeed given thee the seven oft-repeated,
and the mighty Qur’ān (Q. 15:87)”.13
The vantage point in question is nothing other than what can be called “awakening”.
Such an awakening might be signalled by one’s sincerity (ikhl āṣ) for the “things” of God,
which amount to nothing less than Paradise and its content. At the same time, there is a
kind of sincerity, commonly invoked in Sufi discourse, which is of the kind that sees even
the desire for Paradise as an impediment upon the path towards self-realization. One must
be sincere, then, not for that which comes as a consequence of a godly life but with God
in one’s life, both here and in the hereafter. This highest form of sincerity is reserved for
the one who recognizes God (c ārif ), and entails direct access to the vast treasuries of the
Qur’ā n:
All is in the Qur’ān, but you are still asleep! When one’s intention is pure of the con-
taminations of this world, that is called the “sincerity of the ascetics”, the reward for
which is Paradise: Those who believe and act righteously, for them is the Garden as a reward
(Q. 18:107). But when one’s intention is pure of the contaminations of the next world,
that is called the “sincerity of the recognizers”, the reward for which is the encounter
with God: “Whosoever hopes for the meeting with his Lord, let him perform righteous deeds and
make no one a partner unto his Lord in worship” (Q. 18:110).14
In order to cultivate these two types of sincerity, ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt introduces a rather straight-
forward programme of action. First, one must faithfully seek God;15 second, one must let
go of what ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt calls “habit-worship” (‘ādat-parast ī ), a theme which informs many
aspects of his teachings.16 Habit-worship is tantamount to idol-worship (but-parast ī ),17 and is
thus completely antithetical to the Qur’ānic notion of God’s oneness. Attachment to one’s
deeply ingrained habits, be they psychological or physical and pertaining to some desired
gain in this world or the next world, causes one’s inner ugliness to dominate, thereby forcing
the Qur’ān’s beauty to recede to the background.
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‘Ayn al-Quḍāt’s Qur’anic vision
Thus, ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt advises, “If you want to see the beauty of the Qur’ān, let go of
habit-worship!”18 But to “let go” of habit-worship does not in itself guarantee that one will
be able to perpetually see the Qur’ān’s beauty. Only the beauty of the Qur’ān itself can cause
a person to leave habit-worship all together, what ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt refers to as a person’s “com-
ing out” of habit-worship. When habit-worship is fully overcome, one is then characterized
as being among “those worthy of the Qur’ān” (ahl-i Qurʾān):
O dear friend! When you see the beauty of the Qur’ān, you will come out of habit-
worship such that you will become worthy of the Qur’ān: ‘Those worthy of the Qur’ān
are worthy of God, and are His chosen ones’.19 These people are worthy because
they have reached the reality of God’s Word itself. Do they not contemplate the Qur’ān?
(Q. 47:24) is acquired from them because the Qur’ān has accepted them. This is the
meaning of they are more worthy of it and deserving of it (Q. 48:26).20
Following a long-standing tradition in Islam, ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt conceives of the Qur’ā n as a

bride. The bride’s beautiful face is not seen by most people, and is in effect veiled up to a
million times over: “The Qur’ā n is in so many as a million veils (parda), but you are not
privy (ma ḥram)! Right now, you do not have a way to get inside its veils!” 21 The bride’s
beauty is not to be seen by just anybody. As ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt exclaims, “For the Qur’ā n
to lift the veil of greatness from its face and show itself to one who is privy is no trifling
matter!” 22 The reason the disclosure of the Qur’ā n’s veils is such a significant “revelation”
is because the beauty of the Qur’ā n has the ability in itself to take one from their fallen
state to presence with God, from ugliness to beauty, from distance to proximity, and from
illness to healing:
O dear friend! What have you understood from the verse where God says, Had We
made this Qur’ān descend upon a mountain, thou wouldst have seen it humbled, rent asunder by
the fear of God (Q. 59:21)? And Mu ṣṭ af ā said, “The Qur’ā n is richness, with no poverty
after it and no richness other than it”.23 O dear friend! When the Qur’ā n lifts the cover
(niq āb) of greatness from its face and removes the veil (burqaʿ ) of majesty, all of those
ill because of their distance from the encounter with God are cured, and deliverance
is found from every ailment. From Mu ṣṭ af ā , listen to what he said: “The Qur’ā n is
the medicine”. 24,25
But who are those that are “privy” for such an honour? It is not those who are worthy of
the Qur’ān since, as we have seen, becoming worthy of the Qur’ān is itself predicated upon
the Qur’ān displaying its beauty to a person, causing him thereby to completely relinquish
habit-worship and then become worthy of the Qur’ān. Those who are privy are those who
are virtually “worthy” of the Qur’ān. They have this status because their hearts are worthy
of beholding the Qur’ān’s beauty:
Beware! Do not think that the Qur’ān will ever accept just any stranger (n ā ma ḥramī )
and speak to him. The Qur’ān gives a wink of its beauty to a heart that is worthy. Truly
in that is a reminder for whosoever has a heart (Q. 50:37) testifies to this.26
The next question would be how this worthiness of heart comes about. ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt’s an-
swers are inextricably related to his teachings concerning the right and wrong way to read
and interact with the Qur’ān, to which we shall now turn.
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Understanding and hearing

One topic that ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt constantly addresses in his writings is that of the correct
understanding of the Qur’ān. He is rather unapologetic about the criteria that he takes for
granted. His convictions can be summed up in three of his pithy remarks: “Knowing is one
thing, and memorizing the words of others is quite another thing!”27; “A person reads the
Qur’ān so many times, but knows nothing of the Qur’ān!”28; “Do you imagine that you
know the Qur’ān? By God, you don’t know!”29 The aforementioned criteria for a sound un-
derstanding of the Qur’ān has little to do with mastery of Arabic and the science of Qur’ānic
interpretation (tafsīr).
With respect to tafsīr, ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt argues that one cannot accept the meanings of verses
based on the reports and explanations of traditional authorities, even if the authority be the
famous early scriptural exegete Ibn ‘Abbā s (d. 688). This is because there is a world of differ-
ence in assenting to the realized understanding of someone else and knowing why it is that
they have such a conviction.30
For ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt, what is worse than following the opinions of someone else in matters
of Qur’ānic interpretation is one’s own superficial understanding of the text of the Qur’ān.
He juxtaposes the outward (ẓāhir) understanding of the Qur’ān with a more esoteric kind of
understanding. The latter is commonly referred to in Sufi texts as the inward (bāṭin) sense of
scripture. In the following passage a synonym for this term is employed, namely, “kernel”
(maghz). In other words, the Qur’ān has a shell (pust) and it has a kernel. The shell is the
surface of the Qur’ān, the “outward” aspect of it, whereas the kernel is what the shell is for,
and is in fact its reality:
Alas! People have been content with the outward of the Qur’ān—all they see of it is
a shell! Wait, until the Qur’ān’s kernel is eaten: “The Qur’ān is God’s cultivating spot
upon His earth”.31,32
In the context of a letter to one of his disciples, ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt gives us a window into his
perspective on outward or exoteric forms of Qur’ānic exegesis. Here, he is concerned with
driving home to his disciple the point that dedication to an outward understanding of the
Qur’ān is a sign of ignorance, and ultimately indicates a failure to understand the intent of
religion and revealed scripture:
Whoever is committed to the outward is a complete moron; and if he is content with the
outward, he is lifeless, suspended at the lowest point of humanness, and totally unaware
of the reality of the revealed laws of the prophets.33
‘Ayn al-Quḍāt’s disdain for the standard approaches to Qur’ānic interpretation does not stop
here. It is well known that the analysis of the Arabic language, with respect to its lexicog-
raphy, grammar, style, and rhetorical forms, is the hallmark and foundation of the science
of Qur’ānic interpretation. As a master himself of the Arabic language, however, ‘Ayn al-
Quḍāt sees mastery of Arabic as rather unessential to understanding the Qur’ān.34 A standard
example which he employs in order to demonstrate this point concerns the early enemies
of Islam Abū Jahl and Abū Lahab. They were among the most eloquent users of the Arabic
language, and they “heard” the Qur’ān, but they did not accept the Qur’ān as the Word of
God and thus did not follow the Prophet.35 In the case of Abū Jahl in particular, who in ‘Ayn
al-Quḍāt’s writings is the prototypical unbeliever tone-deaf to the divine Word, what he
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lacked despite his extensive knowledge of Arabic was self-knowledge (ma‘rifat-i nafs).36 With
the famous Sufi dictum in mind, “He who knows himself knows his Lord”, ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt
says that Abū Jahl’s lack of self-knowledge means he could not have knowledge of God, and
thus could not hear the Qur’ān:
Dead, not living (Q. 16:21); Surely you will not make the dead to hear (Q. 27:80); Only those
who hear will respond. As for the dead, God will resurrect them (Q. 6:36). A dead man who
does not hear cannot answer. Respond to God and the Messenger when he calls you (Q. 8:24).
The purpose of this is because you say, “I know the Qur’ān”. If this is Qur’ān-knowing,
then Abū Jahl also knew the Qur’ān! God says, they are debarred from hearing (Q. 26:212).37
As someone who could not hear the divine audition, Abū Jahl was “estranged” (bīgān ī ).38
Abū Jahl is also an archetype of a certain kind of person who claims to “know” the Qur’ān
based on his knowledge of Arabic alone, even if, unlike Abū Jahl, such a person does accept
the Qur’ān as the Word of God. What Abū Jahl and this kind of believer share in common
is their surface-level perception of what the Qur’ān is:
What you hear and read—that’s not the Qur’ān! If it were, why did Abū Jahl not hear?
And why is it said, Surely, you will not make the dead to hear (Q. 27:80)? I mean, he heard
the outward.39
Look at Muṣṭ afā, when he will complain about you and the likes of you: O my Lord!
Truly my people have taken this Qur’ān for foolishness (Q. 25:30). Do you imagine that you
are not one of these people? In truth, you are, but you don’t know!40
‘Ayn al-Quḍāṭ returns to the outward/inward aspect of the Qur’ān many times in his writ-
ings. In some contexts, he also frames his enquiry using the form (ṣūra)/meaning (ma‘n ā) di-
chotomy, which becomes standard fare in Sufi texts from the sixth/twelfth century onward.
In order to move beyond the Qur’ān’s form and access its meaning, one must “ingest” the
kernel of the Qur’ān and not simply behold its outer form. The key here is reflection ( fikr):
If you want to find Him, then read the Qur’ān with reflection, for “God has disclosed
Himself to His servants in the Qur’ān.”41 Read it so that you know what work you are
to do—till it becomes clear to them that He is the real (Q. 41:53). If you do not know, go and
try to explain it!42
The kind of “reflection” ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt is calling for is not discursive reasoning. Just like
Ghaz ā l ī, whom he follows very closely on many points of Sufi doctrine, ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt is
of the view that discursive reasoning will not take one to the meaning of scripture. Rather,
what is needed is a perspective that transcends our usual cognitive frames of referencing,
what ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt calls “that which is beyond the scope of the intellect” (m ā warā’ ṭawr
al-‘aql).43 This can only be obtained when one is pure.
In another letter to a disciple, ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt poses a rhetorical question to his student,
emphasizing the importance of purity as a precondition for “hearing” the Qur’ān:
Do you imagine that you have ever read or heard a letter of the Qur’ān? Not at all! None
touch it, save those made pure (Q. 56:79); The idolaters are surely unclean; (Q. 9:28); “God is
good, and He only accepts the good”44; good women are for good men (Q. 24:26); Peace be
upon you; you have done well; so enter it, abiding (Q. 39:73).45
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Yet what is it that is supposed to be pure? This takes us back to a point discussed earlier, that
of a “worthy heart”. For ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt, a worthy heart is a synonym for a pure heart. A
heart that is not worthy will not be filled with light and knowledge, which are synonymous
with the Qur’ān:
So long as your heart is not cleansed of attachments—Did We not expand for thee thy breast?
(Q. 94:1)—your heart will not be full of knowledge, light, and recognition: Is the one whose
breast God expands for submission so that He is upon a light from his Lord ….? (Q. 39:22)46
Keep your hearing and sight pure from what is inappropriate until you hear the
Beginningless Word and see the Beginningless beauty. Keep your tongue pure from
sins until you can read the Qur’ān. Keep your heart pure from inward sins until you
understand the eternal Word.47
When the heart is cleansed of its worldly attachments, it will then be ready to understand
and “reflect” upon the Qur’ān. In the following passage, which is a fine example of ‘Ayn al-
Quḍāt’s Qur’ānic Persian prose, he states his point in very lucid terms:
Alas! The lock of humanness is upon hearts, and the bond of heedlessness around
thoughts. This is the meaning of Do they not contemplate the Qur’ān? Or do hearts have
their locks upon them? (Q. 47:24). When the openings of victory and God’s help come
forth—When God’s help and victory comes! (Q. 110:1)—He will remove this lock from
the heart. We shall show them Our signs upon the horizons and within their selves (Q. 41:53)
will be manifest, and the plants of And God made you grow forth from the earth like plants
(Q. 71:17) will harvest. He will come out of his self. He will see the dominion (malak ūt)
and the kingdom, and the King of the kingdom will reign: Thus did We show Abraham
the dominion of the heavens and the earth (Q. 6:75). He will come out of his self.48
We shall return to the notion of “coming out” of oneself in due course. At this juncture, it is
important to keep in mind that what ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt means by the lock upon the heart being
opened fundamentally entails what the Sufis call “unveiling” (kashf ). Thus, when ‘Ayn al-
Quḍāt speaks of reading the Qur’ān, he is not concerned with the act of reading, just as he is
not concerned with the act of thinking when he speaks of reflecting upon the Qur’ān. The
active role of the individual entails combat with the self and overcoming one’s base qualities.
The passive aspect is when God causes the individual to be overcome by the divine audition.
This is made possible by virtue of hearing and listening to the divine Word.
Sufis have always placed critical importance upon “listening”, which is undoubtedly sig-
nalled by such Qur’ānic verses as Q. 7:204. This practice of deep listening engenders deeper
modes of contemplation among listeners, thus resulting in ever new and more profound
understandings upon every aural encounter with the Qur’ān.49 ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt’s emphasis on
“hearing” the Qur’ān is no different in this regard. For him, as was the case with many of
the Sufis who preceded him, the ability to hear the Qur’ān correctly in this world is itself a
reflection of a higher, primordial prefigurement when all human souls stood before God in a
timeless “time” and testified to His oneness and lordhood. This is known in Sufi texts as the
“Day of the Covenant”, and is signalled by Q. 7:172:50
O dear friend! Recall that day when the beauty of “Am I not your Lord?” (Q. 7:172) was
being displayed to you and you were hearing the audition of And if any of the idolaters
seek asylum with thee, grant him asylum until he hears the Word of God (Q. 9:6). There was
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no soul that did not see Him, and there was no ear except that it heard the audition of
the Qur’ān from Him. But veils were appointed such that, by means of these veils, some
souls forget and some are not given access beyond the first station ….51
As for the people whom ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt cites as being worthy of the Qur’ān, one of them was
his early master Shaykh Baraka Hamad ān ī (d. 1126).52 Shaykh Baraka only knew the Fāti ḥa
(Q. 1) and a few other short Qur’ānic chapters—in other words, he had the bare minimum
knowledge of the Qur’ān that one would need in order to perform the five daily prayers. His
student, in contrast, had a very extensive knowledge of the Qur’ān, and in all likelihood had
the entire Qur’ān committed to memory. Despite this fact, ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt insists that Shaykh
Baraka knew the Qur’ān much better than he did, and this because of his inner purity and
high level of spiritual attainment.53 His heart was thus unlocked, and he could understand
the meaning of the Qur’ān, beyond the outward, formal elements of the Arabic text in which
the Qur’ān is written.
The hearing in question is what ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt calls “inner hearing” (sam‘-i bāṭin ī ). Peo-
ple who have this quality stand in stark contrast to those who are estranged from the divine
Word and simply hear it as the clashing of words and sounds.54 In keeping with two well-
known Prophetic sayings,55 Shaykh Baraka had died to himself, and thus his resurrection
had already taken place. Having already reached the next world, he could hear the Qur’ānic
address in its primordial audition.56
Letters, dots, obliteration

A natural corollary to our author’s general approach to the Qur’ān is to be found in his the-
ory of its mysterious “detached letters” (al- ḥur ūf al-muqa ṭṭa‘a), which appear at the beginning
of 29 Qur’ānic chapters.57 Whereas people understand the Qur’ān only from “the path of
habit” and not from God,58 ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt makes it clear that his understanding of the de-
tached letters, as with his other “ideas”, is based on tasting (dhawq).59 One of the things that
he has tasted with respect to the detached letters is that they contain all of the secrets in the
cosmic order.60 These secrets are not to be read of in books or even extracted from the pages
of the Qur’ān through an analytical engagement with the text of the Qur’ān. Rather, the
reality of the detached letters is made known to ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt through the same means with
which he has been able to unlock the mysteries of the Qur’ān in general. This “means” is
nothing other than the purification of the heart in order to hear the meanings contained in
the Qur’ān from God Himself.
This is why ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt indirectly links knowledge of the detached letters with what
the Sufis refer to as the “science of the heart”: “Were I not to find these detached letters in the
Qur’ān, I would not have any faith in the Qur’ān! Truly in that is a reminder for whosoever has a
heart (Q. 50:37)”.61 Likewise, “The detached letters are what gladden the hearts of the lovers
of His Word”.62 The heart that has become worthy of receiving the meanings of the divine
Word is the same heart that can also access the meanings of the detached letters. But, ‘Ayn
al-Quḍāt avers, this can only be done when one relinquishes his self of individual agency, or
the “habit” of insisting on his selfish and individualistic quest for knowing. As with the other
topics which he tackles in his writings, there can be no talk of “‘Ayn al-Quḍāt” and “his”
understanding of the detached letters:
How could I ever be so bold as to comment on the detached letters, such as Ṭāʾ. Hāʾ
(Q. 20:1), Ḥāʾ. M īm (Q. 40:1, etc.), and Alif, M īm, Ṣāḍ (Q. 7:1)? All that I have written,
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that is, whenever I write something, it comes before me and overpowers me to the point
that I write. Likewise, if I want to write, I cannot.63
When an exposition of the detached letters does “overpower” the judge of Hamad ān, there
is much to say. In the first instance, he tells us that these letters appear in a garb (kiswa) that
is “undifferentiated” (mujmal)64 so that those who are strangers to the Qur’ān are debarred
from understanding the mysteries to which they refer.65 This “garb of letters” does not only
pertain to the detached letters. The entire Qur’ān is itself enshrouded in this garb, whose
function remains the same—to communicate something to the believers in and lovers of the
divine Word which cannot be conveyed to those who reject the message:
The Qur’ān was sent to this world in the garb of letters. A million spirit-stealing winks
were placed in every letter. Then this call was given: And remind, for truly the reminder
benefits the believers (Q. 51:55). He said, ‘Lay down the snare of messengerhood and the
call. Our snare will know those who are our prey, and will have no desire for those
estranged from us’. Truly it is the same for the unbelievers whether thou warnest them or warnest
them not; they do not believe (Q. 2:6).66
Despite the fact that all of the Qur’ān’s letters are inaccessible to those estranged from the
Qur’ān, the detached letters better serve the function as primary gateways into that vast ex-
panse which is the Beginningless Word:
O chevalier! Do you know what these detached letters are? The infinite, Beginningless
Word, from beauty without neglect. These letters are meaningless for the generality
of people. If the sea were ink for the Words of my Lord, the sea would be exhausted before the
Words of my Lord were exhausted, even if We brought the like thereof to replenish it (Q. 18:109).
Do you say that a little ink can write all of the Qur’ān? Then what is this? And if all the
trees on earth were pens, and if the ocean and seven more added to it [were ink], the Words of God
would not be exhausted (Q. 31:27). All that is known is from this, but you have not known
anything! O friend! That which cannot be written with the oceans is all wrapped up in
the exaltedness of these letters.67
For ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt, the detached letters do not only amount to the 29 Qur’ānic chapters in
which they are found. Those who only see the Qur’ān’s detached letters in this conventional
way are, as he says, still neophytes.68 This is because they are on the plane of forms and writ-
ten expressions. In reality, the entire Qur’ān consists of detached letters since the Qur’ān
descended from the “world of the mystery” (‘ālam-i sirr),69 which is the plane of meaning
above and beyond forms, writing, and speech. In that world, insofar as we can speak of an
“articulated” Qur’ān, the entire Qur’ān subsists as so many individual, detached letters.
In our world, these letters form together, giving us clusters of words and sentences, and
effectively the entire written Qur’ānic text. During the downward descent of the detached
letters, some of them did not descend fully—they therefore stand apart from the letter com-
binations which make up most of the Qur’ān. These suspended letters are what we normally
refer to as the “detached letters”. Their presence, as we have already noted, is an indication
of a more originary form of the Qur’ān, and they are the keys to unlocking the Qur’ān’s
true meanings.
Before people learn the “alphabet of love” (abjad-i ‘ishq), they will, like most people,
necessarily see the Qur’ān’s letters as connected and only behold the conventional detached
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letters of the Qur’ān. But when they learn this alphabet, things change entirely. They can
then behold the Qur’ān’s beauty in its full plenitude:
O dear friend! You have still not reached that place where the alphabet of love is writ-
ten for you. The trace of this alphabet’s writing is when the connected (mutta ṣal) letters
become unconnected (munfa ṣal). This is, We have connected the Word for them (Q. 28:51).70
Then, the trace of all of this is, We disconnected the signs (Q. 6:97, etc.). On the Path, all
of this is referred to as “writing the alphabet of love upon the Tablet of the wayfarer’s
heart”.71 Wait, until the beauty of these verses is displayed to you—God has inscribed
faith upon their hearts (Q. 58:22)—to the point that all of the Qur’ān, with its meanings,
becomes easy for you: Indeed We have made the Qur’ān easy to remember; so is there any who
remembers? (Q. 54:32).72
In order to provide a concrete example of his theory of the detached letters, ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt
draws on the sentence He loves them (‫ )يحبهم‬to be found in Q. 5:54, which is a favourite among
Sufis in their discussions on love.73 The more one spiritually matures through wayfaring
(sul ūk) and the higher the ascent of his soul, the more will he begin to see ‫ يحبهم‬as actually
comprised of detached letters (‫)ي ح ب ه م‬. That is, the beauty hidden behind the veil of the
word cluster will be seen in its primary form, that of detached letters:
When one becomes more ripe, the connected letters will become unconnected. This
is what people read, He loves them (Q. 5:54), and they think that it is connected. When
from behind the veil he comes out of his self, beauty itself will be presented to his sight
in the disconnected letters, and he will say it all like this: Yā’, Ḥā’, B ā’, Hā’, M īm. But
who has the capacity to listen?!74
‘Ayn al-Quḍāt does not stop there. In a letter to a student he says that one may arrive at a
“world” wherein “the chapters of the Qur’ān are one letter, but without the imprint (naqsh)
of letters”.75 Even though he does not develop this point elsewhere in his writings, he pro-
vides us with a number of other statements that shed greater light on what he has in mind. If
the detached letters all devolve on a letter but which does not have the formal contours and
confines of the shape of a letter, namely, its “imprint”, there is a certain kind of formlessness
to the detached letters themselves, even in their primordial state. This is why ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt
says that if one ascends the rungs of human perfection, he will eventually come to see even
the detached letters which make up the entire Qur’ān in an even more primitive state, that
of a dot (nuqṭa). In the passage below, which is in part identical to the one we have just cited,
he lays down his position:
In the world of mystery these letters are called “undifferentiated”. And they are called
“letters of the alphabet.” O dear friend! What I am saying is that in the world of mystery
the connected letters—what people call the “alphabet”—are all disconnected. They
imagine He loves them and they love Him (Q. 5:54) to be connected. When from behind
the veil he comes out of his self and beauty itself is presented to his sight in the discon-
nected letters, the verse is like this, if he is a beginner: Yā’, Ḥā’, B ā’, Hā’, M īm.76 When
he reaches a portion [beyond that], the letters all become a dot.77
To seemingly complicate the point at hand, in another context ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt explicitly
states that the detached letters do not devolve on just one dot, but on dots (nuqa ṭ).78 Without
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venturing too far afield into the unique role which “dots” play in ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt’s cosmog-
ony and anthropology, it can here be noted that he is not presenting us with two contra-
dictory pictures of what it “looks like” when we emerge “out of ourselves” and beyond the
detached letters. Rather, he is providing us with a key insight into the two modes in which
the wayfarer will encounter the originary form of the detached letters, oscillating as he in-
evitably will between the states of contraction (= a dot) and expansion (= dots).
Beyond these dots ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt maintains that there is something even more originary
and primordial. If the soul continues to ascend he will emerge from the “world of mystery”
to the “world of certainty” (‘ālam-i yaqīn). He tells us that “when one is given the way from
inside another veil”, when he has torn the veils of separation and transcended the multiple
levels of illusory existence, “the dots are also obliterated”.79 The world of certainty is syn-
onymous with a more intense level of what (as we have seen) ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt refers to as the
person “coming out” of his self, or what the Sufis call annihilation ( fan ā’ ) and obliteration
(ma ḥw). Hence, neither dots nor the “individual” remain, for all things are reduced to noth-
ingness: “Alas! In the world of certainty the wayfarer sees his self as obliterated, and sees the
Obliterator as God—God effaces what He wills, and establishes (Q. 13:39)”.80
This is precisely when the wayfarer comes to understand the Qur’ān, since its luminous
rays have completely consumed the dark shadows which necessarily obtain from the once
dichotomous world of reciter/recited and reader/written. At this stage, we can only speak
of that which is recited, and that which is written. This stage of obliteration in which there
remains nothing beyond the dots takes us to the all-ness of the Qur’ān, where there is only
primordial hearing and primordial writing:
When the reader arrives at the Book—and with Him is the Mother of the Book (Q. 13:39)—
he has arrived at the Qur’ān’s meanings. The beauty of the Qur’ān’s radiance effaces his
self so much that neither Qur’ān, nor reciter, nor Book remain. Rather, all is the recited,
and all is the written.81
‘Ayn al-Quḍāt further states that the soul’s being obliterated only accounts for the first phase
of the realized wayfarer’s engagement with the Qur’ān. Those like ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt who have
died to their egos and have been resurrected in the divine audition can even see past the
“black” ink of the Qur’ān:
The people of the world read the Qur’ān from the black part of the parchment (mu ṣḥaf ),
but I read it from the white part of the parchment. We have apportioned for them their
livelihood in the life of this world (Q. 43:32); And God has favored some of you above others in
provision (Q. 16:71).82
Elsewhere, ‘Ayn al-Quḍā t tells us that the “whiteness” he has in mind is nothing other
than light (n ūr).83 This light can only be witnessed when one leaves the darkness of his
own illusory existence. We are therefore led to that key dimension of ‘Ayn al-Qu ḍā t’s
Qur’ā nic vision which we can call his doctrine of affirmation (ithb āt) or subsistence (baq ā’ )
in the Qur’ā n:
Alas! We only see from the Qur’ān black letters and white paper! When you are in ex-
istence, you cannot see anything but blackness and whiteness. When you come out of
existence, the Word of God will obliterate your own existence. Then, from obliteration,
you will be taken to affirmation. When you reach affirmation, you will not see another
84
blackness—you will see all as whiteness and will recite, And with Him is the Mother of the
Book (Q. 13:39).84
Qua embodied individual, the realized soul returns after having been obliterated by the
divine Word to read the Qur’ān not as a wholly other reader, but as someone who himself is
mysteriously absent from and yet inscribed in the very pages which he recites. Here, there are
no dark shadows and no forms as such; there is only light and formlessness. Put differently,
all blackness is vanquished, and only whiteness is witnessed.
Concluding remarks
In this chapter we have outlined the main aspects of ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt’s unique Qur’ānic vi-
sion by focussing on the importance he places upon (1) the Qur’ān’s encompassing nature,
(2) the notion of Qur’ānic “worthiness”, (3) understanding the Qur’ān, and (4) “hearing” the
Qur’ān. This then set the stage for an exposition of (5) our author’s vision of the detached
letters, and his (6) attendant discussion of the theoretical and practical implications of this
vision.
Although ‘Ayn al-Qu ḍā t does not appear to have influenced the ḥur ū f ī tradition in any
unequivocal way, the one place where we see his theory of the detached letters clearly
appropriated is in the Qur’ā nic writings of the famous philosopher and mystic Mull ā
Ṣ adr ā (d. 1640). 85
It is perhaps safe to say that ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt’s theory of the detached letters has no clear tex-
tual precedent. At the same time, it does bear some interesting similarities to the treatment
of the detached letters by the great Andalusian Sufi and Qur’ān commentator Ibn Barrajān
(d. 1141). Ibn Barrajān also sees the detached letters as representing a more primordial, celes-
tial aspect of the Qur’ān, and thus as taking in the entirety of the written Qur’ānic text. But,
one clear point of difference between them is that ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt sees the detached letters as
ultimately originating in nondifferentiated dots, while Ibn Barrajān assigns no function to
the dots in his treatment of the detached letters.86
It is possible that both Ibn Barrajān and ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt’s treatment of the detached letters
was informed by earlier discussions in Islamic theology and Qur’ānic exegesis having to do
with the nature of the Qur’ān’s descent.87 But at least in the case of ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt, a more
likely direct source is Arabic calligraphy wherein letters are formed out of initial dots, which
some Sufis see as representing the emergence of immanence from transcendence, or multi-
plicity from unity.88
Notes

85
Mohammed Rustom
Intishā r āt-i Manūchihr ī, 1994) discuss ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt’s understanding of the Qur’ā n in their re-
spective surveys of his thought. Some helpful but underdeveloped enquiries are Fāṭ ima Mudarrisī
and Maryam ‘Arab, “Jāyg ā h-i Qurʾā n wa-ta’w ī l-i ā n dar Tamh īd āt-i ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt Hamad ā n ī,”
Ma‘rifat 20, no. 161 (2011), pp. 97–112; Alireza Zekavati Gharagozlou, Encyclopaedia Islamica,
volume 3, s.v. “cAyn al-Quḍāt Hamad ā n ī,” trans. Matthew Melvin-Koushki, eds. Wilferd Mad-
elung and Farhad Daftary (Leiden: Brill in association with The Institute of Ismaili Studies, 2011),
doi: 10.1163/1875-9831_isla_COM_0321; Zahr ā Pā rsāpū r, “Didg ā h-i ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt dar bāb-i
ḥur ū f, ḥur ū f-i muqaṭṭ a’a, wa-nuqaṭ,” Lisān-i mub īn 3, no. 6 (2012), pp. 31–47. More recently, Nich-
olas Boylston has helpfully situated ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt’s approach to the Qur’ā n against the backdrop
of the notion of “unities of plenitude” and the multiple perspective shifts and vantage points which
he assumes in his writings. See Boylston, “Writing the Kaleidoscope of Reality, the Significance
of Diversity in 6th/12th Century Persian Metaphysical Literature: Sanāʾī, ʿAyn al-Quḍāt and ʿAṭṭā r”
(PhD diss., Georgetown University, 2017), pp. 216–222.
5 ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt, N āmah ā, ed. ‘Al ī Naqī Munzaw ī (vols. 1–3) and ‘Af ī f ‘Usayr ā n (vols. 1–2) (Tehran:
Intishā r āt-i Asāṭī r, 1998), 1:21, § 24.
6 A ḥ mad, Musnad, no. 11273 (vol. 12 of Jam‘ jaw āmi‘ al-a ḥād īth wa-l-asān īd wa-maknaz al-siḥāḥ wa-l-
sunan wa-l-masān īd [Vaduz, Liechtenstein: Jam‘iyyat al-Maknaz al-Isl ā m ī, 2000]).
7 ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt, Tamh īd āt, 168, § 224.
8 ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt, N āmah ā, 2:486, § 761.
9 See Annemarie Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina
Press, 1975), p. 420.
10 See Ra ḥīm Farmanish, Aḥwāl wa- āthār-i ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt (Tehran: Chāp-i Ā ft āb, 1959), pp. 290–340.
‘Ayn al-Quḍāt mentions Sanāʾī by name at Nāmahā, 2:50, § 49.
11 ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt, N āmah ā, 1:349, § 582. See also ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt, N āmah ā, 1:333, § 558. Unless
otherwise stated, Qur’ā nic passages cited in this chapter are from Seyyed Hossein Nasr, Caner
Dagli, Maria Dakake, Joseph Lumbard, and Mohammed Rustom (eds.), The Study Quran: A New
Translation and Commentary (New York: HarperOne, 2015).
14 ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt, N āmah ā, 1:25–26, § 27.
16 For which, see Rustom, Inrushes of the Heart, Chapter 6.
19 A ḥ mad, Musnad, no. 13746.
20 ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt, Tamh īd āt, 176–177, § 234.
23 Sulaym ā n b. A ḥ mad al-Ṭabar ā n ī, al-Mu‘jam al-kab īr (Cairo: Maktabat Ibn Taymiyya, 1994), 1:255.
For an alternative version of this ḥad īth, see Dakake’s commentary upon Q. 16:69 in Nasr et al.,
The Study Quran, p. 676.
24 Ism ā‘ ī l b. Mu ḥ ammad al- ‘Ajlū n ī, Kashf al-khafā’ (N. p.: Maktabat al-‘Ilm al-Ḥad īth, n. d.), 2:112.
27 ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt, N āmah ā, 2:47–48, § 63.
31 Abū Bakr al-Bazz ā r, al-Ba ḥr al-zakhkh ār al-ma‘r ūf bi-Musnad al-Bazzār (Madina: Maktabat al-
‘Ulū m wa-l-Ḥ ikam, 2006), 5:423.
36 ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt, Tamh īd āt, 178, § 236. We could also translate this phrase as “self-recognition.”
86
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Mohammed Rustom
88
7
IBN ‘ARABI AND THE AKBARĪ
TRADITION
Jawad Anwar Qureshi
Introduction
Not to be confused with the Mā lik ī jurist Qāḍī Abū Bakr ibn al-‘Arabī (d. 1148), there is little
exaggeration in stating that the Andalusian mystic Ibn ‘Arabī (d. 1240) is the most influential
and, at the same time, the most controversial mystic in the Islamic world. To those favorable
of his teachings, he is referred to as “the greatest master” (al-shaykh al-akbar), known by the
moniker “the reviver of the religion” (muḥyī al-dīn), and is seen to express the deepest reali-
ties of Islamic theology and spirituality. To his opponents, he is not “the reviver of religion”
but rather “the destroyer of religion” (mumīt al-dīn), advocating esoteric heresies that subvert
the very basis of the shar ī‘a.
In the centuries following his death, Ibn ‘Arabī’s reputation has largely been positive. His
teachings have shaped the direction of Islamic empires, numerous intellectual schools, as well
as the piety of countless Muslims through Sufi orders that adopted aspects of his teachings.
Outline of Ibn ‘Arabī’s life1

Ibn ‘Arabi was born Mu ḥammad ibn ‘Al ī ibn Mu ḥammad ibn al-‘Arabī al-Ṭāʾī al-Hātim ī
in Murcia, Spain on the 17th of Ramaḍān 560, corresponding to 27/28 July 1165. He was
of noble Arab lineage, tracing his ancestry to the famous Hātim al-Ṭāʾī, a pre-Islamic poet
who lived in the latter half of the sixth century, known for his magnanimity and chivalry.
When Ibn ‘Arabī was born, his father was serving in the army of Ibn Mardan īsh, the king of
Murcia who held out against the spread of the Almohads. When Ibn Mardanīsh died in 1172
the notables (including Ibn ‘Arabī’s father) transferred their allegiance to the Almohad sultan
Abū Ya‘qūb Yū suf (r. 1184–1199). Ibn ‘Arabī’s family then settled in Seville, his father serving
as a military advisor in the new court.
At the age of 15, Ibn ‘Arabī went into a spiritual retreat (khalwa) and had a mystical
experience that set the course of his life. As a result, instead of following in his father’s
footsteps serving in the army, he devoted his life entirely to the spiritual path. Word of his
experience spread among his father’s associates and reached the jurist-philosopher Ibn Rushd
(d. 1198), who was the personal physician of sultan Abū Ya‘qūb. Ibn Rushd was the famous
champion of Aristotle, writing refutations of the views of Abū Ḥā mid al-Ghaz ā l ī (d. 1111) as
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Jawad Anwar Qureshi
well as Avicenna (d. 1037) on a number of accounts, including the value accorded to spiritual
unveilings (kashf ). Intrigued by what he heard of Ibn ‘Arabī’s experience, Ibn Rushd asked to
meet the young man. Ibn ‘Arabī records the famous exchange that occurred in their meeting.
Rising to greet the young man, Ibn Rushd proclaimed, “Yes,” to which Ibn ‘Arabī replied,
“Yes.” Seeing Ibn Rushd’s delight at his response, Ibn ‘Arabī then stated, “No.” Ibn Rushd’s
composure changed. He then asked if illumination and mystical experience conformed to the
knowledge that speculative thought yielded, to which Ibn ‘Arabī responded, “Yes and no;
between the yes and no, spirits take flight from their matter and necks are severed from their
bodies.” Ibn Rushd’s face turned pale and he muttered, “There is no power or strength save
from God.”
This remarkable beginning highlights a number of features that are characteristic of Ibn
‘Arabī’s thought. The first is the tension between Ibn ‘Arabī’s teachings and the problems de-
bated by philosophers and theologians, two trends that he would subsume under the broader
category of ahl al-na ẓar (“the people of speculative thought”). While there is much that is shared
between speculative thought and spiritual openings (the “yes” in the above exchange), there is
much that is not (the “no” in the above exchange). The final remark from Ibn ‘Arabī (“between
the yes and no…”) is indicative of the grave consequences for erring in these matters.
A second feature worth noting is that Ibn ‘Arabī’s experience inverts the normal itinerary
that an aspirant embarks upon. That is to say that rather than being initiated into learning
particular doctrines and taking on a regimented set of spiritual exercises to shape one’s soul
to be receptive to divine disclosure, Ibn ‘Arabī experienced a spiritual opening first and
then sought out theoretical knowledge. Ibn ‘Arabī’s knowledge of the theoretical aspects of
Islam’s spiritual traditions thus came after and not before formally embarking on the path. In
this way, he was unlettered not unlike the Prophet, whose spirituality permeates all of Ibn
‘Arabī’s teachings.
Ibn ‘Arabī shares many of his visionary experiences and one of the most significant dat-
ing from this early period of his life was his dream-vision of three prophets, Moses, Jesus,
and Mu ḥammad. Each of them offered him a particular form of guidance: Jesus to asceti-
cism, Moses to mystical knowledge (al-‘ilm al-ladun ī ), and Mu ḥammad to follow in his path.
Jesus held a unique place in Ibn ‘Arabī’s spiritual formation and he referred to him as his
first teacher. But it was the path of Mu ḥammad where Ibn ‘Arabī’s spiritual formation was
realized.
For Ibn ‘Arabī, following the path of Mu ḥammad meant following the path of scholarship
(‘ilm), as the Prophet had stated, “Scholars are the heirs of prophets.” His education focused
on the study of the core texts of the Islamic tradition, namely, the Qurʾān, ḥad īth, and works
of law. In Qurʾānic studies he mastered the various recitations (qirāʾāt) of the sacred scripture.
In the study of ḥadīth, he read the main canonical texts as well as the ancillary disciplines
under ḥadīth masters of his time. Intimately detailing the life and way of the Prophet, ḥadīth
became a central focus of Ibn ‘Arabī’s scholarly activity and he sought out ḥadīth wherever
he traveled. Related to this, Ibn ‘Arabī studied the Ẓāhir ī school of law, which had a fol-
lowing in Andalusia at the time. While scholarship has debated the extent of his adherence
to Ẓāhirism, what can be stated for sure is that he was an admirer of Ibn Ḥazm, Ẓāhirism’s
foremost Andalusian representative, and studied his vast legal corpus. It is worth noting too
that though Ibn ‘Arabī did not disparage the practice of raʾy ( juristic reasoning) to the extent
Ibn Ḥazm was famous for, he too gave precedence to ḥadīth over other sources of Islamic law,
thus prioritizing the words and deeds of the Prophet.
After a period of lapse ( fatra), Ibn ‘Arabī dedicated himself entirely to the spiritual path
in 1184, taking as a master Abū Ja‘far A ḥ mad al-‘Uryan ī. He committed himself to a life of
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Ibn ‘Arabi and the Akbarī tradition
renunciation, detachment, and learning. Under ‘Uyan ī’s guidance, Ibn ‘Arabī had his first
meeting with Khiḍ r, the mysterious figure in the story of Moses mentioned in the Qurʾān
(Q. 18: 65–82).
In 1190 while in Cordoba, Ibn ‘Arabī experienced a vision of all of the prophets from Adam
to Muḥammad. The Arabian prophet Hūd addressed him regarding the gathering, informing
him of his function as the “seal of the Muḥammadan saints” (khatm al-walāya al-muḥammadiyya).
In the same year, ‘Uryanī passed away and the young Ibn ‘Arabī started to frequent the gath-
erings of the students of Ghawth Abū Madyan (d. 594/1198), the foremost teacher of ta ṣawwuf
in North Africa at the time. It is curious that for all of their mutual admiration, they seem-
ingly accepted that they were not destined to meet in this life and Ibn ‘Arabī made no effort
to meet the master. Instead he sought out Abū Madyan’s students, including Abū Ya‘qūb Yūsuf
al-Kūm ī, Abū Muḥammad al-Mawr ūr ī, and Abū ‘Imrān al-Sadrānī. It is in their circle that Ibn
‘Arabī began to learn the theoretical aspects of ta ṣawwuf; he remarks that he did not know of
the famous Risāla of Qushayr ī (d. 1074) or that there were writings on the terminology of the
spiritual path. In 1193, he made his way to North Africa, settling in Tunis in order to meet with
two more of Abū Madyan’s students, ‘Abd al-ʿAzīz Mahdawī and Abū Muḥammad ‘Abdallah
al-Kinānī. A year later, he returned to Andalusia and while on his journey back he met Khidr
for a second time, and then a third time after reaching Andalusia.
Upon returning to Andalusia, both of his parents passed away within months of each other,
leaving Ibn ‘Arabī responsible for his two sisters. He settled his family affairs and then based
himself out of Fez. In Fez, he had a number of remarkable spiritual experiences, culminating
in his own mystical ascension (mi‘rāj), mirroring that of the Prophet’s. Where the Prophet’s
ascension was physical, Ibn ‘Arabī’s was purely spiritual. In Fez too, he realized the station of
“seal of Muḥammadan sainthood.” At this time, he met ‘Abdallah Badr al-Ḥabashī, an aspirant
that took Ibn ‘Arabī as his master. Ḥabashī kept Ibn ‘Arabī’s company for the rest of his life and
was his intimate companion for decades. Ibn ‘Arabī made a final trip to Andalusia with Ḥabashī
and records that in 1198 they attended the funeral of Ibn Rushd in Cordoba.
Ibn ‘Arabī set out for the central Islamic lands from the Maghrib intending to perform the
Pilgrimage. As he began his journey, he attained “the station of proximity” (maqām al-qurba)
a station between truthful sainthood (ṣiddīqiyya) and prophethood, the existence of which
many previous Sufis denied. In his journey east, he visited the major urban centers along the
way, including the grave of Abū Madyan in Tlemcen. He finally reached Mecca in 1202.
Mecca was the culmination of Ibn ‘Arabī’s spiritual journey and a turning point for his
life. While in the Sacred Precinct of the Kaʿba and gazing at the Blackstone, he met a myste-
rious person that he refers to simply as a “Youth” ( fat ā). He describes the Youth as “steadfast
in devotion, who is both speaker and silent, neither alive nor dead, both complex and sim-
ple, encompassed and encompassing.”2 Struck by the spiritual state of the Youth, Ibn ‘Arabī
requested his companionship and a desire to speak his unique language. As a result of this
encounter and the knowledge bequeathed to him by the Youth, Ibn ‘Arabī began to compose
what would become the most important work on Islamic spirituality, al-Fut ūḥāt al-Makkiyya.
Also in Mecca, Ibn ‘Arabī had a vision of the Prophet that confirmed his place as the seal
of the saints. This vision draws on a ḥadīth where the Prophet strikes a likeness for his being
the seal of prophethood. The ḥadīth states:
Truly, my likeness and that of the Prophets before me is that of a man who built a house,
completed it, and perfected it with the exception of one brick. People walk around it
and are amazed saying, “If only this one brick were placed!” I am that brick and I am
the seal of the Prophets.3
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Jawad Anwar Qureshi
Ibn ‘Arabī describes his vision as follows:
When I was in Mecca in the year 599, I had a dream in which I saw the Ka‘ba built of
bricks of silver and gold, placed alternately. The construction was complete, and there
was nothing left to add. I contemplated it and admired its beauty. Then I turned to the
side between the Yemenite and Syrian corners. Near the Syrian corner I noticed that
there were two bricks missing, one gold, one silver, on two rows of the wall. The miss-
ing gold was on the upper row, the missing silver on the lower. I saw myself being put
into the place of these two bricks.4
In addition to these mystical experiences, in 1204 Ibn ‘Arabī met Majd al-Dī n Isḥāq ibn
Yū suf al-Rū m ī (d. 1221). Majd al-Dī n was a fellow traveler of the spiritual path who was
connected to the Seljuq court, having ties with Kaykhusraw (r. 1192–1196; 1205–1211) and
later his son Kaykāʾū s (r. 1211–1220). In his company Ibn ‘Arabī departed from the Hijāz
and traveled north. For the next 22 lunar years, Ibn ‘Arabī traveled throughout the central
Islamic lands, visiting the major urban centers of the region, including Baghdad, Mosul,
Konya, Malatya, Aleppo, Damascus, Hebron, Jerusalem, and the Hejaz. In this itinerant pe-
riod of his life, Ibn ʿArabī continued to have visionary experiences and produced a number
of his core works. This continued until 1221 when Majd al-Dī n passed away in the city of
Malatya in central Anatolia. Ibn ‘Arabī took Majd al-Dī n’s son as his ward, a decision that
would prove fateful for the future articulation and transmission of Ibn ‘Arabī’s doctrine and
writings. Shortly after that, Ibn ‘Arabī’s long-time companion Badr al-Ḥabash ī also passed
away in Malatya.
In 1221 Ibn ʿArabī made his way to Damascus where he spent the remainder of his life. He
had the patronage of a prominent family that had served as judges for generations, the Banū
Zak ī. They provided him a home in the Ṣā li ḥ iyya neighborhood on the slopes of Mount
Qa ṣy ū n. In this phase of his life, Ibn ‘Arabī took to the task of collating the works that he had
already written as well as completing the works that were in progress. In 1229, he wrote one
of his most important texts, Fu ṣūṣ al- ḥikam. In 1231, he completed the first draft of al-Fut ūḥāt
al-Makkiyya, which he began almost 30 years before in Mecca. In 1238, he completed the
second and final draft. On November 10, 1240, Ibn ‘Arabī passed away in the home of his
patrons and was buried in a cemetery on mount Qa ṣy ū n.
Doctrines5
The term wa ḥdat al-wujūd is almost exclusively associated with the teachings of Ibn ‘Arabī and
the Akbar ī school. One will look in vain however to find Ibn ‘Arabī actually use the term.
Scholars have noted that later generations and even opponents of Ibn ‘Arabī were instrumen-
tal in the development of this phrase to characterize his teachings. The question of wujūd
(being) and wa ḥdat al-wujūd (the unicity of being) has dominated metaphysical thinking in
later Islamic thought. At the root of the problem is accounting for the ontological status of
God, man, and the universe. For some wa ḥdat al-wujūd is essentially pantheism, equating the
existence of all three; others understand it as panentheism, the notion that God is greater
than man and the universe but somehow penetrates and participates in the two; for others
still it is monism of different kinds (existential or pantheistic). For some falāsifa and kalam
theologians, it is simply noting that God’s existence is necessary while all of creation, man
included, is merely possible. To greater or lesser degree, these formulations correspond to
92
some aspect of Ibn ‘Arabī’s teachings but they ultimately fall short. In Ibn ‘Arabī’s diagnosis,
this is because they suffer from essentially the same fault, namely, binding (taqyīd) God to
categories of the mind. In doing so, this binding precludes the agent from perceiving the
changing manifestations of God through His attributes.
Ibn ‘Arabī is fundamentally a visionary mystic and not a philosopher or theologian. The
starting point for Ibn ‘Arabī is not reasoning from creation to the creator, but in the other
direction, reasoning from the creator to creation. Seen in this light, Ibn ‘Arabī prioritizes the
insights attained through spiritual openings ( fatḥ)—what the Sufis term kashf (unveiling),
shuh ūd or mush āhada (direct witnessing), or dhawq (tasting)—over those attained through
speculative reasoning (na ẓar) employed by philosophers and theologians. Accordingly, Ibn
‘Arabī prioritizes the heart (qalb) as a faculty of knowledge over the rational intellect. Where
the latter can only try to bind God to its categories, the heart is able to receive (qābil) God’s
ever-changing manifestations. Further, the heart has the feature of plasticity in that it can
change (taqallub) and conform to the particular manifestations of God’s names.
What then is the relationship between God, the universe, and man? A ḥadīth qudsī states,
“I was a hidden treasure and I desired to be known, so I created creatures that I might be
known.” This ḥadīth has been a central text for Muslim mystical thought and is so for Ibn
‘Arabī as well. What it draws attention to is the desire of the Real to disclose (tajallī ) Itself to
Itself, from the unseen (ghayb) to the seen (shah āda). Ibn ‘Arabī refers to the various levels of
disclosure as “presences” (ḥadrāt). The Real in and of Itself is non-manifest as the “absolute
unseen” (al-ghayb al-muṭlaq). As it descends to the presence of divinity, this is the plane of
the names and attributes, wherein there is multiplicity in unity. The next disclosure is in
the plane of act, which is the presence of divinity (rub ūbiyya), then the plane of images and
imagination, and finally to the senses (mush āhada).
The universe and man, the final level of divine disclosure, are two mirrors that reflect
the attributes of God. To use the language of ahl al-na ẓar, God exists modally as a neces-
sary being, independent, with no need for another. The universe by contrast has no ex-
istence in and of itself, rather it derives its existence entirely from the necessary existent,
God. The universe—as Muslim scholastics define it, everything other than God—is the
mirror in which the effects of the Divine Names are reflected. This reflection however
occurs in a general sense. Man, as part of the universe, also reflects the attributes of God
but does so in a particular manner. The universe is thus the macrocosm that reflects God’s
names in a differentiated manner whereas man is a microcosm that reflects God’s names in a
non-differentiated manner. Stated yet another way, the universe reflects the Names in their
multiplicity, whereas Man is the locus of the unity of the Names as a single reality. Man’s
relation to the universe, according to Ibn ‘Arabī, is like the spirit to the body. Without the
spirit (i.e. without man), the universe is incomplete and imperfect. Man is thus the ultimate
telos of creation as no other creature can truly know God in the way that the man does.
When Ibn ‘Arabī speaks of man, however, he does not mean what the philosophers would
term “rational animal” (al- ḥayaw ān al-n āṭiq). This conception of man refers not to his perfec-
tion, but rather the most basic form of man that distinguishes him from other creatures. Ibn
‘Arabī is concerned primarily with “the perfect man” (al-insān al-k āmil), the man that reflects
the names and attributes of God. Ibn ‘Arabī speaks of the Perfect Man in two different ways.
The first is as an archetype of man’s perfectibility, what he calls the Mu ḥammadan Reality,
man’s primordiality as manifesting the attributes of God in a single reality. The second is the
Perfect Man as a telos, as the ultimate point of human existence. This is manifest in the world
in particular individuals referred to as the prophets (anbiyāʾ ) and saints (awliyāʾ ).
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Jawad Anwar Qureshi
Ibn ‘Arabī ’s hagiology rests on the different ways in which man can know God’s
self-manifestations. Ibn ‘Arabī sees the Qurʾā n’s prophets not only historical personages
but archetypes of ways of knowing God. Based on the hadith that scholars are heirs of
prophets and the prophets bequeath knowledge, Ibn ‘Arabī sees the saints as inheriting
different prophetic ways of knowing God. In his own experience, Ibn ‘Arabī received
from Moses, Jesus, and the Prophet, thus inheriting the Abrahamic legacy. Saints are thus
described as being ‘Is āw ī (Christ-like), Mū saw ī (Moses-like), Nūḥī (Noahic), Mu ḥ ammad ī
(Mu ḥ ammaden), etc. Further, Ibn ‘Arabī provides the richest typology of saints in the
Islamic tradition. These include the abd āl (the “substitutes”), the nuqab āʾ (the “leaders”),
the nujab āʾ (the “nobles”), and so on, each with their own function as well as a unique way
of knowing the Real. One group that receives particular attention by Ibn ‘Arabī are the
Mal ā matiyya, a group of Khurasanian mystics that focused on censoring the lower-self and
incurred blame on themselves.
An important tension emerged in reading Ibn ‘Arabī on the relationship between prophet-
hood and sainthood. This was a problem in the early development of Sufism and a number of
prominent figures such as al-Ḥak ī m al-Tirmidh ī (d. 760) were accused of giving priority to
saints over prophets. Critics that are often unaware of the complex structure of his hagiology
accuse Ibn ʿArabī of this and in fact disparaging the status of prophets.
One of the most controversial aspects of Ibn ‘Arabī’s hagiology is his notion of the seal
(khatm). The seal functions as closing a particular epoch, often with eschatological conse-
quences. If sainthood works on the pattern of prophethood and the Prophet Mu ḥammad is
the seal of prophethood, it would follow that there are seals within his path. These seals are
not of legislative prophethood, which was Mu ḥammad’s role and function, but are instead
of sainthood. Ibn ‘Arabī speaks of different seals, in particular the seal of Mu ḥammadan
sainthood (khatam al-wal āya al-muḥammadiyya) and the seal of universal sainthood (khatam
al-wal āya al-‘āmma). The latter is the function of Jesus, upon whose return at the end of time
the door for sainthood is entirely closed. Concerning the seal of Mu ḥammadan sainthood
however Ibn ‘Arabī is deliberately obscure about throughout his texts, stating that he met the
seal in Fez and took his companions to meet him. In other place however he makes allusion
to his function as a seal.
Major writings
Reading Ibn ‘Arabī can be a daunting task and requires one to be grounded in the various
Islamic discourses current in his time. A contemporary Algerian expositor of Ibn ‘Arabī,
‘Abd al-Bāqī Mift āḥ notes six areas of learning that one must be familiar with to understand
Ibn ‘Arabī’s literary production.6 (1) The first is a deep understanding of the Arabic language,
in particular its rhetorical and etymological dimensions. Ibn ‘Arabī is an able belles-lettrist in
his own right. He regularly uses rhymed prose (saj‘) and verse (shi‘r) to express his doctrines
even after lengthy discursive prose expositions. It is common to find him draw on the vast
semantic field of meaning that the Arabic language affords in order to push the bounds of
interpretation. (2) Ibn ‘Arabī’s writings are centered on the Qurʾān, drawing on its language
and imagery, giving preference to qurʾānic terms over philosophical ones. One must have
an intimate familiarity not only with the Qurʾān but also its various sciences, particularly its
variant readings as well as its exegesis. (3) Related to this, ḥadīth and rulings from sacred law
are also a key part of Ibn ‘Arabī’s language and thought world. He regularly gives the full
chain of narrators (isn ād) for ḥadīth and other materials that are transmitted. (4) In addition to
the scriptural sources of the Islamic tradition, a discourse that Ibn ‘Arabī regularly employs
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is lettrism (ʿ ilm al- ḥur ūf ). This science is based on the numeric properties of letters and was
one of the central discourses of Muslim esoteric thought. (5) Ibn ‘Arabī was immersed in the
thought world shaped by medieval Islamic theological and philosophical traditions. Though
it is incorrect to characterize him as a speculative theologian (mutakallim) or philosopher, he
engages their ideas extensively, drawing on different schools (primarily Ash‘ar ī and Mu‘tazil ī)
but not bound to one in particular. (6) Finally, in numerous texts, we find Ibn ‘Arabī em-
ploying the language of astronomy. To this list, one should add the most obvious, namely
the key mystical discourses in the Islamic world. Ibn ‘Arabī drew on the Western mystics,
the Mu‘tabir ū n (such as Ibn Qa ṣī, Ibn Barrajān, etc)7 as well as the Baghadadi-Khurasanian
Sufis. Of the latter, the writings of al-Ḥak ī m al-Tirmidh ī are uniquely influential in shaping
key doctrines of Ibn ‘Arabī.
In terms of his literary output, Ibn ‘Arabī is the most prolific Arabic mystical author. In
the last stage of his life, Ibn ‘Arabī composed a list of his writings ( fihrist al-muʾallafāt), then
a second list in his license (ijāza) written to Malik Mu ẓaffar, providing 248 and 290 titles
respectively. The range of topics that Ibn ‘Arabī wrote on included Qurʾānic exegesis, ḥad īth,
belles letters, metaphysics, law, and theology.
Al-Futūḥāt al-Makkiyya (The Meccan Openings)

The al-Fut ūḥāt al-Makkiyya is arguably the most monumental mystical treatise in Islamic
civilization. The manuscript in our possession of Ibn ‘Arabī’s handwritten final draft con-
tains over 10,500 pages of written text. Ibn ‘Arabī began writing the text after his encounter
with the Youth in Mecca in 1202. He recounts the exchange that lead to the writing of the
Fut ūḥāt as follows:
I said to him, “Reveal to me some of your secrets that I may be one of your scribes!” He
replied, “Observe the details of my constitution and the arrangement of my form, and
you will find the answer to your question inscribed within me. For I am neither speaker
nor spoken to. My knowledge is not other than Me, and My essence is no different to
My names. For I am knowledge, the Known, and the Knower. I am Wisdom, the giver
of Wisdom and the Wise.” Then he said to me, “Circumambulate in my footsteps, and
observe me in the light of my moon, so that you may take from my constitution that
which you write in your book and transmit to your readers.”8
The text was finally completed in Damascus 30 years after this event and includes a number
of his shorter treatises. It is divided into six sections and 560 chapters as follows:
- on spiritual knowledge (ma‘ārif ), chapters 1–73;

- on behavior (mu‘āmal āt), chapters 74–188;
- on spiritual states (a ḥw āl), chapters 189–269;
- on spiritual abodes (man āzil), chapters 270–383;
- on spiritual encounters (mun āzal āt), chapters 384–461;
- on spiritual stations (maqām āt), chapters 462–560.
Fuṣūṣ al-ḥikam (The Ringstones of Wisdom)

The Fu ṣụṣ al- ḥikam is substantially shorter than the Fut ūḥāt; in modern print it is merely
200 pages. The Fu ṣūṣ is Ibn ‘Arabī’s most famous text, receiving the greatest number of
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commentaries, as well as the greatest number of detractors. Osman Yahia lists over 200 texts
written as either commentaries, refutations, or in defense of the Fu ṣūṣ.9 The Fu ṣūṣ dates to
the later years of Ibn ‘Arabī’s life and was also the product of a visionary experience. At the
end of Muharram 627/December 1229, six years after settling in Damascus, Ibn ‘Arabī had
a vision (mubashshira) of the Prophet Muhammad who had in his hand a book. The Prophet
said to him, “This is Fu ṣūṣ al- ḥikam, take it and spread it among the people that they might
benefit from it.”
The highly esoteric text contains 27 chapters on prophetic figures that are mentioned
in the Qurʾān (with the exception of Seth and Khā lid ibn Sinān). Each chapter ( fu ṣṣ) is an
exploration of the wisdom (ḥikma) manifest in the word (kalima) of that prophetic figure.
For those figures that are mentioned in the Qurʾān, there are Qurʾānic verses that seemingly
serve as the source of Ibn ‘Arabī’s inspiration, while for others the main source is a hadith of
the Prophet. The Fu ṣūṣ reflects the quintessential deployment of Ibn ‘Arabī’s hermeneutic of
Islamic scriptures. Each chapter pushes the possible meanings that a text might carry to offer
radical interpretations tied to Ibn ‘Arabī’s particular metaphysics.
Tarjumān al-ashwāq (The Interpreter of Desires)

While Ibn ‘Arabī was in Mecca, he stayed at the home of a scholar of ḥad īth, one Mak ī n al-
Dī n Abū Shuja‘ Ẓāhir ibn Rustam, under whom he read the ḥadīth collection of Tirmidh ī.
Mak ī n al-Dī n’s young daughter Ni ẓā m (‘Ayn al-Shams wa al-Bahāʾ) was known for her
beauty and piety, and Ibn ‘Arabī was so taken by her that he began composing a series of
lyric poems. These poems draw on the nasīb genre of classical Arabic lyric poetry and were
collected later under the title Tarjum ān al-ashw āq (The Interpreter of Desires). Years later, Ibn
al-‘Arabī’s disciples, Badr al-Ḥabash ī and Ibn Sawdak ī n, heard of a jurist in Aleppo censoring
the Tarjum ān and speaking ill of their master. They mentioned this to Ibn ‘Arabī who then
wrote a commentary (titled Dhakh āʾir al-aʿl āq) that ostensibly explained the mystical allusion
(ish āra) underlying the poems. Perhaps the most famous lines of this collection are as follows:
My heart can take on

any form:
a meadow for gazelles,
a cloister for monks,
For the idols, sacred ground,
Ka‘ba for the circling pilgrim,
the tables of the Torah,
the scrolls of the Qur’ān.
I profess the religion of love;
wherever its caravan turns along the way,
that is the belief,
the faith I keep.
Ibn ‘Arabī and his contemporaries

Ibn ‘Arabī lived in an age that produced some of the seminal figures of Islamic philosophy,
theology, and mysticism. Traveling from Andalusia to the central Islamic lands, he was able
to meet a number of these figures or their direct students. We noted earlier that he met the
philosopher Ibn Rushd in his youth. Ibn ‘Arabī had links to some of the most prominent
figures of mystical thought in Andalusia, including Ibn ‘Ar ī f, Ibn Qa ṣī, Ibn Barrajān, and Ibn
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Mujāhid. Though Ibn ‘Arabī came after these figures, he is connected to each through their
students. As we noted earlier, this was the case with Ghawth Abū Madyan, whose students
Ibn ‘Arabī earnestly sought out despite the two being contemporaries.
In the East, there were numerous figures whose lives overlapped with that of Ibn ‘Arabī.
We have a record of a correspondence that Ibn ‘Arabī sent to Fakhr al-Dī n al-Rāzī, the
foremost Sunni theologian, jurist, and exegete of his age, though we cannot be sure whether
Rāzī in fact read it or composed a response.10 Ibn ‘Arabī was born in the year that ‘Abd
al-Qādir al-Jilān ī died and when he visited Baghdad he was able to meet ‘Abd al-Qādir’s
successors. It is said too, that he received investiture from ʿAbd al-Qādir’s line while in
Mecca. The illuminationist philosopher Shihāb al-Dī n al-Suhraward ī (shaykh al-ishrāq) was
put to death in Aleppo before Ibn ‘Arabī departed Andalusia. However, the life of the other
Shihāb al-Dī n al-Suhraward ī, the author of ‘Aw ārif al-ma‘ārif, overlapped with that of Ibn
‘Arabī. Some sources state that the two met in Baghdad but the evidence seems inconclusive.
The celebrated Arab poet, ‘Umar ibn al-Fāriḍ too was a contemporary of Ibn ‘Arabī. The
later Sufi tradition would see the two as expressing fundamentally the same teaching, Ibn
al-Fāriḍ as “the sultan of lovers” (sulṭān al-‘āshiqīn) and Ibn ‘Arabī as the “sultan of gnostics”
(sulṭān al-‘ārif īn). Though the latter passed through Egypt a few times, we do not have a re-
cord of the two meeting. Another poet from Muslim Spain, Abū al-Ḥasan al-Shushtar ī, also
overlapped with Ibn ‘Arabī. Shushtar ī however was a disciple of Ibn Sabʿī n and is not known
to have met Ibn ‘Arabī.
Perhaps the most enticing suggestion is that Ibn ‘Arabī and Jalā l al-Dī n al-Rū m ī met, as
the two were active in the same region, even the same cities (Konya, Aleppo, and Damascus),
at very similar times. Tempting as it is to think that the two of the most influential authors
of the Arabic and Persian mystical traditions actually met, it seems that they never did.
Rū m ī and Ibn ‘Arabī however are connected in different ways. The first is through Shams
al-Tabriz, Rū m ī’s mentor, who was in Damascus during Ibn ‘Arabī’s final residence there.
Shams recognized Ibn ‘Arabī’s accomplishments but maintained some reservations of him.
The most significant connection is through Ṣadr al-Dī n al-Q ū naw ī, Majd al-Dī n’s son and
Ibn ‘Arabī’s ward. Ṣadr al-Dī n settled in Konya and was close to Rū m ī, even leading Rū m ī’s
funeral prayer by request.
Akbarian line
Ibn ‘Arabī’s life came at the end of the classical Islamic world and the foundation of new polit-
ical and culture realities. The Mongol empire rose in the East during his lifetime and within
20 years of his death Hulagu seized Baghdad and executed the Abbasid caliph, al-Mu‘tasim,
putting an end to the classical caliphate in 1258. In the wake of the Mongol invasion, the
seeds for new Muslim empires were sowed, culminating in the Timurid, Ottoman, Safavid,
and Mughal dynasties. The line of Ibn ‘Arabī’s intellectual and spiritual heirs was influential
in shaping the religious and intellectual life of these empires. What follows highlights only
aspects of the Sunni-Arab reception of Ibn ‘Arabī. One can write at length about Ibn ‘Arabī’s
reception in the greater Persianate world and within Shi‘ ī intellectual circles.
The “Akbar ī school” can be thought of as forming in two ways. The first is through
master-disciple relationships and the second is through the establishment of a canon of texts
that are invoked and expanded upon through commentary. Though Ibn ‘Arabī kept the
company of numerous masters, he was not affiliated with any particular Sufi order. Likewise,
he did not initiate an order himself, despite the fact that by his time Sufi orders were a prom-
inent social institution of Muslim society. Ibn ‘Arabī had a number of close disciples dating
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to his time in North Africa, such as Badr al-Ḥabash ī and Ibn Sawdak ī n. He, in fact, authored
books dedicated to the two and we have commentaries by both on their master’s work. They
however were not the ones to take his teachings to a new generation. Ḥabash ī predeceased
Ibn ‘Arabī, and while Ibn Sawdak ī n settled in Aleppo while Ibn ‘Arabī was in Damascus.
If we were to designate one person as the central pivot in the formation of a “school of Ibn
‘Arabī,” this would undoubtedly be Ṣadr al-Dī n al-Q ū naw ī.
Ṣadr al-Dī n al-Q ū naw ī was born in 606/1210 and took the spiritual path under his father
Majd al-Dī n, Ibn ‘Arabī, and Awḥad al-Dī n al-Kirm ān ī. When Majd al-Dī n passed away,
Ibn ‘Arabī saw to raising Q ū naw ī and it is said that he married Majd al-Dī n’s widow. In the
Damascus phase of Ibn ʿArabī’s life as he collated his works, he used this opportunity to
transmit to the teenaged Q ū naw ī the corpus of his writings. Q ū naw ī records having read
over 40 of Ibn ‘Arabī’s books under him, including the Fut ūḥāt and the Fu ṣūṣ.
Q ū naw ī was pivotal in teaching Ibn ‘Arabī’s ideas to a new generation as well as in shaping
a canon of the school. Based out of Konya but traveling to the Levant and Egypt, Q ū naw ī
was the master of a number of the key figures that expounded Ibn ‘Arabī’s teachings. We can
trace a direct line of master-disciple relationship from Q ū naw ī to Muʾayyad al-Dī n al-Jand ī
(d. 700/1300), to ‘Abd al-Razzaq al-K ā shān ī (d. 730/1330), and finally Dāw ūd al-Qayṣar ī
(d. 751/1350).
Further, each of these figures wrote commentaries on Ibn ‘Arabī’s Fu ṣūṣ. While Q ū naw ī
did not compose a commentary of his own, he collected his own teachings in a text titled al-
Fuk ūk. He also regularly gave lessons on the Fu ṣūṣ and one of his attendees, Fakhr al-Dī n al-
‘Ir āqī (d. 1289), composed verse summaries in Persian, compiled under the title Lama‘āt. The
earliest commentary on the Fu ṣūṣ comes from another of Q ū naw ī’s disciples, ‘Af ī f al-Dī n
al-Tilimsān ī (d. 1291), an Algerian emigre to Damascus, though this seems to be a brief gloss.
The most important and authoritative of the early commentaries on the Fu ṣūṣ is by Jand ī,
while K ā shān ī’s commentary articulated the ideas underlying the Fu ṣūṣ in a more rigor-
ous philosophical language. Qayṣar ī’s commentary, coming after a number of distinguished
commentaries, was able to provide the verification (ta ḥqīq) of problems brought up by his
predecessors. Moreover, Qayṣar ī’s commentary is prefaced with a lengthy introduction that
offers an exceptional summary of the philosophical underpinnings to the worldview of Ibn
‘Arabī and this new school.
The other body of texts that was central to the canon of the Akbar ī school were the po-
ems of ‘Umar ibn al-Fāriḍ, particularly his Na ẓm al-sul ūk (also referred to as Tāʾ iyyat al-sul ūk)
and his Khamriyya. Qunaw ī taught the former text and his disciple Sa‘ īd al-Dī n al-Farghān ī
(d. 1300) wrote a Persian commentary based on Q ū naw ī’s lectures. Farghān ī translated his
commentary to Arabic under the title, Muntah ā al-madārik. Qayṣar ī wrote a commentary on
Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s Khamriyya.
We thus see a cluster of authors inter-related through master-disciple relationships, with
Q ū naw ī as a central node. In the textual production of this set of scholars, Ibn ‘Arabī’s Fu ṣūṣ
and Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s Tāʾ iyya as well as Khamriyya were of paramount authority. In this textual
production too, Q ū naw ī’s voice is prominent.
Two figures related to Q ū naw ī through master-disciple relationships were influential in
shaping Ottoman intellectual life. The first was the aforementioned Qayṣar ī who was active
in the time of the founding figures of the Ottoman Empire, Osman and Orhan Ghazi, and
was appointed by the latter to serve as the first muderris of the madrasa established in Iznik.
The second was Shams al-Dī n Mu ḥammad ibn Ḥamza al-Fanār ī, known generally as Molla
Fanār ī (d. 1431). Fanār ī’s father was a disciple of Q ū naw ī and Fanār ī served as the first Shaykh
al-Islam of the Ottoman Empire under Sultan Murad II. His Mi ṣbāḥ al-uns is a commentary
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on Q ū naw ī’s Mift āḥ al-ghayb, a treatise expounding on the notion of al-insān al-k āmil. Fanār ī
was a proponent of wa ḥdat al-wujūd.
The connection between Ibn ‘Arabī and the Ottomans was further cemented through a
text falsely attributed to Ibn ‘Arabī, al-Shajara al-Nu‘m āniyya f ī al-dawla al-‘Uthm āniyya. This
text “predicts” a number of events including the conquests of the early Ottomans. To further
relate the work to Ibn ‘Arabī, there is also a commentary attributed to Q ū naw ī. This too is
also a false attribution. The Shajara has a line that reads, “When the sīn enters the shīn, there
will appear the tomb of Muhy ī al-Dī n.” The sīn in this case was understood to be Sultan
Selim I and shīn is bil ād al-sh ām or Dimashq. In 1516, when Selim conquered Damascus and
the grave of Ibn ‘Arabī was uncovered, he had a mausoleum and mosque built on the site,
which stands to this day.
Though not affiliated in a master-disciple relationship with this school, one of the cul-
minating voices of this tradition is Nū r al-Dī n ʿAbd al-Ra ḥ m ān al-Jā m ī (d. 1492) of Herat,
Afghanistan. Jā m ī was a polymath that shaped Persianate Islamic scholarly culture in the
Ottoman, Safavid, and Mughal empires. He was a Naqshband ī Sufi that was devoted to the
teachings of Ibn ‘Arabī. To this end, he wrote a commentary on Ibn ‘Arabī’s own summary
of the Fu ṣūṣ, titled Naqd al-nu ṣūṣ Sharḥ Naqsh al-Fu ṣūṣ. More importantly, he wrote an ex-
tensive commentary on the Fu ṣūṣ that proved to be one of the most well-received by later
generations. The Ottoman Sultan Fatih Mehmed requested Jā m ī to write a compendium on
the conflicting positions between the philosophers, theologians, and Sufis. In response, Jā m ī
composed al-Durra al-fākhira juxtaposing the views of the kalam theologians (the Timurid-era
scholars Sa‘d al-Dī n al-Taft āz ān ī and al-Sayyid al-Shar ī f al-Jurjān ī), the philosophers (Na ṣī r
al-Dī n al-Ṭūṣī) against those of the Sufis from the Akbar ī school (Q ū naw ī, Qayṣar ī, and Ibn
‘Arabī himself ).
Writing independently of this network of authors was ‘Abd al-Kar ī m al-Jī l ī (d. 767/1365–
832/1428). Little is known about his early life, but he is said to be a descendant of ‘Abd
al-Qādir al-Jilān ī. Jī l ī was active outside the central Ottoman territories in Zabīd, Yemen,
and authored an important text that at once systematized and simplified the doctrines of
Ibn ‘Arabī titled al-Insān al-k āmil f ī ma‘rifat al-aw ākhir wa’l-aw āʾ il. Like Ibn ‘Arabī, Jī l ī was a
visionary mystic and recorded his numerous visions. He also used verse extensively, akin to
other Akbar ī authors. Jī l ī, though devoted to Ibn ‘Arabī, was not a mere imitator but posited
his own positions on problems, at times breaking from Ibn ʿArabī.
‘Abd al-Wahhāb al-Shaʿrānī (1492–1565) was perhaps the most prominent popularizer and
apologist for the teachings of Ibn ‘Arabī in the circles of Sunni ‘ulamāʾ. A Sufi of the Wafāʾī
branch of the Shādhilī order, Sha‘rānī studied with the premiere ‘ulamāʾ of his day. Reconciling
certain views of Ibn ‘Arabī’s with that of Sunni orthodoxy was a difficult task. One strategy
deployed by Sha‘rānī was to argue that the passages in Ibn ‘Arabī’s texts that conflict with the
apparent teachings of the shar ī‘a were in fact interpolations and thus corruptions of the shaykh’s
texts. Sha‘rānī notes when he summarized the Futūḥāt and excised a number of problematic
passages, he then compared his summary to a copy from the original manuscript in Ibn ‘Arabī’s
own handwriting housed in Konya to find that the original manuscript lacked precisely those
unorthodox passages. Sha‘rānī’s strategy is invoked by later apologists for Ibn ‘Arabī’s ortho-
doxy to account for the seeming conflict between his doctrine and the regnant orthodoxy.
Sha‘r ān ī’s way of popularizing Ibn ‘Arabī was through producing digests culled from
Ibn ‘Arabī’s writings. His largest work in re-stating Ibn ‘Arabī’s doctrine is al-Yaw āqīt wa
’l-jaw āhir f ī bayān ʿaqāʾ id al-ak ābir. This work is a summary of Islamic theology following the
problems addressed by kal ām scholars. Sha‘r ān ī first gives the positions of the theologians,
followed by lengthy quotes taken from Ibn ‘Arabī’s Fut ūḥāt on the same topic, sometimes
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confirming the position of the kal ām theologians but often providing Ibn ‘Arabī’s verification
(ta ḥqīq) of the problem. In a similar manner, Shaʿr ān ī composed al-Kibr īt al-a ḥmar f ī bayan
‘ul ūm al-Shaykh al-Akbar, which is also largely culled from the Fut ūḥāt. An aspect of Ibn
‘Arabī’s oeuvre that was often neglected by the more philosophically inclined Akbar ī school
is Ibn ‘Arabī’s approach to Islamic law. Sha‘r ān ī’s al-Mizān al-kubrā uniquely develops this di-
mension of Ibn ‘Arabī’s thought accounting for the differences among the four Sunni schools.
Al-Mizān al-kubrā was one of Sha‘r ān ī’s most lasting contributions, being read in Ottoman
lands well into the nineteenth century.
Another prominent Ottoman era Arab scholar worthy of note was the Damascene ‘Abd
al-Ghan ī al-Nābulusī (d. 1731). Nābulusī was a polymath, a specialist in hadith, Hanafi
jurisprudence, Qurʾā nic exegesis, and a devoted disciple of Ibn ‘Arabī. Like Sha‘r ā n ī, he
was an apologist for Ibn ‘Arabī, and also like Sha‘r ā n ī, did not rely on the works of the early
Akbar ī tradition, particularly the philosophizing line initiated by Q ū naw ī. Unlike many
Arab authors who tended to focus on the Fut ūḥāt, Nābulusī wrote a commentary on the
Fu ṣūṣ. The purported purpose of this was to make the work accessible to newer audiences.
In an effort to ensure a particular reading, it can come off as overburdening in its gloss.
Nābulusī also commented on numerous manuals that reflected later summaries of Akbar ī
teachings. A key area where Nābulusī defended Ibn ‘Arabī from kal ām scholars was on the
doctrine of wa ḥdat al-wuj ūd. Nābulusī ’s al-Wuj ūd al- ḥaqq wa’l-khi ṭāb al- ṣidq is a detailed re-
sponse to a criticism of wa ḥdat al-wujūd written by one of Sa‘d al-Dī n al-Taft āz ān ī’s students,
‘Alā al-Dī n al-Bukhār ī.
Perhaps the most significant voice of Akbar ī thought in the nineteenth century was Emir
‘Abd al-Qādir al-Jaz āʾir ī (1807–1883). Between 1830 and 1847 he was involved in a war of
resistance against the French assault on his native Algeria. After surrendering and impris-
onment in France, he was allowed to settle in Damascus in 1855 where he remained for the
rest of his years. The Emir lived at a time when print was spreading in the Muslim world.
Ibn ‘Arabī’s Fut ūḥāt was published for the first time in 1858 in Bū lāq in four large volumes.
Emir ‘Abd al-Qādir commissioned two of his students to compare the print edition to the
manuscripts in Konya, written by Ibn ‘Arabī. The Emir however was not merely a popu-
larizer of Ibn ‘Arabī’s works through print, as he was an original expounder of the core of
Ibn ‘Arabī’s doctrine. His three-volume Kit āb al-maw āqif f ī al-ta ṣawwuf wa’l-waʿẓ wa’l-irsh ād
consists of expositions of verses from the Qurʾān and ḥad īths of the Prophet. His method
however is to do so not through speculation (na ẓar) but rather through inspiration (ilh ām),
perhaps somewhat closer to Ibn ‘Arabī’s spirit than some of the more philosophizing authors.
Emir ‘Abd al-Qādir thus offers a unique exposition of key teachings of the Akbar ī school.
When Emir ‘Abd al-Qādir passed away, he was buried at Ibn ‘Arabī’s mausoleum, at the feet
of his spiritual master.
Opposition to Ibn ʿArabī

Opposition to Ibn ‘Arabī’s teachings began in Mamlū k Egypt and has resurfaced in the en-
suing centuries. The most formidable opponent and critic of Ibn ‘Arabī was Taqī al-Dī n ibn
Taymiyya (d. 1328). Ibn Taymiyya’s critique of the doctrinal elements of the philosophizing
Sufism should be seen in light of his broader critique leveled at all schools of thought that
gave precedence to rationality against revelation when the two were perceived as being
in conflict. This critique extends to kalam theologians of all schools, Peripatetic philoso-
phers, and philosophizing Sufis. Ibn Taymiyya was a younger contemporary of Ibn ‘Arabī’s
heirs and was also intimately familiar with Ibn ‘Arabī’s writings. In a letter to a Damascene
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adherent of Ibn ‘Arabī’s teachings, he provides a brief account of his own personal encounters
with Ibn ‘Arabī’s writings and his assessment of them.
I used to be one of those that had a good opinion of Ibn ʿArabī because of the benefit
that I saw in his books, such as what he wrote in much of the Futuḥāt […] and the like.
We did not know his true intent because we had not studied the Fu ṣūṣ. We would gather
with our brethren in the path of God, searching for the truth, trying to follow it, and
trying to unveil the correct way. But when the matter became clear to us, we knew what
it was that we had to do.11
In the modern Muslim world, Ibn Taymiyya’s criticisms are voiced by the Wahhābī move-
ment as well as Muslim modernists. Not all of Ibn ‘Arabī’s critics were inspired by Ibn
Taymiyya. The concept of wa ḥdat al-wujūd came under criticism by numerous kal ām theolo-
gians, including a prominent figure such as Sa‘d al-Dī n al-Taft āz ān ī.
Ibn ‘Arabī’s fate in recent decades, with the rise of Islamic modernism, reform, and re-
vivalism over the past century and a half, has largely been negative, particularly in the Arab
world. Emblematic of this, in 1979, an Egyptian member of parliament got the national as-
sembly to withdraw Ibn ‘Arabī’s most influential text, al-Fut ūḥāt al-Makkiyya, from the mar-
ket. His books still remain banned in many Gulf countries, and he is deemed a non-believer
by the main scholars of Wahhābī Islam. Yet, Ibn ‘Arabī seems to have made a come-back in
popular culture in recent years. In 2017 a fictional biography of Ibn ‘Arabī titled al-Mawt al-
Ṣagh īr by a Saudi author Mu ḥ ammad Ḥasan ‘Alwā n won the Abu Dhabi national book award.
Additionally, an internationally popular television series from Turkey Dirili ş: Ertuğrul, tell-
ing a fictionalized account of the founding of the Ottoman Empire, includes Ibn ‘Arabī as
a recurring character, guiding the progenitor of the Ottomans against Crusaders and Mon-
gols. Outside the Arab world, his works are studied at length, particularly in Iran, Turkey,
South Asia, and in Europe and America, where there are professional societies dedicated to
the study of Ibn ‘Arabī’s life and teachings.
Notes
1 For biographies of Ibn ‘Arabī in English, see Stephen Hirtenstein’s The Unlimited Mercifier: The Spir-
itual Life and Thought of Ibn ‘Arabi (Oxford: Anqa Publishing, 1989); Claude Addas, Quest for the Red
Sulphur: The Life of Ibn ‘Arabi, trans. Peter Kingsley (Cambridge: Islamic Texts Society, 1993); idem.,
The Voyage of No Return (Cambridge: Islamic Texts Society, 2002). For a study of the image of Ibn
ʿArabī in the later tradition, see Alexander Knysh, Ibn ʻArabi in the Later Islamic Tradition: The Making
of a Polemical Image in Medieval Islam (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1999).
2 For this translation see, Hirtenstein, The Unlimited Mercifier, 151.
3 For this hadith and the various narrations and wordings, see Ṣa ḥīḥ Muslim, Kit āb al-fa ḍāʾ il, b āb dhikr
kawnihi kh ātam al-nabiyyīn.
4 Hirtenstein, The Unlimited Mercifier, 154.
5 There are numerous exceptional studies of aspects of Ibn ‘Arabī’s teachings. In particular, see
Toshihiko Izutsu, Sufism and Taoism: A Comparative Study of the Key Philosophical Concepts (Berke-
ley: University of California Press, 1983); William C. Chittick, The Sufi Path of Knowledge: Ibn
al-‘Arabi’s Metaphysics of Imagination (Albany, NY: SUNY Press, 1989); idem., The Self-Disclosure of
God: Principles of Ibn Al-ʻArab ī’s Cosmology (Albany, NY: SUNY Press, 1998); Michel Chodkiewicz,
An Ocean without Shore: Ibn ʻArabî, the Book, and the Law, trans. David Streight (Albany, NY: State
University of New York Press, 1993); idem., Seal of the Saints: Prophethood and Sainthood in the Doc-
trine of Ibn ʻArab ī, trans. Liadain Sherrard (Cambridge: Islamic Texts Society, 1993).
6 See ʿAbd al-B āqī Mift ā h,̣ Buh ụ̄ th Hawla
̣ Kutub Wa-Mafāh īm Al-Shaykh Al-Akbar Muhỵ ī Al-D īn Ibn
ʻArab ī (Beirut: Dā r al-Kutub al-ʿIlmiyya, 2011), 45–64.
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Jawad Anwar Qureshi
̣ ̣
̣̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣
102
8
JALĀL AL-DĪN RŪMĪ AND HIS
PLACE IN THE HISTORY OF
SUFISM
Ibrahim Gamard
Introduction
Not long after the death of Mawlānā Jalā l al-Dī n Mu ḥammad Rū m ī (1207–1273 CE), it
was said that three general things became particular to him. The term, “rhyming couplets”
(mathnaw ī ), which formerly meant any book of such verses, came to refer to the Mathnaw ī
of Mawlānā; the title, “our master” (mawl ān ā), which formerly meant all religious scholars,
came to refer to Mawlānā Jalā l al-Dī n; and the term, “tomb” (turba), which formerly meant
any mausoleum, came to refer to the resting place of Mawlānā’s tomb.1 Now, over seven
centuries later, these terms continue to refer to Mawlānā. His Mathnaw ī is called “Mesnevi”
in Turkey and “Masnavī ” elsewhere, he is called “Mawl ān ā” in Central Asia and the Indian
subcontinent, “Maulavī ” in Iran, and “Mevlâna” in Turkey, and his mausoleum (turba-kh āna)
in the city of Konya, Turkey, is the most famous Sufi tomb in the world.
The unique position of Mawlānā in Sufism is due to a very favourable combination of qual-
ities of personal greatness (such as profound insight, soaring inspiration, eloquence, and love)
together with events of history that preceded his time. The latter include, among others, the
turbulent events that were in the background of his emigration from the easternmost to the
westernmost of Persian-speaking regions, the patronage and adoption of Persian language and
culture by the Turkish Seljuq Empire during the eleventh to thirteenth centuries, the influ-
ence of earlier Sufis and “schools” of Sufism, the influence of earlier Sufi poets who preceded
him, and the high degree of refinement attained by Persian Sufism up to his time. Other major
factors include the influence of his two Sufi teachers, his devotion to the remembrance (dhikr)
of God, his love of audition sessions (samā‘) that were accompanied by mystical poetry and
music, the uniqueness of his lyrical poetry, and the greatness of his Mathnaw ī.
The turbulent thirteenth century

He was born in the eastern Persian region of Khur ā sān, near the ancient city of Balkh. His
father, Bahā’ al-Dī n Mu ḥammad Walad (1153–1231), was presumably born in Balkh, where
he worked as a preacher (kh ātib), as had his father before him. For unclear reasons, he moved
his family to the town of Wakhsh, about 250 kilometres to the east.2 Mawlānā, the youngest
child in the family, was probably born there. About five years later (1212) they moved to
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Ibrahim Gamard
the northern city of Samarqand. One major reason for leaving may have been disapproval
from a religious conservative, the Qāḍī of Wakhsh, perhaps because Bahā’ al-Dī n was a Sufi;
another motive may have been his wish to obtain a position in a religious college (madrasa).3
The family was in Samarqand when the Khwārazmshāh laid siege to the city (1212–1213).4
Within the next four years (about 1216), Bahā’ al-Dī n left Khur ā sān with his family and
may have decided to perform the Pilgrimage (ḥajj) in Mecca and then seek divine guidance
about where to live. They reached Baghdad and Mecca (about 1217), before proceeding to
Damascus and Seljuq Anatolia (R ūm) that same year.5 They would not have heard about the
Mongol conquests and massacres of the cities of Khur ā sān until they had lived for about four
years in Seljuq Anatolia.
The Seljuq Turks began conquering Khur ā sān (1037), conquered mainland Persia, and
then invaded Anatolia and defeated the Byzantine army (1071). Warfare with the Byzantines
was continual during the next centuries. During the First Crusade, the Sultanate of Rū m
lost its first capital, Nicaea (1097), and Konya was briefly occupied; subsequently, Konya be-
came the new capital. There were many battles against the Crusaders in the Second Crusade.
During the Third Crusade, a German army was allowed to pass through Rū m, but briefly
conquered Konya (1190). Due to the expansion of the Sultanate of Rū m to the east, warfare
also ensued with Georgia (1202, 1213–1214).
Then the Mongols invaded Anatolia and defeated the Sultanate (1243); it was allowed
to continue as a vassal state by paying massive payments of tribute to the Mongols. As a re-
sult, the lives of its population were largely spared. Mongol soldiers occupied Konya while
Mawlānā lived there (1256) and tore down the fortifications. The point here is that Mawlānā
was able to flourish in Konya, the relatively safe capital city of the Seljuq Sultanate of Rū m,
but only because the Sultanate was continually expanding or defending its borders from rival
states and empires.
Seljuq patronage of Persian culture

The Turkic peoples who invaded the Persian Plateau beginning in the eleventh century and
established the Great Seljuq Empire had no refined or literary culture of their own. So the
ruling and elite classes wisely adopted Persian language and culture. Moreover, they pa-
tronised religious and spiritual knowledge and the arts, including poetry. When the Seljuqs
extended the empire into Anatolia in the eleventh century, they established a Sultanate that
was relatively stable. Many well-educated Persian-speaking people sought refuge there and
were welcomed and honoured. The Seljuq ruler, Sulṭān ‘Alā’ al-Dī n Kay Qubād (d. 1237)
invited Mawlānā’s father to live and teach in Konya. He moved (1229) from nearby L āranda,
where the family had resided for about seven years, and died two years later. A year after
that, Sayyid Burhān al-Dī n arrived and became Mawlānā’s first Sufi teacher until about a
year before his death (1241).
During the next several years, Mawlānā was on his own, which may have been the time
when his Majālis-i sab’a (seven Sermons) were written down. The point here is that as a result
of the Seljuq patronage of Persian culture, it was acceptable to quote Sufi Persian poetry as
part of Islamic instruction. The following is one of Mawlānā’s own quatrains that he recited
in a mosque, following the first part of the sermon spoken in Arabic:
I strolled with my beloved in a rose garden.
(And) from lack of awareness, I cast a glance upon a rose.
(That) beloved said to me, “May you be ashamed,
(For my) cheeks are here and you are looking at roses?”6
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Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī
The influence of earlier Sufis

Mawlānā benefited from the influence of the so-called “ecstatic” tradition of Sufism that
originated in Khur ā sān that was exemplified by Abū Sa‘ īd ibn Abī ’l-Khayr (d. 1048). This
has been contrasted with the so-called “sober” tradition of Sufism that originated in Bagh-
dad and was exemplified by Junayd (d. 910). However, this distinction is a generalisation,
since the two traditions, or schools, were more complex.
Mawlānā was not only a native of Khur ā sān, but his Sufism was clearly in alignment with
that tradition; this emphasised many things: the Persian language, the appreciation of poetry,
the use of poetic verses in spiritual instruction, the blame-seeking (mal āmat ī ) path as a way
to struggle against the self-centred ego, the use of the spiritual training house (kh ānaqāh)
as a place to teach spiritual courtesy and selfless service to others, and the use of musical
instruments and spiritual poetry (ghazals and quatrains) in the audition session (sam ā‘) as
a way to intensify remembrance (dhikr) and passionate love (‘ishq) of God through sponta-
neous bodily movements. The other major feature of Mawlānā’s Sufism was mystical7 love
(ma ḥabba) of God, a trend in Sufism that originated in Iraq with Rābi‘a al-‘Adawiyya of Basra
(d. 185/801). She famously declared:
O God, if I am worshipping You because of fear of Hell, burn me in Hell. And if I am

worshipping You with hope of Paradise, make it forbidden to me. But if I am worship-
ping You for Your sake (alone), do not hold back from me Your eternal beauty.8
Another influence was Abū Ḥā mid Mu ḥammad al-Ghaz ā l ī (d. 1111) who was one of the
greatest Muslim thinkers of all time. He quit his position as an eminent religious scholar
and became a Sufi. Eventually, he wrote many important books and was the first to make a
formal description of Sufism and explain how it is a faithful interpretation of Qur’ānic and
other Islamic principles. As a result, Sufism became accepted as a worthy part of Islam and
integrated with Islamic law (shar ī‘a).
In order to attain full acceptance, it became expected for Sufis to follow an established
school (madhhab) of Sunn ī Islamic law, which included detailed rules of religious conduct as
exemplified by the Prophet Mu ḥammad. In the Persian-speaking areas of Mawlānā’s time,
this was mainly a choice between the Shā ficī and the Ḥanaf ī schools. In a credible account,
Mawlānā’s close disciple, Sheikh Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn Zarkūbī declared his wish to follow the Ḥanaf ī
school of Islamic law as followed by his Master, instead of the Shā ficī school. Mawlānā replied,
No, no! What is right is that you should (continue to) be in your own school of religious
law and keep it up, but (also) travel in our (mystical) way (ṭar īqa) and guide people on
our path of love ( jādda-yi ‘ishq).9
In this statement, Mawlānā affirmed the first two of the three classical levels of Sufism: that
the Sufi should maintain what is required by Islamic law (shar ī‘at) and what is required by
the mystical way ( ṭar īqat) (purification of the self-centred ego (nafs), continual dhikr, spiritual
states (a ḥw āl—including ecstatic ones) and spiritual stations (maqām āt), the master-disciple
relationship, and so on). For some Sufis, such as Mawlānā, the master-disciple relationship is
part of the path of love in which the disciple, or “lover” (‘āshiq) becomes immersed in spiri-
tual love (‘ishq) for the master, or human “beloved” (ma‘sh ūq).10 This leads to the third level:
realisation of divine Reality (ḥaqīqat)—direct encounter with God, “union” or nearness to
God, and so on. In Rū m ī’s path of love, this occurs when the lover becomes immersed in
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Ibrahim Gamard
love for the divine Beloved (God) alone. The following verses from Mawlānā’s works are
examples:
Love is the path and road of our Prophet.
We were born from Love and Love was our mother.11
The sect of love is distinct from all religions;
The sect and school is God (alone).12
Know truly (about) the [mystic] lover: he isn’t a (common) “Muslim”.
In the school of Love there isn’t belief or unbelief.13
We are lovers of Love, but the (common) “Muslim” is different14
The best of lives is a life in the path of the lovers [of God],
(And) the wink of an eye from a beauty with a clear (promise of ) union (wiṣā l).15
The influence of earlier Sufi poets

Although there is an oft repeated story that Mawl ā n ā met Far īd al-D ī n cAṭṭā r at the age
of ten when travelling with his family, this is regarded by scholars as a legend.16 Mawl ā n ā
must have heard, read, and been strongly influenced by his poetry. And he must have also
been profoundly affected by the poetry of Ḥ ak ī m San ā’ ī, especially since Sayyid Burh ā n
al-D ī n was very fond of quoting his verses. San ā’ ī (d. 1140) was one of a number of Sufi
Persian poets to compose verses about the path of love prior to Mawl ā n ā’s time. For ex-
ample, he wrote:
As long as you are sober, you won’t reach the taste of (ecstatic) drunkenness.
As long as you don’t submit the body, you won’t reach devotion to the soul.
(And) in the path of love for the Friend, like fire and water (thrown together),
As long as you aren’t non-existent of self, you won’t reach (true) existence.17
As long as you are with yourself you are far (away), even if you are with me—
You are very far (away as if ) a mountain is between you and me.
You will not reach me as long as you don’t become one with me.
(For) in the path of love, either you exist or I!18
And Far īd al-Dī n ‘Aṭṭār (d. 1220) wrote:

Ask me for the essence of craziness in (the path of ) Love.
(And) ask me for a life lost and an intellect overturned.19
The moment when my essence becomes the Ocean of Totality,
The beauty of (all) the atoms becomes clear to me.
Because of that, I burn like a candle so that in the path of Love,
All moments may become One Moment to me.20
According to Aflā k ī, Mawlānā indicated that he was profoundly influenced by these poets
when he said:
Whoever becomes occupied with the words of ‘Aṭṭār will benefit from the words of
Ḥak ī m and will come to understand the (spiritual) secrets of that speech (of his). And
whoever contemplates the words of Sanā’ ī with complete seriousness will become aware
of the luminous secret (sirr-i san ā’ī ) of our words.21
It was related that some of Mawlānā’s disciples had been eagerly studying the mathnaw īs of
these two poets and gaining much spiritual insight, when Mawlānā’s close disciple Chalabī
Ḥusā m al-Dī n suggested to him that many dīw āns of his ghazals had been produced that
dispensed luminous mystical secrets, but perhaps he might also compose a mathnaw ī of his
own in the form of Sanā’ ī’s book and in the same poetic meter (wazn) as ‘Aṭṭār’s Man ṭiq al- ṭayr
106
(“Speech of the Birds”) In that moment, Mawlānā was quoted as saying, “Yes, I received an
inspiration from God to do so.” He then reached into his turban and handed Ḥusā m al-Dī n a
sheet of paper that contained the first 18 couplets of his Mathnaw ī: “Listen to the reed (flute),
how it is complaining! It is telling about separations …”22
The high level of Sufism

Up to the time of the Mongol invasion, Persian Sufism had flourished. The use of quatrains
in teaching was widespread, since these were pithy and easy for disciples to memorise. This
method had been used very effectively in the eleventh century by Abū Sa‘ īd.23 ‘Aṭṭār (d. 1240)
had written an entire book of 2,088 quatrains in story form.24 Awḥad al-Dī n Kirm ān ī (d.
1238) composed 1,807 quatrains.25 Mawlānā did not write a prose manual of his knowledge
of Sufism, but he continued the Persian Sufi custom of composing quatrains for the benefit
of disciples. He composed approximately 1,827. An indication of the remarkable lofty devel-
opment of Persian Sufism in the thirteenth century is the fact that a number of well-known
Sufis of the time, who had attained levels of spiritual greatness, had only a mild interest in
spending time with Mawlānā. Among these was Ṣadr al-Dī n Q ū naw ī (d. 1274), who was the
step-son and successor of Ibn ‘Arabī (d. 1240)—one of the greatest minds in Islamic history,
who developed a kind of speculative or philosophical Sufism. He had once lived and married
in Konya. Via his writings and disciples, Q ū naw ī became the main person who promulgated
the teachings of Ibn ‘Arabī throughout the Islamic world. Although Ṣadr al-Dī n was an exact
contemporary of Mawlānā’s and lived in the same city, he attracted elite visitors and disciples
who were eager to learn the mystical philosophy of Ibn ‘Arabī in his rather aristocratic lodge
(zāwiya). In contrast, Mawlānā’s disciples (many of whom were tradesmen) were engaged
in the traditional disciplines of Sufism. Over time, the two great men of Konya developed
respect for each other.
Another outstanding individual was Fakhr al-Dī n ‘Ir āqī (d. 688/1289), who became a
famous Sufi poet. After spending years as the disciple of a sheikh of the Suhraward ī Sufi
order in India, the sheikh died and ‘Iraqī went to Mecca and then to Konya. He spent a
short time with Mawlānā,26 but felt much more attracted to Ṣadr al-Dī n and speculative
or philosophical Sufism, of which he became a proponent. He regarded Ṣadr al-Dī n as his
second Sufi sheikh. The point here is that two major lines of highly developed Sufism, one
associated with Mawlānā Rū m ī and the other with Ibn ‘Arabī, came into contact in Konya,
but remained separate and distinct.
The influence of Rūmī’s Sufi teachers

Fortunately, there were two Sufi masters who were not veiled by their own greatness from
seeing Mawlānā’s potential. Sayyid Burhān al-Dī n Mu ḥaqqiq al-Tirmidh ī (d. 1241) was the
leading disciple of Mawlānā’s father, who was, himself, a unique Sufi. Burhān al-Dī n had
not been in contact with the Walad family for about 15 years since they left their home in
eastern Khur ā sān. But he travelled to Konya after hearing that Bahā’ al-Dī n lived there; after
arriving, he learnt that his master had died the year before. At the time, Mawlānā was not
ready to succeed his father. Burhān al-Dī n questioned him and then declared:
You have surpassed your father by a hundred degrees in all the domains of knowledge
of religion and certitude, but your father was complete in both verbal knowledge (‘ilm-i
qāl) and ecstatic knowledge (‘ilm-i ḥāl). After today, I desire that you may be a seeker of
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Ibrahim Gamard
ecstatic knowledge… This is the spiritual significance (ma‘n ā) that came to me from my
sheikh, and you should also acquire that from me, so that you may be the inheritor of
your father outwardly and inwardly and become him essentially.27
Subsequently, Burhān al-Dī n assumed his master’s position of sheikh and passed on the
Sufi teachings of Bahā’ al-Dī n Walad, especially those recorded in the latter’s book,28 to
Mawlānā over a period of nine years. In addition, he sent him to the most prestigious Islamic
colleges in Aleppo and Damascus, Syria. These colleges taught the interpretation of Islamic
law of Abū Ḥan ī fa (d. 767). After completing his various studies, and returning to Konya,
Burhān al-Dī n directed him to do several 40-day spiritual retreats. He was so impressed by
Mawlānā’s spiritual state afterwards that he declared him to be without equal in the world in
the major branches of knowledge, as well as of hidden spiritual secrets. He told him to teach
and said, “Immerse the souls of the worlds in new life and unlimited compassion, and bring
to life the dead ones of the world of form (ṣūrat) by means of your (understanding of ) inward
spiritual reality (ma‘n ā) and love.”29 It seems that he was called “our Master” (Mawl ān ā) even
then by Burhān al-Dī n.60 Mawlānā then became the full successor of his father, had numer-
ous followers, and was called by his father’s title, the “Great Master” (Khudāwandgār). After
completion of Mawlānā’s training, Burhān al-Dī n went to live Qaysar īya, where he died
about a year later.30
Although Shams al-Dī n Mu ḥammad al-Tabr īzī has been described for more than a cen-
tury as an illiterate wandering dervish who was charismatic and had antinomian or heretical
tendencies, there is now much more credible information about him due to the work of
scholars in editing and translating the Maqāl āt (Discourses) of Shams, which consists of his
teachings as recorded by his disciples.31 He had a solid Islamic education in the Arabic lan-
guage and was a Sunn ī Muslim who followed the Shā fi‘ ī school of Islamic law.32 He must
have memorised the Qur’ān, since he taught young boys to memorise it. He married a young
woman raised in Mawlānā’s household named K ī miyā and after they married they lived in
Mawlānā’s household.33 According to early Mawlaw ī (Mevlevi) tradition, the spiritual tradi-
tion of Mawlānā’s successors, he was said to be 60 years of age. The following is what Shams
said in the Discourses, about his quest:
I humbled myself before God, asking, “Grant me companionship (ham-suḥbat) with

Your hidden saints!” I had a dream in which I was told, “We will grant companionship
with one saint (walī ).” I asked, “Where is that saint?” Another night, I dreamed that I
was told: “In Anatolia (R ūm).” After some time passed, I dreamed that I was told, “Now
is not the time.”34
In regard to what is now known about Shams, it is very significant that he placed so much
importance on “following” (mut ābacat), meaning following the example of the behaviour
modelled by the Prophet Mu ḥammad (called the “Sunnah”). Shams had previously rejected
a number of well-known Sufi masters (contemporary and past ones) because they did not
follow the example of the Prophet sufficiently (and some apparently felt they were so spiritu-
ally advanced that they had little need to).35 Based on this understanding, the initial meeting
between Shams and Mawlānā can be seen in a new light: Shams was searching for one of
the hidden saints of God; a mystic who had a strong commitment to following the Prophet’s
pious way of life. This would be in contrast to other Sufis who made claims of receiving
extraordinary spiritual favours from God but who had a lack of commitment to following
the Prophet’s example.
108
In Aflā k ī’s hagiography (completed 80 years after Mawlānā died) there are two versions of
the famous meeting. The first account is the one generally preferred by popularising Western
authors because it fits their view that Mawlānā was a mere Muslim scholar and theologian
until he met Shams, who introduced him to mysticism. According to this version, Shams
asked him who was greater, the Prophet Mu ḥammad or (the Sufi) Bāyazīd (al-Bisṭā m ī).
Mawlānā answered that the Prophet was greater, since he was the leader and chief of all the
prophets and saints. Shams then (supposedly) asked, “Then what does it mean that Mu ḥam-
mad said (to God), ‘Glory be to You! We have not known You as You deserve to be known’”
and Bāyazīd said, “Glory be to me! How great is my state! And I am the King of kings!”
Mawlānā is depicted as fainting and falling from his mule from awe of that reply. After re-
gaining consciousness, he is said to have taken Shams to his religious college for 40 days of
solitude together, or for three months according to another report.36
Aflā k ī’s second version depicted Shams as the one who fainted, after Mawlānā explained
that,
For Bāyazīd, (his) thirst became pacified by a gulp (of water), he spoke from (feeling) sati-
ated, and the jug of his comprehension was filled by that amount… But for Muḥammad,
there was tremendous thirst… and every day he became increased in his supplications for
(greater) nearness (to God). And (so) of these two assertions, the assertion of Mu ḥammad is
greater. For this reason he said, “We have not known You as You deserve to be known.”37
The following is what Shams himself said about the meeting:
However, I’m not talking about Muḥammad… But I’m saying (that) he is more superior
in regard to those who (came) after him, and (therefore) how can I equate anyone with
him? For that which has come to me beyond the acquisition of the knowledge (of religious
learning), the intellect, and the toil and exertion (of the mind)—that (has come) with the
blessings of following him. And the first words I spoke with (Mawlānā) were these: “But
as for Bāyazīd, why didn’t he adhere to following (mutābacat) (the Prophet’s example) and
(why) didn’t (he) say ‘Glory be to You! We have not worshipped You’ (as You deserve to be
worshipped)?” Then Mawlānā knew to completion and perfection (the meaning of ) those
words (of the Prophet). But what was the final outcome of these words? Then his inmost
consciousness made him drunk from these (words), because his inmost consciousness was
cleansed (and) purified, (and) therefore (the meaning of ) it became known to him. And
with his drunkenness, I (also) knew the pleasure and delight of those words—for I had
been neglectfully unaware of the pleasure and delight of these words.38
In sum, Shams-i Tabr īzī found the hidden saint he had long searched for, one who was ad-
vanced on the Sufi path who was devoted to following the Prophet Mu ḥammad. And Shams
confirmed that, after their first words, they were in a spiritual state of (ecstatic) “drunken-
ness” together.
Sulṭān Walad also wrote about his father’s first meeting with Shams:
After much waiting, he saw his (Shams’) face; (mystical) secrets became as visible as day-
light to him. He saw that which no one had been able to see; also, he heard that which
no one had heard from anyone… He invited him to his house, saying, “O (spiritual)
king, hear from this poor beggar (darw īsh): although my house is not a place worthy of
you, yet I am your sincere (spiritual) lover.”39
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Mawlānā wanted to spend most of his time with his newly found spiritual master. In his
Discourses, Shams expressed great reluctance to share mystical secrets with anyone unless they
could understand them and act on them. He told of how a conceited man came to him and
said, “Tell me a secret.” Shams replied:
I am unable to tell you a secret. I am able to tell a secret only to that person in whom
I do not see him, but in whom I see myself. I speak my secret only to myself. I am not
seeing myself in you. I see another person in you.40
Finally, he could share his secrets fully with Mawlānā. It also seems likely that he also trans-
mitted ecstatic states of consciousness to Mawlānā that transformed him into an ecstatic Sufi,
who sought such states in the “mystical concert” (sam ā‘) for years after his time with Shams.
Shams was well aware of Mawlānā’s greatness. He said:
The first condition (when) I came to Mawlānā was this: “I am not coming for being a
shaykh.” (As for) the one who could be Mawlānā’s shaykh, God has not brought him
upon the face of the earth, and he would not be a human being. Also, I am not one who
may act (the part of ) a disciple; that (position) has not remained for me.41
After about a year and a half, Shams left for Syria, was persuaded to come back, and then
disappeared permanently about a year afterwards (1247–1248). Certainly, Mawlānā’s dis-
ciples felt jealousy that he spent so much time with Shams. But present-day scholars reject
Aflā k ī’s claim that they murdered Shams as baseless.42 Shams made clear hints that he would
need to leave permanently in order to further Mawlānā’s development as a spiritual master.
For example, in one speech recorded by his disciples, in which he appears to have addressed
Mawlānā, he said:
Since I am not in the situation where I might order travel for you, I will place (the need
for travel) upon myself for the welfare of your work, because separation is a cook….
What is the value of that work (of yours)? I would make fifty journeys for your welfare.
My travels are for the sake of the (successful) emergence of your work. Otherwise, what
is the difference for me between Anatolia and Syria? There’s no difference (if ) I am at
the Ka‘ba (in Mecca) or in Istanbul. But it’s certainly the case that separation cooks and
refines (the seeker).43
After Mawlānā made two journeys to Damascus and failed to find Shams, Sulṭān Walad
wrote:
He did not find Shams-i Tabr īz in Syria; (instead) he found him within himself, like the
clear moon. He said, “Although we are far from him in body, without (consideration
of ) body and spirit we both are one light. Whether you see him or me, I am him (and)
he is me, (O) seeker …” He said, “Since I am him, (for) what do I search? Now (that) I
am his very substance, I may speak from my (very) self.”44
In sum, Mawlānā benefitted enormously from the religious and mystical teachings of his two
Sufi masters—and extraordinary spiritual transmissions from Shams.
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Rūmī’s devotion to remembrance of God (dhikr)

A central spiritual practice in Sufism is the remembering, recollecting, mentioning, and
praising of God (dhikru All āh)—throughout the waking hours as much as possible. All Mus-
lims are commanded in the Qur’ān to recollect the name of the Lord, to remember God
often (with humility and reverence, standing or sitting or lying down), to find satisfaction
in the remembrance of God, to not be diverted from the recollection of God by buying and
selling, and to know that remembrance of God is the greatest (act of worship). Muslim Sufis
have specialised in this practice by developing a rich variety of dhikrs, usually Arabic words,
names (of God), and phrases from the Qur’ān, or Arabic terms derived from such or from
prayers in the Traditions of the Prophet Mu ḥammad (a ḥādīth). In Sufi orders, dhikr formulas
may be general or unique (to a particular order) and for individual or group practice. In
addition, because recitation of the Qur’ān is also a form of the remembrance of God, daily
litanies (awrād) (in Arabic or translation) that usually consist of selections of verses from the
Qur’ān, usually prayers, are also often read by Sufis as well.
Aflā k ī related that one day the Regent of Konya, Mu‘ ī n al-Dī n Parwāna, prefaced a ques-
tion by saying:
The Sufi sheikhs of the past had some daily litanies and dhikrs, such as, “There is no
divinity except God” (l ā il āha ill ā ’ll āh—Q.47:19, 37:35); and for some the dhikr of, “Ex-
cept (only) God” (ill ā All āh) was sufficient; and for some dervishes of Turkestan it was,
“Him, Him” (H ū H ū)… and some would count the two phrases of, “Glory (be) to God
and to Him is the praise” a hundred times.
Then he asked, “I wonder what is the way of remembrance for Mawlānā?” He replied:
Our dhikr is ‘All āh, All āh, All āh’ because we are those who belong to God (m ā All āhī-
yān- īm) and because “we come from God and we will return to God” (Q.2:156). Just
like my father, Bahā’ al-Dī n Walad—may God bless his spirit—always heard from All āh,
spoke by All āh, and was a rememberer of All āh (dh ākiru All āh), since God Most High has
manifested (Himself ) to all the prophets and saints by a special name, and the manifes-
tation to us Mu ḥammadans is by (the name) ‘All āh,’ which is the sum total ( jāmc-i jām‘)
(of names).45
And it was reported that,
Continually, during the long nights, Mawlānā would place his blessed self against the
wall of the (religious) college and unceasingly say, ‘All āh, All āh!’ in a loud voice, so that
it was said that (the space) between earth and the heavens would be filled by the sound
of the clamour of ‘All āh, All āh!’46
Aflā k ī mentioned that Mawlānā recited litanies after the pre-dawn ritual prayer. Like most
religious scholars, he must have memorised many. One of them begins: “O God, make for
me a light in my heart…”47 Mawlānā’s dhikr became the dhikr formula for the Mawlaw ī Sufi
Order (generally, repeated silently in the heart during waking hours; sometimes repeated
softly in a group for a short duration) for the next centuries up to the present day.
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Rūmī’s love of ecstatic Samā‘

Aflā k ī narrated many times that Mawlānā composed and recited verses during the sam ā‘. For
example: “He declared the start of sam ā‘ and started with this ghazal (that begins): ‘A moon
arrived that the sky has never seen (even) in a dream; he brought a fire that water has never
extinguished.’”48 And:
In (that) moment, in a state of whirling by which the wheeling sky was bewildered by
such spinning, Mawlānā started (to compose) a ghazal, saying: “O dear one, if you don’t
sleep for a little night, what will happen? If you don’t knock on the door of separation,
what will happen?”49
There are clear indications that he composed ghazals and quatrains specifically for samā‘ ses-
sions. Almost a hundred years after his death, the Mawlawī/Mevlevī followers of his Sufi lin-
eage completed a special version of his D īwān in which all the ghazals were ordered according
to their poetic meter (wazn), 23 major ones plus mixed and rare meters.50 It is clear that these
volumes were made so that the Mawlawī singers could recite aloud ghazals during samā‘ in
the same poetic meter at length, without needing to stop and find more similar ones. It also
seems very likely that it was the practice during Mawlānā’s lifetime that his ghazals were sung
at length during samā‘. Samā‘ has been misunderstood for a long time. It is sometimes claimed
that it is a whirling “dance” that is accompanied by music and poetry, and that Mawlānā was
the originator of it. However, samā‘ is not, and was never intended to be, a dance; rather, it is
way of prayer—a practice of the remembrance of God (dhikru ’llāh). Muslim Sufis had been
engaging in such sessions since the middle of the ninth century CE, starting in Baghdad, a
practice that spread very quickly, especially among Persian Sufis.51 Lack of knowledge about
samā‘ is largely due to the fact that this centuries-old Persian Sufi practice has almost disap-
peared except, to some extent, in the Chishtī Order in India and Pakistan.
After the (originally Persian) Mawlaw ī Order became more Turkish, the sam ā‘ was changed
into a choreographed ritual based on circular (dawr ī ) movements. It was called “Sema” (in
Turkish) and is also known as the Muqābala (“face-to-face”) ritual in which the dervishes
walk in a circle and then whirl in a moving circle, with much bowing to the sheikh, to the
chief off the whirlers, and to each other. Every movement is choreographed, so that the rit-
ual is done exactly the same way every time. There is some variety of musical compositions,
but these are performed the same way; within the compositions are verses of Sufi poetry,
mostly those of Mawlānā’s, which are sung (in transliterated Persian syllables, with Turkish
pronunciation) by the musicians. The only spontaneity that occurs is at the beginning, with
a reed-flute solo, and sometimes at the end with another instrumental solo.
The word, sam ā‘ means “listening” in Arabic. Originally, it meant listening to the recita-
tion of the Qur’ān by someone with a beautiful voice. It is well known that this can induce
ecstatic emotions in some listeners. Later, mystical poetry and music were listened to, while
imagining that the voice of God the Beloved was heard. Such sessions involved a group of
men dervishes led by a Sufi sheikh. Each dervish remained still and quiet until spiritual
feelings and an urge to express these feelings arose. Al-Ghaz ā l ī (d. 1111), who defended the
practice, said:
He should… sit with bent head as he would sit in thought that absorbed his heart, re-
straining himself from hand-clapping and leaping and the rest of the movements used to
work up the emotions and make a hypocritical show…Then if ecstasy overcomes him
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and moves him without his volition, he is excusable in regard to it and not blameworthy.
But whenever volition returns to him let him return to his stillness and to his repose …52
And Hujw ī r ī (d. 1071) said, “…it should not be practised until it comes (of its own accord…
If it agitates, be moving; if it calms, be calm. And you must know to distinguish between a
strong natural impulse and an ecstatic movement.”53 He also said, “Those who call it ‘danc-
ing’ are utterly wrong. It is a state that cannot be explained in words: ‘He who does not taste
does not know.’”54
Only spontaneous movements were allowed. Early sources mention hand-clapping,
foot-stamping, hand-waving, dance-like movements (raqṣ), leaping, ecstatic shouting, whirl-
ing (charkhīdan), and prostration (but different in form from prostration in the ritual prayers).
Such movements were allowed only if the urge to move felt compelling; planned move-
ments (including whirling) were forbidden. The Sufi shaykh often stood up last; sometimes
in a state of ecstasy he would rip his upper shirt or rip his cloak. If the latter occurred, the
dervishes would rush to pick up pieces that they would later sew to their own cloaks for
added spiritual blessing (baraka). There were extensive rules, as well as high standards for
participants.
According to Aflā k ī, Mawlānā did not engage in sam ā‘ in his youth, but was later encour-
aged to do so by his wife Kerr ā’s mother. When he began to participate, he would mainly
wave his hands (a common movement). Later, Shams-i Tabr īzī showed him how to whirl.55
According to Sipahsā lār, on the other hand, Mawlānā did not participate in such gatherings
until after he met Shams, who indicated to him, “Enter into the mystical concert, for that
which you are seeking will become increased in the sam ā‘.”56 When Shams was asked about
the secret of sam ā‘, he said:
There are more (divine) manifestations and visions (than by other means) for the men of
God in the sam ā‘ session. (By it) they have come forth from the world of their own exis-
tence; sam ā‘ brings them forth from other worlds and unites them in (direct) encounter
with God (liqāy-i Ḥaqq).
He said, further (speaking in terms of Islamic law), that sam ā‘ is forbidden (ḥarām) (to most),
who would (intentionally move and) raise a hand without the (spiritual) state of ecstasy (ḥāl);
it is allowed (mubāḥ) to the people of abstinence and asceticism, whom it makes full of tears
and compassion; and it is required ( far īḍa) for the people of ecstatic states, for (whom) “it is
an essential obligation ( farḍ-i ‘ayn), such as the five (daily ritual) prayers (nam āz) and the fast
of Ramaḍān.”57
Audition sessions were held in Konya long before Mawlānā began to join them, and they
were held by other Sufi groups. Little is known about his movements during sam ā‘ sessions.
A review of Aflā k ī’s book yielded 64 occasions when Mawlānā participated in sam ā‘ sessions.
Usually, Aflā k ī simply stated that, “A sam ā‘ took place,” without details. However, he did in-
clude some interesting information (keeping in mind his tendency to exaggerate and embel-
lish). During the leadership of Mawlānā’s first successor, Chalabī Ḥusā m al-Dī n (1273–1284),
Mawlānā’s custom of holding a sam ā‘ session after attending the Friday (mid-day) prayer in
the mosque was continued, along with recitation from the Mathnaw ī after recitation from
the Qur’ān58 —a custom that was carried out for the next centuries. Of course, samā‘ ses-
sions were stopped and re-started so that participants could do the ritual prayers, something
Aflā k ī had no need to mention this to his audience. However, there is one instance: “He
(Mawlānā) was engaged in the ecstatic sam ā‘ from mid-morning time until close to the
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second afternoon prayer (time). Then he said, ‘Enough. Stop! (bas kun īd).’”59 Sam ā‘ sessions
generally started with a shout: “The ‘Hey!’ of sam ā‘ was sounded and all of the religious
scholars and commanders shouted and lowered their heads and the ecstatic samā‘ went on
until the early morning.”60
Actions common during sam ā‘ done by Mawlānā were: stamping his feet, shouting, en-
gaging in dance-like movements, giving away articles of clothing (such as turban cloth or
robes) to the musicians, pulling someone into the sam ā‘, and whirling (seven instances). The
following is an example of the latter: He would become ecstatically “drunk,” seize the mu-
sicians (qaww āl- ān), whirl, stamp his feet, and bless the Prophet Mu ḥammad and his family;
(and) he would begin again.61 Actions done that were unusual were: grabbing someone by
the collar and speaking to him, bowing to musicians, and writing legal judgements ( fatw ās)
during the sam ā‘.62
A famous story in which Aflā k ī claimed that Mawlānā whirled in front of a goldsmith’s
shop should be rejected, however, because it was based on an earlier story (by Sipahsā lār)
that did not mention whirling. In the earlier version, Sheikh Ṣalāḥ al-Dī n the goldsmith was
sitting and working in his shop when Mawlānā suddenly appeared at the door and began the
sam ā‘ by moving to the rhythm of the hammering. He continued hammering, indifferent
to the risk of destroying the gold plate (from excessive pounding), until Mawlānā was fin-
ished.63 Aflā k ī greatly embellished his version by depicting Mawlānā as whirling in the street
and adding other people: a crowd that surrounded him, apprentice gold-beaters, and the
arrival of ghazal singers. And he claimed that a miracle occurred: not only was all the gold
plate preserved from destruction, but also the shop became filled with gold plates and all of
the tools in the shop were transformed into gold.64
Aflā k ī’s story became so famous, that it was probably a major influence in the decision of
the later Mawlaw īs to change the spontaneous sam ā‘ into a choreographed whirling ritual.
And the myth of Mawlānā as the original “whirling dervish” and the originator of samā‘ is
based on it.
Whirling in Sufism was undoubtedly inspired (as was much of early Sufism) by mystical
interpretation of verses in the Qur’ān—in this case: “Whichever way you turn, there is the
Face of God” (2:115). Sipahsā lār confirmed this when he wrote:
Whirling (charkh zadan) is an allusion to oneness (taw ḥīd), and this is the station of the
mystic knowers and affirmers of unity, because in that state they see the Beloved and
Sought One in every direction, and they find a portion of His Grace on every side they
rotate …65
Mawlānā was devoted to the whole of the ecstatic samā‘, not just to whirling (which cannot be
maintained at a fast rate for very long). He spent an enormous amount of time engaged in samā‘
after Shams left Konya for the first time and, evidently, for many years afterwards. According to
Aflākī, he sometimes participated all night, sometimes longer (although Aflākī’s standard claim
that it lasted for three (or seven) days and nights can be dismissed as an embellishment). Never-
theless, his statements that Mawlānā slept and ate little and became emaciated as a result seem
credible. These immersions enabled him to express his longing sorrow of separation from his
mystic friend, as well as to experience ecstatic states of consciousness.
He demonstrated a blame-risking (mal āmat ī ) attitude in that he did not care if people
criticised this behaviour, as they did, saying, “Alas, a beloved man, prince, and religious
scholar has suddenly become crazy from constant sam ā‘ sessions, austerities, and starvation!”
And they blamed it on his associating with “that man from Tabr īz.”66 The use of musical
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instruments in sam ā‘ sessions had been controversial for several centuries and religious schol-
ars regularly tried to get them banned as an alleged “innovation” in Islam. After he died,
there were efforts to get the practice banned for all Sufi groups (including a claim that it was
only lawful for Mawlānā), but these attempts failed.
Therefore, sam ā‘ became the food of the lovers (of God)…

The fire of love became sharp-pointed from (the sound of ) melodies …67
And (who has not) stamped (his feet) when he learned (about) this?
And (who) has not clapped hands from the power of its yearning?68
What is sam ā‘ ‘? It is a message from the hidden saintly ones of the heart.
The heart estranged from the world finds peace from their letters.69
In sum, Mawlānā was far more devoted to sam ā‘ than other well-known Sufis. He was often
in an ecstatic state in these sessions, during which he also composed poetry.
The uniqueness of Rūmī’s lyrical poetry

Mawlānā was very aware of the general condemnation of poetry as an alleged “innovation”
in Islam. Although he was quoted as saying that he did not care for poetry, that he composed
it so that his friends would not become bored, and that among his own people in his home
country “there is no occupation more disgraceful than being a poet,”,70 evidence is plentiful
that he must have enjoyed composing poetry most of the time. For example, considering the
vast number of verses that he composed (nearly 66,000 verses, each with two halves), he must
have been composing verses very frequently for the last 27 years of his life.71 And he must
have liked the challenge of fitting words to poetic meters, since he used 23 different meters
(wazn), more than any other Persian poet.
Mawlānā composed ghazals and quatrains to express his own spiritual feelings (such as
longing, praise, passionate spiritual love, and ecstasy), as a way to induce such spiritual feel-
ings in others who engaged in sam ā‘, and as an expression of his mystical path of love: in
the first stage, immersion in love for the spiritual master leads to annihilation of self in the
spiritual presence of the master ( fan ā f ī al-shaykh), with the result that all things beautiful
appear as reflections of the attributes of the beloved (who for Rū m ī was Shams-i Tabr īzī).
In the final stage, immersion in love for God leads to annihilation of self in the presence of
God ( fan ā f ī all āh), with the result that all things appear as reflections of the attributes of the
Only Beloved (ma‘sh ūq). It may be said that Mawlānā was in the first stage when he composed
the lyrical poems of the D īw ān (in which he frequently mentioned the names “Shams” or
“Tabr īz”) and in the final stage when he composed the Mathnaw ī (in which he mentioned
the name of “Shams” only four times).72
The following is an example of mystical love for the human beloved (or spiritual master)
leading to “annihilation” ( fan ā’) in the spiritual master:
The love through which (my) existence, (which) lacks life, has been (made) alive,
This love, so exquisite and sweet—what is it from?
Is it in my body or is it outside my body?
Or is it in the glance of Shams, the (Sunlight of ) Truth, of Tabr īz?73
In this quatrain, Mawlānā described the experience of receiving a blissful state of spiritual
love from the glance of Shams; the spiritual energy was so powerful that he felt almost
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replaced by another consciousness that entered his body with a new aliveness. Therefore, it
was a partial disappearance of his self. The following is an example of mystical love for the
divine Beloved or the Friend (God), leading to annihilation in God:
Do you want the existence of the Friend (d ūst) revealed to you?

(Then) enter the core of the marrow and leap away from the skin (p ūst).
He is an Essence surrounded by veils, fold upon fold.
He is Self-submerged, and this world and the next are submerged in Him.74
In this quatrain, Mawlānā stated that the existence of God, the divine Essence, the lov-
ing Friend, or Beloved, may become unveiled (kashf ) if the mystic lover avoids the out-
ward “skin” and enters the inwardness of the “marrow.” Here, Mawlānā expressed one of
his major teachings: avoid giving importance to the outward appearance or form (ṣūrat) of
something and look for the inward reality or meaning (ma‘n ā). According to a ḥad īth of the
Prophet Mu ḥammad, “God has seventy veils of light” (fold upon fold) that cover the divine
Essence (dh āt). God is Self-annihilated and the created universe and heavenly realms are
annihilated in Him. This alludes to the mystical secret of the verse of the Qur’ān: “All that is
upon it (the earth) will pass away (fān-in), but the Face of your Lord will remain forever (yabqā), full of
Majesty and Glory” (55:26-27). As well as the verse: “There is no divinity but Him (H ū), (and)
everything (will) vanish except His Face” (28:88). Related to these verses is the tradition,
“God was (is), and there was (is) nothing other than He,” to which the Sufi master, Junayd
al-Baghd ād ī (d. 910), is said to have added: “…and He is now as He was.” 75 In other words,
mystically speaking, God is infinitely One and nothing else truly exists (except in appear-
ance) but Him: “He is Self-submerged, and this world and the next are submerged in Him.”
As was stated earlier, there is a blame-seeking or disapproval-risking (mal āmat ī ) tendency
in the Khur ā sān school of Sufism. Sufi teachers and poets sometimes surprise or shock listen-
ers by statements that appear on the surface to be irreligious, heretical, or blasphemous—but
which are expressions of profound wisdom when understood on a deeper level. This is, in
part, due to the frustration of trying to communicate mystical understanding to those whose
minds are restricted by conventional thinking. Therefore, unconventional statements may
be used to open such minds to deeper truths. In the case of orthodox Sufis, like Mawl ānā,
radical-sounding statements are consistently harmonious with religious precepts when un-
derstood at the level intended. Mawlānā’s place in Sufism is central in this regard. His refer-
ences to things forbidden to Muslims such as wine, drunkenness, and the wine-server (sāqī )
(his lips, cheek, eyebrow, and so on), plus idols and unbelief are not particularly provocative,
in most cases, because these were commonplace images used in Persian Sufi poetry centuries
before his time; these were understood to be spiritual metaphors by educated Persian listen-
ers and readers. In sum, Mawlānā was impelled by a powerful spiritual fervour to compose
lyrical poetry, which was unique in that it was often addressed to Shams.
The greatness of Rūmī’s Mathnawī

The Mathnaw ī-yi Ma‘naw ī (“Couplets of Spiritual Meaning”), highly esteemed for centuries
in Central Asia, the Ottoman Empire, and India, has been called in English, variously, the
greatest mystical or Sufi poem of the East, of any age, or ever. It consists of six books full
of interesting stories that contain deep spiritual wisdom, which is sometimes hinted at,
sometimes explained. Often, a topic or story is diverted (sometimes resuming) due to an
association with another topic or story. The poet has an astonishing ability to go from the
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mundane to the mystically sublime and back again with seeming ease. A major teaching is to
go beyond appearances and seek the inner meanings and essential truths.
Mawlānā was a devout religious mystic. He often referred to the a ḥādīth of the Prophet
Mu ḥammad, and he alluded to, or quoted from the Qur’ān so often that he must have mem-
orised it when young. In this regard, some couplets were written in editions of the Mathnaw ī
published in India during the nineteenth century: “I am not saying that one of lofty rank is
a Prophet, but he has a Book (kit āb)…The Mathnavī of Maulav ī is a (divinely inspired) recita-
tion (qur’ān ī ) spoken in the Persian language.” Mawlānā was well aware of the greatness of
his Mathnaw ī, as he wrote in the prose prefaces and elsewhere:
It is not unreliable like astrology, geomancy, or dreams; it is the inspiration of God

(wa ḥy-i Ḥaqq)…but Sufis call it the inspiration of the heart in their explanation, as a way
of concealment from common people.76
This is the book of the Mathnaw ī, and it is the roots of the roots of the roots of “the
Religion” (al-dīn—Q.3:19) (of Islam) in regard to unveiling the secrets of obtaining
connection (with God) and certainty (of the Truth)…For the possessors of stations and
wonders, (it is like Paradise), “the best station and the best place of rest” (Q.25:24)…
And God Most High has given other honourable titles to it.77
This is the fifth bound volume of the books of the Mathnaw ī and the clarification of
spiritual meanings, in explanation that the (Islamic) religious Law (shar ī‘at) is like a can-
dle (which) shows the way. If you cannot bring a candle to hand, there is no travelling
on the way. And when you have come onto the way, that travelling of yours is (called)
the Path ( ṭar īqat), and when you have arrived at the goal, that is the Truth (ḥaqīqat).78
“Our Mathnaw ī is the store of Unity (wa ḥdat):
Whatever you see besides God the One (Wāḥid), it is an idol.79
Notes
1 Shams al-D ī n A ḥ mad Afl ā k ī, Man āqib al- ārif īn, ed. Tahsin Yazıcı, 2 vols. (Ankara: Türk Tarîh
c
Kurumu, 1959, 1961), II, 597; John O’Kane, Shams al-D īn Ahmad-e Afl āk ī: The Feats of the Knowers
of God (Man āqeb al ‘āref īn) (Leiden: Brill, 2002), p. 409.
2 Franklin Lewis, Rumi: Past and Present, East and West––The Life, Teachings and Poetry of Jalâl al-Din
Rumi (Oxford: Oneworld, 2000, rev. 2003), pp. 47–48.
3 Lewis, Rumi: Past and Present, East and West, p. 61.
4 Lewis, Rumi: Past and Present, East and West, p. 56.
5 Lewis, Rumi: Past and Present, East and West, pp. 66–70.
6 Rū m ī, Majālis-i sabca (haft khit āba): Mawl ān ā Jal āl al-D īn R ūm ī, ed. Tōf īq Subḥā n ī (Tehran: Kayvā n,
1987), sermon 6, p. 111; Fur ū z ā nfar ed. quatrain 1776, vol. 8, p. 299; Ibrahim Gamard and Rawan
Farhdi, The Quatrains of Rumi. This is a translation of Mawl ān ā Jal āl al-D īn Mu ḥammad mashh ūr
ba-Maulav ī: Kull īyāt-i shams yā d īvān-i kab īr, vol. 8 (rub ā‘ īyāt), ed. Bad ī ‘ al-Zam ā n Fur ū z ā nfar (Teh-
ran: University of Tehran, 1242/1964, repr. 1262/1984), p. 626.
7 Here, “mystical” is defined as having to do with religious-spiritual experiences that involve states
(a ḥw āl) of consciousness that are beyond the thoughts, concepts, beliefs, memories, and fantasies
of the ordinary mind.
8 Far īd al-Dīn Mu ḥammad Nīshābū r ī ‘Aṭṭār, Tadhkirat al-awliyā, ed. Mu ḥammad Isticlām ī (Tehran:
Zawār), p. 87; A. J. Arberry, Muslim Saints and Mystics (Chicago: University of Chicago, 1966), p. 57.
9 Afl ā k ī, Man āqib al- c ārif īn, p. 756; O’Kane, The Feats of the Knowers of God, p. 530.
10 See Gamard and Farhadi. This should not be confused with the two-volume commercial edition,
Kull īyāt-i shams-i tabr īzī (Tehr ā n: Am ī r Kabī r, 1957), which has a different selection of quatrains.
11 Rū m ī, D īw ān; Fur ū z ā nfar quatrain 49, vol. 8, p. 9; Gamard and Farhadi, 1470.
12 Rū m ī, Mathnaw ī 2: 1770; trans. R. A. Nicholson, The Mathnawí of Jalálu’ddín Rúmí, vol. 2.
(Cambridge: Gibb Memorial Trust, 1926), p. 312.
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Ibrahim Gamard
118
119
9
OPPOSITION TO SUFIS IN THE
FORMATIVE PERIOD
Harith Ramli
Most historians of Sufism today would generally agree that the tradition we now know as
Sufism emerged around the middle of the third/ninth century. Early on in its formation, we
already find numerous examples of early figures who were persecuted for their teachings.
According to these reports, the Syrian Abū Sulaym ān al-Dār ān ī (d. 830) was expelled from
the city of Damascus for claiming that he had conversations with angels, and later, the same
happened to his disciple Ibn Abī’l-Hawār ī (d. 845 or 860) on allegations of claiming the su-
periority of saintly “friends of God” over the Prophets.1 The Egyptian Dhū’l-Nū n al-Miṣr ī
(d. 860) was brought before the Caliphal court itself under charges of heresy, although,
according to Sufi sources he was absolved of them after delivering a stunning sermon to
the Caliph.2 Mystical statements were also the subject of persecution, either spoken such
as the “ecstatic utterances” (sha ṭa ḥāt) of Abū Yazīd al-Bisṭā m ī (d. 848 or 875) or statements
in the written word, such as Abū Sa‘ īd al-Kharr āz’s (d. 899) writings.3
These, however, tended to be isolated incidents, rarely involving more than one figure
at a time. Given that these reports often do not provide much information of the context of
these incidents, it is also hard to identify why exactly that happened, or whether the figures
involved were being targeted as “Sufis”, or even necessarily, identified as such. We cannot
take for granted that these were necessarily attacks on “Sufism”. In this chapter, we will ex-
plore early opposition to Sufis in the formative period of the tradition (the third/ninth-fifth/
eleventh), first by looking at the first known official inquisition of Sufis in Islamic history,
then exploring the broader methodological and contextual issues involved in how we under-
stand and interpret the motivations for hostility towards Sufis in this period.
Ghulām Khalīl’s inquisition

The earliest known account involving large-scale, organised opposition to Sufis was an official
inquisition in Baghdad in 877 instigated by the preacher and ascetic Ghulām Khalī l (d. 888).
Abū Sa‘ īd b. al-Acr ābī said:

Ghulā m Khal ī l arrived from Wā siṭ (in the beginning of the year 861), and was told
about these reprehensible things, i.e., how the Sufis delved into discussing the intricacies
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Opposition to Sufis
of the spiritual states (daqā’iq al-a ḥw āl) in a manner that was censured by the people of
tradition (ahl al- āth ār). He was told about certain teachings of the Baghd ād ī (Sufis) on
love, and he heard that some of them had said that: “We love God, and He loves us, so
fear of Him has been removed due to overwhelming love.”
He then rejected this error with an error greater than it, and went so far as to declare
the doctrine of love for God a religious deviation (bid‘a), saying: “Love is for creatures,
(but in relation to God) fear is more appropriate for us.”
But the truth of the matter is not as he imagined it to be, as love and fear are two
principles that a believer cannot do without, even though in some people one principle
tends to predominate.
Ghulā m Khal ī l then continued to circulate stories about the Sufis, discussing them
and warning about them in his preaching sessions, eventually causing the enmity of the
authorities and masses against them. He would also say: “At Basra, we also have a group
who affirm divine incarnation (ḥul ūl), groups that practice antinomianism (ib āḥa) and
the like”, thus exposing and inciting people against them. Thus, word of mouth circu-
lated in Baghdad that too was such a group, proclaiming heresy (zandaqa).
The mother of al-Muwaffaq was swayed by him, likewise the court and the masses,
due to his piety and asceticism. She then commanded the chief of police to obey him.
They then sought to arrest them, sending out aides to find them. A list of names was
drawn up, there being seventy odd people on it. The majority of them went into hiding,
some were cleared of the charges, and a number were imprisoned for a time.4
Based on this account, Ghulā m Khal ī l’s inquisition seems to have been motivated by two
reasons. The first was the novel way in which Sufis talked about their spiritual experiences,
seemingly unprecedented to those who were immersed in the study of early Muslim tradi-
tions. This conservative, or traditionalist, reaction gave rise to another, more specific ob-
jection. Ghulā m Khal ī l had heard that some Sufis had claimed that they had reached such a
high state of love for God that they were overwhelmed by it, and could no longer feel fear of
Him. To Ghulā m Khal ī l, this doctrine of overwhelming love was not only a deviation from
the fearful devotion of early Muslim tradition, but also potentially led to grosser forms of
deviation he had come across before in places such as Basra. These too were related to claims
of spiritual superiority, such as the belief that God incarnated Himself in the body of a saint,
or the saints no longer were obliged to follow the Law. We can add to this evidence found in
other sources that Ghulā m Khal ī l was also incensed by reports of sexual misconduct, either
through inappropriate interaction between men and women, or the more serious charge of
pederasty.5 Such issues, of course, come under the broader accusation of antinomianism,
that is, that some Sufis believed that their closeness to God allowed them to no longer come
under the restriction of religious law.
Unfortunately, the historical sources have not handed down the list of names drawn up by
Baghdad’s chief of police. The leading figure, Junayd, was among those Sufis we know were
cleared of the charges, by claiming that he was simply a jurist in the legal-theological tradi-
tion of Abu Thawr.6 This might have meant that he was simply able to justify his teaching
within the authority of his legal tradition, or that he was able to rely on the safety net high
status in order to save himself. As Josef van Ess has pointed out, compared to Junayd, the
other Sufis “seemed like church mice”.7 If this is true, then his case is exceptional compared
with that of most other Sufis who were prosecuted or were forced to go into hiding, such as
A ḥ mad b. Abū’l-Ḥasan al-Nū r ī (d. 907–908).
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Harith Ramli
Nū r ī ’s case is unique in that we have detailed accounts of his treatment during the
inquisition. According to one account, once imprisoned, he managed to impress his per-
secutors by courageously putting himself forward as the first among his colleagues to be
executed, a clear example of the Sufi practice of altruism (īth ār). Because of this, he was
brought before the M ā lik ī judge of Baghdad who was officiating the inquisition. Upon
examining Nū r ī about the views and practices of the Sufis, the judge concluded that “if
these people are heretics, then there is no monotheist on the Earth!” As a result, Nū r ī and
other Sufis were simply exiled, and Nū r ī experienced several years of hard living in the
northern Iraqi city of Raqqa.8
While this brief episode of Sufi persecution did not last for long, it had serious implica-
tions for the development of the Sufi tradition that lasts with us to this day. First, it drove
Sufis to find ways to articulate more clearly their relationship with the broader Islamic tra-
dition. In the century that followed, there was a proliferation of treatises and books aimed
at “explaining” Sufism to the general reader, while at the same time also offering guides for
those who wished to begin the Sufi path.9 In both cases, the aim was to situate the teaching
of Sufism strictly within the framework of normative Sunni belief and practice as defined
by the emerging disciplines of jurisprudence and the study of scripture and tradition, and,
to a lesser degree, Islamic dialectical theology (kal ām). Sufism was, at best, an essential and
complimentary discipline, focussed on the inward aspect of the Law, as opposed to its exter-
nalities.10 In addition to this, the inquisition of Ghulā m Khal ī l led to the development of a
more balanced or moderate approach to spiritual superiority. Therefore, as the early reporter
of the inquisition, Abū Sa‘ īd b. al-A‘r ābī described it, Ghulā m Khal ī l’s mistake was to “reject
one error with an error greater than it”. Love and fear were two sides of the same coin, and
two principles which a believer could not do without. This new, more balanced approach
provided not only an opportunity to tie together older forms of piety – such as represented
by Ghulam Khalil – with newer ones under the great umbrella of “Sufism” (ta ṣawwuf ), but
also a more all-encompassing interpretation of the Sufi tradition that would allow it to reach
a wider variety of people.
The trials of al-Ḥallāj

Ghulā m Khal ī l’s inquisition has largely been overshadowed by the great events surrounding
the trials and execution of al-Ḥallāj (d. 922). Within a generation or two of these events,
the legend of Ḥallāj had already become a paradigmatic example of tensions between Sufis
and normative Islam, but interest in this controversial figure among modern scholars of
Sufism was almost singlehandedly the result of the contribution of the French scholar Louis
Massignon (1883–1962), who redefined the field by providing not only a more complex
alternative account of early Sufi history, but also one which moored it more firmly within
the early Muslim context. He accomplished this most significantly through his monumen-
tally detailed study La Passion de Hallâj, published in 1922.11 The legendary trial of Ḥallāj
has for centuries been used as a well-known example of the dangers of allowing the ideal-
ism of Sufism to bypass the lines of mainstream normative “Shari‘a-oriented” Islam, what
Massignon called “the trial of Sufism”.12 According to the most famous account of this event,
Ḥallāj was caught and executed for uttering “I am the Truth” (an ā’l-Ḥaqq). More significantly,
how one interprets this event signifies where one stands on the spectrum between a strongly
“Shari‘a-oriented” form of Sufism and a more idealist or “antinomian” form. Likewise,
this can also correspond with the classic dichotomy between “sober” and “drunken” forms
of Sufism. Thus, for some Ḥallāj’s utterance, while perhaps the result of an uncontrollable
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Opposition to Sufis
spiritual state of love, was an error and deserved punishment. Conversely, others argued that
in actuality, Ḥallāj was a great saint and wrongly killed for uttering an ultimate truth. In
between, we have positions such as the one that absolves both the persecutors, for fulfilling
their duty to the Law, and Ḥallāj, for boldly uttering the Truth.13 According to Massignon,
the impact of this legend was profound.
Such a work is bound to alter profoundly the historical personality of Ḥallāj. It loses his
full intellectual power, his whole dialectical subtlety, and preserves only half the passion
of his religious feeling. Sufi tradition, channeled with prudence and discipline by the
great religious orders, used Ḥallāj to canonize the model of the perfect religious, a man
not at all there, a gyrovague lost in God who, through his continual raptures, still finds
the means to obey his shaykh, his spiritual director, unto death.14
The great contribution of Massignon’s study of Ḥallāj was that it moved beyond the realm of
the legendary and gave this figure a fresh new historical breath of life. By fleshing out Ḥallāj
with a more contextualised understanding of his life and teachings, scholars were able to
look beyond the An ā’l-Ḥaqq controversy, and understand the multi-faceted nature of opposi-
tion to Sufis and mystics in his lifetime. It is worth summarising the many different reasons
why opposition was directed against Ḥallāj here. First, there was his association with Shi‘ite
messianic ideas, brought forth at a time in which the Abbasid authorities were especially
paranoid of Shi‘ite counterclaims to power and authority.15 Interestingly, at the same time,
we also find examples of hostility towards Ḥallāj from Shi‘ites themselves. At his hometown
of Ahwāz, both Shi‘ites and Mu‘tazilites attacked him for making false claims, the former
for making them in the wrong name, and the latter for making them at all.16 And finally, it
appears that the main sources of hostility towards him were Sufis themselves. Early on in his
career, he fell out with his master ‘Amr al-Makk ī, over what seems to be spiritual ambitions
that appeared deluded to Makk ī.17 Perhaps these were the same messianic claims that had
riled up the Shi‘ites and alerted the Abbasid authorities to Ḥallāj’s presence. Unsurprisingly,
when he arrived with a large group of followers at Mecca to perform the pilgrimage, the
hostility towards him had grown to such an extent that he was accused of being possessed by
diabolic Jinn.18
None of this appears to have discouraged Ḥallāj and his idealistic sense of mission. In
his later years, we find reports of Ḥallāj making ecstatic utterances (sha ṭa ḥāt), which might
have been the original source of the an ā’l-Ḥaqq legend. If anything, the accounts indicate
that he welcomed the coming consequences of his actions, and even made efforts to speed
his persecution up. Again, however, we need to be wary of projecting the later “legendary”
accounts of Ḥallāj’s trail too deeply on to what appears to have been a very complicated situ-
ation. When he built a model life-sized Ka‘ba, for example, was he doing this as a means of
demonstrating openly an esoteric truth about the pilgrimage rites,19 or is this a gross misin-
terpretation of an event of much milder motivations?
This is where the motivations of the interpreter become most important. Massignon’s
own inclination was to see Ḥallāj as a paragon of virtue in his bold declarations of a truth that
other Sufis were too shy or afraid proclaim.
Ḥallāj is the one who had brought Sufism to the political plane as a social force, for he
had given it an original theological and philosophical superstructure, but this also had
made it vulnerable, exposed to theological charges of takfir, and even threatened by
effective legal penalties.20
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Harith Ramli
This would mean that he was deliberately and consciously walking in a direction that would
inevitably lead to confrontation with the powers that be. However, as Massignon’s more
detailed background sketch shows, there was more going on here than simply the collision
between a saint’s ideals and cynical worldly authority. A bird’s-eye view of the context
surrounding his trial reveals a complicated web of political intrigue that goes beyond the
specific case of Ḥallāj.21 What we get instead is a drama in which Ḥallāj had the misfortune
to be situated between the competition between rival factions within the Caliphate. In other
words, Ḥallāj might have been executed officially for religious heresy, but in truth, he was
simply a victim or even possibly a scapegoat for broader political agendas.
To sum up the discussion so far in relation to Ḥallāj, Massignon’s work has shown that
once we go beyond the legendary account of this figure’s trial and execution as the result
of his ecstatic utterances, we can see that opposition and persecution took place on sev-
eral occasions throughout his life, and for very varying reasons, from internal intra-Sufi
disagreements to inter-sectarian conflict between early Sunnis and other rival theological
factions to a wider political issues of the Abbasid empire. By fleshing out the detailed events
and developments surrounding the life and trial of Ḥallāj, Massignon not only expanded our
understanding of the social and political context in which Sufism emerged – from the role
of different trades and crafts to politics at the highest level of the Caliphal court – but also
demonstrated that the evolution of Sufism should be seen against the broader context of the
development of different theological and intellectual traditions in the Islamic tradition. It
now became harder to explain away opposition to Sufis in the early period by simply treating
Sufism as an inherently different element within the wider Islamic tradition.22
Reasons for opposition to Sufis: the broader historical context

Massignon’s work has opened the way for new generations of scholars that continue to re-
shape our understanding of its early history. One important question that must been raised
in the effort to understand the opposition to Sufis is the degree to which “Sufism” can be
considered as a distinct and homogenous tradition, especially while it was still in the pro-
cess of consolidating and formulating itself. Were all the figures singled out for persecution
necessarily “Sufis”? Jacqueline Chabbi’s work, focussed on the history of Sufism in eastern
Iran, was groundbreaking not only because it shifted attention away from the central heart-
lands of Iraq, but also because it revealed the wider diversity of groups that often later came
under the umbrella term of “Sufism”. Thus while later Sufi writings tend to treat all leading
ascetics and mystics in this region generically as “Sufis”, closer inspection reveals competing
movements and modes of piety. In the city of Nīshāpū r, for example, the populist ascetic
Karr ā miyya would have promoted radically differing teachings (and attracted different op-
ponents) than the more quietist Malā matiyya.23
While Chabbi pointed out the importance of acknowledging that not all mystics should
be seen as Sufis, Christopher Melchert’s landmark 1996 article “The Transition from Asceti-
cism to Mysticism at the Middle of the Ninth Century C.E.” addressed a different problem:
whether or not we can assume that all figures listed as the early pioneers of the Sufi tradition
were “mystics”. Instead, a close analysis of the statements attributed to them as depicted in
later Sufi works reveal that they were often more ascetical rather than mystical.24 Although
past scholars had generally understood that Sufism arose out of an earlier milieu of asceticism
and the world-renouncing form of piety known as “zuhd”, Melchert’s identification of a clear
split was significant. First, it created a criterion by which one could distinguish between
the early type of Sufis, the new Sufi mystics of the ninth century. More importantly for our
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Opposition to Sufis
discussion, however, it also highlights the degree to which opposition to the new Sufis arose
not so much from the outside, but from proponents of the older form of ascetical piety.
By tracing back this division to the early examples of opposition to Sufism we have seen
that led up to the inquisition of Ghulā m Khal ī l, Melchert’s work has given us a more nuanced
picture of the relationship between the emerging Sufi movement and its ascetical predeces-
sors, as well as its purported major opponents, the Ḥanbal īs. In “The Ḥanābila and the Early
Sufis” (2001), he tackles the well-known trope of Ḥanbal ī opposition to Sufism. Arguing
against the view promoted by both Louis Massignon and George Makdisi that Sufism and
Ḥanbalism were closely connected in their early developmental phases, Melchert points out
that while some “mystical” tendencies can be found in the teachings of A ḥ mad b. Ḥanbal,
on the whole, there is no clear evidence that the type of Sufism represented by a figure
such as Junayd had close connections to Ḥanbalism.25 He builds this on earlier scholarship26
which showed that the term “ṣūf ī ” was originally used more broadly for ascetics and world-
renunciants, and often closely connected with social and political activism encapsulated in
the phrase “commanding the right and forbidding the wrong” (al-amr bi’l-ma‘r ūf wa’l-nahy
‘an al-munkar).27 Thus, the appropriation of this term by an emerging mystical movement
was significant, and no doubt caused friction with the older “ṣūfiyya”. It is in light of this that
Ghulā m Khal ī l’s inquisition can be understood (that is, as “old-style” Sufis fighting back),
especially as his own connection to Ḥanbalism seems tenuous.28
Melchert’s “The Piety of the Ḥadith Folk” (2002) takes a different approach to the same
question by comparing the form of asceticism found among traditionalist A ṣḥāb al- ḥadīth
( Ḥad īth Folk) with other groups in this period such as the Sufis.29 Developing his dichotomy
between asceticism and mysticism further, he contrast the way the two tendencies differ in
their conceptions of community, the ascetical emphasising the individualistic, voluntary as-
pect of community where all are equal before God, and the mystical tending more towards
an idea of community where hierarchy and specialisation in social rank and function are
taken for granted as naturally established. Generally, it seems that the Ḥad īth Folk leaned in
the direction of the first tendency, against the Sufis.30 However, a closer look at Ḥad īth Folk
piety revealed a more nuanced position, one which seemed to combine both tendencies.
This was inevitable perhaps, as an individualistic tendency would more often than not
lead to division into competing sects, while both the Ḥanbal īs and Sufis were involved in
the emerging ecumenical consensus of Sunnism. Thus, while the two adopted generally
different modes in piety (or at least, in the case of Ḥanbalism, a preference for one stance in
particular, that of seriousness), they both adopted a moderate way that balanced both the
need for individualism and social hierarchy. An important example of this can be seen in the
way both the Ḥad īth Folk (and later on the Ḥanbal īs) and the Sufis both adopted a balanced
attitude towards the older ascetic practice of tawakkul (reliance on God), or abandonment of
seeking a living (tark al-mak āsib), which in its extremes led to the almost complete rejection
of communal life. Against the extreme tendencies to either completely reject or embrace
this practice, both Ḥad īth Folk and Sufis such as Junayd generally adopted a milder form of
ascetic living combined that was compatible with urban life. In this way, they were both at
odds with the older form of asceticism, while maintaining a distant yet cautious respect for
some of its early practitioners.31
Thus, this argument not only reinforces Melchert’s earlier contention that Sufism and
Ḥanbalism were not as closely connected as earlier scholars have supposed, but also accounts
for why the two were not seriously at odds with one another either over the course of the
formative third/ninth and fourth/tenth centuries. Instead, they should both be seen as two
strands within a wider story of emerging Sunnism (or “proto-Sunnism”) opposed to older
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Harith Ramli
forms of renunciation that contradicted a more socially engaged form of individual piety
(although not to the extent of antinomianism, as suggested by Bernd Radtke)32 and deter-
mined, in Melchert’s words, “to promote a style of piety available equally to all Muslims”.33
This pattern can be found repeated in different quarters of the Muslim world. In the
eastern Iranian region of Khur ā sān, as we have seen, the traditions of the Karr ā miyya and
the Malā matiyya divided over modes of piety, with the former advocating the older form of
asceticism against the latter’s tendency to take a more moderate and quietist position similar
to the inward-looking approach of Junayd’s circle in Baghdad. Although it is unclear when
this happened, the Malā matiyya seem to have eventually become absorbed by Baghdadi
Sufism, due to natural similarities between the two.34 Just south of Baghdad in the city of
Basra too, Sufism seems to have clashed with older forms of piety. Christopher Melchert has
pointed to the central importance of Abū Ḥātim al-‘Aṭṭār (d. 874–884) here. He engaged in
trade, and practised a moderate form of asceticism that would have contrasted with the more
extreme forms of world renunciation practised by other Basran ascetics. ‘Aṭṭār practised a
more activist version of Baghdad Sufism, preaching “commanding the right and forbidding
the wrong” (amr bi-l-ma‘r ūf wa-l-nahy ‘an al-munkar). In his preaching circles, which attracted
ascetics known as “Sufis of the Mosque” as well as Ḥad īth Folk, he attacked older forms of
asceticism such as the Ghassāniyya, a distant relative of Qadarism, and a group referred to as
“the people of litanies” (ahl al-awrād).35
‘Aṭṭār’s activism shows that Sufis were not simply the passive targets of polemics, but often
took the fight to their opponents themselves. According to Melchert, ‘Aṭṭār and his disciples
belonged to what he described as the “semi-rationalist” end of the traditionalist spectrum,
which meant that they, like Junayd and members of his circle, likely engaged in an early
form of kal ām theology.36 However, while Junayd cultivated a more careful approach to ar-
ticulating Sufi teachings at Baghdad, avoiding controversy and open debate, ‘Aṭṭār’s brand of
Sufism resembled more that of Abū Ḥamza al-Baghd ād ī (d. 901–902), who gave fiery public
sermons on Sufi topics such as mystical union and love in the mosque of Caliph al-Manṣū r.37
This Abū Ḥamza was associated with Abū’l-Ḥusayn al-Nū r ī, who we discussed earlier, and
like Nū r ī, was quite likely another target of the Ghulā m Khal ī l inquisition. More signifi-
cantly, his differences with Junayd went beyond the style of delivery, but the very definition
of Sufi teachings itself. It is well known that Nū r ī refused to acknowledge Junayd’s intro-
duction of terms such as “sobriety” and “second separation following union”.38 It would not
be surprising if Abū Ḥamza was of the same opinion, perhaps even directly attacking the
Junaydian compromise in his public preaching. What we do know is that Junayd is reported
to have refused to lead his funeral prayers.39
What all the above show is that the opposition to Sufi teachings in the formative period
was an internal as well as an external matter. First, as we have seen, the dividing between
older style Sufis of the more ascetical persuasion and newer Sufi mystics was far from estab-
lished. It is possible that the “Sufis of the Mosque” that attended ‘Aṭṭār’s preaching circles
were of the former type, but somehow felt some affiliation with his teachings, especially
if it related to “commanding the right and forbidding the wrong”. Second, we must take
into account intra-regional differences, such as existed between the Karrā miyya and the
Malā matiyya in Khur ā sān, as well as inter-regional differences, such as between Baghdad
Sufism and the native Khur ā sān forms. Even towards the end of the fourth/tenth century,
a pro-Malā matiyya treatise would disdain the scholastic tendency of Iraqi Sufis in favour of
the ecstatic language of the Khurā sān, while an Iraqi mystical text would conversely reject
ecstatic utterances in favour of the more sober, scholarly method of Sufi discourse.40 And
thirdly, even within a specific tradition such as Baghdad ī Sufism, splits existed over modus
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Opposition to Sufis
operandi and how to define the teachings of Sufism itself, as in the case of Junayd and Abū
Ḥamza al-Baghd ād ī.
The aim here is not to paint a disharmonious picture of early Sufism. In fact, when one
considers, as we have seen, the internal divisions and external pressures Sufis in this period
were under, overall, there appears to be an amazing degree of solidarity and restraint from
splitting into multiple sects. Thus, no new Sufis appear to have turned on one another in the
midst of the chaos of the Ghulā m Khal ī l inquisition. And while a Sufi text like Abū Na ṣr
al-Sarr āj’s Kit āb al-Luma‘ – intent on situating Sufism within mainstream Sunni tradition –
does not shy from identifying fissures and cracks of disagreement among different leading
Sufis, it rarely demonises or condemns specific dissident voices, preferring instead to deal
with “deviations” in a generic manner.41 In the process of defining the Sufi tradition within
the emerging Sunni consensus, scholars such as Sarr āj were faced between the choice of dis-
associating themselves from unwanted or controversial elements, or smoothing over differ-
ences and divisions to the outside world in order to present a more unified front. The choice
was not always obvious and often reflected not only different tendencies within Sufism, but
also various overlapping theological, intellectual and legal affiliations.
Thus, while there were recognisable, and perhaps insurmountable, divides within the
forming Sufi tradition, the “sectarianisation” of certain Sufi groups was a process that did not
mostly occur within Sufi circles, but rather from the outside, through the emergent forces
of the theological-legal traditions. As new, mystical Sufis increasingly edged out the older
ascetical Sufis, Mu‘tazilism too increasingly became critical of Sufis or mystics in general and
separated itself from its own “native” Sufi tendencies.42 Ash‘ar īsm, however, rooted as it was
in the semi-rationalist tendency within Sufism represented by early Sufis such as al-Mu ḥā sibī
(d. 857), always seems to have generally had common cause with the form of Sufism being
developed by Junayd’s circle in Baghdad.43 In Khur ā sān, we see the Karr ā miyya, who saw
themselves as part of the broader Ḥanaf ī tradition, increasingly defined as a heretical sect,
distinct from the Sufis, not simply due to their adherence to the old style of asceticism but
also due to theological positions they held distinct from other followers of Abū Ḥan ī fa.44
However, the Malā matiyya avoided this label, becoming absorbed into mainstream Sufism,
not only because their more moderate and quietist approach was more in line with the teach-
ings of an acceptable figure such as Junayd, but perhaps also because they fell into line with
the increasing association of older traditionalist tendencies in the region with the emerging
Shā fi‘ ī school, linked with the emergence of the Ash‘ar ī kal ām tradition.45
The other tradition that absorbed the older form of traditionalism was, of course, the
Ḥanbal ī school, and this is where it gets more complicated. As we have seen earlier, it would
be wrong to project retroactively modern-day Sufi-Salafi tensions onto the formative pe-
riod and expect Ḥanbal īs to be the natural enemies of the Sufis. However, as Melchert has
demonstrated, we cannot take the other extreme and assume that they were natural allies
either. The difficulty posed by this issue is largely the result of how little modern scholarship
currently knows about Ḥanbalism and how it has emerged. Of all the legal tradition, this
was the last to form, and also the one most resistant to the growing dominance of “semi-
rationalist” approaches in theology.46
This is demonstrated most clearly in the complicated case of the sectarianisation of the
Basran group known as the Sā limiyya. Tracing their teachings back to the close circle of a
leading Iranian mystic, Sahl al-Tustar ī (d. 896), the Sā limiyya were followers of a circle of
Tustar ī’s followers that were led by his close disciple, Mu ḥammad b. Sā lim (d. 909), later suc-
ceeded by his son, A ḥ mad (d. 967). While Tustar ī himself has been the subject of several ex-
tensive studies,47 what we know about the Sā limiyya is mainly based on a list provided by the
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Harith Ramli
eleventh-century Ḥanbal ī scholar, Abū Ya‘lā (d. 1066). Due to Abū Ya‘lā’s list, scholars have,
for the most part, assumed that opposition to the Sā limiyya largely came from Ḥanbal īs.48
However, a closer study of this list, the intellectual context of a key figure associated with
the Sā limiyya, Abū Ṭā lib al-Makk ī (d. 996), and the broader intellectual context of fourth/
tenth- and fifth/eleventh-century Ḥanbalism reveals a number of surprising things. First, the
theological positions of the Sā limiyya were actually similar in many ways to the doctrine of
many Ḥanbal īs of the time. Second, opposition to the Sā limiyya came as much from theolo-
gians of the Ash‘ar ī school as it did from Ḥanbal ī theologians such as Abū Yaʿlā. And finally,
Abū Ya‘lā’s opposition to the Sā limiyya was motivated by his own agenda to make Ḥanbalism
more intellectually respectable, by ridding it of its association with anthropomorphism.49
Thus, what seems on the surface like another example of “classic” Ḥanbal ī opposition
to Sufism seems more like the efforts of a Ḥanbal ī theologian trying hard to get his house
in order by ridding his own tradition of elements that did not suit his more centralised, ra-
tionalist interpretation of the Ḥanbal ī tradition. To put it in Melchert’s terminology, what
we see here is a repeat of the struggle between traditionalists and semi-rationalists to define
the Sunni tradition, with the Sā limiyya being used to some extent as a scapegoat. This is
not to deny that some of the charges against the Sā limiyya might have not been justified or
unwarranted. While Abū Ṭalib al-Makk ī’s definition of Sā lim ī teachings did not seem con-
troversial enough to prevent him from becoming an inspiration to as mainstream a figure
as Abū Ḥā mid al-Ghaz ā l ī (d. 1111), we do have some evidence that some Sā lim īs, such as a
certain Abū ‘Al ī al-Ahwāzī (d. 1069), provoked (or responded) to tensions with Ashʿarism by
launching a personal attack on the founding figure of the tradition itself.50
It is worth concluding this study by mentioning two recent studies which have signifi-
cantly shed more light on complex world of early inter-Sufi relations. Both approach the
study of early Sufism with a fresh look at the psychological dimension of individual per-
sonalities and relationships between Sufis. Laury Silver’s study of Abū Bakr al-Wā siṭī (d.ca.
928) is a monumental study of this Sufi figure, which, although not on a scale as Massignon’s
study of Ḥallāj, represents a labour of love nonetheless.51 Wā siṭī, who was often persecuted
himself by fellow mystics, is frequently considered a disseminator of Ḥallāj’s teaching, but
this study is able to draw out not only the distinctiveness of Wā siṭī’s teachings, but also how
he represents a particular type of mystic comparable to Nū r ī in his “outspokenness and lack
of regard for self-preservation”.52 Throughout this study, we find that Wā siṭī clashed with
others – from scholars to fellow mystics – not only due to specific theological positions or
agendas, but also due to a specific psychological tendency towards restlessness and being
“ethically impatient”.53 The method of exploring early Sufis and their rivalries through the
clash of different personality types is taken even further in Arin Shawkat Salamah Qudsi’s
study of the personal and communal relationships of different early Sufi communities.54 One
could say here that the idea of a homogenous Sufi community is finally put to rest here as
Qudsi explores a range of different leading figures and demonstrates how even seemingly
straightforward bonds of companionship and association were fraught by subtle tensions and
differences hidden under an emerging unified narrative of Sufism. Thus, when we take a
closer look at the textual evidence (in this case private correspondence), even a lenient and
pragmatic figure as Junayd is revealed to have been involved in quarrels with fellow Sufis.55
More interestingly, Qudsi sheds light on the “marginal piety” of relatively unknown figures
such as Niffār ī (d. 965), demonstrating how different their form of mysticism and piety was
from the emerging Sufi consensus and why they were excluded from the ranks of revered
early pioneers of this tradition.56 What is most refreshing about Qudsi’s approach is that
it not only looks at ties between Sufis as Sufis, but also family and social ties with all the
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consequent human drama attached. Delicately, and without detracting from their status as
great thinkers and spiritual pioneers, both Silvers and Qudsi allow us to take a step back and
appreciate the human dimension of early Sufism.
Conclusion
How Ghulā m Khal ī l’s inquisition has been interpreted over the course of the past half a cen-
tury of scholarship on formative Sufi history reflects the way in which the field has evolved,
from simple binaries of Sufism vs. “normative Islam” and an anachronistic view influenced
by modern Sufi-Salafi conflict to a much more nuanced view of the complex combination of
reasons why opposition to Sufis existed. As we have seen, much of the opposition can be ac-
counted for by competition from earlier ascetical traditions, debates between rival emergent
mystical traditions and even rivalry over attempts to define the Sufi tradition itself. In other
words, Sufism was as much opposed from within as it was from the outside. At the same
time, contemporary scholarship has also increasingly taken into account the broader intel-
lectual context within which Sufism and other related mystical traditions emerged. Like any
group claiming religious and intellectual authority in this period, Sufis too were entangled
in the development of theological and legal traditions, a process which inevitably reflected
back on how Sufism increasingly defined itself against its critics, both internal and external.
Notes

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Harith Ramli
130
Opposition to Sufis
̄ ̣
̄ ̣̄
̣
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10
NARRATIVIZING EARLY
MYSTIC AND SUFI WOMEN*
Mechanisms of gendering in Sufi hagiographies
Sara Abdel-Latif
Introduction
Both scholars and practitioners of Sufism have attributed gender egalitarian impulses to the
Sufi tradition.1 They point to Sufism as an early proponent of women’s access to knowledge
and authority, contrasting it with other streams of Islamic thought and practice that have
historically resisted female leadership. However, a closer reading of early Sufi writings re-
veals male authors held conflicting and often highly anti-egalitarian stances regarding the
place of their female contemporaries in the social hierarchy, even while some portray women
favorably in their work. In fact, male authors gendered their writings such that womanhood/
effeminacy was equated with inferiority. Here, I offer a literary analysis of male-authored
depictions of early mystic and Sufi women, male youths, slaves and black individuals to fur-
ther understandings of gendered dynamics in Sufi thought.2 I investigate specifically how
‘Abd al-Kar ī m b. Hawāzin Qushayr ī (d. 1072) frequently reduced pious and ascetic women,
male youths, slaves and black individuals to one-dimensional trickster-types rather than
portraying them as fellow aspirants on the Sufi path. Through a comparative investigation
of depictions of other marginalized members of classical Islamicate societies in Qushayr ī’s
Risāla (Epistle on Sufism), I demonstrate how the gendering of female mystics and other
members of the non-elite acts as a marker of difference from the default elite male norm.
These markers of difference serve as a narrative tool in the hands of male authors to rein-
force and perpetuate patriarchal social hierarchy and, therefore, obscure significant aspects
of lived social history. Whether it be gender, skin color, social class, age, non-Arab origin
or non-Muslim status, any marker of difference from the free male elite functions as a lit-
erary ploy that diminishes those on the margins while upholding social patriarchy. We thus
further understandings of gendered social dynamics in eleventh-century Islamicate societies
by investigating all who did not hold a dominant position, whether socially or sexually, and
how they are rendered effeminate and inferior in the writings of free, elite men who held
hegemonic power.
Elite Muslim men regularly utilized gender as a language through which to explore
relationships of power and dominance on every level of society. To illustrate the subtle
mechanisms male authors employed to gender Sufi narrative, I first analyze depictions of
mystic women, then young men who served older men as sexual partners (beardless youths),
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Narrativizing early mystic and Sufi women
slaves and finally dark-skinned individuals in Qushayr ī’s Risāla. By moving along the gender
continuum from female to feminized male to masculine male slave and finally dark-skinned
individuals, we proceed from the most obvious examples of gendering in Sufi literature to
some of the more subtle gendering of these marginalized groups. This method demonstrates
the pervasiveness of gendering as a narrative tool and discourse of power in Sufi writings. It
also clarifies how gendering language is used to favor free, elite masculinity in Sufi circles of
knowledge, thus offering a road map for readers who wish to use gender analysis in the study
of classical Islamic narrative.
This chapter integrates Sufi primary sources, gender theory and analyses of trickster tropes
in cultural storytelling to illustrate subtle mechanisms of gender narrative bias in early Sufi
sources. By illuminating these hidden narrative mechanisms that differentiate the Other to
center elitist androcentric spiritualities, I offer a way forward for those attempting to discern
historical insights amidst an ocean of narrative constructions. In refining our ability to perceive
the tropes that populate male depictions of marginalized individuals in early Sufi writings, we
enable ourselves to look past these othering constructs to discover unique historical informa-
tion buried and forgotten in the fine details of these anecdotes. When women, youths, slaves
and black individuals are cast as deviations from the free, elite male norm in these sources, they
serve as props for male spiritual advancement.3 These “deviants” from the idealized masculine
function as mirrors through which a free, elite, male Sufi aspirant may contemplate himself and
arrive at inner transformation while obfuscating the Other’s spiritual perspective. Therefore,
despite some statements of spiritual egalitarianism in early Sufi literature, depictions of women
and non-elite individuals in early Sufi writings primarily reinforced accepted social hierarchies
placing free men at the top.4 While these narratives emphasize deviances in gender, social class
and/or age to reinforce ideal free male archetypes, they also offer a blueprint of narrative con-
structionism that is easily dismantled to unearth rich historical relics still embedded inside the
stories that male Sufis tell of the Other.
Reconstructing Muslim women’s history from

androcentric narratives
Female authors are conspicuously absent from classical Islamic literature. Therefore, we must
rely on writings authored by elite, free men educated in androcentric institutions to recon-
struct the lives and experiences of women and non-elite members of Islamicate societies.
These non-elite members occupy the margins of society. Thus, their perspectives rarely
carry weight in written histories. While female mystics preached in public forums to mem-
bers of every class, their teachings survive only when free, elite men hear them speak and
recount their teachings to other free, elite men. One of these men must then consciously
decide to write these accounts down for them to survive the tides of narrated history. These
accounts, even when recorded, do not arrive to us in a pristine form. Rather, women’s
teachings are filtered through the lens of the male writer. A common consequence of such
filtering is the decentering of the original female author. In many cases, male authors choose
to anonymize women, and some omit them completely.5 Only a handful of male Sufi authors
chose to memorialize their female counterparts at all.6
The inherent bias in these male-authored sources produce at best shadowy glimpses of
women mired in historical inaccuracies. Thus, the life circumstances of these women are no-
toriously difficult to prove. To document something about the lives of these women, we rely
on records that were kept in the hands of men who usually chose to exclude women from
historical documentation. Male-authored texts, when they do engage women, emphasize
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Sara Abdel-Latif
their roles as the mothers, wives, sisters or daughters of well-known Muslim men.7 Thus,
men often employ women in marginal, stereotypical ways in their writings, if at all. The lack
of attention to female experience often strengthens male authors’ presumption of an entirely
male readership.8 Even the most famous Muslim female mystic, Rābi‘a ‘Adawiyya (d. 801),
retains very little of her personality, given the volume of androcentric legends that shroud
her persona.9 When women are cited in Sufi writings, authors name a handful of the ear-
liest known female mystics and then record significantly fewer women after that.10 For this
reason, male authors usually name only Rābi‘a ‘Adawiyya in their Sufi writings, omitting
all other women from Sufi records.11 Thus, women are sometimes spoken about, but rarely
emerge as viable interlocutors in Islamic discourse.
Sufi men varied in their levels of comfort with female inclusion in their writings. Abū
‘Abd al-Ra ḥ m ān Sulam ī (d. 1021) and Abū al-Far āj b. Jawzī (d. 1201) seemed quite comfort-
able with memorializing female predecessors, citing the biographies of 82 and 240 women
respectively.12 Contrastingly, Qushayr ī and Rū zbihān Baql ī (d. 1209) seemed uncomfortable
with the idea and often referred to R ābi‘a ‘Adawiyya alone in anecdotes (while citing no
women in biographical genres). Most cited women anonymously. While some chose to me-
morialize women in their qur’anic commentaries (tafsīr), others cited women less formally in
Sufi manuals and treatises. Most records come from the Sufi hagiographical tradition.13 Sufi
men’s choice to include or exclude women from their hagiographies and narratives are always
a highly deliberate exercise. By comparing Sulam ī, the first Sufi writer to formally recog-
nize female mystics and ascetics in the biographical genre of Sufi literature, and Qushayr ī,
Sulam ī’s devoted student, we notice just how deliberate the exclusion of women from Sufi
literature can be.
Teacher and student: inclusions and omissions

A side-by-side analysis of Qushayr ī’s Risāla (Epistle on Sufism) and Sulam ī’s Ṭabaqāt al- ṣūfiyya
(The Generations of the Sufis) reveals very purposeful exclusions in Qushayr ī’s writings.
These exclusions point to deliberate strategies involved in the compilation of Sufi biogra-
phies in the eleventh century. Qushayr ī was the direct student of Sulam ī and cites him as a
teacher (shaykh) throughout both the Risāla and the qur’anic commentary Lat ̣āʾ if al-ish ārāt
(The Subtleties of Allusions).14 Despite being heavily influenced by his teacher, Qushayr ī
opposes Sulam ī on two major counts: the inclusion of women in Sufi lineages of authority
(silsila) and the canonization of Manṣū r Ḥallāj (d. 922) as a Sufi predecessor.15
̣
Sulam ī pioneered two Sufi genres: tabaq āt (biographical compendia divided by gener-
ation) and encyclopedic tafsīr (Qur’ānic commentaries that compile the sum of all known
exegetical glosses by authoritative scholars).16 In Sulam ī’s attempts to concretize Sufism as a
valid movement amidst competing ascetic and mystical schools of thought in tenth-century
Nishapur,17 Sulam ī took the comprehensive route and included every anecdote, exegetical
gloss and biography he could find to establish a core canon of mystical predecessors and
teachings.18 As part of his attempts to ground Sufism in a tradition stretching back as far as
Mu ḥammad, he included everything he could find on the earliest ascetic and mystic women
in his Dhikr al-niswa. He also included the controversial figure Manṣū r Ḥallāj in his Ṭab-
aqāt,19 despite his discomfort with the type of ecstatic, antinomian mysticism Ḥallāj came to
represent.20
While Qushayr ī repurposes much of Sulam ī’s biographical notices on male predeces-
sors, Qushayr ī blatantly drops Ḥallāj’s biography from his entries, though he cites Ḥallāj’s
aphorisms profusely throughout the rest of his Risāla.21 Since Qushayr ī attempts to include
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a biography of every Sufi authority he cites, his frequent citation of Ḥallāj sans biography
speaks to his deliberate omission of him as a Sufi predecessor. We can attribute this omission
to Qushayr ī’s determination to cast Sufis as orthodox Muslims, i.e. Muslims who uphold the
laws and doctrines of Shafiite Islam.22 This is most clearly seen in Qushayr ī’s choice to title
his biographical section: F ī dhikr mash āyikh h ādhihi al- ṭar īqa wa m ā yadil min sayrihim wa aqw ā-
lihim ‘al ā ta’dhīm al-shar ī‘a (On the masters of this path and their deeds and sayings that show
how they uphold the divine law).23 Ḥallāj may have proven too antinomian for Qushayr ī,
jeopardizing Qushayr ī’s hopes of garnering Sufis orthodox status in a highly volatile political
environment. Unlike Sulam ī’s comprehensive approach, Qushayr ī sought a more cautious
and highly selective approach to his inclusions. Similarly, while Qushayr ī records a plethora
of anecdotes about female mystics, they are noticeably absent from his biographical entries.
Though Qushayr ī cites Rābi‘a ‘Adawiyya and a host of anonymous women in his manual, he
chooses to omit every one of these women from the biographical section of his Risāla. Given
that Qushayr ī made clear use of Sulam ī’s records of Rābi‘a ‘Adawiyya,24 we must conclude
that Qushayr ī omitted the mention of women in his biographies deliberately. Qushayr ī is
one of several male authors who use Sulam ī as one of their main sources but omit the names
of the women Sulam ī recorded in his Dhikr al-niswa. Thus, while Sulam ī chose the com-
prehensive route to recording Sufi knowledge and included female mystics as well as Ḥallāj
as predecessors of the tradition, Qushayr ī chose a different route. Qushayr ī’s clear devotion
to the usulization of the Sufi tradition,25 perhaps as a result of the intense factionalism that
plagued Nishapur in his lifetime, provoked him to defend ferociously his beliefs and doc-
trines as orthodox.26 This made Qushayr ī much more selective about whom to include as
predecessors of the Sufi tradition. While Sulam ī, too, wanted to bring Sufism in line with
orthodox Sunnism, Sulam ī sought to create a canon of mystical predecessors from whom to
draw chains of transmissions. Qushayr ī seemed more interested in limiting that pool of pre-
decessors to those he could definitively argue were in alignment with the ethics and moral
values of Shafi‘ ī Islamic jurisprudence.
Different intentions seem to have spurred these male authors to include or exclude women.
Though, we cannot account for hidden motivations, we can discern hints of intentionality.
Men’s inclusion of women or lack thereof has offered us insight into the gendered dynamics
of these authors’ milieu. When male authors exclude women, they do so knowingly. When
they include women, they do so in specific ways that communicate subtle gendered mecha-
nisms that restrict how women show up in these narratives. I explore some of these narrative
mechanisms below.
Typical depictions of female mystics

