The Charismatic Community - Si'Ite Identity in Early Islam

T he Charismatic Community Shi>ite Identity in Early Islam

Maria Massi Dakake

The Charismatic Community

SUNY series in Islam Seyyed Hossein Nasr, editor

The Charismatic Community Shi˜ite Identity in Early Islam

MARIA MASSI DAKAKE

State University of New York Press

On the cover is a piece of calligraphy bearing the message, “Ãl¥ is the wal¥ Allåh (friend of God),” stamped in copper. From the personal collection of Maria Massi Dakake. Published by State University of New York Press, Albany © 2007 State University of New York All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission. No part of this book may be stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means including electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. For information, address State University of New York Press, 194 Washington Avenue, Suite 305, Albany, NY 12210-2384 Production by Ryan Hacker Marketing by Michael Campochiaro Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Dakake, Maria Massi, 1968– The charismatic community : Shi˜ite identity in early Islam / Maria Massi Dakake. p. cm. — (SUNY series in islam) Includes bibiographical references and index. ISBN-13: 978-0-7914-7033-6 (hardcover : alk. paper) ISBN-13: 978-0-7914-7034-3 (pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Shi˜ites—History. 2. Shiãh—History. I. Title. II. Series. BP192.D35 2007 297.8'.209—dc22

2006013726 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This book is dedicated, in loving memory, to Dominic Anthony Massi and Mary Synnott Massi

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Contents Acknowledgments List of Abbreviations Author’s Note Introduction

ix xi xii 1

Part I:

The Principle of Wala¯yah and the Origins of the Community

Chapter 1:

Walåyah in the Islamic Tradition

15

Chapter 2:

The Ghad¥r Khumm Tradition: Walåyah and the Spiritual Distinctions of Ãl¥ b. Ab¥ †ålib

33

Walåyah, Authority, and Religious Community in the First Civil War

49

The Shi˜ite Community in the Aftermath of the First Civil War

71

Chapter 3: Chapter 4:

Part II:

Wala¯yah, Faith, and the Charismatic Nature of Shi˜ite Identity

Chapter 5:

Walåyah as the Essence of Religion: Theological Developments at the Turn of the Second Islamic Century

103

Membership in the Shi˜ite Community and Salvation

125

Predestination and the Mythological Origins of Shi˜ite Identity

141

The Charismatic Nature and Spiritual Distinction of the Shi˜ites

157

Chapter 6: Chapter 7: Chapter 8:

viii

Contents

Part III:

Creating a Community within a Community

Chapter 9:

Shi˜ites and Non-Shi˜ites: The Distinction between Ümån and Islåm

177

Degrees of Faith: Establishing a Hierarchy within the Shi˜ite Community

191

“Rarer than Red Sulfur”: Women’s Identity in Early Shi˜ism

213

Perforated Boundaries: Establishing Two Codes of Conduct

237

Chapter 10: Chapter 11: Chapter 12:

Notes Bibliography Index

253 301 313

Introduction

ix

Acknowledgments The present work grew out of my Ph.D. dissertation on the early development of the Shi˜ite community, completed at the Department of Near Eastern Studies at Princeton University. The work has been completely revised and significantly expanded, with new chapters or sections on the relationship between Shi˜ite and Sufi mystical conceptions of walåyah, on certain first century Shi˜ite movements and on women’s identity in early Shi˜ism. I would like to thank the faculty of the Department of Near Eastern Studies for all of their guidance and assistance during my years of graduate study and dissertation writing, with special thanks to Professor Michael Cook and Professor Hossein Modarressi, who first suggested the topic to me and introduced me to Shi˜ite sources. I would also like to thank Dr. Gholamreza Avani for offering me a position as a visiting scholar at the Academy of Philosophy in Tehran, from which I conducted much of my original research, and Ms. Pari Riyahi for all of the help and direction she provided me during my stay in Iran, as well as the directors and staff of the Astan-e Qods Library in Mashhad and the Marãshi Library in Qum for making their collections accessible to me. I would also like to express my sincere appreciation to the Mathy Foundation, which generously provided a grant to support my research leave in 2002, allowing me time to develop the newer sections of the book. Very special gratitude is owed to Professor Seyyed Hossein Nasr who first encouraged me to pursue the study of Shi˜ism many years ago, and I am greatly in his debt for all of the guidance he has given me over these many years. I am also grateful to him for agreeing to publish this work in his series. I wish to thank the anonymous readers, especially Reader A, who made a number of valuable suggestions for improving the work. I would also like to thank Nancy Ellegate at SUNY Press for her support of this project, as well as Ryan Hacker and all of the people at SUNY Press for their work on the publication of the book. I am also grateful to Sarah Hernandez for her photograph of the calligraphy on the cover. ix

x

Acknowledgments

Finally, I would like to thank my family for their understanding and support during this long project, especially my husband, David, and son, Gabriel, who will hopefully get to see a bit more of me now.

List of Abbreviations Ansåb

Balådhur¥, A±mad b. Ya±yå b. Jåbir. Ansåb al-ashråf (10 vols., ed. Ma±m¨d al-Firdaws al-Ãπm), Damascus: Dår al-Yaqπah al-Ãrabiyyah, 1996.

BA

Majlis¥, Mu±ammad Båqir. Bi÷år al-anwår (110 vols.), Tehran: Dår al-Kutub al-Islåmiyyah, 1957–.

BSOAS

Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies.

EI 2

Encyclopedia of Islam, Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1986–2004.

JAOS

Journal of the American Oriental Society.

JRAS

Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society.

Kåf¥

al-Kulayn¥, Ab¨ Ja˜far Mu±ammad b. Ya˜q¨b b. Is±åq al-Råz¥. al-Kåf¥ (7 vols., ed. Mu±ammad Ja˜far Shams al-D¥n), Beirut: Dår al-Ta˜åruf li’l-Ma†b¨˜åt, 1990.

Ma÷åsin

al-Barq¥, A±mad b. Mu±ammad b. Khålid. Kitåb alma÷åsin (ed. Jalål al-D¥n al-¡usayn¥ al-Mu±addith), Tehran: Dår al-Kutub al-Islåmiyyah, 1951.

Maqtal

Ab¨ Mikhnaf, L¨† b. Ya±yå. Maqtal al-¡usayn (ed. ¡asan al-Ghaffår¥), Qum: ˜Ilmiyyah, 1985.

Mu’min

al-Ahwåz¥, al-¡usayn b. Sa˜¥d. al-Mu˘min, Qum: Madrasat al-Imåm al-Mahd¥, 1983–1984.

†ab.

†abar¥, Ab¨ Ja˜far Mu±ammad b. Jar¥r. Ta’r¥kh alrusul wa’l-mul¶k (Annales, ed. M.J. De Goeje), Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1964.

xi

Author’s Note Islamic dating is used throughout the text, except in reference to modern scholars, their works and dates of publication. All Qur˘anic translations are taken from M.M. Pickthall’s The Meaning of the Glorious Qur˘an (occasionally with some minor changes), unless otherwise noted.

Introduction

T

he emergence and existence of the Shi˜ite community within the larger body of the Islamic ummah is a rather unique phenomenon in the history of Islamic civilization. Shi˜ism cannot adequately be described as either a “sect” or a “school” of Islam or Islamic thought. Shi˜ites have always considered themselves to be an integral part of the fabric of the Islamic religious community—and in fact, to represent the elite believers within that community—rather than a detached sect or offshoot of Islam. At the same time, they represent more than merely one of the many schools of Islamic thought. It is true that one can speak of a “Shi˜ite” theology, a “Shi˜ite” school of law or system of jurisprudence, or a “Shi˜ite” philosophy or mysticism as one of so many other perspectives within these respective disciplines. But these are really aspects of a larger and more comprehensive phenomenon. Shi˜ism embodies a completely independent system of religious and political authority and historical interpretation that profoundly informs its views within the various religious disciplines and is perpetuated through its own highly structured intellectual and religious hierarchy. It thus exists as a kind of permanent and well-established minority within the Islamic religious universe—a kind of loyal (or occasionally not-so-loyal) opposition to the majority Sunni consensus. However, it is a minority that has made no small contribution to Islamic civilization; and the intellectual achievements of this group far outweigh its relative size. In fact, the impact of Shi˜ite ideas and beliefs on early Islamic political and religious thought can hardly be overestimated, and to ignore this contribution, or to dismiss Shi˜ite ideas as merely those of a “heterodox sect,” is to profoundly misunderstand the nature and development of early Islamic society. Marshall Hodgson was the first to state this so explicitly, in his early and important article “How Did the Early Shiã Become Sectarian?,” in which he notes that, in its reverence for the descendants of the Prophet (and therefore also Ãlid descendants), Sunnism can be considered “at least half Shi˜ite.”1 Most Western studies of Shi˜ism have been concerned with Shi˜ite political history and theory or else with the distinctive points of Shi˜ite 1

2


theology, law, or philosophy. Moreover, until recently, relatively little of this research has concerned Shi˜ism in its earliest incarnation. Most general studies of Shi˜ism focus primarily on Twelver Imåm¥ Shi˜ism, although “Imåm¥” Shi˜ism cannot really be dated before the establishment of a recognized and coherent doctrine of the “imåmate” in the time of Ja˜far al-S.ådiq (d. 148); and, as the work of Etan Kohlberg has clearly established, “Twelver” Shi˜ism cannot be dated much before the onset of the “major occultation” in the early fourth Islamic century.2 Etan Kohlberg3 and Wilferd Madelung4 have done some of the most substantial work in early Shi˜ism, bringing to light many of the more obscure and difficult aspects of early Shi˜ite theology. More recently, a number of scholarly monographs on the early and formative periods of Shi˜ite thought have appeared, including Hossein Modarressi’s Crisis and Consolidation (1993), Amir-Moezzi’s penetrating study of the spiritual and mystical conceptions of the imåmate in The Divine Guide in Early Shi˜ism (1994), Meir Bar-Asher’s Scripture and Exegesis in Early Imåm¥ Shi˜ism (1999), Arzina Lalani’s study of the legacy of the fifth Imåm, Mu±ammad al-Båqir, in Early Sh¥˜¥ Thought (2000), and Andrew Newman’s The Formative Period of Twelver Shi˜ism (2000). Many of these studies have made pioneering use of very early source material, supplementing the more formulaic and systematic information found in heresiographical literature with material drawn from a variety of early ÷ad¥th and tafs¥r works; and many have deepened our understanding of the religious and spiritual—rather than narrowly political—content of early Shi˜ite tradition. However, surprisingly little research has been done on one of the most interesting and unique aspects of Shi˜ism, namely, the emergence of a distinct Shi˜ite communal identity within the larger Islamic ummah in the early centuries of Islam—that is to say, a specific Shi˜ite awareness of their own group as constituting a community within a community. Very little indeed has been written about the spiritual meaning or cosmological significance they attached either to the reality of the Shi˜ite community as a whole or to individual membership in that community. The present work attempts to reconstruct the intellectual and social premises of a developing sense of Shi˜ite identity—both as individual believers and as a believing community—from the origins of a historically identifiable Shi˜ite movement (which we date from the First Civil War) until the latter part of the second Islamic century, and to analyze the ways in which the boundaries of the Shi˜ite community were determined and the nature of Shi˜ite identity was conceived through the late second and early third Islamic century. This book puts forth three central and interrelated theses about

Introduction

3

the development of Shi˜ite individual and communal identity in the first two centuries of Islam. The first major thesis is that, despite the apparently political origins of Shi˜ism in the legitimist struggle between Ãl¥ b. Ab¥ †ålib and other candidates for the caliphate, Shi˜ism also represented a genuinely religious perspective, rooted in a set of basic principles that remained essentially unchanged from its inception in the first Islamic century through the period of its doctrinal solidification in the late second and early third centuries. Those principles include the belief that the leadership of the Islamic community (the imåmate) is rightly a charismatic authority—that is, the legitimate leader of the community is an individual divinely chosen and supported through a number of spiritual gifts—and that the first and greatest of these leaders, and the paradigmatic embodiment of this spiritual charisma, is Ãl¥ b. Ab¥ †ålib. While many view Shi˜ism as a perspective based primarily on the genealogical transmission of Prophetic charisma through Mu±ammad’s bloodline, it is important to remember that Ãl¥—who was not himself a descendant of Mu±ammad—is often considered to be the greatest and most important of all the Shi˜ite Imåms.5 The Imåms who succeeded Ãl¥ were all legimitate candidates for the imåmate both because they were descendants of the Prophet (through Ãl¥ and his wife, Få†imah, who was the daughter of the Prophet) and because they were heirs to the special charisma of Ãl¥, himself. The importance of both Prophetic and Ãlid descent was one of the crucial ideas that separated Shi˜ites from other non-Shi˜ite Muslims, who have long recognized some social and spiritual distinction for both the descendants of Mu±ammad specifically and Mu±ammad’s Håshimite clan generally. Our argument for a continuously religious and a continuously Ãlid conception of rightful authority represents a significant shift from the perspective generally put forward by other scholars of the early Shi˜ite community. Much of the scholarship on the earliest development of Shi˜ism in the first and second Islamic centuries argues that Shi˜ism began as a primarily political movement and only later emerged as a religious or sectarian group. Depending on one’s understanding of the terms “political” as opposed to “religious” in an Islamic context—a context that makes the use of such terms complicated if not decisively problematic—the theory of a political-to-religious pattern of development for Shi˜ism can provide a reasonable understanding of the spheres of activity of earlier and later Shi˜ites, respectively, although it represents an oversimplification of Shi˜ite development. The apparent shift from the political to the religious in early Shi˜ite ideology probably reflects, to some extent, the different source material

4


that is used as a basis for studies of first-century Shi˜ism, on the one hand, and second-century Shi˜ism, on the other. Studies of firstcentury Shi˜ism necessarily rely substantially on material found in the early historical chronicles, most of which draw heavily on the account of the pro-˜Iraqi chronicler Ab¨ Mikhnaf. If first-century Shi˜ism seems to be based on a primarily political attachment to Ãl¥ in the interest of Kufan or ˜Iraqi patriotism, then this may be due in no small part to the biases one would expect from Ab¨ Mikhnaf himself. Secondcentury Shi˜ite developments, except to the extent that they are related to the Ãbbåsid movement or to that dynasty’s ideological consolidation, figure much less prominently in the historical chronicles. That is, while the emergence of the Shi˜ite community in the first century is a development that unfolds largely in the “public eye,” the internal consolidation of the Shi˜ite community in the second century takes place somewhat shy of the view of the general chronicler. Thus, studies of the latter period have been forced to rely predominantly on more sectarian literature, and especially on later heresiographical accounts. It is true that the paucity of general historical material for second-century Shi˜ite activity argues for a Shi˜ite withdrawal from the political sphere—which is the primary subject of historical chronicles—and is strong evidence that second-century Shi˜ite activity was particularly or exclusively related to internal doctrinal and sectarian developments. However, this does not altogether prove the absence of sectarian/religious sentiment among first-century Shi˜ites, even if they also happened to be more active on the political stage at that time than in later periods. Another common assumption related to the theory of the political-to-religious development of early Shi˜ism is the idea that the martyrdom of al-¡usayn at Karbala was one of the crucial turning points along that developmental continuum. There are two bases for this claim. The first is that martyrdom (at least at this time) must have represented a particularly religious concept. Indeed, the Tawwåb¶n (Penitent) movement, which followed on the heels of the Karbala massacre, seems to illustrate the degree to which the religious ideal of martyrdom had penetrated the Shi˜ite movement. There can be little doubt that the ideal of martyrdom was given a significant boost by the dramatic and tragic events at Karbala, but one can hardly make an absolute case for the absence of the martyr ideal in pre-Karbala Shi˜ite events. A similar sentiment, for example, informs the accounts (also drawing heavily on Ab¨ Mikhnaf) of the arrest and murder of the Kufan Shi˜ite activist ¡ujr b. Ãd¥ in 51. More importantly, the idea of martyrdom was hardly a purely passive, religious concept in early Shi˜ite thought. The martyrdom of al-¡usayn did not merely engen-

Introduction

5

der passive resistance or patient suffering among contemporary Shi˜ites—fostering a quietism that facilitated the internal doctrinal developments of second-century Shi˜ism; initially, it inspired movements of revenge. Revenge was, after all, the reported “watchword” even of the Tawwåb¶n movement;6 and vengeance for al-¡usayn represented an important ideological basis for the arguably political movements of al-Mukhtår and al-¡usayn’s grandson, Zayd b. Ãl¥. The other, more frequently cited reason to consider al-¡usayn’s movement as a catalyst in the trend toward a more sectarian Shi˜ism has to do with his descent from the Prophet. It was the massacre of the beloved grandson of Mu±ammad that is often assumed to have awakened a powerful religious groundswell against the Umayyads and their supporters. However, the notion that the Karbala event marked a critical turning point in the movement toward a more religiously motivated Shi˜ism specifically because it involved someone who could claim descent from the Prophet is hard to justify in light of the wholly different reaction on the part of these same ˜Iraqi Shi˜ites to the earlier claims of al-¡usayn’s brother, al-¡asan. Al-¡asan was not only the Prophet’s grandson, but his eldest; and the same ˜Iraqi Shi˜ites who are reported to have been affected so deeply and moved to such remorse by al-¡usayn’s appeal and his later martyrdom as grandson of the Prophet, reveal no similar feelings of remorse for the betrayal and even physical attack upon al-¡asan as he is going to battle for his fledgling caliphate against Mu˜åwiyah (i.e., even before he “sells” his birthright, in the opinion of some), or a strong desire for vengeance upon his death, which was widely assumed in Shi˜ite circles to be the result of a surreptitious poisoning arranged by the Umayyad caliph Mu˜åwiyah. It is true that the circumstances of al-¡usayn’s martyrdom are far more dramatic, but then it is also these circumstances, and not solely descent from the Prophet, that contribute to the powerful religious sentiments evoked by this event. Even more revealing is the fact that the Shi˜ite movement of al-Mukhtår that emerged only shortly after Karbala championed the non-Få†imid son of Ãl¥, Mu±ammad b. al-¡anafiyyah, who had no such blood connection to the Prophet. Indeed, throughout the later Umayyad period, the Ãlid but not Prophetic line of Mu±ammad b. al-¡anafiyyah continued to be revered by many or most of those with Shi˜ite inclinations, and Kufan Shi˜ites in particular. As terrible and shocking as the bloody massacre at Karbala must have been at the time, the profound tragedy of this event was further amplified over the course of centuries of continuing Shi˜ite persecution. The brutal murder of al-¡usayn at Karbala came to represent and encapsulate the long, sad history of Shi˜ite suffering and martyrdom, to the extent that the rise of the awaited Qå˘im or Mahd¥,

6


in the person of the Twelfth Imåm, is often envisioned as having the primary purpose of avenging the blood of al-¡usayn, who stood, in many ways, for every Shi˜ite martyr. Because of the deep emotional and spiritual significance attached to the Karbala massacre, its commemoration through the elaborate mourning rituals that developed in later centuries came to be emblematic of Shi˜ite sectarian particularism and a ritual confessional marker for the Shi˜ite community as a whole. Yet, despite the importance of these later ritual developments for the formation and preservation of Shi˜ite consciousness, there is actually little evidence that the Karbala tragedy inspired an immediate or radical shift in Shi˜ite thought from a political to a more explicitly religious iteration of their cause and movement. If we are not convinced that the Karbala event marked the sudden introduction of a newly religious sentiment into the Shi˜ite movement, we also do not entirely accept the related implication that in order to be “religious,” Shi˜ite sentiment had to be centered on the genealogically transmitted charisma of the Prophet, as opposed to the charisma of Ãl¥—often assumed to be more “political” in nature. Rather, we would argue that there was a discernible “religious” aspect to the early Shi˜ite movement, but that it was oriented toward and based upon the charisma of Ãl¥ personally, which was undoubtedly founded upon his close relationship with—but not descent from—the Prophet Mu±ammad. There is considerable evidence for the fact that at least some of Ãl¥’s early followers—and especially those who remained loyal to him to the end—viewed their support for him in religious rather than exclusively political terms. Most of this evidence comes from the speeches of Ãl¥’s close companions as reported in both Sunni and Shi˜ite historical sources. The declarations of allegiance to Ãl¥ by his most loyal supporters recorded in these sources tend to be expressed in terms of their unshakeable bond of walåyah (allegiance) to him. In fact, it seemed to us that the most effective way to avoid the problematic dichotomies between the political and the religious in early Shi˜ite thought, and between Ãlid and Prophetic descent as a basis of charisma or spiritual authority in Shi˜ism, would be through a closer examination of the somewhat ambiguous and elusive notion of walåyah—a term that (1) has both political and spiritual connotations, (2) plays an important role in Shi˜ite thought from at least the time of the First Civil War to the present, and (3) is rather specifically connected with loyalty to the person of Ãl¥ b. Ab¥ †ålib in both historical and sectarian sources. Even in later Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th literature, the term most frequently refers to a sense of allegiance toward Ãl¥ b. Ab¥ †ålib or his descendants generally (i.e., not toward any other individual Imåm), and the earliest Sunni and Shi˜ite historical

Introduction

7

accounts for the period of Ãl¥’s caliphate give evidence of the importance of this term among Ãl¥’s earliest supporters. In fact, in the early chronicles for Ãl¥’s caliphate, the term seems to be used by his supporters to denote not only allegiance to Ãl¥ and his cause but also a kind of brotherly unity among themselves, as his supporters. This brings us to the second major thesis of this work, namely that this concept of walåyah represents a principle of spiritual charisma that lies at the heart of all major Shi˜ite sectarian beliefs and most comprehensively embodies the Shi˜ite religious ethos. It is a concept that has been part of Shi˜ite rhetoric and doctrine from its earliest incarnation, and therefore represents the core concept linking generations of Shi˜ite believers over centuries of substantial doctrinal and political change. However, while the term walåyah has definite political usages in Arabic, its meaning in the Shi˜ite context goes beyond a simple designation of loyalty between the Ãlid Imåm and his followers. Rather, the term in Shi˜ite usage seems to refer to something broader, more basic, and hence more comprehensive than this: It denotes an all-encompassing bond of spiritual loyalty that describes, simultaneously, a Shi˜ite believer’s allegiance to God, the Prophet, the Imåm and the community of Shi˜ite believers, collectively. This concept, therefore, suggests a profound spiritual connection and ontological affinity between the Imåms and their followers, between Shi˜ite leadership and Shi˜ite community, between the ahl al-bayt and those who made their cause with them. This concept, I will argue, was the ideological conduit for extending a belief in the charisma and elite spiritual status of Ãl¥ and the succeeding Imåms to the community collectively and to ordinary Shi˜ites, individually. Hence, it is quite accurate and appropriate to speak about the Shi˜ite community as a “charismatic community,” not simply in the sense that it is a community founded upon the notion of charismatic leadership but also in that it considered its “lay” membership as a whole to participate in this charisma and to have been granted certain spiritual distinctions and powers that set it hierarchically above the rest of the Muslim community. To speak about the Shi˜ite principle of walåyah as a signifier of “charisma” immediately raises the issue of Shi˜ism’s correspondence or noncorrespondence to various sociological analyses of religion wherein the notion of charisma plays a significant role. The first and most well-known sociologist to employ the term charisma in relation to the establishment of religious communties is, of course, Max Weber. Weber’s theories have occasionally been applied to Islam and Islamic sectarian movements (including Shi˜ism) by both Weber himself and later Islamicists, but with questionable success. Michael Cook, for example, published a short article in an edited volume on Weber and

8


Islam, in which he rather decisively rejects Weber’s “chuch/sect” dichotomy as having much relevance for the case of Islamic sectarian movements, with the possible exception of the Kharijite phenomenon (which he notes, Weber himself does not consider).7 It is quite clear that Shi˜ism does not fit the Weberian notion of a “sect,” which he bases largely on the phenomena of sect formation within European Christianity. Weber’s theory of charisma, however, while still an uneasy fit with the Shi˜ite case, nonetheless presents some interesting parallels that we should examine in closer detail. Weber defines charisma, in one of his writings, as “a certain quality of an individual personality by virtue of which he is set apart from ordinary men and treated as endowed with supernatural, superhuman, or at least specifically exceptional qualities.”8 It seems clear that this basic, and relatively intuitive, description of the phenomenon of charisma can be applied in a general sense, and with some explanatory power, to the leadership of the early Shi˜ite community. Scholars of Shi˜ism will quickly recognize this description of charisma as applying quite precisely to Shi˜ite beliefs regarding their Imåms. The Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th tradition clearly ascribes “specifically exceptional qualities” to the Imåms; and to the extent that some Shi˜ite traditions consider the Imåms to have the powers of physiognomy and the knowledge of all languages, to be recipients of a kind of divine inspiration, and in some extremist views, to have been delegated a certain divine creative and legislative power over the world, it is perhaps permissible to see them as possessed of “supernatural” if not explicitly “superhuman” characteristics. There is, of course, a wide range of views about the nature and capabilities of the Imåms, with the more extremist views having been clearly denounced and rejected by the majority of Shi˜ite scholars, but it seems clear that at least some influential Shi˜ite thinkers held these views at particular historical junctures. Weber also observed that religious (and nonreligious) societies characterized by charismatic leadership tended to make recognition of the charismatic leader a “compelling duty” on all members—a phenomenon clearly reflected in the Shi˜ite imperative to “know one’s Imåm” as a central, indeed foundational, requirement of true belief (¥mån). Weber’s theories about the “inherent instability” of societies based on charismatic leadership, because of the lack of clear succession mechanisms9 would also fit the Shi˜ite community which, despite the second-century development of the theory of explicit designation (naƒƒ) of every Imåm by his predecessor, continued to be plagued by succession disputes until the disappearance of the Twelfth and last Imåm in the Imåm¥ Shi˜ite line. Weber also notes that because charismatic societies invest so much faith in the salvific power of the char-

Introduction

9

ismatic leader and his ability to “distribute grace” (an idea with a clearly Christian basis), they frequently develop antinomian attitudes that are “opposed to forms of traditional morality.”10 Such antinomian attitudes developed in their crudest and most vulgar form among certain extremist Shi˜ite groups who were clearly denounced even by the Imåms themselves, as well as all later Imåm¥ authorities, but more subtle and less morally offensive forms of these ideas can be found even among more mainstream lines of Shi˜ite thought (see Chapter 8). The explanatory value of the concept of charisma in relation to Islamic sectarian movements, and Shi˜ism in particular, has been explored by a number of Islamic scholars, including W. Montgomery Watt. Watt’s contributions are primarily found in his two early studies: “Shi˜ism under the Umayyads” (1960) and “The Rafidites: a Preliminary Study” (1963), both of which form the basis of the Shi˜ite sections of his masterful survey in The Formative Period of Islamic Thought (Edinburgh, 1973). In these studies, Watt suggests a new theoretical framework for understanding both the political and the religious nature of early Islamic sectarian movements through his discussion of the role and function of charisma in the thinking of the Shi˜ites and Kharijites alike. Watt’s general thesis is that the ranks of both the Shi˜ites and the Kharijites were filled with recently settled nomadic Arab tribesmen whose lives had been seriously disturbed by the social changes brought about by the coming of Islam and the Islamic state. These tribesmen were seeking a kind of charisma that would recall the charisma of the Prophet Mu±ammad and his early community, in which they had placed so much trust. Watt then observes that those who were drawn to the Shi˜ite perspective at this time were predominantly South Arabian tribesmen, who had a pre-Islamic legacy of belief in priestly families with a hereditary line of spiritual authority. Thus, Watt hypothesizes, these tribesmen were inclined to look for salvation through the leadership of an individual with some kind of hereditary claim to spiritual authority—and hence their attraction to the spiritual charisma of Ãl¥ b. Ab¥ †ålib. The Kharijites, on the other hand, were predominantly Northern Arabs who, by contrast, had traditionally found meaning in loyalty to and membership in the collectivity of the tribe. Watt, therefore, suggests that they found spiritual meaning in the notion of salvation through membership in the “charismatic community” of believers which, he argues, the early Kharijites had so radically attempted to create. The notion of the importance of charisma has also been studied by Hamid Dabashi in his published dissertation Authority in Islam (Transaction, 1989), in which he gives a heavily Weberian analysis of the three major Islamic sectarian divisions—Sunnism, Shi˜ism, and

10


Kharijism—according to how each dealt with the passing of the charismatic leadership of Mu±ammad. According to his highly schematic analysis, the Sunnis sought to “routinize” charisma and develop more normalized patterns of leadership and legitimacy, while the Shi˜ites sought rather to “perpetuate” charisma in the leadership of the family of the Prophet—much as Watt suggests. In his examination of the Kharijites, however, Dabashi refutes the idea that the Kharijite point of view was dominated by the notion of a communal charisma; he instead argues that they rejected the notion of charisma entirely in favor of a kind of radical moral individualism. Wilferd Madelung has likewise sought to discredit Watt’s emphasis on the Kharijite attachment to community in favor of a more rigorous individualism apparent in the Islamic sources.11 Watt’s ideas with regard to the “charismatic community” are of interest for our study, however, because many of the arguments he gives to support the notion of a “charismatic community” among the Kharijites can also be used to support such a notion among the Shi˜ites. As mentioned above, and as we hope to demonstrate in detail in later chapters, Shi˜ite literature recognized a “charismatic” quality for the Shi˜ite religious community itself that clearly echoed the charismatic quality the literature ascribes to the Shi˜ite leadership or imåmate. Thus, if Dabashi and Madelung would accept Watt’s theory regarding the Shi˜ite view of “charismatic leadership” while discrediting his arguments for the Kharijite notion of “charismatic community,” we would argue that, for Shi˜ites, both the leadership and the ordinary, or “lay,” members of the community were possessed of a charismatic quality. The kind of communal charisma described by Watt for the Kharijites—centering largely on absolutist notions of loyalty and dissociation (walåyah and barå˘ah) and salvation through membership in the “saving sect” (al-firqah al-nåjiyyah)—applies equally well, and in some ways more accurately, to the Shi˜ite case. Finally, we come to the third major thesis of this book, namely that the Shi˜ite sense of their own charisma and elite spiritual status, both as individuals and as a community, eventually became the ideological foundation for a set of rules of social and intellectual interchange between themselves and the larger Islamic ummah that both reflected and enhanced their own sense of unique sectarian identity. As Shi˜ite theological development advanced, from late Umayyad times onward, the principle of walåyah came to be connected in an essential way with the Shi˜ite notion of faith or true belief (¥mån). Walåyah was both the foundational basis and the outward manifestation of a true believer (mu˘min); and because ¥mån, in Qur˘anic terminology, was often directly juxtaposed with “kufr,” or “unbelief,” there was a tendency to see those Muslims who did not manifest walåyah toward Ãl¥

Introduction

11

and the ahl al-bayt as “kuffår”—if only in the limited sense of not believing in the rightful, spiritual authority over the community. A polemical division of the Islamic community itself into “true believers” and unbelievers, however, was something that seems to have been limited to the politically charged environment of late Umayyad Shi˜ism, and even within this context, to have been significantly mitigated or softened by the teachings of the Imåm¥ Imåms of that time—notably the fifth and sixth Imåms, Mu±ammad al-Båqir and Ja˜far al-Œådiq. In the latter half of al-Œådiq’s imåmate—that is, in the early Ãbbåsid period—a less polemical and more nuanced view of spiritual hierarchies between Shi˜ite and non-Shi˜ite Muslims began to emerge. A more accommodationist—and hence more sustainable—attitude toward the non-Shi˜ite Muslim community was beginning to develop. While only Shi˜ites could be considered “true believers” or “mu˘min¶n,” non-Shi˜ite Muslims were still to be considered legitimate “Muslims” (muslim¶n) and all of the rights and protections afforded to them as part of the Muslim ummah had to be respected by Shi˜ites, even if their religious belief was not complete. They enjoyed the possibility of salvation that was guaranteed to all Muslims by virtue their observance of the basic laws and rituals of Islam, but they did not participate in the particularly powerful and salvific grace that was only granted to a Muslim through the acceptance of, and participation in, the state of walåyah. Shi˜ites, then, considered themselves to be the “spiritual elite” of the Islamic ummah—a notion adequately conveyed by the fact that they often referred to themselves as the “khåƒƒah (elite, priveleged)” as opposed to the “˜åmmah” or simply “nås,” meaning the “commoners.” At the same time, as the Shi˜ite community increased in both size and internal organization, and as events served to highlight ideological and political differences among some of its members, a certain spiritual hierarchy seems to have developed within the Shi˜ite community itself. In this view, walåyah, as the comprehensive expression of loyalty to God, Prophet, Imåm, and Shi˜ite community, came to signify basic membership in the Shi˜ite community, but could only be described as “true faith” (¥mån) when it was based on a clear theological understanding of the nature of these four realities. As Imåm¥ theological positions on these issues become more complex, we witness the emergence of an intellectual and scholarly class of Shi˜ites that is increasingly differentiated from what one might term “lay” members of the Shi˜ite community—those with profound allegiance to the Shi˜ite leadership and community but incomplete intellectual or theological understanding of Shi˜ite principles.12 The development of such theologically precise and systematic notions for understanding the spiritual meaning of Shi˜ite identity was indicative of the growing institutionalization and

12


organization of the Shi˜ite community as an established and definable minority within the Islamic ummah. Yet between Shi˜ite and non-Shi˜ite Muslims, between the khåƒƒah and the ˜åmmah, there was no impermeable boundary of separation. Shi˜ites did not separate themselves in any dramatic fashion from their non-Shi˜ite neighbors, but rather developed a subtle set of rules of social exchange between the two groups that served to create something of a “perforated” boundary between themselves and the rest of the Islamic ummah.

PART I

The Principle of Walåyah and the Origins of the Community


CHAPTER 1


I

n the search for an understanding of Shi˜ite identity in the earliest period of Shi˜ite history, few concepts are more important or more elusive than that of walåyah—a term that may designate, at one and the same time, the nature of the authority of the Shi˜ite Imåm, the principle underlying the relationship of the disciple to the Imåm, and the common bond between all persons who considered themselves to be members of the sh¥ãt Ãl¥. Despite the importance of this concept in Shi˜ite thought and consciousness, it is one that has received relatively little scholarly treatment in the field of Shi˜ite studies. While there is considerable material available on the concept of imåmah or the Shi˜ite doctrine of the imåmate, and while the concepts of walåyah and imåmah are intimately related in Shi˜ite thought, it is only quite recently that serious study is beginning to be devoted to the religious and spiritual implications of walåyah, most importantly and recently in the work of Amir-Moezzi.1 Amir-Moezzi’s analysis of the term in its Shi˜ite context is detailed and profound, and examines the concept of walåyah as it relates to the ontological reality of the Imåm, the Shi˜ite disciple’s love and devotion to the Imåm, and what he refers to as the “theology of the metaphysical Imåm.”2 The concept of walåyah, however, is both more comprehensive and more prevalent than imåmah in the earliest period of Shi˜ite history,3 and, as we aim to demonstrate, is also intimately connected to notions of Shi˜ite individual and communal identity. In this chapter, we examine the meaning of the term walåyah and its related cognates within the broader Islamic tradition—from its usage in the Qur˘an and early Islamic society, to its esoteric interpretation in 15

16


Sufi or Islamic mystical discourse, as well as in some later Shi˜ite theosophical writings that were heavily influenced by the mystical tradition—in order to elucidate its full connotation in Shi˜ite thought. In this way, we hope to demonstrate that walåyah, far from being an amorphous term with multiple meanings in different forms of Islamic discourse, is a fundamental and unitive concept that underlays notions of spiritual identity and community in a variety of Islamic contexts, even if one is hard-pressed to find a single English word that can adequately convey its rich and nuanced meaning.

THE MEANING OF WAL‹YAH The word “walåyah” is one of several nouns that can be formed from the Arabic root w-l-y, and while this root can have numerous meanings depending on its context, all of its related cognates can be said to designate a type of relationship between persons of either equal or unequal stature. It can, for example, be used for the relationship between lord and servant, patron and client, ruler and subject, as well as between paternal relations or friends. Due to the peculiarity of this root, both parties to these various relationships—even those of a nonsymmetrical character—can be designated as “mawlå,” such that in classical Arabic the word “mawlå” may denote both master or lord, servant or dependent. The other personal noun that is frequently formed from this root is “wal¥,” which can be synonymous with mawlå, but which is most commonly used to denote parties to a relationship of friendship or near kinship, or to relationships entailing inheritance. There are two verbal nouns derived from this Arabic root, walåyah and wilåyah, and while these two are indistinguishable in an unvocalized text, they are not entirely coterminous in meaning. Both words may serve as verbal nouns expressing the action of waliya/yal¥, which can mean: (1) to be near, adjacent or close to something; (2) to be a friend or relative of someone; and (3) to manage, administer, rule or govern, to have authority, power or command. While the two words walåyah and wilåyah generally refer to different aspects of the verb’s meaning, the boundaries between the two are not always clear. The word walåyah may refer to all three actions covered by this verb, as well as the state of being a “wal¥” or a “mawlå,” but it is most commonly applied to the first two types of actions or states expressed by the verb waliya/yal¥—that is, the state of closeness and nearness, or of friendship and kinship—although it may also be used for the meaning of “rule or command.”4 Most Arabic authorities understand the noun wilåyah, on the other hand, as referring specifically to a ruling or managerial office (imårah, sul†ån, tadb¥r).5


17

Of course, to fully understand the connection between these two meanings derived from the root w-l-y, we should bear in mind the kind of authority or power that is expressed in the word wilåyah. In its common usage in Islamic historical texts, the term does not imply the kind of absolute authority denoted by other Arabic terms such as “mulk,” which the Qur˘an uses to denote kingship—either the divine sovereignty over the heavens and the earth, or that of the prophets6— or “imåmah,” a kind of spiritual and temporal authority tied to the state of prophecy, as when the Qur˘an refers to God’s having designated Abraham as an imåm over mankind (al-nås),7 or to Isaac and Jacob as having been made “imåms” in a spiritual or religious sense.8 Wilåyah refers, by contrast, to a kind of authority that is limited and circumscribed, confined within a particular locality or jurisdiction, and subject to a higher authority. In early Islamic tradition it most commonly denoted governorships to which the caliph appointed men whom he trusted, and whom he could remove at will, if he were dissatisfied with their performance. It is perhaps the local nature of this authority that accounts for its relation to the verb w-l-y, meaning nearness or closeness—the wål¥ (preferred to wal¥ when used to denote governorship) was, in principle, merely the local or “near” representative of the distant authority of the caliph, residing within the principality that he controlled on the caliph’s behalf. In fact, there was no wål¥ located in the province in which the caliph resided, as he himself fulfilled the position of local authority there in addition to his general authority over all provinces of the Islamic state. Such authority was not usually interpreted as spiritual authority; it represented, above all, managerial control over the economic and military affairs of the principality and the responsibility of maintaining order and executing— but not interpreting—the divine law, the shar¥ãh, on the one hand, and the will of the caliph, on the other. It seems that we need to look beyond the connection between walåyah and ordinary forms of authority to understand the true significance of this term in Shi˜ite thought. We might also consider that, despite the various relationships to which the words walåyah and wilåyah can refer, they can all be said to have a common denominator in the idea of nuƒrah, meaning support, aid, backing, or assistance. In traditional Arab culture, a lord was bound to protect his servant just as a servant was to defend his lord; a ruler’s legitimacy depended on his ability to aid and protect his subjects just as they were bound to support him in times of war, the wål¥ of the caliph was his ruling support in the distant parts of the Islamic state, and friends and relations were obviously obligated by love and mutual respect to defend one another against any threat or danger. Thus, the relationships that fall under the category of walåyah can be said, in most cases, to involve

18


the idea of mutual aid and support (nuƒrah) and usually entail the idea of a strong attachment of loyalty and devotion to the other party. This attitude is deeply tied to the culture and patterns of social organization of Arab tribal society, in which such an attachment to tribe and clan was necessary for survival. But, like other Arab cultural features, this, too, was incorporated into Islamic religious norms, to the point that the breaking of these kinds of bonds of attachment—in Islamic times, to the family or to the Islamic ummah—was considered both socially and religiously blameworthy.9 Therefore, walåyah in its most generally applicable sense can be said to denote a reciprocal, but not necessarily symmetrical, relationship between two parties, entailing the responsibility of mutual aid and support as well as the principle of profound loyalty and attachment. We would argue that it is this basic meaning of walåyah—perhaps as much or moreso than its relationship to authority—that accounts for its role in the formation of Shi˜ite identity. Throughout the remainder of this study, we will use the term walåyah to express the state of being a “wal¥” or “mawlå,” in a general way, and only use the term wilåyah to express the aspect of this word that relates specifically to authority or jurisdiction.

WAL‹YAH IN THE QUR˘AN The connection between walåyah and nuƒrah is more well-established in the Qur˘an than the relationship between walåyah and authority, and it is reasonable to presume that it is the Qur˘anic sense of the term that underlies its religious significance in the Shi˜ite tradition— particularly in its earliest formation. In the Qur˘an, al-Wal¥ and alMawlå are frequently cited names of God, and the term wal¥ or mawlå is often presented in conjunction with the term naƒ¥r in describing God’s relationship to His creatures,10 relations between human beings themselves,11 or between human beings and Satan. For example, the Qur˘an frequently repeats the warning that, apart from God, the believers have no wal¥ (or mawlå) and no naƒ¥r,12 that God is sufficient as a wal¥ and naƒ¥r for the believers against their enemies,13 that the kuffår have no wal¥ or naƒ¥r in this life save the fickle Satan,14 or, variously, that they have none at all or will have none in the next life.15 While there are instances where the terms wal¥ or mawlå are used in the Qur˘an to mean “guardian,” “lord,” or “master,” both in relation to God and in the context of human relations,16 they are not used to refer explicitly to earthly authority over a particular human collectivity or religious community. The reciprocal and relational nature of walåyah is obvious in the Qur˘an as well, given that the term wal¥ is used not


19

only for God, but also (in its plural form, awliyå˘) for those who show absolute devotion to God. Such “friends” of God, the Qur˘an tells us, experience neither fear nor grief17 in the face of divine judgment. In the Qur˘an, the concept of walåyah is also frequently juxtaposed, directly or indirectly, with that of enmity (ãdåwah), forming a subtle rhetorical pair, similar to, but not as explicit as other Qur˘anic pairs, such as ¥mån and kufr (faith and unbelief) or jannah and når (Paradise and Hell). God is the only true wal¥, or friend, of the believers. He knows who the enemies [of the believers] are, and He is a sufficient wal¥ and naƒ¥r against them.18 The believers should trust that God’s “protecting friendship” overcomes the enmity of all their opponents. Humanity’s greatest enemy, however, is Satan, and this enmity is providentially established in the Qur˘anic account of the creation and fall of man. God forewarns Adam of the treachery and inherent enmity of Satan, but when, despite this warning, Adam and his wife fall prey to Satan’s deception, God simultaneously casts Adam, Eve, and Satan out of the Garden, saying in multiple Qur˘anic renditions of the story: “Go (you, pl.) down, with enmity between you!”19 Satan is repeatedly identified as humankind’s “clear enemy (ãduww mub¥n)” throughout the Qur˘an,20 and human beings are warned not to take Satan and his followers (literally, “offspring”) as awliyå˘.21 It is frequently noted in discussions of the nature of evil in Qur˘anic and Islamic discourse that Satan is rightly viewed as the enemy of humankind, not of God, personally. However, the Qur˘an tells us God and the believers do share another mutual enemy—namely, the unbelievers and rejecters of God’s messengers. God is said to be the “enemy of the unbelievers,” as they are his. Qur˘an II: 97–98 reads: Say: Who is an enemy to Gabriel! For he it is who hath revealed [this Scripture] to thy heart by God’s leave, confirming that which came before it, and a guidance and glad tidings to believers; Who is an enemy to God, and His angels and His messengers, and Gabriel and Michael! Then lo! God is an enemy to the disbelievers.

The unbelievers (and hypocrites) are those who show enmity toward God and His emissaries (be they angels or prophets) and earn, thereby, the reciprocal enmity of God.22 The unbelievers and the hypocrites, however, are identified as the enemies of the believers as well,23 and God aids the believers against these enemies.24 Moreover, the believers are expected to separate themselves from, and if necessary to fight, these enemies of God on His behalf. God and the believers, then, are united in a bond of mutual friendship and support (walåyah) against a mutual enemy—the unbelievers—and true belief requires that the division between friend and enemy be clearly drawn. The believers

20


are warned: “O you who believe! Do not take My enemies and your enemies as awliyå˘.”25 Anyone who is an enemy of God must be understood to be an enemy of the believer, and this enmity must not be clouded by personal relationships. The prototype for this is the Qur˘anic Abraham, who prayed for his father “until it became clear to him that [his father] was the enemy of God,”26 at which point Abraham definitively dissociated (tabarra˘a) from him. As we shall see, the notion of dissociation (tabarru˘ or barå˘ah), like that of enmity, is often rhetorically juxtaposed to walåyah in both early Shi˜ite and Kharijite polemics. The reciprocal nature of the walåyah between God and the believers means that God will support the believers against their common enemy, but also that the believers must set themselves militarily, or at least socially, against the enemies of God as well. In this way true faith and the walåyah of God are inextricably linked to relationships between human beings and, more directly, to the notion of a sacred community united in both faith and mutual worldly protection. The Qur˘an states that the believers have no wal¥ save “God and those who believe,”27 and the believers are warned on more than one occasion that they should not take awliyå˘ (protecting friends) from among the unbelievers in preference to the believers;28 the unbelievers and the evildoers (zålim¶n) are protecting friends (awliyå˘) to one another.29 Thus walåyah is connected to the more general principle that an individual’s most intense social loyalties should be to the members of his/her own faith community, and conversely, that one’s social associations have implications for one’s religious identity. The Qur˘an also tells the believers not to take Jews and Christians as awliyå˘, for they are awliyå˘ of one another, “and he among you who takes them for protecting friends is [one] of them (minhum).”30 However, this does not mean that Jews and Christians are to be identified with the “unbelievers,” with whom believers are also supposed to avoid relationships of walåyah, since the Qur˘an makes an explicit distinction between the two in other similar contexts. In a passage that follows soon after the one just quoted, for example, the Qur˘an tells the believers that they should take neither the People of the Book who belittle Islam nor the unbelievers (kuffår) as awliyå˘;31 and later in this same s¶rah, the Jews and Christians are themselves criticized for having taken the unbelievers as their awliyå˘.32 The emergence of the idea of community based upon religious belief, rather than on tribal or genealogical ties, is a theme found subtly in the Qur˘an and more explicitly in the events of the first Islamic community—particularly in its heroic, early Medinan phase. Although the ties of tribal relationships continued to dominate Arab politics for


21

more than a century after the death of Mu±ammad, and strong notions of family loyalty continue to remain central to Islamic societal norms, the idea that common religious faith was the basis of one’s most obliging social loyalties emerged, at least temporarily, in the extraordinary situation of this first Muslim community. These early believers, many of whom were forced to leave their families behind when they emigrated to Medina, were warned not to take even their fathers and brothers as awliyå˘ if the latter preferred unbelief to belief.33 The idea of loyalty based on religious brotherhood, rather than on blood relations, was also reinforced by the Prophet in the second pact (the bayãt al-÷arb, or pledge of war) that he concluded with the Yathrib delegation prior to his emigration there. A member of the Yathrib delegation expressed anxiety over the fact that, having cut their ties with the Jews of their city in order to join the religious community of the Prophet, they might later be abandoned by their Meccan coreligionists when their cause had been won and they had reconciled with their own people in Mecca. Mu±ammad, however, reassured them, saying: “I am of you and you are of me; I am at war with the one with whom you are at war, and at peace with the one with whom you are at peace.”34 While the word walåyah is not mentioned explicitly here, the phrase “I am of you and you are of me” recalls the Qur˘anic passage that states that whoever takes members of other religious communities as awliyå˘ is “of them.” As we noted earlier in this discussion, the root w-l-y and its cognates are often connected to the idea of inheritance and to relationships entailing inheritance. In the Qur˘an, derivatives of this root are used in this sense as well. For example, in Qur˘an XIX:5, the prophet, Zakariyyå, implores God to give him a wal¥, who will inherit from him and protect his legacy from his other relatives. While the notion of walåyah as inheritance, based traditionally on family relations, may seem to be quite different from the notion of social relations based exclusively on common faith, the two connotations of walåyah come together in an extraordinary verse found near the end of the eighth s¶rah, which reads: Lo! Those who believed and left their homes and strove with their wealth and their lives for the cause of God [i.e., the Emigrants or muhåjir¶n], and those who took them in and helped them [i.e., the Medinan Helpers, or anƒår]; these are the awliyå˘ one of another. And those who believed but did not leave their homes, you have no duty of walåyah toward them till they leave their homes; but if they seek help from you in the matter of religion then it is your duty to help [them] except against a folk between whom and you there is a treaty. God is Seer of what you do.35

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Here a relationship of walåyah is explicitly ordained between the Meccan Emigrants and the Medinan Helpers who sheltered and assisted them. But what did this relationship entail, precisely? A quick reading of the verse suggests that walåyah, here, involved a duty to support, aid, and protect one another against outside threats and harm, since these represent the parameters of the Emigrant-Helper relationship established in the bayãt al-÷arb between the Meccan and Yathrib Muslims, discussed above. While there are some tafs¥r traditions that understand the relationship of “walåyah” mentioned here as pertaining to mutual aid and support (nuƒrah),36 the majority of tafs¥r traditions state that this verse established relationships of mutual inheritance between the muhåjir¶n and the anƒår,37 and many tafs¥r traditions connect this verse to the famous incident of the “brothering” between the two groups that occurred shortly after the Emigrants’ establishment in Medina.38 In this incident, Mu±ammad paired each Emigrant with a Medinan Helper as his “brother”—a relationship that explicitly included mutual inheritance and that was meant to compensate the Emigrants, in part, for their loss of family relations in Mecca. This walåyah between the “brothered” pairs meant that each would be as close and as obligated to the other as to any of their blood or clan relations, helping to create bonds of real solidarity between these two groups within the fledgling Islamic community. As one tafs¥r tradition notes, it created a new kind of walåyah, a “walåyah fi˘l-d¥n” or walåyah in religion, between the two groups and within the community at large.39 It is perhaps worth noting here that on this occasion the Prophet specifically exempted himself and his family from this “brothering,” because, as one modern biographer has noted, “it would have been too invidious for him to choose as his brother one of the Helpers rather than another. . . .”40 The Prophet therefore made Ãl¥ his own “brother” (and his uncle ¡amzah the brother of his adopted son, Zayd), effectively establishing a walåyah fi˘l-d¥n between himself and Ãl¥, something we will discuss further in the next chapter. This relationship of inheritance established between the Emigrants and the Helpers in preference to their own blood relations, and exclusive of those believers who had not emigrated to Medina to join the community physically, was nullified with the conquest of Mecca in the year 8. A verse officially abrogating the arrangement can be found a few verses later in the same s¶rah (Qur˘an VIII:74–75), where brothers who have fought together for the cause of Islam are said to be “of” one another, but that blood relationships (ulu˘l-ar÷åm) entail greater mutual obligation than relationships of religion. In any case, competition between these two loyalties was obviated by the conversion of the Meccan Quraysh, and eventually much of the Arabian Peninsula, to Islam.


23

Thus we can see that the Qur˘anic usage of walåyah and its related cognates pertains to an interrelated set of ideas, including a variety of intimate relationships entailing mutual protection, loyalty, and inheritance. The Qur˘anic concept of walåyah relates to the bonds of loyalty and trust between God and those who believe in Him, as well as among all those united in their belief in a religion sent by Him (be it Muslims, Christians or Jews)—or in their rejection of it (as in the case of the unbelievers). As such, it is a term that establishes a profound link between faithfulness to God and loyalty or attachment to one’s religious community.

WAL‹YAH, CHARISMA, AND SPIRITUAL COMMUNITY IN SUFISM AND SHI˜ISM It is clear from the foregoing discussion that walåyah is connected with notions of religious brotherhood and spiritual community in its Qur˘anic and Prophetic context. Insofar as the Qur˘an urges the believers to consider God as their primary wal¥ or “protecting friend” and Satan as their “clear enemy,” the Qur˘anic notion of walåyah demands an unhypocritical stance in favor of God and His cause, and against the deceptive lure of Satan and his supporters, thereby linking sincere devotion to God with unshakeable loyalty to the community of believers. This connection plays an important role in the relationship between faith and walåyah in Shi˜ite discourse, as we will discuss later. But in what sense are all of these things linked to the notion of charisma, or a charismatic community? Within religious studies discourse, a charismatic leader may denote an individual whose followers consider him/her to have been chosen to enjoy a privileged relationship with the divine. This perception is often based on unique and observable powers or distinctions that the individual is considered to possess by virtue of this privileged relationship. The charisma is believed not only to draw followers in, but also to radiate outwardly, such that his/her followers may be considered to benefit from the charisma of their leader, and in some cases, to possess a kind of derivative charisma by virtue of their association with him/her. Note the paradigmatic case of Christ, whose miraculous powers of forgiveness and healing were conveyed to his disciples, even during his own lifetime. In similar fashion, a charismatic community could be said to denote a community whose members—either individually or collectively, or both—have been chosen to enjoy a privileged relationship with the divine, and whose “closeness” and privileged status is reflected in qualities and powers believed to

24


be uniquely possessed by its members by virtue of their membership in the community. Conversely, it may also be that their membership in the community is considered to be the result of their prior or inherent possession of such qualities and powers as individuals. The charisma of a particular community may be a derivative charisma that exists by virtue of its association with a recognized charismatic leader, or else this charisma may be thought to reside primarily in the individual members or collectivity of the community, independent of a recognized leadership. In the Shi˜ite case, we find elements of both, for while the spiritual distinctions of the Shi˜ites are inextricably linked to their association with the spiritual figure of the Imåm, their attraction to the Imåm’s leadership in the first place is often considered to be the result of an inherent spiritual qualification and distinction on the part of the individual Shi˜ite that sets him/her apart from the larger society of Muslims. Both the Imåms and their disciples can be referred to as “awliyå˘” and their spiritual distinctions, as we will demonstrate in Chapter 8, are clearly related to one another and rooted in a sometimes very mystical conception of walåyah. Given the more esoteric conceptions of walåyah that pertain to the spiritual position of the Imåms and their followers in some strains of Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th, it would be instructive to briefly examine similar conceptions of walåyah pertaining to spiritual leadership and spiritual community in the context of Sufism, or Islamic mysticism. The affinity of Shi˜ism and Sufism have long been legitimately noted by scholars of both traditions, and with regard to the issues of walåyah, charisma, and spiritual community, the similarities are particularly evident. Just as the term wal¥/awliyå˘ can be used in Shi˜ism to denote both the Imåm and his disciples, these terms in Sufism may likewise refer both to fully realized Sufi masters and to Sufi disciples and aspirants. The technical use of this term in Sufi literature can be traced to at least the third century in the writing of the Sufi al-¡ak¥m al-Tirmidh¥, although there is evidence that this term was used among earlier Sufi thinkers who did not leave systematic, doctrinal works on the subject.41 This is perhaps more interesting in light of the fact that many Sufi chains of authority (silsilah, pl. salåsil) include the first eight Imåm¥ Shi˜ite Imåms (the last of whom died in the early third century) and consider all eight to have been important or even axial links in their spiritual geneaologies. Although this direct link between Shi˜ite and Sufi authorities appears to be broken after the eighth Imåm, Ãl¥ al-Ri∂å— and indeed some animosity between Shi˜ite and Sufi figures appears later in the third century—Shi˜ism and Sufism would continue along overlapping paths throughout Islamic history. This is clear enough in the intellectual and esoteric elements of Ismå˜¥l¥ Shi˜ite thought, in certain pre-Safavid Iranian Shi˜ite thinkers, such as Haydar al-≈mul¥,


25

and most productively in the Sufi-Shi˜ite synthesis engendered by the establishment of the Safavid Empire in Iran in the tenth Islamic century. In this last period, one witnesses the emergence of a school of Shi˜ite “theosophy,” a type of mystical Shi˜ite philosophy, that is frequently referred to as “˜irfån,” in order to distinguish its highly intellectual perspective from that of the more ecstatic, popular, and often antinomian strains of Sufi mysticism that also flourished in this period.

Walåyah and Esoterism The notion that the outward or literal message of the Qur˘an, as brought by the Prophet, does not encompass the entirety of the Prophet’s spiritual heritage and teaching is common to both the Shi˜ite and the Sufi perspectives, while this notion has historically been somewhat anathema to the nonmystical Sunni view. The strongly egalitarian emphasis in mainstream Sunnism stresses the clear and accessible nature of the spiritual message of Mu±ammad, as well as the open and public manner in which this message was conveyed by Mu±ammad to his community. Both Shi˜ites and Sufis, however, hold that Mu±ammad also brought an inner, esoteric teaching that was not intended—nor indeed bearable—for all of his followers, and that he therefore bestowed it exclusively upon an elite inner circle of disciples. For both Shi˜ites and most Sufis, Ãl¥ b. Ab¥ †ålib is the central figure, or one of the central figures, in the transmission of this esoteric teaching from the Prophet, and his authority over this esoteric knowledge, and that of his spiritual successors, can be referred to as “walåyah” (or “wilåyah”) in both traditions. In both Sufism and Shi˜ism, the term walåyah is frequently discussed in relation to risålah or nubuwwah (messengerhood or prophecy), with risålah or nubuwwah referring to the particular commission of the Prophet to publicly proclaim the exoteric revelation, and walåyah referring to the specific vocation of either the Shi˜ite Imåms or the Sufi mystical authorities to transmit and explain its inner meaning.42 The two spiritual offices are complementary but hierarchically ordered, for while the transmission of the inner meaning of the revelation represents the necessary fulfillment of the Prophet’s exoteric mission, prophecy remains the primary human source of both exoteric and esoteric teachings, and the authority of every wal¥ is, therefore, dependent upon that of the prophet (ras¶l or nab¥). At the same time, the spiritual emphasis placed by both Shi˜ites and Sufis on the inner ta˘w¥l, or esoteric interpretation of the Islamic message, occasionally left the impression that they considered walåyah to represent a higher or nobler state than prophecy—and one can indeed find passages in both Shi˜ite and Sufi literature that seem to suggest the superiority of

26


the Imåms or realized Sufi masters, respectively, over the preMu±ammadan prophets.43 Thus, in response to their outside critics and, perhaps also to their own overly enthusiastic adherents, both Shi˜ite and Sufi authors occasionally felt it necessary to explicitly assert the hierarchy between the prophets and the awliyå˘ and to provide a theoretical systemization of this hierarchy.44

Walåyah as Spiritual Inheritance We have already noted that walåyah is etymologically connected to relationships of inheritance, and that this meaning is important to its Qur˘anic usage. In both Shi˜ism and Sufism, walåyah is connected to a spiritualized notion of inheritance that applies to both its leadership and its membership as a whole. The idea of spiritual inheritance is fundamental to Shi˜ite views of their Imåms, who are, after all, the biological descendants of the Prophet and of Ãl¥. In Imåm¥ literature the Imåms are clearly identified as the heirs, not only of the Prophet Mu±ammad, but of all prophets. In this way, the Imåms are also frequently referred to as the awƒiyå˘ (pl. of waƒ¥, “legatee”), and are considered in some Shi˜ite traditions to have inherited many sacred prophetic artifacts, from the original revelations given to the earlier prophets, to the armor and weapons of Mu±ammad, to the Ark of the Covenant (tåb¶t) and the tablets of Moses.45 The well-known ÷ad¥th that states that the scholars (˜ulamå˘) are the heirs of the prophets is repeated in Imåm¥ Shi˜ite traditions,46 and given the numerous traditions that assert the Imåms’ inheritance of all the knowledge of Mu±ammad and previous prophets, this tradition would seem to pertain most fully to them. It is important to remember, however, that this inheritance is not a purely genealogical one, for not all descendants of the Prophet or Ãl¥ are considered to have a share in this. Rather there is an initiatic element as well, in that only the descendants designated as the Imåm by their immediate predecessor, through a clear and unambiguous pronouncement of successorship, are heirs to this sacred knowledge and these sacred artifacts. In Sufism, the term awliyå˘ is also related to the idea of spiritual inheritance, and this inheritance may pertain to all those who have undertaken the Sufi path, as seekers after the esoteric bequest of the Prophet, or more exclusively, to those masters and realized saints whose spiritual authority over this esoteric tradition has been transmitted to them by preceding masters leading back to Ãl¥ and then Mu±ammad, himself. For Sufis, however, this notion of spiritual inheritance is purely initiatic in nature. While there have been Sufi brotherhoods in which the membership and leadership of the order have been connected to


27

particular families—even through generations—this transferral ideally takes place through a conscious act of spiritual transmission, and is not inherited automatically; and as in the case of the Shi˜ite Imåms, the transmission of spiritual authority from one Sufi master to his successor or successors sometimes includes the symbolic transmission of items—particularly clothing—invested with sacred meaning. Ibn alÃrab¥ considers the awliyå˘, or the realized Sufi saints, to be the Prophet’s true spiritual heirs, and even went so far as to consider himself the “seal of the sainthood (khatm al-awliyå˘),” as Mu±ammad was the “seal of prophethood (khatm al-anbiyå˘).” For both Shi˜ites and Sufis, then, walåyah is profoundly related to notions of spiritual inheritance, although for Shi˜ites this special inheritance is transmitted through Ãl¥ and the designated genealogical descendants of Mu±ammad through Ãl¥, whereas for Sufis, it refers to a more widely diffused legacy passing through multiple initiatic lines. These two notions of spiritual inheritance come together in the writing of later Shi˜ite theosophers of the Safavid period, with Œadr al-D¥n al-Sh¥råz¥, perhaps the most prominent theosopher of the School of Isfahan in Safavid Iran, arguing that the term awliyå˘ refers both to the genealogical descendants of Mu±ammad and to his spiritual heirs. As an Imåm¥ Shi˜ite, however, he gives a uniquely prominent position to the Shi˜ite Imåms by noting that when the genealogical and spiritual lines of inheritance converge—as they do in the case of the twelve Imåm¥ Imåms—this represents a particularly luminous spiritual station; it is, as he says, like “light upon light.”47 If the term “wal¥ ” can be understood as a kind of “spiritual heir” in Sufism and Shi˜ism, and esoteric knowledge is considered the essential content of that inheritance, then walåyah can be said to refer to a kind of “initiation”—that is, to a process through which that spiritual inheritance is transmitted and assumed. If the reciprocal nature of the term “wal¥ ” allows it to denote both the master empowered to initiate and the initiates themselves, walåyah can be said to refer, quite specifically, to the functional and initiatic bond between them.48 This, however, is a particularly Sufi usage of the term. Most Sufi orders are known to have some sort of initiatic procedure that results in a transfer of spiritual power or “grace (barakah)” from master to disciple; and although walåyah is not the common term for such a mystical initiation (the preferred terms being “tasharruf ” or “tabayyu˜”), it has been connected to the more initiatic aspects of mystical practice by a number of scholars working in the field of Sufism. For example, Michel Chodkiewicz writes, in his study of the concept of sainthood in the writing of Ibn al-Ãrab¥, that walåyah is the foundation of “all that is initiatic” in the thought of this prominent Sufi thinker,49 and that the realm or sphere of walåyah in Ibn al-Ãrab¥’s writing is unquestionably

28


an initiatic one. Henry Corbin, the great twentieth-century scholar of both Sufism and mystical Shi˜ism, occasionally preferred to translate walåyah as “initiation” rather than “sanctity,” arguing that the Western notion of “sanctity” or “sainthood” did not convey the full significance of the term.50 In one instance he applied this meaning to the term as it was used in the mystical Shi˜ite writings of Haydar al≈mul¥, translating awliyå˘ as “[Shi˜ite] initiates” and walåyah as the initiatic function of the Imåm.51 Seyyed Hossein Nasr, a prominent scholar of both Sufism and Shi˜ism, and an intellectual associate of Henry Corbin, has also translated walåyah as “initiation” in his discussions of Sufism and mystical Shi˜ism.52 The connection between walåyah and initiation also exists within medieval Ismå˜¥l¥ Shi˜ism. The Ismå˜¥l¥s developed an elaborate proselytization and indoctrination process that seems to have been instituted at least by the late third century to recruit and train new members for their growing movement; and within this system, awliyå˘ was the technical term for new initiates undergoing training in the esoteric doctrines of Ismå˜¥l¥ thought.53 Despite the presence of a connection between walåyah and some form of “initiation” in Ismå˜¥l¥ or more mystical forms of Imåm¥ Shi˜ism, there is little evidence to support the notion of a formal initiatic process between Imåm and disciple in mainstream Imåm¥ Shi˜ism—although if such a process did exist, it was likely to be surrounded by even more secrecy than was the case in Sufism, given the politically controversial nature of Shi˜ite affiliation, particularly during the lifetime of the Imåms themselves. Whether or not such a formal initiatic rite cemented the spiritual relationship between the Imåm and his inner circle of disciples, a subtle parallel does exist between the formal spiritual bond linking the Sufi master and his disciples, and that linking the Shi˜ite Imåm and his followers, for the initiatic rite in Sufism usually represents not only a formal undertaking of the spiritual path (†ar¥qah) but also an implicit oath of spiritual obedience to the master administering the initiation.

Walåyah, Divine Proximity and Sanctity Just as the mundane understanding of walåyah as inheritance or a relationship entailing inheritance was imbued with spiritual and esoteric meaning in Sufi and mystical Shi˜ite thought, its basic etymological connection to notions of nearness, closeness, and mutual love and support made it an important concept in mystical discussions of the divine-human relationship. Ibn al-Ãrab¥ assigned metaphysical and mystical significance to the fact that wal¥ was a name shared by both God and human beings in the Qur˘an, and considered walåyah to


29

represent a spiritualized form of mutual support (naƒr) between God and His faithful devotees. Corbin also translated walåyah in particular contexts as “Divine predilection”54 toward particular human devotees, and as “spiritual nearness”55 between God and the faithful. He also connected it to the notion of reciprocal love between God and the believers, citing, as did many Sufis, the Qur˘anic verse that speaks of God replacing the rebellious peoples of the world with a new people, “whom I will love, and who will love Me.”56 It will be remembered that all such notions of walåyah in the context of the divine-human relationship have a firm basis in the Qur˘an, which identifies God as the wal¥ and naƒ¥r, par excellence—or exclusively—of the believers. Undoubtedly the most complete, theoretical study of the significance of the terms wilåyah and walåyah for Sufi notions of spiritual nearness, divine proximity, and consequent spiritual authority, is found in the recent, seminal study by Vincent Cornell, The Realm of the Saint: Power and Authority in Moroccan Sufism. In the detailed introduction to this work, and in subsequent discussions of the notion of Sufi sainthood in its Moroccan context, Cornell argues for a clear, functional distinction between the related terms wilåyah and walåyah, with wilåyah relating to the spiritual authority of the realized Sufi saint as apparent and as exercised outwardly both among his disciples and within his community at large, and walåyah referring to the principles of “metaphysical closeness to God” and [divine] “intimacy” that represent the true source of the Sufi master’s spiritual authority (wilåyah).57 While wilåyah, or spiritual authority, belongs only to the recognized Sufi master, walåyah represents the divine proximity enjoyed by all Sufi aspirants in varying degrees, correlated to their level of spiritual attainment, and derived from their relationship/proximity (walåyah) to the spiritual master himself. Thus walåyah, in Cornell’s analysis has a more comprehensive nature than wilåyah, relating to the idea of closeness to God on the part of all devoted Sufis as well as to the relationship between master and disciple that facilitates this increased closeness to the divine.58 As we shall demonstrate in the following chapters, the Shi˜ite tradition shares with Sufism this multifaceted and comprehensive view of walåyah as a term relating simultaneously to the domain of the spiritual master’s (here, the Imåm’s) esoteric authority, to the particular proximity to God and the Prophet on which his authority is based, and to the spiritual status and benefits that the Imåm’s Shi˜ite disciples enjoy by virtue of their proximity to him. Finally, for Sufis, the relationship of spiritual inheritance or divine proximity denoted by the term walåyah is understood to be one that is “sanctifying” for the individual privy to such a relationship, and most scholars of Sufism prefer the term “sanctity” (Fr. sanctité) as a translation of the Sufi or mystical conception of walåyah. Seyyed

30


Hossein Nasr, in one instance, defines walåyah as that “spiritual presence which enables men to reach a state of sanctity;”59 while Corbin interprets it as that “divine love or favour that renders eternally sacred the ‘Friends of God.’ ”60 As a result of having entered the esoteric and initiatic realm, and consequently into a profoundly reciprocal relationship of love with God, the wal¥ is “sanctified” and enters into the state of “sainthood”—another, related definition of walåyah, and one that is perhaps most popular with modern scholars of Sufism, such as Chodkiewicz and Cornell. In some Sufi doctrinal works, walåyah can refer to a particular station along the Sufi path, with this sanctified or saintly state being variously understood as something that God bestows freely upon select individuals,61 or else as the result of one’s individual efforts on the path, or both. In a Shi˜ite context, the Imåms and their descendants may be compared to the realized saints of Sufism, given the moral infallibility (˜iƒmah) attributed to the Imåms in Shi˜ite doctrine,62 as well as the notions of intercession and the popular shrine culture that consequently developed around the Imåms and their descendants generally. Similar notions of sanctity, however, were not considered to apply to the Shi˜ite community at large. For although Shi˜ites, as we shall see, considered themselves to represent the true believers, and something of a spiritual elite within the larger Muslim community, their participation in walåyah and their status as the awliyå˘ had less to do with a kind of moral attainment or moral perfection than with their special access to divine guidance through their spiritual predilection for the Imåm,63 and their special access to divine forgiveness and leniency as a result of their loyalty to, and efforts on behalf of, the divinely chosen Imåm. Thus, while Vincent Cornell argues that walåyah in its Sufi context is better translated as “sanctity” than as “charisma,” in the Shi˜ite case, the reverse seems to be true. Walåyah, as it pertained to lay members of the Shi˜ite community, signified, in part, an innate attraction to the Imåms that provided them with a particularly expedient path toward salvation, and even certain spiritual powers and distinctions that echoed those of the Imåms to whom they attached themselves; but it did not represent, in itself, the kind of moral attainment usually understood as fully realized sainthood, or “sanctity” in English. Yet, like the notion of individual sanctity in Sufism, the individual Shi˜ite’s spiritually beneficial and salvific attraction to right guidance in the form of the Imåm was sometimes considered to be the result of a kind of divine selection or privileging. Such notions of spiritual “privilege” separating the awliyå˘ from the rest of the Muslim community— whether understood as “sanctity” or as “charisma”—are generally at odds with the more egalitarian emphasis of nonmystical Sunni Islam,


31

but deeply embedded in both the Shi˜ite and the Sufi sense of religious identity and spiritual purpose. We have examined the relationship between walåyah and esoteric knowledge in both Sufism and mystical Shi˜ism, as well as its connection to notions of spiritual inheritance, initiation, divine proximity, and sanctity or sainthood. We have also demonstrated how the various meanings assigned to walåyah in Sufi and Shi˜ite contexts are profoundly related both to one another and to the basic etymology and Qur˘anic usage of term. Walåyah, therefore, should be understood not simply as a term assigned different technical meanings in various contexts but rather as a comprehensive term encompassing a set of meanings that are intimately related to one another, but for which no single English translation suffices. Only when the full breadth of the concepts and ideas it signifies are considered holistically, and in relation to its use across the spectrum of the Islamic tradition, can we hope to arrive at some understanding of the power and meaning of this term for the Shi˜ites of the first Islamic centuries, for whom this concept was central to all that related to their spiritual identity.


CHAPTER 2

The Ghad¥r Khumm Tradition Walåyah and the Spiritual Distinctions of Ãl¥ b. Ab¥ Tålib

I

f the more well-developed Shi˜ite and Sufi notions of walåyah as a kind of spiritual distinction based upon proximity to the divine, or else to the intermediate figure of the spiritual master or Imåm, have a basis in Qur˘anic terminology, the two views of walåyah also share a fundamental and personal connection to Ãl¥ b. Ab¥ †ålib. The idea that Ãl¥ is the “wal¥ Allåh” in its most perfect sense, and that he represents the ideal prototype for all other awliyå˘,1 can be found in both traditions. While a doctrine outlining the related nature of prophecy (nubuwwah) and walåyah would not be worked out systematically until much later, the unique connection between Ãl¥ and the concept of walåyah seems to have been established quite early. The concept of walåyah as an expression of Ãlid legitimacy, or belief therein, is present in the earliest periods of Shi˜ite history, before the full theological development of the Imåm¥ conception of the imåmate with all of its doctrinal complexity. Whereas the Imåm¥ theory of the imåmate entails an extensive and detailed set of beliefs about this office and who should possess it, the concept of walåyah is much simpler, if at the same time more elusive in meaning, designating some kind of allegiance or attachment to Ãl¥ and/or the ahl al-bayt without specifying the exact limits and nature of that relationship. The particular usage of the term walåyah to refer to Ãl¥’s position in relation to the Prophet and the believing community, as well as to the state of a person’s allegiance to Ãl¥ and his descendants, may be said to derive from the famous statement attributed to the Prophet at Ghad¥r Khumm, in which he reportedly designated Ãl¥ as the “mawlå” or “wal¥” of the believers. This reported event and the 33

34


Prophet’s statement on the occasion have been the subject of much controversy and competing interpretations, but it is interesting to note that despite the pro-Ãlid nature of the tradition, the sources in which it is found, and those in which it is (often conspicuously) absent, do not always divide neatly along Sunni–Shi˜ite lines. The source history for the Ghad¥r Khumm tradition is, in fact, quite peculiar, and has been rather under-studied in Western scholarship, with perhaps the best and most comprehensive analysis of the tradition being found in the Encyclopedia of Islam II article “Ghad¥r Khumm” by L. Veccia Vaglieri.2 However, a fresh and thorough analysis of the source history for this event and its different literary contexts and interpretations in Shi˜ite and Sunni tradition provides strong evidence for the early provenance of the tradition and the controversies it engendered. The literary evidence suggests that the Ghad¥r Khumm tradition was known among the Medinan Muslim community from the time of the Råshid¶n caliphate, even if relatively little sectarian or political significance seems to have been attached to the tradition by Ãl¥, his supporters, or his opponents in this period. The tradition apparently acquired its earliest sectarian significance as the source of the Shi˜ite concept of walåyah during the time of the First Civil War, sowing the seeds for what would become a foundational element of the Shi˜ite perspective in Umayyad times. In fact, our analysis suggests that the Ghad¥r Khumm tradition circulated widely in Umayyad times, but was partially eclipsed or even suppressed by other sectarian and religiopolitical developments in the Ãbbåsid era. Despite the sectarian controversy over the interpretation of the Prophet’s statement about Ãl¥ at Ghad¥r Khumm, reports found in both Shi˜ite and Sunni sources generally agree on the basic outlines of the event. As the Prophet was returning from the Farewell Pilgrimage in the year 10, he halted the caravan, gathered the returning pilgrims for communal prayer and began to address them. At some point he called Ãl¥ b. Ab¥ †ålib to his side, took his hand and raised it up, declaring: “For whomever I am their lord (mawlå, or variously wal¥), Ãl¥ is their lord; O God, befriend (wåli) the one who befriends him (wålåhu) and be the enemy (˜ådi) of the one who is his enemy (˜ådåhu).”3 In some versions of the tradition, the Prophet makes this declaration after asking the gathered crowd: “Am I not closer (awlå) to the believers than they are to themselves? . . . Are not my wives their mothers?” This query represents a rhetorical invocation of Qur˘an XXXIII:6, which reads: “The Prophet is closer to the believers than their selves, and his wives are [as] their mothers. And the owners of kinship are closer to one another in the ordinance of Allåh than [other] believers and emigrants, except that you should do kindness to your friends. . . .”4 Both

The Ghad¥r Khumm Tradition

35

Sunni and Shi˜ite commentators note that an alternate version of this Qur˘anic verse reads: “The Prophet is closer to the believers than their selves, and he is a father for them, and his wives are their mothers.”5 In exchange for the Prophet’s “fatherly” responsibility toward his followers, they were expected to treat him with the filial piety and devotion that they would show toward their own fathers. Then, after establishing his own relationship of responsibility toward the believers and receiving an affirmation of their loyalty and affection toward him, he declared: “For whomever I am their lord (mawlå) Ãl¥ is their lord (mawlå),” apparently suggesting that they should show the same loyalty and affection toward Ãl¥. However one interprets this tradition, it is hard to deny that it confers on Ãl¥ a kind of spiritual distinction that sets him apart from the other close companions of the Prophet, and the strongly pro-Ãlid nature of the tradition has led some Western scholars to see it primarily as a “Shi˜ite tradition,”6 promoted by Shi˜ite scholars as a clear example of the Prophet’s unambiguous designation (naƒƒ) of Ãl¥ as his intended successor. Yet, as some other scholars have noted, and as many Shi˜ite writers have observed with great delight, many of the principal or initial transmitters of the Ghad¥r Khumm ÷ad¥th were not Shi˜ites aligned with Ãl¥’s legitimist cause;7 and while the meaning and importance of the statement regarding Ãl¥ differs significantly in Shi˜ite and Sunni interpretation, the Ghad¥r Khumm tradition is, in fact, widely accepted as valid by both groups. It should also be noted that while the tradition offers strong support for the Shi˜ite claim of Ãl¥’s unique position and unrivaled closeness to the Prophet, the actual wording of the standard tradition is hardly unambiguous as to the precise nature of Ãlid authority, and it makes for a somewhat uneasy fit with the later Imåm¥ Shi˜ite doctrine of the imåmate as it emerged in the second and third Islamic centuries. First, Ãl¥ is referred to by the term “mawlå” (or in some versions, “wal¥”),8 rather than the more doctrinally precise term “imåm.” Second, no reference is made to Ãl¥’s familial connection with the Prophet as a source of his spiritual distinction or legitimacy, nor does the tradition, in its basic form,9 indicate that Ãl¥’s descendants should be considered legitimate successors to this honorary position or title. Such lacunae could hardly be imagined for a tradition deliberately forged by Imåm¥ Shi˜ite activists from the mid-second century onward; and we would thus suggest that if the tradition does have a Shi˜ite origin, it certainly predates the Shi˜ite doctrinal formulations of the time of Ja˜far al-Œådiq, or even of his predecessor, Mu±ammad al-Båqir, and was likely put into wide circulation sometime during the Umayyad period.

36

The Charismatic Community SOURCES FOR THE GHADÁR KHUMM TRADITION

As regards major Sunni works of history, it is perhaps not surprising that we find no mention of the Ghad¥r Khumm tradition in Ibn Hishåm’s recension of Ibn Is±åq’s S¥rah, nor is it found in the major Sunni histories of †abar¥ or Ibn Sa˜d. The absence of the tradition in the major works of these established and well-respected Sunni authorities would indeed seem to be strong evidence of the Shi˜ite provenance of the tradition. However, further examination reveals that the tradition is found in other works by authors with equally well-established Sunni credentials. For example, the tradition is given thorough coverage in Balådhur¥’s third-century historical work, al-Ansåb al-ashråf, where several accounts of the Prophet’s statement are given;10 and the most extensive coverage of the event is found in the Musnad of the Sunni traditionist, Ibn ¡anbal,11 and in the very late, staunchly pro-Sunni histories of Ibn Ãsåkir, Ta˘r¥kh mad¥nat Dimashq,12 and Ibn Kath¥r, al-Bidåyah wa˘lnihåyah.13 In fact, in the latter two works, one finds extensive analyses of the various recensions and sources for this tradition that rival what is found in many Shi˜ite works until the modern period.14 The coverage of Ghad¥r Khumm in Shi˜ite sources is also somewhat uneven. The tradition plays a prominent role in a number of works linked to a variety of late Umayyad Shi˜ite intellectual circles, such as Kumayt b. Zayd’s poetic compilation, al-Håshimiyyåt, and the highly polemical, and almost certainly Umayyad-era, Shi˜ite compilation, Kitåb Sulaym b. Qays al-Hilål¥, which includes no fewer than three lengthy, narrative accounts of the incident, supplemented by numerous references to it in other passages.15 By contrast, the tradition does not figure as prominently, in its own right, in major works of Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th compiled from the late third century onward, such as Kulayn¥’s al-Kåf¥. In these works, Ghad¥r Khumm is presented almost exclusively in connection to its implications for the Imåm¥ Shi˜ite doctrine of naƒƒ—the notion that all of the Imåms, from Ãl¥ onward, were designated in clear and unambiguous pronouncements of their successorship.16 Perhaps because these later Imåm¥ ÷ad¥th compilers assumed a general knowledge of the Ghad¥r Khumm event on the part of their (largely Shi˜ite) readers, relatively little ink was spent on presenting various authorities and recensions for the tradition. It is also interesting to note that Ghad¥r Khumm is not given wide coverage in certain well-known pro-Shi˜ite histories. It is not mentioned at all in Mas˜¨d¥’s Mur¶j al-dhahab, and is given only a brief mention, not a narrative account, in Ya˜q¨b¥’s Ta˘r¥kh.17 The appearance of the Ghad¥r Khumm tradition in some Sunni accounts and its absence in other Shi˜ite ones, as peculiar as it may at first seem, is not entirely random. A closer analysis of this source


37

history reveals that both the Sunni and Shi˜ite sources in which the Ghad¥r Khumm tradition figures most prominently are those that either originate in the Umayyad era, or else rely heavily on, and therefore preserve, the earlier Umayyad-era historical tradition. The Sunni historian Balådhur¥, for example, is sometimes considered to have been somewhat pro-Umayyad in his perspective, particularly because of the wealth of material he transmits about the Umayyads in his genealogically arranged history, Ansåb al-ashråf. Balådhur¥ undoubtedly acquired much of this information during an extended stay in Damascus, where he likely encountered material from the earlier pre-Ãbbåsid historical tradition that was preserved by Syrian transmitters—something that makes his works a particularly valuable resource for the earliest periods of Islamic history.18 His substantial coverage of the Ghad¥r Khumm event, in contrast to its relative absence in Ãbbåsidera histories that do not extensively incorporate the older Umayyadera historical tradition, suggests that his knowledge of this event derives from those earlier sources. The later Damascene scholar, Ibn Ãsåkir, who provides one of the most extensive discussions of the Ghad¥r Khumm tradition in Sunni sources, was known to have relied largely on the Syrian historical tradition that preserved some of the older, Umayyad-era historical material; and Ibn Kath¥r, an even later Sunni historian who discusses the tradition at length, relies heavily on Ibn Ãsåkir. The Sunni traditionist Ibn ¡anbal was not a historian and was not apparently influenced by the Umayyad-era historical tradition per se, yet the presence of multiple recensions of the Ghad¥r Khumm tradition in his massive ÷ad¥th compilation can be attributed to a number of different factors that are nonetheless related to the Umayyad-Ãbbåsid intellectual and ideological divide. First, Ibn ¡anbal, a staunchly Sunni traditionist, was an advocate of an intellectual perspective that relied primarily on transmitted (naql¥) sources, rather than on theological and rational speculation. To this end, his Musnad represents a largely uncritical compilation of all the available traditions he could find. If he could find multiple authorities and authoritative chains of transmission for a particular ÷ad¥th—as he did for Ghad¥r Khumm and a number of other pro-Ãlid traditions—then he included them in his compilation. Second, Ibn ¡anbal is considered the primary architect of what could be called the “Sunni compromise,” wherein Ãl¥—who was cursed and rejected in some non-Shi˜ite circles—was included along with Ab¨ Bakr, ˜Umar, and ˜Uthmån as one of the Råshid¶n (Rightly-guided) caliphs, and his preservation of numerous praise traditions (fa¿å˘il) regarding Ãl¥ would certainly have assisted him in supporting this position. Finally, Ibn ¡anbal is well known to have been strongly opposed to certain dominant aspects of the early Ãbbåsid intellectual and ideological perspective,

38


and was willing to suffer physical persecution in defense of his positions. He thus does not seem to have been particularly susceptible to the intellectual influence of his contemporaries, nor to political and ideological coercion on the part of the Ãbbåsid authorities.19 By contrast, many of the prominent intellectual authorities who omit or underplay the Ghad¥r Khumm tradition, such as †abar¥, Ibn Sa˜d, Mas˜¨d¥, and Ya˜q¨b¥, are leading representatives of the Ãbbåsid historical tradition. Despite their varying pro-Sunni or proShi˜ite leanings, therefore, they may have been influenced by ideological forces favorable to the promotion of Ãbbåsid legitimacy, which would not have been well-served by a tradition, such as Ghad¥r Khumm, that promoted the personal legitimacy of Ãl¥, over that of the Håshimite clan in general. Scholars of the early Ãbbåsid era have made it clear that the Ãbbåsid regime took great pains to promote its own legitimacy over that of its Ãlid rivals, and this effort, coming at the crucial stage when the earliest extant compilations of history and tradition were being recorded, may have left a lasting effect on Islamic historiography.20 Moreoever, both the Ãbbåsid court and a number of Imåm¥ Shi˜ite theologians of the early Ãbbåsid era sought to dissociate themselves from their earlier connections to the more radical Shi˜ite movements that flourished in the sectarian atmosphere of the late Umayyad period. Given the apparent ideological importance of Ghad¥r Khumm in polemical works associated with some of these late Umayyad Shi˜ites, and its lack of central importance in the developing Imåm¥ theology of the imåmate, the tradition may have suffered a corresponding (if inadvertent) decline in scholarly attention. This strongly suggests, as we noted above, that the tradition originated very early and gained particular prominence in the political and sectarian atmosphere of the late Umayyad period, only to be downplayed or ignored in early Ãbbåsid intellectual circles, and perhaps even politically suppressed in the Ãbbåsid state’s effort to establish a general Håshimite, rather than Ãlid, legitimacy for its own authority. Moreover, there is some interesting textual evidence to suggest that the Ghad¥r Khumm tradition continued to be known in the Ãbbåsid period, even among those historians and traditionists who omitted its mention directly, and that a conscious effort had been made to replace the Ghad¥r Khumm tradition in its original form with more politically acceptable versions. Our first case in point concerns the universal history of †abar¥. As noted above, in the history of this prominent Sunni authority, we find no mention of the standard Ghad¥r Khumm tradition that has come down to us through other sources. Yet †abar¥ does include a very different praise tradition for Ãl¥ in connection with the Farewell Pilgrimage. †abar¥ reports that a number of complaints had been made against Ãl¥ by the men under his com-


39

mand on an expedition to Yemen just prior to the Farewell Pilgrimage, and that the Prophet wished to resolve the dispute in Ãl¥’s favor. The same context is usually given in Sunni sources to explain the Prophet’s words in the standard Ghad¥r Khumm tradition as well. In †abar¥’s account of the events that take place on this same day and occasion as the Ghad¥r Khumm event, the Prophet makes a public statement in support of Ãl¥, but in a way that bears no textual relation to the standard Ghad¥r Khumm tradition. According to this report, which is related from Ab¨ Sa˜¥d al-Khudr¥ (also one of the major transmitters of the standard Ghad¥r Khumm tradition), the Prophet said: “O people, do not complain about Ãl¥, for by God, he is harsh (akhshan) for [the sake of] God or in the path of God.”21 Here, a praise tradition has been provided for Ãl¥ in the same chronological slot where we would have expected to find the Ghad¥r Khumm account, and narrated by an individual who was also one of the major authorities for the standard Ghad¥r Khumm tradition, but without the spiritual and legitimist implications of that tradition. The textual seams along which one tradition was likely excised and another substituted in its place are nearly palpable; and this apparent substitution seems all the more deliberate when we consider that both Shi˜ite and Sunni bibliographical works report that †abar¥ wrote an entire monograph on the event of Ghad¥r Khumm and the controversy over the Prophet’s words on that occasion. This work, which is no longer extant, was entitled, according to various accounts, Kitåb Ghad¥r Khumm or Kitåb al-walåyah.22 His omission of the event in his prominent historical chronicle, therefore, was not likely due to lack of knowledge. Perhaps more revealing is a tradition recorded in the work of the Sunni canonical ÷ad¥th compiler Muslim b. ¡ajjåj. This tradition reports that the Prophet made some kind of a public statement at a grove called “Khumm,” but presents this statement as a praise tradition about the Håshimite clan in general. In this tradition Yaz¥d b. ¡ayyån, ¡u∑ayn b. Sabrah, and ˜Umar b. Muslim come to Zayd b. Arqam, one of the transmitters of the standard Ghad¥r Khumm ÷ad¥th, seeking knowledge of what this venerable old companion of the Prophet had heard from Mu±ammad. Zayd begins his response by issuing the disclaimer that he has “forgotten some [of what he had heard from the Prophet],” and implores his listeners to accept as truth what he tells them, but to forgive him for what may have mistakenly omitted. He then gives the following account of a speech he claims the Prophet uttered at the watering place of “Khumm”: “. . . I leave you two weighty things (thaqalayn): the first is the Book of God, in which there is guidance and light. Take the Book of God and cling to it.” . . . Then he said: “and the people of my

40

The Charismatic Community house (ahl al-bayt¥). I will be remembered to you through the people of my house. I will be remembered to you through the people of my house. I will be remembered to you through the people of my house.” ¡u∑ayn said to [Zayd]: “Who are the people of his house, O Zay∂ Are not his wives among the people of his house?” He said: “His wives are among the people of his house. But the people of his house are those forbidden from [receiving] charity after him.” [¡u∑ayn] said: “And who are they?” He said: “They are the family of Ãl¥, the family of Ãq¥l [b. Ãbd al-Mu††alib], the family of Ja˜far [b. Ab¥ †ålib], and the family of Ãbbås [b. Ãbd alMu††alib].” [¡u∑ayn] said: “All of them are forbidden from [receiving] charity?” He said: “Yes.”23

Here we have a situation that is similar to what we find in †abar¥’s history, where the major, contextual parameters of the Ghad¥r Khumm event are provided—the location of “Khumm,” the temporal context of the return from the Farewell Pilgrimage, and the narration by one of the leading transmitters of the Ghad¥r Khumm tradition—but here, the standard pro-Ãlid declaration is replaced by a version of the thaqalayn tradition that privileges the Håshimite clan as a whole. There are a number of important details to be noted in this tradition. First, the elderly Zayd’s claim of having “forgotten” certain things may be an attempt either to call into question the more standard Ghad¥r Khumm traditions that Zayd also relates (suggesting he became feebleminded with age), or else to deflect blame from the current tradition, if it is found to be incompatible with others he had related. Second, the version of the famous “thaqalayn” statement that Zayd gives here closely approximates the standard Shi˜ite version, since the phrase “ahl al-bayt” can be taken as a synonym for the term “(˜i•trah, or kindred),” that is usually cited as the second thing to which Muslims should cling in most Shi˜ite (and some Sunni) traditions. What is odd about the tradition, however, is the rather pedantic way in which each line of the Håshimite clan is specifically named in response to ¡u∑ayn’s question about the identity of the ahl al-bayt. This appears to be a less than subtle endorsement of the Ãbbåsid argument that ruling legitimacy was located within the clan of Håshim generally, not in Ãlid/ Få†imid lineage exclusively.24 Finally, despite the absence of a full account of the Ghad¥r Khumm incident in many important early sources, we do find a number of indirect references or allusions to the reported words of the Prophet on that occasion, scattered throughout various historical and ÷ad¥th compilations, even when those same sources have provided no narrative account of the event. One such reference comes in the context of Ãl¥’s argument for his right to the caliphate made to the members of the sh¶rå convoked after the death of the second caliph, ˜Umar b. al-


41

Kha††åb. Ãl¥’s speech is reported by the pro-Ãlid companion, Ab¨ †ufayl ˜≈mir b. Wåthilah, and is recorded in a number of sources, including Ibn Abi˘l-¡ad¥d’s Shar÷ Nahj al-balåghah. Ibn Abi˘l-¡ad¥d’s account of Ãl¥’s speech reads, in part, as follows: I adjure you, by God (anshudukum Allåh)! Is there anyone among you whom the Messenger of God (peace be upon him) made his brother when he made bonds of brotherhood between the Muslims, other than me?25 They said: No. So he said: Is there anyone among you about whom the Messenger of God (peace be upon him) said: ‘For whomever I am their lord (mawlå), this one is their lord (mawlå)’, other than me? They said: No. And he said: Is there anyone among you about whom the Messenger of God (peace be upon him) said: ‘Your position in relation to me is as the position of Aaron to Moses, except that there is no prophet after me’, other than me? They said: No. . . .26

While the authenticity of Al¥’s reported speech is questionable,27 the inclusion of this reference to the Ghad¥r Khumm statement in a report found in both Shi˜ite and non-Shi˜ite sources, without comment or particular emphasis, argues for the tradition’s acceptance as one of Ãl¥’s well-known and widely accepted spiritual distinctions (fa¿å˘il) among a variety of early Islamic compilers. There is another incident reported in several sources in which Ãl¥ is said to have addressed a large crowd assembled in the central public square (ra÷bah) of Kufa during his tumultuous caliphate. He requests—perhaps in response to strong challenges to his legitimacy as caliph—that all those who were present on the day of Ghad¥r Khumm and heard the Prophet say: “For whomever I am their lord, Ãl¥ is their lord,” should stand and bear witness to this. According to various accounts, twelve or thirteen persons stood to heed his call— all of them members of the first Muslim community in Medina, and in some versions, all veterans of the Battle of Badr.28 This seems to be a rather small number indeed, given that some reports state that as many as seventy veterans of the Battle of Badr were with Ãl¥ at the Battle of Œiff¥n,29 the overwhelming majority of whom were likely to have made the Farewell Pilgrimage with the Prophet, and so to have been part of the caravan addressed by the Prophet at Ghad¥r Khumm. Somewhat inexplicably, a Shi˜ite account of this event adds that alBarå˘ b. ˜≈zib, who was a loyal supporter of the Ãlid cause since the time of the Prophet’s death,30 one of the main transmitters of the Ghad¥r Khumm ÷ad¥th, and a participant in all of the battles of Ãl¥’s caliphate, refused to testify to the ÷ad¥th on this particular occasion.31 There is another reported incident in which a group of Medinan Helpers (anƒår), including Ab¨ Ayy¨b al-An∑år¥ , approach Ãl¥ in the

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same central ra÷bah of Kufa and address him as their mawlå. Ãl¥ expresses surprise, and asks them how he could be their mawlå when they were all Arab freemen. They then cite the ÷ad¥th of Ghad¥r Khumm and the Prophet’s words “man kuntu mawlåhu fa-Ãl¥ mawlåhu.”32 It should be noted that both of these reports concerning the ra÷bah are found only in ÷ad¥th sources and are not included in any of the prominent, early historical chronicles. They are reported in the historical work of Ibn Kath¥r; but here he includes the reports in a general discussion about the Ghad¥r Khumm ÷ad¥th itself, rather than within his account of the historical events during Ãl¥’s caliphate and the First Civil War. None of the traditions include a precise reference to when either of these events at the ra÷bah occurred, and since they are not placed in chronological context in the later chronicles in which they appear, it is difficult to ascertain when these events should have taken place.33 More interesting, however, is that both of these reports suggest that while the Ghad¥r Khumm tradition was known to a number of prominent early Medinan companions, there was still a certain ambiguity surrounding the spiritual and political implications of this tradition among Ãl¥ and his close companions. Al-Barå˘ b. ˜≈zib and other Medinan companions may have hesitated to publicly affirm the Prophet’s statement about Ãl¥ at Ghad¥r Khumm because they were uncomfortable with its public use as a legitimist argument for Ãl¥’s political position, despite their support for his caliphate in the First Civil War; and even Ãl¥ himself seems bewildered when he is addressed as “mawlå” by his supporters. In other cases, we find affirmations of the Ghad¥r Khumm tradition among Ãl¥’s enemies in the First Civil War. In one incident, the Prophet’s words at Ghad¥r Khumm are invoked in the context of a discussion between Mu˜åwiyah b. Ab¥ Sufyån, Al¥’s chief opponent in the First Civil War, and Sa˜d b. Ab¥ Waqqå∑, a close companion of the Prophet, participant in the sh¶rå, and notable abstainer from the conflicts of the First Civil War. In this report, Sa˜d confronts Mu˜åwiyah after Ãl¥ had been defeated and killed and Mu˜åwiyah had already assumed the caliphate. He berates Mu˜åwiyah for his opposition to Ãl¥’s leadership, saying: “You fought Ãl¥ while you knew that he had greater right to authority (amr) than you.” When Mu˜åwiyah asks Sa˜d how he knows this is so, Sa˜d responds by reciting the words of the Prophet at Ghad¥r Khumm among a list of Al¥’s particular virtues and distinctions in Islam. Mu˜åwiyah confidently responds: “Then you [Sa˜d] are no better [than me] . . . for you failed to give him support (nuƒrah) and abstained from him, even though you knew this about his authority.”34 Mu˜åwiyah’s argument seems to be that his own direct opposition to Ãl¥ is less blameworthy than Sa˜d’s neutrality, given that he, unlike Sa˜d, had no prior knowledge of the Ghad¥r


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Khumm event. Another report, uniquely found in the work of the proShi˜ite historian Mas˜¨d¥ (who, as noted above, does not include the Ghad¥r Khumm event itself in his narrative), includes a reference to the Prophet’s Ghad¥r Khumm statement in his account of the Battle of the Camel in Mur¶j al-dhahab. In this account, Ãl¥ comes face to face with the Medinan notable †al±ah b. ˜Ubayd, during the latter’s rebellion against him, and on the eve of the first battle of the civil war. In this private encounter Ãl¥ warns †al±ah of the spiritual consequences of persisting in the rebellion against him by reminding him of the latter half of the Ghad¥r Khumm statement, where the Prophet implores God to befriend the friend of Ãl¥, and to be the enemy of his enemy. With this, †al±ah is reportedly persuaded to abandon his rebellion against Ãl¥, and the battle ensues without his leadership.35 In assessing the authenticity of these various references to Ghad¥r Khumm, note there is a certain consistency to the reports. First, the tradition is acknowledged in these early reports almost exclusively by members of the first Muslim community at Medina, suggesting that it was not widely known or publicized outside this group until the time of the First Civil War. Whenever Ãl¥ makes reference to the Prophet’s words at Ghad¥r Khumm in support of his cause, he is addressing members of the Medinan community—whether it be among the prominent muhåjir¶n who composed the sh¶rå or in a private confrontation with the early Medinan rebel †al±ah b. ˜Ubayd. When the tradition is affirmed on Ãl¥’s behalf by others—whether it be the veterans of Badr among his camp, Ab¨ Ayy¨b al-An∑år¥ and his associates in the central square of Kufa, or the prominent companion, Sa˜d b. Ab¥ Waqqå∑, confronting the late Meccan convert Mu˜åwiyah—it is the Medinans who are expected to know the tradition, and those outside that community who need to be informed of it. The idea that the tradition was known more or less exclusively to the Medinan community—and perhaps known primarily to the elite members of that community—is consistent with the alleged timing and context for this Prophetic statement. In all accounts, the Prophet is reported to have uttered this statement on the return journey from Mecca to Medina after the completion of the Farewell Pilgrimage.36 This would mean that the Muslim residents of Mecca and many of the Muslim tribesmen not settled in Medina, may not have been present for the announcement—and indeed the Meccan Mu˜åwiyah claims to have been ignorant of it. Second, the references made to the Ghad¥r Khumm statement in these various incidents suggest something about the way the tradition was understood. The Prophetic endorsement of Ãl¥ on this occasion was undoubtedly seen as a notable fa¿¥lah (claim to spiritual nobility) that could be adduced on his behalf, sufficient to give pause even to

44


his professed enemies, including †al±ah and Mu˜åwiyah. However, there is nothing in any of the references just cited to indicate that Ãl¥, or anyone else for that matter, considered the Ghad¥r Khumm event as direct evidence of his political designation as the Prophet’s successor. Even when Ãl¥ is allegedly defending his right to the leadership of the community at the sh¶rå—not just rhetorically, but as one of two possible candidates to succeed the second caliph—he only cites the Prophet’s words at Ghad¥r Khumm as one of a long list of merits (fa¿å˘il) to which he could lay claim. Certainly if he and his early supporters—like Ab¨ †ufayl—recognized the event at Ghad¥r Khumm as a clear designation of Ãl¥ as the Prophet’s successor, then there should have been no need to go on at length about his other merits. Moreover, while Ãl¥ often defends his legitimacy during his troubled caliphate in terms of the legality of his election as caliph,37 it is only when he is alone with one of the notables of Medina that he adduces the Ghad¥r Khumm tradition on his own behalf—and again, as a warning against open enmity toward himself, not as proof of the legitimacy of his political leadership of the community. These various references, albeit primarily in Sunni sources, seem to belie the Shi˜ite view that Ghad¥r Khumm represented both a political and a spiritual appointment for Ãl¥ that was well-known to the Prophet’s companions, and suggest that the more far-reaching Shi˜ite understanding of the Prophet’s words at Ghad¥r Khumm represents a significant departure from the way it was viewed, even by Ãlid supporters, in the first Islamic century.

SUNNI AND SHI˜ITE INTERPRETATIONS OF GHADÁR KHUMM Having examined the varied nature of the source material for the Ghad¥r Khumm tradition, and its presence in both Shi˜ite and Sunni works of ÷ad¥th and history, we should turn to an examination of the different interpretations of this tradition among the two groups. The most prominent Sunni interpretation of the events of that day minimizes the significance of the Prophet’s words and locates them within a very particular context. As great and broad as the Prophet’s statement about Ãl¥ on this occasion would seem to be, Sunnis argue that it comes as a response to a reported complaint about Ãl¥ that had been made to the Prophet, and should be understood specifically within that context. Ãl¥ had commanded a military expedition into Yemen just prior to the pilgrimage, later meeting the Prophet outside Mecca just before the pilgrimage rites were to begin. On the journey back to Medina, a group who had been under Ãl¥’s command during the military expedition complained to the Prophet about Ãl¥’s harshness


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as their commander.38 According to Sunni interpretations, it is at this point, and specifically in response to this complaint, that the Prophet makes his statement: “For whomever I am their lord, Ãl¥ is also their lord. . . .”39 Thus, the meaning of the walåyah that the Prophet commands for Ãl¥ is not considered to be wilåyah in the sense of political authority, but rather the walåyah that demands “love (ma÷abbah)” or “support (nuƒrah)” on the part of those who recognize it;40 and the statement was specifically intended to thwart negative feelings that Ãl¥’s soldiers, or anyone else, may have harbored against him. Shi˜ite tradition, of course, rejects this limited view of the significance of Ghad¥r Khumm. The modern Shi˜ite scholar al-Am¥n¥, in his copious compilation of material regarding this event in his work, alGhad¥r, presents the Shi˜ite case for the absolute spiritual and political significance of Ghad¥r Khumm. He argues, for example, that the meaning of walåyah in the context of this tradition could hardly be the “support” (nuƒrah) or “love” (ma÷abbah) that the Sunnis claim, for such support and love is the obligation of every Muslim toward every other Muslim, not something unique to Ãl¥;41 and the dramatic nature of the event—i.e., the fact that the Prophet gathered the tens of thousands of pilgrims42 in the heat of the day to listen to his statement— indicates that the Prophet was making an extraordinary and highly significant announcement, and that it represented something entirely new, and very specifically in reference to Ãl¥ b. Abi †ålib. If the Sunnis worked to downplay the significance of Ghad¥r Khumm by placing it in the limited context of a situation of tension between Ãl¥ and some of the men he commanded, Shi˜ite tradition places Ghad¥r Khumm in a context that suggests a much more absolute and far-reaching pronouncement than the standard version of the ÷ad¥th would suggest. In the version of this ÷ad¥th as found in canonical Shi˜ite sources, the Prophet’s injunction regarding the walåyah of Ãl¥ is preceded and followed, respectively, by two different verses of the Qur˘an, which Shi˜ites generally believe to have been revealed for the first time that day. The verse that precedes the Prophet’s statement is said to be Qur˘an V:67: “O Messenger! Make known that which has been revealed unto you from your Lord, for if you do not, you will not have conveyed His message. God will protect you from mankind. . . .”43 For Shi˜ites, the fact that this verse immediately precedes the statement of the Prophet suggests that this statement regarding the walåyah of Ãl¥ represented something that had been revealed to the Prophet through a kind of divine inspiration, and that it was something he had been withholding for a time out of fear of opposition from certain members of his community. Thus, the Prophet’s Ghad¥r Khumm statement did not reflect merely his personal attachment to Ãl¥, or his desire for peaceful relations among his close companions, but rather

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a divine command that had to be issued despite the Prophet’s personal fear of the consequences. Coming at the very end of the Prophet’s life, it represents one of the Prophet’s final instructions to his community; and the notion that this pronouncement gave a kind of finality to the Prophet’s mission is bolstered by the words from Qur˘an V:3 that Shi˜ites believe were revealed immediately after the Prophet’s statement at Ghad¥r Khumm: “. . . This day I have perfected your religion for you and completed My favor unto you, and have chosen for you as religion, Islam. . . .” The Shi˜ites interpret the reported revelation of this Qur˘anic verse immediately after the Prophet’s statement as confirmation that the walåyah of Ãl¥ was the final “piece” that perfected the religion of Islam, that it represented the completion of God’s “favor” toward the Muslim community and the final commandment of the religion, binding upon all of its adherents.44 Needless to say, none of the Sunni sources record any connection between Ghad¥r Khumm and the revelation of these verses, nor is such a connection alluded to in Sunni Qur˘anic commentary, which almost universally considers Qur˘an V:3 (“This day I have completed for you your religion . . .”) to have been revealed during the Prophet’s sermon at Ãrafat, in the midst of the Farewell Pilgrimage. It is also interesting to note that in the Shi˜ite historical, rather than dogmatic, work of Ya˜q¨b¥, the connection of the Ghad¥r Khumm incident with these Qur˘anic verses is likewise omitted. In fact, Ya˜q¨b¥ reports, as do Sunni authors, that Qur˘an V:3 was revealed at Ãrafat, suggesting his agreement with Sunni commentators on this verse that the “completion of religion” mentioned here refers to the definitive establishment of the Islamic pilgrimage rites, not to the walåyah of Ãl¥.45 Somewhat later Imåm¥ tradition was not only concerned to assert a divine origin for the Prophet’s words at Ghad¥r Khumm, but also to define the term “mawlå,” in the context of the tradition, as synonymous with “imåm.”46 From the early fourth-century Shi˜ite theologian al-Shaykh al-Muf¥d, to the modern compiler al-Am¥n¥, Shi˜ite scholars have spent much time arguing about the true understanding of the word “mawlå” in this tradition. The standard exercise is to examine all possible etymological definitions of the term “mawlå,” and then eliminate them one by one as meaningful usages in the context of Ghad¥r Khumm until only the meaning of authority remains.47 Thus, they argue, while mawlå may mean “heir,” it could not possibly have this meaning in the Prophet’s Ghad¥r Khumm statement, since the Prophet had no relationship of inheritance with the community at large, and was clearly not establishing one for Ãl¥ either; a similar argument can be made to eliminate the meaning of “kinsman” in general; and the patron-client relationship denoted by the term “mawlå”


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in an Arab tribal context would likewise have no meaning in relation to the Prophet’s Ghad¥r Khumm statement. Thus, they argue, the relationship of walåyah between the Prophet and the community that was transferred to Ãl¥ on this occasion could only be one of comprehensive spiritual and political authority. They therefore view the incident as a “specific designation (naƒƒ)” of Ãl¥ as the Prophet’s successor, providing Prophetic precedent for what would become a central tenet in Imåm¥ Shi˜ite imåmology regarding the transmission of authority from one Imåm to the next. Moreover, versions of the Ghad¥r Khumm tradition found in canonical Shi˜ite sources do not limit the Prophet’s statement to the designation of Ãl¥ personally, but rather present it as a statement regarding the authority of all the Imåm¥ Imåms by specifically extending the Prophet’s statement regarding Ãl¥ to his eleven successors by name. Of course, any tradition that purports a Prophetic designation by name of all twelve Imåm¥ Imåms can be assumed to be spurious, and to have been forged in the fourth century at the earliest, since it was not until this time that even authoritative Imåm¥ scholars could agree on the exact line of succession and its apparent end with the disappearance of the Twelfth Imåm. All of this is evidence that some Shi˜ite circles, even in the early second century, and certainly those in which Imåm¥ doctrine was being developed from the early and mid-second century onward, recognized certain difficulties in trying to interpret the Ghad¥r Khumm tradition within the context of its emerging doctrine of the imåmate, and that some of the details they provided regarding the circumstances surrounding this event were meant to present the incident in a manner that would support their developing theological conception of this office. Regardless of the very divergent contextualizations and interpretations of the Ghad¥r Khumm statement and its religious import, the fact remains that the rather cryptic Prophetic words, “For whomever I am their mawlå, Ãl¥ is [also] their mawlå” forms the core of all its various recensions, Shi˜ite and Sunni—the only textual variant being the substitution of the cognate “wal¥” for “mawlå” in certain versions. The fact that the integrity of this statement has been preserved despite the widely divergent sectarian explanations for it in Sunni and Shi˜ite tradition, suggests the existence of a very real event, or the existence of a very early tradition purporting such an event, whose overall presentation had to be modified by both Sunnis and Shi˜ites in order to make it consistent with their respective theological and political positions, as they were increasingly defined in opposition to one another in the second and third centuries. Both the source history and interpretative tradition for the Ghad¥r Khumm ÷ad¥th suggest that it was known and circulated in a very early period of Islamic history,

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and there is therefore good reason to believe that the unique connection this ÷ad¥th establishes between the concept of walåyah and the person of Ãl¥ b. Ab¥ †ålib—given such elaborate play in later Shi˜ite and Sufi writing—was in fact part of learned Islamic consciousness from the earliest times.

CHAPTER 3

Walåyah, Authority, and Religious Community in the First Civil War

T

he Prophet’s designation of Ãl¥ as the mawlå of the believers in his reported statement at Ghad¥r Khumm indicated some kind of authority for Ãl¥, but it is significant that this authority was expressed in terms of “walåyah” rather than “imåmah”—a term that more precisely denotes the absolute political and spiritual authority envisioned by later Imåm¥ Shi˜ite doctrine, and the preferred term expressing the authority of Ãl¥ and the ahl al-bayt. If “walåyah” lacked the precision and clarity of other terms denoting authority, it was also a far richer term, with multiple levels of meaning that often intersected with one another, and one that had deep psychological roots in the tribal nature of pre-Islamic and early Islamic Arab society. The richness of the term is apparent in its Qur˘anic usage, as we have seen, and the concept of walåyah/wilåyah continued to play an important role in the contentious issues of authority and religious communal identity that emerged in the early caliphate, particularly in the events surrounding Ãl¥’s caliphate and the First Civil War. Although the term walåyah would later come to be associated largely with Ãl¥ and his genealogical and spiritual descendants, in the context of Ãl¥’s own lifetime and caliphal reign, the terminology of walåyah/wilåyah was used by rival parties in the First Civil War to express their views on the nature of religious and political authority, and on the bonds of loyalty that bound individual Muslims to their chosen leader and to fellow partisans of their cause.1 An examination of the historical sources for the period of the First Civil War reveals that a deep ideological schism had developed among several groups in the young Islamic community. The conventional wisdom among Islamic historians has been that during the caliphates of 49

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Ab¨ Bakr and ˜Umar, authority over the community was not a major issue for the Prophet’s companions. Among the members of the Medinan community, the leadership of these two close companions of the Prophet went essentially uncontested—save for an initial but temporary refusal on the part of Ãl¥ and a number of his close companions and family members to give the bayãh to Ab¨ Bakr. In his book Succession to Mu÷ammad, Wilferd Madelung challenges this long-held view and traces the roots of the authority issue from the time of the caliphate of Ab¨ Bakr. He argues for a more serious and deep-set schism between Ab¨ Bakr, ˜Umar and their allies, and those who backed either Ãl¥’s prior right to the caliphate or some other notion of authority. Yet, even for Ãl¥, the real crisis of authority in the early community seems to have begun with the contentious nomination and problematic reign of the third caliph, ˜Uthmån,2 and the authority issue that arises in the context of the First Civil War represents more than a reawakening of this initial schism, long smoldering under the guise of Ãl¥’s apparent acquiescence to his caliphal predecessors. It seems rather to be the result of the rise of a new set of competing ideas that developed around such fundamental issues as the role of the larger Muslim community in nominating and evaluating its leadership, the extent to which the caliphal office represented a divine investiture of authority that was either conveyed through, or irrespective of, the popular will of the ummah, and whether or not the caliphate should be the preserve of the Medinan religious elite or of religiously and socially prominent families. With regard to all of these issues, those who supported Ãl¥’s right to the caliphate represented only one point of view—albeit a major one—among others in the conflict. During the time of the first two caliphs, leadership of the community was generally understood to be the prerogative of the Prophet’s inner circle of companions. Both Ab¨ Bakr and ˜Umar were essentially nominated by the other for leadership of the community—˜Umar nominated Ab¨ Bakr for the leadership at the meeting at the Saq¥fat Ban¥ Så˜idah after the Prophet’s death, and Ab¨ Bakr, in turn, named ˜Umar as his successor at the time of his own death. Although both “nominations” were ultimately conditional on the bayãh of the members of the community, the question of authority was not really a matter open to all members of the Islamic state, but only to the leading members of the Medinan community, the Emigrants (muhåjir¶n), and, to a lesser extent, the Helpers (anƒår). While the conflict between Ab¨ Bakr and Ãl¥ over succession to the Prophet had some repercussions throughout the Medinan and Meccan communities, it still remained, essentially, a disagreement among brothers. However, there is evidence that this state of affairs had already changed considerably by the time of the nomination of the third caliph, ˜Uthmån. The sh¶rå

Walåyah, Authority, and Religious Community

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committee that was established by ˜Umar on his deathbed to determine the successor to the caliphate opened the question of authority to a small delegation of leading companions of the Prophet; but in the process, it seems to have opened the issue to a still wider group. There is a report that the prominent early companion, Ãbd al-Ra±mån b. Ãwf, addressed a crowd gathered outside the closed door of the sh¶rå deliberations, and asked them to indicate their preference for one of the two leading candidates, Ãl¥ or ˜Uthmån. Ãmmår b. Yåsir and Miqdåd b. al-Aswad responded by saying that Ãl¥ was the best choice to unite the community and that they would only give the oath of “hearing and obeying” to Ãl¥. Ãbd Allåh b. Ab¥ Sar± and Ãbd Allåh b. Ab¥ Rab¥ãh al-Makhz¨m¥ argued that only the choice of ˜Uthmån would unite Quraysh and that they, for their part, would only give the bayãh of “hearing and obeying” to their kinsman, ˜Uthmån.3 The split in the crowd’s response reflects and amplifies the division among the sh¶rå participants themselves, and suggests that social and ideological tendencies among different sectors of the Muslim community were becoming increasingly polarized. As these different perspectives and interests developed clear ideological links with particular members of the Medinan religious elite, the sheer popular pressure of the expanding Muslim community and empire created centripetal forces that pulled at the rifts among this elite inner circle and eventually eroded the unified control they once enjoyed over the ummah. It was perhaps his awareness of these dangerous forces of division that led ˜Umar to issue his strict command that should the sh¶rå committee be unable to unanimously agree on a candidate, the minority dissenters were to be executed. ˜Umar’s harsh edict did prevent an initial split among the sh¶rå members themselves, with the pro-Ãlid minority reluctantly giving allegiance to ˜Uthmån, but it could not long contain the growing pressures of powerful and conflicting interests among the members of the ummah at large. As grievances regarding nepotism and injustice on the part of ˜Uthmån arose over the course of his caliphate, the discussion as to who was most qualified or deserving of authority over the community, once confined to the muhåjir¶n and anƒår of Medina, came to be joined by voices not part of this long-recognized elite. The Arab tribesmen, who had submitted en masse to Islam at the end of the Prophet’s life, forced themselves to the forefront of the Islamic polity with their assassination of ˜Uthmån—albeit with some Medinan encouragement—and their prominent role in securing the succession of Ãl¥ to the caliphate. The rebellion of †al±ah b. ˜Ubayd, al-Zubayr b. al-Ãwåmm, and ˜≈˘ishah bt. Ab¥ Bakr against Ãl¥, although meant to challenge the state of affairs brought into being by the rebels, in effect only further enfranchised these tribal elements in the political

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life of the community, as the rival Medinan factions looked to the tribesmen of the garrison cities (amƒår) to support their respective causes. This initial challenge to Ãl¥’s rule by his fellow Medinans was defeated on the battlefield, but in the process, the caliphate had geographically left Medina, symbolizing what would come to be a permanent loss of control for the Medinan religious elite over the affairs of the community. Widespread discontent with the caliphate of ˜Uthmån among both the Medinan elite and the tribesmen of the garrison towns did not arise in response to reservations about his right to the caliphate or doubts about the fairness of the process by which he was put in power. The grievances against him originate solely from his questionable conduct as caliph—charges of nepotism with regard to the Umayyad clan and charges of injustice in everything from his administration of the ÷add punishments to the distribution of the booty (fay˘). Thus, in the charges of the rebels against ˜Uthmån, authority over the community is presented as something that its holder must not only deserve, initially, but which he also must continue to earn through his just and competent actions. During the siege of ˜Uthmån, the beleaguered caliph argued for his ruling legitimacy, reminding the rebels of his seniority in Islam and his important contributions to the struggle for the victory of Islam in its fledgling state. But they answered him: As for what you said regarding your precedence and seniority with the Messenger of God, peace be upon him, this was so, and you were deserving of authority (wilåyah), but you know what has come to pass, and we will not abandon the truth [which stands] against you,4 for fear of civil war (fitnah).5 (emphasis mine)

In the above statement, the word that we have translated as “authority” should probably be vocalized as wilåyah, the noun that relates more specifically to authority, rather than nearness, friendship, or attachment. We should look, however, at just what kind of authority is being spoken of here. As discussed in Chapter 1, the term “wilåyah” was most commonly used in relation to the authority of governors or deputies, that is, persons given limited authority over a particular jurisdiction by the real holder of power. This is not an authority that is in any way absolute or divinely ordained, but an authority given in trust to one considered worthy of it, and one that can be withdrawn when that trust is perceived to have been broken. The rebel view of caliphal authority is sharply contrasted by the counterclaims made by the Caliph ˜Uthmån, himself. At one point,


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˜Uthmån apparently conceded that he had made some errors but rejected the rebel demand that he abandon the office, declaring that he would rather submit himself to public punishment for his offenses than “take off this robe that God has placed upon me.”6 This is a statement that he would make repeatedly, and it betrays a more absolute and divinely-ordained understanding of the caliphate than had previously been recognized. It was God, not his subjects, ˜Uthmån seemed to be arguing, who had invested him with this authority; he was “God’s representative” and God alone could remove him.7 Thus it seems that the conflict and crisis of authority that would develop into the First Civil War was not merely the rivalry between Ãlid and rival Medinan or Qurayshi (Umayyad) claims to the caliphate—or even between the political authority of the Medinan community and the military power of tribal groups in the amƒår—but was also, ideologically, a conflict between two conceptions of the caliphate. Personal and political self-interest clearly motivated many, but at its core, the conflict reflected a difference of principle regarding the nature of the caliphate itself. While existing accounts of this conflict were undoubtedly shaped by the clearer ideological boundaries established only much later between such groups as the Kharijites, ˜Uthmånites, proto-Sunnis, and Shi˜ites in their second- and third-century incarnations, the fact remains that the terminology of the authority debate that plays out in the historical sources for this period revolves around the concept of wilåyah/walåyah, rather than around the later more prevalent concept of “imåmah.” This is significant, in our view, because as we indicated above, wilåyah/walåyah cannot be understood as a pure synonym for imåmah—even when the former is construed only in its connotation of authority, it is a very different kind of authority than that denoted by the term “imåmah”—and it cannot be limited to notions of authority, given its profound Qur˘anic connection to issues of both inheritance and communal religious loyalty. As we shall see, the debate over the nature of authority that emerges in the context of the First Civil War, like the terminology of walåyah/wilåyah through which it was largely expressed, is fundamentally linked to issues of inheritance and the formation of sectarian and communal identities. Thus, the crisis of authority that emerges from the historical accounts of this first fitnah is not simply a reflection the second- and third-century authority debate dressed in earlier terminology and retrojected into an earlier period, although the later debates may have shaped the accounts to some degree. Rather, it is a debate that distinctly arises in the context of the unique challenge posed to the early Islamic community by the onset of the First Civil War.

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The Charismatic Community WAL‹YAH AND HEREDITARY AUTHORITY: THE UMAYYAD VIEW

Although Mu˜åwiyah b. Ab¥ Sufyån only converted to Islam after the fall of Mecca, and despite the fact that his father, Ab¨ Sufyån, was one of the Prophet’s greatest enemies, he was also the cousin of the Caliph ˜Uthmån. As such, Mu˜åwiyah claimed to be the wal¥ of ˜Uthmån8 after the latter’s assassination, that is to say, his nearest kinsman and the one most entitled to exact blood revenge on his behalf—a claim that would become even more salient in the face of the failure of the Medinan rebels †al±ah, al-Zubayr and ˜≈˘ishah to do the same. Mu˜åwiyah was able to justify his rebellion against Ãl¥—and ultimately, his very right to the caliphate—on the basis of his quest to bring the killers of ˜Uthmån to justice. Mu˜åwiyah originally appears to use the term “wal¥” merely in the sense of the nearest kinsman to a deceased person, entitled to the blood money for his death and primarily responsible for avenging his murder. It seems, however, that Mu˜åwiyah had seen early on the possibilities such a claim could have for broadening his authority; and he makes a deliberate connection between his right as heir or near kinsman to ˜Uthmån and his right to authority in general, when he cites the Qur˘anic verse: “. . . Whoso is slain wrongfully, We have given power (sul†ån) unto his heir (wal¥hi). . . .”9 While the political (rather than military) victory of Mu˜åwiyah in the arbitration that ended the Battle of Œiff¥n, and his eventual accession to the caliphal title was achieved largely through a series of deceptive and opportunistic tactics, we should not entirely dismiss the, albeit logically flawed, ideological connection he makes between walåyah (kinship) and authority in his rhetoric—not least, because it is clearly related to the Caliph ˜Uthmån’s own idea of the divine designation of caliphal authority and his documented desire to pass the title of caliph through his own hereditary line.10 At the arbitration after the Battle of Œiff¥n, Mu˜åwiyah’s representative, Ãmr b. al-˜≈∑, explicitly translated this claim into an argument for granting Mu˜åwiyah authority over the Muslim community. Ãmr began by confirming some things upon which he and his counterpart, Ab¨ M¨så, could agree: ˜Uthmån was the wal¥ hådha˘l-amr (the possessor of this authority) after ˜Umar, according to the common agreement (ijmå˜) of the Muslims and a consultation (sh¶rå) of the companions of the Messenger of God, and that he was the one chosen from among them (al-ri¿å minhum). He then secured agreement that ˜Uthmån was a believer (mu˘min). Finally he and Ab¨ M¨så agreed that ˜Uthmån was killed unjustly (mazl¶m). Ãmr was then able to quote the Qur˘anic verse which grants sul†ån (authority) to the wal¥ of the one killed unjustly.11 Ab¨ M¨så rejected this line of reason-


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ing, agreeing that Mu˜åwiyah was the wal¥ dam ˜Uthmån (i.e., the one most entitled to seek vengeance for the murder of ˜Uthmån), but arguing that this did not give him the right to authority over the Muslim community in preference to the muhåjir¶n with seniority in Islam.12 Ab¨ M¨så stated that authority over the community should be decided by a “sh¶rå among the Muslims, so that they may give wilåyah over their affairs to whomever they like,” and at the supposed conclusion of the arbitration he reportedly sought to remove both Ãl¥ and Mu˜åwiyah from power, telling the Muslims to “give authority to the one you consider deserving.”13 Nevertheless, Ãmr b. al-˜≈∑ would have the final word at what is probably the second arbitration meeting at Adhruh, which was apparently not attended by a representative of Ãl¥ b. Ab¥ †ålib. At this meeting, the wal¥ of ˜Uthmån would be granted sul†ån after all.14 In the reported debate between Ãmr and Ab¨ M¨så, we can clearly discern two competing interpretations of the concepts of walåyah or wilåyah and their connection to the authority issue. For Ab¨ M¨så, wilåyah is the authority to be granted to one of the Prophet’s companions as caliph, although it is apparently to be granted by the Muslim community at large, since he calls for a sh¶rå among the “Muslims” in which they would grant authority to the one they deem worthy (ahl) of it. For Mu˜åwiyah and Ãmr, wilåyah as authority is related to walåyah as kinship, and no matter how disingenuous their line of argument may have been, they were able to find semantic evidence for their case in the Qur˘an itself. Whatever its justification, this latter interpretation—although rejected by Ab¨ M¨så and never endorsed by Sunni law and political theory—would nonetheless become the unspoken and pragmatic modus operandi for the transmission of caliphal authority, not only during the Umayyad dynasty but throughout the history of the Ãbbåsid dynasty as well, as the caliphal title passed in hereditary, agnatic succession until the end of the historical caliphate.

THE KHARIJITES: A CONTINUATION OF POPULAR RULE AND RADICALISM If it was Mu˜åwiyah’s rebellion against Ãl¥ that was ultimately victorious, the most frustrating and disturbing development of the First Civil War for Ãl¥ and his camp was undoubtedly the secession of the Kharijites, which represented a challenge to Ãl¥’s authority from some of those ˜Iraqi tribesmen who had most enthusiastically championed it.15 The Kharijites held that in conceding to arbitration, rather than allowing the battle to be the vehicle of God’s judgment between the two parties, Ãl¥ had transferred the right of judgment in this matter

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from God to men. Hence their famous rallying cry: “Judgment belongs to God alone (lå ÷ukma illa li-llåh).” The denial of God’s right as judge constituted, for the Kharijites, a grave sin, requiring that its perpetrator repent or else be considered an unbeliever (kåfir). Both the Kharijite demands for Ãl¥’s repentance and the language they used to formulate these demands are clearly reminiscent of the words the rebels addressed to the Caliph ˜Uthmån. However, Ãl¥, unlike ˜Uthmån, reportedly refused even to countenance repentance, defending both his caliphate and his actions as absolutely legitimate. On the basis of Ãl¥’s refusal to answer their calls for repentance, the Kharijites no longer considered the authority of Ãl¥ binding upon them, and so selected a leader from among themselves. The process by which the Kharijite leader is given authority, both at the inception of the Kharijite movement, and in its later history, is almost always expressed in terms of walåyah, with the act of recognizing a particular individual as leader, and the act of assuming political authority oneself, being most commonly denoted in Kharijite discourse by the second and fifth verb forms of the root w-l-y, respectively.16 The Kharijite understanding of the nature of this leadership was that it was a relative, rather than absolute, authority—conditional upon the performance, justice, and religious soundness of the leader, as judged by the governed, themselves. This is really a continuation of the spirit and principle behind the revolt of the tribesmen of the garrison towns against ˜Uthmån, and the connection between the two is sometimes clear in the words of the Kharijites themselves: [Kharijite leader speaking]: We accepted ˜Uthmån while he called upon God and repented from his rebelliousness [against God], and this sufficed us until he sentenced [us to punishment] after he had recognized his [own] sins. When [we saw that] his repentance was insincere and his actions contradicted his apparent repentance we said: “We turn away from you and give authority (nuwall¥) over the believers to a man who will suffice you and us; for verily it is not permissible that we should give authority over the believers to a man whom we suspect regarding our blood and our property.” But he refused this and persisted [in his disobedience and hypocrisy], and so when we saw this, we killed him and those who continued to demonstrate allegiance to him (man tawallåhu) after we had killed him.17

Here, the second verb form of w-l-y (wallå/yuwall¥) is used to designate the process by which the community invests its leader with authority, and this wilåyah may be revoked when its possessor is deemed to be undeserving of it. It is also significant that the Kharijite


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speaker claims to have killed not only ˜Uthmån but also “those who continued to demonstrate allegiance to him (man tawallåhu)” after his assassination. The fifth form of the root w-l-y makes no sense, here, if it is interpreted to mean that they continued to recognize ˜Uthmån as leader of the community, given that he was dead. Thus, it should probably be understood in the more general sense of loyalty to the notion of ˜Uthmån’s legitimacy (even posthumously), the upholding of his reputation and perhaps even the rights of his progeny. Thus, in Kharijite rhetoric, as reported in historical chronicles, the concept of walåyah is tied both to leadership of the community (understood as a kind of limited authority) and to a sense of deep loyalty to a particular leader, living or dead. This dual connection should be kept in mind, as should the general Kharijite notion of the relationship of the ruler to the ruled, as we turn to examine the Shi˜ite point of view as it gradually developed and distinguished itself against the background of these other perspectives. THE SHI¯ÃT ÃLI¯: WAL‹YAH AND UNQUESTIONING ALLEGIANCE The role of walåyah in the discourse of the Ãlid camp during the First Civil War differs from what we have seen from the Umayyad and Kharijite camps. For the supporters of Ãl¥ in this conflict, walåyah was more commonly used in connection with expressions of absolute loyalty to Ãl¥, personally, than in connection with legitimist arguments for his leadership; and while the concept of walåyah was invoked by his supporters in a manner that clearly echoed the Prophet’s reported words at Ghad¥r Khumm, the latter is never explicitly cited as a legitimist argument on his behalf. Ãl¥’s support base was considerably more disparate and fragmented than that of his rival, Mu˜åwiyah, but both Sunni and Shi˜ite accounts of the Battle of Œiff¥n give evidence that loyalty toward Ãl¥ among a certain segment of his followers was exceptionally strong and beginning to develop absolutist tendencies. In the discourse of Ãl¥’s loyal supporters in the First Civil War, there is much literary evidence to support the idea that Ãl¥ represented, for many of them, an absolute and divinely guided leader who could demand of them the same kind of loyalty that would have been expected for the Prophet. Some earlier studies have suggested that the large number of South Arabian tribesmen in Ãl¥’s camp, and the Southern Arabian heritage of charismatic and absolute leadership, accounts for this phenomenon. However, this tendency can be seen even among those of his supporters who did not hail from southern

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tribal groups. Sahl b. ¡unayf,18 for example, declares to Ãl¥ before setting out for the Battle of Œiff¥n: “. . . we are at peace with the one with whom you make peace, and we are at war with the one with whom you make war; our opinion (ra˘yunå) is your opinion and we are in the palm of your right hand.”19 This statement is one of many similar pledges of absolute loyalty to Ãl¥, but the formulation here clearly recalls the words of the Prophet himself to the anƒår of Medina just prior to his emigration there.20 This is likely an intentional recollection of that event by Sahl, and the connection he makes between his allegiance to the Prophet and his allegiance to Ãl¥ is almost certainly not coincidental, given that he himself was an early member of the anƒår, and one of those who proved his loyalty to the terms of the bayãt al-÷arb during its initial testing at the Battle of Badr. Another illustration of the spiritual absoluteness with which some of his men viewed their loyalty to him in the conflict is the frequently repeated phrase that Ãl¥ (and, in some cases, they as his followers) were acting “upon clear guidance from [the] Lord (ãlå bayyinah min rabbihi or rabbinå).” The use of this phrase in connection with Ãl¥ suggests a certain knowledge, on his part, of the divine will, and perhaps even access to divine inspiration, and gives him a standing that approaches that of the prophets. The word bayyinah is often used in the Qur˘an to refer either to Scripture, or to divine inspiration in one form or another,21 and the claim to have a “clear guidance from the Lord” is made repeatedly by various prophets in the Qur˘an, including Mu±ammad,22 Moses,23 Shuãyb,24 Œåli±,25 and Noah.26 While the sources provide examples of other terms used to convey Ãl¥’s followers’ absolute trust in his guidance—there are statements referring to him as “mahd¥ (guided)”27 or claiming that he calls only to truth and commands only right guidance (rushd)28—the statement that Ãl¥ was acting “on clear guidance from his Lord” took this allegiance to a new level, seemingly putting him in the company of the prophets, at least in this regard. Moreover, it is apparently in the context of the First Civil War, and particularly from the period of Œiff¥n onward, that it becomes popular among Ãl¥’s supporters to refer to him as the waƒ¥ or legatee of the Prophet, and numerous lines of poetry from the Battle of Œiff¥n refer to Ãl¥ in this way.29 The idea is based, in large part, on the Shi˜ite view that Ãl¥ held in trust the final will and testament of the Prophet, as delivered to his daughter Få†imah on his deathbed and written down by Ãl¥ at her dictation. The particular importance of the concept of Ãl¥’s relationship of waƒiyyah to the Prophet at this time, however, is that it implied Ãl¥’s exclusive knowledge of the Prophet’s will for his community, and consequently, Ãl¥’s right to the leadership of that community immediately following the death of


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the Prophet—an idea that does not seem to have been universally held at the time, even within Ãl¥’s camp. Even if there were those in Ãl¥’s camp who supported his legitimist claims from the time of the death of Mu±ammad, the harshly negative views of Ab¨ Bakr and ˜Umar deliberately and maliciously thwarting the Prophet’s own will regarding his successor, as found in later Shi˜ite sources, are not in evidence in the speeches of Ãl¥ himself, nor in the rhetoric of his followers, as recorded in the historical chronicles for this period.30 In fact, a number of events at the Battle of Œiff¥n seem to confirm that the two caliphs were generally held in high esteem by most members of Ãl¥’s camp; and it should also be noted that the Kharijites, who openly and explicitly approved of the caliphates of Ab¨ Bakr and ˜Umar in the historical sources for this same period, do not indicate that their views on this issue represented a radical break with the opinions held by their former comrades in Ãl¥’s camp.31 Even if the idea that Ãl¥ should have immediately succeeded the Prophet, and thus that Ab¨ Bakr and ˜Umar were at least misguided in their acceptance of the office, was gaining ground among the pro-Ãlid camp as the increasingly tragic events of the First Civil War unfolded, there does seem to have been some confusion over this issue, as is evident when some of Ãl¥’s closest supporters question him about his opinion of Ab¨ Bakr and ˜Umar, shortly after the death of Mu±ammad b. Ab¥ Bakr.32 What is conspicuously absent from the pro-Ãlid discourse recorded in historical sources for the First Civil War is any direct reference to the Ghad¥r Khumm tradition as an indication of Ãl¥’s ruling legitimacy. As discussed in the previous chapter, the Ghad¥r Khumm tradition, while reportedly known and referenced in this early period, was not explicitly invoked by Ãlid supporters as a clear designation of Ãl¥’s right to the caliphate, even if it was counted among his important spiritual distinctions (fa¿å˘il). Yet, it is strange that in the context of the First Civil War—with Ãl¥’s leadership so widely under attack, even as his followers made extraordinary spiritual claims on his behalf—neither Ãl¥ himself nor his followers are reported to have made any reference to Ghad¥r Khumm specifically as evidence of his right to the caliphate. Ãl¥’s pleas for his legitimacy, as well as his supporters’ arguments defending their loyalty to him, are based almost exclusively on his personal virtues and his claim to precedence (såbiqah) in Islam.33 Even if Ghad¥r Khumm was not put forward as a legitimist argument by Ãl¥ or his supporters, a number of passages in the historical accounts of this period seem to reflect the conceptual or terminological influence of the Prophet’s Ghad¥r Khumm statement. Recall Mas˜¨d¥’s report, cited above, in which Ãl¥ reminds †al±ah at the Battle of the Camel that the Prophet asked God to be “the friend of Ãl¥’s friend and the enemy of his enemy.” In a similar vein, one of

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Ãl¥’s supporters, Zayd b. Œ¨±ån, claims, as he is dying at the Battle of the Camel, to have fought for Ãl¥ because, after hearing the Ghad¥r Khumm account from Umm Salamah, he feared that if he abandoned Ãl¥, God would abandon him.34 Far more widely recorded and more convincingly rendered in the historical sources, however, is the incident of the “second bayãh” taken for Ãl¥ b. Ab¥ †ålib by his closest companions toward the end of his life and caliphate. After the arbitration arrangements were set and the Kharijites had made their final break with Ãl¥, the latter stood between two enemies: the external enemy (the Syrians) and the enemy within (the Kharijites) who had split the ranks of his support base among the tribesmen of Iraq and demoralized many of those who remained loyal to him. It is at this most desperate moment in Ãl¥’s caliphate that a number of his closest and most loyal supporters—numbering as many as 40,000 according to †abar¥—make a dramatic show of allegiance and devotion to their embattled leader. A group, referred to in the sources only as his “sh¥ãh,” stand up and take an unsolicited second bayãh to Ãl¥ in words strongly reminiscent of those uttered by the Prophet at Ghad¥r Khumm: We swear ourselves to a second bayãh: We are the friends (awliyå˘) of the one you [Ãli] befriend (man walayta) and the enemies (a˜då˘) of the one whom you make your enemy (man ãdayta).35

This is an extraordinary and defining moment for the sh¥ãt Ãl¥. The frequently reported pledge given by individual supporters of Ãl¥ that they will support him and fight his enemies without hesitation now becomes the essential condition of their new bayãh to him, the first (caliphal) “bayãh” to go beyond the bounds of Kitåb and sunnah. Their bayãh to him was no longer merely a function of his upholding established precedent, or of his conformity to the example of the Prophet as judged by themselves; rather it was an oath of unconditional and unquestioning allegiance, indicating that they would surrender their own will to that of their leader, whom they considered to be acting under divine guidance and sanction. Moreover, this oath of absolute loyalty is formulated in terms of walåyah, and is expressed in a manner that directly echoes the Prophet’s reported statement at Ghad¥r Khumm, imploring God to be the friend of Ãl¥’s friend and the enemy of his enemy. If it is indeed a reference to the ÷ad¥th at Ghad¥r Khumm—which seems likely—then this would represent the first widely recorded, public affirmation of the ÷ad¥th beyond the limits of the Medinan community—that is to say, a recognition of the significance of the Ghad¥r Khumm event by those who would not necessarily have been present on the occasion.


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Most importantly, this second bayãh defined and solidified the relationship between the Shi˜ites and their leader. On the one hand, it was a relationship that was voluntary at the outset—the bayãh was spontaneous, unsolicited, and freely entered into only by those of his party who chose to do so. On the other hand, it entailed absolute obedience to Ãl¥, since they had effectively sworn upon their lives that they would ally themselves with those whom Ãl¥ chose to ally with, and make war with any and all of his enemies. Therefore, their conception of authority can be sharply distinguished from that of the Kharijites, who felt that having chosen their leader, they remained his constant and ever-vigilant judge—and if need be, executioner— with the right to question his judgment at every turn.36 In this early declaration of allegiance to Ãl¥, however, the Shi˜ites vow to stand by their leader and support him in all that he decides and undertakes to do. Proper action is determined by looking with confidence to a leader considered to be acting with divine support, rather than proper leadership being determined by evaluating the leader’s actions against some ostensibly objective and impersonal standard of right action. The second and internal front that the Kharijites opened against Ãl¥ was particularly divisive and brutal. Opposing both Mu˜åwiyah and Ãl¥, the Kharijites believed that they alone represented the true and unadulterated Muslim community, and considered anyone who was loyal to either leader in the conflict—indeed, anyone who did not accept the Kharijite position—to stand outside the believing community and to be liable to physical attack. As pious Muslims, such as the elderly Prophetic Companion Ãbd Allåh b. Khabbåb, fell victim to their brutality, and as their secession continued to cause angst in his camp, Ãl¥ decided that before pursuing further action against Mu˜åwiyah, the Kharijites needed to be brought under control. However, prior to this outrageous murder of Ãbd Allåh b. Khabbåb and his family, Ãl¥ had preferred to leave the Kharijites behind and continue the fight against Mu˜åwiyah, while many of his men preferred to fight the Kharijites instead. When Ãl¥ initially rejected their suggestion, and insisted on fighting Mu˜åwiyah first, they acquiesced to his command and openly reaffirmed the content of the second bayãh. Œayf¥ b. Fas¥l al-Shaybån¥ says: O Commander of the Faithful, we are your party and your supporters. We oppose those whom you oppose and join together with those who are obedient to you. Lead us against your enemies whoever they are, wherever they are.37

Mu±riz b. Shihåb al-Tam¥m¥, expresses a similar sentiment:

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The Charismatic Community O Commander of the Faithful, your Shi˜ites are as one man in their agreement to unite together to support you and in their eagerness to strive against your enemies. Rejoice at the help we give and lead us against whichever of the two bands you wish. We are your party that hopes for a just reward for obeying you and striving against those who oppose you. And we fear the consequences of betraying and opposing you.38 (emphasis mine)

The sentiment in both of these reported statements is that of full surrender to Ãl¥’s commands, and in the second case, a nearly euphoric moral certitude that in following Ãl¥ they have chosen the righteous path. Despite their personal reluctance, and the apparent need for at least some of Ãl¥’s supporters to reconfirm the commitment they made at the second bayãh, the Shi˜ites have determined that they will fight the enemy of Ãl¥’s choosing—not their own. The taking of the second bayãh clearly distinguished the Shi˜ite point of view from that of the Kharijites, and in taking this bayãh, Ãl¥’s supporters may have intended to make just such a distinction between themselves and the Kharijites. Both the Kharijites and the majority of Ãl¥’s tribal supporters in Kufa hailed from the same rebellious group who had traveled from the amƒår to Medina to pressure the Caliph ˜Uthmån to repent of his injustices or abdicate. They are from that same group who, when two messengers came from Mu˜åwiyah demanding that Ãl¥ turn over the killers of ˜Uthmån, defiantly replied: “We are all the killers of ˜Uthmån.”39 But now, Ãl¥’s loyal followers stood before their former allies—the primarily Basran tribesmen who made up the first group of Kharijites—as Ãl¥ demanded that they hand over the killers of Ãbd Allåh b. Khabbåb and his family;40 and when the Kharijites similarly took collective credit for the murder, responding that they were “all responsible for their deaths,”41 the Shi˜ites were able to fight their former brothers in arms with the clear conviction that the blood of every one of them had become licit (÷alål). Group loyalty, for them, was now defined by their common commitment to Ãl¥, whom they considered to be, without question, on the side of righteousness. It is true that the historical accounts of the conflict between the Shi˜ite and Kharijite elements of the ˜Iraqi camp serve to highlight the ideological distinctions between the two groups—distinctions that were only fully formed in theologically precise terms in a later period. However, if these accounts represent nothing more than a compiler’s attempt to “write into” the conflicts of this early period, ideas that were only fully developed later, then one would also expect such a compiler to present or frame his account in terminology that more adequately conveys those later ideas. By the time the earliest accounts


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of the First Civil War were put in writing in their extant form, the terminology of walåyah and ãdåwah (enmity) or barå˘ah (dissociation) was certainly more generally associated with the Kharijite position than with that of the Shi˜ites, whose political and religious thought by that time revolved around the doctrine of the naƒƒ imåmate. In fact, in the Shi˜ite doctrinal literature contemporary to the time period in which most of the historical chronicles of the First Civil War were written, the Ghad¥r Khumm tradition was directly connected with the imperative of naƒƒ in the Shi˜ite doctrine of the imåmate. In Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th literature compiled from the Ãbbåsid period onward, Ghad¥r Khumm is almost exclusively invoked as the prototypical example of naƒƒ, being the “specific nomination” of Ãl¥ by the Prophet, without reference to its implications for defining group loyalty around the personal charisma and divine succor established for Ãl¥ in the second part of the Prophet’s statement (Allåhumå wåli man wålåhu wa-˜ådi man ˜ådåhu.) But in the historical accounts of the rhetoric of the Ãlid camp during the First Civil War, it is this second part of the Ghad¥r Khumm statement, and the moral certitude that it apparently instilled in Ãl¥’s followers, that is emphasized, while the idea that the statement represented a specific nomination of Ãl¥ as his immediate successor does not seem to have been voiced by anyone—not even by Ãl¥ himself.

WAL‹YAH AND COMMUNAL IDENTITY As we have demonstrated, the term “walåyah” played some role in the authority disputes of the First Civil War and in the religio-political rhetoric of multiple parties to the conflict. However, for the fledgling Shi˜ite community represented by the Ãlid camp in the First Civil War, this term did not simply relate to issues of authority. Rather, the term “walåyah”—usually paired with that of ãdåwah or barå˘ah—also played a role in expressions of group loyalty and the formation of some notion of communal identity among this earliest group of Shi˜ites. When the Shi˜ites took an oath to be the “friends of Ãl¥’s friends and the enemies of his enemies,” they were not just making a statement about their obedience to their leader; they were also establishing a profound division of the Muslim community, as they knew it, into two separate camps: the friends of Ãl¥ and his enemies. This bayãh therefore involved a declaration of their relationship to the rest of the Muslim community, effectively breaking their bonds of walåyah with those in the community who could be counted among Ãl¥’s enemies. The juxtaposition of the concepts of walåyah and ãdåwah had a clear and literal applicability in the context of the existing situation, wherein Ãl¥ and his party found themselves threatened with war on

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two fronts. At the same time, in the divisiveness of the civil war, there were many prominent figures who maintained neutrality between Ãl¥ and Mu˜åwiyah, and even between Ãl¥ and the Kharijite separatists from within his own camp, along with many others on Ãl¥’s side who supported his cause half-heartedly and/or with severe doubts as to the correctness of his position. In this atmosphere, the black-and-white view of the world entailed in the opposing concepts of walåyah and ãdåwah, especially when invoked between members of the Muslim community, must have been considered radical, and seems to have made many uneasy. For example, when Ãl¥ chastised Sa˜d b. Ab¥ Waqqå∑, a prominent abstainer from the civil war, for his failure to support his cause, Sa˜d responded: “Give me a sword with keen insight (sayf baƒ¥r), with which one can distinguish enmity (ãdåwah) from friendship (walå˘).”42 Even those who chose to fight on Ãl¥’s side were not always comfortable with these terms. Ab¨ Zab¥b, a member of Ãl¥’s camp at Œiff¥n,43 for example, reportedly said to him: . . . if we are in the right, then it is you who have guided us on the path and you will receive a greater portion of reward; and if we are in the wrong, then your back will be weighed down more heavily and your burden greater. You commanded us on the road to this enemy and we have broken the walåyah between us and them, and shown them open enmity (ãdåwah), seeking, in this, that which God has made known.44 (emphasis mine)

It is clear that it was only his belief that following Ãl¥ represented the will of God that allowed Ab¨ Zab¥b to justify breaking his bonds of walåyah with other members of the Muslim community. Indeed, it seems that clinging to the will of Ãl¥ and following him absolutely was the way in which some of his closest companions had decided to wade through the murky issues involved in the civil war, as Håshim b. ˜Utbah45 says to Ãl¥: Our souls (anfusunå) gladly support you (tanƒuruka) against the one who breaks with you, and gives authority over their affairs to someone other than you. By God, I would not want for myself all that the earth can bear and all that is shaded under the heavens, [if I had to] befriend your enemy or be the enemy of your friend.46

Thus, it seems that this formulation of support for Ãl¥ in terms of walåyah and ãdåwah was a defining concept for the early Shi˜ites, and their nearly unquestioning loyalty to Ãl¥ stood in stark contrast to the positions of both those who abstained from the conflict, while


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retaining respect for Ãl¥, and the more uncertain supporters within Ãl¥’s own camp. If walåyah was often opposed to ãdåwah (enmity)—something which made perfect sense in the atmosphere of civil war that plagued the whole of Ãl¥’s caliphate—it was also juxtaposed with the concept of barå˘ah, or dissociation. In Arabian tribal custom, barå˘ah denoted the “excommunication” of a tribal or clan member, or a situation in which a tribe or clan would rescind its obligations to a particular individual who had previously been under its protection.47 In the context of the Islamic polity, however, barå˘ah was taken by many to mean the cutting of the ties of walåyah or mutual support that had been ordained between all Muslims. We do not see this term or pair of terms used widely in the traditions regarding the events of the Battle of the Camel—a battle between Ãl¥ on the one hand, and two of the closest companions of the Prophet and his favored wife, ˜≈˘ishah, on the other. Rather, the common juxtaposition of the terms walåyah and barå˘ah seems to originate in the context of Ãl¥’s conflict with Mu˜åwiyah, the Battle of Œiff¥n, the arbitration, and its aftermath.48 In the narrative accounts of Œiff¥n, it is recorded that a member of Mu˜åwiyah’s camp, Shura±b¥l b. Mañ b. Yaz¥d, approached Ãl¥ and asked him to bear witness to the fact that the Caliph ˜Uthmån was killed unjustly (mazl¶m). When Ãl¥ refused, Shura±b¥l and his men responded: “Whoever does not say that ˜Uthmån was killed unjustly, we dissociate (nahnu burrå˘) from him.”49 The Sunni historian †abar¥, on the other hand, records an early use of the term by two of the more radical members of Ãl¥’s own camp, Mu±ammad b. Ab¥ Bakr50 and Mu±ammad b. Ãwn. According to this report, the two were sent to Kufa as messengers for Ãl¥, ahead of his army. When they learned of the governor, Ab¨ M¨så˘s, neutrality and his conviction that the murderers of ˜Uthmån be executed, they reportedly “dissociated from him and criticized him.”51 Although the term barå˘ah is also used by other members of Ãl¥’s camp with regard to Mu˜åwiyah and the Syrians, and later with regard to the Kharijites,52 Ãl¥ seems to have disapproved of the practice of his followers dissociating from and cursing the members of the opposing army, and to have considered it a dangerous innovation. According to one report, when Ãl¥ learned that ¡ujr b. Ãd¥ and Ãmr b. al-¡amiq were openly dissociating from and cursing the Syrians, he ordered them to cease this practice. When they protested that they were in the right, and therefore justified in vilifying their enemies, Ãl¥ replied: “I do not wish you to be cursers and vilifiers, abusing [the enemy] and dissociating [from him]. Should you [wish to] describe the evil of their actions, then say: ‘They are in the habit of this and that, and they do this and that . . . ;’ that is more proper and

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excusable.”53 In addition to this incident, there is the famous admonition of Ãl¥ to his followers, in which he tells them that they may openly curse him, should they be forced to do so, under duress, but that they should not, under any circumstances, dissociate themselves from him.54 Many of his most loyal followers, including ¡ujr b. Ãd¥ and Ãmr b. al-¡amiq, were later arrested and executed by Mu˜åwiyah for refusing to do either. If it was the more radical members of Ãl¥’s party who first made use of the practice of barå˘ah in their rhetoric, it was the Kharijites—themselves among the more radical of Ãl¥’s men before their secession—who are the first to use this term in a regular and doctrinal manner.55 They considered walåyah and barå˘ah toward appropriate persons to be a mandatory religious duty (far¿) for both the believing individual and the faithful community as a whole.56 Moreover, they connected the notion of walåyah to their leader with that of walåyah to other members of their community; and conversely, barå˘ah was invoked, not only against ˜Uthmån, Ãl¥, Mu˜åwiyah, and rival leaders, but also against the supporters of these figures and those described as “quietists,” whether or not they sympathized with the movement.57 When the Kharijites made this position clear by killing the companion of the Prophet Ãbd Allåh b. Khabbåb, along with his family, simply for refusing to agree with their point of view, Ãl¥ was clearly taken by surprise, and he addressed the Kharijites, saying: If you insist on claiming that I have erred and gone astray, why do you [also insist] upon claiming that the ummah, in general, has gone astray, and hold them responsible for my error and declare them unbelievers on account of my sins? Your swords are at the ready, and you bring them down upon innocent heads!”58

Ãl¥ is apparently shocked, not only by the viciousness of the Kharijite actions, but also by their holding the community responsible for the actions of its leader. For Kharijites, recognizing walåyah both for their chosen leader and for the other members of their community and declaring dissociation (barå˘ah) from ˜Uthmån, Ãl¥, and Mu˜åwiyah, as well as from those who supported them, was considered not only mandatory for membership in their community, but indeed for membership in the Islamic community itself.59 That is to say, to be within their walåyah was to be a member of the community of believers, to possess faith (¥mån); and conversely, to receive a sentence of barå˘ah from them was to enter the ranks of the unbelievers, the kåfir¶n. Even if this Kharijite theological position regarding walåyah and its connection to notions of ¥mån and kufr represents a later theological elaboration, and not nec-


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essarily the ideas of the earliest Kharijites, their extension of walåyah and ãdåwah to include not only rival leaders but the members of their communities as well, is evidenced by the widespread accounts of Kharijite violence against civilians. Regardless of later doctrinal developments, it seems clear that the religio-political use of the concept of barå˘ah emerged within the ˜Iraqi camp at some point during the First Civil War. The practice is connected in several reports with the more radical and vocal of Ãl¥’s supporters—Mu±ammad b. Ab¥ Bakr, ¡ujr b. Ãd¥, etc.—even if Ãl¥, himself, seems to have discouraged it.60 The Kharijites, on the other hand, no longer subject to Ãl¥’s authority, embraced the concept as the necessary concomitant to walåyah, and promoted it as one of their central tenets. Thus walåyah and barå˘ah, for the Kharijites—and probably also for these first Shi˜ites, who originated in the same ˜Iraqi camp—were concepts that defined not only one’s attachment to or dissociation from a particular claimant to authority but also to or from the communities associated with them. As we will see in detail in the next chapter, after the assassination of Ãl¥ by the Kharijite, Ibn Muljam, and the defeat of the shortlived claim to the caliphate of Ãl¥’s son, al-¡asan, the primitive conception of the Shi˜ites as a community united through walåyah toward Ãl¥ and his supporters and ãdåwah toward his enemies does not seem to have continued. The name of Ãl¥ b. Ab¥ †ålib was cursed from the pulpit across the Islamic state, and all Muslims, including Ãl¥’s Shi˜ite followers, were expected to participate. According to Ãl¥’s own apparent orders, cursing was excusable; it was only barå˘ah from him which was forbidden. Thus, when al-¡asan surrendered his caliphal rights to Mu˜åwiyah, the ˜Iraqi camp, including even the most loyal supporters of Ãl¥, gave the bayãh to Mu˜åwiyah as well. Some former members, even leaders, of Ãl¥’s party, reportedly addressed Mu˜åwiyah as “Am¥r al-mu˘min¥n” (a term later Imåm¥ Shi˜ite tradition reserves for Ãl¥ b. Ab¥ †ålib exclusively), and some of Ãl¥’s most trusted companions participated in military expeditions on the Umayyad Caliph’s behalf.61 Indeed, during Ãl¥’s caliphate, the Shi˜ites’ sharply dichotomous image of their world, divided into the friends and enemies of Ãl¥, seemed to increase in resolution and absoluteness as Ãl¥’s political situation grew more and more desperate. Yet, after his death, and in the absence of a clear leader who would take up the cause against Mu˜åwiyah, their image seemed to lose focus. The line between friend and enemy was blurred, and the unity which had been founded among Ãl¥’s supporters during his darkest hour, largely dissipated. In the First Civil War, we see several competing notions of authority over the community, many of which involved some discussion of the

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term walåyah in connection with notions of loyalty and devotion to one’s religious leadership and religious community. To be sure, not all parties to this conflict used the term walåyah with the same meaning, and the manner in which the term is used by non-Shi˜ite factions during the First Civil War may seem decidedly mundane in relation to the profoundly spiritual connotation walåyah would come to have in Shi˜ite thought. Yet, as we argued in Chapter 1, it is important to understand the full range of political and religious meanings this term had when it first emerged as a sectarian concept within the discourse of the Shi˜ite camp in the First Civil War. We cannot simply read later Shi˜ite elaborations on the full spiritual meaning of walåyah back into this early period. Rather, we must try to understand how the term would have been understood by the Shi˜ite contemporaries to this conflict, and why they found it so meaningful and expressive of their religio-political views, by examining the usage of the term within the wider context of the competing discourses of the First Civil War. Against the background of these competing claims to loyalty and authority, it seems that the supporters of Ãl¥ should have raised the issue of Ghad¥r Khumm, and the special relationship of walåyah it established between the Prophet and Ãl¥, to justify his legitimacy as caliph. As Ãl¥’s situation grew increasingly difficult, the loyalty of a small group of his closest supporters grew increasingly strong, as did their conviction that, in following Ãl¥, they were following the indisputable truth, even the divine will. Yet, even in this context, they do not invoke Ghad¥r Khumm as proof of Prophetic designation for the caliphate of Ãl¥; rather, they invoke the second part of the Ghad¥r Khumm ÷ad¥th, wherein the Prophet asks for divine protection for the friends of Ãl¥ and divine support against his enemies. This is the theme most clearly expressed in the words of the second bayãh, the bayãh of walåyah and ãdåwah, taken by his supporters before the Battle of Nahrawan. This bayãh, and many other related statements of loyalty to Ãl¥ made by his strongest supporters in the conflict, emphasized his position, not as the undisputed and immediate successor to the Prophet, but as a figure who represented, for them, the sole criterion for determining right from wrong, truth from error, and friend from enemy. This black-and-white view of the world, emerging in the context of a civil war wherein right and wrong were not always clear, indicates something of the charismatic nature of the figure of Ãl¥ and the strong influence he was able to exert over the communal solidarity and commitment of his closest followers. Once Ãl¥ had been assassinated, however, and the criterion for determining friend from enemy was gone, the line between the two was no longer clearly recognizable, and the unity of the Shi˜ites, so evident in Ãl¥’s most difficult hour, was seriously diminished. It seems, then, that walåyah, in this


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context, did not pertain solely to authority or leadership as such. In its earliest conception—in the Qur˘an, in the Ghad¥r Khumm tradition, and in the rhetoric of the early Ãlid camp—it was a notion that expressed a bond of solidarity with, and attachment to, both a given leader and the community that follows him. As we will see in the second part of this work, the significance of the term walåyah in connection to both spiritual leadership and religious community was perpetuated and further elaborated in the more doctrinal uses of the term that developed in the Shi˜ite discourse of the early second century.


CHAPTER 4


I

f the historical sources indicate that the Shi˜ite camp united fiercely behind Ãl¥ toward the end of his life, expressing their absolute devotion, or walåyah, toward him and ãdåwah or barå˘ah toward all of his many enemies, they also detail the gradual disintegration of this unity in the ideological and leadership confusion that followed his death. The figure of al-¡asan b. Ãl¥, his successor, could not command a similar degree of loyalty, nor could the non-Ãlid Shi˜ite leader ¡ujr b. Ãd¥ unite the scattered Shi˜ite discontents of Kufa in a successful protest against the official desecration of Ãl¥’s name under the Umayyad regime. The poisoning of al-¡asan b. Ãl¥, allegedly through the designs of the Caliph Mu˜åwiyah, and the arrest and execution of ¡ujr b. Ãd¥ and his associates drew no effective reaction from Shi˜ite sympathizers in Kufa, and only powerless statements of protest from al-¡usayn b. Ãl¥ and other Medinan notables.1 When al-¡usayn himself made his stand against the Umayyad Yaz¥d b. Mu˜åwiyah, largely at the instigation of Shi˜ite sympathizers in Kufa, the Kufan support failed to materialize, and he and his small band of followers were infamously massacred on the plains of Karbala. A group of Kufan Shi˜ites were later remorseful for their failure to aid al-¡usayn in his plight and organized a small, but morally significant, movement that sought to exact revenge for al-¡usayn, even if it meant their own death—for many of them, it did, and little vengeance was accomplished. Al-¡usayn’s death was indeed avenged, but only later, by the ambivalent and controversial figure of al-Mukhtår b. Ab¥ ˜Ubayd, who successfully hunted down and killed many of the perpetrators of the murder of the “grandson of the Prophet,” but all 71

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the while calling for allegiance to a non-Få†imid son of Ãl¥ (and therefore, a non-Prophetic descendant), Mu±ammad b. al-¡anafiyyah. In fact, much, if not most, of the Shi˜ite activity in ˜Iraq through the end of the first century and early decades of the second was focused on the spiritual heritage of this non-Få†imid son of Ãl¥; while the Få†imid descendants of Ãl¥ and al-¡usayn—Ãl¥ b. al-¡usayn Zayn al-˜≈bid¥n and Mu±ammad al-Båqir—led quiet, pious, and scholarly lives in Medina. Ãl¥ Zayn al-˜≈bid¥n seems to have been surrounded primarily by nonactivist sympathizers with the cause of his family in Medina, while Mu±ammad al-Båqir, still based in Medina, became the focus of Shi˜ite loyalties among a growing number of ˜Iraqis. Shi˜ite sources indicate that numerous Shi˜ite individuals and delegations traveled from Kufa to Medina—often under the cover of, or in conjunction with, their fulfillment of the ÷ajj ritual—to attend al-Båqir’s teaching circle, and ask him specific questions on their own behalf or on behalf of their Shi˜ite brothers back in Kufa. It is only under the influence of al-Båqir that we begin to see the more activist Shi˜ite community in Kufa emerging (or reemerging) along proto-Imåm¥ lines, even as devotion to the figure of Mu±ammad b. al-¡anafiyyah and his spiritual descendants continued for several more decades in ˜Iraq. The period between the death of Ãl¥ b. Ab¥ †ålib and the rise to prominence of Mu±ammad al-Båqir was undoubtedly a painful and troubled one for those with Shi˜ite sympathies, and it is a confusing one for the student of early Shi˜ism. Imåm¥ doctrine portrays a clear and unbroken line of Shi˜ite Imåms from Ãl¥ b. Ab¥ †ålib to Mu±ammad al-Båqir, but even Imåm¥ sources contend that the intervening Imåms had relatively few close followers who fully recognized their authority;2 and Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th sources clearly reflect this. The overwhelming majority of Shi˜ite traditions are related from the Prophet and Ãl¥ on the one hand, and al-Båqir and his successor, alŒådiq on the other, while significantly fewer traditions are related from Ãl¥ Zayn al-˜≈bid¥n, and only a relative handful are related from either al-¡asan or al-¡usayn. Despite the apparent retirement of the Ãlid-Få†imid line to Medina following the end of the First Civil War, and then again after their brief but catastrophic reengagement in al-¡usayn’s stand against the Umayyad, Yaz¥d b. Mu˜åwiyah, Shi˜ite loyalties and activities apparently continued in Kufa—albeit under constant threat of brutal Umayyad repression. If the Kufan Shi˜ites did maintain some sectarian communal connections, despite having outwardly rejoined the Muslim community at large and given their bayãh to Mu˜åwiyah, then on what ideological or religious principles was their notion of community based—a continuous and posthumous devotion to Ãl¥ personally, or a transferred loyalty to his descendants? Whether it was the former or the latter, why were al-¡usayn,


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and later Mu±ammad b. al-¡anafiyyah, more popular recipients of these loyalties than al-¡asan, who as the eldest son of Ãl¥ and eldest grandson of the Prophet would seem to have had a greater claim to both? How was the Shi˜ite leader al-Mukhtår able to build a Kufan following on the twin bases of vengeance for the “grandson of the Prophet” and the imåmate of the non-Prophetic descendant, Mu±ammad b. al-¡anafiyyah? To what extent did the posthumous charisma of Ãl¥ factor into later Shi˜ite devotion toward his sons, al¡usayn and Mu±ammad b. al-¡anafiyyah, and to what extent did these two figures draw on their own personal charisma? In this chapter we will look at the significant events that followed the death of Ãl¥, examining both the individuals and the religious concepts and rhetoric connected with these events, in order to gain some understanding of the extent to which the spiritual principles and sectarian communal identity that distinguished Ãl¥’s camp in the First Civil War continued to influence Shi˜ite movements and sympathies through the end of the first Islamic century.

THE SURRENDER TO MU˜≈WIYAH In the previous chapter, we noted that walåyah and ãdåwah or barå˘ah were frequently invoked by Ãl¥’s supporters in the historical accounts of the First Civil War, and that for them walåyah apparently designated both an absolute attachment to their spiritually charismatic leader and their self-identification as a community unto themselves and separate from that of Ãl¥’s enemies. The two ideas were inextricably connected, and with the death of Ãl¥—whose spiritual authority in life remained undiminished in the eyes of his closest followers, even in the face of deepening political defeat—those sectarian communal bonds based on his personal charisma began to weaken as well. Not immediately, however, and not completely. As Ãl¥ was dying from the mortal wound inflicted by his Kharijite assassin, Ibn Muljam, he is said, in some historical accounts, to have named his eldest son as his caliphal successor—in one account indicating that al-¡asan’s legitimacy stemmed from his membership in the ahl al-bayt that was marked by special purity in the Qur˘an.3 In the most widely transmitted account, however, Ãl¥ is asked by those around him whether they should give their allegiance to al-¡asan after his death, and Ãl¥ indicates that while this would be acceptable to him, the ultimate decision rests with the Muslim community.4 Whichever version is more historically accurate, the sources maintain that al-¡asan was indeed given the bayãh by Ãl¥’s loyal Kufan camp after his death. This bayãh was not without controversy, however.

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Qays b. Sa˜d, the leader of Ãl¥’s elite guard (shur†at al-kham¥s), and the de facto military leader of Ãl¥’s camp in the interval between Ãl¥’s death and his successor’s installment, is said to have offered his bayãh to al-¡asan on the conditions that he uphold the Book of God and the sunnah of the Prophet, but also that he “fight the violators (mu÷ill¥n)5”—meaning the Syrians. Al-¡asan rejected this, replying that allegiance to the Book and the sunnah was sufficiently inclusive6—but Qays’ concern turned out to be legitimate. Another account notes that after al-¡asan accepted the bayãh of the ˜Iraqis, he demanded a degree of loyalty from them, similar to that which they had shown his father, insisting that they “make peace with the one I make peace with, and make enmity with my enemy.”7 The ˜Iraqis were uncomfortable with this, suspecting he would use their oath to lead them into a quick reconciliation with Mu˜åwiyah. The ˜Iraqis that Ãl¥ had previously struggled to motivate for war were now reluctant to trust al-¡asan’s desire for peace. As their suspicions mounted and rumors circulated, the ˜Iraqis turned on al-¡asan as he was camped at Mada˘in, behind the advancing armies he had sent to seek out Mu˜åwiyah. In a mutinous fury, they plundered their leader’s tent and physically attacked his person. The sources differ significantly on the issue of al-¡asan’s eventual abdication in favor of Mu˜åwiyah. Sources hostile to al-¡asan portray him as weak, cowardly, and opportunistic, abhorring the idea of war and secretly harboring an intention of surrender from the beginning, making no more than a mere show of resistance by sending out Qays b. Sa˜d and ˜Ubayd Allåh b. Ãbbås (who eventually joins Mu˜åwiyah) with advanced regiments to meet the Syrians.8 Al-¡asan is shown as reluctant to move toward war himself, even after repeated warnings; and when Mu˜åwiyah offers him the opportunity for honorable surrender—and is apparently ready to grant him a literal “blank check” on which to name the terms of his abdication—al-¡asan opts for substantial, personal financial compensation, in addition to the promise that he would succeed to the caliphate uncontested upon Mu˜åwiyah’s death, and that his father’s name would not be reviled within his hearing.9 In other words, while securing financial comfort and political protection for himself, he neglected to seek terms that would adequately protect his father from dishonor or the community loyal to him from oppression. In several historical accounts, even al¡asan’s brother, al-¡usayn, and cousin, Ãbd Allåh b. Ja˜far, question his judgment in surrendering and beg him not to bring shame upon his father. Al-¡asan refuses to heed their advice, however, and they dutifully follow him into surrender.10 More favorable accounts portray al-¡asan as a wise and selfsacrificing leader, whose actions—far from being cowardly—were


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inspired by the noble example of his father. These accounts suggest his early moves toward confronting Mu˜åwiyah were sincere and whole-hearted, and he backed away from them and began to negotiate a surrender only upon the unexpected mutiny of the Kufans.11 Just as the discontent and divisions within Ãl¥’s camp led him to acquiesce to the arbitration against his better judgment, so too does this mutiny force al-¡asan’s hand. In speeches similar to those attributed to his father in defense of the temporary abandonment of his claim to authority vis-à-vis Ab¨ Bakr in the months after the Prophet’s death, al-¡asan invokes his concern for unity and peace within the ummah, dismissing the importance of caliphal authority as a worldly matter in which “there may be a great trial . . . and enjoyment [only] for a while.”12 While al-¡asan acknowledges that his decision may call down derision and scorn upon his person, he believes that it is his duty to halt the terrible bloodshed that had plagued the community for the last four years; and some favorable accounts make reference to a ÷ad¥th in which the Prophet predicts that through his grandson, al-¡asan, two warring factions of Muslims would be reconciled.13 Yet, even the prominent members of Ãl¥’s camp who gave an apparently unconditional bayãh to al-¡asan (the “bayãh of hearing and obeying”)—including Qays himself, as well as ¡ujr b. Ãd¥, Jundab b. Ãbd Allåh, Sa˜¥d b. Qays, Ãd¥ b. ¡åtim, Ziyåd b. Kha∑afah, and Ma˜qil b. Qays—are profoundly dismayed by al-¡asan’s surrender. 14 ¡ujr b. Ãd¥ confronts al-¡asan to tell him that his actions have “blackened the faces of the believers.”15 Another supporter, Sufyån b. Laylå, addresses him mockingly and disparagingly as the “mudhill al-muslim¥n (the humiliator of the Muslims).”16 Both portraits of al-¡asan stand in marked contrast to the sources’ portrayal of Qays b. Sa˜d, the head of Ãl¥’s elite forces and later commander of al-¡asan’s advancing army, whom Mu˜åwiyah seems to have viewed as his most serious threat. Qays is entirely unyielding in the face of Mu˜åwiyah’s bribes, insults, and threats; he responds by comparing the ˜Iraqi camp’s struggle against Mu˜åwiyah to the Medinan Muslims’ struggle against the pagan Meccans in the Prophet’s time—apparently viewing the former as a continuation of the latter. In one letter, Qays refers to Mu˜åwiyah as an “idol-worshipper, son of an idol-worshipper,” telling him: You entered Islam reluctantly and left it gladly; your faith (¥mån) is not old and your hypocrisy (nifåq) is not new . . . we are the supporters (anƒår) of the religion that you abandoned, and the enemies of the religion you are moving towards.17

Here, Qays invokes the rhetoric of precedence (såbiqah) in Islam and the rivalry between the Medinan anƒår (who Qays, as son of the

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leading anƒår¥ claimant to authority, Sa˜d b. ˜Ubådah, personally represents) and the Meccan Quraysh, who entered Islam belatedly and reluctantly (epitomized by Mu˜åwiyah). More importantly, he identifies Mu˜åwiyah and his followers as those who had “left” Islam and abandoned true religion—that is, as those who lie outside the community of believers—continuing the sense of sectarian separation that marked the Shi˜ite struggle against Mu˜åwiyah under Ãl¥ himself. Even when Qays learned of al-¡asan’s surrender, he was not ready to relinquish the notion that the Shi˜ites had a communal religious vocation to resist Mu˜åwiyah. He offers them a choice between fighting without a leader, or surrendering to a misguided one. To Qays’ dismay, they choose the latter,18 but Qays remains defiant. In contrast to al-¡asan, in even the most flattering accounts, Qays refuses to surrender to Mu˜åwiyah without first securing an amnesty for his men, and the supporters of Ãl¥ generally.19 In a rather humorous account, Qays verbally agrees to give Mu˜åwiyah the bayãh, but refuses to physically offer his hand, thereby forcing Mu˜åwiyah to lean forward and take it for himself.20 Despite Qays’ reportedly spirited resistance, he and his men, along with the ˜Iraqis as a whole, gave the bayãh to Mu˜åwiyah and joined the newly unified community shortly after Ãl¥’s death. While the Shi˜ites were granted an official amnesty, Mu˜åwiyah skillfully employed a variety of tactics—from appeasement to the threat of brutal repression—to defuse and dilute whatever strong pro-Ãlid communal sentiments may have remained. He decapitated Shi˜ite leadership by lavishing monetary compensation, not only upon al¡asan b. Ãl¥ but also upon Ãl¥’s governors to encourage them to freely relinquish their posts, as well as upon the more noble and wellrespected sympathizers with Ãl¥’s cause, such as the Basran al-A±naf b. Qays.21 In one particularly dramatic move, he managed to bring Ãl¥’s defiant governor of Fars, Ziyåd b. Ab¥hi, fully into his own camp, by attaching Ziyåd’s lineage to his own, thereby making him an honorary member of the Sufyånid clan.22 Mu˜åwiyah and his local governors also succeeded in diverting the martial and rebellious energies of some of Ãl¥’s most trusted military commanders toward an enemy they hated perhaps even more than Mu˜åwiyah himself—the Kharijites. When the Kharijite leader al-Mustawrid rebeled in ˜Iraq shortly after Mu˜åwiyah’s full accession to power, Mu˜åwiyah advised his governors in Kufa and Basra to put together an army of Shi˜ites to fight him. The Shi˜ites, he correctly estimated, had more experience with the Kharijites—their former brothers in arms—and more cause to hate them, as the seditious murderers of Ãl¥ and many of their fellow comrades.23 Indeed, one of Ãl¥’s leading commanders, Ma˜qil b. Qays, volunteered for and was given the leadership of the


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Kufan contingent sent against the Kharijite rebels, and he, along with the Shi˜ite leader of the Basran contingent, were both killed in a battle against the Kharijite rebel al-Mustawrid.24 Through these various tactics, Mu˜åwiyah was able to loosen, to some degree, the sinews that had held the early Shi˜ite camp together, both during Ãl¥’s lifetime and in the months following his death. Not everyone was reconciled to the new situation, however. The early Islamic historian al-Balådhur¥ includes a report that only two years after al-¡asan’s surrender to Mu˜åwiyah, a group of Kufan Shi˜ites led by Sulaymån b. Œurad wrote to him, encouraging him to renew the struggle against Mu˜åwiyah, and assuring him that he would have the loyalty of “40,000 Kufan fighters, along with their sons and retainers, in addition to [his] supporters in Basra and the Hijaz.”25 Al-¡asan rejects their plea, however, and open Shi˜ite resistance to the Umayyads would not come to the fore again until after the death of al-¡asan in the year 49.

¡UJR B. ÃDÁ AND THE ART OF PASSIVE RESISTANCE Many scholars of Shi˜ism, as noted in the introduction, have seen the massacre of al-¡usayn and his supporters at Karbala in the year 61 as the prototype and real beginning of the notion of passive resistance to oppression and the virtue of martyrdom within the Shi˜ite religious perspective, replacing the primarily political and intertribal activism of earlier Kufan Shi˜ism. While there is little doubt that the twin ideals of passive resistance and martyrdom were given their most dramatic and significant form and meaning in the horrific spectacle of Karbala, as described even in the earliest extant chronicles of the event, both of these ideals are prefigured in the arrest and execution of the Shi˜ite loyalist ¡ujr b. Ãd¥,26 and his supporters in Kufa in the year 51, a decade earlier. Accounts of ¡ujr’s saga are characterized by the same deep sense of pathos that informs the Karbala accounts, revealing the deft narrative hand of their primary Kufan chronicler, Ab¨ Mikhnaf. But ¡ujr’s movement made no legitimist claims for any of Ãl¥’s descendants and had nothing to do with the notion of the inviolability of the Prophet’s blood descendants, nor did it have any clear political agenda. Rather, this protest against Umayyad policy seems to have been motivated by posthumous loyalty to Ãl¥ and the desire to preserve the honor of his memory and legacy. Like numerous other conflicts in early Islam, it became entangled in inter- and intratribal issues, as well as economic complaints that seem to have motivated some. But in its origin and brutal conclusion, the central issue of the conflict seems to have been ¡ujr and his supporters’ determination to honor their oath of walåyah to

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Ãl¥, even as they vigorously (and futilely) insisted that they remained true to their bayãh to Mu˜åwiyah. Despite the various appeasements and incentives Mu˜åwiyah employed to lower Shi˜ite resistance to his assumption of authority, he did apparently order the regular cursing of Ãl¥ b. Ab¥ †ålib from the pulpit. The city of Kufa, where a majority of Ãl¥’s loyal camp remained after the conclusion of the First Civil War, was governed for Mu˜åwiyah by the moderate al-Mugh¥rah b. Shu˜bah, a known abstainer from the civil war who was required, like all other Umayyad governors, to praise ˜Uthmån and curse Ãl¥ from the pulpit. Not surprisingly, this seems to have raised some unrest in the largely proÃlid Kufan crowd on more than one occasion, and ¡ujr is reported to have been the most vocal in this regard. Al-Mugh¥rah’s tolerant governing style allowed ¡ujr’s protests to go on without serious repercussion, which seems to have emboldened ¡ujr, and perhaps to have encouraged others to join him. Al-Mugh¥rah was eventually replaced, largely because of his passivity, by Ziyåd b. Ab¥hi—the formerly Ãlid governor won over by Mu˜åwiyah shortly after Ãl¥’s death. Ziyåd had ¡ujr arrested, charged, and sent to Mu˜åwiyah for execution within months of assuming the governorship. There are conflicting reports with regard to ¡ujr’s actual guilt in relation to the charges initially brought against him. In the less sympathetic reports of the early narrator Hishåm, ¡ujr is a disruptive and increasingly insolent heckler of al-Mugh¥rah and later Ãmr b. ¡urayth (Ziyåd’s deputy in Kufa) and Ziyåd himself.27 He is something of a rabble-rouser, at one point descending from his more noble opposition to the cursing of Ãl¥ to complain about the withholding of stipends and rations, and thereby inciting many of his fellow Kufans to raise their voices with his own.28 The point is made that ¡ujr’s public rejection of the cursing of Ãl¥ was openly seditious in that environment, regardless of whether he intended to take further action, and his protest and the support of his fellow Kufans may have had baser and more economic motivations. Ab¨ Mikhnaf, on the other hand, paints a more dramatic and sympathetic account of ¡ujr’s actions. Here, ¡ujr is patiently loyal to the memory of Ãl¥, protesting the cursing of Ãl¥ with only the most sincere and apolitical intentions—all the while remaining absolutely loyal to his bayãh to Mu˜åwiyah. While ¡ujr’s protests at the cursing of Ãl¥ had become well-known by the time Ziyåd arrives in Kufa, it was ¡ujr’s pious protest that the Friday sermon (which probably included a good dose of Umayyad propaganda) had gone on too long, and that the time of the prayer was about to be missed, that finally pushed Ziyåd to take concerted action against him. Trumped up charges were compiled against ¡ujr by well-known Umayyad sympathizers or tribal rivals in Kufa, at the slightly threat-


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ening insistence of Ziyåd29—who is also reported to have manipulated or fabricated the testimony of those he could not intimidate.30 In Ab¨ Mikhnaf’s account, the charges brought against ¡ujr are made to seem almost ridiculous. In addition to openly praising and invoking God’s mercy upon Ãl¥, ¡ujr is charged with publicly slandering and dissociating from Mu˜åwiyah, attacking Umayyad officials and the city itself, and inciting the Kufans to open rebellion. In a separate list of charges that Ziyåd has drawn up in order to bolster his case, ¡ujr is further accused of separating himself from the Muslim ummah and rejecting belief in God.31 Ziyåd has dozens of the leading men of Kufa testify to ¡ujr’s actions, and has a detailed list of the charges and the accusers sent to Mu˜åwiyah. While Ab¨ Mikhnaf may have employed some narrative hyperbole here—no other account gives such a lengthy and comprehensive list of charges drawn up by Ziyåd— his point is clear: Ziyåd wanted ¡ujr and his supporters dead, or at least out of Kufa permanently, and he was not taking any chances with Mu˜åwiyah’s reputation for occasional forbearance. All of the accounts of ¡ujr’s stand against the Umayyad governors of Kufa share several important features. First, they all consider ¡ujr’s public rejection of the cursing of Ãl¥ and praise of ˜Uthmån to be the cause of his arrest and eventual execution. None of the accounts of his protest—from the most hostile to the most flattering—suggest that he was acting on behalf of any living claimant to power. Although the list of charges brought against ¡ujr in Ab¨ Mikhnaf’s account includes the vague accusation that he supported a member of the “family of the Prophet” to lead the community, ¡ujr made no reported reference to the recently deceased al-¡asan, to his brother, al-¡usayn, or to any specific figure among the “family of the Prophet.” This was a protest about Ãl¥’s memory and legacy, not an attempt to resurrect the caliphate in the Ãlid or Håshimite line. Before he was killed, he was given a chance to renounce the views for which he had been sentenced, and in all accounts, those views are limited to his refusal to curse and dissociate from Ãl¥, indicating that this was the true crime for which he was executed. Second, despite the fact that the real charge against him was his failure to disavow Ãl¥ b. Ab¥ †ålib, he was also accused of “dissociation (barå˘ah)” and “enmity (ãdåwah)” toward Mu˜åwiyah, and in some accounts, of breaking his ties to the Muslim ummah at large. Whether or not these additional charges are accurate—and Ab¨ Mikhnaf denies that they are by reporting that ¡ujr repeatedly affirmed his bayãh to Mu˜åwiyah as the “Am¥r al-mu˘min¥n”32—it is significant that all of the narrators assume a connection between loyalty to Ãl¥ and the notions of “dissociation” and “enmity” toward those who openly oppose him. Continuing loyalty to Ãl¥ on the part

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of his known supporters, seems to have carried with it the suspicion that they did not feel themselves to be fully part of, or reconciled to, the Muslim ummah united under Mu˜åwiyah, and that a secessionist tendency lay just below the surface of their outward acquiescence to Umayyad authority. Regardless of the veracity of these charges against ¡ujr and the suppositions on which they were based, the decisiveness and harshness of Ziyåd and Mu˜åwiyah’s treatment of ¡ujr and his supporters likely reflects a deep and abiding fear that the communal sentiment that marked the loyalist Ãlid camp during the First Civil War had not been fully dissipated. After all, many of those directly involved in supporting ¡ujr, and those who were arrested and killed alongside him, were, like ¡ujr himself, prominent veterans of Ãl¥’s camp in the First Civil War, and a significant number were among the delegation sent by Ãl¥ to witness the arbitration agreement.33 Thus there may well have been an underlying suspicion that the Shi˜ite camp could be quickly reconstituted to present a substantial threat to Umayyad leadership and the forcibly unified ummah that Mu˜åwiyah worked so assiduously to maintain. Finally, all accounts of ¡ujr’s execution view it as a kind of martyrdom—stressing the passive nature of his resistance. The historian al-Mas˜¨d¥ states that ¡ujr “was the first Muslim killed in captivity (ƒabran) in Islam,”34 and all accounts report his pious request that his executioners give him a few minutes to pray before he is killed. Ab¨ Mikhnaf certainly emphasizes the tragedy and injustice of his saga, and there are also reports that figures as varied as al-¡usayn b. Ãl¥35 and ˜≈˘ishah bt. Ab¥ Bakr36 reproached Mu˜åwiyah for the killing of ¡ujr. Furthermore, Hishåm reports that prior to his execution ¡ujr requested that he not be washed before burial—a particular prerogative of martyrs—and that his chains not be removed, apparently so that his status as a passive and helpless victim of Umayyad brutality might be properly remembered.37 All of these similarities in the various reports of his protest, arrest, and execution indicate that ¡ujr’s movement was about pious loyalty to Ãl¥, not a legitimist political struggle on behalf of the Ãlid or Håshimite clan in general and certainly not on behalf of any Ãlid candidate in particular. If ¡ujr made no leadership claims on behalf of an Ãlid candidate, and does not seem to have been seeking the leadership for himself, then the swift and brutal Umayyad reaction to his protest is likely explained by a deep Umayyad fear of perceived Shi˜ite sectarian loyalties and the concomitant secessionist tendencies that might be resurrected by the public invocation of Ãl¥’s spiritual station and an open rejection of the regime’s practice of cursing him. Moreover, both Shi˜ite and non-Shi˜ite contemporaries, as well as later chroniclers, seem to view the event as a kind of passive martyrdom—


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that is, an essentially nonviolent witnessing to error and injustice that served to highlight the depravity of its perpetrators—suggesting that this notion does not enter into Shi˜ite rhetoric only when the inviolable blood of al-¡usayn, the grandson of the Prophet, is involved. It would seem that the posthumous cause of Ãl¥’s honor and reputation, more than anything else, inspired ¡ujr and his associates to risk Umayyad wrath, motivated the Umayyad regime to brutal repression, and inspired what al-Mas˜¨d¥ tells us was the first instance of such “passive martyrdom” in Islamic history. The actions of Ãl¥’s loyal Shi˜ites after his death suggest something about what their vows of walåyah meant. To the extent that they continued to uphold their vow of allegiance to him, they did so, neither by practicing open subversion against Mu˜åwiyah nor by seeking posthumous authority for him or (initially) for his posterity, but rather by seeking simply to honor his memory and his reputation. Despite the charges brought against ¡ujr and his supporters, the Shi˜ites do not appear to have invoked barå˘ah against Ãl¥’s former enemies, and ¡ujr repeatedly insists that he has not broken his bayãh to Mu˜åwiyah—and by extension, that he has not severed his ties to the ummah as a whole. It seems, then, that during Ãl¥’s caliphate and while he lived, these early Shi˜ites used the language of walåyah and ãdåwah/barå˘ah to express their attachment to Ãl¥ both collectively and individually; and under the aegis of this walåyah to him and his supporters, they were prepared to “sever” their bonds of walåyah with the rest of the Islamic community (although they did not refer to these other members of the Islamic community as “unbelievers,” or kåfir¶n). But this radical state had been brought about largely through the personal charisma or spiritual authority that Ãl¥ had in the eyes of his closest supporters. When Ãl¥ died, and the source of that charisma was no longer there, his followers ceased their claims of barå˘ah, or dissociation, from Ãl¥’s enemies and rejoined the rest of the Islamic community, even if the most loyal of them were not willing to sever their intense bonds of loyalty (walåyah in its nonpolitical sense) to Ãl¥, himself.

AL-¡USAYN’S STAND AT KARBALA The crisis leading up to the Second Civil War can be said to have begun with the refusal of Ibn al-Zubayr and al-¡usayn b. Ãl¥ to give their bayãh to Yaz¥d upon Mu˜åwiyah’s death, and their flight to Mecca to take refuge in the ÷aram of the city in the year 60. Both al¡usayn and Ibn al-Zubayr would make separate stands against the Umayyads—al-¡usayn, seeking the promised aid of his supporters in

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Kufa, left Mecca and was eventually slaughtered with a small band of followers at Karbala; Ibn al-Zubayr remained in Mecca, fortifying his position in the sacred sanctuary surrounding the Ka˜bah, but was much later attacked and killed by the Umayyad commander, al-¡ajjåj b.Y¨suf in the year 73. Ab¨ Mikhnaf’s account of these events portrays Ibn al-Zubayr as cynically encouraging al-¡usayn to go to Iraq in an underhanded attempt to remove his greatest rival for a potential Hijazi stand against Umayyad rule.38 While Ibn al-Zubayr may have been glad to have al-¡usayn out of Mecca, he could hardly have predicted the disastrous turn of events at Karbala or that the Kufan forces— or the Umayyads themselves, for that matter—would have had the desire or the courage to shed the blood of the grandson of the Prophet. After all, Ibn al-Zubayr’s own stand against the Umayyads relied upon the similarly mistaken assumption that the Umayyads would not attack Mecca, the inviolable city, and that as long as he remained there, he would be immune from Umayyad attack.39 In fact, the Umayyads attacked both al-¡usayn and the Ka˜bah sanctuary, and it was the violation of these two “sacred” things, rather than any particular argument about what constituted legitimacy for an Islamic leader, that would earn the Umayyads (and the Sufyånids in particular) their infamous reputation in Islamic historiography. If we examine the discourse surrounding the failed revolt of al¡usayn in the prominent histories—that is, in the letters, speeches, and quotations they record—we see two prevalent themes: (1) the notion that current Umayyad rule was not only oppressive but also religiously misguided, and that the integrity and survival of the Islamic community depended on the reestablishment of right guidance (hudå) for the community as a whole, and (2) the notion of al-¡usayn’s special position—indeed, his inviolability—as a direct descendant of the Prophet and as a member of the noble clan of Håshim. It is notable, however, that neither the general claims about the need for “right religious guidance” nor the anti-Umayyad rhetoric about their violation of the “sacred” blood of the Prophet or the honor of the Håshimite clan are linked to the more sectarian Shi˜ite notion of walåyah, which figured so prominently in the rhetoric of the Ãlid camp in the First Civil War and in the movement of ¡ujr b. Ãd¥. The use of the terms walåyah and ãdåwah do occur in quotations from the participants in the battle of Karbala, but very rarely and in their most general sense. They are in no way absolutized, as they are in the rhetoric of Ãl¥’s supporters during the battles of the First Civil War; and there is no suggestion that the statements of the Prophet at Ghad¥r Khumm with regard to the walåyah of Ãl¥ somehow also applied to his son, al-¡usayn, as well.40 In fact, in many instances


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where one would expect a reference to walåyah, in the general sense of “support, aid, backing, or assistance,” the term that is used is “naƒr” or “nuƒrah,” which is synonymous with walåyah, when used in that sense, but which has none of the sectarian, charismatic, or absolutist connotations of the term walåyah. For example, ¡usaynid supporter al-Zuhayr b. al-Qayn declared to the opposing army at Karbala that “the children of Få†imah are more deserving of friendship (wudd) and support (naƒr) than Ibn Sumayyah (= ˜Ubayd Allåh b. Ziyåd, Umayyad governor of ˜Iraq).”41 Later, when al-¡usayn was urging his friends and family to return to their homes and save themselves from inevitable slaughter, his supporters refused to leave him, making a pledge to sacrifice themselves for his sake. The account reads: “Then they stood before him as a group [demonstrating] their support for him (qåma . . . ãlå nuƒratihi) and said: ‘We sacrifice ourselves for you (nafd¥ka anfusanå).’ ”42 The tone and style of this report is quite reminiscent of the declarations of self-sacrifice and walåyah for Ãl¥ which we noted in the previous chapter, but here the terminology of nuƒrah has apparently replaced that of walåyah. In fact, it is to “nuƒrah” that the primary “call” or “da˜wah” is made by al-¡usayn and his allies. For example, al-Zuhayr b. al-Qayn finishes his speech to the opposing army at Karbala, cited above, with a call to support (naƒr) for the family of the Prophet: O people of Kufa! A warning for you of the punishment of God, a warning that a Muslim is obligated to give as advice to his fellow Muslim. Until now, we are brothers and partisans of a single religion and part of a single religious community, given that the sword has not come between us, and you are deserving of sincere advice. But should the sword be drawn, the safeguard (˜iƒmah) will be broken; we will be an ummah and you will be an ummah. Verily God has tried us through the offspring of His Prophet Mu±ammad (s.), to see what you and we will do. Verily we call you to support of them (naƒrihim) and to the abandonment (khidhlån) of the tyrant, ˜Ubayd Allåh b. Ziyåd. . . .43

Perhaps what is most interesting is that even here, where alZuhayr is threatening an explicitly communal break between those supporting al-¡usayn and those supporting his opponents, the use of the obvious terminology of walåyah and barå˘ah is avoided in favor of the less sectarian dichotomy of support (naƒr) and abandonment (khidhlån). At an earlier point, before al-¡usayn leaves for Kufa, Ibn Ãbbås goes so far as to declare that nuƒrah for al-¡usayn is a religious duty (far¿), “just as prayer (ƒalåh) and alms-giving (zakåh) [were religious duties].”44 While this may simply be a figurative way of

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speaking (Ibn Ãbbås, after all, did not accompany al-¡usayn to Karbala), he nonetheless seems to refer to it as a specific thing, just as ƒalåh and zakåh were quite specific obligations for a Muslim. Even so, the frequency with which reference is made to so general a concept as nuƒrah or naƒr for al-¡usayn throughout the Karbala account, despite the passions and emotions that must have infused the supporters of al-¡usayn for his cause, suggests that Karbala was seen—either at the time or through the later historiography of the incident—as a nonsectarian event.45 The standard Islamic historical tradition presents the death of al-¡usayn as a “Muslim” tragedy, and not an exclusively “Shi˜ite” one, and it is perhaps for this reason that the historical sources do not record any polemical or ideological use of the concept of “walåyah” or “walåyah and ãdåwah” for al-¡usayn and his supporters. One might also argue that al-¡usayn, as the grandson of the Prophet, had an essential legitimacy and needed no statement of walåyah to bear witness to his closeness to the Prophet and his legitimate succession to him; as the bearer of the bloodline of the Prophet, his blood was considered inviolable, and his defense on this basis alone should have been a rallying cry for all Muslims. This is certainly the argument presented in the Islamic historiography surrounding the Karbala incident—which is striking for its almost thorough unanimity regarding the correct interpretation of the event.46 Perhaps because of this unanimity, prominent Western scholars have also generally seen the event in this light.47 But whether a kind of consensus as to the sacerdotal nature of the descendants of the Prophet was really well-established at the time that Karbala occurred is open to question. After all, al-¡asan b. Ãl¥ was likewise the grandson of the Prophet, yet the pro-Ãlid Kufans apparently had no qualms about physically attacking him just as he was making his way to confront the Syrian army;48 and the historical accounts of this event certainly focus on the notorious perfidy of the Kufans, rather than on the deep offense of shedding the blood of the eldest grandson of the Prophet.49 If the loyalties of the Kufans lay anywhere, it was in the cause of Ãl¥, and so one would certainly expect that any attempt by a descendant of Ãl¥ to gain their support would have involved the invocation of the walåyah of Ãl¥, in a general sense. The fact is that, according to the historical sources, the revolt of al-¡usayn does not do this in any substantial way. Al¡usayn’s followers rarely invoke the walåyah of Ãl¥, specifically, or the polemical rhetoric of walåyah and ãdåwah/barå˘ah, in general, in arguments defending their support of al-¡usayn’s cause. While they do refer to themselves in their letters as al-¡usayn’s “sh¥ãh” and the “sh¥˘ah” of his father, no reference is made to the notion of walåyah toward Ãl¥ as entailing, in itself, an obligation to aid his son.