Aside from R ā bi‘a ‘Adawiyya and a dozen or so others, most women remain unnamed
in the tales told by Sufi men. 27 Male authors regularly depict strange, often anonymous
women who show up to chastise a famous Sufi man then disappear without a trace. 28
These “upbraiding tales” as Laury Silvers calls them, 29 usually depict a sudden reversal of
power designed to humble the male protagonist before a woman. These narrative anec-
dotes display a lot of parallels with trickster tales, particularly as women act as momen-
tary “situation-inverters” that remind their male interlocutors of the idealized spiritual
manhood they should be striving toward and of which they seem to be falling short. 30
Upbraiding tales rely primarily on an individual who represents a deviation from the
elite male default to deliver, by way of paradoxically masculine acts of aggression and
wisdom teachings, a reminder to both the male protagonist and the audience/reader that
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Sara Abdel-Latif
things are not what they seem while simultaneously reinforcing how things should ide-
ally be in a social patriarchy.
In a typical tale of upbraiding, a well-known Sufi man approaches a woman either to per-
form an act of chivalry or to criticize her for flaunting social norms (such as being abrasively
loud or acting out in public).31 The woman in response suddenly reveals extreme spiritual
power and/or experiential wisdom, exposing the man’s insincerity or incorrect perception of
things. She then conveys to him a deeper truth that undermines the futile intellectualism he
originally harbored. The male protagonist walks away humbled and ready to apply himself
to further spiritual work.
Qushayr ī and Ruzbihān Baql ī both relate a story about a woman who was publicly cen-
sured by Abū’l-‘Abbā s Dinawār ī (d. c. 951) and proceeded to outwit him in a surprising
way. Though each version of the story ends differently, both follow the same format and
noticeably offer no details about the woman beyond her trickster-like response to Dinawār ī’s
provocation. In both versions of this tale, an anonymous woman attends a public sermon
and is censured by Dinawār ī for openly exhibiting an ecstatic state. Dinawār ī attempts to
restrict her social rebellion, in Qushayr ī’s telling, by commanding her to die immediately
(m ūt ī ), and, in Baql ī’s by commanding her to cease her behavior at once (qiff ī ). In Qushayr ī’s
telling, she flaunts her superior spiritual power by dying on the spot. Thus, the anonymous
woman responds to Dinawār ī’s ridiculous command by displaying her spiritual mastery over
death. In Baql ī’s retelling, the woman reveals her superior knowledge by providing a cryptic
exegesis of the first letter (qāf ) of the command to halt (qiff ī ) that unequivocally demonstrates
her lofty station and intimacy with God and contrasts this with his inability to discern the
esoteric meaning of the Qur’ān’s “disconnected letters” (al- ḥur ūf al-muqa ṭṭa‘a), alluding to a
common aspect of Sufi exegesis of the Qur’ān.32 Qushayr ī’s version of the story reads:
I heard Shaykh Abu Abd al-Rahman al-Sulami say: “One day Abu al-‘Abbas al-Dinawari
was delivering a sermon in his gathering. Suddenly, a woman yelled out of ecstasy. He
told her: ‘Die!’ She stood up and went away. When she reached the door, she turned
toward him and said, ‘I have just died’, and she fell on the floor, dead.”33
Ruzbihān Baql ī retells the ending in the following manner:
As he said: I told her: Stop! (qiff ī ). She said to me: The “qāf ” is so that the renunciants do
not stop at secrets (asrār), and they uttered this allusion (ish āra) as a warning against the
approach of the ones who ascend. This is the way (sunna) of the Divine: He addressed
the elite of his lovers with symbols and signs like the Disconnected Letters, which are
symbols from the Real to his noble prophets and friends (awliyāʾ ) as a way of honoring
them and recognizing their greatness above the rest of Creation.34
In both these accounts, the named male protagonist attempts to denigrate an anonymous
woman in public only to be shamed by her unexpected response. The woman, unnamed,
holds no spiritual authority in institutionalized Sufism. Meanwhile, Qushayr ī remembers
Dinawār ī as a “distinguished scholar” and teacher of divine gnosis.35 While women may
narratively appear superior to men, they simply act as a vehicle for a male protagonist to
discover his own spiritual arrogance and consequently integrate a deeper mystical teaching.
To understand why this anonymous woman holds no institutional authority despite her
seemingly superior mystical status, we must investigate the gendered motivations of Sufi
male authorship. In his magnum opus I ḥyāʾ ‘ul ūm al-dīn (The Revival of the Sciences of
136
Religion), Abū Ḥā mid Ghaz ā l ī (d. 1111) explains the benefit of commemorating spiritual
women to reinvigorate the spiritual efforts of male Sufi aspirants. Al-Ghaz ā l ī writes,
Consider the state of the God-fearing women and say (to your own soul); “O my soul,
be not content to be less than a woman, for a man is contemptible if he comes short of
a woman, in respect of her religion and (her relation) to this world.” So we will now
mention something of the (spiritual) states of the women who have devoted themselves
to the service of God.36
Kenneth Lincoln notes that tricksters often “inversely educate and amuse […] people in tribal
norms.”37 Indeed, to conceive of women as spiritually deficient but to then portray some
women as extraordinarily spiritual and wise can easily be reconciled if these women are
anonymized, rendered exceptions to the rule, and utilized as a means to a noble and edifying
end. The noble end for a male Sufi adept is spiritual growth, and thus the goal of a male Sufi
author is to utilize women as narrative props to aid the learning of male Sufis. Meanwhile,
they can uphold the social patriarchal hierarchy by refusing to assign women any practical
authority.
Ash Geissinger explains the stratification of classical Muslim societies as a hierarchy of
power with free elite masculine men occupying the highest echelons. Geissinger writes,
Free, able-bodied males are seen as the most complete examples of what it is to be
human, in their physical, intellectual, and spiritual capacities. Male and female bodies
were thought to differ in degree rather than in kind… . Therefore, females were seen as
intrinsically deficient.38
Such societies internalize a bipartite classification of all individuals as either “male” or “not
male.”39 With this in mind, gender becomes one of many possible markers of deviation from
the ideal for male Sufi authors—other markers include class, age and political or religious
status. Yet all these markers are gendered as deviations from the free male ideal. Any markers
of deviation become a rhetorical device in the hands of male authors that use the Other as
a corrective tool for reintegrating men into the hegemonic ideal. The use of women in Sufi
tales is congruent with tricksters who often cross the boundaries of gender and toy with ideas
of sacred and profane (or, in this case, social order and chaos), in order to deliver a moral ideal
in a powerful and engaging way.40
Depictions of non-elite male individuals mirror those of female mystics. They demon-
strate similar gendered narrative tropes, though the gendering of these characters is delivered
in subtler ways. Ash Geissinger writes,
When utilizing gender as an analytical category, it is insufficient to single out female

characters in a tradition or classical source for a gender-focused reading, while ignoring
any other figures that might be depicted in the same text. Rather, all characters should
be critically analyzed as gendered figures.41
In studying variously gendered figures, there is a distinct similarity between all characters
who are not free, able-bodied, elite men in that all seem to possess the literary qualities of
tricksters in the anecdotes that male Sufis choose to tell about them. Regardless of whether
those markers of deviance rely on gender, social class, or age, these characters are decen-
tered from the narrative while they deliver a moral corrective to free male Sufis by way of
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Sara Abdel-Latif
momentarily behaving in unexpectedly aberrant ways. Structurally, there are few differenti-
ating details between these tales despite differences in the identities of the upbraider. Female
upbraiders flout social seclusion laws, young upbraiders defy their elders (particularly those
who dominate them sexually), and slave upbraiders disobey and abuse their masters. Each
of these social “deviants” aid the spiritual growth of the male protagonist through acting in
ways unexpected of their gender, age or class Consequently, they remind the male protago-
nist of his chivalrous ideals. Each of these non-default members of society transgresses their
social boundaries in Sufi narratives to enrich the spiritual lives of their free male elite in-
terlocutors by prompting them to recognize realities lie beneath the surface and motivating
them to recommit themselves to their androcentric moral standards.
Depictions of beardless youths

In the Risāla, Qushayr ī alludes to the prevalent practice of older men sexually consorting
with male youths in classical Islamicate societies.42 Qushayr ī regularly cautions his readers
against taking up a male youth as a lover.43 Yet, despite deriding the practice, Qushayr ī nar-
rates the following tale about a male youth abusing his elder lover and portrays the couple
as an analogy for the relationship between God as the ultimate Beloved and the lapsed Sufi
devotee. In this tale, Qushayr ī does not disavow the practice of pederasty, but rather uses
the youth as a trickster-figure to deliver an important lesson about cultivating sincerity and
faithful devotion in loving God. Qushayr ī writes,
It is related that a beardless youth was seen striking an old man in the face with his san-
dal. Someone asked him: “Aren’t you ashamed? How can you beat this old man on his
cheeks in such a way?” “His sin is great,” answered the young man. They asked: “What
is that?” He answered: “This man claims that he desires me, yet he has not seen me for
three nights!”44
As with the anecdotes related about mystic women, this story follows a very specific model.
Someone criticizes the youth for behavior considered beyond his social station. The youth
responds by revealing his intuitive and experiential understanding of what it means to sin-
cerely desire your beloved. Qushayr ī thus teaches his readers to fortify their relationship
to God as the ultimate Beloved. This anecdote appears in a section immediately following
Qushayr ī’s exposition of impatience as a hallmark of the Sufi’s passionate yearning for God.45
Thus, this beardless youth who displays power over his elder lover becomes a symbol of God
testing human lovers to determine the depth of sincerity in their yearning.
The power of the story of the beardless youth lies in Qushayr ī’s presentation of the youth
as a feminized male behaving insubordinately by momentarily espousing the dominant mas-
culine while, in turn, feminizing and diminishing his dominant sexual partner through an
act of beating. In classical Islamicate societies, pederasty was not considered a homosexual
act. Though it occurs between two male individuals, the difference in age and often social
status meant the youth was presumed to receive penetration while the older man enacted it.
Thus, the older man, as the penetrator, reinforces his manhood, while the youth is feminized
as the recipient of the sexual act. Similarly, adult males who enjoyed exclusively receiving
penetration (ubna) were considered “effeminates” due to their submissive sexual position.46
Regardless of whether the recipient of the phallus is an adult male, an adolescent male or a
woman, the sexually dominant position represented hegemonic masculinity in Qushayr ī’s
milieu.47 By presenting the insubordinate youth as the dominant enactor of violence on
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the body of the older man, the typical pederastic situation is inverted and the older man
is feminized through being the submissive recipient of the youth’s beating. This gendered
inversion serves Sufi pedagogy by offering a social paradox through which an elite man may
contemplate his relationship to God.
Qushayr ī values free elite masculinity highly and considers effeminacy and womanhood
a mark of inferiority. Nearly two centuries later, Ibn ‘Arabī (d. 1240) writes, “men who
are unable to meet the demands of the path of God are considered worse and lower than
‘women.’”48 Considering Ghaz ā l ī’s utilitarian view of women cited above, we notice a clear
continuity in the use of womanhood as a tool to denigrate men who fail to conform to ideal-
ized masculinity. Contrastingly, women whose spiritual accomplishments transcended their
gendered social status were deemed “honorary men.”49 In this way, Sufi narratives engage in
gendered discourse as a way of negotiating status, power and authority.
Depictions of slaves
There are many Sufi tales that depict male slaves as tricksters and situation inverters who de-
liver a mystical teaching to their masters/other elite men in a manner consistent with what was
stated above.50 Kecia Ali notes male jurisprudents have compared slaves to wives, given the rela-
tional inferiority of both groups to their free, elite male guardians in Islamicate societies.51 When
Qushayrī narrates, “Yahya b. Ziyad al-Harithi owned a troublesome slave. Someone asked him:
‘Why do you retain this slave?’ He answered: ‘In order to learn temperance through him,’”52 we
notice the same moral imperative that free, encourages elite male Sufi aspirants to treat insub-
ordinate inferiors as opportunities for spiritual growth. A male slave’s position is gendered as a
more limited form of masculinity in relationship to the master given the restricted rights a male
slave possesses.53 Thus, a male slave’s defiance of his master in Sufi tales fits the trickster tropes we
explored in narratives of female mystics by virtue of a slave’s inability to fully espouse idealized
masculinity while enabling his master to develop his own.
Depictions of black men

Finally, I will address markers of deviance from idealized masculinity in free men as the
subtlest form of gendering in Sufi narratives. In the following anecdote, Qushayr ī marks a
mysterious man as “poor” and “black.”54 These identity markers seem to have little to do
with the plot of the story. Instead, these markers serve as a stark amplifier of the out-of-the-
ordinary nature of what Abū Ḥasan Ba ṣr ī (d. 981) witnesses. In this case, the paradox lies
in a black individual Ba ṣr ī assumed to be impoverished revealing himself to be spiritually
powerful and incredibly rich when Ba ṣr ī attempts to aid him with a charitable offering.
Qushayr ī relates:
I heard Abu al-Hasan al-Basri say: “At ‘Abbadan there was a poor black man who used to
frequent the [local] ruins. I took something with me and sought him out. When his eyes
fell on me, he smiled and pointed with his hand toward the earth. I saw that the entire
earth was covered with shining gold. He told me: ‘Give what you have brought!’ I gave
it to him. However, his [spiritual] state frightened me so, that I ran away from him.”55
Ba ṣr ī narrates the tale such that a mysterious individual, marked deviant by his skin color and
poor social class, reveals great spiritual power and diminishes the male protagonist’s act of
charity as a result. Qushayr ī’s note of the poor man’s skin color is highly significant. Orfali
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Sara Abdel-Latif
and Saab note that Qur’ān and prophetic traditions associate piety with “whitened faces,”
and wretchedness with “blackened faces.”56 Indeed, Qushayr ī uses these color symbols in his
Risāla to depict unnecessary joy as a characteristic of the impious:
Abu Bakr al-Kattani said: “In a dream I saw a young man, the most handsome I had
ever seen. I asked him who he was. ‘I am the fear of God (taqwa),’ he answered. ‘Where
do you reside,’ I asked him. ‘In the heart of every sad individual,’ he answered. Then I
turned and saw a black woman, as ugly as one can [possibly] be. I asked her who she was.
She answered: ‘I am laughter.’ I asked her: ‘Where do you reside?’ ‘In every cheerful,
carefree heart,’ she answered. When I woke up, I made a vow never to laugh, unless I
am overcome [with laughter].”57
In another instance, Qushayrī chronicles the use of the phrase, “My God, make her black!” as a
curse.58 Thus, when a poor, black man surpasses Baṣrī in mystical state and material prosperity
by producing gold from the earth with great spiritual mastery, we note another use of paradox to
deliver a spiritual lesson through a narrativized character that is coded inferior to the masculine
ideal through physical markers. Qushayrī’s depiction of laughter as an ugly, black woman to be
avoided by Sufis demonstrates a case of gendering used to caution men against embracing joy
in the material world. The use of a black man in a trickster role is a lesson to the reader that the
spiritual is the invert of perceived reality. Thus, the poor may be rich and those with black faces
(normatively symbolic of a “wretched spiritual state”) may have attained the height of spiritual
perfection. When Baṣrī runs away from the poor black man, we see again how the individual
constructed as socially inferior (gendered as a masculine subordinate in need of receiving charity
from a free, elite man) demonstrates dominant masculine traits in the context of Sufi pedagogical
tales that utilize situation inversion as a teaching tool. As is typical, Baṣrī receives biographical
notice while the poor, black man remains anonymous.
Conclusion
Many Sufi anecdotes that depict non-elite individuals retain three traits: (1) a free elite man
is named while his non-elite counterparts are not, (2) the free man is bested by the direct,
unmediated understanding of his inferior and (3) the free man benefits from the interaction
while his inferior does not. While Roded has argued that Muslim women are unnamed in
literature out of cultural respect for privacy,59 the examples analyzed above reveal that the
gender/age/social class of the Other is the only significant marker in the eyes of most male
Muslim narrators. Their differentiating marker serves the narrative purpose and therefore
their names need not be recorded.
When we compare Sufi male depictions of early, mystic women and their depictions of
other minority subsections of society, we notice what happens when an educated free man
contemplates the presence of those unlike himself. Such comparisons illuminate the depic-
tions of early mystic and ascetic women and make it clear that the records we have of them
are highly gendered and narrativized, though they remain useful in analyzing the literary
constructions of free male Sufi authors and therefore assist us in removing the androcentric
Sufi narrative lens to see what remains.
Analyzing free male depictions of non-elite and non-male subjects reveals that these
anecdotes exist insofar as they offer these free male authors and presumed male readers an
Other through which they can peer to discern where they themselves can better embody
their free male spiritual ideals of futuwwa (chivalry). Thus, whenever an anecdote specifically
140
or deliberately identifies deviance in gender, social status or age—it almost always follows
that the story will involve either reinforcement of social stratification or a superficial queer-
ing of this stratification that inspires free male readers to embody the ideals to which they
must strive, thus ultimately reinforcing the status quo. There are few depictions of social
deviants that fall outside of these constructions.
Schimmel states, “In chapter 17 of the Fihi ma fihi, Rumi writes that women exist solely as a
prop with which to perfect oneself.”60 To view women as bodies upon which men can practice
cultivating spiritual virtues reduces women to a supporting role of aiding men upon their spir-
itual path while remaining themselves unchanged and unnamed. When Sufi authors attribute
spiritual accomplishments to women and other non-elites, they depict them as particularly
exceptional, thus rendering them different from the rest who are expected to enact their social
roles without deviation. Given the fact that the early Sufi literature we have available is skewed
in this general direction of depicting women as a member of the non-default and reinforcing
the free elite man as the given reader and practitioner of Sufi mysticism, it is difficult to get an
accurate sense of women as ascetics, mystics and Sufis. Still, we learn a lot about women in the
Sufi male psyche from the literature we have.
While there is a variety of biographical information about Sufi women that does not nec-
essarily follow this particular trickster mold (specifically, the women memorialized in Sufi
literature evince a range of marital options including not being married at all), the fact that
most of the narratives regarding these women echo similar themes that uphold the status quo
indicates something of a topos representative of male social perspectives and largely devoid
of women’s lived realities. Silvers has noted that Sufi men often read women as “marginal
to the development, transmission, and preservation of Sufi practices, knowledge and teach-
ing.”61 Given that the same narrative purpose enacted by female characters is served by male
slaves, youths and black individuals, we require more extensive research that investigates and
analyzes the details that resist this narrativization in conjunction with historical traces of the
lived realities of various outliers to social hegemonic classes. In this way, we can begin to
unearth how women, slaves, youths, black individuals, non-Muslims, non-Arabs, the non-
educated and other social “deviants” in Islamicate societies lived, outside of the imaginations
of the male authors from whom we inherited the bulk of our written records.
Notes
* I offer my deepest gratitude to Laury Silvers whose guidance was indispensable in this project. Any
errors that remain are entirely my own.
1 Margaret Smith writes,
As far as rank among the ‘friends of God’ was concerned, there was a complete equality
between the sexes. It was the development of mysticism (Sufism) within Islam, which gave
women their great opportunity to attain the rank of sainthood.
Muslim Women Mystics (Oxford: Oneworld, 2001), p. 19. Cf. A. Schimmel and S. H. Ray, My Soul
Is a Woman (New York: Continuum, 1997), p. 15 where Schimmel writes, “…there is one area in
which the woman does enjoy full equal rights, and that is in the realm of mysticism, even if the
perfect woman is still referred to as a ‘man of God.’”
2 Despite the difficulties of establishing the historicity of Sufi women’s live, given the layers of
androcentric narrative construction obscuring Sufi womens’ history, Rkia Cornell has man-
aged to collate all historically verifiable information on the most famous female Sufi, R ā bi‘a
‘Adawiyya (d. 801), in her monograph Rabi’a from Narrative to Myth (London: Oneworld Publi-
cations: 2019). There is sufficient preliminary scholarship on the lives and stories of early Sufi
women, so the biographical details of Sufi women are not the focus of this chapter. Instead,
this chapter can be read in conjunction with existing scholarship to aid understanding of the
mechanisms of androcentric Sufi narrative. For historical information on the lives of female
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Sara Abdel-Latif
Sufis, see L. Silvers, “Early Pious, Mystic Sufi Women,” The Cambridge Companion to Sufism,
ed. Lloyd Ridgeon (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014): pp. 24–52; A. Sayeed,
Women and the Transmission of Knowledge in Islam (New York: Cambridge University Press,
2013), pp. 108–143; R. Roded, Women in Islamic Biographical Collections, from Ibn Saʿ d to Who’s
Who (Boulder and London: Lynne Rienner, 1994), pp. 91–113; and of course Rkia Cornell’s
translation of Ab ū ‘Abd al-Ra ḥ m ā n Sulam ī ’s (d. 1021) biographical dictionary of female mys-
tics, Early Sufi Women (Louisville: Fons Vitae, 1999).
3 Male depictions of non-elites are undoubtedly an inaccurate representation of the lived realities
of women, youths, slaves and black individuals. It is well known, for instance, that women par-
ticipated regularly in public preaching, networks of teaching and frequently flaunted aberrant
behavior, despite their popular representation as domesticized passive social actors in written Sufi
histories. See Silvers, “Early Pious, Mystic Sufi Women” for some historical analysis of Sufi wom-
en’s lived realities. It is outside the scope of this chapter to investigate the historical realities of
these othered populations.
4 Ash Geissinger addresses the hierarchy of gender and power in Islamicate patriarchal societies in
Gender and Muslim Constructions of Exegetical Authority (Boston and Leiden: Brill, 2015), pp. 35–38.
5 This is the case with Umm al-Aswad, quoted as the author of an interpretive gloss on Qur’ā nic
verse 15:85 in Sulam ī’s Dhikr al-niswa al-muta‘ābidd āt al- ṣūf īyyāt (Memorial of Sufi Female Devo-
tees) and erased in favor of Mu ḥ ammad b. al-Ḥanafiyya in Sulam ī’s Ḥaqāʾ iq al-tafsīr (The Realities
of Exegesis). Sulam ī, Ṭabaqāt al- ṣūfiyya (Cairo: Maktabat al-khā njī, 1969), p. 393. Cf. Sulam ī,
Ḥaq āʾ iq al-tafsīr (Beirut: Dā r al-kutub al-‘Ilm ī ya, 2001), 1:359.
6 These include Abū ‘Abd al-Ra ḥ m ā n Sulam ī in his Dhikr al-niswa al-muta‘ābidd āt al- ṣūfiyyāt
(Memorial of Female Sufi Devotees), Abū Nu’aym al-Isfahan ī’s (d. 1038) Ḥilyat al-awliyaʾ (The
Adornment of the Saints), Abū al-Ḥasan ‘Ali al-Hujw ī r ī’s (d. ca. 1072) Kashf al-Ma ḥjūb (The Rev-
elation of the Veiled), Abū al-Far āj ibn Jawz ī’s (d. 1201) Ṣifat al- ṣafwa (The Attributes of the Elect),
Nū r al-D ī n ‘Abd al-Ra ḥ m ā n al-Jā m ī’s (d. 1492) Nafah āt al-uns (The Moments of the Intimate),
‘Abd al-Wahhāb b. A ḥ mad al-Sha‘r ā n ī’s (d. 1565) Tabaqāt al-Kubra (The Major Biographical Com-
pendium) and ‘Abd al-Raʾuf al-Munaw ī’s (d. 1031/1622) Al-Kaw ākib al-Durriya (The Brilliant
Celestial Spheres). See Roded, Women in Islamic Biographical Collections, pp. 92–93; Cornell, Early
Sufi Women, p. 43; Silvers, “Early Pious, Mystic Sufi Women,” p. 24, n.2.
7 Notice the frequency with which Sulam ī identifies the women in his Dhikr al-Niswa by their
relationship to Sufi men, including the sisters of Bishr al-Ḥā f ī (Early Sufi Women, p. 192), the wife
of Rudhbā r ī (Early Sufi Women, p. 186), the sisters of Dar ā n ī (Early Sufi Women, p. 194) and the
daughter of H ī r ī (Early Sufi Women, p. 184).
8 Qushayr ī devotes a whole section of his Epistle to offering advice to spiritual novices whom he
assumes, by default, to be male. He writes,
When the aspirant is tested by [worldly] renown, a secure and abundant livelihood, friendship
with a youth, attraction to a woman or the [comforting] belief in an assured source of suste-
nance, and there is no master next to him who would suggest to him how to rid himself of
this, then he should travel and move away from his place of residence, in order to distract his
ego from this condition.
Note the androcentric assumption of the aspirant’s access to livelihood, travel and sexual attraction
to women and youths. Qushayr ī and A. Knysh, Al-Qushayri’s Epistle on Sufism (Reading: Garnet
Publishing, 2007), p. 413.
9 Legends obscuring the original personality of the individual are not unique to female mystics.
Dhū’l-Nū n Misr ī, a famed black ninth-century mystic from Egypt, is similarly rendered mysteri-
ous given the proliferation of myths and legends about him.
10 Roded writes,
The dramatic drop in the number of second-generation female transmitters apparently reflects
a general trend of relying on women as sources of information only when too few male infor-
mants can be found or when the women in question have a decided advantage.
Women of the Biographical Tradition, p. 47.
Roded notes a similar phenomenon in the Sufi tradition. Ibid., p. 93.
142
11 Far īd al-Dīn ‘Aṭṭār (d. 628/1230) includes only Rābi‘a in his Sufi biographies and composes a lengthy
justification of his inclusion of a woman among the ranks of Sufi men. See ‘Atṭ ̣ā r and P. E. Losensky,
Farid ad-Din ʻAttā r’s Memorial of God’s Friends (New York: Paulist Press, 2009), pp. 97–113.
12 Cornell, Early Sufi Women; Roded, Women in the Biographical Tradition, p. 3.
13 Sulam ī records dozens of women in his biographical compendium and yet only two are named
in his qur’anic commentaries (R ābi‘a and Fāṭ ima Naysabū riyya). Male authors controlled which
genres of literature Sufi women are included in and tended to favor citing women in popu-
lar genres like manuals and biographies over highly institutionalized and regulated genres like
Qur’ā nic exegesis and hadith collections.
14 M. Nguyen, Sufi Master and Qur’an Scholar (Oxford: Oxford University Press; London: The Institute
of Ismaili Studies, 2012), pp. 144, 254–255. Knysh writes in his introduction to his translation of
Qushayr ī’s Epistle that Sulam ī “is quoted on almost every page of the Epistle.” A. Knysh, “Translator’s
Introduction,” Al-Qushayri’s Epistle on Sufism (Reading: Garnet Publishing, 2007), p. xxi.
15 Tradition has Ḥallāj martyred for ecstatically exclaiming divine theophany. See L. Massignon, The
Passion of Hallaj (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994). On ecstatic utterance, see C. W.
Ernst, Words of Ecstasy in Sufism (Albany: SUNY Press, 1985).
16 For more on Sufi biographical compendia, see J. A. Mojaddedi, The Biographical Tradition in Sufism
(Richmond and Surrey: Curzon Press, 2001). Walid Saleh pioneered the classification of tafsīr as en-
cyclopedic when exegetes attempt to collect all previously known glosses on a qur’anic verse. See
W. Saleh, The Formation of the Classical Tafsir Tradition (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2004), pp. 17–21.
17 C. Melchert, “Sufis and Competing Movements in Nishapur,” Iran 39 (2001), pp. 237–247.
18 I discuss Sulam ī’s project of concretizing Sufism and its implications for institutionalized Sufism in
“Mystical Qur’anic Exegesis and the Canonization of Early Sufis in al-Sulam ī’s Ḥaqāʾ iq al-tafsīr,”
The International Journal of Religion in Society 23:4 (2016), pp. 14–22.
19 Sulam ī, Ṭabaqāt al- ṣūfiyya, p. 236. Entry number 53. While there is debate about Ḥallāj being
considered a Sufi, given the many Sufis who fervently excluded him from their ranks, he remains
a significant figure in the Sufi tradition, as evidenced by Sulam ī’s inclusion of him even while
addressing his tenuous position among the Sufis of his time. Sulam ī, Ṭabaqāt, p. 236.
20 Sulam ī’s Ghala ṭāt al- ṣūfiyya (The Errors of the Sufis) reveals he lectured his students on certain
behaviors he considered antithetical to “true” or Malam āti Sufism. See A. Arberry, “Did Sulam ī
plagiarize Sarr āj?” The Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain and Ireland .3 (1937),
pp. 461–465. Also J. A. Qureshi, “The Book of Errors: A Critical Edition and Study of Kit āb
al-agh ālit by Abū ‘Abd al-Rahm ā n al-Sulam ī (d. 412/1021),” MA Thesis (University of
Missouri-Columbia), 1999.
21 Mojaddedi notes,
a decision was made to omit al-Ḥallāj from the tabaqat section, while leaving segments about
him in other sections of the Risāla, [which] implies that his inclusion would have conflicted
with the aims particular to the ṭabaqāt section of the work.
The Biographical Tradition in Sufism, p. 104.
22 M. Nguyen, Sufi Master and Qur’an Scholar, pp. 205–209.
23 Qushayr ī, Epistle on Sufism, p. 17.
24 Compare Sulam ī, Ṭabaqāt, p. 389; Qushayr ī, Epistle, p. 156. Also, Ṭabaqāt, p. 389 and Epistle, p. 277.
25 Vincent Cornell coined the term “usulization” to describe attempts to integrate the principles of
Islamic jurisprudence into all sciences by identifying authoritative chains of transmission and tracing
knowledge back to the prophetic tradition (sunna). Cornell, “Defining Muslim Networks,” p. 44.
Rkia Cornell explains how Sulam ī pursued usulization in Sufism in Early Sufi Women, pp. 37–40.
26 Nguyen, Sufi Master and Qur’an Scholar, pp. 36–42.
27 Silvers notes:
These women’s names were not just dropped from biographical collections: a number of trans-
mitters also edited women’s stories to shift a male Sufi to the center of the narrative and pushed
a now unknown woman to the margins to play a supporting role.
In “Early Pious, Mystic Sufi Women,” p. 36, n14.
28 Tustar ī, Tafsīr al-Tustar ī (Beirut: Dā r al-kutub al-‘Ilm īya, 2007), p. 306. Maybud ī and W. C. Chit-
tick, The Unveiling of the Mysteries and the Provision of the Pious (Louisville: Fons Vitae; Amman,
143
Sara Abdel-Latif
Jordan: Royal Aal al-Bayt Institute for Islamic Thought, 2015), p. 469. Baql ī, ‘Arāʾ is al-Bayān
(Beirut: Dā r al-kutub al-‘ilm īya, 2008), 1:124.
29 L. Silvers, “‘God Loves Me’: The Theological Content and Context of Early Pious and Sufi Wom-
en’s Sayings on Love,” Journal for Islamic Studies 30 (2010), p. 55.
30 W. G. Doty, “Mapping the Characteristic of Mythic Tricksters: A Heuristic Guide,” in Mythical
Trickster Figures: Contours, Contexts, and Criticisms (Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press, 1993),
p. 37.
31 See Sulam ī’s accounts of Ghufayra and Sha‘wana, both of whom wept themselves blind and re-
sponded to male critics with wisdom teachings, Early Sufi Women, pp. 96 and 106, respectively.
Laury Silvers records Sha‘wana’s heated encounter with a male critic in “Early Pious, Mystic Sufi
Women,” p. 50. R ābi‘a Azdiyya rebuffs a man’s attempts to marry her and demeans him in the
process, Early Sufi Women, p. 128. Fātima Naysabū riyya rebukes Dhū’l-Nū n for refusing a gift
from a woman, Early Sufi Women, p. 142. Qushayr ī recounts more of these upbraiding tales, while
anonymizing the women involved. See Qushayr ī, Epistle, pp. 117, 183, 185.
32 On Sufi interpretations of the Disconnected Letter (al- ḥur ūf al-muqa ṭṭa‘a), see M. Nguyen, “Exe-
gesis of the ḥur ūf al-muqa ṭṭa‘a,” Journal of Qur’anic Studies 14.2 (2012), pp. 1–28.
33 Qushayr ī, Epistle, p. 314.
34 Baql ī, ‘Arāʾ is al-Bayān, 1:134. I owe a debt of gratitude to Nevin Reda for refining my original
translation of this excerpt.
35 Qushayr ī records a short biography of Dinawā r ī in his Epistle, p. 71. The anonymous woman, of
course, has no biographical record, though Sulam ī includes a variant of these events under the
entry for Maryam Basriyya: “It is said: One day she attended the session of a preacher. When
he started to speak about love, her spleen ruptured and she died during the session.” Early Sufi
Women, p. 84. There are some indications that Maryam is the woman in these anecdotes, but not
enough historical record survives to evidence this. However, Sulam ī’s version records Maryam’s
sudden death as a mark of her spiritual connection to the subject matter of the sermon. Meanwhile,
Qushayr ī portrays the anonymous woman’s death as an act of spite to outwit a man who attempts
to restrict her ostentatious spiritual behavior.
36 Smith, Muslim Women Mystics, p. 353.
37 K. Squint, “Gerald Vizenor’s Trickster Hermeneutics,” Studies in American Humor 3.25 (2012), p. 109.
38 A. Geissinger, Gender and Muslim Constructions of Exegetical Authority, p. 35.
39 Ibid.
40 Squint, “Gerald Vizenor’s Trickster Hermeneutics,” p. 108.
41 A. Geissinger, “No, a Woman Did Not “Edit the Qurʾā n”: Towards a Methodologically Coher-
ent Approach to a Tradition Portraying a Woman and Written Quranic Materials,” Journal of the
American Academy of Religion 85.2 ( June 2017), p. 420.
42 These boys were often termed “beardless youths” to indicate their adolescent status. Bruce
Dunne offers a thorough analysis of pederasty in Islamicate societies in “Homosexuality in the
Middle East: An Agenda for Historical Research,” Arab Studies Quarterly 12.3 (Summer 1990),
pp. 55–82.
43 Qushayr ī writes, “Seeking the company of youth is one of the gravest afflictions on this path.”
Epistle, p. 411.
45 Ibid., p. 199.
46 Dunne, “Homosexuality in the Middle East,” p. 59.
47 Note that Qushayr ī warns his male readers against consorting with women and male youths, thus
equating the two as temptations for men pursuing a spiritual life. Epistle, 413.
48 Schimmel records several more examples of deficient men being denigrated as women in My Soul
Is a Woman, pp. 76–80.
49 See ‘Atṭ ạ̄ r’s characterization of R ābi‘a in Farid ad-Din ʻAtt ār’s Memorial of God’s Friends (New York:
Paulist Press, 2009), pp. 97–113.
50 See the story of the slave and the dog in Qushayr ī, Epistle, p. 260.
51 K. Ali, Marriage and Slavery in Early Islam (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2010), p. 6.
53 Geissinger, Gender and Muslim Constructions of Exegetical Authority, 46.
54 While there were black elite members in Islamicate societies (and extreme reverence for Bil ā l, the
dark-skinned companion of Mu ḥ ammad, see Qushayr ī, Epistle, p. 166), famous black author Jāḥ i ẓ
144
(d. 255/868) wrote a treatise called “The Glory of the Black Race”—indicating the prevalence of
contemporary discourse that discriminated against particular individuals based on their skin tone.
55 Qushayr ī, Epistle, p. 368. Silvers writes, “In some of these stories, black skin seems to articulate the
ideal of spiritual poverty by connecting the lowest social status…with the highest spiritual status.”
“Early Pious, Mystic Sufi Women,” p. 43.
56 S ī rjā n ī, B. Orfali and N. Saab. Sufism, Black and White: A Critical Edition of Kit āb al-Bayāḍ wa-l-
Saw ād by Ab ū l-Ḥasan al-S īrjān ī (d. ca.470/1077) (Leiden: Brill, 2012), p. 13.
58 Ibid., p. 392.
59 Roded, “Preface,” Women in Islamic Biographical Collections, p. viii.
60 Schimmel, My Soul Is a Woman, p. 74.
61 Silvers, “Early Pious, Mystic Sufi Women,” p. 25.
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11
SUFISM AND TRAVELLING1
Arin Salamah-Qudsi
Introduction
Motion is a fundamental feature of Sufism and other non-Islamic mystical traditions. The
spiritual progress that each Sufi experiences as he obtains closeness and intimacy with God
is usually described in terms of travelling along a route of ascent. God’s enlightenments are
described as revelations sent from heavens down to a Sufi’s heart. Sufi compendia include
several terms that imply the descending movement of these enlightenments such as w āridāt
(sing. w ārid), naw āzil (sing. n āzila), law āʾ iḥ2 . The metaphors of “ascent” and “descent” are
very common in both Christian and Jewish mystical traditions in describing the soul’s jour-
ney towards God. From its very early stage, Sufis drew upon the story of the ascent of the
Prophet Mu ḥammad to the heavenly worlds (mi‘rāj) to establish their own spiritual mi‘rāj.
Abū Yazīd al-Bisṭā m ī’s (d. c. 875) description of his spiritual ascent is one of the most fas-
cinating texts known to us. It should be noted, however, that for Abū Yazīd himself, this
spiritual ascent is not conceived as a metaphor, but, rather, as a truth accessible to all those
who successfully purify their lower souls and suppress their sensual desires. The Muslim
ritual of ḥajj (pilgrimage) also served to underscore Sufi spiritual-esoteric conceptions. Some
Sufis tried to direct their disciples who wanted to perform ḥajj away from the Ka‘ba to the
Lord of the Ka‘ba as evidenced in sources. For others, the internal aspects of the ritual were
emphasised over the external; the “ideal”, spiritual, elitist Sufi ḥajj undertook a distinguished
journey towards God that differed essentially from the regular journey of the common
people towards Mecca. While the common people travelled from one place to another, Sufis
travelled from one phase of their inner souls to other phases which encompass God’s names
and attributes. Sufi approaches towards ḥajj, however, were not restricted to these brief ref-
erences, and early Sufi sources provide a broad array of views. Most recently, Binyamin
Abrahamov surveyed Sufi views on ḥajj from the ninth century until the time of Ibn ‘Arabī
(d. 1240).3 He noted that besides the attempts to provide allegorical interpretations for the
very acts of movement from place to place during ḥajj, there were Sufis who also celebrated
the powerful effect these external acts had on one’s inner progress. Leaving one’s homeland
and embarking for new destinations could be effective triggers for spiritual prosperity and
advancement. At the basis of this notion lies the assumption that the very nature of hu-
man beings is to dislike change. Our serenity is seriously threatened once we decide or are
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Sufism and travelling
compelled to leave our comfort zones, our familiar places, acquaintances and customs. It is
one’s ego, namely, one’s lower soul (nafs) as the Sufis conceive it, which causes one to adhere
to all that is familiar; this is why Sufis call one to repress this ego/nafs by means of eradicating
its customs and desires.
It is interesting to note that ḥajj has not been always dedicated, separate chapters in Sufi
manuals of early medieval Islam. In manuals where ḥajj is separately presented, the purpose
is to bring to the fore the Sufi implications of its components. In such cases, remarkably, the
author of the Sufi manual chooses to dedicate another chapter for travel (safar), implying that
the Sufi custom of travel is not necessarily restricted to ḥajj and also carries additional devo-
tional norms. In the early Sufi manual of Abū Na ṣr al-Sarr āj al-Ṭū sī’s (d. 988) Kit āb al-luma‘,
one chapter is dedicated to ḥajj while two chapters are dedicated to Sufis’ ethics during trav-
els.4 It would be possible to suggest, then, that for early Sufis, the Islamic ritual of ḥajj alone
was not enough to satisfy their spiritual aspirations. Ḥajj, by its very nature, is a ritual that
has to do with a particular place. It is one of the five pillars of Islam, and all Muslims who
are able to perform it are required to do so. To come to Mecca for ḥajj on specific dates of
the year is usually seen as a hallmark in one’s religious life. It seems, however, that early Sufis
felt that this general framework of ḥajj marginalised the importance of processes like spiritual
transformation and inner immigration of the soul that had nothing to do with determined
places and dates. Using the term “ḥajjat al-Islam” while referring to Muslim ritual in al-
Sarr āj’s work, interestingly, means that Sufis of his time kept believing in the importance
of fulfilling this ritual while going beyond it to establish their own conception of another
type of devotional travel free of any spatial or temporal conditions. This devotional travel
was not necessarily practised during ḥajj or ‘umra,5 and its format, structure and performance
essentially differed from both as the sources indicate. The term that Sufis introduced for this
devotional form of travel is siyāḥa. While we can offer “roving” or “roaming” as possible
equivalents for this early term, these translations are not able to convey the broad array of
connotations implied in Arabic. It is important, meanwhile, to note that early Sufi works
differed in the ways the term was used and, in certain cases, other terms replaced siyāḥa for
particular purposes that we will examine hereafter.
Siyāḥa as a key concept in the Islamic tradition

On three occasions, the Qurʾān includes different forms derived from the root s y ḥ. There
is a seeming contradiction between what is regarded as the plain meaning of all these forms,
which is wandering and roaming, and the meaning imposed by Qurʾānic commentaries,
which has to do with fasting. In verse 2 of S ūra 9, the imperative form sīḥū is mentioned.
The commentary literature refers here to God’s command to the infidels to tread on Muslim
territories safely only during the four months known in the Islamic history as al-ashhur al-
ḥurum. In the other two instances, both the masculine plural name sā ͗ iḥūn, in verse 112 of
S ūra 9, and the feminine plural name sāʾ iḥāt, in verse 5 of S ūra 66, are understood as relating
to those believers who keep fasting (al- ṣāʾ im ūn, al- ṣāʾ im āt).6 More interesting is the attempt
made by Muslim commentators to find the theoretical basis for the Qurʾānic use of siyāḥa as
a synonym of fasting: “The one who travels for the sake of worshipping God does not supply
himself with food exactly as the one who fasts”.7 In a recent chapter devoted to the inter-
pretation of Qurʾānic terms, Christopher Melchert highlights the outlines of the term siyāḥa
in the Qurʾān, in Qurʾānic commentaries as well as in works of zuhd that describe different
devotional customs undertaken by renunciants (zuhh ād) in the first two centuries of Islam.
Melchert argues that in the literary tradition of Qurʾānic commentary, the evident meaning
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Arin Salamah-Qudsi
of siyāḥa (as wandering) was denied in favour of fasting in order to establish an ethical model
“within reach of the average believer, which ruled out wandering”. Contrary to Qurʾānic
commentaries, both works of zuhd and ḥadīth literature tend to keep the plain meaning of
wandering.8
According to the well-known tradition attributed to the Prophet Mu ḥammad, “there
is no siyāḥa in Islam” (l ā siyāḥa fi al-Isl ām). This tradition appears on certain occasions as
a complementary part of the rahbāniyya tradition, i.e., l ā rahbāniyya f ī al-Isl ām (there is no
monasticism in Islam).9 It is true that the Prophetic tradition keeps what Melchert calls the
“evident meaning” of siyāḥa; however, this evident meaning is rejected. While the three
occurrences of the term in the Qurʾān praise the custom and those committed to it, ḥadīth
literature attempts to restrict wandering to ḥajj or jih ād (holy war).
The Islamic use of siyāḥa as an integral part of the rahbāniyya tradition indicates that the
term siyāḥa was negatively understood; siyāḥa contradicted the Islamic ideal of communal
life demonstrated by the principle of umma or jam ā‘a (the Muslim community of believers).10
This opposition to the practice of siyāḥa was, essentially, due to the early fear of ignoring the
communal religious duties of Islam. This fear seems more acute than even the fear from ei-
ther self-torture or intentionally not taking provisions while entering deserts and dangerous
wild lands.11 The Prophetic saying “the siyāḥa of my community is jih ād in the cause of God”
frequently appears in canonical ḥadīth collections.12 In other sources, different versions of the
story of the Prophet’s famous companion, ‘Uthmān ibn Ma ẓ‘ū n are mentioned in relevance
to siyāḥa. Ibn Saʿd (d. 845) tells that ‘Uthm ān asked the Prophet’s permission to practise
self-emasculation and celibacy (tabattul) and that the Prophet refused him. Ibn Sa‘d does not
mention the critical notion of the Prophet against siyāḥa even though ‘Uthm ān’s wish to
perform siyāḥa was explicitly indicated.13 In another version of the story, found in al-Jāḥ i ẓ’s
Kit āb al- ḥayaw ān, the Prophet says: “[the permitted!] siyāḥa of my community is commu-
nal”. Al-Jāḥ i ẓ follows this with another tradition according to which cUthm ān attempted to
obtain the Prophet’s permission to perform self-emasculation.14 The above might strengthen
the assumption that prior to the third/ninth century, the term siyāḥa had been well perceived
in Islamic societies as a description of an errant life in which celibacy and sexual abstinence
were major characteristics. However, a strict critical approach against this mode of life is not
clearly evident.
The critical discourse against siyāḥa during the early centuries of Islam was shaped by
two mechanisms: the first relates to the creation of “milder versions” of ḥadīth traditions in
which the term jih ād is introduced besides the two terms rahbāniyya and siyāḥa – “rahbāniyyat
ummat ī al-jih ād” and “siyāḥat ummat ī al-jih ād f ī sabīl All āh”.15 Early works of zuhd provide a
comparative tone that displays jih ād as a unique feature of Islam that should be differentiated
from Christian monastic practices of rahbāniyya and siyāḥa.16 The second mechanism refers
to the appearance of a negative ethical interpretation of the word siyāḥa according to which
the term implies an abundance of the supreme ideal of jam āca in order to spread decay and
denunciation.17
While both Qurʾān and ḥadīth literature keep the evident meaning of wandering, they
do not provide any clear negative approach towards siyāḥa. The tendency to practise con-
stant roaming among certain renunciants of the first two centuries of Islam did generate
occasional critical responses among traditionalists and commentators. However, the attack
against renunciatory wandering became more dramatic and solid only when Sufis later
turned the custom into one of their major pillars. While traditionalists attempted to restrict
the real meaning of both rahbāniyya and siyāḥa to a holy war against the enemies of Islam,
Sufis started to put forth their concept of “the greatest jihad” against one’s lower soul. John
148
Renard indicates that al-Ḥārith al-Muḥāsibī (d. 857) and other early Sufis set the tone of this
greater struggle of the soul on the path to God, as occurring within oneself.18 Gerhard Böw-
ering considers this Sufi doctrine of the greatest jih ād as one of the fundamental reasons for
the ongoing conflicts between early Sufis and traditionalists, which sometimes took extreme
forms of persecution and accusations of heresy.19 It appears that Sufis attempted to emphasise
the idea that renunciatory travel is an instrument to perform the mystical jihād. The early
mystic Ja‘far al-Khuld ī (d. 959) is quoted to have said: “al-mujāhadāt f ī al-siyāḥāt”. Is it possi-
ble that this statement was set as a part of Sufi polemics against the traditionalists’ attempts
to replace the original meaning of siyāḥa by conventional jih ād? If so, it might read: the real
content or the highest stage of jih ād / mujāhada is to be sought in the mystic form of siyāḥa. In
the following part of the statement, al-Khuld ī indicates that siyāḥa involves two components:
the act of roaming for the sake of i’itib ār by contemplating the divine signs in God’s creation,
and the inner siyāḥa of the soul.20
Fashions of travelling in early Sufi textbooks

Authors of Sufi textbooks differ in the terminology they use in their discussions of travelling
fashions in early Sufism. Terminological differences are important indicators for theoretical
and practical differences concerning travelling. The development of the role and fashions of
travelling is a domain in which Sufi dynamic relationships inside their communities as well
as in broader Muslim societies are best understood. That is why, sketching the outlines of
Sufi approaches towards travelling is a useful means to examine changing attitudes towards
public space and social ties in a broader sense.
Analysing the term siyāḥa in early works of zuhd, lexicography, historiography and adab (belle
lettres), one notes that siyāḥa refers to the custom of roaming in solitude and without provisions
as a means to prove absolute dependence on God (tawakkul). Very frequently, however, authors
refer to the same custom without using the term itself. The above-mentioned Muḥāsibī refers
to the crucial need of God’s lovers to escape to secluded places (al-firār ilā mawāṭin al-khalawāt).21
This idea is very common in the early works of zuhd as well.22 The early lexicographer Ibn
al-Azhar ī (d. 981), while referring to the Qurʾānic term of sāʾ iḥūn indicates that siyāḥa usually
involves roaming with no provisions and food (yadhhabu f ī al-arḍ lā zāda ma‘ahu).23 Muqaddasī
(d. 990) refers to the custom of entering the Arab desert to perform ḥajj without taking any
food known in his days among some renunciants (al-ḥajj ‘alā al-tawakkul wa-l-khur ūj bi-lā zād).24
In certain works of belle lettres going back to the fourth/tenth century, such as the works of
Abū Ḥayyān al-Tawḥīdī (d. 1023) for instance, we come across sarcastic references to groups of
Sufis who used to perform siyāḥa for the sake of alms. On one occasion, al-Tawḥīdī refers to
a Khurāsānian group of Sufis who, because of political circumstances in Nīshāpūr during the
Samānian rule and the unsafe situation on the roads in that period, were unable to leave the
Sufi lodge to perform siyāḥa.25 The term siyāḥa appears on further occasions in al-Tawḥīdī’s
works when referring to certain renunciants and Sufi figures
Examining Sufi textbooks of the period between the fourth/tenth and fifth/eleventh
centuries reveals how the term siyāḥa, from the second half of the fourth/tenth century on-
ward, was progressively replaced by safar, a neutral term that has no polemic connotations.
The fourth/tenth-century Sufi source of an anonymous author, Adab al-mulūk, for instance,
illustrated the earlier tendency to celebrate siyāḥa as the exclusive form of renunciatory trav-
elling. In Chapter 21, the reader comes across an implied attempt to defend a Sufi custom of
“entering the deserts while the mystic does not take along provisions by means of a total trust
in God”.26 As for the spiritual meaning of the term siyāḥa in early mystical treatises, both the
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verbal form sāḥū and the infinitive siyāḥa had been frequently used to describe Sufis’ ability
to attain closeness and intimacy with God.27
This preference for siyāḥa shifted in the majority of Sufi textbooks. In his chapter on Sufis’
manners in travelling, al-Sarr āj quotes the following statement of Abū ‘Abd Allāh al-Na ṣībī:
“I travelled for thirty years and during this period I used to not sew my patched frock (khirqa),
or to enter any place that I knew it offers rifq”.28 The word rifq in early Sufi writings indicates
donations, presents, alms, food and money the Sufis used to receive from their supporters.
Travelling to Yemen to gather alms seems to have been a common point of controversy
among Sufis themselves. Abū Bakr al-Katt ān ī (d. 933) is quoted by al-Sarr āj to have warned
contemporary Sufis against travelling to Yemen since, by doing so, their fellows will punish
them by isolation and abandonment.29
While avoiding the term siyāḥa by itself, Sarr āj summarises the legitimate reasons, in his
view, for Sufi travelling as follows:
It is not among the Sufis’ manners of travelling to travel for the sake of a mere roaming
(li-l-dawarān) and for observing different places and for searching means of living. Sufis
travel to perform ḥajj, to take part in jih ād, to meet masters, to keep kinships, to fend off
injustice, and for the sake of religious knowledge […]. They usually travel to honourable
places. In their travels, they do not leave any of the customs they used to perform while
settling.30
Sarr āj’s use of the word dawarān, which literally means rotation, might imply his critical
approach towards Sufi roaming. He, furthermore, does not accept the early attempt of Sufis
to accentuate the importance of na ẓar (sight) for attaining intuitive knowledge based on the
observation of God’s signs and marvels in His world of creation.31 Sarr āj apparently seeks to
base his chapter on Sufi anecdotes and statements in which the communal mode of travelling
is emphasised. This communal mode helps Sufis keep their collective ritual prayers during
their journeys and makes it harder for those who tend to perform self-starvation and other
forms of extreme renunciatory austerities to do so. In another reference, Sarr āj is eager to
insist on a full commitment to the same number of religious rituals during one’s journeys. A
true Sufi is not expected to exempt himself from any religious ritual including fasting even
during a long journey.32 Sarr āj’s severe critique against extreme customs undertaken by some
contemporaries during travels is documented in one of the last chapters of his work and is
dedicated to those who “err by abstaining from food and by isolating themselves”. One in-
teresting passage in this chapter reads:
A group of Sufis used to wander aimlessly about (h ām ū ‘al ā wujūhihim), and to enter des-
erts and wild lands without undertaking provisions of food, water, and any instrument
[that might facilitate their] journey, and they imagined that, if they behave as such, they
would be able to obtain the essence of tawakkul as the truthful people; however, these
[Sufis] indeed erred. (ghaliṭū).33
Differing from Sarr āj, Abū Ṭā lib al-Makk ī (d. 996) does not refrain from introducing the
term siyāḥa in a chapter devoted to Sufi travelling out of his Q ūt al-qul ūb. Makk ī differen-
tiates between the two terms safar and siyāḥa by saying that the first is usually carried out
in a group of at least two, while the other could be performed only individually.34 While
Makk ī indicates that the Qurʾānic word al-sāʾ iḥūn should be interpreted as the seekers of the
Sufi knowledge, he uses the verbal form sāfara to describe the search for ḥadīth and religious
150
sciences. This is why we are neither able to suggest, based on Makk ī’s text, that siyāḥa relates
to a particular practice of travel known among the Sufis, nor to say that seeking mystical
knowledge is treated in this context as the unique feature of siyāḥa when compared with
seeking external knowledge in regular safar or riḥla fashions.35
Like Sarr āj, Makk ī describes the different causes for travel without introducing the term
siyāḥa.36 He clarifies that siyāḥa can only be performed in solitude.37 However, he argues that
travelling in a group of people who have the same sincere intentions and motivations could
be regarded as siyāḥa, since the members of the group are considered one person.38 The latter
remark leaves the impression that Makk ī was aware of the special content of siyāḥa by em-
phasising its individual form. Nonetheless, he gives his preference to the communal mode
of travel in both the current chapter and the previous chapter, where he discusses ḥajj and
indicates that he prefers the word safar for ḥajj due to the idea that pilgrimage reveals (yusfiru
c
an) the true qualities of every human being.39
As for Abū al-Qā sim al-Qushayr ī (d. 1072), he uses the term safar in his chapter on
Sufi principles of travel. Throughout his Risāla, Qushayr ī does not use the word siyāḥa ex-
cept once in the biographical account of Abū Bakr al-Warr āq al-Tirmidh ī (d. 854). Here,
Qushayr ī indicates that Warr āq used to prevent his companions from both safar and siyāḥa
since, according to Warr āq, enduring the hardships of life in a place of settlement would be
sufficient for attaining divine grace.40 On another occasion, it was said that God asked Moses
to “roam in the world in a search for divine signs”. The imperative verb introduced here is
suḥ.41 The custom of roaming in groups while refraining from association with all but native
Sufis is implied in the story of Mu ḥammad ibn Ism ā‘ ī l al-Farghān ī (d. 942) and his friends
Abū Bakr al-Zaqqāq (d. 903) and Abū Bakr al-Katt ān ī (d. 933). This story, which is quoted
by both Sarr āj and Qushayr ī, implies the collective feature of Sufi travelling.42 By maintain-
ing the communal framework of safar, Sufis succeed in complying with the very principle of
jam ā‘a while keeping committed to their particular renunciatory practices.43 In his own defi-
nition of safar, Qushayr ī divides Sufis into three major categories. The first category rejects
safar and restricts it to ḥajj and mandatory purposes. The second commits to safar as the basic
mode of life and the third category chooses to perform safar at the beginning of one’s Sufi
career and then has the Sufi settle down once attaining high spiritual ranks.44 While Sufis of
Qushayr ī’s time were accused of neglecting religious duties while travelling frequently, he,
Qushayr ī, urges Sufis to be committed to all religious duties during their travels. Exploiting
travelling as an expedient for not fulfilling religious duties is certainly rejected. By the end of
his work, Qushayr ī urges Sufi disciples to travel if they are “afflicted with” one of the follow-
ing situations and have no sheikhs to turn to for assistance: “social fame ( jāh), companionship
with youth, sexual inclination to women, and satisfaction with a guaranteed source for sub-
sistence (istin āma il ā ma‘l ūm)”.45 Travel in such cases is considered an essential renunciatory
exercise for beginner disciples. Sufis who preferred to settle down were satisfied only with
safar for the sake of the religious duty of ḥajj. This indication implies that travelling to Mecca
has nothing to do with the Sufi content of safar. Interestingly, Zakariyyā al-Anṣār ī (d. 1520),
the commentator on Qushayr ī’s Risāla, refers to one anecdote quoted in Qushayr ī’s chapter
by saying that a Sufi traveller would not cross the desert without taking provisions (food and
riding animal) unless God had accustomed him to endure that. However, An ṣār ī goes to say
that this ability could suddenly disappear.46
While Qushayr ī’s survey of the different approaches towards travel is lenient in accepting
them all, the parallel discourse in Hujw ī r ī’s Kashf al-mahjūb provides us with a more austere
tone. Hujw ī r ī (d. 1072) indicates that residence signifies the state of achieving Sufi knowl-
edge, while safar is “a sign of ṭalab” (search) at the beginning of one’s Sufi career.47 Later in
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his work, Hujw ī r ī indicates that during his own travels, he encountered many “stained res-
idents” who used to take him to the houses of wealthy people in order to enjoy the money
and presents that he got from those people. That is how the traveller faqīr was used as an
instrument for mendicancy.48 Like Sarr āj, Hujw ī r ī very strictly clarifies the legitimate targets
for travelling (pilgrimage, jih ād, seeking knowledge etc.), and emphasises the crucial need for
provisions in order to ensure the performance of all religious duties during travelling (prayer
rug, stick, pot, shoes, etc.).49
Controversies among early Sufis concerning the priority of safar or residence referred to
siyāḥa either as a unique and individual form of travel, or as a collective form of travel that
involves practising hard renunciatory exercises including a total tawakkul. Travel in its general
meaning would not have evoked controversies such as those reflected in the stories of Abū Ḥafṣ
al-Naysābūr ī (d. 877) who warned his contemporaries against travelling and against his peer
Ḥamdū n al-Qaṣṣār (d. 884) who adopted a life of constant roaming.50 It is on this point that
more questions arise: who were indeed those Sufis who were inclined to roaming according
to the Sufi textbooks written before the eleventh century? Remarkably, names like Ibrāhīm
ibn Adham (d. ca. 782), Abū ‘Abd Allāh al-Maghribī (d. 911) and Abū Turāb al-Nakhshabī (d.
859) are frequently mentioned and are used in order to emphasise the accepted features of Sufi
travel. Sarrāj, for instance, mentions the story of Maghribī who used to cross the desert while
dressed in clothes suitable to that of the merchants in the markets.51 As for Ibrāhīm ibn Adham,
it was usually implied that he used to gain his livelihood during his travels, and financially
support his companions.52 Abū Turāb was said to have been attacked by lions in the desert of
Ḥijāz while on his way to Mecca.53 Meanwhile, one should keep in mind that such renowned
masters were commonly accompanied by many disciples whom neither the Sufi nor the non-
Sufi literature identify by name.54 Anonymous ‘ubbād who used to roam in the deserts of Tabūk
and Sinai and in the mountains of Lebanon and Lukkām, for instance, are well documented.55
Sometimes the surname “al-Sāʾ iḥ” was added to certain Sufi names, like in the case of Abū
Farwa al-Sāʾ iḥ.56 Sufi and non-Sufi sources provide us with many anecdotes about Sufis who
entered the desert to perform siyāḥa, and afterwards reached Mecca to make ḥajj or to stay for a
specific period in Mecca (mujāwara).57 Meanwhile, Muslim landscape until the formation of the
Sufi ṭuruq in the course of the thirteenth century still witnessed individual mystics who per-
formed siyāḥa in its early form by roaming in solitude and without taking provisions. Textual
evidence for this type of siyāḥa, though not frequent, is found.58
Resident Sufism: Sufism and travelling after

the eleventh century
The establishment of Sufi communal life contributed to changing the early Sufi principle
according to which spiritual progress was accompanied with, or even conditioned by, phys-
ical movement. Several dynamics pushed this shift from a Sufi piety of motion towards a
non-mobile form of piety whose impact was felt in both theory and practice. One of the
theoretical aspects that mirrors this shift is the decreasing interest shown by Sufi textbooks
in so-called “topographical language”. By topographical language I refer to certain metaphors
and symbolic descriptions of the spiritual progress taken from the domain of wayfaring and
travelling. One of the pillars of early Sufi system of thought relies on a two-fold vertical de-
scription of the Sufi path, which begins with spiritual experiences that result from individual
striving (“stations”, maqām āt) and reaches penultimately sequential states of grace (a ḥw āl),
which are exclusive outcomes of the divine will. By the sixth/twelfth century, this vertical
image of the Sufi route of ascent begins to be replaced with more circular images. Such
152
images are identified by the authors’ emphasis on the reversion of the mystic to the starting
point of his spiritual path after he succeeds to reach to its highest ranks. In a historical stage
that witnessed a heightened position of the Sufi master and his influential impact on Sufi
novices, this reversion appeared to be inevitable. Sufis who achieve the highest spiritual
ranks are usually qualified to guide their fellows on the Sufi path once they reach what is
seen as the final destination, they are said to revert to their communities and assist the be-
ginners, while they themselves once again practise all the spiritual situations that constitute
the very structure of the Sufi path. In circular descriptions, stations and states are usually
interpenetrated. Instead of dividing the path into maqām āt from the outset and introducing
a ḥw āl later, Abū Ḥaf ṣ Suhraward ī (d. 1234), the author of the influential Sufi manual ‘Aw ārif
al-ma‘ārif, argues that every stage consists of both parts.59 It is interesting to note that Sufi
textbooks that appear after the eleventh century reflect little interest in the topographical
language as compared to earlier works.60 This, most likely, mirrors decreasing interest in the
custom of siyāḥa and relevant doctrines relating to travelling. Instead of celebrating the very
act of wayfaring (sayr) through the path, later textbooks begin to celebrate the supreme state
of “flying” ( ṭayr) which has more to do with master-status.61
The decrease in the position that travelling had occupied in Sufi works presupposes a par-
allel decrease in its position in reality. There are numerous dynamics that contributed to this
decrease besides the increase of the role of what I call “resident Sufism”. It would be useful
to classify these dynamics into internal and external. By internal I refer to shifts that occurred
inside Sufism as an institution of a comprehensive renunciatory mode of life, and by external,
I refer to the developments that generally arose in early medieval Islamic societies.
The major development on the internal level relates to what Erik Ohlander calls the
consolidation of the ribāṭ -based Sufi system. This development motivated the appearance of
a coherent system in which Sufi codes of behaviour in travelling were comprehensively reg-
ulated. Travelling was gradually restricted to renunciatory journeys undertaken by groups of
Sufis basically to perform ḥajj but also to visit Sufi masters in different parts of Muslim lands.
Unlike the early custom of siyāḥa that evoked criticism due to the negative way solitude and
endangering one’s body were understood, this form of travelling did not evoke critique. The
detailed discussions of the increasingly widespread Sufi rituals of receiving traveller fellows
in the ribāṭs, as they appeared in Sufi sources, did, however, evoke critical approaches, the
most outspoken of which were these of the Hanbalite scholar Ibn Jawzī.62 It is true that
Ibn al-Jawzī criticised certain customs that his contemporary Sufis adopted; however, we
should keep in mind that this was done while resident Sufism succeeded in occupying the
forefront of Sufism. Unlike earlier teachings that emphasised the state of “spiritual restless-
ness”, later teachings emphasised spiritual stability while putting the stress on the highest
state in which the mystic was given back his choice and became able to control his lower self
(nafs).63 New Sufi teachings contributed to consolidate the idea that a novice (mur īd) need
not have travelled in order to meet a sufficient master. Instead, this mur īd was allowed to
receive the Sufi training of his master through mediators who conveyed to him the master’s
teachings or through the later mechanism of tawajjuh, a state in which the novice addressed
himself to the master’s spirituality without being close to him physically.64 Later Sufi authors
highlighted the important need to yield to the master’s decision to prevent a novice from
travelling if he, the master, considered that unnecessary.65 While mobility became a more
effective instrument to consolidate practical life within Sufi-institutionalised communities,
travelling became subjected to a whole system of regulations. The stabilisation of Sufi activ-
ities in the framework of ribāṭ -based Sufism helped turn resident Sufism into the preferable
mode of piety. This actual shift might have been simultaneously synchronised with some
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Arin Salamah-Qudsi
theoretical developments. Several biographical notions supported by Mu‘ ī n al-Dī n Junayd

Sh ī r āzī (d. 1389) might evidence the shifts that occurred in the later Sufi perception of
settling. Expressions like maw ṭin al-atqiyāʾ (the residence of pious), masākin al-sāda al-akhyār
(dwellings of the generous) and dār ‘amalihi (the place of the Sufi’s worship) are frequent in
this work.66 Ribāṭ -based Sufism was grounded on endowments (awqāf ) and alms, and, on a
spiritual level, on charismatic Sufi masters. Resident Sufism implied strong ties with both
the permanent space of the Sufi centre and the sheikh who is the master of that space; this
explains why Sufi travelling gradually took the form of journeying to the tombs of these
sheikhs (ziyāra). Instead of leaving behind one’s home, Sufi teachings insisted on the crucial
need of the Sufi master to be connected to his Sufi fellowmen and community. In the Sufi
writings after the sixth/twelfth century there were many anecdotes and statements in which
the priority of communal ethics (ādāb al-jam ā‘a) over the ascetic tendencies of the individual
is emphasised. In many cases, such communal ethics were even given precedence over the
performance of supererogatory worship.
A fascinating topic is how Sufi travelling impacted relationships within the family.
Mothers, for example, often rejected their sons’ wish to travel. The textual material assumes
that, very frequently, these mothers rejected their sons’ wish to travel. Many Sufis, as they
themselves reported, often needed to wait for their mothers’ permission to perform siyāḥa
due to the essential role of a “mother’s right” (ḥaqq al-w ālida) in early medieval Islamic
culture.67 The case of the great master of Sh ī r āz Abū ‘Abd Allāh Ibn Khaf ī f (d. 982) is very
interesting in this regard. It was reported that Umm Mu ḥammad, Ibn Khaf ī f ’s mother, used
to accompany her son on pilgrimages to Mecca.68 In one episode of Qushayr ī’s Risāla, Ibn
Khaf ī f asked his mother’s permission to travel. Having gathered many references of this type,
we consider it most likely that, on the question of travelling at least, Ibn Khaf ī f maintained
dependence on his highly respected mother.69
As a constantly changing institution of piety, Sufism embedded certain dynamics that
helped establish the position of resident Sufism. Moving on to the general environment of
early medieval Islam, some external dynamics contributed their own part and they deserve
to be emphasised here. From the mid-twelfth century, Muslim territories began to witness
deviant dervish groups known as qalandariyya.70 These anarchist dervishes evoked hostile
attitudes and a clear condemnation from traditionalists; this is due to the dervish agenda
of rejecting all social norms for the sake of obtaining a total spiritual salvation.71 Roam-
ing, among other customs, became an identifying mark of qalandariyya, and it succeeded to
motivate the critical attitudes against non-qalandar ī Sufis, partially due to their siyāḥa, even
when the latter was totally different from qalanadar ī siyāḥa. Remarkably, Ibn Jawz ī did not
mention the qalandariyya in his Talbīs Iblīs. Meanwhile, he criticised the mal āmatiyya who, by
purposely exhibiting unacceptable behaviour, sought to conceal their piety and to draw the
condemnation of people.72 In another place in his writings, Ibn al-Jawzī spoke about men
who “fall asleep flat on their faces out of wandering in pious travel (bi-l-siyāḥa)”.73 Even if
wandering groups of qalandar ī dervishes were not known as distinct religious groups in Iraq
during Ibn Jawzī’s time, similar features and customs among other deviant individuals were
undoubtedly present prior to the seventh/thirteenth century. Later critical voices against the
qalandariyya appeared in the works of Ibn Taymiyya (d. 1328) and ‘Abd al-Ra ḥī m Jawbar ī
(d. ca. 1222), and they contributed to combine the renunciatory custom of roaming with the
anarchist behaviour of these deviant individuals.
Another interesting aspect in which both internal and external dynamics intermingled
was the rising position of the group of majdh ūb Sufis in general Muslim society and within
the walls of the Sufi institution in particular. These Sufis were believed to gain divine
154
revelations without being committed to renunciatory practices.74 By attaining the recogni-

tion of certain authoritative Sufi authors, the very existence of majdh ūb Sufis contributed to
weaken the need for travelling and roaming, at least in theoretical terms.75
Conclusion
Movement is a fundamental feature of Sufism, which manifested itself in Sufi literature and
life. Sufis drew on certain rituals and notions known in Islamic tradition to create their own
worldview. They relied on the story of the ascent of the Prophet Mu ḥammad to the heav-
enly worlds (mi‘rāj) to establish their own spiritual route of ascent, while the ritual of ḥajj
provided Sufis with another rich domain to apply their spiritual-esoteric conceptions. But
ḥajj as a religious ritual that implies motion seems not to be sufficient by itself for Sufis, and
that is why they created different fashions of renunciatory travelling. One of these fashions
that was common in the circles of early renunciants (zuhh ād) is siyāḥa, the roaming in soli-
tude without taking provisions or planning any clear destination. As this unique fashion of
travelling spread among Sufis, it began to be criticised; that criticism, however, did not stop
Sufis from turning it into one of their major pillars.
The term siyāḥa, from the second half of the fourth/tenth century onward, has been
progressively replaced by safar, a neutral term that has no controversial or polemic connota-
tions in medieval Islamic culture. After the fifth/eleventh century, a transformation from a
Sufi piety in motion towards a resident form of piety is documented in the sources. Several
dynamics that relate to the internal structure of the Sufi institution as well as to the general
scene of early medieval Muslim societies pushed towards this transformation.
Notes

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Arin Salamah-Qudsi
pp. 89–116, the citation is from page 96. For more quotations from Qurʾān commentary works see
ibid., pp. 91–94.
9 There are different versions of this ḥad īth, whereas siyāḥa is one among other customs that the
Prophet was said to prohibit. One version is “l ā khizām wa-l ā zim ām wa-l ā siyāḥa wa-l ā tabattul wa-l ā
tarahhub f ī al-Isl ām” (see Mu ḥ ammad Nāṣir al-D ī n al-Albā n ī, Ḍacīf al-jāmi‘ al- ṣagh īr wa-ziyād ātuhu
(Damascus: al-Maktab al-Islā m ī, 1990), ḥad īth no. 6287, p. 907.
10 Cf. Sara Sviri, “Wa-Rahbānīyyatan Ibtadaʿūhā: An Analysis of Traditions Concerning the Origin and
Evaluation of Christian Monasticism,” Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam vol. 13 (1990), p. 201.
11 See e.g., Ibn al-Ath ī r, al-Nih āya f ī ghar īb al- ḥad īth wa-l-athar, ed. by Ṭā hir al-Zāw ī and Ma ḥ mūd
al-Ṭanāḥī (Cairo: al-Bābī al-Ḥalabī, 1963–1965), vol. 2, p. 432.
12 See Abū Dāw ūd Sulaym ā n ibn al-Ash’ath al-Sijist ā n ī, Sunan Ab ī D āw ūd (Beirut: Dā r al-Fikr,
1994), vol. 2, p. 339.
13 See Mu ḥ ammad Ibn Sa‘d, Kit āb al- ṭabaqāt al-kab īr, ed. by Edwā r Sakhū (Leiden: Brill, 1905–1918),
vol. 3/I, pp. 287–288 (the biography of ‘Uthm ā n).
14 See ‘Amr ibn Baḥr Al-Jāḥiẓ, Kitāb al-ḥayawān, ed. by Fawzī ‘Aṭawī (Beirut: Dār Ṣa’b, 1982), vol. 1, p. 80.
15 The term “milder version” was proposed by Sara Sviri in the case of rahb āniyya tradition (see Sviri,
Wa-Rahb āniyyatan, p. 196).
16 ‘Abdallāh ibn al-Mubārak, Kitāb al-jihād, ed. by Nazīh Hammād (Beirut: Dār al-Nūr, 1971), pp. 35–36.
17 Ibn al-Ath ī r, al-Nih āya, vol. 2, p. 432.
18 See John Renard, “al-Jih ād al-Akbar: Notes on a Theme in Islamic Spirituality”, The Muslim World,
vol. 78, no. 3–4 (1988), p. 225.
19 See Gerhard Böwering, “Early Sufism between Persecution and Heresy,” Islamic Mysticism Con-
tested: Thirteen Centuries of Controversies and Polemics, ed. by Frederick de Jong and Bernd Radtke
(Leiden, Boston and Köln: Brill, 1999), p. 53.
20 See Abū ‘Abd al-Ra ḥ m ā n al-Sulam ī, Ṭabaqāt al- ṣūfiyya, ed. by Johannes Pedersen (Leiden: Brill,
1960), pp. 458–459.
21 Al-Ḥā rith al-Mu ḥā sibī, Risāla f ī al-ma ḥabba, in Abū Nu’aym al-Iṣfahā n ī, Ḥilyat al-awliyāʾ wa- ṭabaqāt
al-a ṣfiyāʾ (Cairo: Maktabat al-Khā njī, 1932–1938), vol. 10, p. 107.
22 See, e.g., ‘Abdall ā h ibn al-Mubā rak, Kit āb al-zuhd wa-l-raqāʾ iq, ed. by A ḥ mad Far īd (al-Riyāḍ: Dā r
al-Mi‘r āj al-Dawliyya, 1995).
23 Mu ḥ ammad ibn A ḥ mad Abū Man ṣū r ibn al-Azhar ī, Tahdh īb al-lugha, ed. by Mu ḥ ammad ‘Awaḍ
Mir‘ib (Beirut: Dā r I ḥyāʾ al-Tur āth al-’Arabī, 2001), vol. 5, p. 113.
24 See Mu ḥ ammad ibn A ḥ mad al-Muqaddasī, A ḥsan al-taqāsīm f ī ma‘rifat al-aqālīm (Beirut: Dā r I ḥyāʾ
al-Tur āth al- cArabī, 1987), p. 208.
25 See, e.g., Abū Ḥayyā n al-Tawḥīd ī, Kit āb al-imta‘ wa-l-muʾānasa, ed. by Mu ḥ ammad al-Fāḍ il ī
(Algeria: Dā r al-abḥāth, 2007), p. 349.
26 See anonymous author, Adab al-mul ūk: Ein Handbuch zur Islamischen Mystik au dem 4./10. Jahrhun-
dert, herausgegeben und eingeleitet von Bernd Radtke (Beirut: Orient Institut der Deutschen
Morgenländischen Gesellschaft Beirut, 1991), pp. 58–60.
27 See, e.g., Abū Sa‘ īd al-Kharr ā z, Kit āb al- ḍiyāʾ, in Abū Sa‘ īd al-Kharr ā z, Rasāʾ il al-Kharrāz, ed. by
Qā sim al-S ā mirr āʾī (Baghdad: al-Majma‘ al-‘Ilm ī al-‘Ir āqī, 1967), p. 30.
28 Al-Sarr āj, Luma‘, p. 190. Cf. ‘Abd al-Malik ibn Mu ḥ ammad al-Kharg ū sh ī (d. 1016), Tahdh īb al-
asrār, ed. by Bassā m B ā r ūd (Abū Ẓabī: al-Majma‘ al-Thaqā f ī, 1999), p. 267.
29 See Sarr āj, Luma‘, p. 190. Cf. Abū Bakr Mu ḥ ammad al-Kalābādh ī, Kit āb al-ta‘arruf li-madhhab ahl
al-ta ṣawwuf, eds. by ‘Abd al-Ḥal ī m Ma ḥ mūd & Ṭā ha Sr ū r (Cairo: Maṭba‘at al-B ābī al-Ḥalabī, 1960),
pp. 147–148. Cf. Ibn al-Jawz ī, Talb īs, p. 414 (“m āʾ idat al-Yaman”).
30 Sarr āj, Luma‘, p. 190.
31 See Touati, Islam and Travel, pp. 161–163.
32 See Sarr āj, Luma’, pp. 163–164; 170–171.
33 Ibid., p. 418.
34 See Abū Ṭā lib al-Makk ī, Q ūt al-qul ūb (Cairo: Muṣṭ af ā al-Bābī al-Ḥalabī, 1961), vol. 2, p. 430.
35 On the differences between siyāḥa and riḥla, see ibid., p. 158.
36 See ibid., p. 424.
37 Ibid., p. 430.
38 Ibid.
39 Ibid., p. 235. Cf. the aforementioned reference to Muqaddasī’s A ḥsan al-taqāsīm where the term
siyāḥa appears in the context of ḥajj.
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158
12
SUFISM AND QUR’ĀNIC ETHICS
Atif Khalil
Introduction
The Qur’ān lies at the heart of Muslim spirituality, and provides the fount and wellspring
for its doctrines and practices. To the extent that classical Islam as a whole was animated in
both form and spirit by its central Scripture, all the way from law and ritual to theology and
the arts, it would only be natural to find its reverberations running throughout its mysticism
as well.1 Indeed, some of the most influential literary expressions of Sufism, ranging from
Ghaz ā l ī’s (d. 1111) I ḥyā’ ‘ūlum al-dīn (Reviving the Religious Sciences) to Rū m ī’s (d. 1273)
Mathnaw ī-i ma‘naw ī (Couplets of Inner Meaning), took on the form of commentaries of the
holy text, albeit in a different key, not unlike medieval Jewish works that were often anal-
ogously rooted in the Torah. “Everything of which we speak in our meetings and in our
writings,” Ibn ‘Arabī (d. 1240) would write, “comes from the Qur’ān and its treasures.”2
And when Abū Ṭā lib al-Makk ī (d. 996) declared in his Q ūt al-qul ūb (Nourishment of Hearts)
drawing on an early saying, sometimes ascribed to the Prophet, that “the people of the
Qur’ān are the people of God, and His elect,”3 he was expressing a firmly held view in the
fledging tradition for which he was giving voice. The polyvocality of Muslim scripture
would itself generate many of the debates that would animate the intellectual culture of
Sufism, and beyond that, the various competing theologies of Islam.
The Qur’ān, teleology and theological anthropology

The Qur’ānic foundations of Sufi piety and thought are perhaps most clearly discernable in
the arena of ethics. Since, however, these ethical reflections are grounded in a larger theo-
logical and mystical vision of the nature of reality, they cannot be entirely separated from
broader questions centering around human self hood and teleology. At risk of generalizing, it
would not be inaccurate to say that as a whole the goal of Sufism lies not simply in Paradise
but the God of Paradise, in ultimate reality or al-Ḥaqq, and not simply a felicitous afterlife.
As Rābi‘a al-‘Adawiyya (d. 801) is famously reported to have said, “first the neighbor, then
the house (al-jār thumma al-dār).” There is also the famous anecdote of her running through
the streets with a torch in one hand and a bucket of water in the other, threatening to set
Paradise to flames and to extinguish the fires of hell, so that worship might be made pure.
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Atif Khalil
The historicity of the account, questioned by modern scholars, remains of secondary im-
portance to the underlying moral of the story, one that accurately captures many of the
mystically minded critiques of self-interested incentives to piety.4 The Qur’ān, for many of
the Sufis, alludes to higher levels of surrender when it speaks of the companions of the left
hand (the damned), the companions of the right hand (the saved), and finally, “the foremost”
(sābiqūn), who are also “those brought near” (muqarrab ūn) (Q. 56: 8–11).5 And there is also a
criticism by way of intimation, of the mercenary-like devotion of some, when it chides those
who worship God for gain (‘al ā ḥarf) (Q. 22:11). Self-transcendence, in some form or another,
is therefore a recurring motif in the classical literature of Sufism, and is usually described
through the language of fan ā’ and baqā’, annihilation and subsistence. While the precise na-
ture of what remains of the self, if anything at all, in the penultimate stages of the spiritual
quest is difficult to determine, in light of both the allusive language of the Sufis as well as
the ineffable nature of mystical experience, what is uncontested is that the final goal implies
a desire in some form or another for intimacy with God.
Now how is this intimacy to be obtained? For many of the Sufis it is through realizing the
divine attributes latent within the human soul, an idea sometimes retraced to the Prophetic
injunction to “take on the attributes of God (takhallaqū bi akhl āq All āh).”6 On the principle
that like-attracts-like, the process of assuming these attributes draws the soul by an irresist-
ible force into the court of God’s being. Thus Ghaz ā l ī could unequivocally declare that “the
perfection of the servant (kam āl al-‘abd), and his ultimate felicity (sa‘āda), lies in assuming
the attributes of God, most High.” 7 These attributes themselves find their correspondence
at the human level in virtues or beautiful character traits (akhl āq), the acquisition of which
form the cornerstone of Sufism. Indeed, the Prophet himself is reported to have said, “I did
not come except to perfect good character (mak ārim al-akhl āq).” And we also have the ḥad īth,
“those of you most beloved to me are those of most beautiful character (akhl āq).”8 The in-
ternalization of these akhl āq are therefore not a peripheral aspect of Islamic spirituality, but
lie at the center of its teleological vision, concerned as it is with the cultivation and refine-
ment of the soul (tazkiyat al-nafs). As for the relation of these virtues to the defining figure
of the religion, the Qur’ān says addressing the Prophet, Verily you are of a tremendous character
(khuluq) (68:4). And it underscores the necessity of emulating his example when, addressing
the broader human community, it states, You have in the Messenger of God a sublime example
(33:21). What this means is that the divine attributes are most perfectly embodied at the hu-
man level in the model of the Prophet, not through divine incarnation, indwelling (ḥul ūl), or
a unitive conjunction of two distinct beings (ittiḥād), but reflection,9 with the Prophet serv-
ing as an archetype or template for human ethical perfection. And the Islamic science that
dealt with this ethical dimension more than any other in the history of the faith was ta ṣaw-
wuf. In fact, it would not be an exaggeration to suggest that no sub-tradition explored the
psychological and theological dimensions of the virtues as comprehensively as Sufism. In this
light, it is no surprise that Ibn ‘Arabī would open his chapter on the “station of ta ṣawwuf ” in
his al-Fut ūḥāt al-makkiyya (Meccan Revelations) with a saying illustrative of this very point.
“The people of the way of God,” he writes, “say that Sufism is good character (khuluq), and
that he who surpasses you in character, has surpassed you in Sufism.”10 Moreover, no Islamic
discipline that dealt with ethics exerted as far-reaching an influence on Muslims as a whole
as ta ṣawwuf, due to its percolation throughout virtually all spheres of premodern Islamic
culture and piety. The Greek-inspired branches of Islamic philosophy that drew heavily on
Aristotelian ethics were no match, at the collective level, for the more Qur’ānically inspired
ethics of the Sufis,11 even though traces of the former were undeniably present in the latter
to varying degrees depending on which figure one might have in mind.12
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Sufism and Qur’ānic ethics
As noted, for many of the spiritual authorities, ethics was premised on the idea of becom-
ing, for lack of a better term, divine-like through a process of takhalluq. But does this doc-
trine have any basis in the Qur’ān itself? In other words, does the theological anthropology
of Sufism which discerns in the human being a (potential) theophany13 find any corrobora-
tion in the sacred scripture of the faith? Naturally, this depends on how one interprets the
text. For some, like those theologians who stressed the total and absolute transcendence of
God, there could be no common ground between the divine and the human orders, since
there is nothing like unto Him (Q. 42:11). To suggest otherwise would lead one down the path
of an anthropomorphism anathema to guardians of divine otherness. The closest one could
come to encountering God might be through the Qur’ān, but the intense debates that took
place in early Islam around its ontological status disclosed some of the purely logical prob-
lems inherent in the idea of approaching a being conceived of as exclusively transcendent
even through His word (kal ām). For many of the Sufis, however, this divine likeness was
present in the primordial Adam, and it was for this reason that God commanded the angels
to bow before him. To quote the Qur’ānic verse, And when We said to the angels, prostrate your-
selves before Adam. They all fell prostrate except Iblis. He demurred through pride and so became of the
deniers (Q. 2:34). The seeming paradox behind a divine instruction for some of His creatures
to bow before another (the subject of extensive exegesis) was best resolved, for these Sufis,
through a recognition of the theophanic nature of the primordial, perfect Adam—a nature
alluded to in the canonical ḥad īth, “Verily God created Adam ‘al ā ṣūratihi.” While the final
refrain of the report, ‘al ā ṣūratihi, was read by some to mean, “in his form,” which is to say
that Adam was created as a fully fashioned adult—an interpretation that safeguarded divine
transcendence—grammatically speaking, the ḥad īth could also be read “in His form,” with
the pronoun returning to God. For Ibn ‘Arabī, both interpretations were valid since they
conformed to the rules of Arabic, and since, for him, the grammatical rules and conventions
of the language in which the scripture was revealed could be the only criterion to distinguish
legitimate from illegitimate interpretations,14 the latter had to be accepted. Most impor-
tantly, it signified for him Adam’s status as a creature made in the form of the name Allah, as
a mirror of the divine names contained in the supreme all-encompassing Name.15 Curiously,
this all-encompassing nature of the primordial Adam is also why the mystic understood him
to be androgynous, before the emergence of Eve and their eating from the forbidden tree,
following which their nudity became apparent to them (badat lahum ā saw’ātuhum ā)16 (Q. 7:22,
20:121), and following which, through a process of sexual differentiation, Adam became
male.17 (The implications such a reading might have on modern Muslim feminist ethics are
self-evident.)
The theological anthropology of the Sufis who subscribed to the doctrine of imago dei was
also rooted in the myth of Adam’s origins. In the Qur’ān we read, And I breathed into him of My
spirit (38:72; cf. Genesis 2:7). It is true that some commentators interpreted the i ḍāfa construct
in ruḥī, “My spirit,” to imply no more than possession, as when God might say “My earth” or
“My paradise.” Others, however, interpreted it as an explicit reference to the divine nature
of the spirit, in so far as it was believed to be an extension of God Himself. Ghaz ā l ī drew
attention to this theme in his Book of the Marvels of the Heart, the Kit āb sharḥ ‘ajā’ib al-qalb of
the I ḥyā’, but broached the subject with caution, noting that the r ūḥ is a marvelous mystery
that confounds and stupefies most intellects, and that its secret is alluded to in the verse, And
they ask you about the r ūḥ. Say, the r ūḥ is from the command of my Lord, and you have not been given
knowledge save a little (Q. 17:85).18 But his language, as readers of the I ḥyā’ know all too well,
was guarded and allusive19 (a quality for which Zaehner had little patience, and which led
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to his contention that “Muslim mysticism is a source of confusion”20). Ghaz ā l ī did however
note that this r ūḥ must be distinguished from the animating force of the body which, in his
time, was the concern of medicine.21 Zabīd ī (d. 1791) in his own lengthy commentary of the
I ḥyā’ would mention in passing that the spirit in Q. 17:85 is like God’s speech, implying its
uncreated nature, but he would draw no explicit relation with Adam’s spirit, or suggest he
was a repository of a pre-eternal, uncreated, divine element.22 Ibn ‘Arabī, however, in his
Fu ṣūṣ al- ḥikam (Bezels of Wisdom) would be explicit, asserting that it is precisely due to this
divine (or divine-like) r ūḥ, which lies at the center of the human being that she yearns for
God to begin with, much as one might long for their homeland in a state of exile23 —whence
the metaphysical significance of the ḥad īth, “the love of the homeland is a part of faith (ḥubb
al-watn min al-im ān).”24 And this same r ūḥ would, for Ibn ‘Arabī and countless other Sufis,
be the ultimate basis for the possibility of love between God and the human being, because
one can only love one’s own similar. In fact, many of the classical thinkers who denied the
possibility of passionate love between God and man did so on the grounds that one can only
fully love a member of one’s own species, due to the shared nature of lovers.25 This was not,
however, the case for those for whom love lay at the center of the mystical quest, as both its
catalyst and final end. Ṣadr al-D ī n al-Qunaw ī (d. 1273/1274) would write of those struck
by its arrow, “indeed, they do not know why they love Him, and they have no specific
request (ma ṭlab) of Him. Rather, their turning to Him is caused by an original, essential
affinity (mun ā saba a ṣliyya dh ātiyya).” 26 The key term in the passage here is mun ā saba, a
word that suggests beyond mere “affinity” the idea “correspondence.” But this mun ā saba
was not just at the level of the inner essence of the human being. It also extended to the
ethical qualities, attributes and character traits realized in the course of the mystical life,
which intensified and made possible the reciprocal ecstasy of love that marked the relation
between the human lover and divine beloved, or conversely, the divine lover and human
beloved.
Needless to say, the divine likeness between God and the human being was not, for those
Sufis who upheld it, in any sense corporeal or physical, at least not materially (even though
the physical form was rich in symbolism, beginning with the erect stature of the human
being which reflected God’s unity). If the divine presence were apparent in Adam’s very
form, at the most outward and superficial level, through a one-to-one correspondence, Iblis
would have no reason to protest God’s command with the words, You have created me of fire
(n ār) while You have created him of clay (Q. 7:12). After all, Adam’s exterior shell was fashioned
from ṭīn—“from the dust of the earth,” to quote Genesis—which is lowly and base, and car-
ried no clear sign of divine splendor or majesty, at least not in relation to the overwhelming
beauty of the angels and the fiery luminosity of Satan. Yet Adam’s form was a vessel for the
r ūḥ, for gnosis, and for the divine secret, of which Sahl al-Tustar ī (d. 896) would say, were
it to be revealed, “lordship would become obsolete.”27 The theomorphic nature of the hu-
man being was evident not so much in the sheath of his being as much as it was in a subtler,
more interior dimension of his personality. To suggest otherwise would lead one down the
path of a crude anthropomorphism, which the Sufis, despite their occasional reputation for
theological provocation, did not and could not accept, since the relation between God and
the human being was not just one of immanence, but of an interplay between divine tran-
scendence and immanence, distance and nearness, otherness and similarity, a play wherein
God both concealed and revealed Himself through veils of shadow and light. To argue to
the contrary would also deprive one of the lesson to be learned from Iblis’ sin, since in his
prideful refusal to bow before Adam he saw not with the eye of inwardness, as one must in
the mystical quest, but through that of form alone. He stopped simply with what the object
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of his prostration appeared to be, and like the Islamic Antichrist or Dajjā l, saw with one eye,
prefiguring the quality of the deniers, about whom the Qur’ān says, They know only what is
apparent of the life of this world (30:7). As Rū m ī would have put it, he failed to see ma‘n ā (mean-
ing) behind ṣūra (form), the hallmark of genuine wisdom and knowledge.28
The Qur’ān, ethics & virtue theory

We are now in a better position to move to a closer and more focused analysis of the in-
tersection between the Qur’ā n, Sufism and ethics. The mystical quest in so far as it entails
the ascent of the soul to God requires, from the perspective of the Sufis themselves—
reverential as they were toward the sacred foundations of their faith—conformity to the
Qur’ā n, the inlibration of Islam (to use the expression of H. Wolfson 29), wherein logos be-
came book. Its role in Islamic spirituality is somewhat analogous to Christ in Christianity
or the Torah in Judaism. 30 Just as God reveals Himself through His Word, we as humans
also return to Him through it, since the Word allows us, trapped in space and time, to
forge a link with a Reality that stands above and beyond it. Within a Buddhist context,
one might say the logos plays a role not entirely unlike the cosmic Buddha, who becomes,
through his historical and very human embodiment, a path through whom individuals
trapped in samsara find release in nirvana, or through which they return from the domain
of pure relativity (form) to that of the absolute (formlessness). The emulation of Buddha,
through internalizing his virtues, functions, in turn, as an indispensable precursor to final
liberation and enlightenment. Indeed, one need not subscribe to the perennial philosophy
to recognize some of the structural overlaps with respect to the central place the logos
(or its near equivalents) occupy in the world’s religions, especially in their more mystical
formulations. Only an extreme reductionism would prevent one from discerning at least
some of the traces of the “invisible geometry” shared by the world’s religions, so elo-
quently described by Huston Smith. 31
Now the Qur’ān, in Islam, is embodied in the figure of the Prophet—whence the fa-
mous ḥad īth of ‘Ā’isha, when she was asked to describe her husband, replied “his khuluq
(pl. akhl āq),” his character, “was the Qur’ān.”32 What this means is that if Muslim scripture is
the inlibration of divine speech, the Prophet then becomes the incarnation of the inlibration,
twice removed from God, but still His manifestation or self-revelation. When Christ said,
“no one comes to the Father except through me,” we might, at some risk of Christianizing
Islam, understand his role analogous not just to the Qur’ān, but its concrete appearance in
the Prophet. In this sense, the logos, one might argue, has a triune nature in Islam, in so far
as it comprises (a) the kal ām in God as His pre-eternal, uncreated attribute (before its revela-
tory descent), (b) the kal ām in the form of the Arabic revelation (during and after its descent)
and (c) the kal ām in the form of the Qur’ān’s embodiment in the figure of the Prophet (its
concrete manifestation in a human being). While these theological speculations might seem
to lie outside the scope of secular scholarship, they help us better appreciate the precise role
both the Prophet and the Qur’ān play in Sufi thought, and for our purposes, Sufi ethics,
since the Qur’ān after all declares, You have in the Messenger of God a sublime example (33:21). 33
For the Sufis, moreover, the Prophet had both an outward and an inward dimension.
His outward dimension, particularly the rules he brought to govern human conduct, be-
came the basis of the shar ī‘a or Law. Its commandments—both of commission and omission,
including the categories of acts in between—would regulate what the great early moral
psychologist Mu ḥā sibī (d. 857) identified as the a‘m āl al-jaw āriḥ or “actions of the limbs.”
But the Prophet also had an inner reality, and this more inward dimension of his personality
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came to determine, at least for those who sought to emulate his wont beyond mere outward
superficialities, the a‘m āl al-qul ūb or “actions of the heart.”34 The branch of learning of which
this was the principle subject fell within the purview of the ṭar īqa (broadly understood), that
is to say, tasawwuf, also identified with respect to the famous Ḥad īth of Gabriel as the science
of iḥsān.35 For Ghaz ā l ī, it was best described as fiqh al-qalb, “the jurisprudence of the Heart,”
a field of knowledge that, unlike conventional fiqh, concerned as it was with the regulation
of outward, bodily behavior, focused instead on the inward states of the soul and the move-
ments of the Heart.36 This is not to suggest that Sufism was confined to ‘ilm al-mu‘āmala or
“the science of practical conduct,” since it also included a field of learning that dealt with
metaphysics and the nature of reality, the knowledge of which was grounded not in rational
speculation (the domain of philosophy proper) but direct mystical experience. While this
particular dimension of Sufi writing, rooted in ‘ilm al-muk āshafa or the “science of unveil-
ing,” formed an important part of the literature, most of it was focused on ethics, virtue
theory, moral psychology and transformation of character (tabdīl al-akhl āq).37
One might say that at the center of this inward refinement stood adab, usually rendered
“courtesy,” “propriety” or “etiquette.” For the Sufis, it was not enough simply to remain
bound to the stipulations of the Law. One also had to internalize adab. “Verily God taught
me adab,” said the Prophet, “and He perfected my adab.”38 The virtue in question could
involve one’s dealing with God or it could involve one’s dealings with others. In the case of
the former, it entailed comporting oneself with the utmost etiquette at all times, as if one
were—as one indeed is—in the divine presence. And this is why an early figure such as
Jurayr ī (d. 923/924) could say, “for twenty years I never stretched out my feet while sitting
in solitary retreat (khalwa),”39 because of the awe he felt in the divine court. And Hujw ī r ī
(d. 1077) noted that when Zulaykha sought to seduce Joseph, she covered the face of an idol
next to her “in order that it might not witness her want of propriety”—a story in which a
lesson was to be drawn for those who wished to be educated in proper manners with God.40
Adab also required one to take ownership of one’s sins, despite God’s creation of acts and His
pre-eternal decree, just as it required retracing all of one’s virtuous deeds to their origin in
divinis. “It is out of beautiful adab with God in matters of religion,” wrote Makk ī,
that if you perform a beautiful act, you say, “My Master, You granted me the ability to
carry it out, and it was by Your might and power, and through success granted by You,
that I obeyed you. This is because my limbs are your soldiers. And if I did something
through which I wronged myself, it was through my caprice and passion that my limbs
transgressed, and those are my attributes.”41
For many authorities, such a view was itself rooted in the contrasting responses of Adam, Eve
and Iblis toward their sins. Satan blamed God for his refusal to bow before Adam, protest-
ing You have led me astray (Q. 15:39). Adam and Eve, however, took responsibility for eating
from the forbidden tree, by confessing, Our Lord we have wronged ourselves (Q. 7:23). The key
distinction hinged on adab: Adam and Eve exercised courtesy by acknowledging fault; Iblis
turned the blame on to God in dispute and argumentation. And while God, as readers of
the Qur’ān know, accepted the pleas of forgiveness of Adam and Eve, he cast away Iblis,
condemned as rajīm, the “accursed.” Rū m ī would explain the significance of this episode in
the Mathnaw ī when he wrote,
After Adam’s repentance, God said to him, “Oh Adam, did I not create that sin and
trial within you? Was that not My destiny and decree? How is it that when asking
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forgiveness, you kept this fact hidden?” Adam said, “I feared lest I be discourteous.” God
replied, “I also have observed courtesy toward you.” Whoever brings respect receives it.
Whoever brings sugar eats almond candy.42
By drawing attention to God’s adab as a response to human adab, the Persian mystic high-
lighted the reciprocal nature of the quality. We should also point out here that at least part
of the reason the authorities emphasized the need to take ownership of one’s transgressions,
despite the theological arguments one might muster against acknowledging fault (God being
both al-Hādī, the Guide, and al-Mu ḍill, the Misleader) was that it helped maintain a sense of
humility and lowliness before God—a virtue without which any real advancement on the
path remained impossible. After all, the cardinal sin of both Iblis and Pharaoh—archetypes
of rebellious transgression against God in the Qur’ān—was pride (kibr).43
As for the second object of the virtue, as noted, it involved adab toward God’s crea-
tures. “The most important rule for such intercourse,” wrote Hujw ī r ī, “is to act well,
and to observe the custom of the Apostle at home and abroad.”44 Deeply rooted in those
aspects of the sunna dealing with interpersonal relations, charitable self-sacrifice, and re-
fined comportment, its importance cannot be overstated. In many of the Sufi Orders, its
value can be discerned in everything ranging from the meticulous detail with which dis-
ciples are taught to serve tea to guests to the scrupulous attention given to straightening
out and aligning shoes at the door of the local zāwiya or tekke. These practices are meant
to prune and refine the character traits of members of the Order, through a painstaking
attentiveness, that, when turned inwards, helps root out otherwise indiscernible weeds of
the soul. By fostering a sensitivity toward the other, the disciple becomes more acutely
conscious of the internal movements of her own heart. Indeed, Sufi literature has no
shortage of stories recounting heroic acts of adab. In the Tadhkirat al-Awliyā’ (Memorial of
the Friends of God) of Far īd al-D ī n ‘A ṭṭā r (d. 1220), he recounts the tale through which
Ḥāt im al-Asamm (d. 852),45 disciple of the famous Shaqīq al-Balkh ī (d. 810), acquired his
name. One day an old woman came to him with an inquiry. No sooner did she pose the
question, she broke wind. Immediately, Ḥāṭ im retorted, “speak louder. I am hard of hear-
ing.” Moved by courtesy, he wished to prevent her from embarrassment. For 15 years,
or so we are told, as long as the woman was alive, whenever anyone addressed him, he
would instruct his interlocutors to speak louder. Following the woman’s death, however,
he responded to questions readily. “This,” recalled ‘Aṭṭār, “is why he was called Ḥāt im the
Deaf [al-Asamm].”46
While the word adab is present in the ḥad īth literature,47 it does not appear (along with any
of its semantic cognates) in the Qur’ān. Some verses were nevertheless interpreted to allude
to the eminence of the virtue in Sufi literature. When Muslim Scripture declares, O ye who
believe, shield yourselves and your families from a fire (Q. 66:6), S ī rjān ī (d. 1077) observed that
according to Ibn ‘Abbā s (d. 687), the verse meant, “shield them through adab and knowledge
from that fire.”48 And when the Prophet was informed, We have seen you turn your face towards
Heaven (2:144)—a reference to his desire for a change of qibla from Jerusalem to Mecca be-
cause he had become the object of ridicule by his adversaries49 —one exegete commented,
He informed him first of all that he is seen by the Real in order that he may exercise
adab with an adab appropriate before the Real. And from his beautiful adab was that he
gazed towards Heaven without asking. God in turn responded to his gaze in accordance
with his wish.50
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Similarly, when the Qur’ān states in an enigmatic verse that his gaze swerved not, nor did it
stray (53:17), interpreted by some as an intimation of the Prophet’s vision of God, Qushayr ī
(d. 1072) wrote, “it has been said this means that he observed the etiquette required before
the divine presence (ādāb al- ḥaḍra).”51
Some of the Sufi authorities drew attention to the etymological relation of adab to the
Arabic word for “banquet,” ma’duba, which derives from the same trilateral root. Just as a
banquet gathers together guests for a lavish meal, the adīb, one who exercises courtesy, brings
together beautiful attributes.52 For Ibn ‘Arabī, he gathers in the substance of his own soul the
mak ārim al-akhl āq or “noble character traits” the Prophet came, by his own confession, to
complete.53 And this is because the adīb responds to every occasion and in every state in the
most appropriate manner, giving each moment its right (ḥaqq) and proper due. More than
simply a cultured person, whose refinement may be artificial and contrived, he comports
himself with God, the world, and even himself, in a way that befits his status as God’s vice-
gerent on earth. From this point of view, adab is the virtue that assembles together all other
virtues, like a mother in the arms of whose embrace her children congregate. This is one of
the reasons why in some of the Sufi manuals the chapters are thematically divided under such
title headings as “the adab of remembrance” or “the adab of gratitude,” since every virtue has
a corresponding etiquette through which it obtains its final perfection.54
The ascent to God through the states and stations

The most elaborate inquiries by the Sufis into the cultivation of the virtues took place within
the pages of their manuals devoted to the “states” (a ḥw āl; sing. ḥāl) and “stations” (maqām āt;
sing. maqām). Generally speaking, the states were understood to be fleeting gifts of grace,
while the stations were acquired through personal effort and, once obtained, became firmly
rooted in the soul. Together, they formed the rungs of the ladder in the ascending journey
to God—the final telos of Sufi ethics—and became the concern of the aspirant after the
more elementary ritual and formal requirements of Islamic Law were put into practice.55
Although the virtues associated with the ascent were largely drawn from the Qur’ān, their
systematization within the Sufi hierarchy of a ḥw āl and maqām āt did not occur until later. It
remains difficult to single out one particular figure to whom we can definitively trace their
schematization. In the view of Shihāb al-Dī n al-Su h raward ī (d. 1234), the ascent was de-
scribed by as early a figure as the caliph ‘Al ī (d. 661). “Ask me about the celestial paths ( ṭuruq
al-sam ā‘),” he once told his listeners, “because I have greater knowledge of them than I do
of the paths of the earth ( ṭuruq al-arḍ ).” “He was alluding to the stations and states,” noted
Suhraward ī, and referred to them as celestial paths because through them the traveler’s “heart
becomes celestial.”56 Some modern scholars have suggested that Shaqīq al-Balkh ī should be
given credit for this development within the tradition, but that depends if the Ādāb al-‘ibādāt
(Etiquettes of Worship) is correctly ascribed to him.57
Whatever may have been its precise origin, tawba was frequently understood as the first
stage in the mystical ascent. Usually translated “repentance,” the Arabic term (like its He-
brew equivalent, teshuvah) means “to return.” The underlying spatial metaphor at play in
the word was nicely captured in an early aphorism, which defined it as a condition where
“you stand before God as a face without a back, just as you were previously unto Him a back
without a face.”58 What this meant was that tawba involved more than simply renouncing a
particular sin (or sins). It was instead an all-consuming process of returning to God from a
state of heedlessness—an experience that brought one from the fringes of faith to its center.
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In this respect, it may best be described as a process of interior conversion, since it turned one
to God through an interiorizing motion where repentance, conventionally understood, was
one among other elements. Early Sufi hagiographies in particular are replete with the tawba
narratives of penitents ranging from murderers and thieves to princes and worldly scholars,
all of whom were inspired at some point in their lives to mend their ways and devote them-
selves to God. In Islamic history, the most famous conversion account was undoubtedly of
Ghaz ā l ī as described in his al-Munqidh min al- ḍal āl (The Deliverance from Error), an auto-
biography often compared to Augustine’s Confessions.59 As for the Qur’ānic use of the word,
the trilateral root from which it derives (t-w-b) appears throughout the text, sometimes with
God as the subject—one of His names being al-Taww āb (“The Oft-Returning One”)—and
other times with reference to the human being. In his chapter on the “station of tawba” in the
Fut ūḥāt, Ibn ‘Arabī would argue that the reason Scripture typically uses the elative for God
(taww āb as opposed to t ā’ib) is because the human being’s tawba lies stranded in between two
divine tawbas: not only is human tawba met, in its wake, with the tawba of God in the form of
forgiveness and acceptance, it is itself catalyzed and set in motion by His tawba through guid-
ance and mercy.60 The Qur’ān speaks of both types of divine tawbas (cf. Q. 9:118; 2:160).61
In the classical literature, tawba was followed by a plethora of other virtues, from love
(ma ḥabba) and satisfaction (ri ḍā’ ) to patience (ṣabr) and gratitude (shukr), to name but a few.
Their precise ordering, as well as number, differed from one author to another. Far from
revealing substantial disagreements within Sufi doctrine, the diversity reflected instead the
variety of grids that could be used to map out of the itinerary of the soul in its journey home.
The overlapping, cross-pollinating nature of the virtues, and the organic process through
which they were internalized, made the variation not only possible but also inevitable.62
And so Abū Na ṣr al-Sarr āj (d. 988) in his Kit āb al-luma‘ (Book of Flashes), one of the earli-
est comprehensive treatises of Sufi doctrine, listed seven stations; Makk ī produced nine in
his Q ūt al-qul ūb; Abū Sa‘ īd al-Kharr āz (d. 899) described 16 in the Kit āb al- ṣidq (Book of
Truthfulness); Nū r ī (d. 907) created his own order;63 and in Mu ḥā sibī’s works a definitive
one seems to be lacking altogether. This variety did not simply rest on the different number
of stations which for each of these authors comprised the ascent, but also because a virtue
that one author might have identified as a maqām was a ḥāl for another, or because an author
included both the states and stations in his levels. In the later tradition, their number reached
as many as 40, as we find in the Maqām āt al-‘arba‘ īn of Abū Sa‘ īd b. Abī al-Khayr (d. 1049),
or a hundred, as in the case of the Man āzil al-sā’ir īn of Ansār ī (d. 1089). Others enumerated
up to three hundred or even a thousand stages. The only time when a schema was replicated
seems to be when one author consciously reproduced the order of another. In Ibn ‘Arabī’s
Fut ūḥāt, for example, the “stations of certainty” (maqāmat al-yaqīn) are more or less structured
according to the order found in Qushayr ī’s Risāla (Treatise),64 a work we know the Andalu-
sian mystic read religiously as a youth.
Before closing, there is one final point that perhaps warrants further clarification. Ear-
lier on it was noted that the internalization of the virtues amounts to a process of takhalluq,
whereby the aspirant takes on or assumes certain divine qualities in a way that is commen-
surate to the human being, to enable him to obtain intimacy with God, on the basis of the
principle that like-attracts-like. While this is certainly true with respect to many traits such
as compassion (ra ḥma), benevolence (ḥilm), gratitude, patience, satisfaction, and love, all of
which find correspondences in the divine names, it does not hold for each and every quality
the integration of which forms an indelible component of Sufi life. What, after all, is one
to make of fear (khawf ), hope (rajā’), humility (taw āḍu‘) and detachment (zuhd), which also
figure in the lists of states and stations? Here a qualification is in order. To the extent that the
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human being’s relation with God is marked by both similarity and otherness, there are cer-
tain character traits that are unique to the human being, and necessary to perfect his capacity
to reflect God’s splendor, much like a mirror, and these pertain to his own fundamental
reality, which is that of lowliness and nothingness. Through them the human being is able to
more fully realize his own essential nature, which is not divine—since only God is God—
but nothingness. Paradoxically, it is only when he realizes his true condition that he becomes
capable of acting as a vessel or locus for the divine names. In light of these considerations,
we might divide the virtues into two broad categories. There are first of all those that reflect
divine radiance and find a counterpart in certain divine names. And second there are those
particular to the human being and which enable him to polish the mirror of his own soul,
so that it can reflect the only true reality there is. In this light, we might better understand a
saying of the early Sufis, “when poverty is complete (al-faqr idh ā tamma), it is God Himself.”65
What this means is that God only appears through the human being when he withdraws
from himself, much like the sun that lies concealed behind the clouds. The qualities that
contribute to a movement toward “self-naughting” or “self-effacement” reflect one category
of virtues, and those that contribute to a movement toward radiating the divine names re-
flect another. Expressed differently, one group involves divine absence, and the other, divine
presence. In the final scheme of things, both help the human being realize his teleological
end, since “the end is a return to the beginning,”66 and the beginning lies in God.
Notes

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process of becoming divine-like (ta’alluh). On the overlapping ethical concerns of classical Muslim
philosophers, jurists, and Sufis, see Cyrus Zargar, The Polished Mirror: Storytelling and the Pursuit of
Virtue in Islamic Philosophy and Sufism (London: Oneworld, 2017).
13 This is a mere “potential” because only the realization of the mystical impulse allows for the pos-
sibility to be raised for potency to actuality.
14 On Ibn ‘Arabī’s hermeneutics, see Chodkiewicz, An Ocean without Shore. Despite the creative
nature of his scholarship, Almond’s comparisons of Ibn ‘Arabī and Derrida in Sufism and Decon-
struction (London: Routledge, 2009) fall short in this respect, since the Andalusian mystic does not
suggest, like the French philosopher, that all readings of the sacred text are valid, but only those
that conform to the rules of language. In the case of Ibn ‘Arabī, its infinity may be likened to a
well of bottomless depth but finite circumference, with its finite parameters here being defined
by linguistically acceptable meanings. See my review of his otherwise thought provoking work in
Sacred Web 39 (2017): 163–168.
15 See Ibn al-‘Arabī, Futūḥāt, 1:123–124, as well as the opening chapter on Adam in the Fu ṣūṣ al-ḥikam,
ed. Abū al-‘Alā ‘Af īf ī (1946; Beirut: Dār al-Kit āb al-‘Arabī, 1980), pp. 48–58. See also Chodkiewicz’s
superb discussion of this theme in An Ocean without Shore, 37–39. For a good translation of the Fu ṣūṣ,
see The Ringstones of Wisdom by Caner Dagli (Chicago: Kazi Publications, 2004).
16 The Arabic saw’ātuhuma may also refer to genitalia.
17 Chodkiewicz, An Ocean without Shore, p. 39. Ibn al-‘Arabī draws attention through his radical liter-
alism to the fact that the “tree” or shajar Adam and Eve were prohibited to approach was itself the
principle of multiplicity, since the shajar, etymologically related to discord and strife, was merely a
symbol of the loss of unity. A tree after all comprises a trunk that splits into various branches which
then diversify through leaves.
18 Abū Ḥā mid al-Ghaz ā l ī, I ḥyā’ ‘ul ūm al-d īn (Aleppo: Dā r al-Wa‘ ī, 1998), 2:4–6.
19 For an analysis of this feature of his writings, see Timothy Gianotti, Al-Ghazali’s Unspeakable
Doctrine of the Soul (Leiden: Brill, 2001).
20 See Robert Zaehner, Mysticism: Sacred and Profane (1957; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1973),
p. 161. Zaehner was unable to appreciate the need within Islam as a whole to balance a dualistic
theology in its non-mystical formulations (what he called “theism”) with a non-dualistic meta-
physics in its mystical one (what he called “monism”)—a complementarity that may be likened to
the relation between Newtonian and Quantum physics.
21 Ghaz ā l ī, I ḥyā’, 2:4–6.
22 Zabīd ī, It ḥāf al-sāda al-muttaqīn bi-sharḥ asrār I ḥyā’ ‘ul ūm al-d īn (Beirut: Dā r al-Kutub al-‘Ilmiyya,
1989), 8:372.
23 Ibn al-‘Arabī, Fu ṣūṣ, 215–216. See also the opening chapter on Adam.
24 See Fut ūḥāt, 1:124. While Ibn ‘Arabī does not explicitly mention the ḥ ad īth, his use of language to
describe the relation between God, Adam, and Eve makes it clear that he has it in mind. See also
the final chapter of the Fu ṣūṣ.
25 See Joseph N. Bell, Love Theory in Later Hanbalite Islam (Albany: SUNY, 1979). For the entire
discussion, see pp. 107–119.
26 Cited (with minor edits) in Bell, Love Theory in Later Hanbalite Islam, 75–76. The passage is from
Qunaw ī’s al-Nafa ḥāt al-il āhiyya.
27 Cited in Ibn al-‘Arabī, Fu ṣūṣ, 90–91(chapter on Ism ā‘ ī l).
28 To be perfectly clear, the theophanic nature of the human being did not entirely preclude Adam’s
body, since his form captured, through symbolism, elements of the divine nature. However, these
elements, as noted, were present not at the crude level of flesh and bone, but through a subtle re-
flection in the cloak over Adam’s spirit. And this is because the outward form of Adam mirrored
the outward form of the cosmos (as macrocosm), both of which combined to reveal the possibilities
latent in God. Such a doctrine should not be confused with anthropomorphism.
29 Harry Wolfson, The Philosophy of the Kalam (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1976).
30 See Atif Khalil, “Jewish-Muslim Relations, Globalization, and the Judeo-Islamic Legacy,” Journal
of Religion and Society 17 (2015), pp. 1–21 (8–11).
31 Huston Smith, Forgotten Truth: The Common Vision of the World’s Religions (1976; New York:
HarperOne, 1992), preface (esp. v).
32 A ḥ mad. For a variant, see Muslim, Musāfir īn, 139 (Wensinck, 2:75).
33 The nature and levels of this logos can also be conceived of through the prism of the Ḥaqīqa Mu ḥam-
madiyya (“The Muhammadan Reality”) from its ontological origin to its historical unfolding
169
Atif Khalil
through Adam and the various prophets, finally culminating in the historical Prophet Muhammad
as the final “seal of prophecy.” See Michel Chodkiewicz’s superb discussion of this theme in Seal of
the Saints: Prophethood and Sainthood in the Doctrine of Ibn ‘Arabī, trans. Liadain Sherrard (Cambridge:
Islamic Texts Society, 1993), pp. 60–73 (Chapter 4).
34 On the distinction between the two kinds of acts, see al-Ḥā rith b. Asad al-Mu ḥā sibī, Masā’il f ī
a‘m āl qul ūb wa al-jaw āriḥ (Dā r al-Kutub al-‘Ilmiyya, 2000), particularly pp. 79–83.
35 The best modern discussion of the significance of this ḥ ad īth is found in William Chittick and
Sachiko Murata, The Vision of Islam (St. Paul, Minnesota: Paragon House, 1994).
36 See by way of comparison Makk ī, Q ūt al-qul ūb, 2:10 (near the opening of his chapter on tawakkul).
37 The observation of Marshall Hodgson is pertinent here:
[I]t is usual to think of the mystical as simply an extraordinary occasion in consciousness […
but the …] more striking events, at least as they appear in the classical Sufi tradition, are but
peaks of a very widespread type of awareness. Mystics have almost always described a lengthy
mystical “way”, leading by innumerable small steps from the first glimmerings of devout tawba
in the sinner up to the most ecstatic moments of the saint. Most mystical writers have spent
far more time speaking of the everyday virtues of patience, courage and unselfishness, as they
appear in the mystical perspective, than of ecstasies or even of the cosmic unity these ecstasies
seem to bear witness to.
The Venture of Islam: Conscience and History in a World Civilization (Chicago: The University of Chi-
cago Press, 1974), 1:396.
38 Cited in Ibn al-‘Arabī, Fut ūḥāt, 2:284; Khark ū sh ī (also = Kharg ū sh ī [d. 1015 or 1016 CE]), Tahdh īb
al-asrār, ed. Syed Muhammad ‘Al ī (Beirut: Dā r al-Kutub al-‘Ilmiyya), p. 193. A minor variant
(a ḥsana ta’d īb ī instead of a ḥsana adab ī ) occurs in Qushayr ī, Risāla, 485. Suy ūṭī considered the latter
version sound (see al-J āmi‘ al- ṣagh īr).
39 Qushayr ī, Risāla, pp. 486–487. See also Khark ū sh ī, Tahdh īb al-asrār, p. 191.
40 Hujw ī r ī, Kashf al-Mahjūb: The Oldest Persian Treatise on Sufism, trans. Reynold A. Nicholson (1911;
repr., Lahore: Islamic Book Service, 1992), pp. 335–336.
41 Makk ī, Q ūt, 2:95–96.
42 Cited in William Chittick, Sufi Path of Love: The Spiritual Teachings of Rumi (Albany: State Univer-
sity of New York, 1983), pp. 84–85. See also my discussion of this theme in “Ibn al-‘Arabī on the
Three Conditions of Tawba,” Journal of Islam and Christian-Muslim Relations 17 (2006), pp. 403–416.
43 Pharaoh claimed I am your lord most high (Q. 79:24), while Iblis refused to prostrate out of pride (istak-
bara) (Q. 2:34). For more on the subject, see Mohammed Rustom’s recent translation of Ghaz ā l ī’s
Kit āb dhamm al-kibr wa al-‘ujb (Cambridge: Islamic Texts Society, 2018).
44 Hujw ī r ī, Kashf, p. 336.
45 For more on him, see Qushayr ī, Risāla, 83 (section on Abū ‘Abd al-Ra ḥ m ā n Ḥātim b. ‘Alwā n).
46 Far īd al-D ī n ‘Aṭṭā r, Muslim Saints and Mystics: Episodes from the Tadhkirat al-awliyā’, trans. A.J.
Arberry, (1966; repr., London: Penguin Books, 1990), p. 150.
47 See Wensinck for some examples, 1:36–37.
48 ‘addib ūhum wa ‘allim ūhum wa q ūhum bi dh ālika al-n ār. Abū l-Ḥasan al-S ī rjā n ī, Kit āb al-bayāḍ wa al-
saw ād, eds. Bilal Orfali and Nada Saab (Leiden: Brill, 2012), p. 167.
49 See Caner Dagli, Commentary on al-Baqara, in The Study Quran, ed. S. N. Nasr et al. (New York:
HarperCollins, 2015), p. 65.
50 S ī rjā n ī, Kit āb al-bayāḍ, p. 167.
51 Qushayr ī, Risāla, p. 475.
52 Ibn al-‘Arabī, Fut ūḥāt, 284; Qushayr ī, Risāla, p. 475.
53 Fa-l ad īb huwa jāmi‘ li mak ārim akhl āq. Ibn al-‘Arabī, Fut ūḥāt, p. 284.
54 For a recent study of adab, see Ethics and Spirituality in Islam: Sufi adab, eds. Francesco Chiabotti et al.
(Leiden: Brill, 2016).
55 The word maqām appears 14 times in the Qur’ā n, and the related muqām (“station,” “time or
place of abode”), three times, with both occurring only in singular form. Sometimes maq ām is
used of humans (take as your abode of worship the maqām of Abraham [Q. 2:125]), and sometimes it is
used of God (he who fears the maqām of his Lord shall have two gardens [Q. 55:46]). The term man āzil
(“dwelling” or “alighting places”) was also used in the classical literature, as was maw āqif (“halting
places”), most notably by Niffar ī (d. 965), but it was not employed in the same way as maqām or
manzil to refer to the ascending hierarchy of virtues. See his al-Maw āqif wa al-makh ātib āt, ed. and
170
trans. A. J. Arberry (London: Cambridge University Press, 1935). Derivatives of the root w-q-f
appear in the Qur’ā n on four occasions (Q. 6:28; 6:30; 34:31; 37:24), but in none of these as maw āqif
or its singular mawqif. The term never gained the degree of circulation as maq ām or manzil in the
tradition. The EI2 entry on “Mawqif,” for example, makes no mention of its use in Sufism. As for
ḥāl, in its nominal form it does not appear in the Qur’ā n. The verbs ḥāla, ya ḥūlu, and ḥīla each
occur once (Q. 8:24, 11:43, and 24:45). The closest case where the verbal form is used in its Sufi
sense, to convey the idea of a transitory state (as opposed to the maq ām, which is typically fixed),
seems to be in Q. 8:24, Know that God comes in between (ya ḥūlu bayna) a man and his own heart. Hu-
jw ī r ī likely had this passage in mind when he defined ḥāl as a state that “descends from God into
a man’s heart.” Kashf, 181.
56 Abū Ḥaf ṣ Shihāb al-D ī n al-Suhraward ī, ‘Aw ārif al-ma‘ārif, ed. Sayyid A ḥ mad, Ad īb al-Kimr ā n ī and
Ma ḥ mūd Muṣṭ af ā (Saudi Arabia: Al-Maktaba al-Makkiyya, 2001), 2:812–813.
57 Alexander Knysh, Islamic Mysticism: A Short History (Leiden: Brill, 2000), p. 34. Paul Nwyia has
argued for the authenticity of this attribution in Exégèse coranique et langage mystique (Beirut: Dar
el-Machreq, 1970), pp. 213–216.
58 Abū Bakr b. Mu ḥ ammad al-Kalābādh ī, al-Ta‘arruf li madhhab ahl al-ta ṣawwuf, ed. Yu ḥ annā Ṣādir
(Beirut: Dā r Ṣādir, 2001), p. 65; Sulam ī, Ḥaqā’iq, 1:183.
59 In the view of this author, the best translation of this work is still that of W. Montgomery Watt in
The Faith and Practice of Ghazālī (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1963).
60 Ibn al-‘Arabī, al-Fut ūḥāt al-makkiyya, 1:139–143.
61 For more on this theme, see Atif Khalil, Repentance and the Return to God: Tawba in Early Sufism
(Albany: State University of New York, 2018).
62 See S. H. Nasr’s remarks on this question in his chapter on the states and stations in Sufi Essays
(Albany: SUNY, 1991).
63 See the Risāla maqām āt al-qul ūb of Nū r ī in Paul Nwyia, “Textes Mystiques Inédits D’Abū -l Ḥasan
al-Nū r ī (m. 295/907),” Mélanges de l’Université Saint Joseph 43 (1968), pp. 131–132. Nū r ī does not
explore in any detail the order of the maqām āt in this short treatise, which is concerned first and
foremost with the various kinds of spiritual hearts. See Nwyia, ibid., pp. 117–127.
64 I say “more or less” because technically speaking Ibn ‘Arabī does not simply repeat Qushayr ī’s
order of chapters. Most of them are followed by chapters on leaving (tark) the very maqām in ques-
tion. The chapter on tawba, for example, is followed by a chapter on “abandoning repentance” (tark
al-tawba). The general order of the maqām āt however remains the same as found in the Risāla. For
more on the relationship between the Fut ūḥāt and the Risāla, see Michel Chodkiewicz, “Mi‘rāj
al-kalima: de la Risāla Qushayriyya aux al-Fut ūḥāt al-Makkiyya,” in Reason and Inspiration in Islam:
Theology, Philosophy, and Mysticism in Muslim Thought, ed. Todd Lawson (London: I. B. Tauris &
Institute of Ismaili Studies, 2005), pp. 248–261.
65 On the various sources of this early saying which Rū m ī and Jā m ī were both fond of quoting, see
Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions, p. 123.
66 Attributed to Junayd (d. 910), and cited in Mull ā Ṣadr ā, Iksīr al-‘ārif īn, trans. W. Chittick (Provo,
Utah: Brigham Young University, 2003), p. 54.
171
13
LOVE AND BEAUTY IN SUFISM
Love and beauty have been defining elements of Islam from its inception. The introduction
to each sūrah of the Qu rʾān, Bismill āh al-ra ḥm ān al-ra ḥīm, repeats two Divine Names that
convey God’s omnibenevolence. These names are usually rendered using the terms “Mercy”
and “Compassion,” but as some have argued, “In the Name of God, The Ever-Loving,
the All-Loving” better captures the meaning of this phrase. In the Qu rʾān God also states
“My loving-mercy (ra ḥ ma) encompasses all things” (Q. 7:156; cf. Q. 40:7) and “He has ordained
loving-mercy for Himself ” (Q. 6:12; cf. Q. 6:54). Q. 17:110 equates the Divine Name al-Raḥm ān,
“The Ever-Loving,” with the supreme Divine Name, All āh: “Say, “Call upon God (Allāh), or
call upon the Ever-Loving (al-Ra ḥ m ān). Whichever you call upon, to Him belong the most beautiful
names.”” Beyond these verses that embed love, mercy, and compassion in the Divine Nature,
God sends the Prophet Muhammad out of loving-mercy: “And We sent you not, save as a
loving-mercy (ra ḥ ma) unto the worlds” (21:107). The Prophet, in turn, enjoins loving-mercy
upon the believers: “Show loving-mercy to those on earth, and He Who is in heaven will
show loving-mercy to you.”1
Love was also a prevalent theme in pre-Islamic Arabic literature. The three-part ode
(qasīda), considered the highest form of art in pre-Islamic Arabia, would usually begin with
an “amatory prelude” (nasīb), expressing the poet’s yearning for a departed beloved.2 Draw-
ing upon this dual heritage, love came to be discussed in all fields of knowledge in the
Muslim world, from belletristic literature to philosophy, theology, and even law. Through
the poetry of Jalā l al-Dī n Rū m ī (d. 1273),3 Far īd al-Dī n ʿAṭṭār (d. 1220), Ḥā fi ẓ (d. 1389), and
others, Sufi teachings regarding love have garnered more attention beyond the Islamic world
than have expositions of love in other fields. While Sufism provides the most extensive dis-
course on love in the Islamic world, such discussions are but one dimension of an extensive
love tradition. Many of the themes associated with the Sufi love tradition find direct reflec-
tions in the secular literary traditions of the Muslim world,4 particularly ʿudhr ī ghazal poetry,
where the beloved becomes the personification of the ideal and the lover is condemned to
die in love.5 The secular literary tradition is filled with stories of the martyrs to love, such
as Majnū n-Layla and Jam ī l-Buythayna.6 The Sufi tradition transformed these stories into a
discussion of spiritual annihilation ( fan āʾ) in the Divine Beloved or in Love Itself. As ʿAyn
al-Quḍāt Hamad ān ī (d. 1131) writes, when seeking God, “One must be of the quality of
Majnū n (majn ūn ṣifat ī ), who, from hearing the name of Layla, could lose his soul!” 7 Sufi
172
Love and beauty in Sufism
authors even appropriated the secular tradition of wine poetry (khamriyya), incorporating the
language of intoxication into a spiritual discourse in which wine is understood as an allusion
to the nourishment that the lover—the spiritual wayfarer—receives from the Divine Beloved
while traveling the spiritual path. As A ḥ mad al-Ghaz ā l ī (d. 1126) writes,
Of that wine which is not forbidden in our religion
You’ll not find our lips dry till we return to non-existence.8
While Sufi love traditions have had many iterations throughout the lands of Islam up until
today, the most sustained and influential has been that of the Persian Sufi love tradition,9
which coalesced into a “School of Love” in the early thirteenth century, spread throughout
the Persianate lands and influenced developments in multiple languages, such as Pashto,
Tamil, Gujarati, Hindi, Turkish, Urdu, and even Chinese. This “school” is not a direct suc-
cession of Sufi initiates marked by a spiritual genealogy like the Sufi orders (ṭar īqahs), rather it
designates a major trend in which all aspects of creation and spiritual aspiration are presented
as an unfolding of Divine Love. As Omid Safi observes, “The Path of Love may be described
as a loosely affiliated group of Sufi mystics and poets who throughout the centuries have
propagated a highly nuanced teaching focused on passionate love (ʿishq).”10 This chapter will
trace the development love in early Sufi literature, then focus upon the Persianate Sufi love
tradition, with occasional references to developments in other lands, particularly the school
of Ibn ʿAr ābī (d. 1240) and the poetry of ʿUmar ibn al-Fārid (d. 1235).
Beginning of the Sufi love tradition

Rābiʿah al-ʿAdawiyya (d. 801–802) provides some of the first recorded expressions of love in
the Sufi tradition,11 such as these oft-cited verses:
O Beloved of hearts, I have none like unto Thee,
Therefore have pity this day on the sinner
Who comes to Thee.
O my Hope and my Rest and my Delight,
The heart can love none other than Thee.12
R ā bi ʿa’s belief that God alone is the goal of love echoes throughout the literature of early
Sufism.13 An important feature of this attitude is that one should seek God, the Uncre-
ated, rather than Paradise, which is created; as R ā bi ʿa expresses it, “First the neighbor,
then the house” (al-j ār thumma al-d ār). B ā yaz īd Bis ṭā m ī (d. 875) expands upon this senti-
ment, saying,
If the eight paradises were revealed to me in my hut, and the dominion of both the
worlds and all their environs were given to me, I still would not wish them in place of
a single sigh that rises at morning tide from the depth of my soul recalling my yearning
for Him.14
Rābiʿa’s contemporary, Shaqīq Balkh ī (d. 810), was among the first to write of stages on the
Sufi path in which love (ma ḥabba) for God was envisioned as the highest and noblest station of
spiritual attainment, beyond that of mere longing for Paradise.15 This vision of love became
a common feature of Sufi texts, such that Abū Bakr al-Shibl ī (d. 945)16 wrote of love as “a
fire in the heart, consuming all save the will of the Beloved,”17 or as that which “erases all
that is other than God from the heart,”18 thus framing love as a burning desire that directs all
aspiration (himmah) toward God alone.
173
From this early period forward, love came to be recognized as an advanced stage of spir-
itual wayfaring. Moreover all forms of love were understood as reflections of this highest
love. In Kit āb al-Mahabbaḥ wa l-shawq wa l-uns wa l-rid ạ̄ (The Book of Love, Longing, and Con-
tentment) of the Revival, Abū Hā mid al-Ghaz ā l ī (d. 1111) outlines five different types of love:
(1) love for oneself; (2) love for one who supports and completes oneself; (3) love for one
who does good out of appreciation for the good he does; (4) love for all that is beautiful in
its essence ( f ī dh ātihi); and (5) love for one with whom one has a hidden inner relationship.
He then contends that each of these forms of love is in fact love of God and concludes that
all stages of the path toward God derive from love and lead to love:19
Love for God is the ultimate aim among the stations and the highest summit among
the degrees, for there is no station beyond the perception (idrāk) of love except that it
is a fruit from among its fruits and a consequence of its effects, such as longing (shawq),
intimacy (uns), contentment (riḍā), and their sisters. And there is no station before love,
except that it is a prelude to it, such as repentance (tawba), forbearance (ṣabr), asceticism
(zuhd), and the like.20
From Ḥūbb to ʿIshq

The earliest discussions of love in Sufi texts usually employ the words ḥubb and ma ḥabba, both
from the same root–ḥ-b-b–when referring to love, and reveal an ongoing debate regarding
the use of the word “ʿishq,” which indicates more passionate modes of love and later came
to predominate in the Persianate Sufi tradition.21 The first extended Sufi treatise on differ-
ent theories of love, ʿAṭ f al-alif al-maʾl ūf li l-l ām al-maʿṭūf (The Inclination of the Intimate Alif
towards the L ām to which it Inclines) by Abu l-Hasan ̣ al-Daylam ī (d. late fourth/tenth century),
reveals that many Sufis had begun to regard ʿishq as a higher degree of love than ma ḥabba.
Al-Daylam ī attributes this position to the greatest luminaries of the generation before
him, Bayāzīd al-Bist ā m ī, Abu’l-Qā sim al-Junayd (d. 910), and Husayn ̣ b. Mansụ̄ r al-Hall
̣ āj
(d. 922). Regarding his own understanding, he states that there are ten stations (maqām āt) on
the Sufi path, concord (ulfa), intimacy (uns), affection (wadd or mawadda), love (mahabbah), ̣ co-
mity (khilla), ardor (shaʾaf ), zeal (shaghaf ), devotion (istiht ār), infatuation (walah), and rapture
(haym ān), which are completed by ʿishq.22 He concludes that ʿishq
̣
is the boiling of love (hubb) until it pours over its outer and inner extremities...As for its
̣ ̣ ̣ departs from everything except his beloved
reality (maʿn ā), it is that one’s share (hazz)
(maʿsh ūq) until he forgets his love (ʿishq) because of his beloved.23
This understanding of ʿishq stands in stark contrast to that of many dialectical theologians
(mutakallim ūn), who did not oppose the use of the terms ḥubb and ma ḥabba to refer to the rela-
tionship between the Divine and the human, but understood ʿishq as passionate love or even
physical lust that should be avoided.24 In light of such positions, the gradual move toward the
use of the term ʿishq in the Persianate Sufi tradition may reflect an effort to disassociate Sufi
teachings from those of the theologians and advocate for the superiority of the knowledge
obtained through spiritual unveiling (kashf ) over that obtained through the processes of
study and acquisition associated with the religious sciences. In his Treatise on Love (Ma ḥabbat
N āma), Abū ʿAbdallāh al-Anṣār ī (d. 1089) encapsulates this understanding of ʿishq as a reality
beyond the duality of lover and beloved that characterizes ma ḥabba:
174
ʿIshq is both fire and water, both darkness and sun. It is not pain, but a bringer of pain,
not affliction but a bringer of affliction. Just as it causes life, so too it causes death. Just
̣
as it is the substance of ease, so too it is the means of blights. Love (mahabbah) burns the
lover, but not the beloved. ʿIshq burns both seeker and sought.25
The school of love

Early Sufi texts exhibit extended discussions of love and many Sufis regarded love as the
highest stage of the spiritual path, or even the first among the Divine Attributes, as in the
case of al-Ḥ all āj. 26 In the early sixth/twelfth century a series of texts emerged in which
ʿishq was presented as the Divine Essence beyond the duality of lover and beloved, the
whole of creation was presented as an unfolding of love, and all stages of the Sufi path were
spoken of as stages of love. At the forefront of this tradition was the Saw āni ḥ al-ʿushsh āq
(Aspirations of the Lovers) of A ḥ mad al-Ghaz ā l ī, regarded by many as “the founding text
of the School of Love in Sufism and the tradition of love poetry in Persian,” 27 the poetry
of San āʿī of Ghazna (d. 1131), Ahmad ̣ b. Mans ụ̄ r al-Samʿā n ī ’s (d. 1140) Rawh ̣ al-arw āh ̣ f ī
sharh ̣ asm āʾ al-malik al-fatt āh ̣ (The repose of spirits regarding the exposition of the Names
of the Conquering King), Rash īd al-D ī n al-Maybud ī ’s (d. ca. 1126) Qu rʾā n commentary
Kashf al-asrār wa ʿuddat al-abrār (The unveiling of secrets and the provision of the pious),
and ʿAyn al-Quḍāt Hamad ā n ī ’s Tam ḥid āt (Paving the path). 28 The view of love espoused in
these works shaped the works of their successors, such as Rū zbih ā n Baql ī (d. 1209), 29 Fakhr
al-D ī n al-ʿIr ā qī, Far īd al-D ī n ʿAṭṭā r (d. 1220), 30 Rū m ī, Ḥā fi ẓ, and generations of Muslims
from the Subcontinent, Central Asia, Turkey, Iran, Afghanistan, and other regions up to
our own times.
Texts that discuss the spiritual path in terms of love often caution the reader that love can
never be expressed in words. As Rū m ī writes,
Whatever I say of love by way of commentary and exposition,
when I get to love, I am ashamed at that.
Although the explanation with the tongue is clear,
that love which is tongueless is yet clearer.31
As such the writings of the school of love do not offer systematic explanations of love as
might be expected from philosophical or theological texts. Instead these texts provide a
tapestry of metaphors and allusions woven for those who aspire to follow the Sufi path. As
ʿAyn al-Quḍāt writes, “An explication of love cannot be given except through symbols and
images.”32 Each author’s experience of love for the Divine is ever more variegated than the
experience of love for other human beings that we all experience. Thus each writes from his
or her unique experience of God. Many symbols and images, such as the cheek, the tress, and
the lips, became common; yet they were each employed in different ways, leading to diverse
forms of expression. As a result the technical vocabulary is not always interchangeable from
one author to another and requires that each text be understood on its own terms. As Fakhr
al-Dī n ʿIr āqī explains,
There is no doubt that every lover gives a different sign of the beloved, every realizer
provides a different explanation, and every verifier makes a different allusion. The dec-
laration of each is:
Our expressions are many and Your loveliness one,
Each of us points to that single beauty.33
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In short, one must realize that the realities are primary and the terms employed to convey
them are secondary. Thus when Ibn al-ʿArabī presents love as having four levels with ʿishq
as the second stage below wudd and ḥubb, the latter being the highest level,34 this does not
mean that he is contradicting Rū m ī or Ḥā fi ẓ for whom the term ʿishq is used to convey the
all-encompassing reality of Love.
Love’s descent
The majority of treatises on love focus upon the path of ascent whereby the lover-wayfarer
increases in love until being obliterated in the Divine Beloved as stated in some texts, or until
both lover and beloved are obliterated in Love, as stated in others. This path is understood
by many as a retracing of the path of descent whereby the human being came into existence
and came to be separated from the Beloved. The whole of this journey is seen as being con-
tained in the famous Qurʾānic phrase, He loves them, and they love Him (Q. 5:54). The first
part indicates the descent of God’s love, and the second indicates the return to God through
love. The ascent is prefigured in the descent. As A ḥ mad al-Ghaz ā l ī writes, “The root of
̣
love grows from eternity. The dot under the letter bāʾ (b) in He loves them (yuhibbuhum) was
planted as a seed in the ground of they love Him. No, rather, that point was planted in them
(hum), for they love Him to come forth.”35 From this perspective, Q. 5:54 alludes to an immor-
tal bond of love between God and human beings, a bond that defines the human condition
and renders the human being forever in search of the eternal beloved. As A ḥ mad al-Ghaz ā l ī
puts it, “The special character of the human being is this: is it not enough that he is beloved
before he is a lover? This is no small virtue.”36 This interpretation is affirmed by the fact that,
while God loves all creation, the only creatures noted as the specific recipients of God’s love
in the Qurʾān are human beings. Furthermore, since God’s attributes are eternal, this verse
indicates that God’s love for human beings is eternal, with no beginning and no end.
For the Sufis in the school of love, the covenant between God and humankind, estab-
lished on what the Persianate tradition refers to as r ūz-i alast, “the Day of am I not [your
Lord],” is an eternal covenant of love. The Qurʾānic reference is Q. 7:172: And [remember]
when your Lord took from the Children of Adam—from their loins—their progeny, and made them
bear witness concerning themselves: “Am I not your Lord?” They said, “Yea, we bear witness.” When
God said to humankind, “Am I not your Lord,” this was the manifestation of His love for
them. When humankind responded, “Yea” (balā), this was the manifestation of their love
for God. Only through God’s making human beings beloved did they become lovers, and
all of their love and striving for God originates from God’s pre-temporal love for them. As
al-Ghaz ā l ī writes, “‘He loves them’ is before ‘they love Him’—no doubt. Bāyazīd [al-Bast ạ̄ m ī]
said, ‘For a long time I imagined that I desired Him. He Himself had first desired me.’”37
From this perspective, human love for God is the self-same love that God has for human
beings. Although a human being’s love finds expression in the temporal order, such love is
but a reflection or refraction of the eternal love that lies at the root of all creation; its origin
is beginninglessness and its goal is endlessness.
The path of ascent

The return of the human being to God, the path of ascent, is understood through a science
that envisions the human being as traveling through four inner realms or faculties: the soul
(nafs), the heart (Ar. qalb/Per. dil), the secret (sirr), and the spirit (Ar. r ūḥ/Per. jān). As Maybud ī
writes, “Inward migration is that you go from the soul to the heart, from the heart to the
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secret, from the secret to the spirit, and from the spirit to the Real.”38 Each of these realms
will also have many stages. As Maybud ī says of those who migrate for the sake of God, the
Real,
They migrate inside the curtains of the soul until they reach the heart. They migrate
inside the curtains of the heart until they reach the spirit, and they migrate inside the
curtains of the spirit until they reach union with the Beloved.39
This journey of return to the Real is traveled within the heart, the faculty of love, which
vacillates between pain and relief, sorrow and happiness, and expansion and contraction
until the heart becomes completely aligned with the spirit, that latter of which, as ʿAyn
al-Qu ḍā t observes, retains “the quality of beginninglessness,”40 and has never fully de-
scended into the world of creation. In contrast to the spirit and the heart, the soul is by
nature a recalcitrant beast that must be tamed. The majority of the discussion of the Sufi
path thus focuses upon the heart because “the heart is the reality of the human being”41
and is where the journey occurs. From one perspective, Sufi wayfaring is the process of
turning the heart away from the soul and toward the spirit, of transforming the heart
from a hardened entity that slouches toward the soul and the world into a luminous en-
tity that aspires to the spirit and the heavens as it gradually becomes aligned with them.
The goal of the wayfarer is for the heart to be completely aligned with the spirit, or
as some put it, to travel beyond the heart and dwell fully in the realm of the spirit. As
Maybud ī writes,
The heart is the road, and the Friend is the homeland. When one arrives at the homeland,
one no longer walks on the road. At the beginning there is no escape from the heart, but at
the end the heart is a veil.
As long as someone stays with the heart he is the desirer. The one without a heart is de-
sired. At first the heart is needed because one cannot traverse the road of the Shariah without
the heart. Thus He said, “a reminder for one who has a heart” (Q. 50:37). At the end, remaining
with the heart is duality, and duality is distance from the Real.42
Witnessing beauty
The heart is transformed by perceiving and contemplating God’s Beauty, being drawn to
God’s Beauty, and conforming to or manifesting God’s Beauty. When the heart has been
fully transformed, it will realize that all beauty is in fact God’s Beauty. Such a realization is
essential to fulfilling the covenant with God. As Rū zbihān Baql ī writes:
In everything deemed beautiful, there is the effect of that Beauty (ḥusn), because every
particle of engendered being has a spirit from the Real’s act, in which it is in direct con-
tact with the quality of the attributes and the self-disclosure of the essence. In particular,
things deemed beautiful have no eye except the eye of the Real. Whatever is closer to
the quarry of beauty ( jam āl) is closer to the covenant of love.43
As seen above, all modes of love are understood as reflections of God’s Love and thus as a
means by which the wayfarer can be drawn to the Divine Beloved. Sufi authors differed
as to whether or not the love of one human being for another could play a positive role
in this process. Some authors, such as A ḥ mad al-Ghaz ā l ī, maintained that since love for
human beings (ʿishq-i khalq) is finite, it cannot penetrate to the depths of the heart. But
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other Sufis, such as Rū zbih ā n Baql ī and Aw ḥ ad al-D ī n al-Kirm ā n ī (d. 1238), had a more
positive view of love between human beings, seeing it as “a bridge, across which every
seeker necessarily must fare to reach the farther—divine—shore.”44 This understanding of
love and beauty led to sh āhid b āz ī or “witness play,” which is most widely represented as
the practice of gazing upon beardless young men, but has a broader meaning for Sufi au-
thors.45 In sh āhid b āz ī the human form is understood as the fullest manifestation of beauty
in the created world. As Rū zbih ā n Baql ī writes, God made human beings “the niche of
His splendor’s light, the resplendence of His attributes, and the loci for the manifestation
of the projection of His self-disclosure.”46 To contemplate beauty in the human beloved is
thus to behold the manifestation or self-disclosure of Divine Beauty, because human forms
are loci in which God displays His own form:
Alas! “I saw my Lord on the Night of the Ascent in the most beautiful form.”47 This “most
beautiful form” is imaginalization (tamaththul). If not, then what is it? “Truly God created
Adam and his children upon the form of the Merciful” is another type of imaginalization
(tamaththul). Oh! For His Names! One of them is mu ṣawwir, which is “The Form Giver”
(Q. 59:24). But I say that He is mu ṣawwar, that is, “The Form Displayer.” Do you know
in which market these forms are displayed and sold? In the market of the elite? Hear it
from Muṣṭ afā, blessings be upon him, when he said, “In Paradise there is a market in
which forms are sold.”48 “In the most beautiful form” is this.49
The forms one witnesses in this world are not only made by God, but they also display
God. The most beautiful form is that which was given to Adam, since as another ḥadīth
states, “God created Adam upon His form.”50 Human beauty is differentiated from other
forms of created beauty because the human being has the potential to display the full ra-
diance of all God’s Names and Qualities as some phrase it, or of the Divine Essence as
others maintain,51 whereas other created forms only display some of God’s attributes. The
self-disclosure of Divine Beauty in the human form is thus the most immediate manner in
which to contemplate Divine Beauty. Some even maintain that it is necessary to contemplate
the self-disclosure of Divine Beauty in the human form because very few can obtain direct
access to God’s supreme beauty. As Rū zbihān Baql ī writes,
The beginning of all lovers (ʿāshiqān) proceeds from the path of those who witness
(shaw āhid), except for some of the elite among the People of recognizing Oneness, for
whom witnessing the universal occurs in their spirit ( jān) without witnessing transient
existents. This is among the rare occurrences from the unseen.52
From this perspective, spiritual attainment requires that one witness beauty as manifest in the
form of individual existents as propaedeutic to witnessing Divine Beauty. As ʿAyn al-Quḍāt
puts it, to be a sh āhid bāzī is to have attained to the higher levels of the spiritual path wherein
one lives through God and dies through God:
If you want to know more about life and spiritual death (mawt-i maʿnavī ) hear what Muṣṭafā
said in his supplication, “O God! I live through You and I die through You.” Do you not
have any knowledge of what dying through Him is and of what and living through Him is?
Alas! This is a state that is known by those who are witness players (shāhid bāzān) and
who know what it is to be alive with the witness and what death is without the witness. The
witness and the witnessed reveal life and death to the true witness players (shāhid bāzān).53
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Love and beauty

The relationship between the lover and the beloved is defined by beauty and love. Beauty
draws one toward unity through attraction and love is attracted to beauty. The two become
so interwoven that they are often indistinguishable, since receiving love is beauty’s raison
d’être. As Nū r ʿAl ī Shāh Isfah
̣ ā n ī (d. 1798) writes,
̣
Beauty (husn) is the final cause of creation and love constitutes beauty’s foundation.
Moreover, it is obvious to everyone who has an intellect that beauty is nothing other
than love. Though they have two names, they are one in essence.54
Everything is intrinsically beautiful and recognizing beauty is seeing things as they truly are.
As ʿIr āqī puts it,
O friend, when you know that the meaning and reality of things is His Face, then you
will say, “Show us things as they are,” until you see clearly that “In everything there is
a sign Indicating that He is one.”55
While aspects of beauty can be perceived by any faculty of perception, the only thing in
creation that is able to perceive beauty in all of its many manifestations is the human heart.
The beloved is therefore dependent upon the lover’s heart in order to be fully realized—in
order to be fully beloved. Beauty is an intrinsic and necessary reality of all that exists and is
what draws the lover to the beloved. Ugliness, however, results from the failure of the eye
to behold the true nature of a thing. To truly behold a thing is to see the manner in which it
manifests God’s Beauty. In this regard Rū zbihān Baql ī writes,
If God disclosed Himself through a thing to a thing, that thing would be beautiful (ḥasuna)
through His self-disclosure in the eyes of all the recognizers and the witnessers. If He cur-
tained Himself from a thing that thing would be ugly in the eyes of the viewers.56
But it is only when one has learned to see with what Rū zbihān refers to as “the eye of
contentment” (ʿayn al-ri ḍā) that one can truly recognize beauty. From this perspective, the
beloved is an intermediary through which beauty itself is observed. To witness beauty in and
of itself is then to begin moving beyond the duality of lover and beloved. The lover’s longing
for the beloved is therefore provisional and not yet the full realization of love. To overcome
the duality between the lover and the beloved the lover must continue to endure the trials of
flirting and coquetry that come from the beloved, or rather from the divine manifestations
of the attributes of Love and the beloved within the lover’s heart.57 These glances, this flirt-
ing, and this coquetry are manifest as the states and stations of the spiritual path by which
the heart matures until it is able to perceive the fullness of pure beauty that lies beyond the
duality of lover and beloved.
The path of love

The process by which the wayfarer progresses in love can be conceptualized as four stages: (1) the
wayfarer loves what is other than the beloved; (2) the wayfarer becomes attached to what pertains
to the beloved; (3) the wayfarer loves only the beloved; and (4) the wayfarer transcends the dual-
ity of lover and beloved and is immersed in the ocean of Love. These stages are not exclusive of
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one-another; while traveling the path and maturing in love, the lover-wayfarer will vacillate be-
tween them. As discussed above, some do not consider the first stage, love for what is other than
the beloved, to be part of spiritual wayfaring. Others, however, maintain that since all beauty
is a manifestation of God, every attraction, no matter how faint, is a reflection or refraction of
love and thus a part of the overall process by which one is drawn toward complete love. As ʿIrāqī
writes, “Whatever they love after essential love…whether they love beauty (ḥusn) or doing what is
beautiful (iḥsān)—these two could not be other than it.”58 From this perspective, the fact that God
“made beautiful all that He created” (Q. 32:7) and that, as the Prophet Muhammad has said, “God
is beautiful and He loves beauty,”59 indicates that recognizing beauty and being drawn toward
beauty is both a recognition of God’s Beauty and a manifestation of God’s Love. Based upon this
understanding, ʿAyn al-Quḍāt advises his readers, “Alas! If you do not have love for the Creator,
at least cultivate love for the creatures so that the worth of these words are obtained by you.”60
Elsewhere, he writes that such love is a natural state: “One loves every existent thing, since every
existent thing is His act and handiwork.”61 From this perspective, any form of love can serve as a
means by which one begins the path toward complete love. Nonetheless, such love is only a first
step. As ʿAyn al-Quḍāt clarifies, “Do not think that you and your likes have known love, apart
from its trappings without reality. Love is only obtained by the one who obtains recognition
(maʿrifa).”62
When the wayfarer embarks upon the path of love, “the lover wants the beloved for his
own sake.” Such a person “is a lover of himself through the intermediary of the beloved, but
does not know that he wants to use her on the path of his own will.”63 When the wayfarer
travels beyond these early stages, an intricate interplay between lover and beloved continues
to build, as the attributes of the beloved become more present in the lover. To love more
fully the lover must boil away the delusions of self and reflect the attributes of the beloved.
By negating the ego in spiritual poverty ( faqr), the lover realizes since one cannot be a lover
without a beloved he is dependent upon the beloved. In the process of negation, the lover’s
heart is then roasted (dilī biryān) until he moves beyond the illusion that he exists through
his own self and loves through his own self and ceases to love the beloved for his own sake.
As the lover matures, the heart is more roasted as the lover comes to realize that sacrifice
is central to love and that upon the path, “suffering is what is essential in love and comfort is
borrowed.”64 This occurs because the fullness of companionship is found in unification, and
complete unification requires the obliteration of one’s self. For the lover and the beloved to
be companions, they must in fact cease to be. The wayfarer will thus experience affliction,
pain and oppression as “love subdues the lover, bringing him from his illusory self to his
true self.”65 For this stage to be complete, “the sword of the beloved’s jealousy” must fall
and cut the lover off from all that is other than the beloved. Until the lover has surrendered
completely, he remains a hypocrite. For the full reality of love to be realized the lover must
allow himself to be completely consumed by the beloved, such that he loves none but the
beloved. When this occurs there is longer talk of a separate lover, for to speak of a “lover” is
to posit a separate “I” outside of God, the Supreme “I.” To insist that one is a lover is to insist
upon one’s own agency, and thus upon one’s own “I” and to thus remain trapped within
the confines of one’s own ego. ʿAyn al-Quḍāt refers to this stage as being what is other than
the Beloved: “Alas! What will you hear?! For us, death is this: one must be dead to all that is
other than the Beloved until he finds life from the Beloved, and becomes living through the
Beloved.”66 To die in the Beloved is thus the only way to find true life:
Whoever does not have this death does not find life. I mean, what you know to be
“death” is not that real death, which is annihilation. Do you know what I am saying? I
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am saying that when you are yourself and are with your self, you are not. But when you
are not with yourself, you are all yourself.67
All of these stages of the path are modalities of complete love that are bestowed upon the
wayfarer until one is fit to wear “the robe of love.”68 The wayfarer who has reached this
stage has moved beyond the delimitations of separation and union and thus beyond the need
to experience love’s attributes via the beloved. There is therefore no longer a need for the
interplay between lover and beloved. As ʿAyn al-Quḍāt writes,
In in-between love, a difference can be found between the witness and witnessed. As for
the end of love, it is when a difference cannot be made between them. When the lover
at the end of the path becomes love and when the love of the witness and the Witnessed
become one, the witness is the Witnessed and the Witnessed the witness.69
At this point one is able to see all aspects of creation with the eye of contentment (ʿayn al-ri ḍā)
and to recognize everything as a self-disclosure of Love. The heart has been brought into
conformity with the spirit and the spirit reflects nothing but the Real. This stage lies beyond
knowledge and no report can convey its reality to those who have not experienced it. As
A ḥ mad al-Ghaz ā l ī writes,
Not everyone reaches this place, for its beginnings are above all endings. How could its
end be contained in the realm of knowledge, and how could it enter the wilderness of
imagination? This reality is a pearl in a shell, and the shell is in the depths of the ocean.
Knowledge can reach no more than the shore. How could it reach here?70
The prophets
Those who have reached the highest degree of perfection are those who love God most
ardently and whom God loves most. These are the prophets in whom God manifests His
Beauty, and through whom God displays His Beauty to others. As Baql ī writes, “Beauty
is inherited from them by the people of beauty in this world and the next, and they are
the center of God’s beauty in the world.” 71 As the Prophet Muhammad is considered to
be the most exalted of the prophets in whom the fullness of prophethood is realized, he
is also the most beautiful and the most beloved of creation. For members of the School of
Love, Q. 3:31, Say, “If you love God follow me; God will love you,” alludes to the centrality of
the Prophet in this path. As William Chittick observes, for those who follow this path, “The
clear meaning is, ‘If you love God, then you must follow me, the supreme example of a per-
fect lover of God and a perfect beloved of God.’” 72
The one who is most beautiful among creation is also the one who is most able to witness
the beauty of God in God and as manifest in all things. As Baql ī writes,
The Real did not open up any heart other than Muhammad’s heart to the God-given
knowledge, the unknown knowledge, and the realities of recognition, taw ḥīd, unveiling,
witnessing secrets, and lights, because his heart was the oceans of [divine] self-disclosure
and approach.73
God is most perfectly revealed and manifest in the heart of His most perfect creation, the Prophet
Muhammad, and his heart is where God most fully witnesses His Own Beauty and Perfection
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in its “delimited” form. Since witnessing His Own Beauty and Perfection in delimited forms is
the purpose of creation itself, the prophets are the lynchpin by which all of creation is sustained.
God’s gaze is fixed upon His creatures only because it is fixed upon Himself qua manifestation,
and the center of that gaze is upon the most perfect manifestation, the Prophet Muhammad, the
chosen, al-Muṣṭafā, through whom God most fully loves His Own self-disclosure:
Alas! O listener of these words! By the spirit of Muṣṭ afā, people have imagined that
God’s grace and love for creation is for their sake. It is not for the sake of creation!
Rather, it is for Himself: when a lover gives a gift to his beloved, and is kind to her, he
does not actually show this kindness to the beloved as much as he shows it out of love for
himself. Alas! From these words you imagine that God’s love for Muṣṭ afā is for Muṣṭ afā.
But this love for him is for Himself!74
Conclusion
As love pertains to the realm of eternity and lies beyond the realm of form and matter, it is
an expression of the eternal relationship between the Divine and the human and thus extends
beyond any one religion. To borrow from the introduction to Rū m ī’s Mathnaw ī, love “is the
roots of the roots of the roots of religion.” 75 To realize the fullness of love is in fact the reason
for which every prophet has been sent and for which religions are established. The religion
of love is thus at the heart of every religion. As Hā fi ẓ expresses it,
Whether we are drunk or sober, each of us is making
For the street of the Friend. The temple, the synagogue,
The church and the mosque are all houses of love.76
Although all religions express love and help one find love, the lover seeks a direct relation-
ship with God that cannot be contained within a creed and thus follows a path that tran-
scends the bounds of religion. In this vein Bulleh Shah (d. 1757) exclaims,
When I studied the lesson of love,
my heart became afraid of the mosque.
I went to enter the temple of the lord,
Where a thousand conches are blown.77
In this vein, ʿAyn al-Quḍāt writes,
O friend! The religion and creed of the lovers is love—their love is the beauty of the
Beloved…Whoever is a lover of God, his religion is the beauty of the encounter with
God, and for him the lovely face is God.78
This immediate relationship with God cannot but transcend the categories to which we are
accustomed. As Sanāʿī writes:
For the one who has taken love as his guide,
Faith and infidelity are but the curtains at his door.
Universal and particular, all that’s in existence,
Is for the way of love but the arches of the bridge.
Love is beyond both intellect and soul,
It’s the “I have a time with God” 79 of [spiritual] men.80
This does not mean that one must abandon Islam to embrace the path of love; all of the
authors cited here remained Muslim and many served functions pertaining to the religious
182
sciences. Rather this understanding indicates that to love God and move closer to Him one
must realize the relativity of the categories and conceptions of God that creeds provide. As
ʿAyn Quḍāt writes,
When one reaches the quest’s end, there is no religion (madhhab) other than the religion
of the Sought Itself. Ḥusayn Manṣū r [al-Ḥallāj] was asked, “Which religion do you fol-
low?” He said, “I follow the religion of my Lord.” For the great ones of the Path, their
Master is God. Thus, they follow God’s religion, and are sincere, not insincere. Insin-
cerity is halting and sincerity is ascending.81
Notes
1 Sunan al-Tirmidh ī, Kit āb al-Birr wa’l-silah, 2049.
2 For a brief discussion of the place of the nasīb in the Qasīda, see Abdulah El Tayib, “Pre-Islamic
Poetry,” in Arabic Literature to the End of the Umayyad Period, ed. A. Beeston, T. Johnstone, R. Ser-
jeant, and G. Smith (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 27–109.
3 The clearest exposition of which is William Chittick’s, The Sufi Path of Love: The Spiritual Teachings
of Rumi (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1983).
4 For a discussion of love in early Arab literature, see Lois Anita Giffen, Theory of Profane Love among
the Arabs: The Development of the Genre (New York: New York University Press, 1972).
5 For a brief history of the development of the ʿUdhr ī ghazal see Andras Hamori, “Love Poetry
(Ghazal),” in ʿAbb āsid Belles-Lettres, ed. Julia Ashtiany, T. M. Johnstone, J. D. Latham, G. Rex
Smith, and R. B. Serjeant (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 202–217.
6 For an analysis of the extensive literature regarding the Majnū n legend in the literary traditions
of Muslim lands, see Michael W. Dols and Diana E. Immisch. Majn ūn: The Madman in Medieval
Islamic Society (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2011). For a study focused upon the manner in which the
legend has been treated in Sufsim, see Ali Asghar Seyed-Gohrab, Layl ī and Majn ūn: Love, Madness
and Mystic Longing in Niz ạ̄ m ī’s Epic Romance (Leiden: Brill, 2003).
7 ʿAyn al-Quḍāt Hamad ā n ī, Tamh īd āt, ed. ʿAf ī f ʿUsayr ā n (Reprint: Tehran: Intishā r āt-i Manūchihr ī,
1994), 97–98.
8 A ḥ mad al-Ghaz ā l ī, Saw āniḥ, ed. Nasrollah Pourjavady (Tehran: Intish ā r āt-i Bunyād-i Farhang-i
Iran, 1980), 3.
9 For a discussion of the manner in which Persian Sufi poetry remained a central component of
multiple Muslim cultures for over 500 years, see Shahab Ahmed, What Is Islam?: The Importance of
Being Islamic (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2017).
10 Omid Safi, “The Sufi Path of Love in Iran and India,” in A Pearl in Wine: Essays on the Life, Music
and Sufism of Hazrat Inayat Khan, ed. Zia Inayat-Khan (New Lebanon: Omega Publications, 2001),
224.
11 Margaret Smith, R ābi ʿa the Mystic and Her Fellow Saints in Islam (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1928; reprint, Cambridge: Oneworld, 1994); Annemarrie Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of
Islam (Chapel Hill: North Carolina University Press, 1975), 55. For the most up to date analysis of
R ābi‘a’s place within the Sufi tradition, see Rkia Cornell, Rabi‘a: From Narrative to Myth (London:
Oneworld, 2019).
12 Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam, 55.
13 Far īd al-D ī n ‘Att ā r, Tadhkirat al-awliyā’, ed. R. A. Nicholson (London: Luzac & Co.: 1905; rprt.
Tehran; Dunyā -yi Kit āb, n.d. 2 vols), 1:159.
14 Abū Ḥā mid al-Ghaz ā l ī, I ḥyāʾ ʿul ūm al-d īn (Beirut: Dā r al-Fikr, n.d., rprt of Cairo 1933 edition, 4
vols), 4:313.
15 Shaqīq Balkh ī, Adab al-ʿib ād āt, ed. P. Nwyia in Trois oeuvres inedités de mystiques muslumans (Beirut:
Dā r al-Mashriq, 1982), 17–22.
16 For a list of Shibl ī’s sayings on love, see Richard Gramlich, Alte Vorbilder des Sufitums (Wiesbaden:
Harrasowitz Verlag, 1995), 1:654–665.
17 Abu l-Qā sim al-Qushayr ī, al-Risālah al-Qushayriyyah f ī ‘ilm al-tasawwuf ̣ (Beirut: Dā r al- Khayr,
1413/1993), 324.
18 Ibid., 321.
183
19 For al-Ghaz ā l ī’s explanation of how each mode of love is love for God, see Joseph Lumbard, A ḥ-
mad al-Ghazālī, Remembrance, and the Metaphysics of Love (Albany: SUNY Press, 2016), 140–148.
20 Abū Ḥā mid al-Ghaz ā l ī, I ḥyāʾ ʿul ūm al-d īn, 4:257.
21 This process is detailed in Joseph Lumbard, “From ḥubb to ʿishq: The Development of Love in
Early Sufism,” Oxford Journal of Islamic Studies, 18 (2007), 345–185.
22 Abū ‘l-Hasan
̣ ʿAl ī b. Muhammad
̣ al-Daylam ī, ʿAt f̣ al-alif al-maʾl ūf ʿal ā ‘l-l ām al-maʿt ụ̄ f: Livre de l’
inclinasion de l’alif uni sur le l ām inlcliné, ed. J. C. Vadet (Cairo: L’Institute Francais d’Archeologie
Orentale, 1962), 24. English translation by Joseph Norment Bell and Hasan Mahmoud Abul Latif
al Shafie, A Treatise on Mystical Oneness (Edinbugh: Edinburgh University Press, 2005). To main-
tain terminological consistency, I have used my own translations for this chapter.
23 al-Daylam ī, ʿAt f̣ al-alif al-maʾl ūf ʿal ā ‘l-l ām al-maʿt ụ̄ f, 24.
24 For a discussion of conceptions of ʿishq among various classes of Cūlam āʾ, see Lois Anita Giffen,
Section 3, Chapter 2.
̣
25 ʿAbdallā h Ans ạ̄ r ī, Mahabbat N āma, in Majm ūʿa-ye rasāʾil-i fars ị̄ -ye Khw ājah ʿAbd All āh Ans ạ̄ r ī, ed.
Muhammad
̣ Sarwar Mawl āʾī (Tehran: Intishā r āt-i Tụ̄ s, 1998), 356–357.
26 Regarding al-Ḥallāj’s understanding of love, al-Daylam ī writes,
̣
Al-Husayn b. Mansūṛ [al-Hallāj]
̣ is separate from the rest of the Shaykhs in this claim. He is
separate in that he indicated that love is an attribute among the attributes of the Essence in all
respects and wherever it is manifest. As for Shaykhs other than him, they have indicated the
̣ of the lover and the Beloved in a state where love attains to the annihila-
unification (ittihād)
tion of the whole of the lover in the Beloved, without claiming that the Divine nature lāhūt [is
incarnated in] the human nature nāsūt.
(al-Daylamī, 28)
27 Leonard Lewisohn, introduction to Hafiz and the Religion of Love in Classical Persian Poetry, ed.
Leonard Lewisohn (London: I.B. Taurus, 2010), xxii. In her article in this same volume, “The
Radiance of Epiphany: The Vision of Beauty and Love in H ạ̄ fiz’ṣ Poem of Pre-Eternity,” Leili
Anvar writes that the Saw ānih is “justly considered as the founding text of the School of Love in
Sufism and the tradition of love poetry in Persian,” 124.
28 For analysis of ʿAyn al-Quḍāt’s teachings, see Mohammed Rustom, Inrushes of the Spirit: The Mys-
tical Theology of ʿAyn al-Qu ḍāt (Albany: SUNY Press, in press).
29 For a comprehensive analysis of Baql ī’s theory of love and beauty, see Kazuyo Murata, Beauty in
Sufism: The Teachings of R ūzbih ān Baqlī (Albany: SUNY Press, 2017).
30 For ʿAṭṭā r’s teachings on love, see Cyrus Zargar, Religion of Love: Far īd al-D īn ʿAṭṭār and the Sufi
Tradition (Cambridge: Islamic Texts Society, forthcoming).
31 Jalā l al-D ī n Rū m ī, Mathnaw ī-yi maʿnaw ī, ed., trans., and ann. R. A. Nicholson as The Mathnaw ī of
Jal āl’udd īn R ūm ī (London: Luzac 1925–40), 1:112–113.
32 ʿAyn al-Quḍāt Hamad ā n ī, Tamh īd āt, 125.
33 Fakhr al-D ī n ʿIr āqī, Lamaʿāt, ed. Mu ḥ ammad Khwājaw ī (Tehran: Intishā r āt-i Mawlā, 1992), 63.
34 For an analysis of the stages of love in Ibn ʿArabī’s Futuḥāt al-Makkiyya, see Hany T. A. Ibrahim,
“Ibn ʿArabī’s Metaphysics of Love,” Journal of the Muhyiddin Ibn ʿArabi Society, 63 (2018), 49–70.
35 Saw āniḥ, 44.
36 Ibid., 13.
37 Ibid., 21–22.
38 Rash īd al-D ī n al-Maybud ī, Kashf al-asrār wa ʿuddat al-abrār, ed. ʿAl ī Asghar Ḥ imkat (Tehran:
Dā nishg ā h, 1952–1960, 10 vols.), 1:581. Translated by Chittick, Divine Love, 163.
39 Ibid., 2:663. Translated by Chittick, Divine Love, 164. Those who discuss the path sometimes
differ in their use of technical terminology and place the secret above the spirit, while others
only discuss three inner realms, the soul, the heart, and the spirit. This chapter discusses the
path in terms of the soul, the heart, and the spirit, as these terms in this order are the most
frequently employed.
40 Tamh īd āt, 150.
41 Abū Ḥā mid al-Ghaz ā l ī, I ḥyāʾ ʿul ūm al-d īn ( Jedda: Dā r al-Minhāj, 2013), V:14.
42 Maybud ī, Kashf al-asrār, 4:36–37. Translated by Chittick, Divine Love, 189.
43 Rū zbihā n Baql ī, ʿAbhar al-ʿĀshiqīn, ed. Henri Corbin and Mu ḥ ammad Muʿī n, Les jasmine des fidèlese
d’amour; Kit āb-e ʿabhar al-ʿāshiqīn (Tehran: Département d’iranologie de l Institut
́ franco-iranien,
1958), 41. Translation by Murata, Beauty in Sufism, 126.
184
44 Leonard Lewisohn, “Sufism’s Religion of Love, from R ābiʿa to Ibn al-ʿArabī,” in The Cambridge
Companion to Sufism, ed. Lloyd Ridgeon (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 167.
45 The most comprehensive examination of sh āhid b āzī can be found in Cyrus Ali Sargar, Sufi Aes-
thetics: Beauty, Love, and the Human Form in the Writings of Ibn ʿArabi and ʿIraqi (Columbia: The
University of South Carolina Press, 2011), especially Chapter 5. Awḥ ad al-D ī n Kirm ā n ī’s associ-
ation with sh āhid b āzī is discussed in Lloyd Ridgeon, “The Controversy of Shaykh Awḥ ad al-D ī n
Kirm ā n ī and Handsome, Moon-Faces Youths: A Case Study of Sh āhid-B āzī in Medieval Sufism,”
Journal of Sufi Studies 1 (2012), 3–30. Leonard Lewisohn also contributes an excellent study that
touches upon sh āhid b āzī in the works of Ḥā fi ẓ in “Ḥā fi ẓ in the Socio-historical, Literary and Mys-
tical Milieu of Medieval Persia,” in Ḥāfi ẓ and the Religion of Love (London: I.B. Tauris, 2015), 3–73.
46 Rū zbihā n Baql ī, ʿAbhar al-ʿĀshiqīn, 3. My translation.
47 This is a well-known ḥ ad īth frequently cited in Sufi texts. Musnad al-D ārim ī, 2204.
48 This phrase is part of a ḥ ad īth: “Verily in Paradise there is a market in which there is no buying
or selling, except for forms of men and women. So whenever a man desires a form, he enters it”
(Sunan al-Tirmidh ī, Kit āb ṣiffat al-janna: Hadith 2747).
49 ʿAyn al-Quḍāt, Tamh īd āt, 296. My translation.
50 Ṣa ḥīḥ Muslim, Kit āb al-birr, 2841.
51 Baql ī ʿAbhar al-ʿĀshiqīn, 35. My translation.
52 Ibid., 17. My translation.
53 ʿAyn al-Quḍāt, Tamh īd āt, 320. My translation.
̣ ā n ī, Majm ūʿa-i āth ār-i N ūr ʿAl ī Sh āh Is fah
54 Nū r ʿAl ī Shā h Isfah ̣ ān ī, ed. Javad Nurbakhsh (Tehran:
Intishā r āt-i Khā niqā h-i Niʻmat Allā h ī-i, 1971), 2.
55 ʿIr āqī, Lamaʿāt, 134. This last line is a verse of poetry by the ascetic poet Abu ‘l-ʿAt ạ̄ hiyya (d. 825
or 826) that is often cited in Sufi texts: Ism āʿī l b. Qā sim Abu ‘l-ʿAt ạ̄ hiyya, D īw ān Abi ‘l-ʿAt ạ̄ hiyya
(Beirut: Dā r al-Ṣādr, 1964), 122.
56 Rū zbihā n Baql ī, Kit āb mashrab arw āḥ wa huwa’l-mashh ūr bi hazār u yak maqām, ed. Na ṣrid ī n Nazif
M. Hoca, (Istanbul: Edebiyat Fakültesi Matbaasi, 1974), 73. Translated by Murata, Beauty in Su-
fism, 41.
57 Joseph E. B. Lumbard, A ḥmad Al-Ghazālī, Remembrance, and the Metaphysics of Love (Albany: State
University of New York Press, 2016), 173.
58 ʿIr āqī, Lamaʿāt, 69.
59 Ṣa ḥīḥ Muslim, 131.
60 ʿAyn al-Quḍāt, Tamh īd āt, 96. See also Tamh īd āt, 107. Translated Mohammed Rustom, “ʿAyn al-
Quḍāt and the Fire of Love.” In Mysticism and Ethics in Islam, edited by Bilal Orfali, Atif Khalil,
and Mohammed Rustom (Beirut: American University of Beirut Press, forthcoming.
61 ʿAyn al-Quḍāt, Tamh īd āt, 140. Translated Mohammed Rustom, “ʿAyn al-Quḍāt, and the Fire of
Love.” In Mysticism and Ethics in Islam, eds. Bilal Orfali, Atif Khalil, and Mohammed Rustom
(Beirut: American University of Beirut Press, forthcoming).
62 ʿAyn al-Quḍāt, N āmah ā, ed. ʿAf ī f ʿUsayr ā n (Tehran: Intishar āt-i Ā sāṭī r, 1998), 2:153. Translated by
Rustom, “ʿAyn al-Quḍāt and the Fire of Love.”
63 Saw āniḥ, 29.
64 Ibid., 39.
65 Lumbard, A ḥmad al-Ghazālī, 177.
66 ʿAyn al-Quḍāt, Tamh īd āt, 288. Translated by Rustom, “ʿAyn al-Quḍāt and the Fire of Love*.”
67 Ibid., 287. Translated by Rustom, “ʿAyn al-Quḍāt and the Fire of Love*.”
68 Saw āniḥ, 52.
69 ʿAyn al-Quḍāt, Tamh īd āt, 115. Translated Mohammed Rustom, Inrushes of the Spirit: The Mystical
Theology of ‘Ayn al-Qudat (Albany: SUNY Press, Forthcoming).
70 Saw āniḥ, 8–9.
71 Baql ī, Mashrab, 133. Translated by Murata, Beauty in Sufism, 101.
72 William Chittick, Divine Love: Islamic Literature and the Path to God (New Haven: Yale University
Press, 2013), 35.
73 Rū zbihā n Baql ī, Kit āb al-Igh āna, 109. Translated by Murata, Beauty in Sufism, 122.
74 ʿAyn al-Quḍāt, Tamh īd āt, 217. Translated Mohammed Rustom, Inrushes of the Spirit.
75 Jalā l al-D ī n Rū m ī, Masnaw ī Maʿnaw ī (Tehran: Wiz ā r āt-i farhang wa irshād-i islā m ī, 2000), 33.
76 D īw ān-i Ḥāfi ẓ, Khā nlar ī, Ghazal 78:3. Trans. Robert Bly and Leonard Lewisohn, The Angels
Knocking on the Tavern Door (London: Harper perennial, 2009).
185
77 Bullhe Shā h. Kull īyāt-i Bullhe Sh āh, ed. Faqī r Mu ḥ ammad Faqī r (Lahore: Al-Faiṣal Panjābī Adabī
Academy, 1960), 19.
78 ʿAyn al-Quḍāt, Tamh īd āt, 286. Translated Mohammed Rustom, Inrushes of the Spirit.
79 Allusion to a famous ḥ ad īth often cited in Sufi texts.
80 Sanāʾī, Hakim
̣ Majdūd ibn Ādam. Kitāb Had ̣ īqat al-Haq
̣ īqah wa Shar īʿat al-Tar
̣ īqah, ed. Mohammad-Taqi
̣
Mudarris Ridawi
̣ (Tehran: Intishārāt-i Dānishgāh-i Tihrān, 1970), 327. Translated by Nicholas Boyl-
ston, “Writing the Kaleidoscope of Reality: The Significance of Diversity in the 6th/12th century Per-
sian Metaphysical Literature of Sanāʿī, ʿAyn al-Quḍāt and ʿAṭṭār.” (PhD Dissertation, Georgetown
University, 2017), 84.
81 ʿAyn al-Quḍāt, Tamh īd āt, 22. Translated Mohammed Rustom, Inrushes of the Spirit
186
14
SUFISM IN CLASSICAL
PERSIAN POETRY
Scholars commonly define the golden age of classical Persian poetry as the tenth to the fif-
teenth century, ending with ʿAbd al-Ra ḥ m ān Jā m ī (d. 1492) who wrote in almost all genres,
trying to outstrip previous poets. However several towering poets after Jā m ī have contrib-
uted to this tradition, which is very much alive today. Sufism has been, and still is, central to
this poetry, and many of the poets were themselves Sufis. Their audience however has been
very broad: their poetry was and is cited and recited in almost all domains of Persian culture.
This chapter provides an analytic survey of the genres, poetic forms, images, metaphors and
allegories they have used.
Persian poetry begins with religious and ascetic genres, with representatives such as Kasāʾī
Marvazī (c. 953–1001), whose poetry became an example for other poets. The Ismaʿī l ī poet
Nāṣir-i Khusraw (dc. 1072) considered him a “respected predecessor whom the younger poet
claims to have surpassed.”1 While Kasāʾī composed poetry in diverse forms, the most cher-
ished poetic form in the early period was the quatrain. Due to its compact form and pithy
formulation, the quatrain became a favourite poetic form for Sufi masters at their preaching
sessions, and especially during the ritual of musical audition (sam āʿ). Persian quatrains con-
sist of four lines with the rhyme scheme a-a/b-a or a-a/a-a, with specific metres designed
especially for this form. Several early Sufis deployed quatrains in disseminating the mystic
message. Perhaps the first Sufi using poetry in his sermons was the charismatic mystic Abū
Saʿīd Abī ’l-Khayr (967–1049). The quatrains are included in two hagiographies, Asrār al-
taw ḥīd and Ḥāl āt-u sukhan ān-i shaykh Ab ū S aʿīd, compiled by his family a century after his
death. These hagiographies form the basis for studies on his mysticism.2 It is said that he lived
an austere reclusive life in his first 40 years but later he indulged in a life filled with banquets
and entertainment. The Sufi sam āʿ is associated with him. During these sessions poetry and
music were performed, which brought Sufis into ecstatic joy, throwing off their clothes or
tearing them to pieces. This also led to the accusation that he had wavered in the faith, as
several leading theologians condemned sam āʿ. For instance, the Abū Bakr Mu ḥammad b.
Ma ḥ mashādh accused him of giving “lavish feasts, reciting poetry from the pulpit, and hav-
ing young men perform sam āʿ in public.”3 This is why G. Böwering characterizes Abū Saʿīd’s
mysticism as marked by “eccentricity, dichotomy, and paradox.”4 He is also famous for his
rapturous statements (sha ṭḥīyāt), a “genre” that started with the great mystic Bāyazīd Bisṭā m ī
(d. 874). Perhaps the most daring utterance is “there is nothing inside my cloak except
187
Allāh.”5 The authenticity of his quatrains is uncertain, as they may have been composed by
his Sufi teacher Abū ’l-Qā sim Bishr Yā sī n (d. 990), who initiated him to Sufism.
Another Sufi poet, who still enjoys great popularity in the Persian-speaking world is
Bābā Ṭāhir ʿUryān, “the Naked” (d.c. 1028), whose quatrains, in a Luri dialect are still sung.
He is a legendary figure who lived as a recluse, wandering in the mountains and steppe. He
also wrote several books, including Ish ārāt-i B ābā Ṭāhir (“The Aphoristic Words of Bābā
Ṭā hir”), which shows that the poet was a learned man, deeply informed in Sufism.6 The
authenticity of the quatrains attributed to Bābā Ṭāhir is questionable as the earliest sources
date from the fifteenth century, and their number increases in later centuries. P ū rjavād ī has
examined these quatrains within the framework of early Persian Sufism, showing how these
poems contain mystical philosophy of the tenth and eleventh centuries. De Bruijn doubts
the quatrains authenticity, indicating that the image we could gather from these quatrains
is a “dervish, a wandering beggar for the sake of his mystical search.” 7 In one of his poems,
Bābā Ṭāhir refers to the phenomenon of Qalandar. The qalandariyyāt (see below) is a genre
that becomes part and parcel of Persian Sufi poetry from the twelfth century:
I am the drunken man that people call qalandar;
Without home, family, or shelter,
Spending my days walking around your home,
Placing my head upon a stone at night.8
In several poems, he emphasizes how he constantly weeps. This could be evidence that he
belonged to the ascetics who profusely wept for various reasons, such as for the people who
err in their religion, or for sinners who will be punished in the hereafter. They were called
the “weepers” (bak ā‘ūn), a term from two verses from the Qur’ān (xvii: 109; xix: 58): “and
they fall down on their chins, weeping,” and “when the signs of the Merciful were recited
before them, they fell down, prostrating themselves, weeping”:
Without you, I am distressed day and night,
Tears are running from my eyes, day and night
I have no fever, nor pain in any place;
I just know that I am weeping, day and night.9
In most of these poems, the poet uses the first person singular pronoun, making his poetry
very personal with an emotional tone, explaining how deeply he is stricken by love, how
sorely he suffers in separation, and how intensely he is longing for the divine beloved.
Another figure whose name is associated with quatrains is ʿUmar Khayyā m (1048–1131).
Although in Western literary culture Khayyā m epitomizes Persian poetry, thanks to Edward
FitzGerald’s (1809–1883) Rubáiyát, his position as a Sufi poet in the Persian literary tradi-
tion is equivocal. To begin with, it is uncertain whether the quatrains attributed to him are
actually written by the historical Khayyā m, since most first appear in manuscripts dating
from the thirteenth century onwards. The number of quatrains increases considerably in the
fourteenth and fifteenth centuries.10 The first occurrence of a Persian quatrain by Khayyā m
is in Fakhr al-Dī n Rāzī’s (d. 1210) Arabic commentary on Sura XCV, the Risālat fi ’l-tanbīh
(written in 1203), in which he cites Khayyā m on the Last Judgement:
Why did the Owner who arranged the elements of nature
Cast it again into shortcomings and deficiency?
If it was ugly, who is to blame for these flaws in forms?
And if is beautiful, why does he break it again?11
This quatrain, together with the following, is cited in the mystic manual Mir ṣād al-ʿibād
(completed 1223) by Najm al-Dī n Rāzī, better known as Dāya.
188
Sufism in classical Persian poetry
We come and go in a circle