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Rather, certain reports scattered throughout the historical sources suggest that al-¡usayn may have already established his own legitimacy and leadership potential during, or shortly after, his father’s death. We have already noted that al-¡usayn, along with Ãbd Allåh b. Ja˜far, was reportedly uncomfortable with al-¡asan’s decision to seek peace with Mu˜åwiyah, and there are reports that other members of Ãl¥’s camp, unhappy with al-¡asan’s peace deal with Mu˜åwiyah, approached al-¡usayn to encourage him to take up the banner of the Shi˜ite cause in the face of his brother’s abdication. Two separate delegations—one including Jundab b. Ãbd Allåh, al-Musayyab b. Najabah, Sulaymån b. Œurad, and Sa˜¥d b. Ãbd Allåh, and the other consisting of Mu±ammad b. Bishr al-Hamdån¥ and Sufyån b. Laylå al-Hamdån¥—complain to al¡usayn about his brother’s actions. On both occasions al-¡usayn refuses to act against his brother’s decision.50 Al-¡usayn informs them that he himself has given the bayãh to Mu˜åwiyah in deference to his brother, and quotes the Qur˘anic verse: “Verily you may hate a thing in which God has placed much good.”51 Yet in one account he seems to leave the door open for future action, telling Jundab’s group that they should make contact with him again, “when this man is dead.”52 It is unclear if he is referring to Mu˜åwiyah or al-¡asan, but other reports state that certain Shi˜ites contacted al-¡usayn shortly after al-¡asan’s death and before Mu˜åwiyah’s.53 In any case, al-¡usayn may have offered them some hope, telling them to keep a low profile until he contacted them again at a more propitious time, even if he continuously refused to condemn his brother’s actions, expressing his hope elsewhere that both al-¡asan’s decision in favor of peaceful surrender and his own decision to “fight injustice” were “well-guided and proper.”54 It is impossible to determine whether these stories should be considered factual or whether they represent later interpolations into the historical record from a time after al-¡usayn’s brave but tragic stand at Karbala had already well distinguished him from his quietist older brother. But given the hope that these Shi˜ites seemed to have had in al-¡usayn’s ability to revive the Shi˜ite cause, and al-¡usayn’s absolute and immediate rejection of Yaz¥d’s succession to the caliphate, it seems plausible that al-¡usayn had established his reputation as an activist upholder of the Shi˜ite cause even before his brother’s death. In a letter that Sulaymån b. Œurad reportedly sent to al-¡usayn after al-¡asan’s death he writes: Verily God has made, in you, a greater offspring than the one who has passed away. We are your sh¥ãh; we are afflicted by what afflicts you, saddened by what saddens you and gladdened by what gladdens you. We await your command.55

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It seems, then, that simple descent from either Ãl¥ or the Prophet himself was not sufficient criteria to secure the respect or even the loyalties of the Shi˜ites. Although membership in the Prophet’s family (perhaps quite widely construed, as we shall see below, to include all of the Ban¨ Håshim) seems to have been an important or even essential legitimist criterion for these Shi˜ites, their attraction to al-¡usayn was also likely a function of al-¡usayn’s individual personal qualities—most notably, his perceived strength and his (albeit cautious) determination to uphold the Shi˜ite cause against Umayyad usurpation and oppression. If there was one thing the Shi˜ites desperately needed in the wake of al-¡asan’s abdication, it was a leader to rally around, and even al-¡usayn’s tempered responses to their inquiries may have given them great hope.56

The Beginning of al-¡usayn’s Rebellion and the Shi˜ite Quest for Right Guidance After Mu˜åwiyah’s death, the sources indicate that the Shi˜ites in Kufa began to regroup. Having heard of al-¡usayn’s rejection of Yaz¥d as caliph and his having taken refuge in the sanctuary of Mecca, they seem certain that their time has come. Both as individuals and as groups, numerous Shi˜ites in Kufa are said to have written to al¡usayn in the year 60 to express their loyalty to him and their desire for him to come to them. Three joint letters are sent to al-¡usayn—one written by Sulaymån b. Œurad and signed by a number of veterans of Ãl¥’s Shi˜ite camp; one composed by the Ban¨ Ja˜dah (the sons of Ja˜dah b. Hubayrah, son of Ãl¥’s aunt, Umm Håni˘); and a separate letter from a number of Kufan tribal nobles (ashråf), none of whom represented strongly pro-Ãlid figures in earlier conflicts—and as many as fifty-three other letters from individuals or small groups were reportedly delivered to him from Kufa by Sulaymån b. Œurad’s messengers. The letters all assure al-¡usayn that he has a substantial and loyal following in Kufa standing ready and willing to support him in his resistance to Yaz¥d and Umayyad control generally. But their urgency in asking him to come to them indicates something of their dependence upon al-¡usayn to organize and lead their forces, and suggests their relative helplessness or unwillingness to act in the absence of his leadership. In the letter sent to al-¡usayn from Sulaymån, the plea of the Kufan Shi˜ites to al-¡usayn is: “We have no imåm, so come and perhaps God will lead us, with you, to the truth; while Nu˜mån b. Bash¥r57 occupies the governor’s palace we will not join with him in communal prayer and we will not go out with him for the


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religious holiday (˜¥d). . . .”58 Although the Kufan Shi˜ites use the term “imåm” which, of course, later becomes the central concept in Imåm¥ Shi˜ite doctrine, there can be no doubt that the term is used here in a general rather than sectarian sense. In this case, the term “imåm” undoubtedly signifies both religious and political leadership, but not in the specific meaning it would acquire in later Imåm¥ doctrine. It is this plea for an “imåm” that al-¡usayn addresses most directly in his response to the Kufans, when he says: “. . . on my life, the imåm is none other than the one who acts according to the Book and who undertakes justice, and the one who follows the religion of Truth, and who devotes his soul to the cause of God.”59 The prevalent theme in this exchange is the need for just and legitimate leadership, not only for the Shi˜ites, but for the community as a whole. But such an “imåm,” according to al-¡usayn’s comments in this letter, is simply one capable of upholding the basic requirements of Islamic leadership and providing correct religious guidance for his followers. No mention is made of more sectarian Shi˜ite qualifications—for example, that the leader uphold the walåyah of Ãl¥, that he be the recipient of Ãl¥’s (or the Prophet’s) legacy or his waƒ¥—and the issue of al-¡usayn’s descent from the Prophet and from Ãl¥ are not invoked.60 The desire for proper religious guidance characterizes other statements from the supporters of al-¡usayn at Karbala, and their apparent belief that in al-¡usayn’s leadership they had found a replacement for what seemed so irrevocably lost with Ãl¥ may have motivated many of those supporters to lay down their lives in his defense. For example, one of his non-kinsman supporters at Karbala, Ãb¥s b. Ab¥ Shab¥b, declares: O Ab¨ Ãbd Allåh! By God, there is no place I lay myself down on the face of the earth, be it near or far, that is dearer and more beloved to me than you, and if I can defend you in the least against harm and death, than to do that would be dearer to me than my own soul and my own blood. Peace be upon you, O Ab¨ Ãbd Allåh, God be my witness that I am following your guidance and the guidance of your father.61

The fatalistic and sacrificial tone of this speech and its invocation of right religious guidance follows a general pattern for such statements of support by the members of al-¡usayn’s camp as they reportedly took turns defending him and his family until they had all been killed.62 It should be noted that al-¡usayn also claims the prerogative of “right guidance,” but for the Ban¨ Håshim in general, in a poem attributed to him as he stands in the face of the Kufan army.63

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The Charismatic Community The Right of the Family and the Sacredness of Prophetic Blood

While neither al-¡usayn nor his followers seem to have held an absolute view of his religio-political authority, al-¡usayn does invoke his own unique heritage in appeals both to potential followers and to his enemies. At an earlier point in this saga, after al-¡usayn had received the letters of support from the Kufan Shi˜ites and the Kufan tribal nobles (ashråf) but before he had set out toward ˜Iraq, al-¡usayn sent his own letter to the ashråf of Basra—not all of whom were committed supporters of his family64—soliciting their support for his movement by appealing to his rights as both a descendant of the Prophet and a scion of the noble clan of Håshim. It is quite clear from this letter, and other statements to be examined below, that these two claims to nobility—membership in the clan of Håshim and descent from the Prophet—were not rigorously distinguished in the appeals of al-¡usayn or in the ideals of his followers, at least not until the dramatic and shocking conclusion of his movement had become an imminent reality. In his letter to the Basran ashråf, al-¡usayn writes: “. . . we are [the Prophet’s] family, his supporters (awliyå˘), his executors (awƒiyå˘), his heirs (waråthah) and the most deserving of his station (a÷aqq al-nås bimaqåmihi fi˘l-nås). . . .”65 It is interesting to note the difference between al-¡usayn’s letter to the Kufan Shi˜ites, on the one hand, and his letter to the Basran ashråf, on the other. In the letter to the Shi˜ites, there is no explicit discussion of Ãlid legitimacy or al-¡usayn’s own legitimacy by virtue of his descent from the Prophet or Ãl¥. The letter is concerned only with “right guidance” for the community in religious matters. By contrast, in the letter to the Basran ashråf, al-¡usayn does use the terms “awliyå˘,” “awƒiyå˘,” and “waråthah” to refer to the ahl al-bayt, and clearly expresses his belief in their legitimate right to the leadership of the Islamic ummah. Still, it seems unlikely that he is using these terms in a specific, sectarian sense. By identifying himself as a member of the awliyå˘ of the Prophet, he seems simply to be making the point that he is among the Prophet’s “kinsmen,” and his reported use of the terms waƒiyyah and waråthah may simply refer to the idea that the Ban¨ Håshim were privy to the last testament of the Prophet and were the rightful heirs of his legacy. Indeed, given the audience for the letter, al-¡usayn may here be making an argument for his legitimacy on the basis of nasab, or noble lineage, an idea that would have resonated with the Basran tribal nobility to whom it was addressed. During the course of the battle of Karbala, al-¡usayn occasionally argued for his own legitimacy in similar terms when addressing the members of his camp. At one point he declares to his supporters: “[W]e are the People of the House (ahl al-bayt), more deserving of this


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authority over you (awlå bi-wilåyat hådha˘l-amr ãlaykum) than these false pretenders (hå˘ulå˘i˘l- mudda˜¥n)!”66 However, once disastrous defeat on the plains of Karbala seemed to be the only possible conclusion to the standoff, al-¡usayn reportedly requested to be allowed to return to the Hijaz in peace in exchange for abandoning his military resistance and, apparently, his legtimist claims to “rightful leadership” over the Islamic community. At this point, his descent from the Ban¨ Håshim, in general, and from the Prophet, in particular, becomes an argument, not for his religious and political authority but rather for the inviolability of his person, his family, and his blood. He appeals to the leaders of the opposing army—most of them representing the tribal nobility of Kufa—on the basis of his noble legacy: Consider whether killing me and your violation of my sanctity is lawful. Am I not the son of the daughter of your Prophet (blessings and peace be upon him), and the son of his waƒ¥ and his cousin and the first to believe in God and to confirm what His Messenger brought from his Lord? Is not ¡amzah, the Lord of the Martyrs (sayyid al-shuhadå˘), the uncle of my father? Is not Ja˜far al-†ayyår Dhu˘l-Janå±ayn my uncle? . . . Verily the Messenger of God (blessings and peace be upon him) said of me and my brother: “These two are the lords of the youth of the people of Paradise.” (emphasis mine)67

Here, the moral argument against the Kufan army and the Umayyads who had sent them does not exclusively involve the issue of legitimate authority over the community but is rather framed as a protest against their violation of the inviolable: the blood and honor of the Prophet’s family. The theme of inviolability is also anticipated in a metaphor al-¡usayn uses elsewhere, comparing his future treatment by the Muslim community to the Jews’ violation of the Sabbath.68 Yet, note that even when the rhetorical emphasis shifts toward the sacredness or inviolability of al-¡usayn, this is presented as a function of his descent from both the Prophet and Ãl¥. In the quotation cited above, al-¡usayn appeals to the nobility of other members of the Håshimite clan known for their dedication and fearlessness in the cause of the early Islamic community, not for their blood descent from Mu±ammad. Indeed, he mentions his own brother, the only other direct male descendant of Mu±ammad, only at the very end, and then not by name. In other words, even when the issue of al-¡usayn’s personal inviolability is mentioned, it seems to be based at least as much on his Håshimite heritage as on his more specifically Prophetic descent. Nonetheless, the idea that the massacre of al-¡usayn and his supporters—many of whom were his direct relatives and other

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Håshimite clansmen—represented not just a tragedy or an act of excessive and wanton violence but also a violation of something held sacred in the Islamic community, becomes part of the lens through which this event is viewed in both Sunni and Shi˜ite sources. It is this theme of the inviolability of Mu±ammad’s family (broadly construed) and the Umayyads as the violators of inviolable—rather than the earlier notions of the walåyah of Ãl¥—that will become the rallying point of the Shi˜ite movements throughout the remainder of the first Islamic century, and will continue to resonate throughtout later Kufan antiUmayyad movements.69 Nobility and religious inviolability were the claim of the Ban¨ Håshim generally, and perhaps of the descendants of Mu±ammad particularly, but walåyah was clearly a concept of loyalty and attachment specifically connected to the person of Ãl¥ b. Ab¥ Tålib. As time went on, and as the memory of Ãli b. Ab¥ Tålib dimmed somewhat behind new Håshimite claimants, the concept of walåyah seems to have correspondingly (but temporarily) lost its central importance in Shi˜ite discourse.

The Aftermath: The Movement of the Penitents In the aftermath of the slaughter of al-¡usayn, his family members and his supporters at Karbala, two movements arose among the Shi˜ites of Kufa to claim vengeance for the blood of al-¡usayn, son of Ãl¥ and grandson of the Prophet. The first of those movements, that of the Tawwåb¶n or “Penitents,” (64–65)70 was led by the prominent members of what could be called the “old guard” of the Kufan Shi˜ites— Sulaymån b. Œurad and al-Musayyab b. Najabah, two veterans of the Ãlid camp during the First Civil War. The second movement, by contrast, was led by the ambitious and, it appears, opportunistic alMukhtår b. Ab¥ ˜Ubayd, a figure with loose and questionable historical loyalties to the Shi˜ite cause, who nonetheless was able to rally the Kufan Shi˜ites after the defeat of the Penitents, exact vengeance for al¡usayn and his family, and temporarily turn Kufa into a Shi˜ite citystate in opposition to both Umayyad and Zubayrid claims (66–67). The movement of the Penitents, as its name suggests, was undertaken by a group of contrite Kufan Shi˜ites who deeply regretted their failure to aid al-¡usayn at Karbala, after having invited him to Kufa. Its stated and apparent purpose was vengeance for al-¡usayn, on the one hand, and seeking martyrdom as expiation for the sin of having abandoned al-¡usayn, on the other. Their name, Tawwåb¶n, or Penitents, was adopted in explicit reference to the Qur˘anic passage wherein the followers of Moses responsible for making and worshipping the idolatrous golden calf are told to “kill themselves” in expiation for


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their sin.71 The Penitent movement and its rhetoric reflect the continuing ethos of patient suffering and martyrdom that informs the accounts of both ¡ujr b. Ãd¥ and al-¡usayn. Clear references are made by Sulaymån and his supporters to the “martyrdoms” of both ¡ujr72 and al-¡usayn, who is at one point referred as the “martyr son of the martyr”73—thereby coloring the tragedy of Ãl¥’s own battles and eventual death with the ideal of martyrdom, and establishing martyrdom as a continuing theme in the tragic history of Ãlid Shi˜ism. At the same time, Sulaymån’s notion of martyrdom or self-sacrifice as expiation for sin represented a new and original take on the concept of martyrdom, that was, indeed, something rather unique to this event. In fact, the notion of martyrdom as the expiation of sin was so central to this movement that it can be seen to have at times clearly conflicted with the other stated purpose of the movement—vengeance for al¡usayn. If Sulaymån b. Œurad and his Shi˜ite followers truly sought to exact vengeance for al-¡usayn, one would assume they would have taken some care to identify and locate the major perpetrators of the massacre and would have made sufficient preparations to carry out their mission. Yet the sources portray Sulaymån b. Œurad’s preparations for his expedition as almost willfully negligient and ill-considered, and he rejects calls from some of his own followers to prepare more thoroughly.74 Moreover, he makes the questionable decision to direct his attack against the powerful ˜Ubayd Allåh b. Ziyåd, who would no doubt be reinforced with strong and capable Syrian troops. ˜Ubayd Allåh certainly bore a major share of responsibility for Karbala, having prevented al-¡usayn’s supporters from leaving Kufa to join him, and having dispatched the army of Kufan tribesmen to encircle and attack al-¡usayn. Nevertheless, ˜Ubayd Allåh did not himself participate in the battle of Karbala, and was the only major participant in the tragedy to be found in Syrian territory; the other major parties to al¡usayn’s slaughter, including the leaders of the army that actually attacked and killed al-¡usayn, resided in Sulaymån’s home city of Kufa. Vengeance could certainly have been served had Sulaymån and his followers decided to attack the Kufan tribesmen who had actual blood on their hands and were well within reach. Indeed, in many ways, the Penitents seem to have had little hope of success to begin with, and their religious rhetoric—which made reference to Qur˘anic passages about God having “purchased the lives and property of the believers in exchange for paradise,”75 a notion frequently associated with Kharijite calls to martyrdom76—suggests that martyrdom and self-sacrifice, not vengeance, were the primary goals of the Penitents. At one point, the Zubayrid governors in Kufa sent a message to Sulaymån, pointing out that the true perpetrators of the Karbala massacre resided in Kufa, and promising support if

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Sulaymån were to rise against them, but Sulaymån rejected their offer (which in any case may have been only a ploy). Indeed, the Pentitents succeeded in their quest for martyrdom, facing ˜Ubayd Allåh with the full wrath of his Syrian troops at Ãyn al-Wardah, between ˜Iraq and Syria in the year 65. Most of the group, including their two leaders, Sulaymån and al-Musayyab b. Najabah, were killed; those that survived fled and made their way back to Kufa, where many would join the movement of al-Mukhtår. Before turning to al-Mukhtår’s movement, however, we should examine the other ideals that informed the Penitent movement. The discussion above makes clear that the Penitents had little hope of success, and martyrdom seems to have been the primary goal and expected outcome of their expedition. But what if they had succeeded? What would they have sought then? In a passionate speech to the Kufan Shi˜ites, Sulaymån declares: “If we are victorious, we will return this authority to its rightful possessors; if we are struck down, then we are holding to our intention to repent of our sins.”77 Before the battle is joined with ˜Ubayd Allåh, the Penitents call on their opponents to break their allegiance to Ãbd al-Malik b. Marwån. They likewise express their rejection of the Zubayrid governors currently ruling over Kufa and their desire to see authority over the community returned to “the family of our Prophet, from among whom God brought us blessing and honor.”78 Who, precisely, were they referring to under the rubric of “the family of the Prophet” and whose leadership among this family would they have sought? Their call was for vengeance for al-¡usayn, but al-¡usayn was dead, and thus any analysis of their hypothetical loyalties must be based on the parameters of legitimacy and righteousness within which they viewed al-¡usayn’s movement and the tragedy of its failure. It should be remembered that the two major organizers and leaders of the Penitent movement were veterans of Ãl¥’s camp in the First Civil War, and therefore partisans to the bayãh of walåyah and ãdåwah that was so central to that camp’s notions of sectarian religious identity as discussed in Chapter 3. Although they, like other Kufan Shi˜ites, gave their bayãh to Mu˜åwiyah and joined the unified community after Ãl¥’s death, it is clear that they still harbored a deeply religious attachment to Ãl¥. While Sulaymån’s original letter to al-¡usayn made no explicit reference to Ãl¥ as the source of the Kufan Shi˜ites’ loyalty to al-¡usayn, the rhetoric of the Penitent movement connected al¡usayn’s legacy and legitimacy closely to that of Ãl¥. For them, it seemed, al-¡usayn’s status depended as much on his descent from Ãl¥ as it did on his descent from the Prophet. At one point al-¡usayn is described as “the son of the first Muslim in Islam [i.e., Ãli] and the son of the daughter of the Messenger of the Lord of the Worlds.”79


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Elsewhere, Sulaymån states that he considers “al-¡usayn, his father and his brother” to be the “best of Mu±ammad’s community.”80 It is clear that al-¡usayn’s spiritual status was intimately tied to Ãl¥’s, at least in the minds of the Penitent leadership; before the battle was joined, Sulaymån b. Œurad recited for his troops the rules of engagement, noting that the rules represent the tradition of Ãl¥ b. Ab¥ †ålib, the “Am¥r al-mu˘min¥n,”81 thus placing this battle rhetorically within the framework of the Ãlid struggle against the Umayyad usurpation of authority. Given the invocation of explicitly pro-Ãlid sentiments in this movement and the separationist flavor of Sulaymån’s rhetoric—perhaps emboldened by the relative anarchy engendered by the death of Yaz¥d b. Mu˜åwiyah—we do see some use of the rhetorical dichotomy of walåyah and ãdåwah among the Penitent leadership. In his letter to the leader of the Mada˘in Shi˜ites, Sa˜d b. ¡udhayfah, Sulaymån implored him to call upon “the awliyå˘ Allåh (friends of God) among your brethren” to support the cause.82 Later, Sulaymån would state: “We are the enemies of the murderers of [Ãl¥ and al-¡usayn] and the awliyå˘ of those who love them.”83 Al-Musayyab b. Najabah, for his part, vowed to kill the killers of both Ãl¥ and al-¡usayn, and declared his dissociation from and enmity toward them and those who supported their views.84 The leader of the Basran Penitent contingent, Muthannå b. Mukharribah, stated that Ãl¥ and al-¡usayn were killed by a group “with whom we are enemies and from whom we have dissociated (na÷nu . . . minhum burrå˘).”85 However, it should be noted that the only Penitents who use the rhetorical structure of walåyah and ãdåwah (or barå˘ah) are the prominent veterans of Ãl¥’s camp in the First Civil War, and it is clear that, for such as these, the concepts of walåyah and ãdåwah or barå˘ah remained ideologically powerful, and continued to be the primary framework through which right moral action and communal (rather than merely personal) allegiance was understood and expressed. However, the Penitent movement and the ideas connected with it really represent a merging of the Shi˜ite concept of the sacred and charismatic nature of Ãl¥’s authority, and its claim on their allegiance, with a new concept of the sacredness of the blood and lineage of the Prophet Mu±ammad, as epitomized in the unforeseen and incomprehensibly brutal slaughter of the Prophet’s younger grandson. As often as Sulaymån b. Œurad places al-¡usayn’s right in the context of his father’s, he also displays and calls forth the particular emotions aroused by al-¡usayn’s special status as the grandson of the Prophet—evocatively referring to al-¡usayn as “the descendant of our Prophet, his offspring and his progeny, flesh of his flesh and blood of his blood.”86 More interesting, however, is the apparent “pilgrimage” that the

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Penitents make to the tomb of al-¡usayn at Karbala on their way to Syria. We are told that the Penitents spent an entire night camped at the site, engaged in mournful prayer and remembrance of al-¡usayn’s death.87 While Sulaymån was likely seeking to bolster the courage and determination of himself and his troops as they faced almost-certain death, the incident is significant. It represents the first recorded instance in Islamic history of organized communal mourning and prayer at the tomb of a deceased and “saintly” person. There are no references in Islamic sources to such a “pilgrimage,” for example, to Mu±ammad’s tomb in Medina at this early point in Islamic history, and Ãl¥’s tomb was reportedly not widely known or publicized at this time (for fear of Umayyad desecration, no doubt). On this occasion Sulaymån b. Œurad delivered a public prayer, placing both Ãl¥ and al-¡usayn’s religious significance within the conceptual framework of “right guidance” and “martyrdom,” saying: “O God! Have mercy on al-¡usayn, the martyr (shah¥d), son of the martyr, the mahd¥ (rightly-guided one) son of the mahd¥, the righteous one (ƒidd¥q), son of the righteous one. . . .”88 Ab¨ Mikhnaf’s account of this event also symbolically connects the sanctity of al-¡usayn and his blood lineage to that of the sacred ÷aram in Mecca, telling us in richly pictorial language that the Penitents swarmed around the tomb of al¡usayn “more intensely than people swarm around the Black Stone [of the Ka˜bah].” 89 The Black Stone is considered by Muslims to be the most sacred stone embedded in the most sacred structure within the most sacred sanctuary. To connect this stone with the tomb of al¡usayn is a statement of immense symbolic significance for understanding the concept of the sanctity of al-¡usayn as the bearer of Prophetic blood. Sulaymån refers to his Umayyad enemies as those who “violated” the sacred person of al-¡usayn,90 while another Penitent addresses his opponents on the battlefield of Ãyn al-Wardah as “destroyers of the sacred House (al-bayt al-÷aråm).”91 Thus, the Penitent movement led by Sulaymån b. Œurad and alMusayyab b. Najabah seems to continue the older pro-Ãlid emphasis on Ãl¥’s unique personal charisma and the language of walåyah and ãdåwah as the framework for determining and expressing communal religious loyalties. But it also shows that it has been emotionally enriched by the newer framework of charismatic legitimacy established in connection with the Karbala ordeal—including notions of the moral imperative of martyrdom first seen in ¡ujr’s movement but given unprecedented power by al-¡usayn’s, as well as of the concept of the sanctity of the Prophet’s blood and blood lineage. Both of these would continue to influence the Shi˜ite sense of their own religious vocation and destiny—to our own times. But Sulaymån and his fellow Shi˜ites were clearly distraught by the lack of a leader on whom to focus their


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loyalties after the death of Ãl¥ and his son, al-¡usayn—whom they had implored to come to them because of their need for right guidance. While the discourse of the Penitents paid homage to both Ãl¥ and al-¡usayn as “rightly guided (mahd¥),” and rejected both Umayyad and Zubayrid claimants to authority, it made no claims on behalf of any living Ãlid or ¡usaynid descendant. Their vague call for the authority of the “family of the Prophet” reflected, perhaps, a sense of loss and even despair at having no individual source of charismatic or spiritual authority to turn to; and it is perhaps this despair that drove the Penitents to seek redemption in an act of deliberate self-sacrifice.

THE SHI˜ITE UPRISING UNDER AL-MUKHT≈R B. ABÁ ˜UBAYD If Sulaymån b. Œurad’s claims for the “family of the Prophet” as the “rightful possessors of authority” was vague and did not put forward the name of any individual candidate, his successor to Shi˜ite leadership in ˜Iraq, al-Mukhtår b. Ab¥ ˜Ubayd, clearly viewed this as a mistake—albeit one that worked very much to his advantage. Throughout this chapter we have suggested that in the aftermath of the First Civil War, the fledgling Shi˜ite community composed of the remnants of Ãl¥’s camp, seemed to be in need of nothing so desperately as leadership—someone to fill the void left by Ãl¥’s controversial but charismatic leadership. From Qays’ plea to his men that they continue the struggle against the Syrians “without an imåm,” to the Shi˜ites’ bitter disappointment over al-¡asan’s abdication, to the Kufan Shi˜ites’ invitation to al-¡usayn to be the “imåm” that they lacked, to the sentimental despair of the Penitents, the Shi˜ite community seemed deeply paralyzed without a source of charismatic leadership. Al-Mukhtår was a man of action, if nothing else, and he seems to have correctly assessed the deep and abiding longing of the Kufan Shi˜ites for moral leadership and right guidance, and understood that mobilizing them successfully depended upon this. Al-Mukhtår began his resistance to the Umayyads fighting with Ibn al-Zubayr in Mecca; but he soon realized that his career potential in Zubayrid service was limited. While he was in Mecca mulling his opportunities, al-Mukhtår learned of the situation of the Shi˜ites in ˜Iraq, and decided to go to them, promising to call them to “right guidance and communal solidarity.”92 Al-Mukhtår was a figure with somewhat dubious links to the Shi˜ite movement. He first appears in the sources as the nephew of the governor of Mada˘in during al-¡asan’s brief claim to the caliphate. When the Shi˜ites attacked al-¡asan’s camp at Mada˘in, al-Mukhtår cynically advised his uncle to arrest al-¡asan and turn him over to Mu˜åwiyah to gain political (and perhaps monetary) advantage. He

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appears again in connection with the Karbala drama when he supports al-¡usayn’s emissary to Kufa, Muslim b. Ãq¥l, and gives him temporary shelter—only to abandon him (like countless other Kufans) under the threat of ˜Ubayd Allåh’s repression. Both mainstream historical sources and later Imåm¥ Shi˜ite works portray him as a shameless liar who exaggerated or fabricated claims to his own spiritual authority. He was undoubtedly an opportunist, but one who pursued his agenda with great personal vigor and at substantial risk to his own life. Perhaps it was ruthless ambition and self-delusion that led him to risk so much, but he did achieve some significant success, and reportedly drew some favorable comments from important Shi˜ite and Ãlid figures, including three of the Imåm¥ Imåms.93 After initially challenging Sulaymån b. Œurad for the leadership of the Shi˜ites in Kufa, he succeeded in re-organizing and inspiring the demoralized survivors of the Penitent movement, as well as those Shi˜ites who had sat it out in Kufa, by appealing to their need for legitimate and active leadership. He told the returning survivors of the Penitent movement that Sulaymån was a righteous leader who had attained the station of martyrdom, but that he was not the one who could grant them victory over their enemies and properly avenge the death of al-¡usayn. Rather, he claimed that he himself represented “the commissioned leader, the trustworthy and entrusted one, the commander of the army, the killer of tyrants, the one who takes vengeance from the enemies of religion.”94 He would indeed make good— much more so than Sulaymån b. Œurad—on his promise to exact vengeance for the death of al-¡usayn. After mobilizing a successful Shi˜ite take-over of Kufa in the year 66, he and his men reportedly killed hundreds of the main perpetrators of the Karbala massacre, including ˜Ubayd Allåh b. Ziyåd, as well as ˜Umar b. Sa˜d and Shamir b. Dhi˘l-Jawshan, two prominent leaders of the Kufan army. Al-Mukhtår’s claim to authority, however, was based upon the (apparently) false premise that he was acting as the designated emissary of Mu±ammad b. al-¡anafiyyah, the well-known and widely respected but non-Få†imid son of Ãl¥ b. Ab¥ †ålib. Mu±ammad b. al¡anafiyyah was present at the battles of the First Civil War, but like al-¡asan and al-¡usayn, he had retired to the Hijaz. On the whole, Mu±ammad seems to have espoused the quietist views of al-¡asan rather than the more activist ones usually attributed to al-¡usayn and the Shi˜ites of Kufa. He did not, for example, participate in the battle of Karbala, and reportedly submitted without resistance to Umayyad authority, giving his bayãh to Yaz¥d and eventually developing modestly good relations with the Marwånids who succeeded to Umayyad leadership after the Second Civil War. Ibn al-¡anafiyyah did not send al-Mukhtår, and there is little indication that the two had even met


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prior to al-Mukhtår’s campaign. Yet, when a small group of skeptical Shi˜ites from Kufa journeyed to Mecca to ask Ibn al-¡anafiyyah about al-Mukhtår, he gave a vague endorsement of his activities, by way of offering encouragement and gratitude to anyone capable of avenging al-¡usayn and sating his family’s desire for vengeance. This apparently convinced the members of the delegation, who returned to Kufa to bolster al-Mukhtår’s leadership claims among their Shi˜ite brethren in the city—much to al-Mukhtår’s pleasure (and surprise).95 How is it, though, that al-Mukhtår could rally the hitherto fearful and reluctant Shi˜ites of Kufa to rise up so effectively in the name of a non-Få†imid, and thus non-Prophetic, descendant of Ãl¥, when the outrage over al-¡usayn’s massacre at Karbala had apparently given rise to a new emotional and legitimist concern over the sacred lineage of the Prophet? Al-Mukhtår seems to have done this by framing the tragedy of Karbala as a grave injustice to the “family of the Prophet”— whose leading figure remained, in the eyes of the Kufan Shi˜ites, Ãl¥ himself—and as another lost opportunity for the return of moral leadership and “right guidance” to the community. Al-Mukhtår promoted the legitimacy of Mu±ammad b. al-¡anafiyyah to his Kufan Shi˜ite audience by invoking his Ãlid lineage in rhetorical terms that played skillfully on the sentiments of the Kufan Shi˜ite community. He famously referred to Mu±ammad b. al-¡anafiyyah by the titles of “mahd¥ (rightly-guided)” and “imåm of guidance,”96 and frequently referred to him as “al-mahd¥ ibn al-mahd¥ (rightly guided, son of the rightly guided),” thereby presenting him as a natural candidate to restore “rightly-guided” leadership in the Ãlid line. After gaining control of Kufa, al-Mukhtår ascended the minbar and called the crowd to a “rightlyguided bayãh,” telling them that it represented the most “rightly-guided” bayãh entered into since those given to Ãl¥ and his family; and a local poet triumphantly declared after al-Mukhtår’s victory: “Right guidance has returned to its seat . . . to the Håshimite [i.e., Mu±ammad b. al¡anafiyyah], the rightly guided, son of the rightly guided.”97 Right guidance, it would seem then, still belonged properly to the Håshimite clan in the eyes of many Kufan Shi˜ites. There can be little doubt that the tragedy at Karbala had raised new concern over the particular sanctity of the bloodline of the Prophet—an idea that would become, in many ways, the cornerstone of Shi˜ite legitimism, the emotional center of Shi˜ite sentiment, and the basis of later nonShi˜ite notions of the distinct nobility (sharåfah) of Prophetic descent— and had established the ideal of martyrdom as central to the community’s sense of religious purpose and identity. But perhaps these things had still to be processed by the battle weary Kufan Shi˜ite community. Al-Mukhtår’s success makes it quite clear that at this point Ãl¥ continued to be the paradigmatic embodiment of rightly-guided,

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legitimate, and activist leadership, and the Kufans seem perfectly willing to accept the idea that such charismatic spiritual authority passed through Ãlid, as well as Prophetic, lineage. Al-Mukhtår connected the spiritual authority of Ãl¥ with that of his son, Mu±ammad b. al¡anafiyyah, largely through the concept of waƒiyyah, or “testament.” One of the popular titles assigned to Ãl¥ in the extant poetry and discourse of the First Civil War was that of “waƒ¥” or “legatee/executor [i.e., of a will or final testament]” of the Prophet. At Ãl¥’s deathbed, al-¡asan, al-¡usayn, and Mu±ammad b. al-¡anafiyyah were reportedly present to receive his waƒiyyah. By the time of al-Mukhtår’s campaign, Mu±ammad was the only living witness to that final testament, and so could legitimately and uniquely be referred to as Ãl¥’s waƒ¥, and al-Mukhtår called him the “waƒ¥ ibn al-waƒ¥ (the legatee, son of the legatee).98 The passing of spiritual authority via testament or waƒiyyah (rather than blood lineage) would continue to play an important role in the rhetoric of succession and legitimacy in the Kaysån¥ Shi˜ism that begins with al-Mukhtår’s movement and culminates in the Ãbbåsid revolution many decades later. Mu±ammad b. al¡anafiyyah’s son, Ab¨ Håshim, would claim the mantle of his father’s legitimacy—and through him, that of Ãl¥ and the Prophet himself— on the basis of waƒiyyah; and this spiritual leadership was later reported to have been passed (again, as a waƒiyyah) from Ab¨ Håshim to the Ãbbåsid family through Mu±ammad b. Ãl¥ b. Ãbd Allåh b. Ãbbås. The concept of the transmission of spiritual and charismatic authority through waƒiyyah or deliberate designation of an executor of one’s legacy—connected with, but not limited to, notions of a family inheritance—appears to have been an equally compelling idea to that of the passage of spiritual authority through the bloodline of the Prophet among many Kufan Shi˜ites throughout the Umayyad period. It is interesting, however, that despite the fact that putting forward the legitimacy of a non-Få†imid son of Ãl¥ required an emphasis on Ãlid rather than Prophetic descent, al-Mukhtår does not raise the issue of Ãl¥’s own legitimacy as it is tied to the event of Ghad¥r Khumm or the notion of walåyah that is so intimately connected with the person and personal spiritual authority of Ãl¥. The polemical notions of walåyah and ãdåwah/barå˘ah, so prevalent among all parties in the First Civil War as the framework within which loyalty to legitimate leadership and religious community were defined, are invoked with increasing rarity after Ãl¥’s death, and then specifically among veterans of the First Civil War. This terminology is conspicuously absent from the Shi˜ite rhetoric of al-Mukhtår and his supporters, which focused instead on the concepts of “right guidance (hudå)” and “testament (waƒiyyah),” although later Kaysån¥ poets, notably al-Sayyid al-¡imyar¥, did invoke Ghad¥r Khumm and the concept of walåyah. In the decades between the First


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and Second Civil Wars, however, as well as during the period of the Second Civil War itself, it is Kharijites, rather than Shi˜ites, who make the most systematic, polemical use of walåyah and barå˘ah, as seen particularly in the rhetoric of Nåfi˜ b. al-Azraq.99 Given the particular connection of walåyah to Ãl¥ personally and to his camp in the First Civil War, it is perhaps natural that as the Shi˜ite community became increasingly separated in time from Ãl¥’s leadership, as new candidates for leadership of the community arose, and as the passionate veterans of Ãl¥’s camp died off, the concept lost some of its importance in Shi˜ite rhetoric; eventually, among certain Shi˜ite groups, it seems to have been largely eclipsed by other notions of spiritual authority and spiritual community. Yet, Ãl¥ remained the primary, if symbolic, locus of charismatic authority for the Shi˜ite community. It is perhaps because of the continued centrality of Ãl¥ and Ãlid legitimacy that the concept of walåyah, that was so intimately associated with him, was never entirely forgotten. In the early second century, the concept would be restored to its central prominence in Shi˜ite discourse, forming the intellectual basis of a theologically complex construction of Shi˜ite authority and community developed under Mu±ammad al-Båqir and his son, Ja˜far al-Œådiq.


PART II

Walåyah, Faith, and the Charismatic Nature of Shi˜ite Identity


CHAPTER 5

Walåyah as the Essence of Religion Theological Developments at the Turn of the Second Islamic Century

I

n the early decades of the second century—a period that encompasses the imåmate of Mu±ammad al-Båqir and the early part of the imåmate of Ja˜far al-Œådiq—the concept of walåyah seems to become important once again, not only as an expression of Ãlid authority but also as a principle of membership in a loose Shi˜ite community, or even, from the Shi˜ite perspective, a prerequisite for full membership in the Islamic community itself. As discussed in the previous chapter, the concept of walåyah as an expression of Ãlid devotion and Shi˜ite solidarity plays a less central role in the recorded speeches and discourse of pro-Ãlid activists after the failure of ¡ujr b. Ãd¥’s protest and through the end of the first Islamic century. It does not play a major role in the reported rhetoric of al-¡usayn’s stand against the Umayyads, the Penitent movement that followed it, or in the temporarily successful seizure of Kufa by al-Mukhtår and the early Kaysån¥ Shi˜ite movement. Yet a variety of Shi˜ite literary and ÷ad¥th sources originating in the early second century suggest that, by this time, walåyah had once again become a fundamental concept in Shi˜ite discourse across the ideological divide between moderate (or proto-Zayd¥), Kaysån¥ and Råfi∂¥ (or proto-Imåm¥) groups. Moreover, the concept of walåyah, especially in its connection with Ghad¥r Khumm, was not merely resurrected in this period but was also substantially embellished and fundamentally reinterpreted. 103

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Walåyah continues, even in this period, to be associated primarily with Ãl¥ b. Ab¥ †ålib personally, or with the ahl al-bayt collectively. If the reference is not to walåyat Ãl¥, then it is to walåyat ahl al-bayt or walåyat ‹l Mu÷ammad. In the case of the individual Shi˜ite, the concept of walåyah denoted a state of absolute allegiance and devotion to the ahl al-bayt and a recognition of their exclusive right to legitimate leadership of the community, but it also implied membership in a community that increasingly viewed itself as a spiritually privileged elect. As it pertains to the Imåm, walåyah refers, on the lowest level, to his state as the deserving recipient of Shi˜ite spiritual and political allegiance, and on the highest level, to the cosmic station conferred upon Ãl¥ and his descendants in preeternity (see our discussion in Chapter 7). What I hope to demonstrate here is that this fuller elaboration of the nature of walåyah, drawn primarily from a more doctrinal interpretation of the statement of the Prophet at Ghad¥r Khumm, is a theological development that takes place in the context of early second-century Shi˜ite thought, perhaps during the lifetime of Mu±ammad al-Båqir, and certainly before the systematic doctrinal formulation of the Shi˜ite imåmate in the time of Ja˜far al-Œådiq and the early Ãbbåsid period.

REINTERPRETING GHADÁR KHUMM The relationship between the walåyah of God, the walåyah of the Prophet, and the walåyah of Ãl¥ b. Ab¥ †ålib was clearly established in the words of the Ghad¥r Khumm tradition as the Prophet is reported to have spoken them: “Man kuntu mawlåhu fa-Ãl¥ mawlåhu. Allåhumma wåli man wålåhu wa ˜ådi man ˜ådåhu (For whomever I am their mawlå, Ãl¥ is their mawlå; O God, be the friend of the one who is his friend and be the enemy or the one who is his enemy).” In these reported words, the Prophet attributes to both Ãl¥ and himself the station of “mawlå” of the believers. That is, from the point of view of walåyah, the Prophet and Ãl¥ would hold the same station, although the Prophet’s superiority could be found in the aspect of nubuwwah, or prophecy, that none after him, according to Islamic doctrine, would possess. At the same time, the Prophet implores God to equate Ãl¥’s friends and enemies with His own, thereby making the supporters of Ãl¥ the possessors of the rank of “awliyå˘ Allåh” (friends of God). The Shi˜ite interpretation of the Ghad¥r Khumm tradition that apparently emerged in the early decades of the second century consisted of two main ideas: first, that the Prophet’s words on this occasion established walåyah as an obligatory religious duty (far¥¿ah) with the same importance as prayer, alms-giving, fasting, and pilgrimage,

Walåyah as the Essence of Religion

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meaning that only with the practice of walåyah was one’s religion complete; and second, that Ghad¥r Khumm represented a Prophetic nomination of Ãl¥ and his descendants as the immediate political and spiritual successors to the Prophet, not only challenging the legitimacy of the caliphates of Ab¨ Bakr and ˜Umar but also accusing them of flagrant disobedience to the Prophet—an idea which, as we observed previously, neither Ãl¥ himself nor most of his early followers seem to have held. The standard Shi˜ite presentation of the Prophet’s words at Ghad¥r Khumm as found in Imåm¥ ÷ad¥th sources places them between the revelation of two separate Qur˘anic verses—Qur˘an V:67, “O Messenger! Make known that which has been revealed unto you from your Lord, for if you do it not, you will not have conveyed His message” and Qur˘an V:3, “This day I have perfected for you your religion and completed My favor unto you, and have chosen for you as religion, Islam.” The contextualization of the Prophet’s widely reported words on this occasion between these two Qur˘anic verses forms the basis of the Shi˜ite argument that the walåyah of Ãl¥ was divinely ordained, and therefore represented much more than a particular, sectarian, or religio-political affiliation: It was an intrinsic part of the very outward submission to the message of God in the Qur˘an (islåm), and was, in fact, its perfection. There is good reason to believe that both the standard Shi˜ite interpretation of the Ghad¥r Khumm tradition and its contextualization between these two Qur˘anic verses was developed in the first decades of the second century. A comparative study of the various treatments of the event of Ghad¥r Khumm in different literary and ÷ad¥th sources indicates that while the event was universally important for all types of Shi˜ite discourse in this period, its sectarian and doctrinal interpretation was still under construction. The Håshimiyyåt of the famous early second-century Shi˜ite poet Kumayt b. Zayd al-Asad¥ is perhaps the earliest datable source that mentions Ghad¥r Khumm explicitly. Kumayt (d. 126) lived into the imåmate of Ja˜far al-Œådiq, according to Shi˜ite sources,1 but he apparently flourished during the time of Mu±ammad al-Båqir’s tenure (95–114/117). There are numerous traditions that record al-Båqir’s personal encounters with Kumayt, including occasions on which he personally praised Kumayt for his laudatory poems about the ahl al-bayt.2 The Håshimiyyåt is essentially a collection of pro-Ãlid, or more accurately, pro-Håshimite,3 verses composed by this early poet, that has existed as a unit at least since the early fourth century, when a Basran philologist wrote a commentary on it4—although the material it contains is clearly earlier than that. Ghad¥r Khumm is an essential argument for this poet in his defense of Shi˜ite sentiment and support for Ãl¥ b. Ab¥ †ålib, and in his poetic accounts he presents Ghad¥r Khumm as the occasion on which

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the Prophet made walåyah toward Ãl¥ an explicit duty incumbent upon all members of his community. The sixth poem of this collection reads: And the day of the outspreading, the outspreading of Ghad¥r Khumm, He clearly announced walåyah for him [i.e., Ãl¥], had he been obeyed. But the men sold it [walåyah], And I have not seen a selling as significant as this. And I do not bring a curse upon them, but The first of them to do this did harm, For the nearest of them to justice turned To injustice, and the most heedful of them, became prodigal. They neglected (or squandered) the matter of their leader, and thus The most upright among them strayed from the road in the face of the two events.5

Kumayt’s verses stress the importance of the issue of walåyah toward Ãl¥ in the eyes of the Prophet, and for the good of the community as a whole. Yet the announcement at Ghad¥r Khumm is presented as a prophetic announcement, not as a divine command as it would be in later Imåm¥ interpretation. There is no allusion to any kind of direct or indirect divine provenance for the Prophet’s words on that occasion, and its wording suggests that a rejection of the walåyah of Ãl¥ constitutes disobedience toward the Prophet rather than toward God. The verses also contend that those who initially rejected or neglected the command regarding the walåyah of Ãl¥ should not be cursed, even if they have done harm to the community in thwarting the assumption of power by its legitimate authority. Thus, the position of Kumayt in this poem seems to be either prior to, or a reaction against, the emergence of the Råfi∂¥ or proto-Imåm¥ point of view in the early decades of the second century. In another poem, he takes a similarly moderate position regarding the first two caliphs: I love Ãl¥, the Commander of the Faithful But I am not pleased with the reviling (shatm) of Ab¨ Bakr and ˜Umar. And I do not say, even if those two did not give Fadak Or the inheritance to the daughter of the Messenger, that they have disbelieved. God knows what excuse they will bring On the Day of Resurrection, when they plead their defense. Verily the Messenger, the Messenger of God said to us Verily the wal¥ is Ãl¥, regardless of what he renounces.


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In the [same] position in which God has placed the Prophet He did not give [this position] to anyone of His creatures previously. He [Ãl¥] is the imåm, the imåm of truth, we know, Not like those two [Ab¨ Bakr and ˜Umar] who seek our error in what they plot. Whoever compelled him out of spite, he will persist in it Until his nose is seen covered in dust.6

Here, Kumayt leaves no doubt that the announcement at Ghad¥r Khumm (alluded to in the words: “Verily the Messenger . . . told us that Ãl¥ is the wal¥ . . . in the [same] position in which God put the Prophet”) represented a political as well as a spiritual appointment for Ãl¥ as leader of the community, referring to Ãl¥ as the “Am¥r almu˘min¥n” (a title of the reigning caliphs from the time of ˜Umar), and later as the “imåm;” and he definitely espouses the perspective common to both Zayd¥ and Råfi∂¥/Imåm¥ Shi˜ites that despite the actions of Ab¨ Bakr and ˜Umar, Ãl¥ represents the rightful imåm. Yet he takes a slightly contradictory approach toward Ab¨ Bakr and ˜Umar, refusing to accuse them of kufr, but also expressing considerable disdain for their actions and suggesting that they engaged in conscious “plotting” to lead the community into error on the issue of its rightful leadership and to “compel” Ãl¥ to acquiesce to it. This would seem to place him somewhere between the moderate Zayd¥ perspective, which held that the first two caliphs may have been acting in good faith, despite their error,7 and the Råfi∂¥ perspective which considered their actions tantamount to kufr. Whether Kumayt leaned more heavily toward the Zayd¥ or Råfi∂¥ perspective, however, he clearly considered Ghad¥r Khumm to be central to the Shi˜ite perspective. In this poem, as in the previous one, he presents it as a prophetic rather than divine pronouncement, but also tells us that by establishing Ãl¥ as wal¥, the Prophet in effect placed Ãl¥ “in the same position in which God placed the Prophet” himself, and that this position had not been given to any other human being previously. The second-century Shi˜ite poet most concerned with Ghad¥r Khumm, however, is the slightly later figure of al-Sayyid al-¡imyar¥ (died between 173 and 179), who was not a proto-Imåm¥ but rather a Kaysån¥ Shi˜ite, awaiting the return of the “mahd¥,” Mu±ammad b. al¡anafiyyah. (Reports of his conversion to the “Ja˜far¥” Shi˜ite school should probably be discounted.)8 Ghad¥r Khumm is a theme that runs throughout his poetry,9 which is largely comprised of praise traditions (fa¿å˘il) about Ãl¥ in particular. The treatment of Ghad¥r Khumm by this Kaysån¥ Shi˜ite poet is closer to the Råfi∂¥ or Imåm¥ Shi˜ite

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interpretation of the event than what we have seen in Kumayt’s poetry. Like Kumayt, he considers the Prophet’s words at Ghad¥r Khumm to have established the walåyah of Ãl¥ as a religious duty for all Muslims, but here he directly states that this represents a divine, rather than merely prophetic, command: And at Khumm, since God said, with resolution: “Establish, O Mu±ammad, walåyah, and address [them] And appoint Abu˘l-¡asan [= Ãl¥] for your people, verily he is a guide and I did not tell you [this] that you should refrain from appointing [him].” So [the Prophet] called him and then called them and stood him before them, and explained truth from falsehood.10

This poem emphasizes the divine provenance of the Ghad¥r Khumm announcement, and also suggests a certain hesitance on the part of the Prophet about making the announcement. Both these ideas figure prominently in the more embellished Råfi∂¥/Imåm¥ versions of the event, but not in more moderate Shi˜ite interpretations, such as those offered in the Håshimiyyåt of Kumayt. While al-Sayyid’s poetry never explicitly says that this divine command is in the category of tanz¥l, or direct Qur˘anic revelation, he refers to it as a kind of “wa÷y”11—a word which may, in some Imåm¥ Shi˜ite contexts, refer to nonscriptural inspiration, but which is more commonly used for Qur˘anic revelation. He asserts elsewhere that Gabriel was the bearer of this divine inspiration to the Prophet,12 and in one case he describes this divine mandate regarding the walåyah of Ãl¥ as a “risålah”13—a term usually reserved for scriptural revelation. Similar thematic concerns regarding Ghad¥r Khumm can be found in the early Shi˜ite work, Kitåb Sulaym b. Qays.14 In this text, as in the work of the second-century Shi˜ite poets, Ghad¥r Khumm is an important theme, and various versions and interpretations of the Prophet’s words on that occasion can be found throughout the work. Nearly all of the accounts of Ghad¥r Khumm in Kitåb Sulaym include lengthy extrapolations from the standard text of the tradition, as recorded in the majority of sources. Like the poetic elaborations found in the work of Kumayt and al-Sayyid al-¡imyar¥, the narrations in Kitåb Sulaym are concerned with showing that walåyah toward Ãl¥, as announced at Ghad¥r Khumm, represented the final religious duty (far¥¿ah) revealed by God through the Prophet and that this announcement represented an official nomination of Ãl¥ as immediate successor to the Prophet. The accounts in Kitåb Sulaym move even further toward what would become the Imåm¥ perspective on this issue by extending the


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walåyah established for Ãl¥ at Ghad¥r Khumm to his descendants as well. In Kitåb Sulaym, the divine provenance of the Ghad¥r Khumm pronouncement is consistently stressed by situating the Prophet’s announcement between the revelation of the two Qur˘anic verses (V:67 and V:3) that form part of the Imåm¥ Shi˜ite version of the event.15 In one version of the Ghad¥r Khumm tradition found in Kitåb Sulaym, the Prophet is asked about certain Qur˘anic verses that Shi˜ite tradition considers to pertain specifically to Ãl¥ and the ahl al-bayt. They include: “. . . obey God and obey the Messenger and the possessors of authority among you (ulu˘l-amr minkum)”16 and “verily you have no wal¥ save God, His Messenger, and those who believe, who perform the prayer, giving alms while they are bending down [in prayer]. . . .”17 The Prophet is asked whether these verses refer to all believers or only some of them. In response to their confusion, we are told, the Prophet was commanded “to make known the possessors of authority among them and to explain walåyah to them, as he had explained prayer, alms-giving, fasting, and pilgrimage to them.”18 Walåyah thus represents a far¥¿ah as specific as these other four, and is one of God’s decrees for the Muslim community at large. The notion that the Prophet’s statement at Ghad¥r Khumm represented an official designation of Ãl¥ as the immediate political successor to the Prophet takes the form of arguments allegedly made by Ãl¥ and his supporters to those who challenged his authority. In one narration, Ãl¥ makes his case to the members of the sh¶rå convened after ˜Umar’s death who opposed his candidacy. Addressing †al±ah b. ˜Ubayd, he argues: The proof—O †al±ah—of the falseness of their testimony, is the words of the Prophet (peace and blessings upon him) on the day of Ghad¥r Khumm: “For whoever it is the case that I am closer (awlå) to him than he is to his very self, Ãl¥ is [also] closer to him than he is to himself.” Thus, how can it be that I am closer to them than they are to their very selves while they have authority over me?!19

This report represents a different version of Ãl¥’s speech on his own behalf before the sh¶rå committee than that which was quoted and discussed in Chapter 3. In this account, the context of Ghad¥r Khumm is specifically mentioned as the location of the Prophet’s words regarding Ãl¥’s walåyah, and Ãl¥ explicitly argues that these words represent an irrefutable basis of his own authority. The walåyah of Ãl¥, as announced by the Prophet, is portrayed as entirely incompatible with any

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other member of the Islamic community exercising political authority over him—a point of view that Ãl¥ does not express in sources outside of Shi˜ite doctrinal literature (it is not found, for example, even in pro-Shi˜ite histories or in the Nahj al-balåghah). In another narration found in Kitåb Sulaym, Ãbd Allåh b. Ja˜far [b. Ab¥ †ålib] recounts for Mu˜åwiyah b. Ab¥ Sufyån, a version of the Prophet’s words at Ghad¥r Khumm that identifies the walåyah commanded for Ãl¥ with his political authority, and extends this authority to his descendants as well. After a standard narration of the Prophet’s words at Ghad¥r Khumm, Ãbd Allåh b. Ja˜far attributes the following additional statements to the Prophet on this occasion: . . . O people! I am closer to the believers than they are to their very selves, they have no authority over me. After me, Ãl¥ is closer to the believers than they are to themselves, they have no authority over him. Then my son al-¡asan [b. Ãl¥] is closer to the believers than they are to themselves, they have no authority over him. Then my son al-¡usayn [b. Ãl¥] after his brother is closer to the believers than they are to themselves, they have no authority over him. . . . If my son al-¡usayn should be martyred, then my son Ãl¥ b. al-¡usayn . . . and if he is martyred, then his son, Mu±ammad [al-Båqir] . . . Then there will be men from the offspring of Mu±ammad [al-Båqir], one after the other and [the people] will have no authority over them.20

Even if such a confrontation did take place between Ãbd Allåh b. Ja˜far and Mu˜åwiyah, Ãbd Allåh’s reported extension of the Prophet’s words at Ghad¥r Khumm to specific descendants of Ãl¥ must clearly be considered spurious. However, the anti-Zayd¥ line the ÷ad¥th takes (i.e., limiting authority to the ¡usaynid descendants of Ãl¥, and then further limiting authority after Mu±ammad al-Båqir to his offspring, thereby excluding his brother Zayd), as well as the fact that the ÷ad¥th does not go on to mention the name of Ja˜far alŒådiq or later Imåms, argues for dating the origin of the tradition shortly after the rebellion of Zayd, but before Ja˜far al-Œådiq had definitively established himself as al-Båqir’s successor. Moreover, the emphasis on the ¡usaynid line in this tradition may represent a reaction to growing support for ¡asanid claimants to the imåmate, notably for Mu±ammad b. Ãbd Allåh (al-Nafs al-Zakiyyah), whose father reportedly began making claims on his behalf some time between the death of Zayd (122) and the onset of the Ãbbåsid revolution (132).21 Thus, there is good textual evidence to suggest that this reference to Ghad¥r Khumm, like those discussed earlier in this chapter, is authentically early, almost certainly originating in the early second century. Taken together, these references provide sub-


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stantial evidence for the importance of Ghad¥r Khumm and the sectarian concept of walåyah in the early, and as yet unsystematic, Shi˜ite thought of the late Umayyad period.

GHADÁR KHUMM AND WAL‹YAH IN CANONICAL IM≈MÁ ¡ADI¯TH Turning to later Imåm¥ Shi˜ite compilations, we find the notion of walåyah as a divinely ordained religious duty linked to the event of Ghad¥r Khumm in several canonical traditions with varying isnåds. Most of these ÷ad¥th come in the context of Mu±ammad al-Båqir’s commentary on the two Qur˘anic verses associated with Ghad¥r Khumm in Shi˜ite accounts: “O Messenger, make known that which has been revealed to you from your Lord” (V:67) and “This day I have perfected for you your religion” (V:3). While there are some traditions attributed to Ja˜far al-Œådiq on this same subject, these traditions are generally short and cursory by comparison with those attributed to alBåqir, which tend to be lengthy, narrative, and explanatory.22 Traditions containing al-Båqir’s commentary on these two verses are related almost exclusively by Abu˘l-Jår¨d Ziyåd b. Mundhir, a close disciple of the fifth Imåm and a principal transmitter of his tafs¥r. Abu˘l-Jår¨d also reportedly became a follower of Ja˜far al-Œådiq after al-Båqir’s death, but later supported the rebellion of al-Œådiq’s uncle, Zayd b. Ãl¥ in the year 122. He is the eponymous founder of the Jår¶diyyah, the Zayd¥ Shi˜ite sect that is closest in doctrine to the Imåm¥s.23 In Madelung’s early study Der Imåm al-Qåsim ibn Ibråh¥m, he notes that even after Abu˘l-Jår¨d’s adoption of the Zayd¥ point of view, he and other prominent Jår¨d¥ Zayd¥s, who had also been members of Mu±ammad al-Båqir’s circle of disciples, continued to propagate al-Båqir’s personal teachings on theological and legal issues,24 which explains the similarity between the Jår¨d¥ and Imåm¥ perspectives.25 Despite this ideological closeness, however, Abu˘lJår¨d was decisively repudiated by the followers of al-Œådiq.26 More importantly, Abu˘l-Jår¨d, unlike other disciples of al-Båqir who lived into the time al-Œådiq, rarely relates traditions from al-Œådiq or from anyone but al-Båqir or the fifth Imåm’s prominent contemporaries, suggesting that he remained outside Imåm¥ Shi˜ite circles after his decision to support Zayd b. Ãl¥.27 Most of the material related from him in Imåm¥ sources is in the form of tafs¥r traditions, which were likely taken from his book of tafs¥r, related on the authority of al-Båqir, which was well-known in Imåm¥ circles.28 For all of these reasons, traditions related on Abu˘l-Jår¨d’s authority in Imåm¥ Shi˜ite sources almost certainly originate in Abu˘l-Jår¨d’s own lifetime and likely

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reflect the Shi˜ite views put forward specifically by al-Båqir and his circle of disciples. Thus, it is thus significant that Abu˘l-Jår¨d is the principal transmitter of the two lengthy traditions from al-Båqir that present the most detailed and direct connection between walåyah as a religious duty (far¥¿ah) and the Prophet’s statements about Ãl¥ in connection with the Farewell Pilgrimage.29 In one of these traditions, the revelation about walåyah comes on the day of Ãrafåt, the second day of the pilgrimage rites, and the same day on which the Prophet, in Sunni tradition, is said to have given a different “farewell” sermon before the revelation of the verse “This day I have perfected for you your religion” (V:3).30 In fact the way in which the walåyah of Ãl¥ is revealed according to this particular Shi˜ite tradition is in many ways identical to the manner in which the Prophet is said to have delivered the last sermon at Ãrafåt, according to Sunni tradition, particularly in his thrice calling upon God to witness that he has delivered the message to the community and that they have understood: [Al-Båqir] said: “God made five duties incumbent upon His servants: They follow four of them and abandon one.” [Abu˘l-Jår¨d] said: “Can you name them for me, may I be your ransom?” He said: “Prayer; and they did not know how to pray, so Gabriel was sent down and he said: ‘O Mu±ammad, inform them about the times of their prayer.’ Then alms-giving was revealed and [Gabriel] said: ‘O Mu±ammad, inform them about their alms-giving as you informed them about their prayer.’ Then the fast was revealed, and the Messenger of God used to send to those in the outlying regions on the day of ˜‹sh¶rå˘31 and they would fast this day; then the month of Rama∂ån between [the months of] Sha˜bån and Shawwål was revealed. Then the pilgrimage was revealed, so Gabriel descended and said: ‘Inform them about their pilgrimage as you informed them about their prayer and their alms-giving and their fasting.’ Then walåyah was revealed and this only came to [the Prophet] on the Friday at Ãrafåt [during the Farewell Pilgrimage]. God revealed: ‘This day I have perfected for you your religion and completed My favor unto you,’ and the perfection of religion was through walåyah to Ãl¥ b. Ab¥ †ålib . . . and it was revealed: ‘O Messenger, make known that which has come to you from your Lord,’ so the Messenger of God (peace and blessings upon him) took the hand of Ãl¥ and said: ‘O people! Verily no prophet has come before me, except that God extended his life until He called upon him [to take him from this world] and he responded; and the time is nigh that He will [call upon me] and I will respond. I will be questioned and you will be questioned,32 so what will you say?’ They said: ‘We bear witness that you have


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made known to us and advised [us] and called us to that which you were charged with; may God reward you with the best of the rewards of the messengers.’ So [the Prophet] said: ‘O my God, bear witness’—three times. Then he said: ‘O family of Muslims, this one [Ãl¥] is your wal¥ after me, so let those of you who are present inform those who are absent.’ ”33

The ÷ad¥th later mentions the ƒa÷¥fah of Få†imah, which, according to Shi˜ite tradition, records the personal names of all the Imåms. This juxtaposition of the revelation of the duty of walåyah with the notion of the Prophet’s waƒiyyah specifying the names of all the Imåms from among Ãl¥’s descendants makes the point that the Prophet’s statement about walåyah, as revealed during the Farewell Pilgrimage, pertained not only to Ãl¥ but to his descendants as well. The other standard version of this tradition found in Imåm¥ Shi˜ite sources is related by Abu˘l-Jår¨d in conjunction with a number of other prominent disciples of Mu±ammad al-Båqir, who, unlike Abu˘l-Jår¨d, later became important disciples of al-Œådiq. In this version, the pronouncement regarding walåyah is situated at Ghad¥r Khumm, rather than at Ãrafåt,34 and the divine provenance of the statement at Ghad¥r Khumm is made clear through references to God’s “command” for the walåyah of Ãl¥, as well as through references to other Qur˘anic verses that Shi˜ites understand as pertaining to the walåyah of Ãl¥, including (V:55), “You have no wal¥ save God, His Messenger, and those who believe. . . .” Both of these traditions demonstrate the importance of the Prophet’s statement at Ghad¥r Khumm (even if one of the traditions does not locate the announcement at Ghad¥r Khumm specifically) to the Shi˜ite perspective of al-Båqir and his close disciples, since their transmission through Abu˘l-Jår¨d makes it almost certain that they authentically originated in these circles, and as part of alBåqir’s well-known Qur˘an commentary of which Abu˘l-Jår¨d was an important transmitter. WAL‹YAH AS ONE OF THE PILLARS OF ISLAM The idea of walåyah as an obligatory religious duty (far¥¿ah) is also explicitly asserted in Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th narrations about the “pillars (da˜å˘im)” of Islam. In these Shi˜ite da˜å˘im traditions, as in the Ghad¥r Khumm traditions already discussed, walåyah is not simply an abstract theological or political point of view but is considered a duty incumbent upon every Muslim as part of fundamental religious practice. The most common formulation of the Shi˜ite da˜å˘im tradition is attributed primarily to al-Båqir. In its most basic form, this tradition reads:

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The Charismatic Community Islam is built upon five: prayer, alms-giving, fasting, pilgrimage and walåyah; and not one of them was proclaimed, the way walåyah was proclaimed.35

This version is not only the simplest, and therefore likely the earliest, but it also seems to be directly related to those Ghad¥r Khumm traditions just discussed, in that it ends with the curious phrase “and not one of them was proclaimed the way that walåyah was proclaimed.” This “proclamation” is almost certainly a reference to the Prophet’s announcement at Ghad¥r Khumm; in fact, one variant of this tradition adds: “and not one of them was proclaimed the way that walåyah was proclaimed on the day of Ghad¥r.”36 There are other variations of the tradition,37 including one that places walåyah first in the list.38 But in the multiple versions of this tradition attributed to al-Båqir, there is no variation in the content of the pillars—they all include walåyah. In other versions of the da˜å˘im tradition attributed to al-Båqir, variants upon the basic tradition tend to emphasize the polemical nature of the inclusion of walåyah in a list of the pillars of Islam. In one tradition, for example, al-Båqir notes that while the ordinary people (“nås”—i.e., non-Shi˜ite Muslims) practice the first four pillars, they neglect the duty of walåyah39—an idea that also appears in the second Ghad¥r Khumm tradition attributed to al-Båqir from Abu˘l-Jår¨d, mentioned above.40 In a version of the da˜å˘im tradition related by Ab¨ ¡amzah al-Thumål¥ from al-Båqir, it is said that while God allows for an easement of the first four pillars, under certain conditions, there is no such easement for walåyah41—emphasizing the essentiality and importance of walåyah in relation to the other four. In another tradition, al-Båqir states that walåyah is the best (af¿al) of the five pillars and, in fact, the key (miftå÷) to the other four.42 Undoubtedly the most striking aspect of this tradition is the absence of the dual testament of Islamic faith (shahådatayn), which has long been recognized as the first pillar of Islam in standard Sunni and Shi˜ite doctrinal formulations. The prominent Safavid-era Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th scholar Majlis¥ is apparently concerned about this omission and addresses the issue in a commentary on this tradition in his massive ÷ad¥th collection, Bi÷år al-anwår. He gives three possible explanations for the omission of the shahådatayn in this tradition: (1) that the intended meaning of “islåm” in this tradition is the shahådah itself, and that the intention of the Imåm is that the five things mentioned in this tradition—prayer, alms-giving, fasting, pilgrimage, and walåyah—represent the pillars of the shahådah; (2) that when the Imåm says that these five things are the pillars of “islåm,” he really means that they are the pillars of “¥mån,” and that “walåyah,” in this list, includes the shahådatayn as well; or (3) that the shahådah is omitted because it is


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assumed or obvious, and walåyah, which is (for Majlis¥) a doctrine relating to belief (min al-ãqå˘id al-¥måniyyah) is listed with acts of worship (al-˜ibådåt al-far˜iyyah), either to match the Sunni tradition or to exaggerate the love of the Imåms, which he notes, is “the perfection of faith . . . for it is one of the principles (uƒ¶l) of religion because it is one of its requirements, and denial of it is kufr.”43 Majlis¥ indicates his preference for the first explanation, namely that these five things (prayer, alms-giving, fasting, pilgrimage, and walåyah) are pillars of the shahådah itself. This is perhaps not suprising, given that Majlis¥ was one of the major Shi˜ite authorities of the Safavid period, during which, as other authors have shown, the walåyah of Ãl¥ was actively promoted as a third tenet of the Shi˜ite shahådah, and was included in the Shi˜ite adhån, or call to prayer, as part of the Safavid dynasty’s campaign to establish Shi˜ism as the official religion of the Safavid empire.44 Moreover, as Liyakat Takim has shown, Majlis¥ himself was one of the most important apologists for and promoters of the inclusion of walåyah in the Shi˜ite shahådah and call to prayer.45 However, it is perhaps a combination of the second and third explanations that makes the most sense. It is significant that Majlis¥, in his third explanation, considers walåyah to be a notion that applies to belief and to creed and that walåyah may have been put in “to match the Sunni tradition”—i.e., as a replacement for the shahådah in the Sunni version of the tradition—suggesting that the concepts of “shahådah” and “walåyah” may, in certain circumstances, have an interchangeable quality in Shi˜ite thought. Majlis¥’s second explanation, namely that walåyah includes the shahådatayn, may be the most accurate for the period in which these traditions initially emerge. In other words, walåyah was a term that referred not only to a recognition of the authority of Ãl¥ or the ahl al-bayt, but also a priori to a recognition of the authority of God and the Prophet as well.46 After all, the Qur˘an, as noted in Chapter 1, implies a relationship of walåyah between the believers and God when it repeatedly describes God as their “mawlå” and their “wal¥,” while the Ghad¥r Khumm statement “man kuntu mawlåhu fa-Ãl¥ mawlåhu” establishes a connection between walåyah toward Ãl¥ and walåyah toward the Prophet. In fact, the idea that the Shi˜ite concept of walåyah includes a recognition of the authority of God, the Prophet, and the ahl al-bayt, and that it was a more comprehensive idea than merely a recognition of this or that Imåm as one’s spiritual authority, is well-supported in Shi˜ite tradition, and will be discussed in detail below. One might assume that Shi˜ite traditions that list walåyah rather than the shahådah as a pillar of Islam represent a polemical distortion of the Sunni tradition. However, an examination of Sunni ÷ad¥th traditions about the pillars of Islam also reveals a certain variety in these

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traditions that contrasts with the rigidity that surrounds the issue in later Sunni and Shi˜ite doctrine. It is true that in canonical Sunni ÷ad¥th collections we find a Sunni version of the five pillar tradition that matches the Shi˜ite version word for word, except that the shahådatayn appear in the place of walåyah. The version which is found in Bukhår¥’s Œa÷¥÷, reads: Islam is built upon five (buniya˘l-islåm ãlå khams): the testament that there is no god but God and that Mu±ammad is the Messenger of God, and performing prayer, and giving alms, and pilgrimage, and fasting Rama∂ån.47

Yet, further investigation of this and other Sunni canonical compilations reveals that the shahådatayn were not always explicitly listed as one of the pillars of Islam or ¥mån in Sunni versions of the ÷ad¥th. For example, one version found in the Œa÷¥÷ Muslim lists the more general concept of “taw÷¥d” in the place of the shahådatayn as the first pillar of Islam. While taw÷¥d may simply be another way of referring to the first testament of faith (regarding the oneness of God), it does seem to exclude the second (regarding the prophecy of Mu±ammad) and at least suggests that the wording of the tradition had not yet been definitively established, even by the third century, when this collection was compiled. There are also traditions found in Sunni ÷ad¥th compilations that antedate or are contemporary to Bukhår¥’s Œa÷¥÷, in which Islam is based upon only four pillars, or three, or more than five; and there are traditions that exclude the shahådah, or else contain it but exclude something else.48 All of these variants suggest that a great deal of fluidity characterized both the wording and the content of the da˜å˘im traditions in Sunni as well as Shi˜ite tradition. Thus, Shi˜ite da˜å˘im traditions, in all likelihood, do not represent a sectarian reaction against an already fixed and essentially orthodox (Sunni) tradition but rather constitute the Shi˜ite contribution to a communitywide debate over the criteria of membership in the Islamic ummah—a debate that probably began in the late first century, with the divisive effects of the Second Civil War, and that continued into the early second, in conjunction with the growing issue of the status of non-Arab converts to Islam. Returning to Shi˜ite versions of the da˜å˘im ÷ad¥th, we note that a similar set of traditions is also transmitted on the authority of Ja˜far al-Œådiq, but with some revealing changes to, and elaborations upon, the original content of the ÷ad¥th as attributed to al-Båqir.49 First, in the majority of the traditions attributed to al-Œådiq there are actually six pillars listed, apparently because the shahådah has been added to alBåqir’s original list of ƒalåh, zakåh, ƒawm, ÷ajj and walåyah.50 In one


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version of this tradition with the shahådah addition, al-Œådiq seems somewhat hesitant to mention walåyah as the last far¥¿ah, and does so only after a long silence: [Ab¨ Ba∑¥r] said: “May I be your ransom. Tell me about the religion (d¥n) that God has required of His servants . . . what is it?” . . . He said: “Testament (shahådah) that there is no god but God and that Mu±ammad (peace and blessings upon him) is the Messenger of God, performing prayer, giving alms, pilgrimage to the House, if one has the means, fasting the month of Rama∂ån.” He was silent for a while and then said: “And walåyah.” [He said it] twice. Then he said: “This is what God has required of His servants . . . verily in the Messenger of God (peace and blessings upon him) you have a good and beautiful example, it is incumbent upon people to follow it.”51

Al-Œådiq’s reported reticence regarding walåyah may simply indicate that he was relating the tradition in a public place and wanted to make sure he would not be overheard by potential enemies before invoking a term with clear sectarian implications. There is, nonetheless, a certain hesitancy about the reference to walåyah that is simply not found in the traditions related from al-Båqir; and in other pillar traditions related from al-Œådiq, there seem to be attempts to clarify or qualify the requirement of walåyah.52 In one case, the word “walåyah” is replaced by the more specific notion of obedience or “†åãh” toward the Imåms.53 In another report, al-Œådiq concludes the da˜å˘im tradition by defining walåyah as a duty toward a specific list of Imåms: Ãl¥ b. Ab¥ †ålib, al-¡asan b. Ãl¥, al-¡usayn b. Ãl¥, Ãl¥ b. al-¡usayn, and Mu±ammad b. Ãl¥ (al-Œådiq does not list himself, as it was his habit to avoid openly acknowledging that he was the Imåm).54 Here, then, walåyah is presented as synonymous with, and limited to, the doctrine of the naƒƒ imåmate—or the authority of a very specific line of Ãlid descendants—that was only fully developed in the time of al-Œådiq. The earlier da˜å˘im traditions of al-Båqir present no such limitation or specificity regarding the requirement of walåyah. Our analysis of the Shi˜ite da˜å˘im traditions suggests three conclusions. First, the notion of walåyah as a “pillar” of Islam seems to derive from the interpretative Ghad¥r Khumm traditions attributed to Mu±ammad al-Båqir by Abu˘l-Jår¨d. Not only are Abu˘l-Jår¨d and other prominent disciples of the fifth Imåm some of the main transmitters of both the Ghad¥r Khumm and the da˜å˘im traditions, but there are also compelling textual similarities between the two. Second, the original versions of these da˜å˘im traditions seem to be those attributed to al-Båqir, since the simplest versions of these traditions— and those upon which the later extrapolations are apparently

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based—are attributed to him. While there are some relatively simple versions of the da˜å˘im tradition attributed to al-Œådiq and, occasionally, later Imåms,55 most da˜å˘im traditions attributed to Imåms after al-Båqir contain significant additions to his much simpler versions— usually the addition of the shahådah, or an appended list of the names of the Imåms to whom walåyah was required. It therefore seems that the notion of walåyah as one of the pillars of Islam originates in the time of Mu±ammad al-Båqir or shortly after his death, and traditions expressing this idea were likely put into circulation by Shi˜ites attached particularly to him. Finally, the types of changes that we find in the versions attributed to the sixth Imåm—namely, the addition of the shahådah and a downplaying of the central importance of walåyah in favor of the more detailed concept of the naƒƒ imåmate—are quite consistent with intellectual and political changes that are well known to have taken place in al-Œådiq’s lifetime. This was a period in which the relatively vague but highly polemical elements of late Umayyad Shi˜ite thought were being developed into a systematized theological doctrine that could be reasonably discussed and debated with other, non-Shi˜ite Muslim theologians. The adoption of the shahådah as part of the Shi˜ite da˜å˘im formulation placed Imåm¥ Shi˜ites clearly “within the pale” of Islam; and the consequent de-emphasis of the more polemical connotations of walåyah—and especially the shift from a rhetoric focused primarily on walåyah to that of imåmah—may have allowed them to include others “within the pale” as well. The apparently earlier doctrinal emphasis on walåyah, especially as opposed to ãdåwah or barå˘ah, had the polemical effect of dividing the Islamic world into two mutually exclusive camps—true Muslims (i.e., those who expressed solidarity with the ahl al-bayt), and unbelievers who were only nominally Muslim and revealed their kufr in their abusive treatment of the ahl al-bayt and their devotees. It was an idea that fit very well with the heroic period of Shi˜ite-inspired anti-Umayyad rebellion that reached its climax in the third decade of the second century and culminated in the Ãbbåsid revolution. The concept of imåmah, on the other hand, is connected with the more general and less polemical idea of right guidance based on religious knowledge.56 Thus, once this notion of the imåmate became the central tenet in Imåm¥ doctrine, the sectarian division between Shi˜ites and other theological schools could be more or less limited to the parameters within which one defined the imåmate, such as: the necessary qualities the Imåm should possess, the extent and source of his religious knowledge, and the degree to which obedience to him was absolute or conditional. This less confrontational and more intellectual approach was better suited to the climate of the Ãbbåsid era, as I will discuss further in Part III.


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WAL‹YAH AND FAITH The parallel between shahådah and walåyah in the Shi˜ite da˜å˘im traditions is profoundly linked to the role these two concepts played in Shi˜ite notions of true faith, or ¥mån. Amir-Moezzi, the French scholar of Shi˜ism, notes that walåyah in Shi˜ite tradition refers to both “the ontological-theological status of the Imåm as well as faith in this status”57 on the part of the individual Shi˜ite believer. That is, it involves a two-way responsibility between the Imåm of the ahl al-bayt and the Shi˜ite believer. This mutuality and reciprocity, as noted in earlier chapters, is built into the etymological origin and Qur˘anic usage of the term walåyah and is reflected in the earliest Shi˜ite discourse as recorded in the historical chronicles for the First Civil War and its aftermath. The dual meaning of the term is also reflected in the fact that both the Imåm and the individual Shi˜ite can be referred to as the wal¥ or the mawlå in Shi˜ite tradition. But the term walåyah in early second-century Shi˜ite thought did not simply refer to a dogma regarding the determination of religious authority and the required obedience to that authority. In the Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th literature that ostensibly originates in this period, walåyah is a far more encompassing and universal concept and is frequently presented as the essence of religion itself. In Shi˜ite da˜å˘im traditions, walåyah is not just one of the five pillars, it is often presented as the most absolute or determinative of the five. Moreover, walåyah is presented as true religion itself, as the d¥n al-÷aqq,58 the d¥n al-÷an¥f,59 or the ƒirå† al-mustaq¥m.60 Elsewhere, it is said to be the means through which one professes one’s religion. We are told that the one who professes his religion through walåyah to an unjust imåm possesses no religion (d¥n);61 and that the angels profess their religion through walåyah to the ahl al-bayt.62 In traditions such as these, walåyah is probably meant to be understood in its broadest sense as loyalty and devotion toward God and the Prophet, as well as the Imåms, and even toward other believing Muslims. While this “holistic” understanding of walåyah is generally considered to have been developed by later Sufi thinkers,63 the connection between these three types of walåyah (i.e., to God, the Prophet, and the Imåm) is clearly present in Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th literature. We have already noted that in the Ghad¥r Khumm ÷ad¥th, the walåyah of Ãl¥ is connected both to the walåyah of the Prophet (man kuntu mawlåhu fa-Ãl¥ mawlåhu) and to that of God (Allåhumma wåli man wålåhu). It is also present in the Shi˜ite interpretation of Qur˘an V:55: “You have no friend (wal¥) save God, the Prophet, and those who believe, who give alms while bending over [in prayer],” the last of these three being identified with Ãl¥ in all Shi˜ite (and many Sunni) interpretations of this verse.64 Shi˜ite

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traditions make an explicit connection between walåyah toward God and the Prophet and walåyah toward the Imåm;65 and a number of traditions include love and devotion toward fellow believers as part of the larger circle of walåyah.66 Walåyah, Love, and I¯mån The dichotomy walåyah/ãdåwah is closely paralleled by the more interior dichotomy love/hate (÷ubb/bugh¿) that was frequently presented as the basis of faith or ¥mån in Shi˜ite sources. In a tradition attributed to al-Båqir, the Imåm defines Islam as praying toward [the Muslim] qiblah, witnessing the shahådah, accomplishing the obligatory religious duties (farå˘i¿), and demonstrating walåyah and ãdåwah toward their proper recipients; while ¥mån is said to be “loving and hating in God,” that is, loving what God loves and hating what He hates.67 Al-Båqir states elsewhere that love of the ahl al-bayt is ¥mån, while hatred of them is kufr.68 This notion of “loving and hating in God” is repeated in numerous combinations and contexts throughout Shi˜ite literature.69 It is said that the “firmest bonds of faith are loving in God and hating in God;”70 that “the one who loves for God and hates for God and gives for God and withholds for God is the one who has perfected his faith;”71 and that the three characteristics of a believer (mu˘min) are that he knows God, those who love Him, and those who hate Him.72 In fact, in a widely cited tradition, Ja˜far al-Œådiq posed the rhetorical question to his disciple al-Fu∂ayl b. Yasår: “Is faith anything other than love and hate?”73 In the Shi˜ite formulation, however, to love and hate in God was to love and hate as Ãl¥ did,74 an idea that can be reasonably derived from the Ghad¥r Khumm statement: “Allåhumma wåli man wålåhu wa ˜ådi man ˜ådåhu,” which sometimes included the addition: “and love the one who loves him and hate the one who hates him (wa a÷ibb man a÷abbahu wa abghi¿ man abgha¿ahu).”75 The importance of the love/hate dichotomy for Shi˜ites also finds a basis in the Prophetic tradition quoted in Sunni as well as Shi˜ite circles, to the effect that no one loves Ãl¥ save the mu˘min and no one hates him save the hypocrite (munåfiq).76 While the love/hate imperative was sometimes explicitly referred to as love of the Imåms, or the ahl al-bayt and their partisans, and hatred of those who persecuted the ahl al-bayt and their followers, this kind of love is also frequently linked to love “through” or “in” God.77 In other traditions, love and hate and walåyah and ãdåwah are inextricably bound up with one another.78 Furthermore, love, like walåyah, is sometimes connected not only with Islam or ¥mån but also with religion (d¥n) as such. Al-Båqir is reported to have asked


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one of his disciples, rhetorically: “What is religion other than love?” and to have confirmed that “religion is love and love is religion.”79 The overlapping of the terms islåm, ¥mån, and d¥n is not unique to Shi˜ite thought.80 Rather, the terminological boundaries between ¥mån and islåm seem to have been relatively fluid in most early Islamic religio-political thought. Neither of the Shi˜ites’ two main religiopolitical rivals in the early second century—the Murji˘ites and the Kharijites—recognized a clear distinction between ¥mån and islåm; and only in later Sunni traditionist thought and in the Shi˜ite theology of a somewhat later period are the two terms given independent, technical definitions. Murji˘ites held that a believing Muslim who acted according to the dictates of his religion would enter Paradise and that an unbeliever, regardless of his acts, would enter Hell. But the believing individual who was deficient in the area of works belonged to the category of “hope and fear.” His condition turned upon the will of God: if He willed, He would forgive his sins and put him in Paradise; if He willed to the contrary, He would punish him in Hell.81 The unpredictability of God’s action toward the sinning believer meant that one could not be certain whether an individual was destined for Paradise or Hell (and thus had to treat him with “irjå˘,” or postponement of judgment), even if one could know with certainty that an individual was a believer in the outward sense of his being a member of the Islamic ummah.82 On the issue of what lay between the two mutually exclusive categories of ¥mån and kufr, there are a set of traditions attributed exclusively to al-Båqir that express a doctrine remarkably similar to that of the Murji˘ites. These traditions acknowledge a gray area between the ¥mån that guarantees Paradise and the kufr that guarantees Hell, and claim that this realm is governed by the unknowable will of God, such that those in it are suspended between hope for His forgiveness and fear of His punishment. In a chapter entitled “Fear and Hope (khawf wa raja˘)” in Kulayn¥’s al-Kåf¥, al-Œådiq relates from his father, al-Båqir, the formulaic statement that “every believing servant has two lights: the light of fear and the light of hope; and if one were to be weighed, it would not be heavier than the other.”83 It is important to remember, however, that for Shi˜ites, ¥mån and kufr were not categories determined solely by an individual’s doctrinal beliefs and actions but also by his attachment to and love for the ahl al-bayt and their supporters, or his dissociation from and enmity toward them, as discussed in the previous section. In the Umayyad period in which al-Båqir lived, this would have made any discussion of ¥mån and kufr a highly political one; and in Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th compilations, we find traditions on this issue attributed to al-Båqir that are political in nature. For example, a chapter in al-Kåf¥ entitled “Those who await the decree

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of God (al-murjawna li-amr Allåh)” contains two traditions attributed to al-Båqir in which he comments upon the Qur˘anic phrase “those who await the decree (amr) of God:”84 [There was] a group (qawm) who were polytheists and who killed the likes of ¡amzah [b. Ãbd al-Mu††alib] and Ja˜far [b. Ab¥ †ålib] and others of the believers. Then they entered Islam and accepted the unity of God and abandoned polytheism, although they did not know ¥mån in their hearts such that they should be considered believers and guaranteed Paradise. But they were [also] not in a state of rejection (ju÷¶d) such that they should be guaranteed Hellfire; rather, they are of the state in which [God] may either punish them or forgive them [variously, they are in a state such that “they await the amr of God”].85

The exclusive attribution of this tradition to Mu±ammad al-Båqir and its particularly Umayyad concerns (i.e., with the Qurayshi latecomers to Islam, who were epitomized by the Umayyads) leads one to suspect that the idea it expresses may be late Umayyad in origin. In the Umayyad-era Shi˜ite compilation Kitåb Sulaym b. Qays, we also find a tradition in which Ãl¥ is quoted as saying that those belonging to the one “saved sect (firqah nåjiyyah)” will enter Paradise “without reckoning (bi-ghayr ÷isåb),” and that those of the other seventy-two firaq will enter Hell “bi-ghayr ÷isåb,” but that most of the Islamic community belongs neither to the “saved sect” nor to the other seventytwo. Most members of the ummah, the tradition tells us, do not show walåyah or barå˘ah toward either the Shi˜ites or their enemies but avoid such issues entirely. According to the tradition, such individuals may be punished in Hell for their sins or else forgiven through God’s mercy.86 Other traditions found in Kitåb Sulaym, like those attributed to al-Båqir in canonical collections, place individuals who are neither Shi˜ites nor persecutors of the Shi˜ites (nawåƒib), in the category of those who hope and fear with regard to God’s judgment.87 Al-Båqir’s position also closely resembles second-century Murji˘ite views, when he explains that those who are Muslim but not Shi˜ite belong to the Qur˘anic category of those who “mix good actions with bad,” and so must await the decision of God with regard to their eschatological fate. According to al-Båqir, such persons are the Qur˘anic “people of the heights (aƒ÷åb al-a˜råf),” straddled between heaven and hell. This tradition is widely quoted in Shi˜ite sources, but always through the transmitter Zurårah b. A˜yan who, prior to becoming a Shi˜ite, was the student of al-¡akam b. ˜Utaybah and Sålim b. Ab¥ ¡af∑ah, two Zayd¥ figures who are reported to have earlier held Murji˘ite beliefs.88 The uniquely Murji˘ite-like language of the series of traditions cited above, their exclusive association with the early Imåm Mu±ammad


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al-Båqir, and the preponderance of similar ideas found in the preÃbbåsid Shi˜ite work Kitåb Sulaym, all indicate that the earliest Shi˜ite thinking on the issue of ¥mån and kufr and its relation to walåyah emerged in the polemical but theologically vague atmosphere of late Umayyad religio-political thought. The Shi˜ites—unlike the Murji˘ites and rather like the Kharijites—linked ¥mån and kufr to the polemical concepts of walåyah and ãdåwah/barå˘ah. But like the Murji˘ites and unlike the Kharijites, the Shi˜ites recognized a certain gray area between ¥mån and kufr, or between walåyah and ãdåwah, that was left to the unknowable will of God and in which individuals were continually suspended between the hope of God’s mercy and the fear of His punishment. The early second century is well known for its intense religio-political activity and the numerous failed rebellions against the Umayyads that ultimately culminated in the Ãbbåsid revolution. While some of the most active Shi˜ite groups in the late Umayyad period had Kaysån¥, Zayd¥, or extremist Shi˜ite (ghulåt) associations, the ideas that laid the foundation of what would come to be Imåm¥ Shi˜ite doctrine were being developed among a small group of Mu±ammad al-Båqir’s close followers. These ideas were not developed in an intellectual vacuum. Indeed, as I have shown, and will continue to demonstrate in the remaining chapters of this section, the theological perspective of alBåqir and his disciples bears a substantial conceptual and terminological resemblance to some of the other prominent schools of thought contemporary to al-Båqir, particularly that of the Murji˘ites. Yet the establishment of walåyah as the irreducible core of the Shi˜ite religious—not merely political—perspective seems to have been uniquely and exclusively associated with al-Båqir’s circle. The focus on walåyah offered a compelling link between the Ghad¥r Khumm tradition, which established Ãl¥’s spiritual and political authority in the Shi˜ite view and contemporary issues faced by the late Umayyad Shi˜ite community. It linked loyalty to Ãl¥ with sincere belief in God, obedience to the Prophet, reverence for the ahl al-bayt collectively, and membership in an elite religious community of “true believers.”


CHAPTER 6


G

iven the importance of walåyah to the Shi˜ite definition of faith, and its status as one of the five pillars of Islam in early Shi˜ite traditions—often in place of the shahådah—it is only natural that it would become a central issue in Shi˜ite views regarding the requirements for membership in the believing community and otherworldly salvation. These were two of the most contentious issues debated among the major sectarian and theological groups of the second century, including Murji˘ites, Kharijites, Sunni traditionists, and, of course, Shi˜ites. The two issues were naturally related to one another, since the moral and ritual requirements for maintaining good standing in the community were also the basis for attaining ultimate felicity in the hereafter. Moreover, membership in the Islamic community, in the view of some theologians and religious thinkers, granted one access to Prophetic intercession on the Day of Judgment. Shi˜ite thinking on this subject, then, did not develop in an intellectual vacuum, and an examination of Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th literature reveals a good deal of mutual influence between Shi˜ites and their Murji˘ite and Sunni traditionist counterparts on these issues. Murji˘ism and Sunni traditionism were prominent both in Kufa, the primary Shi˜ite intellectual center in the second and early third centuries, and in Khurasan, where the eighth Imåm, Ãl¥ al-Ri∂å, spent his last years. The similarities between Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th on these issues and those of the Murji˘ites and Sunni traditionists—as well as their strong contrast with the Mu˜tazilite-leaning discourse of later third- and fourth-century Imåm¥ Shi˜ite theologians—suggest that these traditions originated in second 125

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and third century Shi˜ite intellectual circles. Yet, despite the strong parallels between Shi˜ite traditions on these issues and the theological views of the Murji˘ites and Sunni traditionists, the Shi˜ite view remained unique in two regards: (1) while Murji˘ites and Sunni traditionists viewed the Islamic ummah, broadly construed, as the salvific community, Shi˜ites viewed their own sectarian group as the true believing and saved community; and (2) while all discussions of these issues involved some determination of the relative merit of faith and works, Murji˘ites and Sunni traditionists focused on the shahådah as the primary concept in the discussion of faith, whereas Shi˜ite discussions of faith centered on walåyah. Thus, Shi˜ites developed a sectarian particularism with regard to the issues of membership in the religious community and salvation sometime in the second and early third centuries, in an intellectual and theological milieu dominated by Murji˘ite and Sunni traditionist views. For Murji˘ites in general, faith as opposed to works was the primary consideration when determining an individual’s spiritual or religious status. While the definition of what constituted true “faith” differed among various groups of Murji˘ites, the testament of faith (shahådah) was considered the litmus test of at least outward faith1—that is, the faith that granted one legal membership in the Islamic ummah. Anyone who professed the shahådah had to be considered a Muslim from a legal point of view, and a believer, or “mu˘min,” eligible for salvation from an eschatological point of view. Righteous acts, while obligatory, were secondary considerations and the performance or neglect of obligatory duties did not bear on the question of membership in the Islamic community or faith, as such.2 Like the Murji˘ite position on the shahådah, the early Shi˜ite position on walåyah seems to have been that the demonstration of walåyah was the one absolutely necessary requirement for membership in the community of Shi˜ite believers; and just as the Murji˘ites argued that good works or sins did not bear specifically on the notion of outward or legal membership in the community of believers, so too did some (perhaps more extremist) Shi˜ite groups consider the demonstration of walåyah to be sufficient for membership in the Shi˜ite community, regardless of an individual’s sins or neglect of religious duties. Neither the Murji˘ites nor the early Shi˜ites dismissed the importance of right conduct, moral virtue, and the accomplishment of religious obligations (farå˘i¿), but for both groups these things were a secondary consideration in relation to faith.