Whose begin and end are invisible.
No one speaks a sincere word in this world
As to where we come from and where we are going.
Dāya criticizes Khayyā m as a materialist philosopher who comments on the futility of God’s
creation, denying the Hereafter. Although in several scholarly works, Khayyā m is regarded
as a Sufi, in Persian Sufi texts, he is characterized as a philosopher who denies the essential
tenets of Islam. The Sufi poet Far īd al-Dī n ʿAṭṭār (c. 1145–1221) cites an anecdote about a
clairvoyant who sees Khayyā m immersed in perspiration in his grave, realizing that his phil-
osophical knowledge is of no use.12 These and similar responses show that Sufis condemned
Khayyā m and the ideas attributed to him in the quatrains. Nevertheless, there are collections
of his quatrains that are, at times, interpreted as Sufi utterances, and they are sometimes in-
terpreted in a mystical sense.
The first collection of Sufi quatrains is that of ʿAṭṭār. His Mukht ār-n āma (The Book of the
Selection) is organized thematically in 15 chapters. Most of these quatrains treat the notion
of love and related topics such as the lover’s pain of separation and the beloved’s beauty and
indifference, but there are also several chapters on the candle. Although the authenticity of
this collection has been doubted by several scholars, the editor, Shaf ī’ ī-Kadkan ī, discards any
reservations about its authenticity.13
His thematic arrangement and organization in chapters apparently influenced other mys-
tics. For instance, Abū ’l-Majd Tabr īzī compiled an encyclopaedic miscellany, consisting of
210 works, known as the Saf īna (copied 1321–1323). He includes several existing collections
of mystical quatrains, and has compiled another himself. This collection, Khul āsat al-ashʿār f ī
rubāʿiyyāt (“Abridged Quatrain Poetry”) contains 500 quatrains, organized in 50 chapters.14
Unlike ʿAṭṭār’s collection, these poems are written by a large number of poets, including
Tabr īzī’s own teachers such as the mystic Am ī n al-Dī n Ḥājj Bulah. The quatrains deal with
the nature of mystic love and the physical and psychological qualities of the lover.
Another invaluable collection (4.085 quatrains) is Nuzhat al-majālis (The Delight of Gatherings)
by Jamāl Khalīl Shirvānī. About 1,700 quatrains deal with love and the description of the be-
loved’s moral and physical qualities, as well as his or her daily activities and occupations.15 Ascetic
topics are also common. Here we read quatrains on the effects of love such as insomnia, silence,
lack of appetite and withdrawal from human community. In his extensive studies of quatrain col-
lections, Sayyid-ʿAlī Mīr-Afżalī concludes that the inclusion of only two quatrains from ʿAṭṭār’s
Mukhtār-nāma in the Nuzhat indicates that Shirvānī did not know the Mukhtār-nāma.16 Almost
all Sufi poets have composed quatrains, up to the present day. Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī (1207–1273)
composed some 1,983 quatrains, although several are spurious.
Another genre connected to quatrains is commentaries. Quatrains are usually used within
a prose text to illustrate a point, but there are also quatrains which are separately presented
and commented upon. Such quatrains are considered to be puzzling or even having magical
healing effects. Perhaps the oldest quatrain with several commentaries is rub āʿī-yi howrā’iyya
(“The Quatrain of the Heavenly Maidens”):
The Heavenly Maidens stood in a row to look at my Idol;
The Keeper of Paradise clasped his hands in admiration;
That black mole on the cheeks was a robe of silk;
For fear the holy men clutched their Qur’āns.17
The poem occurs in Abū Saʿīd’s Asrār al-taw ḥīd, in an anecdote in which Abū Saʿīd, on hear-
ing that his muqr ī or “reciter” Bū Ṣā li ḥ had become ill, sends him an amulet upon which
this quatrain was written. People attributed magical powers to Abū Saʿīd’s quatrains, but this
189
specific quatrain became so popular that at least 12 commentaries were written on it, from
the fourteenth century. This became an independent genre of mystical manuals in which ei-
ther a quatrain was explained in prose or a concept was explained followed by its epitome in
a quatrain. For instance in Sharḥ-i rubāʿiyyāt, Jā m ī gives 48 quatrains, each followed by a one-
page commentary. These quatrains seem easy to read while the commentaries explain the
intricacies of the metaphysical thought conveyed in the poems. Conversely, Jā m ī’s Law āyiḥ,
a mixture of prose and verse, often uses an illustrative quatrain at the end of a section.
In addition to the hundreds of individual Sufi poets whose works are known, there
are many collections of quatrains on Sufi themes and topics which are in libraries and
have not yet been published. The tradition of writing mystical quatrains has remained
popular in the Persian-speaking world: the works of any poet-mystic are likely to in-
clude quatrains.
The genre of mystical ghazal

The ghazal is the poetic form par excellence for mystics. Each ghazal has a specific metre and
is mono-rhymed aa, ba, ca, etc., with usually between 5 and 12 lines. The flourishing of
the ghazal as a poetic form with specific characteristics coincided with the inclusion of Sufi
terms and concepts in Persian poetry from the twelfth century. In a mystical context, the
rich repertoire of words and metaphors in the courtly poetic tradition received a spiritual
interpretative layer. Words such as d ūst or “friend,” yār or “beloved” could refer to an earthly
figure, but also to the Sufi master, the prophet Mu ḥammad, and to God. Words from the
Bacchic vocabulary such as wine, wine cup and cupbearer also attained an additional layer:
wine could stand for God’s breath breathed into man’s body while the cupbearer was God
himself. This created an interplay between the secular and spiritual that has remained at the
heart of Persian ghazal poetry to the present day. The ambiguity also affected the nature of
the beloved in ghazals, which remains an intriguing discussion today. Persian does not have
grammatical gender distinctions that would identify the sex of the beloved, but in ghazals,
reference is often made to the upcoming beard of the beloved, emphasizing the beloved’s
male gender and youth.18
The first poet who wrote a substantive number of mystic ghazals was Ḥ ak ī m San āʾī of
Ghazna (c. 1045–1131). The significance of San āʾī for the development of the ghazal is his
introduction of antinomian concepts and motifs, known under the term qalandariyyāt.19
The term qalandar refers to a “wandering dervish,” “a vagabond,” a figure who appeared
from the eleventh century in the north-eastern part of Persia and spread swiftly to other
areas such as Anatolia and India. These dervishes provoked Islamic orthodoxy by deriding
rituals and laws, through their shocking appearance, shaving all bodily hair appearing
naked or semi-naked in public, and staying in taverns and brothels, drinking wine and
associating with young men. 20 They saw their provocations as a means to attract criticism
to shield themselves from hypocrisy. Any public respect is a temptation to dissimulation
on the mystic path. These Qalandars believed in paradoxical piety: despite their outwardly
sinful behaviour, they were pious but wanted to distance themselves from the religious
scholars and organized Sufis who were respected for their piety. For Qalandars, piety could
be gauged only by God. In their radical renunciation of the world, they had also included
all the external aspects of Islam.
There are at least four categories of Qalandar ī themes in the ghazals. One group of mo-
tifs centre on the beliefs and comport of the Qalandar. Other figures such as “detached
dervish” (malang) and the “inspired libertine” (rind) also appear as characters in ghazals. 21
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When the character appears, he commonly criticizes Islam, the false piety of the theolo-
gians, preachers and jurists through provoking behaviour such as openly drinking wine,
and flouting Islamic norms. They flee from the mosque and school, symbols of formal
religion, to a tavern, also called a khar āb āt or “ruined place.” Second, there are motifs
revolving around love, usually referring to a homoerotic relationship between a mystic
and a young boy, of Christian or Zoroastrian descent. Third, motifs related to wine and
wine-drinking. Fourth, religious motifs in which the most sacred tenets of Islam and even
Islam itself are condemned. These are motifs in which the pilgrimage to Mecca, showing
off religiosity, etc., are severely censured and the mystic is advised to choose the Mecca
of the heart, to prefer kufr (“unbelief ”) or apostasy, or heresy to Islam. All these motifs
are usually interwoven in a polyphonic presentation in which lyric eroticism, asceticism
and Bacchanalia are combined with nature imagery. In the tavern, the Qalandar finds his
spiritual guide, an Magian Elder ( p īr-i mugh ān), and drinks the dregs of the wine, which
make him mindful of the moment God breathed the soul into man’s body. This moment
is depicted as a drunken ecstasy. Persian ghazals create a paradoxical piety in which the
reader is advised to internalize religion, to personalize his bond with God, and to avoid
public respect, which may lead to hypocrisy. This Qalandari genre became an essential
part of the Persianate literary traditions from the Balkans to Bengal. Even Ayatollah Kho-
meini’s ghazals strictly follow this centuries-old tradition: surprisingly enough, he is a
modern exponent of Qalandari poetry. 22
The Qalandari motifs are strongly exploited by San āʾī, ʿAṭṭā r and Fakhr al-D ī n ʿIr ā qī.
The following ghazal by ʿAṭṭā r is an example of the figure of the Christian boy. In such
ghazals, references are made to Christian religious elements such as the church, the bell,
the cross and zunn ār or the “Christian belt.” The zunn ār refers to the identifying belt that
Christians were required to wear, showing their otherness. The taverns, brothels and other
such places were situated at the periphery of the society and were associated with disrep-
utable life. Through their positive interpretation of places such as Christian cloister and
tavern, and accoutrements such as the bell and belt, mystics created a strong ambiguity,
seriously questioning the piety of religious Islamic scholars. The centrality of the Qalan-
dari motifs created an ambiguous space in which the concept of piety could be appraised.
ʿAṭṭā r’s ghazal is an example showing how Persian mystics integrated the Christian other
into the centre of their religiosity:
I saw at the door of a cloister a Christian youth,
deeply religious, adorned like an idol last night.
With a belt around his waist while he was coming out of the cloister,
folding his hat to become enchanting and delightful.
When I saw his eyes and lips, I changed a hundred times,
As I saw this Christian youth, I turned powerless, stunned,
He came drunk at my side, in one hand the belt, in the other the wine.
He sat at my side, saying: “if you want to be one of us,
You can be with us tonight, you will be the crown of our heads.
We will find rest through you, you will find rest through us;
I will serve you with my soul without any obligations or demand,
I confer a hundred favours on you if you come at my side tonight.”
I went to his cell and drank from the wine of his love,
Instantly my heart found a way to revelation.
ʿAṭṭā r grew baffled and bewildered through his love;
He stayed at the cloister, bartering my religion for Christianity.23
The apex of the Persian mystical ghazal is Ḥā fi ẓ who masterfully combines various themes
and motifs in each couplet of his ghazal. As an example, I analyse the following ghazal:
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1. For years our heart beseeched us for the cup of Jamshīd;

asking strangers for that which it itself possessed.
2. The pearl, which transcends the shell of Place and “to Be,’”
was searching for the lost ones on the sea-shore.
3. Last night I took my problem to the Magi Elder,
who resolved the riddle with the aid of his [inner] vision.
4. I found him cheerful and smiling with a cup of wine in his hand
Seeing in that mirror (the cup of Jamshīd) a hundred kinds of spectacles.
5. I said: “When did the Wise give you this world-reflecting cup?”
He said: “On the day that He was building this enamel dome.”
6. There was one who had lost his heart: God was with him under all conditions
But he did not see Him, and called out “O God,” as if from far off.
7. All the wonder-work performed here:
S ā mir ī was doing too, before the rod and White Hand of Moses.24
8. The Elder said: “The friend, whose head went up upon the gallows,
his crime was the revelation of the secrets.
9. If the emanation of the Holy Spirit favours us again,
others too may perform that which Jesus did.”
10. I said to him: “What are these chains of the beloved’s locks for?”
He said: “Ḥāfiẓ is complaining about his mad heart.”25
The poem conveys the complaint of a poet lover about his own heart, followed by a dialogue
between him and his spiritual guide, ending with a reference to the poet Ḥāfiẓ (the takhallus) who
also appears to complain of his heart. Ḥāfiẓ is addressed by an unidentified person. There are
also several other persons present in the poem such as Christ; Sāmirī, a magician who appears in
stories about Moses (Qur’ān 20:85–98); and the mystic Ḥallāj who lost his head on the gallows.
As in Ḥāfiẓ’s other poems, this ghazal is polyphonic, which means that there are several voices
present and that several themes, motifs and imagery are interwoven to point to the complexity
of the subject matter. The main theme revolves around the purification of the heart in order to
attain to mystical illumination. In this poem, Ḥāfiẓ is speaking about self-realization of the heart
as a traveller. In the first line, the poem’s persona refers to the mystic’s heart which, due to lack of
understanding, is searching outside itself for something which it possesses. The compound jām-i
Jam refers to the legendary cup of mythical king Jamshīd in which he could see all the events in
the world. The cup symbolizes the mystic’s heart, and a cup of wine.
The longing heart is unaware that it already possesses all the qualities of Jamsh īd’s cup.
Using a maritime image in the second couplet, the poet compares the heart to a pearl, which
is outside time and physical existence. “The shell of Place and ‘to Be’” alludes to the cre-
ated world: the pearl develops there but is more precious and more durable, but the heart is
unaware how costly it is. Here Ḥā fi ẓ introduces a paradox: in this material world the heart
belongs to the spiritual world but has forgotten its origin, and its own nature. Therefore,
it is searching for the Cup among those who have lost their way. These people do not dare
to enter the ocean, let alone to dive into it to win this pearl. In this couplet, Ḥā fi ẓ refers
to the physical and the transcendental heart. The first is the beating centre for our physical
existence in this world, while the spiritual heart belongs to another realm. God entrusts His
secrets to the transcendental heart. One way to realize the spiritual potential of this heart is
through asceticism. Disciplining one’s soul through sleeplessness, isolation and eating as little
food as possible polishes the mirror of the heart so that the traveller can find union with the
Divine. Another way Ḥā fi ẓ suggests is through antinomianism, following the example of the
“Magian Elder,” who appears in the third couplet.
This Magian Elder is an antinomian mystic who resides in taverns and drinks wine, and is
able to solve any problem through his mystical intuition. This teacher frequently appears in
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Ḥā fi ẓ’s poetry, advising the inexperienced mystic lover. Here, the poet refers to the mystery
of the heart, which is a riddle to him. When the mystic approaches the Elder, he finds him
cheerful, perhaps under the effect of wine. Like Jamsh īd, he is looking at the cup and seeing
all the events of the world. This imagery creates coherence in the images used so far, linking
the cup, the heart and the mirror. Here Ḥā fi ẓ depicts the gifts of the Elder, his comport and
his familiar posture, holding a cup of wine in his hand. The poet combines the wine and
antinomian genres as an obligatory quality of the teacher. It is as if Ḥā fi ẓ wants to say that
antinomianism is a prerequisite to see the secrets of the unseen.
In the fifth couplet, there is a dialogue between the mystic and his teacher. “The Wise”
(ḥak īm) is one of the 99 beautiful names of God, and the phrase “on that day” refers to the
day God fashioned the enamel dome, that is, the world. Ḥā fi ẓ is referring to the creation of
the heart. According to Sufis, the first thing God created was the human heart, in which
he placed his love and concealed his treasures.26 In the sixth couplet, Ḥā fi ẓ presents a mystic
traveller who has “lost” his heart, and has forgotten that God is with him all the time. Ḥā fi ẓ
introduces here a paradox: the traveller has the means to attain to God but does not see it, he
shouts God from a distance. The “seeing” is itself an impediment to perceive God. The trav-
eller is not aware, as the mystical maxim reads, that the “inability to perceive the perceiving
is [itself a] perception.” The compound bīdil literally “without a heart” at the beginning of
the couplet says that mystic traveller has forgotten the heart’s transcendental origin. The
heart is the site for intuition, knowledge and consciousness. Being unaware of his own heart,
the traveller is unable to perceive reality. Ḥā fi ẓ turns the adjective bīdil into the noun bīdilī,
“a person without any heart,” to create a predicate for the mystic lover. Although bīdil also
means having lost one’s heart to the beloved, that is not the connotation here. The couplet
also points at the antithesis of the outward and inward. The mystic lover has focussed on
the outward but must look inward to find God. This antithesis appears quite frequently in
mystic works, for example, in the topos of “the Kaʿba of the heart,” where God resides, versus
“the Kaʿba of the clay,” the “House of God” in Mecca. Mystics are admonished to avoid the
physical Kaʿba and focus on the heart to perceive God.
The antithesis is further elaborated in the seventh couplet when the poet introduces the
dichotomy between the real and the false, between knowledge acquired through reason and
direct knowledge from God, or “Gnosis.” All the finite intellect can perceive of the infinite
Reality is like Sā mir ī’s magic show that tricks the intellect into seeing illusions, whereas the
God-given miracle of Moses unveiled a reality. In another poem, Ḥā fi ẓ states, “be happy, as
magic cannot equal a miracle; who is Sā mir ī to prevail over the White Hand?” The miracle
of the White Hand is mentioned in the Qur’ān (20:22): God commands Moses to press his
hand to his side, and it will come out “white, without disease.”27
In couplet eight, the Magi alludes to Ḥusayn Manṣū r Ḥallāj who was executed in Baghdad
in 922 due to his lawbreaking phrase ana’l-Ḥaqq (“I am God”). Ḥallāj is characterized as a
friend, but one who revealed secrets which should remain hidden. The spiritual master is
preparing the mystic lover to rely on Gnosis, so that he can see God in his own heart. This
Gnosis is a gift, a secret, which must remain between the mystic and God. In couplet nine,
Ḥā fi ẓ refers to the emanation theory in which God is modelled as a Fountain of Light that
constantly creates and maintains the creation. Ḥā fi ẓ connects this to the Holy Spirit, refer-
ring to Jesus and his miracles. Again in this line, Ḥā fi ẓ is emphasizing the importance of the
miracle, as God’s direct gift conferred on an individual. Without God’s aid, it is not possible
to perform any miracles. In Persian poetry, Jesus is associated with a quickening breath that
gives life to clay (Qur’ān 5:110). His ability to revive the dead is also compared to the beloved
who is able to kiss the separated anguished lover to restore his waning soul.28 This reference
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to Jesus may also point at the dichotomy of the divine and human, as prophets such as Jesus
had two natures. The “Perfect Man” is said to be constantly in touch with the divine while
in human form. Since the universe depends on continual divine emanations, the mystic’s at-
tainment is a divine gift: its measure is how much is given, rather than how great the mystic’s
capacity may be. If all depends on emanations, then the miracles of Jesus could be replicated
if God so chose. The mystic’s dependence on the Holy Spirit is the corollary of the first and
sixth couplets, that God is not far off, if we but knew it. By referencing the life-giving mir-
acles of Jesus, rather than some other miracle, Ḥā fi ẓ makes the image do double duty: the
mystic is both the one in whom life is breathed and one who could, if the Holy Spirit granted
it, perform what Jesus did.
In the last couplet, the mystic lover poses an apparently unrelated question about the fa-
miliar poetic image of the beloved’s curly hair compared to the links of a chain. At first sight,
the question looks out of context but in the Elder’s answer, it becomes clear that the question
alludes to the hadith al-majāz qan ṭarat al- ḥaqīqa or “metaphor/illusion leads to truth/reality.”
The beautiful long tresses of the beloved can lead the mystic to the Truth. In other words,
earthly love is a bridge to the divine, and contemplating on the beauties of the beloved leads
to the knowledge of God. The allusion to the chains of the beloved’s hair indicates that these
lovely chains are meant to capture the lover’s heart. Love is the medium to aid the lover to
decipher the mysteries of the heart. However, the Elder’s answer does not unravel the already
familiar metaphor, rather he says that where the outer form is a questioner trying to unravel
the mysteries of things – as in this poem – the inner reality is a lover who is questioning his
heart. The reference to Ḥā fi ẓ also universalizes the complaint: the reader as a mystic lover
should realize that he is not the only person who does not know the mysteries of the heart.
In conclusion, this poem refers to self-realization, and self-reflection by creating different
dichotomies such as “self ” / “other”; “problem” / “resolve,” but also metaphors such as those
lost on the sea-shore and those who can find the pearl in the depth of the sea. The mystic can
achieve this self-realization through antinomians rather than ascetic discipline of polishing
the heart. The heart stands for an insightful mystic vision. The emphasis on the sense of sight
is enormous, but this is not physical seeing, but rather intuitive illumination. As the mystic
lover becomes able to look into his heart, he will realize that the pearl of intuitive vision is
actually seeking him. The words and metaphors alluding to sight are: na ẓar (vision / glance);
dīdamash (I saw him); āyina (mirror); ṣad g ūna tam āsh ā (a hundred kinds of looking/spectacle);
jām-i jah ān-bīn (the world-reflecting cup) and huvaydā (“revealed”), and there are, of course,
several metaphors related to illusionary seeing such as magic (shuʿbada).
Ghazals of abstinence
A recurrent subject in the mystical ghazals is abstinence, which emphasizes themes related
to uncertainties of the world, and preparation for death and the Hereafter. Middle Persian
wisdom literature deals essentially with moral instructions. It conveys wisdom (khirad) about
the world and how to live a life which brings benefit in both this world and the world here-
after. This literature lived on in Islamic times and was mixed with Islamic wisdom literature
(ḥikmat). According to De Bruijn, “There can be no doubt, however, that both Middle Persian
wisdom literature and the Arabic poems of abstinence did exert a great influence on Sufi liter-
ature.”29 Arab poets such as Abū ’l-ʿAtāhīya (d.c. 825), Abū Nuwās (d.c. 815) and a l-Mutanabbī
(915–985) composed poems on abstaining from the world, which came to be known as zuh-
diyyāt. The term zuhd refers to developing spiritual qualities to unite the mystic with God.
Another term, riyāżat, points to taming the wild horse of the lower self by chastening the
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body to such a degree that the imprisoned soul could be freed and return to its original abode.
Poems on abstinence depict the ascetic side of the mystic’s love. While the Qalandari themes
and motifs refer to extrovert love, zuhdiyyāt shapes the inner reality of the lover, who practises
vigils, seclusion, denial of appetites and silence to fully meditate on the Beloved. The common
features of these poems, as depicted in the following ghazal by Saʿdī, are the didactic message
of contempt for material existence and bidding farewell to the world:
You who deny the world of dervishes
Do you not know of their beliefs and wishes?
The treasure of needlessness and contentment is in a place
Which the Sultan and his kingdom cannot reach by force
No-one with reason would look for transient power
One who has reason would contemplate the end dire.
The rich man accumulated and ruefully disappeared
But the dervish has nothing to leave behind with remorse.
The former leaves the garden of life full of regret
Whereas the latter breaks free from material living.
He has nothing to worry about the Day of Judgement
Like a seagull which is not afraid of storm.
The Angel of Death kills strangers painfully
No pain though for the dervish familiar to Him.
A dervish lover is so free from need and greed
That he neither wants this world nor even the other.
The pact of love was made at the dawn of creation
He would not break his word even on pain of death.
I saw a lover, burnt by experience with nowhere to go,
I told him, Friend do not sacrifice your life for your beliefs.
Ah, he said, weak with a cold painful sigh,
Please leave alone me who have nothing of mine.
I will never listen to your good word of advice
For I seek pain and need no cure otherwise
Life is dear, Saʿdī, to be lived wise
Time is not wasted except by the unwise.30
Ghazals have remained popular down to the present day. The prolific poets Ṣāʿib of Tabriz
(1601–1677) and Bīdil (d. 1720) in India, who tried to outstrip previous mystic poets in both
quantity and quality, must be mentioned. From the twentieth century, while the mystical
ghazal remained popular with several poets, it also received criticism as Sufism was seen as
“evil teachings” by secular intellectuals such as A ḥ mad Kasrav ī (1890–1946), who criticized
Ḥā fi ẓ and Saʿd ī.31 Poets such as Shaf īʿī Kadkan ī are living examples proving the ghazal’s mer-
its and potential as a living form of Persian mystic poetry.
Stories and narratives

From the eleventh century, the Sufis employed courtly love poetry to express their mystical
teachings. While initially quatrains and ghazals were popular, rhyming couplets (mathnavī )
soon took a place, due to the simple rhyme scheme (aa, bb, cc, etc.). The mathnavī was ini-
tially used mainly for heroic topics but it proved an adaptable form for theoretical expose,
allegories and didactic entertaining narratives. Sanāʾī must be credited with establishing the
foundations for theorizing Sufism in verse. His Ḥadīqat al- ḥaqīqa (“The Garden of Truth”)
contains 10,000 couplets (and in a shorter version, 5,000 couplets), dealing with religious
and ethical subjects. Citations from this work and the number of manuscripts testify to its
popularity through the centuries in a wide geographic area. Sanāʾī’s poem became a model
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for poets such as ʿAṭṭār, Ni ẓā m ī, Rū m ī and Saʿd ī. Although due to its wide range of subjects,
Ḥad īqa has been called an “encyclopaedia of Ṣū fism,” this is, as De Bruijn observes, a “mis-
leading qualification” as all subjects are “subordinated to the didactic discourse.”32 For Sanāʾī
narratives are less important than the didactic message. He uses fewer and shorter stories
than, for instance, Rū m ī in his Mathnavī.
In this massive poem, Sanāʾī deals with a wide range of topics ranging from asceticism to
ethical subjects including passionate love. He presents his material by usually giving a defi-
nition of the terms he treats, often but not always accompanied by anecdotes. His treatment
of the concept of love is unique in the way he theorizes love in verse:
Love came like a robber of the heart that steals the soul;
she came to dissect the head and to reveal the secret.
Love tells the secret to those whose heads are cut off
because she knows that the head is a telltale.
Love does not go towards any created thing;
loverhood can be attained by those who have arrived.
Love is the speaker that explains the hidden meanings;
love is the dresser with a naked body.
Love came like water that burns the fire;
love came like fire that burns water.
Love is free from the four nails of the body;
love is a wise bird, knowing how to break the cage.33
Muʿayyad Nasaf ī, an important but less-known poet, followed Sanāʾī’s example in writing
homiletic mathnav īs in the twelfth century. Another influential poet who imitated Ḥadīqa
was Ni ẓā m ī. He introduced several innovations in his Makhzan al-asrār (about 1166) to em-
phasize the originality of his own poem. The poem has a different metre, and the organiza-
tion is well-ordered, contrasting theoretical parts from illustrative anecdotes.34 The leitmotiv
in this poem is the rule of justice to which several chapters are devoted. This theme is also
integrated with the Sufi universe. Perhaps the most attractive story is the complaint of an old
woman to Sultan Sanjar, telling in a moving language how badly she is treated, physically
and mentally, by the police, and why the Sultan should think of his role in this transient
world, warning him of the approaching the Day of Judgment. Ni ẓā m ī wrote five epic poems
known as (khamsa), which inspired generations of poets wherever Persian literary influence
reached. Ni ẓā m ī’s Makhzan was imitated by many celebrated poets such as Am ī r Khusraw,
Khwājū Kirm ān ī and Jā m ī.
Among the Ḥadīqa imitations, mention should be made of Saʿd ī’s B ūst ān (“The Orchard,”
1257), a masterpiece of mystic poetry. It consists of some 4,000 couplets, dedicated to the
Salghur īd At ābak Mu ḥammad b. Saʿd b. Abū-Bakr.35 The B ūst ān together with the Gulist ān
(“The Rose-Garden”) were favourite books for the education of the youth from the Balkans
to Bengal until the early twentieth century. Saʿd ī’s works were translated into European lan-
guages from the seventeenth century. As De Bruijn rightly says, while “Nezâmi appears to
be mainly concerned with the preparation of the human soul for its eternal destination,” (…)
“Sa’di preaches a moderately ascetic attitude towards life in this world, the pious acceptance
of God’s will, and mystical love.”36 As a counterpart of his prose magnum opus Gulist ān, the
B ūst ān is organized in ten chapters, each devoted to an ethical subject, ranging from justice
to benevolence, piety, humility, love, good education, repentance, welfare and private con-
versation with God. Written by a master story-teller, the B ūst ān contains some 160 stories,
which should be regarded as didactic illustrations, as the poem’s goal is to ennoble the soul
and to emphasize the world’s ephemeral nature and the preparation for Judgment Day, in
which love is the leading force to bring the soul to the place of return.37
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Sufi poets used various mediums to depict the soul’s journey. One favourite allegory was
the ascension of the Prophet through the spheres to meet God. The stations of this journey
have been painted in mesmerizing and spellbinding paintings in which the prophet, his won-
drous steed Bū r āq and Gabriel play a central role. Although poets had depicted the Prophet’s
journey prior to Ni ẓā m ī, he standardized the miʿrāj genre as part of the narrative. His many
emulators composed their own creative miʿrāj-n āmas. Each introductory part of Ni ẓā m ī’s ep-
ics contains a chapter on the prophet’s night sojourn. The inclusion of such spiritual journeys
in a story suggests a mystical interpretation for the story itself. In the romance Laylī and Ma-
jn ūn, Layl ī could easily stand for God while Majnū n is a mystic lover. One goal of the miʿrāj
is to show how to divest oneself of material existence, annihilating oneself, to be admitted to
a loving union with the divine. The union is exclusively for human beings. In the Prophet’s
miʿrāj, when he reaches the end of the world, he sees that the Archangel Gabriel cannot fly
any further. Gabriel explains that if he takes one more step, his wings will burn. This shows
the high position of mankind. The Prophet goes beyond time and place, arriving at the sea
of selflessness, totally stripped of his humanity, immersed and annihilated in Divinity:
Companions left behind, he pressed
on the Sea of Selflessness; (…)
Beyond his being’s bounds he trod,
till he achieved the sight of God.
He saw outright the Worshipped One,
and cleansed his eyes of all but Him;
Nor did in one place rest his sight,
as greetings came from left and right.
All one – front, back, left, right, high and low,
the six directions were no more (…)
When sight is veiled by direction,
the heart’s not free from false perception.38
Following the prophet’s example, mystics such as Abū Yazīd experienced the miʿrāj, describ-
ing their meeting and dialogue with God. This union symbolizes the mystic’s highest attain-
able spiritual goal. He has achieved the level of a Perfect Man. Such a man is partly divine
and partly earthly, expected to guide his fellow men.
Allegorical poetry
Persian Sufis also used allegory to convey complex mystical doctrines and concepts. An early
specimen is Sanāʾī’s Sayr al-ʿibād il ā ‘l-maʿād (“The Journey of the Servants to the Place of
Return”), depicting the development of the soul in a spiritual journey. The poet starts with
the moment of conception, the development of the foetus under the influence of the planets,
the birth and the development of the soul under the guidance of Active Intellect. The poet
depicts how the soul realizes that it does not belong to this material world and longs to return
to its original abode. Given the centrality of the soul’s ascension them, and the figure of an
old man, symbol of the Rational soul, who guides the narrator like Virgil in Dante’s Divine
Comedy, the poem is sometimes regarded as a forerunner of Dante’s poem, but there is no
hard evidence for this. In the following piece, the first meeting with Active Intelligence is
depicted:
Finally one day, upon a narrow path
I saw from the middle of darkness
An old man, a gentle man who exuded light
Like a faithful Muslim among unbelievers,
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With a tender and loving face, full of modesty

He was profound and reflective, yet nimble and agile.
Born of time, yet more pleasant than Time;
An old being, yet fresher than a new spring.
All his inner sights formed his traits
He was all the heart, the seven limbs and the six directions.
His steps were full of light, so pure;
The shadow of his back was the mirror of his belly.
He was the head of the horizons while he had no feet;
He was the cause of space while he had no place.
I said: “O candle of these nights;
O Messiah of all feverish longings,
What are all these splendor, perfection and nobility?
What is all this grace, loveliness and beauty?
Sometimes a king is searching to reach the feet of someone like you;
How could this dark earth be the place of a moon like you?
You are so weighty in your essence while you are light in your burden;
Who are you? Where does your essence come from?”39
An allegory of world literature stature is ʿAṭṭār’s Man ṭiq al- ṭayr (“Conference of the Birds”),
which narrates the search of a group of birds for their king S ī murgh. The birds start their
journey under the guidance of the hoopoe, passing through seven valleys, symbolizing the
mystical stages. Most give up the journey on various pretexts. Finally, 30 birds arrive at
the court of S ī murgh on Mount Qā f. They call out to the king but they do not hear any
response. At this moment, the frustrated birds discover that they themselves are the sī murgh
(“thirty birds”). ʿAṭṭār shows that the journeying is essential for self-realization. He elabo-
rates on the significance of the mirror and why developing a mystic vision to scrutinize one-
self in the mirror of the heart is essential to prepare the way to see the divine within oneself.
Mystical allegories were written through the centuries, but a strong tendency for allegory
starts in the fifteenth century, with poets such as Fatt āḥī Nayshāpū r ī (born 1448) who wrote
a 5,000-couplet poem Ḥusn-u dil (“Beauty and the Heart”). The title is the names of the two
protagonists who exemplify various aspects of mystical love and heavenly beauty. Fatt āḥī also
wrote a short prose version of the poem. Ḥusn-u dil became popular with Turkish poets who
translated it several times.40 Jā m ī wrote several mystical allegories such as Yūsuf-u Zulaykh ā
(completed 1483), based on the twelfth Sura of the Qur’ān, and Layli and Majnun.41
Conclusion
In this brief survey, we have seen how Persian mystical poetry is used for diverse purposes, as an
expression of personal spiritual experiences, in didactic manuals, and in sermons to rhetorically
strengthen an argument. Poetry also functioned as a means for meditation either privately or in
collective rituals such as samāʿ. During such rituals erotic poetry was chanted to bring the partici-
pants to mystical ecstasy. In such a context, in which the verses of the Qur’ān were recited side by
side with the erotic earthly poetry, the rituals gave poetry a hallowed status, depicting the mystic’s
passionate love for God. Moreover, since poetry was used by saints, it attained a sanctified status,
as a model for the earnest to emulate and a cherished treasure for ordinary people. The attribu-
tion of magical healing qualities to specific quatrains testifies to the position of mystical poetry in
Persian culture. Poetry was also a medium for theoretical reflection and the elucidation of mystic
concepts and doctrines. Persian mystic poetry is a living tradition with diverse functions in the
upbringing of individuals and in many cultural domains. It enjoys an elevated status in at least
three different realms: in the realm of poetic ambiguity which allows ever new interpretations;
198
in the realm of visual culture, not merely in terms of tangible metaphors and imagery but also
in paintings and calligraphy; and in the realm of recitation and music, as many mystic poems
have been used for centuries in a musical setting to augment the message to the audience. The
innumerable published editions of Persian mystic poetry attest the popularity of this centuries-old
tradition, at whose centre one finds teachings of love.
Notes

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PART TWO
The middle period

15
SUFI ORDERS IN THE MEDIEVAL
PERIOD
Lloyd Ridgeon
Introduction
Subsequent to the ascetics and pietists of the seventh and eighth centuries, the early Sufis
of the ninth and tenth centuries and also among the great Sufi masters of the twelfth
century, scholars have observed a major development in the tradition during the thir-
teenth century. Alexander Knysh argues that the period witnessed the emergence of
the Sufi “Order” (tar īqa) as a social institution, within which there were five common
components.1 First was a spiritual genealogy (silsilah) that connected individual Sufis to
the Prophet to demonstrate the ṭar īqa’s authenticity. Second, certain rules and conditions
were to be met concerning admission to the ṭar īqa , such as the oath of allegiance to the
Shaykh (otherwise known as the p īr or murshid). Third, there were instructions in the
literature about specific litanies, or invocations to God (s. dhikr / pl. adhk ār). Fourth,
the ṭar īqa included directions about khalwat (seclusion), another major ritual of the Sufis
which typically involved periods spent in isolation for prayer, recital of litanies and con-
centration and focus upon the divine. Lastly, communal living within the Sufi convent,
or kh ānaq āh involved the observance of rules and regulations, which were specific to
each ṭar īqa. Knysh’s analysis correlates well with hagiographies that were written in the
thirteenth to fourteenth centuries, as they display the same concerns, in addition to por-
traying the virtues and powers of the saint. 2 The emergence of the ṭar īqa assumes signifi-
cance because it assisted the establishment of Sufism as a “mass institutionalised religion”3
which had implications in the ways that both figures of authority and the general masses
conceived of power-relations, be they religious, political, social or economic. The lack
of centralised authority in many regions of the Islamic world in the wake of the demise
of the Abbasid Caliphate in 1258 left a vacuum in which the Sufis were able to contrib-
ute significantly for several centuries. Green has argued that the Orders “developed into
mechanisms of tradition capable of reproducing the standardized and proprietary method
of a given Sufi across time and distance.”4 This does not mean that a singular form of
a ṭar īqa emerged triumphant; indeed, even after the fall of the Caliphate, Sufism is best
represented as a hydra, possessing a core of similar doctrines, values and practices, but
each head manifested specific geographical variegation, as the subsequent chapters in this
section so graphically illustrate.
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Despite the general scholarly consensus about the emergence of the ṭar īqa at this historical
juncture there remain large gaps in the academic understanding of this period of Sufi history.
For example, Carl Ernst and Bruce Lawrence have observed, “Despite the abundance of texts
about Sufi orders, their place in the emergence of Islamic civilization remains unclear.”5 It
is this question that the present chapter addresses. The absence of a simple, coherent and be-
lievable answer to this question is indicative of the complexity of the problem. This chapter
proposes that the development and emergence of the Sufi ṭar īqa by the end of the thirteenth
century is best explained with reference to several factors; there was not just a single, sim-
plistic cause.
Before investigating the topic at hand it is worthwhile making an observation about the
terminology that is frequently used. Scholars in the West have employed the term “Order”
to refer to a Sufi ṭar īqa (pl. ṭur ūq). The word “Order” demonstrated to the early generations of
such scholars the “underlying affinity [of these Sufi associations] with the monastic orders of
Christian Europe.”6 However, there are differences between the Sufi ṭur ūq and the monastic
orders, and since space does not allow a full deliberation on the subject, just one example will
suffice. This concerns the difference in the relative lack of a hierarchical authority in the Sufi
case, which contributed to decentralisation among the various Sufi communities compared
with overarching power structure of the Vatican in the Christian West. It is sufficient for
readers to be aware that there are dangers in employing Christian influenced terminology,
and therefore, in this chapter the Arabic ṭar īqa / ṭur ūq is used as much as possible.
This demarcation of the thirteenth century as the point when that the Sufi ṭur ūq emerged
as identifiable structures was preceded by the attempts by Sufis themselves to delineate various
streams of Sufi thought and practice. Early examples of Sufis creating taxonomies of different
groups in order to distinguish between correct and incorrect forms of Sufism may be discov-
ered in the works of Sufis, including Abū Naṣr al-Sarrāj (d. 988) and Abū Ḥāmid al-Ghazālī
(d. 1111). Their groupings focussed on Sufis that were deemed reprehensible.7 However, their
efforts were not based on Sufis who were representative of and operated within social organ-
isations. Likewise, “invented” taxonomies are visible in the work of Hujw īr ī, writing in the
eleventh century, who described twelve groups in his Kashf al-Maḥjūb.8 It has been argued that
his taxonomy of Sufi groups also represents an attempt to make sense of the different streams
of Sufi ontological and epistemological thought, rather than the descriptions of actual institu-
tionalised Sufi associations.9 Hujwir ī’s time, the eleventh century, is too early for a date for the
emergence of the ṭur ūq. A more probable starting point of departure for the emergence of the
ṭur ūq is the twelfth century (at the earliest) and a gradual development through the thirteenth
and into the fourteenth centuries in the Islamic heartlands and North Africa, Central Asia
and the Indian sub-continent. This chapter serves as an introduction to the ṭur ūq (several of
which are studied in the chapters subsequent to this) that came to prominence in the Islamic
world during the medieval period (that is from about the thirteenth century until the appear-
ance of the Gunpowder Empires, the Safavids (1501–1722), the Ottomans (1453–1922) and the
Moghuls (1526–1857), by the early sixteenth century).
The beginnings of a theory: Trimingham’s

organisation and discipline
A seminal work on the Sufi ṭur ūq remains J. Spencer Trimingham’s The Sufi Orders in Islam,
first published in 1971.10 This work has been criticised on a number of counts. For example,
Simon Digby pointed to Trimingham’s failure to detail the “historical factors responsible for
the great diffusion of Ṣū f ī organisations through the Islamic world in the twelfth century
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Sufi orders in the medieval period
A.D.”11 Nevertheless, the work remains one of the most influential texts for scholars working
on the Sufi tradition, and indeed Trimingham did point to three major historical changes to
early Sufism that resulted in the institutionalisation of the tradition. The first was the use of
increasingly large convents, or kh ānaqāhs (and also smaller complexes). The second was the
development of the teacher-pupil relationship within the kh ānaqāh, which was transformed
into a director-disciple one, and this reflected a change from adherence based on piety to
one based on initiation.12 The third reason was the addition to the kh ānaqāh complex of “an
honoured tomb,” which focussed the Sufi lineage through a chain of masters with a partic-
ular form of rituals back to Mu ḥammad.
Trimingham directed his readers to the contexts and reasons that explain for these
three changes (despite Digby’s criticisms). He referred to the use of convents among other
Islamic schools (such as the Karr ā miyya),13 which spread rapidly across Khur ā sān and as
far as Jerusalem. The success of such bases, and also of the madrasa system of schooling for
Islamic studies, provided models that the Sufis were to copy in order to gain more adherents
and popularity. Similarly, Trimingham also noted the growth and influence of the futuwwa
guilds that offered Sufism a model of institutionalisation by which it could moderate its fol-
lowing. The model of futuwwa included a spiritual lineage, oaths of obedience to the head
of the organisation, specific garments and communal rituals within an established meeting
place.14 Interestingly, the parallels between the institution of futuwwa and Sufism were drawn
by contemporaneous Sufi masters themselves.15 And lastly, Trimingham noted the decline
of Sh ī ‘ ī Islam as a political (and religious) force in the region (and the associated practice of
giving an oath of loyalty, or ba‘ya), and this vacuum may have been filled by Sufi sentiments,
in which obedience and loyalty were significant elements of the path. While Trimingham’s
interests and contribution to Sufi studies should be noted (indeed, in the following I build
on several of his observations), the nature of his project did not permit him to pay sufficient
attention to the political, economic and religious backgrounds that underlay the changes and
manifestations of the ṭur ūq.
Matrices of power, piety, patronage and populism

In his Muslim Communities of Grace Jamil Abun-Nasr argues that insufficient attention has
been paid to the decline of centralised political authority, in the form of the caliphate, to ex-
plain for the emergence of the ṭur ūq. He claims that the eponymous Sufi leaders acted as spir-
itual guides of their local communities, which was at times outside of caliphal control, and
even in defiance of it. These Sufi leaders were able to enjoy such independence because their
followers regarded Sufi authority as a “credible alternative” to caliphal power.16 Abun-Nasr’s
theory is not completely innovative, as for long scholars have observed how the Seljuq rulers
(from the twelfth century onwards) provided patronage to the Sufis.17 Sufi hagiographies
of the medieval period contain anecdotes that suggest the ultimate authority belonged to
the Sufis and not to the caliph, or local military commanders. The anonymous hagiogra-
phy of Awḥad al-Dī n Kirm ān ī (d. 1238) illustrates the point very well. In one episode of
this work Kirm ān ī was offered the territory and “throne” of a commander by the name of
Gökböri who ruled Erbil.18 And in another episode he was able to assemble 200 dervishes
who besieged a castle which was being held by a rebel, and they successfully returned it into
the hands of the local emir. However, Abun-Nasr’s theory is not completely water-tight,
as demonstrated in the case of Abū Ḥaf ṣ ‘Um ār Suhraward ī (d. 1234). Suhraward ī was the
spiritual guide of the caliph al-Nāṣir li-Dī n Allāh (d. 1225), and he had been the recipient
of the sumptuous al-Marz ūbaniyya kh ānaqāh in Baghdad. However, the caliph dismissed
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Suhraward ī from his post, possibly because the Sufi enjoyed the prestige of his position a
little too much, revelling in the gifts and presents he had received following one of the
“diplomatic-spiritual” missions.19
Patronage was clearly a significant factor in the emergence of Sufism, and power and
political considerations were entwined with the development of Sufism even before the
Seljuqs appeared as rulers in the region. To comprehend this point it is necessary to ap-
preciate that after the controversial death of Ḥ all āj in 922 CE, the Sufi tradition became
somewhat cautious in expressing the “secrets” of the human-divine relationship, which
Ḥ all āj had supposedly revealed in his famous words “I am the Truth,” suggestive of unity
between man and God. Subsequent to Ḥ all āj, Sufism became “sober,” cautious and pious,
typified in the writings of Sulam ī (d. 1021), 20 Qushayr ī (d. 1072), 21 Hujw ī r ī (d. 1077)22 and
Ghaz ā l ī (d. 1111). However, in their attempts to nurture and expand their support base,
the Seljuq local commanders and princes courted the Sufi masters, believing that they held
considerable sway over local populations. To this end, the Seljuqs bestowed their patronage
upon Sufis and granted them kh ānaq āhs and other financial benefits. Consequently, the
Sufis had the space and perhaps the growing confidence to express themselves, both in
literature and in ritual activity, with more freedom than the eleventh- and twelfth-century
Sufis. It is certainly true that some kh ānaq āhs were huge complexes and lavishly furnished,
like “decorated palaces,” to use the description of Ibn Jawz ī, 23 while the Sa‘ īd al-Su‘ad ā
kh ānaq āh in Cairo could accommodate up to 300 dervishes.24 In effect, power became
decentralised under the Seljuqs and adjacent areas, and the Sufi shaykh assumed increasing
influence within society. Indeed, the hagiographical literature portrays Sufi shaykhs ad-
judicating over spiritual matters as well as the personal and seemingly mundane affairs of
their followers. The collection of letters that are attributed to Rū m ī (d. 1273), published
under the title Makt ūb āt, shows that he asked high-ranking individuals for favours in se-
curing employment, finance and protection for his friends and associates.25 Clearly, Sufi
spirituality cast a very wide net.
And as the patronage increased, so did the claims of the Sufis and belief in their charis-
matic powers. By the thirteenth century, and due to the Mongol invasions of Central Asia
and Iranian heartlands, Anatolia became a safe location with Sufis looking for protection and
patronage from Seljuq rulers. This only served to increase the sheer diversity of the tradition,
which will be discussed in due course. Caution needs to be exercised with the discussion
about patronage, however, as some Sufi communities and distinguished individuals shunned
connections with political power and financial resources. A good example of such Sufis is
Ni ẓā m al-Dī n Awliyā (1238–1325), a representative of what became known as the Chishti-
yya order in India.
Trimingham’s attempts in the early 1970s to address the question as to why the Sufi
ṭur ūq emerged when they did are an advance on previous efforts, such as the remarks made
by A.J. Arberry in 1950 that the rise of the ṭur ūq reflected the decay of Muslim society
and culture and the victory of the “credulous masses.”26 His choice of the term “credulous
masses” is at best unfortunate. Certainly, a more appropriate understanding was expressed
by the historian Marshall Hodgson who, as mentioned in the introduction, called Sufism
of the medieval period “a mass institutionalised religion.”27 That the masses, credulous or
not, were interested in Sufism there can be little doubt. This would explain why Sufi texts
in the twelfth century, typified by Abū’l-Najīb Suhraward ī’s Ādāb al-mur īdīn,28 give a list of
dispensations from “normative” Sufi behaviour for novices. There were clearly individuals
who wished to benefit from some kind of association with the Sufis and their master, and
206
their activities in the kh ānaqāh. It may have been “credulous” spiritual benefit, and it may
also have been something rather more mundane such as the enjoyment of participating in
communal rituals, including listening to poetry or music for “spiritual” purposes, or the
possibility of the Sufi guide acting as an intercessor for material benefit. For some, it may
even have provided a personal and alternative form of piety to the “scholasticism of orthodox
theologians,”29 although it should be remembered that some Sufis themselves endorsed the
positions adopted by theologians and clerics. Certainly, the hagiographies of the period are
replete with anecdotes in which respected and highly educated members of society engage in
the companionship of a leading Sufi. If hagiographies are not to be trusted, the travelogues
provide sufficient examples of the eminent engaging with Sufis for devotional practices. Ibn
Baṭṭūṭ a, the famous Moroccan traveller (d. 1368), left an account of his voyages in which
there are copious references to his encounters with Sufis, staying at Sufi lodges and even
initiation at the hands of a Sufi shaykh.30 Although he was not initiated as a “full-time” Sufi,
Ibn Baṭṭūṭ a received the baraka and perhaps even the material benefits that he was looking
for by connecting with a Sufi ṭar īqa, and the ṭar īqa benefitted by expanding, propagating its
message and possibly enhancing its prestige and possibility of winning patronage.
Sufi shaykhs
The patronage mentioned in the previous section was only possible through the existence
of Sufi guides and teachers, who in fact, enjoyed a position of veneration far in excess of dry
and academic respect. The importance of the Sufi guide was not a new phenomenon in the
twelfth and thirteen centuries, as they had commanded authority for several centuries prior
to this era. The case of Ḥallāj demonstrates the exception to the rule, and the reaction to his
behaviour is telling. Apparently, he skipped from one celebrated Sufi master to another in
his search of spiritual perfection,31 revealing a kind of “impulsiveness and sense of personal
calling and need for disengagement from control by the older shaykhs, which led him to
‘leave without asking permission’”32 Although this early example suggests the importance of
the shaykh’s control in the development of the novices, it is in a later period that the signif-
icance becomes increasingly obvious. Some have noted the emphasis given to Sufi shaykhs
in the twelfth century, for example, Fritz Meier remarked that the well-known image of the
shaykh as a corpse washer appears in this period.33 Perhaps the best illustration of the impor-
tance of the Shaykh was revealed by ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt (d. 1132) who observed that the control
and influence that the shaykh or pīr enjoys is such that he “witnesses himself in the mirror of
the soul of the aspirant (murid) …” [and] “the aspirant witnesses God in the soul of the pīr.”34
By the thirteenth century the authority of the Sufi shaykh was discussed by the aforemen-
tioned ‘Umar Suhraward ī, who pointed to the possibility of an aspirant having more than
one shaykh. And he mentions the robe of blessing (a gown given by a Sufi master to convey
spiritual blessing (khirqa-yi tabarruk)), which is contrasted with the robe of full-right (khirqa
bi- ḥaqq) that indicated the special relationship between the Sufi guide and his “real” master.35
In other words, the aspirant could only have one master, unlike the example set by al-Ḥallāj.
Gowns of initiation, or Sufi robes, are another indication of the tendency for specific lines
of lineage to emanate from a single master, strengthening the argument for the creation of
particular Orders at this time. As such, it was an indication of the authority of the Shaykh
and the specificity of his community of Sufis. The case of the Kubraw ī Order from Central
Asia and Khur ā sān is indicative of this. As a result of the Kubraw ī practice of reciting dhikr
and concomitant visions of coloured lights, it became a practice that “Kubraw ī” Sufis would
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“wear the colours they perceive in their visions.”36 Abuali argues in favour of the idea of
specific identities among Sufi groups in the thirteenth century, and claims that
as Sufi communities gradually became more self-consciously distinct, the claim to the
supremacy of sight over sound elevates the Kubraw ī method of recollection above oth-
ers. It allows Kubraw ī Sufis to advocate the effectiveness of their particular recollective
method, and by extension the superiority of their particular community.37
Another factor that illustrates significance and pre-eminence of the Sufi master at this time
is his authority to promote certain Sufis by issuing ijāzas, or certificates of permission to
teach texts that they had memorised and studied under him, and also “sanction to trans-
mit the khirqa and initiate others under his authority.”38 A case in point is the diffusion
of Suhraward ī’s form of Sufism into India, as a result of the initial efforts of Bahā’ al-Dī n
Zakariyyā (d. 1262). Such “official” and tangible evidence of Sufi authority was possibly one
of the key factors in the spread of particular forms of Sufism. Not all Sufi masters approved
of this kind of transmission of authority. One of the earliest indications of this is in the
anonymous thirteenth-century hagiography of Awḥad al-Dī n Kirm ān ī, which states that he
demanded no form of “ijāza, or letter (n āma) or other custom that existed in the way of the
former Shaykhs.”39 This may help explain for the absence of a specific Kirm āniyya Order,
even though Kirm ān ī is supposed to have advocated a rather idiosyncratic form of Sufism
that would have made such a ṭar īqa distinctive.
Sufi diversity
Another factor that has not yet been sufficiently recognised in relation to the emergence of
the ṭur ūq is the appearance of a wide range of Sufi pious activity, whether in terms of com-
posing literature, delineating specific beliefs or the performance of ritual practice. Among
the pious individuals called Sufis, we may include “antinomian” groups and individuals,
known collectively under the rubric “Qalandar” who emerged in the early thirteenth cen-
tury. Antinomian individuals were also referred to as muwallah and did not conform to any
recognised Sufi group, but rather they engaged in their own acts of piety and devotion (such
as sitting on dung heaps), which usually contravened the “normative” standards of behaviour
within Muslim societies.40 They were considered to be ambivalent, at best, in the perfor-
mance of canonical duties, although such accusations, which came from their opponents who
followed the minutest details of Islamic prescriptions, are to be treated with caution.41 The
origin of the Qalandars is normally associated with two individuals who sported unusual
forms of head or facial hair (either shaving it off, or growing it in an unconventional man-
ner), who shunned society and frequented mountainsides or graveyards, and refused to wear
usual clothing, occasionally appearing next to naked. In respects similar to the Qalandars
were the Rifā‘iyya Sufis, who traced their origin to Abū’l-‘Abbā s A ḥ mad al-Rifā‘ ī (d. 1183)
in Iraq, but who were soon to spread across much of the known Islamic world, and became
infamous for eating fire, putting heated iron in their mouths, biting the heads of snakes and
other unconventional practices.42
At the other extreme were more “refined” and “sophisticated” Sufis, such as Ibn ‘Arabī
(1165–1240), who is generally regarded as the founder of the school of thought known as the
unity of existence (wa ḥdat al-wujūd), which is contained in various articulations in complex
and intellectually challenging works such as the Fu ṣūṣ al-Ḥik ām and the Fut ūḥāt al-Makkiyah,
both of which intricately weave a range of Islamic disciplines into an encyclopaedic whole.43
208
But Ibn ‘Arabī was a Zāhir ī, and so respected the precise implementation of all aspects of
Islamic law. Moreover, his detailed and voluminous writings resulted in some Sufis regard-
ing him as too intellectual, verging almost on the philosophical.44 The compositions of
Abū Ḥaf ṣ ‘Umar Suhraward ī are often contrasted with those of Ibn ‘Arabī, in particular, his
‘Aw ārif al-ma‘ārif, a major manual of Sufism, dealing with communal life in the kh ānaqāh, is
sober and intellectually uncomplicated.45 But this text was highly influential and reflected
the practical and daily issues that faced Sufis in the kh ānaqāh. Similarly, the “simple” type
of Shādhiliyya Sufism which developed towards the end of the thirteenth century in North
Africa also reflects a type of uncomplicated and unpretentious piety that could be practised
by both intellectuals and those who preferred their spirituality less academically challenging.
At roughly the same time there were other Sufis who were composing works in a highly
ecstatic vein. In their Persian poetry, ‘Aṭṭār (d. 1220) and Rū m ī (d. 1273) described how
the many was simply an illusion caused by the multiplicity inherent in the world, and that
the ontological reality in the universe was unity, shared by God and humans alike.46 A
similar message in Arabic prose was relayed by Najm al-Dī n Kubr ā, associated by many as
the “founder” of the aforementioned Kubraw ī ṭar īqa, and who is famous for having trained
numerous articulate Sufis, who proceeded to propagate his message in Central Asia, Iran
and the Arab world.47 Diversity is also evident in the kinds of Sufi rituals which became
contentious, typified in the controversy surrounding one of the most (in)famous Sufis of the
thirteenth century, Awḥad al-Dī n Kirm ān ī.48 Despite directing the Marzubāniyya convent
in Baghdad for the last four years of his life (which was an appointment he received directly
from the caliph), Kirm ān ī was vilified by a number of leading Sufis in subsequent genera-
tions. This was most probably because of his supposed penchant for gazing at beautiful young
boys (sh āhid-bāzī ), and dancing during the sam ā‘ (a musical “concert” when Sufi poetry was
recited or sung).49 Well before Kirm ān ī’s time the sam ā‘ had some pedigree, and the tradition
of sh āhid-bāzī was not an uncommon activity, so the controversy surrounding Kirm ān ī is a
little difficult to explain. Nevertheless, it is also true that non-Sufis, such as Ibn Jawzī, were
vehemently opposed to the ritual.50
Qalandars, Rifā‘iyya Sufis, Ibn ‘Arabī, Abū Ḥaf ṣ ‘Umar Suhraward ī, Abūʼl-Ḥasan al-
Shādhil ī, ‘Aṭṭār, Rū m ī, Najm al-Dī n Kubr ā and Awḥad al-Dī n Kirm ān ī to name just a few;
it is a dizzying pantheon of Sufis and the list defies simple categorisation. It is to be wondered
if the Sufis themselves recognised that such a bewildering collection of individuals and their
various expressions and forms of devotion and piety contributed to the general confusion
that the “credulous masses” perceived within the larger tradition.
Christian influences and models

Another possible reason for the establishment of Sufi ṭur ūq in the thirteenth century is related
to the presence of Christian monasticism in Palestine, and the spread of Christian brother-
hoods in the region. Christian monasteries (in the form of Greek Orthodox and Armenian
denominations) had existed in the Middle East for many centuries prior to the thirteenth.
Monasteries were located in the Sinai desert, such as St Catherine’s, affiliated with the Or-
thodox Church, and there were a number of monasteries in the Armenian kingdom of
Cilicia (the influence of which spread down as far as Antioch), and of course there were such
institutions in Jerusalem and in the larger region of Palestine. In Palestine, monastic broth-
erhoods were known due to the presence of Carmelites, who traced their origin to hermits
who gathered at the well of Elijah on Mount Carmel.51 In the early thirteenth century a
group of hermits are said to have approached Albert, the Latin Patriarch of Jerusalem for a
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rule, or a religious way of life. Albert obliged and composed a rule of sixteen articles, many
of which resemble the kinds of lifestyles adopted by cenobitic Sufis.52 These conditions in-
cluded strict obedience to their prior, residence in individual cells, constancy in prayer and
a vow of poverty and of work. The rule was given official sanction by Pope Honorius III in
1226 and by Pope Gregory IX in 1229.
Roman Christian monastic orders with which Muslims might have been aware include
the Franciscans, especially in the wake of a rather unusual event related to the voyage of
Francis of Assissi (d. 1226) to Egypt in 1219. The details of the incident are shrouded in mys-
tery, partly because the sources come from Christian authors and none derive from Muslims.
The reason for Francis’ journey to Egypt where the Crusaders were unsuccessfully besieging
Damietta may have been to convert the Muslims. However, on landing in Egypt he was
captured and taken before the Egyptian Sultan, al-Malik al-K ā mil, who was the nephew of
the great Saladin (or Ṣalāḥ al-Dī n, d. 1193). There is no documentation to record the con-
versation between the two, but Francis was released a few days later, completely unharmed.53
It is to be speculated what al-Malik al-K ā mil made of St Francis; one modern commentator
calls him “a sort of Christian Sufi.”54 In addition to discussing the Crusades and the partic-
ular campaigns around Damietta, perhaps St Francis spoke of Christian spirituality, or the
various Christian brotherhoods, or his own spiritual Rule (the Regula primitiva) which had
been recognised by the Pope in 1210, and which was the basis for Franciscan life.
The Franciscans were to join other Christian groups already in the region of Jerusalem.
One of these was the Templars, which had been established in 1119 to protect pilgrims
journeying to Jerusalem, but which soon became involved in battles with Muslim forces.
Although sworn to individual poverty, the Templars as an organisation became incredibly
wealthy due to donations and receiving letters of credit. They were able to construct for-
tresses, cathedrals and other estates not just in Western Europe but in all territories that led to
Jerusalem, including, Cyprus, Syria and Palestine. But more pertinently, the Templars were
organised like a Christian brotherhood, based on the model of the Cistercians.55 The Tem-
plars as “militant monks” may even have reminded Sufis themselves that some authors traced
the roots of the movement back to certain individuals such as ‘Abdullāh Ibn al-Mubarak (d.
797) and Shaqīq al-Balkh ī (d. 810), who supported both a renunciant and ascetic lifestyle
while participating in armed battle against the non-believers.56
A similar model to the Templars was provided by the Hospitalliers, an Order founded in
the early eleventh century to provide care for the sick and needy among the pilgrims com-
ing to Jerusalem, based in a hospice in Jerusalem that had been run by the Order of Saint
Benedict. Following the victory of the Crusading forces in 1099 during the first Crusade,
the Hospitalliers became a religious and military establishment under a Papal charter. The
Order had three components: the military, the infirmarians and the chaplains, to whom was
entrusted the divine service. The Hospitalliers and the Templars became the most effective
and feared Christian forces during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, and it is inconceiv-
able that the Sufis of the time were unaware of them, especially as so many Sufis spent long
periods travelling the length and breadth of the Islamic world, and would have encountered
all sorts of people, from merchants and traders, soldiers, peasants, and also clerics and edu-
cated people. Sufis must have learnt about the various Christian brotherhoods, their organ-
isations, how spirituality became institutionalised and channelled into these structures, and
also about the Christian hospices and the rituals that were performed therein. Although it
is surprising that Sufi literature of the time does not refer to the Crusades or the Christian
forces, it is highly desirable that a full investigation of the topic of Christian influence on the
establishment of Sufi ṭur ūq in the thirteenth century is undertaken. Although similarity does
210
not prove that the Sufi ṭur ūq were influenced by Christian brotherhood structures in devising
models for their own creations, it is certainly a possibility worthy of further consideration.
The successful creation of a Ṭarīqa

The focus on the ṭur ūq in this chapter is the large popular variety, many of which encom-
passed huge swathes of territory. But even within certain regions there were many smaller
ṭur ūq that were created around the tomb of a saintly figure. For example, Ephrat has re-
searched Sufism in Palestine and has observed that by the end of the Mamluk period (the
beginning of the sixteenth century) “Palestinian cities … and their hinterland were dotted
with Sufi lodges and saintly tombs.”57 Moreover, caution needs to be exercised when reading
the word ṭar īqa in pre-modern texts because
the term ṭar īqa often denotes a method of spiritual guidance that was practiced by a par-
ticular Sufi guide rather than a method practiced by an institutional Sufi order or even
a well-established route in terms of doctrine, rules and rituals.58
Ephrat’s conclusion is borne out by examining the writings of a number of Sufis, which do
not offer any evidence of institutionalised Sufism. For example, ‘Azīz Nasaf ī was a Persian
Sufi who lived and wrote his Persian manuals and prose works in the second half of the thir-
teenth century when the ṭur ūq were in the process of formation, but his writings bear very
little trace of any kind of affiliation to Kubr āw ī Sufism which it has often been associated
with. His own guide, Sa‘d al-Dī n Ḥamūwayh, was a disciple of the eponymous “founder” of
the ṭar īqa, Najm al-Dī n Kubr ā (d. c. 1220).59
Yet it is true that the thirteenth century witnessed the rise of very large ṭur ūq, some of
which were specific to particular geographical regions, and others may be characterised as
“transregional.” One of the aims of this chapter has been to provide some suggestions which
may account for the rise of such large associations. The organisation and discipline theory, with
the spread of the khānaqāh, increasing authority of the Sufi shaykh, the realm of his power and
baraka that encompassed the “unseen,” greater levels of patronage, popular participation and
acceptance, and the presence of similar institutionalised movements among other religious tra-
ditions are all factors that help to explain for the development of Sufism into the ṭur ūq. The suc-
cess of the Sufi movement in the twelfth century led to the dramatic mushrooming of different
forms of Sufi activity, and it is to be wondered whether this resulted in a competition among
the leading Sufis to attract adherents to their specific forms. Certainly, the hagiographies from
the thirteenth century demonstrate an awareness of the very different manifestations of Sufism.
But it is unclear what the specific criteria were for establishing a ṭar īqa that lasted and was able
to re-create itself successfully over time. Among the criteria that were common among many
of the large and successful orders, it is possible to point to the following: (i) a tomb complex for
the “founder”; (ii) the existence of a recognised literary corpus; (iii) the development of spe-
cific rituals which denoted the particularity of the ṭar īqa and (iv) the geographical range of the
Sufi movement enabled these institutions to develop organically over time, and to evolve with
localised customs and traditions, and to interact with the established norms of specific form of
Islamic law (madhhab) in those areas.
Let us consider the above points in more detail.
i A significant number of the ṭur ūq were established after the death of the Sufi for whom
they are named, examples include the Mevleviyya (traced back to Rū m ī – who is
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known in Turkish as Mevlana), the Qādiriyya (named after ‘Abd al-Qādir al-Jī lān ī), the
Suhrawardiyya (whose followers look back to the teachings of ‘Umar Suhraward ī) and
the Badawiyya (which derives its origin from A ḥ mad al-Badaw ī).60 The creation of these
ṭur ūq was assisted by the establishment of substantial tomb complexes for the eponymous
founders (indeed the aforementioned all have substantial tombs, the first in Konya and
the second and third in Baghdad),61 which facilitated the tradition of visitation, or pil-
grimage. The economic and political benefits that are concomitant with pilgrimage,
usually on the death day, known as ‘urs, of the “founder”, can only have strengthened
the aforementioned ṭur ūq. However, not all major Sufis of the time were remembered
after their death with the construction of elaborate tomb complexes. For example, Ibn
‘Arabī had a wide following of Sufis in his time but after his death his “grave site lay
deserted and forgotten in the cemetery of Ibn Zaki [in Damascus], indicating that his
opponents, the jurists ( fuqah ā) had the upper hand in the city.”62 And it was only in the
sixteenth century that an elaborate complex was built over his grave, even though the
influence of his thought had been felt within Sufi circles, largely as a result of the activ-
ities of his students, including Ṣadr al-Dī n Q ū nāw ī (d. 1274). But no formal ṭar īqa was
named or formed after Ibn ‘Arabī.
ii While many of the ṭur ūq were established around the figure of a great literary master
(such as Rū m ī, Najm al-Dī n Kubr ā,63 ‘Abd al- Qādir al-Jī lān ī,64 and Abū Ḥaf ṣ ‘Um ār
Suhraward ī65) others could lay no such claim to such a scholarly legacy (such as the
Qalandariyya). And there were many literary Sufis from the same period who assem-
bled substantial groups of followers but yet failed to create a lasting legacy in the form
of a ṭar īqa (such as Ibn ‘Arabī and Awḥad al-Dī n Kirm ān ī). Yet a literary legacy was not
necessary in the establishment of a successful ṭar īqa, typified by the case of the Egyp-
tian Sufi, A ḥ mad al-Badaw ī, who did not compose anything, and yet his ṭar īqa, the
Badawiyya, has long been one of the most numerically strong in the region. Similarly,
Shadhil ī and his immediate successor “did not author a single work of Sufism.”66
iii While there is a core of ritual Sufi activity, it is the case that for many Orders, these
rituals became distinct and associated specifically within the ṭar īqa in question. Refer-
ence has already been made to some of these, such as the whirling of the Mevleviyya,
the body-piercing of the Rifā‘iyya, the Sh ī ‘ ī-flavoured rituals of the Bektashiyya, the
shar ī‘a inattentiveness of the Qalandariyya (along with their distinctive, and shocking,
physical appearance – which may have developed into a kind of ritual performance)
and the light-infused doctrines which informed the rituals of the Kubrawiyya. And yet
there were also orders which did not foreground any specific ritual activity, but instead
insisted upon the “normativity” of the common Sufi practice of dhikr, which was the po-
sition of the Shādhiliyya. The Shādhiliyya were not unique, as Trimingham observed,
“as a ṭar īqa the Badawiyya lacked any distinctive characteristic.”67
One last point worthy of consideration concerns the impact of the Mongol invasions upon
the development of the Sufi ṭurūq. That the cataclysmic arrival of the Mongols in the region
caused devastation in large sections of the Eastern half of the Islamic world must have neces-
sitated those in authority to step forward and assume responsibility for some kind of social
control and spiritual development. But this cannot be considered a sufficient reason for the
emergence of the ṭurūq because the latter also emerged during this period in North Africa,
where the Mongols did not set foot. Nevertheless, the vacuum in many Islamic communities
caused by the Mongol invasions must have resulted in new political, social and economic
configurations, and the presence of the Sufi shaykh must have assumed major importance.
212
The above brief discussion has suggested that there are no simple and sufficient rules that
explain for the emergence of a successful ṭar īqa. Several factors assisted in the process, such as
the ability of succeeding generations to popularise the Sufi in question, based on perceptions
of the efficacy of baraka received in visiting the tomb, the virtues of the Sufi in question and
the spread of his teachings. It is significant that the ṭur ūq associated with ‘Abd al-Qādir al-
Jī lān ī, Abū Ḥaf ṣ ‘Um ār Suhraward ī and Rū m ī were all carried on through the family line.68
Notes

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movement initially shunned all forms of conventional clothing and spent most of the time in vari-
ous stages of nakedness. See Ahmet Karamustafa, God’s Unruly Friends: Dervish Groups in the Islamic
Middle Period 1200–1550 (Oxford: Oneworld, 2006). On the conical hats see Karamustafa, God’s
Unruly Friends, p. 52. Other Sufis who formed into ṭur ūq had other particular forms of covering.
In the early fourteenth century Afl ā k ī reported that followers of A ḥ mad al-Rif ā‘ ī (who coalesced
into the Rif ā‘iyya) appeared in jilang (which has two meanings: either in silken garments, or else
with bells) (see Afl ā k ī, The Feats of the Knowers of God, p. 498). And the members of the futuwwa
associations, which had a strong spiritual dimension (almost quasi Sufi in the understanding of
Suhraward ī (d. 1234)), were initiated in special trousers (see the discussion in Lloyd Ridgeon,
Morals and Mysticism in Persian Sufism (London: Routledge, 2010), pp. 77–80). And the Kubraw ī
Sufi, Majd al-D ī n Baghd ād ī (d. 1219), envisaged gowns of different colours for the Sufis in his
entourage. See Eyad Abuali, “The Genesis of Kubraw ī Sufism: A Study of Majd al-D ī n Baghd ād ī,”
PhD dissertation submitted to SOAS, 2017. In particular, Chapter 5, “Investiture and Clothing,”
pp. 264–318.
13 C. E. Bosworth, “Rise of the Kar ā miyyah in Khurasan,” The Muslim World 50.1 (1960), pp. 5–14.
14 The contribution of futuwwat (or in Persian javānmard ī ) to Islamic societies has been discussed in
Lloyd Ridgeon, Jawanmardi: A Sufi Code of Honour (Edinburgh: University Press, 2011); See also
D. A. Breebaart, The Development and Structure of the Futuwah Guilds (Princeton University Press,
Doctoral Dissertation, 1961).
15 See the remarks of ‘Umar Suhraward ī, cited in Ridgeon, Morals and Mysticism in Persian Sufism,
p. 77. Suhraward ī pointed to the parallels between the kh ānaqāh and the futuwwat lodge, noting
that the former was bestowed by princes, while the latter was the result of the earnings of futuwwat
members. He also made parallels between the kinds of clothing used for initiation ceremonies.
In Sufism it was the cloak, whereas with futuwwat it was the trousers. Moreover, he mentions the
kinds of authority, that is, the position of the Shaykh in both traditions. The similarity of Sufism
with futuwwat has led me to use the term Sufi-futuwwat to describe the ideal of futuwwat that
Suhraward ī outlined.
16 Jamil Abun-Nasr, Muslim Communities of Grace (London: Hurst, 2007), p. 83.
17 Hamid Dabashi, “Historical Conditions of Persian Sufism during the Seljuq Period,” The Heritage
of Sufism, ed. Leonard Lewisohn (London: KNP, 1993), pp. 153–169.
18 Gökböri (1154–1233), otherwise Sulṭā n Sacīd Shā hid Mu ẓ affar al-D ī n, mentioned by, among oth-
ers, Ibn Khallik ā n, Wafayat al-a‘yan, Vol. IV (Delhi: Kitab Bhavan, 1996), pp. 103–104.
19 See the discussion in Ridgeon, Morals and Mysticism in Persian Sufism, pp. 653–665.
20 Sulam ī authored several short treatises all of which demonstrate his rather conservative approach
towards Sufism. See Ridgeon, Morals and Mysticism in Persian Sufism, pp. 29–45.
21 For Qushayr ī see Al-Qushayr ī ’s Epistle on Sufism, trans. Alexander Knysh (Reading: Garnet,
2007).
22 Aside from the primary source, Kashf al-Ma ḥjūb, Hujw ī r ī has been the focus of a number of studies.
Linus Strothman argues that Hujw ī r ī should be seen more as an advocate of Sufi ecumenism. See
his Managing Piety (Karachi: Oxford University Press, 2016).
23 Cited in Edith Wolper, Cities and Saints: Sufism and the Transformation of Urban Spaces in Medieval
Anatolia (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2003), p. 24.
24 A. Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1975),
p. 232. See also part one of Nathan Hofer, Popularisation of Sufism in Ayyubid and Mamluk Egypt,
1173–1325 (Edinburgh: University Press, 2015), which deals specifically with this kh ānaqāh.
25 See Andrew C. S. Peacock, “Sufis and the Seljuk Court in Mongol Anatolia,” The Seljuks of Ana-
tolia, eds. A. C. S. Peacock & Sara Nur Yildiz (London: I.B. Tauris, 2012), pp. 206–226.
26 A. J. Arberry, Sufism: An Account of the Mystics of Islam (London: Allen & Unwin, 1950), pp. 119–121.
27 See note 3.
28 Abū’l-Najīb Suhraward ī, Ād āb al-mur īd īn, A Sufi Rule for Novices, trans. Menahim Milson
(Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1975).
29 Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam, p. 231.
30 See David Waines, The Odyssey of Ibn Battuta: Uncommon Tales of a Medieval Adventurer (London:
I.B. Tauris, 2010), pp. 110–135.
31 See Ahmet T. Karamustafa, Sufism: The Formative Period (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press,
2007), p. 25.
32 Herbert W. Mason, Al-Hallaj (Richmond: Curzon, 1995), p. 83.
214
215
Lloyd Ridgeon
al-Malik al- Kamil and what happened to him because of the monk, all that is very famous.” See
Francis De Beer, We Saw Brother Francis (Chicago: Franciscan Herald Press, 1986), p. 14.
55 Edward Burman, The Templars: Knights of God (Rochester: Destiny Books. 1990), p. 28.
56 Knysh, Islamic Mysticism, p. 21.
57 Daphna Ephrat, Spiritual Wayfarers, Leaders in Piety: Sufis and the Dissemination of Islam in Medieval
Palestine (Cambridge: HCMES, 2008), p. 165.
58 Daphna Ephrat, Spiritual Wayfarers, Leaders in Piety, p. 191.
59 See Lloyd Ridgeon, ‘Azīz Nasaf ī (Richmond: Curzon Press, 1998).
60 On A ḥ mad al-Badaw ī and his shrine in Tanta, Egypt, see Edward B Reeves, “Power, Resistance
and the Cult of Muslim Saints in a Northern Egyptian Town,” American Anthropologist 22.2 (1995),
pp. 306–323; Catherine Mayeur-Jaouen, Al-Sayyid A ḥmad al-Badawî. Un grand saint de l’Islam égyp-
tien (Cairo: Institut français d’archéologie orientale, 1994).
61 For a discussion of the tomb of Rū m ī and a discussion of the formation of the Mevlevi order see
Franklin D. Lewis, Rumi, Past and Present, East and West (Oxford: Oneworld, 2000), pp. 427–434.
For the tomb complex of ‘Abd al-Qādir Gilā n ī see Noorah Al-Gailani, The Shrine of ‘Abd al-Q ādir
al-J īl ān ī in Baghdad & the Shrine of ‘Abd al-‘Azīz al-J īl ān ī in ‘Aqra: Mapping the Multiple Orientations
of Two Q ādir ī Sufi Shrines in Iraq. PhD thesis submitted to the University of Glasgow, 2016. I have
been unable to discover if any work has been carried out on the tomb complex of Suhraward ī.
62 Samer Akkach, “The Eye of Reflection: Al-Nabulusi’s Spatial Interpretation of ‘Ibn Arabi’s
Tomb,” Muqarnas 32 (2015), p. 83.
63 See, for example, the work cited in note 52.
64 See note 63.
65 For Suhraward ī’s works, in particular ‘Aw ārif al-ma‘ārif, see William Chittick, “‘Awā ref al-ma’ā ref ”
Encyclopedia Iranica, 1987, Vol. III, Fasc. 2, pp. 114–115.
66 See Lahouri Ramzi Taleb, “The Shādhiliyya” in the present volume.
67 Trimingham, The Sufi Orders in Islam, p. 65.
68 For ‘Abd al-Qādir Gil ā n ī’s line see Noorah al-Gailani, op.cit. Abū Ḥaf ṣ ‘Um ā r Suhraward ī’s son
‘Im ād succeeded in taking over the Marz ūbaniyya kh ān āqah complex, and in promoting his fa-
ther’s line. See Erik Ohlander, “Situating Group, Self, and Act in the Medieval Sufi ribāṭ : The
Kit āb zād al-musāfir wa-adab al- ḥāḍir of ʿIm ād al-D ī n Mu ḥ ammad al-Suhraward ī (d. 655/1257),”
Ethics and Spirituality in Islam, eds. F. Chiabotti, E. Feuillebois-Pierunek, C. Mayeur-Jaouen, &
L. Patrizi (Brill: Leiden, 2016), pp. 419–448. Rū m ī’s son Sulṭā n Walad eventually succeeded in
heading the Mevlevi order, see Lewis, Rumi, Past and Present, pp. 230–241.
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16
THE BEKTAŞIYYA
The formative period, 1250–1516
Riza Yildirim
Introduction1
As a distinctively Ottoman phenomenon, the Bektaşiyya Sufi order is distinguished among
myriad Sufi brotherhoods in the Islamic world.2 From the early period of the Ottoman
history, Bekta şiyya dervishes had been associated with various Ottoman military forces,
beginning with irregular raiding warbands on the borderlands, and subsequently, the central
corps of the Ottoman army, the Janissaries. Up until the abolition of the Janissary corps in
1826, the Bektaşiyya Sufi order remained as the official tariqa of the Janissaries. By the same
token, Bekta şiyya Sufis spread hardly beyond the Ottoman territories. Ironically, however,
as much as the Ottoman regime adopted a strict law-abiding Sunni stance as the official
sect, the Bekta şiyya way of Sufism is marked with its Shi ‘ ite doctrine and shari ‘a-inattentive
religiosity.3
In many ways, the Bekta şiyya order stands similar to other Sufi orders that appeared across
the Islamic world. Yet there are some unique features which distinguish it from among the
others. First of all, the Bektaşis are renowned for their conspicuous neglectful attitude of
the shar ī‘a obligations such as five daily prayers, Ramadan fasting and alcohol ban. Second,
the Bekta şiyya Sufi doctrine is unequivocally Shi ‘ ite. They cherish Ali ibn Abi Talib and the
Twelve Imams as the superhuman guides of human beings while loathing members of the
‘Umayyad family and the first three “rightly-guided caliphs.” Third, the Turkish language
has a prominent place not only in religious writings but also in the rituals and liturgies of
Bekta şiyya. And last, unlike any other Sufi order, the Bekta şiyya ṭar īqa has a dual struc-
ture. The de jure and de facto spiritual guidance are divided and represented in two different
personae, which created a dual line of spiritual succession.
Despite its significant place in the social, religious, and military history of the Ottoman
empire, we know little about the history of the order. In this regard, it suffices to say that
the only two monographs on the order are J. Kingsley Birge’s famous 1937 book and Suraiya
Faroqhi’s study of the economic and social history of the Bekta şiyya tekkes from the late
sixteenth century to 1826.4 Birge’s book together with Fuad Köprülü’s studies more or less
set the tone of subsequent discussions.5 Birge divided Bekta şiyya history into three periods
as (i) the formative period, (ii) the tariqa period, and (iii) the period after the abolition of the
tariqa in 1826.6 Given this periodization, this chapter focuses on the history of the Bekta şiyya
217
Riza Yildirim
dervishes during the formative period, which comprises roughly two and a half centuries be-
tween the first and the second founders of the order (pīr-i evvel, pīr-sāni), namely, Hacı Bekta ş
Veli (d. 1270s) and Balım Sultan (d. 1516). It thereby aims to explain how the spiritual legacy
of Hacı Bekta ş grew into one of the greatest Sufi orders of the Ottoman world.
Hacı Bektaş: the first founder of the Bektaşiyya order

The historical life of the eponymous founder of the tariqa is poorly documented since there
are only fragments of information about him in early sources. This led some scholars of
earlier generations to assume that he was an insignificant person during his own lifetime,
or even that he did not exist at all.7 Scarcity of sources led some other scholars to argue that
Hacı Bekta ş was an insignificant, lunatic dervish, who did not have any disciples and thus did
not found a Sufi order, meaning that the Bekta şiyya order had no historical connection with
Hacı Bekta ş. It was rather attributed to him retrospectively, when the order was founded at
the turn of the sixteenth century.8 Nevertheless, these scholars could not explain why the
“real” founders of the order chose such an “insignificant lunatic dervish” as their eponymous
founder, instead of a more prestigious one.
Even though these ideas received a warm reception at first, subsequent research ques-
tioned their fundamental premises and debunked these hypotheses. Instead, recent studies
uncovered evidence demonstrating that Hacı Bekta ş lived as an influential Sufi leader in the
tumultuous Turkoman milieu of the thirteenth-century central Anatolia and died toward
the end of the century.9
Our earliest sources mentioning his name are some waq f deeds belonging to religious en-
dowments in Nevşehir region where the tekke of Hacı Bekta ş is located.10 We also have two
near-contemporary sources, which refer to Hacı Bekta ş as one of the prominent Sufi leaders
of his time, both written in the mid-fourteenth century.11 By the fifteenth century onward,
several biographical works and chronicles produced in the Ottoman empire give more de-
tailed accounts of Hacı Bekta ş’ life and deeds.12 Among them, the most comprehensive one is
the hagiography of the saint, which was compiled in the late fifteenth century from the oral
traditions that had been cultivated by Bekta şiyya dervishes.13
Questions about the life and religious personality of Hacı Bekta ş owes much to the
fifteenth-century Ottoman historian A şıkpa şazade, who described Hacı Bekta ş as a lunatic
(meczup), antinomian saint who had nothing to do with spiritual guidance and Sufi disci-
pleship. But taking this at face value ignores the historiography of A şıkpa şazade’s account,
which was produced against the backdrop of his political and religious connections in the
late fifteenth-century Istanbul. Close scrutiny of his writing reveals that he wrote this pas-
sage as a part of an ongoing polemic against Bektaşiyya groups. Hence, his aim was to di-
minish Hacı Bekta ş’s role in the religious and political formations that paved the way for the
rise of the Ottoman principality.14
As a matter of fact, our earliest available sources adequately demonstrate that Hacı Bektaş
was a notable Sufi of his time. Above all, the waq f deeds from the late thirteenth century
clearly show that the village where he lived and established his Sufi lodge, Sulucakarahöyük,
was named after him already during his lifetime.15 Elvan Çelebi, the grandson of the famous
Baba İ lyas (d. 1241) who led a religiopolitical rebellion of Turkomans against the Anatolian
Seljuqs,16 counts Hacı Bekta ş among the prominent legatees (halife) of the latter. Indeed, Hacı
Bekta ş is one of the few Sufi leaders whom Elvan Çelebi mentions by name in his long book
dedicated to the story of Baba Ilyas’ uprising and its legacy.17
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The Bektaşiyya
Another early source is the hagiographical compilation about the life of Mevlana Celaleddin
Rumi (Arabic, Mawlānā Jalāl al-Dīn al-Rūm ī) (d. 1273) and his predecessors and successors
written by Eflaki in the mid-fourteenth century. As opposed to Elvan Çelebi, Eflaki adopted a
critical view of Hacı Bektaş since there was a spiritual competition between Hacı Bektaş and
his master Rumi. In one of his short accounts on Hacı Bektaş, Eflaki reveals this competition
when he depicts the saint as a spiritual personality who attracted some disciples away from
Rumi. To discredit Hacı Bektaş, he highlights the latter’s inattentive attitude to shar ī‘a rules.
Yet in contrast to the later work of Aşıkpaşazade, he concedes that the saint otherwise “had
a heart full of God’s knowledge.”18 In spite of his suspicious approach, Eflaki’s account clearly
demonstrates that Hacı Bektaş was widely accepted as a miracle-working saint, and considered
one of the prominent and attractive Sufi leaders of the time.
Sources from the fifteenth century provide us with more details about the life of the saint,
albeit of a less accurate nature.19 To summarize the available information in the fourteenth-
and fifteenth-century sources, we can conclude with some certainty that Hacı Bektaş emi-
grated from Khorasan to Anatolia, where he became a legatee (halife) of Baba Ilyas. However,
he did not participate in the latter’s rebellion in 1240–1241. Instead, he moved to a town
called Sulucakarahöyük (presently the town of Hacı Bekta ş in modern Turkey), and most
probably established a humble Sufi lodge there. His fame spread quickly especially among
the warlike Turkoman groups.
As for his spiritual legacy, Bektaşiyya sources diverge from others. Our earliest sources
from the fourteenth century do not mention any of his halifes or a specific Sufi path founded
by him, even though they clearly demonstrate that he was a prominent Sufi. According to
the fifteenth-century Ottoman historian A şıkpa şazade, he was not a proper Sufi shaykh but
an unstable dervish with some spiritual capabilities. Prior to his death, he entrusted some
of his spiritual knowledge to a woman called Khatun Ana, whom he adopted as his foster
daughter. For her part, Khatun Ana delegated this spiritual knowledge to Abdal Musa, who
then joined the ghazi raiders in the Ottoman territories and spread Hacı Bektaş’ teachings
among them.20
The hagiographical biography of the saint, which was compiled contemporaneously with
Aşıkpaşazade’s work, gives us a very different picture. According to his hagiography, which re-
flects the collective memory of the fifteenth-century Bektaşiyya dervishes, Hacı Bektaş was a
halife of Ahmed Yesevi (d. 1166?), the founder of the Yeseviyye Sufi Order in the Central Asia.
He was sent to Anatolia to take over the leadership of the spiritual cadre who were in charge of
the religious guidance of the land. After serving as the Pole (quṭb) for years, he commissioned
several legatees to continue the business of spiritual enlightenment and passed away shortly
thereafter.21 Except for various miracle stories and exaggerated descriptions of saintly power,
the general outline of the hagiography’s narrative concurs with the other historical evidence at
our disposal. Nevertheless, the claim that Hacı Bektaş was a halife of Ahmed Yesevi should be
treated cautiously, since no other sources can corroborate this link.22
Religious views of Hacı Bektaş

We only have a vague picture of Hacı Bekta ş’s teachings. Despite some treatises being at-
tributed to him, it is generally accepted that he did not write any book, treatise or epistle.
However, a short treatise called Mak āl āt deserves a closer treatment in this respect. Scholars
are divided whether this work was authored by Hacı Bektaş or not. Some prominent schol-
ars, such as Fuad Köprülü and John K. Birge, argued that it was in fact authored by Hacı
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Bekta ş, while others, such as Irène Mélikoff and Ahmet Y. Ocak, rejected this possibility
and argued that the treatise was produced at a later time and retrospectively attributed to the
saint.23 The portrayals of Hacı Bekta ş in various sources all agree that the saint was formally
uneducated, if not illiterate. Therefore, it is unlikely that the treatise was written by Hacı
Bekta ş himself. However, a good possibility exists that it may have been a collection of notes
taken by his disciples from his sermons. While the evidence is insufficient to reach a definite
conclusion on the matter, we do know that the treatise had been broadly accepted as a work
authored by Hacı Bekta ş by the early fifteenth century, as the first attested copies date from
this time.24
The most reliable sources on the religious understanding and practice of Hacı Bektaş
are the aforementioned biographical works of Elvan Çelebi and Eflaki from the fourteenth
century.25 For his part, Elvan Çelebi does not say much about the Sufi teachings of Hacı
Bekta ş. Nevertheless, the fact that he describes the saint as one of the prominent halifes of
Baba İ lyas strongly suggests that he belonged to the Turkoman milieu, whose religiosity can
be discerned from other sources. The praxis of Islam among Turkoman groups was shaped by
the dervishes called “baba” or “dede.” Perhaps the most distinguishing feature of this dervish
religiosity was its reservations about shar ī‘a regulations. According to those dedes and babas,
minute observation of the shar ī‘a rules was not a prerequisite to salvation or being a good
Muslim.26
Our sources unanimously agree that Hacı Bektaş practised and taught such a shar ī‘a -
inattentive Islamic religiosity. For example, Eflaki criticizes him for not observing the
shar ī‘a rules, even though “his heart was full of the knowledge of God.”27 On this mat-
ter, A şıkpa şazade’s description concurs with Eflaki, though he does not specifically clarify
how the saint was violating the religious law. Bekta şiyya dervishes’ own perception of Hacı
Bekta ş in the fifteenth century presents us a similar portrait. In his hagiography, Hacı Bektaş
is portrayed as a saint who is inattentive to the shar ī‘a, even if he did not reject it outright,
while also holding the highest degree in the hierarchy of sainthood. As we see on many oc-
casions in both the hagiography and other sources, his negligent attitude toward the shar ī‘a
attracted criticism from both ulama and shar ī‘a -abiding Sufis alike.28
Another controversial issue with regard to the religious identity of Hacı Bekta ş revolves
around attempts to define his sectarian position. According to Fuat Köprülü, all members
of the Babai uprising and associated religious currents, including Hacı Bektaş and the early
Bekta şiyyas, were Shi ‘ ite.29 Claude Cahen and his student Irène Mélikoff rejected this claim,
arguing that prior to the fifteenth century, there were no Shi ‘ ite groups in Anatolia.30 As far
as the early Bekta şiyya sources are concerned, there is no clear-cut evidence on this point.
On the one hand, the Mak āl āt does not indicate any Shi ‘ ite element whatsoever. On the
other hand, the hagiography of the saint draws a different and more complex picture. Even
though it is not as strong and extremist as Köprülü argues, this work bears a certain Shi ‘ ite
tinge. The hagiography describes Hacı Bektaş as not only a descendant of Ali b. Abi Talib,
but also his successor in vilayet. It also argues that he was the first saint who propagated com-
pulsory love for ehl-i beyt (Arabic, ahl al-bayt), i.e. (tawall ā) in Anatolia.31
For their part, non-Bekta şiyya sources tend to support Cahen and Mélikoff’s claims.
Elvan Çelebi’s work describes neither Baba İ lyas nor any of his legatees as having a Shi ‘ ite
orientation. On the contrary, as Mélikoff has noted, the fact that Baba Ilyas named one
of his sons after the second caliph ‘Umar, a person profoundly detested in Shi ‘ ite tradi-
tion, and that one of his legatees was named ‘Uthman, demonstrates the Sunni character of
the dervish religiosity associated with the Babai movement.32 Likewise, neither Eflaki nor
A şıkpa şazade attribute Shi ‘ ite beliefs to Hacı Bekta ş. Given that these two authors were
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The Bektaşiyya
writing in competition with Bekta şiyya dervishes, their silence on this issue is significant,
since they otherwise would have used any perceived Shi ‘ ite tendencies to attack Hacı Bekta ş,
were it possible to do so.
Hacı Bektaş’ successors and the emergence of the Bektaşiyya path

By the late fourteenth century onward, if not even earlier, the spiritual legacy of Hacı Bekta ş
was claimed by two competing parties. The first party consisted of a kin group, the Çelebi
family, who claimed to be the biological descendants of the saint. The second party com-
prised a variety of dervishes who considered themselves to be the spiritual descendants of
the saint.
It seems likely that the Çelebi family took control of the Sufi lodge (tekke) and the waq f
that had been established under the name of Hacı Bektaş sometime in the early fourteenth
century, if not earlier. However, we know little about the history of the tekke, waq f, and
their intersection with the Çelebi family prior to the second half of the fifteenth century.
Only then can we trace their uninterrupted history through Ottoman archival sources. Irène
Beldiceanu-Steinherr, who studied Ottoman tax census registers from the late fifteenth cen-
tury, identifies some contemporary members of the Çelebi family, along with a tribe called
Bekta şlu. These registers show quite clearly that the Ottoman authorities accepted this fam-
ily as the biological descendants of Hacı Bekta ş and successively renewed their privileges to
administer the Hacı Bekta ş tekke in Sulucakarahöyük and its supporting waq f. Reading this
archival evidence together with the hagiography of the saint, Beldiceaunu-Steinherr con-
cludes that Hacı Bekta ş was a tribal leader who came to central Anatolia with his Turkoman
followers, and settled in the region where his Sufi lodge still remains. The tribal people as-
sociated with him were later named Bekta şlu (meaning “belongs to or related to Bekta ş”).33
As discussed previously, Hacı Bekta ş was one of the most prominent Sufi leaders in the
thirteenth-century Anatolia. The shar ī‘a-inattentive dervish religiosity he propounded was
immensely influential especially among the rural masses. However, he did not found a Sufi
order in the traditional, institutionalized sense that marked the period. Therefore, he did not
have legatees (halifes) in a formal sense, although the hagiography lists a collection of names
as his legatees. But we can identify some popular Sufis who grew up in the same socioreli-
gious milieu and adopted, cultivated, and spread Hacı Bekta ş’ teachings among later genera-
tions, especially in the Ottoman lands. As we learn from both A şıkpa şazade and Bekta şiyya
sources, the most prominent among the first generation of these Sufis was Abdal Musa, who
was accepted as the primary successor of the eponymous founder.34
Abdal Musa and other representatives of the shar ī‘a-inattentive dervish religiosity seem
to have migrated to Ottoman lands because they found greater opportunities to spread their
teachings, along with less scrutiny from more established religious scholars. Closely related
to the Turkoman culture with which it was associated, this form of dervish piety cherished
the ghaza, the holy war. Therefore, its proponents, referenced as abdal in contemporary
sources, not only established close ties with the ghazi (holy warrior) milieu but also per-
sonally engaged in the fighting. It is no surprise then that this abdal/dervish piety came to
be associated with the warrior groups of the early Ottoman polity, and subsequently, the
conquest and colonization of the Balkans.35
There appeared to be a mutually beneficiary relationship between the early Ottoman
rulers and these abdals. They helped the Ottoman begs in the conquest and colonization of
new lands, and in turn, the latter bestowed upon them lands and tax revenues as waq f to es-
tablish Sufi lodges. These Sufi lodges functioned as the vector of colonization, Islamization
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Riza Yildirim
and Turkification of the Balkans. In this respect, they spearheaded the spiritual conquest of
the non-Muslim lands. As a result, this dervish piety left a lasting imprint on popular Islamic
piety.36
Among those abdals, Seyyid Ali Sultan (also known as Kızıldeli, d. soon after 1412) be-
came a model for the ghazi-dervish typology and probably shaped the shar ī‘a-inattentive
dervish religiosity in the Balkans more than anyone else. Our sources describe Seyyid Ali
Sultan as a follower of Hacı Bekta ş and the principal legatee of Abdal Musa. It is almost cer-
tain from a variety of sources, including archival evidence, that he crossed the Dardanelles
in 1352 with the first Ottoman ghazi (holy warrior) bands who initiated the conquest of
Rumelia. Historical evidence suggests that Seyyid Ali Sultan, along with his saintly entou-
rage, participated in battles alongside the Ottoman soldiers. After a series of conquests, he
established a Sufi lodge in Dimetoka (Didymoteicho in modern Greece) where the Ottoman
sultan granted him large income sources as a waq f during the late fourteenth century.37
Even during the lifetime of Seyyid Ali Sultan, his tekke became a major center of abdals in
Rumelia and the Balkans, who accepted Hacı Bektaş as their patron saint.38 As we learned
from a contemporary eyewitness, Sadık Abdal, the tekke of Kızıldeli, was hosting lively and
influential Sufi activities in the fifteenth century. In his collection of poems (divan), Sadık
Abdal describes himself as a Bekta şiyya dervish who was initiated by Seyyid Ali Sultan
himself.39 An examination of his work reveals that the poet died in the later decades of the
fifteenth century in his eighties or nineties.40
The Divan of Sadık Abdal provides us with an insider view into the doctrinal and orga-
nizational transformation among abdal dervishes during the fifteenth century. First of all,
his testimony shows that already in the fifteenth century, a loosely defined religious col-
lective identity emerged after the legacy of Hacı Bekta ş. This identity had both doctrinal
and organizational aspects. A large group of abdals in Rumelia and the Balkans came to be
identified as Bekta şi. Sadık Abdal uses this term explicitly for a particular group of dervishes
who follow the path of Hacı Bekta ş, which was further cultivated by the Sufi activities of
Abdal Musa and Seyyid Ali Sultan. In his tripartite formulation, the formative period of the
Bekta şiyya Path comprises three stages, each was spiritually supervised by these three axial
shaykhs of the Path.
Sadık Abdal’s didactic poems, which were obviously intended to teach the doctrines
of the Path to dervishes in brotherhood, also make it clear that some Sufi terms, concepts,
symbols, and practices were established by this time. He uses the term “Tar ī k-i Bekt āşī” or
“Rāh-i Bekt āşī” (the Bekta şiyya Path) several times. He also uses the phrases such as “join-
ing the path (tariqa),” the “people of path,”41 and the “disciples (tavālib),”42 as well as talking
about rituals43 and symbolic garments such as a special hat called “Bekt āşī Tāc.”44 Sadık
Abdal describes Hacı Bekta ş as the fountainhead of the Path and the spiritual guide of Abdal
Musa, who transmitted Hacı Bekta ş’ secret teachings to Seyyid Ali Sultan. It is also import-
ant to notice that he makes references to the Mak āl āt as the principal book of Hacı Bekta ş,
and says the shaykh divulged many mysteries of the Truth eloquently and articulately.45
Sadık Abdal’s work also stands as the earliest Bekta şiyya source that reflects an explicit
Shi ‘ ite tendency. First of all, Sadık Abdal divides human history into two epochs as the era
of prophethood and the era of sainthood. By the death of Muhammad, the era of propheth-
ood was sealed and the era of sainthood started. Just as the prophets led people to salvation
during the former era, it was the saints (evliya) who have been in charge of true religious
guidance during the latter one. Although not written explicitly, we see the concept of the
light of Muhammad-Ali behind this periodization of cosmic history. As it is well-known,
the concept of primordial light as the beginning of creation had been well established in Sufi
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The Bektaşiyya
and Shi ‘ ite traditions long before the fifteenth century. According to the Shi ‘ ite version of
the concept, the first light that God created as the seed of the being was composed of two
halves, which corresponded to the truth of prophethood and the truth of sainthood. These
two halves of the light also represent cosmic personalities of Muhammad and Ali.46
In the first era, the light of prophethood governed cosmic history. Since the death of the
last prophet, it was the light of sainthood which has been substantiating the cosmic order of
beings. As the human face of the light of sainthood, Ali b. Abi Talib is not only the epitome
of sainthood but also the everlasting spiritual patron of the second era, which was indeed
opened by the manifestation of his vilayet. According to this vision, every saint achieves
vilayet by virtue of partaking in the light of sainthood, the truth of Ali. Sadık Abdal calls this
truth the “secret of Ali.” According to him, a person who steps in the abode of sainthood
gradually transforms his inner self, so that he becomes a manifestation of Ali’s light. In other
words, every saint is a representative of Ali in his own capacity, or the “Ali” of his time.47
That is why he calls saints the “secrets of Ali.” In this respect, he describes Hacı Bekta ş as
the “secret of Ali,” Abdal Musa as the “secret of Hacı Bekta ş,” and Seyyid Ali Sultan as the
“secret of Abdal Musa.”48
Another concept that governs Sadık Abdal’s understanding of religion is the concept of
Pole (quṭb). According to him, every saint is a partial manifestation of Ali’s vilayet. Yet in each
time, there is only one saint who stands for the perfect manifestation of the light of saint-
hood. As such, he is the legatee of Ali and the Twelve Imams in his own time.49 Sadık Abdal’s
approach to the concept of Pole and the people of hidden world (rijāl al-ghayb) is similar to
other Sufi traditions, with the important exception that he describes the Poles as the spiritual
heirs and legatees of Ali b. Abi Talib and the Twelve Imams.
The Divan of Sadık Abdal is the earliest known Bekta şiyya source which makes unam-
biguous references to the Twelve Imams as the absolute religious guides after Imam Ali. He
posits the love of the ehl-i beyt (tawall ā) and following their path as the prerequisite for being
Muslim. As a corollary, a Muslim must detach himself from the enemies of the ehl-i beyt
and curse them (tabarra ‘). In this context, Sadık Abdal declares Umayyad caliph Yazid, who
murdered Husayn b. Ali in Karbala in 680, and his followers (Yezidis) enemies of the true
Muslims. He also underlies that those who do not repudiate and curse on Yazid are inferior
to or worse than animals.50
The Alid Sufism that centered around the concept of the sainthood and the Pole, as we see
in Sadık Abdal’s poems, seems to have spread widely among abdal dervishes in the fifteenth
century. The hagiography of Otman Baba, which was completed in 1483, reflects a simi-
lar Alid piety with the same themes and concepts.51 Yemini’s Faziletn āme, written in 1519,
stands for the apogee of literary artifacts that explicates this Alid Sufism.52 After the fifteenth
century, these Shi‘ite beliefs became central tenets of the Bekta şiyya Sufi Order. As Cahen
has noted, Shi ‘ itization of the Bekta şiyya doctrine in the fifteenth century was not a singular
development but a part of broader tendencies in the Islamic world.53 This included the evo-
lution of the futuwwa tradition, which also adopted unequivocal Shi‘ite elements during the
same time period.54 Likewise, a branch of the Safavid Sufi order adopted elements of Shi‘ism,
which gave birth to the Kızılba ş -Alevi tradition as well as the Safavid Dynasty of Iran.55
Descendants of Hacı Bektaş: the Çelebi family

From the fourteenth century onward, two distinct groups claimed the heritage of Hacı
Bekta ş, namely, his “biological sons” (bel oğlu) and his “spiritual sons” (yol oğlu). According
to the second group, which came to be known as the Babagan branch of the Bektaşiyya
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Riza Yildirim
order, Hacı Bekta ş was celibate, and therefore had only spiritual sons.56 Yet, the other branch
of the order, called Dedegan, was organized under the leadership of the Çelebi family, the
alleged biological descendants of the saint.57 Although modern scholarship inclines to assume
the Babagan claim to be correct, we don’t have enough evidence to clarify whether Hacı
Bekta ş had any biological descendants or not. Even the hagiography of the saint does not
provide a clear evidence on this matter.
By assuming that Hacı Bekta ş was celibate, contemporary scholarship has tended to un-
derestimate the important role of the Çelebi family in the Bekta şiyya history. We can trace
the history of the family back to the mid-fifteenth century, where archival documents leave
no doubt that this family was recognized by the Ottoman authorities as the legitimate off-
spring of Hacı Bekta ş. By the same token, both the spiritual leadership of the Hacı Bekta ş
tekke and the administration of its waq f were in the hands of this family. Their descendants
retained this privileged position until the abolition of the order in 1826.
When they annexed the Karamanoğ lu territories in the 1470s, some villages that were regis-
tered in the waqf of Hacı Bektaş came under Ottoman control. As a result, we can learn about
the administrative and fiscal structure of the waqf from the Ottoman census registers (tahrir
defterleri).58 According to the registers from the 1480s and 1490s, the peasants and nomadic
tribes who were attached to the waqf were paying half of their taxes to the waqf and the other
half to the members of Çelebi family. The registers also make clear that the link between those
subjects and the Çelebi family was not only administrative and fiscal, but also spiritual, and
most likely, tribal. Most of the nomadic groups and peasants who were associated with the waqf
of Hacı Bektaş were registered as members of the Bektaşlu tribe. As Beldiceaunu-Steinherr has
suggested, the members of this tribe must have been the kinsmen of the Çelebi family. The fact
that they were considered by the Ottoman authorities as dependents of the Hacı Bektaş tekke,
and thus hereditary adherents of the Çelebi family, verifies this argument.59
We may conclude that alongside the Bekta şiyya dervishes among the abdals of Rumelia
and the Balkans, who adopted the tekke of Kızıldeli as their rallying venue, there was an-
other group of dervishes and adherents in Anatolia, who attached themselves to the Hacı
Bekta ş tekke and the Çelebi family as the shaykhs and custodians of the tekke. During the late
fifteenth and the early sixteenth century, the head of this family was recorded as Mahmud
Çelebi. A variety of sources indicate that Mahmud Çelebi was not only the shaykh of
the tekke, but also a high-ranking member of the Ottoman administrative-military class,
called asker ī. Therefore, he played a dual role by acting as the sitting shaykh of the tekke
and the administrator of its waq f, on the one hand, and by collecting taxes as a member of
the administrative-military class from among his adherents, who resided in the territories of
the waq f, on the other hand.60
When he visited Istanbul in the 1470s, Otman Baba, another towering shaykh of the
abdal dervishes, met Mahmud Çelebi. Köçek Abdal, a disciple of Otman Baba who wrote
the hagiography of the former in 1483, reports this visit most probably as an eyewitness. He
describes Mahmud Çelebi as the halife of Hacı Bekta ş who had disciples and adherents. He
criticizes the latter for his flamboyant and grandiloquent attitude since he visited Otman
Baba with a crowded company of Bekta şiyya dervishes and behaved in an arrogant manner.61
A şıkpa şazade, another contemporary of the shaykh, offers a corroborating description, not-
ing that Mahmud Çelebi was the son of Resul Çelebi and a descendent of Hacı Bektaş Veli.
He also describes him as an esteemed shaykh who had many disciples, even from among the
educated circles of society.62
As we learn from the Ottoman tax census registers, Mahmud Çelebi was also a high-
standing member of the ottoman administrative-military class. In 1483, he was registered
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The Bektaşiyya
as the t īm ār-holder of the villages in which members of the Bektaşlu tribe resided. That is
to say, he was collecting half of the taxes paid by these people, another half being regis-
tered as the income for the waq f of the Hacı Bekta ş tekke.63 We see Mahmud’s name also in
the register of benevolences, gifts, and grants given from the royal treasury to the promi-
nent members of society recorded between 1503 and 1527.64 Named as “Mahmud Çelebi
the son of Hacı Bekta ş” in this register, he received four benevolences between 1504 and
1512, each one amounting to 2000 akçe.65 When compared to the other known personae
recorded in this register, both the frequency and the amount of the benevolences that were
granted to him show that Mahmud Çelebi was considered by the Ottoman authorities to be
a high-ranking member of society.
Archival evidence shows that other members of the Çelebi family were also granted priv-
ileges and prestigious socioreligious status. For example, we know from the tax registers that
Hasan Bey and Seyyid Ahmed, both descendants of Hacı Bektaş, were collecting taxes of
the subjects residing in the territories of the Hacı Bekta ş waq f.66 Mahmud Çelebi’s brother
Ali Çelebi and a certain İskender Çelebi, obviously a close relative of Mahmud Çelebi, were
recorded in the abovementioned register of benevolences, receiving high-level grants multi-
ple times between 1506 and 1512.67
Balım Sultan and the institutionalization of the Bektaşiyya order

As discussed previously, during the formative period (roughly 1300–1500) there appeared
two different but interrelated religious groups who lay claim to the spiritual heritage of Hacı
Bekta ş Veli. We don’t know much about the relationship between these two groups during
the pre-tariqa period. But we know for certain that by the late fifteenth century onwards,
as Hacı Bekta ş’ Sufi heritage transformed into a standard Sufi order, these two branches be-
came increasingly conflated. Nevertheless, the imprint of this bifurcated history of the for-
mative period remained in the institutional structure and spiritual organization of the tariqa.
It is universally accepted by both Bekta şiyyas and contemporary scholars that the
Bekta şiyya Sufi order was institutionalized by Balım Sultan (d. 1516) during the early six-
teenth century.68 That is why he is recognized as the second founder (pīr-i sāni) of the order.
By the same token, the tariqa rituals are named after him (erk ān-ı Balım Sultan). The impor-
tance of Balım Sultan was also corroborated by the architectural design of the shrine com-
plex of Hacı Bekta ş, where only the tombs of Hacı Bektaş and Balım Sultan were erected
among many graves of Bekta şiyya shaykhs and dervishes.69 It is also widely accepted that
Balım Sultan accomplished this project with the support of the Ottoman Sultan Bayezid II
(r. 1481–1512), although we are unsure if the Sultan asked him to do this directly. Bayezid II
supported Balım Sultan’s project of centralization and institutionalization of the Bekta şiyya
Sufi order most probably because he wanted to lessen the influence of the Safavid propaganda
among the shar ī‘a-inattentive, Alid dervish groups.70
However, with the exception of the inscription on the gate of his tomb, where his name
is written as Hızır Bali, our knowledge about Balım Sultan entirely comes from traditional
Bekta şiyya sources written only after the eighteenth century. He is not mentioned in any
contemporary sources we have examined to this point either. However, our recent discov-
eries in Ottoman archival sources can attest to the subsequent Bekta şiyya claims about his
historical personality and leading role in the institutionalization of the Bekta şiyya order.
According to traditional Bektaşiyya sources, Balım Sultan was the son of Mürsel Bali,
a companion and disciple of Seyyid Ali Sultan. Toward the end of a celibate life, Mürsel
Bali married a Bulgarian princess in his nineties. It was into this marriage that the “second
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Riza Yildirim
founder” of the order was born. Balım Sultan was raised and trained in the tekke of Kızıldeli
in Dimetoka, where he ultimately ascended to the post of the chief spiritual guide, the
shaykh of the tekke. Sometime around 1500, Bayezid II, who had spent years in Dimetoka
during his childhood and had an acquaintance with the Kizileli tekke and Balım Sultan,
asked him to take charge of the spiritual leadership in the central tekke in Sulucakarahöyük
instead. Accordingly, he moved to the tekke of Hacı Bekta ş, where he organized the loosely
defined Bekta şiyya dervish groups into a more conventional Sufi order.71
However, this narrative is not corroborated by any known contemporary sources. Up
until recently, only the inscription on his tomb could be proffered as “hard evidence” that
such a person really existed. Moreover, what the inscription says does not fit squarely into the
traditional narrative. On the inscription, dated 925 (1519), his name is written as Hızır Bali
the son of Resul Bali the son of Hacı Bektaş. It is clear that his name and his father’s name
are different from those we see recorded in the Bekta şiyya narrative. More importantly, the
inscription portrays him as a direct descendant of Hacı Bekta ş, and therefore a member of
the Çelebi family, while the tradition says that he was the son of Mürsel Bali, a disciple of
Seyyid Ali Sultan.
This discrepancy between the traditional narrative and the inscription has remained an
enigma in contemporary scholarship on the topic. However, some novel archival evidence,
hitherto unknown, can potentially resolve the confusion. We encounter Balım Sultan (Hızır
Bali) in the register of royal benevolences and gifts that I have mentioned earlier. According to
this register, Hızır Bali was granted four benevolences between 1504 and 1508, one of which
he received together with the abovementioned Mahmud Çelebi. The amount and frequency of
the grants he received (three benevolences were 2000 akçe and one was 3000 akçe) demonstrate
that, like Mahmud Çelebi, he commanded a high esteem in the Ottoman palace.72
Each of these benevolences was obviously granted in connection with the Bektaşiyya
tekke. In these entries, his name is written as “Dervi ş Hızır B ālī, ç āşnig īr, dām ād-ı Hācı Bekt āş
Sult ān t ābe serāhu.” As one would notice immediately, his name is qualified with three titles:
dervish, ç āşnig īr, and son-in-law of Hacı Bekta ş. When we put this newly unearthed infor-
mation together with the inscription and the Bekta şiyya narrative, one may offer a solution
to the abovementioned discrepancy. First of all, this archival evidence introduces Hızır Bali
as the son-in-law of Hacı Bekta ş, not as his biological descendant. This looks like an inter-
mediate point between the traditional account and the inscription. Meanwhile, we learned
from A şıkpa şazade that Mahmud Çelebi’s father was a certain Resul Çelebi, the very name
that is recorded as the father of Hızır Bali in the inscription.73
One way to conciliate the three accounts would be to assume that Hızır Bali was born
into a non-Çelebi, possibly insignificant family in Rumelia. Following the footsteps of his
father, he joined the dervish life in the Kızıldeli tekke where he eventually became the spir-
itual master of the tekke toward the end of the fifteenth century. We have already noted the
central position of this tekke for the abdal dervishes of Rumelia and the Balkans who claimed
to be the “spiritual offspring” of Hacı Bektaş. It is important to underline that as opposed
to the Çelebi line, this branch of the Bektaşiyya dervishes was anchored mainly in Rumelia
and the Balkans, where the spiritual legacy of Hacı Bekta ş was more rigorous, dynamic,
and populous than Anatolia. Therefore, as the top spiritual authority of the Kızıldeli tekke,
Hızır Bali came to be the natural leader of those Bektaşiyya dervishes. This was likely the
reason that Bayezid II endorsed Hızır Bali’s assumption of the spiritual leadership in the Hacı
Bekta ş tekke.
In the meantime, the Çelebi family had already established itself as the legitimate off-
spring of Hacı Bekta ş and the shaykhs of the central tekke. No other way than a marriage
226
The Bektaşiyya
could have better merged these two strands, one based in Rumelia and the other in Anatolia.
As his title “son-in-law of Hacı Bektaş” unambiguously indicates, Hızır Bali married some-
one from the Çelebi family, whose male members are named “the sons of Hacı Bektaş” in
the same register. The inscription on his tomb suggests that he must have married the sister
of Mahmud Çelebi, the son of Resul Çelebi.74 Given the fact that Mahmud Çelebi was the
head of the family and the shaykh of the tekke at the time, such a marriage must have solved
many legal and spiritual complications that would be caused by the intrusion of a non-Çelebi
figure in the waq f-tekke institution, as well as by putting him in the second highest-ranked
spiritual post of the Bektaşiyya collective.
The other two adjectives used for Hızır Bali corroborate this argument. Conspicuously
different from other members of the Çelebi family, the register explicitly identifies him as
“dervish,” which obviously refers to his spiritual profession. But he was not just an ordinary
dervish, but also the ç āşnig īr of the tekke. In general usage, this title was given to people who
were in charge of supervising royal kitchens and tasting the foods of rulers prior to consump-
tion. In the Bekta şiyya tekke, this corresponds to the post of a şçı (cook), which later became
institutionalized as the second highest position in the spiritual hierarchy of the tariqa.
We can postulate, then, that when the standardization of the rituals and the doctrines of
the Bekta şiyya order took place under Hızır Bali, his official title was a şçı baba or the ç āşnig īr
as Ottoman scribes recorded. One should remember that the highest post of the tekke, i.e.
that of the shaykh, was the hereditary privilege of the Çelebi family. Therefore, the post of
ç āşnig īr was the highest office that could be assigned to Hızır Bali in that context. No doubt,
joining the Çelebi family as their son-in-law facilitated his integration into the Bektaşiyya
headquarters, as well as enabling him to achieve an official status in the Ottoman system of
administration.
Balım Sultan’s integration in the Bektaşiyya tekke created a dual structure in the tekke
and the tariqa. On the one hand, the head of Çelebi family remained as the de jure shaykh of
the tekke, and thereby the tariqa, even though he did not necessarily participate in the rituals
and walk the spiritual path. Moreover, he was the administrator of the waq f, having full
control of legal and fiscal matters. By the same token, he was the sole representative of the
Bektaşiyya order before the Ottoman authorities. On the other hand, the spiritual life in the
tekke, encompassing the rituals, spiritual exercises, and training of dervishes according to
the requirements of the Path was entrusted to Hızır Bali. In other words, he was the de facto
shaykh of the tekke, even though he was never allowed to formally acquire this title. To this
end, he created another post within the new institutional structure, the dedebaba. As a unique
feature of the Bekta şiyya tariqa, the dedebaba must be celibate in accordance with the beliefs
of the Babagan Bekta şiyya, who claim that Balım Sultan himself was celibate.75 These two
posts, namely the shaykh and the dedebaba, remained under the same roof until the abolition
of the order in 1826. However, the dual nature of the tariqa leadership, which was buttressed
by two different types of adherents hailing from Anatolia and Rumelia, eventually created a
dual structure in the entire institution of the tariqa. The professional dervishes who resided
in tekkes and passed through the regular stages of the spiritual path came to be the de facto
disciples of the dedebaba and called “Babagan,” while the Çelebi family and its hereditary
adherents by virtue of kinship and the waq f were called “Dedegan” or “Çelebiyan.”
This dual structure is equally reflected in the official spiritual lineage (silsile) of the or-
der, which was probably first created as a part of Balım Sultan’s institutionalization proj-
ect. Just like other Sufi orders, the Bekta şiyya silsile has two major components. The first
component consists of a legendary line of descent from the Prophet Muhammad down to
the founder of the tariqa. The second component, which can be better documented in a
227
Riza Yildirim
historical sense, proceeds from Hacı Bektaş to the living shaykh.76 Unlike other Sufi orders,
however, Bekta şiyyas have two parallel silsiles, one for the shaykhs and one for the dedebabas.
From Prophet Muhammad down to Balım Sultan, there is a single line of succession. After
Balım Sultan, the silsile splits into two branches, one includes the chain of the shaykhs, i.e.
the leaders of the Çelebi family, and the other includes the chain of the dedebabas, accepted
by the Babagan dervishes as the true spiritual lineage.77 Nonetheless, the fact that only the
silsile of the shaykhs is written in the official documents such as ijāzatn āmas shows that it was
accepted by all parties as the de jure silsile of the tariqa.78 Likewise, we see only the shaykhs
in the Ottoman official documents, whereas not a single one of dedebabas, with the notable
exception of Balım Sultan, is mentioned.
The institutionalization project attributed to Balım Sultan had several aspects. First of
all, Balım Sultan reorganized and standardized the rituals, eulogies, prayers, and the doc-
trines of the tariqa. By the same token, he regulated the spiritual exercises in several stages
through the Path as well as the posts and their functions in the tekke complex. Second, these
standardized doctrines and practices were imposed upon a number of other abdal tekkes in
Anatolia and Rumelia, so that they recognized the superior authority of the Dedebaba and the
Shaykh in the central tekke, thereby becoming parts of the Sufi network of the Bekta şiyya
order. In time, administrative ties were also established between the Hacı Bektaş tekke and
the other members of the Bekta şiyya network. We know that by the early seventeenth cen-
tury, the shaykh of the Hacı Bekta ş tekke attained the privilege to intervene in the process
of determining shaykhs of those tekkes that were included in the Bektaşiyya network.79 By
the mid-seventeenth century, almost all of the tekkes that had belonged to various shar ī‘a-
inattentive dervishes were united under the spiritual leadership and administrative umbrella
of the Hacı Bekta ş tekke. Third, during the process of institutionalization, Balım Sultan and
his associates reinterpreted their past and offered a formal account of the history of the tariqa.
To this end, they collected legendary stories of Hacı Bektaş that had been circulating among
various dervish circles and edited them into a paradigmatic book, which became the hagi-
ography of Hacı Bekta ş.80 When Balım Sultan died in 1516, the Bektaşiyya order was fully
established as a standard Sufi order, albeit with some unique features.81
Notes
1 Notes on transliteration: the IJMES transliteration system for Modern Turkish has been used with
the following slight modifications:
i Hatted vowels or diacritics have not been used in words that are widely employed in mod-
ern Turkish. Yet in a few cases, such as in quotations from sources and words that are not
widely used in Modern Turkish, diacritics have been used while transliterating words of
Arabic or Persian origin.
ii For some widely known terms such as “waq f,” “quṭb,” and “tawall ā,” the IJMES translitera-
tion system for Arabic has been used instead of Modern Turkish.
2 In this regard, the only similar example may be the Mawlawi Sufi order.
3 By “shar ī‘a-inattentive religiosity” I mean a particular type of Islamic piety which does not con-
sider the strict observation of the shari ‘a ordinances as a prerequisite for salvation. Instead, this
type of religiosity gives precedence to attach oneself to charismatic persons who are believed to be
veli (walī in Arabic) that is friend of God or saint.
4 J. Kingsley Birge, The Bektashi Order of Dervishes, Revised, facsimile (London: Luzac & Co.,
1994); Suraiya Faroqhi, Der Bektaschi-Orden in Anatolien (Vom Späten Fünfzehnten Jahrhundert Bis
1826) (Vienna: Verlag des Institutes für Orientalistik der Universität Wien, 1981). Georg Jacob’s
earlier studies were heavily misguided by the scarcity of Bekta şi sources and his reliance on anti-
Bekta şi polemical works. See Georg Jacob, Beiträge Zur Kenntnis Des Derwisch-Ordens Der Bektaschis
228
The Bektaşiyya
(Berlin: Mayer and Müller, 1908); Georg Jacob, Die Bektaschijje in Ihrem Verhältnis Zu Verwandten
Erscheinungen (München: Die k. b. Akademie, 1909). Although it includes extensive chapters on
Hacı Bekta ş, Irène Mélikoff’s monograph is more of a compilation of her research on Bekta şis,
Alevis, and related religious groups, whom she conceptualized as “heterodox,” rather than a par-
ticular study of the Bekta şi Sufi order. See Irène Mélikoff, Hadji Bektach: Un Mythe et Ses Avatars.
Genèse et Évolution Du Soufisme Populaire En Turquie (Leiden: Brill, 1998). One should also mention
the important volume edited by Alexandre Popovic and Gilles Veinstein in this account. See
Alexandre Popovic and Gilles Veinstein, eds., Bektachiyya: Études Sur l’ordre Mystique Des Bektachis
et Les Groupes Relevant de Hadji Bektach (Istanbul: ISIS Press, 1995).
5 M. Fuad Köprülü , “Bekta ş. Hacı Bekta ş Veli,” in İslâm Ansiklopedisi, vol. II ( İstanbul: Milli Eğ itim
Basımevi, 1979), 461–464; Fuad Köprülü, Türk Edebiyatında İ lk Mutasavvıflar, 7th ed. (Ankara:
Gaye Matbaacılık, 1981).
6 Birge, The Bektashi Order of Dervishes, 2–86. Köprülü’s groundbreaking articles on the manifestations
of Islamic piety in medieval Anatolia were published in a series. See Fuad Köprülü, “Anadolu’da
İslamiyet: Türk İstîlâsından Sonra Anadolu Tarih-i Dînîsine bir Nazar ve Tarihinin Menba’ları,”
Dârülfünûn Edebiyat Fakültesi Mecmuası 4 (Eylül 1338/1922), pp. 281–311; 5 (Eylül 1338/1922),
pp. 385–420; 6 (Kânun-ı Sâni – Mart 1339/Ocak – Mart 1923), pp. 457–486. These articles were
later translated in English and published in Mehmed Fuad Köprülü, Islam in Anatolia after the Turkish
Invasion (Prolegomena), translated, edited, and with an introduction by Gary Leiser (Salt Lake City:
University of Utah Press, 1993). The references in this work will be made to the English edition.
7 Jacob, Beiträge Zur Kenntnis Des Derwisch-Ordens Der Bektaschis; Jacob, Die Bektaschijje in Ihrem
Verhältnis Zu Verwandten Erscheinungen; F. William Hasluck, Christianity and Islam Under the Sultans,
ed. Margret Hasluck (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1929), pp. 341, 488.
8 Hasluck, Christianity and Islam under the Sultans, 341, 488. On this issue Irène Mélikoff and her
student Ahmet Y. Ocak follows Hasluck’s line of argument. See Mélikoff, Hadji Bektach, 55–58;
Ahmet Y. Ocak, “Hacı Bektâ ş -ı Veli,” in İslâm Ansiklopedisi, vol. 14 ( İstanbul: Türkiye Diyanet
Vakfı, 1996), pp. 455–458.
9 Birge, The Bektashi Order of Dervishes, 40–51; Köprülü, “Bekta ş. Hacı Bekta ş Veli”; Ocak, “Hacı
Bektâ ş -ı Veli.”
10 Köprülü, Türk Edebiyatında İ lk Mutasavvıflar, 203; Birge, The Bektashi Order of Dervishes, 41–42;
Hilmi Z. Ülken, “Anadolu Tarihinde Dinî Ruhiyat Müşahadeleri,” Mihrab 1, no. 15–16 (1924),
pp. 515–516.
11 Elvan Çelebi, Menâkıbu’l-Kudsiyye Fî Menâsibi’l-Ünsiyye, ed. İsmail E. Erünsal and Ahmet Y. Ocak
(Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 1995); Ahmed Eflaki, Ariflerin Menkıbeleri, trans. Tahsin Yazıcı, 2
vols. ( İstanbul: Milli Eğ itim Bakanlığ ı Yayınları, 2001).
12 Derviş Ahmed A şıkpa şazâde, Tevârih-i Âl-i Osman, ed. Nihal Atsız ( İstanbul: Türkiye Yayınevi,
1949); İsâmuddin Ebu’l-hayr Ahmet Efendi Ta şköprülüzâde, Osmanlı Bilginleri. E ş- Şakâiku’n-
Numâniye Fî Ulemâi’d-Devleti’l-Osmâniyye, trans. Muharrem Tan ( İstanbul: İ z Yayıncılık, 2007).
13 Abdülbâkî Gölpınarlı, Vilâyet-Nâme, Manâkib-i Hünkâr Hacı Bektâ ş-ı Velî ( İstanbul: İ nkılap
Kitabevi, 1995); Hamiye Duran, ed., Velâyetnâme (Ankara: Türkiye Diyanet Vakfı Yayınları, 2007);
Hamiye Duran and Dursun Gümüşoğ lu, eds., Hünkâr Hacı Bekta ş Velî Velâyetnâmesi (Ankara: Gazi
Üniversitesi Türk Kültürü ve Hacı Bekta ş Veli Ara ştırma Merkezi Yayınları, 2010).
14 Rıza Yıldırım, “Hacı Bekta ş Veli ve İ lk Osmanlılar: A şıkpa şazâde’ye Eleştirel Bir Bakı ş”, Türk
Kültürü ve Hacı Bekta ş Veli Ara ştırma Dergisi 51 (2009), pp. 107–146.
15 Köprülü, Türk Edebiyatında İ lk Mutasavvıflar, 203; Birge, The Bektashi Order of Dervishes, 41.
16 Ahmet Y. Ocak, La Revolte de Baba Resul Ou La Formation de l’hétérodoxie Musulmane En Anatolie
Au XIIIe Siècle (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 1989).
17 Elvan Çelebi, Menâkıbu’l-Kudsiyye Fî Menâsibi’l-Ünsiyye, 169–170; Mertol Tulum, Tarihî Metin Çalışma-
larında Usul: Menâkıbu’l-Kudsiyye Üzerinde Bir Deneme (İstanbul: Deniz Kitabevi, 2000), 633–637.
18 Eflaki, Ariflerin Menkıbeleri, vol. I, 597–600; vol. II, 59–60.
19 A şıkpa şazâde, Tevârih-i Âl-i Osman, 237–238.
20 A şıkpa şazâde, 237–238.
21 Gölpınarlı, Vilâyet-Nâme, Manâkib-i Hünkâr Hacı Bektâ ş-ı Velî; Duran, Velâyetnâme; Duran and
Gümüşoğ lu, Hünkâr Hacı Bekta ş Velî Velâyetnâmesi; Birge, The Bektashi Order of Dervishes, 33–40;
Mélikoff, Hadji Bektach, 68–103.
22 For a discussion of this issue see Rıza Yıldırım, “Rum’da Öksöğ üyü Tutan Kimdi? Salltukname
ve Hacı Bekta ş Veli Velayetnamesi’nde Yer Alan Bir ‘Menkıbe’Ye Göre Rum Erenleri,” in I.
229
Riza Yildirim
Uluslararası Hacı Bekta ş Veli Sempozyumu. 07-09 Mayıs 2010 Çorum, vol. II (Ankara: Hacı Bekta ş
Veli Ara ştırma ve Uygulama Merkezi, 2011), 595–633.
23 Bekta şi tradition unanimously accepts this treatise as the principal work of Hacı Bekta ş. For the
major scholars accepting the Bekta şi position, see Birge, The Bektashi Order of Dervishes, 102;
Köprülü, “Bekta ş. Hacı Bekta ş Veli,” 462; Ülken, “Anadolu Tarihinde Dinî Ruhiyat Mü şahadel-
eri,” 515–516. For the prominent scholars rejecting the Bekta şi claim, see Mélikoff, Hadji Bek-
tach. Un Mythe et Ses Avatars. Genèse et Évolution Du Soufisme Populaire En Turquie, 61–68; Ocak,
“Hacı Bektâ ş -ı Veli,” 457; Ahmet Y. Ocak, Osmanlı İmparatorluğu’nda Marjinal Sufilik: Kalenderiler
(XIV–XVII. Yüzyıllar) (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 1992), pp. 212–213.
24 Birge, The Bektashi Order of Dervishes, 102; Esat Coşan, ed., Makâlât (Ankara: Seha Neşriyat, 1982),
XLIX.
25 Elvan Çelebi, Menâkıbu’l-Kudsiyye Fî Menâsibi’l-Ünsiyye, 169–170; Tulum, Tarihî Metin Çalı şma-
larında Usul: Menâkıbu’l-Kudsiyye Üzerinde Bir Deneme, 633–637; Eflaki, Ariflerin Menkıbeleri, vol. I,
597–600; vol. II, 59–60.
26 For a discussion of the characteristics of Islamic piety in medieval Turkoman milieu, see Riza
Yildirim, “Sunni-Orthodox vs. Shi’ite-Heterodox?: A Reappraisal of Popular Islamic Piety in
Medieval Anatolia,” in Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia, ed. A. C. S. Peacock, Bruno De
Nicola, and Sara Nur Yildiz (Surrey: Ashgate, 2015), pp. 287–307; Rıza Yıldırım, “Anadolu’da
İ slâmiyet: Gaziler Çağ ında (XII.-XIV. Asırlar) Türkmen İ slâm Yorumunun Sünnî-Alevî Niteliğ i
Üzerine Bazı Değerlendirmeler,” Osmanlı Ara ştırmaları / The Journal of Ottoman Studies 43 (2014),
pp. 93–124.
27 Ahmed Eflaki, Ariflerin Menkıbeleri, vol. I, 597–598.
28 For a summary of Hacı Bekta ş’ legendary life according to his hagiography, see Birge, The Bektashi
Order of Dervishes, 33–40; Ocak, “Hacı Bektâ ş -ı Veli,” 457–458; Mélikoff, Hadji Bektach. Un Mythe
et Ses Avatars. Genèse et Évolution Du Soufisme Populaire En Turquie, 68–103.
29 Köprülü, Islam in Anatolia, 9–15, 30–31. Köprülü’s argument has been widely accepted and repeated
in the literature. See Thierry Zarcone “Bektaş Hacı”, in Encyclopaedia of Islam, THREE, ed. Kate
Fleet, Gudrun Krämer, Denis Matringe, John Nawas, and Everett Rowson. Consulted online on 30
January 2019 <http://dx.doi.org.proxy.library.emory.edu/10.1163/1573-3912_ei3_COM_24009>
30 Claude Cahen, “Le Problème Du Shi’isme Dans l’Asie Mineure Turque Préottomane,” in Le
Shi’isme Imâmite: Colloque de Strasbourg (6–9 Mai 1968) (Paris: Press Universitaires de France, 1970),
pp. 120–123; Irène Mélikoff, “L’origine Sociale Des Premiers Ottomans,” in her Sur Les Traces Du
Soufisme Turc: Recherches Sur l’Islam Populaire En Anatolie (Istanbul: ISIS, 1992), p. 130.
31 Gölpınarlı, Vilâyet-Nâme, Manâkib-i Hünkâr Hacı Bektâ ş-ı Velî, 1–4, 5–7, 20.
32 Mélikoff, “L’origine Sociale Des Premiers Ottomans,” 130.
33 Irène Beldiceanu-Steinherr, “Les Bekta şi a La Lumiere Des Recensements Ottomans (XV–XVI.
Siecles),” Wiener Zeitschrift Für Die Kunde Des Morgenlandes 81 (1991), pp. 21–79.
34 A şıkpa şazâde, Tevârih-i Âl-i Osman, 238; Fuat Köprülü, “Abdal Musa,” Türk Kültürü 124 (1973).
Abdal Musa’s legendary deeds were later compiled into a hagiography. See Abdurrahman Güzel,
Abdal Musa Velayetnamesi (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 1999), pp. 198–207.
35 Ömer Lütfi Barkan, “Osmanlı İ mparatorluğ unda Bir İskan ve Kolonizasyon Metodu Olarak Vakı-
flar ve Temlikler; İstila Devirlerinin Kolonizatör Türk Dervişleri ve Zaviyeler,” Vakıflar Dergisi II
(1942), pp. 279–386.
36 For a study of cooperation between dervishes and the Ottoman authorities in the conquest of the
Balkans, see Riza Yildirim, “Dervishes, Waqfs and Conquest: Notes on Early Ottoman Expan-
sion in Thrace,” in Held in Trust: Waq f in the Islamic World, ed. Pascale Ghazaleh (Cairo: American
University in Cairo Press, 2011), pp. 23–40; Riza Yildirim, “Heresy’ as a Voice of Tribal Protest
against Bureaucratic State: The Bektashi Case of Seyyid Rustem Gazi in the Ottoman Rumelia,”
Bulgarian Historical Review 3–4 (2011), pp. 22–46.
37 Rıza Yıldırım, Rumeli’nin Fethinde ve Türkle şmesinde Öncülük Etmi ş Bir Gâzi Dervi ş: Seyyid Ali
Sultan (Kızıldeli) ve Velâyetnâmesi (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 2007); Riza Yildirim, “History
Beneath Clouds of Legend: Seyyid Ali Sultan and His Place in Early Ottoman History According
to Legends, Narratives, and Archival Evidence,” International Journal of Turkish Studies 15, no. 1–2
(2009), pp. 21–62.
38 The tekke of Kızıldeli emerged as the hub of Bekta şi dervishes in Rumelia and the Balkans and
maintained its important position until it was confiscated in 1826. Therefore, the economic activ-
ities in the tekke and its waq f revenues are fairly well documented in the Ottoman archives. For a
230
The Bektaşiyya
study of earliest revenue registers regarding the tekke, see Irène Beldiceanu-Steinherr, “Seyyid Ali
Sultan d’après Les Registres Ottomans: L’installation de l’Islam Hétérodoxe en Thrace,” in The
Via Egnatia under Ottoman Rule 1380–1699, ed. Elizabeth Zachariadou (Rethymnon: Crete Uni-
versity Press, 1996), pp. 45–63. For an economic and social history of the tekke in the eighteenth
and nineteenth centuries, see Suraiya Faroqhi, “Agricultural Activities in a Bektashi Center. The
Tekke of Kızıl Deli 1750–1830,” Südost-Forschungen 35 (1976), pp. 69–96. For the role of this
tekke in the formation of the Bekta şi order, see Rıza Yıldırım, “Muhabbetten Tarikata: Bekta şî
Tarikatı’nın Oluşum Sürecinde Kızıldeli’nin Rolü,” Türk Kültürü ve Hacı Bekta ş Veli Ara ştırma
Dergisi 53 (2010), pp. 153–190.
39 Dursun Gümüşoğ lu, ed., Sâdık Abdâl Dîvânı ( İstanbul: Horasan Yayınları, 2009).
40 For a discussion of this work as a source for Bekta şi history, see Yıldırım, “Muhabbetten Tarikata:
Bekta şî Tarikatı’nın Oluşum Sürecinde Kızıldeli’nin Rolü,” 155–159.
41 Gümüşoğ lu, Sâdık Abdâl Dîvânı, 19a.
42 Gümüşoğ lu, 5b.
43 Gümüşoğ lu, 7a.
44 Gümüşoğ lu, 16b.
45 Gümüşoğ lu, 4a.
46 Uri Rubin, “Pre-Existence and Light: Aspects of the Concept of Nur Muhammad,” Israel Oriental
Studies 5 (1975), pp. 62–119; Mohammad Ali Amir-Moezzi, The Spirituality of Shi'ite Islam: Beliefs
and Practices (London and New York: I.B. Tauris, 2011), pp. 113–168.
47 I adapted this term from Vincent J. Cornell’s discussion of the concept of Muhammadan Reality
in the context of the Jaz ū lite Sufi doctrine. According to Cornell, Jaz ū lite shaykhs reinterpreted
this concept in a way that as the heir of Muhammad, the perfect saint mirrored the Muhammadan
Image and the shaykh became, “analogically speaking, the ‘Muhammad’ of his time.” See Vincent
J. Cornell, Realm of the Saint: Power and Authority in Moroccan Sufism (Austin: University of Texas
Press, 1998), 218.
48 Gümüşoğ lu, Sâdık Abdâl Dîvânı, 2a, 3b, 13a, 22a–22b.
49 Gümüşoğ lu, 5b–6a, 8a, 16b.
50 Gümüşoğ lu, 8b, 15b–18a.
51 Filiz Kılıç, Mustafa Arslan, and Tuncay Bülbül, eds., Otman Baba Velayetnamesi (Tenkitli Metin)
(Ankara: Bahar Kitabevi, 2007), pp. 1–15.
52 Derviş Muhammed Yemînî, Fazîlet-Nâme, ed. Yusuf Tepeli (Ankara: Türk Dil Kurumu Yayınları,
2002). For a study of Yemini’s religious ideas, see Riza Yildirim, “Abdallar, Akıncılar, Bekta şîlik
ve Ehl-i Beyt Sevgisi: Yemînî’nin Muhiti ve Meşrebi Üzerine Notlar,” Belleten LXXV, no. 272
(2011), pp. 51–85.
53 Cahen, “Le Problème Du Shi’isme Dans l’Asie Mineure Turque Préottomane.”
54 Riza Yildirim, “Sh ī ‘itisation of the Futuwwa Tradition in the Fifteenth Century,” British Journal
of Middle Eastern Studies 40, no. 1 (2013), pp. 53–70.
55 There is a large amount of literature on the transformation of the Safavid Sufi order from a stan-
dard tariqa into a political movement and then a state. For a monographic study and the literature,
see Rıza Yıldırım, “Turkomans between Two Empires: The Origins of the Qizilbash Identity in
Anatolia, (1447–1514)” (PhD Dissertation, Bilkent University, 2008).
56 Ahmed Rıf kı, Bekta şî Sırrı (1-2-3-4. Cilt), ed. Dursun Gümüşoğ lu ( İstanbul: Post Yayın Dağ ıtım,
2017), pp. 575–578.
57 Ahmed Cemâleddin Efendi, “Bekta şî Sırrı Nâm Risâle’ye Müdâfaa,” in Ahmed Rıfkı, Bekta şî Sırrı
(1-2-3-4), ed. Dursun Gümüşoğ lu ( İstanbul: Post Yayın Dağ ıtım, 2017), pp. 503–504.
58 Some villages that were registered to the waq f of Hacı Bekta ş were in the Karamanoğ lu territories.
When the Ottomans put an end to the Karamanoğ lu principality and annexed their lands, they
took a census of income resources, the registers of which Beldiceanu-Steinherr studied. However,
Sulucakarahöyük, where the tekkeis located, remained in the contested territories between the
Ottomans and Dulkadirlu until the demise of the latter in the second decade of the sixteenth cen-
tury. See Irène Beldiceanu-Steinherr, “Le District de Ḳır şehir et Le Tekke de Hacı Bekta ş Entre
Le Pouvoir Ottoman et Les Émirs de Ẕulḳ adır,” in Syncrétismes et Hérésies Dans l’Orient Seldjoukide
et Ottoman (Xiv e–Xviii e Siècle), ed. Giles Veinstein (Leuven and Paris: Peeters, 2005), pp. 259–282.
59 Beldiceanu-Steinherr, “Les Bekta şi.”
60 Beldiceanu-Steinherr, 24, 36.
61 Kılıç, Arslan, and Bülbül, Otman Baba Velayetnamesi (Tenkitli Metin), 242–243.
231
Riza Yildirim
232
17
THE CHISHTIYYA
Scott Kugle
Introduction
The Chishtiyya Order is the most popular Sufi Order in South Asia, the region with the
densest population of Muslims worldwide.1 There, it is not just popular but also the most
influential Order historically. Chishtiyya acted as unofficial intermediaries between Muslim
rulers (centralized Delhi Sultans from 1200 to 1400) and their multi-religious subject popula-
tions (predominantly Hindu but also Buddhist, Jain, and Zoroastrian).2 Later, Chishtīs acted
in varied roles as king-makers, popular exemplars, and local literati (in regional Sultanates
1350–1526). The Order’s distinctive characteristics include adaptation to the South Asian en-
vironment, cultivation of devotional music and meditative techniques, and innovation in lan-
guage and literature. This chapter provides an overview of the Chishtiyya Order from 1200
until 1560 in order to show its distinctive characteristics. The Chishtiyya Order became a
global order in the twentieth century (following currents of British imperialism), which fueled
research about it.3 This chapter synthesizes this vast research and guides readers to its sources.
Periodization and development of the Order

What is a Sufi Order? The preeminent contemporary scholars of this Order, Ernst and
Lawrence, offer a flexible definition: an Order is a loose network of people and practices
joined in a corporate identity linked to a lineage of admired teachers of the past who are
invoked in the present through memory and memorialization.4 The corporate identity of the
Chishtiyya is strong, linked to teachings and personalities of the “great ones” whose tombs
are popular pilgrimage places in India and Pakistan. Yet Devin DeWeese cautions against
reifying corporate identity of Sufi Orders.5 Ernst and Lawrence solve this problem by ana-
lyzing the Chishtiyya Order in terms of periods:
1 Formative period (seventh to tenth centuries)

2 Foundational period at Chisht (tenth to twelfth centuries)
3 First Cycle of the Indian Chishtiyya Order (twelfth to fourteenth centuries)
4 Second Cycle of the Indian Chishtiyya Order (fourteenth to eighteenth centuries)
5 Third Cycle of the Indian Chishtiyya Order (eighteenth to twenty-first centuries)
233
Scott Kugle
This periodization accepts the Chishtiyya self-conception of continuity while also suggest-
ing that the Order changes over time and place, adapting to new conditions. This chapter
focuses on the second to fourth cycles in Ernst and Lawrence’s periodization, ending with
the consolidation of the Mughal Empire in 1560.6
Foundational and formative periods

The Chishtiyya Order formed around the teachings and reputation of Khw āja Mu‘ ī n al-
D ī n Chisht ī , who moved to India around 1200. While most Sufi orders take their name
from a founding figure who is their patron saint, the Chishtiyya Order takes its name
Chisht, a town in Afghanistan near Her ā t.7 The community was founded by Ab ū I ṣḥā q
Sh ā m ī (died 940), who came from Syria to this region of Khur ā s ā n on the expanding
eastern frontier of the Islamic world. He trained Sufis to renounce worldly ambition
and embrace radical poverty, representing a lineage (silsila) that extended nine genera-
tions earlier through Sufi masters from Iraq to Ḥ asan Ba ṣ r ī (died 728) and from him to
‘
Al ī ibn Abī Ṭā lib and the Prophet. Of Sufis from the “Formative Period” (seventh to
tenth centuries), Chisht ī s cherished Ibr ā h ī m ibn Adham (died 782) and recounted his
heroic asceticism. They also extolled Mans ̣ū r Ḥ all āj (executed 922) as a spiritual hero of
self-sacrificial love.
Abū I ṣḥā q Shā m ī returned to Syria but his successors in Chisht expanded his teachings
over six generations. These “the Masters of Chisht” (Khwājag ān-i Chisht) lived during the
“Foundational Period” (tenth to twelfth centuries). They represented a style of “Khurā sān ī”
Sufism as defined by Karamustafa and Green.8 While some Sufi communities in Khur ā sān
built elaborate kh ānaqāh buildings, there is no evidence that the Masters of Chisht had such
institutions. They represented a rustic style of Sufi devotion when compared with others
who developed the mal āmat ī style of quietist devotion while working in civic professions or
as urbane gentry. The Chisht īs were dedicated to robust love mysticism and musical devo-
tions, as expressed in this Persian ghazal attributed to ‘Uthm ān Harvan ī Chisht ī (which is
still sung in Qawwali, on which see more below).9
I don’t know why, the moment I catch sight of him, I begin to dance
My only boast is that I’m inspired before my beloved to dance
You keep singing different tunes—I keep up with dance
Whichever way you like to spin me, my dear, I love to dance
From head to toe I’ve sacrificed myself to utter selflessness
Like a compass around an absent center I’m left to dance
Like a joyous drunk, I trample underfoot self-righteous caution
My piety is insisting, decked out in cloak and turban, to dance
You’re such a killer that you spill my blood just for show
I’m such a victim that beneath your dagger I long to dance
Come, my love, witness me in this throng of stricken lovers
As I, in the public market with my riches of ruin, take to dance
Though one finds dew nestled in roses not clinging to thorns
I am a drop of dew that on a thorn-tip quivers as if to dance
I am ‘Uthmān Harvanī—the friend of Mans ̣ūr Ḥallāj am I
Let others hide their sanctity—allow me on gallows to dance
Chishtiyya concepts of love were invigorated by Persian poetry shaped by A ḥ mad Ghaz ā l ī
(died 1126) in his Saw āniḥ.10 His follower, ‘Ayn al-Qu żāt Hamad ān ī (executed 1131), was
a theorist of love mysticism who influenced Chishtiyya Sufis, and Khwāja Quṭb al-Dī n
234
The Chishtiyya
Mawdūd Chisht ī (died 1139) may have known him personally.11 Khwāja Yū suf Chisht ī be-
friended the Sufi poet ‘Abdallah Anṣār ī of Her āt.12 The combination of rustic asceticism and
poetic-musical sensitivity among the Masters of Chisht was inherited and developed by the
subsequent Chishtiyya Order in South Asia.
In this era, the Ghū r ī Dynasty ruled Eastern Khur ā sān (including Afghanistan) and parts
of South Asia (Ghazna and Punjāb). Chisht lies strategically midway between their moun-
tainous capital at F ī r ū zk ū h and the major urban center of Her āt. The Ghū r ī rulers patronized
Sufis at Chisht and built for them monumental tomb-shrines. As the Ghū r ī ruler, Mu‘izz al-
Dī n ibn Sā m (died 1206), invaded South Asia to conquer Delhi in 1192, one of the Masters
of Chisht shifted east and a new era began.
He was Mu‘ ī n al-Dī n Chisht ī, who was born Sayyid Ḥasan in a wealthy family in S īst ān
(often called S ījist ān, a region in eastern Iran bordering Afghanistan). Orphaned when
young, he sold his estate to travel in search of knowledge to Bukhār ā and Samarqand. He
became a disciple of ‘Uthm ān Harvan ī Chisht ī (died 1220, from Harvan in the region of
Nishāpū r) and accompanied his travels to Balkh, Tabr īz, Ghazna, Iṣfahān, Baghd ād, and
other cities in Iran and Central Asia. He is reputed to have met Sufi leaders like ‘Abd al-
Qādir Jī lān ī, Najm al-Dī n Kubr ā, and Najīb al-Dī n ‘Abd al-Qāhir Suhraward ī (all “found-
ers” of other Sufi Orders that interacted with Chisht īs in South Asia). He visited Mecca and
Medina where, according to legend, a vision of the Prophet commissioned him to settle in
India; for this reason, he is known as “Representative of the Prophet in India (n āʾ ib al-rasūl
fiʾ l-hind)” and “India-Conquering Saint (hindal walī ).”
Little about Mu‘ ī n al-Dī n Chisht ī is certain since his biography was recorded centuries
later (see below, “Sources and Relations with other Orders”). He stopped in Punjab for a
devotional retreat (khilwa) at the tomb of ‘Al ī Hujw ī r ī (died c. 1077), the patron saint of
Lahore and author of Kashf al-Ma ḥjūb (the first Sufi manual in Persian) who belonged to the
Junayd ī Order. In a Persian poem, he confirmed for ‘Al ī Hujw ī r ī his nickname, “The Giver
of Treasure” (D āt ā Ganj Bakhsh).13
The Giver of Treasure blesses all

from the divine light, he is a ray
For sinners, he’s a cherished saint
for other saints, he shows the way
From Punjab, Mu‘ ī n al-Dī n Chisht ī entered India proper with his comrade, Quṭb al-Dī n
Bakhtiyār K ā k ī. He settled at Ajmer, a fortress-town in Rājasthān (formerly Ajayameru
or “Invincible Mountain” in Sanskrit). He overcame conflicts with Brahmins, Yogis, and
Rajput rulers whom, according to legend, he awed with miracles and impressed with ascetic
humility. Chisht ī lore asserts that he arrived before the Ghū r ī Dynasty conquered Ajmer,
though modern historians conjecture that he arrived with (or just after) the conquest. He did
not write books, yet several epistles on meditation and Sufi guidance are attributed to him
as well as a divan of Persian dīw ān, and his pithy maxims were handed down in oral lore.14
K. A. Nizami summarizes his maxims:
“He interpreted religion in terms of human service and exhorted his disciples ‘to develop
river-like generosity, sun-like affection and earth-like hospitality.’ The highest form of de-
votion, according to him, was ‘to redress the misery of those in distress; to fulfil the needs
of the helpless and to feed the hungry.’”15 He is popularly known as Ghar īb Naw āz (Helper
of the Poor).
235
Scott Kugle
First Cycle of the Indian Chishtiyya Order

When Mu‘ ī n al-Dī n Chisht ī settled in South Asia, the “First Cycle of the Indian Chishtiyya
Order” began. He initiated a five-generation series of “great ones” who set the teachings
and tone of the Chisht ī Order.16 He died in Ajmer in 1236, where his tomb became a site of
veneration. Mu ḥammad ibn Tughluq (reigned 1325–1351) was the first Sultan of Delhi to
visit his tomb, starting a tradition of royal deference and patronage.17 The Sultans of Mā lwā
(ruled 1436–1531) built his tomb-shrine, while Mughal Emperors starting with Akbar (ruled
1556–1605) built mosques and other structures to create a huge dargāh.18
His comrade, Quṭb al-Dī n Bakhtiyār K ā k ī, was from Ūsh (or Osh, on the border be-
tween Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan). He settled in Delhi and as the successor to Mu‘ ī n al-Dī n
Chisht ī despite the fact that he died in 1235.19 The Sultan of Delhi, Iltutmish (ruled 1211–
1236), asked Quṭb al-Dī n to be Shaykh al-Isl ām (chief scholar of the realm), but he declined
to serve in court. A Sufi of the Kubrawiyya Order, Najm al-Dī n Ṣughr ā, took the position,
whom Chisht īs criticized as a corrupt, worldly scholar.20 He tried to prevent Quṭb al-Dī n
and his friend, Qāżī Ḥam īd al-Dī n of the Suhrawardiyya Order (died 1244), from listening
to devotional music. The Qāżī convinced Iltutmish that music was permissible for Sufis.21
Quṭb al-Dī n authored no texts, but a dīw ān of Persian ghazals is attributed to him.22 Quṭb
al-Dī n is renowned for love of music (sam āʿ ) and died in rapture listening to a ghazal by
A ḥ mad-i Jā m (died 1141).23
Love’s goal is to reach for a different place

People of insight leave ever a different trace
Those who trade in love have at every booth
Nooses at ready to hang a different youth
Those who are slain by submission’s knife
From beyond will always attain a different life
Don’t drift, Aḥmad, hone your attention span
This bell’s distant peal leads a different caravan
On Chishtiyya practices of music and their relation to the Suhrawardiyya Order, see more
below. His dargah at Mehrauli (now a district of Delhi) was patronized by Mughal Emperors.
Quṭb al-Dī n’s successor, Far īd al-Dī n Masʿūd Ganj-i Shakar (died 1266), was the first
Chishtiyya master born in South Asia.24 To escape pressure of the court and its worldly
scholars, Far īd al-Dī n stayed in a remote village in Punjab called Ajōdhan (now known as
Pā kpattan). There he lived in dire poverty and unrelenting asceticism, but was visited reg-
ularly by Qawwals or Sufi singers from the cities and towns. Far īd al-Dī n met with Hindu
ascetics and discussed yoga with them.25 These discussions were likely in “Hindi,” the name
given by Persian texts to any local South Asian language.26 In his teachings about meditation
techniques, we find that Far īd al-Dī n was not just speaking in the vernacular, but also giving
his disciples dhikr formulas in “Hindi” in addition to Arabic.27 Thus, Far īd al-Dī n provides us
with early evidence of the “vernacularization” of Sufism in the South Asian context; poems
attributed to him in Hindi were incorporated into the Sikh scriptures two centuries later.28
Despite intense interaction with South Asian culture, Far īd al-Dī n and his followers
thought of themselves as a distinct Order with collective identity and increasing institution-
alization. He did not settle in Mult ān where he was educated because that was the home of
the Suhraward ī master, Bahāʾ al-Dī n Zakariyā (the most influential representative in South
Asia of Shihāb al-Dī n Suhrawardiyya from Baghd ād). Far īd al-Dī n described the region
around Mult ān as the Suhraward ī “realm of spiritual authority” (wil āyat); his own realm was
centered on Ajōdhan (about 200 km eastward along the road toward Delhi).29
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The Chishtiyya
Far īd al-Dī n met his successor, Ni ẓā m al-Dī n Awliyā (died 1325), when the latter was a
young jurist-in-the-making, greeting him with a Persian poem:
Burning of separation from you has singed so many hearts
Flooding of desire for you has ravaged so many souls
Far īd al-Dī n appointed him successor at age 23 and insisted that he settle in the capital of
the rapidly expanding Sultanate of Delhi. On the outskirts of Delhi, Ni ẓā m al-Dī n Awliyā
built a popular devotional center ( jam ā‘at-kh āna), ran a charitable kitchen (langar-kh āna) on
donations, confronted rulers and trained disciples.30 As a consequence, Delhi and its environs
have always been seen as the wil āyat of the Chishtiyya Order, one which he inherited from
Quṭb al-Dī n Bakhtiyār K ā k ī.
Ni ẓā m al-Dī n systematized the teachings of the Chishtiyya Order, as can be summarized
in three points. First, service to the needy is better than ritual worship; arguing that this
was the way to imitate the Prophet Mu ḥammad, he made a pun that equated prophethood
(payghambar ī ) with bearing the sorrows of others (pay-i ghamm bar ī ). Second, the presence of
God is found among the destitute; he emphasized a hadith report that “All people are God’s
family, and the most beloved of people are those who do most good for God’s family.” Third,
egoism is the real idolatry.
Ni ẓā m al-Dī n normalized rules for his Sufi Order, referring to manuals like Adab al-
Mur īdīn and ‘Aw ārif al-Ma‘ārif by Suhrawardiyya authors. He set high ethical standards for
members who renounced worldly professions and lived on voluntary donations. He provided
a firm example by refusing to accept land-grants or court positions; he also refused to marry
or raise children.31 He also set the norms for ritual sam ā ‘ and initiated the Qawwali style of
devotional singing; his disciple Am ī r Khusraw (died 1325) trained the first Qawwali group
and composed poems in Persian and Hindi to be sung before him.32 He became popularly
known as Sulṭān al-Mash āʾ ikh (Ruler of Sufi Masters) and Mahḅ ūb-i Il āhī (God’s Beloved),
stirring jealousy on the part of worldly ‘ulam ā.
Sultan Ghiyāth al-Dī n Tughluq (reigned 1320–1325) entertained courtly scholars who
opposed the Chishtiyya ritual of music. Ni ẓā m al-Dī n entered court to defend the practice
with reference to hadith reports, using his skills from earlier legal training. In general, he
refused to meet Sultans face to face, in contrast to his Suhraward ī counterparts in South Asia.
However, he took advantage of imperial ambition by sending Chishtiyya representatives
to all regions of the expanding Delhi Sultanate, a domain which by 1310 encompassed the
Deccan and most of peninsular South India. His representatives set up devotional centers
based on Ni ẓā m al-Dī n’s model in Delhi.33
Ni ẓā m al-Dī n attracted disciples of high quality and insisted that they study Islamic sci-
ences (us ụ̄ l al-dīn) before he would grant them successorship (khil āfat). His disciples included
scholars like Żiyā al-Dī n Baran ī (died 1357) and courtier poets like Am ī r Khusraw.34 Khusrau
adopted Sa‘d ī’s style in Persian ghazals (at Ni ẓā m al-Dī n’s direction) and composed Hindi
poems in praise of his Sufi master using Krishna-devotion imagery and the voice of a female
lover.35 Am ī r Ḥasan Sijzī (died 1336) was another court poet who became a Chishtiyya disci-
ple; he recorded Ni ẓā m al-Dī n’s oral discourses in a unique text (malf ūẓāt) spawning a genre
of literature that other Sufi Orders in South Asia adopted.36 This text, Faw āʾ id al-Fuʾād or
“Morals for the Heart,” is the primary source for Chishtiyya teachings: it presents stories that
Ni ẓā m al-Dī n told, questions that his followers asked, and answers that he gave them in the
form of parables, poems and subtle spiritual points. This text became so popular that most
Chishtiyya masters after Ni ẓā m al-Din also had a malf ūẓāt composed. At the same time, post-
humous malf ūẓāt texts circulated that were attributed to earlier Chishtiyya masters like Far īd
237
Scott Kugle
al-Dī n, Quṭb al-Dī n, and Mu‘ ī n al-Dī n; some historians have spurned them as spurious forg-
eries, while others see them as recording lore that had circulated orally and thus had value.37
His chief successor, Nas ̣īr al-Dīn Mahm ̣ ūd Chirāgh-i Delhī (died 1356), was a scholar of
Qurʾān and Arabic grammar, whose discourses are interwoven with hadith reports; his malfūẓāt
is entitled Khayr al-Majālis or “Best of Assemblies.”38 Nas ̣īr al-Dīn stayed in Delhi to oversee the
continuing expansion of Chishtiyya representatives. However, as Sultan Muḥammad ibn Tugh-
luq centralized power, he saw Sufi masters as competitors; thus, he began forcing popular Sufis
to take court appointments and show him deference.39 Nas ̣īr al-Dīn faced increasing pressure to
attend court and to take on the role of the worldly ‘ulama.40 Upon his death, Nas ̣īr al-Dīn ordered
the relics of the Chishtiyya masters to be buried with his body, fearing that his successor could not
stand the political pressure that was curtailing Sufi masters as independent religious authorities.41
Other representatives of Ni ẓā m al-Dī n fared better in the provinces. To Gujarat, the
Delhi saint had sent Kam ā l al-Dī n ʿAllā ma (died 1355), the son-in-law of Nas ̣ī r al-Dī n.42
To the Deccan, he sent Burhān al-Dī n Ghar īb (died 1337) who was a great patron of music
and ecstatic dance.43 Disciples of Burhān al-Dī n composed four malf ūẓāt texts to preserve his
sayings and teachings, and his tomb in Khuld ābād (near Daulat ābād in Mahār ā shtra) became
a sacred necropolis full of Chishtiyya personalities and later royalty.44 Ni ẓā m al-Dī n Awliyā
sent another representative, Akh ī Sir āj (died 1357), to Bengal; he carried books from Ni ẓā m
al-Dī n’s library to start a new Chishtiyya devotional center there.45 Both Akh ī Sir āj and
Burhān al-Dī n Ghar īb were seen posthumously as patron saints of new Islamic dynasties in
Bengal and the Deccan respectively.
To almost every town across the Indo-Gangetic plain, Ni ẓā m al-Dī n Awliyā and Nas ̣ī r
al-Dī n Chir ā gh-i Delh ī sent representatives to start local Chishtiyya centers. Nas ̣ī r al-Dī n’s
death in 1356 signaled the end of First Cycle of the Indian Chishtiyya Order. In that Cycle,
five generations of leaders introduced the Order into India, established its ascetic-musical
style, institutionalized its rules, and spread it to all provinces of the Delhi Sultanate.
Second Cycle of the Indian Chishtiyya Order

By the mid-fourteenth century, the Delhi Sultanate expanded so far that it began to break
apart. Sultan Mu ḥammad ibn Tughluq experimented with moving the capital south to the
Deccan. He forced Sufis, scholars, and Muslim notables to relocate to the fortress-city of
Devagir ī (“Fortress of the God” in Sanskrit, also known as Deogir) which he renamed
Daulat ābād. This helped spread the Chishtiyya Order, as many fled Delhi to avoid being
coerced into migrating and serving in court. The Sultan raised taxes and minted new coins
to consolidate his expansive rule but revolts weakened the Sultanate. When the Turco-
Mongol T ī mū r ravaged Delhi in 1398, most provinces had broken away from Delhi’s control.
As provincial governors promoted themselves to kings, the Chishtiyya Order entered a
new phase: the first half of the “Second Cycle of the Indian Chishtiyya Order” (fourteenth to
sixteenth centuries). In this era of diversification, Chishtiyya Sufis became local leaders and
adapted their teachings more deeply to the South Asian environment. Some took on new
political roles and adapted new forms of institutional authority. Others took up literary and
artistic pursuits or engaged in routine forms of Islamic scholarship.
Emblematic of the potentials and perils of this new era is Sayyid Mu ḥammad Ḥusayn ī
Gīsū Dar āz (d. 1422).46 His father was a disciple of Ni ẓā m al-Dī n Awliyā who moved to
Daulat ābād but sent his son to Delhi for education. Gīsū Dar āz took initiation with Nas ̣ī r
al-Dī n Chir ā gh-i Delh ī and considered himself the primary successor. Gīsū Dar āz migrated
to the Deccan, where the ruler of the Bahman ī Sultanate (1347–1527) invited him to settle.47
238
The Chishtiyya
Bahman ī Sultans claimed legitimacy to rule through the blessing of Sufi masters. At first,
Sufi scholars of the Junaydiyya Order who were called upon to crown the Sultan.48 When
Gīsū Dar āz arrived at the capital of Gulbarga, the Sultan F ī r ū z Shāh looked to Chisht īs for
support, though competition with Junaydiyya Sufis (who did not practice sam āʿ music assem-
blies) and worldly scholars complicated matters.49 Gīsū Dar āz moved from the fort-palace to
a new kh ānaqāh distant from the court’s interference.
His popularity rankled the Sultan; after the Sultan named his son as successor, G īsū Dar āz
supported the Sultan’s imprisoned younger brother instead. Through unexpected events,
the younger brother was crowned. Gīsū Dar āz’s prestige as king-maker soared; he accepted
huge land-grants and assigned successorship to his sons, thereby creating a family dynasty.
By doing this, he broke with Chishtiyya norms, yet created a durable institution (the first
real Chishtiyya kh ānaqāh) that combines spiritual guidance, Islamic learning, and charitable
giving. He became known popularly as Banda Naw āz (Helper of Commoners and Slaves).
Gīsū Dar āz was the first Chishtiyya master to compose books as a prolific scholar in A rabic
and Persian who spoke several Indian languages. He wrote a commentary on the Qurʾān,
collections of ḥad īth, and books of Ḥanaf ī law in addition to Sufi texts like the Tamhīdāt of
‘
Ayn al-Quḍāt Hamadhān ī; his teachings were recorded in four malf ūẓāt texts, only one of
which survives (entitled Jaw āmi‘ al-Kalim or “Most Comprehensive of Discourses”). He re-
corded his dream-visions (Asm ār al-Asrār) and collected his letters on Sufism (Maktūbāt). In
them, he advocated theo-erotic mysticism in which lover and beloved are united in love.50
He saw this oneness in love (‘ishq) as different from the philosophical monism of Ibn ‘Arabī,
which stressed oneness in existence (wujūd).
Chishtiyya writings on music and ecstasy

During the era of Gīsū Dar āz, Chishtiyya Sufis fostered a major flowering of Persian liter-
ature, combining poetry and prose in innovative ways. Chishtiyya contributions to litera-
ture get little scholarly attention (with the notable exception of Am ī r Khusraw) though the
archive is very rich. This chapter continues the effort of Ernst and Lawrence to highlight
lesser-known texts and authors, presenting three Sufi literati who wrote about the most dis-
tinctive characteristic of the Chishtiyya Order, its love of devotional music.
Mu ḥammad Abū Ja‘far Makk ī was a Ḥusayn ī Sayyid with an Arab lineage to Mecca. Born
in South Asia, he studied Islamic sciences with a disciple of Ni ẓā m al-Dī n Awliyā.51 Initiated
by Nas ̣ī r al-Dī n Chir ā gh-i Delh ī, Makk ī was sent to Sirhind as his representative. Makk ī’s
major work is Bahṛ al-Ma‘ān ī or “Ocean of Meaning,” consisting of 34 Persian letters written
as spiritual guidance. The 19th letter that addresses Music begins with a ghazal poem.52
So, my beloved, you must understand that sam ā ‘ is forbidden for commoners due to the
rebelliousness of their souls, while it is allowed for the lovers to enliven their hearts and
it is encouraged for their companions because they follow them closely.53
The jewel of this moment you can only find in the market of music
The choicest of roses you can pluck only from the garden of music
How can hypocrite pretenders know the value of a melody?
Heartfelt Sufis give up their very souls as captives of music
When the heart’s eye is lined with the kohl of certainty
Oh Khwāja, you’ll see the power of the radiance of music
The enflamed lover cries out with joy, “Within my being
All other than the beloved is burned in the fire of music!”
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All others are not rivals but friends, don’t close the door!
Of one heart and mind are those who are lovers of music
Don’t search beyond this assembly, everything is found here
God’s secret is jealously denied to any denouncer of music
My beloved reader, God has said in the Qurʾān, Oh my servants, there is no fear for you on Judgment
Day nor will you grieve—you who believed in our signs and submitted as Muslims—so enter paradise, you
and your partners, as you take delight (Qurʾān 43:68–70). By “take delight” God means samā‘, the joy
of listening. In paradise, there will be music in the ears of both men and women, their partners.
The servants of God will hear women’s voices singing. The Qurʾān recites, If all trees in the earth
were pens and all seas were ink, even replenished by seven seas after that, still the words of God would never
be finished (Qurʾān 31:27), doesn’t it? Yes, my beloved, “take delight” means listening to the music
of God’s words with no intermediary. The voice will be of God, great be divine majesty, and the
listeners will be the chosen intimate servants of God. It is just as the Gospel says, We sang a tune for
you but you were not moved; we played a pipe for you but you did not dance (Matthew 11:17).
Oh my beloved, listening to music is the ascension of the prophets and saints, just as the
Prophet Muḥammad said, “My rapture (wajd) is my ascension (mi‘rāj)” and also “The ascension
of the spirit is listening to music just as the ascension of the heart is bowing in prayer.” Similarly,
ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib has said, “The believer has two types of ascension: in listening to music and in
prayer.” You must know, oh beloved, that every Sufi has an ascension moment, in which no other
person whether common or special can partake. It is just as the Prophet Muḥammad has said, “I
have a moment with God in which none other can hear, not even angels intimate or prophets
sent with messages.” In saying “moment,” he means the trance (ḥālat) and ecstasy (wajd) that oc-
cur when listening to beautiful music. Thus, the Prophet Muḥammad was listening to God with
utmost love (uns), delight (nishāt), and sensitivity (dhawq). Listening like this is of two types. First
is listening with intermediary means [such as a voice or instrument]. Second is listening with no
intermediary, which means hearing directly the infinite words of God as alluded to above in this
epistle. In God’s paradise, the voice of God will be heard directly with no intermediary. It is just
as the greatest Khwāja, the Prophet Muḥammad, has said: “God has a paradise in which there
is no heavenly virgin and no jeweled palace and no river of milk or stream of honey or font of
wine—there is nothing at all there except God’s face.” In this paradise, there is nothing except
seeing God’s beautiful countenance and hearing God’s captivating voice. In our world, there is
only listening with intermediary means by necessity, for it is a realm of separation from God. But
do listen through these intermediary means and open your ears, for these intermediary means
also lead to listening directly. A companion of the Prophet named Mūsā Ash‘arī heard him say,
“A beautiful voice is a whiff of the breath of the Merciful” and then the Prophet turned and ad-
dressed him saying, “Oh Mūsā, you must acquire this voice. Recite the Qurʾān with it, for this
voice is an expression of the divine breath.” Indeed, the Prophet used to say, “I sense the breath
of the Merciful coming from Yaman.” You may wonder whether this is Yemen or Yaman, but it
refers to the musical mode called Yaman that you may have heard and what a melodious mode it
is! In India, it is called Raga Yaman. Similarly, we find Raga Basant that is derived from taking
Raga Yaman and making it even softer and gentler, such that that flow of its melody can make
the whole world mad with love.54
Oh my beloved, the Prophet Mu ḥammad alludes to his own experience of sam ā ‘ through
metaphors that are lost on the literalists, when he said “I sense the breath of the Merciful
coming from Yaman.” How could literalists or shallow scholars understand what I’m writ-
ing about? It’s a great pity, but what could I say to them? Yet you and I must live in order
to express this knowledge of ours, even just a bit if God wills, which is the knowledge of
divine intuition.
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The Chishtiyya
Examine my words very deeply. These Ragas were made supple, subtle, and delicate
from the Ragas that existed previously in India, such that they captivate the whole world.
Through them, sam ā‘ has penetrated deeply into India with the permission of the Prophet
Mu ḥammad. This is because that axis of the world, Shaykh Quṭb al-Dī n Bakhtiyār K ā k ī,
took permission from the grand master, Mu‘ ī n al-Dī n Chisht ī, to leave Ajmer and settle in
Delhi.
In those days, Sayyid N ū r al-D ī n Mub ā rak Ghaznaw ī (died 1234, a follower of Shi-
h ā b al-D ī n ’Umar Suhraward ī ) was the leading saint of Delhi. At the congregational
mosque on Friday, after the noon-time prayer, both Sufis met. Qu ṭ b al-D ī n said to
Sayyid Mub ā rak, “Oh noble descendent of the Prophet, I deeply desire to listen to sam ā ‘
in this city so why don’t you come along and listen with me?” He answered, “Without
receiving permission from the Prophet himself, I could never listen to music!” Qu ṭ b al-
D ī n replied, “Tonight you will receive your permission.” That very night, the Prophet
appeared to Sayyid Mub ā rak in a dream and told him, “Our dear Qu ṭ b al-D ī n desires
to listen to sam ā ‘, so my dear son you should accompany him.” The next day, Sayyid
Mub ā rak attended the assembly and heard Sufi music for the first time. My beloved,
don’t you see how the fire of sam ā ‘ has been spreading day by day since the Prophet gave
permission for it? And assuredly it will keep spreading wider and wider—Amen! It is
said in Arabic, “Sam ā ‘ burns the hearts of listeners and kindles the fire of yearning in
the breasts of lovers.” This fire is the burning of separation, which the Qurʾā n alludes to
when it says The fire of God kindled (Qurʾā n 104:6). Those who love music know it when
they are moved to agitation and cry out in rapture.
Do you know who it is who achieves the purpose of life?