FAITH AND WORKS No Muslim could reasonably hold the position that works without faith were sufficient for either membership in the religious commu-


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nity or for salvation—faith was unquestionably mandatory in both considerations. What was at issue was whether works were a constituent part of faith or whether they were entirely separate from it. For Murji˘ites, faith was a whole that did not have constituent parts and so did not increase or decrease as a result of an individual’s having some but not all of those parts. Faith was a state that had both an inner and an outer reality. The outer reality was evident in the profession of faith (shahådah) and determined one’s status as a member of the Islamic religious community. The inner reality was known only to God; and it was this reality of faith, along with the secondary consideration of an individual’s works, that determined the issue of salvation. However, the Murji˘ite position prevalent in ˜Iraq in the early to mid-second century—and particularly in Kufa— was eventually eclipsed in this region by the Sunni traditionist perspective in the late second and early third centuries.3 The Sunni traditionist view, in contrast to the earlier Murji˘ite thesis, insisted on the inclusion of works in the evaluation of faith. Their position was not as radical as that of the Kharijites, for whom any major transgression could theoretically remove one from the community of believers. Nor did the Sunni traditionists uphold the Mu˜tazilite thesis regarding the unconditional punishment of Muslims who had committed grave sins.4 But for Sunni traditionists, faith and works were inextricably linked, since they held that faith increased and decreased in relation to one’s works. Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th collections, for their part, contain traditions that are similar in doctrinal content and language both to the earlier Murji˘ite and to the later Sunni traditionist perspectives, suggesting that Shi˜ite thought in Kufa in the second and third centuries underwent an intellectual shift that paralleled that of the non-Shi˜ite community there in the same period. A review of Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th sources turns up a number of traditions that seem to deny the negative impact of acts on faith in ways that strongly resemble Murji˘ite (particularly ¡anaf¥ Murji˘ite) statements on this issue. For example, in the “Book of Faith and Unbelief” in Kulayn¥’s al-Kåf¥ one finds a tradition that states: “Acts cannot harm one who has faith (¥mån); and acts will not benefit one who is in a state of unbelief (kufr).”5 This constitutes a nearly perfect restatement of the well-known Murji˘ite doctrine that works have no benefit (in the hereafter) without faith, but that works bring no harm if one does have faith.6 The fact that this well-known Murji˘ite formulation has found its way into canonical Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th sources suggests some, perhaps significant, intellectual exchange between the two groups. The important difference between the two positions was that, for Murji˘ites ¥mån meant belief in God, the angels, the books, the messengers, and the Last Day,7 while for Shi˜ites, ¥mån included walåyah and/or love of the ahl al-bayt as an essential component, with some Shi˜ite traditions

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considering walåyah to be the very essence of ¥mån, as discussed in the previous chapter. For Murji˘ites, even the commission of major sins did not remove an individual from the believing religious community if he outwardly manifested faith by professing the shahådah. Consider the following tradition from Ab¨ ¡an¥fah concerning the relationship of belief in God and the Prophet to the issue of salvation: The Messenger of God . . . said: “O Abu˘l-Dardå˘, whoever bears witness that there is no god but God and that I am the messenger of God is guaranteed Paradise (wajabat lahu al-jannah).” [Abu˘lDardå˘] said: “Even if he fornicates and even if he steals?” [The Prophet] was silent for a while, then said: “Whoever bears witness that there is no god but God and that I am the messenger of God is guaranteed Paradise.” [Abu˘l-Dardå˘] said: “Even if he fornicates and even if he steals?” [The Prophet] said: “Even if he fornicates and even if he steals. . . .”8

It is clear that the issue of grave sins—and fornication and theft were the standard examples—stretched the Murji˘ite perspective to its doctrinal limit regarding the issue of membership in the believing community and the possibility of salvation. Yet, intellectual consistency demanded that even such major sins as these be given only secondary consideration in relation to faith. In Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th collections one can find parallel traditions that similarly indicate that the commission of major sins—again, even such sins as fornication and theft—are not enough to remove a lover of the ahl al-bayt from the Shi˜ite religious community: ˜Ubaydah9 b. Zurårah said: I went to Ab¨ Ãbd Allåh and alBaqbåq was there. I said: “A man who loves the Ban¶ Umayyah, is he one of them (minhum)?” He said: “Yes.” I said: “[Is this true of a] man who loves you (pl.)?” He said: “Yes.” I said: “Even if he fornicates, even if he steals?” He turned toward al-Baqbåq10 and saw that he was not paying attention, so he gestured [to me] “yes” with his head.11

The parallels between this Shi˜ite tradition and the ¡anaf¥ one cited above are too close to be coincidental. In addition to the fact that both traditions bring up the specific examples of fornication and theft, we can also see that in both cases the initial ÷ad¥th authority demonstrates some reluctance to extend his perspective on the relevance of works for membership in the religious community or salvation to the


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more extreme cases of fornicators and thieves (at least publicly), but eventually does so. While the Shi˜ite version is found in a collection of rare traditions (nawådir) from the Imåms, one can also find traditions in more mainstream collections that posit a similar leniency toward grave sinners who were nonetheless sincerely devoted to the ahl al-bayt. There is a tradition in †¨s¥’s Amål¥, for example, that enjoins Shi˜ites to “love the lover of the ahl al-bayt, even if he is morally corrupt (fåsiq) or a fornicator (zån¥).”12 While it is unlikely that Shi˜ites viewed walåyah toward the Imåms as a license to commit grievous sins (which removed an individual from the category of ¥mån, according to many Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th narrations13), the consensus of the ÷ad¥th tradition seems to be that a sinful Shi˜ite should not be excommunicated from the Shi˜ite community or suffer the sentence of “dissociation (barå˘ah).” Even such a hesitant or theoretical acceptance of grave sinners among the ranks of the Shi˜ites may seem rather extremist, however. In fact, one might presume that such ideas are connected with a kind of antinomianism that the heresiographers tell us was rather widespread among a number of Shi˜ite-leaning groups in the late Umayyad period. There are two basic formulations of this antinomian attitude found in the heresiographical accounts of early extremist Shi˜ite groups. First there is the idea, often ascribed to the well-known Shi˜ite heresiarchs of the day, that whoever knows and/or demonstrates allegiance to the proper Imåm may “do as he wishes” with respect to the obligatory and forbidden acts. The earliest figure with whom this idea is associated is Bayån b. Sam˜ån, an extremist Shi˜ite follower of Ab¨ Håshim b. Mu±ammad b. al-¡anafiyyah who allegedly invoked the antinomian doctrine in justifying his incestuous marriage to his own daughter.14 Bayån was killed by the Umayyad governor, Khålid b. Ãbd Allåh al-Qasr¥, in the year 119, along with his companion in rebellion, al-Mugh¥rah b. Sa˜¥d, to whom some heresiographies attribute a similar antinomian attitude.15 The idea that a follower of the correct Imåm might “do as he wishes” vis-à-vis established religious law is also ascribed to the Janå÷iyyah, the followers of the Ja˜farid rebel, Ãbd Allåh b. Mu˜åwiyah, who united much of Fars under his control during his attempted rebellion against Umayyad authority before he was killed in Khurasan, probably by the Ãbbåsid agent Ab¨ Muslim, on the eve of the Ãbbåsid revolution.16 The second and more exotic formulation of second-century Shi˜ite antinomianism was the idea that religious duties, such as prayer, alms-giving, and fasting, were actually “code-names” or symbols for the Imåms to whom allegiance was required, while religious prohibitions, such as those regarding fornication and theft, were symbols for the enemies of the Imåms, from whom one was required to dissociate. Thus, religious duties

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and prohibitions were not really about doing this act of worship or avoiding that sin, but rather about showing support and enmity toward the proper people. This doctrine seems to be particularly connected with the heresiarch Ab¨ Man∑¨r al-˜Ijl¥, who was killed by the Umayyad governor Y¨suf b. ˜Umar al-Thaqaf¥, probably sometime during the last decade of Umayyad rule.17 However, such extreme forms of antinomianism are entirely absent—unlike certain other extremist or ghulåt ideas—from mainstream Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th literature. Whether or not the Imåms themselves supported the idea that walåyah or love of the ahl al-bayt alone could compensate for sins or deficiencies in works, one can hardly imagine that the Imåms or Shi˜ite authorities would have wanted to encourage the moral dregs of the community to be their followers. In fact, in one tradition, al-Œådiq vehemently denies that “knowing the Imåm” justifies any moral laxity: . . . [Mu±ammad b. Maz¥d] said to Ab¨ Ãbd Allåh (= Ja˜far alŒådiq]): “[There is] a tradition attributed to you in which you say: ‘If you know (ãrafta) then do as you like (fa-a˜mal må shi˘ta).’ ” He said: “I have said that.” [Mu±ammad b. Maz¥d] said: “Did you say: ‘Even if they fornicate or steal or drink wine?’ ” He said: “Verily we belong to God and to Him were are returning! By God, do they think that it is just that we (i.e., the Imåms) should be held to the obligation of righteous acts, while they are absolved [of this responsibility because of their attachment to us]? Verily I said: ‘If you know then do as you like of good (khayr), a little or a lot, for it will be accepted from you.’ ”18

It is interesting to note that one of the transmitters of this tradition is ˜Ubayd (instead of ˜Ubaydah) b. Zurårah, who is apparently the same disciple who transmits the (seemingly contradictory) earlier tradition cited above regarding leniency toward grave sinners devoted to the ahl al-bayt. It is also significant that in this tradition Ja˜far alŒådiq acknowledges his statement to the effect that one who knows [i.e., the proper Imåm] may do as he likes. However, he denies that this entitles one to fornicate or steal with impunity—refuting the more extreme antinomian interpretations that certain ghulåt, or extremist Shi˜ites, may have given to his original statement. These two things suggest that while mainstream Shi˜ites considered walåyah to have some salvific, or at least compensatory, significance in the case of grave sinners, the more extreme antinomian implications of this idea were explicitly rejected by the inner circle of the Imåms’ disciples. Given the general lack of supporting material for such antinomian ideas in Imåm¥ Shi˜ite literature—and given the presence of traditions


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that seem to be reacting against such antinomian interpretations of the Imåms’ words on the part of the ghulåt sects—it is hard to argue for a purely ghulåt provenance for the idea found in numerous Shi˜ite traditions that it was faith, often construed in terms of love or walåyah toward the ahl al-bayt, that was the primary consideration for membership in the Shi˜ite community. It would seem that contemporary Murji˘ite ideas provide a much closer parallel to what is found in these types of Shi˜ite traditions and is probably the more likely source of mutual influence for these ideas. It is important to remember, however, that unlike their Murji˘ite counterparts, Shi˜ite authorities were discussing not only membership in the Islamic religious community, broadly conceived, but also the parallel issue of membership in their own, more exclusive religious community, that of the Shi˜ites in particular. This is important, for the Shi˜ites are unique among the major Islamic religio-political and theological groups in addressing and developing, simultaneously, doctrines concerning membership in the Islamic ummah in the universal sense, and doctrines regarding the limits and definitions of membership in their own sectarian Shi˜ite community. While the Murji˘ite-like perspective found in many Shi˜ite traditions regarding membership in the religious community represents one particular strand of Shi˜ite thinking on this issue, there is another tendency found in Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th literature that is closer to the Sunni traditionist perspective that became prominent in Kufa in the latter half of the second century. According to the Sunni traditionists, the commission of major sins did not remove an individual from the Muslim community, or even deny him eventual salvation, but rather (unlike the Murji˘ites) they held that it removed him from the state of true ¥mån to one of lesser ¥mån, or variously to the state of islåm without ¥mån.19 In Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th collections, one finds many similar traditions that state that the commission of major sins removes one from “¥mån,” but not from “islåm,” in the legal sense. In fact, there are several traditions in Kulayn¥’s al-Kåf¥ that repeat or reflect the Sunni traditionist formula that “the fornicator does not fornicate and remain a believer while he is fornicating” and “the thief does not steal and remain a believer while he is stealing,”20 which was characteristically cited by Sunni traditionists as an argument against the Murji˘ite position that did not deny the status of believer to the grave sinner.21 In his article on “Early Sunni Doctrine Concerning Faith,” Madelung notes that both the Shi˜ites and the (Sunni) Kufan traditionists denied the status of believer (mu˘min) to the grave sinner, but not the status of muslim; this perspective is clearly manifest in the chapter on grave sins (kabå˘ir) in Kulayn¥’s al-Kåf¥. Moreover, the recognition of a clear hierarchical distinction between ¥mån and islåm is an idea that Shi˜ites share exclusively with the Sunni traditionists. As noted earlier,

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Kharijites and Murji˘ites did not recognize such a distinction, nor did the later Mu˜tazilites. Since the Sunni traditionist point of view first started to gain ground in Kufa in the late second century, it is not unreasonable to think that this idea regarding the distinction between ¥mån and islåm in Shi˜ite thought (which was largely Kufan in the second century) should have emerged around the same time. The Sunni traditionist point of view on this issue may have been intended to curb certain excesses in the overly inclusive Murji˘ite dogma regarding membership in the community of believers—excesses that many pious Shi˜ites of the early Ãbbåsid period may have similarly wanted to avoid in defining the limits of their own sectarian community as well.

SHAH‹DAH AND WAL‹YAH AS KEYS TO SALVATION IN SHI˜ITE THOUGHT While most Murji˘ites and some Shi˜ites seem to discount the importance of an individual’s acts or sins in regard to membership in the religious community, only the most radical of either group would be prepared to entirely dismiss their impact on an individual’s salvation or perdition in the next world. However, according to both groups, membership in the religious community, in and of itself, had an important role to play in an individual’s eventual salvation. Neither the Murji˘ites nor the Sunni traditionists were inclined to accept the categorical thesis of the earlier Kharijite or later Mu˜tazilite thinkers that a believer or a Muslim who was also a grave sinner would be punished in Hell eternally. Murji˘ites and Sunni traditionists generally held that a believer or a Muslim might be punished in Hell for a finite period of time, but that he would (or may) eventually be removed from Hell by virtue of his having remained a member of the believing community,22 specifically through the avoidance of the unpardonable sin of polytheism (shirk).23 Since the Qur˘an clearly states that all sins short of the sin of shirk are pardonable,24 there is a sound Qur˘anic basis for linking an individual’s membership in a religious community committed to taw÷¥d, or the oneness of God, to the idea of his eventual salvation and exemption from eternal punishment in Hell. Another way of linking membership in the religious community to salvation was through the notion of intercession, or shafåãh. That is, as a member of the believing Muslim community, one could hope for the intercession of the Prophet and hence deliverance from eternal damnation (although not necessarily from temporary punishment).25 As noted above, the evidence from Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th literature is that Shi˜ites in the late Umayyad period were as concerned as everybody else about defining the parameters, limits, and privileges (legal and


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eschatological) of membership in the community of believers. But for Shi˜ites, and uniquely for Shi˜ites, the issue of membership in the religious community had a dual aspect, being concerned both with the nature of membership in the Islamic ummah in general, and with the nature of membership in the Shi˜ite community in particular. The Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th tradition clearly favors the Murji˘ite/Sunni traditionist point of view regarding the link between membership in the community in this life and salvation in the next over the harsher Kharijite or later Mu˜tazilite position on the eternal punishment of all grave sinners. However, Shi˜ite thought is more elaborate and emphatic in defining the connection between the two. There is evidence that early Shi˜ites conditionally accepted the thesis that professing the shahådah entailed a guarantee of (at least) eventual salvation. We say “conditionally” here, because it is clear that to the extent that Shi˜ites accepted this thesis with regard to the shahådah, they did so with the understanding that it included the notion of profound religious attachment to Ãl¥ and the ahl al-bayt in general. In one tradition, for example, Mu±ammad al-Båqir instructs his prominent disciple, Abån b. Taghlib,26 to return to his native Kufa and relate the tradition that whoever says the shahådah will enter Paradise. Abån is surprised by the request and asks if the Imåm really wants him to relate such a tradition on his authority. Al-Båqir clarifies for Abån that while it is true that whoever bears witness to the shahådah will enter Paradise, all who did so in this life will be stripped of their shahådah on the Day of Judgment, save those who follow this [i.e., Ãlid Shi˜ite] authority (ãlå hådha˘l-amr.)27 It is clear that Abån, as a Shi˜ite, viewed salvation as a function of walåyah to the ahl al-bayt, not of shahådah alone. It is only when al-Båqir explains the necessity of walåyah for a lasting and salvific shahådah that he accepts the Imåm’s instructions. Another tradition in the same vein declares that whoever says the shahådah enters Paradise, but that the shahådah is only accepted from Ãl¥ b. Ab¥ †ålib and his Shi˜ites.28 Perhaps more interesting for the issue of shahådah and walåyah as bases for salvation in Shi˜ite thought is a group of traditions that compare the shahådah to a fortress (÷iƒn), such that whoever enters it will avoid punishment in the next life. These Shi˜ite traditions repeat and comment upon a sacred ÷ad¥th (÷ad¥th quds¥), known in some Sunni, and especially Sufi transmission, in which God Himself is reported to have said: “Whoever says lå ilåha illa Allåh enters my fortress, and whoever enters my fortress is safe from my punishment (man qåla lå ilåha illa Allåh dakhala ÷iƒn¥ wa man dakhala ÷iƒn¥ amina min ãdhåb¥.)”29 Shi˜ite versions of this tradition, however, often insist that the value of one’s shahådah is conditioned upon walåyah toward the proper Ãlid authorities. In Shi˜ite literature, this ÷ad¥th is always attributed to the

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eighth Imåm, Ãl¥ al-Ri∂å, and he is reported to have related it publicly in Khurasan, on his way to Marv to meet the Ãbbåsid caliph alMa˘m¨n. Shi˜ite tradition reports that as al-Ri∂å traveled through Khurasan, a strong Murji˘ite stronghold at this time, he was accosted by a group of local scholars who asked him to relate a tradition on the authority of his prominent forefathers.30 To the great delight of his audience, Ãl¥ al-Ri∂å related the fortress tradition on the successive authority of all previous Imåms going back to the Prophet Mu±ammad. However, after having related this tradition, which in and of itself would have been applauded by the largely Murji˘ite crowd, he then qualified the statement by adding that a salvific testament to the oneness of God must include an affirmation of the proper imåmate (iqrår bi˘l-imåmah.)31 In fact, in one version of this tradition as found in Shi˜ite sources, walåyah replaces shahådah; the tradition thus reads: “Walåyat Ãl¥ b. Ab¥ Tålib ÷iƒn¥, fa-man dakhala ÷iƒn¥ amina min ãdhåb¥.”32 This kind of a substitution indicates, if not the completely interchangeable nature of the two concepts of walåyah and shahådah, then at least the analogous role and function of these notions in Shi˜ite consciousness. This tradition also has a very particular isnåd, with Ãl¥ al-Ri∂å, relating it through his forefathers—the six preceding Imåms (excluding al¡asan b. Ãl¥)—on the authority of the Prophet, from Gabriel, citing the words of God Himself. Among Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th sources, the tradition is found almost exclusively in the works and compilations of the fourthcentury Qummi traditionist Ibn Båbawayh, or in later sources that relied on Ibn Båbawayh’s works (e.g., †¨s¥’s Amål¥ or Daylam¥’s A˜låm al-d¥n).33 In fact, the tradition seems to have originated in Khurasan, and Ibn Båbawayh himself relates the tradition from Khurasani transmitters. Regardless of the accuracy of the circumstances surrounding this tradition, it clearly demonstrates that the Shi˜ite response to the thesis regarding the connection between shahådah and salvation was to replace the shahådah with, or condition it upon, walåyah toward the ahl al-bayt, rather than by insisting—as did the Qadarites, Kharijites, or Mu˜tazilites—on the absolute necessity of righteous action.34 After all, later Shi˜ites, like their Murji˘ite and Sunni traditionist counterparts, opposed the Mu˜tazilite insistence on the certainty of divine punishment (wa˜¥d) largely through the notion of the possibility of intercession. Murji˘ites and Sunni traditionists considered this salvific intercession to be that of the Prophet for all members of his religious community—a membership defined by witness to the shahådah. Shi˜ites, however, considered themselves to have access to an additional source of salvific intercession by virtue of their membership in the Shi˜ite community—that of their Imåms. While there are a number of Shi˜ite traditions that uphold the thesis of the saving power of the shahådah, it is far more common in


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Shi˜ite tradition to find such ideas connected with the notion of walåyah. In fact, there are numerous traditions that affirm the independent and unconditional salvific power of walåyah toward or love of the ahl albayt; and an even more substantial number of traditions declare, in no uncertain terms, that righteous acts in the absence of walåyah are futile, as regards one’s salvation. Furthermore, many of these traditions are similar in tone to the perspective of the Murji˘ites, who declared that one’s salvation or perdition depended solely on one’s status as a believer or unbeliever (i.e., not distinguishing between true belief, ¥mån, and outward submission, islåm), and that the basis of this distinction was true belief in the formula of the shahådah—something that could be known only to God—hence their signature doctrine that the salvation and perdition of any individual could not be determined by another. For Shi˜ites, salvation was also based on true belief—but this was largely measured by attachment to Ãl¥ and the ahl al-bayt. For example, a Shi˜ite tradition attributed to al-Båqir reads: Verily God . . . appointed Ãl¥ as a guidepost (ãlam) between Himself and His creation, and whoever recognizes him is a mu˘min, whoever denies him is a kåfir, whoever is ignorant of him is in error (¿åll), whoever associates something with him is a mushrik, whoever comes bearing walåyah toward him enters Paradise, and whoever comes bearing ãdåwah toward him enters the Fire.35

While the Imåm is willing to admit that there may be those who fall between ¥mån and kufr—namely those who are ignorant of Ãl¥’s position or who recognize it along with that of another—36 walåyah toward Ãl¥ is here presented as the essential criterion of both faith and salvation.37 In another Shi˜ite tradition, the Prophet declares that walåyah to himself and the people of his house is a guarantee against entering the Fire.38 In one case, it is Gabriel himself who is said to have brought the message from God to the Prophet that: “. . . verily I [God] give the lovers of Ãl¥ eternal Paradise for their love of him and I put his enemies and those who abandoned his walåyah into the Fire, as just compensation for their enmity of him and for abandoning his walåyah.”39 These two Shi˜ite traditions are somewhat analagous to ¡anaf¥ Murji˘ite or standard Sunni traditions which seem to say that whoever truly professes the shahådah eventually enters Paradise.40 Curiously, there is also a tradition found in the work of the Mu˜tazilite-leaning, fourthcentury Shi˜ite scholar al-Shaykh al-Muf¥d, through an Ãbbåsid isnåd, to the effect that on the Day of Judgment a herald (munåd¥) will call out to the Shi˜ites and ask them who they are, and they will respond that they are the “Ãlawiyy¶n.” The herald will then say to them: “O Ãlawiyy¥n, you are protected (åmin¶n), so enter Paradise because of the

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one to whom you have given walåyah.”41 Both the broad reference to the Ãlawiyy¶n as a general category and the unusual Ãbbåsid isnåd suggest that this tradition might well date from the early second century, when Shi˜ite groups were not rigorously distinguished from one another as either pro-Ãlid or pro-Ãbbåsid. One of the ways Shi˜ite tradition reconciles the belief that all Shi˜ites will reach Paradise with the belief that the commission of major sins results in leaving (at least temporarily) the community of believers was through the notion that Shi˜ites were somehow more “forgiven” for their sins, or that they were purified of their sins through their suffering in this world. It was not that Shi˜ites were exempt from the duty to perform obligatory acts and to refrain from evil ones, but rather they were considered to have access to a level of divine forgiveness that was denied to non-Shi˜ite Muslims because of their failure to give walåyah to the ahl al-bayt. For example, according to Mu±ammad al-Båqir’s tafs¥r of Qur˘an IX:102: “They mixed righteous action with that which is bad. It may be that God will relent toward them,” this kind of forgiveness can only be hoped for by the Shi˜ite believer.42 Ja˜far al-Œådiq similarly considers Qur˘an VI:160, which declares that whoever brings a good deed receives the same tenfold, to pertain exclusively to the believers (mu˘min¶n) by which he means specifically Shi˜ite believers.43 Some traditions exclude the major sins (kabå˘ir) from this special forgiveness,44 while others apparently include them.45 Most traditions, however, speak about the forgiveness of “dhun¶b,” a term that usually denotes relatively minor transgressions, particularly when contrasted with “kabå˘ir,” or “major sins.” In a poetic expression of this idea, Ja˜far al-Œådiq declares: “Verily God has angels who cause sins (dhun¶b) to fall from the backs of our Shi˜ites, just as the wind does to the leaves in autumn. . . .”46 In addition to the special forgiveness God would show to the Shi˜ites, He was also said to grant them access to certain spiritual states or to a kind of mercy (ra÷mah) by virtue of the adversity He would make them suffer in earthly life. The Shi˜ites, often referred to as the “awliyå˘” or “mu˘min¶n,” were said to suffer an extraordinary but providential amount of adversity both individually and as a community. Shi˜ite tradition tells us that the “most tried” individuals in this world are the prophets, the awƒiyå˘ and the awliyå˘ or the mu˘min¶n, and that Shi˜ite believers were tried by adversity in direct proportion to their degree of faith.47 In fact, suffering and adversity were so important to one’s salvation as a Shi˜ite that there are traditions that state that should a Shi˜ite somehow manage to escape this adversity throughout most of his life, God will still save him by making him suffer a difficult death.48 The “trials” or “balåyå ” of the Shi˜ites were often portrayed in hyperbolic terms. Mu±ammad al-Båqir said


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that adversity, poverty, and death come more quickly to those who love the ahl al-bayt than the rushing of flood waters,49 while al-Œådiq declared that the “devils (shayå†¥n) that hover around the believer are more numerous than flies swarming around meat.”50 In other cases, the promise of great suffering is linked to the special oath (m¥thåq) taken from Shi˜ites in pre-eternity—a notion that will be discussed at length in the next chapter.51 All these earthly trials, however, are said to bring great recompense in the hereafter, with one tradition claiming that a believer who suffers trials patiently will receive the reward of a thousand martyrs.52 Of course, in later disputes between Shi˜ites and Mu˜tazilites, it was the principle of intercession or shafåãh, as noted above, that constituted the primary Imåm¥ argument against the Mu˜tazilite absolutism regarding divine punishment (wa˜¥d). This is quite similar to the argument about the role of intercession in preventing eternal punishment of the believing Muslim as expressed in both ¡anaf¥ Murji˘ite and Sunni traditionist doctrine; but again, the difference was that for Shi˜ites, the religious community that guaranteed intercession and eventual salvation to its members was not necessarily the Muslim community at large but the Shi˜ite community in particular. Moreover, in Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th literature, there is also mention of a special forgiveness available only to Shi˜ites, or alternately, a belief in the attainment of a higher spiritual station for Shi˜ites by virtue of their earthly trials, without these ideas being expressly connected with intercession. These ideas concerning walåyah and the unique and unsurpassed role that it played in the salvation of Shi˜ites, as presented in the foregoing paragraphs, must have seemed rather radical and uncomfortably close to the antinomian ideas of the ghulåt, from the perspective of later Shi˜ite theologians, many of whom were strongly inclined toward the Mu˜tazilite view that made the individual more responsible for his own salvation through works and knowledge.53 Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th literature is certainly not devoid of voices of moderation regarding these ideas, some of which have been discussed above. While some of these moderating traditions appear mainly or exclusively in one or two later works, and should probably be considered later amendments to the earlier tradition regarding the issue, there is some evidence of an earlier attempt—perhaps by the Hijaz-based Imåms themselves—to moderate these types of positions that were emerging among the Kufan Shi˜ites. One way of curtailing the absolutist perspective on walåyah was to stress the importance of virtue and piety. A tradition attributed predominantly to Mu±ammad al-Båqir declares: “Walåyah to us is only attained through religious effort (ijtihåd) and piety (wara˜).”54 The pairing of these two terms (ijtihåd and wara˜) occurs frequently in Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th narrations often in the form of stern

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admonitions from the Imåms to their followers.55 In one such ÷ad¥th that includes the admonition to ijtihåd and wara˜, the Imåm also says: “It is not enough that a man simply say: ‘I love Ãl¥ and show walåyah to him’ . . . [for] if he said: ‘I love the Messenger of God (s.),’ and the Messenger of God is greater than Ãl¥, but does not follow his example or act according to his sunnah, his love will not benefit him at all; so fear God and do what comes from him.”56 Both of these statements seem to be reactive: the warning that walåyah will not be attained except through effort and piety already suggests that an emphasis on the all-importance of walåyah may have fed the antinomian tendencies of some extremist Shi˜ite groups; and the Imåm’s declaration that it is “not enough” that a man simply confess his love of Ãl¥ implies that there were already those who believed that it was. In the eighth-century compilation by Daylam¥, A˜låm al-d¥n, there is another version of the ijtihåd and wara˜ tradition attributed to Mu±ammad alBåqir that more explicitly includes the necessity of good works. It reads: “Verily we need nothing from you . . . but piety (wara˜) and verily our walåyah will not be attained except through righteous action (ãmal), and verily the most afflicted person on the Day of Resurrection is the one who prescribed justice but wrought injustice.”57 This work also includes a tradition that appears as a reversal of the point of view that good works without walåyah have no benefit, stating that it is walåyah without good works that has no benefit.58 However, this strong emphasis on works is not the most commonly represented point of view in earlier compilations of Shi˜ite tradition. While the Imåms and some of their moderate followers may have genuinely sought to refute the more extreme notion that walåyah alone guaranteed salvation and excused one from all other religious duties, the idea that walåyah unaccompanied by sufficient good works was of no value would certainly contradict much of Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th literature on the importance and centrality of walåyah in one’s religious life. This survey of Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th regarding the interrelated issues of membership in the religious community in this life and salvation in the next reveals the degree to which both were based on the principle of walåyah. Walåyah represented the outward signifier of true belief, and was therefore both the essential requirement of membership in the believing (Shi˜ite) community and the gate that opened onto otherworldly salvation. Shi˜ite traditions on these issues bear clear textual and conceptual similarities to both Murji˘ite and Sunni traditionist perspectives, and this provides a strong argument for locating the origin of these Shi˜ite traditions in the second- and early third-century Kufan milieu in which these views predominated. However, the notion of the centrality of walåyah to the determination of


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faith, membership in the religious community, and salvation clearly distinguished the Shi˜ite perspective from that of both the Murji˘ites and the Sunni traditionists, and suggests that a clear sense of sectarian particularism was already well-developed in this early period of Shi˜ite history.


CHAPTER 7

Predestination and the Mythological Origins of Shi˜ite Identity

I

f a certain analogy can be made between the Murji˘ite position on the shahådah and the Shi˜ite position regarding walåyah, that is, that they are understood in their respective contexts as sufficient criteria for membership in the believing community and for eventual salvation, we can also see a similarity in Shi˜ite and Murji˘ite notions of how and why certain individuals come to meet those criteria and others do not. Many Murji˘ites and early Shi˜ites, it seems, were predestinarian as to their view of human faith and salvation,1 although divine predestination is hardly a logical conclusion to be drawn from the most basic and foundational Murji˘ite or Shi˜ite doctrinal principles. It is likely through their common center in Kufa—where predestinarian thought held out longer than in the strongly Qadarite city of Basra2—that both Murji˘ism and early Shi˜ism came to be connected with certain predestinarian ideas. ¡anaf¥ Murji˘ism, which originated in Kufa, is particularly predestinarian in inclination, and the Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th material that ostensibly originates in Kufa in the early and mid-second century takes the most radically predestinarian position regarding membership in the religious community and, by extension, salvation. Many Kufan Shi˜ite traditions assert that individuals are either destined to become Shi˜ites or not; and as we saw in the previous chapter, this was believed to have a definitive influence on their eventual salvation or perdition. In these traditions— which are particularly prevalent in works of Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th that rely largely on Kufan transmitters, such as Barq¥’s Ma÷åsin—walåyah is 141

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hardly presented as a voluntary expression of personal commitment to Ãl¥ or the ahl al-bayt, as it seems to have been among Ãl¥’s supporters during the First Civil War. Rather, walåyah is presented as a state that one enters through the will of God, or one that is already determined before an individual’s earthly incarnation. This predestinarian bent is not the only point of view expressed in Shi˜ite literature, but it predominates in the Kufan ÷ad¥th tradition; and the overall tenor of Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th on this issue stands in marked contrast to the rationalist, Mu˜tazilite-leaning Imåm¥ Shi˜ite theology of the fourth and fifth centuries. It is true that in those chapters in Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th compilations that deal directly with the issue of predestination (for example, chapters on “al-jabr wa˘l-tafw¥¿”), the general position expressed is that human destiny is neither a matter of pure predestination (jabr) nor of absolute free will (tafw¥¿),3 but rather the two mysteriously combine to shape an individual’s ultimate fate. God is too exalted for tafw¥¿ and too just for jabr when either are conceived of in absolute terms.4 This idea is expressed most famously in a ÷ad¥th attributed to Ja˜far al-Œådiq to the effect that human destiny is not exclusively determined by either predestination (jabr) or free will (tafw¥¿), but rather the truth lies somewhere between the two. While the basic formula of this tradition is too firmly associated with al-Œådiq to be entirely spurious, the theological expansions upon it and interpretations of it may be later appendages. Many of the versions of this tradition attributed to Ja˜far al-Œådiq are more cryptic than theologically explicit, saying little about the nature of the intermediate position between predestination and free will, except that it is “wider than the space between the heavens and the earth,”5 or that only the “˜ålim (understand: ˜imåm˘6),” or the one whom the ˜ålim has taught, knows the true nature of this intermediate position.7 This may indicate that the reported words of the Imåm had less to do with an attempt at real compromise between the two existing theological positions than with his reluctance to be explicitly associated with either the compulsionist (jabr¥) or the “free will” perspective. The original intent of the formula may have been to portray the Shi˜ites as standing above the rivalry between the various theological schools and as holding a more “holistic” and less divisive option.8 It may well have been a way of dissociating the Shi˜ites from the entire debate about qadar—and in some of these traditions the “Qadarites” are singled out for particular scorn, although it is unclear if the term is meant to refer to the theological group that upheld the doctrine of human free will or to all those who involved themselves in this debate.9 On the other hand, several versions of al-Œådiq’s “intermediate position” ÷ad¥th found in canonical Imåm¥ Shi˜ite sources include some kind of theological elaboration or explanation appended to the basic

Predestination and Mythological Origins

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text of the statement—sometimes invoking ideas usually associated with the later Mu˜tazilites. For example, in one version Ãl¥ al-Ri∂å is questioned on the issue by one of his disciples and he repeats alŒådiq’s formula denying both jabr and tafw¥¿, but then adduces, by way of explanation, Qur˘anic verses supporting the standard Mu˜tazilite premise that God is only responsible for the good, while man is responsible for his own evil and disobedient actions.10 There are other traditions attributed to al-Œådiq in which the Imåm expresses ideas that are characteristically Qadarite or Mu˜tazilite in nature, such as the notion that God does not command abominable things (although, at the same time, the tradition states that one cannot attribute good or evil to anything other than the will of God);11 that God’s “compulsion (jabr)” is only for the good, and that it is constituted solely by God’s command and prohibition (amr wa nahy);12 or that God possesses foreknowledge of the moral and eschatological destinies of individuals, but that this does not imply compulsion.13 Some of these ideas are found in pre-Mu˜tazilite Qadarite thought—for example, the argument of divine foreknowledge without compulsion can be found in as early a Qadarite text as the risålah of al-¡asan al-Ba∑r¥ to Ãbd al-Malik b. Marwån14— but many of them are clearly of Mu˜tazilite provenance. If the Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th tradition seems somewhat undecided (or deliberately agnostic) with regard to the issue of jabr and tafw¥¿, when the topic is addressed directly, it seems much more resolutely in the compulsionist camp when the topic is approached indirectly. This is true, in the first place, for the question of who will be among the believers or the unbelievers, the saved or the damned, in the universal rather than sectarian sense. For example, the ¡anaf¥ Murji˘ite version of the definition of ¥mån includes not only belief in God, the angels, the Books, the messengers, and the Last Day, but also belief that all fate (qadar)—the good and the bad—is from God.15 Although the first five elements of belief are all requirements of true faith according to the Qur˘an, the sixth is not. While the notion of belief in the Divine Decree is not explicitly stated in the Qur˘an as an absolute requirement, this sixth element is enshrined in the famous Gabriel ÷ad¥th in Sunni tradition, which outlined the basic requirements of outward submission to the religion (islåm), belief (¥mån), and virtue (i÷sån). Despite its prominence and apparent origin in the early Sunni tradition, the necessity of belief in qadar or the Divine Decree is also commonly found in early Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th sources. In Kitåb Sulaym—a text that likely dates, at least in part, to the early second century—a similar definition of ¥mån is given that includes the belief that all qadar, good and evil, comes from God,16 and there are traditions attributed to both Mu±ammad al-Båqir and Ja˜far al-Œådiq to the same effect.17 Like many Sunni traditionists, the Imåms are recorded as having warned their

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disciples not to question the mysterious issue of qadar too deeply.18 In fact, al-Œådiq tells a disciple who asked him about “qadar” and “isti†åãh” (human capability for moral action) that the whole matter is an evil discussion (kalåm khab¥th) and that it is part of the religion of his forefathers to believe that all fate (qadar) “the good and the evil, the sweet and the bitter” derive from God.19 There is a widely quoted Prophetic tradition in Sunni sources that says that the saved (sa˜¥d) and the damned (shaq¥) are saved or damned “in the womb”20—that is, before they have had a chance to exercise their free will, for good or ill, during their earthly lives; again, we find similar traditions in both canonical and noncanonical Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th sources. A tradition attributed to al-Œådiq states that if God creates a man to be saved (sa˜¥d), then He loves him and never hates him; even if the man commits evil deeds, He hates the deeds and loves the man. But when God creates a man for damnation (shaq¥), He hates him and never loves him; even if the man commits good deeds, God will love the deeds and hate him.21 There is also a tradition found in both Murji˘ite and Sunni sources, as well as Shi˜ite sources, that a man who is marked for salvation may journey his whole life along the path of wickedness until he is within inches of death, and at the last moment he will change and become one of the saved; while a man who is marked for damnation may travel the path of goodness for most of his life, and then change at the last moment and become one of the damned.22 The presence of predestinarian and/or compulsionist ideas in Shi˜ite literature is particularly evident with regard to the issue that goes to the heart of our study: that is, how and why a person becomes a member of the Shi˜ite community, and hence, in Shi˜ite opinion, a true member of the believing Muslim community. With almost perfect consistency, the Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th tradition expresses the view that Shi˜ites are not merely members of a voluntary religious organization or sect, but rather represent an elite community, an elect, chosen by God above all humanity to represent true faith (¥mån) in God’s complete message to humanity—a message that includes love and obedience to the ahl al-bayt. This Shi˜ite notion of their community as a spiritual elect is expressed in numerous ways, one of which is the use of the terms “khåƒƒah” (elite, elect) and “˜åmmah” (commoners) to refer to Shi˜ites and non-Shi˜ites, respectively.23 However, Shi˜ite electionist notions are also connected to a kind of Shi˜ite mythology regarding the events of pre-eternity and the creation of mankind that seeks to explain the special origin of the Shi˜ites and their unique role in the religious cosmos. While these traditions have been discussed by other scholars of Shi˜ism,24 we will here examine the link that exists between these cosmogonic traditions regarding pre-eternity and the notion of the


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predestined and/or specifically God-determined nature of membership in the Shi˜ite community. THE MYTHOLOGICAL ELABORATION OF THE MI¯TH‹Q IN SHI˜ITE TRADITION The notion of the m¥thåq, or the primordial pact between God and the prophets and between God and mankind, has a firm Qur˘anic basis. In the Qur˘an, two “m¥thåqs” are mentioned—one with the prophets specifically, and one with mankind in general. These accounts occur separately in the Qur˘an and appear to represent two distinct preeternal events. Qur˘an XXXIII:7–8 reads: “And when We exacted a covenant (m¥thåq) from the prophets and from you (O Mu±ammad) and from Noah and Abraham and Moses and Jesus son of Mary. We took from them a solemn covenant (m¥thåq ghal¥z); That He may ask the truthful (ƒidd¥q¥n) about their truthfulness (ƒidqihim).” In most Sunni Qur˘an commentary, the pact is interpreted as having been made by God with the prophets in general, in order to ensure their loyalty and truthfulness. Among the prophets who accepted this covenant, the Qur˘an specifically names Mu±ammad, Noah, Abraham, Moses, and Jesus as the most distinguished (elsewhere, of course, they are the ulu˘l-ãzm), while Mu±ammad, being named first, is generally considered in both the Sunni and Shi˜ite tafs¥r traditions to be the most important of the five.25 However, according to one Shi˜ite interpretation of these verses, God took a m¥thåq from all of the prophets for Mu±ammad, and from Mu±ammad for all of the other prophets, thus singling him out for particular and unique recognition.26 While this is not made explicit in the text of the particular verse itself, it does not seem an unreasonable interpretation when it is juxtaposed with Qur˘an III:81, where the m¥thåq is taken from the prophets in recognition of Mu±ammad as a later confirmer (ras¶l muƒaddiq) of the messages brought by the prophets before him. The second relevant verse in regard to the m¥thåq is VII:172, in which the word m¥thåq is not actually used, but which is interpreted as being an account of the occasion on which God took a similar pact from all of the sons of Adam to recognize Him as their Lord. The verse reads: “And (remember) when your Lord brought forth from the Children of Adam, from their loins, their seed (dhurriyyatahum), and made them testify of themselves, (saying): Am I not your Lord? (alastu bi-rabbikum?) They said: Yea, surely. We testify. (That was) lest you should say on the Day of Resurrection: Lo! of this we were unaware.” It seems from the Qur˘anic text that the first m¥thåq was taken

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by God from the prophets specifically for their truthfulness and, in Qur˘an III:81, for their recognition and support of Mu±ammad, who would come to confirm the previous scriptures; while the second was taken from the sons of Adam, solely for the recognition of God as Lord. The Shi˜ite tradition, however, adds elements of its own to both of these accounts—in particular, adding the recognition of Ãl¥’s authority and/or walåyah to the conditions and terms, in various instances, of both primordial pacts. When the notion of walåyah is added to the Shi˜ite version or expansion of the story regarding the m¥thåq of the prophets, it is done in a way that builds upon traditional Islamic prophetology regarding the classification and relative rank of the various prophets, and the Islamic idea of the mutual confirmation of the various scriptures, Islamic and pre-Islamic. In a tradition attributed to Mu±ammad al-Båqir, for example, the Imåm confirms that God took both a m¥thåq and an ãhd (vow) from all the prophets regarding their recognition of the walåyah of Ãl¥.27 This tradition supports two somewhat extremist Shi˜ite ideas: first, the notion of the universality of the walåyah of Ãl¥ (i.e., that it was a message brought by all of the prophets, not just Mu±ammad himself); and second, the notion of the inferiority of the pre-Islamic prophets in relation to the Imåms (or at least Ãl¥, in this case), since the prophets are called upon to recognize Ãl¥’s authority rather than the other way around.28 In fact, in one tradition it is said that only the ulu˘l-ãzm (the five law-giving prophets: Noah, Abraham, Moses, Jesus, and Mu±ammad) accepted the ãhd regarding the authority of Mu±ammad and his awƒiyå˘ and the mahd¥, and that it was their acceptance of this full ãhd that earned them the title, “ulu˘lãzm.”29 One Shi˜ite tradition regarding Qur˘an III:81—wherein God demands of the prophets that they accept a covenant to believe in (tu˘minunna) and support (tanƒurunna) Mu±ammad as a “confirming messenger”—claims that God was in this case demanding the prophets’ affirmation of Mu±ammad as a confirming messenger, along with their belief in (¥mån) and support of (nuƒrah) Ãl¥ as the Commander of the Faithful (Am¥r al-mu˘min¥n).30 Another version of this tradition found in Qumm¥’s Tafs¥r separates these two demands (¥mån and nuƒrah), claiming that God demanded the prophets’ belief in both Mu±ammad and Ãl¥ but demanded their nuƒrah for Ãl¥ in particular. The ÷ad¥th elaborates on this unusual interpretation, saying that: “God has not sent a prophet since Adam, except that he will return to this world to fight for and aid the Messenger of God and the Am¥r almu˘min¥n”31 (a reference to the Shi˜ite idea of rajãh). It should be noted, however, that these types of traditions are found exclusively in the Baƒå˘ir al-darajåt of al-Œaffår al-Qumm¥—a work known for its somewhat hyperbolic traditions regarding the Imåms—and in the Tafs¥r of


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Qumm¥—a contemporary of al-Œaffår, and a fellow member of the Qummi traditionist school. On the other hand, those traditions regarding the insertion of the notion of walåyah, or obedience to the Imåms, into the story of the primordial pact taken from all mankind are somewhat more generally represented in Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th sources. In fact, most of the Shi˜ite tafs¥r material that explicitly connects walåyah with the m¥thåq is situated in the discussion of Qur˘an VII:172, which deals with the m¥thåq of the sons of Adam.32 One of the most common traditions in this vein, and one which is related in all but one instance from Mu±ammad al-Båqir, states that Ãl¥ was given the title Am¥r al-mu˘min¥n at the time of the m¥thåq,33 or variously, that he was named Am¥r al-mu˘min¥n, as well as the khal¥fah and the am¥n (trusted one) of God, at that time.34 In another version of this tradition, al-Båqir declares: “If the ignorant ones (juhhål) knew that Ãl¥ was named Am¥r al-mu˘min¥n in the m¥thåq, they would not deny his right.”35 Elsewhere, a more explicit connection is made between walåyah and the m¥thåq. For example, one tradition states that God took a m¥thåq from His creation for His own Lordship (rub¶biyyah) and for obedience (†åãh) and walåyah toward Mu±ammad and his progeny, and that the walåyah of the ahl al-bayt was therefore established in pre-eternity.36 Ãl¥ is likewise said to have told al-A∑bagh b. Nubåtah37 that God took the m¥thåq from the sons of Adam for obedience (†åãh) to and [the recognition of] Lordship (rub¶biyyah) for Himself, and that on this same occasion, God distinguished the messengers, prophets, and legatees (awƒiyå˘) [from the rest of creation] and ordered all humanity to obey them.38 The combination of these three concepts is also found in an eschatological tradition attributed to Ãl¥ al-Ri∂å, which declares that “the first things a servant will be questioned about on the Day of Resurrection are shahådah, prophecy, and friendship (muwålah) toward Ãl¥.”39 This tradition does not mention the pre-eternal covenant specifically, but it may be understood as referring to the primordial event described in Qur˘an VII:172, since this passage implies that God will remind the sons of Adam of their covenant on the Day of Resurrection, and question them as to why they were not faithful to it in earthly life. Walåyah is connected with the m¥thåq in the interpretation of other Qur˘anic verses as well. In the Qur˘anic passage where God admonishes the believers to “be true to My pact (awf¶ bi-ãhd¥),” this “pact” (here ãhd rather than m¥thåq)40 is said to be the walåyah of Ãl¥.41 When the Qur˘an promises the servants of God that they will be rewarded with gushing springs in the next life because of their fulfillment of the “vow” (al-nadhr),42 al-Ri∂å explains that this refers to the “vow God took from them in the m¥thåq for our walåyah.”43 The foregoing traditions imply that the walåyah of Ãl¥ was as universal as the Lordship of God and the prophecy of Mu±ammad,

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since the three together constitute the primordial pact, or m¥thåq, taken by God from all of mankind. Other traditions, however, suggest that the special bond with Ãl¥ was established only for the Shi˜ites at the time of the primordial pact, placing the origin of a cosmological Shi˜ite community in the time of pre-eternity. One such tradition is related from al-Båqir on the authority of Bukayr b. A˜yan:44 Verily God, blessed and exalted is He, took the m¥thåq from our Shi˜ites for walåyah toward us when they were particles (dharr) on the day when He took the m¥thåq of the particles to affirm Himself, as Lord, and Mu±ammad as Prophet. And He showed Mu±ammad his community (ummatahu) in the clay (†¥nah), and they were shadows (azillah),45 and He made them from the clay from which He had created Adam; and He created the spirits (arwå÷) of our Shi˜ites a thousand years before their bodies and showed them to [Mu±ammad] and they were recognized by the Messenger of God (peace and blessings upon him) and by Ãl¥ b. Ab¥ †ålib (peace be upon him) and we recognize them by the peculiar nature (la÷n) of their speech.46

This tradition posits a particular role and distinction for Shi˜ites among the rest of mankind in the world of pre-eternity. The account narrated here seems to refer to the time of the taking of the m¥thåq of the sons of Adam in general, given the reference to the “particles” (dharr), and it is the “ummah” of Mu±ammad generally which is exhibited before the Prophet. While all members of the ummah, according to this tradition, are created from the “clay of Adam,” the Shi˜ites are given the additional distinctions of having accepting walåyah as part of their m¥thåq and of having their souls created a thousand years before their bodies. They are further set apart for particular recognition by both Mu±ammad and Ãl¥. Another tradition makes an analogy between the exclusive m¥thåq of the Shi˜ites and the m¥thåq of mankind in general: Verily our ÷ad¥th are difficult (ƒa˜b mustaƒãb), none can bear them save enlightened breasts or sincere hearts or virtuous characters; verily God took the m¥thåq from our Shi˜ites, just as He took [an oath] from the Children of Adam, “Am I not your Lord? (a-lastu bi-rabbikum).” Whoever is true to us, God is true to him in [granting him] Paradise; and whoever hates us, and does not grant us our right, then [he is] in Hell, eternally.47

This tradition is rather ambiguous as to the nature of the m¥thåq and those who accepted it. It could mean either that a separate m¥thåq was taken exclusively from the Shi˜ites, which was like the m¥thåq taken from mankind in general, or that the same m¥thåq was taken


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from the Shi˜ites and all of mankind, but that only the Shi˜ites remain true to it in the course of their earthly life. In any case, accounts of the m¥thåq in Shi˜ite tradition are frequently related to the notion of walåyat Ãl¥, and in nearly all variations of the story, the taking of the m¥thåq is considered to be the occasion on which the Shi˜ites were definitively distinguished from the rest of mankind for the first time. It is to this mythological event that the Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th tradition traces the cosmological origin of its own community.

THE PRIMORDIAL PACT AND SHI˜ITE PREDESTINARIAN THOUGHT The Qur˘anic description of the m¥thåq, or primordial pact, taken from the sons of Adam is not necessarily an argument for a predestinarian view of human eschatology. After all, the Qur˘anic version of the event suggests that all of humanity agreed to recognize the Lordship of God, but that not all would be true to this oath in earthly life; and the verse that follows the description of the pact implies that some men would renege on this primordial recognition of God during their earthly lives (and so be reminded of it on the Last Day). The taking of such an oath, therefore, did not seem to determine an individual’s belief or unbelief in earthly life. Yet, despite the apparent neutrality of the verse regarding the jabr/tafw¥¿ debate—or even its apparent suggestion that one may renege on the pre-eternal pact during earthly life—the fact is that in Shi˜ite (and some Sunni) Qur˘an commentaries, the verse is often associated with predestinarian notions. In particular, the m¥thåq event is sometimes associated with the notion that two groups of men were established in pre-eternity—believers and unbelievers. In Shi˜ite mythology, this is usually connected to the discussion of the two types of clay (†¥nah) that were said to constitute the hearts and bodies of the prophets, Imåms, Shi˜ites/ believers, and unbelievers in various combinations. There are numerous versions of the †¥nah myth, and since this notion has already been sufficiently addressed by other authors, it will here suffice to mention the general scheme presented in these traditions, which is as follows: the prophets and Imåms are made exclusively and entirely out of “good” clay; the hearts of the believers or their “spirits (arwå÷)” are similarly made from good clay, but their bodies are made from a mixture of good and base clay; while both the hearts and the bodies of the unbelievers are composed of the “base” clay, or of a mixture of good and base clay.48 A tradition to this effect is cited in Shi˜ite sources in connection with the m¥thåq of the sons of Adam in pre-eternity, and sometimes in relation to the specific Qur˘anic verse in which this

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event is described. Various versions of this tradition can be found in Shi˜ite works, but the one in which the tradition is connected directly with the m¥thåq of the sons of Adam is related by Mu±ammad al-Båqir from his father, Ãl¥ b. al-¡usayn Zayn al-˜≈bid¥n. The tradition cites Qur˘an VII:172, and gives the following commentary: Verily [God] took a fistful (qab¿ah) of earth (turåb), the earth (turbah) from which He created Adam. Then He poured fresh, sweet water on it and left it for forty days; then He poured bitter, salty water on it and left it for forty days. When the clay had fermented, He took it and kneaded it well, and then they came out like particles (dharr) from His right and from His left. He ordered all of them to descend into the Fire, and so those of the right (aƒ÷åb al-yam¥n) entered and it became cool and harmless for them, while those of the left (aƒ÷åb al-shimål) refused to enter.49

This tradition brings together the notions of the two kinds of clay, the dividing of mankind into “those of the right and those of the left,” and the connection of the tradition with the m¥thåq, since the tradition is a commentary upon Qur˘an VII:172. Yet there is no clear indication in this tradition that the aƒ÷åb al-yam¥n represent Shi˜ites exclusively. In fact, it is a rather general predestinarian tradition— there are those destined for Paradise and those destined for Hell, and the matter is set in pre-eternity—and this lack of sectarian exclusivity characterizes †¥nah traditions attributed to Ãl¥ Zayn al-˜≈bid¥n in other contexts as well.50 It is also interesting to note that a variant version of the same tradition is cited by †abar¥ in his tafs¥r of Qur˘an VII:172, from Sa˜¥d b. Jubayr on the authority of Ibn Ãbbås.51 Although these two figures were both prominent Meccan traditionists, while Ãl¥ Zayn al-˜≈bid¥n resided in Medina, both have strong connections to the Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th tradition. Ibn Ãbbås reportedly enjoyed close relations with his cousin Ãl¥ b. Ab¥ †ålib and with the latter’s son, al-¡usayn (to whom he is said to have offered the unheeded advice to forego his fateful journey to Iraq). He is a frequently cited authority in Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th works, where his traditions are often related through the secondary transmitter, Sa˜¥d b. Jubayr; and in Sunni sources he is listed as one of Ãl¥ b. al-¡usayn’s principal, non-Ãlid sources for traditions.52 Moreover, Shi˜ite biographical works name Sa˜¥d b. Jubayr as one of only five people who remained loyal to the ¡usaynid line by recognizing Ãl¥ b. al-¡usayn as the Imåm after al-¡usayn’s death.53 Thus, the original and non-sectarian version of this tradition may be traced either to Ãl¥ Zayn al-˜≈bid¥n himself, or to the Hijazi school of tradition, of which he was a distinguished member, and within which he had good connections.54


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However, in versions of the tradition related from the later Imåms, Mu±ammad al-Båqir and Ja˜far al-Œådiq, we find an explicit identification of the aƒ÷åb al-yam¥n, or those of the better †¥nah, with the Shi˜ites. A tradition from al-Båqir states that the ahl al-bayt and the hearts of their Shi˜ites were created from the best material, while the enemies of the ahl al-bayt were created from the basest material and that the hearts of the Shi˜ites “incline toward [the ahl al-bayt] because they are created from that which [God] created us,” while the enemies of the ahl-al-bayt incline toward the base matter from which they were created.55 A tradition attributed to al-Œådiq claims that God creates the believer, or the Shi˜ite, from the sweet “clay of Paradise,” and creates the unbeliever, or the persecutor of the Shi˜ites (nåƒib), from the “black and filthy clay,” the “clay of the Fire.”56 Thus, the tradition about the two kinds of individuals created in pre-eternity—those of good clay and those of base clay, or those of the right hand and those of the left—moves beyond general predestinarian ideas regarding who becomes a believer or unbeliever, in the sense of recognizing the authority of God, to the more sectarian notion that one’s status as a Shi˜ite or non-Shi˜ite is definitively established in pre-eternity. The distinguishing of Shi˜ites from non-Shi˜ites in pre-eternity is expounded in a number of other traditions as well, but they are attributed in the main to Mu±ammad al-Båqir. An idea commonly attributed to al-Båqir, for example, is that because God took a certain m¥thåq specifically from the Imåms and their Shi˜ites in pre-eternity, the numbers of Shi˜ites and non-Shi˜ites were “fixed”; he is said to have declared: “If they wanted to add one man to their number, they could not and if they wanted to subtract one man from their number, they could not.”57 This notion of a “fixed” number of Shi˜ites, known from pre-eternity, is also reflected in Shi˜ite traditions regarding a “book” allegedly given to Ãl¥ by the Prophet, and then passed down from Imåm to Imåm, in which are written the names of all Shi˜ites to the end of time (“their names and those of their fathers.”)58 Other traditions attributed to al-Båqir claim that the determination of Shi˜ite identity is the result of divine favor, and not strictly a matter of personal or voluntary choice. Some traditions claim that it is God’s love for, or beneficence toward, a particular individual that is responsible for his becoming a Shi˜ite. For example, al-Båqir reportedly declared that only those whom God loved affirmed the walåyah of the ahl al-bayt in the m¥thåq, while others accepted some, but not all, of the provisions of the m¥thåq.59 Another tradition claims that God gives worldly good to both those He loves and those He hates, but that He only gives the gift of faith (¥mån) or religion (d¥n) to those He loves, or to “His chosen ones among His creation.”60 Moreover, a belief in the pre-determined nature of Shi˜ite identity becomes the basis for discouraging Shi˜ites

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from participating in either religious debates (khuƒ¶mah) or propaganda on behalf of the Shi˜ite cause. In traditions attributed to both alBåqir and al-Œådiq, Shi˜ites are admonished to give up religious debates and leave the “nås” (i.e., non-Shi˜ites) alone, for “if God desires good (khayr) for His servant, He will mark his heart such that he will come to this amr (authority, i.e., the Shi˜ite perspective) more quickly than a bird to its nest.”61 A more compulsionist version of this tradition asserts that “if God desires good (khayr) for a servant, He takes him by the neck” and forcibly brings him into the Shi˜ite community;62 or variously, that He commands an angel to do so.63 In all of these traditions, God’s decision to show beneficence to particular individuals by causing them to become Shi˜ite—to the exclusion of others—seems arbitrary. Membership in the Shi˜ite community is said to be dependent on the primordial pact taken for walåyah to Ãl¥, but in some traditions even an individual’s acceptance of this pact seems determined by God’s love, since only those whom God loved affirmed walåyah, according to al-Båqir. Once the determination had been made in pre-eternity that an individual would become either a Shi˜ite or a non-Shi˜ite, it was considered to be absolute and final. According to traditions attributed to both al-Båqir and al-Œådiq, the love or attraction an individual Shi˜ite feels for the ahl al-bayt is something created by God,64 and something to which the Shi˜ite inclines regardless of his own will. Ja˜far al-Œådiq is reported to have said that when God made His creation, “He created a group (qawm) to love us, and if one of them leaves this view (hådha˘l-ra˘y), God returns him to it, in spite of himself; and He created a group to hate us, and they will never love us.”65 In another tradition, Mu±ammad al-Båqir seems almost inclined to pity nonShi˜ites, reportedly telling his disciples that “if the nås (i.e., non-Shi˜ites) could love us, they would” but because of the events that took place at the time of the m¥thåq, they cannot.66 As noted above, there is good evidence that the development of this cosmological and mythological history of pre-eternity as a means of explaining the unique and elite role of the Shi˜ites first began in the late Umayyad period, around the time of Mu±ammad al-Båqir or the time of his influence. In addition to the close association of these traditions with al-Båqir in Imåm¥ tradition, we also have corroborating evidence in the material collected by historians and heresiographers for the heresiarch al-Mugh¥rah b. Sa˜¥d al-˜Ijl¥, who was discussed in the previous chapter. Al-Mugh¥rah, a figure much castigated by later Imåm¥ ÷ad¥th and biographical tradition, is generally placed by the heresiographers in the category of the extremist Shi˜ites (ghulåt). While the warnings against his extremist ideas are well-warranted, alMugh¥rah seems, nonetheless, to have had important connections to


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the proto-Imåm¥, Råfi∂¥ Shi˜ite community. He was undoubtedly a Råfi∂¥ Shi˜ite, for he is reported to have cursed the first two caliphs;67 and he was also evidently associated with one of al-Båqir’s close companions, Jåbir b. Yaz¥d al-Ju˜f¥.68 But more importantly, al-Mugh¥rah was rather unique among late Umayyad Shi˜ite heresiarchs in that he chose to recognize the imåmate of Mu±ammad al-Båqir instead of that of Ab¨ Håshim b. Mu±ammad b. al-¡anafiyyah, who was al-Båqir’s contemporary and apparently more popular among certain Shi˜ite groups of the time.69 It is also important to note that al-Mugh¥rah did not live into the period of Ja˜far al-Œådiq’s influence, being killed by the Umayyad governor in the year 119 (only a few years after alBåqir’s own death in either 114 or 117). In Ashãr¥’s Maqålåt alislåmiyy¥n, the heresiographer records a long passage regarding the origin of believers and unbelievers in pre-eternity that is attributed to al-Mugh¥rah and that bears a strong resemblance to similar traditions attributed to al-Båqir. The passage includes the central elements of the Imåm¥ version of this mythological tradition—namely, the idea that the clay of mankind was formed from two kinds of water, sweet and salty, and that believers were made from the clay formed with sweet water while unbelievers were made from the clay formed with salty water—although al-Mugh¥rah’s version also includes a number of other, more extremist and anthropomorphic ideas.70 As one scholar has noted, al-Mugh¥rah posited a rather elitist view of the nature of the Shi˜ite community,71 and this tradition was likely intended to further that notion. Thus, we have in al-Mugh¥rah, and in the ideas that the heresiographical literature attributes to him, unmistakable parallels to the elitist and cosmological/mythological ideas we find attributed to al-Båqir in Imåm¥ sources. Whether or not al-Båqir himself encouraged or even approved of al-Mugh¥rah’s ideas, there is strong evidence that they arose in the intellectual environment of the Kufan Shi˜ite community attached particularly to his imåmate in the late Umayyad period. One can always debate whether such traditions can be reasonably attributed to the Imåms themselves, but one can hardly argue against their authenticity within the early Shi˜ite tradition. They are found in many of the earliest sources for Shi˜ite tradition, and there are almost no traditions that clearly contradict the more predestinarian m¥thåq or †¥nah formulations (aside from the middle-of-the-road position refuting both jabr and tafw¥¿, which in any case does not explicitly refute the predestinarian elements of these traditions). It is true that many of these types of traditions are used in the context of admonishing Shi˜ites to refrain from extensive engagement and debate with non-Shi˜ites, citing the impossibility of changing God’s predetermination with regard to their religious confession; and it is also

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true that these ideas are found primarily in Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th sources, as opposed to the Shi˜ite kalåm tradition, which existentially, of course, believed in the value of religious debate. Therefore, one might argue that these traditions represent part of the Qummi traditionist criticism of the rationalism of the Baghdadi and Basran Shi˜ite schools of kalåm of the fourth and fifth centuries, so engaged as they were in religious debate. Such a hypothesis does not stand up to further examination, however, for while some Qummi traditionists may have been keen to transmit ÷ad¥th material critical of the mutakallim¶n, other evidence suggests they were unlikely to have wholly invented the fundamental mythology that underlay these predestinarian or compulsionist traditions. First, it should be noted that any explicit discussion of the issue of jabr and tafw¥¿ in the works of the Qummi traditionists themselves characteristically cites al-Œådiq’s view that the truth of the matter lay between these two perspectives. In other places, the Qummi traditionists argued that God possessed foreknowledge of events, but that this did not entail jabr or divine compulsion with regard to human destiny. In either case, when discussing the theological issue directly, Shi˜ite traditionists did not present a view markedly different from that of their Mu˜tazilite-influenced counterparts in Baghdad. Second, we find similar compulsionist traditions connected with the m¥thåq in Sunni tafs¥r and ÷ad¥th sources—some with textual and isnåd similarities to the Shi˜ite versions—with chains of transmission that suggest that they originated in the early (late first/early second century) Hijazi school of tradition. Finally, the presence of these types of compulsionist traditions throughout many of the earliest known Shi˜ite sources—that is, in the existing uƒ¶l (even those not known for their particularly extremist or cosmogonic content, such as that of Durust b. Ab¥ Man∑¨r) or in ¡imyar¥’s Qurb al-isnåd—suggests that these ideas were fairly well-accepted in second- and third-century Shi˜ite circles. Whether or not they represent the personal opinion of the Imåms themselves, they no doubt reflect something of the Shi˜ite community’s understanding of its own origin, its minority existence, and its eschatological destiny—framed in a sometimes elaborate and fanciful but conceptually consistent mythology. This mythology also seems to be an early development and can probably be traced to the time of al-Båqir, or shortly after his death—that is, to the period of his intellectual influence—given the number of such traditions attributed personally to him or to ghulåt thinkers whom the heresiographical sources associate with a belief in his imåmate. The importance of these early electionist and mythological traditions to Shi˜ite notions of self and communal identity should not be underestimated. The Shi˜ites are unique among all Islamic sectarian groups in positing the origin of their community not only before the


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death of the Prophet but in the time of pre-eternity. They are the only group to apply existing predestinarian notions of faith and community in a sectarian as well as a universal sense. Even the Kharijites, with the strong sense of “charismatic community” sometimes attributed to them,72 hardly posit such a cosmic origin and role to their communal existence. This profound Shi˜ite sense of having been chosen for a unique cosmological destiny likely played a significant role in sustaining the commitment and morale of the proto-Imåm¥ and Imåm¥ communities through the persecution and sectarian confusion of the late Umayyad period and the ideological challenges of the early Ãbbåsid era. The more rationalist Imåm¥ theologians of the fourth and fifth centuries may have discredited some of these cosmogonic and mythological traditions as the fanciful imaginings of the ghulåt, but the idea that Shi˜ites, as individuals and as a community, possess a unique spiritual status and destiny continues to inform Shi˜ite selfperception to the present day.73


CHAPTER 8

The Charismatic Nature and Spiritual Distinction of the Shi˜ites

I

n the analysis of the early Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th tradition as presented in the previous two chapters, we saw the somewhat amorphous beginnings of a more profound and elaborate construction of Shi˜ite identity. This particular conception of Shi˜ite identity seems to have its roots in the early second century and is based on the notion of walåyah as an expression of the absolute attachment of the individual Shi˜ite to the ahl al-bayt. It is an attachment understood in a more affective, rather than active, sense, and it is often presented synonymously with the notion of love (÷ubb). In this formulation, walåyah is presented as part of a special pact that God makes only with His chosen Shi˜ites in pre-eternity, and this pact then determines the spiritual and sectarian vocation of the Shi˜ites in earthly life. If there is still a remnant of the voluntarist aspect of walåyah, it plays out in the mythical drama of pre-eternity, when the Shi˜ites alone recognize the walåyah of Ãl¥ and his descendants. As presented in the ÷ad¥th, then, the Shi˜ites are not the voluntary religio-political organization that they appear to have been in their earliest historical incarnation but rather they are a chosen community, an elect. Their vocation is not to achieve this or that religiopolitical objective but rather to carry within themselves, in their love for and attachment to the ahl al-bayt, the full and complete covenant of God with His creation. This chapter examines the language and cosmological framework through which Shi˜ite electionist notions became an important part of Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th discourse, as well as the sectarian speculation this spawned regarding the spiritual distinctions, 157

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powers, and charisms Shi˜ites enjoyed by virtue of their unique spiritual status. The m¥thåq traditions, discussed in the previous chapter, locate the origin of the unique spiritual status of the Shi˜ites in the realm of “pre-eternity,” suggesting a largely predestinarian view of Shi˜ite identity. Whether by choice or divine election, the taking of this m¥thåq in pre-eternity was viewed as the mythological source of Shi˜ite identity, and multiple traditions attributed to the Imåms assert that an individual cannot alter this decision or avoid its spiritual implications in the course of earthly life. Through this primordial event, Shi˜ites were said to be distinguished from the rest of the Islamic community—and mankind in general—as a religious elite, chosen before birth for special spiritual distinctions and responsibilities. This spiritual election in pre-eternity was also said to result in tangible, physical distinctions in the earthly lives of individual Shi˜ites. One series of traditions claims that all Shi˜ites were the recipients of the “first of all earthly blessings,” a good birth.1 This meant that the Shi˜ite believer was never conceived in unclean or sinful circumstances; he was never the child of fornicators or adulterers (walad zinå˘),2 or conceived during his mother’s menstrual period.3 There is even a curious tradition related through a line of female descendants of Ãl¥, in which it is said that on the Day of Judgment, all of humanity will be called by the names of their mothers4 (in order to ensure that they are correctly identified, since one can never be absolutely certain of a child’s paternity), but that Shi˜ites alone will have the distinction of being called by the names of their fathers, “because they love Ãl¥ and therefore have [the quality of] good birth.”5 This position remained purely rhetorical and conceptual in Shi˜ite tradition, and was never adopted as a way of establishing or negating membership in the Shi˜ite community. Nonetheless, it is significant even at this level, since it seems to stand in marked distinction to the mainstream Islamic perspective that considered children to be completely innocent of the sins of their parents or the circumstances of their conception, even if the causality in the Shi˜ite case is reversed—it is not the circumstances of one’s birth that determines the possibility of membership in the Shi˜ite community but a pre-existing determination of Shi˜ite affiliation that determines the circumstances of one’s birth. A smaller set of Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th narrations also claim that despite the suffering Shi˜ites will be subject to in their lives, they are spared from certain types of illness, such as leprosy and other socially stigmatizing conditions.6 Leaving aside the mainstream Islamic philosophical resistance to the notion of an individuated human existence in the “pre-eternal” realm before time, such self-generated notions of a unique and “cho-

The Charismatic Nature and Spiritual Distinction of the Shi˜ites 159 sen” status among fellow Muslims would likely have been rather offensive to Muslims outside the Shi˜ite community. It is important to consider, however, that these ideas, and the ÷ad¥th narrations that promoted them, were almost certainly not meant for the consumption of those outside the Shi˜ite community. Rather, these traditions were likely intended to bolster the commitment and confidence of Shi˜ites themselves in the face of largely unrelenting internal and external challenges to their community. However, given the sensitivities of the non-Shi˜ite community, the language Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th traditions employ to spiritually distinguish the Shi˜ites from the rest of the Islamic ummah is by turns subtle and explicit. To the extent that these traditions are authentically attributed to the Imåms, it is likely that the subtler terminology of distinction was used by the Imåms (particularly Mu±ammad al-Båqir and Ja˜far al-Œådiq) while speaking in mixed sectarian company, or else when they were teaching their disciples in open and public places.7 Under such circumstances, the Imåm could refer to the Shi˜ites simply as the “mu˘min¶n,” since even in al-Båqir’s time, a profound link between walåyah and ¥mån had been established in Shi˜ite circles, as discussed in Chapter 5. The identification of the Shi˜ites with the mu˘min¶n, or “true believers,” therefore, was not only an important point of sectarian doctrine but could also be used to hide the exclusivist sectarian beliefs of the Shi˜ites in plain sight. The Imåm could speak in public or in mixed sectarian company about the spiritual rewards and benefits the “believers” enjoy, and his words could be understood in a perfectly mainstream, ethical manner by non-Shi˜ites present on the occasion. Only the Shi˜ites would have to know that the term “mu˘min¶n” was a specific and exclusive reference to them (if indeed it was). In other cases, and indeed quite frequently, the Imåms would refer to non-Shi˜ites simply as the “nås”—a term which can simply mean “people,” but which can also have the sense of “ordinary” or “common” people. There are countless instances where Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th traditions mention the “nås” in a pejorative tone, and the reference is clearly to those outside the Shi˜ite community. We have already seen examples of this in the previous chapter. Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th discourse also occasionally refers to Shi˜ites as the khåƒƒah (the elite, the eminent ones) and more frequently refers to non-Shi˜ites as the ˜åmmah (the commoners), two terms that had a general and nonsectarian meaning and could be used in a variety of ways to distinguish, for example, the educated classes from the ordinary masses, or in Sufi terminology, those of greater mystical understanding from ordinary Muslim believers. Again, the Imåm could speak in these terms without the sectarian content of his message being readily apparent.

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The Charismatic Community SHI˜ITE ELECTIONISM

The terms khåƒƒah and ˜åmmah, however, did reflect the sense of spiritual hierarchy that characterized most Shi˜ite thought about themselves and their community, and the electionist nature of these Shi˜ite notions of spiritual distinction and vocation seem to stand at odds with the profound egalitarianism often attributed to the Islamic religious perspective. The Qur˘an stresses the equal origin of all human beings in its notion of fi†rah—the idea that all human beings are born according to the same pure and normative mold. It derides false distinctions between people on the basis of arbitrary factors such as ethnic identity and socio-economic status. God, we are told, deliberately formed human beings into “tribes and nations” so that “they might know one another.”8 The Qur˘an asserts in multiple places that the acts and beliefs of all human beings are judged on the same scale;9 God only makes distinctions between His human creatures on the basis of their taqwå, or piety, and their service to religion.10 In other words, if there is a distinction between human individuals, it is rightly based only on an individual’s religious efforts and sincerity, not on the accidents of birth. At the same time, however, the Qur˘an occasionally suggests both hierarchical differences among individuals and predestinarian views of human spiritual or religious destiny. The Qur˘an clearly states that God has created human beings in (varying) degrees, so that He might “try them.”11 He endows some with worldly or spiritual gifts “without account (bi-ghayri ÷isåb).”12 The Qur˘an also singles out the believers and other noble spiritual individuals for particular favors and distinctions. Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th discourse frequently cites these distinctions among individuals suggested by the Qur˘an and interprets them as references to the elite and God-given spiritual status of Shi˜ites relative to other human beings, including other Muslims. It is well known that Shi˜ite Qur˘an commentary reads references to the Imåms, to their spiritual and political authority, and to their special relationship with God and the Prophet into many passages of the Qur˘an. Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th and tafs¥r traditions identify the Imåms with nearly all Qur˘anic references to the possessors of spiritual and salvific knowledge and authority—they are, for example, the true referents of the phrases “those firmly rooted in knowledge”13 or “those in possession of authority (ulu˘l-amr).”14 In this way, Shi˜ites argued that the notion of the imåmate and the spiritual distinction of the Imåms was contained (or concealed) within the literal meaning of the Qur˘anic text. It is less well known, however, that Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th discourse asserts that references to the elite spiritual status of Shi˜ites as a whole were contained within the literal meaning of the Qur˘anic text as well. The

The Charismatic Nature and Spiritual Distinction of the Shi˜ites 161 Shi˜ites, for example, are commonly identified in Shi˜ite tafs¥r traditions with the Qur˘anic “ulu˘l-albåb” or “possessors of understanding.”15 The Qur˘anic “ulu˘l-albåb” are frequently connected with notions of spiritual remembrance and guidance and are sometimes directly and exclusively addressed by the Qur˘an.16 It is the “possessors of understanding” who take prophetic guidance and divine reminders to heart, and some passages suggest that such divine reminders are directed at them in particular.17 The ulu˘l-albåb clearly represent a class of persons possessing a superior level of spiritual distinction in Qur˘anic terminology, and Shi˜ite tafs¥r traditions consistently identified this group with the Shi˜ites specifically. In a commonly reported interpretation given by al-Båqir on the Qur˘anic verse “Are those who know and those who do not know equal? Only the possessors of understanding (ulu˘l-albåb) remember,”18 al-Båqir identifies “those who know” with the Imåms, “those who do not know” with their enemies, and the ulu˘l-albåb with the Shi˜ites.19 The Shi˜ites are also identified with other elite categories mentioned in the Qu˘ran, such as the “people of the right (aƒ÷åb al-yam¥n),” who unlike others, will not be held hostage to what they have earned with their deeds.20 Another elite spiritual category found in the Qur˘an is that of the shuhadå˘ (martyrs or witnesses). Martyrs in the cause of God are given special status in the Qur˘an. The Qur˘an asserts that those who do not fight and die in the path of God are not equal to those who do; and the believers are told not to regard those killed in the path of God as “dead” because indeed they are living, in God’s presence and provided for by Him. Some interpretations of this passage considered it to mean that martyrs dwelt already in Paradise, even before the final judgment at the end of time.21 Ja˜far al-Œådiq interprets the primary Qur˘anic verse pertaining to the special status of the martyrs as being a reference to his Shi˜ite supporters;22 and in some traditions he states that all Shi˜ites are martyrs, no matter how they die and that, indeed, there are no real martyrs outside the Shi˜ites. 23 The Qur˘an also uses the Arabic term shuhadå˘ in the common sense of “witnesses,” and tells us that those who believe in God and the Prophet are the “truthful ones” (ƒidd¥q¶n) and “witnesses before their Lord” (shuhadå˘ ˜inda rabbihim). These two meanings of the term shuhadå˘ are conflated in a Shi˜ite tradition attributed to al-¡usayn b. Ãl¥, in which al-¡usayn tells Zayd b. Arqam that every Shi˜ite is a ƒidd¥q and a shah¥d. When Zayd asks: “Even those who die in their beds?,” al-¡usayn responds by quoting the verse above to the effect that all true believers are shuhadå˘.24 The long history of Shi˜ite oppression must have lent power and saliency to this interpretation, which seems to have continued even after the movement had become largely quietist in orientation. A series of traditions attributed to al-Œådiq, for example, claims that the

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Shi˜ite who waits patiently for the qå˘im (the member of the ahl al-bayt who will rise up to restore rightful authority to the descendants of Mu±ammad) has the same status as those who will fight with the mahd¥, or those who fought with the Prophet.25 Another tradition asserts that Shi˜ites who patiently bear adversity receive the reward of a thousand martyrs.26 Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th literature also frequently interprets Qur˘anic passages that mention the believers and the pious in general as being specific references to the Shi˜ites, whom they sometimes consider to be the exclusive recipients of certain divine favors promised to these pious believers. For example, a tradition attributed to al-Œådiq glosses the Qur˘anic verse that asserts that Satan has no power over God’s “devotees” (˜ibåd), by saying that these “devotees” are none other than “this group [i.e., Shi˜ites] exclusively.”27 The Shi˜ites are sometimes identified with the Qur˘anic “best of creatures”28 and “those true to their trust,”29 and are frequently considered the sole recipients of the more extraordinary types of divine forgiveness and leniency mentioned in the Qur˘an. When the Qur˘an says that believers will have their evil actions exchanged for good ones, 30 that their reward for good actions will be multiplied by ten,31 that God will forgive those who mix good actions with bad,32 or that their minor sins will be forgiven if they avoid the major ones,33 some Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th traditions view these as favors pertaining to Shi˜ites in particular.34 If Shi˜ites claim that the spiritual prestige enjoyed by the “believers” in the Qur˘an pertains exclusively to themselves, rather than to all members of the Islamic community, then this can perhaps be justified by the repeated Qur˘anic declaration that the truly pious and believing are a minority among human beings generally. In dozens of passages, the Qur˘an notes that “most people” (akthar al-nås) do not believe,35 do not know various spiritual truths,36 do not use their intelligence,37 or are not grateful for divine beneficence38—thereby rendering the true believers an elite few. By stressing the small number of true [Shi˜ite] “believers,” Shi˜ites made a virtue of their minority status, considering it a mark of their chosenness. This discourse seems intended to reassure and comfort the Shi˜ites, with one tradition declaring that “the awliyå˘ of God have been weak and few ever since God created Adam.”39 In the Nahj al-balåghah, a sermon attributed to Ãl¥ advises that if one finds falsehood and its advocates in the majority, he should know that it has been this way since ancient times and is unlikely to change,40 and M¨så al-Kåπim likewise tells his followers that the believers are few and the unbelievers are legion.41 The idea that the Shi˜ite community would always be small and “weak” in the world until its hour of victory arrived, and that this smallness or weakness was a mark of spiritual distinction, must have given

The Charismatic Nature and Spiritual Distinction of the Shi˜ites 163 heart to the Shi˜ite community at various points in its history, encouraged greater solidarity among the members of the community, and bolstered their sense of possessing a unique religious vocation. Such a perspective, however, like that of electionism itself, seems to stand in marked distinction to the more triumphalist sentiments that one detects in other forms of Islamic discourse. Against the background of an Islamic ummah that prided itself on its worldly success—considering it to be a sign of divine providence for the religion of Islam and a mark of divine favor that pertained to the Islamic ummah collectively—the Shi˜ites, by contrast, defined themselves as a community of the individually and divinely selected few, whose worldly defeats, trials, and injustices were to be expected and endured as signs of their unique spiritual status and, ironically, of divine favor. The Shi˜ites, however, were not entirely unique in the elitist and electionist notions they held for themselves, or in viewing hardship and difficulty as the mark of favorable divine attention. Similar notions were put forward in the works of Sufi authors, who often referred to individuals on the mystical path as an “elite” or “elect,” divinely chosen to receive, embody, and transmit the true inner meaning of the Islamic message. In his study of Moroccan Sufism, Vincent Cornell notes that Moroccan hagiographies refer to the Sufis as forming a “separate community of believers” within the Islamic ummah, representing a community situated between a heavenly ideal and “the corruptibility of human society.”42 Other Sufi hagiographical works celebrate the suffering—both physical and emotional—that the Sufis alone endured. It was their blinding vision of the true nature of reality that made them burn with spiritual desire, weep tears of blood in spiritual longing, and accept the sometimes brutal and humiliating treatment they received at the hands of other Muslims who were incapable of understanding or bearing the secrets they harbored within their anguished hearts. While this kind of spiritual suffering is quite different than that faced by the Shi˜ites—whose suffering came in the form of political weakness, oppression, and historic and continuing injustice—the concept of chosenness that one finds in Sufi discourse, and the descriptions of the spiritual distinctions this entailed, is remarkably similar, and in many cases identical, to what we find in Shi˜ite works. Particularly striking is the fact that both Shi˜ite and Sufi electionist notions are profoundly connected to their views of the mythological events of pre-eternity and/or the concept of the primordial m¥thåq as mentioned in the Qur˘an. Cornell notes that the Moroccan Sufi writer al-Jaz¨l¥ viewed the Sufi community—as Shi˜ites likewise viewed their own—as a “salvific community” or a community of the already saved.43 Their special status, he notes later, was sometimes believed to have

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been sealed at the time of the pre-eternal covenant-taking in which the Sufis took a special and additional oath of righteousness,44 and during which time it was believed that the Sufi master communicated with his followers.45 Note the parallel with Shi˜ite traditions about an additional oath taken exclusively by Shi˜ites and the idea that the Imåms recognize their followers from the pre-eternal event of the m¥thåq.46 In other Sufi literature the idea of a m¥thåq, or pre-eternal covenant, involving the Sufis is explicitly connected with the concept of walåyah, just as it is in Shi˜ite tradition. The fourth-century Sufi writer al-¡ak¥m al-Tirmidh¥, the earliest expositor of the Sufi concept of walåyah (already mentioned in Chapter 1), writes in his work The Life of the Friends of God (Kitåb s¥rat al-awliyå˘), that while all of humanity took the “oath of [God’s] oneness (ãqd al-taw÷¥d)” in pre-eternity, the “friends of God” took the special oath of “walåyah” which entailed the notion of intuitive spiritual knowledge or the “lifting of veils” (kashf al-ghi†å˘).47 He also contends that God “wrote” faith into the hearts of the awliyå˘ “in pre-eternity.”48 Elsewhere he asserts that in the case of “ordinary believers,” God wrote faith in their hearts with His left hand, and in the case of the awliyå˘, with His right.49 Spencer Trimingham, a scholar of Sufism, likewise notes the existence among Sufis of the concept that walåyah was something established in a pre-creation timeframe.50 Again, this differs somewhat from the Shi˜ite formulation of this mythology, but the notion of chosenness and spiritual predestination is clearly analogous. Al-¡ak¥m makes numerous references to the chosenness of the awliyå˘, even outside of the context of pre-eternal mythology,51 and similar sentiments are found throughout all genres of Sufi literature, and are attributed to both early and later Sufi authorities.52 Despite a well-known similarity of basic ideas and terminology in Shi˜ism and Sufism, comparisons between these two perspectives in Islam often note the profound differences in the structure and conception of spiritual authority in the two traditions. While the Sufi master is frequently compared to the Shi˜ite Imåm because of their common role of “initiating” their followers into divine secrets and their claims on the absolute obedience of their followers, there remains an important and irreducible difference between the two. The separation between the Sufi master and his disciple is simply a function of their relative degrees of advancement on the Sufi path, and a disciple could theoretically—and occasionally did, historically—surpass his master in his level of spiritual attainment. The relationship between the Shi˜ite Imåm and his disciple was not analogous—there was an irreducible existential divide between the Imåm and his followers that could not be traversed regardless of the follower’s spiritual achievements. The Imåm was chosen for his role, just as the prophets were for theirs, and he would always remain the Imåm in

The Charismatic Nature and Spiritual Distinction of the Shi˜ites 165 relation to his followers. What I hope to demonstrate in the remainder of this chapter, however, is that while the existential and authoritative divide between the Imåm and his disciples continued to be rigorously maintained in principle in Shi˜ite thought, Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th discourse nonetheless made numerous and sometimes rather extraordinary claims about the spiritual and cosmological position of Shi˜ite believers, assigning them a variety of unique charisms and spiritual gifts that reflected, paralleled, or even rivaled those of the Imåms themselves.

HIERARCHY AND MUTUALITY IN THE IM≈M-DISCIPLE RELATIONSHIP A careful analysis of Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th literature reveals an elaborate theory regarding the nature of the “believer” in Shi˜ite tradition, a theory second in importance only to that of the imåmate. Most of the Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th material concerning the subject of “belief and unbelief” (al-¥mån wa˘l-kufr) is devoted to elaborating the special position of the believer in this world and the next, along with his unique characteristics, virtues, and gifts. The idea that the believer has a unique place and function within the cosmos relative to the rest of humanity is already implied in the †¥nah and m¥thåq traditions discussed in detail earlier. In these traditions, the believer occupies a station qualitatively above that of the ordinary human being, regardless of, or at least prior to, his life in the world. It is hardly difficult to understand why Shi˜ites, as a frequently persecuted minority, should conceive of themselves as acting out a key part in a cosmic drama that begins in pre-eternity and is fully completed only in the hereafter. Such a notion gives purpose and meaning to their persecution in this world and hope for a wellearned reward in the next. What is, perhaps, surprising is that Shi˜ite tradition devotes nearly as much space to the unique qualities of the believer as to those of the Imåm;53 and, as with the traditions involving the special distinctions of the Imåms, traditions regarding the qualities of the Shi˜ite believer span the range from the mythological and extremist to the more ethical and mainstream. A number of different Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th traditions establish an explicit ontological and cosmological hierarchy in which the Shi˜ites (or the “believers”) are ranked just after God, the Prophet, and the Imåms. According to one tradition, God created no creature after the messengers and prophets better than Ãl¥ and his progeny, and the closest to these are their Shi˜ites and their anƒår (supporters).54 In another tradition attributed to Ja˜far al-Œådiq by Ab¨ ¡amzah al-Thumål¥, Shi˜ites are said to be the nearest group to the Throne of God (al-ãrsh) after the Imåms themselves.55 However, the hierarchy of God, Messenger,

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Imåm, and believer is perhaps most clearly articulated in the following, widely quoted tradition: . . . [Målik b. al-Juhan¥] said: While I was sitting with [Ja˜far alŒådiq] that day, I mentioned something about [the Imåms’] virtue. He said to me: “You (pl.), by God, are our Shi˜ites; do not think that you exaggerate regarding our authority. “O Målik! Verily no one can attain the attributes of God; and just as no one can attain the attributes of God, likewise no one can attain the attributes of the Messenger (peace and blessings upon him); and just as no one can attain the attributes of the Messenger, likewise no one can attain our attributes, and likewise, no one can attain the attributes of the believer. “O Målik! Verily when the believer meets his brother, and takes his hand, God does not cease to gaze upon them as sins fall from their faces, until they part. Verily [the believer] cannot attain a greater attribute than he has in that circumstance.”56

Not only is the Shi˜ite believer considered to occupy a position beyond the reach of the ordinary man, but his high position is further reinforced by his association with other believers—suggesting the spiritual significance of the Shi˜ite community as a community, as well as of individual attachment to the Shi˜ite perspective. Each element of the hierarchy God-Prophet-Imåm-Shi˜ite believer provides a link in the chain of both charisma and salvation. Another tradition states: “If terror were to fall from the sky, everyone would flee to their place of refuge. We would flee to our Prophet, and you to us. So rejoice, rejoice! By God, God has not made you and others equal, and they have no nobility (karåmah).”57 Other traditions omit the level of the Prophet and state that the Imåms serve as the intermediate link between their Shi˜ite followers and God.58 Many such assertions come in the context of eschatological traditions dealing with the events of the Day of Resurrection. On that day, one tradition relates, “God will call the Prophet, then Ãl¥ next to him, then ‘the one whom God wills’ [i.e., the Imåm], and then our Shi˜ites.”59 Even while these types of traditions establish a clear spiritual hierarchy between the Imåms and their Shi˜ite followers, other traditions do not separate the categories of Imåm and believer so rigidly. In fact, a number of ÷ad¥th narrations evince a kind of mutual camaraderie between the Imåms and their followers, reinforcing notions of their common persecution and common religious distinction in contrast to the rest of the Islamic community, and noting the great comfort afforded to the Imåms by the companionship of their followers.60 There are traditions, for example, where the level of “Imåm” is not

The Charismatic Nature and Spiritual Distinction of the Shi˜ites 167 explicitly mentioned between those of “prophet” and “believer,” but rather the “believer” immediately follows the “prophet” in the cosmic hierarchy. In Ãl¥ b. Båbawayh al-Qumm¥’s Muƒådaqat al-ikhwån there is a tradition nearly identical to the one quoted above concerning the unattainable qualities of Prophet, Imåm, and believer, except that the level of “Imåm” has been omitted;61 and in one of the two versions of this tradition included in al-¡usayn b. Sa˜¥d’s Kitåb al-mu˘min, the editor has bracketed the part of the tradition referring to the level of the “Imåm,” indicating that it was not found in all of the manuscripts he had consulted.62 Several traditions attributed to al-Œådiq in Barq¥’s Ma÷åsin suggest that the Imåms and their Shi˜ite followers share a similar spiritual rank.63 One tradition identifies the Imåms and the Shi˜ites collectively with the “jewel of the children of Adam”64 and the “Family (ål) of Mu±ammad”65—granting all Shi˜ites, like their Imåms, elite status as the prized descendants of Adam and (honorary) descendants of Mu±ammad. In one extraordinary ÷ad¥th, Shi˜ites are described as standing directly to the right of the Throne of God on the Day of Resurrection, with faces so radiant that they are the “envy of the prophets and the martyrs.”66 We have already seen an identification of the Shi˜ites with martyrs, as well as a line of thought in Shi˜ite discourse that considered the Imåms superior to the pre-Mu±ammadan prophets, but here the Shi˜ites themselves are hyperbolically rendered superior to both. The occasional leveling of the hierarchical positions of Imåm and Shi˜ite disciple is also manifest in a number of traditions that assign similar cosmological and charismatic distinctions to the Imåms and their followers. For example, Chapter 7 noted the Shi˜ite belief that the Imåms, although spiritually subordinate to the Prophet Mu±ammad, were in some respects superior to the pre-Islamic prophets and to the angels— ideas sometimes found in certain forms of Sufi literature as well.67 Yet, we also find Shi˜ite traditions that assert that the believer is nobler in the eyes of God than the archangel,68 and that on the Day of Judgment, Shi˜ites would be the “envy of the prophets, the angels, and the righteous.”69 Perhaps even more compelling are those, albeit rare, traditions that assign very particular titles, usually reserved exclusively for the Imåms, to their disciples as well. One of the most important titles and functions that Shi˜ite tradition attributed to the Imåms was that of ÷ujjah, or Proof of God to humanity—a title the Imåms shared with the prophets.70 The Imåm¥ concept of ÷ujjah was directly linked to the argument for the necessity of an Imåm on earth at all times. Imåm¥ tradition argued that there was always a ÷ujjah, or Proof of God, on earth; the earth could not exist without a ÷ujjah.71 The Imåms were the “pillars of the earth” (arkån al-ar¿) and thus its necessary support.72 As

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essential as this notion was to the Imåm¥ conception of the function of the Imåm, it is interesting that in one tradition the Shi˜ite believer is also referred to as “÷ujjat Allåh,”73 and in another it is said that “if there were only one believer on earth, it would suffice for all creation”74—an idea that parallels the belief that there must be an Imåm on earth at all times. Another title applied to the Imåm was “mu÷addath”—that is, one who “is informed” or “spoken to.” The significance of this term for the Imåm¥ conception of the imåmate was its implication that the Imåms were the recipients of some form of divine inspiration—that they were “spoken to” by angels or other divine emissaries but did not see them, as the prophets did. This title even figures into one of the most wellrecorded early Shi˜ite disputes with the ˜Uthmån¥ codex of the Qur˘an. The standard text of Qur˘an XXII:52 reads: “We have sent no messenger (ras¶l) or prophet (nab¥) before you [Mu±ammad] except that Satan cast [something] into his aspiration (umniyyatihi); but God abrogates what Satan has cast and establishes His verses. God is the All-Knowing, the Wise.”75 An early Shi˜ite reading of this verse added the term mu÷addath, such that it read: “We have sent no messenger (ras¶l) or prophet (nab¥) or mu±addath. . . .”76 However, we also find an instance where the term “mu÷addath,” ordinarily a technical term for the Imåm related to his special power and knowledge, is attributed by one of the Imåms to his followers. Ãl¥ al-Ri∂å, the eighth Imåm, is said to have declared that he would like the Shi˜ite believer (mu˘min) to be “mu÷addath.” When one of his disciples questions him as to the meaning of “mu÷addath,” he replies that it means to be “mufahham” (the one who is made to understand).77 The two terms mu÷addath and mufahham are also used together in relation to the Imåm as well.78 In Etan Kohlberg’s thorough discussion of this term, he mentions this strange instance in which the term is applied by the eighth Imåm to all “believers” as an “exception that proves the rule” in terms of the Shi˜ite usage of this term.79 It is interesting, however, that in Ibn Båbawayh’s Ma˜åni˘l-akhbår, al-Ri∂å’s application of the term to the believers (rather than to the Imåms) is the only use of the term in the chapter “The meaning of al-mu÷addath.”80 In these rare attributions of the terms ÷ujjah or mu÷addath to Shi˜ite believers generally, the terms are admittedly being used with different connotations than in their attribution to the Imåms. Yet the use of two terms, so intrinsically related to the special position of the Imåm in Shi˜ite thought, to refer to ordinary Shi˜ite believers—even in rare or exceptional cases—makes a strong statement about the status of those believers in relation to the Imåms themselves, suggesting that Shi˜ite believers represented a kind of extension of the charisma and spiritual status of the Imåms—hierarchically inferior to it, but nonetheless deriving from it and ultimately connected with it.

The Charismatic Nature and Spiritual Distinction of the Shi˜ites 169 Another theme one finds in traditions about the character of Shi˜ite believers relates to the notion of their sacred and inviolable nature. This concept is most vividly illustrated in a tradition attributed to al-Båqir in which he likens Shi˜ites collectively to a “single white hair” on a black bull (or a single black hair on a white one)— thereby emphasizing both their rarity among ordinary human beings and the clarity of their spiritual distinction. The tradition goes on to compare the sacred quality of the Shi˜ites to the sacrality of both Mecca—the spiritual center of the Islamic world—and the family of the Prophet—the locus of continuing prophetic charisma in the Shi˜ite perspective.81 Elsewhere, the sacred nature of the Shi˜ite believer is compared to that of the Ka˜bah82—the most sacred sanctuary in the Islamic world. Sometimes the analogy is made that the Shi˜ite believer stands in hierarchical relationship to the ordinary Muslim as the Ka˜bah stands in relation to an ordinary mosque;83 both the Ka˜bah and an ordinary mosque serve as a locus of prayer, but the former has an existential sacredness, while the latter has a merely functional religious status. A similar tradition declares that the Muslim is sacred as the whole of the mosque in Mecca (al-masjid al-÷aråm) is sacred, but that the Shi˜ite believer is like the Ka˜bah itself—thereby considering the Shi˜ite community to be the sacred center of the already sacred community of Muslims.84 Yet another tradition asserts that the rights of the [Shi˜ite] believer are greater than those of the Ka˜bah,85 perhaps deriving from the same sentiment that led some Sufi authors to consider the heart of the realized saint to be a more perfect locus of divine presence than the Ka˜bah itself. In the most comprehensive of these traditions, the Shi˜ite believer, along with the Qur˘an, the Messenger of God, the ahl al-bayt, and the Ka˜bah are said to represent the five sacred or inviolable entities (÷urmåt) that God has placed on earth.86 If this notion of the sacred quality of the Shi˜ite believers was meant to be taken seriously, then it would follow that causing harm or showing disrespect to individual Shi˜ites or the Shi˜ite community in general was spiritually detrimental. In fact, just as there are traditions that make loyalty and love toward the Imåms and the ahl al-bayt collectively an important criterion of both ¥mån and salvation, one also finds traditions that assert a similar idea about Shi˜ites in general. In one tradition related by the problematic figure of Mufa∂∂al b. ˜Umar (who is widely but not universally seen as an extremist and unreliable transmitter in Shi˜ite tradition), Ja˜far al-Œådiq is reported to have said that anyone who attacks or rejects a believer has rejected God, and is therefore outside the walåyah of God and an associate of Satan.87 In another tradition, it is said that the nåƒib (a persecutor or avowed enemy of the Shi˜ite cause) is not necessarily one who causes harm to the ahl albayt—for there are few who would dare to express open hatred for the

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Prophet and his family—but rather, the nåƒib is the one who causes harm to the Shi˜ites because of their walåyah toward the ahl al-bayt and their dissociation from their enemies.88 Yet another tradition boldly asserts that an individual who loves the Shi˜ites, even if he does not understand their religious position and perspective, will be saved, while the one who hates them, with a similar lack of understanding, will be condemned.89 One of the more mystical characteristics that the believers share with the Imåms is their connection with the notion of light (n¶r). Ja˜far al-Œådiq, sitting amongst his closest disciples, is said to have told them that celestial beings gaze down on the earthly realm and see them and their Shi˜ite brothers “as lights brighter than those seen [by earthly beings] in the heavens.”90 Similarly there is a tradition that tells us that the believer is made of light, so that the beings of the celestial realm can see the people of earth;91 both al-Båqir and al-Œådiq are reported to have compared their followers to lights “amid the shadows of the earth”92 or lights “amid the darkness,”93 respectively. Numerous traditions report that Shi˜ites on the Day of Resurrection will be illuminated or filled with light.94 The notion of the Shi˜ites, or believers, as “lights on earth” is not unlike the notion of the Imåms as “lights for mankind,”95 and the connection can be traced, again, to the early traditions regarding the drama of pre-eternity. Many Shi˜ite traditions consider both Mu±ammad and Ãl¥ to have been formed in a primordial “Mu±ammadan light,” and some traditions assert that all of the fourteen “pure ones” (i.e., Mu±ammad, Få†imah, Ãl¥, and the eleven succeeding Imåms) were created out of this primordial light. In a Shi˜ite tradition found in a somewhat later source, the Prophet tells Ãl¥ that God had created both Ãl¥ and himself of light and then scattered this light about, such that whomever the light touched was led to the guidance of the ahl al-bayt, and whomever it missed was led away from it, quoting the Qur˘anic verse: “For whomever God has not created light, he has no light.”96 According to this formulation, then, the believers are not rivals for the Imåms as “lights on earth,” but rather their light is derived from the light of the Imåms which, in pre-eternity, was scattered exclusively upon them. In another ÷ad¥th, al-Båqir says that the Imåms represent “God’s light in the heavens and the earth” and that the light of the Imåm shines more brightly in the hearts of the [Shi˜ite] believers than the sun in broad daylight.97 Another widely cited tradition declares that the Shi˜ite believer sees “through the light of God.” In this tradition, al-Œådiq warns one of his disciples (usually Sulaymån al-Ju˜f¥) to “beware of the ‘observing eye’ or ‘clairvoyance’ (firåsah) of the believer, for he sees through the light of God.” The Imåm then explains this through a reference to the events of pre-eternity:

The Charismatic Nature and Spiritual Distinction of the Shi˜ites 171 . . . Verily God created the believer (mu˘min) from His light and dyed him (ƒabaghahu) in His mercy (ra÷matihi) and took the primordial pact (m¥thåq) of walåyah from him for us; and the mu˘min is the brother of [his fellow] mu˘min, through his mother and his father. His father is light (n¶r) and his mother is mercy (ra÷mah) and he only observes through this light from which he was created.98

A version of this tradition attributed to al-Œådiq’s son and successor, M¨så al-Kåπim, glosses the tradition attributed to his father, saying, “Our Shi˜ites see through the light (n¶r) of God and move through the mercy of God and succeed through the grace or beneficence (karåmah) of God.”99 This tradition is interesting and significant in several ways. First, it provides a symbolic and mythological basis not only for the origin of individual Shi˜ite identity and spiritual distinction, but also for the spiritual “brotherhood” of the Shi˜ite community, portraying all Shi˜ites as the metaphorical offspring of divine light and mercy. Second, it attributes the spiritual gift of firåsah—a kind of epistemological charism often translated as “clairvoyance” or the ability to read the realities of things and of souls behind their external appearance—not only to the Imåms100 but also to the Shi˜ite community at large. Finally, it is important to note that despite the rather extraordinary claim the tradition seems to make about the Shi˜ite community as a whole, it is a widely cited tradition that is found in a variety of early Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th sources, including the canonical al-Kåf¥, as well as in the very early Sufi texts of al-¡ak¥m al-Tirmidh¥, who makes several references to this tradition about the firåsah of the awliyå˘ (who for him are the realized Sufi saints), all of which are nearly identical to the Shi˜ite version above.101 While some of these traditions seem rather extremist in tone, it is important to remember that these traditions regarding light may well have been meant to be understood in a metaphorical or symbolic, rather than purely mythological, sense. Light is frequently used in the Qur˘an itself in connection with faith (¥mån),102 right guidance (hudå), and revelation103—things that Shi˜ites considered they alone possessed in full measure. The Qur˘an speaks of God’s removing individuals from darkness to light or from light to darkness as recompense for their faith (¥mån) or unbelief (kufr), respectively.104 There are other places in the Qur˘an where “light (n¶r)” represents a state in which men find themselves by virtue of God’s will, and this image may have had a certain relevance for the particularly predestinarian inclination of early Shi˜ite thought and much of Shi˜ite ÷adith tradition.105 Traditions that assign a mythological role to light, or juxtapose light and darkness in a spiritual context, are sometimes assumed to be inspired by preexisting Zoroastrian or Manichaean mythologies; but I think that it is

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at least equally plausible to read and understand such traditions in both Shi˜ite and Sufi literature within the framework of the symbolic nature of light as expressed throughout the Qur˘an, and as mystical extrapolations upon this Qur˘anic light symbolism, rather than as the result of foreign intellectual and religious influences upon these Islamic perspectives. Of all of the special distinctions that the Shi˜ites share with the Imåms, perhaps the most widely accepted and doctrinally important of these regards the eschatological function of intercession. The Qur˘an places significant limits on the possibilities of intercession in the next life, stating that no one can intercede for another except with God’s permission,106 and that on the Day of Judgment, no soul will be able to avail another.107 At the same time, the Islamic ÷ad¥th tradition affirms the possibility of intercession, at least for the prophets—and specifically for the Prophet Mu±ammad in relation to the Muslim community. While different Sunni schools of thought debated the possibility and limits of intercession—most frequently limiting it to the Prophet Mu±ammad’s intercession for believing members of the Muslim community—intercession was always an important element of the Shi˜ite religious perspective. In one tradition, Ja˜far al-Œådiq considers intercession to be one of the four unique doctrinal beliefs required of the Shi˜ites.108 However, Shi˜ite doctrine significantly expanded the possibilities for intercession. While Shi˜ite traditions support the notion that the Prophet Mu±ammad may intercede for any and all members of the Muslim community at large, they also assert that the Shi˜ite community benefited exclusively from the additional intercession of the Imåms on their behalf.109 Most relevant for our discussion here, however, is the fact that Shi˜ite tradition admits of the possibility that Shi˜ite believers themselves, like the Prophet and the Imåms, may act as intercessors for others, just as the Imåms are intercessors for their Shi˜ite followers,110 and one tradition describes the Shi˜ite believer as the one who uniquely both receives and grants intercession.111 In some traditions it is said that Shi˜ites will be able to intercede for the members of their families (ahl baytihim),112 or else for those who aided them in this life.113 There is even a tradition in which Shi˜ites are discouraged from accepting any kind of aid or charity from an enemy of the Shi˜ites (nåƒib), lest the latter seek their intercession in the next world, in which case they would be obliged to return the favor.114 Here one sees the well-known and widely recognized parallel with the Sufi perspective, which similarly extended the possibility of spiritual intercession beyond the Prophet to the mystically realized saints. It is interesting to observe, however, that while Sufis generally attributed the power of intercession only to realized practitioners of the mystical path, Shi˜ite tradition extends the intercessory function to all believing Shi˜ites. It

The Charismatic Nature and Spiritual Distinction of the Shi˜ites 173 should also be noted that while many traditions relating to the special distinctions of Shi˜ite believers remained part of the ÷ad¥th tradition but did not become part of Imåm¥ Shi˜ite doctrine as set forth in the foundational works of the Imåm¥ theologians of the fourth and fifth centuries, the notion of the intercessory power of the Shi˜ites did become part of Shi˜ite doctrine regarding intercession. Both Ibn Båbawayh and his more rationalist student al-Shaykh al-Muf¥d held the possibility of intercession for and by all members of the Shi˜ite community as a point of Shi˜ite doctrine.115 Many of the traditions discussed in this chapter may seem rather exaggerated in nature, and the presence of extremist or ghulåt transmitters in some of their isnåds might lead some to dismiss these traditions as unrepresentative of the Imåm¥ Shi˜ite tradition as a whole. While some of these ÷ad¥th narrations do represent rare or solitary traditions, and do indeed have questionable isnåds on the basis of Shi˜ite rijål analysis, many others are widely transmitted in canonical or otherwise reliable sources with perfectly mainstream isnåds. Moreover, whatever one may think of this or that individual ÷ad¥th, the wide variety of traditions presented here makes it clear that notions of Shi˜ite spiritual election and distinction constituted a prominent and popular theme in Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th discourse, and drew upon the welldeveloped tradition of Shi˜ite Qur˘an interpretation (ta˘w¥l) as well as upon the more mythological and mystical strains of thought found among some members of the Shi˜ite intellectual community. It is significant that the majority of these traditions are found in the works of early Qummi traditionists of the third and fourth centuries, including Ibn Båbawayh and Barq¥. As Andrew Newman has shown in his work on the Qummi and Baghdadi schools of Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th, the Qummi Shi˜ite community was facing a significant amount of political, economic, and sectarian pressure from the center of Islamic political power in Baghdad in the third and fourth centuries, and the schools of Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th prevalent in Qumm in this period tended to circulate and promote traditions designed to inspire confidence, hope, and solidarity among their beleaguered but relatively homogeneous community in Qumm.116 As salient as these traditions must have been in such a political and sectarian environment, it should be remembered that the Shi˜ite community was rarely without significant external or internal pressures. There is good reason to think that many of these traditions, promoted by third- and fourth-century Qummi scholars, had their origins in the second-century Shi˜ite circles around al-Båqir, al-Œådiq, and al-Kåπim, to whom most of these traditions are attributed. These earlier Shi˜ite circles had their own political tensions and divisive sectarian issues to contend with, and while the later Qummi scholars may have played an important role in preserving and promoting such

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÷ad¥th traditions, it is likely that these traditions have deep and authentic roots in the teachings of earlier Imåms and their followers. Much of this material regarding the special spiritual distinctions and capabilities of the Shi˜ites remained part of the symbolically and mythologically rich Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th tradition and was not substantially discussed in works of Shi˜ite theology or doctrine. With the exception of notions of Shi˜ite intercessory power, such traditions about the mythological origins, eschatological privileges and charismatic powers of the Shi˜ites do not become part of standard Shi˜ite doctrine as defined by prominent Shi˜ite theologians and intellectuals in the centuries after the Greater Occultation. Other Imåm¥ intellectual trends that developed between the later second and fourth centuries were concerned with defining the Shi˜ite community in relation to the rest of the Islamic ummah in more doctrinal, theological, and ethical terms, as well as with stratifying the Shi˜ite community from within and establishing a hierarchy among Shi˜ite believers that would separate the truly learned and prominent members of the community from mere sympathizers. If there was a place where mythological and mystical notions of Shi˜ite distinctiveness were translated into doctrine and practice, it was in the development of a particular set of ethical and legal norms of social interaction both among members of the Shi˜ite community and between Shi˜ite and non-Shi˜ite members of the Islamic ummah. Traditions concerning such social, ethical, and practical issues are explored in the third section of this work.

PART III

Creating a Community within a Community


CHAPTER 9

Shi˜ites and Non-Shi˜ites The Distinction between Ámån and Islåm

T

he notion of walåyah that was so prevalent in the thought of early second-century Shi˜ites was both a polemical concept—being juxtaposed with ãdåwah or barå˘ah—and a somewhat generalized one, signifying a basic belief in the righteousness of Ãl¥’s cause and attachment and loyalty to his descendants, the ahl al-bayt, collectively. As such, it was a terminology that reflected the purposes and the aims of the Shi˜ites in the late Umayyad period. Most Shi˜ites of this period were concerned principally with the overthrow of the Umayyads, their most avid oppressors, and it was a cause and a concern widely shared throughout the Islamic community. It seemed clear that the accomplishment of this would have to come through military means, and with the numerous rebellions of the late Umayyad period, it indeed seemed imminent. It was certainly no time to squabble over hairsplitting doctrinal issues: There was a widespread sentiment in favor of the rise of a religious and political leader from among the family of the Prophet, broadly construed, and that sentiment had to be harnessed to the greatest possible extent if the Umayyads were to be overcome. However, with the success of the Ãbbåsid Revolution and the consolidation of the Ãbbåsid state toward the latter half of the second century, the situation of the Shi˜ites changed dramatically. Many of the supporters of the Ãbbåsid call for “the chosen one from the family of Mu±ammad (al-ri¿å min ‹l Mu÷ammad),” and the agitators for the cause of the ahl al-bayt against the Umayyads seem to have 177

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been rather satisfied with the revolution’s outcome. Even those who had been holding out for an Ãlid candidate must have become resigned to the new Håshimite, if not Ãlid, dynasty, after the muchanticipated but failed uprising of the ¡asanid, Mu±ammad b. Ãbd Allåh al-Nafs al-Zakiyyah in the year 145. The Råfi∂¥ Shi˜ites who were loyal to Ja˜far al-Œådiq and who opposed (at least in principle) the Ãbbåsid claim to legitimate leadership, needed to develop a systematic doctrine that would encapsulate the intellectual argument for their own legitimist claims. They had to distinguish themselves clearly from the Ãbbåsids and their apologists, from Zayd¥ moderates and from those attached to rival Ãlid candidates from the ¡asanid line. It is well known to scholars of Shi˜ism that it was in this environment that the precise and elaborate doctrine of the imåmate first emerged among the Råfi∂¥ Shi˜ites attached to Ja˜far al-Œådiq, and under his direction. It was Marshall Hodgson who first detailed the catalytic effect of the Ãbbåsid Revolution on the development of an Imåm¥ Shi˜ite doctrine that not only distinguished Imåm¥ Shi˜ites from their Ãbbåsid, Zayd¥, and ¡asanid rivals but also included a means for the indefinite perpetuation of Imåm¥ Shi˜ite leadership through the doctrinal concept of naƒƒ—the necessary and continual bequeathing of the imåmate from the existing Imåm to his designated successor.1 In Part III of this book, I argue that concomitant with, and related to, the development of a firm doctrine regarding the leadership of the Imåm¥ Shi˜ite community, was the parallel development of a somewhat less formal, but no less essential, doctrine defining the nature and limits of membership in that community. The concept of membership in the Shi˜ite community that developed in the early Ãbbåsid period was clearly related to the simultaneously emerging doctrine of the imåmate, in that it demanded more than a mere show of support or walåyah for Ãlid leadership generally. It required knowledge and formal recognition of the “Imåm of one’s time” and of a specific line of Imåms preceding him. It also demanded absolute obedience to the specific doctrines and teachings of the Imåms. As a result of these more stringent requirements, Shi˜ite doctrine began to recognize a certain hierarchy within the Shi˜ite community itself, based on the varying degrees of knowledge and obedience demonstrated by its members—thereby distinguishing the fully committed and doctrinally knowledgeable members of the Imåm¥ Shi˜ite community from those merely clinging to a sentimental attachment to the ahl al-bayt. These same historical developments compelled the Shi˜ite Imåms and their learned followers and close disciples to redefine and nuance earlier teachings regarding relations between Shi˜ites and non-Shi˜ites and among believing members of the Shi˜ite community itself. As the Imåm¥ Shi˜ite community defined itself more and more exclusively,

Shi˜ites and Non-Shi˜ites

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and as the Ãbbåsids established their authority on firmer religious ground than their predecessors, enjoying the confidence of a broad subsection of the Islamic intellectual and religious classes, the teachings of the Imåms as recorded in Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th literature reflect a marked desire to take a less polemical and negative approach to their non-Shi˜ite Muslim neighbors. If walåyah and ¥mån were intimately related, and if Shi˜ites alone could be recognized as the “true believers” of the Islamic community, Shi˜ites nonetheless increasingly defined the notion of ¥mån in hierarchical relationship to that of islåm (outward submission to the Islamic message) rather than in dichotomous opposition to kufr (unbelief). In fact, there are a series of Shi˜ite traditions that, taken together, establish a kind of theological framework through which non-Shi˜ites could be formally recognized as fellow Muslims, while retaining the Shi˜ite dogma that linked true ¥mån with exclusive adherence to the Shi˜ite point of view. This less confrontational position vis-à-vis the non-Shi˜ite community was a response both to the more “catholic” spirit of the age—an age that witnessed not only the acquisition of power by a widely legitimated dynasty but also the rise of the moderate, nuanced, and scholarly Sunni traditionist perspective in the Shi˜ite heartland of Kufa—and to the more quietist and less revolutionary direction in which al-Œådiq and his successors led their Shi˜ite followers. The first chapter of this section looks at the ways in which Shi˜ite teachings found in the ÷ad¥th literature reflect this perhaps necessarily more accommodationist stance in relation the rest of the Islamic community. THE DISTINCTION BETWEEN ÜM‹N AND ISL‹M By now we have seen how elaborate and comprehensive Shi˜ite notions of their own elite identity were and how well established they are in Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th discourse. This elite Shi˜ite identity, the ÷ad¥th traditions collectively assert, began in pre-eternity and would continue in the next world after death. Shi˜ites considered themselves the Qur˘anic “people of understanding,” and the true shuhadå˘, whom even the prophets would envy. They were the true believing community residing within the larger Islamic ummah, with the mark of their faith and their spiritual status being their love and devotion—their walåyah—to the ahl al-bayt. But if walåyah was understood to be the indelible mark of Shi˜ite identity, and hence of “true faith,” then could one conclude that all those who did not demonstrate walåyah toward Ãl¥ or the ahl al-bayt were unbelievers, or kuffår? There are indeed Shi˜ite traditions that connect a lack of walåyah toward Ãl¥ or the ahl al-bayt with unbelief, or kufr. However, most of these traditions are

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attributed to Mu±ammad al-Båqir, and textual evidence within those traditions suggest that they originated in the politically charged climate of the late Umayyad era. Even in such traditions, however, alBåqir is portrayed as somewhat uncomfortable with a radically dichotomous separation between ¥mån and kufr, and the equation of a lack of walåyah with kufr was usually expressed conditionally, symbolically, or for obviously polemical rather than doctrinal purposes. Many traditions that associate a lack of walåyah with kufr come in the context of commentaries on the word kufr and its related cognates as they appear in the Qur˘an. For example, in one report, alBåqir interprets the Qur˘anic verse “Those who do not believe (kafar¶), their reward is certainly the Fire”2 to mean “those who do not believe in the walåyah of Ãl¥, their reward is certainly the Fire.”3 In another tafs¥r tradition, al-Båqir interprets the Qur˘anic verse “Most of the people (nås) refused anything but kufr” as a reference to the refusal of most of the Islamic community to accept the walåyah of Ãl¥.4 Yet even this latter could be seen as a qualification of the idea that all nonShi˜ites were kuffår, suggesting that non-Shi˜ites were unbelievers as regards the issue of walåyah, but not in an absolute sense. In fact, traditions associating a lack of walåyah with kufr probably have more to do with the strenuous Shi˜ite effort to find evidence for their religious point of view in the Qur˘an, and to read sectarian references to walåyah and the unique status of their Imåms and community into the Qur˘anic text, than with an effort to label all non-Shi˜ites as unbelievers.5 Those traditions equating a lack of walåyah with kufr that do not come in the context of sectarian Qur˘an interpretation often qualify this connection in some way. For example, it is usually the lack of walåyah toward Ãl¥ personally that is considered to render one a kåfir, rather than a rejection of this or that later Imåm. It is also sometimes said that only a person who explicitly rejects (ja÷adah) or denies (ankara) the walåyah of Ãl¥ is an unbeliever. That is, such a person must have actively turned his back on this walåyah,6 rather than being simply misinformed about the issue. Some Shi˜ite traditions assert that the only true kåfir within the nominal Muslim community was the nåƒib— that is, the active persecutor of either the Imåms or their Shi˜ite followers. Ja˜far al-Œådiq, for example, says in one tradition: “Whoever sits with those who slander us . . . or attaches himself to those who sever ties with us or severs ties with those who attach themselves to us or demonstrates walåyah toward our enemies or enmity toward our friends has disbelieved (kafara) in the One who sent down the seven mathån¥ and the Great Qur˘an.”7 Another condition occasionally placed on the kåfir status of those who did not demonstrate walåyah was that they must be known to have died in this state. A tradition attributed to al-Båqir quotes the Prophet as saying: “Those who leave the walåyah


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of Ãl¥ have left Islam, if they die in this [state].”8 The necessity of waiting until a person dies to pass definitive judgment on him is echoed in other Shi˜ite traditions as well. In Nahj al-balåghah, Ãl¥ instructs his followers to refrain from pronouncing barå˘ah on anyone until that person had died.9 The most common Shi˜ite position regarding non-Shi˜ite Muslims, at least since the fourth century, and probably as early as the mid- to late second century, is that the non-Shi˜ite is a muslim, legally speaking, but not a mu˘min in the truest sense of the word. He has submitted to the religion of Islam, and so must be considered part of the Muslim community from a legal standpoint, but he is not a true believer in that he does not believe in all that has come from God by way of revelation—specifically, he does not believe in the Imåms, or in all points of Shi˜ite doctrine regarding this and other issues. Therefore, only the Shi˜ites are the mu˘min¶n, and the terms Shi˜ite and mu˘min can be understood as synonymous. There is nothing particularly Shi˜ite about the distinction between ¥mån (faith) and islåm (outward submission). A distinction between the two is made in Qur˘an XLIX:14, with regard to the case of the bedouin converts to Islam (i.e., those who did not make the hijrah and settle as is recommended in Islam); they are told not to say “we believe (amannå)” but rather “we submit (aslamnå), for faith has not yet entered your hearts.” Here, the inferiority of the latter term is clearly established. During the Umayyad period, the apparent religious hypocrisy of the Umayyad rulers and governors, on the one hand, and the mass conversions of the conquered peoples, on the other, would seem to have made this distinction between muslim and mu˘min even more acutely relevant. Nevertheless, as noted above, two of the earliest theological perspectives in Islam—Kharijism and Murji˘ism— conflated the two terms, although in opposite ways. In the Kharijite view, the members of their sectarian community were both the only mu˘min¶n and the only muslim¶n; all those who stood outside of it were deemed kåfir¶n, with little differentiation on either side. Murji˘ites, on the other hand, declared that anyone who accepted and believed in the basic tenets of the Islamic faith was both a muslim and a mu˘min, regardless of the extent of his religious knowledge or practice. One was extremely exclusive in its interpretation of the two terms, and the other extremely inclusive, but neither group made a clear, technical distinction between the two. At least by the early third century, however, a consensus seems to have been reached on the distinction between the two terms in the Sunni community. This consensus contradicted the earlier Murji˘ite perspective insofar as it recognized a distinction between ¥mån and islåm and posited a profound connection between acts and faith, arguing that faith could increase or decrease

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on the basis of the obligatory religious acts that one performed or neglected. In the well-known ÷ad¥th found in Murji˘ite and Shi˜ite literature, as well as in works of Sunni tradition, wherein Gabriel questions the Prophet about the nature of ¥mån, islåm, and i÷sån (virtue), ¥mån is described as belief in God, the messengers, the Books, etc.; islåm is described as the practice of the five pillars; and i÷sån is said to be the state of “worshipping God as if one saw Him.”10 Here, the distinction between ¥mån and islåm is primarily functional and is possibly, but not necessarily, hierarchical. While the Gabriel tradition is widely cited in Sunni works, the Sunni traditionist perspective also held that both good works and doctrinal rectitude impinged on one’s status as a mu˘min. More importantly, in the opinion of some Sunni traditionists and in Imåm¥ Shi˜ite doctrine, ¥mån was not so much functionally differentiated from islåm as hierarchically superior to it. Within the Shi˜ite tradition, we noted above that the earliest admission of an intermediate position between ¥mån and kufr is found in traditions attributed to Mu±ammad al-Båqir, predominantly through the intermediary of Zurårah b. A˜yan. In these traditions, Zurårah usually argues for a rigidly dichotomous view of faith and unbelief, asserting that human beings can be divided into only two groups, believers and unbelievers—the one group going to Paradise and the other to Hell.11 In these traditions, al-Båqir rejects Zurårah’s absolutist perspective on the issue of ¥mån and kufr and argues, on the basis of Qur˘anic evidence, for a third, ill-defined category between believers and unbelievers. In one widely reported case, the issue is raised in a conversation between the young Zurårah and al-Båqir regarding the issue of marriage. The context of the tradition suggests that the discussion took place during Zurårah’s youth (because he had not yet married) and probably shortly after he had become a disciple of al-Båqir, but before he had been entirely divested of his earlier—and perhaps more Murji˘ite—views. Zurårah relates al-Båqir’s advice to him as follows: “If you [marry a non-Shi˜ite], then seek out the simpletons among the women.” I [Zurårah] said: “Who are the simpletons?” He said: “The ones kept in seclusion and chastity.” I said: “Those who follow the school (literally, “religion (d¥n)”] of Sålim b. Ab¥ ¡af∑ah12?” He said: “No.” So I said: “Those who follow the school of Rab¥ãh al-Ra˘y?13” He said: “No, those who have recently reached maturity, those who do not show enmity [toward us] like the unbeliever, and who do not know what you believe (i.e., who are unaware of the Shi˜ite differences with other Muslims).” I said: “Can such a woman be anything but a believer or an unbeliever?” He said: “[Yes, if] she fasts, prays and fears God but does not know your affair (amr—i.e., does not share the Shi˜ite view on


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matters of doctrine).” I said: “God said: ‘He is the one who created you, among you there is the kåfir and among you the mu˘min [Qurãn XIV:2]’ No, by God, no one can be anything but a believer or an unbeliever.”14 [Al-Båqir] said: “The word of God is truer than yours, O Zurårah! Have you not heard the words of God: ‘They mix good actions with evil, it is possible that God may forgive them [Qurãn IX:102],’ Why did He say ‘it is possible’?” I said: “They are either believers or unbelievers.” He said: “What do you say regarding His words: ‘Except for the weak ones (musta¿ãf¶n)15 among the men, women, and children, who have no alternative and are not guided to the path’ (of ¥mån) [Qurãn IV:98]?” I said: “They are either believers or unbelievers.” He said: “By God, they are neither believers nor unbelievers.” Then he turned toward me and said: “What do you say of the People of the Heights (aƒ÷åb al-a˜råf)16?” I said: “They are either believers or unbelievers; if they enter Paradise, they are believers, and if they enter Hell, they are unbelievers.” He said: “By God, they are neither believers nor unbelievers; had they been believers, they would have entered Paradise as the believers enter Paradise, and had they been unbelievers, they would have entered Hell as the unbelievers enter Hell, but rather there is a group who have committed both good and bad equally, and so their acts have been rendered useless to them, and they are as God has said.” I said: “Are they among the people of Paradise, or among the people of Hell?” He said: “I leave them where God leaves them.” I said: “So, you postpone judgment on them (turji˘uhum)?” He said: “Yes, I postpone judgment on them, as God postpones judgment on them; if He wishes, He admits them into Paradise by His mercy, and if He wishes He drives them into Hell for their sins, and He does them no injustice.” I said: “Does the unbeliever enter into Paradise?” He said: “No.” I said: “Then does anyone but the unbeliever enter into Hell?” He said: “No, except as God wills. O Zurårah, verily I say ‘as God wills (må shå˘ Allåh)’ but you do not say ‘as God wills.’ . . .”17

In this tradition, the position taken by al-Båqir regarding those in a state between ¥mån and kufr is one that is commonly ascribed to him, as we have observed previously. But these traditions attributed to alBåqir neither classify nor describe the gray area between ¥mån and kufr, stating only that it is governed solely by the will of God. The fact that Zurårah directly confronts al-Båqir over the issue of the “postponing of judgment (irjå˘)” likely reflects the Murji˘ite background of Zurårah’s own thought and the heavily Murji˘ite, Kufan intellectual climate in relation to which the thought of al-Båqir and his Kufan disciples was being developed. When al-Båqir tells Zurårah that he leaves the aƒ÷åb al-a˜råf “where God leaves them,” Zurårah replies:

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“So you postpone judgment on them (a-fa-turji˘uhum)?” Al-Båqir replies that he does, but that he does so as God Himself does. The circumstances described in the tradition seem authentic, as does the relatively unrefined theological position it ascribes to the fifth Imåm, and it suggests the manner in which—and the degree to which—Shi˜ite thinking in the late Umayyad period was both related to, and divergent from, other contemporary (particularly Murji˘ite) views. Indeed, it seems that it is only in the time of Ja˜far al-Œådiq that the distinction between ¥mån and islåm is widely established. This is done at two different levels—the general and the sectarian. That is, certain Shi˜ite traditions make a distinction between ¥mån and islåm in terms that are quite similar to those found in Sunni traditionist thought as well, while other traditions make the distinction between ¥mån and islåm synonymous with the distinction between Shi˜ite and non-Shi˜ite. Shi˜ite thought on this issue is generally governed by the distinction between islåm as a term that refers to legal status in this world and ¥mån as one that refers to eschatological status in the next,18 or between islåm as pertaining to the outward aspect of religion and ¥mån to the inward,19 as well as by the idea that every mu˘min is necessarily a muslim, but not every muslim is a mu˘min.20 Nonsectarian Shi˜ite thought on this issue most closely approaches that of the Sunni traditionists when it asserts that the distinction between ¥mån and islåm is based on works in addition to the state of inner belief. Traditions attributed to both Mu±ammad al-Båqir and Ja˜far al-Œådiq tell us that while islåm pertains to those who follow the outward rites of Islam,21 ¥mån applies only to those who demonstrate their faith through righteous action and obedience to God.22 In explaining the two terms, al-Œådiq states that there are three “realms” in which men find themselves: the realm of ¥mån, the realm of islåm, and the realm of kufr. One is removed from ¥mån to islåm through either a large or small act of disobedience to God, while one is only removed from islåm to kufr through an outright denial or rejection (ju÷¶d) of the religion and its tenets, for example, by declaring what is licit (÷alål) to be illicit (÷aråm) or vice versa.23 In a similar vein, al-Œådiq explains that if one commits a major sin (kab¥rah) while nevertheless recognizing that it is ÷aråm, then he leaves ¥mån but not islåm; but if he commits the act while claiming (falsely) that it is ÷alål, then he leaves islåm altogether.24 In other cases, it is not only abstaining from evil actions but doing the obligatory ones that constitutes the basis of ¥mån. In a tradition related from either al-Båqir or al-Œådiq (the transmitter could not remember which) it is said that islåm is affirmation of belief (iqrår) without works (ãmal), while ¥mån consists of works in addition to affirmation of belief.25 Ãl¥ al-Ri∂å is often credited with the formula “Ümån is knowledge in the heart (ma˜rifah bi˘l-qalb), affirmation with


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the tongue (iqrår bi˘l-lisån), and the practice of the pillars (ãmal bi˘arkån),” which would come to represent, more or less, the official Shi˜ite view on the issue.26 It is significant that this tradition reflects the Sunni traditionist compromise, which added the requirement of obligatory works to the Murji˘ite requirements of ma˜rifah and iqrår; and the connection of this formula with the eighth Imåm suggests that a direct link between the practice of the obligatory religious duties and ¥mån became standard Shi˜ite doctrine sometime in the third century, even if the idea that the unrepentant commission of major sins removed one from ¥mån was found in Shi˜ite thought prior to this. If the more generalized distinction between ¥mån and islåm that we find in Shi˜ite discourse is not very different from the distinction between the two terms in Sunni formulations, it is clear that the ¥mån/ islåm dichotomy also had a sectarian dimension in Shi˜ite thought. The identification of the Shi˜ites with the mu˘min¶n—at least insofar as demonstrating walåyah toward the ahl al-bayt was considered one of the necessary criteria of belief—has already been discussed above. After all, to the extent that ¥mån was synonymous with belief in the Books and the messengers, it must have also included belief in the walåyah of Ãl¥ and the authority of his descendants, since even mainstream Shi˜ite tradition asserts that the authority of the Imåms can be deduced from the Qur˘anic text; and according to certain (more extremist) Shi˜ite traditions, the recognition of the Imåms’ authority constituted part of the divine message brought by the previous prophets as well.27 The identification of the Shi˜ites exclusively with the mu˘min¶n did not necessarily preclude non-Shi˜ites from being considered Muslims, at least as regards their legal status. A number of Shi˜ite traditions state this explicitly, including one attributed to as early a figure as the fourth Imåm, Ãl¥ Zayn al-˜≈bid¥n (d. 95). He explains to a disciple that non-Shi˜ite members of the “ummat Mu÷ammad” are not all kuffår, but, rather, they have the legal status of Muslims and he notes the permissibility of intermarrying with and inheriting from them.28 Evidence for a sectarian distinction between full believers and other Muslims in Shi˜ite thought can be found throughout Shi˜ite literature. For example, in one tradition, Ab¨ Ba∑¥r asks Ja˜far al-Œådiq whether a particular Qur˘anic verse, applied only to “us” (i.e., the Shi˜ites) or whether it applied to the ahl al-taw÷¥d in general.29 It is clear from the context that the phrase ahl al-taw÷¥d refers to those who have accepted the shahådah, and who therefore have the legal status of “Muslim,” even if they are not Shi˜ites. The clearest references to the Shi˜ite sectarian understanding of ¥mån and islåm, however, are those that identify islåm with the five pillars or the outward practice of the community as a whole30 and ¥mån with the knowledge of the Imåms’ authority.31

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The Charismatic Community THE MISGUIDED (D . ‹LL) AND THE WEAK (MUSTAD . ÃF)

Although Shi˜ite tradition generally grants non-Shi˜ites the legal status of “Muslims,” it also makes it clear that they are seriously defective in their religious beliefs. They may be Muslims, but they are also “the misguided ones” (¿åll¶n) or sometimes even as the “associaters” (mushrik¶n).32 It is important to remember, however, that in the latter case, the term mushrik¶n is not meant in the sense of the polytheist who associates other gods with God, but rather in the sense of a person who has “associated” false religious authorities with the true ones (i.e., the Imåms).33 Such terminology was likely developed to mitigate earlier and more polemical traditions that explicitly labeled non-Shi˜ites as kuffår. For example, a series of Shi˜ite traditions claim that God made Ãl¥ a gate (båb) for His creation, such that whoever enters it is a believer and whoever exits it is an unbeliever.34 An apparently later version of this tradition, however, qualifies this dichotomy by adding two additional categories between ¥mån and kufr: the “misguided one” (¿åll), who is ignorant of Ãl¥’s position, and the “mushrik” who recognizes another [authority] along with Ãl¥.35 Al-Œådiq seems concerned to make the point that being “misguided” because one did not know the Imåm was not the same as being an unbeliever, and he corrected at least one of his disciples on this issue. In al-Œådiq’s explanation of ¥mån and islåm cited above, where he states that islåm consists of the performance of the five pillars, while ¥mån is only reached through knowledge of the Imåms’ authority, he also notes that if one fails in the latter, he should not be considered a “believer (mu˘min),” but rather a “misguided Muslim (muslim ¿åll).”36 The term ¿åll is occasionally connected with kufr,37 but it is more commonly used to describe the lesser kind of Muslim that the non-Shi˜ite represented in Shi˜ite thought. Related to the category of the misguided is that of the weak or unfortunate (musta¿ãf¶n). Although the word has a generic usage,38 in the context of discussions about belief and unbelief, the term musta¿ãf¶n is used primarily in the Qur˘anic sense of those who lack either the ability or guidance to choose and/or practice their religious affiliation freely.39 In Shi˜ite thought, limited knowledge or intelligence could also prevent an individual from exercising full responsibility for his religious choice, thereby placing him in the category of the musta¿ãf¶n. Ja˜far al-Œådiq reportedly declared that in order to be considered one of the musta¿ãf¶n, one had to be ignorant or unaware of contemporary theological disputes (ikhtilåf al-nås);40 and in another tradition, he tells his disciples that the category consists of “children [as well as] men and women with the intellectual capacity of children.”41 The recognition of this category of “weak persons” between ¥mån and kufr is particularly relevant in the case of women and mar-


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riage. Women, after all, would be confined not only by a generally lower level of education, especially in matters of theology, but also by the religious and sectarian inclinations of their family and community, whose boundaries they could rarely have been expected to independently transgress. In fact, the term in its Qur˘anic context is apparently first used by Mu±ammad al-Båqir, specifically in his discussion with Zurårah b. A˜yan, cited above, about the legality of marrying a non-Shi˜ite woman who is unaware of Muslim sectarian disputes. Perhaps more interesting is a tradition attributed to Ja˜far alŒådiq in which he classifies the musta¿ãf¶n as neither believers nor unbelievers, but rather as the “ahl al-walåyah—not the walåyah of religion, but [the walåyah] of marriage, inheritance and social interaction (mukhåla†ah).”42 According to this description, the musta¿ãf is clearly a Muslim, given the permissibility of intermarriage and social relations with him or her. However, the distinction made here between the “walåyah of religion” and ordinary walåyah seems to indicate that for al-Œådiq, the term walåyah by itself is no longer the unambiguous signifier of Shi˜ite sectarian identity that it seems to be in the traditions associated with his predecessor, al-Båqir; rather, al-Œådiq uses the term, at least in this instance, to refer to relations with any ordinary member of the Islamic ummah—in accordance with the nonsectarian Qur˘anic sense of the term.43 Moreover, the fact that the Imåm makes the distinction between these two kinds of walåyah in the context of a tradition about social relations suggests the existence of separate codes of conduct for interaction with fellow members of the Shi˜ite community, on the one hand, and non-Shi˜ite members of the Muslim ummah, on the other—two concentric circles of social interaction, but with a clear line between them. The ¿åll¶n and the musta¿ãf¶n would certainly fall within the larger of the circles: they are legally Muslims, and one has the right to interact with them on a social level. To a certain extent, they are considered to be victims—of one who leads them astray, of straitened circumstances, or of a lack of intelligence or guidance—and cannot be lumped indiscriminately with the unbelievers. The excuses admitted for such persons cover wide territory, and in one tradition al-Œådiq declares that anyone who prays as a Muslim and is not an active persecutor of the Shi˜ites can be considered “musta¿ãf ”44—that is, with the exception of the Shi˜ite believers themselves who, according to the Imåm, would never be reduced to the level of the musta¿ãf¶n.45 The use of these various terms and categories—islåm (without ¥mån), ¿a˜f, ¿alålah, etc.—to classify the status of non-Shi˜ite Muslims probably originates within Shi˜ite tradition no earlier than the time of Ja˜far alŒådiq, since there is little evidence of such systematic classification in the ÷ad¥th reports attributed to al-Båqir. Moreover, circumstantial

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evidence contained within the very text of these traditions suggests that the concerns these traditions address first arose among the more theologically minded disciples and contemporaries of Ja˜far al-Œådiq. In one tradition, for example, Abu˘l-Kha††åb, Mu±ammad b. Muslim and another Shi˜ite by the name of Håshim b. al-Bar¥d46 are engaged in an argument over the status of non-Shi˜ites, and they go to al-Œådiq to resolve the dispute, regarding which they have all formed their own, independent opinions. Abu˘l-Kha††åb and Håshim believe that all non-Shi˜ites should be considered kåfir¶n, while Mu±ammad b. Muslim disagrees. Al-Œådiq endorses the view of Mu±ammad b. Muslim,47 and the position he takes is perfectly consistent with his reported views on this issue in other traditions, many of which we have already seen. The point here, however, is that the debate ended, but did not begin, with the Imåm; rather the alleged impetus for the Imåm’s proclamation was a debate among the Imåm’s more theologically oriented followers. In another tradition, a disciple questions M¨så al-Kåπim about the relative moral gravity of kufr and shirk. The Imåm appears surprised by the question, and instead of immediately answering the inquiry, he replies: “I did not know that you were involved in religious debates with the common people (nås, by which he may mean non-Shi˜ites).” The disciple then confesses that it was Hishåm b. Sålim, a prominent Shi˜ite mutakallim, who had sent him to seek an answer from the Imåm on this issue.48 In fact, the importance of this issue to Ja˜far al-Œådiq, later Imåms, and the mutakallim¶n among their followers reflects a particular concern among the Shi˜ite intellectuals of this time to classify and categorize the intermediate state between ¥mån and kufr in contradistinction to other contemporary schools of thought (such as that of the Murji˘ites or the Sunni traditionists). While al-Båqir argued for a “gray area” between the categories of ¥mån and kufr, he did not seem interested in classifying it so precisely; and in any case, his reported position is similar to the early Murji˘ite view, which left the judgment and fate of those who fell between the categories of ¥mån and kufr to the unknowable will of God. However, once the doctrine of the imåmate was recognized as an essential part of faith, or ¥mån, asserting a strict dichotomy between ¥mån and kufr was necessarily complicated by the fact that only doctrinally sound Imåm¥ Shi˜ites—those who understood and subscribed to the complex Imåm¥ view of the imåmate and a precise line of recognized Imåms—could thereafter be considered “true believers.” To avoid the logically inevitable conclusion that the entire non-Shi˜ite, or indeed non-Imåm¥, community were unbelievers, it became necessary to recognize a distinction between ¥mån and islåm, or between those who were legally Muslims and those who were true believers. The recognition of such a distinction was likely


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encouraged, if not directly influenced, by the rise of the Sunni traditionist perspective that recognized a clear distinction between ¥mån and islåm, as opposed to the position of earlier schools of thought such as Murji˘ism and Kharijism. Kufa was an important locus for the intellectual debate between the Murji˘ite and Sunni traditionist positions. But it was also the main center of Shi˜ite tradition in the second century, and on the general (rather than sectarian) level, Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th discourse on the subject of the nature of faith bears a strong resemblance to Sunni traditionist thought. Thus, there are both internal and external indications that while the recognition of a state between belief and unbelief may be attributed to al-Båqir and/or the Shi˜ite thought of his day, the complex theological classification of this state cannot be dated before the time of al-Œådiq; and in all likelihood, it was not doctrinally established until the latter half of the second century. The change was a natural and perhaps necessary one for Shi˜ite thought. Sociological theories regarding the emergence and eventual success of minority religious communities within a larger, dominant religious culture suggest that such minority communities cannot sustain themselves in a situation of continual conflict and total rejection of the larger religious community that surrounds them. Rather, the most successful minority communities are those that develop accommodationist attitudes toward those outside their small group and take less absolutist and confrontational postures vis-à-vis the dominant religious community in which they exist.49 By maintaining the earlier sectarian notion that Shi˜ites alone constitute the true believers within the Islamic ummah, while also asserting explicitly that nonShi˜ite Muslims were indeed Muslims, entitled to all of the protections that status entailed—something that had only been implicit in apparently earlier traditions—Shi˜ites were able to maintain the sense of their community’s unique spiritual distinction and vocation, which afforded it much strength and solidarity in difficult times, while also opening the door to more normalized and less threatening relations with the non-Shi˜ite Muslim community.


CHAPTER 10

Degrees of Faith Establishing a Hierarchy within the Shi˜ite Community

S

ometime during or shortly after the imåmate of Ja˜far al-Œådiq, the term mu˘min¶n or “believers,” without qualification, came to be widely used in Imåm¥ Shi˜ite discourse to refer to fellow Imåm¥ Shi˜ites. The word ¥mån (faith or belief) is used in many traditions attributed to al-Œådiq and later Imåms to designate not only full and unhypocritical belief in the Islamic creed but faith in the Imåm¥ Shi˜ite version of that creed in particular. The identification of Imåm¥ Shi˜ites with the mu˘min¶n became so standard that most of the Imåm¥ ÷ad¥th literature on the status and role of the individual Shi˜ite is found in chapters and sections dealing with the nature of belief and unbelief,1 and al-¡usayn b. Sa˜¥d al-Ahwåz¥, a contemporary of the ninth, tenth and eleventh Imåms, entitled his thematic collection of traditions dealing with the ideal spiritual and moral characteristics of the individual Shi˜ite, “Kitåb al-mu˘min.”2 The exclusive identification of Shi˜ites with the mu˘min¶n, or true believers, was a natural, doctrinal corollary to the idea, already expressed in traditions attributed to earlier Imåms and al-Båqir in particular, that walåyah toward Ãl¥ and the ahl al-bayt was a sine qua non of ¥mån and the litmus test of religious sincerity. Yet, while the identification of Shi˜ites with the “true believers” was founded upon the intrinsic connection between walåyah and ¥mån that one finds in Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th discourse, it is interesting to note that once this identification was established in more precise, theological terms— perhaps as early as the late second and early third centuries—the 191

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concept of walåyah was partially eclipsed by that of ¥mån as the primary signifier of Shi˜ite identity. In traditions attributed to al-Œådiq and later Imåms, the term walåyah continues to be used, but it is far less prevalent and central than it is in those attributed to al-Båqir. Walåyah is no longer presented as a comprehensive term connecting belief in God and the Prophet with the charismatic attachment to Ãl¥ and the ahl al-bayt, and it is no longer the primary or sufficient marker of ¥mån. Rather, in traditions attributed to al-Œådiq and later Imåms, walåyah often refers to a doctrinally imprecise and in some cases, purely sentimental, attachment to the charismatic authority of the ahl al-bayt in general. As such, it represents merely the first and most basic rung on the ladder between outward submission to God and His prophet (islåm) and true belief (¥mån). While walåyah certainly remained one of the necessary conditions of ¥mån, it was no longer the only one, or even the most lofty of them: Beyond simple walåyah or general attachment to the ahl al-bayt, one must also know and demonstrate absolute obedience to both the individual person and the precise doctrinal positions of the Imåm. Thus, the link between the terms walåyah and ¥mån became less direct; and while Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th traditions attributed to al-Œådiq and later Imåms are concerned with charting, theologically, the territory between islåm and ¥mån, a parallel attempt seems to have been made to map the theological degrees between a general attachment to the ahl al-bayt and true ¥mån. This resulted in the development of a kind of internal hierarchy among those identifying themselves as the sh¥ãh of the ahl albayt—a development that proved theologically and rhetorically useful for explaining the deep and often bitter divisions that arose as a result of the doctrinal disputes and succession crises that plagued the Imåm¥ community from the time of al-Œådiq. This chapter examines the ways in which the theoretical recognition of degrees between simple attachment to the ahl al-bayt and true Shi˜ite belief was discussed in traditions from al-Œådiq onward, and the extent to which this both reflected and fostered the sense of spiritual hierarchy that informs all essential aspects of Imåm¥ thought. The transition from walåyah to ¥mån as the primary term relating to membership in the Shi˜ite community is signaled by subtle differences in terminology that can be found, for example, between traditions predominantly attributed to Mu±ammad al-Båqir and those more commonly attributed to al-Œådiq, or between traditions that employ a rudimentary and unsystematic theology and those that reflect the later influence of the Shi˜ite theologians (mutakallim¶n), who played such an active role in developing Shi˜ite theology, and who flourished as representatives of the Imåm¥ Shi˜ite perspective in the inter-sectarian religious debates of the early Ãbbåsid period. In the latter traditions,

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we find the term walåyah used in a general sense, sometimes denoting the bond of brotherhood between all vaguely pro-Ãlid factions, or even between all Muslims, while the term mu˘min¶n is commonly used as a specific reference to members of the Imåm¥ Shi˜ite community, along with an implicit or explicit suggestion of the hierarchical relationship between walåyah and ¥mån. For example, in a tradition attributed to the seventh Imåm, M¨så al-Kåπim, through his brother, Ãl¥ b. Ja˜far, the Imåm states: “Not all those who affirm our walåyah are mu˘min¶n; rather, they were created to keep them company (uns lahum).”3 This tradition is related through a series of extremist (ghulåt) transmitters, and should be considered as belonging to that particular school of Shi˜ite thought. However, the distinction and hierarchical relationship between walåyah and ¥mån is also manifest in another tradition found in the aƒl of Zayd al-Zarråd—a figure generally wellaccepted in nonextremist circles. In this case, a disciple who was anxious about his own moral standing, and that of his Shi˜ite companions, consulted al-Œådiq, saying: “I am afraid we are not mu˘min¶n . . . since you will not find one among us who cares more for his brother than for money [literally, d¥nårs]—his brother to whom he is joined in the muwålåt Am¥r al-mu˘min¥n.” [The Imåm] said: “You are mu˘min¶n, but your ¥mån will not be perfected until the rising of our qå˘im.”4

In this tradition, the disciple understands that those claiming to be Shi˜ites may possess a kind of walåyah—one that binds them to their fellow Shi˜ites through their common allegiance to Ãl¥, the “muwålåt Am¥r al-mu˘min¥n”—while at the same time, they may be unqualified for inclusion in the category of ¥mån because of their failure to behave virtuously toward their brothers in religion. Al-Œådiq’s reply to the disciple’s inquiry further endorses the notion of a hierarchy among the Shi˜ites by alluding to levels in the “perfection” or “completion” of ¥mån. This tradition does not simply establish a general relationship between the virtues of generosity and religious sincerity; rather, it is the lack of charity toward fellow Shi˜ites specifically that is the cause of the disciple’s concern, and the Imåm makes it clear that it is the rising of the Shi˜ite qå˘im that will herald the perfection of his disciples’ ¥mån—an event that could only be so auspicious for Shi˜ites fighting on the side of the qå˘im. If the distinction between walåyah and ¥mån sometimes involved questions of religious virtue and ethical conduct, it was also directly related to degrees of both knowledge of, and loyalty to, the individual person and specific teachings of the Imåms. Believers are those who not only recognize the authority of Ãl¥ and his descendants in a

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general way, but who also know and recognize all of the successive Imåms personally and by name, including the Imåm of their own era. In addition to knowing and recognizing the Imåms individually, true believers were expected to obey the Imåm, not only as a military leader in times of war, or at some future time under the banner of the qå˘im, but in his everyday religious and spiritual life as well—that is, in his particular doctrinal beliefs and manner of religious practice. This reflects the more quietist and scholarly Shi˜ism perhaps first encouraged by al-Båqir, but more definitively established by al-Œådiq in the early Ãbbåsid period. These requirements of knowledge and obedience are alluded to in a tradition in which al-Œådiq defines the minimum qualifications for ¥mån as: belief in God; belief in the Prophet; obedience to God, Prophet, and the Imåm; and knowledge of the Imåm of one’s own time.5 Knowledge (ma˜rifah)6 and obedience (†åãh), then, are the two primary qualities that separate, by degrees, the true mu˘min¶n from other pro-Ãlid individuals.

KNOWLEDGE (MA˜RIFAH) The “knowledge” that Shi˜ite tradition identifies as an essential requirement of ¥mån is usually referred to as ma˜rifah in Shi˜ite traditions, rather than either ˜ilm (religious or scientific knowledge) or fiqh (religious understanding or jurisprudential competence). The faculty for acquiring this knowledge was the ãql, or the intellect, and its importance is alluded to in a tradition wherein the Imåm tells his disciples that those who “subscribe to this authority (amr)” but do not have ãql, are not the “ulu˘l-albåb”—a Qur˘anic term that we have already noted is frequently equated with the Shi˜ites in Shi˜ite tradition7—and that one should therefore pay no attention to them.8 The terms ma˜rifah and ãql are associated, both in the Sufi tradition and in certain esoteric and theosophic schools of Shi˜ite thought, with a kind of mystical knowledge and with suprahuman faculties of knowing.9 In some Shi˜ite traditions, especially those for which the isnåd evidence points to an origin in extremist, or ghulåt, circles, these two terms should almost certainly be interpreted as referring to such a mystical kind of “knowing.” However, the spiritual distinctions and charisms attributed to Shi˜ites in Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th literature, as discussed in Chapter 8, suggest that the concept of ma˜rifah, as found in even what appear to be mainstream and nonextremist traditions, involved a kind of intuitive or even mystical knowledge that went beyond ordinary human intelligence, perspicacity, or acquired learning. Ma˜rifah also relates to “recognition,” and is distinguished from ˜ilm in that it connotes a knowledge that is perceived or realized, rather

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than studiously acquired and accumulated. Ma˜rifah, for example, is frequently used in descriptions of the nature of faith (especially by Murji˘ites) who list the basic requirements of faith as knowledge of God, His Messenger, and all that has come from Him as well as an affirmation (iqrår or taƒd¥q) of that truth.10 In this case, it is not a detailed or accumulated knowledge of these three that is meant, but rather an awareness or perception of their essential truth and reality. Moreover, there are many Shi˜ite traditions regarding the necessity of ma˜rifah that do not have a clear extremist provenance. In a tradition related by Mu±ammad b. Ab¥ ˜Umayr, a well-known Shi˜ite of the nonextremist persuasion,11 either the fifth or sixth Imåm is said to have informed his disciples: “You (pl.) may differ in how often you pray, or fast, or make pilgrimage . . . but the best (af¿al) of you is the best in knowledge (ma˜rifah).”12 In another tradition, also apparently from nonextremist transmitters, Ja˜far al-Œådiq spells out for his disciples the bases of religion, and includes among them a kind of ma˜rifah that is obligatory for all who would “benefit” from their religion in the next world: I said to Ab¨ Ãbd Allåh [Ja˜far al-Œådiq] (peace be upon him): “Tell me about the pillars of Islam, the full knowledge (ma˜rifah) of which no one can afford to be deficient in, and [such that] whoever lacks knowledge of them, corrupts his religion (d¥n), and God will not accept his good works, and [such that] whoever knows them and acts accordingly will benefit from his religion and his good works will be accepted, and [such that] with [this knowledge], ignorance of any other matter will not constrain him.” [Al-Œådiq] said: “The testimony that there is no god but God, and the belief that Mu±ammad is the Messenger of God (peace and blessings upon him), and affirmation (iqrår) of that which comes from God, and paying the zakåh from one’s wealth, and walåyah toward that which God has commanded—walåyah toward the family of Mu±ammad (peace and blessings upon him).” . . . So I said to him: “Is it preferable that one demonstrate walåyah toward a certain [member of the family of Mu±ammad] rather than another?” He said: “Yes. God says, ‘O you who believe, obey God and obey the Messenger and the possessors of authority (ulu˘lamr) among you [Qur˘an IV:59],’ and the Messenger of God said: ‘Whoever dies without knowing (wa-lå ya˜rif) his Imåm, dies a death of ignorance (m¥tah jåhiliyyah).’13 And [the one to be obeyed] was the Messenger of God. And [then] it was Ãl¥, although others said: ‘It was Mu˜åwiyah.’ Then it was al-¡asan (peace be upon him) then it was al-¡usayn (peace be upon him), although others said: ‘[It was] Yaz¥d b. Mu˜åwiyah,’ even though they are not equal, [nor are Ãl¥ and Mu˜åwiyah] equal.” He grew silent, and then he said: “Shall I tell you more?” Al-¡akam al-A˜war said to

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The Charismatic Community him: “Yes, may I be your sacrifice.” He said: “Then [it] was Ãl¥ b. al-¡usayn, then it was Mu±ammad b. Ãl¥ Ab¨ Ja˜far. And the Shi˜ites before Ab¨ Ja˜far did not know (lå ya˜rif¶n) the rites of the pilgrimage or what was ÷alål and ÷aråm for them until Ab¨ Ja˜far opened [this knowledge] for them and explained to them the rites of their pilgrimage and what was ÷alål and ÷aråm for them, such that the nås (non-Shi˜ites) came to depend upon them, after they had previously been dependent upon the nås [for knowledge]. And this is the [true] authority, and the earth is never without an Imåm, and whoever dies without knowing his Imåm, dies a death in ignorance. . . .14

Here, the “ma˜rifah” required of a Shi˜ite believer is initially defined by al-Œådiq as testifying to the shahådatayn and affirming all that comes from God (very similar to the Murji˘ite formula), paying the zakåh and demonstrating walåyah toward the family of Mu±ammad. However, upon further questioning, the Imåm explains that it is not sufficient to simply give walåyah to the family of Mu±ammad in general, or to recognize the superior right of the ahl al-bayt, as a collective entity, to the leadership of the community. Rather, the requirement of ma˜rifah is only fulfilled by knowing the Imåm of one’s time as well as all previous Imåms individually and by name. Although al-Œådiq states that it was in the time of al-Båqir that Shi˜ites first began following the Imåm’s guidance in religious and ritual matters, the requirement of recognizing a specific individual as one’s Imåm seems to have been something only fully elaborated in the time of al-Œådiq himself. In traditions attributed to al-Båqir, there is rarely a reference to the need to know and recognize the authority of a particular line of Imåms after al-¡usayn b. Ãl¥. When the fifth Imåm specifies those individuals to whom walåyah is to be shown, or whose authority should be recognized, he is rarely more specific than to say that it should be for Ãl¥ and his progeny, or for Ãl¥, al-¡asan, al-¡usayn and their progeny. He mentions neither his father (Ãl¥ Zayn al-˜≈bid¥n) nor himself specifically in this context. In fact, at least one tradition attributed to al-Båqir seems to say that it is walåyah to the ahl al-bayt in general, and not the recognition of this or that Ãlid claimant, that is required of the Shi˜ite. In this tradition, Sålim b. Ab¥ ¡af∑ah (a later Zayd¥ Shi˜ite)15 questions another Shi˜ite, Ab¨ ˜Ubaydah al-¡adhå˘, as to whom he recognizes as his Imåm. When Ab¨ ˜Ubaydah replies with the general statement that his Imåms are “from the family of Mu±ammad,” Sålim chastises him, saying: “By God, I see no evidence that you [truly] know an Imåm!” When Ab¨ ˜Ubaydah later told al-Båqir about the exchange between Sålim and himself, al-Båqir responded by supporting Ab¨ ˜Ubaydah’s position that one should recognize the descendants of Mu±ammad, collectively,

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as one’s “Imåms” or authorities in religion against Sålim’s demand that he name a particular individual among them as his Imåm. Al-Båqir goes so far as to tell Ab¨ ˜Ubaydah that Sålim “knows nothing of the true position of the Imåm.”16 In traditions related from al-Œådiq and later Imåms, however, constant reference is made to the requirement to know a particular sequence of individual Imåms, as well as the Imåm of one’s time.17 We have already seen in Chapter 5 that several da˜å˘im traditions attributed to al-Œådiq include the recognition of a series of Imåms among the “pillars” of religion; and in other instances al-Œådiq gives a specific list of the names of the Imåms who preceded him.18 The tradition cited in full above further clarifies that recognition of an individual Imåm or line of Imåms as one’s religious authority also required knowledge and acceptance of their teachings on various theological issues and on religious law. Al-Œådiq tells the disciple that since the time of al-Båqir, Shi˜ites have considered the Imåms’ teachings on the shar¥ãh and Islamic rituals to be the only valid source for their religious practice, and that they were no longer dependent on non-Shi˜ite authorities for guidance in these matters. Thus true membership in the Shi˜ite community required adherence to a detailed and specific set of theological beliefs and legal and ritual practices taught by the Imåms or their leading representatives. A tradition attributed to Ja˜far al-Œådiq lists seven things one must affirm in order to be considered a mu˘min: barå˘ah from idols (al-jibt wa˘l-†ågh¶t);19 confirmation of walåyah; belief in rajãh, the permissibility of mutãh (temporary marriage);20 the prohibition on [the eating of] eel (jirr¥);21 and the insufficiency of wiping one’s shoes in performing the ritual ablution (mas÷ ãla khuffayn).22 Each of these requirements (with the possible exception of the first) is sectarian rather than general in nature—there is no reference to belief in God or the Prophet, but only to items that identified one as a follower of the theology and the legal rulings of the Imåms. In another tradition, Ãl¥ al-Ri∂å defines ¥mån as a complex package of specific doctrinal beliefs, all of which reflect the Mu˜taziliteinfluenced development of Shi˜ite theology in the third century. His list includes a comprehensive understanding of the nature of God and His attributes, of the Prophet and the nature of prophecy, and of the systematic doctrine of the imåmate.23 A full grasp of these later, complex doctrines regarding the nature of God, prophecy, and the imåmate required a thorough schooling in the principles and language of kalåm, including some knowledge of the theological controversies between rival schools. It required broad knowledge of the traditions and teachings of the Imåms on specific issues, as well as an understanding of how those traditions were properly interpreted and how apparent discrepancies between certain ÷ad¥th narrations should be reconciled. This was not a task for a nonspecialist

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in the sciences of theology or fiqh. Many Imåm¥ traditions are quite cryptic to the modern reader, and apparently they were also difficult for the Imåms’ contemporaries, who are frequently portrayed in Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th literature as seeking explanations for various traditions related from the Imåms. A widely quoted tradition, attributed to numerous Imåms from Ãl¥ b. Ab¥ †ålib to Mu±ammad al-Båqir and Ja˜far alŒådiq, says that the teachings of the Imåms are “difficult (ƒa˜b, mustaƒãb)” and that no one can understand them except “the angel brought nigh (or archangel, al-malak al-muqarrab), the prophet sent [by God] (al-nab¥ al-mursal) and the believer whose heart has been tested for faith.”24 Only those who knew and understood the traditions of the Imåms well were qualified for the category of ¥mån; and in this tradition, the category of ¥mån is placed on a par with the highest angelic realm and with that of the prophets. The demanding nature of these criteria for “¥mån” would seem to exclude all but a very small number of those claiming to be Shi˜ite. Certainly the illiterate, those who lived a life of labor rather than learning, or those whose occupations did not admit of extensive travel could scarcely have fulfilled these requirements—to say nothing of women, who, with rare exceptions, had far less access to education. If being Shi˜ite was synonymous with being a believer, and yet being a believing Shi˜ite required such elite capabilities, then what was the position of those who subscribed to the general Shi˜ite point of view without possessing those capabilities? More important, at least for Shi˜ite theologians, was the question of how to categorize those who were educated in Shi˜ite traditions and theology but who disagreed with one or more of the theological doctrines or interpretations of the Imåms or their primary representatives, while still holding to the superiority and ultimate authority of the ahl al-bayt. When these selfproclaimed “Shi˜ites” were considered to be harming the Imåms through incorrect or indiscreet representation of the Imåms’ views, the answer seems to have been that the Imåms and their followers should dissociate from them;25 and this process of “dissociation” or “excommunication” from the Shi˜ite community was reportedly carried out in some cases,26 and threatened in others. At the same time, there are many traditions in which the Imåms discourage dissociation from Shi˜ites who were sincere in their attachment to the Imåms and the ahl al-bayt, while differing, in relatively harmless ways, from the “Imåm¥” position as represented by the more prominent Shi˜ite intellectual figures; and in some cases, the Imåms chastised these same Shi˜ite intellectuals for such divisive tendencies. In one tradition, Zurårah b. A˜yan declares to Mu±ammad al-Båqir: “Whoever agrees with us from among the Ãlawiyyah or others, I give

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walåyah to them; and I dissociate from whoever disagrees with us, be they Ãlawiyyah or others.” Al-Båqir corrects Zurårah’s zealous attitude, telling him: “The words of God are truer than yours, Zurårah, where are those who mix good actions with bad?”27 The term “Ãlawiyyah” may refer to either “pro-Ãlid” Muslims in a kind of general way, or to Ãlid descendants in particular. In either case, the tradition is interesting, in that it illustrates a difference of opinion between al-Båqir and Zurårah about whether all of the Ãlids and/or their supporters should be uncritically considered to fall within the circle of walåyah that defines the Shi˜ite community, or whether the specific doctrinal views of these individuals should be the primary consideration in this regard. Al-Båqir’s answer is characteristically general and inclusive, and sets no clear doctrinal limits on who should fall within our outside the circle of walåyah. In another tradition, alŒådiq displays a similar leniency toward those who disagree with the doctrinal positions of the Imåm¥s; but unlike the tradition attributed to his father, al-Œådiq responds by discussing the concepts of walåyah and ¥mån in a more complex and gradated way. Ãmmår b. Abi˘lA±wa∑ questions al-Œådiq: “Verily among us are groups who are supporters of Ãl¥ (yaq¶l¶n bi-Am¥r al-mu˘min¥n) and see him as superior to all other people, but do not subscribe to our views regarding your superiority. Should we give walåyah to them?” [Al-Œådiq] said: “Yes, in general (fi˘l-jumlah). Does not God possess what God’s Messenger (peace and blessings upon him) does not? And does not the Messenger of God (peace and blessings upon him) have from God what we do not? And do we not have what you do not? And do you not have what others do not? Verily God has divided Islam into seven parts: patience, truthfulness, certitude, contentment, faithfulness, knowledge (˜ilm) and forbearance (÷ilm). And He has divided them among the people, and the one in whom God placed all seven portions, his ¥mån [alone] is complete. . . .”28

In this tradition, al-Œådiq makes a distinction between those possessing walåyah and those possessing true ¥mån, and also distinguishes between the more intense bond of walåyah that linked true Shi˜ite believers from the more “general” and presumably less obligating walåyah shared by all those who recognized the authority of Ãl¥ and his descendants generally, and perhaps even those who did not recognize the “Imåm of their time”—a flaw that in other traditions is considered to be a more serious offense, as we have already seen.29 Ümån, on the other hand, is reserved exclusively for those who possess “acquired knowledge (˜ilm)”—here undoubtedly the doctrinal positions

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of the Imåm¥ Imåms—along with all of the essential moral virtues, in addition to walåyah.

OBEDIENCE (T‹ÃH) If the basis of being considered a true Shi˜ite or a true mu˘min was knowledge of the Imåm of one’s own time and all previous Imåms, as well as knowledge of the religious and theological opinions they held, then it was only natural that it would also be required to obey the Imåm absolutely and to accept his religious teachings fully. While this may seem obvious, it was not always the case that one who considered himself a Shi˜ite would necessarily obey the Imåm as his only religious authority or accept all of his theological positions. There are certainly instances recorded in Shi˜ite tradition in which some of the most learned members of the Shi˜ite community attended the teaching circles of other contemporary (non-Shi˜ite) religious scholars as well. This does not necessarily mean that they recognized those other religious scholars as authorities, although the exact influence of these non-Shi˜ite scholars on the Shi˜ites who attended their teaching circles (majålis) is difficult to ascertain; but it is known that some prominent Shi˜ites, such as Zurårah b. A˜yan, had differences with the Imåms over particular theological issues, and openly deviated from the Imåms’ views on some of them.30 A number of Shi˜ite traditions suggest that the question of complete obedience to the Imåm was not merely an abstract or academic issue, but a point of genuine concern for the Shi˜ite community of this time. Ja˜far al-Œådiq is reported to have said that whoever claims to be a Shi˜ite but “clings to a bond (˜urwah) other than us, is lying.”31 While there are reports of theological disagreements between al-Œådiq and some of the prominent mutakallim¶n among his followers, the issue of the Imåm’s doctrinal authority was a particular concern for later Imåms. In a tradition attributed to the eleventh Imåm, al-¡asan al-Ãskar¥, the Imåm divides men into three categories: (1) those who represent the Imåms’ faithful and undoubting followers; (2) those who “shift to the right and to the left, [as if they] ride the waves of the sea;” and (3) those who completely oppose the truth. The Imåm advises his followers to “abandon the second group, for if a shepherd wants to gather his flock, he has only to make the gentlest effort.”32 The Imåm, in other words, should not have to argue with or convince his followers; his authority, like that of the shepherd for his sheep, should be accepted implicitly and unconditionally. This second group, “those who shift to the right and to the left,” may refer to pro-Ãlid individuals who did not recognize all of the Imåm¥ Imåms or agree with all of

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the major theological positions of Imåm¥ doctrine. This tradition indicates that uncompromising and exclusive obedience to the Imåm had become a nominal requirement for membership in the Shi˜ite community by this time (mid-third century), but the complaint contained within the narration also suggests that such complete obedience was not always rendered, and the harsh attitude taken toward nominal Shi˜ites who did not fully submit to the Imåm’s teachings reveals a certain frustration on the part of the Imåm over this issue. In another tradition, Ãl¥ al-Ri∂å declares that the only true Shi˜ites were those who submitted themselves to [the Imåms’] authority, accepted their doctrinal positions, and opposed their enemies.33 An explicit connection is made between obedience and full membership in the Shi˜ite community in another tradition recorded in the Tafs¥r attributed to al¡asan al-Ãskar¥. This passage is part of a series of individual traditions related variously from the Prophet, Få†imah, and the first eight Imåms, each making the point, in different ways, that not all those who demonstrate love or attachment (here, muwålåh, rather than walåyah) to the ahl al-bayt are true Shi˜ites. The Shi˜ites are only those who obey the Imåms and imitate their example; an individual who loves the Imåms and demonstrates muwålåh toward them, without strictly following their commands, is counted among their muwål¶n and mu÷ibb¶n, but not among their Shi˜ite followers.34 In the apparently earlier traditions discussed in Chapter 5, walåyah and ÷ubb were considered the most important or essential elements of religion, or as religion itself; however, in traditions attributed to later Imåms, such as this one, their importance has been significantly downgraded in favor of obedience (as in this case), or knowledge. As a final note on the distinction between those individuals who held a merely sentimental or political attachment to the ahl al-bayt (muwål¶n or ahl al-walåyah) and those who could be classified as (true) Shi˜ites or true “believers” (mu˘min¶n), it should be pointed out that the issue of virtue is also present, and indeed quite important. Within those sections of Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th compilations that deal with the status and description of the “believer,” there are many chapters devoted to religious and ethical virtues—from generosity and concern for one’s brothers to patience, forbearance, and truthfulness.35 In a ÷ad¥th similar to the one cited in full above, al-Œådiq lists seven degrees of virtue corresponding to levels of belief: piety (birr), truthfulness (ƒidq), certitude (yaq¥n), contentment (ri¿å), faithfulness (wafå˘), knowledge (˜ilm), and forbearance (÷ilm).36 The Imåms frequently stress the importance and significance of spiritual virtue among their disciples—the elite among the Islamic community from the Shi˜ite perspective—whose behavior was presumably meant to be a model for other Muslims, and to demonstrate and reflect positively on the quality and authority of

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the Shi˜ite Imåms as spiritual guides. As the Imåms became increasingly removed from the public eye from the time of M¨så al-Kåπim onward, the role of individual Shi˜ites as ambassadors for the spiritual perspective of the Imåms must have grown increasingly important. Chapter 6 noted that there was a current of thought among certain (mostly extremist) Shi˜ites that placed attachment to the ahl al-bayt above all other virtues and religious duties, even to the point of overlooking the faults of those Shi˜ites who had engaged in major sins such as theft or fornication. A more substantial body of traditions found in Shi˜ite works, however, represents the contrary point of view: namely, that true membership in the Shi˜ite community required virtuous behavior.37 The Imåms were not always pleased with the level of virtue they found in their disciples,38 and they reportedly sought to distance themselves from their less virtuous followers, whose impious behavior may have been harmful to their reputation. In one tradition Ja˜far al-Œådiq is angered by a report that the Shi˜ites in Kufa are referred to as the “Ja˜fariyyah;” the Imåm exclaims that the true disciples of Ja˜far are only those “who are strong in piety and work for God.”39 The Imåm tells his followers to avoid the lowly folk (siflah), for the sh¥ãt Ãl¥ are only those who manifest the essential virtues, they alone are the sh¥ãt Ja˜far.40 Nearly all of the traditions that insist upon virtue and piety as prerequisites for true membership in the Imåm¥ Shi˜ite community (i.e., the sh¥ãt Ja˜far, not just the sh¥ãt Ãl¥) are related by Shi˜ite figures that have been definitively placed by Shi˜ite biographical literature in the category of sound (thiqah) and nonextremist transmitters. This may indicate that the insistence upon moral virtue came as a reaction or admonition to more extremist and antinomian strains of Shi˜ite thought. However, it should also be noted that some of these traditions—especially those connected with warnings against the lowly ones (siflah)—have perfectly sound isnåds (by Shi˜ite rijål standards) except for the primary transmitter, Mufa∂∂al b. ˜Umar. Mufa∂∂al was a controversial figure, reportedly close to both al-Œådiq and al-Kåπim, who is considered by some later authorities (such as al-Shaykh al-Muf¥d) to have been a reliable transmitter from these two Imåms. However, other traditions preserved in the early biographical dictionary Rijål al-Kashsh¥ report that he was suspected of extremist or ghulåt inclinations and connections by his contemporaries.41 If Mufa∂∂al was authentically the primary transmitter for some of these traditions, then this may indicate that the Imåm’s warning against the “lowly ones (siflah)” could have been interpreted differently by the more esoteric or the more extremist members of the Shi˜ite community, on the one hand, and more mainstream elements, on the other. In other words, if the “knowledge,” or ma˜rifah, required of the true Shi˜ite believer referred to different kinds of knowledge for these two groups—eso-

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teric or mystical ideas for the one, and rational, theological or legal principles for the other—then the term siflah, meaning those who lacked this knowledge, would likewise denote different kinds of deficiencies. The fact that recognizing and obeying a precise line of Imåms were now prerequisites of full membership in the believing Shi˜ite community suggests a new Shi˜ite consciousness of themselves as a distinct religious community. It represents an attempt to erect more definable and measurable limits within which to circumscribe the Shi˜ite community and differentiate it from the general variety of proÃlid or pro-Håshimite sentiment that was fairly widespread in the early Ãbbåsid period. Without such a clear delimitation of membership in the Shi˜ite community, the term sh¥ãh was coterminous with all those who harbored sentiments of love and loyalty to the ahl albayt, rendering the Shi˜ite “community” nothing more than an abstract and idealized notion that loosely encompassed all those who, given the right opportunity and moment, might support the legitimist claims of the ahl al-bayt. This indeed seems to have been the general understanding of the term in pre-Ãbbåsid, and particularly late Umayyad, Shi˜ite thought, as reflected in the words attributed, most commonly, to the fifth Imåm.42 With the development of a more concrete and recognized community, however, there is the natural and inevitable development of a hierarchy within that community and among its various members—some of whom were more knowledgeable than others, more committed than others, and more virtuous than others. Walåyah and/or love of the Imåms perhaps granted one admission to the Shi˜ite community at the entry level, but only those who fulfilled the stringent requirements discussed above would fully qualify as true Shi˜ite believers.

THE HIERARCHY WITHIN THE SHI˜ITE COMMUNITY It was previously noted that given the (at least nominally) strict requirements for the category of “¥mån,” in particular the requirement that one be well versed in the traditions of the Imåms as well as in the “religious sciences” (whether understood in the sense of occult sciences or more traditional Islamic ones), very few “Shi˜ites” would have qualified for this category. In fact, Shi˜ite tradition repeatedly emphasizes the small numbers of true believers.43 In one case, Ja˜far al-Œådiq is greeted by a supporter from Kufa who tells the Imåm that he [the Imåm] has thousands of supporters throughout the Islamic world, and so has no excuse for not rising up to seek his right and authority. Al-Œådiq, however, invites the man to journey with him, and when they come upon a shepherd with a small herd of seventeen

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sheep, the Imåm tells his would-be supporter that his true followers number no more than the herd of sheep before them.44 Like the traditions regarding ma˜rifah as an essential quality of faith, traditions regarding the small number of true Shi˜ite believers seem to have been popular among both extremist and more mainstream Shi˜ite groups; and it is not only the isnåd but also the way in which the idea is expressed in the text of the tradition itself (matn) that suggests the camp to which it most likely belongs. For example, in one tradition related through an apparently nonextremist isnåd Ja˜far al-Œådiq declares in frustration that he would be lucky to find three believers among the Shi˜ites who could be trusted with the secrets of the Imåms,45 suggesting that the true believers are those who practice taqiyyah (precautionary dissimulation), particularly with regard to the Imåms’ secrets—an idea or policy that belongs very much to mainstream Shi˜ite thought. Yet, in another widely cited tradition narrated by some wellknown ghulåt figures, the idea is expressed through a metaphor that alludes to the more occult sciences. Here, it is said that the believers are “rarer than red sulfur (kibr¥t a÷mar),”46 and in a common variant, that female believers (mu˘minåt) are more valuable than male believers because they are rarer, and that the male believers themselves are rarer than red sulfur.47 As noted at the outset of this chapter, the late second century witnessed important changes in the larger Islamic theological and intellectual environment and within the Shi˜ite community itself. The exclusive identification of Shi˜ites with the mu˘min¶n raised the practical question of how this definition of ¥mån could be applied uniformly to the Shi˜ite community as a whole, when it was clear that some of the Imåms’ followers were more well-versed in the creed and religious teachings of the Imåms than others and some were more faithful to the Imåms than others. Furthermore, the numerous succession crises that plagued the Shi˜ite community from the death of alŒådiq onward meant that those who identified themselves as “Shi˜ite” did not always recognize a uniform series of Imåms. The concomitant tendency toward internal doctrinal divisions among the Shi˜ites—even Imåm¥ Shi˜ites—in the second and third centuries often led to the establishment of Shi˜ite splinter groups, and the excommunication of even some of the closest disciples of the Imåms (e.g., Abu˘l-Kha††åb) who were accused of extremist or heretical tendencies. The ghulåt, or extremists, themselves considered other Shi˜ites deficient in their access to the more esoteric doctrines which they claimed to have learned from the Imåms. From the point of view of both (or all) factions, then, it was necessary to recognize degrees within the state of ¥mån; and given the apparent excommunications of some formerly high-level Shi˜ite figures, it also became necessary to admit that ¥mån was not

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immutably foreordained in the case of every individual. Thus, in addition to the establishment of a hierarchical relationship between walåyah and ¥mån as categories of attachment to the Shi˜ite community, there was also a new recognition of a hierarchy within the category of ¥mån as well. This more differentiated understanding of faith was influenced not only by the new practical and intellectual needs of the Imåm¥ Shi˜ite community, but also by the important intellectual change represented by the rise of Sunni traditionist thought, particularly in Kufa. The previous chapter noted that Sunni traditionists rejected the earlier Murji˘ite and Kharijite conflation of islåm and ¥mån, and that their establishment of a definitive and hierarchical distinction between the two may have influenced Shi˜ite thinking on this same issue. Sunni traditionists also parted company with Murji˘ites with regard to the nature of faith itself, for while Murji˘ites conceived of faith as a monolithic category, the Kufan traditionists of the late second and early third century instead held that faith had degrees of perfection and could therefore increase and decrease.48 Of course, the idea that there are different spiritual levels or ranks among men is acknowledged in the Qur˘an itself;49 but the idea of grades of faith, as such, is not explicitly mentioned in the Qur˘an, nor, as we have noted, is it found in the most prominent early theological schools of Islam, including early Shi˜ism. Thus, in the face of its own intracommunal practical and intellectual concerns, and perhaps as part of the trend toward a more nuanced understanding of the nature of faith taking place among non-Shi˜ite circles in Kufa, Imåm¥ Shi˜ites seem to have sought a more precise and gradated understanding of faith, particularly as it related to the issue of membership in the Shi˜ite community. Numerous ÷ad¥th traditions attributed to al-Œådiq and later Imåms discuss faith and its relationship to membership in the Shi˜ite community as something involving levels or degrees (darajåt). The precise nature or number of these degrees varies: In some cases there are said to be seven degrees,50 in others, ten.51 These traditions represent a distinct shift from the earlier idea of faith as a more or less monolithic category, but they also preserve, to a certain extent, the earlier predestinarian notion that it is God who initially grants ¥mån to an individual, and who may then increase or decrease it. That is, although increases and decreases in ¥mån are accepted as possible, these changes are not based exclusively on the merits of the individual. In one case, al-Œådiq argues that just as God favored or preferred (fa¿¿ala) certain messengers and prophets over others, so too does He favor certain believers over others. These, he tells us, are the degrees (darajåt) of ¥mån.52 In another tradition, alŒådiq explicitly states that an individual ascends from one level of faith to another as a bounty from God (maz¥d min Allåh).53

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It is important to note that with one or two exceptions, the traditions regarding “levels” of faith are attributed almost exclusively to Ja˜far al-Œådiq, suggesting that the issue of creating a hierarchy within the Shi˜ite community only became an important issue in his own lifetime, or among the Shi˜ite scholars of his day. Yet, if we try to discover which of the many factions of Shi˜ites during this formative and turbulent period is responsible for putting the darajåt traditions into circulation, we again find that it is not so easy to discern. A fair number of them are related through individuals whom the Shi˜ite rijål tradition suspects of extremism, or ghuluww, while others are accompanied by isnåds that include figures of precisely the opposite tendency. The recognition of such a hierarchy among the Shi˜ite believers may not necessarily have been a divisive development, rather, it could have had the effect of defusing or mitigating some of the more intense doctrinal conflicts that emerged at this time, both with respect to the central issue of the imåmate and in regard to smaller points of theological doctrine. The admission of a certain ranking among the believers may have been a way to discourage a tendency among various Shi˜ite factions to “dissociate” or seek excommunication from fellow Shi˜ites with whom they had theological differences. Indeed, the very purpose of the discussion of levels of faith in Shi˜ite tradition may have been meant to encourage religious solidarity among the Imåm’s followers, despite differences in their individual levels of knowledge and virtue. The acknowledgment of an internal hierarchy meant that those less advanced in religious knowledge or virtue did not stand outside the Shi˜ite community but merely occupied a lower station within it because of an inability to grasp the Imåms’ more difficult teachings.54 While this policy ostensibly offered protection for the “less advanced believers,” it could also serve as a rhetorical defense for selfproclaimed possessors of the esoteric teachings of the Imåms, who may have been deemed heretics or extremists by other Shi˜ites. Such traditions also occasionally address the more tangible communal splits that emerged as a result of the series of succession crises following the death of Ja˜far al-Œådiq. When al-Œådiq died without a clear successor (in 148), the community was in some confusion as to who should succeed him, given that the son whom most Shi˜ites (and probably Ja˜far himself) had assumed would succeed him, Ismå˜¥l, had died a few years prior to this. Although the succession crisis was eventually resolved in favor of Ja˜far’s son M¨så (al-Kåπim), there was one group of Shi˜ites, the Fa†±¥s, who continued to maintain that Ja˜far’s second eldest son, Ãbd Allåh—a full brother of Ismå˜¥l who had initially and briefly been considered Ja˜far’s successor—was part of the legitimate series of Imåms. Upon M¨så al-Kåπim’s death, another splinter group, the Wåqif¥s, refused to acknowledge any Imåm

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after M¨så. These two groups continued to be significant until at least some time in the fourth century, and the Wåqif¥s seem to have lasted somewhat longer than that, although perhaps in smaller numbers.55 These two groups continued to have civil relations with the main body of Imåm¥ Shi˜ites, and the different groups had no problems citing one another as ÷ad¥th authorities.56 Still, those in one group could not have considered their counterparts in the others to be true (or full) believers, since ¥mån, as defined in numerous traditions from al-Œådiq, was dependent upon knowing and obeying the Imåm of one’s time and recognizing the correct sequence of previous Imåms. Yet, these same individuals had been considered “believers” before the succession crisis following al-Œådiq’s or al-Kåπim’s death, so how could one explain their current status? Earlier Shi˜ite tradition, as we discussed above, claimed that people were created for either ¥mån or kufr, and that nothing could change that—including the will of the individual. So how could these individuals, who had once been believers, now have lost that status?57 Despite the predestinarian tendencies that often informed Shi˜ite conceptions of individual spiritual vocation and sectarian destiny, certain Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th traditions posited the possibility of change in the Shi˜ite believer’s state of ¥mån. A number of Shi˜ite traditions attempt to explain this kind of change in a believer’s status, while at the same time preserving the idea that true Shi˜ite believers constitute a divinely foreordained and elect community. One string of ÷ad¥th narrations does this by classifying the believers into two groups: those whose ¥mån is firm and established from pre-eternity and those whose ¥mån may either be completed or taken away entirely in the course of their earthly lives. There are two variations of this tradition, and it is interesting to note that one of the two types seems to have originated in extremist, or ghulåt, circles, while the other is exclusively attributed to transmitters considered to have been untainted by extremist influences. The version of the tradition commonly related through more extremist chains of transmission explains the difference between the two kinds of ¥mån in the following manner: The believer is of two types: the believer who is true to his covenant with God and who is faithful to its conditions and regarding whom He said: “Men who are true to that which God has covenanted with them,”58 and this is the one who is not afflicted by the anxieties of this world or the next, and this is the one who intercedes and who needs no intercession (literally, “is not interceded for”); and the believer who is like raw seed which [grows] crooked sometimes and which [grows] straight sometimes, and this is the one who is afflicted by the anxieties of this world and the next, and this is the one who is in need of intercession and who does not intercede for others.59

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The issue of the “covenant with God” hearkens back to the m¥thåq traditions, in which an exclusive and explicit identification of the Shi˜ites with the believers is to be found. And in the description of the believer “who is true to his covenant,” there is a confirmation of the idea that ¥mån, at least for some believers, is foreordained and not subject to any alteration, regardless of changing circumstances in either this world or the next. Yet, the tradition also posits a second group of individuals who may possess the status of believers at one time, but whose ¥mån is not fixed or predetermined, but rather subject to change. The mention of the issue of intercession (shafåãh) in this context is also interesting. As previously discussed, Shi˜ite tradition held that Shi˜ite believers shared a limited capability for eschatological intercession with the Imåms; but here, Shi˜ite tradition limits this capability to a select group of Shi˜ite believers whose faith was not subject to change in the face of the external vicissitudes of earthly life. The second variation of this tradition, transmitted through more mainstream isnåds, describes two types of faith (rather than two types of believers): one which is mustaqarr (firmly established) and another which is mustawda˜ (deposited) or mu˜år (lent). This tradition draws on the Qur˘anic pairing of the terms mustaqarr and mustawda˜ in the verse: “He is the One who has created you from a single soul, [from] one established (mustaqarr) and [from] one deposited (mustawda˜).”60 The more common interpretation of this verse in standard Sunni sources was that God created man from the “stationary” female egg and the “deposited” male sperm.61 M¨så al-Kåπim, however, is quoted as explicitly rejecting this interpretation, contending instead that the verse refers to God’s creation of men with two different types of ¥mån: that which is mustaqarr and unalterable, and that which is merely “deposited (mustawda˜),” and so liable to be “taken back.” Whether the latter type of ¥mån was “completed” in or removed from an individual soul could not be known until his death.62 This idea is sometimes invoked to explain some of the more infamous historical betrayals of the Shi˜ite cause, particularly on the part of certain prominent companions of Ãl¥, such as al-Zubayr b. al-Ãwåmm (who initially supported Ãl¥’s legitimist claim against Ab¨ Bakr after the Prophet’s death, but later rebelled against Ãl¥ early in the latter’s own caliphate) or Ziyåd b. Ab¥hi (Ãl¥’s appointed governor of Fars who later joined forces with Mu˜åwiyah and became one of the most infamous persecutors of the Shi˜ites). The idea of a changeable ¥mån status does make an appearance in Nahj al-balåghah,63 as well as in certain tafs¥r traditions attributed to Mu±ammad al-Båqir, where al-Båqir explains the terms mustaqarr and mustawda˜ with reference to the illustrative case al-Zubayr.64 Even if the mustaqarr/mustawda˜ dichotomy with regard to ¥mån had its roots in earlier traditions—and in the tragedies of Ãl¥’s tumultuous per-

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sonal history—the idea had a particular applicability and salience in the context of the disputes between various followers of al-Œådiq and the succession crises that followed his and his successor’s deaths. Specifically, it may have served as a convenient doctrinal explanation for the nature and spiritual status of those individuals—some of whom had formerly enjoyed prominent status among the Imåm’s followers—who had fallen out of favor with the Imåms and their leading representatives, or who had been subject to a declaration of “excommunication” from the Shi˜ite community. Some evidence for a later dating of the development of this formulation is provided by a comparison of the cases of two heretical Shi˜ite activists, al-Mugh¥rah b. Sa˜¥d and Abu˘l-Kha††åb. The two names often appear together in Shi˜ite tradition as those cursed by the Imåms for attributing false statements to them: Al-Mugh¥rah is said to have imputed lies to Mu±ammad al-Båqir, and Abu˘l-Kha††åb is said to have done so regarding Ja˜far al-Œådiq.65 However, the idea of a kind of “deposited (mustawda˜) faith” is never invoked in connection with the case of alMugh¥rah (the contemporary of the fifth Imåm), while it is directly referenced in discussions of the case of Abu˘l-Kha††åb. It may be argued that Abu˘l-Kha††åb had enjoyed a much higher standing in the Shi˜ite community than al-Mugh¥rah, prior to their respective heresies, and so more explanation was needed in his situation. But it is interesting to note that the situation of Abu˘l-Kha††åb appears in Shi˜ite tradition as something of a textbook case illustrating the difference between ¥mån mustaqarr and ¥mån mustawda˜, suggesting that the notion of changeable ¥mån may have been resurrected or further developed specifically in connection with the problem of Abu˘l-Kha††åb’s sudden fall from favor;66 and it is Abu˘l-Kha††åb’s loss of ¥mån that is cited to justify the Imåm’s command that the Shi˜ites break their bonds of walåyah with him and dissociate from him. Abu˘l-Kha††åb was allegedly excommunicated during the lifetime of al-Œådiq, but the idea of a kind of impermanent faith is invoked in later cases without the resulting excommunication. For example, Ãl¥ al-Ri∂å used this terminology to explain the situation of two prominent Shi˜ites, Ya±yå b. alQåsim al-Hadhdhå˘ and Zurãh b. Mu±ammad al-¡a∂ram¥,67 who dissented from some important aspects of the Imåm¥ view, but who were obviously not subjected to the same degree of excommunication suffered by Abu˘l-Kha††åb, since they are respected and widely cited authorities in the works of Imåm¥ Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th.68 Thus, it seems that it was during the lifetime of al-Œådiq that Imåm¥ thought first began to address itself to the status of the Shi˜ite community in theologically precise terms, and to establish and define a hierarchy within that community. Shi˜ite tradition is hardly unanimous as to the nature of this hierarchy, although some general statements may be

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made. There was, in the first instance, a distinction recognized between those who had the requisite knowledge and virtue to be categorized as “true believers,” or mu˘min¶n and those who merely had some attachment, sentimental or otherwise, to the ahl al-bayt in general. All mu˘min¶n were, of necessity, Shi˜ites, but not all those who claimed to be Shi˜ites were mu˘min¶n. Second, there was the establishment of the idea of “levels” or “degrees” (darajåt) of faith, through which a certain hierarchy was recognized among the members of this chosen community, even if most such traditions counsel mutual respect and brotherly piety between the believers at all levels. Finally, the notion emerges or at least gains prominence, most likely during the later and divisive period between the death of Ja˜far al-Œådiq and the establishment of Ãl¥ al-Ri∂å’s imåmate, that there are two different types of ¥mån: that which is certain and/or foreordained and cannot be altered, and that which is subject to change or revocation in the course of an individual’s lifetime. All of these notions allowed Shi˜ites to continue to see themselves as a unique, cosmologically significant, and elect community, chosen by God to carry out His complete covenant on earth, while simultaneously accounting for the relative intellectual and moral disparities among those who claimed to be attached to the Shi˜ite community. However, as observed throughout this chapter, the idea of an internal hierarchical stratification of believers within the Shi˜ite community does not seem to have originated within a particular group among the various competing schools of thought in mid- and late second-century Imåm¥ Shi˜ism. While certain expressions of this idea are linked to more extremist, or ghulåt, Shi˜ite thinkers and transmitters, others seem to be of mixed provenance, or to have been the particular favorites of the more moderate wing, usually assumed to constitute the “mainstream.” In fact, these traditions could suit the purposes of both groups. The moderates could use such traditions to downgrade the Shi˜ite membership status of a wide range of individuals: the “lowly and uneducated riffraff (siflah),” those inclined toward antinomian ideas or those of poor moral stature, and those who had pro-Ãlid sentiments but did not recognize the established line of Imåm¥ Imåms. Those inclined toward ghuluww (extremism), or toward more mystical and esoteric ideas, could dismiss their moderate critics within the community as being “unqualified” for the true (esoteric) “knowledge (ma˜rifah)” of the Imåms. Significantly, it was the more extremist figures who were responsible for putting traditions into circulation that encouraged brotherly feelings between the Shi˜ites of different “levels” of knowledge and ¥mån. Such traditions counsel against disdain toward those possessing a lower degree of ¥mån, or knowledge, but also implicitly or explicitly argue for a concomitant

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respect for those who possessed higher degrees of the same. Such ideas may have served to validate their claims to a more advanced, esoteric knowledge, as well as to explain the general unacceptability of their ideas among other members of the Shi˜ite intellectual community. As the Imåm¥ Shi˜ite community progressed toward a more established communal status, developing an increasingly precise and characteristically hierarchical theology to explain their particular spiritual station vis-à-vis the rest of the Islamic community, and toward an increasing doctrinal uniformity that served to clearly delineate the intellectual boundaries between the Shi˜ite and non-Shi˜ite Muslim communities, it seems rather natural that they would seek to hierarchically stratify their own community internally, and identify degrees of membership in what was, in many ways, a kind of initiatic spiritual community. There were those who held a certain attachment to the charisma of the ahl al-bayt, on the one hand, and those who solemnly committed themselves and their personal spiritual lives to the authority of a particular Imåm or line of Imåms, on the other. There were those who remained faithful to the authority and cause of the individual Imåms throughout their lives, and others who betrayed the Imåms and the community with their lies and indiscretions. These differences had to be recognized. Perhaps more significant, however, is the fact that after al-Œådiq, the remaining Imåms were largely removed from both public life and from direct interaction with most of their followers. While delegation after delegation of Shi˜ites are reported to have sought out al-Båqir and al-Œådiq in Medina, al-Œådiq’s successor, al-Kåπim spent much of his adult life in an Ãbbåsid prison; and Ãl¥ al-Ri∂å and his three successors—though sometimes nominally honored by the Ãbbåsid royal family—spent much time under virtual house arrest at the court of various Ãbbåsid rulers. As the Imåms grew increasingly remote from their disciples, a clear need must have arisen for the establishment of Shi˜ite leaders below the level of the Imåm who could authoritatively transmit the doctrinal and legal rulings of the Imåms. Thus, the establishment of various doctrinal systems for classifying the members of the Imåm¥ Shi˜ite community, and for identifying its most prominent and trustworthy members, may also reflect a deep-seated need to find guarantors of the spiritual guidance of the Imåms in the face of their growing personal absence.


CHAPTER 11

“Rarer than Red Sulfur” Women’s Identity in Early Shi˜ism

A

s we have seen, Shi˜ism as a recognizable religious affiliation first emerged in the context of Ãl¥’s military and political camp during the First Civil War. The movement existed throughout the Umayyad period as a persecuted religio-political group, membership in which was voluntarist and individual, depending to some extent on personal devotion to a living Shi˜ite Imåm. During the early Ãbbåsid period, Shi˜ism emerged as a prominent theological group and legal school, contributing substantially to the intellectual life of the early Ãbbåsid renaissance. However, none of these evolving manifestations of Shi˜ite identity included a clear place for women. Few women had the freedom to participate actively in controversial or clandestine religio-political movements or the intellectual training and recognition to contribute to the rational debates over theological and legal issues. Even those women who may have sympathized with the Shi˜ite legitimist cause had few means to express their convictions. Shi˜ite sources mention the presence of a few women among the devotees of the Shi˜ite Imåms, even in the earliest periods of the community, as well as many others who are identified as “Shi˜ite” sympathizers. However, there are clearly fewer women among the transmitters of Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th reports than can be found, by comparison, in the Sunni tradition, and many of the female transmitters in the Shi˜ite tradition are Ãlid women—that is the daughters, sisters, wives, or servant women of the Imåms, whom one would expect to have 213

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exhibited a kind of family loyalty to the cause. The Shi˜ite tradition’s view of the significance of women to their community overall is mixed, at times indicating a particular inclination among women to be sympathetic to the Ãlid cause and acknowledging their affiliation with the community, while at other times suggesting that most women had an intellectual deficiency that prevented them from fully understanding Shi˜ite sectarian and theological views, and that their physical and emotional weakness limited their ability to contribute to the cause. This chapter explores the issue of women’s identification with the Shi˜ite cause and the extent to which they could be considered “full” members of the Shi˜ite community, by examining the complex and at times contradictory information relating to women that one finds in Shi˜ite literature as well as by analyzing the variety of historical, ideological, and theological considerations that influenced these views. There are, of course, a number of women among the ahl al-bayt who play important roles in early Shi˜ite history, and we will mention these women insofar as they have some bearing on the overall view of women in Shi˜ism. However, for female members of the ahl al-bayt, there is no real issue of how they come to be affiliated with the Shi˜ite community; and since the present work is concerned with this latter issue, we will focus here primarily on non-Ãlid women’s connections with Shi˜ism. As is the case with most studies of women in premodern societies, the sources are limited and problematic; they tell us little about women in general, and what they do tell us is often anecdotal and nearly impossible to corroborate. For these reasons, one must survey a wide variety of literature—biographical accounts, rhetorical and poetic anthologies of women’s words, Sunni and Shi˜ite histories, and Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th material—to distill as much information as possible about women’s contributions to and identification with the Shi˜ite cause and to work this information into something of a coherent picture of the role of women in early Shi˜ism. Shi˜ite sectarian views derive in large part from very particular, and sometimes polemical, readings of a number of historical events in early Islamic history. This chapter begins by looking at the ways in which Shi˜ite historical and ÷ad¥th traditions have interpreted the roles of women—both positively and negatively—in these controversial events. It then examines the ways in which these historical views regarding women and the Shi˜ite community influenced general Shi˜ite traditions about women, their moral and intellectual worth, and their ability to be fully affiliated with the Shi˜ite cause. Finally, this chapter looks at the impact Shi˜ite views about women had on Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th and legal opinions regarding the important socio-religious issue of intermarriage between Shi˜ites and non-Shi˜ites.

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The issue of intermarriage is a crucial one, not just for understanding the role of women in Shi˜ism but also for understanding something of the development and institutionalization of the Shi˜ite minority as a true religious community. As long as the primary affiliates of the Shi˜ite movement were men—either as soldiers, activists, or scholars—Shi˜ism was essentially a religio-political movement, a theological or legal school of thought, perhaps even a secret society or fraternity, but not a religious community in the fullest sense of the word. A true community would be connected and cemented by family affiliations, intracommunal marriage, and the transmission of the Shi˜ite heritage from parents to children. All of these things would require, to some extent, the ability of women to be fully identified as members of the Shi˜ite community, either of their own personal volition, or as the female relations of Shi˜ite men. Determining how early and to what extent women were identified as members of the Shi˜ite community can tell us a great deal about when Shi˜ism began to transform itself into a true religious community and could be recognized as an affiliation that defined entire families, neighborhoods, and regions.