He’s the one who, even while sleeping, hears and comprehends
In the samā‘ of Muḥammad, what state comes over him?
It’s the one that, like a hair tossed in the fire, leaps and bends
Last night, this poor Sufi witnessed a proper miracle
I saw an empty goblet quaffing wine that never ends
In this passage, Abū Ja‘far Makk ī presents a standard Chishtiyya argument that devotional
music is forbidden—as Hanafi jurists insisted—for those who do not have love in their hearts
and sensitivity in their souls. But for lovers, it is essential nourishment that keeps their hearts
alive, and so it is allowed for them and those who follow them. He presents innovative ar-
guments from Qurʾān and hadith reports to justify devotional music in Islam, including an
intriguing quote (in Arabic) from the New Testament. Most Chisht īs turn to David as the
Prophet whose example justifies devotional music rather than to Jesus. Like most Chisht īs,
Makk ī cites the example of Khwāja Quṭb al-Dī n as the champion of music in Islamic South
Asia. Yet he subtly explains the value of music as the means for getting rid of selfishness and
conceit. His image of “an empty goblet quaffing wine that never ends” is an apt metaphor for
the body of the listener emptied of ego and intoxicated with the rapture of being absorbed
in divine beauty as it comes through music.
A companion of Abū Ja‘far Makk ī named Żiyā Nakhshabī (died 1350) lived in Bad āʾū n,
(the native town of Ni ẓā m al-Dī n Awliyā). Nakhshabī’s Iranian family settled in Nā g ōr in
Rājasthān (also spelled Nagaur or Nagore) where he took initiation with a descendant of
Ṣū f ī Ḥam īd al-Dī n Nā g ōr ī (died 1274), a disciple of Mu‘ ī n al-Dī n Chisht ī. Nakhshabī was a
literary author more than a teaching Shaykh. He was prolific with cosmopolitan knowledge
of literature, music, philosophy, and, of course, mysticism, who drew on Arabic, Persian,
Sanskrit, and Greek sources.55 Żiyā Nakhshabī’s masterwork, Silk al-Sul ūk or “Stages of the
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Scott Kugle
Spiritual Path,” is a collection of mystical sayings about spiritual issues like love, ecstasy, and
the flow of time. It is organized into 151 Stages, each a miniature quilt of poems, stories, and
aphorisms.56 Western scholars, by and large, have ignored it.57 “Stage Four” of Silk al-Sul ūk
that addresses musical ecstasy.58
You must know that in this Sufi discipline there is a technical term “ecstasy” (wajd). In
Arabic, it is defined thus: “Ecstasy is a state that comes upon the heart with no effort.”
A master of Sufi insight has said, “Ecstasy is a secret in the heart that none can discern
except God, the holy and divine One.” Others hold the opinion that, “Ecstasy happens
when the True One comes upon one, and when it comes it agitates hearts to approach
closer to the True One.”
Once a heartful mystic sat in the assembly of Yahyā ibn Mu‘ādh [a famous Sufi who
died in 872].59 Listening to the discourse, he was overcome by ecstasy due to which he
felt extreme restlessness and disturbance. Someone sitting next to him in the assembly
spoke up, asking “What’s the matter with you?” He replied, “The discourse of divinity
stirred up the secret of ecstasy, making absent the quality of humanity and manifesting
the Merciful’s agency!”
Oh, my dear reader, ecstasy is such a powerful state that the one occupied in it is
lost to his outer movements while in his inner being thousands of movements are born,
such that his spirit (r ūh)̣ can actually separate from his body. It is said that once a saint
was giving spiritual advice to an assembly when a listener was overcome by such ecstasy
that he began to tear his clothes to pieces. When he was done and calmed down, the
saint addressed him, saying “The state that overcame you demands that you tear up your
heart and not just your clothes!” Another author has written, “The beginning of ecstasy
is sweetness and the middle of it is bitterness, while the end of it is illness!”
Listen closely! As long as the Prophet Job was stripped of his health, he was enrobed
in ecstasy; when he was enfolded again in health, he was stripped of his ecstatic joy.
Thus, he said, “Oh God, you inflicted me with adversity and you are the most merciful
of those with mercy!” (Qurʾān 21:83).
Oh Nakhshabī, count ecstasy as a sharpened sword

And realize that with ecstasy you can lose your head
You’ll never lay your head down at another’s word
Ecstasy will bow you down if it may choose your head
Żiyā Nakhshabī praises ecstasy (wajd) but is so critical of empathetic ecstasy (taw ājud) that he
calls it “pretending ecstasy.”60 This negative judgment contradicts what Ernst and Lawrence
assert to be a unique quality of the Chishtiyya: that they support and promote empathetic
ecstasy as a necessary part of Sufi training, so that eventually their companions might train
themselves to achieve real ecstasy.61 Nakhshabī shows us how Sufis of a particular Order can-
not be characterized as all holding the same views on a particular point of doctrine or prac-
tice; there is diversity and debate within it. Nakhshabī produced charming lyrics in Persian
ghazal and masnaw ī, yet he was one of the leading personalities of a new generation of Chish-
tiyya authors who also composed in prose and translated Indian folk-tales into Persian.62
Contradicting Nakhshabī’s skeptical assessment of empathetic ecstasy is Mas‘ūd Bakk
(died 1387), an eloquent and audacious Chishtiyya author. He was initiated by a master two
generations removed from Ni ẓā m al-Dī n Awliyā and apparently died by royal execution.63
He wrote a dīw ān of Persian of poems, some in praise of listening to music like this quatrain.64
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The Chishtiyya
In the religion of lovers, the goal is listening to music

Both the question and the answer is listening to music
You claim that music is forbidden in Islamic tradition?
Before time began, God allowed this listening to music
“Before time began” refers to the primordial covenant, known as “the day of alast” in Sufi
terminology. The Qurʾan refers to a time before time when the souls of all humanity—
before their embodiment—heard the voice of God and answered to witness God’s oneness
(Qurʾan 7:172). The soul echoed the divine voice and answered in harmony with it, which
Chisht ī Sufis see as the primordial event of listening to music and responding with rapture.
This theological idea is elaborated upon in another ghazal.65
A dervish’s state listening to music, if you’d once see

You’d say that music is allowed in Islam and all agree
Hearing a singer’s voice, like an angel from heaven
All souls unite like soldiers in battle charge bravely
When sages in ecstasy spring from their egos
They drop all pretense of possessing any quality
When sparks of rapture rise, they die to themselves
Then existence is lit up with the radiance of eternity
Come, sweet singer, let us bow our heads to listen
For in Mas‘ūd’s religion, rapt music is the best piety
Mas‘ū d Bakk also wrote eloquent prose that is interwoven with poetic outbursts. His
Mirʾāt al- ‘Ārif īn or “Reflection of the Sages” explains concepts central to Sufism and
offers a fascinating discussion of how music induces ecstatic movement and rapturous
emotion.66
The body’s every limb takes part in listening to music and gets some benefit from it,
for it is comprehensive in nature. When music affects the eyes, like candles they begin
to drip tears. When it affects the tongue, like thunder it begins to cry out. When it
affects the hands, like a hammer they beat the chest. When it affects the heart, all the
dust of the body is swept away by the broom of spiritual reality. When it affects the
legs, they get agitated (hizzat) and just like a peacock they get stirred up to dance with
harmonious movements. The sign that music has totally overcome a person is that each
movement that manifests from his being is harmonious, because that which moves him
is harmony.67
Mas‘ūd Bakk continues his chapter by affirming the value of empathetic ecstasy as Sufi
training rather than mere pretending. He bases his exposition upon the verse, As God is
recollected, their hearts tremble (Qurʾā n 8:2), and also a saying of the Prophet Mu ḥ ammad,
“He is not noble who is not agitated at mention of the beloved.” He also cites a teaching of
Ni ẓā m al-D ī n Awliy ā: “The essence of a disciple is discovered during sam ā ‘—if he experi-
ences agitation when his beloved is named during the music, then he is suitable to partake
in Sufi gatherings, and if no agitation manifests, then it is clear that his heart is dead and
his soul is wretched.” 68
Whoever is not agitated and moved by listening to music can never taste the delight of
witnessing this beauty. Only by feeling ecstatic agitation can the listener stand outside
himself, and only by leaving oneself can one the vision of real beauty fill one completely.
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This agitation has several stages: empathetic ecstasy (taw ājud), real ecstasy (wajd) and
pure being (wujūd), as I express in a ghazal:
Since the music of love filled my ears

I drank down the wine of seven seas
Sparks of love set aflame my soul
And set me, like a cauldron, to boil
My soul gets access to such secrets
When my boastful tongue takes on silence
In the dust I threw this prayer rug of mine
And took up instead a goblet full of wine
My heart sipped the liquor of selflessness
My mind is drunk and my soul unconscious
Get lost, you pretender, this warning I say
The labors of tomorrow I’ve done yesterday
My bodily form is infused with beauty of the wise
So why should I cover my head with disguise?
I’ve not recalled Mas‘ūd in so many years
Ever since the music of love filled my ears
Passages from these three authors reveal how Chishtiyya Sufis justified devotional music
against its detractors and how they valued ecstatic responses to music. They show how
prose and poetry combine to convey their teachings in the fourteenth century. Little-known
authors like Makk ī, Nakhshabī, and Mas‘ūd Bakk achieved a rare quality of writing. There
is scope for further research in Chishtiyya literature, and many unique writings lie in man-
uscript form, unedited and unpublished.
Sources on the Chishtiyya Order and relations

with other Orders
This chapter cited passages from different genres of literature, including malf ūẓāt oral dis-
courses, poetry (especially the ghazal), makt ūbāt letters, and tafsīr commentary on scripture.
Additionally, tadhkira or biographical collections are indispensable. The earliest tadhkira of
the Chishtiyya Order is Siyar al-Awliyā or “Lives of the Saints” by Am ī r Khurd (died 1369).
This disciple of Akh ī Sir āj gives biographies of Chishtiyya masters in chronological pro-
gression, sketching the Order’s evolution, teachings, and practices. The few biographies that
preceded it focused on individuals.69 Later biographical collections demonstrate the growing
popularity of the Chishtiyya Order. Many were written by Sufis from other Orders but they
were structured around Chishtiyya leaders. These include Siyar al-‘Ārif īn or “Lives of the
Sages” by Ḥam īd ibn Fa ż lallah Dihlaw ī (died 1535) of the Suhrawardiyya Order and Akhb ār
al-Akhyār or “Reports of the Pious” by ‘Abd al-Ḥaqq Muhaddis ̣ Dihlaw ī (died 1642) of the
Qādiriyya Order.70 These biographies date to a century or more after their subjects’ death,
so scholars sift through what material is authentic or legendary.
Biographical collections about the Chishtiyya Order reveal its relationships with other Sufi
Orders, which were cooperative overtly and competitive subtly. The Suhrawardiyya Order
was the first to organize corporate identity, write manuals, and publish rule books. From
Baghd ād, Suhrawardiyya Sufis established a center at Mult ān and from there spread through-
out North India; in South India, they came directly from Iraq by sea.71 Often, Suhrawardi-
yya Sufis first settled in a region while Chishtiyya Sufis followed them. They contrasted
with the Suhrawardiyya Order on many points of practice.72 They praised poverty and overt
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The Chishtiyya
renunciation while Suhrawardiyya Sufis built expensive institutions and channeled wealth
into Islamic endeavors. They championed music, dance, and poetry while Suhrawardiyya
Sufis predominantly avoided music and concentrated on writing in prose. They embraced
local South Asian cultural norms and customs (like accepting celibacy, remaining equivo-
cal about homosexuality, and tolerating transgender behavior), while Suhrawardiyya Sufis
remained largely aloof, instead modeling Arab-centric norms of shar ī ‘a behavior.73 The
Suhrawardiyya Order remained strong in Punjab and Sindh, but otherwise it was overshad-
owed by the Chishtiyya Order. Some Chisht īs also initiated in the Suhrawardiyya Order,
such as Shāh M ī nā (died 1479) in Lucknow.74
The Chishtiyya Order also coexisted with the Kubrawiyya Order, which was called
Firdawsiyya in South Asia (a Kubraw ī branch that originated from Central Asia). The
Chishtiyya and Kubrawiyya shared elements of devotional practice, such as meditation fo-
cusing on the lat āʾ
̣ if or subtle energy centers in the body (known as chakras in Hindu prac-
tice).75 This system existed in Central Asia where the Chishtiyya and Kubrawiyya Sufis
developed their meditation techniques, and Naqshbandiyya also developed it from there.76
The Naqshbandiyya Order came to South Asia with the Mughal invasion of 1526 (see
“Sufism in the Mughal Empire” in this volume); after that, they critiqued the Chishtiyya
Order due to its lineage (silsila) though ‘Al ī and its practice of music and vocal dhikr. Toward
the end of the fifteenth century, the Qādiriyya and Shatṭ ạ̄ riiyya Orders spread in South Asia
but did not openly compete with Chishtiyya Sufis. By the sixteenth century, it was common
for Chisht īs to have initiation in multiple Orders, and double initiation in the Chishtiyya
and Qādiriyya Orders was especially common. To illustrate, a Mughal princess wrote a
biography of Mu‘ ī n al-Dī n Chisht ī after residing at Ajmer in 1681, despite her initiation into
the Qādiriyya Order.77
Chishtiyya Sufis had a fascinating relationship with Sufis of the Qalandariyya Order.
Qalandars were a radical antinomian group, who disrupted activities at both Chishtiyya
and Suhrawārdiyya gatherings. Ni ẓā m al-Dī n Awliyā taught that some of them were true
saints—but only a very few!78 He taught that the proper response to Qalandars was patience
in the face of provocation. One Qalandar stabbed Nas ̣ī r al-Dī n Chir ā gh-i Delh ī who almost
died yet counseled his followers to forgive his assailant and not seek redress against him.79
Despite this hostility, the Chishtiyya Order absorbed Qalandar personalities and tropes. Bū
‘Al ī Shāh Qalandar (died 1324), an Azerbaijani Sufi and poet who lived in Pān īpat, joined
the Chishtiyya Order; his Persian ghazals are often sung in Qawwali:80
Lost am I in the thought of him, I don’t know where I’m going

Sunk am I in union with him, I don’t know where I’m going
Slave am I to his beautiful looks, prisoner am I to his curling locks
I am just dust in his alley way, I don’t know where I’m going
Since our intimacy waxed, I gave up to him my heart and soul
Effaced am I, erased am I, I don’t know where I’m going
I placed my head at his feet when I became afflicted with him
Nothing am I but longing to meet, I don’t know where I’m going
Call me Qalandar Bū ‘Alī, but I’m drunk with my beloved’s name
My heart is bound up in his love, I don’t know where I’m going
Another poet, Ḥam īd Qalandar (died 1366), took initiation with Ni ẓā m al-Dī n Awliyā then
joined the circle of Nas ̣ī r al-Dī n Chir ā gh-i Delh ī and composed his malf ūẓāt. Qalandars who
entered Chishtiyya communities reinforced tropes of drunkenness, self-sacrifice, radical
love, and worship of beauty (sh āhid-bāzī ) in Chishtiyya teachings and poetry.
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Scott Kugle
The Chishtiyya engagement with South Asian culture is relevant to “syncretic move-
ments” and creativity across boundaries, issues of enduring importance in modern South
Asia. From the fifteenth century onward, Chisht īs were involved in developing local
dialects—like Hindawi, Gujari, and Deccani (all early forms of Urdu)—into vehicles for
theological and literary expression. Some scholars attribute the first Urdu prose to G īsū
Dar āz: Mi‘rāj al-‘Āshiqīn or “Ascension of Lovers.”81 A Chisht ī Sufi in Bihār, Mullā Dāʾūd
(died around 1380), was the first to write a Sufi epic romance in Hindi (in Devanagari script)
initiating a very rich genre called Prēma Kah ān ī (or Premakhyan in Sanskrit) that Sufis from
other Orders adopted.82 A Chisht ī in the Deccan, Shāh Bājan (died 1504), was the first to
record local speech (in his Gujari dialect) in Persian script, and also compose poems in the
dialect set to South Asian meters and ragas.83 From Gujarat, Khūb Mu ḥammad Chisht ī (died
late sixteenth century) was an early poet in Deccani Urdu and also contributed to literary
theory.84
In music, Chisht ī s in the Deccan composed chakk ī-n ā ma or work songs that women
sing to keep a steady rhythm while grinding grain.85 Chisht ī s composed Qawwali songs
in old dialects of Hindi and Urdu, sometimes with lyrics of macaronic poems combining
Persian with Indian languages.86 While Persian poems formed the basic repertoire of this
musical genre, poems in Indian languages became steadily more important.87 Chisht ī s
were involved in evolving a new style of song, Khayal, which became popular in courts
and kh ānaq āhs.88
The Ṣābirī branch and devotional practices

This portrait of the Chishtiyya Order is based upon the Ni ẓā mi branch of the Chishtiyya
Order, which holds Ni ẓā m al-Dī n Awliyā to be the primary successor to Far īd al-Dī n Ganj-i
Shakar. This branch produced able musicians, literati, and Islamic scholars, while its dargahs
are located in imperial capitals like Delhi, Daulat ābād, and later Āgr ā, so it usually dominates
scholarly research. However, there is a second branch called the Ṣābir ī Chishtiyya Order that
takes its name from ‘Alāʾ al-Dī n ‘Al ī A ḥ mad Ṣābir (died 1291).89
He was an elder disciple of Far īd al-Dī n Ganj-i Shakar, who, due to long fasting, earned
the nickname Ṣābir “the one with patient endurance.” His austere devotions built up in him
internal “heat” (t ạ̄ qat in Persian, tapas in Hindi) in a mode of understanding the body that is
common to Yogic practitioners. Feeling that his elder disciple was suited to isolation, Far īd
al-Dī n sent Ṣābir to a rural area north of Delhi (Kaliyar, now a town in Uttarakhand near
the Hindu pilgrimage center of Haridwār); in contrast, he delegated his younger disciple,
Ni ẓā m al-Dī n Awliyā, to the capital city of Delhi. Ṣābir’s fiery disposition and rustic location
attracted only a few disciples. Far from establishing a new branch with his own name, Ṣābir’s
disciples disappeared from recorded history.90
They resurfaced after many generations in the distant town of Rudaul ī (near Lucknow
in eastern Uttar Pradesh) with ‘Abd al-Quddū s Gang ōh ī (died 1537). This Sufi scholar was
highly literate in Persian, wrote Hindi poetry, and knew much about Yoga.91 His followers
in the Ṣābir ī branch specialized in athletic ascetic practices that more urban Sufis from the
Ni ẓā mi branch had ceased to practice.92 These include inverted prayer (saḷ āt-i ma‘k ūsī ) that
Far īd al-Dī n reportedly made by having himself suspended upside-down in an abandoned
well for solitary worship.93 Many of the later Ṣābir ī devotions appear to parallel Yogic prac-
tices.94 The Ṣābir ī branch gained prominence in Mughal times as upholders of Ibn ‘Arabī’s
ideal of “the unity of being” (wahdat ̣ al-wujūd).95
246
The Chishtiyya
Conclusion
This chapter surveys the personalities and practices of the Chishtiyya Order, focusing on
its Foundational Period in Afghanistan, its First Cycle in South Asia and half of its Second
Cycle. This chapter spans the tenth century to the sixteenth century, the point when the
Mughal Empire created a new environment with dire challenges and novel opportunities for
the Chishtiyya Sufis. This chapter summarizes beliefs, institutions, and distinctive practices,
focusing on music and poetry because Chishtiyya efforts in that field set it apart from other
Sufi Orders. It also emphasizes Chishtiyya contributions to South Asian culture (in lan-
guage, literatures, and devotional practices in addition to music), which prompts historians
of medieval South Asia to always mention the Chishtiyya Order even if they do not focus
on Sufism.
Notes

247
Scott Kugle
̲ ̲
248
The Chishtiyya
̣
̣
249
Scott Kugle
250
The Chishtiyya
̣ ̣
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251
18
THE QALANDARIYYA
From the mosque to the ruin in poetry,
place, and practice1
Katherine Pratt Ewing and Ilona Gerbakher2
Introduction
Qalandariyya is a troubling and ambivalent presence in the Sufi tradition. It is a kind of un-
digestible fragment in an Islamicate discursive order that reveals some of the social and po-
litical preoccupations of medieval Muslims. The term “Qalandar” first appears in medieval
Islamicate literature in the eleventh century as a figure of one who defies the conventions
of social order. By the thirteenth century, groups of Qalandars with shaven hair and eye-
brows, wearing nothing but animal skins or metal piercings, wandered across the landscape
of the Muslim world, hanging out in the ruins on the edges of cities. Though the Qalandars
themselves did not contribute extensively to the medieval Sufi literary tradition, they re-
ceive frequent mention in other sources, often through descriptions and anecdotes of their
distinctive appearance and practices. These stories are rarely neutral: the Qalandar is either
condemned and despised as a debauched violator of Islamicate legal and social norms – an
abjected other3 to the law-abiding Muslim subject – or exalted as one who has transcended
worldly concerns to become close to God – an embodiment of the sublime.4 This link be-
tween the abjected and the sublime, noted by psychoanalytic philosopher Julia Kristeva and
explained developmentally in terms of the emergence of the ego, is similarly captured by
the thirteenth-century Persian Sufi poet Jalā l al-Dī n Rū m ī (d. 1273), who sets the Qalandar
apart from even the most spiritually developed of ordinary mortals:
Carousing and ruby-wine and ruins and unbelief,

These are the kingdom of the qalandar, but he is detached from it.
You say “I am a qalandar!” But the heart is displeased,
Since qalandardom is uncreated.5
In this poetic fragment, Rū m ī suggests that one cannot become a Qalandar or claim this
spiritual status for oneself. Qalandardom is a state of being that is unattainable by those who
are most eager to claim it. Going further, Rū m ī seems to be pointing to something that
stands outside of ordinary human reality, not only at the margins of social order but also
beyond creation itself. It is ungraspable through language or specific expressions of Islam:
a place where meaning collapses. As Heghnar Watenpaugh has argued: “While Islamic so-
ciety generally revered individuals whose adherence to normative piety was exemplary, it
252
The Qalandariyya
also embraced certain exceptional beings who flaunted their rejection of those norms and
called attention to their constructed and arbitrary nature” (Emphasis ours).6 The conjunction of
abjection and the sublime invoked by the figure of the Qalandar suggests that this figure
functions for the medieval Islamicate world as a “sublime object,” a signifier that points to
the possibility of casting off the social self that is linked to a recognition of gaps in the ideo-
logical structure of social and political order. What and who is this “Qalandar,” and what can
it tell us about the medieval Islamicate world which produced it?
This chapter explores the complex interweaving of historical, literary, religious, and po-
litical dimensions of the Qalandar. Moving from philology to poetry, from ritual to resis-
tance, qalandariyya will be examined through multiple theoretical lenses, fusing the texts and
methods of classical Islamic scholarship with contemporary critical approaches. We examine
the significance of the Qalandar as trope in Persian Sufi literature and then trace the emer-
gence and spread of Qalandars as a loosely organized Sufi order, focusing on how they were
perceived and received in South Asia and Anatolia between the thirteenth and fifteenth
centuries.
The scholarly search for Qalandar origins

The etymology of the word Qalandar, like the origins of the movement itself, is a matter of
scholarly contestation. In fact, scholarly debate about the origins of the term nicely mirrors
the trajectory of scholarship about the Qalandars as a whole. Some rather creative etymol-
ogists have gone as far afield as Chinese in their attempts to trace the term.7 More recently,
Ahmet Karamustafa has provided a comprehensive historical etymology of “Qalandar,”
arguing that the best data that we have on the matter from the Medieval lexicographers
al-Tabr īzī and al-Tattav ī indicates a Persian origin for the term, meaning “coarse stick; un-
couth, uncultivated man.”8 Lloyd Ridgeon has agreed with Karamustafa on the Persian
origin of the term but argues that it refers to a location rather than a person: either k ā-langar
(place, or lodge) or k ālanjar, meaning “black fort” in Hindi, meaning “a place where the
marginalized…congregated [and] where spiritual truths were discovered.”9 The linking of
Qalandar practice to marginal/deviant physical spaces is one that will be explored through-
out this chapter.
This search for the origins of the Qalandar in various parts of Asia is not confined to ety-
mology alone: much ink has been spilled by Orientalist scholars insisting on the non-Muslim
origins of the sect. Some scholars go so far as to say that Qalandars are not Muslim, although
this position was more typically held by Orientalist scholars of the early twentieth century
and has fallen out of favor in the Western academy. The discourse on Hindu/Buddhist influ-
ence and the extra-Islamic origins of both Sufism and qalandariyya is pervasive in secondary
literature on the topic.10 Ignác Goldziher, the renowned nineteenth-century Orientalist and
Islamicist, argued that Sufi dervishes, “if they were not actually Indian Sadhus or Buddha
monks, were at least men who were following the example and method of the latter.”11
Typical of the Orientalist scholarship of his period, Goldziher was preoccupied by the ques-
tion of influence.
The search for the “origins” of Sufi practices or movements outside of Islam – especially
within Buddhism or Hinduism – is typical of nineteenth-century Western Orientalist schol-
arship, which drew a binary opposition between “Islam” as the “dry and spiritually impotent
Arabian Religion” and “Sufism” as “a free-thinking, wine-drinking, erotic and pantheistic
spirituality which ultimately stems from the so-called Indo-Germanic creative spirit.”12 The
Qalandars seem especially vulnerable to this kind of scholarly presentation because of some
253
of their more antinomian practices, but in the last decade, research on the qalandariyya has
begun to move in a less binary and more synthetic direction. The most contemporary schol-
arship eschews the etymological debate and the orientalist obsession with origin altogether
and focuses instead on the beliefs and observances of practitioners themselves and on how
they were perceived by others. As Karamustafa writes in the introduction to his monograph
on the Qalandars, “the explanation and entrenchment for this mode of Islamic piety should
be located within, rather than without, Islamic societies.”13
The Qalandar in medieval Sufi literature

Although we cannot pin down the linguistic origins of the Qalandar, we can point to the
word’s earliest appearances in medieval Islamicate literature in the eleventh century and
trace its development as a trope over several centuries.14 Ashk P. Dahlén has identified the
earliest appearance of the word “qalandar” in a rubā’ī (quatrain) of Bābā Ṭāhir ‘Uryān ī,15
(d. after 1055, though there is wide disagreement on when he actually lived and wrote):
I am the vagabond whom they call qalandar.

I have no provision, no refuge, no harbor.
During the day I travel round
At night, I sleep with my head on the ground.16
This quatrain depicts the Qalandar as utterly outside the social order, with no worldly home
to come between him and God.
A short treatise on qalandariyya, the Risāla Qalandarnāma, is attributed to ‘Abd Allāh Anṣāri
of Herat, a Sufi and Ḥanbali jurist (d. 1088).17 The book begins with a story in which a Qalandar
enters a madrasa and convinces the boys studying there to give up their vain pursuit of knowl-
edge and follow him to a “place of chains” (zanjīrgāh) or madhouse.18 He writes approvingly of
the Qalandar, calling him one who “strives for”19 God with all his might. Though a passionate
defender of the Ḥanbalite school of law as the basis for Muslim community, Anṣār ī also stressed
the importance of a direct experience of God, an experience of the sublime unfettered by
theology and reason. Finding a home in the “place of chains,” the Qalandar represented the
antithesis of reason and social conformity. The Qalandar as a sign thus expressed a particular
social ordering of knowledge and subjectivity that crystallized between the eleventh and thir-
teenth centuries. This was a time when competing schools of law struggled for dominance,
and there was increasing pressure for conformity within Muslim communities. These com-
peting schools produced groups of vigilantes who attacked opponents and suppressed immoral
activities.20 The Qalandar represented the antithesis of these struggles, transcending the quest
for morality through a rejection of its rules. This sentiment is clearly articulated in a quatrain
attributed to the eleventh-century Sufi Abū-Sa‘īd ibn Abī’l-Khayr:
Till Mosque and College fall ‘neath ruins ban,

And Doubt and Faith be interchanged in man,
How can the order of the Qalandars
Prevail and raise up one true Musulman?21
By the turn of the twelfth century, the term “Qalandar” was used as a literary trope in
the writings of a number of Sufis and poets, including A ḥ mad b. Mu ḥammad al-Ghaz ā l ī
(d. 1126, brother of Abū Ḥā mid al-Ghaz ā l ī d. 1111), his disciple ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt Ḥamad ān ī
(d. 1131), and Sanāʾī of Ghazna (d. 1131). As A ḥ mad al-Ghaz ā l ī wrote:
254
The Qalandariyya
This is the lane of blame, the field of annihilation;

This is the street where gamblers bet everything in one go.
The courage of a qalandar, clothed in rags is needed
To pass through in bold and fearless manner.22
A ḥ mad al-Ghāzal ī and Hamad ān ī used the image of the Qalandar in their poetry to explore
the unfettered interior space of the Sufi devotee, which involved annihilation of the self.
Their verses focus especially on the mysteries of the relationship between lover and be-
loved,23 expressing emotional states of excess and ruin that shocked the readers of their time,
to the extent that Hamad ān ī was executed for unorthodoxy in Baghd ād in 1132. A ḥ mad
al-Ghaz ā l ī’s famous older brother Abū Ḥā mid al-Ghaz ā l ī, in contrast, drew a sharp line
between the shar ī’a, with its important guidelines for ordering community and the inner
experience of the Sufi, which must be kept secret24 from ordinary Muslims, since it might
violate everyday understandings of Islam.25
Sanāʾī of Ghazna (d. 1131), a Persian court poet, vividly developed this theme of the secret
in images of encounters with a Qalandar guide. In one poem, the secret is linked with un-
specified debauchery: an old man invites the poet to a party in a house that is beautiful and
pure on the outside. But upon entering, the poet is shocked by a scene of debauchery. The
old guide responds, “Do not regard their doctrine as sinful, but keep their secrets hidden
from the people.”26 The debauched – for which Sanāʾī often uses the term Qalandar in his
poems – represent the poet’s unfettered desires and thoughts, which must be experienced and
examined rather than condemned and censored, even as the exterior – his bodily “house” –
must be kept pure and the secret maintained.
The Qalandar of Persian Sufi poetry thus explores not only the limits of knowledge and
reason, but also secrets of fantasy and pleasure, the limit of which is the unattainable object
of desire. It is not a matter of avoiding excesses, which are cultivated within the imagination,
but rather of containing them, by keeping them secret and properly channeled.27 This image
of the Qalandar thus points to a form of transgressive enjoyment, what Žižek and Kristeva,
drawing on Lacan, call jouissance – an enjoyment at the limits of what the self can tolerate.
According to Žižek, the experience of jouissance is the necessary but hidden complement of
institutional authority, operating as what he called the “obscene underside of the law.”28 The
image of the Qalandar seems to express a similar idea, embodying this underside of social
order and identifying it as the path to God.
In the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries – beginning with Far īd al-Dī n ‘Aṭṭār (d. after
1221–1222), continuing through Jalā l al-Dī n Rū m ī (d. 1273), ‘Ir āqī (d. 1289) and Sa‘d ī (d.
1291–1292), and culminating with Ḥā fiz (d. 1389–1390) – the Qalandar became more firmly
established in the Islamicate literary imagination, though those who invoked the image of
the Qalandar were generally members of the social and religious elite. The theme of qalan-
dariyya was interwoven with other themes in individual poems. Some of these images were
originally drawn from courtly poetry and transformed into symbolic allegories.29 There
were also independent verse compositions devoted solely to the Qalandar image, as in the
short Qalandarn āma in 56 couplets by Am ī r Ḥusayn ī (d. 1318–1319).30
The role of qalandariyya in the life and writings of the influential Persian Sufi poet Fakhr
al-Dī n Ibrah ī m ‘Ir āqī, traced by Ashk Dahlén, demonstrates the power of the Qalandar
as trope in this period.31 ‘Ir āqī first introduced the thought of Ibn ‘Arabī into Persian and
was notable for his intense and audacious expressions of divine love in his poetry. ‘Ir āqī’s
anonymous biographer includes several episodes that demonstrate how the Qalandar dances
at the social margin, a message to the socially elite Sufi that challenged the hypocrisy of
255
social order. Like some other elite Sufis, ‘Ir āqī encountered a gathering of Qalandars when
he was a young man. This encounter led him to tear off his turban, shave off his hair and
eyebrows, and become a wandering mendicant for several years before being initiated by the
Suhraward ī master Bahā al-Dī n Zakariyā in Mult ān (in present-day Pakistan). Later in life,
during a ceremony celebrating his appointment as the chief Sufi master of Egypt, he sud-
denly felt his carnal soul and self-pride overcoming him, so he ripped off his turban and put
it on the ground, incurring ridicule from the spectators but further respect from the sultan.
In ‘Ir āqī’s poetry, the dominant Qalandar ī motif is that of the kharabāt, “an infamous district
on the outskirts of town frequented by beggars, rascals, prostitutes and debauchees…‘Ir āqī
defines the mystical meaning of kharābāt as symbolizing the lover’s total surrender to the
beloved.”32 The poet celebrates intoxication and adopts wine, described in the Qur’ān as
the pure drink of paradise, as a symbol for spiritual drunkenness. For ‘Irāqī, wine represents
the last station of the mystical path and is a symbol of love’s supremacy over intellect; it is the
state of the spiritually perfected person.33
Returning to the poem of Rū m ī quoted in our introduction, we can see that the Qa-
landar inhabits the disreputable “ruins” at the margins of society and yet also represents an
opening into the sublime – an escape from the veils of personality that hide the seeker from
God. According to Kristeva, “The sublime triggers – it has always already triggered – a spree
of perceptions and words that expands memory boundlessly.”34 This description resonates
remarkably with much of the imagery associated with the Qalandar in medieval Persian
Sufi poetry. In the eyes of others, Qalandars are the repositories of deviance: they manifest
deviant sexualities, drunkenness, criminality, and lack of moderation.35 Yet through their
antinomianism they seek an experience of God unconstrained by the social.
Depictions of the Qalandar are often just as much about the preoccupations of those who
attempt to capture them in representations as they are a description of the Qalandar him-
or her-self. The elaborated topos of the Qalandar that developed in Persian Sufi literature
was an object of fantasy for Sufis who themselves were socially elite, though this distinction
should not be too sharply drawn, since it seems that a number of Sufis did join with bands
of Qalandars for at least short periods of time, as some of the narratives summarized here
suggest. ‘Aṭṭār described his amazement at encountering for the first time a band of shaven
Qalandars when traveling in a Persian-speaking area: he joined them, but was eventually
assaulted and robbed by them.36 Even Abū Ḥā mid al-Ghazal ī abandoned his prestigious post
as teacher of Islamic Sciences at the Ni ẓamiyya madrasa to wander as a Sufi (though not as a
Qalandar) for 11 years, and in his writings elaborated the idea that experiences on the Sufi
path can be antinomian and must be shared only with the initiated.
Qalandariyya as a social practice

Though there are attestations of the existence of Qalandars who wandered homeless and
nameless as early as the eleventh century,37 it is in the thirteenth century that we move
from the Qalandar as primarily a religious or literary trope in the writings of Sufis who
were socially elite to the emergence of the Qalandars as an identifiable social collective – or
ṭar īqa in Sufi technical terminology – that was decidedly not elite and was often marked as
a dangerous lower order. These Qalandars were outsiders who inhabited the margins of so-
ciety and were abjected as a socially inferior class against which the respectable classes drew
a sharp boundary. The writings of well-known Sufis such as the Indian Sufi Banda Nawāz
Gīsū Dar āz (d. 1422), who brought the Chisht ī Sufi Order to South India, included warnings
about the importance of protecting children from being lured away from their families by
256
The Qalandariyya
the Qalandars. He accused them of enticing boys to join them and forbade members of his
own family from listening to them.38 This concern parallels the stories of Qalandars who
themselves abandoned their old lives and studies to follow the Qalandars, a phenomenon that
we saw in the Persian Sufi literature described in the previous section.
In tracing the appearance of the Qalandariyya in contemporary and later sources, a key
question is the relationship between the Qalandars and those who describe them. Since
most Qalandars were not themselves focused on creating a written record and were not of
elite backgrounds, their significance and location within the Islamicate social order can be
gleaned by asking a question framed by Simon Digby: “what were the lessons which their
narrators intended to transmit”?39 What attributes of the Qalandar did they focus on and
what does the Qalandar as a signifier reveal about the tensions in the ethical and ideological
fabric of the medieval Islamicate world.? These lessons of the Qalandar stem from the public
visibility of the Qalandars, whose spiritual aspirations, far from being hidden or secret in the
ways advocated by al-Ghaz ā l ī or many of the Persian Sufi poets, were on display for all to see.
Though in many respects the Qalandars were world-renouncing or antinomian, their
practices and self-presentation created a public theater of the socially “undigestible,” raising
questions about the purposes and effects of their controversial practices. Given that the Qa-
landar was a powerful figure that brought together the sublime and the abject in medieval
Sufi literature, did spectators of Qalandar performance see these performances in similar
terms, and to what extent were the Qalandars who became increasingly visible in the social
world from the thirteenth century playing with this relationship between abjection and the
sublime? What were the politics of representation of these groups who lived at the margins
of society and how did they shift over time?
The Malāmatiyya
We can learn more of the configurations of medieval Muslim societies by considering the
conceptual, ideological framework in which the Qalandars were located to ask how their
blatant social deviance was understood in terms of a politics of representation. One aspect of
the issue of visibility and what can be called a theater of the indigestible is directly addressed
in medieval sources through the concept of mal āmat ī, used in early sources to describe some-
one as blameworthy. Ashk Dahlén has suggested that Qalandar ī doctrine originated in the
teachings of the earlier Malā matiyya (“the people of blame”), who appeared in Khur ā sān in
the ninth century,40 though the logic of blame was to make one’s piety invisible, rather than
striving for visibility.
In his ‘Aw ārif al-Ma‘ārif,41 Shihāb al-Dī n ‘Umar Suhraward ī (d. 1234), who expanded and
formalized the Suhrawardiyya Sufi Order,42 distinguished in some detail the Malā mat ī from
the Qalandar as different kinds of Sufis, in a fashion that suggests that Qalandars were visible
in his social world. The distinction between them turned on the issue of visibility in relation
to social deviance and adherence to Islamic law:
The difference between the Malamāt īs and the Qalandars is that the Malamāt īs are pious
but concealed, whereas the Qalandars deliberately contravene custom. The Malam āt ī
adheres to all of the precepts of right conduct and goodness, and seeks virtue therein;
however, he conceals his [good] doings and his [exalted] state…As for the Qalandar, he
is not limited by the [concerns] of society, and he pays no attention to what is known
in terms of his state [ḥāl] or what is not known, and he bows to nothing except to that
which is within the goodness of the heart – it is this which is his property.43
257
Despite the suggestion that Qalandars could be pious in their hearts and intoxicated by God,
Suhraward ī, who was himself focused on institution-building and the maintenance of a
pious social order, was also concerned that Sufism as an institution was being exploited by
charlatans and was deteriorating. He asserted that those in his time who took the dress of the
Qalandars to indulge in debaucheries are not to be confused with true Qalandars:
they are the people who call themselves Sufis and wear the woolen cloth [labasū labas
al- ṣūfiyya] in order to lay claim to [the status and privileges] of a Sufi, but they are not
Sufis at all: rather, they are erroneous deceivers.44
Suhraward ī makes an important distinction: the problem for Suhraward ī is not the Qalandar,
but rather one who pretends to the status (for economic/social gain, etc.). For observers like
Suhraward ī, a subtle balance between the mundane and spiritual was essential to the Qalan-
dar ī way of life, and when the morality of individuals with Qalandar ī affiliation degenerated,
the name itself became associated with immoral acts, such as fornication, homosexual con-
duct, and kissing women and boys. The well-known Damascus-based reformist Ibn Taymi-
yya (d. 728/1328) went one step further and placed full blame on the Qalandar qua Qalandar,
assuming that all of them are religious hypocrites.
Early institutionalization and spread of the Qalandariyya

Since no prominent individuals are identified as Malāmatis after the tenth century, scholars
infer that the Qalandars gradually came to prevail over the Malāmati tradition.45 As Ahmet
Karamustafa has noted, tracing the history of the Qalandars and related groups is difficult
because references to them are scattered thinly across diverse sources in a range of languages.
Karamustafa has summarized many of these sources in his effort to create a picture of the pres-
ence of the Qalandars, Ḥaydar īs, and related groups in the Arab Middle East, Iran, and India
between the thirteenth and fifteenth centuries.46 He draws on the work of scholars who have
scoured these primary sources, including Ahmet Yaşar Ocak,47 who has traced the appearance
of such groups in medieval Anatolian sources, and Simon Digby, who has examined sources
on India for the same period. Digby’s account is a goldmine of detail and a repository of the
anecdotes that appear in early sources. Ocak’s focus is on the political involvement of Qaland-
ars and the vicissitudes of their relationship with Ottoman administration. While we draw on
these and other sources to construct our own narrative of the significance of these groups, our
approach will not attempt to trace specific lineages or comprehensively describe the Qalandars
identified in the available sources as Karamustafa, Digby, and Ocak do, but instead focuses on
the implications of the conversion process, the logic of the Qalandar’s specific practices, and the
significance of their visibility for those who observed them.
Karamustafa himself imposes a European dichotomy between the individual and society
in his interpretation of the Qalandars, stressing their antinomianism and identifying it as “a
conflict between the adamantly individualistic dervish piety and the normative legal system
constructed by religious scholars and accepted, albeit with serious qualifications, by Sufis,”
thus identifying Qalandars as a more extreme form of the individualism that he associates
with Sufism.48 He argues that the “real meaning” of their practices must be understood
within the context of their rejection of the existing social order in all its dimensions. Yet, as
he himself points out, this rejection was done, not through the hermit’s retreat from society,
but rather through “blatant,” visible social deviance. Far from retreating into isolation, the
Qalandars are usually described as traveling in groups, through inhabited streets.
258
The Qalandariyya
As we have already seen in the Sufi poetry discussed above, stories of those who become
Qalandars often involve a conversion narrative of a particular structure: the person encoun-
ters a Qalandar who impresses the person with signs of his closeness to God, sometimes
expressed as a kind of falling in love; he suddenly recognizes the vanity of his old way of life –
often the life of a respectable Sufi – and abruptly abandons it to join the Qalandar group,
taking up their dress, transforming his appearance by shaving all his hair, and living and
traveling in close association with the group. The emphasis is not on developing oneself as an
“individual,” but on abandoning oneself and all the trappings of social identity.
The institutionalization of Qalandars into a movement or recognizable order is attributed
to Shaykh Jam ā l al-Dī n al-Sāw ī (d. 1232), who, according to his earliest biographer Khat īb-i
Fārisī (d. middle of eighth/fourteenth century),49 started out in Khur ā sān as a respected Sufi
before his dramatic conversion and move to Damascus. He met a young ascetic who was
“an epitome of detachment and solitude” and was overcome by the encounter.50 “He shaved
his face and head and began to spend his time sitting motionless on graves with his face
turned toward the direction of Mecca, the qibla, speechless and with grass as his only food.”51
Though this account emphasizes his quest for solitude, he was quickly surrounded by follow-
ers. Shaving off all facial and body hair – later called the “four blows” (chah ār żarb)52 – was a
practice that came to mark the distinctive appearance of the Qalandar.
The rhetorical structure of these bodily practices can be seen in the similar stories of
conversion to qalandariyya that are told of the early founders al-Sāw ī and Ḥaydar, who are
each said to have cast off their clothes and begun to wear nothing but animal hides or leaves.
Casting off one’s clothes takes on a specific significance, where covering and uncovering is
a key strategy for establishing an ordered society. Covering one’s private parts is enjoined in
the Qur’ān, and the issue of veiling is a focal point in the management of gender relations. At
the same time, the veil is used as an image of that which separates humans from God. Thus,
discarding conventional clothing, as well as the act of radical shaving, are ways of tearing
away veils between the Qalandar and God.
It was just after the Mongol invasion of Khurā sān, in 1222 that disciples began to gather
around him, beginning an institutionalization of the Qalandar ī order in ways similar to the
other Sufi orders that had recently developed.53 We learn from the Qalandarnā ma that al-
Sāw ī articulated a set of principles that constituted the Qalandar as an ethical subject and
defined qalandariyya as a Sufi path: “contentment (qan ā‘at), gentleness (liṭāfat), repentance
(nidāmat), religiosity (diyānat), and self-discipline (riyāsat).”54 This list of ideals seems char-
acteristic of Sufi practices more generally and did not mark al-Sāw ī’s teaching as worthy of
abjection, aside from the unusual shaving practices and his encouragement of disciples to
gaze at young boys during musical performances as a way of contemplating divine beauty
at musical gatherings.55 The Qalandarn āma describes a social collective that first flourished
under the leadership of al-Sāw ī, who articulated a formal doctrine and set a “path” for the
movement.
Qalandars wandered from place to place in groups, begging, dancing, beating drums, and
carrying flags. They were known to indulge in drunkenness, the consumption of drugs such
as hashish, and illicit sexual behavior. Karamustafa links their distinctive appearance and
anarchic social practices to the Sufi ideal of “dying before you die,” a normatively spiritual
injunction for other Sufi orders, which the Qalandars took to its furthest physical limit by
“sitting motionless and speechless on graves without any sleep or food,”56 as al-Sāw ī had
done. Yet, paradoxically, the Qalandar is also childlike, suggesting a disruption of social bi-
naries such as adult/child, dead/alive, sexual/chaste57 as the Qalandar strives to revert to the
moment before the self is crystallized through the process of abjection.
259
The spread of Qalandars across the Islamicate world thus seems to have been prompted by
the Mongol invasion and the collapse of the Persianate world of Khurā sān, and Jam ā l al-Din
seems to have been the stimulus for the spread of the Qalandariyya across much of the Mus-
lim world. Al-Sāw ī’s contemporary Qutb al-Din Ḥaydar (d. 1221), who founded the related
Ḥaydar ī order and in some sources is linked to al-Sāw ī, disappeared when the Mongols in-
vaded Khur ā sān. Many of his Ḥaydar ī disciples fled, some of them west to Anatolia and oth-
ers east to India, where their presence is visible in the historical record.58 The Ḥaydar īs were
visually distinct from the Qalandars and were often described as wearing flowing robes, long
beards, and iron rings, including genital piercings. Ḥaydar is credited with popularizing the
use of cannabis as a spiritual aid.59
Ahmet Karamustafa has suggested that, though institutionalization began in Damascus,
these highly visible Qalandars were perceived as foreigners who did not speak Arabic and
had come from other places. Ibn Taymiyya, in his un-ambivalent condemnation of them,
wrote: “it is said that the (true) origins of this group is that they were a group of ascetics/
hermits/pious men (nussāk) from among the Persians … who began to take part in forbidden
activities.”60
Many Qalandar ī practices, such as gazing on beardless boys as a way of contemplating
divine beauty and even seeking out their companionship, are a recurring theme in accounts
of Qalandars such as al-Sāw ī and others. This theme is also evident in Persian poetry and
thus could be seen as a continuation of themes already present in the Sufi tradition, some of
which were carryovers from courtly practices. The poet ‘Irāqī, for example, was “known for
his inclination toward companionship with beautiful young boys.”61 Though for some ob-
servers these practices were grounds for condemnation, this was an accepted social practice
for many of the elite, and in Sufi poetry, a path to the sublime.62
Another way of representing a relationship between the disciple and God that was more
powerful than social propriety was through the theme of passionate, uncontrollable love, a
recurrent theme in poetry about Qalandars. This love could disrupt even the boundaries of
gender, so that the (male) Sufi experienced himself as the bride of God. As with other im-
agery intended to express how closeness to God could disrupt the boundaries of social order
and meaning, the Qalandars and other heteroprax Sufis might literally take on the position
of bride in relation to God, wearing the clothes and jewelry of a bride. This was espe-
cially true in South Asia. Thanvir Anjum describes the cross-dressing fifteenth-century Sufi
Shaykh Musa Sad ā Suhā g (d. 1449), who was the founder of the Sad ā Suhā giyya Order and
wore glass bangles and a nose ring.63 His followers also dressed in the red dress of the bride.64
Similarly, the famous Indian Qalandar La’l Shahbāz Qalandar is associated with red clothes.
Ibn Baṭṭūṭ a (d. 1377), who wrote of his own travels across the Islamicate world and be-
yond, was one of the first to mention al-Sāw ī and the Qalandars. He noted that al-Sāw ī had
a Sufi lodge (z āwiya) in the Egyptian port city of Damietta and described al-Sāw ī as “the
leader of the sect known as the Qalandars, who shave their beards and eyebrows.”65 He also
recorded Ḥaydar ī practices that he observed in Zavah in Khū r ā sān sometime between 1331
and 1334, about a century after Ḥaydar had died there,66 and in northern India later in his
travels. The Ḥaydar īs in Zavah wore iron collars, bracelets, and rings on their ears and geni-
tals. In India, he describes them walking on hot coals. He also described other ascetics who
were not explicitly associated with Qalandars or Ḥaydar īs but lived at the social margins,
including “the pious shaykh Muhammad of Nishapur, one of the crazy darwishes who let
their hair hang loose over their shoulders” and shared his meals with his dervishes and a tiger.
He also discussed Shaykh Kam ā l al-Dī n, whom he described as a devout and humble im ā m
who lived in a cave outside of Delhi. This latter account is particularly notable because Ibn
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The Qalandariyya
Baṭṭūṭ a, who was working at that time for the Sultan, was himself inspired to give away all
his possessions and join the Shaykh as a mendicant for an extended period of time (until he
was eventually summoned by the Sultan for another assignment), because the Shaykh had
made an accurate prediction for Ibn Baṭṭūṭ a that had saved him from danger. His narratives
offer a vivid picture of the fluid boundary between the educated Muslim elite (Ibn Baṭṭūṭ a
was from Morocco), the highest levels of government, and ascetics who renounced normal
society. They indicate a social space that Qalandars and other groups such as the Ḥaydar īs,
the Abd ā ls of Rū m, Bekt ā sh īs, Shams-i-Tabr īzīs, and Jawlāqs occupied.67 As historian Nile
Green has noted,
when anti-normative and socially marginal Sufi groups flourished (as in the case of the
medieval qalandar movement), it is probably fair to say that their ability to get away with
breaching social norms was itself a reflection of the power and prestige which Sufism
held by this time.68
At the same time, it was not unusual for people of even the highest social strata to give up
everything and adopt the life of a Sufi ascetic, at least temporarily, affirming the activities of
the Qalandar as an ambivalent ideal.
Qalandars in South Asia

A number of South Asian sources offer evidence that the Qalandars and related groups were
visible in India in the Delhi Sultanate period, very soon after their inception in Khū r ā sān,
and had a significant social presence in the region.69 A significant Qalandar, Shāh Khi ż r
Rū m ī, spent time in Delhi before 1235, just over a decade after al-Sāw ī had begun to gather
disciples in Damascus. Several Sufi lodges, including a Ḥaydar ī lodge, had been established
in Delhi by the late thirteenth century CE. One of the notable langars (food distributions)
in Delhi at the turn of the fourteenth century was run by a Qalandar,70 suggesting that
they fully participated in Sufi activities despite their antinomian reputation. In South Asian
sources, the Qalandars and related orders were often spoken of interchangeably, though they
were also notable for differences in their appearance in the South Asian context. For exam-
ple, Qalandars were recognizable by their practice of shaving all hair, including eyebrows,
while the Ḥaydar īs seem to have been associated with wearing iron and walking on coals.71
Though Qalandars are often characterized as low status and illiterate, the order was
quite prominent in the thirteenth century and fourteenth centuries. There were a number
of well-known Qalandars in South Asia, whose shrines continue to be important today.
These include Shaykh ‘Uthm ān Marand ī (the famous La’l Shahbāz Qalandar of Sindh (d.
1274), Bū ‘Al ī Qalandar (d. 1324), and, quite a bit later, Shāh Ḥusayn (1539–1599), popularly
known as Madho L ā l Ḥusayn. La’l Shahbāz traveled extensively before settling in Sindh
in the mid-thirteenth century. In a near-contemporary source, he is described as a great
shaykh.72 He was one of the earliest Persian Sufi poets in Sindh.73 He is associated with some
Qalandar ī traits, such as celibacy and ecstatic dancing, which continue at his shrine, a major
center for Qalandar activity in Pakistan today. Sharaffudd ī n Noman ī, later called Bū ‘Al ī
Shāh Qalandar, was not part of a wandering Qalandar band, but was born and died at Pa-
nipat in North India, where his shrine is also a gathering place for Qalandars today. Stories
describe his attraction to young boys and his divine exemption from having to carry out
ritual duties.74 Shāh Ḥusayn was a Sufi of the Qādir ī Order and a famous poet in the Punjabi
language who suddenly threw off his status as a respectable Sufi to pursue his love of a young
261
Hindu boy as a way of experiencing divine love. Though viewed with suspicion by some, he
ultimately became one of the important saints of Lahore (in today’s Pakistan).
The four dominant Sufi orders of the Indian subcontinent each had a Qalandar ī branch,
whose origins can be traced to the well-known shaykhs who played major roles in the
establishment of the Sufi orders in India. These shaykhs, such as Niz ā m al-D ī n Awl īy ā of
the Chisht ī Order, generally chose their khal īfas (spiritual representatives) from members
of the social elite. But spiritual genealogies (tadhkiras) of the Chishtiyya written during the
Mughal period often include one or two khal īfas of lower social standing or of question-
able orthodoxy, often Qalandars. As Simon Digby suggests, this may have been a strategy
for appealing to the spiritual needs and preferences of a broader range of followers of all
social strata.75 Thus, La’l Shahbā z Qalandar was likely appointed as khal īfa by the prom-
inent shaykh Shaykh Bah ā’ al-D ī n Zakar īya of Mult ā n, despite the latter’s disapproval of
Qalandars.
Simon Digby’s classification of anecdotes about Qalandars that appear in the Indian Sufi
literature of the Delhi Sultanate period according to their central themes is useful for iden-
tifying the significance of Qalandars and their relationship to more mainstream Sufis. It
would appear that most anecdotes that Digby looked at include accounts of their physical
appearance, an indication that the Qalandars were not only marked by distinctive dress –
which would be true of all social group – but also that their attire and grooming violated
social norms to the extent that their appearance was notable. A number of anecdotes suggest
conflict between Qalandars and Sufi shaykhs, including stories of violent attacks – sometimes
with supernatural force – carried out by a Qalandar against a shaykh, often with the point
of demonstrating the superior spiritual power of the well-known shaykh or his humility in
the face of violence.76 These stories suggest the inferior social status and marginality of the
Qalandar, in a world in which violence is associated with the fringes of social order and the
Qalandar is an embodiment of abjection.
But the sublime Qalandar of medieval Sufi poetry is not entirely missing from these
narratives of encounters with Qalandars: some stories depict “Abdals concealed among the
Qalandars.” 77 The abdāl are the 40 highest ranking saints appointed by God to ensure the
smooth operation of the world. In an often-repeated story, Baha’ al-Dī n Zakar īya was re-
turning to Mult ān from Baghd ād and lodged in a mosque where a band of Qalandars was
also spending the night.
During the night, while the Shaykh was at his devotions, he saw a Qalandar whose
head was bathed in light from on high…The Shaykh approached the Qalandar and said:
“O Man of God, what are you doing in the midst of these?” “In order, Zakar īyya, that
you may know,” the Qalandar replied, “that in the midst of every common gathering
(‘ammi) there is an especial person (khassi), on whose account the commonality may be
forgiven.” 78
In this story, the Qalandar was actually Jamā l al-Din al-Sāw ī, the founder of the Qalandar ī
order. This story encapsulates the class divide between the Qalandar and the Sufi, while at
the same time expressing the ever-present possibility of a conjunction of the abject and the
sublime within the body of the Qalandar. This potential is implied in a story that the court
poet Ḥā mid Qalandar (d. 1366) told about himself, explaining that his own name was based
on a childhood encounter with a Qalandar, which ended with the prediction, made to his
father, that “Your son will be a Qalandar!” 79
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The Qalandariyya
The spread to Anatolia: a movement ignites

As in South Asia, the spread of Qalandar Sufism from Iraq to Anatolia is most likely linked
to the Mongol invasions. Anatolia became a new center for dervish groups at the beginning
of the thirteenth century because, as a relatively un-settled and un-islamized region, these
groups had an unobstructed territory for both wandering and proselytizing.80 According
to Karamustafa and Ocak, dervish groups played an important role at the Islamization of
Anatolia and were forerunners of incoming immigrants from other destroyed centers of
Abbasid power – particularly Iraq and Khurā sān.81 Among these dervish groups were the
Qalandars, who attracted followers because their “low”82 Sufism appealed to villagers and
the urban poor, and also because their lodges attracted social and economic outcasts.83
Although primary sources on the spread of Qalandariyya to Anatolia are sparse in the
thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, we do have a rich mine of sources on Qalandars and
other dervish groups in late-Medieval Anatolia coming from European travelers to the re-
gion. Some of these sources provide illustrations of Qalandar dress and practice which –
when read with a critical eye84 – can help enrich our understanding of the practice and social
location of Qalandars in late-medieval/early-modern Anatolia. For example, the Italian his-
torian of Turkey Theodoros Spandogino Catacuzeno (d. unknown, after 1538) was the first
European to describe Dervish groups in the Ottoman empire:
The torlacchi…85 are of the greatest number…they are naked and wear the hide of
either sheep or some other [animal] on their shoulders…they shave their beards and
moustaches and are men of a most evil nature…thieves, rascals assassins…each of them
carries a mirror with a long handle that he holds toward all people and says, “look in
and consider how before long you will be different from what you are now, so become
modest and pious, and think the better of your soul…They ride donkeys during the day
while they beg in the name of God, and at night they couple with these [donkeys.]”86
His description is ambivalent: while, on the one hand, it presents Qalandars as utterly devi-
ant and abject, on the other hand, it hints at an element of piety in their behavior. This am-
bivalent depiction of Qalandars in the Ottoman sources suggests their problematic political
status in the empire itself.87
Two parallel accounts of Qalandars in Ottoman Anatolia are those of Geovani Menovino,
an Italian who had spent ten years as a slave at the Ottoman court in Istanbul88 and Vāḥ idī, who
Karamustafa calls “an outspoken Ottoman Sufi critic of deviant renunciation.”89 Menovino
divides Turkish “priests” into two groups: “important” cUlamāʾ (jurists and theologians) and
Sufis, and “secondary” members of each group. In this secondary category we find Jām īs,
Qalandars, and Bektāshīs, all of whom “prefer pleasure to work and live disordered lives given
to gluttony, luxury, and sodomy.”90 Vāḥ idī is equally censorious – even “pathologizing”91 in
his condemnation of Qalandars: “the kalendar sinks deeper into sin and shame…living at the
expense of others in flagrant violation of prophetic tradition and Islamic moral injunctions.”92
These European and Ottoman condemnations of Dervish Sufism in general, and Qalandars
in particular did not arise in a vacuum. Rather, they were fueled by changes in the very na-
ture of empire itself, as both the Ottomans and Safavids worked to consolidate and discipline
their far-flung empires by centralizing Islamic doctrine and containing mendicant Sufism.93
Attempts to bring the Qalandars to heel were only marginally successful for the Ottomans,
and a consistent problem for the Safavids as well.94 These domesticating difficulties were
263
often related to the twin problems of Qalandar distance from the centers of early-modern
Islamicate power, and the attraction that certain Qalandar practices had over the popular
imagination.95 Generally, Ottoman policy toward the Qalandars was ambivalent, but with
the goal of domesticating these mendicant dervishes and ameliorating the social and political
dissent that occasionally followed in their wake.
Conclusion
Asceticism and critiques of worldliness were the characteristics of early Sufi practice and writ-
ings, but by the eleventh century, Sufis had become closely involved in local governance, es-
pecially in Khurāsān, where the foreign conquerors (the Ghaznavids and then the Seljuqs) who
gained control of the area relied on the ‘Ulamā’ and Sufis to help them govern. Sufis thus be-
came an important part of local elites.96 It was in this environment that the Sufis developed orga-
nizational practices such as the oath of allegiance to a shaykh, which created enduring chains of
transmission, and formed the basis for the named ṭar īqas. The development of the Qalandariyya
and related orders shortly thereafter can be seen as simultaneously a part of the broader evolution
of Sufi institutions and a critique of the direction that Sufis had moved in. This critique was a
radical reassertion of values that they felt were being lost as the Sufi orders broadened their social
reach and their leaders increasingly became the focal point of devotion for followers of all social
classes, including important political figures. But instead of writing tracts or poetry, or engag-
ing in public preaching, the Qalandars enacted their critique through a distinctive repertoire
of bodily practices intended to be highly visible. Their way of life was a carnivalesque mockery
of the conventions of everyday life, and their more extreme practices can be seen as using what
Bakhtin called a “language of the grotesque”97 to express a utopian vision. Qalandariyya as an
ethical practice involved the sudden realization that the life of the world is nothing but play and
pleasurable distraction,98 resulting in a throwing off of the constraints of “ascetic piety, legal
rectitude, and rational seriousness.”99
By renouncing pride and shamelessly ignoring social norms, the Qalandar represented a
threatening figure who called into question the very basis of the socially constituted subject
and elicited a reaction of abjection – a feeling of horror at this threatened breakdown in
meaning that generates scorn and marginalization as a way of preserving the self against this
threat. As we have seen, the sublime and the abject are closely linked, and the figure of the
Qalandar embodied this connection in Sufi thought.
Though this chapter has concerned itself mostly with the historical Qalandar, the
Qalandar continues to be an important living figure today in India and Pakistan and remains
a site of scholarly contestation, social condemnation, and a desired object of emulation.100
The living Qalandar and the historical Qalandar alike are complex, multi-positioned figures,
engaged in diverse epistemological projects and identified with specific, often contradictory
ideologies. We see these contradictions with clarity in contemporary scholarly literature
from Iran and Turkey, where scholars such as Keivanfar, Dahlén, and Ocak have used the
Qalandar to re-think Islam in relation to the modern nation-state project. For the preco-
lonial Islamicate world the figure of the Qalandar expressed a particular social ordering
of knowledge and subjectivity that is different from its significance in the contemporary
Islamicate imagination, though it was no less charged with semiotic import and ideological
baggage. Echoes of the practices of the precolonial Qalandars and the issues they contested
remain in the practices of today’s Qalandars and their interlocutors. Those echoes are heard
through many filters, making any attempt at a definitive analysis of the historical Qalandar
difficult and perhaps inadvisable.101
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The Qalandariyya
Notes

265
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The Qalandariyya
267
268
19
THE SHĀDHILIYYA
Foundational teachings and practices
Introduction
The Sh ā dhiliyya Sufi Order, whose eponymous founder was Abūʼl-Ḥ asan al-Sh ā dhil ī
(d. 1258), boasts one of the largest followings in the Sunni world.1 The repute that this
order has enjoyed throughout the centuries is somewhat enigmatic given that Sh ā dhil ī
and his successor (khal īfa), Abūʼl-‘Abbā s al-Mursī (d. 1294), did not author a single writ-
ten work on Sufism. 2 When asked by a disciple his rationale for not writing books “on
the ways of God and the science of the tribe” (i.e., Sufis), Sh ā dhil ī famously declared
“my books are my companions.”3 In keeping with his teacher, Mursī contended that
“everything that is contained in the books of the tribe amounts to [nothing more than]
teardrops from the shores of the ocean of spiritual realization (ta ḥq īq).”4For Ibn ‘Aṭāʼ All ā h
al-Iskandar ī (d. 1287), Mursī ’s successor and the first prolific author of the Sh ā dhiliyya
Order, the contentions of his predecessors are justified inasmuch as “the sciences of this
tribe are ultimately the sciences of spiritual realization, the content of which is beyond the
comprehension of the masses.”5
Despite these stated reservations, however, we must note from the outset that Ibn ‘Aṭāʼ
All ā h’s extensive corpus was largely responsible for the wide-ranging diffusion of the
Sh ā dhiliyya teachings across many regions of the Sunni world and among various strata
of Islamic society, including the jurists ( fuq āʾ ) and the masses.6 While maintaining the
primacy of initiatic instruction over textual knowledge of the Sufi Path, Ibn ‘Aṭāʼ All ā h’s
literary oeuvre earned the Sh ā dhiliyya veneration in Muslim society that persists to the
present day.7
As it will emerge in this chapter, the conspicuous “sobriety” (sa ḥw) of Sh ā dhiliyya
spirituality is rooted in the Qurʾā nic and Prophetic teachings (sunna), which constitute
the incontestable sources of the doctrinal and practical teachings of this order. The stated
“sobriety” translates “in the metaphysical plane by a total purgation from the carnal soul
and the ego in favor of the contemplation of God alone,” as Geoffroy has aptly remarked.8
These constitutive elements are prominently expressed in the Sh ā dhiliyya doctrine of
sainthood (wil āya/wal āya), the contemplative premises of spiritual cultivation and mystical
practices, which I examine after a preliminary discussion of their spiritual lineage (silsila)
and heritage.9
269
The spiritual line of succession (silsila) and heritage of the Shādhiliyya

Before examining the foundational teachings of the Shādhiliyya order, we must first explore
the notion of spiritual lineage, otherwise known in Sufi tradition as the line of succession
(silsila), for this question is integral for understanding both the origins and teachings of
any given Sufi order. The line of succession has traditionally been instituted by Sufi or-
ders to verify the channels of transmissions linking a spiritual guide back to the Prophet
Mu ḥammad.10 The significance of a credible line of succession is put by Ibn ‘Aṭāʼ Allāh in
the following terms:
It is necessary to identify the spiritual teachers from whom one takes his spiritual path. If
someone follows a path ( ṭar īqa) which requires the donning of the cloak (khirqa), it must
be donned based on a line of succession (riw āya). Moreover, it is necessary to name the
teachers who make up a given line of succession, for this [i.e., line of succession] is an
assurance of divine guidance.11
The channels of transmissions, as Ibn ‘Aṭāʼ Allāh illustrates above, may involve the successive
“donning of the cloak” or listing “the teachers who make up a given line of succession.” It
is through these channels of transmission that the credibility of spiritual line of succession
is ascertained. In other words, the credentials of a genuine silsila bespeak the integrity and
vitality of the transmitted teachings and practices of the Prophet.12 In this respect, the “assur-
ance of divine guidance” that is perpetuated through a credible silsila alludes in this context
to the continuity with the chief sources of guidance in the Islamic and Sufi tradition, namely,
the Qur’ān and the sunnah of the Prophet.13
What has thus far been established does not, however, rule out certain exceptions. Ibn
‘Aṭāʼ Allāh acknowledges a more immediate channel of divine guidance, the like of which
is not necessarily bound by the formal channels that are otherwise associated with a silsila.
He writes:
At the same time, God may draw a servant unto Himself in such a way that he does
not need to submit himself to a living spiritual guide. He will instead bind him to the
Prophet from whom he will receive spiritual guidance, which is itself a sublime favor
indeed.14
This interjection sheds light on an alternative channel of divine guidance that is not me-
diated by the normative channels of Sufi guidance—i.e., silsila. He does not rule out the
intervention of divine solicitude in the domain of spiritual guidance, thereby affirming that
certain exceptional types of people are placed under the direct tutelage of the Prophet him-
self, dispensing them from attaching themselves to a living guide.15 If this exception dis-
penses someone from attaching himself to a formal silsila, it never dispenses him or her from
prophetic guidance, which is ultimately the source of spiritual guidance for both the imme-
diate and mediated channels of transmission (i.e., silsila and direct guidance).
With these remarks in mind, we can better appreciate Ibn ‘Aṭāʼ Allāh’s discussion of the
spiritual lineage and heritage of the Shādhiliyya order. Speaking first of the line of teachers
with whom Shādhil ī was connected, Ibn ‘Aṭāʼ Allāh relates:
The line of Shaykh Abūʼl-Ḥasan is attached to Shaykh ‘Abd al-Salā m Ibn Mash īsh, the
latter to ‘Abd al-Ra ḥ m ān al-Madan ī, and so on, till Ḥasan, son of ‘Ali Ibn Abī Ṭā lib. In
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The Shādhiliyya
fact, I heard my master, Abūʼl-‘Abbā s, say: “our way is neither related to the easterners
of the westerners, but instead one [master] after another till Ḥasan, son of ‘Ali Ibn Abī
Ṭā lib and the first of the spiritual poles (aqt āb).”16
Two facets of the spiritual lineage of Shādil ī emerge in the cited passage. There is, on the
one hand, a mere confirmation that Shādil ī is connected to an uninterrupted line of teachers
linking him back to the Prophet through his grandson, Ḥasan, son of ‘Ali Ibn Abī Ṭā lib.17 Ibn
‘Aṭāʼ Allāh offers little information on Ibn Mash īsh and his special affinity with Shādil ī, his
most distinguished pupil.18 The crucial detail is revealed in the statement that Ibn ‘Aṭāʼ Allāh
attributes to Mursī who contends that the Shādhiliyya “is neither related to the easterners of
the westerners, but instead one [master] after another until Ḥasan, son of ‘Ali Ibn Abī Ṭā lib
and the first of the spiritual poles (aqt āb).”
Abūʼl-‘Abbā s’ allusion to Ḥasan as “the first of the spiritual poles” is of capital importance
to the Shādhiliyya’s understanding of its pre-eminent spiritual lineage. The function of
“quṭb,” as we learn from the La ṭāʼ if and the Durrat al-Asrār (“The Pearl of Arcana”) of Ibn
al-Ṣabbā gh (d. 1323) was assumed by ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Madan ī, Ibn Mash īsh, Shādil ī and
Mursī respectively.19 For Mursī, then, the Shādhiliyya is not merely a branch of an eastern or
western Sufi order, but first and foremost the bearer of an eminent spiritual function that has
successively been inherited from Ḥasan, the presumed “first of the spiritual poles.” Indeed,
later Shādil īs have even claimed that their founder and his successors were providentially
elected to bear the function of “polehood” (qutbāniyya) for each successive era.20
Mystical epistemology in the scale of the Qur’ān, and the sunnah

In this section, we turn our attention to the principles of mystical epistemology in the
teachings of the Shādhiliyya. This question is integral to the rest of our investigation insofar
as the doctrinal and practical domains of the spiritual Path are informed by the epistemo-
logical worldview of the Shādhiliyya which is enshrined in the Qur’ān and the sunnah. The
two sources of Islamic knowledge are considered by Shādil ī to be infallible criteria against
which any truth-claim or mystical experience must be judged. This principle is eminently
expressed in the following statement:
If your unveiling (kashf ) contradicts the holy Book (kit āb) and the Sunnah, hold firm to
the holy Book and the Sunnah and dismiss your unveiling, by saying to yourself, “God
(most glorified) has guaranteed infallibility for me in the sacred Book and the Sunnah,
but he did not guarantee it with respect to unveiling or inspiration (ilh ām).”21
As expressed in the cited passage, the Qur’ān and the Sunnah are the scale against which
the veracity of a spiritual “unveiling” must be measured. In keeping with normative Sunni
creed, Shādil īs believe that the Qur’ānic revelation and the Prophet are the only infallible
sources of knowledge; this proposition does not hold true of other sources and modalities
of knowledge, including mystical unveiling and inspiration, which, despite their optimal
degree of certainty, are nonetheless susceptible to error. Accordingly, Shādil ī contends that
any alleged inspiration or unveiling that contradicts a Qur’ānic or a prophetic teaching must
be categorically rejected.
The Qur’ān and Sunnah assume a preponderant role in other spheres of Shādhiliyya’s epis-
temology, notably, in the domains of spiritual psychology and metaphysics. How elements
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of these sciences are intricately embedded in the Qur’ān and Sunnah is expressed by Shādil ī
in these terms:
It was said to me, concisely delineate the two-fold response to the flawed nature of
the ego (nafs) which is been associated with the methodology of the Shādhiliyya path.
Give the nafs no respite; either outwardly or inwardly. Outwardly, restrain it within the
[moral restrictions of the Qur’ān and the Sunna; inwardly, do not be distracted by fixing
your [attention] on unified contemplation of Divine Unity (mush āhada tawhīdiyya).22
The cited passage reveals a more technical articulation of Shādil ī higher epistemology.
Grounding the spiritual methodology of the Shādhiliyya in an effective knowledge of the
outward and inward deficiencies of the carnal soul (nafs), Shādil ī envisages the corresponding
remedies in light of the moral remedies and metaphysical truths of Scripture and the Sunnah.
If the moral restrictions of the Qur’ān and sunnah curb the carnal impulses of the soul, the
objective contemplation of “Divine Unity” (tawhīd)—Islam’s cardinal tenet—suppress the
residual fragmentations of the ego.
For an order which had a universal vocation, it was crucial to adopt a discourse which
mirrors the sobriety and transparency of the Qur’ānic and prophetic teachings.23 The ne-
cessity to maintain lucidity when compelled to express oneself on the loftiest truths of the
Islamic creed is eminently reflected in the following passage from the La ṭāʼ if:
Shaykh Shādil ī also related the following anecdote: “a companion of mine would often
question me on the [mysteries] of Divine Unity (tawhīd); I thus told him this: ‘if you
want an irreproachable perspective on this matter, you must affirm distinction (al-farq)
through your tongue but inwardly witness (mash ūd) union (al-jamc).’”24
This above exchange speaks a great deal of the Shādhiliyya’s moderate approach to meta-
physical speculation. Unlike other prominent Sufi theoreticians, such as Ghaz ā l ī (d. 1111),
Ibn ‘Arabi (d. 1240) or Ibn Sab’ ī n (d. 1270), Shādil ī’s speculative formulations are more sen-
sitive to the theological norms of the Sunni exoteric establishment. Thus, when questioned
on such matters as the metaphysical dimension of tawhīd, Shādil ī instructs his interlocutor to
regulate his discourse on this question by “affirming distinction (al-farq)” between God and
humans “through your tongue,” but to “inwardly witness union (al-jam‘)” between self and
God. The didactic approach to speculative matters promotes a moderate articulation of the
metaphysics of “Tawhīd” which is couched in the normative discourse of Sunni theology,
without sacrificing, however, the contemplative dimension of this sublime truth. Standing
in stark contrast with the bold and uncensured tone of some Sufi theoreticians, Shādil ī shows
a deep commitment to the epistemic and pedagogical resources that the Qur’ān and sunnah
put at his disposal.
The contemplative premises of spiritual cultivation

In keeping the canonical premises of mystical knowledge, Shādil īs champion a contempla-
tive instead of an exorbitant asceticism. Following the Prophetic precedent, Shādil ī spiri-
tual guidance discourages all sorts of unwarranted deprivations, particularly when a more
effective and moderate channel can generate the same spiritual result. Shādil ī sums up this
approach to spiritual cultivation when he contends that “our way is neither one of monasti-
cism (ruhbāniyya), nor eating barely and bran, nor one of the other skills. It is rather [a way] of
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steadfastness (sabr) during affliction and certainty (yaqīn) under the divine guidance, “And We
appointed leaders among them who guided by Our command when they were steadfast and had certainty
about Our Signs”” [Q. 32: 24].25
As Shādil ī surmises, the recourse to austere penances is oftentimes animated by an ego-
centric zeal, which often turns into a narcissistic and self-alienating asceticism. The con-
templative premises of asceticism, as Shādil ī conceived it, consider the cultivation of critical
virtues of the Path against the backdrop of divine guidance. The seeker is trained to suspend
his/her reliance on his efforts and the instrumental means of ascetical discipline; he must
instead identify the effective cultivation of critical virtues with Divine guidance. Ibn ‘Aṭāʼ
Allāh terms this inward spiritual comportment “the abandonment of self-determination”
(isqāt al-tadbīr), which he considers one of the foundational tenets of Shādil ī spirituality.26
To be sure, this approach to self-cultivation does not imply that the aspirants should be
complacent towards the vices of their ego, it rather exhort them to “turn their attention away
from their ego by [not] attributing might (ḥawl) and power (quwwa) or any share of [accom-
plishment] to it, but to instead contemplate (mush āhada) God’s absolute agency in the admin-
istration of their affairs,” as Ibn ‘Abbād of Ronda puts it.27 A telling exchange between Mursī
and his master Shādil ī puts this principle in more tangible terms. Ibn ‘Aṭāʼ Allāh reports:
I [Mursī] once entered unto the presence of Shaykh Abū Ḥasan thinking to myself that I
should eat dry and wear rough, whereof the Shaykh told me: ‘O Abū Abbā s, know God
and be as you wish!’28
This anecdote restates in different terms the principles that we have developed earlier. By di-
recting Mursī’s attention to knowledge of God, Shādil ī is alerting his disciple to the primacy
of contemplative knowledge in all domains of the spiritual path, not least in the ascetical
life. The pitfalls of an extravagant approach to asceticism are reflected in another anecdote,
involving this time Ibn ‘Aṭāʼ Allāh and his master Mursī. Ibn ‘Aṭāʼ Allāh relates:
I once went to see Shaykh Abū ʼl-‘Abbā s, with the intent to abandon reliance on worldly
subsistence and my pursuit of the exoteric sciences and to devote myself entirely to the
spiritual Path, thinking to myself: this is the only way one can attain God…
On entering into his presence, he [Abū ʼl-‘Abbās] suddenly remarked: “I once had a
disciple […] who was a teacher and a deputy governor. Having experienced something
of the spiritual Path under our tutelage, he [the teacher and deputy governor] asked us:
‘Master, shall I leave my profession and devote myself entirely to you?’ This is not what
God requires of you, I [Mursī] replied. You must instead remain where God has placed
you and you shall attain the degree of spiritual realization that He decreed for you under
our spiritual direction; You will receive your share from us whatever your [wordily] cir-
cumstances may be.” Pointing at me, he [Abū ʼl-‘Abbās] said: “this the way of the veracious
(ṣiddiqūn). They do not abandon their condition until God discharges them from it..29
In this passage, the precedent set by Shādil ī is this time put in practice by Mursī who indi-
rectly addresses Ibn ‘Aṭāʼ Allāh’s concern. What this anecdote establishes is that the extra-
neous circumstances of an aspirant are not intrinsic obstacles on the spiritual Path but must
instead be considered as integral to the unfolding of one’s potential. Mursī’s directives are
aimed to teach Ibn ‘Aṭāʼ Allāh that he will not be deprived of share realization that God has
allocated for him under his guidance whatever his worldly condition may be. Promoting
a more contemplative approach to spiritual discipline, Shādil ī and Mursī consider genuine
273
spiritual guidance as that of alleviating the burden of the disciple. As Ibn ‘Aṭāʼ Allāh in-
forms, Mursī “never imposed upon his disciples unnecessary hardship and would often quote
Shaykh Shādil ī’s saying that ‘the veritable [spiritual] master is not the one who needlessly
burdens you, but the one who brings you relief.’”30 These anecdotes reflect above all the cen-
trality of contemplation in the Shādil ī spiritual method, better expressed in Shādil ī’s counsel
to Mursī to “know God and be as you wish.”
The doctrine of sainthood

The doctrine of sainthood (wil āya/wal āya) is by far the most central theme in the doctrinal
framework of the Shādhiliyya Order.31 Framed against the Qur’ānic teachings, the doctrinal
expressions of sainthood emerge from an elementary distinction that the Qur’ān makes be-
tween two different categories of saints. Consider this passage from the La ṭāʾ if:
There are two categories of sainthood (wil āyat ān): there is the saint who has allied him-
self with God (wali yatawall ā Allah), and the saint with whom God has allied Himself
(wali yatawall ā-hu’Llah). Concerning the first category of sainthood, God says, “for those
whoever allies himself with God, His Messenger, and those who believe, behold, they
are God’s partisans, and they are indeed victorious” [Q. 5: 56]. The second category of
sainthood, He says, “for it is He who protects (yatawall ā) the righteous” [Q. 7. 196]32
Inspired from the Qur’ānic scheme, Ibn ‘Aṭāʼ Allāh identifies two modalities of sainthood: a
type of saint who seeks the allegiance of “God, His Apostle and the believers” [Q. 5:56] and
a saint who receives the allegiance of God (wali yatawall ā-hu Allah). This elementary way of
envisaging the typology of sainthood assumes a more intricate formulation in the doctrinal
teaching of Shādil ī:
Among the most precious favors of God, Shādil ī said, are: “contentment with God’s
Degree, patience during tribulations, resignation to God during afflictions and reliance
upon Him in adversity. Whoever acquires these four virtues through spiritual exertion
(mujāhada), by conforming to the Sunnah and by emulating the spiritual guides of this
community—becomes worthy of the first modality of sainthood, namely, expressed in
his allegiance to God, his Messenger, and the believers…As for him who possesses [these
virtues] through divine grace (minan), meaning as a result of Divine love (ma ḥabba), this
one has attained the second modality of sainthood, for God says: “for it is He who pro-
tects (yatawall ā) the righteous.”33
In the cited passage, Shādil ī introduces his discussion by enumerating four spiritual princi-
ples, which underlie the doctrinal foundation of sainthood. Accordingly, the two categories
of saints manifest the two possible modalities in which the four listed principles (divine
favours) are internalized. The first category acquires these divine favours through “spiritual
exertion” (mujāhada) by conforming to the prophetic precedent and “emulating the spiritual
guides.” In the second category, however, the divine favours are divinely bestowed upon the
saint insofar as he/she is the object of Divine love (ma ḥabba). Unlike the aspirant who actively
cultivates these virtues, the second type of saint possesses these virtues through Divine grace,
without initiative on his part, so to speak.
Ibn ‘Aṭāʼ Allāh construes the first modality as the lesser sainthood (al-wal āya al-sughrā) and
the latter as the greater sainthood (al-wal āya al-kubrā).34 The “lesser sainthood” is understood
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The Shādhiliyya
as the fruit of spiritual exertion (mujāhada), expressed in the Qur’ān as the person who seeks
alliance with God, the Messenger and the believers, while the “greater sainthood” is the fruit
of Divine election, expressed in the Qur’ānic verse as the alliance from God with the saint.
A statement that Ibn ‘Aṭāʼ Allāh attributes to Mursī offers a more practical scheme of this
doctrine. Consider the following passage:
Shaykh [Mursī] said: “people belong to one of two categories: those who obey God
through His grace, and those who become worthy of His grace through their obedience
to Him. God (most glorified) expresses this matter as follows: “God chooses for Himself
whomsoever He wills, and guides unto Himself whosoever turns in repentance” [Q. 42:13]35
At first glance, Mursī’s account of sainthood seems limited to two different expressions of
spiritual devotions. The domain of obedience emerges in the following dyad: one initiated
by the seeker and the other by God. A closer look at Ibn ‘Aṭāʼ Allāh’s commentary on this
passage uncovers some revealing nuances:
What the Shaykh’s statement means is that God stimulates the aspirations of some [seek-
ers] to embark on a quest for Him; they cross thereby the wild deserts of the ego and
natural disposition until they reach the Presence of his Lord, and this interpretation is
confirmed by God’s (glorified is He) statement, “ for those who strive in Us, We surely guide
them to Our paths” [Q. 29:69]. There, then, there are those who been favoured by the
Divine solicitude without having sought it or prepared for it; this is attested by God’s
statement, “He selects for His Mercy whomsoever He wills” [Q. 3:74]. The former category is
the condition of the wayfarers (sālik ūn), while the latter are “the enraptured” (majdh ūb).
Thus, if the initial steps of a wayfarer are through the devotional acts (muʿāmala), his
“end” term is communion (muw āṣal ā) with God. If, however, someone begins from the
end (i.e., communion), he is called to devotional acts thereafter.36
Ibn ‘Aṭāʼ Allāh brings out the fuller implications of the Shādhiliyya doctrine of sainthood.
The two types of devotees that Mursī has in mind correspond to Shādil ī, the saint who ac-
quired through virtues though “spiritual exertion” (mujāhada) and the saint who possesses
them “through the modality of Divine Love” (ma ḥabba). Further clarifications are intro-
duced by Ibn ‘Aṭāʼ Allāh. The spiritual type who becomes worthy of God’s grace through
his/her obedience, identified with the “wayfarer,” “embarks on a quest for Him” and crosses
the spiritual path “through devotional acts (mu‘āmala) till he attains “communion with God”
(muw āṣal ā).37 The other spiritual type “who obeys God though God’s grace,” namely, “the
enraptured” (majdh ūb), begins from “communion” with God and crosses the path of “devo-
tional acts” thereafter.”38 When Ibn ‘Aṭāʼ Allāh states that the majdh ūb is the object of Divine
solicitude in the sense that he does not seek or prepare for the spiritual quest, he is adamant
that this should not be interpreted as implying that “he does not cross the spiritual Path
(tar īq).”39 What sets the enraptured apart from the wayfarer is that the former “crosses the
spiritual path swiftly, thanks to Divine solicitude.” In other words, he does not encounter
“the difficulties and the long distance of the Path” as the wayfarer does.40
The mystical practices

Next to the prescribed rituals of the Islamic faith, the “recollection of God” (dhikru’ll āh) as-
sumes unparalleled importance in the Qur’ān and Sunnah.41 For this reason, the Shādhiliyya,
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like other Sufi orders, considers the practice of dhikr the cornerstone of spiritual realization.42
This is eminently summed up in Ibn ‘Aṭāʼ Allāh’s assertion that “the remembrance of God is
the foundation (ʿumda) of the Path and the leverage of the folk of spiritual realization (ahl al-
ta ḥqīq).”43 In this section, we set out to explore the various mystical practices of the Shādhili-
yya. These have been thoroughly enumerated in two works of Ibn ‘Aṭāʼ Allāh: al-Qa ṣd
al-mujarrad fi ma‘rifat al-ism al-mufrad (“The Pure Intention on Knowledge of the Knowledge
of the Unique Name”) and Mift āḥ al-fal āḥ wa mi ṣbāḥ al-arw āḥ (“The Key to Salvation and the
Lamp of the Souls”), which is “one of his most informative and most crucial for our knowl-
edge of Shadili mystical practices and methods,” as Mary Koury noted.44
As it will emerge in our investigation, the gradual initiation of the novice by the spiritual
master of his/her novice into various rites conform to an internalization of higher degrees
of metaphysical knowledge. This explains Ibn ‘Aṭāʼ Allāh’s insistence that “no seeker should
proceed from one invocation to the next one until the fruit [of each invocation] is manifest
within him.”45 Along these lines, he further stipulates that “the seeker must choose an invo-
cation which is appropriate to his state; then he must devote himself to it and persevere.”46
The initial step for some aspirants, as Ibn ‘Aṭāʼ Allāh explains below, is to atone for their
sins. He gives the following instructions concerning the type of formula they should invoke
before being introduced to another rite:
If many sins have been formerly committed by the seeker, then let him begin his path
by frequently asking God for forgiveness (istighfār) until the fruit of so doing is apparent
to him…When the signs of humility (khush ūʿ ) manifest within him, and when the traces
of contrition (inkisār)and humbleness (khu ḍūʿ ) are manifest within him outwardly, he
should thereafter be introduced to the invocation that polishes the heart.47
The formula of penitence that Ibn ‘Aṭāʼ Allāh enjoins on certain novices is intended to
engender certain virtues without which he/she cannot advance in the spiritual Path. The
threefold virtues, humility, remorse and submission are marks of a favourable dispositional
state, the likes of which are conducive to inner purification.48 When the signs of sincere
atonement become manifest, as Ibn ‘Aṭāʼ Allāh instructs, the aspirant is initiated to “the in-
vocation that polishes the heart, and which is through invoking blessings upon the Prophet
(ṣal āt ‘al ā al-nabī ).”49 This rite, as we learn elsewhere in the Mift āḥ, is prescribed for the aspi-
rant because “he [the Prophet] is the intermediary (w āṣiṭa) between God and us, our proof
(dalīl) of Him for us and the one who makes Him known to us.”50
The significance of this rite is revealed in its doctrinal implication, namely, Ibn ‘Aṭāʼ
Allāh’s assertion that spiritual knowledge and guidance are ultimately mediated through the
Prophet. Having established this principle, Ibn ‘Aṭāʼ Allāh goes on to explain some practical
aspects pertaining to “the invocation of blessings on the Prophet.” He writes:
It is related in a ḥadīth that he [the Prophet] said, “the heart of the believers is made pure
and cleansed of rust through prayer upon me. For that reason, in the beginning, the seeker
is commanded to invoke blessings upon the Prophet in order to purify the locus of sin-
cerity (maḥal al-ikhlās).”51… “Indeed, frequent prayer upon him yields as its fruit uncondi-
tional love for him. The capacity to love him so results in intense devotion to him and care
for assuming the qualities, character and spiritual distinction he possesses.”52
It emerges from the ḥadith that Ibn ‘Aṭāʼ Allāh quotes that the one of the functions of “in-
voking blessing on the Prophet” the cleansing of the locus of sincerity, which is identified
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in the ḥadith with the heart of the believer. If the invocation of blessings on the Prophet is a
purificatory rite, it provokes on the devotional plane a fervent emulation of the “qualities,
character and spiritual distinction that he possessed.” There is yet another dimension to this
rite, which Ibn ‘Aṭāʼ Allāh identifies with a more elevated expression of divine Love.
When the mystery of [blessing the Prophet] emerges and manifests itself, the seeker
proceeds to an invocation higher than the previous one. So he invokes, saying: “O God,
bless Your beloved, our master Muhammad (All āhumma ṣalli ʿal ā ḥabībika sayyidin ā Mu-
hammad).” The invocation attaches him to the Lord and therein distinguishes him by the
highest degrees of divine love, transcending any creaturely love.53
Ibn ‘Aṭāʼ Allāh reveals above a more metaphysical expression of the rite on the Prophet, one
in which the aspirant partakes in higher expressions of intimacy with God.54 This rite, then,
brings to clearer light the intermediary function of the Prophet through whom higher ex-
pressions of Divine Love and knowledge are disclosed to the aspirant. The next rite to which
the seeker may be introduced to is the “Testimony of Divine Unity” (tawhīd). The nature,
function and archetypal realities contained in this rite take many pages in Mift āḥ. Here, we
will only confine ourselves to some of its metaphysical implications for the aspirant. Ibn ‘Aṭāʼ
Allāh writes:
Add to it (i.e. the invocation of prayer on the Prophet) the invocation of negation and
affirmation, that is to say: L ā Il āha illa’ll āh, Muhammadun rasūlu’ll āh. That will be your
tireless pursuit and occupation the rest of the time. It is a powerful invocation, more
powerful than the first one; only the strong can bear it…So, persist in that invocation
until the unity of the world is, subsumed for you in a single sphere, so that you thereby
contemplate with the eye of your heart naught in the two worlds save the One.55
The seeker cannot be introduced to the rite of “negation (nafy) and affirmation (ithb āt)” (i.e.,
there is no god (nafy), but God (ithbāt)) until the prayer on the prophet has been internal-
ized.56The metaphysical implications of this rite are revealed for the seeker in the interplay
between “the negation of other divinities and the affirmation of God’s divinity.”57One of the
fruits of this rite is that it “causes you [seeker] to perceive the Unity of God.”58 This idea is
enunciated in the above passage where Ibn ‘Aṭāʼ Allāh asserts that after persisting in this rite,
the aspirant will contemplate “through the eye of the heart naught in the two worlds save
the One [God].”
For Ibn ‘Aṭāʼ Allāh, this rite engenders the most objective realization of the Unity of
God, and for this reason he considers it “the very essence of the ways approaching God; it
is also the key to the inner realities of the heart and to the seeker’s ascension to the invisible
worlds.”59
After this rite has been internalized, the seeker is prescribed supplementary formulations
until she/she is prepared to be initiated to the last and most defining rite of the Shādhiliyya:
the invocation of the Unique Name: “Allāh.” Ibn ‘Aṭāʼ Allāh offers the following indications
concerning this rite:
When the fruit of invoking the “negation and affirmation” comes over you, then occupy
yourself with the proclamation of transcendence (tanzīh), which is to say “Glory be to
God the Supreme” (subḥāna’ll āh al-‘a ẓīm) while blessing the Prophet and his household;
“All āhumma ṣalli ‘ala sayyidin ā Muhammad wa ‘ala ālihi).” When the fruit manifests within
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you and its mysteries made clear to you, at that time you will become worthy of invok-
ing the simple Invocation; then you say All āh, All āh, All āh—that permanently.60
The Invocation of the Name “Allāh” is only prescribed for the seeker after the fruits of the
Shah āda, the rite glorification (tasbīh) and prayer on the Prophet manifest themselves within
the aspirant. Unlike his detailed exposition of the rite of the “negation and affirmation,”
Ibn ‘Aṭāʼ Allāh does not dwell in the Mift āḥ on the nature, function and fruits of invoking
the Name Allāh. We find a more detailed treatment on the doctrinal underpinnings of this
Invocation in Ibn ‘Aṭāʼ Allāh’s al-Qa ṣd al-mujarrad, which is entirely devoted to knowledge
and the invocation of this Name. In addition, he illustrates the pre-eminence of the Name
over the other Beautiful Names of God as well as the knowledge it confers upon the per-
son who invokes it.61 On the doctrinal front, this Name is “the greatest of all the Names
[of God], because it refers to the Supreme Essence, which synthesizes all the perfections of
the divine Attributes.”62 The implication of this metaphysical doctrine on the seeker who
invokes the Name ‘Allah’, Ibn ‘Aṭāʼ Allāh informs, is that “all the Divine Names are realized
within him.”63 In more tangible terms, Ibn ‘Aṭāʼ Allāh contends that the Invocation of the
Name Allāh will bring about the effective realization of the seeker’s absolute “servanthood”
(‘ub ūdiyya) before the Absoluteness of the Divine Essence.64 This is ultimately what Shādil īs
consider the supreme objective of the spiritual Path.
Conclusion
We began this chapter by alluding to the puzzling prominence of the Sh ā dhiliyya Sufi
order in the Sunni world. We mentioned that despite having never written down his
teachings, Sh ā dil ī ’s teachings and legacy have been absorbed into various sectors and strata
of Islamic society, an achievement that even the most prolific Sufi theologians such as Abū
Ḥā mid al-Ghazali and Ibn ‘Arabī could not claim. Many factors can be invoked to explain
the vitality that the Sh ā dhiliyya enjoyed from its origins until the present, chiefly among
them being the unequivocal commitment to the sober and normative discourse of the
Qur’ā n and the Sunnah. By carefully mediating their moral and metaphysical discourse
through Scripture and the ḥadith, the Sh ā dil ī s were not only favourably received by many
exoteric theologians, but also they made their inner teachings of Revelation more acces-
sible to the masses.
To be sure, Ibn ‘Aṭāʼ Allāh’s literary oeuvre was undoubtedly responsible for the wide diffu-
sion of the Shādhiliyya teachings among the educated class, but the primacy of master-disciple
instruction and the successive transmission of the teachings and practices from one master to
the next one remains a critical factor for the perpetual vitality of this order. For this reason,
Shādilī authors have generally refrained from codifying and systematizing their doctrines and
practices, placing more emphasis on the initiatic premises of spiritual knowledge.
Victor Danner makes a perceptive remark on the “simple type” of spirituality that Shādil ī
championed and which we “find in early Islam, without any of the complicated analytical
scaffolding that one finds in the words of Ibn ‘Arabī; it is the one which arises from an ardent
faith and not from mental gymnastics of a conceptual nature.”65 Describing the foundational
premises of the Shādhiliyya’s teachings, Ibn ‘Aṭāʼ Allāh corroborates this insight when he
states that “Shādil ī’s way is founded upon single-attentiveness upon God ( jam‘ ‘ala Allah),
with no inner fragmentation (‘adam al-tafriqa), partaking in spiritual retreat (khalwa) and rec-
ollection of God (dhikr).”66
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Notes

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20
SUFISM, TOMBS AND
CONVENTS
Thierry Zarcone
Reflecting different linguistic and temporal eras, there are several terms used for the place
where the Muslim men of piety and ascetics (later called Sufis) used to gather and sometimes
to live together. The same must be said for the numerous names for graves, tombs and mau-
soleums of the shaykhs and Sufi saints. In this chapter the generic term “convent” is employed
instead of “lodge” or “hostellery” to denote these places, though, when necessary, mention
will be made of the original Arabic or Persian word. In Arab lands, the Sufi convents were gen-
erally known as ribāṭ (a place to tie up an animal) and zāwiya (a corner in a mosque or a house).
In Iran and Central Asia, the terms used include khānaqāh (house), sometimes duwayra (little
house – from the Arabic dār) and sawma’a (room, hermitage) when the place was inhabited by
one or few ascetics. In the Ottoman Empire, the convents were generally named tekke/tekye
(bolster) though takya is used also in India and in Xinjiang (China). In the Indian subcontinent,
the terms used are jamā‘at-khāna (meeting room), takya (pillow, bolster) or dargāh (royal court)
and langar (refectory), a term of Sanskrit origin, and sometimes imarat (religious complex).
Nevertheless, the terms khānaqāh (hankah), dargāh (dergah), imarat (imaret) and even langar (lenger)
were not unknown among the Arabs and the Ottomans, as zāwiya (zaviye) was in Asia. Turning
to East Asia, in China the Sufi convent was named daotang (hall of the path, 道堂)1 and from
the name of the saint’s tomb, gongbei (拱北).2 Concerning the tomb, all the Arabic, Persian
and Turkish words that denote a grave are used also for the mausoleum of a saint: qabr, makbar,
türbe/turbat. Mausoleums are also characterised as pilgrimage sites: mazār, mezār ziyāret/ziyārat,
ziyāratgāh (from the Arabic root zār, to pay a visit). They are also called a domed edifice, qubba,
gumbād/gumbādh. In Indonesia, the tomb is named kramat from the Arabic karamat, miracle. In
Iran and Azerbaijan, the terms used include imām-zāda (imam’s son) and pīr-zāda (shaykh’s son).
In Northern Africa, the word marabout refers to both the mausoleum of a saint and the saint
himself. Similarly, in the Balkans, the term tekke is used for the convent and for the grave of a
saint, showing the intimate bonds that link the two buildings.
The proto-convents: caves, troglodyte houses, huts and graves

The first homes of the Islamic ascetics and Sufis were forests, deserts, mountains and caves,
based on the model of Christian and Buddhists ascetics. Caves and grottoes can be con-
sidered proto-convents, especially if they were roofed over or were delimited spaces, like
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houses. This was the case particularly if they hosted more than one ascetic, and this was the
main reason why such places were praised by the Sufis from Morocco to Central Asia. An-
other reason for the attraction of caves is that the Qur’ānic tradition provided two models for
them as the site par excellence which favoured spiritual experience: the cave of Mount Hira at
Mecca where the Prophet Mu ḥammad received revelation, and the grotto where the Com-
panions of the Cave (ahl al-kahf ) were raised from death by God.
According to Abū Bakr Kalābādh ī in Khur ā sān, around the tenth century, there were
several men of piety called “men of caves” (shikaftiyya) because they lived in such places.3
The model may be either Ibr āh ī m Adham (eighth century) who lived for nine years in a cave
(gh ār) near Nishapur.4 Also, a thirteenth-century treatise states that a great number of caves
in Samarkand were inhabited by Sufis; some of their names hint to the wandering Qalandar
dervishes and to the retreat of 40 days or years seclusion.5 Similarly in Northern Africa, the
expression “men of caves” was also used to characterise Muslim ascetics. For example, in the
twelfth century, a cave in the hill of Gueliz at Marrakesh, in Morocco, was the home for
40 years of Abū’l-‘Abbā s, the saint patron of the city.6
More interesting for this topic here are the caves inhabited by ascetics who gradually
authorised their disciples to gather around them, and to live permanently in their vicinity,
and after years of seclusion they decided to have a convent built nearby the cave or in its sur-
roundings. Here, the convent appeared de facto as an extension of the cave and of the retreat;
henceforth, the practice of the retreat was accomplished in common with other ascetics. In
addition, hagiographies describe that caves of famous Sufis were visited by Muslims for dif-
ferent purposes. Individuals came to the saint seeking spiritual guidance, kings visited him
to receive benedictions and protection, but in general, many people asked the saint for phys-
ical healing. There are several miniatures paintings in India and in Iran showing sovereigns
visiting saints in their caves; one by the Persian artist Bihz ād (m. 1535?) shows the Afghan
sultan Ḥusayn M ī rz ā (fifteenth century) visiting a famous Sufi saint in a cave called “the Cave
of the Darwish” (ghār-i darwish) at Herat.7
Thereafter and gradually, some Sufis were convinced that they should abandon their
caves and come to the city to open convents: these convents of course, but not all, had a cell
of retirement which was actually no more than a symbolic continuation of the cave. How-
ever, in some cases, the cave had become a part of an architectural complex with a mosque,
refectory, rooms and graves. Such is the case of the shrine of A ḥ mad Yasaw ī (d. 1166–1167)
at Yasi (today Turkistan), in Kazakhstan; the saint lived ten years in a cave, more precisely
an underground chamber (khalwat-kh āna) near the place where he was buried. Then, more
than two centuries later, in 1397 Tamerlane built a gigantic kh ānaqāh integrating a mauso-
leum over the grave of the saint. The cave, still existing today, was used after the death of
Yasaw ī by Sufis to perform the retreat.8 Also mention should be made that at Marrakesh in
the twelfth century, the cave of an ascetic situated in the Gueliz hill was integrated into a
convent to such an extent that the place was finally called “Ribāṭ of the Cave” (ribāṭ al-gh ār).9
In addition to caves, a hollow tree can be considered a particular kind of house when
inhabited by Sufis; it can be defined as a “green” cave. This was the case of at least three
well-known Sufis: ‘Umar al-Khalwat ī (d. 1397), founder of the Khalwatiyya order10; La’l
Shāhbaz Qalandar (d. 1267), a prominent Qalandar dervish, in South Pakistan11; and S īdi
Hadd ī (d. 1805), eponym of the Moroccan Hadd āwa order.12 Moreover, Ḥacı Bekt ā sh
(d. 1271), the eponym of the Bekt ā shiyya order, made a retreat for seven years inside a juniper
tree which took the form of a tent.13 The famous Yenikapı mevlev ī convent (tekke) at Istanbul
was constructed near the place where its founder Ak şehirl ī Derviş Kem ā l (d. 1601) used to
live in a hollow plane tree.14
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Sufism, tombs and convents
Figure 20.1 Convent and mausoleum of A ḥ mad Yasaw ī, postcard, end of nineteenth century (archives
Th. Zarcone)
There are other places for the retreat which are not caves or hollow trees, like private
houses or hostels. Worth mentioning is the hut of branches with a conical roof (nuww āla),
in Northern Africa, which might be regarded also as a proto-convent. This hut is usually a
temporary shelter where Sufis can gather for a while, as it is the case with wandering mem-
bers of the Moroccan Hadd āwa order in the nineteenth century but in some other cases the
saint graves are covered by such a tent of branches.15
The Companions of the Cave (a ṣh āb al-kahf ) provided the paradigm for eremitic life, and
it is known that several caves in the Muslim world, from Morocco to Central Asia, were
considered the genuine place where the Companions (the Seven Sleepers) were walled-in by
an infidel king and then resuscitated by God. According to sura 18 of the Qur’ān, an oratory
or a mosque was built near the entrance of the cave to commemorate the miracle. Later,
the courageous resistance of the Seven Sleepers made them the prototype for adherents of
spiritual chivalry ( futuwwa) who escaped the illusionary world.16 So it is not surprising that
some hagiographical sources report that it was a Sufi convent instead of an oratory which was
built near the cave and that the site therefore attracted ascetics searching a holy place to prac-
tice the retreat. This is confirmed by the well-known Tales of the Prophets (qissas al-anbiyā‘),
written in 1310, which tells of a ribāṭ that was built over the entrance of the cave, and, later
only, a mosque.17 A century earlier, in 1215–1233, near Af şin, in the South-East of Turkey,
a sanctuary dedicated to the a ṣh āb al-kahf housed a mosque, a ribāṭ and a caravanserai near its
cave.18 The Af şin cave is where Ḥacı Bekt ā sh performed one of his 40-day retreats (erba‘ īn).19
At the end of the eighteenth century, another shrine of the ash āb al-kahf at Tuyuq, in the
oasis of Turfan, in Chinese Central Asia, was chosen by the Sufi Afāq Khwāja (d. 1694), king
of Kashghariyya (southern Xinjiang), to perform a retreat. Later, in the early nineteenth
century, a kh ānaqāh and a mosque were constructed at this place.20 The same phenomenon
is observed at Cairo where two Sufi convents were successively established near a cave ded-
icated to the a ṣh āb al-kahf at Muqattam hill.21
The tomb of a pious person, as a sacred edifice, in general, imitating the tomb of the
Prophet Mu ḥammad at Medina, constitutes a key element in the structuring of a community
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Figure 20.2 Marabut in a hut, North Africa, postcard, nineteenth century (archives Th. Zarcone)
of devotees and in the emergence of a convent. This point unfortunately has received in-
sufficient attention from researchers. While in most cases the tomb of a saint predated the
foundation of the convent named after him, there are several other cases of convents which
did not welcome the grave of its founder, though at a later stage the graves were frequently
relocated in the convent (this was usually the rule in Northern Africa).
Visiting the tomb of saints was among the earliest practices of the pious and of the Sufis.
At these places, the pilgrims benefited from the baraka of the saint and sometimes from his
spiritual guidance through dreams. For all of these reasons, the pious used to spend one or
several days around the tomb and sometimes they located themselves in its vicinity. The em-
blematic example is that of the tomb of Bāyazīd Bisṭā m ī (d. 848 or 875) which was visited by
renowned pious individuals and Sufis like Abū Na ṣr Sarr āj (d. 988), Abū Sa‘ īd b. Abi’l-Khayr
(d. 1049), ‘Al ī b. ‘Uṯ m ān Ḥujw ī r ī (d. 1072) and Abu’l-Ḥasan Kharaqān ī (d. 1033).22 In 1313, a
dome was erected over the grave of the saint and some decades later the Moroccan traveller
Ibn Baṭṭūta wrote that he was the guest of a convent (zāwiya) established near the mauso-
leum. Similarly, at different periods, many other cases of a tomb that predated the foundation
of a convent are known: examples include those of Mawlānā Jalā l al-Dī n Rū m ī (d. 1273)
at Konya, of Bahā al-Dī n Naqshband (d. 1389) at Bukhara, of Ni‘mat Allāh Wal ī (d. 1431)
and of Saf ī ‘Al ī Shāh (d. 1899) in Iran.23 At some places in the Muslim world, for example in
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Central Asia in the post-Mongol period, mausoleums “increasingly supplanted mosques as

the main centres of religious activity.”24 In many cases, the tomb of a saint, before or after
it was associated with a convent, was also the origin of a cemetery – sometimes a major one
which included royal graves – and in some instances of a village or a city; examples include
the city of Turkistan in Kazakhstan which originates from the tomb of A ḥ mad Yasaw ī and
the cemeteries of Afāq Khwāja in Xinjiang, of Shaykh Arslān at Damascus and of Karaca
A ḥ med at Istanbul.
Figure 20.3 Pilgrims at a saint grave in Xinjiang, circa 1930 (Swedish Riksarchivet Samuel Fränne
östturkestan Samling)
Figure 20.4 Pilgrims at a saint grave in Xinjiang, circa 1930 (Swedish Riksarchivet Samuel Fränne
östturkestan Samling)
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The emergence of the Sufi convents: ascetic

life and hospitality
From hermitage and mosque to convent

The first isolated Muslim ascetics and groups of men of piety appeared in the eighth century
around Basra in Iraq, an ancient cultural centre, and from there thereafter in the rest of the
region. When not living in desert or in caves, the spiritual masters used to bring together
their disciples either in mosques, in their own homes, or in independent little houses called
duwayra,25 also sawma‘a or hermitage and k ūkh or a small windowless hut of reeds.26 Ḥasan
al-Basr ī (d. 728) for example lived in a sawma‘a of a house,27 Abū ‘Abd al-Ra ḥ m ān al-Sulam ī
(d. 1021) in a duwayra before he built his kh ānaqāh and Mu ḥammad Sahl al-Tustar ī (d. 896)
used to gather his disciples in his own house.28
From the eighth century, an important number of frontier-posts called ribāṭ appeared in
the frontiers of the Arab Empire, from Northern Africa and the Mediterranean to Transox-
iana; these institutions were composed of people that were both men of piety and warriors
for the faith. Their main duty was to protect Muslim lands from its enemies, in general
Christians in the West, nomads in Central Asia and Buddhists in the East, and to perform
the holy war.29 One of the oldest ribāṭs was founded in 796 at Monastir, in Tunisia, and
many others in the following centuries in Spain, southern Portugal and Palermo in Sicily.30
There were many ribāṭs also in Iran and Central Asia since the ninth century, as shown by
the topography. More than a military fort, the ribāṭ was also at the service of travellers, serv-
ing as a caravanserai and police station, and it was usually located on commercial roads, not
only on the frontiers but also inside Muslim countries.31 Gradually the ribāṭ lost its original
function and was occupied around the eleventh century by Sufis, who turned it into a hostel
or convent, though, as shown by Nelly Amri, in Ifriqiya (Tunisia), this process had started
at least one century before.32 It seems that it was also the case in Iraq, as the ribāṭ at Abadan,
Iraq, was visited by Sahl al-Tustar ī (d. 896) in the ninth century.33 Moreover, a great number
of ribāṭs existed at Mecca and Medina as pious foundations exclusively – there were about
59 in medieval times; the earliest was set up in 1004–1005. One of these institutions, the
Ribā ṭ al-Shar ābī (1243–1244), was frequented by Sufis and included a library.34 The term
ribāṭ was still used in the nineteenth century for new Sufi convents.35 A ribāṭ was also a place
of devotion for female ascetics in Northern Africa in the eleventh century and in Mecca in
the thirteenth century.36
Several rival Muslim ascetic trends were present in Khur ā s ā n during the medieval
times. The major movements were the Karr ā miyya and the Mal ā matiyya. The first one,
founded by Ibn Karr ā m (d. 869), was composed of radical ascetics and enthusiastic prop-
agators of Islam; the second, whose main representative was al-Sulam ī (d. 1021), ad-
vocated inward devotion. A third group was that of the Sufis coming from Iraq and
influenced in general by the sober mysticism of Junayd al-Baghd ā d ī (d. 910). Later,
during the course of the late tenth and eleventh century, the two first groups were su-
perseded by the third one. 37 Sufi practice resulted in several innovations that were later
integrated into the ceremonials of the convents: for example, the oath and retreat ritual,
the sam ā‘. 38 Then, in the first half of the eleventh century a great number of convents
named kh ā naq āh were founded in Nishapur, and in the rest of Khur ā s ā n and in Central
Asia. From there the model of the kh ā naq āh was introduced to neighbouring Iraq and in
the rest of the Muslim world.
288
It is probable that in Khur ā sān the kh ānaqāh model was derived from the institution of the
Karr ā miyya movement. This was the opinion of the Arab geographer Muqaddasī who wrote
around 975.39 Frequently accused of heresy by the ‘ulama, the members of the Karr ā miyya
showed, despite several differences, common features with the Sufis. For example, they em-
ployed the title of awliyā’ or waliyān, and they were ascetics (zāhid) and practised mendicancy.
Their kh ānaqāh, “centres for meeting and missionary work,” were situated everywhere in
Central Asia (in Herat, Farghana, Samarkand and Nishapur), and in Mecca and Jerusalem.40
In turn, these kh ānaqāh were probably inspired by Christian and Manichean monasteries and
perhaps by Buddhist monasteries as well. There is, for instance, a mention in the Hud ūd al-
‘Al ām (tenth century) of a Manichean monastery at Samarkand called kh ānagāh-i m ānawian.41
Between worldy abandonment and social participation

In general, the convents were torn between a categorical opposition to the eremitical life
and the desire to harmonise a communal life with the abandonment of the world, and also
to facilitate the life of the wandering Sufis, especially through hospitality. The Karrā miyya
movement was ascetic and focused on worldly abandonment, contrary to the Malā matiyya
whose adherents stopped travelling for spiritual reasons and integrated into society by per-
forming a professional activity.42 The majority of the convents however continued to culti-
vate worldly abandonment, in a practical or symbolic way, which meant the construction of
retreat rooms inside or nearby the convent. That being said, the history of Sufism demon-
strates that the practice of worldly abandonment in retreat cells inside the convents declined
over the centuries. The general rule followed by a majority of convents was to interiorise this
behaviour and to experience this state of solitude at a symbolic level only and not physically,
as indicated earlier.43 Quite interesting here was the expression “retreat in society” (khalwat
dar anjum ān) coined by Central Asian Sufis in the twelfth century and adopted later by the
Naqshbandiyya order that encouraged worldly abandonment.44
Several ‘ulama and Sufis criticised the Sufi convents for maintaining a break with society,
albeit moderate, that was considered a non-Islamic practice inspired by Christian monas-
ticism. It is known that Abū Sa‘ īd b. Abi’l-Khayr and A ḥ mad Jā m chose a convent-based
lifestyle against an eremitical one in the desert or mountains, which they regarded as an
outdated practice.45
Some other convents nevertheless welcomed both bachelor and married dervishes, as
in Cairo, at the Baybars Kh ā naqā h (1306–1310), one of the oldest in the city.46 Similarly,
Zayn al-D ī n Khw ā f ī (d. 1435), in Khur ā s ā n, wanted Muslims entering the circle of his
disciples to be unmarried (although he authorised them, i.e. after their initiation, to marry
if they so desired, and here he was probably influenced by Suhraward ī ’s manual ‘Aw ārif
al-Ma‘ārif ).47 A more or less similar rule was implemented in the Mawlaw ī convents in
the Ottoman Empire; the shaykhs were offered, after having completed their one-year
training, to decide to be celibate or to get married, and, in case they accepted the first
option, a particular cell in the convent was given to them.48 The opposition of certain
convents to the eremitical life continued over the centuries; in the nineteenth century, a
Moroccan mystic Ibn ‘Ajī ba (d. 1809), inspired by the reading of the Persian Rū zbih ā n Baql ī
(d. 1209), an adamant opponent to eremitical life, wrote that the places to cultivate “mo-
nastic life” (rahb āniyya) among the Sufi community are the mosque and the convent only
(zāwiya).49 However, at the same time, in Morocco, celibacy was the rule in the ephemeral
convents of the wandering Haddawiyya order.50
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Figure 20.5 Convent of A ḥ mad Jā m, Khur ā sā n (photograph 2018, Th. Zarcone)
The question of full withdrawal from society in hermitages was a contentious issue. The
Sufis were divided on this between those who opposed the retreat and the others who
fiercely defended it. For instance, the Malā mat ī, Hamdū n Qassār (d. 884) criticised this
practice, like Tirmidh ī (d. 1240) and Hujwir ī (d. 1073 or 1077) who argued that a solitary
life was not recommended.51 A consensus seems to have been reached in the convents which
included one or several particular rooms dedicated to the retreat (khalwakh āna, chillakh āna or
sawma’a), nearby or inside the main edifice. However, the presence of such rooms was not
systematic. As time passed, the practice of the retreat was abandoned. However, the presence
of retreat rooms was almost compulsory in the convents (tekke) of the Ottoman Khalwat ī
order because this practice was a central element in the doctrine of this movement, as for
example the Khalwat ī Tekke at Kastamonu, the Hilā liyya Tekke at Aleppo and the Demir-
bā shiyya Zāwiya at Cairo.52 The retreat was also performed in small independent houses in
the vicinity of a convent, as the Üf tāde Tekke at Bursa, in Turkey.53 But in these convents
the retreat has been abandoned nowadays with the exception of the Cairo convent though
in a very flexible way.54
The Sufi tradition of hospitality and charity: a major rule of the convent
The reason why Sufis have shown great generosity towards travellers and especially towards
travelling and wandering Sufis needs to be investigated. It must be remembered on the one
hand that, in origin, groups of pious individuals, ascetics and Sufis were very mobile. On
the other hand, it is well known that many Sufis stressed the necessity of travel (siyāḥa) for
several important reasons: searching for the guidance of a spiritual master, visiting the graves
of saints in order to benefit from their baraka and guidance, and to visit Mecca.55 In a word,
290
travelling for a limited time or wandering continuously was regarded as a spiritual activity,
and many of those in charge of convents considered that it was their duty to help these
truth-seekers, in spite of the fact that travelling was not always accepted at other convents.
Shaykh Niz ā m al-Dī n, the founder of the well-known Chisht ī kh ānaqāh at Delhi, defended
ardently the rule of hospitality. He said,
dervishhood … consists of this: every visitor should first be greeted with ‘Peace!’ then
he should be served food, and then and only then should one engage in story-telling and
conversation. After this on his blessed tongue came the proverb (in Arabic): ‘Begin with
the ‘Peace’, then food, then conversation.56
Endless travelling and wandering, however, were opposed by the Malā matiyya and con-
sidered in general very negatively by the Sufis, in spite of the attempts by the Qalandars to
legitimate this practice, as demonstrated by A. Papas.57 For these dervishes, referring to the
ritual circumambulation ( ṭaw āf ) at Mecca, wandering the world was no different.
In general, waq f regulations of convents insisted on providing hospitality to visitors, Sufis
or not, and even in some cases Muslims or not, as one Anatolian convent in the fourteenth
century described all individuals as “those who come and go” (āyanda va ravanda).58 The Ar-
abic expression used in Northern Africa convents is “feeding the coming” (iṭ‘ām al- ṭa‘am).59
In many convents, the visitors were usually offered three nights accommodation, sometimes
more. They were also given cloth in Anatolia and in Central Asia.60 In general, the Sufis ate
soup, porridge or gruel, as at the Ikhlā siyya complex of ‘Al ī Sh ī r Navā’ ī in fifteenth-century
Herat. At Kashgar in the nineteenth century poor and wandering Sufis were offered a type of
porridge called ḥalīm, just like at other places in Central Asia (at the A ḥ mad Yasaw ī shrine for
example).61 At a kh ānaqāh of the K āzaruniyya order in the fourteenth century, the Moroccan
traveller Ibn Baṭṭūta noticed that the visitors “were provided with a type of harisa made of
meat and fat, to be eaten with thin bread, and were not permitted to leave until they had
enjoyed three days’ hospitality.”62 Ibn Baṭṭūta reported that this K āzaruniyya brotherhood
(founder: Abū Ishāq K āzar ū n ī, d. 1033), which developed an important network in Iran and
Anatolia with convents in India and China, was more involved in charity than in the spir-
itual path. The tradition of hospitality was particularly strong in this order, typified by the
numerous convents of the Akh ī movement in Anatolia in the same century, more than in any
other Sufi orders.63 Mention should be made also of the huge kitchen in the convent of the
Indian Chisht ī Sufi, Niz ā m al-Dī n which supplied food for thousands of people every day at
Delhi in the fourteenth century.64
Charity was also a duty of convents which aimed to help the poor and the unfortunate
in different ways. For example, in Anatolia, between the thirteenth and fifteenth centuries,
a convent fed the population during a famine. In Central Asia, the Naqshband ī ‘Ubayd
Allāh A ḥ r ār (d. 1490) relieved the people of Tashkent from their tax payment for one year.
And at Aurangabad, India, a Naqshbandiyya convent (takya) not only took care of orphaned
children (where a school was established for them) but also gave help to widows and unpro-
tected women. A similar phenomenon was observed at the Bektash ī tekke of Demir Baba
in Bulgaria.65
In addition, the presence of several convents on commercial roads in Mughal India,
Anatolia and Africa, similar to caravanserais, brought security to Sufis, merchants and trav-
ellers against robbers and bandits.66 Several Sufi convents, usually known under the names
of Indian or Uzbek convents, were established along the pilgrimage roads that link India,
the Tatar region and Central Asia to the holy cities of Mecca and Medina through Iran, the
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Ottoman Empire and Iraq, and they all provided valuable services to pilgrims. The most
famous were located in Istanbul, Damascus, Jerusalem and Cairo.67
Convents as Sufis’ homes: architecture and regulations

of communal life
The emergence of the Sufi convent was an architectural challenge, since the builders were
asked to construct a new type of building, unknown in Islamic lands until then. The major
innovations included the following: a dance hall (sam ā‘-kh āna) – if a sam ā‘ was held—, a
meeting hall ( jam ā‘at-kh āna, maydān) dedicated usually to the reception rituals and the dhikr,
one or several rooms for retreat (chilla-kh āna, khalwat-kh āna) and a mausoleum surrounded
by a space dedicated to pilgrimage ceremonials, particularly the circumambulation and pro-
cessions for the offerings of the banners (‘alam, tugh). The convent also integrated the Sufis’
cells and those of the visitors (Sufis or not) with a residence for the shaykh and his family,
a refectory, a kitchen (sometimes used as a hall for specific for rituals) and a bath. It usually
included a mosque, one or more madrasas, a library, a garden and a cemetery. The seclusion
cells which were either inside the convent or outside were in the form of natural or artificial
underground caves.68 In some convents, a room was reserved for relics, such as a hair, or a
sandal of the founder of the convent or any other object considered holy. In addition, there
were other sacred, mobile objects that played a role in the pilgrimage ritual and were usually
kept near the mausoleum, inside or outside the mausoleum or the meeting hall such as ban-
ners and incense pots (which were common in Chinese convents).
In some countries, the external aspect of the convent was influenced by the local style;
for example, in China, the convent was Sinicised and resembled a pagoda, just as Buddhist
convents were Sinicised when introduced to this country.
Figure 20.6 Banners and procession at a mausoleum in Northern Africa, postcard, end of nineteenth
century (archives Th. Zarcone)
292
Figure 20.7 Gongbei, convent of the Chinese Qādiriyya order at Linxia, China (photograph T.
Zarcone)
Figure 20.8 Drawing of the convent and mausoleum of Af āq Khwāja, Kashgar, made in twentieth
century (Häsän Abdurehim, Islam Binakarliq Saniti, Ürümchi, 1989)
In order to organise the life in common, the Sufis adopted regulations very soon in Sufi
history. The personal rules adopted by Sufis to conduct their mystical life, such as Junayd’s
eight-principles, or Sulā m ī’s rule (“eat little, speak little, sleep little”) should be distinguished
from those elaborated for the running of a community. The first of this second genre was
set up by Abū Sa‘ īd b. Abi’l-Khayr (d. 1049) in Khur ā sān. It recommended that the inmates
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of the convent keep their garments clean, refrain from sitting in holy places like mosques
“for the sake of gossiping,” welcome “the poor and needy and all who join their company”
and “not eat anything save in participation with one another.”69 Another earlier rule, still
in Khur ā sān, was composed by ‘Abd Allāh Anṣār ī (d. 1089): it reminded the Sufis of the
correct way to enter a convent and how to salute their brethren, of the table manners in a
convent, of the attitude during a sam ā‘ ceremony and the dispositions during travel.70 The
most important rule nevertheless that was adopted almost everywhere by the Sufi convents
was the ‘Aw ārif al-Ma‘ārif authored by ‘Umar al-Suhraward ī, a Sufi from Baghdad. In India,
this book was a key guide for the organisation of the convents.71 It included almost all ethical
aspects of Sufism, adapted to a cenobitic life: day to day life in the convent, devotions includ-
ing sam ā‘, the 40 days retreat (arba‘ īn) and the dhikr, the question of celibacy and marriage,
the garments, the different ways to travel and the reason for doing it, table manners, all in
accordance with the law of Islam.72 The book was translated into Persian, Ottoman Turkish
and recently in Modern Turkish by a Naqshbandiyya convent of Istanbul.73 Mention should
be made finally that a regulation of 15 points was also elaborated by a Chinese Qādiriyya
convent at Linxia/Hezhou, Gansu (Northwest China) in the nineteenth-twentieth centuries
and is still in use today: the Sufi must avoid, among other things, making friends with peo-
ple, running in and out of teahouses, not attending to ascetic exercises, raising private flocks
and hanging around with brokers.74
Sufi convents through history
The first convents, eleventh-thirteenth centuries

Two places in the eighth century, one at Ramla, in Palestine, named kh ānaqāh (767), and
the other at Abadan called ribāṭ (793), are considered by authors writing three centuries later
to be the first historical convents. However, as Mu ḥ sin Kiyān ī writes, these two “convents”
were not as larger and complex as Sufi residences as were the kh ānaqāh and ribāṭ constructed
in the second part of the eleventh century in Khurā sān and in Iraq.75 Rather, they resemble
small hermitages.76
The first Sufi convent (where there were some rituals and a basic administration) appeared
in Khur ā sān in the second part of the eleventh century, when this part of Asia was dominated
by the Seljuq Turks (1038–1194). As mentioned earlier, this period saw the elaboration of the
first convent regulations and the beginning of the institutionalisation of groups of ascetics
centred around a leader and housed in a specific building. These convents in general received
financial support from the wealthy and politicians in the form of waq f (properties with an
immunity from taxation: buildings, lands, gardens, wells, mills).77 The most representative of
these convents, which was, however, neither the oldest nor the largest in Khurā sān, was set
up by Abū Sa‘ īd b. Abi’l-Khayr at Nishapur (there were about ten other convents in the city).
Abū Sa‘ īd’s convent emphasised the chanting of poetry and the sam ā‘, organised fraternal
meals and gave less importance to the reading of the Qur’ān. Such practices were opposed by
the ‘ulama and by kh ānaqāhs ruled by Sufis linked to Iraqi Sufism, i.e. to the sober mysticism
of Junayd (d. 910).
In the same century, the model of the kh ānaqāh was exported from Khur ā sān to Baghdad,
the major city in the region. Before this time, Iraqi Sufis used to gather in mosques and
private houses, one of the best known being the Shuniziyya mosque – qualified by Böwer-
ing as a “prototype of the kh ānaqāh” – which had rooms for hosting Sufis. This place was
frequented especially by the disciples of Junayd.78 At Baghdad however, the convents were
294
generally named ribāṭ and rarely kh ānaqāh. The founders of some of these new institutions
were close to the Khur ā sān ī Sufis. The Ribāṭ of Abū Sa‘d was one of the oldest convents
in this city, and had been built by Abū Sa‘d Nisābū r ī (d. 1084), a disciple of Abū Sa‘ īd of
Nishapur.79 As in Khur ā sān, some of these ribāṭ welcomed the sam ā‘ tradition, though other
convents were strictly opposed to this practice.80 But the ribāṭ was also a place for the study
of the Qur’ān and the transmission of ḥad īth. The well-known Sufi and theologian Abū
Hā mid Mu ḥammad al-Ghaz ā l ī (d. 1111), one of the best scholars at Baghdad, was one of the
first who denounced firmly the abuses in the convents (control of the waq f by the founder
family81) and called for structural reforms. By the end of his life, he directed his own khān-
aqāh at Tus.
In the twelfth century, 40 ribāṭs were active in Baghdad among which one was dedicated
to female ascetics. Under the reign of the Abbasid caliph al-Nāṣir (r. 1180–1225), the ribāṭs
of Baghdad lost their autonomy and fell under the control of the state which appointed
the shaykhs. The caliph’s advisor was Shihāb al-Dī n Abū Ḥaf ṣ ‘Umar al-Suhraward ī who
directed at least four ribāṭ. He authored the aforementioned ‘Aw ārif al-Ma‘ārif, the most cele-
brated rule for the Sufi convents, and the eponym of the Suhrawardiyya order.
For political reasons, the caliph emphasised the mystical side of the ribāṭ and wanted all
the members of the convents to be very pious.82 He assisted ‘Umar al-Suhraward ī who gave
a new framework to the ethic of the futuwwa, a code of behaviour based on altruism, gener-
osity and hospitality, that had step by step pervaded some currents of Sufism and its convents
from Baghdad to Anatolia and China.83
In Egypt, the Ayyubid dynasty (1169-end fourteenth century) which succeeded the Fatimid
Caliphate wanted Sufi convents to promote Sunnism and to glorify the sultan. A first con-
vent named Sa‘īd al-su‘adā (also Duwayra al-sūfiyya), established by the founder of the dynasty
Salāh al-Dīn / Saladin in 1174, hosted up to 300 Sufis and promoted public processions.84
Figure 20.9 Convent of ‘Umar al-Suhraward ī, Baghdad, postcard, end of nineteenth century (ar-
chives Th. Zarcone)
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The foundation of convents, many being less political and unsponsored by the government,
continued under the Mamluks after 1250. In Syria, at Damascus, the oldest convent was the
khānaqāh Sumaysātiyya (from ‘Alī al-Sumaysātī, d. 1061), which in the twelfth and thirteenth
centuries was a major institution, as its shaykhs were recognised by the Ayyubid sovereigns as
“chief Sufis” (shaykh al-shuyūkh), a prestigious position. Several other convents of modest size
did not have such royal patronage and usually were built in remote places, contrary to the
great convents situated in the centre of the city. Areas such as Mount Qaysun and al-Salihiyya
were very reputable and sacred, and drew many ascetics. It was where Ibn ‘Arabī was buried
in 1240.85 In 1260, there were 11 khānaqāhs, seven ribāṭs and eight zāwiyas in Damascus.86 In
Ifriqiyya (Tunisia), in the twelfth century, the convent (which was known under the generic
term zāwiya) underwent a transitional stage with several facets: frontier and fortified zāwiyas
hosted visitors but they progressively lost their ancient military function; urban zāwiyas with a
mosque that increasingly tended to incorporate saints’ graves.87
Convent institutionalisation and bureaucratisation – from

fourteenth to eighteenth century
State patronage over the Sufi convents continued under the Turko-Mongol successor states,
Ilkhanid and Timurid, and even in Ayyubid and Mamluk Egypt and in the Middle East.
In the fourteenth and fifteenth century, in Central Asia, particularly under the Timurids
(1370–1506) and in Mamluk Egypt (1250–1517), this institution experienced a quick and
rich development with sumptuous convents and significant endowments. In addition, at this
time, the convent started to bureaucratise (that is to experience an increase in staff and in the
management of funds and endowments, in the welcoming of the visitors and residents); this
is a process that reached its conclusion during the following centuries with the emergence of
the Sufi orders in thirteenth-sixteenth centuries.
In the post-Mongol period, the Sufi convents “increasingly supplanted mosques as the
main centres of religious activity.”88 Besides, convents and tombs progressively became the
centre of two different activities: a place for ascetics performing Sufi rituals, and the site of
a pilgrimage with pilgrims regularly coming and going. In general, these two functions of
the shrines were harmonised but in some cases the veneration of the saint had evolved more
or less independently from the convent, and sometimes caused the latter to disappear. The
reason lies in the popularity of the pilgrimages which drew masses of Muslims to come and
pray to an intercessory saint in order to have their wishes fulfilled. This kind of devotion
was obviously more attractive for the populace than a mystic life and the quest for a spiritual
master. It is still the case nowadays.
On the one hand, the convents have experienced another progressive transformation due
to the fact that they taught several subjects other than mysticism, for instance arts, music, that
appealed to many. Also, convents became attractive to a great number of people who wanted
to socialise, make friends and share a cultural and intellectual knowledge, in addition to a
devotional life. On the other hand, the bureaucratisation of the convents has accelerated the
codification of the rituals (dance in Mawlaw ī convents, dance and khalwa in the Khalwat ī
convents) and promoted the appearance of new rituals: kitchen initiation ceremonials for
example in Bekt ā shiyya and Mawlawiyya).
This period also witnessed the emergence of the first critics of the convents, the main op-
ponent being the Hanbal ī theologian Ibn Taymiyya (d. 1328) who inspired the future major
anti-Sufi trends, namely the K āḍīz ādel ī movement in the sixteenth century and Wahhabism
in the eighteenth century.
296
Asia
The main kh ānaqāhs of Central Asia in the fourteenth and eighteenth century originated in
the graves of illustrious Sufis born one or two centuries earlier and generally succeeded by
a community of disciples more or less organised. The most emblematic of these shrines was
the enormous convent built by Timur in the fourteenth century over the grave of A ḥ mad
Yasaw ī at Yasi, today Kazakhstan. This convent – and some others in the region – broke with
the old kh ānaqāh design – a court with four iwan – since a single colossal building comprised
all the other elements of the convent, i.e. the cells, the kitchen, the library, under one roof
(instead of an open-air courtyard).89 Another significant convent, that of the famous ‘Abd
Allāh Anṣār ī (d. 1089), was built at Herat by Timur’s successor, Shāh Ru ̄ kh (r. 1405–1447).
But the most notable shrine was that of Bahā’ al-Dī n Naqshband (d. 1389) at Bukhara; this
was a large complex of mosques, madrasas with one kh ānaqāh built by the Shaybanid ruler
‘Abd al-‘Azīz Khān in 1544–1545. The particularity is that the grave of Bahā’ al-Dī n had
no mausoleum or cupola upon the sarcophagus, which, according to the will of the saint,
included an alleged fragment of the Black Stone of Mecca. The absence of a cupola was
adopted later by ‘Ubayd Allāh A ḥ r ār, the second leading figure of the Naqshbandiyya that
soon dominated Asian Sufism. A ḥ r ār, whose kh ānaqāh – a quite complex convent with about
100 servants – was situated near Samarqand, made the order wealthy thanks to endowment
and lands offered from the sovereigns. Furthermore, A ḥ r ār is responsible for the spread of the
Naqshbandiyya outside of Central Asia, sending representatives to India, Iran and Turkey
where the latter, in turn, opened convents.90 One of his deputies, Mullā ‘Abd Allāh Ilāh ī
(d. 1491), initiated in his master’s convent, performed therefore nine 40-day retreats (i.e.
one year) in Bahā’ al-Dī n’s convent at Bukhara, and then visited Herat and Istanbul before
reaching Vardar Yenicesi in Ottoman Greece and built a kh ānaqāh in 1490.91 In addition, the
evolution of the architecture of the convent shows increasing attention given to the mauso-
leum of the saint; thus, the rituals and the activities linked to the pilgrimage were expanded
to the detriment of the Sufi ceremonials (dhikr, sam ā‘).92 This phenomenon can be observed
in many other convents in the rest of the Muslim world, although there are khānaqāhs which
continued to emphasise the ascetic behaviour. In the early sixteenth century, the Sufis and
their convents underwent a dark time following the emergence of the Safavid Shi‘i State,
founded in 1501, that led to the persecution of Sufis and the destruction of their convents and
tombs especially in Iran and in Khurasan.93
In India, the most famous convents were those of Mu’ ī n al-Dī n (d. 1235) at Ajmer and
of Niz ā m al-Dī n (d. 1325), the latter being one of the biggest buildings in this city.94 The
role played in general by the Sufi convents in the subcontinent was to enhance the cultural
integration of the different religious communities95. A structure was raised over the grave of
Mu’ ī n al-Dī n at the end of the fifteenth century, but the convent became popular at the time
of the Emperor Akbar only, in the sixteenth century.96
In the seventeenth century, Naqshband ī shaykhs introduced Sufi convents in Eastern
Turkistan (today Xinjiang) and even in Northwest China. A well-known convent in this
area was that of Ā fāq Khwāja at Kashgar. It is composed of a complex with a mosque, two
madrasas and several houses. The mausoleum of the founder included the graves of more
than 70 members of his family among those who succeeded him.97 The Sufi convents and
mausoleums of saints are very numerous in Eastern Turkestan according to the travelogue of
Mu ḥammad Dhal ī l ī (b. 1676–80–d. ?), a Qalandar and Naqshband ī Sufi who wandered with
a band of Sufi, chanting, dancing, from tombs to tombs and convents, in a vast area from
Khotan to Bukhara.98 Ā fāq Khwāja, among others, was influential on Chinese/Hui and Salar
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Figure 20.10 A popular poster of Niz ā m al-D ī n and his convent, twentieth century ( J. W. Frembgen,
The Friends of God. Sufi Saints in Islam, Popular Poster Art from Pakistan, Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 2006)
Sufism in Gansu province. The most significant convent in this province, named Da Gong-
bei (The Great Mausoleum), erected in the early eighteenth century at Linxia, welcome the
monumental tomb of a Qādir ī sufi, Qi Jingyi/Hilā l al-Dī n (d. 1719) with a mosque, medita-
tion rooms, garden and school. Only the unmarried Sufi doing privations were authorised to
live in the convent; they were called “those who abandon their family” (chujiaren).99
Middle East and Africa

The main Sufi convent in the Middle East was that of ‘Abd al-Qādir al-Jilān ī (d. 1166),
eponym of the Qādiriyya order, whose grave, situated on the east side of the river Tigris at
Baghdad, has been one of the most venerated in the Muslim world up to our days. The shrine
includes a madrasa and a ribāṭ dedicated to his family and disciples.100
‘Abd al-Qādir’s descendants were the founders of prestigious convents in the Middle East,
among which was the “Bayt al-Jilān ī” at Hama, in Syria (set up in the beginning of the four-
teenth century and active until 1982 when it was destroyed by civil war); it was a very large
house with its waterwheel on the shore of the Orontes river.101
In Egypt under the Mamluks (1250–1517), the convents have constituted an “integrative
force of the society” in order to face political and economic crisis. There was however a
notable difference between the kh ānaqāh sponsored by the State and open to a spiritual elite
only (to foreign Persian Sufis in majority) and the zāwiya open to all and directed by a Sufi
shaykh usually attached to an order.102 Ribāṭ still existed but working in general as hospices
for pilgrims and visitors. These three types were interchangeable however by the end of
298
Figure 20.11 The convent of ‘Abd al-Qādir al-Jil ā n ī at Baghdad, postcard, end of nineteenth century
(archives Th. Zarcone)
the Mamluk period. The State-sponsored kh ānaqāh of Baybars al-Jā shank ī r (1306–1310) is
a clear example of the complex situation of the convents in this part of the Muslim world.
The ensemble had residences, shops, bazar, oil press, lands (endowment), with a kh ānaqāh
for the Sufis and a ribāṭ for the pilgrims. There were many appointed people with a salary:
shaykh, prayers readers, attendant, water attendant, lamp lighter, cook and 100 individuals
were residents in the kh ānaqāh (local Sufis could stay in the place for the rest of their lives
but without their wives or concubines).103 The main spiritual practices in the kh ānaqāh were
the ḥudur, the chanting of traditional Sufi poems (insh ād) and the dhikr; there was no mention
of music but of dance.104 In the early fifteenth century, according to Maqr īzī (d. 1442), there
were 59 Sufi convents at Cairo. After their conquest of Egypt in 1517, the Ottomans have
continued the policy of the Ayyubids and the Mamluks, though they prefer to sponsor the
zāwiya because of their popular basis.105 According to the Ottoman traveller Evliyā Çelebī,
in the middle of the seventeenth century, there were hundreds of convents in this country
and the most famous was that of A ḥ mad al-Badaw ī, at Tanta, in the delta of the Nile river.106
The pilgrimage of A ḥ mad al-Badawī (d. 1276), which emerged in the fourteenth century,
has become, in the beginning of the Ottoman period, the first pilgrimage place in Egypt and
probably in the Muslim world. It might have attracted more pilgrims than the hajj at Mecca.
The mausoleum of the saint was associated to a zāwiya that was probably a symbolic house
rather than a real edifice: it might have been a house, a hostellery or the house of a shaykh. At
this pilgrimage site, the convent life seemed to be reduced to its mere ritual dimension, that are
meetings with a shaykh, contrary to the rituals of pilgrimage (mawlid, processions, flags/‘alam
ceremonial) which has increased in importance.107 Similarly, in India and in Northern Africa,
the activities of several Sufi convents were also absorbed by the rituals of pilgrimage.
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In Northern Africa, the Sufi convents, under the name of zāwiya, were almost totally
integrated in the society in the fourteenth century; in addition to its mystical functions the
zāwiya worked also as a madrasa. The zāwiya of al-Jad īd ī (d. 1384) for example was special-
ised in the reading of the Qur’ān and taught 150 students.108 One of the leading figures of
Maghrebian Sufism was Abū Madyan (d. 1197), a Cantillana (near Seville) by birth who was
named the “Junayd of the West.” His grave at Ubbad near Tlemcen, in Algeria, was made a
mausoleum in the thirteenth century and then, in the fourteenth century, it was completed
with a zāwiya, a 32 cell madrasa, a mosque, a hammam and a residence for hosting the Merinid
sultan. The complex also received the name of ribāṭ al-‘Ubbād.
Tombs of many other Sufis and saints exist in great number in the region; many –
more than 200 only in the region of Oran, in Algeria – are attributed to the Baghdadi
‘Abd al-Q ā dir al-Ji lā n ī.109 Marabutism (from murabit), as Sufis and z ā wiyas are known in
this area, underwent a revival during the Marinid dynasty (twelfth-fourteenth century)
and especially by the beginning of the fifteenth century when several Moroccan cities in
the Mediterranean coast (Tetouan, Sebta/Ceuta) were conquered by Spain and Portugal.
At these times, the z ā wiyas were popular places and drew a great number of men, women
and children (in one case they were 300 persons gathering in the convent). In general,
the sultans have praised the stabilising role played by the convents and they supported
them financially, though they were suspicious of their power of social and political mo-
bilisation. The city of Fez which was the home of a great number of convents was de-
picted, for this reason, as a “city- z ā wiya.”110 Another notable z ā wiya of Morocco (Zawya
of Imi n’Tatelt), set up in the fifteenth century and situated in a desert area inhabited by
diverse tribes on the road to Africa, was qualified a “granary-sanctuary” due to the help
given to the poor and for securing the roads.111
Figure 20.12 The convent of Abū Madyan, Tlemcen, postcard, end of nineteenth century (archives
Th. Zarcone)
300
Anatolia
The Seljuq Empire (1077–1307) favoured the funding of many convents linked to several Sufi
movements from Central Asia and Iran (Mawlawiyya, Bekt ā shiyya, K āzar ū niyya), and from
the Arabic lands (Rifā’iyya, Qādiriyya), even those with an antinomian spirit (Qalandar),
the latter depicted by the judge Ibn al-Serraj (d. 1346) as “in love” or madly in love” (mu-
wallah).112 A large proportion of these convents were engaged in the colonisation and Isla-
misation of the neighbouring Christian lands in Anatolia and later, with the Ottomans,
in European Rumelia.113 These “dervishes-colonisers” (kolonizatör dervi şler), an expression
coined by the historian Ömer Lütfi Barkan, gave moral support to the Muslim army and
were also warriors participating in military operations: it is not accidental if their convents,
called tekke, were built at strategic or commercial significant cross-roads.114 In some ways
they resemble the ribāṭs of the early Islamic period. Ibn Baṭṭūta, who visited Anatolia in the
early fourteenth century, was welcomed in a great number of Akh ī (32) and Ahmed ī/Rifā‘ ī
convents. The Akh ī convents, of which the mother-house was at Kırsehir, cultivated the
spirit and mysticism of the futuwwa (ethic of generosity and of hospitality115) and were linked
to craftsmen guilds, especially that of the tanners (debbagh), a tradition probably inherited
from the Malā m ātiyya. Their rituals gave a prominent place to candles (surāj) ceremonial,
songs and dance.116 Although the Akh ī movement disappeared very quickly, this association
of the craft and Sufism has continued up to the twentieth century through some Qādiri and
Rifā‘ ī convents in Anatolia and in the Balkans (Albania and Bosnia).117
The Qalandar antinomian order was well represented in Anatolia under the Saljuks with
convents at Damietta/Dimyat (Egypt), Damascus and Konya, Istanbul and several other cit-
ies all linked to diverse branches of this order which advocated mendicancy and celibacy.118
Though they had places to stay, the Qalandar Sufis preferred travelling continuously and for
this reason their groups could be depicted, in our view, as “moving convents” with specific
rules concerning not only a static community (convent) but also a moving community (i.e. a
band of dervishes). Qalandars usually travelled from mausoleums to mausoleums, encamping
in tents (khayma) at convents or tombs, on occasion setting in Qalandar hostelleries (qalan-
darkh āna). The same practices were observed in Central Asia and in India. Though they
were opposed by the State due to the Qalandars non-respect of the law of Islam, they have
continued to develop at Ottoman times.119 The Qalandar convents avoided usually any po-
litical involvement, as well as the Chisht ī convents in India.120 The Ḥaydariyya branch of the
Qalandariyya left a strong imprint on the Bekt ā shiyya, one of the first Ottoman Sufi order.
The mother-convent of Hājji Bekt ā sh Vel ī (d. 1270–1271), also named pīrevi (House of the
Master) and built probably in the mid-fourteenth century by the Ottoman sultan Murad I,
got an atypical architectural structure with three symbolic gates (the Three/ṭar īqa, the Six/
ma‘rifa, the Forty/ḥaqīqa); the dervish must go across to reach the tomb of Hājji Bekt ā sh. In
addition they perform complex rituals of reception, dance and reading of poetry. Bekt ā sh īs
can be single or married but only the latter can direct the order. Bekt ā shiyya acquired over
time a centralised organisation and the shaykhs of the other tekke in the Empire (about 44
in the seventeenth century121), from Albania to Egypt and Irak were appointed by the great
master (dede) of the order.122 Another major Bekt ā sh ī tekke is the tekke of Sayyid Baṭṭ al Ghazī
(early sixteenth century) which housed about 200 dervishes.123
The second other centralised Sufi order among the Ottomans is the Mawlawiyya; its
mother-convent (named asit āne), situated at Konya near the tomb (türbe) of Mawlānā Jalā l al-
Dī n Rū m ī maintained a strong control over daughter-convents (mevlev īh āne) erected in sev-
eral cities of Anatolia, Egypt and in the Balkans, all built on the model of the Konya asit āne,
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Figure 20.13 Painting of the convent of Haji Bekt ā sh, Anatolia, nineteenth century (museum of
Hacıkekta ş)
that means with a splendid “dance hall” (sam ā‘kh āna) and cells for unmarried dervishes.124 It
is interesting to note also that the main expense in the Konya convent in 1600 was its kitchen
which supplied food (meat, bread, wheat, honey, rice, beans and chickpeas) for residents and
visitors. Another important expense was for candle and oil, both used for the lighting of the
mosque and the mausoleum.125
Another notable Sufi order, the Rifā’iyya was also a quite well represented in Anatolia
in early Ottoman period. Striking were the rituals performed in its convents, especially the
burh ān ritual (the proof ), intended to “demonstrate” that God protects the Sufis whatever
they do, as handling poisonous snakes or walking and dancing over fire; nowadays, the bur-
h ān ritual, executed in Iraq, in Syria and in the Balkans, involves perforation of parts of the
Sufi’s body with iron skewers or swords.126
The conquest of Syria, Iraq and Egypt by the Ottomans in 1515–1517 constituted a turn-
ing point in the history of Sufism, of its convents and of tomb veneration. Indeed, the victo-
rious Sultan Sel ī m I (r. 1512–1520) was a Sufi like his predecessor Bāyazīd I and his successor
Sulaym ān I.127 He fostered the development of the Sufi convents in the whole of the Empire
and restored for example the shrine of ‘Abd al-Qādir al-Jī lān ī at Baghdad, and especially the
tomb of Ibn ‘Arabī at Damascus, a saint that could be considered a “kind of official saint”
among the Ottomans.128 But, in the same time, Sel ī m I strengthened his control over these
institutions, especially through the waq f system, arbitrarily nominating and dismissing the
shaykhs. Moreover, he destroyed many convents when fighting the Kizilbash movement ally
of the Safavids.129
The sixteenth and seventeenth centuries were a difficult period for the Ottomans con-
vents since the incomes of the waq f were frequently embezzled, with many conflicts between
the shaykhs and a competition for power in the convents.130 Sufism was nevertheless more
attractive than ever, and the convents were booming everywhere, particularly in the grand
cities of Konya, Bursa, Edirne and Istanbul. There were 108 convents in this last city by the
302
Figure 20.14 The convent of Mawl ā nā Jal ā l al-D ī n Rū m ī at Konya, Turkey, postcard, end of nine-
teenth century (archives Th. Zarcone)
end of the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, 233 convents in 1784 and in 1805.131
In Bursa, the first capital of the Empire, there were more than 60 convents in the seventeenth
century.132 However, in Cairo, the number of convents was 60 in the fifteenth century, and
this jumped to 600 in the Ottoman period.133
In the sixteenth-seventeenth century, the Khalwatiyya order became the most powerful
in the Empire with a strong imperial patronage. Its oldest convent was named Sünbül Efendi
or Koca Mustafa Pa şa, founded in 1486–1490 in Istanbul, a place where there had originally
been a Byzantine monastery. It operated until the dissolution of the Sufi orders in Turkey in
1925. This convent was so famous that, according to the tradition, if Kh iḍ r came to Istanbul
he would necessarily stay at this convent, or at Saint Sophia Basilica.134 Over time, some
convents were more favoured by the sultans than others, according to their appreciation
of Sufism and of a particular Sufi path. In the eighteenth century, Selim III was passionate
about mystical poetry and an admirer of the poet and Mawlaw ī Sufi Galip Dede who was the
shaykh of the convent of Galata in the western district of Istanbul. In the nineteenth century,
‘Abd al-Ham īd II, who was a very traditionalist ruler and the propagator of Pan-Islamism,
supported two Arab orders, the Shādhiliyya and the Rifā‘iyya. He regularly attended the
dhikr meeting of the Shādhil ī Ertuğ rul convent, directed by his personal shaykh, that was
built in 1887 very near to the Sultan’s Palace at Yildiz.135
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Sufi convents and modernity – from the nineteenth

century to our days
The nineteenth century was a period of tension and unease in the Muslim world due to coloni-
sation in North Africa, Egypt, India and Central Asia, and to the discovery of Western moder-
nity that inspired intellectuals and the political systems in the Muslim East. Nevertheless, the
convents were still very attractive and existed almost everywhere in Muslim countries. More-
over, in the nineteenth century, convents were erected in new areas as the Northern Caucasus
and in some provinces of Africa. Above all, the Sufis fought against new invaders such as the
French in Algeria after 1830. Similarly, the mother-convent of the Sanūsiyya order situated at
Jaghbub, on the trans-Saharan caravan road, opposed the Italian invasion of Cyrenaica in the
early twentieth century; the Sanūsī convents were at this time centres of spirituality and also
barracks and armoury. In the Ottoman Empire, the Sufi convents were very active during the
First World War and during the Turkish Independence War (1919–1923).136
Moreover, the convents were pivotal elements in wide spiritual and educational networks
to which many Sufis belonged, who were travelling in search of knowledge and spiritual-
ity. Among these convents, mostly linked to the Naqshbandiyya order, which were usually
paired with a madrasa, was the convent directed by Khal ī fa Niyāzqul ī (d. 1820) at Bukhara,
famous in all Asia, visited by Tatars Sufis coming from the Volga. Its ceremonies were sober
with silent dhikr only, and no music, singing or poetry recitals.137 Another reputed convent
at this period was the convent of Mu ḥammad Ḥasan ‘Atā al-K ābū l ī (d. 1800) at Kabul which
draw Sufis and scholars from Bukhara and Siberia.138 In addition, another example is the
Ribāṭ Mazhariyya at Medina (from the mid-nineteenth century), directed by an Indian
Naqshband ī and visited by Sufis from Tatarstan, Central Asia, China and Indonesia. At
Mecca, a Naqshband ī convent situated on the Mount Abu Qubays (set up in 1860) was well
Figure 20.15 The mother-convent of the Sanū siyya order at Jaghbub, Libya (archives Th. Zarcone)
304
Figure 20.16 A symbolic composition representing the tomb of A ḥ mad al-Rif ā‘ ī, Ottoman Empire,
nineteenth century (private collection, Istanbul)
known for training Sufis from the Malay world.139 At Yarkand, in Xinjiang, a Naqshband ī
convent and especially its madrasa were frequented by Hui, Salar and Uyghur Sufis. There
was also a Naqshband ī network that linked two famous convents in the Ottoman Empire
and Tatarstan, namely the Tekke of Gümüshānev ī at Istanbul and the zāwiya of Zaynallāh at
Troisk, in the Volga-Ural area.140
The Sufi convents were involved not only in mystical devotions and Islamic sciences but
also in art, literature, poetry, music and calligraphy. The libraries of some of them were quite
rich. The Mawlaw ī convents of the Ottoman Empire from the thirteenth century up to 1925
were genuine conservatories of classical Ottoman and Sufi music and taught the art of the
flute (ney) and of the violin (reb āb), similar to the Qawwal ī recital in Indian Chisht ī con-
vents.141 Sufi calligraphic compositions, portraiture were cultivated in Persian and Ottoman
convents.142 Finally, in the course of time some convents became meeting-places for mystics
as for the ulama, and circles or clubs for intellectuals in more recent times. Some Bektaşi
convents in Istanbul were reputed for this.
Striking are the cases of some villages and cities which were founded around Sufi tombs
erected in remote places which were previously the retreats of the dead: the emblematic
example is that of the mausoleum of A ḥ mad Yasaw ī à Turkistan (formerly Yasi and Hazrat)
in the Kazak steppe. Two other examples show that a city can be superimposed on a con-
vent. This was the case of the Senegalese city of Touba (1887), the centre of the mouride
movement which was built on a sacred plan. Its origin was a remote place for meditation
and seclusion (khalwa), resembling a zāwiya, of Amadou Bamba (d. 1927), the founder of the
movement.143 Another example is the Naqshband ī village of Babussalam in Sumatra island,
set up by Syekh Abdul Wahab Rokan (d. 1926), and depicted as a “model community” with
its mosque, the mausoleum of the founder and a building named rumah suluk where the dis-
ciples performed the retreat, one for men the other for women.144
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Thierry Zarcone
Figure 20.17 Entrance of a marabout in North Africa with the walls decorated by religious and Sufi
symbols, postcard, end of nineteenth century (archives Th. Zarcone)
Ibn Taymiyya, though himself a Qādir ī Sufi and respectful of saints, rejected the interces-
sory role of the shaykhs and condemned the practice of music, dance and songs at convents
and elsewhere. He was not supported by the Mamluk State and died in prison but his ideas
were nevertheless influential centuries after his death in the rest of the Muslim world. In
the Ottoman Empire, in the seventeenth century, the K ād īz ādel ī movement indirectly in-
spired by Ibn Taymiyya through Meḥ met Birkaw ī (d. 1573) – the “Ottoman Taymiyya” –
and K ād īz āde Meḥ met (d. 1635) physically attacked the Sufis and destroyed some tombs of
saints; they particularly opposed the dance performed by the Mawlaw ī and the Khalwat ī
Sufis. Still under the influence of Ibn Taymiyya, the Wahhabī movement that emerged in
the eighteenth century under the guidance of ‘Abd al-Wahhab (d. 1791) was more aggressive
against Sufis, tombs and convents. Although resisted by the Ottomans, the Wahhabī doc-
trines have spread and it was adopted in the early twentieth century as the official ideology
of the Saudi Kingdom; it partly inspired the actions taken by modern contemporary radical
movements against tombs and convents. The most symbolic destruction was that of the tomb
of A ḥ mad al-Rifā‘ ī by the Islamic State in Iraq in 2014.
306
Islamic reformism was circumspect towards the Sufi brotherhoods and their convents and
criticised mainly the quietist and popular aspects of the Sufi practices. Rash īd Rida (d. 1935)
for instance denounced vehemently the dances performed by the Sufis in Egypt and all the
practices carried out near the mausoleums.145 In addition, the Turkish reformist Bed īüzzam ān
Sa‘ īd Nū rsī (d. 1960) rejected the role played by the shaykhs, depicted as inept and unqual-
ified, and considered the Sufi orders and their convents totally inappropriate for modern
times. The Ottoman modernist thinkers of the end of the nineteenth century, especially the
followers of Durkheim sociology (for example, ‘Abdullāh Cevdet), regarded the convents as
centres of laziness and idleness and Sufism as an archaic philosophy, though other intellec-
tuals (Ziyā Gökalp) suggested their reform. The Sufi orders were outlawed and the convents
closed in Turkey by the Kemalists in 1925. There were 260 convents in Istanbul in 1885
and 258 in 1922, three years before they were banned.146 Likewise, the Marxist regimes in
USSR, in China and in Albania dismantled the Sufi orders, and closed or destroyed many
convents, although China was more flexible and authorized some convents to work. In the
early twentieth-century Iran, A ḥ mad Kasrav ī (d. 1946) too complained of the kh ānaqāh,
labelling them houses of idleness, where the inhabitants exploited mendicancy, which he
termed a “great evil.” He also criticised the Sufis’ celibacy.147 After 1979 the Islamic Republic
of Iran closed many convents because it considered Sufism contrary to its ideology, although
it permitted some to continue their activities, also in Sunni areas of the country.148
The projects of convent reform that were or were supposed to be implemented in sev-
eral countries in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries are quite interesting. In Egypt, in
1812, the Sufi orders and convents were put under the authority of a Sufi family, the Bakr ī,
replaced in 1895 by a non-hereditary institution (shaykh mashay īkh al-turuq al- ṣūfiyya),
and nowadays by a High Council of the Sufi Orders: this has meant that the convents
have been placed volens nolens under the strict surveillance of the State; several regula-
tions have been published to enforce morality to Sufi life, to correctly administrate the
convents and to forbid several rituals regarded as superstitious and pagan.149 In Turkey,
the State attempted to control the convents in 1812 since the sultanate of Mahmud II
(r. 1808–1839) and later through the Council of the shaykhs (Meclis-i Me şay īkh) founded
in 1866. In 1825, 150 Bektash ī convents were closed.150 The aim of the Council was
virtually the same as that of the Egyptian High Council of the Sufi Orders. One of the
main criticisms aimed at the convents was hereditary succession (evl ādiyet), usually the rule
within the Sufi orders, implying that a son succeeded his father.151 This rule, which is the
origin of Shaykhs’ dynasties and of the families’ control over the convents’ income and
even of alliance/marriage between convents in order to strengthen the families’ power,
was considered one of the reasons for the decline of the convents in all countries. There
was an unsuccessful attempt in Turkey, in the early twentieth century, to set up a “school
of shaykhs” (Medresetü’l-Me şay īkh) to train the sons of the convent chiefs, in order to have
qualified people to run these institutions.152 In 1903, in Kabylia, Algeria, the theologian
Ibn Zakr ī (d. 1914) elaborated a reformist program for the z āwiya that was accused to be-
ing infected with deviant Sufism and ecstatic practices.153 In 1957, fascinated by Atatürk,
Habib Bourguiba, the first president of modern Tunisia, failed to ban the convents and the
Sufi orders though he forbade the existence of some and reformed others.154
Nowadays, Sufi convents exist almost everywhere in the Muslim world and many, espe-
cially in the most advanced countries, have their own website and Facebook page. Before
the first Gulf War in 1988 the Qādir i ̄ zāwiyya in Iraq numbered 51, but we do not know
exactly how many have survived the attacks of the Islamic State at the time of writing.155 In
Morocco, the registered convents (zāwiya) numbered 1,496, and the mausoleums 5,038, all
307
Thierry Zarcone
financially dependent on the Ministry of Awqā f.156 In Algeria, the governmental “National
Union of the Zāwiyya” has 8,900 convents.157 One big difference with the past is that the
Sufis living in Arab, Indian or Turkish diasporas established in Europe, in the United States
and even in Australia have founded convents, and that some of them are paired with a saint
tomb.158
Notes

308
309
Thierry Zarcone
310
311
Thierry Zarcone
312
and ṣūfī monasteries in the Ottoman policy of colonization: Sulṭān Selīm I’s waqf of 1516 in favour of
Dayr al-Asad,” The Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies (1987), pp. 74–78 (61–89).
115 The practice of hospitality is clearly manifested in a treatise on futuwwa by Abū Ḥaf ṣ ‘Umar al-
Suhraward ī, see Ridgeon, Jawanmardi, pp. 45–46.
116 Ibn Battuta, Voyages. II. De La Mecque aux steppes russes, trans. C. defremery [1858] (reed. Paris:
La Découverte, 1990), pp. 1439–1142, 1172.
117 Ines Aščer ić -Todd, Dervishes and Islam in Bosnia. Sufi Dimensions to the Formation of Bosnian Muslim
Society (Leiden: Brill, 2015), Part 2.
118 Ahmet Ocak, Kalenderîler (XIV–XVII. Yuzyıllar) (Ankara: TTK, 1992), pp. 27–35; Ahmet T.
Karamustafa, God’s Unruly Friends. Dervish Groups in the Islamic Middle Period 1200–1550 (Oxford:
Oneworld, 1994).
119 Simon Digby, Sufis and Soldiers in Awrangzeb’s Deccan (London: Oxford University Press, 2001),
pp. 19, 23; Dhal ī l ī, “Sapärnamä [Safarnā ma],” pp. 593–652.
120 Nizami, “Some aspects of khā nqah life in medieval India,” p. 60.
121 According to the Ottoman traveller Evliyā Çelebi, in Suraiya Faroqhi, Der Bektaschi-Orden in
Anatolien (Vom späten fünfzehnten Jahrhundert bis 1826) (Wien: Verlag des Institutes für Orientalis-
tik der Universität Vien, 1981), pp. 132–133.
122 Zarcone, “Bektashiyye,” E. Isl 3 (2014), pp. 21–30; Zeynep Yürekli, Architecture and Hagiography in
the Ottoman Empire. The Politics of Bektashi Shrines in the Classical Age (Farnham: Ashgate, 2012), pp.
79–133.
123 Filiz Yenişehiroğ lu, “The Tekke of Seyyid Battal Gazi,” in Mine Kadiroğ lu, ed., Anadolu ve
Çevresinde Ortaçağ (Ankara: AKVAD, 2008), vol. 2, pp. 129–130 (121–164).
124 Thierry Zarcone, “Mevleviyye” E. Isl 3 (forthcoming).
125 Suraiya Faroqhi, “Agricultural crisis and the art of flute-playing: the worldly affairs of the Mev-
levî dervishes (1595–1652)” Turcica 20 (1988), pp. 43–70.
126 Öztük, Velilik ile Delilik Arasında, pp. 97–107; Feyzul Sabah (Rufai Erkanı ve Evradı Şerif’i)
(Istanbul: Özdemir Yay., 1985), pp. 98–100; Jean-Claude Chabrier, “Une séance de dhikr de la
Qâdiriyya-Qaznâniyya à Bagdad en 1997,” Journal of the History of Sufism 1–2 (2000), pp. 457–482;
Paulo G. Pinto, “The Sufi ritual of the darb al-shish and the ethnography of religious experi-
ence,” in Baudouin Dupret et al., eds, Ethnographies of Islam. Ritual Performances (Edinburgh:
Edinburgh University Press and Aga Khan University, 2012), pp. 62–70.
127 Reşat Öngören, Osmanlılar’da Tasavvuf. Andolu’da Sûfîler, Devlet ve Ulemâ (XVI. Yüzyıl) (Istanbul:
İ z Yay; 2000), pp. 40, 245–252.
128 Layish, “Waqf and ṣū f ī monasteries in the Ottoman policy of colonization…,” p. 66.
129 Ocak, “Zâviyeler,” p. 258.
130 Ocak, “Zâviyeler,” p. 258.
131 Günay Kut and Turgut Kut, “İstanbul tekkelerine ait bir kaynak: Dergeh-nâme,” in Jean-Louis
Bacqué-Grammont, Barbara Flemming, Macit Gökberk and Ilbert Ortayli, eds., Türkische Misze-
llen. Robert Anhegger Festschrift (Istanbul: Isis, 1985), pp. 213–236; Attilâ Çetin, “İstanbul’daki,
tekke, zâviye ve hakkında 1199 (1784) tarihli önemli bir vesika,” Vakıflar Dergisi 13 (1981),
pp. 583–590; Ms Osman Ergin n.1825, Atatürk Kitaplığ ı, Istanbul.
132 Mustafa Kara, Bursa’da Tasavvuf Kültürü (Bursa: Gaye Kitabevi, 2000), p. 184.
133 Rachida Chih and Mayeur-Jaouen, “Le soufisme ottoman vu d’Egypte (XVIe –XVIIIe siècle),”
in Rachida Chih and Mayeur-Jaouen, eds, Sufism in the Ottoman Era (Cairo: Institut français
d’archéologie orientale, 2010), p. 32 (1–55).
134 Fatih Köse, İstanbul Halvetî Tekkeleri (Istanbul: IFAV, 2012), pp. 69–80.
135 Thierry Zarcone, “La Şazeliye dans l’Empire ottoman et en Turquie du XVIe siècle à nos jours.
Quelques pistes de recherches,” in Eric Geoffroy, ed., Une Vois soufie dans le monde, la Shâdhiliyya
(Paris: Maisonneuve et Larose, 2005), pp. 418–421 (415–429).
136 Mustafa Kara, Tekkeler ve Zaviyeler (Istanbul: Dergah Yay., 1977), pp. 191–226; İ rfan Gündüz,
Osmanlılarda Devlet-Tekke Münasebetleri (Istanbul: Seha Neşriyatı, n.d.), pp. 86–95.
137 Baxtiyor Babajanov, “On the history of the Naqšbandiya-Muǧaddidiya in central M āwar ā’annahr
in the late 18th and early 19th centuries,” in M. Kemper, A. von Kükelgen, and D. Yermakov,
eds, Muslim Culture in Russia and Central Asia from the 18th to the Early 20th Centuries (Berlin: K.
Schwarz Verl.,1996), pp. 398–399 (385–413).
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314
315
21
CLOTHING AND INVESTITURE
IN MEDIEVAL SUFISM
Eyad Abuali
Introduction
Clothing has been a significant feature of Sufi thought and practice throughout history.
Through clothing, seemingly disparate aspects of the tradition are brought together. Sufi
garments have been the subject of theoretical treatises as well as practical Sufi manuals. For
medieval Sufis, clothing acted as an important indicator of belonging, a visible marker of
one’s inner spiritual state, and a symbol of the Sufi’s qualification to teach and transmit the
tradition. In addition, clothing proved a useful metaphor for Sufi theory. For the attributes
of God to become clothed came to be understood as the expression of His abstract attributes
in bodily or sensible forms.
Clothing is a useful starting point for understanding changes in Sufi theory, institutional
systems, and material culture, in light of socio-political developments. Sufis utilised robes
and garments throughout history, as symbols and markers that signified a changing reper-
toire of rituals, theories, and texts. This allowed Sufi communities to navigate and survive
some of the most dramatic socio-political changes of the medieval period.1 Crucially, here
I intend to show a shift in the association of Sufi clothing with asceticism, to musical audi-
tion, and to the Sufi meditative practice termed recollection. These shifts in association are
important markers of periods of transition in Sufi history.
For the purposes of this chapter I will restrict myself to discussing sources from the elev-
enth to fifteenth centuries focusing on Iran and Central Asia. The specified scope will help
focus this study on the classical to the post-classical period of Sufism, tracing a trajectory
from some of the earliest Sufi training manuals, through its transition into orders (ṭar īqa Su-
fism), as well as its adaptation to the socio-political changes that take place after the Mongol
invasions.2 This survey will therefore attempt to account for the changing praxis regarding
Sufi clothing up to the Timurid era.
By the eleventh century, Islamic society had developed an increasingly sophisticated cul-
ture of clothing and investiture. By this time, garments had come to be markers of distinct
classes, professions, and religious communities.3 In addition, a courtly culture of investiture
was established by the early Abbasid era, as notable figures were honoured with robes and
jewellery from the eighth century onwards.4 The custom also came to mark the formal ac-
knowledgement of the caliphal heir, becoming an integral part of the ceremonial transferal
316
Clothing in medieval Sufism
of authority within the royal house.5 This practice of investiture continued throughout the
Abbasid period and persisted up to the Mongol sacking of Baghdad in 1258.6 The principle
of investiture however survived throughout the medieval period.
The increasing focus on investiture in religious communities coincided with the receding
power of the Abbasid caliphate and the dependence of subsequent rulers upon patronage of
the religious institutions which came to take over some of the functions of government.7
This contributed to the institutionalisation of the Sufi community which required centrali-
sation and the regulation of spiritual authority. Ceremonies of initiation and investiture then
paralleled developments in the organisational realities of Sufism, becoming more ritualised
and elaborate over time. This coincided with the development of more sophisticated theo-
retical Sufi frameworks, and hence clothing came to signify complex networks of practices
and theories.
As Knysh has argued, Sufism belongs to a process of “creative adaptations to a wide vari-
ety of concrete social and geopolitical factors.”8 These transformations which are articulated
in changing theoretical frameworks and systems of practice are traceable through discussions
of clothing in the Sufi tradition. In his analysis of Safavid clothing praxis, Bashir suggests
that “the production and elaboration of new symbols or thorough reimaginings of old ones”
correspond with the emergence of new religious systems.9 Changes in Sufi clothing certainly
conform to this conception of symbols. We may add to this however that Sufi clothing must
also be understood both as a symbol of a complex religious system and an economic asset.
Investiture can be understood as a management of shared economic assets which strengthen
bonds within the Sufi community. With this in mind, this chapter will shed new light on
these interconnections and how they are developed and employed throughout Sufi history,
both conceptually and practically.
The Sufi robe and ascetic identities

That clothing was important to Sufi identity is evident by the very term “ṣūf ī,” which was
understood by some Sufis to have taken its name from the woollen cloak for which they
came to be known for wearing.10 Prior to the establishment of a community around Junayd
of Baghd ād (d. 911), it is difficult to speak of a self-identifying Sufi community. Aspects of
mystical movements that existed before this time and harboured characteristics of what came
to be known as Sufism, such as the Malā matiyya, were absorbed into Sufism.11 In these ear-
lier mystical movements clothing played an important role.
For the early Malā matiyya, where concealing outward expressions of piety formed a
cornerstone of the movement, clothing is of course of great importance. The goal for the
Malā matiyya was to remain inconspicuous and indistinct from wider society, thus avoiding
praise for one’s pious deeds.12 The advent of Sufism as a distinct group in the ninth and tenth
centuries however represents an alternative form of renunciation whereby to mark oneself
out from the rest of society was an important practice. Qushayr ī’s (d. 1072–1073) Risāla is
replete with sayings that indicate that Sufis had adopted garments that functioned as visible
markers of asceticism and renunciation.13
The Risāla however presents positions with regard to the subject of Sufi dress which
seem to conflict. In one passage Qushayr ī identifies the woollen Sufi garment as a marker
of asceticism at one point, but goes on to highlight a saying by Ya ḥya b. Mu‘ādh stating that
wearing woollen garments is representative of worldly attachments and an ostentation.14 He
then moves on to distinguish genuine ascetics from charlatans, stating that those who have
trust in God own only one garment which they patch together when torn, and are never
317
Eyad Abuali
found without a needle, thread, scissors and a begging bowl. Finally, he explains that a Sufi
should only have one patched robe, and if one sees a poor man without these items, his
prayers should not be trusted.15
Clearly, Qushayr ī ’s inclusion of such conflicting sayings does not intend to curtail
the use of clothing which marks Sufis out from wider society. Rather, by pointing to
the prevalence of such practices during his time, the text betrays an anxiety regarding the
sincerity of those adopting ascetic dress. Highlighting the phenomenon of those who
adopt the markers of asceticism in imitation of Sufi practice points to an emerging Sufi
public by at least the eleventh century. In response to this, Qushayr ī attempts to regulate
the outward markers of Sufi dress. Hence, the woollen garment on its own cannot ensure
a genuine attachment to Sufism and must be corroborated by other markers of genuine
devotion to the Sufi path.
Unlike Qushayr ī’s Risāla where references to clothing are scattered throughout the text,
Hujw ī r ī’s (d. 1077) Kashf al-ma ḥjūb dedicates a full chapter to the subject of the Sufi robe,
or khirqa. It offers a far more theoretical discussion of the subject than what can be gleaned
from Qushayr ī’s work. In it Hujw ī r ī makes clear the importance of clothing as a marker of
identification for Sufis, stating that “the Sufi masters instruct their disciples to wear the Sufi
robe so that they may be marked men, and that all the people might keep watch over them.
Thus, if they commit transgression, every tongue would rebuke them.”16
Like Qushayr ī, Hujw ī r ī identifies the Sufi robe as a marker of asceticism while dimin-
ishing its significance when unaccompanied by a sincere commitment to the Sufi path, and
pointing to the potential worldly gain to be had from imitating the Sufi style of dress. In a
more systematic manner however, Hujw ī r ī distinguishes between the various types of people
who adopt ascetic dress. In the Kashf, Hujw ī r ī divides these people into four categories. The
first are those who dress like Sufis in order to be near to them, due to their proximity to God.
The second are those who are drawn to associate with Sufis due to their outward piety. The
third group enjoys the company of Sufis due to their praiseworthy habits, ethical conduct,
and generosity. Finally, the fourth group adopts Sufi dress insincerely, only seeking power
and praise. By crafting this hierarchy from those who are drawn to wearing Sufi robes in
pursuit of spiritual benefits, to those who wear it for worldly gain, Hujw ī r ī’s thought prefig-
ures the more stratified system of investiture that emerges in later Sufism.17 The significance
of Hujw ī r ī’s discussions of clothing in the Kashf however is not fully felt unless we turn to
his discussion of musical audition in Sufism.
Clothing and musical audition

The Sufi robe is referred to as a khirqa or muraqqa‘a, and the two terms can be used somewhat
interchangeably in the early period of Sufism. Hujw ī r ī’s seems to mainly employ the term
muraqqa‘a for a robe that is granted to the disciple after three years of service, while using the
term khirqa only on a few occasions to refer to Sufi appearance more generally.18
In these early Sufi manuals, the practices which the Sufi robe is associated with give us
an insight into its significance. The robe’s association with Sufi values and practices is not
static and changes over time. At first the robe’s most salient function was as a visible marker
of asceticism. The usage of the term khirqa, a torn cloth, and muraqqa‘a meaning a patched
robe to refer to the Sufi robe attests to this, as both terms reference the tattered nature of
the garment. The association of wool with the Sufi robe accentuated this. Being coarse
and scratchy, it betrayed a visual and haptic unpleasantness that acted as a marker of asceti-
cism. Moreover, wool was associated with poverty and wearing a woollen garment without
318
additional clothing beneath was seen as uncouth.19 Hence, the Sufi practice emphasises a
visual distinction from the social norms of the day.
Hujw ī r ī represents a shift in Sufi thought however. For him, the robe is associated with a
different set of theories and practices and its relation to asceticism is diminished. By Hujw ī r ī’s
time, the patched Sufi robe was closely linked with experiences of spiritual ecstasy (wajd)
and the practice of musical audition (sam ā‘). This is evidenced by the numerous discussions
regarding the tearing of one’s clothes during moments of ecstasy which are induced during
audition. In the works of Hujw ī r ī and Qushayr ī, discussions of audition and the rules and
etiquettes governing the practice include discussions regarding the appropriateness of tearing
one’s clothes. Here is the tattered nature of the garment is not due to asceticism but to the
spiritual experience of ecstasy.20
Furthermore, Hujw ī r ī’s section on the Sufi robe in the Kashf suggests that by this time
the material from which the robe was derived had become far less important. Hence, he
explains that some Sufis have abandoned wearing wool due to the scarcity and poor quality
of wool available during his time, and because a “heretical” group had adopted the practice
of wearing woollen garments.21 Instead what emerges as the most salient feature of the Sufi
robe in Hujw ī r ī’s text is its patched nature, being a cloth stitched together with multiple
patches. Hence, like Qushayr ī, Hujw ī r ī prescribes that Sufis be able to stitch patches onto
their robes. He adds that Sufis should take great care in doing so and to conform to certain
standards so that true Sufis can be marked out from charlatans through a “a garb which none
but themselves can sew.”22
Moreover, Hujw ī r ī’s writings show that he considered the robe’s patched style as being
due to tearing one’s robe during musical audition rather than due to being worn out by ad-
herence to ascetic practice. This is seen in his chapter on musical audition where he mounts a
defence of the practice of tearing garments in moments of ecstasy.23 Hujw ī r ī not only extols
the practice as praiseworthy despite acknowledging that it had no basis in Sufi tradition, but
also goes on to suggest that if one member of the audience begins to throw off or tear his
garments, his fellow listeners should do the same in sympathy.24
He states that the torn or discarded garment can either be repaired and returned to its
owner, given to another Sufi, or the singer, or torn to many pieces and divided between the
members in attendance.25 Hujw ī r ī ultimately decides that the robes should be given accord-
ing to the intention of the Sufi who has cast-off his garment, unless the Sufi master in atten-
dance stipulates otherwise. However, if the garment is thrown off without an intention as
to who should take possession of it, Hujw ī r ī recommends that the master should not bestow
it upon the singer, but that every attendee should contribute a garment so that they may be
torn to pieces, collected, and distributed among the Sufi members in attendance.26
Such a practice requires some context in order to be appreciated in full. In the medieval
period, clothing had an extremely important economic value. It is suggested that the produc-
tion of textiles was the most important industry of the Muslim world.27 Moreover, textiles
were one of the most valuable items a household could own and invest in. They were inher-
ited, passed down through generations, and were valued as easily liquefiable assets.28 At cer-
tain points in medieval Islamic history clothing was used as currency, being used as payment
for soldiers and hoarded by rulers. Moreover, it was easily transported, imperishable, and
renewable unlike gold.29 Through the practice of musical audition, the visual and material
culture of the Sufi community is constituted, as the patched Sufi robes come to symbolise a
sharing of spiritual experiences and economic assets in the form of textiles. The economic
implication of this is the collectivisation of the manufacture and repair process, providing
the Sufi community with an asset pool that absorbs potential financial losses and damages.
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In light of the economic significance of clothing, as well as the medieval culture of inves-
titure, it is reasonable to conclude that the ritualised communal tearing and redistribution
of clothing which took place in Sufi audition functioned as a way to tangibly strengthen
communal identity and belonging. Hujw ī r ī promotes this strengthening of communal ties
by prioritising the communal distribution of garments over gifts to individual Sufi members
or performers.
This redistribution of assets however was understood primarily with regard to its spiritual
significance. The torn clothing was thought to be invested with the power to bless those who
had access to it as it had been cast off and torn in moments of heightened spiritual stations
when the Sufi would experience an ecstatic state.30 The torn pieces of clothing provided the
material to patch together damaged garments, or constituted new garments altogether which
were imbued with this spiritual significance. This seems to collectivise the spiritual power
of the garments which come to represent the ecstatic states experienced by the entire Sufi
community.
Acknowledging that the practice of audition came to be a site for strengthening the bond
between members of the Sufi community through clothing allows us to understand better
why it came to require such a robust defence in the face of critics who denounced it as illicit
or reprehensible. Hujw ī r ī at the beginning of his chapter on audition goes as far as suggesting
that those who “deny audition, deny the entire religious law.”31 Given the public nature of
audition which could at times be attended by lay worshippers whose commitment to Sufism
was seen as questionable, it is understandable that Hujw ī r ī attempted to restrict access to mu-
sical audition and prohibit certain activities such as dancing and gazing at beautiful youths,
contending that those engaging in such practices are not true Sufis.32 Regulating musical
audition by denouncing those who practice it improperly distinguishes Sufi communities
from one another and regulates access to the sharing of assets in the form of clothing.
Robes of initiation and blessing

By the twelfth and thirteenth century, as the institutionalisation of Sufism gathers pace,
discussions of the Sufi robe again take on a new significance. With regard to the redistribu-
tion of torn clothing, the emphasis had clearly shifted. ‘Umar Suhraward ī (d. 1234) in his
‘Aw ārif al-ma‘ārif discusses the topic at some length. However, in his discussion, the role of
the shaykh in determining the fate of a torn garment is far more pronounced. Moreover,
the emphasis upon utilising the garments in order to patch, repair, or create new garments is
largely absent from his discussion, therefore not stressing the collective repair of garments.33
Moreover, Suhraward ī has a far more inclusive approach, stating that everyone who attends
the ceremony should receive a piece of clothing, whether they be part of the Sufi community
or not, and whether they participated in the entire ceremony or simply happened to enter
upon it as the division of garments was taking place.34
This is not to suggest that the practice had lost its significant role in strengthening ties of
belonging and economic assistance within the community. In fact, Suhraward ī’s discussion
of tearing garments emphasises the monetary and economic value of clothing in a number of
places. It emerges as one of the primary concerns of those who object to the practice in the
‘Aw ārif. For example, Suhraward ī cites an anecdote where Qushayr ī objects to the claim that
tearing garments is the equivalent to a waste of money (i ḍā‘a li-al-m āl) by demonstrating that
if a garment were torn in half, each piece would be equivalent to half the monetary value of
the original.35 In this way the economic value of the practice of khirqa distribution is arguably
more explicit in the ‘Aw ārif than in Hujw ī r ī’s Kashf.
320
By loosening the restrictions surrounding access to garments, as well as granting a greater

role for the shaykh in determining whether the robes are returned to their owners or di-
vided, Suhraward ī’s text points to important socio-political developments, and the insti-
tutional and public significance that Sufism came to acquire.36 Suhraward ī and the then
Abbasid Caliph al-Nāṣir cultivated an ever closer relationship between the institutions of
the caliphate, Sufism, and chivalrous brotherhoods ( futuwwa).37 This was part of the caliph
al-Nāṣir’s efforts in strengthening his rule by cultivating networks of loyalty and obligations
that came to govern society.38
Under Suhraward ī, affiliation to the Sufi community was made easier. For example, he
takes a more positive view of those who imitate Sufi practice (tashabbuh) than Hujw ī r ī, en-
couraging them to adopt a type of lay affiliation while not becoming fully committed Sufi
disciples.39 In doing so, Suhraward ī was both cultivating a wide-reaching loyalty to his Sufi
community and to the caliphate. His more liberal position with regard to the distribution of
torn garments provides an economic incentive for people to adopt affiliation, both in taking
part in the collective exchange of textiles and opportunities for social mobility by joining
networks of loyalty between Sufis, chivalrous groups, and the caliphate.40
However, this required distinction from other forms of investiture and affiliation as the
institution could not survive and reproduce itself without accruing more seriously devoted
disciples to the Sufi master. Hence, during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries Sufis began
to distinguish between Sufi robes of blessing (khirqat al-tabarruk) and robes of initiation, or of
desiring God (khirqat al-irāda).41 The liberalisation of Sufi membership in Suhraward ī’s case
then is indicative of the emergence of a more theoretically and ritually formalised investiture
in this period.
As the rules governing lay affiliation became more relaxed within some Sufi communi-
ties, increasingly stringent requirements came to be placed upon accepting disciples who
wished to become certified as masters and teachers. This required a more rigorous examina-
tion of the individual’s character. The twelfth and thirteenth centuries saw a proliferation of
Sufi texts that attempted to formalise the relationships between masters and disciples. This
came to be the heart of the Sufi institution, attaching disciples to a chain of spiritual learning
stretching back to the prophet while ensuring the survival of the institution.42
Sufi treatises in this period commonly place requirements on masters as well as disci-
ples. For example, Suhraward ī’s ‘Aw ārif stipulates ten rules and obligations that masters and
disciples should adhere to. For the master this includes treating the disciples with kindness,
avoiding fraternising with them, not accepting any gifts or charity from disciples, and shun-
ning those who are insincere. Ten rules also govern the behaviour of the disciple in return.
The disciple is obliged to attach himself only to one master at a time, he is commanded to
speak only when spoken to, he should not conceal his inner thoughts and experiences from
the master, and he should defer all matters to him.43 Clearly, entering into such a demanding
commitment required distinction from lay affiliation.
Deciding on the appropriate time of bestowing a robe of initiation upon a disciple seems to
have become a point of controversy in this period. Suhrawardī’s method bestows the robe upon
the disciple at the beginning of his career.44 On the other hand, twelfth- and thirteenth-century
Kubrawī Sufi texts prefer to bestow this robe upon the disciple’s successful graduation from
Sufi training. This is the case for Majd al-Dīn Baghdādī (d. 1219), one of the most prominent
disciples of Najm al-Dīn Kubrā (d. 1220) and a respected Sufi shaykh in his own right, who
lived in Khwarazm and Nishapur and was a contemporary of Suhrawardī.
Baghd ād ī takes issue with what he perceives as Suhraward ī’s attempt at gaining adher-
ents who are not fully committed to the Sufi way of life. He frames this as a disagreement
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regarding the appropriate time at which to bestow a robe upon a disciple, arguing that it is
more fitting to do so upon the completion of the Sufi path rather than at the beginning. He
states in his Tuḥfat al-barara that although he has seen the arguments for such a practice “in
the handwriting of the im ām Shihāb al-Dī n Suhraward ī,” the Kubraw ī Sufi shaykhs prefer
to bestow the robe upon their disciples when they have completed their training because
“it is the custom (sunna) of God never to extract something from the hidden things without
the intermediary of a [perceptible] image.” By this, Baghd ād ī means to say that since the
spiritual reality must be present prior to the perceptible form and one must attain spiritual
completion before being invested with a robe. He argues this point by highlighting that the
prophet only “completed” the outward form of the religion at the end of his career, after
perfecting its hidden reality.45
Baghd ād ī’s intervention relies on a more systematically theorised notion of one’s inward
psycho-spiritual state mirroring their physical appearance. His theory of correspondence be-
tween the spiritual and material necessitates that the Sufi robe cannot be granted to a disciple
whose spiritual state does not merit the visible appearance of a “completed” Sufi. The inner
state must be perfected prior to its bodily, perceptible exteriorisation. With Baghd ād ī then,
the theoretical relationship between the manifest (shahada) and hidden (ghayb) is mobilised
to restrict Sufi affiliation to a more select group.
It is no coincidence that the disagreement surrounding the place of lay affiliates coincides
with the emergence of the robe of blessing and robe of initiation as two distinct concepts.
The former is afforded to affiliates who do not necessarily commit themselves to the Sufi way
of life, maintaining their social connections and vocations while partaking in Sufi public rit-
uals and culture. The latter comes to indicate one’s “conversion” to the Sufi path, adhering to
all its strictures under the guidance of a Sufi master and ties the individual to a spiritual chain
of masters stretching back to the prophet himself. This seems to mark the point at which the
term khirqa comes to refer to a more abstract concept, beyond the physical robe itself, but as
a form of spiritual investiture.46 It seems that over time, the robes acquired through musical
audition came to be associated with robes of blessing. These could not grant the individual
a formal affiliation to the Sufi community, granting the right to spiritual investiture to the
Sufi master rather than the community.
The khirqa as exteriorisation of spiritual states

By the thirteenth century, the khirqa need not be a physical object in order to confer spiritual
blessings or authority upon the Sufi. A Sufi may be invested with a robe by an authoritative
figure in a dream for example, and the transformative power of the vision-robe was still
thought to have spiritual significance.47 This understanding of khirqa as a concept of inves-
titure was made possible by the increasingly systematic theorisation of Sufi thought which
occurred alongside the institutionalisation of the Sufi community.
As discussed, Hujw ī r ī and Qushayr ī identify tensions between the ascetic and spiritual
aspects of Sufism and the increasing societal importance of Sufi material culture by pointing
to the potential exploitation of the Sufi robe for worldly gain. In doing so Hujw ī r ī dimin-
ishes the significance of the robe’s particular physical characteristics, stating that it need not
be made from wool for example. He also attempts to detract from its physical importance
more generally by stressing that it should be a physical match for an inner shroud of good
character. Moreover, he mentions that the outward garb of the Sufis should be in harmony
with their inward dispositions.48
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This concept of clothing as a physical expression of one’s inner spiritual state is developed
in twelfth- and thirteenth-century Sufism into a systematic understanding of the concept
of “clothing” or “becoming clothed,” libās or iltibās, respectively. The term literally means
clothing; however, its more technical use in Sufism is as a physical or bodily expression of an
abstract spiritual attribute. This is evident in the works of Sufis such as Rū zbihān Baql ī where
the term iltibās is used to refer to man manifesting the attributes of God, or the attributes of
God becoming manifest and perceptible in a physical form.49 Although the term need not
necessarily refer to items of clothing, in early Kubraw ī sources, the concept of the manifest
(shahada) mirroring the hidden (ghayb) is understood to extend to clothing. For example,
Majd al-Dī n Baghd ād ī states:
[God] invested (khalaca) [the prophet Mu ḥammad], upon his [spiritual] perfection with
a clothing (libās) specific to his physical frame, and a clothing specific to his reality
(ḥaqīqa). And for that reason, He has invested each of his parts with a clothing. For the
clothing of his humanity is the religious law (shar ī‘a), and the clothing of his heart is
the Sufi path (ṭar īqa), and the clothing of his innermost heart is reality (ḥaqīqa), and the
clothing of his spirit is worship (‘ub ūdiyya), and the clothing of his reality is beloved-ness
(ma ḥb ūbiyya), and the clothing of his form is the Sufi cloak. And just as the reality of the
law is [composed of ] the permissible and forbidden, which originate from [the prophet’s]
lofty state, likewise [there is] for human behaviours and etiquette, a reality that is the
Sufi cloak, which has been chosen by God.50
Here Baghd ād ī employs the term clothing with respect to both the physical textile which
one drapes around their body and the bodily expression of man’s psycho-spiritual faculties.
Hence, in emulation of the prophet, the Sufis must perfect both their inner attributes and
their outward appearance. For these proto-Kubraw ī Sufis, this also required a shift in the
practices associated with the khirqa. Instead of musical audition, the robe of initiation comes
to be associated with Sufi recollection (dhikr). In Kubraw ī Sufism, recollection was under-
stood to be a synaesthetic experience whereby the sensation of visible coloured lights would
be triggered by the auditory repetition of phrases in praise of God. These lights correspond
to the psycho-spiritual state of the Sufi practitioner’s soul, such that each stage along the path
was characterised by a specific colour.51 Baghd ād ī describes such visions as the “clothing”
which renders God perceptible in a suitable corresponding image.52 He also applies these
notions to the subject of physical clothing, stating:
It has been the custom of the seekers to wear clothes [coloured] with the colours of the
lights of the visions which they see. For each faculty of the faculties of the human being,
if it has been sweetened with the sweetness of worship, has a light specific to it.53
He then goes on to explain that the disciples wear dark blue due to the opaqueness of their
visions which correspond to the impurity of their souls, whereas the Sufi masters who have
purified their souls completely wear white, which signifies the manifestation of God who
cannot be represented in a colour.54 Here, clothing acts as a literal exteriorisation of the Sufi’s
private ocular experiences which correspond to the condition of the soul. This shifts the
association of Sufi clothing from the practice of musical audition to the practice of recollec-
tion. This shift represents further centralisation of the Sufi master’s authority as it stratifies
Sufi clothing according to spiritual progression and one’s position within the institution.
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Further diversions from Hujw ī r ī’s conception of the robe are important here. Whereas
blue is also prescribed for disciples in the Kashf, this is primarily understood to be due to
the fact that blue robes can bear the dirt accumulated through travelling better than other
colours.55 For Baghd ād ī, blue robes are also more effective at bearing dirt which he ascribes
to the manual labour the disciple is expected to undertake upon attaching himself to a mas-
ter.56 This marks a dramatic shift in Sufi life from Hujw ī r ī’s time to Baghd ād ī’s, from a life
where travelling was the norm to one which was sedentary and intertwined with the wider
social fabric.57
This greater theorisation of Sufi clothing practices then coincides with the institutionali-
sation of Sufism. The emphasis on the correspondence between the inner state and outer ap-
pearance of the Sufi occurs in a context of settled Sufi communities with clearer hierarchical
structures. Hence, this shift in the discussion of the practicalities of clothing does not merely
coincide with increased theorisation. The two developments rather are co-dependent. Thus,
the proto-Suhrawardiyya and proto-Kubrawiyya present two alternative strategies for man-
aging Sufi affiliation and institutional structures through the praxis of clothing.
This is most stark in the distinction between patched robes produced in audition and
coloured robes associated with recollection that indicate a shift in patterns of identity forma-
tion in the Sufi community. The more collective investiture found in Hujw ī r ī’s discussion
of musical audition is hardly mentioned in early Kubraw ī sources. Their association of robes
with recollection is also mirrored by the displacement of musical audition as the primary
ritual through which one’s Sufi identity is constituted, in favour of recollection. This is evi-
dent in the work of another early Kubraw ī, Najm al-Dī n Rāzī’s (d. 1256) Man ārāt al-sāʾir īn,
where learning the practice of recollection itself becomes a type of initiation ritual.58 Hence,
the robe bestowed upon Kubraw ī Sufis is meant to accept Sufis into the community only
after undertaking the highly regulated and strenuous practice of recollection over a 40-day
retreat in seclusion, rather than the relatively more accessible practice of musical audition.
‘Alāʾ al-Dawla Simnān ī (1336), another well-known Kubraw ī Sufi, writing much later in
the fourteenth century, mentions receiving a robe recollection (al-khirqa al-dh ākira) from his
master Nū r al-Dī n Isfar āʾin ī. Al-Simnān ī presents this robe as having the same chain of spir-
itual transmission recounted by Baghd ād ī through Kubr ā and stretching back to the prophet
Muhammad.59 It seems that the robe of spiritual lineage was therefore eventually conflated
with learning the practice of recollection. This betrays an important development in the
conceptualisation of the Sufi robe.
The concept of the Sufi robe as a physical, embodied expression of a spiritual reality
seems to have precipitated the proliferation of a number of items of clothing which gained
distinct spiritual significances in Ilkhanid Sufism. Gradually, references to multiple types of
robes used by Sufis for various spiritual purposes begin to proliferate within Sufi literature.
In addition to the robe of recollection, Simnān ī also received a many-patched robe (khirqa- ī
hazār-mīkhī ) passed down from Kubr ā, through Baghd ād ī and eventually to Isfar āʾin ī, pos-
sibly representing a formalised version of the patched robe Hujw ī r ī discusses in the context
of audition.60 Simnān ī also states that he received a multicoloured robe (khirqa mulamma‘a)
from Isfar āʾin ī which was intended to encourage him to undertake the Sufi path after he had
experienced waking mystical visions (w āqi‘āt), reaffirming the connection between robes and
visionary experiences.61
Importantly, Simnān ī extends the definition of the Sufi public to include people who
frequent Sufi masters and institutions while not committing themselves to the Sufi way of
life or adopting their style of dress. He refers to them as the imitators of the imitators (al-)
mushabbiha bi-l-mushabbiha) and describes them as pious people who for practical reasons
324
cannot adopt the Sufi way of life but nevertheless frequent Sufi masters and keep com-
pany with Sufis with “love.” These people occupy a level of affiliation below the imitators
(al-mushabbiha) who wear the robe of imitation (khirqat al-tashabbuh), and engage in recol-
lective practice. Again, this class of affiliates cannot fully adopt the Sufi way of life due to
their familial and vocational obligations; however they seem to have contact with the mas-
ter, being instructed in a type of recollection by him. Above this is the dedicated disciple,
who is given a robe of spiritual change (khirqat al-talw īn), referring to the changing spiritual
stations of initiates along their path towards God, which Simnān ī also equates to the robe
of initiation, or of desiring God (khirqat irāda). It acts as a counterpart to the robe of spiri-
tual constancy (khirqat al-tamk īn) which seems to have been given to a more select group of
advanced Sufis or Sufi masters.62 Each group is made to correspond to a distinct khirqa here.
One of the most noteworthy developments in Simnān ī’s thought is the attempt to for-
malise relations with the growing Sufi public during this period. The category of the imi-
tators of imitators presents a new mode of affiliation for the lay individual who simply visits
the Sufi master or institution as a form of religious piety. This highlights a shift towards
greater accessibility to Sufi affiliation in contrast to the more elitist proto-Kubraw ī reaction
against the proto-Suhrawardiyya. This shift can be explained by the socio-political context
of Ilkhanid Iran and Central Asia, where unstable political administrations and a weakening
of religious elites and social hierarchies catalysed a search for new structures of legitimation
which underscored relations between the political class and wider society.63
Sufism and chivalric ethics (futuwwa)

The multiplicity in forms of investiture seen in al-Simnān ī’s work prefigures the emergence
of far more intricate forms of Sufi and chivalric clothing practices that emerge in the Timurid
period. The increasingly widespread appeal of Sufism in this period seems to have facilitated
a closer synchronicity between Sufism and chivalric institutions ( futuwwa). As mentioned
previously, there was overlap of Sufism and chivalry existed prior to the Timurid period.
‘Umar Suhraward ī composed his Kit āb f ī al-futuwwa much earlier. This work concerns itself
mainly with ethics, a large part of which deals with practicalities of day to day life, pre-
scribing the correct table manners and gestures for example.64 One’s dress and appearance
are an integral part of this; Suhraward ī stipulates for example that one should be clean, well
groomed, and avoid ostentation.65 Throughout the work there lists that stipulate the ethical
qualities to which members of the chivalric order must adhere to. These are arrived at using
a number of arguments, including letterist arguments, as well as referring to anecdotes and
stories from the lives of the earliest generation of Muslims, especially ‘Al ī ibn Abī Ṭā lib who
served as the model for the ideal chivalrous man.66 Timurid era works on chivalry broadly
aligned to this formula.
The overlap between chivalry and Sufism in the Timurid period is demonstrated by the
work of Ḥusayn Wā‘i ẓ K ā shif ī (d. 910/1504–1505), a prolific Naqshaband ī Sufi preacher,
epistolographer, and astrologer. His Futuwwat-nama-yi sulṭān ī reveals the extent to which
chivalric virtue and Sufi thought and practice overlapped in the fifteenth century. K ā shif ī’s
himself understands chivalry to be part of Sufism, but casts chivalry as a substitute for Sufism
for those who cannot commit to the latter.67 While we saw earlier attempts to formalise this
type of affiliation in Simnān ī’s work, K ā shif ī shows that chivalric orders came to offer an
institutionalised form of lay-mysticism.
Throughout the work, K ā shif ī imbues various forms of labour with what Subtelny terms
“salvific significance.”68 He achieves this with reference to prophetic stories and anecdotes,
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mystical insights, as well as letterist arguments.69 His discussions of clothing are relatively
accessible and easily understood. One section of the Futuwwat-nama for example discusses the
various colours used in headdresses, mapping them on to different spiritual attributes. White
is used for those who are spiritually purified, while black represents the ink of the “pens
of the learned” and “spiritual knowledge.” Green indicates greenery which corresponds
to joy and cheerfulness, while blue represents the colour of the sky and those who wear it
must be “high minded.” Finally, the “natural” colour which is the colour of earth indicates
trustworthiness.70
These discussions are clearly not as theoretically robust as the Sufi sources presented
earlier. They rely on easily graspable analogies and syllogisms that stress correspondence
between the attributes of the soul and physical dress. This is itself telling since the text is
meant to appeal to the lay person. Moreover, K ā shif ī’s conception of the khirqa clearly inverts
the theory of early Kubraw īs such as Baghd ād ī. K ā shif ī states at the outset of his discussion
on the Sufi robe that “when the outer aspect of the disciple is adorned with the clothing of
the spiritual guide, it will necessarily cause the disciple’s inner self to be adorned with the
raiment of righteousness.” 71 This psycho-spiritual theory which prioritises the outward form
as the starting point for spiritual training is clearly intended to allow for widespread adoption
of Sufi robes.
The accessibility of chivalric-Sufism helped create overlapping networks of loyalties be-
tween Sufis, chivalric institutions, and guilds. Such accommodationist institutions were
typical of post-Mongol chivalric organisations.72 These loyalties were established through
investiture practices which standardised the chivalric uniform. This consisted of a robe as
well as a belt (shadd) which the initiate is dressed and girded with by the chivalric master.
Crucially, the event of investiture is accompanied by an oath of loyalty.73
K ā shif ī also mentions the patched robe (khirqa hazār-mīkhī ) which he claims originated
with ‘Al ī ibn abī Ṭā lib.74 Aside from this robe which was familiar in Sufism, K ā shif ī discusses
various styles of robes and garments including one with four openings, one with two open-
ings, a yalak which is a short garment with a collar, robes with badges, fringes, a salīm which
either originated with Adam or Noah, a twisted garment, and a kapanak which was given to
Adam by Gabriel. He also mentions a robe with a vertical opening at the throat referred to as
the Qā sim ī which K ā shif ī claims originated with Ḥusayn at Karbala and was passed down to
the fifth Shi‘i imam, Mu ḥammad Bāqir.75 The sheer variety of dress, which corresponds to
a certain spiritual station or ethical quality, diversifies the number of ways in which an in-
dividual may lay claim to chivalric affiliation and access this form of popular mystical piety.
The emphasis on robes originating with the Shi‘i imams cannot be overlooked. In a
political climate where challenges to the political class arose from messianic movements
which gestated in communities that practiced a syncretism between Sufism and Shiism,
it is possible to read K ā shif ī’s work as an attempt to counteract the appeal of messianic
Mahdism. His Futuwwat-nama could be seen as an attempt at cultivating a wide-reaching
Naqshaband ī-chivalric community which was also aligned to the Timurid rulers of his day.76
Claiming both Sufi and imamate authority would have been crucial in this endeavour.
Conclusion
This survey of Sufi literature regarding clothing and investiture practices offers important
insights into the changing boundaries between Sufi communities and wider Sufi publics, as
well as the changing organisational structures within Sufi institutions over time. With this
in mind, we may point to important shifts in Sufi attitudes towards lay affiliates and imitators
326
of Sufism, with earlier writers such as Qushayr ī and Hujw ī r ī more hostile hostile positions,
later relaxed with ‘Umar Suhraward ī, but not without some contestation by early Kubraw īs
such as Baghd ād ī. With Simnān ī however, there is an attempt by a later Kubraw ī to formalise
the affiliation of the Sufi public. K ā shif ī represents the consolidation of this trend by offering
an institutionalised form of mysticism to the Sufi public through chivalric orders.
Recognising the economic significance of clothing in the medieval period also grants
new insights into the subject. Clothing and investiture in Sufism can be understood as a rit-
ualised sharing and management of assets. This sheds light on the popular appeal of the Sufi
community or institution. Of course, this should not obscure the important spiritual and
theoretical significance of clothing in Sufism. The Sufi concept of becoming clothed (libās)
encompasses a theoretical understanding of the manifestation of a spiritual state in a sensible
form, while also being applicable to clothing in a literal sense. In addition, whether spiritual
completion is achieved more effectively by investiture prior to training or after complet-
ing one’s training clearly had important practical consequences. Moreover, the distinction
between robes associated with musical audition and those associated with recollection was
equally important for developing a more centralised mode of investiture. Clothing then
served as an invaluable, practical, and discursive tool for Sufism’s adaptation to socio-political
challenges over time.
Notes
1 Alexander Knysh, “Sufism as an Explanatory Paradigm the Issue of the Motivations of Sufi Resistance
Movements in Western and Russian Scholarship,” Die Welt des Islams 42 (2002), pp. 139–173; 171.
2 Ahmet Karamustafa, Sufism: The Formative Period (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2007);
Erik Ohlander, Sufism in an Age of Transition (Leiden: Brill, 2008).
3 Yedida Stillman, Arab Dress: A Short History from the Dawn of Islam to Modern Times (Leiden: Brill,
2000), pp. 51–52.
4 Dominique Sourdel, “Robes of Honour in ‘Abbasid Baghdad during the Eighth to Eleventh
Centuries.” In Robes and Honour: The Medieval World of Investiture, edited by Stewart Gordon
(Basingstoke: Macmillan, 2000), pp. 137; 138.
5 Stillman, Arab Dress, p. 43.
6 Sourdel, “Robes of Honour,” p. 143.
7 Roy Mottahedeh, Loyalty and Leadership in Early Islamic Societies (London: I.B. Tauris, 2001), p. 190.
8 Knysh, “Sufism as an Explanatory Paradigm,” p. 171.
9 Shahzad Bashir, “The World as a Hat: Symbolism and Materiality in Safavid Iran.” In Unity and
Diversity: Mysticism, Messianism and the Construction of Religious Authority in Islam, edited by Orkhan
Mir-Kasimov (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2014), p. 344.
10 Fritz Meier, “A Book of Etiquette for Sufis.” In Essays on Islamic Piety and Mysticism, edited by Ulrich
Haarmann and Wadad Kadi, translated by John O’Kane (Leiden and Boston: Brill), 1999, p. 67.
11 Ahmet Karamustafa, God’s Unruly Friends (Utah: University of Utah Press, 1994), p. 31.
12 Christopher Melchert, ‘Sufis and Competing Movements in Nishapur,’ Iran 39 (2001), pp. 237–247; 238.
13 Abū Qā sim Qushayr ī, al-Risāla al-qushayriyya, edited by Mu ḥ ammad Ali Bayḍū n (Beirut: Dā r
al-Kutub al- cilmiyya, 2001), pp. 203–204.
14 Qushayr ī, al-Risāla, p. 204.
15 Qushayr ī, a;l-Risāla, p. 204.
16 Hujw ī r ī, Kashf al-ma ḥjūb, translated by Reynold A. Nicholson (Leiden: Brill, 1911), p. 48.
17 Hujw ī r ī, Kashf al-ma ḥjūb, pp. 47–48; 51.
18 Hujw ī r ī does not seem to assign different types of robes to these differing terms; see Al-Hujw ī r ī,
Kashf al-ma ḥjūb, p. 47; 53.
20 Hujw ī r ī, Kashf, p. 417; Qushayr ī, al-Risāla, p. 370.
21 The scarcity and poor quality of wool are understood by al-Hujw ī r ī to be due to the prevalence
of raiders stealing the animals, presumably sheep, during this period. This points to an underlying
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Eyad Abuali
political-economic reason for the understanding of the significance of garments among Sufis of
this time. It is likely that in a climate of political disruption, the textile industry began to fo-
cus on the production of plant-based garments; wool would have been dependent on the pasto-
ral population which may have been more vulnerable to socio-political dislocation. See Gladys
Frantz-Murphy, “A New Interpretation of the Economic History of Medieval Egypt: The Role of
the Textile Industry,” Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 24 (1981), pp. 274–297;
294; Hujw ī r ī, Kashf, p. 51.
22 Hujw ī r ī, Kashf, pp. 51–52.
25 Hujw ī r ī, Kashf, pp. 417–418.
29 Frantz-Murphy, “Economic History of Medieval Egypt,” pp. 290–292.
33 The practice of tearing, clothing, and redistributing the torn garments is discussed at some length
in ‘Umar Suhraward ī’s ‘Aw ārif al-ma‘ārif. See, ‘Umar Suhraward ī, ‘Aw ārif al-ma‘ārif, vol. 2, edited
by Mahmud al-Sharif (Cairo: Dā r al-Ma‘ā rif, 1993), pp. 31–36.
34 Suhraward ī, ‘Aw ārif al-ma‘ārif, p. 34.
35 Suhraward ī, ‘Aw ārif al-ma‘ārif, pp. 34–35.
36 Suhraward ī introduces a more formalised and intricate code of conduct between Sufi masters and
other attendees of the musical ceremony, stipulating for example that Sufi masters need not remove
an item of clothing in response to the rending of garments by a disciple, or younger attendee. And
if the master decides not to do so the entire company must collect their garments and wear them
again rather than dividing them. Suhraward ī, ‘Aw ārif al-ma‘ārif, p. 32.
37 Erik Ohlander, ‘Umar al-Suhrawardī and the Rise of Mystical Brotherhoods (Boston: Brill, 2008), p. 280.
38 Roy Mottahedeh has shown that with the initial collapse of Abbasid authority, the legitimacy of
subsequent political rulers stood on shaky grounds. In these circumstances Muslim society was
thrown “back on its own resources” where it was able to “generate self-renewing patterns of
loyalty and of leadership” with minimal input from government. The Sufi institution is one such
manifestation of self-governance. See Mottahedeh, Loyalty and Leadership, p. 39; 190.
39 Salamah-Qudsi, “The Idea of Tashabbuh in Sufi Communities and Literature of the Late 6th/12th
and Early 7th/13th Century in Baghdad,” Al-Qantara 32 (2011), pp. 175–197; 192.
40 Salamah-Qudsi, “The Idea of Tashabbuh,” p. 196.
41 Ohlander, Sufism in an Age of Transition, p. 212.
42 Ohlander, Sufism in an Age of Transition, p. 199.
43 Ohlander, Sufism in an Age of Transition, pp. 202–203; 215–216.
44 Ohlander, Sufism in an Age of Transition, pp. 15–216.
45 Al-Baghd ād ī, Tu ḥfat al-barara, Ms Istanbul Karacelebizade 353, 2a–77a, 47a–47b.
46 Jamal Elias, “The Sufi Robe (khirqa) as a Vehicle of Spiritual Authority.” In Robes and Honour: The
Medieval World of Investiture, edited by Stewart Gordon (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 2000), p. 286.
47 Elias, “The Sufi Robe,” p. 276.
48 Al-Hujw ī r ī, Kashf, p. 56; 50.
49 Kazuyo Murata, Beauty in Sufism: The Teachings of R ūzbihān Baqlī (Albany: SUNY Press, 2017), p. 91.
50 Baghd ād ī, Tu ḥfat al-barara, p. 47a.
51 See for example Jamal Elias, “A Kubraw ī Treatise on Mystical Visions: The Risāla-yi N ūriyya of
ʿAl āʾ al-Dawla al-Simn ā n ī,” The Muslim World 83 (1993), pp. 68–80; 69.
52 Baghd ād ī, Tu ḥfat al-barara, p. 19b.
57 Arin Salamah-Qudsi, “Crossing the Desert: Siyāḥa and Safar as Key Concepts in Early Sufi Liter-
ature and Life,” Sufi Studies 2 (2013), pp. 129–147; 145–146.
328
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22
SUFISM AND CHRISTIAN
MYSTICISM
The neoplatonic factor
Saeed Zarrabi-Zadeh
As with many other -isms, “Neoplatonism” is a modern construct for a premodern phe-
nomenon. It was coined by the German historian Jacob Brucker (d. 1770) to refer to
a philosophical system emerging during the third century AD in the Greco-Roman
world, which considered itself to be Platonist but, according to Brucker, was not faith-
ful to Plato’s teachings.1 Though recent scholars of Neoplatonic Studies would disagree
with Brucker in using the term pejoratively to distinguish between this sort of phi-
losophy and “genuine” interpretations of Plato, they primarily accept his idea that the
Neoplatonist tradition cannot be reduced to a mere “footnote to Plato.” 2 Specifically,
they highlight the synthetic aspect of Neoplatonism and its endeavor to harmonize most
of the earlier classical Hellenistic tradition, which resulted in its status as the dominant
philosophical ideology of Late Antiquity and its role as a stabilizing factor in a time of
change and fraction from the third to the sixth century. 3 This chapter explores the im-
pact of Neoplatonism on Islamic and Christian traditions, especially with regard to their
mystical dimension. It presents an overview of this impact and juxtaposes the presence
of Neoplatonic elements in the thought of two renowned mystics arising in the thir-
teenth century, whose life and works represent different stances regarding the Neopla-
tonic worldview. The first figure is Jal ā l al-D ī n Rū m ī (1207–1273), who is known for
his mystical poetry, mainly Persian couplets and lyrics, as well as for the Mevlevi Sufi
order founded by his son and followers based on his teachings. The second is the mystic-
philosopher Meister Eckhart (c.1260–1327/8), whose legacy consists of German and
Latin works, the latter only having been discovered in the late nineteenth century.4 With
a focus on the cornerstone of Neoplatonic metaphysics, namely the theory of “emana-
tion,” the chapter underscores the commonalities and distinctions between R ū m ī ’s and
Eckhart’s ontotheological systems and explains the points at which the theories of creatio
ex nihilo (“creation out of nothing”) and emanatio ex deo (“emanation out of God”) may
converge or diverge. The chapter concludes that the potential similarities between the
two Meisters 5 may point to a cultural interchange and reciprocity between the resonance
spaces of “Orient” and “Occident,” rather than serving as an evidence for the Hellenistic
“origin” of mystical Islam.6
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Sufism and Christian mysticism
Neoplatonism, Christianity, and Islam

Though Neoplatonism was initiated by two “pagan” philosophers, Ammonius Saccas (d. ca.
242) and his student Plotinus (d. 270), its reach was limited neither to the restricted circles
of philosophers nor to the adherents of paganism. Its emergence and domination in the
eastern parts of the Roman Empire coincided with the formative period of the Christian
faith flourishing in the same region. Such temporal and geographical proximity paved the
way for Neoplatonic philosophy’s impact on Christianity from its very inception, although
the latter tried to define itself as being separate from pagan systems. Ammonius Saccas, who
was born less than a century after the Gospel of John was written, founded Neoplatonism
in Alexandria in the time when Clement of Alexandria (d. ca. 215), a father of Christian
mysticism, was trying to bring together the Christian faith and Greek philosophy. The same
Saccas is said to have been the teacher of Origen of Alexandria (d. ca. 254),7 the first system-
atic theologian-philosopher of the Christian Church and the most important biblical exegete
of early Christianity, who was some 20 years older than Plotinus. Later on, the theology of
the fourth-century Cappadocian Fathers, especially that of Gregory of Nyssa (d. ca. 394),8
demonstrates the influence of Neoplatonism in the Greek East. These early impacts became,
in the late fifth century, a systematic transfer of Neoplatonic elements into a Christian con-
text, chiefly through the synthesizing project of Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite. This
man, who was probably a Syrian student of the influential Neoplatonist Proclus (d. 485) liv-
ing around the year 500 AD, never referred to “pagan” figures in his works and concealed his
own identity. He adopted the persona of St. Dionysius the Areopagite, an Athenian whose
conversion by Saint Paul is mentioned in the New Testament (Acts 17:34). Such forged “ap-
ostolic authority” guaranteed the influence of Neoplatonism upon Christianity in general,
and its post-Dionysian mystical tradition in particular.
Although Dionysius wrote in the Greek language, his influence over Christianity became
more tangible in the Latin West than in the Greek East. The translation of his works into
Latin started in the ninth century, based on a copy of his corpus sent in 827 by the Byzantine
emperor Michael the Stammerer to the Frankish king of the time.9 Among the translated
texts, in particular the Latin version of Dionysius’ long work on cataphatic theology, The
Divine Names, and his short treatise on apophatic theology, Mystical Theology, became influ-
ential. Translations such as these reinforced the earlier impact of the Neoplatonic philosophy
on Latin Christianity, especially through Augustine of Hippo (d. 430), who is regarded as
the pioneer of Western mysticism. Having become familiar with the writings of Plotinus and
his student Porphyry (d. ca. 305) before his conversion to Christianity, Augustine infused
Christian doctrine with aspects of Neoplatonism and incorporated features of this philoso-
phy in his theology.10 Consequently, Christian mysticism in both its Greek and Latin wings
was colored by Neoplatonic elements from the very beginning.
Neoplatonic philosophy also influenced the other two Abrahamic religious traditions,
namely Judaism and Islam. With regard to the latter, which is a subject of this chapter,11 some
recent historiographers have tried to contextualize the emergence of Islam against the back-
drop of Late Antiquity, which may indicate the impact of the intellectual discourses of that
era, including Neoplatonism, on the emergence and expansion of early Islam.12 In addition,
the rapid expansion of the Islamic empire over centers of Greek learning under the Sassanid
Empire, such as Gondeshapur, as well as over a vast territory of the Byzantine Empire, in-
cluding major Neoplatonic centers in Egypt and Syria, resulted in Muslims’ early encounters
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Saeed Zarrabi-Zadeh
with Neoplatonism. Besides these points of contact, Muslims’ extensive acquaintance with
Neoplatonic ideas mainly began in the ninth century. Just a few years after the Dionysian
works were sent by Michael the Stammerer to the West, on the other side of the Byzantine
Empire the Abbasid rulers started sponsoring the Greco-Arabic translation movement in
the imperial capital Baghdad, which would last for the next two centuries. Through this
enterprise, several major Greek philosophical texts became available to Muslims, and Helle-
nistic thought found its way into the Islamic intellectual discourse. These texts included two
important Neoplatonic works, namely Uth ūl ūjiā Arisṭa ṭālīs (“The Theology of Aristotle”)
and Kal ām f ī Ma ḥḍ al-Khayr (“Discourse on the Pure Good”). The former was actually para-
phrases (with some additions) of Plotinus’ Enneads, and the latter consisted of propositions
from Proclus’ Elements of Theology, a concise summa of Neoplatonic thought.
The ascription of Uth ūl ūji ā and Kal ām to Aristotle, the “First Teacher” (al-mu‘allim
al-awwal) of Islamic philosophy, paved the way for the forceful presence of the Neoplatonic
system in Islamic philosophical thought. Such misattribution was in fact the second piece of
good fortune for this Greek philosophy, this time in the Islamic world, after the attribution
of Pseudo-Dionysius’ texts to the biblical figure Dionysius had resulted in the popularity
of Neoplatonism in the Christian context. The first three generations of Muslim philoso-
phers were in fact directly influenced by the translations of Neoplatonic texts, which they
believed to be Aristotle’s works. Al-Kind ī (d. ca. 873), the father of Islamic philosophy,
edited The Theology of Aristotle, which had already been translated by a man of his circle;
al-Far ābī (d. 950), the “Second Teacher” of Islamic philosophy and a founder of Islamic
Neoplatonism,13 developed the emanational model; and Ibn S ī n ā (Avicenna) (d. 1037), the
enigmatic philosopher-scientist of medieval Islam, made full use of Neoplatonism. Due to
the efforts of these philosophers and their followers, Islamic Peripateticism became a sort
of “Aristoplotinian” school, or a Neoplatonic reading of Aristotelianism, a point that was
later recognized and criticized by the Andalusian thinker Ibn Rushd (Averroes) (d. 1198).
As well as the Muslim Peripatetic school, the impact of Neoplatonic thought can also be
observed in Ismaili theology, which blended it with Shiite elements and esoteric Quranic
hermeneutics; the writings of the Ikhw ā n al-Ṣaf ā’ (“the Brethren of Purity”), whose phil-
osophical basis for their encyclopedic epistles (authored in the tenth or eleventh century)
consisted of a mixture of Aristotelian and Neoplatonic elements; and the illuminationist
philosophy of Shih āb al-D ī n al-Suhraward ī (d. 1191), who extended the emanation theory
through the hierarchy of lights.14
As far as the mystical tradition of Islam is concerned, it seems that parts of the ascetic
circles that developed in the first and second centuries of Islam became aware, at some stage,
of Neoplatonic ideas—be it through Hellenistic heritage available in ex-Byzantine regions
or via the translation of Greek philosophy during the early Abbasid period. These ascetics
became the forerunners of Sufism, whose major early figures lived in or around the ninth
century, the time when the Greco-Arabic translation movement began.15 Some of these
proto-Sufis, who played a significant role in shaping Islamic mystical discourse, might have
had an interest in Hellenistic culture. An example is the Egyptian sage Dhu’l-Nū n al-Miṣr ī
(d. ca. 859), a central figure in the pre-Baghdad Sufism, who was apparently the first Muslim
mystic to formulate a theory of ma‘rifa (intuitive knowledge). Al-Miṣr ī has been regarded,
since his own period, as a philosopher and alchemist—fields which in his day were mainly
associated with Greek traditions.16 Also, the Sufi and Quranic exegete of the Lower-Iraq
Sahl al-Tustar ī (d. ca. 896), who is cited in later sources as being supervised by Dhu’l-Nū n,
speaks of the Muhammadan light as the pre-existential prototype of man and the universe,
an idea similar to the Neoplatonic elaboration of the nous. He envisions God as an essentially
332
inaccessible light from which man emanates and by which he is illuminated until he is totally
absorbed in its radiance.17 Al-Tustar ī was one of the spiritual teachers of the renowned Sufi
al-Ḥallāj (d. 922), and his circle was connected to that of another eminent mystic, Junayd
al-Baghd ād ī (d. 910).18 In the Eastern parts of the Islamic world, the Transoxianan mystical
thinker Ḥak ī m al-Tirmidh ī (d. ca. 910) attempted to present a cosmo-psychological reading
of the hierarchy of God’s friends (awliyā’), again using the symbolism of cosmic light.19 Since
his work exhibits traces of Neoplatonic and Pythagorean thought, he is also regarded by
some scholars as having been familiar with Greek metaphysics.20 An important point about
these early Sufis is that, even if they were not de facto influenced by Hellenistic traditions,
they were occasionally seen posthumously as channels for transferring such traditions into
Islam. An example of such imagery created after “the death of the author” is the way in
which Dhu’l-Nū n and al-Tustar ī are imagined by the abovementioned al-Suhraward ī. In
explaining the two strands of wisdom from which his illuminationist theosophy originates,
al-Suhraward ī refers to Dhu’l-Nū n and al-Tustar ī as the bearers of the Greek strand.21
Although one can speak only of the “possibilities” of the Neoplatonic impact on early
Sufism and “potential” traces of Neoplatonism therein, the influence of this Greek philos-
ophy on Sufi theology can hardly be denied once Sufism enters the late twelfth century. In
this century, the Andalusian Sufi Ibn ‘Arabī (d. 1240) and his philosophically minded disci-
ples established the doctrine of the “unity of being” (wa ḥdat al-wujūd), based on emanation
theory and informed by Neoplatonic ideas.22 His authoritative stance as the Greatest Master
(al-Shaykh al-Akbar) assured the presence of Neoplatonic ideas in the post-Ibn ‘Arabi Sufi
theology—despite the ebbing and flowing of Ibn Arabian metaphysics in later periods.
Consequently, the thirteenth century, during which both Rū m ī and Eckhart were born,
witnessed the vibrant presence of Neoplatonic thought within both Islamic and Christian
mystical trends. On the Islamic side, the longstanding efforts of Muslim philosophers, theo-
logians, and Sufis23 had resulted in the establishment of Neoplatonic elements in Islamic
intellectual, religious, and spiritual discourse. On the Christian side, the Neoplatonic impact
in shaping Christian theology and philosophy had been further strengthened through the
reverse translation of Neoplatonic texts from Arabic into Latin starting from the late tenth
century, while Neoplatonist authors remained disguised under the mantle of Aristotle.24
During its centuries-long development and influence, Neoplatonism has kept its meta-
physical nucleus, the theory of “emanation” (Greek: aporrhoe), which has served as an im-
portant factor and indicator in examining the presence of Neoplatonic thought within any
specific system. The theory deals with the dialectic of one-and-many and explains the grad-
ual process of the appearance of multiplicity from unity. In articulating it, the first system-
atizer of Neoplatonism divides reality into three ontological levels called “hypostases” or
self-subsistent entities. According to Plotinus, the first hypostasis is the One (hen), or the
Good, which is the absolute unity and simplicity, the indescribable ontological core of the
universe. The One overflows, by law of its nature, into the second entity, the Intellect (nous),
from whose internal activity the pure unity of the One turns to the multiplicity of ideas and
ideal forms. Then, the Intellect becomes the source for the emergence of the third hypostasis
or the Soul (psychê), which facilitates the manifestation of form in matter and wherein the
cosmos takes objective shape and determines physical shape.25 By way of this gradual process
of diffusion and the hierarchy of being, the perfect unity of the One is connected to, and
produces, the multiplicity of the material world. Though emanationism was not confined
merely to Plotinus and his successors during Late Antiquity, Neoplatonic emanation kept its
distance from other versions of the doctrine, especially its Gnostic formulation that postu-
lates the existence of a semi-divine being that rules the material world.26
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Saeed Zarrabi-Zadeh
Rūmī’s emanative creation

There is no evidence, in either Rū m ī’s oeuvre or his hagiographies, that Rū m ī read any
translation of Neoplatonic texts.27 Instead, the Khorasani Sufi tradition that he belonged
to was quite antagonistic toward Greek philosophy, be it (Neo)platonic or Aristotelian. On
several occasions, Rū m ī rebukes all manner of “acquired” knowledge, which he considers
as a contrast to, and an impediment for, intuitional cognition.28 He degrades the science of
Plato, devalues Avicenna’s intellectual capacity in understanding the spiritual states, and ac-
cuses Mu‘tazilite theologians for their rational approach.29 In taking this oppositional stance,
he succeeded such Khorasani Sufis as al-Ghaz ā l ī, whose assault on Avicennian philosophy
included the critique of Neoplatonic principles,30 and Abū Sa‘ īd Abi’l-Khayr (d. 1049), who
is reported to have buried all of his books after his inclination shifted to Sufism. 31 Rū m ī’s
spiritual teacher and beloved, Shams al-Dī n Tabr īzī (d. ca. 1248), also forbade him from
reading books, a prohibition he ordered as a technique for spiritual releasement.32 Rū m ī’s
frown at the “acquired” knowledge and philosophy can also be observed in his attitude to-
ward his elder contemporary Ibn ‘Arabī and his followers, who sought to establish a “philo-
sophical mysticism” informed by Neoplatonic ontology. Though some scholars have already
(over)emphasized the relationship between Ibn Arabi and Rū m ī and even considered the
latter as an adherent of the former,33 the life and works of Rū m ī show that he was not inter-
ested in the mysticism of the Andalusian shaykh. Despite all of the possible influences Ibn
Arabi’s school might have had on him, Rū m ī refrained from utilizing Ibn ‘Arabī’s specific
terminology, in contrast to those influenced by the shaykh, and he kept his distance from his
circle in Konya, which was represented by Ṣadr al-Dī n al-Q ū nāw ī (d. 1274).34
Notwithstanding Rū m ī’s inimical standpoint against Greco-Islamic philosophy and phil-
osophical mysticism, his poetry and prose demonstrate that he followed the longstanding
Sufi tradition before him and accepted the general framework of emanation theory, that is
the manifestation of multiplicity out of the unique origin of all things. The scattered passages
in his works discussing ontological issues, which are not always coherent, indicate that the
substructure of his mystical ontology is the doctrine of creatio ex nihilo, interpreted in such
a way that it corresponds with that general framework. Rū m ī believes that all forms and
things emerge from their opposites, and just as place arises from placelessness, colors from
colorlessness, and numbers from unity,35 so being also emerges from nonexistence (‘adam).
Nonexistence, which is an important concept in both Rū m ī’s theoretical and practical mys-
ticism, is used in two main ways within those passages of his works dealing with ontology.
The first meaning appears when it is employed in singular form and signifies the absolute
Nothingness in its unfathomable depth. This abyss is, in Rū m ī’s negative theology, nothing
but the divine essence, which is hidden and beyond man’s conceptualization. Since there is
no intellectual way to find this absolute unknown,36 one should simply adhere to the Pro-
phetic command of “Do not seek to investigate the Essence of God.”37 According to Rū m ī’s
dialectics, such pure Nothingness is the very absolute Being,38 which is the ultimate origin
of all things and the unique “non-existence whereby these existences of ours are made ex-
istent.”39 This ontological hub of the universe is like a hidden treasure, so full of the being
and beauty that overflows out of itself.40 All beings are, thus, the result of such outflowing
and are the radiation and the locus (ma ẓhar) of divine self-manifestation.41 The second sense
of nonexistence occurs when it appears in plural form, when Rū m ī speaks of the caravans of
‘adams that cheerfully move toward existence.42 He relates this meaning of nothingness to
the Quranic concept of the “Covenant of Alast,” which indicates man’s pre-existence before
coming into the physical world, where he accepted the divine address of “Am I not [alastu]
334
your Lord?.”43 Rū m ī identifies the realm of Alast and transcendental existence close to God
with the domain of ‘adam or nonexistence, wherein man “firmly planted his foot”44 and his
inward reality was present to God.45 Such a world of Covenant incorporates not only man’s
reality but also the primordial existence (or ‘adams) of all things,46 which are united with
each other and with the absolute Nothingness. The emergence of ‘adams into existence out
of divine essence is their positive response to the divine address.47
The story of the creation of Adam, which explains the special role of the first prophet/
human in the world and his superiority over all beings, is interpreted by Rū m ī in relation to
the concept of Alast. According to the Quranic narrative, after saying to the angels that “I am
setting on the earth a viceroy” and teaching Adam all the names (asm ā’), God asked the an-
gels to recite their names; yet they were unable to do so. When Adam told them their names,
the angels were ordered by God to bow down to Adam.48 These names taught to Adam are,
for Rū m ī, nothing except the ‘adams of all things that primordially exist in the realm of
Alast and the inward realities of the beings existing with the Creator.49 Adam’s vicegerency
mentioned in the earlier narrative is seen by Rū m ī as having two major aspects. The first is
regarding Adam’s relationship to God as his mirror, and based on the hadith “God created
Adam in his own image (form),”50 Rū m ī believes that Adam’s inward “infinite purity” en-
ables him to reflect the divine image.51 The second is Adam’s relation to other beings. Due
to his transparency and essential dependence on God the Encompasser, he encompasses all
things in their interior reality and knows their ontological names in God.52 With these two
aspects, Adam, who is the “father of mankind,” is not a mere historical or mythical figure but
primarily the prototype of the human being in his state of perfection and innocence, before
he is contaminated with the conditions of the created world.53
A significant point accentuated by Rū m ī regarding the world of Covenant and the creation
of all things out of nothingness is that this creation was not a single event which only hap-
pened once at the outset of time. Following the atomistic theory of the Ash‘arite school,54
he maintains that the world is successively created and destroyed in every instant and atom
of time, and the process of the world’s coming into existence consists of both creation out
of ‘adam and a return to it.55 The “Day of Alast,” hence, does not refer to a particular period
but to the whole span of time, and the existence of all things is unceasingly dependent on
God’s creative activity.56 Rū m ī’s theory of emanative creation, therefore, includes the mani-
festation of the world of multiplicity out of its single ontological core by means of the divine
creative word in each and every moment—a creatio continua of the primordial nothingnesses
living in God.57
Eckhart’s onto-psychological emanatio

Eckhart belongs to those medieval Christian mystics who were highly influenced by
Neoplatonism.58 This Greek philosophy was available to him through three main chan-
nels: first, Latin translations and summaries from the Greek language, including the Latin
rendering of Dionysian works and Proclus’ Elements of Theology as well as the compendia of
Plotinus’ teachings by Macrobius (d. ca. 430); second, Latin translations from the Arabic lan-
guage, for instance those of the aforementioned Discourse on the Pure Good (under the Latin
title Liber de Causis), philosophical texts from Muslim figures such as Avicenna, and works
by Jewish philosophers such as Ibn Gabirol (Avicebron) (d. ca. 1058); and third, theological
and philosophical texts that were originally produced in Latin and included Neoplatonic
elements such as the works of Augustine, Thomas Aquinas (d. 1274), and Eckhart’s teacher
Albert the Great (d. 1280).59 The Neoplatonic facet of Eckhart’s theology, informed by a
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variety of pagan, Islamic, Jewish, and Christian sources, can be specifically observed in the
central role played by the theory of “emanation” (Latin: exitus, emanatio; MHG: ûzbruch and
similar terms) in constructing his metaphysics.60 He explains the doctrine in a few cases using
rather “pagan” terminology, for example in the Latin Sermon XLIX, which describes the
stages of the “production of existence” out of the core of being, when this core swells up
from, and diffuses itself through, two processes of inward boiling and boiling over.61 In most
other cases, however, Eckhart recruits Christian concepts in elaborating the theory. In the
Commentary on John, for instance, he interprets Psalm 61:12, “God has spoken once and for
all, and I have heard two things,” in terms of the two-fold overflowing of the divine, namely
the generation of the Son as the heir of God and the generation of the world.62 Elsewhere,
he distinguishes between two steps of productive emanation, namely the emergence of the
Persons in the Godhead (boiling within) and the generation of the world based on the
Trinitarian exemplar (boiling over).63 As the intermediate link within emanation, the Son
plays a crucial role in Eckhartian emanationism. On the one hand, he is a spotless mirror of
God,64 the Word or Logos who exists in the mind of the Father, and the Image who receives
its entire existence from God. On the other hand, he is the principle of all things and the
Ideal Reason, in which and through which all things are created by God. The Father is the
principle of the Son, and the Son is the principle of the created world.65
Taking into account the two steps of ontological boiling, one may suppose that the Father,
the Son, and the created world correspond with the One, the Intellect, and the Soul/physical
world in Plotinian ontology. Such a supposition, however, ignores a significant theme in
Eckhart’s thought, that is the concept of the “ground” (MHG: grunt). This notion, which
is used as a central theme for the first time by Eckhart, refers to the hidden depths of God or
the Godhead, wherein no distinction exists, even that between the divine Persons.66 As for
emanation, Eckhart’s answer to the question as to whether “the ground” or “the Father” is
the first link in the emanational chain is not clear. Some passages in his works speak of the
generating power of the Godhead67 and place the ground as the first principle of emanation.
Yet more frequently, other passages give the Father such a role.68 Eckhart also utilizes “the
ground” and “the Father” interchangeably on some occasions,69 allowing both to be viewed
as the first hypostases. Despite this ambiguity, the connection between the ground and the
Father can be explained by virtue of Eckhart’s perspectivism. There is a naked unity in the
core of the universe, which can be seen from two perspectives. From one viewpoint, it is
the immovable source of every movement and the unique basis of all multiplicity. From the
other, it is an immovability and a oneness which remains within and has no consciousness of
what is without. From the first perspective, this core is called God the Father, and from the
second, it is seen as the ground or the Godhead. The more hidden this reality is, says Eckhart
in dialectical language, the more visible it becomes.70 This “ground-Father,” whose unspo-
ken and apophatic side is the ground and whose spoken and cataphatic side is the Father,71 is
to be regarded as the first link in the Eckhartian sequence of emanation. In sum, Eckhart for-
mulizes an ontology in which the Trinitarian God emanates from the ground-Father, while
the Trinity itself is the source for the emergence of all things. Such two-tiered emanation
takes place throughout eternity as a continuous process, in the form of incarnatio continua.72
Besides the ontological account of emanation, Eckhart also presents a psychological
account which takes the theory beyond its traditional domain. In articulating his mystical
psychology, he itemizes six powers of the soul,73 involving the three inferior powers of
the rational, the irascible, and the appetitive, which are originally platonic, and the three
superior powers, viz. the Augustinian triad of memory (retentive power), understanding
(intellectual power), and will (volitional power). In elaborating superior powers, however,
336
Eckhart does not stay within the Augustinian framework and speaks about the deepest
level of man’s being, or the “ground” of the soul. Referred to through various metaphors
such as the “spark” (MHG: vünkelîn) and the “little town/castle” (MHG: bürgelîn),74 this
psychological ground is the noblest and innermost part of the soul where it drops all its ac-
tivities and remains unique, simple, and immovable. Concerning the relationship between
ground and the superior powers, Eckhart explains that the intellect and the will emanate
from this hidden ground, which is the inactive source for man’s activity.75 The grunt is,
therefore, the first and deepest part in the three-fold hierarchy of a human’s multilayered
soul: it flows into the second level, or superior powers, and these, in turn, control and
guide the soul’s lowest level, namely the inferior powers connected to the senses and the
body. Eckhart’s psychological account of emanation conforms to the ontological one when
his negative theology meets his negative psychology, as for him “God’s ground and the
soul’s ground are one ground.” 76
Comparison and conclusion

Several similarities can be identified between Rū m ī’s ontology and Eckhart’s emanation-
ism. Like the Father, or better the “ground-Father” in its cataphatic side, Rū m ī’s God is the
single source of the manifestation of all being. It is “the desert of Nothingness,” 77 which is
above all forms of multiplicity and from which creatures come into existence. Rū m ī’s realm
of Alast, which contains all things in their primordial existence in the state of selflessness,
seems quite analogous to the second link of emanation in Eckhart’s metaphysics, or the
Trinitarian Divinity. This latter incorporates in itself the rational being of created things, or
the ideas existing there as God’s images. Adam in Rū m ī’s Sufism, who is the vicegerent of
God created in the divine image and encompassing the inward realities of all created beings,
corresponds to the Son in Eckhart’s mysticism, the imago Dei and unblemished mirror of God
containing the ideas of all things. The creation of things from their virtual existence after
hearing Allah’s address is similar to the divine boiling over and the emanation of things from
their transcendent existence in the Trinitarian sphere. Both Rū m ī and Eckhart perceive the
process of one-becoming-many not as a single event but as an uninterrupted process taking
place in every instant of time, now and throughout eternity.
Despite these commonalities, there are three considerable differences between the meta-
physics of Rū m ī and Eckhart, which show the former’s divergence from the Neoplatonic
system. The first distinction is related to the notion of successive stages of emanation in
Neoplatonism, which indicates an ontological hierarchy in which the higher stage is the em-
anational principle of the lower. Rū m ī’s doctrine of creatio ex nihilo entails, unlike Eckhart’s
ontology, the immediate manifestation of everything from nothingness, and though he refers
to the hierarchy of the universe and divides it into sequential levels from base matter to
God,78 the concept of emanation is absent within these layers. All cosmological levels are
created directly from the nothingness, and the inferior levels undergo no longer a journey
toward existence than their superiors. For Rū m ī, although the lower levels of cosmos are
“narrower” than the higher ones and are encompassed and embraced by them, they do not
come into being through them.79 Such difference is particularly visible in the role of Adam,
the viceroy of God, in Rū m ī’s Sufism, and in that of the Son in Eckhart. While the Son
serves as the source of the inferior realms of multiplicity, Adam, who also encompasses all
things in their virtual existence and “[a]ll spirits are under his governance; all bodies too are
in his control,”80 is seen by Rū m ī neither as the emanational principle of created things nor
as the medium of creation.
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The second distinction between Rū m ī and Eckhart is related to the concept of divine
will. For Eckhart, both the emanation of the Son from his heavenly Father and the appear-
ance of creatures through the Son are more the result of a natural relationship than of a
volitional act. The ground-Father involves in the emanation of all things instead of willfully
producing them. Eckhart even utilizes the language of “God must” for the divinity, and, in
discussing the virtue of detachment, maintains that if a man humbles himself “God cannot
withhold his own goodness but must come down and flow into the humble man.”81 Rū m ī,
on the other hand, follows the Ash‘arite standpoint, which denies the natural relationship
of cause and effect and the necessary relationships of “causality” altogether. God for him
is the only real agent of all acts, including the act of creation and manifestation, and the
Almighty does whatever he wants and prevents whatever is against his volition.82 The origin
of creation in Rū m ī’s metaphysics remains an Omnipotent who creates the world in every
moment without any necessity or condition of causality—rather than being a Neoplatonic
One overflowing by virtue of its own nature.
The third distinction between the two masters concerns the divine nature. To possess
will and power and to perform actions voluntarily are the characteristics of a personal being,
and the lack of such features in the peak of Eckhart’s ontology means that his God is, in its
very essence, impersonal. The pinnacle of Eckhart’s metaphysics, the ground or Godhead, is
a simple silence and quiet desert that remains beyond personal contact. It is, as Eckhart em-
phasizes several times, unloving and aloof, above all love.83 Even the relationship of the three
Persons to each other is understood by Eckhart as natural rather than personal in the literal
sense.84 The essence of Rū m ī’s God, conversely, is not without personal qualities. His poetry
is filled with the presence of a heavenly Beloved who sees, hears, replies, communicates, and
can become happy or angry. Love is an attribute of God and is the only way to experience
intimacy with him,85 and man never reaches a stage, as Eckhart claims, in which he lies
beyond all lovableness. Rū m ī’s God is, therefore, a personality so expansive that it contains
within itself all existence and actions while maintaining personal contact with the human.
The differences between Rūm ī’s emanative creation and Eckhart’s onto-psychological em-
anation may refer to, if one rejects the influence of Neoplatonism on Rūm ī, the diverse versions
of mystical emanationism, especially regarding their proximity to the Biblical-Quranic con-
cept of creation, growing in parallel in different religious backgrounds. If one assumes such
an influence, these distinctions may exhibit different degrees of Neoplatonic impact on mystics
from Islamic and Christian traditions. In the case of the latter, Rūm ī’s adoption of the general
frame of emanation while rejecting some of its features—including its gradual and hierarchical
character, its necessary automatism, and the impersonal feature of its first principle as present
in Plotinus’ system—would serve as an example of an integrejectionist86 attitude toward this
Hellenistic philosophy.87 Though theories of emanation and creation have often been intro-
duced, in both medieval sources and modern scholarship, as alternative explanations for the
nexus between the One and many, or God and the world,88 Rūm ī’s ontology demonstrates that
the two doctrines do not necessarily have an either-or relationship. Instead, one can imagine a
wide spectrum with “hard creationism” at one end and “hard emanationism” at the other end,
with many mystics occupying positions somewhere between those two extremes. Some mys-
tics like Eckhart, especially those labeled as “speculative mystics,” are closer to the emanationist
end, while others, such as Rūm ī, verge toward the creationist rim.
Finally, the similarities between the two mystics may also refer to two points. In the event
that one refutes the influence of Neoplatonism on Rūm ī, these commonalities can be re-
garded as indicators of, among other things, similar mystical experiences of the divine and/
or an analogous formulation of such intuitive consciousness in Islamic and Christian contexts.
338
This would be especially appealing for proponents of the “common core” idea and the peren-
nialist thesis in the study of mysticism, which both highlight resemblances between mystical
traditions.89 If one accepts the Neoplatonic impact on Rūm ī, these commonalities will indicate
a process of cultural transfer between resonance spaces of “East” and “West” and the contex-
tualization of similar ideas in diverse settings. Acknowledging such a process certainly does
not mean the postulation of a Hellenistic “origin” of Sufism, as some scholars—especially
Western academics—have done.90 Instead, it shows a cultural interchange between the Orient
and Occident, and the inspiration of Sufism by, among several other factors, an Occidental
philosophy, which itself may have been informed by Oriental traditions.91 It could also be the
case that both of these possibilities exist side by side for Rūm ī: his own mystical experience,
unconsciously informed and shaped by Sufi discourse of the time, may have consciously been
formulated by him with the assistance of Neoplatonic emanationism, some aspects of which
Rūm ī may have found to be compatible with his own mystical insight.
Notes

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Saeed Zarrabi-Zadeh
Introduction to the Thought of the Brethren of Purity (London: Allen & Unwin, 1982); idem, “The
Neoplatonic Substrate of Suhraward ī’s Philosophy of Illumination: Falsafa as Ta ṣawwuf,” in The
Heritage of Sufism, vol. 2, The Legacy of Medieval Persian Sufism (1150–1500), ed. Leonard Lewisohn
(Oxford: Oneworld, 1999), 247–260.
15 See Ahmet T. Karamustafa, Sufism: The Formative Period (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press,
2007).
16 For Dhu’l-Nū n’s connection to the Empedoclean and Hermetic traditions, see Peter Kingsley,
Ancient Philosophy, Mystery and Magic: Empedocles and Pythagorean Tradition (New York: Clarendon
Press, 1995), 389–390.
17 Gerhard Böwering, The Mystical Vision of Existence in Classical Islam: The Qur’ānic Hermeneutics of
the Ṣūf ī Sahl at-Tustar ī (d. 283/896) (Berlin and New York: Walter De Gruyter, 1980), 147–157.
18 Karamustafa, Sufism, 42–43.
19 See Bernd Radtke and John O’Kane, The Concept of Sainthood in Early Islamic Mysticism (Richmond,
Surrey: Curzon, 1996).
20 For instance, see Alexander D. Knysh, Islamic Mysticism: A Short History (Leiden: Brill, 2000), 107.
Radtke and O’Kane in The Concept of Sainthood (15), however, argue for the Islamic identity of
al-Tirmidh ī as distinct from any Neoplatonist or Peripatetic complexion.
21 Böwering, The Mystical Vision, 52.
22 An early study of Ibn Arabi’s sources, including Neoplatonic ones, can be found in A. E. Affifi,
The Mystical Philosophy of Muḥyid Dín-Ibnul ‘Arabí (London: Cambridge University Press, 1939),
174–194. Ibn Arabi expert William C. Chittick states that the teachings of Ṣadr al-D ī n al-Q ū nāw ī,
the grand disciple of Ibn Arabi and a major systematizer of his thought, “present a thoroughly
Islamic version of that universal metaphysics that finds one of its most perfect expressions in
Neoplatonism.” See “The Circle of Spiritual Ascent According to al-Q ū naw ī,” in Neoplatonism
and Islamic Thought, ed. Parviz Morewedge (Albany: SUNY Press, 1992), 179–209, at 179.
23 These terms do not refer to three exclusive categories. Al-Ghaz ā l ī and Ibn ‘Arabī are examples of
Muslim philosopher-theologian-Sufis.
24 For this translation movement, see Charles Burnett, Arabic into Latin in the Middle Ages: The Trans-
lators and Their Intellectual and Social Context (Farnham: Ashgate, 2009). As the focus here is on the
period before Rumi and Eckhart, later developments of Neoplatonism, for example its revival
during the Renaissance in the West and its impact on the transcendent philosophy of Ṣadr al-D ī n
Sh ī r ā z ī (d. 1640) in the East, are not discussed here.
25 See Plotinus, The Enneads, trans. Stephen MacKenna and ed. John Dillon (London: Penguin
Books, 1991), 347–438. According to Plotinus, the Soul generates the material cosmos and the
chain of existence ends at the border of matter, which is nothing but the pure passivity and priva-
tion of all form or intelligibility.
26 Neoplatonist thinkers identified themselves as anti-Gnostic or at least non-Gnostic, and Plotinus
himself composed a treatise against Gnostics and commissioned his students to write further such
texts. Recent scholarship, especially that produced after the mid-twentieth century, nevertheless
highlights the similarities and connections between Neoplatonic and Gnostic metaphysics. See,
for instance, Joseph Katz, “Plotinus and the Gnostics,” Journal of the History of Ideas 15/2 (1954):
289–298.
27 Three abbreviations are employed in this chapter for Rū m ī’s works: M for The Mathnawí of Jalá-
lu’ddín Rúmí, ed. and trans. R. A. Nicholson, 8 vols. (London: Luzac, 1925–40), followed by the
number of the Mathnav ī ’s book and verse(s); D for D īw ān-i Shams-i Tabr īzī [“Collection of Shams
Tabrizi”], ed. Badi‘ al-Zaman Foruzanfar, 10 vols. (Tehran: University of Tehran Press, 1957–67),
followed by the poem number; and F for Discourses of R ūm ī, trans. A. J. Arberry (London: John
Murray, 1961; the translation of F īhi m ā F īh), followed by the page number. The current compar-
ative study of Rumi and Eckhart is partly informed by my recent monograph, Practical Mysticism in
Islam and Christianity (London and New York: Routledge, 2016).
28 See, for instance, M IV:1960–1968.
29 D 1665, D 2204, and M IV:506; M II:61–64 says that the Mu‘tazilites are “in thrall to sense-
perception,” and M III:1027 accuses them of lacking the light of intuition.
30 Al-Ghazali, The Incoherence of the Philosophers / Tahâfut al-Falâsifa: A Parallel English-Arabic Text, ed.
and trans. M. E. Marmura (Provo: Brigham Young University Press, 2000).
31 Muhammad b. Monavvar, Asrār al-Taw ḥīd f ī Maqām āt al-Shaykh Ab ī Sa‘ īd, ed. M. Shafi‘i Kadkani,
vol. 1 (Tehran: Agah, 1987), 43–44.
340
341
Saeed Zarrabi-Zadeh
342
23
THE JEWISH-SUFI ENCOUNTER
IN THE MIDDLE AGES
The Jewish-Sufi encounter in historical perspective

Between the eleventh and thirteenth centuries, Sufism exercised the single greatest external
impact on Jewish spirituality in the Islamic world. During this unique period, a wide vari-
ety of Jews from Iberia to North Africa to Egypt to Iraq and Iran exhibited an openness to
learn from the mystics of Islam. Even more remarkable, these Jews did not generally seek to
conceal this interest but justified it, defended it, and encouraged it within their respective
communities. Witnesses to this historic encounter between Judaism and Islam range from
complex spiritual and ethical treatises authored by the intellectual elite to letters attesting to
the piety of ordinary seekers. At its peak in thirteenth-century Egypt, Jewish pietism was
represented in every sector of society, from communal leaders and educated professionals
to poor craftsmen and unlettered devotees of all ages. Even after its eventual decline, the
Jewish-Sufi tradition lived on in individual pietists and, more importantly, made its mark on
the Jewish religion long after later readers could no longer recognize the Islamic origin of
key terms and teachings.
The phenomenon of Jewish-Sufi spirituality is all but inconceivable to Jews and Muslims
in the twenty-first century, whose primary association with one another is within the frame-
work of political conflict or religious polemic. The literary legacy of this movement has
been thoroughly eviscerated from cultural memory in both communities. Recovering and
retelling this story is a scholarly priority with the potential to foster curiosity in the past and
mutual respect in the present. By the same token, the significance of this historical encounter
must not be misrepresented as an example of interreligious cooperation. Jewish-Sufi piety
should not be mistaken for Jewish-Sufi relations. Even at its heyday, Jewish interest in Sufism
did not translate into close ties between religious leaders or laymen. Sufi literature attests to a
degree of hostility toward Jews and Judaism unmitigated by Jewish respect for its traditions.1
As a matter of fact, it is not clear that medieval Muslims, who lived in proximity to these
Jewish pietists, were even aware at the time that such circles existed. Not a single reference
to this Jewish movement has yet surfaced in Islamic literature that would indicate that these
Jews were even on the radar of their Muslim neighbors. This is most likely due to their mi-
nority status in Muslim society, a community that did not attract a great deal of interest in
343
the majority population, beyond those select spheres of activity in which Jews were relatively
visible or during moments of political crisis.
The Jewish-Sufi encounter is of enduring historical significance for several reasons, each
of which will be the focus of our attention in the sections that follow. First and foremost, the
movement represents a unique moment in the history of religions, in which a rival religion
was valued as a spiritual resource. Jewish receptivity to other traditions is one thing. Openly
advocating this type of receptivity is quite another. Even as Jews lived as a discriminated mi-
nority in the medieval Islamic world and viewed the majority religion as a political and cul-
tural rival, Jewish pietists exhibited a willingness to engage positively and profoundly with
the inner world of Islam. How they made their case for religious receptivity to their fellow
Jews is one of the enduring legacies of the Jewish-Sufi encounter. This legacy is the subject of
section “Jewish paradigms of receptivity,” in which we take a close look at two outstanding
examples of this open religious posture: the first by the pioneer of Jewish engagement with
Sufism in the eleventh century, Ba ḥya ibn Paquda, and the second by the champion of a full-
blown pietist movement in the thirteenth century, Abraham b. Moses Maimonides.
In section “Piety, pietism, and the problem of origins,” we take a closer look at the origins
of Jewish-Sufi pietism. Ba ḥya’s adaptation of Sufi models was original in many respects and
set the tone for future works of Jewish ethics and spirituality. But was it, in fact, the first
meaningful engagement with Sufism in Jewish literature? A recent theory has questioned
this assumption, placing the origins of Jewish-Sufi piety well before Ba ḥya. We will revisit
the question of origins by exploring the broader phenomenon of piety within the context
of medieval Near Eastern society. This will allow us to assess what we may attribute to the
particular impact of Sufism as compared with the general culture of piety in the Near East.
Section “The decline of Jewish-Sufi pietism: one family’s story” considers the decline of
Jewish-Sufi pietism through the story of one family in fourteenth-century Egypt. It con-
siders how the attraction of Sufi mysticism threatened to drive a wedge between family
members and even lead to their conversion to Islam. The case of this one family reflects
the complex state of the Jewish-Sufi encounter in the fourteenth century, after several de-
cades of communal opposition and persecution. In the ultimate historical irony, the head of
Egyptian Jewry at the center of this family’s struggles with Sufism also doubled as a master
of Jewish-Sufi pietism, a Maimonidean descendant and author of the last great pietist treatise.
Jewish paradigms of receptivity

In the introduction to his landmark work of Jewish spiritual ethics, Kit āb al-hidāyah il ā farā’i ḍ
al-qul ūb, (“The Guide to the Duties of the Heart”) Ba ḥya ibn Paquda (eleventh-century
Saragossa) admitted that he would have much preferred to be able to read a treatise on Jewish
piety than to have had to write one himself.2 He described his quest for some precedent, an
earlier work that systematically explored the inner spiritual duties, only to discover that no
such work existed. Not that the material was lacking. He went to great lengths to prove that
biblical and rabbinic lore are in agreement that the external expectations of religion, what he
called “the duties of the limbs” ( farā’i ḍ al-jaw āriḥ), were meaningless without a correspond-
ing attention to the inner life, “the duties of the heart” ( farā’i ḍ al-qul ūb). What Ba ḥya lacked
was a treatise organizing these teachings into a coherent system. For this, he discovered a
fruitful model outside his tradition. Sufi mystical manuals were in circulation since the ninth
century and provided rich fodder for Ba ḥya’s literary project. When it came time to clarify
which sources he utilized in composing his book, Ba ḥya listed not specific books but the type
of works he drew upon for inspiration.
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The Jewish-Sufi encounter
I cite from the scriptures composed by the prophets and saints, followed by the teachings
transmitted by our ancestors as well as the saints and sages of every society about whom
we have a record…, such as anecdotes of the philosophers and the regimens and exemplary
deeds of the ascetics. This is in accordance with what our ancestors, of blessed memory,
have said (Bavli Sanhedrin 39b)…, “The upright ways [of the other nations] you have not
followed, while their corrupt ways you have followed.” They likewise said (Bavli Megillah
16a): “Anyone who speaks a word of wisdom, including among the nations of the world, is
called a sage.”3
Ba ḥya’s openness to gentile wisdom was virtually unprecedented in the Jewish tradition
he inherited. To be sure, he drew upon talmudic teachings receptive of gentile virtue and
wisdom, but these were little more than isolated maxims, hardly the basis for extensive en-
gagement with foreign traditions. Although Ba ḥya did not name his non-Jewish sources, the
effect was not lost on the discerning reader. In the fifth part of his Duties of the Heart, Ba ḥya
cited the following story:
It is told of one of the righteous who came upon a group of warriors returning from
victory after a great battle, who said to them, ‘You have returned victorious, praise be
to God, from the lesser battle (al-jih ād al-a ṣghar). Now prepare yourselves for the greater
battle (al-jih ād al-akbar)!’ They asked him, ‘What is the greater battle?’ He replied, ‘The
battle against the passions and their forces.’4
Students of Islamic tradition will immediately recognize the source of this anecdote in a
Ḥad īth cited in numerous Sufi sources. The sage whom Ba ḥya dubbed “one of the righteous”
was none other than the prophet Mu ḥammad in the original version.5 This is an example of
Ba ḥya’s praise of “the regimens and exemplary deeds of the ascetics,” an unmistakable nod to
the ideals of Sufi mysticism. Even his appeal to Jewish “prophets and saints” (al-anbiyā’ wa’l-
auliyā’) was a clever reuse of a ubiquitous Sufi expression invoking the ancient prophets and
later (Sufi) saints. His absorption of Sufi ideals, teachings, and expressions – some explicit,
others implicit – is ubiquitous in Ba ḥya’s pioneering work.
Ba ḥya’s influence on generations of Jewish spirituality has been second to none. Over the
years, the Duties of the Heart has been reprinted and translated countless times. Yet there is
no way to reconstruct Ba ḥya’s impact on his own generation in al-Andalus. No trace of an
Iberian pietist movement, or even small circles of disciples, have surfaced to indicate that the
spiritual revolution Ba ḥya envisioned for his fellow Jews materialized beyond the confines
of his book. In the century and a half following Ba ḥya, sporadic examples of Sufi-inflected
Jewish pietism surfaced between Iberia and North Africa.6 The next major chapter of the
Jewish-Sufi encounter did not crystallize until the late twelfth century in Egypt, the center
of newly energized Sufi renaissance encouraged and bankrolled by the Ayyubid government
of Salāḥ al-Dī n, better known in the Christian west as Saladin. In this highly charged reli-
gious environment, Sufi institutions were increasingly visible parts of the cultural landscape,
one the Jewish minority could not help but witness and absorb in one capacity or another.
For this phase of the Jewish-Sufi encounter, we have much more detailed information on
account of historical discoveries in the Cairo Genizah – from treatises composed by Jewish
pietists to letters and documents circulated between them. Not only does the Genizah bear
witness to Jewish pietist writings written in a Sufi key, it contains original Sufi classics in
Arabic, some in their original Arabic characters and others transcribed into Hebrew letters
for the benefit of a wider Jewish readership. The scribes, or those who hired them, had ready
access to the original texts, but someone determined that they were worth transcribing into
345
Hebrew characters with the goal that they should reach a general Jewish audience beyond the
intellectual elite who could access them independently in the Islamic marketplace.
Some of these works were Sufi classics – including writings by Abū’l-Qā sim Qushayr ī
(d. 1072), Abū Ḥā mid al-Ghaz ā l ī (d. 1111), and Abū Ḥafs ‘Umar al-Suhraward ī (d. 1235) –
while other fragments attest to interest in the poetry of the mystic and martyr of Baghdad,
Ibn Manṣū r al-Ḥallāj (d. 922).7 Apart from Genizah fragments, numerous manuscripts con-
tain Hebrew transcriptions of Sufi works, most of which have never been published and are
largely unknown. Still more interesting are the citations of Sufi works (from technical man-
uals to divine love poetry) that appear in Jewish writings intended for an internal audience.
In short, the trail of Jewish interest in Sufi literature of all genres is quite long and will take
the work of many scholars to document, publish, and properly analyze. Interest was both
broad and deep and is one of our best clues as to the open religious posture exhibited by me-
dieval Jewish mystics during the height of the pietist movement in thirteenth-century Egypt.
Egyptian Jewish pietism appears to have evolved organically around the turn of the thir-
teenth century among small circles of ascetics before it coalesced into the broad and varie-
gated movement it would become only a few decades later. An early document identifies
two prominent brothers, Abraham and Joseph of Fustat, as leaders of the nascent movement.
The document, hailing from the first years of the thirteenth century, describes the regimen
of the pietists: “[T]hey arise [for vigils] at night and fast during the day as on the day of
atonement…”8
In one of his early ethical works, Moses Maimonides described the importance of the
golden mean between extremes, even as he acknowledged that some righteous men deliber-
ately incline away from the mean toward one of the extremes, “by fasting [during the day],
arising [for vigils] during the night, abstaining from eating meat and drinking wine, avoid-
ing marriage, wearing woolen garments (al- ṣūf ), dwelling in the mountains, and secluding
themselves in remote places.”9 Maimonides justified this exception as a mode of moral or
spiritual therapy intended only for select individuals on rare occasions. In the process, he
observed, a group of Jews have adopted this as a daily regimen.
Although Maimonides critiqued this group of ascetics, he praised ascetic discipline as a
targeted, therapeutic practice for select individuals. Maimonides argued that such extreme
measures were unnecessary for most Jews, seeing that the laws of the Torah – from dietary
restrictions to sexual prohibitions to an emphasis on regular charity – were already calibrated
to steer their practitioners away from fixation on physical pleasure and worldly gain. More
extreme measures of self-denial, he maintained here and in other works, should only be
adopted by a handful of individuals for whom it is not only appropriate but also necessary.
Maimonides’ views on ascetic discipline aside, he was keenly aware that growing numbers
of Jewish pietists were modeling themselves after groups of gentile ascetics, and it is not hard
to imagine which specific gentile groups he had in mind.
It is one of the great ironies of Jewish history that Abraham, the only son and successor of
Maimonides as leader of Egyptian Jewry, became the most prominent advocate of Egyptian
Jewish pietism in the next generation. A number of scholars have viewed Abraham’s embrace
of the pietists as a sign that he rejected his father’s rationalism in favor of Sufi mysticism.10
While this is a reasonable conclusion at first glance, I believe the son hewed closely to the ideals
of the father, for at least two reasons. First, much like Baḥya, Abraham’s pietism was a synthesis
of philosophy and mysticism that specifically highlighted the role of the intellect in contempla-
tive practice and as the site of mystical communion with God. Second, Abraham believed that
he was continuing his father’s legacy even in his embrace of pietism. Maimonides’ famous ex-
ception to the golden mean for the select few became the guiding principle for his son’s efforts
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to forge a movement aimed at cultivating just such a spiritual elite.11 Abraham’s magnum opus,
a massive treatise entitled Kifāyat al‘ābidīn (“The Compendium for the Servants of God”), was
divided into four parts with this very distinction in mind. The first three parts he devoted to
laws common to Jews as a whole (al-sulūk al-‘āmm), while the fourth and final part he aimed at
those undertaking the unique path (al-sulūk al-khāṣṣ) of the pietist elite.
In his embrace of Sufi prototypes, Abraham was both more radical and more conservative
than Ba ḥya. If Ba ḥya stopped short of specifically naming Sufism and limited his allusions
to anecdotes and teachings on the inner life, Abraham advocated for the incorporation of
specific Sufi rites into Jewish practice and explicitly hailed the exemplary practices of “the
Sufis of Islam.” At the same time, Abraham was more conservative than his predecessor in
his claim that Sufi rites originated in ancient Jewish practices that were neglected over the
course of the Jewish exile. Abraham adopted the same approach when he advocated the
reinstitution of prostration, kneeling, and orderly rows in prayer, for example, arguing that
these and other rites were originally part of Jewish prayer and ought to be restored by the
community, even if he was only successful among fellow pietists. The case for Jewish origins
is evident in Abraham’s account of the special attire well known among Sufis and adopted
by Jewish pietists.
When Elijah passed by Elisha before [Elisha] became his loyal follower…, Elijah cast his
cloak over him as a sign … that his own perfection would be transferred to him and that
he would attain to what he himself had attained. You are aware of the [custom] among the
Sufis of Islam, among whom – due to the sins of Israel! – some of the ways of the ancient
saints of Israel are to be found, while such is not found – or only in small numbers – among
our contemporaries, according to which the master places the ragged cloak over the aspi-
rant, when the latter wants to join his path and travel with him… We transmit from them
and emulate their rites, [such as in] the wearing of the sleeveless shirts and the like.12
Abraham maintained that, by adopting key Sufi rites, the pietists were merely restoring mys-
tical practices of the ancient prophets and lost over the course of the exile. In the scriptural
scene of Elijah casting his cloak before his disciple, Abraham identified a biblical precedent
for the Sufi rite of initiation, in which the shaikh cast a ritual cloak at the novice to indicate
acceptance. Working on the assumption that Islam received many core beliefs and practices
from its older Mosaic cousin, Abraham saw it as his sacred duty to identify long-discarded
Jewish rites and restore them to their ancestral home.
Prophecy was a central motif of Egyptian pietism and not out of purely theoretical in-
terest. The ultimate ambition of the movement was the restoration of prophecy among the
people of Israel, something Abraham believed, like his father before him, was destined to
occur at the onset of the messianic era. Abraham and his colleagues were no doubt aware
of the importance of prophecy in Sufi literature. Since the ninth century, Muslim scholars
interpreted the Quran’s description of Mu ḥammad as “seal of the prophets” to mean that
he was the last of the prophets.13 Yet this was by no means the original meaning of the term
“seal” nor the accepted interpretation of the phrase before the ninth century. As late as the
thirteenth century, a number of Sufi authors asserted that prophetic attainment was still
possible and constituted the highest state to which a mystic may aspire.14 Al-Ghaz ā l ī put it
eloquently in his Deliverance from Error:
Each movement and each stillness of [the Sufis], both outward and inward, flows from
the light of the state of prophecy. There is no light from which they seek illumination
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save the light of prophecy… Whoever has not enjoyed the state of “tast”’ cannot un-
derstand the truth of prophecy, only its name. Indeed, the wonders performed by the
“friends” (al-awliyā’) are in fact the first stage of the prophets.15
For Abraham and his colleagues, the pietist movement constituted a prophetic revival, draw-
ing upon biblical precedent through the lens of Sufi mysticism. It aimed to train individual
mystics for a “taste” of prophecy but it also hoped to revive what it considered the biblical
institution of prophecy. They maintained that prophetic training was part of the original tra-
dition from Sinai, which provided not only a system of laws but also a paradigm for attaining
revelation. The pietists sought to recreate the ancient system of prophetic training, according
to which a seasoned prophet instructed a group of novices (“disciples of the prophets”) in
how to receive the spirit of God.16 Pietists constructed master-disciple circles aimed at the
attainment of prophecy through meditative and trance-inducing practices that, like the bib-
lical model, would perpetuate itself into future generations.17
By finding traces of “the prophetic path” of ancient Judaism in Sufism, Abraham en-
visioned a symbiotic relationship between Judaism and Islam. Much as he believed that
Judaism played a formative role in the development of the Islamic religion, he was convinced
that Islam (and Sufism in particular) could play a critical role in the revitalization of Jewish
religious life at the dawn of the redemption. The road to the renewal of Judaism and the
fulfillment of its ancient destiny traveled through Islam. A fragment of Abraham’s Compen-
dium for the Servants of God that survived in the Cairo Genizah provides one of the strongest
statements on the symbiosis of Judaism and Islam.
[Part of the Jewish tradition] has been transferred to the nations among whom [the Jews]
reside and has become [re]established among the Jewish people through [the influence
of ] the nations. Providence has ordained that [ Jewish tradition] will disappear from
among them while they reside [among the nations], until they repent and turn in repen-
tance unto God, on account of which they will be delivered. In this way, the nations
will become the instrument for the rebirth of [Israel]…18
Piety, pietism, and the problem of origins

In order to properly determine the origins of Jewish-Sufi pietism, we must begin by asking
what set it apart from parallel ideals of piety in the cultural landscape of the medieval Islamic
Near East. To address this question, we shall focus on two examples: asceticism and the twin
practices of fasting and prayer vigils. Each of these rites was central to the ascetic regimen
of Sufis and their Egyptian pietist disciples. Yet these expressions of piety were not limited
to these groups. Their pervasiveness presents a dilemma as to when we are faced with direct
Sufi influence compared with the impact of broader cultural forces in the environment.
Some recent scholars have designated forms of Jewish piety in the Near East as examples
of “Jewish-Sufism” and, on that basis, have traced the origins of its development earlier than
Ba ḥya. These scholars have pointed to the liturgical poetry of the early eleventh-century Iraqi
Jewish exilarch, David ha-Nasi b. Hezekiah. According to one scholar, David’s poems betray
an ascetic spirit that echoes the spirit of self-negation in Sufi mysticism that were more fully
developed in Ba ḥya’s writings and culminated in the pietist movement in thirteenth-century
Egypt.19 In a recent essay on the beginnings of Jewish-Sufi literature, another scholar took this
theory one step further, describing the Nasi’s poetry as a “Sufi creation,” all the more signif-
icant for being “the earliest literary expression of Sufism” by a Jewish author of the medieval
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period.20 If correct, this discovery would upend the scholarly consensus that Ba ḥya ibn Paquda
pioneered the use of Sufi sources as a basis for a new model of piety.21
At the root of the question of origins is a linguistic problem. The Hebrew term ḥasidut
can mean either piety in general or pietism proper. In my study of Egyptian pietism, I have
argued that the distinction between piety and pietism lies principally in its social organiza-
tion.22 According to this model, an ideal mode of behavior (which we may call a culture of
piety) must be carefully distinguished from a movement with recognized leaders and formal
discipleship (constituting a community of pietism). When it comes to the term ḥasidut, it is
clear that one of these translations works better than the other. To view the poetry of David
ha-Nasi as the forerunner of Jewish-Sufi pietism, if not an outright Sufi creation, is to priv-
ilege the conception of pietism over the ideal of piety.23
Two aspects of David ha-Nasi’s poetry resemble the Sufi worldview and Sufi praxis. For
example, the poet applied the words “world” and “soul” as terms of opprobrium, evoking
parallels with the Sufi doctrine of renunciation of world and self hood, well known in the
ascetic poetry (zuhdīyāt) prevalent in Sufi circles from the ninth century.24 The parallel is
quite intriguing, yet the search for influence and origins is hardly cut and dry. Some Sufi
poets certainly composed ascetic verses but this genre is also known from non-Sufi circles,
including philosophers of different religious backgrounds. One Arabic poem from the period
is described by its anonymous Jewish copyist as “a philosopher’s ascetic poem” (zuhdīyat fay-
lasuf ).25 Many ascetic poems went undetected due to the selective use of the term, zuhdīyah,
including in David ha-Nasi’s own poetic collection.26
What is more, the turn to asceticism in the tenth century was by no means limited to
Sufi mystics but constituted a core element of medieval Near Eastern culture, among phi-
losophers of every stripe and adherents of every religion. The closer one reads the works
of Arabic philosophers from Kindi and Razi to Farabi and Ibn Bajja, the more one recog-
nizes that the culture of material and worldly renunciation was as much at the heart of the
philosophical path as it was of the mystical.27 So central was the ascetic ideal among the
philosophers that Ghaz ā l ī, in his autobiographical tract, Deliverance from Error, went so far as
to accuse the philosophers of imitating and coopting Sufi ideals.
All that [the philosophers] speak about are the different qualities and dispositions of
the soul … and the application of therapy and self-discipline to them. All of this they
co-opted from the doctrines of the Sufis, those divine men who apply themselves assid-
uously in the remembrance of God and the suppression of the passions and follow the
path to God by renouncing the pleasures of the world… The philosophers co-opted
these [methods] and mixed them with their own doctrines, hoping thereby to use these
virtues to promote their vanities.28
In an ironic twist on the comparison of Sufism and philosophy, A ḥ mad Ibn Taymiyya
(d. 1328), charged Ghaz ā l ī with imitating the philosophers, rather than vice versa. In a fatw ā
against the Sufi practice of solitary retreat, Ibn Taim īyah declared that Ghaz ā l ī “praises
asceticism beyond all proportion. These are the lingering influences of philosophy upon
him.”29 Less polemical writers from the medieval period also maintained that mysticism and
philosophy closely resemble one another in their emphasis on otherworldly transcendence.
The eleventh-century littérateur, Abū Ḥayyān al-Tawḥīd ī (d. 1023), a native of Iraq and con-
temporary of David ha-Nasi, observed that “Sufism and philosophy are neighbors and visit
one another” ( fa-inna al-ta ṣawwuf wa’l-tafalsuf yatajāwirān wa-yatazāwirān).30 Even the use of
“world” and “soul” as an ascetic trope was not unique to Sufism, but was an outgrowth of
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a broader cultural ideal. In a somewhat later period, Judah al-Ḥar īzī admonished his soul in
the following terms:
Oh, my soul! Judgment day awaits you, when deed will meet its reward.
Return from the paths that lead their travelers astray.
How much have you been seduced with distractions and sloth?
Be cleansed, my soul, from the stain of desire…31
The poet charged his reader to wake the soul from the slumber of worldly desire and raise it
to the celestial heights, applying the same terms for soul and world (nafs and ‘ālim) common
among Sufis and philosophers alike.32
Several of David ha-Nasi’s poems refer to nightly or early morning prayer vigils, which
recall the well-known Sufi tradition of “rising” (qiyām) at night for similar private devotion.
Yet here, too, the evidence likely reflects the Near Eastern Jewish practice of predawn chant-
ing of special hymns, albeit with clear echoes of the Islamic milieu. One early Iraqi respon-
sum by Sherira Gaon (d. 1006) describes “a pious custom” (middat ḥasidut) to rise at midnight
for the recitation supererogatory “hymns and praises.”33 In the Andalusian context, these
hymns were known variously as baqqashot, ta ḥannunim, zemirot, or the latter’s Judeo-Arabic
equivalent, mazāmīr.34
Even when Jews combined the practice of nightly prayer with daily fasting, a phenome-
non well attested in Sufi tradition as “fasting and rising” (ṣiyām wa-qiyām),35 it need not be
directly associated with Sufism. Interestingly, this combination was occasionally taken as the
most characteristic form of piety by which a Jew may distinguish himself. When an Egyptian
Jewish merchant doing business in India and Yemen wrote to his wife in Futat of his adven-
tures overseas, he mentioned the most curious details in quick succession:
Day and night I have been constantly drinking, not as I would have wished, yet still I have
conducted myself in an exemplary way… I … cure my soul by fasting during the days and
praying during the nights… I am regarded [by others] and regard myself as a pious man.36
And when Judah al-Ḥar īzī praised an Iraqi Jewish elder for his devotion to God, he wrote pri-
marily of the latter’s practice of nightly prayer and daily fasts: “Throughout his days he does not
cease to fast and his nights [are spent] in solitude and standing in prayer.”37 For Ḥar īzī, this was
not a mark of Sufi piety, but of piety pure and simple, every much Jewish as Islamic.
In a liturgical poem Judah Halevi composed for predawn supererogatory prayer, the poet
praised the pious for their nightly prayer and daily fasts.
Go out at midnight among men of renown,
With praise [of God] upon their tongues and no deceit in their hearts,
Their nights are spent in prayer and their days in fasts.38
These diverse examples bear witness not to a simple mechanism of inter-confessional bor-
rowing any more than they are evidence of a concerted social movement of Jewish-Sufi
pietism. We would do well to consider the shared cultural matrix that left its mark on the
religious and intellectual movements throughout the medieval Near East, among Muslims,
Christians, Jews, and freethinkers alike – a function of the cultural unity and free flow of
ideas in the Islamicate world. Rather than read the ascetic poetry of David ha-Nasi as the
earliest exemplar of Jewish-Sufi pietism, we may see it as a reflection of a shared culture of
piety among intellectuals from Iberia and the Maghreb to Egypt and Iraq.
The question of origins is not limited to the encounter between Judaism and Sufism.
Historians of Jewish culture in the Islamic world have long been intrigued by the question of
350
mutual influence. In his classic study of Jewish-Arab relations, S. D. Goitein noted the initial
Jewish influence upon Islam and the later reversal in which the flow of influence shifted in
the opposite direction “under Arab-Muslim influence.”39 According to Hava Lazarus-Yafeh,
“Judaism, more than any other religion and culture, left a decisive impact on Islam” during
its period of formation and consolidation, after which “Islam, which had become a rich and
variegated culture, profoundly influenced Jewish culture. Consequently, the interrelation-
ship of these two cultures may be regarded as a closed circle, a rare phenomenon in cultural
relationships.”40
In the realm of Jewish-Sufi scholarship, Paul Fenton made a similar case of two-way in-
fluence: “From a strictly chronological point of view, it was Judaism that initially influenced
Sufism in its formative period in Baghdad.”41 At a later point, “once Sufism had asserted itself
as a spiritual force, it began to exert a compelling attraction for Jews,” beginning with “Sufi
beliefs concerning the ascetic ideal and the vanity of the lower world” among Jewish figures
in Baghdad, and culminating in the assimilation of Sufi literary and doctrinal currents by
Jewish mystics from Iberia to Egypt and beyond.42
An alternative approach views culture as a unifying element, greater than the sum of its
fragmented parts and more permeable than religious discourse or polemical exchange would
readily admit. It is often helpful to disentangle the unifying structures of culture (a bedrock of
linguistic, material, and spiritual components) from the identity formation operative in the
production of distinct communities. Culture may be conceived as a porous web, encompassing
major components within an overarching framework that allows for degrees of permeability
on all sides. This working definition of culture forces us to reevaluate traditional lines of de-
marcation and spheres of influence, destabilizing familiar boundary markers in the process.
In his reconceptualization of Jewish culture in the Greco-Roman context, Michael
Satlow recently argued against an “essentialization” of Jewish versus non-Jewish cultural
expression, taking his own point of departure from the deep structures of meaning that
unite otherwise distinct communal identities. In Satlow’s words, “Many Jews in antiquity
maintained their ethnic distinctiveness, but they were physically indistinguishable from, and
socially integrated with, their non-Jewish neighbors. They shared their ‘deep structures’ of
meaning.”43 In Satlow’s view, Jewish distinctiveness was one of various “strategies of Jewish
identity formation,” by which Jews identified themselves even as they were otherwise en-
meshed in the local cultural milieu.
The cultural framework of medieval Near Eastern society bears obvious parallels with
its Hellenistic predecessor: the diffusion of a common linguistic substructure facilitating a
dynamic cultural exchange at nearly every level of society. Writing on the early confluence
of Jewish and nascent Muslim traditions in seventh-century Arabia, Haggai Ben-Shammai
emphasized the importance of a common language for the development of a porous cul-
tural environment, an “environment that enabled intercultural relations between Jews and
Arabs,” in which “the free flow (not necessarily borrowing!) of religious ideas and literary
motifs between [them] seems also inevitable.”44 The common linguistic substratum and en-
ergetic exchange of idea and ideals throughout the Islamicate world allowed for a shared
cultural nexus that bound together Muslims, Jews, and others throughout the region.
The decline of Jewish-Sufi pietism: one family’s story

Around 1360, a Jewish woman in Cairo dispatched a worried letter to David b. Joshua, de-
scendent of Maimonides and head of the Jews in the Mamluk Empire. The woman identified
herself as the wife of Ba ṣī r al-Jalājil ī (“the bell maker”) and as the mother of three children.
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David b. Joshua knew the family not only in his capacity as head of the Jews but also as
communal physician. In her letter to the Nagid, the woman did not miss the opportunity to
remind him of the prescription he promised her for her son’s earache. But, as the letter makes
plain, her son’s earache was the least of her worries. Her emotional letter casts invaluable
light on a unique chapter in the intertwined destinies of Judaism and Islam.
The maidservant, wife of Ba ṣī r the bell maker, kisses the ground [of the master] and
notifies [him] that she has three children to care for, while her husband has taken to
the mountain in the company of al-Kū r ān ī for the sake of vanity and nonsense – a place
devoid of Torah, prayer, and calling upon God’s name in truth. He is altogether taken
with going up the mountain in the company of the Sufis, who have the semblance, not
the essence [of worship].
The maidservant is afraid that he may associate with a bad man, who will convert
him and the three children out of the [ Jewish] religion… What is more, he wants the
maidservant to sell [our] house, separate from the Jewish community, and live up on
the mountain…
Our lord … is the leader of [the Jews of the] region and his great responsibility cannot
keep him from restraining that man from ascending the mountain and inducing him
to spend time in the synagogue and occupy himself with providing food for his family.
Our lord has promised to provide the ear medicine for the little boy, who suffers from
the pain… May [God] have mercy!45
The woman in our letter may have been nameless but she was by no means voiceless. While
her husband had all but abandoned his family and job to spent time in the company of a Sufi
order in the mountains outside Cairo, she did everything in her power to keep her household
together in his absence – caring for her children’s food, health, and education – and explor-
ing the head of the Jews to assert his jurisdiction to bring her husband back to his senses and,
most importantly, back to his family and community.
In addition to being resourceful, the woman was quite savvy about the world around her.
Her letter displays keen insight into her Islamic environment, including intimate knowledge of
Sufi mysticism. She described the Sufi order led by al-Kūrānī as a place devoid of “calling upon
God’s name in truth” (zekhirat ha-shem). Here she alluded to two key Sufi terms not in her native
Arabic but in Hebrew, as if to claim that these concepts were originally Jewish and corrupted
by Sufism.46 Her reference to “calling upon God’s name” literally means “recalling the name,”
an unmistakable reference to the Sufi practice of dhikr, in which a group of devotees call God’s
names to mind in a meditative chant.47 Her additional phrase, “in truth” (‘al ha-emet), echoed the
Sufi concept of truth (ḥaqīqah) as well as the Sufi name of God, “the Truth” (al-ḥaqq).
Nor does it end there. She referred to the Sufis as “the poor” (al-fuqarā), as Sufi authors
typically referred to themselves, but she added that they were only poor on the outside
(al- ẓāhir), not the inside (al-bāṭin). Here she deftly turned a classic Sufi dichotomy against
itself. With remarkable wit, she adopted technical Sufi terminology only to turn it into a
Jewish polemic against Islamic mysticism. She did so not only by her rhetoric but also by
cleverly shifting between Arabic and Hebrew idioms. We can almost hear the woman ar-
guing with her husband, hoping to convince him that what he thought was Sufi was in fact
Jewish and only corrupted by the Sufis.
What Ba ṣī r’s wife likely did not know was that the Nagid was himself a sympathetic
and sophisticated reader of Sufi literature, who integrated many core Sufi concepts into his
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own writings, the latest in a venerable tradition of Egyptian Jewish pietists descended from
Maimonides. David b. Joshua wrote extensively on the ideal of pietism in his treatise on
the spiritual life, Guide to Solitude and Aid to Detachment (al-Murshid il ā’l-tafarrud wa’l-murfid
il ā’l-tajarrud), a work that deftly synthesized Jewish tradition with Sufi mysticism. Several
themes in the woman’s letter take on new resonance in light of the Nagid’s Jewish-Sufi
manual.
To take the woman’s first example, that of dhikr, David b. Joshua wrote of the importance
of constant recollection of God with the goal of achieving mystical illumination. In the
classical Sufi manuals, which the Nagid knew well, recollection of God was a key meditative
practice for attaining a state of illumination. One of the most influential early Sufi masters,
Abū’l-Qā sim Qushayr ī, wrote that a master who sees a disciple’s potential should “instruct
him to patiently practice constant dhikr until the lights from above shine in his heart and the
luminescence of communion beam brightly in his mind.”48 According to the later ‘Umar
al-Suhraward ī, “when the manner of dhikr grows strong…, the heart becomes like a crystal,
within which dwells the light of certainty.”49
In keeping with this venerable Sufi tradition, David b. Joshua viewed the mystical
path as one of ascetic discipline and meditative practice in search of illumination. In
his treatise, David b. Joshua constructed an intricate spiritual path based on an ancient
rabbinic hierarchy of virtues buttressed by core Sufi doctrines. The ancient rabbinic
hierarchy, recorded in the name of R. Pin ḥ as b. Yair, began with the ideal of caution
or diligence (zehirut) and culminated in piety (ḥasidut), the attainment of the holy spirit,
and the onset of redemption. 50 This became the prototype for what the Nagid called “the
path to piety.” 51 The Nagid played on the word zehirut, which shares a root with the term
for brilliance or illumination, evoking the school of illuminationism (ishr āq īyah) founded
by Shah ā b al-D ī n al-Suhraward ī.
[T]he word zehirut derives from the scriptural verse[s], “and the enlightened shall
shine like the radiance of the sky (yazhiru ke-zohar ha-raqia‘)” (Daniel 12:3), “like the
appearance of radiance (ke-mar’eh zohar), like the light of the electron” (Ezekiel 8:2). The
meaning [of zohar] is the quest for illumination and enlightenment (istishrāq wa-tanw īr).
So, too, zehirut refers to the quest for illumination, such that the person possessing this
spiritual station (maqām) is called zahir. The meaning of someone seeking illumina-
tion is the quest for enlightenment of the soul, illumination by means of enlightening
thoughts, divine luminescence, and intellectual flashes of the spirit, which come about
by means of constant meditation upon the kingdom of heaven and recollection of God
with a true recollection…52
We may wonder why Ba ṣī r went to the trouble of abandoning his family and community
for induction in a Sufi order when the leader of his own community was a master mystic
able to combine the spiritual riches of Judaism and Sufism. Two answers present them-
selves. The first is the fact that the Sufi circle of al-Kū r ā n ī likely encouraged Ba ṣī r as a
potential conversion to Islam. Sufi masters often combined spiritual mentorship of their
own acolytes with missionary activities aimed at the conversion of infidels to Islam. Few
Jewish sources attest to these conversions nor do we have any clear sense as to the extent
of this phenomenon, but multiple Sufi sources, both Arabic and Persian, include stories of
celebrated masters attracting and converting non-believers, the majority of which are said
to have been Jews.53
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To take one example, the celebrated Sufi poet, Rū m ī, known for his verses professing to
transcend the confessional boundaries of religion, wrote with great passion of the demonic
character of the Jews in his epic poem (Mathnawi-yi ma‘naw ī ) and was repeatedly celebrated
by his followers for successfully converting thousands of infidel Jews and Christians in his
native Konya during his lifetime. There are many stories of the miraculous ability of Sufi
masters to turn heretics into believers. In these stories, Jews serve as the archetypal infidel,
whose conversion from sinner to saint is considered the greatest proof of the wonders of the
shaikh in the eyes of his followers. To be sure, many of these stories should be viewed not
as historical anecdotes but as paradigmatic tales of Sufi saints, replete with literary embel-
lishment and devised for maximum effect on the reader.54 Yet the recurrence of this motif
and the fixation on Jewish conversion testify to Sufi interest in missionary activity across a
spectrum of periods and places. It is probably no coincidence that the fourteenth-century
mystic to whom Baṣī r was attracted, Yū suf al-‘Ajam ī al-Kū r ān ī, was revered by his followers
for his miraculous ability to turn heretics into devout Sufi acolytes.55
What is more, Baṣīr was most likely not aware of the Nagid’s interest in Sufism or of his
works bridging Jewish and Sufi spirituality. Whoever was reading David b. Joshua’s pietist
works was almost certainly part of a close circle of disciples, beyond the reach of the broader
community. They were meant for those dedicated pietists he called “the knowers, the wayfar-
ers, the seekers of illumination (al-mustashriqīn).”56 We may wonder whether the Nagid later
encouraged Baṣīr to join his circle of pietists, given his interest in bringing the recalcitrant
husband back into the Jewish fold. But there is no doubt that Baṣīr was under the impression
that ascetic mysticism was the exclusive domain of Islam and alien to Jewish practice.
For the better part of the thirteenth century, Jewish interest in Sufism generated inter-
mittent tension with the Egyptian Jewish community. This took the form of communal
opposition from anti-pietist preachers in the courts of public opinion, trumped-up heresy
trials, and even appeals to the Muslim authorities to suppress the Jewish innovators.57 By
the late thirteenth century, this led to an increasingly introverted circle of pietists, many
of whom did not wish to expose their association with the movement and risk the fall-out
within their own families. By the mid-fourteenth century, the movement was so clandestine
that a number of Jewish mystics began to gravitate to Muslim Sufi orders. Sufism continued
to attract Jews as mystics and potential converts, even as Jewish-Sufism was on the wane as
a spiritual option for all but a handful of Jewish devotees. During this last phase of what was
once a vibrant movement, Jewish-Sufi pietism went from a community of fellow mystics to
a literary and spiritual legacy that was all but forgotten in Jewish and Muslim memory until
its dramatic rediscovery by modern scholars.
Notes

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355
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̣ ̣
356
357
24
SUFISM AND THE HINDU
DHARMA
Thomas Dähnhardt
As an integral part of the D īn al-Isl ām, the presence of Sufism and sufis in South Asia is prob-
ably as ancient as the arrival of the first Muslims in that part of the world. Although there is
no definite proof for such a claim, it is likely that some early Sufis reached the Subcontinent
as soon as the seventh to eighth centuries AD accompanying Arab traders on their maritime
journeys across the Arabian Sea to India’s western Konkan and Malabar Coast. In the centu-
ries that followed, others travelled overland through the Iranian desert under the protective
umbrella of temporal leaders engaged in extending Muslim rule to al-Hind, the legendary
land east of the river Indus. The progressive military conquest of South Asia’s physical ter-
ritory by Arab, Turkish and Afghan leaders went along with the more peaceful, but not less
significant campaign perpetrated by spiritual authorities (sufis)1 and scholars (‘ulam ā) seek-
ing to explore and insert themselves into India’s cultural and social landscape. But whereas
the ‘ulam ā in most cases restricted themselves to asserting the supremacy of Islam over the
Subcontinent’s idolators (mushrik ūn) through erudite discourses in the domain of the exo-
teric sciences (‘ul ūm al- ẓāhir), the call to Islam of the sufis relied on attentive observation and
careful investigations of South Asia’s intellectual environment. They engaged in an unbiased
dialogue with the local population, assimilating many of the prevailing customs, learning
the local languages and studying its literary and spiritual traditions attempting to understand
the attitudes and underlying mentality of the indigenous culture with the intent of winning
over hearts and minds. This identification with the indigenous environment proved vital for
the process of interaction with India’s prevalent spiritual disciplines and allowed for an inten-
sive exchange of ideas and practices guaranteeing at the same time each individual’s identity
with the specific social and religious group of belonging.
From an Indian perspective, the dynamic forces released by the expansion of Islam through-
out South Asia compelled the Subcontinent’s religious and social élite to come to terms with
the new circumstances. While most of them remained preoccupied with safeguarding their
hereditary intellectual, social and economical hegemony in an attempt to defend their ancient
privileges, others recognized the potential for new developments and engaged in an open dis-
course ready to exploit the opportunities provided by the new arrivals. While apparently it was
both among the more humble strata of Hindu society that the power and attraction conveyed
through the message of the prophet Muḥammad and his spiritual successors (khulafā) left the
most immediate and visible impact through voluntary and involuntary conversions, the effects
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Sufism and the Hindu dharma
among the élite remained often invisible and hence less striking. Yet, besides the more or less
successful campaigns of conversion among South Asia’s underprivileged, perpetrated by rulers,
armies and preachers alike, it was the contact between the representatives of Islam’s esoteric
traditions, i.e. Sufis, and the spiritually inclined among the adherents to the Hindu dharma that
proved essential in promoting contacts and dialogue between the two traditions. In one direc-
tion, it allowed for the assimilation of notions, thoughts and ideas that enriched the cultural
horizon of the most recent religious tradition at different levels, a condition quintessential for
the emergence of what on the whole would eventually grow into what is termed as Indo-
Islamic civilization. In the opposite direction, the often fierce resistance against the undesired
invader led to reactions that left their mark on many aspects of South Asian culture acting
ultimately as catalysts for the Indian spirit of incorporating and adapting to new civilizational
pushes and unleashing waves of creativity that accompanied the rise of a new historical era. But
the cultural interaction that came along with the establishment of Islam in South Asia occurred
also on more subtle levels. Among Muslims, the opening up of channels of communication
with the Indian environment was to a large extent operated by those who were naturally in-
clined to cultivating the inner (bāṭinī ) dimension of Islam. In their pioneering role of rooting
the very principles of Islam on the soil of the yet unexplored territories, they used the treasure
of their spiritual wealth (dawlat al-r ūḥānī ) in order to instill a message of inclusion and compre-
hensiveness among their Indian interlocutors. Unlike the ‘ulamā, whose traditional role was
to defend orthodoxy and orthopraxy against the potentially corrupting influences of an alien
environment, the Sufis were open to develop a stimulating intercourse both with their intel-
lectual counterparts (al-khawāṣṣ) and the common folk (al-‘awāmm), since their mission relied
on the natural affinities in human nature and the convergence of principles that determine both
the relation of mankind with the Divine and among themselves.2 This kind of trans-cultural
intervention operated by the mashaikh (pl. of shaikh, the term commonly used for a Sufi master
or any other authoritative scholar), far from implying a corruptive element of their pristine
identity as Muslims, went often hand in hand with their outward engagement in da‘wat, the
call for inclusiveness in the dār al-Islām so typical for the monotheistic worldview in general
and the Qur’anic message as the final call for salvation in particular. Thus, under the surface of
continuous wars and battles fought by the invading Muslim armies aimed at redesigning the
map of the pre-existing political and social structures in South Asia, the powerful impact of
Islam on the Subcontinent provided at the same time the circumstances favourable for intensive
intellectual elaborations and fertile collaborations with the local environment.
The arrival of Islam and Sufism in South Asia occurred at a time when India’s cultural
environment and the spiritual traditions were undergoing a process of deep transformation
and reassessment after centuries of relative political and economical stability guaranteed
by the Pax Guptae.3 The latter had witnessed the reaffirmation of the Hindu dharma over
Buddhism as the principal expression of India’s social, religious and spiritual culture, a ‘vic-
tory’ that nevertheless implied profound re-adaptations in the inner and outer structures
defining Hindu culture. Throughout the Subcontinent, Tantrism4 had emerged as the dom-
inant mode for spiritual self-realization complementing and to a large extent superseding the
ancient ritual and intellectual patterns based on the Veda and the śruti.5 For a long time, this
latter had been jealously preserved and perpetuated among the members of the twice-born
(dvija) upper castes, especially Brahmans and, to a lesser extent, the members of the aristo-
cratic warrior caste known as K ṣatriya, excluding large segments of Hindu society from the
privileged status they enjoyed in virtue of this function.6 Extending its reach also to those
hitherto prevented from playing an active role in experiencing and interpreting the rituals
and social customs of the sanatana dharma, the structure of Tantrism and the related attitude
359
Thomas Dähnhardt
of social inclusiveness contained many elements which bore similar traits with what was
propounded in Christianity and Islam.7 This shift in the intellectual climate prepared the
ground for a communication based on common attitudes and a similar frame of mind that
occurred at a particular time in history. In this sense, the rise of Islam and the challenges it
posed to the formerly established religious and spiritual traditions must be envisaged as more
than a mere coincidence. Its arrival on the Indian stage rather was to prove significant as it
provided a vital input for the beginning of a new, dynamic phase in South Asia’s cultural and
social environment which preluded to (or perhaps was already part of ) the rise of modernity.8
Although time is not an essential measure in the relation between Sufis and Hindu
initiatory environs, history did play a role in determining the relations between these
two spiritual communities that developed between change and continuity. Early en-
counters and interrelations are impressively testified, for instance, by the survival of an-
cient places of worship such as in the town of Sehwan,9 in the lower Indus Valley, where
ancient Hindu cults are perpetuated in the rituals practiced by devotees at the sanctuary
(darg āh) of the thirteenth-century Sufi saint La’l Shab ā z Qalandar. They perpetuate the
pre-Islamic sanctity once indicated by an important Shiva temple which rose on the very
site where the sanctuary of the saint stands today. Further north, in the Punjab, the
sepulchre of the eleventh- century sufi Ab ū’l- Ḥ asan ‘Al ī al-Hujw ī r ī known as ‘D ā t ā Ganj
Bakhsh’ (he who bestows large treasures) rises in the region’s principal cultural centre
Lahore where since the times of Ghaznavid rule he is regarded as the guardian of the gate
granting access to Hindustan without whose concession (ij āzat) no Sufi migrant would
be allowed to set his feet on Indian soil. It was in coincidence with the establishment of
the Delhi Sultanate in the early years of the thirteenth century that spiritual authorities
affiliated to the Chisht ī order settled in Northern India assuming a leading role in estab-
lishing relations with the regional and local cultures of Northern and, later on, Central
India. Typically, early Sufis chose both urban centres and rural hideouts as their resi-
dence, where their presence became essential in spreading Islam. Tradition ascribes the
rooting of the Chishti order on South Asian soil to Mu’ ī n al-D ī n Chisht ī (1141–1233),
who settled in the Rajasthani town of Ajmer, the capital of the Chauh ā n Rajput clan
before the Ghū rid conquest in 1192 CE. In virtue of the saint’s presence there, the town
has since become a major centre for the convergence of Muslim and Hindu devotees and
his place of burial has become one of the largest Muslim centres of pilgrimage on the
sub-continent attracting large numbers of both pilgrims, devotees and spiritual practi-
tioners from both communities. His spiritual successors (khulaf ā, pl. of khal īfa) spread
and settled over all over South Asia, including the southern Deccan regions and Bengal,
where they deepened their relation and knowledge with the indigenous environment.
Among these, Ni ẓā m al-D ī n Awliy ā (1238–1325 CE), the patron-saint of India’s ancient
and present capital Delhi, and his poet disciple Am ī r Khusraw (1253–1325 CE), played
an essential role of mediators between Persiante Sufi culture and Indian strains of spir-
ituality. At a yet later stage, reflecting the emergence and build-up of wider networks
based on spiritual succession (khilafat), the interrelationship between Sufi and Hindu
spirituality received further input through Sh. ‘Abd al-Qudd ū s Gangoh ī (1456–1537
CE), a Sufi master in the Ṣā bir ī branch10 of the Chishtiyya descending from Sh. ‘Al ā
al-D ī n Ṣā bir al-Kaly ā r ī (d. 1291), whose writings reflect his profound knowledge of
Hindu culture in general and the spiritual meaning of the Bhagavad-g īt ā, containing the
esoteric teachings imparted by Lord Krishna to the Pandava prince Arjun, in particular.
His Rushd-n ā ma (also known as Alakh-b ā n ī ), compiled in 1480,11 provides a fascinating
360
account of the interaction between Hindu and Sufi spirituality, both in terms of doctri-
nal speculation and technical applications. A typical ris āla (treatise) written in Persian,
it consists of a brief compendium dealing with principles of the Sufi doctrine through a
simplified exposition of wa ḥdat al-wuj ūd (unity of existence), interspersed with ca. 250
verses in hind ī (dohr ā ) which clearly show his recognition for the yogi doctrine of Gor-
akhn ā th as well as referring to the prophetic traditions (a ḥādith, pl. of ḥad īth): Ar.: mutu
qabl ‘an tamutu (die before you die).
Perhaps best known among the techniques employed by Sufis is the practice of samä‘,
based on the audition of sound, rhythm and melody, aimed at imprinting the latter
on the soul and mind of both singers and listeners jointly engaged in the performance
with the aim of attaining to spiritual states. It finds its finest expression in the qaww āl,12
one of the most authentic and appreciated contributions of Indo-Islamic civilization to
spiritual culture. Reliance on auditive practices such as this and visual practices such as
meditation on the physical shape of the spiritual guide known among Sufis as r ā bi ṭa and
among Hindus initiates as dh ā rana, dhy ā na and sam ādhi testify of a reciprocally intelligi-
ble approach to the transcendent in the disciplines of both spiritual traditions, especially
in Tantrism. ‘Abd al-Qudd ū s, who was renowned for his austere practices such as the
chilla ma‘q ū sa, i.e. hanging oneself upside-down from the heels in a secluded cellar for
40 days, is known to have possessed a good knowledge of the Bhagavad-g īta and repeat-
edly recognizes Lord Krishna as a prophet of All ā h in the land of al-Hind; his use of the
technical terms nirañjan and gosa īn as epithets for God suggests, moreover, his links with
Tantrik initiatory circles in the siddha-n āth environment. Roughly at the same time,
a few hundred miles further south in Gwalior, Sh. Mu ḥ ammad Ghawth (d. 1562),13 a
leading authority of the Sha ṭṭā r ī order renowned for his knowledge in alchemical and
astrological notions pertaining to both the Islamic and the Hindu tradition, translated
an eighth-century treatise on yoga in Sanskrit titled Amrit-kund (Ocean of nectar) into
Persian under the title Ba ḥ r-i ḥay āt.14
The reciprocal intellectual interaction between Sufis and yogis found its expression
also in the field of literature. In Hindi Literature, the Sultanate period (thirteenth to
sixteenth century CE), and early Mughal period during which those encounters oc-
curred, has been defined as bhakti-k āl, the period during which devotion addressed to
a non-qualified, abstract transcendent entity (nirgu ṇa bhakti) went well along with the
monotheistic dogma subsumed in Islam by the principle of taw ḥīd. In fact, the fourteenth
century if not earlier saw the rise of a literary genre known as prem ākhy ā n, love romances
based on Indian themes which were typically composed in the Awadh ī dialect of the
Hindi language consisting in allegorical accounts of the spiritual journey (sul ūk) leading
the Sufi initiate through the regions of South Asia to the heavenly abode where he meets
God in the guise of an Indian lady beauty. These allegorical love stories were composed
in different places and by various authors whose Sufi affiliation is as clearly attested as
their intimate knowledge with both the aesthetic and the spiritual dimensions of the
Indian literary, natural and spiritual heritage. Best known among these are the Padm ā-
vat, compiled in 1540 by Malik Mu ḥ ammad Jayas ī (1472–1542), a poet and Sufi whose
affiliation to the Chisht ī order goes back to the renowned fourteenth-century Chishti
master Sayyid Ashraf Jah ā ng ī r al-Simn ā n ī.15 The plot of the story follows the author’s
familiarity with the repertoire of Sanskrit courtly k ā vya literature and Persian mathnawis
and his composite vision of the spiritual path that synthesizes aspects of Sufi teachings
and Tantrik initiatory disciplines.
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Thomas Dähnhardt
One of the principal Sufi orders that gained prominence during the Mughal period, the
Naqshbandiyya, notwithstanding the apparently conservative Sunni positions held by its
authorities, played a vital role in mediating Sufi spirituality to non-Muslims, i.e. Hindus. Sh.
A ḥ mad Sirhind ī (1564–1624), known by his followers with the epithet Mujaddid Alf-i Th ān ī
(Renewer of the Second Millennium of Islam) for the significant social and intellectual con-
tribution to the cause of Islam at the end of the first millennium of the hijri calendar, despite
his apparently rigid orthodox Sunni positions is credited with accepting Hindu disciples in
his spiritual circle (ḥalqa). An important Sufi saint in the line of his spiritual successors, Mirz ā
“Mazhar” Jān-i Jānān (1699–1781) of Delhi, who opened up the order’s teachings to Hindus
graning initiation to devotees of adherents to the Krishnaite and Ramaite spiritual tradi-
tions. This triggered off a yet more significant process of inter-religious spiritual initiation
when a descendent in the line of Mirz ā “Mazhar”, one Shah Faḍ l A ḥ mad Khān (d. 1907),
granted initiation to Hindu spiritual practitioners of a branch of the Kabīr-panth who elab-
orated a very rich and complex spiritual synthesis combining the Naqshbandi-Mujaddidi
method with the doctrinal set out of the yoga tradition in the shape of the spiritual tradition
that goes back to the eclectic Hindu-Muslim saint Kabī r and the organized teachings of his
followers (panth) where a dominant feature of popular forms of Hinduism and the sophisti-
cated elaborations of the intellectual élite went hand in hand.16
The particular development within Hinduism known as Tantrism articulates itself among
others in two complementary currents, epitomized in the two main modalities through which
the Divine principle17 acts within and interacts with the Universe and its creatures: Śiva (lit.:
the benevolent), the dynamic, centrifugal force implying transformation, death, destruction
and a tendency of non-conformity to established rules and normative behaviour as exemplified
through inebriation; and Viṣṇu (lit.: the all-pervading), the centripetal force and conservative
principle that explicates itself in the world through an attitude of sobriety, rectitude and an in-
nate adherence to normative behaviour for the sake of achieving stability, integrity, durability,
peace and order. The adherents to these two godly principles are termed, respectively, as śaiva
and vaiṣṇava and in one fashion or the other comprise and subsume the multitude of devotional
and initiatory cults encountered in South Asia.18 On one side, the śaiva current of Tantrism
remained faithful to the ideals personified by Śiva, the supreme ascetic and divine ancestor of
all human ascetics (vairāgī ) who revealed the secrets of Divine wisdom to his consort Parvatī
in the secluded atmosphere on the peak of Mount Kailaśa, in the Himālaya. His followers
shun away from the regular life of the householder (gṛhasthi) and prefer to wander around at
the margins of society, frequently engaging in severe penances, extreme ascetic practices and
apparently blameworthy social behaviour as part of their spiritual discipline.19 These śaiva ten-
dencies aim at breaking the conventional mental frame of ordinary life and show parallels with
the predilection for asceticism (zuhd) practiced by early Muslim renunciants (zāhid) in imita-
tion of the prophet Muḥammad’s spiritual retreat in the cave of Mount Hira.20 Although the
choice of retreating from worldly affairs for the sake of engaging in ascetic practices was seldom
recommended as a preferential mode of spiritual self-realization among Muslims, it was widely
practiced in early Islam and among many Indian Sufis during the Sultanate period (thirteenth
to early sixteenth centuries CE).21 The latter found a source of inspiration in the practices
of Hindu renouncers, mainly in the śaiva environment, for whom the mortification of the
lower human instincts through control over the common senses achieved by a life in solitude
detached from any kind of material comfort had been exemplified in the practices taught by
the yogis of the nāth-sampradāya. The members of this ascetic order venerate the ninth-century
North-Indian saint Lord Gorakṣanāth or Gorakhnāth, the mahā-yogī ancestor of all yogis who
travelled all over India and who is accredited with the formulation of the hatha and laya variant
362
of the yoga discipline.22 Some hagiographic accounts mention his encounters with early Sufi
ascetics providing evidence of a link between the Tantrik disciplines of the siddha-yoga tra-
dition and the practices of Indian Sufi, in particular in the context of the Chishtiyya and the
Firdawsiyya Sufi orders and, later on, during the Mughal period, of the Shaṭṭāriyya order.23
Thus, it is probably no exaggeration to identify a current of Indian-Muslim spiritual practi-
tioners which could be termed as śaiva Sufi.
On the other side, the adherents to the vaiṣṇ ava current oriented themselves along the
patterns set by the divine descents (avat āra) of the Supreme Lord Viṣṇu, the most popu-
lar of which are Rā ma and Kriṣṇ a, together with their respective spouse and lover, Sīt ā
and Rādha.24 The former embodies the ethos and virtues of the perfect ruler and warrior
conveyed through the ancient Indian aesthetic principle of vīr-rasa, the heroic mood that
manifests itself through the qualities of braveness, virility, physical strength, determination,
courage and loyalty. Different though complementary to R ā ma, Kriṣṇ a is the quintessen-
tial personification of the erotic mood or sṛngāra-rasa, expressed by his seducing beauty
and mind-alluring charme that combines with his child-like innocence and playfulness.25
Again, on the horizontal plane concerning the human dimension, both represent elemen-
tary attitudes determining the relationship between human lovers, polarized in affection
and aversion, attraction and repulsion, union (mithun) and separation (virah). However, these
human attitudes and emotions can be diverted to and transposed on the vertical axis along
which an individual can relate itself to and gain access to the Divine object of his intention
and desire, whereby the essentially transcendent nature of the latter becomes tangible and
recognizable also in the immanent reality of the world and hence ultimately recognizable as
an object for identification. This is precisely why these two god-like heroes are the objects
of popular devotion and religious fervour as well as the focal points of the most sophis-
ticated speculative investigations. They are encountered in all imaginable spheres of life
being the preferential characters of many artistic performances, including dance, music,
theatre, literature and, more recently, cinema and television series. The immense popularity
of these Hindu gods testifies of the presence of the divine archetypes in the imagination of
illiterate commoners, erudite scholars, emotionally enraptured devotees and spiritually in-
clined practitioners imbued with both a fervent devotion (bhakti) and deep wisdom ( jñ āna).
Not surprisingly, these two fundamental and complementary attitudes can be detected also
among the adherents to the principal Sufi orders present in India, some of which with a
clearly recognizable śaiva leaning, others reflecting more evident signs of vai ṣṇava inclina-
tion. Although apparently very different from the Hindu mind that tends to attribute human
(or at least humanly recognizable) features to all manifestations of the Divine play, Muslim
theologians and Sufi in as much as from a speculative point of view remove God from all di-
rect involvement in the plane of creation, contemplate the divine names and attributes (asm ā
o ṣifāt All āh) through which God becomes known to and interact with the creatures of the
world along two principal categories: those representing Divine majesty ( jal ālī ) and those
representing Divine beauty ( jam ālī ).26 These two terms, respectively, indicate the aspects
of rigor and compassion that distinguish God’s attitude towards His creatures as an outside
reflection of the intrinsic qualities of the Divine being (wujūd), showing clear parallels with
the characteristic traits of Śiva and Viṣṇu. Moreover, in virtue of the analogy that subsists
between God and the “most perfect of His creatures and His vice-regent” (khalīfat All āh), i.e.
Man (al-insān), these divine traits are reflected on the microcosmi level in the character and
temper ( ṭabī‘at) of those human beings who embody authority and guidance, in particular
Sufi masters and spiritual authorities, who in their turn transmit and perpetuate them among
their discipline and followers.
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Thomas Dähnhardt
Apart from the peculiar features characterizing the process of spiritual self-realization in
one or the other order, the fundamental point of convergence that allowed for the recipro-
cal recognition and appreciation between the esoteric teachings developed and transmitted
among Sufis and Hindus is the concept of taw ḥīd. This term describes the unity of the
transcendent principle which is at the very core of the Islamic dogma. In the most general
sense, it sums up the religious dimension of Islā m as defined by the outer Law (shar ī ‘a); on
this level, the unity of Allāh acts as the focal point for those endowed with faith (mu’min)
that enables them to set aside and ignore all possible, contingent associates beside God. This
is by no means an insignificant point since it allows every believing Muslim from the very
outset to safeguard his mind from any distraction in seeking the ultimate cause of everything
that exists in the world, a non-indifferent support for concentration and meditation. This is
in sharp contrast with the approach adopted by Hinduism that contemplates the apparently
contemporary presence of thousands of gods, the specific characteristics of each providing
the devotee with the choice of adapting his own, personal god or goddess (i ṣṭadevat ā) as a
reference for ritual orientation and spiritual interiorization.27 The unity of the divine prin-
ciple appears fractioned in the multitude of existence, thereby accounting for the difference
in nature of individuals and providing for each of them an adequate support in using the
dominating features of the individual in order to foster devotion and spiritual growth.
On the spiritual plane, tawḥīd intends the full realization of the underlying truth (ḥaqīqat)
of the intimate relationship subsisting between God and man, which is at the centre of the
Sufi practitioner’s attention and the secrets of which lie hidden in the most intimate part of
each individual’s self. This is achieved by recollecting the scattered individual elements and
lead them back to their essentials, a process which is achieved through the concentration
on a series of subtle centres each representing a door or gateway from multiplicity towards
unity. Both the Sufi and the yog ī complete this process by directing their mental attention on
the place in the human organism where these centres are located trying to “awaken” them
to their original potential as passages through which gaining access to the subtle principle
(A.: a ṣl, Skr.: tanm ātra) that governs each centre and which corresponds to a specific element
(A.: ‘an āṣir, Skr.: bh ūta) presided by a specific Hindu deity or Islamic prophet. There derives
that focusing on taw ḥīd is equally consequential for both the common believer and for the
privileged friend of God (walī All āh) as it implies the theoretical and effective sublimation of
the multiplicity (kathrat) characterizing the realm of Creation (al-khalq) in the transcendent
principle of Allāh’s unity (wa ḥdat) ultimately leading to the effective realization, i.e. aware-
ness, of a previously abstract and theoretical notion that occurs in virtue of the identification
between the individual and its original principle.
Although the multiplicity of gods that co-exist in Hinduism is apparently in contradic-
tion with this fundamental dogma characterizing Islam, from an esoteric perspective it is
perfectly consonant with the basic principles of the yoga dar śana as expounded by Patañjali in
his Yoga-sūtra, the foundational and most authoritative textual source which lay out not only
the doctrinal, that is theoretical premises of this school, but provided also the bases for the
technical means for achieving the goal envisaged. The term yoga, derived from the Sanskrit
verbal root yuj bearing the meaning of “to join, to unite”, means primarily “union” and
intends in the technical sense envisaged by Patañjali the process of unification of the limited
individual with the transcendent source of all contingency, i.e. Īśvara, the sole and unique
Divine principle at the root of all contingent existence. The initial stage of the discipline as
practiced by the yog ī (abhyāsa) consists in the preliminary “unification” of the multiplicity
characterizing the surrounding world by introverting the sensual faculties and concentrating
on one singular object, image or sound vibration. This process is called ek āgrat ā, “grasping
364
the one” or, otherwise said, “concentration on one single object”, and is achieved by arrest-
ing the continuos flow of uncultivated mental consciousness. After a long, gradual process of
interiorization by the practicing subject of the object, this practice culminates in the com-
plete identification between the previously separate entities through the experience of union
or unification. This is called sam ādhi. It therefore describes the same concept as that implied
by the term taw ḥīd (which literally is an intensive of an Arabic verbal root indicating the pro-
cess of “unification”), implying the reduction of (apparent) multiplicity to (essential) unity.
Among Sufis, this long and complex process of gradual interiorization and identification is
called sul ūk, the initiatory path or spiritual journey the initiate has to accomplish (or rather
cross) in order to reach his final destination. As an active participant in this process, the initi-
ate is known as sālik, a spiritual wayfarer who advances gradually from one stage (maqām) to
the next in virtue of the effort he is capable of and/or the divine favour he deserves.
From the perspective of the spiritual discipline (Skr.: sādhana, A.: ṭar īqa), both perspectives
agree that it is the specific action the spiritual practitioner (Skr.: abhyāsī, sādhu or sādhaka;
A.: sālik) engages in under the supervision of the spiritual instructor (Skr.: satguru, A.: murshid
bar Ḥaqq) that guarantees progress in the process of spiritual self-realization. Thus, it is the
practical, active component that is stressed, be it in terms of ascetic-oriented renunciation,
self-chastisement and mortification of the senses tying the individual to the worldly di-
mension of his existence, or in terms of emotional and devotional abandonment of worldly
desires in favour of love nurtured for a transcendent lover. Again, in both cases it requires
the total surrender of the initiate to the expert and benevolent guidance of the shaikh whose
presence as the immediate intermediary between the immanent and the transcendent be-
comes a typical feature of the Sufi and yogi perspective.28 Both imply the total surrender of
the initiate to the expert and benevolent guidance of the guru-shaikh and rely on the fasci-
nating dynamic of alternating and contemporary active and passive attitudes on the side of
the initiate. If suitably qualified and correctly directed, it allows for the sublimation of the
practitioner’s inner states through an alchemical process of gradual purification and refine-
ment, similar to the transformation of lead into gold. This occurs while the initiate directs
all his attention and intention on his individual aggregate composed of elements pertaining
to both the physical body ( jism) and the psycho-mental plane (nafs) transposing them on ever
more subtle planes until attaining to their extinction ( fan ā) in the spiritual principles (u ṣūl
al-r ūḥān ī ), a gradual process known as “spiritual journey” (sul ūk) which ennobles him extin-
guishing his lower qualities while exalting the divine aspects of his inner nature. Based on
techniques and practices described in great detail both through oral instructions imparted
individually and collectively in the course of regular meetings or spiritual teaching sessions
(Skr.: satsang, A.: ḥalqa), and corroborated by numerous treatises (risāl āt), ultimately it was this
common mode and approach borne out of similar needs in similar circumstances that proved
the most fertile ground for sharing thoughts and experiences in view of a common goal
between the spiritual authorities of Sufism and esoteric Hinduism. The analogy between
macrocosm (A.: ‘ālam al kabīr, Skr.: brahm āṇḍa) and microcosm (A.: ‘ālam al ṣaghīr, Skr. piṇḍa)
established by the esoterically teachings of both traditions served as a common operative base
on which the alchemical process of inner refinement could be effectively achieved indifferent
of the peculiar religious affiliation of the initiate. In fact, the depiction of an inner landscape
defined by specific subtle centres (A.: la ṭā’if, pl. of la ṭīfa, Skr.: cakra) allowed to envisage a
process of universalization which could be shared in its essential lines by both Hindu and
Sufi adepts to a series of Tantrik and Sufi disciplines.
The root yuj whence the term yoga derives implies, moreover, the sense of subjugating
something or oneself (as indicated by the English word “yoke” likely to be derived from the
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same Indo-European root), which provides an additional clue to the possible parallels with
the Sufi path of realization, since both intend the attainment of the goal as the result of a
more or less articulate process based on the gradual subjugation of the lower instincts. This
process requires the sublimation of the physical and psychical aggregate of the initiate prac-
titioner who engages in transposing his individual limitations onto a more and more subtle
plane until reaching their extinction ( fan ā or laya) in successive levels of increasing closeness
(taqr īb) to the very root of existence (m ūl) or, to say it in the theological terminology of the
Sufis, the source of Divine grace (‘ayn al-fayḍ al-il āhī ). In both cases, the procedure is finalized
at achieving the reintegration of the individual aggregate into its seminal or principal state
in which it is said to have been dwelling prior to its existentialization on the stage of divine
manifestation. For the accomplished yog ī, this implies mok ṣa or mukti, the liberation from
the chains of action and reaction (karma) that keep the individual prisoner of the samsāra, the
cycle of birth, death and re-birth that causes pain, suffering and endless toils to the profane
unaware of the potentialities he is endowed with in virtue of his birth as a human being. For
the perfect Sufi instead, it signifies the realization of union (wu ṣūl) with the sole object of his
desires thereby overcoming the state of intensive longing and unending toil that pervaded
his mind, body and soul in the condition of separation ( firāq) from his place of origin (wa ṭan)
in the celestial dominion where he had been enjoying the primordial company of his Divine
lord. Although the language and terminology change, the goal of every spiritual seeker, both
Hindu and Sufi, is to achieve closeness to or identity with the transcendent principle, and the
means of achieving this goal presuppose a situation of remoteness and separation that origi-
nate from duality, the preliminary stage towards multiplicity which, in the worse case of the
ignorant, leads to dispersion, total loss and madness (P.: dīvānag ī ). Thus, for the profane, love
for the world causes the perpetuation of the world through the generational succession that
results from his love whereas the love for the Divine beloved (ma ḥb ūb) ultimately results in
the overcoming of the world and its extinction in its principles which, untouched by time
and space defining the ephemeral realm of creation, represent the ultimate refuge in the
perpetual peace of the transcendent.
Notes
1 Although occasionally used in Sufi literature, in South Asia and elsewhere the spiritual authorities
of the ṭuruq (pl. of ṭar īqa) rarely refer to themselves with this term, which appears to be rather as a
convenient label applied by academic scholars and other outside observers to define the category.
If at all using descriptive terms to refer to themselves, especially in the context of hagiographic
or doctrinal textual sources, Muslim spiritual authorities resort to allegorical descriptions such as
ahl-i dil (people of the heart), ahl al-b āṭin (people concerned with the hidden truth) or ahl-i Ḥaqq
(people [dedicated to] truth).
2 In Islamic theological terms, this interrelationship between the principal actors involved in the
play of Creation (al-khalq), i.e. God and man (insān), is known, respectively, as ‘ib ād āt (acts of wor-
ship), comprising the acts of worship and devotion exercised in a vertical direction by men towards
God, and mu’āmal āt (human interactions), indicating the complex set of rules and regulations
sanctioning normative behaviour occurring on the horizontal plane between human beings.
3 Under the rule of the Gupta dynasty (ca. late third to early seventh centuries CE), which at its
heydays extended over most of Northern and Central India, the Subcontinent witnessed a period
of enduring political and economical stability allowing for the cultural renaissance of Hinduism
in almost every field. The scholarly achievements during this time and during the following
post-Gupta period (500–750 CE) include the canonization of many religious and epic texts and
doctrines, as well as flourishing developments in the arts, literature and sciences. For an interesting
range of contributions to the theme of Hindu culture before and during the Gupta period, see
Greg Bailey (ed.), Hinduism in India: The Early Period (New Delhi: Sage Publications, 2017).
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369
25
SUFISM AND THE SAFAVIDS
IN IRAN
A further challenge to “Decline”
Andrew J. Newman
The conventional portrayal of the development of Sufism over the years of the Safavid period
(1501–17221) has privileged the history of known Sufi orders, generally depicting that his-
tory as one of incorporation/disappearance into the Safavid “polity” or, more usually, perse-
cution by the Safavids and subsequent decline.2
This narrative has both reinforced and is reinforced by the traditional, broader “decline”
narrative that both before and, perhaps even more, since Iran’s 1979 revolution has been de-
ployed to characterise the trajectory of the Safavid period more generally.3
This chapter, first, addresses what is known of the history of those Sufi orders understood
to have been active during these years. Although the conventional wisdom maintains that
by the early to mid-seventeenth century most of these were no longer active in Safavid Iran,
more recent research suggests the opposite, that is, that Sufi orders were very much present
on the spiritual scene in the period’s later years.
The chapter then focuses on what is known of what might be termed “non- organised”,
that is non-order based, Sufi-style beliefs and activities among the Safavid period’s “popular
classes”. In the pre-modern era the “voices” of such, predominantly illiterate, elements –
the majority in any age – are recoverable mainly indirectly, as they may be referenced in
works produced by the minority literate class. In the present case, some elements of the
Safavid-period’s popular classes’ voices, including references to their beliefs and practices,
can be retrieved via careful attention to works authored by a range of Twelver Sh ī ‘ ī clerics
in which these clerics referenced and condemned as “unorthodox” popular beliefs and
practices.
Parts two and three of the chapter, then, utilise several sets of such refutations composed
over the period to offer something of a reconstruction of this “popular” discourse.
In sum, the suggestion is that both Sufi orders and popular, rather more heterodox,
Sufi-style beliefs and practices were more alive and well than the conventional wisdom
has maintained. Indeed, such heterodoxies perhaps more comprised the majority spiritual
discourse than any “orthodoxy” espoused by the religious class, itself a small subset of the
already minority literate class.4
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Sufism and the Safavids in Iran
Part one: Safavid Sufi orders – the conventional and

the unconventional
The roots of many of those Sufi orders understood to have been present, and active, on the
Iranian Plateau and adjacent lands in the later 1400s into the early 1500s lay in the not- so-
distant past.
The years following the Mongol conquest of the ‘Abbā sid capital of Baghdad in 1258, the
rise of the Mongols’ successors the Ilkhānids (1260–1335), and the death of the Ilkhānid Abū
Sa‘ īd in 1335 witnessed the reappearance of earlier tendencies towards political decentralisa-
tion and, concomitantly, of heterodox spirituality. The combined impact of these influenced
the politico-spiritual scene across the eastern Islamicate world for the next several centuries.
In the aftermath of Abū Sa‘ īd’s death arose such local polities as the Jalāyirids, based in
western Iran and Iraq, including Baghdad, the Chūbānids, based in Azerbaijan, and the
Mu ẓā ffarids, based around Isfahan. Further east arose the Sarbad ārs, based in Sabzivār, the
Kartids, in Herat, and the Injū ids in Fars – the latter both former Ilkhānid vassals. These
survived on the scene until Timur (d. 1405) arrived in the region in the later 1300s.
Following the death of Timur’s son and successor Shāh Rukh in 1447, political decen-
tralisation again re-asserted itself. To the West, the Qara Q ūy ū nlū (Black Sheep) Turkmen,
whom Timur had defeated, expanded eastward, taking Baghdad in 1410. After Shāh Rukh’s
death they took central and southern Iran, and even Oman in the Persian Gulf.
In 1467, they were crushed by an Aq Q ūy ū nlū (White Sheep) Turkmen force led by Uz ū n
Ḥasan (d. 1478). The latter had been Timur’s ally against the Ottomans and had been gifted
the area around Diyar Bakr. The Aq Q ūy ū nlū subsequently seized Iraq, areas on the Iranian
Plateau into Khurasan and the Persian Gulf coast. Their later disappearance commenced
with their defeat by rising Ottoman forces in 1473.5
The shifting boundaries and political decentralisation that marked these years, together
with the complex and very heterogeneous forms of spirituality that these several waves of
eastern migrants brought with them, further encouraged the spread of popular, very het-
erodox blend of Sufi-Sh ī ‘ ī millenarian discourse that had long been present in the region.
Thus, ‘Alā al-Dawla al-Simnān ī (d. 1336), a member of Kubrav ī order, after a mystical
experience that caused him to abandon government service, family and property, became
identified with an extreme form of veneration for ‘Al ī, the family of the Prophet (Ahl al-Bayt)
and the twelfth Im ā m.
In the Maz āndir ān/Sabzivār area, Shaykh Khal ī fā (d. 1335) and his successor Shaykh
Ḥasan Juri (d. 1342) are identified with discourse predicting the imminent return of the
twelfth Im ā m. This discourse was popular among certain bazaar elements, tradesmen and
craftsmen, but not among Sunnis, who killed him.
Shaykh Ḥasan’s message spread in the Nishapur/Ṭū s area, with a similar base of support.
His discourse was more radical than that of the rising Sarbad ār movement with whom he al-
lied to fight off the Kartids of Herat, and in which struggles he was killed. A pupil of Shaykh
Ḥasan who was a Ḥusayn ī descendant of Im ā m Zayn al-‘Abid ī n, and himself a Sh ī ‘ ī-style
darv īsh, was the father of the “founder” of the Sh ī ‘ ī Mar‘ash ī dynasty. These established an
independent position along the Caspian which fell at the arrival of Timur.
The spiritual discourse of the Sarbad ār “polity”, based in the Sabzivār area and a presence
in the areas since the 1330s, blended the same messianic Shī ‘ ī-Sufi discourse with a political
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Andrew J. Newman
structure rooted in the contemporary popular akh ī/fut ūwwa tribal-based movements. The
Sarbad ār ruler ‘Al ī Mu’ayyad (reg. 1364–1386) minted coins bearing the names of ‘Al ī and
the Im ā ms on coins and downplayed darv īsh, messianic tendencies. ‘Al ī surrendered imme-
diately to Timur at his arrival on the scene in 1381 and abandoned all Sh ī ‘ ī tendencies.
In this shifting political milieu there also flourished a range of both quietist and militantly
pantheistic, messianic and egalitarian Sufi orders and other heterodox spiritual movements
whose polemics often exhibited a distinctly Sh ī ‘ ī, anti-establishment tone. One of these was
the Ḥur ū f īs – associated with Faḍ lallāh al-Astar ābād ī (d. 1394), a sayyid and the son of a qāḍī,
who enjoyed a following among artisans – who were influential from Khurasan to Anatolia
and Syria.
An offshoot of the Ḥur ū f īs and, to some extent, a movement linked also with the Ni ẓār ī
variant of Ism ā‘ ī l ī Sh ī ‘ īsm were the Nuqṭ av īs whose “founder” was the Gilani scholar
Mahmūd Pasī khān ī (d. 1427–1428).
These years also witnessed the rise of the Naqshband ī movement, whose “founder” was
Bahā’ al-Dī n Naqshband of Bukhār ā (d. 1389). One of its leaders declared that, on the
basis of a dream, a disciple of his, one Mu ḥammad Nū rbakhsh (1393–1464), born in north-
east Iran, was the Mahdi. The latter abandoned the Sunni Shaf ī ‘ ī legal school, espoused
by many of region’s Sufi orders, for Sh ī ‘ ī fiqh. His very heterodox spiritual discourse also
referred to Jesus coming down from the sky as light. Coins were minted in his name in
Kurdistan. Those Naqshband īs who accepted him and his Sh ī ‘ ī discourse came to be called
the Nū rbakhsh īyyah.
The Aleppo-born sayyid Shāh Ni’matallāh Val ī (d. 1430–1431), born in Syria, also rose
to prominence in the region, travelling to Mecca, Egypt, Iraq and Azerbaijan, and then
Transoxiana back through Ṭū s and Herat and finally to Kirman.
The belief system of Ahl al-Ḥaqq, identified in these years as located in the modern areas
of western Iran and north-eastern Iraq, is perhaps more typical of the “popular” “extremist
Sh ī ‘ ī” doctrines that permeated the region across these years that did not later go on to attain
“formal” status as an “order”.
In all, however, across these years the hard lines which today are usually seen as dis-
tinguishing between Sunnism and Sh ī ‘ īsm, let alone between these two and the earlier
“Sufi-style” discourses, were very fluid and much blurred. The discourse of these centuries
that evolved into what today is held to be “orthodox” Sunni and Sh ī ‘ ī discourse was mainly
prevalent among, and limited to, the small number of urban-based clerical elites much of
whose written legacy survived through to modern times to preoccupy the attention of the
field when, in fact, the majority of the region’s population was decidedly rural/tribal in
nature.6
Another such order, the Safavids, “founded” by Ṣaf ī al-Dī n (d. 1334), in fact transitioned
from a quietist, mainly urban and Sunni-style movement to a more rural and, especially,
tribal-based movement owing, it is usually understood, to an influx of rural, and, especially,
tribal, elements over later years. The order’s discourse subsequently became infused with
many of the elements of the region’s more popular Sh ī ‘ ī-style veneration of ‘Al ī and the
Im ā ms and radical, messianic and millenarian style discourse.
Based in Ardabī l the popularity of the order’s discourse among local tribal elements who
provided the military force behind the region’s various polities may well have been the rea-
son the Safavids attracted the attention of the Aq Qūy ū nlū leader Uz ū n Ḥasan. Uz ū n married
his sister and his daughter to Junayd (d. 1460), a direct descendant of Ṣaf ī al-Dī n, and to
Junayd’s son Ḥaydar (d. 1488), respectively. Illustrating the radical turn the order’s discourse
had taken by now, both Junayd and Ḥaydar died in battle. Following Aq Q ūy ū nlū defeats,
372
the Safavid identification with such discourse also attracted to the order those tribal elements
who had provided the backbone to the Aq Q ūy ū nlū “polity”. One of Ḥaydar’s sons, Ism ā‘ ī l,
at the head of just a reconfigured coalition of the region’s powerful Turkic tribes, called the
Qizilbā sh for their distinctive 12-coned headgear – in commemoration of the 12 Imā ms –,
conquered Tabriz in 1501. In less than a decade thereafter Safavid forces took control of
territory held by eight different rulers, including areas from Baghdad and the nearby Sh ī ‘ ī
shrine cities of Karbala and Najaf to Khurasan in the east and the Persian Gulf in the South.
Ism ā‘ ī l’s spiritual discourse, as epitomised in his poetry, precisely reflects the distinctly
heterogeneous, multi-confessional messianism that spoke to an array of spiritual and “sec-
ular” tendencies extant in both urban and also rural/tribal settings across the region. Thus,
he portrayed himself simultaneously as the now-returned twelfth Im ā m, as the reincarna-
tions of the heroes of various Persian epic tales such as Rustam, Jesus and even Alexander
the Great. The Safavids also advanced claims to their status as sayyids, descendants of the
Prophet. Such claims, not only further substantiated Ismā‘ ī l’s identification with the Hidden
Im ā m himself but also put the Safavids on a par with the sayyid founders of others of the
region’s contemporary millenarian movements as the Ḥur ū f īs, Kubrav īs and Ni‘matallāh īs.
While such discourse was off-putting to contemporary orthodox Twelver clerics, mainly
based in Arabic-sparking lands to the West,7 it was a factor in facilitating the holding to-
gether of the Qizilbā sh confederation with the Tajik (i.e. native Iranian) elements and their
allegiance to the Safavid house following the Safavid defeat by the Ottomans at the battle of
Chaldir ān in 1514 and, after the deaths of Ismā‘ ī l in 1524 and his son and successor Tahmā sp
in 1576, two prolonged periods of civil war and their resulting invasions and seizures of large
amounts of territory by the Uzbegs and Ottomans.8
The Safavids thus successfully combined regional political-military power and association
with a heterodox discourse that embodied many of the same features as other of the various
Sufi-Sh ī ‘ ī discourses extant in the region at the same time.
It followed that any spiritual discourses which focused on figures other than the sitting
“shāh” in his position, also, as head of the Safavid Sufi order were, by definition, a challenge
to the exclusivity of the Safavid identification therewith and, in turn, the allegiance of both
Turkish and Tajik adherents thereto.
The responses of those associated with such challenges to the Safavid project varied.
Some effected some measures of compromise. Hātif ī (d. 1521), a nephew of the poet
Jā m ī (d. 1492), then the leader of the Naqshband ī order who had served Sulṭān Ḥusayn
Bayqar ā (d. 1506) in Herat, accepted a commission from Ismā‘ ī l while others left the city.
The Naqshband ī ‘Abd al-Vahhāb Ham ād ān ī , whose father had close associations with the
Aq Q ūy ū nlū, served Sulṭān Ḥusayn and, at the rise of Safavids, also came into Ismā‘ ī l’s circle,
remaining loyal even after Chaldir ān. Qazvin became a Naqshband ī centre of activity in the
years after Tabriz. When, ca. 1548, Tahmā sp designated Qazvin as the capital, some left the
city. Some of those based in Hamadan also left during Tahm ā sp’s reign.9
As to the Ni‘matallāh īs, the Yazdi notable Sayyid ‘Abd al-Bāqī, a descendant of the epon-
ymous founder of the Ni‘matallāh ī Sufi order, Shāh Ni‘matallāh, was both head of the re-
ligious institution (ṣadr) under Ism ā‘ ī l and, from 1512, vak īl.10 His son Nū r al-Dī n Bāqī (d.
1564) succeeded his father as head of the Ni‘matallāh ī order and was confirmed as naqīb and
governor of Yazd when Tahm ā sp acceded to the throne. Ca. 1535–1536, he married a sister
of Tahm ā sp. In 1554–1555, the daughter of this union married Tahmā sp’s son, the future
Ism ā‘ ī l II (d. 1577). In 1578–1579, Khud ābandah, who succeeded his brother Ism ā‘ ī l II as
shāh, married a daughter of Ismā‘ ī l II to Khal ī lallāh b. M ī r M ī r ān Yazd ī (d. 1607–1608),
the son of the same Nū r al-Dī n. One of the period’s prominent poets was the Ni‘matallāh ī
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Andrew J. Newman
Va ḥ sh ī (d. 1583–1584) of Bā fq, in Kirman, who wrote qa ṣīdas in praise of the shāh. Court
chronicles of the period similarly downplayed any independent Ni‘matallāh ī Sufi discourse,
likely reflecting the official denigration of any alternative to the Safavid hegemony over Sufi
discourse.11
As to the Nū rbakhsh īs, some accepted land grants from Ismā‘ ī l. The most accomplished
disciple of Nū rbakhsh was Shaykh Mu ḥammad L āhijī (d. 1515), author of the Mafāt īh ̣ al-I‘jāz
f ī Sharh-ị Gulsh ān-i R āz (The Keys of the Inimitability on the Commentary of the Rose Garden of
Secrets) one of the most widely read later Suf ī texts. He established a Nū rbakhsh ī kh ānaqāh12
in Shiraz, known as the Nū riyya, which was visited by Ism ā‘ ī l. L āhijī’s son A ḥ mad was sent
as ambassador by Ism ā‘ ī l to the Uzbeg ruler Mu ḥammad Shaybān ī. Ca. 1537 the successor
to Shāh Qā sim Nū rbakhsh, himself son of Sayyid Mu ḥammad Nū rbakhsh, who had himself
been well treated, refused the hand of a sister of Tahmā sp, bespeaking an effort to maintain
Nū rbakhsh ī independence. He was subsequently executed, but separatist Nū rbakhsh ī actions
are recorded in Rayy during the reigns of both Ism ā‘ ī l and Tahm ā sp.13
Among more overtly competitive Sh ī ‘ ī movements, the Ni ẓār ī Ism ā‘ ī l ī Sh ī ‘a, based at
And ījān, near Arak, became increasingly active following the Safavids’ appearance. Ism ā‘ ī l
ordered the execution of Shāh Ṭāhir, the 31st im ā m of the Mu ḥammad-Shāh ī branch of the
Ni ẓār īs, who then fled to India in 1520.14
The Musha‘sha‘ Arabs of Southern Iraq pledged fealty to Ismā‘ ī l following his 1508 con-
quest of Baghdad. Nevertheless, coins with distinctly Twelver inscriptions were minted in
1508 by the Musha‘sha‘ governor of Shū shtar. The joint rulers of the confederation were
killed later the same year by the new Safavid governor of Shū shtar, likely on Ism ā‘ ī l’s orders
and probably owing to their continuing efforts to claim association with the Twelver faith.
Later, however, the Musha‘sha‘ sayyids’ continued Sh ī ‘ ī discourse was still deemed suffi-
ciently problematic that Qizilbā sh governors were sent to Shū shtar in 1539–1540 and Dizf ū l
in 1541–1542. Twice in the years after 1590, when ‘Abbā s I (reg. 1587–1629) was occupied
with Uzbeg challenges in Khurasan, the Musha‘sha‘ moved to assert their independence; on
the second occasion, they occupied Dizf ū l. Safavid forces checked both moves.15
Even within the ranks of Safavid order itself, there could be discontent. Following the
1587 enthronement of Ṭahm ā sp’s grandson ‘Abbā s I some Sufis openly questioned him
about the identity of their pīr, suggesting that ‘Abbā s’ father, the still-living Mu ḥammad
Khud ābandah (d. 1595–1596), who had been deposed by ‘Abbā s’ tribal and Tajik backers,
was still viewed as the head of the Safavid Sufi order. ‘Abbā s and his tribal supporters exe-
cuted these elements as they did in 1591, the leader of a group of Sufis in L āh ījān – forces
from which had provided support for Ism ā‘ ī l I – who also questioned the identity of ‘Abbā s
as the present pīr.16
The history of Nuqṭ av ī order across these years provides a further example of the extent
to which the Safavid centre moved against discourses portending challenges to the legiti-
macy of the Safavids’ very heterodox spiritual discourse.
In the years that the Ni ẓār ī Ism ā‘ ī l īs were active in And ījān, near Kashan, the Nuqṭ av īs
also surfaced. In the 1560s two brothers who had been given posts at court under Tahmā sp
were blinded and exiled for heresy. In 1574, when Tahmā sp was ill, there were Nuqṭ av ī
risings in the area.17
In 1591, several years after the accession to the throne of Khud ābandah’s son ‘Abbā s I, a
rising by a Shiraz-based Nuqṭ av ī poet whom Tahm ā sp had blinded in 1565 was foiled. In
the 1580s several other Nuqṭ av ī figures were executed in Kashan. At his accession ‘Abbā s
I reached out to the darv īsh and, it is said, became a member of the order.18 Nevertheless a
1591 rebellion in Fars was crushed.
374
In 1593, the Nuqṭ av ī Darv īsh Khusraw rose up in Qazvin, clearly attesting to continued
Nuqṭ av ī sympathies among capital’s populace. The darv īsh had been a figure of concern
during Tahm ā sp’s reign but, after being interviewed by Tahm ā sp himself, was released.
From a family of refuse collectors and well-diggers, he had been active and popular both
there and in Sāvah, Kashan, Isfahan, Nā’in and Shiraz. Nuqṭ av ī elements had forecast 1593 as
the year in which a Nuqṭ av ī who had achieved true unity with Allah would assume power.
In the context of the ongoing disorder this preaching is said to have attracted significant
support among both Turkish (i.e. Qizilbā sh) and Tajik elements. The movement was also
put down, with the shāh’s personal intervention. The darv īsh was executed but risings also
boiled up in Kashan, Mashhad and Fars. An Ustajlū amīr and other Qizilbā sh elements as-
sociated with it were executed, again suggesting that both urban and rural/tribal elements
were taken with the discourse.
When astrologers predicted the fall of the shāh in 1594, ‘Abbā s placed another Nuqṭ av ī
darv īsh on the throne for those days. The darv īsh then claimed this movement foretold
Nuqṭ av ī ascension to power. When the days of crisis were deemed over the darv īsh was exe-
cuted, and Nuqṭ av īs across the region were detained and executed. A number fled to India.19
The same urban-cum-tribal/rural unrest would seem to have been at work in July 1631,
during a reign of ‘Abbā s’ successor Ṣaf ī (reg. 1629–1642) when one Darv īsh Riz ā arose, yet
again in the former capital of Qazvin. The Darv īsh, an Afshar married to the daughter of
a Safavid general, proclaimed himself “Lord of the Age (Ṣāḥib al-Zam ān)”, a distinctly Sh ī ‘ ī
reference to himself as the Hidden Imā m which, combined with an overtly Sufi discourse,
recalled and revived aspects of the messianic millenarianism hegemony over which was
solely claimed by the Safavid Sufi order. Though this rising also was crushed, a follower rose
up proclaiming himself the reincarnated darv īsh, suggesting, as with the discourse of such
earlier Nuqṭ av īs as Darv īsh Khusraw, a degree of acceptance of the transmigration of souls,
a heresy among orthodox Sh ī ‘a.20
The earlier, “conventional”, narrative does suggest activity among such orders as were
present among the plateau’s Sufi orders. It also suggests that Sufi orders had all but disap-
peared by this point, either incorporated into the life of the “polity”, crushed by its over-
whelming power or perhaps some combination of these two. As such, this narrative echoes
more than not that conventional “decline” paradigm in the field, especially as it has been
applied to the seventeenth century.21
Indeed, proponents of what Anzali calls the “suppression” theory of Sufi fortunes over
the Safavid period mention and dismiss a claim by the later anti-Sufi polemicist Mu ḥammad
Ṭā hir al-Qumm ī (d. 1687), in his Persian-language volume Tuḥfat al-Akhyār – completed ca.
1656 to 1664 – in which al-Qumm ī wrote that the most popular Sufi order in Iran in those
years was the Nū rbakhsh īs.22
In fact, more recent research points to the Nū rbakhsh īs being actively present in Mashhad,
and Khurasan generally, in these years, thus seemingly corroborating al-Qumm ī’s reference
to the Nū rbakhsh ī as such.23
As to other orders, the essay “Tuḥfa-yi ‘Abbāsī ”, named in honour of ‘Abbā s II, was com-
posed ca. 1664 by Mu ḥammad ‘Al ī Mashhad ī, Mu’azzin Khur ā sān ī (d. 1668). The latter was
the master of the nascent Ẓahabī Sufi order in Isfahan. During his tenure the order seems
to have experienced a degree of expansion. The volume is replete with references to and
citations of the Im ā ms’ narrations – from such early collections of the narrations as al-K āf ī
and al-Faqīh 24 – precisely addressing and supporting the legitimacy of many of the points of
Sufi-style doctrines and practices being critiqued by al-Qumm ī, including asceticism (zuhd),
silence and seeking solitude.25
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Andrew J. Newman
In the 1680s, during the reign of Sulaym ān (reg. 1666/1668–1694) Isfahan was badly
affected by the series of socio-economic and especially natural crises that struck the realm
Where the order had been more active and attractive during the mastership of Mu’azzin, in
these later years the order suffered accordingly, according to the then-master the goldsmith
Najīb al-Dī n Ri ẓā Zargar Tabr īzī Iṣfahān ī (d. ca. 1697). However, in Shiraz, after Zargar’s
decampment there, the order’s fortunes experienced a marked upturn.26
The Fars-born Quṭb al-Dī n Nayr īzī (d. 1760), trained in Shiraz and, having moved to
Isfahan, was a Ẓahabī master, attesting to the order’s presence in the capital city into the next
century.27
The lost “Voices” of the early seventeenth century