WOMEN IN THE FIRST MUSLIM COMMUNITY The basic premise of Shi˜ism—namely the sacred nature and function of the descendants of the Prophet Mu±ammad—depends very much on the existence and role of Få†imah, the only child of the Prophet to survive him and give him grandchildren, and therefore the sole link between the Prophet and the Shi˜ite line of Imåms. However, Få†imah’s special prominence—which far exceeds that of any woman in the Sunni tradition—is not parlayed into a special importance for daughters, or women in general, in Shi˜ite tradition. This is largely because Få†imah is seen as the exception and not the norm in female character, and in some Shi˜ite traditions she is presented as a figure of such towering significance as to separate her from all other women. She is one of the fourteen “pure ones,” created from the “Mu±ammadan light” in the world before time and ordinary human creation; she represents the necessary link between Mu±ammad, Ãl¥, and the other Imåms; and she is said, in some traditions, to have never menstruated, and to have been miraculously pure, despite being the mother of several children;1 she is the Queen of Heaven—the greatest of all women.2 Many of these characteristics parallel Christian traditions about the Virgin Mary; and Få†imah’s extraordinary qualities, like those of the Virgin Mary, cannot be transferred to other women. The idea that she did not menstruate would, alone, put her in a different category from

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all other women—and the issue of menstruation certainly factors into Shi˜ite (and Sunni) views of women’s capabilities and limitations. Få†imah’s spiritual eminence apparently surpasses that of the wives of the Prophet, not only in Shi˜ite tradition but in Sunni tradition as well. It is in Shi˜ite literature, however, that we find the significance of the wives of the Prophet explicitly downplayed in favor of the Prophet’s blood relations (Ãl¥, Få†imah, and their children). Moreover, Shi˜ite tradition paints rather unflattering portraits of some of those wives in particular. ˜≈˘ishah and ¡af∑ah (the daughters of Ab¨ Bakr and ˜Umar, respectively) are singled out for particular criticism, as is Umm ¡ab¥bah bt. Ab¥ Sufyån (sister of the Caliph Mu˜åwiyah and daughter of one of the Prophet’s archenemies among the Quraysh); and the negative views of these female figures in Shi˜ite sources is no doubt related to the Shi˜ite view of their respective male relations. Umm ¡ab¥bah bt. Ab¥ Sufyån is criticized, for example, for having played a role in instigating the First Civil War during Ãl¥’s caliphate by sending ˜Uthmån’s bloody shirt to her brother, Mu˜åwiyah, in Syria, which he then publicly displayed in order to heighten public emotions in favor of his rebellion against Ãl¥.3 In Shi˜ite tradition, the negative aspects of Umm ¡ab¥bah’s character are directly connected to the fact that she was sired, as one tradition states, from “an accursed tree.”4 On the other hand, some of the wives of the Prophet are considered to have been strongly sympathetic to Ãlid legitimist claims and are correspondingly praised in Shi˜ite sources for their virtue and loyalty. The most important of the wives of the Prophet from the Shi˜ite perspective is undoubtedly Umm Salamah, the former wife of Ab¨ Salamah, an early emigrant to Abyssinia. She was a well-known supporter of Ãl¥ and his claim to the leadership, as recorded in both Shi˜ite and (to a lesser extent) Sunni sources. She appears as a Shi˜ite protagonist in the accounts of the First Civil War and serves as a clear foil to ˜≈˘ishah, one of the major instigators of the conflict. She reportedly sought to defuse the tensions that led to the widespread rebellion against Ãl¥, by trying to dissuade both ˜≈˘ishah5 and al-Zubayr from challenging Ãl¥’s authority and reminding them of the Prophet’s favor toward Ãl¥.6 She reportedly warned Ãl¥ of ˜≈˘ishah, †al±ah, and al-Zubayr’s plans for rebellion in a letter in which she also expressed strong support for Ãl¥, saying that she would like to fight herself, but (in strong contrast to ˜≈˘ishah) realizes that her place as a woman is not on the battlefield; she offers the services of her beloved son instead.7 Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th tradition reports her support for Ãl¥ even during the Prophet’s lifetime and makes her something of an honorary member of the ahl al-bayt—a term usually reserved for the Prophet’s blood relations.8


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Other wives of the Prophet also seem to have been favorably disposed to the Ãlid cause, or at least to have had some connection to Ãl¥—most notably, those who are said to have been shown unfair treatment by ˜≈˘ishah, ¡af∑ah, or other Shi˜ite antagonists. For example, both Shi˜ite and Sunni tradition records ˜≈˘ishah’s (or ¡af∑ah’s) derogatory remarks about the Jewish heritage of Œafiyyah, a wife taken by the Prophet from among the captive women after the defeat of the Jewish clans at Khaybar. The Prophet defends Œafiyyah against these slurs by arguing that while Œafiyyah is the descendant of such Israelite prophets as Moses and Aaron, ˜≈˘ishah is the descendant of polytheists.9 Another tradition in Sunni sources states that since Œafiyyah was the daughter of the defeated leader of the Jewish clans at Khaybar, and thus had no tribe to return to if she were widowed, the Prophet ordered that in the event of his death, Œafiyyah should be taken in and cared for by Ãl¥.10 Maym¨nah, another wife of the Prophet, who was of Håshimite lineage, is also portrayed favorably in Shi˜ite tradition. She is reported, in one Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th, to have heard the Prophet say that no enemy of Ãl¥ will be saved from hellfire. In the ÷ad¥th, Maym¨nah responds by professing her own love of Ãl¥, but notes that among the Prophet’s companions, there are few who love him. She names the well-known Shi˜ite figures of Ab¨ Dharr [alGhifår¥], al-Miqdåd [b. al-Aswad], and Salmån [al-Fårs¥] as the only ones she knows.11 Thus, the Shi˜ite estimation of the important women in the Prophet’s life is not entirely positive or negative. Shi˜ite sources give positive accounts of those women who were known—in both Shi˜ite and Sunni tradition—to have been sympathetic to the Ãlid cause, and castigate those women who play later roles as Shi˜ite antagonists. Shi˜ite views of these particular women tell us little about Shi˜ite views of women in general but rather form part of the colorful and polemical tapestry of early Shi˜ite historiography and hagiography. Shi˜ite attitudes toward women in the generations after the companions, however, were profoundly shaped by both the historical roles of women in the religio-political conflicts surrounding the Shi˜ite cause and by the exigencies of a clandestine and embattled minority.

SHI˜ITE WOMEN IN THE UMAYYAD PERIOD There is a tradition attributed to Ãl¥ in a relatively late Shi˜ite source in which the Prophet informs Ãl¥ that no woman will ever hate him except for the one who is “salaqlaqiyyah.” Later, a woman who secretly hated Ãl¥ heard him relate this prediction and asked the meaning of the term “salaqlaqiyyah.” Ãl¥ explained that it referred to a woman

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who menstruated improperly. The woman was amazed at his response, for she realized that she suffered from this very physical defect. The report tells us that she immediately repented and declared that she would forever abandon her previous hatred of Ãl¥. Ãl¥ then implored God to restore her to a normal form of menstruation, if she was truthful.12 This ÷ad¥th does not appear in canonical Shi˜ite collections and is obviously legendary in content, but it points to two curious elements of Shi˜ite thought. The first is that Shi˜ites viewed real antagonism toward the ahl al-bayt as a serious moral defect that was occasionally related to a kind of physical defect—a motif also seen, for example, in the widely reported series of Shi˜ite traditions mentioned in Chapter 8 that claim that only the sons of fornicators would grow up to be persecutors of the Shi˜ites.13 The ÷ad¥th also suggests, however, that Shi˜ites expected women in general to be favorably disposed toward the Shi˜ite perspective and that very few women—indeed only those with a rare type of physical defect—would truly hate the ahl al-bayt. In fact, a multitude of anecdotes found in both Shi˜ite and Sunni literature portray women as partial and sympathetic to the Shi˜ite cause. This is nowhere more obvious than in the historical accounts of the Umayyad period. While there are scattered, anecdotal accounts of women, in addition to Umm Salamah, who publicly advocated Ãl¥’s succession immediately after the death of the Prophet and were outspoken critics of Ab¨ Bakr’s authority,14 the women involved in the events of Ãl¥’s caliphate and the First Civil War are primarily Shi˜ite antagonists, whether it be ˜≈˘ishah who partially leads the initial rebellion; Umm ¡ab¥bah who sends ˜Uthmån’s bloodied shirt to her brother, Mu˜åwiyah; or the Kharijite woman who infamously incites her fiancé to murder Ãl¥ as part of her dowry.15 However, when we turn to events immediately after the First Civil War, we see a very different picture. Shi˜ite tradition notes that women were the most frequent visitors to Ãl¥’s grave, and multiple women are recorded in Shi˜ite biographical and literary sources as having directly confronted Mu˜åwiyah over his treatment of Ãl¥, or else to have been summoned to Mu˜åwiyah’s court to be questioned about their pro-Ãlid sympathies. Some of these women were reportedly brought before Mu˜åwiyah because they had attained a reputation as Ãlid loyalists; others were accused of having played an active role in the Battle of Œiff¥n by encouraging the ˜Iraqi troops with their impassioned and eloquent poetry about Ãl¥ and the righteousness of his cause.16 These women all demonstrate similar bravery and eloquence in defending Ãl¥ posthumously before Mu˜åwiyah—doing so, no doubt, at some risk to their own lives. In fact, many of them are reported to have praised Ãl¥ in very sectarian (and therefore politically risky) ways.


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Umm al-Barå˘ laments the defeat and death of Ãl¥ as the loss of the “just Imåm” and the “best of God’s creatures.”17 Sawdah bt. Ãmmårah refers to Ãl¥ as the “brother of the Prophet,” the “banner of guidance” (ãlam al-hudå) and “the beacon of faith” (manårat al-¥mån), and she equates love of Ãl¥ with seeking after Truth.18 When Mu˜åwiyah questions Dårimiyyah al-¡aj¨niyyah about her love and walåyah toward Ãl¥, and her hatred and enmity (ãdåwah) toward himself, she adduces the Prophet’s words at Ghad¥r Khumm as justification for her views. 19 Jarwah bt. Ghålib al-Tam¥m¥ is more circumspect in Mu˜åwiyah’s presence, declaring that Ãl¥ possessed a “nobility beyond description” and an “unfathomable [spiritual] limit,” but then tells Mu˜åwiyah that she fears to say more.20 A similar tendency for women to associate with, or openly express sympathy for, the Shi˜ite cause is seen in accounts of the dramatic defeat and death of al-¡usayn at Karbala and in the Second Civil War that ensued shortly thereafter. From the Shi˜ite perspective, nearly all of the female figures recorded in connection with these events play positive and sympathetic roles. The Kufan historical tradition records a Basran woman, Måriyah bt. Sa˜d or bt. Munqidh, as having hosted clandestine meetings of Shi˜ite loyalists in her home, and we are told that at one such meeting the decision was taken by a small group of Basran Shi˜ites to ride out in support of al-¡usayn.21 There are also reports that two other women held similar meetings in their homes for the supporters of al-Mukhtår b. Ab¥ ˜Ubayd or the extremist (ghulåt) Shi˜ites in general.22 There is, of course, the widely reported bravery and steadfastness of al-¡usayn’s female family members during the Karbala ordeal23 and their outspoken defense of al-¡usayn and their male relations before the Umayyad courts of ˜Ubayd Allåh b. Ziyåd and Yaz¥d b. Mu˜åwiyah.24 The embittered speech delivered by al-¡usayn’s sister, Zaynab, reportedly moved all around her to tears, and her unyielding defense of her family and their honor after they were taken captive reportedly evoked the admiration even of her enemies. However, a number of non-Ãlid women were also said to have either actively participated in this battle (some were even killed),25 or to have selflessly urged their husbands and sons to fight and die in the cause, leaving themselves widowed and vulnerable.26 Most interestingly, even the female relatives of Shi˜ite enemies in this conflict are portrayed as sympathizing with al-¡usayn and his plight, and at times seem to constitute something of a fifth column among the ranks of the enemy. The freed slave woman of the anti-Shi˜ite figure, alAshãth b. Qays, who is also the mother of al-Ashãth’s equally antiShi˜ite son, reportedly gave secret shelter to Muslim b. Ãq¥l, al-¡usayn’s cousin and clandestine agent in Kufa.27 In other places we are told that three of the perpetrators of the Karbala massacre were

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thrown out of their homes and rejected by their wives upon returning from the battle28—and one of these women is said to have later informed on her husband to the avenging army of al-Mukhtår.29 Even the women of the Caliph Yaz¥d’s household reportedly took pity on the female relatives of al-¡usayn, mourning with them, and presenting them with lavish gifts to compensate them for the material losses they sustained in the battle and in their subsequent detention as prisoners of war.30 It is difficult to know to what extent these stories are based on fact. It is hard, for example, to imagine that a disagreement between a husband and wife over a political issue would have been considered important enough to transmit over two generations until it was recorded by Ab¨ Mikhnaf. But more important questions, I think, are why historians like Ab¨ Mikhnaf included these accounts at all, and why such accounts might have been believable and compelling to his Kufan audience. Might they reflect—whether factually true or not—a widespread assumption on the part of both Shi˜ites and their enemies that women were particularly inclined to sympathize with the Shi˜ite cause? Regardless of their historicity, the presence of these types of accounts are related to a number of factors that may in turn shed light on the connection between women and the Shi˜ite cause in a factual sense. First, it is important to emphasize the danger of being a Shi˜ite in Umayyad times. The loneliness of al-¡usayn at Karbala and his apparent abandonment by many of his initial supporters tells us something about the very real dangers such support entailed. Yet women did not represent active or potentially threatening players in religiopolitical disputes—they were not armed combatants, at least—and so would have enjoyed greater immunity from official concern about their religio-political loyalties. Leading largely private lives and generally protected from the scrutiny of other men, they could well have played an important role in the clandestine activities of this early Shi˜ite movement—delivering messages, providing material support, harboring Shi˜ite fugitives, or holding secret meetings in their homes— and there are examples of such activities on the part of various women found in both Shi˜ite and Sunni historical sources.31 There is also one secretive but crucial role that a number of women—both Ãlid and non-Ãlid—are said to have played in the early Shi˜ite community: They were often reported in Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th traditions to be the bearers of the waƒåyå, or the formal testimonies and transmissions of authority from one Imåm to the next. In Imåm¥ Shi˜ism, the legitimacy of the community and its guides depends absolutely on the principle of naƒƒ—that is, the Imåm’s explicit and formal designation of his successor to the position. While Imåm¥ Shi˜ite doctrine holds that all twelve of the Imåms were clearly and unam-


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biguously identified by their predecessors, the numerous succession disputes within this line suggest that the issue was not always so clear-cut. It is quite interesting to note how frequently Shi˜ite tradition identifies women as the means of conveying a secret or problematic waƒiyyah from one Imåm to the next. There is the famous and widely reported belief that the Prophet’s final words spoken to Få†imah contained his waƒiyyah, which Shi˜ites believe included a reference to the identity of all twelve Imåm¥ Imåms. Shi˜ite tradition says that Ãl¥ later recorded the oral message given to Få†imah and that it was passed from one Imåm to the next. Some of the women who transferred these testaments of successorship were Ãlid women related to the Imåms. For example, Zaynab bt. Ãl¥ is said to have carried her brother, al¡usayn’s, waƒiyyah to her nephew, Ãl¥ Zayn al-˜≈bid¥n.32 In other traditions, al-¡usayn’s daughter, Få†imah, was entrusted with a sealed book or scroll containing the information regarding al-¡usayn’s successor, dutifully passing it on to Ãl¥ Zayn al-˜≈bid¥n, as instructed.33 It should also be noted that female relatives of the Imåms take on something of an important role near the end of the Imåm¥ line of Imåms—where the eighth through tenth Imåms are all said to have died fairly young, and to have succeeded one another in rapid succession and at increasingly young ages. This trend reaches its maximum point, of course, with the death of the eleventh Imåm, al-¡asan alÃskar¥, who is said to have died with only a few of his close followers being aware that he had a son. Therefore, his close female relatives, who reportedly assisted at the birth of the twelfth Imåm, are sometimes cited as sources confirming this birth.34 In other reports, women who were not personally related to the ahl al-bayt serve a similar function in transferring legitimacy to various Imåms. For example, the pro-Ãlid wife of the Prophet, Umm Salamah, was reportedly given a written letter by the Prophet and told that when the (true) “Commander of the Faithful (Am¥r al-mu˘min¥n)” ascended the pulpit of the mosque he would ask for it. After waiting patiently through the reigns of Ab¨ Bakr, ˜Umar and ˜Uthmån, she surrenders the letter to Ãl¥ upon his request when he becomes the caliph.35 According to another report, a woman named Umm Aslam asked the Prophet the identity of his designated waƒ¥. The Prophet responded by tracing a particular image for her in the sand, and told her that whoever could do the same was his waƒ¥. Using this method of evaluation, she was reportedly able to ascertain, while the Prophet was still alive, that Ãl¥ was his designated waƒ¥, and that Ãl¥’s young sons, al-¡asan and al-¡usyan, would succeed him in this position. Finally, she used this procedure to confirm that Ãl¥ Zayn al-˜≈bid¥n was the waƒ¥ after the death of his father, al-¡usayn, thereby undermining the rival claims of the followers of Mu±ammad b. al-¡anafiyyah.36

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¡abåbah al-Wålibiyyah, a close companion of al-¡usayn who reportedly attended his majålis and related his ÷ad¥th, is said to have passed written instructions from Ãl¥ to al-¡asan, from al-¡asan to al-¡usayn, and so on down the line of Imåm¥ Imåms, until she had reached the eighth Imåm, Ãl¥ al-Ri∂å.37 The fantastic nature of such a story is obvious from the fact that she would have had to have lived nearly 200 years in order to accomplish this feat. Yet, despite the fact that such ÷ad¥th narratives were likely used to smooth over problematic cases in the transmission of the naƒƒ imåmate, there may be an underlying kernel of truth to these stories about the female transmission of secret writings and waƒåyå. It was occasionally reported that women were given valuable scrolls, writings, and texts to hold in trust. ˜Umar b. al-Kha††åb, for example, entrusted a copy of the Qur˘an commissioned by his predecessor, Ab¨ Bakr, to his daughter ¡af∑ah on his deathbed, before his successor had been chosen. This copy is later said to have become the basis of the ˜Uthmån¥ codex of the Qur˘an, compiled a few years after ˜Umar’s death. To the extent that women’s private quarters were inviolable, in principle, by other men, women may have represented safe havens for important and/or controversial texts. Given that Shi˜ite tradition is filled with accounts of secretive written texts bearing both esoteric and sectarian (and therefore, politically sensitive) information, it is not implausible that some Shi˜ite authorities may have entrusted such writings or instructions to their female relatives for safekeeping. Whatever roles individual women may have historically played, there are other issues to consider with regard to the sources’ continual alignment of women with the Shi˜ite cause. It is important to remember that given the danger of Umayyad persecution, there may have been many male Shi˜ite sympathizers whose names are lost to us because of necessary secretiveness regarding their religio-political identity. Compilers of historical accounts for this period, such as Ab¨ Mikhnaf, may therefore have included reports of female sympathizers instead, since the mention of such women (who are usually only vaguely identified in the historical literature, and often with names that appear to be pseudonyms or else symbolic in nature) did not expose them to the same dangers. Such a technique may have been used by early historical compilers to indicate a widespread, if informal, sympathy with the Shi˜ite cause, or else to convey their own personal sympathies. Another factor to consider is the emotional and deeply personal nature of the Shi˜ite tragedies of the Umayyad period. Many of the Shi˜ite victims in the Umayyad period were the beloved family members or descendants of the Prophet himself. At Karbala, three generations of Prophetic descendants were decimated and their women were


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publicly paraded through the streets of Kufa and Damascus, stripped of their outer garments. Ab¨ Mikhnaf’s account of Karbala focuses at least as much on the suffering of the wives, daughters, and sisters of the Karbala victims—the marriages ending in widowhood before consummation, the loss of beloved sons and brothers—as it does on the religio-political issues underlying the conflict. The images of women dragged from their tents as prisoners, only to view their relatives bloodied and mutilated, naked, and unburied in the ˜Iraqi desert, and of Zaynab bt. Ãl¥ lamenting with unbelief the devastation wrought upon her family, would certainly have been enough to galvanize the emotional sympathy of many people, even those who, like women, may have had little stake in, or knowledge of, the contested religiopolitical issues involved. In numerous historical and literary accounts, women are represented as having identified and allied themselves with the suffering and grieving family of the Ãlids, rather than with the particular religio-political affiliations of their husbands and male relatives. Moreover, devotion to the Ãlid cause was largely expressed in this early period, in later times, and to the present day, through the visiting of the tombs of Ãlid martyrs. If the sources are accurate, and if early Islamic society was anything like the modern, the most ardent and loyal visitors of such tombs were women.38 ATTITUDES TOWARD WOMEN IN SHI˜ITE ¡ADI¯TH LITERATURE Despite the numerous anecdotal accounts of female Ãlid supporters, and the services they may have rendered in difficult times, Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th literature is somewhat mixed on the issue of women. It sometimes expresses a rather pessimistic view of women’s moral and religious character, and of their significance within the Shi˜ite community, while in other places it praises the character of women and their sympathy with the Shi˜ite cause. The most obvious characteristic of women in Shi˜ite canonical and noncanonical ÷ad¥th sources, however, is their scarcity. While Shi˜ite biographical collections do contain the names of some female ÷ad¥th transmitters, women figure less prominently in Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th transmission than they do in the Sunni counterpart. This is due in no small part to the fact that the greatest number of female ÷ad¥th transmitters belong to the generation of the companions (ƒa÷åbah) in Sunni tradition, with the wives of the Prophet, especially ˜≈˘ishah, being particularly prolific transmitters. Many of these sources would have been rejected by Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th compilers, since Shi˜ites do not consider most of the companions to be reliable transmitters, which included most of the wives of the Prophet and especially ˜≈˘ishah. Furthermore, most of the isnåds going back to the Prophet himself in

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Shi˜ite tradition are related through chains of Shi˜ite Imåms (all of whom, of course, are men); those that are related by Ãlid women, such as Få†imah and other member of the ahl al-bayt, are generally recorded in exclusively female and family isnåds that tend to be rather formulaic in nature (e.g., there is one tradition which is transmitted via an ascending chain of Få†imah’s who were all daughters of successive Shi˜ite Imåms).39 To the extent that these isnåds are not purely schematic and fictitious in nature, they would seem to indicate that even Ãlid women were not active transmitters within larger Shi˜ite intellectual or sectarian circles, but rather had a family legacy that they passed privately on to their children, most often their daughters.40 Women are also relatively scarce in the content of the traditions. Many, if not most, Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th traditions related from the Imåms (rather than the Prophet) take the form of questions posed to or comments made by one of the Imåms among his disciples, either in public teaching circles in the mosque or in private or semi-private audiences with the Imåms. Women are rarely reported to be among these circles and are only occasionally portrayed as having directly questioned the Imåm or sought his advice. Thus, while sympathy for the Ãlid cause among women is represented in both the ÷ad¥th and historical traditions as being quite widespread, and although some of those most loyal to the defeated and martyred Ãlids were women, the scarcity of specific women in either the isnåds or narrative content of Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th traditions suggests that they remained largely outside the sectarian and intellectual circles of the Imåms’ disciples, from which much of this material emerged. Given this apparently conflicting information—the widespread Shi˜ite sympathy among women suggested by historical sources and the scarcity of women in Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th literature—we should examine the general attitude toward women found in Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th traditions. A quick perusal of Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th literature yields a number of unflattering traditions about women. Much of this material is attributed to Ãl¥, and the traditions of later Imåms and Shi˜ite authorities seem to have taken their cue from Ãl¥’s reportedly pessimistic view of the moral and intellectual capabilities of women. In her book My Soul Is a Woman, Annemarie Schimmel alludes to the negative material regarding women attributed to Ãl¥ and sardonically notes that as the husband of the Prophet’s daughter, Ãl¥ “ought to have had a more positive attitude.”41 Some anecdotal accounts about Ãl¥ and Få†imah seem to indicate that this relationship was not without its difficulties,42 although Ãl¥ is never reported to have criticized Få†imah in any way, and all traditions attributed to him about her are clearly laudatory. He also reportedly enjoyed close relationships with some of his later wives, including Asmå˘ bt. ˜Umays, for whom he (and Shi˜ite tradition as well) held great respect.43


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Whatever Ãl¥’s relationships with his wives may have been, his most serious conflict with women came in his stormy relationship with ˜≈˘ishah, the daughter of Ab¨ Bakr and wife of the Prophet. The tension between these two figures is legendary, and is not unrelated either to their competition as two of the Prophet’s most beloved companions or to the later legitimist dispute between Ãl¥ and her father, Ab¨ Bakr. Some trace the antipathy between them to the time when ˜≈˘ishah was falsely accused of adultery. Ãl¥ reportedly advised the Prophet to divorce ˜≈˘ishah as a precaution in the face of unresolved suspicions about her marital fidelity44—something that could hardly have been forgiven or forgotten by ˜≈˘ishah. ˜≈˘ishah’s innocence is traditionally believed to have been established by a Qur˘anic revelation denouncing her slanderers,45 but polemical Shi˜ite sources seem to support Ãl¥’s initial suspicion, and further suggest that the person exonerated by that Qur˘anic verse may not have been ˜≈˘ishah at all but rather the Prophet’s Christian slavegirl, Måriyah, whose fidelity was allegedly considered suspect after ˜≈˘ishah questioned the paternity of the son she bore to the Prophet.46 However serious the tensions may have been between Ãl¥ and ˜≈˘ishah while Mu±ammad was alive—and this is difficult to gauge, given the extent to which traditions to this effect have been influenced or manufactured by partisans to the legitimist struggle between Ãl¥ and her father—there can be little doubt that the two faced one another on a field of battle early in Ãl¥’s caliphal reign, and that she is one of the primary instigators of the civil war that tore apart Ãl¥’s control of the Islamic community and ultimately resulted in his death. It is hard not to see a connection between the political and personal conflicts Ãl¥ had with ˜≈˘ishah and the negative traditions about women that are widely attributed to him. In fact, many of these traditions are found in the Nahj al-balåghah—a compilation of Ãl¥’s public speeches, letters, and sayings that purport to date to the turbulent period of his caliphate and the First Civil War—and some concern ˜≈˘ishah directly. For example, he dismisses the Basran army who opposed him in the Battle of the Camel as the “army of a woman” (meaning ˜≈˘ishah) and “followers of the beast” (referring to her camel, which became the focus of the battle at one point).47 After the battle, he criticizes ˜≈˘ishah in front of her former Basran supporters, describing her as “afflicted with the thinking of a woman” and “seething with malice like an iron cauldron.”48 In this same collection we find a tradition in which Ãl¥ declares women deficient in faith (¥mån) and intelligence (ãql), echoing the Prophetic ÷ad¥th that women are lacking in religion (d¥n) and intelligence (ãql),49 and many traditions attributed to Ãl¥ with regard to women are critical of their intelligence in particular. Ãl¥ reportedly warned that “conversing with women”

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was one of four things that could ruin a man’s heart.50 While this is tempered by a tradition attributed to Ãl¥ in a later source that permits one to consult with a woman, provided her intellect has been “tested” and found complete,51 the need for such a test suggests that he considered it rarely to be the case. In yet another tradition, he states that a woman’s intelligence (ãql) is found in her beauty, while a man’s beauty is found in his intelligence.52 This critique of the intelligence of women was hardly insignificant as regards their status in the Shi˜ite community. Ãql represents a fundamental principle in Shi˜ism. It was said to be the source of correct religion, of the knowledge of the Imåms, and of virtue. The first chapter of Kulayn¥’s al-Kåf¥ is the “Book of Intelligence and Ignorance (Kitåb al-ãql wa˘l-jahl),” reflecting the centrality of this principle in Shi˜ite doctrine, and many traditions attributed to Ãl¥ himself in the same Nahj al-balåghah emphasize the importance of ãql as a spiritual virtue.53 A series of traditions declaring women to be deficient in this area could not have been without consequence for their full inclusion in, or even identification with, the Shi˜ite movement, and may be linked to other traditions that imply a corresponding moral deficiency on the part of women. Perhaps for this reason, Ãl¥ is reported to have strongly discouraged the role of women in religious and public life.54 The best women, from Ãl¥’s perspective, were those who made impeccable service to their husbands their primary form of spiritual “jihåd,” or struggle.55 Women’s virtue lay in their remaining at home,56 being faithful to their husbands,57 and struggling against their inherent tendency toward jealousy. In one tradition, Ãl¥ states that jealousy in men is ¥mån, while jealousy in women is kufr, or unbelief.58 The numerous traditions attributed to Ãl¥ that either critique the intrinsic intellectual or moral capabilities of women or emphasize the lack of a legitimate role for them in public life, are almost certainly related to Ãl¥’s bitterness over ˜≈˘ishah’s actions in the First Civil War. For example, in one tradition Ãl¥ warns his followers not to obey or trust women, since they “have no dignity when it comes to [fulfilling] their needs and no religion (d¥n) when it comes to [attaining] their desires.”59 Ãl¥’s reference to obeying women likely has in mind ˜≈˘ishah’s leadership of the rebellion against him, and a tradition in which he warns men to beware even of “the best women”60 may also have been directed at those who followed ˜≈˘ishah out of reverence for her position as the beloved wife of Mu±ammad and as one of the “Mothers of the believers.” When Ãl¥ confronts the defeated (and wounded) ˜≈˘ishah after the Battle of the Camel, he does not discuss the political or religious merits of the rebellion she has helped lead against him; rather, his primary complaint against her is


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that she disobeyed the Prophetic command that his wives remain secluded and withdrawn from public life after his death.61 There are traditions in which Ãl¥ explicitly connects the notion of “fitnah”— doubly understood as civil war and a general undermining of the moral fiber of the community—to women.62 Of course, despite the continued reverence for ˜≈˘ishah among Sunnis, the notion that her role in the First Civil War was inappropriate, and that it illustrated the dangers of women’s participation in the public realm, is also taken up by Sunni authors, who could cite the event as proof that a woman’s open involvement in the public sphere leads to fitnah.63 Yet no one could have been more disturbed by ˜≈˘ishah’s role in this divisive and costly revolt than Ãl¥, and it seems to be in the context of comments made shortly after the Battle of the Camel that Ãl¥ delivers his most critical discourse on women, referring them as “scorpions, whose bite is sweet [and therefore deceptive]”64 and declaring them deficient in faith (¥mån) and intelligence (ãql). As bitter as many of Ãl¥’s experiences with ˜≈˘ishah may have been, and as much as this may have led him to speculate negatively on the intellectual and moral worth of women generally, he was also reportedly aware of, and sympathetic to, the fact that the limited public role of women—and their dependence upon male relatives that he so strongly recommended—often left women vulnerable. He is said to have spared a widow sentenced to death for adultery after learning that she was forced to prostitute herself in order to obtain water from a malicious stranger,65 and to have argued for the release of another woman who was similarly condemned for having borne a child that her husband incorrectly thought was conceived in his absence.66 He is reported to have defended a woman against her oppressive and abusive husband,67 and to have prevented other women from being defrauded by cruel and manipulative men.68 Despite Ãl¥’s displeasure with the excessive wailing of the women in Kufa over those killed in the Battle of Œiff¥n,69 he was reportedly moved by the difficulties these battles presented for widowed and orphaned women.70 Stories of Ãl¥’s sympathy for female victims of unfortunate circumstances or malicious oppression indicates another thread running throughout the Shi˜ite perspective on women—namely, an intrinsic sympathy for, and even identification with, the oppressed and helpless members of society. To the extent that women frequently found themselves at the mercy of impious men, they appear as figures of inherent pity for Ãl¥, and for Shi˜ites in general, and a number of Shi˜ite traditions urge special concern, care, and leniency for the female members of the community, precisely because of their disadvantaged position in society.71

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The Charismatic Community Women in ¡ad¥th Material Attributed to Later Imåms

Many of the Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th traditions attributed to later Imåms build on and continue some of the attitudes toward the intellectual capacities of women found in traditions attributed to Ãl¥. Mu±ammad al-Båqir, for example, says that it is inadvisable to teach women to read and that it is better to teach them to weave and perhaps to recite the S¨rat al-N¨r.72 In another case, one of M¨så al-Kåπim’s more educated slave women is found by al-Kåπim’s brother attending the teaching circle of one of the learned legal scholars of Baghdad. He chastises her for being there (in public presumably) and when she protests that alKåπim has permitted her to attend such gatherings, he dismisses her by saying: “Women are incapable of considering such things.”73 The tradition about women being deficient in intellect (ãql) and religion (d¥n) also continued to be repeated in combination with other unflattering comments about women. In one case, the eleventh Imåm, al¡asan al-Ãskar¥, quotes the tradition about women’s deficiency in intellect and religion, and then goes on to say, “there is no evil man except that there is a woman who is worse and there is no virtuous woman except that there is a man who is better.” He then notes that the only exception to this rather absolute inequality between male and female virtue was in the case of Få†imah—“for she was a woman who was superior to some of the best men in the world.”74 Mu±ammad alBåqir warns his followers not to consult with or obey women,75 and other traditions consider conversing with women to be a corrupting influence76 on the believers, which may deaden their hearts.77 Despite the perpetuation of some decidedly negative views about women in Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th literature—views that, in any case, are not all that different from what can be found in Sunni works—there are also a number of quite positive traditions about women, and men’s relationship with them, particularly regarding the benefit and virtue of loving them. Versions of well-known traditions that emphasize the Prophet’s love of women and the notion that the best of men are those who are best to their wives are found in Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th collections;78 and the love of women, sometimes presented as a vice or a corrupting influence on men,79 is more frequently said to be a sign of spiritual virtue. “Love of women” is reported to be a particular characteristic of the prophets,80 as well as one of the seven personal qualities given exclusively to the ahl al-bayt (along with grace, eloquence, generosity, bravery, knowledge, and forbearance).81 Finally, Ja˜far al-Œådiq considers the “love of women” to be a virtue that is found particularly in his followers, and increases in them in direct proportion to both their love of the ahl al-bayt and their faith (¥mån).82 While positive statements about the virtue of loving women does not necessarily mean a positive


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view of women overall, there are also traditions that consider women positively in their own right, as when al-Œådiq is quoted as saying that most goodness is to be found in women.83 Even if we find positive traditions regarding women attributed to later Imåms, there is still the continuing theme of the rarity of truly virtuous believing women. Ja˜far al-Œådiq praises a woman for the virtue of her daughter, saying: “O Khanså˘, if God had given you nothing other than your daughter, Umm al-¡usayn, God would have given you a great good. Truly, a virtuous woman among women is rarer than a white-footed crow that is white only in one foot.”84 In another, more general reference to the rarity of believing women, alŒådiq tells us that a “female (Shi˜ite) believer is dearer than a male believer, because she is rarer; and indeed the (male believers) are rarer than red sulfur. Who among you has seen red sulfur!”85 The phrases “rarer than a white-footed crow” and “rarer than red sulfur” are poetic idioms in Arabic for something truly rare—so rare as to scarcely be found. But in these traditions, which are both attributed to al-Œådiq, a virtuous woman is not only rarer than a white-footed crow, but rarer, in fact, than a white-footed crow who is white-footed in only one leg; a believing woman is not only rarer than red sulfur, she is rarer even than a male believer, who is himself “rarer than red sulfur.” A believing woman is thus described as a rarity even among an already rare subset of individuals. We should understand these ideas in relation to Shi˜ite traditions about the scarcity of knowledge, virtue, and true belief among members of the Islamic community generally (see Chapter 10). Shi˜ite tradition suggests that true believers were rare indeed, but the value of such Shi˜ite believers lay precisely in their rarity—a sentiment expressed in relation to both men and women. Even if the number of male Shi˜ite believers was considered to exceed that of female believers, a small number of ÷ad¥th traditions and anecdotal accounts suggest that by the mid- to late second century, Shi˜ism was not merely an ideological fraternity with a few honorary or supporting female members. A number of traditions regarding the special distinctions of the Shi˜ites explicitly include women in their number,86 and women’s affiliation with the Shi˜ite community is not always represented as coming, passively, via their male relatives. Among the A˜yan family, for example, which included Zurårah b. A˜yan and his three brothers, who were all deeply connected to the inner circles of the fifth and sixth Imåms, it is their sister, Umm alAswad, who is said to have been the first in the family to adopt the Shi˜ite perspective—presumably influencing her well-known brothers in their own Shi˜ite views.87 Women are also occasionally reported to have come independently to seek spiritual advice from the Imåm, or to have made their own financial contributions to the Shi˜ite cause;88

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and even into the Ãbbåsid period, some women were reportedly arrested or persecuted for their Shi˜ite beliefs.89 Moreover, Shi˜ite tradition attributes certain distinctions to Shi˜ite women that separate them from their non-Shi˜ite sisters. In one interesting tradition, we are given a sectarian rendition of the famous ÷ad¥th about the ten “parts of desire” created by God, in which al-Båqir states that among the Umayyads and their supporters, nine parts of desire were given to their women and one part to their men, while among the Håshimites and their Shi˜ite supporters, nine parts of desire were given to their men and only one to their women90—clearly arguing for the superior modesty and chastity of Shi˜ite women. If Shi˜ite women, like Shi˜ite men, possessed unique spiritual characteristics but were even more rare and precious, then what did this mean for marital relations within the community? If female Shi˜ites were so rare, then Shi˜ite men presumably needed to marry outside this small circle; and if Shi˜ite women were so valuable, then could they in good conscience be allowed to marry non-Shi˜ite men?

INTERMARRIAGE WITHIN THE SHI˜ITE COMMUNITY A review of Shi˜ite traditions about the rules of marriage and appropriate marriage partners turns up material similar to what one finds in Sunni tradition. Shi˜ite traditions urge their followers to marry virtuous and pious (rather than beautiful and wealthy) women and to marry virgins if possible.91 There are traditions about the virtues of Qurayshi, or alternately Medinan, women, and traditions that discuss the issue of kafå˘ah, or the notion that people should marry their “equals” in lineage, wealth, religion, and occupation.92 It is unclear, however, whether the notion of equality in religion meant that Shi˜ites were required to marry only fellow Shi˜ites, since Shi˜ite traditions expressing the idea that “the believers are equals”93 for the purposes of marriage, or that marriage proposals from people of satisfactory religious standing should not be arbitrarily rejected,94 can be construed either as referring to all Muslims in a general sense, or to true believers in a more sectarian and exclusive sense. However, if we go beyond these initial similarities with Sunni traditions about marriage, we find that Shi˜ite tradition is far more cautious, comparatively speaking, about the issue of intersectarian marriage. While Shi˜ites seem to agree with Sunnis that perfect equality of socio-economic status was not required between marriage partners, Shi˜ites are more concerned than their Sunni counterparts about marrying within one’s own faith—both widely and narrowly construed. So, for example, while canonical Sunni tradition upholds the Qur˘anic


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injunction allowing Muslim men to marry Jewish and Christian women, clarifying only that these must be free women (since the Qur˘an only allowed men to marry slaves if they had become Muslim) Shi˜ite tradition is far more hesitant about such mixed marriages. Some traditions in canonical collections even suggest that the Qur˘anic verse allowing marriage to Jews and Christians95 was abrogated by a later verse to the effect that Muslims should not take unbelieving women (kawåfir) as wives;96 and traditions attributed to al-Båqir and al-Œådiq explicitly discourage the marrying of Jews and Christians.97 Al-Œådiq tells his followers they should never marry a Jewish or Christian woman in preference to a Muslim woman and that doing so could render the marriage invalid.98 In other traditions he states that if a man insists on marrying a Jewish or Christian woman, then he must never marry more than two,99 he must forbid her from drinking wine and eating pork, and furthermore, he should know that it will be a mark of deficiency in his religion.100 Shi˜ite tradition, like Sunni tradition, is opposed to Muslim men marrying Zoroastrian women under any circumstances.101 While Shi˜ites, and the Imåms themselves, seem to have married into non-Shi˜ite families, there are a number of traditions that imply that serious consideration had to be given to sectarian issues in the choice of a marriage partner. Al-Œådiq warns his disciples with regard to choosing marriage partners: “[B]e careful about where you place yourself and those with whom you associate and those to whom you reveal your religion (d¥n) and your secret (sirr) and your trust (amånah).”102 Here, he cannot simply mean “religion” in the general sense of being a Muslim, for he mentions this term as something to be hidden (which presumably a man’s Islam was not) and in connection with the notion of one’s “secret”—that is, most likely, one’s inner religious life and Shi˜ite sectarian views. In other traditions, it is made clear that Shi˜ite men, although permitted to marry outside the Shi˜ite community proper, were prohibited from intermarrying with the nåƒibah, that is, the persecutors and sworn enemies of the Shi˜ites.103 This apparently meant that one was not permitted to marry into nåƒib¥ families, even if the women had little to do with their father’s religiopolitical perspectives, but especially if they did. Ãl¥ Zayn al-˜≈bid¥n and Mu±ammad al-Båqir set the example for their followers in this regard, as they are both said to have divorced anti-Ãlid wives. AlBåqir is said to have been quite fond of a wife whom he found cursing and dissociating herself from Ãl¥. He reportedly spent long hours arguing with this woman (who some sources say was a Kharijite) in an attempt to convince her to give up her religious views, but was regrettably unable to do so.104 It was obvious why a devoted Shi˜ite man would not and should not be married to such women, but what about other non-Shi˜ite

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women? The first person reported to have raised this issue seriously with the Imåms is one of the members of the inner circle of both the fifth and sixth Imåms, Zurårah b. A˜yan. There are multiple versions of this incident—one of which was cited at length in Chapter 9—in which Zurårah is said to have been asked by either Mu±ammad alBåqir or Ja˜far al-Œådiq if he had yet married. He says that he has not, and is asked why. He then replies that he could not find a woman who was acceptable for him to marry, religiously speaking. Al-Båqir instructs him to marry women who are “feeble-minded.” Zurårah asks him if he means by this women who were Zayd¥ or Murji˘ite by sectarian affiliation. Al-Båqir replies that he means those women who know nothing of the religious and political issues underlying the Shi˜ite cause and who have no knowledge of the particular religious issues that concern Shi˜ites. Zurårah protests that any such woman must nonetheless be either a believer or an unbeliever—underscoring his rather stringent view that only Shi˜ites were true believers and all others were “unbelievers”—and that therefore any non-Shi˜ite woman would have to be an “unbeliever” and hence unmarriageable. Al-Båqir responds by citing a number of Qur˘anic verses that suggest a middle ground between full believers and outright unbelievers, including verses about “those who mix good actions and bad,” as well as the “musta¿ãf¶n among the men, women and children.”105 While this ÷ad¥th narration is clearly about defining Shi˜ite doctrine with regard to nonShi˜ites generally, it raises the issue of intermarriage and the question of the position of the Qur˘anic “musta¿ãf¶n (or “weak ones”) in relation to women. The term “musta¿ãf” or “¿a˜¥f” is associated with women in various types of Shi˜ite literature, at times referring to their inability to understand and fully participate in religio-political conflicts, and at others referring to their inability to act upon the Shi˜ite sympathies they may hold. In general, then, Shi˜ite tradition permitted Shi˜ite men to marry non-Shi˜ite women and to marry into nonShi˜ite families as long as they were not persecutors of the Shi˜ites. The same, however, does not seem to have been true for Shi˜ite women. Just as the general Islamic tradition permitted Muslim men to marry Jews and Christians, but did not permit Muslim women to do the same, so too did Shi˜ite tradition permit Shi˜ite men to marry nonShi˜ite women but did not approve of Shi˜ite women being given in marriage to non-Shi˜ite men. In fact, there is one tradition in which alŒådiq does discourage his male followers from marrying non-Shi˜ite women, but primarily as a way of protecting Shi˜ite women, specifically. He says: “Keep away from the women of the non-Shi˜ites (nås) so that they will keep away from yours.”106 The religious and marital protection of Shi˜ite women seems to be something about which the fifth and sixth Imåms were concerned.


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In one interesting anecdote, a Shi˜ite man asks Ja˜far al-Œådiq about a woman who came to him and whom he clearly recognized as a Shi˜ite through her love and walåyah toward the ahl al-bayt, but who had no male relative (ma÷ram) to care for and protect her. The Imåm instructs his disciple to take her under his protection, since a mu˘min is the “ma÷ram” of a mu˘minah, and reminds him of the Qur˘anic verse declaring that the believing men and women are “protectors” (awliyå˘) of one another (this ÷ad¥th is related in connection with the commentary on that verse).107 Unmarried female Shi˜ites, then, were to be viewed as the responsibility of Shi˜ite men, particularly, one would presume, when it came to finding suitable marriage partners for them. Perhaps acting in this capacity, a man is reported to have sought alBåqir’s advice concerning his wife’s sister who held “the correct religious opinion” (i.e., was a Shi˜ite) but had no Shi˜ite suitor in Basra. When he asks al-Båqir if he can therefore marry her to a non-Shi˜ite, the Imåm refuses, saying: “Do not marry her to anyone who does not share her religious views, although [a Shi˜ite man] marrying a woman who is not a nåƒibah is fine.”108 Thus, even in a case where a woman had no available Shi˜ite marriage partner, marriage to a non-Shi˜ite was not acceptable. The Imåms’ reasoning regarding the prohibition on marrying Shi˜ite women to non-Shi˜ite men parallels the rationale for the general Islamic prohibition on marrying Muslim women to non-Muslim men—namely, that a woman was considered the weaker party in the marriage, and thus more vulnerable to being separated from her religion by her spouse. The Imåm says: Marry [yourselves] among the “doubters” (or people of doubtful religio-political commitment, shukkåk) but do not marry [your women] to them, for women take their education from their husbands and he may prevail upon her to accept his religion.109

Another tradition says that a believing [Shi˜ite] woman should not even marry a musta¿ãf110—that is, a man incapable of participating intellectually or physically in the Shi˜ite cause. It is difficult to know how strictly these marital policies were enforced, but traditions to this effect are attributed to both the fifth and sixth Imåms, who lived during the most intense, formative period of Imåm¥ Shi˜ism prior to the major occultation in the fourth century. The absence of this issue in traditions attributed to Ãl¥ or other Imåms prior to al-Båqir and al-Œådiq, coupled with the reports that both Ãl¥ Zayn al-˜≈bid¥n and Mu±ammad al-Båqir married women of questionable (perhaps even Kharijite) sectarian affiliation, suggests that these marital policies may have been something that only began to emerge in the context of the doctrinal solidification of Imåm¥ Shi˜ite

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views in the mid-second century. There is also a report involving the seventh Imåm, M¨så al-Kåπim, which suggests that these intermarriage policies may have already been taken quite seriously by at least some members of the Shi˜ite community of his time. In this account, al-Kåπim was summoned before the Ãbbåsid caliph, Hår¨n al-Rash¥d, who presented the Imåm with a scroll that he had evidently intercepted from one of the Imåm’s followers containing numerous controversial and sectarian ideas. One of these ideas, and the one that most likely angered the caliph, was that certain religious taxes were to be paid to the Imåm, rather than the Ãbbåsid state. But the document also included a more religiously controversial doctrine—namely, that people should “dissociate” themselves from the Prophet’s companions, and that whoever refused to do so “should be forcibly separated from his wife.”111 This assumes, of course, that the wives themselves were Shi˜ite, and that prohibitions regarding marriage between a Shi˜ite woman and a non-Shi˜ite man were taken seriously enough that the community would take the extraordinary step of dissolving a marriage in which the husband could be considered an “apostate” from the Shi˜ite sectarian view. The alleged document is a bit extreme in the views it ascribes to al-Kåπim’s followers, and it is difficult to determine the historicity of this encounter between Hår¨n al-Rash¥d and M¨så al-Kåπim. It is, however, historically plausible. The Shi˜ite community seems to have reached a certain level of cohesion and organization by the time of M¨så al-Kåπim, and other evidence exists that regular khums payments to the Imåms began in this period. Such a development could only have been viewed as seditious by the Ãbbåsid caliph and was a likely reason for the seventh Imåm’s subsequent imprisonment. But the level of communal and financial organization that would have been necessary to facilitate the collection of such khums payments (which apparently continued even while the Imåm was imprisoned) suggests a more thorough social integration among the Shi˜ites of this time, perhaps partially as a result of the teachings about intermarriage put into circulation by the disciples of the fifth and sixth Imåms. Such a conclusion, of course, goes beyond the meager evidence that we have about the issue of communal intermarriage among Shi˜ites in this relatively early time period. But it is noteworthy insofar as such a doctrine would have been entirely consistent with the earlier Imåms’ teaching regarding intermarriage. Even if the ÷ad¥th is spurious—or else the ÷ad¥th is accurate, but the scroll represented manufactured evidence against the Imåm—someone made these accusations because they at least suspected such practices to be true of the Shi˜ite community, and that alone tells us something of the level of internal cohesion


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and social organization of the Imåm¥ Shi˜ite community in the late second century. Our survey of the historical and ÷ad¥th material related to women in Shi˜ite tradition reveals a somewhat ambiguous relationship between women and the Shi˜ite cause, but this ambiguity has much to do with the various levels on which Shi˜ism can be defined—as a particular sympathy for the family of the Prophet and their troubled history, as an underground religio-political movement, as an intellectual fraternity or as a social community. On the first level, there seems to have been a certain mutual sympathy between women and Shi˜ites in general. Women frequently exhibited a devotional attachment to the family of the Prophet and a profound empathy with their successive tragedies. Shi˜ites, always concerned with the victims of oppression and injustice, seem to have had a sympathy for the particular vulnerability and lack of religious freedom that some women experienced. As a members of a clandestine movement or organization, Shi˜ites are reported to have been occasionally aided by women who were sympathetic to their cause, and who may have served as a convenient means of communication and coordination among underground Shi˜ite activists. As useful as women may have been at these levels, Shi˜ite tradition, largely following the traditions of Ãl¥, sometimes expresses a poor opinion of women’s intellectual capabilities, something that may have cast doubt on their ability to fully understand and be identified with Shi˜ite intellectual positions and to be, therefore, full “believers.” At the same time, the minority status of the community, compounded by the notion that true female believers—in the fullest sectarian sense—were rare, seems to have led to a situation wherein self-consciously Shi˜ite women, or else the female relatives of Shi˜ite men, were only to be married to Shi˜ite men, while Shi˜ite men had the option of marrying Muslim women who had no connection to sectarian issues. On the whole, though, Shi˜ite traditions regarding intermarriage either within the Muslim community, or among Jewish and Christian communities, tended to be conservative and insular in nature—far more so than Sunni tradition. This attitude may have served to consolidate and strengthen the Shi˜ite community—a community that Shi˜ites considered to be, as we have seen, the sacred vessel of Islam in its purest and truest form.


CHAPTER 12

Perforated Boundaries Establishing Two Codes of Conduct

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nce spiritual categories and hierarchies had been established, both within the Shi˜ite community, and between Shi˜ites and nonShi˜ites, the theoretical framework had been laid for a distinct and theologically definable identity for the Shi˜ite community within the Islamic ummah. Yet, this identity would remain something of an abstract notion without the complementary establishment of a set of practical guidelines for the Shi˜ite community that would regulate and control their relations both with fellow Shi˜ites and with the Muslim community at large. If the relationship of disciple to Imåm had become one of strict recognition of, and obedience to, the Imåm’s authority (a more passive relationship than had been envisioned earlier), then the question remained: What should be the structure of relationships among members of the Shi˜ite community, and between the different hierarchical levels within that community? If Shi˜ites considered themselves the believing “elite” of the Muslim community, then on what terms should they interact with non-Shi˜ites? Where did one draw the line on social interaction with non-Shi˜ites, and to what extent did duties toward fellow Shi˜ites exceed duties toward ordinary Muslims? Only when these questions could be given consistent answers, and appropriate and observable guidelines were set, is it possible to speak of Shi˜ites as a separate, self-contained, and recognizable community within the Islamic ummah in concrete and not merely abstract terms. While a thorough social history of the Shi˜ite 237

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community is beyond the scope of this study, this final chapter examines the ways in which the sectarian Shi˜ite distinction between ¥mån and islåm influenced, or at least ideologically and intellectually facilitated, a set of normative, practical relations both between Shi˜ites and non-Shi˜ites and within the Shi˜ite community itself.

RELATIONS WITH NON-SHI˜ITES Despite the frequently sharp Shi˜ite polemic against non-Shi˜ites and despite the strongly worded and occasionally hyperbolic traditions that paint a harsh picture of non-Shi˜ite Muslims, Shi˜ites always considered themselves to be part of the one Islamic ummah. Even the terms khåƒƒah and ˜åmmah, used to denote the Shi˜ite and non-Shi˜ite populations, respectively, imply that the two were members of a single social entity. Ultimately, and especially from a legal point of view, Shi˜ites always dealt with non-Shi˜ites as fellow Muslims and accorded them their rights in this regard. In his article on the Shi˜ite practice of dissociation (barå˘ah), Etan Kohlberg tells us: “Literary or liturgical expressions were one method of carrying out the religious obligation of barå˘ah, social ostracism was another. . . . Ibn Båbawayh himself grants this point when he says that dissociation on the social level is to be practiced when the believer enjoys freedom of action (ikhtiyår).”1 Yet, the overwhelming majority of Shi˜ite traditions on the subject of relations with non-Shi˜ites encourages normal and indeed charitable relations with them, without making an explicit stipulation about freedom of action. Traditions cited previously established that basic patterns of interrelation—such as mutual inheritance and social mixing (mukhåla†ah)—were perfectly legal and acceptable between Shi˜ites and non-Shi˜ites, as long as the non-Shi˜ite was not a sworn enemy of the Shi˜ites, or one who deliberately sought to persecute them. Other traditions extend the permissible forms of interaction to certain religious rites and to acts of charity. Ja˜far al-Œådiq instructs his disciples on numerous occasions to participate in religious rituals with non-Shi˜ites, to march in their funeral processions, to be witnesses for and against them, and to be mindful of their rights.2 Moreover, both Ja˜far al-Œådiq and M¨så alKåπim impressed upon their disciples the importance of attending communal Friday prayer,3 which, for Shi˜ites living in many communities, must have meant praying behind a non-Shi˜ite imåm.4 Shi˜ites certainly did not consider their situation within the Islamic ummah to be ideal, and to a certain extent, such normal interaction with non-Shi˜ites may have been a protection against persecution. In some traditions, the Imåm cites precedents from the behavior of previous prophets and prophetic communities under persecution as a

Perforated Boundaries

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guideline for proper action. For example, the situation of Shi˜ite believers living amongst the non-Shi˜ite majority was compared to that of the Qur˘anic “people of the cave (aƒ÷åb al-kahf)” who lived in a time of “shirk”: . . . Pray in their mosques, attend their funerals, visit their sick and speak to your community [qawmikum—here meaning one’s ordinary associates, who were not necessarily Shi˜ites] about what is familiar to them . . . you are only responsible for the easy task, and how would it be if they demanded of you what the community of the aƒ÷åb al-kahf demanded of them? They demanded shirk toward Almighty God, so [the aƒ÷åb al-kahf] made a pretense of shirk in front of them, and kept their faith (¥mån) hidden until a deliverance came to them; but such is not demanded of you [by your contemporaries].5

We have already mentioned a number of other Shi˜ite traditions that instruct the believers to avoid proselytization of their sectarian views, but in this tradition the Imåm goes further by encouraging Shi˜ites to engage in all necessary social and ritual functions with nonShi˜ites, as well as enjoining a degree of charity and kindness toward them (i.e., visiting them during a time of illness) that went beyond what was legally required. Shi˜ite tradition does place some limits on the way in which Shi˜ites were to interact with non-Shi˜ites, most of which are linked to their status as the mu˘min¶n or the “elite” of the Muslim community. Shi˜ites were instructed to behave with an awareness of their superior spiritual and intellectual station in their dealings with nonShi˜ites. While there was to be no open or explicit proselytization of the Shi˜ite religious point of view, it is clear that Shi˜ites should strive to have a positive influence on the non-Shi˜ite community in more subtle ways. They were to attract spiritually qualified individuals to their cause by fostering a high opinion of the moral character and intelligence of the Shi˜ite community through their own virtuous and noble behavior and demonstrations of their learnedness, rather than seeking merely to swell the ranks of the Shi˜ite community with, perhaps unworthy, neophytes. In one case, Ja˜far al-Œådiq tells his disciple, Ab¨ Ya˜f¨r, to practice da˜wah (or propagation) to the general public (nås) “without your tongue; let them see from you ijtihåd (spiritual effort), ƒidq (truthfulness), and wara˜ (piety).”6 In another tradition, Shi˜ites are told to be “an ornament (zayn) for the one you are devoted to [i.e, the Imåm], and not a source of shame (shayn): pray among [non-Shi˜ites], visit their sick, attend their funerals, and do not let them outdo you in any good thing, for you are more deserving of precedence than they are. . . .”7 In other words, the Shi˜ites were

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expected to live up to their responsibility as the spiritual elite of the ummah, begrudging non-Shi˜ite members of the community no becoming form of kindness, while also behaving with the virtue, dignity, and superiority appropriate to their rank. Just as the ahl al-bayt, unlike other Muslims, were not permitted to accept charity (ƒadaqah) because of their elite status, and because there was an aspect of lowliness in the acceptance of such charity, so, too, were Shi˜ites frequently instructed by the Imåms to accept no form of charity from non-Shi˜ites. There has already been the case, cited above, in which the Imåm discouraged his followers from accepting any form of kindness from the nåƒib, lest the nåƒib seek his aid on the Day of Judgment, thereby obligating the Shi˜ite to intercede for him; but Shi˜ites were also discouraged from accepting charity from any non-Shi˜ite. In a strongly worded statement, al-Œådiq declares that the true Shi˜ite accepts nothing from non-Shi˜ites “even if he dies of hunger.”8 It was considered unbecoming and inappropriate for Shi˜ites to complain to non-Shi˜ites (ahl al-khilåf) about a particular problem or misfortune they happened to be suffering, “for if you do this, you are complaining about your Lord.” Rather, the Shi˜ite was permitted to complain of such problems only to “one of his brothers” (i.e., a fellow Shi˜ite).9 All of the injunctions found in Shi˜ite tradition, enjoining the Shi˜ites to be kind and generous to their non-Shi˜ite neighbors, to treat them according to their legal rights, to avoid open proselytization, etc., can be tied to the issue of taqiyyah. That is, Shi˜ites were in no case to antagonize the non-Shi˜ite community, either by ostracizing themselves from them, or by doing anything that would tarnish the image of the Shi˜ites or the Imåms. This included, on the one hand, refraining from discussing esoteric (or highly sectarian) topics that non-Shi˜ites would consider heretical, and on the other, behaving flawlessly and blamelessly, both as intellectuals and as men of piety. This was not merely a way of preserving the good reputation of the Shi˜ite community at large but also of protecting it. As long as Shi˜ite behavior was morally impeccable, and as long as Shi˜ites glossed over the depth of their schism with the rest of the community by participating in communal prayers, funerals, and other rites with non-Shi˜ites, they were perhaps less vulnerable to persecution. There were, however, a few places where the Imåms drew the line regarding relations with the rest of the community: In addition to the limits on intermarriage with non-Shi˜ites, as discussed in the previous chapter, the Shi˜ites were never to sit or remain in a gathering in which the Imåms or the Shi˜ite believers (either as a whole or as individuals) were being slandered or defamed. Although they were not necessarily obligated to openly


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defend the reputations of their Imåm or their fellow Shi˜ites with either tongue or sword at the gathering itself, they were nonetheless told to avoid or immediately leave such gatherings.10

RELATIONS AMONG SHI˜ITES The relationship of the Shi˜ite community to the Islamic ummah at large can be graphically represented as a pair of concentric circles— the outer representing the ummah in its entirety and the inner representing the Shi˜ite community. Shi˜ites considered themselves an intrinsic part of the larger circle representing the ummah as a whole, but also claimed membership in the more exclusive inner circle of Shi˜ite believers. The boundary between the two circles should be represented as a perforated one, reflecting the fact that Shi˜ite tradition considered certain types of social and religious interaction to be legitimate within the ummah at large, and among all Muslims, while other social and religious interactions were to be practiced exclusively among fellow Shi˜ites. In other words, there were in theory two codes of conduct for members of the Shi˜ite community, one pertaining to relations within the larger circle, and one governing relations among those within the elite inner circle of Shi˜ites. In terms of the former, as we have discussed above, Shi˜ites were in the first instance to treat all fellow Muslims according to the dictates of Islamic law—that is, according to its basic rules of conduct regarding economic and social transactions—and to show generosity to them in ways that went beyond the legal requirements. In this way, the Shi˜ite version of appropriate intra-ummah relations does not differ much from its Sunni counterpart. However, if duties toward ordinary Muslims went above and beyond the legal stipulations, then duties toward fellow Shi˜ites went still further. Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th literature is replete with traditions enjoining Shi˜ites to be kind, generous, helpful, and beneficent toward their fellow Shi˜ites in a way that was likely intended not only to establish a high ethical and moral standard for Shi˜ites but also to foster and encourage a unique sense of community and brotherhood among the Shi˜ites as an exclusive group. As to the general importance of the topic of relations among Shi˜ites in Imåm¥ Shi˜ite literature, it should be noted that the canonical compilation of Imåm¥ ÷ad¥th, Kulayn¥’s al-Kåf¥, devotes a substantial portion of its section on faith and unbelief to appropriate relations between fellow believers.11 There are also numerous monographs and single-issue compilations of traditions devoted to the same subject, including al-¡usayn b. Sa˜¥d’s Kitåb al-mu˘min, Ãl¥ b. Båbawayh

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al-Qumm¥’s Muƒådaqat al-ikhwån,12 and the sixth-century Shi˜ite author Ab¨ Ãl¥ b. †åhir al-Œ¨r¥’s Qa¿å˘ ÷uq¶q al-mu˘min¥n.13 One of the primary concerns of this literature was to establish the obligations and duties the believer had toward his brother, stressing the importance of feeding and clothing fellow believers, as well as the virtues of visiting them, helping them in times of difficulty, and generally making their lives easier. According to some traditions a Shi˜ite believer was not only responsible to assist his brother when he was directly approached by him for help but was also expected to anticipate his brother’s needs, and to render the assistance necessary and appropriate to his obvious situation, whether or not it had been specifically requested.14 Such charity toward one’s brothers was a quality profoundly connected to one’s inclusion in the categories of both ¥mån (or faith), and walåyah— the two terms most commonly associated with the concept of membership in the Shi˜ite community, and there are numerous traditions that make the point, either explicitly or implicitly, that one who does not help his fellow Shi˜ite in a time of need is not a true Shi˜ite.15 Traditions dealing with this subject in Shi˜ite works are attributed to many Imåms, including early ones such as Ãl¥ Zayn al-˜≈bid¥n and Mu±ammad al-Båqir. The traditions attributed to Ãl¥ Zayn al˜≈bid¥n on this issue are general and essentially ethical in tone; they are not aimed at the Shi˜ite community in particular and do not appear to have a specific social or political motivation. Zayn al-˜≈bid¥n had a widespread reputation among Shi˜ites and non-Shi˜ites alike as a man of extraordinary piety, prayer, and generosity toward the poor. Thus, it is hardly out of character to find traditions attributed to him in which he declares that a believer should never go to bed fully satisfied if he knows there is a believer who is hungry, or that he should never go to bed clothed while his brother is naked.16 His reputation for both lengthy prayer and material generosity is reflected in another tradition in which he is quoted as saying: “I am embarrassed to pray for Paradise for one of my brothers while begrudging him a d¥når.”17 Some of these traditions, however, may have simply been attributed to him because of his reputation for charity and generosity, and even if such traditions are authentically attributed to him, he could not have been speaking specifically with reference to charitable relations among the Shi˜ite community, whose sectarian identification with the mu˘min¶n had not been clearly established in his time. In traditions attributed to Mu±ammad al-Båqir, on the other hand, the Imåm seems concerned to foster good relations among those claiming to be Shi˜ite, or to be the awliyå˘ of the ahl al-bayt. There is occasionally a political intent suggested, namely, that in the creation of a tightly knit Shi˜ite community, there was hope for the ahl al-bayt re-


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gaining their rightful authority over the community as a whole. On one occasion he gave a Kufan disciple18 the following message to convey to his fellow Shi˜ites in Kufa: “Convey to our mawål¥ (or muwål¥) greetings of peace; and commend to them fear of God and advise them that the wealthy among them should help the poor among them, that the strong among them should help the weak among them, and that the living among them should attend the funerals of the dead among them, and that they should meet together in their houses, for verily their meeting together in their houses gives life to our affair/authority; God have mercy upon the servant who gives life to our authority. . . .”19

Perhaps the most interesting item in this tradition is al-Båqir’s recommendation to the Kufan Shi˜ites that they gather together “in their houses”—that is, not in mosques or other public spaces. This would seem to be in keeping with the level of secrecy that Shi˜ites would have had to exercise during the late Umayyad period, and suggests the clandestine nature of Shi˜ite networks at this time—networks that were so successfully exploited by the Ãbbåsid movement a decade or two later. This tradition, then, may be an accurate reflection of the nature of relations among Shi˜ites at this time, and perhaps, throughout the Umayyad period. The organization of the community must have been rather primitive: The meetings are neither held in a public space nor in the house of any particular individual. Yet as informal as such meetings may have been, they nonetheless constituted some sort of loosely organized body that collectively recognized Ãlid authority, and for al-Båqir, this was a way of giving form, meaning, and “life” to the authority of the ahl al-bayt. In a similar vein, al-Båqir is reported to have described the Shi˜ites as those who mutually sacrifice for one another in loyalty to us (al-mutabådhil¶n f¥ walåyatinå), those who love one another in our friendship (almuta÷abb¶n f¥ mawaddatinå), and those who visit one another for the revival of our authority (al-mutazåwir¶n f¥ i÷yå˘ amrinå. . . .)”20 Here, walåyah and love function as the “glue” holding the Shi˜ite community together, while the growth and increasing unity of this community represent real hope for the establishment of Ãlid authority. The traditions dealing with charitable relations within the Shi˜ite community that are attributed to Ja˜far al-Œådiq and some later Imåms, however, have a slightly different emphasis. Like the traditions cited above from Mu±ammad al-Båqir, they refer, quite unmistakably, to relations between Shi˜ites specifically, rather than between Muslims in general. However, in the traditions from Ja˜far al-Œådiq, the tone is less political and clandestine in nature. The beneficiaries of close and

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charitable relations between the Shi˜ites seem to be the Shi˜ites themselves, rather than the political aspirations of the Ãlid Imåms. Like his predecessor, al-Œådiq encourages the Shi˜ites to assemble together and to visit one another, but he identifies the primary benefit of such gatherings as the revivification (i÷yå˘) of the hearts (qul¶b) of the Shi˜ites themselves, as well as the preservation, remembrance, and recitation of the traditions of the Imåms for the spiritual edification of their followers.21 The stated purpose of such gatherings, then, was to further the knowledge and spiritual growth of the members of the Shi˜ite community, and not necessarily the cause of the Imåm himself. In ÷ad¥th narrations attributed to al-Œådiq and later Imåms, charity toward fellow Shi˜ites is presented as necessary for, and indicative of, true faith. Al-Œådiq is quoted as telling his disciples: “The best of you is the most generous . . . whoever confirms his ¥mån through kindness to his brothers (birr al-ikhwån), this is a kindness from God and a repellent to Satan;”22 and al-¡asan al-Ãskar¥ notes that the two moral qualities that stand above all others are “faith in God (¥mån bi˘llåh) and beneficence toward one’s brothers (naf˜ al-ikhwån).”23 Several traditions declare that kindness directed toward fellow believers is “the most beloved thing to God,”24 and one tradition asserts that God is not worshipped by anything greater than caring for a believer.25 Kindness and generosity toward fellow believers are often declared more important than other major supererogatory acts of piety and are occasionally placed alongside the major obligatory duties (farå˘i¿) themselves. For example, there is a tradition in which it is said that when a Shi˜ite believer dies, he is approached by six “images (mithål)” from the six directions of space. Five of these “mithål”—walåyah, zakåh, ƒalåh, ƒawm and ÷ajj—represent the five pillars of Islam according to early Shi˜ite tradition, while the sixth is “birr al-ikhwån (kindness toward one’s brothers),” suggesting that it represented a sixth fundamental religious requirement along with the other five. A similar connection with the obligatory pillars of religious practice is observed in a ÷ad¥th that lists the characteristic actions of the believers as: the keeping of secrets (kitmån al-sirr), prayer, fasting, alms-giving, pilgrimage, and “caring for [one’s] brothers.”26 Whether or not caring for one’s fellow believers could be considered on a par with the other obligatory religious duties such as prayer and fasting, it was nonetheless viewed as superior to many other supererogatory works. There is a tradition, for example, in which Abån b. Taghlib, a prominent disciple of the fifth and sixth Imåms, was beseeched by a fellow Shi˜ite in need of assistance while he was performing the circumambulation of the Ka˜bah (†awåf) with Ja˜far al-Œådiq. Abån is reluctant to leave the Imåm, but al-Œådiq instructs him to interrupt his †awåf to assist the man, telling him that helping his brother takes precedence over the


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completion of even an obligatory †awåf.27 In numerous other instances, charity toward one’s brother is said to be better than making multiple †awåf or more important than making multiple (and, therefore, supererogatory) pilgrimages to the Ka˜bah.28 Several traditions report that caring for a fellow Shi˜ite believer is equal to or better than making a spiritual retreat (i˜tikåf), (supererogatory) fasting, jihåd, or the manumission of slaves.29 Many of these traditions speak in terms of helping one’s “brother” or “fellow believer,” giving the impression that they may be general, ethical statements that do not necessarily pertain to intra-Shi˜ite relations exclusively. However, many of these traditions clearly employ the terms in a sectarian rather than a general sense; and there are many traditions where the Imåms are quoted as enjoining charity to fellow Shi˜ites, specifically. There is the tradition cited above in which Mu±ammad al-Båqir sends a message to his muwål¥ in Kufa to the effect that the “rich among them should help the poor among them, and the strong among them should assist the weak among them” (emphasis mine). Also cited previously was a tradition in which the Imåm demands mutual trust and concern among the Shi˜ites, “for the awliyå˘ Allåh have always been weak and few since God created Adam.”30 There are also a number of traditions that specifically mention charity toward the “poor among our Shi˜ites (fuqarå˘ sh¥ãtinå).”31 In Muƒådaqat al-ikhwån, there is a chapter on charity toward both the muslim and the mu˘min; but in one tradition, al-Båqir is quoted as saying that “feeding one who is beloved to me [presumably his Shi˜ite disciples] is better than feeding others.”32 In fact, giving some amount of money to a Shi˜ite brother was said to be more meritorious than giving a greater amount to even the neediest of non-Shi˜ites, for Ãl¥ al-Ri∂å quotes his grandfather, Ja˜far al-Œådiq, as saying: “Verily, if you give one of my brothers a dirham, it is dearer to me than that you should give two dirhams of charity to the [ordinary] poor (masåk¥n).”33 The large number of traditions scattered throughout Imåm¥ ÷ad¥th literature enjoining charity between Shi˜ite believers would seem to indicate that the Imåms or their representatives had something more than general ethics in mind when they circulated these traditions. Some of these traditions suggest either the existence of, or the desire to create, a kind of real and exclusive financial interdependence among the members of the Shi˜ite community; and they certainly indicate that the wealth possessed by members of the Shi˜ite community and by the Imåms should circulate predominantly, if not exclusively, within the Shi˜ite community. It should be noted that traditions to this effect—unlike the traditions enjoining charity generally—are all attributed to Ja˜far al-Œådiq or later Imåms. This is surely no coincidence, as al-Œådiq was the first Shi˜ite Imåm to accept the khums payment

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from his Shi˜ite supporters, and in al-Kåπim’s time, something of a network for the appropriation—and perhaps, redistribution—of those funds seems to have been established. There are a pair of traditions related by Mufa∂∂al b. ˜Umar, the somewhat controversial Shi˜ite disciple of both al-Œådiq and his successor al-Kåπim,34 that allude to the use of the “Imåm’s money” for the benefit of members of the Shi˜ite community. In the first tradition, Mufa∂∂al relates al-Œådiq’s instructions that if he should see a [financial] dispute arise between two Shi˜ites, he should resolve it through the use of the Imåm’s own wealth.35 In a second tradition, Mufa∂∂al reports an illustrative case in which he carried out the Imåm’s injunction. In this second tradition, Mufa∂∂al witnesses a dispute between a Shi˜ite man and his fatherin-law over an issue of money. Seeing this, Mufa∂∂al brings the disputed amount to the two, who express surprise at his offer. Mufa∂∂al then informs them that this money is not his own, but that of the Imåm (al-Œådiq), and that he was carrying out al-Œådiq’s wishes that such disputes be settled from the Imåm’s own resources.36 This set of traditions portrays the Imåm as using the khums payments as they were ideally meant to be used by the caliph under Islamic law—that is, for the benefit of the community. But in this case, since the khums was not collected from the ummah in general (or in the name of an Imåm recognized by the entire ummah) but rather from the Shi˜ite community in particular, these funds were to be expended on behalf of the Shi˜ite community exclusively. In another tradition, Ãl¥ alRi∂å discusses the unique bond that links the Imåms and their followers. Al-Ri∂å first invokes the notions of walåyah and ãdåwah, declaring that the Imåms are the friends of the friends of their Shi˜ites, and the enemies of their enemies (rather than the other way around) and then mentions the belief that the Imåms and their followers are made of the same “clay (†¥nah).” After noting the deep empathy the Imåms feel for their followers, he declares that “whoever among our Shi˜ites leaves a debt [upon his death] it is our duty [to settle it], and whoever among them leaves wealth, it is for his heirs. . . .”37 This is nearly identical to a canonical Sunni ÷ad¥th tradition in which the Prophet states that he will assume the debt of the deceased believer.38 Thus, the Imåm here assumes a responsibility toward the community of his followers that replicates responsibilities the Prophet assumed for the Muslim community at large; and at least according to this tradition, the wealth of the Imåms—wealth partly amassed through the khums contributions (originally the Prophet’s share of the spoils) payed specifically by the Shi˜ite community to the Shi˜ite Imåm—was to be used primarily or exclusively as a financial support for needy members of the Shi˜ite community.


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These examples suggest that some kind of material and financial link between the various members of the Shi˜ite community was facilitated through the Imåms and the khums funds they collected. However, there are also traditions that encourage individual members of the Shi˜ite community to use their own wealth primarily to aid their fellow Shi˜ites, thereby keeping the wealth of the Shi˜ite community circulating within that community for the benefit of individual Shi˜ites in particular—just as ordinary Muslim zakåh payments were supposed to be redistributed within the Islamic community exclusively. In the following tradition, Ja˜far al-Œådiq instructs his Shi˜ites as to how they should give both obligatory and supererogatory charity: [Ja˜far al-Œådiq] was asked: “If we do not find the people of walåyah (ahl al-walåyah), is it permissible for us to give charity to others?” He said: “If you do not find ahl al-walåyah in the city in which you live, then send the mandatory alms (zakåh) to the ahl al-walåyah outside of your city. Regarding charity that is not obligatory (ƒadaqah), if you do not find ahl al-walåyah, then it will not be held against you if you give it to children or to those who have the minds (˜uq¶l) of children, among those who do not persecute [the Shi˜ites] and who do not know what you believe that they might be your enemy and who do not know what others believe, that they might follow it . . . and they are the weak ones (musta¿ãf¶n) from among the men, women and children. Give to them any amount under a dirham . . . but as for the full dirham, do not give [this] to any but the ahl al-walåyah unless your heart should soften toward someone, and you may give him a piece of bread or a morsel. And as for the persecutor of the Shi˜ites (nåƒib), do not let your heart soften toward him and do not feed him or give him drink, even if he dies of hunger or thirst, and do not help him even if he is drowning or burning. . . .”39

Although it is perhaps not surprising that Shi˜ite tradition would encourage giving alms to fellow Shi˜ites and forbid such charity to those who persecute the Shi˜ite community, there are some interesting points to note in this tradition. First, the Imåm distinguishes between major and minor, obligatory and nonobligatory forms of charity. The major alms-giving required by the shar¥ãh, the zakåh, is to be given exclusively to Shi˜ites. To ensure that this is the case, a Shi˜ite may occasionally be required to take the extraordinary measure of locating Shi˜ites outside of his own city of residence and arranging for the charitable funds to be distributed among Shi˜ites there.40 When it is merely a matter of minor, supererogatory acts of charity, these need not benefit Shi˜ites exclusively; such charity can be given to any individual who is

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not a sworn enemy of the Shi˜ites. But even in the latter case, the limit of one dirham is set on the amount of such charity that may be given to non-Shi˜ites. Meanwhile even the most basic form of human empathy is prohibited toward the nåƒib. This tradition establishes a quantitative limit upon charitable donations to those outside of the Shi˜ite community and an absolute ban on even the least amount of charity to those who actively opposed it. This was likely motivated by the desire to create a sense of mutual support and interdependence among members of the Shi˜ite community, but also to strengthen the community as a whole vis-à-vis the non-Shi˜ite community by keeping its collective wealth circulating in a closed system among its own members exclusively. A similar social motivation for this policy is suggested in a tradition attributed to al-Œådiq, which says that converts to Shi˜ism were not responsible for “reperforming” or “making up” most Islamic duties, such as prayer and fasting, after their conversion, with the notable exception of the zakåh payments. The tradition states that a Shi˜ite convert will have to make these payments anew, since those made prior to his becoming a Shi˜ite were not given to the ahl al-walåyah.41 (It is hard to imagine that this represented an actual, enforced policy of the Shi˜ite community toward “converts,” but it does serve to drive home the importance of giving charity primarily or exclusively within the Shi˜ite community.) Islamic law demands of every financially capable Muslim a certain amount of alms-giving for the poor, but Islamic law does not specify which poor among the Muslim population should receive those alms. When Shi˜ite tradition stipulates that major forms of charity—through which significant amounts of money and property would be redistributed among the population—should be given exclusively to those within the Shi˜ite community, it succeeds in abiding by the letter of Islamic law, while simultaneously ensuring that the practice served the important, secondary purpose of strengthening the Shi˜ite community in relation to those outside of it. It should be noted that establishing a sectarian basis for economic redistribution and social assistance in the form of Islamically mandated alms was no small task for a minority community frequently subject to suspicion and persecution, and such a system could only have been implemented effectively within the context of well-defined and organized groups of Shi˜ites living somewhat autonomously within the larger Islamic ummah, with well-established networks through which information and financial resources could be transmitted between these various “sub-communities” of Shi˜ites, co-existing within the larger context of the Islamic ummah. It is interesting to note that, in the tradition cited at length above, the term ahl al-walåyah, rather than sh¥ãh or mu˘min¶n, is used to refer


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to the Shi˜ite community within which such official charity was to be given. In other words, the tradition apparently makes no hierarchical distinctions among Shi˜ite supporters—anyone who demonstrates walåyah toward the Imåms and the Shi˜ite community is entitled to this charity, regardless of whether he is considered a true Shi˜ite believer (mu˘min) or merely one of the muwål¶n or mu÷ibb¶n. By using the phrase ahl al-walåyah, the author of the tradition signals that this injunction regarding the recipients of charitable donations pertained to the Shi˜ite community in the broadest sense—meaning any and all who supported the Ãlid cause or who recognized the walåyah of the ahl al-bayt in general, regardless of their spiritual standing in the hierarchy of that group. This brings us to the next point that should be made regarding the requirement of generosity between fellow members of the Shi˜ite community, namely, its frequent connection with the notion of walåyah as the “glue” that not only binds the Shi˜ite disciples to their Imåm, but also binds them, in unity, to one another. In Chapter 5 it was noted that the Shi˜ite notion of walåyah was an all-embracing one. It referred not only to one’s relationship with the Shi˜ite Imåm, or with the ahl al-bayt in general, but also to one’s relationship with the Prophet, with God, and occasionally, with other Shi˜ites. It is true that in traditions originating from the time of Ja˜far al-Œådiq onward, the term ¥mån, rather than walåyah, is more commonly used to signify full membership in the Shi˜ite community; but the concept of walåyah hardly disappears from Shi˜ite tradition, even if its centrality may have been somewhat diminished. In fact, in apparently later traditions (attributed to later Imåms) the term is used with increasing frequency to discuss relations of mutual support and brotherly love between individual Shi˜ites. For example, there is one tradition in which Ja˜far al-Œådiq lists the seven duties of the mu˘min toward his brother, the last of these being “naƒ¥÷at al-walåyah.” When the disciple relating the tradition asks the Imåm the meaning of this phrase, the Imåm replies that it means “to love for him what you love for yourself, and to hate for him what you hate for yourself.”42 While this may seem to be a simple injunction toward brotherly empathy, it is also semantically similar to the original obligation of walåyah toward Ãl¥ and the ahl al-bayt—befriending their friends and being the enemy of their enemies, loving those who love them and hating those who hate them. In this case, however, it pertains to the relationship among the Shi˜ites themselves, rather than between the Shi˜ites and their Imåm. If the bonds of walåyah between Shi˜ites are cemented through kind and charitable relations among them, then it is to be expected that improper or disrespectful behavior toward fellow believers would, in effect, sever the bonds of walåyah with them. And in fact, one tradition warns that

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saying “uff !” (a derogatory expletive)43 to one’s brother effectively breaks the bond of walåyah with this fellow believer.44 If Shi˜ite tradition uses the term walåyah to refer to a whole series of spiritual relationships (to fellow believer, Imåm, Prophet, and God), it also suggests that walåyah toward any one of these was intrinsically linked to walåyah toward the others. Walåyah toward God demanded walåyah toward the Prophet, and by extension, the Imåms; while walåyah toward the Imåms completed or perfected walåyah toward the other two. Similarly Shi˜ite tradition sometimes argues that fulfilling the obligations of walåyah toward fellow Shi˜ites had a positive effect on one’s other spiritual relationships, and one tradition explicitly states that fulfilling the needs of a believer connects an individual to the walåyah of the ahl al-bayt, and in turn, to the walåyah of God.45 These repercussions also work in the opposite direction, such that failure to render assistance to a fellow believer is said to be tantamount to “abandoning the walåyah of God,”46 or “breaking” the bond of walåyah with God.47 Other traditions that do not directly invoke the term walåyah also establish an important connection between doing good deeds toward one’s fellow believer and enhancing one’s relationship with God. One tradition tells us, with a certain Christian flavor, that caring for a fellow believer is like caring for God Himself,48 while another declares that pleasing a believer is tantamount to pleasing the Prophet (or variously, the Imåms), which is likewise tantamount to pleasing God.49 Again, the connection works in the opposite direction. Ja˜far alŒådiq tells his disciple, Ab¨ Ba∑¥r, that one should never go to sleep satisfied while there is a fellow believer in need, or he has “betrayed God, His Prophet (s.) and the believers.” When Ab¨ Ba∑¥r asks the Imåm to clarify who the “believers” are, the Imåm replies: “Those close to the Am¥r al-mu˘min¥n [Ãl¥] to the last of them.”50 To the extent that this tradition is genuine, it indicates that the Imåms’ injunctions to help fellow “believers” were intended to refer to Shi˜ites, specifically, but in the broadest sense of all those who attached themselves— to whatever degree—to Ãl¥ b. Ab¥ †ålib and his descendants. All of these practical guidelines reflected the pair of concentric and hierarchical circles established by Shi˜ite sectarian theology. The largest and most comprehensive of these circles was the category of islåm, while the inner circle represented the believing Shi˜ite community—for all believers were Muslims, but not all Muslims were believers. The concentric circle imagery is suggested by Shi˜ite tradition itself, when it describes the relation between ¥mån and islåm as being analogous to that of the Ka˜bah and the ÷aram that surrounds it. Both are sacred, but the former is immeasurably superior to the latter. The Ka˜bah has certain rights and must be respected just as all things within the haram must be, but it also has rights and merits that pertain


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only to itself. So, too, with the mu˘min¶n and the muslim¶n. Shi˜ites were urged to treat non-Shi˜ite Muslims in accordance with Islamic law, and to show them kindness, generosity, and beneficence. They were permitted and encouraged to participate with non-Shi˜ites in the outward rituals common to all Muslims, such as Friday prayer and the yearly ÷ajj ritual. This was the level and extent of relations that was established for Shi˜ites toward all Muslims. Toward their fellow brothers and believers, however, Shi˜ites were held to a higher standard. Kindness and generosity that exceeded the obligations of the shar¥ãh was not merely recommended to the Shi˜ites in their relations with one another, it was demanded. Some traditions claim that one’s bonds of walåyah with the Shi˜ite community as a whole depended largely on this issue, as did one’s relationship of walåyah with the Imåms, the Prophet, and God. As we have seen, there are traditions that suggest that while minor charity was permissible outside the bounds of the Shi˜ite community, all major charitable donations by Shi˜ites were to remain within the Shi˜ite community itself. The zakåh, for example, was to be distributed by Shi˜ites among the members of their own community, even if this meant sending one’s obligatory charity outside one’s own city to needy Shi˜ites of another region. And there are suggestions, even in traditions attributed to Ja˜far al-Œådiq, that some kind of network existed whereby the zakåh of individual Shi˜ites and the khums funds collected by the Imåms could be distributed exclusively within the Shi˜ite community to help the needy among their own population and to resolve debts and disputes among them. This indicates the existence of a Shi˜ite community sufficiently organized and defined to enable such large charitable funds to circulate exclusively within it. The existence of such a system, in addition to numerous injunctions toward relationships of mutual responsibility, trust, and love between members of the Shi˜ite community, must have helped to unify the community and enhance its social status relative to the non-Shi˜ite population, or the larger circle, in which it was forced to live and operate. The social obligations Shi˜ites owed to one another provided tangible and material expression for the reality of membership in the Shi˜ite community. They translated abstract, mythological and theological conceptions of spiritual chosenness and communal vocation into a practical and moral ethic which, when adhered to faithfully, must have given strength and endurance to this minority religious community in Islam.


Notes INTRODUCTION 1. Hodgson, Marshall, “How Did the Early Shiã Become Sectarian?”, JAOS 75 (1955): 4. 2. See Etan Kohlberg, “From Imåmiyya to Ithna-Ãshariyya” in BSOAS 39 (1976): 521–34. 3. In addition to many focused and penetrating studies of early Shi˜ite concepts found in numerous published articles, and cited throughout the present work, Kohlberg has also contributed enormously to the understanding of early Shi˜ite literature through the book-length study A Medieval Muslim Scholar at Work: Ibn Tåw¶s and His Library, Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1992. 4. Wilfred Madelung’s important contributions to the field include his early work, Der Imam al-Qåsim ibn Ibråh¥m und die Glaubenslehre der Zaiditen, Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1965, as well as his study “The Håshimiyyåt of alKumayt and Håshim¥ Shi˜ism” in Studia Islamica 70 (1989): 5–26, and more recently, his study of the conflict over the early caliphate in Succession to Mu÷ammad: A Study of the Early Caliphate, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996. 5. See, e.g., Kulayn¥, al-Kåf¥ 1: 331. 6. Wellhausen, Religio-Political Factions in Early Islam, 122. 7. Cook, Michael, “Weber and Islamic Sects,” in Toby Huff and Wolfgang Schluchter, eds., Max Weber and Islam, New Brunswick: Transaction, 1999. Cook states that, to his knowledge, Weber does not mention Kharijism. Weber does, in fact, mention the Kharijites briefly (see Weber, Sociology of Religion, Boston: Beacon Press, 1963, p. 199, where he makes some reference to the Muslim “Kharijis”), but he does not deal with them in any detail whatsoever, and certainly does not consider them in reference to his discussions of the chuch/sect distinction. 8. Eisenstadt, Weber on Charisma and Institution Building, xviii. 9. Ibid., xix. 10. Ibid. 11. See W. Madelung, Religious Trends in Early Islamic Iran: 54–55. 12. A century and a half later, with the disappearance of the Imåm¥ line of Imåms and the beginning of the period of ghaybah (the occultation of the spiritual leader, or Imåm), this scholarly class of Shi˜ites would begin the process of developing the thought of the Imåms into a rational theological and

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legal system that would create a solid basis for the intellectual and religious continuity of Imåm¥ Shi˜ism to the present day. This later process of consolidation has been amply studied by Hossein Modarressi and others, and our own study will not extend to that period. See, Modarressi, Crisis and Consolidation, Princeton: Darwin Press, 1994.

CHAPTER 1: WAL‹YAH IN THE ISLAMIC TRADITION 1. See, in general, Amir-Moezzi, Divine Guide in Early Shi˜ism (trans. David Streight, SUNY, 1994) and more recently and specifically, “Notes à Propos de la Walåya Imamite (Aspects de l’Imamologie Duodécimaine), JAOS 122 (Oct.–Dec. 2002), pp. 722–41. 2. See “Notes à Propos de la Walåya Imamite,” p. 739. 3. A point made clear in Amir-Moezzi’s discussion of early Shi˜ite attempts to locate the concept of walåyah within the Qur˘anic text (“Notes à Propos de la Walåya Imamite,” pp. 722–26) and in Bar-Asher’s work on early Shi˜ite tafs¥r (see Bar-Asher, Scripture and Exegesis in Early Imåm¥ Shiism, Chapter 4, and especially p. 126, where he states this directly). 4. See, for example, Ãskar¥, Mu˜jam al-fur¶q al-lughawiyyah, p. 577. 5. Ibn Manπ¨r, Lisån al-ãrab, v. 15, pp. 406–15; Kaffaw¥, al-Kulliyåt: mu˜jam fi˘l-muƒ†alå÷åt wa˘l-fur¶q al-ãrabiyyah, pp. 940–41; †abris¥, Majma˜ al-bayån li˜ul¶m al-Qur˘ån, where he interprets walåyah in Qur˘an VIII:72 to mean “covenant of mutual support on the basis of agreement in religion” (v. 4, p. 539), and in XVIII:44 as nuƒrah and i˜zåz (affection, love) (v. 6, p. 401). Only al-Råghib alI∑fahån¥ contradicts this, defining wilåyah as nuƒrah and walåyah as undertaking authority, or tawallå al-amr. (al-Mufradåt f¥ ghar¥b al-Qur˘ån, p. 533). 6. Qur˘an: II:201 and XXXVIII:35, in reference to Solomon; II:251 and XXXVIII:20, in reference to David; and II:258 in reference to Abraham. 7. Qur˘an: II:124. 8. Qur˘an: XXI: 72–73. 9. Witness the case of Ab¨ Bakr, who seeks to disown his nephew for his role in the false accusation of ˜≈˘ishah, and the revelation of Qur˘an XXIV:22 in response, which specifically forbids the disowning of dependent kin (Ibn Hishåm, S¥rah v. 3, p. 316). In the context of the master-slave relationship, note the Prophetic ÷ad¥th that declares it abominable that a man should recognize the authority of another man besides his own master/lord, or mawlå (see Wensinck, Concordance, v. 7, p. 334). With regard to the relationship between the caliph and his wal¥, there is the case of Ãl¥ b. Ab¥ †ålib and Ibn Ãbbås (which, of course, is also the case of a relationship of kinship). Note Ãl¥’s intense shock, anger, and sense of betrayal upon hearing the accusations against Ibn Ãbbås regarding his conduct in office, and Ibn Ãbbås’s similar outrage that Ãl¥ has given credence to claims made against him by a nonkinsmen who bore him a grudge (see Madelung’s account in Succession to Mu÷ammad, pp. 272–73). 10. Qur˘an: VIII:40; XXII:78; III:150. 11. Qur˘an: IV:75,89. 12. Qur˘an: II:107,120; IX:116; XXIX:22; XLII:31.

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13. Qur˘an: IV:45; III:122–23 (in relation to the Battle of Badr). 14. Qur˘an: XVI:63. 15. Qur˘an: IX:74; XLII:8,46; IV:123,173; XXXIII:17,65; XLVIII:22; XI:113. 16. See, for example Qur˘an: II:282, where wal¥ refers to a guardian for one not capable of looking after his/her own financial affairs; or XVII:33 and XXVII:49, where it refers to a close kinsmen; or IV:33 and XIX:5, where mawlå in the first verse and wal¥ in the second refer to one’s heirs. 17. Qur˘an X:62. 18. Qur˘an IV:45. 19. Qur˘an II:36. See also Qur˘an VII:24 and XX:123. 20. Qur˘an II:168, 208; VI:142; VII:22; XII:5; XXVIII:15; XXXVI:60; XLIII:62; and XVII:53. 21. Qur˘an XVIII:50. 22. Qur˘an XLI:19, 28. 23. Qur˘an IV:101; LXIII:4. 24. Qur˘an VII:129; LXI:14. 25. Qur˘an LX:1. 26. Qur˘an IX:114. 27. Qur˘an V:55. 28. Qur˘an III:28; IV:139, 144. 29. Qur˘an VIII:73; XLV:19. 30. Qur˘an V:51. 31. Qur˘an V:57. 32. Qur˘an V:81. 33. Qur˘an IX:23. The Qur˘an warns that even one’s spouse and children can be one’s enemies (ãduww), presumably insofar as they distract one from duties toward God (LXIV:14). 34. Ibn Hishåm, al-S¥rah al-nabawiyyah, v. 2, p. 85. 35. Qur˘an VIII:72. 36. †abar¥, Jåmi˜ al-bayån, v. 10, p. 70. 37. Ibid., v. 10, pp. 66–70; Ibn Kath¥r, Tafs¥r al-Qur˘ån al-ãz¥m, v. 2, pp. 434–35. 38. †abar¥, Jåmi˜ al-bayån, v. 10, p. 70, h. 12696, and Ibn Kath¥r, Tafs¥r, v. 2, p. 434, in particular. 39. †abar¥, Jåmi˜ al-bayån, v. 10, pp. 67–68. 40. Lings, Martin. Mu÷ammad: his life based on the earliest sources, p. 128. 41. Radke, Bernard. The Concept of Sainthood, p. 8. 42. See Amir-Moezzi, “Notes à Propos de la Walåya Imamite,” p. 729. 43. Some Shi˜ite traditions suggest that the Imams enjoyed a certain superiority to or equality with the pre-Islamic prophets, especially in terms of their access to divine knowledge. See Kåf¥, v. 1, pp. 229–30, 256, 277–83. In the Sufi tradition, we might consider the writings of R¨zbihån Baql¥, whose visions sometimes suggested that he occupied a spiritual station on a par with the preIslamic prophets (see The Unveiling of Secrets, trans. C. Ernst, pp. 18, 20–21, 32, 92), or that he in some ways had surpassed them (see pp. 50–51, 98). Ibn al-Ãrab¥ likewise attributed characteristics to himself that approach the station

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of prophecy, including his claim that some of his writings, such as the Fuƒ¶ƒ al÷ikam, were divinely inspired, although he also explicitly denied that he was a prophet (see these two apparently contradictory claims in the same passage from the Fuƒ¶ƒ as translated and cited by Chodkiewicz, Seal of the Saints, p. 50). 44. See Shi˜ite traditions where the Imåms are said to be inferior to messengers and prophets because they only hear divine messages, without seeing the messenger (Kåf¥, v. 1, pp. 228–30). See also Kåf¥, v. 1, pp. 324–25, where the station of nubuwwah is explicitly denied for the Imåms. The Sufi tradition also regularly distinguished the spiritual station of the prophets from that of the saints, noting the difference, e.g., between prophetic miracles (mu˜jizåt) and charismatic saintly miracles (karåmåt); and even Baql¥ references these distinctions in his visionary diary (see pp. 87–88). The more theoretical writings of Ibn al-Ãrab¥ consider walåyah to be a greater spiritual category than nubuwwah, but also claim that all prophets are awliyå˘, and so participate in this highest category with the realized saints, in addition to being further distinguished by nubuwwah (see Chodkiewicz, Seal of the Saints, pp. 50–55). 45. Kåf¥, v. 1, pp. 288–94. 46. Kåf¥, v.1, pp. 79–80, h. 2. 47. A reference to the Qur˘anic Light Verse (XXIV:35), which held particular spiritual importance for Œadrå. See Œadr al-D¥n al-Sh¥råz¥, Shar÷ Uƒ¶l alKåf¥, v. 2, p. 41. 48. On the issue of the Imåm’s initiatic function, see Amir-Moezzi, “Notes à Propos de la Walåya Imamite,” p. 729. 49. Chodkiewicz, Seal of the Saints, p. 47. 50. Corbin, The Man of Light in Iranian Sufism, p. 149, n. 52. 51. Ibid., En Islam iranien: aspects spirituels et philosophiques III, pp. 196–97. 52. See S. H. Nasr, Ideals and Realities of Islam, p. 87, and Sufi Essays, p. 108. 53. Daftary, A Short History of the Ismailis, p. 94. 54. Corbin, Temple and Contemplation, p. 61; En Islam iranien III, p. 198. 55. Ibid., En Islam iranien III, p. 201. 56. Qur˘an II:59. See Ibid., p. 211. 57. Cornell, Vincent, Realm of the Saint: Power and Authority in Moroccan Sufism, pp. xxxv, 216–18, 227–28, 272. 58. Ibid., p. xix. 59. Nasr, Sufi Essays, p. 108. 60. Corbin, Temple and Contemplation, p. 41. For a similar interpretation see p. 223 of the same work. 61. See, for example, Chodkiewicz, Seal of the Saints, p. 42. 62. See Amir-Moezzi, “Notes à Propos de la Walåya Imamite,” p. 733. 63. Ibid., p. 735.