Preoccupation with the trajectory of the realm’s Sufi orders across these years has meant
less attention has been devoted to the presence and activities of such Sufi-style movements
and tendencies as do not immediately appear to have been affiliated to any named figure or
known order.
In the later years of the sixteenth century in particular, evidence points to the rise/reap-
pearance of just such Sufi-style millenarian tendencies that motivated those of the region’s
tribal forces that provided Ism ā‘ ī l I with the wherewithal to carve out a polity in the first
place. As such, these at least implicitly questioned the legitimacy of the sitting shāh as, also,
the embodiment of such messianic discourse.
Thus, after Ism ā‘ ī l II’s death in 1577 pseudo-Ism ā‘ ī ls, that is in reference to Ism ā‘ ī l I,
described as darv īshes (qalandars) unattached to any recognised Sufi order, enjoyed sup-
port among Tajik elements in Luristan, Fars, Khuzestan, Hamadan, Gilan and Khurasan.
One of these was, in fact, based in the Ardabī l area, the spiritual home of the Safavid Sufi
order. These also enjoyed support among non-Qizilbā sh tribal elements, Kurds and Lurs
especially.28
In the years following ‘Abbā s’ accession, the physical expansion of Isfahan, if not of other
cities as well, and, especially, the concomitant growth of urban “popular” classes encouraged
the expansion of links between urban artisans and craftsmen and urban-based messianic Sufi
discourse already visible in the later sixteenth century with the urban appeal of the Nuqṭ av īs
and Darv īsh Khusraw.
Contemporary sources attest, if indirectly, that the distinctly urban-dimension of such
messianic tendencies apparent towards the end of the sixteenth century only continued to
expand. Thus, in 1607 an unknown author composed the Persian-language Arba‘ īn ḥadīth f ī
radd al- ṣūfiyya, a work of 40 ḥadīth attacking Sufism and Sufis with a section citing condem-
nation of Sufism by prominent ‘ulama.29
The use of Persian suggests the urban-based Tajik population was the primary target of
such discourse and, thus, the primary constituency associated with such activities.
In 1618, no less a figure that the famous Mullā Ṣadr ā, in his Kasr A ṣn ām, decried the
abandonment by artisans and craftsmen – among those urban elements whose numbers ex-
perienced such growth in these years –30 of their professions to associate with popular Sufi
movements.31 That this work was composed in Arabic does suggest, however, that his audi-
ence of choice was clerical and not the “popular” classes themselves.
These anti-Sufi polemics and the 1631 rising of both Darv īsh Riza and his reincarnated
self a few years later occurred against the background of the resurgence of the messianic ven-
eration of Abū Muslim (d. 755) – the Iranian agent of the ‘Abbā sid movement in Khurasan –
dating at least to 1629. Such veneration was particularly popular among Isfahan’s artisanal
376
and merchant classes and kept alive by “popular” storytellers (qi ṣṣakhw ān ān) based in the
city’s growing number of coffee houses.
The previous century had witnessed attacks on the veneration of Abū Muslim. These
were few in number, composed mainly in Arabic and took place within a socio-religious dy-
namic different to that of the latter years of the same century and the seventeenth century.32
Indeed, Ism ā‘ ī l came to power in the region having identified himself, in his own poetry,
for example, with a range of Muslim, Sh ī ‘ ī and Christian figures and even personalities from
Tajik literary history. These included Abū Muslim. As suggested, it was the very hetero-
doxy of this discourse that resonated both among the member of the various Turkic tribes
which composed Ism ā‘ ī l’s Qizilbā sh tribal confederation, largely rural-based, and largely
urban-based Tajik elements.
This millenarianism, including praise for Abū Muslim, reappeared at Ism ā‘ ī l’s death in
1524, an event that sparked a multi-year long civil war and consequent invasions of Safavid
territory by the Safavids’ Uzbeg and Ottoman enemies.33
This veneration produced a reaction among clerics of the day. One of first Twelver clerics
to decry Abū Muslim’s popularity was ‘Al ī al-Karak ī (d. 1534), one of the very few Twelver
scholars who came to Safavid Iran from Arabic-speaking lands during the decades following
the 1501 capture of Tabriz by Ism ā‘ ī l I (d. 1524). His Ma ṭā‘in al-Mujrimīyya (“The Abuses
of the Criminals”), though lost, is said to have included a refutation both of Sufism and of
the public veneration of Abū Muslim by storytellers. He also issued a short Arabic-language
ruling ( fatw ā) in which he approved of the cursing of Abū Muslim.34
That the language of these interventions was Arabic suggests their intended audience was
primarily, as in the case of some essays already discussed as well as the period’s exchanges on
the legitimacy of Friday prayer during the continued absence of the Hidden Imā m, members
of the self-same, small scholarly class.35 Perhaps this, as the Friday prayer essays, signalled
some scepticism/disagreement or a perceived lack of urgency on the matter.
Clearly reflecting a growing interest in Abū Muslim among urban, Tajik, i.e.
Persian-speaking elements, ‘Al ī al-Karak ī’s student Mu ḥammad b. Isḥāq al-Hamav ī (d. after
1531) completed a Persian-language work An īs al-Mu’min īn (“The Close Friend of the Be-
lievers”), in which he also attacked the veneration of Abū Muslim. Ṭahm ā sp himself is said to
have banned recitation of stories about Abū Muslim and ordered the tongues cut out of any
of those storytellers who refused.36
By contrast with the handful of, mainly Arabic-language, contributions composed by
a few scholars in the previous century, between the 1620s and 1652s, that is over the later
years of the reign of ‘Abbā s I through the reign of Ṣaf ī and into that of ‘Abbā s II (1642–1666),
some 24 works were composed attacking the veneration of Abū Muslim and, in the process,
defending one M ī r Lawḥī, Sayyid Mu ḥammad b. Mu ḥammad al-Ḥusayn ī (d. after 1672). The
latter was then engaged, in Isfahan, in attacking that veneration.37
That so many essays in this one genre were composed across these years clearly attests that
the affection for Abū Muslim had become quite a distinct feature of Safavid spiritual landscape.
Clerics’ use of Persian for their attacks also attests that such an affection was widespread
among urban Tajik elements. Of the 24 essays only three, all Persian-language, essays re-
main: Ṣa ḥīfat al-Rash ād (“The Page of Reason”), completed by one M ī r Mu ḥammad Zam ān
b. Mu ḥammad Ja‘far Ri ẓav ī (d. 1631), I ẓh ār al-Ḥaqq va Mi‘yār al-Ṣidq (“The Disclosure of
What is Right and the Measuring of the Truth”), written by Sayyid A ḥ mad al-‘Alav ī al-
‘Ā mil ī (d. between 1644 and 1650) in 1633 and Khul āṣat al-Favā’id (“A Summary of the
Benefits”), of ‘Abd al-Muṭṭ alib b. Ya ḥyā Ṭā liqān ī. The latter’s death date is not known and
the essay itself is undated, but likely composed in the years immediately prior to 1652.
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Andrew J. Newman
These essays are examined in detail elsewhere.38 Although not all of the critiques levelled
by these essays’ authors can be accepted as entirely accurate reflections of that veneration
itself, read carefully they do add considerably to the understanding of the discourse of those
for whom Abū Muslim was a popular figure.
Ṣa ḥīfa in particular, the earliest of the three, suggests that Abū Muslim’s popularity in
these years may well have been limited to Isfahan. Taken as a whole they also point to a con-
tinuing presence of a Sunni population in the city: Sunnis and “apostates”, that is those Sh ī ‘a
whom the authors were attacking, are said to have approved of Abū Muslim’s role in bringing
the ‘Abbā sids to power and to be citing Im ā m ‘Al ī on the legitimacy of the ‘Abbā sids. These
elements are seen to be holding favourable views of Abū Muslim’s genealogy, and of ‘Abbā sid
behaviour towards the Imā ms and the faithful. There is also the suggestion that this ven-
eration included, for example, Abū Muslim being understood to have been a friend of Ahl
al-Bayt, that Im ā m al-Bāqir, (d. 733), the fifth Im ā m, approved of Abū Muslim’s public rising
(khur ūj) and that Abū Muslim was thought of as having been an incarnation of the Divine
himself. There are also references to songs and singing (ghin ā’).
In all this, the presence of “storytellers” and their role in spreading pro-Abū Muslim sen-
timents are repeatedly referenced.39
The essays claim also that such well-known figures as Bahāʾ al-Dī n Mu ḥammad, Shaykh
Bahā’ ī (d. 1621) and M ī r Dā m ād, well-known in the Western secondary literature on the
period as philosopher-clerics, were actively involved in attacking the veneration of Abū
Muslim and in supporting the anti-Abū Muslim activities of their student M ī r Lawḥī.
That said, although Ṭā liqān ī suggests that not everyone in the city detested Abū Lawḥī,
it is clear from these essays that there was a widespread opposition to M ī r Lawḥī’s efforts.
The essays attest also that this hostility extended to otherwise unidentified, contemporary
important figures (ak ābar) of the faith.
Composed across the reigns of three Safavid rulers, the growing lengths of these three
essays, owing itself to their authors’ increasingly detailed references to and citations from
both historical and religious sources, certainly bespeak their authors’ increasing frustration
at their failure to check what can only have been the growing popularity of the Abū Muslim
tradition across these years. That only these three of more than 20 anti-Abū Muslim trea-
tises composed in the years from before 1631 and up to 1652 survived and, further, that so
few copies of these three are extant today all the more points to the minority status of the
anti-Abū Muslim polemic in the city in these years.
Too, that such scholars as these were, or at least felt, on the defensive is only further
attested by the fact that Riḍ av ī only felt confident in penning his essay once he had left
Isfahan to return home to Mashhad. In his I ẓh ār al- ḥaqq even Sayyid A ḥ mad, a student of
both Shaykh Bahā’ ī and M ī r Dā m ād and a cousin and son-in-law of the latter, refrained from
explicitly referring to M ī r Lawḥī and did not refer to, and thereby avoided an opportunity to
criticise, Abū Muslim’s purported claims to being “indwelt” by the Divine (ḥul ūl).
Other contributors to both the anti-Abū Muslim and the later anti-Sufi polemic chose to
hide their identities: the 1016/1607 Persian-language essay “Arba‘ ī n Ḥad īth (Forty Hadith)”,
cited earlier, was authored anonymously. The authors of Ḥadīqat al-Shī‘a (“The Garden of
the Sh ī ‘a”) and the 1650 “Salvat al-Shī‘a” (“The Solace of the Sh ī ‘a”), on both of which see
further below, also did not own up to their contributions.40
To the extent that the limited legacy of this written record of this polemic reflects the
state of the discourse on Abū Muslim “on the street”, then those clerics who otherwise might
be considered “orthodox”, including those named earlier, the authors of the many “lost”
378
essays along with those who chose to hide their names would seem to have felt quite belea-
guered, isolated and under attack over these years, even before the already-known reports of
physical attacks in later years.41
The lost “Voices” of the later seventeenth century

Examination of the three aforementioned essays also reveals clear links between the anti-Abū
Muslim polemics of these years and the anti-Sufi polemics of the middle and later years of the
century. Both the extant essays from the earlier polemic and such later works as more clearly
belonged to the later anti-Sufi polemic featured condemnations of such activities as songs
and singing and claims to ḥul ūl, and included an ever-larger number of references to reli-
gious texts, especially the Im ā ms’ ḥadīth. That these were composed in Persian suggests their
authors’ intended audience was composed mainly of urban artisanal and merchant elements.
In the same time frame, as noted earlier, appeared the Persian-language Ḥadīqat at al-
Shī‘a, a work at the time ascribed to A ḥ mad Ardabī l ī (d. 1585) – himself well known for his
critique of the Safavid political institution – although the main text was written in the 1640s
in the Deccan. The presence in the work of both anti-Abū Muslim and anti-Sufi sections
suggests sympathy for both sets of discourses among those Persian-speaking urban elements
targeted by the author(s) of these sections. In the latter section ‘Ardabī l ī’ denounced some
21 named Sufi groups for such heretical beliefs as ascribing partnership to Allah (mush ārika),
abandoning prayer and fasting, dancing (raqṣ), singing, and listening to poetry or music
(sam ā‘), some of which are familiar from the anti-Abū Muslim polemics cited earlier. None
of these named groups was among those well-established on the plateau discussed earlier.
The Persian-language “Salvat al-Shī‘a”, composed between 1641 and 1650, likely by Mīr
Lawḥī himself, bespeaks a shift to a more exclusively anti-Sufi discourse, focusing, as it does,
on certain named, and very unorthodox, practices allegedly undertaken by Sufi groups. These
ranged from abandoning both prayer and fasting, to “dancing” and “singing”, to sexual immo-
rality. The author made particular use of works by Shaykh al-Muf īd (d. 1022), al-‘Allāma al-
Ḥ illī (d. 1325), both scholars of “orthodox” discourse, and the Imāms’ traditions cited therein,
a tradition cited from al-K āf ī and other traditions cited from unnamed sources.42
The reference earlier to Mu ḥammad Ṭāhir al-Qumm ī’s Tuḥfat al-Akhyār highlights
al-Qumm ī’s role as a key figure in this later anti-Sufi polemic into which the attacks on the
veneration of Abū Muslim seem to have evolved.43
Ṭā hir al-Qumm ī was born at the end of the tenth/sixteenth century in a small commu-
nity located between Shiraz and Yazd. After an apparent sojourn in Shiraz, his father relo-
cated the family to Najaf. Following Muṣū l’s fall to the Ottomans in 1638, the year before
the Zuhāb peace treaty was signed with the Ottomans, al-Qumm ī returned to Iran, during
the reign of Shāh Ṣaf ī.
By the 1660s and 1670s attacks on both Sufi doctrines and practices and “elite” philosoph-
ical inquiry appear to have taken centre stage.
The former included, especially, a discourse on the legitimacy of singing, as one of those
practices associated with contemporary “popular” Sufi activity. Essays against singing com-
posed by Shaykh ‘Al ī al-‘Ā mil ī (d. 1691–1692), and Mu ḥammad b al-Ḥasan, al-Ḥurr al-‘Amil ī
(d. 1693), like Shaykh ‘Al ī al-‘Ā mil ī, a first-generation arrival from the Lebanon in these
years, and the “rebuttal” thereto by Mu ḥammad Bāqir al-Sabzivār ī (d. 1679) were composed
in Arabic. Clearly these were intended to read and considered mainly by members of the
clerical class, signalling disagreement among members on the issue.44
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Andrew J. Newman
By contrast, Persian was al-Qumm ī’s language of choice.
That said, in the first years following his return to Iran, al-Qumm ī himself seems to have
been as cautious about openly identifying with such discourse as the authors of Ḥadīqat al-
Shī‘a and “Salvat al-Shī‘a”. The Persian-language “Radd-i Ṣūfiyya” (“A Rebuttal of Sufism”),
accepted as having been authored by al-Qumm ī, was composed ca. 1650, within 12 years of
his return to Iran, when he was still a relatively junior scholar.45
The essay is in two parts: part one critiques various beliefs and practices and links to these
as espoused by earlier well-known Sufi figures, Ḥallāj46 and Bāyazīd47, A ḥ mad al-Ghaz ā l ī
(d. 1126), as well as Ibn al-‘Arabī (d. 1240), especially. Al-Qumm ī cites condemnations
thereof in the revealed texts as well as in works by various Twelver scholars. In part two he
discusses a critique of the beliefs and practices of various named Sufi groups, a number of
which are, also, clearly contemporary and do not figure among the known orders discussed
earlier. Among the practices cited in part one are practicing hand-clapping, leaping (bar
jastan), spinning (charkhīdan) and free love (‘ishqbāzī ) with men. Elsewhere he refers to, and
condemns, the belief in predestination ( jabr), not attending the mosque or Friday prayer,
spending much time praying in the kh ānaqāh, wearing special clothes, sitting in seclusion for
months on end and eschewing meat.48
That he undertook a second Persian-language work on the subject, the volume Tuhfat
al-Akhyār, completed between 1656 and 1664,49 can only bespeak his own conclusion that
the popularity of these discourses among Persian-speaking urban elements was only waxing
ever stronger and so demanded a “doubling-down” of his attack. By this time, also, given the
Arabic -language contributions to this discourse completed in the 1660s and 1670s by both
Shaykh ‘Al ī and al-Ḥurr, al-Qumm ī seems to have perceived own position on the Safavid
spiritual scene as a fellow critic of such beliefs and practices as more secure than when he
has first returned to the country some decades earlier, such that he was now less reluctant to
identify himself as the author.
As in the earlier “Radd”, so in Tuḥfat, at much greater length, al-Qumm ī condemns a
panoply of beliefs and practices that he traces to those of such earlier figures as Ḥasan-i Ba ṣr ī
(d. 728),50 Bāyazīd, Abū’l-Ḥasan ‘Al ī al-Kharaqān ī (d. 1033)51, Ḥallāj, Ibn al-‘Arabī, in both
the latter’s al-Fut ūḥāt and Fu ṣūs al-Ḥikam, and Jalā l al-Dī n Rū m ī (d. 1273). As evidence for
his argument that these roots of these beliefs and practices lay in earlier times, al-Qumm ī
repeatedly refers to sources from within the Sufi tradition itself. Thus he cites Jā m ī, Far īd al-
Dī n al-‘Aṭṭār (d. 1221)’s Tadhkirat al-Awliyā’, Sulṭān Ḥusayn M ī rz ā Bāyqar ā’s Majālis al-‘Ush-
sh āq52 and Ma ḥ mūd Shabistar ī’s (d. ca. 1337) Gulsh ān-i R āz.53
Those beliefs and practices that al-Qumm ī associates with such figures in Tuḥfat include
belief in predestination ( jabr), the transmigration of souls (tan āsukh), the reading of love
(‘ishq) poetry in both mosques and the kh ānaqāh, singing – which al-Qumm ī calls a major sin
(gun āh-i kabīr) – dancing and clapping, advocating drunkenness (mast ī ), madness (divānigi),
the wearing of a hat (kul āh) and the Sufi robe (khirqa), forswearing marriage, the smell of
meat, belief in the unity of existence (va ḥdat-i vujūd) and the promulgating of claims to di-
vinity and/or the Im ā mate itself. He denounces also the predisposition to monasticism and
those who sat in hermitages (ṣawma‘a nishīn ān). He also refers to these elements’ abandoning
the hajj, their praising of the Sunni legist al-Shā f ī ‘ ī (d. 820), Abū Bakr (d. 634) and ‘Umar
(d. 644), the first two caliphs, and Mu‘āwiya (d. 680), the first Umayyad caliph, and their
censuring of Im ā m īs and the rightful claims of Ahl al-Bayt.
Herein al-Qumm ī says that the Nū rbakhsh īs, who claimed the Im ā mate and maintained
that Mu ḥammad Nū rbakhsh was the mahdī, were the most popular order in Iran.54
380
Al-Qumm ī’s al-Faw ā’id al-D īniyya (“Useful Religious Lessons”), which, though undated,
post-dated Tuḥfat, was more a theological/jurisprudential work. Nevertheless, it does con-
tain some references to problematic beliefs and practices of the day as deriving from those of
earlier Sufi figures.
The work is comprised of 37 statements/questions and his replies, of quite varying lengths.
Five of these repay especial attention here: number 24 condemns Ḥallāj and Bāyazīd for be-
lieving in the possibility of attaining unity with Allah (ittiḥād). Herein, also, al-Qumm ī
cites a long passage from al-‘Aṭṭār. Number 25 condemns Ibn al-‘Arabī and his followers,
e.g. Rū m ī, who accept va ḥdat-i vujūd, referring to his discussions in his own Ḥikmat al-`Ārif īn,
Tuḥfat and other works. Number 26 censures Ibn al-‘Arabī’s denial, citing Fu ṣūṣ, of the real-
ity of Hell. Number 27 condemns Ibn al-‘Arabī’s claim, in Fu ṣūṣ, that the Prophet drew his
‘ilm from the lamp niche (mishkat) of the seal (khatam) of Sufi “saints” (al-awliyā’), who, Ibn
al-‘Arabī claimed, was in fact himself.55 Number 28 cites Rū m ī’s Masnavī on the lapsing of
the law (shar ī‘a) and refers to Tuḥfat’s discussion.56
As has been noted, al-Qumm ī’s reference to the Nū rbakhsh ī order’s popularity in these
later years of the century has heretofore been dismissed. That al-Qumm ī was mainly/more
concerned to link/trace such contemporary beliefs and practices that he branded as “unorth-
odox” back to those, similarly “unorthodox”, as promulgated by/associated with various ear-
lier Sufi orders and figures is all the more reason to suggest that the impetus for al-Qumm ī’s
references clearly was his own contemporary observations.
As noted earlier, more recent research has corroborated al-Qumm ī’s reference to the ac-
tive presence of the Nū rbakhsh īs and pointed to that of the Ẓahabīs as well.
But there is also good evidence further attesting to Sufi-style activity in these years not
associated with any named order. Thus in 1668, an unknown author composed Persian-
language work supportive of the Qalandars and their belief system. The author carefully
affirms loyalty both to the Twelver faith – perhaps all the more important in light of such
criticisms of al-Qumm ī’s focus on the anti-Ahl al-Bayt sentiments of the targets of his
critiques – and to the newly ascended Shāh Sulaym ān.57
Too, the Ẓahabī master Nayr īzī portrays the conflict which brought down the Safavids
in the early eighteenth century as between ashbah ahl al-faqr (which Anzali translates as
“pseudo-derv īshes”) and the greedy and status-conscious “pseudo-‘ulama” (ashbah ahl al-
‘ilm). That Nayr īzī then notes that even he himself had been accused of being one of the for-
mer does suggests, also, that the sort of “popular” Sufi-style activity with which al-Qumm ī
had been so concerned in the later years of the seventeenth century remained extant, if not
flourishing, into the early years of the next century.58
Summary and conclusion

The conventional approach to tracking Sufism into the Safavid period’s Sufi-style discourse
by referring mainly to the period’s several Sufi orders offers limited insight into the fortunes
of such discourse, let alone Sufi-style activities, over the period. The argument that these or-
ders had all but disappeared from the realm’s spiritual scene by the early to mid-seventeenth
century only replicates and gave further credence to the broader “decline” paradigm that has
been applied to the period as a whole.
Too, recent research into the later seventeenth century has, in fact, challenged the alleged
downward trajectory of some of the realm’s Sufi orders.
At the same time, putting to one side focus on these orders alone allows scope for atten-
tion to “non-order” forms of Sufi-style belief and expression. While al-Qumm ī certainly
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Andrew J. Newman
may have exaggerated “for effect” the details of the “unorthodox” dimensions of Sufi beliefs
and practices given in his several accounts examined earlier,59 what does also emerge from
his works is a sense of the lively presence of such “popular” inquiry and activity in the later
years of the century.60
Evidence from what remains of the earlier anti-Abū Muslim polemic reveals a similarly
active popular discourse that blended veneration of Abū Muslim with Sufi-style beliefs and
practices and was sufficiently widespread so as to put the authors of that polemic on the
defensive. Such “orthodoxies” as were promulgated across the Safavid period by the small
number of urban-based ‘ulama whose works are best known, and most-studied, today were
most likely in the minority.
In reality, the extent of what is not known about Safavid social and “cultural” life far out-
weighs what is known, this especially as the domestic and foreign sources thereon on which
historians so rely for discussions of both Safavid socio-economic and political and “cultural”
life are both few in number and, especially also, subject to their own biases.61 It is notable that
in these years the majority of Iran’s population was rural/tribal.62 Based on the earlier discus-
sion, it would seem that at the popular level elements of the very same complex, Sufi-Shī ‘ ī
if not also other forms of the complex, distinctly heterodox discourse that dominated Iran’s
spiritual scene in the years before prior to the Safavid capture of Tabriz remained extant, if
they did also continue predominant, across the Safavid period.
Notes

382
Mu ḥ ammad Sh ī r ā z ī, Mullā Ṣadr ā (d. 1640) – “members” of the “Isfahan School of Philosophy”
with whose legacy the field has long been better acquainted – it does not address this discourse in
any depth. On that “school”, see S. Rizvi, “Isfahan School of Philosophy”, Encyclopaedia Iranica
(EIr), 14/2, 119–125.
5 For a basic overview of this period, see D. Morgan, Medieval Persia, 1040–1797, various editions.
6 For an introduction to the Twelver faith, see Twelver Shiism, Unity and Diversity in the Life of Islam,
632–1722 (Edinburgh, 2013). On this period especially see 138f, on which this section is based.
For an extended discussion of sources on these movements especially, see, in addition to the
sources cited below, I. P. Petrushevsky, Islam in Iran, H. Evans transl. (London, 1985), 260–264,
291–300; J. Baldick, Mystical Islam (London, 1989), 71–77, 94, 96, 100–104, 111 and the sources
cited in both our Safavid Iran, 149n20 and Twelver Shiism, the latter as cited earlier. On the urban/
rural/tribal dynamic, see n62.
7 See our Safavid Iran, 24f; idem, Twelver Shiism, 159.
8 On these and other factors/policies which kept this alliance together across the sixteenth century,
see our Safavid Iran, especially 13f, on which, in addition to sources cited elsewhere, this discussion
is based. On the reign of Tahm ā sp, see 26f. See also our Twelver Shiism, 158–163.
9 H. Algar, “Naqshbandis and Safavids: A Contribution to the Religious History of Iran and Her
Neighbors”, in M. Mazzaoui, ed., Safavid Iran and Her Neighbors (Salt Lake City, 2003), 25f, 9f, 22f.
See also our Safavid Iran, 20, 28, 32.
10 On these posts, and their changing briefs over the period, see W. Floor, Safavid Government Insti-
tutions (Costa Mesa, 2001), sv.
11 Algar, “Naqshbandis and Safavids”, 26; Newman, Safavid Iran, 41f, 33, 35.
12 On this term as a reference to a “residential facility”, see J. Renard, Historical Dictionary of Sufism
(Oxford, 2005), 200. See also Gerhard Böwering and Matthew Melvin-Koushki, ‘Khā naqā h’, EIr
13 Algar, “Naqshbandis and Safavids”, 26; S. Bashir, Messianic Hopes and Mystical Visions: The N ūr-
bakhsh īya between Medieval and Modern Islam (Columbia, SC, 2003), 187, 175, 189–95; H. Algar,
“Nū rba k̲ h̲ s̲ h̲ iyya”, in Encyclopaedia of Islam, Second Edition, (EI2); Newman, Safavid Iran, 33, 35.
14 Newman, Safavid Iran, 20.
15 Newman, Safavid Iran, 20, 33,
16 Newman, Safavid Iran, 51.
17 Algar, “Nuḳṭ awiyya”, EI2; Newman, Safavid Iran, 46.
18 Algar, “Nu ḳṭ awiyya”, EI2; Newman, Safavid Iran, 51.
19 Algar, “Nu ḳṭ awiyya”, EI2; Newman, Safavid Iran. See also K. Babayan, Mystics, Monarchs and
Messiahs, Cultural Landscapes of Early Modern Iran (Cambridge, MA, 2002), 90f, in the middle of a
lengthy discussion on the Nuqṭ av īs.
20 Newman, Safavid Iran, 75; Babayan, Mystics, 377f.
21 See n3 earlier and Newman, Safavid Iran, 2f.
22 Algar (“Nū rbakhshiyya”, EI2) suggests that this reference was meant to comprise all Sufis at the
time. Bashir (194) suggests that al-Qumm ī’s “lack of any concrete reference” to contemporary
Nū rbakhsh ī shaykhs or authors means al-Qumm ī’s reference was a “rhetorical exercise not di-
rected toward an actual Nū rbakhsh ī presence”. On this and other works by al-Qumm ī, and his
criticisms therein, see our discussion further below, based on our “Glimpses into Late-Safavid
Spiritual Discourse: An ‘Akhbā r ī’ Critique of Sufism and Philosophy”, in R. Tabandeh and L.
Lewisohn, eds., Sufis and Mullas: Sufis and Their Opponents in the Persianate World (forthcoming).
23 See A. Anzali, “The Emergence of the Ẓahabiyya in Safavid Iran”, Journal of Sufi Studies, 2/iii
(2013), 159, 159n40, 161n46. Anzali suggests (159n40) the Nū rbakhsh īs “had an extensive net-
work in place at this time in Khurasan and beyond”. See also Anzali, Mysticism, 71.
Note that in the fourth fa ṣl of Tuḥfat al-Qumm ī pointed to Khurasan as a particular centre of
activity. See his Tuḥfat al-Akhyār (The Gift of the Superior), (Qum, 1393), 24f.
24 These collections are Mu ḥ ammad b Ya‘qūb al-Kulayn ī’s (d. 940–941) al-K āf ī and al-Faqih of
Mu ḥ ammad b. ‘Al ī al-Qumm ī, Ibn Bābawayh (d. 991). These are two of the “four books” of the
Im ā ms’ traditions collected in the several centuries immediately following the 874 disappear-
ance of the Twelfth Im ā m. The other two –Tahdh īb al-A ḥk ām and al-Istib ṣār – were assembled
by Mu ḥ ammad b. al-Ḥasan al-Ṭū sī (d. 1067). The four and other early collections of the Im ā ms’
traditions are discussed in our Twelver Shiism, sv, especially Chapters 2–4.
25 See Mu ḥ ammad ʿAl ī Mashhad ī Sabzavā r ī, Tuḥfa-yi ʿAbb āsī: The Golden Chain of Sufism in Sh īʿ ite
Islam, Mohammad Hassan Faghfoory, transl. (Lanham, MD, 2008), e.g. 121f, 133f, 147f, and, for
383
Andrew J. Newman
references to scholars and the earlier collections, 99, 123. 103, 152, 135. See also Anzali, “The Emer-
gence”, 161f. Anzali notes (161–162) that the order was so popular in Isfahan during Mu’azzin’s time
that it attracted the criticism of such critiques as M īr Lawḥī, on whom see the next section.
26 Anzali, “The Emergence”, 161, 167–168. On Shiraz as a location of Sufi activity in these later
years, see also Anzali, Mysticism, 141f.
27 See n58. This is to say nothing of the numerous Sufi groups listed in the mid-seventeenth-century
Ḥad īqat al-Sh ī à and “Radd-i Ṣūfiyya”, discussed below, especially ad n48. Some of these clearly
seem to have been active at the time.
28 R. Savory, “A Curious Episode of Safavid History”, in C. E. Bosworth, ed., Iran and Islam
(Edinburgh, 1971), 461–473. On the qalandars more generally, see L. Ridgeon, Morals and Mysti-
cism in Persian Sufism: A History of Sufi-futuwwat in Iran (Abingdon, Oxon/ New York, 2010), 132f.
See also Ridgeon’s “Short Back and Sides: Were the Qalandars of Late Safavid Iran Domesti-
cated?” Journal of Sufi Studies 6 (2017), 82–115, also cited below.
29 On this essay, see Babayan, Mystics, 430n11. This work does not appear to be listed by Agh ā
Buzurg al-Ṭihr ā n ī in his al-Ẓar ī‘a il ā Ṭa ṣan īf al-Sh ī‘a, Tehran/Najaf, 1353–1398, nor is it mentioned
by Anzali in his Mysticism.
30 R. J. Abisaab, Converting Persia, Religion and Power in the Safavid Empire (London, 2004), 82–85
notes the anger of the Lebanese immigrant Luṭ fallā h al-Maysī (d. 1622–1623), recipient of ‘Abbā s
I’s patronage, to challenges to his authority from precisely these same, clearly well-organised,
elements in the city. Abisaab sees “racial overtones” (i.e. Arab versus non-Arab) to this mutual
hostility (84). To be sure, the opposition of the “artisans and guildsmen” (85) and their clear dis-
dain for the mujtahid class generally – that she says al-Maysī ascribed to these elements – was likely
as much, if not more, rooted in the socio-religious than she suggests. This anti-clerical sentiment
could only fuel the rise of a desire for a more immanent spiritual experience – unmediated by
court-based clerical elites, Arab or not – that was an important factor underlying such classes’
interest in millenarian discourse.
31 Ṣadr al-D ī n Mu ḥ ammad Sh ī r ā z ī, Kasr A ṣn ām al-J āhiliyyih, M. T. Danishpazhuh, ed. Tihr ā n, 1340
Sh./1962, 3; Ṣadr al-D ī n Sh ī r ā z ī (Mull ā Ṣadr ā), Breaking the Idols of Ignorance, M. Dasht Buzurgi
and F. Asadi Amjad, transl., S. K. Toussi (ed.) (London, 2008), 4. Anzali’s discussion of the text
(Mysticism, 60–62, 66) misses the vocational dimension.
See also Babayan, Mystics, 165f, 176f, 213f, on the historical links between guilds and Sufi ‘Alid
movements, focusing especially on Futuvvatn āma-yi Ṣul ṭān ī, the undated work of Ḥusayn K ā shif ī
(d. 1504–1505).
32 See, for example, Babayan, Mystics, 142, 145–147, 159n74, 281n1, 409n42, with her defining of
the second “wave” of such attacks as occurring from 1626 to 1649, and also 250f, 265, 283n21;
Newman, as cited earlier; Anzali, Mysticism, 34 and n37. See also Anzali, “The Emergence”, 161f.
On earlier veneration of Abū Muslim, see I. Melikoff, Ab ū Muslim, le “porte-hache” du Khorasan dans
la tradition épique turcoiranienne (Paris, 1962).
33 See Newman, Safavid Iran, 14–15n6; 20; 31–32. See also Babayan, Mystics, 145f; J. Calmard, “Pop-
ular Literature under the Safavids”, in Newman, ed., Society and Culture in the Early Modern Middle
East: Studies on Iran in the Safavid Period (Leiden, 2003), 318–321, 336–337.
34 The text of al-Karak ī’s fatw ā, in Arabic, as cited in An īs al-Mu’min īn, the Persian-language work of
al-Karak ī’s student al-Hamav ī, can be found in R. Ja`fariyan, Ṣafaviyya dar Ar ṣih-yi D īn, Farhang,
va Siyāsat, Qum, 1379 Sh./2000, 2: 868. For an English translation, see Babayan, Mystics, 121. On
al-Hamav ī, see also further below.
On Ma ṭā‘in see al-Ṭihr ā n ī, 21: 138; Ja‘fariyan, 2: 521, 860f. Babayan, Mystics, 430n9, says this
work was “probably” composed in 1526 but offers no supporting evidence. Anzali (Mysticism,
37n39) refers to the work as lost but offers no date.
See our Twelver Shiism for discussion of Twelver works nearly or completely lost across Twelver
history.
On the storytellers, see Babayan, Mystics, 121f; Ja‘fariyan, 2: 851–879.
35 On the Friday prayer essays composed in this century, see our Twelver Shiism, 184f.
36 On al-Hamav ī, see Babayan, Mystics, 145f, 250–251, 282–289; Ja‘fariyan, 2: 862f; Anzali, Mysti-
cism, 34–35. See also Babayan, “Sufis”, in Melville, ed., 124–125; idem, “The Safavid Synthesis”,
143–147; Calmard, “Popular Literature under the Safavids”, 318–321.
37 Anzali (Mysticism, 34) criticises Babayan’s reference (citing her “The Waning of the Qizilbā sh: The
Spiritual and the Temporal in Seventeenth Century Iran”, PhD dissertation, Princeton University,
384
June 1993, 204) to the early seventeenth-century anti-Abū Muslim essays as the second wave
thereof because the sixteenth-century essays were not “coordinated” and so did not constitute a
“first” wave. On M ī r Lawḥī, see further below.
38 See our “The Limits of ‘Orthodoxy’? Notes on the Anti-Abū Muslim Polemic of Early
11th/17th-Century Iran”, in D. Hermann and M. Terrier, eds., Shiʿ i Islam and Sufism, Classical
Views and Modern Perspectives, (London, forthcoming), 65–119, on which this section is based.
39 On ‘Abbā s I’s general concern with the capital’s storytellers and his efforts and those of clerics of
the day to check their discourse, see our Safavid Iran, 69.
40 See our “Sufism and Anti-Sufism in Safavid Iran: The Authorship of the ‘Ḥad īqat al-Sh ī ‘a’ Revis-
ited”, Iran, XXXVII (1999), 95–108. See also the discussion on both texts in our “Clerical Per-
ceptions of Sufi Practices in Late Seventeenth-Century Persia: Arguments over the Permissibility
of Singing (Ghin ā’)”, in L. Lewisohn and D. Morgan, eds., The Heritage of Sufism, 135–164. The
author of “Salvat” is one Muṭ ahhar b. Mu ḥ ammad b. Miqd ād ī, usually said to have been M ī r Lawḥī
himself. On “Salvat” see also earlier note. See also the discussion of the authorship of “Radd-i
Ṣūfiyya” below, although it is now generally accepted as having been authored by Ṭā hir al-Qumm ī.
41 See our Safavid Iran, 77, on M ī r Lawḥī’s claim, in his own Arba‘ īn (completed in 1672, sometime
after which he died) that he was assaulted in the street. On these dates see al-Ṭihr ā n ī, 9/4: 220. See
also our Safavid Iran, 215n33 and earlier references to M ī r Lawḥī.
42 On these works, see our “Sufism and Anti-Sufism” and our “Clerical Perceptions”.
43 See our forthcoming “Glimpses”, on which this section is based.
44 Shaykh ‘Al ī’s critiques are on offer in volume one of his al-Durr al-Manth ūr, completed in 1662. His
“al-Sih ām al-M ā’riqa”, though undated, was completed after this. Al-Ḥurr’s three contributions to
the anti-singing discourse can be dated to 1662, ca. 1665 and before 1679.
On the anti-Sufi discourse, see our “Sufism and Anti-Sufism”. On the anti-singing polemic,
see our “Clerical Perceptions of Sufi Practices in Late Seventeenth-Century Persia: Arguments
Over the Permissibility of Singing (Ghin ā’)”, in L. Lewisohn and D. Morgan, eds., The Heritage
of Sufism (Oxford: Oneworld, 1999), 135–164; idem, “Clerical Perceptions of Sufi Practices in
Late 17th Century Persia, II: al-Ḥurr al-`Ā mil ī (d. 1693) and the Debate on the Permissibility of
Ghin ā”, in Y. Suleiman, ed., Living Islamic History: Studies in Honour of Professor Carole Hillenbrand
(Edinburgh, 2010), 192–207. Anzali (Mysticism, 38f ) offers a useful, recent review of the essays in
the anti-Sufi polemic.
45 Anzali, Mu ḥammad Ṭāhir Al-Qumm ī, Opposition to Philosophy in Safawid Iran: Mulla Mu ḥammad-Ṭāhir
Al-Qumm ī’s Ḥikmat al-`Ārif īn, introduction and critical edition by A. Anzali and S. M. Hadi Gerami
(Leiden, 2018), 17, 23; idem, Mysticism, 39, 47f. See also al-Tihr ā n ī, 10: 206–208; Newman,
“Sufism and Anti-Sufism”, 99f; Babayan, Mystics, 467.
46 Ḥusayn b. Man ṣū r al-Ḥ all āj, executed in 922, on whom see Renard, Historical Dictionary, 101–102;
A. Knysh, Islamic Mysticism, A Short History (Leiden, 2000), s.v., esp. 72–82. Thanks to Dr L.
Ridgeon for his pointing me to these works as useful for some basic background on figures re-
ferred to by al-Qumm ī. On Ḥallāj and the early Twelver community, see our The Formative Period
of Shi’i Law: Hadith as Discourse between Qum and Baghdad (Richmond, 2000), s.v.
47 Bāyaz īd al-Bisṭā m ī (d. ca. 875), mystic and follower of the Ḥanaf ī legal school, on whom see
Renard, Historical Dictionary, 49; Knysh, Islamic Mysticism, s.v., esp. 69–72.
48 Part one is discussed in greater detail in our “Glimpses”. On part two, see the detailed discussion
in our “Sufism and Anti-Sufism” and our “Clerical Perceptions”. As argued therein, the discus-
sions of some of the many Sufi groups referenced in both Ḥad īqa and “Radd” contain references
which are clearly contemporary. More exploration of these is clearly in order.
49 Anzali, Opposition, 24, 24n88 (referring to the earliest, less complete manuscript, dated to 1656);
idem, Mysticism, 40, 40n citing the completion date as 1664. Al-Qumm ī himself refers to 1664 as
the present date (Tu ḥfat al-Akhyār (The Gift of the Superior), Qum, 1393, 88, 99). Al-Tihr ā n ī (3: 147)
does not date the work.
50 Renard, Historical Dictionary, 103.
52 This is, in fact, a work dedicated to the Timurid Ṣulṭā n Ḥusayn Bāyqar ā and on which see K.
Rizvi, “Between the Human and the Divine: The Majālis al-‘Ushsh āq and the Materiality of Love
in Early Safavid Art”, in W. Melion et al., eds., Ut pictura amor, The Reflexive Imagery of Love in
Artistic Theory and Practice, 1500–1700 (Leiden, 2017), 229–263.
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Andrew J. Newman
386
26
THE MUGHALS AND SUFISM
Kashshaf Ghani
Introduction
Sufi traditions in South Asia are closely linked to the arrival of Muslim political authority
in this region in the early thirteenth century. For the next six centuries their careers would
remain intertwined, at times quite deeply, with the rise and fall of these centres of authority.
The functioning of State ideologies and Sufi institutions, led by charismatic saints, borrowed
much from each other.1 This was reinforced by the idea of sainthood (wil āyat) in the Persian
tradition, applied successfully to the Indian context, where Sufi masters were believed to
be the primary sovereigns of the earthly domain, who leased out authority to rulers and
Sultans over specific territories (salṭanat). The territorial jurisdiction (wal āyat) of a Sufi was
demarcated amongst saints of the same or different order (ṭar īqat). Following such an idea it is
not surprising that scholars have readily equated the fall of the great ruling families with the
passing away of an influential Sufi master, or the decline of a Sufi order. Two instances stand
out: the decline of the Tughluqs with the passing away of Ni ẓā m al-Dī n Awliyā (d. 1325),
and the end of the first phase of Bahman ī rule in Gulbarga coinciding with the death of Gīsū
Dar āz (d. 1422).
Stretching this simplification further the devastating attacks of T ī mū r on Delhi in
1398–1399 are believed to have snuffed out the last remains of Sufi activities in and around
the imperial city, together with other forms of social, cultural, literary and religious creativ-
ity. Recent scholarship however has successfully challenged this notion of an overarching
gloom and decline in the fifteenth century.2 The result has been the identification of new
forms in cultural expression, religious practice, literary productions and social exchange, all
of which draw much from Sufi traditions, practices and establishments in North India and
the Deccan. It not only weakens the “decline” thesis but also proposes alternative ways of
approaching Sufi traditions beyond the rise/decline binary, by allowing us to look into cycles
of Sufi activities beyond a handful of great masters located in specific regions.3 This is par-
ticularly useful when applied in the context of a larger and more successful political empire,
the Mughals. Non-Indian in its origin the Mughals represented a period of Muslim rule in
South Asia by a single dynasty whose efficient management of resources together with re-
ligious institutions and Sufi sites was longer and far more dynamic than any other imperial
authority in South Asia.
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Kashshaf Ghani
The following essay will explore Sufism in the Mughal period through the following
registers – relations of Mughal emperors and the royalty with Sufi masters, a process that
does not limit itself only to acts of “reverence” but also engages with the spiritual tradition
through intellectual creativity and political pragmatism (as in the case of Akbar); the spread
of various Sufi orders, both metropolitan and peripheral, and their complex relationship with
Mughal society through institutions of language, literary production and cross-religious di-
alogue; the last section concludes this history through the lens of reformist Islam led by the
Naqshbandiyya Mujaddidiyya movement.4
Mughal emperors and Sufi saints: patronage and indifference

T ī murid-Mughal connections with Sufi masters predate their arrival to North India. From
the second half of the fifteenth century many of the princes from the house of T ī mur became
deeply drawn towards the Central Asian Naqshband ī Sufis, particularly their famous master
Khwāja Nāṣir al-Dī n ‘Abdallāh A ḥ r ār (d. 1490). Bābur (1483–1530), who later established
the Mughal dynasty in North India was initiated under the latter at the time of his birth.
Later when Bābur took control of Kabul, in 1504, he extended patronage to the descendants
of A ḥ r ār, to the extent of giving one of his daughters in marriage to a Naqshband ī shaykh.
A daughter from this marriage was married to Bayram Khan, Akbar’s regent. Mughal
royal ladies like Baksh ī Bānū Begum, the sister of Akbar (1542–1605), was married to one of
the grandsons of Khwāja Nū r ā (d. 1543–1544), himself the grandson of A ḥ r ār. Inclusion of
the Naqshband īs into the Mughal imperial household through matrimony, and into the bu-
reaucracy through appointments in religious offices, made it evident that Mughals over the
course of time, and migration to North India, ceased to identify members of the Naqshband ī
family simply as a reputed Sufi order. Rather their incorporation into the Mughal establish-
ment gave rise to an “informal aristocratic lobby at the Mughal court.”5
The direct impact of this was the introduction of the Naqshbandiyya order in North India
through the efforts of Khwāja Bāqī Billāh in 1599, and thereafter Shaykh A ḥ mad Sirhind ī in
1600, styled by his contemporaries as mujaddid or renewer of the Islamic faith at the turn of
the second millennium. Mughal-Naqshbandiyya relations therefore continued throughout
the span of the Empire, primarily in North India but also in the Deccan, except in the period
of Akbar when the Emperor publicly displayed his devotion for Chishtiyya masters and their
shrines around the imperial capital at Agra. Sirhind ī was critical of Akbar’s religious policies,
not so much for his attachment with the Chishtiyya, but for the “ascendency of infidelity
during the reign of Akbar.”6
When Bābur established his political authority in North India he quickly realised that
supplanting Mughal-Naqshbandiyya relations in this region was easier said than done. Ir-
respective of changes at the political helm, the spiritual tradition of North India was com-
pletely dominated by the Chishtiyya order, whose wide networks not only percolated the
social structures, reaching to the masses, but extended into the royal courts too. So that
after assuming authority, Bābur lost little time in expressing his reverence towards erstwhile
Chishtiyya masters through the physical act of visitation (ziyārat) to their shrines.7 His first
visit after entering Delhi was to the shrine of Ni ẓā m al-Dī n Awliyā (d. 1325), followed by
the shrine of Quṭb al-Dī n Bakhtiyār K ā k ī (d. 1235).
Mughal attempt at utilising Sufi authority and charisma for political ends is nowhere
better reflected than in the career of its most illustrious emperor, Jalā l ā l-Dī n Mu ḥam-
mad Akbar. In the imperial gazetteer of the Mughals, the Aīn-i Akbar ī (c. 1590) written by
388
The Mughals and Sufism
Abu’l-Fażl, the latter refers to 14 Sufi orders in India. Many of them had negligible influence
in South Asia.8
In the period of their rise as the most powerful centralised political structure in South Asia,
the Mughals had to engage with the Chishtiyya, a Sufi order with Central Asian roots
similar to the Naqshbandiyya. Even after Akbar had consolidated his authority through a
spectacular series of military victories, he could not ignore the presence of the influential
Chishtiyya Sufis. Akbar too exhibited a strong attachment to Chishtiyya shrines, reflected
through the annual visitations to the shrine of Mu‘ ī n al-Dī n in Ajmer, during the time of
‘urs,9 beginning in 1562. After his victory over arch-rival Mewar leading to the capture of
Chittor in 1568, Akbar walked from Chittor to Ajmer, showing his respect to Mu‘ ī n al-Dī n
and fulfilling the vow he had taken before the war.10
Akbar’s single most important encounter with Chishtiyya Sufis was responsible for securing
his lineage, through the birth of his son. Longing for an heir to the Mughal throne, Akbar
visited Sālim Chishtī (d. 1572) in the small village of Sikri, some miles from the imperial capital
at Agra. Official accounts record the birth of a son in 1569 by the blessings of the Chishtiyya
master. The son, who later succeeded Akbar as Jahāng īr, was named Sālim, after the Sufi saint.
This event reinforced the belief of the Emperor on Chishtiyya spirituality. In his display of
gratitude Akbar offered a thanksgiving trip to the shrine of Mu‘īn al-Dīn in Ajmer, all the way
on foot from Agra, an act repeated later that year on the birth of his second son.
In an act of personal reverence to Sā lim Chisht ī, the Emperor built a beautiful marble
mausoleum with lattice screens on the tomb of the saint. It is situated in the central courtyard
at Fatehpur Sikri accessed by the Buland Darwāza, built to commemorate the victory of
Gujarat in 1571.11 Scholars have argued that by choosing a living Chishtiyya saint, connected
to an early Chishtiyya master in Punjab, Akbar not only attached himself to the early gener-
ation of Chisht īs but also “was able to confirm and continue his affiliation with the tomb of
Shaykh Mu‘ ī n al-Dī n Chisht ī in Rajasthan.”12
Akbar’s involvement in Ajmer was not exclusively a spiritual affair. Rather he had impe-
rial interests in mind as Ajmer lay in Rajputana, as a corridor for trade and military move-
ment. In the period after 1580, Akbar stopped his annual pilgrimages to the Ajmer shrine
and in fact to any Sufi shrine within the Empire. By 1585 Fatehpur Sikri was abandoned as
the imperial capital for Lahore, thus severing Akbar’s ties with Sā lim Chisht ī, once and for
389
Kashshaf Ghani
all. The idea of imperial authority therefore came to rest increasingly in the persona of the
Emperor rather than on any external agency, a saint or his shrine complex. While Akbar
started to “command allegiance more to his person” reaffirmed by the ma ḥ ẕar decree which
“affirmed the spiritual supremacy of the Emperor and his superiority to all religious func-
tionaries,”13 places like Fatehpur Sikri and Ajmer, and individuals like Sā lim Chisht ī and
Mu‘ ī n al-Dī n Chisht ī were redefined, to the extent of being dispensed with.14
Jahāng ī r started visiting Ajmer from 1582, even before he became the emperor. As Em-
peror, Jahāng ī r’s first visit was in 1613 to offer respect to the shrine. Jahāng ī r’s devotion to the
cult of Mu‘ ī n al-Dī n and his faith in the spiritual authority of the first Chishtiyya master in
India led him to commission a miniature by Bichiṭ r portraying Mu‘ ī n al-Dī n handing over
the orb and crown of imperial office to Jahāng ī r. The inscription on the orb read “The key
of victory over the two Worlds is entrusted to thy hand.”15 The Emperor stayed in Ajmer for
three years and in that period he visited the shrine nine times, gifted the dargah one of the
large cauldrons that can be seen today. At the end of the third year in 1616 Jahāng ī r placed a
“gold railing with lattice-work at the enlightened tomb of the revered Khwāja.”16
Along with the Chishtīs, Mughal ancestral relations with the Naqshbandiyya continued
unabated during Jahāng īr’s reign. He nurtured this relationship portraying himself as “one of
(the) devotees and sincere servant” of the order and its earliest master, A ḥ rār. Mughal norms
of courtly etiquette were ignored when a certain Naqshbandī emissary from Transoxiana,
Khwāja ‘Abdul Rāḥ im was exempted from the kurnish and taslim, standard rituals of obeisance
before the Emperor. It is however interesting, at the same time ironical, that few years later an
equally reputed Naqshbandiyya master, Shaykh A ḥ mad Sirhindī would be imprisoned for his
reluctance to perform the same rituals for the Emperor.17 The other Naqshbandiyya saint who
Jahāng īr held in high regard was Sayyid Abu’l-‘Ala’ Akbarābādī, a descendent of A ḥ rār.
Towards the end of his life, Jahāng ī r’s relations with Naqshbandiyya Sufis centred around
the personality of Shaykh A ḥ mad Sirhind ī (d. 1624), the chief disciple of the Naqshbandiyya
saint Bāqī Billāh (d. 1603).18 Their initial relations were far from cordial as Jahāng ī r was
annoyed by Sirhind ī’s condemnation of Akbar’s religious policy. Matters started to worsen
from 1619, when Sirhind ī in a letter to M ī r Mu ḥammad Num ān lamented at the disappoint-
ment of Jahāng ī r’s reign. Not long after writing this letter Jahāng ī r summoned Sirhind ī to
the court demanding an explanation. When Sirhind ī satisfied the Emperor with a detailed
explanation, charges were levied against him that he did not perform the mandatory prostra-
tion before the Emperor at court. To which Sirhind ī replied, “I have never bowed my head
to any of God’s creatures and I never will.” Expectedly, Jahāng ī r ordered the Rajput chief
Anirai Singh Dalan to imprison Sirhind ī at the Gwalior fort.
A year later in 1620, the Emperor changed his mind, and not only set him free from
imprisonment but honoured him with a robe and a sum of two thousand rupees.19 After his
release from prison Sirhind ī in one of his last letters to Emperor Jahāng ī r stressed upon the
importance of the real victory (ḥaqiqat- ī fatḥ) which can only be realised by upholding the
banner of Islam high in his domain, with the support of the “army of prayer” (lashkar- ī du‘ā),
which for Sirhind ī was way stronger than the “army of war” (lashkar-i gha ẕa). Travelling
from Sirhind to Lahore and Kashmir in January 1620, Jahāng ī r came to know of Miyān
M ī r, a prominent saint of the Qādiriyya order, whose blessings he sought to gain success
against Shāh ‘Abbā s of Iran. Emperor Jahāng ī r’s son and successor Shāh Jahān’s (1592–1666)
campaign against Mewar in 1654, and the subsequent victory remains one of the landmark
achievements of his reign. The Mughal Emperor attributed this to the grace of the Ajmeri
saint Mu‘ ī n al-Dī n, and as a mark of gratitude he built the second monumental gateway
outside the Buland Darwāza, which came to be known as the Shāh Jahān ī Darwāza. Shāh
390
Jahān added a mosque to the shrine complex in Ajmer, which remains to this day the most
beautiful exhibition of Mughal architecture attached to the shrine. The mosque enclosure
was built of polished marble, bounded by a balustrade.
Shāh Jahān’s daughter Jahānār ā was a greater devotee to the shrine of Ajmer than any of
the Mughal womenfolk. Her contribution in terms of shrine architecture was the Begumi
Dalan built of white marble over the main entrance to the mausoleum.20 Most importantly
she is also the author of two Sufi biographies: one of her Qādiriyya Sufi teacher Mullā Shāh
Badakhsh ī titled Risāla-i Ṣāḥibiyya 21 written in 1641, and the other on Mu‘ ī n al-Dī n Chisht ī
(d. 1236) titled M ūnis al-Arw āḥ22 written in 1639. In 1643, the Mughal princess out of a deep
sense of devotion towards Mu‘ ī n al-Dī n, glimpsed from the verse below, made a personal
visit to the Ajmer shrine on the occasion of ‘urs, where she performed all the customary rit-
uals of a Sufi shrine along with praying at the mosque recently built by her father.
Our Mu‘īn al-Dīn is annihilated in God,
And after that he subsists in the absolute essence.
Jahānār ā’s attachment to Ajmer overshadows, even if briefly, her Qādiriyya affiliation
through the Kashmiri mystic Mullā Shāh whose mosque and kh ānaqāh complex in Srinagar
were patronised by the Mughal princess. Jahānār ā’s Qādiriyya affiliations, along with that of
the Chisht ī, impart her character with a degree of dynamicity drawing directly from a sense
of spiritual authority almost unprecedented in the Mughal harem. It widened the scope of
Mughal–Sufi relations not only with pan-Indian orders like the Chishtiyya but also with
orders that commanded a strong trans-regional connection, initially the Naqshbandiyya,
followed by the Qādiriyya. The Mughal princess was introduced to the Qādir ī order in 1637,
specifically to Miyān M ī r, by her younger brother Dār ā Shikuh himself the heir-apparent to
the Mughal throne. Within a few years Jahānār ā was fully drawn into the Qādiriyya spiri-
tual fold, perhaps accelerated by the fact that there hardly remained any Chishtiyya master
of great spiritual charisma who could have commanded piety from the Mughal princess.
Whatever the case may be, Jahānār ā was introduced to her pīr Mullā Shāh, by Miyān M ī r, at
whose feet she experienced the sublime feelings of a p īr-mur īdī relationship, where she pre-
ferred to see herself only as a faqīra (the poor one) in the path of God that led her to the path
of mystical unveiling of the deep secrets.23
Mughal Prince Dār ā Shikuh (d. 1659), Jahānār ā’s younger sibling, is more famous among
later Mughals for his deep engagement with notions of Unity in the Indian and Islamic
traditions, analysed from a Sufi perspective. He was deeply drawn towards the inherent
spiritual truth that was practiced by the five leading Sufi orders in South Asia – Chishtiyya,
Suhrawardiyya, Qādiriyya, Naqshbandiyya and Kubrawiyya.24 This conviction led him to
complete in 1640 his first spiritual treatise, a compendium of Sufi biographical accounts, ti-
tled the Saf īnat al-Awliya (Ship of the Friends of God). His second work, the Sakinat al Awliya
(Peace of the Friends of God), was written in 1643, at a time when Dār ā had progressed on
the path of spiritual experiences under the tutelage of Mullā Shāh. The work contains an
account of Miyān M ī r, his sister Bībī Jam ā l Khātun and Miyān’s disciples. Dār ā’s rigorous
practice of Qādiriyya meditational exercises, particularly the dhikr, led him to experience,
in his own words, a divine voice in 1645 that resulted in a treatise the following year titled
Risāla-i Ḥaqq Num ā (Compass of Truth) (1646). The work was styled on the daily life and re-
ligious activities of Prophet Mu ḥammad. The Ḥasanāt al-‘Ārifīn (Aphorisms of the Gnostics)
completed in 1654 gave an elaboration on the ecstatic utterances of mystics, which for Dār ā
were normal expressions for Sufis. This work was based on an earlier work on ecstatic mys-
tical sayings by Rū zbihān Baql ī.25
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Kashshaf Ghani
‘Abd al-Ḥaqq Mu ḥaddis Dihalw ī (d. 1642), the author of an extensive Sufi biographical
work Akhbār al-Akhyār, was initiated into the Qādir ī order by Shaykh Mū sā who was a part
of Akbar’s royal court at Fatehpur Sikri. Of the successors of ‘Abdul Ḥaqq the most spiritually
exuberant was M ī r Mu ḥammad, better known as Miyān M ī r (d. 1635). Miyān M ī r’s most
prominent disciple was none other than Mullā Shāh (d. 1661), the murshid of the Mughal
Prince Dār ā Shikuh. Dara came in contact with Mullā Shāh when the Sufi was drawn into
charges of blasphemy by religious leaders at the Mughal court. When Aurangzeb seized the
throne in 1659, killing all close associates of Dār ā Shikuh, Mullā Shāh’s life appeared in dan-
ger. He was summoned to the court in Delhi, but repeated appeals from princess Jahānār ā
and other associates of the Emperor saved the day for Mullā Shāh. Though Aurangzeb paid
his respects at the meditational cell of Mullā Shāh in Srinagar during his visit in 1663, he
continued to carry an unpleasant attitude towards the saint till the time of his death. The
other instance where the Emperor took offence at a mystic who in some way was connected
to Dār ā Shikuh was when he punished the ecstatic Sarmad (d. 1660), the Shahīd (martyr). He
was given a public execution in 1660 on multiple charges most of which remain unclear.26
Shāh Jahān’s son and successor Aurangzeb, the last of the great Mughal rulers, being a
stickler for shar ī‘a norms, forbade the pilgrimage of women to Sufi shrines, along with struc-
tural additions covering tombs, and lime washing of the sepulchre. However, the Emperor
did make a visit to Ajmer in 1659, after his victory over Dār ā Shikuh, perhaps in an effort
to justify his image and affirm his acceptance as the Emperor in the eyes of the masses, after
killing all his brothers to the throne. Along with the visit to Ajmer the Emperor also gave a
thanksgiving donation of 5,000 rupees to the attendants of the shrine. His participation in
Sufi activities being minimal, even in Ajmer, one does not find any architectural remains at
the shrine of Mu‘ ī n al-Dī n attributed to the last of the great Mughal emperors. This proved
a major break from the tradition of his predecessors all of whom, beginning from Akbar,
left their personal imprint on the shrine through monuments constructed out of reverence
to the saint. It is one of the ironies of Aurangzeb’s reign that his final resting place in the
Deccan is at Khuld ābād (renamed after Aurangzeb’s epithet khuld-i mak ān or ‘the one who
rests in eternity’) rather than Aurangabad (named after the Emperor himself ) at the feet of its
famous Chisht ī master Zayn al-Dī n Shir āzī (d. 1370), the disciple of Khwāja Burhān ā l-Dī n
Ghar īb (d. 1369).
Aurangzeb’s burial beside the leading Chishtiyya master of the Deccan point towards a
trend that would gain currency among his royal descendants – Sufi shrines being chosen
as the last resting place for later Mughal monarchs. Aurangzeb and his son Āẓam Shāh in
Khuld ābād, Mu ḥammad Shāh “Rangeela” beside Ni ẓā m al-Dī n Awliya in Delhi, several
others beside Quṭb al-Dī n Bakhtiyār K ā k ī in Mehrauli, Delhi. For the early Mughals, even
their worldly resting places were in close proximity to important Sufi shrines. Fatehpur
Sikri by Akbar was built around Sā lim Chisht ī’s tomb. Both Jahāng ī r and Shāh Jahān built
lakeside palaces near the shrine of Mu‘ ī n al-Dī n in Ajmer. During the reign of Akbar Shāh
II (r. 1806–1837) the royal residence was shifted to the quarters at the shrine of Quṭb al-Dī n
Bakhtiyār K ā k ī. The last Mughal Emperor Bahādur Shāh Ẓafar (r. 1837–1857) built the Ẓafar
Ma ḥā l there and kept a regular tab on the shrine festivals.27
An unusual emphasis on Mughal relationship with Sufi saints and shrines in North India
must not take the Deccan out of focus. Important shrines in and around Khuld ābād and Au-
rangabad received regular patronage from Mughal Emperors starting with Akbar till Bahādur
Shāh. Immediately after conquering Khandesh from the Fār ūqīs in 1601, Akbar continued
many of the earlier land grants to the Khuld ābād shrines, securing for the Mughals a degree
of political legitimacy that supported their Deccani campaigns in the coming days. Later in
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1686 when Aurangzeb marched against Golconda, he stayed for a week at Gulbarga, repeat-
edly visiting the shrine complex of Gīsū Dar āz and donating 20,000 rupees to the sajjādah
nishīn 28 and resident dervishes and beggars. After gaining success at Golconda, Aurangzeb
returned to the Gulbarga shrine in an act of gratitude. In 1689 when Sambhaji the son of
Maratha leader Shivaji was captured – which was prophesied by M ī r Sa īyid Mu ḥammad the
sajjādah nishīn at the shrine of Gīsū Dar āz – Aurangzeb offered a grant of 10,000 rupees to the
shrine along with a personal reward to the sajjādah nishīn. This tradition continued even with
Aurangzeb’s son Mu ḥammad Shāh, and the future successor of the Mughals in the Deccan,
Ni ẓā m al-Mulk Asaf Jāh. Several farm āns or imperial orders from Aurangzeb and Shāh Ā lā m
directed revenues for the performance of shrine rituals in Khuld ābād. These grants, supple-
mented by those from the Ni ẓā m Shāh, were utilised for extensive architectural alternations
to the most sacred Sufi site in the Deccan.29
Spread of Sufism under the Mughals: orders, suborders and

cultural production
In the middle period of Mughal rule (1556–1628) coinciding with the reigns of Akbar and
Jahāng ī r, interesting developments in the realm of Sufism were taking place in the regional
centres away from the imperial seat in Agra and Delhi. This was largely the result of the
expansion of Sufi orders during the Mughal period, and the formation of suborders among
the Chishtiyya, Suhrawardiyya and Naqshbandiyya.
Two important suborders of the Chishtiyya, the Ni ẓā m ī and Ṣābir ī, left their mark in the
late Mughal period. Both originated from the two noted disciples of Far īd al-Dī n Ganj-i
Shakar – Ni ẓā m al-Dī n and ‘Alā’ al-Dī n Al ī Sābir. The noteworthy personality is Shāh
Kalim ā llāh Jahanabadi (d. 1729) who is often recognised as the greatest Chisht ī master of
eighteenth-century Delhi. He was initiated into the Gujarat branch of the Chishtiyya order.
Ya ḥyā Madan ī, the master of Kal ī mullāh, initiated him into the Qādiriyya, Suhrawardiyya,
Naqshbandiyya and Shaṭṭāriyya orders as well. Kal ī mullāh was initially trained under em-
inent scholars like Shaykh Abū R īdah (d. 1690), the famous Naqshband ī saint and uncle of
Shāh Wā l īā llāh. Kal ī mullāh came from an interesting background, a family of architects in-
volved closely with the construction of the finest Mughal mausoleum, the Taj Mahal, and the
Red Fort in Delhi. His chief disciple was Ni ẓā m al-Dī n Aurangabad ī (d. 1730). After com-
pleting his training when Ni ẓā m al-Dī n finally moved to Aurangabad, the first Ni ẓā m of
Hyderabad Ni ẓā m al-Mulk Asaf Jāh I (d. 1748) became his disciple, and wrote a biography of
the saint titled Rashk-i Gulist ān-i Irān. Ni ẓā m al-Dī n himself left behind a treatise Ni ẓām al-
Qul ūb (Harmonic Order of Hearts), which, a century later, inspired a meditative manual by
a master from the same sub-lineage of the Chisht īs, the Ḍiya al-Qul ūb (Brilliance of Hearts)
of Haji Imd ādullāh (d. 1899). Preserving the inspiration from their founder-master ‘Alā’
al-Dī n ‘Al ī Sābir, the Ṣābir ī Chisht īs engaged with meditative (breath control) and bodily
techniques based on yoga traditions on a scale unmatched by any branch of the Chishtiyya.30
Research on lesser known Sufi personalities like Ma ḥ mūd Khw ū sh Dahān (d. 1617) from
Bijapur, in the Deccan, throws light on interesting facets of Sufi activity, both in writing
and practice, from the frontiers of the Mughal Empire. Khw ū sh Dahān belonged to a well-
known Qādir ī family in Bidar but was trained under a famous Sufi lineage that traced itself
back to the reputed Chishtiyya master of Bijapur Shāh M ī ranji Shams al-‘Ushshāq (d. 1499).
He is identified as one of the first Sufis of the Deccan to compose poetry in Dakhani, like
the Khw ūsh N āma and Khw ūsh Naghz. Shams al-‘Ushshāq was succeeded by his son Burhān
al-Dī n Janam (d. 1597) whose major work was the Irsh ād N āma, in Dakhani. Burhān al-Dī n
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Kashshaf Ghani
was the master of Khw ū sh Dahān. A treatise by the latter titled Ma‘rifat āl-Sul ūk (The True
Knowledge of Wayfaring) elaborates in simple form and language the basic Sufi teachings
and practices imparted by himself and his master Burhān al-Dī n.
Moving beyond esoteric Sufi treatises immersed in deep spiritual doctrines, Sufi teaching
and doctrine was also disseminated in the language of the local and the vernacular in regions
like the Deccan from the sixteenth century, particularly the dialect of Dakhni, also known as
Deccani Urdu.31 The spread of mystical teachings among the local masses, and its ready ac-
ceptance by a wide cross-section of the society made Sufis an indispensable pillar of State for-
mation in the regional centres. In the Deccani Sultanates like Bijapur we see a closer working
relation between Sufis and the State, through land grants (i’n‘ām) and pensions (yawmīa) by
the ‘Adil Shāh īs to Sufi establishments in the seventeenth century.32 An equally interesting
story unfolded in Bengal, the frontier zone of the Mughals where Sufis employed the local
population to clear forests to be incorporated for agriculture. In the process local inhabitants
were introduced to a Sufi world of Islam both in its Persianised and vernacular form.33
The use of the local vernacular in expressing Sufi ideas also extended to the incorporation
of Indic symbols of love and devotion drawn across religious boundaries. Thus, the topos of the
“virahini” as the longing soul of the woman who suffered from separation and desires for union
with her Beloved is central to accounts of Lor-Chanda, Sohni-Mehanwal, Sassi-Punhun. The
finest of such compositions came from Shāh ‘Abdul Laṭīf (d. 1752) of Bhit in the Sindh region.
His book of poems Shāha jo Risālo (Book of Shāh) contains 30 chapters according to traditional
Indian musical modes (ragas), many of which he composed himself. And the quatrains of the
Sufi poet Sultan Bāhu (d. 1691), the disciple of the Qādiriyya Sufi Ḥabībāllāh, from the district
of Jhang in southern Punjab, titled S ī ḥarf ī (30 letter poem) contain a fine exposition of the
relationship between man and God. And Sayyid ‘Abdallāh popular as Bulleh Shāh (d. 1752)
the self-proclaimed disciple of Shāh ‘Ināyat (d. 1728) of Lahore is popularly recognised as the
greatest Sufi poet in Punjabi.34 He is also credited with introducing ideas of “unity of being” in
a reinterpretation of medieval Hindu folktales where Hir, the daughter of the King of Jhang, is
the woman soul longing for Ranjha, the son of a wealthy landlord,
Ranjha, Ranjha kar di ninh mein

Ape Ranjha hui,
Repeating Ranjha, Ranjha in my mind, I myself have become Ranjha.
On the other hand, the famous ecstatic Sachal Sarmast (d. 1826) takes no recourse to inhibi-
tions and metaphors when declaring the Reality as One Existence where all ideas of Being
unite, a theme that recurs in north Indian Mughal Sufi poetry35,
Now, he’s the judge; Now he’s Hallaj; Now, he’s Pharaoh; Now, Moses; Now he’s Hanuman;
Now, Abu Hanifa.
Sometimes He is Rama or Sita; Sometimes He appears as Laksmana. Sometimes He is Nimrud
or Abraham; Several are the guises He adopts.
The long-standing achievement of the Qādir īs in the cultural domain of Punjab lay in their
prolific contribution to Punjabi Sufi poetry led by some of the most revered Sufi poets like
Shāh Ḥusayn (d. 1599) of Lahore, the disciple of Bahlū l Shāh Daryāī (d. 1575) and Wāris ̱
Shāh (d. 1798).36 Noted for its attachment to the doctrine of wa ḥdat al-wujūd, the order was
introduced in Punjab by Sayyid Mu ḥammad al-Ḥusayn ī, also known as Sayyid Mu ḥammad
Ghawth (d. 1517).
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Traditions of Sufism in Mughal India are not limited only to a client base constitut-
ing the royal and the elite, rural masses and service gentry. Rather interesting case studies
throw light on how claims to inner perfection through a spiritual journey can arise from
the social margins, and in some particular instances the territorial margins of the Empire.
The Raushaniya movement in the Pashtun society of modern-day Afghanistan combined
elements of a Sufi circle with a militant approach. The central figure was Bāyazīd Anṣār ī
(d. 1575) who saw himself as the Perfect Guide (pīr-i k āmil) adept enough to lead believers
towards the Unity of God and His creation.37
Sufism and the late Mughals: scholars,

saints and reforms
For Mughal Sufism, the eighteenth century was marked by two developments whose his-
torical linkages are difficult to untangle. First, the drift towards reformist Sufism led by
Naqshband īs like Mirz ā Ma ẓ har Jān-i Jānān (d. 1781) and his equally famous disciple Sana ā llāh
Pān īpat ī (d. 1810) who abhorred ideas of superstition and un-Islamic practices within Sufism;
second, a simultaneous rise of the Naqshbandiyya order, particularly its Mujaddid ī branch,
called so after Shaykh A ḥ mad Sirhind ī, styled as the renewer (mujaddid) of Islam in the sec-
ond millennium (mujaddid-i alf-i th ān ī ) by a highly respected scholar Maulana ‘Abdul Hak ī m
S īalkot ī (d. 1657). This reformist tradition was supposed to have been triggered by a sense
of “decline” in South Asian Islam, and Sufism in particular, in the late Mughal era charac-
terised by lack of adherence to the sunnah of the Prophet and the Islamic law (shar ī‘a). This
meant that Sufi teachings, placed under the shar ī‘a, attained a characteristic of legal treatises
with Sufi masters adopting the approach of the fuqāha or legal scholars, rather than mystics.38
Lessons on spiritual training and mystical manuals came to be textualised, which marked a
noticeable shift from the predominant oral tradition that characterised Sufi training between
a master and a disciple.
The most noteworthy example of a Naqshband ī-Mujaddid ī Sufi scholar from the ranks of
Mughal imperial service was none other than the illustrious spiritual disciple of Sirhind ī, the
aforementioned M ī rza Ma ẓ har Jān-i Jānān. M ī rza Ma ẓ har was trained in the Naqshbandi-
yya Sufi tradition under Hafiz Sad ā llāh (d. 1739), and was also initiated into the Qādiriyya,
Chishtiyya and Suhrawardiyya orders. The Naqshband ī sub-branch under him came to be
known as the Ma ẓ hariyya Shamsiyya.39
Apart from M ī r Dard the other personality, recognised as the most towering intellectual
in late Mughal India, whose life spanned the first six decades of the eighteenth century was
Shāh Wal īullāh (1703–1762) – a master of his time (qāʾ im āl-zam ān) and pole of mystical
hierarchy (quṭb). His Persian work the Hama‘at (Outpourings) begins with an outline on the
rise and fall of Sufi orders and affiliations, following the basis of the path (a ṣl-i ṭār īqa), through
which the teachings are continuously “being renewed along the lines of Renewership (mu-
jaddidīa).”40 Shāh Wal īullāh could not fully ignore his position within the reputable lineage of
Naqshband ī Sufis. Yet he was most critical of many Sufi practices around popular devotion,
veneration of tombs, musical concerts and dance, and the act of physical submission to the
deceased saint that he came to witness. Therefore, it was less about critiquing the tradition
of Sufism, and more about criticising its practices whose validity over centuries had become
extremely difficult to ascertain. For Wal īullāh the only way towards that ascertainment was
through the yardstick of the shar ī‘a, arguing that practices that failed to stand the test of
Islamic law were to be rejected right away.41
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Kashshaf Ghani
The impact of the Spanish mystic Ibn ‘Arabī (d. 1240) on the Sufi traditions of South Asia
during the Mughal period is unmistakable and evident from the early days of the Empire,42
through individuals like Shaykh ‘Abd al-Quddūs Gangohī. He belonged to the Ṣābir ī branch of
the Chishtiyya, and was the staunchest proponent of the wujūdī doctrine of the unity of being.
His commentary on the Fuṣūṣ al-Ḥikām is unfortunately no longer available. Sufis and theolo-
gians associated with this silsilah came to be known as the progenitors of the Islamic seminary
at Deoband, famous as the D ār al-‘Ulūm. In contrast, A ḥ mad Sirhindī came to be recognised
in Sufi and scholarly circles as one of the harshest critics of the wujūdī doctrine. His rival doc-
trine of waḥdat al-shuhūd originated from a fine distinction in the Sufi idea of union – between
reality and perception. Approaching from a Sufi perspective Sirhindī argued that claims of
non-distinction between the Creator and creation were made in a spiritual state where the Sufi
saint was in no position to distinguish between reality and falsehood. As a result, the closer he
moved towards the realisation of Divine beauty he lost control over his sense of differentiating
between the creation and the Creator. This illusion of unity (waḥdat), for Sirhindī, remained
only in the perception of the Sufi (shuhūd), never in actuality (wujūd).43 Interestingly Sirhindī
was not a pioneer with the shuhūdī doctrine. Rather he was responsible for imparting it with a
doctrinal status and acceptance. Waḥdat al-shuhūd could never fully replace its wujūdī anti-thesis
but tried to alter the Sufi experience of divine reality.
Summary
The Mughals marked the coming of age of pre-modern political structures in South Asia
both in terms of ideology and State practice. So is it with Sufism in this period. Not only
did Sufism from the sixteenth century move beyond the cycle of rise and decline, it faced
complexities in its nature and function. So that studies on Mughal Sufism may not begin
with the premier South Asian orders – the Chishtiyya and the Suhrawardiyya, but the
ones to whom the Mughals were attached spiritually, the Naqshbandiyya, long prior to
their Indian career. Mughal authorities inspired by pragmatic policies of State control were
driven to throw in their lot with the Chishtiyya for the larger part of their reign, till the
Q ā diriyya and Naqshbandiyya began to draw attention from the Mughal royal household.
The watershed may have arrived in 1591 at the turn of the Muslim millennium, when a re-
newed commitment to the practices and sunnah of Prophet Mu ḥ ammad pushed Sufi orders
towards reformism. The Naqshbandiyya Mujaddidiyya took the lead in this path, right
from the time of its most famous South Asian master Sirhind ī, coinciding with the reign
of Akbar. Multiple, and often ambiguous, affiliations to Sufi masters became increasingly
common for Mughal princes and princesses, in their regnal years but also prior. Yet this
did not lead to supposed notions of spiritual conflict, either in case of Sufi masters trained
with many orders, and of their followers, attached to many Sufi masters at various points
of their life and career. That these engagements were not exclusively male-dominated is
made amply clear from the career of Mughal princess Jah ā n ā r ā. The seventeenth and eigh-
teenth century were also periods of Sufi creativity on the bedrock of vernacular languages
and literary traditions from the frontiers of the Empire. While on one hand there was a
strive to combat “innovations” in the name of Islam, the religion itself was being redrawn
along fresh lines sufficiently inspired from the spiritual metaphors embedded within po-
etry and prose writings of Sufi masters themselves. Rather than being challenged and lim-
ited, Sufism in Mughal India perhaps found like never before new domains of expansion
and expression.
396
Notes

397
Kashshaf Ghani
and Mohammed Adil, Princess Jah ān ārā Begum’s Munis-ul Arwah: The Master of Pure Souls ( Jaipur:
Hamari Taquat Publication, 2015).
23 Afshan Bokhari, “Between Patron and Piety: Jahan Ara Begam’s Sufi Affiliations and Articula-
tions in Seventeenth Century Mughal India,” in John J. Curry and Erik S. Ohlander (eds.), Sufism
and Society: Arrangements of the Mystical in the Muslim World 1200–1800 (London: Routledge, 2014),
pp. 120–142.
24 Tasadduq Husain, “The Spiritual Journey of Dara Shukoh,” Social Scientist, 30, 7–8, 2002, pp. 54–66.
25 S.A.A Rizvi, A History of Sufism in India, Vol. 2. (Delhi: Munshiram Manoharlal Publishers Pvt.
Ltd., 1978), Chapter 2.
26 Nathan Katz, “The Identity of a Mystic: The Case of Said Sarmad, a Jewish-Yogi-Sufi Courtier of
the Mughals,” Numen, 47, 2000, pp. 142–160.
27 Catherine Asher, Architecture of Mughal India (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992).
28 Literally means ‘he who sits on the prayer carpet’. This position is meant for the hereditary ad-
ministrators of a Sufi shrine. The person may be chosen from among the family descendants or
disciples of the saint.
29 Nile Green, Making Space: Sufism and Settlers in Early Modern India (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 2012); Carl Ernst, “Royal Policy and Patronage of Sufi Shrines in Mughal Revenue Doc-
uments from Khuldabad,” in A.R. Kulkarni, M.A. Nayeem and T.R. de Souza (eds.), Medieval
Deccan History: Commemoration Volume in Honour of P.M. Joshi (Bombay: Popular Prakashan, 1996),
pp. 76–91.
30 Carl Ernst, “Chishti Meditation Practices of the Later Mughal Period,” in Leonard Lewisohn
and David Morgan (eds.), The Heritage of Sufism, Vol. III, Late Classical Persianate Sufism (1501–
1750) (Oxford: Oneworld 1999), pp. 344–357; Scott Kugle, “The Brilliance of Hearts: Hajji Im-
d ād ā llā h Teaches Meditation and Ritual,” in Barbara Metcalf (ed.), Islam in South Asia: In Practice
( Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2009), pp. 212–224.
31 Richard M. Eaton, “Sufi Folk Literature and the Expansion of Indian Islam,” History of Religions,
14, 2, November 1974, pp. 117–127.
32 Richard M. Eaton, “The Court and the Dargah in Seventeenth Century Deccan,” The Indian
Economic and Social History Review, 10, 1, January 1973, pp. 50–63.
33 Richard M. Eaton, Rise of Islam and the Bengal Frontier 1204–1760 (Delhi: Oxford University Press,
1997).
34 Zahiruddin Malik, “Role of Sufis and Bhaktas in North Western India during the Eighteenth
Century,” in Surinder Singh and Ishwar Dayal Gaur (eds.), Sufism in Punjab: Mystics, Literature and
Shrines (New Delhi: Aakar Books, 2009), pp. 158–175.
35 Annemarie Schimmel, “The Vernacular Tradition in Persianate Sufi Poetry in Mughal India,” in
Leonard Lewisohn and David Morgan (eds.), The Heritage of Sufism, Op.cit., pp. 417–434.
36 Christopher Shackle, “Persian Poetry and Qadiri Sufism in Later Mughal India: Ghanimat
Kunjahi and His Mathnawi-yi Nayrang-i ishq,” in Leonard Lewisohn and David Morgan (eds.),
The Heritage of Sufism, Op.cit, pp. 435–463.
37 Sergei Andreyev, “The Rawshaniyya: A Sufi Movement on the Mughal Tribal Periphery,” in
Leonard Lewisohn and David Morgan (eds.), The Heritage of Sufism, Vol. III, Op.cit., pp. 290–318.
38 Arthur R. Buehler, Sufi Heirs of the Prophet: The Indian Naqshband īyya and the Rise of the Mediating
Sufi Shaykh (Chapel Hill: University of South Carolina Press, 1998).
39 I. Weismann, The Naqshband īyya: Orthodoxy and Activism in a Worldwide Sufi Tradition (London and
New York: Routledge, 2007); Alvi, Perspectives on Mughal, pp. 116–157.
40 J.M.S. Baljon, “Shah Waliullah and the Dargah,” in C.W. Troll (ed.), Muslim Shrines in India: Their
Character, History and Significance (Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2004), pp. 189–197.
41 Ibid. It is also worth pointing out that Shā h Ism āʻī l “Shah īd” (d. 1831), a grandson of Shā h
Wal īullā h and the nephew of Shā h ‘Abdul Aziz (d. 1832), together with Sayyid A ḥ mad (d. 1831)
of Rae Bareli, leader of the Mujahidin movement, led the tajdid movement in North India by
combining the Ṭar īqa-yi Mu ḥammadiya, a Sufi order led by Sayyid A ḥ mad, with Wahhabi princi-
ples. See Harlan O. Pearson, Islamic Reform and Revival in Nineteenth Century India: The Tariqah-i
Muhammadiyah (New Delhi: Yoda Press, 2008).
42 For the impact of wa ḥdat al-wujūd on Mughal era, see Muzaffar Alam, The Languages of Political
Islam in India c. 1200–1800 (Ranikhet: Permanent Black, 2010), pp. 91–98.
43 On Sirhindi’s attempted reconciliation of the two doctrines, see Alberto Ventura, “A Letter of
Shaykh Ahmad Sirhindi in Defense of the ‘Wahdat al-Wujud’,” Oriente Moderno, New Series, 92,
2, 2012, pp. 509–517.
398
27
SUFISM IN THE OTTOMAN
EMPIRE
John J. Curry
The history of the Ottoman Empire spans a significant part of the history of the Islamic
world. Founded sometime in the early fourteenth century, and only dissolving in the after-
math of World War I, the Ottomans maintained a significant presence on both the Muslim
and global stage for over half a millennium. Producing a brief overview of the intersections
between Sufi groups and the Ottoman Empire throughout its historical existence is ex-
traordinarily difficult, and probably omits more than it includes. To name but one example,
for length reasons, this survey cannot engage in any significant discussion of the historical
trajectory of Sufi orders in the Arabic-speaking provinces of the empire, which requires a
separate article in its own right.1 Moreover, twentieth-century historiographical trends have
tended to marginalize the role of religion in Ottoman studies, focusing instead on impe-
rial institutions, the dynamics of specific provinces, or a search for proto-Turkish or other
national identities in pre-modern contexts.2 However, the past two decades has seen an
extraordinary revival of interest in Ottoman Sufism, which has dramatically increased our
knowledge. Therefore, this chapter will summarize how this resurgence has reshaped our
understanding of the intersection between Sufis and the Ottoman Empire.
Sufism in pre-Ottoman Anatolia and the period

of early Ottoman expansion
The fourteenth-century Ottoman principality emerging on the borderlands between the
fragmenting Mongol Empire and the weakened Byzantine state inherited a decentralized po-
litical and social situation in the Muslim world. With Muslim political authority fragmented
as a result of the Mongol destruction of the ʿAbbasid caliphate, multiple layers of authority
emerged in Anatolia that included not only local rulers and warlords but also powerful
Sufi orders that spread rapidly after the collapse of the Rum Seljuks in the mid-thirteenth
century. In fact, the Seljuk defeat was hastened by the revolt of a Sufi group known as the
Baba’is, led by a dervish known as Baba İ lyas (d. 1240), whose spiritual lineage hailed from
the Vefa’i order that had spread into Anatolia from its roots in rural Iraq.3 While the rebel-
lion was eventually put down, it fatally weakened the Rum Seljuks in advance of the Mongol
invasions, and Baba İ lyas’s surviving followers continued to spread their doctrines amongst
the various populations in the frontier marches and rural areas. One of these successors
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John J. Curry
would be the figure of Hacı Bekta ş (d. 1271), eponymous founder of the Bektaşi Sufi order,
who settled in the vicinity of Kır şehir sometime during the thirteenth century, as evinced by
several surviving vakfiye documents.4 They were joined by the rapidly proliferating followers
of the illustrious Celaludd ī n Rū m ī (d. 1273), who spread in the surviving urban centers of
the principalities that formed in the borderlands of Asia Minor after the dissolution of the
Seljuk state. In each of the hagiographies of Hacı Bekta ş and Rū m ī, the accounts of the other
indicate that the two groups were rivals, each sought to prove their spiritual ascendancy
over the other, and that the Mevlevis in particular looked askance on the spiritual legitimacy
of the followers of Hacı Bekta ş.5 Nevertheless, both of these groups shared an assumption
that the cosmological power that undergirded Sufi leadership was superior to any kind of
temporal authority, thereby extending across existing political demarcations. Therefore, as-
piring rulers were required to seek out the support of God’s friends, and subordinate himself
to their power and guidance.6
Anatolia also became a center for the activity of the followers of the Suhrawardiyya
Sufi order, including such luminaries as Sadrüdd ī n Konev ī (d. 1274) and Kutbudd ī n Shir āzī
(d. 1311). While their intellectual influence was limited to their own immediate circles
during their lifetimes, their work would later be taken up by subsequent Ottoman mystics
and religious leaders to become a bedrock of Sufi intellectual life.7 But beyond the limited
oases of urban life during this period, these representatives of high intellectual culture and
tradition were joined by a much larger, and often bewildering flood of Sufi groups who of-
ten espoused antinomian or renunciant beliefs and praxis, often taking up residence on the
fringes of cities and towns and in the rural hinterlands. “God’s unruly friends,” as Ahmet
Karamustafa has notably described them, often proved stubbornly independent and difficult
to control, even well after the Ottomans had achieved a dominant political and military
ascendancy over much of the eastern Mediterranean.8
The complex and decentralized nature of the pre-Ottoman Sufi context meant that the
line between Sufis, Islamic jurisprudents, nascent scholar-bureaucrats, and politically influ-
ential leaders could not be drawn with any certainty in the post-Mongol world. In fact, the
Ottomans’ own origin mythology, which was crafted by later authors in the fifteenth and
sixteenth century, posited an organic link between the Ottoman dynasty and Sufi leaders.
Several accounts hold that the founder of the empire, ʿOsman (r. 1299–1324), fell in love
with Malhatun, the daughter of a local shaykh named Edebalı, a spiritual descendant of the
aforementioned Vefa’i shaykh Baba İ lyas.9 However, Edebalı was not just a Sufi; fragmentary
sources suggest he was also a local governor of the region around Bilecek, and issued judicial
fetvas. Such activities indicated a figure of significant social and political stature, whose sup-
port an aspiring local hegemon would want to cultivate.10 Rebuffed at first in his attempts
to seek the hand of Malhatun, ʿOsman continued to frequent the holy man’s residence, and
one night had a dream that the moon emerged from Edebalı’s breast and entered his own,
followed by the growth of a massive tree from his own navel that came to spread its shade
over the entire world. Recognizing the significance of the dream, Edebalı quickly consented
to the marriage, thereby giving the empire’s origins a distinctly Sufi component.
Careful analysis of these narratives has illustrated the deliberate attempt by later Ottoman
writers and chroniclers to cast the first Ottoman sultan in the role of a Sufi aspirant, who
must suffer setbacks on the path in order to achieve his eventual goal of divine enlighten-
ment. What this illustrates is the degree to which Ottoman imperial ideology came to imbue
its sovereignty with Sufi themes.11 This all being said, evidence does exist for Edebalı and
Malhatun’s existence independent of Ottoman chronicles and historical writing.12 Moreover,
even as early as the 1320s, there are records of the endowment of dervish lodges by the early
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Sufism in the Ottoman Empire
Ottoman family members such as the ruler Orhan (r. 1324–1362), and studies of early vakfiye
documents indicate the endowment of Sufi convents as part of their construction.13
The Sufi group that acquired the most influence in the earliest stages of Ottoman ascendancy
were charismatic shaykhs known as abdalān.14 The emergence of abdal piety, as Karamustafa has
noted in his study of the early fifteenth-century figure of Kaygusuz Abdal, was marked by a
use of vernacular Turkish to express spiritual ideas, combined with a distinct hostility to more
urban and shariʿa-based forms of religiosity. Ironically, thinkers like Kaygusuz Abdal used the
term “Sufi” in a derisive way, and identified leaders focused on the formalistic teachings of
Islam as lacking in true spiritual insight.15 More attuned to the nomadic, peripatetic nature of
the early Ottoman leadership and its following, and willing participants in the ghazi tradition
across Anatolia and the Balkans, these groups were at the forefront of early Ottoman expan-
sion. As a reward for their service, such groups were frequently granted land and endowments
to construct lodges, thereby increasing both their own following and the pool of supporters
upon which the Ottoman state could draw to continue their conquests.16 In contrast, represen-
tatives of the more urban-based Mevlevi order did not succeed in opening a lodge in Ottoman
domains until well into the fifteenth century.17
Emergence of the Bektaşi and Zeyni orders, and the rebellion

of Shaykh Bedreddin
Moreover, as the janissary corps developed as a counterweight against the more fractious
Turkic cavalrymen of the formative era and emerged as a linchpin of Ottoman military
strength, the Bekta şi order and its leaders acquired a special position as the spiritual men-
tors to janissary recruits, recently converted from various Balkan Christian populations. It
is impossible to pinpoint when this affiliation emerged between Ottomans and the Bekta şi
shaykhs. Early Ottoman historical accounts preserved in ʿĀşıkpaşazāde’s late fifteenth- century
chronicle suggest that a proto-Bekta şi dervish played a key role in the early Ottoman con-
quest of Bursa in 1326, thereby setting the stage for the order’s leaders to achieve a prominent
place in Ottoman military circles, and similar narratives about other ghazi-Sufis also exist
in a similar vein, including the sons of Shaykh Edebalı.18 In addition, various early Ottoman
historical chronicles and narratives record a link between Bekta şi shaykhs and the formation
of the janissary corps, including its specific white headgear, the börk. Even if the retrojection
of these narratives to the earliest periods of Ottoman imperial expansion is deemed tenden-
tious, they indicate that by the early fifteenth century, these connections had come to be
accepted and established.19 We know that by the time Konstantin Mihalović was captured
by Ottoman forces, and subsequently recorded his interpretation of janissary beliefs during
his captivity between 1455 and 1463, strong ʿAlid beliefs had permeated the understanding
of Mihalović’s interlocutors, suggesting ties to emerging Bektaşi teachings.20 This is further
corroborated by accounts of Otman Baba, a rival of the Bekta şi order, who queried a group
of janissaries about the origins of their headgear during the reign of Mehmed II, and was told
that it derived from Hacı Bekta ş.21 However, given the general absence in Ottoman official
records of connections between the janissaries and Bekta şi institutions in these earlier eras,
some historians have argued that the relationship between the two did not develop until a
much later period.22
Leaving aside the fraught question of janissary-Bekta şi relations, the formation of
the Bekta şi order, emerging out of multiple strands of what Rıza Yıldırım has called a
“sharia-inattentive” spirituality that characterized the religious groups involved with
Ottoman expansion, is opaque in its own right.23 Initially, the dervishes who led various
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John J. Curry
groups of a sharia-inattentive nature, and were associated with the ghazi tradition, founded
lodges and were rewarded by Ottoman leaders with vakıf properties in return for their ser-
vice, especially in the Balkans.24 However, many of them were also recognized by subse-
quent historical accounts as being separate from the emerging Bekta şi order, and classified
instead as abdal ān, haydari, or qalandari. Echoes in various sources from both Bektaşi and
non-Bekta şi perspectives suggest that these groups were not always on friendly terms, and
contested their respective spheres of influence.25
What would eventually coalesce into the Bektaşi order in fact emerged as two separate
groups over the course of the fifteenth century. The first was an extended family and tribal
network known as the Bekta şlu that emerged in the vicinity of the modern center of Hacı
Bekta ş in Anatolia. By the latter half of the fifteenth century, the members of this group who
claimed family descent from Hacı Bektaş had acquired Ottoman state support, along with
the ability to collect taxation through timar holdings, and acted as the heads of the Bektaşi
order in Anatolia, with the leadership of the order passing down through hereditary chains.26
In contrast, a Balkan-based group, centered primarily at the Kizildeli lodge in Dimeotoka,
was characterized by spiritual rather than hereditary leadership. Its leaders tended to be
chosen based on their spiritual bona fides, and did not consider their eponymous founder to
have had any biological descendants, only spiritual ones.27 In a fascinating turn of events, the
two groups were united by a combination of the Ottoman ruler Bayezid II and Balım Sultan
(d. 1519), the so-called “second pir” of the Bektaşi order. At some point prior to the year
1504, Bayezid II brokered a deal whereby Balım Sultan, the leader of the Bekta şi dervishes
resident at the Kızıldeli lodge in Dimeotoka, would be married to the Anatolian leaders
of the Bekta şlu tribes, thereby unifying the two branches together for the first time. From
this point onward, the Çelebi or Dadeg ān branch would act as the political, family based
leadership branch that focused on this-worldly issues, and the Babag ān, the Balkan-based
religious leaders like Balım Sultan, would produce the spiritual leaders of the order.28 But the
intervention of the sultan was not limited strictly to the two major centers of Bektaşi activity
in the later fifteenth century—he also contributed to the founding of at least three major
Bekta şi lodges in Istanbul, including the Karaağaç, Şehidlik, and Mehmet Efendi lodges.
This, in turn, deepened the connections between the Bekta şi order and the janissary corps,
with the Karaağaç lodge in particular being granted the permission to appoint a Bekta şi
shaykh into the ranks of the janissaries themselves.29
The difficulties in trying to provide a succinct narrative of early Ottoman Sufism, along
with distinguishing between Sufis, scholars, and political-military actors, are encapsulated
in the case of Shaykh Bedredd ī n Simav ī (d. 1420). Bedreddîn, son of an Ottoman ghazi who
served as governor and jurisprudent in the town of Simavna near Edirne, and a Christian
convert mother, left the empire and traveled to Mamluk Egypt at the end of the fourteenth
century, where he studied with both prominent Sufi and scholarly figures in Cairo.30 He re-
turned to his home town after a civil war broke out amongst the sons of the defeated Sultan
Bayezid I in 1403, and subsequently served as a governor for Musa, one of the contenders
for the throne. Exiled to İznik in the aftermath of Mehmed I’s final victory in 1413, he later
escaped and returned to the Balkans, where he was involved in a rebellion against Ottoman
authority that was only put down with great difficulty, as several of his followers launched
coordinated uprisings in western Anatolia as well. Despite his subsequent execution, the
rebellion was not fully suppressed until after Mehmed I’s death in 1421.
As Kastritsis has noted in his study of the Ottoman civil war, Bedreddîn’s rebellion grew
directly out of his background among the ghazi raiders, who saw their status being reduced
by the emergence of an increasingly sedentary Ottoman elite. He could also draw support
402
from Christian populations, despite his status as a distinguished Muslim leader.31 However,
contrary to the assertions of subsequent groups laying claim to his legacy, he probably did
not espouse overly unorthodox interpretations of Islam. Later Ottoman intellectuals were
divided on the orthodoxy of his major work, the Varidat, and he also authored a Qur’ān
commentary entitled N ūr al-qul ūb for the sultan Mehmed I in the immediate aftermath of the
civil war, fleeing İznik only when the work was suppressed by the sultan’s followers. While
the latter work has since been lost, the Ottoman polymath Katip Çelebi attested to seeing a
two-volume copy with marginal notes in circulation as late as the seventeenth century.32 It
is also telling that he was executed not as a heretic, but as a rebel against Ottoman authority,
and that his teachings appear not to have been the primary Ottoman concern in regard to his
activities.33 Therefore, Bedredd ī n’s motivations and thought are difficult to discern through
the mythologies that grew up around him, especially given the appropriation of his legacy
by less sharia-attentive groups in later centuries.34
Whoever the real Bedreddîn was, the rebellion associated with him underscored one
key point not in dispute: the Ottomans were increasingly encountering challenges from
Sufi leaders and movements who could dispute their authority if divisions arose over im-
perial policy. It is therefore telling that the subsequent Ottoman ruler, Sultan Murad II
(r. 1421–1444, 1446–1451), who also commenced his reign by having to fend off multiple
challenges to his legitimacy, began to explore alternatives to the traditionally dominant Sufi
groups of the formative era.35 In contrast to his predecessors, Murad II began to cultivate a
more urban-oriented and intellectually minded group of Sufi leaders, including the repre-
sentatives of the Mevlevi order, who gained their first foothold in Edirne at this time with
the construction of the aforementioned lodge there. He also cultivated the support of the
Ankara-based leaders of the emerging Bayrâmiyye order under its founder, Hacı Bayrā m-i
Veli (d. 1430), and built relationships with the followers of the Herat-based shaykh Zeyned-
d ī n el-Hā fi (d. 1435), who were beginning to migrate into Anatolia to form the Zeyniyye
Sufi order. These orders would come to wield significant influence in the fifteenth-century
Ottoman Empire.36
Interestingly, the rise of Sultan Mehmed II (r. 1451–1481) to power, and his conquest
of Constantinople in 1453, did not initially provide much momentum for Sufi expansion.
Upon his accession, the new ruler initially cultivated a relationship with the Bayrā m ī shaykh
Ak şemsedd ī n (d. 1459), who had carried over from the reign of his father, and joined him
to support the Ottoman army in completing the conquest. His most important contribution
was to initiate a process of discovery to find the resting place of the early Muslim Companion
Abū Ayyub al-Ansār ī (d. 674), who had fallen at the First Siege of Constantinople centuries
prior. However, the relationship did not long survive the conquest, as Akşemsedd ī n and his
dervishes declined to take up residence with Mehmed in the new Ottoman capital, and re-
turned to rural Anatolia instead.37 In fact, the founding of the district of Eyüp in the vicinity
of the tomb was likely an attempt by some Ottoman Sufi leaders to keep their distance from
what they viewed as a predominantly non-Muslim urban space, marking an area of tension
between the new Ottoman ruler and the more pious cadres of the Muslim community.38
However, notable Sufi leaders did appear over time and establish a presence in the
Ottoman capital by the end of Mehmed II’s reign. The most notable example is that of
Shaykh Vefā (d. 1491), a Zeyn ī leader who originally resided in the Karamanid capital at
Konya. After the fall of the Karamanid beylik to the Ottomans in 1468, Mehmed II’s court
elevated Shaykh Vefâ to a position of prominence by bringing him to İstanbul and building
a mosque complex for his following in the center of the city, which was completed by 1476.
In turn, this may have contributed to the rise of the Karamanid grand vizier Mehmed Paşa
403
John J. Curry
(d. 1481) the following year, who wore a magic-square talisman produced by Shaykh Vefā
around his neck at all times for divine protection.39 Furthermore, the early Ottoman chron-
icler A şıkpa şaz āde (d. 1484) derived his Sufi lineage through the Zeyniyye shaykhs based in
Anatolia, indicating that the order had significant influence in Ottoman circles throughout
the realm even beyond Shaykh Vef ’s following.40
The rise of the Halveti order across the Ottoman domains

It is therefore all the more dramatic that this set of burgeoning Ottoman-Sufi relationships
was dramatically upended in the final decades of the fifteenth century by a band of rela-
tive newcomers known as the Halveti. The Halveti order, while derived from the same
Suhrawardiyya foundations as a number of other Sufi groups, had largely evolved as a local-
ized order out of the very different geographical context of Azerbaijan and northwest Iran
up to the mid-fifteenth century. But under the leadership of Yahyā-yi Şirvān ī (d. 1469), the
order undertook a more aggressive approach to recruiting followers, and began to attract a
number of pious Anatolian intellectuals, especially from the eastern borderlands that were
increasingly contested between the Ottomans and the Akkoyunlu.41 There is some evidence
that the Halveti shaykhs were not particularly well-disposed toward Sultan Mehmed II,
whom they viewed as too aggressive toward fellow Muslims, and for his part, the Ottoman
ruler considered them suspect as well.42
The crisis of succession to the sultanate after Mehmed II’s death was the pivotal moment
that ushered in a period of Halveti dominance over Ottoman politics, religious life and
society for much of the sixteenth century. Shortly after the conquest of Constantinople,
Mehmed II sent his young son Bayezid to the provincial center of Amasya to be trained as
a potential successor to the realm, and he became the eldest contender for the throne on the
untimely death of Mustafa, Mehmed II’s eldest son. Over the course of nearly three decades
in Amasya, Bayezid not only won the loyalty of its inhabitants but also attracted a number of
Halveti shaykhs who had been establishing themselves in the town since the early fifteenth
century.43 One of these shaykhs, Cem ā l el-Halvet ī (d. 1499), was a prominent scion of a no-
table Anatolian scholarly lineage, the Aksarāy ī family.44 Leaving—or perhaps fleeing—the
declining Karamanid emirate prior to its collapse in 1468, he had become a Halveti dervish
under the guidance of one of Yahyā-yi Şirvān ī successors in the provincial town of Erzincan,
Mehmed Erzincān ī (d. 1474).45 After the death of his shaykh, Cemâl migrated westward to
the religious centers established by the prince’s court in Amasya.
With the rise of a rival son, Cem Sultan (d. 1495), who seemed poised to jump over him for
the succession after being appointed to succeed Mustafa in Konya, Bayezid II became deeply
concerned about his fate. During the course of the succession struggle that broke out in 1481,
Cemāl el-Halvetī supported Bayezid II’s cause and predicted his accession to the sultanate. Ac-
cording to a number of accounts, the spiritual power of Cemāl el-Halvetī was able to overcome
that of Shaykh Vefā, whose protégé Karamanī Mehmed Efendi was equipped with a protec-
tive talisman created by the Zeynī shaykh. A portion of the magic square was mysteriously
rubbed off, and when Mehmed relinquished it for repair, the janissary corps rose up and killed
him. Furthermore, hagiographical accounts contend that Cemāl el-Halvetī was able to invoke
former connections to convince religious leaders in Cem’s base in Konya to withdraw their
support. As a reward for his service to Bayezid’s cause, Cemāl and his followers were invited to
come to the imperial capital sometime after 1486, and took up residence in a recently converted
Byzantine church in the southwest quadrant of the old city which was being transformed into
a mosque by Bayezid II’s kapıcıba şı and subsequent grand vizier, Koca Mustafa Paşa (d. 1512).46
404
With the succession of Cemāl el-Halvetī’s leadership to his son-in-law, Sünbül Sinān
Efendi (d. 1529), this branch of the Halveti became solid fixtures in the capital by the turn
of the sixteenth century. The Sünbüliyye, as they came to be known, would continue all the
way down to the early twentieth century.47 However, Halveti interactions with Ottoman
state and society saw a waxing and waning of their influence over the course of the sixteenth
century, and not everyone accepted the order as a legitimate part of Ottoman religious life.
With the onset of Ottoman-Safavid conflict, marked by rebellions against Ottoman sov-
ereignty in the Anatolian countryside by Safavid partisans, Bayezid II was deposed by his
more aggressive son Selim I (r. 1512–1520), who was deeply suspicious of any newcomers
with origins in Safavid domains. A notorious incident early in his reign saw Selim attempt
to destroy the Halveti spaces at the Kocamustafapaşa complex by removing their columns for
building materials for a palace project. He only backed down when confronted by a small
army of Halveti dervishes who blocked his way. Hagiographical sources suggest the conflict
was solved by an act of deference on the part of Sünbül Efendi, who chose to respect an
oath the new sultan had uttered to destroy the dervish lodge by allowing him to demolish
the chimneys at the top as a means of fulfilling the oath without causing undue disruptions
to the order’s foundation.48 However, critics of the order continued to accuse them of hav-
ing a Safavid lineage, which was not entirely untrue, as Halveti silsile texts often included
the figure of Safi al-Din Ardabili (d. 1334), the founder of the Safavid order. However, as
Halveti shaykhs were quick to point out, the silsile preceded the sectarian turn of the Kızılba ş
movement.49
More troubling for the order was the emergence of critics of the Halveti order’s practices
as incompatible with Muslim doctrine. Notable jurists such as Molla ʿArab (d. 1532) and
Sarı Gürz Nū redd ī n (d. 1520), who were conspicuous in their military support for Ottoman
offensives against Christians in Europe and Kızılba ş supporters in Anatolia,50 argued for the
suppression of Halveti practices based on their condemnation in earlier juristic opinions.
They especially focused on the Halveti practice of zikr, which included chanted litanies with
musical accompaniment, and devrân, the practice of performing a ritual circle that aimed to
create spiritual ecstasy among its participants. For the Halveti detractors, the zikr was music,
and the devrān was dancing, both of which were prohibited as frivolous and impious activ-
ities. These accusations would continue to dog the Halveti, Mevlevi, and other Sufi orders
well into modern times. However, the Halvetis had a powerful ally in the form of Zenbillî
ʿAli Çelebi (d. 1525), a long-lived şeyhülislām who served continuously from the reign of
Bayezid II into that of Süleyman I. Known for his integrity, and willing to challenge even
the mercurial Sultan Selim on the legality of his imperial policies, Zenbilli ʿAli issued a
legal decision invalidating the logic employed by the Halveti detractors and supporting the
religious integrity of the Sufi practices. It did not hurt that Zenbilli ʿAli was also a cousin
of Cemāl el-Halvetī, and therefore had ties to his successor Sünbül Efendi as well. In fact,
Sünbül Efendi would go on to write his own tract defending the legality of Halveti practices
based on Zenbilli ʿAli’s opinion, although it remained unfinished at his death.51
Halveti troubles with Ottoman political authority also re-emerged during the long reign
of Sultan Süleyman. The successor of Sünbül Efendi, Merkez Müslihüdin (d. 1552), was ap-
pointed to official positions in both the mosque complex of Süleyman’s mother Hafsa Sultan
in Manisa and his daughter Şah Sultan just outside of İstanbul. However, when he abruptly
abandoned the lodge that Şah Sultan had built for him to take up leadership of the Halveti
order after Sünbül Sinān’s death, she indignantly converted the lodge into a medrese as a sign
of her displeasure.52 While this incident did not prove fatal to relations between the royal
family and Sufi leaders, a more disturbing event took place at the end of Süleyman’s reign
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John J. Curry
that appears to have estranged the Ottoman house from the Sünbüliyye leadership. During a
period of drought near the end of Süleyman’s reign, he called for a public gathering to make
prayers for rain in the Atmeydanı part of the capital. During the gathering, the Sünbüliyye
leader Yaʿk ūb el-Germiyān ī (d. 1571) was chosen to lead the prayers, only to shock the as-
sembled crowd by fleeing the scene. Subsequent hagiography constructed during the reign of
Murad III sought to exonerate the shaykh by explaining that he was disturbed not by the sul-
tan’s request, but by the possibility of becoming a publicly recognized shaykh, which would
detract from his need for humility in following the Halveti path. However, it is not hard to
see some of his contemporaries interpreting his action as a criticism of Süleyman’s murder of
his sons Mustafa and Bayezid during the succession struggles of the 1550s.53
Periodic tensions with the Ottoman house on the part of the Sünbüliyye order opened the
door for other Halveti branches to gain influence. Sultan Selim I, who seized power from his
father in 1512 and was deeply suspicious of any element that had supported him, appears to
have promoted a rival branch of the Halveti based in the province of Karaman as a counter-
weight to the influence of Sünbül Sinān and his ties to Bayezid II’s influential grand vizier
Koca Mustafa Pa şa. Derived from Habib-i Karamani (d. 1496), a shaykh who had not sided
with Cem ā l el-Halvet ī’s support of Bayezid II for the sultanate in 1481, the period of the
1510s and 1520s saw the insertion of several of his prominent successors in lodges that were
built for them in various central locations in Istanbul, under the agency of Selim’s grand vi-
zier Pir ī Pa şa (d. 1532). While this effort seems to have receded by the end of the first decade
of Süleyman’s reign, the tensions were marked enough that the Sünbüliyye shaykh Merkez
Efendi (d. 1552) took roundabout ways of traveling in the western part of Istanbul in order
to avoid coming into proximity with any of the rival lodges.54
Moreover, as Clayer has detailed in her study of the Halveti order in the Balkans, the fol-
lowers of Sofyalı Bali Efendi (d. 1553) and other Balkan shaykhs were more oriented toward
suppressing heretical groups and pursuing military expansion against non-Muslim powers in
Europe. A follower of Sofyalı Bali, Nureddinzade (d. 1574), even convinced Sultan Süleyman
to pursue a final campaign in Hungary despite his ailing health, and accompanied the sultan’s
body back to the capital when the latter died midway through the campaign.55 The inroads
of this group of Halveti suggest that various Ottoman rulers and dignitaries might shift their
support and patronage toward different Sufis based on their affinity with the political and
social outlook of the moment. However, this does not necessarily mean that Balkan Halveti
shaykhs were at odds with more established Halveti branches, for some Sünbüliyye shaykhs
held positions in the Balkans before returning to lead the order’s headquarters in Istanbul.
Furthermore, the daughter of Nureddinzade married Cem ā ledd ī n Hulv ī (d. 1654), a prom-
inent Halveti hagiographer of the early seventeenth century who sought to broker unity
among the various branches of the Halveti order in Istanbul and Egypt.56
The apex of Sufi-state relations under Murad III, and

the backlash of the Kadızâdeli movement
The ascension of Murad III (r. 1574–1595) marked a turning point that dramatically increased
the influence and visibility of Sufi leaders across the empire. According to a Sufi dervish
who compiled Murad’s correspondence with one of his mystical guides, while still a prince
governing the region of Manisa, Murad had been afflicted by a number of strange dreams
and visions that disturbed him. When he explained them to prominent local scholars and
religious leaders, they did not find them significant, and dismissed his concerns. Dissatisfied,
he sent a court eunuch to present these visions to a broader range of the community,
406
under the pretext that they were the eunuch’s own. A local shaykh named Şücāʿ Dede
(d. 1588), a devotee of the Kastamonu-based Halveti saint Şa’bān -ı Veli (d. 1569), heard the
eunuch’s account and saw through the ruse, telling him that only a ruler in a position of
authority could have such visions. Intrigued by the eunuch’s report, Murad invited Shaykh
Şücâʿ to his court, where he soon became a close confidant of the future sultan.57 In a second,
more hostile account by the Ottoman historian Gelibolulu Mustafa ʿAli, he claimed that
Murad’s sister Rāziye was the one that had first attached herself to Şücāʿ, and it was through
her agency that the shaykh gained his influence.58
Whatever the reason for the development of the relationship, Shaykh Şücāʿ would go on
to become a prominent favorite at the Ottoman court in Istanbul until his death. An exten-
sive correspondence of letters that the sultan compiled into a volume in the final years of his
reign serves as testimony of the shaykh’s influence. In it, Murad presented dreams and visions
to the shaykh, and also wrote correspondence that suggested tensions between the two over
the rules of personal contact between them, Murad’s worries over the course of the war with
the Safavids on the eastern front, and even occasional criticisms of the shaykh for interfering
in imperial logistics.59 Recent studies have also indicated that after Şücâʿ’s death, he was
replaced by another Halveti shaykh, Ibrahim-i Kirimi (d. 1593), who had established con-
nections with a number of other prominent Sufi leaders in the capital prior to his elevation to
the royal court. Like his predecessor, Ibrahim’s role was not just spiritual—he was involved
in political events at the end of Murad’s reign when he risked his life in an unsuccessful
attempt to defuse a rebellion of the imperial cavalry over being paid in debased coinage.
Moreover, there is ample evidence of other influential Sufis at Murad’s court. The leader of
the Sünbüliyye order in Istanbul, Yū suf Sinānedd ī n Efendi (d. 1581) presented several tracts
to the sultan upon his accession, including a highly influential hagiography of the founding
saints of the Halveti order and their intersections with the Ottoman rulers that sought to
explain away and defuse the aforementioned tensions between them. He was subsequently
appointed to the position of şeyhülharem in Medina, where he proffered an additional tract
on dream interpretation for the sultan before his untimely death a year later. This appoint-
ment was an anomaly, as the position of şeyhülharem was usually reserved for the eunuchs
of the imperial harem. Furthermore, a prominent leader and hagiographer of the Gülşeni
order in Egypt, Muhyi-yi Gülşeni (d. 1606), was tapped to write a volume on ethics for the
sultan that sought to incorporate Sufi themes into the Platonic genre of ethical writing. All
of these examples strongly suggest that Sufi influence was widespread in the context of the
royal court and that this influence could extend out into even the most far-flung provinces
of the empire.60
Yet the reign of Murad III represented a high-water mark for the influence of Sufi orders
like the Halveti among the Ottoman ruling classes, as religio-political movements skeptical
of the belief and praxis of these prominent Sufi leaders began to challenge their predom-
inance. These movements appear to have started in the provincial regions of the empire,
starting with the figure of Birgevî Mehmed Efendi (d. 1573), whose successors spawned
a number of reform-minded preachers who attacked various popular religious practices as
unorthodox innovations.61 There are also signs that anti-Sufi sentiments were leveled at
the followers of the Halveti shaykh Şa’bān-i Veli (d. 1569) in Kastamonu, which sought to
prevent the building of a lodge and tomb complex to solidify his order’s legitimacy.62 Even-
tually, these disparate movements coalesced around the leadership of a charismatic preacher,
Kadiz āde Mehmed (d. 1635), who rose to prominence in İstanbul during the 1620s. Their
detractors subsequently referred to the puritanical leaders who expanded his ideas with the
moniker of “Kadiz ādeli” thereafter.
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John J. Curry
A full treatment of the Kadiz ādeli movement will be given in another chapter, but in terms
of its relationship to Sufism, a few remarks are in order. It is tempting to suggest that clearly
defined factions of Kadiz ādelis and Sufis emerged over the course of the seventeenth cen-
tury. However, it is unwise to essentialize Ottoman religious life in this way. Later Ottoman
historiography came to view these puritanical movements in a negative light, and coined the
term “Kadiz ādeli” to stigmatize them as deviant, by tying them to a contemporary figure
of questionable repute. In contrast, Kadiz ādelis often referred to themselves as fuqah ā’, or
“jurisprudents.”63 Furthermore, not all Sufi figures were targeted by the Kadiz ādelis, or
vice versa. As Terzioğ lu has pointed out, there is no brightly defined line between the two
groups during this period—the situation better represents a continuum of political-religious
positions, in which some Sufi leaders might attack other Sufis as adhering to insufficiently
orthodox beliefs or praxis, or even back some Kadiz ādeli positions while avoiding others.64
For example, in her study of two texts likely penned by the Sufi leader Eskici Hasan Dede
(d. 1638), who resided as a recluse in the Fatih mosque for four decades, Terzioğ lu finds that
his views were probably more aligned with Kadiz ādeli positions than their Halveti oppo-
nents, probably because he operated in close proximity to emerging Kadiz ādeli leaders.65
This indicates that at least some Sufi leaders were just as critical of contemporary beliefs
and practices as the Kadiz ādelis, and likewise sought to suppress activities they viewed as
unacceptable, be they Halveti or otherwise. Balkan-based branches of the order in partic-
ular tended to be less tolerant of deviation in beliefs or praxis than those in Anatolia or the
capital, and far more likely to espouse a hostile approach to non-Muslims or groups they
deemed heterodox.66 In fact, Ottoman historians are still divided in their characterization
of the movement, with some arguing that it represented a resentful backlash against the
monopolization of religious positions by a traditional elite in an era of scarcity and crisis,67
an expression of the frustrations of the Ottoman mercantile class and their allies whose goals
then intersected with religious reform,68 or a populist reform movement transforming the
Ottoman religious milieu from below in an age of growing confessionalization.69
The fortunes of the Kadiz ā deli movement varied over the course of the seventeenth
century, but they never fully achieved their aim of suppressing the Sufi groups they deemed
heterodox. Nevertheless, their reaction against the power and influence of the most no-
table Sufi groups over the course of the seventeenth century had an impact on Ottoman
Sufism. Sufi leaders who attracted Kadiz ā deli attention often found themselves and their
followers persecuted, and even risked violent attacks or exile. While Kadiz ā de Mehmed
had limited himself to harsh verbal sparring with Halveti opponents in the mosques of
Istanbul, his successor, Üstüv ā n ī Mehmed Efendi (d. 1661), gained sufficient influence that
he attracted the support of various members of the armed imperial guards in the palace,
and was appointed to preach in Aya Sofya mosque thereafter. Lacking a strong Halveti
adversary after the death of Abdulahad Nū r ī (d. 1651)70, Üstüv ā n ī ’s supporters took ad-
vantage of the leadership void to attack his Halveti followers in both the Aya Sofya and
Sultanahmet mosques.71
By 1651, Üstüvān ī was able to convince the weak grand vizier Melek Ahmed Pa şa, whose
first tenure was crippled by growing rebellion against his debasement of the coinage72, to
allow his followers attack and destroy a Halveti lodge in the Demirkapı quarter. This event
marked a transition from slander and hostile debate in public forums to the carrying out
of violent acts against Sufis. While further violent acts were rapidly suppressed, Üstüvān ī
and his followers continued to agitate for anti-Sufi policies, not least because several of
the late Abdulahad Nū r ī’s followers began producing works aimed at attacking founda-
tional Kadiz ādeli authorities such as Birgev ī Mehmed.73 Relations deteriorated further as
408
Kadiz ādeli jurists became increasingly militant about issuing judicial opinions advocating
severe punishments for Sufis who challenged the legitimacy of their positions.74
Sufis suffered especially harsh treatment during the ascendancy of the Kadiz ādeli preacher
Vān ī Mehmed (d. 1685) during the reign of Mehmed IV. Vânî Mehmed expanded attacks
on Sufi lodges to the janissary-connected Bektaşi order for the first time, ordering the de-
struction of the shrine of Kanber Baba near Edirne.75 He also clashed with representatives of
the emerging Celveti order, grounded in the person of the well-known saint ʿAziz Mahmûd
Hüdâyî (d. 1628) of Üsküdar, and forced his spiritual descendant Selâmî Efendi (d. 1692) into
exile.76 He placed a blanket prohibition on the activities of the Galata branch of the Mevlevi
order in 1665, targeting the religiously syncretic nature of their clientele, and weakened
the order in İstanbul for some time thereafter.77 Moreover, continuing the long-standing
Kadiz ādeli hostility toward the Halveti order, he also forced the noted Halveti shaykh Niyāzī
Misr ī (d. 1694) into exile, and the latter’s writings from this point forward were marked by
virulent screeds accusing Vān ī Mehmed of heresy.78 He also targeted the Üsküdar-based
Halveti shaykh Karabâ ş ʿAli Veli (d. 1686) by having him ejected from his preacher position
at the Valide-i ʿAtik mosque in 1679, supposedly after Sultan Mehmed IV and his public fol-
lowing were influenced by his charismatic preaching. He and his son Mustafa subsequently
followed Niyâzî-i Misrî into exile on the island of Lemnos.79
This high-water mark of Kadiz ādeli influence abruptly collapsed in the wake of the failed
siege of Vienna, which saw a purge of Mehmed IV’s court followed by the deposition of the
sultan himself. While it lingered on in various provincial contexts in Syria and Egypt, and
may have even acted as a formative influence on the later Wahhabi sect, Sufi groups that had
suffered persecution soon reasserted their former positions of influence.80 Nevertheless, the
conflict left an imprint on many Sufi leaders that lingered well after Kadiz ādeli influence
had faded. Some Sufi shaykhs placed careful restrictions on formerly common Sufi practices,
and even attacked social practices like coffee and tobacco with a vehemence that echoed
their Kadiz ādeli detractors.81 Moreover, whereas the formative period of Ottoman Sufism
had been dominated by the Halveti, Mevlevi, and Bekta şi orders, the period from the sev-
enteenth century onward saw a dramatic diversification with an influx of new Sufi groups,
some of which began to outpace the more established ones.
The rapid growth of the Nakşbendi, Mevlevi, and other

Sufi orders across the later Ottoman landscape
One example is the Nak şbendi order, which first appeared in Ottoman domains in the
fifteenth century as shaykhs began to migrate out of Central Asia into Anatolia, sometimes
in the context of the pilgrimage. By the turn of the sixteenth century, some prominent
Nak şbendis, such as ʿAbdullah Ilāh ī (d. 1491) and his follower Ahmad Bukhār ī (d. 1516),
became recognized figures in the Ottoman capital. In the wake of the conflict that led to
Bayezid II’s accession, they came to Istanbul and established themselves first in the area
around the Zeyrek, and later the Fatih mosque complex. Ahmad would later initiate the
prominent Sufi biographer and poet L ā mi’i Çelebi (d. 1532) into the order.82 However, the
Ottoman Nak şbendi would not achieve the same prominence as their Halveti counterparts
in the short run. While significant followings for Nak şbendi shaykhs arose in Bursa, parts
of the Balkans, various Ottoman frontier areas in the east, and Arabia, they tended not to
build lodges with tomb complexes, and instead tended to operate out of mosques or private
homes. As a result, Nak şbendi lineages often did not extend beyond a few generations. As
Le Gall has argued, until the arrival of increasing numbers of followers from the Mujaddidi
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John J. Curry
branches of the order from the Indian subcontinent starting in the eighteenth century, the
Ottoman Nak şbendi representatives did not tend to engage in extensive political engage-
ment or attract significant financial patronage, nor did they take up aggressive attempts to
suppress beliefs or praxis they deemed heterodox, save in a few isolated cases. Subsequent
historiography of the Nak şbendis has tended to retroject the later Mujaddidi positions back
onto earlier Ottoman representatives of the order, and ascribe them a level of importance
that is not fully borne out by the sources.83
Nevertheless, an exception was the Nak şbendi presence in the Kurdish regions of the
Ottoman Empire, where powerful leaders such as Shaykh Mahmūd (d. 1639) emerged.
Due to their strong anti-Safavid orientation, these shaykhs with their thousands of follow-
ers through the eastern frontier zones proved useful allies in the lengthy struggle between
the Ottomans and the Safavids that took place over the course of the sixteenth and sev-
enteenth century. However, the power these shaykhs could wield also made the Ottoman
rulers nervous, and it is telling that Murad IV executed Shaykh Mahmūd as soon as he
had solidified his military position after the capture of Baghdad.84 Even in the case of later
Mujjadidi branches of the order that became politically and religiously prominent by the
nineteenth century, such as Shaykh Kh ā lid (d. 1827), clear signs of caution and careful
editing in dealing tend to color the historical accounts of their lives and careers to avoid
offending Ottoman leadership.85
While the rise of the Mevlevi order predated the Ottomans, with its establishment at
Konya in the thirteenth century, it is notable that the Mevlevis did not gain a permanent
presence in Istanbul until the early seventeenth century. While the Galata Mevlevihane was
constructed in 1491, and a few Mevlevi shaykhs had occupied it up until the mid-sixteenth
century, it subsequently passed out of the hands of the order and was occupied by other Sufi
groups. The Mevlevi structure of appointment of shaykhs from the order’s center at Konya
may have played a role in this uneven beginning, for those who occupied positions in the
capital were not responsible for training their successors, leading to lapses at their deaths.
It was not until the turn of the seventeenth century that local families of Mevlevi shaykhs
began to develop, operating more independently from the historic centers of Anatolia. The
result was a proliferation of new Mevlevihane institutions in Yenikapı, Kasımpaşa, Beşikta ş,
and eventually, Üsküdar. At this point, the various centers would remain in the hands of
prominent Mevlevi families and their scions until the end of the empire.86
The greater visibility of the Mevlevi order in Ottoman circles increased their involvement
in political affairs. Tensions with Kadiz ādeli leaders appeared as early as the writings of the
foundational Mevlevi shaykh İsmāʿīl Rusûhī Ankaravī (d. 1631), who responded by explaining
and defending the practice of Mevlevi ceremonies to deflect their attacks.87 But relations
continued to worsen, leading to the suppression of Mevlevi public ceremonies at the Galata
Mevlevihane after 1665, although this was subsequently reversed with the abrupt collapse of
Kadiz ādeli influence after 1685.88 Even more striking is the role Mevlevi shaykhs played in
the various reform movements that marked the eighteenth and nineteenth century. A split
emerged between the Konya-based leaders of the order and the Istanbul shaykhs over the
advent of Sultan Selim III’s nizām-ı cedīd (“New Order”) policies aimed at modernizing
the Ottoman administration, finances, and military. One of the critical sticking points was
the removal of tax exemptions from the Mevlevi order’s vakıf endowments to better central-
ize state finances and revenue collection, which led to a near-rebellion by the Konya-based
Mevlevi leaders and their following. But the Istanbul Mevlevi shaykhs, especially the influ-
ential Shaykh Gā lib (d. 1799), sided with the Sultan’s reform project. Other Mevlevi shaykhs
continued this trend, such as the long-lived ʿOsm ān Salāhedd ī n Dede (d. 1886), who became
410
a key figure supporting the reforms of the Ottoman Tanzimat. He was subsequently ap-
pointed as the first head of the Council of Shaykhs (meclis-i me şāyih), a group of Sufi leaders
appointed in 1866 to oversee the Sufi orders, and later turned the Yenikapı Mevlevi lodge
into a center for reform-minded discussions for the Young Ottoman movement. Ironically,
this made him a target of the later Sultan ʿAbdülhamid II’s constant surveillance. His descen-
dants, not surprisingly, later supported the rise of the Committee of Union and Progress and
the Second Constitutional movement.89
The growing prevalence of the Nak şbendi and Mevlevi orders becomes apparent in
counts of Sufi shaykhs in both Ottoman biographical literature and Sufi institutions in the
Ottoman capital. While Halveti shaykhs still accounted for roughly four in ten shaykhs in
a survey of eighteenth-century biographical literature, Nak şbendi shaykhs had expanded to
claim almost 15% of the total, with Mevlevis following closely at 11%.90 Furthermore, the
Nak şbendis, having dropped their earlier aversion to founding lodges, controlled two out of
every ten Sufi lodges recorded in a survey of Istanbul in the late nineteenth century. They
were joined by a surge of new upstarts like the Kadiri and Rifaʿi orders, who represented
19% and 11% of the total. In contrast, the formerly dominant Halveti share of these lodges
had been reduced to 28%, and these were further divided among multiple sub-branches that
had acquired different identities.91
The decline of the Bektaşi order, and other challenges

confronting late Ottoman Sufi leaders
In contrast to the rise of these orders, the fortunes of the Bektaşi order would undergo an abrupt
and precipitous decline that belied their importance to the Ottoman state from the early six-
teenth century onward. However, this trajectory was far from predictable during the high point
of the empire’s dominion. From Bayezid II’s time up until the end of the eighteenth century,
at least 14 Bektaşi lodges were founded in Istanbul, many of them with significant financial
backing from various waqfs, some of them established by the Sultan himself. These lodges had
close ties with the janissary corps, with powerful janissary figures sometimes able to intervene
in who would be chosen as the leaders at the Hacı Bektaş convent in Anatolia.92 This was more
than matched by a proliferation of lodges, waqf-properties, and shaykhs across various regions of
Anatolia, to the point where there were at least 150 recognized Bektaşi institutions documented
during the suppression of the order in 1826.93 Moreover, Bektaşi institutions, some dating from
the early periods of Ottoman expansion, also proliferated across various parts of the Balkans
and Greece, many of which survived the vicissitudes of both Ottoman suppression of the order
and the ravages of the Balkan Wars.94 Going hand in hand with this proliferation of the order’s
institutions, from the seventeenth century onward the relationship between the janissary corps
and the Bektaşi order became increasingly inseparable, which came to be reflected in Ottoman
discourse about the nature of the janissaries.95
While the rise of Shah Ismaʿil and the Safavids in the early sixteenth century created
potential problems for Bekta şi groups at a time when growing Shiʿite influences would run
afoul of an increasingly vigilant Sunni establishment, it does not seem that the major centers
of Bekta şi activity were shut down for any significant period of time. Instead, the Ottoman
state seemed content to allow Bekta şi institutions to gradually assimilate both the Kızılba ş
groups that emerged from the Safavid movement and other sharia-inattentive groups that
remained from the formative period.96 Given the hereditary status of the Dadeg ān Çelebi
branch of the Bekta şi order as it had emerged by the sixteenth century, it was perhaps natural
that the Kızılba ş would eventually shift their allegiance away from the hereditary attachment
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John J. Curry
to the Safavid founders in favor of a hereditary attachment to the descendants of Haci Bekta ş.
Over time, the Kızılba ş traditions successfully integrated within the wider Bekta şi umbrella,
even to the point of their shaykhs expressing respect for the Babag ān spiritual branch of
the order in their letters of initiation. But in some cases, especially in the eastern Ottoman
provinces, this process would not be complete until the nineteenth century, with some
Kızılba ş groups maintaining an affinity for Safavid-connected institutions in Iraq over those
in Anatolia.97
But by the end of the eighteenth century, the Bektaşi order became increasingly tied to
the problem of the weakening of Ottoman central authority as a result of various janissary
rebellions. It is telling that the Ottoman sultan Selim III, in implementing his nizam-i cedid
military reforms aimed at constructing alternative regiments to counterbalance the janissar-
ies, entrusted their spiritual training not to the Bekta şi shaykhs, but to the Mevlevi order,
a practice continued by his successor Mahmud II.98 Additional reports of Bekta şi dervishes
supporting various janissary rebellions during the rebellions of the early nineteenth century,
continuing into the lengthy rebellion in the Morea during the 1820s, engendered further
hostility of the Ottoman state toward the order. With the final suppression of the janissaries
in 1826 during the “Auspicious Incident,” the stage was set to target the Bekta şi order as
well. Yet interestingly, the sultan chose to convene a deliberative body to discuss the matter
in the summer of 1826 that included both ulema scholars and representatives of the Melevi,
Halveti, Naksibendi, Celveti, Saʿdi, Şazeli, and Kadiri orders. If he had hoped for a rub-
ber stamp of his decision to fully suppress the Bektaşi order, however, it was not initially
forthcoming. Many of the representatives, especially the Sufi ones, expressed reservations
or passive resistance to the decision, despite knowing full well the outcome that the sultan
wanted. Others suggested only a limited set of punishments that would spare much of the
order in favor of targeting only the clearly guilty. But the sultan and his representatives on
the council were not to be dissuaded, and took the decision to completely suppress the order,
execute or exile most of its prominent representatives, and close all of the Bekta şi lodges and
either destroy them or turn them over the shaykhs of other orders.99
The course of events suggests that the suppression of the Bektaşi order was motivated by
political concerns more than religious ones. Nevertheless, Mahmud II’s court undertook a
sustained propaganda campaign against the Bekta şi order that invoked the themes of ortho-
doxy versus heterodoxy. The court historian Esʿad Efendi (d. 1848) wrote an official history
of the events that carefully articulated arguments aimed at proving the heresy of the Bektaşi
order and their ties to Shiʿism, and a sustained attempt to correct the beliefs of wayward
Bekta şi shaykhs and their followers was undertaken in the decade following. Echoes of this
anti-Bekta şi propaganda campaign continued well into the twentieth century.100 Although
Bekta şi leaders did begin to re-emerge from the Tanzimat period onward, and even made
attempts to push back against the propaganda against them, they were never able to acquire
official legitimacy, and often had to operate under the pretext that they were shaykhs of other
Sufi orders such as the Nak şbendi, Kadiri, or Rifa’i.101
In the final centuries of the empire, the legitimacy of some other Sufi orders and their
lodges came into question as well. In part due to the need to maintain control over family
endowments for various lodges or religious establishments, a principle of hereditary suc-
cession among the families of prominent shaykhs became more prevalent by the end of the
eighteenth century. The growing fiscal interference of nineteenth-century Ottoman reforms
into Sufi evkaf, which was placed under the supervision of the Directory of Imperial Founda-
tions after 1812, further accelerated this trend.102 Noting that some Sufi families were passing
on leadership of their lodges and endowments to minor children, derogatorily referred to
412
as “cradle-shaykhs,” a reform-minded backlash emerged that challenged these practices,

claiming they violated the spirit of Sufi leadership and training, which was supposed to be
quite lengthy and rigorous. But as medrese-educated teachers sometimes attempted to usurp
Sufi institutions in a tenuous position, with an eye to the financial benefits they could garner,
some Sufi leaders pushed back by demanding that lodges had to be headed by actual Sufis.103
To address these issues, the aforementioned Council of Shaykhs began administering exams
to test the preparation of Sufi leaders before they took up their positions. Even the new
head of the venerable Halveti Sünbüliyye lodge had to pass an exam in the early years of
the Great War before he could take up his post, and was required to temporarily turn over
the leadership of the order to one of his father’s senior followers for almost two years while
awaiting the test.104
The aforementioned trajectories indicate the degree to which the Sufi orders had be-
come subject to reformist trends in the empire in its final decades. The founding of the
Council of Shaykhs, new requirements for proper bureaucratic documentation for Sufis,
and the imposition of novel regulations reflect the implementation of what Brian Silver-
stein calls “governmentality” over Sufi institutions. Indeed, the participation of Sufi lead-
ers themselves in their formation is indicative of how dramatically transformed Ottoman
Sufism and its practitioners had become by the early twentieth century. As he argues, the
subsequent closing of lodges and the suppression of Sufi orders after the foundation of the
Republic have often been read as a conflict between a Westernizing, secular state and
reactionary religious institutions that culminated in 1925, but this is often an ahistorical
portrayal. Instead, we find Sufis writing books on Ibn ‘Arabī and dedicating them to Mus-
tafa Kemal in the 1920s, and prominent Sufi leaders in the newly established parliament
like Safvet Efendi (d. 1950) making arguments to abolish religious institutions like the
caliphate.105 Even at empire’s end, we find a unified portrait of Ottoman Sufism remains
elusive, omitting more than it reveals.
Notes
1 See, for example, the extensive foundational study of the Halveti order in Egypt by Ernst Ban-
nerth, “La Khalwatiyya en Égypte: Quelques aspects de la vie d’une confrérie,” Mélanges de l’In-
stitut Dominicain d’études orientales du Caire 8 (1964): 1–74.
2 On the historiographical problems of Ottoman studies, see Leslie Peirce, “Changing Perceptions
of the Ottoman Empire: The Early Centuries,” Mediterranean Historical Review 19:1 (2004): 6–28;
Jane Hathaway, “Rewriting Eighteenth-Century Ottoman History,” idem, 29–53.
3 On Vefa’i origins, see Ahmet Ya şar Ocak, “The Wafâ’î tariqa (Wafâ’iyya) during and after the
Period of the Seljuks of Turkey: A New Approach to the History of Popular Mysticism in Tur-
key,” Mésogeios 25–26 (2005): 209–248; Ayfer Karakaya-Stump, Subjects of the Sultan, Disciples of
the Shah: Formation and Transformation of the Kizilbash/Alevi Communities in Ottoman Anatolia (Ph.D.
Dissertation: Harvard University, 2008), 51–58.
4 John Kingsley Birge, The Bektashi Order of Dervishes (London: Luzac & Co., 1965), 41.
5 Karakaya-Stump, 96–98.
6 On this evolutionary process, see Hüseyin Yılmaz, Caliphate Redefined: The Mystical Turn in
Ottoman Political Thought (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2018), 107–126.
7 The best study of the Suhrawardiyya is Erik S. Ohlander, Sufism in an Age of Transition: Ùmar al-
Suhrawardī and the Rise of the Islamic Mystical Brotherhoods (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 2008); see also John J.
Curry, The Transformation of Muslim Mystical Thought in the Ottoman Empire: The Rise of the Halveti
Order 1350–1650 (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2010), 23–28 and 43–44.
8 Ahmet T. Karamustafa, God’s Unruly Friends: Dervish Groups in the Later Islamic Middle Period,
1200–1550 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994).
9 For an overview of the complex historiography on Edebalı and his connections with the Vefa’i
Sufi order, see Halil İ nalcik, “How to Read Àshik Pasha-Zade’s History,” in Studies in Ottoman
413
John J. Curry
History in Honour of Professor V.L. Menage, eds. Colin Heywood and Colin Imber (Istanbul: Isis
Press, 1994), 139–156; Ocak, 219–222; Karakaya-Stump, 58–61.
10 Abdurrahman Atçıl, Scholars and Sultans in the Early Modern Ottoman Empire (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2017), 33.
11 For an example of this narrative, see H. Yılmaz, 237–241.
12 İ nalcik, “How to Read,” 148–150; İ Hakkı Uzunçar şılı, “Gazi Orhan Bey Vakfiyesi, 724
Rebiülevvel-1324 Mart,” Belleten V (1941): 285.
13 The foundational study is that of Ömer Lütfi Barkan, “Osmanlı imparatorluğ unda bir iskân ve
kolonizasyon metodu olarak vakıflar ve temlikler I: İstilâ devirlerinin Kolonizatör Türk dervişleri
ve zaviyeler,” Vakıflar Dergisi II (1942): 279–353.
14 For a foundational discussion of the emergence of the abdalân, see M. Fuad Köprülü, “Abdal,”
in Türk Halk Edebiyatı Ansiklopedisi, ed. M. F. Köprülü (Istanbul: Burhaneddin Basımevi, 1935),
v. 1, 23–50.
15 Ahmet T. Karamustafa, “Kaygusuz Abdal: A Medieval Turkish Saint and the Formation of
Vernacular Islam in Anatolia,” in Unity in Diversity: Mysticism, Messianism and the Construction of
Religious Authority in Islam, ed. Orkhan Mir-Kasimov (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 329–341.
16 Rıza Yıldırım, “Dervishes, Waqfs and Conquest: Notes on Early Ottoman Expansion in Thrace,”
in Held in Trust: Waq f in the Islamic World, ed. Pascale Ghazaleh (Cairo: American University in
Cairo Press, 2011), 23–40.
17 For a broad contextualization of the intersection of the early Ottomans with various Sufi groups
vying for influence, see H. Yılmaz, 112–125.
18 Irène Mélikoff, Hadji Bektach: Un mythe et ses avatars: genèse et evolution du soufisme populaire en Tur-
quie (Leiden: Brill, 1998), 99; Hamid Algar, “Bekt ā šīya,” Encyclopaedia Iranica IV, fasc. 2, 118–122;
Thierry Zarcone, “Bekta şiyye,” EI3 (Leiden: Brill, 2014); İ nalcik, “How to Read,” 155–156.
19 J.A.B. Palmer, “The Origin of the Janissaries,” Bulletin of the John Rylands Library 35:2 (March
1953): 452–457 and 473–475; Colin Imber, “The Origin of the Janissaries,” Journal of Turkish
Studies 26:2 (2002): 15–19.
20 Konstantin Mihalović, Memoirs of a Janissary, ed. Svat Soucek and Benjamin Stolz (Princeton:
Markus Wiener, 2010), xxv–xxvii, 4–5.
21 Rıza Yıldırım, Hacı Bekta ş Veli’den Balım Sultan’a Bekta şiliğ in Doğu şu (Istanbul: İ letişim Yayıncılık,
2019), 80, 245–246. Additional corroboration appears in the work of the proto-Bekta şi dervish
Sadık Abdal, along with A şıkpa şazade’s attempts to debunk the Bekta şi connection during the
late fifteenth century in his history.
22 For a skeptical view, see Suraiya Faroqhi, Anadolu’da Bekta şilik: XV. Yüzyıl Sonlarında 1826 Yılına
Kadar, trans. Işıl Erdem (Istanbul: Alfa Basım, 2013), 146–148.
23 For an elaboration of this conception of Bekta şi origins, see Yıldırım, Bekta şiliğ in Doğu şu, 38–44.
24 Yıldırım, “Dervishes, Waqfs and Conquest.”
25 For a summary of these accounts, see Karakaya-Stump, 103–115.
26 For an overview of evidence for these developments, see Yıldırım, Bekta şiliğ in Doğu şu, 246–259;
his discussion builds on the work of Irene Beldiceanu-Steinherr, “Osmanlı Tapu-Tahrir Deft-
erleri Işığ ında Bekta şiler (XV.–XVI. Yüzyıllar),” Alevilik-Bekta şilik Ara ştırmaları Dergisi 3 (2010):
130–187.
27 Mélikoff, Hadji Bektach: Un mythe et ses avatars, 155–158.
28 For a detailed account of Balım Sultan and recently discovered archival evidence of this process,
along with the recognized silsiles of the two Bekta şi branches, see Yıldırım, Bekta şiliğ in Doğu şu,
261–287. As we shall see shortly with the Halveti order as well, Bayezid II played a critical role in
establishing and consolidating a number of Ottoman Sufi groups.
29 Gülay Yılmaz, “Bekta şilik ve İstanbul’daki Bekta şi Tekkeleri,” Osmanlı Ara ştırmaları: The Journal
of Ottoman Studies 45 (2015): 98, 105–111.
30 See Nikolay Antov, The Ottoman ‘Wild West’: The Balkan Frontier in the Fifteenth and Sixteenth
Centuries (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017), 100–104; Atçıl, Scholars and Sul-
tans, 34; and idem, “The Formation of the Ottoman Learned Class and Legal Scholarship
(1300–1600),” (Ph.D. Dissertation: University of Chicago, 2010), 52–53, on how Bedreddîn fit
into a general migratory pattern common to prominent Ottoman religious leaders of this period.
31 Dimitris J. Kastritsis, The Sons of Bayezid: Empire Building and Representation in the Ottoman Civil
War of 1402–1413 (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 2007), 9–10, 16–18 and 160–164; see also Antov, 103.
414
415
John J. Curry
416
417
28
THE QĀḌĪZĀDELIS AND SUFISM1
Mustapha Sheikh
Introduction
A millennium after the migration of the Prophet Muhammad from Mecca to Medina, corre-
sponding to the seventeenth Gregorian century, the religious landscape of Ottoman Turkey
was shaken to its core by a movement of scholar-activists known as the Qāḍīz ādelis. Drawn
from a spectrum of ethnic and social identities, and bonded by a unified vision for Ottoman
society, this movement was able to manoeuvre itself into hugely significant positions of in-
fluence such that, by the reign of Sultan Mur ād IV (r. 1623–1640), it had a virtual monopoly
over the pulpits of Istanbul’s imperial mosques. Determined to reclaim Islam from a scholarly
establishment they perceived as corrupt and Sufis they considered wayward, the Qāḍīz ādelis
promulgated a return to the way of the Salaf (the early generations of Muslims), a new vision
for the spiritual path and a form of social activism which emphasised personal responsibility
for bringing about a righteous society.2
Qāḍīz ādeli polemic consisted of invective directed at a host of doctrines and practices that
had significant purchase in Ottoman lands. Among these were traditions such as prayer at the
graves of saints, audible meditation, mystical singing and extra-scriptural prayers performed
in congregation. Not limiting themselves to the targeting of practices they deemed in con-
flict with sacred law, the Qāḍīz ādelis also took aim at various social phenomena, norms and
behaviours that they believed compromised upright Muslim behaviour. Coffee, tobacco,
opium and kahvehanes were among these.3 What marked the Qāḍīz ādelis apart within
Ottoman society more broadly, and specifically from their counterparts in the learned hier-
archy, was that they placed the burden of responsibility for rectification of self and society on
the shoulders of every individual, whether scholar or layperson.
Interest in the Q āḍī z ā delis is growing fast. In terms of the field of study, significant
work has been done on the life and work of Birgili Me ḥ med Efendi (d. 1573), widely
considered the spiritual inspiration of the Q āḍī z ā delis. He is author of by far the best-
known revivalist text of the Ottoman period, al-Ṭar īqat al-Mu ḥammadiyya, which by the
twelfth/eighteenth century was one of the most widely owned books in the Ottoman
Empire, and which today is part of the canon of texts taught in madrasas across the Mus-
lim world.4 Q āḍī z ā de Me ḥ med (d. 1635), the movement’s eponym, and under whom the
revivalist agenda was catapulted into the political centre of Ottoman society, has been
418
The Qāḍīzādelis and Sufism
the subject of wide scholarly interest, and reconstructions of his life are more detailed
than any other associated scholar-activist of the period. 5 Less has been done on Üs ṭ üw ā n ī
(d. 1661) and Wā n ī Efendi (d. 1685), recognised widely as leaders of the movement in
the latter half of the eleventh/seventeenth century.6 Then there are other figures such as
A ḥ mad al-Rū m ī al-Āq ḥ i ṣā r ī (d. 1632), whose stories in relation to the Q āḍī z ā delis have
only recently been appraised, and whose works are shedding new light on Q āḍī z ā deli
thought and activism.
Yet despite the burgeoning of interest, it is clear that most studies on the Qāḍīz ādelis have
reached an impasse insofar as they seem unable to move beyond comparativist readings of the
movement that analogise the Qāḍīz ādelis to various regressions, perceived or actual, such as
Wahhābism, fundamentalism/extremism or anti-Sufism.7 While these studies have managed
to bring to light similarities between the Qāḍīz ādelis and, for example, Wahhābism,8 signif-
icant differences have had to be overlooked in order to preserve the validity of the compari-
sons. Elsewhere, comparativism has led to doubts about the links between various members
of the movement and the extent to which it might be valid to include them as Qāḍīz ādelis,
doubts about the impact of the movement upon later generations and so on. In short, com-
parativism has done violence to the phenomenon that is the Qāḍīz ādelis. Over against the
general trend, this chapter will approach the study of the Qāḍīz ādelis relationally. I do not
dismiss the value of a comparativist analytic, for indeed comparison is employed to bring out
the similarities and dissimilarities that allow a clear positioning of the Qāḍīz ādelis in their
local specificity. However, this is but a first-order insight that is then put to service for the
relational, which, as Goldberg has suggested, “reveals, pulls productively together, connects
prompting and causal conditions across otherwise seemingly discrete instances, offers an ex-
planatory account where otherwise there is likely to be none.”9 Here relational analysis will
establish a Taymiyyan genealogy for the Qāḍīz ādelis, it will establish the interconnectedness
of key ideologues to the same Ottoman revivalist tradition and it will argue for the intercon-
nectedness of the Qāḍīz ādelis with the various activist “neo-Sufi” movements that emerged
across the Muslim world from the early modern period onwards.
Undoubtedly one of the most fraught discussions around and about the Qāḍīz ādelis has to
do with the relationship of the movement to Sufism, and mischaracterisations of the move-
ment as anti-Sufi are very common. Ahmet Ya şar Ocak exemplified this when he described
the movement as “le seul movement antisoufi au vrai sens du mot dans l’histoire ottoman.”10
This mischaracterisation may be put down to at least three reasons: (1) the absence of obvi-
ous affiliation of the Qāḍīz ādelis to any of the existing Ottoman Sufi orders; (2) Qāḍīz ādeli
appropriation of the Taymiyyan critique of Sufism; (3) the activism of the Qāḍīz ādelis. The
main aim of this chapter is to settle this question once and for all, and towards this end pres-
ents a series of texts-in-translation that allow a positioning of the movement’s critique of
Sufism clearly within intra-Sufi discourse. Further bolstering my claim that the Qāḍīz ādelis
should be seen within the long history of Sufism rather than outside it is the exploration
of the legacy of the movement especially for the later neo-Sufi revivalist formations that
emerged across the Muslim world from the twelfth/eighteenth century onwards.
The story of the rise of the Qāḍīz ādelis with reference to the life of Qāḍīz āde Meḥ med,
the movement’s eponym, begins this chapter. The decision to narrate the Qāḍīz ādelis
through his life is based on the fact that his life is documented in more detail than any other
protagonist. This is in no small part because he was the teacher of the great chronicler and
scholar K ātib Çelebi (d. 1657), but also because of his role in major public debates with the
head of the Khalwat ī order, Shaykh Siwā sī Efendi (d. 1639), that contributed significantly
419
Mustapha Sheikh
to the former’s notoriety. Furthermore, his life as both scholar and activist is paradigmatic
of the intellectual and socio-religious experiences and engagement of the wider leadership
of the movement.
The rise of the Qāḍīzādelis

The Qāḍīz ādelis, also known as the fakiler (legists),11 were named after Meḥ med Qāḍīz āde,
a scholar and activist born to an Anatolian judge in Balıkesir, close to the Marmara coast,
in 1582. Qāḍīz āde received his early religious instruction from several students of one of
the century’s most respected scholars, Birgili Meḥ med b. P ī r ‘Al ī (d. 1573), another son of
Balıkesir, and a scholar and activist in his own right. This early association with Birgili, al-
beit through his students, would prove life-changing for Qāḍīz āde, and bear upon his own
ideological and activist outlook for the remainder of his life.
Heralding from a family of teachers and scholars, it was perhaps inevitable that Qāḍīz āde
would himself follow the path of scholarly training. Intent on a career in the Ottoman
learned establishment, he set off for Istanbul hoping to gain admission into one of the im-
perial city’s reputable madrasas. Armed with the foundational training he received in his
hometown, it was not long before he gained the admission he so longed for, thus beginning a
new journey in his life that would eventually lead to a career in sermonising and admonition
(al-wac ẓ wa l-na ṣīḥa).12
Biographical data indicate that Qāḍīz āde disengaged from the path of learning for a pe-
riod to join the Khalwat ī order, which at that time was one of the largest Sufi networks
within the Ottoman Empire.13 This was but a brief sojourn for he soon became disillusioned
by what he perceived as the libertine ways of the Khalwat ī path.14 This experience would
shape the rest of his career, as he became an antagonist of the Khalwat ī order for the rest
of his days, inveighing against them in his writings and promoting a campaign of violence
against their lodges and affiliates up until his death.
Although he would eventually be remembered as a hard-liner for his violent campaign
against popular forms of religious practice and for his stinging and vituperative critique of
his opponents,15 he might equally have been memorialised for any number of virtues. He
was a master of the spoken word, which is attested by the swift progression he made up the
w āci ẓ hierarchy. Indeed he landed one position after another at the great imperial mosques—
Sultan Selim I, Beyazid and the Süleym āniye—until eventually he reached the pinnacle of
the preacher career-ladder by being appointed imam of the Aya Sofya in late 1631.16 He was,
moreover, a scholar-author who produced several treatises on both dogmatics, jurisprudence
and political philosophy.17 In later life, he could boast among his students the prolific poly-
math K ātib Çelebi.18
One of the best-documented events in the career of Qāḍīz āde was his clash with the head
of the Khalwat ī order, Shaykh Siwā sī Efendi, in 1633 at the Sultan Ahmad mosque. The
debate fell on the Birthday of the Prophet (mawlid), held by Ottomans as the most auspicious
day in the calendar. The event is reported by several near-contemporary writers, including
K ātib Çelebi. In M īzān al- ḥaqq (The Balance of Truth) he catalogued every point of disagree-
ment, recording various nuances and anecdotes and sharing personal views on each of the
contentions debated. Twenty points of dispute were recorded on the following jurispruden-
tial questions: the use of stimulants such as coffee, tobacco and opium; singing, chanting
and musical accompaniment in dhikr; dancing in Sufi gatherings; pilgrimage to the tombs of
saints; invocation of blessings upon the Prophet and his Companions upon every mention of
their names; the collective performance of supererogatory prayers which were not original
420
to the early community; the practice of cursing the Umayyad Caliph Yazīd (d. 683); and
shaking the hands after prayer and bowing down to superiors. The doctrinal contentions re-
lated to Ibn cArabī’s theory of “oneness of being” (wa ḥdat al-wujūd), belief in the immortality
of Khiḍ r, the belief that the Prophet’s parents died as believers and describing Islam as “the
religion of Abraham.”19 With reference to each contention, Qāḍīz āde advocated the position
of the majority of jurists of his age: they were either unsanctioned practices or heretical be-
liefs that had no place in Islam. Siwā sī sought to demonstrate that each was justified, even
commendable. Naturally two opposing camps formed, one described as “Qāḍīz āde’s lot”
(Qāḍīz ādeliler), the other as “Siwā sī’s lot” (Siwā sī ler). The clashing sides became locked in
battle for years to come, and it was not until total armed conflict was on the horizon that the
sultan intervened to bring the hostilities to an end.20
There were certain customary practices for which Q āḍī z ā de saved his especial indig-
nation, and the use of tobacco was certainly at the fore. A number of Ottoman c ulam ā’
had already turned their attention towards the issue of smoking, declaring fatwas of
outright condemnation. 21 Q āḍī z ā de’s own position was aligned with these, and while
none of his writings on tobacco have been preserved, we are told by chroniclers such
as Şolakz ā de, Sil āḥ d ā r and Na cī m ā that he formulated both “religious and rational ar-
guments” in support of the banning of the substance. 22 Two previous sultans, Mur ā d
III (r. 1574–1595) and A ḥ mad I (r. 1603–1617), had criminalised smoking already, and
attempted in their respective reigns to close down coffeehouses. 23 Their attempts, how-
ever, proved unsuccessful and it was not until the reign of Mur ā d IV, with the support
of Q āḍī z ā de, that, according to the same chroniclers, the Sultan took a particularly
heavy-handed approach by issuing an edict demanding the razing of all the coffeehouses
in Istanbul where tobacco was used. 24
Qāḍīz āde directed his most stinging attack at practices associated with the Khalwat ī or-
der, blaming them more than any other social force for the religious laxity and libertinism of
the masses.25 He held them responsible for what he considered a new age of decline within
the Ottoman Empire. What may be surprising, however, is that he and his sympathisers
were hardly alone in their condemnation of “deviant” Sufism. On the contrary, it seems
their attitude was typical of many in the culam ā’ hierarchy. The culam ā’ had always believed
themselves to be responsible for the salvation of Muslims and were very ardent in this role.
They typically resided in the great metropoles of the Empire guarding keenly their positions
of authority both within higher officialdom and beyond it. More specifically, culam ā’ oppo-
sition to the Khalwat īs and those orders that shared similar controversial devotional regimen
was predicated on two key factors. The first was political: the Khalwat īs were deemed a
threat to the Ottoman State because of their alleged Sh ī’ ī affinities; the second was doctrinal:
in their adoption of extra-scriptural religious practices which had no sanction in the Shar ī’a,
the sacred law was somehow existentially threatened.26
The Khalwat īs had already begun a process of internal reform, perhaps under the dual
pressures of orthodox censure and suspicion of the authorities. So by the middle of the tenth/
sixteenth century, as hostilities intensified between the Ottomans and the Safavids, there is
evidence pointing to the fact that the order concealed the existence of Sh ī’ ī imams within its
silsila by erasing them altogether as part of its movement in the direction of Shar ī’a-styled re-
form.27 The order also became increasingly detached from the masses in its attempt to shake
free from various negatively perceived ritual practices and a number of controversial affili-
ations. This internal reform was highly effective for the Khalwat īs, particularly during the
reigns of Süleym ān and Sel ī m II. During these periods, the Khalwat īs were able to expand
their numbers in Istanbul and to establish new tekkes. They achieved the same results in the
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Mustapha Sheikh
Anatolian provinces.28 Thus by the time of Qāḍīz āde’s opposition to them in the eleventh/
seventeenth century, the Khalwat īs had already manoeuvred themselves into a position of
political favour. Qāḍīzade was probably deeply troubled by this, and was likely aware that
nothing less than a virulent campaign against them would be necessary to unhinge their
position. His debates with Siwā sī and his motions against the Khalwat īs could therefore be
interpreted in light of this socio-political context.
Q āḍī z ā de would probably have cherished the prospect of personally leading a war of
attrition against the Khalwat ī s. Unfortunately for him, even when his relationship with
Mur ā d IV was at its closest, his Khalwat ī counterparts—most particularly Siw ā sī Efendi—
were also beneficiaries of the Sultan’s patronage. Qāḍī z ā de would therefore live to witness
only relatively low-level reforms such as the closing down of coffeehouses. In any case,
Mur ā d IV would back only those proposals of Q āḍī z ā de that would be advantageous to his
own rule—so, for example, the closure of coffeehouses served principally to clamp down
on public dissent. 29
For the remainder of his life, Q āḍī z ā de remained an intimate of Mur ā d IV. Despite the
close relationship that he forged with the Sultan, it would be successive Q āḍī z ā deli activists
who would fully exploit the inroads made into higher officialdom. By the 1050s/1640s
the movement came to hold a virtual monopoly on the socio-religious agenda of the
Seraglio, especially among the halberdiers, palace guards, sweet makers, gatekeepers, ser-
vants of the inner palace, harem eunuchs, artisans and market-place merchants. Members
of these well-connected groups, according to Baer, served as mediators “proselytizing the
Q āḍī z ā deli path to piety.”30 In what is known as the second phase of the Qāḍī z ā del ī cam-
paign, under the leadership of Üs ṭ üw ā n ī Meḥ med Efendi, 31 affairs took a more bloody turn.
Backed by the support of the Seraglio and segments of the general public, the Qāḍī z ā delis
now had official sanction to use violence against their opponents. Most often members of
particular Sufi orders would be on the receiving end of this violence, but virtually any-
one involved in an activity that the Q āḍī z ā delis had marked as immoral was liable to be
disciplined.
The Khalwat ī s and the Mawlaw ī s would experience the brunt of Q āḍī z ā deli hostil-
ities, primarily for a fatwa of Shaykh al-Isl ā m Bah ā’ ī Efendi that declared smoking as
licit. Q āḍī z ā de himself had already condemned the fatwa in a number of sermons and
writings. 32 Other pretexts for singling out these orders included a number of devotional
regimen adopted by these orders which the Q āḍī z ā delis had decided were innovations
(bid c a). 33 These took place in tekkes and so, just as smoking justified the razing of coffee-
houses, the raq ṣ and dawar ā n justified entering tekkes to forbid the evil being c arried out
within them. In 1650 the Q āḍī z ā delis even managed to acquire a court-order ( ferm ā n)
from the Grand Vizier Melek A ḥ mad Pasha ordering the demolition of several tekkes be-
longing to the Khalwat ī s and Mawlaw ī s. When the ferm ā n was delivered the Q āḍī z ā delis
took personal responsibility for implementing it, with the help of imperial soldiers.
Their first attack was launched on the Khalwat ī tekke in Demür Qapu; in this case,
they not only destroyed the building but also physically attacked those who were in the
tekke. This policy of violence would continue for at least a decade until the age of the
Grand Vizier Köprülü Me ḥ med. Under pressure from influential segments of Ottoman
high officialdom that were understandably perturbed by Q āḍī z ā deli violence, Köprülü
eventually circumscribed the activities of the Q āḍī z ā delis, exiling several of its leading
members. Q āḍī z ā deli over-zealousness would lead eventually to their own fall from
grace in the context of Ottoman Turkey.
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Qāḍīzādeli Sufism
On the question of Sufism (ta ṣawwuf/sul ūk), we confront the most complex dimension of
Qāḍīz ādeli thought. For sure the Qāḍīz ādelis were locked in antagonistic relations with a
number of orders, including the Khalwat īs, Bayr ā m īs, the Mawlaw īs, aside from the spec-
trum of antinomian Sufi orientations. Yet close readings of Qāḍīz ādeli literature, such as
Birgili’s al-Ṭar īqa al-Muḥammadiyya and al-Āqḥ iṣār ī’s Majālis al-abrār, can leave no room for
doubt that the Qāḍīz ādeli critique was of the intra-Sufi variety.34
My point of entry for a positioning of the Qāḍīz ādelis within the Sufi geography of
Ottoman Turkey is Majālis al-abrār of A ḥ mad al-Rū m ī al-Āqḥ iṣār ī,35 ideologue of the move-
ment par excellence, and third man in the triumvirate consisting of Birgili and Qāḍīz āde.36
Like Birgili and Qāḍīz āde, al-Āqḥ iṣār ī’s fundamental doctrinal affiliations were broadly
aligned with the position of the Ottoman learned establishment. His doctrinal views on
the attributes of God, the necessity of arriving at a rational basis for God’s essential unic-
ity (taw ḥīd) and similar creedal questions betray a clear preference for the Mātur īd ī tradi-
tion.37 On questions relating to jurisprudence, al-Āqḥ iṣār ī cites many of the best-known
Ḥanaf ī jurisprudential treatises, commentaries and glosses such as al-Hid āya of Burhā n al-Dī n
al-Marghinān ī (twelfth century)38 and al-Ikhtiyār of ‘Abd Allāh b. Ma ḥ mūd b. Mawdūd al-
Mawṣil ī (d. 1284).39 Sporadically, he cites the positions of other schools but this is when he
wishes to highlight the agreement between other schools and his own on the legal opinions
in question, or because he disagrees with the position adopted by the Ḥanaf ī school.
With respect to Sufism, early in Majālis al-abrār we get an indication of the centrality of
spiritual wayfaring for the Qāḍīz ādelis. The preeminent formula for dhikr (meditative prac-
tice) is set out, as are the prerequisites of dhikr and the fruits of sustained practice:
And the best [form of ] remembrance (dhikr) according to that which has been reported
in this ḥad īth is [the repetition of ], ‘There is no god but God (l ā il āha illall āh)’. It is nec-
essary that the worshipper who is compos mentis (mukallaf ) occupies himself with this
formula so that his heart finds contentment (ya ṭma’inna qalbu-hu) and so that he prepares
himself for [receiving] knowledge (ma’rifa) of God the Exalted.40
Herein lies the corner-stone of Sufi epistemology: the nexus between dhikr and ma’rifa
(gnosis), the latter of which is a central pursuit of the mystical path. The superiority of the
bāṭin (the inner state) over the ẓāhir (outer condition), that is of the spiritual over the material,
can also be inferred here. This is articulated more explicitly in the passage below:
The remembrance (dhikr) of God is the pre-eminent demand (al-ma ṭl ūb al-a’l ā) and the
furthest objective (al-maqṣūd al-aqṣā). It is of two types: the first is dhikr with the tongue
and the other is dhikr with the heart. Dhikr with the tongue is that which is uttered on
the tongue and heard by the ears; it consists of sounds and letters. As for dhikr of the
heart, it is neither uttered on the tongue nor heard by the ears; rather, it is the contem-
plation and observance of the heart; it is the highest ranking [form of ] dhikr and it is near
certain that this [is the form of dhikr] intended here, i.e. the contemplative, internalized
dhikr. This is since this is the [form] which has additional excellence over and above
expending wealth and self, as has come in the report: ‘An hour’s contemplation is better
than seventy years of worship.’ This is not achieved except by the servant’s persistence
in dhikr with the tongue together with a presence of heart until the point at which the
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dhikr becomes firmly embedded in his heart and takes control of him in such a manner
that, were he to shift his attention away from it, it would be a burden for him, just as
at the beginning [of his spiritual quest] it was a burden for him to become constant in
doing it.41
Devotional regimen aside, it is al-Āqḥ iṣār ī’s position on organised Sufism which is especially
striking. This is to be found in his Risāla f ī l-sul ūk wa anna-h ū l ā budda li-l-sālik min murshid
(The Epistle on Spiritual Wayfaring, and the Necessity for The Spiritual Aspirant to Have a Guide).42
Here one confronts the starkest challenge to the construction of the Qāḍīz ādelis as anti-Sufis.
On the murshid-mur īd relationship, we see the quintessential demand of organised Sufism,
namely the requirement of the mur īd to demonstrate absolute obedience to the murshid:
Over the course of his preoccupation [with dhikr], [the mur īd] must have a righteous and
perfected shaykh and guide who serves as a representative of the Prophet, God’s peace
and blessings be upon him, thereby ensuring that the mur īd is protected from slippage,
purged of his base traits, and endowed with higher virtues in their place. The condition
for any shaykh to play the role of representative of the Prophet is that he be a scholar who
adheres to the Shar ī’a in his words, deeds and beliefs; [he] should himself be following a
person of spiritual insight who is connected in an initiatic chain (silsila) all the way back
to the Prophet. He should excel in the training of his ego (riyāḍat nafsihi) and should
imbibe all excellent virtues. The trouble is that, today it is rare to find such a man—he is
even more precious than red sulphur (al-kibr īt al-a ḥmar).43 Whoever is fortunate enough
to find such a shaykh should respect him outwardly and inwardly.44
As al-Āqḥ iṣār ī proceeds with his exposition of the murshid-mur īd relationship, his position ap-
pears to align with the relationship as it was conceived by Naqshband ī masters in particular,
and is, in fact, a striking moment of alignment with one of the dominant Shar ī’a-minded
orders of the Ottoman eleventh/seventeenth century. In what follows is a discussion of fan ā’
f ī l-shaykh (extinction in the personhood of the master), which appears to be a direct appro-
priation from the Naqshband ī path:
Since the shaykh is a representative of the Messenger of God, it is necessary that [the
disciple] orients himself completely towards his shaykh, by way of connecting his heart
to him. He should have certainty that emanation ( fayḍ ) cannot be obtained except
via his shaykh—despite the existence of other saints who are also guides and guided
themselves. He should be sure that his seeking of support from his shaykh is tantamount
to seeking support from the Messenger of God, since his shaykh has taken [the path]
from his shaykh, who has taken it from his shaykh to his shaykh, all the way back to
the Messenger of God […] Thus the connection of the heart with the shaykh is a major
corner-stone of emanation. In fact, it is the ultimate corner-stone, and for this reason,
all Shaykhs have greatly emphasised this corner-stone. They have gone so far as to say
that the disciple should resemble, in his obedience to his shaykh, the dead body [in its
submission] to the one who is tasked with performing its funeral ablution.45
The Divine emanation ( fayḍ ) which al-Āqḥ iṣār ī speaks of here, or the “enabling energy,”
as it has been described by Buehler in the context of the Naqshband ī tradition,46 is only
achieved via the shaykh, who is thought of as the representative of the Prophet Mu ḥammad
in the lower world (dunyā). The Prophet himself stands out among all other Prophets as the
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perfect receptacle of this fayḍ. What makes orienting towards a shaykh all the more vital is
that it is impossible to orientate oneself directly towards the Divine—man is bound by direc-
tion whereas the Divine is not. A shaykh is thus the only means for a disciple to experience
fayḍ and thus achieve the desired ends of the path.
The “Shar ī’a-mindedness” of the Qāḍīz ādelis comes through in al-Āqḥ iṣār ī’s severe cas-
tigation of people who claim mystical insight without having any training in jurisprudence
( fiqh) and orthodox creed (‘aqīda):
Whoever busies himself with meditative practice (dhikr) and spiritual exercises (riyāḍa)
before learning of the science of kal ām the amount that will guarantee his creed is sound
and in accordance with Ahl al-Sunna wa’l-jama’ā, and is protected against the uncertain-
ties of the heretics; and before studying the science of jurisprudence to the extent that
his actions are sound, in accordance with the Immaculate Law (al-Shar ī’a al-muṭahhara);
to such a one it is likely that there will appear what seems to be the unveiling of hidden
things or unnatural phenomena (kh āriq al-’āda) by virtue of his spiritual exercise or the
deception of Satan.47
The activist bent in Qāḍīz ādeli Sufism runs like a vein through the literature and is expressed
in various ways such as the opposition to innovations (bid’a) and the principle of “enjoining
good and forbidding evil” (al-amr bi-l-ma’ruf wa l-nahy ‘an al-munkar). For the Qāḍīz ādelis, the
duty to enjoin good and forbid evil was an individual responsibility—no Muslim was exempt
from it, and no shaykh, im ā m, amīr or institution was above censure. Ivanyi describes Bir-
gili’s position on the principle succinctly:
With regard to the ‘internal’ control of the soul and its passions, he advocates a scrupu-
lous regime of self-surveillance, similar to that of the Malā matiyya and other early pi-
etistic trends. With regard to ‘external’ control, on the other hand, he adopts an activist
approach, centered on a strict interpretation of the law, to be enforced by exhortation
and, if necessary, physical action.48
In al-Āqḥ iṣār ī, we find the same demand, articulated perhaps in even starker terms. In the
context of the prohibition of smoking, for example, he says:
Every individual, the jurists have said, on whom an abominable smell is found by which
one is offended, it is obligatory to expel him from the mosque, even by dragging him
by his hand and his foot—but not by his beard or the hair of his head. In this time, it
is consequently obligatory to expel from the mosques—the small ones and the great
ones—many of the im ā ms and muezzins on whom there is an abominable smell.49
This juxtaposition of Sufism with a form of activism that places responsibility for societal
transformation on the individual is at once striking and unprecedented in the Ottoman
context.
In pursuit of their vision for a Sufism purged of illegitimate accretions (bid’a), Birgili,
al-Āqḥ iṣār ī and their activist comrades drew extensively from the thought of Ibn Taymiyya
and Ibn al-Qayyim, a move that ran against the grain of the intellectual and socio-cultural
milieu. Two examples of this Taymiyyan influence, taken from al-Āqḥ iṣār ī’s work, make this
point clear. The first appears in al-Āqḥ iṣār ī’s Majālis al-Abrār at the point where he discusses
the khalwa (spiritual retreat).50 Much of what al-Āqḥ iṣār ī says about the khalwa, and the types
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of inspiration which the retreat can induce, is taken directly from Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya’s
Igh āthat al-Lahfān, mainly verbatim, somewhat reorganised and rarely directly cited.51 In the
following passage, there are disparaging remarks about the so-called A ṣḥāb al-khalwa (prac-
titioners of the spiritual retreat) and a decrying of their arrogance, ignorance and general
waywardness:
There are some people in our time who enter into retreat (khalwa) for three days or
more, and who, when they reappear—even if after only [having been in retreat] once or
twice—claim that they have attained a state of perfection and have reached the stations
of the men [of the spiritual path]. [This is] despite the fact that they engage in actions
which contravene the noble Sunna. If their likes are rebuked for what they engage in,
they say, ‘The proscription of that is but in the knowledge of the outward (‘ilm al- ẓāhir),
whereas we possess knowledge of the inward (‘ilm al-bāṭin), therefore such things are
permitted [to us]. Arrival to God, the exalted, does not occur except when knowledge
of the outward is rejected. You all take from the Book (al-Kit āb), whereas we, by virtue
of the retreat (khalwa) and the blessings of the shaykh, arrive to God, the Exalted.52
It is clear from this passage that al-Āqḥ iṣār ī has little faith in those who, after having been
in khalwa, reemerge with claims to gnosis and excuses as to why their “contraventions”
of the Shar ī’a are legitimate. In al-Āqḥ iṣār ī’s epistemology, revealed knowledge—al-shar ī’a
al-munazzala—is the ultimate magisterium. And though he also accepts the epistemic value
of reason, he does so with caveats and only when it is delimited by kal ām-theology. As
far as mystical visions are concerned, for al-Āqḥ iṣār ī, they can only corroborate what is in
Scripture—they are never an independent epistemic source.
The visitation of graves provides another example of Taymiyyan influence. Birgili was
probably the first in Ottoman society to highlight the problem of visiting graves, marshalling
arguments from Ibn al-Qayyim in order to support his case. He treats the subject in his al-
Ṭar īqat al-Muḥammadiyya and the Risāleh-i Birgivi/Vasiyyet-n āme (The Epistle).53 Al-Āqḥ iṣā r ī is
similarly strident in his opposition, especially with respect to the visitation of the graves of
holy people. Echoing Birgili’s view, he devotes a whole section of Majālis al-Abrār—Majlis
XVII—to the prohibition of praying near tombs. Here he is explicit about his main source,
Ibn al-Qayyim’s al-Igh ātha:
These pages I have taken from Igh āthat al-Lahfān f ī Mak āyid al-Shayṭān of the shaykh, the
im ā m, the most erudite (‘all āma), Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya—may God accept his soul
among the souls of those who have returned to their Lord, both pleasing and pleased.
I append to this some of what I have discovered in other authoritative books. This is
because many people today have made shrines out of some tombs, to which they pray,
make sacrificial offerings, and various kinds of acts and statements emanate from them
which do not befit the People of Faith (Ahl al- īm ān). I thus wanted to make clear the
Shar ī’a’s position on this matter, so that the truth stands clear from falsehood for all who
want to correct and purify faith from the machinations of Satan.54
This position of al-Āqḥ iṣār ī would pit him against the head of the Khalwat īs, Siwā sī Efendi,
who permitted and even encouraged the visitation of graves for the intercession of the dead.55
That the Q āḍ iz ā delis were reading Ibn Taymiyya and Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya is
extraordinary given that the milieu in which they emerged was infused with Ḥ anaf ī,
M ātur īd ī and Ghaz ā lian thought. However, their recourse to these giants of the Islamicate
426
classical period is not difficult to understand: Ibn Taymiyya and his erstwhile student had
together produced one of the most sophisticated and thoroughgoing critiques of Sufism in
the history of Muslim thought, attacking the “errors” of so-called heterodox Sufis from
theological, philosophical and juridical angles. But more than this, they were visionaries
who had developed a model of mysticism that was at once anchored in the sacred law and
the pristine Sunna, and imbued with an activist impulse. This model has been usefully
described by the term “neo-Sufism.”56
Neo-Sufism/the Muḥammadan Path

Fazlur Rahman argued that Ibn Taymiyya and Ibn al-Qayyim were the avant-garde of
neo-Sufism. They demonstrated the possibility of delivering Sufism from innovative prac-
tice (bidca) whilst maintaining many of the claims of intellectual Sufism and employing the
whole range of essential Sufi terminology.57 Developing on this further, Thomas Michel says:
In taking not merely Sufi terminology but also the concepts of mystical consciousness,
by interpreting them in a manner consistent with the Book and Sunna, and by tracing
the origins of these concepts to the early shaykhs and the salaf, [Ibn Taymiyya] shows
that the striving for God, the need to go beyond the minimum worship of God which
is strictly prescribed, and the desire of the believer for a close individual relationship to
God in love is all not a novel or peripheral activity in Islam, but finds its roots in the
prophetic message itself and the consistent tradition of the community. However, he
stresses that this Path to God is not an unregulated spiritual domain where each teacher
and student is free to search out individual methods and beliefs, but they must constantly
refer everything back to the Book and the Sunna; any departure from that is a deviation
into error.58
The work of Ibn Taymiyya and Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya therefore does more than simply
inform the reformed Sufism of the Qāḍīz ādelis; it constitutes its condition of possibility. The
constitutive role of Taymiyyan thought, and Taymiyyan ta ṣawwuf specifically,59 is evident in
the Qāḍīz ādeli demand for Sufism to conform to the Shar ī’a, in their demand for Sufism to
be anchored in the Sunna of the Prophet (i.e. in the ḥadīth tradition) while simultaneously
being shorn of unacceptable accretions (bidca), and in their reorientation of the spiritual path
towards engagement in the world as opposed to retreat from it.
In this new iteration of Taymiyyan ta ṣawwuf, termed the Mu ḥammadan Path in the
Qāḍīz ādeli context, the personality of the Prophet is positioned at the fore effectively creat-
ing a model of authority in which sainthood and religious leadership are predicated on the
imitation of the Prophetic archetype. Attention on the Prophet means an emphasis upon
the Sunna before anything else and requires close study of the normative practice of the
Prophet as preserved in the “soundly transmitted” ḥadīth. In the case of Birigili’s al-Ṭar īqat
al-Muḥammadiyya, the ḥadīth of the Prophet is quite clearly the backbone of the text.60 In al-
Āqḥ iṣā r ī’s case, this is to be seen in the fact that Majālis al-Abrār is framed as a commentary
on the Ma ṣābīḥ al-Sunna (The Lamps of the Tradition) of the great Shā ficī ḥadīth master, Abū
Mu ḥammad Ḥuṣayn b. Mascūd al-Baghaw ī (d. 515/1122).61 Only via the Prophetic Sunna
could there follow an authentic model of imitatio muḥammadi, and spiritual practices which
cannot be justified by the texts of the Qur’an and ḥadīth are to be condemned as innovations
(bid’a); only via the Prophetic Sunna can the spiritual path be reconnected with social activ-
ism, or, in the words of Iqbal, a force for social transformation:
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Mustapha Sheikh
The mystic does not wish to return from the repose of ‘unitary experience’; and even
when he does return, as he must, his return does not mean much for mankind at large.
The prophet’s return is creative. He returns to insert himself into the sweep of time with
a view to control the forces of history, and thereby create a fresh world of ideals. For
the mystic, the repose of ‘unitary experience’ is something final; for the prophet it is the
awakening, within him, of world-shaking psychological forces, calculated to completely
transform the human world.62
Attendant upon this centring of the Prophetic Sunna, the Mu ḥammadan Path prompted
what I would describe as “the second canonisation” of the ḥadīth. The first canonisation oc-
curred during the third/ninth and fourth/tenth centuries, when the Ṣiḥāḥ Sitta (“Six Canon-
ical Collections”), and especially the ṣa ḥīḥān of al-Bukhār ī and Muslim, were adopted by the
Shā fi’ īs and the Ḥanbal īs as the final statements on the Prophetic Sunna and raised in status
to quasi-divine.63 The Ḥanaf īs and Mā lik īs had not at this point accepted these collections as
canons, preferring instead their own authoritative works of ḥadīth that also served to buttress
their respective jurisprudential positions. In their anchoring of Sufism in ḥadīth texts col-
lected by al-Bukhār ī and Muslim, while simultaneously marginalising authoritative primacy
to ḥadīth works of Ḥanaf ī provenance, Qāḍīz ādeli texts such as al-Ṭar īqat al-Muḥammadiyya
and Majālis al-Abrār reinscribed the notion of the inviolability and authoritativeness of the
Ṣiḥāḥ Sitta, and the ṣa ḥīḥān especially, within a Ḥanaf ī-Mātur īd ī imaginary. Furthermore,
as these Qāḍīz ādeli texts began to circulate beyond the Ottoman Empire, into regions such
as Moghul India and Muslim Africa, they carried the idea that the ḥadīths of the Ṣiḥāḥ Sitta,
ḥad īths originally conceived to support Shā fi’ ī and Ḥanbal ī legal positions, served a unique
spiritual function. Framed in this way, the status of the Ṣiḥāḥ Sitta as ultimate expressions of
the Sunna was guaranteed almost universally.64
Conclusion
The Qāḍīz ādelis are widely understood as no more than a glitch in the history of Ottoman
Turkey, a fitna that soon passed. They are variously described as the ultimate anti-Sufis,
proto-Wahhābīs, and even proto-fundamentalists, representing neither the scholarly estab-
lishment (‘Ilmiyye) nor the masses (r ā’iyya). Sadly, these reductive accounts typify all but a
few of the major studies. In contrast to these prevailing notions, I want to suggest that there
is an alternative way that we might imagine the Qāḍīz ādelis, a way that allows us to move
beyond unhelpful reductionisms and problematic re-productions of orientalism. I propose
that the Qāḍīz ādelis represent a critical moment in both the long history of Sufism and the
long history of ḥadīth. With respect to the former, they constitute an iteration in Ḥanaf ī-
Mātur īd ī geographies of a reconfigured mysticism, or neo-Sufism, traceable back to the ven-
erable Shaykh al-Islam Taqī al-Dī n A ḥ mad b. Taymiyya. In this Qāḍīz ādeli iteration, termed
al-Ṭar īqat al-Muḥammadiyya, there is a demand for spirituality, and by extension all human
actions, to be anchored in both the Shar ī’a—understood in the main to be Ḥanaf ī law, and
the Sunna—taken to mean the ḥadīth. Significantly, there is also a reorientation of spiritual
wayfaring, where an emphasis on withdrawal from the world is supplanted by a demand for
participation in the world.
With respect to ḥadīth, the Qāḍīz ādeli project of establishing a rapprochement between
the Shar ī’a and ḥaqīqa was deeply connected with close study of the life, practices and habits
of the Prophet Muhammad. This accounts for why the ḥadīth is afforded such centrality in
Qāḍīz ādeli texts such as al-Ṭar īqat al-Muḥammadiyya of Imam Birgili and Majālis al-abrār of
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A ḥ mad al-Rū m ī al-Āqḥ iṣār ī. For the Qāḍīz ādelis, only from the Prophetic tradition could
there follow an authentic model of imitatio muḥammadi, and those spiritual practices which are
not supported by the Qur’an and ḥadīth are to be condemned as innovations (bidca). This inte-
gration of ḥadīth into the spiritual path was not, however, predicated on the ḥadīth works as-
sociated with the Ḥanaf ī school, but rather upon the ḥadīths recorded in the so-called “sound
traditions” (ṣiḥāḥ), especially the ṣa ḥīḥān of al-Bukhār ī and Muslim. This move would enable
what I term the “second canonisation” of the ḥadith, a phenomenon that would reinscribe
the original Shā fi’ ī-Ḥanbal ī notion of the quasi-divine status of al-Bukhār ī and Muslim into
a Ḥanaf ī-Mātur īd ī imaginary.
Finally, just as the influence of Taymiyyan thought on the neo-Sufi movements that
emerged across Islamdom from the twelfth/eighteenth century is widely acknowledged, it is
high time that serious attention be given to the constitutive role of the Qāḍīz ādelis for these
same phenomena. Clearly a number of these movements described themselves by the term
ṭar īqa muḥammadiyya including, inter alia, the Wahhabīs in Arabia, by Sayyid Ahmad for his
movement and the Idr īsī Brotherhood.65 And as Fazlur Rahman pointed out decades ago,
“This [naming] cannot be a pure accident even though there does not seem to be any visible
causal connection between them.”66 But to see the constitutive role of the Qāḍīz ādelis his-
torians will have to move from a comparativist analytic towards an analytic of relationality.
Only then can the deeper ontological interconnectedness of the Qāḍīz ādelis with these later
revivalist movements reveal itself.
Notes
1 This chapter is based on my monograph, Ottoman Puritanism and Its Discontents: A ḥmad al-R ūm ī al-
Āq ḥi ṣār ī the Q āḍīzādelis (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016). I am grateful to Sofia Rehman,
Salman Sayyid and Ahmet Topal for their useful suggestions.
2 On the corruption of the Ottoman learned institution, see M. Zilfi, Politics of Piety: The
Ottoman Ulema in the Post-Classical Age (1600–1800) (Minneapolis: Bibliotheca Islamica [Studies
in Middle-Eastern History, 8] 1988). On Sufi antinomianism in the Ottoman Empire, see
A. Karamustafa, God’s Unruly Friends: Dervish Groups in the Islamic Middle Period 1200–1550
(Oxford: Oneworld, 2006).
3 Coffeehouses played a major role in the exchange of ideas and indeed rumours concerning the
politics of the day. The seeds of sedition were frequently sown here and during the seventeenth and
eighteenth centuries, coffeehouses were the bane of more than a few sultans and viziers. On this
see M. Zilfi, “The Kadizadelis: Discordant Revivalism in Seventeenth-Century Istanbul,” Journal
of Near Eastern Studies, 45 (1986), pp. 256–257; also F. Zarinebaf, Crime and Punishment in Istanbul:
1700/1800 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2010).
4 T. Krstić’s survey of library catalogues of Ottoman manuscript collections reveals that in the
most prominent Rumeli collections in Sarajevo and Sofia, the list of most copied works (af-
ter the Qur’an) is led by Birgili’s al-Ṭar īqat al-Mu ḥammadiyya and Vasiyyetn āme (Risāle-yi Birgiv ī ).
Üṣtüwā n ī’s Kit āb was also among the most widely circulated books. See Contested Conversions to
Islam: Narratives of Religious Change in the Early Ottoman Empire (Stanford: Stanford University
Press, 2011), p. 29. On Birgili, see Kasim Kufrevi, “Birgewi (Birgiwi, Birgeli) Mehmed b. Pir
‘Ali,”, Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd end, (Leiden: Brill, 1960–2007); A.T. Arslan, Imam Birgivi: Hayati
Eserli ve Arapça Tedrisatindaki Yeri (Istanbul: 1992); Atsız, İstanbul kütüphanelerine göre Birgili Mehmet
Efendi (929–981 = 1523–1573) Bibliografyası (Istanbul: Ötüken Yayinevi, 1966); K. Ivanyi, “Virtue,
Piety and the Law: A Study of Birgivi Mehmed Efendi’s “al-Tarīqa Al-Muhammadiyya,” (PhD
thesis, Princeton University, 2012) and Balıkesirli bir İslam âlimi: İmam Birgivî, ed. M. Bayyiğ it et al.
(Balıkesir: Balıkesir Büyük şehir Belediyesi, 2019).
5 On Meḥ met Qāḍī z āde, see Çavuşoğ lu, “Kadız ādeliler,” İA, 24: 100–102; idem., “The Kadizadeli
Movement,” pp. 68–74.
6 The most relevant studies on these individuals are N. Öztürk’s “Islamic Orthodoxy among the
Ottomans in the Seventeenth Century with Special Reference to the Qadi-zade Movement”
429
Mustapha Sheikh
(unpublished PhD thesis, University of Edinburgh, 1981; S. Çavuşoğ lu’s “The Kadizadeli
Movement: An Attempt of Şeri’at-Minded Reform in the Ottoman Empire” (unpublished PhD
thesis, Princeton University, 1990; and M.D. Baer’s Honored by the Glory of Islam: Conversion and
Conquest in Ottoman Europe (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008).
7 Such is the framing of the Qāḍī z ādelis in the following major studies: Öztürk, “Islamic Ortho-
doxy”; Çavuşoğ lu, “The Kadizadeli Movement”; C. Kafadar, “The Myth of the Golden Age:
Ottoman Historical Consciousness in the Post-Süleymanic Era,” in Süleyman the Second and His
Times, edited by H. Inalçik and C. Kafadar (Istanbul: Isis Press, 1993).
8 For example, J.M. Currie, “Kadizadeli Ottoman Scholarship, Muhammad ibn ‘Abd al-Wahhab,
and the Rise of the Saudi State,” Oxford Journal of Islamic Studies 26:3 (2015), pp. 265–288.
9 D.T. Goldberg, “Racial Comparisons, Relational Racisms: Some Thoughts on Method,” Ethnic
and Racial Studies 32:7 (2009), p. 1281. Relationality is a key methodological approach of the
emerging field of enquiry that is Critical Muslim Studies (CMS), within which this study is situ-
ated. CMS is characterised by a series of epistemological commitments: (1) a critique of Eurocen-
trism; (2) an ongoing suspicion of positivism; (3) a recognition of the significance of the critique
of Orientalism; (4) an embrace of postcolonial and decolonial thinking. For more on CMS, see
Reorient: The Journal of Critical Muslim Studies 1:1 (2015), pp. 5–9.
10 A. Ocak, “Oppositions au soufisme dans l’Empire ottoman aux quinzième et seizième siècles,” in
Islamic Mysticism Contested: Thirteen Centuries of Controversies and Polemics, edited by F. De Jong and
B. Radtke (Leiden: Brill, 1999), p. 610. The same view is articulated in most of the major dedi-
cated studies on the Qāḍī z ādelis, for example, Öztürk, “Islamic Orthodoxy,” p. 132ff; Çavuşoğ lu,
“The K ādiz ādel ī movement,” p. 1. Indeed, Çavuşoğ lu states explicitly that her inquiry proceeds
with a focus primarily on “the tension between the Sufis and the K ādiz ādel īs,” idem, p. 23.
11 Faki (Arabic. faqīh) was the generic title given by the Ottomans to one who had any professional
connection with Islamic law.
12 Zilfi, Politics of Piety, p. 131; Çavuşoǧ lu “Kadız ādeliler,” İA, p. 100.
13 On the Khalwat ī order, see B.G. Martin, “A Short History of the Khalwati Order of Dervishes,”
in Scholars, Saints, and Sufis: Muslim Religious Institutions in the Middle East since 1500, edited by
N.R. Keddie (Berkley: University of California Press, 1972) and J.J. Curry, The Transformation
of Mystical Thought in the Ottoman Empire: The Rise of the Halveti Order, 1350–1650 (Edinburgh:
Edinburgh University Press, 2010).
14 K ātib Çelebi, The Balance of Truth, translated with an introduction and notes by G.L. Lewis
(London: George Allen and Unwin, 1957), pp. 132–133; Zilfi, Politics of Piety, p. 131; Çavuşoǧlu,
“Kadız ādeliler,” İA, p. 100.
15 This is the view of Qāḍī z āde held by most of the major Ottoman chroniclers who chart the rise and
fall of the Qāḍī z ādelis. See for example Nev’ ī z āde cAṭā’ ī’s Ḥad ā’iq al- ḥaqā’iq f ī takmilat al-Shaqā’iq
(Istanbul: Tabhane-i. Amire, 1268/1851–52); Ibr ā h ī m Ḥasib cUşşā k ā z āde’s Dhayl al-Shaqā’iq,
Süleym ā niye Library, MS. Çelebi Abdullah 260; Meḥ med Şeyḥī, Waqāyic al-fu ḍal ā’, Süleymaniye
Library, MS Hamidiye 939.
16 Zilfi, Politics of Piety, p. 131.
17 On Qāḍī z āde’s works, see Öztürk, “Islamic Orthodoxy,” pp. 152–159.
18 See Çelebi, The Balance of Truth, pp. 135–136.
19 Çelebi, The Balance of Truth, pp. 132–133.
20 Çelebi, The Balance of Truth, pp. 133–134.
21 See Çavuşoğ lu, “The K ādiz ādeli Movement,” pp. 209–210.
22 Çavuşoğ lu, “The K ādiz ādel ī Movement,” pp. 217–218.
23 Çavuşoğ lu, “The K ādiz ādel ī Movement,” p. 216.
24 Çavuşoğ lu, “The K ādiz ādel ī Movement,” p. 216.
25 Çavuşoğ lu, “Kadız ādeliler,” İA, p. 101; Zilfi, Politics of Piety, p. 133ff.
26 Martin, “Khalwati Order of Dervishes,” p. 284.
27 Martin notes that the Shī’ī Safawiyya order and the Khalwat īs had in common five out of 12
imams in the standard Twelver Shī’ī series. He suggests that the two orders were like “twin
brothers” and that had the Khalwat īs gone elsewhere in the Ottoman Empire it might have ad-
opted a completely Shī’ī doctrine. See “Khalwati Order of Dervishes,” p. 284. For an alternative
perspective on the phenomenon of erasing the imamate chain from the Khalwat ī silsila, see Curry,
Transformation of Muslim Mystical Thought, p. 25.
28 Martin, “Khalwati Order of Dervishes,” p. 285.
430
431
Mustapha Sheikh
432
PART THREE
The modern period

29
SUFISM IN MODERN TURKEY
Kim Shively
Introduction
Sufi orders (tarikats) were widespread throughout the Ottoman Empire, and Sufi religious
movements have remained popular and influential in the modern Turkish Republic. This
flourishing of Sufi organizations requires explanation, given the fact that the Turkey’s
Republican founders, under the leadership of Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, sought to create a
nation-state based on strictly secularist principles that was supposed to eliminate the Sufi
orders, among other things. Despite this, Turkey is currently
home to many tarikats and their branches: Kadiri, Nak şibendi, Mevlevi, Rifai, Halveti,
Galibi, Cerrahi, U şşaki, Melami, Haznevi, Menzilci, İsmailağa group, I şıkçı, Erenköy group,
and so forth. The overall picture is complicated by inter-group divisions and overlaps.
Each has a special outlook on politics, on the aspects of modern life such as finance,
education and customs, as well as a distinguishable symbolism and terminology, and
finally a sense of higher objectives. They appeal to different social strata in terms of
wealth, education and occupation: where they do not, they compete with one another.1
The history of Sufism in modern Turkey is the story of how the different Sufi communities
adapted to the socio-political developments of Atatürk’s revolutionary state. This chapter will
present case studies of Sufi organizations as they developed over the course of the twentieth
and twenty-first centuries. The goal is not to give a thorough catalogue of Sufi organizations
in Turkey but rather to look at certain communities as exemplars of strategies of adaptation
and accommodation to the Republican political realities—strategies that allowed many of
these communities to survive and thrive.
Turkey’s secularizing reforms

The Republic of Turkey was founded in 1923 under the leadership of an alliance of nation-
alist Turks led by Mustafa Kemal Atatürk. The Republican government that ruled in Turkey
until 1948 introduced a set of reforms—called Kemalist reforms—that secularized many
aspects of Turkish state and society in a relatively short period of time. The reforms were
435
Kim Shively
numerous and included the rejection of Muslim law (shariah) and the adoption of European
civil and penal codes, the abolition of the medrese system and the implementation of secular
Western-style education, the replacement of the Muslim calendar with the Western calen-
dar, and the “Alphabet Revolution” (the adoption of the Latin alphabet in place of the Arabic
alphabet).2 Turkey’s reforms were not just meant to Westernize the institutions of the new
country, but to transform society into one that the leaders deemed to be more “civilized,”
that is, more in line with what were perceived to be Western social norms. The reforms also
set into place a form of secularism that did not separate religion from state institutions, but
rather put religious institutions and regulations under the control of the secular state. For
example, the Kemalist reforms included the establishment of the Directorate of Religious
Affairs (Diyanet İşleri Ba şkanlığ ı), a branch of the Prime Ministry that has provided for the
maintenance and staffing of mosques, the appointment and training of religious personnel,
and the organization of public religious activities throughout Turkey’s history.
One way that the Kemalist government took control of religion in Turkey was by disbanding
the popular and influential Sufi orders that had flourished in the Ottoman Empire. During the
Ottoman period, some Sufi orders had been heavily involved in politics and had acted in opposi-
tion to the Sultan’s power, and after the establishment of the Republic, they also became sources
of opposition to the secularizing reforms of the Kemalists. Atatürk and his supporters came to
see the brotherhoods as arenas in which unauthorized forms of Islam could flourish and as im-
pediments to the secularization and Westernization of the new nation. The abolition of the Sufi
orders entailed the closure of many Sufi lodges (tekke), the elimination of Sufi offices and titles,
such as şeyh, pir, dede, mürşid, çelebi, derviş, and the abolition of the clothing and headgear of the
orders. Only religious officials of the state were permitted to wear distinctively religious clothing
while conducting state functions.3 The Turkish state shuttered the shrines (türbe) of Sufi saints that
had been the focus of much popular piety, though some remained open or were reopened at later
times. Even calligraphy and Sufi musical traditions were subject to bans. Furthermore, the 1938
Law of Associations made illegal the formation of independent societies, especially those based
on religion, sect, and tarikat, as well as societies formed for the purposes of religious prayer and
practice. The Turkish constitution in its various iterations has barred religious communities from
being involved in politics, such as by forming a political party, nor are political parties permitted
to be formed in order to represent any religious belief.
There were some devout citizens of the Republic, especially those attached to the new bu-
reaucratic system, who welcomed the end of the orders, since some were seen as corrupt and
filled with charlatans and false prophets.4 But given that Sufi practices had been so popular and
widespread, they were not so easily expunged from Turkish society. During the period of the
one-party Republican rule (1923–1946), most tarikats went underground and continued their
activities in modified forms while maintaining followers in various sectors of the populace.
However, the introduction of multi-party democracy in 1946 and the expansion of civil liber-
ties in the 1961 constitution meant that gradually the religious communities based around the
Sufi orders could operate more openly, even though the ban on their activities was never for-
mally lifted. Furthermore, Turkey’s involvement in the Cold War and political turmoil within
Turkey—especially left-right political conflicts that resulted in a military coup in 1980—led
the successive governments to recognize that the religious communities could also serve as a
bulwark against the much-feared encroachment of communism. The utility of religion and
the Sufi communities for maintaining public unity and as a defense against communism led to
policy changes regarding religious activities in the last decades of the twentieth century. These
changes allowed for the Sufi communities to expand and become more socially and politically
visible, a process that accelerated in the twenty-first century.
436
Sufism in modern Turkey
Mevlevis—domestication and exemplary status

Probably the most famous of all Turkish Sufi orders is the Mevlevis5 of Whirling Dervish
fame. The founding master (vali; Arabic: wali) of the order was the now world-famous Jalal
al-din Muhammad Balkhi Rumi (1207–1273), known as “Mevlana” (“our master”). The
Mevlevis have been able to maintain a visible presence in Turkey, partly because important
intellectuals in early Turkish history reinterpreted the order—and especially the figure of
Rumi himself—to fit their vision of the Turkish state. A common idea in Kemalist circles
was that the Ottoman Empire, especially in its later years, obscured and corrupted the au-
thentic mystical aspects of Turkish Islam. An intellectual and cultural task for the founders
of the modern state was to reclaim the genuine Sufis of the imagined “pure” Turkish past,
and Rumi was a prime candidate for this “rehabilitation,” given the international reputation
of Rumi as a great thinker and author of such widely regarded works as the Mesnevi (Persian:
Mathnawi). Atatürk himself “called Mevlana a ‘reformist’ who accommodated Islam, which
is a ‘tolerant’ and ‘modern’ religion, into ‘the spirit of Turks.’”6 The fact that Rumi actually
came from Balkh in Central Asia and wrote in Persian did not deter this re-interpretation of
Mevlana as a source of genuine Turkish Islam, since the Kemalist reformers viewed Central
Asia itself as a source of Turkish ethnicity and identity.
This embrace of Rumi as a spiritual source of pure, “moderate” Turkish Islam did not
mean that the Mevlevi order simply continued on as it had before the Turkish revolution.
Instead, the central lodge in Konya, which houses Rumi’s tomb and the tombs of early
members of the Mevlevi silsile (Arabic: silsila), was converted in 1926 from an active tekke
to the Konya Museum of Historical Works. (In 1954 the structure was renovated and re-
named the Mevlana Museum.) There visitors can view the ornate tombs of the Mevlevis
and peruse the displays of old books and traditional clothing of the Mevlevi order. Because
Sufi orders are still illegal in Turkey, the Mevlevi tarikat itself does not technically exist.
Instead, the hereditary leader of the Mevlevis, Faruk Hemdem Çelebi (a 22nd generation
descendant of the bloodline of Rumi), is President of an organization in Istanbul and Konya
called the International Mevlana Foundation (Uluslararası Mevlânâ Vakfı). This foundation is
not registered as a religious community since that would be a violation of the 1938 Law of
Associations. Rather, it is registered as a cultural and educational foundation that provides
a context in which Mevlevis continue to study the classical works of Rumi and the many
commentaries generated over the centuries on those works.
The Mevlevis also continue to practice the ritual centerpiece of the community, the zikir
(Arabic: dhikr) that culminates in the famous “dance” (sema) of the Whirling Dervishes.
This ritual includes recitations of prayers and poetry from Rumi’s Mesnevi, and the whirl-
ing, meditative sema is accompanied by music played on classical Turkish instruments and
sung by a small chorus.7 The sema represents the mystical journey of the soul from spiritual
unconsciousness to ecstatic experience. The dervishes wear clothes that symbolize death (to
this world)—they wear a white gown that represents a shroud, a black cloak that represents
the grave, and a high, brown felt hat that symbolizes a tombstone.8 Traditionally, this rit-
ual sequence would be conducted in a closed setting in which disciples would dance under
the direction of the master. But the sema of the Whirling Dervishes has become a popular
tourist attraction in Turkey and Mevlevis have even taken Whirling Dervish performances
on international tours. This commodification of such an essential Sufi ritual makes clear the
full “domestication” of the Mevlevis. The Mevlevis have remained strictly non-political,
and they have become a source of national pride as their ritual displays advertise Turkey’s
beautiful, tolerant cultural heritage.
437
Kim Shively
Forming religious communities

The transformation of the Mevlevi tarikat into a cultural foundation that promulgates a
tolerant Turkish Islam acceptable to the secularist order provides one model by which tra-
ditional Sufism adapted to Turkey’s secularizing reforms. Some Sufi communities are, like
the Mevlevis, organized around a silsile and include regular performance of zikir by which
participants attempt to achieve a direct experience of the Divine. In the past these groups
largely escaped state censure as long as they remain outside of party politics. Other Sufi
communities have developed other strategies, such as restructuring the orders to create what
came to be called “cemaats” (communities), that are less formal and more flexible than the
older orders. Some of these communities emphasize tasavvuf over tarikat. Where the term
“tarikat” denotes to the organizational traditions of Sufi orders, the term tasavvuf (Arabic:
tasawwuf ) refers to the Sufi practice of developing “proper” religious sensibilities and engag-
ing in inward spiritual journey aided by disciplinary techniques, often performed in com-
munal settings. These techniques include the study of texts, listening to sermons by religious
leaders, performing rituals such as zikir, by which the believer can cultivate deeper devotion
to God and develop ethical Muslim self hood and ways of thinking.
The organization of the modern cemaats contrast to the traditional tarikats in that the
cemaats often do not have initiation rituals, membership requirements, or membership re-
cords, and not all of them have a succession of spiritual leaders. These adaptations can make
the boundaries of the cemaats defuse and vague, since there is no official way to identify who
belongs to any given community. Certainly, many individuals will self-identify as members
of a particular cemaat and be recognized as cemaat participants. But others may not identify
as members of a particular cemaat, even if they sometimes participate in cemaat activities.
However they are organized, many modern Turkish cemaats have missions beyond the con-
text of their group, since they promote educational and social justice causes. Over time some
orders have in fact become involved in politics despite the formal prohibition against the use
of religion in politics.
Nakşibendis
Among the many tarikats that have been influential in Ottoman and modern Turkish history,
one of the most prominent has been the Nak şibendis.9 The order was named after the Central
Asian religious leader Baha al-din Naqshband (1318–1389), whose disciples spread the order
to many parts of the Muslim world, including into the emerging Ottoman Empire in the
fifteenth century. There were many influential Nak şibendi leaders who arose over the cen-
turies, and one especially important one for the Ottoman Turks was K halid “al-Baghdadi”
(1776–1825). He established a branch of Nak şibendi Sufism, the Khalidi Branch (sometimes
called the Halidis), that found a strong presence in the Ottoman Empire and mobilized resis-
tance against modernizing “Tanzimat” reforms taking place in the Ottoman Empire in the
nineteenth century. Khalidis have traditionally held the view that the moral righteousness
of a society depends on the piety and obedience to shariah exhibited by the Sultan-leader.
Khalidis feared that the reforms would lead the government and the Sultan away from the
principles of Islam, thus endangering the whole society.10 Their resistance to the reforms was
occasionally violent, but later Khalidi leaders, such as Ziyaeddin Gümüşhanevi (d. 1893),
spearheaded a more quietistic and subtle resistance. He formed a Khalidi branch in Istan-
bul, known as the Gümüşhanevi Nak şibendi-Khalidi order, centered around the mosque in
the Iskenderpa şa neighborhood. This organization had broad reach and provided religious
438
and community services in parallel to—rather than directly against—Ottoman reformist

developments. The Khalidis also set up a network of seminaries in Eastern Anatolia. The
Nak şibendis later participated in anti-reform rebellions after the founding of the early Re-
public, which led to the execution of some Nakşibendi sheikhs and the suppression of the
order. But beyond these rebellions, Nak şibendis continued to function in both rural and
urban settings throughout the country by providing a variety of religious and social services.
Aspects of the Nak şibendi-Khalidi philosophy helped the community adapt to the polit-
ical realities of the Turkish Republic. For example, the cemaat’s
particular interpretation of zikr and rabıta [the spiritual bond between master and dis-
ciple] did not require any outward, institutionalized religious rituals. At the level of
popular religion, many people replaced outward manifestations of faith with inner ex-
pressions as spirituality was restructured within the confines of the neighborhood and
family.11
The Nak şibendi-Khalidi preached a type of personal and private religious devotion that
could easily co-exist with a regime that maintained that the public sphere should remain
secular. The cemaat was also able to take advantage of the mosque system created by the
Directorate of Religious Affairs. Many Nak şibendis sought religious education through
the Directorate, which meant that they could serve as state-appointed imams assigned to
mosques around the country. While serving as civil servants for the Directorate, these reli-
gious leaders continued Nak şibendi-Khalidi practices within the mosque settings, such that
some of these mosques became de facto Nak şibendi lodges.
When the grip of secularism began to loosen in the 1950s, a number of Nakşibendi
leaders contributed to the development of a more public Islamic intellectual discourse. One
of the most influential of these thinkers was the charismatic sheikh Mehmed Zahid Kotku
(1897–1980). Like many other Nak şibendi leaders, Kotku was appointed by the Directorate
of Religious Affairs to serve as imam at various important mosques, most famously at the
İskenderpa şa mosque in Istanbul from 1958 until his death in 1980. He in fact served in this
official capacity at the same time he led Gümüşhanevi Nak şibendi-Khalidi order.12 There
he served as a spiritual advisor to many important politicians who emerged in the 1960s and
1970s such as former prime ministers Turgut Özal and Necmettin Erbakan. Kotku preached
gradualism in transforming Turkey into a more Islamically moral society. He rejected efforts
to overthrow the secular order to establish an Islamic state in favor of changing society or-
ganically from within. He emphasized economic development and industrialization, believ-
ing that growing a pious middle class would create the conditions for the easing of Kemalist
restrictions on religion. To that end, Kotku’s movement developed lively community centers
and schools in the large cities and organized popular public activities. This ability to operate
both in tandem with and parallel to the state allowed for the Nak şibendi order to develop
into one of the broadest and most important religious organizations in Turkey today.
After the death of Kotku, leadership passed to his son-in-law, Esad Coşan (1938–2001),
who attracted younger followers and intensified the order’s development of community,
political, and economic projects. Coşan encouraged education of all members—boys and
girls—and stressed that members should use the latest technology, learn foreign languages
(including Western languages), and travel to foreign countries. As part of the effort to en-
courage education, the Nak şibendis built student hostels for college students and developed
stand-alone “schools” in which religion could be taught in a more independent way than
provided by the state. In his later publications, Coşan placed special emphasis on business
439
Kim Shively
and trade as a mechanism by which to create an ethical society as long as those who engage
in these activities maintain proper morals and focus on God. The community also published
magazines and journals and set up radio and television stations by which they could spread
their ideas and promote a generation of Nak şibendi intellectuals. Like the Mevlevis, the
Nak şibendis got around the old restrictions on public and publishing activities of religious
associations by operating through foundations that were formally cultural or educational in
nature.
Clearly, the Nak şibendis have not been world-denying but see involvement in the world
as a necessary part of religious life. The basic Nak şibendi idea is that with proper discipline
and training, one can concentrate on or maintain a connection to God, even as one is en-
gaged in the noisy world.13 Nak şibendi practice centers around self-discipline and restraint
of material desires (nefs) through concentration on God and experience of the divine in one’s
heart. Under Koktu and Coşan, the cemaat developed techniques to discipline the nefs even
in the midst of daily life, looking especially to the Sunnah (the sayings and deeds of the
Prophet) for guidance. Anthropologist Brian Silverstein gives many examples of how mem-
bers of the Nak şibendi cemaat at the İskenderpa şa and Süleymaniye mosques in Istanbul
attempted to cultivate a properly religious disposition. For example, Nak şibendi members
tried to maintain a state of physical purity as much as possible (that is, they performed ablu-
tions at other times than before formal prayer) so that they could worship God at any time
and as much as possible. Another idea important among Nak şibendis was that everyday work
can be a form of worship, if one maintains a properly worshipful disposition. The division
between sacred and profane realms of existence breaks down under these circumstances—
the ordinary life may have transcendent significance. This helps to explain the Nak şibendis’
comfort with being involved in business, media, and other “worldly” pursuits.
The Nak şibendis has continued to be involved in politics as well. Prominent members
of the Islamic oriented political parties of the 1990s, such as the Welfare Party (WP) led by
Prime Minister Necmettin Erbakan, were closely associated with the Nak şibendi-Khalidi
cemaat though the cemaat had no formal relationship with the WP. Even so the historic as-
sociation between the cemaat and the WP proved to be damaging when the WP government
was brought down by a military “soft” coup in 1997.14 Cemaat members feared reprisal from
the military because of this association, and so Esad Coşan and a number of his followers
left Turkey permanently, establishing a Nak şibendi community in Australia. Even with the
departure of the leader, the Nak şibendi-Khalidis of the İskenderpa şa mosque remained a
robust and active community. They continued to produce publications, radio and television
programs, and eventually websites that promoted Muslim piety. These productions provided
a platform by which Coşan could continue giving sermons to his community, even from the
other side of the world. These various productions were not always identified as distinctly
“Nak şibendi,” but were produced as general programs for the cultivation of authentic Is-
lamic belief and practice.15
In 2001, Esad Coşan and his son-in-law were killed in a car accident in Australia, dealing
a severe blow to the cemaat. The leadership of the cemaat passed to Coşan’s son, Nureddin
Coşan, but this development was problematic. Like his father, Nureddin had some formal
training in the Islamic sciences—he had attended a religious high school (imam-hatip lisesi)
and studied in the theology faculty at Ankara University. But he then earned an MBA in the
United States, after which he had confined his involvement in the cemaat to the management
of the community’s holding group. His lack of experience in religious leadership invited
criticism among those who were concerned that Nureddin was just a “cradle sheikh”—that
is, a sheikh who was appointed “not according to qualities like how deserving they are or
440
according to their competence and authority but rather merely because they are someone’s son
or grandson.” Such appointments led to the disintegration of the Sufi lodges at the end of the
Ottoman Empire, these critics believed.16 Despite these concerns, Nureddin became the sheikh
of the Iskenderpaşa community, a position he retains as of this writing. The cemaat continued
to have a substantial presence in Turkey, especially with the rise of the Islamically oriented
Justice and Development Party (JDP), whose leader Recep Tayyip Erdoğan—Turkey’s current
President—has long been involved in the Nakşibendi community.
Süleymancıs
Another important and more conservative cemaat to arise out of the Nak şibendi order is
the Süleymancı cemaat, based on the teachings of the founder Süleyman Hilmi Tunahan
(1888–1959). Tunahan was born in Ottoman Bulgaria and migrated to Turkey after the col-
lapse of the Empire. He had been educated as a member of the ulema in the final decades of
the Ottoman Empire, and the emphasis of his teaching was on the preservation of traditional
Islam rather than its adaptation to modern conditions as preached by Kotku and Coşan. The
Süleymancıs’ emphasis has been on the training of imams and hatips in particular, and on
general Islamic education that is steeped in the so-called “Sunni-Hanefi-Ottoman” inter-
pretations of Islam free from the influences of secularism, political Islamism, Shiˈa-Alevism,
or Wahhabism.17 After the closing of the medreses and the establishment of the secular school
system in 1924, Tunahan and his followers kept up religious education, even in the face of
police harassment and periodic incarceration. They established schools or “seminaries”—
including one in Tunahan’s own house—to teach Qur’ānic recitation during the early years
of the Republic. His schools were especially popular among those Turkish citizens who
feared that the abolition of traditional religious institutions by the Kemalist regime would
lead to social and moral decline.18
Tunahan died in 1959 after spending many months in jail (during which he was tortured)
on charges he was involved in an anti-state religious rebellion in Bursa. When he died, there
was no spiritual successor, though his son-in-law Kemal Kacar (1917–2000) took over as
the organizational head of the movement. His followers continued to believe that Tunahan
had received the blessings of the Prophet and would be responsible for a spiritual renewal
of Turkey. Part of Süleymancı religious observance is to maintain the spiritual bond (rabıta)
with Tunahan, even after his death, by meditating on an interior image of him in order to
realize ultimate existence—the Sufi practice of attaining spiritual absorption into the sheikh
(al-fana fi al-sheikh) and into God. For his followers, he is the last true saint—the “seal of
sainthood” (evliya) just as Muhammad was the seal of the Prophets—and there will not be
any “similarly blessed leaders after Tunahan.”19
After his death, the cemaat maintained its focus on conventional religious training, which
emphasized memorization of the Qur’ān and the study of traditional Islamic texts. As with
other Sufi communities, Tunahan and his followers were able to take advantage of the re-
laxation of secularist limitations on religious expression during the multi-party years begin-
ning after World War II. Part of this “opening” included the founding of seminaries (first
at Ankara University in 1949) and the increase in personnel in the Directorate of Religious
Affairs. Tunahan’s experience with Qur’ānic education allowed him to take up a position
where he could train preachers for the Directorate. The cemaat formally institutionalized its
network of Qur’ān schools into the Association of the Qur’ān Seminaries, and between 1949
and 1965, the “graduates” of these seminaries had a virtual monopoly on positions in the
hierarchy of the Directorate. One way the Süleymancıs made themselves acceptable to the
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Kim Shively
nationalist secularism of the state was “by incorporating nationalism and some Republican-
ism into religious identity and adopting a religious position that was pro-state, nationalist,
anticommunist, and anti-political Islam.”20
In 1961 after its first military coup in 1960, Turkey rewrote its constitution, which
stipulated the reorganization and professionalization of the Directorate of Religious
Affairs. This process included a requirement that all Directorate personnel be graduates
of state-run religious schools and the university seminaries, a move that disqualified many
Süleymancıs. The cemaat defended itself by claiming that the graduates of the imam-
hatip (religious) schools were actually political-Islamist radicals looking to abolish the
secularist system and the Süleymancıs could serve as a bulwark against them. Ultimately,
this tactic did not work. After a second coup in 1971, the subsequent military government
took possession of all of the Süleymancı Qur’ā n schools. Even then, the cemaat created
a rich network of the religious schools completely divorced from the Directorate that
persisted as a parallel form of religious education. These schools flourished after a mili-
tary coup in 1980 when the Turkish state cultivated Sufi communities as defenses against
communist forces within Turkey. They remain one of the largest and most powerful
extra-state religious education systems in Turkey. 21
The Süleymancı cemaat has been especially dedicated to providing traditional religious
education focusing on the study of the Qur’ān and the Islamic sciences and de-emphasizing
contemporary forms of religious and secular knowledge. They run many residential pro-
grams all over Turkey—mostly for boys—with 160 different dormitories in Istanbul alone
by the mid-2010s. These hostels are designed to allow students to attend normal high school.
The students come to the hostel in the evening after school, when they study religious topics,
do homework on their secular subjects, and use the building as a dormitory. The dormitory
creates a whole atmosphere of piety and moral behavior, while it provides a place for secular
and religious education. The Süleymancıs have also been particularly influential among the
many Turks living in Germany, sometimes acting in conjunction with or opposition to the
foreign services division of the Directorate of Religious Affairs.
Bediüzzaman Said Nursi and the Nur movements

One of the most distinctive and influential religious thinkers in modern Turkey is the great
theologian Said Nursi (1877–1960), known as Bediüzzaman (“wonder of the age”). Nursi
came from remote eastern Anatolia and was of Kurdish origin. The Nak şibendi-Khalidis
had proselytized and established unofficial seminaries in eastern Anatolia, and Nursi was
deeply influenced by the great Nak şibendi thinkers such as Khalid and especially Ahmad
Faruqi Al-Sirhindi (1564–1624).22 Nursi had limited formal education, but at a young age he
became renown among members of the Ottoman ulema as a master interpreter of the Qur’ān
and the ḥad īth, and was invited to speak in important religious centers such as Damascus and
Istanbul. He moved to Istanbul in 1907, but his criticism of the late Ottoman government
and its secularizing trends made him an object of harassment, and he was jailed on several
occasions. After the founding of the Republic, he was subject to repeated incarceration and
house arrest, most famously in Isparta in Western Anatolia. These periods of house arrest did
not impede Nursi’s development.
Nursi did not consider himself a Sufi—he was not a sheikh and did not have formal dis-
ciples as was typical of Sufi tarikats. In fact, Nursi argued with the coming of the Turkish
Republic, the tarikat (“way”) based on the master-disciple relationship was a thing of the
past. Now was the “way” of tasavvuf pure and simple, and his philosophy incorporated
442
and expounded upon many Sufi concepts. It was during his confinement that he produced
his best-known works, collectively called Risale-i Nur (Epistles of Light; often shortened to
“Risale”). The state prohibited the printing and distribution of these texts, but Nursi’s stu-
dents copied them out by hand and circulated them, enough so that Nursi gained a signif-
icant underground following. When Nursi died in 1960, the military kidnapped his body
and buried it in an undisclosed location in order to prevent his grave from becoming a saint’s
tomb (türbe) that would attract pilgrims. Some believe he is buried in Şanlıurfa where he
actually died—there is a shrine for him there—but more recent evidence suggests that he
was buried in a secret grave near Isparta. His followers regularly visit his türbe in Şanlıurfa,
though the location of his final resting place is a subject of dramatic speculation.
Nursi’s Risale is a “collection of collections” of Nursi’s sermons in which he interprets the
Qur’an and the Sunnah. These writings and sermons are gathered into various collections
with names like Lem’alar (Flashes of Light), Mektubat (The Letters), Şualar (The Rays), and Sözler
(The Words). These collections are not systematically organized, but contain Nursi’s medi-
tations on a wide variety of Islamic concepts and practices. In his foundational biography of
Said Nursi, Şerif Mardin 23 demonstrates the “helter-skelter” nature of Nursi’s writings by
giving a sample list of topics found in Flashes of Light:
Jonah, the meaning of his tribulations; the affliction of Job…; an interpretation of the
Qur’anic verse of Man’s attachment to the transitory as summarized in a Nak şibendi
axiom; commentary on a verse of the Qur’an concerning the leadership of the Muslim
community…; an interpretation of Sura 48 (“Victory”) on the moral strength instilled
by Islam even in times when this religion appears to have lost its moral authority; God’s
way of warning humans; following the path of the Prophet Muhammad at a time when
unauthorized innovations (bid’at) are rife; an answer to Re’fet Bey’s two questions con-
cerning God’s control of one’s deserts (rizk); and the seven layers of heaven and earth.
Clearly, it would be difficult to derive any sort of systematic theology or ethical code from
such a set of unrelated topics. Nursi instead seems to be addressing important concerns of the
Muslim community, especially as the place of religion in Turkish society changed so dras-
tically with the founding of the secular republic. Most significantly, Nursi provided a path
forward for devout Muslims as the traditional institutions of religious authority, such as the
ulema, broke down and the state had not filled the gap—the expansion of the Directorate of
Religious Affairs occurred very late in Nursi’s life and he died before the refinement of the
Directorate’s organization in 1965. To address the lack of religious authority, Nursi empha-
sized a more personal, psychological approach to religious devotion and practice. To this end,
Nursi reimagined Sufi concepts in a quietistic way in which the believer cultivates a fear of
God (takva), remembrance of God (zikir), and love of God (muhabbet) through the study of
texts and shared acts of devotion.24
In response, Nurcus strive to develop deeper faith in their own lives not only through in-
dividual study but also through participation in discussion groups with like-minded people.
These groups, or “textual communities,”25 meet regularly to study the Risale. In these meet-
ings, there is usually an authority who would read from the Risale and help the participants
understand the text and give a talk (sohbet) on its subjects. This is especially important because
Nursi wrote in Ottoman Turkish and used many Arabic and Persian words and phrases, so
it is difficult for even native Turkish speakers to read Nursi’s works without training. The
participants may chime in with questions or thoughts and may connect the text to events in
their own lives or in society at large.26
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Kim Shively
The Risale lends itself to intensive study and consideration, given the complexity and
density of the text. In it, Nursi demonstrates that the believer must approach the Qur’ā n
not as a text for mere recitation but as one that must be interpreted according to the
individual’s context. He presents the Qur’ā n as a living text that could be read in many
ways, and no one could claim that a particular interpretation excludes all other potential
interpretations. Here, he draws on a traditional Sufi technique in Qur’ā nic interpretation
in which the meaning of each text can be approached in two ways, the zahiri (superficial,
literal interpretation) and batini (the deeper meanings). The Risale not only provides an
example of the batini approach to the Qur’ā n but also indicates a path by which the readers
can continue the search for meaning in the Qur’ā n and can incorporate the meaning of
the Qur’ā n into their daily lives.
Another important theme that Nursi presents in his writings is his conception of the ma-
terial world as a reflection of the divine. Some strains of Sufism are “other-worldly,” treating
the material world as a potential snare that diverts the believers’ attention away from God.
Conversely, Nursi felt that the splendor of nature and of the universe as a whole mirrors the
divine, just as the Qur’ān itself is a manifestation of God’s word on earth. Learning about
the world is an act of worship in that it is a way in which to gain knowledge of God’s power
and majesty. This positive conception of the phenomenal world led Nursi to support the
development of modern forms of scientific education. Nursi saw science and religion as not
only compatible but also reflections of one another. This view has been an important feature
of all the Nurcu communities in that they, like the Nakşibendis, have all stressed education
and worldly involvement as essential components of a Godly life.
The Gülen movement

There have been a number of Nurcu groups that emerged in the last half of the twentieth
century, but none has been as powerful and influential as the Gülen movement, a cemaat
based around the teachings of Fethullah Gülen. Though originally from Erzurum, Gülen
served as a government-appointed imam in several western Turkish cities, most notably in
Izmir. There he established the Kestanepazarı Qur’ān School to educate and cultivate stu-
dents in order to establish a religious community instilled with a commitment to faith-based
activism.27 This “activist pietism” would be a hallmark of the Gülen movement.
Gülen’s religious viewpoints were influenced by several theologians from Turkey, but two
stand out. Muhammed Lütfi Efendi (known as Alvarlı Efe, 1868–1956) was a Nak şibendi
sheikh and poet from Gülen’s home province of Erzurum. Lütfi Efendi was a charismatic
preacher who encouraged his followers to develop both intellectual and emotional virtuosity
as a way to deepen their religious experience. Gülen was able to deploy this virtuosity in
his preaching, delivering sermons both inspiring and emotional. The second influence was
Bediüzzaman Said Nursi. Gülen drew on Nursi’s teachings, recognizing the role of reason
both in interpreting the Qur’ān and engaging in scientific research. Gülen developed his
own form of Islamic thought and practice that included a message of respect for the secular
state. Gülen viewed the state itself as an appropriate vehicle for the development of an ideal
Muslim society, and he stated that it was important that pious, observant Muslims be stra-
tegically involved in all levels of government in order to create a society modeled on the
“golden generation” (altın nesil) of the Prophet Muhammad, his family, and companions.
Gülen’s moderate message appealed to many Turkish secular elites, and some politicians in
the 1990s, such as Prime Minister Turgut Özal, facilitated the reach of Fethullah Gülen’s
moderate message as a counter to more extremist Islamist groups.28
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Like other Nurcus, Gülen preached that involvement in and transformation of this world
are essential aspects of Muslim piety. Gülen drew on the teachings of Said Nursi to proclaim
that the best way to deal with the most serious problems of the world—poverty, ignorance,
and strife—is through providing charity (to combat poverty) and education (to combat ig-
norance), and by promoting intercultural dialogue (to combat strife). Nursi himself could
not initiate programs to address these needs since he spent most of his life in confinement,
but he laid the intellectual and spiritual groundwork for them. In the eyes of Gülen and his
followers, it is up to them to implement the ideas of Nursi through service to the world. In
fact, followers of Gülen prefer to go by the name “Hizmet” (service) rather than the “Gülen
movement,” since the label Hizmet highlights the group’s philosophy and activities rather
than suggesting that the group exists only because of Gülen himself. The movement’s service
has consisted of a variety of projects both within and outside of Turkey. To reduce pov-
erty and suffering, movement participants have contributed to the development of hospitals,
medical missions, and well digging in poor communities, and an international aid associa-
tion (Kimse Yok Mu) that helped people in crisis in many parts of the world. These various
projects were supported by donations of money and time by the movement’s many mem-
bers, and especially by Gülen-affiliated networks of Turkish businessmen. The movement
also developed media organizations, including broadcasting companies, television channels,
newspapers, and publishing houses, all of which gave the cemaat a strong voice in public dis-
course. Like the Nak şibendis, the Hizmet movement set up these institutions and activities
under the rubric of foundations that were ostensibly non-religious.
Gülen also encouraged his followers to pursue education to the highest level possible, espe-
cially in socially impactful areas such as engineering, medicine, law, and business. Movement
members were also enjoined to provide education to others. To this end, the Gülen movement
founded a whole array of high-quality private schools and universities in Turkey, as well as
in countries around the world. These schools featured a secular, science-oriented curricu-
lum, and no special religious education was provided in the schools’ curricula except that re-
quired by the state. The religious influence occurred in extracurricular spaces, especially in the
Gülen-affiliated dormitories or ı şıkevler (lighthouses), which were single-sex residences where
young students would stay while they pursued their education. In such residences students were
closely supervised by upright dorm leaders who not only enforced moral codes but also encour-
aged regular prayer and religious study and tried to cultivate piety and ethical sensibilities in the
students.29 For movement members of all ages there were Nurcu-style study groups composed
of interested people who met to study the Qur’ān and ḥadīth and to read the works of Said
Nursi and Fethullah Gülen—his students called this “the four-text method.”
In terms of intercultural dialogue, Gülen espoused the idea that building bridges of un-
derstanding between faith communities not only leads to a more peaceful world, but is also
a way in which the individual may cultivate a more profound understanding of the world
and nurture genuine tolerance (ho şgörü). For Gülen, tolerance is partaking of God’s mercy.
One of God’s most cherished qualities is his mercy, and when the believer reaches out to a
religious or cultural “other,” one is participating in that mercy.30
As with Esad Coşan, Gülen and his movement faced challenges in the wake of the February
28, 1997, soft coup. Even before the 1997 coup, many detractors of the movement were sus-
picious of its wealth, expanse, and power, and they suspected that Gülen’s religious goals were
not as moderate as they first appear. After the 1997 coup, the Kemalist military sought to bring
Gülen down. By then Gülen had gone to the United States for medical treatment and elected
to stay in the United States rather than face arrest. He now lives in the United States in a small
compound in eastern Pennsylvania, though he has maintained an active worldwide following.
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Kim Shively
Nakşibendis and Nurcus in the time of the JDP

The political dominance of the JDP beginning in 2002 represented a boon for the socially
active Nak şibendi and Nurcu cemaats in Turkey. Institutions and organizations with Islamic
content proliferated in the 2000s as the JDP-led government was much more welcome to-
ward the NGOs and activities of the cemaats. The Nak şibendis, Nurcus, and Gülen move-
ment all opened media outlets and expanded the size and reach of their civil society activities,
sometimes to an astonishing extent. They also opened various types of educational institu-
tions, including private universities in many of the cities around Turkey. The most powerful
leaders of the JDP, such as Erdoğan and former President Abdullah Gül, had long associations
with the Nak şibendis, and that association allowed the cemaat to continue its expansion
largely unimpeded. And at least during the first ten years of JDP power, the party could
rely on strong and stable support from Gülen movement members, too. The interests of the
Gülen movement and those of the party closely aligned in many essential ways, especially in
terms of economic issues and the promotion of Islamic ethics. The JDP, the Na k şibendis, and
the Gülen movement all generally supported the melding of market capitalism with Islamic
piety and were strongly anti-socialist and anti-communist.
But over time, tensions grew between members of the JDP government and the Gülen
movement. Many well-educated members of the Gülen movement had joined the Turkey’s
governing bureaucracy, dominating some government branches such as the police and the
judiciary. As long as these bureaucrats worked in harmony with JDP political goals, Erdoğan
and his associates viewed them as assets. But by the 2010s, Gülenists both inside and outside
the government began to publicly criticize Erdoğan and some JDP actions such as the party’s
attempt to rewrite the Turkish constitution. More crucially, actors within the government—
presumably supporters of the Gülen movement—engaged in covert activities to investigate
corruption in the JDP government, especially targeting Erdoğan and members of his fam-
ily. Erdoğan reacted by accusing Gülen’s supporters in the government of being a “parallel
structure” that must be expunged from the government bureaucracy, judiciary, and secu-
rity forces. He and his supporters took actions to limit the size, scope, and power of many
Gülenist institutions.
The schism between the JDP and the Gülen movement became complete when Erdoğan
accused Gülen and the movement of orchestrating a failed military coup in July 2016 that
left 241 people dead and over 2,000 injured. What followed was an extraordinary purging of
supposed Gülenists from many sectors of Turkish life. Thousands of military officials, pilots,
police officers, civil servants, academics, and even teachers were sacked from their jobs for
alleged links to the Gülen movement. The media outlets, publication houses, the interna-
tional aid agency, and the organizations affiliated with the movement were forced to close,
and all of the Gülen schools were seized by the state. But even as the Gülen movement was
expunged from the Turkish body politic, it has remained active outside of Turkey in many
countries around the world. Gülen himself continues to teach and give sermons from his
home in the United States, relying on electronic media and his far-flung group of supporters
to continue his teaching.
Conclusion
The various cemaats and orders I have discussed in this chapter—the Mevlevis, Na k şibendi-
Khalidis, the Süleymancıs, the Nurcus, and the Gülen movement—exhibit different ad-
aptations to the political realities of the modern Turkish Republic in which Sufi orders
446
are formally outlawed. The Mevlevis have most closely maintained the traditional Sufi
tarikat structure and continue to focus their devotion on the religious principles laid out
by the tarikat’s vali, Jalal al-din Rumi, as interpreted by Rumi’s followers. Though such a
religious organization is technically illegal, the Mevlevis have gotten around the prohibi-
tions on tarikats by presenting themselves officially in cultural and educational terms rather
than religious ones. Even more crucially, the Mevlevis have been able to capitalize on the
worldwide fame of Rumi as a poet (rather than as a religious leader), such that the order
and its signature Whirling Dervish ritual have become symbolic of the richness and beauty
of Turkish culture. That is, the Mevlevis serve a vital role in the way that Turkey presents
itself to the world.
The Nak şibendis and their various offshoots have adapted to modern Turkish realities
in other ways. The Nak şibendi-Khalids do have an inherited leadership position not un-
like the traditional tarikat structure, and like the Mevlevis, they have unofficially func-
tioned as religious organizations but operate more formally in Turkish society in terms of
cultural and educational goals. They have also been influential in Turkish politics through
its connections to powerful politicians, including members of the now-dominant JDP,
and as long as their political patrons have been ascendant, the community has been able to
function more or less freely.
The Süleymancis, Nurcus, and Gülen movement have moved away from the traditional
tarikat structure to differing degrees. In the case of the Süleymancıs, the death of the founder
Süleyman Hilmi Tunahan in 1959 did not lead to a succession to a new spiritual leader.
Rather, the leadership became purely organizational while members seek to maintain a
spiritual bond with Tunahan even after his death by meditating on an interior image of him.
That is, the tarikat structure based on the relationship between master and disciple has been
spiritualized. The Nurcus, on the other hand, have completely discarded the tarikat struc-
ture and have focused alone on tasavvuf, the spiritual aspects of Sufism. This has meant that
followers develop study and discuss essential religious texts—most especially the Qur’ān, the
ḥ ad īth, the Risale an-Nur by Said Nursi—to enhance spiritual development and draw closer
to God. Texts rather than sheikhs are the pivot point around which the Nurcu communities
revolve. Even in the case of the Gülen movement, members focus less on Gülen as a man and
more on the spiritual and humanitarian missions he has called them to. There is no successor
to take over when Gülen dies.
All of the Nak şibendi offshoots, with the possible exception of the Süleymancıs, have
embraced modern forms of secular education, communication, and technology as a means of
serving God and his community. The effect of this has been that the content and intentions
of the Nak şibendi and Nurcu movements have crossed religious, political, economic, and
social categorical boundaries, which have allowed them to flourish—more or less—in the
modern Turkish Republic and beyond.
Notes
1 Emir Kaya, Secularism and State Religion in Modern Turkey: Law, Policy-Making and the Diyanet
(London and New York: I.B. Tauris, 2018), p. 40.
2 There are many sources describing the extensive Kemalist reforms and their effects. See, for ex-
ample, Erik Jan Zürcher, Turkey: A Modern History, 3rd ed. (London and New York: I.B. Tauris,
2004), especially Chapter 11; Hale Yılmaz, Becoming Turkish: Nationalist Reforms and Cultural Nego-
tiations in Early Republican Turkey, 1923–1945 (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 2013).
3 Catharina Raudvere, The Book and the Roses:Sufi Women, Visibility, and Zikir in Contemporary Istan-
bul (Bjarnum: Bjarnums Tryckeri AB, 2002), pp. 27–28.
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Kim Shively
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30
SUFISM IN THE UK
Ron Geaves
Introduction
Sufism has been an important element in the shaping of Islam in Britain since the early
twentieth century when countercultural individuals discovered Islamic spirituality as part
of growing easternisation of British religious life. After the end of the Second World War it
reappeared as a significant force in the organisations of South Asian Muslim migrants as they
created the infrastructures for cultural and religious settlement in Britain’s towns and cities.
It has survived the transition from first generation migrations from South Asia to develop
unique forms of spirituality that cater to second and third generation British Muslims and
morphed into a variety of networks that can cross the boundaries of the various ethnicities
that have woven together in recent decades to create one of the most diverse and dynamic
Muslim communities in the Western world. Yet, as will be demonstrated ethnicity remains
one of the major determinants of Sufi allegiance. An important element of Sufism’s develop-
ment has been the encounter with Muslim protagonists and the struggle to reposition Sufism
as an integral and essential part of Islamic tradition among new generations of British-born
Muslims and this will form a key feature of these contents.
Early manifestations of Sufism in Britain

The first half of the twentieth century reveals a growing Sufi presence in Britain that strug-
gles to manifest itself as fully integrated into an Islamic worldview which is obscured by
an earlier orientalist paradigm that presented Sufism as a form of perennial wisdom. The
translations of classical Sufi texts in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, especially
those written by exponents of mysticism and poetically describing experiences of intimacy
with God, appeared to the orientalists as something different from the practices and teach-
ings of Islam. Throughout the nineteenth century, European orientalists would develop the
thesis that Sufism and Islam were separate religious phenomena, formed from diverse origins
but coming together historically to create a new syncretism in the Muslim world. There is
never any mention of the Sufi understandings of their origins in the exemplary ethical and
religious life of the Prophet and his companions, at least until Nicholson did eventually
argue that it was “categorically improper” to perceive Sufism as originating outside Islam
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Ron Geaves
and defended the mystical truths contained in the Qur’ān and the Hadith.1 These literary
interventions into British cultural life would be followed by actual contact with Sufis by in-
trepid travellers to India or North Africa and even visits by Sufis to the West. Yet even these
living encounters would not completely dismiss the overriding perception that Sufism was
somehow divorced from Islam.
Early encounters with living Sufis

The first Sufi to arrive in Britain was Hazrat Inayat Khan (1882–1927) who would arrive in
London in 1910, subsequently founding the Sufi Order of the West in 1914 after achieving
some success in attracting a number of middle-class seekers, mostly women, drawn from
the same circles that were influenced by the theosophy of Helena Blavatsky (1831–1891) and
Annie Besant (1847–1933).2 Khan’s attraction was to some degree influenced by his eclectic
upbringing in India which led him to regard Sufism as transcending the outer forms of any
one religious tradition including Islam. It is unlikely that any of his Western followers would
have considered that they had become Muslims, or indeed, would have formally converted
to Islam.
Partridge describes such events as part of a process of easternisation citing the founding of
the Theosophical Society in 1875 as a key moment in the West turning eastwards for spiri-
tual inspiration.3 These encounters helped to form nineteenth and early twentieth-century
fusions of eastern spirituality and Western occultism, to create a new religious milieu that
Partridge describes as occulture, defined as “hidden, rejected, and oppositional beliefs and
practices associated with esotericism, theosophy, mysticism”.4
Sedgwick agrees, arguing that the intellectual and artistic European elites were in a state
of obfuscation regarding Sufism and that this created an environment in which some reli-
gious innovators of the early twentieth century could locate their teachings with reference
to Sufism but not Islam. Idries Shah (1924–1996) and Irina Tweedie (1907–1999) were in
this category and had some influence in the British context.5 Shah was a prolific writer with
more than 20 works on the subject of Sufism, with sales estimated in excess of 15 million.
Shah can be placed in the same camp as the perennialists, claiming that Sufism is indepen-
dent of Islam, although it may be possible to discover it within Islam. Shah’s highly successful
tales of Mullah Nasiruddin became almost obligatory reading for British and North Amer-
ican “truth-seekers” of the 1960s and 1970s counterculture. However, the Mullah is not
presented as a devout Muslim, but rather as an innocent of God who highlights the hypocrisy
of organised or institutionalised religion.
A similar outlook can be found among the followers of Irina Tweedie (1907–1999).
Tweedie visited India in 1959, where she met her teacher. The diaries that she kept were pub-
lished as Daughter of Fire: A Diary of a Spiritual Training with a Sufi Master. The book was first
published in its abridged form as The Chasm of Fire, which has sold over 100,000 copies and
has been translated into five languages.6 Tweedie returned to Britain in 1966 and started a
Sufi meditation group in North London. It is claimed that Tweedie became the first Western
woman to be trained in this Naqshbandi system7 but close examination of her teachings re-
veals a language more akin to Hindu spirituality than Islamic.
Thus Partridge’s identification of subculture or counterculture beliefs and practices is
important to understand one avenue for the transmission of Sufism into Britain but does not
recognise the full fluidity of religious transmigration. An overview of the twentieth- century
contacts with the Alāwī ṭarīqa and its offshoots demonstrate how these countercultural
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searches for perennial wisdom can transmute into Islamic orthodoxy in the British context.
A particular variation of perennialism, that is Traditionalism, which asserts that the mystical
essence at the heart of all religions could only be discovered through adherence to the dis-
ciplines of one religion, would be significant in shaping British Sufism and its relationship
to Islam.
A number of the Traditionalists would discover various branches of the Shādhiliyya tarīqa
founded by Abū ’l-Ḥasan ash-Shādhilī (1196–1258) and historically influential in North Af-
rica and Egypt. Although the leading Traditionalists were not British their influence would
be felt among post-Second World War spiritual seekers. Frithjof Schuon (1907–1998) is
regarded as the inspiration of the Traditionalists. He studied Arabic in Paris at the local
mosque school and travelled to Algeria in 1932, where he met Ahmad ibn Mustafā al-‘Alāwī
al-Mustaghānimī, popularly known as Shaykh al-Alāwī (1869–1934), and considered one of
the greatest renewers of Sufism in the Muslim world in the twentieth century.8 The Shaykh
had founded the Alāwīya branch of the Darqāwiyya, a Moroccan branch of the Shādhiliyya
founded in the last decades of the eighteenth century by Muhammad al-‘Arabī al-Darqāwi
(1760–1823). Schuon accepted initiation, taking the name ‘Isa Nur al-Din Ahmad. In 1935,
he visited Algeria and Morocco and, in 1938 and 1939, Egypt, where he met Rene Guénon
(1886–1951), another substantial figure in the Traditionalist Movement. Schuon’s meeting
with Shaykh Ahmad al-Alāwī in Algeria would be instrumental in shaping Sufism in Europe
and North America, and was especially influential in Britain.
Among those attracted to the teachings of the Shaykh al-Alāwī was Martin Lings. Lings
would publish a biography of the Shaykh al-Alāwī under the title A Sufi Saint of the Twentieth
Century, and it remains one of the most influential books on Sufism published in the Western
world. He also wrote the acclaimed Muhammad: His Life Based on the Earliest Sources.9 The
trajectory of individual transformation achieved by contact with Sufis in North Africa or
the Middle East would appear to reveal a gradual process of Islamicisation occurring at the
same time as the first migrants from India and Pakistan were arriving in Britain. A handful of
individuals from British counterculture were influenced by the writings of Schuon and Ling
and made their way to Algeria and Morocco. Although also active in countercultural life of
the mid to late 1960s, these early converts did consider themselves to be Muslim and con-
verted to Islam.10 Most significant amongst British contact with the tarīqa is the Mirabitun
movement, founded in Britain by Ian Dallas around 1976. Dallas, a writer and actor, had
travelled to Morocco in 1967 where he was initiated into the Darqāwiyya and took the name
‘Abd al-Qādir. Somewhere around 1976, a group of British and North American followers
gathered around Shaykh ‘Abd al-Qādir in a row of derelict houses in London. Köse notes
that they numbered between 20 and 30, were all former members of 1960s counterculture,
and had taken drugs prior to contact with Sufism.11 Although the group dressed in green
turbans and traditional Moroccan dress, conversion to Islam was seen as secondary to ac-
quiring Sufism. Yet, like the earlier Traditionalists many would embrace Islam as a feature of
Sufi lifestyle. Shaykh al-Qādir would become more overtly Muslim throughout 1976. After
visiting Libya, he announced himself as a unifying Shaykh of the Shādhilī and Darqāwiyya.
At the end of 1976 he moved his community to near Norwich in Norfolk, with the inten-
tion of establishing a fully self-sufficient village of believers. At its peak, the community
numbered around 200 families, forming the Darqāwi Institute. Shaykh al-Qādir would
travel extensively throughout the Muslim world achieving international fame as a scholar.12
The activities of the Darqāwi Institute are a significant development within British Sufism
at the time as they demonstrate the fluid borders between Sufism encountered as an esoteric
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but universal mysticism and full Islamic allegiance. Perhaps more significantly for the devel-
opment of Sufism in the West, the movement would produce a number of individuals who
would have an impact today, bridging the borders between convert Sufis and the British
children of South Asian migrants with Sufi allegiance.
Migration and Sufism

Before the influx of South Asian Muslims after the Second World War, the Yemeni domi-
nated seaport communities in Cardiff, Liverpool, Hull, and Tyneside that had their origins
in the expansion of the British merchant fleet, and the consequent mass employment of Asian
sailors (lascars) also owed their religious and social organisation to the spiritual descendants
of the Shaykh al-Alāwī. These British seaport Muslim communities were organised around
the efforts of Shaykh Abdullah Ali al-Hakimi (1900–1954), a Yemeni who had discovered
the Shādhilī Alāwī in Morocco and who arrived in Britain in 1936. These communities
were the first migrant Muslim communities to organise themselves socially and politically
in Britain around the zāwiyah of a prominent Sufi figure.13 These zāwiyah were the first at-
tempts to develop a Muslim infrastructure organised around religion and introduced Sufism
as a central element in Islamic belief and practice to the British Isles. By 1919, Cardiff’s
community of lascars was around 3,000. Shaykh Hakimi’s zāwiyah would provide a public
platform to the hitherto private practice of Islam among the sailors and their families. Shaykh
Hakimi moved to Cardiff in 1938 and in the 1940s created the first purpose-built mosque
in the city out of the purchase of three terraced houses in Peel Street, Butetown. These and
other house conversions inspired by Shaykh Hakimi’s presence in the city would establish
the first institutionalised Muslim space in a British city.14
The Yemeni seaport communities would remain the largest Muslim presences in Britain
until the post-Second World War migrations from India and Pakistan in the 1960s, followed
by Bangladeshis in the 1970s. These were all areas of the Muslim world where Sufism re-
mained a vital presence.
The arrival of South Asian Muslims

It is important to remind ourselves that these early attempts to establish Sufism in Britain as
described earlier, with the exception of Shaykh Hakimi’s seaport communities, are unlikely
to have been accepted in Muslim nations as a conventional form of Islam or even any form of
Islam recognisable to Muslims. Neither Inayat Khan’s Sufi Order nor the Traditionalist posi-
tion influenced by Guénon and Schuon looked like any form of Sufism existing in the Muslim
world.15 These attempts to create a Western Sufism looked more like esotericism than the
tāriqat of Islamic Sufism. This was to change dramatically with the arrival of South Asian Mus-
lims increasing in numbers in the decades following the 1950s. The old Indian subcontinent
that had been ruled over by the Mughal Empire was one of the strongholds of Sufism in the
Muslim world, and although the demise of Muslim power to the British had brought into exis-
tence a number of powerful reform movements with an apparent anti-Sufi agenda, the Shaykh,
both living and dead, remained powerful religious and spiritual leaders among the masses.
Barelvi and Deobandi rivalries

There were intense nineteenth-century rivalries between the Barelvis, an attempt to coordi-
nate Sufi resistance nationally, and the revivalists of the Deoband School. These rivalries had
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Sufism in the UK
intensified in the heated atmosphere of Partition and spilled over into the new Muslim nation
of East and West Pakistan. As the migrants arrived from India, Pakistan, and Bangladesh, these
rivalries would come with them, dominating over the way in which the infrastructures of
Islam were established in Britain’s inner cities.16 As the various religious organisations arriving
in Britain began to establish the infrastructures of Islamic practice in Britain’s inner cities,
intense rivalries would break out sometimes leading to conflicts within mosques over correct
belief (‘aqīdah). This stage was short-lived for within a decade most cities and towns with
Muslim populations had resolved the issue by building a number of mosques to represent the
diverse ethnicities and religious belonging represented in the locality of settlement. It would be
simplistic to represent the Barelvis and Deobandis as “Sufis and anti-Sufis”.17
In an article published in 2012, fieldwork in Deoband showed that it was clear from the
responses by the ‘ulamā in the tradition that, in the highly contested arena of South Asian
Islam, they considered themselves as belonging to the only authentic version of the religion
in the region and were set on protecting the appropriate boundaries of doctrine and practice
that constitute the Deobandi school and in their identification of themselves with authentic
Islam based upon the Qur’ān and Sunna.18 However, in spite of their strong discursive attacks
on the Barelvis, Charles Ramsey notes that Deoband and its successful missionary offshoot
Tablighi Jamaat have Sufi roots and that its founders even belonged to traditional Indian
tāriqat, but that “they are increasingly considered to be opponents to Sufism and even theo-
logical allies to the Wahhabis.”19 However, the eighth mohtamim (rector) of Dar al-Uloom
Deoband, Qari Muhammad Tayyid (1897–1983), described the scholars and clerics of Deo-
band as Sufis. He affirmed that: “in conduct they are Sufis, scholastically they are Maturidi
and in Sulook they are Chisti- rather they combine all Sufi orders… They are initiates of
the Chistiyyah, Naqshbandiya, Qadriyah and Soharwardiyah Sufi orders”.20 Deoband’s of-
ficial website continues to affirm the view of the eighth rector: “As epitomes of Shari‘ah and
Tāriqah, the ‘ulamā of Deoband were and are practitioners of a strict fiqh-based Tasawwuf,
and follow the Chishti, Naqshbandi, Qadri and Suhrawardi ṭarīqahs”. In reality, an ālim of
Deoband may well be a Sufi in the sense of tāriqa membership or he may not.
Deobandis, however, do have differences with Barelvi Sufis. These may not be neces-
sarily concerned with practices but intention (niyat). The cults of the shrines are usually
condemned but not visitation to shrines of the pious per se; veneration of the Prophet is
encouraged up to the point of not accepting the doctrines that surround nur-i muhammad.
Graves of the Deobandi Sufis are kept simple but dhikr with Deobandi Sufis shows no obvi-
ous differences with other Sufi tāriqat. Today, Deobandi graduates find their way to tassawuf
through informal, affective channels but Sufism remains a vibrant force and dispels the ste-
reotypical view of Deoband being anti-Sufi.21
If this view of Deobandi self-perception is accepted, then it has major implications for
the religious composition of British Muslims. Rather than an analysis based on the Sufi/Anti
Sufi dichotomy, Britain arguably differs from other Western European and North Ameri-
can Muslim presences, in that it is dominantly Sufi in origin. There may well be discursive
hostilities brought from the Indian subcontinent, but these are family quarrels. The Sufi
connections of so many Muslims would have major implications for the later generations
of British Muslims as they searched for authentic expressions of Islamic belief and practice.
Prominent Sufi shaykhs

In spite of the common heritage of the Barelvi and Deobandi traditions within strands of
Indian Sufism, there is no doubt that both groups would continue their intense rivalry in
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Britain. This dichotomy of views and respective efforts to win the hearts of British Muslims
would intensify with the arrival of a number of Indian, Bangladeshi, and Pakistani shaykhs
in the United Kingdom. Some of these bear mention as their efforts were not only influen-
tial in establishing South Asian Sufism in Britain but also instrumental in helping build the
infrastructures of Islam in Britain.
Pir Marouf would arrive as a migrant in Bradford from the district of Mirpur in Azad
Kashmir and would begin to organise a circle of Naushahiyya Sufis in the town whilst work-
ing on a night-shift in a textiles factory. He founded the first national Barelvi organisation,
Jami‘at-i Tabligh ul-Islam with a strong base in Bradford where he would establish a number
of mosques and religious schools. In 1973, he formed the World Islamic Mission as an um-
brella organisation for Barelvi mosques and organisations in Britain, translating a number of
important texts, including an English translation of the Qur’ān written by the Ahmad Riza
Khan (d. 1921), the founder of the Barelvi movement.
In 1961 when Pir Marouf began to establish the Barelvi tradition from Bradford, the
only other South Asian Shaykh resident in the country was Sufi Abdullah Khan of the
Ghomkolvia branch of the Naqshbandis. Abdullah Khan had settled in Birmingham
where he also worked in a factory whilst establishing a religious school for children.
Whereas Pir Marouf represented a family who belonged to a lineage of shrine guardians
(sajjāda nashin), Abdullah Khan was a khalīfa of a living Shaykh, Zindapir in Pakistan.
The followers of Sufi Abdullah have been successful in developing an enclave of disused
properties into a centre of Barelvi activities within Birmingham, including the con-
struction of one of the largest mosques in Britain. They were instrumental in establish-
ing the Configuration of Sunni Mosques to link all Barelvi-oriented mosques in the city.
The activities of Sufi Abdullah link the murids back to a significant centre in Pakistan
but also provided a focus of spiritual energy created by a living charismatic Shaykh resi-
dent in Britain. The third Shaykh worthy of mention is Pir Wahab Siddiqi of the Hijazi
branch of Naqshbandis. Like the earlier South Asian Shaykh, Pir Wahab Siddiqi would
base his activities around a mosque founded on Stoneygate Road in the West Midlands
city of Coventry. The Pir would also create an umbrella organisation, the International
Muslim Organisation. Wahab Siddiqi’s unique contribution was in education, found-
ing the first Barelvi dar-al ‘ulum in 1982 and in the early 1990s purchasing a large site
comprising of an old English country house with 62 acres of land to build a college and
khānaqāh. Upon his death in 1994, his son Faizul inherited the ṭarīqa and had his father’s
body buried in the grounds, creating the first Sufi shrine in Britain. These Shaykh are,
each in his own way, pioneers of the Barelvi tradition but have developed three different
modes of operandi common to South Asian Sufism in the cities of Britain.22
It would be too simplistic to argue that the Barelvi tradition established itself through
these prominent Shaykh and their centres of Sufi allegiance built around time-honoured
tariqa loyalty based on the Shaykh/murid relationship whilst the Deobandis organised
through mosque development and the creation of dar al-‘ulums (Islamic seminaries) focusing
on the creation of a British ‘ulama as both were involved in the creation of mosques across
Britain, attempting to match their rivals mosque by mosque in Britain’s cities. Where the
South Asian Shaykh established themselves a typical pattern would be an inner circle of mu-
rids around a living shaykh based in a mosque and/or a khānaqāh, an outer circle of murids who
extend the tariqa to other centres of Muslim population across the country, a further outer
circle of non-initiated Muslims who are drawn to the mosque because of the status presence
of the shaykh whose advice they seek on religious and non-religious matters, another outer
circle that use the mosque to visit the shaykh because of his access to baraka (blessings) and
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Sufism in the UK
who would look to the baraka for traditional sacred solutions to life problems and crises, and
finally an outermost circle that uses the mosque because it is local to their homes and does
not preach a Wahhabi or Salafi version of Islam.23
Mosque building and Sufism

Before exploring these implications of a Sufi cultural heritage among forebears, it is should
be noted that the Sufi presence has had a major impact on mosque architecture in British cit-
ies. The arrival of Sufi shaykhs would add to the creation of an Islamic religious infrastruc-
ture that would in time come to create new skylines in many urban landscapes. Historically
the first such intervention was in Cardiff. Shaykh Abdullah al-Hakimi had settled in the
Welsh capital in 1938. As already noted the shaykh had been active in organising the lascars
(merchant seamen) of Yemeni, Somali, and Indian origins settled in the seaports of Liverpool
and Hull. His presence in Cardiff fired the seamen and their families to work with him. He
had already purchased an old public house, the Hilda Arms in South Shields, Cardiff around
1936 and converted it into a zawiya. Between his settlement in 1938 and 1947, the shaykh
developed a plot consisting of stable and three Victorian terraced houses into a purpose-built
mosque complete with four minarets and a dome. The mosque on Peel Street would be
Britain’s third purpose-built mosque but the first initiated by a Sufi.24 Saleem would point
out that “Muslim identity had made for the first time, the transition from a largely private,
individual and hidden practice to a collective, public and institutional one”.25
One of the first towns to establish a significant post-war population of South Asian
Muslims was the old mill town of Bradford. Today the town boasts 86 mosques but these
started their existence with the establishment of the Howard Street house conversion in
1958. For ten years, the mosque showed no sectarian affiliation but in 1968 became the first
of 14 Deobandi mosques in the town. As we have seen, Bradford was the chosen location for
the influential South Asian shaykh, Pir Marouf Hussain Shah, who would open a mosque
in Southfield Square in 1966. The open allegiance to the Barelvi tradition and the Pir’s al-
legiance to a family of Sufis in Mirpur may have sparked the Deobandi/Barelvi rivalry that
dominated religious politics in the town for decades. Pir Marouf would go on to establish
17 mosques across the city.26 Other British town and cities would follow a similar pattern of
divisions between Deobandis and Barelvis. In London, for example, the Bangladeshi pres-
ence in the East End, one of largest populations of Muslims in Britain, would see a Barelvi
breakaway for the established East London Mosque founded in 1940 to the Brick Lane
Jamme Masjid. The mosque had formerly been a church and a synagogue, demonstrating the
religious use of buildings by the previous Huguenot and Jewish settlers in the area.27
In 1977, the Norwich Sufis, under the leadership of Shaykh al-Qadir, would purchase a
disused Victorian school in the centre of the city. In 1977 they were able to utilise donations
from Egypt to establish the city’s first mosque, the Ihsan Mosque, now used as the primary
place of worship for the Muslims of Norwich. Saleem notes that the mosque represents a
very different route to origin, having begun life as a centre for indigenous Muslim con-
verts.28 The Norwich Muslims would be contacted by Afro-Caribbean converts in London’s
district of Brixton who would establish the Gresham Road mosque in 1990, developing a
site of conversion for Afro-Caribbean in South London. Ironically, when the Sufis would
leave the mosque in 1993, the building would become the site of the first Salafi mosque in
the capital.29
The Maidenhead mosque outside London is also an important landmark Barelvi mosque.
Completed in 1985, the mosque’s architecture would display a green dome that replicates the
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dome on the Prophet’s mosque in Madinah and a minaret copied from the fifteenth-century
Kait Bey mosque in Cairo.30 The mihrab would be inspired by Ottoman style motifs (p. 112).
As we have seen another influential shaykh was Sufi Abdullah Khan from the Ghamkol
Sharif zawiya in North-West Pakistan.31 Sufi Abdullah had purchased a large plot of land on
and around Golden Hillock Road in Birmingham. In 1990 he acquired the site, formerly
containing 35 derelict houses owned by the City Council.32 In 1996, the Ghamkol Sharif
would open dominating the skyline. The interior walls were lined with onyx and the Qibla
wall decorated with photographs of sacred sites and magnificent calligraphy. One of the
largest mosques in Britain, Saleem notes how its importance lies in its “specific place in a
transnational religious and geographic narrative from which it derives its significance and
status”.33 Saleem is describing the linking of Birmingham and Kohat in Pakistan through the
transferral of Sufi sanctity and authority invested in Sufi Abdullah and his shaykh Zindapir.
The Barelvi aligned Ghousia Masjid opened in 2002 in Peterborough would also imi-
tate the dome of the Prophet’s mosque in Madinah.34 The Al-Jamia Suffa-Tul-Islam Grand
Mosque in Bradford opened in 2014 represents the efforts of a Qadiri/Naqshbandi tariqa
founded in 1850 by Shaykh Mohamed Hayaat in Tangrot, a small fishing village in Mirpur,
Pakistan. It arrived in Bradford in 1983 under the leadership of Shaykh Mohammad Habib
Ur Rahman, a descendent of the founder. The mosque also draws upon international in-
fluences from across the Muslim world, including pink sandstone from Agra. The mosque
reflects North African and Middle-Eastern traditional forms borrowed from the Fatimid and
Abbasid periods in Islamic history.35
Many other examples could be included, but the key elements of Sufi mosque devel-
opment can be demonstrated by the earlier examples. Not only were Sufis involved in the
early history of Islam’s development in the United Kingdom, they were among the first to
introduce purpose-built mosques in British cities. They continue to be innovators. Whereas
mosque building in the 1980s would try to utilise brickwork and plastic materials for domes
and minarets, the Sufi mosque builders were the first to seek authentic materials from the
Muslim world and imitate iconic designs from the historic mosques of the Muslim world.
In addition, they would revolutionise mosque architecture by moving away from Indian
subcontinent motifs to influences drawn from North Africa and the Middle East, especially
drawing upon historic periods or locations where Sufism had dominated.36
New developments in Sufism

Since the arrival of migrants from the Muslim world transformed Britain’s religious land-
scape, Sufism has gone through a number of changes. The mass migrations from South
Asia would provide the opportunity for Sufis to develop infrastructures in Britain based on
reproducing traditional organisational forms from the places of origin. The establishment
of the Barelvi tradition would provide Britain with a significant Sufi presence but it would
need to quickly produce a counter-attack to the Islamist discourse and ability to develop
organisational structures attractive to a younger generation.37 Throughout the 1970s and
1980s a sense of united Barelvi identity coalesced among South Asian Muslims. The work
achieved by Ahmad Riza Khan in India to create a common identity of India’s Sufis and
their allegiances formed an historical foundation which could be built upon in Britain. Most
importantly, Ahmad Riza Khan had argued that the followers of Sufi-inspired Islam should
assert themselves to be Ahl-i Sunnat wa-jamaat rather than Barelvis. This label provided the
possibility of claiming to be the legitimate form of Sunni Islam as practiced by the vast
majority of Muslims throughout the world rather than a sect or school of thought confined
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Sufism in the UK
to the subcontinent.38 However, the identification with mainstream Sunnism inherent in

the term enabled a number of movements and strands of Islam use it to define themselves,
including the rival Deobandis, not in the neutral sense of signifying Sunni identity, but in a
highly charged atmosphere of claiming legitimacy, authenticity, and a sense of specialness.
The appropriation of the title as a religious identity label also serves to fix rival movements as
“other”, at best deviant or guilty of innovation, at worst, to be branded by the tool of fatwa
as non-Muslim or even guilty of idolatry.39
Increasingly Britain’s Muslim presence would be transformed by the arrival of various
populations, predominantly from Malaysia, Turkish Cyprus, Iran, Yemen, North, West,
and East Africa. These are all places where, either historically or as a living faith tradition,
Sufism was significant, but the application of Barelvi as a common label would not work to
achieve a united Sufi identity among these new populations. Ahl-i Sunnat wa-jamaat would
have resonance for all but was unable to impact upon the traditional fiefdoms created by the
South Asian shaykhs in Britain’s inner cities. New generations of Muslims born and raised in
Britain would not warm to these sectarian and ethnic enclaves of allegiance.
There are signs of change taking place among this generation. The turuq and mosques
claiming allegiance to the Ahl-i Sunnat wa-jamaat banner had often been perceived as centres
to maintain loyalties and relationships established in the country of origin and important
to the older generation of migrants.40 Catharina Raudvere and Leif Stenberg reinforce this
sense of transformation taking place among Britain’s Sufis and note that a number of high
profile Western converts and Levant and Maghreb Shaykhs have begun to emerge as a major
influence on second and third generation South Asian origin British Muslims, drawing upon
global networks and significant use of the World Wide Web.41
As stated the World Wide Web is an essential aspect of this globalisation. The websites
originate in Spain, Britain, and North America and address themselves specifically to Muslims
in the West. Sufism is rarely mentioned neither do the web pages rally behind the epithet of
ahl as-Sunna wa Jama‘at, but rather speak of representing Traditional Islam and the teachings
of the four madhhabs. According to Sadek Hamid, the “Traditional Islam” network is able to
demonstrate both “continuity with history and change in relation to the impact of modernity”
and, in the British context, “re-invent and distinguish their religiosity from other Sufi cur-
rents and activist Islamic groups”.42 Influential converts, notably Shaykh Nur Ha Nim Keller
and Shaykh Abdul-Hakim Murad, are able to communicate fluently in English and are often
members of academia. They are not exponents of an Islam imbedded in local tradition and are
often fluent in their understanding and use of fiqh. These Western Sufis are as scriptural as their
Salafi adversaries, able to utilise Qurˈan and Hadith to great effect to put across their message
on the issues that matter to them. Ethnicity is partially transcended to discover common cause
in either a universal consciousness of ummah or the ideological belonging to Traditional Islam.
Marcia Hermansen comments on this drawing together of “theirs” and “ours” and argues that
mobility, rapid dissemination of information, and encounters of Eastern (Muslim) and Western
individuals have brought about the creation of these trans-global networks. She asserts that
“‘theirs’ and ‘ours’ ultimately converge in an age of globalism”.43
One interesting development of this globalism is the phenomenon of non-partisan Sufism
or Sufism with no tariqa allegiance. In such cases young British Muslims congregate around
spiritual/cultural centres, for example Rumi’s Cave or Rumi’s Circle. The Facebook page
for the former describes it in the following terms
Rumi’s Cave is an alternative community hub, arts and events venue in London. Pre-
senting a diverse range of cultural and social program to connect hearts, minds and
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communities. It is a non-defined social space open to all to reflect and share, inspired by
the legacy of Jalaluddin Rumi.44
Rumi’s Circle states that it “is a group of people inspired by their love of Mevlana Rumi to
come together to share and understand his wisdom” through poetry and music, talks and
workshops, and “coffee shop poetry reflections”.45 Rumi is used as a figure able to transmit
a message of Sufism that can reach out to individuals across cultures uniting them around
a discourse of love rather than a more traditional allegiance to the Mevlevi. These centres
combine with the websites to create places of no belonging where Sufism can be explored
and given allegiance without the formal acceptance of a shaikh or joining one particular
tariqa. Those that do have more formal belonging also inhabit these safe but more informal
spaces.
Conclusions
In spite of undergoing a number of considerable transformations, Sufism remains a signifi-
cant element of British Muslim life. It is not a homogeneous entity, but claims a number of
diverse allegiances all calling upon the tradition’s rich heritage in Islamic history. Its con-
tinuing strength can be located in the loyalties of incoming migrations from places of origin
where Sufism has been historically strong but its appeal to new generations goes beyond
family ties or ethnic loyalties. In the absence of empirical data, various theories can be put
forward to the growing resurgence of Sufism in Britain. Although Sufis have been subject
to the criticism that they were unable to discern where tradition and ethnicity separated
they were able to maintain a respect for their inner piety and aura of spirituality. Muslim
groups from within the spectrum of Sufi allegiance can draw upon government searches for
allies in the war against religious extremism and young Muslims are also seeking authentic
Islamic spirituality untainted by extremist excesses globally. John Voll argues that we need to
understand the popularity of Sufism in the light of a growing literature on “post-materialist
values in late- or post-modern societies”. He argues that such movements springing up in
the Muslim world are not so much part of resistance to secularisation and the processes of
modernisation but “reflect a shift in what people really want out of life”.46 Such processes can
also be seen in changes to wider Western spirituality in the late twentieth and twenty-first
centuries and will therefore include both second and third generation Muslims in Britain
and converts to Islam. However, it is also important to remember Weismann’s reminder that
Sufism is capable of its own rigorous self-examination and that Sufi brotherhoods formed in
the pre-modern era have demonstrated considerable resilience in the modern period.47 The
British Sufi scene would appear to demonstrate this, where in spite of new developments
among British Muslim youth, both Naqshbandis and other Sufi orders hold onto traditional
forms of Islamic religious life.48
Notes
1 Hishmat, Rida Suliyman (2012) “Sufism and Orientalism” in Sufism: An Entry from Encyclopaedia
of the World of Islam, eds Gholamali Haddad Adel, Mohammad Jafar Elmi, Hassan Taromi-Rad.
London: EWI Press, p. 210.
2 Hammer, Olav (2015) “Theosophy” in The Occult World, ed Christopher Partridge. London:
Routledge, pp. 250–259.
3 Partridge, Christopher (2004) The Re-Enchantment of the West: Volume 1 Alternative Spiritualities,
Sacralization, Popular Culture and Occulture. Edinburgh, T & T Clark, p. 90.
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31
SUFISM AND VERNACULAR
KNOWLEDGE IN SINDH
Michel Boivin
Introduction
Sindh is located in the south-east of Pakistan, but the Sindhi speakers are also settled in India,
Western Europe and North America.1 Before Partition in 1947, the population was mostly
Muslims (ca. 70%), including an important Shī ‘a community, and Hindus (20–25%). Su-
fism probably reached Sindh when the Arab general Mu ḥammad bin Qāsim conquered the
kingdom ruled by a Hindu around 711.2 This period is nonetheless difficult to inform because
of the lack of sources. Notwithstanding the local population was mostly Hindu and Buddhist.
Regarding literature, the oldest sample in Sindhi language does not appear before the late
fifteenth and early sixteenth century, authored by Qāz ̣ī Qāzan ̣ (1463–1551). Although it is
composed in Sindhi, Persian was the official and administrative language. This assumption is
nonetheless challenged by some scholars who claimed the oldest samples are the Ismā‘ī lī gināns.3
A stalwart of both Sufi poetry and the vernacular process is embodied by Shāh ‘Abd al-
L āṭ if (1689–1752), who is acclaimed by the Sindhis as being the greatest poet of all times.
His work known as the Sh āh Jo Risālo is still praised among all the Sindhi speaking groups
scattered all over the world. Later on, it was used as a kind of paradigm for the construction
of a vernacular knowledge, after it was first printed in 1866 as a part of the British policy of
education in the vernacular languages. Colonization had a deep impact on Sindhi literature
and on other fields of knowledge. Sufism was objectified by a new intelligentsia in which
the Hindu literati were the forerunners. In the nineteenth century, there was a will to show
the Sindhis constituted a unified community through the sharing of Sufism between all the
religious persuasions. Many attempts were made to identify equivalences between Sufism
and Vedant ā. This enterprise was successful to the extent that when in 1947 the majority of
the Hindus migrated to India, they transferred their Sufi cults to their new country.
The construction of a Sufi classicism in Sindhi

During Arab rule, the first Sufis to appear in Sindh were ascetics, as in other parts of the
Muslim world. Although the sources are very scarce, McLean estimates that between 767
and 1106, the population of mystics/ascetics was 18.6% of all Sindhi Muslims. This is the
second category after the traditionalists (72.86%) and before the Sh ī ‘as (18.57%). They started
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Michel Boivin
appearing in the ninth century, one century after the Arab conquest (712); they gradually
declined in numbers during the tenth century and virtually disappeared in the last half of
the eleventh century.
Among the earliest ascetic figures associated with Sindh, Hajj ̣ ī Tur ābī is the most famous.
His shrine is located in the deltaic Sindh, close to the medieval city of Ṭhaṭṭ a and to the
ancient town of Banbhore. His tomb (mazār) is associated with the oldest date of Muslim
Sindh: 787, or about 75 years after the Arab conquest. The legend describes Hajj ̣ ī Tur ābī as
both an ascetic and a military commander. He is said to have transmuted a hostile Hindu
army into a hill through his miraculous powers.
For a large span of time, there is no source regarding Sufism in Sindh. This could coincide
with a period when Sindh was under Ismā‘ ī l ī rule. Sindh was a vassal state of the Fatimid
empire from the early ninth century to early eleventh century. After Ma ḥ mūd of Ghazna’s
raids in 1005, 1010 and 1011 on the Indus valley, the Ismā‘ ī l īs abandoned their capital Mult ān
to settle in deltaic Sindh, in Manṣū rah. Also, a local dynasty came to rule Sindh, the Sumr ā s
until the fourteenth century. Although it is a moot point, most of historians accept that
the Somr ā s had been themselves converted to Ism ā‘ ī lism. Meanwhile, the Suhrawardiyya
reached the Indus valley and Bahā’ al-Dī n Zakariyyā (1170–1263) was the leading Sufi of
the time in the Indus Valley. After the era of the ascetics, the Sufis of Sindh, like P ī r Patho
or ‘Usm ān Marwānd ī, better known as La‘l Shahbāz Qalandar, were probably related to the
Suhrawardiyya. The latter looks like embodying a kind of continuity between the Ismā‘ ī l īs
and the Suhraward īs. While he is claimed to be an Ism ā‘ ī l ī pīrs by the Ism ā‘ ī l īs, his relation-
ship with Bahā’ al-Dī n Zakariyyā is explicitly mentioned by the historiographer Ẓiyā al-Dī n
Baran ī (1285–1357).4
The sixteenth century saw a political turn in Sindh. Central-Asian people invaded the
kingdom and a new dynasty came to power in 1524: the Arghū ns. Shāh Beg (d. 1524), the
second Arghū n ruler, welcomed a number of Sufis of the Qādiriyya and the Naqshbandiyya
from Central Asia. It is said that the Suhraward īs had stayed loyal to the Sam ā s, a Sindhi
dynasty which had been overthrown by the Arghū ns, and also that there was an Ism ā‘ ī l ī
renewal that the new Sufi brotherhood were asked to fight. Some Qādir ī Sufis had already
settled in Sindh in the ascetic times. Two disciples of ‘Abd al-Qādir al-Jī lān ī (d. 1166) were
buried at Makkli near Ṭhaṭṭ a. It was not until the fifteenth century, however, that the Qādir ī
order really took firm root in the province. The Naqshband īs had been also welcomed by
Shāh Beg, the Arghū n ruler, like the Qādir īs. But their rise as a leading tar ̣ īqa in Sindh co-
incided with the reinforcement of the Mughal power in the Indian subcontinent. In Ṭhaṭṭ a,
a group of Naqshband īs was deeply influenced by the philosophy of Shaykh A ḥ mad Sirhind ī
(1564–1624), in his will to refute the wahdat-i ̣ wujūd, “the unity of existence,” as well as to
counteract the mahdī movement of Sayyid ‘Al ī Jawnpū r ī. In the meantime, the Naqshband īs
finally replaced the Suhraward īs as the most influential tar ̣ īqa in Sindh.
In the early sixteenth century, the main religious event of Sindh was the chiliastic move-
ment of Sayyid Mu ḥammad Jawnpū r ī (1443–1505), the Mahd ī of Jawnpū r, who spent some
time in Sindh. The Mahdaw īs were known for composing in vernacular languages since
they wanted to reach the masses, as the Ism ā‘ ī l īs had already done before. The scholars in
Sindhi literature tend to accept Qāz ̣ī Qāzan ̣ (1463–1551), himself a Mahdaw ī, as the author
of the oldest known Sindhi poetry, although that does not necessarily mean that he was the
̣
first. Qāz ̣ī Qāzan’s Sindhi is difficult but features characteristics that would later be distinctly
attributed to Sindhi poetry.5 For example, there is the figure of the jog ī who is depicted as the
spiritual guide par excellence. Qāz ̣ī Qāzan ̣ explicitly states that he was himself initiated by a
jogī. This mention of a jogī can be found in most of Sindhi Sufi poetry, and it is epitomized
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Sufism in Sindh
in Shāh L āṭ if ’s Sh āh Jo Risālo in which many different terms are used for naming spiritual
guides. From these references, it is possible to state that the word jog ī refers to the Nāthpanth,
a Shivaite path created by Gorakhnāth probably in the twelfth century.
Qāz ̣ī Qāzan’ṣ poetry is remarkable for other reasons. First, he uses very few Arabic and
Persian words, unlike later Sindhi poets like Shāh L āṭ if. He also makes no references to the
Qur’ān. Finally, he employs only traditional Sindhi verse forms like doh ā or sorath ā.6 Hiro
Thakur observes that there are a number of terms borrowed from Siraiki and Punjabi. It is
possible that they were used in the northern Sindhi dialect Qāz ̣ī Qāzan ̣ was speaking. Qā z ̣ī
̣
Qāzan’s poetry became influential in Sindh when seven verses were included in the Bayān
al-‘ar īfin, a tazkira written in 1630 by a follower and devoted to the Sufi Shāh ‘Abd al-Kar ī m
(1536–1624).7 Shāh ‘Abd al-Kar ī m was 15 years old when Qāz ̣ī Qāzan ̣ passed away. One of
the main features of his kalam, the name given to a Sufi work, is the importance given to
sam ā‘:
Some people engaged themselves in reading books and some in other occupations.
I learnt the sam ā‘ only and did not care for any other occupation
He held that sam ā‘ is the most perfect form of dikr.̣ The importance he gives to music in the
spiritual quest also appears in his mention of the minstrels (manganḥ ār). They serve as me-
̣
diators between devotees and God. Jotwani classifies Shāh Kar ī m, as well as Qāz ̣ī Qāzan, as
wujūdī.8 The Bayān al-‘ar īfin reports Shāh Kar ī m’s words, according to which he was quite
aware of the Fus ụ̄ s ̣ al-hikam
̣ written by Ibn al-‘Arabī (1165–1240), the main exponent of the
̣ al-wujūd. As a wujūdī, Shā h Kar ī m claims a number of times that there is
concept of wahdat
no difference between God and the seeker:
Separation and union are one and the same.

Allah, the best of proposers, will unite the lover and the loved one.
A real proximity with the common people is found in Shāh Kar ī m’s poetry, like the fisher-
men or the peasants. He uses such characters’ simple professions for symbolizing the different
levels of the spiritual path. There are also a number of historical references, especially to the
Sumr ā s and the Sam ā s.8 Last, Shāh Kar ī m is one of the earliest Sindhi poets to use the female
as a symbol of soul-seeking for God. The topic of virahin ī, the longing woman, is a key con-
cept of Sindhi Sufi poetry; the virahin ī is a symbol of the mystic quest of the soul.
Before the advent of Shāh Laṭī f, a last classic in Sindhi Sufi poetry was Miyyān Shāh ‘Ināt
(1623–1712).9 A Qādir ī and a Sh ī ‘a, he was born one year after Shāh Kar ī m’s death (1624).
Maybe more than Qāz ̣ī Qāzan ̣ and Shā h Kar ī m, Shā h ‘Inat can be understood as a Sufi to-
tally devoted to the sam ā‘. Although his work still features the virahinī, Shāh ‘Inat was likely
more influenced by Persian Sufi themes. For example, he praises the cup of wine (piyālī per īn
jī ) and God is described as the cupbearer, the sāqī. Ecstasy itself is depicted as intoxication,
mast. Shāh ‘Inat refers to the jogīs with different names including san āsīn, the Sindhi word for
sanyāsin, the archetypical ascetic in Hinduism. Another recurring symbol we find in Shāh
‘Inat’s poetry is the spinning wheel (k āpā’it ī ), a symbol of destiny:
Some women at the spinning–wheel, wedded to a great destiny, do feel.
When Shāh ‘Abd al-Laṭī f was born in 1689, Sindhi Sufi classic poetry was already relatively
well-shaped. As we know, the dominant literary forms were the dohā and the soratḥ ā (see
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Michel Boivin
note 7) and though the k āf ī was used by Shāh ‘Abd al-Kar ī m, it is with Shāh ‘Abd al-Laṭī f
that it becomes the main feature of Sindhi Sufi poetry. Regarding the themes, Sindhi Sufi
poetry was dominated by a number of topics such as the aforementioned virahin ī, the longing
woman as symbol of the quest for God, the jogī as the renunciant par excellence, and also the
role played by sam ā‘ in the mystical quest. The authors we have mentioned can all be located
in the wahdaṭ al-wujūd branch of Sufism. Last but not least, the folk heroes and heroines be-
longing mostly to the Sumr ā periods were used for symbolizing the mystic quest of the soul.
In the context of Sindhi poetry, the term “classicism” is used for the poets belonging to the
medieval period, which ends in the eighteenth century. Moreover, this word implies that the
poetry was represented as being the pattern for both poetry and literature by later genera-
tions of poets, as well as by scholars. In this category, Shāh ‘Abd al-Laṭī f (Shāh Laṭī f or Shāh)
authored Sufi poetry known as the Sh āh Jo Risālo which is seen as the climax of the genre.10
He was the great grandson of Shāh ‘Abd al-Kar ī m and he was born in Hā lā in a Sayyid
family. Many legends were told about him, although it is still difficult to trace his historical
character. Nonetheless, he was fascinated by the jog īs, considering them to be the models
of renunciation. He probably travelled with them to several locations of Hindu pilgrimage,
including Dwarka and Hi ṅglāj.
His verses are so popular amongst Sindhis that most are familiar enough with them to be
able to quote or recognize them with ease. Shāh is the symbol of Sindhi culture for Muslims
as well as for Hindus in Pakistan as well as in India. Such fame is based on the fact that he
incorporated the main characters of Sindhi folklore into his work, thereby making it acces-
sible to Sindhis across the social spectrum while also appealing to a sense of unity amongst
Sindhis. His emphasis on wahdat ̣ al-w ūjud furthered his resonance amongst different popula-
tions, because it indicated that distinctions, especially religious, were disposable in the face
of unity. Among his influences, Rū m ī was so dominant that his poetry is sometimes called
the Mathnaw ī of Sindh.
Although many studies have focused on Shāh Laṭī f, his work still proves fertile ground
for more analysis. For example, through his treatment of musicians in his poetry, Shah gives
evidence of the importance of music both to him personally and historically in the region.
In Sur Sorath, a much-acclaimed chapter of the Sh āh Jo Risālo, the minstrel Bijā l defies Rā’i
Diyyāch, the king of Junagarh. The power of his lyre (chang) is such that the queens start
crying and the forts begin to crumble. The many terms used by the poet to describe the
minstrel, as charān, jājik or manghanḥ ār, reflect his own interest in music, but also the role
played by the musician in regional society. Shāh Laṭī f attributes a kind of magic power to
him. Sur Sorath comes across as an allegory for music’s all-powerful sway over human beings
and nature. The figure of the “mendicant minstrel,” the charān, is dominant throughout Shāh
Laṭī f ’s poetry. Regarding the instruments, although the chang is the most quoted, one can
find reference to others like kamach, for example.
Another neglected issue addressed by Shāh Laṭī f is the tragedy of Karbalā. In the Sh āh Jo
Risālo, there is another sur of special interest: Sur Kedāro. The whole chapter is devoted to
the martyrdom (shahadat) of the third Sh ī ‘a im ām, Husayn,
̣ with his family and companions.
A thorough study should be made on the reasons for which Shāh Laṭī f introduced a Sh ī ‘a
topic in his poetry; he was likely influenced by Persia, where the marthiyyo genre, the dirge
devoted to the martyrdom of Husayn ̣ and his family, was booming.
Shāh Laṭīf is the first Sindhi poet to write a marthiyyo in Sindhi, and after him, the genre was
adopted by many others. His marthiyyo did not strictly follow the format of the Persian dirge;
instead, Sur Kedāro (Song of War) is divided into four parts. The first focuses on the coming of
Muḥarram, the month of mourning for the martyrdom of Husayn, ̣ a symbol of a trial of their
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Sufism in Sindh
love. The second part comments on the apparent helpless state of imāms during the ensuing
conflict. The third part is about their bravery in fighting and how their murder was a part of
God’s plan, and the fourth deals with their union with God after death. Shāh Laṭīf ’s depictions
of the different episodes of the battle are made vivid with precise details.
The pre-colonial period saw the emergence of another main Sufi poet of Sindh: Sachal Sarmast
(1739–1826). Contrary to Shāh Laṭīf, he was not the author of a single poetical work. A main
Sufi poet of Sindh, Sachal Sarmast composed several works in Sindhi, Siraiki and Persian.11
Named Khwājā Salāḥ al-Dīn H ̣āfiz ̣ ‘Abd al- Wahhāb by birth, he was given the laqab of Sachal
Sarmast, meaning the “truthful one with an intoxicated head.” He was the son of the sajjāda
nashīn (head of Sufi hospice) of Daraza, Khwājā Muḥammad H ̣āfiz,̣ also known as Sạ ḥ ib Dīno
I, and brother of the sajjāda nashīn Khwājā ‘Abd al-Haqq.
̣ He thus belonged to the Darazī silsila
located close to Khayrpur, in Northern Sindh. Although he had never owned a piece of land,
he was in charge of looking after the business affairs of the khānaqāh. In Sindh, Sachal Sarmast
was known as “Manṣūr thāni” (“the Second Manṣūr” - in reference to Manṣūr Hallāj). When
he was about seven, it is said that Shāh Laṭīf came to pay homage to the local murshid. After
seeing Sachal, he is said to have exclaimed: “This God-gifted child will one day uncover those
divine secrets which I have still kept concealed.” Sachal Sarmast’s attributes were a baīrānġin,̣
a stick with two forked ends, an ‘as ̣ā, a stick, a tanburo, a stringed instrument, and a kishtī, a
bowl. He used to play music and sing, and also to perform ecstatic dance. In his poetry, he was
a staunch exponent of the doctrine of wahdaṭ al-wujūd, like for example, when he states: “God is
the Unique Manifestation everywhere and all have come from Him.” His religious conception
attracted the wrath of some religious leaders who tried to kill him. The legend states that the
swords passed through his body as if it was water.
Sachal Sarmast was a pioneer of Sindhi ghazals. He was also the first Sindhi Sufi poet
to compose ghazals in Urdu. His songs (dohīra) especially expressed a direct force through
the depiction of an aspirant in the form of the popular romance of Hī r and Rānjha. Sachal
Sarmast was also the author of numerous masnaw īs in Persian. He was himself, like Shāh
Laṭī f, an accomplished player of tanburo, and like many other Sufis of Sindh, he was repre-
sented with the instrument. His verses attest that for him, music or sāz was the equivalent
of divine knowledge. S āz is far superior to any other ways, especially the so-called Islamic
regulations, like fasting (rozo) or prayer (nam āz):
How intoxicating (mast) my Love is, He took me amazingly, I forgot all fasting (rozo),
nor do I remember (yād) any prayers (nam āz)!
I drink the nectar (shar āb), close to my Beloved night and day,
Not for the qazi nor the mulla, have I any regard left!
The eyes have lost all sleep, everyday am I with the Beginning,
Tuned (sarando) with pain for my Love, makes the music (sāz) in me!
During the same period, the Naqshbandiyya was an exception in the Sufi literary landscape
of Sindh: beyond the fact it was the only tar īqa forbidding the use of music, and that does
not subscribe to the wahdat ̣ al-w ūjud, the Naqshband ī Sufis did not author poetry. In the
beginning of the eighteenth century, they produced a number of treatises whose aim was to
counter the Sh ī ‘a and Hindu customs in Islam, and to allow Sindhi people to have access to
the “true” precepts of Islam. They thus wrote in simple Sindhi verses. Miyyān Abū’l-Hasan ̣
(d. 1711) dealt for the first time with the problem of ritual practices in simple Sindhi verses
in his Muqqadimat alsaḷ āt. Another Naqshband ī author was Makhdū m Mu ḥammad Hā shim
(1692–1761), who wrote educational books about the essentials of Islam.
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Michel Boivin
The eighteenth century saw a process of Persianization in the vocabulary and of the
poetic forms. It is possible that the élite accepted the Sindhi language for expressing Sufism
only once it had adopted some Persianized literary forms such as the ghazals. Furthermore,
as opposed to most other parts of the Indian subcontinent, Sindh saw its linguistic vernac-
ularization originated in the élite, the Ā shrafs,12 and not the low-caste poets, like Kabī r and
others. A similar phenomenon occurred in the neighbouring Punjab. Whatever the influ-
ence of Persian Sufi poetry, Sindhi Sufi poetry has a distinguishable identity, some elements
of which are shared with other Sufi poetry expressed in Punjabi, Gujarati or Urdu. The Sufi
poets of classical and colonial periods composed their works in Sindhi, but also in Siraiki,
Hindi and Urdu. Sindhi Sufi poetry is arranged according to the sur or raga (the chapter). The
first collection to be arranged as such was that of Shāh ‘Inat, who interestingly anticipated
the apex of the classical Sufi poetry which flourished with Shāh Àbd al-L āṭ if.
New trends in the colonial period

The British were not concerned by Sufism in Sindh before the work published by Richard
Burton (1821–1890) in 1851. Burton is mostly interested by Sufi literature and he is the first
to state it is the bulk of vernacular knowledge. Regarding Shāh Laṭī f ’s poetry, Richard
Burton clearly stated that his di ̄ w ān is the cornerstone of religious culture in Sindh:
Hence his poetry is the delight of all that can understand it. The learned praise it for
its beauty, and are fond of hearing it recited to the sound of guitar. Even the unlearned
generally know select portions by heart, and take the trouble to become acquainted with
their meaning.13
In 1866, Ernst Trumpp (1828–1885), a German priest, published the Sh āh Jo Risālo in Leipzig,
and the publication had been sponsored by Sir Bartle Frere, the commissioner in Sindh. Like
most other Western scholars, he says that Sufism is a “derivation” of the Vedantic system;
he offers the following depiction of the wahdat-ị wujūd: “In order to understand the Risalo
correctly, the reader should devote particular attention to the Sufi doctrine that the human
soul is a particle of the Divine breath.”14 Although he thinks that in India, Islam has been
corrupted by Hinduism, he also concedes that “the persevering student will be amply repaid
for his labours by the many beautiful passages he will meet with everywhere.”15 Trumpp and
Frere intentionally selected the Sh āh Jo Risālo to be the first Sufi work to be edited and pub-
lished. Trumpp had a deep knowledge of the religious culture of Sindh, and the role played
by the Sh āh Jo Risālo had already been highlighted by a number of British officers.
Sh āh Jo Risālo’s publication had several consequences in the process of objectivating Su-
fism. On the one hand, it sanctioned the Sh āh Jo Risālo as the primary official text in Sindh
that incarnated Sindhi culture. This does not mean that the edition enhanced by Trumpp
was accepted by Sindhi literati. Several new editions were to be published in the last quarter
of the nineteenth century. On the other hand, the Sh āh Jo Risālo went on to obscure other
Sufi poetry in Sindhi. Its “canonization” was nevertheless problematic since, as mentioned
earlier, the text is difficult for many readers. After the first publication of the Sh āh Jo Risālo,
the new élite of Sindh became conscious that the text of the sacred poetry was not easy to
understand.
The expression “new élite” in this context refers to Sindhi gentlemen who were edu-
cated in the English schools in Karachi and Hyderabad before joining the civil service as
judges, tax-collectors, teachers and so on. A number of them were from scribes’ castes such
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Sufism in Sindh
as the ‘Ā mils,16 but others belonged to merchant castes or those of the small landowners. It
is striking to observe that this new élite felt that it was necessary for the common people to
understand the text of the Sh āh Jo Risālo, where previously they had listened to it without
understanding any but a very few verses. This difficulty in understanding the Sh āh Jo Risālo
gave rise to contradictions when the text began to be used very frequently for teaching the
Sindhi language.
Moreover, at this point, scholars turned their attention to the lives of Sufis as opposed to
their poetry. Such an evolution was shared by other literati, including Hindus and Sikhs; the
publication of renewed Sufi hagiographies thus occurred simultaneously with the hagiog-
raphies of Gur ū Nānak or Udero L ā l, both known as jan ām sakhīs. In the 1880s, the Sindhi
literati took interest in the character of Shāh Laṭī f. In 1882, Dayaram Gidumal includes
several chapters on the life of the poet,17 but it was Mirz ā Qal īch Beg who published in 1887
the first biography in English, and in Sindhi in 1897.18 Drawing parallels with the Prophet
Mu ḥammad, Beg wants to introduce an exemplary man with qualities such as modesty, em-
pathy with all he brings, including the animals, and in harmony with nature. Nonetheless,
he also depicts some miracles that the poet performed, for example, when he turned stone
into gold. In addition, he decided to build with his own hands a dargāh for his great grandfa-
ther, Shāh ‘Abd al-Kar ī m. Beg’s work furthermore advanced the idea that Shāh ‘Abd al-L āṭ if
embodied Sindhi identity in late nineteenth century, when he claimed that sometimes the
poet expressed “patriotic feelings.”
An eclectic writer, Mirz ā Qal īch Beg studied at Bombay University, where, after grad-
uation, he started to teach Persian. After the death of his mother in 1872, he decided to
resign and came back to Sindh where he joined the British service and eventually retired,
having reached the position of Deputy Collector. In the mainstream of reformist Islam, he
conceived Sufism as a spirituality that was related to other universal spiritualities of his time.
̣
Thus, beyond the several books he devoted to the ‘ilm-i tasawwuf, he was also interested in
Bahā’ism and Ism ā‘ ī lism. Mirz ā Qal īch Beg promoted the dissemination of the notion of
Sufism by highlighting how it encompasses a number of features which transcend the bounds
of a particular religious practice. His representation of Sufism was also influenced by new
spiritual European movements such as the Theosophical Society.
In the last decades of the nineteenth century, the Theosophical Society was powerful
in India. The Society wished to create a nucleus of the universal brotherhood of humanity
without distinctions of race, creed, sex, caste or colour, and to encourage the study of com-
parative religion, philosophy and science. The Society was founded in Karachi in 1896, and
in the same year, Annie Besant (1847–1933) visited Karachi and Hyderabad and delivered
lectures. A number of Sindhi literati became members. Consequently, the representation of
Sufism shifted as society evolved. The new élite was far more interested by Sufism as a matrix
of Sindhi identity, for both Muslims and Hindus, rather than as the superstitious rituals per-
formed by an illiterate crowd in the numerous shrines of Sindh. Such a shift was expressed
in a singular idiom produced by the specific cultural features of Sindh, but simultaneously,
it was located in the mainstream of reformist Islam, which believed those practices were
un-Islamic.
In 1905, the first book devoted to another Sufi of Sindh was published, La‘l Shahbāz
Qalandar. The author was Fateḥ Mu ḥammad Sehwān ī (1882–1942) who had also authored
a biography of the Prophet Mu ḥammad in 1914, and a posthumously published book on
Sindhi literature.19 Interestingly, Sehwān ī used the word tazkira in the first edition, although
he did not strictly follow the rules of the tazkira. The entire book is devoted to La‘l Shahbāz
Qalandar, who is presented as a very pious scholar, a specialist in both exoteric (z ̣āhir ī ) and
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Michel Boivin
esoteric (bātin ̣ ī ) knowledge. The list of the laqabs (honorific titles) devoted to him implies
that the figure of La‘l Shahbāz Qalandar was very complex, an amalgamation of the images
constructed by different communities of followers. The last chapter provides the chronology
of the building of his shrine, as well as a depiction of the popular rituals performed in his
name such as the ecstatic dance (raqs).
Nonetheless, the process of objectification of Sufism was very slow. At the beginning of
the twentieth century, there were but a few books published on the topic of Sufism in Sindh,
except new editions of the Sh āh Jo Risālo, with explanatory texts helping the reader to un-
derstand this difficult poetry. The second devotional work to be published after the Sh āh Jo
Risālo was Sā m ī’s sloks. Both in Pakistan and in India, he is introduced by the specialists of
Sindhi literature as third member of a trilogy, after Shāh ‘Abd al-L āṭ if and Sachal Sarmast.
Born as Chainr ā’i Bachomal Lund (1743–1850), Sā m ī was a Hindu merchant from Shikārpū r,
in Northern Sindh, and he had been trained by a gur ū in Sanskrit and the Vedant ā. His verses
include Vedant ā references, but he also uses many terms from the Sufi lexicon.20
During British colonization, vernacular Sufism was at the vanguard of the construc-
tion of a new devotional knowledge. Two Sufi poets dominated the scene: Dalpat S ̣ū f ī and
Bedil. Dalpat S ̣ū f ī (1769–1842) was a Hindu Sufi born in Sehwān Shar ī f. He belonged to
the Mir ān ̣ī family, whose members performed the mendī ceremony during the ‘urs of La‘l
Shahbāz Qalandar before Partition. Dalpat was a high-ranking officer in the T ̣ā lpur mīrs’
administration, who were the kings of Sindh before the British. He was therefore posted in
different localities of Sindh. Once he was touring near Bubak, where he met a guru named
Asard ā s, and soon became his follower. After some time, Dalpat resigned from his job. Later
on, he was close to the murshids of Jhok Shar ī f before establishing an āst āno in Hayder ābād,
which was cared for by the T ̣ā lpur mīrs. Dalpat S ̣ū f ī composed a number of kal āms in differ-
ent languages such as Sindhi, Hindi and Siraiki.21 Only the Sindhi kal ām was published in
India more than a century after his death. His poetry is nevertheless much appreciated, and
Dalpat’s style is shaped by his knowledge of Persian and Sanskrit. He is venerated by Hindu
Sindhis in India. In Colaba, Mumbai, a descendant of his brother runs a darb ̣ār dedicated to
him. His poetry is sung in many other places, including Jhok Shar ī f, since Dalpat S ̣ū f ī is a
staunch exponent of wahdat ̣ al- wujūd.
Faqī r Qādir Bakhsh Bedil (1814–1872) was a Sufi born in Rohri, in Northern Sindh, and
he belonged to the Qādiriyya. In his teens, he went to Sehwān Shar ī f where he is reported
to have been vouchsafed spiritual visions. He also visited Jhok Shar ī f and Daraza, since he
was a staunch follower of Sachal Sarmast. He wrote copiously on mystical topics in Persian,
Sindhi, Siraiki and Urdu, and is the author of 18 works, mainly in Persian and in Sindhi.22
Most of his writings are devoted to Sufism and he has described numerous Sufi concepts in
prose and poetry. He also wrote a commentary of ‘Abd al-Qādir al-Jilān ī’s qasīdas. According
to his verses, he can be regarded as a wujūdi when he states for example that a darv īsh is neither
̣ īqat; he understands
a Sh ī ‘a nor a Sunn ī. The true Sufi is a “witness of the Truth,” sh āhid-i haq
that union with the beloved is the only escape from plurality.
The Sufi legacy among the Hindu Sindhis of India is a new field which remains grossly
unexplored.23 The ‘Ā mils played a leading role in colonial Sindh in funding many Sufi
shrines, where they regularly paid visit. After they migrated to India from 1947 onwards, a
number of Hindu Sufis transferred their dargāhs to India, sometimes with the permission of
the master who was in Sindh. Depending on the leaders, and also on the area where they are
settled, the Sufi paths in India have provided different answers to acclimatize their tradition
to the new environment. Although Partition occurred many years ago, most of the Sindhi
Sufi darbārs in India are still closely associated with their parent organizations in Pakistan.
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Therefore, the links between the masters and their followers have not been severed. The
sajjāda nashīn from Pakistan used to visit his followers in India and sometimes, the Sindhi
Hindus from India travel to Pakistan as pilgrims to the main dargāhs of Sindh.
Anthropological outline: Sehwān Sharīf as a case study

In Sindh, Sufi poetry is the core of Sufism, not only in the development of a vernacular
knowledge but also in the performance of the Sufi rituals in the many dargāhs of the prov-
ince. The last section of this chapter thus wishes to provide a brief outline of the Sufi life in
present day Sindh. An intricate matter concerns the issue of the tar ̣ īqas. Sufis rarely explicitly
refer to their attachment to a tar ̣ īqa, or that they are affiliated to so many branches of the
leading ones in South Asia that it is a challenge to think in terms of tar ̣ īqas.24 Nevertheless,
two points should be highlighted: the weakness of the Ch īshtiyya, which is accepted as being
more influential all over South Asia as a whole, and the importance of the Qalandariyya. As
in most of the Muslim world, the tombs of popular Sufis are pilgrimage centres, pilgrimage
to which is known as ziyārat.
The size of the pilgrimage centre is directly related to the fame of the dead Sufi. In Sindh,
there are three main dargāhs, also known as mazārs: the dargāh of Shāh ‘Abd al-L āṭ if in Bhiṭ
Shāh, the dargāh of La‘l Shahbāz Qalandar (d. 1274) in Sehwān Shar ī f and the dargāh of Sachal
Sarmast in Daraza.25 The transmission of the tradition clearly illustrates the domination of
the Sayyids, the alleged descendants of Prophet Mu ḥammad, in the local society. If they are
not Sayyids, they belong to another social group belonging to the Ā shrafs. Moreover, there
are other categories of actors involved in the life of the dargāh: the renunciants known as the
faqīrs, professional or not, the musicians (manganḥ ārs), caste musicians and others, and finally
the devotees, being themselves distributed in two groups: those who have taken an oath
(bay‘at) to a Sufi master, the mur īds, and other who only came to pay a visit to the Saint, and
ask him some favour, the ziyārat īs. Other marginal groups still can have a kind of priestly
function, mostly not in the dargāh, but in other secondary sacred places close to it. The hijras,
or khadṛās in Sindhi, are noted for their transgender identity, and other marginal actors are
the munjrās, the dancers-prostitutes.
The Sufi master is known as the sajjāda nashīn, and also the murshid. He claims to have
some links with the dead Sufi who is venerated in the mausoleum. Since many were re-
nunciant, they usually claim to be descendants of his brother or closest follower. He can
be Sunn ī or Sh ī ‘a but in Sindh, the Sh ī ‘as clearly play an important role in the Sufi shrines.
Every dargāh has elaborated its own étiquette, based on specific rituals to give the tradition
a specific and identifiable flavour. The tradition also shares structural similarities with other
shrines such as the opening and closing ceremonies of the shrine, the ritual bathing, or clean-
ing, of the tombs and so on. The ultimate purpose of the rituals is furthermore to reinforce
a link, if not a dependence, of the followers towards the living master. Beyond the spiritual
relationship, they are many other ways through which the follower is bonded to the master,
including economic ties. The sajjāda nashīn usually leads the rituals, except when the shrine
has been nationalized, as it is the case for that of La‘l Shahbāz Qalandar in Sehwān Shar ī f.
However, though the Āwqā f is in charge of the management, some arrangements can have
been made allowing the sajjāda nashīn to perform some rituals inside the shrine.
For example, in Sehwān, the most important ceremony of the ‘urs is the mendī procession.
The mendī or henna symbolizes the performance of a marriage all over South Asia. During
the three days of the ‘urs, three processions will take the mendī from a private place to the
tomb of La‘l Shahbāz Qalandar, as a metaphor for his wedding with God, the Sufi being the
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Michel Boivin
female. On the first day, the procession goes from the mansion (havelī ) of the Lakkiyyār ī
Sayyids to the dargāh, and it is led by the head of the lineage. On the second day, it is orga-
nized by a Hindu from his mansion to the dargāh, and on the third day it is performed by
another Hindu from his mansion. Such an involvement of the Hindus in the mendī proces-
sion is not common. Despite the lack of historical sources, one can argue it reflects the social
organisation of pre-partition city, when the Hindus were a majority. Furthermore, their
participation in the mendī is legitimized by oral narratives according to which their ancestors
had been very welcoming at a time when La‘l Shahbāz was rejected by the local population,
narratives which are well accepted by all the actors.
The format of the procession is similar. Usually, before leaving, there is a musical session,
with two female dancers coming from Lahore. They belong to low caste communities, such
as the Kanjars, and several musicians are playing with drums (dols) and harmonium. The
singer is usually the harmonium player, but the female only dance, with putting the heavy
chains with bells on their ankles, so that they can mark the pace with their feet. The mendī
has been put in a casket and deposited in a room, for the devotees to come and pray after
having touching it. Food will be shared among the devotees. The next ceremony is the tying
of the mendībardār’s turban (pag), before his devotees will put the mendī on his head. Four
devotees will carry a palanquin above the mendībardār.
The procession then starts. The distance is different from the three places from which it
starts. One is very short, but it doesn’t go beyond a few hundred metres. All these events oc-
cur in the old town of Sehwan, which is small and made of narrow lanes. While there was no
woman attending the musical session, except the dancers, now they can join in the procession.
All along the way, the mendībardār will be jostled by people who will try to touch the mendī,
and his “body guards” will have to be careful to prevent the mendī from falling on the ground.
Sometimes, the cohort of the devotees will sing devotional songs to the glory of the Sufi. They
will also bring huge chadors, with Quranic inscriptions or abstracts of La‘l Shahbāz Qalandar’s
Sufi poetry, that they will put on the tomb. A small band sometimes precedes the procession.
Near the tomb, the devotees will offer fātihas, or other prayers if they are not Muslim.
The shrine of La‘l Shahbāz Qalandar is surrounded by secondary shrines, where some of
his followers are buried. One of them is of special importance: the dargāh of Bodlo Bāhar.
The local tradition states that Bodlo Bāhar was his closest follower, and many claim the faqīrs
attached to this dargāh are the transmitters of the “authentic” Sufi tradition of La‘l Shahbāz
Qalandar, usually named Shahbāziyya.26 The sajjāda nashīn of Bodlo Bāhar is nonetheless
the follower of the Lakkiyyār ī Sayyids, as it is attested by the circulation of the relics such as
La‘l Shahbāz’s kisht ī. The tradition embodied by the faqīrs of Bodlo Bāhar focuses on a dance
ritual, commonly known as the dham āl. Although this term is used for different rituals, as we
shall see below, it refers in this context to the Sufi dance (raqs) La‘l Shahbāz used to perform.
In Sindhi, the faqīrs call it l āl pher ī (or the spinning of the red), since it is a whirling dance
which is seen by many followers as a reminiscence of the whirling dance of the followers of
Jalā l al-Dī n Rū m ī (1207–1273). Furthermore, the Persian dīw ān attributed to La‘l Shahbāz
Qalandar clearly introduced the dance (raqs) as originating from a secret given by God that
compels him to dance everywhere, even on the gallows.27 For the faqīrs of Bodlo Bāhar, the
dham āl is the dhikr par excellence.
In La‘l Shahbāz Qalandar’s shrine, another dham āl is performed by mur īds and ziyarāt īs. It
is a very basic movement where the individual, only men, jumps on his leg then on the other,
with the arms and hands raised to the sky. It is commonly said it replicates the sufferings
faced by the Sh ī ‘ā Im ā m, Zayn al-‘Ābid ī n, when he walked on the burning sand of the desert
between Karbalā and Damascus. The goal of this dham āl is to reach ecstasy (wajd), understood
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Sufism in Sindh
as a merging with the Sufi saint, or with God through his mediation. This dham āl is only
performed in the courtyard of the shrine, and the musicians are Sehwān īs, belonging to a
single family which is said to have transmitted this sacred duty for generations. They play
on big drums, known as dham āl following a metonymic process, and they are called nagh ār īs.
Sometimes, an additional musician, who does not belong to the same lineage, plays the small
oboe called a sharn ā‘ ī. The performance starts just after the sunset and lasts about 30 minutes.
The only time in the year when it is not performed every day is during Moḥarram.
A last category of dham āl may be termed “exorcist dham āl.” It is only performed by
women, inside the courtyard. With the obsessive sound of the drums, a woman starts to turn
her head, more and more quickly. After she has loosened her hair, her tresses flow more rap-
idly. Often, it is believed that the jinn that possess her talk through her mouth in a strange and
deep voice, and in an unknown language. After a while, the woman becomes exhausted and
she falls to the ground. Her family, men or women who have remained close to her, take her
to a quiet place. Beside the main courtyard of La‘l Shahbāz and Bodlo Bāhar’s shrines, other
dham āls are organized in private spaces. For example, in the south-east of Sehwān, there is
the Makr ān ī quarter. The Makr ān īs are said to come from a mixing of Sh īd īs, the descen-
dants of the African slaves, and the Balūchs. They perform their own dham āl in their private
communal space. Still it does not resemble like any other dance. They sit on their knees and
all the movements of the dance are accomplished with their arms. The African origin is not
dubious, since such Sufi rituals are still performed in Zanzibar.
The dham āl in its diversity admirably reflects how the group is integrated (or not) in
the local society. The Makr ān īs who have a low status perform in their private space. The
Khad ṛā s (transgenders) who were formerly actors in the procession stay in their own place,
where some ziyarāt īs still come to capture their baraka. Other rituals are performed to express
and reflect the internal organisation of the Sufi society. Among the relics, the objects which
are said to have been La‘l Shahbāz’s property, it is the kisht ī that is the most significant. In the
Iranian and Indic worlds, the kisht ī is the very symbol of renunciation, and especially of the
qalandars. Originally it was the kashk ūl, or the bowl with which the faqirs begged for food,
from door to door. Throughout the centuries, the Persian poets transformed it into a vessel
in which the Sufis drink the nectar of divine knowledge.
However the kisht ī is understood as Sufi poetry in Persian; Sehwān īs do not use it as a cup
for drinking, but as a tool for reasserting the hierarchical ties between different Sufi actors.
La‘l Shahbāz’s kisht ī is kept by the Lakkiyyar īs in their havelī. During the ‘urs, a procession
is arranged where the sajjāda nashīn’s eldest son takes the kisht ī to the sajjāda nashīn of Bodlo
Bāhar. Those waiting for the kisht ī expect its arrival in a very solemn mood; the sajjāda nashīn
of Bodlo Bāhar waits for it in the courtyard of Bodlo Bāhar’s shrine, and all his faqīrs are
gathered in their most prestigious garments. This is also the time to initiate new mur īds who
have been shaved before the kisht ī reaches the dargāh. The kisht ī will be the main tool in the
process of initiation, since the novice will touch it, and ingest dried-dates which had been
placed inside it. Subsequently, he will take the oath.
For a significant period of time, La‘l Shahbāz Qalandar has been merged with a local
Hindu deity, Udero L ā l. A common name applied to both of them is Jhū lelā l. This name
means to swing ( jh ūl ā), and for L ā l Shahbāz’s followers, it undoubtedly refers to the dham āl.
A main channel which helps to explain this is the fame of a song from the 1960s: Damā dam
mast qalandar:
O Thou Jhū lelā l

O Thou who is from Sindh and from Sehwān
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Michel Boivin
O Shahbāz, generous qalandar

From your breath (dam), O qalandar intoxicated with divine knowledge
Interestingly, the song is very popular among the Hindu Sindhis in India, and they have now
appropriated it, but in reference to their own deity, Jhū lelā l, otherwise known as Udero L ā l.
Every year for the annual fair known as Chetichand, they take Jhū lelā l’s statue and painting
in procession while they sing Dam ā dam mast qalandar. It is noteworthy to observe that the
song, the author of which is unknown, is in Siraiki and not in Sindhi.28
Conclusion
Vernacular Sufi poetry in Sindhi shares a number of structural similarities with neighbouring
territories, but it also has a number of specific features. For many years Sindh was a refuge for
heterodox religious persuasions; however, it is impossible to evaluate how the successive lay-
ers which finally make Sindhi Sufism were influential. Nonetheless, the Shivaite renunciants
known as the Nathpanth īs are directly quoted in Shah Latif ’s poetry, under many different
names. Another main characteristic of vernacular Sufism is the importance given to music
(sam ā‘) which is introduced as the best form of dhikr from the sixteenth century onwards.
The canonization of the Sh āh Jo Risālo by the British finally transformed the poetry in
the pattern of classical Sufi poetry in Sindhi, with the role given to the female heroines
borrowed from the local folklore. Mar ū’ ī especially symbolized the longing soul, known
as the virāhin ī in South Asia. The inclusion of Hindu elements, both technical vocabulary
and Hindu gods, is another peculiarity of vernacular Sufism in Sindhi. Finally, the Hindus
were instrumental in spreading Sufism in the nineteenth century. Some of them were Sufis29
and they composed Sufi poetry in Sindhi, which is still published in India, after they have
migrated in 1947.
In the ritual field, the dargāhs of Sindh celebrated an annual fair for commemorating the
death of the Sufi saint, the ‘urs, symbolizing his mystical wedding with God. The mendī is
taken every three day by different main actors, including two Hindus. Nevertheless, the
most wide-spread ritual is the dham āl, which can be categorized into three elements. The
most significant is the whirling dance performed by the faqīrs of Bodlo Bāhar. Another one
is not really organized and it is performed by the devotees in the courtyard of La‘l Shahbāz
Qalandar’s shrine. The dham āl is finally used for an “excorcist” ritual which allows possessed
women to be freed from their jinn. Other processions, such as the kisht ī, aim at reasserting the
complex network that unifies actors belonging to different religions, different social classes
and also different Sufi actors.
Notes
1 All the vernacular words are quoted and transliterated from the Sindhi. Sometimes, the orthogra-
phy can be different in Sindhi and in other North-Indian languages, such as Urdu, although very
close. For example, mehnd ī (henna) in Urdu is written mend ī in Sindhi.
2 Derryl McLean, Religion and Society in Arab Sindh, Leiden, Brill, 1990.
3 This assumption is mostly expressed by Ism ā`‘ ī l ī scholars, but Annemarie Schimmel took it as
granted (Sindhi Literature, Wiesbaden, Otto Harrassowitz, 1974, pp. 4–5).
4 Ziyā al-D ī n Baran ī, Tār īkh-i F īr ūzsh āh ī, Calcutta, Bibliotheca Indica, 1862, p. 27.
5 Qā z ị̄ Qā zan,
̣ Q āz ̣ī Q āzan
̣ jo kal ām, ed. H ī ro Thakur, Dehl ī, P ūjā Publikeshans, 1978.
6 The doh ā is made of two verses with two hemistichs each, the first and fourth rhyme together,
while in the sorath ā, the first and third hemistichs rhyme together.
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̣ ̣
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32
A SUFISM FOR OUR TIME
The Egyptian society for spiritual and cultural
research
Valerie J. Hoffman
Introduction
The numerous violent attacks on Sufi mosques and shrines across the Muslim world in recent
years are only the latest assault on Sufis and Sufism in the modern period.1 Modernists and
secularists criticize Sufism as superstitious, backward, and irrational; Salafis condemn Sufis as
unbelievers. Government agencies have sometimes advocated promoting Sufism as an anti-
dote to Salafism,2 but not all who oppose Salafism would embrace Sufism, and Sufism has not
always been pacifistic or apolitical. Indeed, among the responses to attacks on Sufi shrines in
Egypt in 2011 were the formation of Sufi political parties and calls for Sufi militias to guard
the shrines.3 Nonetheless, Sufis point out the contrast between their focus on inner transfor-
mation and the Salafi resort to legalism and force.4 Furthermore, some Sufis have ventured
far beyond the common boundaries of Sufi thought to advocate new ways of thinking about
religious identity and its role in society. And despite Salafism’s significant victories in recent
decades, Sufism remains a potent force in society with continued appeal.5
This chapter analyzes the Egyptian Society for Spiritual and Cultural Research (ESSCR),
which is not a Sufi order but is founded on the basis of the teachings of a Sufi spiritualist,
Rā fi‘ Mu ḥammad Rā fi‘ (Rafea Mohammed Rafea, 1903–1970). It is currently led by his
eldest son, Dr. A ḥ mad ‘Abd al-Wāḥ id Rā fi‘ (known as Sayyid or Master Ali Rafea), a pro-
fessor of engineering at the American University in Cairo, while two of his sisters, Dr. Aliaa
Rafea, a professor of anthropology at ‘Ain Shams University,6 and Aisha Rafea, a journalist,
lead a women’s section. Aliaa and Aisha are prolific writers who have been interviewed in
the Egyptian media and have participated in international conferences.
The Egyptian society for spiritual and cultural

research: description
The ESSCR describes its mission as follows:7
Emanating from the belief that people are spiritual beings with material bodies, the
Egyptian Society for Spiritual and Cultural Research directs its efforts to awaken this
consciousness among people by propagating spiritual knowledge that people need in
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every culture and religion. We strive to learn from any source of spiritual knowledge
(ma ṣdar ma‘rif ī ), old or new, eastern or western, that offers people knowledge about
themselves as spiritual beings and about humanity’s highest goal in life and the cor-
responding moral path according to which we should live. We find the roots of this
knowledge in:
• the natural religions (al-diyān āt al- ṭabī‘iyya)

• the heavenly religions; and
• human experiences in different cultures and beliefs
Among the fundamental understandings and beliefs of the ESSCR are the following:
• People cannot benefit from religious teachings until they develop and purify
their intellect, heart and body.
• Connection to the sacred inside oneself yields harmony with the spirit of all
sacred teachings.
• A person’s spiritual development is reflected in daily life, coloring it with peace,
love, and service.
• All heavenly and natural messages provide spiritual training that helps develop
consciousness of one’s spiritual nature.
• All spiritual messages came to free people from illusions (awh ām) that can ob-
struct spiritual development.
• All spiritual messages encourage people to live a life of justice and equality.
• There is support for the aforementioned points in the teachings of Islam.
Corresponding to these understandings are moral principles:
• Every person has the freedom and right to choose a path for spiritual development.
• No one has the right to judge other people’s beliefs or to impose any particular
belief on others.
• The followers of any particular religion have no right to feel superior to others.
The ESSCR emphasizes religious pluralism and interfaith cooperation. Its primary teaching
is that all religions, even polytheistic ones, have as their source and focus the same absolute
Reality, and that the purpose of all revelations is to experience and act in harmony with the
element of divinity that is within each person. All religions grew out of the one primordial
religion (dīn al-fi ṭra), but have deviated from the truth because of legalism, dogmatism, and
ethnocentrism—not because of wrong theology.
Activities of the ESSCR include regular meetings for prayer, Sufi dhikr, teaching, study,
and discussion; the publication of books and journals; and organizing conferences. The
ESSCR offers a “spiritual training system,” and also has a children’s program. The group has
centers in many major Egyptian cities, including Cairo, Helwan, Alexandria, and Aswan. It
describes itself as subscribing to a path that has been followed since the beginning of creation.
The group’s website outlines four phases in its development, beginning with the life of
Sayyid Rafea Muhammad Rafea. In typical hagiographic fashion, Sayyid Rafea’s online bi-
ography stresses his good family and his descent from the Prophet. When Sayyid Rafea was
only 20 days old, he could focus on his mother’s face. He was “a distinguished child, bright,
sensitive and peaceful.” His mother noticed that there was something special about the boy,
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Valerie J. Hoffman
so she treated him with special care. “Since his early childhood and throughout his earthly
life, he was a person who respected the intellect and the independence of the personality.
He strove to serve [people], driven by love and purity [in his dealings with] all.” He chose
law as his profession in order to defend the rights of the working classes who struggled for a
dignified life. In the 1920s and 1930s he participated in politics, with the intention of freeing
Egypt from British imperialism. However, he became disillusioned with the lack of altruism
among politicians, and abandoned politics for humanitarian and spiritual work.8
Sayyid Rafea married a descendant of Rifā‘a al-Ṭahṭāw ī who was also, like him, a descen-
dant of the Prophet. The website tells us, “On the first day after his marriage, Rafea felt a
new birth” and “understood that his wife had a spiritual role in this transformation. Since
then he started observing his prayers,” although until that time his observance had been ir-
regular. “He abruptly cut himself off from his social commitments and had a great desire to
meditate and evaluate the meaning of life.” He began to have regular visionary experiences,
including one in which a jewel bearing the inscription bism Allah al-rahman al-rahim (“In the
name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful”) descended upon him from heaven and
penetrated his heart. When he awoke, he found his heart calling the name of Allah and a
fragrant scent emanating from his hand, which remained for several days. Learning through
visions became a common practice for him.
And so, according to the ESSCR website, Sayyid Rafea
found himself on the Sufi path, which encourages people to purify their souls in order
to receive God’s words with all their being and to hear them from within the heart and
live them in a life overflowing with love for all members of the human family.
In words that reflect awareness of Sufism’s critics, the website clarifies, “When we speak of
Sufism, we speak of the shaykhs who had awareness of this aspect, such as Ibn al-‘Arabī, Ibn
‘Aṭā’ Allāh, and others; we do not speak of those who are Sufi only in appearance.” A vision-
ary experience led Sayyid Rafea to an illiterate Shādhil ī ascetic, Mu ḥammad ‘Abd al-Wāḥ id,
who denied his worthiness to be Rafea’s teacher, claiming that he himself was destined for
hellfire, whereas Rafea was a descendant of the Prophet and had an unattainable spiritual
level. “But now that I have met you,” he said, “you are my savior. Let us take an oath that
whichever one of us is saved will help the other and save him.” The shaykh moved into
Rafea’s home in Helwan and told his disciples that Rafea would renew the order.
A new phase in Sayyid Rafea’s spiritual life came when he attended a meeting of a spiri-
tualist association9 led by Sayyid A ḥ mad Abū ’l-Khayr, where a Native American spirit guide
named Silver Birch spoke through a medium named Sayyid Mu ḥammad ‘Īd Ghar īb. Silver
Birch was made famous through Hannen Swaffer’s home circle in London in the early twen-
tieth century,10 where Maurice Barbanell served as the medium. According to Sayyid Rafea’s
biography, Silver Birch appointed him leader of the group. The ESSCR website says that
Rafea found that Silver Birch’s guidance “was in harmony with the spirit and essence of all
heavenly and natural ( fi ṭr ī ) spiritual messages,” whose teachings had been changed by their
followers into fixed ideas, practices, and traditions that led to factionalism and fanaticism.
According to Sayyid Rafea, Master Silver Birch said:
We strive to clarify the sound religious foundations on which connections (raw ābiṭ)
must be based between people and their Lord and between a man and his brother in
humanity. We bring you back to the fi ṭra from which sprang all the heavenly religions
and from which all godly truths are derived…. The hearts of those of us who are in the
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world of the spirit (‘ālam al-r ūḥ) are filled with sadness and grief because of those who
pass their earthly lives without filling their quivers with goodness and sound deeds in
preparation for what they will encounter in the world of the spirit, where happiness and
rest are for the righteous person who does good, and misery and pain are for the corrupt
who immerse themselves in evil.11
Despite the prevalence of visions and visionary contact in Egyptian Sufism,12 Sayyid Rafea’s
adherence to the teachings of a spirit guide who allegedly had numerous earthly lives but
chose to identify himself through the Native American identity he had had three thousand
years earlier may be somewhat surprising. As Jane Smith13 pointed out, Egypt was the center
of Islamic spiritualist interpretation for over a century. Drawing on the ideas of European
and American spiritualists of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Egyptian spiritu-
alists argued that spiritualism is empirically proven by its practitioners’ experiments and that
it is compatible with the teachings of Islam. Mu ḥammad Far īd Wajd ī, editor of the news-
paper Al-Ḥayāt and publisher of the journal of al-Azhar, the leading institution of Islamic
education in Egypt, believed in spiritualism. Statements by prominent scholars of al-Azhar
in the mid-twentieth century, such as Egypt’s mufti (1946–1950 and 1952–1954), Shaykh
Mu ḥammad Ḥasanayn Makhlū f, are seen as supportive of spiritualism.
Nonetheless, Shaykh ‘Abd al-Wāḥ id was displeased with Sayyid Rafea’s turn toward spiri-
tualism, and the group that had formed around the two men split over this issue. Sayyid Rafea
formed a new group in the early 1950s, the Islamic Spiritual Society (al-Jam‘iyya ’l-Islāmiyya ’l-
R ūḥiyya), which observed Sufi practices while also being open to spiritual connection and the
organization of contemplative sessions. Rafea believed that spiritual connection
frees the spirit from the prison of matter so it can travel into the infinite realm of God
Almighty. It is God’s hand extended to free these minds, souls and spirits from the pris-
ons of their phantoms (ashb āḥ), to remove the veil from them so they can understand
previously hidden matters in their present and future, and by this to open to them the
way to happiness.14
Spiritualism, he said, doesn’t bring a new message, rituals or organization of information;

rather, it awakens the mind to the pure truth that all the prophets had brought, “knowledge
about God and understanding in Him, about Him, with Him and from Him.” The Islamic
Spiritual Society also offered free spiritual healing services through a healing spirit named
White Eagle; spiritual lodges channeling the power of White Eagle continue to exist in
England, Australia, and the United States.15 Sayyid Rafea believed that Islam is a message
of love that embraces all of humanity without distinctions based on religious affiliation. It is
perhaps noteworthy that Sayyid Rafea’s biography is included in a collection of spiritualist
stories published in English in 2008.16
Sayyid Rafea died in July 1970, designating his son A ḥ mad, known as Sayyid ‘Ali Rafea,
as his successor, and so the group entered its third phase. For six years the group continued
to receive guidance from Silver Birch through the medium Mu ḥammad ‘Īd Ghar īb. Silver
Birch asked the members of the group to renew their oath to Sayyid Ali as their leader. Ali
Rafea accepted the role in a limited fashion, rejecting the traditional role of shaykh:
We gather in God’s remembrance in order to give the chance to our hearts to gain life,
our souls to get purified, and for our minds to learn. We have been learning in this path
that all humans are connected by a sacred bond. No one should assume superiority over
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Valerie J. Hoffman
others. We repeatedly stress this. He who looks for an idol to worship, someone whom
he regards as an ultimate superior, this is NOT the path for him. We are all here because
we all exert ourselves, try our best, and are always in search for the Truth.17
Hence, the traditional Sufi shaykh-disciple relationship was eliminated. When Mu ḥammad
‘Īd Ghar īb died in 1976 and no new medium emerged to take his place, connection with the
spirits of the deceased ceased. The group now focused on teaching sessions (called sessions of
reflection/contemplation, jalasāt ta’ammul) and Sufi dhikr.
In 1980, when the Egyptian state passed new laws regarding voluntary associations,
Sayyid Ali registered the group as the ESSCR (Al-Jam‘iyya ’l-Mi ṣriyya li-’l-Buḥūth al-R ūḥiyya
wa-’l-Thaqāfa). The group describes the subject of its research as the teachings of various re-
ligions, with the aim to demonstrate that all religions manifest, in diverse forms, the single
primordial religion (dīn al-fi ṭra) that guides humanity toward harmony with the Supreme
Power and the Eternal Laws of Life. Surrender to this law enables the individual to purify the
soul, reach his or her spiritual potential, and be open to love, which is the foundation of life.
Ali, Aliaa, and Aisha Rafea have jointly written several books in both English and Arabic:
1 Beyond Diversities: Reflections on Revelations18: This book expounds on the meaning of

the one primordial religion and includes foundational texts from various religious tra-
ditions, including ancient Egyptian religion, Taoism, Hinduism, Buddhism, Judaism,
Christianity, and Islam, demonstrating how each faith tradition serves the purpose of
the primordial religion. The authors assert that Islam in particular reveals that purifica-
tion is possible through the grace of Allah; remembering God’s mercy and seeking it is a
way of purification. The authors write that the manner in which we live our earthly life
affects our existence in the afterlife. Through love, an individual may become a channel
for the higher power and experience the divine from within.
2 Islam, from Adam to Muhammad and Beyond19: This book aims to demonstrate that the
message of the single primordial religion is fully manifest in the teaching of the Prophet
Mu ḥammad, which is a universal message intended for the whole world while respect-
ing diversity as a fundamental law of existence (a sunna) and freedom of belief as an es-
sential right. The universality of Islam, according to the authors, is not meant to cancel
the diversity of religions or impose a single form of religious practice on all of humanity.
Rather, it is a call to awaken the common spiritual root of humanity and bring harmony
with the Eternal Law of Life. The authors demonstrate this by quoting a multitude of
Qur’ānic verses and hadiths. They assert that the word isl ām in the Qur’ān does not refer
exclusively to the practices of the followers of Mu ḥammad, but means the submission
to the Supreme Power that is called for by all religious traditions. Thus they distinguish
faith, which is a positive value, from dogma, which constricts the spirit and promotes
intolerance. The book also shows how the pillars of Islam constitute a spiritual training
system entirely conducive to these goals, describing the spiritual meaning behind each
of the practices, such as facing the direction of the Ka‘ba in prayer (the qibla) and ritu-
als of the pilgrimage to Mecca, including the circumambulation of the Ka‘ba ( ṭaw āf ),
jogging (sa‘y) between the hills of Ṣafā and Marwa, animal sacrifice, and stoning the
pillars that represent Ibl īs (Satan)—all are intended to purify the soul. The book ex-
plains that the Qur’ān speaks positively of the diversity in creation and in humanity and
calls people to recognize the oneness of humanity and practice justice and mercy with
each other. No gender is superior to another either, they assert, for the Qur’ān affirms
that all human beings are from a single origin.20 The authors argue that the shar ī ‘a does
478
not impose rigid roles to be literally or strictly followed; the husband’s responsibility to
provide for the family is meant to allow the wife to rest during the rigors of pregnancy,
nursing, and childcare, not to imprison women in domestic roles or to humiliate them.
3 Al-Isl ām: Kayf nuslim li-qān ūn al- ḥayāt, an anthology of Ali Rafea’s Friday sermons21: Au-
dio recordings of Ali Rafea’s weekly sermons are posted online on the group’s website
and on Ali Rafea’s Facebook page.
4 Tanzīl il āhī wa-mafāhīm bashariyya: āfāq bi-l ā ḥud ūd (Divine Revelation and Human Un-
derstandings: Unlimited Horizons)22: This book presents the authors’ views on verses
that, they say, “have used for fifteen centuries to transform worship into mere forms
(ashk āl), the world into an enemy, and the shar ī ‘a into rules and punishments.” They
affirm that Islam is a religion of mercy and love, a way to purify the heart from moral
defects and the intellect from fanaticism, to promote spiritual development at the level
of the individual, justice at the level of society, and peace and love globally. The authors
reject any orientation that claims to have the best understanding or to articulate absolute
truth; rather, the Qur’ānic text and the Sunna of the Prophet are open to unlimited, rich
understandings.
5 Aisha Rafea also wrote a book titled Kun nafsak, takun sa‘ īd (Be Yourself and You’ll Be
Happy), which advocates the view that anyone can choose happiness by getting in touch
with her true, inner self and by training her thoughts to be constructive, good, and
creative while abandoning self-blame, turning toward the tools of development.23
In addition to the Friday prayer meetings and sermons, there are women’s meetings at which
Aliaa Rafea gives teachings, assisted by Aisha. There is no sexual segregation, and quite a few
men attend the women’s meeting. The meeting that I attended in 2008 was striking for the age
range of those in attendance, from young to old. Most of the attendees wore Western dress, but
an older man in a traditional white robe sat in the middle and paid rapt attention to the teaching,
which was critical of those who wish to impose gender inequality based on interpretations of the
Qur’ān and Sunna. At all ESSCR meetings, anyone present may ask questions and voice opin-
ions. At monthly meetings, members present the results of their research on different spiritual
cultures. The group welcomes speakers from different religious traditions, including groups that
are typically shunned by Muslims such as the Baha’is. They produce an electronic journal in
Arabic and English under the title “A Road Home” (Ṭar īq ilā ’l-bayt, www.aroadhome.org), and
an Arabic print and electronic journal titled Steps on the Road (Kha ṭaw āt ‘al ā ’l- ṭar īq) (www.
stepsontheroad.org).
Aliaa Rafea, leader of the women’s group, is extraordinarily active in multiple fora, both
in Egypt and abroad, speaking in conferences of the Parliament of the World’s Religions,
international Sufi conferences, and conferences that focus on women’s rights and develop-
ment. With three other women (one Christian and two Jewish, including a former lieutenant
in the Israeli air force), she wrote a book titled The Root of All Evil: An Exposition of Preju-
dice, Fundamentalism and Gender Imbalance.24 Each of the four authors wrote an introduction
to explain what led her to the writing of this book. In her self-introduction, Aliaa recalls
that fundamentalism was unknown in the Egypt of her youth, and that, in contrast to the
anti-Semitism so prevalent in Egypt in later decades, Jews were friends and neighbors who
were “praised for their honesty and good service.” In the early seventies, she and her hus-
band lived in Wales. When they returned to Egypt, they were shocked to find a country in
which Salafi interpretations of Islam had come to prevail, a form of religiosity that, from her
perspective, emphasized form at the expense of meaning. She felt that the new veil (ḥijāb)
that was popular among female students represented an artificial and rigid type of religiosity
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Valerie J. Hoffman
that sought to impose a particular mindset on other people. “It became my major interest,”
she wrote, “to remove those false barriers that separate our human family, and to build ties
of love between humans everywhere.”25
In a talk delivered in 2010 at Egypt’s National Center for Sociological and Criminolog-
ical Research, Aliaa spoke about women’s head coverings. In the l970s and early 1980s, she
said, young women wore the ḥijāb as an expression of religious commitment in response to
their alienation from a society whose values had changed dramatically as a result of Sadat’s
Open Door policy. But today the vast majority of women and girls cover their head, so the
ḥijāb no longer has this symbolic value, hence the turn to the face veil (niqāb). The niqāb,
she argued, is not only a security risk; it also promotes the idea that a woman’s entire body
is pudendal (‘awra).26 It diminishes a woman’s self-esteem, she said, and prevents her from
taking a leading role in society. She argued that the entire trend toward preoccupation with
the external trappings of religiosity at the expense of Islam’s spiritual core has produced
such social ills as drug use and corruption, as well as psychological ills such as aimlessness
and nihilism. We need, she said, to renew the reformist orientation of Rifā‘a al-Ṭahṭāw ī and
Mu ḥammad ‘Abduh, to go back to our roots, understand our history, and reconnect with
genuine spirituality.27
The ESSCR in the context of Egypt and global Islam: analysis

The ideas of the ESSCR may critically engage common perceptions in Egypt, but there is no
sense that its members are alienated from the Egyptian mainstream. When Aliaa was nomi-
nated for membership in the Egyptian Association of Women Writers, she was interviewed
by the women’s magazine Ḥaww ā’, which described her as “a very distinctive woman who
has a different and enlightened point of view.”28
The fact that the ESSCR has chosen to publish in English, sometimes even before pub-
lishing in Arabic, is an indication of its self-perception as part of an international cohort of
people who are both socially active and spiritually oriented. In this vein, Aliaa Rafea has
also co-edited, with two other women, A Force Such as the World Has Never Known: Women
Creating Change, a collection of 28 first-person accounts by women from a variety of faith
backgrounds and from countries all over the globe, who rescue, teach, and empower women
and girls.29 Each of them speaks from a perspective of spirituality in action and refers to the
Divine Feminine.
Another of ‘Aliaa’s initiatives is Mu’assasat al-ban ā’ al-insān ī wa-l-tanmiya (The Foundation
of Human Growth and Development, officially translated as the Human Foundation), a
non-profit organization that engages in social, economic, and political research, conducts
training, fosters social entrepreneurship projects, and organizes lectures and conferences
with titles such as “Women Gathering for Change: Envisioning Ways to Create a Healthier
Future.”30 This foundation has also published some of the Rafea siblings’ books.
It may seem at this point that we have ventured rather far from the typical concerns of
Sufism, and indeed the Sufi dimension is not always evident in the ESSCR’s teachings.
While the focus of the group is spiritual, its leaders do not hesitate to comment on questions
of Qur’ānic interpretation, the application of the shar ī ‘a, and a Muslim’s social responsi-
bilities. The Sufi dimension is nonetheless evident in its practices of dhikr and meditation,
as well as in the group’s interpretation of the spiritual meaning of Islamic rituals and its
emphasis on the need to purify the soul in order to perceive the divine light. Its pluralistic
orientation resembles that of some Sufi groups in the West such as the Bawa Muhaiyaddeen
Fellowship in Philadelphia, 31 and is in keeping with the phenomenon that Sedgwick calls
480
“eclectic Islam.”32 On the University of Illinois campus at Urbana-Champaign, a Qadiri

shaykh from India leads weekly sessions of spiritual music from all religious traditions, and
his website denies attachment to any religious tradition,33 which contrasts with the ESSCR’s
explicitly Islamic orientation. The promotion of world peace has sometimes been featured at
international Sufi conferences, such as the “Sufi and Global Peace” conference held in Fez,
Morocco in April 2017, and the World Sufi Forum, which was inaugurated in New Delhi by
Prime Minister Narendra Modi in March 2016 as a “global forum for peace, tolerance and
unconditional love.” The International Sufi School of Peace and Service, headquartered in
Pout, Senegal, with satellites in Mauritius and Senegal, also links Sufism, peace, and devel-
opment. The promotion of world peace and mutual understanding is clearly an integral part
of ESSCR’s approach, and Aliaa’s Human Foundation’s foray into developmental projects is
another example of the linkage of a pluralistic Sufi vision with social activism.
The ESSCR is far from alone in its stance against dogmatism, authoritarianism, and
interpretative rigidity—indeed, this is a hallmark of contemporary Muslim thought that
has been called “progressive.”34 Many contemporary Muslim thinkers have grappled with
the issues of dogmatism, authoritarianism, and interpretative rigidity that they perceive as
causes of conflict and human rights abuses in the Muslim world. Farid Esack, a professor of
Islamic studies at the University of Johannesburg, has suggested bold new interpretations of
īm ān (faith or faithfulness), isl ām (submission to God), and kufr (unbelief or ingratitude) that
prioritize the linkage of faith with the struggle for social justice rather than doctrine. He
simultaneously narrows and widens the boundaries of these categories, which he describes
as personal qualities that increase and decrease, not indelible social labels: he places nominal
Muslims who fail to struggle for social justice in the category of kufr, which he defines as ar-
rogant rejection of the truth rather than cognitive “unbelief,” but he includes non-Muslims
who submit to God and struggle for justice within the categories of īm ān and isl ām.35
Esack and other contemporary thinkers, such as the late Egyptian scholar Na ṣr Ḥā mid
Abū Zayd (1943–2010), the Iranian reform leader Abdolkarim Soroush, and the Egyptian-
American legal scholar Khaled Abou El Fadl, emphasize the limitations of the medium of
language in conveying God’s intentions in the Qur’ān and the role of the interpreter’s histor-
ical and cultural context in determining the meaning of the text.36 They argue that only God
has the authority to know absolute truth, so the interpretive process can never be closed.
Such views are not without controversy: Abū Zayd’s marriage was nullified by an Egyptian
family court on the grounds that his views were tantamount to apostasy, and threats to his
life forced him and his wife into exile.37 Abdolkarim Soroush has offered the boldest inter-
pretation of the role of the Prophet, and hence of his cultural context, in the production of
the Qur’ān; revelation, he says, is inspiration, which came from the Prophet’s self, although
unlike most people, the Prophet actualized the divine potential of his self. The notion of the
divine potential in the human being and the perfection of the Prophet’s realization of that
potential are familiar themes in Sufi thought, most commonly associated with the school of
Ibn al-‘Arabī (1165–1240) but ubiquitous in Sufi literature. Hence, Soroush draws from Sufi
and Shi‘i teachings, as well as Mu‘tazili rationalism,38 in his explanation of the process of
divine revelation. He also argues that the unavoidability of a plurality of religious interpre-
tations, conceptions, and sects implies that “this plurality is itself desirable. Maybe rightful
guidance is broader than we had imagined. Maybe salvation and felicity hinge on something
else, something beyond these antagonistic and divisive dogmas and particular conceptions.”39
Abū Zayd’s perspectives on Qur’ānic interpretation were also informed by Sufi and
Mu‘tazili views. He wrote his M.A. thesis on Mu‘tazili interpretation of the Qur’ān and his
doctoral dissertation on Ibn al-‘Arabī’s views on open communication between God and
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human beings, and acknowledges these influences on his methodology.40 Khaled Abou El
Fadl likewise insists on the need to revive Mu‘tazili rationalism and also evinces a Sufi per-
spective on the relationship between God and humanity. He writes,
In order to create an adequate potential for the realization of a human rights commit-
ment in Islam, it is important to visualize God as beauty and goodness, and that engag-
ing in a collective enterprise of beauty and goodness, with humanity at large, is part of
realizing the divine in human life.41
Hence, justice and mercy are central to Islam. He draws on the Qur’ān’s celebration and
sanctification of human diversity and its emphasis on the attainment of righteousness by
competing for goodness, along with the Mu‘tazili view that we innately know right from
wrong. Despite the fallibility of human interpretation, Abou El Fadl states that the dignity
of all human beings derives from the human intellect, which he calls “the microcosm of the
abilities of the divine itself ”; hence, human beings are a (potential) symbol of divinity42—
another echo of Sufi ideas.
I mention these other thinkers to demonstrate the extent to which the ESSCR’s approach
is in synergy with that of other progressive Muslim thinkers, and thus is part of a broader
trend. Like Abū Zayd, Soroush, and Abou El Fadl, the ESSCR embraces a combination of
Sufism and rationalism that enables them to reject dogmatism, to find in the concept of the
universal primordial religion a ground for the acceptance of all religions, and to embrace a
Sufi humility and enlightenment that provide the grounds for peace. They employ a com-
bination of new interpretations of the Qur’ān and Sunna and Sufi spirituality to create a
spiritual system that promises the regeneration of the self in a divine mold, which enables
them to engage with others in a spirit not only of peace but also of love.
Finally, I would like to address the question of the relevance of the ESSCR’s approach
for contemporary society. Egyptian society, and Arab society in general, has become much
more complex and differentiated over the last few decades; we see simultaneous trends to-
ward hardened Salafism and bold new interpretations of Islam. Toward the end of his book,
Islamism: A History of Political Islam, Egyptian journalist Tarek Osman evaluates the future of
Islamism in the Arab world. He writes:
Across the Arab world, demographics, economics and urbanization are increasingly trans-
forming lives. Not many young Arabs are willing to accept blind obedience to authority,
whether religious or secular… . Across the Arab world, we are now seeing large groups
of young Muslims who are increasingly open to innovative understandings of Islam.
There is a notable revival of Sufism in North Africa and the Gulf. Many youth groups,
in countless internet chatrooms and on Facebook pages, are discovering marginal (often
esoteric) schools of Islamic theology. Some are coming up with their own interpretations
of what Islam as a faith means to them. Religious groups that aim to play a leading role
in their countries’ public lives… need to be open to different ideas and flexible in the way
they respond to people and groups with whom they disagree on key issues such as belief.
Backward-looking frames of reference will clash with a forward-looking creativity that
is trying to merge the old with the new. The more the Islamists cling to a victimization
narrative, coalesce around a desire for revenge and demonize large social groups, the more
they return to their ideological origins and the more they become detached from some of
the most interesting developments in Islamic theology.43
482
If Osman is right, then the approach of the ESSCR may fit in well with the orientation
and aspirations of many educated youths in Egypt: it has abandoned the traditional shaykh-
disciple relationship and all authoritarian forms of leadership; it espouses a humble, open
spiritual orientation that stands in stark contrast to the sometimes violent self-righteousness
and exclusivism of Salafis, bearing the hallmarks of genuine spirituality and avoiding all
forms of hypocrisy; it engages thoughtfully with the Islamic intellectual tradition in a way
that is consistent with the best aspects of Islamic modernism and contemporary progressive
interpretations; and it promotes a social activism that deals with the real problems of poverty
and social inequality in Egypt. For all these reasons, it offers an alternative that appeals to ed-
ucated Muslims seeking to practice Islam in ways that are spiritually satisfying and authentic
and interprets Islam in ways that affirm modern liberal values. The spiritualist dimensions
of the group’s origins are not denied, but neither are they practiced; spiritualism, which ap-
pealed to many educated Egyptians in the early and mid-twentieth century, does not, to my
knowledge, resonate strongly with educated Egyptians today. Spiritualism’s implicit accep-
tance of the transmigration of souls also opens it to accusations of blasphemy.44
On the other hand, ESSCR’s language, platform, and pluralism allow it to link to simi-
larly socially active, progressive forms of spirituality all around the world, without becoming
a satellite of Western organizations. In an increasingly globalized world in which no culture
is an island, this is likely to enhance the group’s legitimacy and prestige, as we have seen
in Aliaa and Aisha Rafea’s numerous interviews and appearances in the Egyptian media.
Although Ali Rafea is the acknowledged leader of the group, and his teachings are more
readily available on YouTube, it is these two sisters who have been sought out by public or-
ganizations of various types to articulate the application of their spiritual view to the social
issues of today. This interesting confluence of Islam, universal spirituality, social activism,
and feminism will never become a mass, popular movement, but it can certainly serve the
aspirations of a significant segment of educated Egyptians.
Conclusion
The ESSCR is an example of a number of trends in contemporary Islam that are marginal
in terms of the broader Muslim society but are nonetheless significant in certain sectors
of society. The first of these is a form of Sufism that is both eclectic and pluralistic. This
type of Sufism is most evident in the West, but it is also evident in numerous Muslim-
majority countries. Sedgwick describes it as “a modern form of subjectivity construction”
that reinterprets Islamic traditions “to incorporate globally relevant social imaginaries.”45
The ESSCR’s focus on research into humanity’s diverse spiritual, religious, and cultural
experiences and their invitations to members of other religious communities to speak to
them reflect a commitment to religious pluralism that reflects deep engagement, not just
theoretical acceptance.
A second trend that the ESSCR embodies, and which remains a minority position but
is increasingly common among highly educated contemporary Muslims, is the recognition
of the role of the reader in determining the meaning of texts, the importance of situating
texts and their interpretation within their historical contexts, and a rejection of authoritar-
ian usurpation of the authority to definitively determine the meaning of texts. The Rafea
siblings’ book, Tanzīl il āhī wa-mafāhīm bashariyya: āfāq bi-l ā ḥud ūd (Divine Revelation and
Human Understandings: Unlimited Horizons), explicitly takes a position that we find in the
works of a number of contemporary progressive Muslim thinkers such as Nasr Abū Zayd,
Farid Esack, Khaled Abou El Fadl, and Abdolkarim Soroush.
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Valerie J. Hoffman
Finally, the ESSCR embodies the modern insistence on social relevance and responsi-
bility. This was evident in the teachings of the ESSCR from the beginning, and indeed in
the teachings of Sayyid Rafea beforehand, but is most explicitly expressed in Aliaa Rafea’s
founding of the Human Foundation.
The Rafea siblings represent a generation that came of age under the socialism of Gamal
Abdul Nasser; it is, perhaps, not surprising that they emphasize social development proj-
ects. On the other hand, Aisha Rafea’s book, Kun nafsak takun sa‘ īd (Be Yourself, You’ll Be
Happy), reflects an emphasis on psychological health and individual spirituality that is dis-
tinctly modern. Although the majority of Muslims continue to follow traditional modes of
thought, Osman’s words are just one testimony among others that some young Muslims are
looking for new ways of understanding their faith. With its combination of spirituality, plu-
ralism, intellectualism, individualism, and social responsibility, the ESSCR is a thoroughly
modern creation, a Sufism that is oriented toward today’s globalized society—in short, a
Sufism for our time.
Notes
1 B. Ibrahim, “Salafi Intolerance Threatens Sufis,” The Guardian, May 10, 2010; S. Fayed and A.
Youssef, “Egypt’s Sufis See Islamist Threat after Mubarak,” Daily News Egypt, June 15, 2011; Re-
uters, “Libyan Islamists Raze Sufi Sites in Bold Attacks,” The New York Times, August 25, 2012;
S. Ward, “The Battle of the Shrines,” Foreign Policy, September 12, 2012; R. Schiffman, “The
Islamic Extremist War against the Sufis,” HuffPost, December 2, 2012; Associated Press, “Gang
of Masked Men Set Fire to Muslim Saint’s Shrine in Tunisia, Hardline Islamists Suspected,” The
Washington Post, October 16, 2012; F. Bhutto, “ISIS Hates Our Saint Because He Belongs to Ev-
eryone,” The New York Times, February 23, 2017; D. Walsh and N. Youssef, “Militants Kill 305
at Sufi Mosque in Egypt’s Deadliest Terrorist Attack,” November 24, 2017; H. A. Hellyer, “The
Dangerous Myths about Sufi Muslims,” The Atlantic, November 27, 2017; J. Khalil, “Egyptian Sufi
Community a Target for Extremists,” The National, November 28, 2017; A. Alfoneh, “Violence
against Sufis Reflects Intolerance of Islamic Republic,” The Arab Republic, April 3, 2018; D. Stout,
“Pakistan’s Sufi Music Fights to be Heard after Singer’s Killing,” AFP, May 8, 2018.
2 J. Casper, “Is Sufism Answer to Extremism in Egypt?” Al-Monitor, April 28, 2017; W. Hussein,
“Cairo Looks to Sufi Sheikhs to Counter Extremism,” Al-Monitor, March 18, 2018.
3 “Egypt’s Sufis to Form Popular Committees for Self-Defence,” Ahram Online, April 1, 2013;
“Contested Sufi Electoral Parties: The Voice of Freedom Party and the Liberation of Egypt
Party,” Islamopedia (online), 2012; K. Deasy, “The Sufis’ Choice: Egypt’s Political Wild Card,”
World Affairs, September/October 2012; A. Fouad, “Sufis Look for a Political Role in Egypt,” Al-
Monitor, November 20, 2014.
4 V. J. Hoffman, Sufism, Mystics and Saints in Modern Egypt (Columbia: University of South Carolina
Press, 1995), pp. 361–362.
5 A. Hossein, “Sufi Orders: A Vital Part of Egyptian Society,” Ahram Online, October 9, 2012; Y.
El-Beikh, “Egypt’s Millennials Turn to Sufism,” Al-Monitor, July 11, 2018.
6 Parenthetically, we may note that Aliaa is the wife of Dr. Adel el-Beltagy, the Egyptian Minister
of Agriculture since June 2014.
7 http://ar.aroadhome.org/2013/06/blog-post.html.
8 www.esscr.org/m_rafea.htm.
9 By spiritualism, we mean not spirituality, but communication with the spirits of the dead.
10 On the controversial Frederick Charles Hannen Swaffer (1879–1962), see “Hannen Swaffer” in Wiki-
pedia. Some spiritualist websites with information on Silver Birch are https://goldenageofgaia.com/
the-2012-scenario/2012-history-4/silver-birchs-new-world-2/ and www.silverbirchpublishing.
co.uk/about.php. ESSCR’s Facebook page has some sayings of Silver Birch: www.facebook.com/
toaroadhome/photos/a.358319290935394.1073741828.358314017602588/410498055717517/?-
type=3&theater; www.facebook.com/toaroadhome/photos/a.358319290935394.1073741828.
358314017602588/410496802384309/?type=3&theater.
484
485
Valerie J. Hoffman
Scholars Press, 1998), pp. 89–122, and V. J. Hoffman, “Polemics on the Modesty and Segregation
of Women in Contemporary Egypt,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 19, 1 (1987): 23–50.
27 http://divinecontentment.blogspot.com/2010/05/blog-post.html.
28 Photographs of the Ḥaww ā’ article may be found on Aliaa’s website, https://plus.google.
com/110210228406172943261, posted on November 29, 2013.
29 A Force Such as the World Has Never Known: Women Creating Change, edited by S. G. Mijares, A.
Rafea and N. Angha (Toronto, ON: Inanna Publications, 2013).
30 The foundation’s website is http://hfegypt.org/hf/#, although many of the links seem not to be
operational. A number of videos have been posted on YouTube of their lectures: www.youtube.
com/user/thehumanfoundation11?feature=mhee. The group also has a Facebook page.
31 M. Hermansen, “Hybrid Identity Formations in Muslim America: The Case of American Sufi
Movements,” The Muslim World 90 (2000): 158–197.
32 M. Sedgwick, “Eclectic Sufism in the Contemporary Arab World,” Tidsskrift for Islamforskning 11,
1 (2017): 65–82.
33 http://gentlesufimusic.com/our-music/.
34 Progressive Muslims entered mainstream discourse on Islam in the West with the publication of
O. Safi’s edited collection, Progressive Muslims on Justice, Gender, and Pluralism (Oxford: Oneworld,
2003). For an excellent overview and analysis of the characteristics of progressive Muslim thought,
see A. Duderija, The Imperatives of Progressive Islam (London: Routledge, 2017).
35 F. Esack, Qur’an, Liberation and Pluralism (Oxford: Oneworld, 1997), pp. 114–44.
36 Ibid., 49–63; N. Abū Zayd, Mafh ūm al-na ṣṣ: dirāsa f ī ‘ul ūm al-Qur’ān (Cairo: Al-Hay’a ’l-Miṣriyya
’l-‘Ā mma li-’l-Kit āb, 1990); N. Abū Zayd, Naqd al-khiṭāb al-d īn ī (Cairo: S ī nā li-’l-Nashr, 1992);
A. Soroush, The Expansion of Prophetic Experience: Essays on Historicity, Contingency and Plurality in
Religion (Leiden: Brill, 2009); K. Abou El Fadl, Speaking in God’s Name: Islamic Law, Authority and
Women (Oxford: Oneworld, 2003).
37 Abū Zayd’s views on Qur’ā n interpretation and a brief account of his ordeal may be found in N.
Kermani, “From Revelation to Interpretation: Nasr Hamid Abu Zayd and the Literary Study of
the Qur’an,” in Modern Muslim Intellectuals and the Qur’an, ed. Suha Taji-Farouki (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2004), pp. 169–192.
38 Mu‘tazilism was an important theological school from the eighth through the early tenth centu-
ries, but in the dominant form of Sunni Islam it was sidelined by the mid-tenth century. Aspects
of Mu‘tazilism were preserved in the Twelver and Zayd ī sects of Sh ī ‘ism. A hallmark of Mu‘tazili
thought is an emphasis on the compatibility of reason and revelation, and hence the belief that
human beings can innately know right from wrong. This contrasts with the standard Sunni belief
in “ethical voluntarism,” meaning that it is God’s will that determines right from wrong, and this
is knowable to humankind only through divine revelation. Muslim reformists in the nineteenth
and twentieth centuries who wanted to revive Islamic rationalism sometimes cited the Mu‘tazili
heritage as an inspiration.
39 Soroush, The Expansion of Prophetic Experience, p. 132. See also Duderija’s summary of Soroush’s
ideas in The Imperatives of Progressive Islam, pp. 49–54, 60–67.
40 N. Abū Zayd and N. Kermani, Ein Leben mit dem Islam, translated by Chérifa Magdi (Freiburg:
Herder, 2015).
41 K. Abou El Fadl, “Human Rights Commitment in Islam,” in Wanted: Equality and Justice in the
Muslim Family, ed. Z. Anwar (Kuala Lumpur: Musawah Publications, 2009), pp. 113–179. See also
Duderija’s summary of this article in The Imperatives of Progressive Islam, pp. 112–116.
42 Ibid.
43 T. Osman, Islamism: A History of Political Islam from the Fall of the Ottoman Empire to the Rise of ISIS
(New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2016), 247–248.
44 In fact, someone wrote a denunciation of spiritualism on ESSCR’s Facebook page, calling it “a
satanic worship that makes all religions equal and believes in the transmigration of spirits.”
45 Sedgwick, “Eclectic Sufism in the Contemporary Arab World.”
486
33
SUFISM IN MODERN MOROCCO
Introduction
Morocco, a North-African country with nowadays an almost entire Muslim population, is
often said to have developed a “particular” type of Islam, a regional style that came to be
scholarly coined as “Moroccan Islam” and that was fundamentally marked by Sufism.1 This
chapter provides an overview of Moroccan Sufism, focusing mainly in modern times. The
chapter has been divided into two parts. The first part discusses the historical development of
Moroccan Sufism by: first, briefly assessing the main lines of development within Maghribi
Sufism since its inception and until 1830; second, looking at how did Colonialism affect the
development of Sufism and how the first indication of a Sufi demise appeared in the begin-
ning of the twentieth century with (a) the tragic case of the Katt ān īyya, and (b) the consoli-
dation of nationalist politics; and, third, I discuss what happened to Sufism after the country
gained independence in 1956. The second part explores the main elements that define Sufism
in Morocco today: (1) it argues that modern Sufism has become principally maraboutic in
nature, that is to say, less important in terms of religious organisations, yet significantly
relevant still in ritualistic terms, and to a certain extent beyond the world of the Orders.
Part of this culture is expressed in shrines visitation and in (2) the gift economy associated
with it. The chapter also provides an overview of the most important Sufi rituals (3) that
exist today, including an analysis of the widespread practice of trance and a discussion of the
modern adaptations of traditional practices. (4) It briefly introduces the musical dimension
of Moroccan Sufism. And, finally, (5) it discusses what some have called the “Sufi revival”,
a certain degree of success of organised Sufi religiosities since the decade of the 1980s, by
addressing the case of the Būdshish īyya. Overall, the chapter seeks to provide an overview
of the most important elements that have characterised Moroccan Sufism, past and present.
Part one: the history of Moroccan Sufism
Moroccan Sufism until 1830