CHAPTER 2: THE GHADÁR KHUMM TRADITION: WALA¯YAH AND THE SPIRITUAL DISTINCTIONS OF ÃLÁ B. ABÁ ≈LIB 1. In Shi˜ite sources, references to walåyah as a sectarian concept are either qualified as walåyat Ãl¥ or else walåyat ahl al-bayt or walåyat ‹l Mu÷ammad;

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in other words, the concept is almost never qualified by reference to a single person (even a later Imåm) other than Ãl¥. Amir-Moezzi notes the same in “Notes à propos de la walåya imamite,” JAOS, 2002, p. 730. 2. Veccia Vaglieri, L. “Ghad¥r Khumm” in EI2, v. 2, p. 993–94. 3. The tradition is recorded by a substantial number of historians and traditionists, even those who did not support the Ãlid cause or the Shi˜ite perspective. The tradition is included in the major, canonical works of Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th, although it is not cited as frequently as one might expect (see Kåf¥, v. 1, pp. 342–43, 349–52; Ibn Båbawayh, Man lå ya÷¿uruhu˘l-faq¥h, v. 1, p. 229, v. 2, p. 559; see also, Kulayn¥ (1983), v. 8, pp. 26–27 and Ibn Båbawayh, Amål¥ alŒad¶q, pp. 2, 514.) It is not cited in the canonical Sunni collections of Bukhår¥ or Muslim, but it is included in other important Sunni compilations, such as the Musnad of Ibn ¡anbal (v. 1, p. 152; v. 4, pp. 281, 368, 372–73; v. 5, p. 347) and the Sunan of Tirmidh¥ (v. 16, p. 165), who considers it a ƒa÷¥÷ tradition. The tradition also appears in the early work of Shi˜ite poetry, the Håshimiyyåt of Kumayt b. Zayd al-Asad¥ (poem 6, pp. 152–53). For historical accounts, see Ya˜q¨b¥, Ta˘r¥kh (v. 1, p. 442); Ibn Ãsåkir, Ta˘r¥kh mad¥nat Dimashq (v. 42, pp. 187–238) and Ibn Kath¥r, al-Bidåyah wa˘l-nihåyah (v. 5, pp. 150–63). Also note the Prophetic ÷ad¥th, transmitted by Ibn Ãbbås, which says: “Ãl¥ is the wal¥ of every believer, after me.” (Ibn ¡anbal, Musnad, v. 1, p. 331; and Ibn Ãbd al-Barr, Kitåb al-isti˜åb, v. 3, p. 1091). 4. The last part of this åyah is nearly identical to Qur˘an VIII:75 and, like it, is widely considered to be an abrogation of the relationship of inheritance earlier established between the muhåjir¥n and the anƒår, and a reinstatement of the primacy of kinship relations in matters of inheritance. 5. See, e.g., a tradition attributed to Qatådah in †abar¥, Jåmi˜ al-bayån, v. 21, p. 147, and Qumm¥, Tafs¥r (1983 ed.), v. 2, p. 176. 6. See, e.g., Etan Kohlberg’s unpublished dissertation, “Imami Shi˜i Views of the Sahaba,” Oxford, 1971, pp. 80–81. 7. For a discussion of the later Shi˜ite emphasis on the large number of Shi˜ite and non-Shi˜ite transmitters of the tradition, and for the later Shi˜ite treatment of Ghad¥r Khumm in relation to the doctrine of naƒƒ, see Asma Afsaruddin, Excellence and Precedence, pp. 208–21. 8. See L. Veccia Vaglieri, “Ghad¥r Khumm,” EI2, v. II, p. 993; this version is found in Balådhur¥, Ansåb al-ashråf, v. 2, p. 93. 9. Some versions of the tradition that appear in later canonical Imåm¥ Shi˜ite sources do extend the distinction given to Ãl¥ on this occasion to all of the Imåms (see our discussion below), but the standard tradition, as widely circulated, does not. 10. Balådhur¥, Ansåb al-ashråf, v. 2, pp. 93–94. 11. Ibn ¡anbal, Musnad, see references in note 3 above. 12. Ibn Ãsåkir, Ta˘r¥kh mad¥nat Dimashq, pp. 187–238. 13. Ibn Kath¥r, al-Bidåyah wa˘l-nihåyah, v. 5, pp. 150–63. 14. The most extensive treatment of this subject is the twenty-volume work, al-Ghad¥r, by the modern Shi˜ite scholar Ãbd al-¡usayn A±mad Am¥n¥. 15. Sulaym b. Qays, Kitåb Sulaym, v. II, 644–46, 758–59, 828–29. 16. See, e.g., Kåf¥, v. 1, pp. 342–43.

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17. Ya˜q¨b¥, Ta˘r¥kh, v. 1, p. 442. 18. See C. H. Becker and F. Rosenthal, “Balådhur¥” in EI 2, v. 1, pp. 971–72. 19. Arzina Lalani also notes that Ibn ¡anbal’s Musnad represented one important work of ha¿¥th that was “not . . . expurgated so as to please the Ãbbasids,” and that the work includes traditions of Syrian origin (Early Sh¥˜¥ Thought, p. 98). 20. See Jacob Lassner, The Shaping of Ãbbåsid Rule, Princeton, 1980. 21. †ab. I: 1753. 22. See Ibn Kath¥r, al-Bidåyah, v. 5, p. 158; Am¥n¥, al-Ghad¥r, v. 1, pp. 332– 34. ≈ghå Buzurg Tihrån¥ also mentions this work in his catalogue of Shi˜ite literature, al-Dhar¥ãh (v. 16, pp. 25–26), although he concludes that this work was probably written by the “Shi˜ite †abar¥” of nearly the same name, Ab¨ Ja˜far Mu±ammad b. Jar¥r b. Rustam †abar¥. However, Ibn Kath¥r claims to quote extensively from †abar¥’s “Kitåb al-walåyah,” and specifically refers to the author as “ƒå÷ib al-Ta˘r¥kh,” which strongly indicates that the author of this work was the “Sunni †abar¥.” At the same time, this work is not mentioned by even somewhat pro-Shi˜ite, Ãbbåsid era bibliographers, such as Ibn al-Nad¥m. A clear synopsis of the controversy regarding this text can be found in Kohlberg, A Medieval Muslim Scholar at Work: Ibn Tawus, pp. 178–81. 23. Muslim, Œa÷¥÷, v. 15, pp. 174–75, h. 6175. See also a tradition attributed to Mu±ammad al-Båqir that explicitly rejects the idea that other Håshimite lines, including the ¡asanids, have a share in the authority given to Ãl¥ at Ghad¥r Khumm (Kåf¥, v. 1, pp. 343–44, h. 2). See also Bar-Asher’s discussion of the use Shi˜ites made of this particular Sunni version of the thaqalayn tradition (Scripture and Exegesis, pp. 93–95). 24. For other examples of Ãbbåsid legitimist propaganda aimed at expanding the notion of the “family of the Prophet” to include the Ãbbåsid line see M. Sharon, Black Banners from the East, pp. 126–40; see also pp. 93–99 for specific examples of the attribution of standard spiritual distinctions (fa¿å˘il), usually connected with Ãl¥, to Ãbbås and/or his descendants. 25. This refers to the mu˘åkhåh, or “brothering,” that the Prophet instituted shortly after the hijrah, in which he commanded that every Muslim take another Muslim as his brother. The Prophet is reported to have taken Ãl¥ as his own “brother.” See, e.g., Ibn Hishåm, S¥rah, v. 2, p. 150. 26. Ibn Abi˘l-¡ad¥d, Shar÷ Nahj al-balåghah, v. 6 pp. 167–68. See also, Ibn Ãbd al-Barr, Ist¥˜åb, v. 3, p. 1098. See Kitåb Sulaym, v. 2, pp. 637–44 for a similar list of Ãl¥’s fa¿å˘il, as recited to a circle of his disciples during the caliphate of ˜Uthmån. 27. It comes only from the pro-Ãlid figure ˜≈mir b. Wåthilah (also a transmitter of the Ghad¥r Khumm ÷ad¥th) who claims to have overheard Ãl¥’s speech from behind the door of the sh¶rå, which he was charged with guarding. (See Am¥n¥, al-Ghad¥r, v. 1, p. 161, citing earlier works). 28. Ibn ¡anbal, Musnad, v. 1, pp. 84, 118–19. Ibn Kath¥r, al-Bidåyah, v. 7, pp. 276–77. 29. Na∑r b. Muzå±im, Waqãt Œiff¥n, p. 236.

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30. See Ibn Abi˘l-¡ad¥d, Shar÷ Nahj al-balåghah, v. 1, pp. 219–20, where al-Barå˘ rushes to Ãl¥ and Ãbbås while they are washing the body of the Prophet to inform them of the events taking place at the saq¥fah of the Ban¶ Så˜idah. 31. See Ibn Båbawayh, Amål¥, pp. 107–8. 32. Ibn ¡anbal, Musnad, v. 5, p. 419; Ibn Kath¥r, al-Bidåyah, v. 7, p. 277. 33. In Succession to Mu÷ammad (p. 253), Madelung says that the first of these events should have occurred sometime between Œiff¥n and Nahrawån, which seems likely given an apparent reference to the Ghad¥r Khumm tradition in a bayãh given to Ãl¥ at about this time (see our discussion in Chapter 3). Am¥n¥ places this event in the year 35, when Ãl¥ first comes to Kufa (alGhad¥r, v. 1, p. 166). 34. Balådhur¥, Ansåb, v. 4, p. 93. 35. Mas˜¨d¥, Mur¶j, v. 2, p. 373. 36. According to a version of the tradition that Abu˘l-Jår¨d reports from Mu±ammad al-Båqir, the Prophet makes the announcement at Ãrafat during his last pilgrimage, that is, before the Medinan caravan had left Mecca (see Kåf¥ v. 1 pp. 345–47, h. 6). The Tafs¥r of Furåt al-K¨f¥ includes a report from Ibn Ãbbås in which the announcement of Ãl¥’s walåyah was made at Mina toward the end of the pilgrimage (v. 1, pp. 119–20). 37. See speeches attributed to Ãl¥ in the Nahj al-balåghah, where he defends his own legitimacy in religious terms, but without reference to the Ghad¥r Khumm tradition itself (see, e.g., pp. 5–6, khu†bah 3); or where he recites his claims to religious excellence (fa¿å˘il), without mention of this event or the Prophet’s reported words on the occasion (see, e.g., p. 37, khu†bah, 37). 38. †ab. I:1752; Ibn Kath¥r, al-Bidåyah, v. 5, p. 159. 39. See Ibn Kath¥r, al-Bidåyah, v. 5, p. 158. 40. Am¥n¥, al-Ghad¥r, v. 1, pp. 363–67. 41. This argument is similar to that made by earlier Shi˜ite thinkers, such as al-Shaykh al-Muf¥d in his short treatise “Maña˘l-mawlå” in Muƒannafåt al-Shaykh al-Muf¥d, v. 8, pp. 32–33. 42. It should be noted that it is only in some versions of this ÷ad¥th that the Prophet is reported to have gathered the whole of the caravan—even to the point of calling back those who had gone on ahead. In other versions, the Prophet seems to make this announcement only to those who initially lodged the complaint against Ãl¥ or who were traveling near him on that occasion. 43. Kåf¥, v. 1, pp. 344–46; Qumm¥, Tafs¥r, v. 2, p. 201; Ibn Båbawayh, Amål¥, p. 399; al-Furåt al-K¨f¥, Tafs¥r, v. 1, p. 130; Ãyyåsh¥, Tafs¥r, v. 1, pp. 332–34; Kitåb Sulaym b. Qays, v. 2, p. 645. 44. Qumm¥, Tafs¥r, v. 1, p. 162; al-Furåt al-K¨f¥, Tafs¥r, v. 1, pp. 117–20; Ãyyåsh¥, Tafs¥r, v. 1, pp. 292–93; Kåf¥, v. 1, pp. 345–46; Ibn Båbawayh, Amål¥, pp. 2, 11. In Sunni interpretation, this verse was revealed during the Farewell Pilgrimage itself, and the “completion of the religion” was a reference either to the fact that after the revelation of this verse no other religious injunctions (farå˘i¿) were revealed to the Prophet, or to the fact that the rites of the Islamic pilgrimage (÷ajj) had been definitively set by the Prophet during this final

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pilgrimage. †abar¥ reports both interpretations but favors the former (Jåmi˜ albayån, v. 6, pp. 106–7). 45. Ya˜q¨b¥, Ta˘r¥kh, v. 1, p. 442. 46. There is a tradition from the eighth Imåm, Ãl¥ al-Ri∂å, which states that the “completion of religion” mentioned in the Qur˘anic verse revealed during the Farewell Pilgrimage was nothing other than “imåmah,” and that on this occasion, the Prophet established Ãl¥ as a sign (ãlam) and as an “imåm” (Kåf¥, v. 1, p. 255). 47. Bar-Asher notes that this procedure of interpreration—i.e., evaluating all possible meanings of a word, only to discredit all of them save the particular meaning that served Shi˜ite sectarian purposes—was common in certain early Shi˜ite works of tafs¥r (Scripture and Exegesis, p. 66).

CHAPTER 3: WAL‹YAH, AUTHORITY, AND RELIGIOUS COMMUNITY IN THE FIRST CIVIL WAR 1. While some may question our use of second- and third-century historical accounts as sources for the ideological terminology of the middle of the first century, we would argue that there are strong indications that the terminology recorded in these later sources is generally authentic for the time period with which we are dealing. The use of the terms wilåyah/walåyah in the legitimist rhetoric of the First Civil War is not what one would expect from a spurious account of these events originating in the second or third century, when the terms of the authority debate for both Shi˜ites and Sunnis was centered around discussions of the nature of the “imåmate” as the ideal source of religious and political authority in the Islamic state. By this time, the term “wilåyah/walåyah”—outside of a Shi˜ite or Kharijite context—denoted either governorships or legal guardianships. As we will see, the use of these terms in the historical accounts for the first century is too varied and complex to have been the spurious inventions of a later compiler. 2. Even in Shi˜ite sources, one finds instances in which Ãl¥ contrasts the virtuous leadership of Ab¨ Bakr and ˜Umar (even if he demured with regard to their religious legitimacy) with the corruption that emerged in ˜Uthmån’s caliphate. See Na∑r b. Muzå±im, Waqãt Œiff¥n, p. 201. 3. Ibn Abi˘l-¡ad¥d, Shar÷ Nahj al-balåghah, v. 1, pp. 193–94; †ab. I:2785. 4. Here the speaker is referring not only to reported injustices in ˜Uthmån’s rule, but also to his alleged treachery in having openly repented of these practices while secretly sending a letter to the governor of Egypt ordering him to arrest the rebels when they returned there. 5. Ibn al-Ath¥r, al-Kåmil fi˘l-ta˘r¥kh, v. 3, p. 172. 6. †ab. I: 2990. 7. See “˜Uthmån, the Vicegerent of God” in Madelung’s Succession to Mu÷ammad, pp. 78–140. See also, in general, Crone and Hinds, God’s Caliph. 8. See, for example, Ibn al-Ath¥r, Kåmil, v. 3, p. 331, and Na∑r b. Muzå±im, Œiff¥n, pp. 32, 81.

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9. Qur˘an: XVII:33. See Na∑r b. Muzå±im, Œiff¥n, p. 32, where Mu˜åwiyah reportedly makes the explicit connection between his rights and the idea expressed in the Qur˘anic verse. Note that in Ya˜q¨b¥’s account, both Mu˜åwiyah (v. 2, p. 73) and Ãmr b. al-˜≈∑ (v. 2, p. 91) refer to Mu˜åwiyah as the wal¥ tha˘r ˜Uthmån (the one responsible for exacting vengeance for ˜Uthmån). 10. See Madelung, Succession to Mu÷ammad, pp. 88–90. 11. This is a paraphrase of Ãmr’s argument at the arbitration (Mas˜¨d¥, Mur¶j, v. 2, p. 409.) 12. Ibn al-Ath¥r, Kåmil, v. 3 p. 331; Na∑r b. Muzå±im, Œiff¥n, p. 541. While it is difficult to authenticate the account of the discussion between Ãmr and Ab¨ M¨så, especially given the convoluted nature of the accounts of the arbitration (see note 13), it seems likely that this connection between Mu˜åwiyah’s status as wal¥ ˜Uthmån and the Qur˘anic verse granting sul†ån to the wal¥ of the one killed unjustly, was part of the argument used by Ãmr b. al-˜≈∑. The fundamental condition of the arbitration was that the matter be decided on the basis of the Qur˘an, and so some attempt to employ Qur˘anic tenets in the discussion should have been made. If we dismiss Ãmr’s reported invocation of this Qur˘anic verse and its importance to the debate between the two arbitrators, then there is no evidence that the Qur˘an played any role whatsoever in the discussions between Ãmr and Ab¨ M¨så, since the latter did not give Qur˘anic justification for his suggestion that authority over the community be determined by a sh¶rå. In Martin Hinds’ careful analysis of the text of the arbitration agreement in “The Œiff¥n Arbitration Agreement,” Journal of Semitic Studies 17 (1972), he notes that both texts of this agreement stipulate that if the parties are unable to produce agreement on the basis of Qur˘anic tenets, they should turn to the “sunnah” (pp. 100–2). However, the most reliable of the two texts, according to Hinds’ analysis, makes only a vague reference to “al-sunnah al-˜ådilah al-jam¥ãh,” and he argues that it was the ambiguity of this phrase that led the Kharijites to definitively reject the arbitration and secede from Ãl¥’s camp. Despite this late and vague reference to the sunnah, the Qur˘an must have been understood as the main textual authority to be consulted. 13. Na∑r b. Muzå±im, Œiff¥n, p. 546. As noted by Madelung in Succession to Mu÷ammad, this “final scene” in which the two arbitrators make their announcement is probably partly fictitious and partly an amalgamation of two separate arbitration discussions, one which takes place at D¨mat al-Jandal at the end of the year 36 and the other at Adhruh—after Mu˜åwiyah is already recognized as the caliph in his home province of Syria—in the year 38. 14. Na∑r b. Muzå±im, Œiff¥n, pp. 546–47. The use of this term wal¥ also plays a role in some of the Umayyad court poetry of the time, which sought to justify Umayyad rule as a hereditary right via their relationship to the Caliph ˜Uthmån. (See Crone and Hinds, God’s Caliph, pp. 31–32.) 15. In the opinion of Ãl¥, himself, “discord among those in this camp is more serious than the war between them and the Syrians (al-fitnah f¥ hådha˘lmiƒr a˜zam min al-÷arb baynahum wa bayna ahl al-Shåm).” (Ansåb, v. 2, p. 241). 16. See, for example, Ibn al-Ath¥r, Kåmil, v. 3 pp. 337, 518.

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17. Na∑r b. Muzå±im, Œiff¥n, pp. 515–16. 18. A companion of the Prophet and Ãl¥, along with his brother, ˜Uthmån. Both served as governors for Ãl¥ and both later came to ˜Iraq to fight with Ãl¥ at Œiff¥n. 19. Na∑r b. Muzå±im, Œiff¥n, p. 93. 20. See Wensinck, Concordance, v. 1, p. 443, and our mention of this issue in Chapter 1. 21. See, for example, Qur˘an: VI:157; XX:133; XXXV:40; XCVIII:1,4. 22. Qur˘an: VI:57. 23. Qur˘an: VII:105. 24. Qur˘an: VII:85; XI:88. 25. Qur˘an: XI:63. 26. Qur˘an: XI:28. 27. Na∑r b. Muzå±im, Œiff¥n, p. 5. 28. Ibid., p. 98. 29. See Mas˜¨d¥, Mur¶j, v. 3, p. 21; Ya˜q¨b¥, v. 2, p. 92. 30. There is a report that the concept of Ãl¥ as waƒ¥ begins with the legendary figure of Ãbd Allåh b. Saba˘ (†ab. I: 2942), but it was likely recognized by the Ãlids since the time of the Prophet’s death. Although not a factor in the rebellion against ˜Uthmån, the idea becomes prominent in poetry connected with the Battle of the Camel and is widespread by the time of the Battle of Œiff¥n. (See Ibn Abi˘l-¡ad¥d, Shar÷, v. 1, pp. 143–50.) 31. See, for example, a polemical exchange between the two armies at Œiff¥n regarding Mu±ammad b. Ab¥ Bakr (in Ãl¥’s camp) and ˜Ubayd Allåh b. ˜Umar (in the Syrian camp). Members of Ãl¥’s camp refer to both Mu±ammad b. Ab¥ Bakr and ˜Ubayd Allåh b. ˜Umar as “Ibn al-†ayyib (son of the good/noble one),” since they were the sons of Ab¨ Bakr and ˜Umar respectively (Na∑r b. Muzå±im, Œiff¥n, p. 293). 32. See al-Thaqaf¥, Kitåb al-ghåråt, pp. 200–5. 33. Our primary historical sources for this period, however—including those authored by Na∑r b. Muzå±im, †abar¥ (from Ab¨ Mikhnaf), Mas˜¨d¥ and al-Shar¥f al-Rå∂¥’s collection of Ãl¥’s speeches—date from the height of Ãbbåsid ideological and intellectual influence, when it may have been “politically incorrect” to mention Ghad¥r Khumm directly, as discussed in Chapter 2. 34. Rijål al-Kashsh¥, pp. 66–67, n. 119. 35. The Arabic of this reads: “F¥ añåqinå bayãh thåniyah, nahnu awliyå˘ man walayta wa a˜då˘ man ãdayta” (†ab. I: 3350). This is apparently the only report where this bayãh is referred to as a “second” bayãh. Other versions, in †ab. I: 3367, as well as Ibn al-Ath¥r, Kåmil, v. 3, p. 327, and Ansåb, v. 2, p. 241, refer to it as a bayãh, but not necessarily a second one in addition to the first. In another account, one of those who witnessed the event, Ziyåd b. alNa∂r, claims that: “Ãl¥ never stretched out his hand to accept a bayãh from us, except that [it was conditional] upon the Book of God and the Sunnah of His Prophet, peace be upon him, but when you (pl., here addressing the Kharijites) broke with him, his Shi˜ites came to him and said: ‘We are the friends of the one you [Ãl¥] befriend and the enemies of the one with whom

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you make enmity,’ and we did this [because] he [Ãl¥] was [acting] in the right (ãla˘l-÷aqq) and in guidance (al-hudå) and the one who broke with him was misguided (¿åll) and misguiding (mu¿ill).” (†ab. I: 3350–51 and Ibn al-Ath¥r, Kåmil, v. 3, p. 327.) 36. W. M. Watt also cites this event as a point of early ideological differentiation between Shi˜ites and Kharijites in the ˜Iraqi camp. See Watt, “Shi˜ism Under the Umayyads,” pp. 159–60. 37. †ab. I: 3372–73 (translated in G. R. Hawting, The History of Tabar¥: the First Civil War, p. 123). Also, Ibn al-Ath¥r, Kåmil, v. 3, p. 341. 38. †ab. I: p. 3373 (translated G. R. Hawting, p. 123). 39. Na∑r b. Muzå±im, Œiff¥n, pp. 86, 190. 40. A companion of the Prophet who was apparently neutral in the conflicts of the First Civil War. He was killed by a band of Kharijites for refusing to denounce either ˜Uthmån or Ãl¥. 41. Mas˜¨d¥, Mur¶j, v. 2, p. 416. 42. Na∑r b. Muzå±im, Œiff¥n, p. 76; Ibn Sa˜d, Tabaqåt, v. 3, p. 106; Mas˜¨d¥, Mur¶j, v. 3, pp. 24–25. The latter account is attributed to a group of those who abstained from giving the bayãh to Ãl¥. 43. Ab¨ Zab¥b is killed at the Battle of Œiff¥n, see Na∑r b. Muzå±im, Œiff¥n, p. 263. 44. Na∑r b. Muzå±im, Œiff¥n, p. 100. 45. A loyal Shi˜ite follower of Ãl¥ and nephew of Sa˜d b. Ab¥ Waqqå∑— a prominent companion, who was himself neutral in the conflict between Ãl¥ and Mu˜åwiyah. 46. Na∑r b. Muzå±im, Œiff¥n, p. 112. 47. See, in general, Etan Kohlberg, “Barå˘a in Shi˜i Doctrine,” Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 7 (1986), pp. 139–75. 48. See Mas˜¨d¥, Mur¶j, where the author notes that it was after the arbitration that members of the community began to mutually dissociate from one another. (v. 2, p. 405). 49. Na∑r b. Muzå±im, Œiff¥n, pp. 201–2. 50. See, also, Rijål al-Kashsh¥, p. 64, for a report that Mu±ammad b. Ab¥ Bakr gave the bayãh to Ãl¥ while dissociating from his own father. While this is certainly a spurious report—there was no need for Mu±ammad b. Ab¥ Bakr to dissociate from Ab¨ Bakr, since Ãl¥ himself did not do so—it is nonetheless further evidence for a connection between Mu±ammad b. Ab¥ Bakr and the early practice of barå˘ah against one’s enemies within the Muslim community. 51. †ab. I: 3139. 52. See, for example, the speech that Kard¨s b. Håni˘ al-Bakr¥, the leader of the tribal grouping of Rab¥ãh, makes before his men: “O People! We, by God, have not demonstrated walåyah (må tawallaynå) for Mu˜åwiyah since we dissociated ourselves (tabarra˘nå) from him; and we have not dissociated from Ãl¥ since we pledged our walåyah to him. Verily our dead are martyrs and our living are righteous and verily Ãl¥ [acts] according to a clear understanding (bayyinah) from his Lord . . .” (Na∑r b. Muzå±im, Œiff¥n, p. 484); also, the

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poem of a Syrian who defects to Ãl¥’s camp after learning that Ãmmår b. Yåsir, whom the Prophet foretold would be killed by a rebellious group, was among the ˜Iraqi camp: “. . . [T]oday I dissociate from Ãmr [b. al-˜≈∑] and his sh¥ãh. And from Mu˜åwiyah the hunchbacked, the onager . . .” (Ibid., p. 344). 53. Na∑r b. Muzå±im, Œiff¥n, p. 103. See a similar passage in the Nahj albalåghah, p. 102, khu†bah 206; and Ibn Abi˘l-¡ad¥d, Shar÷, v. 11, pp. 21–22. 54. Nahj al-balåghah, p. 22, khu†bah 57. 55. See, for example, al-Shiq∑¥ al-Ruståq¥, Manhaj al-†ålibin wa balågh alråghib¥n, pp. 7–10. 56. See Shiq∑¥, in general, and pp. 10–42, in particular. See also the fifthcentury Kharijite writer Mu±ammad b. Ibråh¥m al-Kind¥, Bayån al-shar˜, v. 3, p. 8, where he describes walåyah and barå˘ah as religious duties (farå˘i¿), and pp. 73–76, where he connects the walåyah of God to that of the Prophet and the believer (mu˘min). 57. See Ashãr¥, Maqålat al-islamiyy¥n, v. 1, p. 169, where the early Kharijite Nåfi˜ b. al-Azraq is credited with initiating the policy of dissociating from quietists (al-barå˘ah min al-quãdah). See Ibn Ãbd Rabbih, al-˜Iqd al-far¥d, v. 1, p. 261, for a fuller elaboration of Nåfi˜’s policies. In later Kharijite doctrine, walåyah was required toward those in good moral and doctrinal standing, and barå˘ah was required from all those who were unbelievers either by their own admission or by virtue of having committed a major sin (kab¥rah) or persisting in a lesser one (ƒagh¥rah). Reinstatement was dependent upon sincere repentance (tawbah), (e.g., Shiq∑¥, p. 11). At one point, however, Shiq∑¥ says that barå˘ah is for the sinful action, while separation (mufåraqah) is ordained for the perpetrator, (Shiq∑¥, p. 13), which recalls Ãl¥’s admonition to his followers, cited above. 58. Nahj al-balåghah, p. 57, khu†bah 127. 59. See Ibn al-Ath¥r, Kåmil, v. 3, p. 474. 60. See the references in note 53 above, and Nahj al-balåghah, p. 87, khu†bah 189, where Ãl¥ instructs his followers not to pronounce dissociation (or barå˘ah) on anyone until they have died. 61. Ab¨ Ayy¨b al-An∑år¥, for example, is said to have died on a military expedition to Constantinople under the leadership of Mu˜åwiyah’s son, Yaz¥d; see Ibn Qutaybah, Ma˜årif, p. 279; Mas˜¨d¥, Mur¶j, v. 3, p. 33; †ab. II: 86; Ibn Ãbd al-Barr, Ist¥˜åb, v. 2, p. 425.

CHAPTER 4: THE SHI˜ITE COMMUNITY IN THE AFTERMATH OF THE FIRST CIVIL WAR 1. See al-¡usayn b. Ãl¥’s protest in pseudo-Ibn Qutaybah, al-Imåmah wa Siyåsah, v. 1, pp. 155–56, and ˜≈˘ishah bt. Ab¥ Bakr’s rebuke to Mu˜åwiyah for the same in †ab. II: 145. 2. Al-¡asan and al-¡usayn, as we shall see, were widely abandoned by their Kufan followers; and Shi˜ite biographical sources indicate that at the beginning of his imåmate Ãl¥ b. al-¡usayn had no more than five real follwers:

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Sa˜¥d b. al-Jubayr (later executed by the Umayyad governor, al-Hajjåj, see Ardab¥l¥, Jåmi˜ al-ruwåt, v. 1, p. 359), Sa˜¥d b. al-Musayyab, Mu±ammad b. alJubayr b. Ma†ãm, Ya±yå b. Umm al-Ta˘w¥l (also persecuted by al-Hajjåj for his Shi˜ite beliefs, Ardab¥l¥, v. 2, p. 326), and Ab¨ Khålid al-Kåbil¥ (see Rijål al-Kashsh¥, p. 115). 3. Mas˜¨d¥, Mur¶j, v. 2, p. 291, referring to Qur˘an XXXIII:33. See also Ansåb, v. 2, p. 360, where Ãl¥ gives his waƒiyyah to his oldest son, and p. 361, where Ãl¥ says that after al-¡asan, his waƒiyyah should pass to his next oldest son and then the next oldest and so on—apparently establishing a hereditary line of succession in his own (rather than the Prophet’s) bloodline, with the caveat that his waƒiyyah should only be inherited by sons of good character. 4. †ab. I: 3461; Ansåb, v. 2, p. 360, Mas˜¨d¥, v. 2, p. 291. 5. This term, “mu÷ill¥n” literally means “those who make lawful (i.e., what is unlawful).” 6. †ab. II: 1. 7. Ansåb, v. 2, p. 379. 8. Ansåb, v. 2, pp. 379, 380. 9. †ab. II: 4. 10. †ab. II: 3. See also Ansåb, v. 2, pp. 393–94. 11. Mas˜¨d¥, v. 2, p. 306. 12. Ansåb, v. 2, pp. 387–88. Here he is citing Qur˘an XXI:111. Ãl¥ also cited this verse when explaining that he gave allegiance to Ab¨ Bakr despite his own claims to the caliphate in order to unite the community as it faced numerous threats from rebellious Arab tribes. (See Kitåb al-ghåråt, pp. 202–3). 13. Ansåb, v. 2, p. 387. 14. Ansåb, v. 2, p. 380–81. Ãbd Allåh b. Ãbbås also expressed his displeasure at al-¡asan’s truce with Mu˜åwiyah, see Ansåb, v. 2. p. 379. 15. Ansåb, v. 2, p. 389. 16. Ansåb, v. 2, p. 389; Rijål al-Kashsh¥, pp. 111–12, h. 178. 17. Ansåb, v. 2. p. 385. 18. See †ab. II: 3–4, where Qays receives a letter from al-¡asan commanding him to surrender to Mu˜åwiyah, and responds by offering his troops the choice between surrendering to “an imåm of error [=Mu˜åwiyah]” or fighting “without an imåm.” See also Ansåb, v. 2, p. 383–84. 19. Ansåb, v. 2, p. 392, †ab. II: 7–8. 20. Ansåb, v. 2, p. 393. 21. †ab. II: 96; Rijål al-Kashsh¥, pp. 90–92, h. 145. 22. †ab. II: 69. Ziyåd is rumored to have been born of an adulterous affair between his mother, Sumayya, and Mu˜åwiyah’s father, Ab¨ Sufyån. His commonly used name, Ziyåd b. Ab¥hi (or Ziyåd son of “his father”) points to his questionable paternity. Ziyåd initially refused to surrender the post to which Ãl¥ had appointed him. Mu˜åwiyah feared that he would resist Mu˜åwiyah’s claim in the name of an Ãlid or Håshimite candidate (see †ab. II: 23) as Ziyåd had threatened (†ab.II: 14–15). Once brought into the Umayyad camp, Ziyåd became governor of Basra in the year 45 (†ab. II: 71) and of both Basra and Kufa in the year 50 (†ab. II: 87).

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23. †ab. II: 10, 37–39, 45. 24. †ab. II: 33, 37–39, 61. 25. Ansåb, v. 2, p. 390. 26. ¡ujr b. Ãd¥ had been a prominent member of Ãl¥’s camp since the Battle of the Camel and was part of the delegation Ãl¥ sent to witness the arbitration agreement. He was reportedly one of Ãl¥’s commanders at Nahrawan and was one of the members of Ãl¥’s camp who wanted to continue the struggle against Mu˜åwiyah. He was a leading member of the tribe of Kindah in Kufa. 27. †ab. II: 112–15. 28. †ab. II: 113. 29. †ab. II: 131–32, 136. 30. See †ab. II: 134, 137. 31. †ab. II: 131–32. 32. †ab. II: 116; 126–27. 33. Just under half of those named as supporters of ¡ujr were members of Ãl¥’s camp during the First Civil War; and in addition to ¡ujr, two other participants in his protest, Ãmr b. al-¡amiq and Warqå˘ b. Sumayy al-Bajal¥, were among the witnesses for Ãl¥ at the Œiff¥n arbitration. 34. Mas˜¨d¥, Mur¶j, v. 2, p. 307. See also †ab. II: 503, where he notes that ¡ujr and his supporters received the reward of “martyrs” and of “the patient.” 35. Ansåb, v. 2, pp. 459–60. 36. †ab. II: 145. 37. †ab. II: 116. 38. †ab. II: 274. 39. Note Ibn al-Zubayr’s refusal to accept the bayãh of the Syrian army offered under al-¡usayn b. Numayr after Yaz¥d’s death, because as a condition of this bayãh, Ibn al-Zubayr would have had to leave Mecca and return with them to Syria (†ab. II: 431–32). 40. A notable exception to this is a quote attributed in Ibn A˜tham alK¨f¥’s Kitåb al-fut¶÷ (v. 5, pp. 147–48) to “one of al-¡usayn’s sh¥ãh” (here given the name Hilål b. Nåfi˜, but elsewhere, Hilål b. Råfi˜ or Nåfi˜ b. Hilål) who compares al-¡usayn’s predicament to that of his father, Ãl¥. The quote ends with a pledge to “befriend the one who befriends you and make enmity with the one who makes enmity with you (nuwåli man wålåka wa nu˜ådi man ˜ådåka),” which is identical to the second bayãh to Ãl¥. He says this after making an explicit comparison between al-¡usayn’s situation and that of his father, indicating that the concepts of walåyah and ãdåwah were still rather uniquely connected with Ãl¥. 41. Maqtal, p. 119; †ab. II: 331; Ansåb, v. 2, p. 488; Ya˜q¨b¥, Ta˘r¥kh, v. 2, p. 158. See also Maqtal, p. 86 and †ab. II: 301, where al-Zuhayr b. al-Qayn declares: “If the whole world remained to us and we would live here forever, and we would only leave it by supporting you and befriending you, we would prefer fighting with you (al-khur¶j maãka) to remaining in it.” 42. Ibn A˜tham, v. 5, p. 171.

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43. Maqtal, p. 119. The “da˜wat al-nuƒrah” is a constant theme in the Karbala accounts; see also Ibn A˜tham, v. 5, pp. 130, 131, 147, 159, and Maqtal, pp. 72–73, 88, 159. 44. Ibn A˜tham, v. 5, p. 39. In later Shi˜ite tradition, walåyah is considered one of the five pillars of Islam, along with prayer, alms-giving, fasting and ÷ajj (see our discussion in Chapter 5). In this report, “nuƒrah” for al¡usayn seems parallel to the later Shi˜ite doctrine regarding walåyah. 45. This terminology of nuƒrah in connection with al-¡usayn’s stand at Karbala is also found in certain Imåm¥ ÷ad¥th on the subject. See, e.g., Kåf¥, v. 1, pp. 315, 339. 46. While this may reflect the fact that most later compilers relied on the same principal source for this event—namely the account of Ab¨ Mikhnaf— it should be noted that in the few other independent accounts we have, such as that of Ibn A˜tham al-K¨f¥, there is still none of the moral ambiguity that we find, for example, regarding the controversies during the caliphates of ˜Uthmån and Ãl¥. The heroes and villains in the Karbala conflict are clearly defined, and no moral argument is put forward for the prominent Håshimite “abstainers”—who are never referred to as such in the historiography of this event—such as Ibn Ãbbås, Ãbd Allåh b. Ja˜far, and Mu±ammad b. al¡anafiyyah. Their lack of participation is never directly addressed, and they are all reported to have given sincere advice (naƒ¥÷ah) to al-¡usayn, placing them clearly in the ¡usaynid camp, even if they did not fight alongside him. 47. We think here in particular of Marshall Hodgson and his classic article “How did the early Sh¥ãh become sectarian?,” JAOS, v. 75, no. 1, 1955, especially p. 3. There is some evidence that the Karbala event did have a polarizing effect on the Shi˜ites, leading them to see themselves as separate from the rest of the community. For example, a tradition attributed through numerous isnåds to al-¡usayn b. Ãl¥ emphasizes the separation between the Shi˜ites and the rest of the community: “We were [created] according to the mold (fi†rah) of Abraham, and the rest of the people are dissociated (or exempt) from it (minhå burrå˘).” Other recensions state that the ahl al-bayt and their sh¥ãh are the only ones who truly belong to the religious community (millah) of Abraham, while the rest of the people are dissociated from it (minhå burrå˘). (See, e.g., BA, v. 44, p. 180, h. 2; v. 68, pp. 84–85, h. 4–6, pp. 87–89, h. 15, 16.) Shi˜ite poetry also sometimes suggests that the Muslim community as a whole bears the guilt for the death of al-¡usayn. See Shubbar, Adab al-Taff, v. 1, pp. 54–55, 59–60. In Ibn Båbawayh’s ˜Ilal al-sharå˘i˜, a tradition states that Sunnis consider ˜‹sh¶rå˘ to be a blessed day because it was established as a feast day by Yaz¥d in celebration of the murder of al-¡usayn (˜Ilal, v. 1, p. 265). This polarization of the Shi˜ite and non-Shi˜ite communities around the issue of Karbala, however, seems to have been a later form of anti-Sunni rhetoric and not representative of the way in which the event of Karbala was presented by its earliest chroniclers. 48. See, e.g., †ab. II: 2, 5; Ansåb, v. 2, p. 400; Ya˜q¨b¥, Ta˘r¥kh, v. 2, p. 122; Ibn A˜tham, v. 4, pp. 155–56. Also, if Mu˜åwiyah did poison al-¡asan, he seems to have had no compunction about doing it, and there is no apparent

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moral outrage over the poisoning—albeit far less horrific than the massacre at Karbala—on account of the inviolability of his Prophetic blood. Of course, while reports that he died of poisoning are widespread, the attribution of this deed to Mu˜åwiyah is not usually spelled out in early sources. Only Mas˜¨d¥ reports in some detail the arrangement between Mu˜åwiyah and one of al¡asan’s wives for his poisoning (Mur¶j, v. 3, p. 5). 49. See, for example, †ab. II: 2; Ibn A˜tham, v. 4, p. 156. 50. Ansåb, v. 2, pp. 455–57. 51. Citing Qur˘an IV:19; Ansåb, v. 2, p. 456. 52. Ansåb, v. 2, p. 457. 53. Ansåb, v. 2, p. 458–59. 54. Ansåb, v. 2, p. 459. 55. Ansåb, v. 2, p. 458. 56. After al-¡usayn tells the Shi˜ites that he will contact them upon the death of Mu˜åwiyah, Balådhur¥ notes that the people of ˜Iraq and some in the Hijaz attached themselves to al-¡usayn, praising him and expressing their willingness to carry out his will. (Ansåb, v. 2, p. 459). 57. The Umayyad governor of ˜Iraq who seems to have tolerated the subversive activities of the Kufan Shi˜ites and was promptly replaced by the more aggressive ˜Ubayd Allåh b. Ziyåd. 58. Maqtal, p. 16; Ibn A˜tham, v. 5, pp. 47, 135; Ansåb, v. 2, p. 462; †ab. II: 233–34; and an abbreviated version in Ya˜q¨b¥, v. 2, p. 155. 59. Maqtal, p. 17; †ab. II: 235; Ibn A˜tham, v. 5, p. 52. Note that two of our earliest historical sources, Balådhur¥ and Ya˜q¨b¥, apparently do not know of al-¡usayn’s letter of response. 60. For al-¡usayn’s view of the imåmate, see also Ibn A˜tham, v. 5, p. 121, where a man of the tribe of Asad questions al-¡usayn about Qur˘an XVII:71, which tells of a day “when every person will be called by his imåm.” Al-¡usayn responds that there are two kinds of imåms, an imåm of guidance (imåm al-hudå) and an imåm of error (imåm al-¿alålah)—again, a standard and nonsectarian view of the nature of the imåmate. 61. Maqtal, p. 155 and †ab. II: 353. 62. See the speeches of al-¡urr b. Yaz¥d (Maqtal, pp. 121–22), Ab¨ Thumåmah Ãmr b. Ãbd Allåh al-Sa˜¥d¥ (Maqtal, p. 142), and Ãbd Allåh and Ãbd al-Ra±mån b. ˜Uzrah or ˜Urwah (Maqtal, pp. 150–51), the mother of Wahb b. Ãbd Allåh b. ˜Umayr al-Kalb¥ (Ibn A˜tham, v. 5, p. 190) and Zuhayr b. alQayn (Maqtal, p. 149). See also, Ibn A˜tham, v. 5, p. 199, where a nearly identical poem is attributed to another Karbala victim, al-¡ajjåj b. Masr¨q. 63. Ibn A˜tham, v. 5, p. 214. 64. There was a small but committed Shi˜ite community in Basra, which reportedly met in the homes of two local Shi˜ite women. Some members of this community rode out in support of al-¡usayn at Karbala (†ab. II: 236). 65. Maqtal, p. 25; †ab. II: 240. As we saw in the previous chapter, the idea of the family of the Prophet as his awliyå˘, awƒiyå˘ and his heirs, was expressed by Ãlid sympathizers during Ãl¥’s caliphate, if not at the time of the first controversies after the Prophet’s death.

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66. Maqtal, pp. 83–84. See also Ibn A˜tham, v. 5, p. 144, where al-¡usayn bases his legitimacy on his close relation (qaråbah) to the Prophet. 67. Maqtal, p. 117; †ab. II: 329. 68. Ibn A˜tham, v. 5, p. 116. The phrase (i˜tada fi˘l-sabt) recalls Qur˘an II:65, which mentions the Jews who broke the Sabbath. 69. This theme also runs through accounts of the Umayyad army’s attack of Ibn al-Zubayr in the ÷aram of Mecca, as noted above. 70. Ab¨ Mikhnaf’s account states that the planning for this movement began in the year 61, immediately after Karbala, but action was not taken until the death of Yaz¥d in 64. (See †ab. II: 506.) 71. Qur˘an II:54. 72. †ab. II: 503. 73. †ab. II: 546. 74. †ab. II: 505, 544. 75. †ab. II: 550; referring to Qur˘an IX:112. 76. See, e.g., †ab. II: 589. 77. †ab. II: 550. The translation is taken from Hawting, The History of alTabar¥, vol. XX: The Collapse of Sufyånid Authority and the Coming of the Marwånids, p. 136. 78. †ab. II: 558. Translation taken from Hawting, p. 144. 79. †ab. II: 508. Translation taken from Hawting, p. 91. 80. †ab. II: 547. Translation taken from Hawting, p. 133. 81. †ab. II: 556. 82. †ab. II: 502. 83. †ab. II: 546. 84. †ab. II: 547. 85. †ab. II: 547. 86. †ab. II: 500. Translation taken from Hawting, p. 83. 87. †ab. II: 546. 88. †ab. II: 546. Translation taken from Hawting, p. 132. 89. †ab. II: 547. 90. †ab. II: 507–8. 91. †ab. II: 571. 92. †ab. II: 531. 93. Ãl¥ Zayn al-˜≈bid¥n fell prostrate when he received the heads of ˜Ubayd Allåh b. Ziyåd and ˜Umar b. Sa˜d, praising God but thanking alMukhtår as well (Rijål al-Kashsh¥, p. 127, h. 203); Mu±ammad al-Båqir reportedly said: “Do not curse al-Mukhtår, for he killed those who killed us, sought our revenge, married our widows, and distributed wealth among us in times of hardship (Rijål al-Kashsh¥, p. 125, h. 197).” On another occasion he asked God’s mercy on al-Mukhtår (Rijål al-Kashsh¥, p. 125–26, h. 199). Ja˜far al-Œådiq reportedly said: “The Håshimites neither combed nor dyed their hair until alMukhtår sent us the heads of those who killed al-¡usayn” (Rijål al-Kashsh¥, p. 127, h. 202). Other reports, however, suggest that al-Båqir and al-Œådiq considered him a liar and that Ãl¥ Zayn al-˜≈bid¥n had no real relationship with him (see Rijål al-Kashsh¥, p. 125, h. 198 and pp. 126–27, h. 200).

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94. †ab. II: 569. 95. See †ab. II: 607–8. 96. Maqtal, pp. 280, 322, 324; †ab. II: 534, 608, 610–11. Ibn al-¡anafiyyah is referred to as the imåm of guidance (Maqtal, p. 281; †ab. II: 608). The bayãh taken by al-Mukhtår was referred to as the “bayãt al-hudå” and al-Mukhtår claimed that no bayãh was “more rightly guided (ahda) . . . since the bayãh given to Ãl¥ b. Ab¥ †ålib and the family of Ãl¥ (referring to the bayãh for al-¡asan and that taken by Muslim b. Ãq¥l for al-¡usayn),” (Maqtal, p. 343). In †ab. II: 531, alMukhtår invokes the principles of “right guidance and community.” 97. For example, see †ab. II: 534. 98. †ab. II: 638. The translation taken from Hawting, p. 222. 99. For example, see †ab. II: 534. 100. See, Maqtal, pp. 263, 264, 266, 267.

CHAPTER 5: WAL‹YAH AS THE ESSENCE OF RELIGION: THEOLOGICAL DEVELOPMENTS AT THE TURN OF THE SECOND ISLAMIC CENTURY 1. See, e.g., Ardab¥l¥, Jåmi˜ al-ruwåh, v. 2, p. 31. 2. Rijål al-Kashsh¥, pp. 205–7, h. 361, 365. 3. See Madelung, “The Håshimiyyåt of al-Kumayt and Håshim¥ Shi˜ism,” pp. 5–26. Madelung argues that Kumayt represented a moderate Shi˜ite perspective that was pro-Håshimite, rather than exclusively pro-Ãlid. 4. Madelung, “Håshimiyyåt,” p. 5. 5. Kumayt, Håshimiyyåt, pp. 152–53. 6. Kumayt, Håshimiyyåt, p. 156. 7. Kohlberg, “Some Zayd¥ Views on the Companions,” p. 93. 8. See Abu˘l-Faraj al-I∑fahån¥, Kitåb al-aghån¥, v. 7, pp. 168–71 and Wadad al-Qadi, al-Kaysaniyya fi˘l-ta˘r¥kh wa˘l-adab, pp. 330–45. 9. See, in general, D¥wån al-Sayyid al-¡imyar¥, pp. 111, 129–30, 164, 176– 77, 198, 216, 329–31, 351–52, 401–2, 408, 412, 436, and 463. 10. D¥wån, pp. 111–13. 11. D¥wån, p. 216. 12. D¥wån, pp. 351–52; 412. 13. D¥wån, p. 412. 14. According to Shi˜ite biographical sources, Sulaym b. Qays was a companion of Ãl¥ who, fearing the Iraqi governor ¡ajjåj, fled to Fars and sought refuge with Abån b. Ab¥ Ãyyåsh. Upon his deathbed, Sulaym reportedly related to Abån a series of traditions from Ãl¥ and his earliest companions. (Ardab¥l¥, Jåmi˜ al-ruwåh, v. 1, p. 374, Qåm¶s al-rijål, v. 4, pp. 445–46). Before his own death, Abån transmitted the collection to ˜Umar [b. Mu±ammad b. Ãbd Allåh] b. Udhaynah, warning him not to let the traditions fall into the hands of the people (al-nås), i.e., non-Shi˜ites (Kitåb Sulaym, v. 2, pp. 555–57). For a discussion of the early origin of this work, see Modarressi, Tradition and Survival, v. 1, pp. 82–86.

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15. Kitåb Sulaym, v. 2, pp. 644, 758, 828–29. 16. Qur˘an IV:59. 17. Qur˘an V:55. The belief that this verse refers to Ãl¥ is quite clear in Shi˜ite tafs¥r (see Furåt al-K¨f¥, Tafs¥r, v. 1, p. 37, and Kåf¥, v. 1, p. 344, h. 3). However, the Sunni †abar¥ also includes opinions from five authorities (Ibn Ãbbås, al-Sudd¥, Ab¨ Ja˜far [Mu±ammad al-Båqir], Ãbdah b. Ab¥ ¡åkim, and Mujåhid) who connect the verse to Ãl¥ (Jåmi˜ al-bayån, v. 6, p. 389–90). 18. Kitåb Sulaym, v. 2, p. 644, h. 11; p. 758, h. 25 has a nearly identical account. See v. 2, p. 828, h. 39 for an account of Ghad¥r Khumm narrated by Ab¨ Sa˜¥d al-Khudr¥, one of principal transmitters of the tradition in Sunni as well as Shi˜ite sources, which includes a reference to the revelation of Qur˘an V:3 after the Prophet’s announcement of the walåyah of Ãl¥—an addition found only in Shi˜ite sources. 19. Kitåb Sulaym, v. 2, h. 11, p. 650. 20. Kitåb Sulaym, v. 2, pp. 836–38, h. 42. Regarding the extension of walåyah to Ãl¥’s descendants on this occasion, see v. 2, p. 759, h. 25, where Salmån al-Fårs¥ asks the Prophet if his announcement of walåyah was in reference to Ãl¥ alone. The Prophet answers: “[It was revealed] in reference to him [Ãl¥] and his awƒiyå˘ until the Day of Resurrection.” 21. See F. Buhl, “Mu±ammad b. Ãbd Allåh,” EI2, v. 7, p. 388, where he notes that after the assassination of Wal¥d II (in the year 126), Mu±ammad’s father began making open claims on his behalf. 22. In the early Shi˜ite tafås¥r of Ãyyåsh¥, Furåt al-K¨f¥, and Qumm¥, these verses are explicitly connected to Ghad¥r Khumm. Ten of the traditions cited by these compilers are attributed to al-Båqir, four to al-Œådiq, and three to Ibn Ãbbås, with a few single traditions attributed to other early companions. See Ãyyåsh¥, Tafs¥r, v. 1, pp. 292–93; 331–34; Furåt al-K¨f¥, Tafs¥r, v. 1, pp. 117–20; 129–31; and Qumm¥, Tafs¥r, v. 1, pp. 162; 171–75. 23. See Ashãr¥, Maqålåt al-islåmiyy¥n, v. 1, pp. 133–34, where it is reported that the Jår¨d¥s consider Ãl¥ to be the Imåm immediately after the Prophet and view the community’s denial of this as error (¿alål) and unbelief (kufr). According to Ashãr¥, most Zayd¥s either considered this an error but not a sinful one (Maqålåt, v. 1, pp. 135, 137) or did not consider it an error at all, since Ãl¥ himself did not rebel against Ab¨ Bakr and ˜Umar (Maqålåt, v. 1, p. 136). See Kohlberg, “Some Zayd¥ Views,” pp. 91–92, where he notes that the most favorable Zayd¥ views of the companions are those that are latest, and thus most like those of the Mu˜tazilites. 24. Madelung, Der Imåm, pp. 44–47. 25. Regarding the similarity of the Imåm¥ and Jår¨d¥ positions, see BarAsher, Scripture and Exegesis, p. 48, and Lalani, Early Sh¥˜¥ Thought, pp. 49–50. 26. Rijål al-Kashsh¥, pp. 229–31. 27. Shi˜ite biographical tradition cites the rebellion of Zayd b. Ãl¥ as the point at which Abu˘l-Jår¨d changed allegiances, see Najåsh¥, Rijål, v. 1, p. 388. 28. Najåsh¥, Rijål, v. 1, p. 388. See the extensive scholarly discussion of Abu˘l-Jår¨d’s recension of al-Båqir’s tafs¥r as found in later Shi˜ite tafs¥r sources in Bar-Asher, Scripture and Exegesis, pp. 46–56; and also Lalani, Early Sh¥˜¥

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Thought, pp. 49–50. The principle of walåyah and its connection to Ghad¥r Khumm remained an important aspect of Jår¨d¥ thought, perhaps because the Jår¨d¥s, like the Imåm¥s and unlike other Zayd¥s, believed that Ãl¥ had been explicitly (rather than implicitly) named by the Prophet as his successor. The prominent fourth-century Jår¨d¥ scholar Ibn ˜Uqdah reportedly authored a book entitled Kitåb ÷ad¥th al-walåyah or Kitåb al-walåyah wa man rawå Ghad¥r Khumm. The book is not extant but is well-attested in bibliographical works. See, Kohlberg, Medieval Muslim Scholar at Work, pp. 177–78. 29. See Kåf¥, v. 1, pp. 344–47, h. 4, 6. 30. See, e.g., †ab. I:1753–56; and Ibn Sa˜d, Tabaqåt, v. 2, p. 144. The Shi˜ite historian Ya˜q¨b¥ also reports that Qur˘an V:3 was revealed during the Prophet’s sermon at Ãrafåt and not on the occasion of Ghad¥r Khumm, which he reports separately (v. 1, p. 442). 31. The fast of ˜‹sh¶rå˘ was observed by the early Muslims until the year 2, when the fast of Rama∂ån replaced ˜‹sh¶rå˘ as the obligatory fast. ˜‹sh¶rå˘, however, remained a recommended day of fasting (Bukhår¥ Œa÷¥÷, K. al-ƒawm, båb ƒawm yawm ˜‹sh¶rå˘; Muslim, Œa÷¥÷, K. al- ƒiyåm, båb 20; and A. J. Wensinck, Mu÷ammad and the Jews of Medina, pp. 72–103). 32. A possible reference to Qur˘an VII:6. 33. Kåf¥, v. 1, pp. 345–47, h. 6. 34. Kåf¥, v. 1, pp. 344–45, h. 4; Kulayn¥ quotes this tradition from Ãl¥ b. Ibråh¥m al-Qumm¥, the author of the Tafs¥r, although it is not included as a commentary on V:3 or V:67 in Qumm¥’s Tafs¥r itself. Also note that these traditions are not included in the chapter on the naƒƒ of Ãl¥ b. Ab¥ †ålib, but rather in the chapter that introduces a series of chapters dedicated to the naƒƒ of each of the twelve Imåms individually, entitled “The designation of God and His Messenger for the Imåms, one after the other,” even though Ghad¥r Khumm was clearly a designation (naƒƒ) of Ãl¥ personally and not of his descendants. 35. Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 22, h. 1; Ma÷åsin, p. 286, h. 429. 36. Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 25, h. 8. 37. One says that Islam is built on five “pillars (da˜å˘im)” explicitly, see BA, v. 68, p. 379, h. 28; Amål¥ al-T¶s¥, p. 124, h. 192. Another says that Islam is built upon five “things (ashyå˘),” see Kåf¥, v. 2, pp. 22–24, h. 5; for a similar tradition from al-Œådiq, see Ma÷åsin, p. 286, h. 430. 38. Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 25, h. 7; see also BA, v. 68, p. 331, h. 7, quoting from Kåf¥, but with a slightly different isnåd, and with the addition of the word “da˜å˘im.” 39. Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 22, h. 3. 40. The connection between this idea as it appears in the Ghad¥r Khumm and da˜å˘im traditions is evident in a ÷ad¥th cited by al-Shaykh al-Muf¥d through a chain of transmitters from Ab¨ Sa˜¥d al-Khudr¥—one of the principal transmitters of the Ghad¥r Khumm tradition—in which he says that the people were commanded to perform five obligatory acts, of which they perform four (ƒalåh, zakåh, ƒawm, and ÷ajj) and neglect one (walåyah) (BA, v. 27, p. 102, h. 66). 41. Ibn Båbawayh, Khiƒål, p. 253; BA, v. 68, p. 376, h. 21. There is also a tradition from al-Œådiq in which he says: “Verily God required five religious duties of His creatures, He sent an easement for four of them, but not for one of them.” (Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 26, h. 12.)

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42. Zurårah relates this tradition from al-Båqir in Kåf¥, v. 2, pp. 22–24, h. 5, and from al-Œådiq in Ma÷åsin, p. 286, h. 430. In another tradition, the eleventh Imåm, al-¡asan b. Ãl¥ al-Ãskar¥, lists the five obligatory duties (farå˘i¿) of Islam as ÷ajj and ˜umrah, prayer, alms-giving, fasting, and walåyah. He then states that the Prophet and his executors (awƒiyå˘) represent the door (båb) and key (miftå÷) to these farå˘i¿ (Ibn Båbawayh, ˜Ilal, v. 1, p. 291). 43. BA, v. 68, pp. 329–30. The idea that the shahådah “contains” walåyah is expressed in a tradition from the eighth Imåm, Ãl¥ al-Ri∂å, which first says that only a person who testifies to the shahådah sincerely will be saved, and then explains that a sincere shahådah includes obedience to God and His Messenger as well as walåyah toward the ahl al-bayt (BA, v. 27, p. 134, h. 130). 44. Takim, “From Bidã to Sunna: The Wilåya of Ãl¥ in the Sh¥˜¥ Adhån,” pp. 166–77, and Eliash, “On the Genesis and Development of the TwelverSh¥˜¥ Three Tenet Shahåda,” pp. 265–72. 45. Takim, op cit, pp. 171–72. 46. A point also made by Bar-Asher in his discussion of these traditions (Scripture and Exegesis, p. 198). 47. Bukhår¥, Œa÷¥÷, k. al-¥mån, h. 7. The first tradition Bukhår¥ includes in this chapter likewise begins “buniya al-islåm ãlå khams,” but gives an entirely different set of “pillars” (Ibid., h. 1). 48. See, e.g., Ibn Ab¥ Shaybah, Muƒannaf, v. 6, p.157–59; Ãbd al-Razzåq al-San˜ån¥, Muƒannaf, v. 11, p. 129, h. 20112, pp. 321–22, h. 20656, pp. 330–31, h. 20683–84. 49. There are two versions of the tradition in which al-Œådiq reproduces the list, including walåyah without amendment. One comes in the fourthcentury Tafs¥r Nu˜mån¥ (i.e., Ibn Ab¥ Zaynab al-Nu˜mån¥), as quoted in BA, v. 68, p. 391, h. 40. The other claims that the first things a person will be asked about when he stands before God are his [performance of] the obligatory prayer, alms-giving, fasting, pilgrimage, and walåyah, and that it is walåyah that validates all of the other deeds (Ibn Båbawayh, Amål¥ al-Œad¶q, p. 227; BA, v. 27, p. 167, h. 2). 50. See, e.g., Ma÷åsin, p. 290, h. 437, and †¨s¥, Amål¥, p. 518, h. 1134. BarAsher notes the existence of both five- and six-pillar traditions but simply says that they reflect “competing tendencies” in the “Imåm¥ debate” (Scripture and Exegesis, p. 198). 51. Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 26, h. 11. 52. See, e.g., BA, v. 68, pp. 376–77, h. 22. The isnåd for this tradition is identical to those given for other traditions related by Ibn Båbawayh regarding walåyah, and contains transmitters suspected of extremism by some Shi˜ites, as was Ab¨ Ba∑¥r (the primary transmitter of the tradition cited in full above). 53. BA, v. 68, p. 377, h. 23. 54. Kåf¥, v. 2 pp. 24–25, h. 6, p. 25, h. 9; Ãyyåsh¥, Tafs¥r, v. 1, p. 252. 55. See Ibn Båbawayh, Œifåt al-sh¥ãh, pp. 82–83, where the eighth Imåm, Ãl¥ al-Ri∂å, lists the four standard pillars (prayer, alms-giving, fasting, and pilgrimage) plus walåyah and barå˘ah.

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56. This has already been noted by other scholars of Shi˜ism. See, for example, S. H. M. Jafri, The Origins and Early Development of Shiã Islam, p. 293. 57. Amir-Moezzi, The Divine Guide in Early Shi˜ism, p. 126. 58. See Amir-Moezzi, Divine Guide, p. 126. 59. This is found in Shi˜ite commentaries on the Qur˘anic term “÷an¥f” (Qur˘an XXX:30). See Kåf¥, v. 1, p. 486, h. 35; BA, v. 23, p. 365, h. 27. For a nonQur˘anic connection between walåyah and the d¥n al-÷an¥f, see, Aƒl Ja˜far al¡a¿ram¥, p. 70. 60. Kåf¥, v. 1, pp. 484, 493, 502; al-Œaffår al-Qumm¥, Baƒå˘ir al-darajåt, pp. 71–72, h. 7. Bar-Asher discusses similar traditions that establish the centrality of walåyah through sectarian commentary on the Qur˘an; see, e.g., Scripture and Exegesis, p. 197, where he cites a Shi˜ite tradition that declares walåyah “the axis on which the Qur˘an and all other scriptures revolve.” 61. Kåf¥, v. 1, pp. 437–38, h. 3. 62. Al-Œaffår al-Qumm¥, Baƒå˘ir al-darajåt, p. 67, h. 1–2, 4. 63. Perhaps the most important Sufi thinker to use the concept of walåyah as a technical term is Ibn al-Ãrab¥ (d. 638). For an explanation of his doctrine of walåyah, see Michel Chodkiewicz, Seal of the Saints, especially Chapter 3, and by the same author, Un ocean sans rivage, especially pp. 67–77. 64. See references in note 17 above. 65. See, e.g., Aƒl Ja˜far b. Mu÷ammad al-¡a¿ram¥, p. 60; Baƒå˘ir al-darajåt, p. 75, h. 6–9; Kåf¥, v. 1, pp. 501–5, h. 91; p. 194, h. 11; Amål¥, p. 110. 66. See Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 180, h. 14; p. 351, h. 4. 67. Ma÷åsin, pp. 284–85, h. 422; also cited in BA, v. 68, p. 282, h. 36. 68. Ma÷åsin, p. 150, h. 68. The Qur˘anic dichotomy of “÷asanah” and “sayyi˘ah” (good and evil), were also said to refer to love and hatred of the ahl al-bayt, respectively. See Ãyyåsh¥, Tafs¥r, v. 1, p. 386, h. 137; Furåt al-K¨f¥, Tafs¥r, v. 1, pp. 139–40, h. 168–69; Ma÷åsin, p. 150, h. 69. 69. For Shi˜ite discussions of love of the ahl al-bayt in connection with particular Qur˘anic verses, see Bar-Asher, pp. 193–95. The religious importance of love is found in some non-Shi˜ite texts as well, although it is not so essential to faith. For example, in Kitåb al-˜ålim wa˘l-mutaãllim, the master (commonly supposed to be Ab¨ ¡an¥fah) tells his disciple that it is “harmful not to know who is right and who is wrong” because one will therefore not “know whom to love or to hate ‘in God.’ ” See Schacht’s summary in “An Early Murci˘ite Treatise: the Kitåb al-˜ålim wal-mutaãllim,” p. 105. A tradition found in the Muƒannaf of Ãbd al-Razzåq al-San˜ån¥ warns one not to “exaggerate in love . . . or hate,” which may be a Medinan response to the ˜Iraqi (i.e., Shi˜ite, Murji˘ite, or Kharijite) tendency to do just that (v. 11, p. 181, h. 20270). 70. Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 133, h. 2; Ma÷åsin, p. 165, h. 121, and p. 263, h. 328; Muf¥d, Kitåb al-Amål¥, p. 151, h. 1. 71. Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 133, h. 1; Ma÷åsin, p. 263, h. 330. 72. Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 235, h. 15. 73. Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 133, h. 5; Ma÷åsin, p. 262, h. 326. 74. See, for example, Ibn Båbawayh, Œifat al-sh¥˘ah, p. 125, h. 65.

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75. This is a rare addition in early sources, but see, e.g., Ãyyåsh¥, Tafs¥r, v. 1, pp. 333–34, h. 154; or Ibn Kath¥r, al-Bidåyah wa˘l-nihåyah, v. 5, p. 160, where it is the version cited by Ãl¥ himself, when he asks for confirmation of the tradition in his speech at the ra÷bah of Kufa. 76. ¡imyar¥, Qurb al-isnåd, p. 26, h. 86; Muslim, Œa÷¥÷, v. 2, p. 253, h. 237; Muf¥d, Kitåb al-Amål¥, pp. 307–8; †¨s¥, Amål¥, p. 258, h. 3/465; Ma÷åsin, p. 150, h. 70–71, and p. 151, h. 72. In this last ÷ad¥th, Ãl¥ says: “[B]oth the pious and the impious love al-¡asan and al-¡usayn, but it is written that no kåfir will love me and no mu˘min will hate me.” See also, Ma÷åsin, p. 152, h. 74, where al-Båqir says that “the love of God is owed to the one who loves Ãl¥” and BA, v. 68, pp. 109–10, h. 21, where it says that God loves men for their love of Ãl¥. 77. See, e.g., Ma÷åsin, p. 263, h. 329. In one tradition al-Båqir quotes the Prophet as saying: “Whoever loves Ãl¥, loves me; and whoever loves me, loves God” and the same is true in the case of hate (See Aƒl Ja˜far al-¡a¿ram¥, p. 60). 78. Ibn Båbawayh, ˜Uy¶n akhbår al-Ri¿å, p. 291, h. 41. 79. Ma÷åsin, pp. 262–63, h. 327. See also, BA, v. 68, p. 63, h. 114. 80. In other Shi˜ite traditions, ¥mån and islåm represent the religious status of Shi˜ites and non-Shi˜ites, respectively; this seems to be a later development, and will be discussed in Part III. 81. See Ashãr¥, Maqålåt, v. 1, pp. 211–13. 82. See, e.g., Shaybån¥, ‹thår, pp. 245–46, h. 377. 83. Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 73, h. 1. 84. Qur˘an IX:106. 85. Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 407, h. 1, 2. 86. Kitåb Sulaym, v. 2, pp. 605–9, h. 7. 87. Kitåb Sulaym, v. 2, p. 670, h. 12, and p. 848, h. 42. 88. With regard to al-¡akam, see Rijål al-Kashsh¥, p. 210, h. 370; and with regard to Sålim, see Rijål al-Kashsh¥, p. 235, h. 426. See also Tustar¥, Qåm¶s alrijål, v. 4, p. 285 (for Sålim) and v. 3, p. 376 (for al-¡akam). Van Ess in Theologie und Gesellschaft notes that Zurårah himself, while being a Qadarite regarding the issue of free will and human capability (isti†åãh), was nonetheless closer to Ab¨ ¡an¥fah in his definition of the nature of belief (Band I, pp. 321–22).

CHAPTER 6: MEMBERSHIP IN THE SHI˜ITE COMMUNITY AND SALVATION 1. This is true for all Murji˘ite groups except for the extreme and almost universally castigated “Jahmites” (followers of Jahm b. Œafwån), who reportedly held that mere knowledge (ma˜rifah) of the shahådah, irrespective of one’s having testified to that truth or not, constituted “¥mån.” See, Madelung, “Murji˘a” in EI 2, v. 7, pp. 605–7; and Ashãr¥, Maqålåt, v. 1, pp. 213–14. 2. See, e.g., Kitåb al-˜ålim wa˘l-mutaãllim (attributed to Ab¨ ¡an¥fah), pp. 11–13, and Schacht’s English summary in “An Early Murci˘ite Treatise: The Kitåb al-˜ålim wa˘l-mutaãllim,” p. 106.

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3. See Wilferd Madelung, “Early Sunni Doctrine Concerning Faith as Reflected in the Kitåb al-¥mån of Ab¨ ˜Ubayd al-Qåsim b. Sallåm (d. 224/839),” in Studia Islamica 32, 1970. 4. Madelung, “Early Sunni Doctrine,” pp. 233–54. 5. See Kåf¥, v. 2, pp. 435–36, h. 3, 4. See also Bar-Asher’s discussion of this in Scripture and Exegesis, pp. 196–97. 6. This is found, for example, in Ab¨ ¡an¥fah’s al-Fiqh al-absa†, pp. 47–48. 7. See al-Fiqh al-absa†, pp. 41–42, where the list also includes the compulsionist or “jabr¥” belief that “destiny” (qadar) is from God, who does not delegate acts to man. See also, Shaybån¥, ‹thår, pp. 249–50, h. 387. 8. Shaybån¥, ‹thår, p. 244, h. 373. See also Wensinck, Concordance, v. 2, under “zanå.” 9. This is most likely ˜Ubayd b. Zurårah b. A˜yan al-Shaybån¥, since there is no ˜Ubaydah b. Zurårah in Shi˜ite rijål works, and ˜Ubayd b. Zurårah is one of the transmitters of the related tradition (although expressing the opposite point of view) quoted on p. 130. 10. This probably refers to al-Fa∂l b. Ãbd al-Målik Abu˘l-Ãbbås alBaqbåq, a reliable and respected transmitter from al-Œådiq (Ardab¥l¥, Jåmi˜ alruwåh, v. 2, pp. 6–7). The Imåm’s reluctance to discuss the controversial issue in front of him may have had something to do with his nickname, “al-Baqbåq,” which means “the garrulous one.” 11. Aƒl Nawådir Ãl¥ b. Asbå†, p. 125. 12. †¨s¥, Amål¥, pp. 405–6, h. 57/909; BA, v. 68, p. 25, h. 46. 13. See Kåf¥, v. 2, pp. 269–78. 14. Tucker, W. F., “Bayån and the Bayåniyya: Shi˜ite Extremists of Umayyad Iraq,” The Muslim World 65, no. 4, 1975, p. 242. 15. See W. F. Tucker, “Rebels and Gnostics: al-Mug¥ra Ibn Sa˜¥d and the Mug¥riyya,” in Arabica 22, no. 1, 1975, p. 36, quoting the fourth-century writer Mala†¥. 16. Tucker, W. F., “Ãbd Allåh b. Mu˜åwiyah and the Janå±iyya: rebels and ideologies of the late Umayyad period,” Studia Islamica, July 1980, pp. 53, 54. As Tucker points out, it is unlikely that these are Ibn Mu˜åwiyah’s own ideas; they probably became associated with his movement via some of the more heterodox elements among his rather disparate following. 17. Ashãr¥, Maqålåt, v. 1, p. 75; and W. F. Tucker, “Ab¨ Man∑¨r al-˜Ijl¥ and the Man∑¨riyya: a study in medieval terrorism,” Der Islam, 1977, p. 72. 18. Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 436, h. 5; Ma˜åni˘l-akhbår, pp. 181–82; †¨s¥, Amål¥, p. 417, h. 87/939; BA, v. 27, pp. 170–71, 174, h. 11, 19. 19. See Richard McCarthy, The Theology of al-Ashãr¥ (trans. of Kitåb allumãh), pp. 104–5. 20. Kåf¥, v. 2, pp. 270–71, h. 5, 6; p. 273, h. 13; p. 276, h. 21, 22; BA, v. 68, pp. 270–71, h. 27. For Sunni versions, see Wensinck, Concordance, under “yazn¥” and “zanå.” 21. See Madelung, “Early Sunni Doctrine Concerning Faith,” p. 248. 22. For different opinions on this issue among the Murji˘ites, see Ashãr¥, Maqålåt, v. 1, pp. 207–10. See also, Van Ess, Theologie und Gesellschaft, Band I,

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pp. 20–21, where he notes that the idea that a believing sinner would have to pass through Hell on his way to eventual salvation was a compromise devised by the Basran Murji˘ites in response to the more stringent view of the liability of Muslim believers to eternal damnation that was otherwise prevalent in Basra. 23. See, e.g., Shaybån¥, ‹thår, p. 244, h. 374, where shirk alone places one in the ranks of the unbelievers (i.e., outside the pale of the Muslim community). 24. Qur˘an IV: 48. 25. See Shaybån¥, ‹thår, pp. 246–48; and Madelung, “Early Sunni Doctrine,” p. 254, where he notes that both Sunni traditionists and Shi˜ites (Ibn Båbawayh in particular) rejected the Mu˜tazilite principle of wa˜¥d on the basis of intercession for members of the religious community. 26. A prominent member of the Shi˜ite community during the time of alBåqir and al-Œådiq. It is reported that either al-Båqir or al-Œådiq encouraged Abån to attend Sunni gatherings, so that they would “know that there are men like you among my Shi˜ites” (†¨s¥, Fihrist, p. 57, and Rijål al-Kashsh¥, pp. 330– 31, h. 603). Abån is also considered a reliable transmitter in Sunni biographical sources. See Ibn ¡ajar al-Ãsqalån¥, Tahdh¥b al-tahdh¥b, v. 1, pp. 93–94. 27. Ma÷åsin, pp. 32–33, h. 23, p. 90, h. 39, p. 181, h. 173, 174. 28. Ibn Båbawayh, Thawåb al-a˜mål, p. 7; Daylam¥, A˜låm al-d¥n, p. 357. 29. See Ibn Båbawayh, ˜Uy¶n akhbår al-Ri¿å, v. 2, pp. 134–35, 137; Kitåb al-taw÷¥d, pp. 24–25. 30. See Ibn Båbawayh, ˜Uy¶n akhbår al-Ri¿å, v. 2, p. 134. 31. Kitåb al-taw÷¥d, p. 25, h. 23. 32. ˜Uy¶n akhbår al-Ri¿å, v. 2, p. 136. See also the ÷ad¥th that “love of Ãl¥ is a good deed such that with it, no evil deed can harm one” (BA, v. 39, p. 248, h. 10; p. 266, h. 40; p. 304, h. 118). 33. Daylam¥, A˜låm al-d¥n, pp. 356–57; †¨s¥, Amål¥, p. 279, h. 74/536. See also †¨s¥, Amål¥, p. 353, h. 69/729, where Ãl¥ himself is said to be the ÷iƒn that protects from divine wrath. 34. The only exception to this is a version where the salvific power of the shahådah is conditional upon knowledge (ma˜rifah), walåyah, and accomplishing the pillars of Islamic practice (al-ãmal bi˘l-arkån); see Daylam¥, A˜låm al-d¥n, pp. 356–57. 35. Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 371, h. 20. 36. Shi˜ite tradition is careful to point out that this form of shirk is less serious than kufr (Kåf¥, v. 2, pp. 366–67, h. 2, 3), and refers not to polytheism but to the refusal to recognize the Imåms’ authority, thus associating false religious authorities with the Imåms (Kåf¥, p. 379, h. 4, 5). 37. One tradition goes so far as to state that the good works that guarantee Paradise and the evil actions that guarantee Hell are none other than love and hate of the ahl al-bayt, respectively. See the Aƒl, in al-Uƒ¶l al-sittat ãshar, attributed to Sålim b. Ab¥ ˜Urwah, p. 117. For other examples of this, see Aƒl Ja˜far al-¡a¿ram¥, pp. 75–76 and Ãyyåsh¥, Tafs¥r, v. 1, p. 317. 38. Ibn Båbawayh, Amål¥, p. 424. See, also, Ma÷åsin, p. 149, h. 61, 63, and p. 161, h. 106.

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39. Aƒl Ja˜far b. Mu÷ammad al-¡a¿ram¥, p. 62. 40. See Shaybån¥, ‹thår, p. 244, h. 373; and Œa÷¥÷ Muslim, v. 1, pp. 153– 54, 186–213, 334–35. 41. Muf¥d, Kitåb al-Amål¥, pp. 271–73, h. 3; BA, v. 68, p. 112, h. 25. “Ãlawiyy¶n” may refer to Ãlid descendants or Ãlid sympathizers. Here, the term seems to refer to Shi˜ites or Ãlid sympathizers, but elsewhere the term is identified with the offspring (dhurriyyah) of the Prophet, see, e.g., BA, v. 7, p. 100, h. 4. 42. Ãyyåsh¥, Tafs¥r, v. 2, p. 105; Furåt al-K¨f¥, Tafs¥r, v. 1, pp. 170–71; BA, v. 69, pp. 172–73, h. 19. 43. Ma÷åsin, p. 158, h. 94; al-¡usayn b. Sa˜¥d, al-Mu˘min, p. 29, h. 51. Furåt al-K¨f¥, Tafs¥r, v. 1, pp. 139–40, h. 168; Ãyyåsh¥, Tafs¥r, v. 1, p. 386, h. 133. 44. See Aƒl ¡usayn b. ˜Uthmån, p. 111. 45. See Aƒl Zayd al-Nars¥, p. 49, pp. 51–52. 46. Kulayn¥ (1983), v. 8, p. 304, h. 470; Ma÷åsin, p. 148, BA, v. 68, p. 77, h. 137, 138. See also, Ibn Båbawayh, Fa¿å˘il al-sh¥ãh, p. 61. 47. See, in general, Kåf¥, v. 2, pp. 250–56. 48. Mu˘min, p. 18, h. 12, 13. 49. Mu˘min, pp. 15–16, h. 4. 50. Mu˘min, p. 16, h. 6. 51. Mu˘min, p. 16, h. 5. 52. Mu˘min, p. 16, h. 7, 8. 53. For early Shi˜ites, this issue is connected with notions of human “capability” (isti†åãh). It is well documented that the first outspoken proponent of this idea—namely, the belief that the human capability for a given act preceded the performance of the act—was Zurårah b. A˜yan, who reportedly had some disagreements with al-Œådiq over this issue (see Rijål al-Kashsh¥, p. 145, h. 229; p. 147, h. 234; p. 148, h. 236; p. 150, h. 243). Ibn Båbawayh, of the Qummi traditionist school, held that isti†åãh was determined by four factors: the individual had to be “free in respect of action; in good health; in possession of limbs; and in possession of capacity (isti†åãh) given to him by Allåh,” thereby attributing part of the “capability” to the individual and part to God. See A Shi˜ite Creed, pp. 39–40. His student, al-Shaykh al-Muf¥d, limited the determinants of isti†åãh strictly to physical health, see McDermott, Theology, p. 351. 54. See, e.g., Kulayn¥ (1983), v. 8, pp. 212–13, h. 259; p. 240, h. 328; Aƒl Ja˜far al-¡a¿ram¥, p. 79; Ibn Båbawayh, Œifåt al-sh¥ãh, p. 51, h. 8. A version of this tradition as quoted by Muf¥d, Kitåb al-Amål¥, p. 270, h. 1, adds to the demand for ijtihåd and wara˜. 55. See, e.g., Kåf¥, v. 2, pp. 82–84; v. 2, p. 234, h. 10; Aƒl Ja˜far al-¡a¿ram¥, p. 79; Aƒl Ãlå˘ b. Raz¥n, p. 151; BA, v. 69, p. 170, h. 11. 56. Ibn Båbawayh, Œifåt al-sh¥ãh, pp. 90–91, h. 22; Daylam¥, A˜låm ald¥n, p. 143–44. 57. Daylam¥, A˜låm al-d¥n, pp. 127, 301. 58. Daylam¥, pp. 301–2.

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CHAPTER 7: PREDESTINATION AND THE MYTHOLOGICAL ORIGINS OF SHI˜ITE IDENTITY 1. See Madelung, art. “Murji˘a,” in EI 2, v. 7, p. 606; and Bar-Asher’s discussion of the predestinarian content of Abu˘l-Jår¨d˘s collection of tafs¥r traditions from al-Båqir (Scripture and Exegesis), pp. 51–53. 2. This is usually attributed to the influence of al-¡asan al-Ba∑r¥, the earliest and most famous spokesman for the Qadarite perspective. See Van Ess, “Kadariyya,” in EI 2, v. 4, p. 369, and Theologie und Gesellschaft, Band I, pp. 20–21. 3. “Free will” is not an exact translation of the Arabic “tafw¥¿,” which literally means “delegation of authority,” and represents the belief that God “delegated” to man authority over his own actions and decisions, and by extension, his own salvation. Henceforth, we will use “free will” as a liberal translation of “tafw¥¿,” in order to be clear in English. Tafw¥¿ as opposed to “jabr,” in the context of the current discussion, is quite different from the concept of tafw¥¿ used by later Shi˜ite extremists (ghulåt), by which they meant God’s delegation of divine creative and legislative power to the Imåms (or, variously, to the prophets and the Imåms). 4. See, in general, Kåf¥, v. 1, pp. 205–10. 5. Kåf¥, v. 1, pp. 209–10, h. 9, 11. 6. See Kohlberg, “Imåm and Community,” pp. 25–26, where he notes the use of the title “˜ålim” for the Imåms. 7. Kåf¥, p. 209, h. 10. 8. See Madelung, “Shi˜ite and Kharijite Contributions to Pre-Ashãrite Kalam,” p. 124, where the author notes that the Shi˜ite position on jabr and tafw¥¿ was “an intermediate position between the Jahmite thesis of constraint (jabr) and the Mu˜tazilite thesis of empowerment (tafw¥¿).” 9. See Kåf¥, v. 1, pp. 205–7, h. 1, p. 208, h. 4, p. 209, h. 7. 10. Kåf¥, v. 1, pp. 207–8, h. 3; p. 210, h. 12. 11. Kåf¥, v. 1, p. 207, h. 2, pp. 208–9, h. 6, where it is said that God does not command abominable behavior (fa÷shå˘), a reference to Qur˘an VII:28. However, Qumm¥’s Tafs¥r views this verse as a condemnation of idol-worshippers who sought to attribute their pagan practices to God’s command, not as a refutation of jabr¥ thought. Rather, he cites the following verses (VII:29–30), “. . . A party (qawm) He has led aright, while error has held over another party for lo! they choose devils for protecting friends instead of God and deem that they are rightly guided . . . ,” as a refutation of the Qadarites. He cites Ab¨˘l-Jår¨d’s tafs¥r of the verse as follows: “God creates them, when He creates them, as believer or unbeliever, damned or saved, and thus will they return on the Day of Resurrection, rightly guided or in error.” Qumm¥ then notes that those who “choose devils as their protecting friends instead of God and deem that they are rightly guided” are, in fact, the Qadarites (see Qumm¥, Tafs¥r, v. 1, p. 226). 12. Qumm¥, Tafs¥r, p. 158, h. 5, p. 159, h. 11, p. 160, h. 13. 13. Kåf¥, v. 1, p. 208, h. 5. Ibn Båbawayh (A Shi˜ite Creed, p. 33) asserts that God has foreknowledge of human acts but does not compel them. Muf¥d rejects this position, adhering to the Mu˜tazilite view that God wills only

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good and only leads men into error as a punishment for previous disobedience (Taƒ÷¥÷ al-i˜tiqåd, pp. 49–53). 14. See the edited text of the risålah in H. Ritter’s “Studien zur Geschichte der islamischen Frommigkeit” in Der Islam, 1933, p. 77. Van Ess dates this text between 75 and 80; however, Michael Cook challenges this conclusion, arguing that the evidence could also point to an origin in the early second century (Early Muslim Dogma, pp. 117–23). In a more recent study, Van Ess defends his early dating of this text primarily through evidence that the particular Qadarite perspective expressed therein was probably widely recognized at an early stage before the turn of the second century (see Theologie und Gesellschaft, Band II, pp. 46–48). 15. See, e.g., Ab¨ ¡an¥fah, al-Fiqh al-absa†, p. 41, 42. 16. Kitåb Sulaym, v. 2, p. 613, h. 8. 17. Kåf¥, v. 1, pp. 204–5, h. 1–3; Ma÷åsin, p. 283, h. 414–16. 18. Kåf¥, v. 1, p. 205, h. 2, 3; Ma÷åsin, p. 283, h. 415, 416. 19. Ma÷åsin, p. 283, h. 417. 20. Shaybån¥, ‹thår, p. 251, h. 389. See also Muslim, Œa÷¥÷, v. 16, pp. 410–11, h. 6672. 21. See Kåf¥, v. 1, p. 203, h. 1; Ma÷åsin, p. 279, h. 405. 22. For Sunni traditions, see Ab¨ ¡an¥fah, al-Fiqh al-absa†, p. 44; Muslim, Œa÷¥h, v. 16, p. 45, h. 6682; for Shi˜ite versions, see Kåf¥, v. 1, p. 204, h. 3; Ma÷åsin, p. 280, h. 409. 23. More precisely, the two terms refer to Imåm¥ Shi˜ites and non- Imåm¥ Shi˜ites, since Imåm¥ literature places Zayd¥ Shi˜ites in the category of the ˜åmmah as well. 24. See E. Kohlberg, “Imåm and Community in the Pre-Ghayba Period,” p. 30; Amir-Moezzi, Divine Guide, pp. 34–37; Bar-Asher, pp. 136–40, 199–202. 25. See, e.g., †abar¥, Jåmi˜ al-bayån, v. 21, p. 151, for a tradition in connection with this verse, where Mu±ammad declares that he was the first prophet to be created and the last to be sent. 26. See Qumm¥, Tafs¥r, v. 2, p. 176. 27. Al-Œaffår al-Qumm¥, Baƒå˘ir al-darajåt, p. 73, h. 4. 28. See Bar-Asher’s discussion of the punishments of pre-Islamic peoples and prophets for not recognizing the walåyah of Ãl¥ (Scripture and Exegesis, pp. 199–201). 29. Baƒå˘ir al-darajåt, p. 70, h. 1. 30. Qumm¥, Tafs¥r, v. 1, p. 247. 31. Qumm¥, Tafs¥r, v. 1, p. 106. 32. Amir-Moezzi, who relies heavily upon the Baƒå˘ir al-darajåt in his analysis—and probably for this reason—relates in some detail the Shi˜ite insertion of the notion of walåyah into the story of the m¥thåq of the prophets, but says that the m¥thåq taken from mankind in Qur˘an VII:172 “covers only one point: the Unicity of the Creator” (p. 36). This does not seem to be the case, however, when one looks at other Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th and tafs¥r sources. 33. Ãyyåsh¥, Tafs¥r, v. 2, p. 41, h. 113. Furåt al-K¨f¥, Tafs¥r, v. 1, pp. 145– 46, h. 180, 182. Baƒå˘ir al-darajåt, p. 72, h. 9.

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34. Furåt al-K¨f¥, Tafs¥r, v. 1, pp. 146–47, h. 183, 184; Baƒå˘ir al-darajåt, p. 71, h. 6. 35. Ãyyåsh¥, Tafs¥r, v. 2, p. 41, h. 114; Furåt al-K¨f¥, Tafs¥r, v. 1, p. 146, h. 181. 36. Kåf¥, v. 1, pp. 182–83, h. 7. 37. A supporter of Ãl¥, and the head of his elite guard, the shur†at alkham¥s. 38. Ãyyåsh¥, Tafs¥r, v. 2, p. 41, h. 116. 39. Ibn Båbawayh, ˜Uy¶n akhbår al-Ri¿å, pp. 270–71. 40. Qur˘an II:40. 41. See Kåf¥, v. 1, p. 500, h. 89. 42. Qur˘an LXXVI:7. 43. Kåf¥, v. 1, p. 504, h. 91; Baƒå˘ir al-darajåt, p. 90, h. 2. See also, Daylam¥, A˜låm al-d¥n, p. 452, and Aƒl Nawådir Ãl¥ b. Asbå†, p. 130. 44. A prominent disciple of both al-Båqir and al-Œådiq, who died some time before the latter. See Tustar¥, Qåm¶s al-rijål, v. 2, pp. 233–36 and Rijål alKashsh¥, p. 181, h. 315, 316. 45. For a discussion of the Shi˜ite mythology surrounding the pre-eternal “world of shadows,” see Amir-Moezzi, Divine Guide, pp. 32–33. 46. Ma÷åsin, p. 135, h. 16; Baƒå˘ir al-darajåt, p. 89, h. 1; Qumm¥, Tafs¥r, v. 1, p. 247. The idea that the spirits of the Shi˜ites were created a thousand years before their bodies, and that they were shown to the Prophet and the Imåms in pre-eternity, is said to account for the Imåms’ ability to recognize their Shi˜ites immediately upon seeing them (Kåf¥, v. 1, p. 508, h. 1). Ibn Båbawayh, who based his theology largely upon tradition, affirms the idea that the spirit is created before the body (A Shi˜ite Creed, pp. 45–46), while Muf¥d rejects it as leading to the heretical notion of tanåsukh or “transmigration of souls” (see Taƒ÷¥h al-i˜tiqåd, pp. 79–93). 47. Kåf¥, v. 1, p. 467, h. 3. See also, Ma÷åsin, p. 136, h. 19, where the (Shi˜ite) wal¥ is “the one from whom God took the m¥thåq of walåyah for [the Prophet], [his] waƒ¥, and [their] progeny.” 48. Kåf¥, v. 2, pp. 5–8; Ma÷åsin, pp. 133–35; Kohlberg, “Imåm and Community,” p. 31. 49. Kåf¥, v. 2, pp. 9–10, h. 2 (see v. 2, pp. 8–10, h. 1, 3, for versions without reference to Qur˘an VII:172); Ãyyåsh¥, Tafs¥r, v. 2, pp. 39–40. Note that in Baƒå˘ir al-darajåt we find two ÷ad¥th narrations attributed to al-Båqir and al-Œådiq where the basic and original text of the ÷ad¥th as widely attributed to Ãl¥ Zayn al-˜≈bid¥n is recited, but then additional sectarian referents and ideas are added (see pp. 70–71, h. 2, 3). 50. See, e.g., Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 5, h. 1. 51. †abar¥, Jåmi˜ al-bayån, v. 9, p. 149. See pp. 149–50 for other predestinarian or compulsionist interpretations of this Qur˘anic verse as attributed to Ibn Ãbbås. 52. Ibn ¡ajar al-Ãsqalån¥, Tahdh¥b al-tahdh¥b, v. 7, p. 304. 53. Rijål al-Kashsh¥, p. 115, h. 184. 54. See, e.g., Tahdh¥b al-tahdh¥b, v. 7, pp. 304–7.

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55. Kåf¥, v. 2, pp. 6–7, h. 4. 56. Kåf¥, v. 2, pp. 5–6, h. 2. 57. Ma÷åsin, pp. 135–36, h. 17, 18; ¡imyar¥, Qurb al-isnåd, p. 349, h. 1260; BA, v. 67, p. 304, h. 35. 58. See Baƒå˘ir al-darajåt, pp. 170–73. 59. Kåf¥, v. 2, pp. 12–13, h. 3. 60. See Kåf¥, v. 2, pp. 217–18; and Ma÷åsin, pp. 216–17, h. 107–12, p. 279, h. 405. 61. Aƒl Durust b. Ab¥ Manƒ¶r, p. 168; Ma÷åsin, p. 201, h. 37, 38; Kåf¥, v. 2, pp. 216–17, h. 4. See Ma÷åsin, p. 200, h. 36, 40; and Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 216, h. 1 for similar traditions. 62. Ma÷åsin, pp. 202–3, h. 42, 43, 46. 63. Ma÷åsin, pp. 202–3, h. 44, 47. See also Ma÷åsin, p. 202, h. 45, and ¡imyar¥, Qurb al-isnåd, p. 35, h. 113, p. 45, h. 145 for similar traditions. A Sunni ÷ad¥th states that when God desires good for a person, He grants him understanding in religion (yufaqqahu fi˘l-d¥n) (Bukhår¥, Œa÷¥÷, K. al-˜ilm, b. 14, h. 71, p. 61; for others, see Wensinck, Concordance, under “faqqaha”). This version is related by al-Muf¥d (Kitåb al-Amål¥, p. 157, h. 9). For traditions discouraging Shi˜ite participation in religious debates, see Kåf¥, v. 2, pp. 290–91, especially h. 1, 8, and Ma÷åsin, pp. 231, h. 179, pp. 237–39, h. 208–11, 214–15. 64. See Ma÷åsin, p. 149, h. 262, where al-Båqir says: “I know that this love you have for us is not of your own making, but rather God has made it.” 65. Aƒl Muthannå b. al-Wal¥d b. ¡annå†, p. 103; Ma÷åsin, p. 200, h. 33. A similar ÷ad¥th attributed to Ãl¥ says: “Those who love us cannot hate us and those who hate us cannot love us; and love of us and of our enemies are never joined in the heart of one man, for God does not create two hearts in the breast of one man” (a reference to Qur˘an XXXIII:4) (BA, v. 68, p. 38, h. 81). The idea of the two “qawms” seems to be linked to the idea of the “people of the right” and the “people of the left,” as seen in Shi˜ite and some Sunni traditions cited above. In his letter to the Caliph Ãbd al-Malik, al-¡asan al-Ba∑r¥ seems to accuse predestinarians of arguing that there was one “qawm” created for Paradise and one created for Hell (see the edited text of al-¡asan’s letter in H. Ritter, “Studien zur Geschichte der islamischen Frommigkeit,” p. 76). 66. ¡imyar¥, Qurb al-isnåd, p. 356, h. 1274. See also, Qurb al-isnåd, p. 349, h. 1260 and Ma÷åsin, pp. 135–36, h. 17, 18. In Baƒå˘ir al-darajåt, the Imåms are said to be able to recognize those who love them, even if they outwardly appear to hate them, and to know those who hate them, even if they appear to love them (p. 90, h. 3). 67. Tucker, “Rebels and Gnostics,” p. 44. 68. Ashãr¥, Maqålåt, v. 1, p. 73. 69. Maqålåt, v. 1, p. 73. 70. Maqålåt, v. 1, pp. 72–73; see Tucker’s translation in “Rebels and Gnostics,” p. 39. 71. Tucker, “Rebels and Gnostics,” pp. 36, 46. 72. See W. M. Watt, The Formative Period of Islamic Thought, p. 36. Madelung (Religious Trends, pp. 54–55) rejects Watt’s argument for the notion

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of “charismatic community” in Kharijite thought, reaffirming Wellhausen’s early portrayal of the Kharijites as a group rigorously concerned with individual right conduct (see Wellhausen, Religio-political Factions in Early Islam, pp. 19–23). 73. Lynda Clarke notes that electionism as found in Shi˜ite ÷ad¥th discourse was rejected by later Shi˜ite scholars who stressed, by contrast, the possibility and desirability of converting others to their perspective through open, rational dialogue. See “The Rise and Decline of Taqiyya in Twelver Shi˜ism,” in T. Lawson (ed.), Reason and Inspiration in Islam: Theology, Philosophy and Mysticism in Muslim Thought, pp. 46–63.

CHAPTER 8: THE CHARISMATIC NATURE AND SPIRITUAL DISTINCTION OF THE SHI˜ITES 1. Ma÷åsin, pp. 138–39, h. 24–26, p. 141, h. 33–34. 2. See Kohlberg, “The Position of the Walad Zina in Imåm¥ Shi˜ism,” BSOAS 48 (1985), pp. 237–66. 3. Ibid., p. 239. 4. Qur˘an XVII:71. 5. Ma÷åsin, p. 141, h. 33, 34; BA, v. 68, pp. 76–77, h. 136, citing Kitåb alMusålsalåt. 6. Ibn Båbawayh, Œifåt al-sh¥ãh, p. 108. Traditions from al-Båqir and alSådiq refute this idea (Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 252, h. 12, p. 255, h. 27), but in another ÷ad¥th in the same section (p. 253, h. 18), al-Sådiq says that the [Shi˜ite] believer does not suffer the affliction of blindness (although at least one of the Imåm’s prominent disciples was known to be blind). In any case, these types of traditions suggest an underlying view that one’s spiritual station had tangible effects on the body. 7. Recall that these two Imåms resided in Medina, and circumstantial references in the ÷ad¥th literature suggest that they often held audiences for delegates from the Shi˜ite communities of Kufa and other places who visited their teaching circles in the process of, or under cover of, making pilgrimage to Mecca. In fact, the primary transmitters of many Shi˜ite traditions report statements the Imåms uttered while performing the circumambulation of the Ka˜bah. 8. Qur˘an XLIX:13. 9. Qur˘an XXI:47. 10. Qur˘an XLIX:13. 11. Qur˘an VI:165. See also Qur˘an LVIII:11, III:163, VI:83, XII:76. 12. Qur˘an II:212; III:27,37; XXIV:38. 13. A category of individuals mentioned in Qur˘an III:7 who, according to one interpretation, know the inner meaning of the ambiguous verses of the Qur˘an (Kåf¥, v. 1, pp. 269–70). 14. Kåf¥, v. 1, pp. 262–63. 15. Albåb may refer to either heart or intellect. I have translated it here as “heart intellect” in an attempt to convey its full meaning and distinguish it from either qalb (heart) or ãql (intellect).