Sufism entered the Maghrib late and at a slow pace, at the end of the tenth and beginning
of the eleventh century, with its first manifestations occurring only under Almoravid rule
487
(1040–1147), despite the strict anti-Sufi Malikism promoted by the rulers.2 It was under the
subsequent rule of the Almohads (1121–1269) that Sufis had better connections with rulers
and Sufism could flourish. From these days are some of the key figures of early Maghribi
Sufism such as Abū Madyan Shu‘aib bin al-Ḥusayn (d. 1198), his disciple Ibn Mash īsh al-
ʻAlam ī (d. 1227),3 and Ibn Mash īsh’s disciple, Abū al-Ḥasan al-Shādhil ī (d. 1258), founder
of the Shādhil īyya ṭar īqa, first “native” order to the region. Al-Shādhil ī’s centrality for
Moroccan Islam is evidenced in the character he impinged to the core identity of Maghribi
Sufism, that is: (a) emphasis on the application of sharia as fundamental requisite for spiritual
cognisance (kashf ), (b) stress on exerting an effort to control carnal appetites, yet not to the
point of advocating extreme asceticism or celibacy, and (c) performance of ritual gatherings
of a sober style, with little or no music or episodes of trance.4 Shādhil ī Sufism became par-
ticularly successful with the Jaz ū l īyya ṭar īqa, that by the time of its founder’s death in 1465
had around 12,000 devotees.5 Besides, the order became significant in that it used its wide
social support to legitimise, in religious terms, the access to power of the Sa’adi princes from
southern Morocco. Sharifism will become as a result a founding principle of Moroccan Islam
and of its politics, first inaugurated with the Sa’adi dynasty (1510–1659) and renovated by
their successors, the ‘Alawis (1659–present).
***
Two of the most important groups in the Moroccan Sufi scene appeared in the late eigh-
teenth and early nineteenth centuries, the Darqāwa and Tijān ī ways. The Darqāwas are a
branch of the Shādhil īyya founded by the followers of Abū Ḥā mid al-‘Arabī al-Darqāw ī
(d. 1823).6 The ṭar īqa was one of the most important ṭuruq in the country until independence,
with an equally large following in the Western Algerian region of Tlemcen; during the
eighteenth century it also expanded to the rest of North Africa and the Levant. The order
had reformist influences, calling to the “return” to the pristine morality of the time of the
Prophet, although what they proposed in order to implement this “return” was often con-
sidered unacceptable in ‘ulam ā’ circles and by society at large: the ṭar īqa considered poverty
a moral duty, requesting devotees to abandon material wealth and goods. Begging was part
of their spiritual education. The ṭar īqa was particularly famous for the mendicant attitude of
its members, who wandered the territory dressed with the characteristic m ūraqqa (a hooded,
long, often white and of coarse-wool cloak) and a green bonnet. Al-Darqāw ī is known for
having asked his followers to abandon the cities and settle in the countryside.7 Darqāwis were
the protagonists of a major revolt at the turn of the century, against the rise of taxes that came
up after the decrease of piracy activity at the end of the eighteenth century. For more than a
decade (1801–1813) there were sublevated Darqāw ī groups across Algeria, against the Bey of
Oran, initially supported by the Moroccan authorities against the Turks.8 The revolts were
of a scale that together with the political moves of the Qādir īyya and the Tijān īyya are said
to have set up the ground for the Turkish collapse in Algeria and the subsequent taking of
control by the French in 1830.
The latest among the foundational figures of Moroccan Sufism was Abu al-ʿAbbā s A ḥ mad
ibn Mu ḥammad al-Tijān ī (d. 1815), founder of one of Africa’s largest ṭuruq, the Tijān īyya.9
The order represents an important reforming vanguard within Western Islam, a type of
reformism, it has been claimed, inspired by the Khalwat īyya and to a certain extent also
by the Shādhil īyya,10 although these influences had been also disputed.11. Although born in
today’s Algeria, al-Tijān ī was a religious scholar in Fes for about 15 years, before becoming
notorious, but it was not until his Hajj to Mecca that he began preaching. Upon his return
488
Sufism in modern Morocco
to the Maghrib in 1773 he would claim having communicated with the Prophet directly and
his new teachings, as a result, to be directly inspired by his example. He began preaching and
soon afterwards gathered a sizeable and loyal following. The first account of a formal group
appears in Fes in 1798.12 The Tijān īyya was a breakaway in several ways from the major
trends that so far had existed in Moroccan Sufism, with one of the major innovations being
the principle of exclusivity, the idea that al-Tijān ī’s followers were forbidden from following
the teachings of other orders and attending other ṭuruq’s gatherings. This commitment to
al-Tijān ī was, moreover, to last the whole disciple’s life, being equally banned to abandon
the Tijān īyya when willing to follow another ṭ ar īqa. Related to that, al-Tijān ī forbid wor-
shipping āwliyāʾ, what in praxis meant the prohibition to visit any shrine other than those
of Mu ḥammad and his companions.13 Later generations of Tijānis expanded the category of
what were considered “permissible visitations”, to also include the shrines of Tijān ī āwliyāʾ.
This exclusivity did not impede the order to grow exponentially, although its magnificent
development has largely occurred beyond Morocco, primarily across sub-Saharan Africa.
Colonial Morocco
Colonial intervention in the Maghrib brought about changes for Sufism and how and why
Sufis and their ṭuruq have reacted to foreign influence is a complex issue. Vikør has explained
that colonial scholarship developed a tendency to oversimplify Sufi political involvement
by categorising Sufi activity as either “activist” or “quietist”,14 a reductionist view still sur-
prisingly in vogue today. In reality, Sufi political involvement took and keeps taking many
forms, from armed resistance, to silent toleration or open cooperation. Further, there has
been a tendency to assume that the political position adopted by Sufis had some kind of
theological foundation, a grounding unique to each of the orders, in other words, assuming
that certain ṭuruq had been more “militant” because this character was somehow impinged in
their doctrine. In reality, the political involvement of the Sufis was in most cases motivated
by the historical circumstances, rather than by doctrine, and the same ṭar īqa that had once
adopted an active political profile was, at others, less involved in political matters. There are
even cases in which two prominent members of the same ṭar īqa were one supportive of and
the other against colonial intervention, whilst remaining affiliated to the same ṭar īqa, e.g. Ma
al-‘Aynayn (one of Southern Moroccan Fadhil ī leaders) fought against the French, whilst his
brother, at the same time, was collaborating with them.15
Nonetheless, an image that has transcended to posterity is that of Sufi leaders as military
opponents to colonial influence. This portrayal, even if not being the full picture, bears,
nonetheless, some truth, and in the case of the Maghrib a good part of this fame might be
owed to ‘Abd al-Qādir ibn Mu ḥyidd ī n, often shortened as ‘Abd al-Qādir (d. 1883), who led
one of the most important and enduring anti-colonial resistance movements in the history of
the Middle East.16 Profiting from a political vacuum, a group of tribesmen led by him occu-
pied the Algerian cities of Tlemcen and Mascara in 1830 and, in loose collaboration with the
Moroccan sultan (an ambiguous relationship that would become far more difficult as time
went on), expanded their control over significant parts of North Africa, mostly in today’s
Algeria, but with notable support in eastern Morocco. ‘Abd al-Qādir finally surrendered to
the French in 1847, after 17 years of resistance.17
Neither all Sufis were “brothers in arms” nor they all stood against foreign intervention.
‘Abd al-Qādir himself spend significant effort in fighting against a branch of the Tijān īyya,
a group with a lodge in the Saharan town of ‘Ayn Māḍī, who had resisted recognising his
authority.18 The Tijānis were not alone in standing up against anti-colonial struggles and
489
the positions adopted by the Sufis with regard to colonial presence in the region, and to
the weakened authority of the Moroccan sultan, were as diverse as the groups themselves,
a plurality that was maintained, in the latest phase, during the times of the Protectorates
(1912–1956), when France mostly, but also Spain in a smaller geography, had a more direct
control over the territory.
A case in point to illustrate how Sufis actively collaborated with the Europeans is that of
‘Abd al-Ra ḥ m ān al- Darqāw ī, who was at the same time walī and sharif. When the Berber
leader ʿAbd al-Kar ī m al-Khaṭṭābī (d. 1963) and his followers defeated the Spanish in North-
ern Morocco they created, amidst momentous popularity, the Berber Republic of the Rif
(1921–1926). Initially, both Berbers and French officials adopted a restrained position against
one another, with the French deciding not to intervene in support of the Spanish, and the
Berbers remaining equally silent about the French control that affected their southern neigh-
bours. Soon, however, with al-Khaṭṭābī’s increasing popularity, the Berbers would try to
expand their territory. When Riffian troops appeared in the Ouergha River, a buffer zone
between the (then former) Spanish and the French-controlled areas, Abd al-Ra ḥ m ān al-
Darqāw ī, an influential Darqāwa Sufi leader of the kin group of the Beni Zeroual, requested
the help of the French to deter their advances. Since then, al-Darqāw ī forcefully tried to pre-
serve French interests in the area, orchestrating a big campaign to try to deter Berber leaders
that progressively defected to join the files of the Berber fighters of al-Khaṭṭābī.19
***
Overall, even if there were diverse reactions to the presence of foreign intervention in the region,
many Sufi groups had the opportunity to thrive during the colonial period. French authorities
considered them key in the social configuration of Moroccan society, and for that reason, gen-
erally tried to politically neutralise them, by granting them favours. Their religious practices,
large-scale pilgrimages included, were tolerated and the pre-colonial practice of the tanfīda, by
which the Sufis could benefit from substantial donations, was to be preserved,20 a favouritism
that placed Sufi groups in a privileged, if often quietened position. In fact, even if it is somehow
difficult to measure, it seems quite clear that in Morocco, as elsewhere in North and West Africa,
Sufism experienced a flourishing during the colonial period. During that time, the ṭuruq, with
their often less bureaucratised and informal structures, were to become important loci of reli-
gious daily life across the country, “they became centres for the faith of many ordinary Muslims
to a greater degree that the mosques, which were more atomised sites for religious ritual than
community structures”.21 During the years of the Protectorates (1912–1956) however, the former
largely privileged status from which many Sufi groups had previously benefitted came to be
openly questioned by two important political developments: (a) the rise and consolidation of the
Kattānīyya ṭarīqa, an order that was to play a major political role in the early twentieth century
(and its tragic ending), and (b) the growth of the nationalist movement which included a strong
Salafi-modernist criticism of certain Sufi practices and doctrines.
The Kattānīyya
Mu ḥammad ibn ‘Abd al-Kabī r al-Katt ān ī (d. 1909) was a member of a family of religious
scholars from Fes who had established a lodge in 1853. Influenced by the Darqāw īyya, the
Katt ān īyya became known for attracting devotees from the less privileged sectors of society,
although it also counted with disciples from other backgrounds. When al-Katt ān ī became
headmaster of the ṭar īqa in 1895, he began to preach for a reformist, and openly anti-colonial
490
agenda. He was also famous for promoting “exhalted” ritual practices that put him at odds
with part of the Fes religious establishment – although he was also backed by a number
of tribal leaders and prominent ‘ulam ā. Once realising that Sultan ‘Abd al-‘Az īz (d. 1943)
was not willing to support his project for major social reform, he defected to his brother
‘Abd al-Ḥaf īdh (d. 1937), leading together the Ḥaf īdh īyya, a movement that in the years
1907–1908 aimed at replacing ‘Abd al-‘Azīz by his brother to eventually overthrow foreign
powers. They achieved their aim of deposing the former sultan, but the alliance between
the new sultan and the walī would soon change course, when in 1909 ‘Abd al-Ḥaf īdh now in
power changed his mind and decided to become closer to the French, launching a campaign
to crackdown his critics, including those in the contesting Sufi orders.22
Seeing the wide support that al-Katt ān ī was gathering and fearing him launching a ji-
had against him, ‘Abd al-Ḥaf īdh initiated a harsh campaign to liquidate the Katt ān īyya: he
ordered all Katt ān ī lodges to be closed down and threatened to burn every village where
al-Katt ān ī had supporters if he did not turn himself over. Al-Katt ān ī was eventually captured
and publicly tortured to death in the cruellest manner; his corpse disappeared to avoid the
possibility for tombs’ visiting and veneration.23 So important was the effect the al-Katt ān ī
episode had for deterring Sufis from political involvement that six decades will have to pass
for a voice emerging from within Sufi circles, ‘Abdassalā m Yassī n (d. 2012), to raise again
to enunciate himself politically, and again will cost him dearly, to spend the majority of his
adult life in prison and/or under house arrest.
Sufism and nationalism

The lowering of the political profile of the Sufis came together with their diminishing social
influence, something for what the rise of Moroccan nationalism was in great part responsi-
ble for. Until then, when parts of the public entered in conflict with central powers, tribal
leaders and/or Sufi shaykhs had played a major role as political and cultural mediators, as we
have previously discussed. This function, although will still subsist in some cases, became
largely anecdotal by the time Morocco became an independent state in 1956, partly due to
the consolidation of nationalist politics.24 It all started in the final years of the 1920s, when
there appeared the first circles of Arab urban Moroccan intellectuals who had been educated
abroad and brought back home new ways of thinking about society and religion. Calling
themselves “Salafis”, they aimed at developing a program of social modernisation that would
include a reformed reintroduction of sharia, revitalising the use of Arabic, and modernising
by “purifying” religion of what they considered to be its heretical expressions.25 As it hap-
pened elsewhere, they were critical of many of the practices typical of Sufism – its exalted
rituals and fixation with baraka-gifted individuals, in particular.26
In the Moroccan case, groups that practiced the less contained forms of ritual were to
suffer the worst criticisms. For example, the devotional practices of the Hamadsha and
the ‘Issawa, which sometimes included sword-swallowing and snake handling, as well as
the reaching of trance states were actively opposed by the nationalists.27 However, these
Salafi-modernist critics cannot be merely seen as “anti-Sufi”, because, as elsewhere, they
were equally critical and heavily influenced by (even sometimes heirs themselves) a religious
background with significant Sufi content. Thus, rather than a simplified picture of Salafi
versus Sufi, we may better understand these voices not as their clear-cut religious opponents,
but rather as participants in a debate on the role religion (and what type of religion) should
have in the new country, a myriad of views in which “modern” and “traditional” forms of
religion were trying to define their space.
491
Proof of the Sufi influence in the early nationalist movement, even if perhaps anecdotal, is
that the name chosen by its earliest organisation was the zāwiya, in clear reference to Sufism.
Perhaps of much more significance is the fact that the movement also developed Sufi-like
mannerisms in its structure and developed a highly hierarchical organisation inspired in
the master-disciple relationship typical of the ṭuruq. Some have argued that such Sufi influ-
ences were needed if the nationalists were to stand in competition with the bigger and far
better-established organisations that were the Sufi orders at that time, with groups such as
the Qādir īyya and the Tijān īyya.28
Nonetheless, this influence, which helped the earlier nationalists in their success, has
largely surpassed them. In fact, the master-disciple relationship has served as a model to
develop a paradigm of authority that pervades today Moroccan society at all levels. Thus,
we see forms of this Sufi-inspired relation that juxtaposes absolute submission to absolute
authority, in instances as diverse as the monarchy, labour unions, political parties, or in local
government.29 What is also clear is that the modernisation of Morocco was challenging for
the structures that had sustained Sufism up to then; the Salafi nationalist forms of “modern-
ization” I have presented will end up being quite detrimental to the prospering of the ṭuruq,
even though aspects of Sufism were to permeate, ironically perhaps, many facets of the soci-
ety of the newly independent Morocco. It can be viewed as a paradox of history that whilst
Sufi ideas and principles appeared as a cultural foundation of the modern Morocco, its orders
experienced, at the same time, a decline, possibly of unprecedented scale.
Sufism after 1956

The role the monarchy acquired as sole sovereign leader of the religious field in the building
of the modern Moroccan state meant that the rest of religious actors that had traditionally
played some sort of political role had to adopt a much more marginal position. In the building
of an independent country, the sharifian character attached to the monarchy was used to pro-
mote and legitimise bureaucratising processes on all religious fields30; these diverse forms of
co-optation normally combined giving Sufi orders the possibility to preserve certain privileges
prevailing in these groups, with the condition of getting support to the king and adopting a
politically quietist attitude. In the case of Sufism, the state would continue to allow most of the
rituals, including large-scale gatherings and their associated lucrative collection of economic
donations. Those Sufi leaders that had become landowners over vast portions of rural land will
be able to preserve their titles as “qāḍī”, and thus, maintain their properties intact. In some rural
areas, the Sufis would keep acting as mediators on behalf of the local government, or will be
used by the state in order to give legitimacy to the political agendas of the central power.
Sufi orders – and similar forms of Sufi organisation that are, strictly speaking, not ṭuruq,
e.g. “maraboutic descent groups”31 or “trance groups” ( ṭawa‘if ) like the Gnawa – thus, al-
though significantly affected, survived, and comparatively suffered less than in other parts of
the Muslim world with the creation of the nation-state. As far as they did not promote any
political agenda other that straightforward support for the king, most Sufi groups remained
tolerated. It was however in terms of religious affiliation that the ṭuruq world has suffered the
most. This decline in social adherence, less and less people interested in becoming devotees
of specific masters, would have a direct effect in the diminishing social salience these groups
have, particularly since the second half of the twentieth century, a vitality that contrasts with
the one they enjoyed in the previous period. This trend would begin to show (if timid) signs
of reversal from the 1970s and 1980s onwards, becoming more noticeable by the turn of the
twenty-first century.
492
Part two: Moroccan Sufism today
Maraboutism, a culture of āwliyā

The diminishing in religious affiliation did not mean however the disappearance of Sufism
as such; what it meant is that Sufism has survived through its more popular and folkloristic
forms, especially in the form of rituals, through what we may call a “maraboutic culture”. By
maraboutic culture I refer here to the type of ritual manifestation that having a Sufi root may
not be necessarily and distinctively associated with the discipleship or organisation of a par-
ticular Sufi order. A maraboutic culture is a less sectarian form of religious culture, widely
popular, in which the masses participate in Sufi-inspired ritual activities, regardless of the
religious group or actor that initiates it or apropos of which the praxis is performed. Being a
disciple of a walī becomes less relevant. However, in a context in which religious affiliation
to Sufi orders is remarkably low, it is nevertheless surprising that the vitality of the ritual
universe associated to these āwliyāʾ remains significant. Thus, whereas an overwhelming
majority of Moroccans are definitely not members of any Sufi order, and many do not even
know anyone who is a devotee of one, they do know the names of āwliyāʾ, where the lodges
and tombs are located and where and when do Sufi processions take place. Unaware of the
more formal aspects of Sufi culture, many Moroccans do participate in religious activities
promoted or undertaken by the Sufis. Most of these religious praxes can be seen as pertaining
to three domains: (a) that associated with the visit to Sufi shrines (ziyāra), individually or col-
lective, (b) the celebration of a saint’s anniversary (mawsīm) in the form of religious festivals,
and (c) those activities that relate to issues of healing (shifā’).
Awliyāʾ, despite the declining influence of the groups they are part of, are still revered
for the baraka they hold, and have, as individuals, a special societal status for which people
consider them, morally exemplary, extraordinarily wise, but above all holders of extramun-
dane abilities. This culture has existed in parallel to the world of the ṭuruq since the arrival of
Sufism to the region. In fact, some scholars suggest that maraboutism is an Islamisation of a
practice that predates Sufism “the Islamisization [sic.] of the prevalent tradition of hagiolatry,
or saint-worship [that existed in the region prior to the arrival of Islam]”.32 Whatever its ori-
gin, the practice is well documented for both modern and pre-modern times, so widespread
that it can be seen as a culture of its own, one that has often been credited as defining religion
in the country: “Islam in Morocco” asserted once Philipp Khuri Hitti “is characterised by
saint-worship to a greater degree than perhaps in any other country”.33 Some of these āwliyāʾ
are singled out, and venerated in their own right, not belonging to any major Sufi family;
others are part of reputed Sufi silsil āt (saintly lineages), meaning they receive and pass the
sirr (secret) that grants them baraka, from one generation to the next, once they pass away.
Genealogy traces their saintly connection back to the founders of major Sufi orders (e.g.
a l-Shādhil ī, al-Jī lān ī) or to the Prophet Mu ḥammad himself.
In all cases, people believe that āwliyāʾ retain their baraka after they die, with their tombs
becoming centres of lesser pilgrimage (ziyāra). These visitations have often the purpose of
the devotee asking the walī for Godly intercession to interfere on mundane issues (e.g. get-
ting a job, a favourable trial resolution, attractive buying prices for agricultural produce) or
with curative purposes.34 In fact, some of these centres of pilgrimage have become so famous
that those buried in them have received the status of “patron-saints” of cities: Fes has Mawlāy
Idr īs, Tétouan, and S īd ī ‘Al ī al-Mandhar ī, Marrakesh has the Seven āwliyāʾ (saba‘a al-rijālī ),
and Meknes has S īd ī Mu ḥammad Bin ‘Issa, and so forth. In the same way, many quartiers,
small towns, villages, tribes, corporations, and families equally have their own patrons, even
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professionals; the tomb of S īd ī ‘Al ī Bin Ḥar āzim in Fes is visited by school teachers; S īd ī Bil
‘Abbā s (whose mausoleum is in Marrakesh) is the patron of commerce; sweet vendors see
their own patron in the aforementioned Mawlāy Idr īs, and even gamblers (with Meknes’
S īd ī Qad ī r Bin Malik) and burglars (with Tiznit’s S īd ī Bujbara) have their own protecting
āwliyāʾ.35
The marabouts, patrons or not, death and alive, receive a flow of visitors throughout the
year; it could be shocking to the uninformed to find out how relatively easy it is to visit those
living masters, regardless of the religious credentials of the interested – lodges are quite open
to receive and even host visitors gratis. It may well be part of a strategy to try to garner more
disciples, but it is also a historically well-documented practice, one of honouring the princi-
ple of hospitality (ḍiyāfa), central to the Sufi cosmogony of iḥsān (benefaction, excellence in
faith, especially in the treatment of others).
A gift economy
Nevertheless, a good number of these visits bring with them (non-explicitly requested) do-
nations. These contributions are central to the surviving of contemporary Sufism. Shrine
complexes receive visitors throughout the year, and especially have a major influx of guests
at special dates. On these occasions, places such as Madagh, near Berkane, or Beni Rachid,
close to Meknes, can receive tens of thousands of visitors. The economy of gifts is key to
understand their wealth, both in symbolic and economic terms. Donations, both in cash
and gifts, are important aspects of these pilgrimages, and are figurative ways of sealing the
relationship between walī and devout: the former transmits Godly’s baraka to the visitor (who
often believes it senses its effect in the form of major life improvements) and in return gives
something of a considered lesser (i.e. material) value, to the walī, as a token of appreciation,
an exchange described in Sufi groups across the territory.36 Sometimes people see a connec-
tion between the donation’s value and the importance of the request, with larger sums placed
for more relevant affairs, but there is normally no stipulated pricing. Similarly, donations are
generally speaking not mandatory, but are a common element of the encounter between lay
people and baraka holders – and, when deceased, the guardians of their tombs.
The Sufi gift economy has enormously diversified over the last two decades, not only en-
riching the leaders of certain orders and groups but also favouring the professionalisation of
certain Sufi “practices” undertaken by average citizens. From musicians and performers, to
healers, herbalists, and fortune tellers, many are those that nowadays make a daily living out
of a baraka-sourced income. Although these activities have existed for long they have only
recently become professionalised and stable sources of income, something these professionals
partially relate to tourism and to the money brought back home by the ever-growing influx
of Moroccans living abroad.37 In ritual terms, one can also perceive that the participation
in the ritual universe of Moroccan Sufism is by no means circumscribed to the adherents of
Sufi ṭuruq or of cognate religious organisations. In fact, it is common for “lay” people not to
merely assist to these gatherings but to get a fully participatory role on them.
Rituals
One of the most significant religious practices of Sufism worldwide, and also in Morocco,
involves expressing devotion to God, by reciting passages of the Quran, a practice of recita-
tion understood to be a remembrance (dhikr) of Allah. The practice is being promoted in a
variety of Quranic verses (e.g. 13:28, 18:24, and 33:41) and it is performed by chanting whilst
494
following a series of prescribed bodily movements, a combination aimed at the devotee’s

reaching a state of closeness with God achieved through annihilation ( fan āʾ ) of the self (nafs).
Dhikr gatherings can occur in many different contexts and circumstances. Most ṭuruq either
forbid or reserve for the most advanced and senior disciples the possibility of performing this
practice in solitary; for the vast majority of Sufis dhikr is a group ritual. Since it is the core
of the universe of Sufi ritual and must be performed collectively, it is a key meaning-giver
to the actual existence of Sufi orders. To a certain extent orders exist, at least in theory, to
hold these sessions and to teach people how to perform them in prescribed, “normativised”
ways – each ṭar īqa having their own distinctive style. The specific set of litanies and order of
prayers, chants, and body movements are unique to each ṭar īqa, a uniqueness often referred
as the wird (i.e. the Arabic term for religious specificity) of the order – a sort of marker of its
individual character.
Dhikr sessions receive different names depending on their particular features (e.g. length,
occasion, time of the day), and the order that performs it. For example, sessions generally
called līl ā are obviously held at night and “specialize” in the musical aspect; wa ẓifa (meaning,
obligation) refers often to a weekly session organised by a local branch of a ṭar īqa; a session
called ṣadaqa (the Arabic for offering, donation) is performed by members of the Hamadsha,
and the jidhba is mainly about reaching trance and is held by the Gnawa. Among the diverse
range of names, ḥadra (meaning talk, referring to the communication with God the ritual
aims to establish) is the generic name given by most to dhikr-involving Sufi rituals. They can
be performed in different locales, at the humble homes of Sufi devotees, in lodges across the
country, but also in open, public spaces. The ceremony involves the recitation of Quranic
verses, and the rhythmic chanting of litanies, but it may also include other forms of devo-
tional singing such as the ta ḥdīra (typical of the Sous region) or the qa ṣīda (a style based in the
musicalised recitation of Arabic poetry that has become very popular across the country).
The length of the session and size of the congregation may vary, from a couple of hours to
all night long and with groups of four being a minimum required to up to several hundred
members. These gatherings are ultimately organised for expressing devotion to God, to the
Prophet, and to specific āwliyāʾ.
People may gather for a ritual after Friday prayers, or at the zāwiya after a reading ses-
sion of Sufi literature. They are also performed on major religious occasions, for example,
during the celebrations of the Mawlid an-Nabaw ī, apropos of the birthday of the Prophet
Mu ḥammad, or during a mawsīm, times to commemorate the birthday of a living or dead
walī. They are similarly a fundamental part of more mundane ceremonies such as funerals or
weddings. Although there are counted exceptions, most dhikr gatherings are gender segre-
gated, a requirement that includes the head of the group – which means that a woman leads
an all-female dhikr gathering, unlike what happens in other Islamic practices such as prayer.
When an exception occurs it is normally one or very few women who take part in a mostly
male gathering, being men the ones in charge of the music and the women (possibly old
ones) the ones that more commonly reach ecstasy.
Trance (h āl, meaning state) is an important element of these rituals, and although the vast
majority of attendees do not reach ecstasy it is quite common that someone does. Sufi ritual
sessions that involve trance episodes are nothing obscure or unusual in Morocco; they hap-
pen all the time and everywhere to the extent that Kapchan speaks of a “culture of trance”
that “permeates Moroccan society at many levels”.38 They are not the exclusive monopoly of
the ṭuruq either; they are common in weddings and birth celebrations, and are performed by
healers, fuqah ā, guardians of Sufi shrines, among the lay population, devotees of organised
orders, or by ṭawa‘if like the Gnawa – formations where the sort of initiation and knowledge
495
required is different from that of Sufi orders. They are as common and diverse as their critics,
who comprise ‘ulam ā, reformist preachers, Sufis themselves, modernists, and the common
public; although diverse, all these critics see them as anachronistic proofs of superstition that
impede social development and advancement.39 Trance is commonly considered the result
of a process of spirit possession and/or expulsion from the body, thus a healing episode used
for a wide array of curative purposes, from infertility to madness or cancer, or with no goal
at all; yet, since it is this idea of spirit ( jinn) possession that is so widely criticised, a large
number of “sober” orders who practice them argue that the ecstasy they reach is not caused
by possession, a kind of “defence” mechanism that is by no means new.40
Sufi music
The world of Sufi ritual is mainly a musical one. Voice is in many occasions the only instru-
ment used, though sometimes chants are accompanied by a ghiṭāʼ, the Berber tabja, or a n īra
(two types of Moroccan flute) or a sint īr, also known as kimbr ī, a type of guitar. Very often
though, singing is only accompanied by percussion (duzān).41 Very often these differences do
not stem from the circumstances of the event but from the performing style of each group,
which is unique to each organisation. Further, although the religious component is pre-
served in many cases and strictly religious gatherings still occur in large numbers, some of
these performances have been in the last decades made profane. By exclusively keeping the
musical component of the event and eliminating the more ritualised aspects, some perform-
ers today are simply musicians holding concerts consisting of a Sufi repertoire.
Nowadays, if something is worldwide famous about Moroccan Sufism is its well-attended
and highly lucrative music festivals: Fes’ World Festival of Sacred Music and Essaouira’s
Gnawa World Music Festival. Also, part of this process of “profanization” has been the “stag-
ing” of Sufi rituals (or rather a de-sacralised version of it) for a non-religious public. Thus,
professional performers are hired for a theatricalised version of a ḥadra in events, hotels, and
nightclubs, something very popular among the Moroccan middle and upper classes unfamil-
iar with Sufism, as well as in tourist settings.42
The Sufi revival

We have previously noted that when Morocco became independent, Sufi orders saw di-
minished social, and at a times political, significance they had previously had. Most ṭuruq
continued to exist but became less socially relevant whilst quietist in political terms. In the
mid-1970s, however, an event would make seem that things were going to change again,
when a devotee of a Qādir īyya branch called the Būdshish īyya, ‘Abdassalā m Yassī n, would
publish an open letter against the former king Hassan II, with a highly critical tone that
remind the type of reproach al-Katt ān ī employed in his criticism of the monarchy at the
beginning of the twentieth century, and that costed him his life. The letter which Zeghal
perceived as having “desecrated the king’s realm”43 costed Yassī n three years of interment in
a mental hospital and over three decades of house arrest.
The Būdshish īyya was initially supportive of this open involvement in politics, reason
why there were made illegal between 1969 and 1971.44 Its going back to a legal status was
due to a commitment to return to a politically quietist position. As a consequence, Yassī n
was expelled from the order, founding thereafter one of the still today most relevant Islamist
organisations in the country, the ‘Adl wal Īḥ sān ( Justice and benefaction) movement. The
group which under the rule of Hassan II was banned and prosecuted and is currently still
496
illegal but largely tolerated is not a Sufi order, yet, despite of obeying to more modern rules
of membership and organisation, is still a highly charismatic group fashioned in a ṭar īqa-style;
it articulates around the figure of its revered leader, today deceased, and is heavily infused
with Sufi doctrine and terminology – the term īḥsān itself, that refers to the attitude of moral
uprightness that shall be predicated by the Sufi, is central to the lexicon of Moroccan Sufism.
The decade of the 1980s was an important one for Morocco; it signified a shift in the atti-
tude of the monarch with regard to dissent, opening a (although still highly controlled) space
where moderate expressions of opposition were permitted. Soon a rich and diverse civil soci-
ety mushroomed, one that included groups of all sorts: Islamist, feminist, pro-human rights,
Berberist, and professionally based.45 Sufi orders were also present in the emergence and
diversification of civil society. The Būdshish īyya, in particular, the group from which Yassī n
originally came from, was key in the revival of the Sufi field. Under the leadership of Hamza
Būdshish (d. 2017), the order initiated a grand proselytising campaign, by significantly re-
laxing the requirements the ṭar īqa would make on devotees to accept them as disciples of the
leader. Under the new instruction, anyone could be a Būdshish faqir/a, regardless of origin,
gender, or age; furthermore, prior knowledge of religion and an exclusive dedication to the
order were neither required nor encouraged. Initiation (ba‘ya),46 more precisely meaning
commitment to a religious leader, was turned into a simple ritual that was supervised by
lesser Būdshish authorities. According to this new approach, often referred as a tabarruk īyya 47
(in this context, meaning “educational”) shift – which indicates the proselytising character
(da‘wa) of the endeavour – Hamza Būdshish did not have to personally instruct disciples, not
even to initiate them.48
Soon the ṭar īqa began to gain followers across the country, with women and the youth
feeling especially attracted to an order that became, for Sufi standards, close to the modern
concept of a mass religious organisation, and possibly the most diverse Morocco has ever
had – although numbers should be read with caution. Although discipleship is not stable
and estimates are always difficult to calculate, it is possible that the group has no more than
half a million followers – which for Sufi standards is remarkable, but not so impressive when
compared to other forms of religious organisation, both in Islam and beyond.49 Another big
difference with other modern religious organisations is on the type of structure Sufi orders
develop.
Typically, the gatherings of the Būdshish īyya are much more guarded than those of
mass religious groups. Whereas Pentecostal churches, for example, can concentrate up to
30,000–40,000 members in one single event, the Būdshish īyya, like most other Sufi groups
in Morocco, has no capacity for regularly mobilising such crowds. Conversely, they typically
display a network of loosely connected and quite small groups that hold weekly sessions of
ritual performance. Part of their success is that they often stay away from the public scrutiny
of mosques and do not rely in “grand infrastructures”, meeting at homes, ateliers, shops,
university rooms, or any other private place without a clear religious character or purpose.
The group grows through networks of acquaintances. Relying on so little makes the growth
of the organisation easier, something that has also been helpful for its international spread,
with a good following among the Moroccan diaspora, but also with groups of convert and
re-affiliated Muslims.
The order manages to preserve its diversity amidst its remarkable growth by maintain-
ing an organisation consisting of very small groups (between 6 and 15) each of them of
quite alike members, who only commingle with other devotees in very special occasions
(e.g. annual mawsīm).50 Although the ṭar īqa maintains, in political terms, its mainly quietist
character, after 9/11 and the terrorist attack in Casablanca in 2003, it adopted a more open
497
pro-monarchic position. Although the order’s leadership has in only rare occasions taken a
public stance in backing the current king, the fact that the aforementioned minister of ḥub ūs
and religious affairs A ḥ mad Toū f īq is a member of the ṭar īqa gives much more visibility to
the order’s connection to the makhzan. Arguably, Muhammad VI hopes to be able to use the
ṭar īqa’s capacity of mobilising significant amounts of population to his benefit, so as to widen
the popular support for his institution. In the name of the fight against terrorism, he seems
to aim at equally controlling expressions of political Islam that is less fond of him.51 Beyond
the Būdshish īyya, other Sufi groups of international appeal are equally gaining momentum
in the country; the Tijān īyya, for example, has seen a plethora of new groups emerging
across the territory, some made up of Moroccans, others connected to the ever-growing sub-
Saharan diaspora that lives temporarily in the country waiting to find the right moment to
migrate to Europe. Overall, we may, after all, be experiencing yet another revival of Sufism,
something that demonstrates, once again, the ever-lasting capacity of Sufism to adapt to new
conditions and eventually continue to thrive in new ways.
Notes
1 Although nowadays the timelessness of “Moroccan Islam” has been questioned, currently being
considered a narrative mode, rather than an immutable reality, see E. Burke, The Ethnographic
State: France and the Invention of Moroccan Islam (Oakland: University of California Press, 2014).
2 An example of this early forms of anti-Sufism is the fatw ā that famously banned the works of
al-Ghaz ā l ī (d.1111) in Andalusia. On the ban, see D. Serrano Ruano, “Why Did the Scholars of
al-Andalus Distrust al-Ghaz ā li? Ibn Rushd al-Jadd’s Fatwā on Awliyā’All ā h,” Der Islam 83 (1)
(2006), 137–156.
3 His only surviving text, the Sal āt al-Mash īsh īya was translated into English by T. Burckhardt, “The
Prayer of Ibn Mashish,” Islamic Quarterly 20 (3) (1978), 68.
4 A. K. Bennison, The Almoravid and Almohad Empires (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press,
2016), 273.
5 M. García-Arenal, Messianism and Puritanical Reform: Mahd īs of the Muslim West (Leiden: Brill,
2006), 248.
6 For a good introduction on the Darqāwiyya see M. Peyron, “Derkaoua, Derqaoua, Darqawa”,
Encyclopédie berbère, 15, Daphnitae – Djado (Aix-en-Provence: Edisud, 1995), 2279–2283.
7 K. S. Vikør, Sufi and Scholar on the Desert Edge: Muhammad ̣ b. ʻAlī al-San ūsī and His Brotherhood
(Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 1995), 57.
8 For more details on the revolt, see Delpech (1874).
9 One of the foundational texts of the order, Jaw āhir al-maʻān ī wa-bul ūgh al-am ān ī f ī fayd ̣ Ab ī al-ʻAbb ās
al-Tijān ī contains al-Tijā n ī’s account on how he was granted prophetic permission to found the
order (see p. 57). Its compilation is credited to ʻAl ī Har
̣ ā zim ibn al-ʻArabī Bar ā dah around the years
1798–1800.
10 J. El-Adnani, La Tijâniyya 1781–1881: les origines d’une confrérie religieuse au Maghreb (Rabat: Marsam,
2007), 25. The book is also a comprehensive analysis of the Tijā n īyya’s inception. On this order
see also J. Abun-Nasr, The Tijanniya: A Sufi Order in the Modern World (London: Oxford University
Press, 1965).
11 Un soufi réformateur, le cheikh Muhammad Hasanayn Makhlûf (1861–1936), REMMM, (Revue
du Monde Musulman et de la Méditerranée) 95–98 (2002), pp. 189–204.
12 A. Boum and T. K. Park, Historical Dictionary of Morocco (London: Rowman and Littlefield, 2016),
337.
13 J. El-Adnani, “Réflexions sur la naissance de la Tijaniyya. Emprunts et surenchères”, in J. L.
Triaud & D. Robinson (eds), La Tijaniyya: Une confrérie musulmane à la conquête de l’Afrique (Paris:
Karthala, 2000), 19–33.
14 K. S. Vikør, “Sufism and Colonialism”, in Lloyd Ridgeon (ed), The Cambridge Companion to Sufism
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 212–232, 213.
15 Ibid., 225.
16 K. S. Vikør, The Maghreb since 1800, a Short History (London: Hurst, 2012), 28.
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34
SUFISM IN SENEGAL
John Glover
Introduction
Considering that it is a relatively recent historical phenomenon in Senegal, Sufism defines much
of the country’s society and culture from revered religious scholarship to popular urban street art.1
The four Sufi orders that are present in Senegal today rose to local prominence only within the
last two centuries. Two of the orders, the Qādirīyya and the Tijānīyya, first emerged outside of
Senegal in the Middle East and the Maghrib, respectively, and enjoyed an international presence
prior to their arrival south of the Sahara. The other two orders, the Mur īdīyya and the Layenne,
originated in Senegal only in the latter half of the nineteenth century. While the Qādirīyya
has the longest history within and outside of Senegal its adherents made up only around 11% of
the Muslim population in 1995. In that same year, the Tijānīyya comprised 47% of Senegalese
Muslims followed by the Murīdīyya with 30% and the Layenne with 6%.2 More recent data from
the Pew Forum lists the Tijānīyya at 51% and the Murīdīyya at 34%.3
Islam in Senegal, because it is dominated by the Sufi orders, has often been referred to
as “maraboutic” Islam in recognition of the relative importance of the “marabouts” (from
Ar. Al-murābit ūn, or Almoravids). The term is problematic as it encompasses a wide range
of Muslim clerics/holy men and it can retain colonialist notions about Islam noir, or African
Islam, that sought to downgrade African experience of Islam.4 In Senegal, the Wolof term
sëriñ is widely used to refer to Sufi luminaries from the leaders of the orders to neighborhood
and village spiritual guides. In addition to the society and culture of Senegal, the nation’s Sufi
orders have also exerted an influence over politics, commerce, and agriculture. Throughout
the modern history of Senegal, including at present, the Sufi orders have largely coexisted
in mutual tolerance. It is expected that representatives of the orders pay their respects at the
others’ ceremonies and pilgrimages, and it is quite common that members of a single family
belong to more than one order. The current harmony, however, has only come after a long
historical development impacted by violent reform movements and colonial conquest.
The historical context for the rise of Sufism and

Sufi orders in Senegal
There were two main foyers for the arrival of Islam in Senegambia, the region between the
Senegal and Gambia river valleys that would later comprise most of modern Senegal. The older
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John Glover
foyer, the north bank of the Senegal and the Sahara Desert beyond, brought a more militant
form of Islam characterized by the Almoravid reform movement of the eleventh century CE.5
During that same century, a large portion of the middle Senegal River valley was ruled over
by the Muslim kings of Takrur who ardently applied the shar īfia, or Islamic law, to their so-
cieties and waged war, justified as jihād, against their non-Muslim neighbors.6 However, this
politically and socially active form of Islam was relatively contained geographically and short-
lived. The second foyer, the savannah to the east, brought a different expression of Islam whose
primary agents were not warriors or kings, but rather West African merchants who combined
commerce with Islamic practice and spread along the trade routes emanating from the expand-
ing Mali Empire of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. Those Mande-speaking merchants
who plied the western routes to Senegambia were known as the Jakhanke and constituted a
branch of a much larger diaspora that spread a particular understanding of Islam known as the
Suwarian tradition. This tradition blended serious Islamic scholarship and teaching with a
pacifist interpretation of the role of Islam in society and political neutrality.7
The early development of Islam in Senegambian societies would reflect the influences of
both foyers and lead to the creation of a Senegambian expression of Islam that would provide
fertile ground for the growth of Sufism and the Sufi orders. The development was in part
influenced by an important social cleavage in Senegambian society and politics that began in
the southern Sahara and the Senegal River valley between the fourteenth and sixteenth cen-
turies. In the fourteenth century, nomadic Arab tribes began to migrate into the southwest-
ern Sahara displacing the indigenous Berber-speaking tribes and becoming the dominant
political and military force in the region. While the Arab warrior groups became associated
with secular political power backed up by military force, the Berber tribes concentrated on
controlling Islamic education, oasis agriculture, and commerce to build a new source of
legitimacy that would maintain their social capital. The Berber lineages that were a part of
this shift became known as zāwaya, after the Arabic term for a religious retreat community.
Meanwhile, in the Senegal River valley, some of the Fulbe pastoralists had settled in per-
manent villages and towns adopting a sedentary lifestyle. These Fulbe, known as Tukulor,
developed a class of Islamic scholars and teachers that became known as the Torodbe. During
the early part of the sixteenth century, the valley was conquered by the Fulbe general Koli
Tengella who established the Deniankobe dynasty. Relations between the Deniankobe ar-
istocracy and the Torodbe clerics were initially peaceful but the former were increasingly
perceived to be founded upon secular military force while the latter presented themselves as
devout teachers and protectors of fellow Muslims.8
This social cleavage between warriors and clerics spread south of the Senegal River valley
into the Wolof-speaking states. Z āwaya and Tukulor clerics traveled south through the Jolof
Empire and its component states establishing schools and new scholarly lineages amongst the
Wolof. The aristocratic families of Jolof and the vassal states adopted Islam in an effort to add
to their political legitimacy. In the process, they extended the Wolof pattern of patron-client
relationships to notable Muslims whom they supported in their scholarship and teaching.
The political relationship of Muslim notables as clients of aristocratic families would be seri-
ously challenged first by the rise of Islamic reform and then Sufism in Senegambia beginning
in the late seventeenth century. The growth of Islamic reform and Sufism would be preceded
by several centuries of monumental political and economic changes that were connected
with the growth of Atlantic commerce in the form of the Atlantic slave trade.
The appearance of the Portuguese at the mouth of the Senegal River in 1444 set in
motion a period of tumultuous change for Senegambia. Economically, the Atlantic slave
trade contributed to a reorientation of commerce in Senegambia away from the Sahara and
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toward the coast. This weakened the large regional empires of the interior that had serviced
the trans-Saharan trade and favored the growth of the smaller coastal vassal states that broke
away from Jolof ’s control in 1549. This trend toward political decentralization was accom-
panied by a general militarization of politics and society in the region as warfare between
and within states and societies increased with the rise of the Atlantic slave trade.9 In addition,
much of Senegambia was increasingly affected by climate changes manifested by desiccation
and the southward shift of environmental zones due to the expansion of the Sahara Desert.
Declining environmental conditions were enhanced by warfare during the eighteenth cen-
tury producing cycles of drought, war, and famine that would last through the French co-
lonial conquest in the last half of the nineteenth century. The common people, farmers and
pastoralists, bore the brunt of these crises.10
It was in this context that the era of violent Islamic reform movements, legitimized as
jih ād, began in 1673 with the revolt of Nāṣir al-Dī n in the Senegal River valley. Nāṣir
al-Dī n’s movement was nothing short of an attempt at political and social revolution in
Senegambia and would serve as a prototype for successive movements over the next two
centuries. He began by appealing to the aristocrats of the region to rule according to Islamic
law and to especially cease pillaging and enslaving their own subjects. Failing with the royal
courts, he and his followers took his message to the rural areas where suffering amongst the
common people was most acute. Disciples became soldiers and Nāṣir al-Dī n’s forces quickly
overthrew the aristocracies of the valley and the Wolof kingdoms to the south. The military
victories of the Islamic reformists would be short-lived, however, as the aristocrats success-
fully retook control of their states with French aid and Nāṣir al-Dī n fell in battle in 1674.
In spite of this defeat, Islamic reform, manifested through jih ād, only grew as a means of
revolution against aristocratic control and the suffering of the common people. The move-
ment also contributed to the polarization of society between the warriors and the clerics. In
the Wolof-speaking areas that would become Senegal, the two factions would come to be
known as the ceddo and the sëriñ. The Wolof term, ceddo, most directly referred to the pro-
fessional slave soldiers employed by Wolof aristocratic families to wage war and raid. They
were known for their un-Islamic lifestyles of drinking and wanton violence. However, the
term was also used to identify the secular political leadership of the Wolof states. The sëriñ,
meanwhile, was the Wolof word for an Islamic cleric and came to be used in relation to the
entire faction, commoners and disciples as well as leaders, that supported the call of Islamic
reform. The two factions were not as monolithic as they may appear. Wolof kings, some of
whom were committed Muslims, continued to try to integrate the sëriñ into the govern-
ment and placate them through gifts and grants of land in return for their political support
and service to the royal court. Those who accepted became known as s sëriñu lamb (Wolof:
clerics of the drum) and became a quasi-nobility leading semi-autonomous communities of
followers. Some clerics, known in Wolof as the sëriñ fakk taal, refused to be co-opted by the
state and felt that those who had had become tainted by secular politics through the process.
The sëriñ fakk taal were more attuned to the pacifist nature of the Jakhanke and were likewise
suspicious of the use of armed jih ād by Islamic leaders claiming to reform the faith.11
The nineteenth century in West Africa was preceded by the most intense century of the
Atlantic slave trade and the rising tide of violence on the land did not abate with the decline
of the maritime slave trade after the turn of the century. Secular political structures were
increasingly in turmoil as the century progressed. In Senegambia, as across much of the
West African savanna, Islamic revolutionary movements increased in size and geographic
scale during the nineteenth century. Senegal was the scene for two attempts at Islamic rev-
olutions by the titled sëriñ of Kajoor in 1820 and 1859, and the Senegal River valley would
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John Glover
MAU R I TAN IA
Trarza Senegal River

Atlantic Ocean
Futa Toro
St. Louis
Louga Jolof
Kajoor
Ndiarnde (Tij)
SENEGAL
Darou Mousty (Mur)
Tivaouane (Tij)
Ndiassane (Qad) Touba (Mur)
Yoff-Layenne (Lay) (Lay)
-Bawol (Mur)
Dakar Thies
Diourbel
Mbour
Kaolack (Tij)
Gambia River
GAM B IA
Figure 34.1 Map of Senegal

Source: Author.
provide thousands of soldiers and disciples for the jih ād of ‘Umar Tal. However, these armed
jih ād would become directly enmeshed in the development of Sufism and the Sufi orders in
Senegal as well as the extension of French colonial rule.
The early development of Sufism

Evidence for the early presence of Sufism and the Sufi orders in sub-Saharan West Africa is
not abundant before the eighteenth century. Some sources point to individual Sufis present
in the commercial and religious city of Timbuktu and other settlements along the southern
edge of the desert as early as the fifteenth century. More reliable evidence points to the role
played by the scholarly and commercial Berber zāwaya clan known as the Kunta who cite
their ancestor A ḥ mad al-Bakkā’ ī of Timbuktu (d. 1514 CE) as a Qādir ī Sufi.12 A major step
in transforming Sufism in this part of sub-Saharan West Africa from a set of beliefs and prac-
tices amongst a relative few notables into the recognizable organization of the orders was
made by S īd ī Mukht ār al-Kunti (1729–1811 CE), a Qādir ī, who established the basic model
that would be followed by later Sufi orders in Senegal. In this model, heredity and kinship
would be major factors in determining the ultimate leadership of the order in the office of
the khalīfa. The mid-level leadership was provided by advanced disciples known as mur īds
who, comparable to the shaykh and muqaddam of other orders, were authorized to pass on
the wird, or mystical prayer formula, of their order to their own students. The lowest rank
within the order was that of the tilmīdh, made up of common disciples/students drawn from
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Sufism in Senegal
ethnic groups on both sides of the southern desert edge. One became a tilmīdh by taking an
oath of allegiance to the Mukht ār īyya, as S īd ī Mukht ār’s branch of the Qādir īyya came to be
known. The tilmīdh also provided annual gifts and tithes to the order’s leadership to support
an educational infrastructure and to provide for fellow disciples in times of need such as
drought. Some tilmīdh settled together in Mukht ār ī communities but this was not a require-
ment. The Mukht ār īyya was spread west to what is now Mauritania by Shaykh S īd īyya who
employed his reputation as a scholar and Sufi to build a large group of tilmīdh in the region,
including the area south of the Senegal River.
Another influential branch of the Qādir īyya was established by Mu ḥammad Fādil Mamin
(c. 1795–1868 CE) in western Mauritania. The Fā∂ iliyya, as his branch came to be known,
was very similar in its organizational structure to the Mukht ār īyya, but was more cosmo-
politan in collecting and dispensing Sufi prayer formulas as the founder, in addition to the
Qādir ī wird, had also received the wird of the Shādhil īyya and Tijān īyya Sufi orders. The
founder’s son, Saad Buh (d. 1917 CE), actively toured the Wolof-speaking regions garnering
new disciples and financial support in the emerging French colony of Senegal.13 These two
West African branches of the Qādir īyya order were largely apolitical and focused on building
religious and economic capital along the desert edge and to the south. Furthermore, there is
little evidence that Sufism or the hierarchical organization of the Sufi order played any sub-
stantial roles in the militant Islamic reform movements discussed earlier. That would change
with the Sokoto jih ād of 1804–1818 CE in Hausaland, in present-day northern Nigeria and
the jih ād of al-Hājj ‘Umar Tal which swept across much of West Africa from 1852 to 1864.14
‘Umar Tal is an important linch-pin in the unlikely marriage of Sufism and armed jih ād
in nineteenth-century West Africa. He was born in the Podor region of the Senegal River
valley in 1796 during a period of political decline. In 1820, in an effort to further his educa-
tion, ‘Umar Tal traveled to Futa Jallon, a state founded by Islamic revolution, and it was most
likely there that he became a Tijān ī Sufi. The Tijān īyya was a relatively young Sufi order that
had been founded in Morocco in the late eighteenth century by A ḥ mad al-Tijān ī (d. 1815)
who had claimed to have seen the Prophet Mu ḥammad in a vision. During the vision, he
received the Tijān ī prayer formula, or wird, and was informed that as the Prophet Mu ḥam-
mad was the last of the prophets that he would be the last of the Sufi saints. Al-Tijān ī’s vision
provided his wird and teachings with a much more direct link to the Prophet Mu ḥammad
than other Sufi orders, positioning the Tijān īyya as a challenge to other Sufi orders as the last
and most perfect expression of Sufism. While on h ājj ‘Umar Tal was confirmed as the khalīfa
of the Tijān ī order for West Africa.15
Returning to West Africa, ‘Umar Tall relocated to a frontier area on the northern edge of
Futa Jallon and began teaching and attracting disciples to his burgeoning Tijān ī community.
It was during this time that ‘Umar Tal completed a major text that is regarded as second
only to the work of al-Tijān ī, the founder, within the global order. In 1846–1847, ‘Umar Tal
conducted a tour of the Senegal River valley gathering thousands of new disciples who were
critical of the Islamic regime that had been put in power by Abdul Qādir’s jih ād in Futa Toro
in the 1770s. These disciples accused the clerics of Futa Toro of corruption, exploitation, and
impotence in the face of French expansion upriver and Berber raids from the north. ‘Umar
Tal positioned the Tijān ī order as the vehicle by which the Islamic reformist ideals that had
launched the earlier revolution could be revived not only in Futa Toro but also across West
Africa. ‘Umar Tal thus had a larger spatial view of Islamic revolution than earlier leaders who
tended to focus on their native regions. In 1852, ‘Umar Tal launched an armed jih ād that
would eventually conquer much of the region between the upper Senegal and Niger rivers
north to the desert edge. An intended push by ‘Umar Tal’s forces west toward his homeland
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of Futa Toro was stymied by the failure of his army to take the French fort at Medine on
the upper Senegal in 1857. Turning east, he targeted the Islamic state of Masina that had
been founded by jih ād in 1818 and enjoyed close relations with the Qādir ī Sufis of the Kunta
network and Sokoto who were opposed to his growing power. After an initially successful
attack in 1862, ‘Umar Tal was killed in 1864.
In the wake of ‘Umar Tal’s jih ād, Islamic reform became further fragmented in Senegambia
and enmeshed in secular civil wars. The jih ād of Mabba Jaxu, a Tijān ī, from 1861 to 1867,
and the jih ād of Amadou Shaykhu from 1869 to 1875 were of particular importance in this
context. The destruction caused by the jihāds and the counter-attacks of the aristocrats was
compounded by the expansion of French colonial influence and power in the region that
resulted in the declaration of a French protectorate over Kajoor in 1883 and the conquest
of Jolof in 1890. These wars led to the development of a new generation of Sufi leaders
who would reinterpret the role of Islamic reform in society. This new generation included
Saad Buh, S īd īyya Baba, Bu Kunta, Malick Sy, Abdoulaye Niasse, Amadou Bamba, and
Seydina Limamou Laye, the founders of the Sufi orders or branches that currently dominate
Senegalese society. The leaders of these orders condemned violence as a tactic of Islamic
reform and saw the titled sëriñ and their political opponents, the ceddo, as two sides of the
same coin. Further, as Sufis they adopted as much as possible an apolitical stance in regards to
African and French authorities akin to that of the Jakhanke or sëriñ fakk taal of an earlier time.
It is at this point that we can turn to a more direct history of Sufi orders that currently thrive
in Senegal. Dominating this history are the themes of accommodation, first with the French
colonial administration and then with the independent government of Senegal, and growth.
Another irony in the history of Sufism in West Africa is that its most spectacular growth, as
with the growth of Islam in general, accompanied and fed off European colonial rule.
The modern Sufi orders of Senegal
The Qādirīyya
The Qādir īyya Sufi order was represented by two members of this new generation of Sufi
reformists, Saad Buh and S īd īyya Baba. Saad Buh, a son of Mu ḥammad Fadil, was born
c. 1850 in what is now southeastern Mauritania. After his education was complete, Saad Buh
first settled in the Trarza region on the north bank of the lower Senegal River, but the older
generation of established clerics in the area saw him as a threat and cast doubt on the tales of
his miraculous powers. He soon left and established two headquarters, one at an oasis in the
Sahara north of Trarza and the other in the French colonial city of Saint Louis at the mouth
of the Senegal River in the late 1860s. As Saad Buh began to build a base of followers in
Saint Louis he also began to construct a relationship with the French colonial administration
that would benefit both parties. By the 1880s, his network had eclipsed that of his father in
size, extending through the Sahel to the savanna grasslands in central Senegal where he made
annual tours to attract new followers and raise money for the order. Like his father, Saad
Buh took a cosmopolitan approach to Sufi affiliation and accepted followers who were also
members of other Qādir ī branches and Tijān ī.
Much of this growth took place side by side with the extension of French control and
Saad Buh positioned himself as an intermediary between the French and African political
leaders. When one of his brothers launched an armed revolt against the French Saad Buh
issued a condemnation of armed jih ād. Saad Buh thus took a pragmatic approach to accom-
modating French rule. The extension of French control in Senegal provided his network
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with safe spaces to expand and the colonial cash crop economy, particularly in peanuts, was
an important source of finances. His sons established Fā∂ iliyya centers in the emerging rail
center of Thies and in the far southern reaches of Senegal, in Casamance where at least six
agricultural settlements were established. Some of his leading disciples accepted important
positions with the colonial administration thereby extending the influence of the Fāḍ iliyya
branch of the Qādir īyya within colonial circles and vice versa.16
Like Saad Buh, S īd īyya Baba (b. 1862) was born into a Qādir ī family in southern
Mauritania that governed an extensive network of followers known as the S īd īyya from the
Sahara to the Gambia River. His grandfather had been a student of S īd ī al-Mukht ār al-Kunti
who had pioneered the institutionalization of the Sufi order in West Africa through the
Kunta lineage as discussed previously. Sīd īyya Baba took over the leadership of his family’s
branch of the Qādir īyya in the 1880s and enjoyed a reputation as an accomplished scholar
and talented mystic. He was also respected as a diplomat who saw the advantages of peace
and stability for the growth of his network and it was in this context that his relationship
with the French was built. He issued a fatw ā, or religious opinion, in 1903 that condemned
armed jih ād and hijra, or flight, away from areas under French colonial rule. S īd īyya Baba saw
in the French an ally against the warrior class that had been responsible for so much violence
and the French likewise saw him as an ally against jih ād as a tool of resistance by Muslim
opponents of colonial rule.
Shaykh Bu Kunta (1844–1914) was another Qādir ī member of this new generation but
differed in substantial ways from his two compatriots discussed earlier. While Bu Kunta was a
member of the illustrious Kunta lineage, he was not notable as a Sufi thinker or teacher; rather,
he made his mark as an organizer and established what would become the model for Sufi com-
munities among his peers within the new generation. Another difference was that Bu Kunta’s
field of operations was focused south of the Senegal River, especially in Kajoor/Cayor where
the last king of Kajoor granted him land on which to settle at Ndiassane. This site was very
close to the Dakar-Saint Louis railroad and he utilized the developing colonial infrastructure
to expand his order across the colony including the urban centers at both ends of the railway.
His family name helped attract disciples to his settlements and by the 1880s, his branch of the
order played an important role in the cash crop production of peanuts, the subsistence pro-
duction of millet, and in the commerce of French colonial Senegal. The economic success of
his agricultural villages fed his current disciples and helped to attract more. The extension of
French colonial rule provided Bu Kunta’s settlements with the security and economic market
to develop and grow and in return he aided the expansion of French control in Senegal. His
successors, or khalīfa, continued to expand the order throughout the colony and Ndiassane
became the primary site of an annual pilgrimage (magal in Wolof ) for Bu Kunta’s branch of the
Qādir īyya. Like many of Senegal’s Sufi orders or branches today, this Senegalese branch has
representatives throughout West Africa, Europe, and the United States.17
The Tijānīyya
While the Qādir īyya was the Sufi order with the earliest presence in Senegal the Tijān īyya
order came to eclipse it and has long been, and still is, the largest Sufi order in the country.
Two Tijān ī representatives within the new generation of Sufi reformers, Malick Sy and Ab-
doulaye Niasse, were chiefly responsible for this transformation in the late nineteenth and
early twentieth centuries. Malick Sy was born c. 1854 in Futa Toro during Ùmar Tal’s jih ād;
yet his family refused to take up arms. In his early interactions with the French, Malick Sy
had to differentiate his peaceful Tijān ī from those that had fought for Ùmar Tal and Mabba
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Jaxu. While Malick Sy may not have been tied to the French as directly as the Qādir ī dis-
cussed earlier he did have a cooperative attitude with the administration that allowed him
to keep his mission of Islamic reform paramount. Through his advanced studies, he came to
acquire a scholarly reputation as a Tijān ī muqaddam (the equivalent of a shaykh) and relied on
his teaching credentials rather than miracles to attract students and disciples. Like some of
his contemporaries among the new generation, he was attracted to the colonial hub of Saint
Louis and established a Tijān ī center and a residence in the city. From 1895 to 1900, Malick
Sy relocated to Ndiarndé, a retreat in a rural corner of the new colonial province of Cayor,
where a core of “ninety-nine disciples” mixed work with study and mediation and set the
pattern for the expansion of his branch of the Tijān īyya across much of western Senegal.
Sy’s disciples built a strong economic base of subsistence production of millet for feeding the
communities and cash crop production of peanuts for cash and took advantage of the colonial
infrastructure in the process. His branch also maintained an urban presence in the area. In
1902, Tivaouane, a colonial administrative post on the Dakar-Saint Louis railway, became
the spiritual capital of the Sy branch and the site of an annual pilgrimage for his disciples.
From Tivaouane, Malick Sy directed his muqaddams to settle in other important developing
urban centers connected to agricultural production, commerce, transportation, and the co-
lonial administration, including Dakar which would become the colonial capital of Senegal
and the entire French West African Federation in 1902. After Malick Sy’s death in 1922, his
successor improved the organizational structure of the branch by directly tying the urban
associations, or dāìra, of the branch to Tivaouane in essentially a modern mass organization.
The politics surrounding decolonization and Senegalese nationalism contributed to succes-
sion disputes in the 1950s and produced divisions within the Sy branch that persist to this
day. This is reflected during the annual pilgrimage during which disciples will gather around
one of three sites in Tivaouane depending on who their muqaddam, or shaykh, supports.18
The other major Senegalese branch of the Tijān īyya was founded by Abdoulaye Niasse
(1845–1922). The Niasse family was a notable clerical family due to their social background
in the ñeeño class of Wolof society. The ñeeno was composed of occupationally specialized
groups (the Niasse family were blacksmiths), sometimes referred to as castes who lived apart
from the dominant gor, or free class, and were endogamous. Abdoulaye Niasse’s father was
a Tijān ī cleric who had joined the armed jih ād of Mabba Jaxu and after Mabba’s death, the
Niasse family continued to support the movement led by Mabba’s son, Saer Maty Ba. By
1887, Abdoulaye Niasse had completely lost faith in the cause of armed jih ād due to Saer
Maty Ba’s attacks against fellow Muslims. He left the movement and devoted himself to a life
of farming and teaching that focused on the pursuit of the inner, peaceful jihād. However,
a rival within the Ba family accused him of planning a violent jih ād and Abdoulaye Niasse
was forced into exile in 1901 in the Gambia, a neighboring British colony. He was allowed
to return to Senegal in 1910 but under strict French surveillance and Malick Sy convinced
his fellow Tijān ī cleric to settle in Kaolack, a growing port city and French administrative
center on the Saloum River. His students supported themselves by producing peanuts for
the booming colonial economy. After the death of Abdoulaye Niasse in 1922, his eldest
son took over the Niasse branch of the Tijān īyya, but was overshadowed by a younger
brother, Ibrahima, who internationalized the branch through his travels over the coming
decades. Ibrahima established his own center in Kaolack and from there administered his
sub-branches of the Niasse Tijān īyya present across most of the other European colonies in
West Africa as far east as British Nigeria. Today there are Niasse Tijān ī across Europe and
the United States. Part of the appeal of the Niasse branch has been its teachings that have
served to suppress class and ethnic divisions in favor of a new egalitarian identity as Tijān ī
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Sufi Muslims. This has even translated into elevated roles for women within the branch. This
sense of egalitarianism coupled with the involvement in cash crop production has led to a
notable degree of social mobility within the order.19
The Murīdīyya
The final two Sufi orders to be discussed were certainly founded within the same histori-
cal context as the Qādir ī and Tijān ī branches examined earlier; yet the Mur īd īyya and the
Layenne are distinctly more Senegalese and identified with specific ethnic groups and areas.
The Mur īd poet, Ibrahima Joob Massar, celebrated the local pedigree of his order with the
lines, “I no longer need either Baghdad or Fez, On seeing Jolof, I submitted entirely.”20
In this poem, Baghdad refers to the Qādir īyya order while Fez symbolized the Tijān īyya.
Amadou Bamba M’Backé was born into a scholarly family in 1853. His grandfather had
opposed the jih ād of 1790 and led an autonomous settlement of disciples and students at
M’Backé-Bawol where Amadou Bamba’s father, Momar Anta Saly, was born. The career of
Momar Anta Saly is important in Mur īd historiography as it is used to provide a commen-
tary on Amadou Bamba’s own approach to politics and society in the context of building the
Mur īd order. During the jih ād of Mabba, Momar Anta Saly served the movement as a qā∂ī, or
Islamic judge, and in 1867 became the qā∂ī and counselor of Lat Joor, a Wolof aristocrat and
claimant to the throne of Kajoor. Amadou Bamba’s formative years were thus spent witness-
ing his father, a noted scholar and teacher, serving both sides in a perennial conflict in which
both sides were damned in the young man’s eyes. A strong revulsion to temporal political
power (Islamic and secular) and violence developed in the founder of the Mur īds that would
color the order in its early years. After his father’s death in 1881, Amadou Bamba was free to
accelerate his transformation from a scholar and teacher into a Sufi saint. Mur īd hagiography
celebrate this period in his life noting his rejection of the temporal world and the acknowl-
edgment of his status as the qutb al-zam ān (Pole of the Age in Arabic) through prophecy and a
vision of the Prophet Mu ḥammad. It was through a vision that Amadou Bamba received the
Mur īd wird; yet he also knew and practiced the Qādir ī, Shādhil ī, and Tijān ī wird and did not
singularly impose the Mur īd wird on his followers. In addition, Amadou Bamba composed
poetry in honor of the Prophet Mu ḥammad and Mur īds recite or sing these poems individ-
ually and in group performances. While Amadou Bamba accumulated his spiritual capital as
a Sufi the formal education of the growing number of disciples was delegated to a younger
brother, Ibra Faty M’Backé (a.k.a. Maam Cerno).21
Amadou Bamba relocated to his ancestral home of M’Backé-Bawol c. 1883 in an act justi-
fied as hijra and three years later, in 1886, Lat Joor was killed by French forces and the entire
region came under French colonial rule. The French installed former ceddo officers from the
old regime as colonial chiefs in their new provinces and cercles thus insuring that the conflicts
between the sëriñ and the ceddo would continue. Exploiting the French fear that armed jih ād
could be used to galvanize resistance against European rule, the ceddo colonial chiefs suc-
ceeded in having Amadou Bamba arrested in 1895 on false charges of preparing an armed
revolt and exiled to Gabon until 1902. He was arrested again the following year and exiled to
the home of Shaykh S īd īyya in Mauritania for four years. Upon his return to Senegal in 1907,
he was kept under strict surveillance by the colonial authorities until his death in 1927. The
Mur īds interpret the arrests and exiles as spiritual trials from which Amadou Bamba emerged
triumphant and scenes from these tribulations have been immortalized in Mur īd artwork
and in prose and poetry.22 Of all of the Sufi leaders discussed so far, Amadou Bamba was the
most averse to dealing with political leaders, both Wolof and French, and issued the famous
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declaration “God Along is King” when summoned to appear before colonial authorities just
prior to his second exile.
Like the Senegalese Qādir ī and Tijān ī branches discussed earlier, the Mur īds grew and
developed largely in a colonial context. Amadou Bamba’s brothers and leading shaykhs such
as Ibra Fall established countless agricultural villages under the aegis of the Mur īd order in
which t ālibe, or students, worked in the peanut and millet fields and pursued their studies.
The Mur īds are especially associated with the breaking of ground and clearing of bush for
new villages and towns on the expanding peanut frontier of central Senegal. The success
of the new Mur īd settlements proved to be magnets for slaves fleeing the estates of Wolof
aristocrats in search of emancipation and new identities. Prior to World War I, Mur īd ex-
pansion was seen as a threat by Wolof colonial chiefs who engineered the arrests and exiles
of Amadou Bamba, however, when the armed revolts failed to materialize and the Mur īds,
along with the other Sufi orders, aided the French war effort a sense of mutual accommoda-
tion took hold and would last until independence. Like the Tijān ī, the Mur īds also settled in
the existing colonial urban areas establishing their own dāìra of Mur īd disciples.
Touba, in northeastern Bawol, is the capital of the Mur īd order and the site of Amadou
Bamba’s tomb. While it was founded in 1887 as a rural retreat it is now, at over 750,000,
the second largest city in Senegal after the capital, Dakar.23 It is the site for the annual grand
maggal, or pilgrimage, that now draws up to two million attendees each year. After Amadou
Bamba’s death in 1927, succession passed to his eldest son and then his younger brothers as
time passed. These sons, resident in Touba, took the Gallicized title, khalīfa-général, while
other branches of the Mur īds established by Amadou Bamba’s own brothers are represented
by their own khalīfa. Sites associated with the branches, such as Darou Mousty founded in
1911 by Maam Cerno, have their own annual pilgrimages oriented around mausoleums
and mosques. One of the most famous and infamous of the Mur īd branches is the Baay Fall
founded by a former Wolof aristocrat, Shaykh Ibra Fall, who became an early and very de-
voted disciple of Amadou Bamba. The Baay Fall is commonly perceived to elevate work and
intense devotion to the shaykh over prayer and fasting sacrificing the latter in favor of the
former. Baay Fall adherents are distinguished by their colorful patchwork clothing in emula-
tion of a cloak given to Shaykh Ibra Fall by Amadou Bamba that was continually patched to
save it. The great majority of Mur īds are not Baay Fall and are critical of some of the more
“deviant” behavior of some members of this branch.
The Layenne
The other distinctly Senegalese Sufi order is the Layenne. While earlier Layenne intellectuals
were comfortable describing themselves as a Sufi order (confrérie in French or tariqa in Arabic
or yonnu in Wolof ) it should be noted that the current generation reject being identified as a
Sufi order, noting the absence of a master-disciple relationship within the Layenne and criti-
cizing what they consider the inflated role of the sëriñ in Senegalese Sufism.24 They now pre-
fer to be known as an Islamic reform movement that stresses social justice. While the beliefs
of the Layenne may distinguish them from the Sufi orders addressed earlier their practices
do bear a strong resemblance to Sufism. The Layenne is primarily centered on the Cap Vert
Peninsula and the nearby coasts and is predominately Lebu in its ethnic makeup. In the Lebu
dialect of Wolof, the term “Layenne” is derived from Arabic and means “People of Allāh.”
The Lebu are in fact a collective drawn from many different ethnic groups across Senegal
with a heavy imprint from the Wolof and Sereer and have historically been the fisherfolk of
the Atlantic Ocean. In the aftermath of the failed 1790–1791 jih ād in northern Kajoor, the
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Sufism in Senegal
defeated leader and his followers fled to Cap Vert and became involved in the Lebu revolu-
tion against the control of Kajoor. The revolution succeeded in establishing an independent
Lebu Islamic republic centered in the villages that together were known as N’Dakaru, from
which Dakar was derived. The Islamic nature of the republic only exerted a weak influence
over Lebu culture and the form of Islam that developed on Cap Vert was very syncretic and
the veneration of local spirits, termed rab and tuur, in Islamic guise as jinn, or genies was very
prominent. The founder of the Layenne, Libasse Thiaw, was born in 1843, 14 years before
the French annexed Cap Vert, in the Lebu village of Yoff and worked as a fisherman until the
age of 40. The emergence and growth of the Layenne therefore took place in the heart of the
developing French colony of Senegal and not in a rural periphery in the interior.
In 1884, according to Layenne hagiography, Libasse Thiaw fell into a catatonic state follow-
ing his mother’s death. He emerged declaring himself to be the mahdī and the reincarnation
of the Prophet Muḥammad and began his mission to reform the practice of Islam among his
people. Within two years, his miracles and sermons had attracted several hundred disciples and
the attention of the French colonial authorities who began to monitor the fledging group’s ac-
tivities.25 The circumstances surrounding the arrest of Libasse Thiaw, referred to by his follow-
ers as Seydina Limamou Laye (lit., our master the imām of God), in September 1887 were very
similar to those of Amadou Bamba nine years later as political and religious rivalries among
the Lebu fed French paranoia of an Islamic revolt. The Layenne founder was held in prison for
three months on Gorée Island at which point he was released with the restriction that new dis-
ciples who were not from Yoff could not settle there which prompted the creation of a second
Layenne settlement a few miles up the coast from Yoff at a site that would become known as
Camberene, taken from the French comme Médine.26 The Layenne continued to grow and when
Limamou Laye died in 1909 he was succeeded by his son, Seydina Issa Rohou Laye, who was
believed to be the reincarnation of Jesus.27 Issa Rohou Laye enjoyed good relations with the
French colonial authorities and later Layenne khalīfa-général also drawn from the descendants of
the founder have led the community up to the present.
The Layenne are distinct in several ways from the other Sufi orders of Senegal. The identi-
ties of the founder and his son obviously set the Layenne apart. In Layenne beliefs, the founder
as Mahdī and the Prophet Muḥammad reborn was foretold to help renew Islam and prepare
the way for the second-coming of Jesus who would fight the anti-Christ. Layenne teach-
ings, encapsulated in the preserved sermons of both leaders, stress the equality of all believers
regardless of social background. Layenne commonly greet each other using the pseudonym
“Laye Mactar” to mask their surnames which can indicate nobility, descent from an occupa-
tionally specialized caste. Some Layenne have gone so far as to legally change their surname
to “Laye” or “Lahi” which are Lebu renderings of “Allāh.” Layenne are encouraged to wear
plain unadorned white robes, or boubou, to their events to obscure class differences. Notably,
the Layenne are the only Senegalese order to admit women into mosques and female d āìra
are very prominent at Layenne celebrations. Honest work and acquisition of goods, chastity
through infant engagements, and a rejection of Lebu syncretic beliefs and practices revolving
around local jinn also characterize the Layenne. The Layenne maintain an annual pilgrimage
cycle celebrating a historical geography that effectively places Cap Vert at the center of the
Islamic world. Layenne sites include Xóotoum Ngor, the seaside cave where it is believed the
spirit of the Prophet Muḥammad resided prior to reincarnation, Yoff-Layenne which serves as
Mecca, Camberene which is the Layenne Medina, Malika/Nguediaga, where Limamou was
arrested after his three-day flight which the Layenne term a hijra from French authorities, and
Gorée Island where he was imprisoned.28 Additional pilgrimage sites include Ngakham in the
interior of Senegal where Seydina Issa attended school.
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John Glover
Conclusion: the way forward

Sufism and its orders are integral parts of an Islamic modernity in Senegal that has utilized
technology and transportation to achieve a diaspora that is both digital and international.
As a part of the Senegalese diaspora which is itself part of a larger West African diaspora,
Senegalese Sufis have migrated to other countries in search of economic opportunities. In
2008, the Mur īds alone were represented in 47 cities across Europe, 16 cities in North
America, Tokyo, and there is currently a community in Argentina which maintains its own
Facebook page.29 Internet sites, Facebook pages, and Instagram accounts now play an import-
ant role in this diaspora, helping expats set down roots in the host country and also maintain
their ties with their Sufi centers in Senegal. Among the orders, the Layenne and the Mur īds
have built an impressive Internet presence. The official website of the Layenne30 is routinely
updated and provides news of upcoming events and audio and video of recent celebrations
to maintain a sense of community amongst its members both within and outside of Senegal.
The site also contains hagiographies of the founder and his son along with translations of
their sermons. Biographies of the Layenne khalīfa are augmented by historical photographs.
The Mur īds are represented online by the Murid Islamic Community in America.31 The site
provides access to an extensive audio and video library, general information and history of
the Mur īds, and links to a wide range of services provided by the headquarters in New York
City. The future of the Sufi orders of Senegal will not only be played out in Senegal but also
across a large part of the world.
Notes
1 See, for example, Allen Roberts, A Saint in the City: S ūf ī Arts of Urban Senegal (Los Angeles: UCLA
Fowler Museum of Cultural History, 2003), Fernand Dumont, La Pensée religieuse d’Amadou Bamba
(Dakar: Nouvelles éditions africaines, 1975), Leonardo A Villalon, Islamic Society and State Power
in Senegal: Disciples and Citizens in Fatick (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), Jean
Copans, Les marabouts de l’arachide: La confrérie mouride et les paysans du Sénégal (Paris: A. Pedone,
1981), and Mamadou Diouf and Mara Leichtman, eds. New Perspectives on Islam in Senegal (New
York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009).
2 Khadim Mbacké, S ūf īsm and Religious Brotherhoods in Senegal, ed. John Hunwick (Princeton:
Markus Wiener, 2005), iii.
3 “Religious Identity among Muslims,” Pew Research Center: Religion and Public Life, accessed June
1, 2018, www.pewforum.org/2012/08/09/the-worlds-muslims-unity-and-diversity-1-religious-
affiliation/.
4 Rüdiger Seeseman, The Divine Flood: Ibrahim Niasse and the Roots of a Twentieth-Century S ūf ī Revival
(New York: Oxford University Press, 2011), 11–15.
5 All subsequent dates given in C.E. or “Common Era” unless otherwise noted.
6 Nehemia Levtzion and J.F.P. Hopkins, Corpus of Early Arabic Sources for West African History
(Princeton: Markus Wiener, 2000), 77.
7 For the Jakhanke see Lamin Sanneh, The Jakhanke Muslim Clerics (Lanham: University Press of
America, 1989) and Philip Curtin, Economic Change in Precolonial Africa (Madison: University of
Wisconsin Press, 1975).
8 Nehemia Levtzion and Randall L. Pouwels, The History of Islam in Africa (Athens: Ohio University
Press, 2000), 69–78.
9 Boubacar Barry, Senegambia and the Atlantic Slave Trade (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1998), 44–125.
10 James Webb, Desert Frontier: Ecological and Economic Change along the Western Sahel, 1600–1850
(Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1995), 1–11.
11 For a more detailed overview of this process see John Glover, S ūf īsm and Jih ād in Modern Senegal:
The Murid Order (Rochester: University of Rochester Press, 2007), 39–43.
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513
35
SUFISM IN NORTH AMERICA
Juliane Hammer
There is a famous, well-loved, and often retold story of several people in a dark space who
are touching different parts of an elephant such as its leg, its tusk, its trunk, and its ear. They
can only describe what they are feeling and do not recognize that their part only makes sense
if the elephant is recognized as a whole animal. The story is a metaphor for the limits of
individual perception and the importance of context for understanding an object as a whole.
Scholars of Sufism, however, may face a different dilemma, namely that they have already
decided what makes the elephant an elephant and when they encounter body parts they can
easily tell whether those belong to their elephant, thereby confirming the boundaries of the
study of Sufism and of its central object, Sufism, as they have been drawn before.
To put it into academic terms, rather than Buddhist, Hindu, Jain, and Sufi lore, I open
this chapter with concern about the parameters of my object of study, both in terms of the
boundaries of Sufism and the significance of North America as a geographical context for
it. This concern is certainly pertinent to the study of Sufism anywhere and in any historical
period; however, it takes on further urgency in the context of North America. If there was
a universal definition of Sufism, would it apply to the North American context, or is there a
Sufism for Muslim majority contexts, and another one for “the West”? If there is no universal
definition of Sufism, who decides whether certain practices, people, texts, ideas, concepts,
objects, and bodies are Sufi or not? Are there Sufisms in the plural and/or regional Sufisms
that are distinct enough to not be variations on a central theme or an essence of some kind?
Some scholars have relied on “Sufis” to identify themselves as such, which helps us along
a little bit, but not as much for ideas, concepts, practices, and even institutions, and of course
this approach relies to some extent on living Sufis who can be asked to and identify them-
selves as such. The question of the relationship between ideas, practices, people, groups, and
institutions, however, is not easily answered through self-identification. As Carl Ernst has
written about definitions of Sufism:
They do not have any clear reference to a defined group of people. Instead, they ac-
complish a powerful rhetorical transaction; the person who listens to or reads these
definitions is forced to imagine the spiritual or ethical quality that is invoked by the
definition, even when it is paradoxical. Definitions of Sufism are, in effect, teaching
tools.1
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It may also behoove us then to include academic definitions of Sufism as teaching tools for
our considerations, which helps us recognize the blurriness of existing boundaries between
Sufis and academics, supposed insiders and outsiders (to Sufism), and the politics of identity,
identification, definition, and boundary drawing.
As a scholar of US Muslims, mostly, and of Sufism, I also need to outline here my concep-
tion of North America as focusing on the United States, with occasional glimpses of Canada
and no mention of Mexico. The study of “American Muslims” or even “North American
Muslims” has either conceptually conflated the United States and Canada or focused ex-
clusively on the United States. In such conflation, important historical, cultural, political,
social and religious differences and divergences are collapsed in the interest of unified but not
necessarily productively comparative analysis. Even comparative analysis yields a potential
result of comparing apples and oranges in order to conclude that they are fruit. The existing
academic literature on Sufism and Sufis takes conflation and conceptual collapsing even fur-
ther by frequently offering studies of Sufism “in the West,” a category that is held together
by Euro-American centric ideas of colonialism, domination, superiority, and the production
of categories, concepts, and nomenclatures to study and order the unfamiliar. Sufism is no
exception. To quote Carl Ernst again:
Terms constructed in the form of ‘isms’ describe philosophies and social movements,
so that ideally one can reduce them to descriptive definitions based on their essential
qualities. This approach to classification, especially in the comparative study of religion,
is based on comparative zoology.2
The study of North American Sufism is, on another level, also stuck with discussions on
the relationship between Islam and Sufism which I will return to later in this chapter. The
study of American religions has struggled mightily with the inclusion and recognition of
Islam as an American religion, despite a long history of Muslim presence in North America.
No wonder then that it is difficult for that field to follow the debates about the relationship
between Islam and Sufism elsewhere and in other time periods and then take a position
on where American variants might fit or not. In other words, the question is not only if
American Sufism is Sufism but also whether it is American.3
In many of the works in the field, these tensions between definitions and questions of
boundaries are addressed through two connected concepts: authenticity and its corollary, adapta-
tion. Together, they have provided a framework for assessing whether something or someone is
part of Sufism while also allowing for recognition of dynamics in which things or people can
transform or change Sufism in order for it to function in a specific context. These are unidi-
rectional considerations of authenticity and adaptation and they rely, too heavily in my view,
on agreed upon boundaries and definitions. I approach them with skepticism and caution as to
their utility, but share in the challenge to describe and analyze North American Sufism with-
out them. I recognize that I am bound to fall back on these two concepts in my own thematic
analysis, if only because they appear so prominently in the literature in the field.4
I begin with these considerations of boundaries and definitions because they have plagued
as well as defined the field I draw on for this chapter. In what follows, I have selected seven
specific themes that appear frequently in scholarly publications as well as in my own research,
both textual and ethnographic. The field of study I call “Sufism in the West” is relatively
small and a select number of scholars have dominated and defined approaches, themes, and
frameworks, often in significant disagreement with each other. I rely on these materials for
a broader view than my own research endeavors could yield, recognizing that these scholars
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Juliane Hammer
are invested in different fields such as Islamic studies, the study of Sufism, American reli-
gions, comparative literature, gender studies, and others, which in significant ways have
shaped their views and perspectives, their methods, and the foundational assumptions that
define their scholarship. The study of Sufism is simultaneously interdisciplinary and em-
bedded in the study of Islam and the study of religion. At the same time, it is important to
acknowledge that an academic field of study is always a product of its own geographical and
political context, and the study of North American Sufism is no exception.
For each of the seven themes, which organically move into each other in more of a circle
than a sequence, I provide a brief discussion of how the specific theme appears in the lit-
erature interwoven with specific examples in order to illustrate that theoretical point with
phenomenological materials. The link between the theoretical discussion and the examples
moves the chapter as a whole back and forth between the tangible, historical, political, social,
and religious, on one hand, and the abstract and conceptual on the other hand. The examples
take the form of sketches, with enough reference to primary and/or secondary sources for the
reader to follow up and expand them into a fuller picture and consider their place in relation
to the theme. On a mind map, each theme would be connected by arrows to at least several
if not all other themes in a manner that is both causal and interdependent.
I enter the thematic circle at the point of practice in order to highlight the significance of
religious practices as embodied acts and for a deeper and broader understanding of religion.
I proceed from the assumption that practices and ideas are in an interdependent relationship
with each other rather than, as has often been assumed in religious studies scholarship, prac-
tices proceeding from ideas, concepts, and thoughts that are considered primary.
Sufi practices
About 100 people have come together in a space they call a tekke, a center of Sufi rituals and
community, outside of New York. The building resembles a meeting between an Ottoman
mosque and a ski lodge. Pine wood beams meet colorful tiles with arabesque details, flow-
ers, and geometric forms in blue, turquoise, and red on a white background. Seated on the
carpeted floor in a circle, the men face the qibla and their leader who sits with his back to the
mihrab. Women and a few children sit in rows at the other end of the room. The assembled
community is here on a Saturday night5 to engage in dhikr, the invocation or remembrance
of God. Dhikr practices, often in communal formations, both form the core of and transcend
the boundaries of Sufi practice. Remembrance of God is encouraged in the Qur’ān, and the
community present tonight is repeating the first part of the shah āda, over and over: l ā ill āha
ill āll āh, l ā ill āha ill āll āh, ten times, 99 times, a thousand times. They chant in unison, breathe
in and out together, and experience a closeness to God that is only amplified by their shared
experience. At certain points, their shaykh will chant and they repeat his words. Eventually,
they rise and sway in sync with the rhythmic chanting. Finally, they only breathe, exhaling
on the word hu for Allah every time.
While the same ritual could take place in the birthplace of this particular community,
Istanbul, the people in the room come from all walks of life and from diverse ethnic and
class backgrounds.6 Are they then simply Sufis “in America” or is their dhikr practice part of
American Sufism? Rosemary Corbett, who has described this ritual and the dhikr practices
of two other related communities, has argued that the variations on ritual Sufi practices in
these three communities appeal to different sets of audiences and followers: Turkish immi-
grants who were already connected to the order when they came to the United States and
expect a replication of the traditional rituals, converts to Sufism (and Islam) who are more
516
attracted to “Sufi aesthetics and New Age philosophy than to what they assume are the more
rigid conventions of formal Islam,” and young American-born Muslims who want neither
the culturally bound expressions of an older immigrant generation nor the eclectic practices
of Sufi converts.7
In 2002, the then leader of the Halveti Jerrahi Order of Dervishes, whose dhikr I intro-
duced earlier, wrote the following about dhikr:
Even the sincere believer, who is qualified to perform and profit from a real dhikrullah,
may only hope to receive momentarily during the ritual what is called a “natural bene-
fit.” The “spiritual benefit,” which we aspire to, is experienced by very few, for the best
of us are rooted in nature, in the material world, and are under the influence of our an-
imal selves. The natural benefit consists of being momentarily freed from worldly con-
cerns and the demands of our egos. The effect is enhanced by music, heartbeat, rhythm,
controlled breathing, and the repetition of God’s Beautiful Names. But to come close to
the Lord, to reach the Named through the Names we recite, a person must already be
relieved from dependence on the worldly life through total submission to our Maker.8
Tosun Bayrak, or Tosun Baba, as he was affectionately and reverently addressed by his dis-
ciples, points here to several issues regarding practice. Practicing dhikr has benefits and by
distinguishing between natural and spiritual benefit he differentiates between a spiritual
and a worldly realm, recognizing that his disciples move, some more seamlessly than others,
between those realms in their daily lives and as they engage in dhikr. The short paragraph
in a longer text on dhikr also points to the existence of levels of practice that disciples reach,
thereby creating both a hierarchy of disciples and of their attainment of benefit from their
religious practice.
In his “Sufis on Parade,” Zain Abdullah analyzes a public parade in honor of the Senega-
lese Sufi, Shaykh Ahmadou Bamba (d. 1927) that has been taking place for several decades,
in, of all places, New York City, more specifically in Harlem. Bamba is a venerated saintly
figure, the founder of the Muridiyya Sufi order in Senegal, a leader in the fight against
French colonialism, and a bestower of baraka.
The photographic posters of Bamba, other saints, the Touba Grand Mosque, along with
hagiographical narratives illustrate an intimate fellowship Murids have with religious
images and texts. This moving display engenders a sacred space paraders enter to gain
divine favor, a baraka to help them manage the vagaries of life upon their return to a
profane world. While this moving tableau clearly indexes important aspects of their re-
ligious sentiment, it also matches the social exigencies of the many worlds they inhabit
in Harlem. As such, the Bamba Day parade is a major site for identity construction and
a place where African Sufis navigate the contours of their racial, ethnic, and religious
identities.9
The parade is a public display of Sufi practice, replicating practices in Senegal, but also trans-
forming and adjusting them to the life situations of Murids in the United States and their
different spiritual needs. It is a performance that communicates a host of complex messages,
some intended and some not, to the surrounding city, thereby negotiating the Blackness,
Muslimness, Sufiness, and foreignness of Senegalese immigrants to the United States.10
Somewhere in North America, Sufis sing, dance, breathe, meditate, pray, feed the poor,
build houses for Habitat for Humanity, and chant every day. They do so in communal
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Juliane Hammer
gatherings, at public events, in the privacy of someone’s home, in designated Sufi spaces, and
in mosques. The very diversity of such practices raises questions about authenticity and ad-
aptation, both concepts that require a notion of Sufism (and of America) to be authenticated
and/or adapted to. The earlier discussion also points us to the fact that practices are carried
out and carried from place to place by people, thereby alerting us to dynamics of intention-
ality, social construction, agency, and communal structures versus individual formations.
Sufi practices are made Sufi by the people who carry them out and invest them with
meaning, thereby embracing and negotiating ethical notions of self-transformation that are
made and remade through practice. They take place in the world, shaped by context and
in response to it, but they also aspire to create distance from a world that is represented as a
distraction from Divine reality and the sole focus of the Sufi on God.
The earlier examples have already mentioned the Jerrahiyya and Muridiyya orders,
thereby gesturing toward both the existence and the purported significance of institutional
and organizational structures for Sufism in North America.
Sufi organizations
Sufi orders or tariqas, the predominant institutional form of Sufi communities since the
twentieth century, found around the globe, are certainly the most visible and thus research-
able facet of North American Sufism. After all, we can observe naming and self-naming
practices, explore and analyze institutional histories and didactic materials associated with a
particular path (tariqa), and because of our location in the present, we can visit spaces asso-
ciated with tariqas (tekke, khanaqah, zawiya) and observe institutionally framed and defined
practices as well as members/participants within them. It is therefore no accident that the
majority of studies of North American Sufis are studies of particular tariqas or branches of
them or comparative studies that commence with the assumed centrality of the tariqa for
Sufism.
The Alami Tariqa has its physical center, its tekiya, in the small town of Watertown in
the state of New York.11 Founded by a Sufi teacher from Bosnia, who arrived in Canada in
1969 and moved to the United States in 1977, the tariqa has links with various older lineages
including the Khalwati-Hayati Order in Macedonia and a branch of the Rifa’i Order in
Kosovo. It became its own branch of both orders and was named the Alami Tariqa in the
1980s, with Shaykh Asaf, its founder, as its spiritual leader.12
The history of the tariqa includes several moves to and from different locations, in con-
gruence with the relocation of its shaykh, and the establishment/emergence of tekiyas in
the United States and Canada, as well as Northern Europe. The shaykh also has disciples in
Britain, Turkey, the Middle East, South Asia, and South Africa. Among the most interesting
developments is perhaps the establishment of a tekiya in Bosnia, where Shaykh Asaf was
born. There are ups and downs, expansions and contractions, debates about discipleship,
location, and boundaries, and evolving practices specific to this particular Sufi path, in the
history of the tariqa as Julianne Hazen tells it in her Sufism in America.
This institutional history is also an illustration of the commonly cited phases or waves of
the emergence and development of Sufi groups in North America. Gisela Webb has divided
this history into three waves13: the early 1900s when Europeans and Americans encountered
spiritual teachers in Asia through travel in both directions, followed by the documented
arrival of the first Sufi teachers on American shores.14 The second wave corresponds both
with the American counterculture movements of the 1960s and 1970s and the shift in immi-
gration patterns brought on by the 1965 Hart-Celler Act which opened up the United States
518
to more immigrants from Asia and Africa. Among the immigrants arriving in the United
States after 1965 were not only significant numbers of Muslims, but Muslims them also some
who were connected to Sufi tariqas in their countries of origin. Americans who joined Sufi
communities were often white and middle class, introducing issues of privilege, access, and
the power to push for redefinition and adaptation of ideas and practices in order to appeal to
those “Sufi converts.” Sufi communities with immigrant backgrounds were faced with the
twin challenges of racism and anti-Muslim hostility as well as issues such as transplantation
of practices and modes of authority under changing circumstances.
The third phase is usually associated with the later twentieth and early twenty-first
centuries and with the globalization of technologies of communication and migration, the
refugee crisis, 9/11, the War on Terror, and the broader crisis of late capitalism and in-
creasingly challenging forms of liberalism. American Muslims live in transnational as well
as localized communities, as part of the fabric of Canadian and US societies, while also
facing increasing levels of anti-Muslim hostility, the secularization of American society,
and a global climate crisis.15
In each of these “waves,” Sufi tariqas were transplanted, reimagined, formed, and reformed
around concepts such as lineage and founding histories, transmission and preservation of ini-
tiatic knowledge and practices, leadership, authority, and hierarchies, as well as boundaries
of and spaces in communal identities. The histories of other tariqas as well as ethnographic
studies of some of them, including the Halveti-Jerrahi Order, the Naqshbandi-Haqqani
Order, the Muridiyya, the Alami Tariqa, the Sufi Order of the West, the Shadhiliyya Or-
der, the Bawa Muhaiyaddeen Fellowship, and many others, tell these stories of negotiation,
transformation, and preservation.16
Historically, a tariqa, often named after its founding figure, was constituted as a hierar-
chical social structure, with a leader or guide at the center and surrounded by concentric
circles of disciples who participated in shared spiritual practices specific to the path of the
teacher and community. The teacher figure dispensed spiritual knowledge according to the
disciple’s attainment of stations on the Sufi path and thus elevated some disciples over others
in the structure of the tariqa. A Sufi tariqa could also be described as a pyramid with the
teacher as the capstone. Both the esoteric knowledge dispensed, which was often considered
secret and potentially dangerous to the uninitiated, and particular practices became more
advanced as the disciple progressed through the hierarchy. With such hierarchical structures
and controlled access to knowledge and attainment of spiritual stations, every tariqa was sub-
ject to social negotiations and, somewhat ironically, competition over access to the shaykh
and with that to power and influence. Many Sufi tariqas lay claim to lineages that link them
back to the Prophet Muhammad and the Sufi masters of the first centuries. Equally many
have experienced disagreement and strife over succession and over claims and counterclaims
to spiritual authority.
In that sense, the histories and founding stories of American Sufi communities are no
different and thus no less “authentic” than those in Muslim-majority contexts, albeit some of
their lineages are significantly shorter. Others identify as North American branches of tradi-
tional orders with their roots in Muslim-majority regions from South Asia and the Middle
East to Africa and the Balkans.
In considering the institution of the Sufi tariqa in North America it is easy to get dis-
tracted by the geographical focus on North America and to lose sight of the fact that there
are different ways in which this particular geographical location matters as a focal point of
spiritual energy and activity. Some of the tariqas indeed locate their center, often through
their leader, in North America. Others constitute a branch of an order with transnational
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Juliane Hammer
connections to a center in another part of the world, often, but not always in Muslim-
majority regions. Yet other tariqas maintain links to such a center while also cultivating lat-
eral and transnational links with other centers in many parts of the world. Sufis have moved
to be closer to centers of spiritual guidance but they have also formed new such centers in
their current locations. And finally, Sufis have always traveled: in order to seek teachers and
knowledge, in order to interact with teachers, and in order to maintain communal ties. They
now also have the option of communicating along great distances through communication
technology including the internet.
The leadership position of a Sufi shaykh (in some contexts also called a pir) is linked to
their own attainment of a high spiritual station, and either the perception of or claim to hav-
ing reached union with God. The structure of a tariqa with the shaykh at the top lends itself
well to the articulation of charismatic religious authority. This charisma can be located in
the personality of the shaykh, reflected in their demeanor (for example in particular practices
of spiritual humility), or can be recognized by others as a reflection of their spiritual attain-
ment. The Sufi guides and teachers that are recognized as significant in the North American
context are no exception.17
Guides and teachers

It was the year 1910 when an Indian musician and Sufi master by the name of Hazrat Inayat
Khan arrived in Manhattan. Khan sought to bring what he described as a universal “Message
of Sufism” from India to the West. He was trained in and affiliated with the Chishtiyya
Order, one of the prominent tariqas of South Asia and it was his spiritual guide, Mohammed
Abu Hashim Madani who had asked him to go to Europe and America in order to “harmo-
nize the East and the West through his music.” He traveled through various parts of Europe
and America and, through concerts and talks, introduced people to his vision of a universal
Sufism for the modern age. According to his son and spiritual successor, he said: “Why
should the Message have been fostered by Sufism rather than any other group? Because it has
traditionally been the cross-roads of esoteric orders, and we are living in the age of unity, of
convergence of ideals and ideas.”18
A noteworthy aspect of this short tale is the fact that Khan himself was part of a spiritual
lineage and drew on the authority of his shaykh for his mission in America. He built the Sufi
Order of the West, which in the 1960s was renamed the Sufi Order International. Inayat
Khan died in 1927 and was succeeded as the leader of the Sufi Order of the West by his son,
Pir Vilayat Inayat Khan who continued his father’s work until his death in 2004. Hazrat
Inayat Khan’s grandson, Zia Inayat Khan, who resides in Richmond, Virginia, where the
tariqa maintains its center, is the current leader of the tariqa. Under his leadership, it was
renamed the Inayati Order, or Inayatiyya, after its founder.19 Pir Zia, who is also known as
Sarafil Bawa, holds a PhD in Religion from Duke University and travels widely for speaking
engagement and spiritual instruction, but he also has an interest in the pressing concerns of
our time including ecological devastation.20
The successive pirs of the Inayati Order have not claimed direct lineage connections to
the Chishtiyya Order, despite the initiation of Hazrat Inayat Khan in his earlier life. Theirs
is a story and an example of a Sufi tariqa that was created in response to a perceived societal
need, in a particular location, and at a particular point in recent history. Its creation and
expansion depended entirely on the pir at its helm, thereby turning our attention to the
centrality of the Sufi guide for the creation and continuation of the tariqa.
520
In interviews I conducted with members of the Halveti Jerrahi Order, both in Istanbul
and in the United States, in the mid-2000s, I was reminded frequently that the dervishes I
was speaking to identified themselves as disciples of a particular pir rather than as “members”
of the tariqa. The significance of that distinction should not be underestimated. I suggest
that the academic focus on tariqas is a product of our methodological limits in researching
and comprehending the inner life of dervishes which we have replaced with a detailed and
feasible study of social hierarchies and institutional boundaries and structures. In the process,
we may overestimate the relevance of communal dynamics at the expense of a fuller under-
standing of the role of the pir.
Sometime in the 1970s, American seekers of spiritual wisdom, hungry for an alternative
to what they saw as materialist lifestyles devoid of spiritual content, encountered the char-
ismatic pir of the Halveti-Jerrahi Order in Istanbul. His name was Muzaffereddin (Özak)
al-Jerrahi al-Halveti. His was a towering presence in any room and he led the Society for the
Preservation of Sufi Music in Istanbul with grace and the political acumen necessary to nav-
igate the official ban on Sufi tariqas that had been in effect since the 1920s.21 The American
visitors were also drawn to the dhikr practices of the tariqa, which we have already encoun-
tered in an earlier part of the chapter. They implored Muzaffer Effendi (an honorary title) to
come to the United States and share his Sufi knowledge with a society that they argued was
clearly in need of his guidance.
In 1977, Özak embarked on his first of several trips to the United States, where he estab-
lished the first Jerrahi center in Spring Valley, New York. In 1980, he also traveled to several
other cities and performed the very evocative Jerrahi dhikr ceremonies with his disciples. The
Jerrahis were no strangers to the “performance” of their dhikr or their music as visitors were
allowed in their main tekke in Istanbul. Özak designated Tosun Bayrak as his representative
in New York (and the United States). He continued to visit until his death in 1986. Özak
encouraged the building of a mosque in New York City, the Al-Farah Mosque, that became
a focal point for “non-Sufi” Muslims’ daily worship and Friday prayers.
It is noteworthy that Muzaffer Effendi remained the pole of the Halveti-Jerrahi tariqa
which kept the geographical and legitimacy center of the order in Istanbul. Seekers wanting
to be initiated into the tariqa were expected to travel to Istanbul or catch the pir on one of
his trips. The previous sentence is an example of the tariqa over pir focus I just lamented on
the previous page. The practice of bay’ah (an oath of allegiance) has often been described as
initiation into a tariqa when it is in fact an oath of allegiance to a particular pir and not to the
institution of the tariqa. It follows that seekers would have to be in the presence of Muzaffer
Effendi in order to “take hand” – with the practice of this pir involving a ritual in which the
pir holds the hand of seeker to make him their disciple. This ritual symbolically links the two
people for the purpose of allegiance and the transportation of initiatic knowledge.
In addition to designating Tosun Bayrak the local leader in Spring Valley, Muzaffer
Effendi also built initiatic relationships with several other Sufis who would go on to become
prominent figures in American Sufi communities. One was Lex Hixon, also known as Nur-
al-Jerrahi or Shaykh Nur, who already was a known figure in American esoteric circles when
he first met Muzaffer Effendi. Shortly after Muzaffer Effendi’s death, Hixon announced the
creation of a separate branch of the order which he called the Nur-Ashki-Jerrahi Order.
Since Hixon’s death in 1995, this branch has been led by his wife, Shaykha Fariha, who we
will encounter in her own right shortly.
The discussion of just two figures, Hazrat Inayat Khan and Muzaffer Özak, illustrates the
centrality and significance of the pir/shaykh teacher and guide figure for the emergence and
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Juliane Hammer
continuation of Sufi communities. They provide the connection to an existing lineage and
older tariqa networks and/or are the spark and inspiration for new ones. And in most in-
stances, they create or continue transitions of leadership to successors. This transition can be
contested, with the result that not all disciples of a deceased guide automatically move their
allegiance to a successor. Some successors will require a new bay’ah ritual. And some disciples
will elect to maintain their allegiance to a pir who is no longer in this world, yet again illus-
trating the centrality of the pir rather than the Sufi tariqa as an organization and community.
Sufis and gender

No discussion of American Sufism is complete without at least considering the question of
gender. Much has been written on the role of women “in Sufism” from Annemarie Schim-
mel’s influential work, My Soul is a Woman, to detailed considerations of the lives and exam-
ples of early Sufi women in the work of Laury Silvers and Maria Dakake.22
The most prominent example of a woman in a spiritual leadership position is Shaykha
Fariha, the leader of the Nur-Ashki-Jerrahi Order.23 Under her leadership, the tariqa has
further moved toward the embrace of a universal Sufism model that puts emphasis on unity
rituals rather than mainstream Muslim practice. The community has maintained the Sufi
Bookstore in New York and attracted followers that are different from those of the other
branches. Beyond mentioning the fact that she is a woman, little discussion has occurred in
academic literature about the significance of her gender.
Marcia Hermansen has argued that American Sufi communities have displayed more
openness to the possibility of women’s leadership than traditional orders and has described
women in Sufi communities as working to
negotiate their understanding of gender roles so as to reflect both traditional authenticity

and gender justice. Female members of western Sufi movements have taken positions about
gender along a continuum ranging from subversion and activism (Rabia Terri Harris, Laleh
Bakhtiar) directed to challenging and reforming traditional Muslim practices to “gender
complementarity” as part of the divine cosmic order (Sachiko Murata) to a discourse of fe-
male compliance and docility drawing on conservative American perspectives.24
As the short sketch of the Halveti-Jerrahis indicated, Sufi practices can be gendered in-
cluding gender-separated in some instances. This certainly has an impact on the appeal of
Sufi communities for women, which can go in either direction: women can be interested
in traditional forms of gender separation as it may acknowledge the significance of gender
difference on the Sufi path. Alternatively, they might be drawn to the possibility of spiritual
attainment through either the de-emphasizing of gender difference or the emphatic encour-
agement of women’s inclusion.25
In 2001, Shakina Reinhertz, a self-described member of the Mevlevi Order, published
a book called Women Called to the Path of Rumi: The Way of the Whirling Dervish. The book
contains an introduction to the whirling practices of the Mevlevi Order whose dervishes
are said to follow the practices of the most famous of Sufi poets, Mevlana Jalaluddin Rumi
(d. 1273). Reinhertz focuses on a group of women in the tariqa who have taken up whirling
practices in spite of the fact that women have not participated in such rituals in centuries.
To share this path through the feminine perspective is born out of a desire that a hun-
dred years from now any young girl who wishes to be a whirling dervish will be able to
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see the faces, hear the words and know the joys and struggles of those women who have
gone before her. The men of this Order are truly precious to us; it is not that our jour-
ney as women is more important, because without our brothers we would not take one
step! … This is the tale of how men and women turned together in the days of Rumi,
and how the women were separated from this practice, and how we have been called to
turn together again.26
The book contains photographs of whirling women dervishes, interviews with them, de-
scriptions of the rituals, as well as drawings and art works that are meant to connect the
reader on more than the level of words and sentences.
Camille Helminski, also associated with the Mevlevi tradition, and co-founder (with
her husband Kabir Helminski) of the Threshold Society, published an edited volume in
2003 called Women of Sufism: A Hidden Treasure.27 Chapters of the book are dedicated to
Sufi women from the wives of the Prophet Muhammad through the 14 centuries of Muslim
history to contemporary women teachers. The volume thereby establishes a lineage of Sufi
women as leaders, poets, practitioners, and disciples which argues that women have always
been part of the Sufi path. In making their stories and in some cases their words and/or
writings available in English, these women, in their existence as well as their diversity, are
offered as role models to contemporary Sufi women in the North American context.
It is no coincidence that Women of Sufism and other works about Sufi women were pub-
lished in book form. Far beyond the Sufi communities and their teachers discussed earlier,
through various forms of outreach, dissemination of esoteric knowledge, music, poetry, and
other art forms, “Sufism” has had a significant reach into as well as impact on the broader
American society.
Dissemination of knowledge: literary and cultural production

Who has not heard of the poet Rumi or has come across one of his poems, be it on a calen-
dar, in an inspirational quote or, more recently, as a meme online? The Sufi teacher and poet
Mevlana Jalaluddin Rumi, inspiration for the Mevlevi Order that originated in what is now
Turkey and more specifically in Konya, the place where he died and was buried in 1273, is by
many accounts the best-known poet whose original works were not composed in English.
Rumi uttered much of his poetry and wrote longer works, all in Persian.28 Rumi achieved
much of his fame in the United States through the renditions of his poems in English by
Coleman Barks.29 It was also Sufi poetry that attracted the attention of European scholars and
travelers to the phenomenon of Sufism (and its subsequent classification), thereby establishing
a focus on texts as sources of knowledge about Sufism.30
A recent example of making Sufi poetry in other languages available to an English-
speaking audience is Omid Safi’s volume, Radical Love: Teachings from the Islamic Mystical
Traditions.31 Unlike Barks’ renditions of Rumi poems, Safi insisted on accurate and careful
translations of poems and selections of other texts, including Qur’ān and Ḥad īth, from Arabic
and Persian. Safi constructs a lineage of love in Sufism that he, too, traces all the way back
to the Prophet Muhammad.
American Sufis, teachers as well as disciples, took to the publication of Sufi knowledge,
both as a way to delineate and distribute their ideas, principles, and practices among their
communities, and in order to publicize them beyond the boundaries of their communities.
Many of the Sufi teachers we have already encountered, including Muzaffer Ozak, Inayat
Khan, Kabir Helminski, and Shems Friedlander, have authored works that serve one or both
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of these purposes.32 Others, including Tosun Bayrak, have produced translations of what they
considered important prose works of historical Sufi figures into English. A third dimension
of the publication and dissemination can be located in works that narrate the biographies/
hagiographies of prominent Sufi figures, past and presents, in order to illuminate their path
and underline their significance.33 A fourth genre consists of the memoirs of self-identified
Sufis.34 Some tariqas have also written their own histories as a claim to and reminder of a
longer lineage in order to emphasize their connection to pirs and points of origin.35 And a
number of tariqas have even established their own publishing houses in order to produce and
disseminate books, and occasionally also journals and magazines.36
A related dimension of “Sufi literature” beyond the boundaries of Sufi communities is the
production of fictional works, especially novels that rely, in their narratives, on Sufi ideas.
Examples include the well-circulated, Master of the Jinn, by Irving Karchmar, and a more
recent mystery novel, The Lover, by scholar of early Sufism, Laury Silvers.37
Spiritual knowledge in textual form as well as information about and even video and au-
dio footage of rituals is increasingly available through other media, including documentary
films, and most prominently of course the internet. Many tariqas and other Sufi organizations
operate dedicated websites, including some where one can be initiated online. Others limit
their web presence to informational or inspirational sites that offer different levels of Sufi
knowledge and discourse but require communal connection and practice in person. An
interested person can easily watch entire dhikr ceremonies, concerts, and other practices, as
well as lectures and lessons by spiritual teachers on YouTube.38
I have already mentioned that scholars have distinguished between the arrival of Sufism
as ideas and that of Sufis as people to North America.39 Such Sufi ideas, often introduced
through Sufi poetry via Europe,40 brought spiritual reflection into the literary production of
Americans as well.41
Our discussion of the artistic and cultural production of Sufis and the important influence
of Sufi ideas on art would not be complete without a brief mention of Sufi music. Several of
the tariqas already discussed, including the Halveti-Jerrahis Order and the Mevlevi Order,
have historically incorporated music into their spiritual practices, and their practitioners in
North America are no exception. Here again, both the music itself and the musicians can
and do travel. Tariqas with origins in or links to South Asia also often have connections to
Qawwali, most succinctly described as South Asian Sufi music. In locations such as Turkey
or Pakistan, as well as in North America, Sufi music is both a tool for spiritual practice and
attainment and has found wider distribution as spiritual entertainment and inspiration.42
Markus Dressler has assessed Sufi communities in North America, especially post 9/11,
through the lens of challenge and adaption. He describes the religious landscape as un-
regulated and through “the metaphor of the market” to then offer five characteristics of
“Western Sufism,” namely, (1) the unquestioned legitimacy of Sufism, (2) the possibility
of advertisement and outreach, (3) the commodification of Sufism, (4) Sufi traveling and
intra-Sufi competition, and (5) the regularity of multiple affiliations and intra-Sufi net-
working.43 Of greatest interest for our consideration here are characteristics (2) and (3), and
perhaps also (4). In Dressler’s framework then, the literary and musical production of Sufis,
as well as the dissemination of knowledge, is linked to advertisement and competition with
other Sufis and purveyors of spiritual wares. To claim the commodification of spirituality
strikes me as both an echo of the expectation that religion should not be related to any
other realm, and that such advertisement and competition for followers in somehow a new
or modern phenomenon. Concerns about the mixing of religion and politics cannot be
far behind.
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Sufis and American politics

It was only in the Orientalist imagination of the nineteenth century that Sufis had to be
otherworldly (and possibly not Muslim at all) and not involved with politics. Much historical
research has thoroughly debunked the myth of the apolitical and spiritually engrossed Sufi
figure by documenting political patronage of Sufis by political rulers as well as challenges
to political legitimacy from Sufi teachers and disciples throughout Muslim history, as well
as resistance to European colonialism as in the example of Ahmadou Bamba in Senegal.
American Sufis replicate such involvement in politics on all sides of the political spectrum.
One example is the charitable work and relief efforts of the Jerrahis which began in the
1990s and who have continued to engage in such efforts both locally and in conflict regions
with Muslim-majority populations such as Bosnia, Iraq, and Afghanistan. Sermons and les-
sons by Tosun Baba would also regularly include prayers against tyrants and tyranny thereby
linking relief work to a critique of the causes for such work in the first place.
The Cordoba Initiative in New York City, led by Feisal Abdul Rauf, a Sufi figure con-
nected to Muzaffer Özak and the al-Farah Mosque, was turned into a public controversy
by anti-Muslim pundits even though the proposed Islamic Center, Cordoba House, was in-
tended as a meeting place for interfaith efforts as well as a mosque. Dubbed the “ground-zero
mosque” to generate public outrage, the controversy ultimately lead to the abandonment of
the project.44
At least one Sufi community in the United States, a branch of the Naqshbandiyya Order, around
2009, created the World Organization for Research Development and Education (WORDE), led
until recently by Hisham Kabbani, the American leader of the Naqshbandi-Haqqani Order.45
Kabbani has a longer history of conflict with American Muslim communities whom he accused,
beginning in the 1990s, of harboring extremist ideas.46 He offered the Sufism of the Naqshbandi
Order as a remedy and counterpoint to such extremism thereby claiming that Sufi Muslims
are “good Muslims.”47 Following the same logic, WORDE has offered training sessions to law
enforcement and the US intelligence community and actively supported the state efforts of the
Countering Violent Extremism (CVE) program.48
The question whether and if so, how, American Sufis are involved in politics is not only
one of the many contestations in need of further discussion; it is also intricately linked to
contested identity categories on one hand and the construction of categories by scholarship
on the other hand.
Contestations and conclusions

Bawa Muhaiyaddeen, a Sri Lankan spiritual teacher, arrived in the United States under
similar circumstances as Muzaffer Özak, urged by an American seeker, in 1971. He quickly
generated a significant following, but unlike Özak, he taught them spiritual wisdom that was
not linked to a particular Sufi tariqa, and he did not identify his teachings or the practices
he introduced as part of Islam. In the early 1980s that changed when he began to introduce
Islamic ritual practices and encouraged the building of a mosque which was completed in
1984 and is still the center of the fellowship that carries his name. Bawa passed away in 1986
without appointing a successor and the community has continued to practice and apply
his teachings without the presence of a living pir. Bawa’s relative ambivalence about the
relationship between Islam and Sufism in the fellowship has led to internal stratifications
that have allowed members of the fellowship on a spectrum from Sufi but not Muslim to
Sufi-Muslim.49
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Juliane Hammer
Gisela Webb has described the Bawa Fellowship as “a microcosm of the dynamics of
Sufism in America.”50 The particular iterations of what is identified as Sufi, as Muslim, and
as Sufi Muslim depend to some degree on the conceptual boundaries around both. It may be
helpful to visualize them as a Venn diagram with two partially overlapping circles represent-
ing Sufism and Islam. How people, organizations, and ideas are identified depends on at least
three levels of potential agents of such identification: that offered through self-identification,
identification by others in Muslim communities and contexts, and identification by scholars
of Islam and Sufism.
We have already seen several examples of self-identification and will leave those to stand
with only one additional point, namely that self-identification is always also embedded in the
dynamics of communal and political structures rather an unencumbered and “free” exercise
of human agency. The second level of identification follows historical models in other parts
of the world: American Muslim communities are also a microcosm of Muslim societies and
communities around the globe. While many are from Muslim-majority societies, others
do not share in an immigration background, including the third that are African American
Muslims.
There have always been Sufis and non-Sufis among Muslims even though the bound-
aries between them are blurry as well. Elizabeth Sirriyeh has described the emergence of
“anti-Sufis” in the nineteenth century: movements and intellectuals that blamed Sufism for
the decline of Muslim power and the subsequent colonization of Muslim lands by European
powers.51 These debates have followed Sufis and anti-Sufis to America where they play out
with unique as well as shared dynamics and in the (Muslim) American public square. Sufis,
Muslim and otherwise, have had to contend with their identification as Muslims which has
attracted anti-Muslim hostility from state surveillance to hate crimes. They have also, as we
have seen earlier, been able to benefit from dissociation from other Muslims, either as “good
Muslims,” or as not Muslims at all. Despite opposition from some Muslim leaders and com-
munities, Sufism, like elsewhere, permeates the fabric of American Muslim communities.
This, in turn, also means that the issues that American Muslims face, internally and exter-
nally, are issues that American Sufis have to contend with as well. Racism of the American
variety as well as racist ideas that are a product of colonialism, gender stratification, class
structures, religious and social hierarchies all impact and inform the communities, experi-
ences, practices, and discourses of American Sufis.
The survey of scholarship on Sufism in North America that this chapter offers is i llustrative
of yet another contestation: that of scholars who have struggled to and insisted on labels, cat-
egories, and nomenclature to define and control what is in the end an unruly phenomenon,
or a plethora of complex and interconnected phenomena. Marcia Hermansen has categorized
Sufi communities as “hybrid,” “perennial,” or “transplant,” in order to denote different
levels of adaptation of practices to the American context and appeal to seekers.52 One of
the leading contributors to the literature, she has also studied the field of Sufism studies in
the American academy and offered some very helpful observations. She considers whether
scholars involved in the study of Sufism are invested in the “discipline or discipleship” and
identifies intellectual lineages that are not so different from the spiritual lineages of Sufism.
Hermansen concluded in 2007 that the embeddedness of Sufism in Islam was no longer an
academic concern and that the field had emerged as a robust subfield of Islamic studies as
well as Religious Studies.53
This chapter paints a picture of Sufism in North America and that picture is a sketch.
People make an appearance, some in groups and some as noteworthy individuals, and there
are places, structures, practices, ideas, and concepts. Describing it at a sketch focuses on the
526
author as the sketch artist, so perhaps it would be more apt to describe it instead as a quilt.
Our quilt is a collective project and many, including scholars of Sufism and Sufis, some of
whom are also scholars, artists, musicians, leaders and followers, authors of Sufi books and
books about Sufis, have all come together to contribute pieces to this colorful, complex,
interconnected, overlapping, and transcending piece that leaves many questions, the answer
to which would require a bigger quilt. It is an invitation to reflect on Sufism as a concept
and a lived reality, as experience and commitment, as a search and a destination. It is also an
invitation to and reflection on the academic study of Sufism, recognizing that the boundaries
academics draw around their field are at times blurry and at times non-existent.
Notes
1 Carl Ernst, Sufism: An Introduction to the Mystical Tradition of Islam (Boston: Shambhala, 2011),
pp. 23–24.
2 Ernst, Sufism, 19.
3 Marcia Hermansen, What’s American about American Sufi Movements?,” in Sufism in North
America and Europe, ed. D. Westerlund (London: Routledge, 2004), pp. 36–63.
4 For example, Marcia Hermansen has made notions of authenticity and adaptation central to her
analysis and categorization of Sufis as movements in America; Marcia Hermansen, “Sufi Move-
ments in America,” in Oxford Handbook of American Islam, ed. Y. Haddad and J. Smith (New York:
Oxford University Press, 2014), pp. 119–136.
5 Holding dhikr ceremonies on Saturdays rather than Thursdays is in itself an adjustment to the
capitalist work week and weekend schedule in North America.
6 This sketch is based on my own visits to the center of the Halveti-Jerrahi Order in Spring Valley,
NY, and practices described in much more detail in Rosemary Corbett, “Dhikr: Remembering
the Divine,” in The Practice of Islam in America, ed. Edward Curtis (New York: NYU Press, 2017),
pp. 36–59. See also the website of Halveti-Jerrahi Order, www.jerrahi.org.
7 Corbett, “Dhikr,” 57.
8 Tosun Bayrak Al-Jerrahi, “On Dhikr,” August 2002, www.jerrahi.org/articles/On_Dhikr.
9 Zain Abdullah, “Sufis on Parade: The Performance of Black, Muslim, and African Identities,”
Journal of the American Academy of Religion 77:2 ( June 2009): pp. 199–237, 201. Abdullah’s work also
highlights the significance of race and racism for the shaping of Muslim and Sufi experiences in
North America, a topic that is not central to most other works on Sufism.
10 See also Zain Abdullah, Black Mecca: The African Muslims of Harlem (New York: Oxford University
Press, 2010); Markus Dressler, “Pluralism and Authenticity: Sufi Paths in Post 9/11 New York,”
in Sufis in Western Society, ed. R. Geaves, M. Dressler, and G. Klinkhammer (London: Routledge,
2009), pp. 77–96.
11 While great strides have been made to theorize and document the creation of “Muslim space” in the
North American context, including but not limited to mosque architecture, I am not aware of any
corresponding studies that focus on the architecture, material culture, or the creation of moveable Sufi
spaces. For Muslim space in North America see Barbara Metcalf, ed., Making Muslim Space in North
America and Europe (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996); Akel Kahera, Deconstructing the
American Mosque: Space, Gender, and Aesthetics (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2002).
12 This sketch of the Alami Tariqa relies on the work by Julianne Hazen, Sufism in America: The Alami
Tariqa of Waterport, New York (Lanham: Lexington, 2017), the only in-depth study of this tariqa.
13 Gisela Webb, “Negotiating Boundaries: American Sufis,” in Cambridge Companion to American
Islam, ed. J. Hammer and O. Safi (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), pp. 190–207.
See for a somewhat different periodization, William Rory Dickson and Meena Sharify-Funk,
Unveiling Sufism: From Manhattan to Mecca (Sheffield: Equinox, 2017), especially pp. 40–53.
14 Other scholars, including most prominently Mark Sedgewick, have argued that “Sufism” did not
arrive in America at all and certainly not with the first documented arrival of a Sufi person on
American shores. Rather, Sedgewick traces the impact of Sufism on what he describes as the emer-
gence of “Western Sufism” as a product of the influence of certain ideas such an emanationism
and perennialism. See Mark Sedgewick, Western Sufism: From the Abbasids to the New Age (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 2017). The earlier encounters of European scholars with Sufi ideas as
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Juliane Hammer
well as universalist esoteric movements such as the Theosophical Society and the teachings of G.I
Gurdjieff had already prepared the grounds for the reception of figures such as Inayat Khan in the
early twentieth century. See Michael Pittman, Classical Spirituality in Contemporary America: The
Confluence and Contribution of G.I. Gurdjieff and Sufism (London: Continuum, 2012).
15 Sharify-Funk and Dickson distinguish between a second and third “wave” not so much in terms
of time period but rather in reference to universal esoteric movements as the second wave and the
“arrival” of more traditional Sufi tariqas (and their teachers) thereby establishing links to existing
networks in Muslim-majority contexts. See Dickson and Sharify-Funk, Unveiling Sufism, pp. 48–50.
16 See for example David Damrel, “Aspects of the Naqshbandi-Haqqani order in North America,”
in Sufism in the West, ed. J. Malik and J. Hinnels (London: Routledge, 2006), pp. 115–126; Gisela
Webb, “Third-Wave Sufism in America and the Bawa Muhaiyaddeen Fellowship,” in Sufism in the
West, eds. J. Malik and J. Hinnels (London: Routledge, 2006), pp. 86–102; William Dickson, “An
American Sufism: The Naqshbandi-Haqqani Order as a Public Religion,” Studies in Religion 43:3
(2014): pp. 411–424.
17 The short history and “waves” of Sufism in North America depend on our knowledge of them.
Scholars are fairly certain that a significant number of the enslaved Africans who were forcefully
brought to American shores were Muslims from West Africa where several Sufi orders were also
present and active. We know so little about their practices that it is only by inference that we can
claim that some of them at least would also have been Sufis. Similarly, Muslims who immigrated
to North America in the second half of the nineteenth century in significant numbers, as they built
their communities overseas, could also have brought their affiliation with Sufi tariqas from their
home region with them.
18 Dickson and Sharify-Funk, Unveiling Sufism, 40.
19 See the announcement on the website of the order: https://inayatiorder.org/our-new-name/
20 See his website at: www.pirzia.org/
21 The Halveti-Jerrahi Order survived the ban on tariqas by channeling their practices into the
Society for the Preservation of Sufi Music in Istanbul. They were allowed to practice music and
dhikr and even have a tekke in Karagümrük in Istanbul that contains the graves of most of the pirs
of the order since its founding in the seventeenth century. See Shems Friedlander, “A Note on the
Khalvatiyyah-Jarrahiyyah Order,” in Islamic Spirituality: Manifestations, ed. S.H. Nasr (New York:
Crossroads, 1997), pp. 233–238.
22 Annemarie Schimmel, My Soul Is a Woman: The Feminine in Islam (New York: Continuum, 2003);
Laury Silvers, “Early Pious, Mystic, Sufi Women,” in Cambridge Companion to Sufism, ed. Lloyd
Ridgeon (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), pp. 24–52; Maria Dakake, “Guest of
the Inmost Heart: Conceptions of the Divine Beloved among Early Sufi Women,” Comparative
Islamic Studies 3:1 (2007): pp. 72–97.
23 See https://nurashkijerrahi.org/.
24 Hermansen, “Sufi Movements in America,” p. 131. For published works by the women men-
tioned in the quote, see Rabia Terri Harris, “Reading the Signs,” in Windows of Faith, ed. G.
Webb (Syracuse: Syracuse University, 2000), pp. 172–196; Laleh Bakhtiar, Sufi Women of America:
Angels in the Making (Chicago: Institute of Traditional Psychoethics and Guidance, 1996); Sachiko
Murata, The Tao of Islam (Albany: SUNY Press, 1992).
25 Some scholars have argued that gender ceases to be of significance at some point on the spiritual
path, thereby detaching spiritual attainment from the world of gender and social relations. Sim-
ilarly, the supposed inclusion of women in Sufi movements has been cited as an argument for its
suitability for the modern age and superiority to “traditional Islam.” It is easy to see how these
arguments might lend themselves to political arguments against Islam and Muslims.
26 Shakina Reinhertz, Women Called to the Path of Rumi: The Way of the Whirling Dervish (New York:
Holm Press, 2001), pp. xxviii–xxix.
27 Camile Helminski, ed., Women of Sufism (Boston: Shambhala, 2003). See also the site of the Thresh-
old Society, https://sufism.org/threshold/kabir-camille/kabir-and-camille-helminski-threshold-
society-founders-2.
28 Academic literature on Rumi is expansive; for one comprehensive example, see Franklin Lewis,
Rumi: Past and Present, East and West (Oxford: Oneworld, 2000).
29 See for example Coleman Barks, The Essential Rumi (New York: Harper, 2004); for a discussion of
the Rumi phenomenon, see Meena Sharify-Funk, William Rory Dickson and Merin Shobhana
Xavier, Contemporary Sufism (London: Routledge, 2018), especially pp. 140–182.
528
529
Juliane Hammer
530
INDEX
‘Abbā s I (Ṣafaw ī) 374 Abū Ja‘far Makk ī 241

‘Abbā s II (Ṣafaw ī) 375 Abū Jahl 78, 79
‘Abd Allah Badr al-Ḥabash ī 91–92, 98 Abū Lahab 78
‘Abd All ā h b. Ma ḥ mūd b. Mawdūd Abū Madyan 91, 97, 300
al-Mawṣil ī 423 Abū ’l-Majd Tabr ī z ī 189
‘Abd Allā h ibn Mubā rak 6, 19, 210 Abū Muslim 376, 377, 378, 381
‘Abd al-Hak ī m S īalkot ī 395 Abū Nu‘aym al-Iṣfa ḥā n ī 46
‘Abd al-Ḥaqq Muhaddis ̣ Dihlaw ī 244, 392 Abū Nuwā s 194
‘Abd al-Musa 219, 221, 222, 223 Abū ’l-Qā sim Bishr Yā sī n 188
‘Abd al-Qādir (ibn Mu ḥyidd ī n) 489, 505 Abū Sa‘ īd ibn Abī ’l-Khayr 105, 167, 187, 189,
‘Abd al-Qādir al-Jī lā n ī 212, 213, 235, 298, 300, 254, 285, 289, 293, 294, 334
302, 462, 468 Abū Sa‘ īd al-Kharr ā z 120, 167
‘Abd al-Quddū s Gang ōh ī 246, 360, 361, 396 Abū Sulaym ā n al-Dā r ā n ī 120
‘Abd al-Vahhāb Ham ād ā n ī 373 Abū Ya‘lā 128
abdal 221, 223, 401, 402 Abū Ya‘qūb Yū suf b. al-Ḥusayn al-R ā z ī 35
Abd ā ls of Rū m 261 Abū Yaz īd al-Bisṭā m ī 8, 10, 11, 21, 40, 46–59,
Abdoulaye Niasse 506, 508 109, 120, 146, 173, 174, 187, 285, 380, 381
abjad-i ‘ishq 82 Abū Zayd, Na ṣr Ḥā mid 481, 482
Abou El Fadl, Khaled 481, 482 Ād āb al-mur īd īn 206, 237
Abū’l-‘Abbā s A ḥ mad al-Rif ā‘ ī 208 Afl ā k ī 106, 109, 110, 113, 114; see also Eflaki
Abū’l-‘Abbā s Dinawā r ī 136 Ahl al-Ḥaqq 372
Abūʼl-‘Abbā s al-Mursī 269, 273, 274, 275 A ḥ mad Ardabī l ī 379
Abū ‘Al ī al-Ahwā z ī 128 A ḥ mad-i Jā m 236, 289
Abū ’l-‘At ā h īya 194 A ḥ mad Yasaw ī (Ahmed Yesevi) 219, 284, 291,
Abū Ayyub al-Ansā r ī 403 297, 305
Abū Bakr al-Katt ā n ī 140, 150, 151 A ḥ r ā r, ‘Ubayd Allā h 291, 297, 388, 390
Abū Bakr al-Wā siṭī 128 Aīn-i akbar ī 388
Abū Dharr al-Ghif ā r ī 19 Akbar 236, 388, 389, 390
Abu’l-Fa ż l 389 Akhb ār al-akhyār 244, 392
Abū Ḥamza al-Baghd ād ī 126, 127 Akh ī 291, 301, 372
Abū Ḥamza al-Khur ā sā n ī 33 Akh ī Sir āj 238
Abū Ḥan ī fa 127 Ak şehirl ī Derviş Kem ā l 284
Abū’l-Ḥasan F ū shanja 4 Ak şemsedd ī n 403
Abū Ḥā shim 5 ‘Al āʾ al-D ī n ‘Al ī A ḥ mad Ṣābir 246, 393
Abū Ḥātim al-‘Aṭṭā r 126 ‘Alā al-D ī n Ṣābir al-Kalyā r ī 360
Abū Ḥayyā n al-Tawḥīd ī 349 ‘ālam-i sirr 82
Abū Ishāq Shā m ī 234 ‘ālam-i yaqīn 84
531
Index
Alami Tariqa 518, 519 Balım Sultan 225, 226–228

Albert, the Latin Patriarch of Jerusalem 209, 210 baqā’ 36, 37, 39, 41, 84, 160
‘Al ī ibn Abī Ṭā lib 217, 220, 222, 223, 234, 245, Bāqī Billā h 388, 390
271, 325, 326, 371, 372 baraka 207, 211
Ali, Kecia 139 Baraka Hamad ā n ī 81
‘Al ī Shīr Navā’ī 291 Bayān al-‘ār īfin 463
Amadou Bamba 305, 506, 509, 510, 511, 517 B āyaz īd An ṣā r ī 395
al-‘Ā mil ī, Shaykh ‘Al ī 379 B āyaz īd Bisṭā m ī see Abū Yaz īd al-Bisṭā m ī
Am ī n al-D ī n Ḥājj Bulah 189 Bayezid II 402, 404, 405
Am ī r Ḥasan Sijz ī 237 Bayt al- ḥikma 6
Am ī r Khusraw 196, 237, 360 beardless youths 138
An īs al-mu’min īn 377 Bedil (Faqī r Qādir Bakhsh) 468
An ṣā r ī, Khwāja ‘Abd Allā h 56, 235, 254, Bedredd ī n Simav ī 402, 403
293, 297 Bektashiyya (Bekt ā sh īs) 212, 217–228, 261, 291,
al-An ṣā r ī, Zakariyyā 151, 174 301; The founder of the Bekta şiyya order 218;
al-Āqḥ iṣā r ī, A ḥ mad al-Rū m ī 419, 422, 424, 425, institutionalization of 225
426, 427 Besant, Annie 450, 467
Al-Arba‘ īn f ī u ṣūl al-d īn 66 Bhagavad-g īt ā 360, 361
Arba‘ īn ḥad īth f ī radd al- ṣūfiyya 376 bhakti 363
Arberry, A. J. 8 B ībī Jam ā l Khātun 391
Aristotle 89, 333 Birgev ī Mehmet 407, 408; see also Birgili
Aryanism 7 Meḥ med
al-Asamm, Ḥātim 165 Birgili Meḥ med 420, 422, 425, 426, 427, 428; see
Ash‘arite 6 also Birgev ī Mehmet
A şıkpa şazade 218–221, 226, 401, 404 Bishr al-Ḥā f ī 25, 33
Asm ār al-Asrār 239 black men 139
Asrār al-taw ḥīd 187, 189 Blavatsky, Helena 450
Atatürk, Mustafa Kemal 435, 436 Brahmans 359
‘Aṭṭā r, Far īd al-D ī n 40, 58, 106, 107, 165, 172, Browne, E. G. 7
175, 189, 191, 196, 198, 209, 255, 380 Bū ‘Al ī Shā h Qalandar 245, 261
Augustine of Hippo 331 Bu Kunta 506, 507
Aurangzeb 392, 393 Būdshish, Hamza 497
‘Aw ārif al-ma‘ārif 97, 153, 209, 237, 257, 293, Būdshish īyya 487, 496, 497, 498
295, 320 Bukhā r ī, Ahmad 409
awliyā’ 9 Bulleh Shah 182, 393
‘Ayn al-Quḍāt Hamad ā n ī 11, 75–85, 172, 175, Burhā n al-D ī n Ghar īb 238, 392
177, 178, 180–183, 207, 234, 239, 254, 255 Burhā n al-D ī n Janam 393
‘Aziz Mahmūd Hüd āy ī 409 Burhā n al-D ī n al-Marghinā n ī 423
Burhā n al-D ī n Mu ḥ aqqiq al-Tirmidh ī 104, 106,
Baba İ lyas 218, 220, 399 107, 108
B ābā Ṭā hir 188, 254 B ūst ān 196
Babag ā n 402, 412
B ābur 388 cakra 365
al-Badaw ī, A ḥ mad 212, 299 Carmelites 209
Badawiyya 212 Catherine’s (St) monastery 209
Bahā’ al-D ī n Mu ḥ ammad Walad 103, 108, 111 caves 283
Bahā’ al-D ī n Naqshband 286, 297, 372 Çelebi, Faruk Hemdem 437
Bahā’ al-D ī n Zakariyā 236, 256, 262, 462 Cem ā l el-Halvet ī 404, 405, 406
Bahādur Shā h Ẓafar 392 Cem ā ledd ī n Hulv ī 406
Bahlū l Shā h Daryāī 394 chah ār żarb 259
Bahman ī Sultanate 239 chakk ī-n āma 246
Ba ḥr-i ḥayāt 361 Chalabī Ḥusā m al-D ī n 106, 113
Bahṛ al-ma‘ān ī 239 Charān 464
Ba ḥya see Ibn Paquda chilla-kh āna 290, 292
al-Bakk ā’ ī, A ḥ mad 504 chilla ma‘q ūsa 361
bal ā’ 36, 38 Chishtiyya 206, 233–247, 291, 360, 363, 388,
Baldick, Julian 8, 72 389, 391, 469, 520
532
Index
Chittick, William 11 fan āʾal-fan āʾ 50

Christian monasticism 209 fan ā f ī al-shaykh 115, 424
Cistercians 210 al-Fanā r ī, Shams al-D ī n Mu ḥ ammad ibn
Clement of Alexandria 331 Ḥ amza 98
clothing and musical audition 318 al-Far ābī 332, 349
coffee 420 al-Farghā n ī, Mu ḥ ammad ibn Ism ā‘ ī l 151
Coloured lights 323 Far īd al-D ī n Masʿūd Ganj-i Shakar 236, 246,
Companions of the Cave 285 393
convents 283–308; art, literature, poetry, music al-Fā risī, ‘Abd al-Ghā fir 65–66
and calligraphy 305; convents and modernity fat ā 91
304; convents as Sufis’ home 292; convents Fatehpur Sikri 389
through history 294; institutionalisation and Fatt āḥī Nayshāpū r ī 198
bureaucratisation 296; see also kh ānaqāh al-Faw ā’id al-d īniyya 381
Coşan, Esad 439, 440, 441, 445 Faw āʾid al-fuʾād 237
Covenant (of Alastu) 55, 56, 80, 176, 243, 334; female mystics 135
see also primordial covenant Fes World Festival of Sacred Music 496
F īhi ma f īhi 141
Dadeg ā n 402 FitzGerald, Edward 188
Dallas, Ian 451; see also Shaykh al-Qādir Francis, st. of Assissi 210
Dalpat Sū f̣ ī 468 Franciscans 210
Dā r ā Shikuh 391, 392 Friedlander, Shems 523
dargāh 283 Fuḍ ayl ibn ‘Iyāḍ 6
al-Darqāw ī, Abū Ḥā mid al-‘Arabī 488, 490 Fu ṣūṣ al- ḥikam 92, 95, 98, 101, 162, 208, 380,
Darqāwiyya 451 381, 396
Darv īsh Khusraw 375, 376 al-Fut ūḥāt al-Makkiyya 91, 92, 95, 98, 101, 160,
Darv īsh Riza 376 208, 380
David b. Joshua 351, 353, 354 futuwwa 140, 205, 295, 301, 321, 325, 373
David ha-Nasi b. Hezekiah 348, 349, 350 Futuwwat-nama-yi sul ṭān ī 325, 326
al-Daylam ī, Abu l-Hasaṇ 174
dhawq 64, 81, 93, 240 Geissinger, Ash (Aisha) 137
dhikr 5, 105, 111, 203, 236, 245, 275, 276, 292, ghazal 190, 191, 195, 234, 236, 239, 243, 244;
297, 304, 323, 352, 353, 405, 420, 423, 424, allegorical poetry 197; ghazals of abstinence
463, 475, 494, 516, 517, 521, 524; see also zikr 194; mystical ghazal 190; stories and
Dhikr al-niswa 135 narratives 195
Dhu’l-Nū n al-Miṣr ī 20, 120, 332, 333 Ghaz ā l ī, Abū Ḥā mid 11, 54, 63–73, 89, 105, 112,
Dionysius St. the Areopagite 331 128, 137, 139, 159–161, 164, 167, 204, 206,
D īw ān-i shams 112 254, 256, 272, 278, 295, 334, 346, 347, 349;
Ḍiya al-qul ūb 393 biography 63; Persian writings 68; spiritual
journey 64; Sufi writings 66
Eckhart, Meister 335; onto-psychological Ghaz ā l ī, A ḥ mad 54, 69, 75, 79, 173, 174, 175,
emanation 335 177, 181, 234, 254, 255, 380
Eflaki 219, 220 ghazi-Sufis 401, 402
Egyptian High Council of the Sufi Orders 307 ghin ā’ 378
Egyptian Society for Spiritual and Cultural Goldziher, Ignaz 7, 8
Research (ESSCR) 475, 476, 478, 479, 480, Ghulā m Khal ī l 11, 120, 121, 122, 125, 127, 129
481, 482, 483 G īsū Dar ā z 238, 239, 387, 393
Elvan Çelebi 218, 219, 220 Gökalp, Ziyā 307
Erbakan, Necmettin 439, 440 Gorakhnāth 362
Erdoğan, Recep Tayyip 441, 446 Gregory of Nyssa 331
Es‘ad Efendi 412 Gülen, Fethullah 444, 445, 446
Eskici Hasan Dede 408 Gulist ān 196
ethics 159–168 Gulsh ān-i R āz 380
Gur ū Nā nak 467
Faḍ lall ā h al-Astar ābād ī 372
Fakhr al-D ī n al-R ā z ` 97 Hacı Bayr ā m-i D ī n el-Hā f ī 403
fan āʾ/baqā 21, 22, 25, 36, 37, 41, 50, 57, 160, 365, Hacı Bekta ş ( Ḥacı Bekt ā sh & Hājji Bekt ā sh
366 Vel ī) 218–228, 284, 285, 301, 400–402;
533
Index
descendants 223; religious views 219; Ibn ‘Aṭāʼ Allā h al-Iskandar ī 269, 270, 273, 274,
successors 221 275, 276, 277, 476
Haddawiyya 289 Ibn al-Azhar ī 149
Ḥad īqat al- ḥaq īqa 195 Ibn Bajja 349
Ḥad īqat al-Sh ī‘a 379, 380 Ibn Barrajā n 85, 96
Ḥ af īdh ī yya 491 Ibn Baṭṭūṭ a 207, 260, 261, 286, 301
Ḥā fi ẓ 172, 175, 176, 191, 192, 193, 195, 255 Ibn al-Fā riḍ 97, 98, 173
hagiography 203 Ibn Gabirol 335
hair 252, 256, 259, 260, 261 Ibn Ḥanbal 19
ḥajj 146, 147, 150–153 Ibn Ḥazm 90
Hajj̣ ī Tur ābī 462 Ibn Jawz ī 134, 154, 206, 209
al-Ḥak ī m al-Tirmidh ī 94, 333 Ibn Khaf ī f, Mu ḥ ammad 51, 154
al-Hakimi, Abdullah Ali 452, 455 Ibn Kullāb 18
Ḥ all āj, Ḥusayn b. Man ṣū r 8, 10, 22, 40, 41, 47, Ibn Mash īsh 488
50, 57, 71, 122, 123, 124, 134, 135, 174, 175, Ibn Paquda, Ba ḥya 344, 345, 346, 348
193, 206, 207, 234, 333, 380, 381, 465 Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya 426, 427
Ḥ all ājiyya 47 Ibn Rushd 89–91
Halveti-Jerrahi 517, 519, 521, 522, 524 Ibn Sabʿī n 97, 272
Hama‘at 395 Ibn S ā lim 51
Ḥam āqat-i ahl-i Ib āḥiyya 70 Ibn Sawdak ī n 98
Hamdū n Qassā r 290 Ibn S ī nā 332
Ḥ am īd ibn Fa ż lallah Dihlaw ī 244 Ibn Taymiyya 100, 154, 258, 260, 296, 306, 425,
Ḥ am īd Qalandar 245 426, 427, 429
Ḥ amūwayh, Sa‘d al-D ī n 211 Ibr ā h ī m Adham 6, 19, 152, 234, 284
Ḥ anbal ī s 125 Ibrahim-i Kirimi 407
Ḥ asan al-Ba ṣr ī 6, 17, 66, 139, 140, 234, 380 Ibrahima Joob Massar 509
Ḥ asan Juri 371 ‘Īd Ghar īb, Sayyid Mu ḥ ammad 476, 477, 478
Ḥ as ā n-i Ṣabbāḥ 73 Idries Shah 450
Ḥasan āt al-‘ārif īn 391 I ḥyā’ ‘ūl ūm al- ḍīn 11, 67, 68, 70, 72, 73, 136, 159,
Hātif ī 373 161
Hātim al-Ṭāʾī 89 Ikhwā n al-Ṣaf ā’ 332
Ḥ aydar (Ṣafaw ī ) 372 al-‘ilm al-ladun ī 90
Ḥ aydar ī yya 258, 261 Inayat Khan, Hazrat 450, 520, 523
Helminski, Kabir 523 Inayat Khan, Zia 520
al-Ḥ ill ī, al-‘All ā ma 379 Inayati Order 520
Hindi 236 al-insān al-k āmil 93
Hindu dharma 358–366 intoxication (al-sukr) 21, 25, 57
Hixon, Lee 521; see also Nur al-Jerrahi or ‘Ir āqī, Fakhr al-D ī n 98, 107, 175, 178, 191, 255,
Shaykh Nur 260
Hızır Bali 227 Irsh ād n āma 393
hospitality 288 Ish ārāt-i B āb ā Ṭāhir 188
Hospitalliers 210 ‘ishq 53, 54, 105, 173, 174, 175, 176, 239
Hujw ī r ī, ‘Al ī b. ‘Uthm ā n al-Jullābī 4, 5, 10, 22, Islamic Spiritual Society 477
40, 46, 47, 58, 113, 151, 152, 164, 204, 206, Ism ā‘ ī l I (Ṣafaw ī) 373, 376
235, 286, 290, 318, 319, 320, 322, 324, 327, Ism ā‘ ī l II (Ṣafaw ī) 373, 376
360 Ism ā‘ ī l īs 64, 73, 462
Hulū liyya 47 İ sm āʿī l Rusûh ī Ankarav ī 410
al-Ḥurr al-‘Amil ī 379 Issa Rohou Laye 511
al- ḥur ūf al-muqa ṭṭa‘a 81 I ẓh ār al- ḥaqq va mi‘yār al- ṣidq 377
Husayn b. Ali 223
Ja‘far al-Khuld ī 34, 149
Ibn ‘Abbād of Ronda 273 Ja‘far al-Ṣādiq 6
Ibn ‘Abbā s 78 Jahā nā r ā 391
Ibn ‘Arabī 11, 89–101, 107, 139, 146, 159, 160, Jahā ng ī r 389, 390
162, 166, 173, 176, 208, 209, 212, 239, 246, al-Jāḥ i ẓ 148
272, 278, 296, 333, 334, 380, 381, 396, 413, jama ̄ ‘at-kh āna 283, 292
421, 463, 476, 481 Jam ā l al-D ī n al-S āw ī 259, 260
534
Index
al-Jā m ī, Nū r al-D ī n ʿAbd al-Ra ḥ m ā n 99, 187, Khalwati-Hayati 518

190, 198, 373, 380 al-Khalwat ī, ‘Umar 284
Jā n-i Jā nā n, Mirz ā “Mazhar” 362, 395 Khalwatiyya 296, 303, 306, 420, 421, 426
al-Jand ī, Muʾayyad al-D ī n 98 khalwat-kh āna 284, 290, 292
Janissaries 217, 401, 412 Khamriyya 98, 173
Jaw āmi‘ al-kalim 239 Khan, Ahmad Riza 454, 456
Jawbar ī, ‘Abd al-Ra ḥī m 154 kh ānaqāh 9, 64, 105, 203, 205, 206, 207, 209,
Jawnpū r ī, Sayyid ‘Al ī 462 211, 239, 246, 283–308; see also convents
al-Jaz āʾir ī, ‘Abd al-Qādir 100 kharāb āt 191, 256
Jaz ū l īyya 488 Kharaqā n ī, Abu’l-Ḥasan 286, 380
Jewish-Sufi encounter 343–354 Kharg ū sh ī, Abū Sa‘d 48
Jewish Sufi pietism 348; decline of Jewish-Sufi al-Kharr ā z, Abū Sa‘ īd A ḥ mad 10, 33
pietism 351 khatam al-wal āya al-‘āmma 94
jih ād 148, 149, 150, 152 khatam al-wal āya al-mu ḥammadiyya 91, 94
al-Jī l ī, ‘Abd al-Kar ī m 99 al-Khaṭṭābī, ʿAbd al-Kar ī m 490
jñ āna 363 Khatun Ana 219
jog ī 462, 463, 464 khawf 167
Judah al-Ḥar ī z ī 350 khayal 256
Junayd (of Baghdad) Abū ’l-Qā sim al-Junayd 3, Khayr al-majālis 238
5, 10, 11, 19, 22–24, 25, 32–42, 46, 50, 51, Khayyā m, ʿUmar 188, 189
58, 121, 126, 127, 174, 288, 293, 294, 317, Khiḍ r 91, 303
333; Fanāʾ/Baqāʾ 37; primordial covenant khirqa (robe) 208, 317–327; ascetic identities 317;
36; sobriety 40; the Ṣū fiyya of Baghdad 32; as exteriorisation of spiritual states 322; khirqa
teachings 35; trial (bal āʾ) 38 al-dh ākira 324; khirqa bi- ḥaqq 207, 320; khirqa- ī
Junayd (Ṣafaw ī) 372 hazār-m īkh ī (patched robe) 324, 326; khirqa
Junaydiyya 47 mulamma‘a (multicoloured robe) 324; khirqa-yi
al-Jurayr ī, Abū Mu ḥ ammad A ḥ mad 24, 34 tabarruk (robe of blessing) 207, 320; khirqat al-
al-Juwayn ī 63 irāda (robe of initiation) 320–321, 325; khirqat
al-talw īn (robe of spiritual change) 325; khirqat
Kabbani, Hisham 525 al-tamk īn (robe of consistency) 325; khirqat
Kabī r 362 al-tashabbuh (robe of imitation) 324; muraqqa‘a
Kacar, Kemal 441 318
Kadız āde, Mehmet 407; see also Qāḍī z āde Khūb Mu ḥ ammad Chisht ī 246
Meḥ med Khud ābandah Mu ḥ ammad (Ṣafaw ī) 373
Kadız ādeli 296, 306, 407–409; see also Khul āsat al-ashʿār f ī rub āʿiyyāt 189
Qāḍī z ādeli movement Khul āṣat al-favā’id 377
Kalabādh ī, Abū Bakr 48, 284 al-Kibr īt al-a ḥmar f ī bayan ‘ul ūm al-Shaykh al-
Kam ā l al-D ī n ʿAllā ma 238 Akbar 100
al-Karak ī, ‘Al ī 377 K īm īyā-yi sa’ādat 67–73
Karaman ī Mehmed Efendi 404 al-Kind ī 332, 349
Karr ā miyya 6, 11, 33, 126, 127, 288, 289 Kirm ā n ī, Awḥ ad al-D ī n 98, 107, 178, 205, 208,
Kasāʾī Marvaz ī 187 209, 212
al-K ā shā n ī, ‘Abd al-Razzaq 98 Kirm ā n ī, Khwājū 196
kashf 93, 116, 174 Kit āb al-bayāḍ wa’l-saw ād 51
Kashf al-asrār wa ‘uddat al-abrār 54 Kit āb al-fan āʾ 38, 39
Kashf al-ma ḥjūb 4, 22, 40, 46, 58, 151, 204, 213 Kit āb f ī al-futuwwa 235
K ā shif ī, Ḥusayn Wā‘i ẓ 325, 326, 327 Kit āb al- ḥayaw ān 148
Kasr A ṣn ām 376 Kit āb al-luma‘ 40, 48, 51, 127, 147
Kasrav ī, A ḥ mad 195, 307 Kit āb masāʾil fi ’l-qul ūb wa ’l-jaw āriḥ 18
K ātib Çelebi 419 Kit āb al-maw āqif f ī al-ta ṣawwuf wa’l-waʿẓ wa’l-
al-Katt ā n ī, Mu ḥ ammad ibn ‘Abd al-Kabī r irsh ād 100
490, 496 Kit āb al-m īth āq 36
Katt ā n īyya 487, 490 Kit āb al-mu ṣṭasfā 68, 71
K ā zar ū n ī, Abū Ishāq 291 Kit āb al-n ūr 48, 56, 58
K ā zaruniyya 291, 301 Kit āb al-na ṣāʿiḥ 18, 66
Khal ī lall ā h b. M ī r M ī r ā n Yazd ī 373 Kit āb al-riʿāya li ḥuq ūq All āh 18
khalwa 89, 164, 203, 425 Kit āb sharḥ al-maʿrifa wa badhl al-na ṣīḥa 18
535
Index
Kit āb al-tawahhum 18 Man ārāt al-sāʾir īn 324

Koca Mustafa Pa şa 404 Man āzil al-sā’ir īn 167
Köçek Abdal 224 Man ṭiq al-asrār 57
Köprülü Meḥ med 422 Man ṭiq al- ṭayr 106, 198
Kotku, Mehmed Zahid 439, 441 Maqāl āt-i shams 108
Kristeva, Julia 252, 252, 256 maraboutism 493, 501
K ṣatriya 359 Ma‘rifat āl-sul ūk 394
Kubrawiyya 207, 208, 209, 211, 245, 321, 322, Maʿr ū f al-Karkh ī 25, 33
324, 327, 371 al-Marz ūbaniyya kh ānaqāh 205, 209
al-Kunti, S īd ī Mukht ā r 504, 507 Massignon, Louis 8, 10, 122, 123, 124, 125
al-Kū r ā n ī, Yū suf al-‘Ajam ī 352, 354 Mas‘ūd Bakk 242, 243
Kutbudd ī n Shir ā z ī 400 Ma ṭā‘in al-mujrim īyya 377
Mathnawi-yi ma‘naw ī 12, 47, 58, 107, 116–117,
L ā hijī, Mu ḥ ammad 374 159, 164, 182, 196, 354, 381, 464; see also
La‘l Shahbā z Qalandar 260, 261, 262, 360, 462, Mesnevi
466, 467, 469–472 Maybud ī, Rash īd al-D ī n 54, 55, 56, 58, 175,
L ā mi‘i Çelebi 409 176, 177
langar 261 Mehmed I 402
Lat Joor 509 Mehmet II 403, 404
La ṭāʾif al-ish ārāt 52, 134 Meḥ met Birkaw ī 306
Law āyiḥ 190 Mehmet Erzincā n ī 404
Layenne 510 Melchert, Christopher 124, 125, 126, 147
Layli and Majnun 198 Melek Ahmed Pa şa 408, 422
Libasse Thiaw 511 Merkez Müslihüdin 405
love 172–183 Mesnevi 437
Mevleviyya (Mevlevis) 211, 212, 301, 306, 522;
Mabba Jaxu 506, 507 in modern Turkey 437
MacDonald, Duncan B. 7 M ī r Dā m ād 378
Mafāt īh ̣ al-i‘jāz f ī sharh-ị gulsh ān-i rāz 374 M ī r Dard 395
al-Maghribī, Abū ‘Abd All ā h 152 M ī r Lawḥī 377
ma ḥabba 53, 54, 66, 105, 174 mi‘rāj 10, 48, 49, 91, 146, 197, 240
Ma ḥabbat n āma 174 Mirʾāt al-‘ārif īn 243
Mahmud Çelebi 224, 225 Mir ṣād al-ʿib ād 188
Ma ḥ mūd-i Ghaznaw ī (Ma ḥ mūd of Ghazna) 462 Mirz ā Qal īch Beg 467
Ma ḥ mūd Khw ū sh Dahā n 393 Mishkat al-anw ār 66
Maimonides, Abraham, b. Moses 344, 345 Miyā n M ī r 391, 392
Majālis al-abrār 423, 425, 426, 428 Miyyā n Abū’l-Hasan ̣ 465
Majālis-i sab‘a 104 Miyyā n Shā h ‘Ināt 463
Majālis al-‘ushsh āq 380 M īzān al- ḥaqq 420
Majd al-D ī n Baghd ād ī 321–324, 326 Modi, Narendra 481
Majd al-D ī n Isḥāq ibn Yū suf al-Rū m ī 92, 97 Momar Anta Saly 509
mak ārim al-akhl āq 160, 166 Mongols 212
Makdisi, George 125 Morocco 487; colonial Morocco
Makhdū m Mu ḥ ammad Hā shim 465 489; Moroccan Sufism today 493;
Makhlū f, Mu ḥ ammad Ḥasanayn 477 Moroccan Sufism until 1830 487; Sufi
Makhzan al-asrār 196 music 496; Sufism after 1956 492; Sufism
al-Makk ī, Abū Ṭā lib 128, 150, 151, 159 and nationalism 491
al-Makk ī, ‘Amr b. ‘Uthm ā n 34, 40, 41, 66, 72 Mount Hira 284, 362
makt ūb āt 244 Mount Kaila śa 362
Malā matiyya 6, 11, 33, 48, 57, 105, 114, 124, Muʿayyad Nasaf ī 196
126, 257, 258, 288, 289, 290, 317, 425 Mughal patronage 388
malf ūẓāt 244, 245 Mu ḥ ammad Abū Ja‘far Makk ī 239
Malick Sy 506, 507, 508 Mu ḥ ammad Ghawth 361
al-Malik al-K ā mil 210 Mu ḥ ammad bin Qā sim 461
Malik Mu ḥ ammad Jayasī 361 Mu ḥ ammadan Reality 93
Malikshā h 63 Muhammed Lütfi Efendi 444
Mamin, Mu ḥ ammad Fādil 505 mu ḥāṣaba 66
536
Index
al-Mu ḥā sibī, al-Ḥā rith 8, 11, 17–27, 33, 66, 72, Ni ẓā m al-Mulk 63
149, 163, 167; Fan āʾ/Baqāʾ 21; Life and works Ni ẓā m al-Mulk Asaf Jā h 393
17; al-Mu ḥā sibī and the “Baghdad School” Ni ẓā m ī 196, 197
21; primordial covenant 24; sobriety and Ni ẓā miyya 63
intoxication 21 Ni ẓā r ī Ism ā‘ ī l ī Sh ī ‘a 374
Muhyi-yi Gül şeni 407 North America 514–527
Mu‘ ī n al-D ī n Chisht ī 234, 235, 236, 238, 241, Nuqṭ aviyya 372, 374, 375, 376
297, 360, 389, 390, 391, 392 Nū r ʿAl ī Shā h Isfah ̣ ā n ī 179
Mukht ār-n āma 189 Nur-Ashki-Jerrahi Order 522
Mukht ā r īyya 505 Nū r al-D ī n B āqī 373
Mull ā ‘Abd All ā h Ilā h ī 297 N ūr al-qul ūb 403
Mullā Ṣadr ā 376 Nū rbakhsh, Mu ḥ ammad 372, 380
mun āsaba 162 Nū rbakhsh īyyah 372, 374, 375, 380
M ūnis al-arw āḥ 391 Nureddinzade 406
Munqidh min al- ḍal āl 64, 66, 68, 72, 167 al-Nū r ī, Abū’l-Ḥusayn 19, 24, 34, 53, 58, 121,
Muntah ā al-mad ārik 98 122, 126, 128
muqābala 112 Nursi, Bediüzzaman Said 442, 443, 445, 447
Mur ād III 406, 421 nussāk 19
Mur ād IV 422 Nuzhat al-majālis 189
murāqab āt 361
Mur īd īyya 501, 509, 517, 519 ʿOsm ā n Salā hedd ī n Dede 410
Mürsel Bali 225 Otman Baba 224, 401
Musa Sada Suhag 260 Özak, Muzaffer 521, 523, 525
Musha‘sha‘ Arabs 374 Özal, Turgut 439, 444
al-Mutanabbī 194
mutaqarr ī 49 Pact of ‘Umar 6
Mu‘tazilite 6, 18, 127 Padm āvat 361
muwallah 208 Palmer, E. H. 7
mysticism 9 Parvat ī 362
Parwā na, Mu‘ ī n al-D ī n 111
al-Nābulusī, ‘Abd al-Ghan ī 100 Patañjali 364
Najīb al-D ī n Ri ẓā Zargar Tabr ī z ī Iṣfahā n ī 376 patronage 207; Seljuq patronage of Persian
Najm al-D ī n Kubr ā 209, 211, 212, 235, 321 culture 104
Najm al-D ī n R ā z ī (Dāya) 188, 189, 324 Persian poetry 187–199
al-Nakhshabī, Abū Tur āb 152 pilgrimage sites 283
Nak şibendis 428 Pir Marouf Hussein Shah 454, 455
Naqshbandi-Haqqani 519 P ī r Patho 462
Naqshbandi-Mujaddidi 362 Pir Wahab Siddiqi 454
Naqshbandiyya 245, 325, 373, 388, 390, 462, Plotinus 331, 333
465, 525; see also Nak şibendis Pope Gregory IX 210
Nasaf ī, ‘Az ī z 211 Pope Honorius III 210
al-Na ṣībī, Abū ‘Abdall ā h 150 Popper, Karl 7
Nasī ṛ al-D ī n Mahṃ ūd Chir ā gh-i Delh ī 238, praying near tombs 426
239, 245 Prēma Kahā n ī 246
Nāṣir-i Khusraw 187 primordial covenant 23, 24, 25, 35
al-Nāṣir li-D ī n Allā h 205, 321
al-Naysābū r ī, Abū Ḥaf ṣ 152 Qādiriyya 212, 301, 381, 391, 462, 492, 501,
Neo-Sufism 427 506
Neoplatonism 330–339; Neoplatonism, Qāḍī z āde Meḥ med 418, 419, 421; see also
Christianity, and Islam 331 Kadız āde, Mehmet
Nicholson, R. A. 7, 8 Qāḍī z ādeli movement 418–429; rise of 420;
Niffā r ī 128 Qāḍī z ādeli Sufism 423; see also Kadız ādeli
Ni‘mat Allā h Wal ī 286, 372 Qalandariyya (as a social practice) 154, 253, 256,
Ni‘matullā hiyya 373, 374 257, 376, 402
Niyā z ī Misr ī 409 Qalandariyya Order 190, 195, 208, 209, 245,
Ni ẓā m al-D ī n Awliyā 206, 237, 238, 241, 243, 252–264, 301, 469
245, 246, 262, 291, 297, 360, 387, 388, 392 qalandariyyāt 188, 190
537
Index
al-Qalā nisī 18 354, 380, 381, 400, 437, 447, 464, 522, 523;
al-Qa ṣd wa ’l-rujūʿ il ā All āh 18 emanative creation 334; influence of earlier
al-Qā sim b. ʿAbd al-Sallā m 18 poets 106; influence of earlier Sufis 105;
al-Qa ṣṣā r, Ḥamdū n 152 Lyrical poetry 115; Mathnaw ī 116; Rū m ī and
qawwali 234, 245, 360 dhikr 111; Rū m ī and sam ā‘ 112; Sufi teachers
al-Qayṣar ī, Dāw ūd 98, 99 107
Qāżī Ḥam īd al-D ī n 236 Rushd-n āma 360
Qā z ī ̣ Qā zan
̣ 461, 462, 463 Ruwaym b. A ḥ mad 20, 34
al-Qisṭās al-mustaqīm 66 Rū zbihā n Baql ī 57, 58, 134, 136, 175, 177, 179,
Qizilbā sh 373, 375, 377 181, 289, 323
al-Qumm ī, Mu ḥ ammad Ṭā hir 375, 379, 380,
381 Saad Buh 505, 506, 507
al-Q ū naw ī, Ṣadr al-D ī n 97, 98, 99, 107, 162, Şaʿbā n-ı Veli 407
212, 334, 400 ṣabr 66, 167, 174
Qur’ā nic ethics 159–168; ethics & virtue theory al-Sabzivā r ī, Mu ḥ ammad B āqir 379
163; states and stations 168; teleology and Sachal Sarmast 465, 468, 469
theological anthropology 159 Sada Suhagiyya Order 260
qurrāʾ 19 Sa‘d ī 195, 196, 255
Qushayr ī, Abū’l-Qā sim ‘Abd al-Kar ī m 3, 47, 48, Sadık Abdal 222, 223
52, 54, 66, 132–141, 151, 154, 166, 167, 206, Safavids and Sufism 370–382
318–320, 322, 327, 346, 353 Saf ī ‘Al ī Shā h 286
Q ūt al-qul ūb 66, 150, 159, 167 Ṣaf ī al-D ī n (Ṣafaw ī ) 372
Quṭb al-D ī n Bakhtiyā r K ā k ī 235–238, 241, 388, Safvet Efendi 413
392 Ṣa ḥīfat al-Rash ād 377
Quṭb al-Din Ḥaydar 260 Sahl al-Tustar ī 5, 10, 41, 127, 162, 288, 332–333
Quṭb al-D ī n Nayr ī z ī 376 al-Sahlag ī, Mu ḥ ammad b. ‘Al ī 46, 48, 51, 53, 55,
56, 58
R ābi‘a al-‘Adawiyya 11, 20, 105, 134, 135, 159, al- Ṣa ḥw (sobriety) 46, 122, 269
173 Ṣā‘ib of Tabriz 195
Radtke, Bernd 126 Sa‘ īd Nū rsī 307
Rafea, Aliaa 474, 478–483 Sakinat al-awliya 391
Rafea, Aisha 474, 478, 479, 483 Salafis 474
Rafea Mohammed Rafea 474 Ṣal āḥ al-D ī n (Saladin) 210
Rafea Sayyid (Dr. A ḥ mad ‘Abd al-Wāḥ id R ā fi‘) Ṣal āḥ al-D ī n Zark ūb 105
474, 475, 476, 477 S ā lim Chisht ī 389
Rafea, Sayyid ‘Ali 477, 478 S ā limiyya 33, 127
ragas 240, 394 Salvat al-sh ī‘a 379, 380
rajā’ 167 sam ā‘ 105, 110, 112, 114, 115, 116, 187, 241, 243,
Rashk-i gulist ān-i Irān 393 294, 295, 297, 319, 360, 463, 464; sam ā‘-
Rauf, Feisal Abdul 525 kh āna 292, 302; see also sema
Renan, Ernst 7 Sam‘ā n ī, A ḥ mad 56, 57, 58, 175
Resul Çelebi 224 S ā m ī (Chainr ā’i Bachomal Lund) 468
rib āṭ 283–308 Sanāʾī of Ghazna 76, 106, 182, 190, 191, 195,
ri ḍā 167, 174 196, 197, 254, 255
Rida, Rash īd 307 Sarbad ā r movement 371–372
Rif ā‘iyya 208, 209, 212, 301, 302, 303, 518 Sarı Gürz Nū redd ī n 405
rifq 150 Sar ī Saqaṭī 5, 25, 33
rind 190 Sarmad the martyr 392
Risāla (of Qushayr ī) 133, 151, 154, 167, 317 al-Sarr āj, Abū Na ṣr 40, 48, 50, 51, 53, 127, 147,
Risāla-i ḥaqq num ā 391 150–152, 204, 285
Risāla qalandarn āma 254 Saw āniḥ 234
Risāla-i Ṣāḥibiyya 391 Sayyid ‘Abd al-B āqī 373
Risale-i nur 442, 443, 447 Sayyid Ashraf Jahā ng ī r al-Simnā n ī 361
robe 317–327; see also khirqa Sayr al-ʿib ād il ā ‘l-maʿād 197
Rū m ī, Jalā l al-D ī n 11, 12, 47, 97, 103–117, 141, Schuon, Frithjof 451
159, 163, 172, 175, 176, 182, 189, 196, 209, Seal of the prophets 347; see also khatam
211–213, 219, 252, 255, 256, 286, 301, 334, Sehwā n ī, Fateḥ Mu ḥ ammad 467
538
Index
Sema 437; see also sam ā‘ Sirhind ī, A ḥ mad 362, 388, 390, 395, 396, 462
Senegal 501–512; early development of Sufism al-S ī rjā n ī, Abū’l-Ḥasan ‘Al ī b. al-Ḥasan 51, 165
504; rise of Sufism 501 Śiva 363
Seyyid Ali Sultan 222, 223, 225, 226 Siwā sī Efendi 419, 420, 421, 426
Shabistar ī, Ma ḥ mūd 380 siyāḥa 146–155, 290; in early Sufism 149; post
al-Shādhil ī, Abūʼl-Ḥasan 209, 269, 488 eleventh century 152
Shādhiliyya 209, 269–278, 303, 451, 505, 519; Siyar al-‘ārif īn 244
mystical epistemology 271; practices 275; slaves 139
silsila of 270; and wal āya 274 sobriety 21, 25, 32, 36, 40, 46; see also al- Ṣa ḥw
Shā h ‘Abd al-Kar ī m 462, 463, 464 Sofyalı Bali Efendi 406
Shā h ‘Abd al-Laṭī f 394, 461, 463–467 Soroush, Abdolkarim 481, 482
Shā h ‘Inat 466 śruti 359
Sh āh jo risālo 394, 463–464, 470 al-Subk ī 65–66
Shā h Kalim ā llā h Jahā nābād ī 393 Şücâʿ Dede 407
Shā h Khi ż r Rū m ī 261 Sufi Abdullah Kahn 454, 456
Shā h M ī nā 245 Ṣū f ī Ḥ am īd al-D ī n Nā g ōr ī 241
Shā h Wal īullā h 395 Sufiyā n al-Thawr ī 6, 20
sh āhid-b āzī 209, 245 Suhraward ī, Abū’l-Najīb 206, 235
al-Shajara al-Nu‘m āniyya 99 al-Suhraward ī, Shihāb al-D ī n ‘Umar 97, 153,
Shams-i Tabr ī z ī 97, 109, 110, 113, 114, 115, 334 166, 205–209, 212, 213, 236, 257, 258, 293,
Shams al-‘Ushshāq 393 295, 320, 321, 322, 325, 327, 346, 353
Shaqīq al-Balkh ī 20, 165, 166, 173, 210 Suhraward ī, Shihāb al-D ī n Ya ḥyā 48, 332, 353
al-Sha‘r ā n ī, ‘Abd al-Wahhāb 99 Suhrawardiyya 212, 244, 295, 462
Sharḥ-i rub āʿiyyāt 190 Sulam ī, ‘Abd al-Ra ḥ m ā n 3, 134, 206, 288, 293
Sharḥ-i sha ṭḥiyyāt 57 Sulaym ā n (Ṣafaw ī) 376
shari‘a-inattentive 217, 220, 222, 401 Süleymancıs 441
sha ṭḥiyyāt 49, 51, 52, 123, 187 Sulṭā n Ḥusayn Bayqā r ā 373, 380
Shaṭṭā riyya 363 Sünbül Sinā n 405, 406
shawq 52, 174 synaesthetic experience 323
Shaykh al-Alāw ī 451, 452
Shaykh Asaf 518 Ṭabaq āt al- ṣūfiyya 134
Shaykh Bahā’ ī 378 Tadhkirat al-awliyā’ 165, 380
Shaykh Gā lib 410 al-Taft ā z ā n ī, Sa‘d al-D ī n 100–101
Shaykh Ibra Fall 510 Tahm āsp (Ṣafaw ī) 373, 375
Shaykh Khā lid 410 al-Ṭahṭāw ī, Rif ā‘a 476, 480
Shaykh Khal ī f ā 371 takhalluq 161, 167
Shaykh Mahmūd 410 Talb īs Iblīs 154
Shaykh al-Muf īd 379 Tamḥid āt 75–85, 175, 239
Shaykh Nur 521; see also Hixon, Lee Tantrism 359, 362
Shaykh al-Qādir 451, 455 ṭar īqa 32, 203, 204; Christians models for 209;
Shaykh S īd īyya 505, 509 creation of 211; organisation and discipline
Shaykh Vef ā 403, 404 204; patronage of 205; shaykhs of 207
Shaykha Fariha 521, 522 Tarjum ān al-ashw āq 96
al-Shibl ī, Abū Bakr 24, 33, 50, 173 taw āḍu‘ 167
Shi‘ism 11, 123, 205, 220, 221, 222, 223, taw ājud 242, 244
325, 326, 372, 421, 441, 464 tawakkul 5, 19, 125, 149, 152
Shirvā n ī, Jam ā l Khal ī l 189 tawba 5, 9, 167
shuh ūd 93 al-Tawḥīd ī, Abū Ḥayyā n 149
shukr 167 Ṭayf ū riyya 47
S īd īyya Baba 506, 507 tazkiyat al-nafs 160
Sikhism 236 Templars 210
Silk al-sul ūk 241, 242 Theosophical Society 467
silsila 32, 203, 234, 245, 270 al-Tijā n ī, Abu al-ʿAbbā s A ḥ mad ibn Mu ḥ ammad
Silver Birch 476, 477 488, 489, 505
Silvers, Laury 128, 135, 141 Tijā n īyya 488, 489, 492, 498, 501, 505, 507
Simnā n ī, ‘Al āʾ al-Dawla 324, 325, 371 al-Tilimsā n ī, ‘Af ī f al-D ī n 98
Sindh 461; Sufi classicism in Sindhi 461 tobacco 420
539
Index
Tosun Bayrak 517, 521, 524 wujūd 244

Tu ḥfat al-akhyār 375, 379, 380, 381 al-Wujūd al- ḥaqq wa’l-khiṭāb al- ṣidq 100
Tu ḥfat al-barara 322
Turkey, secularising reforms 435 Ya ḥyā Madan ī 393
Tweedie, Irina 450 Ya ḥyā Mu‘ādh 46, 47, 54, 242, 317
Twelve Imams 217, 223 Yahyā -yi Şirvā n ī 404
Yaʿk ūb el-Germiyā n ī 406
‘ubb ād 5, 19, 152 Yassī n, ‘Abdassalā m 491, 496
UK, Sufism in 449–458; arrival of South Asian Yazid 213
Muslims 452; Barelvi and Deobandi rivalries Yaz īd b. Hā r ū n 18, 52
452; early encounters with living Sufis 450; yoga 364, 365
early manifestations of Sufism in Britain 449; Yū suf Sinā nedd ī n Efendi 407
migration and Sufism 452; mosque building Yūsuf-u Zulaykh ā 198
and Sufism 455
‘Umar Tal, al-Hājj 505, 507 Zaehner, R. C. 8, 161
‘urs 212 Ẓahabiyya 375, 381
Üstüvā n ī Mehmed Efendi 408, 422 zāhid 49, 289
‘Uthm ā n Harvan ī Chisht ī 234, 235 Ẓā hir ī school of law 90
al-Zaqqāq, Abū Bakr 151
Vā n ī Mehmed 409 zāwiya 283–308
virahin ī 463 Zayn al-Dīn Khwāfī (Zeyneddīn el-Hāfi) 289, 403
Viṣṇu 362, 363 Zayn al-D ī n Shir ā z ī 392
Zenbilli ʿAli Çelebi 405
wa ḥdat al-shuh ūd 396 zikir 437, 438, 442; see also dhikr
wa ḥdat al-wujūd 92, 100, 208, 246, 333, 360, 361, Žižek, Slavoj 255
364, 380, 394, 421, 463, 464, 465, 466 Ż iyā al-D ī n Baran ī 237, 462
Wahhabīs 306, 419, 429, 441 Ż iyā Nakhshabī 241, 242
wajd 50, 240, 242, 244, 319 Ziyaeddin Gümüşhane 438
Wajd ī, Mu ḥ ammad Far īd 477 zuhd 19, 20, 21, 25, 121, 149, 167, 174, 194, 362;
wal āya 274 transition from asceticism to mysticism 19
Wā ris̱ Shā h 394 zuhdiyyāt 194
Weber, Max 20 zuhh ād 5, 147, 154
whirling dervishes 437 zunnā r 49, 191
540

Routledge Handbook On Sufism

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ROUTLEDGE HANDBOOK ON SUFISM

Edited by Lloyd Ridgeon

ISBN: 978-1-138-04012-0 (hbk)

4 Abū Yazīd al-Bisṭām ī and discussions about intoxicated Sufism 46

6 ‘Ayn al-Quḍāt’s Qur’anic vision: from black words to white parchment 75

8 Jalā l al-Dīn Rū m ī and his place in the history of Sufism 103

10 Narrativizing early mystic and Sufi women: mechanisms of

11 Sufism and travelling 146

12 Sufism and Qur’ānic ethics 159

13 Love and beauty in Sufism 172

14 Sufism in classical Persian poetry 187

15 Sufi orders in the medieval period 203

16 The Bektaşiyya: the formative period, 1250–1516 217

17 The Chishtiyya 233

19 The Shādhiliyya: foundational teachings and practices 269

20 Sufism, tombs and convents 283

21 Clothing and investiture in medieval Sufism 316

22 Sufism and Christian mysticism: the neoplatonic factor 330

23 The Jewish-Sufi encounter in the Middle Ages 343

24 Sufism and the Hindu dharma 358

25 Sufism and the Safavids in Iran: a further challenge to “Decline” 370

26 The Mughals and Sufism 387

27 Sufism in the Ottoman Empire 399

28 The Qāḍīz ādelis and Sufism 418

29 Sufism in modern Turkey 435

30 Sufism in the UK 449

31 Sufism and vernacular knowledge in Sindh 461

33 Sufism in modern Morocco 487

34 Sufism in Senegal 501

35 Sufism in North America 514

20.15 The mother-convent of the Sanūsiyya order at Jaghbub, Libya

Sara Abdel-Latif is a PhD Candidate at the University of Toronto. She specialises in

John J. Curry is Associate Professor in the Department of History at the University of

Katherine Pratt Ewing is Professor of Religion at Columbia University specialising in

Kashshaf Ghani is Assistant Professor of History at Nalanda University, Bihar, India. He

John Glover is a professor of history at the University of Redlands in Southern California.

Juliane Hammer is associate professor of religious studies at the University of North

Carole Hillenbrand is Professor Emerita at Edinburgh University and Professorial Fellow

Valerie J. Hoffman is a professor of Islamic studies in the Department of Religion at the

Atif Khalil is an Associate Professor in the Department of Religious at the University of

Joseph E. B. Lumbard is Associate Professor in the College of Islamic Studies at Hamad

Andrew J. Newman is Professor of Islamic Studies at the University of Edinburgh. His

Lloyd Ridgeon is Reader in Islamic Studies at the University of Glasgow. He is currently

Mohammed Rustom is Associate Professor of Islamic studies at Carleton University. A

Ali-Asghar Seyed-Gohrab is Associate Professor of Persian at Leiden University. He has

Kim Shively is professor of anthropology in the department of anthropology and sociology

Riza Yildirim’s research focuses on the history and religiosity of Qizilbash-Alevi, Bektashi,

Thierry Zarcone (PhD, Habil.) is Senior Researcher (Directeur de Recherches) at the

Saeed Zarrabi-Zadeh is assistant professor of Islamic Studies at the University of Erfurt,

In my undergraduate teaching at Glasgow University I always advise students about the

The early period

Sufi philological and historical explanations

The modern Western search for the origins of Sufism

The “mystical” turn

The Qur’ān as a “mystical” text

law, psychology, cosmology, theology, philosophy, and metaphysics.”69 He is not an easy

“Master of the wayfarers”1: the life and works of al-Muḥāsibī

Whither Zuhd? The perceived transition from

Moreover, he highlights the manifest problems of making a distinct developmental link

Strange bedfellows: al-Muḥāsibī and

Sobriety (al-ṣaḥw) versus intoxication (al-sukr)

The Fanāʾ/Baqāʾ dichotomy

As a correlative pair of notions, in which fan āʾ logically precedes baqāʾ, it is applied to