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16. See, e.g., Qur˘an II:179, 197 and V:100. 17. See, e.g., Qur˘an II:269; III:190; XIII:19; XXXVIII:43; XXXIX:9,18,21; XL:45; LXV:10. 18. Qur˘an XXXIX:9. 19. Kåf¥, v. 1, p. 269, h. 1, 2; Ma÷åsin, pp. 127–28, h. 134. 20. See Ma÷åsin, p. 129, h. 139, regarding Qur˘an LXXIV:38–39. 21. See, e.g., Haddad, Islamic Understanding of Death and the Afterlife, pp. 32, 46, 49, 72, 188. 22. Ma÷åsin, p. 124, h. 116. 23. Ma÷åsin, p. 124, h. 118. 24. Ma÷åsin, p. 123, h. 115, quoting Qurãn LVII:19. 25. Ma÷åsin, pp. 130–31, h. 135–37. 26. Al-¡usayn b. Sa˜¥d al-Ahwåz¥, Kitåb al-Mu˘min, p. 16. 27. Mu˘min, p. 129, h. 137. 28. Referring to Qur˘an XCVIII:7 in Mu˘min, p. 129, h. 140. 29. Referring to Qur˘an XXXIII:23, in Ibn Båbawayh, Fa¿å˘il al-sh¥ãh, p. 61. 30. Ma÷åsin, p. 128, h. 126. 31. Ma÷åsin, p. 158, h. 94; Mu˘min, p. 29, h. 51. 32. BA, v. 69, pp. 172–73, h. 19 (quoting Tafs¥r Ãyyåsh¥). 33. Aƒl ¡usayn b. ˜Uthmån in Uƒ¶l al-sittat ãshar, p. 111. 34. For a discussion of other Qur˘anic terminology interpreted as references to the Imåms and the Shi˜ites generally, see Bar-Asher, Scripture and Exegesis, pp. 106–8. 35. See, e.g., Qur˘an II:100; XXII:106; and s¶rah XXVI, where it is a common refrain. 36. See, e.g., Qur˘an XXX:6,30; XXXIV:28,36; XL:57; XLV:26. 37. Qur˘an V:103, XXIX:63. 38. Qur˘an XXVII:73; XL:61; X:60; VII:17. 39. Ma÷åsin, p. 120, h. 95. 40. Al-Shar¥f al-Ra∂¥, Nahj al-balåghah, p. 9, khu†bah 16. 41. Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 243, h. 5. 42. Cornell, Realm of the Saint, pp. 98–99. 43. Realm of the Saint, p. 186. 44. Ibid., p. 225. 45. Ibid., p. 213. 46. See the discussion in the previous chapter. 47. Al-¡ak¥m al-Tirmidh¥, Kitåb s¥rat al-awliyå˘ (trans. B. Radtke and J. O’Kane as The Concept of Sainthood in Early Islamic Mysticism: two works by al¡ak¥m al-Tirmidh¥), pp. 151–52. 48. Ibid., p. 142. For a similar idea see Qurãn LVIII:22. 49. Ibid., p. 143, note 7. 50. Trimingham, The Sufi Orders in Islam, p. 134. 51. See, e.g., The Concept of Sainthood, pp. 69, 82–83, 90, 96, 169. 52. For example, Trimingham quotes a similar statement from the early Baghdadi Sufi, al-Junayd, p. 141; and the later Persian Sufi, R¨zbihån Baql¥,

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claims in his spiritual autobiography that God chose him for walåyah, see The Unveiling of Secrets (trans. C. Ernst), p. 13. 53. In Kåf¥, the chapter on Faith and Unbelief (Kitåb al-¥mån wa˘l-kufr) is longer than the chapter on the imåmate (Kitåb al-÷ujjah), although a good part of the chapter deals with the nature of unbelief, as well; and Barq¥’s Ma÷åsin devotes one of seven major chapters primarily to descriptions of the believers (“Kitåb al-ƒafwah wa˘l-n¶r wa˘l-ra÷mah,” pp. 129–86). 54. BA, v. 68, p. 10, h. 7. 55. Ma÷åsin, pp. 181–82, especially h. 177. See also †¨s¥, Amål¥ al-T¶s¥, p. 78, h. 22/113, and BA, v. 68, p. 22, h. 38, where al-Œådiq states: “We are the best of God’s creation and our Shi˜ites are the best of the ummah of His Prophet.” 56. Ibn Båbawayh, Fa¿å˘il al-sh¥ãh, p. 74, h. 37. For other versions of this tradition, see Ma÷åsin, p. 143, h. 41, and Mu˘min, pp. 30–31, h. 55, 56, 59. 57. Ma÷åsin, p. 121, h. 104. The term karåmah is frequently used in Sufi literature to designate a nonprophetic miracle (prophetic miracles are usually referred to as mu˜jizåt, or “wonders”). However, the term “karåmah” is not frequently used in this sense in Shi˜ite literature, and here it almost certainly relates specifically to the idea of nobility. For similar traditions expressing a salvific link between God, the Prophet, the Imåms, and the Shi˜ites, see Ma÷åsin, p. 139, h. 179–82. 58. Ma÷åsin, pp. 122–23, h. 111. 59. Ma÷åsin, p. 137, h. 171. 60. Ma÷åsin, p. 123, h. 113–14, and p. 141, h. 194–95. 61. Muƒådaqat al-ikhwån, p. 165, h. 1. 62. Mu˘min, pp. 30–31, h. 56. One version of the tradition stating that the Shi˜ites are “closest to the Throne on the Day of Resurrection, after us” omits this last phrase and hence, apparently, the intermediate position of the Imåm (Ma÷åsin, pp. 138–39, h. 178). 63. For example, see Ma÷åsin, p. 108, h. 38. 64. Ma÷åsin, p. 108, h. 39. 65. Ma÷åsin, p. 108, h. 40. 66. Ma÷åsin, p. 138, h. 175–76; Fa¿å˘il al-sh¥ãh, p. 68. 67. See the note on this issue in both Shi˜ite and Sufi sources in Chapter 1, note 43. 68. ˜Uy¶n akhbår al-Ri¿å, v. 2, p. 33, h. 62. 69. Fa¿å˘il al-sh¥ãh, p. 68. Another tradition states that on the Day of Resurrection, the shuhadå˘, prophets (anbiyå˘), and legatees (awƒiyå˘) will have radiant faces, but that they are not the shuhadå˘, prophets, and legatees that ˜Umar thinks they are. Since this tradition appears in a section on the virtues of the Shi˜ites, it is reasonable to assume that the category of shuhadå˘ refers to them (Fa¿å˘il al-sh¥ãh, p. 67). 70. See, e.g., Kåf¥, v. 1, pp. 222–23, h. 2. 71. See Kåf¥, v. 1, pp. 231–34. In pre-ghaybah times, this doctrine pertained most directly to the need for an authoritative interpreter of the Qur˘an. Since the Qur˘an was “silent,” it could not “speak for” or “interpret” itself,

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hence the necessity of an authoritative Imåm. After the major occultation, these traditions became an important foundation of the Imåm¥ argument for the continual existence of the Twelfth Imåm in a state of occultation—since the earth was still in existence but the Imåm was not visible, it followed that he must be existing on earth in occulted form. See, e.g., Modarressi, Crisis and Consolidation, pp. 147–67. The position of the Imåm as ÷ujjah, or “proof of God,” is sometimes related to the idea that the Imåms will serve as God’s witnesses (shuhadå˘) at the Last Judgment (Kåf¥, v. 1, pp. 245–46), and we have already seen that the title of shuhadå˘ was sometimes applied to Shi˜ite believers collectively. 72. Kåf¥, v. 1, pp. 252–53, h. 1. 73. Aƒl Ja˜far al-¡a¿ram¥ in al-Uƒ¶l sittat ãshar, p. 61. 74. Ma÷åsin, pp. 120–21, h. 99. 75. This translation is our own, but it is inspired by the newer Qur˘anic translation of M.A.S. Ãbdel Haleem, who translates the term “umniyyatihi” as “his wishes,” in contrast to the commonly repeated Pickthall translation “that which he recited.” Pickthall’s liberal translation seems justified by the subsequent line where God “abrogates” Satan’s intrusions, suggesting that the verse refers to Satanic intrusions into the Prophet’s message. However, the more literal translation of the term allows for a fuller range of meanings and serves our purposes better here. 76. See Kåf¥, v. 1, pp. 230–31; see also the accompanying editor’s notes. 77. Ibn Båbawayh, Ma˜åni˘l-akhbår, v. 1, p. 381. The notion of a spiritual station short of prophecy by virtue of which one receives a form of “supernatural speech” is also found in more mystical strains of the Sunni tradition. Al-¡ak¥m al-Tirmidh¥ mentions this in S¥rat al-awliyå˘; see Concept of Sainthood, pp. 113, 121, and (translators’ notes) p. 122. 78. See Kåf¥, v. 1, pp. 325–27. 79. E. Kohlberg, “The Term Muhaddath in Twelver Shi˜ism,” p. 44. 80. Ma˜åni˘l-akhbår, v. 1, p. 381. 81. Ãyyåsh¥, Tafs¥r, as cited in BA, v. 68, pp. 85–86, h. 9, 11. 82. Ibn Båbawayh, Khiƒål, p. 28, h. 95. 83. Kåf¥, v. 2, pp. 31–32, h. 5; Ma÷åsin, p. 285, h. 425; Ibn Båbawayh, Ma˜åni˘l-akhbår, pp. 179–80, h. 1. 84. Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 30, h. 4, p. 58, h. 3; Ibn Båbawayh, Ma˜åni˘l-akhbår, v. 1, pp. 409–10. 85. Mu˘min, p. 42, h. 95. 86. Mu˘min, p. 73, h. 201. 87. Ma÷åsin, p. 99, h. 3. 88. Fa¿å˘il al-sh¥ãh, p. 87, h. 17. 89. Fa¿å˘il al-sh¥ãh, p. 75, h. 39. 90. BA, v. 68, p. 18, h. 25; Mu˘min, p. 29, h. 54. 91. Œifåt al-sh¥ãh, p. 115, h. 57; Mu˘min, p. 29, h. 54. 92. BA, v. 68, p. 39, h. 82, citing Rijål al-Kashsh¥. 93. Ma÷åsin, pp. 162–63 (or 123), h. 112. 94. Ma÷åsin, pp. 135–36, h. 166–68, p. 138, h. 175. 95. For a chapter on the Imåms as manifestations of the light of God, see Kåf¥, v. 1, pp. 249–52.

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96. BA, v. 68, pp. 44–45, h. 90, citing Daylam¥, Irshåd al-qul¶b. For other traditions involving the notion of a primordial light, see Daylam¥, pp. 211, 235, 258. 97. Kåf¥, v. 1, pp. 249–50, h. 1. 98. Baƒå˘ir al-darajåt, pp. 79–80, h. 1–3; Fa¿å˘il al-sh¥ãh, p. 65, h. 21. For an abbreviated version of this tradition, see Kåf¥, v. 1, pp. 490–91, h. 53. 99. Œifåt al-sh¥ãh, p. 82, h. 5. See also Ma÷åsin, p. 112, h. 59, where alŒådiq tells his disciples: “You see as God sees and you choose the one that God has chosen.” 100. For a discussion of a special light through which the Imåms were able to know hidden things, see Bar-Asher, Scripture and Exegesis, p. 138. 101. Concept of Sainthood, pp. 121–22, 136, 154–55, 159. 102. See, e.g., Qur˘an LVII:12 and LXVI:8. 103. See, e.g., Qur˘an V:44–46, VI:91, V:15, VII:157, IV:175. The Qur˘an twice repeats the idea that the unbelievers seek to “extinguish” the light of God but that God completes His light despite their efforts (Qur˘an IX:32; LXI:8), and Shi˜ite tradition usually interprets this as a reference to attempts by anti-Shi˜ite figures to “extinguish” the rightful authority of the Imåms. See, e.g., Kåf¥, v. 1, p. 252, h. 6 and p. 501, h. 91 and Qumm¥, Tafs¥r, v. 2, p. 365. 104. Qur˘an II:257. 105. See Qur˘an XXIV:35, where God is said to guide to His light “whomsoever He wills”; or XXIV:30, where it is said that the one for whom God does not make a light, has no light; or XLII:52, where scripture and faith (¥mån) are the “lights” by which God guides whom He wills. 106. Qur˘an II:255. 107. Qur˘an II:48, 123 and Qur˘an XXXI:33. 108. Ibn Båbawayh, Œifåt al-sh¥ãh, p. 129, h. 69. 109. See, e.g., Ma÷åsin, p. 139, h. 183, p. 140, h. 189. 110. See Ma÷åsin, pp. 184–85, bab 45–46; Œifåt al-sh¥ãh, p. 110, h. 52, p. 115, h. 57; BA, v. 67, b. 1, h. 32; and Bar-Asher’s observation of this in Shi˜ite tafs¥r literature (Scripture and Exegesis, pp. 186–87). 111. Ma÷åsin, p. 141, h. 191. 112. Ma÷åsin, p. 140, h. 189. 113. Ma÷åsin, p. 141, h. 192–93. 114. BA, v. 67, pp. 70–71, h. 32. 115. See Ibn Båbawayh, Shi˜ite Creed (transl. Fyzee), p. 63 and McDermott, Theology of al-Shaikh al-Mufid, pp. 254–55. 116. See A. Newman, The Formative Period of Shi˜ite Hadith, in general, and especially pp. 67–93.

CHAPTER 9: SHI˜ITES AND NON-SHI˜ITES: THE DISTINCTION BETWEEN I¯M‹M AND ISL‹M 1. See Marshall Hodgson, “How Did the Early Shiã Become Sectarian,” JAOS, 1955, p. 10. 2. Qur˘an XXII:19. 3. Kåf¥, v. 1, p. 490, h. 51. See also, Kåf¥, v. 1, p. 492, h. 59, where a similar interpretation is given to the word kufr in the context of Qur˘an IV:170:

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“O mankind! The Messenger has come upon you with the truth from your Lord (regarding the walåyah of Ãl¥); therefore believe; it is better for you. But if you disbelieve (in the walåyah of ˜ Al¥), still verily unto God belongs whatever is in the heavens and the earth. . . .” The phrases in parentheses represent the Imåm’s interpretative additions. 4. BA, v. 36, p. 105, citing Ãyyåsh¥’s Tafs¥r of the s¶rah, al-Furqån. 5. See, for example, a lengthy tradition in which M¨så al-Kåπim recites Qur˘anic passages that he understands as references to walåyah, either in the literal meaning of the revealed text (tanz¥l) or in its esoteric interpretation (ta˘w¥l). Kåf¥, v. 1, pp. 501–5, h. 91. Further discussion of this can be found in Amir-Moezzi, “Notes à Propos de la Walåya Imamite,” pp. 722–24 and BarAsher, Scripture and Exegesis, chapter 3. 6. See, e.g., Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 370, h. 15; pp. 370–71, h. 19, 20; and Aƒl Ja˜far al-¡a¿ram¥, p. 64. 7. Ibn Båbawayh, Amål¥, pp. 34–35. The phrase “the seven mathån¥” is a reference to Qur˘an XV:87, and is thought to refer to either the seven longest chapters of the Qur˘an, or else to the seven verses of al-Fåti÷ah. (See, e.g., †abar¥, Jåmi˜ al-bayån, v. 14, pp. 68–76.) 8. Aƒl Ja˜far al-¡a¿ram¥, p. 60. See Ibid., pp. 61–62, for a similar tradition with the addition: “Those who leave the walåyat Ãl¥, and those who deny his virtue (fa∂lahu) and those who are his clear enemies, have left Islam, [that is] the one who dies in this state.” For a version of the latter tradition, see also, Ma÷åsin, p. 89, h. 35. 9. Al-Shar¥f al-Ra∂¥, Nahj al-balåghah, p. 87, khu†bah 189. 10. For a ¡anaf¥ Murji˘ite version, see al-Fiqh al-absa†, p. 41 and Shaybån¥, ‹thår, pp. 249–50, h. 387. For Shi˜ite versions see Ma÷åsin, p. 291, h. 443; and Kitåb Sulaym, pp. 613–14, h. 8. An early Sunni version is found in Ibn Ab¥ Shaybah, al-Muƒannaf, v. 6, p. 157, h. 30309; and numerous other Sunni versions are found in Muslim Sa÷¥÷, v. 1, pp. 101–17. Sunni versions differ from ¡anaf¥ Murji˘ite and early Shi˜ite ones in that qadar—or belief in the predestination of good and evil—is sometimes removed from the list of qualifications for ¥mån. 11. Zurårah’s insistence on this strict dichotomy may derive from the fact that he was previously a follower of al-¡akam b. ˜Utaybah, who reportedly had Murji˘ite inclinations. See Chapter 5, note 88. 12. A Zayd¥ Shi˜ite who, like al-¡akam b. ˜Utaybah, had Murji˘ite inclinations. (See Chapter 5, note 88). He is nonetheless cited frequently as a transmitter in Shi˜ite sources. (See Rijål al-Kashsh¥, p. 230, h. 326.) In the version of this story found in Rijål al-Kashsh¥ (p. 142), Zurårah names both Sålim and al-¡akam b. ˜Utaybah in his question to al-Båqir. 13. A non-Shi˜ite Medinan companion of al-Båqir. (See Ardab¥l¥, Jåmi˜ al-ruwåh, v. 1, p. 317.) 14. Murji˘ites similarly held that a person was either a believer or an unbeliever. See, e.g., Risålah ilå ˜Uthmån al-Batt¥, as printed with the Kitåb al˜ålim wa˘l-mutaãllim, p. 36. 15. See the section below regarding the classification of the musta¿ãf¶n.

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16. Ahl al-a˜råf refers to a category of persons mentioned in Qur˘an VII:46–48. In his Tafs¥r, Qumm¥ quotes al-Œådiq’s interpretation of this as a reference to sinful members of the Shi˜ite community who will eventually enter Paradise through the intercession of the Imåms (v. 1, pp. 231–32). AlBåqir, however, uses the phrase ahl al-a˜råf in a general sense, rather than as a reference to a particular category of Shi˜ites, since the tradition is not about which “Shi˜ites” Zurårah can marry, but rather who other than a Shi˜ite he may marry. 17. Kåf¥, v. 2, pp. 383–85, h. 2. See Rijål al-Kashsh¥, pp. 141–42, h. 223, where the tradition is attributed to al-Œådiq. The attribution to al-Båqir makes more sense, since Zurårah was a much younger man during the time of alBåqir, and therefore more likely to be unmarried. The mention of the early figures of Sålim b. Ab¥ ¡af∑ah and al-¡akam b. ˜Utaybah also seems to place it historically in al-Båqir’s lifetime. The early provenance of this tradition is also somewhat corroborated by a similar conversation between Sulaym b. Qays and Ãl¥ b. Ab¥ †ålib found in Kitåb Sulaym, pp. 608–9, h. 7. 18. See, e.g., a chapter in Kåf¥, v. 2, pp. 28–29, entitled “Islam preserves one’s blood and grants security (amånah), but [eschatological] reward (thawåb) is only for ¥mån.” See also, Ma÷åsin, p. 285, h. 423, 424; Ãyyåsh¥, Tafs¥r, v. 1, p. 146; BA, v. 68, p. 283, h. 39. 19. Some Shi˜ite traditions, e.g., state that islåm is to ¥mån as the ÷aram is to the Ka˜bah. See the discussion in Chapter 8. 20. See, in general, Kåf¥, v. 2, pp. 29–32 for a chapter entitled “Ümån includes islåm. . . .” 21. Al-Båqir, however, includes walåyah and barå˘ah among the basic duties of islåm in these traditions, while versions attributed to al-Œådiq do not. This is in line with our observations regarding the Shi˜ite da˜å˘im traditions presented in Chapter 5. 22. See Kåf¥, v. 2, pp. 38–45, especially pp. 44–45, h. 8, where this is presented in explicit opposition to the Murji˘ite view; †¨s¥, Amål¥, p. 139; BA, v. 68, pp. 270–71, h. 26, 28. 23. Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 32, h. 1. 24. Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 276, h. 23. 25. Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 28, h. 2. 26. Ibn Båbawayh, Khiƒål, pp. 164–65, h. 239–42; †¨s¥, Amål¥, p. 369, h. 40/789, pp. 448–49, h. 7/1001–10/1004. An identical version is attributed to Ãl¥ b. Ab¥ †ålib in Nahj al-balåghah, p. 170, n. 227. See also Kåf¥, v. 2. p. 32, h. 1, for a similar, but not identical, formula. 27. See the discussion in Chapter 7 on the connection between walåyah and the pre-eternal m¥thåq. 28. Ibn Båbawayh, ˜Ilal al-sharå˘i˜, v. 2, p. 313, h. 33. Issues related to intermarriage among the Shi˜ite and non-Shi˜ite communities are discussed in greater detail in Chapter 11. 29. Ibn Båbawayh, Fa¿å˘il al-sh¥ãh, p. 60, h. 18. 30. Kåf¥, v. 2, pp. 29–30, h. 1. 31. Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 29, h. 4.

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32. See, for example, Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 379, h. 5. 33. Shi˜ites distinguish between two kinds of shirk: shirk al-˜ibådah (worshipping a god other than God) and shirk al-†åãh (obeying someone else in disobedience to God). (Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 379, h. 4; Qumm¥, Tafs¥r, v. 1, p. 358; Ãyyåsh¥, Tafs¥r, v. 2, p. 200.) This is idea is attributed to Ibn Ãbbås as well. (See Lisån al-ãrab, v. 7, p. 100.) But the distinction between the two kinds of shirk was particularly relevant in Shi˜ism, given that in Shi˜ite discourse, Ab¨ Bakr and ˜Umar are sometimes referred to cryptically as false idols, al-jibt wa˘l-†ågh¶t. 34. Kåf¥, v. 2, pp. 370–71, h. 16, 18, 21; Aƒl Ja˜far al-¡a¿ram¥, p. 64. 35. See Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 371, h. 20; Ma÷åsin, p. 89, h. 34 (where it is said that the mushrik is one who “doubts” (shakka) concerning [Ãl¥], although this is probably a copyist’s error for sharika); †¨s¥, Amål¥, p. 410, h. 70/922. 36. Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 29, h. 4. See also Ma÷åsin, p. 154, h. 80. The phrase muslim ¿åll is similar to the Murji˘ite mu˘min ¿åll, in that both terms were meant to signify a morally or religiously flawed member of the Islamic community. 37. In one tradition al-Œådiq states that dying a jåhiliyyah death means dying in a state of “kufr, ¿alål, and nifåq” (Ma÷åsin, p. 155, h. 2). For a tradition where the term ¿alål seems synonymous with kufr, see Daylam¥, A˜låm al-d¥n, p. 124. 38. See Ma÷åsin, p. 158, h. 95, where it says that the awliyå˘ of God have always been “weak (musta¿ãf¶n) and few,” although, here, in terms of their worldly or social circumstances. 39. Qur˘an IV:97–98. 40. Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 387, h. 7, 10, 11. 41. Kåf¥, v. 2, pp. 385–86, h. 1–3. 42. Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 386, h. 5. 43. Qur˘an: IX:71: “And the believers, men and women, are the awliyå˘ of one another. . . .” 44. Ibn Båbawayh, Ma˜åni˘l-akhbår, p. 192, h. 1. 45. See Aƒl ¡usayn b. ˜Uthmån, p. 111. 46. On this figure, see Ardab¥l¥, Jåmi˜ al-ruwåh, v. 2, pp. 309–10. 47. Kåf¥, v. 2, pp. 382–83, h. 1. 48. Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 367, h. 6. 49. See, e.g., T. Robbins, Cults, Converts and Charisma: The Sociology of New Religious Movements, p. 106.

CHAPTER 10: DEGREES OF FAITH: ESTABLISHING A HIERARCHY WITHIN THE SHI˜ITE COMMUNITY 1. This is the case in Kulayn¥’s al-Kåf¥ and Majlis¥’s Bi÷år al-anwår. 2. Al-¡usayn b. Sa˜¥d al-K¨f¥ al-Ahwåz¥, al-Mu˘min, Qumm, 1983/4 (1404AH). 3. Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 244, h. 7. 4. Aƒl Zayd al-Zarråd, p. 6.

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5. Ibn Båbawayh, Ma˜åni˘l-akhbår, v. 2, p. 412, h. 41; BA, v. 69, p. 16, h. 1. 6. For Murji˘ites, ¥mån was primarily knowledge (ma˜rifah) of the oneness of God. Love (ma÷abbah) of God and humility (khu¿¶˜) before Him were secondary and tertiary stipulations. See, e.g., Ashãr¥, Maqålåt, v. 1, pp. 197–200. 7. See, e.g., Kåf¥, v. 1, p. 269, h. 1, 2; Ma÷åsin, pp. 127–28, h. 134. 8. Ma÷åsin, p. 194, h. 13. 9. See Amir-Moezzi, The Divine Guide in Early Shi˜ism, especially pp. 5–13. 10. See Ashãr¥, Maqålåt, v. 1, pp. 197–205. 11. See Najåsh¥, Kitåb al-rijål, v. 2, pp. 204–5. He was also well-respected among Sunni authorities—an indication that he did not advocate extremist ideas. However, he did have his differences with some Shi˜ite mutakallim¶n and is said to have broken off formerly close ties to the mutakallim, Hishåm b. al-¡akam, over a dispute regarding what portion of the earth belongs to the Imåm. See Kåf¥, v. 1, p. 476, h. 8. 12. Ibn Båbawayh, Œifåt al-sh¥ãh, p. 93, h. 28. 13. A reference to the “era of [religious] ignorance” in Arab history before Islam. 14. Kåf¥, v. 2, pp. 24–25, h. 6. 15. See Rijål al-Kashsh¥, pp. 232–36; Ardab¥l¥, Jåmi˜ al-ruwåt, v. 1, p. 347. 16. Rijål al-Kashsh¥, pp. 235–36, h. 427, 428; BA, v. 23, p. 80, h. 15. 17. See Ibn Båbawayh, Œifåt al-sh¥ãh, p. 65, h. 22, BA, v. 25, p. 359, h. 11, and v. 24, p. 26, h. 2; †¨s¥, Amål¥, p. 628, h. 6/1293. 18. See, e.g., Kåf¥, v. 1, p. 236, h. 5. 19. The names jibt and †ågh¶t appear in the Qur˘an (IV:51) as false idols. Both terms are primarily defined as “anything which is worshipped other than God.” According to some early traditionists, the terms referred either to the leaders of the Jews and the Christians or to the leaders of the two Jewish clans of Medina, ¡uyayy b. Akhtab and Ka˜b b. Ashraf. (See Lisån al-arab, v. 2, p. 164; v. 8, pp. 170–71.) However, “jibt” and “†ågh¶t” were also used in Shi˜ite tradition as coded references to the first two caliphs, Ab¨ Bakr and ˜Umar. See, Kåf¥, v. 1, p. 498, h. 83; BA, v. 24, p. 303, h. 14; and v. 53, pp. 115– 16, h. 21. 20. Temporary marriage was practiced in Mu±ammad’s time, but ˜Umar reportedly banned the practice and Sunni law generally forbids it. See Heffening, “Mutã” in EI 2, v. 7, pp. 757–59. 21. The word “jirr¥” is listed as “a kind of fish” in Lisån al-ãrab; but an entry in Lane defines it as eel (see Lane, part 2, p. 416.) See Cook, “Early Islamic Dietary Law,” in Jerusalem Studies 7 (1986), pp. 217–77. See pp. 237–46 of this study for a discussion of the rulings on the permissibility of eating eel, and pp. 240–43 in particular for the Shi˜ite prohibition of eel. 22. Ibn Båbawayh, Œifåt al-sh¥ãh, p. 104, h. 41 (Note: The list only comes to “seven” if one counts dissociation from al-jibt and al-†ågh¶t as two separate things).

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23. Œifåt al-sh¥ãh, p. 129, h. 71. 24. Kåf¥, v. 1, pp. 466–67, h. 1, 2, 4; BA, v. 2, pp. 183–97, 208–13; Aƒl Ja˜far al-¡a¿ram¥, p. 65. 25. Œifåt al-sh¥ãh, p. 102, h. 38. 26. Perhaps the most notable case was that of Abu˘l-Kha††åb; see Rijål al-Kashsh¥, pp. 225–26, h. 403, and our discussion below. See also, in general, Kohlberg, “Barå˘a in Shi˜i Doctrine.” 27. Ãyyåsh¥, Tafs¥r, v. 2, p. 106, h. 110; BA, v. 69, p. 174, h. 24. The Imåm’s reply is a reference to Qur˘an IX:102. 28. Ibn Båbawayh, Khiƒål, p. 322, h. 35. 29. See, for example, BA, v. 72, p. 135, h. 15. 30. See Rijål al-Kashsh¥, p. 145, h. 229 and p. 147, h. 234, where he is said to have differed with the Imåm over the issue of “capability,” or isti†åãh. However, Zurårah himself maintains that his views on this issue derive from al-Œådiq’s own words; see Rijål al-Kashsh¥, p. 148, h. 236. 31. Œifåt al-sh¥ãh, p. 82, h. 3. See also Aƒl Muthannå b. Wal¥d al-¡annå†, p. 104. 32. BA, v. 2, p. 181, h. 4. 33. Œifåt al-sh¥ãh, p. 82, h. 2. In Scripture and Exegesis, p. 99, Bar-Asher notes al-Ri∂å’s insistence that Shi˜ites recognize the Imåms as the only authoritative interpreters of the Qur˘an. 34. Imåm al-Ãskar¥, Tafs¥r, pp. 307–14. 35. See Kåf¥, v. 2, pp. 61–169. 36. Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 47, h. 1. The list differs from that in the ÷ad¥th narration previously cited in full (referenced in note 28), in that the virtue of “piety (birr)” replaces “patience (ƒabr).” 37. See, e.g., Œifåt al-sh¥ãh, pp. 90–91. 38. See Rijål al-Kashsh¥, p. 297, h. 528, and p. 300, h. 538. 39. BA, v. 68, p. 166, h. 18; Rijål al-Kashsh¥, p. 255, h. 474. See also BA, v. 68, p. 166, h. 19–20. 40. Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 234, h. 9. See also Rijål al-Kashsh¥, p. 193, h. 340, p. 295, h. 520, pp. 299–300, h. 536, and Œifåt al-sh¥ãh, p. 89, h. 21, where al-Œådiq puts certain moral requirements on those who would call themselves the “sh¥ãt Ja˜far.” 41. See Rijål al-Kashsh¥, pp. 321–29. 42. See, e.g., Aƒl Zayd al-Zarråd, p. 6, and Aƒl Ja˜far al-¡a¿ram¥, p. 64, where al-Båqir refers to Shi˜ites as a group scattered [throughout] the earth, who would unite behind the qå˘im when he rose to arms. A similar idea is attributed to al-Œådiq in Kåf¥, v. 2, pp. 238–39, h. 27. 43. See the discussion in Chapter 8, and Kåf¥, v. 2, pp. 241–44, for an entire chapter on this subject. 44. Kåf¥, v. 2, pp. 242–43, h. 4; Daylam¥, A˜låm al-d¥n, pp. 123–24. 45. Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 242, h. 3. 46. Aƒl Zayd al-Zarråd, p. 7; A˜låm al-d¥n, p. 123. See our discussion of this ÷ad¥th in Chapter 11. 47. Kåf¥, v. 2, pp. 241–42, h. 1. 48. Madelung, “Early Sunni Doctrine,” p. 238.

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49. See, e.g., Qur˘an, III:163, VI:165, XII:76, VI:83. 50. Ibn Båbawayh, Khiƒål, pp. 320–21, h. 31; Kåf¥, v. 2 pp. 47–49, h. 1, 2, p. 50, h. 3. 51. Kåf¥, v. 2, pp. 49–50, h. 2. 52. Ãyyåsh¥, Tafs¥r, v. 1, pp. 135–36, h. 477, regarding Qur˘an II:253. 53. Ibn Båbawayh, Khiƒål, pp. 320–21, h. 31. 54. See, e.g., Kåf¥, v. 2, pp. 47–49, h. 2, pp. 49–50, h. 2; and Rijål alKashsh¥, p. 11, h. 23. 55. Modarressi, Crisis, p. 61. 56. Modarressi, Crisis, p. 60. 57. Kharijite theology sometimes holds that such individuals were never actually believers but only had the semblance of such to their peers. See, e.g., al-Shiq∑¥ al-Ruståq¥, v. 2, p. 10. 58. Qur˘an XXXIII:23. 59. Kåf¥, v. 2, pp. 246–47, h. 1; BA, v. 67, p. 189, h. 1 and p. 192, h. 2. See also Kåf¥, v. 2, pp. 247–48, h. 3; BA, v. 67, p. 193, h. 3 for a version attributed to Ãl¥ where the word ikhwån is used instead of mu˘min¶n. 60. Qur˘an VI:98. 61. See †abar¥, Jåmi˜˘l-bayån, v. 7, pp. 375–79, where this interpretation is attributed to numerous authorities. †abar¥ also includes traditions correlating mustawda˜ to male sperm and mustaqarr to the earth, or mustaqarr to the womb and mustawda˜ to the place of one’s death (v. 7, pp. 373–74.) A third interpretation held that one was mustaqarr by virtue of one’s placement on earth, while one was mustawda˜, or deposited “with God.” Note that this interpretation of the Qur˘anic terms does not appear to be related to the Ismå˜¥l¥ concept of mustaqarr and mustawda˜ Imåms, referring, respectively, to “true” Imåms, and “caretaker” Imåms. See, e.g., Farhad Daftary, The Isma˜ilis: Their History and Doctrines, pp. 104–6, 115. 62. See, Kåf¥, v. 2, pp. 396–98; ¡imyar¥, Qurb al-isnåd, p. 347, h. 1255 and p. 382, h. 1345; Ãyyåsh¥, Tafs¥r, v. 1, pp. 371–73; Qumm¥, Tafs¥r, v. 1, pp. 212– 13. See also, Kohlberg, “Barå˘a,” pp. 159–74, and especially “Muwåfåt Doctrines in Muslim Theology” (pp. 53–56), where he notes that al-Shaykh al-Muf¥d and al-Shar¥f al-Murta∂å held that those who lost their faith before death were never really believers at all—an idea that is not made explicit in the traditions cited previously. 63. In Nahj al-balåghah (p. 87, khu†bah 189), ¥mån is described as being either “mustaqarr (established)” or “ãwår¥ (lent)”—the latter being subject to change; for this reason, Ãl¥ warned against pronouncing barå˘ah on an individual until he had died. In other Shi˜ite traditions, the term mustaqarr is juxtaposed with terms derived from the same root (ã-w-r), such as mu˜år (also meaning “lent”) rather than mustawda˜; see, e.g., Kåf¥, v. 2 pp. 396–98. 64. Ãyyåsh¥, Tafs¥r, v. 1, p. 371, h. 69–71. 65. See Rijål al-Kashsh¥, pp. 302–3, h. 544. 66. Rijål al-Kashsh¥, p. 296, h. 523; BA, v. 69, p. 222, h. 5. 67. Ãyyåsh¥, Tafs¥r, v. 1, p. 372, h. 73. Ya±yå b. al-Qåsim was apparently a “wåqif¥” (after the death of al-Œådiq, not al-Kåπim, since he dies during the latter’s lifetime), and was accused by some of extremism (ghuluww); see

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Ardab¥l¥, Jåmi˜ al-ruwåt, v. 2, pp. 334–38. For Zurãh b. Mu±ammad, see Ardab¥l¥, Jåmi˜ al-ruwåt, v. 1, pp. 329–30. 68. The biographical entries cited above for Ya±yå and Zurãh mention their authority in ÷ad¥th.

CHAPTER 11: “RARER THAN RED SULFUR”: WOMEN’S IDENTITY IN EARLY SHI˜ISM 1. Kåf¥, v. 1, p. 530, h. 2. 2. She is often referred to by the title “Sayyidat niså˘ al-˜ålam¥n”— “mistress of the women of the world.” See, e.g., Kåf¥, v. 1, p. 531. 3. Ansåb, v. 2, p. 203; Tustar¥, Qåm¶s al-rijål, v. 10, p. 390. 4. Qåm¶s al-rijål, v. 10, p. 390. 5. Ibn Abi˘l-¡ad¥d, Shar÷ Nahj al-balåghah, v. 6, pp. 219–21; Ya˜q¨b¥, Ta˘r¥kh, v. 2, p. 78. 6. Ibn A˜tham al-K¨f¥, Kitåb al-fut¶÷, v. 2, pp. 281–83; Tustar¥, Qåm¶s al-rijål, v. 10, pp. 398–99. She also reportedly made a public speech to the people of Medina reminding them of Ãl¥’s distinctions and urging their support for him (Ansåb, v. 2, p. 159). 7. Ibn A˜tham, v. 2, p. 284; Qåm¶s al-rijål, v. 10, p. 399. Ãl¥ is also reportedly warned by his kinswoman, Umm Fa∂l bt. al-¡årith (Ibn A˜tham, v. 2, pp. 285–86). 8. See Qåm¶s al-rijål, v. 10, p. 397 (citing Tha˜lab¥, Tafs¥r, and Ibn åw¨s, al-Tarå˘if), where Umm Salamah is marginally included in the tradition regarding the ahl al-kiså˘. 9. Qåm¶s al-rijål, v. 10, pp. 463–64; al-I∑bahån¥, Hilyat al-awliyå˘, v. 2, p. 55. 10. Qåm¶s al-rijål, v. 10, p. 464. 11. Aƒl Ja˜far b. Mu÷ammad al-¡a¿ram¥, p. 62. 12. Ibn Shahråsh¨b, Manåqib ‹l Ab¥ Tålib, v. 2, pp. 102–3; BA, v. 27, pp. 223–24, h. 14. 13. For a detailed treatment of this topic, see Etan Kohlberg, “The Position of the Walad Zina in Imåm¥ Shi˜ism” in BSOAS 48 (1985), pp. 237–66. 14. See, e.g., BA, v. 10, p. 410; v. 41, pp. 199–201. 15. †ab. I: 3457–58. 16. For accounts of such women, see Ibn †ayfur, Balåghat al-niså˘, pp. 44–57, 92–94, 104–5; and Qåm¶s al-rijål, v. 10, pp. 394–95, 401, 414–15, 440–41, 461–62, v. 11, p. 2. 17. Balåghat al-niså˘, pp. 111–12; Qåm¶s al-rijål, v. 10, p. 388. 18. Balåghat al-niså˘, pp. 44–46; Qåm¶s al-rijål, v. 10, pp. 461–62. 19. Balåghat al-niså˘, pp. 106–7; Am¥n¥, Ghad¥r, v. 1, p. 208; Qåm¶s al-rijål, v. 10, pp. 436–37. 20. Balåghat al-niså˘, pp. 109–10; Qåm¶s al-rijål, v. 10, p. 417. 21. Ab¨ Mikhnaf, Maqtal al-¡usayn, pp. 17–18. 22. †ab. II: 731–32.

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23. See, e.g., Maqtal, pp. 111, 164, 203–4. 24. See Maqtal, pp. 205–6, and Mubarrad, Kåmil, v. 3, p. 1186. 25. Maqtal, pp. 123–24, 141. 26. Maqtal, pp. 74–75. 27. Maqtal, pp. 45–48; BA, v. 44, pp. 350–51. 28. Maqtal, pp. 129, 203; †ab. II: 378. 29. BA, v. 45, pp. 374–75. 30. †ab. II: 378–81; BA, v. 45, pp. 132, 142–43. 31. Even for women, however, such actions were not entirely without risk. The wives of the early Kufan supporter of Ãl¥, Ãmr b. al-¡amiq, and the later Shi˜ite activist, al-Mukhtår b. Ab¥ ˜Ubayd, were reportedly imprisoned for supporting their husbands. 32. Qåm¶s al-rijål, v. 10, pp. 447–48. This is also quoted in some Imåm¥ theological works as precedent for the female transmission of a waƒiyyah, something that was an issue for establishing the existence of the twelfth Imåm, with which those authors were particularly concerned. 33. Kåf¥, v. 1, p. 360, h. 3; al-Saffår al-Qumm¥, Baƒå˘ir al-darajåt, pp. 163– 68, h. 3, 6, 24. 34. Qåm¶s al-rijål, v. 10, pp. 424, 433. 35. Baƒå˘ir al-darajåt, pp. 163-68, h. 4, 16, 23. See also p. 162, h. 1, where Umm Salamah is entrusted by Ãl¥ with a letter for his son, al-¡asan, shortly before he leaves Medina for Kufa. 36. Kåf¥, v. 1, p. 417, h. 15; Qåm¶s al-rijål, v. 10, pp. 402–3. 37. Ibn Shahråsh¨b, Manåqib, v. 1, p. 257; Kåf¥, v. 1, pp. 407–8, h. 3. 38. See BA, v. 35, p. 30, h. 26; v. 42, pp. 334–39; v. 45, p. 200, h. 42; v. 100, pp. 255–57, h. 53; v. 101, pp. 71–72, 75, h. 14, 16, 24. 39. Qåm¶s al-rijål, v. 10, p. 447; v. 11, pp. 28–29. 40. Umm Salamah is also said to have passed on certain traditions to her nieces and granddaughters as well (see, e.g., Qåm¶s al-rijål, v. 10, pp. 441– 42; v. 11, p. 36). 41. A. Schimmel, My Soul Is a Woman, New York: Continuum, 1999, pp. 69–70. 42. There are reports in Sunni and Shi˜ite sources that Få†imah complained to her father about Ãl¥’s poverty, and other traditions assert that Ãl¥ obtained his nickname, Ab¨ Turåb (father of dust) because when he was displeased with Få†imah, he would put dirt on his head, being hesitant to express his displeasure directly. (See, e.g., BA, v. 39, pp. 207–8.) 43. See Qåm¶s al-rijål, v. 10, pp. 379–83, where she relates pro-Ãlid traditions and where a number of anecdotes place her in conflict with the Shi˜ite antagonist, ˜Umar b. al-Kha††åb. 44. Ibn Hishåm, al-S¥rah al-nabawiyyah, v. 3, p. 313. This report comes from ˜≈˘ishah, herself. 45. Qur˘an XXIV:11–17. 46. Qåm¶s al-rijål, v. 10, pp. 477–78 (citing Qumm¥, Tafs¥r). 47. Al-Shar¥f al-Rå∂¥, Nahj al-balåghah, p. 8, khu†bah 13. 48. Nahj al-balåghah, p. 67, khu†bah 156.

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49. Nahj al-balåghah, pp. 27–28, khu†bah 80. For a Sunni version, see Bukhår¥, Œa÷¥÷, v. 1, p. 181. 50. Ibn Båbawayh, Khiƒål, p. 208; BA, v. 103, pp. 241–42, h. 5, 6. 51. Karåjik¥, Kanz al-fawå˘id, p. 177; BA, v. 103, p. 253. 52. Ibn Båbawayh, Amål¥, p. 202; BA, v. 103, p. 224, h. 3. 53. Nahj al-balåghah, pp. 153, 155, 160. 54. See, e.g., Nahj al-balåghah, p. 159, where Ãl¥ predicts a future time when the community will be governed in consultation with women, commanded by children, and managed by eunuchs. 55. See Ibn Båbawayh, Khiƒål, p. 554; BA, v. 103, p. 245, h. 24; Nahj albalåghah, p. 163. 56. See Råwand¥, Nawådir, p. 119; BA, v. 103, p. 250, h. 40. 57. †¨s¥, Amål¥, pp. 662–63; Ibn Båbawayh, ˜Uy¶n akhbår al-Ri¿å, v. 2, p. 39; BA, v. 103, p. 226, h. 17 and p. 251, h. 48. 58. Nahj al-balåghah, p. 162; BA, v. 103, p. 252, h. 51. See also Nahj albalåghah, p. 171, where Ãl¥ notes that those qualities that are the best in women are the worst in men. See also Råwand¥, Nawådir, pp. 182–83 and BA, v. 103, pp. 250–51, h. 45 for a tradition attributed to the Prophet which states that jealously is a trial for women as jihåd is a trial for men, such that whoever endures it with patience will have the reward of a martyr. 59. Ibn Båbawayh, ˜Ilal al-sharå˘i˜, v. 2, p. 228 and Amål¥, p. 182; Karåjak¥, Kanz al-fawå˘id, p. 177; BA, v. 103, p. 223, h. 1 and p. 253, h. 57. 60. Nahj al-balåghah, p. 28, khu†bah 80. 61. Ya˜q¨b¥, Ta˘r¥kh, v. 2, p. 82. 62. BA, v. 103, p. 225, h. 10. Majlis¥ cites Ibn Båbawayh’s Khiƒål as his source for this tradition. It was not found in the 1971 Najaf edition, but was found in the 1969 Tehran edition, p. 113, h. 91. 63. See Denise Spellberg, Politics, Gender and the Islamic Past, pp. 138–40. 64. Nahj al-balåghah, p. 155. 65. Al-Shaykh al-Muf¥d, Kitåb al-irshåd (trans. I.K.A. Howard), pp. 149– 50; BA, v. 79, pp. 50–52, h. 36, 40. 66. Ibn Shahråsh¨b, Manåqib, v. 2, p. 187; BA, v. 40, pp. 232–33, h. 12. 67. Al-Shaykh al-Muf¥d, Ikhtiƒåƒ, p. 157; BA, v. 40, pp. 113–14. 68. Kåf¥, v. 7, pp. 468–69, h. 12; BA, v. 40, pp. 316–17, h. 94 and v. 41, p. 236, h. 7. 69. Nahj al-balåghah, p. 179. 70. Ibn Shahråsh¨b, Manåqib, v. 1, p. 382; BA, v. 41, p. 52. 71. See, e.g., BA, v. 103, p. 224, h. 7. One tradition states that “most of the musta¿a˜f¶n in paradise were women, because God knows their weakness and has mercy on them.” (Ibn Båbawayh, Man lå ya÷¿uruhu˘l-faq¥h, v. 3, p. 468, h. 4628). 72. Ibn Båbawayh, Khiƒål, p. 553; BA, v. 103, p. 255. 73. Qåm¶s al-rijål, v. 10, p. 409. 74. Al-¡asan al-Ãskar¥, Tafs¥r al-Ãskar¥ in BA, v. 103, pp. 259–60, h. 11. See also Kåf¥, v. 1, p. 533, h. 8, 10 and BA, v. 103, p. 375, h. 17. 75. Ibn Båbawayh, Man lå ya÷¿uruhu˘l-faq¥h, v. 3, p. 468, h. 4621.

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76. †¨s¥, Amål¥, p. 83; BA, v. 103, p. 226, h. 13. 77. Ibn Båbawayh, Khiƒål, p. 208; BA, v. 74, pp. 194–95, h. 22. 78. Kåf¥, v. 5, p. 326, h. 6–9; BA, v. 103, p. 226, h. 15. 79. Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 139, h. 11; BA, v. 103, h. 10. 80. Kåf¥, v. 5, p. 325, h. 1 (he opens his lengthy book on marriage with this tradition); Mu±ammad b. al-Fattål al-N¥såb¨r¥, Raw¿at al-wå˘iz¥n, p. 411; BA, v. 103, p. 236, h. 24.. 81. Råwand¥, Nawådir, p. 123; BA, v. 103, p. 228, h. 29. 82. Man lå ya÷¿uruhu˘l-faq¥h, v. 3, p. 384, h. 4351; Kåf¥, v. 5, p. 326, h. 5; Råwand¥, Nawådir, p. 114; BA, v. 103, p. 228, h. 28 and p. 227, h. 20. 83. Man lå ya÷¿uruhu˘l-faq¥h, v. 3, p. 385, h. 4352. 84. Qåm¶s al-rijål, v. 10, p. 392. 85. Kåf¥, v. 2, pp. 241–42, h. 1; Daylam¥, A˜låm al-d¥n, p. 123; BA, v. 67, p. 159, h. 3. 86. See, e.g., BA, v. 18, p. 364, h. 69; v. 35, p. 358, h. 10; v. 68, pp. 36– 37, h. 78. 87. Qåm¶s al-rijål, v. 10, p. 386. 88. See, e.g., BA, v. 51, p. 336, h. 62. 89. See Qåm¶s al-rijål, v. 10, pp. 393–94, for an account of the Zayd¥ woman, Umm Khålid, who had an arm amputated because of her beliefs, and BA, v. 100, pp. 440–44, h. 21, where a woman is arrested for publicly cursing the oppressors of Få†imah. 90. Ibn Båbawayh, Man lå ya÷¿uruhu˘l-faq¥h, v. 3, p. 467, h. 4620. 91. Kåf¥, v. 5, pp. 338–39, h. 1; BA, v. 103, p. 235, h. 19; p. 236, h. 21. Sunni traditions endorsing the marriage of virgins are frequently tied to the status of ˜≈˘ishah as the virgin wife of the Prophet, see Bukhår¥, Œa÷¥h, v. 7, pp. 9–12. 92. Kåf¥, v. 5, pp. 330–31; Råwand¥, Nawådir, p. 114, 177; BA, v. 103, p. 236, h. 29 and p. 239, h. 49. 93. Kåf¥, v. 5, pp. 344–47; Man lå ya÷¿uruhu˘l-faq¥h, v. 3, p. 393, h. 4385; BA, v. 103, p. 371, h. 1. 94. Man lå ya÷¿uruhu˘l-faq¥h, v. 3, p. 393, h. 4381; Rawånd¥, Nawådir, p. 112; BA, v. 103, p. 374, h. 15. 95. Qur˘an V:5. 96. Qur˘an LX:10. The Sunni tafs¥r tradition interprets the term kawåfir (unbelieving women) here to mean exclusively polytheist women (†abar¥, Jåmi˜ al-bayån, v. 28, p. 91 and Ibn Kath¥r, Tafs¥r al-Qur˘ån al-ãz¥m, v. 4, p. 451). Certain Shi˜ite traditions consider the term to refer to “anyone not of the religious community of the Muslims” and so to be a prohibition on, or at least a discouraging of, intermarriage with Jews and Christians as well. See, Qumm¥, Tafs¥r, v. 2, p. 363 and Kåf¥, v. 5, pp. 362–63, h. 7–8. 97. Kåf¥, v. 5, pp. 355–56, h. 15, p. 361, h. 2. 98. Kåf¥, v. 5, pp. 361–62, h. 4–6, p. 363, h. 10; BA, v. 103, p. 376, h. 2–3. 99. BA, v. 103, p. 381, h. 27. 100. A±mad b. Mu±ammad al-Ashãr¥, Kitåb al-Nawådir, p. 119; BA, v. 103, p. 376, h. 1.

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101. Kåf¥, v. 5, p. 361, h. 3; BA, v. 103, p. 377, h. 6. 102. Man lå ya÷¿uruhu˘l-faq¥h, v. 3, pp. 386–87, h. 4358; BA, v. 103, p. 232, h. 1. 103. Kåf¥, v. 5, pp. 353–54, h. 3, 4, 8, 11; BA, v. 103, p. 378, h. 15, p. 380, h. 21. 104. Kåf¥, v. 5, p. 355, h. 13–14; BA, v. 46, pp. 292–93, h. 19, pp. 366–67, h. 8. Al-Œådiq is said to have refused a marriage proposal from a Kharijite (BA, v. 103, pp. 373–74, h. 12). 105. Kåf¥, v. 5, pp. 352–55, h. 2, 7, 10, 12 and BA, v. 103, pp. 377–81, h. 7, 13, 17, 27, and the discussion in Chapter 9. 106. Ibn Båbawayh, Amål¥, p. 256; BA, v. 79, pp. 18–19, h. 2. 107. Ayyåsh¥, Tafs¥r, v. 2, p. 96. 108. A±mad b. Mu±ammad al-Ashãr¥, Kitåb al-Nawådir, p. 131; BA, v. 103, p. 378, h. 16. For a version attributed to al-Œådiq, see Kåf¥, v. 5, p. 353, h. 6. 109. Kåf¥, v. 5, pp. 352–53, h. 1, 5; BA, v. 103, p. 380, h. 23. See also Ashãr¥, A±mad b. Mu±ammad b. ˜Áså, Kitåb al-Nawådir, p. 128; BA, v. 103, p. 377, h. 8. 110. A±mad b. Mu±ammad al-Ashãr¥, Kitåb al-Nawådir, pp. 130–31; BA, v. 103, p. 378, h. 15. 111. Muf¥d, Ikhtiƒåƒ, pp. 54–58; BA, v. 48, p. 121, h. 1.

CHAPTER 12: PERFORATED BOUNDARIES: ESTABLISHING TWO CODES OF CONDUCT 1. Kohlberg, “Barå˘a,” p. 153. 2. Ibn Båbawayh, Œifåt al-sh¥ãh, p. 102, h. 38; Aƒl Ja˜far al-¡a¿ram¥, p. 78. 3. Kåf¥, v. 3, pp. 413–15. See also, Aƒl Zayd al-Nars¥, pp. 46, 52, 54. 4. The Imåms generally instructed their followers, when praying behind a non-Shi˜ite prayer leader, to pretend to follow him outwardly, while reciting Qur˘anic verses independently to themselves. See Kåf¥, v. 3, p. 364, h. 1, 3, 4, where the Imåms instruct their disciples on what to do when they have silently completed their independent recitations before their ostensible prayer leader has completed his. 5. Aƒl Ãbd Allåh b. Ya÷yå al-Kåhil¥, p. 114. See also Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 126, h. 3, where al-Båqir mentions the case of Moses, who was commanded by God to keep his secret concealed and show kindness to the people outwardly, in order to prevent them from reviling God. Hence the Qur˘anic injunction: “Revile not those whom they call upon besides Allåh, lest they revile Allåh out of spite and in ignorance . . . (VI:108).” This may have more to do with taqiyyah than with outward interaction with non-Shi˜ites, but it does, in any case, enjoin kindness toward them. 6. Aƒl Ãlå˘ b. Raz¥n, p. 151.

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7. Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 222, h. 11. The Imåm makes this comment in the context of the imperative of taqiyyah, or precautionary dissimulation of one’s Shi˜ite identity. 8. Kåf¥, v. 2, pp. 238–39, h. 27; Œifåt al-sh¥ãh, p. 95, h. 34. In some versions, the non-Shi˜ites are referred to simply as “those who are not our brothers (ghayra ikhwåninå);” and in other versions as “our enemies (ãduwwinå).” 9. Qumm¥, Muƒådaqat al-ikhwån, p. 170, h. 1. 10. See Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 362, h. 9, 11; BA, v. 68, bab 21; Mu˘min, p. 70, h. 92. 11. See Kåf¥, v. 2, pp. 175–213. See also Ma÷åsin, especially pp. 98–104. 12. This is published along with Ibn Båbawayh’s Fa¿å˘il al-sh¥ãh and Œifåt al-sh¥ãh. The monograph in question is found on pp. 131–90 of this edition. 13. This is one of Majlis¥’s sources for the Bi÷år al-anwår, and has been edited by ¡åmid al-Khaffåf. (See bibliography for further details.) 14. See Ma÷åsin, pp. 98–104. 15. See, e.g., Kåf¥, v. 2, pp. 179–80, h. 10, 11; Mu˘min, p. 45, h. 106. 16. Ma÷åsin, pp. 97–98, h. 62, 63. 17. Muƒådaqat al-ikhwån, p. 169, h. 1. 18. Khaythamah al-Ju˜f¥; see Ardab¥l¥, Jåmi˜ al-ruwåh, v. 1, p. 299. 19. Aƒl Ja˜far al-¡a¿ram¥, p. 79; Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 182, h. 2, p. 225, h. 4. 20. Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 237, h. 24. 21. Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 182, h. 1. 22. Aƒl Zayd al-Zarråd, p. 2. See also, Aƒl ˜‹ƒim b. ¡umayd, p. 26. 23. Ibn Shu˜bah, Tu÷af al-˜uq¶l, p. 489. 24. Kåf¥, v. 2, pp. 194–98, h. 2, 4, 7, 11, 16; Mu˘min, pp. 51–52, h. 127, 131. 25. Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 176, h. 4. 26. Aƒl Zayd al-Zarråd, p. 7. 27. Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 178, h. 8. 28. Kåf¥, v. 2, pp. 200–1, h. 6, 8, 11, p. 209, h. 20; Mu˘min, pp. 48–49, h. 113, 116, pp. 52–53, h. 130, 132, p. 55, h. 141. 29. Kåf¥, v. 2, pp. 202–3, h. 1, 9, pp. 208–9, h. 13, 16, 18–20; Mu˘min, p. 47, h. 110, 112, p. 49, h. 117, p. 53, h. 132, 135, p. 56, h. 144, pp. 63–65, h. 160, 163, 170. 30. Ma÷åsin, p. 120, h. 95. 31. Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 178, h. 8, where al-Œådiq chastises a prominent disciple for turning away a poor Shi˜ite seeking alms, while they were circumambulating the Ka˜bah together. 32. Muƒådaqat al-ikhwån, p. 146, h. 3. See also, Aƒl Muthannå b. al-Wal¥d al-¡annå†, p. 103, and Mu˘min, p. 64, h. 165 for similar traditions. 33. Aƒl Ja˜far al-¡a¿ram¥, p. 67. 34. See references to biographical material on al-Mufa∂∂al in Chapter 10. 35. Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 213, h. 3. 36. Kåf¥, v. 2, pp. 213–14, h. 4. 37. Œifåt al-sh¥ãh, p. 82, h. 5. 38. See Wensinck, Concordance, under “dayn” for Sunni versions of this tradition.

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39. Aƒl Zayd al-Nars¥, p. 51. 40. See, also, a tradition attributed to Mu±ammad al-Båqir to this effect (Kåf¥, v. 3, p. 546, h. 11). 41. Kåf¥, v. 3, pp. 535–36, h. 1. 42. Mu˘min, pp. 40–41, h. 93, 94. 43. This expletive literally means “dirt, filth,” and was commonly used to show dislike, disgust, or hatred. (See Lane, Arabic-English Lexicon, v. 1, p. 67.) In the Qur˘an, it is something that should not be said to one’s parents (XVII:23; XLVI:17) and is the term Abraham uses to show his scorn and disgust with the idolaters of his community (II:67). 44. Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 178, h. 7, pp. 345–46, h. 8; Ma÷åsin, p. 99, h. 67; Mu˘min, p. 72, h. 198. 45. Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 201, h. 13; p. 352, h. 4. 46. Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 176, h. 2 47. Kåf¥, v. 2, p. 351, h. 4. 48. BA, v. 67, pp. 69–70, h. 28, citing Mishkåt al-anwår of †abris¥. 49. Kåf¥, v. 2, pp. 194–95, 198, h. 1, 6, 14; Mu˘min, p. 69, h. 189. 50. Ma÷åsin, p. 98, h. 65.

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Veccia Vaglieri, L. “Ghad¥r Khumm” in EI 2, v. 2, pp. 993–94. Watt, W. M. The Formative Period of Islamic Thought. Oxford: Oneworld, 1998. ———. “The Rafidites: a Preliminary Study” in Oriens 16 (1963), pp. 110–21. ———. “Shi˜ism under the Umayyads” in JRAS (1960), pp. 158–72. Weber, Max. Sociology of Religion. Boston: Beacon Press, 1963. ———. Max Weber on charisma and institution building: selected papers (ed. S. N. Eisenstadt). Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1968. Wellhausen, Julius. Religio-political Factions in Early Islam (trans. R. C. Ostle and S. M. Walzer). Amsterdam: North-Holland, 1975. Wensinck, A. J. and J. P. Mensing. Concordance et indices de la tradition musulmane. Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1943. Wensinck, A. J. Muhammad and the Jews of Medina (trans. and ed. Wolfgang Behn). Berlin: Klaus Schwarz Verlag, Freiburg im Breisgau, 1975. Ya˜q¨b¥, A±mad b. Ãl¥ b. Ya˜q¨b b. Ja˜far b. Wahb b. Wå∂i±. Ta˘r¥kh alYa˜q¶b¥ (2 vols., ed. Ãbd al-Am¥r Muhannå). Beirut: Mu˘assasat alA˜lam¥ li˘l-Ma†b¨˜åt, 1993. Zarråd, Zayd. Aƒl Zayd al-Zarråd in al-Uƒ¶l al-sittatãshar. Tehran: Markaz-i Nashr-i Kitåb, 1951–52, pp. 2–13.


Index Abån b. Ab¥ Ãyyåsh, 269n14 Abån b. Taghlib, 133, 277n26 Ãbbåsids: on Ghad¥r Khumm tradition, 38, 258n24; Imåms and, 211, 234; revolution of, 177–178; spiritual inheritance of, 98 Ãbd Allåh b. Ja˜far, 110 Ãbd Allåh b. Khabbåb, 66 Ãbd al-Malik b. Marwån, 143, 280n14 Ãb¥s b. Ab¥ Shab¥b, 87 Ab¨ Bakr: Ãl¥ on, 260n2, 265n12; authority of, 49–50; family of, 225; kin ties of, 254n9; Kumayt’s poetry on, 106–107 Ab¨ Håshim, 98 Ab¨ Man∑¨r al-˜Ijl¥, 130 Ab¨ Mikhnaf, 4, 78–79, 80, 82, 94, 220 Ab¨ M¨så, 54–55, 65, 261n12 Ab¨ ˜Ubaydah al-¡adhå˘, 196–197 Ab¨ Zab¥b, 64 Abu’l-Jår¨d Ziyåd b. Mundhir, 111– 113, 117 Abu’l-Kha††åb, 188, 209 ãdåwah (enmity), 19–20; community defined by, 63–64; Qur˘an on, 19– 20, 255n33; toward Mu˜åwiyah, 79 ahl al-bayt: devotion to by women, 218; leadership legitimacy of, 73, 88; love (÷ubb) of, 120–121, 157, 277n37; walåyah to, 33, 40, 49, 104, 115, 129–130, 135; women of, 214 ˜≈˘ishah, 216–217, 223, 225–227 Ãl¥ b. Ab¥ ålib: authority challenge by Kharijites, 55–56; brotherhood with Prophet,

258n25; caliph selection of, 49–52; charisma of, 3, 6, 94; death of, 73; on dissociation (barå˘ah), 65–66, 264n60; divine inspiration, 108; esoteric teaching of, 25; First Civil War, 42, 49–50, 57–58, 61, 63; as imåm, 107, 260n46, 271n23; legatee (waƒ¥ ) of the Prophet, 58– 59, 262n30; mawlå designation by the Prophet, 33–36, 41, 43–45, 259n36; personal virtues, 59; in poetry, 105–108; right guidance (hudå) of, 263n35; as Rightlyguided caliph, 38; as successor to Prophet, 109–110, 221; successors to, 3, 5, 73–74, 110, 221–222, 265n3; on walåyah, 254n9; walåyah to Ab¨ Bakr by, 265n12; walåyah toward, 6–7, 33, 57–63, 64, 77, 79– 81, 93, 146, 147–148, 218–219; on women, 224–227. See also Ghad¥r Khumm tradition Ãl¥ b. Båbawayh al-Qumm¥, 166, 173, 241–242 Ãl¥ b. al-¡usayn Zayn al-˜≈bid¥n, 72; on al-Mukhtår, 269n93; on charity, 242; on human creation, 150; as legatee (waƒ¥), 221; marriage of, 231, 233; on nonShi˜ites, 185 Ãl¥ al-Ri∂å, 211; on authority of Imåms, 201; on faith (¥mån), 184– 185, 197; on shahådah and walåyah, 133–134, 147; on spiritual status of Shi˜ites, 168; Sufism and, 24; on walåyah to Imåms, 246, 260n46

313

314

Index

Ãlawiyy¥n (supporters of Ãl¥), 135– 136 allegiance (walåyah). See walåyah almsgiving (zakåh), 247–248, 251. See also charity Amir-Moezzi, Mohammad Ali, 2, 15, 119, 254n3 Ãmr b. al-˜≈∑, 54–55, 261n12 al-≈mul¥, Haydar, 28 antinomianism, 129–130, 137 Ãrafåt, pilgrimage day at, 112–113 ˜‹sh¶rå˘, 272n31 authority: of Ãl¥, 49, 61; Arabic terms for, 17–18; caliphs, initial, 50–51; charismatic, 3, 9, 57, 94, 98; debate over nature of, 53; earned through competence, 52; heredity of, 54–55, 261nn12–13; of Imåms, 196–197, 200; Kharijite view of, 56–57; rightful, 3; Shi˜ite conception of, 61; spiritual, 29, 98, 99; Sufism and, 24; of ˜Uthmån, 51– 53; waƒåyå (transmission testimonies) of, 98, 220–221. See also guidance, right (hudå) Balådhur¥, 37, 77 al-Båqir, Mu±ammad, 72; on believers, degrees of, 208; on charity, 242–243, 245; descent, Prophetic, of, 110; on faith (¥mån), 121–123, 182–184, 188, 289n16, 289n21; Ghad¥r Khumm commentary by, 111–114, 117–118; on Imåms’ special status, 170; influence of, 173; on kufr and lack of walåyah, 179–180; Kumayt b. Zayd al-Asad¥ and, 105; on love, 120–121; on piety, action, and walåyah, 137–138; on postponement of judgment (irjå˘), 183–184; on predetermination of Shi˜ites, 151–153; on primordial pact (m¥thåq), 146, 148, 150; on Shi˜ites special status, 169; on suffering of Shi˜ites, 136–137; theological developments in time of, 104, 123;

on walåyah, 137, 196–197, 198–199; walåyah as pillar of Islam, 117– 118; wives of, 231; on women, 228, 231, 233 Baql¥, R¨zbihån, 256n44 barå˘ah (dissociation). See dissociation (barå˘ah) Bar-Asher, Meir, 2, 260n47 Barq¥, A±mad, 141–142 Basra, 268n64 Battle of Œiff¥n, 57–58, 59, 65, 262n31 Battle of the Camel, 59–60, 225, 226 bayãh (pledge): to Ãl¥, second, 60– 62, 68, 262n35; to al-¡asan, 73–74; to caliphs, 50; to Mu˜åwiyah, 76, 78; rightly guided, 97, 270n96; to Yaz¥d, 81 Bayån b. Sam˜ån, 129–131 believers (mu˘min¶n), 159, 193; charity toward, 245; hierarchy of, 165–166, 205–211; Shi˜ites as, 159, 165–166, 181, 185, 191; women, 204, 229–230. See also unbelief (kufr) bloodline of Ãl¥. See descent from Ãl¥ bloodline of Imåms, 3, 5 bloodline of Prophet. See descent, Prophetic “Book of Faith and Unbelief” (Kulayn¥), 127 brotherhood: among Meccans and Medinans, 22, 258n25; among Shi˜ites, 170–171, 193, 241–242, 244–245, 249–250 caliphate, conceptions of, 53 caliphs, 38, 49–52. See also specific caliphs charisma: of Ãl¥, 6, 94; authority and, 3, 9, 57, 94, 98; community and, 10, 23–24; Imåms extending to followers, 168; of Shi˜ites, 171; walåyah and, 7; Weber on, 7–9 charity: among Shi˜ites, 242–249, 251; from enemies, 172; from nonShi˜ites, 238, 240, 251

Index

Chodkiewicz, Michel, 27–28 Christians, 20, 225, 231, 232, 291n19, 297n96 Civil War. See First Civil War; Second Civil War clairvoyance (firåsah), 3, 171 codes of conduct: communal identity and, 237–238; relations among Shi˜ites, 241–251; relations with non-Shi˜ites, 239–240 communal identity: charity and, 245, 248, 251; codes of conduct and, 237–238; as elect/chosen, 144, 154–155, 160–165; Karbala martyrdom and, 94; Kharijite, 9–10; primordial origins myth, 148–151, 155, 157–158, 281n46; as saved community, 125–126, 136, 137; scholarly study on, 2; theses of, 2–3, 7, 10; ummah and Shi˜ites, 179; walåyah and, 11, 63, 67–69, 103, 126, 199, 242–243, 249–251; women and marriage and, 215 community of believers: charisma and, 23–24; as followers of Imåms, 197; membership in, 125– 132, 192, 201–203; membership in, by sinners, 129; predestination of, 141, 144; Qur˘an on, 20–21; salvation and membership in, 132–133; spiritual hierarchy supporting, 166; walåyah and, 126; women members, 229–230 Cook, Michael, 7–8, 253n7 Corbin, Henry, 28, 30 Cornell, Vincent, 29, 30, 163 cosmological ideas. See creation myths covenant (m¥thåq) of God. See m¥thåq (covenant) of God creation myths, 144, 147–155, 163– 164, 170, 174, 208, 281n46 ¿åll¶n (misguided ones), 186–189, 290n63 Dabashi, Hamid, 9–10 Day of Judgment, 158, 172

315

Day of Resurrection, 147, 166, 167, 170, 285n62, 285n69 degrees of faith, 207–211, 293nn61–63 descent, Prophetic: charismatic authority, 98; of al-¡asan, 5; of al¡usayn, 5, 82, 84, 86, 88–90, 92–94; of Imåms, 3, 110; nobility of, 97; spiritual inheritance and, 26 descent from Ãl¥, 3, 5; charismatic authority, 98; of al-¡usayn, 89, 92–93; of Mu±ammad b. al¡anafiyyah, 97 dhun¶b (sins), 136 dissociation (barå˘ah), 65–67; Ãl¥ b. Ab¥ ålib on, 65–66, 264n60; Kharijites on, 66–67, 254n57; from Shi˜ites lacking sufficient faith, 198–199, 206; from Mu˜åwiyah, 79 Divine Decree. See fate (qadar) and faith divine inspiration, 58, 108, 168 duty, religious (far¥¿ah), 104–105 elect, spiritual, 160–165, 283n73; elite spiritual status, 10; eschatological privileges of, 147, 158, 166, 167, 170, 172; esoterism and, 25; possessors of understanding (ulu’l-albåb), 161; predestination and, 144, 151, 152, 154–155, 157–158. See also naƒƒ (specific designation) enemies of Shi˜ites, charity from, 172; intermarriage, 231–232; predestination of, 151, 180, 208, 218; walåyah, opposition to, 169– 170. See also Umayyads enmity (ãdåwah), 19–20; community defined by, 63–64; Qur˘an on, 19– 20, 255n33; toward Mu˜åwiyah, 79 esoterism and walåyah, 25–26 excommunication, 65, 198–199, 206 expiation of sin by martyrdom, 90– 91 extremist (ghulåt) Shi˜ites, 204; on primordial pact (m¥thåq), 152–153; on sin, 129–130

316

Index

Få†imah, 215–216, 221, 224, 295n42 Fa†±¥s, 206–207 faith (¥mån): doctrinal beliefs on, 197; fate (qadar) and, 143, 288n10; hierarchy of, 178, 192–193, 205, 208–211, 293nn61–63; hierarchy of believers and, 165–166; islåm, distinction from, 131–132, 179– 185, 250–251; love and, 120–121; recognition of Imåm as, 8; sectarian differences in, 126; Shi˜ite identity, 191–192; and unbelief (kufr) dichotomy, 182, 188; walåyah and, 10–11, 119–123, 127–128, 192–193; works and, 126–132 far¥¿ah (religious duty), walåyah as, 104–105, 108–109, 112, 113 Farewell Pilgrimage. See Ghad¥r Khumm tradition fast of ˜‹sh¶rå˘, 272n31 fate (qadar) and faith, 143, 288n10 firåsah (clairvoyance), 3, 171 First Civil War, 42, 49–50, 53; ˜≈˘ishah’s role in, 225, 226–227; discourse during, 57–58, 63, 68; divisions in, 63–64; historical accounts, 59; ideological debate, 53; Kharijites and, 55, 61, 62–63; veterans of, 80, 93 forgiveness of sins, 136–137 free will (tafw¥¿), 142–143, 279n3 Friday communal prayer, 238, 298n5 Ghad¥r Khumm tradition, 33–34, 47–48; affirmations of by Ãl¥’s enemies, 42–43; al-Båqir, Mu±ammad commentary on, 111– 114, 117–118; differing accounts of, 39–40, 43–44; First Civil War accounts and, 59; in Imåm¥ ÷ad¥th, 111–113, 257n9, 271n22, 272n34; imåmate doctrine and, 35; as naƒƒ, 47, 63; in poetry, 105–108; Qur˘anic verses and, 105, 109, 259n44; Shi˜ite interpretations of,

45–48, 104–111; sources for, 36–44, 257n3, 258n22; Sunni interpretation of, 44–45, 258n23; Sunni sources for, 36–39, 257n3; walåyah and, 68, 104–105 ghulåt (extremist) Shi˜ites. See extremist (ghulåt) Shi˜ites guidance, right (hudå), 82, 88; of Ãl¥, 263n35; al-¡usayn and, 87, 94; of Imåms, 118; al-Mukhtår’s call for, 97 ÷ad¥th, Shi˜ite, 36, 127, 153–154, 159; to distinguish Shi˜ites, 162; Ghad¥r Khumm, 39, 41–42, 105, 111–113, 272n34; knowledge of, 197–198; on relations among Shi˜ites, 241–242; on Shi˜ite community membership, 202; on special spiritual status of Shi˜ites, 173–174; walåyah as pillar of Islam, 113–118; on women, 223, 224, 228–230, 235; women transmitters, 213, 223–224. See also Ghad¥r Khumm tradition al-¡ak¥m al-Tirmidh¥, 25, 171 al-¡akam b. ˜Utaybah, 122 Hår¨n al-Rash¥d, 234 al-¡asan al-Ãskar¥, 200, 221, 228 al-¡asan al-Ba∑r¥, 143, 280n14 al-¡asan b. Ãl¥: bayãh to, 73–74; descent of, 5; al-¡usayn and, 85; loyalty to, 71, 73; poisoning of, 267n48; surrender to Mu˜åwiyah, 74–75; waƒiyyah from Ãl¥, 265n3 ¡asanid Shi˜ites, 178 Håshim b. ˜Utbah, 64 Håshimite clan, 40, 88–90, 258n23; Ãbbåsid rule of, 178; right guidance of, 97 Håshimiyyåt (poems), 105–108 heredity of charismatic authority, 3, 9 hierarchy of believers. See under believers (mu˘min¶n) Hishåm, 78

Index

Hodgson, Marshall, 1, 178 ÷ujjah (Proof of God), 167–168, 286n71 ¡ujr b. Ãd¥, 266n33; on al-¡asan’s surrender, 75; leadership of, 71; martyrdom of, 80; passive resistance of, 77–81, 266n26 al-¡usayn b. Ãl¥: activist reputation, 85; bayãh to Mu˜åwiyah, 85; descent of, 5, 88–90, 92–93; on imåmate, 268n60; Kufans request to lead, 86; legitimacy of rule, 85, 88; martyrdom of, 4–6, 71–72, 94; personal virtues, 86; Prophetic descent of, 85; religious leadership of, 87; sanctity of, 94; successors to, 110; support for, 83–84, 264n2, 266n40, 268n56; tomb of, 93–94; Umayyad opposition to, 81–82; vengeance for martyrdom, 71, 90–92; walåyah and, 83–84 al-¡usayn b. Sa˜¥d, 241 al-I∑fahån¥, al-Råghib, 254n5 Ibn Ãbbås, 83–84, 150, 254n9 Ibn al-Ãrab¥, 27–28, 28–29, 255– 256n43, 256n44 Ibn Ãsåkir, 37 Ibn Båbawayh, 134, 166, 173, 238 Ibn al-¡anafiyyah. See Mu±ammad b. al-¡anafiyyah Ibn ¡anbal, 37–38, 258n19 Ibn Kath¥r, 37 Ibn Manπ¨r, 254n5 Ibn al-Zubayr, 81–82, 95, 266n39 identity, Shi˜ite communal. See communal identity ijtihåd (effort) and wara˜ (piety), 137–138 Imåm¥ Shi˜ites. See Shi˜ites imåmate doctrine: emergence of, 178; Ghad¥r Khumm tradition and, 35; al-¡usayn on, 268n60; walåyah and, 49, 53 Imåms: belief in, 181; charisma of, 3, 8; distinction from followers,

317

164–165; Ghad¥r Khumm tradition and, 47; intercession by, 172; knowledge of, by followers, 178, 194, 196–197; location, 283n7; marriage of, 231; meaning of term, 86–87; as mu÷addath, 168; obedience to, 117, 178, 192, 194, 200–203; recognition of, 206–207; relation to followers, 165–168, 178; religious tax (khums) payments to, 234, 245–247; right guidance of, 118; sanctity of, 30; spiritual inheritance of, 26, 255n43, 256n44; succeeding Ãl¥, 72; succession crises, 206–207, 209, 220–221; titles of, 167–168; walåyah to, 117, 119– 120, 146–147, 246, 248–249 ¥mån (faith). See faith (¥mån) inheritance and walåyah, 20–21, 26–28 initiation for spiritual inheritance, 27–28 inspiration, nonscriptural, 108 intelligence, 162, 186–187, 194; of women, 214, 225–226, 228 intercession, 134, 137, 171–172 intermarriage, non-Shi˜ite, 182–183, 186–187, 215, 230–231, 235, 297n96 Iran, 24–25 ˜Iraqi patriotism, 4 islåm (submission) and ¥mån (faith) distinction, 131–132, 179–185, 250– 251 Ismå˜¥l¥s, 28 Ja˜far al-Œådiq. See al-Œådiq, Ja˜far Jahmites, 275n1 Jår¨d¥ Zayd¥s, 111, 271n23, 271n28 Jews, 20–21, 217, 231, 232, 291n19, 297n96 judgment, postponement of (irjå˘), 181, 183–184 Jundab b. Ãbd Allåh, 85 Ka˜bah, 81–82, 169, 283n7 al-Kåf¥ (Kulayn¥), 127, 131, 171, 241, 285n53

318

Index

karåmah, 171, 285n57 Karbala, martyrdom at: historiography of, 267nn46–47; legitimacy of rule and, 89–90; pilgrimages to al¡usayn’s tomb, 93–94; religious aspect of, 4–6; support (nuƒrah) and, 84; walåyah and, 82; women’s role in, 219–220, 222–223 Kaysån¥ Shi˜ism, 98 al-Kåπim, M¨så. See M¨så al-Kåπim khåƒƒah. See elect, spiritual Kharijites: authority, views on, 56– 57; charismatic community and, 9–10, 283n72; on dissociation (barå˘ah), 66–67, 254n57; on faith (¥mån), 127, 181; rebellion to Ãl¥, 55–56, 60, 61, 62–63; rebellion to Mu˜åwiyah, 76–77; walåyah and dissociation (barå˘ah), 254n57; Weber on, 253n7 khums (religious tax), 243, 245–247 Khurasan, 125, 134 Kitåb Sulaym b. Qays, 108–110, 122, 143 knowledge, 194–199; defined, 194– 195; esoteric, 26–27; levels of, 210– 211; recognizing Imåms, 178, 194, 196–197; religious, 160, 164, 168 Kohlberg, Etan, 2, 168, 238, 253n3 Kufan Shi˜ite community: al¡usayn requested as leader, 86; initial activism of, 71–72; ˜Iraqi patriotism of, 4; al-Mukhtår as leader of, 96–97; opposition to Mu˜åwiyah, 77–78; predestinarian thought among, 141; Shi˜ite intellectual center, 125, 188; under Umayyads, 72 kufr (unbelief). See unbelief (kufr) Kulayn¥, 127, 131, 241 Kumayt b. Zayd al-Asad¥, 105–107 Lalani, Arzina, 2 legatee (waƒ¥) of the Prophet, 58, 98 legitimacy of rule, 52; Ãl¥, 59; ahl al-bayt, 73, 88; al-¡usayn b. Ãl¥,

85, 88; Karbala martyrdom and, 89–90; al-Mukhtår, 96–97 light (n¶r), mystical, 170–171, 287nn103–105 love: of Ãl¥, 106, 120, 135, 138, 275nn76–77; of ahl al-bayt, 129, 131, 135, 157, 277n37; of Imåms, 282n66; mutual divine, 28–29; in non-Shi˜ite texts, 274n69; of Shi˜ites, 170, 282n65; walåyah and, 120–121; of women, 228 loyalty. See walåyah Madelung, Wilferd, 2, 10, 50, 131, 253n4 mahd¥ (guided one), 5–6, 58, 95, 97 Majlis¥, 114–115 Ma˜qil b. Qays, 76–77 ma˜rifah (knowledge). See knowledge marriageability, 182–183, 186–187, 215, 230–235 martyrdom: expiation of sin, 90–91; of ¡ujr b. Ãd¥, 80; of al-¡usayn, 4–6, 71–72, 94; religious aspect of, 4–6 martyrs (shuhadå˘), 161–162 mawlå, 46–47 Maym¨nah (wife of the Prophet), 217 Mecca, 81–82, 283n7 Medina, 283n7 misguided ones (¿åll¶n), 186–189, 290n63 m¥thåq (covenant) of God: degrees of faith, 208; predestination and, 149; with prophets, 145–146; Shi˜ite community and, 148–149, 151–152, 155, 158; with Sufis, 164; walåyah of Ãl¥ and, 146–147, 280n32 Modarressi, Hossein, 2 Mu˜åwiyah b. Ab¥ Sufyån: bayãh to, 67, 78, 85; al-¡asan surrender and poisoning, 74–75, 267n48; hereditary authority claim, 54–55, 261nn12–13; Qays b. Sa˜d’s

Index

portrayal of, 75–76; rule of, 76–77; Shi˜ite opposition to, 79–80 mu÷addath, 168, 286nn75–77 mu˘min¶n (believers). See believers (mu˘min¶n) Mufa∂∂al b. ˜Umar, 169, 202, 246 al-Muf¥d, al-Shaykh, 135 al-Mugh¥rah b. Sa˜¥d al-˜Ijl¥, 152– 153, 209 al-Mugh¥rah b. Shu˜bah, 78 Mu±ammad: Ãl¥ designated as mawlå by, 33–34, 43–45; daughter of, 215–216; descent from, 3, 26; will of, 58–59; wives of, 216–217, 223 Mu±ammad b. Ãwn, 65 Mu±ammad b. Ab¥ ˜Umayr, 195, 291n11 Mu±ammad b. Ab¥ Bakr, 65, 263n50 Mu±ammad b. Ãbd Allåh al-Nafs al-Zakiyyah, 178 Mu±ammad b. al-¡anafiyyah, 5; as legatee of Ãl¥, 98; as mahd¥, 97; al-Mukhtår and, 73, 96–98, 270n96; spiritual inheritance of, 72 Mu±ammad b. Bishr al-Hamdån¥, 85 Mu±ammad b. Muslim, 188 Mu±ammad al-Båqir. See al-Båqir, Mu±ammad Mu±riz b. Shihåb al-Tam¥m¥, 61–62 al-Mukhtår b. Ab¥ ˜Ubayd, 90; support for, 73; uprising of, 95– 98, 269n93; vengeance for al¡usayn’s martyrdom, 5, 71, 96–97 Murji˘ites: on faith, 121–123, 125– 128, 275n1, 291n6; on faith (¥mån) and kufr dichotomy, 188; on faith (¥mån) and islåm distinction, 181– 182; on predestination, 141, 143; on salvation, 132, 135, 277n22 M¨så al-Kåπim: authority of, 206; on believers, 162; in prison, 211; on Shi˜ite spiritual identity, 171, 173; on walåyah and believers, 193; on women, 228, 234

319

al-Musayyab b. Najabah, 85, 90, 92– 93 Muslim b. ¡ajjåj, 39 Muslims, 11, 185, 238. See also islåm (submission) and ¥mån (faith) distinction; non-Shi˜ites musta¿ãf¶n, 186–189, 296n71 al-Mustawrid, 76–77 Mu˜tazilites, 127, 132–133, 134, 137 Muthannå b. Mukharribah, 93 mutiny against al-¡asan, 74–75 mystical Shi˜ism, 24–31 myths. See creation myths naƒƒ (specific designation), 8, 47, 63. See also elect, spiritual Nasr, Seyyed Hossein, 28, 29–30 nearness, divine, 28–29, 165, 167 Newman, Andrew, 2, 173 non-Shi˜ites: intermarriage with, 186–189, 230–232, 297n96; relations with, 186–189, 232, 239–240, 298n5; Shi˜ite views on, 10–11, 114, 179–181, 184–185 nuƒrah (support), 17–18, 22, 83–84, 267nn44–45 obedience to Imåms, 61, 117, 178, 192, 194, 200–203 pact, primordial, of God. See m¥thåq (covenant) of God passive resistance, 77 Penitents movement (Tawwåb¶n), 4–5, 90–95, 269n70 persecutions of Shi˜ites. See suffering of Shi˜ites persecutors of Shi˜ites (nåƒib), charity toward, 248; creation myths of, 151; defined, 169–170, 180; intermarriage with, 231–232. See also Umayyads personal virtues. See virtues pilgrimages to tombs, 93–94, 218, 223 pillars of Islam (da˜å˘im), 113–119, 272–273nn34–55

320

Index

poetry, 58, 87, 105–108 possessors of understanding (ulu’lalbåb), 161 predestination (jabr): community membership and, 141, 144; faith (¥mån) degrees and, 208; human creation and, 150–151; m¥thåq (covenant) of God and, 149–150; Qur˘an on, 160; of Shi˜ite community, 151–152, 155, 158; Sunni and Shi˜ite traditions on, 144, 154–155 pre-eternity. See creation myths primordial light, 170 primordial pact. See m¥thåq (covenant) of God Proof of God (÷ujjah), 167–168, 286n71 prophets: company of, 58; m¥thåq (covenant) of God with, 145–146; prophecy (nubuwwah), 25; spiritual inheritance of, 26, 255n43, 256n44 proselytization of Shi˜ism, 239 Qadarites, 142–143, 279n11, 279n13 Qays b. Sa˜d, 74–75 Qumm, 173 al-Qumm¥, al-Œaffår, 146–147, 279n11 al-Qumm¥, Ãl¥ b. Båbawayh, 166, 173, 241–242 Qummi traditionalists, 154, 173 Qur˘an, 162; ˜Uthmån¥ codex, 222; on community of believers, 20–21; on distinctions among individuals, 160–162; Ghad¥r Khumm tradition and, 105, 109; on light (n¶r), 170–171; on m¥thåq (covenant) of God, 145–147, 149–150; on Prophet’s relationship with believers, 34–35; Shi˜ite dispute over ˜Uthmån¥ codex, 168; on walåyah, 18–23, 254n3, 254n5; walåyah of Ãl¥ and, 45–46, 105 Råfi∂¥s, 107, 153, 178 recognizing Imåms, 178, 194, 196–197

religious aspect of Shi˜ism, 3, 104 religious duty (far¥¿ah), 104–105 religious tax (khums), 234, 245–247, 251 revenge, 5, 54, 71 revolt: of Kharijites, 55–56; against ˜Uthmån, 51–52 right, people of the (aƒ÷åb al-yam¥n), 150–151, 161 rightful authority. See authority, rightful R¨zbihån Baql¥, 255n43 al-Œådiq, Ja˜far: Abu’l-Jår¨d Ziyåd b. Mundhir and, 111; on believers’ light, 170–171; on charity, 243–244, 247; on faith (¥mån), 184, 186–188, 194, 198–199, 205–206; followers of, 202; on forgiveness, 136; on human destiny, 142–144; on Imåms, 197; influence of, 173; on intermarriage, 231, 233; on knowledge, 195–196; on kufr and lack of walåyah, 179–180; leadership of, 179; on levels of virtues among Shi˜ites, 193; on martyrs, 161–162; on non-Shi˜ite relations, 238–241; on Shi˜ite-Imåm hierarchy, 165–166, 169; on sin, 130, 136; successor to, 206, 209; on suffering of Shi˜ites, 137; on virtues, 201; on walåyah, 116–118, 192, 198–199; on women, 228–229 al-Œ¨r¥, Ab¨ Ãl¥ b. åhir, 242 sacredness of Shi˜ites, 169 Safavid Empire, 25, 115 al-Œaffår al-Qumm¥, 146 Œafiyyah, 217 Sahl b. ¡unayf, 58 Sa˜¥d b. Ãbd Allåh, 85 Sa˜¥d b. Jubayr, 150 Sålim b. Ab¥ ¡af∑ah, 122, 196 salvation, criteria for, 126–128; community of believers membership, 132–133, 137; predestination, 141; shahådah, 133; walåyah, 134– 135, 138–139, 277n37

Index

sanctity, 29–30, 94 Œayf¥ b. Fas¥l al-Shaybån¥, 61 al-Sayyid al-¡imyar¥, 107–108 scholars, Ãbbåsid, 38 Second Civil War, 81–82 secrecy, Shi˜ite, 28, 204, 215, 220– 222, 231, 243–244 sectarianism, 1, 8, 159, 230; in charity, 245, 248; on faith (¥mån) and islåm distinction, 184–185; faith (¥mån) requirements, 197, 291nn19–22; faith discussion, 126; imamate and, 118 sh¶rå, 50–51, 55 shahådah (testament of faith), 114– 119, 133–134 Shamir b. Dhi’l-Jawshan, 96 shar¥ãh, 197 Shi˜ism: communal identity, Karbala martyrdom and, 4–6; Kaysån¥ Shi˜ism, 98; predestination, 142–143, 279n3; religious aspect of, 3–4, 7; scholarly study of, 2, 4, 9; sectarian designation, 1; Sufism and, 24–25, 164; ummah and Shi˜ites, 10–12; walåyah and, 7, 11. See communal identity Shi˜ites: allegiance toward Ãl¥, 57– 63, 77, 79–81; bayãh, second, to Ãl¥, 60–62; creation myths of, 151–153; as elect/chosen community. See elect, spiritual; hierarchy of faith within, 178, 192–193, 205– 211; Imåms, relations with, 165– 168, 196–197, 200–203; Kharijites conflict, 62–63; leadership need, 86, 95; m¥thåq (covenant) of God with, 148–149; minority status, 162, 189; as mu÷addath, 168; number of true believers, 202–203; relations among, 237, 241–251; sacred and inviolable nature of, 169; sectarian loyalties, 80; special spiritual status of, 170–174; splinter groups, 204, 206–207; suffering of, 5, 136–137; ummah relationship, 10–12, 81, 126, 133,

321

168, 179, 187, 238–241. See communal identity; elect, spiritual shirk, 132, 239, 277n23, 277n36, 290n33 shuhadå˘ (martyrs or witnesses), 161–162, 286n71 Shura±b¥l b. Mañ b. Yaz¥d, 65 sin: of birth, 158; community membership and, 128–130; expiation of by martyrdom, 90– 91; faith (¥mån) and, 131–132, 184; forgiveness of, 136–137 South Arabian tribesmen, 9, 57 spiritual inheritance, 26–28, 98, 105 succession of Imåms, 8, 72, 206–207, 209, 220–221 successor of the Prophet: caliphs, initial, 49–51; Ghad¥r Khumm tradition, 44, 109–110; will of Prophet and, 58–59, 221 suffering of Shi˜ites, 5, 91, 136–137; creation myths and, 165; women and, 223 Sufism: divine proximity and, 29; initiation, spiritual and, 27–28; intercession and, 172; as saved community, 163–164; Shi˜ism and, 24–25, 164; spiritual status in, 163, 256n44; walåyah and, 24–31, 284n52 Sufyån b. Laylå al-Hamdån¥, 85 Sulaym b. Qays, 108–110, 270n14 Sulaymån b. Œurad, 77, 85, 90–95 Sunnis: charismatic authority and, 10; on faith (¥mån) and islåm distinction, 131–132, 181–182, 185, 189; on faith and works, 127; on fate and predestination, 143, 144; Shi˜ite relationship with, 10–12, 179 support, mutual (nuƒrah), 17–18, 22, 83–84, 267nn44–45 Syrians, war with, 74 abar¥, 38–39, 65, 150, 258n22 Tawwåb¶n movement, 4–5, 90–95, 269n70

322

Index

tax, religious (khums), 243, 245–247, 251 testament (waƒiyyah), 98, 220–221 testament of Islamic faith. See shahådah (testament of faith) theology, 197–198; walåyah and, 104 Throne of God, nearness to, 165, 167, 285n62 al-Tirmidh¥, al-¡ak¥m, 25, 171 tombs, pilgrimages to, 93–94, 218, 223 tradition (÷ad¥th), Shi˜ite, 36 Twelfth Imåm, 5–6, 286n71 ˜Ubayd Allåh b. Ziyåd, 91–92, 96, 269n93 ˜Ubayd b. Zurårah, 130, 276n9 ˜Umar, 50, 106–107, 222, 260n2 ˜Umar b. Sa˜d, 96, 269n93 Umayyads: on Ghad¥r Khumm tradition, 37; heredity of authority, 54–55, 261nn12–14; ¡ujr b. Ãd¥’s stand against, 79–80; al¡usayn’s stand against, 81–82, 86; Kufan Shi˜ite community under, 72; al-Mukhtår’s stand against, 95; Penitents’ stand against, 93; rebellion against, 177; as religiously misguided, 82; on walåyah and hereditary authority, 54–55, 261nn13–14; Ibn al-Zubayr’s stand against, 81–82 Umm ¡ab¥bah bt. Ab¥ Sufyån, 216 Umm Salamah, 216, 218, 221, 294n6, 295n35, 295n40 ummah and Shi˜ites, 10–12, 126, 133, 179, 187 unbelief (kufr), 10–11, 121–123, 127; and faith (¥mån) dichotomy, 182, 188; lack of walåyah and, 179–180, 287n3. See also believers (mu˘min¶n) ˜Uthmån: authority of, 50, 51–53; injustices by, 51, 52, 260n2, 260n4; revolt against, 51–52, 56–57; selection as caliph, 51 Vaglieri, L. Veccia, 34 vengeance, 5, 6, 54, 71, 90–91, 96–97

virtues, 193, 201–202; of Ãl¥, 59; of al-¡usayn, 86; of women, 228– 229, 230 walåyah: to Ãl¥, 77, 79–81, 84, 104, 112–113, 119, 147–148; to Ãl¥ (in lifetime), 6–7, 49, 58, 61–62; to Ãl¥’s descendents, 108–109, 113, 196, 250, 271n20; to ahl al-bayt, 104, 192, 250; in call to prayer, 115; charismatic authority, 63; communal identity and, 11, 63, 67–69, 103, 126, 199, 242–243, 249– 251; as divine proximity, 28–29, 165, 167; enmity (ãdåwah) and, 63–64; esoterism and, 25–26; faith (¥mån) and, 10–11, 119–123, 127– 128, 192–193; as far¥¿ah (religious duty), 104–105, 108–109, 112, 113; Ghad¥r Khumm tradition and, 104–105; heredity of, 54–55; al¡usayn and, 83–84; imåmah and, 49, 53; to Imåms, 117, 119–120, 146–147, 197, 246, 248–249; initiation and, 27–28; Kharijites and, 56–57, 99; love and, 120–121; m¥thåq (covenant) of God and, 146–147, 280n32; meaning of, 16– 18, 28–31, 67–68, 256n1, 260n1; piety (wara˜) and religious effort (ijtihåd) and, 137; as a pillar of Islam, 113–119, 272–273nn40–55; in poetry, 105–108; Qur˘an on, 18–23, 254n3, 254n5, 257n4; as salvation requirement, 133, 134– 135, 138–139; shahådah and, 114– 119, 134; Shi˜ite rhetoric of, 90, 93, 98–99, 103, 191–192; sources on, 15, 260n1; spiritual charisma and, 7; Sufism and, 29–31, 164; unbelief (kufr) and lack of, 179–180; as will of God (predestined), 142 Wåqif¥s, 206–207 waƒiyyah (testament): of the Prophet, 58, 98, 262n30; women transmitters of, 220–222, 295n32 Watt, W. Montgomery, 9

Index

Weber, Max, 7–9, 253n7 wilåyah, 16–18, 52, 55 witnesses (shuhadå˘), 161–162 wives of the Prophet, 216 women, 213–235; Ãl¥ devotion by, 218–219; Ãl¥’s opinions on, 224– 227, 296n58; community identity and, 215; as disadvantaged or oppressed, 225; ÷ad¥th literature on, 223, 224, 228–230, 235; ÷ad¥th transmitters, 213, 223–224; intelligence of, 225–226, 228; Karbala martyrdom and, 219–220; marriageability, 182–183, 186–187, 230–235, 297n96; Prophet’s family, 214–217, 221; rarity of believers among, 204, 229; as religiously ignorant (musta¿ãf), 182–183, 296n71; waƒåyå of Imåms transmitters, 220–222, 295n32 works, good, 138–139; capability for, 278n53; community of believers and, 132–133; on faith (¥mån) and islåm distinction, 184–185; faith

323

and, 126–132; Sunni perspective on, 182; walåyah and, 137–138 Ya˜q¨b¥, 46 Yaz¥d, 81, 86 zakåh (almsgiving), 247–248, 251. See also charity Zayd al-Zarråd, 193 Zayd b. Arqam, 39–40 Zayd¥ Shi˜ites: distinction from Imåm¥ Shi˜ites, 178; on first two caliphs, 107; Jår¨d¥ Zayd¥s, 111, 271n23, 271n28 Zayn al-˜≈bid¥n, Ãl¥. See Ãl¥ b. al¡usayn Zayn al-˜≈bid¥n Zaynab bt. Ãl¥, 76, 78–79, 219, 221, 265n22 Zoroastrians, 171, 231 al-Zuhayr b. al-Qayn, 83 Zurårah b. A˜yan, 122, 198–199, 232, 278n53; deviated views, 200; on faith (¥mån) and kufr dichotomy, 182–184, 288n11


RELIGIOUS STUDIES

T he Charismatic Community Shi>ite Identity in Early Islam Maria Massi Dakake

Maria Massi Dakake is Associate Professor of Religious Studies at George Mason University.

A volume in the SUNY series in Islam Seyyed Hossein Nasr, editor State University of New York Press www.sunypress.edu

Cover Design —Thomas Quimby

“The author admirably manages to highlight the major developments of early Shi>ite events and ideas within the general development of Islamic thought and history. This book enriches our knowledge and discussion of one of the most crucial periods of Muslim history.” — Mahmoud M. Ayoub, author of The Qur
T he Charismatic Community

The Charismatic Community examines the rise and development of Shi>ite religious identity in early Islamic history, analyzing the complex historical and intellectual processes that shaped the sense of individual and communal religious vocation. The book reveals the profound and continually evolving connection between the spiritual ideals of the Shi>ite movement and the practical processes of community formation. Author Maria Massi Dakake traces the Qurite Imam, >Ali b. Abi Talib. Dakake argues that walaµyah pertains not only to the charisma of the Shi>ite leadership and devotion to them, but also to solidarity and loyalty among the members of the community itself. She also looks at the ways in which doctrinal developments reflected and served the practical needs of the Shi>ite community, the establishment of identifiable boundaries and minimum requirements of communal membership, the meaning of women’s affiliation and identification with the Shi>ite movement, and Shi>ite efforts to engender a more normative and less confrontational attitude toward the non-Shi>ite Muslim community.

The Charismatic Community - Si'Ite Identity in Early Islam

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